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things to tell you. Things I need you to remember.”

Chapter Three
Mr. Lincoln’s War
    “Captain Wright?”
    Braxton’s head snapped up at the sound of his name. The unmistakable silhouette of Allan Pinkerton stood in the open doorframe, but Braxton was having trouble getting his eyes to focus on the man. He pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked until Pinkerton came into focus.
    “Sorry, sir,” he said, trying hard not to blush in embarrassment. “I was admiring your music box and must have dozed.”
    “Not to worry, lad,” Pinkerton said, reaching out and pushing in the little rod that would stop the balance gear from spinning. The machine trembled and came to a halt.
    Braxton felt more alert almost immediately and he stood, shaking off the last of the groggy feeling.
    “I see you fixed it,” Pinkerton said, blowing out the lamp in the machine’s center with a quick puff of air. “Very clever of you.”
    “Thank you, sir, but it was just a bent rod.”
    “Well, I appreciate it nonetheless,” Pinkerton said. “If you’ll follow me, the President is ready for you.”
    Braxton stepped around the chair, pushing it back in as he went, then followed the older man out into the hall. A pair of soldiers in blue coats with polished brass buttons stood at attention, their rifles resting easily at their sides.
    The hallway ended against a set of double doors, with the corridor running off to either side. An intricate inlayed scene of a feudal Samurai warrior receiving his sword from his liege covered the doors. As Pinkerton knocked, Braxton was forced to wonder what he would be receiving beyond those doors. Clearly he’d been brought here for some reason, though he couldn’t imagine what.
    “Come in,” a muffled voice called.
    Pinkerton opened the doors and went in. The room resembled Pinkerton’s office, though it seemed larger owing to the glass skylight that dominated the ceiling. A tea service had been laid out on a low table between two couches, and a tall man in a dark suit stood behind it looking for all the world like the butler. His face was angular and lined, and there was a sadness in his eyes that made him seem old. Braxton had heard that Lincoln was tall, but was not prepared for the reality of it. The man stood well over six feet and was all arms and legs.
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain Wright,” President Lincoln said, reaching out to shake Braxton’s hand.
    Braxton took the offered hand and tried not to tremble as he shook it. If his father could only see him now. He’d never believe that his boiler-monkey of a son was meeting the President of the United States.
    “It’s an honor, Mister President,” he replied, unable to keep his enthusiasm in check. “A real honor, sir.”
    “The honor is entirely mine. Have a seat, Captain,” the President said, indicating one of the couches. “Would you like some tea?”
    “Yes, sir,” Braxton said, and sat as the leader of his nation poured him tea. As he handed Braxton his teacup, he smiled with an unforced geniality that belied the sad eyes.
    Braxton relaxed as he sipped his tea. Lincoln sat on the couch opposite, next to Pinkerton.
    “You may have heard that I am something of a collector and purveyor of tales, Captain Wright,” Lincoln said with studied casualness. “I do not profess to be a professional in this regard—perhaps at best a hobbyist—but I find that I often deal in stories.”
    Braxton nodded from behind his teacup.
    “So what’s your story, son?” Lincoln asked in a quiet voice.
    Braxton choked, nearly spilling his tea. At once, the “official story” sprang into his mind, the one his superiors had insisted he tell, the one that made him appear a quick thinking military genius instead of what he was, merely a hapless survivor. How could he sit in Lincoln’s parlor and lie?
    The President, however, continued speaking through his easy smile. “Of course, we all know about your heroic deeds at