The Christmas party was in full swing. Abraham Lincoln had shaken hands till his knuckles ached. Mary Todd Lincoln’s coral-colored satin and turbaned headdress with jaunty flowers and feathers had swished and bowed and rustled, and her round face was all aglow with pleasure and excitement. She was always vivacious at parties, and, if at times she was a bit too garrulous, Lincoln overlooked that indulgently. He had not given Mary much of happiness, and she had had her share of frustration and sorrow. Now, if she could find pleasure in the dull round of an official affair, he was content.
Some of the senators and other officials had had a few too many parties already. One judge was already asleep on a padded sofa in the hall,his gaited ankles sprawling, his mouth open. The musicians from the Marine Band played on doggedly and quietly in the screened corner of the East Room. Here and there stood men of Company K and White House guards, stony-faced, rigidly alerted. Abraham Lincoln felt his legs begin to sag a bit under him, found himself wishing wearily that this company would all go home. But at least Mary was enjoying herself.
It was nearly midnight when an aide came through the crowd, and touched the arm of the President.
“Some men of Company K at the rear door, Mr. President,” he said in a low voice. “They insist on seeing you. An officer is with them. They say they have brought a Christmas present for your son, Thomas.”
Lincoln looked about him. Mary was the animated center of a group. Servants were collecting empty glasses and picking up shattered remnants of flowers from the carpet. Secretary Seward stood in the midst of a dozen men who were arguing a trifle too loudly the question of amnesty for North Carolina. The band was playing slowly, with a few sour notes indicatingthat the musicians were wearying after five hours of patient tootling.
“Dismiss those Marine players,” ordered Lincoln. “They’re tired. I’ll see what those boys at the back door want.”
“Not alone, Mr. President!” protested the aide.
“Company K won’t let anything happen to me,” argued Lincoln. “How many are out there?”
“Quite a number, sir. A lieutenant is with them.”
“I’ll fetch Tad. If they’ve brought something for him it will sort of make up for this sorry Christmas he had.” Lincoln strode off up the stairs. All day since disciplining Tad his heart had ached in dull, heavy fashion. It was not easy, he was thinking, to be the son of a president. It was not even easy to be a president. He thought again wistfully of that white house in Springfield, of turkey wishbones hung to dry there above the kitchen stove when Tad and Willie were small. Honors came dear. Almost, he decided, a man could pay too much for them.
Tad was still awake, lying hunched down inthe middle of the huge, high bed. A candle burned on a stand, and the flickering light made his eyes enormous and somehow lost in the round paleness of his face.
“I couldn’t get to sleep, Papa,” he explained, scrabbling into his father’s lap when Lincoln sat on the edge of the bed. “It was the drum. I could hear it all the time—bum, bum. When it stopped I waited for it to start again.”
“It’s stopped now, Tad. For good. And the boys are downstairs. Our boys. They brought you something. Come on, I’ll carry you down. Put this wrapper around you so you won’t take cold.”
“Maybe a new sword. Would you let me wear it, Papa?” asked Tad eagerly.
“I’ll see—we’ll see how you behave.”
They went down the rear stairway stealthily, through a chilly hall to the back door. But even here was an aide who sprang to open the door and two soldiers appeared out of nowhere, one desperately swallowing some thing he had been chewing on.
On the steps outside huddled a crowd of blue-clad men. Snow sifted thinly over their bent shoulders, their drawn-down caps. Everyface came up, but to a man they seemed to be holding something, holding tight to a bulk that struggled a little, something that was hairy and odorous and staccato of feet and alive.
“Mr. President,” the lieutenant jerked erect, saluted anxiously, “we brought this—for Private Thomas Lincoln—for his Christmas, sir. It’s not the same one. Some of the boys chipped in and bought it off a Negro, sir—but we thought might be it would do—for the boy for his Christmas.”
Like a fish Tad was out of his father’s arms, nightshirt flying, bare feet oblivious of the cold stone step.
“A nanny goat!” he shrieked in delight. “Papa, it’s a nanny goat! My very own nanny goat!”
“Mr. President, your pardon sir, it’s kind of dirty, sir, but we’ll wash it good in the morning. And though it ain’t the same one,” pleaded the corporal, “we thought maybe it would do—for Christmas.”
“She licked my hand. She likes me!” Tad squirmed in ecstasy. “Most of anything I wanted me a nanny goat!”
“It appears,” stated Abraham Lincoln, “to bea very superior goat. Thank the boys, Tad, and let them take your nanny down to the stables and feed her. She looks a bit gaunt to me. See that she gets a good feed, Corporal, if you please. Now, back to bed, Private Lincoln. Your nanny will still be here, all cleaned up and beautiful for you, in the morning.”
Very reluctantly, with many farewell pats and hand lickings, Tad was at last persuaded to mount the stairs again in his father’s arms.
Down below, the drums had ceased but Abraham Lincoln thought wearily of all the hands he must shake again before he could lie down to rest in this wide bed.
He tucked the covers tenderly over the happy child. Tad’s eyes were starry. No more tears. All sadness forgotten. Wonderful, to be a child. Abraham Lincoln sighed as he closed the door.
“Papa!” called Tad.
Lincoln opened the door again. “Yes, son.”
“It’s the nicest Christmas I ever had!” stated young Thomas Lincoln.