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Booth’s Revenge Chapter Ten

Previously: Just before shooting Lincoln, Booth thinks of the events leading to this moment.Stanton goes to Seward’s house when he hears of the stabbing. Someone tries to shoot Andrew Johnson.
The short man with the red beard scared Gabby Zook. Gabby was on his way out of the White House basement wearing a long coat and black stovepipe hat with a bullet hole in it. The young soldier gave him the hat and coat because it was raining, and it was going to be a long walk from the White House to the Armory Square Hospital. He said the coat and hat belonged to the President of the United States, so Gabby decided he must be the President of the United States. He did not know for sure. The last two and a half years had been very confusing.
“Who the hell are you?” the short man bellowed at him as they met in the basement door.
“I’m the president, aren’t I?” Gabby remembered telling the man.
“Get the hell out of here,” the man barked.
More than half an hour had passed since he left the grounds of the White House, but the rough words still haunted him. That man sounded mean enough to kill someone, Gabby told himself as he put his head down to protect his face from the rain. He gathered the overcoat around him.
“If I am the president,” Gabby mumbled to himself, “then why was that man talking mean to me?” He concentrated on his shoes splashing in the mud. “Maybe he was mean to me because I’m not really the president. I’m just wearing his hat and coat.”
If only he could remember. Cordie would tell him what he needed to know. His sister always took good care of him. That was right. He could not be President because he was Cordie’s brother, and not anyone related to Cordie could be President. Gabby began to recall that he worked at the White House as a janitor. Cordie had gotten him the job because their uncle Samuel Zook was a general, and she felt the government owed the family something because Uncle Sammy was doing such a fine job. One day Gabby was setting out rattraps in the basement when this man and the young soldier brought down a very tall man and short woman to the billiards room. He was behind some boxes setting the traps when the man and soldier caught him. Because “he knew,” the man with the soldier explained, Gabby had to stay in the basement. Gabby did not know what it was “he knew,” but it must have been something bad.
They kept saying the president was being held captive in the basement. Gabby was not certain if they were talking about him or the tall man. The tall man seemed very nice and smart enough to be the President. At times Gabby was sure this man was the President and the woman was his wife. Other times Gabby was sure he was president, and the woman was his wife. He shook his head. That could not be right. He would have never married a woman like that. She was crazy.
Gabby looked up at the street sign. It was Fifteenth Street. Sighing, he wished he had paid more attention when Cordie took him places. He had to find Cordie. What did the young soldier tell him right before he left the basement? Go to Armory Square Hospital. But where was Armory Square Hospital? He must have been walking in the right direction or why else would he have been walking in that direction, Gabby asked himself. Most of the time Gabby listened to his own advice because down deep in his heart Gabby knew he was smart.
He went to West Point, and only the smartest of boys went to school there. Yes, he remembered his best friend Joe VanderPyle was his classmate. They were going to be Army officers. They would have been good Army officers, and then something bad happened. A colonel told them to drive him in a carriage into town. Gabby tried to tell the colonel he had never handled a team of horses before, but the colonel insisted his orders be obeyed. Gabby lost control, and the carriage overturned. Joe died. The colonel said it was Gabby’s fault. After that, Gabby did not know what was right or wrong or up or down. The Army confused him, and he wanted to go home to Brooklyn to his sister Cordie.
Cordie did a good job taking care of him through the years until their money ran out, and they had to sell the old house. She made sure the government gave him a good job. She volunteered at the hospital and took in sewing at the boarding house where they lived. Life was good until he got locked into the basement. The boardinghouse, Gabby repeated. Maybe that was where Cordie was. He took a few steps back the other way before stopping. No, Cordie was not at the boardinghouse. Cordie was dead.
The private told him so, just a day or two ago. But Gabby already knew. He dreamed it. He knew he would never see his sister again. The soldier had brought him a plate of fried eggs for breakfast. They were Gabby’s favorite. Now he was not hungry anymore.
“We’re going home on Friday,” the soldier told him. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore.”
“Cordie’s dead. There’s plenty to worry about,” Gabby remembered telling the soldier. “Uncle Sammy is dead. Mama is dead. Papa’s dead. Joe is dead. Everybody’s dead except me.” Then he said to the soldier, “Don’t worry. I forgive you.”
Gabby thought the soldier appreciated hearing that. He did not want the young man to feel guilty for keeping him and the couple in the basement for so long. It was someone else’s fault. He had not quite figured out whose fault it was, but he was pretty sure it was the man with the private the day who locked him in the basement. The soldier thought he had been doing the right thing. Gabby could tell he was a good young man. Maybe he could help Gabby figure all this out.
Turning back up Fifteenth Street, Gabby began walking to the White House. The young man told him to go to Armory Square Hospital, but Gabby could not remember why. He was sure the soldier would not mind explaining everything to him again. Finally, he reached the White House grounds and trudged up the path to the basement door. He stopped short. The mean short man with the red beard was carrying a big bundle out the door. He dumped it in an open carriage and went back inside. Gabby edged closer, afraid the man would see him and yell at him again. Looking in the carriage, he saw it was a body. As he leaned in, Gabby lifted a corner of the blanket covering it. He gasped. It was the private.
The soldier’s eyes were wide open and blank. Blood covered his mouth. Gabby carefully put his hand under the private’s head. When he pulled it out he saw more blood. He held his hand out and let the rain wash it clean.
“My God,” he mumbled. “That mean man killed him.” His lip quivered. “Now I really am alone. Even the soldier is dead.” Gabby looked at the door. “And if I stay here I’ll be dead. That mean man will shoot me too.”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Seven

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

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Four

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

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Three

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

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Two

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

Booth’s Revenge Chapter One

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Author’s note: This is the sequel to my novel Lincoln in the Basement which I just serialized on this blog.
Lifting his small brass derringer, its sheen catching light from the flickering oil lamps in Ford’s Theater, John Wilkes Booth smiled with confidence as he looked down the narrow sight groove at the coarse, unruly black hair of Abraham Lincoln, convinced his actions would avenge the devastation wrought upon his country.
Booth considered the South to be his motherland even though he was born in Maryland and traveled the northern states as well as southern states performing to packed theaters. On October 16, 1859, John Brown and his band attacked Harper’s Ferry. Federal troops with quickness and ease captured him and took him to Charlestown, Md., for trial that took place in November. The judge sentenced Brown to hang on December 2. Two weeks before the execution, Booth heard rumors while he was performing at Marshall Theater in Richmond that abolitionists planned to rescue Brown. Booth bought a Union uniform from some solder friends, joined the Richmond Grays Company F, and got on the train to stop the abolitionists in their mission. The raid never occurred, but Booth and his comrades in arms stood guard at the gallows during the execution. Brown’s demeanor impressed Booth that he wrote in a letter to his sister Asia that Brown “was a brave old man.” After war was declared he decided against going South to wear a real uniform in a real army because he feared his face would be scarred in battle. Conflicts of conscience last only a few years at most, but a marred face would ruin his career on stage forever, and Booth could not risk that.
In the last year of the war, when he realized the cause was in jeopardy, Booth began to concoct a way he could save his adopted nation. He decided to kidnap Abraham Lincoln and hold him for ransom, demanding the release of thousands of rebel troops held in northern prisons. Booth gathered a group of old friends and new followers. They waited for Lincoln on the road to the Soldiers Home north of the Capital. After a few hours, they realized the president was not going to show up.
Before Booth could devise another scheme, the Chief Justice swore Lincoln into a second term as President on March 4 in the Senate chamber. Lincoln then walked out to the platform built on the Capitol steps to deliver his inaugural address. Booth and his comrades stood on the steps only a few feet from the President when he stated citizenship was coming for former slaves.
“That’s colored suffrage,” Booth muttered that night as he shared a whiskey with his friends at the bar next to Ford’s Theater. “He has signed his own death warrant.”
His indignation only grew only the next few weeks as the Confederate forces continued to suffer one setback after another until the Gray army evacuated Richmond on April 3, and the Blue army marched in the next day. Booth toured several cities in the North, including Boston and New York, visiting his brother Edwin and several friends, dropping obscure hints that they might never see him again. On April 9, he returned to Washington City and gathered around him his old conspirators, the ones who took part in his failed attempts to kidnap the President.
His chance to avenge the South and stop the encroachment of colored people into proper society accidentally fell into place only one week ago. Booth was visiting Mary Surratt at her boarding house. Her son John had been with Booth the night they planned to kidnap Lincoln. Surratt had not shown proper outraged by Lincoln’s inaugural address, Booth thought. Besides, he had seen this behavior before in his childhood friends Michael O’Laughlen and Samuel Arnold. They seemed interested in the kidnapping plot at first but lost interest when they considered the risks of in reality killing the president. Mrs. Surratt, on the other hand, had the proper outrage and gumption to follow through on any plot to help the Old South. That was why he visited her boarding house. It was a viper’s nest of discontented southern sympathizers.
Once inside, he saw a young man in a Union uniform standing in the parlor. Booth noticed by how much they looked alike, almost the same age, the same lithe physique but different hair color. This young man had bright red hair. Moreover, pockmarks covered his face. Booth decided the private was not as handsome as he was. Booth started an innocent conversation with the soldier.
The young man’s name was Adam Christy and said he worked at the Executive Mansion but demurred to elaborate on his duties. The exchange was provocative but subtle. Booth sensed great distress in Christy. He was innately kind, Booth could tell, but he had a great hidden dark passion. Booth felt Christy could help him get close to President Lincoln.
He was right. The next day Christy returned to Mrs. Surratt’s boardinghouse and told Booth he knew someone who could help him kill the president.
“Bring your cohorts to the Aqueduct Bridge at midnight,” Christy instructed, “and you will learn how to avenge your dead Confederacy.”
At midnight, Booth arrived with his men. As he suspected, John Surratt had no stomach for assassination and fled to Canada. Those remaining loyal were John Atzerodt, Lewis Payne and David Herold. Booth felt reassured when he saw Christy, with whom he was beginning to feel like a big brother. His brow furrowed as he noticed how nervous Christy was. Booth decided the private was scared of the man who was waiting for them, a short, bull of a man, puffing on a cigar and patting his foot impatiently in the ripples of the Potomac River hitting the shore.
Shadows hid the man’s face. He seized control of the conversation, telling them to forget the Confederacy. The Confederacy was dead. Get revenge, the man said. He ridiculed Atzerodt’s German accent and the trace of alcohol on his breath. He scoffed at the lack of intelligence in Payne and Herold.
“You, sir, are no gentleman,” Booth, with his nose upturned, accused him.
The short man snorted in derision, dismissing Booth’s Southern sensibilities. He began assigning assassination duties. Atzerodt would kill Vice President Andrew Johnson at his Kirkwood Hotel room. Payne and Herold would kill Secretary of State William Seward at his home. Seward was near death anyway after a recent carriage accident had left him bedridden. Finally, Booth would kill President Lincoln at Ford’s Theater during a performance of Our American Cousin. All this would take place on Good Friday.
“And what are you going to do?” Booth demanded.
“I’m going to kill Secretary of War Edwin Stanton,” the man replied.
“And why do you want to kill him?”
“I have my reasons to hate him.”
Booth sensed something wrong as they stood under Aqueduct Bridge at midnight. Adam Christy seemed uneasy. The mysterious man was gruff and secretive. During all his years on stage, Booth had developed his instincts, and his instincts told him to walk away. His intense hatred of Lincoln and the president’s advocacy of Negro suffrage made Booth ignore his gut feelings and agree to the assassination details.

Booth’s Revenge Introduction

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Author’s note: This is the sequel to my historical novel Lincoln in the Basement which I recently finished serializing on this blog. I would like to point out the title, Booth’s Revenge, does not imply that he was in the right to seek revenge, just that he took revenge.
A little known American myth* alleges Secretary of War Edwin Stanton became so disillusioned with the way President Abraham Lincoln was handling the Civil War in the fall of 1862, following a summer of disastrous Union defeats, he decided to kidnap Lincoln and his wife and hold them under guard in the White House basement. Diverse historians pieced the story together from reports of interviews with surviving participants of the bizarre ordeal.
Stanton found a deserter in the Old Capitol Prison to impersonate Lincoln and an imprisoned Confederate spy to impersonate Lincoln’s wife. After intensive research, historians identified the man as Duff Read of Michigan who was sentenced to hang and the woman as Alethia Haliday of Bladensburg, Md., who was convicted of trying to sneak an escape plan into prison to notorious spy Rose Greenhow. After the war, Smithsonian Institution officials requested Old Capitol Prison to turn over its records for historical preservation. Mysteriously they discovered pages missing during September of 1862. Careful study revealed that Duff and Miss Haliday were admitted to the prison in early 1862 but no records noted when they were removed. When the Smithsonian delegation confronted Prison Superintendent William Woods about the missing records, he refused to comment. After museum researchers went to the hometowns of the missing prisoners, they found evidence the couple indeed bore striking resemblances to the Lincolns and that no one ever saw either one after the war.
Stanton chose Private Adam Christy to guard over the Lincolns and tend to their daily needs. Christy, by coincidence, came from Stanton’s hometown of Steubenville, Ohio. Rumors began to circulate throughout Steubenville after the end of the war that Christy did not die at the Second Battle of Manassas as reported in official War Department documents. Christy’s father swore to the day he died that Secretary Stanton had assigned his son to duties at the White House.
At the turn of the twentieth century, relatives of poet Walt Whitman found among his papers a curious story about a half-witted janitor in the White House named Gabby Zook. According to the story, Zook stumbled into the basement to discover the kidnapping. The story also claimed that Stanton forced Zook to join the Lincolns for the next two and a half years. Literary circles dismissed the story at the time as poetic expression of the feeling of confinement all Americans underwent during the war.
The questionable Whitman papers also alleged Stanton often went to the basement for advice from Lincoln because his own policies were not working as expected. Zook told Whitman of an incident in which the guard Christy became so distressed by his role in the conspiracy that in a rage he killed an unnamed White House butler. Zook insisted Stanton and one of his henchmen disposed of the body. Some historians speculate the henchman was Secret Service officer Lafayette Baker.
By the end of the war, the secretary faced the dilemma of what to do with two Lincolns. No one knows exactly what happened to the Lincoln impersonators. According to the Whitman account, Zook believed Stanton blackmailed Christy with the butler’s murder, forcing Christy to find assassins to kill the real Lincoln at Ford’s Theater, Secretary of War William Seward and Vice-President Andrew Johnson. Conventional history identified the presidential assassin to be John Wilkes Booth.
Zook confided in Whitman that Lincoln in the final days of the war had succumbed to extreme melancholia. He did not interact with his wife and Zook in the basement room nor did he eat. On the last day, Zook described Lincoln’s emotional state as one heading to the gallows, unable to control his own destiny.
Grandchildren of President Andrew Johnson told friends in Greeneville, Tennessee, that Johnson revealed on his deathbed that he discovered the kidnapping plot and the eventual assassination of Lincoln at the hands of Stanton. That discovery led Johnson to fire Stanton in 1867, provoking Congress to impeach Johnson. The Senate failed by one vote to remove Johnson from office.
To this day, no one knows what happened to the other participants in the plot.
*This report is absolutely true because I made up the myth myself in 1988.

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter One Hundred Two

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

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter One Hundred One

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Lincoln in the Basement Chapter 100

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