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Mr. Lincoln sat facing forward, legs thrown out before him, hands clasped in his lap, head lowered.
For a moment I thought he might be sleeping.
But then, as if intuiting our entry, he roused himself and looked around.
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Curious individuals from across the premises were pouring in through the chapel walls like water through a bad mud dam.
Go in, I said to the lad.
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The boy blinked twice.
Went in.
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By making to sit in his father’s lap.
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As he must often have done in that previous place.
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Seated one inside the other now, they occupied the same physical space, the child a contained version of the man.
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LXXXV.
(Father Here I am
What should I
If you tell me to go I will
If you tell me stay I will
I wait upon your advice Sir)
I listened for Father’s reply
The moonlight swelled All became more blue ish Father’s mind was blank blankblankblank
And then
I cannot believe all of this has actually
He began remembering Reviewing Certain things About me
Concerning my illness
What was the name of that woman whose daughter was struck by lightning. In Ponce’s hayfield. Just before, walking through, the two of them had been talking about peaches. The different varieties of peaches. Which kind each preferred. For nights after, they found her wandering Ponce’s, mumbling about peaches, searching for that juncture of the conversation at which she might jump the breach of time and go back, push the girl aside, take the fatal bolt herself. She could not accept that it had happened, but must go over it and over it.
Now I understand.
That afternoon he brought in five rocks on a tray. Meant to try to find the scientific name of each. The rocks are on that tray yet. In the hallway windowsill near his room. (I believe I shall never be able to move them.)
Toward dusk I found him sitting on the stairs, tray on his knees.
Well, I don’t feel so good today, he said.
I put my hand on his head.
Burning.
willie lincoln
LXXXVI.
The fever, which had been diagnosed as a cold, developed into typhoid.
Leech, op. cit.
Typhoid works slowly and cruelly over a period of weeks, depriving the victim of digestive function, perforating the bowels, causing hemorrhaging and peritonitis.
Epstein, op. cit.
The debilitating symptoms of his illness took their toll—high fever, diarrhea, painful cramps, internal hemorrhage, vomiting, profound exhaustion, delirium.
Goodwin, op. cit.
Paregoric may ease the racking abdominal pain; delirium may take the child into a haven of sweet dreams, or it may deliver him into a labyrinth of nightmares.
Epstein, op. cit.
The patient was wandering of mind and did not recognize the distracted loving face of the tall man who bent over him.
Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.
The President would come in from his work for the country and pace about the room, head in his hands at the agonized moans his poor boy was making.
Flagg, op. cit.
“Kind little words, which are of the same blood as great and holy deeds,” flowed from his lips constantly.
In “Lincoln as I Knew Him,” by Harold Holzer, account of Elizabeth Todd Grimsley.
Lincoln had the tenderest heart for any one in distress, whether man, beast, or bird.
Holzer, ibid., account of Joshua Fry Speed.
He had a great kindness of heart. His mind was full of tender sensibilities; he was extremely humane.
Wilson and Davis, op. cit., account of Leonard Swett.
I never in my life associated with a man who seemed so ready to serve another.
Holzer, op. cit., account of John H. Littlefield.
He was certainly a very poor hater.
In “Abraham Lincoln: The True Story of a Great Life,” by William H. Herndon and Jesse W. Weik.
How that beloved boy’s sufferings must have tormented one so naturally sympathetic.
Flagg, op. cit.
Willie Lincoln thrashed and moaned and nothing at all could be done.
Hilyard, op. cit., account of D. Strumphort, butler.
The burning cheeks, the frantically roving eyes, the low moans of despair, seemed to signal a great torment within and a corresponding desire to escape it, and be himself again, a happy little fellow.
Hohner, op. cit.
In his thrashing young Willie kicked off the gold and purple bedspread. It lay in a heap on the floor.
Sternlet, op. cit.
The yellow trimmings, gold tassels and fringes did not relieve the gloominess of the regal décor, but instead reminded visitors that darkness and death came even to princes.
Epstein, op. cit.
Now the eyes went dim, all that restless motion came to a halt. That stillness seemed the most terrifying thing of all. He was on his own now. None could help or hinder him on the profound journey which, it seemed, had now begun.
Hohner, op. cit.
The death-dew gathered on his brow.
Keckley, op. cit.
In the room of Death, just before the cessation of breath, time seems to stop entirely.
Sternlet, op. cit.
The President could only stand and watch, eyes wide, having no power at all in this new-arrived and brutal realm.
Hohner, op. cit.
LXXXVII.
Wait, the lad said.
He sat there, within his father, a look of consternation on his little face, seeming more upset than comforted by whatever he was hearing.
Come out, I ordered.
I don’t understand, he said.
Come out at once, I said.
hans vollman
LXXXVIII.
The body was embalmed on February 22 by Doctors Brown and Alexander, who were assisted by Dr. Wood.
In “Lincoln Lore: Bulletin of the Lincoln Life Foundation,” No. 1511, January 1964.
Neither Brown nor Alexander personally embalmed Willie; that job fell to their master embalmer, Henry P. Cattell.
In “Stealing Lincoln’s Body,” by Thomas J. Craughwell.
Frank T. Sands was the chief undertaker. Perhaps it was he who suggested the precaution of covering the breast of the corpse with the green and white blossoms of the mignonette (Reseda odorata), known for its overpoweringly sweet fragrance.
Epstein, op. cit.
The method of Sagnet of Paris was used.
“Lincoln Lore,” op. cit.
Sagnet had pioneered the innovative use of zinc chloride.
In “Pausing Death: Nineteenth Century Embalming and the Cult of Immortality,” by Steven Wedge and Emily Wedge.
Five quarts of a 20 percent solution of zinc chloride injected through the popliteal artery not only preserved a body for a minimum of two years, but also wrought a wondrous transformation, giving the body the appearance of luminous white marble.
Craughwell, op. cit.
Extravagant claims were made of the Sagnet process, stating that the remains became a “shell in effigy; a sculpture.”
“Lincoln Lore,” op. cit.
A trestle table was assembled in place for the procedure. The carpets in the Green Room were rolled back and the flooring protected by use of a large square of tenting fabric.
In “The Doctor’s Assistant: Memoirs of D. Root,” by Donovan G. Root, M.D.
The procedure did not require draining the body of the blood. The boy was undressed and an incision made in the left thigh. The zinc chloride was pumped in using a small-diameter metal pump. No unusual difficulties were encountered. The entry p
oint required a small suture and the boy was re-dressed.
Wedge and Wedge, op. cit.
The mother being distraught, the burial clothes had been selected by the father and sent down to us in an oversized hat-box.
Root, op. cit.
Willie was attired in the usual type of clothing worn for everyday. It consisted of pants, jacket, white stockings, and low-cut shoes. The white shirt collar was turned down over the jacket, and the cuffs were turned back over the sleeves.
In “Abraham Lincoln: From Skeptic to Prophet,” by Wayne C. Temple, quoting “Illinois State Journal,” July 7, 1871.
We had all of us of the household many times seen that little gray suit on the living boy.
Hilyard, op. cit., account of D. Strumphort, butler.
Little Willie, pathetically wasted, was dressed in one of his old brown suits, white socks, and low-cut shoes, like an ill-used marionette.
Epstein, op. cit.
He lay with eyes closed—his brown hair parted as we had known it—pale in the slumber of death; but otherwise unchanged, for he was dressed as if for the evening, and held in one of his hands, crossed upon his breast, a bunch of exquisite flowers.
Willis, op. cit.
The President came in for a look—only too early. The trestle table was still up. Jenkins was just gathering up the tarp. The tools of our craft were yet visible in the open box. The pump still gurgled. I was sorry for this. It impeded upon the desired effect. The President blanched noticeably, thanked us, quickly left the room.
Root, op. cit.
LXXXIX.
The boy sat stock-still, eyes very wide indeed.
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XC.
They buried Willie Lincoln on a day of great wind, that tore the roofs off houses and slashed the flags to ribbons.
Leech, op. cit.
In the procession to Oak Hill Cemetery in Georgetown two white horses drew the hearse bearing the little boy who had known only happiness. But black horses drew the carriage in which sat the worn and grief-stricken President.
Randall, op. cit.
The gale blew the roofs off tall houses, shattered glass windows, leveled fields of military tents, turned muddy streets into canals and canals into rapids. Gusts of wind destroyed several churches and many shacks, uprooted trees, blew out the skylights of the Library of Congress; waves inundated the Long Bridge over the Potomac to Alexandria.
Epstein, op. cit.
The father drove, unseeing, through the wreckage.
Leech, op. cit.
The carriages of the funeral procession stretched for so many blocks that they took a long time to wind their way up to the heights of Georgetown and to the beautiful Oak Hill Cemetery with its crown of oak trees.
Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.
When the head of the cortege reached Oak Hill Cemetery by way of Washington Street it was found necessary, because of the length of the line to route a part of the line along Bridge Street into High Street. Climbing the hill past the new High Level Reservoir, it turned into Road Street, and proceeded eastward to the cemetery, where the body of William Wallace Lincoln was to be placed in the vault of W. T. Carroll, on Lot 292.
In “Essay on the Death of Willie Lincoln,” by Mathilde Williams, curator, Peabody Library Association.
Now all was still and the hundreds of people climbed out of their carriages and walked through the gates of the cemetery to the beautiful little red stone Gothic chapel with its blue-stained windows.
Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.
At one moment the sun came out and, pouring in through the small windows, painted everything inside with a blue glow, as if at the bottom of the sea, causing a small pause in the prayers, and a feeling of awe among the congregants.
Smith-Hill, op. cit.
Here, over the coffin, more prayers were said by Dr. Gurley.
Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.
We may be sure,—therefore, bereaved parents, and all the children of sorrow may be sure,—that their affliction has not come forth of the dust, nor has their trouble sprung out of the ground.
It is the well-ordered procedure of their Father and their God. A mysterious dealing they may consider it, but it is still His dealing; and while they mourn He is saying to them, as the Lord Jesus once said to his Disciples when they were perplexed by his conduct, “What I do ye know not now, but ye shall know hereafter.”
Gurley, op. cit.
And there sat the man, with a burden on his brain at which the world marvels—bent now with the load at both heart and brain—staggering under a blow like the taking from him of his child!
Willis, op. cit.
The President rose, approached the coffin, stood there alone.
In “The Dark Days,” by Francine Cane.
The tension and grief in the chapel were palpable. The President’s head, as he spent these last precious moments with his boy, was bent—in prayer, weeping, or consternation, we could not tell.
Smith-Hill, op. cit.
In the distance, shouting. A workman perhaps, directing an effort to clean up after the cataclysmic storm.
Cane, op. cit.
The President turned away from the coffin, it appeared by sheer act of will, and it occurred to me how hard it must be for the man to leave his child behind in a place of such gloom and loneliness, which never, when responsible for the living child, he would have done.
In private correspondence of Mr. Samuel Pierce, by permission of his estate.
He seemed to have aged greatly in the last few days. Many sympathetic eyes & prayers being directed at him, he appeared, then, to come to himself, and left the chapel, a most distressed look upon his face, but not yet giving way to tears.
Smith-Hill, op. cit.
I went up to the President and, taking him by the hand, offered my sincerest condolences.
He did not seem to be listening.
His face lit up with dark wonder.
Willie is dead, he said, as if it had only just then occurred to him.
Pierce, op. cit.
XCI.
The lad stood.
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Emerging, in this way, from Mr. Lincoln.
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Turned to us.
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Stricken look on his pale round face.
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May I tell you something? he said.
How I loved him in that moment. Such an odd little fellow: his long swoop of forelock, roundish protruding belly, rather adult manner.
You are not sick, he said.
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Suddenly all was nervousness and agitation.
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That thing in my box? he said. Has nothing to do with me.
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Individuals began edging toward the door.
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I mean, it does, he said. Or did. But now I am—I am something quite apart. From it. I cannot explain.
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Stop talking, Mr. Vollman said. You will kindly stop talking at once.
There is a name for what ails us, the boy said. Do you not know it? Do you really not know it?
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Many were now attempting to flee, causing a bit of a jam at the door.
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It is quite amazing, the boy said.
Stop, Mr. Vollman said. Please stop. For the good of all.
Dead, the boy said. Everyone, we are dead!
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Suddenly, from behind us, there occurred, like lightning-cracks, three rapid-fire repetitions of the familiar, yet always bone-chilling, firesound associated with the matterlightblooming phenomenon.
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I did not dare to look around to see who had gone.
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Dead! the lad shouted, almost joyfully, strutting into the middle of the room. Dead, dead, dead!
&nb
sp; That word.
That terrible word.
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Purdy, Bark, and Ella Blow were flailing within a window casement, like trapped birds, weakened and compromised by the lad’s reckless pronouncements.
roger bevins iii
Verna Blow stood below, pleading with her mother to come down.
hans vollman
Now look, Mr. Vollman said to the boy. You are wrong. If what you say is true—who is it that is saying it?
Who is hearing it? I said.
Who is speaking to you now? said Mr. Vollman.
To whom do we speak? I said.
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But he would not be silenced.
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Tore away years of work and toil with each thoughtless phrase.
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Father said it, he said. Said I am dead. Why would he say that, if it weren’t true? I just now heard him say it. I heard him, that is, remembering having said it.
We had no answer for this.
hans vollman
It did not, indeed, seem to us (knowing him as we now knew him) that Mr. Lincoln would lie about such a momentous thing.
I have to say, it gave me pause.
Lincoln in the Bardo Page 19
