LITMIR.BIZ

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bright light appeared on the horizon, a flash that illuminated objects so far away they had no identity. And then the heavens glowed, and Jim, frozen by the power of God’s wrath, heard the voice of the Lord, deep and rumbling, rolling across the earth. The rapture. Lord Almighty had unleashed the thunderbolts to smite those who denied Him and His ways. Jim was witness to Armageddon.

      He watched as the horizon pulsated with flames, so consumed by the sight that he forgot to pray. He figured the distance and direction, and was certain what lay under those flames. The knowledge was not troubling, but confusing, although he knew he should never question God’s wisdom.

      If God was intent on destroying the world, Jim thought, watching the flames spread in the darkness, why did he begin with Wilmington, Delaware?

      Chapter 2

      The Potomac River

      Three miles above Fort Washington

      Asia Dunaway. She forgot sometimes that she had been an Allen for many years until her marriage to Henry Lossing, and now she was Mrs. Thomas Fitzgerald Dunaway—the colonel’s lady.

      They balanced each other, the colonel and his lady. She was as outspoken as he but in a polished manner, taking time to think before she spoke. Many men were intimidated by intelligent women, and Asia had never met one she could not match in intellect. Fitz was different. His outbursts were usually followed by a flash of guilt for being brash and confrontational. He had a quick mind and was pleased when Asia bested him in trading quips, although he accepted her victory with a growl. They were honest with each other. That is, they had been until now.

      She glanced over her shoulder, watching her husband navigate the crowded passageway between the steam engine and the launch’s hull, making his way aft to speak to the able seaman at the tiller. Fitz was careful to keep his left arm close to his chest, the limb heavily bandaged, suspended in a gleaming white sling. She insisted on changing his bandages twice a day, discarding the fabric soiled with a light brown wash of blood but without, thank God, the stench of decay. Colonel Dunaway had been fortunate, the elderly surgeon at the Armory Hospital had told her—so many men with such wounds lose the arm, or their lives.

      She pulled her purse open by its drawstrings, shielding her actions from Fitz. Asia was ashamed, wanting to tell Fitz, wanting to make him understand, and hoping to share the burden that lay on her heart from the letter in her purse. He was her husband, and a good man. She turned. Fitz and the seaman were deep shadows under the canvas awning of the steam launch, protected from the stiff gusts that whipped the river’s waters into rippling whitecaps. It was cool, with a sharp wind despite the glaring sun in a crisp blue sky, and Asia fumbled with the letter.

      She read the words again, foolishly hoping the angry message had changed, and the despair, that had clenched her stomach in a vise, was unfounded. The shock she had felt as she sat in the parlor, puzzling over the return name and address as she opened the letter, her eyes falling on the contents, had long since faded. It was replaced by the dull ache of knowing she was powerless to help him as she had in the past.

      The steam engine’s gentle chug kept pace with the words that jumped from the page, each piercing her breast. She angrily crumpled the letter, but dropped her head in regret. She could not abandon him. She smoothed the wrinkled paper on her lap, folded it, and slipped it into her purse, once more making sure that Fitz could not see her.

      “Well, Mrs. Dunaway.” Fitz’s voice startled her. “Are you enjoying your regatta?” He sat next to her, easing his wounded arm into a comfortable position. He was still gaunt, but his skin had lost its sickly pallor. His sudden appearance filled her with guilt. She struggled to speak.

      “I don’t know if ‘regatta’ is the word, Colonel Dunaway, but I am enjoying myself.”

      He grew alarmed. “Why, my dear, have you been crying? Have I done something?” He was solicitous, if clumsy with expressing himself, Asia knew, and was apt to lose his temper with matters that he did not understand.

      She had been crying, Asia realized. “Oh,” she said, removing a silk handkerchief from her sleeve. “It is the wind. It is a blustery day.”

      “It is,” Fitz agreed. “But the seaman tells me we should have the vessel in sight at any moment. I would have preferred meeting the president in Washington rather than taking this boat trip. There.” He examined her eyes as she slipped the handkerchief back into the cuff of her sleeve. “Still a bit red, but not teary-eyed.” He shifted his arm again, wincing. “I can’t seem to find a position that works.”

      “Let me see,” Asia said, pulling the sling to one side with care.

      “Asia,” Fitz whispered in alarm. He looked aft. “I can’t have you pawing after me where that fellow can see. It’s indecent.”

      “Fitz. I’m well north of the equator. It’s evident you are in pain. Now quit bouncing about.”

      “Of course I’m in pain,” Fitz said. “I’ve been shot. And the cold causes my arm to ache. And I’m sure that being on the water is of no help.”

      She looked at him patiently. “Are you done, Colonel Dunaway? If so, kindly assist me by closing your mouth while I examine your wound.”

      Fitz turned his head away, waiting as Asia delicately pulled the sling from his arm and eased the bandages to one side.

      “You’re bleeding again.” She was trying to control her emotions, but it was obvious she was frightened.

      “The surgeon said to expect—” he began, hoping he could convince her that her concern was unwarranted, but she cut him off.

      “The bleeding has increased. It’s dark and thick.” She held up her hand, her eyes betraying fear. She removed her gloves, straightened the bandages, and withdrew her hands. Her fingers were smudged with blood—they were strangely vibrant under the muted shadow of the canvas awning.

      Fitz shook his head, dismissing both her evidence and alarm. He pulled the bandages and sling back into place and was about to tell her it was nothing when he saw an island in the middle of the Potomac River.

      “Good Lord,” he exclaimed, forgetting his wound. It was a ship, a double-turreted monitor—a long, black vessel that stretched halfway across the green river. An island all right, but one of rust-streaked iron and oak timbers as thick as a man’s body. Her two turrets, topped by conical canvas awnings that gave them the exotic look of Chinese pagodas, shared the low deck with a delicate platform of railings and ladders, wrapped around a squat smokestack. A column of brown smoke drifted from the stack, only to be snatched by the wind and carried across the river.

      Fitz turned to Asia to find her as awed as he at the sight. “She is majestic,” Asia said.

      “Only a woman would declare a warship thus,” Fitz said.

      “Yet warships are always referred to as ‘she,’” Asia returned. “Why is that, my dear husband?”

      “I refuse to answer, wife,” Fitz said. “I’m calculating.” He squinted, using the height of a nearby river bluff as a measuring stick. “She is two hundred to two hundred and fifty feet from end to end.”

      “‘She,’” Asia said.

      “We will come round to her starboard side,” the helmsman called out. “Kindly wait till we’re tied off before you board her.”

      Fitz watched sailors moving into position as the faint commands of officers traveled over the choppy water. She was an island unto herself—a hunk of iron moored in the middle of the Potomac, several hundred seagulls swooping above her, chattering for attention. The Alchemist, Lincoln’s note had said. I will be aboard the navy’s newest acquisition—come see me immediately. I need you.

      I need you. Lincoln’s words surfaced in Fitz’s mind as the steam launch approached the ironclad. Fitz’s response had been a muttered “Thank God.” He cherished his time with Asia, and his chest grew tight with pride when he introduced her to

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