Cold Glory

by B. Kent Anderson

  The details of Five Forks, Petersburg, and Appomattox are well known, as is the outcome of the war. Hiram had proceeded to draw up a device by way of explaining the circumstances under which the Glory Warriors would act, and how they would act at such time. He brought the papers to Appomattox on the day I received Lee’s surrender.

  General Lee and I met Hiram in the McLean home. Lee and I affixed our signatures to the device Hiram had made, with all its implications. Hiram had even created a great seal for the Glory Warriors, which was embossed into the first page of the device. He had additional copies for General Lee and myself. Hiram had clearly expended much thought on the design—Union and Confederate swords crossed at their points, a single star between them to represent unity of purpose, and the most arresting image of all, the American eagle depicted in red, a symbol of the blood that had been shed throughout this land. I saved this seal, have retained it through the intervening years, and have attached it to these pages. It has been a stark remembrance of those final days of the war.

  Likewise Hiram had established a relationship with a New York City jeweler by the name of Detheridge, who began to craft a series of gold insignia, by which the Glory Warriors would identify each other, wherever they might be found. I witnessed Hiram wearing one of the insignia for the first time that day at Appomattox.

  We sent Hiram on his way west, and as he departed, before the staffs were allowed in to witness the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia, I said to Lee, “I do not trust him,” to which General Lee made the reply, “Nor do I, General. But what choice have we? We have made this bargain with him. We do not know what will occur after today.”

  I informed General Lee of my orders on the matter of “Edward Hiram.” General Lee was a pious man, and he took a moment of prayer yet again, then said, “God forgive us.”

  It is an irony, is it not, that in war I ordered many thousands of men into situations of almost certain death—the debacle of Cold Harbor still weighs upon me—and yet I am more greatly burdened by the fact that I ordered one single man—a man not even under my command—to be put to death. For, in the end, I believe that this man “Hiram,” though creating an idea that may indeed have had merit in its time, was himself as unstable as what he foresaw for the government.

  The brothers from Missouri were under orders to detain “Hiram” when he arrived, to receive the device General Lee and I had signed, to secure it with the weaponry, and to remove “Hiram.”

  May God forgive me. As I will meet Him soon, I confess that I face the prospect with some amount of trepidation.

  CHAPTER

  60

  Journey pictured Ulysses S. Grant, dying of throat cancer and in excruciating pain, wrapped in a blanket in the summer of 1885, twenty years after the events he related, sitting on the back porch of the home in Mount McGregor, New York, scratching out these words.

  Only then the general had reconsidered, thinking that perhaps the country might not be well served by knowing about the Glory Warriors, about what he and Robert E. Lee and “Edward Hiram” had done from fear of what would follow the Civil War.

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?” the Judge remarked. “And quite clear what Grant and Lee intended.”

  Journey looked up. He’d almost forgotten where he was, and that right here, right now, were modern-day Glory Warriors who had twisted Grant and Lee’s vision. He felt in his pocket and touched the page J. T. Webster had faxed. A strong wind gust came up from the south, and he felt it on his face.

  “Is it?” Journey said.

  “Come now, Professor, you’ve read the pages. The document the generals signed has the weight of treaty. ‘To supersede all others,’ as the first page says, and the Lieber Code adds further weight to it. I do know a thing or two about the law.”

  Journey stared at the old man. “And you’ve been looking for these pages all these years. A pity Grant didn’t help you along by mentioning where on the frontier the guns were being stored … where they sent Williams.”

  “It would have made our lives considerably easier,” the Judge said. “But General Grant, of course, was too clever to give away details, even in a memoir written twenty years after the fact. The ‘frontier’ could have been anywhere from Texas to California. We searched for decades.” He swept his hand around. “And this small, obscure little piece of Indian Territory held the answers for all this time. Grant and Lee were remarkably visionary.”

  Tolman was still looking at the pages Journey held. “The two brothers killed Williams after he got here.”

  “And the local Indian they’d hired to be his guide buried him here,” Journey said. “That has to be what happened. The Chickasaw were peaceful people. They were farmers. When the Civil War broke out, their people were building schools and farms and becoming merchants and teachers. They would have thought it dishonorable that Williams was shot down like that.”

  “And you have led us here to tell us that the page with Grant and Lee’s signatures was buried with him,” the Judge said.

  “He gave the brothers the document,” Journey said, “but he didn’t give them all of it. We know that now. He sensed that Grant and Lee didn’t trust him—maybe he even knew he was going to be killed when he delivered the document. So he broke it up into three pieces. But the brothers couldn’t have known that. They were supposed to ‘secure’ the document. They took what Williams gave them, and then they killed him, ripped off the G.W. pin to conceal Williams’s identity, and to keep it safe, they buried all of it alongside the guns in a copper-coated tin box to protect it against the elements.”

  Hudson nodded, speaking for the first time since the Judge had handed Journey the pages. “But they didn’t realize the document was incomplete.”

  “Maybe Williams gave it to the Chickasaw guide before he died,” Tolman said, “and he buried all of Williams’s property with him.”

  “There’s no way to know,” Journey said. “There’s also no way to know what kind of shape it’s in. Just because the first page was buried in an airtight metal box, there’s no guarantee about this one.”

  The Judge’s face darkened. “It’s time to find out,” he said.

  * * *

  Dallas One Silver lay prone behind a two-foot-high cenotaph at the edge of the old post cemetery. The tomb was brick, topped by stone, and a sign before it read CENOTAPH OF GEN. W. M. BELKNAP, DIED 10 NOV 1851. The monument concealed Silver perfectly, and he was able to peek from behind it and take aim at the other side of the Chickasaw burial ground.

  He checked positions with his team members: Gold was in the restored South Barracks, closer to the highway, on the second floor, taking the high ground. Bronze was at the guardhouse, covering the fort’s main entry.

  Silver was under orders not to act until Journey had given the Judge the papers. But now the Judge had just given Journey some papers and watched while Journey and the woman read them.

  He edged his finger off the trigger of the H&K assault pistol, still holding his position. He had a clear shot at Nick Journey’s head, but he knew he could not shoot. Not yet. When the time came, Kevin Lane would make sure Journey knew he was paying the price for the death of Dallas One Gold—Michael Standridge. Michael’s death would not go unpunished. Silver would see justice done when he killed Nick Journey. He couldn’t wait.

  * * *

  “Mr. Hudson, the gun,” the Judge said, and Hudson handed him the SIG. “I’m an old man, but I still know how to handle a pistol. Mr. Hudson, you and Dr. Journey will lift the coffin out and open it.”

  Hudson and Journey stepped over the low rock wall to the side of the open grave. The coffin was crude, a few simple, unvarnished slabs of wood nailed together, and the effects of the shallow grave and nearly a century and a half of the elements had rotted the wood almost to the consistency of paper.

  Hudson kicked some dirt to one side and bent at the far end, while Journey reached for the end closest to the wall.

  “That’s right,” the Judge said.
He gestured for Tolman to walk in front of him, and together they moved to the edge of the wall, standing just outside it.

  Journey and Hudson wrapped their hands around the coffin and began to lift. As soon as they touched it, some of the rotting wood at the sides fell away. Hudson jumped, dropping his end, and as it crashed back into the earth, the other side and ends splintered apart.

  “Open the top,” the Judge said. “Pull the boards off and open it.”

  Journey stepped to one side and pulled at one of the top pieces of wood. It came off in his hand and he put it aside, then stared down at the skeleton of Samuel Williams.

  The bones were gray. Clods of clay adhered to the ribs, the neck, the head. There was no clothing, the fabric having long since decomposed, but Journey saw three buttons on the bottom of the coffin. Brass, he suspected. Brass buttons from the coat of a wealthy banker.

  He ran his hands along the sides of the coffin, even touched the arm and leg bones. More of the wood flaked away under his touch. “Oh my God,” Journey whispered. His face contorted, he bowed his head and placed it in his hands.

  “What?” Tolman said. “Nick, what?”

  “The page!” the Judge demanded.

  Journey looked up at the Judge. “It’s not here. The signature page is gone.”

  CHAPTER

  61

  Washington Three alternated his gaze between the podium in front of the Anacostia Community Center and the vacant house across the street. He was in the V of the trunk of a towering oak tree at the edge of the community center. The branches drooped both onto the community center property and the house next door, but there was enough of a break in the leaves for him to have a clear line of sight to the spot where President James Harwell’s head would be in a few seconds.

  But he needed the diversion that the rifle in the vacant house would bring. He needed panic in the few moments before he took his shot. He needed the window of those few seconds when Jay Clare called “Gun!” and all heads turned across the street, before the president was mobbed by DeBacker and Alley and the other agents who were on duty within a few feet of Harwell. The timing had to be precise, and he would be down and running toward Clare and the vacant house along with everyone else, his pistol drawn and ready.

  Still, there was no movement from the old house. He saw Clare go inside, but nothing happened. He’d calculated it exactly—he knew how long it would take his fellow agent to climb the stairs, find the rifle by the window, and sound the alarm.

  Harwell was ascending the steps to the podium, shaking hands with the community center’s executive director, the ward’s city councilman, a couple of HUD officials, in all half a dozen or so people who would be on the podium.

  Three glanced back to the house. Nothing. What the hell had happened to Clare?

  Several wild thoughts rolled through him: one of the local drug dealers could have wandered into the house after he put the rifle there last night, and taken it home as a prize. But no, the neighborhood was locked down. No one without the proper ID could get in or out of a three-block radius. Maybe Clare hadn’t gone straight upstairs; maybe he was doing a final downstairs sweep, just to be thorough. In which case, all Three had to do was be patient for a few more seconds.…

  He didn’t have a few more seconds. The city councilman was at the microphone, talking to the assembled crowd and media. Three scanned the street, watching the invited crowd, recognizing the Service people sprinkled throughout.

  “Damn,” Three whispered. He couldn’t wait any longer. Without the diversion, his risks had just increased. But the window was closing. He had to take his shot.

  President Harwell stepped toward the microphone.

  * * *

  Washington One never took his eyes off the TV screen, watching James Harwell’s last moments unfold in Anacostia. The reports from the field had been coming in steadily, by phone, by text, by Web. The invasion force was not overwhelming in numbers, but it was equipped well, and the Glory Warriors had the advantage of the chaos that was about to erupt.

  Then the Judge would step into the panic and fear and confusion with his commanding presence on television, on radio, the Web. He would explain what was happening. He would be a voice of reason amongst the clamoring masses. He would have the documents in his hands—the pages signed by two of the most towering figures in American history.

  The regional bases would move their forces into the streets of the cities to keep order. The second wave would roll into D.C. from the Blue Ridge Mountains and start taking the representatives of the old government into custody.

  Washington One watched Harwell on the TV. The president was about to speak.

  “Do it,” Washington One whispered.

  * * *

  Ray Tolman emerged into the street three houses down from where he had left Clare, Moore, and the rifle. He stood still for five seconds, watching the tree. He saw the leaves move a little, and a momentary flash of color.

  He sighed. His initial theory was wrong—it wasn’t Clare, the guy with the high blood pressure and sleep problems, but Delham, the one with the reputation as a smart-ass.

  Always watch out for the smart-ass, Ray Tolman thought; then he broke into a jog toward the opposite sidewalk.

  The president was at the microphone. People were applauding, Harwell was smiling, picking out faces in the crowd and pointing to them with the classic politician’s Good to see you, glad you came! gesture. The leaves in the tree moved again. Tolman ran faster.

  * * *

  Washington Three glanced once more at the house. He saw no movement. No heads were turned. The block was calm. John Canton would be pleased at how smoothly the event was going.

  He was out of time.

  He nudged his finger onto the trigger. The pistol was good up to 150 yards, and the tree was a little over half that far from where the president stood. Three knew the exact distance—he’d walked it off yesterday, right in front of all his colleagues.

  “Boy, did you fuck up, Delham.”

  Washington Three jerked at the voice below him.

  “You shouldn’t have asked for a change in the duty roster at the last minute. You should have left the tree to the uniforms. I know Canton was pleased that an agent of your experience was willing to climb the tree at an event like this, but hey … these things get noticed.”

  The nose of Three’s pistol dropped half an inch.

  “And your friend Clare? That was a shitty thing to do to him, to try to get me to think he was the Glory Warrior.” He bit down hard on the last two words.

  Timothy Delham looked down at the face of Ray Tolman, and the automatic pistol aimed at his head.

  “I have a better shot than you do,” Tolman said. “Want me to take my shot? No? Then you’re going to very slowly climb down to the next branch and you’re going to give me the weapon, butt first. I may be old, but I don’t miss at this range.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You’re going to come down or I’m going to blow your fucking head off,” Ray Tolman said. “You’re going to come down and then we’re going to talk. We’re going to talk about your Glory Warriors and treason and murder. But first things first—get your ass down from there. Now move. Nice and slow.”

  The failure seared through Washington Three. For a moment, he thought of swinging the pistol around, shooting down through the leaves at Tolman, then going back to the president. But as soon as he shot Tolman, the president would be covered and he would never get to take the shot at Harwell.

  He slid his leg down to the next limb. His shot was gone. He would never be able to take it.

  “One branch at a time,” Ray Tolman said.

  Washington Three inched a little farther down. Ray Tolman was speaking again, the gun never wavering. “And the whole gun-in-the-mouth thing is not some noble, honorable act,” Tolman said. “I know you’re thinking about it. At this point, you have a little possibility of redemption. If you eat your gun right now, all you’ll ever be wa
s the guy who was going to sell out his country, but failed and couldn’t even do that right. If you talk to me, the world might have a little different take on who and what you are.”

  Washington Three looked down at him, saw the man’s eyes.

  “Come on,” Ray Tolman said. “Time to go.”

  Timothy Delham climbed down from the tree and handed Ray Tolman his gun.

  “Now,” Tolman said. “Now we’re going to talk.”

  CHAPTER

  62

  The Judge extended the gun in front of him, as far as his arms would go. “You’re lying,” he said.

  Journey whipped around to face him as another wind gust stirred the dirt around them. “Look for yourself! Go ahead, McMartin! The damn thing’s not there!”

  “Hudson,” Jackson McMartin said.

  Hudson bent his bulk down and repeated Journey’s movements, taking care not to touch the bones, averting his eyes from the head, and holding his breath. “There’s no paper here,” he said.

  “Where is it?” McMartin demanded.

  “It’s not here?” Tolman said. “Jesus Christ, Nick, it’s not here?”

  “I must have those signatures,” McMartin said. “You’ve hidden them somewhere.”

  “Where?” Journey shouted into the wind. “Where would I have hidden them?” He pointed toward the grave. “Look at this, McMartin! This is where Williams fell. Those brothers from Missouri killed Williams after he got here. Maybe the guide took the page, maybe one of the brothers took it, maybe Williams was on a steamboat on the Mississippi River before he ever got here and a pickpocket grabbed it from him! What more do you want? It’s gone!”

  Tolman inched a few steps toward the corner of the rock wall. She kept her eyes on Hudson—he was staring into the hole, at the bones of Samuel Williams. Two more steps, three. She saw the handle of the shovel on the ground, protruding from the edge of the wall.