Assassin (12 page)

A sort of cold feeling went over my entire body, but I gave myself a little shake and laughed. “Is my fate written in the stars, then?” I asked. “Is there nothing I can do to avoid this awful end?”

“I wish I had not seen your future,” she told me. “Perchance
if you turn missionary or priest.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I cannot say for certain if that would change your fate.”

I laughed again. “Well,” said I, “I’ve overpaid you to tell me bad news.”

“Take back your money, sir,” she said, but I refused.

I was about to leave the wagon when she spoke again. “You have a handsome face, sir. It is tempted I am to follow after you because of your handsome face, but I won’t, knowing your fate.”

Outside Sam waited for me. “She said I would be rich and famous. She said I would be much loved.” I made myself smile. “In fact she said I was so handsome she felt tempted to follow after me.”

Sam slapped me on the shoulder. “I want to hear what she has to say about me,” he said. I feared she might mention my ill fortune to him, but before I could think of anything to say by way of dissuading him, he had climbed the stairs to the open wagon door.

The woman came to the doorway. “I am closed,” she said. “No more fortunes tonight.”

“I’ll pay well,” said Sam, and he pulled coins from his pocket.

She shook her head and pointed down toward me. “I have told your friend’s fortune,” she said. “My powers are spent.” She disappeared into the wagon and closed the door.

The dream ended there. I sat up straight and rubbed at
my eyes. It had been so like the real event, as if I had done the whole thing again. I had not thought of the evening in years, but now it all came back to me. I remembered how I had told no one what the gypsy said, but back in our room that night I waited until the other boys were asleep. I got up, took a paper and pen to the window. The moon was bright outside the glass. With the paper resting on the sill, I wrote out the gypsy’s exact words.

I stayed at the window, going over the visit in my mind. The woman believed what she spoke, I was certain of that. Why else would she have reacted as she did and refused to tell Sam’s fortune? I folded the paper. I would share the words only with my sister. That I did as soon as we were home together on summer vacation.

“You’re actually worried by such nonsense? I can see that you are. Don’t be foolish, Wilkes.” Asia reached across the table to brush her fingertips against my cheek. “You, little brother, will have the best life of us all. The part about your being rich, famous, and loved I believe. Not because a gypsy said so, but because you are dear and special, the favorite of our parents, of us all.” She took the paper from my hand and tore it into shreds. “There,” she said, “now forget those foolish words. Let us have some fun.”

I did forget them then, but sitting on the train, I remembered. Why had that dream come? I gave myself a small shake. It was because of Sam; thinking of Sam made me remember the fair, I told myself.

In Canada, the banker was glad to take my money even though he did not recognize my name or face. “I want my funds to be safe,” I told him. “You never know when Southern soldiers will take our capital city.”

He looked at me over the glasses that had slipped down his nose. “We are glad to have your business, sir,” he said, “but surely there is no danger of Southern victory.”

I rolled my eyes up toward heaven. “Oh, I pray you are right, but I am not so certain, not nearly so certain.” I deposited my money and walked from the bank, a lover of the Union. Ah, yes, I am by profession an actor.

From Canada, I went straight to Baltimore, where I had arranged a meeting with my two old friends, both former soldiers for the Confederacy. We met in a Baltimore hotel room.

Sam arrived first. “Billy,” he shouted when I opened the door, “Billy Bowlegs.” I put out my hand, and he embraced me warmly. I knew when I heard him use that old nickname that our friendship was still the same. I knew I could persuade Sam to join me.

After Michael arrived, we had wine and cigars and much talk of the old days. I waited until just the right time to bring up my plans. I stood before them, my wineglass in my hand. “A magnificent design has come to me, friends,” I said. “A magnificent way to change history. Would you like to be in on the plot, a plot more thrilling than any reenacted on the stage?” From the beginning they were with me, ready to pledge themselves at once.
Yes, I always had the power to lead them, and that power still existed.

Returning to Washington City, I went back to the stage, but my mind and heart were not with the lines I said. Telling everyone that I wanted to buy land, I rented a horse and rode out from Washington City. Out to the Maryland countryside I rode. “Maryland,” I said aloud with only my horse to hear, “dear old Maryland of my birth. How sweet it would be to travel your roads for pleasure only, not for the dark business that sends me forth.”

I found back roads and stopped to talk of purchasing property, an excuse to ride across the land of others, looking always for secret paths and spots hidden away from Union eyes. Maryland loves me, and I felt that love as I traveled her muddy roads.

I met one interesting person, Dr. Samuel A. Mudd, a young doctor who owns a huge estate with an acreage for sale. I asked to see the land, and I was put up for the night in the good doctor’s home.

At dinner that night I said to the doctor, “I make no secret of my allegiance to the Confederacy.”

“Why do you not fight for her, then?” questioned the man.

“I promised my mother,” I told him. “I gave her my word that I would not be a soldier.” I laughed. “But I did not promise that I would not be a spy, and I did not inform her that there are far bigger ways to serve the South than to wear a uniform, ways to change history.”

“Lower your voice, man,” said the doctor. “The servants may be listening. Such talk can be dangerous in Maryland.”

I shrugged and said nothing more. I could see the doctor’s face well in the light of the lamp. He had a fine Southern face and the eyes of a true gentleman.

I met the good doctor later in Washington City, and he asked if I knew John Surratt, a young man of twenty or so, and his mother. I told him that I had met the mother when a friend of mine lived in her boardinghouse. “I believe you and young Surratt have much in common,” the doctor said, and he gave me a knowing smile and added, “Surratt has been a spy for the South.”

He went with me to the boardinghouse, a place at 604 H Street. It was a tall building, with three floors and an attic. So many windows, like eyes looking out at me. I said as much to Dr. Mudd, who replied, “They are friendly eyes, Mr. Booth, eyes that look toward the South.”

Mudd took me upstairs, where he introduced me to John Surratt. I liked him at once, and I began to speak to him of the plan. “Not now.” The doctor put up his hand to stop me. “Don’t talk in front of me. I want to know nothing.” He left the room.

When the doctor was gone, I made a show of looking under the bed and in the wardrobe, opening the door to look out into the hall. “Do you want to hear my idea?” I asked Surratt, and I studied his intelligent face.

“I do,” he replied.

I patted the pocket of my jacket. “I carry a gun, John,” I said, “and I would not hesitate to use it on anyone who betrayed me.”

He did not blink. “I would not betray you, sir, not as long as you act for the Confederacy.”

I believed him, and I told him my plan to capture Lincoln. “Often he rides off to his Soldiers’ Home cottage, using whatever army horse is available. He is seen alone on the streets frequently.”

Surratt said he wanted time to consider the idea, but I knew as I went down the long front steps that he was with me. He had been with me from the beginning, only telling himself that a wise man always thinks over a proposition.

Surratt lived at the boardinghouse with his mother and sister Anna. The young woman hung about as I went to the front door to leave. She wished of course to speak to me, and so I smiled and said, “Hello.” The girl was not unattractive, but I had no inclination to get involved, not with the serious business on my mind.

Besides, I looked down at the ring and remembered Lucy. Oh how I adore that name, but could I actually give up all other women? Well, how could I say what a year might bring to my life? Could I have both a place in history and the woman I love? I did not know, but I did know there was no time to think of women now.

Of course it was Lucy who got me a ticket to hear Lincoln’s second inaugural speech. We could not go together because of her father. I stood on a stairway just
behind and above the man as he spoke. “With malice towards none; with charity for all,” he said, and I felt both my hands tighten into fists. I will show you malice, I thought, malice such as you have never known, sir.

It was after that second inaugural speech that the idea of using young Arabella Getchel came to me. At first I had not thought of using the girl, even though it was at the end of the ride with her that the idea came to me. Of course, using her made wonderful sense. She worked in the White House, had opportunity to come and go from there at will. No one would suspect anything if she returned there at night. Could she not hide somewhere near Lincoln, overhear his plans, or even ask him outright? She spoke to the man directly, did she not?

I was just entering Ford’s Theatre when the idea came to me. Instead of going straight into rehearsal as I had planned, I turned down the back hall toward the costume shop. “Lillie, my love,” I said to the costume mistress, “do you expect young Miss Arabella to come in today?”

Miss Lillie, a plump woman whose eyes were used to watching for missed stitches and misdeeds among actors, looked up at me from her sewing. “And why would you be asking?” she said. “If it’s costume work you’re in need of, tell me.”

I had to think quickly, having no desire to arouse Lillie’s suspicions of me. “I wanted to talk to her about her father,” I said. “I’ve met a man who served for a time in
Delaware prison, and he said he knew a man named Getchel.”

“Is that so?” she said, and she looked at me for a bit before going on. “Bella will be in for a time around five,” she said, “that is, if she is not needed at the White House.”

I smiled. “Of course, we must be second to the White House,” I said, and I met Lillie’s eyes directly until she looked away. My feelings about the Confederacy, I venture, were much discussed in Ford’s Theatre, although, of course, no one said anything to me directly. Oh, it was no secret I favored the South, but they did not challenge me. I was, after all, the star.

Rehearsal was over around four thirty, but I stayed in the theater, busying myself by rearranging costumes in my trunks. I waited until a quarter past five to go to the costume shop. Arabella jumped from her chair when I entered the room. “Miss Lillie says you have news of my father,” she cried.

Her eagerness both touched and encouraged me. “It is certainly because of your father that I wish to speak to you,” I said, and turning to Lillie, I added, “if you can be excused from your work for a moment.”

“Take her,” said Lillie, “but I am warning you, Wilkes Booth, you trifle with that child, and you will have to answer to me. J. Wilkes Booth or not, I won’t have it! Do you hear me?”

“Lillie, Lillie.” I spoke gently. “Have you ever heard
tell of me taking advantage of any woman who did not know exactly what she was getting into?”

“Well, no, I suppose not, but Bella is only a child.”

“She is,” I said, smiling at the girl, “a beautiful child, but a child still. I would never harm a child.” With that, I walked to Arabella, took her arm, and led her into the empty theater. “Let us sit in the middle row,” I said to her. “What I want to discuss with you must not be overheard.”

HER STORY

We all hoped that the war would be over before 1864 came to an end, but it was not. Each day Mr. Lincoln looked older, as if he too led the hard life his soldiers endured. The lines in his already craggy face seemed to deepen each day, and the sadness in his eyes was too much sometimes for me to see. I would turn my head from him and blink back tears. I wrote to Steven about him. “I worry that his heart may just explode with sorrow, his own and his country’s. I wonder how long a man can live with such agony.”

No one was barred from his door, and the line of people each day was long. Once on my way upstairs to the sewing room, I noticed a little girl waiting to see the president. I worked for several hours and came back down the
stairs just as it was her turn to speak to Mr. Lincoln. “We don’t usually have children here,” said the secretary who sat at the door. “Why would a child need to see Mr. Lincoln?” The door was open, and from inside the room Mr. Lincoln called, “No, let the little maid speak to me.”

I was very interested in what the girl could have to say to the president. She did not hesitate. “Mr. Lincoln,” she said, “they are going to shoot my brother for falling asleep at his post. My mama and papa are gone now to the army post to say good-bye to him, but I came here. Please don’t let my brother be killed. He is the only brother I have, sir, and my mama and papa will never stop crying if he dies.”

Tears were rolling down the little girl’s face, and she dropped to her knees, her hands folded beneath her chin as in prayer. I saw tears in the president’s eyes too. He stood, went to the child, and put out his hand. “Get up, child,” he said. “Your brother will live.” She took his hand and kissed it.

He sat back down then and wrote a note and handed it to a waiting soldier. “Go with this man,” he said to the child. “He will make sure your brother is pardoned. God knows I wish I could spare every mother and father the heartbreak of losing their boys.”

The thought crossed my mind that I could go to Mr. Lincoln and ask him to pardon my father, but then I realized the president would want Father to promise not to go back into battle against Union soldiers. I knew my father
would never make such a promise. I remembered the letter he had written to me.

“Dear Daughter,” he wrote. “I am being allowed to write to you because you live in the North. I never thought I would be glad for that fact. I am ashamed that I did not come to retrieve you from your grandmother’s house long ago. I was weak and let myself turn to drink to ease the pain of losing your mother. By the time I had pulled myself together, I felt too guilty to face you. I am a stronger man now, and I will come to take you home to Richmond if ever I am released from this prison. Life here is hard. We are often cold and unbelievably hungry. Some of the men have actually eaten rats. I have not yet found myself so desperate. Some men curse the day they ever enlisted in the army. I do not, and would gladly fight again for my beloved South.”