President Lincoln's Secret

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PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S SECRET

KENSINGTON BOOKS

Chapter One

God spoke to Gantter on Tuesday. He thought at first it was Wednesday, but the Baltimore stage had passed him on its way to Wilmington, so he knew it was Tuesday. The people riding in the coach stared at him, disapproving faces, features plucked from the darkness by the vehicle's running lamps until distance and the darkness robbed the travelers of the strange sight of the man that locals called Preacher Jim. He knew he was the target of derision, and he dragged a trail of taunting children behind him on his daily crusade up and down the turnpike. But he was a soldier of God, God's instrument to warn the wicked of the eternal flames of damnation and prod the errant back to church. He set out each morning, long legs carrying a thin chest, spindly arms pumping, worn jacket and baggy trousers whipping in a stiff wind that meant nothing to James Gantter.

Especially after Tuesday.

He sat against the thirty-eight-mile marker, digging through the soiled canvas bag that held beef jerky and five or six apples, the stone fitting nicely into his narrow back. He decided instead to build a fire. The setting sun fell below the distant horizon, taking with it what pitiful heat it had once offered. Jim wascold, and the Devil told him to go home, but clutching the battered Bible in his thorny hand he vowed to stay two hours more. The Devil lost interest and fled into the failing sun.

Jim was pleased with himself, despite the cutting wind and hands that shook so much with the cold that he could barely strike a flint. He had bested the Devil, and in doing so had proved God's power, which in turn validated his ministry on the Baltimore Turnpike.

He struck the flint a third time and sparks flew into the tiny nest of kindling he had prepared at the base of a dead log. The shavings glowed with hope and then sprang into life with a whisper of Jim's stale breath. He tended the fire carefully, laying dry twigs just so across the struggling flames. The fire was God's reward, he thought; he preached the Gospel and damned the sinners, and made the Devil turn tail and run. The fire stretched, its long fingers spinning tentacles of smoke into the night.

But Jim felt ashamed. He had given in to the Devil by reveling in pride. All that he accomplished was rightfully the Lord's. He stared into the fire, feeling its comforting warmth drive the cold from his aching hands, letting the heat rise to caress his numb face. He had made the fire, but it was God's doing as was all on the earth and in the heavens, so the pride that he had allowed to enter his heart was an effrontery to the Almighty.

Jim brought the heel of his boot down, crushing the life out of his fire. He fought back regret, knowing self-pity would follow close behind. The light was gone and with it the warmth that was a comfort on a miserably cold night. All that remained was the scent of wood smoke, taunting him.

He leaned back against the marker, fighting back the desire to curse himself and the Devil, and the desire to question God's wisdom. He glanced up at the stars, the Almighty's children, seeking guidance. When he saw the three lights, he cocked his head to one side, quizzically.

They glowed, these three lights, with a translucent yellow cast, moving in unison against the blackness. They were not stars; they were too large and did not have the clear shimmering light of winter stars. Jim watched them float toward him, so transfixed that he did not remember getting to his feet or walking into the middle of the turnpike for a better view.

The three yellow lights floated together, yet bobbed playfully, as if leaves sliding over waves. When he realized what they were, his legs failed him, and he fell to his knees.

He clasped his hands together, tears rolling into his greasy beard as three angels of the Lord passed above him. He prayed excitedly, the words running together in a wild stream, his eyes fixed on the angels. Preacher Jim was stunned by the wonder of the sight, filled with reverence and awe so completely that his actions were not initiated by command-he was moved solely by the spirit of the Lord.

The angels disappeared. Jim jumped to his feet, frantically searching the sky, hoping that he would find them again-God rewarding him with just one more glimpse of his wonders. It was God's judgment that the angels came to him, Jim knew. He had known pride, and God had commanded him to banish pride from his heart and smother the fire that had been the creator of pride, and in turn, as God's recognition of Jim's obedience, He had sent His angels.

"Glory, God, hallelujah," Jim said, the words floating away in pale clouds.

There!

He saw them, far away in the sky, their flight casual, unhurried, and God's children. Jim started to follow them, but the spirit of the Lord so gripped him that he could not force more than a few steps from his trembling legs. Emotion paralyzed him. He buried his face in his hands, sobbing in relief and gratitude. God was good, God was good. He had led man on the path of righteousness and, finding man tempted, had sent three angels to proclaim His glory.

When James Gantter raised his eyes toward Heaven to give thanks to the Lord, he vowed that he would rededicate his life in service to God.

He wondered, also, but in a respectful way, should God suspect he was plagued by doubts, why one of the angels had a flaming tail. It was not important, he reasoned. The Lord did as the Lord thought best, and Jim was to accept the miracles of God.

Jim set off for home, imbued with the power of belief, grateful to the Almighty for showing him the way. He marveled over what he had seen and the wondrous nature of the Holy Spirit. A marvel, he decided, and was so lost in the glowing memory of the incident that he forgot the cold, or even that God had made him deny the warmth of a perfectly good fire.

That miracle, his miracle of the angels, would have been enough to carry him for a decade or more in his crusade to save the wicked. But God in his wisdom, knowing that Jim was a product of original sin, and as such, unworthy, provided another glimpse of His power.

A bright light appeared on the horizon, a flash that illuminated objects so far away they had no identity. And then the heavens glowed, and Jim, frozen by the power of God's wrath, heard the voice of the Lord, deep and rumbling, rolling across the earth. The rapture. Lord Almighty had unleashed the thunderbolts to smite those who denied Him and His ways. Jim was witness to Armageddon.

He watched as the horizon pulsated with flames, so consumed by the sight that he forgot to pray. He figured the distance and direction, and was certain what lay under those flames. The knowledge was not troubling, but confusing, although he knew he should never question God's wisdom.

If God was intent on destroying the world, Jim thought, watching the flames spread in the darkness, why did he begin with Wilmington, Delaware?

Chapter Two

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.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S SECRET by STEVEN WILSON Copyright © 2009 by Steven Wilson. Excerpted by permission.
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