The Lincoln Deception (22 page)

Fraser took care to speak in a loud voice so Longstreet could hear him. “If you thought Barstow's plan was so crazy, why didn't you try to stop him?”

Longstreet gazed at him, then cleared his throat violently. “Abe Lincoln was a soldier, just like I was and just like even Barstow here. You see what the war did to me.” He gestured at his useless right arm. “Soldiers get killed, ruined. Townsend says your daddy paid his price, too. We knew what war meant. More than half a million died, at least that many went home less than whole. Do you have any idea how many men I ordered to their deaths? Or how many were killed by my soldiers on my orders? At the end of the war, one more killing could hardly get my attention. Was Abe Lincoln's life worth more than any one of the boys who fought for me? Or your father's?”

After another silence, Fraser asked, “How many people know this secret?”

“Fewer every year,” Longstreet whispered. “Other than you, Townsend here's the only one figured it out on his own. Which is pretty damned remarkable. Doesn't actually seem that hard to figure out. It's like the whole country decided not to notice something sitting right in the middle of the road.”

Cook shook his head. “Don't count on it being a secret much longer. We're going to tell this story when we get out of here. The world needs to know the evil you people did.”

Longstreet shook his head and scratched his abundant side whiskers with his good hand. He sighed.

“You maybe should think about that,” Barstow said. “First off, we'll all deny it just like we have for thirty-five years. That's worked pretty good so far. In fact, we'll wonder how you ever came up with such outlandish ideas. Second, you're late, extremely late, with this news.”

“It's never too late for the truth,” Cook said.

Barstow smiled. “I disagree. You'll be one more crank with a new theory. You'll never dislodge the story of John Wilkes Booth as the sole author of the conspiracy to kill Lincoln. No one wants to believe anything else.”

“But it's not true,” Fraser said.

“Doctor.” Barstow turned to face him. “I thought you'd be smarter than that.” Returning his gaze to Cook, he said, “Third, you're a black man. How could you possibly know such a thing? And you,” Barstow faced Fraser, “are a well-meaning country doctor who has fallen under the spell of John Wilkes Booth's illegitimate spawn.”

Fraser couldn't conceal his anger. “You wouldn't dare make such an accusation.”

Barstow smiled. “We wouldn't? But it's even true. Don't you think the newspapers of Mr. Hearst and Mr. Pulitzer would find that considerably more interesting than some crackpot theory about an assassination that was solved two generations ago and is settled in the pages of history? Now, Booth's bastard child—
that
would sell newspapers!”

They fell silent when Longstreet held up his good hand. He began again. “Those are Major Barstow's reasons. And to his credit, he hasn't yet presented reasons that would involve pain and injury to you. He can favor very crude methods. As you say, that sort of tactic hasn't worked so far with you gentlemen, but Major Barstow is a determined individual who, it should be clear, is not limited by good sense and judgment.”

Longstreet paused. “I suspect that all of his reasons are odious to you. But allow me to offer one that should not be. It's the one that worked with Mr. Townsend.”

Townsend inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“John Bingham wouldn't want you to reveal these matters. Old Bingham took his secret to the grave with him because he thought that was the best thing. He was glad to accuse Jeff Davis of the crime—even without the evidence to prove it. But when he heard the true story, that Northerners also were behind the killing of Abe Lincoln, he knew it would threaten the Union and the peace. And he knew that nothing was going to bring Abe Lincoln back. That's why I've been silent these past thirty-five years. Through all those years I've been trying to reconcile North and South so we can rebuild a great nation. And that's why you, too, should remain silent. Because Bingham was right.”

After only a moment, Longstreet hauled himself up from his chair. He made his painful way to the door that led to the rear of the house. He left the ear trumpet in the chair.

“What kind of a writer are you?” Cook said to Townsend. “You learn the truth and then hide it, let the culprits get away clean? Instead, you write a bunch of nonsense that you know isn't true. Which side are you on?”

“Bingham's side.”

Barstow stood abruptly. “My men will not molest you on your return to your hotel, or on your departure from this city. But, please, do not doubt that the Sons of Liberty will be watching you, and that we're prepared to do what's necessary to preserve the integrity of history.”

“On the subject of what you might be prepared to do,” Fraser said, not rising from his chair, “you should understand that we are in possession of a small leather book with a fetching image of a frog on its first page. You know what I am describing?”

“Go on,” Barstow said quietly.

“That book, and our interpretation of it, are in a safe place. A very safe place. And it will reside there unless something happens to one of us.” He pointed at Cook and then at himself. “In that event, well, that frog book would immediately be released to the public, along with everything we know about it. You don't want that to happen, Mr. Barstow.”

“I don't know what you're on about,” the older man said, “and I don't think you do, either.”

“I'm on about the boss frog of New York City and his good friends.”

 

“You can't mean it!” Cook was pacing across the small hotel room, covering it in three strides and turning back.

Fraser sat in the lone straight-back chair. He shook his head. “I can. Longstreet made sense. Even Barstow made sense. No one's going to believe us. They'll all deny it. We don't have any hard proof, not even the memorandum book anymore, not to mention the frog book being a wreck. Thank God we can use it as a bluff. What would it gain us to make accusations we can't back up?”

“It's the truth!”

“Keep your voice down. We'll get thrown out of the hotel.”

“That'd be a good start. Then we ought to burn this place down.” Cook stalked to the window and stood with his hands on his hips. “I knew it. I knew you didn't have the gizzard to see this all the way through. Well, I do.”

“Speed, you do what you think is best, but you need to consider what Longstreet said. He's right about what Mr. Bingham wanted. Think about the sacrifice he made. Mrs. Surratt gave him the evidence to prove he'd been right all along, that the Confederacy had planned the assassination, but he suppressed that evidence his whole life. Lots of people conceal facts that prove them wrong. Not many conceal facts that prove them right.”

“I've had it up to here with the saintly Mr. Bingham. He did what he thought was right. Fine. This is thirty-five years later. We have to make up our own minds.” He pointed at Fraser. “I know what's making you turn tail and run. It's what Barstow said.”

“I haven't backed down from Barstow and his men.”

“Not that part. I mean the part about your lady friend. You're going to conceal the biggest crime in our history just so you can sweeten up that woman, so you keep her secret. I've got news for you—there's lots of women out there.”

Fraser ran a hand through his hair. “I still think Longstreet's right. We can't go ahead with this. Anyway, I can't.”

“I can.”

W
hen a cold October wind whipped through the plaza in front of the Harrison County Courthouse, several thousand people shivered as one. It was eighteen months since the last such gathering, when John Bingham died. It seemed a lifetime ago. The old gentleman had brought out this crowd as well, or at least his memory had. This time Mr. Bingham was present only as a bronze likeness. Another endless ceremony dulled the crowd's vitality. This one was to dedicate his statue, which towered in front of the courthouse.

It was Fraser's second time in Cadiz since the meeting with General Longstreet. He came back during the winter to pack up his things and arrange to sell his remaining property. In three short weeks he had helped four Cadiz babies into the world, starting with the Gable family. He greeted each birth with unmixed joy, one more sign that his soul had grown lighter. Eliza did that. She changed a great deal more for him. He would be a country doctor no more.

On the dais, Senator Spriggs was working through some standard pieties about Mr. Bingham. He assured the crowd that Bingham would be a household word long after each in the audience had ceased to be, and after what they had done had crumbled and decayed. After spending half a year chasing Mr. Bingham's secret, Fraser had no confidence in history's memory. Would anyone remember Mr. Bingham one hundred years from now? Would what they remembered be even remotely true?

Fraser took Eliza's gloved hand and gave it a small squeeze. She was the prize from the race that he and Cook had run. She had taken persuading to marry, but she wanted to be persuaded. Marrying her meant he would leave Cadiz. She was too bold a bloom for Harrison County, and Fraser found that New York suited him. There he could improve his medical knowledge and skills, drinking in the advances of new research. And Eliza's theater world remained magical to him. Her generous skirt concealed her current condition, only three months along, and he hoped to be luckier this time. Poor Ginny. He and Eliza laid flowers on her grave that morning. He felt sad about Ginny, but also grateful to her. She had brought him joy. Now he was blessed with a second chance at love, one he could not claim to deserve, but he intended to make the most of it.

Cadiz was doing itself proud for this ceremony. The speakers numbered not only a United States senator, but also a Japanese diplomat and now, after the singing of the hymn, Reverend Wolf stepped forward. The pastor of the A.M.E. church proudly recited the achievements of Harrison County's colored people. They had acquired property, founded schools, started farms and businesses. They were, he said, the best testament to Mr. Bingham's wisdom in fighting for their rights. His voice rising, he proclaimed that they had redeemed the man's sacrifice.

When the program was over, many seemed reluctant to leave. The town band continued to play, showing an unfortunate enthusiasm for the marches of Mr. Sousa. Men and women admired the Bingham statue, exclaimed over the current harvest, and expressed hopes that the new president, young Roosevelt, would be equal to the task of succeeding McKinley, shot down by an assassin only a month before. At least there was no mystery about that assassination.

Fraser and Eliza greeted his old friends, asked about their lives and told about life in New York. After some time, Fraser spied a large figure some distance away. He excused himself.

“Speed!” he called out.

“Dr. Fraser.”

“I hoped to see you.” Fraser stretched out his hand. When Cook took it, Fraser used a two-handed grip.

“I came to pay my respects.” Cook nodded at the statute.

Fraser grinned, releasing his friend. “I'm glad you did. Can we talk?” They fell into step and circled the crowd. “You printed it after all. I saw the edition you put out about the assassination.”

“Ah,” Cook said, “fat lot of good it did. We ran off our usual thousand copies, and another thousand for posterity. I mailed it to every American newspaper I could find an address for. Do you think even one of them picked it up? Even one? They probably all laughed themselves sick over the gullibility of that poor colored man down in Steubenville, he must be crazy stupid. More evidence of the power of the lie.”

“But you did it. You were true to yourself.”

“I also mailed that edition to every library I could think of, hoping they'll save it, maybe the time will come, maybe fifty years from now, maybe a hundred, when someone will look back at that and say, damn, that man was on to something.” After a second, he looked over at Fraser. “Is Mrs. Fraser angry about it?”

“I tried to explain it to her, but I can't say she sees your point of view. Not entirely.”

“How about Dr. Fraser, my investor?”

“I think I know why you did it. Maybe I would have, too, in your place. But I've got to say I'm just as glad no one else picked it up. I'm sorry I couldn't join you in writing it.”

“You're not the first man's done the wrong thing for a woman. But it shouldn't matter that you wouldn't write it with me.
I
wrote it, wrote it all up just so. I shouldn't need a white man to say what I wrote is all right.”

After a few more strides, Fraser said, “The articles you're doing on Jim Crow have been terrific. Are you getting any reaction—any threats?”

Cook stopped and glared at Fraser. “Threats? Threats are my breakfast. It's the rocks through the windows that make me jumpy. You tell me, how can I live in this country, where I'm supposed to sit down and shut up, just because I'm colored?” He resumed walking. Cook fell into that passionate form of declamation that Fraser had come to know during their journey together. America was getting worse, Cook said. Segregation was spreading, lynchings every week. Freedom from slavery wasn't enough. Equality was what colored people needed, and they were getting less of it, not more. Colored people, he said, had no future here. They needed to go to Africa, where they could live their lives proud and hold their heads up high. When they were chasing Mr. Bingham's secret, Cook couldn't go to places where Fraser went, do things that Fraser did. Cook didn't know that he could take that anymore.

They kept walking, now on their third orbit of the plaza.

“It didn't feel right,” Cook said, “using your money to print all that about Miss Eliza's daddy.”

“I knew what you were going to do. And I think I wanted you to try. You were entitled to that.” Fraser stopped and smiled. “You know, I've trusted my life to one man in my life, and that man took care of me.”

Cook shook his head. “You always were the sentimental one. So now I'm supposed to say the same thing about you?”

Fraser grinned and put his arm around Cook's shoulder. “Come on, now. You feeling brave enough to say hello to my wife?”