Fiddlehead

“Good God, old man,” Lincoln asked, adjusting his spectacles and noticing the Secretary of State’s letterhead. “What is this? What have you done?”

“Only a few illegal things, and none of them immoral,” Grant assured him.

“Well, that’s a relief…”

“It’s Fowler. Or rather, it’s that woman Katharine Haymes. She’s working him like a sock puppet, her hand right up his backside, making him talk her words, and sign her papers.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Haymes? I knew of her involvement, and I knew she was in town; Mary saw her at the Senators’ Ball and was all aflutter about it. But…”

“But nothing. I’ve seen her. Spoken to her. She’s a viper in a dress, Abe. She’s the end of the world in a bo

“Bits and pieces. She talked you into a pardon, I heard that much. You’re really going to buy that weapon of hers after all? Please tell me that’s not the case.”

“It’s not the case. Or it is the case, but it’s not me doing the buying. It’s … it’s Fowler; he’s the one. He’s got the court in his pocket and her hand up his ass. He’s the one who arranged it, structured it, and pulled the trigger. Or so I learned after the fact … well after the fact, and I’m … I’m lost, Abe. You were right about everything, and I tried to assume the best. Never again.”

“Now, let’s settle down just a moment. It can’t be as bad as all that,” Lincoln said mildly, but his good eye was racing across the pages before him.

“It’s plenty bad enough. If we try to stop that weapon the official way, it’ll go off before we can force the orders through the bureaucracy. Fowler will see to that.”

“You’re probably right,” he murmured, still reading.

“Which bit are you looking at there?” Grant asked, leaning forward and seeing the requisitions report. “Yes, that right there. You see? She’s making more of them, or pla

“I wish I could say I am surprised.” Without looking up, Lincoln asked, “Do you know if she’s approached the South? Do you think she’ll sell to both sides? She was a Southerner by birth, after all. Then again…” He shook his head.

Grant picked up the thought and said, “I doubt they have the kind of cash she’s chasing. She’s a mercenary, through and through. She’s here in D.C. because we’re the only people on the continent who can afford her. But, look. It gets worse. This one was sealed.”

“What is it?”

“A list of targets they’re considering.”

They fell silent as they skimmed through the pages together—Lincoln for the first time, and Grant for the second, still unable to believe what he was reading.

Lincoln swallowed, and turned to the next sheet. “None of these are military targets. Except maybe Danville, and that’s only a capital.”

“That probably won’t be the first pick,” Grant surmised. “She could do some damage in there, absolutely—but it might be too much damage. It might actually shut down their government and end the war in one shot, and she can’t have that. Not when there are eight other moneymakers on deck. No, she’d more likely shoot for New Orleans. It’s their most important port, and there are plenty of civilians to murder.”

“Yes, but then she’d have to contend with Texas, and that’s no small feat. If it’s civilians she wants to kill, there must be … oh, half a million people in Atlanta, and it’s closer. With no Texian military presence. That’d be a bigger mess, wouldn’t it?”

“At least half a million. And did you read the part about how the gas cloud will travel? It could wipe out thousands … tens of thousands … beyond its initial targets.”

“More than that if the wind, the water, the … God almighty. She can’t possibly realize what she’s unleashing.”

“On the contrary,” Grant argued. “No one else on earth knows as much about the gas weapon as she does. She’s the one who developed it.”

A quiet knock on the door frame a

Lincoln frowned quizzically. “Chattanooga? That doesn’t sound right. Miss Boyd was just in Richmond, getting into trouble at the Robertson Hospital.” Then to Grant, he said, “There was an incident. I don’t know the specifics yet.”

“Miss Boyd?”

“A Pinkerton agent,” he replied vaguely. “I thought she’d be on her way back to D.C. by now.”

Mary handed him the package, a large envelope. “Perhaps not. This looks like a woman’s script to me.”

She left them to continue their conversation. Once she was gone, Lincoln said, “I think she’s right. Let’s find out for certain, then.” He tore the envelope and extracted Maria’s letter. On top was a cover sheet, from which he read aloud. “Dear Mr. Lincoln: Included, you will find a series of notes taken hastily by hand, condensed from a much larger set of documents. The original documents—a series of missives from a nurse on the Western shore—have been sent elsewhere for safekeeping, as I’m sure you will understand. Please forgive me for not including the particulars of the Robertson incident. I will save those for later, as this is far more important. I will remain in Chattanooga through Friday, visiting with our distant family and inquiring after the camp workers who were present during Miss Haymes’s weapon testing. Depending on where this line of enquiry leads, I may either pursue the case elsewhere or return to D.C. at that time. Will keep you abreast of matters. Yours, Maria B.”

Lincoln turned his attention to the remaining pages of the message, and Grant read over his shoulder.

They finished at approximately the same time.

Lincoln turned to Grant, and said quietly, “Perhaps there is someone who knows more about the gas and its workings than Miss Haymes, after all.”

“This nurse … wherever she is,” Grant agreed.

Lincoln shook his head, but he did so with a hopeful smile. “Yes, the nurse, but also Sally Louisa Tompkins, and now Miss Boyd, for they have read the nurse’s letters. Likewise, if Henry is there with Miss Boyd, then he knows, too; and we also know, if only an abbreviated form. This is the way word spreads, my friend: hand by hand, reader by reader. This nurse from the Robertson … she might well have saved us all, if we can heed her warnings in time.

“Now,” Lincoln said, shifting his tone and setting the papers on the armrest beside him. “I must ask your assistance. My chair is beside you there, you see? Help me into it, if you would. I need to get to my desk and write a telegram. You and I have a Union to save.”

Thirteen

Grant very much wished his wife was there, but he’d sent her away the night before.

At the time it’d been little more than a drunken dismissal, for all he’d insisted otherwise—to her, and to himself. Now he was torn because he wished fervently to have her present, yet he was glad that she was gone. She must be safer in Baltimore with her family. He took comfort from the thought, or tried to, at any rate.

The White House was cold again. The afternoon was growing late. That called for a drink, but he didn’t make one. He wondered how Abe’s telegrams had gone off. Had they been received? Answered? No one sent him any word, or if anyone had, the Secret Service agents must’ve intercepted it.

Or maybe he was becoming paranoid.

He stood in the yellow oval and watched the window behind the desk. The curtains were open, and beyond them a tree shook and scraped its limbs across the glass. A storm had rolled up, all bluster and blow but no ice.

Left unattended, the fire had burned low. The fractured, watery light of the coals did nothing to warm the place.

Julia was gone to her mother’s. He’d sent here there, without even thinking.