I see the grim cartoons lampooning me. A child offsets those.
Tuesday evening
This morning I visited one of the hospitals, a tent hospital by the river. Rain was everywhere. The wounded felt it, that was easy to see. I went among them, shaking hands, enquiring; this was not my first visit; I knew some of the men by name.
"Abraham," I heard a man whisper to his cot mate.
Can a name influence a life?
Abraham-"father of a multitude."
Through the centuries, thousands of infants have been christened Abraham. What has it meant? And what kind of father am I? In the deep of the night, or during a cabinet meeting, or while playing with my sons, I ask.
Which of the wounded, which of the dead, was my responsibility?
Now and then the candle beside my bed does not want to go out.
Mid-afternoon
Rain
In Springfield, Billy de Fleurville's barbershop was my favorite barbershop. We were friends, Billy and I. Billy is a Haitian. His English is a remarkable mixture of soft, sometimes incomprehensible sounds. A stable person, he has raised a family and has been a civic influence for fifteen years or more. He initiated a committee that brought about a school for blacks. He loves his rabbit paws and his jokes; while he shaves you or trims your hair, he entertains. Since Billy loves gumbo and fricasseed chicken I saw to it that he had more than his share through the years.
At the depot, as the train pulled out for Washington, he was there, handing me a farewell note, to read on the train.
He writes me that tenants are taking proper care of my house and yard.
"Filibuster has kittens," he adds, in a postscript.
"One brown, two yellows."
Evening
Desk
I treasure a letter from a child named Grace Bedell.
Grace wrote me :
"I have four brothers and part of them will vote for you anyway, and if you let your whiskers grow, I will try and get the rest of them to vote for you. You would look a great deal better, for your face is so thin."
Grace's suggestion amused me...and I might glean those two votes! So, I let my beard grow, and Billy de Fleurville trimmed it for my inaugural. In Westfield, at the depot, my train was on a siding. While it was there I asked the crowd:
"Is Grace Bedell here?"
She came running to the train, and I was able to hug and kiss her.
The White House
Sunday
They were good days in Springfield, our children growing, bursting with energy, up to antics day in and day out. They helped and hindered boisterously, helped pitch-fork the cow's stall, water the horse, carry in the wood for the stove; they hindered by being unreliable, off somewhere when needed.
I liked pulling the little ones in their red wagon, up and down our street, the kids yelping or fussing happily.
It would be pleasant to be in Springfield, but not the same, with Robert away at school. But, I would stretch my legs onto a footstool and lie back on the old horsehair sofa.
No, a thousand slaves are throwing up fortifications in Richmond, in Charleston, in Atlanta....fortifications to enslave more enslavement.
Someone, in the south, has written me:
"I warn you... I will kill you before long. You are destroying the nation. You have no right to be President..."
March 24th, 1864
Here is another anonymous letter:
"Dear Mr. President-
"In addressing you, I am prompted by the kindest motives. I wish to warn you of the peril you are facing if you remain in office. The South has strong motives for desiring your death and has resolved to take your life in the event of your not relinquishing your office. The blacks are dis- illusioned by your presidency. The whites can not, without endangering more lives, allow you to remain in the seat of government..."
So another letter, with "kindest motives," has reached me. How many have, though both secretaries screen my mail. There is no doubt that anonymity makes a man courageous.
April 2, 1864
Evening
The North commits atrocities. The South commits atrocities. War is, without the shadow of a doubt, a form of insanity. As Commander-in-Chief I can order troops to attack; with the cessation of military activities I can not order 50,000 men to reconstruct a devastated area.
The legality of such an order has never been questioned, as far as I know, by any victorious power. Perhaps, during my second term in office, I can weigh the consequences of such an official directive.
Think of Libby Prison, consider Andersonville. They are collective atrocities.
Was it two years ago a man handed me two red apples at a depot in Ohio, bowing, and wishing me well?