The King’s Gambit

3: Becoming a Spy

Lou Preston eased into his high-backed leather chair, the supple hide yielding under his weight as the morning sun slanted through the lace curtains of his Gettysburg study. Motes of dust drifted in golden beams, swirling above stacks of books and papers. He’d spent decades in this room—first immersed in research, then, in retirement, drifting in and out of naps on the well-worn couch. Now, he inhaled the warm scent of oiled wood, leather, and the faint must of aged paper as he pressed the power button on his computer.

He sipped his hot coffee as he waited for the computer to come alive. On his broad oak desk lay his great-grandfather’s battered Civil War journal, its cover cracked, its pages edged in brown. The faded iron-gall ink beckoned with whispered promises of a peace that never reached the history books.

Lou’s fingers hovered over the keyboard before typing, with deliberate care, “Colonel David Donaldson.” Bright pixels flickered to life as search results cascaded down the screen: newspaper clippings, genealogical databases, obscure military forums. Two men shared the name—one a World War II officer, the other the spectral Civil War colonel Lou craved. Heart pounding, he clicked the link.

The webpage glowed with a short biography: a North Carolina native who’d enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1840. He had marched under General Winfield Scott and entered the Plaza de la Constitución in a triumphal procession after Mexico City fell. He’d spent three grueling years patrolling the Texas frontier before rising to captain—and by 1861, colonel. But when Lou scrolled for battle rosters or muster rolls, the trail dissolved into emptiness. No death certificate. No gravestone. As if Colonel Donaldson had evaporated into the summer air of that war year. Also, he noted he could find nothing, not even a birth year, of Donaldson’s life before joining the Army.

Frustration mounting, Lou dove into the National Park Service’s Civil War veterans’ database—keying in every permutation of “Donaldson,” “D. Donaldson,” and “Col. Donaldson.” Again: nothing but blank screens and “no results found” messages. He pushed back from the desk, the leather squeaking beneath him. He stood and stretched his arms under a ceiling studded with oak beams. The hush of the library enveloped him: walls lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves, each packed with leather-bound volumes and wartime memoirs; a broad writing desk carved with initials—H.P.—his great-grandfather’s; an overstuffed couch drooping under decades of afternoon dozing; a brown armchair that cradled him now. Polished wood gleamed faintly in the dim light.

His gaze settled on a low table fitted with an inlaid chessboard. Harley Preston’s hand-carved and painted pieces—Federal blue and Confederate gray—stood poised in an eternal opening gambit. Two opposing kings, sculpted to resemble President Abraham Lincoln and President Jefferson Davis, faced each other across the checkered field. Lou remembered learning the game here as a boy, the rich scent of oiled mahogany under his fingertips as he nudged each pawn forward.

Oddly enough, Harley had sculpted Gen. Robert E. Lee and Gen. George Meade as the queens in the game. It seemed odd at first glance, but then, just as the queen is the most powerful piece in the game, so the commanding generals are the most powerful soldiers on the battlefield.

He picked up Meade’s piece. He had always found it odd that the Union queen was General Meade. Although Meade had commanded the Union troops for the final two years of the war, Gen. Ulysses S. Grant had been considered the hero of the Union. Why not have the Union queen be Grant?

He set the piece back on the board and returned to the shelves, pulling down several Civil War tomes whose yellowing pages crackled like dried leaves. He rifled through worn indices for “Donaldson,” but silence greeted him. No hint of clandestine peace talks between the Union and the Confederacy. He sank back into the velvet chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Harley hadn’t lied—surely he had no reason to—but if the journal’s claims were real, then history had masked a shadow war behind her folds.

Needing fuel for thought, Lou walked downstairs to the kitchen. He layered paper-thin ham and sharp cheddar between two slices of sourdough, their crusts crackling as they met the toaster’s heat. At the small window table, he tore into the sandwich, the cheese stretching in molten ribbons, while outside the dogwood blossoms quivered in a gentle breeze. Harley’s narrative of secret emissaries and hidden names swirled in Lou’s mind. If the war had ended through back-channel diplomacy, what form would peace have taken? Two nations coexisting at arm’s length? A gradual reunion under terms buried by official historians?

He returned to the journal, its spine creaking. Harley’s handwriting—long, looping strokes—spilled across the page, chronicling daily routines. He saw his ancestor’s steady hand, maintained under flickering lamplight and campfire glow. Harley’s role was plain: courier to President Lincoln, bearer of letters and awaiting replies. But a month in, Harley noted a revealing exchange of letters that exposed the colonel’s true identity: “Paul Dupont.” Lou’s pulse quickened. Had “David Donaldson” been a carefully constructed alias? Or had Dupont slipped into a new life under false colors?

Harley paused his narration, which was almost poetic at times, at a crucial point. Had President Lincoln known Donaldson’s true name? Harley’s own doubt mirrored Lou’s now. Then came the answer: Lincoln not only knew but had taken advantage of the colonel’s secret identity for his peace negotiations.

July 9, 1862

I rode the sunbaked road to President Lincoln’s cottage at the Soldiers’ Home, three miles north of the White House. Midday light sifted through oak canopies, spotlighting patches of dusty earth. The cottage itself—white-washed clapboard, widow’s walk above, wide porch shaded by maples—rested on a gentle rise where cool breezes drifted in from the north. Despite its gracious setting, I longed for Lake Erie’s vast expanse, where waves lipped against the pier and gulls cried under endless skies.

Given how much I love the water, I’m surprised I didn’t become a sailor instead of a soldier. You never knew where fate would take you. One only had to look at what I was doing now, getting ready to meet the president, to know the truth of that.

The normal procedure whenever I had a letter for the president was to bring it to him, allow him to read it, and then usually return the next day for a reply. Until last month, I had delivered letters to the White House, but this was my third time at Soldier’s Home.

When I arrived at the cottage, a servant led me up a staircase into a room that served as both the president’s bedroom and his office. Inside, the room was sparse: an iron-frame bed, an armoire, a wash basin stand, a single oil lamp, and a small walnut desk strewn with papers.

President Lincoln sat at the desk, his lanky frame folded in thought. “Please be seated, Major Preston,” he said, voice low as the wind through trees. “You have something for me?”

I offered my letter, but hesitated. “Mr. President, before you read this, Colonel Donaldson is not who he claims to be. His name is Paul Dupont, and he may answer to Jefferson Davis.” My words stumbled out, weighted by fear and duty.

Lincoln’s dark eyes fixed on me, hands steepled. After a moment, he murmured, “I am aware.” Relief and dread warred in my chest.

“Then everything is… fine?” I ventured.

He frowned. “Far from it. Dupont is a dangerous asset—a conduit to the Confederacy. Yet until I can verify his loyalty, I need him. We will use his duplicity to our advantage.”

I swallowed. “Why not arrest him?”

“Because, Major Preston, he must remain unaware that we know. Through Dupont, I communicate with Davis. This secret channel offers the only chance to end this conflict with terms neither side dares to publish.”

It was a nice thought, but now that battles had been fought and blood spilled, I doubted that could happen. The president did, though, and I wanted him to be right.

“How can I do that, sir?” I asked him.

He tasked me with watching the colonel and reporting any sign of treachery. “Your loyalty to the Union has served me well. Continue to serve, and I shall know when the time comes.”

“My loyalty is—and always will be—yours, sir,” I replied.

Present Day

And with that, my great-grandfather became a secret spy for President Lincoln.

Lou closed the journal with a soft thud. The room swelled with echoes of hidden negotiations and untold sacrifices. His great-grandfather had borne a weight no history text would ever acknowledge. What other secrets lay inked in those pages, waiting to reshape everything Lou thought he knew?