Dog Diaries #13 Read online

I ran around and jumped up to look in the windows. The house stood silent and empty. Weary and defeated, I returned to the Rolls’ house.

  A few days later, on a rainy day in February, I followed them a ways east. Soon, I heard a loud, rushing noise up ahead. It sounded like a roaring river overflowing its banks. But I knew it was no river. It was an excited crowd.

  Then I saw the people, filling the open area around the railroad tracks. They were gathered before the depot of the Great Western Railroad. A giant steam engine stood on the tracks, its pipes smoking and hissing.

  The people were standing in the rain, their dripping umbrellas overlapping. There were women and men, black and white, children and parents and old folks. There were reporters, too, licking their pencil tips, with their pads in hand. Something mighty important was about to happen.

  Suddenly, the crowd burst into cheers. I flinched at the noise. But what was this? Lincoln strode out onto the platform on those long legs with his long arms dangling from his too-short sleeves. He hadn’t left town, after all!

  I leapt up and barked.

  “Stay,” said Johnny, gripping my collar.

  I wanted to go to Lincoln. He looked so lonely up there. But the boys held on tight to me and I stayed put. I watched as Lincoln’s wintry eyes roved the faces gathered before him.

  “My friends,” he began in a voice that shook, “no one, not in my situation, can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place, and the kindness of these people, I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century, and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born, and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when, or whether ever, I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being, who ever attended him, I cannot succeed. With that assistance I cannot fail. Trusting in Him, who can go with me, and remain with you and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell.”

  Folks wept. They raised their hands, waving their hats and hankies. With a final lift of his hand, Lincoln climbed onto the train. With sad eyes, I watched the train carry him away.

  This time, I knew he was really gone.

  * * *

  —

  Old habits die hard, and I kept returning to the house on the corner. But strangers soon moved in and they ran me off. My place now was in my new home with my new boys.

  I’ll say this for them: the Rolls treated me royally. Mr. Roll saved the best table scraps for me. Mrs. Roll never once scolded me for tracking in mud. Johnny and Frankie became almost as dear to me as Willie and Tad.

  It helped that we ran with the old gang: Fred and Jess and Link, Josie and Henry and the Melvin boys. But no more Town Ball and Blindman’s Bluff and Circus. They now played a fierce fighting game called War.

  They were copying the real war that had broken out in the country. It was the North against the South. Yanks against the Rebels. The kids drew straws to choose sides. Everybody wanted to fight on the side of the North ’cause that was Lincoln’s side.

  What had set off this real war? I didn’t have Old Bob around to explain it to me. But Mr. Roll went to Billy’s for his weekly shave and cut. I followed him and met up there with my old friends.

  Carlo and Jenny set me straight right off.

  The Southern states want to keep using slaves, Carlo explained. The Northern ones can’t abide by it.

  Jenny Lind took over. So the Southern states broke away from the Northern. My reporter says that Lincoln has found himself fighting a war to keep the states together in one group.

  After all, Carlo said, that’s why they call us a union of states.

  The United States of America, Jenny Lind said.

  And Lincoln aims to keep it that way, Carlo said.

  From Billy’s barbershop to Diller’s drugstore, war was the talk of Springfield. The list of battles fought went on and on: Fort Sumter, Philippi, Big Bethel, Bull Run, Santa Rosa Island, Wilson’s Creek, Belmont….

  No war can be fought without soldiers. Springfield sent its fair share of young men to fight. The soldiers were seen off in happy parades attended by mothers, sisters, wives, and sweethearts. All too often, the welcome-home parades were much sadder, with muffled drums, weeping ladies, and horse-drawn hearses bearing the bodies of fallen soldiers.

  Some people called it Mr. Lincoln’s War and cursed him for the loss of these brave young men. But most folks felt it was a war well worth fighting. It was a fight to keep the United States together.

  I worried about Lincoln and his troubles. I wondered, did he have a dog to walk and talk with and ease his woes? I took comfort in knowing that at least he still had his sons Willie and Tad.

  The boys in the gang jawed about the Washington adventures of their two old pals. The White House, they said, was huge—bigger than any building in Springfield. Their lucky friends had a vast attic to play in, with secret passageways. There were gardens and a fountain. At parties called banquets, they ate giant layer cakes shaped like beehives decorated with spun-sugar bees.

  As sons of the president, Willie and Tad got gifts from all over the world. Willie had even gotten his own pony! He rode it on the White House lawn every day, rain or shine. Maybe because he’d ridden his pony in the cold rain, Willie came down with a bad cold. And so did Tad. Their colds turned to fever.

  Newspapermen wrote stories about the boys’ illness. The doctors said that Tad was expected to die, Willie to live. People in the streets stopped to discuss it in worried voices. Johnny and Frankie fretted.

  It turned out those doctors were wrong on both counts. Tad survived the fever. Willie did not.

  The evening we got the news, I sat on the horsehair couch with my nose resting on Johnny’s lap. Johnny wept. I licked the salty tears from his face and tried not to let on that my own heart was breaking.

  But if we were sad, what about Lincoln? That boy had been the light of his pa’s life. Gentle, kindhearted Lincoln, who had saved so many animals from a dire fate, had been powerless to rescue his own perfect boy.

  The war raged on. In Washington, they said, Lincoln set aside his grief and went on serving as the president of a United States at war with itself.

  In Springfield, the children once more took up their games. Like dogs, they managed to find something good in life. Together, we went fishing. We played War. We watched parades both happy and sad. In the slow blink of an eye, nearly two years passed. I was now a dog of seven years, but there were days when I felt like I was a hundred.

  One July day, I was outside the barbershop with Carlo and Jenny. It was devilish hot. We were lying on the sidewalk with our tongues hanging out, wishing that Billy would spring for an awning.

  Suddenly, firecrackers started going off. The streets filled with happy, cheering people, dancing and hugging and pounding each other’s backs. I knew the signs all too well. It had been a long time since I’d seen happy faces. It seemed like the town was working itself up for a big celebration.

  Sorry, friends, but I’m leaving before it gets even noisier around here, I said to Carlos and Jenny Lind.

  Please don’t go, said Jenny. This is a great day. The North won an important battle this week in Vicksburg. Many of our boys were there. And we won a second in Gettysburg. My man said that the tide of war is turning in favor of the North.

  Lincoln could use some good news, said Carlo.

  That poor man has the weight of the world on his shoulders, Jenny said with a sigh.

  Right now I’m worried about the weight of firecrackers on my poor ears, I said as I headed home to the safety of my couch.

  * * *

  —

  Later, in that fall of 1863, Johnny and Frankie were belly-down on the floor, shooting marbles. Mr. Roll was sitting in his chair, reading the newspaper. I was on my couch, relaxing on my back with my paws in the air. Suddenly, Mr. Roll broke the silence in a voice so eager, I rolled over and perked up my ears.

  He was reading from the newspaper. “Listen to this, boys. Mr. Lincoln gave a speech at the dedication of a soldiers’ cemetery on the battlefield in Gettysburg. Would you like to hear it?”

  The boys sat up to listen:

  “ ‘Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent, a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

  “ ‘Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived, and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here, gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

  “ ‘But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here, have, thus far, so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they here gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people,
for the people, shall not perish from the earth.’ ”

  Mr. Roll said, “Now, that, my boys, is what we call a fine speech.”

  The boys flopped onto their bellies and got back to their marbles. But to my flea-bitten ears, this had the ring of speechifying at its very finest.

  * * *

  —

  The war continued—but now there was hope. The North was winning. In the fall of 1864, Lincoln was reelected. There was cheering on the streets of Springfield, but lucky for me, it wasn’t as loud or as happy as when he had won the first time.

  The following March, Lincoln’s second inauguration party was held. This, too, was a quieter shindig. Maybe, with so many young men off at war, no one felt like celebrating. When the gang played War now, the game nearly always ended with the South surrendering to the North.

  So it was no surprise when, a month later on April 9, 1865, the South surrendered to the North for real and true. The War Between the States was over. People marched through the streets and cheered. There was so much celebrating that I took up nearly permanent residence beneath the couch. A week later, I was still under the couch the day Mrs. Roll set up such a howling and wailing that my guts turned to pudding.

  What in the world was wrong with her?

  I peered out. The family was gathered together in the front hall. They held each other and wept. Sensing they needed me, I joined them.

  Johnny knelt and buried his head in my ruff. “Your master’s gone, Fido.”

  I knew my master was gone. He had gone off to Washington and been there for four long years. For the love of dog, why were they crying about it now?

  I let them hold me and rock me like I was the one who needed the comforting. I licked their faces till my tongue was sore. When the weeping went on all day and into the night, I crept back beneath the couch.

  The next day, Mr. Roll said to his sons, “Clean up Fido real good. We’ve got a date downtown.”

  The sight of Johnny holding my brush brought me out into the open. I like a good brushing.

  Afterward, Mr. Roll inspected me. “Very good work, John,” he said. “The Lincoln Dog’s got to look his best today. Mr. Ingmire is expecting us, and we can’t keep him waiting.”

  “Do we have to go?” Johnny whined.

  “Fido isn’t going to like it,” Frankie warned.

  “We have to capture Fido’s image for the ages,” Mr. Roll said.

  Downtown, the streets were filled with people talking in low voices. Some of them wept or held hankies to their faces.

  Mr. Roll led me past them into a building I’d never been in before. When I sat down hard at the foot of the stairs, Mr. Roll said in an eager voice, “Come, Fido. Come up with us.”

  I got up and followed them. At the top of the stairs was a big room with windows in the ceiling. One whiff and I wanted out. I smelled hair oil, dust, poison.

  Mr. Roll sensed I had come down with a case of the whim-whams. He patted me. “Easy, Fido.”

  Easy? Easy for him to say.

  “Welcome, all,” said a strange man in a dark suit with a stiff collar. “Did you bathe the dog?”

  “We did not,” said Mr. Roll. “He hates baths, and we didn’t have the heart. But we brushed him up real good.”

  “Onward, then,” the man said, with a brisk clap of his hands that startled me. “I thought I would pose him here. Lift him up, please.”

  Mr. Roll boosted me and placed me on a table draped with a piece of fancy cloth.

  I gave him worried eyes. What’s all this? I’m not supposed to be on the furniture.

  “He doesn’t like it up there, Pa,” said Johnny. “The table’s too high up. Look! He’s shivering.”

  “He’s afeared he’ll fall,” said Frankie.

  “He’s afeared of the camera, too,” said Johnny.

  I was afeared, all right.

  “Afraid or not, he’s going to have to hold still for the portrait,” said the stranger. “If he moves a muscle, it will blur the image and ruin the effect. And we wouldn’t want that, would we, boys?”

  I looked at the boys and whimpered. Please can’t I just go home?

  Johnny flung his arms around me. Frankie smoothed my fur. “It’s okay, old feller,” they whispered to me. “You can do this. We know you can.”

  Gradually, I calmed down. Nothing like the touch of a good boy or two to make a dog settle down right fast.

  “Pa,” Johnny said, “do you think Frankie and me could just hide behind the table and keep a hand on him? We wouldn’t show up in the photo or nothing. Promise.”

  “It’ll keep him calm,” Frankie said.

  Mr. Roll smiled. “That’s using your noggins, boys. You do that. Mr. Ingmire will take the portrait and we’ll be out of here in no time at all.”

  The boys got behind the table. I felt their small, warm hands on my side and haunch.

  The stranger squinted hard at me. “I don’t think we want him standing,” he said. “Sitting or lying would be preferable.”

  “You heard the man,” Johnny whispered. “Lie down like a good dog.”

  “Lie down and stay,” said Frankie as he pressed down gently on my back.

  I lowered myself down on the table. I would lie down and stay, but I didn’t have to like it. I put my nose on my paws and heaved a loud sigh.

  “Good boy, Fido.” Frankie stroked my leg.

  There was a box not far from the table. It stood on three sticks and was covered with a dark cloth. The man stuck his head beneath the cloth.

  After a bit, he lifted his head and frowned at me. “Can’t you make him look a little more jolly? I know it’s a sad day, but I’d so much rather see a happy dog.” He snapped his fingers. I looked lively.

  A puff of evil-smelling stink rose from the box. That stink got up my nose. The boys held me while I shook my head and sneezed.

  “Boys, keep him where he is. I’ll need to take a few more, just in case!” The man held up his hand. “Bear with me a moment or two longer, please, while I prepare the new plate.”

  A month of Sundays must have passed as the man fidgeted and fumbled.

  “That’s a brave dog,” Frankie told me.

  “Mr. Lincoln would be proud of you,” Johnny said.

  The longer the man fiddled, the more my fear turned to boredom. I had had enough of this room and its foul odors. I had had enough of the fussy man.

  Afterward, on the way home, Mr. Roll treated me to a soup bone from my old friend the butcher. I couldn’t wait to take it home.

  “Tell me again, Pa, why we had to put Fido through all that?” Johnny asked.

  “You see, boys,” Mr. Roll explained, “as of now, everything Lincoln ever owned or touched has turned to gold. It’s an opportunity I’d be a fool to pass up. Ask yourselves, what could be more valuable than Lincoln’s dog? An official portrait of that dog! I’m going to have lots of copies printed up. I work hard at carpentering. But there’s never enough money. From now on, you boys and your ma will never want for anything.”

  Later that day, when I was busy with my bone, Johnny once again came calling.

  What now? I sighed. Couldn’t they all just let a dog gnaw in peace?

  “Sorry, boy. They want to see you at the old place,” he said to me.

  We took the familiar path down the block to the house. It looked different today. It was draped with scary black cloth. This time, the strangers who lived there didn’t shoo me away. They opened the front door wide and welcomed me. I wasn’t sure I trusted them and their black cloth.

  “Come on, Fido,” Johnny said, tugging at my collar. “Folks need to lay eyes on you.”

  I entered the house and shrank back. The rooms were the same, but the furniture was different and the place was crammed with strangers. I saw more sad faces than I’d ever seen in one place. People were sniffling and crying. The place stank of misery. Misery and meat.

  “There he is,” I heard them whisper in awed voices, “the Lincoln Dog.”

  Strange hands reached out. Some patted my head and smoothed my coat. Others came at me with scissors, snip-snipping. I shrank from the feel of the cold metal on my skin. They were cutting off pieces of my fur! Was this why I had been brought here? So these folks could shear me like a spring sheep?