The Judges of the Secret Court

by David Stacton

  The men were already out working the farm, but Mrs. Garrett was in the kitchen. She nodded, smiled, wished him good morning, and went on telling the coloured help what to cook for supper. She was not the sort of woman he found it easiest to charm. She had neither the faded vanity of a Mrs. Surratt, nor the bewildered indulgence of his mother. She was brisk, cheery, and did not mince her words. He was best pleasing the unhappy, but Mrs. Garrett was so clearly satisfied with what she was, that there was no crack in her anywhere.

  He went out on the porch and tried his charm on the smaller children, instead. They were on the lawn. He went down there and told them stories until about noon. They were well brought up children, scrubbed, rambunctious, and mannerly. He sat on the prickly grass and told them about his own childhood at Tudor Hall. He had not been happy as a child, but as he talked, he could see that the Garrett children thought he must have had a wonderful time. Perhaps he had. While he talked, he looked around him.

  The farmhouse was smaller than its outbuildings. Instead of Corinthian pillars, it had plain square posts to hold up its porch. But it was painted white and had a gracious look to it, all the same. The barns were prosperous. The Garretts seemed exactly to fit where they were. The yard was planted with slim trees. He did not know what kind of trees. He would very much have liked to know. Behind the barns the woods rose up to rolling hills. The yard had an agreeable, pungent smell. He leaned back to savour it and closed his eyes. If only he could stay here he would be well again.

  The children asked if his wound hurt him.

  He opened his eyes and said no. He had forgotten his wound.

  At about noon the gate in the fence opened and Miss Holloway came in. She was Mrs. Garrett’s younger sister, a schoolteacher who boarded at the farm. She had returned for lunch. She was the first gentlewoman he had met since last he had seen Bessie Hale. She thought him wistful, and felt sorry for him. She asked about his leg and then told him Lincoln had been shot. It was the latest news.

  Booth was surprised. “Why, he’s been dead for ten days,” he said.

  “We lead a secluded life here,” she told him, and sat down on the bench beside him.

  So that explained why the Garretts had been so charming: they lived outside events. He wished she would not tell them the news. He did not want this dream to end.

  “What did you hear about it?” he asked cautiously.

  “Not much. He was shot by some maniac. I suppose the man must have been a maniac, to kill him at a time like this. Besides, you probably know more about it than I do. Why don’t you tell me how it happened?”

  A maniac. He stared after the children, who having lost him to a grown-up, were straggling up to the house.

  “I heard that the man who shot him was a Southern patriot. He did it for reasons that were purely patriotic.”

  “He must have curious notions of patriotism. What was his name?”

  “He was an actor called John Wilkes Booth.”

  “Oh, an actor,” she said, and examined her parasol.

  That nettled him. “What do you suppose an actor would be like?”

  “Always acting, I guess. You know. Always strutting around speech making.”

  His last speech had been three words, and those not even in his own language. Sic semper tyrannis. “Why should he not be a patriot?” he asked. She made him curious. Young girls sometimes know more than we do. It is because they do less.

  “Patriotism isn’t the same as loyalty,” said Miss Holloway, looking up at the house. “I mean, actors don’t have any home or anything, do they? So they just act.” She bid him good day and wandered up to the house, took off her bonnet, and joined Mrs. Garrett in the kitchen. Mrs. Garrett had been looking out the window.

  “What’s he moaning about down there?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I think he’s just lonely and wants someone to talk to. At least he looks lonely.”

  Mrs. Garrett gave her a sharp look. “You don’t know anything about him,” she said.

  Miss Holloway blushed. “Don’t you like him?”

  Mrs. Garrett looked out the window again. “No, I don’t. He’s too smooth and there’s something wrong about him.”

  “He’s just wounded.” Miss Holloway had found him puzzling, but charming.

  “That’s not what I mean,” said her sister. “You’d better call him in to dinner.”

  They sat at the round table in the kitchen, eating and talking while the coloured help served them. Booth found his hosts somehow changed. The news of the assassination, perhaps. But he didn’t like the look on Mrs. Garrett’s face.

  Bill Garrett said he reckoned Old Abe had it coming to him. Old Abe had done a lot of wicked things in his time. As for the reward, that was a lot of money. If the man came this way, he’d like to try for it.

  That was too much for Booth. “Would you really turn him in? He probably did it for the South, you know.”

  Mr. Garrett shut them both up. As far as he was concerned, the war had been bad for trade, and that defined the war.

  It seemed to Booth that Mr. Garrett was watching him too closely. He was glad when dinner was over. He went outside again. But he didn’t feel as at his ease as he had that morning with the children.

  During the afternoon Ruggles, Bainbridge, and Herold came back. He went down to the gate to meet them.

  Herold looked happy. He had a new pair of shoes. That was all Herold cared about. The boy was no Patroclus. His raw voice jarred on Booth’s nerves.

  Bainbridge was curious. “Why did you do it?” he asked. “A few months ago it might have helped us, but now?”

  The question made Booth angry. The only way he could justify himself was to point out how much he had suffered. That needed no pointing out. Bainbridge and Ruggles saw before them the ruin of an indoor man. Even after ten days in the woods, they wouldn’t have looked like that.

  “And now?” asked Bainbridge.

  Booth shrugged. “I’ve thrown my life away for nothing at all. My only hope is to get to Mexico. But my foot…”

  Ruggles, who had had some experience of wounds, offered to look at it.

  Booth refused to have the splints removed. He pulled up his trouser leg, and Ruggles looked. The flesh was swollen and greenish purple. Ruggles had seen gangrene before. He told Booth that unless he could get medical attention, the leg would have to be amputated. But he knew the matter had gone farther than that. The man would die.

  Old Mr. Garrett was in the parlour, waiting for Ruggles. When Ruggles came in, he wasted no time on preliminaries.

  “How long have you and Jett known that man?” he asked.

  “We met him at the ferry last night.” Ruggles was cautious. “He’s pretty badly chewed up. So we offered to help.”

  “In other words, Jett doesn’t know him at all?”

  Ruggles shook his head.

  “Sure his name is Boyd?”

  Ruggles said yes, his name was Boyd. Why get the old man into trouble by telling the truth, and besides, what difference did it make? Ruggles knew gangrene when he saw it. Booth didn’t have long to run, in any case.

  “Funny he isn’t in uniform,” said Garrett. “Maybe you boys should get out of here. You don’t have any parole papers, do you?”

  Ruggles said they hadn’t.

  “Remember me to Jett,” said Old Man Garrett. “And tell him not to bring anybody here he doesn’t know.” He turned and left the room.

  He didn’t leave the house. He stood in the kitchen, watching Booth and Herold on the bench down under the elm tree. Then he went to the outbuildings to help Bill with the chores. While he worked, he kept an eye on them; and he began to feel uneasy.

  “You really think they’re soldiers?” he asked Bill.

  “He doesn’t talk much, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I’ve been watching them,” Old Man Garrett said. “If that boy’s Mr. Boyd’s brother, it doesn’t seem to me they’d talk together quite the way they do. I don�
��t think he’s his brother at all.”

  The two men looked at each other. “What do you think?” asked Bill.

  “I don’t know what I think. But I’d like to get rid of them.”

  While Old Garrett watched, Bainbridge and Ruggles galloped up to the gate again. Booth pulled out a revolver. There was a parley, and then Ruggles and Bainbridge went off. Herold headed for the house, with Booth hobbling behind him. Old Garrett and Bill met them there.

  Booth wanted to buy their horse for a hundred and fifty bucks.

  The horse wasn’t worth half that. The price made the Garretts suspicious. They temporized. Bill said he’d drive them into Guinea Station in the morning.

  “I’ll pay anything within reason, but hurry,” said Booth.

  It might be the best way to get rid of them, at that. Old Garrett nodded, and Bill headed for the shed where the horse and cow were kept. That was when the bugle sounded somewhere down by the main road. There wasn’t any mistaking that military sound.

  Herold whirled round. “Good Jesus,” he said. He grabbed Booth and headed for the back of the farm, where the woods were. Garrett didn’t move, but his eyes narrowed.

  There was a downpour of hoofbeats. All four men watched the opening to the lane. Booth whipped out his pistol. Garrett was worried. He’d lost just about everything movable in this damn war. He didn’t intend to lose his last horse and his last cow.

  The horses pounded past the lane, without stopping. Nobody said anything. Then Herold began to giggle. The boy was unbalanced and the man was dangerous. That gave Garrett a lot to think about. Booth headed for the woods, went into them for several hundred feet, and sat down. What he wanted was a drink. Fortunately Herold had some whisky with him. You could depend upon him to have whisky, if nothing else. They stayed in the woods all afternoon. The cavalry did not come back. They were both hungry. And then there was the matter of the horse. They had to have the horse. They wandered back to the house. Its kitchen windows were lit. It was dinner time. The kitchen door was fastened. Old Man Garrett opened it for them. He looked stern. Herold didn’t notice.

  “We’re hungry,” he said. “Besides, we wanted to talk to you about that horse.”

  Garrett hesitated. “All right, you can eat,” he said, and let them in. The others made place for them at table. But nobody spoke. Even Miss Holloway looked aside. Garrett waited for them to finish their food. Then he came out with what he had to say.

  “I want to know why you were so scared of those Federals,” he said. “What have you done?”

  “We haven’t any parole papers,” said Booth.

  “That’s not a shooting matter.”

  Booth tried to smile, but his smile didn’t feel right, even to him.

  “I assure you we’re not criminals.”

  Maybe they weren’t, but they were something bad. And they sure wanted that horse. Garrett said he wouldn’t sell it. And he wouldn’t let Bill drive them at night, either. Not with all those Federals about. Maybe in the morning. But they couldn’t sleep in the house. They’d have to sleep in the barn.

  It was Stewart and Cox all over again. But Booth had not much dignity left to stand on. He agreed to sleep in the barn. And about the horse, could they leave before dawn?

  Garrett cut him off. He said there was hay in the barn, and Mrs. Garrett would give them some blankets, if they wanted them.

  They did want them. Herold carried the blankets and the lantern. They went to the barn.

  It was a tobacco barn, about sixty feet long and fifty feet wide. Its sliding doors were walled up, the walls were mere slats, to admit air for the curing. At the far end was a pile of hay. When Herold went to investigate the hay, he found there was furniture underneath it, but they were both too tired to haul it out. Herold made two pallets of hay, and they lay down on those.

  Booth was full of plans. Now he knew about his leg, and sensed he was dying, he was eager for life again. They would escape to Mexico. Maximilian was still Emperor there. Mexico City had an international court and a theatre. There would be a place for Herold, too. Once they were in Mexico they would be safe. Booth might even go on to Europe, on a triumphal tour. He talked on and on, and he didn’t believe a word of it. Herold could tell that from his voice. Herold wanted to go to sleep.

  Outside they heard a rustling in the shrubbery. While they listened, it stopped.

  “Go out and look, Davy,” said Booth.

  Herold didn’t want to go, but he went over to the door and tried to push it open. It wouldn’t give. He shoved again.

  “We’re locked in,” he said.

  Booth was startled. Then he thought of an explanation. “It’s just Garrett,” he said bitterly. “He thinks we’re thieves.”

  Up at the main house, Old Man Garrett chuckled, turned over, and began to snore. He hadn’t been able to lock up the horse, but he had been able to lock up the men who wanted it. He’d out-foxed them. He had nothing to worry about until morning.

  XXXI

  Jett was awakened by an immense knocking downstairs. He was at the Bowling Green hotel, a large, deserted-looking building which only made these knocks on the door the louder and more ominous. He listened alertly, and heard voices. He could not hear what they said, but he recognized the feminine voice of his hostess. The other voices sounded Northern.

  He looked towards the other bed, as he heard boots on the stairs. Mrs. Goldman’s son was in the other bed. He was badly wounded, but he was awake. He had been one of the last casualties of this endless war.

  There was a knock at the door. “Willie, will you come to the door?” Mrs. Goldman sounded timid.

  There was no escape. The door banged open and a Federal officer came in, nattier and better fed than any Confederate was these days. The yellow stripes down his blue pants leg glowed in the candlelight and wriggled like a snake. His boots gleamed. He had a gun in each hand. Willie looked at the candle and at the guns. The candle was dripping on the floor. The officer stared at him. He had two men behind him.

  “Take your prisoner,” he said, went over to the bed, and looked down at the boy in it. With a flick of his hand he turned down the sheets. The boy’s chest was a mess of bandages. Gently the Colonel put the sheets in place again and turned to Mrs. Goldman.

  “I’m sorry, Madam,” he said. “I had to make sure. Take us to another room. We don’t want to disturb your son.” He led the way to a bedroom at the other end of the hall, and there turned to face Willie Jett.

  “I’m Colonel Conger,” he said. “I want to read you something.” What he read was Stanton’s proclamation of the reward. He dwelt lovingly upon the death penalty offered for those who aided or abetted Booth.

  Jett asked if he might speak to Conger alone. He could not bring himself to grovel before his own people.

  Conger put his revolvers on the table in front of him, stretched his legs out, and said yes. “You’ve got yourself into a lot of silly trouble,” he went on. “Where is he?”

  Jett told him. A lark is a lark, but no one wants to die for it. Besides, Booth was not one of his personal friends. He asked if he would be hanged.

  “Not if you co-operate,” said Conger. He knew nothing was to be accomplished by hanging foolish young boys. He was tired of Stanton’s dirty business.

  Jett co-operated. Herold, he said, was also there. Conger told him to get dressed and summoned the bugler to sound assembly.

  Fifteen minutes later they were on their way. The road was empty. There was a narrow moon in the sky. And Jett felt utterly miserable. He did not want to see what would happen next. At the entrance to the Garrett lane he asked if he might wait there. Conger gave him a thoughtful look, and said he might.

  Then, with the rest of the 16th New York Cavalry, he trotted up to the Garrett farm.

  XXXII

  The dogs had begun to bark from hill to hill. Since the night was crisp, the sound carried well. It gave Herold the shivers. Then the Garrett dog joined in. A moment later they heard the trot o
f cavalry coming up the lane.

  Conger led his men into the farm yard. Six he sent to guard the escape to the woods, behind the barn. When they had gone, he rode slowly through the inner gate and stationed his men in a circle around the house. The yard was empty and seemed watchful. Perhaps that was a trick of the night sky and of the deep blue shadows. His men held their rifles in their hands, in order to prevent their rattling against their saddle slings. Cavalry can be quiet when it chooses, though not so quiet that Booth could not guess that something was going on. He could smell the horses.

  Lieutenant Baker dismounted, went up to the kitchen door, and banged on the wooden panels. A second floor window flung up and Old Man Garrett asked what they wanted. He sounded sleepy.

  “Never mind who we are or what we want,” Baker called. “Light a candle and open the door.”

  The window slammed down. One of the horses snorted and pawed the ground. Conger drew his pistol, Old Man Garrett opened the door, and as he did so, two men pushed by him and went inside to search the house.

  “Where are the two men who are stopping here?” demanded Conger. He had had experience of stubborn farmers.

  Old Man Garrett raised his candle, saw the blue uniform, and said they had gone into the woods that afternoon, which was true enough. A light went on in the kitchen. The soldiers sent to search the house must have found a lamp. Somewhere on the second floor a child began to cry.

  “It may interest you to know those two men are the murderers of President Lincoln,” said Conger. “Anyone who shields them or abets them incurs a capital charge. Now, where are they?”

  Garrett’s face did not change expression. When frightened, he froze. He always did. There was nothing to be got out of him. Conger turned to one of the soldiers behind him. “Bring a lariat and we’ll string him up.”

  Baker came round the house with a young man dressed in Confederate grey. “He’s been hiding in the corn crib.”

  “That’s my son,” said Garrett. He didn’t want anything to happen to Bill.