“How did you know that, Mr. Swille?”
“Never you mind. And you think it’s befitting your exalted office to go about mouthing the sayings of that hunchback Aesop? No wonder the Confederate cartoonists are beginning to depict you as a nigger. They’re calling you a Black Republican down here, and I’ve heard some weird talk from the planters. Some strange ugly talk. I want you to read that book they’re all reading down here. Uncle Robin! Give Lanky that book they’re all reading down here.”
Robin goes to the shelf. “Idylls of the King, Mr. Swille?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
Robin removes the book from the shelf and gives it to Lincoln.
“This book tells you about aristocratic rule, Lincoln. How to deal with inferiors. How to handle the help. How the chief of the tribes is supposed to carry himself. You’re not the steadiest man for the job; you’d better come on and get this Camelot if you know what’s good for you. You, too, can have a wife who is jaundiced and prematurely buried. Skin and bones. Got her down to seventy-five pounds. She’s a good sufferer but not as good as Vivian, she …” Swille gazes toward the oil portrait of his sister.
“What … Anything wrong?” Lincoln says, beginning to rise from his chair.
Robin starts toward Swille.
“No, nothing. Where was I, Robin?”
“You were telling Mr. Lincoln about Camelot, sir.”
“Look, Lincoln, if you don’t want to be a duke, it’s up to you. I need a man like you up in my Canadian mills. You can be a big man up there. We treat the Canadians like coons. I know you used to chop wood. You can be a powerful man up there. A powerful man. Why, you can be Abe of the Yukon. Why don’t you resign and call it quits, Lincoln? You won’t have to sneak into the Capitol disguised any more. What ya say, pal?”
“Look, Mr. Swille, maybe I ought to tell you why I came down here. Then we can cut this as short and sweet as an old woman’s dance.”
“All right, Abe. But before you tell me, look, Abe, I don’t want to get into politics, but, well, why did you up and join such a grotesque institution as that party that …”
“We call ourselves the Republican party, Mr. Swille, but don’t look at me. I didn’t name it.”
“A far-out institution if there ever was one. Free Soilers, whacky money people, Abolitionists. Can’t you persuade some of those people to wear a tie? Transcendentalists, Free Lovers, Free Farmers, Whigs, Know-Nothings, and those awful Whitmanites always running about hugging things.”
“Look, Mr. Swille,” Lincoln says in his high-pitched voice, “I didn’t come here to discuss my party, I came to discuss how we could win this war, Mr. Swille; end this conflict,” he says, pounding the table. “We are in a position to give the South its death-knell blow.”
“ ‘Death-knell blow.’ There you go again with that corn-pone speech, Lincoln. ‘Death-knell blow.’ Why don’t you shave off that beard and stop putting your fingers in your lapels like that. You ought to at least try to polish yourself, man. Go to the theatre. Get some culture. If you don’t, I’ll have to contact my general; you know, there’s always one of our people keeping an eye on things in your … your cabinets. Why, under the Crown …”
“Now you look here, Mr. Swille. I won’t take your threats. I knew it was a mistake to come down here, you … you slave-flogging pea-picker.”
Arthur Swille, startled, removes his cigar from his mouth.
“Yes, I know what you think of me. I never went to none of that fancy Harvard and don’t lounge around Café Society quaffing white wine until three in the afternoon, and maybe my speeches don’t contain a lot of Latin, and maybe my anecdotes aren’t understated and maybe I ain’t none of that cologned rake sojourning over shrimp cocktails or sitting around in lavender knee britches, like a randy shank or a dandy rake.
“I know you make fun of our nation, our war and our party, Mr. Swille. I know that you hold it against us because our shirts stick out of our britches and we can’t write long sentences without losing our way, but you wouldn’t be sitting up here in this … this Castle if it weren’t for the people. The public people. And the Republic people in this great people period, and that ain’t no pipple papple pablum either, pal.”
A train whistle is heard.
“Mr. Swille, listen to your train. That great locomotive that will soon be stretching across America, bumping cows, pursued by Indians, linking our Eastern cities with the West Coast. Who built your trains, Mr. Swille? The people did, Mr. Swille. Who made you what you are today, Mr. Swille? A swell titanic titan of ten continents, Mr. Swille. Who worked and sweated and tilled and toiled and travailed so that you could have your oil, your industry, Mr. Swille? Why, we did, Mr. Swille. Who toted and tarried and travestied themselves so that you could have your many homes, your ships and your buildings reaching the azure skies? We did, Mr. Swille. Yes, I know I’m a corn-bread and a catfish-eatin curmudgeon known to sup some scuppernong wine once in a while, but I will speak my mind, Mr. Swille. Plain Abe. Honest Abe. And I don’t care how much power you have in Congress, it won’t stop me speaking my mind, and if you say another word about my wife, Mr. Swille, I’m going to haul off and go you one right upside your fat head. Don’t forget I used to split rails.” Lincoln turns around. “I’m leaving.”
Uncle Robin, blinking back tears, applauds Lincoln until Swille gives him a stern look.
“Hey, wait a minute, come back, Mr. Lincoln, Mr. President.”
Lincoln, stunned, stops and slowly turns around.
“You know, I like your style. You’re really demanding, aren’t you?” Swille takes the old keys from his right hip and fastens them to his left. “How’s about a drink of Old Crow?”
“Well, I’ll stay for a few more minutes, but I warn you, Mr. Swille, if you so much as whisper some calumny and perfidy about my wife, I’m going to belt you one.”
“Sure, Mr. President. Sure,” Swille says as Lincoln returns to his seat in front of Swille’s desk. Swille is at the liquor cabinet reaching for the Old Crow, when, zing! a bullet comes from the direction of the window and shatters the bottle. The contents spill to the floor.
“Why, I’ll be …” Swille says, staring at the pieces of glass on the floor. Lincoln and Uncle Robin are under the desk. Moe, the white house slave, rushes in. “Massa Swille, Massa Swille, the Confederates are outside whooping it up and breaking Mr. Lincoln’s carriage. We hid Mr. Lincoln’s party down in the wine cellar until the episode passed, and do you know what, Mr. Swille? Somebody has drunk up all the wine.”
“Somebody has drunk up all the wine!” Swille and Uncle Robin say.
“Uncle Robin, give me the telephone. I want to call Lee.”
Uncle Robin obliges, tiptoeing across the room, grinning widely.
“I don’t want any of that grey trash snooping about my door,” Swille says, frowning.
Outside, rebel yells can be heard.
“Hello? Give me that Lee … Well, I don’t care if he is at the front, tell him to bring his ass away from the front. This is Arthur Swille speaking …” To Lincoln, Moe and Uncle Robin, “That got em.”
“Hello, Lee? What’s the big idea of your men come busting up to my place and annoying my guests? I told your boss, Jeff Davis, to keep that war off of my property … Why, you impertinent scoundrel.” Hand over the phone, he mimics Lee to the trio in the room, “Says extraordinary emergency supersedes the right to privacy enjoyed by the individual no matter what station in life the individual may hold … Look, you little runt, if you don’t get those men off my property, I’ll, I’ll … My father’s dead, I’m running this thing now. I don’t care how long you’ve known the family — my brothers and Ms. Anne and me are running things now …