“I can’t think of anything more unusual.”
“Good. Why then you’ll find a stone crock of the best corn in that wardrobe thing in my room…”
“Good as done.”
As Sherman stood up there was a quick knock on the door. He let the doctor in — a gray-haired major with years of field experience — before heading off to find the crock. While he was away, the surgeon, with a skill born of battlefield practice, found the bullet and extracted it. Along with a patch of coat and shirt material that had been carried into the wound by the ball. He was just finishing up rebandaging the wound when Sherman returned with the stone jug and two glasses.
“Bone’s bruised, but not broken,” the surgeon said. “The wound is clean; I’m binding it up in its own blood. There should be no complications.” As soon as the doctor let himself out, Sherman poured two full glasses from the crock.
Grant sighed deeply as he emptied his glass; color quickly returned to his gray cheeks.
The President and Ambassador Pierce came in just as he was finishing a second tumbler; Pierce was flustered and sweating profusely. Lincoln was his usual calm self.
“I hope that you feel as well as you look, General Grant. I greatly feared for you,” he said.
“I’m not making light of it, Mr. President, but I’ve been shot a lot worse before. And the doctor here says it will heal fast. I’m sorry to ruin the party.”
“You saved my life,” Lincoln said, his voice filled with deep emotion, “for which I will be ever grateful.”
“Any soldier would have done the same, sir. It is our duty.”
Suddenly very weary, Lincoln sat down heavily on the bench by the bed. “Did you get off that message?” he asked, turning to Pierce.
“I did, sir. On your official stationery. Explaining to King Leopold just what happened. A messenger took it. But I wondered, Mr. President: Would you like to send another message explaining that you won’t be able to attend the reception tonight at the Palais du Roi?”
“Nonsense. General Grant may be indisposed, but he, and General Sherman, have seen to it that I am fit as a fiddle. This entire unhappy affair must have a satisfactory end. We must show them that Americans are made of sterner stuff. This attempt at assassination must not be allowed to deter us, to prevent us from accomplishing our mission here.”
“If we are going to the reception, may I ask a favor, sir?” Sherman said. “Since General Grant will not be able to attend, I would like to ask General Meagher to go in his place. He is not due to return to Ireland until tomorrow.”
“An excellent idea. I am sure that no assassins will lurk in the palace. But after this morning I admit I will feel that much more comfortable with you officers in blue at my side.”
Sherman remained with Grant once the others had left. The two generals shared a bit more of the corn likker. After years of heavy drinking, Grant had given it up when he resumed his military career. He was no longer used to the ardent spirit. His eyes soon closed and he was asleep. Sherman let himself out and the infantry captain stationed in the hall outside snapped to attention.
“General Grant, sir. May I ask how he is doing?”
“Well, very well indeed. A simple flesh wound and the ball removed. Has there been no official statement?”
“Of course, General. Mr. Fox read it out to us — I had one of my men bring a copy to the palace. But it was quite brief and just said that there had been an attempt on the President’s life and that General Grant was wounded in the attempt. The attacker was killed before he could fire again. That’s all it said.”
“I believe that is enough.”
The captain took a deep breath and looked around before he spoke again in a lowered voice. “The rumor is you took him with your sword, General. A single thrust through the heart…”
Sherman ought to have been angry with the man; he smiled instead. “For once a rumor is true, Captain.”
“Well done, sir, well done!”
Sherman waved away the man’s heartfelt congratulations. Turned and went to his room. Always after combat he was dry-mouthed with thirst. He drank glass after glass of water from the carafe on the side table. It had been a close-run thing. He would never forget the sight of Booth pushing forward between the soldiers, the black revolver coming up. But it was all over. The threat had been removed; the only casualty had been Grant being injured and left with a badly wounded arm. It could have been a lot worse.
That night a closed carriage was sent for the American party. And, not by chance, it was surrounded by a troop of cavalry as it made its way across the Grande Place and past the Hôtel de Ville. They drew up before the Palais du Roi. The two generals exited first, walking close beside the President as they climbed the red-carpeted steps; Pierce followed behind. Once they were inside, Pierce hurried ahead of the rest of the American party as they entered the hall, whispered urgently to the majordomo who was to announce them. There was a moment of silence when Lincoln’s name was called out; all eyes were upon him in the crowded hall. Then there was a quick flutter of clapping and then the buzz of conversation was resumed. A waiter with a tray of champagne glasses approached them as they entered the large reception room. All of the other brilliantly clad guests seemed to be holding a glass, so the Americans followed suit.
“Weak stuff,” General Meagher muttered, draining his glass and trying to see if the waiter was about with another.
Lincoln smiled and just touched the glass to his lips as he looked around. “Now, see the large man in that group of officers over there; I do believe that is someone I have met before.” He nodded in the direction of the imposing, red-faced man, dressed in an ornate pink uniform, who was pushing through the crowd toward them. Three other uniformed officers were close behind him. “I do believe that he is a Russian admiral with a name I have completely forgotten.”
“You are president, we meet once in your Washington City,” the admiral said, stopping before Lincoln as he seized his hand in his own immense paw. “I am Admiral Paul S. Makhimov, you remember. You people they sink plenty British ships, then they kill British soldiers… very good! These my staff.”
The three accompanying officers clicked their heels and bowed as one. Lincoln smiled and managed to extricate his hand from the admiral’s clasp.
“But that war is over, Admiral,” he said. “Like the Russians, the Americans are now at peace with the world.”
As the President spoke, one of the Russian officers came forward and extended his hand to Sherman, who had, perforce, to take it.
“You must be congratulated, General Sherman, on a brilliant and victorious campaign,” he said in perfect English.
“Thank you — but I’m afraid that I didn’t catch your name.”
“Captain Alexander Igoreivich Korzhenevski,” the officer said, releasing Sherman’s hand and bowing yet again. While his head was lowered he spoke softly so that only General Sherman could hear him. “I must meet with you in private.”
He straightened up and smiled, white teeth standing out against his black beard.
Sherman had no idea what this was about — though he dearly wanted to know. He thought quickly, then brushed his hand across his mustache, spoke quietly when his mouth was covered.
“I am in room one eighteen in the Hotel Grand Mercure. The door will be unlocked at eight tomorrow morning.” There was nothing more that could be said and the Russian officer moved away. Sherman turned back to his party and did not see the captain again.