Category Archives: Novels

Davy Crockett’s Butterfly Chapter Thirty-One

Looking up, Harriet saw a butterfly making its way from one tree branch to another. She pointed. “Davy, there. Isn’t it pretty? Just like you. It won’t stay. Just like you.”
He lowered his forehead to meet hers and whispered, “Oh, Harriet, don’t say that.”
“I’m sorry.” Lifting his head with her hand, she wiped tears from his ruddy cheeks. “Now we can’t let anyone think you cried. It’s not manly.” She straightened his shoulders and smiled. “Go home. Be happy. And promise me you’ll never run away again.”
“I promise.”

***
Elizabeth cried into Robert’s shoulder as David rode his chestnut back to the farmhouse, his hands cupped. Dismounting, he walked over to her. When she saw him, she quit crying, her eyes widened in incomprehension.
“I couldn’t leave without one last gift.” He opened his hands.
“A butterfly,” Sissy said in awe.
“It’s purty,” Matilda added, a cheery tone returning to her voice.
“Butterfly,” Elizabeth whispered. “Yes, I remember. The day you came home. Those big, rough hands, but they held that delicate li’l creature so tenderly … with … so … much … love.”
She dissolved into tears again, and Robert held her saying in a muted voice, “I guess you should let the butterfly go now.”
“I guess so,” David replied, letting it fly away.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, her voice raspy with emotion, “butterflies ain’t supposed to be cooped up. You enjoy them for the moment you have them in your hands, and thank God you at least had that moment.”

***

Lonnie looked across the sofa at Tiffany who was leaning into Dave and holding his hand. “Imagine. A little gal with a butterfly tattooed on her shoulder.” He smiled at Dave. “So Puppy’s got himself a butterfly.” Sighing, he returned his gaze to the television screen. “That’s good. Hang on to your butterfly, son. I had a butterfly once too. Once they’re gone, you can’t get them back.”
Dave looked to the wall where his mother’s portrait was hanged and understood what his father was trying to say. He glanced at Vince in the kitchen and thought he would have never seen him washing dishes. His eyes went to Tiffany who made his heart happy and then to Lonnie who had never seemed so content. Dave became aware that his father’s warm hand had moved discreetly to his knee and slightly squeezed it. Content with his butterfly, he smiled, pleased at last to be home to stay.

Sins of the Family Chapter Twenty-Eight

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Greta sat snoring in her favorite chair as the television blared. Joan entered from the shop and stood at fearful attention.
“Mrs. Schmidt?”
Greta awoke and looked around to see the clerk, pulling her pepper gray hair from her face, standing in the doorway and trembling. Joan was petrified of her which made Greta feel guilty. She should not be so rude her. Greta smiled, trying to make Joan feel at ease.
“Yes?”
“It’s after eleven o’clock,” she replied. “I’ve closed.”
“Good.” Greta stood and stretched in satisfaction. “I’ll turn out the lights on the waterwheel.”
“Mrs. Schmidt?”
“Yes?”
“Is everything all right?” Joan took a deep breath. “I thought I heard loud voices in here earlier this evening.”
“It was just the television.” Her initial reaction was to tell the clerk to mind her own business, but Greta remembered she wanted to be kind so she just laughed and waved her hand. “I play it too loud.”
“Very well,” Joan said. “I’ll lock up.”
“Thank you.”
“Say hello to Mr. Schmidt for me.”
“I will.”
Listening with intent, Greta heard the shop door open and shut. She went to the living room window and turned off the waterwheel lights as she watched Joan get in her car and drive away, not noticing another car parked in the shadows near her living quarters’ door. Shooting sounds and squealing tires drew her attention back to the television set. Her large, boney body eased into the chair, and her muscular, liver-wart-covered arm reached for the candy bowl. Her eyes narrowed as her fingers pushed plastic wrapped pieces around until they came upon her favorite ones. With a sigh of satisfaction, Greta took the plastic wrapper off a candy, put it in her mouth and focused on the television program. Life was going to be better, now she decided to place Heinrich in a nursing home. The past could become the past, and she could look forward to making friends again. No secrets had to be kept. They were all told, and she had survived. All of a sudden her door flew open with a bang. She shuddered as she gulped down the candy and stood. Before her were Jill, keys in hand, and Bob. They were not smiling.
“Jill?”
Pushing between them were two boys and a wan looking middle-aged man who had anger and hatred in his eyes.
“Who is this?” the man demanded.
“Oh, Grandma!” Jill ran to Greta and hugged her.
“Ah, Pharaoh’s wife.” He lifted his head and smiled.
Jill hugged her again and leaned into her ear.
“Turn on the waterwheel lights.”
“Where is Pharaoh?”
“He means your husband, Mrs. Schmidt.” Bob stared at the floor.
Dumbfounded, Greta looked at Jill, whose eyes were filled with tears, then at Bob, whose eyes were filled with guilt, and last of all at the man, whose eyes blazed with fury. At one time she would not have revealed where Heinrich was, but she did not care about him anymore. She cared for Jill and Bob. She did not want them to be harmed. And she cared for herself. She did not want to be punished for something Heinrich did. She pointed toward the hall.
“The first bedroom on the left.”
“Finally.” The man breathed with intensity. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”
“Yeah.” The bigger boy’s head bobbed up and down like an excited puppy. “We’re gonna get Pharaoh.”
“I wanna slit his throat.” The smaller one wielded a knife.
“You come with us.” The man shoved Bob and Jill toward the hall.
They must be insane. Poor Jill and Bob. The intruders disappeared as she circled around the room to the light switch. As her hand reached up, the man came back.
“You, old woman, don’t leave this room.”
“Yes.”
He disappeared down the dark hall, and Greta flipped on the waterwheel lights.
***
John burst through the door and turned on the light, revealing Heinrich stretched out on his bed. Drawing himself up to his full height, John put a hand on Randy’s wiry shoulder. Time at last had come to kill Pharaoh and to be freed of all the agonizing passion which confused his mind.
“Give me the knife.”
“I don’t wanna.” Randy jerked his shoulder away.
“Give me the knife.”
“I wanna slit his throat.”
John’s hand went up, his index finger thrusting upward.
“I am Moses! Give me the knife!”
With reluctance Randy handed it over, but his face darkened with growing hatred.
“Pharaoh!” John began to stride toward the bed. “Your hour of judgment has come.” He paused. “Pharaoh. Answer me.”
When no answer came, Mike and Randy loped over and peered around John at Heinrich on his bed, his eyes bulging wide and his hands still clutching at his bosom. His dried lips stuck to his yellowed teeth as his mouth gaped opened.
“He’s dead.” John shook his head in disbelief.
“Why, he’s just an old man.” Mike giggled as he punched Heinrich’s belly with his beefy fist.
“He ain’t no bad guy, like you said.” Randy spat in disgust.
“How dare you deny me my vengeance?” Bewilderment etched John’s tormented features. All this time, all this killing, and Pharaoh was not his to punish. He jumped on the bed and straddled the old man’s body. “How dare you rob me of my retribution?”
“Forget it, Moses.” Mike turned away and laughed. “He’s dead.”
“I will not be stopped!” John screamed in hysteria as he held the knife high above his head. Once again, in his mind, he was the naked warrior standing on the stairs’ top step at the trading post, a growing tree limb behind him. He held his knife high then also, as he looked down with contempt on his own father’s flabby body. His father had to be punished for not following Cherokee ways and for persecuting him because he did want to follow the old ways. Now this other fat old man must pay for his sins. With a war whoop, John brought his knife down and slashed into the corpse.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Eight

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Stanton sat in his rocking chair next to the fireplace. With a blanket around his shoulders, he tried to warm himself but to no avail. Despite all his effort to drink draughts of hot black coffee and sip on bowls of steaming chicken bouillon, the Secretary of War continued to shiver and ache all over. This latest bout of his life-long enemy, asthma, seemed to be draining the life out of him; however, he consistently told himself all he truly needed was the good news from the U.S. Senate that it had voted to remove Andrew Johnson from the office of president. Once Johnson was on his way back to the mountains of Eastern Tennessee and Benjamin Wade was ensconced as President, Stanton knew this blasted cough would go away. Secure in knowing Americans would never learn about his secret treason, he could return to a normal life and resume his influence on another weak chief executive. A light rap at the door roused Stanton from his deep thoughts.
“Come in,” he mumbled as he expectorated heavy green phlegm into his handkerchief. At first he managed a smile when Benjamin Wade and Charles Sumner came through the door, but the downcast looks on their gray faces forced Stanton’s fears and uncertainties to return. Gentlemen, I don’t like your dour countenances. Well, out with it. What was the vote?”
Wade nodded toward the sofa. “May we have a seat?”
“You can do anything you damned well please. Just tell me the final vote.”
After the men sat, Sumner shook his head. “We were certain we had the votes.”
“Don’t tell me the damned Democrats beat you?” Stanton hoped the more dumbfounded and imperious he sounded, he could somehow change the news he was about to hear.
“No, oh no,” Wade corrected him. “It wasn’t the Democrats.”
“It was Edmund Ross,” Sumner interjected, his lips curling in disdain. “Betrayed by one of our own.”
“I knew he could have been bought.” Wade leaned forward. “One of those Democrat devils bought his soul.” He spat into the fireplace. “May both their souls burn in hell.”
“Yes,” Stanton replied softly. “Won’t we all burn for eternity?”
Sumner straightened his back. “We certainly will not!” He raised his nose. “I suffered enough for the cause not to spend time in hell with Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee, John Wilkes Booth and Edmund Ross! You seem to have forgotten I was nearly beaten to death on the Senate floor for articulating our rage against the evil estate of slavery!”
“Oh for God’s sake, Sumner, we all remember your bruises.” Stanton put his head to his sweating brow. “You won’t let us forget.”
“I don’t understand it,” Wade continued, evidently unaware of how the conversation had drifted into a cauldron of pain and religious indignation. “Every chance I got I stood by Ross with my hand on his shoulder as I spoke on our constitutional duty. At the beginning of the vote I was sure we were in control of everything.”
Stanton sighed. “Fools, don’t you know we control nothing? No matter what we do. We can intimidate, we can bellow, we can threaten to kill, but destiny goes its own way. All we can do is accept our fates in quiet resignation.”
Wade and Sumner exchange worried glances before standing.
“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Stanton?” Wade asked uncertainly. “Shall we call your doctor?”
“Where’s that private that’s been tending to your needs when we came to visit in the last few weeks?” Sumner said, forcing a smile on his drawn face. “He seems like such a jovial, light-hearted fellow. Surely a few good words from him would make you feel better.” He looked at Wade. “What was his name?”
“Hmm, Christy, Adam Christy,” Wade replied slowly, as though pulling the name from the deepest recesses of his mind.
“That’s right,” Sumner agreed. “Adam Christy. I’m sure he can soothe your troubled soul with a name like that, straight from the Bible—Adam and Christ.”
“Gentlemen, I am going home now.” Stanton stared into the popping, crackling fire. “I want to be with my wife. I suggest you go home too.”
***
Andrew Johnson opened the armoire in his bedroom on the second floor of the Executive Mansion, pulling clothes out and folding them carefully to fit into his trunk. He decided if he were already in the process of packing, the news that the Senate was sending him home would not hurt as much. His petty demons residing in the darkest crevices of his heart wanted him to take a parting shot at his rival Edwin Stanton, revealing his evil acts against President Lincoln and the nation, but he knew it would be for naught. No one would believe even the ruthless Stanton would debase himself to that extent. No, he looked forward to returning to his town of Greeneville, Tennessee, filled with family and friends who would assure him he was better off without the trappings of power that Washington City offered. Johnson always liked the foliage of May in the mountains as they greened for summer.
Mumblings from the hall outside his bedroom drew his attention. Johnson was sure he heard laughing and stomps of impromptu dancing. Putting his clothing aside, he went to the door, and when he opened it, he saw members of his staff smiling and hugging each other. And in the middle of it all was Ward Hill Lamon and Lafayette Baker, both beaming at him.
“We did it, sir,” Lamon announced with pride. “You are assured of the rest of the term, and Edwin Stanton must leave forthwith in disgrace.”
“You make it sound like a passage right out of Shakespeare.” Baker slapped Lamon on the back. He smiled at Johnson. “You have the right to appoint anyone you damn well please as Secretary of War, Mr. President. What is your pleasure, sir?”
Johnson had so convinced himself he was leaving for home on the next train that he had not given any thought of who would be War secretary after this judicial war had ceased. This was his chance at some form of legacy building and since he had won, he thought of what Abraham Lincoln would have said. Then he remembered the phrase, “Let them up easy.”
“Gentlemen, let’s go to my office.” He turned to walk down the hall, and they followed him. Once inside and the door closed, Johnson sat and motioned to Lamon and Baker to do the same. “Mr. Lamon, Mr. Baker, I think I wish to appoint Lorenzo Thomas as Stanton’s replacement.”
Baker’s mouth went agape. “But he was among those who plotted against you, sir.”
“As were you, Mr. Baker.” Johnson smiled wrily. “As I recall, I caught you going through my papers and had to fire you. But when you returned with Mr. Lamon here, I did not insist that you leave. If I learned anything from observing Abraham Lincoln during his presidency was his ability to hold no grudges.” He motioned carelessly out the window at the political landscape. “They can call me a son-of-a-bitch if they want, but they’ll have to admit I’m a son-of-a-bitch that doesn’t hold grudges.”

Davy Crockett’s Butterfly Chapter Thirty

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Tiffany entered through the dirty screen door and announced to Lonnie and Vince in her best sorority girl voice she was Puppy’s new wife and she was as happy as a speckled pup to meet them. Not wanting to share the moment, Dave picked up his suitcase, went to his car, opened the trunk, put in his luggage and unlocked the car door. Sighing, he plopped behind the wheel and put the packaged Bible next to him, ready to put the key in the ignition.
Puppy? It was Allan’s voice, much to Dave’s dismay.
He glanced over to the passenger seat where sat Allan, dressed in a navy blue suit, white silk shirt and a pink tie. His hair was no longer gray but a short cropped dark brown and his teeth no longer yellow but white and all in place. No nicotine stained his fingers, and his nails were manicured. Serenity shone in his eyes. In short, he appeared as he never did in life, without the scars of mental illness and homelessness.
I just came back to say it’s okay.
“It’s okay?”
And to say I’m sorry. Don’t think badly of me. Remember, I’m the only one who believed in your dreams.
“It didn’t help when the only one who believed in me was crazy.”
I know. Allan paused to look at the house and back at Dave. So you’re leaving them behind, right?
“I guess.”
You know, hate does absolutely nothing for you except kill your soul.
“That’s a smart thing for a crazy person to say.”
Didn’t you know? After you’re dead, you don’t have to be crazy anymore.
Dave smiled and replied, “I’m glad.”
Another thing I’ve learned. Allan leaned toward Dave, with a seriousness he had never possessed in life and in a tone more mature than ever before. All those times I ran off from home, from college, jobs and from half way houses, it was all such a waste. You can’t run away from yourself.
For a long moment Dave considered his older brother’s observations and then looked over at the house. He removed the key from the ignition, got out of his Jaguar with the Bible package under his arm and walked to the front porch. Turning back he saw Allan standing in the driveway. “I’m curious. Up there. Did you meet Davy Crockett?”
You’ll never believe it. I am Davy Crockett. Or, at least, the spiritual essence that was Davy was me too. I know it’s confusing. You’ll understand when you get there.
Allan blew Dave a kiss and disappeared. Dave entered the front door and tried not to smile when he saw Lonnie standing and peering at the butterfly tattoo on Tiffany’s shoulder.
“You can touch it if you want to,” she said with a giggle.
“Puppy,” Vince said, looking up to see his brother standing in the front door.
Lonnie turned around and said with a laugh, “Ain’t this little gal something? I ain’t never seen a woman with a tattoo before.”
“It’s just a little one, Pappy,” Tiffany said with affection. “It’s okay if I call you Pappy, isn’t it?”
“Darling, you can call me anything you want.” He smiled at Dave. “Puppy, I haven’t seen such a cute little darling like this in I don’t know how long.” He laughed until he stopped to add, “And her name ain’t Tympani. It’s Tiffany. Now that’s a cute little name, Tiffany.”
Vince walked to Dave and said, “I like her, Pup. She makes pop laugh. I haven’t seen him laugh this hard in years.”
“I’m glad you came back, Puppy,” Lonnie said. “You got to help us eat all those groceries you bought. Now, all you kids sit down and watch Rawhide while I make lunch.”
“No.” Tiffany put her arms around Lonnie’s waist which made him laugh again. “I’ll fix lunch while you boys watch TV.”
“She’s a firecracker, ain’t she?” Lonnie said with a twinkle in his eyes.
Tiffany walked to the kitchen but stopped when she saw all the dirty dishes in the sink. Turning around she put her hands on her hips. “First I have to clean up this mess.”
“No, let me clean up the dishes,” Vince replied, stepping to the sink. “I messed things up so I ought to clean them up. It’s not going to kill me to get my hands in soapy water.”
Kissing him on the cheek, she said, “That’s sweet of you, Vince. We got a deal then. You wash dishes, and I’ll fix lunch.”
“Well, boys, we better do what Tiffany tells us, or she’ll beat us up.”
“That’s right,” she said with a giggle. “I will.”
Dave held up the Bible package. “I guess I can wait until after lunch to mail it.”
He put it on the table, walked over and sat in the middle of the sofa. Tiffany sat on his right and, to his surprise, Lonnie sat to his left instead of in his lounge chair. Leaning back, he decided being close to his family was not that bad.
“Dad, if you feel up to it, tomorrow you and I can go to the lawyer’s office and start work on that guardianship.”
“Well, if that’s what you want to do, son,” Lonnie said, staring at the television screen. “It’ll be fine with me.”
“Which lawyer are you going to?” Vince asked as he filled the sink with hot water, adding liquid dish detergent.
“Is it the one who did your will, Dad?” Dave said.
“Yep.”
“Fred Long.” Dave looked over his shoulder toward the kitchen.
“Hell. Fred Long was the assistant DA ten years ago who got my driver’s license taken away. I don’t want that jerk sticking his nose into my family’s business.”
“Now, Vince, you shut up. This don’t concern you. It’s between me and my baby boy.”
“Yes, sir,” Vince said like a chastened child. He concentrated on washing plates, cups and glasses. “I guess if you went by me, you couldn’t go to any lawyer in town. I’ve had bad luck with all of them.”
“Shush. Wishbone is saying something. He sure cracks me up.”

Sins of the Family Chapter Twenty-Seven

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Their car pulled back on the highway and started down the Tennessee side of the mountain toward Gatlinburg. Bob and Jill were in the front seat next to John who was driving. In the back, Randy sat close behind them with his knife drawn and alternately tickling their necks. Mike licked his lips, reached down for another can but found the bag empty.
“We ain’t got no beer.”
“Not now.” John clinched the steering wheel. “We’re almost to Pharaoh.”
Randy’s eyes darted from his brother to John. He hated Moses. John did not care about him and his brother. They did a lot of mean things for him, and he did not care if they wanted a beer or not. Randy did not really want more beer, but his brother did. Or maybe he did crave a beer. Beer helped him forget, and right now Randy wanted to forget how mad he was at Moses.
“I want a beer too.”
“I said no. Now be quiet. We’re entering Gatlinburg, and traffic makes me nervous.”
Pulling his legs up into his chest, Randy looked out the window as the car pulled through a green light, out of the park’s darkness and into the brightness of the tourist town’s busy main street, lined with shops, restaurants and hotels. He saw people on the street, laughing and having fun. He saw fathers holding their sons’ hands. No one ever held his hand, laughed or had fun with him, which made Randy even madder.
“Stop for beer, or I’ll cut her.” Randy grabbed Jill around her neck and flashed his knife across her face, causing her to gasp.
“Don’t be foolish,” John said in contempt.
“Yeah,” Mike added. “If he kills her, you won’t know how to get to Pharaoh, and you wouldn’t like that, would you, Moses?”
“Very well.” Looking for a convenience store, he spotted one on the left side of the street. Several minutes passed before traffic cleared so he could turn into a well-lit parking lot. Mike and Randy opened the door. “How are you going to pay for it?”
“What?” Mike looked back at John with a quizzical smile.
“With this,” Randy said, pumping his knife into the air.
“There are at least twenty people in that store. Were you planning to kill them all? Do you think all twenty would stand by and let you rob the store? Don’t you think someone would call police and give them your descriptions and the license number from this car?”
Randy stared at him, not understanding all John’s words which made him hate him even more.
“The Joshua and Caleb of old would have never made such stupid blunders,” John said with a sneer.
“Stop calling us those stupid names,” Randy muttered as he put his knife away. He did not like to be called stupid, even though deep in his heart he knew he was stupid, or else his mother would have never left him alone on the side of a road.
“Just give us money,” Mike said with cheer.
“I don’t have any money,” John replied.
Randy’s eyes darted to Bob. This man had money and was too much of a coward to fight back. He grabbed Bob’s hair, pulling his head back with all his strength. Jill suppressed a cry.
“You got money.”
“Give him your wallet, Bob,” Jill said.
“Yeah.” Randy yanked his hair again. “Do what she says or I’ll cut you bad.”
Reaching down to his pocket, Bob pulled out his wallet and held it up. Mike grabbed it and lunged from the car.
“Great. Now we can get some beer,” he said.
“Scaredy cat.” Randy threw Bob’s head forward. “Don’t move.” He brandished the knife in his face. “If you and her try to run I’ll cut your guts out. I don’t care how many people are standing around.”
***
After Randy left, Bob looked over at John who was staring out of his window. Harold failed to convince him to stop his mission, but Bob felt he had to make an effort or else they too would be murdered. He cleared his throat.
“Dr. Lippincott told me about their drinking problem.”
“That doesn’t concern you,” John said.
“He said once they start drinking they’re dangerous.”
“All the more reason for you and your wife to cooperate.”
“They’ll be dangerous for you too.” Bob paused. “It’s obvious you already don’t have power over them. They killed Dr. Lippincott when you wanted him alive. They’ve forced you to stop for beer when you wanted to keep driving. Don’t you think it’s time to end all this? Let’s stop at the police station, and then we’ll be safe. We pass right by it on our way to Jill’s grandparents’ house. You’ll be safe too. You’ll be safe from the boys.”
“I can control them.”
“Are you sure?” Jill asked.
“You, of all people, should do everything in your power to make sure I can control them.” He looked at her with an ominous glare.
Soon Mike and Randy were back in the car, giggling and slurping down cans of beer. After John pulled onto the street he glanced at Jill.
“Now where is Pharaoh?”
“He lives in the arts and crafts community on the other side of Gatlinburg, on the road to Cosby,” she replied.
Bob looked out his window at the contented vacationers with small sleepy children on their shoulders. They clung to stuffed black bears, wooden rifles and cones of cotton candy. Bob observed that as they waited at a red light he could call out to passersby if he rolled down his window.
“Don’t try to involve those people out there.”
Bob jumped, a bit startled that John in fact had read his mind, and turned towards him.
“Remember, Caleb has a knife and will use it on your wife at my command.”
“My name’s Randy.” He slid down in the seat to drink his beer.
“Yeah, Randy, Randy, candy, dandy, Randy, Randy,” Mike said.
“Shut up!” He jabbed his brother with his bony elbow.
“That hurt.” Mike turned toward a window and swallowed. “That girl there, walking down the street, she’s pretty.”
The passengers remained silent for the rest of the car’s stop-and-go trip through lit downtown. At last, the car picked up speed onto a darker stretch of highway.
“Turn left at the stop light near the supermarket,” Jill said in a blank tone.
“Thank you.”
An even dimmer street emerged. Old homes converted into antique and craft shops were shuttered because they closed earlier than the downtown T-shirt and souvenir stores. A startling exception was the multicolored lights on the rotating waterwheel on the side of the Schmidt house.
“That’s it,” Jill said.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Seven

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The morning of the final vote began early with crowds pushing forward on the Capitol steps. Men in elegant suits elbowed common workers out of the way. They all shouted they had a right to witness the climax of this terrible legal conflagration. No, they did not have tickets, they conceded, but they were citizens of the United States of America. Lamon and his small group of friends waited patiently until they had advanced through the jostling crowd to hand over their tickets. By the time they seated themselves, they saw Dr. Leale and the elderly Mr. Johnston approaching them. Leale smiled but the old man kept his head down, watching his shuffling feet and his cane.
“I’m so glad that we found you.” Leale smiled as they sat. “For some reason, Mr. Johnston and I always happen to meet on the steps. So how do you think the vote will go?”
Lamon considered his words before replying, “We have reason to believe the Senate will not find the two-thirds majority for conviction.”
“And why do you think that?” Johnston asked, keeping his head lowered and not making eye contact with Lamon.
“Senator Ross of Kansas, according to reports in all the newspapers, seems to be at least distant from the emotion of the hour to convict.” He paused to look at the man who claimed to be a relative of President Lincoln. “And what is your opinion?”
“I don’t think they have much of a case against the man,” Johnston said, in a voice barely above a whisper. He laughed to himself. “I am suspect of any cause so heartily supported by Secretary of War Stanton.”
“All I know is that it will be rough going for Mr. Gabby and me if the President is removed from office,” Corbett said. “All anyone has to do is look at Mr. Stanton and see the devil in action, a devil which will be intent on wreaking its revenge on the likes of us.”
“After all I have been through, and Mr. Stanton will still be able to kill me?” Gabby’s lips began to quiver. “It can’t be. I’ve suffered enough. Where can I hide? I’ll go out West. That’s what I’ll do, go out West to someplace Mr. Stanton will never find me.”
Corbett patted his head. “You won’t be alone. I’ll be with you. I won’t let anything happen to you. The Lord will see us through.”
Lamon noticed how intently Johnston watched Gabby and Corbett. He detected a smile lurking around the corners of his mouth.
“I don’t think you gentlemen have anything to worry about. These things have a way of working themselves out,” Johnston assured them.
“Excuse me for being presumptuous, Mr. Johnston,” Lamon said slowly, cocking his head to try to get a better assessment of the old man, “have we met before? There’s something very familiar about you. I can’t quite figure out what it is.”
Johnston waved a gloved hand in front of his face. “I don’t think so, Mr. Lamon. You see, I am not as well traveled as you, sir. Rarely been out of the prairie country. Only my second trip to the capital, you see. It’s all for Mama, of course.”
Lamon hardly heard the elderly man’s rambling reply as he was inspecting the gloves. They seemed newer and more stylish than what he would have expected on the hands of an elderly gentleman who seemed proud of his provincial background.
“So what do you think the verdict will be?” Lamon repeated, hoping he would get Johnston to turn and look at him.
Johnston raised his chin but kept his gaze straight ahead. “Justice, of course.”
“But exactly what is justice?” Lamon felt his blood rise, and he could not decide exactly why he felt so intensely about the situation at this particular time.
Whitman leaned over, shushing them while putting an index finger to his lips. “The roll call vote is about to begin.”
As the clerk called out each name, the old man nodded. When a senator voted in support of the President, Johnston murmured approval of the senator’s past record and commended the politician’s upstanding character. If, however, the senator voted against Johnson, the old man shook his head contemptuously mumbling some vague rumor of personal corruptness. Lamon noticed that the entire time Johnston made his running commentary he kept looking straight ahead at the Chief Justice.
“The name to be called next is Sen. Ross,” Whitman announced softly.
“I hope he has the courage to vote against removing the President,” Corbett said.
“And why is that?” Johnston asked.
The old man’s tone struck Lamon odd. “Why are you interested in Mr. Corbett’s statement?” He still did not understand his own growing impatience with Lincoln’s stepbrother.
Baker hushed everyone. “We all need to be quiet.”
“The Honorable Senator Edmund Ross of Kansas,” the clerk proclaimed.
Without hesitation, Ross said loudly and clearly, “Nay.”
The chamber broke into a chaotic mixture of huzzahs and denunciations. Lamon watched the reaction spread around the room as people recognized the significance. Finally the crowd calmed down so the roll call could continue. But the result was self-evident: Andrew Johnson would remain President of the United States. By one vote.
“So there you have it,” Johnston announced as he stood to leave. “Johnson is in, and Stanton is out.”
“So has justice been done?” Lamon did not know if the old man even heard his question.
As he began to walk away, limping on his cane, Johnston turned slightly and replied, “Not yet.”

Davy Crockett’s Butterfly Chapter Twenty-Nine

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“David! David!” Abner yelled as he led a group of horsemen coming down the trail to the farm.
“Uncle David!” William waved with merry abandon, pulling his horse up in front of the cabin.
David pulled away from Elizabeth to grin and salute the oncoming party. He was relieved he did not have to respond to her question about why he had to leave.
“Hello, Aunt Elizabeth!” William said, dismounting.
“Doin’ fine, Elizabeth?” Abner asked.
“William, Abner,” she said without emotion as she stood. “How’s my sister?” Before Abner could reply, she turned toward the cabin and called out in a stolid voice, “Children, your father’s about to leave.”
They came from the kitchen. Robert stopped short when he when he saw William and nodded to him. Sissy stood back, held her left elbow with her right hand and smiled. Matilda came right down the steps and hugged David.
“Oh, Papa, I’m goin’ to miss you so much.”
“Now, let’s be honest, girl,” he reproved her with gentle humor. “You got Mister Tyson to watch over you. And you got to take care of him, too. Then there’s your ma, brother and sister to fuss with. You won’t have time to think about me.”
Matilda pulled away, her eyes widened in full realization of what was happening. Her hand went to her cheek, and her lips quivered. “I mean it, Papa. I’m really sad.” She looked at him and whispered, “I’m never goin’ to see you again, am I?”
“Of course, you will, Matilda,” he replied with a promptness that belied his sincerity. “Why, by this time next year, we’ll all be back together in Texas. We’ll have a ranch with plenty of hands to work it, and, who knows, maybe I’ll be president of the new nation of Texas.”
“Of course, Papa.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ll be the daughter of the president. And Thomas’ll run the best store in Texas.” No more could come out of her.
Sissy stepped forward as Matilda retreated to Elizabeth’s side. “I’ll miss you, too, Pa. But I want you to go ‘cause I know it’ll make you happy, and how can I be happy if my pa ain’t happy?”
“And you be happy too, promise?” David reached for her, and she let him hug her.
“I promise, Pa. Don’t worry.” She smiled and looked back at her sister. “I’m goin’ to git Matilda to give me lessons on how to be more sociable.”
“That’s good.”
Sissy walked up the steps to hug Matilda who had dissolved into tears. Robert stuck his hand. “Good luck, Pa.”
David grabbed him and held him. When Robert pulled away he smiled.
“It’s all right, Pa. I understand.”
“Understand what?” David wanted him to explain it so he could understand too.
“Why you have to leave.”
“I really meant to stay. I changed my mind when I came home to say good-bye,” David explained to him. He stared intently at Robert. “I didn’t lie about changin’ my mind. I meant it when I said it.”
“You got me confused,” William said who had been listening in on the conversation. He wrinkled his brow and shook his head.
“He’s goin’ with you,” Robert replied. “And it’s all right.” He looked back at his father. “Some folks can’t sit still, and some of us can. That’s all there is to it.”
It had to be more than that, David thought, but this was neither the time nor place to figure out why he had to keep moving from place to place and person to person. Perhaps, one night as he lay on the Texas prairie staring up at the stars, he might at last understand. Maybe it was just a habit he did not want to break.
“Now, remember what I told Matilda. Next year, you’re bringin’ your ma and sisters to Texas.” He could not resist one last lie to his family.
“Yes, Pa,” Robert said. “You can take me huntin’ and fishin’. We’ll make up for all the times we missed together.”
Elizabeth came down the steps and hugged him, burying her head in his shoulder. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
“Don’t feel bad,” he replied, kissing her cheek. “Remember, I’m jest that scairt li’l runaway boy.”
She pulled back, put on a brave, perky smile and said in a quavering voice, “Then run away.”
“We need to git on the road, David,” Abner said. “We want to git at least halfway to Memphis by night fall.”
Robert picked up David’s rifle and bag to hand to him. After tying them to his saddle, David mounted the chestnut and with forced bravado let out a yell and took off up the road, and the other men hollered and followed. They had not gone far, just to the clump of trees where Davy stopped when he came home. A monarch butterfly flitted by, alighting on the branch of a mulberry bush.

Sins of the Family Chapter Twenty-Six

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“I hate Moses,” Randy muttered, disturbed by his unsuccessful search for that man and woman. Why did we want to find them? He was fast losing hatred for this Pharaoh too. Slitting his gut was not important to him any longer. What was important to Randy was his warm, comfortable bed he had left behind at the hospital. He missed gobbling good food as much as he wanted and drinking soda pop whenever he wanted. He longed to hoe in the garden, to spray the plants with water again and to feel proud when he made flowers grow. Most of all, he missed his television programs, cartoons, football games and cops shooting bad guys. He wanted to talk to that doctor again, even if he did get too nosy sometimes. The doctor would let him complain about his mother all he wanted without accusing him of being bad for not loving her. But he could never talk to the doctor again because that stupid Moses made him slit his throat. People at the hospital would not give him his bed back or let him work in the garden again after killing the doctor.
“I hate Moses.”
Something slinked across his mud-spattered tennis shoes, causing Randy to jump, grab his knife and throw it down at the retreating snake. Spitting in disgust for missing his target, he bent over to pick up the knife stuck in moist ground.
***
Jill clinched her jaw as she watched the boy crouch in front of her. When she recognized him to be the thin, angry one, she closed her eyes and prayed he would not see her. Hearing the knife’s being withdrawn from the earth and the boy’s footsteps as they faded away, she thought she was safe for now. That was all she could expect. Again her thoughts went to her grandmother, imagining how she must have sighed, “Safe for now,” every time the topic of Hitler or Nazis was dropped in a conversation. She must have been relieved every time a former member of the Third Reich was caught in another part of the United States and sent back to Germany, thinking at least it was not Heinrich this time. Safe for now. If she survived this night, Jill promised herself she would give her grandmother a big hug and say, “Now, I understand.”
***
Bob strained to look at the face of his watch. It had been some time since he last heard John or the boys. An hour might have passed, but he realized he could not have been under the bush that long. Yet he could not shake the small hope lingering inside him, that the three escaped mental patients had given up and left. He wanted to venture out to check, but he remembered his own instruction to Jill to stay hidden until dawn. Bob told himself not to blow it, not like he had blown so many other things in his life.
A voice broke the silence.
“Bob Meade. We have your wife.”
His eyes widened.
“It’s foolish to resist. If you want to see her alive, come back to the parking lot immediately.”
“Oh, no,” Bob whispered.
“Bob Meade. Caleb has already slit the doctor’s throat. You don’t want the same fate for your wife.”
He sighed and decided he could not take the chance of having Jill’s lifeless body being rolled down the embankment. He barely survived guilt of pulling away from his dying mother. Knowing his cowardice caused his wife’s throat to be slashed would destroy him. Bob decided it was better for them to die together than for him to hate himself the rest of his life for allowing Jill to be murdered.
“Don’t hurt her,” he yelled as he stepped from behind the prickly bush. He shuffled his feet in defeat toward the embankment, pausing for a moment to wince again at the sight of Harold’s bloodied body before climbing up toward the paved path to the parking lot.
***
Jill furrowed her brow as she heard Bob call out. She was still secure under her rock. Didn’t Bob realize John was lying? Of course not, remembering Bob’s greatest fault was his conviction that everyone was as honest as he was. She loved that shortcoming in him, but at this moment, she feared it might kill them both.
“Here goes nothing,” she said, crawling from beneath her rock in hopes of catching Bob before he climbed the embankment.
***
As Bob reached the top he saw the shadowy figures in front of him. He began counting. One, two, three…
“Bob! No!” Jill shouted.
His head jerked away to look down the slope just as Jill emerged from the woods. He turned back to the three escapees. Mike’s brawny shoulders shook as he laughed. John smiled with smugness, tapping Randy and nodding toward Jill. The boy scrambled down to grab her.
“How’d you know they’d come out?” Mike continued laughing.
“I am Moses.”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Six

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The five of them lingered over supper at Whitman’s favorite tavern, intent on keeping the mood light and convivial. Even Gabby looked up from his plate a few times to laugh and smile. As the waiters cleared away the last course, Lamon cleared his throat, pulled a newspaper from his coat pocket, and spread it out for the others to see.
“Here in the paper,” he said pointing to a small article at the bottom of the page, “is the evidence to support our theory Senator Ross is the one hold-out for a conviction vote. Every other senator has made some kind of statement during the trial about their position, but Edmund Ross has remained mute.” He looked at his compatriots around the table. “The vote is tomorrow. We have to talk to him tonight.” The serious look on Gabby’s face gave Lamon encouragement the little man was ready to be brave. Gabby’s resolve seemed to have stiffened as he became an integral part of the group.
“But I don’t think he,” Gabby paused to point at Baker, “should go with us. I don’t care that he says he’s a changed man. He still scares me. And he might scare this Senator Ross.
“Or he’ll make the senator mad,” Gabby continued. “Some men don’t like being ordered around. This Mr. Ross might vote for conviction just to prove Mr. Baker can’t intimidate him.
“You know, you do get awful mad real fast,” Gabby added as an afterthought.
Lamon looked at Baker while putting his hand to his chin to help him think better. “What do you think, Baker?”
Baker shrugged indifferently. “I don’t give a shit.” Motioning to Gabby and Corbett, he said, “As long as these two can convince him, all the better. Suits me fine to keep my name out of all this mess.”
“Yes, General Baker,” Whitman said with a knowing smile. “You and I can sit here while the others go about their business. You can have another ale, and I’ll recite some of my poems to you.”
Lamon, Gabby and Corbett left the tavern and walked down the street to the omnibus stop where a large clanking carriage soon pulled up. Baker had used his connections with the Marshal’s Office to find Ross’s lodgings at a small but respectable boarding house on a side street. Lamon knocked at the door, and presently an elderly man answered. He puffed on his pipe and looked over the rim of his glasses at them.
“Yeah, what do you want?”
“Yes, I’m Ward Hill Lamon, former Marshal—“
“You know it’s damn late out, don’t you?” the man interrupted brusquely.
“We’d like to speak to Sen. Ross if he’s available.” Lamon smiled as congenially as he could, bowing slightly. But as he figured he only had this one chance, the unfamiliar courtesy ploy had better work.
“If you’re more of those damn politicians, you need to leave the poor man alone!”
A voice boomed from the top of the stairs. “Who is it, Mr. Culbertson?”
Before the man could reply, Lamon took a step inside the door to the bottom of the staircase. “It’s Ward Hill Lamon, Senator Ross. I think we’ve met before. You’ve been to receptions at the Executive Mansion when Mr. Lincoln still was alive. We were very good friends, Mr. Lincoln and I.”
A tall man with a large bushy beard covering the tip of his chin came down the stairs. He had thick rounded shoulders, and Lamon noticed printer’s ink permanently stained his fingers. Ross took a moment. Lamon assumed it was to assess the men at the door. He broke into a broad smile and extended his hand.
“Of course I remember you, Mr. Lamon. As I recall from those days, you were never far from Mr. Lincoln’s side at social events. Less so, in the last two years, I think, but the war was raging, and I don’t think the President was in the mood for such things. Please, come in.”
The old man, sucking hard on the stem of his pipe, turned and pointed to the parlor on the left. “You can use this room, but I must insist you keep this meeting short. Mr. Ross has an important day tomorrow, and he doesn’t need to waste his evening with a bunch of lollygaggers.”
“Mr. Culbertson, I assure you we will not lollygag one moment longer than required,” Ross replied good-humoredly.
“Well, I’ll be sitting in the kitchen with my rifle, so all you have to do is call out,” the old man said as he walked into the hall.
Ross motioned to the sofa and easy chairs in the simply furnished room. “Please have a seat, gentlemen. Mr. Lamon, introduce me to your friends.”
Lamon gently pushed Gabby toward the senator. “This is Mr. Gabriel Zook of Brooklyn. He used to work at the Executive Mansion.”
“My uncle Sammy was killed at Gettysburg. He was a general. For the Union, of course. He hated slavery.” Gabby said by way of introduction, while extending a limp hand.
“As so we all, Mr. Zook.” Ross gave him a firm handshake before turning his attention to the third man in the group. “And this gentleman?”
Corbett stepped forward and saluted even though he was not in uniform. “Private Boston Corbett, once a proud member of the Union Army but now a soldier for Jesus Christ.”
A smile of recognition crossed Ross’s face. “So you are the man who killed Mr. Lincoln’s assassin. An honor, sir.”
“But I didn’t kill John Wilkes Booth.” Corbett lifted his chin in righteous confession.
“Please, sir,” Lamon said, motioning to Ross. “Please have a seat. What we are about to tell you is quite a remarkable story and may very well change your vote tomorrow in the Senate chamber.”
They all settled down, and Ross furrowed his brow, his eyes moving from one person to the next. “As you know, I am a long-time newspaperman, and as such I have heard every conceivable story there is to be told; but, gentlemen, frankly yours may be the most unbelievable of all.” He addressed Corbett again. “If you did not kill Mr. Booth that night, sir, who did you kill?”
“As God is my witness, I didn’t kill anybody that night. Nothing is as it seems, Senator.”
Lamon leaned forward. “This is a very complicated story, and I think we should not concentrate on the end of it but rather the beginning. Did you not say, Senator Ross, that President Lincoln’s manner was different in the last two years in office than in the beginning?”
“I assumed it was a natural shyness, a diffidence which arose from the exceeding tension involved with the war….” Ross’s voice faded out as his conviction evaporated.
“It was not Abraham Lincoln you met,” Lamon explained. “It was a man who looked like Lincoln. The real Abraham Lincoln and his wife were held captive in the Executive Mansion basement. Placed there by Secretary of War Stanton who controlled the government through this impersonator.”
Ross’s face turned grim and he stood. “Gentlemen, I believe my landlord Mr. Culbertson was correct in his initial judgment of you. You are all a bunch of lollygaggers, or worse. And I am particularly disappointed in you, Mr. Lamon. I thought you were a man of finer character than this.”
Gabby stood, reached out and took Ross’s hand. “Mr. Senator, sir, I am a simple-minded man. You can surely tell that by looking at me. I—I get confused about things, especially since I got sent home from West Point—“
“Mr. Lamon! This is intolerable!”
“Mr. Senator, sir, please look in my eyes.” Gabby paused until Ross relented and looked at him. “Sir, I don’t know enough to tell a lie, never have. This is the truth. I was in the basement setting out rattraps when Mr. Stanton and a private came down the steps with President and Mrs. Lincoln. I had to stay in the same room in the basement with them for more than two years.” His lips quivered. “I guess you could say I’m crazy. I suppose I am. But crazy people can’t help to tell the truth, sir.”
Ross continued to stare into Gabby’s eyes until he relented and sat back down. Gabby went to his seat on the sofa next to Corbett and dissolved into tears. Corbett put his arm around his shoulders.
“There, there, God will make it all right,” he whispered. “Trust me.”
“And I suppose I have to trust you to tell me what happened.” Ross cocked his head and directed his attention to Lamon. After patiently waiting for Lamon, Gabby and Corbett to tell their stories, he scratched his head and asked, “How many people know this?”
“Not many,” Lamon replied. “Not many would believe it, but it is indeed true. We cannot bring Edwin Stanton before a court on charges but we can make sure he is driven from public office. He must never have the opportunity to stage a clandestine coup again.”
“So it all comes down to my vote,” Ross announced simply. “I can set America aright with just one ‘No’ vote.” He paused to shake his head. “However, I still don’t know if I can trust any of you to be telling the truth.”

Davy Crockett’s Butterfly Chapter Twenty-Eight

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When Davy opened his eyes the next morning he frowned. He did not want to tell Harriet and her father he had decided to leave. Climbing down the ladder he saw Griffith and his daughter already at the table eating breakfast. Harriet looked up and smiled.
“Well, hello, sleepyhead,” she said.
Griffith looked over his shoulder at him, his eyes solemn. “Good morning, Master Davy.”
Grinning his best, he joined them, loaded his trencher with biscuits, eggs and ham in thick slices. After a few minutes of happy banter about how the air had turned crisp much earlier in the season than usual, Davy became quiet.
“I have to leave,” he said in a whisper.
“What?” Harriet asked.
“Master Davy has to leave, dear,” her father said. “I’m sure he doesn’t want to nor has he made his decision lightly.”
“You’re right, sir,” he replied, nodding in agreement. “When I went to the store yesterday afternoon Mister Goodell made it clear that he ain’ goin’ to give up this missin’ captain matter any time soon. I think it’d be best for everyone if I left. With me gone, I don’t think Constable Franks will poke around no more.”
“So you’re disappearing,” Harriet said, only just concealing her anger. “After living with us, and working for us and—and making me fall in love with you—“
“Harriet,” her father interrupted. “I told you I’m sure Master Davy didn’t come by this decision easily.”
“Besides,” Davy continued, looking down at his trencher, “I miss my ma and sisters sorely.” He looked up at her. “I told you, Harriet, how much I miss my ma. You know that.”
“Yes, I know.” She pinched her lips in consternation.
“The reason I left in the first place was ‘cause I was scared of gittin’ a beatin’. I’m too big for that now.” He paused to see if Harriet had a comment; she did not. “And I imagine they need me. Pa’s always in debt for one thing or another, and I’ll have to work it off.”
After a few minutes of silence as they ate, Griffith pushed aside his trencher, stood and announced, “Of course, you’re right, Master Davy. The sooner you leave the better. Goodell or Franks might show up again at any time, and it’ll be the devil to pay for sure.”
“I guess you’re right,” Davy mumbled.
Putting his hand in his pocket, Griffith pulled out a couple of dollar coins and handed them to him. “I wish I had more to give you, but I seem to—“ His voice trailed off as he looked out the window. “Why don’t you two young people go for a walk in the woods while I put together your bundle? Be careful no one sees you.”
Davy and Harriet went outside, looked down the path toward Christiansburg and walked up the hill into the trees. At first she resisted holding his hand but relented when they stopped under their favorite tree. No words were exchanged, but he watched her face as it twisted with pain. She burst into sobs, falling into his arms, alternately hugging him and hitting him with tight fists.
“Please don’t leave me! Why do you have to do this? What am I going to do? I can’t live with father without you. He’s—he’s so sick and I can’t take it all by myself.” Tears flooded down her cheeks, and strands of blonde hairs matted on her face.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t stay.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your pa and me, we lied to you about Captain Stasney.”
Wiping her eyes, she peered at him with curiosity and asked, “Lied?”
“The captain chased me into the woods.” He nodded further up the hill. “Way, way up there. I tripped, and he was about to attack me when your pa jumped on his back. After a big tussle, he killed ‘im.”
“That’s self-defense,” she said. “Constable Franks can see that.”
“Not after we lied for the past two days.”
“So that’s that.” Sighing, she stepped away to lean against the tree.
As he looked at her sad blue eyes, askew blonde hair and pink lips, Davy had an idea which sprang from his mouth before he had a chance to consider it too deeply. “Come to Tennessee with me,” he said. “We can git married in Morristown. I’ll hire myself out to a farmer and make money so we can set up housekeepin’. I love you so much. Come with me. There’s nothin’—nothin’ but problems here for you. We’ll be so happy.” He held his head close to hers. “Please say yes. Say yes.”
“No.” Her voice was soft but firm.
Davy stepped away.
“Father needs me too much.” She looked him in the eyes with serious determination. “Before all this broke open, Mister Goodell, who was trying to be helpful, I suppose, told me all about mercury poisoning. Father is slowly going mad, and he’s going to die. I have to be here to take care of him.” She smiled with sad irony. “Unlike some people I know, I can’t run away.”
“You don’t hate me, do you?” He took her hand. “I don’t think I could take it if you said you hated me.”
“How could I hate you when I love you so much?” She squeezed his hand.
“I’m sorry about your pa.” He paused. “Have you given much thought about what you’ll do after he—well, you know, after he—“
“Get married, I suppose,” she replied without much emotion.
“No,” he said. “Miss Dorcas, she’s a nice lady. Go live with her. She can teach you how to make dresses.” He held her in his arms with tenderness and whispered, “Please don’t marry nobody you don’t love.”
“If I can’t marry you,” she said, her voice cracking, “it doesn’t make any difference who I marry.”
He kissed her soft lips, choking back tears. They hugged in desperation because it was for the last time.
“Harriet!”
They turned to see Griffith standing at the bottom of the hill, looking around nervously and waving the packed bag.