Stanton paced his office in the War Department building, glancing at his watch. It was now almost two o’clock. The executions were to take place between eleven a.m. and two p.m., and he had not heard a report yet from anyone. Once these people were dead, he told himself, any possible direct link between him and the conspiracy was gone. Except for Baker, but he could not implicate Stanton without sending himself to the gallows. Baker had many unpleasant characteristics, but stupidity was not one of them. A knock at the door startled Stanton, causing him to jump.
“Come in.”
Rep. King and Sen. Lane entered, wearing broad grins.
“The assassins are dead,” King announced.
“The nation can now be at rest,” Lane added with a satisfied sigh.
“Yes, the national nightmare is over.” Stanton’s nightmare was over. “Gentlemen, please have a seat.” He settled down behind his desk.
King and Lane lounged back in two wing-backed chairs opposite him. The three of them shared a nervous giggle before Stanton furrowed his brow, took off his pebble glasses, pulled out a handkerchief and cleaned them.
“We mustn’t take too much pleasure in this. Others might not appreciate our reaction. Of course, it is perfectly natural to be contented with the outcome, but this is still a time of mourning for our fellow citizens. Yet I cannot help but be relieved the executions occurred without complications.”
“Oh, but there were complications.” King leaned forward. “But I took care of it.”
“I took care of it too, King,” Lane added impatiently. “It was the two of us.”
Stanton clasped his hands in front of his mouth. “Exactly what was the nature of this complication?”
“Ward Hill Lamon, of all people, stormed into the prison yard, claiming to have a letter of reprieve from President Johnson. He even had conscripted some private to clear the way to the platform. The insolent little pup actually assaulted my chin with the butt of his rifle.” King fell back against the upholstered chair. “I—um, we—stood our ground and prevented him from advancing.”
“A letter? Did he actually have a letter?”
“Here it is.” King took the envelope from an inside pocket.
“May I see it?” Stanton tried to control his emotions.
“Of course.” King handed it over.
Stanton quickly took the letter from the envelope and read it. He knew Johnson’s handwriting well enough by now to realize this was real.
“Obviously a forgery.” Stanton slowly tore the letter, turning it and tearing again until all that remained was a handful of confetti.
“Our sentiments exactly,” King replied with a smile.
“We didn’t think no damn thing. We knew they had to hang no matter what the president thought.” Lane crossed his arms across his thin chest. “I thought Lamon had more sense than to get involved in this. It’s none of his business. Is he still marshal of the District of Columbia?”
“Yes, well….” Stanton opened his hand over the wastebasket to allow the paper to fall away. “Don’t worry about Mr. Lamon. I shall make sure he doesn’t waste his time on such inconsequential matters. I think it’s time for the government to retire Mr. Lamon from his duties of district marshal. He should return home to Illinois to write his memoirs which I shall make certain will never be published.”
“The Surratt girl was hysterical, and he must have been caught up in the moment,” King said in a magnanimous tone. “Why they would fake a reprieve is beyond me.”
“You haven’t mentioned this to the president, have you?” Stanton’s angel bow lips turned up into a tight smile.
“No, of course not.” Lane stood and brushed his pant legs, as though to dismiss the entire incident. “Why should we want to waste his time? Besides he’s probably drunk and might believe it himself.” He forced a laugh.
“Very well said, Mr. Lane.” King joined in on the laughter. After concluding his joviality, he cleared his throat. “I understand the position for Port of New York customs collector is currently vacant.”
“Dammit, King, the bodies are still warm, and you’re asking for a payoff already?” Lane raised an eyebrow.
“I wouldn’t be so harsh on Mr. King.” Stanton plastered his lips with a tight smile. “He has done a great service for his country, and great service deserves a great reward.”
“Thank you, Mr. Secretary.” Lane snorted as he tossed a critical glance toward King.
“Of course, much more is expected of you before your reward,” Stanton added.
“What?” Lane replied, trying not to demonstrate his apprehension.
“I have reservations about President Johnson. After all, who had the most to gain from the assassination of Mr. Lincoln? His own vice-president, naturally.”
“Are you sure about that, Stanton.” Lane was clearly taken aback. “He has a drinking problem, granted, but I can’t believe—“
“Which is grounded in your natural naiveté,” King interrupted in sanctimonious tones.
“That is why it is important for you to assume the duties of chief of staff for the president.” Stanton’s voice rose above the acrimony. “You must keep an eye on the accursed politician from Tennessee.”
“And how much does that position pay?” King’s tone was more subdued.
Lane emitted out a great guffaw. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your grand schemes of patriotic fervor.”
“I take great offense at your insinuation, Mr. Lane.” King, his round face turning red, turn to Stanton for support. “I’m sure the Secretary is offended as well.
Stanton said nothing. This job is not complete. All could still be lost. I must get rid of Johnson too.
***
Lamon accompanied Anna Surratt to the family’s boarding house and sat with her in the parlor until he sensed she was calming down. He then made his way back to the Executive Mansion to break the bad news to President Johnson. When he entered the foyer this time, Massey stiffened slightly and silently led him directly to the president’s office. As he opened the door, Lamon saw Johnson sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. Immediately he looked up and stood.
“Where’s Mrs. Surratt? You didn’t leave her alone at her boarding house, did you? I was thinking about that. The crowd might become unruly—“
“Mr. President, Mrs. Surratt is dead.”
“What?” He grimaced. “Were we too late?”
“No, Rep. King and Sen. Lane—they blocked us. We never got close enough to Gen. Hartranft for him to even hear us.”
“King and Lane? What the hell were they doing there?” Johnson collapsed back into his chair. “I can imagine. Stanton must have gotten to them.”
“They took the letter of reprieve from me. Stanton probably has it by now.”
“Which means it no longer exists.” Johnson slammed his fist on the desk.
“What can we do now, sir?” Lamon rarely found himself in a position where he had to ask for guidance, but at this particular moment, he was baffled.
“Do? We can’t do a damned thing. It’s my word against his. All I have is what you have told me.” He waved in Lamon’s direction. “I know you’re telling me the truth but we don’t have anything to back it up.”
“Then Stanton wins?” He could not believe those words were coming from his lips.
“Hell no. Stanton won’t win. It might take the rest of our lives, but we’re bringing that bastard to justice.”
***
King’s tenure as the Executive Mansion’s chief of staff did not last long. Even he, who was a master of political intrigue, was uncomfortable in his duties of spying on the president. For all of his remonstrations over Johnson’s character and competence in front of Stanton, his long acquaintanceship with the new president led King to doubt his loyalty to Lincoln’s visions for a new America. King’s inner conflict came to a boiling point in late July when Radical Republicans in Washington encouraged black men in New Orleans to demonstrate in the street over the exclusion of black suffrage in the new Louisiana constitution brought about by Reconstruction. Both sides looked to President Johnson for guidance and leadership, and when none was forthcoming blacks massed in the center of town. When all calmed down, two hundred men, mostly black, had been killed.
By then, the entire nation knew and blamed President Johnson again for being incompetent. In a rage, Johnson stood in the hallway outside his Executive Mansion office, screaming for his Chief of Staff Preston King. “King! Get your fat ass in here right damn now!”
When King entered the office, Johnson waved a newspaper in his face.
“Did you know about this?” he demanded, pointing out the large headline about the New Orleans riot.
King gulped and looked wide-eyed at the president. Presently he took out a handkerchief to wipe his sweating brow.
“For once tell the truth, you worthless dog!”
“We decided—I decided—it would be in your best interests not to know about the situation. You see, no one side in this issue was clearly in the right, and we—I—wanted to spare you from any more unjustified criticism of your administration.”
Johnson, his face still crimson from anger, strode over to King, staring into his eyes, his nose almost touching his chief of staff’s nose. “And just the hell is this ‘we’ you keep referring to?”
King took a step back, but Johnson stepped forward to remain in his face. “I am fortunate to have a private circle of friends from whom I take counsel.”
“Who the hell is in this circle of friends of yours?”
“Well, it’s hard to say.” King paused to clear his throat. “Sometimes this person, sometimes another.”
Johnson thrust his rough hands around King’s fat-encrusted neck. “Give me a name or by God I’ll kill you!”
“Stanton,” he squeaked out. “Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, sir. I thought he was one of your closest advisors so—“
“That’s a lie! You know damn well I hate that bastard!” Johnson let go of King’s neck, walked back to his desk, sat and reached for some paper and a pen. “I think you have lost all value you might have had to this administration. I am writing your letter of resignation, and you damned well sign it.”
The pause in Johnson’s assault on his person gave King to organize his thoughts. “Whatever you may think is best but what shall I do with my time, sir, if I am not in service to the nation I love?”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass, King.”
“Perhaps you should, sir. You don’t fully understand the impact of newspapers in this great land of ours. They tend to lend credence to any story that is told to them by a former government employee.”
Johnson stopped his writing and looked up. “What the hell do you mean?”
“I mean, sir, that I can tell the newspapers that I told you about this situation developing in New Orleans right after I became your chief of staff. I have my sources in Louisiana who keep me apprised of the racial situation there.”
“That’s a lie!”
“Can you prove it’s a lie, sir? I think not. Any more than I can prove what I may say in an interview is the truth. Newspapers are only obligated to prove that you or I actually made a statement, not that the statement in itself is true.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“I understand there’s an opening in the Port Authority of New York City for customs collector. It’s a very busy job, making intricate import/export decisions would render me unavailable for any newspaper interviews.”
Johnson wadded up the resignation letter and threw it at King. “Write your own damned resignation then get the hell to New York City. That slum pit deserves you.”
Within a few weeks King settled into his job as customs collector for the Port of New York, began his official duties and indulged in the shadowy practices of bribery, which proved most profitable. He found an elegant brownstone across the East River in Brooklyn, and took an invigorating ferry ride to the Manhattan side where his office sat in the middle of the bustling harbor district. He enjoyed the brisk spray of salt water in his face which he told his acquaintances was responsible for his clear sinus cavities which led, as everyone knows, to clear thinking.
On one particularly chilly evening in November of 1865 King continued his practice of standing rail side while other ferry customers huddled inside the large passenger cabin heated by a coal-burning stove. He congratulated himself on his clever rise to his current position when he almost lost his balance because someone bumped into him. King turned sharply to see a young man, obviously still a teen-ager as he was hunched over and avoided eye contact, a prevalent trait among young men of the era. He wore a wool cap pulled down over his eyes and a long gray scarf, which circled his neck several times.
“Don’t you know who I am?” King asked indignantly.
The boy bowed and stepped back revealing a slight limp. “Yes sir, of course, sir. You are the highly regarded customs collector for the Port of New York, former congressman and for a brief time chief of staff for President Johnson. You be the honorable Preston King, sir.”
“If you know that much about me, you know you must not show the impertinence of intruding upon my physical person.”
“Oh yes, sir, of course sir.”
King narrowed his eyes. “This is not the land of your birth, I detect from your accent.”
“Ireland, sir. Ten years here in America, sir.”
“That explains the lack of respect.”
“None intended, sir.”
“Then go inside. Don’t bother me.”
“They tossed me out, sir. They said I wreaked of something most foul, sir. Of course, says I, this be Friday and bath night is not until tomorrow.”
King’s nose crinkled. “Then take a seat on the bench over there, and take your stench with you.”
“Yes, sir. Forgive me, sir.” The Irish lad limped over to the bench, which was in the shadows.
King shook his shoulders, as though trying to remove the inconvenience of the last few moments, and then returned his concentration on the waves breaking against the ship’s hull, spraying his face with salt water.
“Make way! Make way!” a whisper came from the darkness. “A reprieve from the President!”
King turned abruptly to stare at the young man on the bench. “What did you say?”
“Me, sir? Nothing, sir.”
“Then who was speaking? What was being said was in extremely poor taste.”
“I didn’t hear a thing, sir. Maybe you heard someone from inside the cabin, sir.”
“Hmph. Perhaps.”
King returned his gaze to the darkness covering the East River, and he began to anticipate the arrival of the ferry at the dock on the far side. He had hardly taken a second breath when he felt a rope around his neck tightening quickly, ruthlessly.
“We’ll see how you like having your neck in a noose.”
The voice was not that of the Irish lad but that of some other man, intent on murder.
“What? Who are you?” King rasped, trying to pull the rope from his neck with his thick fingers.
“I’m the man who slammed the butt of my rifle into your chin last summer. I’m the man you thought died in a Virginia barn. I’m the man who’s going to kill you to avenge the death of Mary Surratt.”
“What? What? You fool! You can’t strangle me on public transportation! The other passengers will see my body! You’ll never get away with it!”
“You’re absolutely right. But I’m not going to strangle you. You’re going to drown.” The man held a sizable bag of bullets in from of King’s face. “This bag is tied to the other end of the rope which is around your neck. The newspapers will say you committed suicide.”
“What? Why? Who are you?” King asked frantically.
“I am the avenging angel.” With that statement, the man pushed King over the railing.
King had no time to scream as his face hurtled toward the dark waters of the East River.
***
Stanton spent many restless nights through the fall months worrying about what President Johnson knew about the conspiracy, who told him and how long he would wait before he did something about it. While the secretary of war did not have a specific plan to move against Johnson, he realized he had to lay groundwork, gain support among the serious critics of the president in Congress. Time was on his side, however. Congress was not in session, and the Republicans toured the country, rallying support for their own strict Reconstruction policies. Embers of hatred for the Tennessee usurper burned, and all Stanton had to do was wait until the right moment to fan them into full impeachment flame.
Late one evening in December of 1865, Stanton awaited the arrival of several Republicans at his home on K Street. His wife Ellen had conveniently retired for the night. A few minutes before midnight six congressional representatives sat uneasily in Stanton’s parlor gloomily lit by oil lanterns.
“What the hell is this all about, Stanton?” Thaddeus Stevens bellowed. He slumped in a deeply tufted leather upholstered chair situated near the Franklin stove in the middle of the wall opposite the door. “I’m too damned old to be called out in the middle of the night by some fool government bureaucrat. It’s too damned cold.”
Stanton had meant to save that seat for himself, knowing that whoever held that position held the attention of everyone in the room. Other congressmen, as they entered, instinctively knew to take other seats. When Stevens arrived, however, he headed directly for that chair and sat imperiously, holding his well-worn cane in front of him. Knowing full well he needed Stevens’ skills of intimidation to implement the political destruction of Andrew Johnson, Stanton smiled with the innocence of a trained roué on the prowl.
“You know very well how I admire your devotion to our Constitution and your stern patriotism—“
“Oh, hell, Stanton, get on with it,” Stevens growled.
“It’s the President, sir.”
“That damned bastard, bigot, drunk!”
“And every word you uttered is undebatable, but they can hardly be used as legal points in the impeachment of the President,” Stanton replied in a smooth, understated voice.
“Impeachment?” Benjamin Wade leaned forward, every wrinkle on his sixty-five year-old face illuminated in the lamplight. “Do you think impeachment is a possibility?”
Stanton restrained the smile trying to emerge on his lips. He was aware that Wade had been working the cloakrooms of the senate vigorously though delicately, trying to position himself to be named presiding officer of the Senate of the 40th Congress which was to convene in 1867. That title would ensure that he would be the President’s successor in the event of his removal from office since Johnson had no Vice-President. Quite an improvement in social standing for a man who began his life digging the ditches of the Erie Canal, Stanton contemplated.
“Quite right, Mr. Wade. Not only possible but indeed our obligation. Rumors persist about the man’s habits of lurking about the taverns of Washington City, late into the night, drinking and who knows what other practices of debauchery.”
“Well, that is just not right,” Charles Sumner agreed in an overly righteous tone. “A humane and civilized society cannot tolerate such behavior from its chief executive.”
“Exactly so, Mr. Sumner.” Stanton knew he would have a strong advocate in the Massachusetts representative whom he suspected never quite forgave Southerners for one of their ilk nearly beating him to death with a cane on the floor of Congress. Sumner often spoke magnanimously of treating the defeated Confederates with dignity and compassion but his actions always spoke otherwise.
“While Congress was adjourned,” Stanton began softly but became more enraged as he continued, “the Tennessee President acted on his own and without due authorization to proclaim Louisiana, Florida, Mississippi, North Carolina, Tennessee, Georgia, Texas, South Carolina, and Arkansas back in the Union. Hundreds of Negro friends of the Republic slaughtered on the streets of New Orleans. My God! Shall there be no justice administered at all?”
“No! No!” the men responded, as though they were attending an evangelical tent revival meeting.
“And worst of all….” Stanton paused because he knew introducing this accusation into the discussion might cause repercussions. He added an exasperated sigh. “Such rumors do not bother me. I am used to all manner of verbal abuse, but my delicate wife Ellen was particularly devastated at whispers about town that I actually had some role in President Lincoln’s assassination.”
“Why I have heard no such thing!” Lorenzo Thomas blurted out. “If I ever hear anyone under my command repeat this slander I shall have him court-martialed!”
“That’s very kind of you to say.” Stanton nodded approvingly. Lorenzo Thomas was a West Point graduate and had proved himself proficient in insinuating himself up the chain of command. Stanton was sure Thomas would be pleased to become assistant secretary of war as a compensation for defending the secretary’s honor.
“If anyone outside the ring of convicted conspirators exists, it would be the man to benefit the most from the president’s death, Andrew Johnson himself!” Rep. George Boutwell of Massachusetts looked around the room, nodding at the other men, as though trying to garner support for his statement.
“Do you really think so?” Stanton raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. Boutwell was the youngest man in the room so therefore not as trained in the art of guile as the others.
“Of course!” He lifted his chin. “I know my forthrightness might imperil my political career but I don’t care. My heart’s deepest desire is to serve my country as a member of the President’s cabinet, but I would rather leave that ambition unrequited than to let any man—president or not—go unpunished for crimes against the nation.”
“Well said, my friend.” John Bingham, slightly older than Boutwell, had been a Pennsylvania congressman until he was appointed a judge-advocate by the attorney general. He was a prosecutor in the conspiracy trial, and if he were re-elected to the House in the upcoming mid-term elections, could bring expertise to the impeachment charges against Johnson. “We must move on this quickly.”
Stevens rapped his cane on the floor. “Patience, my young friends. First we must create a law that a stubborn jackass like Johnson would be bound by personal honor to violate. Then we shall have him. No charges based on mythical conspiratorial assumptions but charges rooted in actual law.”