The Eternal War

CHAPTER 88

1831, New Orleans



Abraham Lincoln stared at the street in front of him. Early evening. It was busy with dock workers finishing for the day, trappers and traders stowing bales of beaver pelts and Indian-friendly trade goods aboard their flatboats. Raucous voices exchanged greetings and farewells in pidgin English and French, the street clattering with the sound of metal-rimmed cartwheels and shoed horses.

Across the rutted dirt thoroughfare was the inn, the very same inn he’d squandered the last of his money drowning his woes in the bottom of a tankard. It seemed to him to be more than a lifetime ago that he’d staggered out on to that porch.

‘I am where you first found me,’ he said.

Sal nodded. ‘And this is where you have to be.’

‘New Orleans,’ he smiled. ‘It seems to me to be a much smaller place now.’

‘I guess so.’ She looked up at him. ‘After all that you and me have seen I suppose it must do.’

He laughed. ‘And what incredible things. I shall, I’m sure, be the victim of sleepless nights until my dying day.’

‘It must remain secret. All of it,’ she said. ‘You know you can’t tell anyone about any of those things that happened?’

‘If I am to one day be a president, young lady, I would be a fool talking of flying ships and animals that speak and machines that transport a person through time. I would never stand a chance of being elected. The people in this new country would not tolerate a deranged lunatic for a leader.’

Sal shrugged. ‘Well …’

Lincoln scratched at his dark beard. ‘But I shall caution any man who will listen to me that this country will not prosper unless it is a united one.’ He looked at her. ‘That at least is something I am permitted to say?’

She looked at Liam. He was talking quietly with Bob a few yards away. She turned back to Lincoln and shrugged. ‘I think you were always destined to say something like that anyway. At least now you know why America can’t go splitting itself up into pieces, right?’

They watched a portly businessman and his wife cross the street, followed by several slaves carrying their baggage between them. A small black boy tagged along in their wake, barefooted and wearing little more than threads of clothing – the last item in a procession of one man’s property.

She found herself thinking of Samuel. Looked up at Lincoln’s dark, hooded eyes and suspected he was thinking the same.

‘I believe there is much in this time to put right,’ muttered Lincoln, ‘before we can be the nation our forefathers dreamed of.’

It was right then they heard the first sound of thundering hooves approaching. Cries of warning from further up the street, the crash of barrels of whisky and ale rolling off the back of the runaway cart and thudding on to the hard dirt strip, the spray of yeast-excited foam through split kegs.

Liam and Bob joined them, standing back from the thoroughfare as the cart approached. Six wild-eyed horses careened in a manic zigzag towards them. They roared past, shedding more barrels from the back of the cart in their wake. They watched the horses and cart weave uncontrolled through the congestion ahead until, finally, the cart rocked over and shed the last of its load. One of the cartwheels collapsed under the burden. Splinters of wood and shattered spokes arced into the sky; a twisted metal wheel rim spun off on its own tangent. They watched the cart still dragged along on its axle by the panicking horses until it was lost from sight.

‘The cart that killed you,’ said Liam. He cheerfully patted Lincoln’s back. ‘Well, not this time, anyway, Mr Lincoln.’

Bob nudged Liam. ‘Remember the secondary objective,’ his voice rumbled quietly.

Liam nodded. He offered Lincoln his hand. ‘Been a pleasure to meet a future president, so it has.’

Lincoln nodded and grasped his hand firmly. ‘I shall … endeavour to do my best, Mr O’Connor. Good Lord willing.’

‘You’ll do your country proud,’ he smiled. ‘I know you will.’

Bob leaned forward. ‘Secondary objective?’

‘Right … right.’ He looked at Sal. ‘We have to go. Something else we need to take a look at.’ He shook Lincoln’s hand and smiled. ‘Look after yourself, Mr Lincoln.’

‘I will that, sir.’

‘Sal –’ Liam gestured up the street – ‘we need to check that out, right now.’

She nodded. ‘I’ll catch up.’

A final farewell from Liam and a terse nod from Bob and they were striding swiftly up Powder Street following the trail of chaos to find its cause.

Sal and Lincoln looked at each other. ‘It’s been a funny old week, hasn’t it?’ she said.

The tall young man’s laugh sounded like a growl. ‘To say the very least, ma’am.’

‘You know …’ she started, knowing it was wrong to say much more to him – certainly wrong to warn him of the grim fate that awaited him only days after the North’s victory. ‘Never mind.’

Lincoln cocked a brow. Curious. ‘What? You were about to tell me something.’

She shrugged. ‘Just that … that your face ends up on the five-dollar bill.’ She smiled. ‘How cool’s that?’

‘Five-dollar bill?’ Lincoln looked surprised. ‘They’ll have paper money of such value?’ He shook his head, amused by that.

Sal glanced up the street. She could still see Liam and Bob. She didn’t want to lose them, though. ‘I have to go now,’ she said. ‘So should you.’

‘Indeed.’

She reached out, grasped his hand and squeezed. ‘Good luck. I’ll look you up on the Net and read all about you when we get back home.’

She offered him a little wave, turned away and then jogged up the street towards the other two. Lincoln watched the three of them go until they finally disappeared among the growing crowd of people filling the street, curious to see what had caused all the commotion.

Well then, Mr Lincoln, what now?

He looked down at his mud-spattered trousers and flapping boots, and decided that whatever his future – his destiny – was, he stood a better chance of realizing it not smelling of pig poo. He strode towards the quayside and the sedate Mississippi River, a glistening mirror-smooth surface that reflected the setting sun.