The King’s Gambit
4: The Visitor
James Rada, Jr.
Lou Preston slept uneasily. Four generations of Prestons had lived in this house on the edge of the Gettysburg battlefield, sometimes overlapping with as many as three generations living here at one time. They had gotten under each others’ feet. They had gotten on each others’ nerves. They knew one another intimately.
Or so Lou had thought.
What he believed he knew about his family, what he thought he knew about history, had changed in just a few hours. His great-grandfather, Harley Preston, had served as a spy for President Abraham Lincoln during the Civil War. And President Lincoln had been in secret peace negotiations with Confederate President Jefferson Davis.
The question was: Why hadn’t anyone else learned these things since then? Had Lincoln burned all the dispatches Harley had delivered to him as a courier for Col. David Donaldson? It didn’t seem likely. Wouldn’t the president have wanted to keep a record of what was going on? Hadn’t Jefferson Davis wanted to keep a record of any promises made to end the war? Both men surely preserved records of such earth-shaking talks.
And what had happened with the peace negotiations? Why had they failed? Lou assumed they had, since the war had ended years after the events that Lou was reading about in his great-grandfather’s journal.
Then there was the odd change of life Harley had had sometime during the war. Harley had written about looking forward to returning home to Lake Erie in Pennsylvania. He had written that seeing the Potomac River, as small as it was compared to Lake Erie, made him long for home where he had worked on fishing boats during summers in Erie, Pennsylvania.
So why hadn’t Harley returned home after the war to be near the water once again? He had moved to Gettysburg, a landlocked town in a landlocked county in Pennsylvania, and stayed there for the rest of his life. If he yearned for the great blue expanse, why choose fields of wheat over Erie’s shores?
So far, things weren’t making sense. The puzzle pieces weren’t fitting together. Lou only hoped that they would be by the time he finished reading his great-grandfather’s journal.
He woke up in the morning, feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all. It took two cups of coffee to make him feel functional, although he still wouldn’t have trusted himself behind the wheel of a car. A lukewarm shower helped wake him even more.
He could have gone back to sleep if he had wanted to. He was retired, after all, but he had work around the house to do. More importantly, he wanted to read more of the journal. Lou doubted he would get much sleep until he had answered the many questions that he had.
After his shower, he put on a clean shirt and sweatpants and went into his study, carrying the journal with him. He reclined on the couch, opened the old leather-bound book, and started reading from where he had left off yesterday.
August 2, 1862
As the president had requested, I started watching Col. Donaldson closely. When he would send me with a letter to deliver to the president, I would also make a report to the president of any suspicious behavior—any odd glance, any furtive meeting—anything that might aid the president’s secret peace efforts.
Neither the president nor Col. Donaldson showed me any of the colonel’s letters, but from things that were said, I suspected some bore Jefferson Davis’s hand.
I never saw any behavior from Col. Donaldson that led me to believe he wasn’t acting in the best interest of the Union. I should have been happy about it, but I felt like I was failing President Lincoln. Having discovered that Col. Donaldson was actually a man named Paul DuPont, it seemed to me that he must be acting as a spy, but I couldn’t find evidence of it.
Yes, he traveled into Rebel territory, but that was ostensibly to meet with Jefferson Davis or someone acting in Colonel Donaldson’s capacity, but for the Confederates.
There must be a reason he chose to live under an assumed name, though, and I had to discover it. That reason might mean the success or failure of President Lincoln’s efforts.
August 4, 1862
Yesterday Col. Donaldson announced another trip south. Judging by past journeys, he’d be absent for a week. Eager to glean more intelligence, I offered my company. He refused, saying solo travel was easier. I suspected he slipped back into his real identity once in Confederate territory.
After he left, I scoured his office by lantern light. I cracked drawers, thumbed through every book for hidden compartments, tapped at the bookshelf’s panels. I poked at the desk’s underside—hoping for a secret latch. Finding nothing, I felt a stab of frustration: had I overlooked some vital clue? My relief that he might be innocent warred with the dread I’d missed treachery.
What I did find were letters that indicated that he thought presidents Lincoln and Davis were both negotiating hard, but Col. Donaldson thought that they were working toward a fair deal if they could see things through to the end.
I also uncovered unsigned letters—threats from shadowy profiteers on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. Their red wax seals bore strange emblems. “If the war ends too soon, you will answer to us,” one warned. If what I could understand from the insinuations in their letters was that most of the authors were businessmen profiting off the war, through both legal and illegal profiteering.
I didn’t like the sound of them at all. I copied some of the letters and any information on the envelopes. Two of them had wax seals. I traced them, thinking they might be a way to identify the sender. I planned to turn over all the information to the president the next time I visited Washington.
Then an unexpected caller arrived. A guard ushered in a tall, impeccably dressed man. The soldier’s rolling eyes spoke volumes. “He insists on seeing Colonel Donaldson,” the guard muttered. His rolling eyes and frown told me the soldier’s encounter with the man hadn’t been pleasant.
I waved him away. “I will handle this.” Once the guard departed, the visitor sneered, “Incompetent bumpkin.”
His fine wool coat and polished boots marked him as a man of means. He pressed me: where was Donaldson? I told him truthfully that the colonel was away—while lying about the appointment book. “He records every visitor,” I said.
The man regained a bit of his composure. “This was a private matter.”
“Private. I see. Regardless, the colonel is still not in.”
“Where is he?”
“He is performing his duties as a military officer.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he’s not here and is not expected to be here anytime soon. I can, however, take a message and your card and let him know you were here as soon as he returns.”
I wanted to know this man’s name. He was not the typical visitor the colonel saw. Knowing who he was could be useful information. His reluctance to tell me made me even more suspicious.
The man shook his head. “No, that is fine.”
“I at least need your name for our log sheet. It is military protocol at a time of war,” I lied.
“I’ve never had to do that before.”
“You wouldn’t have if it wasn’t wartime, or you left your card. We are close to the enemy here, though. We can’t take any chances of a spy coming across the river or even a sympathizer.”
“Sympathizer! I’ll have you know that I am loyal to the Union. I am helping you boys survive this war. I am no sympathizer.”
“Then can I get your name, sir?”
He hesitated. “John Smith.”
It was an obvious lie, but I had been painting a mental picture of this man to describe him to the president. He was wealthy and most likely a businessman or industrialist supplying the army. Col. Donaldson wasn’t a quartermaster and not at a rank to conduct business for the army, so I was unsure of what legitimate business this man would have with the colonel.
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
The man remained standing in front of me.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” I asked.
He placed a cigar between his lips, turned on his heel, and strode off in silence—leaving Lou with more questions smoldering in his mind than any of the colonel’s hidden letters ever had.
