Previously: Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby captive in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. After two years of deceit, love and death, the war is over. Stanton forces Adam into a final conspiracy. Adam meets Booth and his gang.
At midnight Adam stood under the Aqueduct Bridge waiting for the others to arrive. He decided not to be concerned with whether he was happy, sad, frightened, or disgusted. All he wanted was to endure the next few days. He heard footsteps behind him.
“Where’s your man?” Booth asked.
Adam turned to see the actor, the hulking, dull-eyed man, and two other odd-looking fellows, a witless, clean-shaven youth, and a whiskered man whose irregular gait bespoke drunkenness.
“There he is.” He nodded at a shadowy, short, stocky figure striding toward them.
“Is this it?” Baker asked in a clipped tone.
“This is—” Adam began.
“Don’t tell me,” Baker interrupted. “We’re planning to kill the president of the United States, dammit. I don’t want to know any of your names.” He cleared his throat. “Now. Tell me something that convinces me you’re smarter than you look.”
“Sir,” Booth said, pulling himself up to his full stature, “you’re no gentleman, and not welcome to our noble endeavor.”
“This noble endeavor is murder,” Baker replied. “True gentlemen don’t kill, so get that idea right out of your head.” He paused to light a cigar. “So, what are your plans?”
Adam watched Booth pinch together his thin lips.
“In the last few weeks we’ve considered kidnapping Mr. Lincoln.”
“What the hell for? The end of the war has been in sight since the first of the year.”
“As leverage for release of prisoners.”
Adam could sense Booth trying to maintain an air of confidence, but faltering.
“Are you so stupid that you think prisons will house and feed rebels any longer than they have to?”
“Of course not,” Booth sputtered.
“Forget the Confederacy,” Baker continued. “The Confederacy is dead. Cry your eyes out. Light some candles. Get over it.” He puffed on his cigar. “But you can kill the bastards who killed the Confederacy.”
“Hear, hear,” the youth said.
“Ja,” the bearded man added.
“Yeah, let’s blow their heads off,” the tall, stupid one mumbled.
“But the Confederacy—”
“To hell with the Confederacy!” Baker said, derisively. “Are you stupid? The Confederacy is dead. All we have left is revenge.”
“Yeah,” the stupid one repeated. “Let’s get revenge.”
“Very well,” Booth acquiesced. “Revenge.”
“Who do we hate the most?” Baker asked.
“Lincoln,” Booth replied, spitting. “I hate the bastard.”
“The Lincolns are going to Ford’s Theater Friday night.”
“I know that theater well,” Booth offered.
“They will have only one guard, and he will be drunk.”
“I can handle the details,” Booth replied.
“Good.” Baker nodded curtly. “Now, what about Vice President Andrew Johnson?”
“We decided on Port Tobacco.” Booth gestured to the bearded one.
“Ja, I rented a room in the Kirkwood House, directly above Johnson.”
“Come here,” Baker ordered.
Port Tobacco stepped forward, his head down. Baker leaned into him and sniffed.
“Just as I thought. You’re a drunk.” He looked at Booth. “He won’t do. Johnson must die.” He pulled his revolver and pointed it at Port Tobacco. “He must die. He knows too much.”
“No! No!” Port Tobacco’s eyes widened. “I stop drinking. I kill Johnson! On mutter’s grave! I stop! I kill Johnson!”
“For God’s sake,” Booth said with a hiss.
“Incentive.” Baker put away his revolver.
“Sheitze.” Port Tobacco stepped behind the others.
“Seward. He must go.” Baker looked around for a volunteer.
“Who’s that?” the stupid one asked.
“Secretary of State, Reverend Wood,” Booth said.
“What’s that?”
“You’re a moron, aren’t you?” Baker asked as he spat on the riverbank.
“I can’t help it.” Reverend Wood’s eyes went down. “I got kicked in the head by a horse once.”
“I’ll help him,” the youth offered.
Baker eyed him. “You look as dumb as he is.”
“I work as a druggist’s aide,” the youth said. “And I know things. Secretary of State is a top aide to the president. He deals mostly with other countries.” He looked at Booth. “Ain’t that right?”
“Of course, you’re right.” Booth looked at Baker. “We can work together without all the insults.”
“So you think you can lead him to the Seward house?” Baker asked.
“Yes, sir,” the youth replied.
“That leaves Stanton,” Booth said.
“Don’t worry about Stanton,” Baker replied. “I’ll kill him.”
“You feel warmly about it?” Booth smiled.
“You hate Lincoln,” Baker said. “I hate Stanton.”
“Then it’s settled,” Booth announced with finality. “Sic Semper Tyrannous.”
“What’s that?” Baker wrinkled his brow.
“It means, ‘Thus ever to tyrants.’ It’s the motto of Virginia.”
“Virginia,” Baker mumbled.
Adam could see the wheels turning in his mind. Baker tapped his foot in the water lapping the Potomac shore.
“Ah yes, Virginia. Do you know an actress called Jean M. Davenport?”
“Why, yes.” Booth looked taken aback. “I’ve performed with her many times.”
“You talked with her once at a party about accomplishing a great daredevil act, like kidnapping the president.”
“How did you know that?”
“Now you know you can’t keep secrets from me.”
“We’re united in a noble cause, sir,” Booth asserted.
Baker puffed on his cigar and squinted at Booth through the smoke. “Get out of here.”
Booth and his friends dispersed into the dark mist. Baker threw his burnt cigar onto the muddy shore.
“This is dirty business,” Adam muttered.
“This is war,” Baker retorted.
“The war’s over.”
“There’s always a war.”