Her Name Is America

10. ''The Better Angels of Our Nature''

March 2, 1861

Capitol Hill

Washington, D.C., United States

After a long winter, the gardens behind the Capitol Building were just beginning to bloom. Though Mrs. Lincoln knew me as a lowly White House clerk, she would soon learn the truth once her husband took the Oath of Office. We walked leisurely with the aim of calming her nerves before the inauguration began. Our shoes crunched the gravel path as the dull roar of the crowd echoed from afar.

"The days after the election were...overwhelming," she was saying. "So many kind letters to read and return. Abe loves writing, you know."

"He is an excellent writer."

"He will struggle with not being able to return every letter addressed to the White House."

I hesitated for a moment. "First Lady Tyler used to—that is, I heard she used to—write letters for the President."

"Oh, what a wonderful..."

She trailed off when we heard the band strike up. It was our cue to return to the Capitol steps. She turned to me excitedly just as I felt a strange sensation in my chest. I lifted my hand.

"Shall we find our seats?"

Suddenly, a terrible pain shot through me, and I clutched my chest in shock. It seemed to grip me like a giant fist, freezing the very breath from my lungs. I grimaced.

She grasped my arm. "Mary? Are you alright?"

I shook my head, unable to utter a single syllable.

She immediately lifted her head. "Somebody! Somebody, help!"

I squeezed my eyes shut in fear, France's l illness coming to my mind. Daring to pull in a small breath, I buckled over when an invisible blade stabbed into my chest. I leaned heavily on Mrs. Lincoln's arm as she rubbed my back.

Dear Lord...I don't want to die!

"Yes, send for a doctor! At once!"

~

Later that night, the brand new President called on my sick bed. It would be the first of many weekly meetings. A maid was helping me to sit up straighter as he entered the room.

"Mr. President—"

"No, madam, I must admonish you to rest," he said gently. He sat on a chair at my bedside.  "How do you fare?"

Settling back against my pillows, I attempted to smooth out my worried expression. "Not well."

"I am severely grieved." His face bore more pain than my own. "If you will permit it, I would like to read to you my inaugural address."

I nodded weakly. "Please."

He retrieved some folded papers from his breast pocket—the handwriting was clearly his own. After placing a pair of spectacles on his nose, he cleared his throat and began.

"In compliance with a custom as old as the Government itself, I appear before you to address you briefly and to take in your presence the Oath prescribed by the Constitution of the United States..."

Like all his speeches, his first Presidential address was poetic, full of compassionate pleas for unity in a time of great division. I closed my eyes as I listened, feeling an overwhelming sense of pride in spite of the fear of war. The second half was addressed entirely to the rebels in the South, the so-called Confederate States.

"...I am loath to close. We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."

This end came too soon.

"Beautiful," I rasped, my vision blurred with tears. "Thank you very much."

I felt his hand cover mine. "We shall go forward with faith and without fear," he promised earnestly. "The Union shall stand. You shall be made whole again."

Hope and fear battled inside of me. Tears spilled from the corners of my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. When I spoke, my voice trembled like never before. "I p—pray you are right..."

~

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