Category Archives: Novels

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Forty

Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Baker saves Booth’s life at Garrett’s farm. Booth sneaks away to Richmond, where he tricks a widow into caring for him. Lincoln’s friend Lamon interviews Mrs. Surratt and others in prison.
Lamon shook his head and stood. He patted Herold on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’ll get to go home. One of these days.” He turned to the door and rapped for the guard. Once in the hall he told the officer, “There’s just one more, correct?”
“Yes, sir. You’ll like him. He’s a man’s man. You won’t see him going crazy, like Herold there.”
This alleged “man’s man” savagely slashed several people, including a sick old gentleman in his bed, Lamon thought. No paragon of manly virtue, he decided; but he chose not to share his conclusions with the guard who had only in the last few minutes become cooperative in his investigation. Once inside the cell, Lamon saw Lewis Paine languidly leaning against the far wall, in a repose that suggested complete serenity. Because of the hood, Paine’s eyes were not visible, however Lamon sensed they reflected the same composure.
“Mr. Paine, I am Ward Hill Lamon, federal marshal. I have a few questions about the charges you are facing.”
“Please take a seat. They just replaced the straw on the floor this morning, so it should be nice and comfortable.”
“Thank you.” Lamon squatted and sat cross-legged. “Do you understand the seriousness of your situation here?”
“Oh sure. I’m probably goin’ to hang.” He turned to Lamon. “You wouldn’t happen to have a chaw of tobacco on you.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” He pulled the package from his pocket.
“I’d be right more agreeable to talk if I had a lump of tobacco in my cheek.”
“Of course.” Lamon pinched a bit of tobacco off and extended it between two fingers through the hood’s hole so Paine could take it from him with his mouth.
Leaning back as he chewed, he sighed. “That’s mighty good. Neighborly of you. I appreciate it.”
“Think nothing of it.” Lamon gave the prisoner a moment to enjoy his tobacco before he started asking questions. “I know you and the others met with a short, red-haired man under the bridge right before the assassination.”
“Yep. You know, he wasn’t a very nice man. He said I was stupid. I can’t help it. I got kicked in the head by a mule when I was a boy. I liked what he said about gettin’ even. I’ve always liked gettin’ even. I’ve done that a lot.” Paine turned his head to spit into the straw.
“So you felt you were getting even when you stabbed Secretary of State Seward?”
“Hell, I didn’t even know who the old bastard was, but the man said to kill him, and I done the best I could to do it.”
“So killing Seward wasn’t Booth’s idea but the man under the bridge?”
“I don’t think Wilkes knew who this Seward fella was.”
“Who do you think the man under the bridge was?”
“I don’t know. But he thought he was somethin’ to write home about, I’ll tell you that.”
“Do you think he was working for someone else, somebody really big?”
“Ah, you’re not goin’ to start in on that business that Jeff Davis was behind all this?”
“I don’t know, was he?”
“Right at this time I really don’t give a damn.” Paine paused to lean toward Lamon. “Tell me. Do you think I’d have a chance of gettin’ off if I did say Jeff Davis did it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then to hell with it.” Paine leaned back against the wall, turned his head and spit again. “Jeff Davis had nothin’ to do with it.”
“The red-haired man was supposed to kill Stanton, and Stanton is still alive. Don’t that strike you as peculiar?”
“No. Johnson is still alive too. That ain’t peculiar, is it? Are you sure you can’t get me off with prison or somethin’ like that?”
“Only if you can tell me something I don’t already know.” Lamon knew this was his last chance to wrangle information out of Paine.
“I’ll tell you somethin’ you don’t know. That lady down the hall ain’t guilty of nothin’ but bein’ a lady, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”
Lamon stood and brushed away the bits of straw that clung to his trousers. “Well, if you think of anything else, send for me. Remember my name Ward Hill Lamon. Can you remember that?”
“Sure I can, Lord Will Raymond.”
After the guard let Lamon out of the cell and escorted him to the prison exit, he asked, “Now you haven’t been lying to me, have you? You really are part of the team to hang those bastards, right? The last thing I need is to get in trouble because I let you in to see them.”
Lamon patted the guard on the back. “You have nothing to worry about me, I assure you. By the way, you were wrong. That last fellow was the craziest one of all.”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Nine

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Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Baker saves Booth’s life at Garrett’s farm. Booth sneaks away to Richmond, where he tricks a widow into caring for him. Lincoln’s friend Lamon interviews Mrs. Surratt in prison.
The guard appeared and unlocked the door, letting Lamon out. He turned and led Lincoln’s friend down the hall to the cell which held Samuel Arnold, a slender young man sitting in a corner with a canvas hood over his head.
The sight startled Lamon, and he took a step back to whisper to the guard, “Why does he have a hood on his head?”
“All of them have hoods,” the guard replied brusquely. “It’s what they deserve.”
“Mrs. Surratt didn’t wear a hood,” Lamon said.
“Oh. She’s a woman,” the officer explained. “I guess there are benefits to being a woman, even a woman guilty as hell.”
When the guard unlocked the door, Arnold’s head came up. As Lamon spoke to him he realized that here was an educated young man, somewhat astonished at his situation but not particularly unsettled by it either.
The hood obscured Arnold’s facial expressions, but a large hole at the mouth allowed the inmate to eat, drink and speak clearly. The tone of Arnold’s voice told Lamon that he genuinely did not know anything specific about Edwin Stanton or Lafayette Baker other than what he had read about them in the newspapers. The same was true of the suspect in the next cell Michael O’Laughlin. Both of them admitted they knew Booth and had agreed to participate in a kidnapping of the president but they withdrew when the plan changed to assassination. Edmund Spangler, in the next cell, knew even less than Booth’s two friends. The only thing Spangler admitted was holding the stage door for Booth. That was the same courtesy he would do for any actor, for a price.
After Spangler, Lamon visited with Dr. Samuel Mudd who sat erect, with his back against the wall. Lamon introduced himself and took Mudd’s hand to shake. The doctor’s grip was quite strong.
“I can help you,” Lamon kneeled next to Mudd and whispered in as agreeable a voice as he could manage. “I know you must not think very highly of us Yankees, but please believe I want to help.”
“Of course. You have to have more honor than that little shit,” Mudd replied in a calm voice.
“I beg your pardon?” He was not expecting that sort of response.
“The little shit. That damned actor whose leg I set. My life is over because I did my job.”
Lamon sensed the doctor was rehearsing his defense as Mrs. Surratt had done, but he chose not to confront Mudd with his assumption.
“Yes, that is an injustice.” He paused. “There are so many others who are guilty of much more than you and they will go free.”
“What?”
“The other conspirators.”
“They won’t let the half-wit go free,” Mudd said.
“No, I don’t mean him. The others. The ones really responsible.” Lamon held his breath, hoping the doctor would take his bait.
Mudd shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The short man with red hair.”
“What man with red hair?” He spat in exasperation. “Who did you say you were? What are you talking about?”
“I must be mistaken. I won’t take up any more of your time.” Lamon stood to leave.
“If you’re from a damn newspaper,” Mudd hissed, “I’ll kill you if I ever get out of here.”
Lamon felt his neck burn red with embarrassment as he rapped on the cell bars. The guard next escorted him to the cell of George Atzerodt. As the guard unlocked the door, Lamon decided he wanted to avoid the same mistake he made with Mudd when he spoke to this prisoner.
Of all the men, Atzerodt reeked most of alcohol. His clothing seemingly was soaked in it. Like the other men he had talked to so far, his face was concealed by a canvas hood.
“Do you know who Lafayette Baker is?” Lamon asked.
“Verdammt, er ist grob.”
“What?”
“Der man, he vas bigger dan dey say. I—I couldn’t do it.” Atzerodt’s thick German accent muddled his mumblings to the point of indiscernibility.
“They say?” Lamon was not sure he had understood him correctly. “You said they say? Who were they?”
“Verdammt, er ist grob.”
Realizing he was not going to extract any more information out of Atzerodt, Lamon told the guard he was ready to move on to the next cell which confined David Herold. Even as the guard unlocked the door, Lamon could hear Herold’s mumblings and cries. Lincoln’s friend stopped abruptly as he entered, his nostrils flaring with the smell of the suspect’s urine and feces. Herold’s hood was dripping with saliva as he constantly chewed on it.
“Mr. Herold,” Lamon said, trying to be as soothing as possible, “is anything wrong? Anything I can help you with?”
“I want my mama and my sisters,” he said between the sobs. “They always know how to make me happy. They won’t let them take me home. Why won’t they let Mama take me home?”
“Maybe after the trial.” Lamon kneeled beside him and tried to pat Herold’s shoulder but he lurched away.
“Don’t hurt me! Don’t you dare hurt me!”
Lamon waited a moment, hoping the young man would calm down. His sobs softened, but he continued to chew on the canvas. Lamon looked down between Herold’s legs and watched his urine soak his pants again.
“What can you tell me about the short man with red hair?”
Herold jerked his head in Lamon’s direction. “The man with red hair?”
“You must remember him. You and the others met him under the bridge right before your friend Wilkes Booth killed the president. You remember. He had a special way of tapping his foot.”
“Who are you? Do you have red hair? Are you him? You here to kill me?”
“My name is Ward Hill Lamon, a federal marshal. I’m not here to kill you.”
“You got red hair?”
“No, I have dark brown hair. I’m over six feet tall, almost as tall as the president.”
Herold cocked his head. “Say something else.”
“Ring around the rosey, pocket full of poseys, ashes, ashes we all fall—“
“No, you don’t sound like him. The red-haired man smelled like cigars.” He leaned in to smell Lamon. “You smell like piss.”
The marshal did not want to confront him with the fact that the hood prevented him from smelling anything beyond his own body. He smelled his own urine. Herold seemed to be on the verge of trusting him. “I apologize for that.” He paused. “Did the red-haired man say who he was working for?”
“No. He just said we had to get even. The damn Yankees took our country away from us, and we had to get even.” Herold bowed his hooded head. “He wasn’t a nice man. He called me an idiot. I’m not an idiot. I work for a pharmacy and deliver medicine. You have to be smart to deliver medicine.”
“Of course, you’re smart. Anybody can tell that.” Lamon chuckled softly. “So who put him in charge?”
“He put himself in charge. And Mr. Booth, he didn’t like that one bit. Wilkes told the man he wasn’t no gentleman for sure and then Mr. Booth asked the red-haired man who the hell was he goin’ to kill, and the red-haired man said he was going to kill Secretary of War Stanton.”
“You know Stanton is still alive. Nobody tried to kill him.”
“I knew he was a coward. Most fellas who talk the most can’t do nothin’.”
“Have you told anyone this story?”
“Sure, I tell it to everybody I can, but it don’t do no good. They all think I’m crazy.”
“Of course, you’re not crazy. Are you going to tell your story in court?”
“Hell no. That’ll show the judges that I knew something was going on.”
“You were caught in the tobacco barn with Booth. They already know you knew what was going on.”
“Oh God! That’s right! What am I goin’ to do!”
“Maybe I can help you.” Lamon was willing to promise Herold anything to get his cooperation.
Herold started crying and chewing on the hood again. “I want my Mama! I want my sisters! I don’t want to die! I wanna go home!”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Eight

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Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Baker saves Booth’s life at Garrett’s farm. Booth sneaks away to Richmond, where he tricks a widow into caring for him. Lincoln’s friend Lamon accompanies the funeral train and seeks clues.
On his way back to his Steubenville hotel, Lamon stopped at a small tavern and bought a pint of whiskey which he sipped in his room until he fell asleep. The next morning he caught the first train to Washington, D.C.
The images painted by Christy filled Lamon’s mind. While incredible, the story rang true to Stanton’s character, Lamon decided. At one of the station stops, he bought a newspaper and read it as the train rumbled on toward the Capital. The headline said the trial for the conspirators would begin May 12th at Old Capitol Prison. Lamon frowned. A military court?
“Why a military trial when all of the accused and even the victims were civilians?” Lamon asked himself under his breath until the answer erupted in his mind: Stanton could control a military trial while he would have no influence over a civilian proceeding. The Secretary of War had an all-consuming desire to control everything; as a young man, he had even tried unsuccessfully to control death. Lamon took a pack of chewing tobacco out of his jacket pocket and stuffed a chaw into his mouth. Sometimes he could think more clearly if he was chewing the bitter stuff. He needed that clarity right now.
Just after a few moments, he understood everything. Stanton’s insatiable passion for control was the key to the entire conspiracy.
When Lamon arrived in Washington he went to the Old Capitol Prison. At the main gate he demanded to see the prisoners in the Lincoln assassination case.
“What are you?” the guard demanded. “You’re not another one of them damned reporters, are you?”
Pulling a badge from his inside jacket pocket, he pushed it into the guard’s face. “I’m Federal Marshal Ward Hill Lamon.”
“Mr. Lamon?” The man’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know you were involved in this investigation, sir.”
“I was the president’s personal guard and close friend,” he responded with a growl. “I’ll be a part of any damned investigation into my friend’s murder that I damn well please! Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir. My apologies, sir.”
“Stop wasting my time. I want to see each suspect individually right now, and I don’t want any measly prison guard snooping over my shoulder!”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Right this way, sir.”
The guard led him through the prison, first stopping at the cell holding Mrs. Surratt. When the door opened, Lamon heard two women’s voices squeak in fear. When he entered, he saw Mrs. Surratt and a teen-aged girl clinging to her.
“And who, sir, are you?”
Lamon could tell Mrs. Surratt was trying to sound assertive, but a quiver in her voice gave her away.
“I’m sorry for having startled you,” Lamon said, bowing deeply. “I am Federal Marshal Ward Hill Lamon. I was President Lincoln’s personal guard and very close friend.”
Her chin jutted out as she turned her head away. “So you have come to ridicule me like all the others.”
“No, Ma’am, I am here to learn the truth, and in doing so I may be able to save your life.”
“And what makes you think you can save my life? That’s preposterous. You must think I’m a fool. I don’t even think you want to save my life.”
Lamon decided this approach was useless. He took a step back to compose his thoughts. Then he turned to look out the high barred window.
“Oh Mama, you’ve got to trust this man Mr.—Mr…” her daughter’s voice trailed off.
“Lamon, Miss. Ward Hill Lamon.” He chose not to look back to them just yet.
“Anna, be quiet. If I am to die, I will die with dignity, and you shall mourn in dignity and silence.”
“Do you remember a Miss Cordie Zook living in your boarding house, Mrs. Surratt?” Lamon turned at that moment to observe her reaction.
“Why, yes, I remember Miss Zook.” Her eyes flickered. “She worked at one of the Yankee hospitals, I believe. She died shortly before—before the incident at Ford’s Theater.”
“Then you knew she had a brother named Gabby who worked at the Executive Mansion.” Lamon tried to keep all emotion out of his voice.
“She said she had a brother. There were men’s clothing in her armoire. But I never met him.”
“And Private Adam Christy, did you ever meet him?”
“The name does sound familiar. Yes, he came to my boardinghouse after Miss Zook died. He said he was there to collect Miss Zook’s possessions for her brother. He was highly suspicious and very rude.”
“How so?”
“Well, I had never met this brother and—“
“And why is that? Why had you not met him? After all, he was living in your boardinghouse until—what? He wasn’t living there? This is all very confusing to me.”
“It was confusing to me also, Mr. Lamon. I only came to the boardinghouse to collect rent until 1863. My family lived in our home in the Maryland countryside until my husband died—I don’t know why on earth I am telling you this.”
“Because if you totally cooperate with me, I may be able to save your life.”
“Mama, believe him. Tell him everything.”
“Hush, child. After my husband’s death we moved into the boardinghouse. By that time, Miss Zook’s brother disappeared. Supposedly he was the janitor at the—the Yankee White House and had to stay there all the time. I never understood why.”
“Do you know if Private Christy ever met John Wilkes Booth in your boardinghouse?”
“I don’t remember. Mr. Booth was a friend of my son. He visited from time to time. I never paid much attention to the comings and goings of the boys. I had a business to conduct, Mr. Lamon.”
“I assume that will be the core of your defense, Mrs. Surratt?”
“I don’t think I want to continue this conversation.”
“Did your son or Mr. Booth ever mention the name Edwin Stanton?” Lamon watched her reaction.
Her mouth flew open as though in surprise. “Mr. Stanton? Why would they even mention Mr. Stanton?”
“Lafayette Baker?” Lamon felt that he might have struck a nerve and pressed her for more information.
“I’ve never heard that name.” She shook her head.
“He is a short, stocky man with red hair,” Lamon offered.
“The man with red hair?” Anna repeated in a gasp.
“I said hush.” Mrs. Surratt grabbed her daughter’s hand, but she pulled away.
“I hope you are a man of honor, Mr. Lamon.” Anna stepped toward him. “The night my mother was arrested, a short man with red hair came to our house. He tapped his foot the same way Wilkes said the man tapped his foot under the bridge.”
Mrs. Surratt pulled her back. “Anna, do not say another word! He told us not to say anything about that night!”
“But he says he can save your life—“
“He’s a damn Yankee! You can’t trust him!”
“The red-haired man is a damn Yankee, too, Mother! Do you trust him? If we have to trust a damn Yankee, I say trust Mr. Lamon!”
Mrs. Surratt pulled her daughter into her bosom and cried. “Mr. Lamon, will you please show common decency and leave immediately?”
Lamon went to the door and rapped on the bars. “Guard! I’m ready!”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Seven

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After pallbearers deposited Lincoln’s body in an Oak Hill Cemetery mausoleum outside Springfield, Lamon did not linger with the rest of the crowd. He knew his time was limited. The detective must piece together the final pieces of the enigma that surrounded the incredible abduction of power in the White House. Lamon did not even allow himself to be tempted to spend a few days home in Danville with his wife and daughter. He feared if he spent a few days with them he would never want to leave.
On his way back to Washington City Lamon decided to stop over in Steubenville, Ohio. His carpetbag in hand, Lamon walked down the street still sodden from recent rains. A two-story clapboard hotel caught his attention, and he checked in.
“Know of a Christy family in town?” Lamon kept his eyes down on the registry.
“Of course,” the clerk replied. “Wilson Christy runs the most respectable boarding house in town. I went to school with his son Adam.”
Lamon’s face shot up. “Is that so?”
“We went off to war about the same time. I served with Gen. Grant in the west. Only been home a couple of weeks. I never did right know who Adam served under. Terrible shame he died at Bull Run.”
“Yes, a terrible shame.”
“You know the family, Mr.—“the clerk glanced at the registry—“Mr. Lamon?”
“I knew the boy from his days in Washington City,” he murmured. “Wanted to extend my condolences to his family. After I wash up I’d like to pay them a visit.”
“It’s just Mr. Christy now. His wife died right before the war started. His grandparents are gone. Only Mr. Christy running the place now.”
“Could you direct me to his boardinghouse?”
“Of course, sir. Head on down Main Street and go left at the crossroads with Maple Street. Third house on the right.”
An hour later Lamon stepped up on the broad porch and knocked at the door. A balding man with spectacles answered. He was wiping his hands on a thin dishtowel.
“Yes, sir, how may I help you?” His voice seemed pleasantly high pitched though colored by a shadow of sadness.
“Mr. Wilson Christy?” Lamon asked, removing his hat.
“Yes, sir?”
“My name is Ward Lamon. I work for the government. Mr. Lincoln was a personal friend of mine from the old days back in Illinois. I wanted to pay my respects. I knew your son while he served in Washington City.”
“You knew my Adam?” he said in breathless anticipation. His eyes fluttered. His mouth seemed not to know whether to smile or frown. “Would you care to take a rocker?” He pointed to a pair of chairs on the covered porch.
“Yes, sir. That would be mighty kind.”
The two men sat in the heat of the late afternoon. Christy started to stand.
“Care for a glass of lemonade? I’ve got some made in the kitchen.”
“No, sir. Please sit and relax. I’m perfectly content as I am.”
Christy sat, rubbed his hands with the towel once more before folding it and placing it on his knee. “Please tell me, Mr. Lamon, did he seem happy? Was he getting on with everybody?”
Lamon looked out across the street before replying. “Yes, he was well,” he lied.
“That’s good, that’s good,” he mumbled, leaning back in the chair. His face scrunched. “I still don’t understand how he came to be at Bull Run. I was sure he would have stayed in the capital city. I had assurances that he was going to be safe in the Executive Mansion and eventually get a commission. Adam always wanted to be an officer in the Army.”
“Assurances from whom?” Lamon tried to remain detached, but he found the statement intriguing.
“Secretary of War Stanton. You know he came from here. He and his mother lived in this very boardinghouse when my father ran it. Ed had an awful infatuation with my sister. Of course, she died of typhoid. I wrote him early in ’62 about getting Adam a position in the Army. He wrote back and said he had a decent job for him, working for the President himself. He said if the boy did well, he could get a commission right away. The next thing I knew I got this telegram from the War Department saying he had died at the second battle at Bull Run. I wrote several letters to Edwin asking for details but never got a reply.” He paused. “Of course, he’s a busy man so I suspect he never had time….” Christy’s voice trailed off as he wiped his eyes with the towel. “I know it ain’t fittin’ for a man to carry on so but—“
“You’ve lost a son. You’ve every right.” Lamon’s hand went up to his mouth to cover it and the small smile that had unconsciously blossomed there.
“Did Mr. Stanton ever tell you the nature of this special assignment?”
Christy shook his head. “No, but I imagined it was pretty darned important.”
Lamon took a moment to lean forward. “Mr. Christy, does Mr. Stanton have a reason to hate you?”
“Why, no. Why would you ask?”
Lamon thought his words spilled out of his mouth a bit too quickly, too glibly. “Mr. Christy, your son did not die in battle at Bull Run. He died of a bullet wound in the basement of the Executive Mansion the same night President Lincoln was assassinated. The President had lived in the basement for the past two and a half years, and your son was his guard.
“Stanton is responsible for all this. Why would he pick out your son for this horrible fate if he did not hate you?”
“Well, I suppose I do know of something, but it was so many years ago. I didn’t think a grown man could hold such a grudge.” Christy looked at Lamon.
“I told you Mr. Stanton had a fondness for my sister before she died of typhoid. He came home from his job at the bookstore for lunch one day, and my sister served him his meal. That evening she came down sick and died. Being typhoid, we got her in the ground as soon as possible. When Ed came home that night he asked where she was, and we told him she was dead. He didn’t believe it. I heard him stirring in his room after midnight, and I saw him going out the door. I followed him. Ed got a shovel from the shed and headed for the cemetery where he proceeded to dig up my sister’s coffin. I waited until he lifted her up and caressed her head.”
“That was a dangerous thing to do,” Lamon interrupted. “Holding a body consumed with typhoid. He could have contracted the disease too.”
Christy smiled sadly and shook his head. “You forget. Ed loved my sister Judith with all his heart. He didn’t care if he caught typhoid and died. I suppose he was stronger than anyone thought. If he could survive asthma he could survive anything.”
“I’m sorry,” Lamon said. “I interrupted you. What happened next in the graveyard?”
“Oh.” He shook his head and looked off, as though to collect his thoughts. “Then I stepped forward and said, ‘So you have to dig dead girls up to have someone to love?’ Or something like that I don’t quite remember exactly. Anyway, he dropped her and ran back into the night, and I reburied poor Judith.
“He tried to pick a fight with me the next day, but Ed, bless his heart, was always so small, I just laughed at him.” Christy’s face darkened after he finished his story.
“Well, I suppose I should move along,” Lamon said, standing and extending his hand to the private’s father.
“Yes, thank you.” Christy shook his head and, trying to find a smile, shook Lamon’s hand.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Six

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Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Baker saves Booth’s life at Garrett’s farm. Booth sneaks away to Richmond, where he tricks a widow into caring for him. Lincoln’s friend Lamon accompanies the funeral train and seeks clues.
When the door opened, Lamon heard a baby’s cry and a woman’s high-pitched voice call out, “For God’s sake, Jesse, you’re scaring my little boy! Shut up!”
Lamon decided the better part of valor would be to climb the steps back to street level. He began to walk back and forth when Louisa did not reappear with Zook. To pass the time he thought of his wife Sally back in Illinois. He knew how she felt neglected as he spent most of the last five years protecting the president. And to what end, he chided himself, because he could not even save his friend from death. He turned when he heard the door open. He assessed the man Louisa guided up the steps. Zook was short and dumpy, a vacant fearful emanated from his eyes. He nodded as Mrs. Whitman whispered assurances in his ear, his lips mouthing incoherent responses.
“And this is our friend, Mr. Ward Lamon,” Louisa said soothingly.
“We know many of the same people from Washington City, Mr. Zook.” He took his cue from Louisa and softened his voice, which was usually loud and grating. “Miss Dorothea Dix sends her best wishes.”
“She scared me at first, but then she was nice. Cordie, she said Miss Dix was scary at first but once you got to know her well, she wasn’t scary at all.” He paused only the briefest of moments before asking, “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to buy a nice apple from the man down the street,” Louisa replied.
Zook stopped abruptly. “I don’t like that man. I can tell he doesn’t like me. He doesn’t like Mr. Walt either. I don’t want an apple. Can we get some peanuts instead? I like peanuts. The peanut man is up the street, far away from the apple man.”
“If that is what you wish.” Louisa guided him by the elbow.
“I was a good friend of the President, Abraham Lincoln.” Lamon took his place on the other side of Mrs. Whitman and looked into the sky. “I think the rain has gone away. That’s good. I didn’t think it would ever stop.”
“Oh, rain always stops,” Zook said. “The rain is all right if you are inside looking out a window. But I don’t like walking in it. It makes you wet.”
“Yes, it does.” Lamon paused, and they walked almost a full block before continuing. “I knew another one of your friends.”
“Did you know my sister Cordie? She’s dead now.”
“I knew Private Adam Christy.”
“He’s dead too.” Zook looked up, brightening. “There’s the peanut man. I hope the peanuts are freshly roasted. I like my peanuts warm.”
“Are you sure? I thought he went home to Ohio.” Lamon’s voice was a whisper.
“No, he’s dead. I saw his body in the wagon.” He looked at Louisa. “Do you have money for the peanuts? I don’t have any money. I spent all my money yesterday on apples.”
“Of course, Gabby,” Louisa said, pulling out her change purse from a pocket in the folds of her dark blue dress. “I always have money.”
“What wagon, Mr. Zook?” Lamon asked.
“The mean man’s wagon.”
“What mean man?” Lamon felt his pulse racing.
“The mean man who….” Zook’s voice trailed off as he took the bag of peanuts from the vendor. “It’s warm. That’s good. I like my peanuts warm.”
“The mean man who did what, Mr. Zook?” Lamon pressed.
Zook shook his head. “No, I can’t say. He came for the butler, then he came for the president and his wife, then he came for the private. He might come for me. Mrs. Whitman, can I go home now? I want to eat my peanuts.”
“Of course, Gabby.” Louisa looked at Lamon and smiled. “He answered all your questions, didn’t he, Mr. Lamon?”
“Just one more. What did the mean man look like?”
Zook backed away as his hand fumbled in the bag to pull out a peanut. “He was short like me, but he was mean. He had red hair, just like the private, but the private is dead now. I got to go home now.”
As Zook scurried back down Portland Avenue, Louisa told Lamon, “A terribly sweet little old man, but quite insane. And I should know insanity. Most of members of my family are insane. Some days I feel quite insane myself.”
“He’s not insane,” Lamon replied. “I believe every word he says. One day you may have to help me to convince him to tell his story to the President of the United States.”
Lamon reflected on Louisa’s response to his statement over the next few days as the funeral train visited Albany, Buffalo, Cleveland and Columbus. She had said not a word, but a wry smile danced across her lips. She must have decided I was insane too, Lamon thought. Maybe Louisa was right. After all, she prided herself on detecting insanity in others. The rest of the journey through Indianapolis, Chicago and Springfield was a blur. Lamon had hoped the extended period of bereavement would bring a measure of peace to his own troubled mind, but it was not to be. At each stop as he looked upon the mourners and wondered how they would react if they knew Lincoln had be a prisoner in the basement of the Executive Mansion for more than two years. He stared into the faces, speculating that perhaps family members of the man forced to impersonate the president were among them. And what of the woman who took on the role of Mary Lincoln? Conceivably her relatives stood on the route, mourning the president but not knowing they should be mourning their own dear kin.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter One Hundred Six

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Previously: Mercenary Leon meets MI6 spies David, the Prince of Wales, and socialite Wallis Spencer. David abdicates the throne to marry Wallis. He becomes Bahamas governor. Leon dies and his son Sidney turns mercenary. David hires him as his valet. The years pass and the organization wants all three of them and the Royal family dead, but Sidney makes sure that doesn’t happen.
The next morning David awoke, disappointed to discover he was still alive. His doctor told him he’d die in a matter of days. He wished he had breathed his last after the visit from Queen Elizabeth. Past differences dissolved as they talked in his sitting room. He chose to ignore the tussling going on behind the curtain. And the sharp pain when the IV line wrenched about. A lifetime of believing nothing had meaning seemed like a life wasted. But even regarding life as a waste was not true. His life was what it was—filled with disappointment, heart break, romance, thrills and, in the end, the satisfaction of love based on mutual trust and affection.
A knock at the back hall door caused David to look over to see Sidney enter carrying a tray with a teapot and cup. He smiled at the bud vase holding a single white rose, a daily gift from Wallis.
A white rose. I know Joachim Von Ribbentrop sent Wallis a white carnation each time they made love. Now she gives me a white rose just to show she cares, and everyone knows roses are more precious than carnations.
“Did you sleep well last night, Your Highness?” his valet asked.
David grunted. His throat cancer made conversation painful.
“I brought you mint tea. It seems to ease your pain.” Sidney poured tea into the white china cup and handed it to David. “The cook picked the mint leaves herself from the bush in the garden. She said the morning is wonderful. The air is crisp and clean.”
The old man took a long sip. “Hmm. Good.” After drinking more of it, he motioned to Sidney to lean into him.
I now realize Sidney was more than my valet. The man from the Bahamas was most likely a mercenary hired by the organization, but at some point he changed his allegiance to us. How can I let him know my gratitude without creating discomfiture for him?
David whispered in a raspy voice. “I had a nightmare.”
“Oh dear. Whatever could have caused that?”
“A man came into my room and rolled a—“he paused to sip his mint tea—“corpse from under the bed and rolled it out the door.”
“Hmm.” Sidney lifted the pot and looked at David. “How odd. Perhaps it was from all the excitement from the Queen’s visit yesterday. Would you care for a second cup? It seems to help you speak.”
David nodded.
Sidney took the cup, poured in the tea and handed it back to the Duke.
“Thank you.” Before Sidney could pull away, David clutched his sleeve. “Truly, thank you.” David watched his valet’s face flush.
“You’re welcome.”
The old man waved him closer again. “You look like a man I used to know.”
Sidney returned the pot to the tray. David studied his valet.
I wonder if Sidney might admit to the truth? It would make this moment less awkward. It could be their last chance to acknowledge their friendship, equal to equal.
David grunted to make Sidney come close again.
“You never talk of your father.”
Sidney averted his eyes. “He died when I was young.”
“He would have been proud of you.”
Before the valet could respond Wallis made a grand entrance from the sitting room door. Swooping to her husband’s bedside, she kissed his brow.
“How are you, darling?”
“Fine.”
“Well, I am simply exhausted.” She fluffed his pillows. “I haven’t entertained that many people in years. Lillibet doesn’t look a thing like her mother. Thank God. Phillip is still a gorgeous man. Poor Charles. He never grew out of that awful horsey face.”
David smiled. Wallis always amused him. Today he tried not to laugh. It hurt too much.
“Oh, I see Sidney brought you mint tea. How clever of him.” She went to Sidney and smoothed out the collar of his uniform. “I enjoyed my bath this morning. It was sparkling clean.”
“I scrubbed it myself,” the valet replied.
So an assassin tried to kill Wallis too, and somehow Sidney intervened. If someone wanted us dead they must have tried to kill the Queen, her husband and her son. When else would all of us be together in virtual seclusion? I would ask him about it but I don’t have the strength to speak, and he has too much honor to answer.
“What will we do without you?” Wallis smiled in her wicked way.
“You need not worry about that, Madam.”
Her smile melted, and she stepped closer to Sidney. David could hardly hear what she said.
“Honestly, after David—I mean, when I am alone, I will have enough staff to care for me. I want you to go home to the Bahamas. You have family there, don’t you?”
David watched his valet hesitate. “A family I chose for myself. Yes, I have family there.”
“Go to them,” Wallis ordered. She stepped closer. “I know I’m losing my mind, just like Aunt Bessie did. I’m not scared of it like I used to be. My only regret is that I will forget you.” She patted his shoulder. “Why, you’re almost like a son to me. Family. What is it I have heard you say so often? Oh yes, we must fill the bellies of our family. You’ve always taken care of us. Now you must let them take care of you.”
That’s right. Sidney’s father had saved their lives many times also. Even then he considered us a part of his family, and we had to be fed. If there is any justice in the world, I hope Sidney’s family in the Bahamas fills his belly well.
(Author’s Note: This is the final chapter. This story is much longer than I anticipated. I thank two good friends, Anne Buckingham and Linda Welker, for their editing and critiques. I couldn’t have finished it without their help. I will now start running two chapters of Booth’s Revenge a week. I have other stories in the planning stages. I thank the kind readers who have left gracious notes about the novel. If you liked it please drop a dollar or two in my donation basket. I’m 72 and need all the help I can get.)

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Five

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Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Stanton’s henchman Lafayette Baker takes Christy’s body to an embalmer. Booth and Herold escape across the river into Maryland where they hide in the Zekiah Swamp. Baker saves Booth’s life at Garrett’s farm.Booth sneaks away to Richmond, where he tricks a widow into caring for him.
Ward Lamon sat in silence next to the coffin of Abraham Lincoln in the Baltimore & Ohio funeral train snaking its way through the Northeast and Midwest of the country stopping at all the cities Lincoln had visited on his way to his first inauguration. When the engine pulled away from the Washington City station in a light drizzle on Friday, April 21, Lamon sat in the first passenger car along with many other dignitaries chosen to accompany the body back to his Springfield, Il., home. Chatter about the assassination and the need for immediate and harsh retribution caused Lamon to move to the side of the president coffin after the procession left the depot at its first stop, Baltimore.
Perhaps he actually preferred solitude at this point because of his embarrassment over his mistaken rescue mission to Fort McHenry where he thought Lincoln was being held captive. He chastised himself repeatedly for believing the president’s imposter instead of following his own instincts. Lamon intuitively knew the man was a craven coward, most certainly, and probably morally weak also, incapable of telling the truth. He should have known better to believe the imposter’s cockamamie story, which lead to Lamon’s failure to protect the slain President.
In Baltimore, the officials moved the casket to a hearse waiting in what was now a heavy, cold rain at 10 a.m. Lightning and thunder punctuated the deluge, adding a dramatic drumbeat to the sorrowful procession. The cortege arrived at the Merchants’ Exchange where the body laid in state all morning. Thousands of mourners filed past for two hours until the catafalque and coffin returned to the train, continuing on to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
By 8 p.m. the train arrived. The rain had slowed, and the coffin was taken to the state capitol building. The viewing began at 9:30 a.m., and the crowds quietly surged forward to say their last goodbyes to the President who had safely shepherded them–and the nation—through the trauma of war.
Lamon stood in the building’s entrance, studying the faces of the mourners passing by. Their pained expressions and open weeping impressed upon him the urgency of solving this mystery of who was behind the assassination and, perhaps more importantly, finding evidence to hold Stanton responsible for the abduction and confinement of the president and Mrs. Lincoln. Lamon felt he owed it to these stricken people and to the country to find the culpable parties. He swore he would not rest until he had uncovered the truth.
Saturday morning found the train in Philadelphia with the first stop at 11 a.m. The casket was on display in Independence Hall the rest of the day. Again Lamon stood guard at the door, watching the crowds rush forward as some distraught individuals fought among themselves for the opportunity to view Lincoln’s body.
Lamon remained serenely detached from the scene as he went over in his mind how he would approach Whitman and Zook. He had to admit Mrs. Lincoln was right—his manner could be gruff at times, which would deter Zook from revealing what he knew about the conspiracy. He had to approach his last, best lead with great care.
The train arrived in Hoboken, N.J., on Sunday, and the casket was transferred onto a ferry to New York City where it was to remain until Tuesday morning. Lamon saw this layover as his opportunity to slip away, cross the East River to Brooklyn where he could track down Gabby Zook at the Whitman home on North Portland Avenue. Once he arrived on North Portland Monday morning, he struck up friendly conversations with street vendors. As he munched on an apple, Lamon asked if anyone knew where the Whitman family lived.
“Whitmans?” the fruit vendor said, raising an eyebrow. “What do you want to know for?”
“Oh, a friend told me to drop in on them if I was in Brooklyn.” Lamon tried to put an air of nonchalance into his reply.
“What kind of friend would say that?”
“A lady friend.”
“I’d never talk to her again. Those Whitmans are crazy,” the vendor said. “Certifiable. The worst one is Walt. He makes me all goosey. Calls himself a poet.”
“Then what’s his address?” Lamon pressed.
“Up the street a couple of blocks. One hundred six North Portland. The family’s in the basement. They rent the rest of the house out. I don’t see why anybody would want to live there.”
“Thank you.” He turned away.
“I’d stay away from that house if I was you,” the hawker called out. “One of them brothers has the clap!”
A few minutes later Lamon walked down the steps to the basement door and knocked. A middle-aged man with bushy eyebrows wearing trousers over his long johns cracked the door open.
“Yeah?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Walt Whitman.” Lamon give a slight bow.
“Ain’t nobody here by that name,” he mumbled and then slammed the door shut.
Not a full moment elapsed before the door opened. This time a short heavy-set woman appeared. Her long gray-streaked hair was pulled back in a careless bun, which gave the impression she spent nights unconsciously pulling her hair out. She stood in the entrance and smiled, her friendly eyes assessing Lamon.
“You must forgive my son Jesse,” she said in a soft voice. “His syphilis is acting up today. I am Louisa Whitman. How may I help you?”
“Shut the damn door, Ma!” Jesse screamed from the parlor, which prompted Louisa to step outside and gently close the door. “He was a sailor for many years, which accounts for his salty language.”
“My name is Ward Lamon and I—“
“Mr. Lamon! Yes! You were the close friend of our late president Mr. Lincoln. I hope to pay my respects tomorrow before the funeral procession leaves town.”
“I was under the impression your son Walt lived here.”
“On weekends. During the week, he’s a clerk at the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It seems the only reliable jobs which pay a decent salary are in Washington City.”
“Oh. I was hoping he was here. I understand he knows the whereabouts of man named Gabby Zook.”
“Why Mr. Zook lives right here with us. A very gentle soul. Would you like to speak to him?”
“Yes, please.”
“Very well.” Louisa paused as she put her hand on the door knob. “Perhaps it would be best if we all went for a nice stroll down the street. I know the nicest vendor with delicious apples—“
“Yes, he gave me your address,” Lamon interrupted. “I’ve already had my apple for the day.”
Louisa nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter One Hundred Five

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Previously: Mercenary Leon meets MI6 spies David, the Prince of Wales, and socialite Wallis Spencer. David abdicates the throne to marry Wallis. He becomes Bahamas governor. Leon dies and his son Sidney turns mercenary. David hires him as his valet. The years pass and the organization wants all three of them and the Royal family dead.
After cleaning up the mess in Wallis’ private bathroom, Sidney looked in the mirror, straightened his tie and went downstairs just as the doors opened to the dining room where Wallis was prepared to host a high tea. The front door had been left open. Sidney trotted over to close it when a cab come to a screeching halt in front of the house. A man with a camera jumped from the backseat, paid the driver and ran up the front walk. Sidney narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. The cab didn’t drive away.
“Please, sir!” The man shouted. “I’m running late! Is there any way I can get a picture of Prince Charles before he sees the Duke?”
Sidney blocked him at the door. “I’m afraid not. The guests are being seated for high tea at this moment.”
“Could you call him out for me? A picture of him at the front door would be swell.”
Swell? The organization had lowered its standards if it hired an assassin who’d use a word like swell.
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until after the visit and you can get all of the royals together?” Sidney tried to figure out the accent. It was certainly not French nor British. And Americans haven’t used swell in twenty years. He suspected a Russian trying to sounding like an American.
“No.” The photographer glanced around the grounds. “My editor specifically wanted a photo of Charles by himself. All the girls are dippy for him.”
Dippy? I must kill this man before he massacres any more of the English language.
Sidney looked at the way the photographer held his camera. Professional photojournalists held their cameras differently. He held his like it was a weapon. Sidney grabbed him by the elbow and bullied him back to the cab.
“Well, I can do this for you.”
Sidney snatched the camera, opened the cab door, shoved the camera into his chest and pushed the button which should have taken a picture. Instead it shot a bullet into the assassin’s heart. He fell back into the seat. Sidney shut the door.
Pulling out his wallet, he grabbed a large wad of bills and shoved them through the cabbie’s window.
“Use that money to drive as far as you can to a secluded setting where you can dump the body,” Sidney instructed. “Don’t even think about reporting this to the police. You don’t want to explain to Le Surete why you had an assassin in the back seat of your cab in the first place.” He paused to let the information sink in. “Do you understand?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“Good. Now go.”
As the cab sped away Sidney examined the front of his suit to make sure he didn’t see any blood splatter. He didn’t want to ruin Madam’s tea. He slipped into the dining room to find the guests having a pleasant time.
His mind was racing, however, over how this assassination plot was organized. The poisoned purse was intended to take out at least the Queen. Working independently, the others converged on the house with the purpose of murdering everyone else at approximately the same time—one to drown Wallis, another to kill Philip in the men’s room and another to shoot Charles with a deadly camera. Only the Duke was left. Sidney shuddered. An assassin might be by his bedside this very moment. After bowing and making his excuses to attend to the Duke, Sidney ran upstairs to the old man’s suite.
When he entered Sidney saw only the nurse, who had been attending the Duke for more than a year, moving him from a wheelchair to a comfortable tufted chair in his sitting room. The Duke had made it very clear he didn’t want the Royal family to see him in a hospital setting in his home bedroom.
Sidney asked, “What about your IV line, Your Highness?”
The old man smiled. “Oh, it will be hidden behind that curtain. It runs down my neck through my sleeve to my arm. Quite clever, don’t you think?”
“Yes, quite.” Sidney looked at the nurse. “Wasn’t the doctor here earlier?”
“Yes,” the Duke replied, “but I sent him away. Like I said, I don’t want the Royal family to see me with a doctor and nurse.” He glanced up at her. “It’s time for you to go too. Stop by the kitchen and get yourself a sandwich. I’m sure there are plenty left over from the high tea.”
Sidney looked behind the curtain to see the IV pole and the door to the Duke’s bedroom.
“Is there any other way into this room other than the door to the hall and your bedroom?”
“No,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” Sidney smiled at the nurse. “Come, my dear, let’s have some of those delicious sandwiches.”
As they left the sitting room, they saw the entourage come up the stairs from the main foyer. Sidney took her by the arm. “Let’s go down the back way.”
They turned a corner, and the nurse stopped. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“I distinctly heard a door close.”
“Are you sure?”
She arched an eyebrow. “I am a trained nurse. I know what I hear. I heard a door shut down this hall, and the only door down this hall is—“
“The Duke’s bedroom.”
Sidney rushed to the door and entered just in time to see a man slip into the sitting room. Making as little noise as possible, Sidney followed the intruder. In front of the curtain, the Royals were making polite conversation, unaware a man pulled a filled syringe out of his pocket and reached for the IV bag.
Before the assassin could insert the poison into the bag, Sidney rushed him, grabbing the syringe from him and throwing it on the floor. He took the IV line and wrapped it around the man’s throat. The struggle caused the line to ride up.
Sidney didn’t want the curtain to fall open revealing the life-and-death struggle. The Duke would be embarrassed, and after all these years of personal service the last thing Sidney desired was to cause discomfiture to his employer.
Just as the curtain began to teeter, the Duke of Windsor, with unsteady poise, tried to stand to kiss the Queen’s hand. Everyone on that other side of the curtain gasped for fear the old man would fall over. However, his standing provided a counter balance to the struggle on the back side of the curtain.
The assassin’s face turned a purplish red, saliva dribbled from his pursed lips and his eyes bulged as he took his last breath, releasing the tension on the IV line just as the Duke returned to his seat.
Sighing, Sidney caught the man as his body slid down. He heard guests making their good-byes. Returning the syringe to the assassin’s pocket, Sidney dragged the corpse through the bedroom door and rolled it under the Duke’s bed. He slipped out into the hall and down the back stairs so he could be with the other servants as they politely applauded the Queen’s departure.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Four

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Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Stanton’s henchman Lafayette Baker takes Christy’s body to an embalmer. Booth and Herold escape across the river into Maryland where they hide in the Zekiah Swamp. Baker saves Booth’s life at Garrett’s farm.Booth sneaks away to Richmond.
Walking toward the wooden houses, Booth observed residents as they left their front doors open to catch cool air. Some piddled around their yards. Older men with thinning gray hair sat on their steps sipping from liquor bottles. He had better avoid them, Booth decided. He also ruled out the homes where running, screaming children filled the yards. They would be too much of a distraction for the housewives if he were to draw their sympathies. Then he saw young women hanging clothes on the line. No, they could prove too much temptation for romance, and where would he find himself if the man of the house returned to discover Booth in his wife’s embrace?
Finally, he smiled when he saw an older woman, approximately the age of his mother, sitting in a rocking chair on the porch, one hand to her cheek as she stared into nothingness. Booth had found his prey. He limped a few more feet until he was directly in her line of vision before swooning and falling to the ground. His eyes closed, Booth could hear the old woman gasp, walk down the wooden steps and rustling her crinolines as she approached him.
“My dear boy, what have those damn Yankees done to you?” She sat on the dirt road and gently lifted his head to her lap.
Booth’s eyes fluttered open. “Mother?” he asked weakly in an accent associated with the Tidewater region of Virginia. A small moan slipped from his lips before he closed his eyes again.
“Dear Lord, this is just terrible!” Carefully moving his head back to the ground, she whispered, “I’ll be right back with a nice cup of well water.”
A few minutes later Booth was feigning resuscitation as he sipped from the cup. “Please forgive me for passing out like I did. It’s been a long walk from Appomattox Courthouse. Forgive me for calling you Mother.” He took another sip. “I should have known better. Mother died of small pox right before the battle of Gettysburg.”
“You poor, poor boy,” she said, holding his head close to her small bosom. “Don’t you have nobody waitin’ for you back home?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. I ain’t got no letters since Mother died. Of course, Father wasn’t much for words on paper. But he was mighty puny looking when I marched off to war in ’61.” He paused to cough. “If you wouldn’t mind helpin’ me to my feet, I think I feel strong enough to fetch my horse. I left it tied up at that old bombed out theater down the road.”
“You will do no such thing!” She lifted him with a grunt, put his arm around her thin shoulder and began shuffling toward her porch. “You’re in no condition to be ridin’! You need a good meal, a bath, a clean bed and a good doctor to tend to that broken leg of yours.”
“I can’t take advantage of your hospitality, Miz—what is your name?”
“Jenkins, Mary Beth Jenkins. And you are not takin’ advantage of me. What kind of Confederate widda would I be to turn away one of our brave young men?”
“Mighty obliged, Miz Jenkins. My name is Adam Christy, from Port Royal.”
Shaking her head she replied, “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from Port Royal. Never you mind. Now take it easy with the steps.”
“But my horse, I can’t leave it tied up like that.”
“Don’t fret about the horse. I’ll go get it.”
Mrs. Jenkins was good to her word. She took his horse to a livery stable where she paid for it to be fed and cared for. Booth ate heartily during the coming days as his leg continued to heal. He told her how he broke it in a final, desperate defense against the marauding Union soldiers. She related to him how both her husband and son died at the Battle of Shiloh in Tennessee. Mrs. Jenkins allowed him to soak in her copper tub as long as he wished while she fetched Dr. Lawrence who examined him as he sat swathed in soft fuzzy towels.
“Whoever set your leg did a mighty fine job,” Dr. Lawrence mumbled. “You need to stay off it for a good piece of time, and, Mary Beth, keep the bandages clean. I’ll be back in a couple of days to check in on the boy.”
After the doctor left, Mrs. Jenkins helped him into bed. “Now don’t you worry a bit, Adam,” she said. “Adam, a good Bible name. Is there anything you got a cravin’ for?”
“Whatever you have in the house will be all right with me. I know the damn Yankees must have cleaned out your larder.”
She smiled. “We all pull together, and somehow find enough.”
“I would like to see a newspaper, to keep up with what is going on,” Booth added hesitantly. “What am I talkin’ about. I suspect all the papers in Richmond were burned out.”
“Oh no. The damned Yankees didn’t destroy all of them, praise the Lord.”
“Well, if it ain’t too much of an inconvenience….”
“Not another word,” she interrupted him with a smile. “The newsstand is just down the street, and I can be back in an instant.” Mrs. Jenkins paused and leaned in to whisper, “I suppose you heard about what happened to that devil Lincoln.”
Booth’s eyes widened in innocence. “There was talk on the road, but I didn’t know whether to believe it or not.”
“Oh, it’s true all right. They killed the old heathen.” She put her finger to her lips. “It’s not safe to say too much. The damn Yankees have spies everywhere.”
Over the next couple of weeks Booth laid back to relax and heal his battered body. He hungrily read each newspaper Mrs. Jenkins brought to him.
Mrs. Surratt had been arrested. Booth fumed over the injustice of a woman languishing in prison. He felt no compassion for Herold, Atzerodt and Paine. They were all stupid and deserved what they got. On the other hand, he did feel a minor dissipating remorse for Dr. Mudd. His former childhood friends Michael O’Laughlin and Samuel Arnold also had been caught in the dragnet looking for conspirators.
He followed with interest stories about Lincoln’s funeral train which was to retrace his route when he came to Washington City four years ago for his inauguration—Baltimore, Harrisburg, Philadelphia, New York, Albany, and many to come. The trial of the conspirators would be held and executions carried out before the traitor was buried in Illinois. One day Booth sat up in his bed as he read a story about Louis Weichmann being called to testify. To testify! That was another travesty! Booth fumed. Why was he not charged along with all the others?
More questions crowded into his mind. Exactly how did Adam Christy and the short stocky man figure into all this? And why was Edwin Stanton still alive, still making decisions about who will live and die?
The trial would begin the middle of May in the Old Capitol Prison. He reached down and felt his leg. No more pain. He tried walking around the room on it and found he could maneuver quite well, at least for short periods of time. When he decided to move on, to make his way to Washington City to observe the trial first hand, he would need a wagon.
“Miz Jenkins, I appreciate all that you have done for me, but I must be on my way to Port Royal,” Booth lied using his full skills as an actor, relaying his feigned humility and desperation. “I have to find out if Father is still alive.”
“You are in no condition to ride,” she insisted.
“Maybe if I had a wagon….” His voice trailed off.
“I have a wagon in the back. My husband used it in his work. He delivered goods from the mercantile store he ran. He ain’t got no use for it now, bless his soul.”
Early the next morning, Booth hitched his horse to the wagon and gave Mrs. Jenkins a hug, thanking her for all the kindness. Before leaving Richmond, however, he went by the bombed out theater and loaded the actor’s trunk which held his purse of three hundred dollars and threw in the many costumes and props he would need for the coming months. Booth had blood to avenge.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter One Hundred Four

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Previously: Mercenary Leon meets MI6 spies David, the Prince of Wales, and socialite Wallis Spencer. David abdicates the throne to marry Wallis. He becomes Bahamas governor. Leon dies and his son Sidney turns mercenary. David hires him as his valet. The years pass and the organization wants all three of them and the Royal family dead.
In the morning, the Duchess was all aflutter—Queen Elizabeth II was coming to tea, and one of the maids was missing. Sidney steeled himself when he saw her scurry toward him.
“Sidney, have you seen Aline?” she asked.
“Aline? I don’t know an Aline.”
Wallis shook her head. “No, no, I was thinking of someone else. Oh, what’s her name? Eileen—have you seen her this morning?”
“No.” His voice was flat.
“What shall we do without her?”
A smile flitted across his lips. “We shall survive, I think.
“I suppose you’re right.” She looked around. “Everyone is prepared. All that must be done now is picking up the Queen and her entourage—“
“I’ll take care of that, Madam.”
Wallis glanced up the stairs. The doctor is attending to David. Do you think I have time for a nice warm soak in the tub?”
“I think that would be a wise move on your part, Madam.”
“Thank you, Sidney.”
A couple of hours later at Orly Airport Sidney greeted the Queen and the others with the information that the Duke, due to his health, would have to receive them while seated in his upstairs sitting room.
Elizabeth said something to him, but Sidney glanced about the terminal at the growing crowd, knowing the possibility of one of the assassins being among them. Common sense told him an attempt at this juncture would preclude success in killing the Windsors. Yet, Sidney knew the organization was clever enough to try to eliminate himself early. Anything was possible.
Several women in the crowd screamed as a middle-aged man dressed in denim jeans and a blue shirt dashed by, grabbed the Queen’s purse and ran around a corner.
“Stop!” One of the royal security men shouted. He raised his revolver.
Sidney lowered the guard’s arm. “I’ll take care of this.” Then he disappeared around the corner just in time to see the man go into the men’s room.
Sidney arrived a bit later, slowed by the exit of several other men running out of the toilet facilities zipping their pants. Sidney spied the snatcher opening the purse, pull apart a capsule, drop it in the purse and snap it shut. Sidney jumped the man and wrestled him to the floor. With one hand, he grasped the man’s hair and with the other opened the purse.
Sidney rammed the man’s head into the purse just as yellow powder rose. Sidney’s eyes watered and he coughed deeply, scrunching his nose to avoid ingesting any more of the poison. Sidney struggled to keep the man’s head down until the assassin finally went limp. First Sidney snapped the purse shut, then dumped the body into an empty toilet stall.
When he returned, Sidney handed the purse to the head of the Queen’s security.
“The man escaped, leaving the purse behind. When I picked it up, I smelled something vile. I think you should have one of your men take it immediately to Le Surete to be examined for poison.”
The officer handed it off to another guard, whispering the instructions to him and sending him on his way. The officer then told the Queen the circumstances, and she nodded as though nothing was unusual.
Back at Bois de Burlogne, the butler greeted the guests at the door and took their coats.
“Psst! Psst!”
Hearing the hissing, Sidney saw Wallis at the top of the stairs waving at him to come up. She was dressed in a simple black, short sleeved dress adorned by a large bejeweled pin. Wallis was at her sartorial best, but her eyes were in a panic. Sidney dashed up the stairs to her. She leaned in to whisper.
“I think I’ve done something naughty.”
“What do you mean, Madam?”
“Follow me. I don’t want the Queen to know.” She led him into her bathroom which was a mess with water splashed all over the room. Also, there was a dead man submerged beneath the suds of Wallis’ bubble bath which was changing from pink to a dark red.
“I’d just settled in for a good soak when I heard the door open, and this strange man came in and stood at the top of my tub. His hands came down on me.” Wallis’ voice was calm. “I don’t know what made me do it, but I reached up and grabbed his arms and pulled him over top of me. I think I heard his head crack on the bottom of the tub. Anyway, I rose just enough to slide his head under my body and I sat on it. When he tried to struggle I hit him in the crotch. I kept doing it until his body went limp. I think before he died I farted in his face.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ve used that word since my days in the Blue Ridge Mountains.” She touched Sidney’s sleeve. “What are we going to do? I killed him in self-defense, but still….”
“Don’t worry about it, Madam.” He smiled. “You go down stairs to greet your guests and I’ll let the water out of the tub. When he dries out, I’ll remove him from the property tonight. Oh, and I’ll give the tub a proper scrubbing so you can have your bath tomorrow without worrying about traces of his blood being left behind.”
“But why did I know do that?” Wallis persisted. “Wait, I just thought of something—Shanghai. I was in Shanghai as a young woman. What was I doing there?”
“Don’t worry about it now. You have the Queen waiting downstairs.”
“Oh yes.” She paused. “Now is that Elizabeth or Lillibet?”
“Lillibet, I believe,” Sidney replied.
“Oh good.” Wallis sighed. “If it were her mother, then I would have big problems.”