The Clockwork Century: Fiddlehead Part 6

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 ga.s.sing 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 cla.s.s 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 astonis.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.sorted 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 gla.s.s, 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 jacka.s.s.

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 d.a.m.ned 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sessment 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 G.o.dd.a.m.n 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."

Reptilian sprang to mind. Or maybe he was drunker than he thought. He had no idea what color the eyes of any given reptile were.

But he took her hand, because it'd go well beyond the casual appearance of rudeness to refuse, and gave it a perfunctory kiss before saying, "I'm sorry, I've been an a.s.s." Someone in the back of the room choked on a mouthful of something expensive, but Grant didn't care, so he continued. "But there is a protocol to this sort of thing. Isn't there, Fowler?"

With a fixed, unpleasant smile, Fowler replied, "Protocols were made to be tested, and occasionally revised."

"If you say so. But what occasion do we have tonight?" Behind him, Grant heard mutterings that were halfway meant to be heard by all. He hated that kind of muttering. Speak up and make yourself heard, and take responsibility for having said it, that was his philosophy. Not that he strictly disagreed with the room's general timbre, or its complaint that it would not do to have a lady present for such proceedings. He just didn't care for cowards, that was all.

But Desmond rose to the occasion, or at least described it with enough gravitas and aplomb that he got everyone's attention. "Because tonight we learn how we're going to end the war."

"Once and for all?" asked Emmet Wigfall, a man from someplace small and unmentionable in New York with an unfortunate name but a great fortune.

Fowler said peevishly, "Yes, once and for all. Or else why even take a stab at it? I mean really, Emmet. But we are going to end the war-and, more to the point, we're going to win it-with the help of Miss Haymes and her remarkable weaponry."

"Ah," Grant said. It meant nothing, except that Desmond's declaration seemed to require some answering syllable, so he provided it. And he followed it up with, "I see," for suddenly he did see-they were talking about Desmond's program. This was the woman who'd done the dirty work. Or she'd done some portion of the dirty work, that was for d.a.m.n sure. Desmond Fowler never did much of anything that wasn't dirty.

It had taken Grant entirely too long to figure this out about his Secretary of State. If he'd only paid attention sooner, he might've been able to do something about this man ... a brilliant man, of course, and no one would say otherwise. But he was not a man you wanted to keep very close.

No, that was wrong.

Friends close. Enemies closer.

Grant thought-and very nearly said aloud-that he ought to keep Fowler in a box under his bed for safekeeping. Only a glimmer of sobriety pulled the emergency brake in time to keep him from airing the idea to the room at large.

He shook his head, which only made the room wobble. By the time it settled, Desmond Fowler had led Katharine Haymes to a seat, and she was sitting decorously with a fancy beaded bag in her lap and her legs crossed at the ankle, offering a peek at a pair of boots that might've cost more than a horse.

"So this is where you tell us about your program to end the war. Or how you got the money for it, behind my back, if I can infer a few things from your grand announcement," the president said, just loudly enough to dampen the room's uncomfortable murmur. When surprised silence was achieved, he added, "Because I sure as h.e.l.l didn't sign off on this."

Fowler stood up straighter and placed a hand on Katharine's shoulder. Grant couldn't shake the impression that he didn't mean to calm her, but to draw on her strength-and it unnerved him, though he couldn't find a clear enough place in his head to sort out precisely why.

"Mr. President," the Secretary of State began, with a defensive note in his voice. "Allocation of funds occurs at your discretion, yes-in this instance, at any rate. But I believed in Miss Haymes's program, and I was able to strike a deal that wouldn't dip into the Union's coffers."

Grant pulled up a chair. It was a big, heavy chair, and he moved it easily, leaving a trail as he drew it roughly across the knotted rug, which he found perversely satisfying. He dropped himself into that chair, facing both Desmond and Katharine. Fixing them with a gaze that demanded answers, even if he was afraid to hear them. "This must be one h.e.l.l of a deal, then. It must be so good, you'll hardly have to sell it. I'm sure we'll all be on board the very minute the explanation leaves your mouth."

The room's other occupants-nine men of various allegiances, motives, calibers, and competencies-congealed around the scene, lurking at the sideboard and the liquor cabinet, or milling about at the edges of their bright, unhappy circle.

Fowler didn't waver or find a chair of his own. Katharine patted his hand, and then she answered for him. "Gentlemen, Mr. President, thank you for granting me an audience this evening. I am well aware that my presence here means this isn't a typical war meeting, but I want to a.s.sure you all that war is the matter at hand. I am here to offer you the keys to victory."

Jemison Simms, an old-timer from Pennsylvania, was almost as difficult to impress as the president. And, apparently, he was better briefed. "That's a peculiar proposition, ma'am, seeing as you're a Southerner yourself. You've tamed your accent well, but your reputation precedes you."

Her reputation hadn't gotten anywhere near Grant yet, a fact which he was prepared to place squarely in the deliberate, conniving hands of Desmond Fowler. He covered for his ignorance with a guess. "Yes, Miss Haymes-do explain why a Confederate woman of means has such an interest in seeing her nation defeated."

"Southern, yes. Confederate, no. They have nasty words for people like me south of the line, Mr. President."

Oh, but he had no doubt. And it took true physical effort on his part to keep from saying so. "Surely not," he mustered successfully, if without sincerity. Maybe it wasn't fair, the way he disliked her already-but if she wanted to make a better first impression on people, she could keep better company.

"If there's another name they'd like to give you, I'd expect it might be *criminal,'" Simms pushed, his fluffy white facial hair hiding most of his uncertain frown, but not all of it.

Grant wasn't sure what Simms was talking about, but Wigfall chimed in. Usually the way Wigfall liked to state and repeat the obvious annoyed him. This time, he was glad for any shred of context he could glean.

"The Rossville incident," Wigfall said. "The Rebs may not have held you accountable, but you may rest a.s.sured that Was.h.i.+ngton will."

Desmond Fowler cleared his throat. "On the contrary."

"She's a war criminal," Jemison Simms a.s.serted. "And an enemy sympathizer, at that-though considering how much she's contributed to the war effort down South, we may as well call her a treasonous enemy. She shouldn't be allowed in the District at all, and you've brought her into a closed meeting."

A dim recollection started to take shape in the back of Grant's mind. All these little pieces were adding up to a memory, some bit of trivia overheard and ignored. A Southern woman, making weapons and testing them ... testing them inappropriately. Did she do it at a prison camp? Was that right? It felt right, as he turned the idea over, testing its familiarity. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that yes, this was that same woman. Haymes. Not the sort of name that stuck out in a conversation. Not his fault that he hadn't recognized it immediately.

Wigfall joined in with Simms. "Perhaps we should contact the authorities, have her arrested on the spot."

Wryly, and not at all nervously, she replied, "I'm sitting in a room with the president. If you have a higher authority than that in mind, I'd like to hear about it."

This reb.u.t.tal caused all eyes to turn to Grant. Now he really hated her. But Desmond Fowler had cleared his throat and said ... he'd said ... oh, yes, now he remembered. The president asked, "What did you mean by *on the contrary,' Fowler? Why isn't she accountable here? Do you know something I don't?"

The question was so huge and ridiculous that he smiled in its wake. Fowler smiled back, and for one narrow, unreproducible instant, they might've shared a moment of camaraderie, had the subject been anything else in the world.

The moment pa.s.sed. Fowler's grin condensed into something harder and differently cruel. "Miss Haymes and I have come to an agreement. A formal, legal agreement which has been signed off upon by Salmon P. Chase."

"Signed ... signed off upon? That's not even English," Grant complained, but that wasn't what really made him mad. "You think you can go running to the Supreme Court every time you want to take steps I don't approve of?"

"You'll approve of this one when you hear it. But I didn't have time to convince you outright, so I've taken a shortcut. And before you say so, yes, I know you can fight the Chief Justice on this. I have only his word to back it up. The rest of the court is not yet involved, though it certainly could become part of the game if it has to."

"Don't threaten me, Fowler."

"No one's threatening anyone!" he protested. "I'm only explaining why I've taken the path of least time investment and resistance. And if you'll only let the lady speak, I think you'll agree that I've come to the right conclusion."

"If you're so sure I'd come around, why didn't you just ask me in the first place?" Grant demanded. He walked over to the liquor cabinet despite only halfway noticing that he needed another drink, so accustomed were his hands to finding refills before he'd even detected the gla.s.s was empty.

Fowler snuck a glance down at Katharine, who sat calmly and still. "Because Miss Haymes makes her case better than I do, but I was compelled to guarantee her safety during her visit. I did not have time to risk the possibility of your disapproval. Now, I'm asking you, Mr. President, if you'll kindly hear her out. She might surprise you."

"Fine. Talk," he commanded, and when he was finished pouring, he found his seat again. He leaned back, feeling stronger with the drink in his hand. "You've gone to all this trouble, after all. It'd be a shame to waste a judge's signature. But I don't care if you surprise me. I want you to impress me-and it had better be good, or I might well be sending a carriage around to Justice Chase's house. The impolite hour be d.a.m.ned."

"Very well, and thank you," she said, and the other men in the room hovered closer, huddling nearer to the tense little axis of drama.

She began: "First, I'd like to thank you for giving me your time and your attention. And second, I must thank Mr. Fowler for being kind enough to make the arrangements which have made my visit possible."

Grant, out of patience and full of drink, interjected, "I hope *third' brings us to the point."

"Third," she continued, as if she hadn't heard the naked irritation in his voice, "I am here because the CSA is losing the war, and I don't want to go down with it. I'm not altruistic, and by your definition I absolutely am a criminal. I have nothing to hide, because all I want is to protect myself. I want to survive the fall of the Confederacy, and whatever comes after it."

"And how do you plan to do that?" Jemison Simms asked, his usual grumpiness tempered by curiosity.

"I enjoy bargaining, and I do it well; indeed, this is something that Mr. Fowler and I have in common-a deep-seated belief that in the midst of any difficulty, there is a compromise to be found that will benefit all parties."

"So what do you bring to the table, Miss Haymes?" Grant asked, because he knew better than anyone that political bargaining was just another way of saying "gambling."

"I bring the end of the South's rebellion. I bring the end of your war-thanks to a weapon the likes of which the world has not yet seen."

"We've already got one of those-a submarine we've fished out of New Orleans. Our engineers are having a devil of a time with it, but they say exactly what you're saying: It could end the war, reestablish the Anaconda plan, choke off their supplies at last."

A flicker of annoyance shadowed Haymes's brow. "I've heard of this machine. The papers say it's a modern marvel, and I have no reason to disbelieve them. But if I understand correctly, you can barely pilot the craft at all, and there's only the one prototype. If you're very lucky, you'll *choke them off,' as you put it, within another year or two at best. More likely three or four, if you ask me."

She wasn't entirely wrong, and that was the only reason Grant didn't interrupt.

Since no one else interrupted, either, she went on. "I can bring you something better. Something faster, and more powerful. Something tested, proven, and catastrophic-something that could end the war in a single battle, if the battle is chosen wisely. Or a single target, depending on your personal commitment to the war's conclusion.

"I will provide you with this weapon, and it will cost you nothing."

"Oh, it'll cost us something," Simms growled.

"Nothing you value," she clarified. "I ask for amnesty and immunity with regards to any charges resulting from the Rossville incident in 1878, so that when the Union is ultimately restored, I can rejoin it with a clean slate. No charges, no threats-just the chance to begin again."