by Lyle Brandt
The news was mostly good, so why did Ryder feel a sudden letdown, hearing it? He couldn’t answer that and wondered what it said about him. Would he rather still be hunting Booth than have him measured for a casket?
No. And yet …
He turned to Jimmy Lucas, on the pole, and said, “All right, let’s head for home.”
OLD ARSENAL PENITENTIARY, WASHINGTON, DC
JULY 7, 1865
It was a gray day for a hanging. Clouds were scudding over Greenleaf Point, the peninsula marking the confluence of the Anacostia and Potomac Rivers. Ryder stood with fifteen hundred spectators inside the prison courtyard, most dressed in their Sunday finery, although this was a Friday morning. Thirty-odd soldiers in uniform, all armed with muskets, stood along the wall behind the scaffold. On the gallows platform, fifteen attendants fumbled at binding and hooding the condemned, while four held black umbrellas up to shield their heads from spitting rain.
Ryder had no umbrella, just his flat-brimmed hat and overcoat to keep him dry. Beneath his coat, pinned to his vest, he wore the Secret Service badge he had received from William Wood on Wednesday, after Wood himself was sworn in by Secretary McCulloch at the Treasury Building. That badge, in turn, legitimized the pistol he was wearing, a Colt Army Model 1860 revolver holstered on the left, butt-forward, for a cross-hand draw.
He wouldn’t be needing the pistol today.
Director Wood had passed on witnessing the execution of the four Lincoln conspirators condemned to hang, but Ryder felt he ought to see it through. He was the only Secret Service agent in attendance and would file a full report when it was finished, so he focused on the smallest details as the ritual proceeded.
Several hundred persons had been held for questioning after the president’s assassination, all but eight released without charges. Nine alleged conspirators had been identified, with one of them—John Surratt—still at large. President Johnson had created a military commission on May 1 to try the remaining eight, and it convened for the first time eight days later. The trial lasted through June, concluding on the last day of that month with guilty verdicts for all eight of the accused. Four of the plotters—George Atzerodt, David Herold, Lewis Powell, and Mary Surratt—had been condemned to hang. Dr. Samuel Mudd’s life was spared by a single vote, resulting in a term of life imprisonment. Also sentenced to life, Samuel Arnold and Michael O’Laughlen, both convicted of plotting with Booth to kidnap Lincoln a month before he was murdered.
The odd man out, Edman Spangler, had been employed at Ford’s Theatre, preparing the president’s box on April 14. A coworker recalled him saying, “Damn the president!” while he was working on the box, and other witnesses reported seeing him converse with Booth when the actor entered through the theater’s back door. One claimed that Spangler held Booth’s horse while he was busy murdering the president, while others disagreed. The panel voted to convict him, but he got off with a relatively lenient six-year prison term.
Now it was time for the condemned to pay, in spite of protests that Mary Surratt should be spared on account of her sex. Lewis Powell, belatedly, insisted that Surratt was innocent of any part in the conspiracy, but no one trusted him. Judge Advocate General Joseph Holt had presented President Johnson with a clemency petition for Mary on July 5, but Johnson had refused to sign it, declaring that she had “kept the nest that hatched the egg” of treason.
By then, the details of Booth’s death were known and had been published widely. Sgt. Boston Corbett was the triggerman who’d dropped him, after soldiers torched the barn where Booth was hiding out on Richard Garrett’s farm. According to Corbett, Booth brandished a pistol as he hobbled from the barn, forcing Garrett to fire in self-defense. Lt. Col. Everton Conger, commanding that phase of the manhunt, disputed that story, reporting to Secretary Stanton that Corbett had fired “without order, pretext, or excuse.” He arrested Corbett for disobeying an order to take Booth alive, but Stanton had dismissed the charge, granting Corbett $1,653 from the $50,000 price placed on Booth’s head.
It hardly mattered to the actor-turned-assassin. Booth had survived for two hours, his spinal cord severed, whispering to one bystander, “Tell my mother I died for my country.” His last recorded words—“Useless, useless”—fairly summarized his wasted life, in Ryder’s mind.
Atop the scaffold, preparations for the execution were complete. Each of the four condemned was hooded with a white sack like a pillow case. White strips of cloth, as if from shredded sheets, secured their arms behind their backs, and wrapped around their thighs, to keep their legs from thrashing when they dropped. Mary Surratt, off to the left, was dressed for her own funeral in a black long-sleeved, ankle-length dress. The others—Powell, Herold, and Atzerodt from left to right—were also dressed in black, except for light gray trousers worn by Herold.
The chosen hangman, Col. Christian Rath from Michigan, remained with the condemned as various assistants left the scaffold. Ministers appointed to provide whatever solace they could manage—two priests for Mary Surratt on her own—were gathered off to one side of the gallows, muttering the prayers dictated by their creeds. Mary Surratt, like Booth and Dr. Mudd, happened to be a Roman Catholic, a circumstance that had produced wild rumors of a Papist plot to kill the president. Ryder had heard the stories, but he couldn’t figure out how Pope Pius IX in Rome would benefit from Lincoln’s death. It smacked of the Know-Nothing bile that had sparked riots in the streets of Baltimore and Louisville, before the war, together with the burning of a church in Maine.
Ridiculous.
As far as Ryder was concerned, the president had died at Rebel hands. It would have pleased Ryder to see old Jeff Davis on the scaffold with the other four, but he was under lock and key at Fort Monroe, off the Virginia coast, awaiting trial for treason. If and when he was condemned, Ryder thought he might make time to attend that hanging, too.
A silence fell over the crowd, as Colonel Rath took his position by the lever that would drop all four conspirators at once. Off to the left, somewhere, a drum roll issued from the shadows near the prison wall, where Gen. Winfield Scott stood supervising the proceedings. At a nod from him, Rath yanked the lever and propelled four bodies into space.
A jolt brought them up short, Ryder imagining that he could hear their necks snap, more or less in unison. Death from a proper hanging was supposed to be immediate, but all four of the hooded bodies twitched and wriggled at their ropes’ end, like blind tadpoles swimming helplessly against a tide too strong for them. At last, after a minute, maybe more, the trembling ceased and they hung still.
Some of the spectators were cheering and applauding now, but most of them were solemn, silent, as they watched the corpses swing. By twos and threes, then larger groups, they started filing toward the exit from the prison yard, anxious to leave now that they’d seen the spectacle. Worried, perhaps, that they had been contaminated through their close proximity to sudden death.
Ryder fell into step behind them, feeling no regret per se but canceling his plan to go directly on for lunch.
This job was finished, but he still had work to do.
TREASURY BUILDING, PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE
“How was the hanging?” William Wood inquired.
“About what I expected,” Ryder said.
“Was justice done?”
“According to the court.”
“Ah, yes. And are you ready for your next assignment?”
Ryder nodded, asking, “What’s the job?”
“Our main concern is counterfeiting, as you know, but that falls within the broader purview of detecting persons perpetrating frauds against the government of the United States. In that regard, we share shared jurisdiction with the Customs Service when it comes to smuggling.”
“Smuggling?”
“Have you ever been to Texas, Agent Ryder?”
“Texas?” Ryder was starting to feel like a parrot.
“More specifically, to Galveston?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor I,” said Wood, “but I’ve been studying its history. It is a city on an island, also known as Galveston, after the Spanish nobleman who first settled there, Count Bernardo de Gálvez y Madrid. He was the sixty-first viceroy of New Spain, during the time of our own revolution against England. Two hundred years before his time, Cabeza de Vaca and his crew were shipwrecked there. They called it the Isle of Doom.”
“Sounds inviting,” said Ryder.
“So it was, despite that gloomy start. French pirates led by the Lafitte brothers planted a colony they called Campeche on Galveston Island in 1815, raiding merchant ships over the next six years. Mexico established a port on the island in 1825 and built a Customs house in 1830. Six years later, Galveston served as interim capital for the Republic of Texas, bankrolled with fifty thousand dollars from Canadian investors. Confederates captured the city in January 1863 and held it until Lee’s surrender. Now, it’s ours again, after a fashion.”
“And there’s smuggling.”
“An epidemic of it, so I’m told. All manner of cargo and contraband passes through Galveston, coming from Mexico, Cuba, Jamaica, and God knows where else. Customs taxes what they can, but some estimates suggest that they’re missing more than they catch.”
“And we’re supposed to shut it down?” asked Ryder.
“That may be a trifle optimistic,” Wood replied. “But we’re obliged to do our best.”
“How many agents are you sending?”
“Only one, for now.”
“Just a trifle optimistic?”
“Don’t be too discouraged. Naturally, I would not expect you clean up a port the size of Galveston, all by yourself.”
“So, what would you expect?”
“I have a more specific goal in mind for you. A more specific target, I should say.”
“And that would be … ?”
“One Bryan Marley, known to some in Galveston as King of Smugglers.”
Ryder frowned. “I never heard of him.”
“No reason why you should have. Marley’s a Louisiana native, thirty-five years old or thereabouts. He’s been a smuggler for the past twelve years, at least, according to his Customs file.
“During the war, he was a blockade runner operating out of Galveston, bringing supplies to the Confederates. Since Appomattox, he’s been back in business for himself.”
“But not alone,” Ryder surmised.
“By no means. He’s an admiral of sorts, commands a small fleet of his own ranging across the Gulf of Mexico and into the Caribbean. We estimate he has a hundred sailors under his command, and that may be conservative.”
“Can’t say I like the odds.”
“Your focus will be Marley. And his second in command, as well. A character called Otto Seitz. German extraction, served a year in the Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville for manslaughter, circa 1859.”
“A whole year?”
“I believe the circumstances were … ambiguous.”
“Uh-huh. What kind of contraband does Marley handle?”
“Anything and everything that he can sell for profit,” Wood replied. “He was part owner of the Wildfire, a slave ship seized by our navy off Florida’s Key West in April 1860, with four hundred fifty Africans on board. Marley himself escaped indictment in that case, although one of his partners and the Wildfire’s captain were convicted in federal court.”
“I assume he’s not slaving, these days.”
“One would hope not. From what Customs tells me, he leans more toward rum, certain tropical fruits … and, of course, there’s the gold.”
Ryder didn’t catch himself in time, before he echoed, “Gold?”
“Not bullion. Coins and other items,” Wood elaborated. “Gems, as well. Some of the items that have passed through Galveston of late suggest Marley or the people he’s associated with have tapped into a pirate’s trove.”
“What, like Captain Kidd and Blackbeard?”
“Kidd and Blackbeard—or Edward Teach, as he was born—were wiped out during colonial times. The brothers that I mentioned earlier, Pierre and Jean Lafitte, are much more recent, and their progeny have shifted into smuggling for the most part, though they aren’t above looting a ship from time to time. In this case, we—or I, at least—suspect that someone has uncovered treasure cached by those long dead and gone, moving the goods through Galveston and on from there.”
Ryder thought he saw where this was going, but he had to ask. “So, what’s the plan?”
Wood smiled and said, “I’d like you to become a smuggler.”
“Oh?”
“Impersonate a smuggler, I should say. Our difficulty, when it comes to Bryan Marley, has been finding anyone to testify against him. The officials he’s suborned are well established in the area, and they’re adept at covering their tracks. The fences who receive his merchandise are wealthy and protected in their own right. As for Marley’s gang itself, Customs persuaded one of them to squeal quite recently, but something happened to him.”
“Something? Such as … ?”
“Sharks are common in the sea surrounding Galveston, apparently. This individual—”
“I get the picture,” Ryder said.
“The job is not without its risks, of course.”
“I gathered that.”
“Marley is cautious, a survivor well established at his trade. Convincing him to take you on may be a challenge.”
“Who am I supposed to be?”
“A drifter, disrespectful of the law. Create a simple history and memorize it. Keep details of your jail time vague enough that Marley won’t be able to refute them easily.”
“Get next to him, and then what?” Ryder asked. “Buy him a drink and ask him to confess?”
“To testify effectively, you must be witness to his criminal activities.”
“And that means joining in,” Ryder observed.
“To some extent, perhaps. Ideally, you should avoid participation in a felony.”
“And if I’m part of Marley’s operation, will a court accept my testimony afterward?”
“There is a precedent for infiltrating outlaw bands.”
“The Pinkertons,” said Ryder.
“Among others. New York City’s Metropolitan Police have had some fair results from working in this manner, also.”
“How far is it from Washington to Galveston?”
“About twelve hundred miles, as the crow flies.”
“And how am I supposed to get there?”
“Not by crow,” Wood answered, smiling. “Are you prone to seasickness, by any chance?”
4
BALTIMORE HARBOR
JULY 9, 1865
Gideon Ryder spent the day after his interview with William Wood preparing for his trip to Galveston. There wasn’t much to do, in fact, since he had always lived in rented rooms and traveled light. He packed some clothes and shaving gear into a portmanteau, procured a leather case to hold his Henry rifle and its cleaning gear, then settled with his landlord on the rent. He did not pay to have the small and spartan room reserved for his return, since Ryder couldn’t say exactly when—or if—he would be coming back.
Small loss.
He had no friends of any consequence to trouble with good-byes, though Dolly had seemed pleased to see him for a quick roll in the hay before he sailed. Or pleased to see his money, anyway.
The Southern Belle was waiting when he reached Baltimore’s waterfront, on the Patapsco River. She was a stylish boat or ship; he never fully understood the difference between the two. Three hundred feet in length and painted white above the water line, the Southern Belle had three decks and sprouted a tall single smokestack amidships. Its wheelhouse stood atop the upper deck, forward, while its engines drove a single giant paddle-wheel astern. As he prepared to go aboard, mounting the gangplank, some of Ryder’s fellow passengers were at the rails on their respective decks, waving and calling down to friends or family who’d come to see them off.
Steamboat tra
ffic on Chesapeake Bay had been pioneered in 1840 by the Baltimore Steam Packet Company, also known as the Old Bay Line. Its vessels were dubbed “packets” for the parcels they transported under government mail contracts, although paying passengers were also welcome. In their two decades of operation prior to the War Between the States, Old Bay Line packets only traveled between Baltimore and Norfolk, Virginia, but their range was expanding in response to competition from the North. Ryder was sailing on a boat/ship of the Leary Line, launched out of New York City, serving ports from Baltimore on south to Norfolk, Wilmington, Charleston, Savannah, Jacksonville, Miami, and around the tip of Florida to Galveston, across the Gulf of Mexico.
Competition between steamboat lines had driven the price of a fare down to bedrock—three dollars for Ryder—but the frequent stops also meant more time at sea, if coastal waters qualified. Seven days and nights aboard the Southern Belle, which still beat traveling by train and coach through Dixie, where so many railroad lines had been destroyed by one side or the other in a bid to keep their enemies from moving soldiers and materiel. The trip from Washington to Texas might have taken him two weeks if he’d gone overland—or longer, if he’d traveled all the way on horseback.
Ryder’s cabin, when he found it, was located on the second deck, roughly halfway between the bow and stern. It was his first time on a steamboat, and he found the throbbing rumble of the engines two levels beneath his feet a bit unsettling at first, as if the vessel had an epic case of indigestion and was on the verge of heaving up its latest meal. In fact, he understood there was a crew belowdecks, stoking giant boilers, building up the head of steam required to turn the paddle-wheel when they were finally untethered from the dock.
He thought their job must be a paid preview of Hell.
Before embarking, Ryder had considered the inherent risks of steamboat travel. He had read somewhere, likely the Daily Morning Chronicle, that during the forty years after the invention of the steamboat, some five hundred boats had gone down, killing four thousand passengers. In 1852, the federal government had cracked down with regulations on construction and maintenance of steam boilers, but accidents still happened. Only three months earlier, in fact, the Mississippi steamer Sultana had exploded near Memphis, Tennessee, killing more than fifteen hundred passengers, leaving hundreds more badly burned. Adding insult to injury, many of those lost were Union soldiers, recently freed from Confederate prison camps.
