Andrew sat back, forcing himself to compose his features, to not show shock or anger.
“And this news comes from the son of a traitor,” Pat cried, coming back to his feet.
“Pat!”
“It’s a damnable lie.”
“Pat, there’s no purpose to him telling us this if it was a lie.”
“It’s to cover his own tracks, to cover leaving Sean behind.”
“If he’d done that, it would have been best to say nothing at all.”
Throughout the exchange Richard remained impassive, even though Pat was within striking distance, hand half raised.
“Mr. Cromwell,” Andrew asked, his voice hard, “why did you not communicate to Admiral Bullfinch, or to anyone else, that there was another survivor? Why did you wait till now?”
Richard lowered his head slightly. “Sir, I felt I should first tell this to Senator O’Donald. That it was better to hear it straight from me first rather than read it in Gates’s paper.”
Richard looked back up at Pat.
“I’m sorry, sir. I thought about saying nothing at all, but in the end I figured it was best to let you know that at least your son is alive. I’d like to think that in his own way he is following an honorable path, that he hopes in the end to help somehow.
“And, sir, no one other than the three of us knows of this. I swear that to you, and frankly, I would prefer if it stayed here and was never spoken of again.”
Pat looked stricken, features so pale that Andrew thought for a moment that his friend was about to collapse. Pat sat down heavily.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Pat held his hand up, motioning for him to say no more.
“Mr. Cromwell, I think you need a good rest.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, I am rather tired. It was impossible to sleep on the train.”
“You’re staying here in the White House tonight. My wife is just down the hallway. Tell her that I want you to have a decent meal and a good night’s sleep. She’ll see that the staff takes good care of you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You are to share with no one what we’ve discussed here. I’ll ask as well that after you have your dinner, you remain in your room. I don’t want other folks, particularly some congressmen visiting tonight, to see you. Someone might recognize you and questions will start to fly.”
“Sir, believe me, I plan to be asleep within the hour.” Andrew offered the slightest of smiles. If not for Pat’s presence, he would come around the desk to shake Cromwell’s hand.
“Go get some rest, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Cromwell stood up, put on his cap, and formally saluted. He started to turn but then stopped, looking at Pat.
“Sir, about Sean. He was a good officer. I think in his own way he still is.”
Pat lowered his head, saying nothing.
As the door closed behind Cromwell, Andrew looked over at Pat.
“Merciful God, Andrew. Do you believe him?”
“ ‘For I alone have lived to tell thee all,’ ” Andrew whispered.
“What?”
“Moby Dick.”
“What the hell is that? It sounds awful.”
“Never mind.”
Andrew walked over and opened the window facing the main plaza of the city. A gust of hot air swept in, dry, not comforting at all. The Great Square of Suzdal lay below, teeming with activity, merchants from across all the states of the Republic hawking their goods from open-air booths. In the far comer, under the sign of the Cannon Tavern, brokers from the stock market were gathered in their traditional summer location, waving their arms in some unintelligible manner, each movement a signal as to whether they were buying or selling shares and at what price. A procession of Rus monks was making its way into the great cathedral for the mid-aftemoon service, followed as always by a cluster of old women wearing black shawls. More than one of them were widows from the Great War, still mourning twenty years later.
All this activity seemed so ordinary, so peaceful, that he wondered if anyone would actually remember this particular day. For that was the nature of peace, he realized, to become commonplace, quiet, unassuming in its passage of days that slipped gently into years and lifetimes.
“I don’t believe him,” Pat announced sharply.
“I have to.”
“Damn it, Andrew, my son, did you hear what he said about my boy?”
Andrew looked back at his oldest friend, feeling the anguish churning within Pat. “Yes, I heard what he said about Sean. I don’t want to believe it, Pat. Perhaps he is wrong. Regardless of that, though, I have to believe everything else he said. To do otherwise is pure folly.”
Pat drew closer, putting his hand on Andrew’s shoulder, and Andrew was surprised to see tears in his comrade’s eyes.
“I made a mess of things, I did, Andrew. I should have married the girl, helped to raise the boy. But the army, Andrew…” and he fell silent.
Andrew offered no response, the excuse so obvious.
“No. Damn my soul, I didn’t want to be tied up. For that matter, I wasn’t even sure at times if the boy was mine.”
Andrew started to voice an angry response, but remained silent.
“The boy’s my blood, it was as plain as day.” He turned away, covering his face.
Andrew left him alone for the moment. So much about his friend he loved without reservation-his unflinching courage, his bravado, his ability to counter the melancholy that would often creep up in his own soul, ready to seize control. After the defeat by the Merki, and especially after he was wounded at Capua, it was Pat who had applied the steady hand and stirred the fires once again.
Because of that he felt, if not acceptance, at least a tolerance for Pat’s mistakes. After the war, with no focus, no next battle calling, he had made a mess of his life, turning to drink as more than one veteran had, and to women. But Livia had been special, and now he would be forever haunted for his mistake in not realizing that, and not taking his son into his heart from the beginning.
Pat noisily blew his nose, wiping his tears away with a dirty handkerchief, and looked back at Andrew. “You must consider who that young man is, Andrew.” He nodded to the door that had closed on Richard.
“What’s that?”
“The son of Tobias Cromwell.”
“So?” he said, a touch of warning in his voice. He had endlessly preached across the years the ideal that in a Republic the sins or the greatness of a father did not affect how the son should be treated. As in the Constitution of the first Republic he had lived in, Andrew had written in an article forbidding the denial of rights to a citizen regardless of what crimes his father had committed. The acceptance of Richard Cromwell into the academy had been a test of that resolve.
Pat was silent, and Andrew could see clearly that more than one would raise the question, especially when word spread of the accusation against Sean O’Donald. The son of a traitor coming back with a fanciful tale of an invasion, capped with an accusation against the son of a senator, was more than many would accept.
“Pat, we have to focus on our duty first.”
Pat nodded, looking absently out the window. The cathedral bell tolled, announcing the start of mid-afternoon services. The mingling of half a dozen languages drifted up from the plaza. Andrew sat back down behind his desk.
Turning in his swivel chair, he looked at the display case behind him, which contained a presentation sword from the men of the 35th Maine, given after Gettysburg, his Medal of Honor and the commissioning papers signed personally by Lincoln.
In the wavy glass of the display case, he could dimly see his reflection, It was hard to believe that that image was actually himself. The graying beard, the furrows across the brow, the receding hair, the thin narrow face, he almost looked like Lincoln.
He absently rubbed his empty sleeve. For a moment the “ghost arm” was alive, itching uncomfortably.
Back home, Lincoln was most likely long gone now. I’d give most anything to be back there, if only for a moment, to know what happened, to know how the war there ended, to know if the nation had healed, to find out about old friends, who undoubtedly number me amongst the dead.