The Lincoln Conspiracy (35 page)

“They’re addicts,” she said.

“Through and through,” Alexander replied. “Opium.”

Fiona had already seen ready evidence of this scourge in the military hospitals. Soldiers, many of them barely older than boys, had endured such unbearable pain from a bullet wound or the gouging of a bayonet that they were given large and frequent doses of opium to blunt the trauma and soothe their nerves. Morphine addiction was common enough, too, particularly because the army gave soldiers doses to take home with them. Now, thousands of war veterans—perhaps even tens of thousands, if the most dire of calculations were true—had the “army disease.” With the war over and soldiers only starting to separate from their units to return home, groups of Union boys were seeking out one another to share opium and morphine.
Whether they were doing so as recreation or self-medication didn’t really matter. The fact was, a good number of the soldiers had mentalities so wallpapered by drugs that they weren’t much better than bummers.

While it wasn’t uncommon for the soldiers to share their addictions in camp or in taverns near the Potomac docks, it was more than passing strange to find them openly enjoying or riding out their latest medicinal spree—and in their uniforms, no less. No more than bummers with rifles, she thought.

Alexander could barely contain his disgust with the group, as was his wont lately. He had started the war with great enthusiasm for the entire vast enterprise and for his role in chronicling its realities, idiosyncrasies, heroes, and heroics. But the battlefields had carved their own peculiar and wearing places into his imagination, and he no longer wanted to train his lenses on whatever was going to be left behind as the war machine unwound itself. Lincoln’s murder had only furthered his bitterness.

“I am so tired of the District,” he said to Fiona, his eyes fixed on the group of soldiers down the street. “I want to trail and photograph the Comanche and the Lakota, and I want to photograph the railroads. I want to leave here and find my fortune in the West.”

He stood up. “We should go inside,” he said. As he pushed open the door for Fiona, he stopped to confide in her. “There was a Pinkerton agent in Cumberland.”

“Fancy that. I encountered my own Pinkerton in Defiance, Ohio.”

“But I had
the
Pinkerton. Allan. I wasn’t going to tell you because of the trepidation I was worried you might feel about the Pinkertons’ return. More aggravation for you,” he said. “Temple went to very elaborate and fruitful ends to convince Pinkerton that the time had arrived for him to leave the District. We thought we were successful in that regard.”

“What did Temple do to intimidate him?”

“Photographs.”

“Of whom or what?”

“Of Pinkerton and a woman of ill repute together in Alexandria.”

“I don’t imagine I’ll ever meet the enterprising photographer who managed to take those photographs?”

“I imagine he’s quite talented,” Alexander said.

The house was silent.

“Is anyone here?” Fiona asked.

“Augustus.”

“Where is he?”

“In his room.”

“Is he sick?”

“Of a fashion.”

A large pile of Nail’s counterfeited greenbacks had been scattered on a table in the parlor, and Augustus’s jacket hung on the back of a chair. Two tins were open on the table, one of them containing a few brown, tarry wads of opium that were the size of Fiona’s thumb. She followed the sweet, pungent smell of the smoke into Augustus’s room and found him there, sprawled on his bed, glassy-eyed and adrift.

F
IONA AND
A
LEXANDER
were sharing a loaf of bread, jam, and a small pot of coffee when Augustus awoke late the next morning and came into the kitchen.

“So you found me and my tins,” Augustus said to Fiona.

“You put yourself and all of us in danger with your addiction,” she said, refusing to look up at him. “You chose a safe house for us that was convenient for you and your drugs.”

“I don’t need nor do I want your lectures. As I’ve told you before, I am not your husband.”

“You are my friend. Is this why you needed money from your scheme at the B&O with Temple and Pint? To fuel your addiction?”

Augustus ignored her and searched for his money and the opium, becoming frantic when he failed to spot them.

“You’ve taken my things,” he said to Fiona, his anger rising.

“Temple is in prison and this will not continue on your part.”

“I want my things,” Augustus said, shaking his head. “Alexander’s gotten word about Temple, and he knows what we’re up against now.”

“Yes, I know—he’s been imprisoned at the Old Capitol,” Fiona said to Alexander. “And we have much afoot in that regard. We intend to free him.”

Alexander stood up from the table and drove his hands into his pockets, turning away from Fiona.

“Not entirely accurate anymore, I’m afraid,” he said to her. “Temple’s imprisoned, true, but not at the Old Capitol. Pinkerton told me that they’ve moved him to a very different compound—the Old Arsenal Penitentiary.”

“Different in what way?” Fiona asked.

“We may have had some faint hope of getting Temple out of the Old Capitol,” Augustus said, looking in closets and on shelves for his tins. “But we will never, ever, remove him from the Old Arsenal.”

Alexander revisited matters with Fiona: his encounter with Pinkerton in Cumberland, their joint return to Washington, and the information Pinkerton had gathered about what had happened to Temple. Pinkerton had suspected that Fiona would never stay on Mrs. Lincoln’s train all the way to Chicago and had decided to trail Alexander. Pinkerton told him that he didn’t believe Stanton knew of Alexander’s friendship with the McFaddens, but that Stanton didn’t remain unaware of much in the District for very long.

The most significant aspect of his unexpected encounter with Pinkerton in Cumberland, Alexander said, was that Pinkerton had offered up a bounty of explanations for why the diaries meant so much to him.

“Mr. Pinkerton made his motivations very clear to me—why he intervened at the B&O to get the diaries to begin with and why he rescued Temple from Baker’s men at the Center Market the same day,” Alexander said. “Pinkerton is not hesitant to talk about it, and
he acts like a desperate man, as if he’s about to lose one of his tethers to the world.”

“I have been intimate with that same emotion in recent days,” Fiona said, watching Augustus continue to cast about for the tins and the money. “But I am powerfully hesitant to put any faith in Mr. Pinkerton.”

“Pinkerton said he stands in opposition to Stanton and Baker. He planted his operatives along the major rail stops west of here to Chicago to protect Mrs. Lincoln from Baker, Stanton, and her very own son,” Alexander said. “He was concerned something might befall the widow, and he began putting his people into position well before you even schemed to be on the train with—”

“Schemed?” Fiona asked.

“Pinkerton’s terminology, not mine. Pardon. He had people along the tracks, and he was able to get word to them from Alexandria the same day that we entrapped him.”

“And he looks upon us with benevolence now because of what?”

“Because he believes that the murder of the president needs to be avenged and righted and that those responsible must be forced to meet the noose. We have the Booth diary, and he wants the diary to be in his possession and to be made public.”

“We can publicize the diary just as easily as he can.”

Augustus gave up his search and sat down at the table next to Fiona, his leg bouncing up and down and his nose running.

“I don’t think we can reasonably entrust Pinkerton with the diary or anything else,” he said. To Alexander he added, “And how do you know that Pinkerton hasn’t followed you here?”

“I was careful returning to my studio, and I met with Sojourner discreetly when I left there,” Alexander replied. “She was concerned about Pinkerton, too, and before she would give me this address made me hire a carriage and travel in loops for nearly an hour. Sojourner can be a commanding presence when she sets her mind to it.”

“Anyone who can meet with Sojourner discreetly has my admiration,” Augustus said, shaking his head.

“How do you know that Stanton hasn’t had people following you and Sojourner?” Alexander asked.

“Unlike you, there are not abundant photographs of us,” Augustus said. “And Temple revealed himself to them at the Grand Review. Until then, I don’t believe they knew what he looked like or even who he was. I think they know of us, of course, but they would be hard pressed to identify us.”

“They didn’t follow you to Mary Lincoln’s train, Fiona?”

“Temple and Nail were watching the station and never balked. Stanton and the military could have arrested me at the B&O and taken Mrs. Lincoln’s diary if they had wanted. They could have just shut down the station and surrounded it with troops and done that if they knew. But they didn’t, which leads me to believe that while we are perhaps known to them now, we are still largely anonymous.”

Augustus sprang up from the table again and began pacing. Alexander stopped him and put his arm around him. Fiona stood and put her hand against Augustus’s cheek. Augustus left the kitchen and went back to his bedroom.

“Anonymity has many virtues,” Alexander said, picking his jacket up off the back of a chair and fishing around in one of its pockets, producing a thin metal tube that was hinged in the middle. He held it up between his thumb and forefinger, showing it to Fiona. “I’m certainly for the idea that we cannot be harmed if Allan Pinkerton managed to dig inside himself and discover that the right path was in allying himself with us. To that end, he has given this to us as a demonstration of his goodwill. It is meant for Temple, but the trick will be getting it to him inside the Old Arsenal.”

Fiona craned her neck so that she could examine the metal tube more closely.

“If this little tube is all that we have to deliver to Temple, then the scale of our challenges has shrunk,” Fiona said, taking it from Alexander’s hand. “We can get this to Temple, I’m confident of that. It’s
getting Temple himself out of the Old Arsenal that still leaves me confounded.”

“Well, I believe Pinkerton has his own thoughts about that side of our problem,” Alexander said, opening the metal tube at the hinge and revealing its contents.

W
illiam Wood was amused.

He knew that he should have been inspired, probably, by the priest’s dedication and will. He certainly knew that he should have found it spiritually uplifting, yet another demonstration of the mighty hold the Catholic faith held on its flock. But he had little regard for the priest, his ancient European rituals, and his devotion to a prisoner and a conspirator.

He was simply amused.

“And why, Father Walter, do you feel the need for yet another visit with Mrs. Surratt? Surely she has had her fill of you by now and can find her own way to her Maker.”

“I remind you, Mr. Wood, that Mrs. Surratt has yet to be found guilty of any crime that would recommend the notion that she’ll be visiting with her Maker in the near future. A trial still awaits her,” said Father Walter. “I also retain an inexhaustible interest in Mrs. Surratt as a member of my church and a woman desirous of spiritual guidance. Despite your observations to the contrary, I believe her need for my presence has yet to be fully tapped, Mr. Wood.”

Wood wondered whether he should press the priest any further. He enjoyed toying with him and found his presence annoying, but he had more urgent matters at hand, including helping Stanton and the others prepare the case against the conspirators. Summer was upon them and the Old Capitol was musty, its walls already licked by the heat that made him loathe the District. His office began to strangle him once the heat set in, and the more he thought about
that prospect, the more he felt that it was already upon him; he got up from his desk and opened the room’s only window. Two small stacks of books were piled by the window, and a Colt, a box of bullets, and a Bowie knife sat atop them.

“You realize, of course, that you’re greatly inconveniencing me,” Wood said, turning his attention back to Father Walter. “Mr. McFadden has been moved with the conspirators to the Old Arsenal Penitentiary.”

Wood paused, allowing the revelation to gain traction.

Father Walter simply returned Wood’s stare.

“I said that they’ve been transferred to the Old Arsenal. It has only been a day and very few people are aware of this, even in the government. Yet you don’t look surprised.”

“I am surprised.”

“But I will say it again: you don’t look surprised.”

“I am surprised to hear this,” Father Walter said. “But I am more saddened than surprised. You have remitted these people to an even crueler detention.”

“Tut now, Father. Tut tut. They are criminals, each and every one of them. Treated with discipline, citizens respond with discipline. Treated with kindness, citizens respond with treason.”

Wood searched the priest’s face again, satisfying himself that sadness was in fact residing there and that he was mistaken to be suspicious of anything else about Father Walter’s response. He turned his attention to the nun seated next to the priest, scanning her up and down, then up and down again. The District can become a furnace and yet these people cloak themselves in thick black cloth, he thought; even the women are sheathed in blankets as if a frost were coming.

“This is the first time that you will be visiting Mrs. Surratt with someone else in tow,” Wood said, gesturing toward the nun. “I suppose that she, too, is saddened by the conspirators’ incarceration.”

“I believe Mrs. Surratt may be more comfortable sharing some of
her concerns and fears with another woman, so I have burdened Sister Grace with my request that she join me on my visit with my parishioner.”

“Ever been in a prison before, Sister?”

“No, I haven’t, never,” the nun responded, her face barely peeking out from within the wimple that covered her cheeks and neck. The stiff white brim of her coif, snug beneath the bandeau covering her head, cast a small shadow across her eyes. Black crepe also hung down around her face, dropping in folds around her shoulders and chest, before it became lost in the darker and heavier folds of her habit.