Lincoln in the Bardo(28)

roger bevins iii Like stepping into a summer barn late at night.

hans vollman Or a musty plains office, where some bright candle still burns.

roger bevins iii Vast. Windswept. New. Sad.

hans vollman Spacious. Curious. Doom-minded. Ambitious.

roger bevins iii Back slightly out.

hans vollman Right boot chafing.

roger bevins iii The recent entry of the (youthful) Mr. Bevins now caused the gentleman a mild thought-swerve back to a scene from his own (wild) youth: a soft-spoken but retrograde (dirty cheeks, kind eyes) lass leading him shyly down a muddy path, nettles accruing on her swaying green skirt as, in his mind, at the time, a touch of shame rose up, having to do with his sense that this girl was not really fair game, i.e., was more beast than lady, i.e., did not even know how to read.



hans vollman Becoming aware of that which he was remembering, the man’s face reddened (we could feel it reddening) at the thought that he was (in the midst of this tragic circumstance) remembering such a sordid incident.

roger bevins iii And he hurriedly directed his (our) mind elsewhere, so as to leave this inappropriate thought behind.

hans vollman





XLVI.

Tried to “see” his boy’s face.

roger bevins iii

Couldn’t.

hans vollman

Tried to “hear” the boy’s laugh.

roger bevins iii

Couldn’t.

hans vollman

Attempted to recall some particular incident involving the boy, in hope this might— roger bevins iii

First time we fitted him for a suit.

Thus thought the gentleman.

(This did the trick.) First time we fitted him for a suit, he looked down at the trousers and then up at me, amazed, as if to say: Father, I am wearing grown-up pants.

Shirtless, barefoot, pale round belly like an old man’s. Then the little cuffed shirt and buttoning it up.

Goodbye, little belly, we are enshirting you now.

Enshirting? I do not believe that is even a word, Father.

I tied the little tie. Spun him around for a look.

We have dressed up a wild savage, looks like, I said.

He made the growling face. His hair stuck straight up, his cheeks were red. (Racing around that store just previous, he had knocked over a rack of socks.) The tailor, complicit, brought out the little jacket with much pomp.

Then the shy boyish smile as I slid the jacket on him.

Say, he said, don’t I look fine, Father?

Then no thought at all for a while, and we just looked about us: bare trees black against the dark-blue sky.

Little jacket little jacket little jacket.

This phrase sounded in our head.

A star flickered off, then on.

Same one he is wearing back in there, now.

Huh.

Same little jacket. But he who is wearing it is—

(I so want it not to be true.)

Broken.

Pale broken thing.

Why will it not work. What magic word made it work. Who is the keeper of that word. What did it profit Him to switch this one off. What a contraption it is. How did it ever run. What spark ran it. Grand little machine. Set up just so. Receiving the spark, it jumped to life.

What put out that spark? What a sin it would be. Who would dare. Ruin such a marvel. Hence is murder anathema. God forbid I should ever commit such a grievous—

hans vollman

Something then troubling us— roger bevins iii

We ran one hand roughly over our face, as if attempting to suppress a notion just arising.

hans vollman

This effort not proving successful— roger bevins iii

The notion washed over us.

hans vollman





XLVII.

Young Willie Lincoln was laid to rest on the day that the casualty lists from the Union victory at Fort Donelson were publicly posted, an event that caused a great shock among the public at that time, the cost in life being unprecedented thus far in the war.

In “Setting the Record Straight: Memoir, Error, and Evasion,” by Jason Tumm, “Journal of American History.”

The details of the losses were communicated to the President even as young Willie lay under embalmment.

Iverness, op. cit.

More than a thousand troops on both sides were killed and three times that number wounded. It was “a most bloody fight,” a young Union soldier told his father, so devastating to his company that despite the victory, he remained “sad, lonely and down-hearted.” Only seven of the eighty-five men in his unit survived.

Goodwin, op. cit.

The dead at Donelson, sweet Jesus. Heaped and piled like threshed wheat, one on top of two on top of three. I walked through it after with a bad feeling. Lord it was me done that, I thought.

In “These Battle Memories,” by First Lieutenant Daniel Brower.

A thousand dead. That was something new. It seemed a real war now.

In “The Great War, as Described by Its Warriors,” by Marshall Turnbull.

The dead lay as they had fallen, in every conceivable shape, some grasping their guns as though they were in the act of firing, while others, with a cartridge in their icy grasp, were in the act of loading. Some of the countenances wore a peaceful, glad smile, while on others rested a fiendish look of hate. It looked as though each countenance was the exact counterpart of the thoughts that were passing through the mind when the death messenger laid them low. Perhaps that noble-looking youth, with his smiling upturned face, with his glossy ringlets matted with his own life-blood, felt a mother’s prayer stealing over his senses as his young life went out. Near him lay a young husband with a prayer for his wife and little one yet lingering on his lips. Youth and age, virtue and evil, were represented on those ghastly countenances. Before us lay the charred and blackened remains of some who had been burnt alive. They were wounded too badly to move and the fierce elements consumed them.