had been crying, Asia realized. “Oh,” she said, removing a silk handkerchief from her sleeve. “It is the wind. It is a blustery day.”
“It is,” Fitz agreed. “But the seaman tells me we should have the vessel in sight at any moment. I would have preferred meeting the president in Washington rather than taking this boat trip. There.” He examined her eyes as she slipped the handkerchief back into the cuff of her sleeve. “Still a bit red, but not teary-eyed.” He shifted his arm again, wincing. “I can’t seem to find a position that works.”
“Let me see,” Asia said, pulling the sling to one side with care.
“Asia,” Fitz whispered in alarm. He looked aft. “I can’t have you pawing after me where that fellow can see. It’s indecent.”
“Fitz. I’m well north of the equator. It’s evident you are in pain. Now quit bouncing about.”
“Of course I’m in pain,” Fitz said. “I’ve been shot. And the cold causes my arm to ache. And I’m sure that being on the water is of no help.”
She looked at him patiently. “Are you done, Colonel Dunaway? If so, kindly assist me by closing your mouth while I examine your wound.”
Fitz turned his head away, waiting as Asia delicately pulled the sling from his arm and eased the bandages to one side.
“You’re bleeding again.” She was trying to control her emotions, but it was obvious she was frightened.
“The surgeon said to expect—” he began, hoping he could convince her that her concern was unwarranted, but she cut him off.
“The bleeding has increased. It’s dark and thick.” She held up her hand, her eyes betraying fear. She removed her gloves, straightened the bandages, and withdrew her hands. Her fingers were smudged with blood—they were strangely vibrant under the muted shadow of the canvas awning.
Fitz shook his head, dismissing both her evidence and alarm. He pulled the bandages and sling back into place and was about to tell her it was nothing when he saw an island in the middle of the Potomac River.
“Good Lord,” he exclaimed, forgetting his wound. It was a ship, a double-turreted monitor—a long, black vessel that stretched halfway across the green river. An island all right, but one of rust-streaked iron and oak timbers as thick as a man’s body. Her two turrets, topped by conical canvas awnings that gave them the exotic look of Chinese pagodas, shared the low deck with a delicate platform of railings and ladders, wrapped around a squat smokestack. A column of brown smoke drifted from the stack, only to be snatched by the wind and carried across the river.
Fitz turned to Asia to find her as awed as he at the sight. “She is majestic,” Asia said.
“Only a woman would declare a warship thus,” Fitz said.
“Yet warships are always referred to as ‘she,’” Asia returned. “Why is that, my dear husband?”
“I refuse to answer, wife,” Fitz said. “I’m calculating.” He squinted, using the height of a nearby river bluff as a measuring stick. “She is two hundred to two hundred and fifty feet from end to end.”
“‘She,’” Asia said.
“We will come round to her starboard side,” the helmsman called out. “Kindly wait till we’re tied off before you board her.”
Fitz watched sailors moving into position as the faint commands of officers traveled over the choppy water. She was an island unto herself—a hunk of iron moored in the middle of the Potomac, several hundred seagulls swooping above her, chattering for attention. The Alchemist, Lincoln’s note had said. I will be aboard the navy’s newest acquisition—come see me immediately. I need you.
I need you. Lincoln’s words surfaced in Fitz’s mind as the steam launch approached the ironclad. Fitz’s response had been a muttered “Thank God.” He cherished his time with Asia, and his chest grew tight with pride when he introduced her to the many visitors to the boarding house as “my wife.” But he soon tired of the endless calls of politicians and well-wishers, and the silver salver mounded nearly to its rim with calling cards. “The Secretary of State visited this morning at 10:00 AM and would be pleased if Colonel and Mrs. Dunaway would accompany the Secretary and Miss Fanny Seward to the play this Friday night.” “The Honorable Thaddeus Stevens requests the presence of Colonel and Mrs. Dunaway at dinner the 14th inst. At 8:00 PM.”
It was all Lincoln’s doing. It was the president who gave Fitz his regiment and Mr. Lincoln who led the crowd to the Lossing Boarding House to inquire after Colonel Dunaway’s health. Fitz saw it well enough. People made a show of concern for him because the president had. Lincoln was sincere—the others were pleasant because they thought it required of them.
He loathed the social requirements of being a hero, partly because his wound troubled him, but mostly because he couldn’t stand people fawning over him. Then came Lincoln’s note—I need you. Thank God there was something to do besides listen to fat politicians spout platitudes.
Fitz felt Asia at his side as he read the note at their home on 20th Street. He sensed her reluctance. “I shall go and speak to him and that is that,” he said. He already knew of her fears.
“What if he sends you on a mission? Your health will not permit it.”
“The Washington cliff dwellers do not encourage me remaining,” Fitz said, and regretted it.
He began to suspect that marriage required a good husband to consider his words before he said them. No—that was unkind. Asia was frightened. It was a bad wound.
“My dear,” he said, finding that his love for Asia gave him patience and a surprising gentleness. “I must have something to occupy me. You have tended to my every need, and there is nowhere I would rather be than at your side, but I swear I will go mad if I don’t have at least a trifling duty to attend to.”
He folded the note, slipped it into his pocket, and took his wife’s hand, leading her to dinner.
The boat nestled against the hull of the ironclad, amidships, coming to rest alongside a rank of smartly uniformed sailors.
A burly officer extended an arm from the ironclad’s deck. “Your hand, Mrs. Dunaway.” He assisted Asia as she stepped from the launch to the iron deck and under the shadow of a canvas awning.
Fitz waved away the proffered hand, steadied himself, and made a short hop to the deck. The movement jarred his arm, and he clamped his eyes shut as waves of pain rolled over him. He opened them in time to return the deck officer’s salute. Asia’s hand slid into the crook of his right arm, and he felt her squeeze his forearm in reassurance. He hoped that she hadn’t seen how much pain he was in.
“The president is this way,” a heavily bearded officer said.
Fitz and Asia followed him, passing the massive forward turret, its iron plates pinned in place by rivets as large as a man’s fist. Two fifteen-inch cannon poked their ugly snouts from gun ports. Under a broad awning covering the forward section of the ship, they found President Lincoln in deep conversation with a naval officer. The president smiled when he saw them.
“Why here is Dunaway, and his lovely wife,” Lincoln said, striding forward, his broad hand seeking Fitz’s.
“Mr.
