Members of the Frontier Guard were visible outside the White House in various states of marching and military drills. Adam saw some on the roof of the house, standing guard with their rifles and bayonets, and others were positioned around the exterior of the house. As he approached, giving the password when asked, he looked up and saw the much smaller heads of the Lincoln boys. They were up on the roof, marching back and forth, carrying bayonets of wood.
At least, Adam assumed they were made from wood. One never knew with Tad Lincoln—or his parents, who were surprisingly permissible with him and his older brother.
The moment Old Ed opened the door for him, Adam felt the tension permeating the very air of the mansion. The house was strangely quiet, and even the line of job-seekers—though present—seemed more subdued than before.
Twilight would soon be nigh, and with it, the fear of invasion and the reality that war was here on their doorstep.
Adam hurried up the small, informal set of stairs most often used by the servants. When he entered onto the corridor of the second floor, he brushed past the line of people waiting to see the president, ignoring the two of them who tried to catch his attention. The single guard outside Lincoln’s office allowed him entrance without hesitation. Inside, he found Lane, the three secretaries, General Scott, Major Hunter, and Secretary Cameron with the president. He was mildly surprised to see Scott there, because his gout had become so painful Lincoln usually came down to meet him so the elderly general didn’t have to climb the stairs.
As before, the bleak expressions of the men in the room spoke volumes and Adam wondered if there’d been some further bad news.
“The Massachusetts regiment is trying to repair the railroad so they can finish their journey here,” Cameron was saying. “But the mob in Baltimore injured so many that there aren’t enough able-bodied men to work quickly. The Rebels will be looking at us, sitting here without an army to speak of, and they’ll come in.”
“Ballycock. I told McCruder just yesterday—Washington as a city isn’t easily defensible,” Scott said stoutly. “Why would the Rebels risk coming in and taking the city, then have to protect it? I told him then, and I say it now. I don’t believe Washington is in danger.”
Lincoln was standing at one of the tall windows that overlooked the mall and the Smithsonian Castle. Beyond were visible the soft, green hills of Alexandria and its surroundings, where Southern troops were gathering. Adam could even see—so certainly the president could as well—the plantation home owned by Robert E. Lee.
Only yesterday, the brilliant Colonel Lee had been offered the generalship of the Union Army. He demurred, stating that he could never fire upon, nor lead a charge upon, his own state of Virginia—though he disagreed with the idea of secession.
His polite declination and subsequent quitting of the city was nevertheless underscored by the flag of his new commission—the Stars and Bars of the Confederacy—which fluttered from the top of his home, distinguishable from Lincoln’s office.
It was, in Adam’s mind, a blunt, unnecessary smack in the face of the president as well as the Union itself.
“Well, now, if I were Beauregard,” said the president, breaking in after a long silence, “I reckon I’d take Washington. Immediately and without hesitation. While our trousers are down around our ankles, so to speak.” He turned from the window. “And so that’s what we prepare for. Imminent invasion.”
“If they don’t let our troops come through Baltimore, by God, I’ll raze the damned city,” Lane said, a wild glint in his eye. “Send the Marylanders that message, sir. I’ve got enough Jayhawkers here to burn the city to the ground. They won’t mess with us. They’ve got to let the regiments from the North through.”
Lincoln looked at him, shaking his head. “Now, I can’t let you do that, Jim. Maryland is hanging Union by a thread. If she secedes—and I reckon if there’s any show of force from Washington, it’ll put her over the line to the South—we’re trapped worse than a rabbit in a foxhole.”
Lane looked as if he were about to argue, his dark gaze flashing with fury, but he held his tongue and gave a sharp, acquiescent nod.
“Is there any news on the men who were injured on their way through Baltimore?” asked the president as if Hunter hadn’t just spoken about it. Clearly, his mind was filled with far too many things. “Are we expecting them soon?”
“A scout came on ahead with the news they are traveling, but slowly, sir, due to injuries. And they bring four dead with them. They hope to be here before nightfall, as they are repairing the railroad tracks in stretches as they travel on them.” Scott looked out the window as if hoping to see a sign of the troops, though he was facing the wrong direction.
“All right then. I reckon the only thing left to do is drill your men, Major Hunter, and recruit as many more as you can scrape up there, Senator Lane. You too, Adam. If the Rebels come, I reckon they’ll come tonight or tomorrow before reinforcements arrive.”
Adam couldn’t disagree. He’d decided to save for later the brief report he meant to give the president regarding Jane Thorne when Lincoln looked at him suddenly. Eyes that had been faraway with contemplation and worry sharpened a bit.
“Is there anything of importance I should know about Thorne?”
“Only one thing for the moment, Mr. President. The rest . . . well, I reckon it can wait.”
Wait for what, Adam didn’t want to specify. Either they’d live through the attack by the Confederates or they wouldn’t. And though he wouldn’t forget his responsibility to the dead woman, at the moment he must help focus on the living—and keeping them that way.
Including and perhaps most important, the admirable man who’d taken on such an impossible, heart-wrenching job. Difficult enough to lead a country at war, Adam reflected soberly . . . but he reckoned it was beyond hell when that war was a violent rupturing of the country itself.
“What is it, then, Adam?” There was a rare testiness in Lincoln’s tone.
“We’ve discovered that Johnny Thorne is a woman.” As he said this, Adam glanced at Jim Lane. There was no flare of surprise in his expression, though everyone else in the room including the president made utterances of shock over this revelation.
He knew.
Although Lane subsequently reacted, joining the others expressing their disbelief at the idea of a woman pretending to be a soldier, it was clear that it had been no surprise to Jim Lane that Johnny Thorne was a woman.
Why didn’t he tell me?
Adam answered the ensuing questions briefly, and was more relieved than he should have been when the rest of the president’s Cabinet arrived for their three o’clock meeting. As Lincoln prepared to move to the large table in the anteroom where the cabinet met, Lane excused himself.
Adam did the same, and would have confronted his friend right then about the mystery of Jane Thorne and why Lane hadn’t seen fit to correct the mistake about her gender, but Major Hunter strode out with them.
“There won’t be anyone easily arriving on the train,” said the major grimly. “The mob in Baltimore will make sure of it. Even if the Sixth Massachusetts fixes it enough to travel on, they’ll tear it up again. And the Rebels have set a blockade at Harper’s Ferry, so no supplies or reinforcements can come by ship either. They’re gathering in Alexandria, and surely they’ll cross over either tonight or tomorrow night.”
“By my count, we’ve got the barely one hundred men we’ve mustered here in the White House, and Clay’s other hundred at the Willard. There’s nearly six hundred more at the Capitol, counting some stragglers and the Pennsylvania regiment—and that’s all we’ve got to withstand two thousand or more Confederates.” Lane’s expression had taken on the feral, almost fanatic look Adam knew well. His dark eyes glittered, and the uncombed mess of his hair and two-day stubble contributed to the wild look. “Lincoln won’t let us go in and teach the Rebels in Baltimore a lesson, so we’ll have to do it here.”
“How do you propose we do that i
n a city that can’t be defended with a mere six hundred men?” Hunter replied warily. “Against their thousands?”
Adam hid a grin. David Hunter wasn’t used to the scrappy, lawless type of war they’d fought in Kansas, and his skepticism in the face of Lane’s optimism was understandable. But the Southerners who’d fought them in Kansas were familiar with the fierce Jayhawkers and their leader. If nothing else, their reputation would put the fear of God into the Rebels.
“Well, I reckon I’ll go down to the St. Charles and have a whiskey, and I’ll put it out that my friend General Lane is preparing to take his wild Kansas fighters and attack Alexandria tonight,” Adam replied. “The pro-slavers know what to expect from the frontier fighters, and they’ll spread the word.”
Lane gave a little laugh. “Those Johnny Rebs’ll be pissing in their pants over that. Should give them a sleepless night. You do that, Adam, and I’ll get all the men moving around more in the yard, and in and out of the house here. Make it look like we’ve got a bigger army than we do, and impossible for anyone to count to be sure.”
Hunter nodded, still wary but now displaying a little hope in his expression. “There isn’t much else we can do but that, and wait for the troops to get here.” He gritted his teeth and sucked in a breath. “If we get through the next two or three days, it’ll be a goddamned miracle.”
* * *
A little after five o’clock that Friday evening, the train finally rolled into Washington City from Baltimore. Thousands of people had gathered at the depot for the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, excited to see the arrival of the battered regiment from Boston.
Sophie had walked to the Smithsonian in order to gather a new set of clothing and to see whether her uncle had returned. It didn’t appear he’d done so, but she left a note for him in case he did. She didn’t want him to worry needlessly in case he heard from Aunt Harriet that she wasn’t with them.
She was on her way back to the President’s House when the train whistle caught her attention as the cars approached the city. Caught up in the excitement and relief that the track was working, and that the armed troops had finally made it from Boston, she joined the crowd at the depot and found herself cheering among the smoke and ashes spewed by the engine as it rolled to a halt.
It reminded her, though on a much smaller scale, of the massive celebration a few years ago in New York City when the first telegraphic cable had been laid down across the Atlantic Ocean. Over a million people thronged the streets and were filled with excitement over the news. Unfortunately, the cable stopped working after only 366 messages, and a new one had not yet been laid.
Sophie hoped the reminder wasn’t a portent of things to come here as well.
Nearly all of the two hundred soldiers of the Sixth Massachusetts were injured in some manner, and many had difficulty making their way down from the high steps of the boxcar. There were others being brought off the train on stretchers, which tilted alarmingly as those who were wounded themselves attempted to care for their comrades.
A line of hackney cabs were already filled with passengers, leaving an even greater number of injured soldiers without transportation.
“Oh, we must help them,” said a dark-haired woman standing nearby. “They don’t even have bandages!” She began to push her way through the crowd toward the disembarking soldiers.
Sophie followed, slinging the valise with her clothing over an arm.
The next thing she knew, she had put aside all thoughts about the murder of Johnny Thorne and the bloody clothing that belonged to his killer, and was helping a young man who’d been hit in the thigh by a heavy piece of scrap metal flung at him during the riot. His trousers were torn and stained with dark blood, some of it still shiny, and he could put little weight on his leg because a horse had also stepped on his foot during the melee.
Without hesitation, Sophie wrapped her arm around his waist and said, “Lean on me, soldier.” She looked over and saw the woman who’d started the effort assisting another man to walk. “Where do we take them, miss?”
“The infirmary is on E Street,” replied the dark-haired woman who somehow had taken charge. “Near City Hall. This way.”
“I never thought to see the day when I’d need to lean on a pretty woman to get where I was going,” said the man as he allowed Sophie to help him along. His voice was tight with what she realized was pain, and she felt his muscles bunching as he tried to keep himself from putting too much weight on her. “I’m sorry about this, miss.”
“Not at all. What’s your name, soldier?” she asked. “And you mustn’t injure yourself further. I’m stronger than I appear; you can lean on me more heavily.”
“Thank you, miss,” he said. “My name is Heath Eldritch, and though I don’t want to crush you, I’m much obliged for your help.”
“It’s the least I can do to thank you for your bravery in Baltimore—and for supporting the Union. I’m Miss Sophie Gates. I’m only recently here from New York City.” She thought it might be best for her to talk so he didn’t feel obliged to make conversation as they paced their way north on New Jersey Avenue up to E Street.
“Good for Massachusetts!” shouted someone as they trudged past. “Long save the Union!”
“Bunker Hill is not forgotten!” cried another relieved soul.
“Thank God Massachusetts has not forgotten the Union,” said an elderly man as Sophie and her charge passed nearby. “Thank you, sir!”
Those of the regiment who were able to marched south to the Capitol in neat rows, carrying whatever weapons and supplies they’d been able to retain during the riot. The people who’d greeted the soldiers at the depot now spilled along either side of New Jersey Avenue, cheering and waving them on as the bedraggled soldiers made their way two blocks and up to the Capitol. Their troop’s military band had been lost during the riot—their instruments stolen or destroyed—and it was an odd, almost eerie experience to see a conflagration of soldiers marching without their band.
Sophie assisted Mr. Eldritch, walking with the other injured men and those assisting them, as well as the six who were carried on stretchers. They made their way northwest to the Washington Infirmary instead of to the Capitol, but received no less an enthusiastic welcome from those gathered to watch.
“I’ve only been in Washington for about eight weeks,” she said, working to keep her voice from sounding out of breath as he leaned more heavily on her. Blood from his injury now stained her skirt, and with every step, she felt the young man grimace with pain. She gave up trying to talk, focusing on taking as much weight as possible while managing her small valise with the change of clothing she’d gone to fetch from home.
Mr. Eldritch, who she guessed was about the same age as she—twenty-one—was neither a particularly slender man nor a stout one. He was dressed in black pantaloons and a civilian cap, but like a handful of others in his regiment, wasn’t yet wearing the official uniform of a dark gray coat. He carried a rucksack over his shoulder that had shifted and settled in the crevice between their torsos so that Sophie felt its weight bump against her with every labored step.
By the time they reached the infirmary, she was out of breath and damp with perspiration, and her corset felt even more tight and restrictive than usual. She’d managed not to trip over her skirt and crinoline, but the hems were dark with mud. And her valise had bumped against her hip the entire way. She’d surely have a bruise by tomorrow.
Nonetheless, Sophie was happy to have been able to assist Mr. Eldritch, for he could not have made it on his own. And what sort of welcome would it have been to these loyal troops if they’d been left at the depot waiting for a conveyance to return—or, worse, each had been required to make his own way? She was filled with admiration for the dark-haired woman who had taken the initiative and organized the crowd to step in and assist.
Inside the infirmary, they were directed to an empty bed in the long line of white-sheeted cots in the ward. The place was loud with activity and bustling with mo
vement, as this was the first significant influx of wounded soldiers to arrive—of what Sophie realized would likely be many.
Because she read a vast number of newspapers from a variety of cities, in both the North and South, she was not of the opinion shared by so many that the war would be over in a month or two. Each side was determined—and assumed—to be the victor, but yet cloistered by its own certainty that it would easily raze the other.
“I’m much obliged, Miss Gates,” said Mr. Eldritch as she placed her valise on the floor, then helped settle him on the cot.
The infirmary was sufficiently lit with gas lamps on the walls, and Sophie wondered briefly whether they, like those at the White House, would go out at nine o’clock when the gas company shut down for the evening. The ward to which they’d been directed smelled of antiseptic and the scents of unwashed bodies, blood, and other bodily fluids.
She looked around and saw that there weren’t enough attendants to see to each soldier immediately, and that no one would be available to examine Mr. Eldritch soon, as his injuries weren’t as severe or life-threatening as some others. The dark-haired woman who’d organized the effort was assisting her charge onto the next bed over, and Sophie heard her say something about getting bandages and water.
She turned back to Mr. Eldritch and said, “I’m going to remove your boot so when the doctor comes, he can take a look at it.” He nodded, then gritted his teeth as she carefully adjusted his injured leg flat on the bed, then expelled a rush of breath as she carefully began to loosen the boot from its lacings, gingerly working around his smashed foot.
“Where are you from?” she asked, hoping to distract him from the pain.
“Lowell,” he grunted. “Massachusetts.” He hissed out a breath as she finally pulled away the boot, revealing a gray stocking and a misshapen foot.
Murder in the Oval Library Page 13
