It was all Lincoln’s doing. It was the president who gave Fitz his regiment and Mr. Lincoln who led the crowd to the Lossing Boarding House to inquire after Colonel Dunaway’s health. Fitz saw it well enough. People made a show of concern for him because the president had. Lincoln was sincere—the others were pleasant because they thought it required of them.
He loathed the social requirements of being a hero, partly because his wound troubled him, but mostly because he couldn’t stand people fawning over him. Then came Lincoln’s note—I need you. Thank God there was something to do besides listen to fat politicians spout platitudes.
Fitz felt Asia at his side as he read the note at their home on 20th Street. He sensed her reluctance. “I shall go and speak to him and that is that,” he said. He already knew of her fears.
“What if he sends you on a mission? Your health will not permit it.”
“The Washington cliff dwellers do not encourage me remaining,” Fitz said, and regretted it.
He began to suspect that marriage required a good husband to consider his words before he said them. No—that was unkind. Asia was frightened. It was a bad wound.
“My dear,” he said, finding that his love for Asia gave him patience and a surprising gentleness. “I must have something to occupy me. You have tended to my every need, and there is nowhere I would rather be than at your side, but I swear I will go mad if I don’t have at least a trifling duty to attend to.”
He folded the note, slipped it into his pocket, and took his wife’s hand, leading her to dinner.
The boat nestled against the hull of the ironclad, amidships, coming to rest alongside a rank of smartly uniformed sailors.
A burly officer extended an arm from the ironclad’s deck. “Your hand, Mrs. Dunaway.” He assisted Asia as she stepped from the launch to the iron deck and under the shadow of a canvas awning.
Fitz waved away the proffered hand, steadied himself, and made a short hop to the deck. The movement jarred his arm, and he clamped his eyes shut as waves of pain rolled over him. He opened them in time to return the deck officer’s salute. Asia’s hand slid into the crook of his right arm, and he felt her squeeze his forearm in reassurance. He hoped that she hadn’t seen how much pain he was in.
“The president is this way,” a heavily bearded officer said.
Fitz and Asia followed him, passing the massive forward turret, its iron plates pinned in place by rivets as large as a man’s fist. Two fifteen-inch cannon poked their ugly snouts from gun ports. Under a broad awning covering the forward section of the ship, they found President Lincoln in deep conversation with a naval officer. The president smiled when he saw them.
“Why here is Dunaway, and his lovely wife,” Lincoln said, striding forward, his broad hand seeking Fitz’s.
“Mr. President,” Fitz said, letting his hand slide into Lincoln’s. For once Lincoln’s grip was gentle, the handshake restrained. Fitz was relieved. “May I present Mrs. Dunaway.”
“You may indeed,” Lincoln responded with a stiff bow. “This is Dahlgren.” The navy officer approached. He was thin, his face dark and covered with wrinkles, and he was impassive, Fitz noted—strangely like the vessel on whose deck they stood.
“Your wound, Dunaway?” Lincoln inquired.
“Healing well, sir,” Fitz said.
“Good, good,” Lincoln said. There was an awkward pause before he continued. “Dahlgren? Will you escort Mrs. Dunaway—”
“Mr. President,” Asia said, her interruption as seamless as if it had never happened. “I must inquire what you intend to do with my husband—”
“Asia, please,” Fitz said.
Her tone was playful, but there was an unyielding nature to it. “I am quite certain he is as valuable to me as he is to the country.”
Lincoln looked thoughtful. “Well, you’ve got me there.”
“So you will pardon me for insisting, respectfully, that wherever you dispatch my husband, so too must you send me.” Lincoln and Asia were smiling at one another. It was a contest skillfully cloaked in a light jest. Fitz was about to speak when Asia stopped him with a sharp look. “I have invested too much time in Colonel Dunaway’s recovery to see him jeopardize his life on a hazardous mission for you.” She settled herself and added, “I look ghastly in black.”
“God grant me the forbearance needed by all husbands,” Fitz said.
“No, no, Dunaway,” Lincoln conceded. “The lady’s right. You are valuable to me, but more so to Mrs. Dunaway. Although, I hope you don’t think me too bold to remark that any color would suit you.”
“Why, your excellency”—Asia smiled—“what a charming thing to say. Many men would be well served to take a lesson in flattery from you.” She shot a meaningful glance at Fitz. She was teasing him, and it pleased him. Lately she had fallen into dark moods—becoming pensive and reluctant. He assumed it was something he had done or said, and he grew sullen at her reluctance to answer his questions. Sparkling, he had once described her manner—her green eyes flashing, her soft features framed by auburn hair. Her quick wit, each barb accompanied by the ghost of a smile. But she had changed.
“Dahlgren,” Lincoln said. “Stay close by to see that I get everything just right. Colonel, have you ever been to Wilmington?”
“Delaware,” Dahlgren clarified. “The DuPont Works.”
“I have not,” Fitz said.
“The powder works,” Lincoln continued. “Mighty important to us. So important we got a regiment up there whose only job is to mind the place. Keep Confederate agents away.”
“They didn’t,” Dahlgren said.
“No,” Lincoln said, “they didn’t. They had an explosion up there the other night. Lost a quantity of powder, powder we can’t afford to lose, and several buildings. That’ll cut down on production. The folks at DuPont said they could make it up. They’ve got a place up in Pennsylvania. That’s their problem. My problem, and yours, Dunaway, is to find out what happened.”
“Are you sure it was the work of Confederate agents?” Fitz said.
“Pretty sure,” Lincoln said. “I’m not telling you all I know, Dunaway, because I want you to go up there with a clear mind. Talk to the DuPont people and the army folks up there and let me know what you find out. I hate to be mysterious, Dunaway, but you’ll have to trust me on this.”
“That powder was consigned to the navy,” Dahlgren said. “Powder is hard to come by, Colonel. We can’t afford to lose even an ounce of it. We’re sending our man to Wilmington.” He spoke as if he were in a hurry to be heard. Or, Fitz thought, to make sure that the navy was well represented in this endeavor. Perhaps he had little confidence in the army. “Phillip Abbott,” Dahlgren continued. “He’s one of the navy’s best men. You’ve heard of him, of course?”
It gave Fitz a hint of satisfaction to say, “No.”
Dahlgren was nonplussed at Fitz’s reply. “Brilliant man. Just brilliant. Master inventor. He is responsible for the improvements to Ericsson’s original design.”
“Indeed?” Fitz said. “Who is Ericsson?”
“Of Monitor fame,” Asia explained to Fitz. “Colonel Dunaway feels it best not to trouble his mind with surplus information.”
Fitz suppressed a smile. He missed her biting humor, even if it was directed at him.
“Our ironclad fleet,” Dahlgren said, “owes much to Professor Abbott. This vessel