Fates and Traitors (41 page)

“Who indeed?” asked John, just as Raybold returned and handed him a rosewater-scented envelope. “‘Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world/Like a colossus, and we petty men/Walk under his huge legs, and peep about/To find ourselves dishonorable graves.'”

“We will have a colossus or two at the theatre tonight,” said Raybold, smiling. “We were expecting a mostly empty house tonight on account of Good Friday, but now that's all changed.”

John nodded absently, opening the letter and smiling as he recognized the signature of the besotted fair frail one who had sent it. “How so?”

“President Lincoln is going to be here tonight with General Grant,” said Ford, and then, grinning wickedly, he added, “They've got General Lee here as a prisoner.”

John looked up, shocked. “What's that you say?”

“It's true. He's coming to the performance too. We're going to put him in the opposite box.”

“Never,” John exclaimed. “Lee would never let himself be used in that way, to be paraded around as Romans did their captives. Does Lincoln think himself a Caesar, deserving of a triumph in the forum?”

“Ford, don't goad him so,” said Raybold, offering John an apologetic shake of the head. “It's not true—well, it
is
true that the president
and the general will be here, but Lee hasn't been taken prisoner, not as far as I know.”

“That's a poor jest,” said John sharply, glaring at Ford. “I don't believe a word of it.”

“It's not all in jest,” Ford protested. “About half past ten this morning, a messenger from the Executive Mansion called on behalf of Mrs. Lincoln to reserve the State Box.”

“Check the house plan,” said Raybold, indicating the ticket counter with a jerk of his head. Frowning, John went behind the desk and studied the map of the theatre—and his heart thudded when he saw crosses marked through boxes seven and eight, which by the removal of a partition formed the larger State Box. Nearby, a note in pencil listed the president, the general, and their wives. “Well done, Ford,” he said, careful to keep his voice steady. “That's quite a coup, if you're right. I would've thought Lincoln would be at Grover's tonight, to see that patriotic spectacle Hess is putting on to commemorate the fall of Fort Sumter.”

Ford waved a hand dismissively. “Someone will take young Master Tad to see that, no doubt, but President and Mrs. Lincoln want to see Miss Keene perform one last time before her engagement here ends.”

“And they've invited General and Mrs. Grant to join them. You're certain.”

“I am, and better yet, the good news came early enough for me to announce it in our ad in the
Evening Star
.” With every word, Ford's voice rose in excitement. “We'll sell out the theatre. It wouldn't matter what we put on the stage. The people will snatch up every last ticket at any price to see the president and his victorious general in the state box, even if they've seen
Our American Cousin
half a dozen times already.”

“How fortunate for Miss Keene,” said John, mustering all his skill as a thespian to disguise his sudden elation. “This is her benefit night, is it not?”

“It is.” Ford beamed with happiness and the anticipation of lucre, his earlier glee in taunting John forgotten. “If I had an extra ticket I would give you one, Booth, but I expect to sell them all.”

“I understand completely, and in any case, I wouldn't want to deny Miss Keene one cent of her benefit.” Smiling, John seated himself and made a show of reading his letter, but his thoughts churned, his gaze
focused somewhere beyond the page. “Yet I wouldn't want to miss such a historic occasion. Perhaps I'll come by and watch from backstage.”

•   •   •

J
ohn strode away from the theatre, the letter shoved into his breast pocket, barely able to hear the cacophony of the streets over the sudden roaring in his ears. Lincoln and Grant, sharing a box at Ford's Theatre. The opportunity he had so long awaited and prepared for was imminent. He would never have a more perfect chance to take them both.

But he must be sure.

He strode off to the Willard Hotel, where he engaged the front-desk clerk in friendly banter and, with the vague promise of theatre tickets, managed to pry out of him that General Grant was out, and that he had not requested a carriage to take him to the theatre that evening, or anywhere else. “Mrs. Grant is having lunch in the dining room,” the clerk said helpfully. “Perhaps the general will join her.”

Smiling, John thanked him and strolled on to the dining room, where he spotted the short, plump little matron seated at the best table with her young son and another lady with a child. With a wink, the maître d'hôtel agreed to seat John nearby, where he ordered soup and pretended to eat it, watching the general's wife steadily and straining his ears to catch the ladies' conversation. Although Mrs. Grant did refer proudly to her husband several times, as best as John could determine, she said nothing of the theatre, an invitation from the Lincolns, or any plans for the day.

John departed soon after the ladies and their children and made his way to Pumphrey's Stable at Sixth and C Streets, where he reserved a horse, explaining that he would come by for it in the late afternoon. He crossed the street to the National Hotel, and after glancing about for Lucy as he crossed the lobby and climbed the stairs, he went to his room and retrieved his field glasses, wrapped carefully in paper and stored in the bottom drawer of the bureau. He quickly left the hotel again, ignoring a few attempts by acquaintances to engage him in conversation.

With the field glasses tucked under his arm, John strode up Sixth Street to the Surratt boardinghouse. Mrs. Surratt answered his knock and welcomed him into the sitting room, a melancholy twist to her
mouth, her brow furrowed in worry. She was a handsome woman in her early forties, matronly, but with only a trace of lines around her eyes and mouth and a few threads of gray in her dark-brown hair. Even so, she seemed to have aged a year since the fall of Richmond.

When he asked to speak with her son, Mrs. Surratt shook her head. “He isn't here. Earlier today I received a letter from him postmarked from Montreal, and as far as I know, he's still there.”

Silently, John cursed his luck. “You don't know when he might return?”

“I only wish I did.” She peered up at him, frowning. “Mr. Booth, you look quite pale. Are you unwell?”

“If I am pale, it is from excitement.” Glancing about to be sure they would not be overheard, he said, “The plan goes off tonight.”

For a long moment she stared at him, dumbfounded. “You cannot mean it.”

“I do, madam.”

“But Mr. Booth—” She clasped a hand to her forehead, glanced toward the front door, then shook her head and let her hand fall by her side again. “Why? What could you possibly hope to accomplish? The Confederacy is finished. The war is over.”

“The war is not yet over, madam, not while Davis still has his liberty and Johnston an army.” Disappointed by her reaction, he smiled to inspirit her, exuding confidence. “Now is the perfect moment to strike, when they aren't expecting an assault on the president.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Booth, but they aren't expecting it because it would be pointless. If you managed to abduct the president, where would you take him now that Richmond has fallen? Who would negotiate the terms of his release with the Confederate government in flight? Why risk your lives to have all our prisoners freed so they may invigorate our armies, when they'll be released soon anyway and they have no army to return to?”

“Lee surrendered, but we have four other generals in the field commanding nearly ninety-one thousand troops. Even if we had but a single regiment remaining, I would still act. Virginia must be avenged.”

“Virginia must be rebuilt, her people fed, her families reunited,” said Mrs. Surratt, agitated. “The same is true of all the South.”

“Mrs. Surratt,” he said, adopting his most reasonable tone, “that is
precisely what I mean. The Yankees have lain waste to our country. Our cities lie in ruins. Our farmers' fields are spoiled and fallow. Our roads and railways are torn up and impassible. A generation of our young men lie in unmarked graves beneath the blood-soaked soil of a hundred battlefields. The Yankees must bear the burden of restoring what they have destroyed. The Radical Republicans in Congress are determined to punish before they provide. We must secure any advantage we can before the real negotiations begin—whether they're debating how to fund reconstruction, or how soon Confederate soldiers may be allowed to return to their families.”

“I suppose you make a fair point,” said Mrs. Surratt uncertainly. “But Junior isn't here and I have no idea where to send a letter or telegram.”

“Perhaps you can help me instead. Are any of your servants planning to go to the tavern soon?”

“I intend to go there myself this afternoon, on a matter of business.”

“Very good, very good.” He held out the package. “Would you carry this to Mr. Lloyd and ask him to keep it for me?”

Even as she accepted the package and weighed it in her hands, her expression revealed that she could not guess what it contained, so thick was the brown paper wrapping. “I suppose there would be no harm in that.”

“Would you also please tell him to retrieve the weapons and gear from their hiding places and have them ready for me?”

Mrs. Surratt nodded, but she had begun to tremble, rattling the brown paper wrapping. “Of course, Mr. Booth.” She quickly set the package on the nearest table. “I can certainly pass along your message, since I'm going to the tavern anyway.”

At that moment, the front door opened, and they both turned to see Weichmann enter. “Good afternoon,” he greeted them, smiling. “We were given a half day off on account of Good Friday.”

“What a stroke of good luck,” John replied affably, and then, before Weichmann could draw him into a conversation about his own plans for the afternoon, he bade them both farewell and quickly departed.

Mrs. Surratt would not fail him, despite her obvious reluctance, John thought as he strode down Sixth Street. It was unfortunate that
Surratt was away, but they had sufficient numbers without him, and John would gather the others for one last summit to announce that the moment had come and to give them their final orders. He left messages at his comrades' hotels and boardinghouses, instructing them to meet at the Herndon House at eight o'clock, and at the last stop on his rounds, an idea suddenly took hold of him and he asked the clerk for several sheets of stationery and pen and ink. He retired to the bar, ordered a whiskey and water, and, needing only a moment of contemplation, for he knew well what he wanted to say, he swiftly wrote a letter justifying all he intended to do that night.

His glass was empty before he reached the end. “For a long time I have devoted my energies, my time and money to the accomplishment of a certain end,” he concluded. “I have been disappointed. Heartsick and disappointed, I turn from the path which I have been following into a bolder and more perilous one. Many will blame me for what I am about to do, but posterity, I am sure, will justify me.” He signed his name with a flourish, and then, feeling obliged to give credit where it was due, he added the names of Lewis Powell, David Herold, and George Atzerodt, praising them as men who loved their country better than gold or life.

He sealed the letter and slipped it into his pocket, and then, noting the time, he hurried on to Pumphrey's Stable to claim the horse he had reserved earlier that day. To his consternation, the sorrel he preferred was gone, taken by another customer. “Not to worry, Mr. Booth,” the hostler assured him. “I've got an even better horse for you, well suited for an expert rider such as yourself.”

The hostler disappeared into the stables and returned leading a graceful bay mare, about fourteen hands high, with a white star on her forehead, a black mane, and a long black tail. “She looks quite lively,” said John, looking her over, feeling her withers, her flanks.

“She's a spirited one, all right, but swift and sure, for an experienced horseman. I wouldn't offer her to a novice.”

“Very well, then. She'll do nicely. I'll take a tie line as well.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Booth. I wouldn't recommend that. She don't like to be tied, and she's likely to break loose if you try it. She'll stand if you have someone hold the reins for you.”

John frowned, thinking of the inconvenience this might cause him
later, but he had not seen any horse there he liked better, so he thanked the hostler for the warning, mounted, and rode off up Sixth Street toward Ford's Theatre. By the time he reached Baptist Alley, he was satisfied that he had made the right choice. The mare was swift and responsive as he rehearsed his escape, racing down from E Street, pausing, then riding out the other side toward F Street. He walked the mare for a moment, studied his surroundings, considered, then repeated the exercise. Twice more he rode at full speed, coming to a stop behind Ford's Theatre, until he was confident that the mare would perform well at the critical moment. “Well done, my girl,” he said, patting her on the neck. She tossed her mane and nickered as if she understood the praise and the important role she had been awarded, an understudy snatched from the chorus and promoted to leading lady.

“Say, Booth,” a man called. “Training that mare for the races? Or for an escape from some besotted lady's enraged husband?”

Whirling about, John spied James Maddox, the property man, standing outside the back door to Ford's with Ned Spangler and William Ferguson, two stagehands. “The latter, of course,” said John, smiling. “Can't be too careful.”

“She's mighty fast,” Spangler remarked. “Will she stand long enough for you to come have a whiskey with us?”