Rose felt the ship dematerialize as she was stepping out of the shower. She sensed that they'd landed about ten minutes later. She had supposed they'd hover in the Vortex for some time, so she was curious to know where the Doctor had taken them.

Dressed comfortably in a soft jumper, jeans, and sneakers, she hurried to the Console Room. He stood at the console, a pensive expression on his face.

"Doctor?" she inquired. "Where are we?"

He offered her a wan smile. "Baltimore, Maryland, April 21, 1865." He walked down the ramp.

"Yeah? Why?"

He handed her his overcoat. She noticed he'd changed back to his brown suit. "Put this on; it's chilly out."

She followed him outside to find a grey, dreary day. They'd landed in an alleyway, but as they emerged into the street she saw crowds gathering. The Time Lord took her hand and led her toward an old building. After opening the large padlock with the sonic screwdriver, he and Rose stepped inside. They climbed the stairs then stationed themselves at a second-storey window.

From this vantage point, she could see train tracks and realized that they were near a station. Even as she watched, the train came into view.

"What is it?" she asked. "Why're we here?"

He waited a few moments before responding, until the cars draped in dark garlands were visible.

He told her, "This in Lincoln's funeral train. It will take him back to Springfield, Illinois, where he was born." He nodded at the throngs now pushing toward the tracks. "Tens of thousands of people will come out to see the train, to view his body, and to pay their respects. This is one of the first stops, but all together the train will travel nearly 2000 miles, and in every tiny town and big city citizens will remember and mourn him."

Rose's throat felt tight as the cars passed below. She didn't need the Doctor to tell her which one held the President's coffin; she just knew. She sniffed and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"Thank you," she said huskily.

His hand found hers, and he looked down at her for a moment. But he said nothing; no words were required.

Rose was in the library, curled upon one of the worn leather sofas. She held an American history text in her lap. Although she'd never been an enthusiastic reader, she was completely absorbed in the material.

"What's that you're reading?" the Doctor asked as he entered the room.

"History," she replied.

"Ah." He didn't need to ask the specifics. It was inevitable that she'd seek information eventually.

She looked up at him. "Powell," she said, "Lewis Powell, though he also went by Lewis Paine. That's the bloke who attacked the Sewards. An' the one you stopped must've been George Atzerodt; suppose he used a false name at the hotel. He an' Powell were both working with John Wilkes Booth. They were supposed to kill the secretary and Vice President at the same time Booth shot Lincoln. The book says Atzerodt was planning to kill Johnson, but he ended up getting drunk an' just wandering away from the hotel where the Vice President was staying." She closed the book with a soft thud. "That was because of you. You got him drunk, didn't you?"

"I may have offered him a glass or two."

"So you knew what he was gonna do. You stopped him."

He shrugged noncommittally.

"An'," she continued, tapping the cover with her index finger, "Seward probably would've died if Powell'd been able to stab him in the neck, but that brace thingy you made prevented the knife from cutting his jugular. An' Powell's gun jammed—to this day no one knows why that happened, but all the historians call it a fluke." She glanced at the pocket where he kept the sonic screwdriver.

Again he said nothing but merely gave her a half nod.

"So is that why we were there? To save those two men?"

"Apparently so. Sometimes we end up in the right place at the right time, and I think this was a case of that."

"But we couldn't save Lincoln. We weren't supposed to do that."

"No, Rose, we weren't."

"I'm not sure I really understand."

"Sometimes I don't, either. But in this case I do know that Seward's survival was critical. In 1867 he arranged for the Alaska Purchase when America bought the land from Russia."

"Yeah, so?"

"I think that's a lesson for another time. Suffice to say that Alaska has played several important roles in American history, from gold rushes to politics. There's going to be an election in the next couple of years that would've turned out very differently if not for Alaska."

"Good different or bad different?"

"Oh, that's a question for the politicians, and, I suppose ultimately, for the ages. But that's not why I came in here."

He walked purposefully toward one of the shelves and withdrew a leather-bound book. He flipped through it for a moment then handed it to Rose.

She glanced down. "It's a poem."

"Yes, it is—one of the most evocative tributes to Lincoln ever written. Walt Whitman was a great admirer of the man, and his death left a significant impact. Read it, Rose."

She lowered her head to the page.

O Captain! my Captain, our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
The arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen Cold and Dead.

When she looked up, blinking against her tears, she was now the solitary occupant of the cavernous room. But Rose understood that she was not alone. She had touched greatness, and its echoes would remain with her forever.

Author's Note: Amid the resurgence of interest in Lincoln surrounding the 200th anniversary of his birth, I found inspiration to explore the related events. Powell's gun did, in fact, misfire, apparently a rarity for such a weapon. Seward's life, too, was probably saved by the protection offered by the heavy brace encasing his neck. If not for a series of small events, I believe history would have unfolded quite differently.

Please know that I intend no disrespect toward any of the historical figures mentioned. I have tried to convey information about them as accurately and objectively as possible using a variety of non-fiction resources.