Ward Hill Lamon decided after the hangings in the summer of 1865 that the best course he could take would be to continue in his duties as Marshal for the District of Columbia, going about his ordinary chores. He discreetly probed the dealings of Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, whom he considered the linchpin in the entire conspiracy. Weeks passed into months for Lamon without progress in his investigation. The deaths of Preston King in New York and James Lane in Kansas did not pass without notice. Local coroners declared both had been suicides, but Lamon had his doubts, remembering the roles they played in blocking the delivery of Mrs. Surratt’s reprieve on the day of the hangings. Lamon also learned that Louis Weichmann had left his government job to live in Indiana. Obtaining the young man’s new address, Lamon repeatedly sent letters, seeking permission to travel to Indiana to talk to Weichmann about his testimony in the conspirators’ trials. Weichmann never replied to any of the letters; in fact, the last one returned with “Refused” scrawled across it. The awkward cursive style of the message conveyed a deep underlying fear, Lamon decided.
The best means of continuing the investigation was a close reading of all the local newspapers for political developments. By late August of 1866, four different conventions were held to select candidates for the House of Representatives. Delegates at one convention urged Johnson to fire Secretary of War Stanton, while participants at other conventions called for the impeachment of the president. In fact, impeachment was the central issue in congressional district elections.
When Johnson announced plans to go on a speaking tour in the fall, Lamon’s first instinct was to offer his services as a personal bodyguard. His traveling companion was William Seward, who had sufficiently recovered from his knife wounds to continue his duties as Secretary of State. Eventually Lamon dissuaded himself from making the offer. As long as the Radical Republicans and Stanton were obsessed with the subject of impeachment, Lamon knew Johnson’s life was not in danger, only his reputation. Stanton’s faction carried enough elections in November to maintain its lead in the House.
Lamon spent the week before Christmas ensconced in one of his favorite taverns in Washington City reading newspapers. He sighed as he considered the ongoing battles between Congress and the president on one piece of legislation after another. The new session had hardly begun in December of 1866 when the House passed a bill giving black men in the District of Columbia the right to vote. Representatives then passed the Tenure of Office Bill, which Lamon sensed had darker implications than the surface meaning implied. He saw the hand of Thaddeus Stevens and the other Radical Republicans at work, creating a bill so odorous that Johnson would feel honor-bound to disobey it. The tenure bill stated the President could not fire a member of his cabinet without permission of Congress. Another bill introduced on the House floor anticipated Johnson’s actions by calling for his impeachment. Lamon feared the New Year could only bring presidential vetoes, congressional overrides and further legislation to keep the needless cycle going.
“Excuse me.” A soft voice of easy manner interrupted Lamon’s thoughts. “Are you not Marshal of the District of Columbia Ward Hill Lamon?”
“Yes, I am.” He wrinkled his brow trying to make out the figure of the man standing over him. He was older than Lamon, somewhat shorter and less stout, and his shoulders sloped in such a way to render his presence totally non-confrontational.
“I thought so.” The man smiled through his full gray beard. “I am Walt Whitman. You visited my home in Brooklyn last year. You spoke to my mother and my dear friend Gabby Zook.”
Lamon’s eyes widened, and he stood to shake Whitman’s hand. “An honor sir. I’ve been trying to make your acquaintance for some time. Every time I go to the Office of Indian Affairs I am told you are away for a few days.”
“Yes, I don’t make a rather good employee, it seems. But they have a good nature and overlook my shortcomings.”
“Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like an ale?”
“Another hot tea would be pleasant,” Whitman said as he sat. I’ve witnessed in my family what alcohol can do to one’s constitution, but I do enjoy the company of men who revel in their liquor.”
Lamon ordered another tea for Whitman and a large pewter mug of ale for himself. After taking a deep gulp, he leaned back and smiled. “So, do you agree with your mother’s assessment that Gabby Zook is insane?”
“Insane is a complicated word.” Whitman furrowed his brow. “I have observed insanity on a personal level with my own family. I myself have been called insane. Mr. Gabby has an extremely high degree of anxiety. Such anxiety cannot be created merely from the wild imagination of an insane man but rather from harsh, stark reality.”
Lamon nodded. “I agree with you.” After another draught, he leaned forward so no one standing nearby in the noisy tavern might eavesdrop on their conversation. “I have proof—well, eyewitness testimony for whatever that is worth—that Gabby Zook, President Lincoln and his wife were held captive in the Executive Mansion basement.”
“And a private Adam Christy attended to their needs. They thought they heard the murder of a butler in the middle of the night. That an intimidating short man with red hair may have killed the private and may try to kill Mr. Gabby.”
“So he told you the same stories. Do you think you could convince him to tell President Johnson what he knows?”
Whitman shook his head. “I am a gentle man, Mr. Lamon. Mr. Gabby feels secure around me and opens his heart to me. You and President Johnson, on the other hand, are rough, crude men. You scare him.” He put down his cup and rose. “Thank you so much for the refreshment.” Patting Lamon on the shoulder, he added, “I shall do all in my power to convince Mr. Gabby to trust you. Have patience. Our captain must be avenged.”
“Our captain?” Lamon was confused. “Who’s our captain?”
“Our captain,” Whitman repeated. “Mr. Lincoln, dear sir. We must avenge our captain.”