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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.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Eighty-Five

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails a mission because of David, better known as the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer is also a spy. MI6 makes them a team. David becomes king. David abdicates, they marry and he becomes Bahamas governor. Leon dies and his son Leon becomes a mercenary and makes friends with Nassau street boy.
By April of 1942, Jessie Donohue’s intrigues to have the Duke and Duchess of Windsor dine at Cielito Lindo had come to fruition. During the great escape of socialites from Europe as Germany invaded France, Jessie gave shelter to Lord Sefton, allowing him to stay at Cielito Lindo until he received orders from the crown. Sefton had been a Lord-in-Waiting to David and remained an ally to the duke after the abdication. She pressed Sefton to inform the Duke of Windsor about the grandeur of Jessie’s winter home. She also suggested to her niece Barbara Hutton to insinuate herself into Wallis’ life.
Now Jessie waited with patience in her drawing room seated in a red velvet tufted arm chair next to her Renaissance fireplace. Patience. A virtue she had developed into a fine art.
She heard a commotion in the entry hall. The Windsors had arrived. Her sons Wooly, now twenty-nine, and Jimmy, now twenty-six, had greeted them. They were both handsome. The older Wooly had no spine and the younger had no morals; however, they practiced the highest form of social graces when necessary.
The first voice to echo down the marbled hall was that of the duke. She had heard it enough in the newsreels to recognize it.
One of the boys must have said something amusing. Probably Jimmy. Wooly didn’t have a sense of humor.
As the hubbub became louder, Jessie pulled out her compact and looked in the mirror. She lifted her left hand to pat her jaw.
If only someone could invent a makeup to create the illusion she had a chin. Too late for that.
She picked up a powder puff and daubed a dark shade of beige under her jaw line. Jimmy’s shrill laughter pierced the air. The duke, duchess and entourage was upon her. Jessie forced her best naïve smile upon her face and stood just as the couple entered the room, as she knew they would one day. Jessie had very good connections.
“My dear Mrs. Donohue,” David announced. “Your son has the most remarkable sense of humor.”
She looked at Jimmy and smiled.
“When I introduced myself as the Duke of Windsor, Wooly replied, ‘I am the duke of Cork’.”
Jessie’s jaw dropped. She had never heard Wooly make a joke in his life.
“Don’t worry,” David added. “I know he was referring to his Irish heritage. How clever.”
She glanced at Jimmy who rolled his eyes. Recovering her sense of decorum, she curtsied first to the duke and then to the duchess. While royal command forbade such a greeting to Wallis, Jessie did it any, just to get on the duchess’ good side.
Hooking her arm around Wallis’ elbow, she led her to French doors to her formal garden.
“I want you to meet my dear friends who will be dining with us today.”
Outside were twenty-five people dressed as though they were about to be presented to the King and Queen. Jessie was pleased to see they had practiced their bows and curtsies.
Footmen, costumed for an Austrian operetta, entered, each with a glass of champagne on small silver trays, one for every single guest. After a respectable amount of time the butler opened another set of French doors on the other side of the garden which led to an Italianate dining room. The footmen attended well to each guest.
Jessie placed David next to her, Wallis next to Jimmy while Wooly was hopelessly lost among the other guests.
“I know you are Anglican so I hope you don’t mind I invited the monsignor of our local diocese to offer the blessing.”
“Of course not,” David replied with smile. “We English haven’t burned a priest at the stake in years.”
Jimmy emitted a ruffian’s guffaw which Jessie found inappropriate; but after all, he was her little Jimmy.
The priest performed a short bland prayer, and the footmen served the salad in small bowls from the eighteenth century. Jessie had just started her salad when she noticed the muscles in David’s jaw flex as he masticated his lettuce. She leaned into him.
“I hope you enjoy the tomatoes,” she whispered. “They are grown locally.”
“Good for you.” David daubed his mouth with a linen napkin before adding, “I urge everyone to buy local produce. It helps stimulate the economy, don’t you think?”
Jessie paused to consider his blue eyes. No matter how much he tried with his pleasant demeanor he could not hide their innate sadness. For the first time in many years, she felt a twinge of romance undulate through her body.
“Oh my God, Mummy!” Jimmy exclaimed. “You should see this brooch on Wallis’s shoulder.” He turned to the duchess and smiled. “You don’t mind if I call you Wallis, do you?”
“Of course not.”
She replied in such a gracious fashion Jessie could not tell if Wallis were being sincere or not. Jessie admired that quality in a woman.
“It’s a flamingo made up of emeralds, rubies diamonds—and what are the blue stones?”
“Sapphires,” Wallis filled in as she raised her napkin to her mouth.
“Mummy, you’d just kill to have this flamingo.” He giggled. “Am I telling too many family secrets?”

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.”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Eighty-Four

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails a mission because of David, better known as the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer is also a spy. MI6 makes them a team. David becomes king. David abdicates, they marry and he becomes Bahamas governor. Leon dies and his son Leon becomes a mercenary.
Sidney didn’t take long to walk the winding road across the hills separating Nassau and the community of black Bahamians. By the time he reached the other side the road was a mere path and the houses reduced to shanties. Dogs roamed the area looking for scraps of food and occasionally fighting when another dog had found a juicy bone. Women sat in their front yards tending huge vats of boiling soapy water to wash their clothes. Wearing his ragged fisherman clothes, he fit in. On the right was an elderly woman stirring a pot of clam chowder with a delicious smell, reminding him of his mother’s cooking. He closed his eyes and thought back to when his mother was alive. He pulled a pence from his pocket and handed it to her. She nodded and filled a soup bowl and handed it to him.
He sat on the ground nearby and closed his eyes again so he could savor the aroma. Sidney pushed the thoughts of his mission from his mind to contemplate whether life in the hills over Nassau might be preferable to the life he was living. His meditation crumbled when he felt another body plop next to him. When Sidney opened his eyes he saw a young man grinning at him.
“I like you,” the boy said. “You’re the only one who has more holes in his clothes than me.”
Sidney cocked his head.
“Don’t mind me. I’m always making bad jokes. I think it’s better to laugh than to cry, don’t you?” When no answer was coming, he stuck out his hand. “They call me Jimbo. Who are you?”
“Sidney.”
“You ain’t from around here. I know all the boys who are scratching out a living. Your parents dead too?”
“Yes.”
“Where you from?”
“Eleuthera.”
“Oh! A Out Islander. You don’t have to worry about food then. You can go fishing.”
“My whole family used to fish,” Sidney offered.
“Did you hear the story about the fisherman who got ate by a shark?” Jimbo asked. “It was years ago.”
“It was my grandfather.” Sidney’s voice was hardly above a whisper.
“Oh.” Jimbo stopped in mid-gulp of chowder. “So that’s why you don’t talk much.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sidney explained. “Fishermen get used to hours of not talking. It takes our minds off business.”
“You talk good. You get to go to school?” Jimbo asked.
“My father taught me.”
“So, he went to school?”
“No, his father taught him.”
“The one who got ate by the shark,” Jimbo whispered as though connecting the dots of Sidney’s story.
“You don’t need a school to learn if you if listen and force your mind open to new things.”
Jimbo patted him on the back. “You need to meet Leonard Greene. You’re as smart as he is.”
Sidney finished his bowl of chowder. “And who is he?”
“He’s the leader of the Burma Road Boys.”
Sidney didn’t say anything but stood to return the bowl to the old woman. He considered how to learn more about the Burma Road Boys without acting too excited. This was his first lead on his mission, and he didn’t want to disappoint the organization.
“Is he the local preacher?” He chose not to sit.
Jimbo stood instead. “He’s more than a preacher.” He looked around as though checking who might be listening in. “Excuse me. I gotta give granny my bowl.”
When he returned, Sidney thought it best to change the subject a bit. “So, the chowder lady is your grandmother?”
“Oh no,” Jimbo replied. “That’s what everybody calls her. I’m like you. No relatives at all.” He motioned to Sidney to walk down the path. “That’s what Leonard Greene is. He’s like everybody’s father and best friend.”
Sidney decided it was best to continue appearing disinterested. “Where do you sleep? I gotta have a place to sleep.”
“A bunch of us boys have tents deep in the woods.” He pointed to the trees. “The bobbies come run us off every now and then to keep the Bay Street Boys happy. But we always find someplace else.”
“Can I sleep in your tent, just for tonight?”
“Sure. You can meet Leonard Greene. He’s holding a rally at our camp at sunset.”
The sun had just disappeared behind the hills when the camp began to fill with black men who gathered around a big fire. A tall man, dressed in a worn business suit, approached the group and gazed into their eyes. His wrinkled face shined with righteous hope.
“Did all of you work hard today?” Greene’s deep voice resonated around the camp and through the trees.
A discontented grumble arose. Sidney was sure they were all saying no.
“No! You may not have earned a single coin but you worked hard! You worked hard staying alive, keeping hope alive, defending your dignity so it’s still alive!
The negative rumble turned positive bit by bit.
“I guess you’ve heard there’s a new boss man down on Bay Street along with the rest of the rich white boys,” Greene began his speech. “It’s called the American Pleasantville Corporation. Don’t that sound nice? Don’t that sound friendly? And it’s going to create a heap of jobs for all you men and boys out there. Don’t that make you happy? They’re going to hire 2,500 of you to build two British air force bases south of Nassau and Grants Town. You know where that is, don’t you?”
A chant rose up. “Burma Road! Burma Road! Burma Road!”
“That’s right!” Greene replied. “The meanest plot of scrub brush God ever did put on this earth! And they’re going to use your muscle, your sweat, your blood to pull those thorn-infested bushes out so they can build a runway for all those pretty airplanes to land.” He paused to wipe his brow with his handkerchief. “But you don’t mind that, do you? You’re proud you can work hard, ain’t you? That scrub brush ain’t nothing to you, right?”
“Right! Right! Right!”
“But what they’re not going to tell you is that they’re going to pay you only part of what white men get for the same work! And the light-colored folks, who happen to have a white daddy and a black mama, they’re going to be paid more than you!”
“No! No! No!”
“You know the pretty pink building downtown where the government is run? It’s the representatives in that building who decide it’s all right to pay black folks less. And who elects those representatives? The white folks, not you!”
“Not me! Not me! Not me!”
“And why is that? Aren’t all men supposed to vote?”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“So why can’t I vote?” Greene pounded his chest. “Just because I’m black! I’se a man too!”
“I’se a man! I’se a man! I’se a man!”
Sidney, not understanding why, joined in.
“I’se a man!”

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.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Eighty-Three

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails a mission because of David, better known as the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer is also a spy. MI6 makes them a team. David becomes king. David abdicates, they marry and he becomes Bahamas governor. The Donohues scheme to meet David and Wallis.
Sidney walked into the secret room of his father’s bedroom closet in their home on Eleuthera. He wondered which weapon to take with him to the meeting of the Burma Road Boys in Nassau tonight. The organization had given him the mission of infiltrating disgruntled black laborers who, according to the whispers on the streets, were up to no good. Sidney’s long slender ebony fingers glided across a collection of various makes of revolvers but in due course pulled his hand away. He was there to observe not obstruct. Anyway, he was among his own people. He felt safe. He also felt like a traitor.
This mercenary business is more complicated than I thought.
To take his mind off the moral dilemma facing him, Sidney went across the room, thinking he would need money to feed himself and to pay for a bed, since the meeting would last late into the night and he didn’t want to cross back to Eleuthera in the darkness. On another table was his father’s treasure trove chest, filled with cold gold coins, pound sterling, half crowns and pence. Then there were bank certificates. His father Leon did not like depositing money into a bank which might create a trail leading back to him. But would it not be just as incriminating if the authorities found all this money in a house on poor Out Islander Eleuthera, Sidney wondered. He shook his head. That was a problem for another day. He grabbed a handful of coins and left the room. Sidney still couldn’t make himself spend the night in the bed where his parents slept.
Going down the hall to his own room, Sidney changed from his beachcomber wear to his old fishing clothes filled with holes and still smelled of fish guts. As he pulled up the pants he frowned. He wasn’t aware of it, but his thighs had thickened. He was becoming a man.
The sun was still high in the sky as he walked down the lane to the rickety old pier. People smiled and waved. The fat boy who once teased him for sounding like a girl—and received in turn a bloody nose—took off his hat and bowed. The community didn’t know exactly why, but Sidney had become a man to be feared and respected.
“All aboard!” Jinglepockets hollered as Sidney walked across the pier.
With ease the young man jumped on board and collapsed on a coil of ropes.
“What a wonderful day for a leisurely trip to Nassau. Not a care in the world.” Jinglepockets winked at him.
They had lost sight of land when Sidney cleared his throat and tried to start a casual conversation.
“You go to Nassau quite a bit, don’t you, Jinglepockets?”
“That’s where they pay the most for the fishes, yes.” He looked at Sidney and smiled. “And you’re not the only one who uses me as a water taxi to the big city.”
Sidney chose his words with care. “Do you ever hear scuttlebutt on the dock?”
“Oh sure. I hear all sorts of things. But a wise man knows when to just hear and when to listen. A man like your papa Leon should have told you that years ago.”
Sidney laughed and stayed quiet until the docks of Nassau appeared on the horizon.
“Okay.” Jinglepockets kept his eyes to the sea. “What is it you want to know?”
“Have you heard of Burma Road?” His mouth went dry.
“Everybody knows about Burma Road,” Jinglepockets started like he had a big yarn to tell. “It ain’t no road at all. It’s a big stretch of scrub brush on the south side of the island. The English who been to Asia say it reminded them of the part of Burma where they built a road one time. Toughest bunch of brush they ever did clear. So they call the land on the south end of the island Burma Road.”
“Oh, I’d heard of it too,” Sidney chimed in. “I just wanted to know what it was and why people were talking about it all the time.”
“The government is interested in it,” the old man told him. “Why, I don’t know and I don’t want to know. You live much longer if you don’t ask questions.”
The fishing boat hit the dock, and Jinglepockets jumped out to tie it up to the mooring. Sidney joined him, stood close and whispered, “Who are these Burma Road Boys?”
“Oh, you don’t want to mess with them.”
“Where are they?”
Jinglepockets nodded toward a low ridge of hills to the north. “Over there, where the poor folks live.”
“Can I get a place to sleep over there for the night and something to eat?”
“Folks gotta eat and sleep. I imagine if you got the money you can get just about anything you want over there.” He grabbed Sidney’s wrist. “Don’t flash those gold coins around. It won’t be healthy.”
Sidney smiled. “Oh, I save those for you, Jinglepockets.”
“Listen, boy, this is serious. I’ve known three generations of your family. Your grandpa was a good man. Your papa was a good man. If you live long enough you’ll be a good man.”
A shadow flew across Sidney then he grinned. “My papa taught me how to take care of myself.” He slipped a gold coin into the old man’s palm. “Be here in the morning to pick me up and I’ll have another coin for you.”
As he turned to walk away, Sidney heard Jinglepockets yell at him. “You be careful! I’m serious. I want my gold coin!”

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.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Eighty-Two

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails a mission because of David, better known as the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer is also a spy. MI6 makes them a team. David becomes king. David abdicates, they marry and he becomes Bahamas governor. David and Wallis meet the wheeler dealers over dinner.
Jessie Donohue lounged in her bed past ten o’clock one Sunday morning in December of 1940, which was her usual routine while wintering in Miami. She found, however, waking with a headache and aching arches were becoming the norm for her. Jessie realized she could not remain out after midnight at her favorite haunts drinking and dancing without some physical repercussion. But she so hated missing out on the best society gossip which usually slipped out of drunken lips in the wee hours of the morning.
Reaching over for her silver case on her night stand, Jessie took a cigarette out and lit it. She wondered where that girl with the unpronounceable name was with her breakfast tray and morning edition of the Miami Herald.
Where is that girl? If I could remember her name I’d have her fired.
Just then the door opened but instead of the girl entering with her tray it was her darling son Jimmy, with his usual twinkle in his eyes.
“Here’s your breakfast and newspaper, Mummy,” he announced.
“Oh, I’m so glad it’s you. What happened after I left the party last night?”
Jimmy adjusted the tray over her lap, took the tea rose from his lapel and placed it in her graying thick hair.
“Something quite unusual.” He pecked her on the cheek and then plopped into an upholstered chair next to her bed, throwing one leg over the arm of the chair. “I came straight home to you Mummy instead of with the handsome busboy.”
“Oh, that reminds me I’m quite cross with you.” Jessie sipped her coffee. “It’s cold. Even that awful girl, what’s-her-name, brings me hot coffee.”
Jimmy smiled with a glint of the devil in his eyes. “I was afraid you’d throw the hot coffee at me. You were in such a tizzy last night.”
“As well as I should have been.” She bit into her toast which was slathered with orange marmalade. “Imagine my horror to have Lord Beaverbrook stagger up to my table—of course, he had four or five too many martinis—“
“More like six or seven, but go on.” Jimmy rolled his eyes. “You remember I was right there and heard the whole thing.”
“That’s why I’m telling it to you again.” His mother sniffed. “It’s part of your punishment. Anyway, Beaverbrook, full in his cups, said Lord Mountbatten had told him about your little dinner party for his nephew the Marquess of Milford Haven.”
By this time both of Jimmy’s legs were over one arm of the chair and his head lolled back over the other. “Oh, it was just a joke for goodness sake. Haven is as dull as dish water. The tweedy type you know. I thought he needed something to loosen him up.”
“Imagine, a marquess of the British Empire having luncheon with a roomful of prostitutes.”
Jimmy lifted his head. “They were all very pretty prostitutes. Six boys and six girls who looked like they could have posed for Harper’s Bazaar.”
Jessie wiped a bit of marmalade from the corner of her mouth. “And then you asked him if he wanted to see my collection of bronzes. I’ve never had the least bit of interest in bronzes.”
“You wouldn’t have liked these either.” Jimmy laughed. “When Haven opened the door he saw six men covered in bronze paint posing like they were Greeks.”
Jessie picked up the newspaper, threw aside the news and sports sections to go straight to the society columns in the women’s pages. “Thank goodness Louis Mountbatten has a good sense of humor. He’s a bit of an odd duck himself.”
“So what’s all the fuss?” Jimmy faked a yawn.
“The point is that I had to pretend like I didn’t understand a thing Beaverbrook was saying. You know I don’t care what your predilections are, but they are illegal, and if you ever get into real trouble I’ll have to pretend I didn’t know anything about it.”
“I guess Wooly’s philandering with women is perfectly all right.” Jimmy curled up in a peevish fetal position.
“Your brother Wooly, when he knocked up a girl, had the decency to marry the girl, pay for the abortion and then divorce her.”
“Is that what decency amounts to these days?” Jimmy replied with a sneer. “I’d rather be indecent.”
Jessie without warning sat up in bed as she focused on a particular gossip item. “Shut up. Now this is something really important.”
Jimmy went completely prone in the chair as though he were in a coffin ready to be viewed. “Oh no. If it’s about another one of those tweedy types from England I’ll die.”
“Forget the tweeds. It’s the Windsors.”
“I told you I’m not accompanying you to Nassau. The Bahamas bore me to tears.”
“No, no. They are coming here. Wallis has an impacted wisdom tooth.”
“Is that all?”
“It’s worse than that. The tooth is infected, and the infection has spread to her jaw. She’s coming to Miami for surgery.” She lowered her newspaper for a moment. “I hope they don’t have to remove part of her jaw. It would ruin her looks.”
“I didn’t think she had any looks to ruin,” Jimmy sniped.
“A disfigured Wallis won’t help me break into the Four Hundred,” she murmured.
“Mummy, you have more money than all of the Four Hundred combined. What do you care if they don’t want to be around you? They’re the ones who should be groveling—“
“I don’t grovel,” Jessie snapped. “But a Duchess of Windsor turning into Quasimodo won’t help.” She shook her head. “I must stay positive that the operation will be a success. I can’t control the surgery but I can control how she is greeted when their boat lands.”
Putting her newspaper aside, Jessie stared at her son. “Straighten up. I have a job for you.”
Jimmy sat aright in the chair, but his drooping eyelids revealed he wasn’t happy about it.
“I want you to contact all your friends on the Miami party circuit and tell them to be on the pier when the Windsors land. Encourage them to bring as many people as possible, even if they have to bring all their maids and lawn attendants. Get all your special friends to participate, even those busboys.”
He leaned forward. “This is beginning to sound like fun.”
“Have the street lined all the way to St. Francis Hospital. Order tons of flowers for her hospital room. Put a different name on each bouquet. Plant positive articles in the newspaper columns about them. When they think of Miami I want them to smile.”
“Do you want me to wheedle you an invitation to visit her in her room?”
Jessie shook her head. “No, no. Too soon. Have the biggest flower arrangement sent from us. But we must respect their privacy on this first trip to Miami. Then we wait.”
“You love to wait.”
“Yes, then we wait until they decide to visit friendly Miami on a pleasant holiday. At that time, and not before, we will issue the invitation for them to stay at Cielito Lindo.”

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!”