Tag Archives: Abraham Lincoln

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Forty-One

Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Baker saves Booth’s life at Garrett’s farm. Booth sneaks away to Richmond, where he tricks a widow into caring for him. Lincoln’s friend Lamon interviews Mrs. Surratt and others in prison.
No one had talked to Dr. Charles Leale about the assassination since President Lincoln had died. He presumed someone would contact him about testifying concerning the exact route the bullet took through the president’s skull, but no one approached him. Two months later, and the newspapers announced the trial was about to begin. The speed of the process surprised Dr. Leale; however, talk around town was that the government wanted the conspirators tried and hanged quickly so the nation could go about its healing from the wounds of war. Dr. Leale patiently stood in line with the other curiosity seekers hoping to find a seat in the courtroom gallery.
The military tribunal closed the first few days to the public because of the “sensitive nature of the testimony,” a term which only piqued the doctor’s curiosity. The newspapers reported the tribunal created a makeshift courtroom in the Old Capitol Prison. The panel allowed a limited number of visitors starting Monday, May 15.
Even though Leale arrived at an early morning hour, he still found himself at the back of a long line of impatient citizens. The procession inched its way along because a guard at the prison gate interrogated each person to decide whether to grant admission. Leale overheard the man in front of him explain he was a congressman from Illinois and therefore felt entitled to witness the proceedings. The guard tipped his hat, agreed with the man’s explanation and allowed him in the door.
“And you might you be?” the guard asked, his tone going flat and emotionless.
“Dr. Charles Leale,” he replied.
“Nobody sick here.” The guard shook his head.
“I attended President Lincoln as he lay dying at the Peterson boardinghouse.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, young fella.” The guard laughed. “You really expect me to believe they would have let a youngster like you near the president that night?”
Leale took a deep breath and smiled. He was accustomed to cynicism about his boyish appearance and lack of experience as a doctor. At times, he wondered why security allowed him to treat Lincoln. In the midst of disbelief and confusion, Leale decided, perhaps the soldiers surrounding the president had no choice but believe him.
“I was the first doctor at the scene of the shooting. My wife had insisted on attending the theater that evening so—“
“I don’t have time to listen to your domestic history, laddie. There are real people behind you waiting. We have only one chair left for the public and it won’t go to the likes of you.”
Shrugging, Leale stepped aside, not feeling the situation warranted that much complaint. The trial would last several days and if he wanted to witness this chapter of history, he told himself to arrive earlier the next day.
“Name?” the guard barked at the next person in line.
“John Johnston,” an elderly man replied in a marked Midwestern accent.
Something about the crispness of the voice, yet an inherent fatigue, drew Leale’s attention. When he turned he saw a man about his own height and weight, slightly hunched over with a thick shock of white hair and the beard of a Kentucky colonel. The old gentleman rested on his came.
“And what makes you think you deserve a seat for the proceedings?” the guard demanded.
“Oh, for myself, I have no merits at all. It’s just that my mother was wanting a personal report, that’s all. I won’t take up any more of your valuable time. After all, she really was only Mr. Lincoln’s stepmother. Not like they shared a blood kinship.” The old man began to turn away.
“Did you say, the president’s stepmother?” The guard’s voice toughened and bellowed. “Do you really expect us to believe Abe Lincoln’s stepmother would still be alive?”
His unbearable exclamation drew the attention of a colonel walking by. He stopped and leaned into the guard’s face. “Of course, the President’s stepmother is still alive! Everybody knows that! How stupid are you, soldier!”
The old man waved a shaking hand at the officer. “Please don’t be harsh with the man. He’s only trying to do his job. Let me explain the situation to him, and I’m sure he’ll understand.”
The colonel hit the guard on the shoulder. “Listen to this gentleman and learn something,” he snarled. “And don’t go mouthing off to him again!” He stalked off.
“Yes, Sarah Bush Johnston Lincoln. My father, Mr. Johnston, died when I was twenty years old. Then she married Mr. Lincoln, and young Abe was only—oh dear, how old was the boy—yes ten years old. I hardly knew him myself, but my mother, bless her heart, raised him as if he were her own. So sorry for wasting your time. I’ll be moving along now.”
Reaching out to take Mr. Johnston by the arm, the guard said, “Nonsense, sir. A gentleman like yourself should be allowed the best seat in the house every day.”
Leale continued to watch the old man as he entered the prison, still not figuring out what it was about Mr. Johnston that fascinated him so much.
The next morning, Leale refused his second cup of coffee and only ate a portion of the large breakfast his wife had prepared, nibbling on a biscuit before rushing off to the Old Capitol Prison. He smiled to himself when he saw the elderly Mr. Johnston was at the end of the line.
“Good morning, sir,” Leale said with a bold enthusiasm. He noticed his greeting caused Mr. Johnston to flinch. “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnston. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Turning to look at the doctor, Mr. Johnston wrinkled his brow. “How did you know my name?”
“Oh, you probably didn’t notice me yesterday. I was in line ahead of you and was refused entry, but when I overheard who you were, well, I was pleased to have been inconvenienced for your sake.”
“I appreciate your kindness, young man.” He tipped his hat and returned his attention to the front of the line.
“I hope I am able to be seated today.” He paused. “Did I miss much?” When Mr. Johnston did not respond, Leale repeated, “I said, did I miss much? The newspaper accounts are so sketchy.”
“Oh, excuse me, young man. No, you did not miss much at all. Gen. Ulysses Grant testified, although I don’t know why. He was not at the theater.” Johnston shrugged. “A couple more official types. I don’t even recall their names nor understand why they were testifying.”
“Rumor had it that the general and his wife were to attend the performance, Leale continued. “Perhaps if they had gone to the theater, a larger contingent of guards would have been present and the president would have been spared the assassin’s bullet. Can you imagine? After four years of war and to be taken down by a mere actor. It’s shocking.”
“And why do you have such an interest in this proceeding?” Impatience tinged the old man’s voice.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Forty

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Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Baker saves Booth’s life at Garrett’s farm. Booth sneaks away to Richmond, where he tricks a widow into caring for him. Lincoln’s friend Lamon interviews Mrs. Surratt and others in prison.
Lamon shook his head and stood. He patted Herold on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’ll get to go home. One of these days.” He turned to the door and rapped for the guard. Once in the hall he told the officer, “There’s just one more, correct?”
“Yes, sir. You’ll like him. He’s a man’s man. You won’t see him going crazy, like Herold there.”
This alleged “man’s man” savagely slashed several people, including a sick old gentleman in his bed, Lamon thought. No paragon of manly virtue, he decided; but he chose not to share his conclusions with the guard who had only in the last few minutes become cooperative in his investigation. Once inside the cell, Lamon saw Lewis Paine languidly leaning against the far wall, in a repose that suggested complete serenity. Because of the hood, Paine’s eyes were not visible, however Lamon sensed they reflected the same composure.
“Mr. Paine, I am Ward Hill Lamon, federal marshal. I have a few questions about the charges you are facing.”
“Please take a seat. They just replaced the straw on the floor this morning, so it should be nice and comfortable.”
“Thank you.” Lamon squatted and sat cross-legged. “Do you understand the seriousness of your situation here?”
“Oh sure. I’m probably goin’ to hang.” He turned to Lamon. “You wouldn’t happen to have a chaw of tobacco on you.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” He pulled the package from his pocket.
“I’d be right more agreeable to talk if I had a lump of tobacco in my cheek.”
“Of course.” Lamon pinched a bit of tobacco off and extended it between two fingers through the hood’s hole so Paine could take it from him with his mouth.
Leaning back as he chewed, he sighed. “That’s mighty good. Neighborly of you. I appreciate it.”
“Think nothing of it.” Lamon gave the prisoner a moment to enjoy his tobacco before he started asking questions. “I know you and the others met with a short, red-haired man under the bridge right before the assassination.”
“Yep. You know, he wasn’t a very nice man. He said I was stupid. I can’t help it. I got kicked in the head by a mule when I was a boy. I liked what he said about gettin’ even. I’ve always liked gettin’ even. I’ve done that a lot.” Paine turned his head to spit into the straw.
“So you felt you were getting even when you stabbed Secretary of State Seward?”
“Hell, I didn’t even know who the old bastard was, but the man said to kill him, and I done the best I could to do it.”
“So killing Seward wasn’t Booth’s idea but the man under the bridge?”
“I don’t think Wilkes knew who this Seward fella was.”
“Who do you think the man under the bridge was?”
“I don’t know. But he thought he was somethin’ to write home about, I’ll tell you that.”
“Do you think he was working for someone else, somebody really big?”
“Ah, you’re not goin’ to start in on that business that Jeff Davis was behind all this?”
“I don’t know, was he?”
“Right at this time I really don’t give a damn.” Paine paused to lean toward Lamon. “Tell me. Do you think I’d have a chance of gettin’ off if I did say Jeff Davis did it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then to hell with it.” Paine leaned back against the wall, turned his head and spit again. “Jeff Davis had nothin’ to do with it.”
“The red-haired man was supposed to kill Stanton, and Stanton is still alive. Don’t that strike you as peculiar?”
“No. Johnson is still alive too. That ain’t peculiar, is it? Are you sure you can’t get me off with prison or somethin’ like that?”
“Only if you can tell me something I don’t already know.” Lamon knew this was his last chance to wrangle information out of Paine.
“I’ll tell you somethin’ you don’t know. That lady down the hall ain’t guilty of nothin’ but bein’ a lady, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”
Lamon stood and brushed away the bits of straw that clung to his trousers. “Well, if you think of anything else, send for me. Remember my name Ward Hill Lamon. Can you remember that?”
“Sure I can, Lord Will Raymond.”
After the guard let Lamon out of the cell and escorted him to the prison exit, he asked, “Now you haven’t been lying to me, have you? You really are part of the team to hang those bastards, right? The last thing I need is to get in trouble because I let you in to see them.”
Lamon patted the guard on the back. “You have nothing to worry about me, I assure you. By the way, you were wrong. That last fellow was the craziest one of all.”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Nine

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Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Baker saves Booth’s life at Garrett’s farm. Booth sneaks away to Richmond, where he tricks a widow into caring for him. Lincoln’s friend Lamon interviews Mrs. Surratt in prison.
The guard appeared and unlocked the door, letting Lamon out. He turned and led Lincoln’s friend down the hall to the cell which held Samuel Arnold, a slender young man sitting in a corner with a canvas hood over his head.
The sight startled Lamon, and he took a step back to whisper to the guard, “Why does he have a hood on his head?”
“All of them have hoods,” the guard replied brusquely. “It’s what they deserve.”
“Mrs. Surratt didn’t wear a hood,” Lamon said.
“Oh. She’s a woman,” the officer explained. “I guess there are benefits to being a woman, even a woman guilty as hell.”
When the guard unlocked the door, Arnold’s head came up. As Lamon spoke to him he realized that here was an educated young man, somewhat astonished at his situation but not particularly unsettled by it either.
The hood obscured Arnold’s facial expressions, but a large hole at the mouth allowed the inmate to eat, drink and speak clearly. The tone of Arnold’s voice told Lamon that he genuinely did not know anything specific about Edwin Stanton or Lafayette Baker other than what he had read about them in the newspapers. The same was true of the suspect in the next cell Michael O’Laughlin. Both of them admitted they knew Booth and had agreed to participate in a kidnapping of the president but they withdrew when the plan changed to assassination. Edmund Spangler, in the next cell, knew even less than Booth’s two friends. The only thing Spangler admitted was holding the stage door for Booth. That was the same courtesy he would do for any actor, for a price.
After Spangler, Lamon visited with Dr. Samuel Mudd who sat erect, with his back against the wall. Lamon introduced himself and took Mudd’s hand to shake. The doctor’s grip was quite strong.
“I can help you,” Lamon kneeled next to Mudd and whispered in as agreeable a voice as he could manage. “I know you must not think very highly of us Yankees, but please believe I want to help.”
“Of course. You have to have more honor than that little shit,” Mudd replied in a calm voice.
“I beg your pardon?” He was not expecting that sort of response.
“The little shit. That damned actor whose leg I set. My life is over because I did my job.”
Lamon sensed the doctor was rehearsing his defense as Mrs. Surratt had done, but he chose not to confront Mudd with his assumption.
“Yes, that is an injustice.” He paused. “There are so many others who are guilty of much more than you and they will go free.”
“What?”
“The other conspirators.”
“They won’t let the half-wit go free,” Mudd said.
“No, I don’t mean him. The others. The ones really responsible.” Lamon held his breath, hoping the doctor would take his bait.
Mudd shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The short man with red hair.”
“What man with red hair?” He spat in exasperation. “Who did you say you were? What are you talking about?”
“I must be mistaken. I won’t take up any more of your time.” Lamon stood to leave.
“If you’re from a damn newspaper,” Mudd hissed, “I’ll kill you if I ever get out of here.”
Lamon felt his neck burn red with embarrassment as he rapped on the cell bars. The guard next escorted him to the cell of George Atzerodt. As the guard unlocked the door, Lamon decided he wanted to avoid the same mistake he made with Mudd when he spoke to this prisoner.
Of all the men, Atzerodt reeked most of alcohol. His clothing seemingly was soaked in it. Like the other men he had talked to so far, his face was concealed by a canvas hood.
“Do you know who Lafayette Baker is?” Lamon asked.
“Verdammt, er ist grob.”
“What?”
“Der man, he vas bigger dan dey say. I—I couldn’t do it.” Atzerodt’s thick German accent muddled his mumblings to the point of indiscernibility.
“They say?” Lamon was not sure he had understood him correctly. “You said they say? Who were they?”
“Verdammt, er ist grob.”
Realizing he was not going to extract any more information out of Atzerodt, Lamon told the guard he was ready to move on to the next cell which confined David Herold. Even as the guard unlocked the door, Lamon could hear Herold’s mumblings and cries. Lincoln’s friend stopped abruptly as he entered, his nostrils flaring with the smell of the suspect’s urine and feces. Herold’s hood was dripping with saliva as he constantly chewed on it.
“Mr. Herold,” Lamon said, trying to be as soothing as possible, “is anything wrong? Anything I can help you with?”
“I want my mama and my sisters,” he said between the sobs. “They always know how to make me happy. They won’t let them take me home. Why won’t they let Mama take me home?”
“Maybe after the trial.” Lamon kneeled beside him and tried to pat Herold’s shoulder but he lurched away.
“Don’t hurt me! Don’t you dare hurt me!”
Lamon waited a moment, hoping the young man would calm down. His sobs softened, but he continued to chew on the canvas. Lamon looked down between Herold’s legs and watched his urine soak his pants again.
“What can you tell me about the short man with red hair?”
Herold jerked his head in Lamon’s direction. “The man with red hair?”
“You must remember him. You and the others met him under the bridge right before your friend Wilkes Booth killed the president. You remember. He had a special way of tapping his foot.”
“Who are you? Do you have red hair? Are you him? You here to kill me?”
“My name is Ward Hill Lamon, a federal marshal. I’m not here to kill you.”
“You got red hair?”
“No, I have dark brown hair. I’m over six feet tall, almost as tall as the president.”
Herold cocked his head. “Say something else.”
“Ring around the rosey, pocket full of poseys, ashes, ashes we all fall—“
“No, you don’t sound like him. The red-haired man smelled like cigars.” He leaned in to smell Lamon. “You smell like piss.”
The marshal did not want to confront him with the fact that the hood prevented him from smelling anything beyond his own body. He smelled his own urine. Herold seemed to be on the verge of trusting him. “I apologize for that.” He paused. “Did the red-haired man say who he was working for?”
“No. He just said we had to get even. The damn Yankees took our country away from us, and we had to get even.” Herold bowed his hooded head. “He wasn’t a nice man. He called me an idiot. I’m not an idiot. I work for a pharmacy and deliver medicine. You have to be smart to deliver medicine.”
“Of course, you’re smart. Anybody can tell that.” Lamon chuckled softly. “So who put him in charge?”
“He put himself in charge. And Mr. Booth, he didn’t like that one bit. Wilkes told the man he wasn’t no gentleman for sure and then Mr. Booth asked the red-haired man who the hell was he goin’ to kill, and the red-haired man said he was going to kill Secretary of War Stanton.”
“You know Stanton is still alive. Nobody tried to kill him.”
“I knew he was a coward. Most fellas who talk the most can’t do nothin’.”
“Have you told anyone this story?”
“Sure, I tell it to everybody I can, but it don’t do no good. They all think I’m crazy.”
“Of course, you’re not crazy. Are you going to tell your story in court?”
“Hell no. That’ll show the judges that I knew something was going on.”
“You were caught in the tobacco barn with Booth. They already know you knew what was going on.”
“Oh God! That’s right! What am I goin’ to do!”
“Maybe I can help you.” Lamon was willing to promise Herold anything to get his cooperation.
Herold started crying and chewing on the hood again. “I want my Mama! I want my sisters! I don’t want to die! I wanna go home!”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Eight

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Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Baker saves Booth’s life at Garrett’s farm. Booth sneaks away to Richmond, where he tricks a widow into caring for him. Lincoln’s friend Lamon accompanies the funeral train and seeks clues.
On his way back to his Steubenville hotel, Lamon stopped at a small tavern and bought a pint of whiskey which he sipped in his room until he fell asleep. The next morning he caught the first train to Washington, D.C.
The images painted by Christy filled Lamon’s mind. While incredible, the story rang true to Stanton’s character, Lamon decided. At one of the station stops, he bought a newspaper and read it as the train rumbled on toward the Capital. The headline said the trial for the conspirators would begin May 12th at Old Capitol Prison. Lamon frowned. A military court?
“Why a military trial when all of the accused and even the victims were civilians?” Lamon asked himself under his breath until the answer erupted in his mind: Stanton could control a military trial while he would have no influence over a civilian proceeding. The Secretary of War had an all-consuming desire to control everything; as a young man, he had even tried unsuccessfully to control death. Lamon took a pack of chewing tobacco out of his jacket pocket and stuffed a chaw into his mouth. Sometimes he could think more clearly if he was chewing the bitter stuff. He needed that clarity right now.
Just after a few moments, he understood everything. Stanton’s insatiable passion for control was the key to the entire conspiracy.
When Lamon arrived in Washington he went to the Old Capitol Prison. At the main gate he demanded to see the prisoners in the Lincoln assassination case.
“What are you?” the guard demanded. “You’re not another one of them damned reporters, are you?”
Pulling a badge from his inside jacket pocket, he pushed it into the guard’s face. “I’m Federal Marshal Ward Hill Lamon.”
“Mr. Lamon?” The man’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know you were involved in this investigation, sir.”
“I was the president’s personal guard and close friend,” he responded with a growl. “I’ll be a part of any damned investigation into my friend’s murder that I damn well please! Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir. My apologies, sir.”
“Stop wasting my time. I want to see each suspect individually right now, and I don’t want any measly prison guard snooping over my shoulder!”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Right this way, sir.”
The guard led him through the prison, first stopping at the cell holding Mrs. Surratt. When the door opened, Lamon heard two women’s voices squeak in fear. When he entered, he saw Mrs. Surratt and a teen-aged girl clinging to her.
“And who, sir, are you?”
Lamon could tell Mrs. Surratt was trying to sound assertive, but a quiver in her voice gave her away.
“I’m sorry for having startled you,” Lamon said, bowing deeply. “I am Federal Marshal Ward Hill Lamon. I was President Lincoln’s personal guard and very close friend.”
Her chin jutted out as she turned her head away. “So you have come to ridicule me like all the others.”
“No, Ma’am, I am here to learn the truth, and in doing so I may be able to save your life.”
“And what makes you think you can save my life? That’s preposterous. You must think I’m a fool. I don’t even think you want to save my life.”
Lamon decided this approach was useless. He took a step back to compose his thoughts. Then he turned to look out the high barred window.
“Oh Mama, you’ve got to trust this man Mr.—Mr…” her daughter’s voice trailed off.
“Lamon, Miss. Ward Hill Lamon.” He chose not to look back to them just yet.
“Anna, be quiet. If I am to die, I will die with dignity, and you shall mourn in dignity and silence.”
“Do you remember a Miss Cordie Zook living in your boarding house, Mrs. Surratt?” Lamon turned at that moment to observe her reaction.
“Why, yes, I remember Miss Zook.” Her eyes flickered. “She worked at one of the Yankee hospitals, I believe. She died shortly before—before the incident at Ford’s Theater.”
“Then you knew she had a brother named Gabby who worked at the Executive Mansion.” Lamon tried to keep all emotion out of his voice.
“She said she had a brother. There were men’s clothing in her armoire. But I never met him.”
“And Private Adam Christy, did you ever meet him?”
“The name does sound familiar. Yes, he came to my boardinghouse after Miss Zook died. He said he was there to collect Miss Zook’s possessions for her brother. He was highly suspicious and very rude.”
“How so?”
“Well, I had never met this brother and—“
“And why is that? Why had you not met him? After all, he was living in your boardinghouse until—what? He wasn’t living there? This is all very confusing to me.”
“It was confusing to me also, Mr. Lamon. I only came to the boardinghouse to collect rent until 1863. My family lived in our home in the Maryland countryside until my husband died—I don’t know why on earth I am telling you this.”
“Because if you totally cooperate with me, I may be able to save your life.”
“Mama, believe him. Tell him everything.”
“Hush, child. After my husband’s death we moved into the boardinghouse. By that time, Miss Zook’s brother disappeared. Supposedly he was the janitor at the—the Yankee White House and had to stay there all the time. I never understood why.”
“Do you know if Private Christy ever met John Wilkes Booth in your boardinghouse?”
“I don’t remember. Mr. Booth was a friend of my son. He visited from time to time. I never paid much attention to the comings and goings of the boys. I had a business to conduct, Mr. Lamon.”
“I assume that will be the core of your defense, Mrs. Surratt?”
“I don’t think I want to continue this conversation.”
“Did your son or Mr. Booth ever mention the name Edwin Stanton?” Lamon watched her reaction.
Her mouth flew open as though in surprise. “Mr. Stanton? Why would they even mention Mr. Stanton?”
“Lafayette Baker?” Lamon felt that he might have struck a nerve and pressed her for more information.
“I’ve never heard that name.” She shook her head.
“He is a short, stocky man with red hair,” Lamon offered.
“The man with red hair?” Anna repeated in a gasp.
“I said hush.” Mrs. Surratt grabbed her daughter’s hand, but she pulled away.
“I hope you are a man of honor, Mr. Lamon.” Anna stepped toward him. “The night my mother was arrested, a short man with red hair came to our house. He tapped his foot the same way Wilkes said the man tapped his foot under the bridge.”
Mrs. Surratt pulled her back. “Anna, do not say another word! He told us not to say anything about that night!”
“But he says he can save your life—“
“He’s a damn Yankee! You can’t trust him!”
“The red-haired man is a damn Yankee, too, Mother! Do you trust him? If we have to trust a damn Yankee, I say trust Mr. Lamon!”
Mrs. Surratt pulled her daughter into her bosom and cried. “Mr. Lamon, will you please show common decency and leave immediately?”
Lamon went to the door and rapped on the bars. “Guard! I’m ready!”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Seven

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After pallbearers deposited Lincoln’s body in an Oak Hill Cemetery mausoleum outside Springfield, Lamon did not linger with the rest of the crowd. He knew his time was limited. The detective must piece together the final pieces of the enigma that surrounded the incredible abduction of power in the White House. Lamon did not even allow himself to be tempted to spend a few days home in Danville with his wife and daughter. He feared if he spent a few days with them he would never want to leave.
On his way back to Washington City Lamon decided to stop over in Steubenville, Ohio. His carpetbag in hand, Lamon walked down the street still sodden from recent rains. A two-story clapboard hotel caught his attention, and he checked in.
“Know of a Christy family in town?” Lamon kept his eyes down on the registry.
“Of course,” the clerk replied. “Wilson Christy runs the most respectable boarding house in town. I went to school with his son Adam.”
Lamon’s face shot up. “Is that so?”
“We went off to war about the same time. I served with Gen. Grant in the west. Only been home a couple of weeks. I never did right know who Adam served under. Terrible shame he died at Bull Run.”
“Yes, a terrible shame.”
“You know the family, Mr.—“the clerk glanced at the registry—“Mr. Lamon?”
“I knew the boy from his days in Washington City,” he murmured. “Wanted to extend my condolences to his family. After I wash up I’d like to pay them a visit.”
“It’s just Mr. Christy now. His wife died right before the war started. His grandparents are gone. Only Mr. Christy running the place now.”
“Could you direct me to his boardinghouse?”
“Of course, sir. Head on down Main Street and go left at the crossroads with Maple Street. Third house on the right.”
An hour later Lamon stepped up on the broad porch and knocked at the door. A balding man with spectacles answered. He was wiping his hands on a thin dishtowel.
“Yes, sir, how may I help you?” His voice seemed pleasantly high pitched though colored by a shadow of sadness.
“Mr. Wilson Christy?” Lamon asked, removing his hat.
“Yes, sir?”
“My name is Ward Lamon. I work for the government. Mr. Lincoln was a personal friend of mine from the old days back in Illinois. I wanted to pay my respects. I knew your son while he served in Washington City.”
“You knew my Adam?” he said in breathless anticipation. His eyes fluttered. His mouth seemed not to know whether to smile or frown. “Would you care to take a rocker?” He pointed to a pair of chairs on the covered porch.
“Yes, sir. That would be mighty kind.”
The two men sat in the heat of the late afternoon. Christy started to stand.
“Care for a glass of lemonade? I’ve got some made in the kitchen.”
“No, sir. Please sit and relax. I’m perfectly content as I am.”
Christy sat, rubbed his hands with the towel once more before folding it and placing it on his knee. “Please tell me, Mr. Lamon, did he seem happy? Was he getting on with everybody?”
Lamon looked out across the street before replying. “Yes, he was well,” he lied.
“That’s good, that’s good,” he mumbled, leaning back in the chair. His face scrunched. “I still don’t understand how he came to be at Bull Run. I was sure he would have stayed in the capital city. I had assurances that he was going to be safe in the Executive Mansion and eventually get a commission. Adam always wanted to be an officer in the Army.”
“Assurances from whom?” Lamon tried to remain detached, but he found the statement intriguing.
“Secretary of War Stanton. You know he came from here. He and his mother lived in this very boardinghouse when my father ran it. Ed had an awful infatuation with my sister. Of course, she died of typhoid. I wrote him early in ’62 about getting Adam a position in the Army. He wrote back and said he had a decent job for him, working for the President himself. He said if the boy did well, he could get a commission right away. The next thing I knew I got this telegram from the War Department saying he had died at the second battle at Bull Run. I wrote several letters to Edwin asking for details but never got a reply.” He paused. “Of course, he’s a busy man so I suspect he never had time….” Christy’s voice trailed off as he wiped his eyes with the towel. “I know it ain’t fittin’ for a man to carry on so but—“
“You’ve lost a son. You’ve every right.” Lamon’s hand went up to his mouth to cover it and the small smile that had unconsciously blossomed there.
“Did Mr. Stanton ever tell you the nature of this special assignment?”
Christy shook his head. “No, but I imagined it was pretty darned important.”
Lamon took a moment to lean forward. “Mr. Christy, does Mr. Stanton have a reason to hate you?”
“Why, no. Why would you ask?”
Lamon thought his words spilled out of his mouth a bit too quickly, too glibly. “Mr. Christy, your son did not die in battle at Bull Run. He died of a bullet wound in the basement of the Executive Mansion the same night President Lincoln was assassinated. The President had lived in the basement for the past two and a half years, and your son was his guard.
“Stanton is responsible for all this. Why would he pick out your son for this horrible fate if he did not hate you?”
“Well, I suppose I do know of something, but it was so many years ago. I didn’t think a grown man could hold such a grudge.” Christy looked at Lamon.
“I told you Mr. Stanton had a fondness for my sister before she died of typhoid. He came home from his job at the bookstore for lunch one day, and my sister served him his meal. That evening she came down sick and died. Being typhoid, we got her in the ground as soon as possible. When Ed came home that night he asked where she was, and we told him she was dead. He didn’t believe it. I heard him stirring in his room after midnight, and I saw him going out the door. I followed him. Ed got a shovel from the shed and headed for the cemetery where he proceeded to dig up my sister’s coffin. I waited until he lifted her up and caressed her head.”
“That was a dangerous thing to do,” Lamon interrupted. “Holding a body consumed with typhoid. He could have contracted the disease too.”
Christy smiled sadly and shook his head. “You forget. Ed loved my sister Judith with all his heart. He didn’t care if he caught typhoid and died. I suppose he was stronger than anyone thought. If he could survive asthma he could survive anything.”
“I’m sorry,” Lamon said. “I interrupted you. What happened next in the graveyard?”
“Oh.” He shook his head and looked off, as though to collect his thoughts. “Then I stepped forward and said, ‘So you have to dig dead girls up to have someone to love?’ Or something like that I don’t quite remember exactly. Anyway, he dropped her and ran back into the night, and I reburied poor Judith.
“He tried to pick a fight with me the next day, but Ed, bless his heart, was always so small, I just laughed at him.” Christy’s face darkened after he finished his story.
“Well, I suppose I should move along,” Lamon said, standing and extending his hand to the private’s father.
“Yes, thank you.” Christy shook his head and, trying to find a smile, shook Lamon’s hand.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Six

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Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Baker saves Booth’s life at Garrett’s farm. Booth sneaks away to Richmond, where he tricks a widow into caring for him. Lincoln’s friend Lamon accompanies the funeral train and seeks clues.
When the door opened, Lamon heard a baby’s cry and a woman’s high-pitched voice call out, “For God’s sake, Jesse, you’re scaring my little boy! Shut up!”
Lamon decided the better part of valor would be to climb the steps back to street level. He began to walk back and forth when Louisa did not reappear with Zook. To pass the time he thought of his wife Sally back in Illinois. He knew how she felt neglected as he spent most of the last five years protecting the president. And to what end, he chided himself, because he could not even save his friend from death. He turned when he heard the door open. He assessed the man Louisa guided up the steps. Zook was short and dumpy, a vacant fearful emanated from his eyes. He nodded as Mrs. Whitman whispered assurances in his ear, his lips mouthing incoherent responses.
“And this is our friend, Mr. Ward Lamon,” Louisa said soothingly.
“We know many of the same people from Washington City, Mr. Zook.” He took his cue from Louisa and softened his voice, which was usually loud and grating. “Miss Dorothea Dix sends her best wishes.”
“She scared me at first, but then she was nice. Cordie, she said Miss Dix was scary at first but once you got to know her well, she wasn’t scary at all.” He paused only the briefest of moments before asking, “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to buy a nice apple from the man down the street,” Louisa replied.
Zook stopped abruptly. “I don’t like that man. I can tell he doesn’t like me. He doesn’t like Mr. Walt either. I don’t want an apple. Can we get some peanuts instead? I like peanuts. The peanut man is up the street, far away from the apple man.”
“If that is what you wish.” Louisa guided him by the elbow.
“I was a good friend of the President, Abraham Lincoln.” Lamon took his place on the other side of Mrs. Whitman and looked into the sky. “I think the rain has gone away. That’s good. I didn’t think it would ever stop.”
“Oh, rain always stops,” Zook said. “The rain is all right if you are inside looking out a window. But I don’t like walking in it. It makes you wet.”
“Yes, it does.” Lamon paused, and they walked almost a full block before continuing. “I knew another one of your friends.”
“Did you know my sister Cordie? She’s dead now.”
“I knew Private Adam Christy.”
“He’s dead too.” Zook looked up, brightening. “There’s the peanut man. I hope the peanuts are freshly roasted. I like my peanuts warm.”
“Are you sure? I thought he went home to Ohio.” Lamon’s voice was a whisper.
“No, he’s dead. I saw his body in the wagon.” He looked at Louisa. “Do you have money for the peanuts? I don’t have any money. I spent all my money yesterday on apples.”
“Of course, Gabby,” Louisa said, pulling out her change purse from a pocket in the folds of her dark blue dress. “I always have money.”
“What wagon, Mr. Zook?” Lamon asked.
“The mean man’s wagon.”
“What mean man?” Lamon felt his pulse racing.
“The mean man who….” Zook’s voice trailed off as he took the bag of peanuts from the vendor. “It’s warm. That’s good. I like my peanuts warm.”
“The mean man who did what, Mr. Zook?” Lamon pressed.
Zook shook his head. “No, I can’t say. He came for the butler, then he came for the president and his wife, then he came for the private. He might come for me. Mrs. Whitman, can I go home now? I want to eat my peanuts.”
“Of course, Gabby.” Louisa looked at Lamon and smiled. “He answered all your questions, didn’t he, Mr. Lamon?”
“Just one more. What did the mean man look like?”
Zook backed away as his hand fumbled in the bag to pull out a peanut. “He was short like me, but he was mean. He had red hair, just like the private, but the private is dead now. I got to go home now.”
As Zook scurried back down Portland Avenue, Louisa told Lamon, “A terribly sweet little old man, but quite insane. And I should know insanity. Most of members of my family are insane. Some days I feel quite insane myself.”
“He’s not insane,” Lamon replied. “I believe every word he says. One day you may have to help me to convince him to tell his story to the President of the United States.”
Lamon reflected on Louisa’s response to his statement over the next few days as the funeral train visited Albany, Buffalo, Cleveland and Columbus. She had said not a word, but a wry smile danced across her lips. She must have decided I was insane too, Lamon thought. Maybe Louisa was right. After all, she prided herself on detecting insanity in others. The rest of the journey through Indianapolis, Chicago and Springfield was a blur. Lamon had hoped the extended period of bereavement would bring a measure of peace to his own troubled mind, but it was not to be. At each stop as he looked upon the mourners and wondered how they would react if they knew Lincoln had be a prisoner in the basement of the Executive Mansion for more than two years. He stared into the faces, speculating that perhaps family members of the man forced to impersonate the president were among them. And what of the woman who took on the role of Mary Lincoln? Conceivably her relatives stood on the route, mourning the president but not knowing they should be mourning their own dear kin.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Twenty-Three

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Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Stanton’s henchman Lafayette Baker takes Christy’s body to an embalmer. Booth and Herold join across the river in Maryland. Johnson takes the oath of office. Baker starts the official investigation.
A banging at the kitchen door drew their attention. Baker stood and with a couple of his soldiers strode to the door and opened it. A tall young man with a pickaxe on his shoulder stood at the door. Baker recognized him as the stupid one under the bridge from Thursday night. He was the one who was supposed to kill Seward.
“What do you want here?” Baker asked.
“Oh. I’m supposed to dig a gutter for Mrs. Surratt.”
“At midnight?”
“I happened to see the lights on. I dropped by to get directions. I’m supposed to do the job tomorrow. I didn’t even know her until last week. We met on Pennsylvania Avenue. She looked like a nice lady who needed help and…”
Baker turned to one of the soldiers. “Bring Mrs. Surratt here.”
“What’s wrong? Is she in trouble?” The man with the pickaxe shifted from one foot to the other. “She’s too nice a lady to be in trouble.”
“If you barely know her, how do you know she’s a nice lady?”
“She looks like a nice lady.”
The soldier brought Mrs. Surratt and Anna into the kitchen.
Baker pushed the young man under the gaslight lamp on the wall. “Do you know him?”
Mrs. Surratt raised her right hand as though she were swearing an oath in a courtroom. “I have never seen this man before in my life.”
Baker tapped his foot. He knew both of them were lying, but he could not explain to authorities how he knew.
Mrs. Surratt gasped. She pointed at his foot. “You’re the one under the bridge,” she whispered. “Wilkes told me how you tapped your foot in the river’s tide–”
“Mother, don’t say anymore,” Anna grabbed her mother by the arm.
Baker turned when he heard the front door open. The other soldier had returned with the carriage. “It’s time to go.”
After Mrs. Surratt and Anna sat in the carriage, Baker pulled the group of soldiers around him. “I think it best for the record if you say Major Smith was here tonight instead of me.” The soldiers frowned. “Colonel Henry Wells wanted Major Smith to be here. It’s a sign of respect to the Colonel.”
The men shook their heads but mumbled assent as they stepped back and Baker sat in the carriage next to Mrs. Surratt. As the carriage went down the street, Baker leaned over and said, “I want only the best for your defense. Truly. If you make wild allegations about my meeting with Mr. Booth under a bridge, well, you will lose your credibility. Understand?”
She slowly nodded, hearing the implied threat and considering the alternatives.
Suddenly aware of her surroundings, Mrs. Surratt frowned.
“Where are we going? The city jail is down the street we just passed.”
“Old Capitol Prison.”
“Why, that’s a federal prison. Why are we going there?”
“Mr. Stanton decided this was a federal offense under military jurisdiction.”
“Military? But I’m not a member of the military!” Mrs. Surratt’s voice cracked with fear.
“As I said, you must remain calm. You don’t want to jeopardize your credibility.”
The rest of the carriage ride was in silence, broken only by muffled tears from Anna Surratt and quick shushes from her mother.
After Baker delivered them to their cells at Old Capitol Prison, he told the driver to take him to the office of Dr. Thomas Holmes, the mortician who was embalming the remains of Adam Christy. He wanted to see how the preservation process was coming along. When he went by the office on Saturday morning with the fifty-nine dollars Baker was not impressed with the mortician’s progress. In addition, he became painfully aware of how exposed he was to the attention of the passing crowd. Anyone who knew him would immediately spot him at the mortuary and wonder what he was doing there. He told himself to make his future visits under the cloak of darkness. As they arrived at the building, Baker saw that all the lights were on. This confirmed to him that Dr. Holmes was a man of great energy, working into the latest hours of night.
The assistant Jeffrey answered the door and lead Baker into Holmes’ workroom. The doctor welcomed him and directed him to the table where Christy’s corpse lay.
“You see,” Holmes said, showing Baker the body, “Just as I promised.” He paused a moment. “When will the funeral be? If it will be longer than a week away, I must inject more of my formula, and that will be more money, of course.”
Baker cocked his head, the germ of an idea taking seed in his brain. He was realizing Christy might not have died if vain if his body could substitute for John Wilkes Booth. Eventually Booth would be found. Baker wanted to spare his life. Too many people had already died. Baker did not know the circumstances under which he would find Booth but he wanted to be prepared.
“So you could extend the preservation of the body for weeks?”
“Of course.” Holmes beamed with pride. “Why, I am leaving soon on the train with President Lincoln’s body. It will need constant injections, to keep him looking fit for all the people who will be viewing the body, from Baltimore to New York to Buffalo, Cleveland, Chicago and finally Springfield.”
“Will someone be supervising the office while you are away? I mean, who will be taking care of my son?” Baker asked.
“Jeffrey will be here,” Holmes replied. “I have trained him. You have no worries.”
“You’re a professional man, are you not, Dr. Holmes?” His words barely rose above a whisper.
“Of course, I am. I pride myself on my professionalism.” Holmes glanced about the room before looking directly at Baker. “I think what you are saying is that this young man is not your son.”
“That’s correct.”
Holmes took a step closer. “I assure you no one values life more than I, Mr. Lafayette Baker. Oh yes, I remembered who you were after you left Saturday morning. You are not Abraham Christy. You work for Secretary of War Edwin Stanton. You brought the body of a Republican senator’s son here a couple of years ago. That young man had died under mysterious circumstances, just like this boy.”
“Sir, I am not intimidated easily.” Baker felt his face flush.
“Oh, I am not trying to intimidate you, sir. I only wish to inform you that lies are not necessary with me. By the way, I surmise his real last name is Christy. You took the first name of Abraham from our late president.”
“Are you attempting to blackmail me, sir? If so, you are playing a dangerous game—“
“Oh, don’t be alarmed.” Dr. Holmes smiled. “I am not judgmental. Nor am I in the least bit interested in blackmail.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“So what do you want to have done to the body?”
Baker hesitated.
“You’ll have to excuse my bluntness. I deal in death. I have neither the time nor the inclination to follow common protocols.”
“I want the initials JWF tattooed on his left hand and another tattoo on the right side of his neck to look like a scar, as though he had cut a boil out of his skin and it left a scar.”
“Anything else?”
“I want his hair dyed black. Try to make his freckles go away.”
“Of course. I know an excellent tattoo artist. He does have a fee to match his talent.”
Baker’s stomach began to turn, but he tried to control it. “Anything it costs.”
After he had completed all the details of the arrangement, Baker stepped outside and told the carriage driver to go ahead without him. He decided to walk back to his hotel. His mind was racing with a million contingency plans. Baker knew his cousin Lt. Luther Baker was a military detective. Baker was confident he could suggest that his cousin be part of the hunt for Booth. Luther had as few scruples as Lafayette, but he did have a strong family loyalty. Anything Baker asked of him he would do and keep it a secret. Baker wanted to be at the exact location of Booth’s capture when it occurred. What he would do then was still a blur, but the longer he walked the streets of Washington City after midnight the more his strategies came into focus.
What swirled in his brain—including traveling with a transformed corpse—was madness, he conceded. But what the hell, Baker rationalized, the whole world at this moment in history was totally insane, and anything was possible.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Twenty-One

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Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Stanton’s henchman Lafayette Baker takes Christy’s body to an embalmer. Booth and Herold join across the river in Maryland.Booth remembers Dr. Mudd lives nearby. Johnson takes the oath of office.
The conductor nudged Ward Lamon who slumped deeper into his train car bench. “Washington City, sir. This is your stop.”
Lamon jumped and looked up, his eyes and mind in a blur. “What? Oh. Yes. Thank you.”
His memories of the last twenty-four hours were vague. The man and woman who had been living in the Executive Mansion admitted to him they were imposters, but they would not say anything beyond that. The man lied to him and said Lincoln was being held at Fort McHenry in Baltimore. Lamon thought he lied so the woman could be transported away from Washington. But the woman refused to go, in a fit of loyalty to Tad Lincoln.
Then late last night—or was it early this morning—Lamon heard the news the President was dead. Was it the real President who was assassinated or was it the imposter? Where were the Lincolns while the imposters were in the White House? Where were the Lincolns now? Why was he misdirected to Baltimore? It was all so confusing.
A dull headache kept him from thinking clearly. He had seen too much, heard too much, drunk too much.
From the train station, Lamon hailed a carriage to his hotel. Crowds filled the streets, milling about seemingly without purpose. He watched men hang black bunting from windows and doorways. No one spoke. Only the rolling wheels crunching on cobblestones and the occasional neighing of horses broke the silence. Lamon’s intention was to wash up, change clothes and go immediately to the Executive Mansion; instead, once he was inside his room, Lamon collapsed on the bed. When he awoke, he looked at his pocket watch. It was 3:00 in the afternoon.
By the time he reached the Executive Mansion and walked up the steps, Lamon’s mind cleared. He knew the questions to ask, but he did not know who to ask. Thomas Pendel met him at the door.
“It’s so good to see you, sir.” Pendel shook his hand. “Mrs. Lincoln needs you.”
“So it’s true, Thomas? The President is dead? The real President is dead?”
Pendel hesitated. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Lamon. There is only one Mr. Lincoln.” He began walking up the stairs.
“Are you telling me you didn’t realize the man and woman in the White House for the past two and a half years were imposters?” Lamon stepped quickly to catch up with Pendel.
“Mrs. Lincoln is in her parlor.” On the second floor he turned down the hall toward the Lincolns’ private rooms. “She’s inconsolable.”
Lamon grabbed Pendel by his elbow. “Are you that frightened?”
“I am an old man, sir.” He firmly removed Lamon’s hand. “I fear very little. But I know, above all else, a man cannot rage against a storm.” Pendel opened a door. “Mrs. Lincoln, Mr. Lamon is here to see you.”
She rushed toward him and took Lamon by the hand to lead him to the settee as Pendel stepped back and closed the door. She sat and patted the cushion next to her. Lamon observed her moist cheeks and loose hairs around her face.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Lamon. I know you must be as devastated as I am. I will never forget the nights you slept outside Mr. Lincoln’s bedroom door.” She leaned into him to whisper, “It was that devil Stanton, you know.”
“Yes, I do know. I believe you.”
“Thank, God, someone believes me.” Her hands went to her face. “Mr. Johnson was here this morning.” She shook her head. “I told him we were held in the basement all that time. He doesn’t believe me. I can tell.” Mrs. Lincoln looked him straight in the eyes. “I was beginning to doubt my own sanity.”
“Do you know when the imposters left?”
“Sometime last night, probably after we went to the theater.”
“I blame myself, Mrs. Lincoln,” Lamon blurted. “The imposter told me the President was being held at Fort McHenry. I left immediately for Baltimore. I felt so foolish when I realized he wasn’t there.”
She leaned back and looked at him as though she were seeing him for the first time and did not like what she saw.
“That’s right. You weren’t here. Why weren’t you here?”
“Mr. Stanton said you and the President were being held in a safe place because of assassination threats. He said it was for your own good.”
“And you believed that devil? I thought you would know better than that.”
“I should have.”
“You should have torn the White House down stone by stone until you found us.”
“But I didn’t know for sure you were even still in the mansion.” Lamon was at a loss for words. He could not believe she doubted him. “I was told you were in Baltimore!” he interjected, defending his inexplicable absence to the grieving widow.
“Are you are in league with that devil at this very moment? Did he send you here to spy on me?”
Lamon paused to consider her face. Mrs. Lincoln’s full cheeks flushed and her little mouth alternately pinched shut and blew out heated breath. She glared at him and then looked around the room, as though searching for another person lurking in the shadows. Her hands shook and her feet shuffled. She was insane, he decided. She knew the truth, and it had driven her insane. Lamon stood and bowed.
“I apologize for my shortcomings, Mrs. Lincoln,” he mumbled and turned toward the door.
“How dare you think you could fool me? I am not a fool! You go tell that devil I am not a fool!”
What was Lamon to do? The one person who could substantiate his suspicions was stark raving mad. By association, he possibly could be considered mad also. What was it Pendel said? He knew better than to rage against a storm. But that was all Lamon knew to do—rage on and on until the storm subsided and justice was done.
At the bottom of the stairs, he remembered she said they had been in the basement. That’s where the manservant and the cook lived. They should know what happened. Lamon took the backstairs down. He saw the manservant walk into a room with a bucket and a mop. Lamon followed him and saw a billiards table and boxes stacked around the walls.
“What are you mopping?” Lamon asked.
“Nothing, sir. Just mopping.”
Lamon extended his hand. “I’m Ward Lamon. But, of course, you know that. I’m the president’s personal bodyguard. And your name?”
“Cleotis.”
“The floor looks clean, Cleotis.”
“I know, sir. I just feel like mopping.”
“Leave my husband alone,” a woman’s firm voice called out from the doorway. “You white folks have taken everything away. So just leave us alone.”
Lamon walked to her, looked at her swollen belly and smiled. “When is the baby due?”
“None of your business.”
“Phebe, I think we all got to learn to be polite to each other,” Cleotis said. “Is that too much to ask, to be polite?”
Lamon walked back to him. “Didn’t there used to be another butler here? What was his name?”
“Mr. Pendel is the only butler I know of, sir.”
“He’s the head butler. You’re a butler too. I seem to remember a younger man than you, oh say, in 1862.”
“I’ve been here the whole time, Mr. Lamon, sir.”
“Whole what time?” His instincts as a lawyer were coming to the surface.
“The whole time Mr. Lincoln has been President, sir.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Can you prove he hasn’t?” Phebe stepped in between Lamon and Cleotis. “People who ask questions don’t live long, least ways not around here.”
“Woman, I warned you. You’re saying too much.” Cleotis sounded more anxious than angry, Lamon thought.
“Saying too much about what?” he persisted.
“Nothing, sir.” Cleotis bent over to pick up the bucket. “Excuse me, sir, I’ve got to get some clean water.”
Phebe pursed her lips as she looked at Lamon. “Yes sir, people can get mighty dead asking too many questions.”
Deciding not to pursue the interrogation, Lamon went back upstairs, the straw mats crunching beneath his feet. As he entered the main hall, he saw Stanton coming down the stairs. Lamon presumed he had been to the autopsy room to oversee any discoveries made by the surgeons. Their eyes met briefly. Stanton stopped and then hurried to the front door. Lamon followed down the steps to the revolving gate between the Executive Mansion and the Department of War building.
“Mr. Secretary!” he called out. “I haven’t seen you in a long time. Please pause a moment so we can speak.”
Stanton frowned. “Well, make it quick. Can’t you see I am in a hurry? We have a conspiracy to solve!”
“Do you have any information to lead you to the assassins?” Lamon asked, trying to sound friendly.
“Yes,” Stanton replied. “We think it was some actor and his rabble-rousing friends.”
“Is it the same man whom you suspected two and a half years ago? You remember, when you placed the president and his wife in a secret location?”
“What?” Stanton’s eyebrows went up.
“You told me in 1862 that Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln had been removed from the Executive Mansion to a secret location to protect them from an assassination attempt. You had found two people who looked like the Lincolns to take their place. Why did you let them return unless you thought the danger had passed and obviously it had not?”
“The intelligence we had at hand suggested otherwise. The nation needed its leader back where he belonged,” Stanton explained, his lips pinching together when he was finished.
“Why would you allow him to go to the theater when you knew danger existed?” Lamon pursued his questioning.
“I told you we thought it was safe.”
“But it wasn’t safe. The president is dead.”
“I won’t subject myself to such an interrogation,” Stanton said in a huff.
“By the way, what happened to the man and woman who impersonated the Lincolns?”
“They went home.”
“And where was that?”
“I don’t remember.” Flustered, Stanton paused to compose himself. He then wagged a fat finger at the earnest questioner. “Listen here. You had better keep that story to yourself. People will think you are crazy if you insist on repeating it. Like people think Mrs. Lincoln is crazy.”

Booth’s Revenge, Chapter Twenty

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Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Stanton’s henchman Lafayette Baker takes Christy’s body to an embalmer. Booth and Herold join across the river in Maryland.Booth remembers Dr. Mudd lives nearby. Stanton takes over at the Peterson house. Johnson decides to rise to this solemn occasion.
Salmon Chase knocked at the door right at 10:00 and informed Johnson that members of the Cabinet would be arriving soon. Within minutes Secretary of the Treasury Hugh McCulloch, Attorney General James Speed and several members of Congress were in his room seated and waiting. There was little conversation as most of the thoughts were of the President who had died just three hours earlier.
Johnson noticed that Stanton had not taken time from his duties to attend the ceremony. It was just as well, he decided, although it might be amusing to see Stanton’s reaction when he realized the new president was not drunk.
Chase rose from his seat, motioning for Johnson to approach. Chase then administered the oath, and shook Johnson’s hand ceremoniously.
“May God support, guide, and bless you in your arduous duties,” the Chief Justice said in a loud solemn voice.
Johnson supposed Chase wanted the others to hear him clearly, so they could accurately quote him later. He wanted the press to report he was calm, grave and looking in remarkably good health.
“I can’t promise much,” Johnson said to the witnesses. “I will follow the example set by Mr. Lincoln, God bless him.” After a round of polite applause, he added, “Oh, and tell the other Cabinet members we should have a meeting as soon as possible.”
“At the White House?” McCulloch asked.
“No, no. Leave Mrs. Lincoln to her grief.”
“I can arrange a room at the Treasury,” McCulloch offered.
“Very good.”
Johnson followed the men out of the hotel and hailed a carriage to the Treasury building which was close to the White House.
Passing the Executive Mansion, Johnson decided impulsively to stop to pay his respects to Mrs. Lincoln. It was the right thing to do, he reasoned. Probably. Maybe. If only his wife were here to guide him in these awkward social customs, he would feel much better.
At the door, a guard ushered him in and escorted him to the First Family’s private quarters on the second floor.
Soldiers milled around the second floor hall, seeming to be unsure of themselves. Were they waiting for orders? Didn’t they know their responsibilities on this solemn occasion? Were they posted to defend the Republic against more assassins? Were they purely ceremonial functionaries? Johnson’s mind raced with the possibilities.
The escort officer conducted him to Lincoln’s office, and motioned for him to enter.
Johnson noticed the crowd outside a door at the other end of the hall.
“What’s going on down there?”
“That’s where the doctors are doing the autopsy, sir,” the guard replied in a low voice.
“The autopsy? You mean Mr. Lincoln’s body is here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My God, how is Mrs. Lincoln holding up, knowing her husband is in the next room like that?”
“It’s not for me to say, sir.”
Before he could reply to the escort, Johnson heard a dress rustling inside the darkened room.
“Mr. Johnson,” Mrs. Lincoln whispered, peeking into the hall. “Please come in.”
He walked into the office, and Mrs. Lincoln shut the door behind him. She went to him and extended her tiny, gloved hand. Johnson smiled as he observed her face. She seemed calmer than the previous evening at the boardinghouse.
“I hope I am not intruding, ma’am.”
“No, I’m glad to see a friendly face,” she replied. “My husband always liked you. He had confidence in you.”
“I appreciate that, ma’am.”
Mrs. Lincoln looked around the room. “Don’t trust anyone, Mr. Johnson. Especially not that devil, Edwin Stanton.”
“Don’t worry about that, ma’am. I know how devious Mr. Stanton can be.”
She leaned into him. “No, you don’t. You cannot conceive of what that man is capable. He held us captive, Mr. Johnson, in the White House basement for two and a half years. And on the very night we were released he had my husband murdered.”
“The White House basement?”
“Yes, that devil caged us. He found a man and woman in prison who looked like us and put them in the White House. Could you not tell the difference?”
Johnson had only met Lincoln a few times in his life. They had a nice long conversation before Lincoln appointed him the military governor of Tennessee in March of 1862. The times they met after that Lincoln seemed distant and distracted, but Johnson dismissed the change to the pressures of war.
“Have you told anyone else about this—this allegation?”
“It’s not an allegation. It’s the truth. I dare not say anything or else they will think me mad. But you believe me, don’t you? You will be my defender, won’t you, Mr. Johnson?”
“Mary, where are you, dear?”
Johnson turned to see Thomas Pendel, the White House butler. Pendel was wearing Lincoln’s clothing.
“You must return to your bedroom, my dear. This way, down our private hall. Don’t you remember? Too many people in the house right now. We must have our privacy. We decided to seclude ourselves today, remember?”
Mrs. Lincoln rushed to Pendel, hugging him.
“Of course, darling. You always know best.” She took Pendel’s face in her hands and kissed him on the lips. “I had this terrible dream. We were in the basement, and then at the theater, and then someone shot you. But it was a terrible dream, wasn’t it, Mr. Lincoln?”
“You mustn’t rattle on so, Mary. Mr. Johnson wouldn’t understand.”
She turned and curtsied. “Excuse me, sir. I must do as my dear husband says. I need my rest.”
After she left the room, Pendel walked up to Johnson.
“You must understand, sir. Mrs. Lincoln is in a delicate condition at this moment. I thought if I wore Mr. Lincoln’s clothing, it would give her comfort. The doctors did not want her interrupting the autopsy, you see, and so I thought if I could create the illusion of normalcy….” His voice trailed off as he looked back at the door. “Even Master Tad needed comforting. I stayed by his bedside all last night.”
“So, do you believe her story?” Johnson asked. “About the abduction? Could they have possibly been in the basement for two and a half years?”
“The Lincolns are good people,” Pendel replied. “They have been through enough grief.”
“But do you believe they were in the basement for two and a half years?”
Without answering, Pendel turned abruptly, calling back over his shoulder as he exited, “Mrs. Lincoln needs me now.”
Perplexed, Johnson decided to leave for the Treasury. He had delayed the Cabinet meeting too long. He returned to his carriage and thought about Pendel’s reaction. The butler avoided answering the question directly. Why? Was he afraid for his safety and that of the Lincoln family? Did he not know about the abduction? Or maybe he did know, but could not bring himself to talk about it. Johnson shook his head to clear such swirling thoughts as he entered the room at the Treasury for the Cabinet meeting.
Sitting at the end of the table was Stanton, who showed no intention of moving. Johnson took his seat at the other end. As he looked around the room, he wondered if it had actually just been twenty-four hours ago, that he had been with this exact group of men. Only at that time Abraham Lincoln was alive and in charge of the meeting. General Ulysses Grant had been in attendance but not today. Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Interior John Usher, Treasury Secretary Hugh McColloch, Postmaster General William Dennison, Attorney General James Speed and Interior Secretary James Harlan were all back, staring at him. Johnson supposed they wondered if he were drunk as he had been at the Inaugural.
“I recommend that Chief Clerk of the State Department be appointed temporary Secretary of State since neither Mr. Seward nor his son are capable of the duties at the time,” Stanton said, shuffling through his papers.
Johnson had forgotten. Frederick Seward had been at the previous meeting, substituting for his father. Now he was suffering from stab wounds from the attack from the night before.
“Yes, I think that would be most appropriate,” Johnson said just above a whisper.
“What is most important at this time,” Stanton continued in an imperious tone and showing no desire to relinquish the floor, “is that we have no intention of being intimidated by the forceful yet clumsy attempts of the former Confederate government to alter our plans of Reconstruction.”
“That is not your responsibility to make any statement of the kind,” Welles replied. “Isn’t that so, Mr. Speed? As the leading Constitutional scholar around this table, don’t you agree that any statements must come from the President?”
The Attorney General cleared his throat. “Of course, Mr. Welles. Mr. Johnson is now head of state. We all—at least many of us—attended the swearing in of President Johnson in his hotel room no more than an hour ago.”
“I don’t know if Mr. Johnson is informed enough to make any statements at this time,” Stanton said, removing his glasses and ceremoniously wiping them with a handkerchief.
“Whether he is informed adequately or not is not the point,” Welles stressed. “He is the President.”
“Yes, I am.” Johnson finally found his voice. “And I have no intention of changing the policy of Mr. Lincoln. He said many times we should treat the Confederate States gently, and I see no reason to change that approach.”
“Of course, being from a Confederate state, you would be expected to say that,” Stanton said.
“That is quite enough, sir!” Welles replied in a huff.
“Thank you, Mr. Welles,” Johnson interrupted in his best diplomatic tone. “I am quite capable of defending myself. I am beginning to feel this is an inopportune time to conduct this meeting. Emotions are riding high. I believe the best action at this time is for us all to concentrate on our specific constitutionally defined jobs.”
“Well said, Mr. President,” Speed agreed.
After he adjourned the meeting, Johnson gently took Welles by the elbow to pull him into a far corner of the room away from the other Cabinet members who were mumbling among themselves near the door. They watched as Stanton quickly gathered together papers in his leather case and strode out of the room. The cluster of Cabinet members standing by the door parted to let him exit in silence.
“He seems distracted.” Johnson chose his words with care.
“Hell, he’s the same son of a bitch he’s always been,” Welles replied.
Johnson wondered if this were a good time to mention Mrs. Lincoln’s allegations about lookalikes in the White House. Had Welles noticed any difference in the behavior of the president during the last two and a half years? Perhaps he should not broach such a fantastic subject right now. After all, only yesterday Welles had observed Johnson’s own irrational, drunken behavior.
Welles put his arm around Johnson’s shoulder and turned him away from the other men.
“Take my advice,” he whispered. “Fire Stanton while you can.”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Nineteen

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