Fates and Traitors (40 page)

Utterly bewildered, Louis fumbled for a reply, but Mary leapt forward and seized her son by the arm. “No, Junior,” she murmured. “Silence. Calm yourself.”

He turned to her with a jerk, a wild light in his eyes, but she discerned no recognition there. Then, swiftly, he grew calm. He staggered backward, and it was all Mary could do to keep him on his feet. “He's had too much to drink,” she said to Louis, who stared at them both, dumbfounded. “He's gone quite mad from it—his father always did—but it will pass. He won't remember a word of this in the morning and you must try to forget it too, or he couldn't bear the shame.”

Louis nodded. At that moment Anna came racing up the stairs, and with her help Mary was able to stagger downstairs with Junior and put him into her own bed.

“I can't believe it,” he said, his voice strangely flat. “Richmond, fallen. It can't be.”

“It is,” Mary said shortly, struggling to remove his boots. “Now, you aren't really drunk, just upset, but no more than I or your sister. Compose yourself and let's figure out what to do.”

Junior needed but a few moments to collect his scattered thoughts, steel himself, and sit up on the edge of the bed. Anna hurried off to make tea, and by the time she returned with the tray, Mary and Junior had agreed that they need not abandon all hope quite yet. Jefferson Davis and his cabinet were in flight, but perhaps they intended to retreat into the Deep South or Texas and reorganize the government out of reach of the Yankee armies. General Lee still controlled his forces in Virginia, as General Johnston did in North Carolina. If those valiant men had not yet given up the fight, neither should the Surratts.

It was certain, however, that Junior could not remain in Washington, for the two detectives would surely come looking for him again. While in Richmond, Junior had received a new assignment that obliged him to travel to Montreal, carrying dispatches to General Edwin G. Lee and escorting Miss Slater, who had traveled with him to Washington on the Leonardtown stage and had taken a room at the Metropolitan Hotel. The fall of Richmond made carrying out their orders all the more urgent.

After a brief, intense debate, Mary and Junior agreed that he should take no chances but should leave the boardinghouse and check into the Metropolitan Hotel for the night. In the morning, he and Miss Slater would depart on the first train to New York, and from there arrange transport to Montreal.

Mary grieved to part from her son again so soon, but she knew it was for the best. Surely it would be a relief in the days to come to know that he was safely out of Yankee reach in Canada.

•   •   •

O
ne day of wretched news followed another. Mary could hardly endure her lodgers' cheerful amazement when reports came to Washington that President Lincoln had entered Richmond early on the
morning of April 4, while flames of the fires the fleeing Confederates had set to destroy precious stores of cotton, tobacco, and liquor still flickered among the ruins. A group of colored workmen had recognized the president from a distance as he approached and—according to the fawning Yankee reporter—they had shouted, “Glory, hallelujah,” and had fallen to their knees to kiss his feet.

“Please don't kneel to me,” an embarrassed President Lincoln had urged them, or so the stories told. “You must kneel only to God and thank Him for your freedom.”

Escorted through the streets by a squadron of Yankee cavalry, Mr. Lincoln had continued on to the Confederate Executive Mansion, where he had explored the offices strewn with documents and records and had sat at Jefferson Davis's desk, taking a glass of water as refreshment while his officers shared a bottle of whiskey they had found in the cellar. Later he had gone on a carriage tour to see “what was left of Richmond,” and rode out to Broad Street to visit an encampment of colored soldiers, and from thence to inspect the abandoned and ransacked Capitol Building. Gazing up at the statue of the revered Virginian George Washington in Capitol Square, Mr. Lincoln was said to have remarked, “Washington is looking at me and pointing to Jeff Davis.”

When Mary considered how meticulously Junior, Mr. Booth, and the others had conspired to get Mr. Lincoln to Richmond, only to read of him making witty remarks as he went about on a sightseeing tour amid smoldering ruins and suffering, demoralized citizens, she felt hysterical laughter bubbling up within her chest, but she managed to contain it.

That same evening, Secretary of State William Seward ordered all the public buildings in Washington to be illuminated by thousands of candles to celebrate the Yankee triumph. Once again Mary's tenants ventured out into the streets to witness the city glowing with rockets, fireworks, and dazzling lights. The streets were full of people and music, laughter and rejoicing. Sick with misery, revolted by the jubilation in the aftermath of so much death and destruction, Mary shut her curtains tight to block even the tiniest gleam of the brilliant spectacle, too upset to care what any malicious Yankee neighbor might make of her darkened windows, her silent house.

The commencement of Holy Week offered Mary no respite from
despondency. On the morning of April 9, she dragged herself wearily from bed, prepared a simple breakfast for the household in keeping with the solemnity of Palm Sunday, and attended Mass at St. Patrick's Church with Anna. There she prayed fervently, as Christ the Lord had prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane, that her Father in heaven might let that bitter cup pass from her, if it were possible—and to help her accept His will, whatever came next.

Later that evening, even as President Lincoln and his party were returning by steamship from General Grant's headquarters at City Point, rumors abounded that the Union Army had cut off General Lee's retreat and had surrounded the Army of Northern Virginia. Yet again exultant citizens filled the streets of the capital, celebrating and seeking out news, while fireworks crackled and bonfires burned luridly on every street corner.

Mary tossed and turned all night, haunted by the horrid rumors, by memories of the raucous celebrations blaspheming the Holy Day. The next morning at daybreak, a five-hundred-gun salute jolted her awake, shaking her bed and rattling the windows. She heard Anna and Apollonia shriek in terror, and then sleepy cheers from elsewhere in the boardinghouse, and then her own involuntary moan of dread. Steeling herself, she climbed out of bed and methodically washed and dressed, her heart heavy. Surely the artillery salute meant that General Lee and his valiant Army of Northern Virginia had suffered another terrible defeat.

She went downstairs to the kitchen to start breakfast, and she was nearly finished when Anna joined her, clad in a plain black dress despite the balmy spring weather, her face pale and wan above the white lace collar. If Anna stepped outside, she would easily be mistaken for any of the thousands of young war widows who had haunted the streets of the Yankee capital for four long, grim years.

“What was the reason for that cannon salvo?” Anna asked, her voice dull with resignation as she opened the cupboard and took out dishes to set the table. “Does it mean that the war is over?”

“I don't know,” Mary said, but at that moment, a loud thunderclap boomed and a heavy rain began to pelt the dusty streets, drowning out any words she might have offered of comfort or consolation. She suspected she knew why the Yankees had fired yet another cannon salute
so early that morning, but she could not bring herself to say it. Until she knew for certain, she could hope.

All too soon, the morning papers delivered the wretched news she had feared and expected since Richmond fell. The previous day, in a solemn ceremony at Appomattox Court House in Virginia, Confederate general Robert E. Lee had surrendered to Union general Ulysses S. Grant.

Come not between the dragon and his wrath.

—William Shakespeare,
King Lear
, Act 1, Scene 1

H
e lay on the bed staring up at the ceiling, fully dressed but for his coat, which he had draped neatly over the back of a chair to prevent it from wrinkling. He could not have said what time he had returned to his room at the National Hotel after wandering the streets the previous night, alone amid the vast crowds, spellbound and plunged into despondency by the grand illumination that had commenced after sundown. Thousands of candles, gas jets, lamps, and lanterns had lit up Washington City, creating a scene awe inspiring in its extent and magnitude. All this to mark the defeat of his beloved country.

Virginia, he thought. My beloved Virginia.

From the streets and sidewalks, it seemed as if the very stars had been broken free from the firmament and had descended gently upon the government buildings, hotels, theatres, and offices like a celestial snowfall, glowing and warm. From a distance, from the camps of Union soldiers encircling the city, it must have appeared as if the capital were burning. As Richmond had burned.

A sharp knock sounded on the door. “Booth? Are you in?”

John did not move, except to raise his eyebrows in mild surprise. Michael O'Laughlen had been his friend since they were children, working up mischief in the streets of Baltimore together. Although O'Laughlen was an ardent Confederate, after the failed abduction in mid-March, he had wanted desperately to be released from his pledge to help John take Lincoln. The previous morning, John had gone to Baltimore in hopes of persuading his longtime friend not to abandon the mission, but O'Laughlen, regarding him with shock and horror, had adamantly insisted that he could take no part in it. After the fall of Richmond, after Lee's surrender, he had assumed that the plot had been scrapped, and he had tried to convince John that it was too late, that no good could come of it. They had parted angrily.

Another knock. “Booth, let me in. Let's talk.”

John might have unlocked the door and allowed him to enter, except his friend's tone betrayed his intentions. O'Laughlen had not come to tell John that he had changed his mind but to try to convince John to change his.

The very idea that John could, that he might want to, was absurd.

Two nights before the illumination, O'Laughlen had been safe and comfortable at home when Payne and Herold had accompanied John to the White House, where they had stood among the thousands of jubilant Yankees that had assembled on the grounds to hear Lincoln make his victory speech. John had expected a certain amount of grandiose crowing in the speech, interlaced with the sort of folksy, frontier humor the president was known to favor, so he had been surprised when Lincoln had spoken instead of the policies he thought the government ought to adopt toward the vanquished South. Riveted, John had stared intently as the president had addressed critics of the new Louisiana state constitution. “It is also unsatisfactory to some that the elective franchise is not given to the colored man,” Mr. Lincoln had said from his place at a center window above the front entrance of the Executive Mansion. “I would myself prefer that it were now conferred on the very intelligent, and on those who serve our cause as soldiers.”

John had stared at him, thunderstruck. “That means nigger citizenship,” he had fumed to his companions. “That is the last speech he will ever make. Now, by God, I'll put him through.”

Payne had carried a pistol, and John had urged him to shoot the president right then and there, but Payne had refused.

“Booth?” O'Laughlen called, knocking again. “Wake up. Let me in, or come down and breakfast with me.”

John flung an arm over his eyes and muffled a sigh. He had forgiven his old friend, but that did not mean he wished to speak to him.

Three more loud knocks sounded on the door. “All right, Johnny. If you're entertaining a fair frail one, I promise to avert my eyes, and I won't try to charm her away from you.”

That earned O'Laughlen a sardonic smile. John would never bring a lady friend to the National and risk turning a corner on the way to or from his room and running into Lucy. Absently he kissed the silver ring he wore on the smallest finger of his right hand, her Christmas gift to him. Sweet, darling Lucy. By late June she would be half a world away—unless he should follow her to Spain. And why should he not go abroad now that his country lay in ruins? What remained to hold him here? Why should he linger to watch the Yankees grind what remained of the Confederacy into dust underfoot?

“Suit yourself, then,” grumbled O'Laughlen, and a moment later, John heard his footsteps receding down the corridor.

Sighing, he crossed one ankle over the other, folded his hands beneath his head, and studied the pattern of fine lines and shadows on the ceiling. Just when he decided that if he had a pencil and sketchbook he might be able to reproduce the shifting patterns from memory, another knock on the door interrupted his study. “Mr. Booth?” It was the day clerk, tentative and concerned. “Are you unwell, Mr. Booth?”

If he has a key and dares let himself in, John mused, he takes his life into his own hands, for in this temper I might gut him before I realize I'm holding the knife.

Fortunately for them both, John's dagger—the handle of horn, the blade engraved with the words “Liberty” and “America”—was out of reach in his top bureau drawer with the derringer, and the clerk soon made himself safer yet by sighing and walking away from the door. John wondered why O'Laughlen thought John would answer a clerk's knock when he wouldn't open the door to his oldest friend, but he could almost admire him for trying.

Instinctively, his gaze traveled to the door, but instead fell upon a sheet of creamy ivory paper on the table beside his bed. A pen lay on the floor beneath it, and suddenly John vaguely recollected writing to his mother very late the night before. What the devil had he wanted to say to her at that hour? He hoped he had not castigated her for turning her back on the South, on Maryland, on the once-verdant and prosperous land that had given her and his father a home after they fled their native country in shame. In truth, he was thankful that she and Rosalie were safe in Edwin's luxurious home in New York, Asia in that dullard Clarke's Philadelphia mansion. Though he regretted their misplaced loyalties to the Union, it would have been unbearable to see the women he loved suffer in this terrible war as the flower of Southern womanhood had suffered.

But what, then, had he written? Bemused, he reached for the letter and held it up to a thin shaft of sunlight peeking through the curtains.

April 14, 2 A.M.

Dearest Mother:

I know you expect a letter from me, and am sure you will hardly forgive me. But indeed I have nothing to write about. Everything is dull; that is, has been till last night.

Everything was bright and splendid. More so in my eyes if it had been a display in a nobler cause.

But so goes the world. Might makes right. I only drop you these few lines to let you know I am well, and to say I have not heard from you. Had one from Rose. With best love to you all,

I am your affectionate son ever.

John

It was not much of a letter. His dear mother deserved better, but if he waited until he had a more eloquent missive to send, she might never hear from him again. He decided to post it.

Soon thereafter, John realized with some surprise that he was famished, and if he did not descend before the dining room closed, he would have to walk out and find breakfast elsewhere. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he rose and stretched, tucked in his shirt and
smoothed his trousers, and slipped into his coat—purchased in New York City, perfectly tailored, excellent fabric, one of his favorite garments. Inspecting himself in the looking glass, he ran a comb through his hair, smoothed his mustache, and concluded that he looked well enough.

He tucked his mother's letter into his breast pocket and left the room, locking the door carefully behind him. He went down to breakfast, but only after pausing at the top of the staircase to make sure O'Laughlen was not stubbornly encamped in the lobby. In the dining room, he hoped to see Lucy seated with her family—or better yet, with only her sister or alone—but he was apparently the last to come down for breakfast, and the Hales, dutiful early risers, were nowhere to be seen. A handful of gentlemen were scattered among various tables, and one lady sat alone by the window. When his gaze lingered upon her, she inclined her head, gestured to the empty seat across the table from her, and raised her eyebrows in inquiry. It was then that he recognized her—Mrs. Carrie Bean, a young widow with three small children, the daughter of a prosperous merchant, pretty and charming and the sort of undemanding company he could tolerate that morning.

They chatted pleasantly as they breakfasted, discussing news of mutual acquaintances, the previous night's illumination, and the magnificent welcome that had been accorded to General Grant earlier that same morning, when he, his wife, and numerous staff officers had arrived in Washington aboard the steamer
Mollie Martin
. John nodded politely as Mrs. Bean described the scene at the wharf, how it had seemed that every gun and cannon had burst forth with a thunderous salute to the victorious general, and the bells on every ship and in every steeple had pealed a glorious and grateful welcome. A large Stars and Stripes had flown proudly from a tall flagpole on the dock, unfurled to its full length and breadth above the sparkling river.

“I missed it,” John said evenly, sipping his coffee and quietly seething. He had not known that the general in chief had come to the capital. He wondered if the slight, bloodthirsty, deceptively stoic fellow felt any shame in knowing that the Virginian who had surrendered to him at Appomattox was vastly his superior in every way one could measure a man.

Mrs. Bean shook her head, bemused. “It seems to me that the ink
had scarcely dried on the surrender documents before General Grant was steaming up the James away from City Point. Did you hear that as soon as he had settled his wife and son in at the Willard Hotel, he hastened over to the War Department to urge Secretary Stanton to cease drafting and recruiting?”

“Did he indeed?”

“General Grant also advised Secretary Stanton to stop purchasing arms and supplies and to reduce the numbers of officers and civil servants on the government payroll—to cut expenses, I suppose.”

“It seems to me that Grant is demobilizing the army before the war is entirely over.”

“I must agree. One shouldn't forget that Mosby's Raiders and General Johnston's army are still at war, and Mr. Davis has not yet surrendered either.” She shuddered prettily. “How curious it is. All along I've thought that no man wanted the war to be over more than President Lincoln did, but now I believe General Grant surpasses even him.”

“Perhaps he's eager to return to his father's tannery,” John offered. “Or perhaps he wants to make another go at that farm in Missouri, which rumor has it he ran into the ground. He's lucky that the war came along and he stumbled into gainful employment in time to escape bankruptcy and ruin.”

“Oh, Mr. Booth,” Mrs. Bean said mirthfully, scandalized. “You mustn't speak of the great hero of the Union in this way.”

“I'm certain the general does not care one spent cigar what opinion I might have of him.”

“Speaking of postwar careers,” she said, regarding him speculatively, “when do you think you might return to the stage? I did so enjoy your portrayal of the evil Duke Pescara at Ford's Theatre last month.”

“Return to the stage?” echoed John, feigning astonishment. “My good woman, I assure you, I never left it.”

He was playing a role even then—that of the complacent Washington gentleman, content to sip coffee and engage in inane chatter while the world burned.

•   •   •

A
fter breakfast, John parted from Mrs. Bean with a courteous bow and went to the front desk to post his letter to his mother, an act that reminded him he ought to collect his own mail, which due to his
peripatetic existence he arranged to be sent to him in care of Ford's Theatre.

Entering the lobby, he found Harry Ford—manager, brother of the owner—debating the surrender at Appomattox with Tom Raybold, one of the ticket agents. At the sight of John, Ford gestured dramatically. “Now,
here
comes a man who does not like General Lee.”

“Let it be, Ford,” Raybold said, disappearing into a back office to fetch John's mail.

“I'm sure I like Lee as much as you do,” said John easily. “I just don't like that he gave up. He received a sword for the defense of Virginia at the Capitol in Richmond, and rather than surrender, he should have died upon it.”

Ford looked taken aback. “General Lee is a brilliant commander, and I guess he knew what was best. If he judged the cause to be hopeless and decided he ought not to squander any more young lives for it, who are we to question him?”