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𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐍𝐎𝐖, 𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆, and that he has been dreaming since this descent into the valley of shadows began a year prior. Soon, Abraham would wake up and all would be well. He and Mary would be back in Springfield, and he would report, over breakfast, the peculiar nightmare of his election to the Presidency, the dissolution of the Union, and dear Willie’s death — no, achingly and torturously slow demise — no, 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑙, still. His boy battles for survival against the almighty inevitability known as Death, fighting a war that mirrors their shattered nation’s own.
⠀ ⠀
⠀The Sixteenth President staggers through his oath-sworn duties in a daze, dividing his time between his commitment to the Union and his commitment to his family. When he can escape work, he does his best to comfort Mary or ventures to the oval library to partake in readings of Bible passages. It is of no use; his mind is still addled with thoughts of Willie, and thus the war is shifted to being a matter of minor concern. Rather than focusing on the devastating war tearing his nation apart from the inside, Abraham Lincoln’s world is dominated instead by his son’s illness.
The torture wrought upon Willie by an unmerciful God, he realizes, is not unlike that experienced by his firstborn son Eddie all those years ago. This realization chills Abraham to the brittle old bone, and each instance that he gazes upon Mary’s fear-stricken expression, he concludes with a sinking feeling in his stomach that she too has arrived at the acquisition of such knowledge. Eddie’s specter hangs over the Executive Mansion like a looming thunderstorm, its presence charging the air with electric heartache and sorrow as he awaits the company of his brother. Numbness settles over the President’s soul; from the time that Eddie joined his family in the world of the living onward, Abraham is rendered wholly incapable of joy or happiness, or even fiery, righteous rage. He has tread this dangerous, treacherous path before, and it is with profound dread that, no matter the doctor’s claims, he anticipates what awaits him at the end of this sad journey.
In the company of Willie and Tad, Abraham could do naught but assume the facade of a brave man, and pray that the terror bubbling just beneath the surface of his heart was not visible. Witnessing the crumbling of their father’s invulnerable mettle would be sure to shatter their spirits, and only hasten the inevitability that awaited; therefore, he kept this mask in place, no matter how desperately he yearned to shatter into a thousand pieces.
Throughout these long days, he and Mary share the sacred duty of tending to their ailing son. They would excuse themselves from whatever tasks were at hand, slip upstairs, and sit beside Willie for a few blessed moments. Each time, Mrs. Keckley gazes upon them with an expression of immense worry, helpless in the face of Willie’s continued suffering. The boy would toss and turn in his sleep, whimpering and sweating, spirit dwindling away in the face of his mighty foe. This became routine for the President and First Lady, who knew that, in spite of the doctor’s feverish reassurances, their son is getting worse.
Willie, ever the precocious child, senses that something is drawing near. “Is Eddie in Heaven?” He asks Abraham one evening. The President’s breath hitches at the mention of his deceased son, but he nods, ensuring that his features display a carefully crafted expression of serenity.
“Yes, he is.” Abraham responds quietly, his answer firm and resolute.
“Will I see him there?”
“Someday you will, but not for many years.”
“If I went to Heaven, Eddie wouldn’t be lonely.”
Could Willie hear the sound of his heart shattering into a thousand pieces? Abraham hoped not. “Don’t…” He pauses, swallowing the lump that has appeared in his throat. “Don’t you worry about him. Eddie’s happy to wait a long, long time for us. You’ll be better soon” He squeezes Willie’s hand, praying that this fatherly gesture might provide the tormented boy, at the very least, some means of comfort.
Willie, though, is not convinced by Abraham’s words. In manner, in habits of mind, even in gesture — carrying his head inclined slightly to the right — in his very 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭, he is his father’s son. Once, Abraham had watched his boy puzzle through a problem; ten minutes produced a clasp of hands and a smile. “There, you have it now, my boy, have you not?” He had said. Then, to his private Secretary John Hay, “I know every step of the process by which that boy arrived at his satisfactory solution of the question before him, as it is by just such slow methods I attain results.”. Thus, just like the eagle-eyed President, Willie is a natural detector of fibs and false-truths.
“Oh, 𝘗𝘢𝘸, I know the medicines ain’t gonna be enough.”
For a terrifying moment, Abraham forgets how to breathe. His entire body tenses; Willie has, in that instant, voiced the tragic reality that his family now faces.
“Why…” His voice cracks, and Abraham takes a deep breath before speaking once more. “Why do you say that, son?”
“Because everybody hushes so when they say my name.”
Abraham opens his mouth, and then closes it. In a twist of bitter irony, Honest Abe is unable to summon a lie when he requires one most.
The descent into the valley of shadows grows steeper. Tad comes down with a fever and a sore throat — a milder case of the same illness, but Abraham and Mary are now doubly frightened. Dr. Stone orders that the boys be kept apart — a whole, now torn apart to form two different halves — for the sake of their health, which makes Tad whimper for his brother. Mrs. Keckley attends to him while they sit with Willie, but they can hear Tad fussing and crying through the wall. Each and every cry emitted by his precious child is a dagger through Abraham’s aching heart, and it is all the President can do to ensure his sanity remains afloat.
Abe’s personal Secretary, John Hay, is the one who delivers the damning news. Since Nashville was about to become part of the Union, Abraham had spent the majority of that fateful morning attempting to pen a statement to welcome East Tennessee back into the Union. When he looks up and sees Secretary Hay standing in the doorway, he pales, the papers in his hand slipping from his grasp and falling to the floor. Trembling like a leaf blown about by the fiercest of gales, The Ancient rises to his feet, and meets his protégés gaze. A heavy, oppressive silence reigns over the room, none present able to access the power of speech. Secretary Hay’s eyes convey the unspeakable, the silent nightmare to which all present are privy: William Wallace Lincoln is dead.
It is five o'clock in the afternoon.
How he manages to make it to his private office in a single piece, Abraham does not know. The Lord has unleashed a mighty storm upon Washington to compliment the turbulent emotions within the President’s soul; the roof of the Executive Mansion is assaulted by whipping rain, and the very walls of its hallowed halls rattle like a lumbering barn. Above him, the chandeliers shiver and the lights flicker, but he paid them no mind.
A distant scream pierces his consciousness. 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘺’𝘴 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮. Abraham’s lethargic walk turns into a run. Upon reaching the comfort of his office, he staggers to a screeching halt. His hand rests on the wall to steady his hunched form, chest heaving with the effort of containing the emotion it bore within. White-hot tears pricked at his eyes, and his lanky frame shook violently. Dimly, he registers the presence of John Nicolay, his other private Secretary — the man stands frozen in the doorway with his jaw hanging on the floor, watching helplessly as his boss crumbles to pieces.
The President barely registers his words, aware though he indeed is of their utterance.
“Well, Nicolay, my boy is gone,” he choked out, “he is actually gone.”
𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐅, Abraham sought refuge in the sanctuary of his office during the week following Willie’s death. Fearing for the President’s heath, Nicolay and Hay took mercy upon his aching soul and canceled all of his meetings indefinitely. Dozens of well-wishers came to offer their sympathies to the First Family, and all were turned away with sincere gratitude.
The sole occasion that Abraham ventured out of his office was to visit the crypt where his boy’s coffin resided. Although the coffin was originally due to reside in Springfield, Abraham could not bear to be parted from Willie so soon, and requested that his son’s body reside in Washington until the end of his Presidency.
He gazes at Willie’s lifeless form, and wryly admits to himself that the embalmer performed well in his duties. Even so, the man’s work is not without its flaws. The face looks vaguely like Willie’s, but it was puffier, round, and full — 𝘵𝘰𝘰 full. His boy’s blue eyes, once so full of joy and merriment and hope, have been transformed into hollow shells. Never again will Willie’s eyes light up at the sight of his Pa returning home upon concluding a long day of work, nor will the lad’s lips tug into that marvelous smile of his when his brilliant brain successfully solves a challenging problem.
The small form of Willie Lincoln is naught but an emptied vessel — bloodless, and 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡less. Willie’s soul has long since fled — to the Christian Heaven, Abraham prayed — but in spite of this knowledge, the President cannot help but wait with bated breath for his boy to 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦. For a grimace. For a mischievous grin. For 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 that would indicate the return to life of a boy too young to die. Abraham clings to Willie’s hand, just as he had during those hellish days when the boy’s health was so dangerously precarious and there was still 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 that he would make it out of this darkness alive. It is all he can do in the wake of the enormity of death.
𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘦. If anything, he, Abraham Lincoln, deserves death — not his sweet little boy who had barely begun to live. Couldn’t the Lord have taken his soul in exchange for Willie’s survival? Surely, Abraham has enough blood on his name to warrant such an endeavor. He deserves to suffer for his mistakes, not Willie. Willie deserves to live many more years and to experience the pinnacle of success more than he ever did.
𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘦’𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘦𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘮𝘦𝘯？
The question chills Abraham to the bone, causing his body to jolt involuntarily as though startled awake. His gray eyes widen, forcing him to examine Willie’s unmoving body in its entirety. In his chest, his heart pounds so loudly that Abraham half wonders if the sheer volume will awaken his slumbering child.
His son had thrashed and moaned and cried for mercy, but there was nothing that could have been done, no mercy that could have been given. Surely, if this were not a punishment for his prideful, sinful parents, he could have been saved? There 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 have been a way that Willie Lincoln could be saved, were it not for his father’s stubborn pride.
𝘖𝘩, 𝘨𝘰𝘥 — 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘦’𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘵．
By sheer act of will, Abraham turns away from the coffin, the expression on his ancient features resembling that of a man slapped. Had he been on his feet - which, thankfully, he was not - he would have staggered under this mighty blow and crumbled under the weight of the burden he bore not only as President of the United States, but also as a father.
He could see now, why Americans both North and South blamed him for this senseless civil war — 𝑵𝑶!
A loud gasp escaped his lips as his subconscious mind halts this trail of thought. His head snapped upwards, and he wrenched his hand from Willie’s own as though stung.
𝘏𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧. His grief must be defeated at all costs, before it renders him ineffective and helpless as a newborn child -
His grief must be defeated at all costs, just like the self-proclaimed 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐘.
Abraham’s heart drops at the thought of the war, at the thought of the 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨. The blood-stained battlefields, picture perfect evidence of his horrific sins against fellow men, remain erect in his mind, and he shakes his head as though to clear his thoughts of this image.
𝘏𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘳．
If only it could be done without so much killing.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯.
Why must the end of suffering be achieved with more suffering?
As the President of the United States, it is his oath-sworn duty to represent the people who elected him to office, and guide their nation through times of deep distress. Now more than ever, with the loss of his most prized son, his heart aches for those who had lost family to his Civil War, but 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯.
In fact, the sight of his Pa in such a state would horrify him, perhaps even bring him to tears.
Abraham knows he will not recover from this devastating loss overnight, nor would society expect such a feat of him, but in that very moment he resolves not to engage in unnecessary grief.
He must not be ruined, but instead must go on.
He squeezes the hand of his son one last time, and raises it to his lips so that he may press a gentle kiss onto the boy’s polished knuckles. Determination thrived within his soul. He swallows the lump in his throat, then takes a deep breath and ensures that Willie is once more safely ensconced within his coffin.
Then he was out the door, and into the night.