Fiddlehead

“What kind of stories?” Maria asked. “I ask at the risk of boring these other gentlemen, but I seem to be the only one here who hasn’t heard of her.”

Lincoln supplied the missing unpleasantness. “She tested chemical weapons on Union prisoners of war. As far as the North is concerned, she’s a war criminal.”

“And she’s not much more popular in the South,” Henry added. “Even the CSA wasn’t happy about that particular incident. There was a general outcry, and it even made the papers in a few places.”

Gideon had been present in Tennessee at the time of the incident, and he remembered it well. He didn’t remember much of an outcry, but maybe he hadn’t been listening for one. “About the death of—what, a few hundred Union men? The CSA couldn’t afford to feed them anyway. They probably thought she was doing them a favor.”

But Nelson Wellers shook his head. “No, not at all. Too many Southerners have family of their own stuck in Union camps. Even if you think they lack all milk of human kindness, you have to grant them a fear of retribution. Should word get around that Southerners were casually gassing war prisoners, maybe the North would start doing something equally awful to the men in their charge.”

“All right,” he relented. “I will grant them that.”

“While you’re at it,” Maria Boyd added, “you may as well grant them a sense of fair play. War has rules, and let’s all be as direct as Dr. Bardsley prefers: The South will lose this conflict. Sooner rather than later, I expect. And when that day finally comes, they’ll want to bow out with some shred of grace—and a decent surrender treaty is difficult enough to negotiate without the shadow of war crimes looming over the proceedings.”

“You’re asking me to grant them pragmatism, but tell me—have they learned any, in the last twenty years? Because last time I looked, they instigated a war with a larger, better fortified neighbor … while policing a slave class that vastly outnumbered them in its strongest enclaves. If I sit here and think about it for a few minutes, I might be able to come up with a worse idea.”

“Well, you’re the genius,” she said, not bothering to hide her displeasure with the veneer of civility.

He laughed. “If it weren’t true, you wouldn’t be angry.”

“I’d demur and say that you’re right, but you know that already. So instead I’ll remind you that there’s nothing I can do about the past, and that we have work to do here, now. Someone tell me about Katharine Haymes.”

Henry answered quickly. “She’s become an unpleasant secret. No one brought any charges against her for the incident with the war prisoners, which was ridiculous, and everyone knows it. It looked like all she got was a slap on the wrist and a scolding, but she was also asked to keep her head down. The CSA wants her money, but they want it quietly. Too many people in their ranks think she ought to be in prison, even though they protect her operations in Missouri, and are more than happy to make use of her information and technology.”

“So what was she doing in Danville?” Wellers asked.

“Just … watching,” he said. “Watching Sally Tompkins say her piece, and then watching her get dragged off the congressional floor.”

Maria Boyd gasped. “They did what? To Captain Sally?”

Henry explained. “She was there to speak on the subject of the Robertson Hospital and its expenses; but when she got up to speak, she was mostly concerned about a disease, some illness striking the Southern troops. It sounded very much like the walking plague we already know here in the North—in fact, if it was anything else, I’d be astonished. But she was shouted down and physically removed from the premises. It was one of the most astonishing things I’ve ever seen, and I’m almost certain that Katharine Haymes was the one who orchestrated it.”

Five

The War Department meetings were not technically secret, but Grant could never quite shake the impression that they were clandestine nonetheless: always held in the evening, always at some private location, and without his personal guard staff—even the men who protected the nation’s leaders were left outside to eavesdrop and wait.

More than once, Grant had idly wondered if he’d ever missed any of these meetings, simply by virtue of not having been invited. He was only the president, after all. President of the United States, or what was left of them.

Tonight’s meeting was held in the dreaded yellow oval, an elaborate office he would’ve never picked for himself—and certainly wouldn’t have decorated as it stood, not if his life depended on it. But there was something fixed about the place, or that was how it felt; even Julia agreed, and she was more than willing to tweak anything else in the presidential homestead. It was her right as first lady—she’d told him so more than once—but at night when they’d lie close together and talk about the day, she would admit that this particular room felt strangely untouchable.

He stood behind “his” enormous desk, pretending to look out over the gardens. It had rained that day, and the humidity had lingered, then frozen. The roses and other assorted bushes glimmered oddly as the electric lanterns sparked, casting chilled condensation into the night in soft wisps.

But he was not looking at the gardens.

He was watching the window glass, tracking the reflections of the other men in the room as they milled about, helping themselves to brandy and chattering just quietly enough to sound like they were discussing important things, matters of state. It was more likely that they gossiped like old hens.

But it felt like something important would happen any minute now.

He sensed it in the rising tension of the department members who had showed up on this occasion—which was most of them this time. As often as not, fully half would skip the formalities and ask for someone to send them word, as if Grant’s secretary had nothing better to do than sit around and print up the minutes of these tedious meetings.

Perhaps John didn’t have anything better to do, but Grant still disliked asking him to for this.

He didn’t like asking John to perform any task, really. Didn’t understand the need for a secretary. It felt silly. And he liked John well enough, but could never shake the feeling that John was always watching, taking notes—even if only in his head—in order to write the inevitable biography that would surely follow him out of office.

Whenever that turned out to be. Three terms already, and another one on the way—if the polls could be believed, the impending election was his to lose. No one wanted to change leaders in the middle of the war, not again. No matter how badly he wanted them to.

Sometimes he wondered glumly if the only way out of the White House was a bullet to the head, and then he’d think of Lincoln and feel like a jackass.

Finally the double doors opened and Desmond Fowler joined the meeting, which looked increasingly like a party at a gentlemen’s club, as three or four cigars were already alight, and almost no one was seated. There weren’t really enough chairs for a meeting. Why was it being held here again? Someone had surely told him, but he’d be damned if he could remember.

He glanced down at his hand. He was still holding half a drink. His fourth since he’d arrived, so he was pacing himself. Julia would be proud, or maybe not. He wouldn’t mention it to her, and if she asked, he’d lie.

He swallowed what remained and set the glass down precariously close to the edge of the desk.

Turning around, he mustered a smile for Fowler, who wasn’t looking at him yet.

The smile melted into confusion. The Secretary of State was not alone. On his arm walked a tall, terribly slender woman in an expensive dress that Grant hoped his wife never saw, or else he’d be buying one very much like it … and there was already enough irritating public interest in his finances.

The woman in question was brunette. Very brunette. Her hair looked like a pile of carefully coiffed raven wings, and surely he wasn’t the first to think of that, because her navy blue hat was decorated with just such a taxidermied wing, set with a large, presumably fake, square-cut ruby.

She was pretty. No denying that. He guessed her for forty, but would’ve said thirty-five out of politeness, were he forced to make any sort of public assessment of the matter. Sharp cheekbones, cool green eyes. A thin mouth, but nicely shaped. A poet might have described her as “willowy,” but the word that sprang to Grant’s mind was “brittle.”

Her presence caused a minor hullaballoo: This was a gentlemen’s club, after all. Or, no, it wasn’t. It only felt like it to a man with (how many?) drinks in him. But men were smoking and speaking of war, so it was a manly gathering, if nothing else. Invitation only, and he was quite confident that this woman hadn’t been invited.

The office lights wobbled, and for one awful second, he wasn’t sure about any of this—where he was, what he was doing here, why Desmond Fowler had brought a date—should Grant have brought Julia?—but he composed himself in time to remember that, really, he was the goddamn president.

“Fowler,” he said, just a little too loudly. He checked himself and started again. “Fowler, there you are. We’ve been waiting.”

“My apologies, Mr. President, but there was a problem with our coach,” he said smoothly. Grant would’ve bet his life that it wasn’t true. The Secretary of State swanned forward to meet him, and the woman on his arm glided as if she moved on rails. “Please, allow me to introduce my … guest. This is Miss Katharine Haymes.”

“This isn’t a dinner party.” He didn’t quite mean to be rude, but there it was. “You might’ve mentioned you planned to bring someone. I’m not entirely sure this is appropriate.” He tried not to meet this woman’s gaze; those chilly green eyes unsettled him. Such a funny color, like cut limes, or a very strong julep. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a julep. These days, it’d practically be treason.

Desmond Fowler opened his mouth to reply, but took a moment too long to formulate his response. Katharine Haymes took a step toward the president and offered him her hand, and now he was on the receiving end of those unearthly eyes, whether he liked it or not. “Mr. President, it’s a privilege and an honor to meet you, I must say.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">