Tag Archives: Lincoln

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Three

The House of Representatives voted in the late afternoon of Feb. 24, 1868 to impeach President Andrew Johnson, and late that night a collection of Republican leaders gathered in Stanton’s office in the War Department to discuss their strategy for removing Johnson. They knew the impeachment laws required a two-thirds majority, thirty-six votes, to convict him of violating the Tenure of Office Act. Stanton felt an overwhelming fatigue and could not rise from his chair to greet his visitors. During most of the conversation, he stared into his fireplace.
Massachusetts Sen. Benjamin Wade seated himself on a long sofa close to Stanton. He had positioned himself as presiding officer of the current Senate; therefore, if the senators removed Johnson, Wade would become President.
“Representative Stevens sends his regrets that he could not attend this meeting,” Wade said, “but his health is failing and he wants to improve his strength so he could attend the Johnson trial.”
“I’m sure he did not use that exact language,” Charles Sumner replied with irony. He was the other senator from Massachusetts. He did not have the personal ambitions of Wade, Stanton observed as he studied the faces of the two men in the flickering flames. Sumner seemed to have a personal vendetta against anything or anyone with even the slightest affiliation with the Southern cause.
Another gentleman in the room from Massachusetts, Rep. George Boutwell, went to Stanton’s side and patted his shoulder. “Are you feeling well, dear friend?”
Stanton appraised the young man and wondered if his concern for the secretary’s health was real or contrived, also trying to position himself for political gain in the event of Johnson’s removal. Sighing deeply, he found himself weary of viewing every action and every word of every man in the most cynical and political terms. He shook his head. “I shall be fine.” He waved at the sofa where Wade sat. “That piece of furniture may seem comfortable for a short repose, but it is lacking in ease for a good night’s sleep.”
All the men chuckled at his attempt at humor, but none as forceful as Pennsylvanian Rep. John Bingham, who seemed full of his new political prowess, having just won election to Congress. “Well, it won’t be much longer, sir. I’m sure the trial will end quickly and in our favor.”
“I’m not so sure of that, Bingham,” Sumner interrupted. “This will be as cunning an endeavor as we have launched in the past eight years. We cannot allow ourselves to become overconfident.”
“You must agree, Sen. Sumner,” Rep. Boutwell said, “we only have to convince five or six senators to vote with us. The majority is assured.”
Sumner held up his index finger. “It all comes down to one vote, which is much more precarious than you can ever imagine.”
A light knock on the door drew the politicians’ attention to the interruption. A young man with red hair dressed in a private’s uniform came in carrying a glisteningly clean chamber pan.
“Sorry to disturb you, gentleman, but I wanted Secretary Stanton to have his pot available the next time he requires it.” He laughed. “It seems embarrassing, I know, but I don’t want Mr. Stanton to be discommoded.”
The others in the room joined in the laughter, which caused Stanton to look up out of curiosity. This did not sound like the same young man who had taken his pot out earlier in the day, nor like the one who had brought him his meals. When he looked up, Stanton tensed in his chair and his right hand went to his face to cover his gaping mouth. The soldier looked strikingly similar to Private Adam Christy, but he knew it could not be him because Christy shot himself in the head the night Abraham Lincoln died.
After depositing the porcelain vessel in the corner of the office, he bowed awkwardly as he backed away. “Sorry to have interrupted you gentlemen in your discussions, whatever they may be.”
Stanton refrained from blurting out a question to the private. Yet he wanted to know who he was and what had happened to the soldier who had attended him earlier in the day. He leaned back and closed his eyes. He was tired. His mind was playing tricks on him. God, he wished this entire ordeal were done. The last couple of years had worn him down to a nub.
“Don’t worry about it, young man,” Boutwell said, smiling broadly. We all have unpleasant assignments from time to time. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”
The others around the room chortled in agreement. An uncomfortable pause followed which prompted Stanton to look up and glance around at his compatriots. “Yes, yes, of course.”
“So any time you have to go about your duties, don’t let us get in your way, Private—what was your name?” Boutwell asked.
“Christy, sir. Adam Christy.”
Stanton sat up and stared intently into the soldier’s face. The hair color was correct. The height, the weight. He narrowed his eyes to inspect the complexion. He remembered the boy’s face was riddled with pockmarks. From the flickering light of the fireplace, Stanton could not quite make out how smooth the private’s skin was. Certainly mottled, the Secretary could ascertain from this distance.
“Well, Private Christy, I think you will have a fine career as a military man if you so desire it.” Boutwell smiled broadly.
“Yes, yes, but we need to continue our discussion,” Sumner said, trying to cut the distraction short and return to the conversation that brought them together.
The young man bowed again as he opened the door and slipped out, exposing a light but distinctive limp. “Sorry to have inconvenienced you, gentlemen.”
Wade cleared his throat. “Now, as Sen. Sumner said, we only need one vote. Now just who is this man and how much and what kind of pressure need we apply to achieve our stated objective?”
“Edmund Ross, the new senator from Kansas,” Sumner replied. “He replaced Jim Lane after the suicide.”
“Well, that was the initial determination,” Bingham piped up, “but it seemed a bit odd to me that a man with the military background as Jim Lane would ever take his own life. And shooting himself as he jumped from his carriage. And the driver just disappeared. It’s more than just a bit odd. I happen to know that Edmund Ross was in Leavenworth the very day Lane died. Witnesses said they had had several arguments in the week leading up to the shooting. What do you think, Mr. Stanton?”
Stanton wanted to tell Bingham that he thought the representative only brought up the topic of James Lane’s death to give himself a chance to speak. The Secretary prided himself on sizing up the character of a man quickly, and he pegged the Pennsylvanian as being full of his own importance. Stanton coughed. His asthma was rearing its ugly head during the last throes of a particularly wet and cold winter.
“I don’t think we should waste time talking about a dead man,” Stanton intoned. “The only man we should be discussing is Edmund Ross. And I don’t comprehend why he would even be placed in the undecided column. I’ve heard the man speak. He absolutely loathes Andrew Johnson.”
“Evidently you have not heard that Sen. Sprague of Rhodes Island—you know, he’s the fellow who married Chase’s daughter—alleged that Ross put himself on the shaky side with a comment about how even though he personally did not like the President he did think the man deserved a fair trial.”
“Fair trial?” Benjamin Wade bellowed from his corner. “How much will we have to pay that scoundrel to forget the idea of a fair trial?”
“It always has to come down to a matter of filthy money with you, doesn’t it, Wade?” Boutwell returned a full volley.
“Hear now, hear now, gentlemen!” Sumner called out both sides. “We needn’t make enemies among ourselves. There’s enough of Johnson’s despicable Southern hide to go around to satisfy every man in this room.”
Stanton erupted in a seizure of coughing, quite spontaneous, yet still well timed for the War Secretary, who never liked feeling as though he had lost control over a committee of any sort.
“Dear me, gentlemen,” Wade offered in a softer, conciliatory tone, “it seems we have discomfited our host.”
Wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, Stanton shook his head. “My apologies, colleagues. It’s just another flare-up of that damnable asthma which has plagued me all my life.”
“Perhaps you would be better cared for in the comfort of your own home,” Wade said with a small smile.
“That is the sentiment of my wife who does not understand the complexities of national politics. I will not give any of my opponents the least excuse of stripping me of my power—of my position. My country needs me too much for that to happen.”
Boutwell stood. “Well, I think we have taken enough of Secretary Stanton’s time. And I agree with him that he will be well attended here in his office by Private Adam Christy.”
Stanton’s head shot up and appraised each man in the room. “Yes,” he said barely above a whisper. “Private Christy will tend to me very well.”
The congressional faction had only been gone a few moments when the private returned with a tidy, clean stack of handkerchiefs in his hand. “I heard you coughing from the hall, sir, and I thought you might need these.” He held them uncomfortably close to Stanton’s mouth and nose.
“Now see here,” he snarled as he grabbed the handkerchiefs, “just who the hell are you?”
“I’ve told you, sir. I am Private Adam Christy.” Innocence and apprehension filled the soldier’s inflection.
“That’s a lie!” Stanton realized his voice was out of control. He looked at the door to see if any concerned passerby might check in on him. The Secretary returned his attention to the person standing in front of him. Dangerously close. This stranger could lean forward and throttle him within seconds. Stanton dismissed the thought from his head as paranoia. “I know that is a lie because I know Adam Christy is dead.”
The soldier stepped back out of the glow of the fireplace and smiled. “And how do you know that Adam Christy is dead?”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Twenty-Eight

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.”