Hugh MacRae, who was seated up front with J. Allan Taylor, said, “It’s all right, Colonel.” MacRae had brushed his coat and changed his shirt, but his plantation boots were still spattered with mud, and his hair was disheveled. He looked wildly alive.

Waddell opened his arms in a mock-gracious gesture.

Rountree said, “I’ve got an offer from the board. Hear me out.” He was still nonplussed by the hostile reception he had received. What new alliance was being formed?

“By all means,” Waddell said.

Rountree gave the details.

“Splendid,” Waddell said when Rountree finished. “Now, all we have to do is fill out the slate.” He grabbed the lapels of his clawhammer coat and stared fiercely in the direction of MacRae and Taylor.

It was all happening so fast, Rountree still didn’t quite have his bearings. The killing had spooked him, thrown him off. With Waddell presiding and Hugh MacRae offering in nomination some of the names Gore had suggested, they filled all but two of the seats.

Then, scarcely pausing for breath, Waddell said, “I move we add the illustrious names of Hugh MacRae and John Allan Taylor to our new board.” He’d already worked it out with MacRae—part of their new relationship. They were approved by acclamation.

MacRae said immediately, “And I nominate for the office of mayor the man whose leadership has inspired us all—Colonel Alfred Moore Waddell.” Taylor seconded, and Waddell, too, was approved by acclamation.

Rountree was stunned: so that was what Waddell had been after all along.

Waddell proclaimed, “We shall now adjourn to the chamber to be sworn in. Hugh, see if you can’t round up the old board.”

MacRae said, “Colonel, it’s happening as we speak.”

In a body, they marched out of the room. Solomon Fishblate was waiting in the hall. “Figured you’d be here,” he whispered to Waddell. “When you didn’t call. Where are we in the process?”

J. Allan Taylor bumped him out of the way, “Solly, allow me to present our new mayor.”

Fishblate glared at Waddell. “You? You?”

Waddell patted him on the shoulder and smiled confidentially. “Solomon, events are proceeding very rapidly. One cannot always predict.”

Then, in a rush of coats and guards, he swept into the chamber. Silas Wright and the old board, except for Benjamin Keith and Morrill, were waiting. Wright had already secured a letter of resignation from Morrill. They’d pick up Keith any minute.

One by one, in strict observance of the law, the aldermen resigned. After each stepped down, a name from Waddell’s list was placed in nomination, and the board—gradually changing from Fusionist to Democratic—voted him in. Even the police chief resigned.

Finally, Dr. Wright resigned, and Colonel Alfred Moore Waddell, C.S.A., retired, became mayor of Wilmington.

Waddell smacked his hands together—it had all worked out perfectly. Once again, he was in command. “All that’s left is the swearing in,” he said. “Let’s get a judge in here.” Somebody went to fetch one.