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Booth’s Revenge Chapter Eight

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 Seven

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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.
The doctor told Stanton to get the hell out of Seward’s bedroom. Taking a step back, Stanton decided not to force a confrontation. Again, he felt humiliated, and his breathing became labored. With luck, Stanton told himself, Seward would be dead by dawn anyway. At the bottom of the stairs, he saw Welles talking to the other doctor attending to the State Department messenger on the floor.
“What does he have to do with this bloody business?” Stanton said.
“My God, man, don’t you have a heart?” Welles stared at him but when no answer was forthcoming, he sighed. “Poor man happened to arrive at the door with documents for Mr. Seward when the madman was escaping.”
“So he knows nothing,” Stanton stated nonchalantly.
“I suppose you heard about the President?” Welles asked.
“Yes, I did. I thought it was just a rumor.”
“It’s no damn rumor. The whole world has turned upside down.” Welles scrutinized Stanton’s face. “You look like you don’t give a damn.”
“That is an insult, sir,” Stanton snapped. “But I forgive you because of the emotional scene.” He paused. “I have a carriage outside. Do you want to join me on the ride to Ford’s Theater?”
Welles shook his head as he let out a sardonic laugh. “I don’t understand you. First you say I insulted you, and then you offer me a ride in your carriage.”
“That’s because I am a gentleman, sir.” Actually, Stanton conceded to himself, he was trying to control the situation again. He did not want to leave Welles at the Seward house asking too many questions. Stanton wanted Welles near him so he could filter any information received throughout the night.
The two cabinet members sat in tense silence as they rode through the streets in the rain. Occasionally Stanton coughed. The rain only made his condition worse. He listened to Welles drumming his knuckles against the wall of the carriage. Between the rapping and the dripping of rain on the carriage top made Stanton feel ready to explode. He bent over in an asthmatic rage.
“You should be home in bed,” Welles said in a way that was a lecture as opposed to expressing concern.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Stanton spat. “Then you could be in charge and not me.”
Welles just shook his large, parrot-like head and stared out the windows at the milling crowds. “All these people. The people who loved him.” Welles made the statement not to Stanton in particular but out the misty window.
Stanton, on the other hand, prayed that Lincoln would already be dead. The carriage pulled up in front of the theater. Stanton leaned out of the window and waved over a soldier.
“Where have they taken the President?”
The soldier pointed across the street to a three-story tenement. “There, sir.”
Both men stared at the huge crowd gathered under their umbrellas in the pouring rain.
“We may as well get out here,” Welles said. “No way will the driver be able to get the carriage any closer.”
Stanton went first, elbowing his way through the people. Inside, another soldier told them Lincoln was in a bedroom at the back of the stairs on the first floor. As they began to walk down the hall, Mary Lincoln appeared from the bedroom and screamed.
“How dare you!” she said at the top of her voice, pointing at Stanton. “How dare you show up here!”
“She’s overwrought,” Welles muttered.
“She’s insane,” Stanton replied.
She scurried down the hall and slapped Stanton full across the face. “It’s all his fault! I knew it was too good to be true! You would not let him live! You had to kill him!”
Welles tried to put his large hands on her shoulders but he could not control Mrs. Lincoln because of her flailing arms.
“You’re as stupid as all the rest of them!” She glared at the Secretary of the Navy. “Didn’t you know? Couldn’t you tell the difference?”
“Tell what difference?” Welles stopped trying to contain Mrs. Lincoln to look deep into her eyes.
Stanton motioned to a soldier. “This woman is hysterical. Take her to a parlor down the hall. Make sure she doesn’t leave until I say so.”
The soldier took her by the elbow and gently guided her away.
“A parlor this time? Not the basement? Why not the basement? Couldn’t you tell the difference?” she screamed.
“The basement?” Welles said incredulously. “And what did she mean? Tell the difference?”
“Like I said, the woman is mad.” With that, Stanton continued down the hall with Welles behind him. He barged into the tiny bedroom to find a young man in evening clothes bent over Lincoln who was naked.
“Who are you?” Stanton demanded.
The young man looked up and said, “ Dr. Charles Leale, Mr. Secretary.”
“You don’t look old enough to be a doctor,” Stanton replied gruffly.
Leale smiled a little. “Well I wasn’t one until six weeks ago.”
“Hmph. So. What’s the situation?”
“The president received a bullet wound on the left back of his head,” Leale explained. “The bullet is lodged deep inside.”
“So this is a mortal wound?”
“Yes, sir, I believe so, sir.”
“Very well. Carry on.” Stanton looked around. “Is Eckert here? Is Major Eckert here?”
“Over here, sir,” a voice rang out from the hall.
Stanton looked up to see Eckert, who was the chief of the War Department’s Military Telegraph Bureau, walking briskly toward him. Stanton liked him because he took orders without question.
“I got here as soon as I could, Mr. Secretary.”
“I need a room to set up in,” Stanton said.
“I already secured the back parlor across the hall, sir.”
“Good. Set up a relay between here and the department’s telegraph office on Seventeenth Street.” Turning, Stanton left the room and went across the hall with Eckert close behind.
“You still haven’t told me what you think Mrs. Lincoln meant when she said, ‘Couldn’t you tell the difference.’” Welles stayed on Stanton’s heels.
Stanton turned to Eckert. “First thing, get Mr. Welles a room also. He needs to keep the Navy informed of every development.” He looked at Welles. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Secretary? The assassins might try to make their escape by sea. You don’t want them to slip through our fingers, do you?”
Welles sighed wearily. “No, we don’t.” He turned away and began asking for a naval officer.
“Where’s my desk?” Stanton asked Eckert.
“Right here, sir.” He led the secretary to a desk and oil lamp.
Stanton sat and reached for paper to begin writing notes. “Shut down the theater. Take everyone there in custody for questioning. Shut down all bridges leaving the city. Telegraph the New York City police. Tell them to send every detective they can spare. Telegraph General Grant. Tell him to return to the city immediately.”
“Yes, sir.” Eckert saluted and left.
Stanton knew exactly why he made each of his commands. He wanted to give the illusion he was doing everything possible to catch the conspirators. He was certain the owners of the theater were innocent but blame had to be cast everywhere except on him. New York City had more detectives than any other city in the nation. Every one of them had to be in the District, getting in the way of the district police who knew where to look and who to interrogate. And he had to keep General Grant under his supervision. Left to his own devices Grant might start asking too many questions.
Stanton was now in his element. He was in charge. At this point of history, he was the Commander In Chief, and he relished every moment of it.
“Sir,” Eckert said, coming back into the room and leaning over. “The District chief of police is here, sir. He demands that his forces be in charge of the investigation.”
“No,” Stanton snapped. “This is not a civilian affair. This will be a case for a military tribunal. No question about it. Tell him to keep the mob orderly. That’s his job.”
Stanton instinctively knew if he could keep the war department in charge of the investigation and trial, he could control the release of information. No one must ever know the truth about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Six

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Darting through the rain, Stanton made it to Seward’s front door and entered a madhouse. Soldiers milled everywhere. Blood stained the banister leading to the upper floors. One man lay in a pool of blood with a doctor kneeling over him.
“What happened to him?” Stanton asked.
“He’s been slashed the entire length of his back,” the doctor replied. “From the looks of it, perhaps two inches deep.”
Seward’s sixteen-year-old daughter Fanny wiped tears from her eyes as she descended the stairs and staggered to Stanton, falling into his arms.
“It’s my fault,” the girl muttered. “It’s all my fault.”
“What do you mean?” Stanton asked without tolerance for her obvious emotional grief. He held her quivering shoulders at arm’s length.
“If I hadn’t opened the door to papa’s bedroom, the man wouldn’t have gotten in.”
“What man? What are you talking about?” Stanton forced his eyes to widen in shock. “What did this man do?”
“The man who stabbed papa,” Fanny replied, still blubbering.
“Get hold of yourself, child,” Stanton ordered.
“What kind of insensitive fiend are you?” bellowed a tall man with white hair who had just entered the foyer.
Stanton looked over to see Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles, another cabinet member whom he loathed.
“Fanny just witnessed the stabbing of not only her father but also her brothers and two other men. Of course, she’s crying,” Welles said as he stood next to Stanton, towering over him.
“I’m just trying to learn the facts of this case,” Stanton replied in a huff. When taller men stood close, he always felt inferior which made him livid. In addition, when his emotions took over his asthma erupted. Stanton stifled a wheezing cough before returning his attention to Fanny. He tried to soften his tone. “Please tell me what happened.”
Fanny Seward breathed in and held it as though to compose her thoughts. “There was this loud knocking at the door. Billy answered it—“
“Who’s Billy?” Stanton interrupted.
“Billy Bell, our Negro doorman, he answered the door, and this huge man said something about having medicine—“
“What do you know about this doorman?” Stanton interrupted again. “Has he been in the household long?”
“For God’s sake, let the girl finish,” Welles said with exasperation.
“He said he was from Dr. Verdi,” Fanny continued in a soft, meek voice. “But Dr. Verdi had said nothing to us about more medicine. So Billy tried to tell him to go away but he wouldn’t. Freddie—“
“Who’s Freddie?” Stanton asked. He then remembered Seward’s son Frederick. He attended the afternoon cabinet meeting to represent his father. “Yes, I know, your brother. Go ahead.”
“Freddie heard the commotion and came out of papa’s room to find this man grappling with Billy and forcing his way upstairs.” Fanny paused to put her handkerchief to her wet eyes and look at Welles.
Welles put his large arms around her shoulders. “There, there. You’re doing just fine.”
“The man insisted on seeing papa in person, but Freddie said he was asleep. Then I came out of the room, not knowing what was going on, and said papa was awake and wanted to see Freddie.”
Stanton could not control his asthma any longer. He emitted a long and loud cough. As he wiped his mouth he mumbled, “Well, go on, go on.”
“Then this man pushed passed us all and rushed into papa’s room. It was awful.”
“Both Seward boys, Frederick and Augustus, were stabbed as was a male army nurse and the State Department messenger here on the floor,” Welles filled in as Fanny broke down weeping.
“If I hadn’t opened the door right at that moment the man would have never gotten in. It was all my fault.”
“My dear, this man was insane.” Compassion filled Welles’s voice. “From what all the servants told me, he was a monster with the strength of ten men. Nothing could have stopped him from his foul deed.” Welles glanced at the Secretary of War. “Tell her, Mr. Stanton. It wasn’t her fault.”
Stanton grunted, but he was not interested in Fanny or her story any longer. His attention went to the third floor. Stanton walked up, at first putting his hand on the banister but removing it quickly when his fingers felt a moist tackiness. His nostrils flared with the acrid smell of blood. Stanton looked down to see the banister smeared with blood, now turning a dark brown. When he reached the third floor, he saw Frederick Seward sitting on the floor in a daze, blood flowing from his head. His brother Augustus stood by his side nursing three gashes in his arm. Stanton ignored them and marched into Seward’s bedroom. The male nurse, who had bandages on his neck and head, attended the doctor who bent over the bed. At first, Stanton thought they were just looking at a bundle of bloody sheets until he saw Seward’s head, framed by a leather brace. As Stanton focused on the face, he noticed Seward’s teeth and jawbone exposed through the sagging, slashed cheek.
When Stanton leaned over the bed, Seward’s eyes focused on him. “What have you done?” he whispered.
“Did you recognize the man who attacked you?” Stanton ignored Seward’s question.
“What have you done?”
“Did he say anything to you?” Stanton spoke in a louder voice.
The doctor tugged his arm. “Do this questioning elsewhere, at another time. We have people bleeding to death here!”
“Do you know who I am?” Stanton asked with indignation.
“I don’t give a damn who you are,” the doctor growled. “Get the hell out of here!”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Five

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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.
Now he belongs to the ages.”
Yes, that was what Secretary of War Edwin Stanton would say to the waiting crowd of reporters when he announced the death of President Abraham Lincoln. It had dignity and gravitas; it would do nicely. Stanton repeated it in his mind as he tried to drift off to sleep for a few moments at his home on K Street, just blocks from the Executive Mansion. His wife, Ellen, was already asleep, breathing in a soft, easy rhythm.
For the first time in more than two years, Stanton was able to relax. But sleep was harder. He sighed, thinking back to his decision to place Lincoln under guard in the Executive Mansion basement in September 1862. After a summer of disastrous defeats for the Union army, Stanton concluded that the fate of the country had to be wrested from the bumbling fool who sat in the president’s office. Under Stanton’s firm leadership—through the guise of the Lincoln double he had installed upstairs—the war would be over by Christmas.
However, Christmas came and went, and yet the war still waged on. Soon Stanton found himself going to the basement to ask Lincoln’s advice on which general to appoint to lead the Army of the Potomac and what strategies to pursue. It was humiliating. Stanton found himself under stress. The war shook his once mighty self-confidence. He had created a terrible quagmire because of his arrogance, and he did not know how to get out of it. The end of the war finally, inexorably came, and Stanton faced the impossible question of what to do with Lincoln now.
Things had a way of working themselves out, he told himself as he nestled down into his pillow. All Stanton had to do was exert pressure on the soldier who had murdered the butler and the young man capitulated, agreeing to find assassins to kill Lincoln, Vice-President Andrew Johnson and Secretary of State William Seward. Stanton’s bagman Baker killed the impersonators and the soldier. The mob would take care of the assassins. It was a plan; it was clean; and it was coming to fruition.
Once Baker dispatched the duplicate Lincolns and the Vice-President, U.S. Rep. Schuyler Colfax, speaker of the House, would be sworn in as president. Colfax was a simpleton, Stanton reasoned, and Stanton could easily manipulate him as he had the Lincoln impostor. His entire misbegotten attempt to control the outcome of the Civil War would remain a secret throughout the ages. Of this he could be sure. Stanton sighed.
Stanton had never felt in control of his life. Asthma gripped his body as a child and would not let go. His parents, devout Methodists, prayed over him, and he miraculously survived. Stanton was painfully aware that some dark, outside force made all the decisions. Death hovered over him. Because so many people in his life died, Stanton had a roiling anger in the pit of his stomach. The list was relentlessly personal—his father, his first sweetheart, his first wife, his two children and any dreams of being respected as a leader of his country.
Perhaps now he could be in charge of his destiny, he thought, as his eyelids began to feel heavy. A sudden rap at the downstairs door jarred him back to consciousness. From downstairs, Stanton heard faint mumblings at the door. His butler talked to someone who was urgent in his message. Stanton heard the butler climb the stairs with dreadful news of assassination.
“What’s going on, dear?” his wife, Ellen, asked, not bothering to roll over.
“I don’t know,” he lied. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
“Very well,” she said, and she drifted back off to sleep.
Stanton got out of bed, put on his slippers and reached for his robe. After he put it on, he brushed his hair back with his hands, reached for his pebble glasses, and placed them on his pocked nose. His first instinct was to go for the door, but he decided it would be more prudent to wait for the butler to come for him. Stanton sat in a nearby padded chair and listened for a light rap at his bedroom door. A smile came to his cupid’s bow lips.
“Yes, what is it?”
“A young man downstairs, sir. Most distressing news. Needs your immediate attention, sir.”
Taking his time, Stanton rose and went to the door. “Distressing news? What is it?”
“I think he should tell you,” the butler said. “Dreadful, dreadful news.”
“Oh, dear.” Stanton went to the front door where a young man in civilian clothing, stood, shivering from the night rain. Stanton recognized him as a family acquaintance, Joe Sterling. “Mr. Sterling, what news do you bring?”
“The President was shot while at the theater. I’m afraid he’s dead, sir,” Sterling said.
“Do you know who shot him?”
“Yes,” the young man replied. “They said it was a man named Booth. He sprang to the stage from the President’s box with a large knife and escaped in the melee.” After a pause Sterling added, “As we were coming to your house, a man informed us that Secretary Seward also has been assassinated, but that may be street rumor and untrue.”
“Oh, that can’t be so. That can’t be so,” Stanton replied, shaking his head mock sadness and sympathy.
Another man appeared on the doorstep. Maj. Norton Chipman from the Bureau of Military Justice asked, “Are you all right, sir? Secretary Seward has been attacked.”
“I heard he was dead.”
“No, brutally stabbed, but he still lives,” Chipman replied.
“Oh.” Stanton paused. “That is good news.” He cleared his throat. “Have you heard about the President?”
“No, sir,” Chipman answered.
Stanton turned to Sterling. “Who told you this news about the president?”
“A policeman, I—I don’t know his name.” The young man stammered.
“Hmm.” Stanton thought about where he should make his first appearance. “This rumor about the President is probably just an exaggeration of an altercation at the theater. I think I shall go to Mr. Seward’s house first with Maj. Chipman.”
“But Mr. Stanton, what about the President?” Sterling insisted.
“That is all,” Stanton dismissed Sterling and turned to the major. “Hold the carriage for me. I’ll be dressed in a moment.”
In the ride over to Seward’s home, Stanton reflected about how much he hated the man, remembering the first cabinet meeting in which the Lincoln double conducted the meeting. Stanton wanted Gen. Ambrose Burnsides to become the next general over the Army of the Potomac. Without previous intimation, Secretary of the Treasury Salmon P. Chase put forth the name of Gen. Joseph Hooker. Attorney Gen. Caleb Smith suggested Gen. John C. Fremont. Seward, with silky insinuation, persuaded the befuddled Lincoln impersonator to stay with Gen. George McClellan instead.
Stanton never knew if Seward knew the man in the White House was an impostor or not. Stanton could be decipher him with ease. That was why he hated Seward. The carriage pulled up in front of Seward’s home bordering Lafayette Park across from the White House. Soldiers surrounded the building.

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 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.

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter One Hundred Three

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(This concludes my novel Lincoln in the Basement. If you enjoyed it, please leave a comment below and use Pay Pal to leave a gratuity to help defray the cost of the blog. Next week I will begin serializing the sequel Booth’s Revenge.)

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter One Hundred Two

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Previously: Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby captive in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. After two years of deceit, love and death, the war is over. Stanton forces Adam into a final conspiracy. Duff holds his last cabinet meeting posing as the president. Duff and Alethia leave on their last carriage ride, never to return.
Stepping inside the Executive Mansion service door, Adam slumped against the kitchen wall as he tried to comprehend what was going to happen to the very amiable couple he had known for the last two-and-a-half years. They had been kind to him, and now he mourned their imminent deaths. Adam shook off his melancholia so he could walk into the billiards room with a smile to help the Lincolns move their possessions back upstairs.
“Praise the Lord. No more chamber pots,” Mrs. Lincoln said in exultation as she finished packing. “Please take down my French lace curtains, Private Christy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who knows what that other woman has done to my room and my finest dresses.”
Adam stiffened momentarily, and he noticed that she had noticed.
“I know.” She touched his arm. “I’m sure she was a very nice lady. And he was a fine gentleman.” Mrs. Lincoln smiled. “Remember, I’m from Kentucky, and we Southern belles must always fuss about something.”
“Molly, time to go,” Lincoln announced.
“Father, we should say good-bye to Mr. Gabby.”
“Of course.”
Turning the corner of the stack of crates and barrels, Adam and the Lincolns found Gabby lying face down on his pallet.
“Mr. Gabby?” Lincoln asked.
“Go away. I’m sad.”
“There’s no need to be sad, Mr. Gabby,” Mrs. Lincoln assured him. “We all can go back to our normal lives.”
“Cordie’s dead. Life can’t be normal without Cordie.”
“As sad as it seems, you will go on without Cordie,” Lincoln added. “You will survive, or you too will die. And I don’t think your sister would want that to happen.”
Mrs. Lincoln gazed up devotedly at her husband, Adam observed, and he had to turn away because the same fate awaited her tonight. She would lose her husband and would have to struggle to survive, just as Gabby was struggling, and just as he was struggling with Jessie’s death. Like Lincoln said, he would learn to live with the grief or allow the grief to kill him.
Kneeling beside Gabby, Mrs. Lincoln patted his shoulder and said, “If all this is too much for you, feel free to stay here a few more days. We won’t mind.”
When he did not respond, Mrs. Lincoln stood to leave. Adam followed them as they went up the service stairs. On the second floor, Tad bounded from his room to fly into his mother’s arms.
“Mama! Papa!” Tad yelled. In a quieter voice he added, “I’m glad you’re back!”
As she caressed his tousled brown hair, Mrs. Lincoln whispered, “I can tell you’ve grown. The woman was good to you.”
“Mrs. Mama was great. And Mr. Papa.” His face darkened a moment. “I hope you don’t mind that I liked them.”
Reaching to touch Tad’s shoulder, Lincoln replied, “No, I’m glad they took good care of you.”
Again, knowing Lincoln was to be assassinated tonight, Adam had to turn his head away so they could not see his eyes clouded with guilt. He knew how it hurt a child to lose a parent. No one would comfort him. No one would listen to him when he said his heart ached. He shook his head. Much more of this emotion, Adam warned himself, and he would go mad.
“Let’s play games tonight!” Tad beamed.
“We can’t, dear,” Mrs. Lincoln replied. “Mr. Stanton arranged for us to go the theater to see Miss Laura Keene’s farewell performance.”
“Oh, him.” Tad pulled away from his mother. “Don’t go. I don’t trust him.” He went to his father. “Stay home with me and play games. Then send for that old Mr. Stanton to come here at midnight in his nightshirt. And fire him, right there at midnight in his nightshirt.”
Breathing deeply, Adam bit his lip in hopes that Lincoln would do exactly what his son asked. He could save his own life by removing Stanton from all power. His heart raced. The thought of Lincoln firing the war secretary gave him hope again.
“No, son, we have to go.”
Tad fell against his father’s flat belly and sighed.
“That’s all right.” Mrs. Lincoln turned to her bedroom. “The public expects us to attend. I wonder if I have anything decent to wear.”
“Papa?”
“Your mama hasn’t been out in one of her fancy dresses in a long time. I can’t deny her.”
“Mr. Papa had a softer belly than you.” Tad leaned against his father. “But he had a soft heart like you.” He looked up to smile. “Tell Mama she has to tell me all about the play tomorrow.”
Adam watched Tad walk back to his room and, as he shut the door, Adam felt his hope die a second time. Another door swung open, causing Adam and Lincoln to turn their heads. Mrs. Lincoln looked radiant, holding a white dress with little pink flowers.
“I found it in the back of the armoire,” she said with delight. “Mrs. Keckley brought it the last week we were here. I never wore it, being in mourning. I’m sure it still fits.” Her tiny fingers ran across the top. “I know it’s rather low-cut, and shows a modest décolletage, but I feel like celebrating.”
“Then celebrate.” Lincoln smiled at her. “By the way, Tad wants you to tell him about the play tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, I’m going to sleep until noon tomorrow.” She paused. “Isn’t it odd that in the basement, when I could sleep all day, I awoke early? And you, Father, who usually rise early, slept all day. Perhaps this means we’re going to be normal again.”
“Yes, normal again,” Lincoln echoed in melancholia.
After she went into her room to dress, Lincoln looked at Adam, who sensed the president had noticed his troubled eyes.
“Don’t worry,” Lincoln assured him. “I don’t blame you.” He turned to his bedroom. “Come with me.” After they entered the bedroom, Lincoln went to his armoire. “I’m not changing suits. I just want my good hat and overcoat.” Putting on the overcoat first, Lincoln looked startled by how large it was on him. “This must belong to the other man. He was larger than me. A dubious distinction, indeed.” He looked at Adam. “Did he really fool everyone?”
“I don’t know.” Adam averted his eyes. “I think he fooled some. Stanton intimidated others into not noticing. A few chose to see only what they wanted to see.”
“He was a good man. He treated my son well.” Lincoln returned his attention to the coat. “This will be a giveaway.” He tossed it on the bed. “I doubt he’ll be back to reclaim it.”
“No, he won’t,” Adam replied in a subdued tone.
“How did this happen?” Lincoln pulled out a worn stovepipe hat and stuck his finger through a hole.
“The man narrowly missed an assassin’s bullet last summer while riding,” Adam explained.
“Mrs. Lincoln would disapprove if I wore that.” He put the hat by the large coat and sat on the bed, motioning to Adam to join him. “You see, when I undertook the labor of running for president and thereby setting in motion the machinery of this war, I knew I’d have to pay the ultimate price for doing the horrible job that had to be done.” He leaned toward Adam to whisper, “Thank you for not saying anything to Molly. Let her have these last few hours of happiness.”
“See, I didn’t gain a pound in that wretched basement.” Mrs. Lincoln appeared, preening in her new white dress.
A knock at the door made Adam jump.
“Your carriage has arrived, Mr. President,” Tom Pendel announced.
“Are you going with us tonight, Private Christy?” Mrs. Lincoln asked.
“No, ma’am. I leave tonight.”
“Nonsense,” she replied. “We’ve no ill will against you. In fact, I’ve grown quite accustomed to you. I’d hate to break in a new adjutant.”
Lincoln looked back and forth between his wife and Adam.
“I do believe, Molly, that this young man has a hankering to go home to Ohio, even though it might cause you personal distress.”
“Oh. Of course. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Pendel knocked again.
“We must be on our way, Mother.” Lincoln retrieved his other overcoat and hat from the armoire.
“Good night, Mr. Pendel,” Lincoln said.
“Good night, sir; madam.”
After they walked down the grand staircase, President and Mrs. Lincoln and Adam went out the door. Adam was taken aback to see the front door guard John Parker standing by the awaiting carriage, already in the early stages of inebriation.
“I don’t like that man,” Mrs. Lincoln whispered to her husband. “He always reeks of whiskey.” She looked up at the cloudy, dark sky. “Oh, dear, it’s raining. My white dress will be ruined by the end of the evening.”
“Think happy thoughts, Mother,” Lincoln said. “The world turns on more than muddy dresses.”
They settled into the carriage while Parker staggered to his seat next to the driver. The Lincolns looked back at Adam.
“Good night, Private Christy,” Mrs. Lincoln chirped.
“Good-bye, young man.”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter One Hundred One

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Lincoln in the Basement Chapter 100

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