“I had the gray mare saddled up,” Lee said. “She’s calm and sensible and a bit like riding in a rocking chair.”

“I thank you kindly. I’m still not fit enough to ride a sprightly mount like your Traveller. I think that I’ll be on my way now before the day heats up.”

The weather was fine, the sun warm — and despite the twinges of pain he still felt from his wound — he had the strength of a man on a mission. And the mare was slow and as steady as promised. He crossed the Potomac and turned down Pennsylvania Avenue. Apparently he must have been seen as he came up the drive, because as he approached the Executive Mansion, Lincoln himself came out on the steps to greet him.

“You are looking spry and fit, Jefferson. Seeing you here like this is the best news I could have ever received.”

“Better every day, Abraham, always better.”

Lincoln beckoned and one of the guards hurried forward to help Davis to dismount from his horse.

“Come into the green room and avoid the stairs,” Lincoln said. “Can I offer you some refreshment?”

“At this time of day I think a cup of tea would be most satisfactory.”

“Do you hear that, Nicolay?” Lincoln called to his secretary who was waiting in the hall. “And see that no one disturbs us after that.”

Jefferson Davis drank his tea — then spoke. “How goes this British intrusion into Mexico? I read the reports in the papers, but they are all wind and no meat. The newspaper writers wrap themselves in the flag and go on about the Monroe Doctrine and manifest destiny. But they seem to be a little light on facts.”

“That’s only because they have none. The surrounding jungle keeps news out and the enemy safe within. But all in all I would say that things are going as well as can be expected at this stage. It is not public knowledge yet, but guns and ammunition are reaching the Mexican army and their irregulars. On the diplomatic front things go much more slowly. Emperor Napoleon insists that they are in Mexico at the invitation of the people and makes reference often to the money owed to them. He wants the world to believe that the Emperor Maximilian was asked to rule by the people of Mexico. I doubt if anyone — other than Maximilian himself — believes such tosh.”

“And here at home? How goes the peace?”

He asked the question in a flat voice, but there was a tension behind his words that could not be concealed. Lincoln put his cup down and hesitated before he spoke.

“I wish I could tell you that everything is fine — because it is not. Though there has already been much progress right across the country, and particularly in the South. The economy is booming with the new mills and factories, the railways rebuilt, new rolling stock coming out of the train yards. New warships launched, others being built. But, as always, Congress is being difficult about the appropriations bill. And there is a strong movement to dispatch troops to Mexico to throw the British out. And the British seem to be up to their old tricks — sending arms to the West Indies, planning to retake the islands.”

“That’s all politics. I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about the nigras and the South.”

Lincoln sighed. “I thought that you might be.”

“People come to see me. They tell me things that I don’t like to hear. The freed slaves are getting very uppity. They got schools going in their churches now, with teachers from the North teaching them how to read and write.”

“That is not against the law.”

“Well it should be. Who is going to work the fields while they are all in their schools and such and dilly-dallying and telling each other how great they are? And when they’re not in school they’re out there plowing a couple of acres for themselves. While the cotton just hangs in the fields and rots.”

“That is what the Freemen’s Bureau is for. They can aid the planters as well as the Negroes, they can find field hands…”

“I don’t see any Southerner of class going to those places, asking favors of carpetbagging Yankees and nigras.”

“It’s not quite like that. You can help, Jefferson. Talk to them, they know and respect you. Write for the newspapers, lead the way. We never thought that peace would be easy to obtain. But we have. Now we must hold it to our bosoms most strongly and not throw this golden opportunity away because of ancients hatreds…”

Lincoln broke off as Davis slowly stood up. “That’s not for me to do,” he said. “It is for you and your Mr. Mill to find a way out of this situation that you have created. And, I am most positive about this, it must be done soon.”

Lincoln could think of no response to that. He said a few polite words as he walked the former president of the Confederacy to the door. Watched in silence then as he slowly rode away.

General Escobeda was not a man who normally took chances. Those officers who fought the battles of the little war could not afford to leave anything to chance. Their enemies outnumbered them ten to one, outgunned them a hundred to one. Therefore they avoided fixed battles and planned their skirmishes in detail. It was a matter of hit and run, striking from their mountain strongholds, hitting hard then vanishing back to their safety.

Now Escobeda was taking a chance — but he had no choice. Almost as valuable as the guns and supplies that they carried, the sure-footed donkeys were always in short supply. Without their assistance life in the mountains would be impossible. They brought in food and water, carried out the wounded and the dead. But now Escobeda was forced to do what he did not want to do. He had brought together all the burros that he commanded, and was now leading them out of the safety of the mountains and across the plain to the north.

They moved only at night and by a circuitous route, avoiding the main pathways that led from Monterrey to the border. These were well patrolled by the French. Now the guerrilleros moved as fast as they could, until men and beasts stumbled with fatigue. Yet they still went on, fearful of the French troops, arriving just before dawn at the ford in the Rio Grande del Norte, the river just south of Laredo. Only the scouts went forward while the rest of them remained in a dry arroyo. Here the donkeys ate the hay that they had been carrying. The men slept. Only the guards and the general remained awake. Looking north.

“I see him, General,” one of the guards called out softly. “It is Victoriano.”

The scout appeared on the far bank and waved his hat. Escobeda signaled him to come over. He waded the sluggish river, stumbling with fatigue.

“They are there,” he gasped. “Many wagons pulled by giant mules. Many gringo soldiers as well.”

“We cross as soon as the scouts return. Here, take this.” He passed a small flask of caña over to him, the fiery spirit distilled from sugar cane. Victoriano mumbled thanks as he raised it to his lips.

The scouts returned; the trail behind them was clear. The tired animals brayed protests as they were prodded to their feet. Short minutes later they crossed the river and hurried, as fast as they could, to the safety of the Yankee soldiers.

The weapons and ammunition were waiting just across the Mexican-American border in Laredo, as had been promised. General Escobeda now sat outside the pulqueria, a mug of pulque mixed with pineapple juice in his hand, beaming with pleasure while the military weaponry, the rifles and ammunition, was transferred from wagons to donkey-back. One of the cavalry officers who had accompanied the wagon train was a Texican, Captain Rawlings, and he spoke passable Tex-Mex. Like most gringos he could not abide the foul smell of the fermented pulque, so drank instead its distilled version, mezcal.

“You aiming to attack Monterrey now you got these guns, General?” Rawlings asked.