“The Clansman” is the second book in a series of historical novels focused on the Race Conflict. “The Leopard’s Spots” outlined the historical conditions from the moment the Black community gained the right to vote until they lost it.

“The Clansman” tells the real story of the “Ku Klux Klan Conspiracy,” which led to the downfall of the Reconstruction government.

The organization was led by the Grand Wizard Commander-in-Chief, who resided in Memphis, Tennessee. The Grand Dragon oversaw a State, the Grand Titan a Congressional District, the Grand Giant a County, and the Grand Cyclops a Township Den. The twelve volumes of government reports on the well-known Klan focus mainly on events that took place after 1870, the year it was dissolved.

The chaos of blind passion that followed Lincoln’s assassination is unimaginable today. The revolution it caused in our government, and Thaddeus Stevens' bold attempt to transform ten large states of the American Union, sounds like stories from “The Arabian Nights.”

I have tried to keep both the details and the essence of this extraordinary time in this story. The characters who play out the intense drama of revenge, into which I have woven a dual love story, are based on real historical figures. I have just changed their names without altering any key historical facts.

In the darkest moment in the South's history, when her injured people lay powerless among rags and ashes under the sharp claws of the Vulture, suddenly a white cloud, about the size of a person's hand, emerged from the mountain mist. It expanded until its shroud of mystery covered the devastated earth and sky. An “Invisible Empire” had risen from the battlefield and challenged the Visible to a fight.

How the young South, guided by the reborn spirits of the Clansmen from Old Scotland, moved forward under this disguise and against overwhelming odds, risking exile, imprisonment, and a criminal's death, ultimately saving the lives of a people, creates one of the most dramatic chapters in the history of the Aryan race.

The pretty girl who was playing a banjo and singing to the injured soldiers suddenly stopped and, turning to the surgeon, whispered:

“What is that?”

“It sounds like a crowd——”

With a shared instinct, they went to the open hospital window and listened.

On the gentle spring breeze came the loud cheers of thousands rushing down the street from the Capitol to the White House. Above everything were the shouts of eager newsboys yelling an “Extra.” One of them zipped around the corner, his high-pitched voice trembling with excitement:

“Hot news! Peace! Victory!”

Windows flew open, women leaned out, and others poured into the street, gathering around the boy as they fought to grab his papers. He tossed them left and right and grabbed the money—no one asked for change. His shout never stopped: 4

Extra! Peace! Victory! Lee has surrendered!

At last, the end had come.

The great North, with its millions of tough people and their endless resources, greeted the first shot at Fort Sumter with mockery and disbelief. A few regiments set off for a month-long trip to resolve the issue. The Thirteenth Brooklyn marched cheerfully south for a thirty-day adventure, with pieces of rope clearly tied to their rifles to bring back a Southern prisoner to be paraded through the streets on their early triumphant return! It would be unfair to share what happened to those ropes when they unexpectedly turned back home ahead of schedule after the first battle of Bull Run.

People from the South, equally wise, marched cheerfully North to take on five Yankees each before breakfast and faced unexpected challenges.

Both sides had lessons to learn, and they learned them in a school with unforgiving logic—a four-year program at the University of Hell—the scream of eagles, the howl of wolves, the bay of tigers, the roar of lions—all trapped in Death’s grip, and each chaotic moment illuminated by the fiery eruptions of wild emotions!

But the long suffering was over.

The city bells started to ring. The cannons from the forts added to the sound, and their deep metallic voices roared until the ground shook.

Just across the street, a mother who was reading the devastating news turned and suddenly hugged a boy to her heart, crying with joy. The final draft of half a million had called for him. 5

The capital of the nation was waking up from a long nightmare of fear and tension. More than once, the city had trembled at the hands of those bold men in gray, and the sound of their drums had shocked even the President at his desk.

Again and again, the fate of the Republic had hung by a thread, and in every crisis, Luck, Fate, or God had tipped the balance for the Union.

A procession of over five hundred Confederate deserters, who had crossed the lines in groups, came into view, marching past the hospital, indifferent to the chaos around them. Only a minimal guard flanked them as they shuffled along, tired, ragged, and dirty. The gray in their uniforms had turned to the color of clay. Some wore blue pants, others blue vests, and some blue coats taken from the battlefield. A few had pieces of carpet, while others had old sacks slung over their shoulders. They had been marching like this for weeks. Nobody paid them any attention.

“One of the secrets of the surrender!” Doctor Barnes exclaimed. “Mr. Lincoln has been at the front for the past few weeks with offers of peace and mercy if they would lay down their arms. The great spirit of the President, even Lee’s genius, couldn’t resist it. His smile started to soften those gray ranks like the sun warming the earth today.”

“You really admire the President,” the girl said, smiling curiously. 6

“Yes, Miss Elsie, and so is everyone else who knows him.”

She turned away from the window without saying anything. A shadow crossed her face as she looked past the long rows of cots, where the men in blue lay, until her eyes landed on one cot where a young Confederate officer lay alone among his enemies.

The surgeon turned with her to face the man.

"Will he survive?" she asked.

“Yes, just to be hung.”

"For what?" she yelled.

“Sentenced by a military court as a guerrilla. It’s a lie, but there’s some powerful force behind it—some mysterious influence in high places. The boy wasn’t fully aware during the trial.”

“We need to reach out to Mr. Stanton.”

“As well appeal to the devil. They say the order came from his office.”

“A nineteen-year-old boy!” she exclaimed. “What a shame. I'm trying to find his mother. You asked me to send a telegram to Richmond for her.”

“Yes, I’ll never forget his cries that night, so completely pitiful and childlike. I’ve heard many cries of pain, but in all my life, nothing has been as heartbreaking as that boy in feverish delirium talking to his mother. His voice has a unique tenderness, haunting and melodic. It resonates deep within your soul, making you feel like it’s your brother or sweetheart or sister or mother calling you. You should have seen him the day he fell. Oh my God, the pity and the beauty of it!”

“Phil texted me that he was a hero and asked me to take care of him. Were you there?”

"Yes, with the battery your brother was in charge of. He was the colonel of a broken rebel regiment right in front of us near Petersburg. Richmond was doomed, and fighting back was crazy, but there they were, tattered and half-starved, just a handful of guys, no more than four hundred, but their bayonets shone and sparkled in the sunlight. Despite the deadly fire, he charged and actually pushed our men out of a trench. We focused our guns on him as he huddled behind this barricade. Our own men lay outside in droves, dead, dying, and wounded. When the firing slowed down, we could hear their cries for water."

“Suddenly, this boy jumped onto the barricade. He was wearing a new gray colonel’s uniform that his mother, full of pride, had sent him.”

“He was a striking figure—tall, slim, upright, wearing a beautiful yellow sash trimmed with gold around his waist, his sword glinting in the sunlight, his slouch hat tilted to one side with an eagle’s feather in it.

“We thought he was going to lead another charge, but just as the battery was getting ready to fire, he calmly walked down the embankment through a shower of gunfire and started to give water to our wounded men.

“Every gun stopped firing, and we just watched him. He walked back to the trench, his bare sword suddenly gleaming above that eagle’s feather, and his rugged crew surged forward and charged at us like a pack of demons. 8

“There were no more than three hundred of them now, but they kept coming, letting out that terrifying rebel yell with every leap—the shout of the hunter from the hilltop spotting his prey! All Southern men are hunters, and that yell turned into something otherworldly during the war when it came from a hundred voices together and the prey was human.

“Of course, it was insane. We knocked them down that hill like chaff before a storm. When the last man had staggered back or fallen, this boy came up alone, carrying the colors he had grabbed from a fallen soldier, as if he were leading a million men to victory.

“A bullet had knocked his hat off, and we could see blood running down the side of his face. He charged right into the line of one of our guns. And then, with a smile on his lips and a challenge to death in his big brown eyes, he thrust that flag into the cannon's mouth, swayed, and fell! A cheer erupted from our men.”

“Your brother rushed forward and caught him in his arms, and as we leaned over the unconscious figure, he said, ‘My God, doctor, look at him! He looks so much like me I feel as if I’ve been shot myself!’ They were as similar as twins—only his hair was darker. I’m telling you, Miss Elsie, it’s a crime to kill men like that. One such man is worth more to this nation than every Black person who ever set foot on this continent!”

The girl's eyes had become tired as she listened to the story.

“I'll appeal to the President,” she said firmly.

“It’s the only chance. Right now, he's under 9 a lot of pressure. He had to cancel his friendly order to the Virginia Legislature to return to Richmond because Stanton forced him to. A skilled group has organized a conspiracy in Congress to undermine the President. They denounce his policy of mercy as foolishness, and they vow to make the South a second Poland. Their rallying cries are vengeance and confiscation. Four-fifths of his party in Congress are involved in this plot. The President has fewer than a dozen true friends in either House to rely on. They're saying that Stanton will have free rein, and that the gallows will be working overtime. This cancelled order from the President suggests that.”

“I'll give it a shot with Mr. Stanton,” she said slowly, emphasizing her words.

“Good luck, Little Sister—let me know if I can help,” the surgeon replied happily as he moved on to the next patient.

Elsie Stoneman sat down next to the injured Confederate and started to sing and play softly.

A little further down the same row, a soldier was dying, a faint choking sound just audible in his throat. An attendant sat beside him and wouldn’t leave until the end. The usual chatter and noise of the ward continued, indifferent to peace, victory, life, or death. In the presence of the hospital's finality, all other events on earth seem to fade away. Some were playing cards or checkers, some laughing and joking, and others reading.

At the first gentle note from the singer, the games stopped, and the reader set down his book.

The banjo arrived in Washington with the Black people 10 trailing behind the army. She had set aside her guitar and picked up the skill to play all the exciting camp songs of the South. Her voice was soft, calming, and gentle. It captivated every quiet listener completely.

As she played and sang the songs that the injured man loved, her eyes rested on his sun-tanned face with pity, which looked gaunt and feverish. He was caught in a restless sleep that brought no relief. She could feel the irregular pounding of his heart in the pulse of the large vein on his neck. His lips were dry and cracked, and the little boyish mustache curled up from his white teeth as if singed by a hot breath.

He started speaking in a rambling way, and she listened—his mother—his sister—and yes, she was sure as she leaned in closer—a little sweetheart who lived next door. They all had sweethearts—these Southern boys. Once again, he was teasing his dog—and then back to the fight.

At last, he opened his eyes, large dark-brown eyes, unnaturally bright, with a strange, longing look in their depths as they focused on Elsie. He attempted to smile and weakly said:

“Here’s a fly on my left ear; my guns can’t reach him—won’t you—”

She jumped forward and swatted the fly away.

He opened his eyes again.

"Sorry for asking, but am I alive?"

“Yes, definitely,” was the cheerful response.

“Well, now, is this me, or is it not me, or was I shot by a cannon, or has the devil got me?”

“It’s you. The cannon didn’t hit you, but three 11 muskets did. The devil hasn’t gotten you yet, but he will unless you behave.”

“I’ll behave if you don’t leave me——”

Elsie turned away with a smile, and he continued slowly:

“But I’m dead, I know. I’m lying on a cot with a canopy over it. I’m not hungry anymore, and an angel has been hovering over me, playing a golden harp——”

“Just a little Yankee girl playing the banjo.”

“Can’t fool me—I’m in bliss.”

"You're in the hospital."

“Funny hospital—check out that harp and that big trumpet hanging nearby—that's Gabriel's trumpet——”

“No,” she laughed. “This is the Patent Office building, which takes up two blocks, now a temporary hospital. There are seventy thousand injured soldiers in town, and more arriving on every train. The thirty-five hospitals are overcrowded.”

He shut his eyes for a moment in silence, and then spoke with a weak tremor:

“I’m afraid you don’t know who I am—I can’t impose on you—I’m a rebel—”

“Yes, I know. You’re Colonel Ben Cameron. It doesn’t matter to me now which side you were on.”

“Well, I’m in heaven—I’ve been dead for a long time. I can prove it if you’ll play again.”

“What should I play?”

“First, ‘O Jonny Booker Help dis Nigger.’”

She played and sang it beautifully. 12

“Now, ‘Wake Up in the Morning.’”

Again he listened with wide, staring eyes that saw nothing except visions inside his mind.

“Now, then, ‘The Ole Gray Hoss.’”

As the last notes faded, he attempted to smile again:

“One more—‘Hard Times and Wuss are Coming.’”

With a skillful, confident touch and soft Black dialect, she sang it through.

“Now, didn’t I tell you that you couldn’t trick me? No Yankee girl could play and sing these songs; I’m in heaven, and you’re an angel.”

“Aren’t you embarrassed to be flirting with me when you’re so close to dying?”

“That’s the time to get on good terms with the angels—but I’m already dead——”

Elsie couldn't help but laugh.

“I know it,” he continued, “because you have shiny golden hair and amber eyes instead of blue ones. I’ve never seen a girl in my life with such eyes and hair.”

"But you’re still young."

“Never was there such a girl on earth—you’re an—”

She raised her finger as a warning, and his eyelids drooped in tired stupor.

“You shouldn’t talk anymore,” she whispered, shaking her head.

A disturbance at the door made Elsie look away from the cot. A kind, motherly woman in her fifties, wearing an old, faded black dress, was begging the guard to let her through. 13

“Can't do it, ma'am. It's against the rules.”

“But I have to go in. I’ve hiked for four days through a maze of hospitals, and I know he has to be here.”

“Special orders, ma'am—injured rebels in here who belong in jail.”

“Fine, young man,” said the desperate voice. “My baby boy is in there, hurt and close to death. I'm going in. You can shoot me if you want, or you can look the other way.”

She hurried past the soldier, who just stared blankly out the door and noticed nothing.

She stood for a moment, looking helpless and confused. The large area of the second floor of the massive building was filled with rows of sick, injured, and dying men—a strange, serious, and eye-catching sight. Against the walls were heavy glass cases, filled with models of every kind of invention that human creativity had imagined. Between these cases were deep openings, eight feet wide, crowded with the sick, and long lines of them stretched through the center of the hall. A gallery ran above the cases, and this was filled with beds. The sound of surgeons and nurses' feet clattering over the marble floor added to the eerie atmosphere.

Elsie saw the look of desperate need in the mother’s face and quickly stepped forward to meet her:

“Is this Mrs. Cameron from South Carolina?”

The trembling figure in black held her hand tightly:

“Yes, yes, my dear, and I’m looking for my son, who is gravely injured. Can you help me?” 14

“I thought I recognized you from a small painting I’ve seen,” she replied quietly. “I’ll take you straight to his bed.”

“Thanks, thanks!” came the quiet reply.

In an instant, she was next to him, and Elsie walked over to the open window, where the chirping of sparrows drifted in from the lilac bushes blooming below.

The mother cast a gaze full of infinite tenderness on the drawn face, and her hands suddenly joined together in prayer:

“I thank you, Lord Jesus, for this hour! You have heard the cry of my soul and guided my steps!” She softly knelt, kissed his feverish lips, pushed the dark tangled hair back from his forehead, and let her hand rest over his eyes.

A faint blush colored his face.

“It’s you, Mom—I—know—you—that’s—your—hand—or—else—it’s—God’s!”

She wrapped her arms around him.

“My hero, my love, my baby!”

“I’ll be fine now, Mom, don’t worry. You see, I had defeated them that day just like I had many times before. I don’t know how it happened—my men all seemed to collapse at once. You know—I couldn’t surrender in that new colonel uniform you sent me—we put up a brave fight, and—now—I’m—just—a—little—tired—but you’re here, and it’s all good.”

“Yes, yes, my dear. It’s all over now. General Lee has surrendered, and when you’re feeling better, I’ll take you home, where the sunshine and flowers will help you regain your strength.”

“How’s my little sister?”

“Hunting in another part of the city for you. She’s grown so tall and elegant you’ll hardly recognize her. Your dad is at home and doesn’t know yet that you’re hurt.”

“And my love, Marion Lenoir?”

“The most beautiful little girl in Piedmont—sweet and playful as always. Mr. Lenoir is very sick, but he wrote an amazing poem about one of your kids. I’ll show it to you tomorrow. He’s our greatest poet. The South adores him. Marion sends her love to you and a kiss for the young hero of Piedmont. I’ll give it to you now.”

She leaned down and kissed him.

“And my dogs?”

“General Sherman left them, at least.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that— is my mare okay?”

“Yes, but we had time to save her—Jake kept her hidden in the woods until the army moved on.”

"Good for Jake."

“I don’t know what we would have done without him.”

“Is Old Aleck still at home, getting drunk as usual?”

“No, he ran off with the army and convinced every Black person on the Lenoir place to leave, except his wife, Aunt Cindy.”

“The old scoundrel, when Mrs. Lenoir’s mom saved him from burning to death when he was a kid!”

“Yes, and he told the Yankees those fire scars were made with the whip, and led a group to the house one night to burn the barns. Jake stopped them and reported him. The soldiers were so furious they hanged him and beat him nearly to death. We haven’t seen him since.”

“Well, I’ll take care of you, Mom, when I get home. Of course I’ll get better. It’s ridiculous to die at nineteen. You know I never believed there was a bullet made that could hit me. In three years of fighting, I lived a cursed life and never got a scratch.”

His voice had become weak and strained, and his face was flushed. His mother placed her hand on his lips.

“Just one more,” he begged weakly. “Did you see the little angel who has been playing and singing for me? You have to thank her.”

“Yes, I see her coming now. I need to go tell Margaret, and we'll get a pass and come every day.”

She kissed him and went to meet Elsie.

“And you’re the sweet girl who’s been playing and singing for my boy, a wounded stranger here all alone among his enemies?”

“Yes, and for everyone else as well.”

Mrs. Cameron took both of her hands and looked at her affectionately.

“You're going to let me kiss you? I'll always love you.”

She held Elsie close to her heart. Even though the girl was reserved, a sob caught in her throat at the feel of the warm lips. Her own mother had passed away when she was a baby, and a timid, yearning heart, long kept away from the world, surged with both tenderness and pain to return that embrace.

Elsie walked with her to the door, thinking about how to break the awful news of her son's fate.

She tried to say something, looked at Mrs. Cameron’s face, 17 glowing with grateful happiness, and the words got stuck in her throat. She chose to walk a short distance with her. But it only made the task harder.

At the corner, she suddenly stopped and said her good-bye:

“I need to go now, Mrs. Cameron. I’ll come by in the morning and help you get the passes to enter the hospital.”

The mother gently stroked the girl's hand and held it for a while.

“How great you are,” she said quietly. “And you haven’t told me your name?”

Elsie paused and said:

“That’s a little secret. They call me Sister Elsie, the Banjo Maid, in the hospitals. My dad is a distinguished man. I would be annoyed if my full name got out. I’m Elsie Stoneman. My dad is the leader of the House. I live with my aunt.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, holding his hand.

Elsie watched the dark figure blend into the crowd, feeling a mix of emotions.

The mention of her father had revived the suspicion that he was the mysterious force threatening the President's policies and planning a reign of terror for the South. He was the most powerful man in Washington after the President and the relentless enemy of Mr. Lincoln, despite being the leader of his party in Congress, which he controlled with an iron fist. He was a man of intense and fierce resentments. Yet, in his personal life, to those he was close to, he was generous and thoughtful. 18 “Old Austin Stoneman, the Great Commoner,” as he was called, and his name held significant weight in the world of actions. To this beautiful girl, he was the noblest of them all, her ideal of greatness. He was a caring father, and while not openly affectionate, he loved his children with deep devotion.

She paused and looked up at the massive marble columns that seemed like sentinels inviting her to go back inside to the cot where a wounded enemy lay. The twilight had deepened, and the gentle glow of the rising moon had dressed the solemn grandeur of the building in a shimmering softness and beauty.

“Why should I feel upset about one enemy among all these thousands who have fallen?” she asked herself. Every detail of the scene she had experienced with him and his mother stood out in her mind with shocking clarity—and the horror of his fate hit her with a deep sense of personal pain.

“He won't die,” she said, with newfound determination. “I’ll take his mother to the President. He won’t be able to say no to her. I’ll call Phil to assist me.”

She rushed to the telegraph office and called her brother.

The next morning, when Elsie arrived at the little boarding house where Mrs. Cameron was staying, her mother had already gone to the market to buy a bunch of roses to put next to her boy’s crib.

As Elsie waited for her return, the sensible little Yankee maid felt a twinge of sadness at the tenderness and naivety of these people. She knew that this mother barely had enough to eat, yet for her, bread was of little significance; flowers were essential to life. After all, there was a certain charm in this foolishness of the Southern people, and it made her feel a bit homesick.

“How do I even tell her?” she sighed. “But I have to.”

She had only waited a moment when Mrs. Cameron suddenly walked in with her daughter. She tossed her flowers on the table, rushed over to greet Elsie, grabbed her hands, and shouted for Margaret.

“How nice of you to come so soon! This, Margaret, is our dear little friend who has been so kind to Ben and me.”

Margaret took Elsie's hand and wanted to throw her arms around her neck, but something in the quiet dignity of the Northern girl's demeanor made her hesitate. She just20smiled warmly with her big dark eyes and gently said:

“We love you! Ben was my last brother. We were playmates and buddies. My heart shattered when he ran off to the front. How can we thank you and your brother!”

“I’m sure we haven’t done anything more than you would have done for us,” said Elsie, as Mrs. Cameron left the room.

“Yes, I know, but we can never express just how grateful we are to you. We truly believe you’ve saved Ben’s life and ours. The war has been a continuous nightmare for us since my first brother was killed. But now it’s over, we still have Ben, and our hearts have been celebrating all night.”

“I was hoping my brother, Captain Phil Stoneman, would be here today to meet you and assist me, but he can’t make it to Washington until Friday.”

“He caught Ben in his arms!” Margaret exclaimed. “I know he’s brave, and you must be proud of him.”

“Doctor Barnes says they’re as similar as twins—only Phil isn’t quite as tall and has blond hair like mine.”

“You'll let me see him and thank him as soon as he arrives?”

“Hurry, Margaret!” Mrs. Cameron cheerfully called as she reentered the parlor. “Get ready; we need to go to the hospital right away.”

Margaret turned and hurried out of the room with graceful confidence. The old dress she wore was so unremarkable that she seemed completely unaware of its worn-out state, as if it were a royal gown. 21

“And now, my dear, what do I need to do to get the passes?” asked the mother eagerly.

Elsie’s warm amber eyes became misty for a moment, and her fair skin, with its beautiful rose hues from the North, lost its color. She hesitated, attempted to speak, and remained silent.

The sensitive soul of the Southern woman understood the unspoken message of sorrow.

"Tell me quickly! The doctor hasn’t concealed his true condition from me?"

“No, he’s definitely going to recover.”

"What's next?"

"Worse—he's been sentenced to death by court-martial."

“Condemned to death—a—wounded—prisoner—of—war!” she whispered slowly, her face pale.

“Yes, he was accused of breaking the rules of war as a guerrilla raider during the invasion of Pennsylvania.”

“Absurd and monstrous! He was on General Jeb Stuart’s staff and could have only acted under his orders. He joined the infantry after Stuart’s death and rose to be a colonel, even though he was just a kid. There’s some terrible mistake!”

“Unless we can get his pardon,” Elsie continued in calm, controlled tones, “there’s no hope. We have to appeal to the President.”

The mother's lips shook, and she looked like she was about to pass out.

“Can I see the President?” she asked, regaining her composure with some effort.

“He just arrived in Washington from the front lines, and is surrounded by thousands. It’s going to be tough.” 22

The mother's lips were moving in silent prayer, and her eyes were squeezed shut to hold back the tears.

“Can you help me, please?” she asked sadly.

“Yep,” was the quick response.

“You see,” she continued, “I feel so powerless. I’ve never been to the White House or met the President, and I have no idea how to go about seeing him or how to ask him—and—I’m scared of Mr. Lincoln! I’ve heard so many harsh things said about him.”

“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Cameron. We have to go to the White House right now and try to see him.”

The mother held the girl's hand and caressed it softly.

“We won’t tell Margaret. Poor kid! She wouldn’t be able to handle this. When we get back, we might have better news. It can’t get any worse. I’ll send her on an errand.”

She picked up the stunning bouquet of roses with a sigh, buried her face in the fresh scent, as if to draw strength from their beauty and fragrance, and left the room.

In a few moments, she had come back and was on her way with Elsie to the White House.

It was a beautiful spring morning, this eleventh day of April, 1865. The bright sunshine, the vibrant green of the grass, the warm breezes, and the sounds of victory made the mother’s grief feel even more painful.

At the White House gates, they walked past the blue guard pacing silently back and forth, who just gave them a quick look with sharp eyes and said nothing. With the steady rhythm of his footsteps, the mother could hear the march of soldiers taking her son to his execution! 23

A huge lump formed in her throat as she got her first look at the Executive Mansion, gleaming white and eerily silent among the blooming trees. The tall columns of the grand facade, pristine as snow, the spray from the fountain, the marble walls—pure, dazzling, and cold—felt like the entrance to a great tomb where her own loved ones and the deceased of all the people remained. To her, the beautiful white palace, basking in the sunlight surrounded by new grass, shrubs, and trees, was the Judgment House of Fate. She recalled all the tired feet that had climbed its fateful steps, hoping to return from disappointment, the intense dramas that affected the lives of millions, and her heart sank.

A long line of people was already forming from the entrance under the porch, stretching far out across the park, waiting for their turn to see the President.

Mrs. Cameron placed her hand hesitantly on Elsie’s shoulder.

“Look, my dear, what a crowd already! Do we have to wait in line?”

“No, I can get you through the crowd using my father's name.”

“Is it going to be really hard to get in touch with the President?”

“No, it’s pretty simple. Guards and sentinels bother him. He gets anxious until they’re gone. An assassin or crazy person could take him out at almost any time of day or night. The doors are unlocked all the time, even late at night. I’ve often gone up to his secretaries’ offices as late as nine o’clock without being stopped by anyone.” 24

“What should I call him? Should I say ‘Your Excellency?’”

“Not at all—he dislikes titles and formalities. You should call him ‘Mr. President’ when you address him. But he’ll be happiest if you just call him by his name in your warm, friendly way. You can count on his understanding. Look at this letter he wrote to a widow. I brought it to show you.”

She gave Mrs. Cameron a newspaper clipping that had Mr. Lincoln’s letter to Mrs. Bixby from Boston, who had lost five sons in the war.

Over and over, she read its sentences until they resonated like solemn music in her soul:

“I know that any words from me trying to ease your pain from such a huge loss will feel weak and pointless. But I can’t help but offer you the comfort that comes from the gratitude of the nation they fought to protect. I hope that our Heavenly Father will ease the pain of your loss and leave you with only the treasured memories of those you loved and lost, along with the deep pride you must feel for making such a significant sacrifice for freedom.”

"Yours sincerely,"

“Abraham Lincoln.”

“And the President took a moment out of his busy life to write that letter to a heartbroken woman?” the mother asked.

"Yep."

“Then he’s good right down to the most hidden depths of a great heart! Only a Christian father could have written 25 that letter. I won't be afraid to talk to him. And they said he was an infidel!”

Elsie guided her through a back route away from the crowd and into Major Hay's office, the President’s private secretary. A quick word from the Great Commoner’s daughter got them immediate access to the President’s room.

“Just take a seat on one side, Miss Elsie,” said Major Hay; “wait for your chance and introduce your friend.”

On entering the room, Mrs. Cameron couldn’t see the President, who was sitting at his desk with three men engaged in a serious discussion over a pile of official documents.

She glanced around the room anxiously and felt comforted by its simple appearance. It was a medium-sized, office-like space with no signs of elegance or formality. Mr. Lincoln was sitting in an armchair next to a tall writing desk and table combined. She observed that his feet were big and that they were resting on a piece of plain straw matting. The room was filled with sofas and chairs covered in green worsted fabric.

When the group around the chair broke apart for a moment, she got her first look at the man who had her life in his hands. She watched him with intense curiosity. His back was still to her. Even while seated, she could see that he was a very tall man, fully six feet four inches, with unusually long legs and arms, and broad shoulders that were slightly hunched. His head was strong and topped with a thick mass of dark brown hair, streaked with gray.

He turned his head slightly, and she noticed his profile, framed by his short dark beard—his broad intellectual forehead, partially hidden by unruly hair, his face etched with deep lines from life's struggles and mortality, with pronounced hollows in his cheeks and under his eyes. In the creases at the corners of his mouth, she sensed determination, while his furrowed brows and unusually heavy eyelids appeared severe and imposing. Her heart sank. Looking again, she saw kindness, tenderness, sadness, sharp insight, and a peculiar, lingering smile reflecting in his mouth and eyes.

Suddenly, he leaned forward in his chair, turned around, and faced one of his tormentors with a curious and funny expression. With one hand patting the other, and a quirky look on his face, he said:

“My friend, let me tell you something——”

The man stepped in front of him again, and she couldn’t hear anything. When the story ended, the man tried to laugh. It came out weak. But the President laughed fully, laughed everywhere, and laughed his guests out of the room.

Mrs. Cameron turned to Elsie with a silent look, hoping she would give her this moment of good humor to plead her case, but before she could move, a man with a military presence suddenly stepped in front of the President.

He started to speak, but when he saw the look of determined seriousness on Mr. Lincoln’s face, he abruptly turned and said:

“Mr. President, I see you are completely set on not giving me what I deserve!”

Mr. Lincoln pressed his lips together, stood up silently, grabbed the intruder by the arm, and guided him toward the door. 27

“This is the third time you've come to see me, sir, asking me to overturn the fair sentence of a court-martial that dismissed you from the service. I told you my decision was made carefully and is final. Now, I’m giving you clear warning: don’t ever show up in this room again. I can handle criticism, but I will not tolerate disrespect!”

In a whiny voice, the man pleaded for the papers he had dropped.

“Get out of here, sir,” said the President, as he pushed him through the door. “Your papers will be sent to you.”

The poor mother trembled at this shocking act and sank back weakly in her seat.

With a swift, purposeful stride, the President walked back to his desk, accompanied by Major Hay and a young German girl, whose plain dress indicated that she was from the Western plains.

He handed the secretary an official document.

“Give this pardon to the boy’s mother when she comes this morning,” he said kindly to the secretary, his eyes suddenly full of warmth.

“How could I agree to shoot a boy who grew up on a farm, used to going to bed when it gets dark, just for falling asleep on duty when he was supposed to be on watch all night? I’ll never carry the guilt of taking such a boy’s life with me into eternity.”

Again the mother's heart soared.

“You remember the young man I pardoned for a similar offense in ’62, the one that Stanton made such a fuss about?” he continued in a softly nostalgic tone. “Well, here’s that pardon.”

He took a photograph from the lining of his silk hat, 28 which was wrapped in an executive pardon. There was a bullet hole at the bottom, stained with blood.

“I got this in Richmond. They found him dead on the field. He fell in the front lines with my photograph in his pocket next to his heart, this pardon wrapped around it, and on the back of it in his boy’s handwriting, ‘God bless Abraham Lincoln.’ I love investing in bonds like that.”

The secretary went back to his office, and the girl who was waiting stepped forward, and the President stood up to greet her.

The mother’s quick eye noticed, with surprise, the simple dignity and chivalry with which he treated this humble woman from the community.

With simple eloquence, the girl shared her story, pleading for the forgiveness of her younger brother who had been sentenced to death for desertion. He listened silently.

How pathetic the deep sadness of his sorrowful face! Yes, she was certain, the saddest face that God ever created in all the world! Her own broken heart briefly reached out to him in sympathy.

The President removed his glasses, wiped his forehead with the large red silk handkerchief he had, and his eyes kindly sparkled down at the warm German face.

“You seem like a genuine, honest, and kind girl,” he said, “and”—he smiled—“you don’t wear hoop skirts! I might get in trouble for this, but I’ll trust you and your brother, too. He should be pardoned.” 29 Elsie stood up to introduce Mrs. Cameron when a Congressman from Massachusetts suddenly stepped in front of her and asked for the pardon of a slave trader whose ship had been taken. He had spent five years in prison but couldn’t afford to pay the hefty fine imposed.

The President had sat down again and read the heartfelt plea for mercy. He looked up over his glasses, locked his gaze intensely on the Congressman, and said:

“This is a heartfelt plea, sir, articulated with remarkable eloquence. I could forgive a murderer swayed by such words, but a person who makes a career out of going to Africa to steal her defenseless children and sell them into slavery—no, sir—he can rot in jail before I grant him freedom in any way!”

Again the mother felt crushed.

Her moment had arrived. She had to confront the question of life or death, and as Elsie stood up and moved swiftly ahead, she followed, bracing herself for the challenge.

The President took Elsie’s hand casually and smiled without standing up. Clearly, she was someone he knew well.

“Will you listen to the prayer of a heartbroken mother from the South, who has lost four sons in General Lee’s army?” she asked.

Looking past the girl, he noticed for the first time the worn dress and the face clouded with sadness.

He was up in no time, reached out his hand, and guided her to a chair.

“Please take a seat, ma'am, and then share with me in your own words what I can do for you.” 30 In straightforward terms, powerful with a mother’s heartfelt expression, she recounted her story and requested forgiveness for her son, promising with his word of honor and her own that he would never again fight against the Union.

“The war is over now, Mr. Lincoln,” she said, “and we have lost everything. Can you imagine the emptiness of my heart? My four boys were honorable men. They might have been mistaken, but they fought for what they thought was right. You, too, have lost a son.”

The President's eyes faded.

“Yes, a beautiful boy—” he said simply.

“Well, all of mine are gone except this one. One of them is buried in an unmarked grave at Gettysburg. One died in a Northern prison. One fell at Chancellorsville, one in the Wilderness, and this one, my baby, before Petersburg. Maybe I've loved him too much, this last one—he's still just a child—”

“You will have your boy, my dear Madam,” the President said calmly, sitting down and writing a brief order to the Secretary of War.

The mother approached his desk, crying softly. Through her tears, she said:

"My heart feels heavy, Mr. Lincoln, when I think about all the harsh and painful things we've heard about you."

“Well, please send my love to the people of South Carolina when you get back home, and let them know that I am their President, and I have never forgotten that in the darkest moments of this terrible war; I will do everything I can to support them.” 31 “You will never regret this generous act,” the mother exclaimed with gratitude.

“I don’t think so,” he replied. “Let me share something with you, ma'am, but you have to promise not to tell anyone. It's a secret about how I run things. I’m always looking for a chance to save a life whenever I can. Every drop of blood lost in this war, North or South, feels like it’s being pulled from my own heart. It’s ironic that the deadliest war in history happened while I was in charge. And I—who finds the sight of blood completely horrifying—I’ve had to watch in silent despair because I couldn’t stop it! Now that the Union is secure, I won't let another drop of blood be spilled if I can help it.”

“God bless you!” the mother exclaimed, as she accepted the order from him.

She held his hand for a moment as she said goodbye, laughing and crying with overwhelming joy.

“I have to say, Mr. President,” she said, “how surprised and happy I am to discover that you’re from the South.”

“Why, didn’t you know that my parents were from Virginia, and that I was born in Kentucky?”

“Very few people in the South know it. I'm embarrassed to admit I didn't.”

“Then, how did you know I’m from the South?”

“By how you look, the way you speak, your relaxed, friendly nature, your kindness and humor, your strength when it comes to what you believe is right, and especially the way you stood up and bowed to a woman in a worn-out black dress, someone you knew was an enemy.” 32 “No, Madam, not an enemy now,” he said softly. “That word is outdated.”

“If we had just known you sooner——”

The President walked her to the door with a respectful attitude that revealed how deeply moved he had been.

“Take this letter to Mr. Stanton right away,” he said. “Some people criticize my pardons, but it really helps me unwind after a long day if I can save a young man’s life. I go to bed feeling happy, thinking about the joy I’ve brought to those who care about him.”

As the final words were spoken, an unusual dreaminess filled his tired expression, as if a crowd of pleasant memories had briefly lifted the weight of his life.

Elsie took Mrs. Cameron straight from the White House to the War Department.

“Well, Mrs. Cameron, what did you think of the President?” she asked.

“I’m not really sure,” was the thoughtful reply. “He’s the greatest person I’ve ever met. You can just feel it.”

When Mrs. Cameron was shown into the Secretary’s Office, Mr. Stanton was sitting at his desk writing.

She gave the President's order to a clerk, who passed it on to the Secretary.

He was a man in the prime of his life, both intellectually and physically, short and stocky, around five feet eight inches tall and a bit overweight. However, his movements were quick, and as he shifted in his chair, a sharp energy was evident in every movement of his body and every change in his expression.

His face was dark and covered with a long, dark beard sprinkled with gray. He directed a pair of small, piercing black eyes at her and said without getting up:

“So you’re the woman with a son who’s been sentenced to death as a guerrilla?”

“I'm so unlucky,” she replied.

“Well, I have nothing to say to you,” he continued in a louder and more serious tone, “and I don’t have time to waste on you. If you’ve incited people to rebel against the best government there is, you can deal with the consequences——”

“But, my dear sir,” interrupted the mother, “he's just a boy of nineteen, who ran away three years ago and joined the service——”

“I don’t want to hear another word from you!” he shouted angrily. “I don’t have time to waste—leave right now. I won’t do anything for you.”

“But I have an order from the President,” the mother insisted.

“Yes, I know it,” he replied with a smirk, “and I’ll handle it like I’ve handled many others—make sure it doesn’t get carried out—now leave.”

“But the President told me you would give me a pass to the hospital, and that a full pardon would be issued to my son!”

“Yes, I see. But let me share some information. The President is an idiot—a damn idiot! Now, will you go?”

With a growing sense of dread, Mrs. Cameron stepped back and told Elsie about the unexpected encounter.

“The jerk!” shouted the girl. “We’ll go back right away and tell the President about this disrespect.”

“Why are people like that given power?” the mother sighed.

“It’s a mystery to me, that’s for sure. They say he’s the greatest Secretary of War in our history. I don’t buy it. Phil can’t stand him, and neither can every army officer I know, from General Grant on down. I hope Mr. Lincoln will kick him out of the Cabinet for this insult.”

When they were led back into the President’s office, Elsie quickly told him about the outrageous response the Secretary of War had given to his order.

“Did Stanton say I was a fool?” he asked, with a puzzled look in his friendly eyes.

“Yes, he did,” snapped Elsie. “And he said it again with a ridiculous prefix.”

The President cheerfully looked out of the window toward the War Office and thoughtfully said:

“Well, if Stanton calls me a total fool, it must be true, because I've figured out that he's almost always right and usually means what he says. I’ll just go over and talk to Stanton.”

As he finished his last sentence, the smile gradually disappeared from his face, and the worried mother noticed the sudden flash of bravery and self-assurance of a lion behind those patient gray eyes.

He sent them away with directions to come back the next day for his final orders and walked over to the War Department by himself.

The Secretary of War was in a really bad mood and didn’t try to hide it when asked why he refused to carry out the order.

“The reasons for my actions are very straightforward,” he said with a harsh tone. “Carrying out the execution of this traitor is part of a well-thought-out plan for justice, which is crucial for the future safety of the Nation. If I’m going to run this office, I won’t let constant Executive interference hold me back. Plus, in this specific situation, I was pushed to ensure swift justice by the most influential man in Congress. I recommend that you steer clear of a conflict with old Stoneman during this critical time in our history.”

The President sat on a couch with his legs crossed, fell into a state of resignation, and listened quietly until the last sentence, when suddenly he sat up straight, fixed his deep gray eyes intently on Stanton, and said:

“Mr. Secretary, I guess you will have to carry out that order.”

“I can't do it,” came the strong reply. “It interferes with justice, and I won't carry it out.”

Mr. Lincoln kept his eyes fixed on Stanton and said slowly:

“Mr. Secretary, it needs to be done.”

Stanton turned in his chair, grabbed a pen, and quickly wrote a few lines before signing his name. He stood up with the paper in his hand, walked over to his boss, and said with great emotion:

“Mr. President, I want to thank you for your ongoing friendship during the challenging years I've spent in this role. The war is over, and my work is finished. I'm submitting my resignation.”

Mr. Lincoln's lips pressed together suddenly, he slowly stood up, and looked down in surprise at the flushed, angry face.

He grabbed the paper, ripped it into shreds, wrapped one of his long arms around the Secretary, and said in a quiet voice: 37

“Stanton, you have been a dedicated public servant, and it's not up to you to decide when you’re no longer needed. Keep doing your job. I will handle this my way; but I will take care of it myself.”

Stanton sat back down, and the President headed back to the White House.

Elsie got temporary passes for the day from the Surgeon-General and sent her friends to the hospital, promising that she wouldn't leave the White House until she had gotten the pardon.

The President welcomed her with unexpected warmth. The smile that had only haunted his sorrowful face throughout four years of struggle, defeat, and uncertainty had now blossomed into a joy that seemed to illuminate his strong features. Victory had lifted the burden from his soul, and he was preparing himself for the task of healing the Nation's wounds.

“I’ll have it ready for you in a moment, Miss Elsie,” he said, touching a paper on his desk with his strong hand. It had the red seal of the Republic on it. “I’m just waiting to receive the passes.”

“I really appreciate it, Mr. President,” the girl said earnestly.

“But tell me,” he said, with a charming, fatherly humor, “why you, of all our girls, the brightest, fiercest little Yankee in town, are so affected by a rebel boy’s troubles?”

Elsie blushed, then looked at him directly with a cheeky smile.

“I’m following the rules.”

"Love your enemies?" 39

“Absolutely. How could anyone resist loving the sweet, motherly face you saw yesterday?”

The President laughed warmly. “I get it—sure, sure!”

“The Honorable Austin Stoneman,” a clerk next to him suddenly announced.

Elsie jumped in surprise and whispered:

“Don’t let my dad know I’m here. I’ll wait in the next room. You won’t let anything hold up the pardon, right, Mr. President?”

Mr. Lincoln warmly shook her hand as she walked through the door into Major Hay’s room and turned to greet the Great Commoner who limped in slowly, leaning on his bent cane.

At that moment, he was an impressive and significant figure in the nation's story, the most powerful parliamentary leader in American history, even more so than Henry Clay.

No stranger ever walked by this man without taking a second glance. His clean-shaven face, strong, defined features, intense eagle-like gaze, and cold, colorless eyes—reflecting the chill of his native Vermont—drew attention.

His walk was a painful limp. He had a disability in both feet, and one of them was misshapen. The left leg ended in a mass of flesh that looked more like an elephant’s foot than a human foot.

He was completely bald and wore a heavy brown wig that looked too small to cover the edge of his huge forehead. 40

He rarely went to the White House. He was a skilled, daring, and ruthless leader of leaders, and people came to see him. He seldom smiled, and when he did, it was the smile of a cynic and a misanthrope. His words could cut like a scorpion's sting. He was a bigger threat to the opportunists and yes-men in his own party than to his political rivals. He had harbored a deep, steady, and relentless hatred for the President from the time of his first nomination in Chicago until the latest rumors about his new proclamation.

In temperament a fanatic, in impulse a born revolutionist, the word conservatism was like a red flag to a bull for him. The first clash of arms was music to his soul. He laughed at the call for 75,000 volunteers and demanded the immediate mobilization of an army of a million. He envisioned it growing to 2,000,000. From the beginning, his sharp instincts had sensed the end and all the long, bloody path in between. And from the start, he began to plan the most brutal and terrible revenge in human history.

And now his time had arrived.

The huge figure in the White House was the only one bold enough to challenge his anger and stand in his way; because old Stoneman represented the Congress of the United States. The opposition was too weak to even deserve his disdain. Calm, calculated, and spiteful whether he won or lost, the allure of his strong beliefs and revolutionary agenda had pulled the regular members of his party in Congress to him like enchanted followers.

The President warmly welcomed him and, with his usual respect for age and health issues, quickly moved to offer him a comfortable chair near his desk. 41

He was breathing hard and clearly struggling with strong feelings. He slammed his cane down on the floor, placed both hands on its handle, rested his heavy jaws on his hands for a moment, and then said:

“Mr. President, I haven’t bothered you with many requests over the past four years, and I’m not here today to ask for any favors. I’ve come to warn you that, in the direction you’ve chosen, the executive and legislative branches are at a crossroads, and your overstepping into Congress's responsibilities won’t be accepted, now that the Rebellion is over, not for a moment!”

Mr. Lincoln listened with respect, and a hint of amusement flickered in his eyes as he looked at his serious visitor. The two men were finally face to face—the two men who had shaped and would continue to shape the foundations of the New Nation—Lincoln’s roots in love and wisdom to last forever, the Great Commoner’s in hate and madness, destined to bring forth a legacy of tragedy and death for generations yet to come.

“Well, now, Stoneman,” started the cheerful voice, “that reminds me——”

The old Commoner raised his hand in a gesture of angry impatience:

“Save your stories for the gullible. Is it true that you’ve drafted a statement restoring the conquered province of North Carolina to its status as a State in the Union without any provisions for Black voting rights or the exile and disenfranchisement of its rebels?” 42

The President stood up and paced back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back before responding.

“I have. The Constitution gives the National Government no authority to regulate voting rights and does not include any provisions for the administration of ‘conquered territories.’”

“Constitution!” Stoneman shouted. “I have a hundred constitutions in the drawers of my desk!”

“I have vowed to support only one.”

“A tattered rag——”

“Rag or silk, I promise to do it, and I will, so help me God!” said the quiet voice.

“You’ve been doing this for the past four years, haven’t you?” sneered the Commoner. “What right do you have under the Constitution to declare war against a ‘sovereign’ State? To invade one for coercion? To blockade a port? To declare slaves free? To suspend the writ of habeas corpus? To create the State of West Virginia with the consent of two states, one of which was dead, and the other one which lived in Ohio? By what authority have you appointed military governors in the ‘sovereign’ States of Virginia, Tennessee, and Louisiana? Why trim the hedge and lie about it? We, too, are revolutionists, and you are our executive. The Constitution supported and protected slavery. It was ‘a league with death and a covenant with hell,’ and our flag ‘a polluted rag!’”

“In the stress of war,” said the President, with a distant look, “I had to take actions as Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy to save the Union, which I no longer have the authority to do now that the Union is saved and its Constitution is preserved. My first duty is to restore the Constitution as our highest law over every inch of our land.” 43

“The Constitution can be damned!” hissed the old man. “It was created, both in letter and spirit, by the slaveholders of the South.”

“Then the world owes them, and their work stands as an enduring monument of glory for them and their children. I have vowed to keep it alive!”

“We’ve outgrown the baby clothes. We’re going to create new constitutions!”

“‘Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,’” quietly said the tall, composed man.

For the first time, the old leader flinched. He had long since used up every word of disdain he had for the President, his character, skills, and policies. He felt a jolt from the first impression of the ultimate authority with which the President spoke. The man he had looked down on had transformed into the great, influential leader who would challenge him for every inch of progress in achieving his dark ambitions.

His hatred intensified as he recognized the prestige and power that came with his powerful position.

With some effort, he held back his anger and took on a combative tone.

“Can’t you see that your so-called States are now just conquered territories? That North Carolina and other unproductive parts of the United States are unfit to be part of civilized societies?” 44

“We didn’t fight a war of conquest,” the President said quietly, “but one of self-preservation as an unbreakable Union. No State ever left it, thanks to God’s grace and our strength. Now that we’ve won and secured its unity for all time, should we embarrass ourselves by admitting we were wrong? These States must be restored to their rights right away, or we’ll betray the blood we’ve shed. There are no ‘conquered territories’ for us to exploit. A nation can’t conquer its own land.”

"But we are acting outside the Constitution," Stoneman interrupted.

“Congress has no existence outside the Constitution,” was the quick response.

The old Commoner frowned, and his bushy eyebrows temporarily blocked his eyes. His sharp mind was starting to recognize the brilliance of the man he was facing. The ease with which he could understand all perspectives of an issue, along with the vivid imagination that fueled his thinking, was astonishing. We always underestimate the people we look down on.

“Why not just say it?” shouted Stoneman, abruptly shifting his approach. “Are you really set on opposing Black voting rights?”

“I’ve suggested to Governor Hahn of Louisiana to think about the policy of allowing in smarter individuals and those who served in the war. It’s just a suggestion. The State alone has the authority to grant the right to vote.”

“But the truth is that this little ‘suggestion’ of yours is just a bone thrown to radical dogs to silence our cries for a while! Deep down, you don’t believe in the equality of man if the person you’re comparing is a Black man?”

“I believe there is a physical difference between white and black races that will always prevent them from living together on equal political and social terms. If this is tried, one side must prevail.”

“Alright, hold the Southern white man accountable. Our group and the country will be secure then.”

"That means, get rid of African slavery and set up white slavery under Black masters! That would be progress for sure."

A grim smile flickered on the old man's lips as he said:

“Yes, your uptight conservative snobs and male aides in Congress freaked out when I armed the Black people. Yet the sky hasn’t fallen.”

“True. Yet there couldn’t be a more foolish mistake than trying to use these Black troops again. There’s no way to restore this Union to a state of brotherly peace with armed Black soldiers, wearing the Nation’s uniform, marching through the South and stirring up the worst feelings of the freedmen and their former masters. General Butler, their old commander, is currently making plans for their removal, at my request. He thinks he can dig the Panama Canal with these Black troops.”

“Great plan that is—just like your requests to Congress for the colonization of the entire Black race!”

“It will come to that eventually,” said the President 46 firmly. “The Black community has cost us $5,000,000,000, the devastation of ten major states, and rivers of blood. We can afford to spend a few million dollars more to achieve a permanent resolution to the issue. This is the only policy on which Seward and I have disagreed——”

“Then Seward wasn’t a completely hopeless fool. I’m glad to hear something good about him,” grumbled the old Commoner.

“I have pushed for the colonization of Black people, and I will keep advocating for it until it happens. My emancipation proclamation was connected to this plan. Thousands of them have lived in the North for a hundred years, yet not one has been the pastor of a white church, a judge, a governor, a mayor, or a college president. There isn’t room for two distinct races of white people in America, let alone for two distinct races of whites and blacks. We can’t have an inferior, servile class, peons or peasants. We must assimilate or expel. An American is either a citizen king or nothing. I can’t imagine a greater disaster than the integration of Black people into our social and political life as equals. Allowing mixed-race citizenship would be too high a cost to pay even for emancipation.”

“Words can’t capture how much I despise this nonsense!” shouted Stoneman, snapping his jaw shut and pursing his lips in disdain.

“If the Black people weren’t here, would we let them in?” the President continued, talking as if to himself. “The responsibility to exclude also includes the right to remove. In twenty years, we could peacefully settle Black people in the tropics and give them our language, literature, 47 religion, and system of government in a way that allows them to reach their full potential. They can never do that here. It was the fear of the Black tragedy behind emancipation that drove the South into the madness of secession. We can never achieve the ideal Union our founders envisioned, with millions of a foreign, inferior race among us, whose assimilation is neither possible nor desirable. The Nation cannot exist now half white and half Black, any more than it could exist half slave and half free.”

“Yet ‘God has made from one blood all races,’” quoted the cynic with a sneer.

“Yes—but finish the sentence—‘and fixed the bounds of their habitation.’ God never intended for the Black man to leave his home or for the white man to invade it. Our disregard for this principle is marked by two centuries of shame and bloodshed. And the tragedy won’t be resolved until the Black man returns to his home.”

“I can’t believe that the supporters of slavery chose Jeff Davis as their leader when there were so many better options available!”

“His election was a tragic and unnecessary mistake. I am the President of the United States, both North and South,” was the firm reply.

“Especially the South!” Stoneman spat. “Throughout this awful war, they've been your favorites—these rebel savages who’ve been killing our sons. You've always been quick to defend traitors. And now you dare to use this high office to defend them——”

“My God, Stoneman, are you a man or a barbarian!” the President exclaimed. “Isn’t the North equally responsible for slavery? Hasn’t the South lost everything? Haven’t the Southern people paid the price for all the horrors of war? Are we blameless? Was Sherman’s march just a stroll in the park? This war has been a massive struggle over principles to determine whether we are just a collection of small, weak territories held together by a thread or a strong nation of free people. Without the loyalty of four border Southern States—without Farragut and Thomas and their two hundred thousand brave Southern comrades who fought for the Union against their own kin, we would have lost. You cannot blame a whole people——”

“I do accuse them!” muttered the old man.

“Surely,” continued the steady, resonating voice, “surely, the magnitude of this war, its epic battles, its bravery, its profound seriousness, should push aside all petty desires for revenge! In the face of its remarkable history, our children will walk with silent lips and bare heads.”

“And forget the prison pen at Andersonville!”

“Yes. We refused, as a wartime policy, to exchange those prisoners, blockaded their ports, made medicine illegal to trade, and brought the Southern Army to the brink of starvation. The prison records, when finally compiled for history, will show just as many deaths on our side as on theirs.”

“The murderer on the gallows always gets more sympathy than his forgotten victim,” interrupted the cynic.

“The sin of revenge is an easy trap to fall into when we disguise it as justice,” said the sorrowful voice. “Haven’t we seen enough bloodshed? Is God’s revenge not sufficient? When Sherman’s army marched to the sea, in front of him lay the Garden of Eden, while behind him was a wasteland! A hundred years can’t return the wealth to the devastated South, nor can two hundred years bring back the precious young lives lost—”

“The foolishness of a mercy policy in this crisis can only lead to the rule of betrayal and violence,” the old man insisted, ignoring the President’s words.

“I present my policy before the judgment of time, satisfied with its verdict. If I were radical, I would have pushed the border states into the Confederacy, sent every Southern man back to his relatives, and split the North into civil conflict. I have tried to steer and manage public opinion in ways that affect our survival. This rational flexibility in policy is something you and your fellow radicals have chosen to label as my inconsistent foolishness.”

“And what's your message for the South?”

“It's simple: ‘End slavery, come back home, and act right.’ Lee accepted our peace and amnesty proposals. In my last message to Congress, I informed the Southern people they could achieve peace anytime by just laying down their arms and accepting National authority. Now that they’ve taken me at my word, should I betray them with a dishonorable revenge? Revenge won't heal or purify; it only brutalizes and destroys.”

Stoneman got up impatiently.

“I see it’s pointless to argue with you. I won’t waste my breath. Here’s my final warning. The South is defeated territory. I plan to erase it from the map. Rather than allow one traitor from these so-called States into Congress, I will break the Union into a thousand pieces! I won’t sit with men whose clothes carry the smell of my relatives’ blood. At least clean them up before they come in. Four years ago, these traitors left Congress with shouts and insults to join Catiline’s armies. Should they really return to power?”

“I'll say it again,” said the President, “you can't indict a whole group of people. Treason is a simple term to throw around. A traitor is someone who fights and loses. Washington was considered a traitor by George III. Treason triumphed, and now Washington is forever remembered. Victors use the word 'treason' against those who don't succeed.”

“Listen to me,” Stoneman interrupted forcefully. “The survival of our party depends on giving Black people the vote and making them the leaders of the South. This can only happen by getting rid of the wealthy landowners, so that their descendants don’t create another generation of traitors. This isn’t revenge. It’s justice, it’s patriotism, it’s the highest form of wisdom and compassion. Sometimes, nature wipes out entire communities and races that hinder progress. The political brilliance of these people is such that, if you don’t make Black people the leaders, the South will eventually regain control over the North and reverse everything we’ve accomplished through this war.”

“If the South, in its poverty and devastation, can achieve this, then we deserve to be ruled! The North is wealthy and powerful—the South is a land of destruction and death. I am filled with wonder, shame, and scorn at such disgraceful fear! The Nation cannot be healed until the South is healed. Let’s close the divide where we bury slavery, regional hostility, and 51 all conflicts and hatreds. The common sense of our people will never agree to your plan of reckless revenge.”

“The people have no common sense. A new fool is born every second. They are controlled by impulse and emotion.”

“I have trusted them before, and they have always come through for me. The day I left for Gettysburg to dedicate the battlefield, you were so confident I would lose in the upcoming convention that you shouted across the street to a friend as I walked by: ‘Let the dead bury the dead!’ It was a clever remark. I even laughed at it myself. And yet, the people unanimously called me again to lead them to victory.”

“Yes, in the past,” Stoneman said bitterly, “you’ve won, but remember this: from now on, your luck is fading. The hidden fires of passion will be ignited. In the battle we face today, I’ll break your back and crush the spirit of every coward and opportunist who crawls at your feet.”

The President burst into laughter, which only made the old man angrier.

“I protest against the insult of your foolishness!”

“Excuse me, Stoneman; I have to laugh or I'll collapse under the weight of the burdens I carry, surrounded by such supporters!”

“Listen to me,” grumbled the old leader, “as soon as you publish that North Carolina proclamation, your name will be mentioned all over Congress.”

“There are higher powers.”

"You'll need them."

“I’ll have help,” was the calm response, as the dreamy expression of the poet and mystic washed over the rugged face. “I 52 would be a presumptuous fool, indeed, if I thought that for even a day I could handle the responsibilities of this great office without the support of Someone who is wiser and stronger than everyone else.”

"You'll need the help of God in the path you've planned!"

“Some ships come into port that aren’t steered,” continued the dreamy voice. “What if Pickett had charged one hour earlier at Gettysburg? What if the Monitor had arrived one hour later at Hampton Roads? I had a dream last night that always signals big events. I saw a white ship sailing swiftly under full sail. I’ve seen her many times before. I’ve never known her port of entry or her destination, but I’ve always known her Pilot!”

The cynic's lips twisted in disdain. He leaned hard on his cane and took a slow, awkward step toward the door.

“You refuse to listen to what Congress wants?”

“If your words express them, yes. Push your plan for revenge on the South, and you’ll sow the wind to reap the whirlwind.”

“Definitely! And from what hidden cave will this whirlwind come?”

“The despair of a powerful race of world-conquering people, even in defeat, is still a force that politicians take into account.”

“I defy them,” the old Commoner growled.

Again the dreamy look returned to Lincoln’s face, and he spoke as if he were sharing a message from the soul caught in the clouds during a moment of transformation: 53

“And I’ll trust in the honor of Lee and his people. The powerful connections of memory, reaching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and home all over this vast country, will once again strengthen the unity of the Union when they are stirred again, as they undoubtedly will be, by the better angels of our nature.”

“You’ll be lucky to live to hear that song.”

“To dream it is enough. If I’m killed by an assassin now, he won’t come from the South. I was safer in Richmond this week than I am in Washington today.”

The cynic grumbled and took another step toward the door.

The President approached.

“Listen, Stoneman; do you have some personal reason for this grudge against the South? Honestly, I've never known you to lie in my life.”

The response was silence and a frown.

"Am I correct?"

“Yes and no. I hate the South because I can't stand the evil institution of slavery with intense rage. It has long since corrupted the heart of the Southern people. Humanity can't thrive in its polluted environment, and its children are doomed. If my personal grievances have set me up for a significant task, it doesn't matter; I am just the chosen tool of Justice!”

Again the mystical light enveloped the rugged face, calm and patient as Destiny, as the President slowly repeated:

“Without harming anyone, with kindness for everyone, and with determination to do what’s right, as God helps me see what’s right, I 54 will work to complete the task at hand and heal the Nation’s divisions.”

“I’ve given you a fair warning,” shouted the old Commoner, shaking with anger as he tottered closer to the door. “From this moment on, your leadership is finished.”

“Stoneman,” said the kind voice, “I can’t express how much your toxic idea of helping others disgusts me. You've misunderstood and mistreated me at every turn over the last four years. I hold no grudges against you. If I said anything today that hurt your feelings, I'm sorry. The determination with which you pushed for the war was an invaluable service to both me and the country. I’d rather collaborate with you than oppose you. But now that we have to battle, I’ll be clear: I’m not scared of you. I’d let my right arm be cut off before I’d sign any measure of petty revenge against a brave, fallen opponent, and I’ll continue this fight until I win, die, or my country turns its back on me.”

“I’ve always known you secretly admired the South,” came the gloomy sneer.

“I love the South! It’s part of this Union. I love every inch of its land, every hill and valley, mountain, lake, and sea, and every man, woman, and child who lives under its skies. I’m an American.”

As the passionate words flowed from the President's heart, his broad shoulders lifted, and his strong head naturally rose in a heroic stance.

“I can't believe you ever fought against your loved ones!” exclaimed the cynic.

“We fought for the South because we loved her and wouldn’t let her go. Now that she is defeated and lying helpless at our feet—you will not wage war on the wounded, dying, and dead!”

Again the lion shone in the calm gray eyes.

Elsie brought Ben Cameron's pardon to his worried mother and sister, her mind racing. The name on those important papers captivated her. She read it over and over with a strange personal happiness that she had saved a life!

She started her work in the hospitals as a strong supporter of her father's beliefs, convinced that all Southerners were ruthless. However, as she witnessed the injured boys from the South among the Union soldiers, she increasingly overlooked the divide between them. They looked so young, these slender, dark-haired boys from the South—so tragically young! Some of them were only fifteen, and hundreds were not even sixteen. One day, she kissed a fourteen-year-old out of sheer compassion for his loneliness.

The role her father was playing in the drama that Ben Cameron’s life depended on confused her. Was he the mysterious figure behind Stanton? She could hear echoes of the intense conflict with the President coming from the half-open door.

She had complete faith in her father's patriotism and pride in his incredible intelligence. She understood that he was a king among men by divine right of his innate power. His sensitive spirit, dwelling on a painful lameness, was hidden from the world behind a frowning brow like a wounded animal. Yet in moments of love, when no eyes but God's could see, her hand had guided his great soul out of its dark lair. She loved him with deep tenderness, knowing that she had connected with his inner life more than anyone else—more than her own mother, who had died when she was a baby. Her aunt, with whom she and Phil now lived, had told her that her mother's life was not a happy one. Their personalities had not matched well, and her gentle Quaker spirit had faded away from grief in the quiet home in southern Pennsylvania.

Yet there were moments when he felt like a stranger to her. A secret, dark and cold, lay between them. Once, she had gently asked him what it meant. He only squeezed her hand, smiled tiredly, and said:

“Nothing, my dear, just the Blue Devils after me again.”

He had always lived in Washington in a small house with black shutters, close to the Capitol, while the kids had lived with his sister, near the White House, where they had grown up.

A curious fact about this place on Capitol Hill was that his housekeeper, Lydia Brown, was biracial, a woman of incredible beauty and the fierce temperament of a leopard. Elsie had gone there once and received such a welcome that she never went back. All kinds of rumors circulated in Washington about this woman—her jewels, her dresses, her attitude, her assertion of the dignity of the leading figure in national legislation, and her control over the old Commoner and his life. It slowly made its way into the newspapers and magazines, but he never once stooped to acknowledge it. 58

Elsie asked her dad to shut down this house and move in with them.

His response was brief and forceful:

“Not a chance, my child. This club foot must be living right next door to the Capitol. My house is basically just an office where I sleep. Half the country’s business gets done there. Don’t bring this up again.”

Elsie held back a sob at the cold threat in the tone of his command and never asked again. It was the only request he had ever turned down, and somehow, her heart would keep returning to it, brooding and wondering about his motives.

The closer she got this morning to the hospital door, the more connected the wounded boy’s life and loved ones felt to her own. She felt a deep worry about the conflict that was about to erupt between her father and the President—the one insisting on the destruction of their land, which was devastated, exhausted, and defenseless!—while the President remained committed to his policies of mercy, generosity, and healing.

Her father didn't hold back. His harsh words, fueled by anger, could ignite a blaze that would illuminate the Nation with its intensity. Wouldn't his name strike fear into everyone living under Southern skies? A disturbing realization washed over her that he was mistaken, and his policies were harsh and unfair.

She had never admired the President before. It was trendy to speak about him with disdain in Washington. 59 He had little support in Congress. Nine out of ten politicians disliked or feared him, and she knew her father had been the driving force behind a plot at the Capitol to stop his second nomination and establish a dictatorship to enforce a strict policy of reconstruction in the South. And now she realized she was fully behind the President.

She felt ashamed of her disloyalty and was hit by a wave of impulsive anger towards Ben and his people for coming between her and her own. Yet how ridiculous to feel that way towards the innocent victims of a huge tragedy! She tried to push the thought away. Still, she needed to separate from them now before the approaching storm hit. It would be best for her and for them. Delivering this pardon would end their relationship. She would send the papers with a messenger and wouldn’t see them again. Then she imagined, with a flutter of girlhood pride, the moment in the future when Ben’s big brown eyes would fill with tears upon learning that she had saved his life. They had kept everything hidden from him so far.

She was hesitant to examine too closely in her own heart the unclear reason behind her happiness. She smiled as she reread the name “Ben Cameron” on the paper adorned with its bold red Seal of Life. She had laughed at the boys who had professed their love for her, envisioning a broader, more noble life of heroic service. And she felt she was living up to her ideal in the generous outreach she had extended to those who were alone. Weren't they the children of her spirit in that larger, finer world she had dreamed of and sung about? Why should she abandon them now for harsh politics? Their sadness had been hers; their happiness should be hers as well. She would take the papers herself and then say goodbye.

She found the mother and sister next to the crib. Ben was sleeping while Margaret held one of his hands. The mother was busy sewing for the injured Confederate soldiers she had found throughout the hospital.

At the sight of Elsie holding up the message of life, she rushed to meet her with a shout of joy.

She held the girl tightly to her chest, unable to find the words. Finally, she let her go and said with a sob:

“My child, whether in good times or bad, my love will embrace you!”

Elsie stuttered, looked away, and tried to conceal her feelings. Margaret had knelt and rested her head on Ben's cot. After a while, she got up, wrapped her arms around Elsie in an uncontrollable urge, kissed her, and whispered:

"My dear sister!"

Elsie’s heart raced at the words as her eyes lingered on the face of the sleeping soldier.

Elsie stopped by the Camerons' place in the afternoon, beaming with pride and with her brother by her side.

Captain Phil Stoneman, athletic and tan, a veteran of two years of service, dressed in his full uniform, was the perfect soldier, yet he had never been a fan of war. He was filled with quiet joy that it was finally over and that he could soon return to a normal life. He had inherited his mother’s temperament; he was generous, enterprising, quick, smart, modest, and ambitious. From the start, war had seemed to him a terrible tragedy. He had learned to respect a brave enemy early on, and any bitterness had long since disappeared from his heart.

He had laughed at his father's harsh views on Southern life shaped by his career in politics, and, while he was loyal to him in a boyish way, he didn't believe in his Radical agenda.

The father, as big of an egotist as he was, listened to Phil’s protests with a mix of mild amusement and quiet pride in his independence, because he loved this boy with deep tenderness.

Phil was moved by Ben’s close call and wanted to treat his mom and sister with the utmost kindness, as a way to make up for the wrong he believed had been done to them. He was shy around girls, 62 but he wanted to give Margaret a warm welcome for Elsie’s sake. He wasn’t ready for the surprise he felt when he first saw the Southern girl.

When the elegant figure walked through the door to greet him, her dark eyes shining with warmth, her voice soft and heartfelt, he gasped in surprise.

Elsie noticed his confusion with amusement and said:

“I need to go to the hospital for a quick procedure. So, Phil, I’ll see you at the door at eight o’clock.”

“I won’t forget,” he replied absentmindedly, watching Margaret closely as she walked with Elsie to the door.

He noticed that her dress was made of rough, unbleached cotton, dyed with walnut hull juice and adorned with handmade wooden buttons. The story behind these items, filled with hardship and struggle, was compelling, yet she wore them with an effortless dignity. She didn’t have any pins, brooches, or jewelry. Everything about her was simple and smooth, elegant and kind. Her face was large—the beautiful oval shape—and her thick hair, parted in the middle, cascaded down in two big waves. Tall, dignified, and stunning, her rare Southern beauty exuded subtle softness and relaxed grace, she was a revelation to Phil.

The rough black dress that hugged her figure looked almost alive when she moved, full of her beauty. The rhythmic tones of her voice were rich with emotion, sweet, soft, and comforting. And the scent of the rose she had pinned low on her chest, he could have sworn, was the same as her breath.

Lingering in her eyes and echoing in the tones of her 63 voice, he sensed a faint memory of tears for the loved and lost that added a unique sadness and haunting beauty to her youth.

She had come back quickly and was chatting comfortably with him.

“I’m not going to say, Captain Stoneman, that I hope to be like a sister to you. You’ve already become my brother by what you did for Ben.”

“Nothing, I promise you, Miss Cameron, that any soldier wouldn't do for a brave enemy.”

“Maybe; but when the enemy is my only brother, my buddy and childhood friend, brave and kind, whom I've admired as my ideal man—well, you know I have to thank you for holding him in your arms that day. Can I do that again?”

Phil felt the soft, warm hand holding his, while the dark eyes sparkled and radiated a friendly message.

He muttered something unintelligible, gazed at Margaret as if entranced, and forgot to release her hand.

She finally laughed, and he blushed and dropped it like it was a hot coal.

“I almost forgot, Miss Cameron. I’d like to take you to the theater tonight, if you’re interested?”

"To the movies?"

“Yes. It’s supposed to be a special occasion, Elsie tells me. Laura Keene’s last performance in ‘Our American Cousin,’ and her one-thousandth show of the play. She performed it in Chicago at McVicker’s when the President was first nominated, to hundreds of the delegates who voted for him. He’s supposed to be there tonight, as the Evening Star 64 has announced, along with General and Mrs. Grant. It will be a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see these famous figures—plus, I want you to see the city lit up along the way.”

Margaret paused.

“I’d like to go,” she said, feeling a bit unsure. “But you see, we're traditional Scotch Presbyterians down in our village in South Carolina. I’ve never been to a theater—and this is Good Friday—”

“That’s true, for sure,” Phil said, thinking it over. “I never thought about that. War isn’t really a spiritual boost, and it makes it hard to keep track of time. I think we end up fighting on Sundays more often than any other day.”

“But I really want to see the President since Ben got pardoned. Mom will be here any minute, and I'll ask her.”

“You see, it’s really an event,” Phil continued. “Everyone is going there to see President Lincoln at the height of his success, and his great General just back from the battlefield. Grant has just come into town.”

Mrs. Cameron came in and greeted Phil with a warm, motherly affection.

“Captain, you remind me so much of my son! Did you notice that, Margaret?”

“Of course, Mom, but I was worried I’d exhaust him with compliments if I tried to say anything.”

“Only his hair is light and wavy, and Ben’s straight and black, or you’d think they were twins. Ben’s a bit taller—sorry, Captain Stoneman, but we’ve fallen so in love with your little sister that we feel like we’ve known you all our lives.”

“I assure you, Mrs. Cameron, your compliments are very kind. Elsie and I don’t remember our mother, and all this friendly feedback is more than welcome.”

“Mama, Captain Stoneman invited me to go with him and his sister tonight to see the President at the theater. Can I go?”

“Will the President be there, Captain?” asked Mrs. Cameron.

“Yes, ma'am, with General and Mrs. Grant—it’s really a significant public event celebrating peace and victory. Today, the flag was raised over Fort Sumter, marking the anniversary of its surrender four years ago. The city will be lit up.”

“Sure, you can go. I’ll stay here with Ben. I hope you get to see the President.”

At seven o'clock, Phil picked up Margaret. They walked to Capitol Hill and down Pennsylvania Avenue.

The city was buzzing with energy. Huge crowds filled the streets. In front of the hotel where General Grant was staying, the crowd was so thick that the streets were totally blocked. Everywhere you looked, there were soldiers—groups, companies, whole regiments—cheering and celebrating their victory.

The light display was stunning. Every building on every street, in every corner of the city, was lit from the top floor to the basement. The public buildings and churches competed with each other in the grandeur of their decorations and the brilliance of their lights. 66

They turned a corner, and suddenly the Capitol on its imperial hill stood out like a grand constellation in the sky! A second glance revealed it to be a massive bonfire against the dark backdrop. Every window in its marble maze, from the huge base to the crowning statue of Freedom, sparkled and shone with light—over ten thousand jets poured their beams through the windows, along with countless lights that circled the impressive dome inside and out.

Margaret stopped, and Phil felt her gentle hand clutch his arm with a rush of emotion.

"Isn’t it amazing!" she whispered.

“Awesome!” he echoed.

But he was thinking about the pressure of her hand on his arm and the gentle tones of her voice. Somehow, he felt that the light came from her eyes. He forgot about the Capitol and the bustling crowds in front of the sweeter creative wonder silently blossoming in his soul.

“And yet,” she hesitated, “when I think about what all this means for our people back home—their suffering and poverty and despair—you know it makes me weak.”

Phil's hand cautiously reached for the soft one resting on his arm and touched it gently.

“Trust me, Miss Margaret, it will all turn out for the best in the end. The South will rise to a greater life than it has ever experienced before. This is her victory as much as it is ours.”

“I wish I could think that way,” she replied.

They walked by City Hall and saw in huge letters of fire thirty feet tall, the words: 67

"Union, Sherman, and Grant"

On Pennsylvania Avenue, the hotels and stores had decorated every window, awning, cornice, and swaying tree-top with lanterns. The grand avenue was filled with tri-colored balloons floating and shimmering like ghosts high up in the dark sky. Above them, in the darker area toward the stars, the heavens were lighting up with sheets of colorful flames from exploding rockets.

Margaret had never imagined such a sight. She walked in stunned silence, occasionally holding back a sob for the memories of those she had loved and lost. A moment of bitterness would darken her heart, but then, feeling Phil's closeness, his generous spirit, the beauty and kindness of his sister, and everything they owed her for Ben’s life, the sadness would fade away.

At every public building and in front of every major hotel, bands were playing. The lively war tunes, floating up into the sky, seemed like a part of the shifting light. The smell of burnt gunpowder and smoldering rockets filled the warm spring air.

The deep bay of the great fort guns now started to echo from every hilltop overlooking the city, while a thousand smaller guns barked and growled from every square, park, and intersection.

Jay Cooke & Co.'s banking house had across its front, in huge bright letters, the words:

“THE BUSY B’S—BALLS, BALLOTS, AND BONDS”

Every telegraph and newspaper office was buzzing with excitement, as the same scenes played out in every hub of the North. The entire city felt like a fantasy, with its dirt and sin, shame and crime, all bathed in beautiful light.

But above all other impressions was the contagious roar of crowds of men surging through the streets—the human shout with its animal and spiritual magnetism, wild, unstoppable, unlike any other force in the universe!

Margaret’s hand repeatedly and unconsciously gripped Phil’s arm, and he sensed that the entire celebration had been arranged for his sake.

They walked through a small park on their way to Ford’s Theatre on 10th Street, and the Southern girl quickly noticed the blooming flowers and fully opened lilacs.

“Look at this early spring!” she exclaimed. “I bet the flowers at home are beautiful right now.”

“I hope to see you with them someday when all the clouds have cleared,” he said.

She smiled and answered honestly:

“A warm welcome will be waiting for you.”

And Phil decided to waste no time in trying it out.

They turned onto 10th Street, and in the middle

“Is that the theater?” asked Margaret.

“Yeah.”

“Wow, it looks like a church without a steeple.” 69

“Exactly what it is, Miss Margaret. It was a Baptist church. They turned it into a theater by remodeling its gallery into a dress circle and balcony and adding another gallery above. My grandmother Stoneman is a devoted Baptist and used to attend this church. My dad never goes to church, but he would occasionally come here to make her happy. Elsie and I came often.”

Phil quickly made his way through the crowd, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction in clearing a path for Margaret and protecting her from the jostling crowd.

They found Elsie at the door, tapping her foot with impatience.

“Well, I have to say, Phil, this is pretty quick for a soldier who had clear orders,” she exclaimed. “I’ve been here for an hour.”

“Nonsense, Sis, I’m ahead of schedule,” he protested.

Elsie showed her watch.

“It’s a quarter after eight. Every seat is taken, and they’ve stopped selling standing-room. I hope you have good seats.”

“The best seats in the house tonight, the first row in the balcony dress circle, right across from the President’s box. We can see everything on stage, in the box, and every little corner of the venue.”

“Then I’ll forgive you for making me wait.”

They climbed the stairs, pushed through the crowd standing there, and finally reached their seats.

What a crowd! The building was packed with people, and above it all was the buzz of the amazing feeling of peace and victory! 70

The women in stunning outfits, officers in uniforms gleaming with gold, the display of wealth and power, the scent of flowers and the sounds of violins and flutes made Margaret feel like she was in a dream, so striking was the difference from her own life and the people in the South.

The inside of the house was filled with red, white, and blue. The President’s box was adorned with two huge silk flags with gold-fringed edges that were elegantly draped and hanging in loops.

Withers, the conductor of the orchestra, was in great spirits. He raised his baton with quick, inspired movements. For him, it was a personal victory as well. He had composed the music for a song for the occasion. It was dedicated to the President, and the program announced that it would be performed during the evening between the acts by a famous quartet, with the whole cast joining in chorus. The National flag would be draped around each singer, worn like the togas of ancient Greece and Rome.

It was already known by the crowd that General and Mrs. Grant had left the city for the North and couldn’t be there, but every eye was on the door through which President and Mrs. Lincoln would walk in. It was the moment of his greatest triumph.

What a romance his life was! The thought of it excited the crowd as they waited. A few years ago, this tall, sad-faced man had drifted down the Sangamon River into a rough Illinois town, tattered, broke, friendless, and alone, begging for a job. Four years earlier, he had arrived in Washington as President of the United States—but he came under the cover of darkness with just a few close friends, facing widespread doubt about his abilities and the loud belief in his imminent failure from both his party and opponents. He confronted a divided nation and the most terrible civil conflict in history. Through it all, he had guided the nation safely, growing in power and fame each day, until tonight, amid the victorious cheers of millions celebrating a Union set in eternal stone, he stood as the people's idol, the first great American, the most prominent man in the world.

There was a commotion at the door, and the tall figure suddenly appeared in front of the crowd. With one impulse, they jumped to their feet, and cheers echoed throughout the building. The orchestra was playing “Hail to the Chief!” but no one paid attention to it. They saw the Chief! They were expressing their own welcome in a kind of music that came from the rhythmic beat of human hearts.

As the President walked down the aisle with Mrs. Lincoln, joined by Senator Harris’s daughter and Major Rathbone, cheers erupted from the crowd. He turned, his face shining with happiness, and bowed as he went by.

The crowd's response shook the building to its core, and the President paused. His dark face lit up with emotion as he surveyed the sea of cheering people. It was a moment of incredible joy. The people had come to know, love, and trust him, and it felt wonderful. His face, illuminated by the flames of emotion, was transformed. It seemed as if his spirit lifted away from its rough, earthly home and shone with inspiration from a higher realm. 72

As the pain and terror of war had surrounded this man's personality, now the glories of victory shone and sparkled in his imagination.

Margaret suddenly placed her hand on Phil’s arm:

“Wow, he looks so Southern! How tall and dark he is, and how typical his whole appearance is!”

“Yes, and his character traits are even more typical,” said Phil. “On the surface, he has an easygoing, friendly demeanor and the sensitivity of a woman—beneath that, he has an iron will and a lion’s heart. I like him. What always amazes me is how universal he is. A Southerner sees the South in him, a Westerner sees the West, and even Charles Sumner from Boston nearly loves him. You know, I think he’s the first truly well-rounded American to ever live in the White House.”

The President’s party had now entered the box, and as Mr. Lincoln took the chair closest to the audience, in full view of everyone in the house, cheers filled the air once again. Despite Withers’ efforts with the baton, and the orchestra doing its best, the music was drowned out like noise in the sea. He rose again to bow and smile, his face bright with joy. The spirit beneath those deep-set lines had longed for the light. His love for theater and a good joke were his heart's way of pushing back against pain and tragedy. He stood there bowing to the crowd, the grandest, kindest figure in the fiercest war in human history—a man who quietly did merciful things while others committed crimes. Little sunlight had penetrated his life, yet tonight he felt that the sun of a new day in his life and the lives of the people was already coloring the horizon with glory.

Behind those smiles lies a deep story! Many nights he paced back and forth in the telegraph office of the War Department, reading the terrible news of defeat, and would sit alone and weep over the list of the dead. He endured many dark hours when the accolades of the world faded away and his heart openly ached. His character developed so steadily and quietly alongside the burdens he carried, achieving great things with minimal struggle, that neither he nor the crowd he honored realized how deeply his love had embedded itself in the heart of the people’s lives.

As he looked again over the excited crowd, his tall figure seemed to straighten, standing tall and proud, filled with the new dignity of confident, victorious leadership. He realized that he had finally found his place, and his mind was overflowing with dreams of kindness and healing.

The President sat back down, the noise quieted, and the play started with a low buzz of whispered remarks aimed at the flag-covered box. The actors had a hard time keeping the audience's attention, until finally Hawk, who was playing Dundreary, decided to grab their attention and paused to say:

“Now, that reminds me of a little story, as Mr. Lincoln says——”

Instantly, the crowd erupted into a wave of applause. The President laughed, leaned in, and spoke to his wife, and the electric connection was made between the stage, the box, and the people. 74

After this, the play went on without a hitch, and the audience settled into their usual vibe of engaged attention.

Despite this being her first experience in a theater, the President captivated Margaret. She watched the shifting lights and shadows on his expressive face with endless curiosity, and the wonder of his life sparked her imagination. This man, who was adored by the North yet felt so deeply Southern to her, who had emerged from the West but was greater than both the West and the North, and yet was always profoundly human—this man who stood up from the chair of State and bowed to a grieving woman with the respect of a knight, a friend to everyone, good-natured, sensible, commanding and clear-minded, strong but humble, kind and gentle—yes, he was more fascinating than all the drama and romance of the stage!

He had her imagination under a spell. Elsie, sensing her distraction, looked toward the President’s box and saw the figure of John Wilkes Booth walking along the balcony aisle toward it.

“Look,” she exclaimed, touching Margaret’s arm. “There’s John Wilkes Booth, the actor! Isn’t he handsome? They say he’s in love with my friend, a senator’s daughter whose father absolutely despises Mr. Lincoln.”

“He's handsome,” Margaret replied. “But I’d be afraid of him with that dark hair and eyes that shine like something wild.” 75

“They say he is reckless and indulgent, yet half the silly girls in town are in love with him. He’s as conceited as a peacock.”

Booth, used to having free access to the theater, stopped near the entrance to the box and deliberately scanned the huge crowd, his magnetic face flushed with strong emotion, while his fiery, inspiring eyes sparkled with excitement.

Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, he was flawless from head to toe. With perfect symmetry and proportion, his dark eyes sparkled, and his smooth forehead was topped with curly black hair. Agility and grace were evident in every aspect of his being—without a doubt, he was the most handsome man in America. A wave of feminine excitement swept through the crowd in the balcony as the women noticed his familiar figure.

He turned and went through the door to the President’s box, and Margaret directed her focus back to the stage.

Hawk, playing Dundreary, was delivering his lines and looking straight at the President instead of at the audience:

“Society, huh? Well, I suppose I know enough to turn you inside out, old woman, you annoying old trickster!”

Margaret flinched at the harsh words, but the audience erupted in laughter that echoed in waves and whispers along with the noise of shuffled feet. 76

The dull sound of a gunshot in the President’s box quieted the laughter for a moment.

No one understood what was going on, and when the assassin suddenly jumped out of the box, with a knife covered in blood flashing in his right hand, tripped over the flags, and fell to his knees on the stage, many thought it was part of the show, and a boy leaning over the gallery railing laughed. When Booth turned his beautifully sculpted face, his eyes wild with desperate insanity, and shouted, “Sic semper tyrannis,” they only reinforced that belief.

A sudden, piercing scream from Mrs. Lincoln, trembling, soul-wrenching! Leaning far out of the box, from her pale cheeks and lips came the desperate cry for help, her hand pointing to the fading figure:

“The President has been shot! The President has been killed!”

Every heart froze for a moment. The brain wouldn’t accept the message—and then the storm hit!

A wild shout of frustration and despair! Men threw themselves over the front of the stage, desperately trying to catch the assassin. Already, the sound of his horse's hooves could be heard in the distance. A surgeon crashed into the door of the box, but it had been locked from the inside by someone clever. Another man jumped onto the stage, and the crowd lifted him up in their arms and over the deadly railing.

Women started to faint, and strong men trampled the weak in frantic rushes from side to side.

The stage was suddenly a chaotic crowd of frantic men, including actors and actresses in costumes with makeup, their genuine fear visible beneath the makeup. They passed water up to the box, and some attempted to climb up and get inside it.

The two hundred soldiers of the President's guard suddenly crashed in, and, amidst the screams and cries of the weak and wounded, stormed the house with their bayonets ready, cursing, yelling, and shouting at the top of their lungs:

“Get out! Get out! You sons of bitches!”

One of them suddenly charged at Phil with a fixed bayonet.

Margaret shrank in fear close to his side and anxiously held his arm.

Elsie jumped forward, her face glowing, her eyes blazing with fire, her small body tense, upright, and trembling with anger:

“How dare you, you jerk!”

The soldier, regaining his composure, saw Phil standing in full captain’s uniform in front of him and immediately straightened up, saluting. Phil instructed him to watch over Margaret and Elsie for a moment, drew his sword, jumped in between the frenzied soldiers and their targets, and halted their reckless charge.

Within the box, the large head rested in the surgeon’s arms, blood slowly dripping down, and tiny death bubbles forming on the gentle lips. They carefully carried him out, while another group followed behind with the unconscious wife. The crowd ripped the seats from their moorings and piled them up to clear a path for the precious cargo.

As Phil pushed ahead with Margaret and Elsie 78 through the open door came the loud noise of the crowd outside, shouting its demands:

“President is shot!”

“Seward has been murdered!”

"Where's Grant?"

“Where's Stanton?”

"Grab your weapons! Grab your weapons!"

The sound of signal guns could be heard now, along with the drumroll and the quick footsteps of soldiers. They arrived just in time. The crowd had assaulted the stockade containing ten thousand unarmed Confederate prisoners.

At the corner of the block where the theater was located, they grabbed a man who seemed to be a Southerner and hanged him from the lamppost. Two brave police officers pushed through the crowd to his side and saved him.

If the mood of the people during the war was chaotic, now it was frenzied—with one crazy impulse and one idea—revenge! Horror, anger, terror, uncertainty, each feeling fueled the one primal instinct into a rage.

Through this terrible night, with the lights still shining as if to mock the victory celebration, the crowds moved through the streets in powerless anger, while the telegraph spread the shocking news quickly. Men received it from the wires and stood in silent groups crying, and their anger towards the defeated South began to swell like the moaning of the sea before a storm.

At dawn, dark clouds loomed ominously on the eastern 79 horizon. As the sun rose, briefly tinting them with shades of red and purple, Abraham Lincoln took his final breath.

Even grim Stanton, the tough-hearted, stood by his bedside and through blinding tears shouted:

"Now he’s part of history!"

The deed was done. Things had changed. Vice-President Johnson took the oath of office, and people called him Chief; but the center of power had shifted from the White House to a small, dark house on Capitol Hill, where an old man with a club foot lived alone, accompanied by a mysterious brown woman with an unsettling beauty and the restless eyes of a leopard.

Phil hurried through the excited crowds with Margaret and Elsie, left them at the hospital door, and ran to the War Department to report for duty. Already the sound of marching regiments echoed down every major avenue.

Even while he ran, his heart raced with a strange new rhythm when he remembered the look of longing in Margaret’s dark eyes as she nestled close to him and held onto his arm for protection. He smiled at the almost irresistible urge to wrap his arm around her and reassure her that she was safe. If only he had dared!

Elsie begged Mrs. Cameron and Margaret to go home with her until the city calmed down.

“no,” said the mother. “I’m not afraid. Death doesn’t scare me anymore. We won’t leave Ben for a second, day or night. My heart is heavy with fear about what this terrible tragedy will mean for the South! I can’t think about my own safety. Is there anyone who can undo this pardon now?” she asked anxiously.

“I’m sure they can't. The name on that paper should be more powerful dead than alive.”

“Ah, but will it be? Do you know Mr. Johnson? 81 Can he control Stanton? He seemed to be more powerful than the President himself. What will that man do now with those who fall into his hands?”

“He can't do anything with your son, don’t worry.”

“I wish I knew that,” said the mother with a longing look.

A few moments after the President died on Saturday morning, the rain started to pour heavily. The flags that had been flying from a thousand golden-tipped peaks in celebration of victory drooped to half-mast and hung mournfully from their poles. The debris of burnt fireworks, limp and crumbling, littered the streets, and the tri-colored lanterns and balloons, hanging sadly from their wires, began to fall apart.

Never in all of human history had such a series of events happened to a nation. From the heights of heavenly joy to being suddenly thrown into the depths of despair in wretched helplessness! From noon to midnight without a moment in between. A blanket of silent horror spread its shadows over the land. Nothing short of an earthquake or the sound of the archangel’s trumpet could have created such a feeling of helpless shock, the deep and speechless dread. People read their newspapers in tears. The breakfast went untouched. No single event could bring such unique horror to every home. The hearts of the people were unknowingly tied to this towering figure. Even his political opponents had grown to love him.

Above all, in this moment, he was the embodiment of the Triumphant Union, on the altar of which every 82 household had sacrificed its firstborn. The tragedy was overwhelming—it was unimaginable—it was a cruel twist of Fate!

Men walked the streets of the cities, stunned by a deep, overwhelming sorrow. Every note of music and celebration turned into a lament. All business came to a halt. Every machine in every factory stopped. The noise of the bustling city quieted down, and Greed, for a moment, set aside its trickery.

The army advanced quickly, tightening its powerful grip on the struggling South.

As the day dragged on with its gloomy hours, and people started to talk, they initially shared quiet conversations about Fate, Life, Death, Immortality, and God—then as their grief turned into words, the overwhelming anger of frustrated strength gradually rose to madness.

On every breeze from the North came the low, muttered curses.

Easter Sunday arrived bright and beautiful after the storm, filled with glorious sunshine. The churches were more crowded than ever before. They had all been decorated for the dual celebration of Easter and the Union's victory. The preachers had prepared sermons aimed at the highest note of triumph—victory over death and the grave of Calvary, and victory for the Nation launching into a future of endless glory. The churches were overflowing with flowers, and around every pulpit and from every Gothic arch hung the red, white, and blue flags of the Republic.

And now, as if to mock this beautiful spectacle, Death 83 had in the night thrown a dark cover over every flag and wrapped a suffocating web of mourning cloth around every Easter flower.

When the preachers stood before the silent crowds, gazing into the faces of fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and lovers whose loved ones had been killed in battle or died in prison camps, the wave of grief and anger surged and knocked them off their feet! The Easter sermon was forgotten. Fifty thousand Christian ministers, stunned and driven mad by overwhelming emotion, stood before the altars of God and unleashed the wildest cries for revenge—cries that were incoherent, chaotic, irrational, and blinding in their terrifying fury!

The churches of New York and Brooklyn were at the forefront of the chaos.

Next morning, old Stoneman read his newspaper with a cold smile creeping across his big, stern mouth, while his furrowed brow flushed with triumph as he repeatedly exclaimed, “Finally! Finally!”

Even Beecher, who had just shared his kind words at Fort Sumter, said:

“Never while time lasts, while heaven lasts, while hell shakes and groans, will it be forgotten that Slavery, through its followers, killed him, and in killing him revealed its true nature. A man can’t grow up in its toxic atmosphere. I will find saints in hell sooner than I will find genuine manhood under its cursed influences. The place that produces such monsters must be completely and permanently destroyed.”

Dr. Stephen Tyng said: 84

“The leaders of this rebellion deserve no sympathy from anyone. Now let them leave. Another land should be their home. Their property is rightfully taken by the Nation they’ve tried to destroy!”

In bold, large font were Dr. Charles S. Robinson's harsh words:

“This is the earliest response that chivalry offers to our patience. Don't talk to me anymore about the same race or the same blood. He is not my brother and he is not from my lineage if he supports the barbarism of treason by murdering an unarmed husband in front of his wife. Justice should be swift and relentless against the villains who led this rebellion. Death to every traitor from the South! Track them down one by one! Let every door be shut against them and let judgment come down quickly and without mercy, just like death!”

Dr. Theodore Cuyler said:

“This is no time to talk about leniency and compromise! I swear before God, do not negotiate with rebellion at all; it must be completely wiped out. Booth, using the assassin’s weapon, is just a representation of the brutal, savage mindset of a slaveholding elite.”

Dr. J.P. Thompson said:

“Erase every Southern State from the map. Take away all property and citizenship from every rebel, and send them into exile as impoverished and disreputable outcasts.”

Bishop Littlejohn, in his passionate appeal, declared:

“The act is deserving of the Southern cause, which was born from sin, developed in injustice, and completed in crime. This murderous hand is the same one that whipped the slave’s exposed back, struck down New 85 England’s senator for daring to speak, ignited the flame of rebellion, killed thousands in cold blood, and let our helpless prisoners starve. Its conclusion is not martyrdom, but disgrace.”

Bishop Simpson stated:

“Let every man who was a member of Congress and supported this rebellion be punished quickly. Let every officer educated at public expense, who used his sword against his country, be sentenced to a traitor’s death!”

With the final note of this wild music echoing in the old Commoner’s soul, he sat there as if lost in thought, laughed cynically, turned to the brown woman, and said:

"My speeches haven't been lost after all. Get dinner ready for six. My cabinet will meet here tonight."

While the press was echoing these sermons, gaining momentum as they were picked up and repeated in every town, village, and hamlet in the North, the funeral procession headed west. It moved majestically through the major cities on its journey of one thousand six hundred miles to the grave. By day, by night, at dawn, in sunlight, at twilight, and lit by solemn torches, millions of silent men and women gazed upon his dead face. Surrounding this tall, solitary man, rugged yet filled with somber dignity and spiritual beauty, were the thoughts, hopes, dreams, and ideals of the people that had built up over four years of suffering and loss, until they felt their own hearts beating in his chest and their own lives pulsing in his being. The assassin’s bullet had struck at their own minds, tearing their souls and bodies apart.

The crowds were uprooted, and logic vanished. All sense of history was gone. Our first assassination had no comparable events. It had been over two hundred years since the last murder of a major leader, when William of Orange was killed. 86

On the day scheduled for the public funeral, twenty million people bowed at the same time.

When the procession arrived in New York, the streets were packed with a million people. The only sounds were the march of soldiers' boots and the faint echo of the funeral music. Despite having a person on every square foot of ground, it felt as silent as a desert or a graveyard! The nation’s living heroes were in that procession, and they passed by without a single reaction from the crowd.

Four years ago, he drove down Broadway as the President-elect, unnoticed, with soldiers in plain clothes accompanying him in case the crowd turned violent.

To this day, when his name is mentioned in churches, the preachers’ voices in prayer falter and fall silent, while strong men in the crowd break down in tears. Flags fly at half-mast from their steeples, and their bells ring in mourning.

Every house that just yesterday waved its victory flag was now in mourning. The flags and pennants of a thousand ships in the harbor hung at half-mast, and from every flagpole in the city, black mourning cloth streamed across the sky like strange meteors in the troubled heavens.

For three days, every theater, school, court, bank, shop, and factory was shut down. 87

And with murmured curses, men looked south.

Across Broadway, the procession went under a massive banner displaying the words:

Farther along swung the black-draped banner:

Another conveyed its grim message:

Across the Ninth Regiment Armoury, in huge letters, were the words:

When the procession arrived in Buffalo, Millard Fillmore's house was crowded with people because the ex-President, who was sick in bed, had failed to drape his home in black. The procession moved through Springfield, passing miles of bowed heads silent with sorrow. The farmers stopped working in the fields, the blacksmith put down his hammer, the carpenter paused with his tools, the merchant shut his door, the sound of coins stopped, and an overwhelming silence filled the air, broken only by low, angry mutterings that were fierce and confusing. 88

No man who ever lived has gone to his grave through such a storm of tears. The grand displays for Alexander, Caesar, and Wellington were nothing compared to this. And even the spirit of Napoleon, the Corsican artillery officer who once led a gathering of the kings he had defeated, wouldn't have seen anything like it, not even in France.

And now that the show was over and all that was left was bitterness and ashes, one man knew exactly what he wanted and what he was going to do. Others were shocked by the impact. But the cold eyes of the Great Commoner, leader of leaders, sparkled, and his grim lips had a smile. From him, there was no praise or fake sorrow for the dead. Whatever he was, he wasn’t a liar: when he hated, he really hated.

The drooping flags, the city's black coverings, processions, torches, quiet crowds of faces and bare heads, the funerals and the bells, the dimly lit churches, mournful organs, intense speeches from the altar, and the smell of flowers stacked high by silent hearts—he was the heir to all of this.

And more—the intense unwritten, unspoken, and unspeakable horrors of the war itself, its passions, its cruelties, its horrific crimes and suffering, the cries of its women, the graves of its men—all these now belonged to him.

The new President submitted to the turmoil. In one moment, he vowed to carry out Lincoln's plans. In the next, he also uttered threats of retribution.

The order was issued for the arrest of General Lee.

Would Grant, the Commanding General of the Army, dare to protest? Some said that if Lee were arrested and Grant's promise at Appomattox was tarnished, the quiet soldier would not only protest but would also draw his sword, if necessary, to defend his honor and the honor of the Nation. Yet—would he dare? It remained to be seen.

The jails were now overflowing with Southern men, taken unarmed from their homes. The old Capitol Prison was full, and every cell in every grated building in the city was occupied, and they were even filling the rooms of the Capitol itself.

Margaret, rushing back from the market in the early morning with her flowers, was surprised to see her mother hunched over in distress, reading a paragraph in the morning paper.

She got up and handed it to her daughter, who read:

Margaret nervously wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck. No words shattered the heavy silence—only streaming tears and muffled sobs. 90

The small house on Capitol Hill was now the center of intense activity. This house, chosen by its stern master to serve as the executive mansion of the nation, was possibly the most humble building ever selected for such elevated purposes.

It stood as a small, two-story brick building on a modest street. Seven windows faced the front, with solid black shutters. The front parlor had minimal furniture. A large mirror covered one wall, and on the opposite wall hung a life-size oil portrait of Stoneman. Between the windows, there was a portrait of Washington Irving and a picture of a nun. Throughout his many charitable efforts, he had always been generous to an orphanage run by a Roman Catholic sisterhood.

The back parlor, with its single window overlooking a small garden, had been set up as a library, featuring leather-upholstered furniture, a large desk and table, and various photographs of his personal friends and a few expensive prints scattered on the mantel and walls. He used this room as his executive office, and no one was allowed to enter without first stating their purpose or 91 presenting a request to the tawny brown woman with restless eyes who sat regally in the front parlor to greet his visitors. The books in their cases showed little sign of use for many years, but their titles reflected the interests of a cultured man. His Pliny, Cæsar, Cicero, Tacitus, Sophocles, and Homer had clearly been read by someone who appreciated their beauty and loved them for what they were.

This house was now the center of the ruling party and the hotspot for the forces that would shape the nation's future. Senators, representatives, politicians from all walks of life, artists, reporters, foreign ministers, and cabinet members rushed to pledge their loyalty to the unofficial king and greet the unusual brown woman who held the keys to his home as the first lady of the nation.

When Charles Sumner called, something interesting happened. By a code they had agreed on, Lydia Brown pressed an electric signal that let the old Commoner know he had arrived. Stoneman hobbled over to the folding doors and watched through the small opening as the cold senator greeted the Black woman he had to meet as his social equal, even though she always made a point of acting like she was superior to everyone who bowed to the old man whose house she managed.

Sumner at this time was thought to be the most powerful man in Congress. It was a harmless myth that made him happy, and Stoneman enjoyed joking about it.

The senator from Massachusetts had just given a speech in Boston about the “Equality of Man,” yet 92 he couldn't stand being around a Black person. He would go out of his way for miles to avoid any contact.

Stoneman watched him approach the Black woman slowly and carefully, touching her jeweled hand lightly with the tips of his refined fingers as if she were a toad. Shaken, he hurried back to his desk and held himself tightly while he listened to Lydia’s condescending tone coming from the next room.

“This world is way too good to lose!” he laughed. “I think I’ll live forever.”

When Sumner left, it was dinnertime, and by special invitation, two men joined him for dinner.

On his right sat a former army officer who had been kicked out of the service, a casualty of his gambling addiction. His rosy face, iron-gray hair, and cheerful demeanor showed that he was still enjoying life despite his issues.

There were no clubs in Washington at this time except for the regular gambling houses, of which there were over a hundred in full swing.

Stoneman was a gambler and spent part of almost every night at Hall & Pemberton’s Faro Palace on Pennsylvania Avenue, a place known for its great restaurant. It was here that he met Colonel Howle and grew to like him. He was a talented man, calm and bold, and a liar with such a unique ease that he completely captured the old Commoner’s imagination.

“Honestly, Howle,” he said soon after they met, “you made the biggest mistake of your life joining the army. You’re a natural politician. You’re what I call a born liar, just like a horse is a pacer, a dog a setter. You 93 lie effortlessly, with a smoothness and charm that surpasses all skill. If you had gone into politics, you could have easily become Secretary of State, not to mention the vice-presidency. I’d say President, but the most brilliant men rarely achieve that.”

From that moment on, Colonel Howle became his loyal right-hand man. Stoneman had this man completely, not just because he had helped him when he was troubled and alone, but because the colonel saw the strength of the leader’s bold spirit and innovative genius.

On his left sat a Black man, probably about forty, a guy with attractive features for a mixed-race person, who had clearly inherited the full physical traits of the Caucasian race, while his dark yellowish eyes under his heavy brows shimmered with the vibrancy of the African jungle. It was impossible to look at his stunning face, with its large, finely shaped lips and strong nose, his thick neck and broad shoulders, and see his eyes shine beneath the prominent forehead without picturing scenes from the ancient forest. “The head of a Caesar and the eyes of the jungle” was the phrase created by an artist who painted his portrait.

His hair was shiny and black, a wild mix of kinks and curls on his head. He was a powerful speaker who captivated a Black audience as if by magic.

Lydia Brown had pointed out this man, Silas Lynch, to Stoneman and convinced the politician to send him to college. He graduated successfully and went into the Methodist ministry. In his preaching to the freedmen, he had already become a notable figure. No venue could contain his audiences.

As he walked quickly into the dining room and passed the brown woman, a careful observer might have noticed him suddenly squeeze her hand and caught her sly smile in response, but the old man waiting at the head of the table didn’t see anything.

The woman sat down across from Stoneman and led this unusual group with the confident ease of someone who knows their strength. No matter what her actual status was, she understood how to perform the part she had decided to play.

No other intriguing or ominous figure ever loomed over the history of a great nation like this mulatto woman did during the most corrupt times in American history. The stern old man who gazed into her smooth tawny face and tracked her feline eyes was firmly holding the Nation by the throat. Was he planning to make this woman the judge of its social scene, and her morals the standard for its laws?

Even the white guy sitting across from Lynch blushed for a moment when the thought crossed his mind.

The old cynic, who alone knew his true purpose, was in his best mood tonight, and the serious lines of his strong face softened into a smile as they ate, chatted, and shared good stories.

Lynch watched him with great interest. He understood his background and personality and had crafted a brilliant life plan based on his talent.

This man who wanted to become the dictator of the 95 Republic came from very modest beginnings. His father was a useless person, from whom he learned the trade of shoemaking, but his mother, a woman of strong intellect and unbreakable will, managed to provide her disabled son with a college education. He had vowed early on to be a wealthy man, and to achieve this, he suppressed the aspirations and ideals of a restless imagination.

His hopes for great wealth hadn't come to pass. His iron mills in Pennsylvania were destroyed by Lee's army. He had developed a gambling habit, which led to a series of extravagant habits, tastes, and inevitable debts. In his strong years, despite his lameness, he maintained a pack of hounds and a stable of fine horses. He used his shoemaking skills to create a set of stirrups that fit his lame feet and became an expert hunter with hounds.

One thing he never overlooked was being present in his seat in the House of Representatives and wearing its crown of leadership, whether he was sick or well, day or night. His craving for power was like breathing, and at one point, his ambitions knew no bounds. His immense influence now came from the fact that he had given up all hope for any role beyond being the kingpin of his party. He had been offered a cabinet position by the elder Harrison, but for some reason, it was taken away. He was promised a spot in Lincoln’s cabinet, but some unknown force had snatched it back. He was the one great man who no longer had any ambitions to shape, flatter, or deceive, and because he had freed himself from those desires, he was the most powerful leader who ever walked the halls of Congress.

His disdain for public opinion was limitless. Daring, unique, and dismissive of advice, he was the one person in all of history who was meant to lead during the turmoil that followed the assassination of the chief magistrate.

Audacity was evident in every line of his impressive head. His best insults were aimed at the cowards in his own party, whose pale faces he shouted at while revealing their hidden truths until they retreated into helpless silence and shock. His speech was short, his humor sarcastic, and his wit was sharp, cruel, and crude.

The living spirit of revolution, he hated convention and mocked respectability.

There was only one weak spot in his armor—and the world never realized it: the intense love he had for his two children. This was the part of him he kept hidden from everyone. It might have been a refined selfishness, this passion, since he wanted to relive his own life through them—but it was the one completely human and endearing thing about him. And even if his public policy was driven by enormous greed, this dream of millions in seized wealth he wanted to grab wasn't for himself, but for his kids.

As he watched Howle and Lynch sitting in his library after dinner, with his big ideas boiling in his mind, his eyes were bright, intense, and fiery, yet colorless—just two sources of cold light.

“Gentlemen,” he said after a pause. “I’m going to ask you to take on a dangerous and important mission for the Government, the Nation, and for yourselves. I mention yourselves because, despite all our nice lies, self-interest is at the core of all human actions. Mr. Lincoln has thankfully moved on to his reward—thankfully for him and for his country. His death was essential to preserve his legacy. He was a valuable man while alive, but even more valuable now that he’s gone. Our party may have lost its first President, but we’ve gained a legend—so why should we mourn?”

“We will get through our grief,” said Howle.

The old man continued, ignoring the interruption:

“Things have somehow worked out for me. I'm almost convinced late in life that the universe is looking out for me. The crazy anger of the North against the South for a crime that they could never have imagined committing is, of course, a force to be reckoned with—but carefully. The first execution of a Southern leader on such a ridiculous charge would spark a huge shift in public opinion. The people are a collection of hysterical fools.”

“I thought you supported the execution of the leaders of the rebellion?” Lynch said, surprised.

“I did, but it’s too late. If they had been tried by a quick military court and shot on the spot while wearing their uniforms, everything would have been fine. Now, the feeling around it is too strong. Grant showed his authority to Stanton, and he backed down from arresting Lee. Sherman wouldn’t even shake hands with Stanton from the grandstand the day his army marched by, and it’s a surprise he didn’t hit him. Sherman was called a renegade and traitor for giving Joseph E. Johnston the terms Lincoln ordered him to provide. With Lincoln dead, those terms are considered treason! But if he had lived, we would have been expected to admire his mercy and patriotism. How can anyone live in this world and keep a straight face?”

“I believe God allowed Mr. Lincoln’s death to give the great Commoner, the Leader of Leaders, the opportunity,” Lynch exclaimed with enthusiasm.

The old man smiled. With all his fierce spirit, he was as easily swayed by flattery as a woman—much more so than the smooth, brown woman who held the keys to his house.

“The guy at the other end of the street, who acts like he’s the President, is actually an outsider from the conquered region of Tennessee. He’s pushing Lincoln’s plan to ‘restore’ the Union. He’s set up State governments in the South, and their senators and representatives are set to show up at the Capitol in December to join Congress. He thinks they will be accepted——”

The old man let out a low laugh and rubbed his hands together.

“My complete plans aren’t open for discussion right now. All I’ll say is that I aim to ensure the future of our party and the safety of this nation. The success of my plan absolutely relies on taking back the millions of acres of land owned by white people in the South and redistributing it among the Black community and those who fought and suffered in this war——”

The old Commoner stopped, pressed his lips together, and fidgeted with his hands for a moment, the nostrils of his eagle-like nose flaring with greed, desire pulsing in his strong jaws, and tyranny glaring from his thick eyebrows.

“Stanton will probably keep the nations laughing and entertain himself by hanging a few rebels,” he continued, “but we will focus on serious matters. Every man has his price, including the people here, with my sincere apologies to the speaker——”

Howle's eyes sparkled, and he wet his lips.

“If I haven't suffered in this war, who has?”

“Your reward won't depend on how much you've suffered. It'll be based on how effectively you follow my orders. Read that——”

He gave him a piece of paper where he had written down his secret instructions.

Another one he gave to Lynch.

“Hand them back to me when you’ve read them, and I’ll burn them. These instructions shouldn’t be spoken by anyone until the time is right—no one should whisper them within these four bare walls.”

Both men handed the leader the slips of paper at the same time.

"Are we in agreement, gentlemen?"

"Absolutely," replied Howle.

“Your word is law to me, sir,” said Lynch.

“Then you’ll personally reach out to me for your expenses, and you should head to the South within forty-eight hours. I need your reports delivered to me two weeks before the meeting of Congress.”

As Lynch walked through the hall on his way to the 100 door, the brown woman said good-night and handed him a letter.

As his yellow fingers gripped the letter, his eyes sparkled briefly with a feline humor.

The woman's face had the expression of a sphinx.

When the initial shock of horror at her husband's danger faded, it left a strange new light in Mrs. Cameron's eyes.

The legacy of centuries of heroic blood from the martyrs of old Scotland began to inspire from the past. Her heart pulsed with the unrecognized spirit of those who had been imprisoned and marched in chains to the stake with songs on their lips.

The threat to Doctor Cameron's life not only stirred her passionate spirit; it awakened the hidden bravery of her beautiful youth. To her, he had always been the lover and the unwavering hero of her childhood dreams. She would spend hours alone in her room. Margaret knew she was praying. She always emerged with a bright face and gentle words on her lips.

She spent two months trying unsuccessfully to get a single interview with him or to get a copy of the charges. Doctor Cameron had been placed in the old Capitol Prison, which was already overcrowded. He was in fragile health and was so ill when she left home that he couldn't go with her to Richmond.

Not a written or spoken word was allowed to pass 102 those prison doors. She could only talk to him through the officers in charge. Every message from him was the same: “I love you always. Don’t worry. Go home as soon as you can leave Ben. I’m afraid of the worst at Piedmont.”

When he sent this message, he would sit down and write the truth in a small diary he kept:

“Another day of pain. How long, God? Just one touch of her hand, one last kiss, and I’ll be satisfied. I don’t want to live anymore—I’m exhausted.”

The officers repeated the verbal messages, but they made no impact on Mrs. Cameron. Through a mental connection that had always tied her life to his, her soul had gone beyond those prison bars. If he had etched the painful account with a dagger on her heart, she couldn't have felt it any more intensely.

At times feeling overwhelmed, she lay down and cried in half-formed sounds. Then, from the silence and mystery of the spiritual realm where she sensed the heartbeat of Eternal Love, a strange peace that surpassed understanding would return to her. She would rise and go out to her task with a smile.

In July, she watched as Mrs. Surratt was taken from the old Capitol Prison to be hanged along with Payne, Herold, and Atzerodt for her involvement in the assassination. The military commission that oversaw this mockery of justice, doubting the testimonies of the lying wretches who had sworn her life away, had submitted a memo with their verdict, asking the President for mercy.

President Johnson never saw this memo. It 103 was secretly taken out in the War Department, and only put back after he had signed the death warrant.

In vain, Annie Surratt, the grieving daughter, threw herself on the steps of the White House on that tragic day, begging and praying to see the President. She couldn't believe they would let her mother be murdered despite a plea for mercy. Finally, the moment came, and the girl walked away from the White House with a blank stare and a pale face, muttering incoherent curses.

The Chief Magistrate sat inside, unaware of the horrific tragedy unfolding in his name. When he learned about the disgrace that made him the executioner of an innocent woman, he demanded that Edwin M. Stanton resign from his position as Secretary of War. And for the first time in American history, a cabinet member ignored the issue of honor and refused to resign.

With a shiver and a rush of shame, strong men watched that day as the executioner wound the ropes tightly three times around the dress of an innocent American mother and tied her ankles with cords. She fainted and fell backward onto the attendants, her poor body finally giving in to the overwhelming fear of death. But they held her up and released the fatal trap.

A sense of unease and dread spread throughout the city and the nation as whispers about the eerie activities of the “Bureau of Military Justice,” with its hidden factory for manipulating testimonies and ability to alter verdicts, started circulating among the people.

Public opinion, however, still had no ability to adapt. 104 It was a time of descent into collective madness. Things had gone awry. The need for a scapegoat, blind, brutal, and irrational, had not faded. The Government could do anything at this point, and the people would cheer.

Mrs. Cameron had tried unsuccessfully to get an audience with the President. Each time, she was told to reach out to Mr. Stanton. She refused to try to see him and once again turned to Elsie for assistance. She had discovered that the same witnesses who had testified against Mrs. Surratt were being used to condemn Doctor Cameron, and her heart was heavy with fear.

“Ask your dad,” she begged, “to write a letter to President Johnson for me. No matter what his politics are, he can’t be your dad and not have a good heart.”

Elsie went pale for a moment. It was the one request she had feared. She thought of her dad and Stanton with anxiety. She could only vaguely guess how much he was backing the Secretary of War. He hardly talked to her about politics, no matter how much he cared for her.

“I’ll try, Mrs. Cameron,” she hesitated. “My dad is in town today and is having dinner with us before he heads to Pennsylvania tonight. I’ll go right away.”

With fear, but also with courage, she headed straight home to make her request. She knew he was the kind of man who never held onto small grudges, no matter how harsh and unwavering his public policies might be. Still, she was scared to see if that was true.

“Dad, I have a really important favor to ask you,” she said seriously. 105

“Alright, my child, you don’t have to be so serious. What’s on your mind?”

“I have some friends who are really struggling—Mrs. Cameron from South Carolina and her daughter Margaret.”

“Your friends?” he asked with a skeptical smile. “Where on earth did you meet them?”

“In the hospital, of course. Mrs. Cameron can’t see her husband, who has been in jail for over two months. He can't write to her, and he’s not allowed to get any letters from her. He’s on trial for his life, is sick and powerless, and doesn't even know the charges against him, while hired witnesses and detectives have broken into his house, searched through his papers, and are combing through everything to convict him of a crime he never imagined. It’s disgraceful. I know you don’t approve of such things, right?”

“What’s the point of me sharing my opinion when you’ve already made up your mind?” he replied cheerfully.

“You don’t support this injustice?”

“Of course not, my child. Stanton’s desperate attempts to blame a bunch of well-known Southern men for being involved in Booth’s crime are just crazy. Anyone with common sense knows they’re not guilty. As a politician, I use public outcry to my advantage, but I’m not foolish. When I go after something, I never use a toy gun or go after small prey.”

“Then you will write a letter to the President asking for permission to see Doctor Cameron?”

The man frowned.

“Think about it, Dad, if you were in jail and had no friends, and I was trying to visit you——” 106

“Tut, tut, my dear, it’s not that I don’t want to—I was just thinking about the unintentional humor in me asking a favor from the guy who currently just happens to be in the White House. Of all the people in the world, this outsider from Tennessee! But I’ll do it for you. When have you ever known me to refuse my help to someone in need?”

"Never, Dad. I was sure you would," she replied warmly.

He immediately wrote the letter and gave it to her.

She leaned down and kissed him.

“I can’t express how relieved I am to know that you have no involvement in such unfairness.”

“You shouldn't have thought I was such a fool, but I'll forgive you for the kiss. Now run with this letter to your rebel friends, you little traitor! Hold on a second——”

He got up slowly, gently placed his hand on her head, and bent down to kiss her shining hair.

“I wonder if you know how much I love you? How I’ve dreamed about your future? I might not see you every day like I want; I’m caught up in important matters. But I think about you and Phil more and more. I’ll have a big surprise for both of you someday.”

“Your love is all I need,” she replied simply.

Within an hour, Mrs. Cameron stood in front of the new President. The letter had magically opened the door. She shared her story with passionate eloquence while Mr. Johnson listened in uncomfortable silence. His flushed face, uncertain demeanor, and fidgety eyes contrasted sharply with the assured presence of the tall dark man who had listened so compassionately to her story about Ben just a few weeks earlier.

The President inquired:

"Have you seen Mr. Stanton?"

“I saw him once,” she exclaimed with sudden intensity. “That’s enough. If that man were God up on His throne, I would pledge my loyalty to the devil and fight against him!”

The President raised his eyebrows and his lips curled into a smile:

“I shouldn’t say that you’re feeling down! I’d love to be nearby and hear you say that to the important Secretary of War.”

“Will you grant my request?” she begged.

“I'll think it over,” he promised vaguely.

Mrs. Cameron felt a heavy heart.

“Mr. President,” she cried, heartbroken, “I was sure that once I saw you in person, you couldn’t deny me. Surely it’s only fair that he has the right to see his loved ones, to talk to a lawyer, to know the charges against him, and to defend his life when he’s being attacked in his poverty and despair by the full power of a huge government? He’s weak and unwell, suffering from injuries he got while bravely carrying the Union flag to victory in Mexico. No matter what mistakes he made in this war, it’s a disgrace that a nation he once fought for should treat him like a criminal without a trial.”

“You need to remember, ma'am,” interrupted the President, “that these are unusual times, and that public outcry, no matter how unfair, will be felt 108 and must be taken seriously by those in charge. I feel for you, and I hope it will be possible for me to approve your request.”

"But I want it now," she insisted. "He told me I have to go home. I can't leave without seeing him. I'd rather die first."

She stepped closer and continued in an intense tone:

“Mr. President, you’re from Carolina—you have Scottish Covenanter roots. You come from my own people of the rich past, whose tears and struggles are our shared pride and heritage. Come, you need to listen to me—I won’t take no for an answer. Now, give me the order to see my husband!”

The President paused, grappling with strong feelings, called his secretary, and issued the order.

As she rushed off with Elsie, who insisted on going with her to the jail door, the girl said:

“Mrs. Cameron, I’m afraid you’re short on cash. You have to let me help you until you can pay it back.”

“You're the sweetest person I've ever met, I think sometimes,” said the older woman, gazing at her affectionately. “I wonder how I can ever repay you for all that you've already done.”

“The act of doing it has been its own reward,” was the soft reply. “Can I help you?”

“If I need it, sure. But I don’t think it will be necessary. I still have a small stash of gold that Doctor Cameron was smart enough to save during the war. I brought half of it with me when I left home, and we buried the rest. I hope to find it when I get back. And if we can save the twenty 109 bales of cotton we have hidden, we’ll be free from needing anything.”

“I feel embarrassed about my country when I consider the disgraceful tactics that have been used against Doctor Cameron. My dad is really upset about it as well.”

The last sentence Elsie spoke with excited, youthful pride.

“I really appreciate your dad's letter. I'm sorry he left the city before I got the chance to meet him and thank him in person. Please let him know for me.”

At the jail, the President's order wasn't honored for three hours, and Mrs. Cameron walked back and forth on the street, first feeling angry and impatient, and then sinking into dull despair.

“Do you think that guy Stanton would actually challenge the President?” she asked anxiously.

“No,” said Elsie, “but he is stalling for as long as he can out of petty cruelty.”

At last, the messenger from the War Department arrived, allowing an order from the nation's Chief Magistrate, the Commander-in-Chief of its Army and Navy, to be carried out.

The grated door swung on its heavy hinges, and the wife and mother lay crying in the arms of the man she loved in her youth.

For two hours, they shared the story of their sorrows and struggles over the six challenging months that had gone by. Whenever she shifted from each topic back to his danger, he would dismiss her fears with laughter.

“Nonsense, my dear, I’m as innocent as a baby. Mr. 110 Davis had a skin infection, and I kept him in my house that night to ease his pain. It will all blow over. I’m happy now that I’ve seen you. Ben will be here in a few days. You need to come back right away. You have no idea how chaotic things are at home. I left Jake in charge. I trust him completely, but you never know what could happen. I won’t feel at ease again until you go.”

The proud old man talked about his own danger with complete confidence. Ever since Mrs. Surratt’s execution, he was sure he would be sent to the gallows in the same way. He had long viewed the end with indifference and no longer wanted to live except to see his loved ones again.

In vain, she warned him about the danger.

“My danger is nothing, my love,” he replied softly. “Back home, the horrors of a brutal reign of terror have become a reality. These prison walls don't matter to me. My heart is with our suffering people. You need to go home. Our neighbor, Mr. Lenoir, is slowly dying. His wife will always be like a child. Little Marion is older and more independent now. I feel as if they are our own children. There are so many who need us. They have always turned to me for guidance and support. You can do more for them than anyone else. My purpose is to heal others. You've always helped me. Please do as I ask.”

At last, she agreed to leave for Piedmont the next day, and he smiled.

“Kiss Ben and Margaret for me and let them know I’ll be with them soon,” he said cheerfully. He meant in spirit, not in body. Not the slightest hope of life even flickered in his mind.

In the last goodbye embrace, a slight shiver of emotion, half sigh, half groan, escaped his lips, and he pulled her back to him, whispering:

“Always my sweetheart, kind, lovely, courageous, and real!”

Within two weeks of Mrs. Cameron and Margaret leaving, the injured soldier exited the hospital with Elsie’s hand on his arm and her sharp eyes observing his unsteady steps. She had promised Margaret that she would take her place until he regained his strength. She was hesitant to explore what the songs rising from her soul truly meant. She kept telling herself that she was living out her ideal of selfless human service.

Ben's recovery was quick, and he soon started to show his immense joy in just being alive.

He completely refused to believe that his father was in danger.

“What, my dad a conspirator, an assassin!” he exclaimed, laughing. “He wouldn’t even kill a flea without saying sorry to it. As for plots and dark secrets, he’s never had a secret in his life and wouldn’t be able to keep one if he did. My mom takes care of all the family secrets. Crime wouldn’t stick to him any more than dirty water would stick to a duck’s back!”

“But we need to get him released on parole so he can defend himself.”

“Of course. But we won’t worry about things that haven’t happened yet. I’ve never seen a situation so bad that it couldn’t get worse. Just think about what I’ve been through. The war’s over. Don’t worry.”

He gazed at her lovingly.

“Grab that banjo and play ‘Get Out of the Wilderness!’”

His energy was contagious and his good humor irresistible. Elsie spent the days of his recovery basking in the pleasure of his company. His handsome, youthful face, his demeanor, his entire personality encouraged openness and closeness. It was a remarkable gift, this charm, the delicate blend of sharp intelligence, sensitivity, and empathy. His voice was warm and captivating, with gentle nuances in its tones. His outlook on life was broad and generous, with an admirable disregard for trivial matters. Each day, Elsie discovered new and captivating aspects of his character that attracted her.

“What are we going to do if Stanton arrests you one of these days?” she asked him one day.

“Afraid they’ll catch me for something?” he said. “Well, that’s a joke. Don’t worry. The Yankees know who to mess with. I’ve beaten them too many times for them to bother me anymore.”

“I thought you got beaten,” Elsie noted.

“Don’t believe it. We exhausted ourselves beating the other guys.”

Elsie smiled, picked up the banjo, and asked him to sing while she played.

She had no idea he could sing, but to her surprise, he sang his camp songs boldly, tenderly, and with deep, expressive emotion. 114

As the girl listened, the memory of the awful hours of suspense she had spent with his mother while his unconscious life hung by a thread flooded back into her heart, and a tear blurred her vision.

And he started to see her with a fresh sense of wonder and happiness slowly developing in his heart.

Ben had spent a month trying in vain to get his dad released. He managed to arrange for him to be moved to a more comfortable place, get some books to read, and have the opportunity for a daily walk under supervision. The doctor’s friendly demeanor, his extensive knowledge, the appeal of his personality, and his bravery in dealing with his suffering had won over the surgeons who treated him and had turned every jailer and guard into a friend.

Elsie was now using all her cleverness to get a copy of the charges against him as stated by the Judge Advocate General, who, ignoring civil law, still claimed authority over these cases.

To the boy's cheerful personality, the entire situation had been a big joke from the start, and during his last meeting with his father, he had actually laughed him into a good mood.

“Look here, Dad,” he yelled. “I think you’re trying to sneak away and leave us in this mess. It’s not fair. It’s easy to just give up.”

“Who said I was going to die?”

“I heard you were trying to crawl out that way.”

“Well, it’s a mistake. I’m going to live just for the fun of disappointing my enemies and to keep you company. 116 But you’d better get a copy of these charges against me—if you don’t want me to escape.”

“It’s a strange world if a guy can be sentenced to death without any information about it.”

“My son, we are now at the mercy of the revolutionaries, army suppliers, contractors, and opportunists. The Nation will sink to its lowest point of degradation in the next few years. No one can predict how this will all end.”

“Oh, come on!” said Ben. “You’ve got jail cobwebs in your eyes.”

“I’m counting on you.”

“I’ll help you out if you don’t just give up and die to avoid facing your problems. You know you can die if you really want to.”

“I promise you, my guy,” he said with a laugh.

“Then I’ll let you read this letter from home,” Ben said, suddenly holding it out in front of him.

The doctor's hand shook slightly as he put on his glasses and read:

When the doctor finished reading, he looked out the jail window at the shining dome of the Capitol for a moment in silence.

“Do you know, my boy, that you come from a royal lineage? You are the child of an amazing mother. I feel ashamed when I think about how helpless I’ve been, and then I remember the unwavering courage with which she has faced everything—the loss of her sons, her property, your troubles, and mine. She has confronted the world alone like a wounded lioness protecting her cubs. And now she transforms her home into a hotel and starts anew in this unfamiliar world without a doubt in her success. The South is still wealthy, even in its ruin.”

"Then you'll fight and come back to her with me?"

"Yes, no worries."

“Good! You see, we’re really struggling financially now, Dad, you're fortunate to be saving on room and board here. I would 'team up' with you and come in with you, but it would make it a bit more difficult for me to help you.”

When Ben had fully recuperated and his father's situation looked promising, Elsie focused on her music studies, and the Southern boy suddenly realized that the big mystery of life was upon him. He was in love at last—genuinely, deeply, without any doubts. He had habitually flirted in a lighthearted way with every girl he knew. He left home with little Marion Lenoir’s girlish kiss still warm on his lips. He had romanced many a pretty girl in old Virginia as the tide of war had ebbed and flowed around Stuart’s magical camps.

But now the crucial moment for the soul had arrived. As soon as he said the first gentle words that could carry a double meaning, cautiously feeling his way toward her, she put a barrier of dignity between them and tried to sever every connection that linked her life to his.

It happened so suddenly it left him speechless. Could he actually win her over? The word “fail” had never been in his vocabulary. It had never been part of his people’s language.

Yes, he would succeed if that was the only thing he pursued in this world. And right away, he got to work on it. Life gained new meaning and new excitement. What did it matter—war or wounds, pain or poverty, prisons and revolutions—it was the beginning of life!

He sent her a flower every day and pinned one just like it on his jacket. Every night, he found himself sitting by her side. She welcomed him warmly, but there was a noticeable distance between them. His politeness and composure surprised and impressed her. Despite her indifference, he maintained an air of cheerful respect and charm.

She finally told him about her decision to go to New York to continue her studies until Phil finished his enlistment term in his regiment, which had been assigned permanent duty in the West.

He laughed with his eyes at this announcement, blinking his lashes rapidly without moving his lips. It was a strange habit of his when he was deeply affected by a sudden thought. It hit him like lightning that she was trying to get away from him. She wouldn't do that unless she cared.

“When are you going?” he asked softly.

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Then you’ll give me one afternoon for a sail on the river to say goodbye and thank you for everything you’ve done for me and my family?”

She hesitated, laughed, and declined.

“Tomorrow at four o’clock, I’ll come by for you,” he said firmly. “If there’s no wind, we can go with the tide.”

“I won't have time to go.”

“Right at four,” he repeated as he walked out. 122

Ben spent hours that night debating how far he should go in expressing his love. It had been such an easy thing before. Now it felt like a matter of life and death. Twice the magical words had almost escaped his lips, but each time something in her demeanor froze him into silence.

Was she cold and unable to love? No; that attitude from the North was just a façade. He knew that beneath her surface lay suppressed and smoldering passions for the one man who could ignite them. He felt this even more now that the magic of her presence and the sweet closeness of her daily care had been disrupted. The memory of her small movements, the look in her warm amber eyes, and the feel of her hand—all spoke volumes to his longing heart.

He found her ready at 4:00 PM.

“You see, I decided to go after all,” she said.

“Yes, I knew you would,” he replied.

She wore a plain navy-blue suit with a V-neck that highlighted the elegant curve of her beautiful neck as it flowed into her soft shoulders. She had rejected hoop skirts.

He admired her for this, but it also made him uneasy. A woman who could go against the rules of fashion was something completely new, and it frightened him.

They were sitting in the small sailboat now, drifting out with the tide. It was a perfect day in October, one of those unforgettable days of Indian summer in the Virginia climate when an endless peace and deep, thoughtful silence fill the earth and sky until you feel that words are a sacrilege. 123

Neither of them said anything for minutes, and his heart became brave in the silence. No girl could remain quiet if she wasn't affected.

She was sitting right in front of him on the left, playing with the shimmering water, looking at the tree-covered cliff along the riverbanks now dressed in beautiful shades of yellow, purple, scarlet, and gold.

The gentle sounds of music floated from a band in the fort, and her hand in the flowing water felt like its accompaniment.

Ben was only aware of her being there. Every sight and sound of nature felt intertwined with her presence. Never in his life had he seen anything as beautifully delicate as the rosy color of her cheeks, and all the vibrant colors of autumn seemed to blend into the gold of her hair.

And those eyes he felt that God had never put in such a face before—rich amber, warm and glowing, big and honest, brave and sincere.

“Are you dead again?” she asked shyly.

“Well, as the Irishman replied to his friend's question after he fell off the roof, ‘not dead—but speechless.’”

He quickly realized the opportunity that her question, along with its memories, had created and seized it.

“Look, Miss Elsie, you’re too honest, independent, and straightforward to play games with me. I want to ask you a straightforward question. You’ve been trying to start an argument lately. What did I do?”

“Nothing. It has just occurred to me that our lives are so different. The divide between us is real and very deep. Your father was just yesterday a slave owner—”

Ben smiled:

“Yes, your slave-trading grandfather sold them to us the day before.”

Elsie turned red and got ready to argue.

“You don’t mind if I give you a few lessons in history, do you?” Ben asked quietly.

“Not at all. I didn’t know Southerners studied history,” she replied, shaking her head.

“We focused on the history of slavery, at least. I had a beloved old teacher at home who was incredibly knowledgeable about this topic. He is one of the most well-read individuals in America. Right now, he’s in jail. But I haven’t forgotten—I can recite it all from memory.”

“I’m waiting for light,” she cut in sarcastically.

“The South isn't any more responsible for Black slavery than the North is. Our slaves were taken from Africa by Northern captains. When a slave ship docked in Boston, your devout Puritan minister publicly thanked God that ‘A gracious and overruling Providence had brought to this land of freedom another cargo of lost souls to enjoy the blessings of a gospel dispensation——’”

She stared at him in disbelief and shouted:

"Go ahead."

“Twenty-three times, the Virginia Legislature passed 125 laws against the importation of slaves, but the king vetoed them in response to requests from the Massachusetts slave traders. Jefferson included these actions by the king as one of the grievances in the Declaration of Independence, but a member from Massachusetts managed to remove it. The Southern delegates at the Constitutional Convention included a clause to end the slave trade, but the Massachusetts delegates were able to add a clause that extended the trade for twenty years——”

He smiled and took a break.

"Go ahead," she said, impatiently.

“In colonial times, a Black woman was publicly burned to death in Boston. The first abolitionist newspaper was published in Tennessee by Embree. Benjamin Lundy, who took over after him, couldn’t find a single abolitionist in Boston. In 1828, more than half of Tennessee's residents supported abolition. At that time, there were one hundred and forty abolition societies in America—one hundred and three in the South, and not a single one in Massachusetts. It wasn’t until 1836 that Massachusetts took the lead in abolition—not until all her own slaves had been sold to us for a profit and the slave trade had been eliminated.”

She glared at Ben for a moment, feeling angry, and then found his teasing smile irresistible.

"Can you take any more?"

“Definitely, I like it.”

“I’m just breaking down the barriers—so to speak,” he said, with laughter still sparkling in his eyes, as he looked steadily ahead.

“Go ahead,” she said seriously. “At first, I thought you were trying to mess with me. I can see that you’re being sincere.”

“Never more so. This is about the only little path of history I feel at home in—I love to show off in it. I heard a cheerful fool say the other day that your father intended to carry the civilization of Massachusetts to the Rio Grande until we had a democracy in America. I smiled. While Massachusetts was enforcing laws about the clothing of the rich and the poor, founding a church with a whipping post, jail, and gallows, and limiting the right to vote to church members set by pew rents, Carolina was the home of freedom where the equal rights of men were first proclaimed. In New England, people with less than one thousand dollars were legally barred from wearing the attire of a gentleman, gold or silver lace, buttons on their knees, or walking in tall boots, nor could their women wear silk or scarves, while the Quakers, Maryland Catholics, Baptists, and Scotch-Irish Presbyterians were everywhere in the South the champions of man’s equality under the law.”

“But aside from our ancestors, I have some issues with the men of this generation.”

"Have I also sinned and fallen short?" he asked with exaggerated seriousness.

“Our ideals of life are really different,” she firmly declared.

“What's wrong with my ideal?”

“Your self-centeredness, for one thing. The way you casually pick what you find enjoyable. Northern men are bad enough—the arrogance of a Southerner is beyond description!”

“You don’t say!” Ben exclaimed, laughing heartily. “Isn’t your aunt, Mrs. Farnham, the president of a club?”

“Yes, and she is a really smart woman.”

"Tell me more."

“I reject your male kingship that’s supposedly divinely ordained. The ruler of all is really just a lesser being—closer to the animal kingdom, weaker as a baby, shorter-lived, less developed, prone to violence, and often foolish. I’ve never seen a female fool in my life—have you?”

“Now that I think about it, I never did,” Ben said with a humorous seriousness. “What else?”

"Isn't that enough?"

“It’s nothing. I agree with everything you say, but it doesn’t matter. I’m studying law, you know.”

“I have my own personality. You and your kind think you have the right to take in all the lesser beings.”

“Of course, I’m a man.”

“I don’t want to be consumed by an ordinary guy.”

“Don't you want to be protected, sheltered, and taken care of?”

“I dream of a life that’s bigger than just the four walls of a home. I’ve never lost my mind over the thought of becoming a cook and housekeeper without pay, wasting my life away while someone else grows, expands, and takes control of the world. I can sing. My voice is to me what eloquence is to a person. My ideal is an intellectual partner who will inspire and guide me to develop everything I feel inside to its fullest potential.”

She paused for a moment and looked defiantly into Ben’s brown eyes, which were always hinting at a smile. 128 He looked away, and once again the river filled the air with his infectious laughter. She couldn't help but join in. He laughed with youthful joy. It sparkled in his eyes and brought energy to every move of his lean, wiry body. She felt its infectiousness wrap around her.

His laughter turned into a song. In a voice full of joy, he sang, “If you get there before I do, tell them I’m coming too!”

As Elsie listened, her anger increased as she remembered the incredible mistake that had led her to share her deepest feelings with this man, who was practically a stranger. Where did this miraculous pull he had on her come from, this special connection? She felt a jolt, as if she had crossed a line. She was tormented with uncertainty about what he thought of her and dreaded meeting his eyes.

And yet, when he faced her, his entire presence was a vibrant mix of deep Southern heritage and passion, and at the sound of his voice, all doubt and uncertainty faded away.

"Do you know," he said earnestly, "that you're the funniest, most charming girl I've ever met?"

"Thanks. I've heard you have a lot of experience for someone your age."

Ben's eyes sparkled.

“Maybe. You bring out things in me that I didn’t even realize existed—touching on every sense of my body and soul at once. Your strong mind, with its quirks, and your feisty little temper feel so strange and out of sync, wrapped up in the softness of your beauty.” 129

“I’ve never been more serious in my life. There are other personal things about you that I don’t like.”

"What?"

“Your carefree habits.”

“Cavalier nonsense. There are no Cavaliers in my country. We're all Covenanter and Huguenot people. The notion that Southern boys are lazy, idle dreamers is a myth. I grew up on the catechism.”

“You love to fish and hunt and have fun—you flirt with every girl you meet, and you drink sometimes. I often feel that you can be harsh and that I don’t really know you.”

Ben's expression turned serious, and the red scar at the edge of his hair suddenly flushed with the rush of blood.

“Maybe I don’t mean for you to know everything just yet,” he said slowly. “My idea of a man is someone who leads, attracts, dominates, and yet remains elusive. I admit that I’m a mix of an angel and a devil, and I’m waiting for a woman’s hand to guide me toward peace and life.”

The girl’s deep sincerity quickly picked up on the subtle charm of his final words. His broad, high forehead and straight, strong nose, with its flexible nostrils, seemed incredibly masculine and attractive to her in that moment. A gentle reply was on her lips.

He saw it and leaned toward her with spontaneous tenderness. A shy expression on her face made him pull back into silence.

They had now floated close to the city. The sun was slowly setting in a blaze of fiery colors that reflected its shifting hues in the still water. The calm of the abundant autumn life enveloped all of nature. 130 They passed by a camp of soldiers and then a large hospital on the bank up above. A gun fired from the hill, and the flag fell from its pole.

The girl's eyes stayed on the flower in his coat for a moment and then on the red scar at the edge of his dark hair, and somehow the difference between them seemed to fade into the setting evening. Only his presence felt real. Once again, an odd joy filled her.

He gave her a warm look, and she started to shake. A seagull hovered for a moment above them and let out a laugh.

Bending closer, he gently took her hand and said:

“I love you!”

A sob caught in her throat and she hid her face in her arm.

“I am yours, and you are mine. Why struggle against what is and must be? What else really matters? Despite all my sins and flaws, my land belongs to you—a place of sunshine, endless harvests, and eternal song, perhaps a bit old-fashioned and provincial, but kind and welcoming. In its simplest cottage, songbirds live, mate, and nest, never leaving. The birds from your own chilly fields have heard their call, and tonight the sky will echo with their chatter as they fly south. Elsie, my love, I have called out too—come; I love you!”

She raised her face to him, full of gentle spiritual allure, her eyes shining with a passionate response.

He leaned down and kissed her.

“Say it! Say it!” he urged.

“I love you!” she sighed.

The day of the first meeting of the National Congress after the war was filled with intense excitement. The galleries of the House were packed. Elsie was there with Ben, feeling a mix of secret anxiety, worried that the exciting drama might affect her own life. She watched her father struggle to his seat, with everyone’s eyes on him.

The President had persistently followed Lincoln's plan for the immediate restoration of the Union. Would Congress support the President's lead or oppose him directly?

Civil governments were restored in all the Southern states, with highly capable individuals selected as governors and lawmakers. Their legislatures unanimously voted for the Thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution, which abolished slavery, and elected senators and representatives to Congress. Mr. Seward, the Secretary of State, declared the new amendment an integral part of the country’s organic law through the vote of these states.

General Grant went to the South to report on its situation and confidently stated:

“I believe that the majority of thoughtful people in the South accept the situation sincerely. They see slavery and secession as issues that have been permanently resolved by the highest 132 known authority, and they view this decision as a positive outcome for the entire country.”

Would the Southerners be allowed to come in?

Amid a breathless silence, the clerk stood up to call the roll of members-elect. Every ear was tuned in to hear the name of the first Southern man. Not a single one was called! The Master had spoken. His clerk knew exactly how to play his role.

The next item on the House's agenda was to receive the message from the Chief Magistrate of the Nation.

The message arrived, but not from the White House. It came from the place of the Great Commoner.

As the initial excitement over the challenge to the President gradually faded, Stoneman stood up, put his large club foot in the center of the aisle, and conveyed to Congress the message from its new leader.

It was Ben’s first look at the man who was currently the most intriguing person in the world. From where he was standing, he could see his entire face and body.

He started talking in a casual, aimless manner. His voice was loud but not overly dramatic, initially using a grumbling, grandfatherly, slightly humorous, and complaining tone that immediately caught everyone’s attention. There was a kind of amusing charm to it that was infectious. Occasionally, someone chuckled, waiting for a clever remark.

His figure was taller than average, slightly hunched, with a dignity that hinted at quiet strength and disdain for his audience. You could instinctively tell that behind the boldest words this man might say, there was an even bolder unspoken thought he had decided not to share.

His limbs were long, and their movements were slow, yet 133 nervous, as if some internal fiery force drove them. His hands were large and awkward, always fidgeting as if a different soul inhabited them.

The piled-up curls of his brown wig created a strange effect on his expressive face. His eagle-like nose had three clear lines and angles. His chin was strong and prominent, and his eyebrows were bushy and jutting out. His mouth was wide, defined, and serious; when open, it looked deep and hollow; when shut, it seemed to close so tightly that his lower lip stuck out.

Of all his looks, his eyes were the most captivating, and they had Ben completely mesmerized. They could send a thrill deep into the soul of anyone who gazed into them, yet they didn’t shine. They could command attention, inspire awe, and confuse, yet they seemed to lack color or intensity. He could spot them easily from the far reaches of the hall, even from the balconies, yet they weren’t large. They appeared like two sharp, colorless points of light. As he became more excited, they darkened as if hidden by a cloud.

A sudden swing of his massive ape-like arm in a sharp gesture, and the humor and nonchalance of his voice were ripped away as if by a bolt of lightning.

He was now delivering his message with brutal honesty. Yet at the peak of his harshest criticism, he didn’t seem to fortify himself or draw on his strengths. At its peak, he was indifferent, aware of his power, and dismissive of the outcomes, as if he were a gambler who had bet everything and lost, but in that moment of loss, suddenly took control over those who had beaten him.

His speech never tried to persuade or convince anyone. He intended to knock out the opposition with one swift strike, and he succeeded. He suddenly stunned his enemies by shouting their secret motive right back at them, the very thing they were hoping to blame him for!

“Let these Southern Representatives in,” he shouted, “and with the Democrats chosen from the North, in just one term they’ll have a majority in Congress and the Electoral College. The survival of our party is at risk. Anyone who messes with this plan is a rebel, a traitor to their party and their people.”

A cheer erupted from his followers, while his enemies stared in shock at his boldness. He established a "Committee on Reconstruction" to which the entire government of the "conquered Southern states" would be entrusted, and to which all credentials of their so-called representatives would be submitted.

He sat down as the Speaker presented his motion, declared it approved, and quickly announced the names of this Imperial Committee with the Hon. Austin Stoneman as its chair.

He then allowed his clerk to read the message from the President of the United States.

“Well, I swear,” said Ben, taking a deep breath and looking at Elsie, “he’s everything, isn’t he?”

The girl smiled proudly.

“Yes; he is a genius. He was meant to lead, yet he could never ignore the cries of a child or the pleas of a woman. He despises, but he despises concepts and systems. He makes threats, yet when he confronts the person who embodies everything he hates, he falls in love with his enemy.”

"Then there's hope for me?"

“Yes, but I need to decide when to speak.”

“Well, if he looks at me like he did earlier today, you might have to do the talking too.”

“You're going to like him once you get to know him. He’s one of the greatest guys in America.”

“At least he's the dad of the greatest girl in the world, which is way more important.”

“I wonder if you realize how important he is?” she asked seriously. “He means everything to me. His harsh words, cynicism, and sarcasm are just a façade—masks that cover a deeply sensitive soul. You can’t imagine how much I have always loved and admired him with a quiet passion. I will never marry if it’s not what he wants.”

“I hope he and I will always be good friends,” Ben said uncertainly.

“You have to,” she said, eagerly squeezing his hand.

Each day, the conflict heated up more between the President and the Commoner.

The first bill sent to the White House to Africanize the “conquered provinces” was vetoed by the President in a message that was so logical, dignified, and powerful that the old leader was astonished to find he couldn't gather the two-thirds majority needed to override it.

At first, everything went according to plan. Lynch and Howle presented him with a report on “Southern Atrocities,” obtained through the secret, oath-bound Union League, which had undermined the impact of General Grant’s words and set his followers up for unquestioning loyalty to his Committee.

Yet the rally of a group of men in defense of the Constitution had given the President unexpected strength.

Stoneman realized he needed to keep a firm grip on the South and lead another campaign. Howle and Lynch provided the Union League's publication committee with the content, and they printed four million five hundred thousand pamphlets on “Southern Atrocities.”

The Northern States were against black suffrage, the first step of his revolutionary plan, and not more than a dozen people in Congress had dared to support it. Ohio, Michigan, New York, and Kansas had overwhelmingly voted it down. But he could tap into their emotions and biases against the “barbarism” of the South. It would be effective. Once he had the South in the position he wanted, he would force black suffrage and equality onto the unwilling North.

His efforts were now focused on blocking any meaningful laws in Congress until his power became absolute.

A cloud briefly crossed the sky in the Senate. John Sherman from Ohio started to emerge as a proactive leader, and without consulting him, was quietly pushing through Sumner’s classic speeches a Reconstruction Bill that would bring the Southern States back into the Union based on Lincoln’s plan, without any provisions for intervening in voting rights. It had reached its final reading, and the last vote was about to take place.

The house was in session at 3 a.m., anxiously awaiting the outcome of this struggle in the Senate.

Old Stoneman was in his seat, fast asleep from the exhaustion of an uninterrupted session that lasted forty hours. He had food sent to his desk from the Capitol restaurant. He was seventy-four years old and not in great health, yet his energy was relentless, his resources infinite, and his boldness unmatched.

Sunset Cox, the jokester of the House, a rival yet personal friend of the old Commoner, walked by his seat and noticed the old man's head resting on his chest in sleep. He chuckled softly and said:

"Mr. Speaker!"

The presiding officer acknowledged the young Democrat with a knowing smile and replied:

“The guy from New York.”

“I propose, sir,” said Cox, “that, considering the distinguished gentleman from Pennsylvania's advanced age and notable contributions, the Sergeant-at-Arms should provide him with enough poker chips to last until morning!”

The few members who were awake burst out laughing, the Speaker slammed his gavel in frustration, the drowsy little pages sprang up, rubbing their eyes, and darted around responding to imaginary calls, and the whole House came to life with its usual noise and chaos.

The old man lifted his large head and glanced at the door leading to the Senate just as Sumner hurried in. He had dozed off for a moment, but his sharp mind had picked up the fight right where he had left off.

Sumner quickly walked over to his desk, leaned in, and shared the news of his defeat and Sherman's victory.

“For God’s sake stop this measure in the House or we’re ruined!” he exclaimed.

“Don’t worry,” replied the cynic. “I’ll be here with better tools than just talking.”

“You don't have a second to waste. The bill is on its way to the Speaker’s desk, and Sherman’s team is going to push it through tonight.”

The Senator went back to the other end of the Capitol, enveloped in his outraged dignity, and in 139 thirty minutes, the bill was defeated, and the House adjourned.

As the old Commoner hobbled through the door, his crooked cane thumping against the marble floor, Sumner grabbed and squeezed his hand:

“How did you pull that off?”

Stoneman’s massive jaws clamped shut and his lower lip jutted out:

“I called for Cox and brought in the leader of the Democrats. I told them that if they teamed up with me to defeat this bill, I’d propose a better one next session. And I will— Black voting rights! They bought it completely!”

Sumner raised his eyebrows and pulled his cloak a bit tighter.

The Great Commoner laughed as he left:

“He’s still too good for this world, but he’ll forget that before we finish this fight.”

On the steps, a homeless person asked him for a place to stay for the night, and he threw him a gold eagle.

The North, which had scornfully turned down Black suffrage for itself, responded to Stoneman’s intense plea to stir their emotions against the South and sent him a group of radicals eager to carry out his wishes.

The battle between the President and Congress had escalated so much that no one even remembered Stanton’s prisoners rotting in jail, and the Secretary of War himself became a pawn to be tossed around in this clash of titans. The fact that Andrew 140 Johnson was from Tennessee and had been a traditional Democrat before being elected as a Unionist with Lincoln was now a serious liability for him. Under Stoneman’s attacks, he quickly became an executive without a party, and every promise of amnesty and pardon he made for the South, in line with Lincoln’s plan, was condemned as the action of a traitor trying to win the favor of rebels and traitors.

Stanton stayed in his cabinet against his will to insult and challenge him, and Stoneman, quick to spot how the President could be humiliated and made to look foolish, proposed a bill that stripped him of the power to remove his own cabinet members. The law was not just intended to embarrass the President; it was a setup for his downfall. The penalties were structured in such a way that breaking the law would provide clear grounds for his trial, impeachment, and removal from office.

Again, Stoneman passed his first act to put the "conquered provinces" of the South under Black leadership.

President Johnson vetoed it with a message that was so logical in defense of the constitutional rights of the States that it fell short by one vote of the two-thirds majority required to become law without his approval.

The old Commoner's eyes turned into two sharp points of icy light when this vote was announced.

With anger, he cursed the President, but more than anything, he cursed the members of his own party who had wavered.

As he awkwardly fidgeted with his large hands, he grumbled:

“If I only had five real brave men in Congress, I’d hang the guy at the other end of the avenue from the 141 porch of the White House! But I don’t have them—just cowards, losers, idiots, and whiny fools——”

His decision was made in an instant. He would remove enough Democrats from the Senate and the House to secure his two-thirds majority without a doubt. He never mentioned the President's name. He always referred to him, even in public debates, as “the guy at the other end of the avenue,” or “the former Governor of Tennessee who once threatened rebels—the late, great Andrew Johnson, of blessed memory.”

He ordered the removal of the new House member from Indiana, Daniel W. Voorhees, and the new Senator from New Jersey, John P. Stockton. This would give him a two-thirds majority made up of people who would follow his orders without question.

Voorhees heard about the announcement with furious anger. He had run into Stoneman in the lobbies, where he was often surrounded by admiring friends. His cleverness and daring, and above all, his harsh honesty, had earned the respect of the “Tall Sycamore of the Wabash.” He couldn’t believe that someone like him would be involved in such an obvious scam. He reached out to him personally:

“Listen up, Stoneman,” the young speaker exclaimed in anger, “I appeal to your sense of honor and respect. My credentials have been approved by your own committee, and I’ve been awarded my seat. My majority is undeniable. This is a brazen outrage. You can’t allow this injustice.”

The old man extended his misshapen foot in front of him, 142 tapped it thoughtfully with his cane, and looking Voorhees directly in the eye, confidently said:

“There’s nothing wrong with your majority, young man. I’m sure it’s fine. Unfortunately, you’re a Democrat, and you just happen to be the one blocking the two-thirds majority that my party relies on. You’ll need to leave. Come back another time.” And he did.

In the Senate, there was a problem. When the vote was held on expelling Stockton, to the leader's surprise, it ended in a tie.

He limped into the Senate Chamber, the steel tip of his cane clinking on the marble floor as if he were stabbing it into the heart of the coward who had sneaked around and played it safe at the critical moment.

He met Howle at the door.

“What’s going on in there?” he asked.

“They're trying to find common ground.”

“Compromise—the downfall of American politics,” he muttered. “But how did the vote go wrong—it was all set up before the roll-call?”

“Roman from Maine is struggling with his conscience! He can't vote on this issue alongside Stockton’s colleague, who is unwell in Trenton. His ‘honor’ is at stake, and he won't go back on his word.”

“I understand,” said Stoneman, lowering his furrowed brows until his eyes were like two shining white beads peeking through. “Have Wade call every member of the party to his room right away and keep the Senate in session.” 143

When the group of Senators filed into the Vice President’s room, the old man stood there leaning on his cane and gave a five-minute speech they would never forget.

His speech had an intriguing allure. The man himself, with his raw emotions, was extraordinary. He didn’t leave any memorable speeches for the public to read, yet even the most powerful men felt intimidated by his gaze. As the nostrils of his large, angular nose flared, an eagle's scream echoed in his voice; his massive, awkward hand gripped the crook of his cane with the force of a tiger. His tongue flicked out like a hissing snake, and his large, misshapen foot seemed to grasp the ground like a beast's claw.

“The life of a political party, gentlemen,” he growled in conclusion, “is sustained by a web of tricks where moral values don’t matter. As your leader, I recognize only one law—success. The world is full of fools who need distractions to play with. A belief in politics is the favorite illusion of superficial American minds. But you and I have no illusions. Your life depends on this vote. If anyone thinks that the idea of ‘honor’ is at stake, let them choose between their honor and their life! I’m not naming names. This issue needs to be resolved now before the Senate adjourns. There can be no tomorrow. It’s life or death. Let’s call the roll again immediately.”

The serious Senators took their seats again, and Wade, the acting Vice President, asked about Stockton’s expulsion once more. 144

The member from New England sat pale and shaking, filled with the turmoil of the intense struggle between his Puritan conscience, the heavy legacy of centuries, and his captain’s orders.

When the Clerk of the Senate called his name, the battle was still going on. He sat quietly, the pallor of death around his lips, while the clerk paused at a signal from the Chair.

And then a scene unlike anything seen in American history! Senators filled the room around his desk, begging, shouting, pleading, and insisting that a fellow Senator go back on his promise!

For a moment, chaos reigned.

“Vote! Vote! Say his name again!” they yelled.

High above everything was the voice of Charles Sumner, leading the chaotic chorus, shouting:

“Vote! Vote! Vote!”

The audience buzzed with excitement—the cheers finally overpowering every hiss.

Stoneman forced his way through the crowd that surrounded the harassed Puritan as he tried to back away into the cloakroom.

“Are you going to vote?” he whispered, his eyes filled with malice.

“My conscience won’t allow it,” he hesitated.

“Forget your conscience!” the old leader shouted. “Go back to your seat, ask the clerk to call your name, and vote, or I swear I’ll kick you out of the party tonight and label you a whiny coward, a traitor, and a renegade!” 145

Trembling all over, he staggered back to his seat, cold sweat beading on his forehead, and gasped:

“Say my name!”

The sharp voice of the clerk pierced the silence like the blast of a trumpet:

"Mr. Roman!"

And it was done.

A cheer erupted from his coworkers, and the roll call continued.

When Stockton's name was called, he jumped up, voted for himself, and created another tie!

With blank faces, they looked at the leader, who instructed Charles Sumner to propose that the Senator from New Jersey not be allowed to respond to his name on an issue related to his own position.

It was carried. Once more, the roll was called, and Stockton was expelled by a majority of one.

In the tense silence that followed, a striking woman with a smooth, animal-like beauty leaned over the balcony rail and laughed loudly.

The approval of each part of the Revolutionary program despite the President's veto was now just a formality. The law that humiliated his position by requiring him to retain a cabinet member who insulted him daily, the Civil Rights Bill, and the Freedman’s Bureau Bill all came one after the other.

Stoneman’s major Reconstruction Act was passed two years after the war ended, breaking the Union apart once more, removing the names of ten major Southern States from its list, and splitting their territory into five Military Districts under the control of appointed leaders. 146

When the President vetoed this measure, it was accompanied by a message whose words will be forever imprinted in fire on the darkest page of the Nation’s history.

Amid hisses, curses, jeers, and cat-calls, the Clerk of the House read its fiery words:

The power granted to the commanding officer over the people in each district is akin to that of an absolute monarch. His will replaces the law. He can create his own criminal code; it can be as brutal as any in history, or he can choose to act based on his personal feelings in each situation that comes up.

Here's a bill of attainder against nine million people all at once. It's based on an accusation so vague that it's barely understandable, and there's no credible evidence to back it up. Not one of the nine million was allowed to speak in their own defense. Even the representatives of the condemned groups were completely excluded from the trial. The conviction will lead to the most disgraceful punishment ever imposed on large groups of people. It strips away their rights by the hundreds of thousands and degrades everyone—even those acknowledged as innocent—from being free citizens to the status of slaves.

No monarch in England has held such power for over five hundred years, and during that time, no English-speaking people have endured such servitude. 147

When the last mocking catcall that followed the Chief Magistrate's announcement faded away in the hall and the galleries, old Stoneman stood up, a smile flickering at the corners of his serious mouth, and presented his bill to impeach the President of the United States and have him removed from office.

Elsie spent weeks feeling completely happy, lost in the joy of being with her lover. His charm was irresistible. The way he shared tender moments, his eloquence in expressing love, and the manly dignity with which he did it created a magic that no woman could resist.

Each day's working hours were dedicated to his father's case and the study of law. If there was work to be done, he did it, and then removed the word "worry" from his life, giving himself completely to his love. Significant events were unfolding. The conflict between Congress and the President started to rattle the Republic to its core. He heard nothing, felt nothing, except for the sound of Elsie's voice.

And she was aware of it. She had only messed around with flings before. She had never encountered someone like Ben, and he completely swept her off her feet. His philosophy was straightforward. The main purpose of life is to celebrate the girl you love. Everything else could wait. And he made them wait. He overlooked their presence.

But one cloud darkened the girl’s heart during these extraordinary days of her life—the worry about what her father would do to her boyfriend's family. Ben had asked her 149 if he should talk to him. When she replied, “No, not yet,” he forgot that such a man existed. As for his political views, he knew nothing and cared even less.

But the girl knew and felt a wave of sickening dread, until she pushed her fears aside in the joy of his laughter. Ben laughed so wholeheartedly, so charmingly, that the infectiousness of his fun was impossible to resist.

He would sit for hours and share with her the secrets of his youthful dreams of glory in battle, recounting his thrilling adventures and daring acts with such enthusiasm that she felt his cause was her own. The sorrow and anguish over the destruction of his people affected her deeply, as if she were personally hurt. His love for his home state was so genuine, and his pride in the bravery and goodness of its people so noble, that she began to realize for the first time how the ties that connected the Southerner to his land were woven from the heart’s red blood.

She started to realize why the war, which she had viewed as a terrible, brutal, and pointless uprising, was the only unavoidable step in our evolution from a collection of independent States into a United Nation. Love had shared his perspective with her.

Secret grief over her father’s choices started to turn into a clear fear. With undeniable instinct, she sensed the inevitable day approaching when these two men, now central to her life, would face off in deadly hostility.

She didn’t see much of her father. He was consumed by intense work and deep hatred in his battle with the President.

Brooding over her fears one night, she had tried to 150 interest Ben in politics. To her surprise, she found that he knew nothing about her father’s real position or power as leader of his party. The shocking tragedy of the war had temporarily erased all political thoughts from his mind, just like it had for most young Southerners. He took her hand while a dreamy look spread across his dark face:

“Don’t worry about problems until you actually face them. I learned that during the war. Politics are complicated. Let me share something important——”

He felt her hand’s soft pressure and gently kissed it. “Listen,” he whispered. “Last night after I left you, I dreamt about the home we’ll build. Just behind our place, on the hill overlooking the river, my parents planted trees that are exactly like the ones they put around our house when they got married. They planted these trees to honor the first-born of their love, so he could make his nest there when he grew up. But it wasn’t meant for him. He set up camp on higher ground, along with the others. This place will be mine. There are forty varieties of trees, all fully grown—elm, maple, oak, holly, pine, cedar, magnolia, and every fruit and flowering plant that thrives in our friendly soil. A little house, nicely maintained by a farmer, is built near the empty space reserved for the homestead, and birds have learned to build nests in every shrub and tree. All year long, their music fills the air—one long overture waiting for my bride to arrive—”

Elsie sighed.

“Listen, my dear,” he said eagerly. “Last night I dreamed the South had come back to life. I saw you there. I saw our home surrounded by a garden of roses your hands had planted. The full moon bathed it in soft light, while you and I walked hand in hand in silence under our trees. But fairer and brighter than the moon was the face of the one I loved, and sweeter than all the songs of birds was the sound of her voice!”

A tear blurred the girl’s bright eyes, and a deeper blush covered her cheeks as she raised her face and whispered:

"Kiss me."

With fierce determination, the Great Commoner pushed for the trial of the first impeachment of a President of the United States for serious crimes and misconduct.

His proposal to take the property of the Southern people was already on the House's agenda. This proposal was the most extraordinary ever written in English or presented in any legislative body of the Aryan race. It called for the confiscation of ninety percent of the land in ten major states of the American Union. Every Black individual in the South was assigned forty acres from their former master's estate, and the rest of the millions of acres were to be distributed among those "loyal individuals who had suffered because of the Rebellion."

The execution of this, the most outrageous crime ever conceived by an English lawmaker, involving the exile and destruction of millions of innocent men, women, and children, could not be entrusted to Andrew Johnson.

No such action could be taken as long as anyone was President and Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy, claiming that title under the Constitution. This is why his removal was absolutely necessary. 153

The state of society was perfect for this bold venture.

Not only was the Ship of State in the hands of revolutionaries who had climbed aboard during the chaotic upheaval of a civic crisis, but among them were the captain thieves of the most daring criminals who ever appeared in the history of a nation.

The first major Railroad Lobby, with massive territories on the line, crowded the Capitol with its lawyers, agents, promoters, and hired escorts.

The Cotton Thieves, who operated through a network of Treasury agents, unlawfully seized three million bales of cotton hidden in the South during the war and at its end, the last hope of a devastated people. The Treasury had received a meager twenty thousand bales for the use of its name to claim the so-called “property of the Confederate Government.” The value of this cotton, stolen from the widows and orphans, the injured and disabled, of the South was over $700,000,000 in gold—a sum large enough to have helped lift a struggling people back to prosperity. The agents of this network filled the halls of legislation, protecting their loot from greedy eyes, and pushing for even bigger plans for legal confiscation.

The Whiskey Ring had just been established and started its massive fraud scheme that undermined the Treasury.

Above them all loomed the figure of Oakes Ames, whose brilliant mind had orchestrated the Crédit Mobilier scheme. This enormous scandal had already infiltrated the heart of Congress and brought down many prominent individuals.

So obvious had the shame become that Stoneman was forced to expand his committees in the morning, after a corrupt majority had been bribed the night before.

He got up one day and looking at the notable Speaker, who was secretly connected to Oakes Ames, said:

“Mr. Speaker: while the House was inactive, the enemy has planted weeds among our crops. The corporations in this country, having no physical bodies to be harmed nor souls to be lost, have, perhaps through persuasive arguments alone, swayed the member from Connecticut to side with the majority of my Committee. The enemy now has a majority of one. I propose to expand the Committee to twelve.”

Speaker Colfax, about to be ousted from the Vice President's position for his association with those crooks, expanded his Committee.

Everybody knew that “the power of argument alone” meant ten thousand dollars in cash for the guy from Connecticut, who didn’t show up on the floor for a week, scared of the sharp tongue of the old Commoner.

A Congress that realized it could create and overturn laws against the wishes of the Executive went crazy. Taxes skyrocketed to unimaginable levels, while the currency lost value and was subject to extreme fluctuations.

The law books were filled with regulations that locked future generations into monopoly chains. Public lands as vast as empires were donated to private companies, and subsidies worth millions were imposed as a burden on the people and their descendants. 155

The demoralization that comes with a major war, the staggering amounts of money wasted, the awarding of contracts worth millions that allowed fortunes to be made overnight, and the rampant speculation and indulgence by those looking to get rich quickly without effort, had created a new Capital of the Nation. The opportunistic group of unprincipled, dishonest, and corrupt individuals, which descended like a dark cloud during the war to exploit the Nation's misfortunes, had established itself in Washington and changed the tone of its life.

Prior to the Civil War, the Capital was governed by an elite class based on intelligence, culture, and lineage. Power was largely held by a respected group of dedicated public officials. Now, a Black electorate controlled the city government, and groups of intoxicated Black individuals, considered the sovereign citizens, roamed the streets at night, firing their muskets without fear of challenge or interference.

A new wave of onion-scented breath, combined with the sweaty smell of Africa, became the symbol of American Democracy.

A new social order emerged from this corruption. The old aristocratic values, preferences, and passions were forced into hiding by a handful of families and treasured as artifacts from the past.

Washington, overwhelmed by filthy wealth, worshipped the Almighty Dollar. The new altar was stained with a dark mold of human blood—but no one questioned it. 156

A mixed-race woman managed the home of the most important man in the country and greeted his guests with a patronizing attitude.

In this environment filled with corrupt behavior and toxic emotions, the conflict between the Great Commoner and the President, which would determine the future of the South, was reaching its peak.

The entire nation was caught in the chaos, and business was halted. Two years after winning a war, the Republic's credit plummeted, causing its six percent bonds to sell for just seventy-three cents on the dollar in the open market.

The revolutionary junta in charge of the Capital was just one step away from overthrowing the Government and installing a Dictator in the White House.

A convention was held in Philadelphia to bring back a sense of camaraderie, heal the wounds of war, uphold the Constitution, and reunite the nation. It was a significant gathering representing the core of the country’s spirit and intellect. Members of Lincoln’s first Cabinet, protesting Senators and Congressmen, editors from major Republican and Democratic newspapers, and heroes from both sides of the war, who had long been separated, came together for a shared goal. When a group of renowned Black advocates from Boston suddenly walked into the hall, arm in arm with former slaveholders from South Carolina, the entire assembly erupted, and the walls and ceiling echoed with thunderous applause.

Their committee, led by a well-known editor, traveled 157 to Washington to appeal to the Master at the Capitol. They looked for him not in the White House, but in the small Black House on a quiet street on the hill.

The brown woman greeted them with a proud demeanor and said:

“Mr. Stoneman isn’t available right now. It’s after nine o’clock. I’ll pass your request for a meeting to him tomorrow morning.”

“We need to see him tonight,” replied the editor, getting more and more angry.

“The king is having some fun,” said the yellow woman, with a hint of malice.

“Where is he at?”

Her cat-like eyes darted from side to side, and a smile danced on her full lips as she said:

“You’ll find him at Hall & Pemberton’s gambling den—you’ve lived in Washington. You know the way.”

With a murmured curse, the editor turned on his heel and led his two friends to the old Commoner’s favorite spot. There was no better time or place to approach him than sitting at one of its tables filled with fine wines and delicious dishes.

On arriving at the well-known address of Hall & Pemberton, the editor walked through the unlocked door, made his way with his friends down the soft carpeted hallway, and went up the stairs. Here, the door was locked. A quick pull of the bell, and a pair of bright eyes peeked through a small grate in the center of the door, revealed by the sliding of its panel. 158

The sharp eyes looked at the offered card, the door swung open, and a well-dressed mixed-race man warmly invited them to come in.

Passing through another hallway, they were led into a luxurious suite of rooms decorated like royalty. The floors were covered with the richest and softest carpets—so plush that even the steps of a thousand people wouldn’t make a single echo. The walls and ceilings were painted by a master artist and were adorned with artworks worth a fortune. Heavy curtains, in beautifully chosen colors, covered each window, blocking out all sound from inside or outside.

The rooms were filled with light from beautiful chandeliers made of sparkling crystals, shimmering and flashing from the ceilings like bouquets of diamonds.

Black servants, impeccably dressed, attended to every guest's slightest need with the quiet grace and courtesy of the lost grandeur of the old South.

The owner, with gracious manners, extended his hand:

“Welcome, gentlemen; you are my guests. The tables and the wines are at your service for free. Eat, drink, and enjoy yourselves—play or not, as you like.”

A smile lit up his dark eyes, but faded near his mouth—cold and stiff.

At the far end of the last room hung the large painting of a leopard, its black and tan colors so vivid and lifelike, its restless eyes so stealthy and wild, it looked alive and as if it were moving behind invisible bars.

Just below it, beautifully displayed in its gem-encrusted frame, 159 was the enchanting green table where men bet their gold and lost their souls.

The rooms were packed with Congress members, government officials, Army and Navy officers, clerks, contractors, paymasters, lobbyists, and professional gamblers.

The center of an admiring group was a Congressman who, during the last session of the House, had broken the “bank” in a single night, winning over a hundred thousand dollars. He lost it all and more in two weeks, and the polite owner now had orders for the lion’s share of the total pay and mileage of almost every member of the House of Representatives.

Over that table, thousands of dollars of the people's money were bet and lost during the war by quartermasters, paymasters, and agents managing public funds. Many a man walked up to that green table with a spotless reputation and walked away as a lying thief. Some had to be carried out by those well-dressed waiters, and the man with the cold demeanor could easily point out more than one stain on the plush carpet that marked the end of a tragedy deeper than any storyteller has ever captured.

Stoneman was currently playing. He wasn't usually a big player, but he had just bet a twenty-dollar gold coin and won fourteen hundred dollars.

Howle, always at his side ready for a “sleeper” or a stake, said:

“Place a stack on the ace.”

He did that, got lost, and did it twice. 160

“Do it again,” Howle urged. “I’ll bet my reputation that the ace wins this time.”

With a skeptical look at Howle, old Stoneman pushed a stack of blue chips, worth fifty dollars, over the ace, betting on Howle’s judgment and reputation. It lost.

Without a hint of a smile, the old politician said: “Howle, you owe me five cents.”

As he suddenly turned on his club foot from the table, he ran into the editor and his friends, a manufacturer from the West and a Wall Street banker. They were soon seated at a table in a private room, enjoying a dinner of select oysters, diamond-back terrapin, canvas-back duck, and champagne.

They made their request for a ceasefire in his struggle until public excitement had calmed down.

He listened to them quietly. His response was typical:

“The will of the people, gentlemen, is the highest authority,” he said with a sneer. “We are the people. ‘The man at the other end of the avenue’ has had the audacity to challenge the will of Congress. He has to go. If the Supreme Court gets involved in this battle, it will either turn that court into a one-man show or expand it to twenty whenever we want.”

“But the Constitution——” interrupted the chairman.

“There are greater laws than written agreements. We are conquerors standing on land we've taken. Our will is the only source of law. The drunken fool who claims to be President is really just a foreigner in a conquered territory.” 161

“We protest,” shouted the wealthy man, “against the use of such names when referring to the Chief Magistrate of the Republic!”

“Why, seriously?” the Commoner mocked.

“In the name of common decency, law, and order. The President is a man of inherent power, even if he did learn to read after his marriage. Like many other Americans, he is a self-made man——”

“Glad to hear it,” Stoneman snapped. “It takes a huge burden off Almighty God.”

They left him in disappointment and frustration.

As the storm of passion stirred up by the argument between her dad and the President grew stronger, Elsie felt her own life was just a leaf blown away by its intensity.

Her only comfort was Phil, whose letters to her were filled with love for Margaret. He asked Elsie a thousand silly questions about what she thought of his chances.

To her own confessions, he was completely sympathetic.

“About my father’s crazy plan for revenge against the South,” he wrote, “I feel sick to my stomach. I fundamentally hate it, not to mention a girl I know. I stand with General Grant for peace and reconciliation. What does your boyfriend think about all this? I can sense your pain. The bill to take land away from the Southern people that I hear is being proposed would send your sweetheart and ours, our enemies, into poverty and exile. What’s going to happen in the South? Riots and bloodshed, of course—maybe a guerrilla war so brutal and horrific that just thinking about it makes you sick. I worry that the Rebellion has scrambled our father’s mind on certain issues. He was too old to fight on the front lines; a cannon’s blast would have cleared the air and improved his mood. But that healing was denied. I believe the tawny leopardess who runs his household influences him in this cruel madness. I could easily wring her neck with great pleasure. I don’t understand why he lets her stay and taint his life with her devilish temper and smear his name with shameful gossip.”

Seated in the park on Capitol Hill the day after her father introduced his Confiscation Bill in the House, while the impeachment of the President was pending, she once more tried to get Ben to share his thoughts on politics.

She waited in intense fear and heightened pride for the first outburst of his anger, which would signal their separation.

“How do I feel?” he asked. “I don’t feel anything. The surrender of General Lee was such a shocking event that my mind hasn’t fully processed it yet. Nothing significant can happen after that, so it doesn’t matter.”

"Does Black suffrage not matter?"

“No. We can handle the Black man,” he said calmly.

“With thousands of your own people denied the right to vote?”

“The Black people will vote with us, just like they worked for us during the war. If they give them the right to vote, they’ll regret it.”

Ben looked at her lovingly, leaned in close, and whispered:

“Don’t waste your breath discussing such things. My politics is defined to the North by a pair of amber eyes, to the South by a cute little chin, and to the East and West by a rosy cheek. Words don’t express its meaning. Its language is a simple sign, a touch of the lips—but it excites both body and soul beyond any words.”

Elsie leaned in closer and, gazing at the Capitol, said with a hint of longing: 164

“I don’t think you know anything that happens in that big marble building.”

"Yeah, I do."

"What happened there yesterday?"

“You honored it by placing your beautiful feet on its steps. I watched as the entire massive pile of cold marble suddenly shone with warm sunlight and sparkled with beauty as you walked in.”

The girl cuddled even closer to his side, feeling completely powerless in the rushing waters of Niagara that were dragging them along with blind and merciless forces. For a brief moment, she forgot all her fears in the comfort of his presence and the gentle grip of his hand.

It’s the pride of the American Republic that every person who has served as President has gained respect while holding that power and has shown themselves worthy of the serious responsibility it brings. This is our strongest assertion of the world’s respect and a testament to humanity’s ability to self-govern.

The impeachment of President Andrew Johnson would either represent the worst degradation the Republic could face or its downfall. This trial would put our system to its greatest test. If a biased majority in Congress could oust the Executive and disregard the Supreme Court, then the stability of civic institutions would be finished, and the whims of a mob would become the only measure of law.

Congress had completely disregarded any sense of decency in how it treated the Chief Magistrate. Stoneman spearheaded this campaign of insult, not just out of personal animosity, but because he realized that this way, the President’s conviction before the Senate would be almost guaranteed.

When his messages came from the White House, they were tossed into the trash without ever being read, surrounded by mockery, hissing, cursing, and crude laughter. 166

In place of their reading, Stoneman would send an explicit rant from a party newspaper to the Clerk’s desk, and the Clerk of the House would read it aloud while the floor and galleries reacted with mocking groans, laughter, and applause.

A favorite article described the President as “an arrogant, drunken thug, who makes Caligula’s horse look respectable.”

In the Senate, where members were supposed to sit as sworn judges to decide the impeachment issue, Charles Sumner used such offensive language that he was called to order. Supported by the Chair and the Senate, he repeated it with even more intensity, ending with a chilling venom:

“Andrew Johnson has become the successor of Jefferson Davis. In judging him, I won't focus on his terrible drunkenness the day he was sworn in as Vice President, nor will I dwell on his emotional speeches that have brought disgrace to the country, nor will I listen to the claims of pardons being sold or personal corruption. Those things are certainly bad. But he has taken over the powers of Congress.”

Conover, the lying scoundrel, in prison for his crimes as a paid witness in the assassination trial, now spread the rumor that he could provide evidence that President Johnson was Lincoln's assassin. Without a moment's hesitation, Stoneman’s followers sent a petition to the President asking for this villain's pardon so he could turn against the man who had granted it and betray him! This crook was triumphantly brought from prison to the Capitol and presented to the Impeachment Committee, to whom he shared his incredible story.

The sewers and prisons were searched for every bit of evidence they could find, and the day of the trial was getting closer.

As it got closer, excitement intensified. Crowds of adventurers anticipating the fall of the Government packed into Washington. Visions of glory, profits, and sharing the spoils ran wild. Gamblers filled the bars and gaming halls, wagering their money on the President’s fate.

Stoneman realized the business was more serious than even his bold nature had imagined. His health suddenly failed under the pressure, and his doctor ordered him to bed with the warning that even the slightest excitement could be deadly.

Elsie walked into the little Black House on the hill for the first time since her trip when she was twelve, about eight years ago. She brought in an army nurse, took control of the place, and completely ignored the brown woman, refusing to talk to her or let her into her father's room.

His illness made it essential to choose an assistant to handle the case before the High Court. There was only one member of the House whose character and skills suited him for the job—General Benj. F. Butler from Massachusetts, whose name alone could ignite a riot in any gathering in America.

His selection sparked an uproar at the Capitol. A 168 member jumped to his feet in the House and shouted:

“If I had to sum up everything that is cowardly in war, cruel in peace, immoral in ethics, and corrupt in politics, I could call it one word—Butlerism!”

For this speech, he was told to apologize, and when he arrogantly refused, they decided that the Speaker should publicly reprimand him. The Speaker did it, but gave a wink to the wrongdoer while delivering the reprimand.

John A. Bingham from Ohio, known for his oratory skills, was selected to give the main speech against the President. He stood up in the House and angrily declined to serve on the Board of Impeachment alongside such a person.

General Butler responded with devastating arrogance:

“It’s true, Mr. Speaker, that I might have made a mistake in trying to blow up Fort Fisher with a powder ship at sea. I did the best I could with the talents I was given. An angel couldn’t have done any more. At least I put myself on the line for my country’s defense—a thing that the distinguished gentleman who insults me hasn’t dared to do—his only claim to greatness being that, behind prison walls, based on false testimony, his passionate speeches led an innocent American mother to the gallows.”

The fight was only stopped by an order from the old Commoner’s bed to Bingham to be quiet and team up with Butler. Once the President was defeated, then they could deal with the Kilkenny-cat problems. Bingham complied.

When the esteemed tribunal gathered in the Senate 169 Chamber, fifty-five Senators, led by Salmon P. Chase, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, made up the tribunal. They took their places in a semicircle in front of the Vice President’s desk where the Chief Justice sat. Behind them, the one hundred and ninety members of the House of Representatives packed in, the accusers of the leader of the most powerful Republic in human history. Every available spot in the galleries was filled with well-dressed men and women, military officers in stunning uniforms, and the impressive presence of the ministers from every foreign court around the world. In breathtaking splendor, no such scene had ever been seen in the history of justice.

The unique look of General Butler, with his bald head gleaming with arrogance while his eye seemed to wink at his history as a fighter and tease his co-manager Bingham, brought some humor to the serious situation.

The impressive head of the Chief Justice sparked unusual thoughts for those watching. He had been called just the day before to try Jefferson Davis for the crime of declaring the Southern States out of the Union. Today, he sat down to try the President of the United States for declaring them to be in the Union! He had insisted passionately that he couldn't handle both of these trials simultaneously.

The Chief Justice took an oath to “administer fair justice according to the Constitution and the laws,” and to Sumner’s dismay, he administered this oath to each Senator one by one. When Benjamin F. Wade’s name was called, Hendricks from Indiana objected to him serving as judge. He could temporarily take over the Presidency as the presiding officer of the Senate, and his own vote could influence the outcome for the accused and impact his own succession. The law prohibits the Vice President from participating in such trials. This should apply even more strictly in his case. Plus, he had already declared the President guilty without a hearing.

Sumner, forgetting his attempt to stop Stockton from voting for his own expulsion, quickly defended Wade. Hendricks, with a smile, withdrew his objection, and “Bluff Ben Wade” took the oath and settled in to judge his own situation with a calm demeanor.

When the case was finished, the entire indictment was nothing but a web of meaningless hatred without any evidence to back up its claims.

On the final day of the trial, as the closing arguments were being delivered, there was a commotion at the door. The crowd of men, filling every inch of floor space, was shoved aside. People leaned forward to see what the noise was about, Senators turned to look behind them, and the Chief Justice called for silence.

Suddenly, through the thick crowd, two huge Black men emerged, carrying an old man. His grim face, pale and stiff, and his large club foot dangling sadly from those strong arms were unmistakable. A wave of excitement ran through the audience, and a slight cheer broke out, quickly silenced by the gavel.

The Black men positioned him in an armchair facing the semicircle 171 of Senators, and squatted beside him. Their curly hair, dark skin, full lips, white teeth, and flat noses created an odd symbolic contrast to the pale passion of the old Commoner’s face.

No sculptor has ever envisioned a more chilling symbol of the corruption of a race of empire builders than this group. Its dark figures, enveloped in four thousand years of barbarism, sat there as the “equal” of their master, smirking at his concepts of justice, the culmination of forty centuries of Aryan brilliance. The white fanatic, consumed by his hatred, had turned to their raw power, and for their loyalty, he sacrificed the legacy of a great race of free people.

The speaker rushed to his conclusion that the nearly unconscious master could deliver his message. In the meantime, his cold, intense gaze searched for the secrets hidden in the souls of the judges in front of him.

He didn't come to beg or convince anyone. He had slipped past his daughter's and nurse's watchful eyes, escaped with the help of the brown woman and her black allies, and risked his life to take charge. He was putting all his strength into not passing out right now. He felt that if he could just look those men in the eye, they wouldn't dare to challenge his authority.

He awkwardly got to his feet amid a dreadful silence. Once again, the sheer wonder of this man's personality captivated the audience's imagination. His boldness, his passion, and the strange contradictions in his character intrigued both friends and enemies—this man 172 who swayed there before them, pushing back Death with his large, ugly left hand, while with his right he clutched at his enemy's throat! Honest yet dishonest, cruel yet tender, great yet petty, a party leader who disregarded public opinion, a man of strong beliefs, yet the most ruthless politician, a philosopher who preached equality, yet a tyrant who loathed the world and despised all humanity!

His very presence in front of them was a clear challenge to love, life, and death. Wouldn’t his words hold power when the verdict was announced? Every person in the large courtroom felt it as they watched the rows of Senators captivated by his every word.

He spoke initially with an unnatural energy, a slight flush of fever adding color to his pale face, his voice shaky yet strong.

“On that man among you who dares to clear the President,” he boldly threatened, “I cast the eternal curse of a Nation—an infamy that will strike and shame his descendants until they recoil from their own name as if it were tainted!”

He gasped for air, his restless hands fumbled at his throat, and he staggered, nearly falling if not for his black guards catching him. He recovered, pushed them back onto their knees, and sat down. Then, with his large club foot stretched out in front of him, his twisted hands gripping the chair's arms, his massive head shaking side to side like a wounded lion, he continued his speech, which grew in fierce intensity with each labored breath. 173

The effect was electric. Every Senator leaned forward to catch the softest whisper, and the suspense in the galleries was so intense that the audience began to feel faint.

When this final crazy challenge was thrown at the judges, the stunned crowd took a moment to breathe, and the stands erupted in applause.

In vain the Chief Justice stood up, his fierce face pale with anger, banged for order, and ordered the galleries to be cleared.

They laughed at him. Roar after roar was the response. The Chief Justice, in a loud and angry voice, ordered the Sergeant-at-Arms to clear the galleries.

Men leaned over the railing and shouted in his face:

“He can't do that!”

“He doesn’t have enough men!”

“Let him try if he’s brave enough!”

The doorkeepers tried to maintain order by proclaiming it in the name of peace, dignity, and the Senate's power over its sacred chamber. The crowd had now turned into a noisy mob that mocked them.

Senator Grimes from Iowa stood up and asked why the Senate was being disrespected and why the order hadn’t been carried out.

A chorus of hisses responded to his question.

The Chief Justice, clearly very nervous, announced that the order would be enforced.

Senator Trumbull from Illinois suggested that the offenders be arrested.

In response, the crowd shouted: 174

“We want to see you do it!”

At last, the crowd started to slowly leave the galleries, thinking that the High Court had ended its session.

Suddenly, a guy shouted:

“Hold on! They're not going to adjourn. Let’s see it through!”

Hundreds settled into their seats again. In the hallways, a crowd started to sing in a lively chorus:

“Old Grimes is dead, that poor old man.” The women sang with joy. Between the verses, the leader would curse the Iowa Senator as a traitor and a coward. The singing could be clearly heard by the Court as its loud sounds drifted through the open doors.

When the Senate Chamber was cleared and the most disgraceful scene ever to happen inside it had ended, the High Court Impeachment met in private to review the evidence and reach a verdict.

Within an hour of the meeting ending, the Managers learned that seven Republican Senators were on the fence. They formed a group led by two prominent constitutional lawyers who still believed in the integrity of a judge’s oath—Lyman Trumbull from Illinois and William Pitt Fessenden from Maine. Senators Grimes from Iowa, Van Winkle from West Virginia, Fowler from Tennessee, Henderson from Missouri, and Ross from Kansas had rallied around them. The Managers were in a panic. If these men decided to stand with the twelve Democrats, the President could be acquitted by one vote—they could count on thirty-four votes for conviction. 175

The Revolutionists discarded any last bit of decency, held a meeting, and organized a plot to pressure the judges into agreeing with their demands before the verdict was announced in a few days.

Fessenden and Trumbull faced impeachment and removal from the Senate and were attacked by the press, which called them infamous traitors, "as mean, repulsive, and toxic as hedgehogs in the cages of a traveling circus."

A large gathering took place in Washington that stated:

“Resolved, that we impeach Fessenden, Trumbull, and Grimes at the bar of justice and humanity, as traitors whose guilt makes the infamy of Benedict Arnold look like respectability and decency.”

The managers sent out a circular telegram to every state that had a questionable judge:

“There's a serious threat to the country's peace if impeachment doesn't go through. Send your Senators your opinions through resolutions, letters, and delegations.”

The man who sparked the most anger was Ross, from Kansas. That Kansas, of all states, would send a “traitor” was more than the spirits of the Revolutionists could handle.

A large meeting in Leavenworth therefore sent him the telegram:

“Kansas has heard the evidence and demands that the President be convicted.

“D. R. Anthony and 1,000 others.”

Ross replied:

“I have taken an oath to deliver fair justice. I trust 176 I will have the courage and integrity to vote based on my judgment and for the greater good of my country.”

He got his answer:

“Your reasons are Indian contracts and greenbacks. Kansas disowns you just like she does all liars and losers.”

The Managers set up an inquisition to torture and pressure Ross into giving in. They just needed his vote.

They surrounded little Vinnie Ream, the sculptor, who had been given a contract by Congress to create the statue of Lincoln. Her studio was located in the basement of the Capitol. They threatened her with Congress's anger, the loss of her contract, and the destruction of her career unless she could find a way to convince Senator Ross, whom she knew, to vote against the President.

Such an attempt to fraudulently influence the verdict of a regular court would have landed its backers in prison for a serious crime. Yet the Managers of this case, before the highest court in the world, did it shamelessly and branded every person who dared to question their motives a traitor.

As the day got closer for the Court to vote, Senator Ross remained a complete mystery to both friends and enemies. Reporters surrounded him, their eyes fixated on him. His office was overwhelmed by his radical supporters who had been brought in from Kansas in large numbers to pressure him into promising a conviction. His every move, day and night—what he had for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the clothes he wore, the color of his tie, his friends and companions—were reported in hourly updates and transmitted from the frenzied Capital. 177

Chief Justice Chase called the High Court of Impeachment to order to deliver its verdict. Old Stoneman had once again been carried to his chair by two Black men and sat there with his cold eyes scanning the faces of the judges.

The excitement was at its peak. A heavy sense of seriousness hung over the scene. It felt like the moment had arrived that would test humanity's ability to create a lasting Republic.

The Clerk read the Eleventh Article, created by the Great Commoner as the ultimate test.

As its last words faded, the Chief Justice stood up in a silence that felt unbearable, placed his hands on the sides of the desk to steady himself, and said:

"Take attendance."

Each Senator responded with “Guilty” or “Not Guilty,” just as the Managers had counted them, until Fessenden’s name was called.

A moment of stillness and the great lawyer’s voice rang high, cold, clear, and resonant like a Puritan church bell on Sunday morning:

"Not Guilty!"

A murmur, part groan and sigh, part cheer and cry, rippled through the great hall.

The other votes didn't count now except for that of Edmund G. Ross from Kansas. No one on earth knew what this man would do except for the quiet, unseen force within him. 178

Over the serious, trembling silence, the voice of the Chief Justice echoed:

“Senator Ross, what do you say? Is the respondent, Andrew Johnson, guilty or not guilty of a serious offense as stated in this article?”

The great Judge leaned forward; his brow creased as Ross stood up.

His fellow Senators watched him in awe. A thousand men and women, hanging from the balconies, fixed their eyes on him. Old Stoneman furrowed his brows, watching him like a snake ready to strike, his lower lip sticking out, his jaws clenched like a vise, his hands nervously gripping the arms of his chair.

Every breath is held, every ear tuned in, as the answer comes from the strong Scotsman like the sound of a trumpet:

"Not Guilty!"

The crowd takes a breath—a moment of silence, a whisper, the shuffle of a thousand feet——

The President has been cleared of charges, and the Republic survives!

The House gathered and received the report on the verdict. Old Stoneman struggled to stand, gripping his desk, addressed the Speaker, introduced his second bill for the impeachment of the President, and collapsed, fainting in the arms of his Black attendants.

Upon the failure to convict the President, Edwin M. Stanton resigned, fell into despair, and died, while a soldier serving as Secretary of War opened the prison doors.

Ben Cameron and his father rushed south to a home and land overshadowed by a darkness deeper than the dust and smoke of blood-soaked battlefields—the Black Plague of Reconstruction.

For two weeks, the old Commoner quietly battled with Death. When he finally spoke, it was to the strong Black men who had come to visit him and were standing by his bedside.

Turning his deep-set eyes on them for a moment, he said slowly:

“I wonder who will carry me when you guys die!”

Elsie rushed to his side and kissed him gently. For a week, his mind lingered in the in-between space of time and eternity. He appeared to forget the intense emotions and anger from his chaotic life and instead relived the memories of his youth, sadly recalling its harsh poverty and hopeful dreams. He would lie there for hours, holding Elsie’s hand, squeezing it softly. 180

In one of his clear moments, he said:

“How beautiful you are, my child! You will be a queen. I’ve dreamed of limitless wealth for you and my son. My plans are grand—and I will not fail—don’t worry—yes, beyond the wildest dreams of greed!”

“I want no riches except for the heart treasure of those I love, Dad,” was the gentle reply.

“Of course, little dreamer. But the old cynic who has outlasted himself and understands the irony of time and things will offer wisdom for your naivety. You can keep your toys. What makes you happy will make me happy too. Still, I will be the wise one for both of us.”

She placed her hand over his lips, and he kissed her warm little fingers.

In these times of deep connection, the iron heart softened like never before in love for his children. Phil had rushed home from the West and managed to end the last few weeks of his service.

As the father lay watching them move around the room, the cold light in his deep-set, beautiful eyes would soften into a warm glow.

As he got stronger, the old fierce spirit of the unbeatable leader started to emerge. He would pick up the fight where he had left off and push it to victory.

Elsie and Phil sent the doctor to tell him the truth and ask him to stop doing politics.

“Your work is finished; you have only three months to live unless you go South and find new life,” was the verdict.

“In any case, I'm heading to a warmer climate, right, doctor?” said the cynic. 181

“Maybe,” was the laughing reply.

“Good. That works better for me. I’ve been thinking about the move. I can be more effective in the South for the next two years. Your decision is destiny. I’ll leave right away.”

The doctor was surprised.

“Come on,” he said in a friendly way. “Let an unbiased Englishman give you some advice. You’ve never taken any before. I’m offering it like medicine, and I won’t charge you for it. Take it easy on politics. Your recent defeat should show you the value of being more cautious.”

The old Commoner’s strong mouth grew stiff, and the lower lip swelled:

“Conservatism—outdated decay!”

"But losing?"

“Defeat?” shouted the old man. “Who said I was defeated? The South is in ruins at my feet—the very names of its proud States erased from history. The Supreme Court is ready for my command. Sure, there’s a guy living in the White House, and I’m stuck paying his bills; but the page who comes when I call has more power. Every measure I’ve focused on has become law, except one—my Confiscation Act—and that’s just waiting for the right moment.”

The doctor, who was pacing with his hands clasped behind him, stopped and said:

“I’m amazed that someone of your integrity could come up with such a plan; you, who wouldn’t accept a legal release of your debts until every last penny was paid—you, whose harsh words can be awful, yet beneath that, you have such a kind personality. I’ve watched the pages in 182 the House support you and copy you while talking, confident in the smile you used to welcome their jokes. And still, you push this wrongdoing onto a brave and generous adversary?”

“A wrong can have no rights,” Stoneman said calmly. “Slavery won’t truly end until the wealthy aristocracy that it’s based on is gone. I’m not being cruel or unfair. I’m just pursuing the biggest vision of universal democracy that’s ever inspired humanity—a democracy that doesn’t recognize the rich or the poor, the enslaved or the free, or white or black people. If I tap into the intense anger of millions, it’s merely a tool to achieve this greater vision of the soul.”

“Then why not start this vision at home and give the struggling South a chance to recover?”

“No. The North is resistant to change, wealthy, proud, and untouched by war. The South is in turmoil and cannot withstand it. It is simply the justice and wisdom of Heaven that the Black man will rule the land of his oppression. This is the only solution to the racial issue. Lincoln’s belief that we can’t live in a society that is half white and half Black is fundamentally true. When we advocate for equality—social, political, and economic—for Black people, we always mean to enforce it in the South. Black individuals will never be treated as equals in the North. We are just a group of cold-hearted liars about that, and we always have been. To the Northerner, the very physical presence of a Black person is seen as contamination.”

“Then you don’t believe this nonsense about equality?” asked the doctor. 183

“Yes and no. Humanity, for the most part, is just a bunch of greedy idiots or fools. As a lawyer in Pennsylvania, I’ve defended fifty murderers facing life sentences. Forty-nine of them were guilty. I got all of them acquitted. One was innocent. That one they hung. How can a person maintain a straight face in a world like this? Could Black blood really degrade such a lineage? Could an ape possibly enhance it? I advocate for equality as a poet and visionary who sees a reality beyond today’s horizon.”

The old man’s eyes sparkled with the fixed gaze of a zealot.

“And you think the South is ready for this crazy idea?”

“Not ready, but unable to resist. As a detached, scientific experiment, I intend to give the Black Man a chance at the Wheel of Life. It’s an act of fair retribution. Besides, I need his vote for my plans; and that’s final.”

“But will your plans actually work? Your own reports indicate there’s already serious trouble in the South.”

Stoneman chuckled.

“I never read my own reports. They are written in a slow and sticky way to catch attention. The Southern legislatures helped me by copying the laws from New England about Workers, Employers, Apprentices, and Vagrants. But even those laws were repealed at the first sign of criticism. Neither the Freedman’s Bureau nor the army has ever let go of the South’s control for even a moment. These disturbances and 'atrocities' are only a real concern when they're highlighted in campaign flyers.”

“And how will you handle and manage these ten great Southern States?” 184

“Through my Reconstruction Acts using the Union League. Just between us, I’m the driving force behind this organization. I started it in 1863 to support my plan for confiscation. We pushed it on Lincoln. He rejected it. We nominated Frémont in Cleveland against Lincoln in '64 and tried to divide the party or make Lincoln step down. Frémont, an arrogant fool, backed away from this part of our platform, so we dropped him and helped get Lincoln elected again.”

“I thought the Union League was a patriotic and social organization?” said the doctor in surprise.

“It has these features, but its only goal as a secret organization is to take the property of the South. I will strengthen this powerful group until every Black person is lined up neatly under its banners, send a solid team here to carry out my orders, and return in two years with a majority so large that my word will be the law. I will pass my Confiscation Bill. If Ulysses S. Grant, the next big figure, hesitates, my second impeachment bill will just need a name change.”

The doctor just shook his head.

“Stop this madness. Your life is on the line. The Southern people, even in their despair, will never drink this dark broth you're forcing into their mouths.”

“They have to drink it.”

“Is your decision final?”

“Absolutely. It’s the air I breathe. As my doctor, you can choose where I'll be sent away. It needs to be accessible by train and telephone. I don’t care about its name or size. I’ll make it the capital of the Nation. There will be poetic justice in establishing my home in a former slaveholder’s mansion.”

The doctor stared closely at the old man:

“The study of people has become a bit of a passion for me, but you are the most profound mystery I’ve come across in this place full of surprises.”

“And why?” asked the skeptic.