“I know, son. Maybe we can talk your mother around by spring. I did some better in the Black Hawk War.” Lincoln went on, stepping heavily down the outer steps and across the rutted yard. “They paid me eighty-five dollars for ninety days fighting in that war but part of the time I ranked a captain. We had to shoot hogs to eat, though, and then fight the farmers that owned ’em. Swampy country, too. Like Grant’s army fought over around Vicksburg.”
“But you captured Black Hawk.”
“The regular Army said they did that. I got put in the guardhouse for two days for firing a pistol in camp and they made me carry a wooden sword after that. Discipline. You couldn’t make any worse record in the army, Bob, than your father did before you.”
“You couldn’t call that a real war, Papa,” Robert said.
“It was real enough to the men who got their scalps peeled off. I helped bury twelve of them. Now, look at that lieutenant! Sending an escort up here on the double and putting all those boys in line at attention, when I just came out here on a friendly visit.”
“Even Tad!” laughed Robert. “Even the confounded goat!”
The goat wore his military hat and Tad was holding him grimly into line by his horns. Lincoln let the two soldiers who came trotting up help him ease the box down to the ground.
“At ease, men,” he ordered. “This is old Father Christmas, not the commander in chief. File by, one at a time, and get your Christmas cheer.”
Robert passed out the packages one by one while Lincoln stood thumbing bills off a roll of money, stopping to wet his thumb occasionally, saying, “Here, son, spend this on some foolishness next time you get a pass into town.”
There were yells of thanks and a lined-up cheer for the President, the goat blatting an obligato. But Tad, who had straggled at the end of the line and received nothing, glared down into the empty box, whimpering.