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President Lincoln's Secret. Steven Wilson
Читать онлайн.Название President Lincoln's Secret
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780758243881
Автор произведения Steven Wilson
Издательство Ingram
High Praise for Steven Wilson and His Stunning Thrillers
President Lincoln’s Spy
“A story as vivid and engrossing as the Civil War itself.”
—Troy Soos
“You’ll taste the grit and feel the excitement of a pivotal time in American history.”
—John Lutz
“If Robert Ludlum had written a Civil War novel, it would read like President Lincoln’s Spy.”
—Clint Johnson
“A mighty good read.”
—Armchair Interviews
Armada
“Wilson draws his scenes with chilling and compelling accuracy…[the book] will keep you up all night.”
—John J. Gobbell
Between the Hunters and the Hunted
“Tremendously exciting…. riveting. I couldn’t put the book down.”
—Allan Topol
“A gripping, superbly told story…. A masterful blending of fact and fiction that thrusts the reader into the center of white-hot action and the heart of momentous events…”
—Peter Sasgen
Voyage of the Gray Wolves
“A stunning page-turner that grabs the reader and never lets go!”
—Joe Buff
“The action is both taut and intense. The duel of wits between Hardy and Kern is reminiscent of the classic movie ‘The Enemy Below’…A good read indeed.”
—Times Record News
“Wilson will keep you enthralled and on the edge of your seat.”
—David E. Meadows
Also by Steven Wilson
Voyage of the Gray Wolves
Between the Hunters and the Hunted
Armada
President Lincoln’s Spy
PRESIDENT LINCOLN’S SECRET
STEVEN WILSON
To Angela for minding the cats,
and Jean for minding the commas
Contents
Prologue
Book 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Book 2
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Prologue
Darkness followed the red mist.
Light returned gradually, accompanied by the heavy drumming of cannons and the flat crack of muskets. Fitz Dunaway heard his name being called, the words an indistinct drone. His eyes fluttered open in response. Above him was a bright sky with mare’s tails for clouds, and dirty black smoke that rose in columns only to be torn apart by the wind.
His mind was clumsy, thoughts unfocused, and as he tried to turn his head to find out where he was he found that his body refused its orders. He searched for an answer to his predicament, but there was no solution. Sky blue trousers and scuffed brogans were all that remained of his world. He was on his back.
A bearded face fiercely streaked with dust and sweat hovered over him. “Colonel? Can you hear me? Are you all right?”
The man’s words echoed and then, with a rush of water, became clear.
“Ripslinger?” Fitz managed.
“You just lay quiet, Colonel,” the soldier said, comforting Fitz with a rough pat on the shoulder. “We’ll get you back to the surgeon.” Ripslinger disappeared, the horrible word lingering after him.
Surgeon, Fitz thought. He turned cold with fear. His eyelids closed involuntarily, and in that fraction of an instant, Fitz lost consciousness.
He awoke again, swaying back and forth, floating above the ground, suspended between four soldiers. Fitz’s head hung limply. Everything was upside down—a battery of cannons thundered by, wheels a blur in the boiling dust. Infantry double-timed toward the front, officers mounted, shouting orders, trying to make sense of the madness that swirled around them. And dust. Dust hanging in the air; dust covering the dark blue sack coats of the soldiers; dust, and a dun-colored film, spurting from the soldiers’ feet.
“Get his head,” someone ordered.
Fitz felt a strong hand cradle his neck and hold his head up. The muscles ached from the strain of the unnatural position. He tried to say thank you but even that was too much.
He remembered what happened—or at least some of it.
Men were running, shouting—it was a rout. The Union line had broken, and Fitz was trying to rally his men when everything had turned black. Stop, he had wanted to say, turn and fight them—don’t run away—hold your ground. He was floating now.
Darkness again, and this time Fitz welcomed it. He was tired and thirsty, and he thought that someone had set fire to his left arm and the blaze was just now feeding his flesh. He wondered why someone would do that.
“Colonel?” A surgeon stood over him, the man’s coat caked with blood. Above the man’s head was a tent, and Fitz knew he was at the surgeon’s station. He heard men groaning, and the air was pierced by a sharp scream that ended quickly. Flies buzzed industriously around the tent, feasting on the residue on the surgeon’s scalpel. “Colonel,” the surgeon said again, his hand clamping on Fitz’s chin. He shook Fitz’s head until he was sure that his patient was awake.