drawer with a knife.
“What are you doing?” she cried. Her fingers tightened on the weapon. “Who are you?”
The stranger glanced up. He looked to be close to fifty. He had a broad, magnetic face and dark, ingenuous eyes. He wore an expensive suit, and was smoking what appeared to be one of Mr. McShane’s cigars. He seemed quite unbothered to have been caught. He had evidently dumped the contents of the desk all over the floor. He nodded toward her hand. “Planning a criminal assault? Grievous bodily harm?”
“Who are you?” she repeated.
“Because, if you are planning to strike me with that thing, I would clean up the mess first if I were you.” The stranger glanced around the room, bushy eyebrows moving, his distaste evident. His face was narrow and disciplined, a soldier’s face, but the luxurious black moustaches softened the hard edges, and an infectious hint of smile danced between pinched cheeks. “Or you could just lend me a hand.”
Abigail needed a moment; as, in the future, she would often need a moment around this man.
“You are breaking into Mr. McShane’s desk,” she said, a bit stupidly. She stepped back. “I am going to summon the police.”
The stranger shook a shaggy head.
“I’m not breaking in. Somebody did that already.” He was back to his prying. When he saw that Abigail continued to brandish the poker, he sighed, and straightened, and that was when she noticed for the first time his wooden leg. “Put the poker down. I’m not the man who did this.”
“That is not precisely as it appears to me,” she said, nervousness making her syntax over-perfect.
“And how, precisely, does it appear to you?”
“That you have been searching for something. That I have surprised you. That you have assumed this pose of innocence hoping to fool me.”
The stranger puffed on his cigar. “Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Canner, but I’m afraid I arrived and found it this way.”
“How do you know my name?” she asked, astonished.
“The President sent me. I am to assist in his defense.” With an easy, languid sweep, he swung his stump from atop the chair. He had a long, fancy walking stick, something between a cane and a crutch, the support of a man who was clever and confident, who wanted you to know he could beat anything on two legs in a duel. He had even done it. Beforethe visitor identified himself, Abigail already knew whom she was facing. “I’m Dan Sickles.”
II
Abigail stared. For once, she had no idea what to say. So this was Daniel Sickles, lawyer and rake, the most elegant scoundrel of the age. Dan Sickles, who eight years ago had shot to death his wife’s lover in broad daylight, quite close to the White House, in front of innumerable witnesses, and was acquitted. Dan Sickles, who had served the Union with honor as a major general, had lost a leg to a cannonball at Gettysburg, and somehow arrived back in the capital as a hero, although in truth he had disobeyed orders and nearly lost the battle for the North.
Dan Sickles, one of Mr. Lincoln’s most trusted friends.
Dan Sickles, the famous villain whom many of the young men of Abigail’s circle secretly envied for his daring, and his success. Abigail herself considered the man a murderer, but saw no point in saying so. Indeed, so great was her continuing surprise that the next words out of her mouth sounded, even to her own ear, bizarre.
“You should put the cigar out.”
Sickles was standing at the window, looking down into Fourteenth Street. He balanced rather well on the wooden leg; it was the getting to his feet that was difficult. He took the cigar from his mouth, examined it, put it back, puffed. “Why?” he finally asked.
“The cigars belong to Mr. McShane,” she said. But she lowered the poker.
The general considered this. He picked up a book from the shelf—a Bible, as it happened. Biblical quotes worked well with the young nation’s judges, especially with a man like Salmon P. Chase
“What are you doing?” she cried. Her fingers tightened on the weapon. “Who are you?”
The stranger glanced up. He looked to be close to fifty. He had a broad, magnetic face and dark, ingenuous eyes. He wore an expensive suit, and was smoking what appeared to be one of Mr. McShane’s cigars. He seemed quite unbothered to have been caught. He had evidently dumped the contents of the desk all over the floor. He nodded toward her hand. “Planning a criminal assault? Grievous bodily harm?”
“Who are you?” she repeated.
“Because, if you are planning to strike me with that thing, I would clean up the mess first if I were you.” The stranger glanced around the room, bushy eyebrows moving, his distaste evident. His face was narrow and disciplined, a soldier’s face, but the luxurious black moustaches softened the hard edges, and an infectious hint of smile danced between pinched cheeks. “Or you could just lend me a hand.”
Abigail needed a moment; as, in the future, she would often need a moment around this man.
“You are breaking into Mr. McShane’s desk,” she said, a bit stupidly. She stepped back. “I am going to summon the police.”
The stranger shook a shaggy head.
“I’m not breaking in. Somebody did that already.” He was back to his prying. When he saw that Abigail continued to brandish the poker, he sighed, and straightened, and that was when she noticed for the first time his wooden leg. “Put the poker down. I’m not the man who did this.”
“That is not precisely as it appears to me,” she said, nervousness making her syntax over-perfect.
“And how, precisely, does it appear to you?”
“That you have been searching for something. That I have surprised you. That you have assumed this pose of innocence hoping to fool me.”
The stranger puffed on his cigar. “Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Canner, but I’m afraid I arrived and found it this way.”
“How do you know my name?” she asked, astonished.
“The President sent me. I am to assist in his defense.” With an easy, languid sweep, he swung his stump from atop the chair. He had a long, fancy walking stick, something between a cane and a crutch, the support of a man who was clever and confident, who wanted you to know he could beat anything on two legs in a duel. He had even done it. Beforethe visitor identified himself, Abigail already knew whom she was facing. “I’m Dan Sickles.”
II
Abigail stared. For once, she had no idea what to say. So this was Daniel Sickles, lawyer and rake, the most elegant scoundrel of the age. Dan Sickles, who eight years ago had shot to death his wife’s lover in broad daylight, quite close to the White House, in front of innumerable witnesses, and was acquitted. Dan Sickles, who had served the Union with honor as a major general, had lost a leg to a cannonball at Gettysburg, and somehow arrived back in the capital as a hero, although in truth he had disobeyed orders and nearly lost the battle for the North.
Dan Sickles, one of Mr. Lincoln’s most trusted friends.
Dan Sickles, the famous villain whom many of the young men of Abigail’s circle secretly envied for his daring, and his success. Abigail herself considered the man a murderer, but saw no point in saying so. Indeed, so great was her continuing surprise that the next words out of her mouth sounded, even to her own ear, bizarre.
“You should put the cigar out.”
Sickles was standing at the window, looking down into Fourteenth Street. He balanced rather well on the wooden leg; it was the getting to his feet that was difficult. He took the cigar from his mouth, examined it, put it back, puffed. “Why?” he finally asked.
“The cigars belong to Mr. McShane,” she said. But she lowered the poker.
The general considered this. He picked up a book from the shelf—a Bible, as it happened. Biblical quotes worked well with the young nation’s judges, especially with a man like Salmon P. Chase
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