climbing out of a boat on the far shore. As soon as they were out, they pushed the boat into the river and it sank.
In his addled state, this strange sight made absolutely no sense to Thomas and he stood there for several minutes trying to make out what it meant. Finally his mind latched on to an idea.
“Smugglers,” he said to himself. “Has to be.”
He wondered what they might be doing here. Bringing in niceties for the fine folks of Decatur? There’d be more money for embargoed goods in Atlanta or Charlotte.
Finally Thomas shrugged his shoulders and turned away from the now-empty shore. Whatever the men were up to, they were on the wrong side of the river to bother him. Perhaps he’d tell the sheriff tomorrow.
Chapter Seven
The Downgrade
Edwin Stanton slipped his dressing gown over his nightshirt and put on his slippers before answering the door. Even though the insistent knocking had been sounding for a full minute, Stanton felt that a certain propriety was expected from the secretary of war.
Like other cabinet members, Stanton maintained a townhouse in the city, but he preferred to stay in the Federal House whenever he worked late, which was most nights these days. The assigned room was small, but entirely adequate, and had the advantage of being just downstairs from his work. As he opened the door onto a carpeted hallway on the eighth floor of the Federal House, he reminded himself that it was also the room’s primary drawback.
“Begging your pardon, Mister Stanton,” said the night porter, a stout graying man in an immaculately pressed coat. “I’m sorry to wake you, but Major Anderson was most insistent. He asks that you join him in the war office at once.”
“Damn telegraph,” Stanton muttered, stepping out into the hall and shutting the door behind him. “Ever since we started using the thing, every message is an emergency. What is it this time?”
“Colonel Anderson has not seen fit to take me into his confidences,” the porter said, turning toward the elevator. “But I believe he did receive a telegram just prior to ringing me.”
Stanton followed the porter along the carpeted hall. The gaslights had been dimmed to conserve fuel rendering the usually elegant hallway a dark tunnel. There being no point in pedestrian conversation at this hour, the only sound was the muted scraping of their feet on the thick carpet. It reminded Stanton, rather ominously, of a tomb.
What does Anderson want this time?
It was always something with the Colonel. If the man weren’t so damned good at his job, Stanton would have fired him.
The porter led him to the elevator then up past the presidential apartments to the top floor.
“I know the way,” Stanton said when the porter opened the doors.
“Very good, sir,” the porter said, stepping aside so Stanton could exit. “Good morning.”
Up here the lamps were lit, rendering the large widow at the end of the hall nothing more than a black rectangle. No trace of dawn existed without, yet he had no reason to doubt the porter’s salutation.
This had better be important.
The war office was one of the top floor’s large rooms, once part of the royal suite. The furniture had been removed and a large table brought in where maps were laid out complete with painted wooden blocks to indicate certain forces in the field. Around the edges of the room were desks where dutiful scribes sat day and night sifting through all the correspondence from the commanders of the various armies. A low buzz of conversation filled the room at all times, as if an enormous beehive had been concealed under one of the desks.
As Stanton opened the heavy door, the odor of paper, ink, and sweat washed over him. He reached for his handkerchief before remembering he wore his robe rather than his waistcoat.
In the center of this organized chaos was Colonel Lionel Anderson, a lean man of middle years who always seemed to be present whenever Stanton entered the war office, day or
In his addled state, this strange sight made absolutely no sense to Thomas and he stood there for several minutes trying to make out what it meant. Finally his mind latched on to an idea.
“Smugglers,” he said to himself. “Has to be.”
He wondered what they might be doing here. Bringing in niceties for the fine folks of Decatur? There’d be more money for embargoed goods in Atlanta or Charlotte.
Finally Thomas shrugged his shoulders and turned away from the now-empty shore. Whatever the men were up to, they were on the wrong side of the river to bother him. Perhaps he’d tell the sheriff tomorrow.
Chapter Seven
The Downgrade
Edwin Stanton slipped his dressing gown over his nightshirt and put on his slippers before answering the door. Even though the insistent knocking had been sounding for a full minute, Stanton felt that a certain propriety was expected from the secretary of war.
Like other cabinet members, Stanton maintained a townhouse in the city, but he preferred to stay in the Federal House whenever he worked late, which was most nights these days. The assigned room was small, but entirely adequate, and had the advantage of being just downstairs from his work. As he opened the door onto a carpeted hallway on the eighth floor of the Federal House, he reminded himself that it was also the room’s primary drawback.
“Begging your pardon, Mister Stanton,” said the night porter, a stout graying man in an immaculately pressed coat. “I’m sorry to wake you, but Major Anderson was most insistent. He asks that you join him in the war office at once.”
“Damn telegraph,” Stanton muttered, stepping out into the hall and shutting the door behind him. “Ever since we started using the thing, every message is an emergency. What is it this time?”
“Colonel Anderson has not seen fit to take me into his confidences,” the porter said, turning toward the elevator. “But I believe he did receive a telegram just prior to ringing me.”
Stanton followed the porter along the carpeted hall. The gaslights had been dimmed to conserve fuel rendering the usually elegant hallway a dark tunnel. There being no point in pedestrian conversation at this hour, the only sound was the muted scraping of their feet on the thick carpet. It reminded Stanton, rather ominously, of a tomb.
What does Anderson want this time?
It was always something with the Colonel. If the man weren’t so damned good at his job, Stanton would have fired him.
The porter led him to the elevator then up past the presidential apartments to the top floor.
“I know the way,” Stanton said when the porter opened the doors.
“Very good, sir,” the porter said, stepping aside so Stanton could exit. “Good morning.”
Up here the lamps were lit, rendering the large widow at the end of the hall nothing more than a black rectangle. No trace of dawn existed without, yet he had no reason to doubt the porter’s salutation.
This had better be important.
The war office was one of the top floor’s large rooms, once part of the royal suite. The furniture had been removed and a large table brought in where maps were laid out complete with painted wooden blocks to indicate certain forces in the field. Around the edges of the room were desks where dutiful scribes sat day and night sifting through all the correspondence from the commanders of the various armies. A low buzz of conversation filled the room at all times, as if an enormous beehive had been concealed under one of the desks.
As Stanton opened the heavy door, the odor of paper, ink, and sweat washed over him. He reached for his handkerchief before remembering he wore his robe rather than his waistcoat.
In the center of this organized chaos was Colonel Lionel Anderson, a lean man of middle years who always seemed to be present whenever Stanton entered the war office, day or
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