“The briefest of them, I’d hazard,” I said, keeping my patience masterfully. “The quote from Revelations.”
He sighed and sat back in his chair. “I did read that one, as it happens. I was just asking myself which of my cabinet members could have forwarded me such a sterling specimen of the poet’s art.”
“Respectfully, Mr. President, I hade ample reason to forward it.”
He repositioned the handkerchief across his face. “Go on then, Mr. Secretary. Read it aloud.”
I took the letter from the heap in front of him and, bringing it close to my eyes, as I was without my enlarging lenses, read—:
A PROCLAMATION FROM THE LOWLY
TO THE PALACE OF THE PROUD.
REVELATIONS 13: 6 —
AND THEY WORSHIPPED THE DRAGON WHICH GAVE POWER TO THE BEAST. AND THEY WORSHIPPED THE BEAST, SAYING, WHO IS LIKE UNTO THE BEAST? WHO IS ABLE TO MAKE WAR WITH HIM?
AND IT IS GIVEN TO HIM TO MAKE WAR WITH THE SAINTS, AND TO OVERCOME THEM: AND POWER WAS GIVEN HIM OVER ALL KINDREDS, AND NATIONS, AND OVER ALL TONGUES.
WHOEVER HAS EARS TO HEAR, LET HIM.
I let the paper fall flutteringly to the desk-top, and waited in silence for him to hand down a tablet from on high.
He said nothing for a time. I suppose that he was weighing matters to himself. “From our friend, I presume?”
“It would seem to have that flavor.”
“He doesn’t have his scripture right, I think.”
“That’s just the flavor I was referring to, sir.”
He chortled at this. His breath made the handkerchief furl and flutter. “Well, Mr. Seward? What do you make of his latest?”
“He doesn’t seem too pleased with the bi-partisan nature of the new commission,” I said, keeping my expression grave.
“Damn right of him. He shouldn’t be.” The Butternut gave a grunt of satisfaction. “They tell me there was a moment of silence in certain gentlemen’s clubs in this city, when news of our commission got round to them.”
“I hadn’t heard that, sir.”
“I can very well imagine, Mr. Secretary, that our friend wouldn’t be too pleased.”
I cleared my throat. “We expected no less, it’s true—”
“You needn’t have sent me this scrap of fol-de-rol at all, in fact. We expect to do quite a bit more than upset Mr. Murel, with the cooperation of our colleagues in the down-river states.” He gathered the handkerchief up in his fist. “I have great faith in this project, as you well know, to heal our legislature’s wounds.”
I allowed him perhaps ten seconds of complacency. Then I said—: “There were circumstances to the receipt of this letter, Mr. President, that convinced me to send it along to you.”
Another grunt, this time of exasperation. “Well? What in Moses were they?”
“The letter did not come to us through the post,” I said carefully.
“Not by post?” He was looking at me curiously now, snot-rag a crumple in his right hand, his wood-cutter’s features mustering into a frown. “Was it brought to you on mule-back? By carrier-pigeon? How?”
He waited impatiently for my reply, and I took my sweet time framing it. I confess I savored the occasion not a little.
“You’ll observe, Mr. President, that there is no stamp — indeed, no marking of any kind — on the exterior. The letter came to me in a cover of cream-colored araby paper, the sort our own memoranda are printed on.”
I allowed this clutch of details a moment to take roost in the topmost membrane of his mind, before pre-empting the question that was just then forming on his tongue—:
“That’s right, sir. This letter was — if not written, then at the very least transcribed — by a member of our own staff.”
“Huh!” said the Butternut. He looked me over for a time. Lloyd Harris ducked his head in — apprehensively, it seemed to me — and the Butternut waved him dourly away. At length he heaved a sigh and spoke.
“Mr. Seward, I know that you are embittered at having been passed over for the nomination, and that you accepted your secretaryship only under protest. I’m acquainted, furthermore, with the assortment of nick-names you’ve bestowed upon me. I know all this—; and I begrudge you none of it.”
I bowed to him politely. “That’s gracious of you, sir.”
“But if I ever came to believe that you were involved in— flirtations, of any kind whatsoever, with these god-forsaken nigger-mongers—”
“Quite so, Mr. President,” I said, cutting him short. “I should expect a swift and righteous punishment to follow. I thank Providence each day — to be frank with you, sir — that I have never been so tempted.”
I bowed a second time, paying his consternation no mind, and shuffled out of the room, bowing a third time from the corridor, like a mandarin at the Imperial Court of Han. Harris — waiting just outside — looked on in amazement. Let the Butternut think what he likes, I thought. I haven’t felt so light of heart in ages.
Ambling back to my office, replaying the scene in my mind, I murmured a quiet thanks to that lunatic midget and all of his doomed confederates. I entreated that the Lord might have mercy on them, insofar as it was feasible—; I was confident that their countrymen would not.
Leaded Glass
THE WAR CAME TO ME IN STOCKINGED FEET, says Clementine.
I’d been on 37 less than a week when the guns fired on Fort Sumter. It was the R— himself brought me the news. I was sitting in the room they had put me in, staring up at the rafters. The room had only one window and it was too high to see out of. The R— came in with Kennedy and bowed to me. “You should have kept your appointment with me, Clementine,” he said. “You hurt me by your disappearance. And with Virgil Ball, no less.”
“My appointment with you was the half the reason I left,” I said. “You turn my guts.”
“Yes.” He sighed.
I looked up at the rafters.
“We seem to be at war,” he said after a moment. “Our nation.”
“Who with?”
His face furrowed. “With ourselves, Miss Gilchrist, as I understand it.”
I raised my eyes to his. I wanted to hurt him, to shame him with my look. I could feel the babe kicking and twisting inside me though it was too early yet by half. I’ve known for twenty days, I reminded myself, keeping my eyes on the R—. For twenty days I have been a family.
“Where’s Virgil?” I asked. I asked this every day.
The R— only smiled.
“Gone,” said Kennedy. He came and squatted at my feet, meaning to frighten me. “Gone as last week. Gone as he can be.”
I spat onto the floor. I’d meant to hit him on the cheek.
“Mr. Kennedy doesn’t mean to pain you, Clem,” the R— said. His voice was mild as honey. It slid across me like a fiddle-bow and stilled the feeling of the babe, the feeling of too soon. In spite of myself I wanted that damn bow to keep on fiddling.
“Clem,” said the R—, “Virgil is away on business. Virgil is away and I can’t say, exactly, when he will return. Until that time you must think of us — Mr. Kennedy and myself — not only as your servants, but as your kin.”
“I have all the kin I need,” I said. I cursed him levelly, my eyes never straying from his own. I cursed old Tesla for letting Harvey come and take me. I cursed Goodman Harvey for his trickery. Then I cursed the R— again, louder and leveler than before.
“Speak ill of me if you must,” the R— said. “But don’t speak ill of Mr. Tesla. He treated you generously, I believe.”