(From the Prologue)

The dinning room of the Wolfeboro Inn was crowded with guests. At the far bay window overlooking the lake a lone diner sat reading his morning paper. Two tables from him a younger man drank coffee while staring at him. The young man wore a vested suit and sported a finely trimmed mustache. After a moment, he glanced uncertainly to his left and right and then stood and walked to the older man’s table.

“Mr. Lincoln,” he said deferentially. 

Robert Todd Lincoln, eldest and sole surviving son of the sixteenth president of the United States looked from his paper and nodded. “Yes.”

“Jonathan Fielding, Washington Post,” the younger man said as he stuck out his hand.

Lincoln looked at him warily. Seldom did he speak with the press.

“Mr. Fielding with the Post,” Lincoln repeated quietly.

“Yes, sir, I saw you reading in the lobby last night and thought it was you, and I wanted to pay my respects.”

“You write short stories for the Times supplement?” Lincoln asked as he took Feeling’s hand. “And I’ve read you in Harpers, haven’t I?” 

“Yes, sir, I also wanted to thank you for your gracious letters.”

“Thank you for your excellent stories, Mr. Fielding. Won’t you have a seat?”

Fielding sat in the chair opposite Lincoln. Behind him and across the bay the hills glittered with color. In a week or two the leaves would start to fall and the winter snows begin. 

“So what are you working on now, Mr. Fielding?” Lincoln asked.

“To be honest, Mr. Lincoln, I’m researching a book on the war.”

“And you wanted a few quotes from the president’s son?” Lincoln asked.

“No, sir, I simply wished to pay my respects. Your reputation is that you rarely speak with reporters, especially about the war.”

Lincoln nodded agreement. “Too many times, Mr. Fielding, I’ve been misquoted, and there have been a great many distortions about my Father and the war?”

“Could you give me an example, sir?” 

For a moment, Lincoln considered not answering, but Fielding was an accomplished writer, one he admired. Perhaps he could be trusted. “Revisionists now view the South as the noble defender of states rights instead of slavery as it actually was. That’s a distortion I find particularly galling.”

“Yes, I can understand that, sir. But rest at ease, I’m concerning myself with the military aspects of the war.”

“Someone should, Mr. Fielding. There have been a great many inaccuracies about that too.”

“Could you explain yourself, sir?”

Lincoln shrugged and sipped his coffee. “Last year, the Richmond Examiner published an editorial stating that Father was going to ask for a truce after Fredericksburg, that only intervention from Secretary Stanton kept him from doing so.”

“Couldn’t that possibly be true, sir? Fredericksburg was a terrible defeat, probably the worst of the war,” Fielding pointed out.

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