Fates and Traitors (43 page)

“Where have you been all day?” Lucy murmured as he escorted her to the dining room, following a discreet distance behind the rest of their party.

“Oh, running here and there, to Grover's Theatre to take care of business and to Ford's to watch the rehearsal for
Our American Cousin
.” Her face fell slightly, and he hastened to add, “I was simply tying up loose ends. I didn't accept any new engagements. They implored me to, they even offered me some rather enviable roles, but I declined. Frankly, my oil interests won't allow me the time.”

Her smile returned. It occurred to him then that soon he would no longer need to conceal that his oil speculations had ended in massive failure, that he was living on borrowed money and gifts from sympathetic friends. That awareness flooded him with an enormous sense of relief. How he would support her, if she would still have him after tonight, he did not know, but that was a concern for another day.

Dinner was a pleasant affair, with Lucy on his right hand and the extraordinarily talkative Mrs. Temple on his left. Gentle, affectionate smiles were his reward when he looked in one direction, inane chatter and silly questions whenever he was obliged to turn toward the other.

“Mrs. Hale and I have been talking about going to Ford's Theatre tonight to see Miss Keene perform in
Our American Cousin
,” Mrs. Temple said, glancing to Mrs. Hale, who inclined her head in confirmation.

“Mr. Booth observed the rehearsal earlier today,” said Lucy, smiling. “Perhaps he would share his professional opinion.”

John's throat constricted, and he raised his napkin to his mouth as he fought to chew and swallow. “Miss Keene was marvelous as ever,” he said hoarsely, pausing to sip water, “but comedy depends as much upon the mood of the audience as the skill of the performers. Tonight the theatre is likely to be half empty on account of Good Friday, so the play is sure to drag, through no fault of the incomparable Miss Keene.”

“I would rather expect the audience to be excellent,” remarked Mrs. Hale. “The president, General Grant, and their wives are expected, or so it was announced in the papers.”

“The papers are wrong,” said John. “General Grant and wife have left the city. I myself passed their carriage as they were heading for the train station earlier today.”

“Oh, indeed?” Mrs. Temple pouted across the table at Mrs. Hale. “And I had so been looking forward to it.”

“Perhaps we should go to the theatre tomorrow night instead,”
suggested Mrs. Hale. “I'm sure we will find an enjoyable program, if not at Ford's than elsewhere. We can see Miss Keene the next time she returns to Washington.”

Brightening, Mrs. Temple agreed that Mrs. Hale's plan suited her very well. “How fortunate we are that Mr. Booth was here to spare us a disappointing evening,” she added, smiling up at him, fluttering her eyelashes in girlish admiration.

“It was my great pleasure, madam,” he said, and as Lucy looked on proudly, he felt a pang of love and regret so intense that it was all he could do not to seize her hand, kneel before her, and beg for her understanding.

Perhaps it was not absurd to hope that one day he could make her understand.

•   •   •

W
hen the supper ended, John escorted Lucy to the foot of the grand staircase in the foyer, and then he bade her, her family, and Mrs. Temple good evening. He waited for Lucy to move out of sight down the second floor corridor before he mopped his brow with a handkerchief and went to the front desk, where the evening clerk, Henry Merrick, was checking in a young man dressed in the uniform of a private with the 189th New York Infantry.

“Hand me a piece of paper, would you, Henry?” he asked the clerk.

“Sure, Mr. Booth.” Frowning, the clerk brought out both paper and pencil. “You feeling all right?”

“You look very pale,” said the young private. “If you don't mind my saying so, sir.”

“I don't mind,” said John shortly. His head spun.

“Why don't you have a seat back here at the desk?” offered Henry.

Nodding, John seated himself and began writing at a furious pace. He had so much to say and so little time to say it. He wrote and wrote, and then signed his name, and then for the life of him he could not remember the date. Looking up from the page, he found Henry and the private watching him, concerned.

“Is it 1864 or 1865?” he asked.

The clerk and the private exchanged a look. “Don't you know what year it is?” queried Henry.

Eighteen sixty-five. Yes, that was it. Quickly John scrawled the date,
rose from the chair, folded the paper, and dropped it into the mailbox. “Are you going out tonight?” he asked the young soldier cheerfully, feeling suddenly refreshed and restored to himself, as if the words had been a sickness he had purged from his body through the pencil.

“I haven't made any plans yet,” the soldier replied, as if the question surprised him, “aside from washing up and finding a good meal.”

“You ought to go to Ford's Theatre,” said John emphatically. “There's going to be some splendid acting tonight.”

•   •   •

S
triding briskly down Pennsylvania Avenue and turning north on Ninth Street, John reached the Herndon House and rapped on Powell's door a few minutes before eight o'clock. Powell and Herold were already waiting, and Atzerodt scurried in just as the bells of St. Patrick's Church fell silent after chiming the hour.

“It's no use trying to abduct Lincoln,” John told them flatly. “He's proved impossible to catch. We have to kill him, and we have to kill those who would succeed him. I'll take the old fox myself.”

His words met with silence. Powell and Herold nodded, but Atzerodt only stared.

He turned to Powell. “You take Seward.” Unflinching, Powell nodded again. An army veteran who had lost two brothers to the war, he wanted to avenge the wrongs done to the South as much as John did. He would not fail.

“Here's something.” Herold spoke up. “All day long, doctors are calling at Seward's home on account of his injuries. I used to work as a pharmacy clerk, and I'm sure Powell would be admitted to the house if he claimed to be delivering medicines from Seward's doctor.”

“I'll do that,” said Powell.

Booth turned to Atzerodt. “You take Johnson.” When the German winced, he added, “Nothing could be easier than reaching that dirty tailor from Tennessee.” He beckoned to Herold. “Show him the letter.”

Herold leapt up from his chair, took a folded paper from his coat pocket, and held it out to Atzerodt, who reluctantly accepted it. “It's a document meant for Johnson,” Herold explained. “I got it off a printer. You can get close to Johnson by pretending to deliver it.”

Atzerodt regarded the letter in his hand with revulsion, and then quickly set it on the arm of his chair as if it had scorched his fingers. “I
went into this thing to capture, not to kill,” he said quietly, his gaze falling to the floor. “I will not do it.”

“Then you're a fool,” snapped John. “It is death for every man who backs out. It's too late for that anyway. Don't you see? You're in this as deep as the rest of us. If we hang, you hang.”

“
Nein, nein
,” Atzerodt moaned, shaking his head. “I did not come for that. I am not willing to murder a person.”

“Boy,” said John, low and menacing, drawing closer to the quavering man. “Boy.” He slapped his hand heavily on Atzerodt's chest, pushing him back a step. “What is to become of you?” Suddenly John swung and struck him, sending him sprawling to the floor. “You must kill Johnson! Do it or I'll blow your brains out!”

Gasping, wide-eyed, Atzerodt scrambled to his feet and backed away.

“What will become of you?” John said again, disgusted. “Young Herold has more courage than you.
He
will kill Johnson, and you, Atzerodt, will help.”

Gulping air, tears in his eyes, Atzerodt nodded, eyes downcast, defeated.

“Get your horses,” John ordered, in a voice that would allow no dissent.

•   •   •

A
nticipation drove out anger as John walked down G Street alone. Atzerodt would be all right with Herold there to mind him. He had no concerns at all about Powell, who would do his duty. Turning north onto Sixth Street, he arrived at the Surratt boardinghouse as the bells of St. Patrick's Church struck nine.

Anna answered his knock, and, blushing prettily despite her obvious distress, she showed him into the sitting room and invited him to wait for her mother, whose step he soon heard on the stairs leading up from the kitchen and dining room on the ground floor.

“Mr. Booth,” she greeted him with some surprise, as Anna left them to confer alone. “I thought you would be at Ford's by now. Dare I hope that you've changed your mind?”

The question did not merit a reply. “Did you see Lloyd?”

“Yes,” she said, with a sigh of resignation. “I gave him the package. He said he would remove the various items from their hiding places
and move them to his room, to have them convenient for any parties that might call tonight.”

“Very good.”

“Mr. Booth—” She hesitated and seated herself in the chair nearest him. “In his recent speeches Mr. Lincoln has spoken of forgiveness and reconciliation. I think he is inclined to be merciful to the South. Mr. Johnson, however—” She shook her head, her lips pursed together in worry and distaste. “He speaks of punishment, and of vengeance. If you remove Mr. Lincoln from the presidential chair, you allow an even worse villain to take it.”

“Oh, you needn't worry about that. Johnson will be taken care of.”

She peered at him quizzically, but she knew better than to ask questions. “Well, then, that leaves Mr. Seward to lead, though not officially, and I don't imagine he would be much better than Johnson.”

“We'll see to Mr. Seward too.” Smiling, John rose. “And now, madam, I must bid you good night and goodbye.”

She inclined her head in farewell, and escorted him to the door, but just as he stepped outside and put on his hat, she gave a little start. “Oh, Mr. Booth. I just remembered. When Mr. Weichmann and I were traveling to Surrattsville, we passed some Yankee pickets just off the road. I asked one of the soldiers if they would be out there all night, and he told me no, they were being pulled in after eight o'clock.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Surratt,” he said, pleased. “It's good to know that.”

“Good evening, Mr. Booth, and good luck to you,” she said quietly, and closed the door.

•   •   •

I
t was about half past nine o'clock when John rode down Baptist Alley again and brought the lively mare to a stop at the back door to Ford's Theatre. Dismounting, he peered through the open doorway, through which the faint sounds of the audience's laughter drifted. “Spangler,” he called softly, but although he glimpsed figures moving in the shadows, no one replied. “Spangler,” he called again, projecting his voice. “Ned, come here.”

Spangler neither answered nor appeared, which probably meant he was working the far side of the stage. Just then John saw a stagehand
passing nearby. “You there,” he said. “It's John Wilkes Booth. Tell Ned Spangler I need him right away.”

The stagehand nodded and hurried off, and soon Spangler appeared in the doorway. “What is it, Booth?” he asked, joining him in the alley. “What do you need?”

When Spangler was close enough, John tossed him the reins. “Hold my horse for a few minutes, would you? Don't let go or tie her. She'll run off.”

“Say, Booth,” Spangler protested as John headed for the back door. “I can't stay out here. I'm working the show.”

“I won't be long,” John called over his shoulder as he entered the theatre, quickening his pace.

As he walked along the back passageway, he listened to the dialogue, noting the act and scene. It was not yet his time. He knew the play well, knew the moment when a particularly amusing line would provoke uproarious laughter from the audience—enough, he hoped, to mask the sound of the derringer firing. Powell, Herold, and Atzerodt ought to be taking their places soon.

He paced in the lobby, walking in and out, chatting with the doorman, asking the time. Restless, he checked the progress of the play again and wandered outside the theatre and next door to the Star Saloon, where he ordered whiskey and water. He rehearsed the plan in his mind as he drank, checked the time, and returned to the theatre, where he paced some more until a particular line of dialogue caught his ear and sent an electric jolt of anticipation running through him.

Stealing quietly into the theatre, he surveyed the house, not entirely sold out as Ford had boastfully predicted, yet satisfactorily full at that, especially for Good Friday. A handful of actors, all of whom he knew, performed on a stage set as the interior of a drawing room in an English country house, with double doors at the center. John glanced upward, stage left, and his heart thudded when he spied the president seated with his wife and a younger couple in the State Box, which was adorned with four large Stars and Stripes—two standing on either side of the box and two more gracefully draped over the balustrade—with luxurious gold and ivory draperies hanging above. A portrait of George Washington was affixed to the center of the railing, beneath a tall staff bearing the blue standard of the Treasury Guards. Although Lincoln
had viewed performances from those same seats many times before, John had never seen the State Box so impressively decorated.

While the audience smiled and laughed at the clever exchanges between the players, John eyed the distance from the proscenium, where the president sat, to the stage floor, and judged it to be roughly twelve feet—a substantial drop, to be sure, but he was athletic and fit, and on several occasions in performances past he had leapt from similar heights to the same stage. Fortunately, the orchestra chairs were empty, as he had known they would be, for the musicians had departed at the end of the second intermission and were not meant to return until the final scenes. The set was clear of furniture there, and soon the other players would exit and only Harry Hawk would remain onstage to utter the most amusing line of the entire play.