by Thomas Webb
Smythe put on his best poker face. “I suppose this solves the question of who was spying on Horton’s operation last year?”
“It does indeed,” the Gambler said. “Shame the pup didn’t live to know the answer himself.”
Smythe grinned. “This information couldn’t have been easy to come by.”
The Gambler blew another puff of smoke. “I have my sources,” he said.
“That’s twice tonight you’ve surprised me, Maurice,” Smythe said, “and I am a man who is not often surprised.”
Primm leaned down and whispered in Smythe’s ear. Smythe pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it before nodding and pushing back from the table. His wine glass sat untouched. “I apologize for the brief visit, gentlemen, but I must be going.”
The Pious Man went to stand. “Here now, James! You’ll do no such—”
The Gambler took Worthington’s arm. One quick left to right shake of the Gambler’s head and the Pious Man sat back down.
“We want what’s ours, James. The increase in territory you promised me and the free reign to manage it as I please,” Legree nodded toward the Pious Man, “and special access to the aether markets west of the Mississippi for my friend here. We want what was promised us.”
“And you shall have it,” Smythe said. “A little more patience is all I ask.”
“A ‘little’ is about all we got left.” The Gambler gave Smythe a nod. “Been a pleasure, Mr. President.”
Legree did not stand, a slight Smythe didn’t miss. Smythe studied the two of them — The Gambler, Maurice Legree, and the Pious Man, Silas Worthington — sitting side by side at the table across from him. If these two had somehow made peace with one another and allied against him…
“Mr. President,” Primm said, a reminder that it was time to leave.
Without so much as a wave, Smythe turned and left as abruptly as he’d come. He didn’t linger long enough to see the knowing glance the Gambler and the Pious Man exchanged.
A quarter turn o’ the clock later and the presidential carriage was back on the road, chewing up the miles and putting the detour to the abandoned inn well behind them. Their next stop was a waiting airship, followed by a fast flight northeast to Richmond.
Smythe didn’t speak a word after leaving the meeting but kept his thoughts to himself. He’d been content to drink several glasses of wine and to brood and to plot. After his third glass, a course of action became clear, a course of action which, once taken, could not be undone. In an instant, Smythe made his choice, the only choice he could have made.
"Trevor, my boy,” Smythe said.
Smythe’s aide looked up from his papers. If he was surprised that Smythe had finally broken his long silence, he didn’t let on. “Yes, Mr. President?”
“I need you to do me a favor.”
“Of course, sir,” Primm said. “Anything.”
“I need you to get a message out for me.”
“To whom, sir?”
“Isn’t that obvious, Trevor? Why, to our man in the Department of Strategic Intelligence, of course."
4 Union Capital of Washington, D.C - K Street, September 1866
Montclair maneuvered his brute through the bustling streets of Washington, streets which would no longer exist if not, at least in part, for him.
President Grant had been gracious enough to send Montclair an escort. They’d provided him the brute, a gorgeous piece of machinery fashioned from blackened iron. At full speed, he could be there in minutes, but in the crowded streets of Washington D.C., they moved the clockwerk draft horses along at a slow trot.
Montclair looked at the smartly dressed soldiers he rode alongside. Pride swelled in his chest to be so honored as to ride with such men and women. An honor indeed, but to Montclair’s mind, an unnecessary one.
Despite the protests of his crew, Montclair took no troops from Vindication with him. Captain Shaley, head of Montclair’s airship guard, nearly had to be restrained rather than allow her commanding officer to go into the city unaccompanied.
Montclair grimaced at the memory. Loyalty was fine up to a point, but obeying orders came first. Montclair made a mental note to speak to the captain about her behavior and harrumphed at the misplaced concern. He could more than take care of himself. Their worry for his well-being was touching, but if he wasn’t safe in the Union capital, then where was he safe? Why was he always explaining that to his crew? It occurred to Montclair that he’d gone through the exact same thing last time he was here.
Montclair and his escort followed the same path he’d taken the last time he was called to the White House, except then it had been the dead of night. Only clockwerk servants and the occasional alchemist’s acolyte had marked their passage before.
This time, heavy black curtains were shut tight behind the windows of the guildhalls, with neither an alchemist nor an acolyte to be seen. This time, the city pulsed with energy as throngs of people went on about their daily lives. The musical clacking and whirring of clockwerks joined in with the sounds of metal hooves on cobblestone, neighing horses, and steam carriages, all mingling into the cacophony of Washington city life. Spoken and shouted conversations and children’s squeals of delight added to the chorus. The buzz of the Union capital surrounded Montclair, and he breathed it in deep.
The early autumn air cooled his skin, perfumed as it was with smells of Washington: horseflesh, machine oil, the mighty Potomac, and the heady scent of fallen apples. The city teemed with energy, brimming with life, life that had come razor-close to being snuffed out.
As they passed the turn that would have taken them to the National Mall, Montclair risked a glance upward. They’d made a great deal of progress on President Washington’s monument. His eyes drifted toward its base, to the grounds of the National Mall, the same hallowed ground where he’d help defend the city during the Battle of the Potomac. He flexed his clockwerk hand, the gloved mechanical appendage a permanent reminder of that night, and of an army’s last, desperate, maniacal bid for victory.
The trenches and blast pits, ragged wounds of war, had been erased from the Mall grounds. Montclair thought of the troops he’d lost on the now-verdant field and felt the pain of losing them afresh. The beauty of the pristine field rang false. Images filled his mind of the blood spilled there, of the death and the destruction. It was all still too recent, too fresh, as to be covered by as simple a thing as a layer of new green grass.
Moments later, the manicured grounds of the White House came into view. The guards waved Montclair and his escort through a six-foot, spike-tipped iron fence. Just inside were the gatehouse and stables. Montclair pulled his brute to a halt before dismounting and surrendering the creature to a mechanist. He smacked the brute on its rear flank with a reverberating clang. Montclair laughed as the mechanist lead it away, enjoying his brief respite from the burdens of command.
A moment later, a Union lieutenant appeared. The lieutenant saluted. “Good afternoon Colonel,” he said.
Montclair returned the salute. The soldier had a strange look on his face, as if he wasn’t quite sure Montclair was real.
“I’m Lieutenant Marten, one of the president’s adjutants.” The lieutenant pointed toward the White House, indicating the way. ”If you’ll please follow me, sir.”
Montclair trailed the lieutenant up the wide, front stairs of the presidential manse, up and onto the columned porch, and then into the home of the duly elected leader of the Union, one of the most powerful men in the world. They hurried through the commotion of the ground floor, past an army of adjutants, servants, and clockwerks, all scurrying to and fro like ants scavenging for crumbs. Montclair dodged a politician flanked by clockwerks, and a young woman with a cartful of packages, somehow managing to lose his guide in the process. Montclair scanned the crowd and spotted the lieutenant heading up a set of marble stairs leading to the second floor, taking them two at a time.
Montclair pushed his way through the throng and caught up before the lieut
enant even realized he was missing. From there, they were waved through a second guard station before taking an elevator lift to a third floor. When the lift doors opened, Montclair found himself in a section of the White House he wasn’t familiar with.
The lieutenant exited and invited Montclair to do the same. “Welcome to the executive wing, Colonel,” he said.
Polished clockwerk soldiers, their chest compartments painted a proud Union blue, patrolled the hallways. Lush carpeting, polished walls, tastefully displayed antiquities… Montclair took a deep breath. This was a long way from the yellow oval office he’d seen on his last visit.
Montclair followed the lieutenant to a large set of doors, both emblazoned with the presidential seal. Two soldiers in immaculate uniforms stood guard outside them.
“Here’s where I leave you, Colonel,” the lieutenant said.
Montclair offered the young officer his hand. “I appreciate you being my guide today, Lieutenant Marten.”
The lieutenant hesitated.
Montclair frowned. “Bit of advice, lieutenant. When a senior officer offers a handshake, it’s generally best to take it.”
A look of horror crossed the lieutenant’s face. “Oh, no, sir! I-I meant no offense. It’s just that I — what I mean to say… well, my family is here in Washington, sir. I know what you did, Colonel. If not for you, we’d all be…” The lieutenant swallowed. “What I mean to say, sir, is…thank you.”
The lieutenant’s thanks caught Montclair like a surprise blow to the chest. Montclair mumbled something he hoped sounded like “you’re welcome” and turned to face the doors. Christ the Healer, but he hoped the man would take the hint and walk away.
All the “hero of the Battle of the Potomac” clamor had been bad enough. It was worse now, since the events of last year. Since then, Montclair had kept as low a profile as possible, especially in Washington. The last time he was here, he’d been recognized once, in a tavern. He’d been uncertain of how to handle all the back-slapping and offers of drinks that followed. They’d all wanted to hear the story, and with each repeating, he’d been more loathe to tell it.
Since then, Montclair hadn’t enjoyed even a moment’s peace in Washington. He suddenly found himself glad for the pressing meeting with the president. It made for an excellent excuse to escape the uncomfortable attention. Montclair risked a backward glance. Relief washed over him as he watched the lieutenant walk back toward the elevator.
One of the sentries in the hallway knocked twice on the presidential seal. The sound of a lock turning crept out in response, and the doors swung inward. The sentries executed rifle salutes as Montclair stepped inside.
He’d never seen the executive wing, much less the executive office. The first thing he noticed was the view. Elegant blue drapes framed a vast window overlooking the White House gardens. Beyond the gardens, President Washington’s monument reached toward the heavens, still surrounded by scaffolding but now only missing its apex stone. Beyond the unfinished monument, the Potomac looped and turned, its surface glittering like the scales of some giant, silver serpent.
Montclair’s gaze drifted from the view outside and around the office, from the twin clockwerk guards at either side of the door to the great oaken desk that dominated the room — the president’s desk.
“Good afternoon, Colonel, and welcome.” Mrs. Grant stood and extended her hand.
Montclair froze. Had he missed something?
Rather than leave the First Lady of the Union holding out her hand, Montclair crossed the room in several long strides and took it. For a moment, he wasn’t sure whether to kiss the offered hand or shake it. In the interest of caution, he opted for the latter. “Madam,” he said.
The confusion must have been evident in his voice, if not on his face. “I suppose you were expecting my husband?” Mrs. Grant asked with the barest hint of a smile. “I would further suppose an explanation for his absence is warranted.”
Montclair wondered if the first lady was joking, but there was little humor in her voice.
Mrs. Grant looked Montclair up and down, like a farmer inspecting a draft horse that he didn’t quite know was up to the task. “Before I explain why you’re now speaking to me rather than my husband, I wanted to personally thank you. Not only for your actions on the National Mall, but most especially for stopping that unholy device from destroying us all last year. We owe you an unpayable debt, Colonel, on both counts.”
Montclair looked at the floor. “No thanks are necessary, madam. I was only doing my duty.” Truth be told, Montclair had already received quite enough thanks for one day. “On both counts,” he added. He hoped they could move on from what he found to be a deeply discomfiting subject.
Mrs. Grant nodded. “Very well. Please,” she indicated the chairs in front of her desk, “sit down, Colonel.”
Montclair noticed there were two of them.
Just then, a knock sounded on the double doors.
Mrs. Grant glanced at the grandfather clock on the wall. “Seems my other guest has arrived. My, but you military types are nothing if not punctual. It’s a quality I’ve always admired in my own beloved Ulysses.”
A nod from Mrs. Grant and the clockwerks pulled apart the double doors.
Montclair’s eyes grew wide.
“Welcome back, Colonel Gregory,” the first lady said.
Montclair examined Greg as he walked into the room. The other man’s eyes were bloodshot red, with deep, dark circles underneath. He was freshly shaved, a new bright red nick on his lower jaw from where he’d cut himself. He’d lost a little weight but still carried a fair amount of the muscle he’d had when Montclair last laid eyes on him. His skin had tanned to a dark, golden brown.
Montclair looked Greg in the eye and saw the surprise reflected there. Montclair’s gaze went to the new eagles on his friend’s shoulders.
Montclair stood. “Looks like congratulations are in order,” he said.
Greg turned to the first lady. Confused, his eyes darted back and forth between Montclair and President Grant’s wife like an animal who knew it was caught in a snare.
“I’ve been on assignment,” he blurted out.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Grant said. “Welcome, Colonel Gregory. Thank you for coming.” She again indicated the two chairs in front of the desk. “Please, gentlemen, do be seated.”
Montclair looked at Greg. Neither spoke nor shook the other’s hand.
The first lady sat down behind the president’s desk with a flourish of her skirts.
Julia Grant picked up a brass bell. “May I offer either of you gentlemen some refreshment?”
Montclair shook his head. Greg did likewise.
“Well, I hope you don’t mind indulging me, then,” she said.
The first lady rang the bell a single time. A clockwerk servant bearing a tray of coffee entered from a side door. The clockwerk set the tray down and with stiff, mechanical movements and poured cups for the three of them. When its work was done, the clockwerk excused itself with a bow.
The first lady took a sip of her coffee. Her eyes closed with pleasure. “Delightful,” she said, more to herself than Montclair or Greg. She pointed to their two cups, untouched. “Apologies, gentlemen. The technists are still working on getting the punchcard programming correct.” She shook her head. “The clockwerks on the serving staff have been particularly vexing. Can’t seem to get them to differentiate between when someone does or does not want refreshment.” She shrugged. “Something about the auditory vibrations of the serving bell I believe was the explanation.”
She took another sip. “Before we begin, it is in no small part because of you both that we’re sitting here this afternoon. I wanted to thank you,” she looked at Montclair, ”both of you this time, for that.”
She paused before continuing. “Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, you’re both wondering two things, the first is why you’re here. And the second thing you’re wondering, gentlemen, is where in the hell is the Preside
nt of the Union?”
Montclair and Gregory sat in stunned silence, both savvy enough to be surprised but not show it. They waited for the first lady to continue, neither looking at the other.
The first lady took another sip of her coffee. “Both of you have previously been allowed into the deepest confidences of your government. I trust I don't have to reiterate this, but what is spoken in this room does not leave this room. The information I’m about to share with you is need-to-know. Do I make myself clear?”
“Of course, madam,” Montclair said.
“Of course,” Greg agreed.
“Good. Enough of that, then.” The first lady sighed. “As you are both aware, my Ulys is fond of his drink. Perhaps too fond.”
The first lady’s lip quivered. Montclair looked away while she took a moment and collected herself.
“When my husband last spoke with you, he was under a great deal of strain. The assassination of Jefferson Davis, traitorous turncoat though he was, almost resulted in renewed war with the Confederacy. The pressure drove Ulys to seek out the comforts of the bottle, but it was last year’s near destruction of Washington that finally sent him over the edge. And so for the past several months, I have secretly been running the country in his stead.”
Greg opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it. Montclair forgot himself and swore aloud in French.
“Apologies, madam,” he followed quickly.
“None necessary, Colonel. I feel much the same way.”
“Who else knows, madam?” Greg asked.
“Several members of the presidential guard, as well as a select few adjutants and aides. We dry Ulys out long enough to make public appearances. Then, we usher him back here to recover.” The first lady glanced at the ceiling above them, where Montclair presumed the president’s private chambers were located. “Even now, he lies upstairs in a drunken stupor.”