Senor Vacacabeza was completely befuddled with his order to catch the young spies, being on the Last Rites side of seventy years old, so he felt he wasn’t up to fulfilling the King’s wishes. As he rounded one corner Vacacabeza had to jump back to keep from being run over by Clarence clomping by on his hands and knees with Maria on his back, slapping his rear as though whipping a race horse.
“Tally ho!” the young lady hollered in a perfect English accent.
The old Spaniard took a deep breath and began to trot after them.
“Come back! It’s useless to resist!
In another corridor not so far away, Rodney and Alice stopped at another intersection. They looked both ways.
“Which way should we go?” Rodney asked nervously.
“How would I know? All these hallways look the same!
“Let’s try this way,” he said, taking her hand and tentatively easing down a narrower corridor.
Within a few feet they found themselves face to face with King Phillip himself. Alice screamed and began to swoon, but Rodney pushed her back to her feet.
“Aha.” Phillip pointed at them. “There you are, my little enchilada!”
Again Rodney twisted his face in confusion. “What’s an enchilada?”
Alice took control by grabbing Rodney’s hand and running in the opposite direction. “I don’t have time to explain!”
Phillip stomped his foot in indignation. “I am the king of Spain! You’re supposed to obey me!” After he controlled his pique, Phillip began to run as fast as he could. When he came to a staircase, he saw Rodney and Alice alight the bottom step and separate, running in different directions.
“Guards! Guards! After them!” the King screamed as he descended the steps.
Unfortunately, two large guards appeared behind him and knocked him as they went after the English desperadoes.
At the same time Clarence and Maria ran through the courtyard. Following them at a distance, Vacacabeza stumbled into courtyard.
“It’s only a matter of time before I catch you!”
Clarence turned, hopped from foot to foot, and laughed. “It’s only a matter of time before you run out of breath!” With that exercise of bravado, he grabbed Maria’s hand and disappeared down another corridor.
Rodney leaned over the balcony, looking across the courtyard. “Now where did Alice go?” he muttered.
Vacacabeza looked up to see Rodney on the balcony. “Maybe I’ll have better luck chasing that one!” He made his way to the nearest stairs, waving his fist. “Stop there! It’s useless to try to escape!”
“Uh, oh.” Rodney turned away and beat a more than hasty retreat.
“Drat.” He stopped to put his hand to his mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
In another nearby hallway, Maria and Alice almost bumped into each other.
“Oh,” Maria announced in an English accent dripping with disdain. “So we meet again. Now delightful.”
“Yes.” Alice meet her disdain and matched it with acid sarcasm. “It’s certainly made my day.”
“By the way, I’ve spoken to my lover, and he says I’m the only woman for him.”
“Well, I’ve spoken to my fiancé, and he says he says he loves only me.”
“So it’s impossible we’re talking about the same man.”
“Of course.” Alice raised her haughty little chin.
“I’m so pleased for you,” Maria replied with an edge sharpened by snideness which did not go undetected by the fair Alice.
“And why, may I ask, are you pleased for me?”
Maria extended her statuesque magnificence to its fullest height. “Because if we were talking about the same man, he’d surely choose me over you?”
“And makes your feeble mind think that?” Alice placed her hands on her petite hips.
“Well, I don’t want to upset you.”
“And I don’t want to upset you by saying you wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell with my fiancé.”
Maria’s eyes fluttered and her lips pursed. “And you name is Wrenn, isn’t it?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“It’s just that it’s so appropriate.” She stepped closer. “Wrenn. A little bird. A little twit—I mean tweet.”
Alice’s nostril’s flared. ”And your name is de Horenhausen?”
“Yes?”
Alice put her slender index finger to her lips. “I was wondering….”
“Yes?” Maria become defensive.
“The origin….”
“Yes?” Her face flushed.
“Does it refer to the family profession?”
Maria raised her right hand, now in a tight fist. “Why you—“
The confrontation surely would have ended in fisticuffs but King Phillip entered the courtyard followed by two guards.
“After them!”
“We’ll settle this later, my little bird.” A Teutonic crispness entered her voice.
“Anytime, my big—“
“Don’t you dare say it!”
Phillip stopped flummoxed as he stopped in the middle of the courtyard and watched the young ladies disappear among the labyrinthine corridors. Before he could reprimand his guards for moving too slow to catch the maidens, he saw Rodney scamper down a set of steps following by a huffing Vacacabeza. When the clip clopping in the opposite direction descending the other staircase drew his attention, Phillip saw Clarence.
“Stop! Stop!” the monarch bellowed. “Aha! We’ve got them trapped! We’ve got them trapped!”
Rodney immediately reverses his course and goes up the steps, knocking Vacacabeza down, causing him to roll down until the ambassador ended his tumble at the feet of the King.
Clarence, on the other hand, being lighter and therefore more fleet of foot, had made it to the bottom of his staircase before realizing he had come face to face with the royal guards. He wasted no time in backtracking up the steps with the two guards in pursuit. Three-fourths of the way up he jumped to the bannister and leaped to the balustrade. Clarence flung himself over it and disappeared down another hallway. By the time the guards lumbered to the second landing, Clarence was nowhere to be seen.
Vacacabeza doddered across the courtyard and accidently knocked the King on his ass. Phillip stood as quickly as an old man in similar circumstances could recover from a fall.
“You fool! Watch out where you’re going!”
“I’m sorry, your Majesty!” The ambassador bowed deeply. He looked about at the four corners of the Alhambra. “Which one do you want me to chase?”
Phillip sat on the edge of the central fountain. “Neither. I’m getting too old for this.”
Maria, clearly confused by the conflagration of corridors ran back into the courtyard but stopped abruptly when she saw the King and her guardian.
“Mon dieu!” she sputtered in a French accent.
King Phillip pointed at her with great authority. “Stop right there!”
Vacacabeza placed his boney hands on his ward’s shoulders. “That’s right! We’ve got you now!”
“And if my hunch is correct, we also have one of your confederates!” An evil look of satisfaction crossed his wrinkled, bewhiskered face.
“What—what do you mean?” A Spanish fear clouded her voice.
“You know what we mean,” the King replied, motioning to his ambassador to go behind Maria. Each old man went on his knees, lifted her skirt and reached under. “Now we shall see who you are hiding.”
“What are you doing?”
(Author’s note: Actually, it was quite clear to Maria what they were doing. What Maria probably meant was how could they be so crass to be doing it. We can forgive her momentary lapse of cogency because of the extreme awkwardness of her situation.)
“We’re looking for spies!” Phillip replied.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Vacacabeza ordered in a sing-song voice. His hand went between her legs and grabbed Phillip’s nose. “Aha! I think I’ve found him! I’ve got you now! You won’t get away! You’re doomed! “
The King bit the ambassador’s fingers. Vacacabeza quickly pulled his arm away.
“Ouch! That scoundrel bit me!”
Phillip withdrew his arm also and clambered to his feet. “That was no scoundrel! That was me!”
Maria reverted to righteous English indignation. “I agree with him. You are a scoundrel!” Recovering her senses tiptoed between the two old men and scurried out of the courtyard.
“How could Spain become a world power with such incompetent people running it?”
The ambassador stood, dusting off his coat. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, your Majesty—“
“I’m talking about you, you idiot!”
“Oh.”
Rodney, who must have had a terrible sense of direction, ran back into the courtyard. “Uh oh. Wrong way!” He disappeared before the King and his minion could react.
“Do you want to chase him, or should I?”
Phillip sank on the fountain’s edge again. “Oh, you go after him. I’m worn out.”
“As you wish, Sire.” He bowed deeply before running after Rodney. “Come back here, you spy! Escape is impossible!
Phillip watched as Vacacabeza went into the wrong corridor. After huffing a bit, he muttered, “I hope the invasion goes better than this.”

King Phillip sat at his desk in his private sitting room writing in diary about his encounter with the levitating maiden in the courtyard, which he took to mean complete heavenly assurance of victory over the God-forsaken English. Before he could dip his quill into the inkwell to describe the exquisite beauty of the Gypsy maiden, the chamber door flew open, and Lord Boniface staggered in wiping sweat from his boney face.

“I know the names of the spies in your court!”

Phillip pushed his diary aside and stood. “Who! Who!”

“Clarence Flippertigibbit and Rodney Broadshoulders!”

“Who?”

His Lordship bowed deeply. “Their names aren’t important, Your Majesty. They’re mere callow youths.”

“Then alert Senor Vacacabeza to have them captured!” He pointed to the door.

“My pleasure, Your Majesty!” Boniface rubbed his hands gleefully as he left. “I can’t believe it! Wales is as good as mine!”

A trumpet’s blare echoed through the cavernous Alhambra.

“Ah! Time for court.” Phillip hurried from his chambers and down the hall to the throne room.

He had gone only a few yards when he heard a “Psst!” over his shoulder. The King looked around to see where it could have come from.

“Over here!”

Another damn Englishman, he thought, as he saw Lord Steppingstone motioning to him from side chamber set aside for prayer or a game of grab ass, depending on the Spanish monarch’s predilection at the moment. He joined his spy and closed the door before anyone could see them.

“Your Highness!” Steppingstone was beaming. “I have the names of the spies!”

“Yes, I know.” Phillip found deflating a sycophant’s ego extremely satisfying. “Some callow youths.”

“Rodney Broadshoulders!”

“And Clarence Flippitigibbity!”

“Flippertigibbit!” Steppingstone corrected the King. “And I thought he was dead!”

“Don’t worry,” Phillip comforted him. “He will be dead soon.”

The Lordship bowed deeply. “Of course, Sire.”

“The gall of that Englishwoman to sneak two spies into my court!” Indignation filled his royal voice.

Steppingstone threw his hands in the air. “All England will rejoice the day you liberate it from her tyranny.”

“Oh, shut up, you toad,” Phillip ordered dismissively. “Just find them!” Not waiting for another round of vain compliments, the King left the chamber and continued down the hall to the throne room.

When he entered, trumpets announced his arrival, and courtiers bowed and applauded politely. Phillip did not want too raucous of an outburst when he appeared among his subjects. Vacacabeza stepped from the crowd and closely followed the King so he could whisper in his ear.

“Your Majesty! I understand you know who the spies are!”

He waved to his loyal followers. “Yes. Rodney Broadshoulders and Clarence Flip—flip….”

“Clarence Flipflip?” Vacacabeza shook his head in confusion. “Oh, you mean Clarence Flippertigibbit.”

“Don’t ask me to identify them,” Phillip said as he mounted the steps to his throne. “I wouldn’t know them from Gypsy minstrels.”

Following him up the steps, Vacacabeza reassured him, “Never fear, my Lord. In my many trips to England I met both of them, Broadshoulders and Flippertigibbit.”

After he sat, Phillip glared at his ambassador, envious he could pronounce Clarence’s last name with such ease. “Showoff.”

Maria, with Clarence under her flowing gown, emerged from the mass of courtiers and approached the throne.

In her best Spanish accent, she announced, “I no longer can take your abuse, King Phillip.” Maria paused for all the gasps emanating around her. “I’m leaving for England.”

The courtiers murmured in shock.

“No, you’re not,” Phillip announced simply.”

Vacacabeza walked down the steps and went behind her. “Excuse me, my dear, but your slip is showing.” He leaned over to reach under her dress and grab Clarence’s feet and dragged him out into the open. The courtiers continued to gasp.

(Author’s note: Gasping from the audience at formal occasions involving any royalty throughout Europe was not condoned during this period of history. Except in Sweden, where any introduction of hot air, especially in winter months was welcome, even encouraged.)

Taking Clarence by his collar and lifting him to his feet, Vacacabeza announced with great pride, “Your Majesty, allow me to introduce Clarence Flippertigibbit, spy!”

Clarence took Maria’s hand and ran for the door. “To England!”

Maria added, “Vamanos!”

A few courtiers tried to block their way, but Clarence kicked them in the crotch and they quickly retreated. They were out of the door before the King was able to order his guards to capture them. That was the disadvantage of being an all-powerful monarch. No one around him would dare initiate any action on their own. However, when Phillip officially gave the word, the guards were out of the door lickety-split. At this time, Rodney and Alice, still disguised as Gypsies, made their way from the back of the courtier crowd and to the throne.

“Your Highness,” Rodney began in his bad Slavic accent, “we wandering Gypsy players humbly ask permission to leave your glorious presence.”

Phillip, still trying to figure out how Clarence could have hidden under Maria’s dress all this time, waved his hand dismissively. “Very well. Go, go.”

Rodney and Alice are halfway to the door and their escape when the King focuses his attention on them.

“Hmm, I wonder,” he mumbled. He called out, “Oh, Senior Broadshoulders!”

Rodney turned and smiled. “Yes?”

“Aha!” the Monarch exclaimed.

“I think you just made a mistake,” Alice informed her companion.

“Um,” Rodney said in a pitiful little voice, “may we still go?”

Phillip stood. “Of course. You’re going to my dungeon, and she’s going to my bed!”

“Let’s get out of here!” Alice screamed and grabbed Rodney’s beefy hand and ran.

“Guards! After them!”

Vacacabeza nervously stepped forward. “Um, your Majesty? You just sent all your guards out after Flippertigibbit and my ward Maria.”

“Well then, all of you stop just standing around and go after them!”

A particularly well-dressed courtier stepped forward and bowed. “But, Sire, we are mere fawning court attendants. All we know how to do is look pretty.”

“Damn!” Phillip growled. “Come on, Vacacabeza! It’s up to us!”

The first morning rays peeked over the tiles of the Alhambra to find Clarence and Alice slumbering, cuddled in each other’s arms among the flowering bushes of the central courtyard. They had no other place to sleep. Clarence lost his cover under Maria’s voluminous skirts, and Alice had been separated from the other gypsy performers.

(Author’s Note: One can only assume Rodney, in his guise as a Gypsy musician, found shelter in Maria’s bedroom. Trying one’s best to present a fairly family friendly folktale, the author will refrain from suppositions about what happened in her bedroom that night. Oh hell, they did it. I know they did it. You know they did it. Children shouldn’t be reading this in the first place. Let’s keep it real.)

Servants began bustling about the palace in preparation of another day of leisure for the royal residents. Clarence and Alice slowly opened their eyes and exchanged tender sleepy-head kisses. Eventually Clarence pulled away and sat up.

“This is wonderful, but I must get back undercover. Remember? For England,” he murmured as he stood.

“By the way,” she asked with a crinkled nose as she also got to her feet, “what were you doing under—“

Clarence looked over Alice’s shoulder to see King Phillip shuffling his way through the maze-like gardens. “Oh no!”

Quickly he feel to his knees and tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to hide under Alice’s dress.

“Clarence! What are you doing?”

He stuck his head out for an instant. “Shh. Trust me, my darling. I know what I’m doing.”

“I certainly hope so.” She hobbled about as Clarence positioned his head between her legs.

“What a pleasant surprise!” Phillip exclaimed as he approached her. “A Gypsy maiden is waiting for me among my roses.”

“What?” Very understandably, Alice found herself befuddled by her current situation. “Oh. Yes.” She smiled nervously while deciding what to do next. She decided to respond with a Slavic accent, which she did without linguistic flair. “Would you like to have your fortune told, your Majesty?”

“No need, my dear.” Lechery crawled across his wrinkled face. “I already know my fortune, and yours.”

He stepped so close, Alice could smell his breakfast on his breath, which was unappetizing in the extreme.

“Your Majesty! What are you going to do?”

“You’re the fortune teller.” Phillip licked his thin lips. “You tell me.”

This latest development was too much for Alice’s sensitivities to bear. She fainted, falling backwards, conveniently landing on Clarence’s backside.

“No, that wasn’t what I had in mind.” The King frowned; twice, once because she swooned and twice when she did not land on the ground but rather stopped mid-air. He walked around her to examine the phenomena more closely. “Is she levitating? I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

Under Alice’s skirt, Clarence was in a dither. He was not sure what was going on but he had to make some executive decisions post haste.

“I’ve got to get out of here.” He carefully began to crawl away, careful not to lose balance and cause Alice to fall and break the magical illusion of defying gravity.

“She’s floating away!” Phillip gasped incredulously. Divine joy exploded throughout his being. “Quick!” he shouted. “Everyone! A levitating maiden!”

Courtiers appeared from every corner of the palace to gather in the courtyard. They stopped abruptly as they saw the miracle, and their mouths went agape.

“A miracle!” Phillip had not been this happy in years. “It’s a miracle!”

Clarence carefully maneuvered through the apprehensive crowd. “It’ll be a miracle if I get out of this alive!”

The crowd parted for Clarence and Alice as the Red Sea parted for Moses. Phillip went to his knees, clasping his hands in prayer.

“It’s a sign! It’s a sign of victory over the English!”

“Call a priest!” one of the courtiers called out.

“A priest? Hell!” the King retorted. “Call the Pope!”

As delicate as Alice was, her weight was beginning to crack Clarence’s spine.

“Give me a ship,” he muttered, “rolling seas, a sword in my hand, but this—“

Soon Clarence sensed he had made his way through the courtyard crowd and into one of the Alhambra’s many hallways. Increasing his pace, he looked for the next right turn down another hall, or the first left turn for that matter. All he wanted was to get the hell out of there. The crowd stood reverentially watching the maiden float away from them.

“No! No!” Phillip slowly creaked back to his feet. “Don’t let that levitating maiden disappear!” He waived his spindly arms. “Guards! Guards!”

Four husky young men in armor and flashing steel swords elbowed their way through the courtiers to follow Phillip as he doddered through the crowd in the direction of the Clarence and Alice. When they arrived on the other side of the mass of humanity, they found only an empty hallway.

“She gone!” the King cried out.

“Who’s gone, Sire?” one of the guards asked.

“The levitating maiden,” Phillip replied.

“A levitating what?”

“Maiden. She was floating around here someplace, until all these people crowded in.”

Skepticism entered the guard’s voice. “A levitating maiden?”

Phillip turned to look at the guard. “You don’t believe me?”

“Of course, Sire!” Sweat popped out on his brow.

The King hit the guard; not very hard, of course, because his hand was pounding against the armour. “You idiot! There was a levitating maiden. There was!”

Meanwhile, down a distant hall away from the courtyard crowd, Clarence carefully slid from under Alice’s limp body, picked her up and looked for a safe cranny into which to deposit her.

“I never imagined being a spy would be like this!”

Finally he discovered a secluded corner and laid her gently down and kissed her forehead.

“Until later, my love.”

When he left the alcove he spotted Maria coming down the hall. He ran to her and slid under her dress. Maria was left speechless and confused.

One must remember that the Alhambra was considered a remarkable structure for its time and had more stairs, hallways, alcoves and courtyards than it truly needed. Along another one of its superfluous halls Rodney encountered Lord Boniface.

“Your Lordship! What are you doing here?”

“Ssh! I’m on a secret mission for Queen Elizabeth!”

(Author’s note: Boniface produced this lie with such spontaneous sincerity to lead the reader to believe that he must have had years of experience in theatre but this was not true. Actors really have to work hard to evince a worthy pace of delivery. Boniface was, indeed, an accomplished politician.)

Rodney fell into one of his frequent confusions. “Funny. I didn’t know that.”

“If you did, then it wouldn’t be a secret mission, would it now?” In addition to his alacrity, Boniface was artful in the skills of debate.

“I guess that makes sense.”

Boniface put a finger to his lips and raised an eyebrow. “I presume you’re here on a secret mission also.”

“That’s right,” Rodney replied. “I’m trying to find out who the spy is.”

“Any luck?”

“Not a clue.”

“Good—I mean, perhaps we can work together.”

A shadow of suspicion crossed Rodney’s handsome face. “Sorry, I always work alone.”

“Perhaps it’s just as well.” Boniface smiled brightly. “Good luck.”

Quite by chance, Maria turned a corner onto the self-same hall where Rodney and Boniface confabbed. With careful steps, for she still had Clarence between her legs, Maria approached them. Rodney saw her and smiled.

“Yes, it’s important that—that….” Lust clouded his concentration. “What were we talking about?”

“Finding the spy,” Boniface replied with thinly disguised disgust.

“Oh, that’s right. It’s important that one of us succeed. After all, it’s for England.”

“Yes, for England.” His Lordship hardly contained his urge to roll his eyes.

“This other Eden, demi-paradise, this royal throne of kings, this sculptured isle—“

“Sceptered! Sceptered!” Clarence shrieked from beneath Maria’s skirts.

“Is there an echo in here?” Boniface asked.

“Oh yes,” Maria quickly replied in her most proper Spanish accent. “The Alhambra is known for its echoes.”

Boniface shrugged. “It makes no difference.” He glanced at Rodney. “Perhaps it would be best if you beat a hasty retreat.”

“Beat who?” Poor Rodney was lost again.

“A hasty retreat,” Boniface repeated.

“Oh. You mean I should get out of here?”

“Correct.” Boniface tapped his foot.

“As you say.” Rodney bowed deeply. Despite his lack of cogency, he excelled in courtly behavior. He turned and repeated the bow to Maria. “Miss.” Rodney looked left and right before darted in a hitherto unnoticed direction.

Boniface gently took Maria by the elbow. “Miss de Horenhausen, perhaps we could have a private conversation.”

Before she could reply, he guided her to the first door down the hall, causing her to trip a little over the little man under her dress.

“Not so fast,” Clarence whispered.

“Not so fast,” Maria repeated and then giggled. “There goes that echo again.”

Boniface opened the door, stepped aside so that Maria (and Clarence under her dress) could enter. He followed them into the room and carefully shut the door behind him.

“What lovely furnishings, don’t you think?” he asked as charmingly as he possibly could fabricate. “I just love Spanish décor, don’t you—okay, enough small talk—who’s the spy?”

“What?” Maria fluttered her dark Spanish eyelashes.

“King Phillip asked me to make you tell who the spy is.”

“Traitor!” She quit fluttering and raised her perky English chin.

“That’s right.” He approached her menacingly. “I want the name of the traitor to the Spanish crown.”

“No!” she replied in strident English tones. “You are the traitor to Elizabeth!”

“Well, it depends on your point of view,” he said, exercising his extraordinary debate skills.

“Any way I view it, you’re despicable!”

Boniface moved menacingly close to our multi-national heroine. “Not as despicable as I could be if you don’t tell me the name of the spy in King Phillip’s court.”

Clarence could not contain his outrage any longer. He charged out of the front of Maria’s dress and stood, taking a Marquis de Queensbury stance.

“Leave this child alone, or I’ll box your ears silly!”

“Clarence Flippertigibbit!” his Lordship gasped, “I thought you were dead!”

“Ha ha! Fooled you!” He took two aggressive steps toward Boniface. “Back up or risk the consequences of two black eyes!”

The older man smirked. “You’re too short. You could not reach my head.”

Clarence set his jaw in determination. “Then I shall have to aim lower.”

Boniface backed up and covered his crotch. “Never mind.”

Clarence grabbed Maria’s hand and ran for the door. “Let’s get out of here!”

Maria continued her sprint to safety until she reached the end of the long marble hallway which opened onto a broad balcony, looking over the manicured gardens of the Alhambra. Gasping, she clung to the railing, trying to catch her breath and regain her composure. By the time she finally began to feel calm, she felt strong arms wrap around her waist.

“Darling!”

A frightened whimper escaped her lips as the arms spun her around. Maria smiled with relief when she saw it was Rodney, still dressed as Gypsy with a Gypsy-style smile on his lips. She immediately kissed him. She would have run her fingers through his thick black hair but an elaborately colored scarf covered his head.

“Dearest!” she murmured in his ear.

“I’ve missed you so.” He tried to go in for another kiss but, Maria stepped away.

“Have you?” Her tone took on a definite Germanic interrogative style.

“Why, of course.”

“Are you sure there isn’t anyone else?” This question had more of an icy English inflection.

Rodney’s eyes went wide with innocence. “Only Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth!” Maria put her hands on her hips. “Aha! So there is another woman!” After a pause she added, “Elizabeth who?”

“Why, Queen Elizabeth, of course.”

“Oh. Of course.” She giggled like a proper English schoolgirl. “How silly of me.”

“Am I wrong, or do you think I’m seeing another woman?”

“Well, are you?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

Maria cocked her head and returned to her Spanish inquisitive tone. “Why did you answer my question with a question?”

Poor Rodney was completely befuddled. “Have I given you any reason to doubt my love?”

“You did it again!”

Taking her back into his thick manly arms, he looked deeply into her eyes. “Believe this. Until the day I die there shall be no other woman for me. I love you and only you.”

***

Meanwhile, in another long hall of the Alhambra, Clarence crept along, trying to stay hidden in the shadows. Suddenly a door swung open hitting him square in the forehead. After he shook his head Clarence saw Lord Steppingstone standing before him with the most startled expression on his face.

“Clarence Flippertigibbit!”

“Lord Steppingstone!”

Flustered, Steppingstone stumbled about with his words before he was able to blurt out, “What are you doing here?”

Clarence lifted his tiny but well chiseled chin. “I might ask the same of you.”

“Why, I’m here trying to find out the identity of the traitor in Elizabeth’s court, of course.”

“Well, that’s what I’m doing here too.” Clarence looked at the lord askance, not quite believing him.

Steppingstone rubbed his hand across his lips. “Um, have you had any luck?”

“None so far….” Clarence puffed out his chest and stood toe to toe with the lord trying to be intimidating. “But I’m not giving up until I have the rascal in my grasp.”

Being a toad, as King Phillip called him, Steppingstone took a minor step back. “Then we shall work together.”

“Very good.” The young man still had his doubts but shook hands with the lord. He immediately regretted it because Steppingstone grip was more like a wet dishtowel.

“By the way,” the lord added as he withdrew his hand quickly, “how have you escaped capture?”

“Well, you might say I’m staying under wraps.” He absently wiped his hand on his breeches, as though to dry it. “And yourself?”

“Oh. Well.” He forced a weak smile. “I’ve inside help.”

“Ah. It’s best not to reveal operatives, right?”

“Um, correct. I think it best if we separate.”

“I agree.” The bastard’s lying to me, Clarence told himself, as he turned away. Going down another hall and descending a broad staircase, he found himself in the moonlit garden.

By mere happenstance, he tripped by the large water fountain and landed on the ground next to a dark figure.

“Clarence?” a small feminine voice whispered.

He squinted, trying to focus his eyes in the shadows. He recognized the petite Gypsy dancer from the dining hall earlier in the evening and realizing it wasn’t a Gypsy at all but his own beloved sweetheart.

“Alice! My darling!”

They clutched each other like two Chihuahuas in heat. When their passionate moans became too loud, a female voice with a pronounced French accent rang out from one of the upper chambers which opened on to the balcony overlooking the garden.

“Would someone throw some water on those two dogs? I kissing my boyfriend here!”

The outburst broke the spell and the couple sat up, breathing deeply.

“Alice! When did you decide on dancing career? And in King Phillip’s court!”

“I am not a dancer!” she protested.

“You can say that again,” he mumbled, hoping she did not understand him.

“I’m here to check—“ she stopped abruptly to amend her statement—“to help you.”

Clarence hugged his beloved. “But that’s dangerous!”

She stiffened. “It’s also dangerous to stay home while your fiancé spends his time among the dark-eyed beauties of Spain.”

“Surely you jest.” He tried comforting her again. “You know you’re the only one for me.”

“Well, sometimes I wonder.” She failed to hide the suspicion which tinged her voice.

“You cut me to the quick, darling.” Clarence realized he was sounding a bit whiney, but he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m sorry, Clarence.” The whining seemed to have had a positive effect on her, however. “It’s just that I love you so. I suppose I’m being a silly goose.”

“And I love you all the more for it.” He successfully maneuvered her in for another kiss.

They paused before they became too noisy and looked up at the full moon.

“Look, Clarence darling, the moon is shining for our love and our love alone.”

***

Meanwhile on the balcony, Maria and Rodney came up for air from their kissing marathon. She sighed and lay her head on his chest, which was as broad as his shoulders. He looked up at the full moon.

“Look, Maria, the moon is so big and pretty.”

She grabbed his head with her strong hands and pulled it down to face. “And it shines only for us.”

***

Back in his private quarters Phillip wriggled about his king-sized bed with a naughty smile on his face.

“Tell me who the spy is, my dear, or I’ll subject you to my own inquisition.” He slowly opened his eyes to see Boniface leaning over him.

“Your Majesty?” the Englishman whispered.

Phillip screamed which caused Boniface to scream. In the distance the same female voice, this time with a thick German accent, bellowed, “It’s those two damn dogs again!”

The guard outside Phillip’s door rapped loudly. “Your Majesty?”

The King grabbed Boniface and stuffed him under the layers of sheets and blankets. “Quick! No one should know you’re here!”

The guard burst through the door with his sword drawn. “Sire! Where’s the danger?”

“It’s nothing.” He let go with an uncharacteristic laugh. “I just dreamed I had to make love to that Englishwoman.”

Putting his sword back in its scabbard, the guard replied, “Yes, Sire.”

“That would be a nightmare, wouldn’t it?” To enhance his perceived humor of the situation, Phillip slapped the bedcovers.

Unfortunately he happened to hit the boney bottom of Lord Boniface who showed remarkably restraint and did not move or moan.

“Yes, Sire,” the guard repeated with a dull air.

Realizing his laughter sounded terribly inauthentic, Phillip let it trail off in the cool night breeze. “You may leave now.”

The words had hardly left his skinny old lips before the guard began bowing and backing up at the same time. “Yes, Sire.” And he was out the door.

Phillip viciously kicked at Boniface’s form under the sheets. “Get up, get up, you fool!”

He rolled out of the bed onto the floor, whimpered slightly and stood and bowed in the same motion.

“What are you doing here?” Phillip was beginning to be annoyed by the stupidity of the English noblemen he had seduced into betraying their country.

(Author’s note: Historical records also do not reveal how Lord Boniface entered Spain at this particular time undetected. Birth announcements discovered in an isolated chapel in Andorra showed that a son born to an Englishman by the name of Boniface and a Basque peasant woman about twenty-five years before the invasion of the Armada. It could be possible that Boniface begged his Basque bastard to provide a boat for covert trips to the Alhambra. All of this is mere speculation because these characters are indeed fictional and difficult to find in history books.)

“There’s a spy in your court, your Majesty.”

Phillip harrumphed as he rolled out of bed and put on his lounging robe, which, by the way, was a gaudy gold trimmed in ermine dyed bright red. “Oh, that’s old news.” He looked at Boniface. Do you know who it is?”

“No, Sire.”

“That’s nothing new, either.” Phillip wrinkled his brow in thought. “By the way, what have I offered you to betray your country?”

“Wales, Sire,” Boniface replied as he bowed.

“Hmm, that’s sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place where. Oh well, you settled cheap if you asked me. Anyway, on to the business at hand. We must find this spy!”

“How will we discover his identity?”

The king stepped closer to the lord. “I have reason to believe Senor Vacacabeza’s ward knows. I have been unable to persuade her to tell; however, perhaps you will have more luck.”

“That would require revealing to her that I have actually pledged my loyalty to Spain. Would that be wise?”

Phillip entwined his fingers and smiled with pure evil intent. “She’ll never leave these shores again. It makes no difference what she knows.”

King Phillip sat at the head of the council table in his private quarters rapping his boney fingers on the mahogany wood. The last person he expected the see in the banquet hall at the Alhambra was Lord Steppingstone, one of his key operatives in the court of Queen Elizabeth of England. He had given firm orders to his English connection never to come to Spain. The consequences of his secret liaison with his queen’s sworn enemy would jeopardize the outcome of the invasion by the Armada. He looked up when he heard the door creak open.

Steppingstone slithered in; his shoulders were hunched over in complete abeyance, and he slowly approached the king.

“What are you doing here?” Phillip demanded as he stood, slamming his hand on the table. He winched when he realized the impact sent shock waves from his fingers all the way up to his shoulder.

(Author’s note: Historical records do now show that Lord Steppingstone crossed the English Channel in the time frame immediately before the invasion of the Spanish Armada. However, some genealogists point out Steppingstone had a second cousin on his mother’s side who left English under mysterious circumstances in the early years of Elizabeth’s reign. He changed his English given name of Frederick to Fredo when he established a shop in Northern Portugal where he unsuccessfully tried to sell bagpipes to the local musical arts community. Fredo then turned to fishing as his vocation. It is possible Steppingstone entered Spain by way of his second cousin’s fishing boat.)

“Elizabeth suspects a spy in the court, and has sent someone to Spain to discover the spy’s identity.” Steppingstone kept his eyes down.

“See!” The king shook his aching fingers at his English agent. “I told you Elizabeth couldn’t be trusted!”

Steppingstone bowed deeply. “Yes, Sire. I agree.”

“You would, you toad,” Phillip replied with a sneer. “What have I promised you for betraying your own country?”

“Only Wales, your Majesty.” He bowed again.

The Spanish ruler snorted. “You sold out cheap, if you ask me.”

“I have simple needs, Sire.”

Steppingstone bowed again, which was getting on Phillip’s last nerve. The king overcame an urge to slap him, only because he needed further information from the toad. “Who is this spy Elizabeth has sent to my court to discover the identity of my spy?”

“I don’t know.”

He was in mid-bow when the King erupted, “Stop all that bowing, you idiot!”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Do you think it could be Maria de Horenhausen?”

“I doubt it.”

Phillip scratched his wispy beard. “I don’t know. She actually had something nice to say about that Englishwoman.”

“Being polite is not necessarily a sign of treason, your Majesty.”

Raising an eyebrow, he replied, “It can be in Spain.”

***

At that very moment Maria, with Clarence under her dress, entered the Alhambra kitchen. It was a dark, dank space, lit only by the flames in the huge fireplace. The cooks and the servers were too busy sneezing on the food and wiping their noses on their rancid sleeves to notice the beautiful senorita lingering around the table with stacks of breads and rolls.

In her English accent, she whispered, “We’re here.”

“Good. I’m famished,” came from under the folds of her elegant gown.

“Hurry.” She furrowed her beautiful brow. “It will look suspicious if I’m caught lingering in the kitchen.”

“I’ll grab a loaf of bread and be right back,” he assured her as he scampered from beneath her hems, crawling like a frightened cockroach around the table.

“Not a long loaf!” she admonished him with very proper English concerns for her personal comfort. She jumped when she felt a heavy tap on her shoulder. When she turned, Maria saw four grim-looking guards carrying nasty long spears glare at her.

“Miss de Horenhausen, his Majesty King Phillip commands your presence immediately.” Though the commander of the small corps spoke perfect Castilian, he did have a stern German air about him.

“But I—“

“Now, Mis de Horenhausen,” he snapped.

Maria bowed deeply and compliantly replied in her best Spanish, “Si.”

She stepped into the middle of her escorts and they marched out of the kitchen just as Clarence crawled back around the table. He stopped to watch them disappear in the darkness.

“Oh drat,” Clarence muttered as he nibbled on the loaf. He frowned at it. “Stale.”

***

The full moon streamed broad beams through the tall windows of the Great Hall, filling the cavernous cheek bones of King Phillip as he languidly lounged on his throne as two guards escorted Maria through the massive wooden doors. After positioning her before the King, the guards bowed and exited, their books clicking on the marble floor. Silence engulfed the huge room, creating a sense of eerie anxiety.

“Come closer!” Phillip commanded, his thin thrill voice ringing through the rafters.

“Si, your Majesty.” Maria curtsied but only took one or two steps.

“Closer!”

With a determined sigh, she walked so near to the king she saw how sallow his complexion and her impulse was to step back but her better judgment advised against it. “As you wish,” she replied in perfection Spanish compliance.

“I have a few questions for you.” A silky intimidation clouded his tone.

“I shall try to be helpful.”

Phillip clasped his hands in front of his thin lips. “I’ve just received some disturbing news.”

“Really?” Maria felt her heart begin to throb.

“There’s a spy in my court.” He paused to allow the implications of this information to sink into her mind. “And this spy is from England.”

“Really?” Inquisition phobia limited her vocabulary.

The king leaned forward. “Are you that spy?”

“Nein, mein herr!” Maria was so scared she slipped into her German accent without losing a goose step.

“What!?”

Her female instincts told her to begin a delaying tactic while her brain frantically tried to think of a defense. She fluttered her dark brown eyes.

“Oh, Your Majesty!” Her perfect Spanish dialect snapped back. “You’re making me nervous!”

He shook a boney finger at her. “I’ll make you more than nervous if I don’t get some answers!”

Crossing herself, Maria declared, “I swear I’m not a spy!”

“And why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you don’t trust anyone?” Her Spanish voice became very small and shy.

“No!” he barked. “Because you think that Englishwoman is gracious!”

“Gracious me. I was just being polite.” Maria’s right hand went to her bosom.

“Then who do you think the spy is?” His follow-up question was so quick and on-topic that any law professor would give him high marks for harassment.

“What makes you think I’d know something like that?” Her eyes began to flutter again. “I’m the ward of an ambassador.”

Phillip narrowed his beady little eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Her heart thumped like a bunny’s foot. “Would you trust the ward of the English ambassador with such important information?”

“Of course not!” He waved his hand to dismiss the thought.

“See?”

(Author’s note: This part of the conversation confused Phillip very much because he didn’t know if she was saying yes in Spanish or the word see, meaning to understand, in English spoken with a Spanish accent. Eventually he decided to jump ahead to the next point he wanted to make in his interrogation.)

“But I don’t trust anyone!”

Maria smiled slightly, appreciating the fact she had befuddled her inquisitor. “So you’ve said.”

“You still haven’t given me a yes or no answer to my question.” Clearly not accustomed to not being in firm control of the conversation, the King stood and stretched to the full extent of his puny height.

“And which question was that, Sire?” she tried to extend her advantage.

“You know very well what question! Do you know who the spy is?”

“Do you mean know in the Biblical sense?” Maria was getting way too filled with herself.

“I’m getting tired of your evasions. You have until tomorrow morning to reflect on your answer.”

“Si, Sire.”

“You may leave now.”

“Gracias.” Maria began to back up.

“And as you’re reflecting, think of one word, Senorita.”

She stopped. “And what word is that?”

“Inquisition.”

Maria forgot protocol, turned and ran for the door, muttering in proper English, “Egad.”

A little known American myth* alleges Secretary of War Edwin Stanton became so disillusioned with the way President Abraham Lincoln was handling the Civil War in the fall of 1862, following a summer of disastrous Union defeats, he decided to kidnap Lincoln and his wife and hold them under guard in the White House basement.  Diverse historians pieced the story together from reports of interviews with surviving participants of the bizarre ordeal.

Stanton found a deserter in the Old Capitol Prison to impersonate Lincoln and an imprisoned Confederate spy to impersonate Lincoln’s wife.  After intensive research, historians identified the man as Duff Read of Michigan who was sentenced to hang and the woman as Alethia Haliday of Bladensburg, Md., who was convicted of trying to sneak an escape plan into prison to notorious spy Rose Greenhow.  After the war, Smithsonian Institution officials requested Old Capitol Prison to turn over its records for historical preservation.  Mysteriously they discovered pages missing during September of 1862.  Careful study revealed that Duff and Miss Haliday were admitted to the prison in early 1862 but no records noted when they were removed.  When the Smithsonian delegation confronted Prison Superintendent William Woods about the missing records, he refused to comment.  After museum researchers went to the hometowns of the missing prisoners, they found evidence the couple indeed bore striking resemblances to the Lincolns and that no one ever saw either one after the war.

Stanton chose Private Adam Christy to guard over the Lincolns and tend to their daily needs.  Christy, by coincidence, came from Stanton’s hometown of Steubenville, Ohio.  Rumors began to circulate throughout Steubenville after the end of the war that Christy did not die at the Second Battle of Manassas as reported in official War Department documents.  Christy’s father swore to the day he died that Secretary Stanton had assigned his son to duties at the White House.

At the turn of the twentieth century, relatives of poet Walt Whitman found among his papers a curious story about a half-witted janitor in the White House named Gabby Zook.  According to the story, Zook stumbled into the basement to discover the kidnapping.  The story also claimed that Stanton forced Zook to join the Lincolns for the next two and a half years.  Literary circles dismissed the story at the time as poetic expression of the feeling of confinement all Americans underwent during the war.

The questionable Whitman papers also alleged Stanton often went to the basement for advice from Lincoln because his own policies were not working as expected.  Zook told Whitman of an incident in which the guard Christy became so distressed by his role in the conspiracy that in a rage he killed an unnamed White House butler.  Zook insisted Stanton and one of his henchmen disposed of the body.  Some historians speculate the henchman was Secret Service officer Lafayette Baker.

By the end of the war, the secretary faced the dilemma of what to do with two Lincolns.    No one knows exactly what happened to the Lincoln impersonators.  According to the Whitman account, Zook believed Stanton blackmailed Christy with the butler’s murder, forcing Christy to find assassins to kill the real Lincoln at Ford’s Theater, Secretary of War William Seward and Vice-President Andrew Johnson .  Conventional history identified the presidential assassin to be John Wilkes Booth.

Zook confided in Whitman that Lincoln in the final days of the war had succumbed to extreme melancholia.  He did not interact with his wife and Zook in the basement room nor did he eat.  On the last day, Zook described Lincoln’s emotional state as one heading to the gallows, unable to control his own destiny.

Grandchildren of President Andrew Johnson told friends in Greeneville, Tennessee, that Johnson revealed on his deathbed that he discovered the kidnapping plot and the eventual assassination of Lincoln at the hands of Stanton.  That discovery led Johnson to fire Stanton in 1867, provoking Congress to impeach Johnson.  The Senate failed by one vote to remove Johnson from office.

To this day, no one knows what happened to the other participants in the plot.

*This report is absolutely true because I made up the myth myself in 1988.

 

 

 

Lifting his small brass derringer, its sheen catching light from the flickering oil lamps in Ford’s Theater, John Wilkes Booth smiled confidently as he looked down the narrow sight groove at the coarse, unruly black hair of Abraham Lincoln, convinced his actions would avenge the devastation wrought upon his country.

In addition, Booth considered the South to be his motherland even though he was born in Maryland and traveled the northern states as well as southern states performing to packed theaters.  On October 16. 1859, John Brown and his band attacked Harper’s Ferry on Oct. 16, 1859.  Federal troops immediately captured him and took him to Charlestown, Md., for trial that took place in November.  The judge sentenced Brown to hang on December 2.  Two weeks before the execution, Booth heard rumors while he was performing at Marshall Theater in Richmond that abolitionists planned to rescue Brown.  Booth bought a Union uniform from some solder friends, joined the Richmond Grays and Company F, and got on the train to keep the abolitionists from freeing Brown.  The raid never occurred, but Booth and his comrades in arms stood guard at the gallows during the execution.  Brown’s demeanor impressed Booth that he wrote in a letter to his sister Asia Brown “was a brave old man.”  After war was declared he decided against going South to wear a real uniform in a real army because he feared his face would be scarred in battle.  Conflicts of conscience last only a few years at most, but a marred face would ruin his career on stage forever, and Booth could not risk that.

In the last year of the war, when he realized the cause was in jeopardy, Booth began to concoct a way he could save his adopted nation.  He decided to kidnap Abraham Lincoln and hold him for ransom, demanding the release of thousands of rebel troops held in northern prisons.    Booth gathered a group of old friends and new followers.  They waited for Lincoln on the road to the Soldiers Home north of the Capital.  After a few hours, they realized the president was not going to show up.

Before Booth could devise another scheme, the Chief Justice swore Lincoln into a second term as President on March 4 in the Senate chamber.  Lincoln then walked out to the platform built on the Capitol steps to deliver his inaugural address.  Booth and his comrades stood on the steps only a few feet from the President when he stated citizenship was coming for former slaves.

“That’s nigger suffrage,” Booth muttered that night as he shared a whiskey at the bar next to Ford’s Theater with his friends.  “He has signed his own death warrant.”

His indignation only grew only the next few weeks as the Confederate forces continued to suffer one setback after another until the Gray army evacuated Richmond on April 3, and the Blue army marched in the next day.  Booth toured several cities in the North, including Boston and New York, visiting his brother Edwin and several friends, dropping obscure hints that they might never see him again.  On April 9, he returned to Washington City and gathered around him his old conspirators, the ones who took part in his failed attempts to kidnap the President.

His chance to avenge the South and stop the encroachment of colored people into proper society accidentally fell into place only one week before this night.  Booth was visiting Mary Surratt at the boarding house.  Her son John had been with Booth the night they planned to kidnap Lincoln.  Surratt had not shown proper outraged by Lincoln’s inaugural address, Booth thought.  Besides, he had seen this behavior before in his childhood friends Michael O’Laughlen and Samuel Arnold.  They seemed interested in the kidnapping plot at first but lost interest when they considered the risks of actually killing the president.   Mrs. Surratt, on the other hand, had the proper outrage and gumption to follow through on any plot to help the Old South.  That was why he visited her boarding house that day.  It was a viper’s nest of discontented southern sympathizers.

Once inside Mrs. Surratt’s boarding house, he saw a young man in a Union uniform standing in the parlor.  Booth noticed by how much they looked alike, almost the same age, the same lithe physique but different hair color.  This young man had bright red hair.  Moreover, his face was severely pocked.  Booth decided the private was not as handsome as he was.  Booth started an innocent conversation with the soldier.

The young man’s name was Adam Christy and said he worked at the Executive Mansion but demurred to elaborate on his duties.  The exchange was provocative but subtle.  Booth sensed great distress in Christy.  He was innately kind, Booth could tell, but he had a great hidden dark passion.  Booth felt Christy could help him get close to President Lincoln.

He was right.  The next day Christy returned to Mrs. Surratt’s boardinghouse and told Booth he knew someone who could help him kill the president. Bring your cohorts to the Aqueduct Bridge at midnight, Christy said, and you will learn how to avenge your dead Confederacy.

At midnight, Booth arrived with his men.  As he suspected, John Surratt had no stomach for assassination and fled to Canada.  Those remaining loyal were John Atzerodt, Lewis Payne and David Herold.  Booth felt reassured when he saw Christy, with whom he was beginning to feel like a big brother.  His brow furrowed as he noticed how nervous Christy was.  Booth finally decided the private was scared of the man who was waiting for them, a short, bull of a man, puffing on a cigar and patting his foot impatiently in the ripples of the Potomac River hitting the shore.

Shadows hid the man’s face.  He instantly took control of the conversation, telling them to forget the Confederacy.  The Confederacy was dead.  Get revenge, the man said.  He ridiculed Atzerodt’s German accent and the trace of alcohol on his breath.  He scoffed at the lack of intelligence in Payne and Herold.

“You, sir, are no gentleman,” Booth said haughtily.

The short man snorted in derision, dismissing Booth’s Southern sensibilities.  He began assigning assassination subjects.  Atzerodt would kill Vice President Andrew Johnson at his Kirkwood Hotel room.  Payne and Herold would kill Secretary of State William Seward at his home.  Seward was near death anyway after a recent carriage accident had left him bedridden.  Finally, Booth would kill President Lincoln at Ford’s Theater during a performance of Our American Cousin.  All this would take place on Good Friday.

“And what are you going to do?” Booth demanded.

“I’m going to kill Secretary of War Edwin Stanton,” the man replied.

“And why do you want to kill him?”

“I have my reasons to hate him.”

Booth sensed something wrong as they stood under Aqueduct Bridge at midnight.  Adam Christy seemed too nervous.  The mysterious man was too gruff and too secretive.  During all his years on stage, Booth had developed his instincts, and his instincts told him to walk away.  His intense hatred of Lincoln and the president’s advocacy of Negro suffrage made Booth ignore his gut feelings and agree to the assassination plot.

On Good Friday afternoon he went to his boardinghouse where he gathered what little he would need for his escape.  He carefully loaded his derringer, sheathed his knife and hid it in his pocket, and placed an old appointment book in his saddlebags.  Booth pulled out his wallet and lingered as he gazed at the photographs of young ladies, including several actresses and his fiancée Lucy Howe, the daughter of a northern abolitionist senator.  Sighing, he realized he might never see any of them again, but his loyalty to the South overrode all other emotions.

He walked to the livery stable where he threw his saddlebags over his mount and rode to the alleyway behind Ford’s Theater.  He gave the attendant a few coins to hold the horse until he came out.  Looking at his pocket watch, he saw that the play had just begun.  He had an hour to waste until the proper moment.  Booth sauntered to the bar next to the theater where he ordered a glass of whiskey and sat nursing it.

When a man sat on the stool next to him and ordered ale, Booth glanced at him and sized him up.  “A terrible last couple of weeks, wouldn’t you say?” he mumbled.

“What?”

“Horrible events the last couple of weeks,” Booth repeated.

The man grunted.

“Unless you’re a Yankee.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Neither would I.”  He raised his glass in a toast man.  When the man clinked his glass, Booth smiled.  “What did you think of that speech?”

“What speech?”

“You know, by that man in the Executive Mansion.”

“Oh.  Not much.”

“Nigger voting rights.  Can’t stand that.”

“Me neither.”

“Why, if I pushed a nigger out of my way on the sidewalk and if he pushed back I couldn’t shoot him.”

The man grunted.  “That man in the Executive Mansion is my boss.”

“What?”  Booth sat up.

“He’s my boss.  I’m his guard.  Like he needs one.  A lot of people talk about killin’ him but nobody ever tries.  So I just sit back and drink.”

Booth smiled slightly.  “That’s good to know.”  He looked at the clock over the bar.  “I’ve got to go.”

As he stood, the man said, “You look familiar.”

“I’m John Wilkes Booth, the actor.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of you.”

“Tomorrow I shall be the most famous man in the world.”

Booth entered the theater at the back of the house and noticed that all seats were filled.  He walked up the stairs and circled the upper floor toward the president box.  Sure enough, the chair outside the door was empty.  He knew the guard was busy drinking ale at the bar.  First, he bent over to peek through the hole he had dug out earlier in the day.  Only four people were in the room, the president, his wife and the couple on a sofa against the far wall.

Carefully he opened the door and stepped inside.  Booth held his breath, hoping no one heard him.  The young couple chuckled softly.  Mrs. Lincoln leaned over to whisper something in her husband.  How he loathed the man, Booth thought.

Booth breathed in deeply as he stood in the shadows of the presidential box overlooking the stage.  When he thought of Negroes’ having the right to vote his heart raced and his temple throbbed with rage.  He had to compose himself, be in cool control of his emotions to complete his task.  He looked down on the stage to see Laura Keene and Harry Hawk began their conversation in the comedy Our American Cousin.

He knew the play by heart.  He knew when the audience the audience would giggle, he knew when it would sigh, and he knew when it would erupt in laughter and applause.  One of those moments was coming soon, and, when it did, Booth was ready to pull the trigger and put a bullet into Abraham Lincoln’s skull.

Laughter from the audience sharpened Booth’s senses.  He knew the big punch line was coming soon.  He looked around the box and noticed a young Army officer and a rather homely girl sat on a sofa against the far wall. Booth smirked at him.  He knew the soldier would be no threat after he fired the shot.  He patted his coat pocket, which held his knife.  If the soldier tried to stop him, Booth would viciously slash him.  Nothing was going to spoil his dramatic exit, a leap to the stage and dash to the back door.

Breathing in deeply Booth smelled the scent of the oil lamps, sweat and, he sniffed again, yes, yes, he could detect the greasepaint worn by the actors on the stage below him.  He heard the audience reaction that stirred him emotionally.  He craved the attention he received while he performed in the theater.  That was his biggest regret that night.  He would no longer be able to be an actor, at least for a while.  Booth was sure the South would greet him with open arms for killing its great enemy.  There in the great capitals of the soon-to-be revived Confederacy he would once again tread the boards.

He took aim and waited for the fateful line by Harry Hawk to Laura Keene, which would cause the audience to erupt in laughter.

“I guess I told you, you sockdologizing old mantrap!” Harry Hawk shouted as Laura Keene exited the stage.

Booth pulled the trigger, and the bullet entered behind Lincoln’s left ear.  The president slumped over.  Mrs. Lincoln looked over at her husband and then looked up at Booth with curiosity.  He watched her eyes widen as she realized what had happened.  She screamed hysterically.

The officer lunged from the sofa, grabbing for the gun.  Booth took a couple of steps backwards quickly which threw the man off balance.  In that split second, Booth pulled the knife from his pocket.  The officer pulled back his free arm to try to strike Booth across the face, but as his arm came down it hit the blade of the knife.

“Aahh!” The officer stopped and began to bend over in pain.

Booth brought the butt of the gun down with full force on the back of the man’s head.  The officer fell against Booth’s chest and slid down.  The homely girl whimpered and ran to the man, crumbling by his side.  Booth strode passed them and between the president and his wife, who was still screaming uncontrollably, with her hands to her chubby cheeks.

“The president has been shot!” Mrs. Lincoln screamed.

Booth stepped to the top of the railing of the box over the stage with all due confidence.  He had made similar leaps many times as his entrance in a play.  This leap would be even more spectacular.  Just as he began to jump, Booth felt a tug on his foot.  The officer had grabbed at his trouser leg.  Booth’s head jerked back to see the man in a crawl.  I thought I had taken care of him, Booth thought as he furrowed his brow.  The man’s eyes were wide with hatred, shock and desperation.  My God, Booth gasped, this man is crazy.   The distraction caused him to fall to the boards.  Even though Booth felt a painful crack in his leg, he exhilarated in the moment.

“Sic semper tyrannus!”

As he turned to limp off the stage, Booth heard the shouts from the audience.  Again he smelled the gas lamps, the sweat and the greasepaint.  God, he thought to himself, he was going to miss all this.  For, since he began acting, the noise of the theater sounded like life.