CHAPTER LV
THE SOUTHERN PLOT
America stood on war's threshold. Even in the West one felt its imminence. The Republican victory had been like a slap in the face to slave-holding democracy. Its strongholds were secretly arming, mobilizing, drilling. And though Lincoln wisely held his peace--warned all the States which hummed with wild secession talk that their aggression alone could disrupt the Union--the wily Stanton, through the machinery of the War Department, prepared with quiet grimness for the coming struggle.
Herbert Waters, after Broderick's death, returned to Windham's office. He was a full-fledged lawyer now, more of a partner than an employee. Waters was of Southern antecedents, a native of Kentucky, a friend, almost a protégé, of General Albert Sydney Johnson, commanding the military district of the Pacific.
One evening in January, 1861, he dined with the Windhams. Early in the evening Benito was called out to the bedside of an ailing client, who desired him to write a will. After he was gone, young Waters turned to Alice.
"You were a friend of Mr. Broderick's," he said impulsively. "He often spoke of you ... and once, not long before he died, he said to me: 'Herbert, when your soul's in trouble, go to Alice Windham ...'"
Mrs. Windham put aside her knitting rather hastily, rose and walked to the window. She made no answer.
Presently the boy continued: "That time has come--now--Mrs. Windham."
Alice crossed the room and laid a hand upon his shoulder. "Herbert! What's the matter?"