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David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Eighty-One

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. His son Sidney mourns his death but joins the ‘organization’.
On the boat trip from Nassau the next morning to Eleuthera after the dinner party at Harry Oakes’ mansion, Sidney sat in contemplation as he watched Jinglepockets steer his fishing boat with one hand in his pockets tickling coins with his fingers. After long thought, Sidney broke the silence.
“You have taught me well, Jinglepockets.”
“You have learned well.” The old man kept his eyes straight ahead. “Which, in the long run, is more important.”
Moments passed before Sidney whispered, “You know, I have to leave now.”
“Yes, I know.” Jinglepockets’ voice was serene. “Just like your father left Joe.”
“My father loved Joe. He had nothing but good things to say about him.”
Jinglepockets glanced over his shoulder. ”Then you don’t know the story.”
“What story?” Sidney leaned forward.
The Eleuthera coast began to peek over the horizon.
“After your father began taking his long mysterious trips, Joe continued to give him free boat rides back home. One time you father stepped onto the pier and tossed a gold coin to Joe and smiled.”
“That was a nice thing to do, wasn’t it?” Sidney scrunched up his face. He didn’t understand what Jinglepockets was trying to say.
“Less than a week later Joe took to his bed and died.”
“What did he die of?”
“Heartbreak.”
“Heartbreak? Are you saying my father giving Joe a gold coin killed him? I think my father did a good thing, to show his gratitude for all Joe had done for him.”
Jinglepockets looked straight ahead. “How do you put a price on years of friendship? One gold coin equals years of loving someone as family?”
“But my father said you must fill the bellies of your family.” Sidney began to feel defensive for Leon.
“Yes, you fill their bellies because they are family and you love them, not pay them off like they were a servant.”
The pier appeared closer and closer.
“This I must think about for a long time,” Sidney whispered.
Jinglepockets laughed. “Don’t think too hard on it. Your father was a young man. Like you. In many ways still a child. And Joe was a proud man. Perhaps too proud.” He tied up the boat when they reached the pier. Giving Sidney a hand onto land, Jinglepockets smiled.
“Me? I like to hear the sound of coins clanging against each other too much. So when you come home after you become a rich man like your father, feel free to toss a gold coin or two my way. Each member of the family is different. Just remember old Uncle Jinglepockets is just a little bit greedy.”
When Sidney arrived at his family home, he noticed the dead plant was askew in its pot by the front gate.
What? Another assignment so soon? Now I understand how my father felt.
Sidney lifted the pot to find a note.
“I’m waiting on the beach behind your house.”
When he walked around the wall Sidney saw her, the blonde who had broken into his home and who had introduced him to the world of the organization. She lay prone on a beach towel wearing a tight red swimsuit.
Sidney sauntered down the sands to the edge of the shore and plopped next to her. He was not sure whether he liked her or not. He didn’t like people who didn’t introduce themselves as etiquette dictated. She slipped an envelope toward him.
“This is for last night. Don’t look at it but just put it in your pocket.”
Sidney did as he told. He watched the Atlantic waves. “You’ve never told me your name.”
“And I’m not going to.”
“Why not? You know my name.” He felt himself becoming peevish.
“That’s because you’re below me on the ladder of the organization—several rungs below. So take my advice. Do what you’re told and you’ll get paid.”
“Did my father know your name?”
“There you go asking questions again. That’s not good for your health.” She leaned back to feel the sun on her face.
She’s older than she tries to look. She must have joined the organization when she was very young, just like me.”
“So how did the job go last night?” she asked.
“The two men were fat, old, loud and talked with their mouths full.”
She smiled and looked at him with condescension. “And I suppose you have perfect table manners, being from Eleuthera.”
“Yes, I do.” His answer came quick. “My father slapped me upside the head if I talked with food in my mouth. He knew I would have to blend into society if I were to become a mercenary.”
“That’s such an ugly word, mercenary.” She returned her gaze to the water. “You’re an independent businessman dealing in making things—unpleasant things—happened. So enough small talk. What did you think of the other guests?”
“I think I liked this count. I can’t remember his name…”
“Alfred de Merigny. Memorize it. He’s important. Why did you like him?”
“Because he had the courage to ridicule the old men.”
“And the duke and duchess, what did you think of them?”
“The duke was brave too. He asked very pointed questions about the casino and the race problem in Nassau. Both the old men fumbled their answers.”
“And the duchess?”
“She was the only one who noticed me,” Sidney replied. “She acted like she had met me before. Maybe she had encountered my father somewhere.”
‘Yes, maybe.” She looked in her beach bag. “Do you have any cigarettes?”
“I’m only sixteen.”
The blonde laughed. “That doesn’t make any difference.”
“I’m not going to smoke.” It was a solemn pronouncement.
“That’s what you say now.” Derision tinged her voice.
“I saw what smoking did to my father. By the time he died I could outrun him.”
“You can’t outrun a bullet.”
Sidney considered the remark heartless. “Then you are not a true mercenary.”
He watched her eyes narrow into little slits.
“Did they talk about the Burma Road boys?”
“And the Bay Street boys as well.”
“Your mission has slightly changed.” Her voice hardened. “We want you to infiltrate the Burma Road boys. This will be very tricky. Mostly we want to know what they are thinking. You will have to become friends with them, a confidante. But ultimately you have to deter them anyway you can from a political uprising. Riots will destabilize the region. We are in agreement with the British Empire on this one point. We want the Bahamas to remain a safe haven for our activities. Also, the Duke of Windsor may try something stupid, like being a hero on the street and catch a stray bullet. This ties into your original assignment.
“Of course.”
“You have no qualms betraying your own kind?” The blonde raised a plucked eyebrow.
Sidney had not thought of that dilemma. He would have to think about it, so he decided on evasion for now.
“The organization is my own kind.”

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.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Eighty

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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 and they marry. Leon dies. His son Sidney mourns his death but joins the ‘organization’. MI6 describes their duties in the Bahamas.
Wallis had a headache. If she had not escaped the reconstruction dust at the Government House she knew her head would explode. Her throbbing temples had not abated as she sat at the dining table at Westbourne House in the posh Cable Beach section of Nassau.
Both the host Harry Oakes and his business partner and personal chum Harold Christie smoked large cigars. During the infrequent times they placed their smokes in the ash trays by their plates, they shoved a large bite of roast beef into their mouths, and carried on a conversation while chewing. Wallis was amazed they didn’t choke to death. At the same time, however, her stomach felt queasy.
On one side of her at the table was Oakes’ young wife Eunice who was charming and educated but ultimately boring. For one thing, Wallis did not approve of Eunice’s choice of dark mahogany paneling throughout the house. At least there weren’t any dead animal heads on the walls.
“The grandest thing about Harry being named a baronet was that it increased my chances of meeting a movie star,” Eunice announced in a sweet simpleton voice. “Many people have mentioned to me Nancy looks like Katharine Hepburn.”
Wallis forced a tightly slit smile while glancing at Nancy sitting on the other side of Count Alfred de Merigny.
I met Miss Hepburn and didn’t think much of her appearance at all.
“I especially love English leading men.” Eunice’s eyes twinkled.
“Well,” Wallis replied with a dry enthusiasm, “I hope you meet a star, very soon.”
The duchess turned to the person on the other side of her, Count de Merigny. He was tall, gaunt and almost cadaverous. All these features would make him look dead but the fact he possessed the deepest tan Wallis had ever seen on a man.
“Count, I understand you met the Oakes through your hobby of yachting.” She smiled again. “I wish David and I were able to partake in such a charming pastime, but we’re too busy attending to the affairs of state here in the Bahamas.”
“Yes, we are very fortunate to have two such international luminaries governing us.”
Merigny’s voice startled Wallis. The deep, rich baritone reeked of an accent from some small country hidden in the mountains of Western Europe.
“And you are a very close friend of Nancy.” She paused and looked at Nancy sitting on the other side of the count. “You don’t mind my talking about you to the count, do you?”
“Why, of course not.” The girl giggled.
“Good.” Wallis narrowed her eyes as she returned her focus to Merigny. “She’s very young, isn’t she?”
“Yes, very inspiring to a person approaching middle age, such as I.”
My dear Count, I think you have finished approaching middle age and have arrived at the station with all your baggage. She briefly considered saying it aloud but prudence ruled the moment.
Before Wallis could say another word, David spoke with a genial grace which she knew he used when prying for information.
“Sir Harry, I must commend on your estate,” David smiled so hard his dimples burst out in all their glory. “It reminds me of my own estate in England, Fort Belvedere.”
What a lie. Wallis restrained herself from guffawing. Belvedere was tastefully decorated. Besides that, it wasn’t even his estate anymore.
“Why, thank you, Your Highness.” Oakes had just swallowed a chunk of beef, sparing his guests from seeing it go down his gullet. “Coming from you that is high praise indeed.”
“And your casino, the Rialto, is an equally successful architectural wonder,” David continued.
Uh oh, here it comes. Wallis tapped her mouth with her napkin and returned it to her lap. As they unpacked before dinner, David set forth his ideas about the Rialto’s gambling operation. Oakes was using it to launder money. It was up to us to find out if it were for the Nazis, mob or the organization.
“The Rialto is not a casino,” Christie, with firm hospitality, corrected him. “Casinos are strictly forbidden in the Bahamas.”
“I have embarrassed myself.” David chuckled. “I am so fortunate to have two such esteemed citizens to guide me in my new duties as governor.”
“The Rialto is a high-class supper club. We have a ballroom with a range of top dance bands from around the world performing there.”
“I’m hoping Daddy will book Frank Sinatra.” Nancy twittered. “He’s so dreamy.”
Harry ignored his daughter. “And our restaurant is well known throughout the Caribbean for its cuisine and the views from our terrace.”
“And don’t forget our theater on the top floor.” Harold blew a ring of smoke from his cigar. “We’ve got dance girls that make them Follies Bergere dames look like slobs.”
“I’m sure they do,” Wallis murmured which made Marigny laughed.
“I have no doubt, but Wallis and I were there a couple of nights ago and passed through what was labeled as ‘The Lounge’ where people were undeniably playing blackjack with dealers who were attractive young ladies seductively dressed in tuxedo tops only.”
Oakes shrugged. “The Lounge was designed to give customers the opportunity to have a beverage and smoke while discussing intellectual topics with their friends without distraction.”
“But everyone was at a table playing poker, and I saw money being exchanged,” David persisted.
“Ah!” Christie bellowed smoke from his mouth like a backfire from a large delivery truck. “There’s a difference. In a casino they use chips and cash them in through the business where the gambling occurs.”
“Then you admit there is gambling on the premises.” David leaned back and smiled.
He sounds like a lawyer. Wallis licked her lips. Some of the most fascinating men I ever met were lawyers.
“Well, gentlemen are allowed their vices, aren’t they?” Christie’s eye brows lifted lazily, as though he were giving the hundredth performance of the same play. “For example, if Harry and I were sitting in the lounge swirling our warm brandy, we could have a bit of fun wagering on the color of the dress on the next dame to come through the door. I say red and Harry here says blue and, bam, a lady in red enters. So Harry pays off his debt. Nobody’s business but ours.”
Merigny leaned forward with a very wicked turn of the lips exposed beneath his mustache. “So that’s why I can’t get a free martini during a game.”
Nancy frowned and shook her head. “Alfred, please. You promised to behave tonight.”
“That’s right, Alfred.” Harry forced a laugh. “Stop trying to get free drinks at my place, dammit.”
Nervousness made Eunice erupt into giggles. “Perhaps we could move on to a different topic of conversation.”
“My apologies.” David nodded to his hostess. “I know England can be quite priggish about things like this, but Wallis and I have lived in France the last few years and have noticed, well….”
“A dirty, stinking business, ain’t it?” Harry shoved mashed potatoes into his mouth. “When you went to the Rialto I’m sure you and the Duchess noticed some colored folks eating dinner.”
“Frankly, no.” Wallis stared at Harry with no regrets.
“Must have been a slow night,” Harold interjected.
“Our point is that if the colored person can pay our prices and dress up nice, why we don’t mind taking their money,” Harry explained.
“Like a white linen suit.” I don’t know why I said that. Perhaps it was the man on the Tanganyika Express who saved my life.
“Yeah, sure.” Harold puffed on his cigar. “Them colored like those suits. But they have to have money to buy them. We ain’t running no charity here.”
“Is that the general opinion of the Bay Street Boys?” David asked.
Uh oh, another touchy subject. Wallis ran her tongue across her teeth to ensure no lipstick had stuck to them. During his briefing Greene informed us that the Bay Street Boys’ practice of underpaying the natives might undermine the economic and social balance in the region.
Harold threw his napkin down on his plate. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Duke; but yes, I’m proud of being a Bay Street Boy. And so is my buddy Harry here.”
“Nothing thrills me so much as a man who is proud of being who he is,” Wallis added in a subdued tone.
Caught off guard, Harold displayed what might be interpreted as an honest expression on his face. “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate that.”
My God, he took it was a compliment. How stupid could he be?”
“And what is it they call the black men who sweat for slave wages around here?” Merigny’s eyes twinkled. “Ah yes. The Burma Road Boys.”
“Alfred! I don’t know why you want to upset Daddy that way!” Nancy huffed.
Eunice was almost in tears. “I think it’s time for coffee.” She turned her head and called out, “Sidney!”
A young black man in a white servant’s jacket appeared with a tray of coffee cups. He went to Wallis first.
“Would you care for coffee, madame?”
She looked up at the servant to reply but stopped, her mouth agape.
Except for an age difference, this boy looked like the man in a white linen suit I met on the Tanganyika Express. I know it’s been several years but I never forget the face of a man who saved my life.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Four

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

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Seventy-Nine

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on 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 and they marry. Leon dies. His son Sidney mourns his death but is approached to join the organization.
Before David and Wallis had settled in the Government House on a high hill overlooking Nassau, they noticed the wall cracks left unrepaired by the previous governor. Soon they found the reason for the cracks—termites. Also they decided the furniture wasn’t up to the standards of British royalty.
Within a week a team of contractors invaded the residence, each concentrating on a different problem area. One of them dressed in overalls and a hard hat linked arms with the Windsors to lead them out to the swimming pool filled with debris.
“We should have privacy out here,” the contractor whispered.
David squinted. “And who, exactly, are you?”
Wallis lifted the man’s hat and smiled. “This is Gerry Greene, the young man who recruited me into MI6. Well, not so young any more, but much more fascinating.”
“Where’s the general?” David felt a twinge of jealousy at Wallis’ attention to the agent. None of this was supposed to be for real.
“General Trotter has retired.” Greene smiled. “And he’s moved to somewhere we’ll never find him.”
David knocked twigs off three lawn chairs and motioned to the others to sit.
“The last time we spoke to General Trotter,” David began, “he informed us we were ordered to the Bahamas to determine exactly who this Harry Oates—“
“Oakes.” Wallis touched his arm.
David was disturbed he enjoyed her correction too much. He winked at her. “Thank you, darling. We don’t know who he’s in bed with.”
“Well,” Greene relied, “you’ll be up close and personal with him very soon.”
“What?” Wallis’s eyes widened.
“The Oakes family has graciously extended an invitation for you to stay at their estate Westbourne, one of the most exclusive Nassau neighborhoods, while the renovations are being done on the Government House.”
“I don’t remember making that request.” David frowned.
“I did,” Greene replied, “on your behalf.”
“How kind of you.” Wallis smirked.
“Harry’s quite a boor,” Greene continued. “Evidently he bought himself the title of baronet, so he’s Sir Harry. When he’s overly excited he slips into this rough American accent.”
“I do that myself sometimes,” Wallis observed.
“He does have a charming family. His wife Eunice is half his age. She has all the social graces. She usually summers at the family home in Bar Harbour, Maine. When she learned she would be hosting the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, she flew back immediately with her a lovely sixteen-year-old daughter Nancy. Nancy’s supposed to look like that Hollywood star—oh, what is her name, ah yes, Katharine Hepburn.”
“I met Katharine Hepburn once, when I lived in California with my first husband—“
“Please, dear, no one cares.” David was delighted that he was able to get even for her correction of his pronunciation of Oakes’ name.
“She’s thought to have inherited her father’s devil-may-care attitude.” Greene, used to be interrupted on a regular basis, carried on with typical British aplomb. “When Nancy is in town, she’s been seen with the yachting crowd, particularly in the company of a much older man, Count Alfred de Marigny who gained his fortune through a couple of quick but profitable marriages with heiresses.”
“My kind of guy,” Wallis murmured.
“We’re not sure if he’s in love with the delightful Nancy or her father’s millions. He also has a reputation for his close friendships with members of the Nazi Party.”
“He’s not going to try to kidnap us, is he?” Wallis asked.
David considered her tone to being in mocking apprehension, but sometimes he couldn’t tell when she was serious or not. What concerned him most was that he found that aspect of her personality erotically provocative.
“Oh no. I think Hitler’s given up on that idea and has resigned himself to putting you two on the throne when—as he said—Germany wins the war.”
“Ooh, the crown jewels,” Wallis cooed.
This time David knew she was joking and let out a slight laugh. “Please dear, Mr. Greene doesn’t know that you’re just kidding.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are,” Greene replied with confidence. “After all, the duke here has already bought you jewelry that cost more than the crown jewels. Besides I know for a fact you had your hands on the crown jewels once and you returned them like a good MI6 agent should.”
“Worst decision of my life.” She cackled.
“Very clever but we must stay on topic,” Greene continued. “Our main concern with Harry is his ownership of the Rialto, a renowned restaurant, dance club and musical revue agenda. It also has a casino, which is strictly illegal in the Bahamas. Every time the authorities ask him about it, he acts surprised and says if people want to use the tables in the Rialto lounge for a friendly game of poker, who is he to say no. The authorities point out the female blackjack dealers, all wear similar tuxedo jackets with no pants. Harry just nods and says, ‘Yes, they are lovely, aren’t they? I don’t know where they come from’. “
“And you believe that crap?” Wallis lit a cigarette.
“They’ve spent years trying to find a paper trail connecting the casino operation to Oakes, and it isn’t there.” Greene shrugged.
“That sounds pretty smart.” Wallis blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth. “I thought Harry was supposed to be stupid.”
“He is,” Greene replied. “But he has this partner Harold Christie who is the brains of the operation. The problem with Christie is that he has relationships with Meyer Lansky and the rest of the mob.”
David leaned forward. “What about the organization?”
“Oh, I don’t think we have to worry about them. They’re strictly for-hire thugs.”
“So we do have to worry about who hires them,” David pressed.
“That’s our main concern. “ Greene nodded. “Who is Harry working for? And what do they want?”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Three

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

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Seventy-Eight

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on 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 and they marry. Leon dies. His son Sidney mourns his death but must defend himself against assassins.
Aline awoke early the next morning, anticipating a report from the three dock workers whom she had hired to kill Sidney Johnson in his Eleuthera home last night. All of them were dumb as rocks, but how could they have a problem killing one sixteen-year-old boy who was probably in his bedroom crying himself to sleep because both of his parents were dead? She walked down to the dock, but they were not there. A police motor boat approached the pier. Every stevedore crowded around. Aline listened in on the whispers. Rumors started before day break that three bodies had been found on Eleuthera.
Screams drew Aline closer to the government vessel. Officers lifted three body bags onto the pier and unzipped each one. Several men looked and then ran to the edge of the pier to vomit. When Aline stepped close to see, she muttered obscenities under her breath. Two of them had been beheaded. The one left with a head Aline recognized as the smartest of the group. His eyes stared into the sky, his tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth and his belly was a mush of blood and ripped intestines. She identified the other two headless corpses by their body type. The short, broad-shouldered boy was the least maimed. Just his head was gone. The rest of him looked just fine, except for all the blood that had flowed from the severed neck onto the torso. The third body belonged to the dumbest one. He was overweight and his six-foot frame was clumsy. Not only was his head missing, his midsection was almost dissected by sharp punctures.
This boy must be the devil incarnate.
Family members soon pushed their way through the crowd. A short woman threw herself on top of the beheaded young man. Another woman holding a baby leaned over to touch her child’s face to the bloated lips of the tall man. A third woman scrutinized the bloodied belly of the third victim and shook her head.
“This cannot be my husband. This corpse was a man of violence. My husband was a strict follower of Obeah and never would have participated in any activity that would end in such devastation.” She looked around. “Where is the high priestess Pooka? She will know. She will know.”
No she won’t.
Aline tried not to smile as she turned to walk to the Rialto. She was having lunch with her father Harry Oakes, and she needed a good reason to explain why Leon Johnson’s son was still alive. She heard the church bells toll twelve. She had to hurry.
Think fast. Even Harry won’t fall for just any story.
When she arrived at the Rialto terrace restaurant, Harry already was there, gulping a beer and wiping the sweat from his greasy brow. He turned his head and saw Aline walking towards him. Jumping up, he ran toward her, placing his big hammy palms on her shoulders. She knocked them off.
“The kid, is he dead? Did your guys do the job?”
Aline walked past him and sat at the table. “It’s not my fault. They told me they were the three best goons on the dock.”
“So they didn’t kill him?” Harry came up and leaned in to whisper.
“I just saw the bodies.”
“The bodies? Whose bodies? Not the boy, right?”
“The goons’ bodies. Two of them were beheaded and the other disemboweled.”
“So the kid is okay?” Harry almost missed the chair as he sat.
“He’s not okay.” She took out a cigarette to light it. “The little monster killed all three of them.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“Harry, you’ve got to lay off the booze. You’re not making any sense.”
The waitress came up and took their orders. Harry asked for another beer while Aline wanted a fruit salad and red wine. Harry watched the waitress walk out of earshot.
“I screwed up big time.” His voice was shaking. “I misunderstood the orders. The commander told the next in charge who called me. It was a bad connection.”
“Cut the crap, Harry. The less I know about the big shots the better. Remember, that was one of the first things you told me.”
“I thought they said to kill all the Johnsons.” His eyes were wide in fear. “You weren’t in Lisbon to kill Leon but to make sure nobody would kill him. See, the Nazis wanted to kidnap the duke and duchess but they knew as long as Leon was around they didn’t have a chance. And to keep Leon happy, his family had to be safe.”
“So how the hell did you screw that around to kill all of them?” Aline’s low opinion of Harry was sinking fast.
“Like I said, it was a bad connection. I had too much to drink. My wife was on my ass about something.”
“Have you always been this stupid?”
The waitress appeared with Harry’s beer and Aline’s wine and salad.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat, sir?” the waitress asked.
“Naw. My stomach is already tied up in knots.”
After she left, Aline pushed a pineapple chunk into her cheek. “They don’t blame me for this foul-up, do they? I was just following orders.”
“They know.” Harry slammed back his beer. “It’s my ass on the line. You’ve got to recruit the son immediately. If he’s as tough as you say, we’ll be okay. Oh, and make up a really good lie about who killed his father. Tell him it was the Commies, the Nazis, the British, hell, tell him it was the Windsors’ idea. And for God’s sake don’t even let him think it might have been us.”
“Of course not. I’m not ready to die yet.”
By late afternoon Aline arrived on Eleuthera and walked down the sandy road to Sidney’s house. She pulled her hair back and tied a scarf around her head. She wore a ragged blouse, dirty skirt and sandals. She didn’t want to be noticed. She tugged on the handle to the gate and found it unlocked.
Looking down she saw the dead plant in the pot. She was the one who sent messages for Leon through Pooka who put them in the pot. She’d have to find someone new, someone less nosey.
Aline slipped in and walked to the front door. She was surprised to find it unlocked. Stepping inside she called out hello, but no one answered. First she saw a trail of smeared blood leading away from a darkened pool on the living room tiled floor. A kerosene lamp lay shattered next to an overturned end table. Looking to her right, she saw another smeared path beginning at the kitchen door where there was second pool of blood. On the kitchen wall was a blotch of blood, probably where one of the heads hit.
She walked to the bottom of the stairs. Her eyebrows went up when she saw no blood. She had counted three bodies on the pier that morning. How did the boy get his third victim out of the house? Going upstairs she looked down the hall to see the third pool of blood. Aline went to the room and found a path of red leading to a window. She looked out of it and saw three trenches in the sand leading to different areas on the beach.
One thing the boy needed to learn was how to cover his tracks. Other than that, bravo.
She turned to go back down the stairs. Aline alit from the bottom step when she looked in the door to see a short, slight Bahamian boy wearing soiled clothes covered with fish guts. He carried a bag of the catch of the day. She noticed the tight, hard ball of muscle in his bicep.
“What are you doing in my house?”
“You sound like a girl.”
“You sound like a bitch. What are you doing in my house?”
“You should learn to lock all the doors when you leave, even if you are upset and tired.”
“You need to mind your own business.”
“I knew your father.”
“Are you with this organization he told me about?”
“Yes.”
“Go to hell.”
“I have money for you.”
“I don’t care.”
“The organization knows the Nazis had your father killed. We were too late to save him. We heard about your mother. Very sad. We learned late last night the Nazis hired three Bahamian thugs to kill you. Again we were too late to defend you, but you seemed to have handled the situation yourself quite well.”
“You always seem to be late.”
“I’m on time today. I can have men out to this house tonight and clean it up, paint it and no one will know what happened.”
“Are they going to wipe me out too?” Sidney’s high voice went down an octave with cynicism.
“My dear, you must realize you’re on our side.”
He walked to the kitchen with his bag of fish. “I’m not your ‘dear’.”
“The organization wants to be your ‘dear’.” Aline followed him.
“I’m not interested.” He dumped the fish in the sink, took out a knife and started cutting their heads off with resounding thuds.
“We think your father trained you well.”
“My father did only what every father should do. Teach his son how to survive in this world.” He kept his back to Aline, who could not help but notice his shoulders were broad and thick.
“We pay well. You can wear white linen suits, like your father. You will see the world, eventually.”
“I‘m not interested.” He started slitting the fish open and gutting them.
“You will have just one job at first—protecting the Duke and Duchess of Windsor while he’s the governor of the Bahamas.”
Sidney stopped in mid-slice when she mentioned those names. His memory was blurry on this point but he was sure his father told him once the Windsors were like their family, and he had to make sure their bellies were filled. He considered his decision a long moment then slit open another fish.
“Very well. I accept. Give me the money you owe me. And tell those men to arrive soon. I don’t want to lose any sleep listening to them stumble around the house. I have to go fishing tomorrow.” He turned to point his knife at her. “And tell them I don’t want any paint on the furniture.”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Two

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Previously: Just before shooting Lincoln, Booth thinks of the events leading to this moment.
On Good Friday afternoon, Booth went to his boardinghouse where he gathered what little he would need for his escape. He loaded his derringer, sheathed his knife and hid it in his pocket, and placed an old appointment book in his saddlebags. Booth pulled out his wallet and lingered as he gazed at the photographs of young ladies, including several actresses and his fiancée Lucy Howe, the daughter of a northern abolitionist senator. Sighing, he realized he might never see any of them again, but his loyalty to the South overrode romance.
He walked to the livery stable where he threw his saddlebags over his mount and rode to the alleyway behind Ford’s Theater. He gave the attendant a few coins to hold the horse until he came out. Looking at his pocket watch, he saw that the play had just begun. He had an hour to waste until the proper moment. Booth sauntered to the bar next to the theater where he ordered a glass of whiskey and sat nursing it.
When a man sat on the stool next to him and ordered ale, Booth glanced at him and sized him up. “A terrible last couple of weeks, wouldn’t you say?” he mumbled.
“What?”
“Horrible events the last couple of weeks,” Booth repeated.
The man grunted.
“Unless you’re a Yankee.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Neither would I.” He raised his glass in a toast. When the man clinked his glass, Booth smiled. “What did you think of that speech?”
“What speech?”
“You know, by that man in the Executive Mansion.”
“Oh. Not much.”
“Colored voting rights. Can’t stand that.”
“Me neither.”
“Why, if I pushed a darky out of my way on the sidewalk and if he pushed back I couldn’t shoot him.”
The man grunted. “That man in the Executive Mansion is my boss.”
“What?” Booth sat up.
“He’s my boss. I’m his guard. Like he needs one. A lot of people talk about killin’ him but nobody ever tries. So I just sit back and drink.”
Booth smiled. “That’s good to know.” He looked at the clock over the bar. “I’ve got to go.”
As he stood, the man said, “You look familiar.”
“I’m John Wilkes Booth, the actor.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of you.”
“Tomorrow I shall be the most famous man in the world.”
Booth entered the theater at the back of the house and noticed that Union officers and their fashionable ladies filled all seats. He walked up the stairs and circled the upper floor toward the presidential box. Sure enough, the chair outside the door was empty. He knew the guard was busy drinking ale. First, he bent over to peek through the hole he had dug out earlier in the day. Only four people were in the room, the president, his wife and the couple on a sofa against the far wall.
Carefully he opened the door and stepped inside. Booth held his breath, hoping no one heard him. The young couple chuckled. Mrs. Lincoln leaned over to whisper something to her husband. How he loathed the man, Booth thought.
Booth sucked hot air into his lungs as he stood in the shadows of the presidential box overlooking the stage. When he thought of Negroes’ having the right to vote his heart raced and his temple throbbed with rage. He had to compose himself, be in cool control of his emotions to complete his task. He looked down on the stage to see Laura Keene and Harry Hawk begin their conversation in the comedy Our American Cousin.
He knew the play by heart. He knew when the audience would giggle, he knew when it would sigh, and he knew when it would erupt in laughter and applause. One of those moments was coming soon, and, when it did, Booth was ready to pull the trigger and put a bullet into Abraham Lincoln’s skull.
Laughter from the audience sharpened Booth’s senses. He knew the big punch line was upon them. He looked around the box and noticed the young Army officer and his rather homely girlfriend sat on a sofa against the far wall. Booth smirked at him. He knew the soldier would be no threat after he fired the shot. He patted his coat pocket, which held his knife. If the soldier tried to stop him, Booth would slash him without mercy. Nothing was going to spoil his dramatic exit, a leap to the stage and dash to the back door.
Booth smelled the scent of the oil lamps, sweat and, he sniffed again, yes, yes, he could detect the greasepaint worn by the actors on the stage below him. He heard the audience reaction that stirred his emotions. He craved the attention he received while he performed in the theater. That was his biggest regret that night. He would no longer be able to be an actor, at least for a while. Booth was sure the South would greet him with open arms for killing its great enemy. There in the great capitals of the soon-to-be revived Confederacy he would once again tread the boards.
He took aim and waited for the fateful line by Harry Hawk to Laura Keene, which would cause the audience to erupt in laughter.
“I guess I told you, you sockdologizing old mantrap!” Harry Hawk shouted as Laura Keene exited the stage.
Booth pulled the trigger, and the bullet entered behind Lincoln’s left ear. The president slumped over. Mrs. Lincoln looked at her husband and then looked up at Booth with curiosity. He watched her eyes widen as she realized what had happened. She screeched.
The officer lunged from the sofa, grabbing for the gun. Booth took a couple of steps backwards which threw the man off balance. In that split second, Booth extracted the knife from his pocket. The officer pulled back his free arm to try to strike Booth across the face, but as his arm came down it hit the blade of the knife.
“Aahh!” The officer stopped and began to bend over in pain.
Booth brought the butt of the gun down with full force on the back of the man’s head. The officer fell against Booth’s chest and slid down. The homely girl whimpered and ran to the man, crumbling by his side. Booth strode past them and between the president and his wife, who was still screaming out of control, with her hands to her chubby cheeks.
“The president has been shot!” Mrs. Lincoln screamed.
Booth stepped to the top of the box’s railing with all due confidence. He had made similar leaps many times as his entrance in a play. This leap would be even more spectacular. Just as he began to jump, Booth felt a tug on his foot. The officer had grabbed at his trouser leg. Booth’s head jerked back to see the man in a crawl. I thought I had taken care of him, Booth thought as he furrowed his brow. The man’s eyes were wide with hatred, shock and desperation. My God, Booth gasped, this man is crazy. The distraction caused him to fall to the boards. Even though Booth felt a painful crack in his leg, he exhilarated in the moment.
“Sic semper tyrannus!”
As he turned to limp off the stage, Booth heard shouts from the audience. Again he smelled the gas lamps, the sweat and the greasepaint. God, he thought to himself, he was going to miss all this. For, since he began acting, the noise of the theater sounded like life.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Seventy-Seven

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on 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 and they marry. The Windsors escape oncoming Nazis. Leon shadows their every move. Leon dies. His son Sidney mourns his death.
As Sidney Johnson went back into his house after watching his mother march into the sea to die, he felt a lump rise in his throat. In one day he lost his father and his mother.
Go ahead and cry. No one will see you. No one could blame you. But I never saw my father cry, even when Grandma Dotty died. When he saw his father killed by a shark, what did he do? He looked for a job to feed his family. When I was a small child the other boys made fun of me because I talked like a girl. When I cried they only laughed more. When I hit back they stopped laughing. I will never cry again.
He washed the dishes. His grandmother told him to wash dishes as soon as he finish the meal or else all kinds of disgusting bugs would crawl over them. Housework gave a certain order to life. The lump in his throat went away. He considered wandering up and down the dark beach straining for any sign of his mother’s body wafting on the waves until the sun rose.
But what good would that do? I’d be so tired I couldn’t work for old Jinglepockets tomorrow. I need to catch fish to eat. I must keep my own belly full so I can fill the bellies of my family.
Sidney put the last dish in the cupboard and closed the door.
Except I don’t have a family to feed any more.
That lump returned to his throat. He willed it away.
Mother said always take a shower before I went to bed.
Sidney walked out into the courtyard where a small enclosure held a shower. Rain water flowed when a rope was pulled on a barrel overhead. On a small shelf his mother had already placed soap, a towel for him and a clean shirt and trousers to wear to work the next morning.
She always thought of things like that. I’ll have to remember all the details of daily living on my own now. Concentrating on the details will make the pain go away. No, I mustn’t even admit the pain exists. I’m a man now.
After his shower and he put on his clean clothes, Sidney walked in and extinguished all the kerosene lamps except for one which he carried upstairs. Tonight he would sleep for the first time in his house alone. This was the moment, he thought, that’d make most men might break out it tears. But no tears came. Sidney could not remember the last time he cried. His earliest memories were of looking up to his father as the example of how a man should act. He never saw his father cry. Tears only clouded the mind, and the mind had to stay clear and aware of surroundings if a man wanted to survive.
At the top of the stairs was a long hall, one side with a railing overlooking the living room below. A random thought entered his head. They had never spent time in the living room. It was filled with potted plants, lush carpets, tufted arm chairs and sofas with end tables, each with an elaborate kerosene lamp. His parents never invited anyone over for dinner and an evening of conversation. His grandmother and mother spent hours cleaning it just so they could stand proud if visitors walked in. But no one ever came. Sidney decided it was his father’s choice not to trust anyone to enter his home. He did appreciate it being clean, if only for his eyes.
His parents’ bedroom was at the top of the stairs and had double hand-carved wooden doors. The next bedroom had been for his grandmother and the last at the end of the hall was his. Sidney took a moment to rest his hand on the handle to his parents’ bedroom before opening it. A large bed filled the center of the room. His mother, of course, had smoothed out every wrinkle and arranged several pillows in embroidered cases at the head. A large window opened over the courtyard outside. Bottle shards lined the top of the courtyard wall. He remembered his father holding him up to that window.
“Always look out your bedroom window before you go to sleep. You don’t want to let anyone sneak up on you.”
Against the far wall of the bedroom was a large walk-in closet. He had never been in that room.
“This is where I keep my unmentionables,” his mother told him. “And a gentleman must never enter the room which holds a lady’s unmentionables.”
Now that he was the only person living in the house, he felt he had the right to go into the closet, which he found remarkably vacant. Sidney was not surprised. His parents rarely left Eleuthera, except for his father. His mother preferred simple native attire. Sidney wanted to see his father’s wardrobe. He wondered how many of those white linen suits he owned. He also wanted to see if this was where Leon kept his weapons, the stock-in-trade of his mercenary business.
At first Sidney was disappointed. He only found one white linen suit and no sign of knives or guns. He leaned against a far wall which automatically opened to a small dark room. Sidney held up his lamp to see a long narrow table of all sorts of knives, machetes, stilettos and switch blades; guns, rifles, pistols with silencers and small revolvers masquerading as cigarette lighters and flashlights; and even a small collection of vials filled with yellowish liquids, obviously poison. He discovered disguises, false teeth, wigs, beards and fake rubber bellies.
The most important discovery was a metal box which contained hundreds of bills of almost every currency in the world. Then there was Leon’s bank ledger, listing accounts in institutions around Europe, South America and the United States. He was a wealthy man, Sidney realized, but the realization meant nothing to him. All the money in those bank accounts would not bring his mother or father back alive. He could have bought himself a fancy white linen suit but his father was at his happiest when he was barefoot running on the beach wearing a coarse weave shirt and pants. Sidney could not imagine a finer house than the one in which he had grown up, but it seemed sad and empty now. He decided what would truly make him happy right at this moment was a good night’s sleep so he could work for Jinglepockets tomorrow.
For a brief moment, he considered sleeping in his father’s bed. It looked so comfortable. This had to be the same bed the rich people slept in when his father worked as their bodyguard. Sidney shook his head. He did not deserve it, at least not yet.
Walking down the hall toward his bedroom with his lamp, he looked at the living room below. Through the many windows the moon shone, illuminating the room very well. He searched for items that might be used for weapons. Sidney didn’t understand why such a thought would cross his mind. Then he remembered his father’s advice: “You have good instincts. Never ignore them.”
In his room, he took off his clothes. Like his father he slept naked. He looked out his own window at the thatched-roof garden shed directly below. He knew in it was a rake with pitchfork-hard tines. A machete which he had just put to the grinder yesterday so he knew it was glistening sharp. Also a length of rope which could be used for a whole list of purposes—a garrote, a noose, something to tie together his weapons. Sidney leaned further out the window to check the glass shards on top of courtyard wall which went around three sides of the house and connected to the home in the back. The only way to get to the shed was outside of the front garden gate.
Sidney plopped into the bed and went to sleep straight away. He never let the cares of the day to ruin his deep, trance-like sleep which resuscitated his body for another day of work. He never dreamed. When other people described their bad dreams, Sidney had no idea what they were talking about.
He didn’t know what caused him to sit up in his bed. He had no idea how long it had been since he went to sleep. All he did know was something was not right. He slid from the bed. He didn’t take time to put on his clothes. Each second could mean the difference between life and death. Sidney padded his way to the bedroom door which he cracked open. Sidney heard thumps and muffled voices in the front courtyard.
Through one of the high, wide front living room windows he saw one man, perhaps two hundred pounds and six-foot tall, already in the yard. Coming over the wooden gate was another, also tall but lighter, a very agile man. His father forgot to put shards on top of the wooden gate. Sidney remembered to lock it and the front door to the house earlier in the evening. By now a shorter man had scrambled over the top of the gate. He was broad in the shoulder and had thick arms. Since they were all dark skinned and wore native clothing, Sidney guessed they were Bahamians and likely to know all the self-defense moves he had learned.
The intruders headed to the front entrance. Sidney figured they had a metal gadget to unlock the door. Sidney could not tell if they carried any weapons. Evidently they were told he was a young small man but might not be aware of his abilities. Perhaps they were confident they could overpower him with brute strength and kill him in silence. Such arrogance could be their downfall, Sidney thought.
He calculated he had three or four minutes before they were in the house. At first he considered running down the hall to his father’s bedroom and his cache of weapons. He decided against that option, because the men might see him on the balcony. Running to the window, he opened it and jumped onto the thatched roof. He rolled off it and landed on his feet on the ground by the shed door. He entered and felt around in the darkness until he found the rake, machete and rope. Outside he wrapped the rope around his waist with a loop to attach the machete. With the rake in his hands, he ran around the house. By this time he figured the intruders had gained access to the house. When he reached the front he stuck the sharp end of the rake in the ground and using the leverage flung himself to the top of the gate. From there he leaned over and pulled it from the ground then jumped into the courtyard.
As he suspected, the three assassins left the front door open. Sidney did not see any of them in the living room but he heard someone stumble against the table in the kitchen. Laying the rake aside, he pulled the machete from his waist and held it in striking position as he crept toward the sound. As Sidney reached the door, the short broad-shouldered man appeared. Before the intruder could react, Sidney swung the machete with all his might, and the man’s head flew back onto the kitchen floor. Blood spurted like a fountain from the man’s neck. Sidney felt acrid bile rise in his throat, but he forced it back down. He didn’t have time to puke right now. His father always told him to keep the element of surprise on his side.
Retrieving the rake, he put the machete, slick with blood, back in the rope around his waist and moved upstairs. He noticed only one bedroom door was open. It was his at the end of the hall. Whoever it was had been given information by an insider. The only one who could obtain such private details was Pooka. Sidney vowed to kill her. He held up the rake, with the sharp tines leading the way. Sidney waited outside the door in the shadows for the man to walk out. That was another advantage to being naked. He blended into the night. Coming out of the door was the tall heavy one. Before the intruder even saw him, Sidney rushed toward him, cramming the tines into his belly, pinning him to the wall. Taking no chances the man might shout, Sidney pulled out his machete and with one swift blow beheaded the man. Once again he remember his father’s lesson, act swiftly and without mercy. Sidney’s nose wrinkled at the sulfur smell of the blood. He took a step to turn and his bare foot slipped in a puddle of blood flowing down the man’s leg to the floor. Sidney grabbed the balcony railing to keep from falling.
Below him was the tall lithe man, running from the direction of the servant’s quarters which were below Sidney’s bedroom. Of all the men, this was the one Sidney took most seriously. He could jump from the balcony with the machete but that could put him in danger if the blade fell into the other man’s hands. He didn’t like it, but the only approach he had with his would-be killer was hand-to-hand combat.
When the man was directly under him, Sidney dropped the machete and jumped down on the man, landing on his back, causing the intruder to fall on his face. Sidney took the man’s hair and bashed his head into the tiled floor. When he felt the man stop resisting, Sidney rolled him over, reached out to grab a pillow from the sofa, put it over the man’s face and sat on it. To his side was an end table with a large lamp. He kicked the table over, the glass lamp cover fell and shattered on the tile. Sidney picked up a jagged edge and repeatedly plunged it into the man’s belly. He didn’t stop until the last breath left the assassin’s lungs.
Sidney squatted on the floor and hung his head between his knees. Sweat dripped off the end of his nose and mingled with the blood on the floor. He used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off his brow leaving a smear of blood across his forehead. He stared at the dead man and knew he could not rest until he got the three assassins out of his house.
Sidney took his rope and tied it around the man’s neck, dragging him out the front door. He went through the gate and around the house to the shore line. He untied the rope and rolled the body into the surf until he felt the tide grab the corpse. Sidney didn’t know how he know instinctively knew what to do; perhaps, his father was speaking to him from beyond the land of the living. He didn’t take time to ponder it.
With the rope he ran back to the kitchen where he tied the short man’s feet together. Tucking the head under his arm Sidney began dragging him out. He was surprised how light the body was. As he headed to the beach, he decided to dump it further away from his house. When he was in an appropriately dark location, he tossed the head as far as he could into the ocean, untied the feet, and rolled the corpse into the surf.
His job was almost done. He looked around and not another soul could be seen. Sidney decided to walk back to the house taking time to catch his breath. He trudged up the stairs. Dragging the big man all the way to the beach might be beyond what his exhausted body could handle. He pulled the rake out from the assassin’s belly. The body plopped to the floor. Sidney looked across his room to the window. He had an idea. Tugging the body to the window, he grunted as he lifted it onto the sill. Sidney aimed it so that the corpse would not go through the thatched roof. The body landed inches to the left of the shed. Then he found the head and tossed it out. With grace he jumped onto the roof. He tied the feet of the large man with the rope and dragged it directly from his house to the shore. At this point he didn’t care if anyone in the neighborhood found it or not. As his final gesture, he threw the head into the dark Atlantic.
Sidney went back into the courtyard and went into the shower. He scrubbed his body down, washing away all the blood and body matter. Lumbering upstairs he stopped by the double doors to his parents’ bedroom. He ached all over. Sidney opened the door and walked in. He thought he heard his father’s voice commend him on a job well done.
He crawled between the sheets of the large bed and fell asleep. For the first time he had a dream. It was of little Sidney asking his father if he could do another job rather than kill people. For the life of him he could not remember his father’s answer. For the first time that night he was afraid. Two Sidneys resided in his body. The first was a quiet timid boy who just wanted to make people happy. The second was the young man who had just killed three men and now had no worries, no regrets. Which one was the real Sidney?

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.