A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865

by T. L. B. Wood

  It was later that month that John Surratt, accompanied by Atzerodt and David Herold, took guns to the family’s tavern in Surrattsville. We overheard the discussions from the kitchen of the Surratt boarding house. And that was not the only stockpiling of guns that was going on in the vicinity. Apparently, the Confederate spy network was doing so in the event a pivotal moment might occur, such as the successful kidnapping and detention of Abraham Lincoln. I was curious to note that Mary’s agitation seemed to subside, and I believed she had given in to her strong-willed son.

  In fairness to history, I realize that Mary Surratt actively involved herself with the men and their spy ring during the month of March. Not only was she made aware of the guns going to her tavern in the county, but also she acted as a courier of information between her son and John Wilkes Booth. But as Kipp sifted through her thoughts, he was not under the impression that her involvement spoke of her passion for a cause but more for her concern for her son. And there was some degree of her just having been worn down to the point of being convinced by a charismatic actor as well as John Surratt, whose believe in cause surpassed his loyalty for his own mother.

  “So, although she supports the Confederacy, if her son had not pushed this scenario, she probably would have limited her support to talking to other people, and it would have stopped there.” Elani took a deep breath. She was stretched out in front of the stove in the parlor, where we gathered after finishing another game of chess. I had partnered with Elani and we had been completely devastated by a triumphant Peter and a regretful Kipp.

  “I think that is correct up to this point,” Kipp replied. He darted his mournful eyes at me, hanging on to the bad feeling he acquired when besting me in anything. I winked at him, smiling. I had that type of love for him that enabled me to welcome his triumphs, even when they came at a cost to me.

  The latter part of March would be quiet for us, since Lincoln would be traveling to Grant’s headquarters in Virginia. Mary and Tad accompanied him, so Peter’s temporary assignment as tutor to Tad Lincoln was on hold. Peter didn’t dislike Tad by any measure, but working with him was tiring, and I don’t think Peter minded the respite one little bit. And although the war was grinding to a halt with Lincoln serving as commander in chief over the victorious federal army, his moroseness grew incrementally as the days passed. April, and all it would bring, was next on the horizon.

  Twenty-Six

  I awoke slowly, reluctantly; the rain was falling heavily outside the house, the noise of the storm easily heard in the small, dark bedroom with no windows. As I lay there, I heard Kipp’s breathing, slow and steady. In a moment he would awaken and fill my mind with his thoughts. But he was still sleeping, dreamless and at peace. Another soft roll of thunder trembled as I recalled a conversation Peter and I had the previous evening when Elani was outside with Kipp. I’d broached, carefully, the progress of his deepening connection with Elani. He’d shared that it was difficult for him to relax and engage since being so enmeshed was an unusual state for our contemporary brethren.

  “But I’m trying, Petra,” he said, his face earnest. “I think it is important, and not just because Elani wants to. It’s important because it’s natural, and I want to maximize my abilities.”

  I felt, in that moment, some worry in him that he was lagging behind the rest of us, and he most certainly wasn’t. That particular concern made him push too hard. And pushing too hard often led to mistakes and lapses in judgment.

  “Peter,” I began, choosing my words with care, “you really need to remember that our lupine partners have skills that we lack just as we have abilities they lack. You can’t compare yourself to Elani.”

  His dark eyes met mine as he smiled. “Thanks, Petra. I know that but sometimes forget it. I need a reminder and a kick in the butt occasionally.”

  “And that’s why I’m here,” I replied, laughing. I liked his honesty and the fact he probably could take more criticism than I did at his age. Our exchange summed up my relationship with Peter. We danced around the margins to occasionally connect on a deeper level. At times, as would be true in the human world, we annoyed one another, those times contrasting with moments of pure and total understanding and compassion. As I continued to replay the conversation, Kipp began to slowly awaken, his breath warm on my cheek as he unconsciously moved closer to press his jaw against my chest until it almost was painful. He nestled, almost like a pup, seeking the closeness of a cherished one. Reaching up, I gently scratched between his ears, the touch of his fur soft against my fingers.

  “Wake up,” I whispered, placing my cheek against his fur. He stirred in response.

  “I think I could stay in bed and snooze all day,” he replied. “The sound of that rain is like a sleeping pill.”

  I knew for a fact that Kipp had not taken a sleeping pill in his life, but the analogy was sound, nonetheless.

  While we stayed in town, waiting for Lincoln to come back to Washington and face his destiny, we kept at our eavesdropping and watched carefully as Booth and the others continued to gently pull Mary Surratt into the web they built. And although it was impossible, I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall while the Lincolns were traveling. It was rare that Lincoln was furious with Mary, but the scandalous incident during which she embarrassed hardened men of war over her jealous exchange with General Ord’s wife had left everyone in the party flabbergasted. The sight of Mrs. Ord, who was attractive and vibrant, riding a horse, while an overweight and aging Mary Lincoln followed along in a carriage, had challenged the fragile ego of Mary. But that entire period of Lincoln’s life was difficult, despite his having won the re-election. He once again saw his doppelganger lurking in the mirror as well as having a vividly disturbing dream where he’d been assassinated. Mary, convinced his time was limited, brought mourning clothes as a part of her ensemble for the trip to Grant’s headquarters in Virginia. Other than reviewing Grant’s successes, the trip was an emotionally difficult one for Lincoln. While Lincoln struggled with the dark side of his psyche, he likewise toiled to keep Mary’s emotions in balance and her behaviors in check. Tad went with his parents and got to experience a journey on the steamboat River Queen.

  We caught up with Tad after being notified he was back in town and that John Hay would bring him to the cottage for a session one evening. Hay left as soon as we arrived, always feeling pressed to be back at work at the White House, where his workload accumulated even in his short absence. Tad, after hugging Kipp and Elani, plopped down on the floor in front of the library fireplace, lying back to rest his head on Elani, as if she was a pillow.

  “How did you like the River Queen?” I asked, smiling at him. He was kicking one leg in the air in his typically energetic and restless manner.

  “Oh, it was okay, I guess,” he said. “Papa had some kind of bad dream, so mama brought me home.”

  “Does he have a lot of bad dreams?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I think so, but I’m not sure. I don’t think they want me to know, but I hear things.”

  I bet he did. He was a busy body, and since there were no controls on him, he barged into cabinet meetings as well as war councils. Tad Lincoln probably overheard most of the top-secret planning of the Civil War. He’d just turned twelve on April 4th, so we’d planned a little impromptu party with a cake baked by Maureen’s skilled mother. Tad, because the attention was on him, was delighted. He was not narcissistic, just a boy who enjoyed being loved. Peter, despite his grumbling over his task of tutor, had become attached due to his contact with Tad; me, perhaps some, but less so. It would be hard for Peter to leave him.

  Sometimes, while on a time-shift, the niceties could get lost, and Peter had, for the most part, neglected his hair and beard. He was looking really shaggy, so I made him sit in the kitchen in one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs, while I draped a towel over his shoulders. After checking the sharpness of my scissors, I aimed at his neckline, angling the shears.

  “Whoa!” Peter shouted, standing
up suddenly. He was lucky I didn’t stab him accidentally. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “I think so,” I replied tartly. “I’ve cut many a head of hair, and in case you didn’t know, I give Fitzhugh his trims.” I neglected to add I could wield a straight razor with the best of them but considered he’d probably take off running.

  “Well, that doesn’t make me feel any better.” Peter pulled the towel a little closer to cover his exposed flesh, no doubt thinking I would draw blood in any minute.

  As we grumbled back and forth like a couple of argumentative siblings, Kipp and Elani both stood simultaneously and walked towards the door to the kitchen. Although they had no need, they stared out the window at the Surratt townhouse. I saw them glance at one another before returning their gaze to the dwelling.

  “Some events are falling into place,” Elani finally said, turning to us. “Questions about historical facts are being answered.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Do you remember that at Mary’s trial, a tenant testified she made a comment about ‘getting the shooting irons ‘ in reference to her tavern in Surrattsville?”

  I nodded. I’d rested my hand on Peter’s shoulder and removed it before he complained. It wouldn’t do for him to think I was too familiar.

  “John Surratt and David Herold—and she is a little more impressed with him over the other of Booth’s renegades because he’s an educated man—have told her that Lincoln is going to have the army confiscate the firearms of all citizens who have not made a loyalty pledge. They’ve convinced her that people in Washington with any faint loyalty to the Confederacy are going to be locked up.” Elani and Kipp exchanged glances. “She has become fearful of her safety and that of her family. They also told her that personal property will be confiscated, and she thinks the family will have to flee to Surratsville at some point.”

  “So that explains the reference about the shooting irons,” Peter mused. “During her trial, it appeared that she was purposely stockpiling guns to assist in the assassination, while, in truth, it was related to the story she’d been told by her son and Herold.”

  “And the reason she said nothing to defend herself goes back to her intense need to protect her son,” I concluded.

  I tilted Peter’s head to the side and began to trim the hair that was almost covering his ears. He looked like one of the Beatles or maybe a Monkee, but without the hip clothing.

  It was April 11th, the day Lincoln would make an impromptu appearance and speech from the second-floor center window of the White House. And despite the fact we knew Booth would be there, all four of us felt the need to go. The crowds were as described, with many of the people drunk and rowdy after a day of celebration. The war, for the most part, was over and Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia had surrendered. Yes, there were others still involved in skirmishes, but that would soon end, too. Without supplies and financing, there was no way in which the remaining rebel forces could continue the battle. We’d dressed in our warm clothing, since it was still chilly despite the fact we were in the second week of April. We kept to the margins of the crowd, within whose ranks there was more than a little pushing and shoving as people jockeyed for positions. The lawn and flower beds, which were already compromised by constant foot traffic, had turned into a large tract of mud, and the once lovely daffodils had been trampled into the dirt. There was no way my skirts would avoid the debris, but then, I thought with some sadness, our job would be done in a few short days and there was no need for an extensive wardrobe.

  With all the human minds at work, many of them agitated and more than a few inebriated, it took quite a bit of effort to locate Booth. I knew he was beneath a tree, so each of us took a quadrant and began searching. Much of the crowd was seething with the conclusion of the war, wanting Lincoln to make the pronouncement that I knew Lincoln would not give. He would not serve the South up to the people for punishment; his way was reconciliation.

  Peter, to his credit, found Booth before the rest of us, and his face glowed with the accomplishment. Before we could be seen, we moved to an angle where we would be less conspicuous, taking advantage of some battered hedges to help block us from view. Kipp’s eyes closed in concentration as he tilted his head towards Booth, who was there with Powell and David Herold.

  “Booth has made the shift, the one which has teased at the edge of his brain, and now is firmly planning the assassination,” Kipp murmured softly. “And he hopes to get Herold and Powell equally agitated so that they will follow his lead without question.”

  I had turned to the side, using veiled glances to peek at Booth, hoping we could stay hidden. It helped that the lupines were pretty well concealed behind the shrubs. Peter, likewise, turned to the side and put his arm around my back as if he was protecting me from the surging, agitated crowds.

  There was a hush followed by cheers as Lincoln appeared in the center window on the second floor of the White House. After he allowed the initial, frenetic energy to dispel, he began his speech, which by some was welcomed while others were disappointed at the content. The latter group began to leave since they were not getting the excitement they desired, slowly drifting away in small groups to find happiness in taverns and elsewhere.

  Booth, however, remained, his agitated and vitriolic hatred of Lincoln flowing out to our minds as we stayed engaged with him. Powell had a navy Colt revolver on his hip; Booth glanced down at it and almost pulled the gun, but resisted, knowing the chances of a kill were remote. He told Powell to try and shoot Lincoln, but Powell, who was accustomed to taking orders from Booth, knew a mob would kill him in return and refused.

  It was at that precise moment when one of those issues of poor timing and the chance of fate occurred. And I suppose those things are just a part and parcel of our species inserting itself into a past time event and hoping beyond hope that everything proceeds naturally. But when I think of it, going back to Whitechapel, Kipp’s chasing Jack the Ripper forced an accident that most likely caused a premature end for the man. As far as anyone knows, his reign of terror had already ended, but what if it hadn’t, and he lived many more years to harm other people? It was the risk we took with our job.

  “Peter!”

  It was Tad’s voice! He’d obviously spied us from a window and was racing across the muddied ground towards us. It would be unheard of today, but the thought of the president’s son running around, unprotected, was not unusual. Tad had done it before, wearing a soldier’s uniform, much to the amusement of the crowds.

  Peter looked at me, stricken, hoping Booth would not witness the exchange. Sometimes luck was with us, but not on that day. I purposely didn’t look towards Booth, but my thoughts locked with his to register first his amazement, followed by interest, then a growing suspicion. Yes, he’d wondered about us with our much too visible face. Now he speculated if we were Union spies, somehow aware of his plans. This had become dangerous and such events could turn just that quickly.

  We managed to clumsily deflect Tad and send him home as the four of us turned back towards the townhouse. Kipp’s worried thoughts tangled with mine, although none of us spoke during the journey through the congested streets. In my hurry, I managed to twist my right ankle on a large rock, the pain shooting up my leg. Kipp paused, pressing his nose against my leg with concern.

  “I can make it,” I said, welcoming Peter, who put his arm around my waist. It was with a sigh of relief that I shut the kitchen door behind us, happy to be back in the warmth of the kitchen. We weren’t any safer, but it felt so.

  “So, what do we do now?” Elani asked.

  I took a seat at the table, nodding at Peter, who put a kettle on the warm stove. Maybe a cup of tea would help me think and ignore the throbbing in my ankle. And why, I wondered, were my three companions all staring at me? Feeling the pressure, I rolled my head from side to side, easing out the tension in my neck. Glancing at Kipp, I saw only trust in his amber eyes; his tail thumped the floor as he waited. I hoped I coul
d be worthy of that trust.

  “We don’t know yet if we affected the timeline,” I began, hesitantly. “So, leaving now or staying a few more days really makes no difference. I would opt for laying low and remaining in the event there is some recovery that needs to be made.” I hoped I was thinking clearly and not just from motivation to see the event to the end since it was our task.

  “You are thinking clearly,” Kipp spoke confidently. “You actually don’t want to be present when Lincoln is killed, when you are honest with yourself.” He settled himself on the floor next to Elani. “I think we should finish this job.” He sounded definitive in his vote.

  “And the rest of you?” I asked.

  “Let’s see it out,” Peter said, nodding at Elani, who blinked.

  We all had restless sleep before awakening to a sunny April 12th. Peter wanted to walk to the National and have our meal delivery stopped in a few days. After all, we wouldn’t need it after April 17th, unless we left earlier. With my now swollen ankle, I needed to rest, and Kipp and I stayed home.

  “Be back soon,” Peter said, taking his hat and coat as he and Elani disappeared out the door. He promised, on the way home, to visit an apothecary and bring me some liniment for my ankle.

  I was relaxing in the parlor, enjoying the splash of sunlight that found me in my chair, foot propped up on a pillow, when there was a knock at the door. Kipp, who had been dozing, awoke, immediately stood, and I saw the hackles of fur go up on his neck.

  “It’s Booth and Powell,” he breathed, turning to stare at me.

  I could access their thoughts, too, and their suspicions of me and my party were evident. They wanted to question us and make a determination as to our intentions.

  We had the choice not to answer the door, but then maybe this was the time to recover the time-shift, which had gone astray since the first moment we landed. Kipp had the same thought and nodded his head. I limped to the door and paused to take a deep breath while smoothing out my skirt, which was rumpled from sitting all morning. As I opened the door, I tried to act surprised and then pleased.