Edwin Stanton continued to stare into the fireplace of his office in the War Department Building. The dancing flames were mesmerizing and soothing. He knew he must begin packing his personal items to return to his home on K Street but his body did not care to move. A light tap at the door drew his attention from the flames. The private claiming to be Adam Christy entered. As the soldier walked over to the fireplace, Stanton noticed he still had a slight but distinctive limp.
“I saw the gentlemen leaving the building, sir,” the private said. “They told me the unfortunate outcome of the Senate trial.”
Stanton’s mind reeled with the contradictions the soldier presented to him, and he fought the creeping suspicion that the person standing in front of him was ominously dangerous. “Where have you been all day? The chamber pot in the corner is full and is stinking up the room.”
“My deepest apologies, sir. It has been my intention to serve you faithfully, sir.”
“And that you have, for the most part. You’ve been lax in your duties during the trial however. I am not a well man, and I don’t need the added aggravation of smelling a full chamber pot.”
Stanton stared indignantly at the soldier. “Were you at the trial? If so, you did so without orders and compounded the breach by not properly informing me of what you saw.” Stanton was not pleased with his own posturing. It reeked of whining instead of being filled with power and rage.
“Was I, Adam Christy, at the trial? I should say not. And if you were displeased with how I conducted my duties, well, you should have told me.” Christy paused to chuckle to himself. “I have infinite experience emptying chamber pots for dignitaries.”
Stanton slammed his fist down on the rocking chair arm. “There you go again with your insinuations. You’re making sly accusations and taunting me, and I won’t have it!”
“I have no idea what accusations I might be making, Mr. Stanton. I am merely an Army private appointed to service a very important man. If I do a good job, perhaps I could receive an appointment to West Point.”
“No one ever said any such thing to you, I assure you!”
“And why is that, Mr. Stanton?” A silkiness entered the young man’s tone.
“Because I know you are not Adam Christy! I ordered Lafayette Baker to kill Adam Christy the night Abraham Lincoln was assassinated!” Horrified those words had finally escaped his lips, Stanton leaned back in his chair, his body depleted of all energy.
“That’s what I thought.” The private’s voice changed completely, gone was the naïve exuberance, replaced by a sophisticated malevolence. “You are, indeed, correct. I am not Adam Christy. I only meet him a few times before his death, at Mrs. Surratt’s boarding house and under the Aqueduct Bridge at midnight.”
Letting the impact of the words sink in, the private paused. “I thought I gave quite a good performance, don’t you think?”
“A performance? What do you mean?”
“It makes no difference. Only one course of action is left, and this sad comedy of errors will be complete.”
“Who are you?” Stanton forced the words out, deathly afraid of the answer they would provoke.
“I am merely another player you manipulated upon this national stage, saying my lines, prancing and preening, sublimely unaware I was not in control of my own actions.”
The older man shook his head and tried to smile smugly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The soldier stepped forward so that he was standing directly over Stanton, blocking the flickering light from the fireplace. “I am John Wilkes Booth.”
“That’s impossible.” His lips trembled. “He died in a barn in Virginia. There were witnesses.”
“I have returned like an avenging angel,” Booth continued, choosing to ignore Stanton’s statement. “Rep. Preston King of New York and Sen. James Lane of Kansas blocked Ward Hill Lamon from delivering a reprieve for Mrs. Surratt and thereby allowing an innocent lady to be hanged.”
“How did you know?”
Booth smiled imperiously. “Because I was there, in the guise of a soldier pushing his way through the prison yard crowd so Mr. Lamon and Mrs. Surratt’s daughter could deliver the reprieve, but King and Lane blocked our way.”
“But—but now they’re dead,” Stanton stammered.
“Yes, I know. I killed them. I was a beggar boy on the ferry in New York and tied weights to Mr. King before throwing him overboard. I was a carriage driver in Kansas and shot Mr. Lane. I told each one he had to pay for his sins. I have others marked for execution for participating in your evil plot to overthrow the president.”
Stanton shook his head. “I thought you hated Lincoln.”
“I did hate him, and I’m glad I killed him.” He paused to glare at the fat old man in the rocking chair. “But Adam Christy was an innocent young man. He didn’t deserve to die. Mrs. Surratt was kindly woman, a good mother and a devout Roman Catholic. She did not deserve to die.” Booth reached out to touch Stanton’s hair and tug on it. “You deserve to die.”
Jerking his head away, Stanton narrowed his eyes. “You won’t get away with it. I will call out for help and soldiers—real soldiers–will drag you away. If you try to escape they will shoot you down like a mad dog before you even leave the building.”
“No, you won’t call out because then they will learn who I am and why I am still alive.” An evil grin appeared. “Do it. They can hang us together.” Booth turned for the door. “No, I’m not killing you today. And not tomorrow. Sometime. Someday.”
Booth put his hand on the knob and looked back. “You might even forget I’m coming back to kill you. But I will, and no one will stop me.”

On the morning of Friday, March 13, 1868, Ward Lamon and Lafayette Baker displayed their admission tickets to a soldier standing at the door of the U.S. Senate chamber. The semi-circular room had an expansive balcony surrounding it accommodating a large audience; however, considering the historical significance of the proceedings, the congressional leadership decided to issue passes to avoid any commotion from citizens who might insist on admittance. From their seats in the balcony, Lamon and Baker had a clear view of the senators and Supreme Court judges on the floor as well as all the spectators seated around them. They had received their tickets from President Johnson himself, who had no intention on attending his impeachment trial.
They leaned forward to watch Chief Justice Salmon Chase enter the chamber and make his way to his seat where the senate president usually sat to preside over legislative sessions. They noticed he looked up at the balcony to nod at his daughter, wife of Rhodes Island Sen. Sprague. They focused on the defense table where Henry Stanberry shuffled through his paperwork. He had been Johnson’s attorney general only a few weeks ago until he resigned to lead the defense team.
After several minutes, Chase rapped his gavel to quieten the murmuring in the large chamber where the most confidential whisper would ricochet off the high ceiling. The first to speak was Stanberry who requested a forty-day delay so the defense could prepare its case. Prosecution Chairman John Bingham objected, and Chase summarily agreed with him. After a few more procedural motions, the Senate voted to adjourn until March 23. As they filed out of the chamber, Baker heard a voice call out, “You! Hey you!” First, he twitched and then looked around. His face reddened as diminutive Boston Corbett marched up to him.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Baker glanced around, hoping no one would notice.
“God spoke to me,” Corbett said with authority, then pointed at Baker in defiance. “You’re the man from the barn. I remember you. God needs us now for a mission. I don’t know what mission the mission is, but he needs us. And it involves what’s going on here.”
“Who the hell is this man?” Lamon muttered.
His face still stricken with embarrassment, Baker grabbed each man by the elbow and pushed his way through the crowd, forcing his two compatriots ahead of him. He did not let go of their arms until they had reached a small café a few blocks from the Capital building. After they had ordered coffee, Baker looked grim-faced at Lamon. “This is the man who helped me get Booth out of the barn that night.” He looked around the busy room to make sure no one was hearing their conversation. “This is Boston Corbett, the man everyone thinks killed John Wilkes Booth.”
“We were following the will of God,” Corbett said, raising his chin.
Lamon smiled slightly. “Well, Mr. Corbett, pleased to meet you.” He extended his hand. “My name is Ward Hill Lamon, and it just so happens that God has me and Mr. Baker here on a new mission, and I think you will fit in just fine.”
“Praise the Lord.” Corbett shook his hand with a firmness that only came with holy conviction.
Later under the cover of darkness, Lamon and Baker went to the Executive Mansion and asked Johnson’s secretary Massey if they could speak to the President. Baker could see the resentment in Massey’s eyes over their last confrontation but he nodded curtly and took them to the President’s office upstairs. After they sat, Baker began to tell Johnson what had happened in the Senate chamber, but the President brusquely interrupted.
“Do you men know what the hell is going on with my damn defense? Jeremiah Black was in here this afternoon, and that son-of-a-bitch wanted me to declare war against the Dominican Republic. Something about Haiti. I’ll be damned if that man isn’t up to something involving Ben Butler.”
Baker watched Lamon smile and shake his head. “Mr. Seward did something similar to this before the Confederacy fired on Fort Sumter. Seward thought if the South got behind a war against Mexico with a chance of annexation and a related increase in slave holding territory, they’d forget about secession. Mr. Lincoln basically just ignored him.”
“Well, I fired the bastard.” Johnson paused and ran his hand across his jowls. “I need somebody else by the time the defense team meets again.”
Baker hesitated to suggest any lawyer he knew for they all were solidly supporting Stanton.
“William Groesbeck—he’s from Ohio—“ Lamon spoke with some hesitation. “Approach him from the view of the Constitution,” Lamon continued. “I don’t know what he thinks of you, but he’s very defensive about the Constitution.”
When Lamon, Baker and Corbett took their seats in the Senate gallery on March 23, they noticed that President Johnson had taken Lamon’s advice and replaced Black with Groesbeck. After Justice Chase called the trial to order, another member of the defense team William Yates stood to call for a delay of thirty days.
“Why do they keep asking for delays?” Baker whispered to Lamon.
“Well, they’ve already gotten one week of the original forty hours they requested,” Lamon explained, “so if they keep at it they may end up with all the time they wanted. Besides that, Yates is a smart man. He graduated from Yale. The president is in good hands.”
“Of course the president is in good hands,” Corbett agreed with a smile. “He’s in God’s hands.”
However, Chase agreed with the prosecution’s James Wilson who objected, saying the longer Johnson remained in office the more damage he would inflict upon the nation. Lamon and Baker shifted uneasily, knowing Chase’s personal opinion of the President would affect his rulings in the case.
Baker sat back in his chair, and his gaze shifted across the audience in the balcony until it focused on a face directly across from him. It seemed familiar, and then recognition came. The man was Gabby Zook. Even though it was some distance across the chamber Baker swore that he had made direct eye contact with Gabby because the former janitor’s mouth opened as though he were about to scream. He tugged at the bearded man next to him and tried to stand. His companion patted him, causing him to resume his seat. Baker elbowed Lamon.
“You know I told you about the janitor?”
“Yes,” Lamon replied. “Gabby Zook. I’ve talked to him. I don’t think we can get him down to Washington to tell his story. He’s pretty well ensconced in Brooklyn.”
“No, he’s sitting right over there.” Baker pointed directly at him, which caused Gabby to try to leave again.
The commotion made it easy for Lamon to spot him. “By God, I think you’re right.”
“Of course,” Corbett agreed. “Everything is ordained by God.”
The first speaker, Representative Benjamin Butler, acted as though he were presenting a summation of charges that the prosecution had already laid out before the court. He moved around the Senate floor, pausing for dramatic effect by particular senators. Lamon and Baker exchanged quizzical glances as Butler continued around the chamber. They knew Butler had been controversial during the war as the Union general who oversaw martial law in New Orleans, but they had assumed he had a certain amount of competence.
“So this comes down to doing the right thing,” Butler announced in his gruff oratorical style as he took a stance next to Kansas Sen. Edmund Ross. Placing his hand on Ross’s shoulder, he continued, “Do not confuse justice with fairness. Sometimes right is not fair. Sometime right is just right.”
Baker noticed Ross straightened his back as his face darkened. Looking at Lamon again, Baker whispered, “That’s our man.”
“What?” Lamon asked.
“Edmund Ross is our man. He’s known for his sense of fairness,” Baker explained. “He may hate Andrew Johnson but he believes fairness is the cornerstone of a fair trial. All we have to do is present our case to him, to cause him to have a reasonable doubt.”
When the proceedings broke for luncheon, Lamon and Baker, with Corbett following like a faithful puppy, rushed to catch Gabby and Whitman on the steps. Gabby attempted to lunge away from them, but Whitman gently grabbed him by his shoulders.
“There’s no reason to be afraid, Mr. Gabby,” Whitman assured him. “I think we should share our noon-time repast with these men. We certainly have quite a bit to discuss.” He looked at Lamon and smiled. “How about that nice tavern where we talked a couple of years ago? I think it’s nearby here.”
After they settled at a table in the back of the eatery and ordered their food, the men looked around the table at each other, not quite knowing how to begin the conversation.
“Well, Mr. Lamon, I suppose you want Mr. Gabby to tell his story to President Johnson,” Whitman said, opening the discussion.
“No, the President knows what happened and believes Stanton was the leader in the conspiracy. What we need Mr. Zook to do is join us, including Mr. Corbett, in revealing our information to the one senator who must vote no on the removal of Mr. Johnson as President and thereby ensuring the removal of Mr. Stanton as Secretary of War.”
Gabby averted his eyes as he nodded Lamon’s way. “But I’m afraid of him—that man.” Gabby gestured toward Baker. “He killed the private, and he might kill me.”
“I did not kill Private Christy,” Baker said, trying to sound as non-threatening as he could under the circumstances. “He shot himself. But, yes, I had come to the Executive Mansion to kill him. But you don’t have to fear me anymore. I know what I did was wrong.”
“You could be lying,” Gabby muttered, his eyes looking around for a close exit.
Corbett patted Gabby’s hand. “You don’t have to be afraid, sir. He’s telling the truth.” He looked at Baker. “You’ve found Jesus, haven’t you, sir?”
“Well, I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Baker replied as a sad smile crossed his lips, “but I supposed I have.”
Gabby shook his head in confusion. “I didn’t know Jesus was missing.”