When they finally arrived, skidding up the driveway, Grant didn’t give Andrews time to open the door. He flung himself out of the cab. Over his shoulder, as he ran for the main entrance, he cried, “Don’t wait for me! Go home to Helen! I’ll see you in the morning!”
Behind him, the stomping and panting of the recovering horses settled into something slower and more plodding as the carriage turned around under Andrews’s expert handling and rolled back into the street.
Grant beat his fist against the door, knocking harder than decency would really allow. But these were indecent times, and, as he told the serving girl who answered his repeated poundings, “I need to speak with Lincoln, immediately!”
“I … I … please sir, come in. ” She fumbled with the door and then his coat and hat, arranging them on the rack and begging his leave awkwardly. “Just excuse me for a minute and I’ll run and get him. ”
Moments later, the girl reappeared and said, “Mr. President? I’ll take you to him, if you’ll come with me. He’s in the study. ”
Grant knew where the study was, but he let the girl lead. She gestured toward the open doorway and then vanished.
“Grant, what’s the calamity?” asked Lincoln. He was reclined on a settee by the fire, his chair beside him and his long legs stretched out.
“Sorry to interrupt your nap … or your early bedtime,” he tried.
Lincoln sighed. “I was reading, and then some lunatic came beating down my door, and here you are. So have out with it. ”
Grant stepped quickly to his old friend’s side. Seeing no chair nearby, he seized a small stool and placed it close enough to share Fowler’s secrets. He reached into his waistcoat and retrieved the documents, all of the sheets rumpled and warmed by his body, and made a show of spreading them out, half on Lincoln’s furniture, and half across his knees.
“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 bonnet, is what she is. Do you know what she’s done? Have you heard?”
“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 planning to. It’s not just one weapon—that was never the plan. ”
“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. ”