and that we will endeavor to see you both properly accommodated until her husband’s ship arrives.”
Wendy turned to Molly, introduced her to the President of the United States, and repeated Lincoln ’s words in French. Molly’s harsh expression softened, and when she looked back at Lincoln it was with the face of one who understands power and appreciates those who have it. A woman used to spinning in that orbit. She bowed deeply, turned back to Wendy.
“Please tell the President that I am honored to be in his presence, and greatly relieved to at last be under the protection of such gentlemen, after the rough usage we have received. My husband’s government will hear of Mr. Lincoln’s courtesy.”
Wendy translated, and as she did she wondered if the President could speak French. She searched her memory for any mention she might have read concerning that fact, but she could recall none. The Southern papers were not big on listing Lincoln ’s accomplishments.
The lieutenant who commanded the tug was issuing orders now, for chairs and a table and lemonade and an awning on the boat deck. Through the bustle Wendy saw Batchelor nod to the oarsman holding on to the line that had been passed from the tug. The oarsman dropped the line, gave a push off from the boat.
“Whoa! Hold her there, Reb!” a petty officer called out. Everyone on deck turned to the boat. The hammer of a rifle clicked back to the firing position.
“We’ve discharged our cargo,” Batchelor said, hands up. “Reckon we’ll head back to home port.”
“Not so fast.”
The lieutenant stepped over to Lincoln, carried on a whispered conversation that Wendy could not hear, try though she might, all the while staring vacantly around. Lincoln himself spoke to Batchelor.
“I’m sorry, son, but I’m afraid we have to ask you to come aboard.”
“What? We came under flag of truce! This is an outrage, sir, contrary to all-”
“I understand, sir, depend on it. You are not prisoners, don’t think of yourselves as prisoners. You are… guests. We will set you free in due time, but for now it would not be convenient for it to be generally known that I’m aboard. You will agree, I’m sure,” Lincoln added, and the sad and amused face was back, “that there are some over there who might wish me harm.”
Batchelor frowned and said nothing. A sailor tossed the line back to the boat and pulled it alongside. Grudgingly, slowly, Batchelor and the two men climbed aboard. They were led away, courteously, but at gunpoint. Wendy made a point of not watching them go.
The lieutenant of the tug and his petty officers were swarming now, eager to extend any consideration to the two women whom their commander-in-chief had deigned worthy of courtesy. They escorted first Molly, then Wendy, up the steep ladder to the roof of the deckhouse, which formed the boat deck.
That place had undergone an amazing transformation in the several minutes since Wendy had see it from the water. A table and chairs were set up halfway between the wheelhouse and boats hanging from their davits aft, and on the table a jug of some liquid so cold the porcelain was covered in condensation. Four glasses stood around the jug. A gang of sailors were pulling tight the corners of an awning that cast a blessed shade over the deck. It was only nine in the morning, but already hot.
“Please, ma’am, won’t you sit?” The lieutenant held a chair for Molly, it being understood all around which of the two women was the most important. Molly nodded imperiously and sat, and then the courtesy was extended to Wendy.
A moment later Lincoln appeared on the boat deck, and trailing behind, another man, also a civilian, but with the air of one close to power. The deference he showed the President was subtle, a man used to Lincoln ’s company. Not an equal, perhaps, but close.
“Madam”- Lincoln made a shallow bow to Molly-“is there anything more you might need?”
Wendy translated.
From the wheelhouse a bell rang out and the tug gathered way. Lincoln said, “May I present Mr. Edwin Stanton, Secretary of War for the United States?”
Wendy translated. Molly made some reply that was polite but not fawning, the remarks of a woman to whom Secretaries of War were common enough.
Stanton made a bow, and to Wendy’s surprise replied in perfect French, “It is an honor to meet you, ma’am, and I look forward to the honor of meeting your husband as well.”
Molly, if she was surprised, did not show it in any way. “That is very kind, sir,” she said, then, gesturing at the chairs, said, “Won’t you join us?” She was already treating the tug as if it were hers, and Lincoln and Stanton her guests. Her self-confidence was so overwhelming that it carried all before her, like a cannonball blowing through a wooden palisade.
“Thank you,” Lincoln said, taking his seat, and Stanton sat as well. Wendy, least significant in that crowd, poured the lemonade.
“Tell me, Mr. President,” Molly said, “is it common for Presidents of the United States to be found sailing about in such small ships?” This time Stanton translated.
Lincoln smiled at the question. “No, ma’am, not generally. This President in particular tries to avoid floating conveyance of any kind. Didn’t have so good a time at supper the other night, did we, Stanton?”
“No, sir,” Stanton agreed. Wendy translated.
“ America is so vast,” Molly said. “You may live a thousand miles from the sea, never have any connection to it. There is no place in Norway that is more than one hundred miles from saltwater. We Norwegians cannot help but be bred to the sea.”
Wendy translated. She wondered if that was true, about no place in Norway being more than one hundred miles from the sea.
“I was bred to rivers, ma’am, and was a fair hand once at driving a river raft, out west, but that’s the sum total of my knowledge of boats.”
“So what brings you out now?” Molly asked. “Not a yachting holiday, surely, in the middle of a war? Or am I impertinent to ask such a thing?” Her attitude was softening. She was no longer the angry, mistreated woman who had come on board. She was gracious, disarming, and Wendy was embarrassed to think that she had considered her own performance masterful. Molly was the real thing.
“Please, Mr. President,” Molly continued, “I am sometimes far too curious. My husband has often said as much. Please tell me to mind my own business.”
“No, no,” Lincoln said, after listening to Wendy’s translation. “No harm in my telling you what we’re about. Stanton and I came down here to start a little fire under our admirals and generals. The American President is Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces, did you know that?”
“I did.”
“And sometimes, I find, I have to be a little more active in that role than I might wish. My officers seem to think all the legions of hell are arrayed against them, and not some ragtag bunch of Rebels. McClellan’s over there in Williamsburg with more than one hundred thousand men and he tells me he can’t take a step forward unless he has twenty thousand more. Now General Wool at Fortress Monroe, over there”- Lincoln pointed to the fortress several miles across the water-“seems ready to let the Rebels stay in Norfolk for as long as it pleases them. Yesterday I had some of the navy’s ships bombard Sewell’s Point to see if there were still troops there.”
“We heard that,” Wendy offered. “A terrific firing.”
“Where were you, ma’am, if I might ask?” Stanton asked.
“We were in Norfolk, sir, trying to find a way to get to the flagship.”
“We have heard that Norfolk is being abandoned. A tug deserted to us yesterday and reported as much. Did you see that?”
“Well, sir, there is great confusion. It seemed as if any number of civilians were trying to leave town. Whether the army was leaving or not, I could not say. I do not recall seeing any soldiers on the roads, or at the train station.”
“Hmm,” Stanton said. He and Lincoln exchanged looks. Wendy felt a shot of panic.
“It is hard sometimes, in such circumstances, to know what is going on, even when it is right under your eyes,” Lincoln said, and his tone was friendly and reassuring. He reached out a hand, long bony fingers, and wrapped them around his glass and took a drink, and Wendy could not help but contemplate the extraordinary circumstances. How utterly bizarre the events of a life could be.
