Читать книгу President Lincoln's Secret - Steven Wilson - Страница 10

The Potomac River

Three miles above Fort Washington

Asia Dunaway. She forgot sometimes that she had been an Allen for many years until her marriage to Henry Lossing, and now she was Mrs. Thomas Fitzgerald Dunaway—the colonel’s lady.

They balanced each other, the colonel and his lady. She was as outspoken as he but in a polished manner, taking time to think before she spoke. Many men were intimidated by intelligent women, and Asia had never met one she could not match in intellect. Fitz was different. His outbursts were usually followed by a flash of guilt for being brash and confrontational. He had a quick mind and was pleased when Asia bested him in trading quips, although he accepted her victory with a growl. They were honest with each other. That is, they had been until now.

She glanced over her shoulder, watching her husband navigate the crowded passageway between the steam engine and the launch’s hull, making his way aft to speak to the able seaman at the tiller. Fitz was careful to keep his left arm close to his chest, the limb heavily bandaged, suspended in a gleaming white sling. She insisted on changing his bandages twice a day, discarding the fabric soiled with a light brown wash of blood but without, thank God, the stench of decay. Colonel Dunaway had been fortunate, the elderly surgeon at the Armory Hospital had told her—so many men with such wounds lose the arm, or their lives.

She pulled her purse open by its drawstrings, shielding her actions from Fitz. Asia was ashamed, wanting to tell Fitz, wanting to make him understand, and hoping to share the burden that lay on her heart from the letter in her purse. He was her husband, and a good man. She turned. Fitz and the seaman were deep shadows under the canvas awning of the steam launch, protected from the stiff gusts that whipped the river’s waters into rippling whitecaps. It was cool, with a sharp wind despite the glaring sun in a crisp blue sky, and Asia fumbled with the letter.

She read the words again, foolishly hoping the angry message had changed, and the despair, that had clenched her stomach in a vise, was unfounded. The shock she had felt as she sat in the parlor, puzzling over the return name and address as she opened the letter, her eyes falling on the contents, had long since faded. It was replaced by the dull ache of knowing she was powerless to help him as she had in the past.

The steam engine’s gentle chug kept pace with the words that jumped from the page, each piercing her breast. She angrily crumpled the letter, but dropped her head in regret. She could not abandon him. She smoothed the wrinkled paper on her lap, folded it, and slipped it into her purse, once more making sure that Fitz could not see her.

“Well, Mrs. Dunaway.” Fitz’s voice startled her. “Are you enjoying your regatta?” He sat next to her, easing his wounded arm into a comfortable position. He was still gaunt, but his skin had lost its sickly pallor. His sudden appearance filled her with guilt. She struggled to speak.

“I don’t know if ‘regatta’ is the word, Colonel Dunaway, but I am enjoying myself.”

He grew alarmed. “Why, my dear, have you been crying? Have I done something?” He was solicitous, if clumsy with expressing himself, Asia knew, and was apt to lose his temper with matters that he did not understand.

She had been crying, Asia realized. “Oh,” she said, removing a silk handkerchief from her sleeve. “It is the wind. It is a blustery day.”

“It is,” Fitz agreed. “But the seaman tells me we should have the vessel in sight at any moment. I would have preferred meeting the president in Washington rather than taking this boat trip. There.” He examined her eyes as she slipped the handkerchief back into the cuff of her sleeve. “Still a bit red, but not teary-eyed.” He shifted his arm again, wincing. “I can’t seem to find a position that works.”

“Let me see,” Asia said, pulling the sling to one side with care.

“Asia,” Fitz whispered in alarm. He looked aft. “I can’t have you pawing after me where that fellow can see. It’s indecent.”

“Fitz. I’m well north of the equator. It’s evident you are in pain. Now quit bouncing about.”

“Of course I’m in pain,” Fitz said. “I’ve been shot. And the cold causes my arm to ache. And I’m sure that being on the water is of no help.”

She looked at him patiently. “Are you done, Colonel Dunaway? If so, kindly assist me by closing your mouth while I examine your wound.”

Fitz turned his head away, waiting as Asia delicately pulled the sling from his arm and eased the bandages to one side.

“You’re bleeding again.” She was trying to control her emotions, but it was obvious she was frightened.

“The surgeon said to expect—” he began, hoping he could convince her that her concern was unwarranted, but she cut him off.

“The bleeding has increased. It’s dark and thick.” She held up her hand, her eyes betraying fear. She removed her gloves, straightened the bandages, and withdrew her hands. Her fingers were smudged with blood—they were strangely vibrant under the muted shadow of the canvas awning.

Fitz shook his head, dismissing both her evidence and alarm. He pulled the bandages and sling back into place and was about to tell her it was nothing when he saw an island in the middle of the Potomac River.

“Good Lord,” he exclaimed, forgetting his wound. It was a ship, a double-turreted monitor—a long, black vessel that stretched halfway across the green river. An island all right, but one of rust-streaked iron and oak timbers as thick as a man’s body. Her two turrets, topped by conical canvas awnings that gave them the exotic look of Chinese pagodas, shared the low deck with a delicate platform of railings and ladders, wrapped around a squat smokestack. A column of brown smoke drifted from the stack, only to be snatched by the wind and carried across the river.

Fitz turned to Asia to find her as awed as he at the sight. “She is majestic,” Asia said.

“Only a woman would declare a warship thus,” Fitz said.

“Yet warships are always referred to as ‘she,’” Asia returned. “Why is that, my dear husband?”

“I refuse to answer, wife,” Fitz said. “I’m calculating.” He squinted, using the height of a nearby river bluff as a measuring stick. “She is two hundred to two hundred and fifty feet from end to end.”

“‘She,’” Asia said.

“We will come round to her starboard side,” the helmsman called out. “Kindly wait till we’re tied off before you board her.”

Fitz watched sailors moving into position as the faint commands of officers traveled over the choppy water. She was an island unto herself—a hunk of iron moored in the middle of the Potomac, several hundred seagulls swooping above her, chattering for attention. The Alchemist, Lincoln’s note had said. I will be aboard the navy’s newest acquisition—come see me immediately. I need you.

I need you. Lincoln’s words surfaced in Fitz’s mind as the steam launch approached the ironclad. Fitz’s response had been a muttered “Thank God.” He cherished his time with Asia, and his chest grew tight with pride when he introduced her to the many visitors to the boarding house as “my wife.” But he soon tired of the endless calls of politicians and well-wishers, and the silver salver mounded nearly to its rim with calling cards. “The Secretary of State visited this morning at 10:00 AM and would be pleased if Colonel and Mrs. Dunaway would accompany the Secretary and Miss Fanny Seward to the play this Friday night.” “The Honorable Thaddeus Stevens requests the presence of Colonel and Mrs. Dunaway at dinner the 14th inst. At 8:00 PM.”

It was all Lincoln’s doing. It was the president who gave Fitz his regiment and Mr. Lincoln who led the crowd to the Lossing Boarding House to inquire after Colonel Dunaway’s health. Fitz saw it well enough. People made a show of concern for him because the president had. Lincoln was sincere—the others were pleasant because they thought it required of them.

He loathed the social requirements of being a hero, partly because his wound troubled him, but mostly because he couldn’t stand people fawning over him. Then came Lincoln’s note—I need you. Thank God there was something to do besides listen to fat politicians spout platitudes.

Fitz felt Asia at his side as he read the note at their home on 20th Street. He sensed her reluctance. “I shall go and speak to him and that is that,” he said. He already knew of her fears.

“What if he sends you on a mission? Your health will not permit it.”

“The Washington cliff dwellers do not encourage me remaining,” Fitz said, and regretted it.

He began to suspect that marriage required a good husband to consider his words before he said them. No—that was unkind. Asia was frightened. It was a bad wound.

“My dear,” he said, finding that his love for Asia gave him patience and a surprising gentleness. “I must have something to occupy me. You have tended to my every need, and there is nowhere I would rather be than at your side, but I swear I will go mad if I don’t have at least a trifling duty to attend to.”

He folded the note, slipped it into his pocket, and took his wife’s hand, leading her to dinner.

The boat nestled against the hull of the ironclad, amidships, coming to rest alongside a rank of smartly uniformed sailors.

A burly officer extended an arm from the ironclad’s deck. “Your hand, Mrs. Dunaway.” He assisted Asia as she stepped from the launch to the iron deck and under the shadow of a canvas awning.

Fitz waved away the proffered hand, steadied himself, and made a short hop to the deck. The movement jarred his arm, and he clamped his eyes shut as waves of pain rolled over him. He opened them in time to return the deck officer’s salute. Asia’s hand slid into the crook of his right arm, and he felt her squeeze his forearm in reassurance. He hoped that she hadn’t seen how much pain he was in.

“The president is this way,” a heavily bearded officer said.

Fitz and Asia followed him, passing the massive forward turret, its iron plates pinned in place by rivets as large as a man’s fist. Two fifteen-inch cannon poked their ugly snouts from gun ports. Under a broad awning covering the forward section of the ship, they found President Lincoln in deep conversation with a naval officer. The president smiled when he saw them.

“Why here is Dunaway, and his lovely wife,” Lincoln said, striding forward, his broad hand seeking Fitz’s.

“Mr. President,” Fitz said, letting his hand slide into Lincoln’s. For once Lincoln’s grip was gentle, the handshake restrained. Fitz was relieved. “May I present Mrs. Dunaway.”

“You may indeed,” Lincoln responded with a stiff bow. “This is Dahlgren.” The navy officer approached. He was thin, his face dark and covered with wrinkles, and he was impassive, Fitz noted—strangely like the vessel on whose deck they stood.

“Your wound, Dunaway?” Lincoln inquired.

“Healing well, sir,” Fitz said.

“Good, good,” Lincoln said. There was an awkward pause before he continued. “Dahlgren? Will you escort Mrs. Dunaway—”

“Mr. President,” Asia said, her interruption as seamless as if it had never happened. “I must inquire what you intend to do with my husband—”

“Asia, please,” Fitz said.

Her tone was playful, but there was an unyielding nature to it. “I am quite certain he is as valuable to me as he is to the country.”

Lincoln looked thoughtful. “Well, you’ve got me there.”

“So you will pardon me for insisting, respectfully, that wherever you dispatch my husband, so too must you send me.” Lincoln and Asia were smiling at one another. It was a contest skillfully cloaked in a light jest. Fitz was about to speak when Asia stopped him with a sharp look. “I have invested too much time in Colonel Dunaway’s recovery to see him jeopardize his life on a hazardous mission for you.” She settled herself and added, “I look ghastly in black.”

“God grant me the forbearance needed by all husbands,” Fitz said.

“No, no, Dunaway,” Lincoln conceded. “The lady’s right. You are valuable to me, but more so to Mrs. Dunaway. Although, I hope you don’t think me too bold to remark that any color would suit you.”

“Why, your excellency”—Asia smiled—“what a charming thing to say. Many men would be well served to take a lesson in flattery from you.” She shot a meaningful glance at Fitz. She was teasing him, and it pleased him. Lately she had fallen into dark moods—becoming pensive and reluctant. He assumed it was something he had done or said, and he grew sullen at her reluctance to answer his questions. Sparkling, he had once described her manner—her green eyes flashing, her soft features framed by auburn hair. Her quick wit, each barb accompanied by the ghost of a smile. But she had changed.

“Dahlgren,” Lincoln said. “Stay close by to see that I get everything just right. Colonel, have you ever been to Wilmington?”

“Delaware,” Dahlgren clarified. “The DuPont Works.”

“I have not,” Fitz said.

“The powder works,” Lincoln continued. “Mighty important to us. So important we got a regiment up there whose only job is to mind the place. Keep Confederate agents away.”

“They didn’t,” Dahlgren said.

“No,” Lincoln said, “they didn’t. They had an explosion up there the other night. Lost a quantity of powder, powder we can’t afford to lose, and several buildings. That’ll cut down on production. The folks at DuPont said they could make it up. They’ve got a place up in Pennsylvania. That’s their problem. My problem, and yours, Dunaway, is to find out what happened.”

“Are you sure it was the work of Confederate agents?” Fitz said.

“Pretty sure,” Lincoln said. “I’m not telling you all I know, Dunaway, because I want you to go up there with a clear mind. Talk to the DuPont people and the army folks up there and let me know what you find out. I hate to be mysterious, Dunaway, but you’ll have to trust me on this.”

“That powder was consigned to the navy,” Dahlgren said. “Powder is hard to come by, Colonel. We can’t afford to lose even an ounce of it. We’re sending our man to Wilmington.” He spoke as if he were in a hurry to be heard. Or, Fitz thought, to make sure that the navy was well represented in this endeavor. Perhaps he had little confidence in the army. “Phillip Abbott,” Dahlgren continued. “He’s one of the navy’s best men. You’ve heard of him, of course?”

It gave Fitz a hint of satisfaction to say, “No.”

Dahlgren was nonplussed at Fitz’s reply. “Brilliant man. Just brilliant. Master inventor. He is responsible for the improvements to Ericsson’s original design.”

“Indeed?” Fitz said. “Who is Ericsson?”

“Of Monitor fame,” Asia explained to Fitz. “Colonel Dunaway feels it best not to trouble his mind with surplus information.”

Fitz suppressed a smile. He missed her biting humor, even if it was directed at him.

“Our ironclad fleet,” Dahlgren said, “owes much to Professor Abbott. This vessel is a product of his. There is no subject the man cannot conquer. I am confident that his investigation will reveal the truth behind the DuPont incident.”

“Go up there, Colonel Dunaway.” Lincoln smiled at Asia. “In the company of your lovely wife, of course, and keep in touch by telegraph. I need to know what you learn. Wear the wires out, Colonel, no matter how insignificant the matter may seem.” He took Asia’s hand in his with all the affection of a father. “You must take care of our colonel, Mrs. Dunaway, but you must look after yourself as well.”

“I? Mr. Lincoln,” Asia said, surprised.

The tall man, towering over Asia, leaned close to her. “Something troubles you, Mrs. Dunaway. Remember that you must be your own best friend. I hate to see such lovely eyes filled with sadness.”