Fates and Traitors (47 page)

She thanked him quietly and closed her eyes and silently prayed for her brother, for the Lincoln family, for her own, until she fell asleep.

•   •   •

W
hen Mary Ann received Clarke's telegram requesting that she come to Philadelphia, she in turn telegraphed Edwin at his hotel in Boston to inform him of her plans. To her chagrin, he neither replied nor returned to his Manhattan residence before she and Rosalie departed by train for Philadelphia, clad in mourning black with dark veils concealing their faces.

“This is unnecessary,” Rosalie murmured as they stowed their luggage and took their seats. “We are not Edwin or John or June. No one knows us.”

It was true that their faces were not as well known as those of the actors in the family, but Mary Ann feared that the shame and anger and horror that seared her heart and scoured her veins was so tangible that any stranger would know with a single glance that she must be the mother of the most hated man in America. She had grieved for her husband every day since he had passed, but now—she could almost be relieved that Junius had died before he witnessed how his beloved son had made a mockery of his highest principles, that all life was sacred.

They arrived in Philadelphia on the afternoon of Easter Sunday. Clarke greeted them somewhat reservedly, but Asia was so glad to see them that her tearful gratitude wrenched Mary Ann's heart. Asia looked to be in good health, though wan and red-eyed from worry, and Clarke complained that she was not getting as much rest as the doctor ordered.

“You mustn't think that just because you've had three good pregnancies you needn't pay as much attention to your health this time around,” Mary Ann scolded her as she helped her back upstairs and
into bed, and for a moment it was bliss to be nothing more than an ordinary woman of three score and two years, fussing about her daughter and her unborn grandchild.

“You're quite enormous,” said Rosalie, in her usual voice, barely above a whisper. “Do you suppose you might be carrying twins?”

Asia laughed bleakly. “I hope not. I prefer for my little trotters to come along one at a time.”

She had received a letter from Edwin that morning, she told them as Mary Ann and Rosalie seated themselves at her bedside. “He wrote that he had remained in Boston on the advice of friends who thought that, since the people of that city have been so good to him, he ought not to leave until they understood that he had no part in Wilkes's terrible deed. I expect that by now he is on his way to New York.”

“I suppose he sent a similar letter to us there,” said Mary Ann, “but unfortunately we will not see it, or him, until we return.”

“He said something else that deeply troubled me.” Asia reached into the drawer of the bedside table and took out two envelopes, withdrew a sheet of paper from one, and unfolded it. “‘Think no more of him as your brother; he is dead to us now, as he soon must be to all the world.'” She paused and pressed a hand to her lips, composing herself. “‘But imagine the boy you loved to be in that better part of his spirit, in another world.'”

Mary Ann found Edwin's attempt to comfort his sister appalling. “He writes as though his brother is truly dead.”

“Perhaps he expects that he soon will be,” said Rosalie, barely audible.

“I love Wilkes and I cannot think of him as no longer my brother,” said Asia. “The doom that fell on him was not wrought from a maniac brain nor a wicked heart, not from an irreligious soul nor a degraded nature. He would have died to save the people of the South, and when Richmond fell and Mr. Lincoln made his triumphant entry into the smoldering ruins of the city, it reignited the fire of patriotism—for
his
country, as he thinks of it—a zeal that consumed him.”

“Country,” Mary Ann murmured, remembering her vision in the flames when her precious John Wilkes was no more than a baby nursing at her breast, perfect and beautiful. Her gaze met Asia's, and she
knew Asia was thinking of it too. Then Mary Ann caught herself. “Let us not join in the multitudes that have condemned John Wilkes without a trial, without allowing him to speak in his own defense. We don't know that our boy has done this terrible thing.”

“If he has not,” whispered Rosalie, “then where is he?”

They fell into a mournful silence, broken when Asia took a letter from the second envelope and said that she had heard from June too. He had just finished performing a farewell benefit of
The Merchant of Venice
at Wood's Theatre when the news of the assassination had reached him backstage. He had fled to his hotel and had barricaded the door, terrified that a mob would descend upon him and tear him to pieces.

His fear was not without merit, Mary Ann knew. Even Edwin, beloved as he was to theatergoers around the world, had received threatening letters in the post. In cities both North and South, foolhardy men who had publicly expressed satisfaction at the president's death had been set upon by angry, vengeful crowds and killed.

“As soon as June feels it is safe to travel,” Asia said, putting both letters away, “he is coming here.”

“Clarke won't mind?” Mary Ann ventured.

Asia smiled thinly. “Clarke has nothing to say about it.”

Mary Ann regarded her with surprise, taken aback by the sharp edge to her voice. She knew Clarke and John Wilkes did not get along, and that Asia usually sided with her brother, but until that moment Mary Ann had never suspected any ill feeling between Asia and Clarke.

But Asia looked tired and hollow-eyed, so rather than worry her with unwanted queries, Mary Ann urged her to lie down and rest. Rosalie offered to sit up with her, while Mary Ann quietly left the room to seek out her grandchildren. By early evening some color had returned to Asia's cheeks, and she insisted upon coming down for supper, declaring that she knew her own strength and she would not be a prisoner of her doctor's vigilance.

Supper was a subdued affair, with the only bright moments springing from the sweet, innocent remarks of the three dear little lambs who knew nothing of their uncle's dreadful crime. For the children's sake the adults avoided mentioning the late tragedy, but as soon as the nurse
whisked the youngsters off, they began comparing rumors overheard and stories read. John Wilkes had been sighted in cities throughout the eastern states and as far away as Canada and California, but the most credible reports stated that hundreds of federal agents were scouring Washington City for evidence and searching the Maryland countryside for John Wilkes and a companion believed to be responsible for the attack on Secretary Seward.

When Mary Ann imagined her darling boy fleeing on horseback through the wilderness with vengeful men and snarling dogs in swift pursuit, her heart pained her until she almost thought she could feel it fracturing into jagged splinters beneath her breast.

“The last time I saw Wilkes—” Asia took a deep breath, sipped water, and started again. “In February, when he last visited, he entrusted a packet to me in case something should happen to him. He said it contained papers and money, and letters he wanted me to deliver.”

“Something certainly has happened to him,” said Clarke bitterly. “Why did you not mention these papers before?”

Mary Ann frowned, disliking his tone, but Asia merely regarded him calmly. “In all the distress and confusion, I have only just remembered it.”

Clarke announced that he would inspect the packet immediately, and without offering Asia assistance from her chair, he strode off to his study. Rosalie helped her sister to her feet, and Mary Ann followed behind as they went to join Clarke at the safe.

As they drew closer, Mary Ann observed that Asia's name was written on the envelope in John Wilkes's familiar scrawl and that the seal had been broken, but in his haste Clarke seemed not to notice. Mary Ann winced at his carelessness as he shook the contents out upon his desk and spread them out with a broad sweep of his hand. They discovered federal bonds worth $3,000 and city bonds worth another $1,000; a deed to Wilkes's Pennsylvania oil property, signed over to June; and two smaller envelopes, one addressed to Wilkes's longtime friend and fellow actor Samuel Knapp Chester, and the other to Mary Ann.

Clarke handed Mary Ann the second envelope and regarded her expectantly, which she understood to mean that she was to read the letter aloud. She opened it, took out a sheet of paper, steadied herself with a deep breath, and complied.

Dearest Beloved Mother,

Heaven knows how dearly I love you. And may our kind Father in Heaven (if only for the sake of my love) watch over, comfort & protect you, in my absence. May he soften the blow of my departure, granting you peace and happiness for many, many years to come. God ever bless you.

I have always endeavored to be a good and dutiful son, and even now would wish to die sooner than give you pain. But dearest Mother, though I owe you all, there is another duty, a noble duty for the sake of liberty and humanity due to my country—For four years I have lived (I may say) a
slave
in the north (a favored slave its true, but no less hateful to me on that account). Not daring to express my thoughts or sentiments, even in my own home, constantly hearing every principle, dear to my heart, denounced as treasonable, and knowing the vile and savage acts committed on my countrymen, their wives & helpless children, that I have cursed my wilful idleness, and begun to deem myself a coward and to despise my own existence. For four years I have borne it mostly for your dear sake, and for you alone, have I also struggled to fight off this desire to be gone, but it seems that uncontrollable fate, moving me for its ends, takes me from you, dear Mother, to do what work I can for a poor oppressed downtrodden people. May that same fate cause me to do that work well. I care not for the censure of the north, so I have your forgiveness, and I feel I may hope it, even though you differ with me in opinion.

I may, by the grace of God, live through this war dear Mother, if so, the rest of my life shall be more devoted to you, than has been my former. For I know it will take a long lifetime of tenderness and care, to atone for the pang this parting will give you. But I cannot longer resist the inclination to go and share the sufferings of my brave countrymen, holding an unequal strife (for every right human & divine) against the most ruthless enemy, the world has ever known. You can answer for me dearest Mother (although none of you think with me) that I have not a
single selfish motive
to spur me on to this, nothing save the sacred duty, I feel I owe the cause I love, the cause of the South. The cause of liberty & justice. So should I meet the
worst
, dear Mother, in struggling for such holy rights, I can say
“God's will be done” and bless him in my heart for not permitting me to outlive our dear bought freedom. And for keeping me from being longer a hidden lie among my country's foes.

Darling Mother I can not write you, you will understand the deep regret, the forsaking your dear side, will make me suffer, for you have been the best, the noblest, an example for all mothers. God bless you, as I shall ever pray him to do. And should the last
bolt
strike your son, dear Mother, bear it patiently and think at the best life is but short, and
not at all times happy
. My Brothers & Sisters (Heaven protect them) will add my love and duty to their own, and watch you with care and kindness, till we meet again. And if
that happiness
does not come to us on earth, then may, O may it be with God. So then dearest,
dearest
Mother,
forgive
and pray for me. I feel that I am right in the justness of my cause, and that we shall,
ere long
, meet again. Heaven grant it. Bless you, bless you. Your loving son will never cease to hope and pray for such a joy.

Come weal or woe, with never ending love and devotion you will find me ever your affectionate son

John.

Mary Ann's voice was so choked with sobs she could hardly finish the letter. Oh, her poor, dear, misguided, darling boy. She could not have been the best, the noblest of mothers to have raised him to believe that it could ever be right to shoot a man in the back of the head while he sat with his wife watching a play. What would his beloved late father, who had cherished all life, have thought of such a deed?

“Wilkes says nothing of planning to hurt the president,” said Asia, stroking her belly absently, a faint light of hope appearing in her eyes. “He says he wants to go and share the sufferings of his brave countrymen. That suggests only that he intended to join the Confederacy, or at the very least, to move to the South.”

“So he felt in February,” murmured Rosalie, “when he gave you that letter, before Richmond fell, before General Lee surrendered.”

Reluctantly, Mary Ann added, “He also wrote here that he wanted to do what work he could for a poor, oppressed, downtrodden people. Perhaps, last Friday night, he believed he was doing precisely that.”

Asia pressed her lips together and shook her head, her eyes shining
with unshed tears. Mary Ann set the letter aside and embraced her, and as soon as she did, Clarke snatched up the page. “This letter exonerates us,” he declared, visibly relieved. “Don't you see? He says here, ‘even though you differ with me in opinion.' And here, ‘although none of you think with me'—none of you.” Grasping the letter firmly in his left hand, he slapped it with the back of his right. “He says too that he couldn't express his true feelings even in his own home. That proves he knew no one else in the family shared his opinions, and that none of us could have known about his desire to kill the president or would have condoned it.”

“It doesn't exonerate us,” said Asia. “It only condemns Wilkes.”

“What of the other letter?” asked Mary Ann. “Should we deliver it to Sam Chester?”

Throwing her a look of thinly veiled exasperation that she would even suggest such a thing, Clarke tucked Mary Ann's letter under his arm, tore open the second envelope, and withdrew several pages. He unfolded them and read in silence while Mary Ann and her daughters stood watching him, exchanging uneasy glances. “There is nothing in this Confederate screed that will help us,” he said. “He talks about a plan to make a prisoner of the man to whom the world owes so much misery—he means Mr. Lincoln—and about how he loved the Union once, but believes the South to be in the right. He goes on at length to defend the rebels, and to make a rather poor argument for slavery. He ends by calling himself—” Clarke turned to the last page. “He signs the letter, ‘A Confederate, at present doing his duty upon his own responsibility.' And he crossed out ‘at present.'”