He felt suddenly as if he was alone in the ship, a joyous sensation, piloting it through the upper reaches of the sky. What waited ahead was forgotten for the moment, all of it washed away … and he was content.
“Andrew.”
The dream had been of long before, of Mary. Long before her betrayal, long before all the pain when it had all been so innocent, so fresh and alive, walking hand in hand along the shore. Even in the dream he had been cognizant of the fact that he had one day found Mary with another man while he was still in Maine, that Kathleen was the center of his life now, but still there was such a pleasure in seeing his first true love again in spite of all the pain she had given him. Kathleen’s gentle touch stirred him from the memory, and he felt a pang of guilt as he looked up into her worried eyes, as if afraid she could somehow sense what he had been dreaming.
“What time is it?” he whispered.
“Just before dawn.”
He heard a distant rattle of musketry and was instantly awake.
“What is it?”
“I was at the hospital in the church when it started, and came back here. I don’t know.”
Even as she helped him to get his trousers and jacket on he heard the hard clatter of hooves on the cobblestone pavement below his window, a rider reining in, the horse blowing hard, the messenger shouting to the guards at his door. He looked out the window and saw one of his staff, a young Roum lieutenant, another one of old Marcus’s innumerable “nephews,” leaping from the saddle and running up the steps of the front porch, to pound on the door below.
From the next room one of the twins stirred, crying softly, and Kathleen looked to Andrew. He nodded, and she left as he stepped out into the dim hallway and went down the stairs. He could see the shadow of the messenger beyond the glass panes of the door and called for him to enter. The boy came in, stiffly snapped to attention, and saluted, speaking so rapidly in Latin that Andrew had to motion for him to slow down.
“Sir. There’s gunfire in the Congress halls. It’s reported that the Speaker is dead and Bugarin has declared himself to be acting president.”
Andrew sighed wearily, leaning against the wall. Poor Flavius. Most likely went to meet Bugarin alone and died for it, he thought.
“Andrew!”
Emil came through the door, breathing hard.
“Andrew, they’ve taken the White House!”
“What? I was just there.” He paused, trying to remember. He had sat up with Kal till after midnight. The president was still drifting in and out of consciousness but apparently on the mend. But that was four hours ago.
“Well it was just stormed by some of the old boyars,” Emil gasped. “Bugarin’s proclaiming that he is president.”
“If Flavius is dead, then he is,” Andrew said quietly, staring off, eyes no longer focused on the messenger or Emil.
“What the hell do you mean?”
“Just that. The Constitution places Bugarin fourth in line of succession. The president is still incapacitated. Flavius wanted to avoid the crisis but not be declared acting president. Bugarin wants it, and with Flavius dead he has it.”
“And you’ll let him take it?”
Andrew said nothing.
“Andrew, at this very moment, that bastard’s most likely proclaiming an armistice, passing the order for the armies to stand down.”
“I know.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“Do? My God, Emil, what the hell have I been doing here for the last ten years? We didn’t want to be here. We didn’t want to get dragged into this war. Damn near all the men of our lost regiment have died in this godforsaken hellhole.”
He turned away and backed up to the staircase. “Kathleen, get the children up.”
“Why, Andrew?”
“We’re getting them out of here for the moment.”
He looked back at the young Roum staff officer.
“Get down to the office of Gates’s Weekly. Find Gates, let them know what’s happening, round up some men if you can to hold that position, and don’t let anyone you don’t know into this part of the city.”
He looked up to the top of the stairs where Kathleen was standing, ushering the children out of the bedroom.
“Take the children over to the armory of the Thirty-fifth. They’ll be safer there.”
“Where are you going?”
He reached over to the stand by the door and, taking his sword, clumsily snapped it on, reluctantly allowing Emil to help.
“I’m going to the White House.”
“Why, for God’s sake? Bugarin will kill you.”
Andrew shook his head.
“No. There’s too many old veterans still with him to allow that. We’re going to have a talk.”
“What?”
He paused, looking into his office, where framed over his desk were his two most prized possessions, his commissioning papers as colonel of volunteers, signed by Lincoln, and his Medal of Honor won at Gettysburg, presented by Lincoln as well. Going over to the display case he tore it open, taking out the medal, holding it reverently in his hands for a moment before clumsily pinning it on and heading out the door.
Several more men had come on horse, others were gathering in the town square that looked so strangely like a small piece of New England transported to this alien world.
One of his orderlies, as if reading Andrew’s mind, was leading Mercury out from the stable behind the house. Andrew mounted, Mercury moving easily beneath him, two old companions who had been together for over a decade. Word was spreading rapidly, and from the clapboard houses lining the square he could see the last few of his old companions who were in Suzdal coming out, Webster fumbling to button a uniform that was far too tight among them. From the northeast corner of the square a small detachment came into view, moving at the double … they were boys, cadets serving in the 35th Maine, which was now a training regiment, the West Point of the Republic, the boys too young to be pressed into action at the front. One of them proudly carried the regimental standard. Emil came up by Andrew’s side, having taken a horse from one of the couriers.
“Going to the White House now is madness, Andrew. If Bugarin has indeed seized the government, he’ll kill you on sight.”
Andrew felt a building rage.
Webster came running up, breathing hard.
“Is Kal all right?”
“We’re not sure,” Emil replied.
“Damn all, Andrew, this has gone too far. Seize control of the government now. The men will follow you!”
He delivered the last words with a rhetorical flourish that echoed across the plaza, and a cheer went up in response.
Andrew reined Mercury around hard, his steely gaze silencing the group. Turning, he headed toward the southeast corner of the square, saying nothing as Emil urged his Clydesdale-sized mount up beside him.
As Andrew rounded the corner onto the main street to the great plaza and the White House beyond, he saw that the street was already filling. He rode past the boarded-up theater, a tattered post hanging from the side billboard announcing a performance of King Lear. It caught his attention for a moment, the strangeness of watching Shakespeare performed in Russian on this alien world. The Roum soldiers stationed in Suzdal had been fascinated by Julius Caesar, since the real Caesar was from a time on Earth long after their ancestors had been swept to this world. He remembered as well a final night just before the start of the Merki War and the performance of Henry V.
He rode past, following the broad open boulevard flanked on both sides by ornately carved log buildings three and four stories high, the few older ones that had survived the fires and wars still adorned with gargoylelike images of Tugars. The crowd moved uneasily as he passed; there were no cheers today. Nor was there anger … rather it seemed to be an exhaustion of spirit and soul. It was easy to spot veterans, for nearly everyone was very old, very young, or female, veterans standing out as men on crutches or with empty sleeves. Those that could came to attention and saluted as he passed, but he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.