A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865

by T. L. B. Wood

  Elani’s presentation was just a rough run-through, since all trips had to be approved by the Twelve, who were notoriously nit picky. Of course, in all fairness, that was their job. Who knows, when I grew much older, would I be asked to be a part of such a group, monitoring the activities of youngsters? I didn’t think so. My natural opposition to authority would resign me to another fate.

  “May I ask something before you begin?” Fitzhugh’s voice was soft and polite. Odd, he had rarely been that careful with me when I was younger. At Elani’s nod, he said, “Why are you interested in this particular event?”

  “Many people believe that the facts around Lincoln’s assassination are a certainty. For instance, John Wilkes Booth’s involvement is without question. The attack by Lewis Powell on Secretary of State Seward also was well documented. But Mary Surratt claimed her innocence up until the moment she was executed. I just find it interesting. Was the government anxious to assure security and stability by wrapping up the case despite possible evidence to the contrary? Powell, to the end, claimed that Mary Surratt was innocent. Why would he have cared, if she was equally guilty, and he faced execution no matter what? And what about the last-minute appeal to President Johnson? He claimed later he never saw it.” Elani shrugged in the manner of lupines.

  “And why do you think the determination of her guilt or innocence at this point would matter?” Fitzhugh placed his teacup on the table and leaned forward, rubbing his hands together as if to generate warmth, even though the temperature in the room was comfortable.

  “An innocent woman may have been killed,” Elani replied, her dark eyes glancing around at the rest of us. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Many innocent humans have died since time began,” Fitzhugh replied, sighing. “You will need to prove that this death is consequential enough to validate the need for a time-shift.”

  Elani, to her credit, was not put off by Fitzhugh, even if she huffed softly. After a moment of thought, she replied.

  “I think the drama of the times, the hysteria in the government, which was threatened with instability due to the assassination of the president, and the question if justice was rushed just to put a period on history…all those things make this a worthy trip. True, we won’t be able to investigate the motives of all the players, but the fact the government prosecuted Mary Surratt and executed her is significant. Was there sufficient evidence or was it based on emotion and other political considerations?”

  Fitzhugh shrugged his thin shoulders, nodding. “I only ask because the Twelve will be careful on this one due to the need not to have any inadvertent impact on the timeline. The assassination of Lincoln was an immense trauma to the nation, but it must happen.”

  “How does it lay out in your mind?” Philo asked, sipping cautiously on his hot tea. He sniffed as the steam tickled his nose.

  “Well, I had to do some extra research, since Petra visited those times in the past and has met Ulysses Grant. There is the possibility she might encounter him again.” Elani settled in, shifting her hindquarters to get more comfortable. “Fitzhugh helped me find her documented account in the library.” She looked over at him and wagged her tail as he winked in reply. “Petra and Tula made a time-shift to follow the activities of a group of female Confederate spies who were traveling back and forth across the lines, gathering information for the Confederate government.”

  “You never told me about that,” Kipp remarked, looking slightly hurt.

  “And you don’t know everything, Mr. Wizard,” I replied, ruffling the fur on the top of his head. I had moved to the floor to join him, his body curled around my legs and his jaw resting on my thigh.

  “Anyway, she met General Grant who allowed her to travel freely in search of her missing husband,” Elani added, giving Kipp a rather stern look since he interrupted her flow.

  “What was he like?” Peter asked, pushing up his glasses, which had slid down the bridge of his nose. With his free hand, he shoved away the heavy mop of unruly hair that fell across his forehead.

  “Interesting,” I replied. “He was a humble man who had faced serious failures many times in his life. He never quit, but would accept the failure and look for another way to create a life for him and his family.” I smiled in recollection. “He was deeply in love with his wife, Julia, and was a committed family man. The times he drank were when he was separated from her.” The smile faded. “Grant was a very fierce commander and never considered withdrawal to be acceptable. He kept pushing forward until he achieved his goal. That quality was what Lincoln liked, a man who would engage without hesitation. However, Grant did face criticism for the large number of losses of soldiers during his engagements. Historians either thought the losses were acceptable considering the final outcome or that Grant was a butcher.”

  Peter nodded his head and dug his hand into the bowl of pretzels he’d brought to the living room and which proved more popular than the cookies which languished on the chipped Fiesta ware plate…another vintage find of mine. Vashti begged a pretzel and began to crunch as pieces of salt fell to the floor. She looked over at me, apologetically, and I waved away her concern. Lily, having awakened from her nap in the depths of my closet, joined us and was crossing back and forth across Vashti’s paws, as she was trying to eat. Cats have that intuitive notion of how to be annoying but subtle.

  “So how would you explain Petra’s appearance to Grant if she comes into contact?” Philo asked, wanting to see if Elani had considered all angles.

  “Petra traveled as the wife of a man who went missing during the campaign in Chattanooga in the fall of 1863. At that time, Grant was in charge of the western armies of the Union and had moved forward to break the lines held by the Confederate army. Her guise was that of a traveler from eastern Tennessee, where there were strong Union sympathies. Her husband had joined a militia supporting the Union and was involved in the Chattanooga campaign.” Elani paused for a minute, for questions. “Her name was Petra Holmes, by the way.”

  “Why Holmes?” Philo asked, cutting his eyes towards me.

  “I was reading The Sign of the Four at the time,” I replied, smiling. Kipp’s tail began to wag since he enjoyed all things Sherlock Holmes.

  “Were you able to gather information about the spies?” Peter asked, his brown eyes meeting mine. He looked way too young to be involved in our dangerous business, I thought, although he’d done well, I admitted grudgingly. I’d made many more careless boo-boos during my tenure than had Peter to date. The thought made me feel irritable.

  “Read the documents,” Fitzhugh grumbled, agitated that Peter might want an easy out as well as his diverting the attention off of Elani’s recitation.

  “Anyway, Grant was sympathetic for whatever reasons he might have had, and allowed her safe passage.” Elani looked at me. “He will probably remember you if you happen to run across his path again.”

  “And how will you control for that?” Philo had been quiet, contemplative, during much of the story.

  “I thought we could state that her husband had been killed, and she now is traveling with her brother, Peter Keaton.”

  “And why is Peter not in the army since there was a draft?” Philo asked.

  “Peter has been abroad, working as a correspondent for The Times while in London.” Elani looked around the room, hoping to see positive nods to her thought processes.

  Kipp seemed remarkably quiet for one who often had a strong opinion and never hesitated to make it known. In our manner of private speech, I gave him a little mental tickle of inquiry. He didn’t respond with his mind, but his ears flattened as his tail lightly brushed the floor, so I knew he was okay. I figured he was trying to be considerate of my cautious approach by letting Elani’s story evolve.

  “In terms of how we get access to Mary Surratt,” Elani continued, “that will be more difficult. And the only way it will work is if we can establish some sort of base close enough to her townhouse that we can monitor her thoughts. Kipp, especially,
will be critical. My plan was that we would present ourselves at her home, inquiring about local housing options. We will not want to be in residence in her home, considering that will affect the historical trajectory of several people following the assassination. While we are conversing with her, we will become familiar with her thought patterns so that we can access them later, as needed. We will need to do the same with some of the other notables, most specifically John Wilkes Booth.” She paused to glance around the room in order to monitor our reactions.

  “What do you know specifically about her?” Kipp asked. He consumed history with a hunger seldom matched but was not up to speed on Mrs. Surratt. When we left for our time-shift, he would be, I knew without a doubt.

  “She was from Maryland, which at the time was a conflicted state in terms of the issue of slavery, and she was clearly pro-confederate in her sympathies. She and her husband owned land south of Washington where they operated a tavern. Her husband later bought a rooming house in Washington and let out the rooms for income. Despite her husband’s acquisition of properties and generation of income for the family, he fell into financial difficulties and began to drink alcohol excessively. He died, and the problems continued to worsen. She finally moved into the city and lived in the townhouse her husband had bought, leasing the tavern to an acquaintance. She practiced the Catholic religion, had three children, and although it is documented she allowed confederate sympathizers to congregate at her townhouse, there was questionable proof about her involvement in the assassination of Lincoln.” Elani paused before saying, “She was in her early forties when she was hanged.”

  Philo stood, stretching his back slightly, before moving over to the front window. He stood silently watching as a car moved past, its muffler annoyingly loud, to disappear into the darkness. Crossing his arms across his chest, he turned, his eyes meeting mine, the expression guarded.

  “I think the trip has merit,” he began, breaking his gaze at me. “Of course, the final decision is not mine and will have to be submitted to the Twelve. However, considering the exceptionally delicate balance of history, I think it is unlikely that they will condone a very young team who has not traveled solo to go on such a trip.” Philo looked tired. “And, yes, I know that in the past such things were not considered with such care and teams traveled all the time with no supervision. But some bad things happened, too, and maybe we are evolving and trying to show more responsibility as a species. Remember, the dominant species on earth is human, not symbiont. We have to compliment what humanity does, not add to the chaos.”

  “Petra, what do you think?” Elani’s soft words echoed in my head for a moment. She was a wonderful symbiont, and I figured one day the literature would be full of her exploits. Elani balanced Peter’s rashness and was a thoughtful, deliberate lupine. As I reflected, I realized how much she and Peter had added to my rather plodding and sometimes predictable existence.

  “I think it sounds like we are going to take a trip,” I replied. “If Kipp is game,” I added, knowing the answer.

  “I was born game,” Kipp said.

  A truer statement was never made.

  Eleven

  “You don’t want to wear the standard, established clothing of the times but yet you travel. Can you explain that line of reasoning which, if you will pardon my saying so, is rather irrational?”

  Karl and I had gotten off to a rocky start, and I took a deep breath. And I’d made a special effort to be good, I really had. Since Suzanne, who knew all my peccadilloes, had departed in marital bliss to Alpharetta, Georgia, I would have to figure out how to communicate with this critical, but difficult, new player. Ignoring his remark, I tried another tactic.

  “I hear you’re an expert on the antebellum period and will rely upon you to help me be able to move within that society,” I began, smiling. I only hoped I didn’t show too many teeth while doing so.

  “Don’t play me,” Karl replied, pursing his lips.

  Recalling Peter’s spot on mimicking of Karl, I ducked my head, trying not to laugh. Kipp, at my feet, didn’t help matters by glancing up at me, his face all filled with lupine innocence, as he laughed uproariously in the back of my brain.

  “Oh, I’d never do that,” I said, my eyes wide and guileless.

  “You simply must wear undergarments under your skirt that reflect the styles of the times,” Karl went on, breathing deeply and obviously trying to stay patient.

  He was a middle-aged symbiont, apparently unattached, not bad looking when he wasn’t pursing his lips. His dark hair was thinning on the crown, and I noticed he brushed the other hairs over the spot to cover the patch. Karl, it seemed, had a little vanity, but didn’t we all? His eyes were very dark, almost black, making his pupils disappear into the pools of darkness.

  “It’s the hoops that get me, Karl,” I began, trying to explain. “I can’t move quickly in an emergency, so you see it is really a safety concern.” Actually, there was some validity to my remark in addition to the fact I didn’t like my skirts swinging like a bell in the tower of Notre Dame.

  “Well, I guess I can see your point,” he began grudgingly. “I think I can construct a stiff layer of petticoats that will be softer and more malleable.” Karl glanced up at me. “Will that meet your expectations?” he asked, pursing his lips again. It was clear he disapproved and considered my renegade notions to be an obstacle to his finding perfection in his work.

  “Yes, thank you,” I smiled, pulling my lips over my teeth that time in case he saw exposed teeth as an aggressive challenge.

  Kipp had found a pile of discarded fabric on the floor of Karl’s workshop and, after circling and tromping down the wool, made a bed. The multitudes of fabrics created a musty funk in the room; Kipp suppressed a sneeze in the back of his throat. He would only need his usual money collar that was indispensable in the event of an emergency. True, he hated any constriction around his neck, but if I had to wear stiff petticoats, I didn’t want to hear any of his griping. The door to the workshop opened as Peter and Elani arrived for their consultation with Karl.

  “How’d class go this morning?” Kipp asked Elani. She was fresh off her first solo English class with the young lupines. All of them could only wish to travel one day, following her example.

  “Fine,” she replied, joining him on his pile of fabric, careful not to nestle too close. “A couple are having difficulty with conjugating verbs, but other than that, they are all doing well.”

  “If you need any help…” he began, glancing at her from the corners of his eyes.

  “No, I’m good,” she replied, staring straight ahead.

  There was a little awkwardness between the two of them, and Kipp shrugged off the question mark I posed in his head. It occurred to me that the odd feeling hovering in the room was not due to Elani’s perpetual love struck feelings for Kipp but rather the fact that Kipp was now technically her manager. He was trying out his new wings as a boss and that changed the dynamic between them. Better him than me, I thought. Kipp’s ears flattened as he met my eyes. I smiled, encouragingly, while wondering if he’d find management was not his thing.

  “Hi,” Peter said, joining me. His cheeks were shadowed from the facial hair he was cultivating, another nod to the fashions of the times to which we’d journey. He hopped up on one of the high stools that jutted up to the elevated work table. He must have been feeling good, because he began to gently swing his right leg back and forth as he softly whistled. His fun stopped when Karl narrowed his reptilian eyes at him.

  “I have your garments hanging in the dressing room for a fitting,” Karl said to Peter before returning his attention to me. “I’m hesitant to give you any period jewelry to wear. Yes, I heard about your losing the valuable stickpin during a previous journey.” He cocked his head to the side. “These pieces are a valuable part of history and not to be taken lightly.”

  Kipp began to giggle in my head. There had been a time when I would have fired back, not willing to take such a talki
ng to from someone who had no idea what traveling entailed. As I considered my reply options, I wondered if I’d softened too much. As it happened, I’d rather liked the fiery Petra, and my new, milquetoast self seemed rather bland and uninspiring.

  “You realize there is a strategy in not fighting, too, don’t you?” Kipp remarked privately.

  “When did you get to be so smart?” I replied.

  “When I became a manager. Philo told me all about it and said he often uses that strategy with people like you.” Kipp settled more firmly in the wool. “I think it works.” He leaned forward to lick his paw for good measure. “I completed my first online module on management skills,” he added, tilting his head as if he expected applause.

  “Are you listening to me?” Karl asked. I noticed his voice took on a distinct whine when he became agitated.

  “Yes, of course,” I replied brightly. If he had been anything like Suzanne, he would have offered me coffee by now.

  Peter emerged from the dressing room, thankfully pulling Karl’s laser focus from me for a few minutes. Idly, I walked over to a stack of fabrics, letting my fingers graze the surfaces, noting the soft wool as well as cool feel of silk. This trip would be like the others in that we would complement our wardrobes once we arrived. Peter had a backpack, much like mine, in which he would carry the essentials; upon arrival, we reversed those backpacks, which were obviously not in vogue in past times, and create a carpetbag type valise that would not draw attention.

  “Since you are arriving when the weather will be cold, you’ll need an overcoat and warmth in your undergarments.” Karl droned on about his plans while I glanced at Kipp, who looked asleep. The lupines had it made, I thought darkly.

  I was happy to leave there and return to the library, accompanied by Peter, where Fitzhugh was struggling with the computer. “You know I hate these contraptions,” Fitzhugh glanced up at us, a strand of long, gray hair tumbled over his forehead into his eyes.