Fiddlehead

“Mr. President,” the Secretary of State began, with a defensive note in his voice. “Allocation of funds occurs at your discretion, yes—in this instance, at any rate. But I believed in Miss Haymes’s program, and I was able to strike a deal that wouldn’t dip into the Union’s coffers.”

Grant pulled up a chair. It was a big, heavy chair, and he moved it easily, leaving a trail as he drew it roughly across the knotted rug, which he found perversely satisfying. He dropped himself into that chair, facing both Desmond and Katharine. Fixing them with a gaze that demanded answers, even if he was afraid to hear them. “This must be one hell of a deal, then. It must be so good, you’ll hardly have to sell it. I’m sure we’ll all be on board the very minute the explanation leaves your mouth.”

The room’s other occupants—nine men of various allegiances, motives, calibers, and competencies—congealed around the scene, lurking at the sideboard and the liquor cabinet, or milling about at the edges of their bright, unhappy circle.

Fowler didn’t waver or find a chair of his own. Katharine patted his hand, and then she answered for him. “Gentlemen, Mr. President, thank you for granting me an audience this evening. I am well aware that my presence here means this isn’t a typical war meeting, but I want to assure you all that war is the matter at hand. I am here to offer you the keys to victory.”

Jemison Simms, an old-timer from Pe

Her reputation hadn’t gotten anywhere near Grant yet, a fact which he was prepared to place squarely in the deliberate, co

“Southern, yes. Confederate, no. They have nasty words for people like me south of the line, Mr. President.”

Oh, but he had no doubt. And it took true physical effort on his part to keep from saying so. “Surely not,” he mustered successfully, if without sincerity. Maybe it wasn’t fair, the way he disliked her already—but if she wanted to make a better first impression on people, she could keep better company.

“If there’s another name they’d like to give you, I’d expect it might be ‘criminal,’” Simms pushed, his fluffy white facial hair hiding most of his uncertain frown, but not all of it.

Grant wasn’t sure what Simms was talking about, but Wigfall chimed in. Usually the way Wigfall liked to state and repeat the obvious a

“The Rossville incident,” Wigfall said. “The Rebs may not have held you accountable, but you may rest assured that Washington will.”

Desmond Fowler cleared his throat. “On the contrary.”

“She’s a war criminal,” Jemison Simms asserted. “And an enemy sympathizer, at that—though considering how much she’s contributed to the war effort down South, we may as well call her a treasonous enemy. She shouldn’t be allowed in the District at all, and you’ve brought her into a closed meeting.”

A dim recollection started to take shape in the back of Grant’s mind. All these little pieces were adding up to a memory, some bit of trivia overheard and ignored. A Southern woman, making weapons and testing them … testing them inappropriately. Did she do it at a prison camp? Was that right? It felt right, as he turned the idea over, testing its familiarity. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that yes, this was that same woman. Haymes. Not the sort of name that stuck out in a conversation. Not his fault that he hadn’t recognized it immediately.

Wigfall joined in with Simms. “Perhaps we should contact the authorities, have her arrested on the spot.”

Wryly, and not at all nervously, she replied, “I’m sitting in a room with the president. If you have a higher authority than that in mind, I’d like to hear about it.”

This rebuttal caused all eyes to turn to Grant. Now he really hated her. But Desmond Fowler had cleared his throat and said … he’d said … oh, yes, now he remembered. The president asked, “What did you mean by ‘on the contrary,’ Fowler? Why isn’t she accountable here? Do you know something I don’t?”

The question was so huge and ridiculous that he smiled in its wake. Fowler smiled back, and for one narrow, unreproducible instant, they might’ve shared a moment of camaraderie, had the subject been anything else in the world.

The moment passed. Fowler’s grin condensed into something harder and differently cruel. “Miss Haymes and I have come to an agreement. A formal, legal agreement which has been signed off upon by Salmon P. Chase.”

“Signed … signed off upon? That’s not even English,” Grant complained, but that wasn’t what really made him mad. “You think you can go ru

“You’ll approve of this one when you hear it. But I didn’t have time to convince you outright, so I’ve taken a shortcut. And before you say so, yes, I know you can fight the Chief Justice on this. I have only his word to back it up. The rest of the court is not yet involved, though it certainly could become part of the game if it has to.”

“Don’t threaten me, Fowler.”

“No one’s threatening anyone!” he protested. “I’m only explaining why I’ve taken the path of least time investment and resistance. And if you’ll only let the lady speak, I think you’ll agree that I’ve come to the right conclusion.”

“If you’re so sure I’d come around, why didn’t you just ask me in the first place?” Grant demanded. He walked over to the liquor cabinet despite only halfway noticing that he needed another drink, so accustomed were his hands to finding refills before he’d even detected the glass was empty.

Fowler snuck a glance down at Katharine, who sat calmly and still. “Because Miss Haymes makes her case better than I do, but I was compelled to guarantee her safety during her visit. I did not have time to risk the possibility of your disapproval. Now, I’m asking you, Mr. President, if you’ll kindly hear her out. She might surprise you.”

“Fine. Talk,” he commanded, and when he was finished pouring, he found his seat again. He leaned back, feeling stronger with the drink in his hand. “You’ve gone to all this trouble, after all. It’d be a shame to waste a judge’s signature. But I don’t care if you surprise me. I want you to impress me—and it had better be good, or I might well be sending a carriage around to Justice Chase’s house. The impolite hour be damned.”

“Very well, and thank you,” she said, and the other men in the room hovered closer, huddling nearer to the tense little axis of drama.

She began: “First, I’d like to thank you for giving me your time and your attention. And second, I must thank Mr. Fowler for being kind enough to make the arrangements which have made my visit possible.”

Grant, out of patience and full of drink, interjected, “I hope ‘third’ brings us to the point.”

“Third,” she continued, as if she hadn’t heard the naked irritation in his voice, “I am here because the CSA is losing the war, and I don’t want to go down with it. I’m not altruistic, and by your definition I absolutely am a criminal. I have nothing to hide, because all I want is to protect myself. I want to survive the fall of the Confederacy, and whatever comes after it.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” Jemison Simms asked, his usual grumpiness tempered by curiosity.

“I enjoy bargaining, and I do it well; indeed, this is something that Mr. Fowler and I have in common—a deep-seated belief that in the midst of any difficulty, there is a compromise to be found that will benefit all parties.”