Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

by Grahame-Smith, Seth

  That night, as Mary tended to Tad (who had been quite shaken by the day’s events), I sat by Willie’s bedside, watching him sleep; watching him for the slightest sign of sickness. To my great relief, he seemed well the next morning, and I began to entertain the faint hope that it had all been nothing more than a scare.

  But as Monday wore on, Willie grew increasingly tired and sore—and by the second night, he was running a fever. All business ground to a halt as Willie grew worse, and the best doctors in Washington were summoned to treat him.

  They did all they could to treat his symptoms, but could find no cure for them. For three days and nights, Mary and I kept a vigil at his bedside, praying for his recovery, fervent in our belief that youth and Providence would see him through. I read him passages from his favorite books as he slept; ran my fingers though his soft brown hair and wiped the sweat from his brow. On the fourth day, our prayers seemed answered. Willie began to mend on his own, and my faint hopes returned. It could not be a fool’s dose, I told myself—for he would surely be dead by now.

  But after a few hours’ reprieve, Willie’s health began to worsen again. He couldn’t eat or drink without being sick to his stomach. His body withered and weakened, and his fever refused to subside. On the ninth day, he could not be roused from sleep. And on the tenth, despite the best efforts of the best physicians available, it became clear that Willie was going to die.

  Mary could not bring herself to hold another of our little boys as he left this earth. It fell to me to cradle our sleeping son against my chest and gently rock him through the night… through the next morning… and through the day that followed. I refused to let him go; refused to let go of that faintest hope that God would not be so cruel.

  On Thursday, February 20th, 1862, at five p.m., Willie Lincoln died in his father’s arms.

  FIG. 19-1. - MARY TODD LINCOLN POSES WITH TWO OF THE THREE SONS OF SHE WOULD LIVE TO BURY - WILLIE (LEFT) AND TAD (RIGHT).

  Elizabeth Keckley was a freed slave who worked mainly as Mary Lincoln’s dressmaker. Years later, she recalled the sight of Lincoln weeping openly, his tall frame convulsing with emotion. “Genius and greatness,” she said, “weeping over love’s idol lost.” John Nicolay remembered the tough, towering president walking to his office door “as if in some trance.” “Well, Nicolay,” he said, staring off into space, “my boy is gone… he is actually gone.” Abe barely made it into his office before bursting into tears.

  For the next four days, Abe conducted little government business. He did, however, fill nearly two dozen pages in his journal. Some of them with lamentations…

  [Willie] will never know the tender touch of a woman, or experience those particular joys of a first love. He will never know the complete peace of holding his own tiny son in his arms. He will never read the great works of literature, or see the great cities of the world. He will never see another sunrise, or feel another drop of rain against his sweet face…

  Others with thoughts of suicide…

  I have come to believe that the only peace in this life is the end of it. Let me wake at last from this nightmare… this brief, meaningless nightmare of loss and struggle. Of endless sacrifice. All that I love waits on the other side of death. Let me find the courage to open my eyes at last.

  And sometimes, with blind rage…

  I wish to see the face of the cowardly God who delights in these miseries! Who delights in striking down children! In stealing innocent sons from their mothers and fathers! Oh, let me see his face and rip out his black heart! Let me strike him down as I have so many of his demons!

  Arrangements were made to transport Willie’s body to Springfield, where it would be buried near the Lincolns’ permanent home. But Abe couldn’t bear the idea of having his little boy so far away, and at the last minute it was decided that Willie would lie in a Washington crypt until the end of his father’s presidency. Two days after the funeral (which Mary, overcome with grief, could not attend), Abe returned to the crypt and ordered his son’s casket opened.

  I sat beside him, as I had on so many nights during his brief life; half expecting him to wake and embrace me—for such was the skill of his embalmer, that he seemed merely asleep. I stayed with him an hour or more, speaking to him tenderly. Laughing as I told him stories of his earliest mischief… his first steps… his peculiar laugh. Telling him how very loved he would always be. When our time was through, and the lid again affixed to his coffin, I began to weep. I could not bear the thought of his being alone in that cold, dark box. Alone where I could not comfort him.

  With Mary confined to bed, Abe sought refuge behind his closed office door in the week after Willie’s death. Fearing for his health, Nicolay and Hay canceled all of his meetings indefinitely, and Lamon and the trinity guarded his door at all hours. Dozens of well-wishers came to offer the president their sympathies that week. All were thanked and politely turned away—until the night of February 28th, when one man was ushered directly into his office.

  He’d given the name that could never be refused.

  IV

  “I cannot imagine the burden you bear,” said Henry. “The weight of a nation on your shoulders… of a war. And now, the weight of another son buried.”

  Abe sat in the light of the fireplace, his old ax hanging above its mantle. “Is this why you come, Henry? To remind me of my miseries? If that be the case, then I assure you—I am too aware of them already.”

  “I come to offer my sympathies to an old friend… and to offer you a choi—”

  “No!” Abe choked up at once. “I will not hear it! I will not be tormented with this again!”

  “It is not my wish to torment.”

  “Then what is it, Henry? Tell me—what is your wish? To see me suffer? To see the tears run freely down my cheeks? Here—does this face satisfy you?”

  “Abraham…”

  Abe rose from his chair. “The whole of my life has been spent on your errands, Henry! The whole of my life! And to what end? To what happiness of my own? All that I have ever loved has fallen prey to your kind! I have given you everything. What have you given me in return?”

  “I have given you my everlasting loyalty; my protection from the—”

  “Death!” said Abe. “You have given me death!”

  Abe looked at the ax over his mantle.

  All that I have ever loved…

  “Abraham… do not give in to this despair. Remember your mother—remember what she whispered with her dying breath.”

  “Do not try to manipulate me, Henry! And do not pretend to care that I suffer! You care only for your own gains! For your war! You know nothing of loss!”

  Now Henry rose to his feet. “I have spent these three hundred years mourning a wife and child, Abraham! Mourning the life that was stolen from me; a thousand loves lost to time! You know nothing of the lengths I have gone to protect you! Nothing of that which I have suff—”

  Henry composed himself.

  “No,” he said. “No… it mustn’t be this way. We have come too far for this.” He grabbed his coat and hat. “You have my respects, and you have my offer. If you choose to leave Willie buried, so be it.”

  The sound of Willie’s name roused such wildness in me—Henry’s callous tone such rage that I grabbed the ax from its perch and swung at his head with a scream, missing him by less than an inch, and shattering the clock on the mantle. I recovered and swung again, but Henry leapt over my blade. The office door now flew open behind us, and two of the trinity rushed in. On seeing us, they froze—unsure of where their loyalties lay. Lamon, however, was plagued by no such uncertainty. On entering, he drew his revolver and aimed it at Henry—only to have it taken by one of the vampires before he could fire.

  Henry stood in the center of the room, arms at his sides. I charged again—raising my ax as I ran. Henry didn’t so much as blink as I came. Rather, he grabbed the handle as I brought it down on his head, took it from me, and snapped it in two, throwing the pieces on the floor. I
came at him with my fists, but these he caught as well, twisting them around and forcing me to my knees. Holding me thus, he knelt behind me and brought his fangs to my neck. “No!” cried Lamon, rushing forward. The others held him back. I felt the tips of those twin razors against my flesh.

  “Do it!” I cried.

  The only peace in this life is the end of it…

  “Do it, I beg you!”

  I felt the tiny trickles of blood run down my neck as his fangs broke through my skin. I closed my eyes and prepared to meet the unknown; to see my beloved boys once more… but it was not to be.

  Henry withdrew his fangs and let me go.

  “Some people are just too interesting to kill, Abraham,” he said, rising to his feet. He gathered his coat and hat again and walked to the door, toward the three anxious guards whose hearts were racing faster than my own.

  “Henry…”

  He turned back.

  “I will see this war to its end… but I do not care to see another vampire so long as I live.”

  Henry offered a slight bow. “Mr. President…”

  With that, he disappeared.

  Abe wouldn’t see him for the rest of his life.

  TWELVE

  “Starve the Devils”

  Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue… until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said “the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.”

  —Abraham Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address

  March 4th, 1865

  I

  Washington, D.C., was under attack, and Abe wasn’t about to miss his chance to see the fighting up close.

  On July 11th, 1864, ignoring the pleas of his personal guard, he rode alone on horseback to Fort Stevens, * where Confederate General Jubal A. Early was leading 17,000 rebels in a brazen assault on Washington’s northern defenses. The president was greeted by Union officers and whisked directly into the fort, where he would be able to relax and enjoy a cool drink behind the safety of its thick stone walls.

  I hadn’t come to be coddled or hear the battle described to me—I’d come to see the horrors of war for myself. To see what others had suffered these three long years, while I had remained behind the walls of warmth and plenty. Try as they might, the officers couldn’t discourage me from peeking over the parapet to watch boys line up and ceremoniously shoot one another—to see them blown apart by [cannon fire] and run through by bayonets.

  The sight of Abraham Lincoln towering over the battlefield in his stovepipe hat must have seemed a godsend for the rebel sharpshooters at Fort Stevens that day. Abe had three bullets zip past him in as many minutes, each one giving his minders terrible fits of anxiety. Finally, when a Union officer standing next to him was struck in the head and killed, the president felt a tug at the bottom of his coat, and heard First Lieutenant (and future Supreme Court Justice) Oliver Wendell Holmes yell: “Get down, you damned fool!”

  But he didn’t.

  He’d completely lost his fear of death.

  There were no more vampires at the White House. Abe had banished them in the wake of Willie’s death and his confrontation with Henry. Even the trinity—his most capable and ferocious protectors—had been sent back to New York.

  I shall save this Union because it merits saving. I shall save it to honor the men who built it with their blood and genius, and the future generations who deserve its liberty. I shall give every miserable hour to the cause of victory and peace—but I shall be damned if I lay eyes on another vampire.

  The first family was now guarded exclusively by living men, and the president guarded less and less at his own insistence. Each day brought new restrictions on his guards; each day fewer rooms he welcomed them in. Over Ward Hill Lamon’s objections, Abe insisted on riding out in an open carriage when the weather was agreeable, and on walking between the mansion and the War Department alone after dark. As Lamon recalled in his memoirs years later: “I believe that it was more than an absence of fear. I believe that it was an invitation of death.”

  A journal entry from April 20th, 1862, sums up Abe’s growing fatalism.

  In the course of a week, I greet a thousand strange faces in the White House. Should I treat each as the face of my assassin? Indeed, any man willing to give his life to take mine would have little trouble doing it. Am I therefore to lock myself in an iron box and wait for this war to end? If God wants my soul, He knows where He may collect it—and He may do so at the hour and in the manner of His choosing.

  In time, through sheer force of will, he would pull himself out of this depression, just as he had all the ones before it. Not long after Willie’s death, when his longtime friend William McCullough was killed fighting for the Union, Abe sent a letter to the grieving daughter McCullough had left behind. The comfort and advice he offered was meant as much for himself as for the girl.

  Perfect relief is not possible, except with time. You cannot now realize that you will ever feel better. Is not this so? And yet it is a mistake. You are sure to be happy again. To know this, which is certainly true, will make you some less miserable now. I have had experience enough to know what I say; and you need only to believe it, to feel better at once. The memory of your dear Father, instead of an agony, will yet be a sad sweet feeling in your heart, of a purer and holier sort than you have known before.

  But while Abe was picking himself up and soldiering on, Mary was only getting worse.

  She cannot bring herself to leave her bed for more than an hour’s time. Nor can she attend to Tad, who grieves not only for a brother, but a mother as well. I am ashamed to admit that there are moments when the very sight of her angers me. Ashamed because it is no fault of hers that she suffers fits of rage, or believes the charlatans who “commune” with our beloved sons for money. She has borne more than any mother ought to bear. I fear that her mind has gone, and that it shall never return.

  II

  Though Abe refused to have any direct contact with Henry or the Union, he was pragmatic enough to accept their help in winning the war. In New York, the grand ballroom (where Abe first learned of the Union and its plans for him) had been transformed into a war room, complete with maps, chalkboards, and a telegraph. They acted as envoys to the sympathetic vampires of Europe. They fought where they were able, and supplemented the White House’s intelligence with that collected by their own spies. This intelligence was delivered to Seward, who—after reading and burning the messages—related their contents to the president. From an entry dated June 10th, 1862:

  Today comes word that the Confederates are handing Union prisoners over to Southern vampires for the purpose of torture and execution. “We hear of men,” said Seward, “hung upside down and stretched between posts. Using a logger’s saw, two vampires slowly cut the prisoner in half beginning at his [groin]. As they do, a third vampire lies on his back beneath the poor wretch—catching the blood that runs down his body. Because the prisoner’s head is nearest the ground, his brain remains nourished, and he remains conscious until the blade tears slowly back and forth through his stomach, then chest. The other prisoners are made to watch this before being made to suffer it themselves.”

  Rumors of Confederate “ghosts” and “demons” snatching men from their tents and drinking their blood spread through the Union ranks during the war’s second summer. Soldiers could be heard singing a popular song around their campfires at night.

  From Flor’da to Virginny you can hear him revel,

  for ol’ Johnny Reb’s made a deal with the devil.

  Sent him up north, that snake-eyed liar,

  to drag us boys off to the lake of fire…

  In at least one case, these rumors led a group of Union soldiers to turn on one of their own. On July 5th, 1862, Private Morgan Sloss was murdered by five of his fellow soldiers while encamped nea
r Berkley Plantation in Virginia.

  They pulled him from his tent in the dead of night and beat him, all the while accusing him of being a “blood-drinkin’ demon.” (Had the boy actually been a vampire, he would have made a better show of defending himself.) They tied him to a hitching post, and set on him with sticks and shovels—demanding he confess. “Tell us yer a blood-drinkin’ demon and we’ll let ya go!” they cried, all the while thrashing him till he wept and begged for mercy. After a quarter of an hour of this, the mumbled confession at last came from his bloodied lips. I suspect the boy would have confessed to being Christ Himself if it had meant an end to his agony. His confession noted, he was then doused in lamp oil and burned alive. The fear he must have felt… the confusion and the fear… I cannot think of it without my fists clenching in anger. If only by some miracle of time and heaven I could have been there to intervene.