With each passing block the streets grew emptier. Darker. Here, the grand buildings and murmuring sidewalks melted into rows of two-story homes, nary a candle alight in any window. Nary a gentleman about. Passing though Madison Square Park, I marveled at the unfinished skeleton of some immense, unknown structure. ** Marveled at the absolute quiet. The barren streets. I began to imagine myself the only soul in New York, until the sound of heels against cobblestones caught my ear.
Abe glanced over his shoulder. The silhouettes of three men followed close behind.
How had they escaped my notice until now? In light of the city’s recent troubles, I thought it best to double back and head south to Washington Square, back to the safety of gaslight and crowded streets. Henry could wait. Oh, what a damned fool I was! I had ventured out unarmed, knowing too well that many a gentleman had been robbed (or worse) on these streets of late—and that the police could hardly be counted on to intervene. Silently cursing myself, I turned left down Thirty-fourth Street. My heart sank as I heard their footsteps follow me around the bend—for now there could be no question of their intent. My pace quickened. Theirs quickened. “If only I could reach Broadway,” I thought.
He wouldn’t. His pursuers broke into a sprint. Abe did the same, making another left and running between two lots in hopes of eluding them.
My speed could still be trusted—but as fast as I was, [they] were faster. All hope of escape lost, I turned and met them with my fists.
Abe was nearly fifty years old. He hadn’t wielded a weapon or been in a fight for fifteen years. Even so, he managed to land a few blows on each of his assailants before one of them landed his own, knocking him out cold.
I woke in absolute darkness, the faint rumble of a coach’s wheels beneath me.
“Put him out again,” said the unfamiliar voice.
A sharp, oh so brief pain on the top of my head… the universe before me in all of its color and majesty… and then… nothing.
“I am deeply sorry,” said the familiar voice, “but we can trust no living man with our whereabouts.”
It was Henry.
My hood was presently removed, and I found myself in the center of a grand, two-tiered ballroom, its intricate ceiling thirty feet above my aching head; its long, dark red curtains drawn; the whole lit dimly by chandeliers. Gold upon gold. Marble upon marble. The finest carvings and furnishings, and a floor of wood so dark and polished it might have been black glass. It was the most splendid room I had ever seen or, for that matter, ever thought possible.
Three men of varying age and build stood behind Henry, each leaning against the hearth of a kingly marble fireplace. Each with contempt in his eyes. These, I assumed, were my assailants. A pair of long sofas faced each other in front of the fireplace, with a low table in between. Upon this, a silver tea service reflected the light of the fire, casting strange, intoxicating patterns on the walls and ceiling. A diminutive, graying gentleman sat on the left sofa, teacup in hand. I had seen him before… I was sure of it… but in my confused state I could not place him.
My senses returning, I noticed perhaps twenty more gentlemen scattered about the room, some standing behind me, some seated in high-backed chairs against the walls. Another twenty loomed above, looking down from the shadowy mezzanines on each side of the room. It was clear [they] meant to keep their faces hidden.
“Please,” said Henry. He motioned for Abe to sit across from the diminutive gentleman.
I hesitated to come any closer until Henry (sensing the reason behind my reluctance) motioned to my assailants, and they removed from the fireplace. “I give you my word,” he said as they went, “no further harm shall befall you tonight.” Believing him sincere, I took a seat across from the gentleman whom I could not yet place, clutching the back of my head with my left hand and steadying myself with the other.
“Vampires,” said Henry—tilting his head toward the three men who now took their seats along the wall.
“Yes,” said Abe. “I’d worked that out on my own, thank you.”
Henry smiled. “Vampires,” he said, motioning around the ballroom. “The cursed, bloodsucking lot of us. The exceptions being yourself… and Mr. Seward here.”
Seward…
Senator William Seward was the former governor of New York, one of the leading antislavery voices in Congress, and the man widely expected to be the Republican presidential nominee in 1860. He and Abe had met nine years earlier while campaigning for General Zachary “Old Rough and Ready” Taylor in New England.
“A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Lincoln,” he said, extending his hand.
Abe shook it. “Likewise, Mr. Seward, likewise.”
“You are doubtless aware of Mr. Seward’s reputation?” asked Henry.
“I am.”
“Then you must know that he is a favorite to be nominated this time around.”
“Of course.”
“Of course,” said Henry. “But tell me… did you know that Seward here has hunted and destroyed nearly as many vampires as you have?”
Abe had to bite his lip to keep his jaw from dropping. Bookish, privileged little Seward—a vampire hunter? Impossible.
“Revelations,” said Henry. “Revelations are what bring us together tonight.” Henry paced in front of the hearth.
“I have brought you here,” he said, “because my colleagues wished to see for themselves the purpose that I have seen in you. To see this Abraham Lincoln I have spoken of these many years. I have brought you here because they wanted proof that you were capable of what we ask; to judge you directly before going any further.”
And how shall I be judged? By the expediency with which I behead them?
A man’s voice rang out of the darkness: “I am sure we can find a more agreeable method than that, Mr. Lincoln.”
A few scattered laughs echoed through the room. Henry silenced them with a wave of his hand.
“It is already done,” he said. “From the moment you were carried into this room, they saw your past and your pain; peered into your soul—just as I have. Had you been deemed unworthy, you would not have been permitted to wake among us.”
“ ‘Us…’ ” said Abe. “I have long believed that vampires form no alliances.”
“Desperate times. Our enemies have allied themselves—so must we. They have recruited living men to their cause—so have we.”
Henry stopped pacing.
“There is a war coming, Abraham,” he said. “It is not a war of man, but it is man who shall spill his blood fighting it—for it concerns his very right to be free.
“A war… ,” he continued. “And you of all men must win it.”
There was nothing else now—no vampires in the mezzanines, no Seward or silver tea service… there was only Henry.
“There are those of my kind,” he said, “who choose to remain in the shadows. Who cling to that last piece of themselves that is human. We are content to feed and be forgotten. To go about our cursed existence in relative peace, killing only when our hunger becomes unbearable. But there are others of my kind… those who see themselves as lions among sheep. As kings—superior to man in every way. Why, then, should they be confined to darkness? Why should they fear man?
“It is a conflict that began long before there was an America. A conflict between two groups of vampires: those who seek to coexist with man, and those who would see all of mankind in chains—bred, raised, and corralled as cattle.”
Judge us not equally, Abraham…
“These fifty years,” said Henry, “we have done everything in our power to prevent this war. Each of the errands I have sent you on—each has been with the aim of destroying those who would see it hastened, and your efforts—those of Seward and others—have indeed slowed its progress. But we can no longer hope to prevent it. Indeed, not four weeks ago we saw the first battle fought here on the streets of New York.”
Strange sightings… impossible feats…
“Our enemies are shrewd,” said Henry. “They have made their cause the cause of the South. Allied themselves with living men who defend slavery as fervently as they. But these men have been deceived into quickening their own doom, for Negroes are only the first of the living to be enslaved. If we lose, Abraham, then it is only a matter of time before every living man, woman, and child in America is a slave.”
Abe felt as if he might be sick.
“That, old friend, is why we must not lose. That is why we have allied ourselves. We are vampires who believe in the rights of man,” said Henry. “We are the Union… and we have plans for you, old friend.”
PART III
PRESIDENT
TEN
A House Divided
“A house divided against itself cannot stand.” I believe this government cannot endure, permanently half slave and half free. I do not expect the Union to be dissolved—I do not expect the house to fall—but I do expect it will cease to be divided. It will become all one thing or all the other.
—Abraham Lincoln, accepting the Republican
Party’s nomination for senator
June 16th, 1858
I
In the predawn hours of February 23rd, 1861, a tall, cloaked figure was rushed onto the platform of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad Depot before his train had even come to a stop, ten hours before anyone expected him to arrive. His feet seldom touched the ground as a mass of armed men hurried him into a waiting coach, which sped off as soon as its reinforced door had clicked shut. Inside, two bodyguards joined him behind the black curtains, their revolvers at the ready as if they expected the night to be shattered by gunfire at any moment. Outside, a third man sat next to the driver, his black eyes peering into the dark streets of Washington, D.C., looking for any sign of danger ahead. There were more of his kind waiting at the hotel, making sure no one entered without their knowledge and blessing; making sure their precious cargo was delivered safely to his bed. There was even a man stationed on the roof of the building across the way, looking for anyone who might try to crawl down the facade and enter through a window.
Henry Sturges had insisted on this unprecedented level of security—and his insistence had proven wise….
For President Elect Abraham Lincoln had just survived his first assassination attempt.
In late 1857, not long after his return from that fateful meeting in New York, Abe announced that he would run against Stephen Douglas for the Senate. Unbeknownst to his supporters, this announcement had been preceded by the arrival of a letter:
Abraham,
As you guessed in your letter of September 13th, we must ask you to oppose Mr. Douglas. The Senator, as you no doubt suspect, is one of the many living men who have fallen prey to our enemy’s influence. Do not concern yourself with the outcome of this election—rather, use your particular passion and oratory skill to combat slavery at every turn. We will see to it that the results are favorable to our cause. Trust in yourself, Abraham. Never forget that this is your purpose.
Ever,
—H
P.S. Matthew 12:25 *
Abe accepted the Republican Party’s nomination for Senate on June 16th, 1858, with what would be known as his “House Divided” speech. In it, he accused Senator Douglas of being part of the “machinery” designed to spread slavery to all of America. Without any mention of vampires, Abe alluded to the “strange, discordant, and even hostile elements” that had come together to fight a “proud and pampered enemy” to the south.
Between August 21st and October 15th, he and Douglas held a series of seven debates throughout Illinois, some attended by as many as 10,000 onlookers. They became an instant sensation, thrusting both men onto the national stage as transcripts of their battle appeared in newspapers throughout the country. For his part, Douglas tried to paint Abe as a radical abolitionist. He excelled at whipping the crowd into a frenzy with images of freed slaves flocking to Illinois; of black settlements springing up in white backyards; of black men marrying white women.
If you desire [blacks] to vote on an equality with yourselves, and to make them eligible to office, to serve on juries, and to adjudge your rights, then support Mr. Lincoln and the Black Republican party, who are in favor of the citizenship of the Negro!
Abe struck back at Douglas’s doom and gloom with a simple moral truth—one that he owed (whether he would admit it or not) to his father’s Baptist upbringing.
I agree with Judge Douglas—[the black man] is not my equal in many respects—certainly not in color, perhaps not in moral or intellectual endowment. But in the right to eat the bread, without the leave of anybody else, which his own hand earns, he is my equal and the equal of Judge Douglas, and the equal of every living man.