“They are in there,” Kipp breathed, using his long nose as a pointer.
I hadn’t really been paying attention to the route we’d been taking, but it seemed we’d arrived at Ford’s Theatre, and Booth and Powell were inside Taltavul’s Star Saloon, where they were ordering whiskey. It would be a good time to listen in on their thoughts with their tongues loosened by alcohol.
“Booth has found in Powell someone who matches his viciousness as well as his thoughts of violence. The other conspirators might agree to be agents in a kidnapping, but already Booth is beginning to think that a mere theft and confinement of Lincoln will not suffice. Powell actually shares his thoughts,” Kipp said.
As we stood in the dark and the cold air surrounded us, I rubbed my arms with my hands, trying to keep warm. I figured Booth and Powell would be in the saloon for quite some time. The fog and dampness was closing in, clinging to my woolen clothes like a shroud.
“Booth is calculating, and although kidnapping is the current plan on the table, he thinks it doesn’t go far enough. He would like to see Lincoln injured, abused while in custody. He places all his rage over what he can’t control, all his pent up anger, on one man, and that is Abraham Lincoln.”
We waited longer until I felt the lingering cold begin to work its way past my heavy greatcoat, and despite trying not to show it, I began to shiver. Kipp’s heavy pelt kept him insulated against the elements. He looked up at me and nuzzled my thigh.
“Let’s go. They aren’t thinking about Mary Surratt, and as you aptly reminded us, that is the focus of our trip.”
I knew he was just being a gentleman in consideration for my discomfort, but he was also correct, so, after hesitating for a moment, I began walking back towards our townhouse. I was tired and sleep beckoned.
Twenty-Four
“What are you doing?” Peter asked. It was yet early, and his dark hair was standing on end, badly in need of a vigorous combing.
I sighed deeply, staring at him, while trying to keep the irritation from my response. After all, his query was perfectly reasonable. “I had to clean my britches because I fell in a pile of horse manure,” I replied, daring him to laugh. My eyes narrowed as his lips twitched.
I was in the kitchen, which smelled of wood smoke and apples—I was trying my hand, long out of use, at baking some apples with cinnamon and cloves --having come inside from the back alley where I used a stiff bar of lye soap and water to launder my pants. After a valiant effort to reshape the wool, I hung the pants on a wooden drying rack I’d found in a closet and placed the contraption in front of the stove. Hopefully, I didn’t stretch the damp wool to the degree that the seat of my pants would sag to my knees. Peter could have sniggered at my predicament but controlled his reaction and instead went to the warm stove to place the large kettle on top.
“You need some tea,” he remarked, turning to glance at me, his expression a mask.
His hair was getting too long, and his beard was looking a little scruffy, I thought unkindly. Unlike Peter, I still tried to maintain my grooming, I sniffed to myself, and was not responsible for the vague stench of horse manure that filled the kitchen as the soggy wool dried from the warmth of the stove. My less than charitable thoughts were interrupted by a scratch at the back door; Peter paused to open the door, and the lupines hurried inside, almost shoving each other against the door frame in their rush to escape the cold.
“I miss our backyard at home,” Kipp remarked wistfully. “These alleys are rough, filled with debris and trash.” He yawned, still tired from a night plagued by dreams of which I’d been the primary focus. In one, Booth kidnapped me, and as he raced off with me as a prisoner, Kipp tried in vain to pursue as we disappeared into the night. I still keenly felt his despair at having lost me. “There was something dead, too, decomposed to the point I could no longer identify its origin.”
It was clear the dreams had left him morose, a condition rarely seen in my normally ebullient and optimistic Kipp. Being enmeshed in the thoughts of disturbed men, such as Booth, as well as the sad, melancholy thoughts of Lincoln and Mary Lincoln, the latter of whom seemed to be clinging precariously to sanity, had brought him to his current state. Unfortunately, I could not soothe his worries, and Kipp would have to use this time-shift as a personal growth experience.
However, in contrast to Kipp, Elani seemed energetic and bristling with excitement. “I was listening in to the Surratt house,” she began, claiming a spot in front of the kitchen stove. It was early in the morning yet, with few humans traveling between us and the object of our focus, enabling Elani to eavesdrop successfully. I was proud of her initiative.
“Mary just concluded another serious talk with John, trying to persuade him to give up his connection with Booth. Frankly, she doesn’t trust Booth, nor does she like him. His manner towards Anna, though carefully polite, is just a mask, and Mary deduces his true seductive intentions. Anna, of course, is young, and Booth is handsome and famous, so she is a little starstruck.” Elani glanced at me, shaking her head from side to side. “It seems, in retrospect, that Mary’s lack of trust is well-founded since he ends up coercing the others by basically entrapping them to be a part of his scheme to assassinate the President.”
It was a fact that Booth had written a letter to the press that basically took credit for the assassination and named the people involved. So even if the other men backed out, the letter implicated them, and no one would believe their innocence. It was a diabolical plot on the part of Booth and demonstrated his obsessive hatred of Lincoln eclipsed any pretended loyalty to his men.
“And John’s response to his mother?” Peter asked.
“Consistent with history in that he will continue on with his spying activities and meeting with Booth. He, under direction of the Confederate government, supports a kidnapping as long as he doesn’t have to actually do any of the dirty hands-on work himself.” She paused, thinking of the right words. “He is slippery, like an eel, self-serving, and very careful.”
Washington, in January and February of 1865, was cold and often rainy, but despite that, it was a time of accelerated activity in the city. The country decided to reelect Lincoln for another four years, and on February 8th, 1865, the votes were tallied, and his new term would begin on March 4th. Mary, true to form as the first lady, filled the early winter months with receptions at the White House. Though society was polite with her, mostly out of consideration for Lincoln, Mary’s ostentatious displays and her outlandish expenditures on her clothing were the subject of quiet scorn and ridicule.
Lincoln’s health continued to suffer, and he’d lost thirty-five pounds from his already slender frame. He could not get warm, no matter what he did, his hands and feet aching from poor circulation, the flesh pale and almost cyanotic at times. On the rare instances I encountered him at the Soldiers’ Home, he would sit in front of the fireplace, desperately trying to absorb the warmth emitted from the crackling flames. He never complained, however, and smiled, asking as to my comfort as well as that of Peter. It was a point with Lincoln, despite his inherent melancholic nature, to put on an affable face.
On one particularly cold evening in February, I was with Lincoln in the library, as Tad was arguing with Peter over some ridiculous, non-debatable point in basic mathematics. I enjoyed those times, lured like a seaman to the rocks, drawn by the sirens’ seductive call. Yes, I realized those small encounters threatened the established timeline, but I couldn’t stop myself. Kipp, in other circumstances, might have been the voice of reason, but he was as captivated as I by the moment and opportunity. Mary was not present that night, and I was glad. Her mind was so filled with agitation that it was impossible for a telepath to relax in the swirling maelstrom of thoughts, most of which dealt with the loss of her two sons and her anxiety over Lincoln. She was often angry and volatile, I found.
“May I get you some buttermilk?” I asked Lincoln.
He normally wore his personable mask with me, the one he’d learned as a par
t and parcel of his role as politician. But on that night, he allowed himself to be genuine, and his bearded chin sank deeper and deeper on his chest, as his gray eyes stared, as if hypnotized, at the fire.
“Yes, Mrs. Holmes, that would be very kind of you.” Perhaps, knowing Mary’s penchant for jealousy, Lincoln remained very formal in his address of me.
I heard a loud, childish voice wail in protest and wondered if Tad’s progress as a student would change the historical record, but I didn’t think it would make much of a dent. Apparently, he didn’t really apply himself until he was in his mid-teens, and tragically he died before he turned twenty, so his footprint was small and overshadowed by having been the child of one of the most famous men in history.
Kipp, in front of the fireplace, giggled, listening to Peter struggle with the willful lad. “Tad is putting Peter’s patience to the test tonight,” he said. Yawning, he blinked sleepily at the fire, which cracked and popped as a log collapsed, the sparks traveling up the chimney with a soft whoosh.
As I rose to get the buttermilk, I returned to Lincoln, placing the glass on a small side table next to his chair. I had picked up a woolen throw and placed it in his lap, stretching the ends to cover his chilled feet. Lincoln smiled up at me in appreciation.
“Do you know what a doppelganger is, Mrs. Holmes?” His voice rushed on. “And do you believe in the portents of such events?”
“Yes, I know the reference, and, no, I do not believe in a supernatural relation,” I added firmly.
There was a reported time in March when he would see what he thought to be his doppelganger in a mirror, finding the moment disturbing. Apparently, it had happened earlier, too. He was also pursued by the many death threats made, almost on a daily basis by then. Previously, he’d brushed them off as the work of unstable minds. But increasingly, with the dreams he was having that seemed to foreshadow his death as well as the doppelganger staring back at him from the mirror, he was forced to face the fragile grasp he had on life. Mary’s anxiety was not helping to stabilize his worries, and she clung to him obsessively, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She’d lost two sons and Lincoln was next, she feared. She’d even taken to wearing mourning clothing when it was not appropriate. I noticed she recently wore a particular piece of jewelry made of jet, commonly known in Victorian times as a mourning brooch.
After a pause, Lincoln replied. “I’d like to say that I am a man swayed more by letters written by learned man than the unseen things, but I confess a bad dream can leave me restless and unsettled.”
I was amazed he would make such a confession to a relative stranger. But maybe that was exactly why he did so. My opinion, as a woman who would pass from his life, would not be of consequence. He spoke to relieve the burden from his soul.
Kipp glanced up at me. “I know exactly how he feels,” he snorted, flaring his nostrils.
“Dreams, Mr. Lincoln, have that effect on all of us,” I replied cautiously. “We awaken, not certain of our reality, remaining that way until the sun rises to cast illumination on the darkness. At that point, reason returns to a clouded mind.” Sitting primly was getting on my nerves; I readjusted my skirts and surreptitiously managed to tuck one leg beneath me, quasi yoga pose. Maybe there was one good outcome of the big skirts in that the ample folds of fabric could cover many lapses in manners and decorum.
“Are you comfortable?” Kipp sniggered at me.
“I have many detractors, Mrs. Holmes, as you can imagine. Perhaps, as I try to sleep, those thoughts become nightmares, ones of my own making.” Lincoln smiled. “And, perhaps, I can make them disappear just as easily.”
I hesitated, not certain how personal I should become with him, considering the times. But he was an unusual man and one who had married an outspoken, politically savvy wife, which was not the typical choice. Taking a deep breath, I plunged further into the unknown.
“Mr. Lincoln, I believe the more control we have over our thoughts, the more control we have over our feelings. Hopefully, we can think away many of our fears and anxieties. That’s not to say that we shouldn’t be cautious of negating actual threats, but we can’t allow ourselves to be overburdened by our worries.”
Kipp took that opportunity to stand, stretch and walk over to rest his head on Lincoln’s lap. His amber eyes closed as he enjoyed the gentle tug of Lincoln’s long, slender fingers through his dense pelt of fur. A smile pulled at the corner of Lincoln’s mouth.
“I wish I could be as relaxed and carefree as your dog, Mrs. Holmes. His main concern is whether or not he will get enough to eat.” Lincoln laughed softly. “That is the natural life of the beasts, and we have made our human lives much too complicated.”
“War and strife tends to do that,” I replied.
Lincoln’s thin chest rose and fell, his breaths deep and steady. I realized he was trying intentionally to breathe away his worries.
That night will always remain fixed in my memories, as I sat with a fascinating man, one who had the burdens of the future of a country and all her citizens on his thin shoulders. As Peter and I drove off into the night, I glanced back, once, to see Lincoln and Tad framed in the light of the doorway of the cottage, their hands lifted in goodbye waves.
“He managed to get his son, Robert, enlisted in the army,” I remarked. Elani had stuck her head in between Peter and me to rest it lightly on my shoulder. I’m not sure why, but she seemed to think I needed some comfort. Maybe I did and hadn’t realized it yet. “Lincoln is aware that he is subject to great criticism because his son isn’t serving when so many have been injured or killed. Of course, Grant will put him in a protected position on his personal staff, so Robert will be safe.” I sighed. “I guess I can’t blame him after having lost two other sons.”
There would be more action in February, 1865, too. We were back in our hidey-hole monitoring the Surratt house. George Atzerodt had managed to take a room there, but despite his being part of John Surratt’s inner circle with Booth, his use of alcohol was offensive to Mary Surratt. Her husband had been an alcoholic, and she’d had to tolerate it in him…but not in a boarder. So, after more than one episode of drunkenness, Atzerodt was evicted in a flurry of noisy, agitated activity. John had pleaded with his mother to let the man remain but, for once, she was firm in her convictions.
The re-election of Lincoln only served to whip Booth into a bigger frenzy, and his meetings at the Surratt household became more frequent. Usually, he was accompanied by Herold, Atzerodt, and Powell, as they huddled with John Surratt in the dining room. If Lincoln had lost the election, then all the plans would change, and the future of the Confederacy might be different. Swirling always, in Booth’s toxic mind, was his hatred for Lincoln, which was obsessive in nature, as well as his vile thoughts about slavery, the freeing of slaves and making them citizens of a united county. Although the other men supported the plans to kidnap Lincoln, Booth’s unhinged ranting and raving threatened to derail any meeting they held. While the other men could discuss the plans calmly, Booth would typically go off on another lengthy, emotionally laden harangue. It was clear he was escalating, and I found it curious that increasingly John Surratt tried to take the pose of calm reason with the man. Mary had insinuated herself into the meetings, always sending Maureen out, and working to prepare food for the men herself.
“She doesn’t trust Booth,” Elani said. “She may support the Confederacy, but she still thinks that the plan to kidnap Lincoln will put her son at risk. I think the best way to describe it is to say she is playing along with all of the conspiracy talk so that she will know what is going on. She is still, in her way, trying to protect John.”
Kipp looked up at me. “And her protection of her son will ultimately cost her life.”
We had another opportunity for a little nighttime sleuthing during the last week of February, having decided to once again follow the men after they left the boarding house. Looking back, I question my motives, since Mary Surratt was the target of our surveillance, and she
was not with them. We talked ourselves into believing that it was important to review the men’s thoughts, if any, about Mary to help us further determine her intent. But I don’t think that was the real reason. I think we were just nosey and curious about history. That penchant for nosiness has gotten many a symbiont, including myself, into serious trouble. And so it would be again, on that rainy, cold night in February.
Kipp and I took Booth and Powell, noticing they often left together. Booth knew Powell was probably his most solid recruit, a brutish man with no scruples about savagery…Herold and Atzerodt, less so. Peter squeezed my arm, wishing me good luck as he darted after John Surratt, who was accompanied by Herold that night. Peter would return with superior intelligence than my own, since he and Elani were sifting through John’s fresh thoughts following his interactions with his mother.
I was once again dressed like a man, my long hair pinned up under the slouch hat, my face covered with a muffler. The rain had lessened, turning into a fine mist that hung in the cold air like a frozen fog bank. My wool britches, dampened by the elements, tangled uncomfortably around my legs, chafing my flesh as I walked. And although I’d never say it to Kipp because the words offended him, he smelled more than a little like a wet dog. A big, wet dog. Booth and Powell had turned south, moving towards the general direction of the National Hotel as well as Pumphrey’s stable. Kipp remained in the shadows between me and the building fronts. In any event, it was effortless to follow the men since we knew their thoughts before any words were spoken. As they paused beneath a street lamp, Powell turned to glance in our direction. His thoughts betrayed concern the men were being followed, but at least he didn’t see Kipp and had no worries it was one Petra Holmes with her loyal dog tailing him.
At that point, the men separated, Booth leaving the misty rain to duck inside the National, seeking the warmth and comfort of his room, while Powell moved on towards the stable. Cautiously, I drew closer, Kipp huddling at my side. The cold air made it more difficult to breathe, and my chest hurt with each inhalation. Symbionts often display questionable judgment, I suppose, as I reflected on my choice to be following a really nasty guy in the dark streets of Washington. Sometimes I’m kind of stupid, I guess, and that’s another factor to consider.
A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865 Page 25
