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Booth’s Revenge Chapter Twenty-Three

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

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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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Booth’s Revenge Chapter Six

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

My Dim Memory

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Since I was only five years old, my memory of that day is dim and rather muddled.
Happiness, I suppose, crowds out the bad feelings. Mom and Dad both worked. She sold dresses at a big store downtown. She always looked pretty when she left me at the nursery school each morning where I sat on the floor playing with trucks and building blocks. Mom wore bright red lipstick and rouge on her cheeks. When she hugged me good-bye she smelled of roses. I didn’t know what Daddy did at work, mostly sat in an office and talked on the telephone. Later I figured out he sold insurance.
Anyway, on this cloudless, briskly cool day in late November—it was a Friday, I remember now—I didn’t go to the nursery school. Mommy dressed me in clothes I usually wore to Sunday School. Instead, all three of us climbed into the car and drove downtown, left the car in a big lot and walked several blocks to a park where all these streets came together.
About halfway there, I tugged on Daddy’s sleeve and told him I was getting tired walking all that way. He smiled and lifted me to his shoulders, and the rest of the way I was taller than anyone else on the street, and there were a lot of people on the street that day. Daddy always carried me on his shoulders the very first time I would say I was tired. To the day he died many years later I never admitted to him that I wasn’t really that tired. I just liked being so high above everyone around me. Like I said, happiness.
When we arrived at the park, we saw it was filled with all kinds of people—young, old, white, black, some were dressed nice like us and others had some pretty raggedy shirts and pants. I don’t remember ever going there before. Daddy told me we had driven through the park to get on the big highway many times but I was usually busy playing in the back seat. Looking around I saw one tall brick building with people leaning out of all the windows. There was a big sign on the roof.
“What does that sign say, Daddy?”
“Hertz.”
“That’s a funny name.”
“It’s the name of a car rental company,” Mommy said.
“I don’t know what rental means,” I replied.
Before Daddy or Mommy could explain what rental meant, the crowd started yelling and jumping up and down. I saw a lot of people with cameras. By the time the police on motorcycles began riding by, the noise was so loud I couldn’t hear anything Mommy and Daddy were saying. Even Daddy jumped a little when this one big car with no top slowly turned the corner and to drive towards us.
Shots rang out. They sounded like firecrackers. Before I knew it, we were on the ground, and Daddy was on top of me. My first thought was that Mommy was going to be mad because my Sunday School clothes got dirty. Then I started crying. I didn’t know why; maybe because everyone else was crying. I even saw tears on Daddy’s cheeks.
I am now an old man. People always ask me what I remember about being in Dallas’ Dealey Plaza on the day President Kennedy was shot. The only thing I really remember is the happiness I felt being on Daddy’s shoulders. I know they wouldn’t be interested in that. Instead, I tell them, “I saw the nice lady in the car with the pink hat.”

Marina Darling

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Marina Oswald awoke in a vodka-induced haze the morning of Nov. 22, 1963. Rolling over, she reached for her bottle, only to find it empty.
“Lee Harvey Oswald,” she slurred in a sing-song voice. “I need some more vodka.” When he didn’t respond, she repeated, a little louder, “Lee Harvey Oswald, I need some more vodka.”
“Huh?” He had a distant air in his voice as he cleaned his rifle.
“I need more vodka.” Marina giggled. “Don’t you understand good old American English? I want vodka.”
“Oh.” Lee stood, walked out of the bedroom and reappeared a few minutes later with a full bottle. “Here you go, honey.” He handed it to her with a smile. Then he sat and resumed cleaning his rifle.
“You are so good to me, Lee Harvey Oswald.” Marina put the bottle to her lips and sucked down as much as she could before it began dribbling from the corners of her mouth. “Why are you so good to me, Lee Harvey Oswald?”
“I guess because I love you so much.”
Marina remembered the first time she saw him bundled up in a fur coat on a Moscow winter morning. The only object she saw was this cute round face sticking out, all twisted up and shivering. He had the most delectable lips she had ever seen on a man. By that night she had him in her apartment and peeled off each layer of his clothing until he was naked. Her hands ran over his thin torso.
Before she knew it, they were married and living in a place called Dallas, Texas. Marina gulped vodka as she regarded him sitting on the edge of the bed cleaning his rifle. His slender arm muscles rippled as he rubbed a cloth up and down on the barrel.
“Lee Harvey Oswald, you are a sexy Marine man, do you know that?”
He chuckled. “Oh, I haven’t been a Marine in a while.”
“You still sexy Marine man to me, Lee Harvey Oswald.” After her third slurp, Marina carefully positioned the bottle on the bed stand and crawled across the sheets to him. “Why do you have to go to work today? I am—what do you call it—I am horny, Lee Harvey Oswald.”
“I’d be glad to stay home, honey, but this is a special day.”
“What makes it so special?” She ran her hands across his back.
“Well, President Kennedy is coming to Dallas today.” He paused wiping his rifle. “His car is going right past my building.”
“Oh, who cares about the silly old president? I don’t like him. He’s an old man.” Sighing deeply, the young woman wrapped her arms around his waist. “I like young man. I like you.”
“But I care about the president.” He disassembled his rifle. “I care very much.”
“Why don’t you stop playing with your gun and play with me?”
“I keep telling you. It’s not a gun. It’s a rifle.”
“Oh yes, I know.” She stretched her arms out to touch the weapon. “This is my rifle.” Marina lowered her hands to his crotch. “This is my gun. One is for shooting. One is for fun.”
She breathed on the nape of his neck.
“Marina, baby, you know what that does to me.” He emitted a guttural sound, but then he shook his shoulders. “You don’t understand. I’m making history today.”
“Don’t make history,” she whispered in his ear. “Make me.”
“The proletariat needs me.” Lee’s voice began to reflect his dwindling willpower.
“I am the proletariat. I need you.” Marina’s hands went up under his T-shirt to his chest. “Lee Harvey Oswald, Lee Harvey Oswald….”
He dropped the rifle to the floor and turned around. Marina pulled his shirt off him and proceeded to lick and kiss his stomach.
“You do this to me all the time,” he murmured as he lifted her head and kissed her lips. “You drive me mad.”
“I know. I love you so much.”
And that’s how John F. Kennedy would have lived to serve two full terms as president of the United States if Marina Oswald had been an alcoholic nymphomaniac.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-One

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Boston Corbett stood before a congregation of Methodist Episcopalians in a rural church set among a stand of cottonwood trees outside of Camden, New Jersey. He was in fine voice and form, ready to give his testimony of a life lived as a “Glory to God” man.
“Brothers and sisters, I stand before you tonight not as a proud man, but a man who walked the streets of hell before seeing the light and moving into the sweet arms of Jesus.”
Corbett paused because he knew a chorus of “Amen!” and “Preach on, Brother!” was about to shake the rafters. And he was right.
“God blessed me with a righteous wife, valued more than pearls and rubies, and, in his own wisdom which we do not understand, he took her away from me as she gave birth to our precious daughter who only spent a moment on this Earth before going home to be with Jesus and all the saints and archangels.”
“Poor baby girl!” erupted among the womenfolk worshipers.
“Faced with such sorrow, I believed the false promise of Satan himself that I could find comfort in the demon liquors. My life sank. My soul shrank. And I drank and drank. All for naught. All in obedience to the devil himself.”
“No, no, no.” This was more of a mere whisper wafting through the pews.
“But God did not allow it!” Corbett bellowed. The crowd cowered in apprehension. “God grabbed me by my collar and said, “Boy, you will not waste this life I gave you! You will not dismay your wife and child who are by My side at this very moment! You will repent and spread the Gospel throughout this land on the verge of war, and I will prevail!”
The folks sprang from their seats, clapping and shouting hallelujah. Their usual pastor, a man of small stature and graying hair, motioned for them to sit and be quiet.
“And from that moment on, I became a soldier in the army of the Lord. Preaching on every street corner, singing in every choir and glorifying God in every church. When my country sent me to war to end the evil that was slavery, I continued to fight for Jehovah too. Even when I was captured at Culpepper Court House in Virginia and was sent to that horrible plot of land called Andersonville Prison in Georgia, I continued to shout, I continued to pray, I continued to praise until the devil’s legions themselves could not take it any longer. They traded me back north to home.”
Another round of hallelujahs and amens interrupted his preaching.
“After I returned to the Army of Righteousness, I continued my crusade for my Heavenly Father. Then came that moment which has brought me to the attention of all you God-fearing American saints. That evil practitioner of the devil’s art of theater killed our Father Abraham.”
Corbett was thrown off his timing as he heard a man turn to the fellow next to him and say, “I don’t know if I don’t enjoy going to a good show, every now and again.”
“We trapped him at that barn in Virginia. I was ordered not to shoot and kill him but I obeyed a Higher Authority and did shoot!”
More amens and hallelujahs.
Staring at the congregation for a long moment, Corbett lowered his voice and continued, “But evil did not die that night. Evil never dies! Evil will lurk in our hearts forever! Be ever vigilant against evil!”
The general mood of the people was to jump up and applaud, but the hand of the good, gray-haired pastor kept them in their seats.
“For, you see, God came to me that night. He told me John Wilkes Booth must not die at that time. He came to me in the form of a powerfully built short man with red hair and divine inspiration in his eyes.”
A murmur rose among the people. Women fluttered their fans wildly in the August heat, and the men shifted uneasily in the pews.
“He offered a substitute sacrifice for the nation, the corpse of a young man who looked like Booth but who was not Booth. Perhaps he was Jesus Christ come down to atone for our sins once again—“
Almost in unison, a moan rolled through the room as each man, woman and child stood and without further hesitation left the church, returning to their homes.
Corbett had seen this before. For some reason, the sheep of this Earth were not ready for the kindly shepherd to herd them on the path of righteousness. He would not be discouraged though.
“Brother Corbett,” the elderly minister said to him in uncertain tones, “I don’t understand the meaning of your parable there at the end, and neither, evidently, did my parishioners. The saddest aspect of this, it seems, is that we had not taken the offering yet so I have nothing to pay you for your—for the most part—excellent testimony.”
Corbett smiled and patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, brother, the Lord will pay me much more richly than you ever could.”
As he had learned in previous encounters with retreating admirers, it was best that he leave town that night and find lodgings a few miles down the road. The cool night air felt good against his warm face as he rode his handsome little horse, the very mount that took him to the Virginia farm three years ago. A small inn appeared on the road as he expected. Rapping at the door and rousing the keeper from his sleep, Corbett asked for lodging for the night, and the owner yawned, scratched his head and showed him to a small room in the back. The next morning at breakfast, he read the Camden newspaper.
On the front page was a story from Washington City. President Andrew Johnson fired Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, calling him a “fountain of mischief.” The president requested Stanton’s resignation and, when the letter was not forthcoming, dismissed him a week later. The story quoted Johnson as saying he conformed to the letter of the law as laid out in the new Tenure of Office Act. The newspaper also reported that the president had selected Gen. Ulysses S. Grant as the replacement. The article ended with the statement that Stanton had relented and left his job under protest.
As he sipped his coffee, Corbett looked out the inn’s dining room window to see dogs seek shade beneath a stand of oak trees. Something was awry, he told himself. God was on the verge of calling him again to save the soul of the United States of America. In his saddlebag, he had several letters from churches in faraway Kansas, beseeching him to share his testimony. Corbett shook his head. He must delay his trip out west because the Lord would be calling him to Washington City soon.
* * *
Dr. Leale shook the chill from his bones after removing his outer vestments and settled into a comfortable chair, which faced the fireplace in his parlor. He had just returned home from a day’s work at the military hospital. December of 1868 was particularly cold, and his omnibus ride did nothing to protect him from the sharp winds whipping in from the frozen Potomac River. Before mounting the steps of the omnibus, he had bought a newspaper to read on the way home, but instead he hunched over and closed his eyes, which he felt were about to freeze in their sockets. Now comfortable in his favorite chair and sipping a hot cup of coffee–which his wife presented to him as he entered the parlor–Dr. Leale was ready to read the news.
The House of Representatives, by a vote of 108 to 57, refused to impeach President Johnson because he fired Secretary of War Stanton and replaced him with Gen. Grant. Leale did not know what to think of the legislative maneuverings, but he did feel certain that once the newly elected Representatives were sworn into office after the New Year, a new attempt to impeach the president would surely come to pass.
Leale’s role in the larger drama of President Lincoln’s assassination, the trial and execution of the conspirators and now the political battle to remove President Johnson from office often seemed inconsequential to him. Because he had been the initial physician to attend the slain president, Leale had been part of many ceremonies surrounding the funeral. The assassination conspiracy trial in 1865 drew him to the courtroom, where he met Lincoln’s mysterious stepbrother. Then Rep. Benjamin Butler asked him in 1867 to write a report on the details about the damage done to the head of President Lincoln for the congressional report being prepared.
However, in the back of his mind, Leale could not shake the memory of watching Lincoln delivering a message from a window of the Executive Mansion shortly before the assassination. The president’s face looked odd to the doctor. Exactly why it was odd Leale could not figure out. Neither could he understand Secretary of War Stanton’s behavior that night at the boarding house across the street from Ford’s Theatre.
Leale’s wife Rebecca came to the parlor door to announce dinner was now on the table.
“In a moment, dear. As soon as I finish this story about the impeachment vote.” He searched for some clue about what tied the three events together. The newspaper article quoted Gen. Grant about the impeachment effort. On the one hand, he indicated he was pleased to oblige President Johnson and take on the interim position but on the other, he made overtures of reconciliation with Stanton. All of this puzzled Leale, making him more drawn to the political machinations. A few minutes later, Rebecca returned to the parlor, leaned over his chair to kiss him on the cheek, a gentle reminder his meal awaited him.
“Eating a cold dinner will not bring justice to this town,” she whispered.
He looked up from his newspaper, smiled then a cloud crossed his face. “If only you had seen Mr. Stanton that night. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.”
“Like the way President Lincoln acted that time. You wanted to go to the theater to see if he looked the same and what made him look that way.”
“Yes, dear. You do understand, don’t you?”
“Yes, I understand.”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Twenty-Eight

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Ward Hill Lamon decided after the hangings in the summer of 1865 that the best course he could take would be to continue in his duties as Marshal for the District of Columbia, going about his ordinary chores. He discreetly probed the dealings of Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, whom he considered the linchpin in the entire conspiracy. Weeks passed into months for Lamon without progress in his investigation. The deaths of Preston King in New York and James Lane in Kansas did not pass without notice. Local coroners declared both had been suicides, but Lamon had his doubts, remembering the roles they played in blocking the delivery of Mrs. Surratt’s reprieve on the day of the hangings. Lamon also learned that Louis Weichmann had left his government job to live in Indiana. Obtaining the young man’s new address, Lamon repeatedly sent letters, seeking permission to travel to Indiana to talk to Weichmann about his testimony in the conspirators’ trials. Weichmann never replied to any of the letters; in fact, the last one returned with “Refused” scrawled across it. The awkward cursive style of the message conveyed a deep underlying fear, Lamon decided.
The best means of continuing the investigation was a close reading of all the local newspapers for political developments. By late August of 1866, four different conventions were held to select candidates for the House of Representatives. Delegates at one convention urged Johnson to fire Secretary of War Stanton, while participants at other conventions called for the impeachment of the president. In fact, impeachment was the central issue in congressional district elections.
When Johnson announced plans to go on a speaking tour in the fall, Lamon’s first instinct was to offer his services as a personal bodyguard. His traveling companion was William Seward, who had sufficiently recovered from his knife wounds to continue his duties as Secretary of State. Eventually Lamon dissuaded himself from making the offer. As long as the Radical Republicans and Stanton were obsessed with the subject of impeachment, Lamon knew Johnson’s life was not in danger, only his reputation. Stanton’s faction carried enough elections in November to maintain its lead in the House.
Lamon spent the week before Christmas ensconced in one of his favorite taverns in Washington City reading newspapers. He sighed as he considered the ongoing battles between Congress and the president on one piece of legislation after another. The new session had hardly begun in December of 1866 when the House passed a bill giving black men in the District of Columbia the right to vote. Representatives then passed the Tenure of Office Bill, which Lamon sensed had darker implications than the surface meaning implied. He saw the hand of Thaddeus Stevens and the other Radical Republicans at work, creating a bill so odorous that Johnson would feel honor-bound to disobey it. The tenure bill stated the President could not fire a member of his cabinet without permission of Congress. Another bill introduced on the House floor anticipated Johnson’s actions by calling for his impeachment. Lamon feared the New Year could only bring presidential vetoes, congressional overrides and further legislation to keep the needless cycle going.
“Excuse me.” A soft voice of easy manner interrupted Lamon’s thoughts. “Are you not Marshal of the District of Columbia Ward Hill Lamon?”
“Yes, I am.” He wrinkled his brow trying to make out the figure of the man standing over him. He was older than Lamon, somewhat shorter and less stout, and his shoulders sloped in such a way to render his presence totally non-confrontational.
“I thought so.” The man smiled through his full gray beard. “I am Walt Whitman. You visited my home in Brooklyn last year. You spoke to my mother and my dear friend Gabby Zook.”
Lamon’s eyes widened, and he stood to shake Whitman’s hand. “An honor sir. I’ve been trying to make your acquaintance for some time. Every time I go to the Office of Indian Affairs I am told you are away for a few days.”
“Yes, I don’t make a rather good employee, it seems. But they have a good nature and overlook my shortcomings.”
“Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like an ale?”
“Another hot tea would be pleasant,” Whitman said as he sat. I’ve witnessed in my family what alcohol can do to one’s constitution, but I do enjoy the company of men who revel in their liquor.”
Lamon ordered another tea for Whitman and a large pewter mug of ale for himself. After taking a deep gulp, he leaned back and smiled. “So, do you agree with your mother’s assessment that Gabby Zook is insane?”
“Insane is a complicated word.” Whitman furrowed his brow. “I have observed insanity on a personal level with my own family. I myself have been called insane. Mr. Gabby has an extremely high degree of anxiety. Such anxiety cannot be created merely from the wild imagination of an insane man but rather from harsh, stark reality.”
Lamon nodded. “I agree with you.” After another draught, he leaned forward so no one standing nearby in the noisy tavern might eavesdrop on their conversation. “I have proof—well, eyewitness testimony for whatever that is worth—that Gabby Zook, President Lincoln and his wife were held captive in the Executive Mansion basement.”
“And a private Adam Christy attended to their needs. They thought they heard the murder of a butler in the middle of the night. That an intimidating short man with red hair may have killed the private and may try to kill Mr. Gabby.”
“So he told you the same stories. Do you think you could convince him to tell President Johnson what he knows?”
Whitman shook his head. “I am a gentle man, Mr. Lamon. Mr. Gabby feels secure around me and opens his heart to me. You and President Johnson, on the other hand, are rough, crude men. You scare him.” He put down his cup and rose. “Thank you so much for the refreshment.” Patting Lamon on the shoulder, he added, “I shall do all in my power to convince Mr. Gabby to trust you. Have patience. Our captain must be avenged.”
“Our captain?” Lamon was confused. “Who’s our captain?”
“Our captain,” Whitman repeated. “Mr. Lincoln, dear sir. We must avenge our captain.”