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Booth’s Revenge Chapter Sixteen

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Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape.Stanton goes to Seward’s house when he hears of the stabbing. Stanton’s henchman Lafayette Baker takes Christy’s body to an embalmer.
Rain pelted Booth’s back as he rode his bay mare quickly and boldly down Tenth Street away from Ford’s Theater. Few people were out in Washington City at this hour. They did not know the tyrant had been struck down. Booth’s mind raced with details of the day. Invigorated by his success, he was still unaware of the pain in his broken leg. He wondered if David Herold would have the sense to meet him on the other side of the Navy Yard Bridge over the East Branch of the Potomac River, commonly known as the Anacostia. Herold should be there soon. His family lived in a small house on the other side of the Navy Yard, considered to be the worst neighborhood in city. A bad place to be caught alone after dark. Booth arrived at the bridge sentry post.
“Stop,” the guard said.
In his mind, Booth composed a scenario that he was a gentleman of leisure on a late night ride to his home in the country. The sentry was only doing his job, and one must not be too concerned with the obligations of the working class.
The guard walked up, held up a lantern and squinted through the raindrops at Booth. “Where are you going, sir?”
“I’m going home, down in Charles County.”
“Where in Charles County?”
“I don’t live in any town. I live close to Beantown.”
“Beantown? Never heard of that.”
“Good God, man, then you never went down there.”
“Do you know it’s illegal to cross the bridge after 9 p.m.?”
“What time is it now?” Booth asked.
Fumbling with his pocket watch, the sentry held it close to the lantern. “It’s 11:40, a good two hours past the curfew. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of the curfew.”
“No, I haven’t been in town for some time so it’s new to me.”
“Why are you out so late?”
“It’s a dark road, and I thought if I waited a spell the rain would let up and the moon would shine through parted clouds. Well, when the rain persisted, I decided I would have to muddle through.” Booth watched the sentry look up in the sky where the moon ought to be on a clear night at this time, just clearing the tree line.
“I’ll pass you but I don’t know as I ought to.”
“Hell, I guess there’ll be no trouble about that.”
Booth rode about a mile after crossing the bridge and stopped to wait for Herold. Only a few moments passed until he saw a rider hunched over his horse coming down the road. Only David Herold slumped over his horse like that. Booth was relieved to see him. When Herold pulled up, Booth saw he was astride a roan. He always rode that particular horse. It was gentle and easy to control. Their other friends teased Herold about riding a woman’s horse, but it was his favorite and he was unconcerned about their joshing. Booth was relieved to see him, though he could tell Herold was nervous. He had an uncharacteristic twitch as he sat in the saddle.
“Davey, what took you so long?”
“I didn’t think that guard was going to let me through, Mr. Booth. Did you know it’s illegal to cross the bridge after 9:00? I didn’t know that. He asked me why I was out so late, and I had to make up something real fast. I don’t usually think that fast, but a story popped in my head that was sure to stop him cold in his tracks. I told him I couldn’t very well get there any sooner because I visited a Capitol Hill whorehouse and it took me a while before I could get off.” Herold paused to laugh. “Bet he never heard an excuse like that before, because he let me on through.”
“Did Paine kill Seward?” Booth interrupted. “Is the man dead?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“When Tommy came out he was all upset and screaming, ‘I’m mad!’ ‘I’m mad!’ It took me a while to calm him down. Tommy was covered in blood. He said he had to stab a lot of people to get to the old man. A leather brace was around his neck.”
“Who had something around his neck, Davey?” Booth could not abide by Herold’s babbling.
“Seward. He had something around his neck.”
“That’s right,” Booth muttered. “I read in the newspaper he had been in a carriage accident and injured his neck. Why didn’t Paine stab the chest?”
“Hell, I don’t know, Mr. Booth. I didn’t go inside with him. Tommy said he stabbed and stabbed but didn’t know if he killed the old man or not. He said there was a lot of blood everywhere.”
“Damn.”
“I couldn’t control him. He was pushing me away, trying to run down the street. He wouldn’t get on his horse. I had to let it go. Tommy ran off in the dark. I could still hear his voice. He really sounded crazy.”
By now, Booth began to feel throbbing pain in his leg. “Let’s move along. People will start looking for us soon.” He nudged his bay mare, which began a slow trot down the road.
“Looking for us? How will they know to look for us?” Herold asked as he followed.
“Everyone saw me leap to the stage, Davey. They know who I am.”
“But how will they know about me, Mr. Booth? I’m just a helper in a pharmacy. Nobody knows me.”
“They will know who all of us are by tomorrow morning.” Booth told Herold how he had written a note and handed it to an erstwhile friend John Matthews, another actor at Ford’s Theater.
“Why would you give him a note? I didn’t think you liked him.”
Booth did not like Matthews after he was unable to convince him to join their plot to kidnap Lincoln. He remembered that Matthews even had the gall to talk back to him one time when he was pontificating against equal rights for Negroes.
“If you pushed a darkey off the sidewalk and he pushed back, you could not shoot him,” Booth said, fuming.
“Then don’t push any darkeys,” Matthews replied.
After that incident, Booth decided Matthews was a coward and unfit to live. His opinion of the man sunk even lower when Matthews gave him a bottle of whiskey as a sign of reconciliation. Booth accepted the gift and even visited Matthews at his boardinghouse around the corner from Ford’s Theater. He stretched out on the actor’s bed and promised to come see his next performance. Then he handed him the note to turn in to the National Intelligencer, a city newspaper openly hostile to Lincoln.
“What was in the note?” Herold’s voice quaked.
“It’s a statement of our allegiance to the South. I said many will blame us but posterity, we are sure, will justify us. And I signed it, “Men who love their country better than gold or life.”
“We, you said?”
“Yes, I signed it John W. Booth, Paine, Herold and Atzerodt.”
“Oh my God, everyone will know.”
“And will bless us for it.”
“Mr. Booth, I just went to my house on the other side of the Navy Yard to say good-bye. My sisters hugged me, but Mama wouldn’t even look at me. My God, Mr. Booth, what have we done?”
Booth winced with each jog of the horse. “Once we get into the countryside you will feel differently. They will welcome us as heroes. Everyone in the South hates Lincoln. They will praise me for killing him.”
“I don’t know. Mama looked awful disappointed in me. She—she always said I was her favorite. I was the only boy out of a family of eight girls. I had two brothers but they died young. She and my sisters always protected me. Maybe I should go back home and beg Mama to forgive me. She’ll take care of me. Would it make you too angry if I went to Mama’s house, Mr. Booth?”
He pulled up on the bridle and looked back at Herold. “I picked every man for this special mission. Do you know why I chose you?”
“Because I know about medicine?”
“Yes, Davey, you know medicine. The time I had the knot on my neck and cut it out, you brought the medicine.” He patted his swollen leg. “I broke my leg in the leap to the stage tonight. I need you to get me the right medicine, Davey. I also chose you because you said you used to hunt in the woods of southern Maryland. You know the way to the Potomac so we can cross into Virginia. So why would I want my guide to leave me before we get to the river?”
“But I’m so scared, Mr. Booth. I need Mama.”
“Do you know why I gave that note to John Matthews, Davey? Out of all the people I know in Washington City, do you know why I chose him?”
“No, sir, Mr. Booth.”
“Because when he delivers that note to the newspaper, everyone will think he was in on our plot, and he will hang. Nobody refuses to do what I want them to do. Do you understand that, Davey?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My leg is killing me. Switch horses. That roan is gentler. Then get me to a doctor.”
“Mr. Booth, sir, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, sir, but didn’t you say we had to drop by Mrs. Surratt’s tavern first, to pick up some things?”
“Of course we have to go to the tavern first, Davey,” he replied, trying to sound impatient with Herold’s incompetency through the increasing pain. “I thought you would have known that. Also, I told you those things were two carbines, shells and my field glasses.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get off that horse.”
Booth dismounted his bay mare with difficulty and slid onto the roan as smoothly as possible. He still grunted in agony. The bay mare reared as Herold got on him, and it took him a few minutes to get it under control.
They rode silently in the rain as Booth thought of what Herold had said about his family. He said he was his mother’s favorite. Booth was his mother’s favorite also among her ten children. Four of them died of cholera. When the attractive and winsome John came along, his mother Mary Ann protected him from the hard realities of life. Despite his mother’s adoration, Booth grew up to realize he would never be a great actor, like his father Junius or even as good as his brothers Junius Jr. and Edwin. Instead, he vowed to become the most beloved actor in the South, and he achieved his goal. All the belles giggled and fluttered their fans flirtatiously when he strode into the theater. They would appreciate him even more now, Booth smiled to himself through his pain.
Along the way, he took up the political views of the South, which did not set well with his brothers. His father, out of avowed principle, never owned slaves but still rented them from his neighbors.
Booth’s father died when the boy was fourteen, passing the family theatrical legacy to his children. The brothers often acted together, but Junius Junior and Edwin were ardent abolitionists, surpassing their father’s position. When the family gathered for dinner Booth kept his opinions to himself out of respect for his mother. Political fights always ruined conviviality around the table.
“What do you think your ma will think when she hears you shot the President?” Herold broke into Booth’s reverie.
“My mother will know I did what was necessary for my Country.” He did not care what his brothers, the misguided ideologues, thought. His sister Asia, however, was devoted to him. He knew she would defend him. His mother and sister always knew he was someone special. No matter what he did, he would be special in their eyes.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirteen

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Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape.Stanton goes to Seward’s house when he hears of the stabbing. Someone tries to shoot Andrew Johnson. Gabby runs away from the basement in the rain. Lincoln friend Ward Lamon tries to find him.
Finally, his train pulled into Baltimore station, and Lamon dashed to a carriage, shouting at the driver-for-hire, “To Fort McHenry! Fast!” He shoved a fistful of bills into the driver’s hand and took his seat inside. The horses lunged forward down the street to Point Whetstone, the peninsula sticking out into harbor. Lamon braced himself as the wheels bounced along the rough, deep trenches, splashing mud everywhere.
How ironic that Stanton would have chosen Fort McHenry for the place to enslave Lincoln, Lamon thought. American soldiers had repulsed the British in 1814 from this historic fort. The military converted it into a prison at the start of the Civil War. Lincoln suspended the writ of habeas corpus, paving the way for the arrest of the mayor, the police marshal, a former Maryland governor, a congressman and even the grandson of Francis Scott Key for being Confederate sympathizers. They never had trials. The government just locked them away. Like Stanton locked away the president. But tonight was the last night, Lamon vowed.
He hoped Stanton instructed the prison officials to give Lincoln better treatment than most prisoners received. Reports said the prison denied inmates bedding, chairs, stools, washbasins and eating utensils. The food was usually rancid. Even Stanton would have made sure Lincoln spent the last two and a half years in quarters suitable for the president of the United States.
Lamon’s carriage pulled up to the Fort McHenry compound gate. A soldier in a raincoat stepped through the puddles to stick his head under the canopy.
“Who goes there?” he asked.
“Ward Lamon, personal friend of President Abraham Lincoln and the Federal Marshal of the District of Columbia!”
“What is your business, sir?”
“Just let me in, dammit!”
The sentry blinked a couple of times and stepped back, allowing the carriage to pass onto a wide gravel road. Lamon tapped the driver’s shoulder and pointed to the right at a two-story building which had a wide covered verandah on three sides.
“Over there!”
The driver pulled the carriage as close to the verandah as possible before Lamon leapt out and stormed across the porch. Several guards were huddled against the wall trying to stay out of the rain. He barged through the door into a small reception area. A second lieutenant sat at desk writing in a large ledger.
“I want to see the president of the United States of America!”
The officer looked up, nonplussed, and returned his attention to his work. “I believe he resides in Washington City, sir.”
“You know that’s a lie!”
The second lieutenant turned toward the door behind him. “Captain, I think this is a matter for you to handle.”
As a portly, graying man entered the room putting on his captain’s jacket, he asked, “Lt. Mayfield, what is going on here?”
Lamon stopped himself and realized he must have sounded like a madman. A Federal Marshal must behave as a gentleman at all times, he lectured himself. Looking down at the desk, he forced himself to smile at the younger officer.
“I’m sorry, Lt. Mayfield. I should not have spoken to you like that. I hope you can accept my apologies.”
“I am a junior officer,” Mayfield said without emotion. “No apologies are necessary.”
“What is this—I believe you said your name was Ward Lamon?” the captain asked as he finished buttoning his jacket.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Lamon backtracked into civility. “And I have the honor of addressing…?”
“Captain Thomas Dunne, assistant commandant of Fort McHenry,” the officer replied. “And I know who you are, sir. You are the great friend of our president. Your loyalty to Mr. Lincoln has been reported by the newspapers.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Commandant General Walker is not here at this time. Perhaps I may be able to assist you. Did I understand you correctly? You think Mr. Lincoln is here at Fort McHenry?”
“If you know who I am then you must understand,” Lamon explained, trying to speak in a softer tone. “You do not have to lie—“he stopped, correcting himself again. “You do not have to continue the subterfuge. Secretary of War Edwin Stanton personally told me President Lincoln had been put under secret military protection after threats had been made on his life. I only found out today that he was here at Fort McHenry.”
“And when did Secretary Stanton tell you this?” Dunne asked in a calm voice.
“It was September of 1862.”
Mayfield put his quill pen on the table and stood.
“And he has been here ever since?” the captain continued.
“You know very well—“again Lamon stopped himself in mid-sentence. “Yes, sir. That is correct, sir. Perhaps the Commandant did not share this information with you. Perhaps he felt the fewer people who knew of Mr. Lincoln’s presence here the better.”
“I have the complete confidence of General Walker, sir,” the colonel replied. “Nothing goes on here at Fort McHenry without my knowledge, sir.”
“The war is over, sir. There is no need to protect the president. That is my job. I am here to return the president to Washington City.” Lamon felt his hands trembling. “Please, sir, tell me which building Mr. Lincoln is in.”
“Captain Dunne,” Mayfield interjected, “should I—“
Dunne put his hand up in front of the second lieutenant. Lamon took this as a sign to silence the junior officer, and tantamount to acknowledging they knew Lincoln was on the premises.
Lamon lunged toward the younger officer. “You know!” Lamon grabbed his collar. “Tell me, dammit! Tell me where the president is!”
“Guards! Guards!” Mayfield yelled.
“Mr. Lamon! Control yourself!” Dunne ordered in a firm voice as the guards ran through the door. Lamon turned and threw a couple of wild punches at them before escaping outside into the rain. Looking around, he spotted a row of barracks across the wide gravel path. Splattering through puddles, he ran into the first barracks and past the guards.
“Mr. President! Mr. President! Where are you?” Something was terribly wrong, he told himself. Wiping raindrops from his face, Lamon ran down a long hall, looking through the bars at the inmates whose dull eyes stared vacantly back at him.
“Sir, you must come with us,” one of the two guard said who came up behind him.
Swinging around Lamon shoved the first guard into the second as he ran back down the hall. “No! I must find the president!”
Just as Lamon opened the door to the courtyard, the guards from the other building barged through and knocked him to the floor. He looked up to see their rifles pointed at him. Dunne and Mayfield knelt beside him.
“Your penchant for hard liquor is as well-known as your loyalty to the president,” Dunne whispered into his ear. “I shall dismiss your behavior as the result of too much whiskey. Leave calmly, and we shall consider this incident at an end.”
Exhausted but out of options Lamon cried, “I cannot have failed the president so completely!”
“You have not failed the president,” Dunne corrected him. “You may have failed yourself, but you have not failed the president. Do you understand?”
Lamon stared at the captain and then swallowed hard. “Yes, I must control my drinking.”
The officers stood.
“Guards, will you be so kind as to escort Mr. Lamon to his carriage?” Dunne asked.
They wrenched Lamon up and shoved him through the door.
Dunne added, “And please make sure he makes it safely out the front gate.”
Lamon did not resist as the guards pushed him into the carriage. As the driver turned the team around, the Lamon looked at the five-pointed star building in the distance, the site of the 1815 battle that saved the nation. How could he have been so wrong? How could he have been so gullible to believe all the lies?
“Where do you wish to go, sir?” the driver asked, bending over to the inside of the carriage. “The train depot?”
“No,” Lamon replied. “To the nearest tavern.”
At the dimly lit bar a block from the train station, Lamon sipped on a glass of whiskey and considered what had happened. Obviously, the Lincoln imposter had lied to him. Lincoln was not in Baltimore. The only reason to send Lamon to Baltimore was to get the woman impersonating Mary Todd Lincoln back to her home. Of course, Stanton would have never shared the location of the president with a mere imposter. Lamon berated himself for not thinking clearly.
But if Lincoln were not at Fort McHenry, then where was he? Taking another sip of whiskey, he considered the possibilities. Perhaps the president did not leave Washington City at all. Perhaps he did not even leave the Executive Mansion. What if Lincoln and his wife had been somewhere in the building the entire time? Lamon felt his arm being jostled.
“Oh, excuse me, sir,” a man said, breathing hard.
The Lamon noticed the crowd milling. “What’s going on?”
“The word just came in from the telegraph office. The president has been shot.”
“The president?” Lamon stood and threw some coins at the barkeeper. Pushing his way through the tavern door, he ran down the street to the telegraph office where men and women gathered in the rain.
“Let me through! I’m the president’s friend!” he shouted as he shoved to the front of the mob. He stopped short as he saw a clerk hold up a hand-lettered sign scrawled with a charcoal stick on a piece of paper, which was quickly disintegrating in the rain.
“President shot at Ford’s Theater.”
Another clerk came out the door with another sign and held it up.
“President near death.”
“No! No!” rumbled from the depths of the soaked crowd.
“No! Hurrah! Hurrah! The tyrant is dead!” other voices screeched.
“The South is avenged!”
From the back came a loud cry, “Damned rebels! Hang ‘em all!”
“Damn all you rebels!”
Men began attacking each other, falling down and rolling in the mud. Women hit at them with their umbrellas.
A clerk thrust a third sign into the air.
“Attempt made on life of Vice-President.”
A knot formed in Lamon’s stomach. All this was his fault. He should have never submitted meekly to the orders of Stanton. He should have known Stanton was lying to him from the very beginning. If he had only stayed vigilant, Stanton and Baker would have never gotten their hands on Lincoln in the first place.
Another clerk lifted a sign.
“Secretary of State almost stabbed to death.”
Lamon could take no more. He turned and made his way back through the crowd and down the street to the train station. Inside the depot, he stamped his feet and shook his shoulders, trying to toss the raindrops from his body. Lamon walked to the window where he bought a ticket on the next train back to the Capital. He felt exhausted, hopeless. He wanted a drink. He wanted to sleep. He wanted things to be different. But all he could do was wait for the train to come, and after an eternity it did come, finally. He found his seat in the passenger car, and he stared out the window, not even having the energy to tap on it as he had done on the trip to Baltimore.
He was defeated. Lamon sacrificed everything in his life he held dear, his wife and daughter, for the President and now the President—his long-time friend– was near death. He had failed all of them. Failed.
Wrinkling his brow and narrowing his eyes, he paused. But was Abraham Lincoln? He gasped at the audacity of the thought. The signs at the telegraph office said the President was shot. Perhaps it had been the imposter who was shot. After all, the imposter said he had to stay so the people could see their president.
If the Lincoln look-alike had gone to Ford’s Theater to be seen by the people then the assassin could have shot him instead. However, if that were so, then where was Abraham Lincoln? What had Edwin Stanton done with him?
Reinvigorated, Lamon pounded his fist against the glass pane. He still had a chance to redeem himself. If he could not save the president, he could at least bring Edwin Stanton to justice.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Eleven

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Previously: Just before shooting Lincoln, Booth thinks of the events leading to this moment.Stanton goes to Seward’s house when he hears of the stabbing. Someone tries to shoot Andrew Johnson. Gabby runs away from the basement in the rain.
Gabby scurried down the muddy path to Fifteenth Street and then broke out in a full run through the rain. He tripped over his own feet and fell face first into a muddy puddle, his hat flying off. He stood and without pausing to wipe his face, Gabby started running again, his arms flailing against the raindrops as he reached for the hat. He could not help but moan in terror as he scrambled along. Nothing looked familiar to him. His feet slipped on a wet rock and he fell into another quagmire. He tried to lift himself up but fell again.
“You would think the police would do something about the drunks on the streets.”
Gabby looked up to see two men walk by, glaring at him from under their wide umbrellas. His hands reached toward them.
“Help me!” He stood and stumbled in the direction of the two men who quickened their pace.
“I will send a telegram tomorrow!” one of the men said in a growl. “This is totally unacceptable!”
“No, please. I need help.” Gabby heard the tone of his voice. He sounded crazy. The two men disappeared in the darkness. Realizing his hat was missing again, he went back for it. Bending over, Gabby gasped for air. He had to calm himself down. Cordie was not here anymore to take care of him. He had to take care of himself. Before he put the hat on his head, Gabby turned his face to the dark angry sky. As the rain washed his face clean, Gabby told himself to keep thinking about Cordie and surely something would come to him. Cordie never let him down. Yes, Cordie worked at the hospital. Armory Square Hospital, the private had told him. All he had to do was find Armory Square Hospital.
Walking down Fifteenth Street again, Gabby realized he had to act as if he were in control of himself. People would not talk to anyone on the street they thought was crazy. He straightened the stovepipe hat on his head and brushed the overcoat to make it look presentable. Gabby approached an older man walking by himself.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said in as possessed a voice as he could muster, “could you please point me in the direction of the hospital?”
“What hospital?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow.
Gabby’s mouth gaped as he forgot the name of the hospital. “Ahh….”
“There are plenty of hospitals around here.”
“The one with the soldiers,” Gabby replied in a weak voice.
“They all have soldiers” The man emitted an aggravated grunt and walked away.
Gabby scampered after him with his arm outstretched, “No, please, I need help.” He stopped and after a moment began to cry.
A man and woman walked past, but Gabby did not try to hide his tears. He heard the woman stop and turn.
“That poor man is crying.” She sounded like she cared.
“Can’t you tell he’s mad,” the man replied with a hiss. “He’s obviously stark raving mad. Stark raving madmen on the street in the rain can be very dangerous.”
“I knew you were a coward when you paid to avoid the draft,” Her tone was sharp. “This poor man needs help.”
“No,” the man insisted, pulling on the woman’s arm. “He’s dangerous, I tell you.”
“I won’t hurt anybody.” Gabby wiped tears from his eyes. “I just want to know where the hospital with the soldiers is.”
“All the hospitals have soldiers,” the man retorted.
“John, please.” The woman pulled away and walked to Gabby. “Now, calm down so I can help you.”
“Thank you, ma’am. My sister Cordie used to work at one of the hospitals. She’s dead now, but she said the woman there was real nice and would help us if we ever needed it.”
“Do you remember the woman’s name?” The lady smiled, and it was gentle.
“No…” Gabby’s voice trailed off.
“I am wet and I am hungry.” The man patted his foot in a puddle.
“Dick Livermore,” the woman mumbled, “that’s who I should have married. He is a real man. Fought in the war. Decorated for bravery. No, I had to choose you—“
“Dick, that’s the name,” Gabby interrupted. “I remember now. Dick somebody. No, not Dick, Dicks, or something like that.”
The woman focused on Gabby. “Dorothea Dix?”
“Yes, that’s it.” Gabby jumped a little with joy. “Miss Dix. That’s what Cordie called her. Do you know her?”
“Everybody knows about Dorothea Dix,” she replied with a smile.
“What hospital is she at?”
“Armory Square Hospital.”
“That’s right. That’s what the private said. Armory Square Hospital. Sometimes I get so upset I forget things.”
“For God’s sake can we go now?” the man growled.
“But I don’t know where Armory Square Hospital is.” Gabby was nervous again.
“This is Fifteenth Street,” the woman pronounced in a slow cadence. “See the sign? Fifteenth Street.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Keep going down Fifteenth Street. You’ll cross a big iron bridge across the slough at the Mall. Then turn left on Independence Avenue and go past the Smithsonian Museum. It’s the big red stone building. Keep going until you see the hospital. There are signs outside of it. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“Tell me back what I said to you,” she instructed in a soft voice.
“Oh for God’s sake,” the man hissed. “If you don’t come with me right now I’m going without you.”
“You better go, ma’am,” Gabby said. “I don’t want you to miss your dinner.”
“Are you sure?”
“Elizabeth!”
“He sounds mad. You better go.”
She patted his shoulder and hurried away with her husband. Gabby kept repeating the instructions in his head. He did not want to forget them. He had to find Miss Dix. She would know what to do. He ducked his head down and walked toward the Mall. Go across the iron bridge….
The street began to fill with people running the other way on Fifteenth Street. The low buzzing of the crowd became louder until it was a roar. Gabby stopped a man by the arm.
“Excuse me, sir, but what’s going on?”
“The President has been shot at Ford’s Theater.” He pulled away and continued running back up the street.
Gabby felt the soaked coat he was wearing. The private said it was the president’s coat. He was wearing the coat, but he knew he had not been shot. Maybe they were talking about the other man, the one who had been in the basement with Gabby for two and a half years. That was not fair, Gabby told himself. Life could not be that unfair. His heart pounded in his chest. Gabby gave in to his emotions and started running with the crowd to Ford’s Theater.
After only about a block Gabby stopped. He remembered he needed to find Dorothea Dix. She would know what to do to help him. That poor man who was shot did not need his help now. Turning again down the street Gabby focused on the signs to make sure he was going in the right direction. Out of the darkness loomed the large iron footbridge across the Mall slough. He knew he was on the right track. Next find Independence Avenue and turn left. No matter what those people in the Army told him, Gabby knew he was smart. He could follow orders. The Smithsonian Institution was on his right. Gabby kept going until he saw the sign: Armory Square Hospital.
After he walked inside, Gabby felt awkward. The walls were whitewashed and pristine. The wooden floors were swept and mopped. He, on the other hand, dripped rainwater and mud. The nurses bending over the beds were in crisp clean dresses. Even the wounded soldiers looked freshly bathed. He did not belong there, Gabby told himself. He would make the soldiers sick. Gabby stepped back, about ready to leave the hospital, when a nurse looked over to see him. Even though she smiled, Gabby wanted to leave.
“Sir? May I help you? Please don’t leave.” She was a tall woman with broad shoulders and big hands. “Are you here to see someone? Are you ill?”
She had a sympathetic face so Gabby stopped, his hand on the doorknob. Behind the first nurse came a second, this one almost as old as Cordie with pepper gray hair pulled back in a bun. He stepped toward them and tried to brush the raindrops from his coat.
“Oh, my dear man, you are soaked to the bone.” The first nurse took the stovepipe hat from his head and pulled the drenched coat from his back. She turned to put them in a closet.
The second nurse put her hand to his forehead and muttered, “No fever. You must get out of those clothes. We have a nightgown for you. There’s a changing room in the back.”
“I—I need to see Miss Dix, Dorothea Dix,” Gabby announced as loudly as he could without sounding ungrateful for all the attention he was receiving. “The private told me Dorothea Dix could help me.”
“Of course, of course,” the second nurse murmured as she ran her fingers over his head, straightening his hair. “All in due time. But first you must get out of these wet clothes and into a nice warm bed.”
“Cordie, she said Miss Dix was a good person….”
“And what is going on here?”
Gabby looked up when he heard the shrill, high-pitched voice. He flinched as his eyes beheld a short, thin woman dressed in black with her hair pulled back in such a severe bun that Gabby was sure it gave her a headache.
“This poor soul says he wants to see you, Miss Dix,” the first nurse explained.
Miss Dix, Gabby thought. This woman looked too scary to help anyone. He felt the urge to run out the door into the rain, even without his overcoat. The women firmly held his arms so he could not escape.
“What do you want? Who are you?” Miss Dix’s voice reeked of impatience.
“Cordie said you were a good person. She said you could help me. But you don’t have to. I think I’m in the way here, so I’ll just leave—“
“Cordie?” Miss Dix interrupted him. “Do you mean Cordie Zook?”
“Yes, ma’am. She was my sister, but she’s dead now.”
“Yes, I know. She was a dear soul. You must be Gabby. She talked about you all the time,” Miss Dix softened her tone.
“Cordie always took care of me. Now she’s dead, and I’m all alone. I don’t have anybody to take care of me anymore.”
A gentle smile crossed her thin little face. “Poor man. Don’t worry a bit. We will take care of you now.” She extended her arms and enveloped him. “You won’t be alone again. I promise.”
Dorothea Dix was bony, unlike Cordie who was soft and plump. Gabby decided she would suffice, and gave her a hug. “Thank you, ma’am.”
He burst into tears.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Ten

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Previously: Just before shooting Lincoln, Booth thinks of the events leading to this moment.Stanton goes to Seward’s house when he hears of the stabbing. Someone tries to shoot Andrew Johnson.
The short man with the red beard scared Gabby Zook. Gabby was on his way out of the White House basement wearing a long coat and black stovepipe hat with a bullet hole in it. The young soldier gave him the hat and coat because it was raining, and it was going to be a long walk from the White House to the Armory Square Hospital. He said the coat and hat belonged to the President of the United States, so Gabby decided he must be the President of the United States. He did not know for sure. The last two and a half years had been very confusing.
“Who the hell are you?” the short man bellowed at him as they met in the basement door.
“I’m the president, aren’t I?” Gabby remembered telling the man.
“Get the hell out of here,” the man barked.
More than half an hour had passed since he left the grounds of the White House, but the rough words still haunted him. That man sounded mean enough to kill someone, Gabby told himself as he put his head down to protect his face from the rain. He gathered the overcoat around him.
“If I am the president,” Gabby mumbled to himself, “then why was that man talking mean to me?” He concentrated on his shoes splashing in the mud. “Maybe he was mean to me because I’m not really the president. I’m just wearing his hat and coat.”
If only he could remember. Cordie would tell him what he needed to know. His sister always took good care of him. That was right. He could not be President because he was Cordie’s brother, and not anyone related to Cordie could be President. Gabby began to recall that he worked at the White House as a janitor. Cordie had gotten him the job because their uncle Samuel Zook was a general, and she felt the government owed the family something because Uncle Sammy was doing such a fine job. One day Gabby was setting out rattraps in the basement when this man and the young soldier brought down a very tall man and short woman to the billiards room. He was behind some boxes setting the traps when the man and soldier caught him. Because “he knew,” the man with the soldier explained, Gabby had to stay in the basement. Gabby did not know what it was “he knew,” but it must have been something bad.
They kept saying the president was being held captive in the basement. Gabby was not certain if they were talking about him or the tall man. The tall man seemed very nice and smart enough to be the President. At times Gabby was sure this man was the President and the woman was his wife. Other times Gabby was sure he was president, and the woman was his wife. He shook his head. That could not be right. He would have never married a woman like that. She was crazy.
Gabby looked up at the street sign. It was Fifteenth Street. Sighing, he wished he had paid more attention when Cordie took him places. He had to find Cordie. What did the young soldier tell him right before he left the basement? Go to Armory Square Hospital. But where was Armory Square Hospital? He must have been walking in the right direction or why else would he have been walking in that direction, Gabby asked himself. Most of the time Gabby listened to his own advice because down deep in his heart Gabby knew he was smart.
He went to West Point, and only the smartest of boys went to school there. Yes, he remembered his best friend Joe VanderPyle was his classmate. They were going to be Army officers. They would have been good Army officers, and then something bad happened. A colonel told them to drive him in a carriage into town. Gabby tried to tell the colonel he had never handled a team of horses before, but the colonel insisted his orders be obeyed. Gabby lost control, and the carriage overturned. Joe died. The colonel said it was Gabby’s fault. After that, Gabby did not know what was right or wrong or up or down. The Army confused him, and he wanted to go home to Brooklyn to his sister Cordie.
Cordie did a good job taking care of him through the years until their money ran out, and they had to sell the old house. She made sure the government gave him a good job. She volunteered at the hospital and took in sewing at the boarding house where they lived. Life was good until he got locked into the basement. The boardinghouse, Gabby repeated. Maybe that was where Cordie was. He took a few steps back the other way before stopping. No, Cordie was not at the boardinghouse. Cordie was dead.
The private told him so, just a day or two ago. But Gabby already knew. He dreamed it. He knew he would never see his sister again. The soldier had brought him a plate of fried eggs for breakfast. They were Gabby’s favorite. Now he was not hungry anymore.
“We’re going home on Friday,” the soldier told him. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore.”
“Cordie’s dead. There’s plenty to worry about,” Gabby remembered telling the soldier. “Uncle Sammy is dead. Mama is dead. Papa’s dead. Joe is dead. Everybody’s dead except me.” Then he said to the soldier, “Don’t worry. I forgive you.”
Gabby thought the soldier appreciated hearing that. He did not want the young man to feel guilty for keeping him and the couple in the basement for so long. It was someone else’s fault. He had not quite figured out whose fault it was, but he was pretty sure it was the man with the private the day who locked him in the basement. The soldier thought he had been doing the right thing. Gabby could tell he was a good young man. Maybe he could help Gabby figure all this out.
Turning back up Fifteenth Street, Gabby began walking to the White House. The young man told him to go to Armory Square Hospital, but Gabby could not remember why. He was sure the soldier would not mind explaining everything to him again. Finally, he reached the White House grounds and trudged up the path to the basement door. He stopped short. The mean short man with the red beard was carrying a big bundle out the door. He dumped it in an open carriage and went back inside. Gabby edged closer, afraid the man would see him and yell at him again. Looking in the carriage, he saw it was a body. As he leaned in, Gabby lifted a corner of the blanket covering it. He gasped. It was the private.
The soldier’s eyes were wide open and blank. Blood covered his mouth. Gabby carefully put his hand under the private’s head. When he pulled it out he saw more blood. He held his hand out and let the rain wash it clean.
“My God,” he mumbled. “That mean man killed him.” His lip quivered. “Now I really am alone. Even the soldier is dead.” Gabby looked at the door. “And if I stay here I’ll be dead. That mean man will shoot me too.”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Nine

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Previously: Just before shooting Lincoln, Booth thinks of the events leading to this moment.Stanton goes to Seward’s house when he hears of the stabbing. Someone tries to shoot Andrew Johnson.
Another knock at the door interrupted Andrew Johnson’s thoughts about his sobriety. Turning, he wondered if “they”—the ones who had told the drunk to shoot him—had come to finish the job. In his younger years, Johnson would have flung open the door, grabbed the gun from the hand of the assailant, and beaten him with it, but he acknowledged he was an old man now who had a responsibility to stay alive for his family and his country.
“Who is it?” he called out in a strong voice.
“Mr. Vice-President!” a young voice replied in a loud fright-tinged voice. “Major Eckert sent me!”
The name was not familiar to Johnson, but he could tell by the young man’s tone he was in earnest. “What’s this all about?” he asked as he removed the chair from his door.
“The president has been shot!”
“What the hell?” Johnson opened the door to see a private, still panting and his eyes wide with excitement. He was drenched by the rain.
“He and his wife were at Ford’s Theater watching this play and while everybody was laughing—I don’t know what the joke was but it must have been awful funny because everybody was laughing and this guy shot the President in the back of the head, and everybody stopped laughing because the President’s wife Mrs. Lincoln started screaming and this man jumped to the stage and–”
“Please, private,” Johnson interrupted in a mellow voice, “please take a moment to compose your thoughts. I know this must be very frightening for you. I’m kind of scared myself.”
“But—“
“Sshh.” Johnson put his hand on the private’s shoulder. “You and I ain’t going to catch the attacker any time soon by ourselves. Take a deep breath.” He smiled. “You remind me of my son back in Tennessee. Mighty fine young man he is.”
The young man smiled, revealing how shy and frightened he was. He looked into Johnson’s eyes. “Thank you, sir. Mighty kind of you, sir.”
After a moment, Johnson asked in an easy-going voice, “How badly hurt was the President?”
“I don’t know for sure. The doctors are tending to him now. Across the street from the theater. A boardinghouse. Peterson’s, I think. The way the folks were acting in the hallway there, it don’t look good.”
“Did they capture the man?”
“No, he jumped from the president’s box to the stage and ran out the back. I don’t think anyone knew what was going on until he was gone and Mrs. Lincoln started screaming. I don’t know for sure, sir. I wasn’t there. Major Eckert ordered me to the boardinghouse only about an hour ago. I work for him at the Military Telegraph Bureau.”
“Do they know who it was?”
“I heard on the street that it was the actor, John Wilkes Booth,” the private replied. “But I don’t take much stock in what—“
“Did you say John Wilkes Booth?” Johnson said, remembering the note. He pulled it from his pants pocket to read it again.
Sorry I missed you. J.W. Booth.
“You ever see him on stage?” the soldier asked. “I don’t go to the theater myself but I understand all the young ladies have a soft spot for him.”
“Yes, I’ve heard,” Johnson mumbled. Was Booth the same man who had knocked on his door, he wondered. Johnson dismissed the thought. The man he saw was not an actor.
“I also heard Secretary of State Seward has been stabbed,” the private added.
“What? Seward too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, sir,” the private replied. “But he’s hurt real bad.”
“A man just knocked at my door within the last hour,” Johnson said, almost to himself. “He had a pistol. I think he intended to kill me.”
“They’re out to bring down the whole government.” The soldier shook his head.
“They?” Johnson thought about what the drunk had said at the door.
They told me….
“Does anyone have any idea who they are?”
“No, sir.” The private hung his head.
“Well.” Johnson patted him on the shoulder. “We won’t let anybody bring the government down, will we, boy?”
He smiled. “No, sir. We won’t.”
“I suppose you just ran over from the boardinghouse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m too old to do any running tonight. Will you please flag down a carriage for us while I get my coat?”
“Yes sir.”
After he put on his coat and tie, Johnson considered asking the hotel for coffee. No, he did not have time for that. He had to force his mind to focus on the task in front of him. Knowing Stanton as well as he did, Johnson expected to see him at the boarding house set up as commander-in-chief. He had to brace himself for a confrontation with the secretary of war.
Downstairs he dashed from the hotel to the open carriage door. He waved to the private to join him.
“No, no, sir. I’ll walk back.”
“Nonsense. Get in. It’s pouring!”
As they rode to the Peterson House, Johnson amiably asked the soldier questions. Where was he from? Did he see much action during the war? When was the last time he saw his family? The private answered every one of them with a smile, though Johnson did not hear any of it. He just nodded and smiled, his mind trying to figure out why John Wilkes Booth would have called on him at his hotel just hours before shooting the president.
Johnson’s head was swirling with questions. Who were the mysterious “they” mentioned by his own would-be assassin? If the president, secretary of state and vice-president had been marked for murder, Johnson thought, why had no one tried to kill Stanton?
The carriage stopped at the boardinghouse, and the private pushed through the crowd, making way for the vice-president. Dozens of hands reached out to touch him. Johnson tried to make contact with as many of them as possible. These were the common people. His people and they needed to know their government was going to be all right. Inside, Johnson stopped for a brief moment as he surveyed the crowded halls and staircase.
“This way, Mr. Vice-President,” the soldier said, leading him down the hall.
Johnson saw other Cabinet members milling about. Military officers shouted orders to privates who scurried from place to place. He paused by the back room where the President lay at an angle on a bed. Lincoln’s face was ashen. Doctors conferred over him and shook their heads.
“Mr. Stanton is across the hall,” the private whispered.
Johnson stepped into the parlor where, as he suspected, Stanton was in his natural environment, writing telegrams and giving orders. Officers brushed past the Vice-President, barely acknowledging he was there. When Stanton failed to look up, Johnson cleared his throat.
“Mr. Stanton,” he announced in a firm loud voice, “what are the President’s chances of survival?”
Stanton stopped making notes long enough to glance up. When his eyes focused through his small glasses, he dropped his pencil and his mouth fell open. Johnson always prided himself on his ability to read the expressions on men’s faces, and what he saw on Stanton’s face was shock and fear.
“My God,” Stanton finally said. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m the vice-president. I’m supposed to be here.”
“I mean,” Stanton fumbled with his words. “Thank God they didn’t shoot you too.”
Once again, Johnson observed, the mysterious “they”.

Another knock at the door interrupted Andrew Johnson’s thoughts about his sobriety. Turning, he wondered if “they”—the ones who had told the drunk to shoot him—had come to finish the job. In his younger years, Johnson would have flung open the door, grabbed the gun from the hand of the assailant, and beaten him with it, but he acknowledged he was an old man now who had a responsibility to stay alive for his family and his country.
“Who is it?” he called out in a strong voice.
“Mr. Vice-President!” a young voice replied in a loud fright-tinged voice. “Major Eckert sent me!”
The name was not familiar to Johnson, but he could tell by the young man’s tone he was in earnest. “What’s this all about?” he asked as he removed the chair from his door.
“The president has been shot!”
“What the hell?” Johnson opened the door to see a private, still panting and his eyes wide with excitement. He was drenched by the rain.
“He and his wife were at Ford’s Theater watching this play and while everybody was laughing—I don’t know what the joke was but it must have been awful funny because everybody was laughing and this guy shot the President in the back of the head, and everybody stopped laughing because the President’s wife Mrs. Lincoln started screaming and this man jumped to the stage and–”
“Please, private,” Johnson interrupted in a mellow voice, “please take a moment to compose your thoughts. I know this must be very frightening for you. I’m kind of scared myself.”
“But—“
“Sshh.” Johnson put his hand on the private’s shoulder. “You and I ain’t going to catch the attacker any time soon by ourselves. Take a deep breath.” He smiled. “You remind me of my son back in Tennessee. Mighty fine young man he is.”
The young man smiled, revealing how shy and frightened he was. He looked into Johnson’s eyes. “Thank you, sir. Mighty kind of you, sir.”
After a moment, Johnson asked in an easy-going voice, “How badly hurt was the President?”
“I don’t know for sure. The doctors are tending to him now. Across the street from the theater. A boardinghouse. Peterson’s, I think. The way the folks were acting in the hallway there, it don’t look good.”
“Did they capture the man?”
“No, he jumped from the president’s box to the stage and ran out the back. I don’t think anyone knew what was going on until he was gone and Mrs. Lincoln started screaming. I don’t know for sure, sir. I wasn’t there. Major Eckert ordered me to the boardinghouse only about an hour ago. I work for him at the Military Telegraph Bureau.”
“Do they know who it was?”
“I heard on the street that it was the actor, John Wilkes Booth,” the private replied. “But I don’t take much stock in what—“
“Did you say John Wilkes Booth?” Johnson said, remembering the note. He pulled it from his pants pocket to read it again.
Sorry I missed you. J.W. Booth.
“You ever see him on stage?” the soldier asked. “I don’t go to the theater myself but I understand all the young ladies have a soft spot for him.”
“Yes, I’ve heard,” Johnson mumbled. Was Booth the same man who had knocked on his door, he wondered. Johnson dismissed the thought. The man he saw was not an actor.
“I also heard Secretary of State Seward has been stabbed,” the private added.
“What? Seward too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, sir,” the private replied. “But he’s hurt real bad.”
“A man just knocked at my door within the last hour,” Johnson said, almost to himself. “He had a pistol. I think he intended to kill me.”
“They’re out to bring down the whole government.” The soldier shook his head.
“They?” Johnson thought about what the drunk had said at the door.
They told me….
“Does anyone have any idea who they are?”
“No, sir.” The private hung his head.
“Well.” Johnson patted him on the shoulder. “We won’t let anybody bring the government down, will we, boy?”
He smiled. “No, sir. We won’t.”
“I suppose you just ran over from the boardinghouse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m too old to do any running tonight. Will you please flag down a carriage for us while I get my coat?”
“Yes sir.”
After he put on his coat and tie, Johnson considered asking the hotel for coffee. No, he did not have time for that. He had to force his mind to focus on the task in front of him. Knowing Stanton as well as he did, Johnson expected to see him at the boarding house set up as commander-in-chief. He had to brace himself for a confrontation with the secretary of war.
Downstairs he dashed from the hotel to the open carriage door. He waved to the private to join him.
“No, no, sir. I’ll walk back.”
“Nonsense. Get in. It’s pouring!”
As they rode to the Peterson House, Johnson amiably asked the soldier questions. Where was he from? Did he see much action during the war? When was the last time he saw his family? The private answered every one of them with a smile, though Johnson did not hear any of it. He just nodded and smiled, his mind trying to figure out why John Wilkes Booth would have called on him at his hotel just hours before shooting the president.
Johnson’s head was swirling with questions. Who were the mysterious “they” mentioned by his own would-be assassin? If the president, secretary of state and vice-president had been marked for murder, Johnson thought, why had no one tried to kill Stanton?
The carriage stopped at the boardinghouse, and the private pushed through the crowd, making way for the vice-president. Dozens of hands reached out to touch him. Johnson tried to make contact with as many of them as possible. These were the common people. His people and they needed to know their government was going to be all right. Inside, Johnson stopped for a brief moment as he surveyed the crowded halls and staircase.
“This way, Mr. Vice-President,” the soldier said, leading him down the hall.
Johnson saw other Cabinet members milling about. Military officers shouted orders to privates who scurried from place to place. He paused by the back room where the President lay at an angle on a bed. Lincoln’s face was ashen. Doctors conferred over him and shook their heads.
“Mr. Stanton is across the hall,” the private whispered.
Johnson stepped into the parlor where, as he suspected, Stanton was in his natural environment, writing telegrams and giving orders. Officers brushed past the Vice-President, barely acknowledging he was there. When Stanton failed to look up, Johnson cleared his throat.
“Mr. Stanton,” he announced in a firm loud voice, “what are the President’s chances of survival?”
Stanton stopped making notes long enough to glance up. When his eyes focused through his small glasses, he dropped his pencil and his mouth fell open. Johnson always prided himself on his ability to read the expressions on men’s faces, and what he saw on Stanton’s face was shock and fear.
“My God,” Stanton finally said. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m the vice-president. I’m supposed to be here.”
“I mean,” Stanton fumbled with his words. “Thank God they didn’t shoot you too.”
Once again, Johnson observed, the mysterious “they”.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Eight

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Previously: Just before shooting Lincoln, Booth thinks of the events leading to this moment.Stanton goes to Seward’s house when he hears of the stabbing.
Andrew Johnson loved the earthy smell of a tavern. Cheap whiskey. Cheap cigars. Sweat of ordinary people who work hard for a living. Nothing and nobody fancy. Those were his people. Not those people in the president’s cabinet who looked down on him.
On his third or fourth cheap whiskey at Kirkwood’s—he couldn’t remember–Johnson was trying to forget how he had acted at the cabinet meeting that Good Friday afternoon. In fact, he wanted to forget how he had acted from the day he was sworn in as vice-president less than a month earlier. His inaugural speech was incoherent at best. Johnson thought he held his liquor better than that. Some friends tried to tell him an enemy slipped something into his drink before the ceremonies. He was not much of one for conspiracy theories, but he also did not want to think he was that irresponsible.
However, if there had been a conspiracy to make him look bad at the inauguration, Johnson would not have put it past Stanton to do it. Stanton, in fact, had been the object of his drunken outburst at the cabinet meeting. At one point, Johnson could no longer stand the way the Secretary of War was monopolizing the debate about the nation’s problems.
“One of those problems is why you insist on running this meeting,” he said, his voice barely below a bellow.
“That’s enough.” The president’s voice had an edge to it.
“Yes, sir. I know I don’t belong here.” He remembered stopping to point at Stanton. “But I can still smell a skunk.”
Johnson had only met Lincoln a few times before they became running mates. He liked him, but came to admire him since the election. There was something humble yet courageous the President that Johnson found endearing. After the meeting, he swung the president around and gave him a big bear hug.
“I’m sorry I embarrassed you, Mr. President,” he blubbered. “I’m on your side, you know. It’s just I hate Stanton so much.”
“I know, I know.” The president pulled away. “Go home and drink some coffee. You’ll feel better.”
Johnson had not taken the president’s advice. Instead, Johnson went back to the Kirkwood and spent the rest of the afternoon drinking in the bar. At one point he decided to go back to the White House and talk man to man with Lincoln about Stanton, but he overheard someone mention the president and his wife were going to Ford’s Theater.
“Yeah, I saw the carriage. Miz Lincoln was all decked out. Nothing new about that,” the man yelled. “That purty dress is gonna git mussed up ‘cause it’s about to bust out rainin’ ”.
Everyone else laughed and went back to their drinks. Johnson decided to do the same. After supper at the Kirkwood dining room, Johnson continued his tavern travels along Washington’s streets, made dark early because of the gathering storm clouds. The anonymity of darkness helped him forget what a miserable failure he was.
“Hey, buddy, you look like you need another drink.” A young man with dirty clothes and long disheveled hair leaned into Johnson. “Why don’t you buy yourself another one? And while you’re at it, buy one for me.”
Johnson looked at the man and chuckled. “Sure, why not?” He motioned to the bartender.
“Hey, buddy, you look familiar.” The young man upended his glass, and part of the whiskey dripped down his chin. “Ain’t you famous or somethin’?”
“Me? Famous? Naw. I’m just an old drunk,” Johnson replied with a guffaw.
“That means you’re just like me,” the man said, his eyes twinkling through an alcoholic haze. “From one drunk to another, how about another drink?”
“Sure, why not?”
Sometime later, Johnson decided he had drunk enough to put him to sleep for the next twelve hours so he went back to the hotel. By then rain was beginning to fall. At the front desk, the clerk gave him a message. Johnson focused his eyes on the handwriting.
“Sorry I missed you, J.W. Booth,” he mumbled aloud. After a moment to think, he turned to the clerk. “Who the hell is that?”
“I think it’s the actor,” the man replied.
Johnson knew the clerk was trying to ignore his condition and appreciated the effort. He shook his head.
“I’m not much for theater goin’. Maybe you can help me figure out who this fellow is.”
“Oh, he’s quite well known, Mr. Vice-President.” The clerk smiled. “Mostly does Shakespeare. From an acting family. Many people think he’s not as good as his father and brothers, but the ladies worship him.”
“Thank you very much.” Johnson burped. “But I don’t see why an actor would want to see me.”
“Well, after all, you are the Vice-President.” The clerk tried to be gracious.
“You’re much too kind,” Johnson mumbled as his hand searched his pocket for some change. His fingers felt numb as he put a coin in the clerk’s hand. “Thank you for your consideration.”
“Any time, Mr. Vice-President.”
Johnson staggered toward the stairs and up to his room where he lit the oil lamp and proceeded to take off his wet coat, vest and tie. Collapsing in the bed, he lay there with his beefy arm over his eyes, trying to keep the room from swirling. Once his head settled a bit he reached over to pick up the photograph of his wife, who was still at home in Greeneville, Tennessee.
Johnson would never forget the day he met her. He was seventeen years old. Riding into town in a ramshackle old wagon with his mother and stepfather, he saw a group of girls standing by the side of the road snickering at them. He decided to ignore them. Girls made fun of him all the time because he was a big clumsy boy in tattered clothes and a member of the great unwashed. When his eyes darted back at them Johnson noticed one of them was sniggering not at him but giggling because—dare he think it—because she liked him. He brushed the thought from his head. He was not going to stay in Greeneville anyway. He had better places to go.
However, within the year the girl sought him out and wore him down. She was Eliza McCardle and the daughter of a local shoemaker. They were married when they were both eighteen years old. He rented a house on Main Street and began a business as a tailor, the trade he had learned as a boy. In the evenings, Eliza began the arduous task of teaching him to read, write and do arithmetic. It took years before her lessons sunk into his thick skull.
As the years went by Johnson’s tailor shop became a gathering spot for local men to talk politics, in particular the success of fellow Tennessean Andrew Jackson. After the local college was organized, Johnson joined the debate team, for which he found he had a particular knack. Students from the college came to his tailor shop to engage in the political discussions. After a while, Johnson had enough self-confidence to run for town alderman. Surprising himself, he won.
Eliza decided he did not need her as his tutor any longer, and so she began having children, Charles, Mary and Robert. In the meantime, Johnson won seven terms in the state legislature. Then in 1843, he won election to Congress. Because of his roots in poverty, he always fought for the common man. Tennessee elected him governor for two terms. In 1857, the state legislature elected him a United States Senator.
And all this came about because a pretty girl giggled at him on the side of the road one day. How did he repay his dear, sweet Eliza? By maintaining his self-loathing and doubts, drowning them in alcohol. As a tireless defender of the underdog, Johnson won the love of his constituents, but that love never seemed enough. Now he found himself Vice-President of the United States, and what was he going to do? One of these days the people in Washington would find out he was nothing but an ignorant boy, dirty and in tattered clothes. What would he do then?
Johnson began to feel too sober and reached to open the drawer of the nightstand where he had stashed a pint of whiskey. He had to eradicate his fears, even if it meant drinking himself into a stupor. He uncorked the bottle but after only a couple of sips Johnson heard a knock at the door.
Struggling to his feet, Johnson carried the liquor bottle to the door, and when he opened it, he saw a middle-aged man with an uneven beard staring back at him. In one hand was a pistol, and in the other was a bottle. Johnson squinted as he tried to figure out what was going on.
“Verdammt, er ist grob,” the man muttered as he raised the bottle to his lips.
“What the hell does that mean?” Johnson asked as he took his bottle to his lips as well. “Speak English!”
“Dey said…you is bigger dan I dought,” the man replied as he stepped back.
“Fella, you ain’t makin’ no sense at all.” Johnson shook his head. He could tell by the man’s eyes that he was scared. Scared and drunk.
“I can’t—I can’t do dis.”
“Do what? What the hell’s goin’ on here?”
Lightning lit the hallway briefly followed by a clap of thunder. The man flinched, looked about and continued to back away down the dark hall until he disappeared in the shadows. A few moments passed before Johnson’s mouth fell open. The man was there to shoot him. And I just stood there like a lump on a log, he thought. And who sent him? If they waited for the assassin outside, they might come up themselves to finish the job. He shut the door and jammed a chair under the handle.
Johnson lurched to the bed and sipped from the bottle, trying to make sense of what had just happened. A thought crystallized in his alcohol-numbed brain. He held a liquor bottle as he faced his would-be assassin who held a liquor bottle. The man was too drunk to complete his mission. If Johnson continued to drink, he would not be able to complete his mission to help the common man. He could loathe himself for being the same as a failed assassin or he could change his life. After staring at the bottle for an interminable amount of time, Johnson stood and strode to the hotel window where he threw the bottle out into the dark. He stood at the window, listening for the sound of glass shattering against the cobblestones.
Sticking his head into the cool moist night air, he filled his lungs to clear his mind. Never before in his life had he ever thrown away a liquor bottle. The thought had flitted through his brain a few times to do so, but he had never done it. Johnson wished his wife were there so he could hug her for suffering through his drunken bouts. He went to the nightstand where he poured water into a basin and splashed it on his face, hoping to awaken and refocus his mind.
In his mind, he prepared a list of things to do the next morning. Go to the telegraph office and send a message to his wife about what happened to make him stop drinking. That was at the top of the list. Then go to the White House and apologize again to the President. No, Johnson decided, that was what a drunk would do, apologize over and over again and not mean damn word of it. He would show Lincoln through his actions that he was not a drunk anymore. He would go to his office and begin reading all the legislation he had pushed to the side for the last three weeks. Johnson vowed to himself to study each bill so he could defend the President’s agenda. Most vice-presidents had regarded their role as president of the Senate as a thankless, meaningless job. Johnson resolved he would think and act like a sober responsible man for once in his life.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Four

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Previously: Just before shooting Lincoln, Booth thinks of the events leading to this moment.Stanton henchman Baker is busy disposing of bodies.
A bang rang out in basement, rousing Baker from remembering his vow to kill Stanton, which he never meant to keep. He looked down the corridor and saw light from a kerosene lamp glimmering from an open door. Good, Baker thought, Christy shot himself and saved him the trouble. When he walked into the room, Baker smirked, his suspicions confirmed. Christy lay there on his back, his head in a pool of spreading blood. Baker could tell by the position of the gun near his hand on the floor that the private had stuck the revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Sighing Baker walked over to the body wanting to carry it out of the Executive Mansion and dispose of it in the Potomac as he had the impostors. It had been a long day, and he wanted to lie in bed, drink a pint of whiskey and fall asleep. However, when he bent over the body, Baker stopped short as he looked into Christy’s blank eyes. They were so sad, so young, so filled with pain. Tears stained Christy’s freckled cheeks. In that moment, Baker realized Christy looked like himself as a young man.
Memories flooded back of his childhood in western New York as a short, thin boy with carrot-red hair. The bullies teased him, pushed him down and kicked him. When he ran home crying, he received no sympathy from his stern father.
“You got to learn to stand up for yourself,” his father lectured him. “Get tough or die.”
That was the way life was. As he grew up, Baker became a mechanic, and his body thickened with muscle and his fists were calloused from all the fights he had won over bigger boys. His once-red hair darkened into auburn and he grew a beard to hide the appearance of youthful innocence.
From his hometown, he drifted out west and became a vigilante in San Francisco where, in the name of justice, he learned to kill men guilty of a wide range of crimes such as gambling, ballot-box stuffing, treason, robbery and murder. Eventually, he had killed so many men he couldn’t remember when killing felt wrong. It came to feel like business.
Baker met a lovely, naïve girl by the name of Jenny and married her. She was his connection to the world of sane and civilized people. By 1861, he and his wife returned to New York relatively wealthy.
At the outbreak of the Civil War General Winfield Scott hired him as a spy. Within a few months, the Confederates captured him in Richmond. It didn’t take him long to escape to Washington where the State Department hired him as a detective. From there he joined the War Department where he became a vicious interrogator. His reputation brought him to the attention of the Secretary of War himself, Edwin Stanton. Baker did not want to expose Jenny to the dirty world of Washington politics so he bought her a new home in Philadelphia. There she would be closer than New York but far enough away never to learn of his state-sanctioned brutality.
Baker’s transformation from an innocent, defenseless red-haired youth to government-paid assassin was complete. Baker thought he had lost that tender side of his character forever until he stared into the dead eyes of Adam Christy. Then all his fear and frailty came rushing back. The same self-loathing that was evident on Christy’s face was deep inside Baker. He saw in the dead eyes the realization that Christy had failed his first test of character in his short life, and now everything was over. Yes, Baker conceded, they were alike. Except for one fact. When Baker first failed a test of character, he considered it a victory of determination over weakness.
Now it was too late to change, he thought. Baker knew that he was as dead on the inside as Christy was, lying there in his own blood. He was an outright empty machine proficient in the arts of torture and murder. And what for, Baker asked himself. For the money? He remembered earlier in the evening he had confronted Stanton about why he had gone to such extraordinary lengths to put Lincoln in the basement and then plan his assassination. Baker accused him of doing it for the power.
“And what is it for you?” he remembered Stanton asking in spite.
“I’m a simple man,” Baker had told him. “I’m not a lawyer. I’m not smart enough to want more than to be comfortable. And it takes money for that.”
“So it’s just for the money?” Stanton’s cupid’s bow lips twisted into a smirk.
“You’re a fool, Mr. Stanton. You think power will make you happy.”
“Neither does money.”
“That’s right,” Baker remembered telling Stanton, “but it makes being miserable much more fun.”
Now, standing over Christy’s body, Baker realized he was wrong. However, if it was not for the money, then what was it for, his life of violence? Perhaps it was in revenge for all the suffering he endured as a child. More than likely, he would never know. His heart was so hardened at this point it made no difference. A knot developed in the pit of his stomach. He could no longer make himself touch, let alone pick up, Christy’s body. Baker also sensed his throat constricting, his face turning red and his eyes filling with tears. For the first time since he ran down the dusty streets of his little western New York town, Baker began to cry.
Moreover, Baker did not just allow tears to flow down his rough ruddy cheeks, he bawled. He sobbed; he gasped for breath, feeling the back of his head burn red-hot. All the emotion he had suppressed throughout the years came out. The heat from the room became unbearable; Baker thought he would pass out if he did not get out of the building and inhale fresh, cool night air.
He only made it as far as the hallway before falling to his knees. At first, his stomach roiled and then his diaphragm contracted violently. He gagged, and his eyes bulged. Before he knew it, he was vomiting on the floor, his head sagging down. His heaving continued so much that pungent, liquor-laced acid flowed from his nose. Between regurgitations, Baker moaned at full volume, thinking he wanted to die. From down the hall he heard a door open.
“Cleotis, I told you to stay out of it.” Baker recognized the Negro woman’s voice. It belonged to the cook whom Christy had tried to rape. “That’s white folks business.”
“There’s a sick man out here, Phebe,” the butler said in a low, firm tone. “That’s everybody’s business.”
Baker’s body twitched again, and he readied himself for another purge, but nothing came up this time. It did not lessen the pain. He became aware of a large, strong hand on his shoulder.
“Mister, are you all right?”
“No,” Baker rasped. “Go away.”
“Let me help you clean up.”
“I said go away.” He struggled to his knees, wiping his sputum-covered mouth and nostrils with his coat sleeve. “I’ll clean this up.” He heard the butler take a few steps away.
“The soldier boy’s on the floor in there all covered with blood.”
“The boy’s dead?” Phebe’s voice sounded startled and concerned. After a pause, her cynical attitude returned. “None of our business.”
Baker tried to stand, but his knees buckled again. Cleotis went back to him and lifted him by the armpits.
“Mister, I don’t know who you are, but you need help.” The butler’s voice was gentle but firm.” There ain’t no two ways about it.”
“No, no,” Baker mumbled.
“Come on in the kitchen and take a seat.” Cleotis dragged him down the hall and through the door to the kitchen, placing him in a chair. “Sit here awhile and you’ll feel better.” He turned to a table and picked up a dishtowel. “Phebe, get me a bucket of water,” he called out.
“I don’t wanna.”
“Woman, I’ve about had all that I’m gonna take,” he called out, still calm but louder. “Now get the bucket now.” Cleotis returned his attention to Baker and wiped his face. “Let me clean you up a bit, sir.”
“Why are you being nice to me?”
Cleotis continued to wipe. “I’m a butler, sir. That’s what I do.”
In a moment, Phebe entered the kitchen with a bucket of water. Baker looked up and noticed that she was pregnant.
“Is that your wife?” he mumbled, succumbing to Cleotis’ care.
“In the eyes of the Lord, sir,” the butler replied. “Sometimes that’s the best us colored folks can do.”
After feeling the fresh water on his face, Baker returned to rational thought. He realized he did need help cleaning up the evidence.
“I didn’t shoot the boy.”
“I know, sir.” Cleotis finished washing Baker. “There now. You look a heap better.” He turned to Phebe. “Get the mop and start cleaning up that sickness out there in the hall.”
“Yes, Cleotis.” She sighed while grabbing the mop from behind the door.
“We don’t want to know no more than that,” the butler told Baker. “It ain’t healthy. If you get the body out of here then we can clean everything up and by tomorrow morning, everything will be back to normal. There never was a soldier boy in the basement of the White House, and that’s a fact.”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Three

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Previously: Just before shooting Lincoln, Booth thinks of the events leading to this moment.
Lafayette Baker pulled on the reins of the carriage, bringing it to a halt on the dark banks of the Potomac River. He picked a spot about three miles downstream from the District of Columbia. No one rode passed there that time of night. Very secluded. With a bored sigh, he jumped down from the driver’s seat and went around to the passenger side.
First he picked up the plump body of the woman he had just shot between the eyes. Secretary of War Stanton had selected her from the Old Capitol Prison to impersonate Mary Todd Lincoln. Now the war was over she was no longer needed and was actually an encumbrance. Baker walked with a stealthy pace to the edge of the water, threw the body in, watched as the tide caught it and carried it toward the middle of the wide river where it eventually sank.
Next he grabbed the other corpse under the arms. He was a large man, and Baker would have to drag him. Stanton had saved this man from the gallows at Old Capitol Prison because he looked like President Lincoln. For two and a half years he pretended to be the president, said and did everything Stanton had ordered. For his obedience he too had been shot between the eyes. Baker rolled the body into the water and kicked it hard to make sure it entered the current. Soon, it disappeared into the depths.
Baker had no sympathy for them. They had sold their souls for a chance to live and deserved to die. They were cowards. Life had defeated the man and woman years ago, and they just got around to leaving now.
Drizzle began falling as Baker got back in the carriage and returned it to the Executive Mansion. It did not bother him. The personal guard of Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, Baker had become inured to inconvenience, pain and guilt. When Stanton had ordered him to intimidate, kidnap and murder, he obeyed because that was what he was supposed to do without question, as long as he was paid.
Baker was on his way back to kill another person who knew too much about Stanton and his plot. That knowledge was a death sentence. This is what his life had become. He pulled the mud-bespeckled horse-drawn carriage into the trail that led to the basement door of the Executive Mansion. The young man he was going to shoot in the head did not know he was coming.
After tying the reins to a hitching post, he went to the door, one hand resting on his revolver holster. Before he could touch the handle, the door opened and an odd-looking little old man bumped into him. The man wore a tall stovepipe hat and an over-sized black overcoat, which dragged on the ground. He had scared blue eyes, gray stubble on his trembling chin, and his hands shook nonstop.
“Who the hell are you?” Baker bellowed, causing the old man to hunch over.
“I’m the president, aren’t I?”
Stanton had told him that a demented janitor was in the Executive Mansion basement. Baker remembered the night he arrived to remove the body of a Negro servant. From one of the rooms he heard a voice calling out, “Stop hurting people!” That must have been this fool standing in front of him now.
“Get out of here,” Baker snapped, impatient to finish the job without further distractions.
“Yes, sir.” The old man scurried out the door into the rainy night.
Baker would be glad when Stanton’s mad scheme was over. He did not think much of it when Stanton explained it to him in September of 1862. It was madness, and Baker found himself in the thick of it.
Stanton doubted the ability of Abraham Lincoln to conduct a war. Union troops suffered a series of devastating defeats during the summer, and Stanton could not allow the pattern of events to continue. He knew he could do a better job than that bumbling idiot of a president, Lincoln.
Stanton’s plan was an elaborate one. He would find a man and woman in the Old Capitol prison who resembled the Lincolns. Under threat, they would agree to impersonate the presidential couple. Then Stanton would abduct the real Lincolns, marching them downstairs to the White House basement where they would stay for the duration under the watchful eye of an armed guard. The duplicate Lincoln would carry out Stanton’s strategies and win the war by the end of the year. At that time, Stanton would release Lincoln who would thank him for saving the Union.
The plan did not work out that way. The years passed with no resolution. Now it was over, and President Lincoln had to die. Everyone thought Mrs. Lincoln was crazy anyway so no one would believe her ravings about her two and a half-year captivity in the basement. The imposters were at the bottom of the Potomac River, and now the private who had guarded for the Lincolns during their captivity was about to die.
Private Adam Christy had never impressed Baker anyway. The private was a thin red-haired boy who could not control himself. In 1864, Christy had lost control of his senses because of over-drinking and tried to rape the Negro cook in the basement. The colored butler tried to intervene and save the girl, but in his drunken rage, Christy killed him. Baker came in the middle of the night to clean up the private’s mess. Christy represented weakness, and Baker hated weakness.
Earlier in the week, Stanton ordered Christy to find someone to kill the president. At first, the private refused, saying he had already done enough to ruin the life of a man who had done him no wrong. Stanton threatened him with prosecution in the butler’s death Christy relented. When the private arrived under the Aqueduct Bridge at midnight with an odd collection of assassins—an actor, a drunk and two simpletons–Christy confirmed Baker’s suspicions of his incompetence.
“Is this it?” Baker remembered asking Christy about the group. He looked at the dark-haired, good-looking one, and recognized him as John Wilkes Booth, the popular actor. He seemed to be the leader. “Now. Tell me something that convinces me you’re smarter than you look.”
“Sir,” Booth had said, pulling himself up to his full stature, “you are no gentleman, and not welcome to our noble endeavor.”
“This noble endeavor is murder,” Baker had replied. “True gentlemen don’t kill, so get that idea right out of your head.” After puffing on his cigar he had added, “So what are your plans?”
Booth planned to shoot the president at Ford’s Theater. The drunk would kill Johnson at the Kirkwood Hotel, and the simpletons would stab Seward to death at his house. Baker remembered Christy just stood there, staring across the darkness of the Potomac.
“And who will kill Stanton?” Booth had asked.
“I’ll kill Stanton.” Baker lied.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Two

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Previously: Just before shooting Lincoln, Booth thinks of the events leading to this moment.
On Good Friday afternoon, Booth went to his boardinghouse where he gathered what little he would need for his escape. He 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 romance.
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. 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.”
“Colored voting rights. Can’t stand that.”
“Me neither.”
“Why, if I pushed a darky 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. “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 Union officers and their fashionable ladies filled all seats. He walked up the stairs and circled the upper floor toward the presidential box. Sure enough, the chair outside the door was empty. He knew the guard was busy drinking ale. 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. Mrs. Lincoln leaned over to whisper something to her husband. How he loathed the man, Booth thought.
Booth sucked hot air into his lungs 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 begin their conversation in the comedy Our American Cousin.
He knew the play by heart. He knew when 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 upon them. He looked around the box and noticed the young Army officer and his rather homely girlfriend 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 slash him without mercy. Nothing was going to spoil his dramatic exit, a leap to the stage and dash to the back door.
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 his emotions. 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 at her husband and then looked up at Booth with curiosity. He watched her eyes widen as she realized what had happened. She screeched.
The officer lunged from the sofa, grabbing for the gun. Booth took a couple of steps backwards which threw the man off balance. In that split second, Booth extracted 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 past them and between the president and his wife, who was still screaming out of control, with her hands to her chubby cheeks.
“The president has been shot!” Mrs. Lincoln screamed.
Booth stepped to the top of the box’s railing 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 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.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter One

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Author’s note: This is the sequel to my novel Lincoln in the Basement which I just serialized on this blog.
Lifting his small brass derringer, its sheen catching light from the flickering oil lamps in Ford’s Theater, John Wilkes Booth smiled with confidence 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.
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. Federal troops with quickness and ease 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 Company F, and got on the train to stop the abolitionists in their mission. 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 that 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 colored suffrage,” Booth muttered that night as he shared a whiskey with his friends at the bar next to Ford’s Theater. “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 ago. Booth was visiting Mary Surratt at her 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 in reality 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. It was a viper’s nest of discontented southern sympathizers.
Once inside, 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, pockmarks covered his face. 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 instructed, “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 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 seized 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, with his nose upturned, accused him.
The short man snorted in derision, dismissing Booth’s Southern sensibilities. He began assigning assassination duties. 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 uneasy. The mysterious man was gruff and 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 details.