Tuesday, May 26
Mauer watched as the President took aim. In the big hand of the tall man the Smith and Wesson revolver looked like a toy gun. Lincoln assumed a dueler’s stance.
They stood on the open Ellipse, not far from the stump of what would someday be a magnificent obelisk. Now the Washington Monument resembled a ruin.
Lincoln paused as behind them the sergeant of the guard detail bawled at his men. You are here to watch for intruders, not the president. The two dozen Bucktails abruptly displayed their backs.
The retorts of the pistol stung Mauer’s ears as the President shot five times without pause. His big thumb easily worked the single action hammer. A cloud of white smoke quickly obscured Lincoln’s head and Mauer wondered how the President could see the target.
Thirty yards away stood a tall pile of old lumber. A fresh white board with a black circle had been nailed halfway up. Mauer saw two holes in the white, both at the outer edges of the board. He had observed no splinters flying from the black.
Lincoln, Mauer, Stoddard, and Lamon walked over clover and dandelions to inspect the target. Lincoln laughed as they neared. The bulls-eye was intact.
“Lucky I wasn’t facing a reb. Be a goner.”
Stoddard held out five cartridges. “Reload, sir?”
Lincoln opened the gun at its hinge to expose the cylinder, then pulled out the rimfire casings. He put in the new rounds.
He offered the S & W to Mauer. He grinned. “Show us how it’s done, Edwin.”
“Don’t know I’ll do any better, sir.”
“Oh, I have a feeling you will put every one in the black. Don’t be shy about topping me.”
Mauer had told the President nothing about his proficiency with guns. But this canny man must have surmised that Mauer was a deadeye shot. Mauer shouldn’t be surprised; Lincoln could sniff out anything. Abe would have made one hell of an investigator.
They walked back to the shooting line. Mauer wondered if he should deliberately miss a couple shots. He didn’t want to show up the President too bad. But, no, this probably was an integrity test. And Mauer was never one to avoid competition.
Mauer fully faced the target. With both hands on the grip, he extended his arms. He took aim down the barrel that lacked a front sight. He would see where the first bullet stuck, then adjust if necessary.
“Edwin,” said Lamon, “you always shoot that way?”
“Always.” He knew Lamon thought his stance presented too wide a profile. He squeezed the trigger.
The board quivered as the bullet struck the black, three inches off center. Mauer waited for cross breeze to clear the acrid smoke. Four more times he shot and paused. It was easy to keep the bulls-eye sighted, as this .32-caliber pistol didn’t kick much.
They again inspected the target. The last four rounds were tightly grouped, within an inch of center.
Lamon whistled. Square jawed Stoddard looked at Mauer wide eyed.
“Told you,” the President chortled.
Mauer turned with a friendly smile to Lamon. “The frontal stance allows a steadier aim. Put your opponent down with the first shot, you needn’t worry about being a bigger target.”
Lamon laughed. “If you say so.”
Mauer returned the revolver to Lincoln. “Try it my way, sir.”
“By jings, I will.”
Mimicking Mauer the President put all rounds on the board, two in the black. He laughed heartily and the squeaky sound was music to everyone’s ears. This man desperately needed joy in his life.
Lincoln reloaded and shot again.
Banging out bullets was probably therapeutic. Mauer bet the chief executive would like to have Hooker downrange.
Lincoln had taken off his frock coat and hat, but he still sweated in the midday sun. They all did. Sunday the weather had finally turned hot and humid. From now until September Washington would resemble a sauna.
Mauer’s eyes swept the ragged Mall again. Again nothing loomed more threatening than the army cattle grazing near the truncated Monument. The stench of the B Street Canal, an open sewer really, made for the only assault on the President.
His gaze drifted down to the Potomac and the bank beyond. It was little over a mile from here to the Virginia side. Telescopic sights were in use at this time. Accounts existed where sharpshooters had used them to kill from a mile away.
The odds of that happening to Lincoln today were remote. The breeze would work havoc with the slower moving bullets of this era. Even if the air were dead calm, a sharpshooter could not have anticipated the President’s appearance on the Mall. The decision to come had been spontaneous.
Still, he was anxious to get Lincoln back in the Mansion. Only behind those walls was the President truly safe. The vetted alone got into the Mansion now.
Trouble was, as Lamon had warned, Lincoln more and more wanted out. Last Friday Lincoln had insisted that he and his wife be allowed their former afternoon carriage rides. This week he had demanded they resume hospital visits.
Mauer had given in. He considered himself a strong willed person, but the steel in Lincoln was stronger. Mauer had never encountered anyone else who could so kindly yet powerfully insist. Thank God the Republic, in its hour of supreme need, had this unyielding man at the helm.
Tuesday had been Mauer’s first visit to a Civil War hospital. He hoped it was his last.
Mauer had headed the security detail as Lincoln and his wife toured the corridor-like wards of Campbell Hospital. The wards themselves were spacious, clean and well lit. The wounded were a horror show.
He had visited those wounded in modern wars. He had seen men with multiple amputations, with terrible burns, with severe cranial loss. But modern medicine managed to mitigate the full impact, at least to the observer.
In the Union wards there was no mitigation. The ruination that had befallen the Civil War sick and wounded hit like a sledgehammer. Mangled faces, stumps oozing pus, gangrene and peritonitis, and—equaling nearly all other cases—typhoid induced delirium and diarrhea. The brightness and cleanliness of the wards merely amplified the raw sights and smells.
Mauer was glad Chloe had remained at the Mansion.
The shattered men were for the most very stoic, but they had to know if they lived—a big if—they were fucked anyway. In this era a cripple was a cripple, with little hope of rehabilitation. The worst mutilated would likely end up as shut-ins.
Mauer marveled at the bravery of the Civil War soldiers. Their casualty rates were the highest of any American war. Most casualties were caused by rifle fire, and the large caliber Minié ball was the chief culprit. The soft lead bullet flattened on impact and caused appalling wounds.
Once hit a soldier could only pray he had been struck in a limb. A limb could be sawed off, and if the stump escaped gangrene, he would live. A hit to the torso pretty well doomed a soldier. A hit to the lungs or heart meant a quick death. One below the ribs meant a slow, agonizing end.
Stoddard now took his try with the S & W. He didn’t hit the board once. Lincoln laughed, they all laughed, including Stod. Lamon followed and put four of five in the black.
Mauer saw some of the soldiers peeking. He scowled them back to duty. These were good kids, but boy, did they need constant prodding. He wondered how long the vigilance around the Mansion would last once he and Chloe left.
Lamon would try to maintain the strict security. Lots of luck. Once Mauer and Chloe left, Lincoln would assume the crisis was over. The President would revert to form.
Mauer supposed that was the way it had to be, for the sake of history. Piss poor security allowed the assassination in Ford’s theater. Mauer felt like a co-conspirator for not alerting Lamon, the one man he could count on to stop John Wilkes Booth. It was cruelly ironic that Lincoln had sent Lamon out of town on official business just before Booth struck.
But tragic as Lincoln’s death would be—a personal loss now for Mauer, he had dev
eloped a real friendship with the great man—Lincoln must die as written. The disruption to American history would otherwise be profound.
The President again peeled with delight as he drilled the target. Then mirth left his face. Lincoln struggled to maintain his light heart, but gloom shortly captured the deeply lined face.
“I reckon that’s enough,” said Lincoln. “Got that meeting soon.”
Mauer checked his pocket watch. Yes, it was nearing noon. Another cabinet meeting. The siege of Vicksburg withstanding, there would be plenty of bad news to discuss.
Desertions were back up, especially in Hooker’s army. Plus many of its regiments were nearing the end of enlistment and would soon disband. Replacements were hard to come by. Soon the Army of the Potomac would drop in strength by some 30,000 men.
Since January recruitment had dried up. The history books rightfully hailed the Emancipation Proclamation, but its issuance had fallen flat among white populace of the North. Fighting to preserve the Union was one thing; dying for blacks was another. Most whites, sadly even Lincoln, wanted them shipped out of the country.
In March Congress had responded with the Draft Act. It was wildly unpopular. Membership in antiwar cabals like the Sons of Liberty exploded, rising from under a hundred thousand last year to over a half a million by now. In July hatred for the Act would lead to the murderous riots in New York City.
To top it all off, talk was increasing about the Republicans nominating someone else next year.
Yes, this great man had plenty of reason for gloom. How Mauer wanted to tell him deliverance—at Vicksburg and Gettysburg—was only five weeks away. How he wanted to say, “Hold on, Mr. President, hold on”.
But Abraham Lincoln would of course hold on. That was his nature. Lincoln was granite rock, the indomitable savior of the country that would become savior the world. Lincoln did not need Mauer’s pity or encouragement. Abe only needed being kept alive.
As they struggled to keep up with the gangly man striding toward the Mansion, pride swept Mauer. He was supremely honored to walk with this American giant. And he would keep the giant alive.