A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865

by T. L. B. Wood

  “Let’s get out of here,” Kipp breathed. He, as well as I, honed in on the thoughts of an invisible Powell after he disappeared into the stable. Powell was waiting to accost me, certain now, that he was being followed.

  “You go ahead, quick, and get out of sight,” I said.

  “I’m not leaving you,” Kipp replied.

  “Kipp, if he sees you, our anonymity is gone. If he sees me, dressed like this, in the dark, he won’t be able to identify us.”

  Kipp stared at me, a flash of fire caught in his eyes. “If anything happens, I will be back in a flash.” It was clear he didn’t want to leave me, but he realized the wisdom of my words. Turning, he raced up the street, turning at the next block, lost from sight.

  I began to follow, my footsteps rapid. The sounds of someone walking behind me, his pace increasing to match mine, filled the otherwise empty street. It was Powell, his thoughts curious, not alarmed, since he was confident in his ability to equal and subdue any other man. I wanted to run but knew that would be a giveaway, so instead, I slowed my steps, hoping Powell would mirror me. I had calculated correctly, and he did, too, not wishing to overplay his hand. My mind was working in concert with Kipp’s, who was ahead, lurking in the dark. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest; my breathing became ragged, and I forced myself to take slow, deep breaths. If Powell rushed me, could Kipp come to my aid in time? I knew there was no way for me to protect myself from Powell, who was a large, powerful man. Despite the chill in the air, I felt a bead of sweat trickle between my shoulder blades and down my back.

  It was past time to do some quick, creative thinking, and I had a sudden flash of inspiration as I passed a small tavern, filled with men, smoke, and raucous laughter. Pulling my hat brim down to obscure my features, I wandered inside and approached the bar. The tender, who was an overweight man sporting a dark handlebar mustache, glanced at me.

  “A bottle of whiskey,” I said, lowering my voice, trying to grind out the words.

  He lifted his brows, smiling, and waited to see the currency on the bar before giving me the amber-colored bottle, which was more like a flattened flask. Powell was watching me from the window, and I followed as his thoughts turned from suspicion to amusement. I wandered from the tavern, the bottle in my hand, making a big display of uncorking it and pretending to take a swig.

  Powell, left behind in the shadows, laughed softly, as he watched me trail up the damp street, pausing to pretend to take another deep swallow. Just another drunkard, he thought, going to find a place to drink and stay out of the elements. He turned, going to join Booth at the National, seeking his own comfort in the hospitality Booth always offered.

  I didn’t realize it until I reached the next corner where Kipp waited, that my legs were trembling. It had been a tense moment for many reasons. If I’d blown our cover, the trip would be over, as well as the possibility that we would inadvertently change the timeline of events. And for such a notable event, our negative impact would be devastating to symbiont activities with a ripple effect over what trips were approved and which ones would be limited. My days of traveling might be over, and while I could live with that, I didn’t want to damage the futures of Kipp, Peter, and Elani. As my fingers gratefully found the top of Kipp’s broad head, I determined there would be no more nighttime excursions where we crept around the streets of Washington in pursuit of evil.

  Twenty-Five

  March arrived, and with it came the typically unpredictable weather filled with highs and lows. A brisk wind pushing its way down from the north arrived to torment us, making the chill seem even more intense. The rain and cold, which had been largely persistent for the majority of our trip, stubbornly settled in, and a gloom hovered over the city. The days were filled with misty, drifting rain; fog cluttered the darkened hollows and valleys, hopeful the sun might arrive briefly to burn it away for flashes of brightness and color to return to the land. The war was dragging on, and even though Lincoln and his generals could smell victory in the air, it had not yet landed in the palms of their hands, and the ever present worry over the fate of the nation lingered, casting a pall over the people. I had not seen Lincoln since that evening when we spoke of prophetic dreams and doppelgangers, and I was grateful for the separation, considering what would occur in about six weeks. It was almost like withdrawing off of a forbidden and dangerous substance, craving it but knowing it would lead to my destruction. My fascination for Lincoln was just that way. He presented a conflicted face, which, for symbionts, made the investigation of his mind even more interesting. There was the melancholy underpinning which was frequently upstaged by his folksy, personable way with people. Also, there was a stubbornness to the man that served him well when surrounded by other equally strong personalities, as well as the piece of his structure that was politically calculating. All of that conflicted with his obvious soft, overly indulgent spot for his wife and children.

  In terms of Mary Surratt, she kept busy with her townhouse that was full of boarders, but we felt the vibrations of her agitation and the ever-present conflict between her and John Surratt. Yes, she was “going along” but only for the purpose of keeping knowledgeable about John’s activities. So as to not antagonize Booth, she played nice and friendly, while inwardly she chafed with worry. One thing was clear, however—at that point in time, the plan still revolved around a kidnapping of Lincoln. Booth might idly comment on how the country would be greatly improved if Lincoln was dead, but he had not proposed an assassination. I think at that time, only Powell would have wholeheartedly supported such a drastic move.

  So, in the eyes of history, was Mary Surratt guilty? Yes, I suppose, in that she knew of a plot, and she did nothing to obstruct it. But she was still innocent of a more diabolical plan, and it was for the assassination that she was hanged. An even more interesting question to ponder would be to examine Mary’s involvement in Confederate spying activities had it not been for her son. The answer to that question will never be known, and even Kipp, with his amazing investigative abilities, couldn’t tweak out those facts. She was pro-Confederate, that much was apparent, but would she have stayed safely on the sidelines, keeping her opinions to herself?

  There was a soft, polite tap on the kitchen entrance door early on the morning of March 1st. I was a little surprised, since callers typically would present themselves to the main entrance, and tradesmen and servants used the kitchen door. Mary Surratt peeked in through the rippled window, squinting and turning her head a little to try and see if anyone was in residence. It was the soft glow of the lantern that had drawn her to the window, much like a moth seeking a flickering flame. I was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea, Kipp relaxing in front of the stove. Peter and Elani had gone exploring about the city. I had declined going with them, although I’d urged Kipp. As it were, I was tired and indulging my lazy side, and the provocative lure of the warm stove was significantly stronger than my curiosity. Kipp chose to stay with me, as was his preference, even if there was something more exciting in the offing.

  “Why Mrs. Surratt!” I exclaimed, glad she was visiting since reading her thoughts was much easier when I was staring at her across the room. “Please, come in and make yourself warm. I’ve just made a pot of tea,” I added, hoping to entice her. As she passed me, I caught the ladylike lavender scent that I’d detected before.

  She smiled and nodded her head. In proper circumstances, we would meet in the parlor, preferably in the afternoon when callers arrived. And if one was really upscale, one would present a calling card to be presented by a servant to the mistress of the house. The closest I might come to that particular etiquette would be to scribble my name on a napkin, I suppose. But since it was early, we broke protocol and remained in the kitchen, where the warmth surrounded us with an amber glow. I brought another of the daffodil teacups from the sideboard and set it before her with a little crockery pot containing honey and a plate of tea cakes. We’d not been able to find any sugar, and if we had, the pric
e would have been exorbitant, so we did without just as did everyone else. It was no problem for me as I preferred honey in my tea and was content.

  Mary’s face looked careworn; the circles beneath her eyes were dark and shadowed, revealing a night of restless sleep due to worry and anxiety. Her usually neatly coiffed hair seemed a little askew, with a few long hairs escaping from the side rolls. Her hands, when she reached for the cup, had a fine tremor. She wore a simple silver brooch at her neck, and I noticed it was pinned just a wee bit crooked.

  “She had a terrible argument with John this morning,” Kipp remarked. His whiskey-colored eyes softened. “He said cruel things to her that injured her heart.”

  “Mrs. Holmes,” Mary began, her voice soft at first before she seemed to rouse herself and strengthen. “I don’t mean to be personal, but have you ever had children?”

  “Yes, I had a son, George, but he passed many years ago. And please call me Petra,” I added.

  “And I’m Mary,” she replied, nodding her head. “Children are such a blessing and bring both great joy and heartache, do they not?” Mary glanced down at her hands and frowned before she clasped them in her lap to subdue the noticeable tremor.

  I realized she needed to ventilate and sought a woman in whom she could confide. “George died so young that I didn’t experience the heartache associated with growing, but, yes, having to raise children and have them do right and develop into good adults is not easy. Many children, as they get older, want to oppose the wisdom of their parents and then the former pleasure becomes strained.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she murmured, dipping her head politely. Her thoughts were clear that she was embarrassed to find she’d wished to discuss the difficulties of motherhood and brought her distress to the table of a mother who had lost a son.

  “As I said, it was a long time ago, and I don’t feel the pain as much as I once did.” I knew I’d have to give her permission to talk. “Your children seem very pleasant and bright,” I remarked.

  “My Anna is such an effortless child, with kind ways and a loving heart. John is more spirited, wanting to make his own way in the world.”

  “Well, maybe that is to be expected with a male child, don’t you think?” I tried to put a positive spin on it since I was not in a position to tell her what I really thought.

  “Yes, I suppose.” She seemed to relax and took a deep, shuddering breath, once, then twice, before smiling at me. “This tea blend is very nice, Petra.”

  We went on to chat about tea, and she made a few comments about living in Washington versus living in the country at the old tavern she and her husband once operated. Her eyes rested on Kipp, who glanced up at her. “And I’m growing fond of dogs,” she remarked. “Yours are so well behaved.” Leaning forward, she held out her hands to Kipp, who rose, and padded across the room to lay his head in her lap. “His fur is warm from the stove. I can see the comfort you draw from his presence. Perhaps, when this terrible winter passes, I may look for a dog of my own.”

  It was a sad comment. Mary Surratt would not enjoy the company of a dog or, for that matter, other humans, for a long time. When the winter cleared and spring arrived, she would be placed in prison and not leave there until the day she would be executed. As she left the comfort of my warm kitchen, I pressed a canister of the tea blend in her hand, folding my hands over hers as she tried to demure. Her hands, despite the cold chill in the air, were warm and strong. She would need that strength.

  The morning of March 4th arrived, and I was excited, since we planned to join the throngs of people who would be present for Lincoln’s second inauguration, which would take place on the steps of the Capitol building. As I looked outside, I registered that written history was unfortunately correct, and we were facing another cold, rainy day. At least we had acquired a couple of umbrellas, and the truth of the matter was that we were just going to get soaked.

  “Petra, I swear if you make any wet dog smell comments, I’m outta here,” Kipp warned, lowering his head at me.

  “I promise, Kipp,” I replied as I tried valiantly to keep the smile from my face. Kipp had very few detectable Achilles’ heels, but that was it.

  Finding a carriage on that day was not in the cards, so we just decided to brave it and walk. Peter and I took positions on the outside with the lupines between us, since the streets were so crowded, we feared they’d get their feet trampled. Peter glanced at me with a mock grimace and pulled his collar up closer around his neck and face. I have to give it to him, he was game and never a complainer. A cold breeze tumbled down Pennsylvania Avenue, blasting us in the face as if we were in a wind tunnel. Reaching up, I grabbed for my hat, which, despite the hat pins, threatened to go air born. Tucking my chin to my chest, I placed my hand onto Kipp’s back, and we pressed forward, with me taking advantage of his strength. The other benefit was that he and Elani kind of acted like snowplows, and people just got out of their way.

  Historians speculated that at least fifty thousand people were present for the inauguration. I didn’t pause for a headcount, but it might have been a few more. Well dressed men and women mingled with people clothed in rags and tattered clothing. The area reeked of a combination of damp wool, aftershave, perfume, and unwashed bodies. I almost felt a little dizzy.

  Andrew Johnson, the Vice President, spoke first and seemed to have trouble focusing on his speech, which rambled on for longer than necessary. Kipp glanced up at me and nodded his head. It seemed Mr. Johnson had indulged in a little liquid courage before the speech, and the result was a loosening of his controls that was both embarrassing and unfortunate. As the crowds pressed in, I felt suffocated and had to swallow a couple of times to try and forestall that sense of drowning that engulfed me. Kipp pushed hard against my legs, almost making me lose my balance with the ferocity of his contact.

  Lincoln approached the podium. In concert, the four of us found John Wilkes Booth in the crowd, his fiancée, Lucy Hale, at his side. That relationship, in itself, was complicated. The engagement had not been made public, and Lucy’s father did not approve of Booth. Lucy knew Booth had political notions, but he had kept from her some of his more extreme views. He had the actor’s ability to play many parts depending upon the situation and people involved. Lucy was a conquest he’d made mainly to stoke his vanity. She was highly sought-after as a companion, and Booth had her in his pocket. Such an arrangement served the part of him that was narcissistic, and that was more than fifty percent. Kipp focused briefly on Lucy, since she was unknown to us. Booth’s thoughts, now familiar, spread out over the crowd to us like a dark storm cloud covering a meadow, casting shadows where none had been.

  As Lincoln passed on his way to the podium, Booth lunged at him, even though he was not armed, and a policeman grabbed his arm to shove him back. I registered the alarm of the policeman, who was on guard for possible assassination attempts. Booth, using his actor’s agile tongue, managed to give a convincing story to the man who released him. Meanwhile, Booth struggled to regain his composure. It would not serve his purpose to prematurely play his hand before all the pieces of his plan were in place. Booth’s hatred for the cheering crowds felt like a wall, as I pressed my mind up against his. I must have worn a facial expression of dismay and dislike, because Peter gently squeezed my arm as if to remind me where I was.

  Lincoln’s speech, which was memorable and poetic to my way of thinking, floated over the crowds. His voice, which was oddly high pitched for such a tall man, seemed to get even higher in tone as he strained to project his words to reach all the people who were assembled. As he leaned forward, placing his hands on the podium, the misting rain ceased, and the clouds parted to reveal the golden disc of the sun as rays of brilliant light struck the earth in wavering streams of pale yellow and silver. All of us who inhabit the earth have been honored to view such a beautiful moment given to us by nature. The romantic part of my mind thought, just for a second, that Lincoln’s dark head had been illuminated by a halo of golden
light.

  Booth’s eyes were canvassing the crowd, looking for familiar faces. I drew back, hoping he would not see us, and I managed to pull Peter so that we were partially concealed behind a couple of very tall, broad men. It worked, and I followed Booth’s thoughts as he registered people with whom he associated, both as a spy for the Confederacy as well as an actor. He was enraged to see freed slaves in attendance, such was his hatred for, as Kipp had noted, people with dark skin. From my place of concealment, I shuddered, thinking of those dark eyes of Booth’s and what might happen if he saw us present on that day.

  Lincoln fell ill a week or so later, and Peter received communication that Tad would be sent, accompanied by a staffer, to the cottage. It followed, towards the middle of the month, that the ill-fated plan of Booth to kidnap Lincoln went awry when he and Mike O’Laughlen laid in wait for Lincoln to pass on his way to the Soldiers’ Home. But because of his illness, Lincoln had curtailed his trips from the White House to his refuge in the country. Booth stormed into the kitchen of the Surratt house, where he railed against John for what he believed to be poor intelligence that had sent him out on a fool’s errand. Surratt, for once, lost his temper with Booth, and we waited to see if the two men would come to blows before Mary arrived to order them both to sit down while she made coffee. In the midst of a situation with no humor, that particular moment was rather amusing because she was talking to them as if they were two schoolboys out in the yard having a fight over a game. But it worked, and both men cooled their tempers and shook hands. After all, Booth needed Surratt, who was the man who kept the operations funded.