"Yes, Mr. President"

"Fine, now get some sleep and then see to your duties."

Heintzelman bowed again, put his hat on, and left the room, closing the door behind him. Lincoln watched him go, and then waited. After a minute the door did not open. Hay was asleep, and there were no more callers. He sighed with relief.

He went back to the window and gazed out Then on impulse he left the room and walked down the darkened stairs. The White House was quiet, all were asleep except for a black man who looked up expectantly at his approach. It was Jim, one of the White House servants.

"Good morning, Mr. President"

"Morning, Jim."

"A cup of coffee, sir? I have a fresh pot brewing in the kitchen. Maybe a scrambled egg and some fresh ham?" "No, thank you, Jim. Just want to go outside for a walk." He stepped past J"11-"Ah, Mr. President?"

Surprised, he turned back. Jim was standing there, nervous, waiting, a look almost of mortification on his face over this breach of White House protocol.

"Go on, Jim. What is it?"

"Sir. Well, me-I mean the others here and me-we were wondering."

"About what, Jim?"

"If the rebs take the city, sir. What should we do?" "They won't, Jim."

"I know that, sir. But we've been hearing that the rebs are rounding up colored folk, sending them down south to be sold back to slavery."

He had heard the reports as well, there was no sense in lying about it.

"Yes, Jim, I have heard the same thing."

Jim looked at him expectantly and for an instant he felt an infinite weariness. Here was yet someone else looking for reassurance and he felt as if the well was empty. He looked down at the floor.

"Sir. We here, the colored men who work here that is. We want to fight"

Lincoln looked back up and into the man's eyes.

"What do you mean, Jim?"

"Just that, sir. Myself, Williams, Old Bob, the other men. We plan to fight if they come." "Jim, how old are you?"

"Nearly sixty, as near as I can reckon. No one ever told me for sure when I was born. My mother said she worked for Mr. Jefferson when I was born. I started working here the year the British burned it down. Helped to plaster the new walls, covering over the scorched ones."

Lincoln could not help but smile, awed at this bit of history living with him. He had never taken notice of Jim, who had quietly served him for two years and never once had he taken the time to talk to him, to find out more of who he was, and all that he had seen. The realization made him uncomfortable and he wondered, if Jim were white, would that conversation have come, the way it usually did, for he loved talking with working people, finding out their stories, driven in part by the instinct of a politician who through such conversations won the votes, one at a time, but also out of his genuine love for and curiosity about common men.

Jim was well-spoken, articulate, his English perhaps even better than his own, which was still mocked by effete Easterners.

"So you've worked here for nearly fifty years?"

"Yes, sir. Every president since Mr. Madison. When my eldest boy, Washington Madison Quincy Bartlett, was born, President John Quincy Adams even gave him an engraved silver cup for his baptism. We still have that."

"Where is your oldest?"

"Up north. He went to join a colored regiment forming up in Pennsylvania. He's the sergeant major. His son, my grandson, joined up as well."

He said the words proudly.

"Any other children?"

"No, sir," and he shook his head sadly. "My second eldest died of the cholera. My two girls both died as well, one of the typhoid, the other, well the other, my youngest, just died."

He fell silent Lincoln sensed there was an even more tragic story about the youngest but he did not press it I’m sorry.

"You know that burden, sir. I'll never forget the night your youngest died. We wept with you, sir, and Missus Lincoln. We loved that little boy, too." 'Thank you, Jim."

He lowered his head to hide his own emotions, and the dark.memories of Mary wandering the White House, night after night, shrieking as he sat alone, horrified at the thought of his baby being placed in the cold ground, unable to comfort her, to stop her wild hysterias, so paralyzed was he by his own grief, came flooding back.

"Our children are together now with the Lord," Jim said softly.

A bit surprised, Lincoln looked back up and saw tears in the man's eyes. The comment struck him hard and he was filled with a profound question. Did white and black children play together in Heaven? Did they mingle freely, no longer servant and master? Inferior and superior? What would Christ say of that question?

"Thank you, Jim, I'll take comfort in that tonight."

"I will, too, Mr. President. In fact I think it and pray about it most every night"

Lincoln was silent uncomfortable, not sure what to say next.

"About us fighting, sir," Jim said, pressing back to the original issue. "Yes?"

"Do we have your permission, sir? Some of the soldiers out front said they'd loan us guns if it came to that"

"Jim, if you are caught with a weapon and not in uniform, you'll be hung on the spot."

Jim shook his head.

"Sir, we'd all rather be killed here, or hung here, than be sold into slavery."

And then he smiled and looked straight into Lincoln's eyes.

"Besides, sir. It'd make a great illustration in the papers, a dozen dead colored hanging from the balconies of the White House. It'd show the world what this war is really about"

Startled, Lincoln could not reply. Grim as the thought was, he knew that Jim was right

"Let us pray it does not come to that," was all he could offer.

"With you here, sir, I don't think it will. But if it does, sir, we want to fight"

He looked at the man carefully, wondering for an instant if it was the old flattery coming through now. But he could see it wasn't, it was genuine.

"We here, sir, we all know you'll hold the course to the end, no matter what. If it comes to it, sir, we want you to leave and continue the fight elsewhere. My son would want that and I do, too."

The president reached out and put his hand on Jim's shoulder. Unlike so many of the colored, Jim did not lower his eyes, or involuntarily shrink from his touch. He continued to look straight at him.

He wanted to say that he would stand and fight beside him and have his gaunt figure added to the illustration, but did not That was melodrama, posturing, as far too many did. What this man said had come straight from his heart, without artful reflection and seeking of some heroic end as if he were on the stage. It came as a tonic, a deep and profound reminder not just of his responsibilities, but of how he must continue to face those responsibilities to the end. That was his duty now, to not flinch, to not give back a single inch until it was done.

"You have my permission, Jim. I am honored to give it to you, and God be with you this day."

He squeezed the man's shoulder, nodded, and then turned to walk out Jim, again the servant followed him, offering his top hat and shawl from the coat rack by the door, which Lincoln took without comment Jim opened the door and the two guards outside, who had been wearily leaning on their rifles, snapped to attention.

He looked around. A scattering of men were milling about, ghostlike in the mist and in the hissing glare of gas lamps that cast dull, golden circles around the porch of the White House and out onto the street A captain started to come toward him and he gestured with his hand for the officer to remain at ease.

He started to turn away from the door, to walk around the grounds, the captain softly hissing a command, calling on a detail to "escort the president," and then he heard it, a dull thump, like someone was beating on a carpet away off in the mists.