The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (61 page)

She glanced at him for a moment, and then her eyes traveled to some indeterminate spot to the side of him and grew distant, as if looking into the future. “If Lincoln dies tonight—”

“He won’t.”

“If Lincoln dies tonight,” she continued, “he’ll be remembered as the greatest president the country ever had. If you change history, you change how he’ll be remembered through the ages.”

A vein in Braham’s temple throbbed, and he fell silent, finally accepting he would be unable to persuade her to his position.

“The President’s party will fight him over policy, over reconstruction. Possibly, he could be impeached for overstepping executive powers, over passing amendments and laws, or blockading Southern ports. He’ll end his term battling criticism, to be remembered as a mediocre man and a mediocre president. You’ll rob him of his immortality. Is that what you want?” She let out a long, shuddering breath; her shoulders sagging. The last vestiges of her focused determination seemed to crumble and fall away. “There’s nothing more I can say.”

While he stood alone, watching her, she went across the street to the townhouse. Each step she took carried her farther away from him. The bond they had created stretched to the point of breaking.

When the front door closed, he swallowed with regret, but there was nothing to swallow. His mouth was dry and scratchy as sand. He bit the inside of his cheek trying to summon a little saliva. Nothing. A sudden instinct engulfed him, as if the blazing roof he had rescued Charlotte from was about to crash down on his head.

68

Washington City, April 14, 1865

W
hen Braham arrived
at Secretary Stanton’s office in the War Department, the door was closed. A loud, unrecognizable voice could be heard through the walls. He heaved an impatient sigh, blowing air through pursed lips. Should he wait or go on to Seward’s house? Stanton was the most powerful man in Washington, aside from the President, and he was also Braham’s boss.

He decided to spend a few minutes here, and give his mind time to search the untidy cupboards in his brain for the information he’d read months ago in Jack’s books about Lincoln. Large blocks of text simply remained unrecoverable, specifically, the exact sequence and time of the evening’s events. This had never happened to him before. He blamed the unusual memory loss on the intensity of his shock when he read the account of the assassination. He had remembered Secretary Seward was attacked around the same time, but he couldn’t recall if it happened before Lincoln was shot or afterwards.

The thrum of conversation in Stanton’s office showed signs of strain and then went quiet. He would give the secretary five more minutes before he would have to leave for Seward’s house. Braham lingered in front of the window, hands braced on each side of the frame, gazing out over the White House. A torchlight procession of employees from the Navy Yard was marching by singing “Rally Round the Flag.” He rocked to and fro on the balls of his feet, as if readying for a quick getaway.

Only a handful of people knew what was supposed to happen during the next few hours. Charlotte and Jack were back in his townhouse, while the others, a handful of conspirators, were moving into their places and preparing to attack. Braham took a deep breath, then gagged at the sour mixture of stale sweat, slightly tainted food, and remnants of an earlier celebration which fouled the air in the room. The odor hung like an unrelenting fog. Desperate for a clean breath of air, he fully raised the window and leaned out, gulping greedily.

He shoved fingers through his hair, and encountered the leather thong securing the queue at his nape. He ripped it out, leaving his hair loose around his shoulders. Before he left town on assignment, he would cut it, but he wouldn’t do so while Charlotte still shared his bed. He enjoyed the sensation when she ran her fingers from scalp to ends. If he accomplished tonight what he intended, everything would change between them. When he arrived home, she’d be sequestered in her room, not waiting in his bed. He would never again hear her soft moans of pleasure.

The door to Stanton’s office creaked open, and, low-voiced, the Secretary said, “He’s rejected my resignation.”

Hearing Stanton wanted to resign sent a small jolt through Braham. The Secretary couldn’t quit. The President’s reconstruction efforts would be hampered, if not stymied, without him. Stanton was a man of steel, unmoved by events or personal feelings. But beneath the hard exterior, he had a powerful and abiding respect for Lincoln. He must stay on as Secretary of War.

Braham picked up his hat and idly threaded the brim through his fingers—an illusion of calm he had perfected. The action was so mundane he appeared unconcerned and relaxed, when what he wanted to do was flare his nostrils and crack every one of his knuckles.

“He knows of your fragile health. Did he tell you why?” the visitor asked.

“He only said I cannot go,” Stanton said.

The visitor approached the outside door and grasped the knob, swinging the door open to the creak of old hinges. “The President knows you understand the situation better than most. The country needs you.” He reclaimed his walking stick from the cast iron stand and quit the room.

Stanton watched the door close then turned his attention to Braham. “Come in, Major.” He picked up a quire of paper from his desk and held it out to him. “Here are two reports describing what happened in Richmond the night of the fires. Both are based on statements made by eyewitnesses. The President has requested a report. I need you to review these, and if you find errors, correct them.”

“Will tomorrow—”

“Mr. Lincoln wants it on his desk in the morning. So make yourself comfortable.”

The embers in the hearth broke apart with a soft
whuff,
and Braham let his breath out in a long sigh, shoulders slumping in capitulation. He settled into a chair in front of the desk, still warm from the visitor’s body. He massaged his forehead, hoping to fend off a headache. Reliving the pain and trauma of the Richmond fires wasn’t compatible with recovering the lost timeline and avoiding another headache. His only option was to read quickly, make a few notes, and get out of there. If he didn’t save the President, it wouldn’t matter what was on his desk in the morning.

Thirty minutes later, Braham had made the final notation on the last page of the second report when a cup of coffee was set on the table in front of him.

“Thought you might need this,” Stanton said.

Braham stacked the papers together. “Thanks.” He gulped some of the lukewarm coffee. “I’ve made a few comments in the margins. On the whole, their information is consistent with what I witnessed. Now, I must leave. I have correspondence from the President to deliver to the Secretary Seward.”

“Go on then. He was tiring when I visited earlier.”

“I haven’t seen him since his stagecoach accident, but I heard he’ll have a full recovery.”

“In time,” Stanton said.

The stress of Braham’s delay caused a painful tightness in his neck and exacerbated his headache. He rarely had one, but since the beatings in Castle Thunder, he’d had them frequently, along with blurred vision. He took another swallow of coffee, then hurriedly left the building.

Seward lived in a three-story brick house facing Lafayette Park on Madison Place near Pennsylvania, only a short distance from Braham’s townhouse. He checked his timepiece—nine-fifteen. It was still early, and there was time enough to get his horse before going to Seward’s. He rushed over to his house, but went directly to the stables. Another confrontation with Charlotte would only delay him further.

The time was nine-thirty when he swung into the saddle for the short ride to Seward’s residence. There, he dismounted and tied the reins to the hitching post. All was quiet except for the distant din of the Navy Yard employees’ procession and the creaks and sighs of tall trees. A small twinge of unease escalated to a high pitch. Nothing was amiss, but the dark air seemed heavy with threat. He removed the cylinder from his .44 caliber Remington revolver, grabbed a new one from his pre-loaded cylinder pouch, and locked it into place.

The moon, two days past full, rose high over Washington. Under its clear, bright light, Braham scouted the perimeter of the house. At the back property line, he stopped and searched for clues to explain his unease. The dense smoke and intermittent bright sparks flying from the chimney in a shower of fireworks caught his attention, but nothing else.

Satisfied the outside of the residence was secure, he cautiously approached the front door, and put his ear to the dark wood, listening. He heard no scuffling or groans to indicate a fight was in progress, nor gunshots, nor screams. If the Secretary had already been attacked, there would be hysteria. And there wasn’t any.

He rang the doorbell and waited, his revolver at the ready. The doorman, Mr. Bell, whom Braham had spoken to on previous visits, answered the door.

“Evening, Bell,” Braham said, handing over his hat and gloves. “Is the Secretary awake? I have a message from the President.”

“He’s trying to sleep, Major, but he’d want the message. Miss Fanny and Sergeant Robinson are with him in his bedroom at the top of the stairs. Go on up.”

Before ascending the stairs, Braham paused for a moment at the entrance to the drawing room. The gaslights had been turned down for the night, and the fire banked. An unusual stillness prevailed. He’d never been in the room when the Secretary wasn’t sitting in his easy chair, surrounded by billowing smoke from his black cigar, swirling a drop of brandy in a glass while regaling his guests with comments about the day’s events. Braham blinked and looked away, bringing himself back to his surveillance.

The scent of Magnolia blooms reached him from a vase on the table next to the staircase, but it wasn’t the flowers which made his nose twitch. It was the aroma of fried chicken drifting in from the back of the house, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since midday. Tomorrow there would be plenty of time to eat.

“Bell, the streets are crowded tonight with citizens celebrating Lee’s surrender. They may find their way here to express their gratitude. Guard the door well. Don’t let anyone else in.”

“Been listening to the music, sir. If anyone comes by, I’ll send them on their way,” Bell said.

Braham pounded up the stairs, his boots striking the boards with dull thuds. His heart thumped as if he had run for miles. His hand went instinctively to the hilt of the saber clanking at his side. On the landing on the third floor, he met Frederick Seward coming out of one of the bedrooms.

“Evening, Major.” Frederick glanced back into the room before closing the door, and said quietly. “Father’s almost asleep.”

“I have a message from the President, but it can probably wait until morning. No need to disturb him.”

Fredrick, seeming ambivalent, raised his brow. He knew as well as Braham his father would want the message from Lincoln, but Frederick preferred his father’s rest not be interrupted.

Secretary Seward took the decision out of his gatekeeper’s hands, calling from the bedroom, “If it’s Major McCabe, send him in, Fredrick.”

“He doesn’t want to miss any news. You better go in.” Frederick shook his head, dark brows drawn together.

Braham hesitated before opening the door, making one last dash through his memory in hopes of deciphering the blurred time sequence, but came up blank. He stepped into the room, his eyes taking a moment to focus as they adjusted to the darkness. Here, too, the gaslights were turned low, and the bright glow from the hearth gave the room spotty, wavering illumination.

Fanny, the secretary’s precocious daughter, sat on the far side of the bed reading. She glanced up and gave Braham a welcoming nod. He had had several enlightening conversations with her during dinner parties, and had found her to be both witty and intelligent. He couldn’t help comparing her to Charlotte. Both were educated women, conversant in a wide range of subjects. But Charlotte had something Fanny didn’t, something intangible and unidentifiable which hovered companionably in the back of his mind, tickling his subconscious and flooding him with a sense of peace. It was more than possible, once Charlotte left, he would never again feel settled in his life.

A sergeant, probably the night nurse, sat near the head of the bed, closest to the door. He stood, acknowledged Braham, and moved to the chair placed at the end of the bed, limping slightly.

“Good evening, Major. Has Secretary Stanton sent another soldier to guard my father?”

Braham tried to smile as he sat in the vacated chair, but his lips felt stiff, unbendable. “No, I bring a message from the President.”

The secretary was swathed in bandages. His shoulder was heavily padded, where the head of the humerus had fractured in the carriage accident. His face was badly bruised and his jaw was also broken. “Read me the message,” Seward whispered. The extensive metal splint he wore on his head restricted his movements and made speech difficult.

Braham opened the folded piece of paper and squinted in the dark. Fanny, sitting closest to the lamp, turned up the light, and he proceeded to read the news from Sherman.