may indeed,” Lincoln responded with a stiff bow. “This is Dahlgren.” The navy officer approached. He was thin, his face dark and covered with wrinkles, and he was impassive, Fitz noted—strangely like the vessel on whose deck they stood.
“Your wound, Dunaway?” Lincoln inquired.
“Healing well, sir,” Fitz said.
“Good, good,” Lincoln said. There was an awkward pause before he continued. “Dahlgren? Will you escort Mrs. Dunaway—”
“Mr. President,” Asia said, her interruption as seamless as if it had never happened. “I must inquire what you intend to do with my husband—”
“Asia, please,” Fitz said.
Her tone was playful, but there was an unyielding nature to it. “I am quite certain he is as valuable to me as he is to the country.”
Lincoln looked thoughtful. “Well, you’ve got me there.”
“So you will pardon me for insisting, respectfully, that wherever you dispatch my husband, so too must you send me.” Lincoln and Asia were smiling at one another. It was a contest skillfully cloaked in a light jest. Fitz was about to speak when Asia stopped him with a sharp look. “I have invested too much time in Colonel Dunaway’s recovery to see him jeopardize his life on a hazardous mission for you.” She settled herself and added, “I look ghastly in black.”
“God grant me the forbearance needed by all husbands,” Fitz said.
“No, no, Dunaway,” Lincoln conceded. “The lady’s right. You are valuable to me, but more so to Mrs. Dunaway. Although, I hope you don’t think me too bold to remark that any color would suit you.”
“Why, your excellency”—Asia smiled—“what a charming thing to say. Many men would be well served to take a lesson in flattery from you.” She shot a meaningful glance at Fitz. She was teasing him, and it pleased him. Lately she had fallen into dark moods—becoming pensive and reluctant. He assumed it was something he had done or said, and he grew sullen at her reluctance to answer his questions. Sparkling, he had once described her manner—her green eyes flashing, her soft features framed by auburn hair. Her quick wit, each barb accompanied by the ghost of a smile. But she had changed.
“Dahlgren,” Lincoln said. “Stay close by to see that I get everything just right. Colonel, have you ever been to Wilmington?”
“Delaware,” Dahlgren clarified. “The DuPont Works.”
“I have not,” Fitz said.
“The powder works,” Lincoln continued. “Mighty important to us. So important we got a regiment up there whose only job is to mind the place. Keep Confederate agents away.”
“They didn’t,” Dahlgren said.
“No,” Lincoln said, “they didn’t. They had an explosion up there the other night. Lost a quantity of powder, powder we can’t afford to lose, and several buildings. That’ll cut down on production. The folks at DuPont said they could make it up. They’ve got a place up in Pennsylvania. That’s their problem. My problem, and yours, Dunaway, is to find out what happened.”
“Are you sure it was the work of Confederate agents?” Fitz said.
“Pretty sure,” Lincoln said. “I’m not telling you all I know, Dunaway, because I want you to go up there with a clear mind. Talk to the DuPont people and the army folks up there and let me know what you find out. I hate to be mysterious, Dunaway, but you’ll have to trust me on this.”
“That powder was consigned to the navy,” Dahlgren said. “Powder is hard to come by, Colonel. We can’t afford to lose even an ounce of it. We’re sending our man to Wilmington.” He spoke as if he were in a hurry to be heard. Or, Fitz thought, to make sure that the navy was well represented in this endeavor. Perhaps he had little confidence in the army. “Phillip Abbott,” Dahlgren continued. “He’s one of the navy’s best men. You’ve heard of him, of course?”
It gave Fitz a hint of satisfaction to say, “No.”
Dahlgren was nonplussed at Fitz’s reply. “Brilliant man. Just brilliant. Master inventor. He is responsible for the improvements to Ericsson’s original design.”
“Indeed?” Fitz said. “Who is Ericsson?”
“Of Monitor fame,” Asia explained to Fitz. “Colonel Dunaway feels it best not to trouble his mind with surplus information.”
Fitz suppressed a smile. He missed her biting humor, even if it was directed at him.
“Our ironclad fleet,” Dahlgren said, “owes much to Professor Abbott. This vessel is a product of his. There is no subject the man cannot conquer. I am confident that his investigation will reveal the truth behind the DuPont incident.”
“Go up there, Colonel Dunaway.” Lincoln smiled at Asia. “In the company of your lovely wife, of course, and keep in touch by telegraph. I need to know what you learn. Wear the wires out, Colonel, no matter how insignificant the matter may seem.” He took Asia’s hand in his with all the affection of a father. “You must take care of our colonel, Mrs. Dunaway, but you must look after yourself as well.”
“I? Mr. Lincoln,” Asia said, surprised.
The tall man, towering over Asia, leaned close to her. “Something troubles you, Mrs. Dunaway. Remember that you must be your own best friend. I hate to see such lovely eyes filled with sadness.”
Chapter 3
The Laconte Theatre
Quebec City, British Canada
The audience exploded in applause as the curtain rose for the third encore. Shouts of bravo, magnificent, and brilliant delivered in a confused mixture of French and English showered the actors. They clasped hands. Othello, his dark skin glistening with sweat in the harsh footlights, radiated majesty. Desdemona, arrogant, her alabaster breasts swelling about her low-cut bodice, swept the first few rows for her next likely conquest. “Royal and Victoria January, the brightest stars in the galaxy of actors,” the critic of the New York Herald gushed. To others, the Januarys were devils.
“The finest swordsman the stage had ever seen,” John Wilkes Booth had taunted him. Booth was drunk, and he became a madman when he was drinking, surly and vindictive. He had followed Royal January and members of the company into a tavern just off Broadway one evening.
January, surrounded by his friends, had lifted his glass in return. “I’m glad that you recognize your betters, John. Now go away and let us celebrate our triumph.”
The insults were too much for John Wilkes Booth. “Better?” He staggered forward, his eyes flashing in rage. “You’re a charlatan, January. A rank amateur.” He kicked a table to one side as he advanced. Some of the actors stepped back.
“The handsomest man in America,” January had said. “Isn’t that what someone said of you? My how the drink has taken its toll. Your youth, ability.” He waited to gauge the impact of his words. “Tell me, John, can you still handle a sword? Or has yours been permanently sheathed?”
Booth had waved his cane at January like
