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.
Only that wasn’t true, was it? Some instinct must have provoked it. Some leftover warning that muttered deep within his brain … some trigger from his youth on the battlefield, when he knew that a fight was coming even though the skies were calm and the taps were silent, and his fellow soldiers lounged in their tents, wearing their warmest wools and playing cards to temper the relentless boredom.
Ever since his evening with Abe, he’d felt it creeping along his bones.
And now he waited.
Not for long, he didn’t think. No, the wearying tension had ratcheted tighter overnight, and all through the day, as the District churned onward without him. But this time, he’d withdrawn at his own behest, not as part of some gentling ploy by Fowler or another advisor to get him out of the way.
Today he wanted to be out of the way. He wanted a retreat, and needed one. He’d been too close to the situation, even as he’d been so unceremoniously cut out of it. Present, but not accounted for. Muzzled and leashed like an old dog who could watch, but not run.
No, he told himself. Like an old lion.
The carpet pattern beneath his feet called to mind crests, seals, and caves. It was meaningless. Julia would’ve said it was only a design, and he was silly. She would’ve been right, but he saw it all the same, and a Biblical phrase swept through his sober, unhappy mind.
A den of roaring lions, seeking whom they may devour.
They would not devour him.
In his right hand he held a loaded Remington, the sturdy 1858 he’d picked up in the war. In his left he held a second cylinder, all its chambers loaded and capped. He had six more stuffed into his pockets, ready to go.
He stood very still and listened, because yes, it was coming.
Or anyway, someone was coming.
Footsteps in the hall, faster than a servant would run if decorum ruled the day. He clenched the gun, and slipped the last cylinder into his pocket to join the rest. Instinct told him the runner would knock, because the runner was not sneaking up on him. An assassin would move more quietly, if with no less urgency.
No. This was a message. A friendly one, if not a good one.
A series of swift raps upon the office door.
He answered: “It’s open.”
And the door crept inward, letting in a long sliver of yellow light from the gas lamps in the hall. Were they lit already? It wasn’t that dark, was it? Well, the sun would be down in another two hours, and the halls of the White House were dark enough even when the days weren’t dreary.
His visitor was a young woman. She was familiar, but it took him a moment to place her. He finally recalled her as a member of the housekeeping staff, but couldn’t think of her name.
“Mr. President,” she gasped, her breath lost somewhere down on the first floor, on another wing. Had she run the whole way? He thought so, from her rumpled dress and loosened bonnet. “It’s Andrews.”
He was honestly taken aback. Of all the subjects he’d expected to hear breathlessly broached, the old man was not among them.
“Andrews? What of him? He’s gone home to his wife by now. Or maybe not; have you checked the kitchen?”
She swallowed hard, shook her head, and only just then noticed the gun. She mustered a “Sir? It’s not that,” but didn’t ask if everything was all right. She knew otherwise, every bit as well as Grant did.
“Then what is it?” he prompted her.
“Sir, it’s a terrible thing—him and Helen both, sir. Murdered!”
He nearly dropped the gun on the floor. Only years of training prevented it. It was that training, rather than any conscious instructions he could muster, that guided him as he slipped the gun into his right pocket. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to … what do you mean, murdered?”
Grant heard the prickling pinpoints of hysteria in her voice when she replied, “Oh, Mr. President, I mean murdered with guns and knives! In their home. Helen made it out to the street for help, but then collapsed.” She stepped inside the office and stood there before the door—still backlit, and casting a witchy puddle of shadow on the floor.
It wasn’t hysteria that he felt oozing through the surface of his thoughts, but something colder and more numb. Something familiar.
This is what happens when it begins, when the last domino is pushed. When the hammer has dropped. This is the sound when the fuse is lit.
“Andrews,” he said the man’s name, not really believing it. Not choosing to believe it. Why Andrews? What did he have to do with anything? And how could the White House function without him? The man was an institution. “And Helen, too,” he added, only then realizing that the woman’s name was all he knew about her. He’d seen her a handful of times, coming and going from the kitchen or laundry.
It hadn’t always been like that. He hadn’t always been the kind of man who knew nothing about the people who managed his life and home. Once he’d been a soldier, hadn’t he? A good one. A great one. A serving man of a different sort.
When did it get away from him? Had it been bought with this distancing ease? Too many years riding on the shoulders of others?
“Sir? What should we do?” she asked him.