The King’s Gambit
Seeking A Second Opinion
James Rada, Jr.
Lou Preston set aside his great-grandfather’s leather-bound journal, its cracked spine and yellowed pages whispering of decades past. Harley Preston had plunged into a Civil War conspiracy so obscure that no historian had ever glimpsed it—secret peace negotiations between Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis. That lack of recognition didn’t render it impossible, but Lou needed hard proof: letters, official memos, anything beyond Harley’s fevered scribbles. And if the talks had occurred, why had they vanished from history when the war still raged on?
A dull ache pulsed behind Lou’s eyes. He rose and paced the study, each creaking floorboard a reminder of his indecision. This could be the greatest historical revelation of the century—or a humiliating flop, like opening Al Capone’s vault to find cobwebs.
His stomach rumbled. In the kitchen, he made a sandwich—crisp lettuce, tangy mustard, and a thick slice of honey ham—and settled at the window overlooking Little Round Top. The hot midday sun gilded the rolling fields, and an idle breeze stirred the old oaks. Lou closed his eyes and imagined that grassy slope during the Battle of Gettysburg, wondering if bloodshed could have been averted. Without that clash, 7,000 lives might have been spared.
Sandwich finished, he climbed the narrow stairs to the attic office. He retrieved Harley’s journal and, from a dusty shelf, two brittle battlefield maps. As he passed his desk, his elbow nudged a handcrafted chessboard. The wooden pieces teetered; the General Lee knight toppled, its lacquer chipped. A small irony, Lou thought: the Confederates fell in chess as they had in battle.
He unfolded the maps on his desk, fingertips tracing faded ink lines marking monuments and memorials. There were fewer than today, but enough to pepper the landscape. Legends claimed Gettysburg held more monuments per square mile than anywhere else on Earth. He turned each map in his hands: one dated from the 1870s, before Harley’s tenure as the national military park superintendent, the other after. The post-tenure map showed additional markers, but also shifts—some older monuments drawn in new locations, marked with bold X’s. Had Harley corrected the errors? Or was something else hidden here? The layout felt hauntingly familiar, as if he’d glimpsed it long ago.
He tapped the journal and the maps, wondering if they were connected. The journal focused on wartime intrigue far from Gettysburg; the maps chronicled the postwar memorial landscape. Their only link was Harley himself. Yet Lou could not shake the sense that they belonged together.
The map from Harley’s time showed more monuments than the other map, but it also showed that some of the previously established monuments had been moved. Was it to make the placement more accurate? A third map showed moved of the markers covered with X’s. Did that mean something good or bad? Lou still had the feeling that the map was familiar…that he had seen it before.
He pulled out his smartphone and called a number he hadn’t called in years. After a few rings, an older voice answered, warm and steady. “Douglas Reaver.” Douglas Reaver was a historian. He had been a young park ranger when Harley was getting ready to retire, and Douglas considered Harley his mentor.
“Douglas, it’s Lou Preston.”
A chuckle. “At my retirement party, wasn’t it? Eleven years ago.” Lou thought the old man’s voice still sounded strong. Hopefully, that meant his memory was still good.
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“You retiring, too?”
Lou sighed. “Selling the house—Harley’s house.”
Another sigh. “I thought it would stay in the family forever.”
“Tastes change. It’s too large for me.”
“Buyer lined up?”
“A retired Harrisburg politician. He overpaid.”
“Name?”
“Frank Parlaman.”
“Ah, Parlaman—old railroad money.” Douglas’s tone hinted at memory.
“I’m surprised you know him.”
“He was a young Philly councilman when I first met him. He would come to the visitor center wanting to be treated like royalty.”
“Yea, it’s probably one of the reasons the state budget is screwed up. Politicians and budgets… they’re strangers.”
“Why the call, Lou?” Douglas’s voice turned harder and more rushed.
“I found attic treasures—maps of the Gettysburg battlefield. One from Harley’s superintendent days, another older.”
“Harley always said he was a pack rat. You looking to donate them to the park?”
“Maybe. Right now, I’ve been trying to figure out what they show.”
“I thought you said they were battlefield maps.”
“Yes, but some of the markers are wrong.”
“How so?”
“Some monuments appear moved or misplaced. I can’t tell if Harley corrected earlier errors or inherited Bachelder’s mistakes.”
John Bachelder was an artist and photographer who created three iconic maps showing each day of the Battle of Gettysburg. He served as the Superintendent of Tablets and Legends for the Gettysburg Battlefield Memorial Association during the 1880s and is considered the person most responsible for the placement of monuments and battlefield markers on the battlefield. He developed the concept of the “High Water Mark of the Confederacy.”
His influence on the placement of the monuments put him in conflict with veterans who had been part of the fighting. For instance, he had to convince veterans of the 15th, 19th, and 20th Massachusetts to move their monuments from their advance positions at the Copse of Trees to their lines of battle on days two and three of the battle.
“Harley was equally exacting,” Douglas said. “If he saw a misplaced marker, he’d shift it.”
“I agree, but then if Bachelder moved them, he thought Harley was wrong.”
“Not likely. Listen, why don’t I come over and have a look at them. Maybe between the two of us, we can figure out that treasure map.”
“Treasure?” Lou repeated. That was an odd word choice. It implied that the maps were hiding something.
“Yes, it’s a puzzle to be unraveled.”
They set a time to meet at O’Rorke’s Restaurant in Gettysburg the next day.
“Anything else?” Douglas asked.
Lou thought about telling the older man about Harley’s journal, but that seemed too personal, too controversial, to get into right now. And the truth was, until Lou finished reading the journal, he wasn’t sure whether he even wanted Harley’s story known.
It was another issue for another day.
“That’s all,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”
