ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? Read online

  I face a choice no President would wish for--to set half the nation against the other half, in all-out war, in order to preserve an ideal that half of us no longer believe in…or, to let self-determination prevail, preserving the life and limb of hundreds of thousands of young men, men who represent the best hope for the future of both regions. I have made my choice. I choose against bloodshed, I choose against death, I choose peace. I say to the people of the South, govern yourselves according to your own conscience and beliefs, as we in the North shall continue to govern ourselves, and let us hope we shall both find harmony and a bright future, together or separately.

  Abraham Lincoln

  The Separation Manifesto, April 10, 1861.

  Chapter One

  President Virgil Lee "Buddy" Bourque groaned softly and gave a try at opening his eyes. The fluorescent light was too bright. He turned his head to the side. He didn't have the slightest idea where he was.

  "Mr. President," said Dr. Cohen. "Are you awake?"

  One eyelid popped open. "'Bout as much as a hibernatin' bear, Lester," the President said, raising his head slightly, straining to see the small, nervous redheaded man in the lab coat, a man who, his patients agreed, looked a lot like Gene Wilder.

  "When you feel up to it," said the doctor, "slip your clothes back on and come see me in my office. We'll talk."

  President Bourque let his head fall back on thin little paper-covered pillow. He was a man of big features, considerable girth, and some age as well. His throat was sore, but Dr. Cohen had told him to expect that. He felt a big burp coming, but he'd also been warned about that. And farting too.

  He groaned again and struggled into a sitting position. His head was starting to clear now. "Nurse," he said. "Nurse?" He was alone in the antiseptic little room, with its arcane medical contraptions hanging from the ceiling and extending out from the walls. The instrument of torture was coiled up on top of a cabinet, all chrome and white plastic tubing, a bit slimy.

  Bourque swung his legs over the side of the bed, and detected an odd sensation on the back of his right hand. A small bandage covered the spot where the IV had been. Lester had told him to expect a mild burning in his lower chest, just above his bulging belly, and yep, there it was, hot but bearable. The roll of Tums in his pants pocket should be able to tame it.

  He carefully planted his stocking feet on the cold linoleum floor and rose to his full height, steadying himself with a hand on the bed frame. That wasn't too bad, he decided. No, not if you considered everything.

  Bourque slipped on his shirt and started fastening the buttons, surprised to see his fingers were trembling slightly. If he were at home, he'd slip on his pants gracefully, standing in the middle of the room. Here, he braced himself against a wall. He reached into a side pocket, found the Tums and popped one into his mouth.

  Well, there he was, together again. Appearance-wise, anyhow.

  Carefully opening the door, the President peered up and down the hallway. No one in view, as Cohen had promised. The doctor's office was at the end of the hallway, and when Bourque walked in, Cohen was sitting behind is desk, shuffling papers.

  "Please have a seat, Mr. President."

  Bourque sighed and sat down in the guest chair. "Lester," he said, "we've known each other a coon's age. What do I have to do to get you to call me Buddy?"

  Dr. Cohen just shook his head, embarrassed. "How are you feeling, Mr. President," he asked. "Any problems as a result of the procedure?"

  "I'm fine," Bourque said, his deep voice resonating with self-confidence. "All ready for the next test."

  Cohen smiled painfully. "That was the last test, Mr. President. I think we have a definitive diagnosis."

  "Definitive, eh?"

  "I see you've been chewing Tums," Dr. Cohen said. "Heartburn still bothering you?"

  "Damn it, Lester, are you psychic? How in God's name did you know I was using Tums."

  "The white particles at the corners of your mouth, Mr. President."

  Bourque wiped his mouth. "You said you had a definitive diagnosis?"

  Cohen opened a thick folder and awkwardly slipped on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He held up a single piece of paper, which contained a fuzzy image. "When you first came to me, Mr. President, I performed an ultrasound examination of your pancreas. The outline, I thought, was somewhat irregular."

  "Yes, yes," Bourque said impatiently.

  "And so I had you come in for a CT scan and an MRI. These too were suggestive, but not definitive. But the endoscopic retrograde cholangiopancreatography..."

  "Stop counting the cards, Lester. What's the verdict?"

  Dr. Cohen looked up at his patient, owl-eyed. "It's what we feared, Mr. President. There's no question of it."

  "Cancer."

  "Pancreatic adenocarcinoma, yes. Fourth stage."

  "Well, man, let's cut it right out of there," Bourque said.

  "It's already spread," Cohen said gently. "Surgery is not an option."

  "I see," said President Bourque. He shifted his weight in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position, and smoothed down his hair. "Sounds like I'd better get myself one of those scalp rugs."

  "Radiation isn't an option either," Cohen said.

  Bourque considered that. "Hmm," he said. "I guess that leaves chemo."

  Cohen tried to look at his patient directly. He shook his head in the negative.

  "You're saying I'm out of options?"

  "I'm afraid so, Mr. President."

  This time, Bourque had nothing to say. He pursed his lips, scratched his chin with an index finger, and found something distant to look at.

  "I can make you comfortable," Cohen said apologetically. "We have some wonderful new medicines..."

  "So this thing's gonna kill me, right?"

  Cohen winced. "I wouldn't put it..."

  "Who cares how you put it? That's plain fact, ain't it?"

  There was no way out of this one. "Yes, Mr. President. Your condition is terminal."

  President Bourque made a sour face and shifted his weight again. "I guess I kinda figured that's what you'd be saying."

  "I could arrange for a second opinion," Cohen offered timidly.

  "Lester. Please. You been my doctor for 20 years. You know my body better than my wife did. Where am I gonna find another doctor I trust as much as I trust you?"

  "Well, it's part of my professional duties to..."

  "How long have I got, Lester?" Bourque asked.

  Dr. Cohen took off his glasses. "I can't say exactly. No one can. A year, maybe. Last few months aren't going to be much fun, but I think I can keep you comfortable."

  "That's a relief," Bourque said, smiling grimly.

  "I'll make sure you have a private floor at Duke. I mean, when the time comes."

  "No. I don't want to make a public spectacle out of myself. I'll have a room fitted out at Arcadia."

  "As you wish."

  Cohen thought a moment. He bent down and pulled the white plastic liner out of his wastebasket, then unlocked the low oak cabinet behind his chair and started dumping pharmaceutical samples into the liner. When it could hold no more, he handed the bag to his patient. "You probably won't be needing these for a few months," he said, "but just in case."

  "You know I never cottoned too much to pills."

  "Don't be a hero. Take them when you need them."

  "Okay, Lester. If you say so."

  "Anything else I can do for you, Mr. President? Can I call someone?"

  Bourque laughed. "Ain't nobody to call, Lester. Roy Pickett's out there in the waiting room and I got me a passel of Secret Service guys in the
escort vehicles. I can get back to The Plantation okay."

  Dr. Cohen took a very deep breath. "Mr. President, I can't tell you how sorry I am, how badly I feel. I wish I'd caught it earlier."

  "Would that have made any difference?"

  "Probably not."

  "So there we are, Lester. Nothing to apologize about."

  "It's going to be a terrible blow to the country, Mr. President. You are loved by so many. And needed."

  Bourque smiled. "Nice of you to say that, Lester. I appreciate it. I really do."

  He rose and stuck out a hand, which Dr. Cohen shook awkwardly.

  "Call me any time, Mr. President. Day or night."

  "Thanks, Lester. I'll try not to be too much of a burr under your saddle."

  Bourque donned his white Panama hat, walked back through the hallway and into the waiting room. A tall, handsome, well-dressed Black man in his late 20s was sitting by the door, reading an old magazine. He rose to greet the President, who handed him the plastic pill bag.

  "Roy, could you keep some of these on your person from now on?" Bourque asked.

  Pickett looked into the bag. "Viocodin," he said, brow furrowing. "Oxycodone?" He met Bourque's eyes. "How bad is it?"

  "The good Lord willing and the creek don't rise, I'll be able to sit up and take nourishment for another year. Maybe." The President said.

  Pickett just stared. "A year?"

  "That was Lester's best guess."

  Pickett sat back down again, stunned. When he looked up there were tears in his eyes.

  "Stop that Roy," Bourque said gruffly. "Tears are about as worthless as tits on a boar hog. Anyhow, it's no surprise."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And tell the boys I'd like to get going directly."

  "Back to Arcadia?"

  "Naw. The Plantation can wait. I'm fixin' to pass by St. Mary's. Gotta have a talk with Cady."

  "Sir—are you up to it?"

  "Who's pluckin' this chicken, Roy, me or you?"

  Pickett spoke a few quiet words into a miniature microphone on his lapel. "They'll be coming around in a couple minutes," he told Bourque.

  By the time they got to the clinic's front door, the motorcade had pulled up—four identical gleaming black and brand-new 2011 Birmingham-built Packards the size of ocean liners. Men in suits, trench coats and sunglasses hopped out of three of them and formed a corridor. Bourque and Pickett walked through it and boarded limousine #4, both of them sitting in the back.

  A third man, a clean-shaven but heavily-bearded fellow with horn-rimmed glasses and a prominent bald spot was sitting across from them, on a jump seat. "Mr. Pinckney," Bourque said, greeting him. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

  Pinckney nodded at Bourque deferentially and got out a small notebook. "Took a little longer than I thought it would," he said, writing something.

  "I made a mistake and asked Lester about his grandchildren, Gerard," the President lied. "That's when the photo albums came out. He could talk the ear offn a dog."

  "I hope the test turned out all right," the man said, the concern in his voice disguising a request for information.

  "Acid reflux, Pinckney," Bourque said. "That's what he found. He said it was the worst case he'd ever seen."

  "Acid reflux?" Gerard Pinckney asked skeptically. "That's all it was?"

  "Yeah," Bourque said. "But it gave me a pretty good ride on the rollercoaster."

  Pinckney caught Roy Pickett's eye at a tender moment and saw the truth, but knew better than to call the President's bluff.

  "I don't think it deserves a mention in that there biography you're writing you're writing about me," the President continued. "Nothin' rare about heartburn."

  "Of course not," Pinckney said, slipping the notebook back into his pocket.

  "Gimme a Coke, Roy," said the President.

  Pickett opened the fridge built into the door. "What do you want?"

  "There a root beer in there? None of that diet shit, now."

  "Yes sir." Pickett pulled a can out of the fridge and handed it to Bourque, who popped the top and drained it.

  Twenty minutes later, the motorcade approached St. Mary's, a picturesque rural cemetery nestled in a stand of live oaks. The only other vehicle in sight was a rusty orange pick-up truck, parked haphazardly beside the caretaker's shed.

  The motorcade took the left fork of the driveway, tires crunching the gravel, coming to a stop on a low hill amidst a field of small white tombstones, placed almost randomly. Three limousine doors sprang open and men in raincoats sprinted out onto the lawn, sniffing for danger.

  One of them gave a thumbs up signal, then the right rear door of the last limousine opened, and President Bourque planted his feet on the ground and pulled himself out of the vehicle, Roy Pickett close behind him, Pinckney electing to stay in the car. Bourque took Pickett's arm and they slowly walked up the hill, through the thick green grass.

  They headed toward a modest grave, marked by a short, rough-hewn slab of rose-colored marble, into which had been chiseled a few short words: "Cady Mae Bourque, much beloved wife of Virgil Lee Bourque, 1957-2005. A Beautiful Light, Extinguished Far Too Soon." A low marble bench crouched beside the tombstone.

  Bourque dropped Pickett's arm, bent down, found a small stone in the grass and carefully placed it on top of the marker. Then he doffed his Panama hat and held it in one hand. "Afternoon, Darlin’," he said quietly. "It's a beautiful day, kind of day that always makes me think of you. I hope you're listening. I got a heap of stuff to tell you."

  Pickett brushed the twigs and leaves from the marble bench and bade Bourque to rest. The President sat down heavily and regarded the tombstone quietly for a few moments.

  "Cady, I've been mulling over the dream we used to prattle on about. You know the dream I mean—the impossible one."

  Bourque paused and reached into his pants pocket. When he failed to find what he was looking for, he glanced toward Pickett, who had already anticipated his Boss's needs and had Tums at the ready. Bourque stuck one into his mouth and started chewing.

  After he swallowed, he went on. "The fact is, Cady, this just might be the moment for it. If I'm cunning enough and I have enough time, I just might could make it happen."

  Pickett look at Bourque curiously, but the President was gazing at the tombstone.

  "I gotta do it right away, though, afor my body gets the best of me. Lester tells me I'm falling apart pretty quick, Darlin’. So I just got this one chance."

  Bourque got to his feet, went to the tombstone. adjusted the small rock he'd placed on top of it. And stood, looking down.

  "Thing of it is, Cady, we've gotten ourselves into a pretty bad fix. If I can't make this dream of ours come true now, well, the future looks pretty grim for all of us—and I don't just mean me and Delphine. I mean all of us."

  He sat down on the marble bench again. "Anyhow, Cady, I'd appreciate any help you can give me. I mean, I know you can't do anything, well, tangible. But maybe if you catch me gettin' a little wobbly, you can put some steel in my spine. Like you used to, you know, when..."

  Bourque stopped in mid-sentence. Something across the way had attracted his attention. Pickett followed his gaze. The caretaker's ancient orange pick-up was laboriously chugging its way up the hill, a feat which required every last one of its horsepower.

  The men in the raincoats moved swiftly to insert themselves between the President and the approaching truck, a couple of them stealthily slipping their hands inside their coats, ready to take sterner measures if necessary.

  But the truck stopped. The driver's side door opened slowly and a bent little old man in faded coveralls and wearing a battered straw hat stepped out gingerly and began to make his way toward the President, limping. The rain coat men formed a phalanx.

  "Is that Buddy Bourque?" The old man shouted over them, in a raspy, whiskey-soaked voice. "Is that Buddy Lee Bourque?"

  "Yes it is," the President shouted back, drawing frowns from the men in rain coats. "Who's th
at?"

  "It's Chief Warrant Officer James Frontenot," the old man said. He performed a surprisingly snappy salute.

  Bourque stared at him for a moment, then got off the bench and headed his way him, putting on his Panama hat. "Jimmy Frontenot?" He said, amazed. "You still alive and kicking?"

  "Damn right, Admiral Bourque. And ready for duty whenever duty calls. Can I come shake your hand?"

  "Course you can shake my hand, Jimmy. Come on over here, you old coot."

  The men in the raincoats, getting the idea now, let him through and the two men started shaking hands and ended up hugging. "Damn it, Buddy," the old man said, "it's good to see you again."

  "Same here, Jimmy. They got you taking care of this place now?"

  "Yeah. It's not bad. It's kinda like gardening."

  Bourque grinned.

  "But look at you," the old man said. "Mr. President."

  "Yeah I know. Somebody had to do it," Bourque said.

  "You like the job?" Frontenot asked.

  "Things get any better, I'm gonna have to hire someone to help me enjoy life."

  "A lot quieter than the old days."

  "Yeah, nobody shooting at us." Bourque agreed.

  Frontenot laughed, then seemed to remember something. "You ever think about that day?"

  "That day? You mean on The Heart of Dixie?" Bourque asked.

  "That's right," the old man said. "Now that was a day to remember."

  "And I got the scars to prove it."

  "I know. I saw you get 'em."

  Bourque smiled ruefully. "Shoulder still troubles me sometimes."

  "You know, we weren't very impressed when you first came on board—all hat, no cattle, most of us thought. None of us thought the President's son would make much of an Admiral."

  "'Spect not," Bourque allowed.

  "Then when you got hit and commanded the fleet, lying on the stretcher, going all Nelson and Farragut on us, we kinda changed our minds."

  "Very white of you," Bourque observed.

  "No cause to change 'em back since then neither."

  Bourque turned toward Pickett, grinning. "You hear that, Roy? That's what I call a loyal supporter."

  "Pleased to meet you, sir," Pickett said, extending a hand.