

Day Nine

Clayton Spann

Copyright 2011 Clayton Spann

Smashwords Edition

Discover other titles by Clayton Spann at Smashwords.com:

Exchange Rate

The Line of Eyes

Lord Protector*

Restorer of the World*

Expelled*

Two Timed

*Roger Ward Trilogy

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons (except for historical figures), living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To the Boys in the Blue and the Gray

On Fame's eternal camping ground

Their silent tents are spread,

And glory guards, with solemn round

The bivouac of the dead.

Guide to the Days

Day 1: October 2000

**Jack Mauer** , Director of ATU Los Angeles, prevents assassination of Senator David Falmer. Falmer is the Democratic nominee for president. Jack also rescues kidnapped wife Teri Mauer and daughter Kim. Nina Miller, a mole in ATU, murders Teri. Jack leaves ATU.

Day 2: May 2001

At President Falmer's request, Jack rejoins ATU. Jack prevents terrorists from exploding a nuclear bomb in Los Angeles.

Day 3: September 2004

**Chloe Bryant** has joined ATU as an analyst. She works with Jack, now a heroin addict, to contain a biological attack on the United States. Jack avenges Teri's death by killing Nina Miller. Jack is fired by ATU.

Day 4: November 2005

Jack has fallen in love with Audrey Paine, daughter of Defense Secretary James Keller. Jack is reinstated at ATU. He and Chloe prevent terrorists from shutting down the nation's electrical grid. To get necessary intelligence, Jack leads an assault on the Chinese consulate. The Consul is killed. Chloe helps Jack fake his death after learning President Charles Rogin will have him killed to placate the Chinese government.

Day 5: February 2007

President Rogin learns that Jack is alive. Rogin has David Falmer killed, and targets Jack and Chloe for assassination. Rogin is in league with Graem Mauer, Jack's brother, to take over oil fields in Central Asia. Jack reunites with Audrey Paine. Jack, Chloe and Secret Service agent **Aaron Price** combine to bring down Rogin. Jack is kidnapped by the Chinese.

Day 6: May 2009

President Wayne Falmer secures Jack's release from the Chinese, but the Chinese in turn have kidnapped Audrey Paine. A nuclear bomb detonates in Los Angeles, with more explosions threatened. Jack's father Phillip, brother Graem, Arab terrorists, and the Chinese are involved in this plot. The terrorists severely wound Falmer. **Noah Darnell** becomes president. All in a day's work, Jack kills his brother and father, prevents war with Russia, and rescues a vegetative Audrey. Audrey does not recover.

Day 7: May 2013

An out of control ATU has been shut down. Jack is under investigation for torturing terrorists, but the FBI—in a pickle—recruits him to fight new terrorists. These terrorists, backed by a secret American cabal, threaten to deploy a deadly biological agent. Jack, Chloe, Aaron, and FBI agent Renee Weller help defeat the cabal. During this crisis President **Allison Naylor** suffers an invasion of the White House, and Jack saves her life. Allison's daughter Olivia is complicit in the murder of a member of the cabal. Allison refuses to cover up the crime, and husband Henry deserts her.

Day 8: April 2015

Allison Naylor has reactivated ATU, and Chloe now works at ATU New York. Allison and Secretary of State **Ethan Canon** verge on concluding a historic peace treaty, but the Russians and Islamic terrorists try to sabotage it. Jack and Renee Weller are dragged in to combat the plot. Chloe is appointed Director of ATU New York. Jack and Renee fall in love, but the Russians kill Renee. Allison is desperate to salvage the treaty and tries to cover up Russian duplicity. As Jack slaughters Russians and maims U.S. agents, he almost defeats the cover up but is captured. Allison signs off on his execution. Stricken by conscience, she intervenes to save him. She resigns from office; **Mitchell Hightower** is president. Jack runs from both his government and the Russians.

Time does not change us. It just unfolds us.

Max Frisch

2015

Saturday, May 3

The escorting Secret Service agent led him into the ground floor elevator.

"I'm glad they made things right," said the agent.

"Thank you," said Mauer.

The agent smiled warmly. The immaculately groomed young man had treated him like royalty the moment he received Mauer from the federal marshals.

The marshals driving Mauer from Fort Meade to the White House had also acted cordially. Probably more in relief getting rid of a hot potato than sharing joy at his pardon. During his three weeks in custody the marshals had not known whether to regard him as monster or hero.

Despite the carnage he racked up, the Justice Department never formally charged him. The administration certainly didn't want to bring him to trial; too much dirty laundry. He bet at one point they debated returning him to the Chinese. He wouldn't put that past a weak sister like Hightower.

Instead President Hightower decided to declare him a hero. Mauer had after all saved the country's bacon, even if he went more overboard than usual. Mauer would get a blanket pardon, a hundred percent disability pension, a medal, and—most importantly—a worry free future.

Mauer did not know whether the Russians had been bought off or threatened with war. The latter option certainly didn't seem in character for Hightower; perhaps it was the Secretary of State who laid down the law. Ethan Canon certainly possessed enough savvy and balls to bring the Russians around.

Whoever engineered the pledge, Mauer was supremely grateful. The bottom line was the Ruskies would leave Mauer and his daughter alone. He would avoid witness protection and Kim could leave it.

The elevator doors opened. They were on the first floor of the West Wing.

"This way, sir." The agent extended his arm to the right.

But Mauer knew the way all too well.

They turned a corner and before them stretched the corridor leading to the Oval Office. The corridor was empty.

That surprised Mauer. There should be at least one Secret Service agent standing before the door opening to the Oval Office.

He shrugged. Security here wasn't his problem. Besides, during that nightmare day two years ago there had been dozens of agents around. Which hadn't mattered a bit.

Two years ago he wasn't in the West Wing to receive a medal. In these corridors he had killed invaders and saw a great friend heroically die. Though many other good men fell that day, Day 7 of the terrible days, the loss of Bill Bachman was still an open wound.

The terrible Days defined his career. Eight of them, spread over a decade and a half, which had killed or ruined everyone he loved except his daughter. Thankfully there would never be a Day 9.

After he saw President Hightower he would fly immediately to Southern California. Waiting would be Kim, son-in-law Stephen , and granddaughter Teri. Then he would enter a life completely devoid of drama. Just the way he wanted it.

Thankfully Hightower had agreed to a low-key ceremony. No press or publicity. A quick presentation, a short chat, then Mauer would be off to Andrews Air Force Base to catch a government jet to Los Angeles.

The agent slowed. "Here we are, sir."

The 45-degree angle of the corridor indicated they were outside the Oval Office.

The agent rapped, then opened the door.

"Mr. President, Jack Mauer is here."

"Thank you, Tom."

President Hightower rose from one of the lemon colored couches in the center of the sunlit room. The bland-faced, graying man who had replaced Allison Naylor four weeks ago smiled enthusiastically. Boy, thought Mauer, they really were glad to have him off their hands.

Two other men and a woman rose from the other sofa. He knew them all. He was pleased and flattered by their presence. He was especially heartened to see Chloe.

Though this was an informal meeting on a Saturday afternoon, they all wore business attire. He appreciated this gesture of respect.

He eyed Chloe. He had rarely seen her in anything besides slacks and sweater. Chloe would never win a beauty contest, but he must admit she looked nice when dressed up. And her usually blah brown hair had luster and was tastefully styled.

Mauer wore a suit himself. He had thought he would never wear coat and tie again—or civilian clothes of any sort. He had fully expected an orange jumpsuit to be his permanent duds.

Former President Noah Darnell and current Secretary of State Ethan Canon were smiling, but less broadly than Hightower. Pale, thin Chloe sported more of a grimace. She of course rarely smiled.

The President approached with extended hand. As they shook, his other hand patted Mauer's forearm.

Mauer disdained the forearm pat. The pat presumed an intimacy and trust that could only be earned by deed. Too often the pat marked a phony.

But he cut Hightower slack. The man was probably sincere in conveying gratitude. In addition to rescuing the country for the umpteenth time, Mauer had made him president.

Hightower swept his arm toward the others. "Jack, I believe you have met President Darnell and Secretary Canon. And of course, you are well acquainted with Director Bryant."

Darnell and Canon each awarded him a vigorous handshake. Both expressed hope that he was recovering well. Recovering from Chloe's shot through the shoulder, they left unsaid. Both thanked him for saving Manhattan from destruction and uncovering Russian authorship of the plot. That he had sunk Allison Naylor was also left unsaid. They wished him well in his future endeavors.

Chloe still hung back. He stepped and softly embraced her.

"It's good to see you, Chloe. And congratulations on being named permanent director of ATU New York."

"Thank you." Then she pulled away to stand a good two yards from the rest of them. She definitely did look uncomfortable.

Well, no wonder. She was socially clumsy anyway. Finding herself in the Oval Office with _two_ presidents had probably freaked her out. She'd never win the Miss Congeniality award, either.

But Mauer was certain the men in this office knew her true value. Chloe had distinguished herself during Day 8, when she was named interim director at New York. It had been a no-brainer to keep her in the job. So what if she were only thirty-four? She was smart, decisive, and more importantly, didn't offer or tolerate bullshit.

"Jack," said the President, "why don't we proceed to the presentation? We can do it in front of the Resolute." Hightower gestured toward his desk. "I would have of course preferred we hold the presentation on the South Lawn. With the whole nine yards, including the Fife and Drum Corps. You deserve it."

"I appreciate your honoring my request, Mr. President." Just hand him the medal and be done with it. The DDSM was a worthless gong anyway, usually awarded for valorous paper shuffling.

Darnell and Canon moved over the royal blue carpet to flank Hightower. Darnell towered over the other men. Chloe did not move until the President asked she join them. The group stood around the seal of the United States embroidered in the carpet.

Then Hightower removed a black case from his suit jacket. The case bore gilt lettering. Mauer came to attention.

"On behalf of the people of the United States of America," said Hightower, "I hereby award John Phillip Mauer the Defense Distinguished Service Medal for acts far, far above and beyond the call of duty. His bravery and devotion to protecting this country are awe-inspiring. We can never repay our debt to Agent Mauer. We can, however belatedly, offer our profound respect and thanksgiving."

The President's soft cornpone voice reduced the praise to near parody. But Mauer didn't care.

Hightower handed him the case. Mauer did not open it. He would chuck the case and the medal within soon as he got home. He wanted no reminder of the Days.

Hightower shook his hand again, as did Darnell and Canon. Chloe pecked his cheek.

For a moment they stood awkwardly. Then the President motioned toward the facing couches.

"Jack, please have a seat."

The men once more offered benevolent smiles. Chloe did not.

Chloe knew him better than anyone else now, including Kim. She knew how much he disliked idle small talk. She knew he wanted out of here, and fast.

Mauer almost said, thank you gentlemen, but I have a plane to catch. Of course he didn't. Mitchell Hightower had after all restored his life. And the man was only being gracious in not immediately dismissing Mauer. Mauer must be gracious back.

So he sat on the very comfortable couch. Through the tall window to the left of the President's desk Mauer saw Marine One perched on the South Lawn. Guilt pangs stirred. He was so eager to bolt that he hadn't considered the President's own plans.

The helicopter surely waited to whisk the President and First Lady to Camp David or some other spot. The pair would already be gone for a weekend break if not for this presentation. No doubt Hightower too wanted to wrap this up.

"Thank you again, Mr. President, for the pardon. And for intervening with the Russians."

When FBI caught him a week after Naylor resigned, Mauer knew at best he faced a life in the Colorado supermax. Now he had all those sunny tomorrows ahead. The last time he envisioned such a future was before Day 4, when he and Audrey were in love and he was free of ATU.

Barbed wire pulled through his intestines. He wished he had not thought of Audrey. Audrey would forever live in her own supermax, that of a catatonic state.

"The least we could do for you, Jack."

Then Hightower's smile faded. Ditto for Darnell and Canon. Chloe looked even grimmer. Heavy silence pervaded the Oval Office.

Hightower cleared his throat.

"Jack, have you even been to Camp David?"

Mauer blinked. What did that have to do with anything?

"No, Mr. President."

Darnell also cleared his throat. "Camp David is probably the most secure location in the country. Even more so than the White House."

Mauer knew the facility sat on top of a mountain somewhere in western Maryland. But again, why tell him this?

Unease stirred, then he relaxed. Hightower was probably about to invite Mauer there for the remainder of the weekend. As a further demonstration of gratitude. A fine honor—which Mauer wondered how to reject diplomatically.

"Jack," said the President, "you know I have also pardoned Allison Naylor. I have caught heat, but I am convinced it is best for the country. We have had enough national trauma over the past dozen years, and criminal trial of a president would only add to it."

"I understand, Mr. President." Mauer would have hung her from a lamppost, but mostly for personal revenge.

"Since I pardoned her, she has been staying at Camp David. She requested a couple weeks there, as refuge from the public and press. I felt it would be good to have her out of sight too."

"I see," said Mauer.

"I will be departing for Camp David before evening." Hightower paused and didn't quite maintain eye contact with Mauer. "I would like you on Marine One with me."

Mauer was sure he had misheard the President.

"Sir?"

Darnell cast his deep baritone. "I will be accompanying the President. As will Ethan."

Mauer didn't understand. Or maybe he did. His stomach quickly soured.

He was finally getting it: this medal presentation had been but a ploy. A deception to get him in this office which reeked of call to duty. To plead he undertake another mission, a mission which was of course vital to national security.

Their gall was amazing.

Over his career he had sacrificed much and gained little. In his euphoria at receiving the pardon he had thought the President only trying to balance the ledger. Dropping his guard was inexcusable. When had not everything in this world been quid pro quo?

What dirty work at Camp David did they have in mind? To pry some state secret from Allison Naylor, pry as only he could?

Mauer stood. "Sir, I have that flight. At four-thirty."

"I know, Jack. I apologize for how this looks. The pardon and pension are completely sincere on my part, and free of any obligation on your part. But a situation has developed."

"That is not my concern, Mr. President."

Chloe had risen to face him. Her too close together eyes were full of foreboding.

"It's everyone's concern, Jack. Please listen."

"I wouldn't think you in on this bait and switch." He bore his eyes into hers. "From these—politicians—I expect it. Not you."

"Hear them out. Please."

"I'm leaving. I'm going home."

Mauer circled the couches to head for the corridor door. With surprising agility Noah Darnell blocked his path.

"Allison is going to fuck us all," he said.

Darnell, linebacker big, looked ready to keep him from exiting. Mauer of course could make short work of Darnell. But aside from the absurdity of subduing a former president in this hallowed room, he'd blow his pardon and pension for sure.

Mauer checked his wristwatch. Quarter of three.

"You have fifteen minutes. Then I am out of here."

"Please sit," said the President.

"No, I'll stand." He again gave Chloe a malevolent stare. She bit her lip.

"Aaron Price accompanied her to Camp David," said Hightower. "You know Agent Price."

"Of course." Aaron was one of the finest men ever in the Secret Service. More than once he and Mauer had teamed during the terrible days.

"Did you know he has become romantically involved with her?"

"With _Naylor_?"

"Yes. For at least a year. They were extremely discreet. We have only become aware of the liaison in the past few days."

Soon after Day 5 Aaron had retired from the Secret Service. But he came back on duty during Day 7. He had been instrumental in obtaining evidence against Naylor's daughter Olivia, when she conspired to murder a federal prisoner. Olivia was still serving time.

Surprisingly Allison Naylor had kept Aaron on White House duty after her daughter was arrested. Mauer had thought she only did that to not appear vindictive. A romance was the last thing Mauer expected to bloom.

"You have to be kidding."

"It's confirmed," said Chloe.

Again he gave her a hard look.

Then he shook his head. "So this is the crisis? What crisis? She's out of office and can sleep with whoever she wants."

Even in office she had been a free woman after her divorce. She would have been violating only convention by having a lover in the White House.

"Jack, what I reveal from this point stays between the five of us," said Hightower. "I want your pledge beforehand."

"Of course." But it didn't matter what Hightower said. Mauer was going home.

Hightower sighed. "No other way to say it, but to say it. Even if you think we are deranged. Jack, Camp David is a front. An astounding discovery was made in 1942, when the place was just woods near a summer camp for government employees. Shortly afterward FDR closed public access and proclaimed the area a presidential retreat."

What had they found there? Uranium? Gold?

His mind raced. What if the discovery was a huge deposit of gold? Large enough to devalue the world's the other gold holdings? That might cause a financial panic. Was Naylor threatening to disclose that knowledge?

Mauer told himself to slow down. Let Hightower fill in the blanks. Then Mauer could make his evaluation.

But it was Darnell who took up the narrative. Hightower seemed relieved. This president did have that rap, a man adverse to confrontation and decision. Hightower sagged into the couch next to his Secretary of State.

By contrast, silver haired Canon sat erectly. His posture and vigilant eyes reminded Mauer of an eagle. Which he was. Ethan Canon had excellently served the country in the two highest cabinet posts and as White House chief of staff.

Chloe sat tightly coiled, her knuckles white. Was she so tense because she feared she had lost Mauer's good will? Or was there merit to the "situation"? Please, let it be the former.

Mauer remained squared off with Darnell and his bushy eyebrows and meaty face.

"Camp David sits atop a geological—and gravitational—anomaly," said Darnell. "The bulk of the mountain is composed of very compressed igneous rock. The formation is even more dense than lead. The formation should have sunk long ago into the earth's core, but somehow it is trapped in the crust."

What was this, a geology seminar? The former president paused as if waiting for comment from Mauer. Mauer instead looked at his watch.

Darnell's eyes narrowed as he went on. "Back in 1942 a ranger at the summer camp was hiking when he knocked loose a rock. The rock rolled into a shallow crater, then disappeared. There was no hole in the crater. The ranger thought he was seeing things. He tested whether it would happen again. It did."

Despite himself, Mauer's interest was piqued. "Go on," he said.

"The man knew he had come across something extraordinary. Thankfully he had enough brains to keep his mouth shut until he could show his brother, who was a naval officer stationed in Washington. From there it went up the chain of command. FDR acted shortly thereafter."

Mauer checked his watch. Only a few minutes left. "You haven't hit me with the punchline yet."

Darnell broke from in front of Mauer. He went to pour himself some coffee. A silver pot and china cups sat on the table between the couches.

"Tell him, Ethan."

"Jack, please sit. I guarantee you will want to delay getting to Andrews."

"I doubt it, Mr. Secretary."

"The anomaly allows going back in time."

"Say again."

"The anomaly—we call it Transit One—apparently has enough gravitational pull to distort the space-time continuum. Transit One allows a person to step back in time in increments of nineteen years."

Mauer stared at the Secretary, then realized his mouth hung open.

"Hard to swallow, isn't it?" Canon smiled wanly. "I was thrown for a loop when James Keller told me."

That was a name Mauer never wanted to hear again. The son of a bitch, Audrey's father, had dared to blame him for her condition. Keller said Mauer was cursed, that he doomed any woman falling in love with him.

"Jack?"

Mauer's face had grown hot.

"Yes, Mr. Secretary?"

"I should explain how knowledge of Transit One is handled now. FDR, Truman and Eisenhower knew its exact location. When John Kennedy was elected, Eisenhower decided to divide that knowledge. He didn't trust Kennedy to act responsibly with the power the transit provides."

"The power, sir?"

"To change whatever you didn't like about the past. Ike feared Kennedy—who he in private called 'Little Boy Blue'—would use the power frivolously. Anyway, Eisenhower separately briefed Kennedy and Robert McNamara on the existence of Transit One. To each he gave two of four map coordinates. The coordinates form a trapezoid. The intersection of the lines drawn from opposite corners gives the location of Transit One."

Darnell, holding a coffee cup, came back into the game. "Each president hands down his two map points to his successor. As does the Secretary of Defense. The recipients pledge to share the coordinates only if the United States has incurred mortal damage—such as after a nuclear war, or a plague on the scale of the Black Death. Catastrophes that merely wipe out a couple million citizens do not qualify."

Darnell smiled as he spoke the last sentence. Darnell had proved a highly competent chief executive, but his sometimes cavalier attitude toward death had probably cost him the election—to the "idealist" Allison Naylor. Mauer had not minded the attitude. The deaths—in the form of enhanced interrogation and even more enhanced retaliation—fell on the mortal enemies of the United States.

"If it weren't you gentlemen telling me this," said Mauer, "I'd say you were handing me a first class line of horse manure. Maybe you are anyway."

Chloe patted the couch. "Jack, please."

This time Mauer did not refuse. He sat beside her.

"You buy this? Going back in time?"

"Yes. They showed me photos—color photos—from George Washington's time."

"No way."

"It's true, Jack. I was just as disbelieving."

"Show me the pictures."

"Soon," said Darnell. "But you wanted to know what's the crisis."

The big man sat opposite Mauer. "Two days ago Allison Naylor—and Aaron Price—went down the rabbit hole. Totally unauthorized. To totally screw us over."

Quiet again reigned in the Oval Office.

Mauer broke the silence. "So this is what this kabuki is all about. To get me to go down after her."

"Yes," said Darnell. "But the pardon and pension are yours to keep, whether you say yes or no."

"You make the answer easy. I'm going home."

"There may not be a home if you refuse."

"That's bullshit."

"Give us another half hour, Jack. If you still want out, we'll fly you to LA in Air Force One."

Chloe Bryant kept her eyes riveted to Jack as Darnell and Canon went on. She fought guilt. They were shamelessly using him, and she was too. She owned the greater shame because her motives were entirely personal.

She had no doubt that Jack would accept the mission. Bait and switch was right, except the real bait was yet to dawn on Jack. But it soon would. Jack would find the lure irresistible.

Darnell gave some background on Transit One. Which had been learned via deadly trial and error. The first man through, in mid 1942, had made it to 1923 and back. The next six did not return. The seventh man did return, but barely. All the men were young Secret Service agents sworn to absolute secrecy.

The first agent through had gone down Catoctin Mountain to the nearby town of Thurmont. He returned no worse for wear. Well, maybe. The observers—one of which was the Secretary of War—did think him a trifle shorter; at the time they dismissed it as just their imagination.

The agent reappeared within seconds. The agent insisted he had been in 1923 a full twenty-six hours. It was hard to dispute him, for he brought back a newspaper with the verifying date.

The next agent through had been instructed to go to Washington D.C. and take photos. When he did not return after two weeks, the next man was dispatched to find out what had happened. He also failed to reappear, as did the next four very brave volunteers.

The agent who did return—like the first, moments after entering Transit One—told a harrowing tale.

He arrived in Washington within a day of his descent from the mountain. He roamed the city searching for any sign of his fellow agents. He showed pictures of the missing men and even contacted the police. Then someone did remember seeing one of them. This missing man however was a midget. Uh, not really a midget, but still very short.

This man had been six one.

By his third day the searching agent noticed his clothes fitting loosely. He checked his height. He had lost two inches. He immediately fled Washington, and was down three more inches when he made it to Transit One.

Amazingly and fortunately, his height returned to normal within an hour.

Through later testing it was confirmed that the missing agents had shortened rapidly. They were estimated to have shrunk to helplessness—or to have simply disappeared—within a week.

The theory was that time possessed its own immune system. Time treated an out of place invader like a body did a genetically incompatible transplant. Time reacted to degrade and destroy the invader.

All this had blown her mind when she first heard it. Which was just yesterday, though it seemed a month ago.

But Jack did not bat an eye. She saw absolute concentration on his still handsome face.

It was amazing that he looked as good—and appetizing—as he did. Jack had borne injury and torture that would have aged anyone else into a nursing home. Aside from crow's feet and some gray in his golden hair he wasn't that much worse for wear. He fully exuded that raw masculinity that struck to the pit of her stomach.

"I assume two people last longer," said Jack, his first words in twenty minutes. "I'm also assuming that's why Chloe is here, to accompany me."

Yes, Jack was catching on fast.

The assertion seemed to catch Darnell and Canon off guard. Probably even after reading his file, even after experiencing his exploits in real time, they didn't know with whom they dealt. Both men probably viewed Jack as a superjock, not nearly as quick or clever as they, the skilled politicians. Many people had made the mistake of underestimating Jack Mauer.

"Very good, Jack," said Canon.

"How much longer do two people last?" asked Jack.

"That depends. Sixty days seems to be the maximum."

Bryant braced for Darnell to reveal the criteria for the maximum. It would be so embarrassing.

She felt heat creep into her cheeks. She hoped they were not reddening. What would Jack think when Darnell said romantic love protected a pair the longest? After the double take, would he laugh?

No, Jack would not laugh, even if he thought the possibility of a romantic link between him and her utterly ridiculous. Jack would never deliberately hurt her. For all his ferocity in the field, in normal settings he was thoughtful and polite. He was always a proper gentleman.

Darnell did not reveal the criteria.

"You haven't asked what Allison is up to," said Darnell.

"Oh, I can imagine," said Jack. "She's going back to 1996. Probably to give her 1996 self a heads up about the future."

That's what Bryant thought when they first briefed her. If only.

"If that's how it works," said Jack. "If an older version of a person can exist side by side with the younger."

Darnell nodded. "But the hard part would be to convince your younger self you weren't some nut job. What you'd think, an old guy shows up saying he's you?"

"Come on, Mr. President. He would know stuff about yourself only you would. After the initial shock, you'd probably buy it."

"Maybe—"

"No maybe. I can't blame Naylor going back. Not only can she avoid falling from grace, she can save the life of her son, prevent her daughter from going to jail, and keep her marriage intact. What I don't get is why any of that would bother you."

"Let me give you some perspective, Jack."

"I'd don't need perspective. Just tell me why Chloe and I should risk shrinking out of existence to stop Naylor doing some good. Hell, besides saving her ass, she might be planning to warn about all the terrorist attacks."

Then a fire lit behind his light blue eyes.

"Why haven't you used this power to stop the attacks of the past fifteen years?"

"They can't," said Chloe.

He whirled on her. His voice lashed.

"Because maybe history changes so they don't make it to the top? And you don't get to be director of ATU New York?"

She winced, then turned away. She tried to keep from tearing. He was right to be furious at her, but not for that reason. Oh, Jack.

Darnell's deep voice intervened. "A fair question. But you could also ask why haven't _I_ tried to go back. That way I could advise myself how to not lose the election to Naylor. I could still be president. And I could have snuffed out the last two terror plots and been a big hero."

"You must have been tempted."

"Regardless of what you might think, Ethan and I—and all our predecessors except this unholy bitch—have had the character to keep our pledge. Which is not to mess with history."

"I wasn't implying—"

The macabre smile returned. "Hard to believe, I know, politicians with integrity. But you mention temptation. It has been there from the start. Think of the discipline FDR had not to undo things. By sending back someone to take out Hitler in the 1920's, he may have prevented World War II."

"May have?" asked Jack.

"Yes. You've heard of Ernst Röhm? He was head of the Storm Troopers, nearly charismatic as Hitler and just as power mad. Hitler had him killed because he was challenging for control of the party. Point is, if Hitler had died in the 1920's, Röhm likely would have become Fürher. Which would have been even worse, because Röhm had been a professional military man. It is very unlikely he would have made Hitler's battlefield mistakes that cost Germany the war."

But would the Holocaust still have happened, Bryant wanted to ask.

"So you don't mess with history," said Darnell. "Unless you're losing the whole ballgame. FDR understood that. Hell, don't you think he wanted to send someone back to warn about Pearl Harbor? But he knew we had the resources to beat both Japan and Germany."

"I guess."

"Nothing to guess, Jack. I'll give you another example. How about stopping the Kennedy assassination? I was just a kid when it happened, but I remember the pain it caused my parents and teachers. I don't think the country has been the same since. So why didn't we do it, Jack? Clinton or Falmer or I could have prevented the assassination, if we could talk our Secretary of Defense into it. What held our hand?"

"I don't know. Maybe you should have. Maybe the Vietnam War could have been prevented."

"You have your eye on the wrong war, Jack. We dared not tinker with the course of the Cold War."

Jack's brow knitted.

"If Kennedy lived," said Darnell, "there is no guarantee that the Cold War would have ended the way it did. Or ended at all."

Canon piped up. "The path to Reagan and Gorbachev was not a fix. A two term Kennedy administration would have changed the line of presidential succession. Which could have changed who led the Soviet Union and prevented its fall. Which could mean we would still face the threat of full scale nuclear war."

Bryant's head was spinning. She had never been a student of history. She supposed what Darnell and Canon said made sense. At any rate, Allison Naylor threatened all that history and more.

Jack sighed and looked at Canon. "As you said, Mr. Secretary, this is a lot to swallow."

Canon nodded. "I know. But be sure of this, Jack. Allison is going back to seek the destruction of the United States."

"How? What can she do in 1996? And how did she get the other two coordinates? Who would give them to her?"

Canon puffed his cheeks. "We think Keller gave them up. He denies it. But of all the former Defense Secretaries, only he has motivation."

Jack looked like he had been slapped. Jack of course knew the motivation, the fully understandable desire of Keller to prevent his daughter's brain dead condition.

If not already, Jack too would soon look to 1996 to save Audrey. And Teri, and Renee, and Bill, all who had fallen during the crisis days. Bryant would have her own motivation, to save coworker Edgar...and to keep from marrying an alcoholic.

She acknowledged that it did take great discipline to not give in to such temptation. Roosevelt's policy was seemingly cruel. But the unintended consequences of violating that policy could be much crueler.

Would Jack see that?

"Since Franklin Roosevelt," said Darnell as he stood, "every president has refrained from altering history. FDR, Truman and Eisenhower used Transit One for research purposes only. Ike put an end to even that. No one has gone through Transit One since 1960. Until two days ago."

"So what is she up to?" asked Jack. "Can she muck things up that much in 1996?"

Darnell paced in front of the Resolute. He clamped hands behind his back.

Bryant didn't blame the former president for his hesitation to speak. When yesterday Darnell had broached what Allison Naylor intended, Bryant had thought him mad. And said so. Darnell had flashed that weird smile, then showed her the proof.

Darnell stopped pacing and faced Jack. "Forget 1996. We believe Naylor and Price have gone to 1863. To change the course of the Civil War."

"What?"

"We believe she's going to kill either Lincoln or Grant."

"Or possibly Sherman," said Canon. "Or maybe all three. With Price at her side, she'll certainly have the capability."

Chloe saw Jack looking at both men dumbfounded. She had rejected their assumption, too. Now she took it as gospel.

"Wait, wait," said Jack. "I don't see how she gets back that far. You said the men going from 1942 to 1923 returned to 1942 when they reentered Transit One."

"Transit One is a tricky entity," said Darnell. "Fortunately we had that stretch of sending people through to learn the ins and outs. If a person—or couple—reenters the transit within ten minutes, they go back another nineteen years."

"Why nineteen years?" asked Jack.

"We can only speculate," said Canon. "Some of Ike's investigators thought it was tied to the nineteen year lunar cycle. Nineteen years is a multiple of both the lunar month and the solar year. Lunar and solar gravity affect the tides. In some way they may also affect Transit One. It's just a theory, of course."

Jack still looked unbelieving.

"Whatever the reason, the intervals are nineteen years. Using them Eisenhower's people reached as far as the 1600's," said Canon. "We believe you could travel to the time of the cavemen—if so inclined."

"Jesus," said Jack.

"No," said Darnell, "Jesus H. Christ."

"There are some constraints," said Canon. "The primary one is that once you stop, you can't go any further. If Allison is indeed at 1863, she can't go from there to 1844. From 1863 she can only come forward. When she returns she can proceed directly to 2015. Or she can stop at each way station in between. With opportunity at 1882, 1901, etc., to wreck historical havoc."

Jack waved his hand. "I—there's something else you said, that a person returns seconds after he left. If Naylor and Price left two days ago, they should already be back. And far as I can tell, the North still won the Civil War."

"They will return May 1," said Canon. "But the clock is still ticking on whether they can change things."

Now Jack appeared utterly confounded.

"Jack," said Darnell, "I said Transit One was tricky. But in a way it has its own perfect logic. Eisenhower's people did a simple experiment. In 1956 they sent a guy through on a Monday—to 1937—and he waited until Thursday to chisel an X in a rock near the transit. On Tuesday another man came through. He stayed only a couple hours. Back in 1956, Tuesday, there was no X in the rock, nor had the first guy returned. When the first guy did return, on Friday in 1937 but Monday in 1956, now there was an X. Which means that Naylor and Price have not yet applied their chisel. There is still time to stop them."

Jack looked at Bryant. "This making sense to you?"

"Not at first. But today it does."

"Really?"

"Absolutely, Jack. It is entirely logical." Well, as Darnell said, in its own way.

Jack turned to Darnell and Canon. "If any of this is true, why would Naylor want the South to win? Where's the gain in that for her?"

Canon looked glum. "Losing office may have partly unhinged her. We—"

"Partly?"

"But there is something else," said Canon. "As an undergraduate she was a history major, an exceptional one. She graduated summa cum laude. Anyway, her sophomore year she wrote a term paper. It proposed that if the Confederacy had won the Civil War—mainly through the untimely demise of Abraham Lincoln and Ulysses Grant—then Fascism would not have succeeded in Germany or communism in Russia. No World War II, no Holocaust, no Gulag. She concluded that at least one hundred million lives would have been saved."

"That paper was used against her in her first Senate campaign," said Darnell. "Her opponent thought he had a sure thing; you don't advocate killing Lincoln and Grant. But you know her charm. I had a quarter her charm, I'd be president for life. She laughed it off, saying she was playing devil's advocate, and besides, she was just a sophomore. She won that election by eighteen points. Nobody brought it up again."

Jack snorted. " _That's_ why you think she went to 1863?"

"She was dead serious," said Canon. "She told me so after that election." Canon had been a long time friend and advisor to Naylor.

"Even if she was serious, how does the Confederacy surviving do anything to help with World War II? If anything, a divided United States would probably give Hitler the victory."

"You're forgetting the First World War," said Canon.

"I don't follow."

"The entry of the United States snatched victory from Germany. By 1918 Germany had won vast territories in the east, including modern day Poland, Belarus, Ukraine, and Romania. Britain and France were worn out. If America had not entered the war, an armistice favorable to Germany would likely have been concluded."

Bryant saw Jack shaking his head.

Canon went on. "The Kaiser would have remained on his throne. Germany would have avoided the humiliation and upheaval that brought the Nazis to power. A Germany with her armies intact would also have been in position to quash the communist revolution in Russia. The world would be a very different—and probably a much better place."

Jack was looking as if Naylor wasn't the only one who had become unhinged. Bryant had to admit Canon sounded wistful.

"Thing is," said Darnell. "She now has the means to act on her 'devil's advocate' musings."

Jack again shook his head. "Even if the South won independence, the North would still be a strong country. The North had most of the population and industry. It could still enter World War I with enough strength to matter."

"Not according to Allison," said Canon. "She believed the deaths of Lincoln and Grant would derail the Northern war effort. Great Britain was itching to recognize the Confederacy; chaos in the North would have given them the excuse. Allison believed that once Britain made the recognition, the North would be unforgiving. It would not come into World War I on Britain's side. A grateful South might have, but its military contribution could not be decisive."

"She's out of her gourd," said Jack.

Darnell smiled. "I know, I know. But this is how Allison Naylor sees things. And right now she's gunning for Abe Lincoln. If she gets him in the middle of the Civil War, history is going to flow a hell of a lot differently. Probably not the way she wants, but neither will it be good for the United States."

"No. Not at all."

"So what do you say, Jack, are you in or out?"

In the Rose Garden Darnell walked with Canon and Hightower. Ethan looked grim, but accepting. Mitch looked sick to his stomach. Jack and Chloe were in the Oval Office telephoning loved ones with some lie as to why they would be out of touch a couple days.

On the South Lawn the late afternoon sun glinted off Marine One. Shortly the bird would be airborne with three super duper VIPs and two prospective time travelers. If it all worked out, the VIPs would return, and the time travelers would not. If the venture failed, no one would come back from Camp David.

It was such a beautiful afternoon. Darnell loved early May in Washington. The days were balmy and long. Foliage was lush and fragrant, the skies mostly blue, and the air free of the brutal humidity to come. In early May there was little reason to leave the White House for Camp David.

"You going to be okay with this, Mitch?" asked Darnell.

Pain crossed Hightower's face. "I wish we had another option."

Darnell hid a sneer. On his own, Mitch would have had neither the wisdom nor fortitude to kill Mauer and Bryant.

"It has to be done," said Ethan. "I don't like it. I'll take the regret to my grave. But the necessity is absolute."

"I can see it for Mauer," said Hightower. "But Bryant? She has no axe to grind in 1996."

"Mitch—"

"And maybe I'm old fashioned. Killing a woman just seems wrong."

Darnell wondered how Naylor could have picked this man as her running mate. Regional and gender balance had been the excuse, but she knew Mitch's limitations. It had been highly irresponsible to put such a dithering lightweight a heartbeat away from the presidency.

And here they were. With almost two more years of presidency remaining. The only good thing was that Mitch seemed more than ready to accept his and Ethan's guidance.

Darnell didn't cotton to killing women either. Especially one like Chloe Bryant, who had served her country so well. It would bother him.

But she was in love with Mauer. She would not take his death sitting down. She would want revenge with the fury that only a betrayed woman could muster. Upon return to 2015 she would not rest until she had all their hides.

That they might be able to handle. But in her rage Chloe might let slip—or willingly spill—the beans about Transit One. That they could not permit. Consequently everybody and their brother would demand that Transit One be employed to prevent or warn about calamities from traffic accidents to earthquakes.

The political pressure to institute such a regime would be unstoppable. The historical disruption caused by such "minor" corrections would be bad enough. Far worse would be attempts like those of Allison Naylor, which could shatter history altogether.

"Mitch," said Darnell, "it's the right call. For the greater good." And beyond recall.

"We better hope so," said Hightower. For the first time there was some bite in his voice.

This morning two men went through the transit, bound for 1939, before the presidential retreat existed. Both men—Navy SEALs—would stay at Transit One. The SEALs would let Jack and Chloe pass through on the way to 1863. On the return journey, Jack and Chloe would be shot as they emerged into 1939. They would not get close to 1996.

"What we better the hell hope is that this works," Darnell said. "Otherwise we can kiss the USA goodbye."

Hightower nodded. "I hope Mauer will have enough time on the other side. From what you tell me, there's no guarantee he and Bryant will get more than two weeks."

Darnell fumed. That Mitch had been unaware of Transit One compounded Naylor's treachery. After her fall, she did not brief him. She obviously hoped that would buy her extra hours or even days before the reason for her disappearance from Camp David was determined.

When word she had gone missing arrived late Thursday, Mitch had thankfully first called Ethan. Though Ethan had no idea of the location of Transit One, his suspicions were immediately aroused. They were confirmed when Mitch said he'd never heard of the transit.

Ethan contacted Darnell. Darnell, hunting in Montana, could not get to the White House until dawn Friday. There he and Ethan put the coordinates on a map, drew the lines, and with dread watched the lines intersect at Camp David.

It was Ethan who suggested putting Jack Mauer on the case. Darnell immediately concurred. When the bases were loaded in the bottom of the ninth, you brought in your best closer. Didn't matter if off the field he gambled or whored or brawled, you brought him in.

Mitch blanched at using a man he considered a wild beast, but he folded quickly. A check of the records pointed to Chloe as best choice for Jack's companion. While they secured her cooperation, got the SEALs in position, and obtained Civil War era gear and intelligence, they readied for today's meeting with Jack.

Darnell answered Hightower. "Yeah. There's no guarantee. But at least they can get the warning out."

That was the main thing, if an airtight guard could be put around Lincoln and Grant before Naylor struck.

But an initial setback would not cause Naylor to throw in the towel. It never had. Given enough time she would figure out how to penetrate whatever security was devised. And Price would serve as her faithful and able co-conspirator as they tried to murder the country's greatest president and its toughest general. A Jack Mauer was needed on the ground to counter them.

Darnell hoped Jack and Chloe would get at least a month in 1863. It had taken some prodding yesterday, but Chloe finally admitted she was crazy in love with Jack. Which from reading their files, was what Darnell expected. Chloe Bryant had risked her career—and lengthy federal prison sentences—many times for him.

What Jack felt for Chloe was the big question mark. Nothing in the files indicated it went beyond strong friendship. At the very best Jack might feel something akin to sibling affection.

The tests in Eisenhower's time had shown that mere friendship bought an extra week. Affection topped out at a month. A solid marriage got a pair six weeks, while _mutual_ head over heels love bought two months.

One way affection or love didn't cut it. One way feelings restricted both parties to a single week.

Darnell chuckled to himself. He could make a fortune using Transit One to test couples' commitment. "The Transit Don't Lie" would be his company's motto. He sure could have used Transit One with Lisa, who he _knew_ loved him and instead betrayed him.

Transit One had to be the wildest entity ever discovered. How could a time portal know anything about true love? Ike's people could not come up with a plausible scientific explanation.

One investigator threw up his hands. He declared the transit was a manifestation of the Deity, who smiled on lovers out of time and place. For a couple of months, at least.

Whatever. All Darnell knew for sure was that the country faced dismemberment because a disgraced president was reaching for redemption—and yes, for glory. If the Deity controlled the transit, may He damn Naylor to the netherworld.

Allison Naylor. When she arrived in the Senate at the constitutionally minimum age of thirty, an enraptured reporter said the honey haired looker possessed both the face and the soul of an angel. This grown man declared that her eyes, which he rhapsodized turned from blue to aquamarine to green depending on how the light struck, were the window to the gloriously empathetic soul.

From her start in Washington the media had treated her with kid gloves. When sixteen years later she ran against Darnell—the devil incarnate because of his brutal dealings with the country's enemies—the media awarded her goddess status. She was a great campaigner and debater of course, but the media tilted the field so far in her favor he never had a chance.

Like a betrayed lover the media had turned on her with a vengeance after her transgressions last month. As did the populace. "Put not your trust in goddesses" was the lament throughout the land.

But Darnell had never been fooled. He had always suspected underneath her soaring rhetoric and hypnotic charm lay a ruthless hypocrite. Half of him took solace at her uncloaking, half of him grieved at the terrible letdown for the country.

Aaron Price was probably the latest victim of her siren song. Darnell knew the man only in passing. The records indicated a dutiful Secret Service agent who had risen slowly through the ranks to a midlevel supervisory position. Price was a turtle rather than a rabbit. Brave, competent and unflappable, but hardly a world class talent like Naylor.

Darnell could understand Price falling in love with Naylor, who was still attractive even if now rounder in face and bottom. But Naylor in love with Price? Where was the physical attraction to a bald man built like a fireplug? Where was the intellectual attraction to a man by all accounts with the personality of a stone?

The only halfway plausible explanation was that Price had caught Naylor on the rebound. She supposedly took very hard the desertion of her husband, after she refused to let her murderous daughter off the hook. In her double sorrow she must have found the stolid Price a trusty rock to which to cling. Guess that applied even more so after her disgrace.

Darnell saw Jack and Chloe emerge from the Oval Office. He took a deep breath. It was time to crank up Marine One.

1863

Monday, May 3

In the chill dawn air Mauer could see his breath. He and Chloe led their horses by the reins as they began the descent down the south slope of Catoctin Mountain. Woods blocked any view of Thurmont—no, he rebuked himself, it was Mechanicstown now—or the pike to Frederick.

Behind him Chloe looked cold even though she wore a wool coat and a slouch hat with beehive top. The hat was pulled down over her ears and hair.

"It'll be warmer in the valley," he said.

"I'm okay." She forced a smile.

Mauer still couldn't believe this. Were they really in 1863? He knew for sure that 2015 longer existed. When the two of them and the horses stepped onto the stony spot comprising Transit One, the onlookers—including Hightower, Canon and Darnell—had instantly vanished. Mauer shivered, and from more than the cold air.

They had repeated the process seven more times. All seven times the weather abruptly changed; twice rain replaced sunshine. Once fog enveloped them. The final time two deer popped into existence on the rim of the depression that housed Transit One.

Mauer had worried that Naylor and Price would stake out Transit One. Chloe and he would make easy targets as they emerged into 1863. Especially so, since Price was an excellent marksman.

But the two turncoats were obviously long gone, well on their way to either Lincoln or Grant. And Mauer was at least four hours from reaching a telegraph office to sound the alarm.

Despite the press of time, Mauer led his horse carefully. The slope was less steep here than to the east, but it was tricky enough with loose rocks and downed branches littering the ground. The last thing they needed was injury to them or their mounts.

They could make time once they hit the road below. Three miles east to Mechanicstown, seventeen south to Frederick, and a final three to Monocacy Junction. At a steady trot they should be able to reach the rail junction and its telegraph by ten o'clock. That is, if Chloe's rear end held up.

Last evening at Camp David he had instructed her on how to post. Chloe swore she had it down. From his own memory of learning to ride, Mauer knew a short lesson wasn't going to suffice.

It took twenty minutes to reach the road in the valley. The road, smooth macadam yesterday as they flew in on Marine One, had transformed into undulating dirt. Shadow covered the narrow lane.

"You okay?" he asked Chloe.

"I'm fine." Another forced smile.

"You need a hand mounting?"

She shook her head. But two attempts found her still on the ground. She didn't protest as he boosted her into the saddle.

He started the horses at a walk. He would let Chloe get more used to her horse before they launched into a trot. He saw her attempting to post. Her timing was off but he didn't say anything.

Again he wished he could perform this mission on his own. Chloe was going to be a burden even if she gave it her all, which she would. Solo he could move so much faster. He would have insisted on coming alone if that didn't limit him to a week.

Shortly he put the horses into a trot. Chloe bounced like a beach ball on her saddle, but there was no help for it.

They rode side by side so Chloe would not have to eat dust. She soon gave up trying to post, but she didn't complain about the pounding her butt must be taking. She just grimly kept riding.

A swell of affection arose. He fought it off. That was nonsense, any chance of romance between them. He did accept a powerful bond of friendship existed. A bond akin to that formed between comrades on the battlefield, for indeed they had repeatedly shared and survived peril.

They reached Mechanicstown within half an hour. Upon entering the town—their first sign of civilization—Mauer for a moment found it hard to breathe. He told himself to relax. The disorientation, the sense of utter unreality, would pass. It had to.

Before them stood a village right out of an 1800's movie set. Except this was not a set, nor a reenactment, nor a quaint Amish community. This was the real thing.

Real chicken coops, stables, carriage houses, spring houses, outhouses. Real pumps and wells. Real shutters on the tidy dwellings. Real lack of power or telephone lines.

White smoke rose from a score of chimneys. The pleasant smell of burning wood pervaded the brisk air.

It was not yet six in the morning, but people were about. They were dressed much like the Amish. Everybody wore headgear, the women full length dresses, the men plain coats and heavy beards. Black and brown were favorite colors for clothing.

Mauer and Chloe were watched with curiosity. Especially Chloe, who had ridden in wearing pants and sitting astride in the saddle. The hat pulled low obviously did not fool anyone as regards to her gender. Two men standing under the eave of a store pointed and snickered.

Let them snicker all they wanted. Damned if he would have Chloe ride hard miles sidesaddle and in a dress.

They paused only minutes in Mechanicstown. While they watered the horses in front of the livery stable, Mauer asked passing residents about war news. People told of a battle in progress in Virginia. Somewhere near Fredericksburg. Fortunately there was no word of an attack on Lincoln or Grant.

The villagers spoke with German accent and fractured syntax. The gist was that the Army of the Potomac sure had Bobby Lee this time; General Hooker outnumbered him two to one. They didn't know why Lee sent Longstreet away. "Now comes it for the rebel," they chortled.

Nobody named the battle. Which Mauer knew would shortly become all too famous. Chancellorsville was to be Lee's greatest victory and one of the Union's darkest moments. The mortal wounding of Stonewall Jackson would provide the North with faint silver lining.

Once out of Mechanicstown Mauer pushed their mounts on the level, hard packed pike. Under partly cloudy skies the air thankfully remained cool. They paused only once to rest and water the horses. By nine they reached Frederick. By nine-thirty Monocacy Junction came into view.

Curving tracks formed the triangular junction. His father had told him the junction—called a wye by the railroad—was the first of its sort in the country. The wye allowed trains to smoothly change direction.

The branch line headed north back to Frederick. The main line ran east to Baltimore and southwest towards Harpers Ferry. This B&O junction had been a key transportation and communication point throughout the Civil War.

The interior of the wye held two rows of wall tents. A dozen or so blue clad troops strolled or sat around the white tents. A few campfires glowed, and as they drew close Mauer smelled bacon cooking and coffee beans roasting.

Pairs of soldiers with rifles guarded the rail switches at each point of the wye. More men were posted past the east switch at the trestle over the Monocacy River.

Between the switches on the main line stood a small station house. Some civilians with tools loitered on the tracks before its platform. Beyond the station other soldiers were constructing a log blockhouse. Beyond the blockhouse lay a covered bridge that carried the pike over the tree lined river.

His eyes however centered on the conjunction of telegraph wires at the station house. His heart thumped. Now, after the eternity of the ride from Mechanicstown, he was only moments from staying the hand of Allison Naylor.

They dismounted where the pike crossed the B&O. His rear end gave thanks as he got off. He was sure Chloe's did too. From road dust she looked like she had been rolled in flour. As must he.

The sentries at the west switch challenged them. Mauer produced papers stating their identities: Edwin and Lillian Stein. The Steins were authentic Pinkerton agents. One paper bore a letterhead from the Pinkerton Detective Agency, the other from the War Department.

"I have urgent messages to send," he said. "The President is in danger."

He might as well have said he was from Mars. The two sentries, both scraggly bearded teenagers, were staring a hole through Chloe.

"Who's she?"

"My wife Lillian. As the papers say." Mauer kept his voice even despite the boy's surly tone.

"What's she doing in man's clothes?"

"Let us by or get your commander out here," said Mauer. "Lincoln's life depends on my message."

That snapped their eyes back to him. They studied his papers. Finally the taller of the two demanded he hand over his revolver.

"The horses stay here, too."

Mauer raised no objection.

"Tim, take 'em over. But keep a sharp watch."

The tall soldier called after them. "If you're spies, we'll hang you. Both."

"Sure will," growled their escort. He now carried his rifle at port arms.

Mauer supposed he couldn't blame their hostility. The B&O railroad had been a prime Confederate target since the first days of the war. He and Chloe could easily be scouting the junction in advance of a raid.

Near the station lay stacks of ties and rail lengths. Most certainly for repairs if the rebels tore up tracks. He also spotted drums of copper wire, for use if the telegraph lines were cut—as they would be by Stuart's cavalry during the Gettysburg campaign.

The soldier handed them off to a none too pleased major, but not before Mauer gave the boy a half dollar to water the horses.

The chunky major wore signal corps insignia on his black slouch hat. He took a long time studying Mauer's identification as they stood under the eave of the station platform.

As the major inspected the papers, Mauer explained he and his wife had been assigned to infiltrate Copperhead groups in Maryland. They were to determine how far these blackguards were willing to go to aid the South.

Mauer said that during the past month he and his wife had gotten in with the Sons of Liberty in Boonsboro. The bunch there had wind of a plot to kill Lincoln and Grant. Members from Ohio were supposedly en route to Washington and Mississippi to carry out the assassinations.

The officer scowled. "I'll have to confirm you are who you say. May take awhile."

"Major, we don't have a while. I'll tell you again, Lincoln and Grant are in the gravest danger. My messages must go out now."

"You show up out of nowhere, and I am supposed to just swallow this tale?"

"You better. If Lincoln gets shot this afternoon because you delayed, what do you think they'll do to you? I'd say you'd get a rope rather than a firing squad."

The flabby faced major reddened, then mouthed something. But he gestured toward the station door.

"Follow me. She stays outside." He called to a loitering soldier. Mauer swore the soldier was not more than sixteen. He imagined many boys lied about age, and by this time the casualty riddled Union forces weren't going to ask questions.

"Barnes! Watch this...lady."

"Yas sir."

Mauer turned to Chloe. "Lillian, keep an eye on the horses." Each horse carried a haversack and two carpetbags. He couldn't trust the soldier boys not to be light fingered. He especially couldn't lose what he was going to show Lincoln.

Chloe wearily nodded. She looked half out on her feet. Mauer felt for the bedraggled woman beside him. Hopefully she could get a bath and some rest in Frederick after they finished here.

The major took him into a corner office where a middle-aged man sat at a desk bearing a telegraph key. Beside him on a stand rested the sounder, which was clattering away. The man in white shirt and checkered vest recorded swiftly on paper.

The clattering stopped. The operator turned to the major and said, "Train leaving Martinsburg is behind schedule. About half an hour."

"Forget that, Bart. Do exactly as this man says. You have my full authorization."

The balding operator eyed Mauer. "What do you have, friend?"

"Three messages. Can you send as I talk?"

The operator looked offended. "Of course I can."

"First message is to Ward Lamon at the Executive Mansion. The second also goes to Washington, to the Secretary of War. The third is to the provost marshal of the Army of the Tennessee. Assign each message top priority."

The operator did a double take. The grim major nodded assent.

"Major, they should be ciphered."

"It doesn't matter if the messages are in the clear," said Mauer. "Might even help. I'm including a description of the plotters and the more people aware of them, the better."

Again Bart looked at the officer.

"Do as he says," said the major.

Mauer began dictating. The brass key rapped in synchrony as he spoke.

Chloe Bryant paced the weathered planks of the platform. The soldier Barnes kept running his eyes up and down her. She tried to ignore him.

She needed to pee. She had squatted behind a tree on the road from Mechanicstown, but now it was as if she hadn't gone at all. She looked around for some covering foliage.

Besides having to pee, she was bone tired. Every inch of her torso ached. Add getting only a couple hours sleep after the hectic preparations of yesterday, she felt pounded.

But she was not going to complain to Jack. Last night he hadn't gotten any more sleep than she. And she was certainly in better physical condition, as she regularly jogged, was fourteen years younger, and had never suffered brutal torture.

That didn't mean she couldn't complain to herself. Besides the riding aches, her biceps really throbbed. She and Jack had both taken a half dozen inoculations last evening.

They must have put the tetanus shot in her left arm. They had warned her the tetanus would later mimic a hard punch. Probably all the shots—diphtheria, typhoid, smallpox, cholera, even bubonic plague—contributed to her feeling like absolute crap.

"Hey, sissy."

Bryant turned to see two burly young men, neither in a uniform, grinning up at her. They stood on other side of the tracks. One carried a shovel and the other a sledgehammer. They were probably with the railroad.

"What you doing in those bloomers?" one asked.

"Bet she's a suffragette."

"Bet more than that. Saw you riding in with your legs spread. I can spread 'em even wider."

Bryant stared at them with disbelief. Even in the vulgar culture of her era, two men would not have come up and addressed a woman like that.

"Want some free love, sissy? We can give plenty of that."

They just stood there, leering and chuckling. The soldier guard was smiling too.

"Cat got your tongue, little missy?"

Aches were forgotten as her temper rose. She readied a stream of invective laden with f-words. She would burn the ears off these scumbags.

At the last instant she held her tongue. What if they returned the curses, and Jack heard? He wouldn't let go insult to her or any woman. There could be a fight, with Jack hurting or killing the men. Then where would they be?

She turned her back on them and walked down the platform. Their laughter followed her footfalls.

"That's enough, fellas," the guard finally said. "Better get back to work 'fore the major sees you."

"Yeah, yeah, Barnes." But the two drifted off.

Bryant turned to the soldier, the boy really, and said "Thank you." She kept sarcasm out of her voice.

He nodded.

Then she asked, demurely as she could feign, "Is there a facility around? I have a call of nature."

"Privy out back."

"I'll go there now."

"I gotta stand outside."

She again withheld invective. "Fine."

When she opened the door of the wooden outhouse, the reek about bowled her over. She didn't think she could use it. Wetting her pants looked the better option.

"Well, go on, missy."

"Don't call me missy."

"You going or not?"

Bryant drew a deep breath, the deepest of her life, and stepped in. She dropped her pants, sat on rough board, and urinated with speed. She made it back out before sucking in air again.

Jesus fucking Christ, she almost screamed as she slammed shut the door.

"Don't take it off the hinges, miss—ma'am."

"You just shut up."

"You can't—"

"I can talk to you how I want, sonny boy. You say anything else I don't like I'll have you transferred from this soft duty to the front."

The youth looked dubious, but he did stay quiet.

Five minutes after she returned to the platform, Jack and the officer came out the station door. She was surprised to see them shake hands.

"Thank you again, Major."

"Pleased to be of service, Mr. Stein. Sorry you'll have to stop over at Relay."

"Can't be helped."

"My pass should get you in the hotel." The major patted Jack's shoulder as he sidled alongside him. "States you are on top War Department business, you are to get full cooperation from everyone."

"I appreciate that."

"Hear Relay House is fancy."

"Don't worry, we'll be changing our clothes."

"Wasn't suggesting that, Mr. Stein."

Jack smiled without mirth. "Of course not. Well, we had best be going."

"Certainly. Good luck to you and your wife." The major tipped his hat to Bryant.

As they rode away Bryant asked, "How'd you get him so buddy buddy? Earlier you threatened him with execution."

"He's no fool. He knows we're off to see Lincoln and Stanton." Another mirthless smile. "He's hoping I put in a good word about him."

That smile had always chilled her. It was one of the few things she did not like about Jack.

The smile bespoke the cruelty that existed side by side with his abundant decency. That cruel streak let Jack do the terrible things necessary to save the country. But as he saved the country, time after time, the cruelty had become ever more embedded.

He paused once they were back on the road. He was looking across the fields to a cluster of farm buildings maybe a half mile away.

"What is it, Jack?"

"Just...this hasn't changed that much. I mean I was here as a kid. This was, or will be, a battlefield. 'The battle that saved Washington', they call it. It'll happen next summer, when Lew Wallace—he's the guy who wrote Ben-Hur—delayed the Confederates enough to keep them from storming into the capital. If they'd done that, it could have turned the war. Lincoln might have lost the election."

Bryant took a look around. "Wow."

Jack pointed toward the farm buildings with white walls and red roofs. "Artillery fire destroyed that barn, and the rebs trampled all the crops." He swung in his saddle to point back to the junction. "Before the Union troops retreated, they burned the covered bridge and that blockhouse. It was quite a fight. Two soldiers won the Medal of Honor."

Then he laughed. "Didn't think I would remember that much. I didn't really want to be here. I was sick of my father's battlefield tours by then."

His face twisted at mention of his father.

Bryant wished she could pat Jack's shoulder. The fat faced major was allowed to, she was not. She had vowed to refrain from anything Jack could construe as an advance. She vowed any advance must come from him.

In Frederick they sold their horses, then stopped at the City Hotel to clean up and change clothes. Bryant was relieved to get into a dress. It stopped the stares and gibes.

At Camp David she was also given petticoats and a corset, but damned if she would wear them. She particularly didn't need a corset as she had completely regained her figure after giving birth to Peter.

Thought of her son stabbed. But she comforted herself with the thought he would not suffer prolonged separation. Even if she stayed two months, upon return to 2015 it was still May 4th. In actuality she would be away from him only a couple days.

Mid afternoon they caught the train from Martinsburg. She fell asleep immediately, even though a child was bawling at the rear of the crowded passenger car. When she woke she was embarrassed to find her head snug on Jack's shoulder. She was more embarrassed to detect that she had drooled on the shoulder.

She apologized profusely, but Jack smiled and said not to worry. This smile was one of pure warmth. Her heart took another knife thrust, as she knew that the affection behind the smile did not signal love.

And why should she hope for more? Jack fell in love with lively, charming, and very attractive women. She accepted she did not qualify on any of those accounts. Superheroes did not fall in love with computer nerds.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Conductor said we're about twenty minutes from the junction."

Bryant sat up fully. She winced as muscles screamed. Soreness from the ride was setting in.

"You okay?"

She patted her left arm. "Shot hurts some. How about you?"

"Yup. Don't know which is worse, the tetanus or the plague."

Neither arm hurt as much as her thighs. Walking was going to be a torment.

Well, at least she would not have to do much of it until tomorrow. Tonight they would layover at Relay, nine miles south of Baltimore. Sometime before dawn they were supposed to catch a train coming down from Philadelphia.

"Are we heading for the White House when we get in?" she asked.

"Probably be too early. We'll go to the Willard first. Lillian, remember to call it the Executive Mansion. 'White House' is not yet the official term."

At Camp David they had plied her and Jack with 1863 minutia. She had already forgotten half. Fortunately Jack was well acquainted with the Civil War era. He said he'd been marinated in it, as his father—his traitor father—had been a Civil War buff.

The passenger car rocked and rattled as it clickety clacked over the tracks. Flakes of soot occasionally flew in through the half open window to settle on her dress or face. She could hear the engine chugging, and its whistle blew often enough to annoy. The wooden seat pressed hard against her tender buttocks.

She wanted to gripe, but she would not. Even primitive train travel beat riding a horse.

And what did anything she endured since crossing Transit One compare to the horrors Jack had experienced during his long service? What did the combined worst days of her life compare to a single day of Jack's as a captive of the Chinese? Nothing.

The smell of fried chicken wafted from a seat ahead. The mouths of a man and woman were tearing at drumsticks, and hunger welled in her to the point of excruciation. She had not eaten since leaving Transit One.

Well, she had, a stale sandwich bought at the passenger depot in Frederick. She hadn't been that hungry then, and ate it only at Jack's insistence. Now she could devour a six course meal.

But she would not complain. Never, in Jack's presence.

Shortly the conductor came through to announce that Relay was just ahead.

Tuesday, May 5

Dawn was breaking when they pulled into the depot in Washington City. As they walked out of the station Mauer immediately saw the Capitol building and an adjacent crane. The white bulk of the building was draped in shadow except for the dome. He noted the gleaming dome was almost complete, lacking mainly the Statue of Freedom at the top.

Mauer remembered his father saying that when Lincoln came to Washington in 1861 the dome was mostly incomplete. Lincoln, and the Republicans, insisted work continue as a symbol of determination to restore the Union. The statue was supposed to be in place by end of this year. Mauer vowed Allison Naylor would not thwart that crowning.

They again confronted a chilly morning as Mauer approached a driver standing before a horse drawn cab. He did not mind the coolness at all. He remembered the cloaking heat and humidity that gripped Washington from late May through early September. Hopefully before late May they would be back through Transit One—except he would be getting off at 1996, instead of 2015.

The driver, dressed in black frock coat and bowler hat, greeted them cordially. That was to be expected as they were customers. Yet since changing into respectable clothes they had experienced much better treatment, especially Chloe.

He had to hand it to Chloe. Not a peep of complaint yet. He was very sore this morning, his thighs especially protesting each stride. It had to be worse for her.

Walking however may have been the better option. As the horse stepped briskly onto C Street, the two wheeled carriage bounced over the rutted dirt surface. Chloe must have felt like she was back in the saddle. Mauer told the driver to slow down.

At this hour, a quarter after five, C Street was mostly empty—of humans and horses. There was no shortage of horse turds and garbage. Near the intersection with 2nd Street a pair of pigs were rooting at some of the garbage. Farther up C Street a woman in a second story window flung the contents of a chamberpot into the road.

Mauer saw Chloe watching agape.

He had warned her. After passing through the tidy burgs of Mechanicstown and Frederick, she had probably dismissed his accounts of the capital as exaggeration.

Her nostrils widened. As did his own. The smell of raw sewage tinged the air, and it was not caused by one chamberpot. He had been trying to get the acrid smell of the train's coal smoke from his nose, but not this way.

They drove past a seedy mix of frame houses, saloons, stores, stables and low rise hotels. Occasionally a brick structure did improve the view. He had to remind himself this was the "high" side of Pennsylvania Avenue. On the other side were supposedly the real slums.

As they proceeded another smell seeped into his consciousness. The evil scent did not overpower, yet it could not be denied. It was the smell of the dead.

"Louisiana Avenue near?" he asked the driver.

"Yes, sir. One block over."

"What's there?" asked Chloe.

"Embalmer's Row," said Mauer.

"Oh."

The undertakers had a steady business, even when a battle was long past. Soldiers kept dying in the numerous hospitals about the city. And disease took its toll all year around.

Undertakers would shortly have all they could handle. The dead and dying would be coming in from Chancellorsville by the thousands. No way the undertakers could get enough ice to handle the backlog; then the smell of the dead would trump everything else.

At 7th Street the taxi angled onto Pennsylvania Avenue. The broad avenue was mostly devoid of traffic.

The carriage again bounced, now over broken cobblestones. Mauer saw tracks in the middle of the Avenue. He remembered more trivia from his father: a horse drawn trolley had operated on the Avenue, from the Capitol to Georgetown. Probably the only way to get a smooth ride.

Activity did stir on the left side of the Avenue at 9th Street, where men were unloading wagons. They were carrying produce and meats into stalls in an open-air market. Flies swarmed about the meat.

The taxi shortly reached the six-story Willard Hotel. The white brick hotel was immense, running the length of the block on 14th Street and half on the Avenue. Three large United States flags flew from the roof.

They checked in. The clerk at the front desk had no news other than fighting continued in Virginia and Mississippi. Mauer had gotten the same reply at three this morning in Relay before they caught the train coming to Washington.

Mauer asked specifically about Lincoln and the clerk frowned. He said a number of guests had come back from the Executive Mansion yesterday afternoon in a foul mood. They had been summarily kicked out. Some had been waiting days to petition Lincoln.

Something was stirring over there, said the clerk. Guests reported the Mansion had become ringed with troops. Soldiers were even on the roof. Maybe they had gotten wind the rebs were going to try kidnap the President.

Mauer was heartened, and relieved, that his alarm had been taken seriously. He feared it would be brushed aside.

Naylor and Aaron would now have a much tougher time killing Lincoln. But Mauer refrained from exultation. Allison Naylor was neither stupid nor incompetent. If she had been thwarted in a quick strike—perhaps by something as simple as a horse going lame—she certainly had a plan B.

They grabbed a couple hours of sleep, then at eight took breakfast in the cavernous dining room of the hotel. The room was nearly full. The air about them hummed with conversation.

As they ate Mauer fortified himself with black coffee. He hoped the caffeine kicked in by the time they got to the Executive Mansion. He was stiff and sore, and fatigue clawed. He needed to be sharp when they encountered Ward Lamon. Lamon was one of the toughest customers around.

In his telegram to Lamon Mauer said he would arrive at the North Portico around nine. Mauer wondered what kind of reception he and Chloe would receive. He had been able to bully the major at Monocacy Junction. Lamon he could only cajole.

They departed for the Mansion. Traffic now filled Pennsylvania Avenue. Army wagons and ambulances, passenger carriages, carts laden with goods, the vehicles rumbled past. Dust arose, but the breeze that was bringing in a cloudy sky pushed it away.

The shouts of sidewalk vendors joined the dim. A lad with newspapers stood at the corner at 15th Street opposite the Treasury building, and for a nickel Mauer bought a copy of the Washington Herald. The headline spoke of the battle in Virginia. The sub header proclaimed victory all but certain for Hooker's army. Mauer shook his head.

Once across 15th Street they walked on a wide, trash free sidewalk past the massive Treasury Department. The white marbled building dwarfed even the Willard. A myriad of columns and porticos adorned it.

The air remained delightfully cool. Whether it was the refreshing weather or the caffeine, Mauer found a bounce in his step. He also found himself noticing how nice Chloe looked in her silk dress and spoon bonnet. Both were cobalt blue.

Several times since they left the Willard he had eyed the snug bodice of her dress. The tight fit surprised him, this being the Victorian era. He supposed women would always find a way to show themselves off.

Neither could he avoid the contrast between her narrow waist and the flare that underlying hoops imparted to her hips. He had to admit Chloe was actually an appealing woman. That was, if you could get past that intense, uptight and sometimes surly personality.

Come on, what was he thinking? He had always known she owned a good figure, but she never before stirred physical desire. She just didn't strike that chord in him.

Mauer ordered himself to stow it. They were in 1863 for the mission, and only the mission. He must stay absolutely focused.

Just past Treasury rose the much humbler State Department. The drab structure sat near the corner of 15th and the portion of the Avenue that fronted the Executive Mansion.

The Mansion came into view as they turned the corner. It was strange to approach the building that he had visited two days ago, one hundred fifty-two years forward. He felt more out of time and place than any moment since crossing Transit One.

They continued on the sidewalk to one of the entrances, then turned onto the semicircular driveway that led to the North Portico. Mauer wished he had come sooner. A crowd of at least two hundred people milled in this arm of the driveway.

Near the North Portico, at wrought iron gates, mounted soldiers with drawn sabers barred the crowd from proceeding farther. Inside the gateway infantry with bayoneted rifles surrounded the portico. About the Mansion more infantry guarded secondary entrances. He also spotted a half dozen soldiers on the roof.

He knew this was not normal security.

Usually only a pair of soldiers waited at the iron gates, and a squad or two might prowl the grounds. Security around Lincoln was lax. Purposely so at his insistence, despite the urgings of everyone from his wife to the Secretary of War.

Amid the columns of portico stood a large man in civilian clothes. The scowling man was looking over the crowd.

"Do you recognize that big guy on the portico?"

Chloe peered, then said: "Ward Hill Lamon."

Mauer smiled. She smiled back.

During the briefings Mauer and Chloe had studied a couple dozen photos of officials they were likely to encounter in Washington. Mauer had wondered he if could keep them all straight, much less Chloe.

To show she was on her game she recited information on Lamon. He was a former law partner of Lincoln, and had provided bodyguard protection when Lincoln traveled to Washington after the election. Later Lincoln appointed him city Marshal and Lamon still served as de facto bodyguard.

What Chloe didn't say, because it had not been included in the briefings, was that Lamon could kill a man with a blow of his fist. Mauer couldn't remember whether Lamon had already done so to an assassin stalking these grounds.

Phillip Mauer had told his son another tale about this bear of a man so devoted to Lincoln. Once a Confederate sympathizer had shaken Lincoln's hand overly hard. In turn Lamon shook the sympathizer's hand—and broke it.

Or maybe Lamon merely decked the guy, Mauer couldn't remember for sure. But for sure, Ward Lamon could be counted on to protect the president.

Mauer drew Chloe close as he shouldered through the buzzing crowd. He evoked hard stares and some curses. One gentleman with a walking stick threatened to thrash him.

To everyone Mauer returned a smile, saying he must get through because of a presidential summon. No one believed him, but they couldn't be sure he lied. So they gave way.

He reached the iron gates where the mounted soldiers and their gleaming sabers waited. They looked spoiling for someone to try to get past. These boys probably belonged to the Union Light Guard, an Ohio unit. Lincoln usually only used them when he journeyed about the city.

The infantry beyond also looked ready to thrust steel. Mauer could definitely identify their unit by the white tufts in their caps. They were part of the "Bucktail" company assigned protect the Executive Mansion. All were supposedly good marksmen.

On the portico porch the predatory eyes of Ward Lamon swept the growling crowd. The well dressed brute—in dark top hat, frock coat, vest, cravat, and highly polished shoes—looked ready to bash each and all of the petitioners. Mauer took comfort in the man's hate, hate that helped keep Lincoln alive.

Mauer shouted to Lamon. "Marshal, I am Edwin Stein. I sent you the telegram yesterday and I must speak to you immediately."

The fierce gaze locked onto Mauer. Lamon's fists balled. Well dressed the man might be, but his thick eyebrows, circle beard and unkempt mane—all jet black—said do not look for gentility in this man.

Lamon summoned four of the Bucktails to the portico, then he said something to an officer. The officer stepped briskly towards Mauer.

"Captain Derrickson, I presume," said Mauer as the officer with ramrod posture approached. Derrickson was commander of the Bucktails.

The captain sported no better mood than Lamon. "How do you know me? I've never seen you before."

Mauer smiled. "Your company is famous."

The captain opened the gate a crack. "Get in here. Any funny business, you'll regret it."

Mauer stepped forward with Chloe.

"She's not allowed," said Derrickson.

"My wife doesn't go, I don't go." Mauer hardened his voice.

The captain looked back at Lamon. Lamon waved impatiently for them to come.

"Alright," said the captain. "Again, no funny business. We'll shoot you right here."

Lamon was even more menacing once they reached the portico. The eyes of the barrel chested man glowed like coals. He directed the four Bucktails, rifles at port arms, to surround Mauer and Chloe. Chloe's arm tightened against Mauer's.

Only a yard separated Mauer and Lamon. Lamon's whole bearing said he would break Mauer in two if required. He radiated feral ruthlessness. Lamon had four inches height on him and probably fifty pounds. Those pounds looked all muscle.

But Mauer knew he could take the man. Over the years he had taken many bigger men. A snap kick to break a kneecap would ground Lamon. A hand chop behind the ear would render him unconscious.

Mauer of course did not move.

"I checked with the Pinkertons," snarled Lamon. "They have do have an Edwin Stein in their employ. But he's spying in Richmond at the moment. So who the hell are you?"

"Two people trying to save Lincoln." Mauer reached to his frock coat.

"Stop!" Lamon produced a pistol. The soldiers leveled their rifles. Chloe's arm really tightened.

"I have photographs I want to show you," Mauer said. "Of the conspirators."

"How do I know you are not the conspirators? Using deception get close to the President?"

"If I wanted to kill him, I already would have. You know how easy it'd be. I hide a derringer, wait until I get called into his office, then shoot him between the eyes." Mauer jerked his head toward the waiting crowd. "Like any of them can, any day."

The big man flustered and looked like he really was going to pop Mauer one.

Then Lamon sighed. "That's what I keep telling him. He won't listen."

Mauer pulled out two photos. "He'll listen now. I promise." He handed the photos to Lamon. "We need to get these sketched and distributed nationwide."

Lamon studied the photos, then his eyes went back to Mauer and Chloe. "Why did you lie about being with Pinkerton?"

"They wouldn't have sent the telegrams otherwise. I'll explain all later. Can you get me up to see the President right away?"

"Step into the foyer." He turned to the quartet of soldiers. "You're with us."

Boots and shoes clicked on mosaic tile, not smooth marble, as they entered the lofty Entrance Hall. Mauer fought more disorientation as he viewed a ground glass screen blocking access to the Cross Hall. Gone was the Grand Staircase, replaced to his left by a closed door. Above him a gas lit chandelier hissed and on opposite walls stood two fireplaces. A broken mirror hung above one of the fireplaces.

Lamon called to an usher. "Get Lizzie Keckley. Quick."

The usher scurried off.

Lamon squared with Mauer. "I have to bodily check you."

"Of course." Mauer raised arms above his head. Lamon patted him down.

"Have to check your wife, too. That's why I sent for Keckley."

"I understand," said Chloe. She turned eyes to the broken mirror. "What happened there?"

Lamon awarded his first smile. "That is Tad's doing. He kicked a ball into it last evening."

Mauer smiled in turn. "I have heard he is lively lad."

"None more so."

Mauer recognized Elizabeth Keckley immediately as she stepped through a gap in the glass screen. It would be hard not to, as she was the only black person in the briefing photos. Keckley was Mary Todd Lincoln's dressmaker and also her best friend in Washington. Keckley was one of the few people able to consistently get along with the First Lady.

"You need me, Marshal?" asked the handsome woman with bronze skin and bold eyes.

"Lizzie, if you don't mind, I'd like you—to, uh—" Lamon searched for the proper words.

Chloe turned to Keckley. "The Marshal wants to be sure I am not concealing a weapon." Chloe lifted her arms. "Please. I don't mind."

Keckley wasn't sure how to proceed.

"You don't have to search her undergarments," said Lamon. "Just feel outside."

"Forgive my touch, ma'am."

"Not a problem."

"Everybody else turn their heads," snapped Lamon.

After Chloe was cleared, Lamon turned to the soldiers. "Tell Derrickson no one gets past the gate before I return. I don't care how much they squeal."

"Yes, sir."

It was Tuesday, so there would be a cabinet meeting at noon. Mauer would try to get the President to cancel it. He and Father Abraham would have much to discuss. The President would also need time to let Mauer's revelations sink in. Assuming, of course, Lincoln did not spurn the tale and turn them over to Lamon for disposition.

The tailored hulk turned to Mauer. "All right, let's go upstairs."

Despite his exhaustion, he continued to pace the straw matting of the office floor. Back and forth he tramped. Time after time he passed before the hanging map, the map of northern Virginia. Why had he not yet received word that Lee was defeated?

"May God have mercy on General Lee, for I will have none." Such had been Hooker's promise before the battle began. Promise—or bombast?

He had not returned from the War Department until one a.m., and he dozed only a couple hours before worry woke him. He wondered if he would ever again feel rested. Two years of murderous war, and how many more to go?

His eyes drifted to the opposite wall, where the portrait of Andrew Jackson hung above the fireplace mantel. He wished he had Old Hickory on the battlefield fifty miles away. That man habitually made short work of the opposition.

The door to the hall opened and Hill stuck in his big head.

"Abe, I have some people you better see. Don't think it can wait."

Lincoln fought chagrin. It wasn't yet ten o'clock. He savored every second of respite before the beseeching hordes descended.

But Hill never bothered him with trivial matters. Lincoln gestured to bring them in.

A smartly dressed man and woman entered behind Hill.

"This is Edwin Stein. And his wife Lillian."

Lincoln was surprised at how the pair regarded him. With what resembled awe. People had cast him many looks during the past two years, but awe was not among them.

The cleanly shaved, solidly built man with sandy hair and lantern jaw bordered on handsome. The young woman, in blue dress and bonnet was neither pretty nor plain. Her hazel eyes were too close together, and there was baby fat in her cheeks. She however had a glowing, porcelain complexion. And he liked that sensuous lower lip and her soft chestnut hair.

Lincoln towered over the two as they shook hands.

"Sir," said the man, "it is a very great honor to meet you."

"The greatest possible honor, Mr.—sir" said the woman, her eyes wide.

Lincoln chuckled. These two must have bothered to learn he disliked the salutation of Mr. President. Or maybe it was word from Hill.

Certainly few petitioners had greeted him with more respect and deference. So what did the gentleman and his wife expect in return?

"What can I do for you, Mr. Stein?"

"I have something to show you, sir. Something that will make you accept every word I say afterwards."

Stein reached inside his coat. He pulled out an object Lincoln strained to comprehend. The man offered it to him.

Lincoln fingered the object, six inches square, which he could see through. The thing folded like cloth but felt more like rubber. It had thin blue and green stripes along one edge. At the stripes the square opened into a pouch.

"Sir, run your thumb and finger over the colored lines. That will close the bag."

"Bag?"

"Yes. Where I come from we call it a zip lock bag. They are very handy for storing items like a sandwich."

Lincoln moved his thumb and finger as directed. The square, the bag, closed. He pulled it open again.

Lincoln saw Hill staring at the object in wonder. He probably appeared equally agape.

"Who are you?" asked Hill.

"Yes, indeed," said Lincoln.

The man eyed Hill. "I must ask the Marshal to leave. What I have to say from this point is for your ears only, sir."

"I'm not leaving you alone with the President!"

"I mean no offence, Marshal Lamon. You are a great servant of the President. But you cannot hear what I tell him. The knowledge is too dangerous. And you must forget you ever saw the bag. Please order that, sir."

Lincoln wondered if he were napping, dreaming. Or hallucinating.

But he wasn't.

"Hill, I'll be fine with them."

"Abe—"

"Please, Hill, go. And forget about this—bag."

Hill gave both the man and woman an ugly stare. "I hear any sign of trouble I'm right back in. I'll be close."

Hill left.

Lincoln held the nearly invisible square to his eyes. "By jings," he said.

"It goes for you too, sir. I must have your word you will never relate what I am about to divulge."

Lincoln smiled. Then he gestured to the chairs before his desk. "Please sit."

The two strangers sat.

Wednesday, May 6

Mauer almost tripped over the prone Ward Hill Lamon when he stepped into the corridor. Lamon was asleep face up outside the door to the President's bedroom. Lamon still wore vest and cravat, and was using his expensive coat as a pillow. A revolver lay at the burly man's side.

Talk about devotion, thought Mauer.

It was six-thirty in the morning. Mauer had wanted to wake an hour earlier, to be up before the President. Lincoln would certainly already be at work. Mauer should get over to his office. But as long as Lincoln stayed in the Mansion, he was safe enough at this hour with the Bucktails posted at all entrances and throughout the first floor.

Mauer patted Lamon's shoulder.

Lamon stirred. "Stein?"

"Good morning. I didn't know you'd be camped here."

"I've done it before. When the threats get especially bad."

"I think he's in his office. It's past six. He must have stepped over you coming out."

"Don't think so. There is a private corridor through to his office."

Mauer ground his teeth. Lamon should have told him that. What else was Lamon not bothering to divulge?

But Mauer held his tongue. He could not afford to antagonize this man. He had half won Lamon's confidence. He needed to win it all and Lamon's good will, too.

"Marshal, why don't you go home, change, get some breakfast? I'll stick with the President."

Lamon gratefully departed.

Mauer pushed through double doors into the central corridor. Immediately to his right lay the First Lady's bedroom. Thankfully the door to her chamber was closed.

Yesterday the little butterball had not been pleased when her husband insisted the strangers stay in the Executive Mansion. To boot in the Prince of Wales room, the state guestroom. Lincoln would not hear of Edwin and Lillian remaining at the Willard.

As Mauer and Chloe were settling in the bizarrely decorated room—Chloe said its purple wallpaper and drapes reminded her of a funeral parlor—they could hear the President and his wife arguing in the hall.

"Mother, they are here to keep me safe."

"You don't know them. They could cut your throat in the night."

"I know they are loyal, Mother. They will stay with us."

The First Lady had fired several more salvoes, but lost the battle. The war would probably continue.

Mauer pushed through another set of double doors, into the office vestibule. He saw John Nicolay coming out of Lincoln's office. The President's secretary carried a sheaf of papers.

"Is he in there?" called Mauer.

"Yes," said the gaunt man with dark goatee. Nicolay showed Mauer his back as he swept into his adjacent office.

Nicolay probably didn't like Mauer much more than the First Lady. Nicolay was a highly devoted, highly overworked aide who jealously guarded the disposable time of the President. He detested all interlopers. Another person's trust for Mauer to win.

Mauer remained in the office vestibule. Here he had excellent vantage of both the central corridor and the stairs to the first floor. He patted the pistol under his frock coat. He also carried a Bowie knife.

William Stoddard, another secretary, arrived around seven. The young, rakish looking man greeted him with a smile. He then hustled into his office, across the corridor from Nicolay. Stoddard was in charge of screening the daily mail. Which would soon be arriving by the sack load.

Mauer was disappointed he would likely not meet the third of the President's secretaries. Nicolay and Stoddard were capable men, but John Hay was stellar. Hay would become Secretary of State under Teddy Roosevelt. Now Hay was on assignment in South Carolina and would not return to Washington until late June.

Around eight an usher came up to inform the President that breakfast was ready. Lincoln invited Mauer to join him for the meal downstairs in the family dining room.

It was not a pleasant experience. The First Lady scowled through the thankfully quick meal. Mauer could barely get in a bite of his eggs and bacon as the sour faced woman peppered him with questions. Mauer politely answered. The President tried to get her to lay off. Only when Tad came bounding in did the interrogatory stop.

After breakfast it was back up to the office. Lincoln sent Stoddard, or "Stod", over to the War Department to learn if any news had arrived via telegraph about the battle fifty miles to the south. Stod reported back with nothing new.

For the second day in a row petitioners were not allowed into the Mansion. Lincoln had reluctantly agreed to this, but said it could not continue. He would give Mauer and Lamon till the end of the week to handle this latest assassination threat. He would not be separated from the people.

The President was holding a cabinet meeting at ten. It had been postponed from its usual time yesterday due to the President huddling most of the day with Mauer.

As cabinet members arrived one by one, Mauer watched with hidden amazement. Seward, Bates, Chase, Welles, Blair and Usher popped from the briefing photos into flesh. Only the ornery Secretary of War did not show.

Mauer had met Edwin Stanton yesterday. Both Phillip Mauer and the briefing told of a churlish soul, and they were right.

Lincoln had taken Mauer over to the War Department on the matter of guarding Grant and Sherman. Stanton greeted Mauer with suspicion and hostility that made Lamon's demeanor appear gracious. It had required all of Mauer's will to remain civil.

Stanton had tabled the telegram sent by Mauer. Lincoln was not pleased to hear that, but Stanton protested the Department daily received such warnings. Only plots deemed serious were investigated. This "Stein" person had no standing with the military or with Pinkerton's agency, and Stanton assumed he was just another crank.

Fortunately Mauer's telegram to the Army of the Tennessee had not been tabled. Its provost marshal promptly assigned a company of infantry to protection of each general.

Lincoln quietly but firmly informed Stanton that Stein had standing now. Give him every cooperation. The fire in Stanton's eyes abated—somewhat.

Stanton merely smoldered when Mauer requested additional protection. Generals Thomas and Sheridan, also with the Army of Tennessee, were going to prove vital to the Union effort. If Naylor couldn't get close to the primary targets, she could well settle for going after these two.

Lincoln granted the request. Then the President wryly noted that Stein did not ask protection for any commander in the Army of the Potomac. Aside from Antietam, its generals had lost every battle. And Lincoln knew like Mauer that Antietam was really a draw.

Chloe appeared while the cabinet meeting was underway. She apologized profusely for sleeping so long. Not to worry, Mauer told her, you needed it. She said he did too.

He asked her to spend the day at the Willard Hotel, showing pictures of Naylor and Price to everyone she could. People arrived daily from all over the country. Someone may have seen them somewhere.

Earlier he had sent Lamon out with duplicate pictures to check other hotels, the train depot, and watering holes. He had also asked Lamon to bring Lafayette Baker in on the search. Baker and his bully boys did the Administration's dirty work.

By the time the cabinet meeting ended, shortly before one, Mauer was starving. He was even willing to endure another meal in the presence of Mrs. Lincoln. But the President wanted to go right away to the War Department. To check the latest telegrams.

Mauer hesitated. This afternoon Lincoln was to get word of the defeat at Chancellorsville. He would receive it while in the Mansion. He would then depart for Hooker's headquarters on the Rappahannock.

At Camp David Darnell and Canon had repeatedly stressed that Mauer and Chloe were to disturb history as little as possible. "Unintended consequences" was their warning mantra.

But Mauer had already disturbed history. The massive increase in security, the thwarting of petitioners, the changed cabinet meeting, these were unavoidable. And Lincoln wasn't steaming down the Potomac later today.

Lincoln asked if anything were the matter.

"No, sir," said Mauer. It would do both he and Lincoln good to stretch their legs.

They went out through a ground floor exit onto the South Lawn. Mauer ordered eight of the score Bucktails standing guard on the backside of the Mansion to accompany them.

Lincoln pursed his lips, but that was too bad. This man who almost seemed to court a potshot was going to be wrapped in security at all times. At least while Edwin Stein was in town.

They turned and walked past flower gardens and a big greenhouse, situated where the West Wing would later stand. Then down a curving brick pathway under shade trees, with four soldiers in front and four in back. All rifles were at port arms. Mauer had his revolver out as his eyes swept every bush and tree trunk.

Lincoln, with his long stride, almost climbed the backs of the soldiers in front. Mauer half jogged to keep up with the giant. The troupe rapidly closed on the War Department, a two story brick building which lay a half block west of the Mansion.

The building looked like it housed forty rooms or so. Fine for the miniscule army of the United States prior to 1861, Mauer thought, but hopelessly inadequate now to serve as nerve center for the vast Union forces. Which no doubt contributed to the uneven performance of those forces to date.

The President led Mauer into the east entrance of the building. The two men climbed stairs to the second floor. Mauer immediately heard a raised voice, a voice unmistakably belonging to Stanton. Someone was getting chewed out in the Secretary's corner office.

Lincoln smiled wryly. "Mars is holding forth."

Mauer followed Lincoln two doors down.

"The cipher room," Lincoln said as he opened the door.

Mauer knew about the cipher room. It was Lincoln's refuge. In the quiet confines of this room he could get away from the politicians and petitioners who were squeezing blood from him each day. Lincoln probably spent as much waking time here as he did at the Mansion.

"Well? Any word from Hooker?" Lincoln asked the three men in the office. Their heads had jerked up at the President's arrival.

"No, sir," said a man rising from his desk.

"Major Eckert, meet Edwin Stein. Edwin is on special duty for me. He is to be given every assistance."

"Yes, sir."

Mauer and the Major—dressed elegantly in civilian clothes and completely free of facial hair—shook hands. Eckert was head of the telegraph office.

"You boys carry on," said Lincoln as he opened a drawer in one of the desks. Lincoln put on spectacles and began reading decoded telegrams.

Eckert and the other two men went back to work. Mauer eyed the Major's desk, situated between the two office windows. It was at that desk last summer Lincoln wrote his first draft of the Emancipation Proclamation. The desk should have been preserved as a shine, thought Mauer.

A door to the right was partly open, and Mauer could hear the clattering of telegraph keys and sounders. He wondered how soon the telegram from Hooker would arrive. His pocket watch said one-thirty.

Time crawled. Telegraph operators brought in messages for decoding, but none were from Hooker and his Army of the Potomac. Lincoln brightened at good news from the Army of the Tennessee. Grant was advancing steadily on Jackson, the capital of Mississippi.

After Lincoln finished the day's dispatches, he strolled to the window behind Eckert. Eckert offered to give up his desk.

"No, no. Just watching some of your lieutenants. Edwin, come take a look."

Mauer joined the President. He looked out the window, searching the lawn and the Avenue beyond for sign of young officers. Then Lincoln pointed to the windowsill. Mauer saw several spiders crawling over a big web attached to the sill and the front portico.

He didn't know what to say. He guessed the President was eager for any distraction from his crushing burdens.

Around three the telegram from Hooker came in. Lincoln hovered over the shoulder of the cipher operator named Tinker as the message was decoded.

Mauer knew what the message conveyed. Hooker, with much of his huge army still unengaged, had last night cut and run. Mauer also knew that Lee planned to launch a suicidal assault this morning. Pickett's Charge would have occurred two months early. Hooker had doubly screwed up.

Lincoln groaned. Then he settled his long frame into a chair. His knees came up into his chest as he sat with scruffy top hat in hands.

"What will the country say?" the President cried. "What will the country say?"

Mauer was disconcerted to hear Lincoln's voice, which could pipe and squeak, really shrill. But he was relieved to hear Lincoln mouth the same words of despair as recorded. He had not changed history that much.

"Get the Secretary," Eckert told Tinker.

Nobody said much until Stanton stormed into the room. The stubby man with the shovel beard and no mustache—which looked weird—approached Lincoln with bloodshot eyes. It must have been a long, worrisome wait for the Secretary also.

Stanton ordered everybody out save Mauer and the President, then shut the door.

"It looks like Hooker lost his nerve," said Stanton.

Lincoln said nothing. His big head was staring at the floor.

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't understand it myself. There is no excuse for his pulling back across the river."

"God must be against us."

"No, Mr. President. Just better commanders. I believe we should relieve Hooker immediately."

Lincoln wearily stood. "Perhaps. Let us hope at least his casualties are low."

Stanton glowered. "There are rumors the XI Corps was routed. By Jackson. One thing you can be damned sure of, Hooker will try to dress this up."

"I will go see him straight away."

"Sir, you can't," said Mauer.

The President had indeed taken a steamship this afternoon, down the Potomac, around the Northern Neck and up the Rappahannock to Falmouth.

But that was in a world without Naylor and Price lurking. To wait until May 6th may have been Naylor's plan all along. Expert shot Aaron could ambush Lincoln somewhere along that hard to protect route. Or she would alert the Confederates and let them do the work instead.

The Secretary erupted. "You don't tell the President what to do!"

"It's all right, Stanton." Lincoln turned to Mauer. "You advise against it?"

"Yes, sir." He whispered in Lincoln's ear. "They know you are coming."

Lincoln nodded. "I'll have Hooker come here."

"Fighting Joe" Hooker would have been summoned anyway, but Mauer kept quiet. Stanton continued to glare.

The President sighed. "Stanton, order the general to be at the Mansion within a week."

"Replace him at that time, sir. With Couch or Reynolds."

Lincoln turned to Mauer. "Edwin?"

Mauer had been over that yesterday with the President. About offering advice.

"Let's talk later, sir."

Lincoln put on his top hat. "Very well."

In hall, Lincoln forced a smile.

"We'll get through this, boys," he told Eckert and the cipher operators.

"There's still Grant," said Eckert. "If he takes Vicksburg, this battle won't matter."

"Yes," said the President. Then he and Mauer left. The soldiers outside reformed their cocoon about the chief executive.

Halfway to the Mansion the President abruptly turned right. The stooping figure strode between redbuds in full pink glory and dogwoods past bloom. He stopped at a towering, densely leafed, smooth trunked tree festooned with clumps of white flowers. Mauer couldn't recall its name. Horse chestnut, Lincoln informed him.

"Sit with me, Edwin." Lincoln gestured to the soldiers. "Give us some space, boys."

The eight Bucktails spread in a wide circle.

As Jack settled on the soft grass, his pants moistened. The ground was still damp from the heavy rain of last night. Rain that let Hooker "escape" across the Rappahannock undetected.

"You knew it would be a defeat," said the President. He spoke without rancor.

"Yes, sir."

"The country will take this very hard."

"It will, sir."

Lincoln laughed softly. "You are not giving me encouragement."

"I can't give you anything, sir. Except to keep you alive."

"So I must decide on my own whether to keep Hooker. Yes, I think he deserves to go. But often a man fails at a new task. Hooker has much promise. Look how he pulled the army together after Fredericksburg. That was a first rate job."

"It was, sir."

"Tell me this, Edwin, do we win in the end?"

"Sir, you can draw nothing from my presence. You must—absolutely must—make every decision as if we had never come. I know that is difficult, but you have the wisdom and will."

"These days not many say I have wisdom."

The iconic face looked despondently at him. The face of the legend who had saved the United States. That craggy countenance, though eroded, still displayed vigor. By war's end he would look like an old man.

"Well," said the President, "I am glad you want Grant to live. I take it he gets us Vicksburg."

"You can assume nothing."

A chuckle. "It's a good view from here, isn't it?"

"Sir?"

"The view over to Bobby Lee's house."

Mauer had not noticed. They faced the Potomac, and rising on the other side indeed stood Arlington House, Robert E. Lee's mansion. At the heart of what would soon become the nation's resting place for so many of its heroes.

"That's the general we wanted. I should have spoken to him myself."

"Lee?" Mauer hated Lee. Lee was an even worse traitor than his father.

"He would have ended this war in a week."

"You can't dwell on that, sir."

"I suppose. I can dwell on we better not lose another battle to him. Another such loss will be the rebs' Saratoga. It will bring foreign intervention for sure."

Lincoln spoke accurately. After the terrible defeat at Fredericksburg last December, both Britain and France bordered on recognizing the Confederacy. Only the close Union victory at Stones River in January stayed their hand.

He ached to tell this great, harried man about the two decisive victories shortly to come. Gettysburg and Vicksburg would seal the South's fate. And in November the man would deliver the noblest address in history.

If Mauer could keep him alive.

"Sir, all I can tell you is to persevere."

The gray eyes in the deep, dark rimmed sockets brightened a little as he patted Mauer's knee. The hand that patted was huge. As were the feet splaying on the emerald grass.

"I reckoned that, Edwin. Your very presence must mean I am needed for victory. So victory we will have. But I fear—alas, I know—it will be dearly bought."

The President returned his gaze to the home of the general that had gotten away.

Thursday, May 7

Shortly before noon Bryant alighted from the trolley as it stopped outside the Executive Mansion. She was relieved to see few people on the sidewalk.

This morning when she left for her canvas of hotels, a horde of angry petitioners argued here with Lamon and Derrickson. Today petitioners could not even get onto the front driveway. At Jack's insistence the entire grounds were now off limits. More troops had been brought in to throw a cordon about the perimeter. Visitors admitted were frisked, including members of congress. Only the cabinet was excepted.

Jack was still not satisfied. He feared Aaron Price might slip in disguised as a soldier. Jack installed a second layer of guards immediately around the Mansion. This layer was manned entirely by the Bucktails, who all knew each other. No one got beyond without clearance by Jack, Lamon or Derrickson.

What a change. During the briefings at Camp David, she had been stunned to learn of the minimal security around Lincoln. He was a sitting duck. It was a miracle he survived until Ford's Theater.

She was further surprised to learn that Lincoln considered his safety lay in God's hands. His wife, the Marshal, and Secretaries Stanton and Seward had all begged he take basic precautions. Lincoln would yield for a while, then throw off the restraints.

Until Jack and she showed up, the President would often bolt from the Mansion without accompaniment. At any hour, to go any place. During summers, when the President and family resided at the Soldier's Home three miles away, it really got insane. The President commuted from there to the Mansion. On the return leg at night he sometimes rode alone.

The improved security was winning Jack a new friend. At breakfast this morning—Bryant's last attendance at a meal with Mary Toad Lincoln—the First Lady had actually smiled at Jack. She even addressed him as "Eddie". Jack ate it up.

Through the mercifully quick meal the First Lady neither looked at Bryant nor spoke to her. And Mary Toad bridled each time the President said something to Bryant. Twice she cut her husband off in mid sentence.

From now on Bryant would take all her meals either in the basement with the help or over at the Willard. Last evening she had eaten at the hotel with the President's assistants, and both said she was welcome to join them anytime.

John and Stod had also warned her about the First Lady—who they called the "Hellcat". They said Mary was unreasonably—they meant pathologically—jealous of any young woman her husband conversed with. Apparently even if the woman was trying to save her husband from assassination.

Mary Toad had to be nuts. Bryant revered Abraham Lincoln, he was one of the greatest men of all time. But he was the last man to sexually appeal to a woman. The President honestly could double as a circus freak. Lightning should strike her for thinking that, yet it was true.

Abraham Lincoln could never have gotten elected in modern times. Ugly, gawky men with a high pitched voice wouldn't bother running no matter how well qualified. In 2015 Lincoln probably couldn't win town mayor.

Bryant found Jack chatting with Lamon on the North Portico. Both men smiled at her. Lamon tipped his hat. She noticed a basket at Jack's side.

"Any luck?" asked Jack.

She shook her head. "They must be lying low."

"If they are," said Lamon, "Baker will ferret them out. Or they may have just skedaddled."

"Hill, I'm going to take Lillian over to the Park. Would a half hour be alright?"

"Stay as long as you want. Derrickson will be back soon to relieve me. I'll eat then."

"Thanks." Jack picked up the basket. They went down the portico steps.

"That lunch?" she asked.

"Yup. I had Cornelia pack us something."

"I hope you tipped her."

Cornelia was the long time black cook. Yesterday she had graciously made Bryant a late breakfast.

"Tried to. She said Mrs. Lincoln would have her hide if she did."

Bryant refrained from mouthing "the bitch". The Hellcat ought to be the one Naylor was coming after.

Crossing wide Pennsylvania Avenue, they had to dodge wagons and also what Stod had euphemistically called "horse apples". She barely missed a couple of fresh ones. At least the fly ridden piles didn't smell as bad as human excrement. Or that damnable canal just off the Ellipse.

This city was a pest hole. She was doubly glad they had shot her full of vaccines.

"That's Seward's house," said Jack when they reached the other side. "Lincoln often goes there."

He nodded toward a handsome brick townhouse that sat just to the east of Lafayette Park. That bit of information had not been in the briefings.

She was impressed with how much Jack knew about Civil War Washington. On the ride to Frederick Jack said when he was a kid, his father twice brought the family east to D.C. Jack swore they visited every relevant building and statue.

Phillip Mauer continued indoctrination with swings through Virginia, Maryland and Pennsylvania. They took in a dozen battlefields. They spent three days alone at Gettysburg—one for each day of the battle.

"Everything you need to know in life you can learn from Gettysburg," his father proclaimed.

Jack had laughed derisively.

What a burden for Jack. He was one of America's greatest patriots, and his father one of the worst traitors. How it must tear. And Jack's brother had been worse than the father. Whatever good Jack did, he probably felt it could not wash clean the family name.

They found a bench beneath a flowering shade tree. She took a second took at the stately tree, which Jack said was a horse chestnut.

As they sat she asked, "Think anyone will shoot us if we take off our hats?"

There many people strolling the leafy, well tended park. Everybody wore hats, even the grubby people. Today she had traded her enveloping bonnet for a simple topper. She still didn't like anything on her head. Back home she wore hats only at weddings—and funerals. There had been plenty of funerals the past eight years.

The only good thing about a hat here was that it hid the part in the middle of her hair. The part made her look like a dork. Didn't matter if all the other women did their hair the same, she hated it.

"Yeah, let's," said Jack.

He opened the basket to reveal freshly baked bread, a wedge of cheese, and apples. Cornelia had included two mason jars filled with beer.

Middle of the day, but what the hell. She and Jack had been warned not to drink the water and they religiously complied. Since arrival in 1863 only coffee, tea, wine or beer had passed their lips.

They made sandwiches of the cheese and bread, then eagerly ate. The beer, on the strong side, tasted good washing the food down. She would not have minded getting plastered on the beer. She would have minded even less Jack kissing her in this dark shade.

She flushed. Why had that jumped into her head? Good God.

Jack must have noticed the burn on her cheeks.

"You okay?"

"Yes. Just the beer, I think. It's pretty strong."

He laughed. "No state limit here on alcohol content."

She loved it when he laughed freely like that. Then, as always, he quickly turned serious.

"I don't think she's here," he said.

"Who? Naylor?"

"If she pushed it, they could have been in Washington last Friday afternoon. In time to get Lincoln as he and Mary took their carriage ride at four. Before any possible warning from us."

"They would have had to gallop all the way from Mechanicstown." Trains would not have gotten them to Washington before midnight.

"They could have—and should have. Fast was her best chance. So why didn't she take it?"

Bryant sipped from her mason jar.

"I'd say she wanted to be sure she and Aaron didn't get caught," she said. "Shooting Lincoln in the street would really risk that. And here they hang people pretty quickly."

"Aren't you starting to wonder if she's in 1863?"

She chewed her lower lip. Yes, she had begun to doubt. The former president should have already tried for Lincoln, or one of his key generals. Naylor had to know agents from 2015 would be close behind.

"Well?" asked Jack.

"She's in 1863. I can feel it."

"That's a logical reply."

Jack looked at her with those narrowed eyes that she had seen him use on others. Use on those he believed just didn't get it. It was an insulting look.

If Jack really were her husband, they really would be having an argument. She had never let former husband Morton talk to her with condescension. She never let anyone.

She didn't flare. Instead she took a long breath. Then she said, "Whether here or not, you know we have to stay as long as possible."

"Yeah." He spat out the word.

"We have to assume Lincoln is still an active target. You said yourself, he is the glue that holds the Union together. Naylor may have been about to strike, but your telegram to Lamon arrived just in time. The new security stopped her cold. Now she's probably looking for holes. She and Aaron still have seven weeks to pull this off."

Jack took a swig of beer.

"That's a lot of weeks," he said.

Yes, it was. Especially since she and Jack didn't know if they would last even a month.

Yesterday in their bedroom she and Jack had stood against a door while the other used a knife to notch their height. They would monitor height daily. The warning signal would be when they started to lose at least an inch a day. They would have to scurry to Transit One soon afterwards.

"When we leave," said Bryant, "we have to make sure Lincoln keeps security tight until early July. If he makes it to July 4th, we win."

"What's to stop her from hiring people to finish the job if she can't?"

"Nothing, I suppose." That was a worry; Lincoln would not extend the security measures indefinitely. "But how could she be certain hired help would follow through? Once she's gone, why risk their necks? Just take what she paid and go to Vegas."

Jack took more beer. "So you think she's here?"

"I do."

"It makes so much more sense to go straight to 1901 and take out Hitler."

"Then she risks Röhm becoming Führer."

"That's baloney. Hitler's the only one who could bring the Nazis to power. With him not around, I bet the army would have taken over after Hindenburg died."

"Jack, we can debate until our heads explode. Doesn't change anything. We have to stay."

"I still can't believe Aaron would take part in killing a president." Then he cursed. "I should be in LA with Kim and my granddaughter. Not here."

Bryant sighed. But here they were. And, yes, where were Naylor and Price?

Friday, May 8

Anna became aware of rapping. She shot fully awake from fitful sleep. But where was she? Sunlight shone on closed drapes. At home, and at the Hoges, her bedroom faced away from the morning.

Then she knew. She was at the Chandler house. And Thomas lay dying in the cottage across the yard.

Her eyes went to the crib. Little Julia still slept. The rapping continued.

"Yes?" she called.

"It's Dr. McGuire. Sorry to wake you."

"Is he—?" Her throat tightened. Was he gone?

"Little change. He did get some sleep. It's something else. May I come in?"

Come in? She was in her night clothes.

"Anna, I must show you something."

"What is it?"

"Please, Anna. Let me in. We may be able to save him."

She raced into a dress. She didn't bother to put on shoes. The baby began to stir.

Anna opened the door. Fatigue mottled the face of the young man with the thick black mustache. Dark crescents lay beneath reddened eyes. His uniform was crumpled and his body sagged.

Her heart went out to him. They said he had labored almost without pause since Thomas was shot.

McGuire closed the door behind him.

"You can save him?" She fought euphoria.

Bitter as it was, she had resigned herself to losing Thomas. She had tried hard not to hate God, for He gave as He took. But how could the Heavenly Father take this man?

Puzzlement clouded his face. He raised his left hand, which held something.

"I don't know. But—"

The hand reached toward her and opened. She saw something black. She recoiled, thinking the thing was a baby snake.

"Take it, Anna. They say it is a watch."

She hesitated, then gingerly lifted the black length from his palm. The thing was thicker at the middle than the ends. It felt somewhat like leather, but leather it was not.

Then she saw what looked like a little window in the rounded middle. Numbers were in the window. She gasped as some of them changed—from forty-three to forty-four, forty-four to forty-five, forty-five to forty-six.

She dropped the thing. It bounced on the throw rug.

Behind her the baby began to whine; Julia would need feeding.

"What is that?" Anna asked as she lifted her child from the crib.

McGuire picked it up. "A fantastical little machine. Able to tell the date as well as time. They also showed me how use it as an alarm clock."

"They? Who?"

"A man and a woman. They say they can save Thomas. I thought them fools or worse, and would have sent them away. Except for this."

Anna sat on the bed. Julia moved her head to cloth over her breast. She bawled on not finding flesh.

"I have to feed her, doctor."

"Yes. But after may I bring the woman up?"

"She? Where is the man in all of this? Is he a doctor?"

"He isn't. He says little, she did most of the talking."

"How can they help if he's not a doctor?"

"She said they have a special medicine. She showed me a bottle with powder inside."

"What if it's poison?"

Anna hated the woman already. Who had come to cruelly raise hope before dashing it.

"He is dying, Anna. There is little they can do beyond hastening his end."

"This 'watch' has to be a trick. Or a new kind from Europe. They're using it to get close to Thomas and hurt him."

McGuire shook his head. "Not even the Swiss could do this. Look." He touched the watch.

He brought it close. She saw three zeros in the little window. He again touched, and the zero on the right changed with blinding speed. The middle zero counted from one to two to three and on. Another touch, and the counting stopped.

"See, it can be a chronograph too."

Anna stared at the black thing. If the man and woman had a timepiece like that, then perhaps they could help Thomas.

Or perhaps they were just horrible, torturing charlatans.

"Anna? Can I bring her up?"

"Let me feed the baby."

"Of course. Ten minutes? I am sorry to press, but she says they should begin with the General soon as possible."

"I will call to you. But you must promise to send them away if I don't believe her."

McGuire grimly nodded.

"You had better not be a mountebank, Mrs. Wallis", the bleary faced doctor warned. "You and your husband will be in irons."

Allison Naylor followed him up the broad stairway.

"I can't guarantee recovery." She put a full Southern accent in her voice. It wasn't hard.

She grew up in rural Kentucky. The accent had been entirely authentic when she entered Yale. By the time she graduated, second in her class, she had vanquished it. She had agreed with a trusted professor that, however unfair, the sound of the south impaired prospects at the national level. Even in her sophomore year that level was her ultimate goal.

McGuire stopped on the stairs and scowled. "You said you could cure him."

Below in the hallway a middle-aged woman carried a basin and towels into the parlor. That was probably Mrs. Chandler. Naylor had glimpsed wounded soldiers in the parlor.

"His chances will be good."

Chances of beating the pneumonia would have been better if not for the delay south of Winchester. Getting across Federal lines had been touch and go. She planned to arrive two days ago.

"I will not act without her agreement," said the doctor. "You have to convince her."

That had been Naylor's aim all along. She would make Mary Anna Jackson her staunchest ally. Then neither could this rightfully dubious doctor, nor anyone else, block treatment.

The doctor knocked on a door halfway down the hallway. "Anna?"

"Come in."

In the sunlit room Anna Jackson sat on a bed. She held an infant. It curiously regarded Allison and the doctor. The baby cooed softly.

The dark haired woman looked just like her photograph. She had a fine complexion and pleasant features. But her large, bright eyes were hostile.

"I'm Amanda Wallis, Mrs. Jackson. I will do everything in my power to save your husband."

"How, when no one else can?"

"Because I have an advanced medicine."

Anna's lips curled. "Do you also perform séances?"

"I perform science. Science of the same sort that made that watch."

The cheap sports watch lay on the nightstand. Anna and the doctor eyed it with a mixture of wonder and abhorrence.

Naylor cleared her throat. "What I say here—and what I do where the General lies—can never become known. On that I must have your oaths sworn to God. Or I will do nothing."

The doctor stiffened. "See here—"

She put up her hand. "Your oaths. Or I leave."

For an eternity the only sound in the room was the murmur of the baby. Anna and the doctor exchanged fraught looks.

"Do you want to save him, Mrs. Jackson?"

"Of course I do! But how can we believe you? You speak the impossible."

The baby smiled at Naylor. She returned the smile. Then Naylor smiled at Anna.

"As I told Dr. McGuire, I cannot promise to cure Thomas. But the odds are good. With my medicine and your husband's fighting spirit, he may well live to see Julia grow up."

Anna started to cry.

The exhausted McGuire also looked on the verge of tears. "Damn you, if you are giving us false hope."

Hunter McGuire, chief medical officer of Jackson's corps, was very close to the general. Father-son aptly described their relationship. Naylor knew that McGuire's impotence in the face of Jackson's death spiral was now, and would always be, the most painful experience of his long life.

"I do not lie," she said. "With the medicine he has a three in four chance to survive."

She hoped there was that much chance. In addition to his pneumonia, he may have sustained organ damage. During battlefield evacuation he had been dumped from his litter when a bearer was shot. He landed hard on his right side. Antibiotics would help little with injury to his liver or kidneys.

Anna groaned. "I had accepted. I cannot go through having to accept again."

Naylor smiled. "Let me apply the treatment, Anna. We will leave it to God to do the rest."

Anna turned to the doctor with eyes that said you must decide.

McGuire sighed. "I do not fully believe her. But at this stage I have never seen recovery. If one chance in a hundred exists, we should take it."

The baby began to squirm, and Anna softly bounced Julia on her thigh.

Naylor yearned to say she had treatment for the daughter. Vaccine she would administer upon return in 1882. Julia was scheduled to fatally contract typhoid in 1889.

That revelation would wait for another day.

"We should begin soon," Naylor prodded.

Anna cast baleful eyes. "I must let you go to Thomas. But I swear I will harm you myself if you cause him more suffering."

"I promise he won't suffer." That is, if he didn't prove allergic to erythromycin. She had Benadryl, but would it halt a full blown anaphylactic reaction? He could die horribly.

The infant was becoming more agitated.

"Go with Dr. McGuire then. I will come after I nurse her more."

Naylor hid relief—and jubilation. She had accomplished the hardest part, winning the chance to treat this Cromwell of the South. Now one hundred million humans might escape slaughter.

She turned to McGuire. "You must get Dr. Morrison out of the cottage." Morrison, cousin to Anna, was also attending the general.

"What?"

"He knows the General is a dead man. There are many wounded here at Guinea Station. Tell him he can better serve the cause among them."

"I—"

"Neither can Dr. Tucker be permitted in the cottage." The doctor would be shortly arriving from Richmond.

"Tucker is an authority on pneumonia!"

"He is just as helpless as you, doctor. Anna's brother and Captain Smith must go too. And Chaplain Lacy."

"That is madness," said Anna.

"Only you two and his servant Jim—and later Sandie Pendleton—can witness what will now take place. Everyone else must believe he has died."

"That is greater madness," said McGuire.

"If his survival becomes known, he will face greater danger than on any battlefield."

They both were shaking their heads.

"It's true," said Naylor. "As I have come to save him, my counterparts will come to kill him—if they learn he has escaped his scheduled death at 3:15 this Sunday afternoon."

Now they gaped.

"Who are you?" Anna whispered.

"I will explain more when we are gathered in the cottage. But now please give me your oaths. For the sake of Thomas—and the Confederacy."

Aaron Price made sure he tightly gripped the carpetbag as he and Allison walked with the doctor toward the white washed frame house. Dozens of people stepped out of their path. Most were soldiers. Among the civilians were reporters. Everyone wore deep concern.

"How goes it this morning for Old Jack?" was the universal question. McGuire said pray, boys, pray. They all knew that meant the great general lay at death's door.

"And who are these folks?" a reporter asked with a tinge of jealousy, aware Allison had just gotten access to Anna Jackson.

Allison piped up with her convincing drawl. "I and my husband are friends of Mrs. Jackson. We are here to give her comfort."

Dr. McGuire ordered the soldiers to keep civilians well away from the cottage and house. No exceptions, except for these two. His voice almost broke as he spoke.

Price wondered if McGuire feigned the grief in his voice. Was he already playacting? Or did he still believe Stonewall Jackson was doomed?

On the little porch of the cottage stood two men in gray uniform sipping from tin cups. Price recognized them. Both were young, both members of Jackson's staff. The one with the goatee beard was Anna Jackson's brother.

McGuire stepped up. Price and Allison hung back and were unable to hear the doctor; Price knew he imparted unwelcome words. The other two officers shook their heads.

"That's an order," McGuire said with raised voice. "Report to Second Corps headquarters. And make sure you tell Sandie to get here by tomorrow morning."

"I demand to stay by my sister's side," said Joseph Morrison. He tossed the remnants of his coffee on the lawn. He looked a tad less beat than McGuire.

"Sorry, Jack. It's—"

McGuire paused as a train whistle intruded. A hundred yards away a southbound train rumbled past.

Probably bringing in more casualties, thought Price. He had seen hundreds of wounded in the fields about the depot when he and Allison arrived this morning.

McGuire continued. "This is Anna's wish, too. She wants little disturbance as possible for the General in his last hours."

"I want to talk to her."

"No. You both go now. Otherwise I will have you physically removed."

The two staff officers glowered, muttered, then reluctantly walked away.

Price took heart at McGuire's firmness. The doctor must believe some. Good, for they would need him all in by Sunday.

They entered the two-story wood building that prior to Chancellorsville had served as the plantation office. The dark plank floor creaked as they stepped into the front hall. Allison removed her bonnet and Price his felt hat.

On either side of a stairway stood a room. The left room would be the makeshift office for the doctors. On the right, behind a closed door, had to lie the famous general.

A bushy bearded man stepped from the office. It was Dr. Morrison. He stopped to stare at Allison and Price, then opened his mouth.

McGuire spoke first. "Stephen, I want you to go to the depot and wait for Dr. Tucker. Tell him his services are not needed. He is welcome to remain and treat the wounded—God knows, we have enough of them. I would like you tend to them also."

"I don't understand."

"You know the General will die by Sunday. A dozen more physicians won't change that. Jim and I will handle his care."

"You're half asleep on your feet."

McGuire straightened. "You are not to return to this cottage. It is Anna's wish—and my order. Please, Stephen, be on your way."

The man did not glower but he certainly looked confused. Thankfully he collected his medical instruments and went.

All going to plan, thought Price. Yet this was the easy part. The hard part waited behind that door.

McGuire opened the door. Only one person was in the stark white room besides Stonewall Jackson. Jim Lewis, the general's camp servant, sat in a wicker chair beside the patient. The black man's head swiveled toward them.

"How has he been?" asked McGuire.

"Still since you give him the morphia," said Lewis.

With closed eyes Jackson lay face up on a four poster bed. His breathing was labored and he looked a fright. Price wondered if they were too late.

Old Jack's broad forehead was flushed and shiny with sweat. Purple scratches lined his cheek and jaw; the scratches reached into his thick russet beard. Bandages encased his right hand. And, of course, his left arm was missing.

The stink of rancid sweat hung in the air. As did fainter odor of human waste, which indicated a recently changed diaper.

"Who's these folks?" asked Lewis.

Allison smiled. "Jim, We have come to help the General."

Lewis looked to the doctor.

McGuire nodded. "Do everything she says."

The former president continued to beam the famous smile that combined empathy, kindness, and strength. Since her fall, the mushrooming pack of detractors claimed the smile was only veneer. The smile hid a cunning manipulator. Some even said she was evil.

Allison Naylor was one of the finest, most genuine individuals Price had ever known. There was not a phony bone in her body, only brave and decent ones. Yes, he loved her, but he had formed that evaluation well in advance of love.

Lewis studied Allison and Price. The brown skinned man, big and husky, was very devoted to the general. If he proved obstinate, there could be trouble.

But—as most people did—he succumbed to Allison's warmth.

"Well, ma'am, he sure can use help."

That was an understatement. Jackson had undergone a very rough time since getting shot in three places Saturday night. In addition to a brutal fall, he almost bled to death on his way to a field hospital. By lamp glow McGuire had amputated Jackson's arm.

This Monday Jackson endured a twenty-seven mile journey over rough roads to Guinea Station. The stoic general complained little, but his strength was further drained. By Wednesday the first signs of pneumonia appeared.

When his wife arrived yesterday, his condition had markedly deteriorated. He was nauseous and in constant pain. Ominously, the pain did not emanate from the stump of his arm, but from his right side—where he landed when thrown from his litter. The general had drifted into delirium. He began to babble orders to his division commanders.

"Let's begin," said Allison. "Jim, let me sit where you are."

As Lewis rose, he glanced at Price. No doubt Lewis was wondering why Allison was doing all the talking and directing instead of Price.

Let Lewis—and McGuire—think whatever they wanted. From the start of their relationship Price never had any trouble with Allison's bent to take charge. That's who this extraordinary woman was. Price was secure enough in his own skin to not mind a whit.

A rap on the door.

"It's me. Anna. May I come in?"

Price cracked the door and checked to make sure she was alone.

"You're the husband?" she asked. Her tone did not convey trust. She held a balled fist at her throat.

"Yes, Mrs. Jackson. I'm Robert Wallis." He opened the door and she swept in. She went to stand over her unconscious husband.

For a moment the ticking of the pendulum clock on the fireplace mantle dominated the room. Then Allison's voice again commanded.

"Anna, please move aside. Aaron, get me a catheter and wipes. Doctor, I will need you and Jim to keep the General stationary." She sat and scooted the chair nearer Jackson's wrist. "Doctor, get behind me and make sure his arm stays still. Jim, same for his shoulders."

Everyone moved accept McGuire. His eyes narrowed as he regarded Price.

"I believe you introduced yourself as Robert."

This was the first time Allison had addressed him in public as Aaron. He knew this incredibly disciplined woman had to be mortified at the slip, though her face revealed nothing. The slip indicated a mind totally fixed on the critical medical procedures at hand. Procedures they had intensely studied but never performed.

"That is my middle name, doctor." Price feigned gruffness as he pulled the items from the carpetbag.

"My apologies, sir. I—never mind."

"Why does he need to be held?" asked Anna Jackson. "What are you going to do to him?"

"Nothing painful. But he must remain still, especially his arm."

Allison tore open an alcohol wipe and rubbed it over the general's wrist. She then unsheathed the catheter. She bent close, seeking a well defined vein. She hunted and hunted.

She sat back. She put the cap back on the catheter needle. She took a deep breath, then spoke with calmness Price knew she did not feel. "Aaron, the tie please."

Price removed a length of thin brown rubber from the bag. Allison wrapped it tightly around Jackson's forearm. Then she hunted again. This time she liked what she saw and inserted the needle. She released the tie.

That was step one. A simple task for 21st Century medical personnel. But he bet their hands would have shaken if they knew millions of lives depended on getting insertion right.

Price handed Allison an IV bag. Everyone stared at the clear plastic filled with liquid.

"My God, what is that?" McGuire asked.

"It is called saline solution," said Allison. "The General has lost a lot of blood and other fluids. The solution will help him recover."

Price began to assemble the IV stand. Their audience gaped at that, too.

When stand was set up he hung the bag. He attached one end of an infusion line to the bag. When fluid began to drip from the other end, Allison attached it to the catheter. With tape she secured the line to Jackson's forearm.

Price and Allison now prepared the antibiotic. With a hypodermic they injected distilled water into a vial of powered erythromycin. After mixing, she drew the antibiotic into the hypo. She inserted the hypo into a port on the catheter and slowly pushed in the plunger.

Jackson stirred and softly spoke nonsense. Fortunately he did not thrash. No one else in the room said a word. Price and Allison were too focused on the procedure, and those born in the 1800's too astounded at what they watched.

When Allison at last withdrew the hypo, Price noticed a new expression on the face of Anna Jackson. It was hope.

Naylor stepped from the cottage porch into evening twilight. She needed fresh air. She needed sleep more, but that would have to wait. Long hours of vigilance lay ahead.

She should pardon the expression, but it still could all go south. Jackson had shown little improvement. He continued to slip in and out of delirium. At least she had not brought on immediate disaster. No sign of allergic reaction.

Nor of hemorrhage. That had been a prime worry, that the dose of heparin would cause bleeding internally or from his stump. She had agonized about the heparin. There was no certainty he had a pulmonary embolism, but if one existed it must be destroyed.

But she had come out here for a break from that. She should enjoy the evening, it was a balmy one. The sky still held enough light for her to appreciate the wildflowers that ran all the way to the railroad. The crickets were—

"Beg pardon, ma'am," called a voice.

A pair of tattered soldiers, forage caps in hand, stood just beyond the white picket fence that ran from the cottage to the main house. Fading light and long beards failed to disguise their age. Both soldiers were so young. Both were so gravely concerned.

"Yes, boys?"

"Any word 'bout the General, ma'am?"

"Dr. McGuire says he is sinking." She let her voice catch.

Their shaggy heads slumped to their chests.

How these boys loved their general. How all his men did. Stonewall Jackson marched them half to death, then fought them to the death. Yet any soldier in his corps would gladly replace their leader on that deathbed.

"Any hope at all?" asked the boy with a white scar across the cheekbone of his deeply tanned face.

"It is in God's hands, boys."

The soldiers would believe that. The whole Army of Northern Virginia would, from Lee on down. God, not Jackson's immune system, would determine his fate.

Naylor believed in a Supreme Being, but she believed Him or Whoever quite deaf to human entreaty. Long ago she concluded Homo sapiens would determine its own fate. Which suited her just fine.

The soldiers nodded, then excused themselves.

None of the other score of soldiers nearby approached her. They had obviously seen the reaction of their two comrades. They merely tipped their caps as she strolled about the side yard.

Her heart ached for these young men. Half of them would either die or be maimed. The South, with its much smaller population, truly would lose the flower of its youth in this abominable conflict.

Death, death, death. It feasted mercilessly on both sides. In two years a quarter of a million men had fallen. In the two years remaining—unless she and Aaron could short circuit it—the war would kill another four hundred thousand.

Why did men make war? They said they hated it, but they kept coming back for more. Heroin addiction would be easier for men to break.

If women were the heads of state, wars would not happen. Men liked to jest about women's fights—the cat fights—but women would never send their husbands and sons to the battlefield. Her sex would talk it out, find a way to keep swords in scabbards.

She had committed her presidency to permanently sheathing the swords. Last month she had come within a hair of success. It was men who had sabotaged that effort, while women worked with her to break the swords in half. Women were the life givers, men the life takers. Men were the curse—though she had loved and did love individual men.

She did not love Abraham Lincoln. It was a travesty history honored him. His self-righteous obstinacy had killed two-thirds of a million Americans. In addition he had trampled on the Constitution, sanctioned scorched earth warfare, and in actuality left blacks worse off. She had never said it to anyone, but Lincoln richly deserved the bullet Booth put in his brain.

If she had been president in 1861, she would have prevented this carnage and destruction. It was so simple, really. Keep Virginia in the Union. Lincoln had been advised that, and still he went ahead with provoking war.

Virginia was the most populous and prestigious state of the South. It contained the bulk of Southern industry. Perhaps most importantly, the state possessed two especially devoted sons. If Virginia had not seceded, Robert E. Lee would have remained a loyal Army officer and Thomas J. Jackson a professor at VMI.

In the days before the Confederates fired on Fort Sumter, Virginia delegates had voted two to one to reject secession. Lincoln still refused to evacuate the fort. By that act he knowingly guaranteed that Virginia—along with Arkansas, Tennessee, and North Carolina—would join the seven states already gone. He guaranteed all-out war to the death.

If she had been president, she would have abandoned Fort Sumter. She would have not called for 75,000 volunteers to "suppress combinations". Not a single Federal soldier would have set foot on the soil of the truncated Confederacy. She would instead have relied on naval blockade to restore the Union.

The seven departed states would soon find their cotton worthless. Planter after planter would find their slaves no longer the engine of prosperity but rather an insupportable burden. With no threat of invasion to rally the populace, the threat of impoverishment would cool Southern pride and passion.

As president she would pick off the seven recalcitrants one by one. She would concentrate first on Texas. If the underdeveloped state rejoined the Union, it would receive vast funds for roads, railroads and canals. She would also make good all economic loss incurred by the blockade. And if Texas so wished, she would fast track its division into five states, which would give it eight more senators.

With Texas gone and their livelihood withering, the remaining six states would return to the fold. All at once or one by one, it did not matter. They would come. And loss of life would be trifling.

Yes, slavery would still exist. But she would ensure that the "peculiar institution" also withered. She would pay owners double, even triple, market value to give a slave his freedom. By turn of the century emancipation should be nearly complete. All again, with little bloodshed.

Oh, why couldn't Lincoln have taken this path? Why hurl vast armies at the Confederacy when a blockade and gold could have done the same job? Why make the nation bleed and suffer so grievously, so unnecessarily?

She groaned.

"Are you all right, ma'am?"

She turned to see another soldier. Another underfed boy in ragged homespun. Full of concern and goodwill, and fresh from shooting and clubbing and bayoneting other boys. Another of the Killer Angels.

"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you for asking."

The soldier lingered. Behind him rose the red brick walls and chimneys of the Chandler house. In the twilight the brick took on the color of dried blood.

This adolescent sported long, bushy sideburns. "If you would, ma'am, tell Old Jack the boys of his brigade want back him in the saddle. Tell him we still need him to whip the Yanks."

"You are with the Stonewall Brigade?"

Jackson had commanded his namesake brigade at the first battle of Bull Run. The brigade began the counterattack that eventually routed the Federal forces. When Jackson reluctantly left the brigade to assume higher command, he gave an impassioned farewell speech. He promised the men they would always rank first in his heart.

"Yes, ma'am. 33rd Virginia."

"I will pass along your encouragement. Though I must tell you, I fear he will not command again."

Another head hung. She heard a muffled sob. Maternal instinct swept, and she nearly embraced the boy. Instead she patted his shoulder.

It was not until the second repetition of "Amanda" that Naylor realized she was being addressed. She turned to see Aaron leaning out the window of Jackson's room. He urgently waved for her to come.

What was wrong?

Tuesday, May 19

The shade of the great oak kept the interior of the wall tent tolerable. But out in the sun Armistead Long had felt the heat of the day coming. By noon they would be sweating, inside or out.

General Lee sat studying the map spread on his field table. Yesterday Lee had returned from Richmond, where he had proposed an invasion of the North to Davis and his cabinet. They had approved the plan.

The General had not looked good when he rode into camp yesterday. This morning there was still some gray in his face. Long feared he might be relapsing.

In late March Lee had suffered a severe attack of rheumatism. For several days his chest, back and left arm were racked with sharp pain, and he was confined to bed until mid April. Treatment with quinine left him fatigued and confused.

During the recent battle the General had revived. Vitality returned to his face. His orders were crisp, and his strategy bold. He had functioned at a high level despite little sleep—and the crushing loss of General Jackson.

"Colonel, we will send Early first." A forefinger traced over the map. The finger moved west to Culpeper, then into the Shenandoah Valley. The finger advanced north towards Winchester.

"The rest of Ewell's Corps will follow. If Ewell is quick enough, he may trap Milroy."

Long licked his lips at prospect of that. Bagging Milroy would bring joy throughout the South. Milroy had treated the populace of Winchester even more harshly than had Ben Butler the people of New Orleans.

"I hope you will hang him, General."

"We will see. He certainly has much to answer for."

The forefinger crossed the Potomac at Williamsport.

"With Winchester cleared, the door will be wide open." The finger moved up the Cumberland Valley to Hagerstown.

Then Lee turned his head and smiled. Long followed the General's gaze. At the open tent flap stood that infernal hen.

"Come in, Betsy," said Lee.

Chickens were just as dumb as turkeys, but this one was the exception. Long swore a human possessed its body.

The hen looked scornfully at Long, then retreated.

Lee laughed. "Betsy likes to lay her eggs in privacy, Colonel."

It was said the hen laid an egg each day, here in the General's tent under his cot. Good thing she did or she'd been dinner long ago.

"Are you taking her north with us, sir?"

"Certainly."

The hen had traveled with the General during the last two campaigns. Riding atop his personal wagon. What had civilians watching the army pass thought of that?

Lee returned to the map. His finger stopped at Chambersburg in the Cumberland Valley. Then he sighed.

"You know, General Jackson and I had talked of taking the entire army across the Susquehanna. To destroy as many coal miles as possible. That would have staggered the north, halting production of anthracite coal."

This was the first Long had heard of that.

"We would have also wrecked the Pennsylvania Railroad far as we could get. Then when the Army of the Potomac crossed the river to stop us, we would slip back and race to take Baltimore and Washington."

Long refrained from whistling. A bold plan indeed. Reckless, many might say. The entire army could be lost. No wonder the two generals had kept that plan to themselves.

He was aware that the two had long yearned to invade Pennsylvania. But he thought they more modestly planned a big raid through the Cumberland. That valley was the most bountiful in the country. The army could "requisition" enough horses, wagons, cattle, crops, and other supplies to last a year. In addition Virginia would escape the campaigning that had wasted countryside from the Potomac to the Rappahannock.

"Without him, we cannot now be so adventuresome." Then Lee sagged. He looked older than ever. "Why did God have to take him from us? I cannot understand."

"Nor can I, sir."

The loss of Stonewall was still a shock. And shot by his own men. Why could not have those North Carolinians held fire until certain of their target?

Long had not been particularly fond of that strange man. But over the past year Jackson and Lee had proved an unbeatable combination. Each was a military genius. Each trusted the other completely, and together they could pull off maneuvers that were lunacy for anyone else to attempt.

Long bent over the map. "What did you have in mind, sir?"

"I will use Ewell's corps as bait. Early will go this way."

The finger slid from Chambersburg through the Cashtown Gap to the other side of the South Mountain range. The finger continued eastward across Pennsylvania, through the crossroads town of Gettysburg and stopped thirty miles further at York.

The finger returned to Chambersburg.

"Johnson and Rodes will march down the Valley to Carlisle," said Lee. "The rest of the army will remain at Chambersburg, hidden from the enemy."

Long wasn't sure this was the right course. Ewell's people would be far from support. A rapid march by the Army of the Potomac could cut them off. Again, though it amounted almost to sacrilege, he wondered if the General had permanently lost some of his acumen.

"You are frowning, Colonel."

"I am, sir?"

"I know Ewell will be exposed. But he should force Hooker to spread his forces. Hooker must cover Baltimore and Washington. I will then rapidly concentrate our army." The finger moved back to the town that had ten roads and a train line running to it. "Hooker will have to respond in kind. We can attack his scattered units as they hurry toward us. We can defeat his entire army in detail."

A thrill went through Long. By God, the plan did make sense. String them out, then hit them one at a time as they desperately tried to close up. He was ashamed he had thought this master of war slipping.

But—

"Sir, do you think Lincoln will leave Hooker in command?" The victory in early May was due to Hooker's incompetence as much as Lee and Jackson's brilliance.

"Let us pray so, Colonel."

Lincoln might keep Hooker on. He had stuck with McClellan far longer than merited.

But no, they couldn't stay that lucky. McClellan had never sunk to the depths of Hooker. In the face of invasion Lincoln would sack the laughably misnamed Fighting Joe.

Which begged the question, who would Lincoln choose as replacement? Long hoped it would not be Reynolds.

Lee rapped the map. "This will give us decisive victory on Northern soil. Their people are weary of this war. They will demand peace."

The people might, but Long didn't think Lincoln would yield. The man—the Original Gorilla—was a fanatic. He loved the darkie and hated the South. He still had twenty-one months remaining in office. He would use each of them to prosecute unrelenting war.

They became aware of someone standing outside the tent entrance. It was Sandie Pendleton, assistant adjutant to Jackson's corps. The young man shifted on his feet.

Dick Ewell would be taking over Jackson's command, and hopefully he would keep on Pendleton as an adjutant. It should be an easy decision. Despite his youth, early twenties, Sandie was considered one of the best staff officers in the army.

"Major Pendleton," called Lee. "Please come in."

Pendleton saluted. "I don't mean to interrupt you, sir. I will gladly wait. I do have a letter from Mrs. Jackson to give you."

"Come in. Colonel Long, we will continue with this later."

"Yes, sir."

Long shook hands with Pendleton, and once again expressed his sympathies. Pendleton and Jackson had been very close. They had served together since the first days of the war.

The young, bare face was drawn. Pendleton had been at Jackson's bedside when he died. Afterward he had accompanied the casket to Richmond, where Jackson lay in state in the capitol building. Then onto Lexington for the funeral. Each step must have been wrenching.

Long stepped from the tent. His eyes swept the encampment. White tents stood in every direction amid the trees of Hamilton's Crossing. Officers and soldiers strolled and sat at leisure. Songs and laughter filtered through the woods.

Let them relax. For soon they would be put to their greatest test. General Lee was more right than he knew, these men must win a decisive battle this summer. Vicksburg appeared doomed.

They were the greatest soldiers in the world. One to one, even two to three, they could not be defeated. When they attacked with tactical advantage, they routed the Yankees every time. So let it be again in Pennsylvania.

He was about to walk on when he heard a muffled cry. From the General's tent. He scurried to the tent flap.

Lee sat bent over the table. His face was flushed and his eyes were screwed shut. Pendleton stooped at his side.

God help them if he was having another attack.

"Sir, shall I get Dr. Breckenridge?"

"No, no, I am all right." Lee spoke with strangled voice.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes. Please leave us, Colonel."

Long now saw the sheet of paper in Lee's hand. An envelope lay on the desk. No doubt the letter from Jackson's wife. Its contents had obviously struck the general hard.

He wondered if Mrs. Jackson had castigated Lee. Blamed him for the loss of her husband. It would not be the first time that a woman in her grief had done so. How very unfair.

"Please leave us," Lee repeated. The flush was fading. Yet great emotion still stirred on that noble face.

The letter of course may have carried an entirely different message. Mrs. Jackson may have told of her, and her husband's, great admiration for Lee. She may have commiserated in their terrible loss. Gracious words would likely pain Lee more than censure, as they would tear off the scab of healing grief.

This time Long walked far from Lee's tent. A lump formed in his throat. Loved or feared, Old Jack was gone. This army would not, could not, be the same. The man's battlefield skill was worth two extra divisions. The inspiration he provided was worth several more.

Long tried not to despair. Yet how could he not? With Stonewall gone and Lee impaired, the army would be greatly handicapped during the coming campaign.

Yes, the men would fight as ferociously as ever. But valor alone did not guarantee victory. Energetic, capable leadership was also required. The travails of the Army of the Potomac proved that.

Tuesday, May 26

Mauer watched as the President took aim. In the big hand of the tall man the Smith and Wesson revolver looked like a toy gun. Lincoln assumed a dueler's stance.

They stood on the open Ellipse, not far from the stump of what would someday be a magnificent obelisk. Now the Washington Monument resembled a ruin.

Lincoln paused as behind them the sergeant of the guard detail bawled at his men. You are here to watch for intruders, not the president. The two dozen Bucktails abruptly displayed their backs.

The retorts of the pistol stung Mauer's ears as the President shot five times without pause. His big thumb easily worked the single action hammer. A cloud of white smoke quickly obscured Lincoln's head and Mauer wondered how the President could see the target.

Thirty yards away stood a tall pile of old lumber. A fresh white board with a black circle had been nailed halfway up. Mauer saw two holes in the white, both at the outer edges of the board. He had observed no splinters flying from the black.

Lincoln, Mauer, Stoddard, and Lamon walked over clover and dandelions to inspect the target. Lincoln laughed as they neared. The bulls-eye was intact.

"Lucky I wasn't facing a reb. Be a goner."

Stoddard held out five cartridges. "Reload, sir?"

Lincoln opened the gun at its hinge to expose the cylinder, then pulled out the rimfire casings. He put in the new rounds.

He offered the S & W to Mauer. He grinned. "Show us how it's done, Edwin."

"Don't know I'll do any better, sir."

"Oh, I have a feeling you will put every one in the black. Don't be shy about topping me."

Mauer had told the President nothing about his proficiency with guns. But this canny man must have surmised that Mauer was a deadeye shot. Mauer shouldn't be surprised; Lincoln could sniff out anything. Abe would have made one hell of an investigator.

They walked back to the shooting line. Mauer wondered if he should deliberately miss a couple shots. He didn't want to show up the President too bad. But, no, this probably was an integrity test. And Mauer was never one to avoid competition.

Mauer fully faced the target. With both hands on the grip, he extended his arms. He took aim down the barrel that lacked a front sight. He would see where the first bullet stuck, then adjust if necessary.

"Edwin," said Lamon, "you always shoot that way?"

"Always." He knew Lamon thought his stance presented too wide a profile. He squeezed the trigger.

The board quivered as the bullet struck the black, three inches off center. Mauer waited for cross breeze to clear the acrid smoke. Four more times he shot and paused. It was easy to keep the bulls-eye sighted, as this .32-caliber pistol didn't kick much.

They again inspected the target. The last four rounds were tightly grouped, within an inch of center.

Lamon whistled. Square jawed Stoddard looked at Mauer wide eyed.

"Told you," the President chortled.

Mauer turned with a friendly smile to Lamon. "The frontal stance allows a steadier aim. Put your opponent down with the first shot, you needn't worry about being a bigger target."

Lamon laughed. "If you say so."

Mauer returned the revolver to Lincoln. "Try it my way, sir."

"By jings, I will."

Mimicking Mauer the President put all rounds on the board, two in the black. He laughed heartily and the squeaky sound was music to everyone's ears. This man desperately needed joy in his life.

Lincoln reloaded and shot again.

Banging out bullets was probably therapeutic. Mauer bet the chief executive would like to have Hooker downrange.

Lincoln had taken off his frock coat and hat, but he still sweated in the midday sun. They all did. Sunday the weather had finally turned hot and humid. From now until September Washington would resemble a sauna.

Mauer's eyes swept the ragged Mall again. Again nothing loomed more threatening than the army cattle grazing near the truncated Monument. The stench of the B Street Canal, an open sewer really, made for the only assault on the President.

His gaze drifted down to the Potomac and the bank beyond. It was little over a mile from here to the Virginia side. Telescopic sights were in use at this time. Accounts existed where sharpshooters had used them to kill from a mile away.

The odds of that happening to Lincoln today were remote. The breeze would work havoc with the slower moving bullets of this era. Even if the air were dead calm, a sharpshooter could not have anticipated the President's appearance on the Mall. The decision to come had been spontaneous.

Still, he was anxious to get Lincoln back in the Mansion. Only behind those walls was the President truly safe. The vetted alone got into the Mansion now.

Trouble was, as Lamon had warned, Lincoln more and more wanted out. Last Friday Lincoln had insisted that he and his wife be allowed their former afternoon carriage rides. This week he had demanded they resume hospital visits.

Mauer had given in. He considered himself a strong willed person, but the steel in Lincoln was stronger. Mauer had never encountered anyone else who could so kindly yet powerfully insist. Thank God the Republic, in its hour of supreme need, had this unyielding man at the helm.

Tuesday had been Mauer's first visit to a Civil War hospital. He hoped it was his last.

Mauer had headed the security detail as Lincoln and his wife toured the corridor-like wards of Campbell Hospital. The wards themselves were spacious, clean and well lit. The wounded were a horror show.

He had visited those wounded in modern wars. He had seen men with multiple amputations, with terrible burns, with severe cranial loss. But modern medicine managed to mitigate the full impact, at least to the observer.

In the Union wards there was no mitigation. The ruination that had befallen the Civil War sick and wounded hit like a sledgehammer. Mangled faces, stumps oozing pus, gangrene and peritonitis, and—equaling nearly all other cases—typhoid induced delirium and diarrhea. The brightness and cleanliness of the wards merely amplified the raw sights and smells.

Mauer was glad Chloe had remained at the Mansion.

The shattered men were for the most very stoic, but they had to know if they lived—a big if—they were fucked anyway. In this era a cripple was a cripple, with little hope of rehabilitation. The worst mutilated would likely end up as shut-ins.

Mauer marveled at the bravery of the Civil War soldiers. Their casualty rates were the highest of any American war. Most casualties were caused by rifle fire, and the large caliber Minié ball was the chief culprit. The soft lead bullet flattened on impact and caused appalling wounds.

Once hit a soldier could only pray he had been struck in a limb. A limb could be sawed off, and if the stump escaped gangrene, he would live. A hit to the torso pretty well doomed a soldier. A hit to the lungs or heart meant a quick death. One below the ribs meant a slow, agonizing end.

Stoddard now took his try with the S & W. He didn't hit the board once. Lincoln laughed, they all laughed, including Stod. Lamon followed and put four of five in the black.

Mauer saw some of the soldiers peeking. He scowled them back to duty. These were good kids, but boy, did they need constant prodding. He wondered how long the vigilance around the Mansion would last once he and Chloe left.

Lamon would try to maintain the strict security. Lots of luck. Once Mauer and Chloe left, Lincoln would assume the crisis was over. The President would revert to form.

Mauer supposed that was the way it had to be, for the sake of history. Piss poor security allowed the assassination in Ford's theater. Mauer felt like a co-conspirator for not alerting Lamon, the one man he could count on to stop John Wilkes Booth. It was cruelly ironic that Lincoln had sent Lamon out of town on official business just before Booth struck.

But tragic as Lincoln's death would be—a personal loss now for Mauer, he had developed a real friendship with the great man—Lincoln must die as written. The disruption to American history would otherwise be profound.

The President again peeled with delight as he drilled the target. Then mirth left his face. Lincoln struggled to maintain his light heart, but gloom shortly captured the deeply lined face.

"I reckon that's enough," said Lincoln. "Got that meeting soon."

Mauer checked his pocket watch. Yes, it was nearing noon. Another cabinet meeting. The siege of Vicksburg withstanding, there would be plenty of bad news to discuss.

Desertions were back up, especially in Hooker's army. Plus many of its regiments were nearing the end of enlistment and would soon disband. Replacements were hard to come by. Soon the Army of the Potomac would drop in strength by some 30,000 men.

Since January recruitment had dried up. The history books rightfully hailed the Emancipation Proclamation, but its issuance had fallen flat among white populace of the North. Fighting to preserve the Union was one thing; dying for blacks was another. Most whites, sadly even Lincoln, wanted them shipped out of the country.

In March Congress had responded with the Draft Act. It was wildly unpopular. Membership in antiwar cabals like the Sons of Liberty exploded, rising from under a hundred thousand last year to over a half a million by now. In July hatred for the Act would lead to the murderous riots in New York City.

To top it all off, talk was increasing about the Republicans nominating someone else next year.

Yes, this great man had plenty of reason for gloom. How Mauer wanted to tell him deliverance—at Vicksburg and Gettysburg—was only five weeks away. How he wanted to say, "Hold on, Mr. President, hold on".

But Abraham Lincoln would of course hold on. That was his nature. Lincoln was granite rock, the indomitable savior of the country that would become savior the world. Lincoln did not need Mauer's pity or encouragement. Abe only needed being kept alive.

As they struggled to keep up with the gangly man striding toward the Mansion, pride swept Mauer. He was supremely honored to walk with this American giant. And he would keep the giant alive.

Thursday, May 28

The day had been the longest yet for Bryant. It began with a cruel prank and was now ending in sodden fatigue. Where did she hand in her resignation?

She had woken to find a goat's face inches from her own. She had shrieked, then heard laughter behind the door to Tad's room. Then the smelly animal started braying as it paced the state bedroom.

She had screamed for Tad to remove his pet. Tad had snickered it was not proper to enter a lady's bedroom. She yelled louder, then Mary Toad was yelling at Tad, then Lizzie came to the rescue and drove away the agitated animal.

If Tad Lincoln were her child, Bryant would have drowned him long ago. Jack thought Tad the epitome of a red blooded American boy, but she increasingly loathed him. An over indulged brat to his rotten little core.

Tad fit right into this dysfunctional family. The President was working and worrying himself to death, Mary Toad was in communication with the dead, and Tad lived to disrupt. No wonder the older son, Robert, stayed away much as he could.

Bryant wondered how the completely normal Lizzie Keckley could be fast friends with a dingbat like Mary Toad. Unless it was an act; Mary Toad was her employer. Yet genuine camaraderie seemed to exist. Lizzie must detect something agreeable in the sour little woman—who still thought Bryant was trying to steal her husband.

She had come to really like Lizzie. From the first day this woman had been pleasant and helpful. Lizzie even helped with the security screening of petitioners, which Bryant particularly welcomed.

Jack and the President had worked out a compromise. Lincoln could start receiving the public again, but only sixty people—equally divided between the sexes—would be admitted each weekday. Each person would undergo interrogation and full pat-down before being escorted by soldiers to the second floor.

Lamon and Jack screened the men, Lizzie and Bryant the women. The first day several women refused to let a "coon" touch them. That ended after observers saw these women swiftly booted from the Mansion grounds.

Before today's screening began, she told Jack of the goat ambush. He had been long gone when it occurred; as usual he slipped out of the bedroom at dawn.

She had not gotten sympathy. Instead Jack tried to hide a smile. She could have drowned him too.

Bryant didn't have time to fume, as screening started shortly. Another day, another gaggle of surly women to process. The heat and humidity added to the misery.

By the end of it Bryant was sweating like a pig. Afterward she bathed in the first floor washroom, and didn't mind a bit the cold water. She luxuriated in shivering. Then it was back to sweating.

She didn't know how women remained sane during summer in Washington. Lizzie said a proper lady should wear drawers, chemise, stockings, hoop skirt, petticoats, undersleeves, then dress, gloves and bonnet. The blanket of sticky air added a final layer of torture.

Bryant suffered, too, but she wore only bra and panties (providentially she had packed several pair) under her hoop skirt and dress. And she now refused to wear headgear, indoors or out. She didn't care what anyone thought or said. Even Jack.

Well, she did care. Fortunately, for both of them, he hadn't remarked on her going bareheaded. She was snapping enough at him lately.

After the favor seekers were herded from the Mansion, Jack was off again with Lincoln to the telegraph office. William Stoddard asked her to come along for lunch at the Willard. She declined, citing the heat. "Stod" was starting to get a bit too friendly. She hardly wanted to encourage him, however handsome and debonair he might be.

For God's sakes, she was a married woman. Married to Edwin Stein, who even Hill Lamon would give berth. And why would Stod desire her, with so many better looking—and unattached—women in this wartime city?

Bryant took lunch in the basement dining room with the servants. After eating sleepiness tugged, and she napped in a corner of the room. A basement storeroom would have been cooler and quieter, but she had been warned of the co-inhabitants. Waking to a goat she could get over; to a rat, no.

She got a good nap, which she desperately needed. At night on the second floor of the Mansion the day's heat would not fade. She lay damp even in her cotton nightie (another item thankfully packed; she could not have tolerated a knee length chemise). She slept fitfully.

Jack slept like a log. Often he snored like he was sawing one. At least once a night she jabbed him to halt the racket. She hated herself for robbing him of even a minute of sleep, for he rarely got to turn in before midnight. By now he had to think her an absolute bitch.

He still treated her genially. The man had amazing reservoirs of physical and mental endurance. Not to mention goodwill. She had always admired him, never more than now. And Chloe Bryant was showing her admiration by acting the insufferable shrew.

By early evening she was back on duty. The Lincolns hosted a dinner party in the gilded state dining room, and she and Jack attended. Because the twenty guests were friends of the president, overt screening was waived. Discreet surveillance continued.

Bryant sat on one side of the table bedecked with fragrant flowers, Jack the other. Each watched the hands of the guests opposite. The chance was remote that a pistol would suddenly appear, but one never knew. Some guests had lost a son in battle. Hate for the man responsible—hate perhaps stoked by Allison Naylor—might cause a father or mother to snap.

Lincoln and his lard butt wife faced each other at the middle of the long table. The President had asked Bryant to sit at his left shoulder. She could hardly refuse, even if the hard blue eyes of the First Lady shot fire at her.

The President courteously conversed with everyone in at the table. And she spoke with him only when spoken to. But Old Abe's eyes kept drifting to the expanse of skin that the swooping neckline of her evening dress revealed.

An off shoulder gown was the one garment that made sense in steamy Washington. Its bodice was even more comfortable than a tank top. Acres of flesh lay open front and back. Bryant was surprised such a garment—one that actually exposed cleavage—was permitted in this, the heart of Victorian times.

She noticed many of the men stealing glances at her. She wondered why, when several of the spouses were more attractive and showed similar flesh. The woman with the flaxen hair was beautiful. But her congressman husband also checked out Bryant.

The wives certainly had to notice. However only Mary Toad looked at her with hate. Bryant wondered if some morning she would wake to a knife at her throat instead of a goat.

Despite her nap, and limiting herself to one glass of wine, after a couple hours she had to fight to stay awake. Even the on and off blaring of the Marine Band down the corridor failed to stimulate her.

Despite his lesser ration of sleep Jack remained animated. She knew it was irrational, but she resented his staying power. She itched to say something sarcastic to him. What a bitch.

A more rational response was jealously. Women, including the lovely blonde, looked over Jack. He did cut a fine figure in evening suit and he was pumping out plenty of charm. She was sure the women thought they could have landed Jack in any contest with Bryant.

The dinner party finally ended at eleven. Even at that hour the air remained warm and muggy, though candles illuminated the room instead of the gas fueled chandeliers. Every brow wore beads of perspiration. The women's shoulders glistened. The relentless twitching of hand fans did little to cool.

Once the guests left, the President and Jack went to the War Department. Mary Toad awarded Bryant one last bilious glare before going upstairs. Bryant remained on the first floor to take her fourth bath of the day.

After she bathed she thoroughly patted her body with lavender water. She liked the aromatic scent, but she wouldn't have bothered except for the water's ability to repel mosquitoes. That was another tip from Lizzie Keckley.

She didn't head up until she was sure the Toad had turned in. Each step on the grand staircase brought an increase in temperature. When she reached the second floor sweat again filmed her. She just sighed.

Thankfully she quickly fell asleep. She didn't wake until something thumped. For a moment she feared Mary Toad had actually crept into the room. But it was just Jack.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to wake you. I dropped my boot."

"It's okay. What time is it?"

"Past two. Abe got into telling stories to the poor operators on duty." He laughed. "No good way to shut up the President of the United States."

"God, Jack, I don't know how you make it on so little sleep. I get twice as much, and I'm still a zombie."

In the semidarkness—gas lamps in the north driveway cast a little light through the open window—she saw Jack pulling off his pants. Boxer briefs were underneath. She turned on her side to give him privacy.

Another little laugh. "Maybe I am already a zombie."

"Jack—"

"Yes?" She heard more clothes coming off.

"I'm sorry I've been so disagreeable the past couple of days." Though it was more than a couple.

"Don't worry about it. I know this is no picnic."

"You're handling things fine."

"I've spent most of my life in the field. This is in the field, believe me."

"I'll be better. I promise."

"You're doing great. Look, if I have a complaint about your performance, I'll let you know."

Dammit, why did he have to be so nice? Chew her out. She deserved it.

"I want to kill the First Lady."

"Yeah, she can be difficult."

"No, Jack. I wouldn't mind blowing her away. Really."

He fell silent.

"I hate her," she said. "She treats me like dirt."

"Chloe, you can't take it personally. She is jealous of every young woman."

Bryant didn't consider herself a young woman. She was almost thirty-five. Yet people in 2015 thought her younger, she supposed because of the touch of baby fat in her face. Having a line free complexion didn't hurt either.

Here people really miscalculated. Lizzie had been shocked when "Lily" finally revealed her age. Lizzie thought Bryant barely into her twenties. As must Stod and other interested males.

Of course, the reverse was true for them. John Nicolay was thirty-one, but he looked over forty. Stod, twenty-seven, looked in his thirties. Lamon looked Jack's age, though Lamon was twelve years younger. Living in the 1800's obviously took it out of a person.

"Chloe?"

"Yes?"

"You cannot take it personally."

But she did.

"They say she trapped the President. Got herself pregnant, then cornered him into marriage."

"Who told you that?"

One of the kitchen help had. She had asked Stod if the tale was true, and he just smiled. Which confirmed it.

"It's common rumor."

"You can't get sidetracked by personal feeling." Jack spoke with exasperation. "We have the mission, and only the mission. We keep Lincoln alive."

"I know that. But I'll be glad when I never set eyes on Mary Lincoln again."

"She is a tormented person. Have pity on her."

"I know she lost her son last year. That doesn't give her excuse to about spit in my face each time we cross paths."

"She lost a son before Willie. She's lost two half-brothers in this war, and will lose a third. In eight years she will lose Tad."

She hadn't known that. "How?"

"Like Willie, to typhoid. That will be the final blow. Losing her husband will crush her, losing Tad will destroy her. So have pity, Chloe."

Her throat lumped. "I do," she whispered.

"Yes, she borders on a whackjob. But there's a lot of positive in her. I saw her at Campbell Hospital the other day. It was incredible what she did."

Bryant could have accompanied them to the hospital. But she hadn't the nerve.

"What happened?"

"There was a soldier at one end of the ward. They had removed other wounded from the cots nearest him. As we entered the ward a nurse was leaving his cot—well, more like double timing away. The nurse had a handkerchief over her nose and mouth, but you could tell whatever cologne she had in the handkerchief wasn't working."

Jack sat on the bed and the frame creaked. Bryant wondered how much clothing he still had on. In this hot weather he had been sleeping in T-shirt and Boxer briefs.

"You've smelled rotting meat before. Multiply that by a thousand and you can guess at gangrene. The soldier—another teenager—had it in his arm stump. At the other end of the ward the smell made you want to heave. But the First Lady headed right for him."

No way, she wanted to say.

"I've never seen such a look of misery as on that boy. I've had infection from a wound. In China I expected gangrene, but they never let it get that far. What I did have was bad enough. Continuous fatigue, fever and nausea."

"I'm so sorry, Jack."

She'd read the report on what happened to him there. Eighteen months of repeating physical and mental torture. Each round would bring him near death. They would pull back, let him recover, then start again. Somehow Jack had not broken. She had cried as she read the report. She would hate China forever.

"The First Lady pulled up a chair to his cot. On the side facing the stump. I don't know how she didn't gag. She instead was smiling as she talked to him. I don't think he believed it, someone still treating him like he was human. Instead of like putrefying meat."

Bryant couldn't believe Mary Toad had that much compassion. Maybe it had just been for show.

"The boy actually brightened." Jack's voice caught. "It was so magnificent of her."

Bryant supposed it was.

"The President came over after he had talked to the other wounded. I stayed at his side. Then I saw what looked like rice on the boy's wound. Except the rice moved. They were maggots."

Her stomach heaved. She had not needed to hear that detail.

"Why didn't the nurses clean them off?" It was their duty, no matter how bad the boy smelled.

"The maggots were his only chance, actually. They eat diseased flesh and leave the good alone. But the sight is pretty horrible. Yet the First Lady stayed with the boy long enough to write a letter for him."

Good God. Bryant wondered if she could have sat there.

"So you see, Chloe, Mary Todd Lincoln has a heart too. Underneath all her rudeness, she's basically decent."

"I just wish she'd treat me better."

"Why don't you talk to her? Don't express sympathy about Willie, she's tried hard to forget that. Tell her you want to be on good terms. Say something good about Tad, too."

"Maybe."

Mary Toad wouldn't be buying that, especially about Tad. Bryant would try to stay out of her way and count the days until she and Jack departed this semi lunatic asylum.

"Sorry again that I woke you."

"Sorry you have to get up so early."

"Always been an early riser. And needed only five, six hours sleep. Chloe, would you mind if I slept without my T-shirt? It is warm in here."

It was a damn oven.

"Of course not, Jack."

"I know it's not fair. I mean—"

"It's perfectly alright. Go ahead."

In that moment her nipples hardened and she came very close to shedding her nightie.

How she would love to. Sex urge had gnawed many days now. She had not made love for a couple months, and she had always physically desired Jack.

What would Jack do if the nightie came flying off and she turned to face him? Would he reach for her? Or would he be appalled?

"Good night, Chloe."

"Good night, Jack. Sleep well."

"You too."

Jack dozed right off, blessedly not snoring. But it didn't matter. She couldn't sleep.

She loved him. But he didn't love her, never would. Even if neither of them had dropped an iota of height so far. When they finished here, he would get off in 1996 and head for Teri. And that would be that.

Sunday, May 31

Lamon stood in the parlor with Stein and the foppish captain. The captain smoked a cigar, Lamon sucked on chewing tobacco, and Stein abstained. Stein, who Lamon had come to respect and like, abstained from most everything. Lamon had never met a man with such self-control—excepting the President, of course.

This pretty boy captain he didn't respect. Did the yellow belly think puffing on that corona made him manly? Lamon would have already torn it from his mouth if the captain weren't in Seward's employ.

Leave it to a smooth talking dandy like him to worm into a position that avoided the front. His spotless, perfectly tailored uniform with the shining buckle and buttons was an insult to the real men striving in the dust and mud. Lamon ached to turn the uniform into a spittoon.

Lamon could hear the murmur of Abe and Seward talking behind the closed doors of Seward's library. The President and Secretary of State had been in discussion two hours. Who knew how many more were to go.

Abe walked the couple blocks to Seward's house at least once a week. Often their consultations lasted past midnight. Lamon hoped this evening wouldn't be a repeat.

It was strange, how Abe and Seward had become friends. They had been bitter rivals for the nomination in 1860. Seward, Senator from New York, was the pre-convention favorite. Haughty Seward had not taken kindly to getting outmaneuvered by the man he and so many others considered a country bumpkin. Lamon partook in that maneuvering, when he helped pack the convention hall with Lincoln supporters.

Lamon had not thought Seward would last long in the cabinet. Right away Seward tried to act as de facto president. Lamon thought Seward would be fired for sure when he tried to halt resupply of Fort Sumter. Abe kept him—but only after making dead clear who was boss.

After that Seward became a loyal servant of the President. And a very effective one, as he managed to keep Britain and France from recognizing the Confederacy. Somewhere along the line the relationship changed from mutual respect to affection.

Lamon was glad, for Abe had few real friends in Washington. And nobody more politically helpful. Abe told Lamon that Seward's advice had kept him from several bad decisions.

The pretty boy captain was lecturing Stein on how Hooker should have fought at Chancellorsville. To emphasize points he jabbed the air with his cigar.

"Hooker could have cracked Lee like a walnut. He had the strength on both sides to do it. Even the lowliest private would have known enough to order the attacks."

"It was a great missed opportunity," said Stein.

Lamon suspected Stein too did not respect the captain. But one would never know it. This man held his cards very close to his chest. He also kept himself tightly coiled.

That was a dangerous combination. One did not idly confront such men. Stein reminded Lamon of a cobra, waiting, observing, calculating. Stein would strike only when the situation warranted, and then with sudden lethal force.

Lamon was glad Stein was on their side.

"Hooker was mad to leave his right flank hanging in the air," the captain told Stein.

"A disastrous mistake," Stein said.

Conspiratorially the captain lowered his voice. "Of course, any but the Eleventh Corps would have fought Jackson. It is said those Dutchmen outran the hares trying to get away."

Stein didn't say anything. Maybe he was getting tired of hearing about battle from a man who had never faced shot and shell.

Lamon decided to have some fun. He faced the captain and glowered. "My mother is German."

His mother was Scotch-Irish but this fool had no idea.

"Uh—sorry, Marshal. I meant no offense."

"I take offense."

"I do apologize. I was unaware."

"I demand satisfaction. Since I am issuing the challenge, you get to choose the weapons."

Lamon smiled with anticipation. Then he turned and spit heartily into the brass spittoon.

The captain blanched. Lamon could almost smell the poop soon to soil those sky blue trousers with the gold piping and perfect creases.

"Hill." There was the tiniest smile on Stein's lips. "I am sure the captain did not mean to insult your mother."

"I think he did, Ed."

The captain was now looking at Stein as if he were a lifeline.

"We can all agree it was not the troops' fault Jackson got the drop on them," said Stein. "Hooker is entirely to blame."

"Yes, yes," the captain croaked. "I believe even Reynolds' corps would have had a difficult time."

Lamon was enjoying himself too much to stop. "You said my mother's people ran like hares."

"That was just a figure of speech. I am sure under good leadership that the Dutchmen would have performed well."

"That's always the key," said Stein, as he looked sternly at Lamon. "Leadership."

Lamon took the hint. "Well, maybe you meant nothing by it. But you must be careful who you slur."

"I—I was just commenting on the flank attack. I wish our generals were that bold."

Lamon grunted. Now that was a valid point. To date only Grant had shown such guts.

"At least we won't have to deal with Stonewall anymore," said Lamon.

"He was a great general," said Stein.

"The papers say Lee didn't come to Richmond when Jackson lay in state," said the captain. "I find that surprising."

"Probably too painful," said Stein. "Supposedly they were close."

"It still seems disrespectful."

Lamon thought so too. What was this, him agreeing twice with the fop?

"The casket was closed," said the captain. "He must have gotten wounded in the face too."

"Whatever was needed to stop him," said Lamon.

"Took his own men to do it," said the captain.

"Give them a medal," said Lamon.

Lamon heard stirring in the library. Then the double doors opened. Abe and Seward stepped out, still conversing. Beak nosed Seward had a half smoked cigar in hand. It didn't smell any better than pretty boy's.

Give him chewing tobacco anytime. Lamon discretely spit.

Bryant fanned herself as she sat talking with Stod and John Nicolay in Nicolay's office. Flies swirled around the hissing gas lights on the wall. Every several seconds a fly would ignite and crackle in the low flame. She hoped the mosquitoes were getting their fair share of immolation.

Tonight it was a bit cooler on the second floor. Or maybe she was adapting to Washington summer weather. She supposed people had to, or go nuts. Stod and John didn't look uncomfortable, though they wore long sleeve shirts.

Stod was still after her. She was flattered at his tasteful persistence. In different circumstances she may have let him court her.

Stod and John had been good friends to her the past month. They made the days less tedious, and they blunted the hostility of Mary Lincoln. She would miss them. She didn't like to think they would be long dead when she returned home.

They heard voices in the corridor.

"The Tycoon is back," said John. Bryant had been amused at their nickname for the President.

"Early tonight," said Stod.

The clock on the mantle said nine-thirty. This was an early end for a meeting between Lincoln and Seward. Maybe the "Tycoon" had finally run out of gas. Maybe they all could get to bed at a decent hour.

The three trooped into the corridor. Lincoln strode toward them, smiling at something Lamon was saying. A step behind them Jack did not look amused at all.

"John, Stod, Lily," called the President. "Holding down the fort, I see."

"Yes, sir," said John.

As the President pulled up cigar odor poured from his rumpled frock coat. He always smelled like that after meeting with Seward. That had been another adaptation for Bryant, dealing with the clouds of tobacco smoke present too often in this Washington. Thank God Jack never touched the stuff.

Lincoln grinned at Bryant. "You haven't been keeping these gentlemen from their work, have you?"

She guessed she had. But these guys needed an occasional break. Lincoln worked them nearly hard as he did himself.

Bryant swore Lincoln had aged during the four weeks she had been here. The circles under his eyes—a permanent feature now, she supposed—were darker. The lines in his face were deeper. His stoop was more pronounced, as if he longed to hurl himself onto a mattress.

"Sir, I'm sorry—"

The President chuckled. "Lily, a young lady's interruptions are always welcome."

"I second that," said Stod. He also smiled.

That was rash of Stod, in Jack's presence. She glanced to see if Jack would act irritated. It was too much to hope he would really be jealous.

Jack stood paces back, not paying much attention. He continued to look grim. What was bothering him? Had he gotten word of Naylor? But Lamon did not appear concerned.

"John, Stod, a moment with you." Lincoln opened the door to his office.

Bryant knew the secretaries wanted to groan. A "moment" meant many moments. John and Stod would not turn in anytime soon.

Bryant, Jack and Lamon were left in the hot corridor.

"Hill," said Jack. "Can you stand watch for a half hour? I need to talk to Lily."

"Sure. I got no place else to go."

Stod had told her that Lamon, before she and Jack arrived, had enjoyed an active night life. Lamon frequented bars in the red light district known as "Hooker's division", where he both sang—he had a fine voice—and brawled. He gained enough notoriety that several congressmen wanted Lincoln to dismiss him. Stod said the President would never do that; Lamon was thoroughly loyal and devoted. Besides, the President got a kick out of the lively actions of his old friend.

The devotion of Lamon had certainly shone since Jack's telegram. Lamon spent every waking hour seeing to the security of the President. Though he did not command the unit, God help any slacking soldier in the Bucktails. God help Naylor and Price if Lamon ever got his huge arms on them.

Jack led Bryant toward the service stairwell. "Let's talk outside," he said.

"What is it?" she whispered.

He shook his head. "Not here."

They emerged into the cooler but no less humid air of the South Lawn. Several soldiers, illuminated by a full moon, snapped to.

"As you were," said Jack.

Well behind the soldiers ash cans spewed smoke. Within the cans burned some of the mountain of mail that did not make it to the President's desk. The mail now served the Mansion by producing a choking cloud to drive away mosquitoes.

Jack remained quiet until they had walked clear of the smoke pervading the South Lawn. They stood on the edge of the Ellipse. Her nose wrinkled at reminder of the nearby canal, but that was a minor irritation. What had Jack found out?

"You were right, Chloe. Naylor is here."

Her heart began to thump. "In Washington?"

"I mean in 1863. Not in 1901 or 1920, but here."

"How do you know? I mean, who saw them? And where?"

"Goddamn her, Chloe. The treasonous bitch has come to destroy the Union. And she's halfway there."
"Jack, what are you talking about? Where is she?"

He laughed bitterly. "Well, that's the problem. I don't know where they are. Though I can guess."

She wondered if the lack of sleep was causing him to hallucinate. God, that's all they needed.

"Get ready for a punch to the gut. That's what you'll feel when I tell you."

"Jack—"

"Allison Naylor has somehow saved Stonewall Jackson. And it doesn't take much imagination to think she and he are now in the vicinity of Gettysburg. Getting ready to rewrite the battle."

"Jack—listen to yourself. You're talking nonsense."

"I wish I was. We have been looking in the wrong direction. As she knew we would. She knew her damned college paper would mislead us. Jackson, not Lincoln or Grant, was her target all along. A target to keep alive rather than kill."

"He's dead. The papers had all about the funeral. Why would you think different?"

"Because of my dear dad." Jack's face twisted. "He worshipped Stonewall Jackson. He praised his devotion to duty, but what Dad really admired was that Jackson always went for the jugular."

Involuntarily she gripped his hand. "Jack, you have been going weeks without enough sleep. You know what that can do to the mind."

For a mad second all she wanted him to do was kiss her. Kiss her in this brilliant moonlight. Then pull her down to the grass and do whatever he wanted. Afterwards they would get all the sleep needed right here on the Ellipse.

He eased his hand free. That hurt more than a slap across the mouth.

"Chloe, my father told what happened when Jackson lay in state in Richmond. At the end. The officials were about to close the casket when a crippled soldier—who had just arrived—told them he wanted to see his commander one last time. They said it was too late, but he begged and begged, and they relented. The soldier got to say goodbye to Stonewall. Face to face."

"I don't understand your point."

"It proves Jackson is alive. This time the casket was closed to viewing."

"So? This time he may have been wounded in the face."

"Some branches hit his face when his horse bolted. They were just scrapes."

"This time it may have been worse."

"Nothing should change unless if we or Naylor cause it to change. None of us were anywhere near Chancellorsville on the evening of May 1."

Bryant said nothing.

"There may have been a body in that casket, but it wasn't Stonewall's. He's alive. Courtesy of Allison Naylor."

She remained quiet as her stomach churned. And her head danced.

"The lying in state, the funeral, it was all a ruse. She will keep him under wraps until Gettysburg. Where he will go for the jugular."

Jack had to be misinterpreting. But when, in her whole time knowing him, had Jack been wrong in evaluating the opposition? He always saw the deepest.

"Jack, if you are right..."

"It makes sense on so many levels. Aaron Price would never sign on for assassinating a president. He inherently couldn't. And Naylor is not a killer, even if she was going to let me be killed. Saving Jackson is much more morally acceptable."

Jack began to pace. "Then there is Gettysburg. Even without Jackson, Lee almost won the first two days. With Jackson the Union army is doomed."

"We'll warn Lincoln, then."

"I don't think we can."

"What?"

"Gettysburg is the decisive victory of the war for the North. But it was a close run thing. We meddle with any of Lincoln's decisions going into it, we could give Lee the victory."

"It is already meddled with. By Naylor."

"Only if Jackson makes it to Gettysburg."

"Why wouldn't Naylor just tell Lee about the battle? Get him to change strategy."

"Because she knows Lee had victory in his grasp that first evening. The general who replaced Jackson dithered and failed to launch a key attack. Jackson never dithered."

"Jack—"

"And I don't think Naylor will let Lee know that Jackson is alive. Everything has to happen exactly as it did until Jackson arrives that evening. She can't chance Lee making any deviation. Just like we can't with Lincoln."

"So what are we going to do?"

"What do you think?"

Bryant dropped her mouth.

"We kill Jackson?"

"If we can find him."

Now she was pacing.

"This is all too much, Jack."

"Yeah."

Monday, June 1

Abraham Lincoln forced a smile. The four others assembled in his office did not change their somber faces.

"I know you miss them," he said. "I know they had become friends to us all."

"I didn't get a chance to say goodbye," said Stoddard. Stod looked particularly downcast.

Stod had already left the Mansion when Edwin and Lily came to see Lincoln shortly after midnight. Nicolay was asleep in his bedroom across the hall. Elizabeth had not been around since sunset. Only he and Lamon had been here and awake.

"They said to give you their regards, Stod."

That hardly placated the young man. But it was best he had been absent when they departed. Stod had done a poor job of hiding his feelings for Lily. He was lucky to have escaped a duel with Edwin.

Lincoln understood the feelings; he yearned too for the strangely compelling woman. On the surface Lily appeared reserved. Some might even think her mousy. But, oh Lord, would they be mistaken.

Fire lay beneath that creamy skin. She was tightly wound, ready for release with the right man. She was also smart and had spine. Young Stoddard could not read people as well as Lincoln, but Stod had arrived at the right conclusion. This was a woman to be prized.

"Why'd they go, sir?" asked Nicolay.

"They wouldn't tell me." Which was the truth. Edwin Stein—or whoever he really was—said Lincoln was no longer in danger. At least from the two Edwin sought.

Elizabeth Keckley spoke dejectedly. "Won't be the same without them."

"No, it won't," said Lincoln.

"I hope you will keep Ed's safeguards in place," said Lamon.

"We'll talk about that later, Hill." Lincoln spoke more sharply than intended. But damned if he would live like a prisoner anymore. When the family moved to the Soldier's Home later this month, he would employ minimal guard.

Stod still moped. He hung his head and rubbed his hands.

She's gone, my boy. For both of us. For good.

Edwin said he and Lily could stay only two to four weeks more in this time. Then they would return from whence they came.

They left a simple but foreboding behest. Over the next thirty days Lincoln was to act as if Edwin and Lily did not exist. That is, unless he did get word from them. Then he must exactly follow their instructions. In either case, the fate of the republic rested on Lincoln strictly adhering.

Lincoln addressed Nicolay. "John, that account you and Hay are planning to write..."

"Yes, sir?"

"And all of you. Sooner or later, people will come to you with offers to write a book about your time at the Mansion. That is fine. But I want your oaths not one word of Edwin and Lily will appear. Promise me."

The four around his desk looked at each other. Then Lamon shrugged.

"Nothing really happened when they were here."

"Except for being fine folks to us," said Elizabeth.

"Nobody took a potshot at the President, that's what I meant. That's all that mattered."

Not for Stod and me, thought Lincoln.

"Your promises, everybody."

He got them.

"I'll remember those two," said Nicolay. "Privately, of course."

Stod nodded painfully.

"He was a man I'd go into a fight with anytime," said Lamon.

"Well," said Lincoln as he stood, "let's get back to work. And God speed them, where ever they are now."

Tuesday, June 2

Jackson reluctantly took the offered hand. He would not have let anyone else help him. A man with only one arm should still be able to dismount from a buggy.

"Thank you," he said to the woman with the smiling blue-green eyes.

He had never encountered a woman who beamed so warmly. Truly, the Heavenly Father had sent her.

"The buggy should be safe enough here," she said. "We will have it under eye the whole time."

She had parked the carriage off Baltimore Pike by several sycamore trees. She had tethered the two horses so their heads could reach grass; they were already chewing while their tails swished at flies.

Amanda spoke with a northern accent, as she had from the day they crossed the Chesapeake Bay. It had disconcerted him how easily she changed her voice. But an angel of the Lord could do many things.

A couple hundred yards to the east rose McAllister's Hill. It was a low, wooded hill. He would put one of Early's brigades there. Quick work with the axe would provide both breastworks and clear fields of fire.

Immediately before them, on the left side of the Pike, rose Power's Hill. It was much higher. Amanda had called this hill the key to the battle.

At first he doubted her pronouncement. But after he had studied her wonderful map, he saw she was right. It was the perfect spot to snap shut the trap.

The map she gave him was the finest piece of topography he had ever seen. In addition to a wealth of contour lines the map displayed foliage, road, building, fence and steam in exquisite detail. All accurate to a foot, she said.

They had left the map at the farm; if they were searched the map—which also showed unit dispositions—would be difficult to explain. They well might be detained as spies. Besides, its absence would force a test of how well he had instructed himself.

A buckboard wagon with a farmer rattled toward them. As the wagon approached Jackson shifted so Amanda shielded his left side. Though he wore a sack coat with a glove attached to his left sleeve, she said he must leave little to chance. They would be looking for a man with no left arm.

Amanda greeted the driver cordially. Jackson said nothing—his Virginia voice he could not change—but he made a point of raising his good arm. The red bearded farmer nodded and tipped his hat to Amanda as the wagon continued toward the town.

The farmer's thick beard reminded Jackson that he no longer possessed one. Jim had shaved it off shortly after they stole away from the Chandler plantation. Jackson had felt naked without it. Of course, no whiskers made an effective disguise. On the first look into a mirror he barely recognized himself.

The late morning air retained coolness. The cloud cover helped. It was a relief to be away from the prickly heat of Tidewater Virginia. It was no relief, though, to be so far from his corps.

But they would come.

Again he had to take her assistance as they crossed the split rail fence. He hated this. All his life it was he who gave the helping hand. Never had he felt so dependent, even when a child.

A low stone wall ran to the top of the rounded hill. They followed it up. On one side of the wall grew sweet smelling hay, on the other side golden wheat.

This was good. Nothing other than thigh high crops—and a single Union regiment—would hinder the onrush of infantry. He would commit the rest of Early's division to this attack. He would send Johnson's division south of the hill to link with Longstreet

The smooth, open slope of Power's Hill would also allow quick deployment of artillery. The few trees at the summit would not constrict fire. Cannon could instantly engage; their canister would shred the Yankees if they tried to breakout. Jackson prayed that whoever remained in command had enough sense to instead surrender.

He stopped, gasping.

"Are you all right, Thomas?"

Jackson was ashamed he had to catch his breath. This hill was not steep, and they had gone less than a quarter of the way up. He was breathing like he had run a furlong.

He did not take her extended hand. A soldier—a commanding general—did not need a woman's assistance to reconnoiter terrain. He forced a smile as he declined and started to climb again.

Twice more they paused before reaching the top. Each time Amanda would not let him continue until his breathing returned to normal. She reminded him he had been fully on his feet only a week. Each time he grimly nodded. He thought this must be what old age was like.

At the top Amanda handed Jackson a pair of opera glasses. He of course would have preferred field glasses, but that was another chance they could not take. They also retreated into the clump of oak trees to make it difficult for travelers on the Pike to see him inspecting the land.

He turned to the northeast. A mile away, past hidden Rock Creek, rose the highest prominence in the area: Wolf Hill. There he would place Rodes' division. Earlier fighting would leave the division at half strength, but the steep slope and stream below would compensate for loss of numbers.

Jackson faced north. His eyes traveled across tan crops and verdant pastures to another rise a mile away. Like Wolf Hill it was rocky and wooded and an ideal defensive position. This hill the Yankees would occupy in strength.

But try as he might, he could not name it.

He was embarrassed to ask. How he wished he had the map.

"What is the name of that hill?" he finally asked.

"Culp's Hill. And the one to the left?"

His gaze shifted to the slightly lower hill a half mile due west of Culp's. Near the summit stood scattered conifers and a two-story red brick structure with an open arch in its middle. Through the opera glasses he could see tombstones. Among the stones a couple of men were digging with shovels.

"Cemetery Hill?" he asked.

"Yes. Cemetery Ridge drops south from it." Her hand pointed to the southwest. "What are those two hills where the land rises again?"

His mind worked. Or failed to work. She had said they were very important hills; their possession would be crucial to trapping the Federals.

Frustration built. How could he command if he could not instantly recall? The heat of battle permitted no time to fumble for answers.

He felt her hand on his shoulder. "Big and Little Round Top, Thomas." Beneath her sunbonnet she smiled that comforting smile. "Don't worry. By the end of the month, you will know every hill, dale and vale around Gettysburg."

An amputation took a lot out of a man. Dick Ewell, who now commanded his corps, had only recently returned to duty. It had required nine months for Ewell to recover from losing a limb at Groveton. Jackson would have two months.

"I pray so," he said.

Below them the Pike ran toward the brick building, the cemetery gatehouse. The road then disappeared as it dropped toward the town. Several steeple tops poked above the saddle between Culp's and Cemetery Hill.

Amanda said the town contained two dozen churches. Surely one or two were Presbyterian. Perhaps the Sunday after the battle he could attend service. He ached to. He had been without benefit of clergy since the angel had sent away Reverend Lacy.

The two hills concealed the town. He shifted his gaze westward to the hill line that paralleled Cemetery Ridge. Blessedly he recalled the name, Seminary Ridge.

The opera glasses sought the Lutheran Seminary. There, near the pike to Chambersburg. Trees hid much of this red brick structure, but its white cupola thrust like a beacon into the gray sky. Around the seminary heavy fighting would rage the afternoon of July 1st.

His eyes remained on the white cupola. Amanda said it would serve as a key observation point for both sides. He would meet General Lee there the afternoon of the first; from that vantage point they would coordinate the final details of the double envelopment. He would thrill to see the great man again.

Jackson followed glimpses of the Chambersburg Pike until it disappeared into the bluish green distance. Along the western horizon ran the South Mountain range. The pike ran through the range at the Cashtown Gap. Out of the gap on July 1st would march the Third and First Corps.

The Third Corps would arrive first. Two of its three divisions would initiate the battle. They and the Union I Corps would batter each other until four o'clock in the afternoon. Then a final attack would send the Yankees fleeing onto Cemetery Ridge.

From the north would come the Second Corps, his corps. With Johnson en route, Rodes and Early would attack and drive the Union XI corps through the town onto Cemetery Hill. This attack would also take place around four.

Lee would then suspend the fighting, though an all out assault could have finished off the enemy.

The First Corps would arrive after the fighting stopped. Longstreet would hide his three fresh divisions behind Seminary Ridge. Meanwhile Stuart's cavalry would approach from the northeast. To also hide and wait.

The whole army would wait as two more Union corps rushed to reinforce. The XII corps would reach the battlefield by seven in the evening, the III corps by eleven. Fortunately both corps were commanded by inadequate men.

Even more fortunately the Federal forces would lack their two best commanders when the fighting renewed. Reynolds was to die in the morning. Hancock would be present to steady the Union lines after the rout in the afternoon, but he would leave at seven to report back to Meade in Maryland.

Almost too much good luck.

He became aware Amanda had said something.

She laughed softly. "Thomas. Pay attention."

"Forgive me." He no longer had the excuse of partial deafness. The angel had restored him; he now heard with absolute clarity. The little bead she had placed in his right ear provided the miracle.

"Thomas, it is imperative that you keep Johnson's division out of the Cashtown Gap."

"Yes, of course." She had drilled this point.

Then he shook his head. "It seems unfair."

"Thomas?"

"That we—you—know so much before the battle."

"McClellan knew Lee's plan when you invaded Maryland. This makes it even."

That had been devastating, Order 191 falling into the hands of the enemy. The Order had contained the location of Lee's separated units. The army barely regrouped in time at Antietam Creek. If McClellan had moved a little faster...

But worse, much worse, capture of the Order prevented Jackson from advancing into Pennsylvania. The plan had been for Lee and Stuart to keep the usually cautious McClellan pinned in Maryland, while Jackson sped north through the Cumberland Valley. He would have crossed the Susquehanna River, then gone on to destroy coal mines in the northeast of the state.

Closing those mines would have dealt a body blow to the North. Hard coal ran most of their industry. Just as importantly, it fueled their Navy. Without that coal their blockade of Southern ports would have collapsed. The war would be over now.

"God wants you to have the advantage here, Thomas. You are His chosen instrument."

If the angel said so, then God must still favor him. He had thought favor lost when the bullets struck at Chancellorsville.

At the Chandler house was sure he would die. He had prepared himself to meet his Heavenly Father. At the time he did not understand why the Father called him away, with the war still to be won, but one must always yield to His will.

Then came the angel.

"His will will be done," said Jackson.

Naylor saw the warrior don his battle face. The pale blue eyes blazed, the shaven jaw turned to stone, and his lips compressed. He was ready to slay.

And he would have plenty of help.

By evening on July 1st the entire Confederate army would be available for combat. Previously just half its strength was on site. This time the forces of both Longstreet and Stuart would be waiting in the wings to help Jackson strike the decisive blow.

This time Johnson's division would march directly south from Carlisle. Previously, in the great blunder of the campaign, Johnson had backtracked through the Cumberland Valley to the Cashtown Gap. That caused a massive traffic jam that led to Longstreet's corps arriving fatally late.

She had also arranged for Jeb Stuart to know where to rendezvous. Previously the great cavalry commander lost contact with Lee after crossing the Potomac and did not arrive until late on July 2nd. Without the "eyes and ears" of his army, Lee had been blind.

Lee didn't need Stuart now to tell him the location of the enemy on July 1st. Allison wondered if Lee had been ecstatic when Sandie Pendleton showed him the position of each Union corps that day. Was their dispersal what he planned?

Accounts of the campaign—most penned many years later—were ambiguous on whether Lee intended to spread Union forces along the Mason-Dixon Line, then attack them in detail as they tried to concentrate. Lee never wrote a memoir. But it fit the modus operandi of the Gray Fox.

In addition, Lee would be physically fit to command. Sandie Pendleton had given the general a supply of 81 milligram aspirin pills. Lee was to take them as substitute for quinine. Throw in a low fat, low cholesterol diet, and Lee should be at the top of his game.

Naylor waited while Thomas continued to inspect the land. She knew he was trying to envision how the battleground would appear in moonlight. That had greatly disturbed him at first, that the double envelopment would be launched at midnight.

He of course remembered how darkness threw into confusion his victorious flank attack at Chancellorsville. Darkness also got him shot. With an hour more daylight he could have trapped Hooker and avoided friendly fire.

She had explained that a full moon in a clear sky would exist as the clock neared midnight. He countered a full moon hung over Chancellorsville when his flank attack ground to a halt. She said Chancellorsville was fought amidst a tangle of obscuring tree, bush and bramble—the Wilderness—whereas Gettysburg would be contested mainly in open field. He remained skeptical.

Naylor couldn't blame him. Even in full daylight, a double envelopment was quite difficult to execute. The coordination between separated units had to be perfect. An enemy would desperately try to defeat it, since they were doomed if they did not.

At midnight on the first day of July the Army of Northern Virginia would try to trap four Federal corps. Jackson would command one arm of the envelopment, Longstreet the other. Their forces should meet at the Taneytown Road just east of the Round Tops.

With the Confederate forces clockwise commanding Gettysburg town, Benner's Hill, Wolf Hill, McAllister's Hill, Power's Hill, the Round Tops, and Seminary Ridge, those four corps would be hopelessly snared. Artillery and dug in troops would not permit escape.

"Well, Thomas, you see with your own eyes that nighttime will not be a problem. In fact, it can only help to conceal our forces as they get into position."

The great general nodded. "It is as you said."

Naylor had known that Thomas would eventually accept her plan, ideal light or not. More than any other commander, even Lee, Stonewall Jackson thirsted for destruction of the enemy. Repulsing the Yankees, bloodying them, even routing them, was insufficient.

In the decades after the Civil War many declared Gettysburg would have been a Confederate victory with Jackson present. They posited Jackson would have attacked Cemetery Hill the first evening of the battle. Unlike Ewell, who let the opportunity pass.

Naylor knew Jackson would have attacked and would have sent two Federal corps scurrying. That would have been the easy victory, safely carried out in daylight.

But Jackson was always looking to kill, not maim, the enemy. And her plan would do it.

Her plan was old as that employed by Hannibal at Cannae. Hannibal had lured a larger Roman army into the jaws of a double envelopment and consumed it. Two millennia later the Soviets did the same to the Germans at Stalingrad. Next month the Army of the Potomac would suffer a similar fate, with four of its seven corps trapped.

As the midnight battle unfolded, three more Union corps would be hurrying from Maryland toward Gettysburg. Two were scheduled to arrive at dawn. But this time Stuart's cavalry would intercept them. His nighttime ambushes should take a fearful toll.

The last of the Federal troops, the VI Corps, was not due to arrive until the afternoon of July 2nd. And that after a forced march of nearly forty miles. They would be in no condition to attempt a breakthrough to their ensnared comrades.

Thomas continued to run the opera glasses over the land. His brow furrowed. Despite the coolness of the day, beads of sweat formed on the broad brow beneath his straw hat.

She had read that during exams at West Point, when he stood at a blackboard before a panel of professors, he would sweat copiously. Not out of fear, rather from effort of concentration to get answers exactly right. Get them right he invariably did.

He abruptly lowered the glasses. Again he shook his head.

"What's the matter, Thomas?"

He was looking down the Baltimore Pike. Back toward the bridge over Rock Creek. Did he worry his men might fail to quickly secure the bridge? That should be no problem, it would be lightly guarded when he attacked.

But he spoke of Slocum, the Union commander of their XII Corps.

"I would have had him shot."

Thomas would have, too.

"Yes, his behavior was indefensible."

On the afternoon of July 1st Slocum's men had reached Two Taverns, just four miles to the southeast on the Pike. Slocum clearly heard the guns booming at Gettysburg. Yet he delayed moving until after the Federals had been driven onto Cemetery Hill. Following the battle he gained the moniker "Slow Come".

If Naylor had been president she would have court-martialed Slocum. And Sickles, who almost lost the battle the second day. Why did Lincoln keep such duds in uniform?

And why oh why had he waited until the eve of battle to replace Hooker with Meade? That change should have been made right after Chancellorsville. Thomas was astounded when she related Lincoln's decision.

The confusion sowed by the ill-timed replacement—one bordering on criminal negligence—almost let Lee win. Lee might have won anyway if not suffering from quinine poisoning.

She had never agreed with the conventional wisdom that Lincoln was a superior commander in chief. He was a great politician, and at times an inspirational leader. But in military matters he cost many lives. He meddled when he should refrain, and refrained when he should meddle, and dithered when he should do something, anything.

When they departed Power's Hill, they did not head toward Gettysburg. She and Thomas would not set foot in the town during June. Nor would they return to the battlefield.

Naylor must expect the worst. She had to assume that Hightower et al. sent operatives to 1863. She had to assume that the operatives somehow deduced Thomas Jackson still lived. She had to assume they would hunt for him in and about Gettysburg.

Those were a lot of assumptions, of course. She and Aaron had been very careful to mask their presence in 1863. And on the surface, Stonewall Jackson appeared very much dead. And a live Jackson could be hiding anywhere between here and Richmond.

But she would assume. By late this afternoon they would return to the farm fifteen miles to the east. There she, Aaron and Thomas would stay put until late June.

A mile past Rock Creek Thomas demanded they stop at a church. They had not seen the church earlier, since it lay beyond the turnoff onto Low Dutch Road. Jackson's corps would take this lane to move to the attack the night of July 1st.

She didn't want to backtrack; why give some farmer on that crucial route a second chance to notice them? Maybe she should have. Thomas hanging around a church—one beside a well traveled highway—would draw a lot more attention.

From the pike they pulled into a deserted churchyard. The double doors to the white washed meeting-house were closed. Thomas was not deterred. Without her assistance he fairly flew out of the carriage to rap on the doors.

No one answered.

Thomas was stoic in the extreme, but he could not hide his disappointment. She felt for him. He hungered after spiritual comfort like other men did gold. It had been very hard for him being away from churches and chaplains.

Well, at least now they could get going. Providentially no traffic had passed on the pike.

Then she watched flabbergasted as Thomas dropped to his knees on the front step of the church. She heard him recite the Nicene Creed. Then the Lord's Prayer. Then the 23rd Psalm.

Naylor dared not rebuke him. That would shatter his belief she was directly sent by God. It was imperative that he follow her guidance to the letter in the weeks to come.

She waited anxiously. God must be with her, because no horse or foot traffic appeared. She managed to avoid sagging with relief when Thomas at last arose.

When he climbed into the canopied carriage she asked if he were hungry. It was past one o'clock now and she was starving. They had last eaten at first light, just before leaving the farm near Abbottstown.

Thomas vaguely nodded. He was still immersed his communion with God. He was an indifferent eater anyway. She often had to prod him to the dinner table.

They ate as she drove. She had made a simple meal for Thomas, so much a simple man. A ham sandwich, an apple, some strawberries, unsweetened lemonade. He would not eat anything spicy or rich.

Thomas ate sitting erect. One might think his stiff posture a carryover from his days at West Point. The habit of military discipline certainly played a part, but worry about indigestion was the decisive factor. This strange man believed only the straightest path could keep his bowels from mangling his food.

Naylor drove to the village of Two Taverns, then turned north. Before she reached the intersection with Hanover Road, Thomas had fallen asleep.

He was out for good. What she had read and her short experience told that once Thomas dozed off, he was nearly impossible to wake. He might as well lie under anesthetic.

She did not begrudge him a moment of slumber. Amputation put enormous stress on the body. Not to mention the pneumonia which almost killed him. It was encouraging that Thomas—a middle-aged man after all—had rallied this much in three weeks. Another month of recuperation should bring him to full strength.

The carriage contained axle springs. Nonetheless the vehicle bounced and jolted on the uneven farm lane. Thomas remained unconscious even after one bounce lifted her off the seat.

The sky had begun to clear. Patches of sunlight brightened the hills and vales. This was certainly enchanting country, lush and prosperous. Van Gogh would have had a field day here painting landscapes.

She passed big farmhouses and gigantic barns, rolling fields of young corn and wheat, ripening orchards, plump cattle and shiny horses. The Lincoln green of nearby woods and the smoky green of distant South Mountain framed it all. If she believed in a caring God, this would be His country.

Her nostrils drank the heady aroma of the adjacent farmland. The pungent smells, even that of the fields fertilized with manure, were an energizing tonic. To Thomas the country boy these scents were likely background; to her, a city girl since leaving for college, they were pure heaven.

Around four o'clock they neared the York Pike, where they would turn east. She was looking forward to that much leveler surface. She also looked forward to the soft featherbed that waited at the farm. It had been long a long day, but a most necessary one.

She heard a train whistle. The locomotive shortly appeared, chugging and spewing ugly black smoke. It pulled two passenger cars and a flatbed. The flatbed carried rails and ties, likely for the extension to the railroad northwest of Gettysburg.

The morning of July 1st a fierce battle would take place at a section of the extension, around a rail cut. Several hundred Confederates would become trapped in the cut, and take heavy casualties. Naylor was chagrinned she could not warn of the debacle.

She could not alter any of the first day's carnage prior to four-thirty. The fighting must follow that written in the history books. The Army of the Potomac must be lured into the trap, no matter the loss of Confederate life.

But success here would cut short this war's slaughter. Success could not stop World War I, but it would keep American boys from dying in it. And success would keep boys of all nations from dying in a second world war.

The train passed. Its shrieking whistle and clanging bell had not disturbed Thomas. The great warrior stirred not a muscle.

Naylor recalled what Napoleon said of China, though it applied to Thomas.

She paraphrased as she spoke softly. "Let Stonewall Jackson sleep. For when he awakes, he will shock the world."

Mauer took Chloe's arm as she stepped from the train to the platform. She stumbled and he had to catch her. He caught her at the waist, with both hands.

"Sorry," she said. "I'm just so tired."

He quickly removed his hands. The firmness of her narrow waist had jolted him. Lust stirred.

Fortunately Chloe was too exhausted to notice. He savagely suppressed desire. What was the matter with him?

He again took Chloe by the arm. She looked drugged. No wonder, she had slept barely a wink the past two days.

She had tossed and turned the night before leaving the Executive Mansion. Last night she had not been able to fall asleep in the hot and stuffy hotel room in Philadelphia.

He felt guilty, he had slept like a rock both nights. But he could sleep anywhere. His years in field with the military and ATU had taught him how to slumber under any condition.

Several boys hanging around the station offered to carry their bags to their lodging, the Union Hotel. Mauer accepted.

The preteens immediately peppered with questions. He could see the exhausted Chloe wanted the noisy, nosey kids—no doubt reminding her of Tad—to shut up. Mauer answered them politely.

He said he and his wife were here to look for farm property, on behalf of a client in Boston. They would stay a week or two. No, they didn't know anyone in town. No, they didn't have children. Yes, he had been in the army but mustered out at enlistment's end.

Where had he fought? With which regiment? Had he ever been wounded? Had he killed anyone, especially in hand to hand combat? How come the army couldn't ever whip the rebels?

Chloe looked ready to take off their heads as they walked into the busy town square—the Diamond—and turned right. She however kept her lips zipped. For his part, Mauer was glad he and Chloe had rehearsed the details of their cover story. He took this interrogation as good practice.

What they would not divulge was any hint of their real mission. No flashing pictures of Naylor and Price, no asking if a man missing a left arm accompanied them. Mauer and Chloe would conduct an entirely private search.

On the train Chloe had suggested offering a modest reward for local help in locating Jackson. Say the one armed man was a distant relative, included in the will of Chloe's late father. Word was he had taken up residence in this county.

Mauer said no. They could not chance spooking Naylor. If Naylor got wind someone was asking about a tall blue eyed amputee—or any amputee—she would bury Jackson. She would never let him come to Gettysburg for reconnaissance. Any chance of taking out Stonewall before the battle would vanish.

In the days ahead Mauer would prowl the countryside while Chloe stuck close to Gettysburg. On horseback he would seek their quarry at nearby farmhouses. If that didn't turn them up, he would spiral outward. On foot Chloe would patrol the town. In a buggy she would ride over the roads of the battlefield. It would be a grueling search, they would put in dawn to dusk days, but there was no alternative.

If Mauer spotted Jackson, he would shoot him on sight. He would put a bullet in his brain, and into those of Naylor and Price too.

If Chloe stumbled on them, she was to wait until Mauer returned to town. He didn't doubt she could get the job done—she had killed before and under fire—but she'd probably be immediately arrested if she gunned them down in town. He knew how to do it undetected.

Mauer gave each of the four boys a quarter when they reached the hotel. They squealed like they had won a fortune. Maybe the going rate was a nickel a bag. He was still uncertain of the proper prices of this era; living in the Executive Mansion with all expenses paid had not enlightened him. The delighted boys scampered off.

After checking in he and Chloe ate in the hotel dining room. They wolfed down a decent meal of soup, mutton, potatoes, and greens. Strawberries and cream were desert. Several glasses of wine helped everything along.

They spoke little. It was an easy quiet, for by now they were quite comfortable with each other's company. Remarkably so. Mauer reflected that in all the years he had known Chloe, they rarely interacted socially. In their time at ATU they had certainly never sat at a meal alone.

At dinner's end Chloe could no longer keep her eyes open. He saw her up to their room, then headed out into the early evening balm of Gettysburg. He was tired, too, but not that tired. He would walk himself into bedtime readiness.

No one knew him yet, but passersby greeted him pleasantly as he walked through the streets of this trim, now quiet town. He replied in kind and tipped his hat to every woman. Some of the younger women smiled beyond mere cordiality. He offered no encouragement.

Chloe, Chloe. He was having increasing difficulty sorting out his feelings for her. He didn't love her romantically, that he was sure. A brother sister analogy also missed the mark. She was more like a revered first cousin.

Could one physically desire a first cousin? Lately Mauer desired this one. Each time lust reared, he hurled it away. Each time he pledged they would never know each other carnally.

Mauer feared she did love him. This past month she had not said a word along those lines. Indeed at times she had subjected him to sarcasm and tactlessness. But he had also caught longing in those close set hazel eyes. That longing was not born of sisterly affection. Cupid generated it.

He had an enormous responsibility to this woman. Chloe, who had so often risked her career for him, and occasionally her life. He owed her total honesty. He owed her no hope for a relationship. He owed her hands off, eyes straight ahead, finish the mission and go back to separate lives. His separate life would center on saving Teri.

Mauer shortly found himself at the southern edge of town, on Baltimore Pike. Above him loomed Cemetery Hill.

His Gettysburg obsessed father said that prior to the battle the hill was known as Raffensperger's Hill, after the farmer owning acreage on the eastern slope. The graveyard itself was called Evergreen Cemetery. Cemetery Ridge, against which Pickett futilely charged, was Granite Ridge. The old names had but a month to live before the new ones gained immortality.

He climbed the dirt and gravel pike. There was enough of a slope to feel it in his thighs. His eyes immediately caught sight of the long gone tree near the summit, the tulip poplar. Previously he had seen this soaring tree only in black and white photographs.

The Second Louisiana troops had used this tree as a guidon when they attacked Cemetery Hill the evening of July 2nd. Their furious assault almost overran the Federals. Almost. Gettysburg had been three days of almost by Lee's men.

Mauer had stood on the summit twice before, when the family visited the town in the 1980's. His father had triumphantly pointed this way and that, as he showed off his knowledge of the battle. To young Mauer the excited monologue had been a blur of unit names and movements. What he did distinctly remember was description of the aftermath.

Phillip Mauer had pointed to the town. He said that most every building served as a temporary hospital. Even the cemetery gatehouse up here. They had to, as the battle produced over fifty thousand wounded.

Churches were particularly prized. Not for spiritual comfort, but because the pews substituted for dozens of cots and the chancel allowed plenty of space for sawing off shattered limbs. His father made sure his sons knew how horrible it all was; holes were drilled in church floors to let pooling blood drain.

Shortly he saw the sign. It too had been long gone when he formerly walked here. But his father—so pleased with the irony of its warning—made sure they knew the sign had existed.

The warning was indeed ironic, and tragicomic too. The sign in block letters stated: "Any person operating a firearm within these environs will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law." Perhaps the prohibition had stopped the Louisiana boys in their tracks.

Mauer walked through the arch of the cemetery gatehouse into the graveyard. Acacias and conifers stood amidst several hundred rounded tombstones and a score small obelisks. A couple of gravesites looked fresh.

For the most part those interred here had died nonviolently. By year's end the adjacent national cemetery dedicated by Lincoln would hold many hundreds that had met their end quite violently.

Cemetery Hill provided a grandstand view of the battlefield. He gazed out at the silent fields and ridges, their various hues of green and gold so enchanting in the dying light of day.

His eyes fell on Little Round Top, the Peach Orchard, the Wheatfield, the Trostle farm. On July 2nd the most savage fighting of the battle would occur there, two miles south from where he stood. The fate of the Union truly would hang in the balance that day.

The carnage would be unbelievable. The greatest would occur as Confederate forces approached the Trostle farm. Only canister at point blank range kept the howling rebels at bay.

Mauer knew his warped father delighted telling what happened that night around the Trostle farm. The farm contained hog pens. Fighting killed many of the hogs, but destruction of the pens allowed others to escape. In darkness hogs took revenge. Wounded on both sides were eaten alive.

He took a deep breath. He would think of his father no more.

How strange he stood here prior to rather than after the battle. On his other two visits monuments and tourists dotted the landscape. Then everyone in the country knew the name Gettysburg, and that America's most consequential battle had taken place on this site. The site that Lincoln proclaimed "hallowed and consecrated" by those who "gave the last full measure of devotion".

At this moment only four people—well, five counting Jackson—knew the decisive battle of the Civil War would take place here. To everyone else in June of 1863 Gettysburg was just another farm town. The fighting was and would stay to the south. But war—and Jackson—had eyes on this crossroads town.

Lincoln had uttered many notable phrases in the Gettysburg Address. "The great task remaining" especially resonated in Mauer. Lincoln said a great battle had been won. But the war was not, and the nation must fight onto victory no matter the cost.

To Mauer perseverance in the face of adversity was the supreme virtue. Lacking that character trait, all the other intentions and actions of a man—or a nation—came to naught.

His own great task remaining was to see that the North won at Gettysburg, and that Lincoln got to speak here in November. Mauer was under no illusions about the difficulty. Naylor was a brilliant and determined adversary, one who believed in her cause as much as he did his. He was going to need luck along with perseverance to stop her.

The sun was now a red ball just above the dark wall of South Mountain. For a terrible moment he wondered if in a month the sun would set on the United States.

He flung off the notion. He would kill Jackson. The Union would prevail on the fields below. Lincoln would deliver his defining address. Appomattox would arrive in April of 1865, and the Stars and Stripes Forever would be the legacy of this terrible war.

Thursday, June 11

Price watched Jackson play hide and seek with Peggy. The six year old girl stood behind the trunk of a nearby elm tree. Elms lined the lane leading away from the farmhouse. The elms were the only trees in sight not bearing fruit.

"Ready or not, here I come," Jackson shouted. It was easy to tell he spoke with mock sternness.

No doubt the tone had been different at First Bull Run when Jackson exclaimed: "Then, sir, we will give them the bayonet!" A subordinate wanted to pull back just because the brigade had run out of ammunition.

Price and Allison sat on the covered porch of the stone farmhouse. In the front yard Jackson removed his only hand from his eyes.

"Oh, where did she go?" Jackson called. "I'll never find that clever girl."

The elm did not completely conceal the child. The edge of her dress protruded. A lock of her white hair also peeked. Jackson however stomped about the yard as if confounded. Price reflected that the Yankees never got such kindly treatment when Jackson hunted them.

Finally Stonewall announced he had to give up. With delighted squeals Peggy rushed from her hiding place. She pranced before the man that even in play stood ramrod straight.

"You hide from me now, Billy."

Jackson obeyed, but made sure she discovered him without much trouble. Peggy was about to rope this lethal warrior into another round when her mother came out the front door. Susannah Cooper carried two willow baskets.

"That's enough bothering Mr. Wallis," she said. "Come along. There are berries to pick. And jam to stew."

Delight fled Peggy. Jackson looked disappointed too. Price knew Jackson wasn't faking; the man could never get enough of the girl's company.

Price rose from his chair. "Sue, I'll take Peggy's place."

The tall woman, whose hair was the buttercup yellow that her daughter's would become, smiled wryly.

"No thank you, Robert."

Price had botched his last attempt at picking strawberries. It took a delicate touch. He had bruised at least a third of what he pulled from the runners. And he had inadvertently stepped on adjacent plants.

"Please let him, Mama. Billy wants to play."

Mock sternness returned to Jackson. "The Heavenly Father tells us we must always honor our parents, Peggy. Now go with your mother."

Susannah headed with her daughter toward the square patch between the sod covered root cellar and the outbuilding containing the cider press. Beyond waited blueberry and blackberry bushes for picking later in the summer. But "Amanda", "Robert", and "Billy" would be gone by then.

Sue was an attractive woman, thought Price. A bit on the bony side for him, but she should have no trouble fetching a new husband. Whenever the accepted mourning period was over she probably would.

But it wasn't going to be Stonewall.

Susannah did have her eye on him. Price strove to understand that. A one armed man would not be much help on an orchard farm, or any farm. Neither was Jackson blessed with charm; painfully correct best described his interaction so far with the widow woman.

Price supposed reasons did exist. Susannah was lonely and vulnerable after losing her husband last December, when he fell at Fredericksburg. She saw Peggy would gladly accept Jackson as a substitute father. And Jackson was a moderately handsome man with that bush of a beard gone. He also shared her love of reading. But surely Susannah knew she could do better.

Jackson should lay off with Peggy. The man knew he had to leave at month's end. He wasn't doing the child any favors by winning her heart. She was a happy child now, but loss of her father must have been a nightmare. Losing Jackson could bring it all back.

He came to sit with them. He looked grave. Maybe he was thinking the same thing, how little Peggy would suffer when he left.

Jackson sighed, then turned his intense blue-gray eyes on Allison. His lips moved. Nothing came out.

"What is it, Billy?" she asked.

That alias sounded so ridiculous. Allison should have picked something more appropriate. Like Mike, as in Mike Hammer. Or Attila.

Jackson cleared his throat. "I know we must not question the Almighty. He who gives the blessing of life most assuredly has the right to take it. But I—what I cannot understand, try as I might, is why He would ever take away babes like Peggy."

This past winter Jackson had become fast friends with five year old Janie Corbin. In March the girl caught scarlet fever and died. Afterward Jackson had been inconsolable. And years earlier Jackson had lost an infant son and daughter.

"Billy" cast imploring eyes at the woman he literally regarded as his guardian angel. An angel personally dispatched by God. Therefore she must be privy to the reasoning of her boss.

Price braced. Jackson was about to get spiritual enlightenment from a person even less religious than Price. While not an outright atheist, Allison believed the controlling deity of the Universe was completely uninterested in the affairs of humankind. And to her Jesus the Christ was pure myth.

Jackson, the fervid Presbyterian, of course doubted neither the existence of God nor his Son. Nor the duo's unconditional love for humanity. Moreover God & Son foreordained everything, including the manner and hour of each man's death.

That belief helped give Jackson his great courage on the battlefield. When the Almighty wanted Old Jack out of the picture, He would take him out—but not a day before. Let the shot and shell fly.

Allison hesitated in her reply. For an unnerving moment Price thought she might try to wean Jackson from his beliefs. In public Allison had steered clear of religion—if pressed, she cited separation of state and church—but in private she wielded rapier logic that could shake entrenched faith. That was the last thing they needed now.

She steered clear. Allison smiled beatifically. "You remember what you said to Chaplain Lacy after he saw your arm was gone. I ask that you view Janie Corbin's death similarly.

"You said, 'I believe it has been done according to God's holy will. I acquiesce entirely in it. You may think it strange, but you never saw me more perfectly contented than I am today; for I am sure my Heavenly Father designs this affliction for my good. I am perfectly satisfied, that either in this life, or in that which is to come, I shall discover that what is now regarded as a calamity, is a blessing.'"

Jackson looked amazed that she would know what he told Lacy, much less repeat it word for word. Then he nodded. The ability merely confirmed her angelic status.

He nodded with more vigor. "Yes, yes. I do see. I should not have questioned."

Price refrained from rolling his eyes. You may think it strange? You never saw me more perfectly contented?

Allison had left out an even more stunning admission to Lacy: "If it were in my power to replace my arm, I would not dare to do it, unless I could know it was the will of my Heavenly Father." No wonder one of his generals had called him "the enthusiastic fanatic" and another "that crazy Presbyterian".

Doubtless Allison could have recited many more of his pronouncements. She had a mind like a sponge. During their stay at Camp David she read a half dozen biographies on the man, in addition to relentlessly picking Price's brain.

No longer did Price consider himself more knowledgeable concerning Stonewall Jackson. Before Allison's swift education he had been. He attended Virginia Military Institute, where Jackson had taught and the cadets were marinated in his greatness.

At the Institute Stonewall Jackson was a demigod. About the campus his sayings were literally carved in stone. Cadets were regaled with a thousand anecdotes illustrating his sagacity, nobility, and bravery. Unmentioned were his rigidity and rudeness, his petty and not so petty mistreatment of subordinates, and his lust for the blood of the enemy.

By first class year Price had a bellyful of the legend. He dared write a thesis that tried to knock Stonewall off his pedestal. Price related instance after instance he hoped would remove the luster. He backed everything up with ironclad references, and felt confident he could weather the inevitable storm.

Strangely, listing Jackson's flaws and lapses did not get Price in hot water. These defects were viewed as perhaps lamentable. But so what? In baseball and on the battlefield nice guys finished last.

No, it was criticism of Jackson's hallowed Shenandoah Valley campaign that invoked wrath. Price was not the first to assert that Jackson avoided destruction due only to the profound incompetence of the opposition. What the Institute resented was that one of their own seconded the libel. For a while Institute looked for loopholes to keep Price from graduating.

Price still graduated, though the commandant and many instructors snubbed him up to and including the ceremony. His classmates were divided. Some revered the stone cold killer, while others too had enough of his canonization.

Jackson thanked Allison for her guidance, then excused himself. He would do weeding in the vegetable garden at the side of the house.

Naylor smiled as Thomas walked toward the garden enclosed by a low picket fence. Working in the plot had proved very therapeutic for Thomas over the past two weeks. Before the war, when he lived in Lexington, Thomas had whiled away many pleasant hours in his own garden.

It was a nice day for him to work, too, cool and partly sunny. It was good for all of them to be out, after being cooped up the last two days with steady rain. Not that the downpour kept Thomas and Peggy from playing. The child's squealing and laughing had reverberated throughout the house.

She saw Aaron shaking his head.

"He's a piece of work." Aaron lowered his voice to make sure Thomas could not hear.

Unfortunately Aaron did not share her high opinion of Thomas. She had hoped Aaron would soften after direct contact. But Aaron still thought any positive qualities mere veneer on a curt, cold and vindictive man. Aaron could not let go that Jackson, at the outbreak of the war, had urged the Confederacy to take no prisoners.

"He is a noble man," she said.

To the helpless and the powerless, he was probably one of the kindest people around. Her favorite instance was when, during the Valley campaign, a forlorn woman came up to him bearing socks. She had made them for her son. She knew only that he was in Jackson's "company". Could Jackson make sure her son got them?

The staff officers around Jackson had smiled. Jackson commanded more than a company, fifteen thousand men in fact. Since the woman didn't know the name of her son's company commander, it would be too time consuming to comply with such a trivial request.

Jackson thought otherwise. He immediately sent the staff scurrying throughout the marching ranks. It took awhile, but they found the son. The mother tearfully thanked Jackson.

Aaron snorted. "No man is noble who owned slaves."

"Come on, his slaves loved him. And other slaves begged that he buy them."

"So what? He still thought slavery was God's will."

"He taught slaves how to read. Which, I don't have to remind you, was against the law in Old Virginny."

"Only so they could read the Bible. Not to better them."

Her face was heating. "I might as well as talk to a brick wall."

"You mean a stonewall."

His deadpan pun, bad as it was, forced her to smile. A laugh followed.

Affection surged in Naylor. This was as close as they got to ever having a fight.

She was so lucky this rock of a man loved her. He could have so easily deserted her—like everyone else—after she resigned. Instead he had grown closer.

Naylor would be so happy to make him a father for the first time in his life. Of the four children she planned to bear, she hoped that at least two would be sons. Aaron would make the finest example possible of what constituted a sterling man.

"Okay," he said, "I'll agree he's not entirely an ogre. But I still can't see how you think he will someday be president of the South."

"He will succeed Davis," she said. "And he'll win by landslide."

"His only landslide. Once in office he will antagonize his cabinet, the legislature, the newspapers, his generals, and everyone except little girls."

Naylor laughed. "I'm going to have a long talk about tact and diplomacy. To me he will listen."

"Maybe."

"He's a good man, Aaron. Outstanding in so many ways."

"He has excelled only on the battlefield. At West Point he had few friends. In peacetime he was a lousy officer. As an instructor at VMI they almost fired him. Even this war, with all his success, his subordinate generals can barely stand him."

"If he's so terrible, why does he have such a devoted wife as Anna? And why is Susannah falling in love with him?"

"Jesus Christ, that's another thing. You better have a talk with her too."

No, she wouldn't. One woman did not tell another what to do with her heart. Anyway, her love or crush on Thomas could only help.

Susannah had agreed to harbor them—and to keep mum about it—for five hundred dollars in gold, half in advance. In this era five hundred dollars would comfortably provide a family for a year. Love would help Susannah keep her mouth shut even more.

It could not be said how much of the cover story Susannah believed. Naylor told her that Billy lost an arm at Chancellorsville—fighting for the Union, of course. Amanda and Robert, Billy's aunt and uncle, were taking him home to Wheeling in the new state of West Virginia. But combat and amputation had shattered Billy's nerves; he needed a quiet, isolated place to recuperate.

During their stay—perhaps through the summer—they wanted no visitors at the farm. Unfamiliarity still spooked their nephew. Susannah could and should keep up her off farm routine. Continue to take applejack and jams to Abbottstown, resume going to church, visit neighbors—but no one was to stop by here.

This was a good spot to stay isolated. The farm lay at the end of a lane running three miles to the York Road. The orchards hid it from the next farm on the lane. And that farm's owner was a crusty widower on poor terms with the Cooper family, one who would not be poking his nose across the fence line.

With Susannah now vested in Billy's welfare, she would be doubly careful to shield him. No matter whether she believed Naylor. Of course, neither would she want to jeopardize getting the second half of the money. When they left Naylor would keep her silence with a surprise bonus of another five hundred dollars.

Susannah would need the windfall. This farm had faltered since her father-in-law died this February. He had been a tireless worker despite his sixty plus years. With husband and father-in-law now dead, and local labor in short supply, prospects were grim.

Before the three strangers showed up, Susannah was surviving off selling applejack produced after last fall's harvest. She declared she and Peggy would make a go of it even if they couldn't get help for the fall apple harvest. That was a laugh. She had eighty acres of orchards.

Sue and her daughter would collapse by the end of October. Naylor guessed they would be lucky to harvest more than ten acres. And from what Sue said, picking was the easy part in producing decent apple brandy. Afterward came pulping, squeezing, filtering, fermenting, concentrating, fortifying, aging. It made Naylor tired just to listen. No way were those two going to make it on their own.

Both Naylor and Aaron had grown fond of Susannah and her daughter. Both had plenty of spunk. Sue possessed a wonderful sense of humor, which was probably lost on Thomas. Peggy was impish but still a delight. Naylor was glad she could give them a financial cushion.

Naylor wondered how Thomas felt about Susannah. He obviously tried to keep distance. Naylor had witnessed the deep love between Thomas and Anna. He might desire Sue, she was pretty and fine figured, but Thomas was the last person on earth who would commit adultery.

The little girl he did love. His face shone with joy whenever the two played. Thomas would feel the sting of leaving Peggy.

Aaron had gotten up. He was observing Thomas toiling in the garden. In broad brimmed hat Thomas was on his knees, carefully weeding with his one gloved hand between the rows. Aaron was probably puzzled how a man who so embraced war could so tenderly nurture vegetables—and children.

Naylor could not fully explain the dichotomies of the man either. Avenging angel might be the best description. Protective and warm to those needing protection, cool and correct to those able to fend for themselves, and ruthless to those he deemed evil—whether they were truly evil or not.

Thomas reminded her of someone else. Someone who also viewed the world in terms of white and black. Someone a savior to friends and a scourge to enemies. Someone she had thought of often since her fall from office.

Of all her transgressions that day in New York City, acquiescing in the planned murder of Jack Mauer was the most heinous. Naylor wished she could claim temporary insanity. More frightening than losing her mind, she had known exactly the crime she sanctioned.

Jack Mauer was one of the bravest and most selfless Americans who ever lived. He had thwarted the enemies of the Republic so many times, usually at great personal cost. He had saved her own administration in its early days. She owed him her very life.

And how had she repaid this noble man? With the vilest act of backstabbing ever. She would have let the minions of Charles Rogin, the antichrist himself, murder Jack. Afterward they would have disposed of his body without a trace. The body of a man who should have monuments built to him.

Perhaps it was a tad to her credit that she called off the execution. Except by that time his life was ruined. Two vengeful governments had sounded the full hue and cry as he tried to escape.

It had been a blow at Camp David to learn Jack was captured within a week of her resignation. Thankfully the Americans got him, not the Russians. The Russians would have likely disemboweled him for his same treatment of one of their operatives.

Jack would still not get off easy. That dreadful day in New York he left an appalling trail of bodies. Not all were Russians. Additionally he had injured a number of legitimately acting Federal agents. Some members of the Secret Service would be permanently disabled.

He would have to do time, no way around it. The government might decide super-maximum was the only secure cage. Jack would probably not believe it, but she had cried at the prospect.

Aaron broke her depressing train of thought.

"Our heights are holding up pretty good," he said.

"Yes, that is a break."

It was certainly a pleasant surprise. They had lost less than an inch, and they had been across Transit One six weeks now. That beat the record. The best pair previously measured two inches down at this point; the next closest pair three and a half.

She and Aaron's negligible loss proved the depth of their attachment. She had loved Henry—before his abandonment—but never with the passion and reliance she did Aaron. Aaron had loved Martha Rogin very much—but never with the passion and reliance he did Naylor. Theirs was a mature and trusting yet very vibrant love.

Besides the joy their bond provided, the bond gave them a great tactical advantage. Naylor doubted any pair of agents sent after them could match what she and Aaron shared. Even newly weds.

She and Aaron had entered 1863 on May 1st. Once Hightower learned what was up—Ethan would have smelled a rat and alerted him, both to Transit One and her college paper—Hightower would have sent agents into 1863 as quickly as possible.

Fortunately agents would be looking to protect Lincoln and Grant. At least at first. But sooner or later they must see to the bottom of her ruse, and begin to look for Jackson. The closed casket in Richmond would likely be the giveaway. There had been no way around avoiding that.

Naylor and Aaron should reach July 1st with height to spare. But agents not so emotionally bound would run out of time. As June lengthened, they would have to abandon the search or find themselves shrinking to nothingness.

"What do you say we come back to live here?" asked Aaron.

"What?"

"Buy this farm. Live in this house. It's stone and well built. It should still be standing in 1977."

"You're serious?"

"This is close to paradise we'll get in this life. Tell me a better place to live."

"And pick apples? Make applejack?"

"We'll have one of those come and pick 'em farms. We wouldn't have to do much except watch 'em grow."

Naylor laughed. She wasn't sure if Aaron wasn't pulling her leg. It was too isolated for her taste.

But...this was an enchanting place. And probably superb for raising children. They would see.

Susannah said she had been uncertain if she wanted to trade the refinements of city life for what she believed would be a backwoods existence. She had tried to talk her prospective husband, Elijah, into joining her father's prosperous riverboat company. The company was based in Harrisburg.

She had fallen in love with the farm at first sight. Eli brought her here for a visit in the spring, when the sight must have been incredible. Acres and acres of flowering apple, peach, pear and plum trees spread across gently rolling land. The blossom fragrances alone would have been irresistible.

After that first sight, she never looked back. She took to orchard life with enthusiasm.

Naylor had been surprised that the farmhouse contained a library. Not just a room called the library, with a desk and maybe a score books, but one brimming with tomes. Sue had brought them with her from Harrisburg.

Sue was the only daughter of a doting and enlightened father. George Huffmaster was an abolitionist who also believed women deserved an education beyond the three R's. He hired a tutor for Sue, then later sent her to finishing school.

She met her husband through her father's abolitionist activities. Both families were involved in the Underground Railroad. During the 1850's Eli would spirit escaped slaves to the Huffmaster's house, as the slaves completed another leg of their arduous and sometime hazardous journey to Canada.

Eli often spent the night at the house before returning to the farm. As he and Sue's fondness grew, the layover could extend to several days. By the time Susannah reached her eighteenth birthday the two had fallen irretrievably in love.

Sue's father liked and respected Eli. But he was not certain the country boy made the proper match for his prized daughter, however prosperous their farm. But Sue would have no other. That, and Eli's unflinching devotion to the abolitionist cause, sealed the deal for her father.

Her father became the less prosperous of the two families shortly after Eli and Sue were married in 1856. The Panic of 1857 ruined his steamer business. That, and consumption, put him in a grave the next year.

Sue was heartbroken, but by then she had a daughter and a strong marriage to see her through. She thrived at the farm. She was an intelligent woman, with lots of curiosity, and she strove to learn every aspect of turning fruit into alcoholic beverage. By the time war broke out, she even dabbled in making a liqueur from blackberries.

She was so thankful Eli did not enlist during the first heady days of the war, when so many others in Adams County rushed to the ranks. Only a few county men died at First Bull Run, but the numbers swelled the next summer. The terrible names—Seven Days, Second Bull Run, and Antietam—they produced dead and wounded by the score.

Eli had refrained from enlisting because the war did not commit to end slavery. Why preserve the Union if the evil remained? But after the victory at Antietam Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation, and that changed everything for Eli.

Despite Susannah's frantic begging, he soon enlisted. His notion of compromise was to sign up for only nine months.

By November he was a private in the Army of the Potomac. By December he was dead at Fredericksburg. He fell in an attack against troops commanded by Stonewall Jackson. Thankfully Sue would never know she housed the general.

Naylor saw Sue and Peggy returning from the strawberry patch. Both carried a laden basket, both wore sunbonnet and calico dress, both smiled. Both had their eyes on Billy Wallis toiling in the garden.

"Billy," Susannah called, "would you like us to bring you some lemonade?"

Thomas smiled back at them. Naylor had read he had the most endearing of smiles. Now, as an eyewitness, she could attest that was absolutely true. Sweetness poured from the fearsome warrior's face.

"Let me take it to him," said Peggy as they stepped onto the front porch.

"I will," said Sue. "You stay here." Her voice was firm.

Peggy began to pout.

"You can take him the next glass." Her mother smiled conspiratorially.

It only took Peggy a moment to think. The two females traded a subtle look of agreement. As a fellow traveler Naylor could not miss it.

In the garden Sue would linger. To chat and try to further charm Billy. All as part of the continuing campaign to hook him before summer's end.

There were conspiracies, and there were conspiracies. Naylor's would abruptly whisk "Billy" away in two weeks. Naylor felt for the pain that would cause Sue and Peggy, but there was no help for it.

By this time next year good looking Susannah would likely be involved with another man. Peggy would latch to another would be father. Memory of the mysterious trio of the previous summer would fade, then vanish. Life would move on, as it always did.

Sue shortly returned with a tall glass of lemonade. Perfectly unsweetened, precisely to Billy's taste. Both Naylor and Aaron watched Sue advance on her never to be caught prey.

Price watched Sue talking to Jackson in the garden only for a moment. His mind drifted back to his assertion to Allison, that they buy this orchard farm. Once they were done in 1863, and in 1901, he would press her on it. This slice of heaven was the perfect place to settle and raise a family.

He never had children. His only marriage did not last long. His real marriage had been to the Secret Service.

"Four is fine with me," he had said to Allison's question at Camp David.

He meant it. This time around he would be a devoted husband, and an attentive father. What career path he would choose, he didn't know. He had been there and done that with the Army and the Secret Service. Maybe running a farm would prove absorbing. Fortunately they would not have to worry about money, since Allison had all those diamonds.

This go around Allison would be a full time mother. Or so she said. Price wondered if a woman of her talent and energy could settle for a thirty year run as a housewife.

But, no matter what, they would be young again. That was the real secret of Transit One, probably the reason presidents so zealously guarded knowledge of its existence. He didn't know what story Hightower had fed anyone sent after them, but Price was sure the agents didn't get the full truth.

Hightower probably said a person traveling back to a year in their own lifetime risked extinction just like a person going back beyond their birth. Instead the person, over a week or so, got younger until they reached their contemporary age. When Allison and Price entered 1977, she would end up twelve and he fifteen. They would shrink, but only to their body size at that age.

Transit One was a potential fountain of youth. If its existence became known, the whole world would flock to the site on Catoctin Mountain. What an irresistible lure, the ability to start life over.

It was the supreme compliment that Allison wanted to start over with him. She now loathed her former husband, but Price had asked didn't she want to bring back her murdered son and save her jailed daughter? She said no, that while she loved them both, she had accepted their loss. She would start fresh with him, the man she knew who would never desert her.

They would have to wait until Allison turned eighteen to marry. That would be a long six years, but it would of course pass. And they certainly could be intimate some of the interim. Soon as he graduated from high school, he would move to her hometown in Kentucky.

He would also see his father again. The father who had died in Vietnam when Price was five. His mother had never really recovered from his death; now she wouldn't have to. For his part Price only vaguely remembered the man, the man whose exemplary character he tried to match over the decades.

Perhaps, though, he shouldn't count on meeting his father. Even if the South won the Civil War, a lot had to go right. Germany could still lose World War I. World War II could still follow, as could both the Korean and Vietnam War. Even if he and Allison were going to kill Adolf Hitler and Leon Trotsky in 1901, nothing was guaranteed.

But owning this wonderful spot in Pennsylvania could be guaranteed. If Price got Allison's okay, he would buy it when he came of legal age. Then soon as possible they would marry and start their family. And they would live happily ever after, he swore it.

Tuesday, June 16

Bryant flicked the reins lightly. The horse harnessed to the Jenny Lind did not move. Blue Bell instead continued to pick at weeds beside the recently built rail and post fence. The blond lumber contrasted sharply with the weathered brown fence on the other side of Emmitsburg Road.

She could not blame the horse for refusing to get going again. The road was muddy and difficult to pull a rig on.

These mucky roads were a pain. People said they could not remember a wetter June. It was getting a bit depressing, most days cloudy even if it didn't rain. She supposed she should be grateful, though, that she was not back in the suffocating heat of Washington.

Bryant again flicked the reins. "Come on, Bell." The horse ignored her.

She wasn't going to fight. Blue Bell, her favorite, usually obeyed without hesitation. Bryant would let the horse eat and rest her fill. Next stream they came to she would also let Bell drink to heart's content.

Why had they named her Blue Bell? Her coat was reddish brown, her mane and tail coal black. Not a speck of blue on her.

At the start of June she knew squat about horses. Prior to arriving in this era, her last experience with these creatures had been as a kid on a pony. In adulthood she regarded horses a relic that fools still rode to jump fences and chase foxes.

While next to the locals Bryant remained a greenhorn, she could now distinguish between a filly and a mare, a bay and a sorrel, a riding horse and a draft horse. Bell was a draft bay mare.

Maybe Bryant had become Bell's favorite too. Benjy, the livery stable boy, certainly thought so. Benjy said Bell became cantankerous if anyone but Lily hired her. The horse certainly neighed with delight when Bryant approached. The delight was helped by a daily bribe of sugar cubes.

Bell continued to munch. Bryant alighted from the carriage, then tied the reins to a post. Not that Bell would be bolting anywhere over this soggy road.

This was beautiful country, and the rain had made it more so. Lush vegetation lay everywhere. She had visited England, and thought no place more intensely green, but these fields and woods now rivaled it.

She gazed at a farmhouse down the road. Like most of the farm dwellings around Gettysburg it was big and well maintained. She didn't see anybody about. Maybe they were in town for supplies.

Foot high corn grew just beyond the fence. In neat rows it flowed across the field. She wondered if any of the crop—and that farmhouse—would survive the battle.

Probably not. Jack said some of the worst fighting took place along the Emmitsburg Road. Right where she stood men would be dying in great numbers.

It was so quiet now. Not even birds made a noise. Only the rattle of Bell's harness sounded.

She tried not to think about the horror to come. When so many young men would kill each other. Young men, like Stod and Nicolay, that in other circumstances would fall all over themselves helping someone in distress.

Bryant wrapped arms over her chest. If only she could stop what would happen here. If only, on the first day of battle, she could go to the generals and demand they pull back their men. Make them instead sit around a table and negotiate peace.

If only.

She would not think of war. She would rather think of how she had enjoyed her time in Gettysburg. These buggy rides were boring, but the strolls about town had proved much better. From the start people had been welcoming.

Last Saturday evening she and Jack had attended an ice cream social. It had been held in the town square—really a big circle—as the sun slowly settled in the west. She was already on a first name basis with a number of people. Everyone gorged on ice cream and cake, there were patriotic speeches and songs, and as night fell the off-key but energetic band prompted dancing.

The evening was marred only by "militia" passing in review. These Gettysburg soldier wannabes could barely keep step. Most were too young or too old for combat. Their appearance did not bother her; it was rather their blind enthusiasm to participate in war. They should all tour a military hospital.

Once the dancing started, she forgot the wannabes. She pulled Jack into the square. Neither of them knew the steps to a polka, but they had fun trying. Waltzes they managed better. They even participated in the Virginia Reel. The townspeople called it a Scottish reel, except it looked just like what Scarlett O'Hara performed.

The evening was magical. She indulged in a wonderful fantasy, that she and Jack would marry and settle in this thriving little town. Let the battle go elsewhere. She and Jack would buy a home, have children, live a long and happy life.

She could indulge, couldn't she?

The reality was that the nation's greatest battle would soon take place here. Reality also was that she and Jack had at last begun to shrink. On both matters time was growing short. Two weeks to the battle, perhaps three before she and Jack became midgets and four before they disappeared altogether.

She heard the beat and splash of horse hoofs. Someone was approaching at a good pace, from the direction of town.

Bryant moved close to the Jenny Lind and the revolver in the side of the seat. Jack insisted she carry one in town or out. Not that she needed convincing; a woman going about alone made a tempting target in any era.

The road dipped where she had parked. When the rider appeared on the rise fifty yards away her eyes widened. It was Jack.

Her heart raced. There was only one reason he would break off his search in the middle of the day to come looking for her. He must have located Naylor and Jackson.

"No," Mauer replied to Chloe's breathless question, "I haven't found them."

"Then what's happened?"

"Well, in town they have learned rebel cavalry entered Chambersburg yesterday. I just saw some panicky refuges arriving. But that's not why I'm here."

The Confederates were already withdrawing, but nobody this side of South Mountain knew that.

"What then?"

Mauer dismounted the lathered and mud splattered horse. He probably shouldn't have pushed him so hard. He tied the reins to a post.

"Let's sit in the buggy, Chloe."

She didn't move. "What's going on? Why are you here if you haven't found them?"

"I am abandoning the search. At least around Gettysburg."

She gaped. Then she did get into the buggy. He followed.

"Jack, what are you talking about?"

"It's been in the back of my mind. I almost called a stop last Friday."

"Why didn't you discuss this with me?"

She looked and sounded more hurt than angry.

"Because it will be a very difficult thing to do. For us to part."

Chloe gaped again.

"I'm taking you back to Transit One, Chloe. To wait for me."

Her pale skin turned paler and she croaked something. It sounded like "why?"

"We aren't getting anywhere here. More and more I'm thinking if Naylor brought Jackson to Gettysburg, it was before we arrived. Then she probably got him well away. I'm betting they are over in the Cumberland Valley."

"Why there?" She again spoke with a strangled voice.

Yes, he had delivered a body blow, saying they would have to separate. But separate they must. He had to make sure she survived.

"Most of Lee's army will pass through Chambersburg. That is second best place for Jackson to take over his old command."

Mauer had thought Jackson would wait until July 1st to reveal himself. At Gettysburg. When Jackson did pop back into existence, there would be no keeping it secret. The Army of Northern Virginia would go berserk with joy.

Word of the astounding event could not help but reach Northern commanders. If they learned on the afternoon of July 1st, it would be too late. The Army of the Potomac would have its head in the noose. If they learned even a day earlier, they would pull up short of Gettysburg. Fear of Jackson would render them ultra cautious.

Naylor may have decided it was too risky keeping Jack near Gettysburg. Until the Confederates arrived on the first, he would be naked to capture. Jackson would definitely be safer at Chambersburg, which Lee would firmly control by next week.

She probably figured she could still keep Jackson under wraps. Just disguise him as another resident of Cumberland County. Then Jackson could meet clandestinely with Lee or one of his staff, who could sneak him through the Cashtown Gap in the back of a wagon. Jackson would remain incognito until the appropriate moment on the first.

"Jack, you'll need my help in Chambersburg."

Sure he could use another set of eyes. But that could also sentence her to death.

"I have to kill Jackson at any cost. I may have to do it with no means of escape. Which means I could be shot down like a dog moments afterward."

Her face twisted.

"We both knew it might come to that. If it does, my death will cause your death. Unless you are right by the transit point."

She shook her head.

"Come on, Chloe. We've been here too long. Way past the expiration date for a single person. When—if I die, you will shrink fast. You'll probably have only seconds to get into the transit."

Her lower lip was quivering. Her eyes watered.

"Oh, Jack."

He refrained from embracing her, caressing her. By now he wasn't was surprised how much he wanted to.

"Whatever our personal feelings for each other—I admit they are strong—we still have this mission. The mission always comes first. We ATU vets know that better than anyone."

"I'm part of the team too. I can help in Chambersburg. You need me there, you know it."

"I'm going to move fast from now on. Use all my black ops experience. I mean no offense, you've been great, but you'd only be in the way."

"No I wouldn't." She sniffled.

"You're going to Transit One, Chloe."

Now her back arched. She stared defiantly.

In that moment love squeezed through his stout defenses. Not brotherly or cousinly or comradely love, but the real dangerous thing. He shoved it back hard as he could.

He softened his voice. "One of us has to make it out of here. If I fail to get Jackson, you'll have to take up the fight in 1882. Or 1901. Or whatever year, to try to get the Union back together if the South wins now."

"I don't want to lose you, Jack."

"You may not. I mean, I intend to succeed. I will do my damn best to get back to Transit One."

"You should have talked this over with me."

"I know. But it wouldn't have changed my decision."

"Our decision."

"What you would decide? If you were ATU director in charge of the operation?"

She turned from him. She stared down the road. The empty road that usually had traffic. Maybe the world was waiting for them to resolve this question upon which its future depended.

"I'd order just what you have." She whispered the words.

"I'll get back to Transit One, Chloe."

"If anybody can, it will be you."

God, he wanted to kiss her so bad. He almost did.

But there was Teri. Teri would always come first.

Thursday, June 18

"Pa," yelled Tad, "Come join us."

"Father, you too," called Lewis, Stanton's boy.

Lincoln smiled. Tad, Lewis and two other boys were playing mumble-the-peg on the wide lawn before the fortress-like Soldier's Home. Lincoln and Stanton lounged against one of the broad oaks at the edge of the lawn.

It was such a lovely evening. Daylight remained, but already the heat of the day had faded. On this breeze kissed hill the air always cooled at night, even if the temperature hit the nineties during the day in the city. The family also escaped the city's smells and mosquitoes.

Lincoln made to rise. He was bone weary, as always, but he would relish ten or fifteen minutes of being a child again.

Mary's shrill voice intervened. "Tad, leave your father alone. He and Mr. Stanton are discussing war business. And he's tired."

Mary shouted from the porch of their "cottage". Mary and Lizzie Keckley sat in rocking chairs as they performed embroidery.

Why people called the fourteen room mansion the Cottage made for a mystery. Perhaps it was the gingerbread trim. At any rate, he had come to far prefer this quiet and comforting retreat to the Executive Mansion.

"Aw, Ma."

"You heard me. Your father needs to sit and rest."

The boys groused a moment, then resumed their play.

"She is right," said Stanton. The usually stern countenance of Mars showed deep concern. "You need rest. And lots of it. Everyone gets a breather except you."

"That will have to wait until the war is done."

"Seriously, Mr. President. Even the soldiers get furloughs."

"You work just as hard as I do, Mr. Secretary." Stanton matched him hour for hour. This man was a bulldog. Without him—and Seward—Lincoln did not know what he would do.

"I suppose that day will come, when the guns fall silent. Then I will rest. I'll sleep for a month."

Laughter peeled as the kids raced about the towering flagpole in the center of the lush lawn. Convalescing soldiers on the upper balcony of the Home were looking on. Some supported themselves on crutches, likely wondering if they would ever run again.

Oh, this war.

"Sir, have you given any thought to what you will do once it does end?"

"Then we'll have the peace to worry about. But at least no boys will be dying."

"I mean once everything is over. Will you go back to Illinois?"

"I would assume. First, though..."

"Sir?"

"Something I had talked about with Willie." Thought of his fallen son lacerated. Such a gifted boy, it had been humanity's loss along with Lincoln's when he departed.

"But I will do it now with Tad. We will go to Europe. We will see everything, have our own grand tour." Lincoln warmed at the prospect, even though Tad would not appreciate the Continent like the precocious Willie.

"I and Lewis might join you. If that's not too presumptuous."

Lincoln smiled. "Not at all. We'll start planning...the day after this thing ends."

"That might not be so long now. Grant has thirty thousand men trapped at Vicksburg. And it looks like Lee is going to give us another opportunity to chop off his head."

Lee was going north again, no doubt about it. Last time they almost had him at Antietam.

"I will have to decide about Hooker soon, I know."

Stanton nodded.

Hooker had to go. The Union could not survive a second Chancellorsville.

Reynolds had refused to take over the Army of the Potomac. That left Hancock and Meade. Both were good commanders—at the corps level. The army level was another matter, as good corps commander Hooker had shown.

Could Meade or Hancock miraculously prove to be another Grant, and take another Confederate army off the board? Could the man chosen break Lee? If he could, this war would end this summer.

"Peace will challenge us almost as much as the war," said Lincoln.

Stanton balled a fist. His pepper and salt beard shook. "We can make the South do whatever we want."

"I don't want to foster a sullen hatred."

"They'll hate us anyway."

"There will be no retribution."

"The likes of Wade and Stevens will demand it. They'll want to start with hanging Davis and Lee. They would unearth Jackson, and string him up too."

"No, no. I will parole everyone."

"Even Davis?"

"Yes." Lincoln swept his hand toward the Soldier's Home. In the dying sunlight the white stone walls of the building gleamed with a rosy tinge.

"The Home would not stand except for him. He fought for years to get funding to build it."

"That hardly excuses treason."

"They are our fellow countrymen who have lost their way. Theirs is not true treason."

Stanton said nothing.

Jefferson Davis was a decent man. As was Bobby Lee. As were most of the people of the South. When their guns were laid down, Lincoln would let it go at that.

A phrase had been birthing in his head. One he would use when the great day came. He would speak it to the gallant peoples of both the North and South as the nation became whole again.

"With malice toward none, and charity towards all, let us bind up the nation's wounds."

Yes, that is what he would say. Then as chief executive he would see that charity and binding were done.

He rested against the bark of the big oak.

Sunday, June 21

"Always mystify, mislead, and surprise the enemy."

The maxim of Stonewall Jackson flitted through her head as Naylor ran from the farmhouse. She barely registered that she was barefoot and in her nightgown.

"Thomas!" she shrieked. "Stop!"

The surrey did not stop. She didn't either, although behind her Aaron shouted her name.

A trail of dust obscured the surrey. Early morning sunlight turned the dust into a golden cloud.

She screamed with all her might. "Thomas! You have to stop! Please stop!"

Thomas, no longer half deaf, had to hear. So did Susannah and her daughter. But the surrey kept rolling on the lane through the elms.

Naylor continued to run despite burning lungs. She had to catch them. But she wouldn't. She slowed, and despaired.

"Amanda, out of the way!"

Behind her thundered hooves. She turned to see Aaron on one of the big wagon horses. He rode bareback. He quickly passed her, generating his own cloud of dust.

Naylor staggered forward as she gasped for breath. She at last became aware of pain from her feet. She lifted a sole to see blood.

She wanted to cry. What was Thomas thinking? This was madness.

A hundred yards down the lane Aaron had caught up with the surrey. She saw him bend to seize the harness. Aaron soon brought the surrey to a halt.

Naylor gave the most relieved thanks of her life.

What a feat of riding by Aaron, to maneuver that bulky horse into position. Without saddle or stirrups. It took nerve, too, to lean to grab the harness. A slip and he would have been under the surrey wheels.

Damn Thomas, she would have his hide. And Susannah's.

Damn herself, too. She should have seen this coming. Nothing ruled Thomas more strongly than his call to God.

Naylor forgot her stinging feet as she hurried toward the surrey. The shrill voice of Susannah vied with the deeply authoritative one of Thomas as they commanded Aaron let them proceed. Aaron, always the equanimous one, answered with a stone face.

What a tableau this made, Naylor thought, as she neared the surrey. Three people in their Sunday best, two in their bedclothes, all in a dusty country lane.

Thankfully this lane was surrounded by a myriad of fruit trees. The welter of trunks and branches and leaves completely hid them from the world. The trees, and the birds trilling in them, would also blot out sound. No matter how heated this confrontation got, even screamed words would not escape.

Naylor summoned her chief executive's voice.

"Out of the surrey. Everyone. Now!"

Thomas was the first to climb down. He looked none too happy, but he would obey his guardian angel. Peggy started to follow. Susannah grabbed her daughter's arm and glowered at Naylor.

Sue looked ready to wield the buggy whip on Naylor instead of the skittish horse. "We're going to church! What right have you to try to stop us?"

Naylor remembered a complacent thought earlier in the month: There were conspiracies, and there were conspiracies. Sweet Sue had certainly one-upped her on that.

The conniving bitch would have succeeded but for the snap of a twig. It resounded like a pistol shot and woke Naylor just in time. A wheel must have crunched the twig as they tried to ease the surrey from the carriage house. The best laid plans of mice and men...

Good God, it was barely past dawn. How early had the three gotten up? They had exercised great care in rousing, dressing and exiting, as boards on both the second floor and the stairway creaked sharply. Their stealth bore the trademark planning and execution of one Stonewall Jackson.

Damn Thomas! Of course Susannah had encouraged him, but he was the one to say yes or no. How could he do this? He knew the tremendous stakes involved.

Naylor tried to keep wrath from her voice. "Billy, please go back to the house. You know this isn't a good idea."

Thomas looked at Peggy. "But Jesus said, 'Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.'"

Thomas quoted the Bible verse with authority. His gray-blue eyes blazed as must have Moses' when bringing the Commandments down from Mount Sinai.

He stood before her dressed in Sunday finest. Frock coat, vest, pants, shoes, white shirt, and silk tie. Eli's finest, that was. Naylor had to admit they fit pretty well. A gold plated watch hung by a chain from the vest.

"We're going to church," Susannah said. "This is my house, my land! You can't and you won't stop us."

"You go right ahead, Sue. Billy stays here."

Oh, the conniving bitch. Susannah had not been to church in months. She stopped going after her father-in-law died; she blamed God for both his loss and that of her husband. And for letting the war occur, with all its attendant horror.

Repeated visits by her pastor did not return Sue to the fold. Nor did entreaties by neighbors and church members. Her mind would not be changed by anyone, ever. She had arrived at the same conclusion as Naylor about the compassion of the Creator.

But Thomas, of course, had been disturbed when he learned of her abandonment of God. He was even more distressed that her child was being kept from the Heavenly Father. Concern continually clouded his high, broad forehead.

Before Susannah began to fall for him, she had politely turned away discussion of the topic. Naylor had also commanded that Thomas lay off. Sue will come back to God on her own. Just give her time. And we have bigger fish to fry.

Even before Susannah fell in love, she tolerated Billy reading from the Bible to her daughter. Afterward she began to join in. Soon all three were reciting psalms together. Last Sunday they had knelt on the parlor carpet to pray and sing hymns.

Naylor, in her foolishness, had watched all this half amused. It was plain to everyone at the household—except Thomas—that Susannah was trying hard to wend her way into Billy's heart. Sue had brains, but it did not take a genius to tell that religion was Billy's Achilles' heel.

Wednesday Thomas had come to Naylor and asked if he could accompany Sue and Peggy if they went to church services. He had calmly taken Naylor's kindly refusal; along with her sympathy he seemed to accept the argument it was way too dangerous.

"Billy is a grown man," said Susannah. "He can decide for himself."

The eyes of Thomas implored. "I promised I would go. It will be all right. I will be careful."

Goddammit, Thomas, watch your mouth.

"Billy, a word." She gestured down the lane. Naylor noticed that Aaron was still holding the harness. Why? With Thomas out of the surrey, Sue was free to go. In fact, it might be better if she did.

Naylor moved Thomas out of earshot of the surrey.

"You know you cannot go to church. We can't take the chance."

"There is little risk. The country believes I am dead."

"You were—are—world famous. Your likeness has been in newspapers North and South." Papers could not yet carry photographs, but they did display accurate drawings of individuals. "I know you had a photograph taken ten years ago, in which you did not have a beard." That was a portrait taken by Mathew Brady.

"I wore sideburns then. They were long, almost to my mouth."

"And what about your arm? Maybe people will skip over your face, but not the missing arm."

"Many men have lost arms in this war."

"Your voice too, Thomas. You speak as a Virginian."

"I will speak little."

"You cannot remain mute. After the service, people will approach you and Susannah. With many 'polite' questions."

Susannah Cooper appearing in church after a four month's absence would cause quite a stir. That an unknown man accompanied her, when she was still in her mourning period, would cause more. Every eye would scan Thomas from head to toe. Curiosity would rage.

"You—"

Peggy's tearful voice interrupted. "Uncle Billy, you promised!"

Naylor turned to see Peggy leaning from the surrey. The child's face twisted in sorrow. How much was an act, how much real, Naylor did not know. What Naylor did know was that her mother had instigated the appeal.

"Thomas," said Naylor, "You go back to the house. I command it. Do you doubt I have the authority to command you?"

The great general tried to remain defiant. But he could not when confronted by an agent of the Almightly. Thankfully Naylor would always have that as the ultimate prod.

"Go, Thomas. You can worship with them once more in the parlor. It is perfectly all right in His eyes."

He nodded. Thomas made to call to Susannah, but Naylor stopped him. "I need to talk to Sue, too. They will be along."

He reluctantly started toward the gray stone farmhouse. For the first time in days the sun shone brightly on it. A good omen, she hoped.

Peggy flounced out of the surrey. Susannah followed her. They advanced on Naylor. Sorrowful Peggy and furious Sue.

"Peggy, you go ahead. Billy will read to you. I need a word with your mother."

At Sue's grim nod the child flew off after Thomas.

Naylor and Susannah stood a foot apart.

Sue wore a shimmering lavender dress. It was probably made of taffeta. In the dress—no matter that lavender was a mourning color—the young, trim woman with the hair of butter and skin of cream looked very fetching. Question was, did Thomas even notice her appearance?

Naylor's anger softened. Susannah, who loved Thomas—probably desperately so—had zero chance of winning him. Anything she tried would fail. Sue would suffer the agonies of the damned when Thomas left; Naylor remembered her own when Henry cast her away.

Susannah's anger had not lessened. "How dare you stop us."

"Just him. Not you."

"How can you keep him from what he so loves?"

"I have told you about his nerves, Sue. He cannot withstand being in a crowd. The last time he was, on the train, he began screaming. Do you want that to happen in your church?"

"I have seen no excitability in him. Since the day he got here."

"Because he feels safe here. You are luring him onto dangerous ground."

"I am not luring anyone. And he has to go back into the world sometime. What better place than God's house?"

"You are as far from God as ever, Susannah. We both know that. You are luring Thomas to church in hopes that will lure him to yourself."

Naylor immediately regretted her words. Tact, Allison, Tact.

"You're horrid." Sue's eyes spit hate. Lifting her dress above her heels, she swept toward the house.

Naylor bit her lip. What if in her anger—her rage—Susannah ordered them off the farm? She might. Throw the gold at Naylor, say she wanted them out by nightfall.

No, no, she wouldn't. Sue had to believe she still had a chance with Thomas. As long as that possibility existed...

Naylor wondered if she could get Thomas to lead her on a little. He would only have to for four more days. Thomas' sense of honor would likely cause him to balk, but if the angel commanded...

"Amanda."

Aaron, still by the surrey, had called her. The harnessed mare he held shifted impatiently on her hooves. The big horse Aaron had ridden to chase down the surrey obliviously chewed grass between a row of apple trees.

"Yes, Aaron?"

"We have a problem."

"I know we do. But she'll cool."

"It's not that. When you were running after them you twice shouted 'Thomas'. She couldn't have missed it."

God, she had. Aaron must think her an idiot.

"Uh—we'll do like we did you with at the Chandler cottage. Say Thomas is his middle name."

"Don't think that will fly, Allison."

"Of course it will. She hasn't the remotest reason to suspect he's Stonewall Jackson."

"When she calms, she may start to put two and two together. She knows like everyone else that Thomas Jackson lost an arm at Chancellorsville. He is also the right age and speaks with a Southern accent."

"Everyone thinks he's dead. It would be an incredible stretch for her to make the connection."

"That's what you want to believe. You once told me that that believing in what you wanted to believe was the worst of mistakes."

"Aaron—"

"We simply can't take the chance she will connect."

"What the hell do you propose then?"

His lips compressed. Then he spoke. "We lock them in the root cellar. Now."

"Good God. You're serious?"

"Absolutely."

She began to pace. She ignored her sore feet. "We can't. You're overreacting."

"Have you ever seen me overreact?"

Aaron stood so calmly beside the fidgety mare. He had remained just as unruffled during the events of the past thirty minutes. Which meant he had to be thinking a lot more clearly than she.

"Just leave them in the cellar, Aaron?"

"There's plenty of food in there. And all the cider they can handle. We'll of course give them a good supply of water too."

Of course, thought Naylor.

"What about air?" The earthen cellar was built like a bunker and had no windows. The double doors at the entrance were made of thick oak. The interior was spacious, but a week in there certainly would exhaust all the oxygen.

"I'll auger some holes in the doors."

"They can't stay there forever. And we can't guarantee we'd be able to get back after the battle." They had shrunk another inch. The pace could only accelerate from now on.

"We'll post a letter June 29 or 30 to the Abbottstown authorities. Telling them about Sue in the cellar. The letter won't reach them for at least a couple days."

"What if it never arrives?"

"Sue and Peggy go to the market every Thursday. Like clockwork. If they don't show a couple weeks in a row, people will come."

"You can guarantee that?"

"It's your call, Allison. But we should secure them shortly. If Sue adds it up, she can just bolt into the trees. She knows this land. All she has to do is make it to another farm. If she is believed, we'd never get past Hampton on our way out."

If she was believed. Susannah would sound like a madwoman claiming Stonewall Jackson was alive. But someone would get curious enough to come take a look.

"Thomas will fight us on this," she said.

"No, he won't. He's got a war to win. He'll agree to the necessity."

Maybe. It would be a real test of his obedience to her.

Naylor caught sight of Susannah eyeing them from a second floor window. Anger still played on her face, but it was a cold anger now. Had she started ruminating already?

"All right. Let's lock them up."

"Okay. After we put the surrey back, I'll saunter into the house, then grab her. You keep an eye on Peggy. When I take Susannah, you get Peggy."

She nodded. Then she sighed. "I really stepped in it, didn't I?"

Aaron softly touched her shoulder. He smiled. "It's under control."

"I love you, Aaron."

"And I you." Then he led the mare about, back towards the carriage house.

As she walked beside him, it struck her. Confining the two to the cellar was only a partial solution. As Aaron had said, people in Abbottstown would notice when Susannah and Peggy failed to appear Thursday. Someone could be concerned enough to ride out here that day.

The devil would then be loose.

She stopped in her tracks. Good God, what was she thinking? No, no, no!

"What's the matter?" Aaron asked.

"It's just—I hope no harm comes to them." She started walking again.

"Don't worry. They'll be uncomfortable, but they'll be fine."

"I hope so." What a liar.

She would not kill these people!

Yes, that would neatly solve the problem. The dead said nothing. Kill the mother and child, bury the bodies in the woods. Anyone one who came looking would find an empty farmhouse and a mystery not likely solved for months.

She would not kill them!

Sanctioning the death of a combatant like Jack Mauer was one thing, horrible enough. To do away with an innocent woman and a more innocent child should and would damn her to the hell she avowed did not exist. It would be the supreme crime.

But if they lived and told, a hundred million or more would die horrible, horrible deaths. And the soul of a great civilization would be fatally wounded.

What would Aaron think of her thoughts? What would Thomas? Thomas could never, ever, no matter the cost, kill a child. He would abandon their cause instantly if she did.

Perhaps he need never know. Nor Aaron. The night before they left, she could reach the cellar undetected. Aaron was a deep sleeper, Thomas the world champion. Courtesy of Aaron she had a pepper-box pistol. It held six shots.

She could quietly unlock the cellar padlock. She would have to bring a candle. She would light it just before stepping inside; once inside she would close the doors. The shots would not be heard outside. She—

"Amanda."

Naylor had again stopped dead in the lane. The surrey had almost run into her. Aaron was gravely regarding her.

He came close. "You're white as a ghost."

She imagined she was. She stared at her hands as if blood dripped from them.

Wednesday, June 24

The soldiers bellowed the chorus as the band at the head of the column played the stirring music.

Hurrah!

Hurrah!

For Southern rights, hurrah!

Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

Though they were the enemy, Mauer could not help but be impressed. These lean young men strode over the cobblestones of Chambersburg as if they owned the world. Their long unkempt beards and ragged uniforms only added to their air of lethality.

Mauer had to admit it, these men were probably the finest combat troops the country ever produced. In both courage and skill they excelled. Against a foe always more numerous and better supplied, these men of the Army of Northern Virginia had not yet lost a battle.

Along with many townspeople Mauer watched the men of Rodes' division tramp three abreast through the town square. A nearby civilian voiced the general hope, that the rebels would not burn the town. Another said a ransom demand was more likely. A third said any ransom would break their pocketbooks.

A hefty ransom Chambersburg would indeed pay. Fire the town would escape. It would be next summer that the Confederates torched this prosperous town, half again as large as Gettysburg. Two-thirds of Chambersburg would end up gutted.

At the head of each regiment a bearer held the Confederate battle flag high. The infamous flags, faded after so many campaigns, were now more pink than red. No one however called that to the attention of the troops. On many flags a strip of golden cloth proclaimed participation in this battle and that.

Regiment after regiment passed through the town square. Mid morning sun flashed on the rows of swaying bayonets. Drums beat and brass blared and the troops sang. We are here, it all shouted. We are here on your soil to fight the battle that will whip you damned Yankees for good. You don't have a chance, and you know it.

Townspeople looked on glumly. They probably expected Lee to shortly administer the coup de grace to Northern hopes. Given the track record of the Army of the Potomac, who could blame them?

Some people watched with other than resignation. They were mainly women, somberly clad. Several had pinned a black ribbon to a sleeve shoulder. These women had undoubtedly lost loved ones to combat, and now their eyes flung hate at the men responsible.

Across the square from Mauer stood the Franklin Hotel. He checked his pocket watch. Half past ten neared.

He looked south down Front Street, toward the Reformed Church. Within a minute a big carriage pulled by two horses crested the slope. Mounted staff officers flanked the carriage.

Lieutenant General Richard Ewell was right on time. The carriage neared, then separated from the advancing troops to park at the hotel entrance. A staff officer hustled from his horse to the carriage. The gray clad major helped the general out, then handed Ewell a crutch.

Mauer bet the boyish looking major was Sandie Pendleton. Which was as it should be, Ewell had kept Pendleton on as an adjutant for the Second Corps. Mauer could detect no sign of anticipation on the face of Pendleton, that he might shortly meet the man he so revered. Of course, he might not know Jackson still lived.

Ewell swung on his crutch toward the hotel entrance. Ewell, "Old Baldy", had lost a leg at Second Bull Run. He endured a long recovery and had not returned to duty until just after Chancellorsville. During his convalescence Ewell gained a wooden leg, upon which he now—with crutch—struggled to walk.

Even across the square Mauer could detect the bulging eyes of the man. The general definitely looked strange. Thin sideburns ended in a thick mustache and a thicker goatee. His head drooped to the side. And underneath his slouch hat lay utter baldness. Some likened his barren top to an egg or a bomb.

Dick Ewell was almost as eccentric as the man he had replaced. He couldn't lie flat in a bed and to sleep he curled up on the floor around a chair or stool. Like Jackson, he thought his digestive system was awry. Ewell tried to placate it by eating only a mix of wheat boiled in milk. Unlike Jackson, he was not pious and could match any of his troops in profanity.

Ewell finally made it onto the covered porch of the three-story brick building. The Franklin Hotel would temporarily become his headquarters. Within the hour he would issue a demand for an impossible amount of cash and supplies. When officials and storeowners failed to comply, Confederate troops would take what they wanted anyway.

Mauer had kept a watch on the hotel since arriving in Chambersburg on Monday. The hotel would be the logical place for Jackson to meet Ewell today, and Lee when he arrived Friday. Mauer had not yet spotted Naylor, Price or Jackson in or around the hotel, but that meant nothing.

If Jackson was not sequestered in the hotel, she probably had lodged him nearby. She had certainly well disguised him.

Would Jackson make contact with Ewell today? It was not absolutely necessary. Ewell could be kept ignorant until arriving at Gettysburg. To that point Second Corps operations could remain unchanged.

The wagon train of the division followed the soldiers. The scores of covered wagons groaned and rumbled on the macadam. Four and six teams of mules drew them. The drivers, most sitting on one of the mules instead of the wagon, were older men and in some cases black. The drivers cracked their whips and shouted terse commands to guide their charges.

After depositing Chloe at Transit One, Mauer had joined a different type of wagon train. From Hagerstown to Chambersburg refugees filled the Cumberland Valley pike. In buggy, buckboard and Conestoga wagon they fled northward. Each vehicle was crammed to capacity with possessions. Livestock trailed. Mauer also saw many fleeing blacks.

Men expected they would be robbed; women feared molestation. Some people even said the hungry rebs would eat children.

The men were right about larceny—though the Confederates pretended to pay, with their worthless script—but the women need not worry. Lee made it clear he not tolerate wanton plundering or violence. Rapists would be hanged. And children were forbidden food.

Though Mauer detested the man, Lee must be given credit for his treatment of civilians and property during this invasion. During the first two years of war, the Federals had ravaged the Virginia war zone. With little loss of sleep Lee could have ordered similar ruination.

The Confederates would find rich spoils in this valley. To Mauer the Cumberland looked even more fertile than the Gettysburg area. The broad valley floor between South Mountain to the east and the Appalachians to the west harbored an incredible bounty of grains and animals. The Confederates would also find plenty of dry goods and other sundries to requisition.

On the pike Mauer had seen many cherry trees, their limbs full of ripened fruit. The refuges hurried past the beckoning produce. Not so the invaders. The troops of Old Baldy would pick the cherry trees clean—emblematic of how thoroughly the Second Corps would strip the land as it progressed through the Cumberland Valley.

Officers continued to come in and out of the Franklin Hotel. Only a few civilians, all male, were allowed to enter. No one came close to resembling Jackson. Which meant little, Jackson could of course slip in the back entrance. For not the first time Mauer wished he had a second pair of eyes around.

But Chloe was where she should be. She would live whatever happened to him. These past seven weeks she had done her duty and more.

He did miss her. Maybe he loved her. If they both made it out of here, that love could well deepen.

But it wouldn't matter. He had never loved a woman as much as Teri. Teri was a radiant splendor, his first love, his true love.

He had a chance now to get his wife back, and live out the years with her that Nina Miller took away. Nina Miller, the most evil bitch that ever lived, who made Allison Naylor look like a saint. He would kill Nina on sight if he could find her in 1996.

If he and Chloe survived 1863, Mauer would let Chloe down easily as he could. Thank God he had kept his hands off her. Traveling to Transit One he nearly folded. Their parting had been emotional. But somehow they managed not to close the last foot of space between them.

He wondered how she was doing on the mountain top. She was a tough girl, but it had to be very difficult. She was alone in the wilderness. Every moment she had to watch for swift shrinking—which meant he was dead. She would be too, if she didn't hustle into the transit.

There were other dangers. They had not seen anyone going up the mountain or at the top. But that did not mean hunters or even army deserters would not appear in the days to follow. Men finding a young woman alone were capable of anything.

Mauer had left Chloe well armed. She had two pistols, a shotgun and a rifle at her disposal. He had told her to shoot to kill if in any doubt. Don't let intruders close; tell them to scat. Her eyes said she understood fully.

He told her to keep any fire low, and to put it out at night. Stay in her tent after darkness fell. Humans probably would not prowl at night, but animals did. Both wolves and bears could poke around. Again, shoot first and ask questions later.

Mauer chilled. He wouldn't be able to take it if he returned to Transit One and found her dead. He prayed Chloe would stay alert and with a finger on the trigger.

The wagons rattled on. They and the soldiers were heading to camp three miles north of town. Tomorrow the troops of Johnson's division would join them. After that would come the corps of A. P. Hill, then that of Longstreet. And the head of the whole shebang, supreme traitor to the United States, Robert E. Lee.

Thursday, June 25

Armistead Long fidgeted in his saddle. The woman was one of the ugliest females he had ever seen. She reminded him of a gargoyle. She should take that umbrella and use it to permanently cover her face.

The gargoyle led a delegation of four other women. They had approached General Lee as he made his way up the riverbank from the Potomac. Long would have tipped his hat and kept riding, but the General—too courtly for his own good—had stopped.

Riding beside Lee, Generals Longstreet and Pickett also displayed exasperation. They had miles to go. If their commander halted to placate every group of well-wishers, they would never get out of Maryland. Ladies' man Pickett was probably thinking they should stop only for belles.

One of the middle-aged women carried an evergreen wreath bearing red ribbons. The other women held large bouquets of flowers.

The faces of the gaggle shone with admiration. That it was pouring rain, with water coursing off umbrellas to soak the lower half of their dresses, did not trouble the women at all.

The rain certainly bothered Long. He was clammy under his poncho. Some of the water cascading off his slouch hat managed to slip in between the poncho and his neck.

"General Lee, " said the yellow toothed gargoyle, "allow me to present these ladies who desire to give you this reception. "

The General smiled politely. He thanked the women, then generously introduced Generals Longstreet and Pickett. Both men doffed their hats and forced a smile.

The women then presented the generals with the flowers. As the men awkwardly accepted the big bouquets, the women praised the Southern cause and invoked God's blessing on the army. This time the vile enemy would be crushed.

The woman with the wreath stepped forward. "General Lee, may I put this around the neck of Traveller? For good fortune?"

The request nonplused Lee. Traveller, the renown mount of the renown commander, decorated as if pulling a Christmas sleigh? Longstreet and Pickett stifled mirth.

Lee tried to escape. He thanked the gaggle for their courtesy and kindness, but duty called. He must press on.

The gargoyle would not hear of it. She continued to beam admiration, but she stood firmly in the path of Traveller. The plumpish woman with the wreath joined her.

By now rainfall had wilted the bouquets. Fortunately Captain Dawson came to the rescue, and relieved the generals of the flowers. He offered to take the wreath too. Stern eyes accompanied his offer.

The gargoyle persisted. The women had gone to great trouble to construct this emblem of their appreciation. It should be, it must be prominently displayed.

Finally the commander of the army called to one of the couriers. The wreath would go on the courier's horse, which would proceed the column. Would that be acceptable, ladies? Long was glad to hear Lee ask in a take it or leave it voice.

As they left the gaggle behind, Long reflected on the patience of Robert E. Lee. His forbearance truly was that of Job. A slower man to irritation, or anger, Long had never seen. Even when angry Lee rarely flared.

In so many ways this noble man remained an example to them all. Always just, always considerate, always helpful, always modest, always selfless. Lee was the very model of a Christian gentleman.

With the rest of the staffs, Long trailed just behind the three generals. Of the three Lee sat the straightest in the saddle. Long gave thanks that Marse Robert had regained his usual fine posture, posture that had slackened during April and May.

Lee appeared to have thrown off his aliments. Long swore five years had dropped from his age. His movements were quicker, his memory sharper, his spirits higher. This was the energetic man he had known in the early months of the war.

Day by day since late May the General had grown stronger. Since that morning when visited by Sandie Pendleton. Lee had not revealed what he and Pendleton so long discussed in the tent, nor the contents of Anna Jackson's letter, but both had proved a tonic.

Thank God. The loss of Stonewall Jackson had crushed Lee, though he strove mightily to demonstrate otherwise. The illness of March and April had previously weakened him. In the fortnight after the battle of Chancellorsville, Long worried that Lee might be only half his former self during the summer campaign.

Now Lee no longer took quinine. That alone had improved him enormously. The General had also changed his eating habits, though Long was less certain of that contribution.

Lee now would eat only chicken and fish for meat. He also demanded greens and nuts—especially walnuts—as accompaniment. He had even given up his beloved cornbread soaked with molasses. Additionally, the General now drank only tea and wine. Plain water he avoided like poison.

Of all the changes, wine was the biggest surprise to Long. The exemplary man did not smoke, drink, or swear. But the very night of Pendleton's visit the General asked for a cup of red wine. Thereafter he drank no more, no less, each evening.

Shortly the General stopped to greet another group of admirers. Fortunately some pretty women were among them. Long saw Pickett perk up.

As Lee paused, his headquarters wagons passed. Long looked twice at the rear of one wagon. Perched on the tail and shielded from the rain, stood the hen Betsy. With nonchalance she gazed out on the world.

Don't get too comfortable, thought Long. Your protector now favors roast chicken. At some point during this campaign, Betsy, you may be the only clucker around. I doubt you will be returning to Virginia.

Friday, June 26

For the fifth day in a row Mauer stood watch in the Chambersburg square. Yesterday the division of Johnson had marched through to join that of Rodes north of town. Today the divisions of A. P. Hill's corps were arriving. The townspeople must wonder if there was no end to these Southern troops.

What would they think when Longstreet's corps streamed in tomorrow? At the close of the day a mighty host of the enemy would camp in three directions around their looted town. People were muttering about how the Federal government had abandoned them without firing a shot.

To match the mood of the people, dark clouds had passed over town all day. At the moment drizzle fell. Rain had fallen off and on since yesterday afternoon and the air was dank and oppressive.

On the pole at the center of the square the Union flag had been removed. From the cupola of the courthouse flew one of the Confederacy. The war seemed good as lost.

Across the square, under the rounded portico of the National Bank, General Hill stood talking with some townspeople. The general with the rusty beard appeared animated.

Ambrose Powell Hill, like Ewell, was a character. At West Point Hill had been a party boy, where he also contracted gonorrhea. The disease did not deter him from continuing as a ladies' man until married. The affliction however likely spawned the many illnesses he suffered till the end of his life.

Before battle Hill often got nervous to the point of nausea. When battle commenced he would lead his troops wearing a red hunting shirt. The clap ridden, high strung man—who like Ewell surely would not have lasted in the modern military—gained a reputation for arriving on the scene in the nick of time. Both Lee and Jackson called out orders to Hill on their deathbeds.

Hill continued to happily chat. He should be pleased, everything was going fine. His twenty thousand men had marched a hundred miles from the Rappahannock without a scratch. And Thomas Jackson was no longer in his hair.

Mauer wondered if Hill missed Jackson much; theirs had been a contentious relationship when Hill served under him. Hill at times thought Jackson crazy; Jackson returned the favor by once arresting Hill for perceived disobedience. That they were West Point classmates mattered not at all.

A couple steps back from a window Jackson might now have eyes on Hill. If so, the genius general must be chomping at the bit. How Jackson must yearn he could stand openly in full uniform like Hill.

Jackson however would not be engaging in friendly banter with the enemy populace. His wrathful eyes would scourge them as he readied battle orders for lesser beings like Hill to carry out.

The time for Jackson to reveal himself was drawing near. Less than a week remained before the first day at Gettysburg. The revelation could happen today; Lee would arrive in Chambersburg within the hour. If Jackson did not meet Lee at the Franklin Hotel, the encounter would probably take place later—perhaps under cover of darkness—where Lee would camp just east of town.

After thirty minutes there was a stirring near the Reformed Church. Necks craned, then the name Lee swept down Front Street. Several minutes later the commander of the Army of Northern Virginia rode into the square on his gray mount Traveller.

Mauer's skin tingled. He tried, but he could not suppress awe. Awe very similar to that experienced when he met Lincoln. Yards away was a legend of American history. And, despite the wretched cause for which he fought, one of the great captains of war.

Silver bearded Lee sat ramrod straight on Traveller. His arms were bent at perfect right angles as he held the reins. His large head calmly scanned the scene in the square. The still handsome face then brightened as he spotted his Third Corps commander.

A. P. Hill had remounted at the approach of Lee. Lee said something to his staff, who remained stationary as Lee and Hill met alone in the middle of the square. A hush came over the observing crowd.

Everyone strained ears. What crushing strategy were the master and his minion plotting? The observers, Mauer included, felt mortal fear for the Union descend from their heads to their stomachs.

Mauer was well armed. He carried two six shooters. He could rush into the square with both revolvers blazing, and bring down Lee and Hill. The loss of Lee might cause the Confederates to abort the campaign.

Mauer could not forget he was here to get Jackson. If Lee died, Jackson would take over the army. Mauer suspected—dammit, he knew—that Jackson would prove a more formidable opponent than Lee. Lee was a reluctant killer, Jackson a rabid one. Jackson was also the wiser tactician. The Union would face combination enraged grizzly and calculating wolf.

The generals finished their conversation. A. P. Hill returned to the steps of the National Bank. Lee and his staff headed east on Market Street. Neither man gave a moment's attention to the Franklin Hotel.

Mauer chewed his lip. He would keep watch in the square a while longer. Jackson might emerge after the commotion in the square died, then work his way to Shatter's Woods where Lee would set up camp. To truly finalize the crushing blow.

The drizzle began to thicken to rain.

In the dampness and darkness Mauer was able to creep close to Lee's tent. He hid in a clump of bushes not more than forty yards away. Lee had kept one flap of the wall tent open, so Mauer had clear line of sight. An oil lamp illuminated the interior.

The General sat at a field desk. Several staff officers surrounded him. A map was spread on the desk and Lee pointed to various spots on it. Some of the staff nodded, others appeared to ask questions.

It was past ten and Jackson had still not shown. Maybe he was waiting until still later, when Lee might be alone. Or maybe Jackson would not come until tomorrow evening, or the next one. Or even late as Monday evening. Lee was scheduled to remain here until June 30.

Besides Lee's staff, perhaps fifty other men were quartered in this grove. Most were infantry providing security. Those not on guard duty sat around campfires. The rain had stopped, but drops still dripped from the trees. They caused the fires to hiss and smoke.

At some fires men cooked beef. The meat undoubtedly came from the confiscated cattle Mauer had seen trailing the wagon trains. He knew that fresh beef was a rare treat for these men who usually survived on cornbread, peas and bacon. The bacon was often rancid. Mauer tried to ignore the mouth-watering aroma that floated in the damp air.

Some soldiers played cards, some read, and others played guitars or harmonicas. There was much chatter and laughter. The chatter slackened when a fine tenor voice rose.

Mauer could not see the soldier who sang, the man was not in light. The voice carried the haunting words of "Lorena" across the grove. Even the officers in Lee's tent paused to listen.

When the tenor finished, men cheered and called for more. The soldier however stayed quiet. Perhaps the song reminded him too much of his own sweetheart, and the many miles between him and her—not to mention the very real chance he had seen her for the last time. The soldiers returned to prior activity.

As midnight approached, Mauer battled frustration. Still no sign of Jackson. This night was perfect for Stonewall to rendezvous with Lee. The thick cloud cover blotted the nearly full moon. The off and on rain masked noise, obscured vision and gave excuse for pulled down hat and a cloaking cape.

Jackson could steal in, steal out, and be on his way. The Confederates now controlled the Cumberland Valley all the way to Carlisle. After finalizing strategy tonight, Jackson would have plenty of time to get to Carlisle to retake his old command. He would carry orders signed by Lee to assure that Ewell stepped aside. On the morning of July 1st Jackson would then hurry south with his three divisions to deliver the deathblow that Old Baldy let slip away.

Mauer had an easy shot if Jackson appeared. With his Spencer rifle he could put the bullet in the center of Stonewall's head. Mauer would also have a decent chance of getting away in this near pitch black.

The rain started again. Soldiers cursed. Yes, this was miserable weather in which to be outside. He wondered how Chloe was holding up in it.

Rain, of course, would be the least of her problems now. Mauer was terribly aware he could be dooming her if he took the shot before dawn. If Mauer were killed trying to get away, Chloe could die in her sleep. Rapid shrinking might or might not awaken her.

But if he had the shot, he had to take it. That was an absolute.

Saturday, June 27

Through the parlor window she saw the carriage approach. On the parade ground the swarm of North Carolina soldiers continued to pitch their tents.

She called to Sandie Pendleton, who had come directly to the post commandant's quarters.

"He's here, Major. We had better step outside."

The young man, though brave and battle tested, paled. She didn't blame him. Her own heart pounded.

Pendleton held the front door open for her. They stepped onto the veranda just as General Ewell pulled up in the big black carriage. Mounted beside him were Campbell Brown, the Second Corps adjutant, Hunter McGuire, corps medical director, and Reverend Lacy, chief chaplain.

McGuire smiled at her.

"What's this, Sandie?" asked Ewell. His voice whistled as he spoke, and eyes fairly popped from their sockets as he scanned her. "I thought everyone had cleared out."

McGuire was quickly off his horse to help Ewell out of the carriage. The doctor handed him a crutch.

"They have, sir," said Pendleton. "I mean all the Yankees. This lady is a Southerner."

Naylor summoned her voice. She put plenty of Kentucky into it.

"Welcome back to Carlisle Barracks, General. I have been waiting for you."

Ewell snorted. "Waiting? You can't possibly have been waiting. I—" He looked sternly at Pendleton. "Do you know this woman?"

"Very well, sir."

"I too, General," said McGuire.

Ewell turned his head back and forth between the two men. He scowled with irritation.

"Well, who is she?"

"Amanda Wallis, sir."

Naylor awarded Ewell her winningest smile. "Please come inside, General. We will explain everything."

"Ma'am, I don't need your leave to enter where I will make my headquarters."

"I certainly was not suggesting that. Please come in."

"What you can be certain is that you will not remain here. Sandie, escort her into town."

This wasn't going well. Perhaps she should have waited until they had Ewell inside. Old Baldy was as prickly as advertised.

Doctor McGuire smiled at the general as broadly as had Naylor.

"Sir, I promise you will be pleased. Mrs. Wallis has prepared something very special for you."

Ewell's irritation changed to puzzlement. Then he snorted again.

"Very well."

McGuire helped Ewell up the steps to the veranda. Pendleton held the door open for Naylor, then the General. Brown and Lacy filed behind. Shortly everyone was in the empty parlor.

"Well?" barked Ewell. He pulled off his slouch hat to reveal his ample and barren pate.

Naylor pointed toward closed double doors across the hall. "Gentlemen, Sandie and Hunter already know what is in the library. But first, I must prepare you. You will shortly face the greatest shock of your lives."

Ewell thumped his crutch on the carpeted floor. "Enough of this nonsense. Sandie, you best tell me quick what is going on."

Pendleton had grown paler. "You won't believe your eyes, sir. But it is true."

"What is true?"

"General, you are about to see a miracle," said McGuire. "I was there in May when it occurred."

Naylor moved to the double doors. "What you are about to witness, gentlemen, must not be revealed. Until the first of July."

"Goddammit," cried Ewell, "open those doors. Get this tomfoolery over with." His piping voice hit a very high note.

Naylor took a deep breath, then parted the doors. Inside stood two men in civilian clothes. One was Aaron. The other was Thomas, his empty left coat sleeve quite visible. Both men smiled tightly.

Ewell, Lacy and Brown first looked at the men without recognition.

"This is your pleasantry?" thundered Ewell. "Who are these men?"

Then Campbell Brown gasped. McGuire gripped him as the adjutant general staggered back.

The reverend was next. He dropped to his knees, praising God.

Ewell, however, did not have a clue. He regarded his two stricken staff officers with exasperation. He again demanded the identity of the two men.

Thomas at last spoke. "It is I, General Ewell. Returning to duty after a two month absence."

Still Ewell did not understand. Or maybe did not want to understand.

"Who in the devil are you?"

Pendleton stepped close to Ewell, probably to make sure the general did not collapse when realization at last struck.

"It's General Jackson, sir. He never died."

Ewell laughed. "The hell you say."

"It's him, sir."

"It is not!"

Pendleton pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Sir, this is an order from General Lee. Putting General Jackson back in command of Second Corps. You are appointed his deputy. From this moment forward you are to follow his orders without question."

Ewell refused to take the offered paper.

Thomas moved toward Ewell. "General, you will read General Lee's order and acknowledge it. And, let me say, I am glad to see you have recovered from the terrible blow you suffered at Groveton. Your courage that day was commendable."

Ewell stared open mouthed as Thomas approached. Naylor thought his bulging eyes actually would fly out. Then his good leg buckled as his brain accepted. Pendleton kept Ewell upright.

Thomas now stood before and over the shorter Ewell. Thomas extended his right hand.

"It cannot be," whispered Ewell as he feebly shook the hand.

"I live, General. You may thank this lady and gentleman. I was a day from death, and they saved me."

"I was there," said McGuire. "I saw it all."

"I need to sit," said Ewell.

"Of course," said Thomas. "General Ewell, Colonel Brown, let us go into the library. We have much to discuss. Sandie, make sure no one else enters these quarters."

"Yes, sir." Pendleton's face was aglow with joy.

Thomas closed the library doors behind them. An equally delighted Doctor McGuire shook Aaron's hand, then took both of Naylor's in his own.

"It is all as you said, Amanda. Praise God."

"'From whom all blessings flow'," croaked Reverend Lacy. Lacy had been personal chaplain for Thomas. Naylor had considered letting this devoted and thoroughly reliable man in on the great ruse, but she had stuck with need to know.

The reverend's eyes brimmed with happy tears.

"This truly is a miracle," said Lacy.

"I would have to agree. Though I saw Amanda treat him with my own eyes."

"Victory is surely ours now," said Lacy.

Naylor fervently hoped so. This was the last big hurdle, getting Thomas reunited with his command. Thousands of Confederate troops would guard Thomas' well being from here. And the Yankees—she smiled at her now habitual use of the term—appeared to have no clue of his existence.

Ewell and his staff would still have to keep the presence of Thomas secret until around four p.m. on the first. She had disguise ready, a paste on walrus mustache, a wooden arm in a cast and sling, a sergeant's uniform, and a bandage around a fake throat wound to excuse him from speaking. Thomas would ride to Gettysburg in one of the staff supply wagons.

"Let's get some fresh air," said McGuire.

The group went onto the veranda. The brigades from Rodes' division continued to settle on the broad parade ground. Naylor could also see soldiers on the verandas and balconies of the barracks that flanked the parade ground.

A major general and two brigadiers walked toward the commandant's quarters. The major general was probably Rodes. He looked like someone not to fool with—as did most everyone associated with the Army of Northern Virginia.

Pendleton intercepted them. He spoke lowly. Naylor could catch enough to hear that General Ewell was momentarily indisposed. His indigestion. The generals nodded knowingly. Nobody wanted to consult with the corps commander when he was in a foul mood. Pendleton said Ewell would see them later.

The tension at last seeped out of Naylor. She had accomplished her mission. At least as much that she could control. The rest was up to the two greatest military minds of the age. She had set the table for them, now they must clear it.

She and Aaron would leave for Transit One on Monday. Thomas would provide a cavalry escort all the way up the Cumberland Valley to the drop point at Hagerstown. The distance was fifty-three miles, or two day's travel. Before the sun set on Wednesday—the First of July—they should stand atop Catoctin Mountain.

Naylor knew her heart would be in her throat as they stepped into the transit. For what lay in 1882 would quickly tell whether they won or lost.

Monday, June 29

Naylor was in the library when shots rang in rapid succession. Shouts followed. Both noises originated near the quarters.

It was one in the morning. She had not been able to sleep and had slipped from bed down to the library. She had been reading Flaubert by candelabra when the gunshots started.

Immediately she heard footfalls on the floor above. She tightened her robe and hurried to the library doors. The two soldiers at the stairway—instructed not to leave their post unless ordered by General Ewell—thankfully remained in position. They had rifles at the ready. A wall oil lamp cast their wavering shadows against the stairway.

"Stay where you are," she reminded them anyway.

They sneered. The bearded teenagers did not like a woman telling them what to do. Too bad. She would have them in ball and chain if they took a step away from the stairs.

"Mrs. Wallis, what has happened?"

Her eyes jerked to the top of the stairs. Sandie Pendleton stood shoeless in trousers and undershirt. Campbell Brown immediately joined him. Then McGuire and Lacy appeared. All were armed except for the reverend.

Good, they were staying upstairs as directed. She was also glad to see Aaron had remained at his post in Thomas' room. Aaron would keep the lamp out and Thomas away from the windows.

Then Richard Ewell, in nightshirt and missing his wood leg, thumped in on crutches from the parlor. He carried an enormous horse pistol. Ewell shrilly demanded to know what the hell was going on.

"Heard shots, sir," said one of the soldiers.

"Goddammit, I know there were shots. Why were there shots?"

"Can't say, General. The lady won't let us look."

Ewell now scowled at Naylor. Before he could hurl surliness her way, the front door opened. The soldiers leveled their rifles.

"Holy Jesus, it's me," said another soldier. He held his rifle in one hand. "Don't go blowing my head off, Louis."

"You're supposed to knock and be granted entry, Moss."

"Enough!" shouted Ewell. "What the devil was that shooting about?"

The entering soldier saluted the bald man in drawers. "It was a nig, sir. He was prowling."

"You kill him?"

"No, sir. He got away."

"Anybody hurt?"

"Nig was trying to strangle Private Welch. Think he's all right."

"Where'd this take place?"

"Right out back. Someone spotted him choking Welch, then he ran. That was the firing. Sorry we missed, sir."

Another soldier appeared at the front doorway. He held something in his hand. He did a double take at Ewell, saluted, then entered.

"What you got there, Rufe?" asked Louis.

"Welch grabbed it off the nigger. Stocking cap, I guess."

Ewell thrust out his arm. "Give it to me!"

"Sure, General." He handed over the black object.

It was a navy type watch cap. Naylor's breath froze. As did her whole body. She fought to stay upright.

"What you want us to do, General? Send out search parties?"

"No, boys. You'll never find him in the dark."

Moss snorted a laugh. "Sure 'nough, General. Can't find a darkie in the dark."

"Musta been looking for somethin' loose," said Louis.

"That's what my maw always said, they's born to steal."

Naylor had regained her tongue.

"You say it was a Negro. Can you be sure? It is pretty dark around back."

"There's some moonlight. And ma'am, I know a nigger when I see one."

"You will use the word Negro in my presence. How was he dressed?"

"In clothes, ma'am. How'd you expect?"

The other privates snickered. Even Ewell smiled.

Her temper stirred, but she kept her voice calm. "Tell me exactly what he wore, private."

The soldier looked to Ewell. Ewell nodded.

"He—the clothes were real dark. Smart thing to do, I reckon, for night stealing."

"So he was completely in black."

"Looked like it...ma'am."

Naylor turned to Ewell. "General, please let me inspect the cap."

She fingered the knitted black cloth. It did not feel like wool. She turned the cap inside out and saw a trace of white cloth at the center. Certainly the remnant of a label. Knives pierced her abdomen.

"General Ewell, have men scour the camp and beyond for the intruder. I fear he is a Union agent."

Ewell looked dubious.

She whispered in his ear. "This man has come to kill General Jackson. Do as I ask, and quickly, for he can ruin everything."

The general pursed his lips. He too was finding it hard to take direction from a woman. But take them he must, since Thomas had told Ewell and the staff to act on her words as if they were his own.

The voice of Old Baldy again shrilled. "Pendleton! See to the lady's...suggestion."

"Yes, sir." Sandie flew down the stairs. Naylor caught him before he could get outside.

"Also double—no, triple—the guard around these quarters. He may come back for another try."

"Yes, ma'am."

Sandie would have no trouble following her orders. He had witnessed her pull Thomas back from the abyss. He tore outside.

Naylor called to McGuire. "Hunter, please send down my husband. And make sure our baggage stays safe."

McGuire nodded knowingly before turning away.

Price watched as Allison paced before him in the library. Beyond the closed doors the piping voice of Ewell still griped and swore, and his crutches still banged around the foyer. Old Chrome Dome was worth the price of admission on his own.

But they had other problems.

He fingered the watch cap again. It felt like synthetic fiber, which they sure as hell didn't have in 1863. No doubt about it, the "prowler" had been an agent sent through Transit One.

"We better hope they catch this guy," he said.

"They won't, Aaron."

He supposed the soldier boys wouldn't. The agent would be proficient in escape and evasion. Price did not think the man would try again tonight, as Allison feared. He would regroup. Regroup with his partner.

"He has to be accompanied. If he came through soon after we did."

"Yes." Allison bit off the word.

Price had always been able to think clearly in crisis, even when bullets were flying at him. This time it was different. Right now he was fighting borderline panic.

That agent had somehow found them, then come within an ace of getting in the commandant's quarters. Two guards had been found killed, and that private Welch was on his way down. It was bad luck for the agent that another soldier came back to take a leak.

"I'd like to think me and you were the target," said Price. "Not Jackson. I'd like to think the agent and partner didn't remotely suspect he was alive."

Allison groaned. "If only."

"Yeah."

There was no other reason to be in Carlisle now, the most logical place for Jackson to reassume command. The agents sure weren't after Ewell. Ewell had about handed victory to the Union by his dithering that first evening at Gettysburg.

"What'll we do, Aaron?"

Before April of this year Allison would have never asked him that. In office she was the very model of a self-confident leader. Since April she had not lost any of her brilliance, but she solicited him more and more him for operational advice. He wished she had in the matter of Susannah and Peggy.

"Well, good news is they didn't get Thomas. Bad news is we still have to get him to Gettysburg."

"One agent is probably an expert sniper, too."

"Stands to reason."

"Where would they find two agents emotionally enough attached? They'd have to be, to last more than a couple weeks here."

Price shrugged. "Might be married agents. They must have some. Or even an agent and his civilian wife." Of course, it could be two gay agents who were lovers. What was for sure, they had found a suitable pair.

Allison finally sat down. She put her elbows on the desk and her head in her hands.

Then she looked up at him. The circles under her eyes were darker than ever. It had been a tough bunch of days for her since that last night at the farm.

"We can't lose him now, Aaron."

"We won't." But they almost had.

"Maybe we should move Thomas now. While that agent's still on the run."

"In the dark wouldn't be such a good idea."

"Waiting gives them time to plan another attempt."

"Let's wait until morning. And use a decoy. We take a fake Jackson with us."

Price and Allison had planned to leave mid morning anyway. They were to travel the Cumberland Valley under cavalry escort all the way to Hagerstown. From there the two of them were to proceed alone. They should reach Transit One by noon of July 1st.

"I don't know," she said.

"The opposition would have to follow if it looks like Jackson is with us."

"Would they swallow that bait? Isn't that what they'd expect us to do?"

Price clasped his hands. "You have a point."

Allison sat up straight. "Oh, God."

"What is it?"

"Aaron...do you think they sent Jack Mauer after us?"

"Huh?"

"He's who I would send. He's the best they're got."

"Jack's bound for supermax. Where he can commiserate with his equally wacked out buddy, Tony Meda."

Both had gone far off the reservation, brutally killing left and right. No way any president—even a dull knife like Hightower—would use them for such a critical mission.

"They'd be desperate."

"Not that desperate. There are plenty of experienced people they could send through."

"What if Hightower gave Jack and Meda blanket pardons? They were great friends, comrades in arms. It doesn't have to be romantic love that sustains people once through the transit."

That would be a nightmare, facing those two. He fought off a shudder.

Price frowned. "It's not them, but say it is. We just plan for that worst case. The problem is the same. We have to get Jackson to Gettysburg alive."

She looked despairingly at him. "We're so close."

"We've overcome everything so far."

Allison sighed, then stood.

"Well, let's go consult Thomas. He's the master strategist."

"If we can wake him," said Price.

July 1: 5:15 a.m.

Bryant almost wept with relief as dawn arrived. She at last released her grip on the gun. She needed sleep badly, but sleep could wait. First she needed some food. As her nerves uncoiled, the torment of hunger was rapidly replacing that of fear.

She eyed the black hole in the tawny canvas. Sometime during the endless night she had fired the LeMat revolver at that spot in the tent wall. The spot where the snout of a growling wolf pressed the canvas. Where the wolf and his companions had tried to get at the human meat inside.

The wolves had prowled the campsite the previous night, but not pressed the matter. Perhaps they had settled for the garbage they dug up. Jack had said she must bury cans and scraps at least three feet deep. But her hands were blistered from previous shoveling and her arms were sore. She settled for a foot.

She vaguely remembered her ears ringing after she fired. Despite her terror, she had been able to hold the gun level. And not jerk the trigger, just as Jack instructed. Two hands on the grip kept the recoil from bringing the hammer into her nose. In the dark she could smell but not see the gun smoke.

The roar of the shot was followed by a yelp. Horrible cries of pain followed. The cries thankfully grew fainter as the wounded wolf fled, along with his pack. She wondered how far they had retreated.

She willed herself to untie the front tent flap. Chilly air rushed in. She took hold of the LeMat, then peeked outside. Above the crater like depression she saw only brush and woods. She heard only birds.

Pee she must, but first things first. She opened a can of pork and beans, then greedily spooned in the pasty contents. She didn't care if it was cold. She washed breakfast down with tepid tea from a canteen. She took a final swig, churned the tea between mouth and cheeks, then spit outside.

With revolver at side she stepped from the tent. She immediately saw blood on the ground near the tent wall. She followed the trail to the rim of the depression before deciding that was far enough. She hoped the wolf had died badly, to serve as deterrent to his buddies. Let the word go out near and far—don't mess with Chloe Bryant.

She had never liked guns, but she adored this one. It was a perfect weapon for her. Jack had chosen well. The LeMat weighed a bit less than the Colt, and it packed a lot more punch. Nine bullets for the top barrel, plus twelve gauge buckshot for the bigger barrel underneath.

Jack had left her a real shotgun, a rifle and a Navy Colt as backup. Plus two knives. She was surprised he had not included a cannon. The LeMat alone was just fine. It was designed for up close defense and here in these dense woods the LeMat was made for order.

She left the depression to go pee. A bowel movement she hoped to avoid. She would never complain about outhouses again. They certainly beat squatting in the woods, grabbing a bush for balance, praying to not lose that balance, then having to bury the mess. But her main staple of pork and beans made number twos inevitable.

After peeing she took a quick walk around the perimeter. She again came across blood, which trailed toward the western slope of the mountain. She didn't see a carcass. Good. Let the bastard and his bunch get well away from here.

She looked back toward the depression that housed Transit One. From where she stood, thirty yards out, the depression and the tent were completely out of view. Any people—of which she had seen none—would have to stumble on her to find her. Wolves, of course, didn't need to stumble.

It was gloomy in these mountain top woods. Even when the sun shone the shadows kept this area dim. Since arriving the days had been mostly cloudy with too many periods of rain. And it didn't get that warm up here, even if summer. Most of the time she had to wear the frock coat.

But enough complaining. The morning dawning without her a midget meant Jack was still alive. That was the only thing that really mattered. Out of all of this, only that. As long as he came back she didn't give a damn who won at Gettysburg.

Where was he now? Had he already killed Jackson, and was racing here? Would he later today scramble up the slope and bound into view? Or was he in the hands of vengeful Confederates after a failed attempt on Jackson? Or had he not found Jackson, and was readying for a suicide mission at Gettysburg?

God, she wished she had pressed the matter their last night together. Made him take her; she knew he wanted to. Just firm pushing on her part and he would have yielded. The electricity between them that night had begged for release.

She prayed that she would again get the chance to press. She vowed they would go all the way.

A tree with five carved lines in its smooth bark stood near the rim. Spaces between the lines were progressively larger. The gap between the bottom two was just over an inch.

With queasy stomach she pulled a knife from inside the frock coat. She stood with back against the tree, lifted the knife to the top of her head, then sliced the trunk.

She had to force herself to turn around. When she did she saw the gap had grown. Not much, but the difference was still over an inch. She had to be under five feet now.

Jack was probably still several inches over it. But how much time more did they really have? A week? A week would be just past two months since they arrived.

She wished she could take consolation that Naylor and Price were doing worse. But were they, even if they arrived three days earlier? They had been a committed couple well before this began. That solid commitment would surely buy them more time than she and Jack would get.

Jack cared for her, yes, but not the absolute way he did Kim. Or Teri. Jack and Teri would have set a record for longevity here.

She heard drops of rain hit the overhead leaves. She cursed. She didn't want to go back into that tent so soon. In there she felt even more isolated than outside.

The pelting picked up. She groaned and went inside the tent. She kneeled facing the entrance. She opened a tin of crackers and began chewing. They were about as appealing as the chilly pork and beans.

A squirrel scampered into the depression. It paused to look at her. Its nose sniffed the air, probably homing on the crackers she ate. She tossed the squirrel a piece. The squirrel cautiously approached the morsel.

The little furry creature vanished.

She flinched. Then she realized the squirrel had edged into Transit One.

July 1: 9:40 a.m.

From the Army of the Potomac telegrams had arrived only intermittently. Since dawn they had slowed to a trickle. In the cipher room Lincoln still devoured each one.

He was very tired. The rapid invasion of the past week, which flung Confederate troops across middle Pennsylvania, had battered his nerves. So did the dreams. Both combined to heighten his customary fatigue to the point of torture.

Over the past week communication had been difficult. That demon Stuart had destroyed miles of telegraph line north of Washington. The Signal Corps worked feverishly to get messages through, but the Army and the War Department were out of communication hours at a time. When hours were very precious.

The last dispatch indicated General Meade was concentrating his forces. If Meade moved quickly enough, he could catch the rebels before Lee could gather in his widely separated units. Perhaps at long last they could destroy this army that should have been destroyed in May.

The Army of Northern Virginia had more lives than a cat. Not only at Chancellorsville should the Union have vanquished Lee. Seven Days, Second Bull Run, Antietam, Fredericksburg, they all could have been decisive Union victories with proper leadership. The bloody draw at Antietam especially rankled, when McClellan had a prostrate foe at his mercy.

Lincoln prayed Meade was up to the job. It defied belief that after two years of war only one Union commander produced real victory. Thank God for Sam Grant.

Perhaps he should have replaced Hooker with Grant. The impending victory at Vicksburg had been certain since early June. Grant could have arrived in Virginia before middle of the month, and had some time to become familiar with new subordinates and new troops.

But learning the lay of the land in the East, and learning Lee, would have taken actual campaigning. Lee would have pounced on any mistake born of unfamiliarity. Perhaps that was why he had left Grant where he was—for the time being.

Meade had to give the Union at least a draw. In the coming battle, on Northern soil, Lincoln would take the same result as Antietam: no defeat and a quick return by Lee to Virginia. As after Antietam, the public would accept repelling invasion as victory. Joined to the real victory at Vicksburg, Northern morale would revive.

Yet the harvest of death would continue. He had cast aside any illusion of a quick peace; the Confederacy would certainly still fight hard even after failing at Vicksburg and in Pennsylvania. The war would go on at least one more year. The number of dead and maimed could easily double before the slaughter ended.

He wanted so to sleep. He knew he should. But fear of the dream kept his eyes open.

Three nights running the horrible dream had jerked him awake. Three nights he had seen the flag of the United States blown from the hands of a retreating soldier. The shell burst quartered the flag. Advancing rebels picked up the pieces and wildly celebrated.

It was only a dream, he told himself. Brought on by the terrible tension of Lee's great invasion. The dream would vanish once Meade repelled the rebels.

Lincoln knew Lee would be thwarted. That was Edwin's implicit promise. Edwin had remained silent. Which meant all would be right.

Edwin and Lily, how he yearned to see them again. The silence meant he would not.

July 1: 1:25 p.m.

Price couldn't figure this woman out. He tried to keep exasperation from his voice.

"We should force the issue now, Allison."

"Let's wait for Jack."

They kept their voices near a whisper. They were only fifty yards from the woman that Allison had identified as Chloe Bryant. Thankfully they had spotted her before she spotted them.

They lay on their bellies on the damp forest floor. The leaves rustling overhead hid the late afternoon sky, but on their way up Catoctin Mountain knots of gray clouds indicated more rain. But Allison promised the sky would clear.

It had better.

Bryant was walking the perimeter of the crater that held Transit One. Her eyes continually probed the forest. She held a pistol, and a shotgun was slung over her shoulder.

"You know we should deal with her. Now."

"We're not going to kill her, Aaron."

Price almost snapped, why not, when you were so hot to do in Susannah, maybe Peggy too? They had been a lot less dangerous.

"At least force her through the transit. That'll take out Jack."

Price now pretty much accepted that they faced Jack. More and more it made sense; the government had no one in the arsenal more resourceful and determined than Butchering Mauer. Jack got the job done.

Allison said Jack and Bryant had worked many years together at ATU. Maybe they had been lovers some or much of that time. Whatever the length of the relationship, it must have been a strong one for the two to last this long in 1863.

"We don't know that," said Allison. "It's never been tried."

Of course not. But it was a good assumption that once Bryant exited 1863, that Jack would shrink to nothing.

"There's no guarantee that Jack took any of our feints," said Price. "He could be lining up a shot on Thomas right now."

Mauer certainly had not fallen for the first feint. Every mile on their journey to Chambersburg they waited for an attempt on Major Deaver, the brave decoy who accompanied them in the coach. But the shot never came.

"The odds are with us," said Allison. "Especially with his partner out of play up here."

"He still could have figured it all out. You know his track record. He could see to the bottom." They had piled on the deception. But would it be enough?

"If he did, then Thomas is already dead."

That kicked him in the stomach.

Man, no matter how many twists they put in, this was basically a roll of the dice. They would win, or Jack would.

"Aaron, stop thinking about it. We've done all we can. It lies in the hands of Thomas now."

"You mean hand."

"I mean hand. The hand that will crush the Army of the Potomac."

"I still say we increase the odds by forcing Bryant through."

"You sure we can get the drop on her? If we don't, there's going to be a gun battle. We can end up the ones getting shot."

"I can sneak up on her."

"And not break a twig on the way?"

He said nothing, remembering the twig that had saved everything that Sunday at the farm.

"We also have to consider this, Aaron. What if we get into a standoff with Chloe? Jack will eventually be along. You want to shoot it out with him in these woods?"

He grimaced. "Not particularly."

"They wouldn't even have to engage us. Just wait us out. We've been here longer. We'll be the first to shrink to nothing."

He wasn't sure about that, and Allison couldn't be either. Price would bet on the strength of their love over that of Jack and Bryant.

"So we just let them go through?"

"Of course. We want them out of here quickly as possible. It doesn't matter if we go second. We still beat them into in 1882."

Yeah. But that'd just be delaying the inevitable confrontation.

"It's your call, Allison."

"We back off. Wait for Jack. Watch them go through. Then we can safely follow."

Price reluctantly nodded.

He loved this woman, always would, but he wondered if he would ever really know her. He had thought he had known her. But that last night at the farm muddled everything.

She had acted agitated all that day. He put it down to anxiety about getting Jackson safely to Carlisle Barracks. And, of course, worry for the welfare of Susannah and Peggy—already incarcerated three days in the root cellar.

It was not until late afternoon that he began to suspect otherwise. He was in their bedroom packing up, for their departure at dawn on the morrow. Out the window he caught a glimpse of Allison near the root cellar. He thought she was about to step down to the doors to give some words of comfort to Susannah and Peggy.

But Allison went past the cellar to the cider press shed. She stepped in. Price was mildly puzzled, wondering why she would go there. Maybe she had left some item inside.

He didn't give it more thought until he considered the key to the cellar padlock. Earlier that day they had buried it in the shed. Price immediately got a funny feeling. Throughout his Secret Service career he'd always had a good nose for trouble, and his nose twitched now.

He tried to dismiss the unease. Didn't mean a thing Allison went into the shed. And why would she want the key anyway? She sure wasn't going to let the pair out.

But as evening wore on, he knew. Allison had brought herself to the brink of having Jack Mauer killed. To secure world peace she would condone the murder of one man. Now, in a similar situation, she would murder a woman...and, incredibly, a child.

Price had recoiled from the revelation. It could not be true. He was jumping to the vilest—and most disloyal—of conclusions.

Allison was one of the strongest, most capable people he had ever known. She was brave. She had great integrity. Before her fall she had inspired the American people even more so than David Falmer, still his favorite president.

Yes, she could call to the better angels—but did one call to her? At her center, what exactly ruled? Good and evil appeared to fight real battle there.

He said nothing through the evening or when they turned in. He feigned sleep, hoping Allison was not also feigning. He waited and waited. The minutes torturously passed, and he had almost yielded to sleep when he heard her easing from bed.

That was one of the worst moments of his life. He loved Allison, he would always love her, but he was appalled. How, how could she? Sue and Peggy, how could she?

"You can't," he said into the darkness.

Allison sharply gasped.

"I took the bullets out of your pistol. In case I did doze off while you went to the cellar."

She now breathed as if she were an asthmatic.

"What were you thinking?" asked Price. "It would be an atrocity."

Allison found her voice. It was strangled. "I wasn't going to shoot Peggy. Just Susannah, I swear it."

He wanted to believe her. But even so, that would have left a horribly traumatized child locked up with her mother's corpse. Which would begin to rot in a couple days.

"Get back in bed, Allison. We'll need our rest."

Which was a joke. Neither of them would now sleep much this night.

She sat on the edge of the bed.

"You must hate me, Aaron."

"No. Never. If it were absolutely, utterly necessary to eliminate them, I would say yes. But the small chance someone will come for them before July 1st does not justify such action."

"Is it that small?"

"Maybe one in a fifty. We don't kill two innocents for that."

"Susannah's not so innocent. Her meddling brought this on."

"I know. But falling in love isn't a crime."

"Goddamn her."

"Goddamn us if we did it."

She had nodded, then crawled back into bed.

In the days afterward Price had second-guessed himself. One hundred million lives, including that of his father, were on the line. Letting Susannah and Peggy live did jeopardize their survival. Cold practicality said don't take the chance.

But cold practicality was just another way of ends justifying the means. Only in the direst situation would he even consider killing two helpless females, and he and Allison weren't there yet. He prayed they never arrived at that station.

Allison had been so worried Price would withdraw his love. That was never an option. Long ago he learned the hard way that he could not will himself into or out of loving a woman. Love clicked or didn't. With Allison it had clicked, like the jaws of a trap. She had him. He loved all of her, including the cold practicality.

Allison could not be who she was without the willingness to act harshly. She of course had never murdered anyone during her rise to the presidency, but a number of political corpses trailed her wake. People did not get a chance to cross her twice.

David Falmer had once told Price that all good leaders must possess some ruthlessness. Governing often required the gloves to come off. Falmer said punches had to be thrown precisely, and only as a last resort. But a leader unwilling to bloody best not take the oath of office.

Chloe Bryant descended into the crater and slipped from view. Now was the perfect time to sneak up to the rim. His eyes asked permission.

Allison's said no.

That was why he would never figure her out. Now, when ruthlessness was sanctioned, she refrained. Kill Susannah and Peggy, spare Jack and Bryant, who were vastly more a threat.

Price sighed. He prayed Allison knew what she was doing.

July 1: 3:55 p.m.

From the cupola of the Lutheran Seminary they could see victory forming. Directly before them the divisions of Heth and Pender pressed the attack against the Federal I Corps. To the north Rodes was engaging the XI Corps. And from the northeast Early was coming up quickly beside Rodes.

Through his field glasses Armistead Long watched enthralled. The Yankees had certainly blundered. They were very foolish to deploy the Eleventh in the open fields north of town. Early would easily take them in the flank.

In a great arc west and north of town, the terrific din of battle rent and tore the smoke filled air. Rifles rattled without pause. The rebel yell swelled and ebbed. Salvos of cannon fire thundered. Very occasionally an individual voice was heard, shouting orders or screaming pain.

The screams reminded Long he was not viewing a magnificent play.

The cupola also provided vantage to see men snap backward as Minié balls struck. Or watch them, or parts of them, hurtle into the air as shells exploded. Or observe whole rows of them disappear as canister scythed—which happened to some North Carolina boys an hour ago.

Uneasily did Long remember General Lee's admonition at Fredericksburg: "It is well war is so terrible; otherwise we should grow too fond of it".

General Lee stood feet from him. The General however did not appear to study the battle; his field glasses were trained on the northern horizon. He must be on watch for Johnson. With Johnson's men he could completely rout the Federals.

It had gone as General Lee predicted back in May. To counter him the Yankees were rushing their forces piecemeal to this crossroads town. Now in their panicked haste they would lose two corps this afternoon, and maybe some more over the next days. They would certainly have to retreat towards Washington City.

This would be a great day for the South, perhaps the greatest of the war. If only Stonewall could have lived to see it. Of this triumph he was co-author.

"Ah ha!" Lee exclaimed.

Long and Colonel Taylor turned to see their commander beaming.

Long smiled uncertainly. "Sir?"

"Colonels, come with me."

The General fairly flew down the spiral staircase. Long had never seen him this agile. He swore Lee was chortling during the descent. Long and Taylor traded puzzled looks.

On the ground floor of the seminary the battle was no longer theater. Wounded men lay everywhere. Surgeons plied their trade in side rooms, where severed limbs were accumulating.

Outside the battle turned even more real. Freshly wounded men were being carried or staggered on their own toward the seminary. Dead men lay scattered among trees of the adjacent orchard. An artillery battery across the pike unleashed a deafening roar. Couriers galloped, and fresh troops double quicked toward the front. Drifting gun smoke stung the eyes and obscured vision.

General Lee still looked to the north. Beneath his field glasses the broad smile persisted.

"He's coming," said Lee.

"Who, sir?" asked Taylor.

Long strained through his own field glasses. He saw some movement, a hansom carriage and mounted men, on a ridge a half mile away. Then the group was lost in trees.

It had to be Ewell and his staff. Yes, General Lee should be glad to see them. But why this near euphoria? Perhaps it was just the excitement of anticipated victory.

"You will see, Colonel Taylor, you see will see." The General laughed. "You will not believe your eyes, that I promise."

Again Long and Taylor exchanged puzzlement.

The hansom and mounted men reappeared. Now they were a quarter mile away. Lee's hand rapped against his thigh.

"Oh how God blesses us!" Lee cried. "Our mighty servant returns."

Now Long became concerned. He had never seen the General react this emotionally during a battle. Even in the worst crisis Lee remained extraordinarily calm. What had gotten into the man?

Could Ewell be bringing word of Jeb Stuart? For a week the whereabouts of Stuart and his three cavalry brigades remained unknown. Stuart back in contact would indeed give Lee reason for euphoria.

Perhaps Jeb was even in the company of Ewell, and his much needed cavalry nearby. The thought—the fervent hope—caused Long's heart to thump.

A courier leaped from his lathered horse and rushed up to salute the General. It was a captain from Early's staff. He said Early was in position.

"Attack immediately," said Lee. "But tell him to stop at the southern edge of the town. No pursuit into the hills beyond. Make certain General Early absolutely understands that."

"Yes, sir!" Another vigorous salute and the captain fled. Clods of dirt from his horse sprayed them. Lee chuckled.

Long was not sure he heard Lee correctly. Don't seize the heights south of town? They were the much prized "lovely ground", the ideal defensive terrain. Those hills must be taken to completely rout the Federals.

Now the hansom was within two hundred yards. Through the glasses Long clearly saw Ewell sitting inside. Someone in civilian clothes sat beside him. Was that Reverend Lacy? Hard to tell, a straw hat was low on his forehead.

Long then scanned the mounted officers. He recognized Brown, Pendleton, Trimble. But there was no sign of the general with the plumed hat. No Stuart.

So what was Lee's hullabaloo about?

Lee was now beside himself. "Colonels, prepare yourself for the greatest joy of your lives."

The hooded carriage drawn by a big roan and driven by a Negro perched at the rear halted a score yards away.

July 1: 4:15 p.m.

Through telescopic sight Mauer watched the hansom draw close to the seminary. He shifted to bring into view the waiting delegation, which included Lee.

Mauer had debated shooting Lee after he downed Jackson. He ached to. How wonderful to send a bullet into that traitorous gray head.

But his death would put Longstreet in charge. Longstreet would not make Lee's go for broke attacks of tomorrow and the day after. Longstreet would turn the tables on the Union army, make them assault fortified positions. "Noble" Lee must live.

Jackson would die. Mauer had brought down men from distances twice as far. In those cases he had possessed better rifles, but today this one would more than suffice. This Spencer repeater shot true and he had sighted it carefully. At five hundred yards the rifle would put a bullet inside a three-inch circle.

He would give himself leeway by going for the torsos instead of the heads of the two men he would shoot. The repeater provided additional leeway. If he hit a shoulder instead of a lung, he could quickly put a second round where the first should have gone. If needed, five more shots remained to finish the job.

But one round each should do it. These .52 caliber slugs would inflict mortal tissue damage. Whichever man was Jackson—though Mauer had a good idea—he would not come back from this shooting.

Mauer wondered if Naylor thought she had really outmaneuvered him. He supposed she was in an impossible situation. Jackson had to get to Gettysburg. A dozen decoys sent in a dozen directions would not matter; Stonewall must show up here by the afternoon of July First.

It was so simple, at least in hindsight. Mauer should have stayed put in Gettysburg. Hunting Jackson elsewhere had been a waste, and had almost gotten him killed at Carlisle Barracks. He should have selected this sniper spot weeks ago, and done target practice from here.

Once he took the shots, he would abandon the Spencer. Down the wooded hill waited a rested horse. On which he would speed over the trail that would take him through South Mountain. On the other side he would change horses, then try to make it to Catoctin Mountain by midday tomorrow.

He hoped Chloe was holding out okay. She must be desperate with worry. But that she still shrank modestly would tell her he was alive.

It would be so great to see her again, especially with mission accomplished. Then they would step back through the looking glass.

He had been worried that Naylor and Price would beat him to Transit One. If that happened Chloe was to shoot Price first, and without hesitation. Then gun down Naylor. She promised she would.

But Mauer bet the two would turn left at Chambersburg and head towards Gettysburg. Naylor especially would not be able to resist learning how the battle turned out. She would have a rude shock coming.

The hansom had rolled to a stop. Mauer watched Pendleton help Ewell out. The other man in the carriage followed. The man, wearing a wide straw hat and gray walrus mustache and goatee, had two arms. As he stepped down the left arm hung loosely.

Good try, Allison. But not good enough. Though to be absolutely sure, Mauer would drop this gentleman anyway.

He would take no pleasure in killing him. The man was a valiant volunteer, just like the decoy who had headed into the Cumberland Valley Monday with Naylor and Price. This man had to know what was coming.

Mauer had hated killing those two soldiers at the Barracks. They were fellow Americans, doing their duty as they saw it, even if they fought for a bad cause. They were just kids, too.

Try as he might, neither could he summon enmity for Stonewall Jackson. Unlike Lee, Jackson was not under oath to defend the United States when hostilities started. Mauer would kill Jackson only out of necessity.

Mauer cocked the hammer.

The man with the hat pulled low stood still as Ewell saluted an obviously ecstatic Lee. The man's back was now directly to Mauer. Mauer squeezed the trigger.

Providently cannon fire erupted as the Spencer recoiled. The artillery would mask his shot. Those around the hansom would have no idea where the sniper hid. They might even think it a stray shot from the Union lines.

Mauer watched the round strike. It entered just to the left of the spine, probably square on the heart. The man threw out his arms as the blow flung him forward. The hat went flying. The volunteer landed face first on the grassy ground.

As he moved the telescopic sight to the next target, Mauer worked the rifle lever to chamber another round. He cocked the hammer. Jackson, perched in the carriage driver's seat, did not move.

Mauer had to give Naylor her due. Her plan was actually decent. Use two decoys on the hansom instead of one, disguising Jackson as the black driver. She was in effect hiding him in plain sight.

But she had failed. They had overdone the lampblack, American blacks were rarely that degree of ebony. The left arm didn't fool him either. The arm that seemingly held the reins remained bent at a fixed angle, whereas the right arm had straightened. Nor had the fingers on the gloved left hand moved.

Jackson was craning his neck in search of the shooter. Probably everyone else also did, but Mauer could not shift the scope to check.

Mauer fired. The bullet struck a little high, at the neck. Mauer saw blood spurt before Stonewall Jackson toppled from the hansom.

July 1: 4:35 p.m.

They reached the farm just after four-thirty in the afternoon. The last several miles on the York road they had heard distant rumbling, coming from the western horizon. The two sergeants riding beside him expressed fear they would miss the battle.

Jackson had told them not to worry. Tonight they would get all the fighting they wanted. Until then, he reminded, they were to act the noncombatant role their civilian garb prescribed.

The three men trotted down the lane flanked by elm trees. He had left here a week ago to the day. It had been a sad day, made sadder by the necessity of imprisoning Susannah and Peggy three days earlier.

He knew it had been a great ordeal for the two. Even with a long supply of food and water, they must fear for their lives. Who was to say if anyone would come looking for them?

Ever since, their fear and discomfort had burdened Jackson. Yes, Amanda and Robert swore they would post letters to authorities in Abbottstown and York. But Jackson had worried the letters could be lost in the confusion caused by the invasion. His soul would never rest if Susannah and Peggy died of thirst or starvation.

The house and yard looked the same as when he left. Nothing out of place. Most importantly, the padlock remained intact on the root cellar doors.

They halted before the sod covered root cellar. The sergeants were quickly off their mounts. They gave Jackson plenty of room as he carefully came off his.

At their first rest after leaving Carlisle this morning, the sergeants had scampered to help him down. He sternly told them to keep away. Their intent was good, he knew, but he would not be treated as a cripple. He would overcome the loss of his arm like he did everything, through determination.

"Sergeant Howard, retrieve the key."

"Yes, General." There was still the mix of disbelief and reverence in the sergeant's voice.

Both sergeants had required much convincing after they were brought in on his survival. At first they thought it some terrible jest. Only when General Ewell swore on a bible and Jackson recounted shared experiences did they finally accept.

The sergeants afterward treated him like a deity. He ordered them to desist. They tried, but kept slipping back into worship. It was embarrassing. Adulation should be reserved for the Almighty.

Howard scurried into the cider shed, where Jackson had said where the padlock key would lie buried a yard beyond the door.

Jackson called from the top of the cellar steps. "Susannah! Susannah! Can you hear me?"

Howard shortly brought him the big key. Jackson almost took it, but had to yield to the fact that two hands would be needed to remove the padlock.

"Come with me, Sergeant. Unlock the lock."

"Yes, sir."

They went down the cellar steps. Robert had drilled a dozen holes in the two stout doors. As Jackson neared the doors the smell hit.

The odor was faint, but unmistakable. Human waste. He had hoped not to encounter it.

From a barrel Robert had constructed a makeshift privy for Sue and Peggy. He half filled it with applejack. Robert said the alcohol in the applejack should cleanse the waste. Apparently it had not. Or perhaps they had accidentally tipped the privy and spilled its contents.

Shame swept him. To have subjected a woman and a girl to such indignity.

As Howard worked the key, Jackson yelled directly into the holes.

"Susannah, are you all right?"

Immediately he heard muffled shouting. The shouting of two voices. He gave thanks to God. Then the two were banging on the cellar door.

"Help us! Help us! We are locked in!"

"Susannah! This is Thomas—Billy. I have come to let you out."

He heard a gasp. Then an eye showed at one of the holes.

Howard had the padlock off. Then he pulled open the doors. His face screwed, and he stepped back as the full strength of the stench pushed out.

Jackson held his ground. But he saw no one. Sue and Peggy had retreated into the cellar darkness.

"Susannah! Come out. You have nothing to fear."

Silence. Then Jackson thought he heard Peggy whimpering.

"Little darling," he called. "Don't you want to see your friend again?"

"Please don't hurt us," said Susannah. Her voice quavered. "We won't tell anyone."

So she had determined who he was.

"Come out, Sue. I want to see that you are all right."

"We—we will be. Just let us alone. No one will know you were here. I swear they won't."

He abhorred they thought he would do them harm. He had treated them with only tenderness. Until that Sunday, of course.

Jackson made to enter the cellar. Howard grabbed him.

"Unhand me, sergeant."

"You can't go in there, sir. What if she has a knife?"

"Unhand me!"

Now Sergeant Folwer was beside Howard.

"You can't take the chance. We'll bring them out."

"No! You touch them, I'll have you bucked and gagged."

"Sir—"

"No force will be used on them. Is that clear?"

"Yes, General. But we can't let you go in there. We won't. We can't lose you again.

Jackson glowered, but caught himself before his tongue could lash. These men were only doing their duty. And they were right, he could not be lost hours before the decisive assault of the war.

"Very well."

Jackson peered again into the dark. Why didn't they have a candle lit? Robert had left them plenty.

"Sue, Peggy, please come. I want to say goodbye."

"Why?"

"I am fond of you both. I do not want you to remember me as a cruel captor."

"Damn you, Thomas—Thomas Jackson. We could have died in here."

"That is why I returned. I was urged not to. But I insisted."

"Do you know how horrible it has been?"

"I can only say it was necessary. Since you know who I am, you must see that. Please come out."

"Sir, you should go back to the top of the stairs." Fowler had drawn his pistol.

"Put that away."

"We have our orders, sir. To protect you at all costs."

"I am your commanding officer, not General Ewell. Put your weapon away."

Folwer exchanged looks with Howard. "Be glad to, sir. If you'll step up the stairs."

His face heated. But he stepped up. The sergeants joined him.

"Sue, please. I cannot stay long."

He waited. Presently two witches, a big one and a little one, appeared at the cellar entrance. He scarcely recognized the pair he last saw ten days ago. They were filthy. Both squinted fiercely against the light of day.

"Let us go into the house, Sue."

"No. Say what you have to say. Then go."

Haggard Susannah looked twice her age. Jackson's shame grew. Would God forgive him for the trial he had put her and her child through?

"Your food and water has held out?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Did you use all the candles?"

"The one I lit went out while we slept. It's pitch black in there, Thomas, even with the holes in the door. I couldn't find the matches to light more. In our hunt we knocked over the thing Robert made."

Her bitter eyes watered.

Jackson swallowed. "You have my deepest apology for the tribulations you have suffered. I hope the money we left will provide some consolation."

Amanda had put five hundred dollars in gold and seven hundred in greenbacks in the flour barrel.

"I thought that was a lie."

"It's there, Sue. It will provide you and Peggy for at least two years." Perhaps five, if used wisely.

Her lower lip quivered. Then she came up the steps to hit him in the chest. Her fist pounded. The sergeants grabbed her arms.

"No," he said. "It is all right."

Then she was crying. Below little Peggy looked up beseechingly at Jackson.

"Let's sit down," he said.

Susannah slumped on a step. Jackson closed the cellar doors, then sat beside her. Peggy sat beside him.

The odor of excrement had greatly lessened. He could smell the rank unwashed bodies beside him, but that rated nothing to the other.

Jackson turned to the sergeants.

"I suppose you won't leave us alone," said Jackson to the men.

"Sir, we can't. You know we aren't to leave your side until we reach the battlefield."

"At least go back to the horses."

"Sorry, General. We have to stand close."

His lips compressed. Sergeants telling generals what they would do. Then he exhaled.

"All right. But your ears will hear nothing. Is that understood?"

"Yes, General."

He turned to Susannah. "When did you know? About me?"

"Not until we were in the cellar. I—I had thought something was amiss, almost from the start. But I never suspected you were a Confederate. Perhaps a Union deserter, who Robert and Amanda wanted to hide. Or maybe a fugitive from justice."

Jackson grimaced. They had not considered she might think along those lines. What if she had gone to the provost in York? The jig would have been up.

"But I didn't care," she said. "At first there was the money. Then—". She looked toward the sergeants. Her voice lowered. "Then there was you."

His cheeks burned again, now for a different reason.

"I regret you developed that sentiment." He said the words gently.

But her lips curled anyway.

"So do I!"

"I am a married man, Susannah. And did I ever lead you on?"

"While I was down there, I hated you. Married man or not."

"You had reason. We badly deceived you this past month. It was necessary, though."

"I fell in love with you. And Peggy did too."

Jackson did not look at the soldiers behind him. What must they think of these words? He had told them to ignore what they heard, and by the wrath of the Almighty, they better.

"Sue, I am fond of you. In other circumstances..."

"Don't tell me that! You were counting the days until you could be away from here. Back to your war. So you can start killing good men again."

Jackson winced. She had also figured out that, her husband dying opposite his corps.

"The war has killed many good men," he said. "On both sides. Some were very good men." He remembered the hard loss of Ashby and Paxton. "If I had one wish, it would be the war ended today."

"They say you live for battle. I believe it."

"Sue..."

"Why couldn't you just have been Billy? We could have made a good life here."

Peggy finally spoke. She had climbed onto his lap. Her words struck to the bone.

"Uncle Tommy, please stay. It would be so wonderful."

Jackson's throat constricted. He waited a moment to be certain his voice would not issue huskily. The sergeants must not hear him like that.

"I truly wish I could, my little darling. But I do have a wife and daughter I love. And I have duty to my country."

Now Susannah cast beseeching eyes.

"Tell these men to go. Stay here. Forget the rest of the world."

Jackson was finding it hard to breathe. Not on any battlefield had he felt such distress.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the sergeants watching intently. Their mouths hung open. Did they really think their general would abandon his command?

During his years in Lexington he had never wanted a return to war. He could happily live in that comfortable town in the Shenandoah—a husband to Anna, a father to Julia, a professor at the Institute, a deacon in the church, a Sunday school teacher to the colored, a tender of his garden, a drinker of Valley beauty—all the rest of his days. He did not need war.

But the North had forced battle on the South, not the other way around. Union armies had stormed into his state. The North was trying to trample Virginia's liberty, not the other way around. It was no crime to defend one's self and land.

He hated the enemy, but he did not hate the individual soldiers of the North. For the most they were fine men. They were devoted to their cause, even if it was a poisonous one fostered by a tyrant. Jackson very much regretted making women like Susannah Cooper widows, and leaving children like Peggy bereft fathers.

Jackson was startled to find Susannah's hand on his.

Very gently he pulled his away. Her eyes immediately moistened.

"You had better go then," she said. She spoke sadly.

"No," said Peggy. "Please stay. I will go to church. Every Sunday."

Jackson stroked her knotted, dirty hair. "You must do so anyhow, my little darling." He turned eyes to Susannah. "So must your mother."

Susannah shook her head.

"If not for yourself, Sue, for Peggy. I beg you to consider her soul."

"We have had this conversation before. I will not kneel to a god who has allowed this carnage."

"Men cause war, Sue. Not the Almighty."

"You best go, Thomas. Go and win your battle. I will pray you do end the war today."

"General, we should be getting on," said Fowler. "It's past five."

Yes, they better.

They were not to directly head to Gettysburg on the York Road. They would backtrack north to Hampton. There they would rendezvous with Stuart's men.

He and Stuart should arrive at Gettysburg by nine. They would meet with General Lee for final details of the double envelopment—which would commence under the full moon at midnight.

The sky was still overcast. But as Amanda promised, the gray was lightening. He could see some patches of dull blue to the west. As the evening progressed the skies should clear until only a smattering of high, thin clouds remained.

"Go, Thomas," said Susannah. "Duty calls."

"Return to the Heavenly Father, Sue. He will bless you."

"If I kowtow to Him."

"Sue—"

"Leave, Thomas. Please."

She sounded as if her heart were breaking. That would torment him, causing this good woman such pain. He swore he would make it up to her. And to Peggy, who was biting her lip and sniffling.

Jackson kissed the forehead of the girl, then helped her slide from his lap.

"Goodbye, my little darling," he said. "But not farewell."

As he and the sergeants trotted away from the farmhouse, battle lust seized Jackson. He would fiercely smite the Army of the Potomac. He would destroy four of its corps tonight and savage two more tomorrow. Only one would remain intact as it fled toward Washington City.

The stunning victory would take the heart out of the North. The grief and rage of many millions would force Lincoln and his abolitionist cabal to abandon their unholy aggression. Then all the good men, on both sides, could go home to those who loved them.

Thursday, July 2

Bryant awoke and screamed. Someone touched her hand, the one that held the LeMat revolver. A face loomed in front of hers.

"It's me, Chloe. Jack."

For an instant she wasn't sure she was awake. These two weeks she had often dreamed of Jack's return. On waking the disappointment hurt badly.

But it was Jack, in the flesh.

She had drifted off sitting at the tent entrance. She had stayed awake all night, and well into the morning. She had tried so hard to keep her eyes open. Not only to watch for Jack; she must guard against what had to be the imminent return of Naylor and Price. Who would probably kill her on sight.

She threw her arms around Jack. She sobbed, but she didn't care. She had about given up hope he would come back.

"You made it," she croaked.

"Sure did. And I got Jackson."

Her cheek rubbed against beard stubble. Jack smelled of horse and human sweat. But she didn't care. She would cling to him forever if he let her.

"Thank God. Did you get Naylor and Price too?"

"No. Didn't have the chance. So I assume you've seen no sign of them?"

"Nothing. I've been very afraid they'd show up. They must be getting critical."

"Yeah."

Jack eased back from her. Dark circles were wide about his eyes. She was sure she looked the same. But who cared? They had won and both of them were going to live.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Sorry I didn't get back sooner. They led me a merry chase. I finally returned to Gettysburg. I shot Jackson there yesterday afternoon."

"Were Naylor and Price with him?"

"No. They left Carlisle two days before. With someone posing as Jackson. I couldn't afford to go after them."

"They should've been here by now."

"I think they detoured to Gettysburg. And they are probably delaying coming here. So as not to run into us."

She didn't know. They had to be near the critical point on shrinking.

"Should we stay to get them?" she asked.

"No. We've beaten her. Let Hightower and Darnell deal with them when they show up in 2015."

"Could they be waiting for us in 1882? You know they'll arrive three days before us no matter when they cross here."

"It also means we can't catch them if they keep going forward."

"What if they stop to get Hitler?"

"Let them. I have no problem with that."

"Should we offer to help?"

"With Hitler?"

"Maybe we have a moral obligation."

Besides that, a trip to Germany would extend her time with Jack. Once he went back—to 1996 undoubtedly—she would lose him forever.

"We have no obligation. In 1901 it will be a simple job anyway. Naylor and Price slip over the Atlantic, pop the little bastard—think he's ten or so then—and slip back. And if the police catch them, it's no skin off our butts."

"I hope they can get him."

"Me too. But saving the Union is all that matters for us. That we've done."

"Jack, you're sure we've won? I heard fighting last night."

"From the north?"

"Yes. I heard rumbling most of yesterday afternoon. The noise stopped around four-thirty."

"That's the way it's supposed to be."

"But it started again around midnight. With louder rumbling."

Jack frowned. "You're sure?"

"Yes. I know my ears weren't playing tricks. It wasn't thunder, the sky was clear. It went on until nearly dawn. Then it stopped and I haven't heard anything since."

"I think I know what happened. Lee was pretty distraught when I killed Jackson. Probably unhinged him. I bet he ordered a night attack against the Federal positions. By then our side had four corps dug in."

Jack smiled with the smile she abhorred.

"I bet Lee tried Pickett type charges all night. He probably broke his army, and is in full retreat now. Two more Union two corps arrived at dawn with one more on the way."

The full moon shone brightly last night. The Federal troops would have easily seen the Confederates coming. And used their cannon with canister. Jack had told her how terrible that was.

"All those poor boys," she said.

"Lee has a penchant for reckless attacks. Last night's cost him big."

"Then I guess we should go."

"Let's see what we want to take with us. Let me do that while you watch for our two traitors."

"Okay."

He looked small too. They both had to be a foot under their regular height. They couldn't get out of here soon enough.

Jack pulled items out of the tent. He saw her watching.

"Have to keep a sharp eye, Chloe."

She did, but decided she better bring up 1996. For her it was a foreboding subject, yet an unavoidable one now that Jack had survived.

"Jack..."

"Yes?"

"I—I know you intend to stop in 1996."

Their eyes locked, and his lips drew thin.

"Is that so? Keep on the lookout, please."

"I mean, that's the real reason you accepted this assignment. You want to warn your 1996 self to save Teri. I understand completely."

"Are you under orders to prevent me?"

"No. Even if I was, I wouldn't."

"I've got to stop there. You can go on."

"I'll stay with you, Jack. You'll probably need more than a week to get to your younger self—and probably to others—and make sure you are believed."

She saw his adam's apple work. He knew she loved him dearly. He could also guess how wrenching it would be for her to help him get back Teri, the one woman that would always take precedence over her.

"That—that's not necessary. I deeply appreciate the offer, though."

"I'm going with you. It's what I want to do."

"I—Jesus, Chloe." He turned his face away.

"It's alright, Jack. Let's hurry up and get out of here." She returned to scanning the woods.

Ten minutes later they stepped into Transit One.

1882

Thursday, May 4

Once again chilly rain fell.

As she sat on a log Naylor kept her eyes squarely on the bottom of the depression housing the transit point. One hand gripped a shotgun and the other held an umbrella. On the other side of the depression Aaron dozed as he sat cross-legged beneath half a pup tent. Arms wrapped around a rifle helped prop him.

They could not be sure which day and hour Jack and Chloe had entered 1863. The two could appear the next minute, or a week from now. Which meant she and Aaron must stay glued to the transit.

She was five hours into her shift, the day shift. Her eyes burned, her shoulders ached, and she was getting pretty hungry. Plus her concentration was wandering. She guessed she would have made a lousy stakeout cop.

At least her big toe no longer throbbed. She had stubbed it hard against a rock during the climb up the mountain. By the time they left 1863 late on the afternoon of July 2nd, the toe was swollen and black and blue. She could barely hobble about, and she feared a hairline fracture.

Within an hour in 1882 the pain and swelling sharply subsided. By sunset the toe had healed completely. Going forward through the transit apparently restored it.

Likewise their height. By sunset May 1 she and Aaron were back to normal stature. She had been very thankful, as she wasn't certain at all their height would fully return so far from 2015. Now it looked like they could count on another two month lease on life.

It was early spring in these woods. Foliage had abruptly changed from full to sparse when they stepped into 1882. The weather had been just as wet as that they thought left behind. It had to change soon, didn't it?

This waiting was unbearable. Three days here and they still had no idea if they had succeeded. Being tied to the depression kept them from the simple act of walking several hundred yards to the eastern slope. There they would have no trouble looking down to Thurmont. With field glasses they could easily tell if any flag flying bore the mark of the Confederacy.

Had Thomas made it to Gettysburg? If he did, had he and Lee fully won the battle? Partial victory would not do it, the Army of the Potomac must be smashed and confidence in Lincoln irrevocably lost.

She did not wait well, never had. Seizing and maintaining the initiative was her forte. Waiting defined also-rans.

The rain was letting up. Thank God. When Aaron woke he could start a fire. It would be good to eat something cooked. And warm her feet, they were damn near icicles.

Why didn't Jack and Chloe come? They had to have entered not that long after them. Hightower and Ethan would have launched pursuit soon as manageable. "Allison, I'm awake."

Naylor did not lift her eyes from the bottom of the depression.

"Good. Can you start a fire?"

"Will do. I'll make some coffee, too."

"You know the way to a woman's heart."

Then the heart skipped a beat as two people appeared in the depression. The truncated Jack Mauer and Chloe Bryant. At last.

Naylor lifted the shotgun and opened her mouth to command they not move. But Aaron beat her to it.

"Hold it where you are. Go for your guns and I shoot."

The two in the depression swung their heads between Naylor and Aaron as if at a tennis match. Shock played on their faces.

"Lift your pistol out carefully, Jack," said Aaron. "Left hand. Then toss it out the depression. You too, Miss Bryant."

Neither of the two moved. Then Aaron squeezed off a shot. The bullet impacted a yard from Jack's foot.

"Do as I say. Now."

Jack glared at Naylor, then turned with softer face to Aaron. "Would you really shoot us, Aaron?"

"If you make me."

"Her I'm not surprised turned traitor. You I don't understand. I thought you loyal to the death to America."

Aaron shot again. "Toss the guns. I won't give you a third chance."

"Let us keep them. We're just passing through. We might need them going ahead."

"Let them keep their weapons," said Naylor.

"You can't give him any edge, Allison."

"Do you have orders to kill us, Jack?"

"At my discretion. But I'll let the Justice Department deal with you."

Naylor tried to mask distress. Did that mean the United States still existed whole? But Jack wouldn't know any more about that than she and Aaron. He was just sure he had killed Jackson, and thwarted the Southern cause.

"Go on through the transit," said Naylor. "You may keep your guns."

"Thank you, Madam Traitor."

She flushed. "Watch your tongue."

Chloe Bryant, so short she looked a child, tugged at Jack's sleeve. She whispered in his ear.

Jack in love with her? Scrawny, dull haired, pale as a ghost. Bryant was very capable professionally, but as a woman hardly a catch for the likes of Jack Mauer. Yet it must be so, or the two would not have lasted so long here.

"Go, Jack," said Naylor. "While you can."

Jack stared at her savagely, then he and Bryant stepped back into Transit One. Instantly they were gone.

Naylor sighed her relief. _That_ was done. Now on to finding out who won.

Price raised the field glasses. Beside him Allison was fidgeting severely. With his naked eye he could see a speck waving above what had to be a flagpole in the center of Mechanicstown.

The rain had stopped and the clouds were parting. On the rolling farmland to the east a distant shaft of sunlight illuminated a pasture and dots of livestock.

"For God's sake, Aaron, look."

"Maybe it's better not to know, just yet. Maybe we should push on."

He was half serious, half teasing her. But she was in no mood to be teased.

"Dammit, Aaron. Look. You know we're staying here."

Price didn't see any real reason to linger in 1882, whether they had reversed the outcome of the Civil War or not. Taking out Hitler and Trotsky was the only imperative remaining.

But Allison had gotten it in her stubborn head to see Tom Jackson again. She would not be deterred. Totally nuts, the lover of peace unable to shake motherly attachment to the master of war.

Price put the field glasses to his eyes. He found the village, then focused the lenses. He gasped as he located the flag.

"What is it?" Allison's hand dug into his biceps.

"I'll be a son of a bitch," he said. "It's the Bonny Blue flag."

"Oh, God. Oh God Jesus, thank you."

That was quite a declaration by such a confirmed agnostic. Perhaps some of Jackson had rubbed off.

He gave her the glasses. "Take a gander."

Her hands shook as she lifted them. Price put an arm around her.

"It is the flag. It is!"

"'That bears a single star.'"

"We've done it, Aaron. We've done it."

Yes they had. They were halfway there. Now onto to seeing how the other half played out.
