Trusting for everything, including her daily bread, was an unusual predicament. Never in her life had she gone hungry. Never in her life had she pleaded so for another.
Striding along the streets in the morning, she could think of nothing but that this was Zachary’s last day on earth if something didn’t happen to stay the execution.
The hours passed like the tolling of the bells for a funeral. People came and went. She only got up to use the necessary.
‘‘Have you even told Mr. Lincoln that I have spent three days here waiting?’’ She asked the man for the third time.
‘‘He’s busy.’’
‘‘I know that, but surely there are two minutes that he could spare.’’
‘‘I will do what I can.’’
That hasn’t been very much
. But she returned to her seat, praying all the while.
Oh, Lord, have you turned your face away from me? Have you closed your ears? I have trusted you all my life, but I am left hanging here. Is there something else I could do? Oh, Lord, hear my prayer
.
As the afternoon waned, her spirits faded with it.
Three people, including her, remained in the room. One by one the other two were admitted to the place they desired. She sat alone again.
When the man at the desk left the room on some errand, Louisa sucked in a deep breath, rose, and slipped through the door the others had used. Down the hall, peeking into each room, she prayed no one would see her and bodily throw her out. Just as Louisa was about to give up, she heard two men talking, and one said, ‘‘President Lincoln . . .’’ She heard no more but was certain she knew which room was the president’s office. Hovering around a corner, she waited until the man left, then opened the door and slipped inside.
The president sat in a swivel chair behind an immense desk covered in papers. He was turned facing the tall narrow window. Brocade drapes were gathered to the sides with gold cord and a heavy tassel. She heard a sigh, but all she could see was a head of dark hair, struck every which way by hands that had plundered it. After a few moments long-fingered hands smoothed the hair down, and the president turned the chair back to face the desk.
Weariness dragged at the skin of his face, and dark eyes held a sorrow that didn’t lighten when he saw her standing just inside the door.
‘‘I thought I was finished for the day.’’
‘‘I wish you were, but I need to talk with you, but only for a moment, for you can save a man’s life today.’’
He beckoned to the chair by his desk. ‘‘And this man is your husband?’’
‘‘No, my brother.’’ She sat on the edge of the seat, her shaking hands clenched in her lap.
Lincoln leaned back in his chair. ‘‘Tell me.’’
‘‘My brother is to be shot at dawn as a spy.’’ She swallowed, tried to clear her throat.
‘‘And is he a spy?’’
‘‘My father did everything he could to keep Kentucky in the Union, but too few would listen. He and my other brother both died in battle. Zachary is my only brother . . .’’ She paused. ‘‘Other than my baby brother who is out west somewhere.’’
Stay with the story
, one side of her mind screamed.
Get on with it
.
‘‘I see.’’
How can you see?
‘‘Zachary was wounded terribly—he’s lost a hand, a foot, and an eye. We thought we would lose him too.’’ Her throat clogged up again.
Mr. Lincoln poured a glass of water from a carafe on his desk and handed it to her.
‘‘Thank you.’’ Her stomach growled so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She blinked back the blackness that lurked at the edges of her mind like vultures waiting for the death rattle.
‘‘How long since you’ve eaten?’’
‘‘Ahh.’’ She had to think. Was it the day before yesterday? ‘‘Some time ago, I believe, but that is not what is important. Our family has lost everything, and while I know others have given all too, I beg of you, please spare my brother’s life.’’
‘‘Was he spying?’’
She paused. Something in his face told her only the most simple truth would be tolerated.
‘‘I . . . we came to Washington for quinine and morphine. Mr. President, sir, I volunteer at the hospital, and we are treating wounded men in our home. I cannot bear to see and hear them suffer—if there is something I can do. So many of them young boys, boys like my brothers. I didn’t know he carried a letter.’’
‘‘Did he?’’
She looked at him, questions in her eyes.
‘‘Did he know?’’
‘‘I . . . I believe so.’’
‘‘Why should I spare him?’’
‘‘Because he is my brother.’’ Despair loosened the starch in her neck and spine. Her head fell forward. There was no reason he should spare Zachary. This was all a waste of her time and that of the man with whom she spoke.
‘‘Thank you, sir, for the water and for listening to me.’’
A servant entered with a tray of bread and cheese, cookies, and an apple. He set it on the edge of the desk.
‘‘Anything else, sir?’’
‘‘No, that is all.’’
When he left, the president leaned forward, moved the tray to in front of her, and nodded. ‘‘Help yourself.’’
With hands shaking so badly she could hardly hold the knife, she buttered a piece of bread, laid slices of cheese on it, and took a bite.
As if no longer aware of her presence, the man before her took a paper and pen and began writing.
‘‘What prison is your brother in? And what is his name?’’
Did she dare hope?
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
- S
IX
The White House
‘‘Do you promise not to spy again?’’
‘‘I wasn’t spying, sir, I was . . .’’
He waved a hand. ‘‘I know, I know. But your brother was. Can you speak for him?’’
‘‘An oath by any member of the Highwood family is honored by all.’’ Louisa brushed crumbs from her skirt, her heart leaping with hope.
President Lincoln signed the paper, dusted it with sand, and leaned forward. ‘‘Miss Highwood, this letter will release your brother into your keeping. I abhor this war more than you can know, and this is perhaps not the wisest thing I can do, but . . .’’ He paused. ‘‘Would that we all had women like you to plead our cause.’’ He nodded to the remaining food on the tray. ‘‘Wrap that up in a napkin and take it with you. It wouldn’t help if you were to faint on the way to set him free.’’
‘‘Y-yes, sir. Th-thank you.’’ She looked into the president’s sad, dark eyes and couldn’t help reaching a hand to touch him. ‘‘I will pray for you, sir, and flood the floors of our Lord’s throne room with my gratitude. I think I could not have gone on any longer had you not had the grace to save my brother.’’
‘‘You are welcome.’’ A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and lightened his eyes. ‘‘Just keep that brother of yours out of Washington and be strong to rebuild our land when this heinous war is over.’’
‘‘Yes, sir.’’ Louisa settled the remainder of the food in her bag and rose, extending her hand. ‘‘Thank you again.’’
Her hand disappeared in his, and he tucked it in his arm as he walked her to the door. ‘‘Go this way and no one will bother you.’’ He indicated a door in the opposite direction of the way she had come.
Louisa squeezed his hand again. ‘‘God bless you, Mr. President.’’
Her feet never touched the cobblestones as Louisa hurried along the now gaslit streets. She looked to neither side, her mind focused on another meeting with the general. Any thoughts of ‘‘what if ’’ she banished with a snort. ‘‘Deceiver, you have no hold over me. God himself has set my brother free.’’ When she finally arrived at the prison, a light rain had begun to fall. But she ignored the chill and pounded on the heavy wooden gate.
A sentry opened a square port and peered out. ‘‘Who do you wish to see?’’
‘‘The general.’’
‘‘He is not here.’’
‘‘Then I will wait in his office.’’ She paused. ‘‘Where is he?’’
‘‘That is none of your business, ma’am. Come back in the morning.’’ He shut the portal.
Louisa staggered, leaning against the wet wall for support.
Now what? Lord, where are you? Surely you wouldn’t let all this happen and not free Zachary?
She pounded on the door again.
The portal opened.
‘‘I have an order from President Lincoln to give to the general.’’
A hand came out. ‘‘Let me see it.’’
Did she dare let go of the lifesaving piece of paper?
‘‘It is only for the general.’’
Please, God, please
.
The portal slammed shut, and the door swung open.
Fear gripped her by the throat and made her gag. What if she never came out again? What if they took the paper and threw it away? What if, what if?
Lightning couldn’t strike faster and more severe than fear.
God, help!
The door began to close.
She stepped through the portal, clutching her bag, and her faith, like a shield.
The man in blue pants and shirt, no jacket, led her into a small room. ‘‘Wait here.’’ He left a lamp on the table and exited the room.
Louisa shivered in the dampness of both clothes and room. No one would ever know if she disappeared now. Like two pieces of flotsam on a river, she and Zachary could be swept out to sea and never heard from again.
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
- S
EVEN
Washington
Praying and shivering, Louisa waited out the hours. Every time footfalls sounded outside the door, she sat up straighter, only to slump again as they passed on by. Her head ached, her stomach grumbled. She dug out the bread and cheese to nibble on, but her stomach rebelled, roiling and threatening to erupt.
Thirsty. Lord, how can I be so thirsty?
She felt as though she’d been trapped in the room for days rather than hours when the door finally opened.
‘‘Come with me.’’
She followed the stiff back up the stairs and into the general’s office.
‘‘You have something for me?’’ The general held out his hand.
She laid the paper in it and fought off the shivers, of fear or freezing, she knew not which.
‘‘I see.’’ The look he sent her over the edge of the letter made her take a step back. Malevolent. She’d never understood that word before, but now she even felt it. When she looked again, his face had assumed a look devoid of any emotion.
His words came softly. ‘‘You had better pray that I never see either one of you again.’’ He rang a handbell on the side of his desk. An aide entered.
‘‘Release Highwood and show both him and his sister out.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’
The general did not respond.
Louisa nodded, turned, and followed the aide to the hall and back to the room she’d memorized before.
Within a few minutes she heard Zachary’s crutch-and-thump gait. She met him in the hall, faced his icy stare, and in moments the two of them stood outside the gate, the door thundering shut behind them.
How could Zachary walk as far as her hotel? Why didn’t he say something?
‘‘This way.’’ She pointed up the street. ‘‘Perhaps we can find a buggy.’’
He stumped beside her, his false foot swinging in the peculiar gait he had developed.
‘‘I have a hotel room. In the morning you can get a bath before we leave for home.’’
Still no answer. She tried to see his face in the lamplight as they passed another lamppost. The light threw shadows that made her shiver.
She paced her steps to his. Did he not care to know what had happened?
The rain picked up again, but at least now they were free. The drops fell like a warm, cleansing shower.
At one corner, Zachary stopped and raised his face to the downpour. The streetlight showed his good eye closed. He took a deep breath, and they started off again.
Louisa could endure his silence no longer. ‘‘Zachary, dear brother, what is it? Why are you not rejoicing to be freed from that . . . that’’—she shuddered—‘‘that terrible place?’’
He stopped with a turn. ‘‘Would that you had let me die there.’’ He swung his crutch and clumped onward.
Would she ever forget the look in his eye? The gargoyle sneer on his dear face? The scar from eyebrow to chin glittered like a lightning strike in the lamplight.
Sometime later, when Louisa felt sure Zachary could go no further, as his steps had grown slower and slower, she touched his arm and pointed at the hotel where she’d been staying. ‘‘In here.’’
Without even a nod, he staggered up the steps. She sprang ahead of him to open the door, receiving only a glare for her efforts. Instead of following her to the stairs, he arrowed for the desk.
‘‘Send up a bottle of Kentucky bourbon, and make sure you don’t water it down.’’ Zachary stared at the desk clerk as if daring him to argue.
‘‘But . . . but we have no . . .’’ The young man with mutton-chop whiskers gestured to the single room furnished with the desk, one chair under a gaslit lamp, and a brass spittoon badly in need of a polishing.
Zachary leaned forward. ‘‘Am I to understand you don’t know how to buy a bottle?’’
‘‘N-no, sir, that’s not it.’’ The man took a step backwards. ‘‘But I . . . I cannot leave my post, sir.’’
Louisa thought to stick up for the clerk, even so far as to take a step forward, but she restrained herself. If her brother chose to act like an overbearing boor, so be it. She turned instead and started up the stairs.
Lord, what has gotten into him?
At the scowl on his face, even she had not wanted to cross him, let alone a poor desk clerk who was only doing his job.
The sound of a fist slamming on wood made her look back over her shoulder.
The clerk scurried out from behind the desk and headed out the door they’d entered. Louisa knew he would be back within minutes, for there was a saloon only two doors down.
Zachary crossed the room and started up the stairs, left hand on the railing pulling himself up, while his right arm clutched the crutch to his side. He hopped to each step on his good leg.
‘‘Shame you couldn’t get a room on the first floor.’’
Louisa ignored his comment and made her way down the hall to the room she’d stayed in for the last few nights. The single bed would not do for the two of them, certainly, but she’d ask for another quilt and make up a pallet on the floor. Every time the question arose in her mind as to how they would get home, she shoved it aside.
Let Zachary worry about that
, she commanded herself.
He’s the one spending money like the bag will never run empty. God took care of the widow with the oil, but I think liquor doesn’t count
. She felt like slamming the door and locking it before he could get there, but with the mood he was in, he’d pound on every door in the building.