EPILOGUE

Thanksgiving weekend

 

President Harwell was dead. As the Continental flight touched down at Brownsville International Airport in the southernmost city in Texas, Tolman kept thinking about the president, and all that had happened since Fort Washita.

She and her father were summoned to the Oval Office in late September, after the FBI and ATF had made their arrests. On September 22, raids were conducted in cities from Seattle to Miami. Warehouses full of weapons were seized. Hundreds were arrested.

On September 23, the vice chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, Admiral Carter Smith, was arrested in his office at the Pentagon. As Washington One, he had orchestrated the military component of the conspiracy—faking the deaths of military personnel who had been absorbed into the Glory Warriors, diverting “surplus” equipment and weapons to the Glory Warriors’ stockpiles. The official, public line was that Smith had been arrested for misappropriation of DOD funds. Senior Inspector Brent Graves of the U.S. Marshals Service had already been buried by the day of Smith’s arrest. Graves’s wife reported that her husband had been despondent over the death of Chief Justice Darlington and the lapse in security that resulted in her assassination. Timothy Delham and Rusty Hudson were being held in secret detention facilities somewhere near Washington. Delham had talked and talked and talked, giving the FBI names and locations and a wealth of other information about the machinations to overthrow the United States government. Tolman had not seen Hudson since Fort Washita.

Within two weeks, the Glory Warriors were dismantled, their bank accounts frozen, many of their people locked away. Jackson McMartin’s assets were frozen, and the long process of breaking up and selling his media empire had begun.

The American public knew nothing of the fact that James Harwell had come within seconds of being assassinated outside the Anacostia Community Center. The words Glory Warriors were never mentioned in any mass media.

So Ray and Meg Tolman sat in the Oval Office, just the two of them with the president of the United States, and listened as Harwell thanked them for what they had done to uncover the conspiracy. He sounded like he was reciting from a briefing paper. After a while, Meg Tolman had tuned it out, thinking of the Rachmaninov piece she’d meant to play for the Vienna Kiwanis luncheon all those weeks ago, but never got to perform. She snapped back to attention when the president said, “I’m ill.”

“Sir?” Ray Tolman said after a moment, just to say something.

“I’m ill,” Harwell said again.

The three of them looked at each other; then the president dismissed them without another word.

He was dead ten days later. The nation mourned its leader, who had died of a heart attack in his sleep, at age fifty-five. But Tolman was haunted by the words, “I’m ill.” What had Harwell really meant? Did he have cancer? Some other physically debilitating disease? Did he have mental health issues, like her mother? And would the president of the United States really have been able to keep such things a secret from those around him? Late at night, Tolman had wondered if the Secret Service found an empty bottle of Ambien or Restoril or some other sleep aid at his bedside. She wondered how the First Lady felt when she woke and found her husband dead in bed beside her. Many questions. No answers.

The vice president was a former senator from North Carolina named Robert Mendoza. Grandson of Mexican immigrants, he’d proved himself capable during the transition, and had been a gentle, stable hand at the head of government.

“Now we must heal,” President Mendoza told the nation on the day Harwell was buried.

Twenty-four hours later, Tolman had sat in the Oval Office again and listened to what the new president had to say. She told him she had to think about it.

Now we must heal.

She rented a car, punching her destination into its GPS. Lonely Texas State Highway 4 wandered east out of Brownsville along the flat coastal plain. Mexico looked back at her from across the highway. The road wound north, and then she saw the Gulf of Mexico. Per the directions, she turned left, passing signs for Brazos Island and Boca Chica Beach. Pavement ended and the car passed onto a beach road. It had been a dry season along the Gulf Coast, so the sand was hard packed and smooth. Tolman caught sight of a couple of houses on stilts, but nothing else. Sand, rocks, a little grass farther back from the water.

She parked the car, got out, and walked around a bend. She heard them over the sound of the waves before she saw them: a high-pitched shriek, a loud piercing whistle, a bold laugh. She topped a little rise and saw Nick and Andrew Journey sitting on folding lawn chairs, ten feet away from the Gulf. Journey’s arm was still in a sling, and his foot was still wrapped. But his eyes were bright.

Andrew stopped what he was doing with his hands—something involving a straw and a pencil—and looked at her as she walked toward them. He made a sort of hooting sound that she thought sounded vaguely interrogative.

“Hi,” she said, raising her voice above the waves.

Journey stood up and they looked at each other. “You look good,” he finally said.

“You look like hell,” Tolman said, and they both laughed.

“There’s so much,” Journey said after a long moment. He looked toward the Gulf. “They killed Evan Lovell and they went after your friend Darrell.”

“I feel bad for Lovell. The poor guy just tried to help. Darrell’s case was self-defense, and the investigation is closed. I guess I feel bad for Darrell, too, but he’s … maybe ‘complicated’ is the best word. I suppose that describes my relationship with him, too.”

Journey nodded. “So you met the new president.”

“Yeah. He asked me to take over RIO.”

“Really? Are you going to do it?”

“I told him I’d think about it.”

“You should,” Journey said. “You’d be good at it.”

“We talked about you,” Tolman said.

“I guess the subject couldn’t be avoided, as the Glory Warriors mess was being untangled.”

“The president wants you to work with me.”

Andrew whistled as a wave hit the shore. Journey turned abruptly. “Excuse me? I don’t think I heard that.”

“Don’t worry, you can keep your teaching gig and you can stay in Oklahoma. But the president wondered if you might consult with RIO when investigations come up that have a historical aspect.”

“You must be kidding.”

“You should do it.” Tolman smiled. “You’d be good at it.”

“You must be kidding.”

“They’ll match whatever you’re making at the college.”

Journey waited. “You’re not kidding.”

“Nope. Think about it.”

Journey shook his head and they were both silent for a long time. Andrew thrummed out a rhythm with his straw and his pencil, and it seemed to coincide with the impact of the waves on the shore.

“How’s Sandra?” Tolman said.

“She’s fine. We’re friends, and I guess that’s a good thing.”

“Yes, it is. I hope you two get to talk a lot more.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. Sandra’s a good woman, but it’s…” He let the sentence die, gazing out at the Gulf.

“Complicated,” Tolman said. “I get it.” She nodded toward Andrew. “How’s this guy?”

Journey squeezed his son’s shoulder. “He’s the best. He had a few tough days because his routine was off, but he’s been fine since then. Good days and bad days, just like anyone.”

They walked a few steps. “You’re a really, really good dad. You know that, don’t you?”

“No, I’m not.” Journey smiled. “But I try. Just like your father after your mother died. I try. Andrew deserves that, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Tolman said. “I do. And I also think you should give yourself a break sometimes.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me?” Journey said after another bit of silence.

“Subject changer. But, since you brought it up, I didn’t come all this way to stand on an undeveloped beach, Nick.”

“This is where it ended.”

Tolman looked around. “What do you mean?”

“The Civil War. It ended here.”

Tolman stared at him.

“Did you see the historical marker along the highway outside of Brownsville?” Journey asked.

“No. I don’t read historical markers.”

“You should. I mean, the last shots of the Civil War were fired not far from this spot.”

Tolman folded her arms. “Grant? Lee? Appomattox? Ring any bells?”

“No, the war didn’t really end there. Yes, Lee surrendered his army to Grant. But armies were spread all over the place, even this far west. Several battles took place after Appomattox. It took a while for the news to filter down through the country that Lee had surrendered.”

“So?”

“So there was this little battle down here on the Texas coast. The Battle of Palmito Ranch.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Kids are taught in school that the war ended with Lee’s surrender at Appomattox. While that may have been the beginning of the end of the war, it was another couple of months before all the Southern armies surrendered.”

“Did you drag me down here to give me another damn history lecture?”

“Yes, I did.”

They stared at each other; then they both laughed. “What the hell does this have to do with anything?” Tolman finally asked.

“It has everything to do with what we went through in September,” Journey said. “There had been a sort of ‘gentlemen’s agreement’ between the Union and Confederate forces early in 1865 that there would be no fighting here along the border. Most of the Union troops had already left, and the Southerners were just a ragtag group, not particularly well organized.”

“So someone broke the agreement.”

“Both sides knew Lee had surrendered, but they also knew that technically, the war was still going on in the West. But you had the Thirty-fourth Indiana posted here, and one of the black units, the Sixty-second U.S. Colored Infantry. They were commanded by a man named Theodore Barrett, and for some reason, on May twelfth, 1865, more than a month after Appomattox, Barrett ordered his troops to attack the Southern camp nearby. The Union headquarters was right here.”

“Here? On this island? What a lousy place to spend the war.”

“It was just about as far as you could get away from everything and still be in the Union Army.” Andrew ran a few steps ahead, coming close to the surf. Journey kept up with him, limping a little. Tolman watched the two of them together, then had to jog to catch up.

“So why did the Union attack?”

“Who knows?” Journey said. “Barrett wasn’t a very distinguished commander, and one school of thought is that he had political ambitions for after the war and wanted to make a name for himself before it was too late. Whatever the reason, he ordered his troops to cross to the mainland and march upriver. I could give you all kinds of details about the troop movements and the time line and all that, but I won’t.”

“But I’ll play along. The Confederates were surprised by this sneak attack, and then what happened?”

“Their commander was a major named John ‘Rip’ Ford, who was and still is something of a legend in Texas. Soldier, doctor, politician, newspaperman … he was quite a character. His group engaged the Union at Palmito Ranch, and it effectively turned into a rout. When the shooting was just about over, the North was in full retreat, scrambling back across the Rio Grande to the island.”

They rounded a curve. The mouth of the Rio Grande lay before them.

“There was still skirmishing going on as they retreated. According to one account, a Federal shell burst right over the head of a young Rebel soldier, and he was so startled, he fired his rifle back toward the soldiers who were retreating. That shot killed a Union private from Indiana. No more shots were fired. That was the last shot of the Civil War.”

Tolman looked around at the desolate island, the river, the Gulf, the flat hard-packed sand of the beach road. “Hell of a long way from Virginia.”

Journey nodded. “That it is. The Confederates didn’t have many supplies, their clothes were worn out. They’d just won a victory in battle, but they stripped the Indiana private of his clothes and all the personal belongings he had with him.”

“Why is this important?”

“The Indiana private was named John Jefferson Williams.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Meg, listen to me. His name was John Jefferson Williams.”

“Is that supposed to mean something—?” Tolman’s voice died and she stopped walking. “No. There’s no way…”

“Remember that note we found in Lovell’s stuff, the one Samuel Williams wrote when he left in the fall of 1864? It was just one sentence, and it didn’t mean anything at the time. We were still trying to figure out what Samuel had done. But he wrote, before disappearing forever, ‘I leave all to my younger brother John, who has crossed the river to join the Federals.’”

“Crossed the river,” Tolman said. “He crossed from Kentucky to Indiana. So he joined the Indiana troops that eventually wound up here. My God, Nick, you’re saying Samuel Williams’s brother was the last casualty of the war?”

“That’s right. You remember my theory for how Samuel got from Louisville to Fort Washita?”

“He took steamboats as far as Fort Smith, then horseback from there.”

“Right. When he changed boats, probably at the mouth of the Arkansas, he could have sent the signature page on another boat going on down the Mississippi. Boats regularly made the run to New Orleans and around the Texas coast to Mexico. We know for a fact that at least some of the troops on Brazos Island found out about Lee’s surrender from a newspaper that was left here by a steamboat from New Orleans. All Samuel had to do was pay a messenger to deliver a sealed envelope to his brother, who by then was posted here. He knew it would be safe—nothing was going on down here, after all. His brother didn’t know anything about the Glory Warriors. All he had was a sealed envelope that had been sent from his much older brother.”

Tolman shook her head. “Sam Williams was brilliant. He thought of everything, planned it so carefully. He even figured out that Grant and Lee didn’t trust him, and he did everything he could to protect the pages.”

“Here’s the irony: When Samuel left Louisville back in the fall, that sentence about leaving all to his brother probably was just about the bank and his personal belongings. One way or another, he knew he was about to become Edward Hiram and wouldn’t be coming back to his old life. But by the next spring, when the war was over and he was putting the Glory Warriors into place, he saw it as a way to keep the signature page away from the other pages. It was a fail-safe—he’d created the Glory Warriors, but he didn’t want it to be too easy for them to take power. Maybe he thought the power wouldn’t be abused that way.”

Andrew whistled, then dropped his straw on the sand. Tolman picked it up, brushed it off, and handed it back to him. His eyes flickered across hers before darting away toward the waves.

Tolman looked thoughtful. “So where’s the page? The Rebel soldiers stripped John Williams’s clothes. If they were that desperate, and they found a sealed letter in the pocket of a dead man, I’m betting they opened it, hoping there was money inside.”

“Someone opened it, and I think what happened is that they saw the signatures of Robert E. Lee and U. S. Grant with the date of April ninth and Appomattox written on it, and they got scared. Within a few days, everything was back to normal down here on the border, and someone gave the page to an officer, maybe the Union commander at Fort Brown. When the war was officially over, the commander wasn’t sure what to do with the page. He knew he couldn’t keep it as a souvenir, he knew it had some importance, and he was probably nervous holding on to it.”

“I know you’re not going to tell me he sent it to Washington,” Tolman said.

“To the War Department. He washed his hands of it. But of course, the War Department didn’t know what it was, either. So I think some clerk in Washington, maybe in a low-level office somewhere—” Tolman smiled at that. “—put it in a drawer and forgot about it for a long time.”

They walked a few steps in silence. “At Fort Washita, you knew then the page wasn’t buried with Williams,” Tolman said. “I understand that we were drawing out the Glory Warriors at that point, but did Williams really have to be dug up? I have to tell you, I keep remembering falling on his bones, and the way they sounded snapping underneath me.”

“I’m sorry,” Journey said. “I had to convince McMartin.”

“Well, you certainly convinced me,” Tolman said. “At Washita, you said to look in the library to find the signature page. I thought you were delirious, but I guess you went to the library and put all this together in the last two months.”

“Partly,” Journey said.

He stopped and looked at her. Andrew pulled on his father’s arm, then seeing that Journey wasn’t moving, he stopped and scuffed a foot in the sand.

“What do you mean, partly?” Tolman said.

“The page sat around until 1937, when someone finally realized it might be historically significant and sent it to the Library of Congress.”

“No,” Tolman said.

Journey nodded.

“It was on display in the goddamn Library of Congress all this time,” Tolman said.

“Not exactly on display, but it’s been there since 1937. There’s a note attached to it from the curator at the time, stating that the signatures have been authenticated, and that it is, and I quote, ‘likely that a member of either General Grant’s or General Lee’s staff requested a second copy of their signatures upon Lee’s surrender to Grant at Appomattox Court House.’” Journey shrugged. “They think it was someone’s souvenir.”

“The Library of Congress,” Tolman said.

Journey smiled.

“Hidden in plain sight,” Tolman said. “The Glory Warriors could have found it at any time.”

“If they’d known where to look. It’s a bit of an illusion, isn’t it? Sometimes things are hiding, even if they’re right there for everyone to see.”

They looked at each other—a long, long moment of unspoken understanding.

“Maybe that’s true,” Tolman said. She was thinking of her mother, and President James Harwell. She wondered if Journey was thinking of his parents and brothers, or of his ex-wife and his son and Sandra Kelly. Or maybe he was just thinking about history.

“Then again,” Tolman said, “maybe it isn’t.”

They walked along the beach, close to the shore as the waves rolled in. A wind gust hit them, they felt air on their faces, and a fine, misty spray of water. Andrew Journey held both his hands over his head and waved them back and forth, basking in the November sun and the clear air and the water. He gave a happy, genuine laugh, and then he began to whistle again.