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Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Thirty-Three

Ward Hill Lamon
Previously in the novel: War Secretary Edwin Stanton held President and Mrs. Lincoln captive under guard in basement of the White House. He guided his substitute Lincoln through his first Cabinet meeting. Then he told Lincoln’s bodyguard Ward Hill Lamon into believing Lincoln and his wife were in hiding because of death threats. Lincoln’s secretaries realize something is wrong but are afraid to say anything. Janitor Gabby Zook, caught in the basement room with the Lincolns, begins to think he is president. Mrs. Lincoln decides to befriend him.

One mid-afternoon, after two months of ruminations about his confrontation with Secretary of War Stanton and his henchman Lafayette Baker over the disappearance of Abraham Lincoln and the substitution of a double, Ward Lamon climbed the steps of the Executive Mansion,. Entering the door, he nodded at guard John Parker, who, he noticed, was already glazed of eye from an early beer. Coming down the stairs was Stanton; Lamon quickened his step. Stopping abruptly when he saw Lamon, Stanton pursed his lips.
“Mr. Lamon, what are you doing here?”
“Remember, it was your idea I come back,” Lamon replied. “After all, Abraham Lincoln is a personal friend of mine. He allowed me to pretend I was his law partner once. Even if I don’t work for him anymore, I’m still his friend.”
“Lamon…”
“And people might wonder why I never visit my old friend anymore.”
Stanton puffed, stammered, but ultimately walked away. Lamon mounted the grand stairway, skipping every other step, eager to meet the impostor. Going down the hall, Lamon looked around and spotted the new Mrs. Lincoln, obviously a double because she had kinder eyes than the real Mary Lincoln. Opening the door, Tad smiled at Lamon.
“Mr. Lamon! I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age!”
“Good to see you, Tad.” He patted the boy’s shoulder. Despite the opinions of others, Lamon liked Lincoln’s rambunctious son, because he reminded Lamon of himself as a child. If Tad survived his childhood, he would make a good bodyguard or policeman. “The marshal’s office has kept me busy. I promise not to be a stranger anymore.”
“Good.” Tad ran down the hall. “Tom Pen! Tom Pen!”
Continuing the other way, Lamon was eager to see the double, wondering if he measured up to the original. He went through the glass panels and turned right into the first office. The bearded man at the desk looked up, momentarily went blank, then smiled in recognition.
“Mr. Lamon, so good to see you again.”
Frowning, Lamon carefully shut the door, pulled a chair close to the president’s desk, then sat and leaned close the double.
“You’ve never met me before in your life and you know it.”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“I know you’re a fraud, supposedly because my Mr. Lincoln is hiding out somewhere. I don’t believe it. Abraham Lincoln never hid from anybody.” He paused to examine the man’s eyes to detect what lurked behind them. “Where’s Mr. Lincoln?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Stanton wouldn’t like it.”
“I don’t care what Mr. Stanton likes. What would Mr. Lincoln like?”
“I assume Mr. Lincoln wouldn’t like it either. After all, this entire situation is Mr. Lincoln’s idea. If he wanted Mr. Stanton to tell you, you’d know.”
Fluttering eyelashes betrayed him. Lamon decided the double was afraid of Stanton and couldn’t tell the truth. Standing, Lamon patted him on the shoulder.
“Well, we shall be friends then,” he said. “Don’t be bothered if I drop in from time to time for an aimless chat. I visited Mr. Lincoln often, and he enjoyed it.”
“Then I shall enjoy your visits too.”
Lamon left and went to the secretaries’ office. He had known Nicolay and Hay since the carefree days in Illinois. Lingering at their door, he listened to their conversation.
“…and she’s a senator’s daughter, in addition to being attractive and extremely well-mannered,” Hay said. “I think she’s potential matrimonial material.”
“Ja,” Nicolay replied. “And the president can give you away.”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Thirty-Two

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Tad Lincoln
Previously in the novel: War Secretary Edwin Stanton held President and Mrs. Lincoln captive under guard in basement of the White House. He guided his substitute Lincoln through his first Cabinet meeting. Then he told Lincoln’s bodyguard Ward Hill Lamon into believing Lincoln and his wife were in hiding because of death threats. Lincoln’s secretaries realize something is wrong but are afraid to say anything. Janitor Gabby Zook, caught in the basement room with the Lincolns, begins to think he is president. Stanton rips Gabby’s quilt from his sister Cordie and then proceeds with a strategy meeting with the President.

“You haven’t told us how Taddie is doing,” Mrs. Lincoln said impulsively, her hand reaching for Stanton’s sleeve but pulling back quickly.
“He’s fine.”
“Are his lessons going well? Is Mr. Williamson still his tutor? Has Tad learned to understand his Scottish accent better?”
“I really don’t have time.”
“Take time.” Lincoln stepped forward. “This is our son. We’ve a right to know about him. Even you have to concede that.”
“As far as I’ve observed, Master Tad’s lessons are proceeding as usual in the oval family room with Alexander Williamson. Whether he understands Mr. Williamson’s brogue is beyond my interest.”
“Why don’t you make it your interest?” Lincoln leaned forward, his hollowed eyes narrowing with contained anger.
He said that well, Gabby observed from his seat by the billiards table. If he ever returned to the president’s office, he must remember to use that tone when giving orders to whomever the president gives orders. Under his breath he tried to sound imposing in an unthreatening way. It would take practice.
“Very well.”
“Is he happy?” Mrs. Lincoln tried to smile. “Is Tom Pen keeping him amused?”
“Tom Pen?” Stanton asked.
“Thomas Pendel,” Lincoln explained. “He’s the doorman, and kind enough to play with Taddie.”
“Oh yes, Pendel. I seem to remember seeing them running in the garden together. He’s a bit old to be participating in such games.”
“Some people put the feelings for others ahead of their own interests,” Mrs. Lincoln said, with a hint of reproof in her voice. “Also Mr. Forbes. He’s been Taddie’s companion around town.”
“The coachman,” Lincoln offered.
“Between Mr. Williamson’s Scottish and Mr. Forbes’s Irish accent, it’s no wonder the poor boy can’t speak properly.” Mrs. Lincoln giggled.
“Well, Molly, I think we should allow Mr. Stanton to go.” Lincoln turned her shoulders away. “I’m sure he’ll make a greater effort to keep us informed about Tad.”
As the Lincolns walked away, Gabby noticed Stanton’s gaze fixed on him, which caused his legs to twitch. That man made him nervous, and he wanted to escape to his little corner behind the crates and barrels. He stood, and was almost to his Promised Land when Stanton called out. Gabby clutched Cordie’s quilt tightly.
“Mr. Zook. Come over here.”
“Yes, sir?” Slowly Gabby turned and shuffled to him. “Yes, sir?”
“Will you swear your sister didn’t sew a secret message into one of the squares?” Stanton tapped the quilt with his index finger.
“If she did, I haven’t found it.”
“Very well.” Stanton sniffed in derision.
Gabby heard keys jangling at the door which opened suddenly, hitting Stanton in the back.
“Be careful when you open that door,” Stanton said in a huff. “I always knock first.”
Walking away, Gabby heard Stanton mutter to Adam, “Be sure to tell me everything—and I mean everything—that the sister wants you to tell her brother.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Stanton left, shutting the door with more force than was necessary.
“Mr. Zook?” Adam asked.
Being called Mr. Zook was still unusual for Gabby. Mr. Zook was his father. General Zook was his uncle. It was good he had not finished West Point, or else he might be a general too.
“Call me Mr. Gabby, like the Lincolns do.” He smiled at Adam, trying to make the troubled-looking soldier feel better.
“Um, your chamber pot. Does it need cleaning?”
“Not that I know of. Let me go look.”
Going through the curtain, Gabby heard Adam walk across the room.
“Mr. Lincoln? Mrs. Lincoln?” he said.
“Yes?” Mrs. Lincoln replied.
“Chamber pots, ma’am?”
“Here they are,” Lincoln said. “I’ll carry them to the door for you.”
“Oh. I don’t think Mr. Stanton locked it,” Adam said with a stammer.
“Young man, I don’t think I’m going to bolt out the door after two months,” Lincoln said. “It’d be too disconcerting for Mr. Stanton.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Private Christy,” Mrs. Lincoln said.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I want to apologize for my attitude,” she said. “Mr. Gabby pointed out to me you’re good at heart.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Gabby looked in his chamber pot to find it empty. He came around the curtain just as Adam opened the door and was scooting the pots out into the hall.
“Private, it’s clean as a whistle. Sorry. Maybe I’ll have something for you by lunchtime.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gabby.” Adam smiled.
Gabby was glad his presidential skills were working and lifting the young man’s spirits. Adam was about to close the door when Gabby stuck his hand out.
“Will you tell Cordie to make another quilt? It’s for Mrs. Lincoln. You know, a Gabby quilt is good for the soul.”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Seven

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Leon comes home to Eleuthera
Previously in the novel: Leon, a novice mercenary, is foiled in taking the Archbishop of Canterbury hostage and exchanging for an anarchist during the Great War by a mysterious man in black. The man in black turns out to be Edward the Prince of Wales.

Leon Johnson walked down the gangplank of an ancient freighter. In his pocket was most of the British pound sterling the mysterious young man in black had given him in the depths of Canterbury Castle. He told Leon to go home to his mum and be a good boy. Taking the coins from his pocket and tossing them in his palm, Leon smiled. He knew how to save his money. He worked in the boiler room of the freighter to pay for his passage. He was not afraid to work hard. He saved the coins to support his family for the rest of 1916 on Eleuthera. Leon followed the first part of the man’s advice to save his money and go home to his mum. As for being a good boy, well, being bad was more profitable.
Walking the docks of Freeport, Leon saw a fisherman unloading his catch for the day and waved at him. He was old Joe from Eleuthera and lived down the road from the Johnson family. Leon had found free transport to his mother’s door.
“Where did you go, boy? Joe asked as Leon jumped into the boat.
“No place special.” He reached for the ropes. “Here, let me help you. I want to get home to Mum.”
“It won’t be long now,” Joe assured him. “Sit back. Relax.”
Leon reclined as the fishing boat headed toward Eleuthera. He thought again about the advice from the Canterbury stranger—find another way to make money. Sadly, Leon knew that decision had been made centuries ago, when his ancestors lost a war to a neighboring African tribe which sold his early family members into slavery.
Initial history of his family was fuzzy but by the time of the American Revolution, the stories took form. His great grandfather Moses had taken the name of his owner, a successful American sea captain named Johnson. Moses served as butler in the captain’s Baltimore mansion in the colony of Maryland and sensed during the growing turmoil that his master was a Tory.
And why shouldn’t he be, Moses reasoned to the other slaves in the cook house. “My family has been elevated from a primitive existence in Africa to an affluent lifestyle which the Britons have given us,” he declared.
“Primitive existence?” A footman sat in a corner polishing boots. “What can be more primitive than being owned by white men who treat you like you ain’t even human? They treat their damned dogs better than us!”
Moses snorted. “Your ma and pa should be horsewhipped if they didn’t tell you it was other black folks that sold us into slavery in the first place!”
“And what difference does that make?” The footman threw a boot across the cook house. “You’re still a damn slave either way!”
When Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown and American independence became secure, Captain Johnson loaded his family and slaves onto his ship and relocated to Freeport in the Bahamas. Except for the footman who, according to family lore, escaped and was never heard from again.
Moses jumped the broom with a lovely young lady who was Mrs. Johnson’s personal maid. She gave birth to one son and several daughters. Moses name his son Cyrus and indoctrinated him into the life of a good and loyal slave to the Johnson family. Moses, probably most probably, died before the British Parliament abolished slavery. While most of the servants discreetly slipped away to take up lives of their own purpose, Cyrus informed his kindred that they would remain servants of the household accepting the wages the Johnsons deigned to pay.
The next generation listened patiently as Cyrus lectured on the superiority of the British system during the brutal American civil war which ended slavery on the continent. Perhaps because his youngest son Jedidiah had not been born yet to hear the dissertations, Jed announced in adulthood he was leaving the employment of the Johnson family, which was on its last legs anyway. Cyrus was appalled. The third generation of white Johnsons preferred a life of dissolution made possible through the hard work of the original sea captain. Soon there would be no money left for the white Johnsons to waste.
Jed set forth to find an acceptable black fisherman to work for, learned fishing skills and saved his money to buy his own boat. After obtaining the skills and the boat, he searched for a woman to marry who was not too delicate for hard work by her husband’s side. When he found Dorothy, and a fine woman she was, they married in a proper church. After the ceremony his father Cyrus doddered towards him.
“I’m disappointed you did not have the traditional jumping of the broom.”
“Dorothy decided—and I agreed—we did not want to commemorate a time when our families were slaves,” Jed whispered so his bride did not hear.
“It’s our family tradition and has nothing to do with slavery. Your grandfather jumped the broom. You think you are better than him?” Cyrus protested. “Your mother, God rest her soul, agreed with me. Why would you want to desecrate her memory like this?”
Jed knew better than to argue with his father so he merely smiled. Dorothy came up and hooked her hand around his elbow. She nodded curtly to her new father-in-law.
“Excuse us, we have to leave now to reach our new home in Eleuthera by dark.”
Cyrus’s eyes widened. “Eleuthera? I didn’t know you were moving to Eleuthera. I have a job all lined up for you in the kitchen at the hotel.”
The Johnson estate had finally been sold at auction after the last son of the family died falling off the balcony in a drunken stupor. The new owners told Cyrus his services were no longer needed. So he found a job as a butler at a hotel catering to wealthy British families on holiday in the Bahamas.
“Father,” Jed began slowly, choosing his words carefully, “I appreciate your effort but I have been successful as a fisherman for the past couple of years and I’ve bought my own boat. Dorothy and I will be our own bosses.”
“You come from a long proud line of house servants,” Cyrus said. “Now you’re going to catch fish all day? That is not suitable for the Johnson family!”
Dorothy stood between the two men. “All right. I’ve taken enough of this nonsense. I know the Bible says to honor thy father and thy mother, but God didn’t know how stupid some of those fathers were going to be!” Then she dragged Jed away. She was a very strong woman.
“If you leave with that woman, I will never speak to you again!” Cyrus shouted at Jed’s back.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Four

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Young David in a spiffy turtleneck
Previously in the novel: Leon, a novice mercenary, is foiled in taking the Archbishop of Canterbury hostage and exchanging for an anarchist during the Great War by a mysterious man in black. The man in black turns out to be Edward the Prince of Wales.

No one seemed to notice the young prince enter the gymnasium and leave a few moments later to resume his run. David was quite pleased with himself—to murder someone who deserved to die. Even by his teen-aged years he learned the world was a dirty, rotten, stinking place where truth, compassion and honor and lying, dominance and greed were equally worshipped to the point of idolatry without any ambivalence. And there was nothing a good decent person could do anything about it. Well, he had some done something about it. His action stirred passions within him that rivaled even sexual ecstasy.
The rest of his time at Osborne was uneventful. Without their leader the other bullies lost interest in torturing the prince. He never developed any deep friendships but what of that? Part of his brooding view of life had no room for the fantasies of lasting friendship and the even more absurd concept of true love. He moved on to Dartmouth to continue his studies so he could enter the Royal Navy, leaving his sordid past behind and forgotten.
One day as he left his military tactics class, two gentlemen in unassuming navy blue business suits intercepted him and guided him to an awaiting sedan.
“Don’t be alarmed, Your Highness,” one of them assured him. “We are loyal subjects of the Crown. Very loyal subjects.” He paused to smile. “I’m sure you have heard of MI-6, his majesty’s, shall we say, secret service.”
David shifted uneasily. After all, he was a mere lad of fourteen. Yet he should have had the confidence of knowing one day he would be the king of England and therefore above reproach of the law. David still knew he had committed cold blooded murder.
“Please do not feel intimidated that you find yourself seated between two men in the back of a large black sedan. We at the agency have spent the last two months trying to arrange our meeting to be as private and inconspicuous as possible.” He paused to smile again. “So there you have it.”
“So there we have what?” David surprised himself by the assertive tone in his voice.
“Ah.” The second man patted the prince’s thin shoulder. “Good for you. You have cut to the chase.”
“And what might this chase be?” The back of David’s neck burned as he feared his secret may have been found out.
“As we told you, Your Highness,” the first man continued, “you’ve nothing to fear. We have nothing but high regard for you. Of course, as you may well have surmised by now, we are spies. More bluntly put, we murder in allegiance to crown and country.”
They knew. David should have never never assumed he would not have been found out. Have courage, he told himself. They did say they had high regard for him.
“Two years ago you attended the Royal Naval Academy at Osborne. While there you underwent intense hazing by a group of upperclassmen led by the brawny son of a car dealer named—“He looked over at his comrade and then at David before he pulled out a notepad and flipped through it. “Oh dear. I don’t seem to have his name here.”
“I won’t be able to help you with that,” David interrupted coldly. “I don’t remember the names of people I hate.”
The other man patted David’s shoulder again. “You see, I told you we made the right decision with this one here.” He nudged the prince. “I bet you haven’t lost a night’s sleep since then, have you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
The first man leaned in. “Your work was brilliant. Sudden. Cruel. You saw the fear in his eyes, didn’t you? Yet subtle. Spectacularly common. The case sat a full year in the Osborne magistrate’s office gathering dust. It was just by chance it came to the attention of MI-5. That’s our domestic agency. But you knew that, didn’t you? And what if you didn’t? You’ll know everything soon enough.”
Every muscle in David’s body relaxed as he realized what was being laid out before him. “Does the King know of this?” he asked, his tone still cold.
“Oh no,” the second man replied. “He doesn’t know anything. You know your old grandpapa’s piss has tuned to gin, don’t you?”
“Gin? I thought it would have been scotch.” David quickly added. “My father, the Prince of Wales, does he know?”

“Oh no. Not him either.” The first man wrinkled his brow. “No one in your family can ever know.”
David smiled. “That makes it all rather worthwhile, doesn’t it?”
The second man cleared his throat. “Please take a moment to consider the seriousness of this assignment, Your Highness. Spies rarely live long enough to see old age.”
The boy turned to look at him and raised an eyebrow. “You mean I’ll be killed? What of it? They have four more to take the crown if I die.”
The car ride lasted another hour or two. They explained to David that after he finished his studies at Dartmouth, he would enter a training mission in the fall of 1911 on the battleship Hindustan. And the world would know of it. The session was already planned. But he would learn things no king of England ever knew before. Next he would enroll in Magdalen College in Oxford, again with a special line of instruction. By 1912, David would embark on a tour of Europe, visiting relatives and learning new languages officially and extending his spy craft away from the public eye. Eventually, he would join the Grenadier Guards.
“And I cannot stress strongly enough, Your Majesty, all this will take time. You may not even hear from us for six months or a year at a time. You must have patience. This is a life time commitment.”
“However long that lifetime might be.” David relaxed into his new circumstances.
The second man asked, “Excuse the impertinence, Your Highness, but you have not been contacted by anyone else, have you?”
“Anyone else? You mean like the enemy, whatever nation that might be?”
“No, sir—I can’t continue this deference. Attracts too much attention. May I call you David, like your family does?”
“Of course you may. I rather like it. David the spy.”
“All kidding aside,” the first man interceded, “what my friend is trying to inform you is that we need not fear only a political enemy but an enemy that is far more sinister—an enemy that fights you for money, like a common whore giving herself up for sixpence.”
David sobered. “I would rather die.”
The memory was fresh on his mind, though it had been eight years filled with training, discipline, pain, fear and the inexplicable thrill of murder.
“David! David!” his father bellowed down the dining table at him. “What the blazes are you thinking about? Some common whore?”
“George!” Queen Mary was quite indignant. “If you continue to behave in such a boorish manner I will retire to my quarters immediately!”
The Prince of Wales smiled and murmured in a tone only his sister Mary and brother George could hear, “Common whore? Hardly. I only bed respectable wives of wealthy gentlemen.”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Twenty-Nine

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General Samuel Zook, Gabby’s uncle

Previously in the novel: War Secretary Edwin Stanton held President and Mrs. Lincoln captive under guard in basement of the White House. He guided his substitute Lincoln through his first Cabinet meeting. Then he told Lincoln’s bodyguard Ward Hill Lamon into believing Lincoln and his wife were in hiding because of death threats. Lincoln’s secretaries realize something is wrong but are afraid to say anything. Janitor Gabby Zook, caught in the basement room with the Lincolns, begins to think he is president.

“I used to like the military,” Gabby said, watching Lincoln retreat behind the curtain with his newspaper. “Uncle Sammy went to West Point first. He was the smart one in the family. He’s a general now.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Lincoln said in friendly agreement. “I’ve heard of General Samuel Zook. He may have his turn as commander of the Army of the Potomac before this war is over.”
“Now I don’t like the military anymore.” He paused to look down and bite his lip. “They said I killed my best friend Joe.”
“Oh no,” she gasped.
“That colonel said the whole thing was my fault. He said I was the one driving the team. I was supposed to be in charge of the horses, and I didn’t control the horses, and the colonel was hurt and Joe was killed.”
“But he ordered you to drive the carriage over your objections.”
“It didn’t make any difference, they said.” Gabby shook his head. “I was the one driving the team so I was the one responsible, they said. They said I was a murderer. They said they were doing me a favor by just throwing me out of West Point and not hanging me. They said—”
“Please, Mr. Gabby, no more,” Mrs. Lincoln said, holding her handkerchief to her face. “I can’t stand to hear anymore.”
“They told Mama and Cordie I was no use to them and for them to take me home.”
“That’s dreadful,” she said. “I’m sorry I had you tell me.”
“That’s all right.” Gabby tried to smile as he wiped a tear from his eyes. “Most days, I don’t even remember what happened. I just know I don’t think as good as I used to.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why I remembered everything today.”
“I’m so sorry for my behavior.” Mrs. Lincoln reached across the billiards table to touch Gabby’s hand. “If I’d known what caused your misery, I’d have been kinder.”
“I know.” He found the courage to squeeze her hand before withdrawing it. “I think—and please don’t get mad at me—you’re a little like me. Sometimes we can’t help the way we act.”
“Mr. Gabby, I do declare I think you’re more perceptive than many of the intelligent men running this war at this very moment.” She cocked her head coquettishly.
“Oh yes, I know I’m smart, except when I forget to be—smart, that is.”
“You must spend more time out here in the room with us, Mr. Gabby.” Mrs. Lincoln laughed as she stood. “You really must.”
“Thank you,” he said. “But I think that would make me too nervous.”
“I know all about being nervous. Well, as you wish.” She turned to go to her cot.
“Would you like a quilt?” Gabby asked.
“A what?” She turned to smile at him.
“A quilt,” Gabby explained. “My sister Cordie makes them. She made me one. Just a minute, I’ll show it to you.” Quickly padding to his corner, Gabby grabbed the quilt and brought it out, proudly displaying a crudely sewn composition of rumpled squares of old cloth of different colors, textures, and patterns. “Cordie calls them Gabby quilts. She named them for me.”
“How nice.” Mrs. Lincoln smiled as she touched it.
“She cuts squares out of old dresses, shirts, and things she has around, and sews two of them together with an old sock in the middle, and then she sews the squares together, and you got a Gabby quilt.”
“So each square is a memory of a loved one.” Her eyes sparkled as she stroked it.
He pointed to a square of dark brown. “Mama wore this dress all the time. And this,” he said, tapping a swatch of gabardine, “was part of Papa’s best suit when he was a lawyer.”
“How wonderful.”
“Oh, they’re really not worth much. Used to, Cordie would make fancy patterns with the squares. Now she just sews them up any old way. That way you can really use it. If you’re sick and feel like you need to throw up, you can just let it go on a Gabby quilt. It doesn’t make any difference.”
Mrs. Lincoln withdrew her hand.
“I haven’t been sick on this one.”
“Oh.”
“Cordie used to say Gabby quilts were like love. Love isn’t something pretty to look at. Love is for everyday use. When you get sick you can wrap up in love—like an old Gabby quilt—and feel better.”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Three

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A very young Prince of Wales

Previously in the novel: Leon, a novice mercenary, was foiled in taking the Archbishop of Canterbury hostage and exchanging for an anarchist during the Great War by a mysterious man in black.

The Prince of Wales was bored. It was one of those de riguere dinners with the family at Windsor Castle, not one of his favorite royal residences: too drafty, too remote, and too filled of the pomposity that was his father. He thought his brothers and his sister would have to stand forever until the parents royale entered the dark dining hall lit by tall, elegant flickering candles.
Finally George V and Queen Mary appeared in the door and dramatically approached their seats. Servants pulled back the chairs. As they sat, the servants standing behind the princes and princess seated them with smooth precision.
Attendants, in unison, approached each royal personage on the left with the soup course. No one dared to lift a spoon until King George took his utensil and swiped it through the consommé.
“We are honored by the presence of the Prince of Wales,” he announced while a few droplets fell through his whiskers. “What? Couldn’t find a strumpet to occupy your weekend?”
Ignoring his father’s question, the prince returned with his own inquiry. “Is your sciatica acting up, Papa? There’s some rain in the forecast. It has been a year since you fell off your horse while reviewing the troops in France.”
“Most inappropriate,” Queen Mary intoned.
David sipped a bit of consommé and smiled. “At least I don’t dribble my soup.”
“At least I visited the front,” his father huffed. “You haven’t made it out of headquarters.”
“A few times. I have seen the wounded. The piles of discarded arms and legs.”
“David!” Mary’s voice raised above her usual respectful murmur. “That’s quite enough!”
That was what they called him. David. He did not know why, though he did rather like it. The name David did not reek of proper putrefaction like George, Edward or Henry. The next eldest son was called Bertie. How refreshing. Then came their sister Mary and brothers George and Henry. Boring. Again boring. Oh, how David hated to be bored.
“You missed all the excitement last week,” George V continued, evidently choosing to ignore his son’s remarks on dismembered body parts. “The archbishop almost missed our monthly prayer breakfast at Buckingham. It seemed these rotters from Scotland had plans to spirit him away.”
“”George! Language!” the queen protested.
“But one way or another someone in secret service caught wind of the plan. The bloody little blighters wanted to exchange the archbishop for one of those horrid anarchists we have imprisoned. I can’t quite remember his name….”
David smiled to himself. The man’s name is Jack Smith. He is from Glasgow. He leads a group protesting the war. Well, let Papa glory in his ignorance. At least I know the truth.
Yes, the truth, which could not be shared with the royal family nor could it be comprehended by them. George and Mary and the siblings had never understood David, because he was not like any other Prince of Wales in history.
He retreated unto himself as his father continued to ramble. The prince concentrated on his beefsteak—medium rare per his personal preference. The oozing red juices both excited and soothed him. He remembered when that particular fascination came over him.
He was twelve years old when he entered the Royal Naval Academy in Osborne. It was his first time to live away from home. No servants waited on him, ready to cater to his every caprice. David was noticeable shorter than the other boys and slight of build. His voice had not yet mellowed into a respectable baritone.
Frankly, David was surprised to find out anyone considered his countenance anything less than regal and elegant. He was shocked to discover the others did not immediately acknowledge his natural superiority. Within a few weeks of his arrival David began to restrict his diet and began a vigorous exercise regimen which went beyond the demands of the required training of the other boys.
He interrupted his thoughts to pull out and light a cigarette. He was only vaguely aware of his mother’s remonstrations. He ignored her rules about smoking at the dining table. What was she going to do, ban him from being crowned King of the British Empire? Take away his title of Prince of Wales? What a relief that would be.
Retreating back into his memories, David went to the day a group of his fellow students grabbed him in the showers. The gang leader was several inches taller than the average boy and seemed overly endowed with hormonal secretions. His claim to higher class entitlement came from his father who owned the largest automobile dealership of imported continental luxury motor cars. A few moments passed as David tried to remember the boy’s name. Nope. Couldn’t remember it. Thank God. Absolutely hated the little bastard.
On the day of the incident in the shower the car dealer’s son told the other cadets to hold David down. He poured an entire bottle of red ink on his head.
“I hereby crown you Queen Mary!”
After they left him, David washed it out the best he could and then carefully shaved the rest of the red hairs off. He was quite pleased with his skill at creating a new distinctive coiffure.
The car dealer’s son was not pleased. Within a few weeks the same cadre of cadets pulled David from his bed at midnight, stuck his head out of a window and let it go. As the window frame crashed down on his neck, he heard the motor car boy shout, “Long live the King!”
Of course, David did not let a whimper escape his lips nor did a tear fall down his cheek. Secretly he wished his neck would have snapped and he would die. At least he would be spared listening to his father’s ramblings. Neither did he report the incident to the academy commandant. The royal family always handled its problems its own private way. He stayed within his circle of friends and avoided situations where he might be alone with the bullies.
Apparently the guillotine gang leader was content that he had broken the spirit of the future king of England. What he did not know was that David was quietly observing his every move. He knew the bully’s routine, when he was alone and left unprotected by his gang. Only David knew the car dealer’s son went to the gymnasium each morning at the same time David went on his early jogs around the campus.
One morning as he ran past the gymnasium he slipped in the back door and found motor car boy on his back on the weight bench struggling with one of the heavier bar bells. Without any ado David walked over, forcefully lowered the bar down on the bully’s throat and held it there until the boy’s eyes bulged, his face turned a deep purple and saliva drippled from his lips.

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Twenty-Seven

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Gabby hunched his shoulders and wished he had kept his presidential opinions to himself. His hand shook as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Now, Molly, Mr. Gabby’s trying to make the best of the situation,” Lincoln said. “You should, too.”
“He’s out of his mind! It’s plain as the mottled nose on his pitiful face that he’s addled! And you’re no better!”
“Let me know when the newspaper arrives.” Lincoln looked at Gabby, shook his head, and retreated behind his curtain to his cot.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Gabby turned to escape into his own corner.
“You’re just like Cousin Fitzhugh on Mother’s side of the family,” Mrs. Lincoln began, her voice edged with faint contrition. “He wasn’t a Todd. Heavens, no. I don’t think he ever stepped a foot inside a Todd household. He wasn’t even of Granddaddy’s family. I don’t even remember his surname. No one really wanted to claim him, and I only met him on sad occasions when one of Mother’s elderly kin passed on. He was always there at the wake and the funeral. I just shuddered every time he walked into the laying-out room.”
“We laid Papa out in the parlor,” Gabby said. “We didn’t have a special room for that. Our apartment wasn’t that big, and we didn’t have people die that often, so we didn’t see any need for a special laying-out room.”
“The parlor,” Mrs. Lincoln said, sighing deeply, and nervously rattling her cup against the saucer, “was the laying out room.”
“Oh.”
“As I was saying, I just shuddered when Cousin Fitzhugh arrived. I’ve a naturally pleasant turn of mouth, which makes me look friendlier than I often wish to be, and he thought I wanted him to approach me and tell me all sorts of nonsensical things. Rambled, that’s all he did. Rambled.” Pausing to sip her coffee, Mrs. Lincoln wrinkled her nose. “Tepid. Just as I thought it would be.” Her eyes darted to Gabby. “Just like you.”
“I’m tepid?”
“Oh no.” She giggled, and her eyes twinkled, creating for a split second the image that Gabby surmised was what her husband had fallen in love with many years ago. “No, ramble. You ramble just like Cousin Fitzhugh.”
“Oh.”
“Mama always said there was no reason to be afraid of Cousin Fitzhugh. He was gentle as a lamb.” Mrs. Lincoln smiled and nodded to the chair across the billiards table from her. “Please have your breakfast out here. We may as well learn to be sociable. We’re going to be here for a while, it seems.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Gabby sat in the chair and put his plate on the green top of the billiards table. After taking a bite of egg from the plate, which now sat uncomfortably near his chin, he looked over at her.
“I don’t like that Mr. Stanton.”
“You’re certainly correct about that, Mr. Gabby.”
Part of his presidential skills was being diplomatic. That was another class in which he excelled, diplomacy. He prided himself for finding ground for common interests.
“I sure miss my sister Cordie.”
“I imagine you do.” She paused. “She takes care of you, doesn’t she?”
Gabby nodded.
“I miss my little boy,” Mrs. Lincoln whispered.
“Of course, a mama would miss her child.”
“People don’t understand Tad.” Mrs. Lincoln clasped her hands in front of her and looked off, as though in confession. “I know that they think he’s wild and undisciplined, but he has a problem. His palate is malformed. Do you know what the palate is?”
“It’s right here.” Gabby nodded and pointed to his open mouth.
“Yes, Mr. Gabby.” Mrs. Lincoln momentarily closed her eyes because Gabby still had semi-masticated egg on his tongue. “That’s right.” She smiled at him. “You’re smarter than most people give you credit for.”
“I went to West Point,” he offered.
“Taddie is smarter than people think too. He speaks haltingly and baby-like sometimes, and that makes people think he’s stupid. But he’s not stupid.” She chuckled. “The things that boy can think to say. You can’t be stupid and come up with things like that to say.”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Two

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Canterbury Castle ruins

Previously in the novel: Leon, a novice mercenary, is in the middle of taking the Archbishop of Canterbury hostage and exchanging for an anarchist during the Great War.

“Why would they treat you like this?” Leon asked the old man and leaned into to hear the reply.
“I suppose they kidnapped me because I am the Archbishop of Canterbury,” he replied in a calm, clear voice. “Recently the police arrested a man named Jack Smith in Glasgow. He was the leader of a group protesting Britain’s involvement in the Great War. Anarchists, I believe they are called. I think the government would turn Mr. Smith over to them to ensure my safe return.” He chuckled from beneath the hood. “Quite a prize, aren’t I?”
A thousand thoughts raced through Leon’s mind. No one in the Bahamas knew much about the war raging in Europe. He did not understand why a government would care so much for the life of one old man while it sacrificed thousands of young men in battle. Leon knew he put his life in danger but only for money. He did not care much about dying for just an idea. Ideas did not fill a starving baby’s stomach. Food first, then worry about things like freedom and justice.
“Do you want anything to eat?”
“Food is the least of my worries at this point, young man. I fear I will be with my Lord by the time the sun sets again.”
Leon glanced up though the open roof of the dungeon ruins. The sun was fairly high in the sky. Perhaps it was noon already. The hours had passed quickly. He was hungry, but he was young and strong and could survive without food. The old man, on the other hand, was already weakened by age and poor health. He studied the hood.
“If I lifted your hood up past your mouth, you could eat and drink something without seeing me. It doesn’t matter if you are rescued but are close to death.”
“I must confess I am hungry.”
Lifting the hood slightly, Leon decided his plan would work. The archbishop could see nothing. All Leon could make out of the man’s face was his mouth. His lips curled around a terrible set of dentures. “I may not be able to get you anything but a crust of bread and some water, but at least it will be something.”
“Bless you, my son.”
Leon stood and left the cell, trudging up the rough stony floor to the upper level of the dungeon. The two men leaned over a radio and didn’t notice him approaching. He cleared his throat which drew their attention.
“You need to feed the old man,” he announced with determination. “You can’t trade a dead man to get back your buddy.”
The older man, with bits of gray spotting his red hair, glared. “Shut up! Ye don’t know what ye talk about!”
“I know about empty bellies!” Leon knew precious little about the ways of the world but he did understand the simple act of survival.
“I said shut up!” the younger man growled. “We’re getting our orders over the damned radio!”
Leon stayed quiet and listened.
“The Archbishop of Canterbury, looking hale and hearty for his sixty-eight years, stood on the balcony of Buckingham Palace waving to the crowds.” The radio crackled with static but the message was clear. “Counselors to His Royal Highness George V told the BBC Archbishop Randall Davidson spent the night at the palace with the Royal Family and conducted a prayer breakfast this morning.”
The younger man looked at his boss. “Do ye think they’re tryin’ to fool us?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged his beefy shoulders.
Leon turned and ran down the dank slope of the dungeon, quickly followed by the two red-haired men. They stopped when they saw that the cell door was open. Lying on the ground in front of it were the archbishop’s pajamas, robe, the hood and the crucifix which had hung around his neck. Leon’s gut told him not to move any further, and Leon always paid attention to his gut. The two red-haired men rushed passed him into the dark cell.
A couple of thuds came from inside, followed by screams, one from an older, deeper voice and the other from a younger, more frightened one. Then silence. Leon did not know whether to run away or to look inside to see what had happened.
The decision was made for him when a slender figure stepped out dressed in tight black trousers, a turtleneck and a ski mask. No, Leon corrected himself; it was not really a ski mask but rather a silken covering over the face which would not protect against cold winds on a snowy mountain side. Its only purpose was to hide the identity of the man wearing it. Leon noticed the man held in his hands the awful-looking dentures, only now they dripped with blood. The man held out the bloody dentures for Leon to see.
“My dentures,” the man explained, “dipped in a deadly poison. A single prick of the skin with the venom is instant death. I’m afraid I bit them more deeply than necessary, but I thought they were extremely rude, didn’t you? Would you like to see? I’m afraid their bodies are still twitching quite badly.”
“Oh.” Leon was at a loss for words.
“This is your first job, isn’t it?
“Yes.”
“Then don’t look. Ease into the more gruesome aspects of the job, I always say.” He locked the dentures together to render them harmless and slid them into a trouser pocket. “Don’t worry. I can tell you are a good boy. You will live to see your mum another day.”
“Thank you.”
“You won’t be paid for this mission, will you? Frightfully sorry.” As he passed Leon, he handed him several large gold coins. “Perhaps this will get you home. By the way. Take my advice. Find another profession. This one can be hazardous to your health.”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Twenty-Six

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Previously in the novel: War Secretary Edwin Stanton held President and Mrs. Lincoln captive under guard in basement of the White House. He guided his substitute Lincoln through his first Cabinet meeting even though there were some complications. Then he skillfully maneuvered Lincoln’s bodyguard Ward Hill Lamon into believing Lincoln and his wife were in hiding because of death threats. Lincoln’s secretaries realize something is wrong but are afraid to say anything.

Gabby Zook awoke to disappointment again. Every morning for the last two months he had come from his night’s sleep, forgetting he was on the floor in the basement of the Executive Mansion; he needed the comfort of his sister Cordie, who kept his world intact. With his head aching, Gabby wrestled with his identity, and longed for more mornings when he knew exactly who he was. Thinking back to his days at West Point, he tried to take comfort in memories of some of the courses in which he had excelled. He thought of his logic class, in which his teacher always said he was the best—and if Gabby ever needed logic it was now. Furrowing his brow Gabby fetched scattered bits and pieces from his fragmented brain: let’s see, he mumbled, if a = b and b = c, then a = c.
“That young man is late with our breakfast again, Father,” Mrs. Lincoln said, just loud enough for Gabby to hear from his corner.
He shuddered, for this woman scared him with all her tantrums and orders. Gabby did not like being locked in the basement either, but common sense told him yelling, screaming, and throwing things would not change the situation—at least on those days he had common sense. While it was an elusive quality for him, he was certain he captured its essence more often than she did.
“The scandal of all this will rock the nation, Mr. Lincoln,” she continued with her Southern lilt. “The audacity of holding the president of the United States captive in the White House basement…”
“Yes, I know, Molly,” Lincoln said. Gabby smiled; he liked him. “I’ve heard your scenarios of trials before the Supreme Court every day for two months.”
The president of the United States is being held in the basement. Gabby began using his pattern of logic. That was a = b. I am being held in the basement. That was b = c; so, he hypothesized, I am president of the United States. Gabby shook his head. That could not be right; he never remembered running for election. Jangling keys at the locked door started Gabby’s salivary glands flowing. Breakfast had arrived. He stood to look around the stacks of crates and barrels to see Adam put a tray of breakfast foods on the billiards table.
“You’re later and later every morning, young man,” Mrs. Lincoln chided.
“Yes, ma’am,” Adam mumbled. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
Lincoln ambled over. “Were you able to get me a pear?”
“Yes, sir. Right here, sir.”
“I hope the coffee is still warm,” Mrs. Lincoln said.
“Yes, ma’am. Just brewed, ma’am.”
“Got some fried eggs?” Gabby ventured to the billiards table.
“Right here.”
“And the morning newspaper,” Lincoln added.
“Sorry, sir.” Adam hung his head. “I’ll get your newspaper right away.”
Gabby watched the private go to the door. He did not have the same spring in his step as he had in September. Now, in November, Adam shuffled his feet and rarely made eye contact with anyone. On the off chance Gabby’s exercise in logic was correct and he was, indeed, president of the United States, he decided he should do something presidential and comfort the downcast soldier. He walked up behind Adam as he unlocked the door to leave and patted him on the back.
“Everything is going to be fine, Private,” he said.
“What?” Adam frowned at him.
“All this will be over soon,” Gabby said.
“Oh.”
“Things will get better.”
Adam sadly smiled and left the room. Feeling satisfied that he had acted presidential, Gabby went back to the billiards table, took a plate, and proceeded to scoop two fried eggs on to it.
“He’s a good boy,” Gabby said.
“What?” Mrs. Lincoln asked.
“He said, Private Christy is a good boy,” Lincoln said. “And Mr. Gabby’s right. He’s a good boy.”
“He is not!” Mrs. Lincoln sputtered, almost choking on a blueberry muffin. “He’s holding us here against our will! How on earth can you say that young man is a good boy?”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary, Chapter One

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When watching a James Bond movie, have you ever wondered about all those mercenaries running around when the bad guys headquarters were blowing up? If they survived, they weren’t going to get paid. The boss was dead. What’s up with that? Besides that, have you ever wondered how boring it must have been for the duke and duchess of Windsor just floating around the world with nothing to do? What if they were super spies–a la James Bond–and MI6 decided they better served the country as spies than on the throne of England? So this is basically what my new novel is about. No, this didn’t really happened, but let’s just pretend.

Leon Johnson did not know how to feel–nervous, afraid, excited or just numb. He sat behind the wheel of a military truck on a moonlit road outside the Old Palace in Canterbury, England.
Most of his life Leon taught himself to be inured to the cruelties that engulfed him on Eleuthera, one of the outer islands of the Bahamas. Rich people did not go there to gamble, bathe in the surf, drink, and dance with other men’s wives. People on Eleuthera were much too busy trying not to die. They were descendants of slaves brought to the Bahamas by their masters after the American Revolution. Somewhere along the way they were freed. Leon often heard the old men in his village discuss which was worse—to die as slaves or die with an illusion of freedom. Either way they ended up dead.
Two hulking men in dark clothes dragged an old man out, down a gravel path through a wrought iron gate and tossed him into the canvas-covered back of the truck. The captive wore pajamas and a fine linen robe. A rough sack was tied over his head, and his hands were bound by rope. Without a word they disappeared down one of the dark narrow streets of Canterbury. Leon started the engine and slowly, as though beginning a routine delivery, pulled away from the Old Palace which, he had been told, served as the residence of the archbishop.
Leon did not know, nor did he care to know, the identities of the kidnappers. The crime syndicate had trained him not to ask questions. Each individual task of a mission had its own minions known only to themselves and their contact in Eleuthera. If they completed their goal they were paid immediately and told to disperse and wait until the next job came along. If they did not complete their mission or if the client did not survive, they were paid nothing and were left to their own devices to return home.
The international business had no name. No one knew who was in charge. The mastermind may have indeed lived in the Caribbean or in the United States, Great Britain, China or South Africa. The contacts reported to intermediaries who answered to regional supervisors who took orders from continental managers. Only those six managers knew the supreme leader.
The Bahamas were a favorite recruiting ground for the organization, along with the jungles of Africa and South America, the High Plains of North America, the deserts of Asia, the Outback of Australia and the slums of Europe. The intermediaries and the supervisors were always on the lookout for young men with an intense need to survive. Leon was one of those. His father was eaten by a great white shark while fishing. If he had not accepted the offer of his Eleuthera contact, Leon might have died himself trying to provide for his mother and sisters. Like the old men in his village used to say, what difference does it make how you earn money if you end up dying anyway? And if he did survive, Leon would be paid enough to support his family on Eleuthera for a year.
Leon drove down the rough dirt road until he saw the massive ruins of Canterbury Castle silhouetted against the cold November moon. Parking in front of the only door to the old Norman fortress he waited, according to his instructions, for men to come down the steps to take the prisoner from the back of the truck. Eventually, two men of ungraceful comportment trudged up to the vehicle and dragged out the old man and started back up the stairs.
Leon leaned out of the window. “What do I do next?”
The larger of the two men turned to snarl, “And what kind of arse might ye be?”
“I’m a new arse to the organization and I don’t want to mess things up and not get paid,” he informed the man.
“Fair enough. Stay where ye are. It might be a few hours before we get word about the exchange.”
“What exchange?” As soon as he asked Leon regretted the question.
“None of ye damned business.”
“It’ll be your damned business if the sun comes up and the townsfolk see a black man in a truck outside Canterbury Castle.”
Spitting, the man acquiesced. “Very well, park the truck in the back and come inside. We’ll be downstairs.”
Hopefully, there would be a fire downstairs, Leon thought. He was not used to the cold winds of the English countryside. After he hid the truck he scampered up the steps into the castle and down the stairs where he watched the two men dragged the old man further down into the dungeon.
“Please, please,” the old man whimpered. “Slow down so I can get my feet under me.”
“Shut up. We’re in a hurry.”
Leon’s neck burned red from anger. He might have turned to a life of crime to survive, but cruelty to small animals, children and old people went beyond the pall of decency. He followed at a distance to see where the men took the old man. They threw him into an ancient cell and slammed the door shut. The bigger man stuck his hand out.
“Gimme the key.”
“I don’t have no key,” the younger man exclaimed. “Who the hell would I be askin’ for a key to a ruin like this? Are ye daft, man?’
“Then stay here and make sure he don’t escape!”
“I’m not staying in this muck ‘n’ mire!” He looked over at Leon. “Have him do it! Make ‘im earn his pay!”
“Sure,” Leon replied. “I don’t mind.”
The leader bumped his way past Leon toward the upper level. “Damned fool way to run things!”
When they were gone, Leon opened the door and knelt by the old man. “Ol’ man, are you all right? Did they hurt you?”
The old man mumbled something. Leon could not understand him through the hood. “Let me take this off your head.”
“No, no. I mustn’t see who you are.” He spoke louder and more distinctly. “Then I would be required to identify you when I am released. I want no harm to come to you, my son. “After a pause, he added, “I am fine, young friend.”