"Mr. President, I was just helping a boy. He saw you come in and asked to speak with you. He says his ma knows your family."

The escort of cavalry that had trailed behind him at a respectful distance came in a bit closer. A lieutenant, who had replaced the young captain who was now dead, tried to interrupt

"The president has had a hard day, sir, perhaps another time."

"Mr. President, he won't live much longer. I feared to leave his side to help that surgeon you saw me with even for a moment. He's dying, shot in the stomach."

Lincoln nodded.

"Yes," was all he could say, not sure if he could bear what was coming.

The poet led the way, weaving past hundreds of wounded lying on the ground, makeshift surgical stations set up under awnings, a pile of arms and legs stacked on the ground so that he slowed, wanting to offer a protest; decency demanded that these shattered limbs should be hidden away. But how can you hide away a hundred limbs when every second was precious, every orderly staggering with exhaustion, the surgeons slashing and cutting as fast as they could to stop hemorrhaging, plug holes in gasping chest wounds, dull the pain of a chest so badly shattered that the broken ends of bare ribs were sticking out, push back in loops of intestines, or still the hysterical babbling of a man whose brains were oozing out?

The poet slowed, then looked back at the president "Sir, one thing." "And that is?"

"He's a Confederate soldier, sir." Lincoln slowed, paused, and then nodded his head wearily.

"That doesn't matter now."

The poet offered a reassuring smile, took him gently by the arm, and guided him the last few feet

The boy was curled up on his side, panting like an injured deer, in the flickering torchlight his face was ghostly pale, hair matted to his forehead with sweat. His uniform was tattered, his butternut jacket frayed at the cuffs and collar, unbuttoned. The boy was clutching a bundle of bandages against his abdomen. In the shadows the stain leaking out seemed black. He looked up, eyes unfocused.

"I brought him to you," the poet whispered, kneeling down beside the boy.

The boy looked around, a glimmer of panic on his face, and he feebly tried to move, then groaned from the pain.

'I can't see."

Lincoln knelt down, then sat on the ground, extending his hand, taking the boy's hand, touching it lightly. The skin was cold.

"I'm here, son, I'm here." "Mr. Lincoln?" "Yes, son."

"Private Jenkins, sir. Bobbie Jenkins, Twenty-sixth North Carolina."

"Yes, son. You asked for me?"

"My ma, sir. She was born in Kentucky. When she was a girl she took sick with the typhoid."

He stopped for a few seconds, struggling for breath.

"Your ma, Mrs. Hanks, helped take care of her. You were a boy then, sir, she told me, she remembered you bringing some soup to her. Do you remember her?"

"Of course I do," he lied. "A pretty girl, your ma."

The boy smiled.

"Mama," he gasped, and curled into a fetal position, panting for air.

"It hurts," he whispered.

Lincoln looked at the poet sitting on the other side of the boy.

"Anything for the pain?" Lincoln whispered.

"As much as we dare give him," the poet replied softly, leaning over to brush the matted hair from the boy's brow.

"In spite of this war," the boy sighed, "Ma always said you and your kin were good folk."

"Thank you, son, I know you and your ma are good folk, too."

"The man here, he told me I'm going to be with God soon."

Lincoln looked up at the poet and was awed by the beatific look on the man's face as he gently brushed back the boy's hair, using a soiled handkerchief to wipe his brow.

"I'm afraid, sir," the boy whispered. "Please help me. Will you write to her? Tell her I died bravely."

"Yes, son."

"Help me," the boy whispered, his body trembling. "I'm afraid."

Lincoln lowered his head, slid closer, and took the boy into his arms.

"Do you remember the prayer your mother taught you? The one you said together every night when she tucked you into bed?"

The boy began to cry softly.

"Let's say it together," Lincoln whispered.

The boy continued to cry.

"Now I lay me down to sleep," Lincoln began.

The boy's voice, soft, already distant, joined in.

"I pray the Lord my soul to keep…

"If I should die before I wake…

"I pray the Lord my soul to take…"

Even as the last words escaped the boy's lips, he shuddered, a convulsion running through him.

Lincoln thought of his own boy, of Willie, his last strangled gasp for air.

There was a gentle exhaling, the tension in the boy's body relaxing, going limp, his last breath escaping, washing over Lincoln's face.

He held him. He tried to stifle his own sobs as he held him. He knew others were watching, watching the president, not a tired, heartsick old man; they were watching the president, but he didn't care.

He felt a gentle touch on his shoulder, the poet, up on his knees, leaning over the body.

"I'll take him, sir."

He didn't want to let go, but knew he had to.

He leaned over and kissed the boy on the brow, the way he knew the boy's mother had kissed him every night.

"God forgive me," he whispered.

He sat back up, letting the poet take the body. The poet ever so gently closed the boy's eyes, folded his arms. He reached into his pocket, took out a notebook and a pencil. He scratched the name of the boy and his regiment on a slip of paper. He drew a pin out of the binding of the notebook and fastened the name on the boy's breast pocket. Lincoln realized that this little ritual was an attempt to identify a body so it would have a marker, something the poet had done innumerable times before. The boy, however, would most likely go into a mass grave with hundreds of his comrades.

The poet took another piece of paper and again wrote the boy's name and his hometown in North Carolina upon it, and handed it to the president

"You promised him, sir," the poet said. There was no reproof in his voice, no questioning, just a gentle reminder.

"Thank you," Lincoln whispered.

The poet stood up and Lincoln came up as well. He looked around and saw that all were silent. Dozens had been watching, Union and Confederate, lying side by side, all silent, some weeping.

He lowered his head, struggling to gain control of his voice.

"Let us all pray together," he said, his voice suddenly calm.

"Oh, God, please lift this terrible scourge of war from our land. Let all here return safely home to their loved ones, and together let us learn to live in peace."

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

July 19,1863 3:30 A.M.

The train drifted into the station, its bell ringing, the steam venting and swirling in the still morning air.

He sat hunched over, wrapped in thought, headache still throbbing. At least the trip was finished, eight hundred pounding miles, the incessant click-click of the track a numbing repetition, every bump of the train as it lurched its way through the mountains of Pennsylvania resounding in his head like a cannon shot

Haupt, Washburne, and Parker were up, looking at him, and with a muffled groan he rose from his seat and went to the rear platform. A cloud of wood smoke washed around him as he stepped out. A small guard was waiting, a dozen men snapping to attention, a captain with drawn sword saluting as he stepped off the platform.

After more than two days on the train his legs felt unsteady, the ground shifting and swaying beneath his feet A wave of nausea hit and he fought to keep it down; the last thing needed at this moment was to vomit in front of the men.

"Welcome to Harrisburg, sir," the captain said, voice quavering a bit nervously. "Thank you, Captain."