The wreaths of greenery were in place in the hall and up the stairs, and in the East Room a tall spruce tree awaited the lighting of the candles. Festival! And out there on the cold ground boys like Robert, boys like Tad would soon grow to be, kept warm in flimsy tents with little fires, slept on straw with blankets far too thin, and there were men he knew in the field, in grim military prisons, who likely had no blankets at all.
The great bed in his room with its huge, soft bolster and tufted counterpane, its enormous headboard shutting off drafts and elaborately carved and scrolled, suddenly wore the aspect of sinful luxury. He would gladly have taken a blanket and gone out to join his men, but he knew sadly that that would not do. He had known the ground for a bed many times—in the Black Hawk War and on expeditions into the wilds—but now he was growing old and he had to uphold the dignity of high office.
He pulled off Tad’s clothes, buttoned him into a long nightshirt, and tucked him into the big bed. Almost instantly the boy was asleep. Lincoln was struggling with his own boots when the door opened and Mary came in, buttoned into a vast blue wrapper, a ruffled cap on her head.
“Forevermore!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been? I looked for you to help me with the Christmas things and couldn’t find a hair of you or Tad either. Has that child been out in this cold wind?”
“We were having a little Christmas party with some of the boys, Mary. Tad’s all right. Don’t start scolding tonight; it’s already Christmas morning now.”
“You know how delicate he is. It will be just like Willie all over again and I can’t bear any more sorrow, Abraham. I’ll lose my mind if I have another grief to live through,” she cried.
“Tad’s tough, Mama. Not frail like Willie. We were in the kitchen anyway,” he evaded. “It was warm down there.”
“You didn’t eat up my cakes?” she demanded. “I had trouble enough getting them baked. The cook says the blockade is to blame for making sugar so scarce and high. They ought to know we have to have sugar. There’s no coconut either, nor nutmegs nor cinnamon.”
“It’s war, Mary. Some good people haven’t even got bread,” he reminded her.
She began to whimper, perching on the edge of the bed.