April 10—15, 1865

Washington, D.C.

The days that followed General Lee's surrender were, for Alfred, like a dream.

April 10th was a chilly Monday morning, but it felt like a festival day. If a single soul in Washington had missed the news that the war was over, Edwin Stanton's 500-gun salute at dawn might have clued them in. If they hadn't heard that, then surely they could not have failed to notice the crowded masses that flooded the streets of Washington to cheer, shout, sing, and leap about, celebrating the Union victory. Thousands flooded to the White House, clamoring for Lincoln to make an appearance. When at last the President appeared in an upper window, Alfred joined Mrs. Lincoln and the children at a separate window to spy down on the crowd and listen to the ruckus.

"I am very greatly rejoiced to find that an occasion has occurred so pleasurable that the people cannot restrain themselves," Lincoln said, and the crowd cheered. "I suppose that arrangements are being made for some sort of a formal demonstration, this, or perhaps, tomorrow night," Alfred could tell the man really had no idea what was planned or who was planning it, but the crowd didn't seem to care.

"We can't wait!" someone shouted.

"We want to do it now!" Chorused another, and others laughed.

"I, of course, will be called upon to respond, and I shall have nothing to say if you dribble it all out of me before," Lincoln chided, to the amusement of the crowd. Then, after peering keenly down, Lincoln's voice adopted an almost playful tone, a sound Alfred had never had the opportunity to hear save for in the last day and a half. The President said:

"I see you have a band of music with you. I propose closing up this interview by the band performing a particular tune which I will name. Before this is done, however, I wish to mention one or two little circumstances connected with it. I have always thought `Dixie' one of the best tunes I have ever heard. Our adversaries over the way attempted to appropriate it, but I insisted yesterday that we fairly captured it." The crowd erupted into applause, and Alfred could not help it when he smiled. "I presented the question to the Attorney General," Lincoln explained, "and he gave it as his legal opinion that it is our lawful prize." Whoops and hollers echoed around the throng, and Alfred could hear Lincoln smile. "I now request the band to favor me with its performance."

And off they went, instruments crooning the lively melody of Dixie along with dozens or hundreds of voices singing along. People danced, even cramped as they were. Soon, Dixie gave way to Yankee Doodle, and Alfred's smile was too wide to hide. Lincoln, having retreated halfway back into the White House, beckoned the young nation over so he could stand by the open window and better hear the crowd.

"I expect this particular melody may be closer to your heart than Dixie," the President said quietly, so only he would hear. Alfred smiled up at him.

"Maybe," he admitted, "but I'm glad you like Dixie. Washington hated Yankee Doodle. Said it got stuck in one's head far too easily."

At this, Lincoln laughed—actually laughed—and turned back to the window as the music began to fade. They raised three cheers for General Grant and all under his command, and three cheers for the Navy, and at last Lincoln bid his farewell to the masses, who hurried off elsewhere. At dinnertime, Alfred learned from the President himself that the crowd had returned to the war department to cajole a similar public audience out of Secretary Stanton. Remembering Stanton as a stern and taciturn fellow, this made Alfred laugh rather rudely at the table. No one scolded him for it, all of them equally relieved to see their nation smiling again.

The following day, Lincoln returned to the same second-story window to address the crowds at greater length, discussing in detail his vision for the reunited Union and her wayward southern states. Alfred did not join Lincoln at the window, but this time listened quietly by the fire where the crowds could not see him, but where he could watch Lincoln's resolute figure from behind. Reconstruction, as Lincoln called it, would be a lengthy, complicated, and no doubt fraught process as the Union reinstated its authority in the rebel states. However, the state of Louisiana had already made several goodwill gestures to ease this transition, and Lincoln planned to use the state as a starting point of the healing process.

In the privacy of his own mind, Alfred remembered his last fight with Andrew, and his promise to rebuild the states ruined by the Confederacy stronger and more beautiful than before. Watching Lincoln stand in front of the crowd with assurance and vision, he thought he could almost see it happening before his eyes.

Spending more time in the White House meant that Alfred not only saw more of Lincoln himself, but more of Lincoln's family, as well. Mary Lincoln, Abraham's wife, was a witty and outspoken person, unlike the carefully calculated character of her husband. Of the four sons she'd had with Abraham, only two were still living, and Alfred had recently learned that one of them had died of typhoid only a few years ago. This explained to him why Mary took to Alfred like a mother hen to a chick, constantly feeding him, and watching him, sending his clothes for mends and new tailoring, making sure he had enough blankets at night and double helpings at breakfast. It was more attention and care than Alfred knew what to do with, but he appreciated her compassion more than he could say.

Though their eldest son, Robert, was still across the river in Virginia seeing to the aftermath of Lee's surrender, the youngest Lincoln, Thomas, or as Alfred better knew him, 'Tad' was all too eager to re-enact his brothers' descriptions of Lee's surrender and the heroism of General Grant and his armies. Alfred enjoyed spending time with children of all sorts, and so entertaining Tad became one of his favorite pastimes at the White House. It was an excellent excuse to run around outside, and to avoid the smothering responsibilities that had landed him in a cell for five entire years.

Though Secretary Stanton resented Alfred's lack of involvement in the post-war planning, Lincoln seemed to understand. He insinuated, more than once, that it would soon be time for Alfred to return to his duties at the Capital—particularly when it came to addressing international affairs—but for the present time seemed happy to let Alfred pursue as many distractions and diversions as he pleased, so long as it meant that he could smile again.

General Grant's return to Washington came about in great fanfare and theatrics, but it was the return of Robert Lincoln that brought the most smiles to the Lincoln family. Alfred met the man only briefly, but they spoke long enough for Robert to confide in him that his father the President was relentless in his insistence that Robert complete law school.

"I think it would suit you," Alfred told him amicably. This seemed to please Robert, and Alfred thought not for the first time how odd it was that children tended to heed the praise of outsiders more closely than that of their parents.

In the afternoon, Alfred watched over Tad while Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln took a much-deserved private carriage ride about the city. Upon their return, Mary found her nation and her son sprawled out on Alfred's bedroom floor, engaged in a fierce tournament of marbles. Mary shooed her son out of the room before she waved Alfred over to hand him a slip of paper.

"Our American Cousin?" He asked, reading the flyer curiously "Is this a… a play?"

Mary nodded, smiling. "As the tension of the past days falls behind, Mr. Lincoln and I thought we might all benefit from some lighthearted amusements," she explained. "You most of all. I've heard you enjoy theater, and I hoped you might agree to join us,"

"Of course I will," Alfred grinned before she could even get the last words out. Mary smiled back.

"Good. I've taken the liberty to have a new waistcoat and jacket done up for you—I'll have them bring it in shortly."

The carriage ride to Ford's Theatre was loud only because Alfred made it loud, chattering about his excitement to attend a theatre again, and how theatre was always one of the first casualties of wartime, and what a shame that was because it kept morales high. He related the plays he'd first enjoyed as a child, and how Washington had been fond of opera and how hard it was to find good theatre for years after the War of Independence.

"It's like a dream," Alfred smiled, watching out the window as the theatre drew close. "Five days ago, at war, and now at the theatre. This century truly is miraculous!"

Mary laughed at such an outburst, but Abraham allowed himself a wry smile when he said,

"You may speak too soon. I do not know if Mrs. Lincoln would have told you, but this is an English play."

"I shall endeavor not to judge the theatre too harshly for selecting it," Alfred announced cheerily, hopping out of the carriage after Mary. "Besides, it's all my actors performing, so how bad could it be?"

They met Clara Harris and Major Henry Rathbone inside, and introductions were made mostly for Alfred's benefit. An awkward moment passed where the Lincolns commented on how General Grant and his wife as well as Secretary Stanton and his wife were invited to the play, but had turned down the invitations for other pursuits and had privately chided the President on the dangers of making public appearances so soon after surrender. Alfred was happy when the minute passed and they were ushered to their box.

Quite a hubbub grew when the crowd spotted Lincoln, and the orchestra struck up a lively rendition of "Hail to the Chief". Lincoln bowed to the crowd before taking a seat, and then, the theatre fell dark and the play began.

Alfred was not quite sure what to make of the play. The main character seemed to be mocking every poor stereotype of Americans held by the English, but then again, it was all a farce, so the English received no better treatment than their transatlantic brethren. Alfred took significant joy in laughing at the idiocy of the brainless Englishman, Lord Dundreary.

"Arthur would hate this," he found himself saying, grinning like a madman.

"Arthur who, dear?" Asked Mary. Abraham chuckled and patted her hand in a 'never-you-worry' gesture.

As often happened when placed in a theatre, Alfred found himself utterly entranced by the stage. Even for a farce, the script moved quickly and he was happy to remain focused on the actors and their animated dialog even into the third act.

"I am aware, Mr. Trenchard, you are not used to the manners of good society," said Mrs. Mountchessington, a wheedling English character that Alfred quite disliked, "and that, alone, will excuse the impertinence of which you have been guilty." The play's protagonist, Mr. Trenchard, waited until the older woman was retreating before he called back:

"Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal—you sockdologizing old man-trap."

The audience burst into raucous laughter, and Alfred would have, too, but he was preoccupied by a sudden and rushing sense of bad that grabbed hold of his spine by the neck and seemed to haul him bodily out of his trance. He glanced over to the President, and found him smiling alongside his wife.

Then, there was a gunshot.

Alfred's ears rang. The sounds all around him died away: the crowd's laughter and cheering, Mrs. Lincoln's scream. Major Rathbone was struggling with someone nearby, and poor Clara Harris was seeking cover away from the viewing windows, but Alfred's entire world was focused on the fallen body of his President, a man he'd only truly known for the last few days. He could not see Lincoln well in the dark of the box, but he could smell the blood and gore without having to see it in full light.

There was a crash, and a shout in something that might've been Latin, and the commotion in the theatre below seemed to finally catch up to the reality upstairs. Before Alfred knew what was happening, there were people all around them. There was a physician holding Lincoln's head together with his hands, calling for assistance.

They escorted the women away. Someone was attending to Major Rathbone, who'd been stabbed. They moved the President out of the box and out of the theatre—his stature proved a cumbersome obstacle. Alfred followed them to Peterson Boarding House across the street, moving through the night in a daze. They placed the president in a bed there, having to lay him diagonally across the mattress because he was too tall for the bedframe.

Mrs. Lincoln was wailing. Edwin Stanton arrived, and shortly thereafter banished her from the room for her hysterics. Had he been more cogent, Alfred would have protested such callous behavior, but was instead taken aback by how even Stanton's normally-stony expression was pinched with acute concern. Robert Lincoln arrived. Senator Sumner. Generals. Officers. Alfred could not remember them all, because the room was too dark and the air too thick with the smell of blood. They had to replace Lincoln's pillow several times through the night because he would not stop bleeding. Each time, the white down came away stained and sticky with red so dark it was almost black.

Shortly after sunrise, President Lincoln breathed his last.

"Now," said Secretary Stanton, "he belongs to the ages."

Alfred, who lived the ages alone, said nothing.

The morning passed in an impenetrable fog. They returned Lincoln's body to the White House, and throughout Washington churches rang their bells in mourning. Alfred did not realize he had blood and worse splattered across his brand new jacket until he was asked by a sheepish White House aide to change. The only other clothes he had in his room were his old things, all of them baggy and untailored, only some of them readily pressed. He found what black garments he could and put them on. As he was wrestling with his tie, the same aide arrived back at his bedroom to summon him to the President's office.

Andrew Johnson had been inaugurated just an hour ago in his residence in Kirkwood House, they explained. The new president was now preparing his inaugural remarks for a nation suddenly thrust into mourning. His eyes were puffy, his hair freshly shorn, and on his face was an expression that inspired every fearful notion that Lincoln had chased away. Alfred was let into his office, and the door shut behind him. Johnson stood, and looked the young nation in the eye. It was not what Alfred would call a friendly exchange.

This is wrong, he thought.

"Mister Jones," Johnson said, stilted and businesslike. "I do not pretend to understand what you claim to be, and it may be many years more before I may finally comprehend the provenance of your… condition,"

This is so wrong.

"But it has been explained to me that, in the fulfillment of my duties in this office as your President, that you shall be expected to work alongside me." He extended his hand towards Alfred. Alfred could only stare at it, every fiber of his being screaming out for the universe to right itself, for Lincoln to return through the door, to reveal that the last day had all been a cruel trick after all and that none of it was real.

"Mister Jones?" Johnson said, and Alfed realized he was still staring at the man's hand. Mouth opening and closing like a fish, Alfred found he had nothing to say. Suddenly, it was not only Johnson's stare that was stifling, but the White House, and Washington, and the Union altogether.

"I realize we did not meet under favorable circumstances," Andrew was saying, hand still extended, "But I know your good will meant the world to Licoln. I should be much encouraged to know that I have that same good will for myself."

Tears, having long abandoned Alfred since the day's tragedies had begun, now came to the fore of his vision. His heart was pounding out of his chest, breaking itself into pieces. Before he knew it, his feet were moving. He turned away from his president's outstretched hand, threw open the office door, and ran.

He did not stop running until he left Washington far behind.

Historical notes:

1. So there are a LOT of historical details in this chapter and I'm not sure I can remember or detail them all, but please know that if something happened in this chapter that actually happened in real life, I have done my damnedest to detail it here as it actually would have happened.

2. The April 11 speech at the beginning of this chapter was verbatim the impromptu speech Lincoln gave to the celebratory crowd—even the exclamations from the crowd were taken from contemporary newspaper reports! And yes, the band did play Dixie, followed up by Yankee Doodle. The bit about Washington disliking Yankee Doodle is, unfortunately, my own invention.

3. The summary of Lincoln's April 12 speech was, hopefully, accurate, as the actual thing was too long to include even in part.

4. The Lincolns had four sons, as mentioned. The second eldest died of tuberculosis in 1850, the third eldest died of typhoid fever in 1862, and though I know this may be heartbreaking for those who don't know, but young Tad will end up passing away early at the age of 18 in 1871, due to what many historians believe was heart failure.

5. Their eldest son, Robert, was 22 at this time and was serving as an officer (away from the fighting) with General Grant in Virginia. He was present at Lee's surrender, and returned to Washington at the same time as the General.

6. The Lincolns were indeed advised not to go to Ford's Theatre on the 14th, because many officials thought it was too public and too risky so soon after the South's surrender.

7. Yes, the is the play that Lincoln saw on the night his assassination was Our American Cousin, which is a farcical play written by an English playwright and premiered in New York in 1858. And yes, the line related here was the exact line (in the middle of the third act) after which John Wilkes Booth shot the President. Booth chose this line specifically because it usually drew the loudest laugh of the entire play.

8. Mary Lincoln was not present for her husband's death, because she was in fact asked to leave by Secretary Stanton, who thought her hysterical crying was making things worse. Mary Lincoln had what at the time would have been something of a volatile (perhaps bipolar, some historians have suggested) personality, and was not always the most effeminate wife in terms of demure behavior. How she was treated after her husband's death is a real travesty, and if you want to be filled with feminist rage, I suggest reading up on Mary Lincoln's life, personality, and particularly her life after the war.

9. Lincoln did have to lie on his deathbed diagonally, because he was so tall (he was 6'4", or 193 centimeters). And they did in fact have to replace the pillows multiple times due to the bleeding from his head. At least one, probably more, of these pillows have been preserved by various agencies.

10. Andrew Johnson was sworn in as President on the morning of April 15. There are rumors that Johnson tried to visit Lincoln as he lay dying, and that Mary Lincoln screamed at him and demanded that he be turned out of the house. There are also rumors (reported in newspapers at the time) that Johnson got inebriated that night and woke up with puffy eyes and hair matted and muddy from being outside, but these rumors are unsubstantiated.

11. The quote "Now he belongs to the ages" is an actual quote from Sec. Stanton upon Lincoln's passing.

12. Probably a lot more details I'm missing. If you have questions, just ask!