Assassin (19 page)

The train that bore his body back to Illinois for burial also took the coffin of Willie. It had been taken from the Washington City cemetery so that it could be buried again next to his father’s. I, along with thousands of others, watched the train leave our city on April 21. A funeral had been held in Washington, and eleven more would be held in cities where the train stopped.

I read in the newspaper that more than seven million Americans waited with bowed heads to see the funeral train or view the body. They mourned him, I know, those millions, and I also knew they did it without the guilt I felt.

Ford’s Theatre stayed closed, and of course, there would be no more dressmaking work done for Mrs. Lincoln at the White House. I was left with no way to support my grandmother and myself, but for days I was too weak to make plans.

Eleven days after the president died, Wilkes Booth too lost his life. I hated what he had done, hated the way I let myself be swayed from reason by his charms. Yet I could not hate him. I sat at our small table and stared at his likeness in the newspaper I had put there.

My grandmother came to look over my shoulder. “Looks like a nice young man,” she said, her voice full of wonder, “hardly more than a boy.” She bent closer. “Strange to see a devil look so normal.”

“I saw him at Ford’s a few times,” I said softly.

My grandmother made a clicking noise with her tongue. “Tisk tisk,” she said. “Thank the Lord you never took up with him.”

I heard later when I saw Miss Lillie from Ford’s that Lucy Hale, daughter of an important man, had been allowed to view Wilkes’s body and to snip a piece of hair from his head to keep as a remembrance. “It makes me marvel,” Miss Lillie said, “to think he had such a sweet smile.”

I could tell no one about my burden of guilt, but the secret weighed heavily on me, eating, it seemed, a hole through my insides. I missed Steven terribly, longed to ask his forgiveness, longed to discuss my guilt with him, but if I wrote to ask his forgiveness, I would have to explain why I had turned my back on our chance to spend time together. How could I ever explain? I feared I had lost Steven.

Finally I had to think about making money, and I decided to go to Grover’s Theatre. Tad Lincoln had been attending a performance of
Aladdin and the Magic Lamp
there with his tutor on the night his father was shot. Standing outside the big building, I did not feel shy. Perhaps shyness belonged to the girl I had been, not the sad young woman I had become.

“I worked at Ford’s Theatre in the costume shop,” I told the manager after I introduced myself, “and I had been promised a small part as soon as one came along.”

The man put down the pen with which he had been writing when I came into the room. He looked at me with doubt. “The actors and employees of Ford’s have all been arrested.” It was true, the Ford’s people had all been taken in for prolonged questioning.

“I was only an occasional worker, in exchange for tickets. They did not send for me.” I shrugged, glanced down for a moment, then brought my gaze back to rest on his face. “I worked full-time at the White House as a helper to Mrs. Lincoln’s dressmaker.”

“Ah,” he said. “I see. Both sources of employment are now denied to you.” He stood. “Your luck is good today, Arabella. Our costume mistress just took off with an actor who has gone to New York.”

It was a big job. My fingers and my mind were kept busy, but as I sewed, I remembered what I had done. For three months, I worked hard at the theater, and in late July I was given a small part in a comedy, a servant girl who said four words onstage. I was happy, but still a heavy weight hung in my heart.

I decided one morning before work that I would write a letter to Steven. Remembering his face on that terrible day, I doubted if our relationship could be restored, but still I had to try, had to make an effort to apologize. I took a piece of paper and a pen. “Dear Steven,” I wrote. “Please forgive me for not making time to see you. I was in a terrible state and still am. I have made some bad decisions. Perhaps someday I will be able to tell you about them. I have missed your letters. Your friend, Bella.”

I posted the letter and when enough days had passed, I began to hope for a response. None came. In late August, as I said my four words, my eyes fell on the audience. Could I be seeing correctly, or was I blinded by the lights into only thinking I saw Steven there?

Yes, I was certain it was my old friend, three rows back and near the center. I left the stage feeling shaky. He had planned to come to Washington in August. How long had he been in the city? He had not come to see me. I
imagined his surprise when I appeared in the play. At least he had not gotten up and walked out when I came onto the stage. I had prayed for a chance to see him, but now I felt afraid.

Unwilling to run into him, I stayed backstage longer than I usually did when the production was over. I was about to make my way to the backdoor when I heard his voice. “Bella,” he called, and I whirled to see him standing there, watching me.

For a moment, we looked at each other, neither of us moving. Then very slowly I began to walk toward him. “So you did come to Washington City before going to Harvard?” I said, and he nodded. “You never answered my letter,” I said.

“I was too angry.” He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I still am angry, but I wanted to see you, wanted to hear what you had to say. Your grandmother told me you were here.”

We walked out of the theater into the Washington night, and I began to talk. “I was beguiled,” I said, drawing in a breath, “beguiled by a beautiful demon named Booth.”

A small cry came from Steven when I said the name, but we walked on. And as we walked, my story came pouring out. I held back nothing. I told how I was charmed by Wilkes’s voice and by his smile. I told about the red dress, and how I had felt like Cinderella with her prince. I told him that even while I did what I did, I knew I was acting
like a fool, that what I felt for Wilkes was not real. I cried as I talked about that last night, about seeing Mr. Lincoln being carried from Ford’s Theatre. We had stopped in a small park, and we sat on a bench beneath a hydrangea bush.

“Here.” Steven handed me his handkerchief. It was too dark to see his face, but his voice held no warmth.

“Do you hate me now?” I asked.

He did touch my hand then. “I could never hate you, Bella. I’m stunned. I can’t deny that. Of all the things I thought, I never imagined—”

“Well,” I said, “you may not be able to hate me, but I certainly hate myself.” I heard myself saying aloud what had only briefly crossed my mind. “I think I need to confess. I want to tell Mr. Stanton what happened.”

“Confess? Oh, no.” Steven sat up straight, alarmed. In July four of the people involved with Wilkes had been hanged. One of them, Mrs. Surratt, was the first woman ever executed by the American government. Three others, including the doctor who treated Wilkes, had been sent to prison. “You must not confess. It’s far too dangerous,” he said.

I reached for a purple flower and pressed it between my fingers. “I have to do it. I don’t think I can heal until I’ve told the truth.”

“I’ll go with you,” he said, and I felt better. If Steven still cared enough to be concerned about my confessing, I had hope for our relationship.

“I am afraid of punishment,” I said, “but not as afraid
as I am of losing you.” I picked another flower. “I can’t bear the thought that I might have lost your trust and affection.” A shudder passed through my body. “How could I have been foolish enough to throw our closeness away?”

Steven had touched my hand before, but now he wrapped his fingers over mine. “You haven’t lost me, Bella. I’ll be with you whatever happens.”

Steven was in Washington for only one more day. We decided to see Secretary Stanton the next morning in his office at the War Department Building. “We have information about the assassination,” Steven told the soldier stationed outside his door, and we were ushered in.

I had often seen Secretary Stanton in the White House. Now he was behind a high desk, the sort that required standing. He faced the entrance of the room, and I felt his spectacled eyes bore into me as we came in the door.

“My name is Arabella Getchel,” I told him.

To my surprise he smiled at me. “You are the girl who helped with Mrs. Lincoln’s sewing, aren’t you?”

He was a man who had trained his eye to be ever observant. “Yes,” I said, “and I have a terrible story to tell you.” Steven reached out then and took my hand.

While I talked I looked directly into Mr. Stanton’s face. If I were to be arrested and put into prison, then so be it. I wanted only to free myself of guilt, and I held tightly to Steven. All through my story, Mr. Stanton watched me intently. He had a full black beard that was grizzled with gray and an odd streak of silver hair on his chin.

When I was finished, Mr. Stanton removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and looked away from us for a moment. Then he turned back. “The strain has been too much for you, young lady,” he said. “Your imagination has taken over your mind. The idea that a fiend like Booth would rely on an innocent girl, no more than a child—” He shook his head. “This tragedy has exhausted us all and done peculiar things to many a mind. Go home, my dear, and pray to God for guidance.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Steven spoke first. “Thank you, sir,” he said, and he led me from the room. In the dark hall, I started again to say something, but Steven shook his head and put his finger to his lips.

Neither of us spoke till we were outside. A cool breeze lifted the hair that had matted on my forehead with sweat. “Steven,” I said, “he didn’t believe me. I need to go back.”

He took my hand again. “No,” he said. “You did what was right.” He pressed his lips together before he went on. “I am not at all sure that he doubted what you said.” He shook his head. “No, I am almost certain he did believe you. But he wanted to find a way to let you go. What purpose would be served by locking you up and dragging you through a trial? No, the man has given you a way out, Bella. Take it.”

I worked for a few hours that morning in the costume shop at Grover’s, but Steven and I spent the afternoon walking the streets of Washington City together as we had when we were younger. He bought me a yellow
rose from a girl on a street corner, and I fastened it into my hair.

I felt that Steven had forgiven me, but I experienced no return of the easy carefree feeling we used to share. I wondered if I would ever feel really good again. Maybe those experiences belonged to the children we had been before the darkness. At the train depot, I remembered that day he had run back to kiss me.

This time he kissed me before he walked away. “Tell me you’ve forgiven me,” I said.

He nodded. “I have. I love you, Bella.” He smiled, the same old Steven. “Always have, always will.”

I stood on the platform watching the train until it disappeared from sight. Suddenly I did feel light. My heart sang. I had Steven back. He knew the terrible truth about what I had done, and amazingly he had truly forgiven me.

On my walk home, I enjoyed looking about me at my home, Washington City. I would write to my father soon. I wanted him to have a letter from me waiting for him when he got home. I would tell him that I loved him and would so enjoy a visit with him. I would explain, though, that I had no wish to live in Richmond again. I could not leave my grandmother or Washington City.

I turned toward Tenth Street. I wanted to see Ford’s Theatre again. I had just stopped in front when Mr. John Ford came to unlock the door. He remembered my name. “Hello, Bella,” he said. “I’m glad they didn’t drag you into their awful questioning.” He put in his key. “I’ve only
today been given the right to go back inside.” He shook his head. “Don’t know what will happen to the place.”

“Mr. Ford,” I said. “Could I go in?” I swallowed hard. “For just a minute? I’d like to see . . .”

He turned back to look at me. “Well,” he said, “if you won’t go telling anyone. All kinds of folks would be after me for a look.”

“I won’t,” I said, “I promise,” and I followed him into the dark building.

“I’ll see to a few lights and go to my office. You just leave when you’re ready.”

After some of the gaslights were on, I could see the aftermath of the horrible scene. Programs lay everywhere, dropped by running people. There were bloodstains on the stairs, and I went into the president’s box, where the rocking chair stood empty. I looked down at the stage and saw a tear in the green carpet where Wilkes had landed. I leaned against the ledge of the box and took one last look. I remembered Mr. Lincoln, the worn lines of his face and the warmth of his eyes. I remembered Wilkes. What gifts he had, what power to lead those around him! What he might have been if only the twisted, angry part had not taken control! I would never be the same for having known him, but his ghost would not haunt me. I left the dimness of Ford’s Theatre. Out on the streets of Washington City the sun was bright.

Writing about John Wilkes Booth was the idea of my husband, John, but I loved the suggestion as soon as I heard it. Years earlier, I had stood in the Washington, D.C., building that had been the boardinghouse where Abraham Lincoln died. Touching the pillow on which his head had rested sent a strange sensation through my body. I remember wondering then about the man who shot the great leader. I knew only the killer’s name and that he was an actor.

Learning about Booth was fascinating. I read several books, including
John Wilkes Booth: A Sister’s Memoir
, by Asia Booth Clarke. Asia wrote the book in England, where she lived the rest of her life to escape the disgrace associated with the Booth name. No one wanted to hear anything at all good about John Wilkes Booth, and the
book was not published until 1938, long after Asia’s death. Asia loved her brother, as did his other siblings.

Everything I wrote about Booth’s early life and about his brothers and sisters is true. His mother really did think she had a vision about his future, and he really did have the frightening experience with the fortune-teller. Asia also wrote all about Booth’s joining the soldiers who guarded John Brown and her brother’s reaction to that event.