Murder in the Oval Library

by C. M. Gleason

  Nearly five hundred troops from Pennsylvania had arrived in the capital on the seven o’clock train, and they’d be stationed at the Capitol and Treasury Building. The colonel from Kentucky, Cassius Clay, had gathered a small group of a hundred or so staunch Union men, and they were garrisoned at the Willard Hotel.

  Colonel Stone assigned Clay’s men to patrol the streets, but Lane and Adam—along with Major David Hunter—had convinced the president he needed more security in the presidential residence. They all feared the Confederates would not hesitate to storm the Executive Mansion and kidnap or assassinate the president.

  “It’s a damned thing,” Lincoln said as he, Hunter, and Adam greeted Lane at the main entrance to the house. “Having soldiers garrisoned inside the White House.”

  The president squinted a little and seemed particularly grave as he looked out over the motley troop of sixty soldiers assembled on the Ellipse—the oval-shaped drive on the north side of the mansion. The men had just marched loudly and conspicuously along Pennsylvania Avenue from Willard’s. Their shadows fell in long swaths behind them, for the sun was low to the horizon.

  “Half the city’s evacuated itself. The streets have been clogged with people taking all their belongings and getting out of town,” said Adam, wondering about young Brian Mulcahey and his family.

  The Mulcaheys were poor Irish immigrants who lived in the mean, primitive alleys in the First Ward, just north of Lafayette Square and the President’s House. Would they have left too? Did they have any means or money to travel? Adam reckoned he could make the time to check on them tomorrow.

  “We all know the Rebels are coming. Word is, they might be coming even tonight. But they won’t take your house, Mr. President. Not while we’re here,” Lane said in an uncharacteristically formal manner.

  “From your mouth to Heaven’s ear,” replied Lincoln.

  The president stood in the grand foyer, just past the wizened Irishman Edward McManus—the doorman who’d worked for seven presidents—and greeted each of the frontier fighters as they came in.

  Lincoln’s hand was just as callused and weathered as those he shook from the men determined to guard him, and though at six-foot-four, he loomed taller than all but Jim Lane, he was as informal and relaxed as they were in dress, manner, and words. To a man, each one greeted him with a steady gaze and a firm shake, expressing his honor at being called to this duty.

  “I’ll sleep outside your bedroom door,” Lane said to the president when all his men had trooped through. He adjusted the rifle he held over a shoulder and pulled back his coat to reveal the revolver tucked in a holster.

  “I’ll stay in the East Room with the rest of the men,” Major Hunter said, and Adam, who considered himself an unofficial member of the Frontier Guard, as Lane had dubbed the men, agreed he would do the same.

  “No uniforms,” Lane replied when Secretary of War Cameron broached the subject of clothing and weapons for the Kansans. “If they’re in uniform, it’s too easy for the enemy to count the exact number. Let the men stay in their own clothing so no one knows just how many we have. That’s going to be important—we’ve got to give off that there’s more of us than there are. As for rifles and bayonets, we’ll take as many as you can give us.”

  While the Frontier Guard was armed with rifles, bayonets, and ammunition, Adam took Lane to the second floor so he could get the lay of the land there.

  Though he didn’t point it out, Adam was certain Lane saw in what disrepair the president’s mansion was. Carpets were worn and threadbare in places, painting needed to be done most everywhere, and there were random water stains on the walls and ceiling. Some of the wainscoting was missing, and in other places it was coming loose. They didn’t go into the Green or Blue Rooms on the first floor, but Adam knew how sun-faded the draperies were, and that the rugs were frayed. Mrs. Lincoln had created a mild scandal because of the cost of some furnishings she’d ordered from New York even before the inauguration, but the actual refurbishment had hardly begun.

  As they ascended to the second level, Adam and Lane passed a long line of men that led from the main floor up the stairs and along the hall. The line ended outside the waiting room to the president’s office with three chairs pushed up against the wall, where they were occupied by those who’d been waiting the longest.

  “Job-seekers,” Adam explained when he and Lane were alone in the oval library. An overturned pile of blocks indicated that Tad and Willie, the Lincolns’ young sons, had been there recently. “There’ve been men lined up here since the day he moved in, and they stay till he meets with them or sends them home at night—then show up first thing at dawn the next day. Old Ed—you met him, the doorman—has been told to let them all in, no questions.”

  “These people just walk into the President’s House without a by your leave? And without any security? And they stay all day? What is he thinking? We’re at war for God’s sake.”

  Adam shook his head. “Nicolay and Hay—the two secretaries—and Ward Hill Lamon, who was his bodyguard until just recently—and I and Mrs. Lincoln and everyone else who has his ear says the same . . . but he won’t have any of it. ‘It’s the people’s house,’ he says.”

  Lane muttered something foul, then sighed and looked around as if seeing the place for the first time. “Never seen an oval-shaped room before. Especially one this big.”

  The large room was outfitted as a library, but the Lincolns used it as a casual family room. Shelves lined the curved walls, and the last bit of light from the sunset filtered through the large windows and over the hundreds of book spines. Adam knew more crates were coming, for Lincoln, who treasured every book he’d ever owned, had spent over a thousand dollars on new volumes for the library.

  A large sofa and two comfortable armchairs had been placed in the center of the room, flanking a low table. There was plenty of floor space where Tad and Willie could play while their parents sat and talked, or while their father met informally with friends or advisors.

  “Me neither,” Adam replied. “Abe likes it because it’s quiet and the boys can run around. They’re a couple of ruffians,” he added with a grin. “Willie, he’s ten, and Tad must be eight by now. I’m surprised we haven’t seen—or heard—them yet; Mrs. Lincoln must have them occupied somewhere. Abe’s office is down yonder, and the two secretaries, Nicolay and Hay—you met them, and Hay’s the younger one—are next door to it. They bunk across the hall, and the family bedrooms are behind those doors we passed at the top of the stairs. There’s that screen that blocks the hallway from the private side to the public, but you still walk past the bedchambers at the top of the stairs.”

  “We’ll be putting a guard at that screen,” Lane said firmly. “And sending all those job-seekers home. Abe’ll do it for Mrs. Lincoln’s sake, and the boys, if no other reason. She’s the wife—I reckon she’s got something to say about it.”

  “Speaking of wives . . . how is Mary? And the children?” Adam asked with some trepidation, knowing that Lane and his wife had not only gone through an estrangement some time ago, but had even divorced in ’56. They’d remarried two years later, but he knew things remained very tenuous between them. One thing he did know, however, was that Lane was very attached to his children, and had especially grieved over the death of his daughter Annie—who had died in Kansas.

  “We’re still married, but that’s about all I can say on that,” he replied brusquely. “The children are well, growing like weeds. Healthy so far.” He looked at Adam and, lifting one of his thick, bushy brows, quickly changed the subject. “What exactly is your position here? You never did say.”

  Adam gave a rueful laugh. “That’s because I reckon I don’t quite know. Abe asked me to stay on once my uncle Joshua left after the inauguration—the two of them are old friends, and Josh gave him a place to stay when he first came to Springfield. I’ve known Abe nearly twenty years since I came to live with my uncle, so I was asked to be part of the bodyguard team when he traveled from Il
linois to here. Then I got caught up helping with a situation a few weeks ago—”

  “That man who was murdered at the inaugural ball.” Lane shook his head at Adam’s surprise. “It was in the paper—even out to Lawrence—and so was your name. I reckon that makes you the president’s personal investigator now, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, I’d’ve said that job belonged to Allan Pinkerton, but he’s gone back to Chicago, so I reckon you might be right. But I can’t say I’m interested in doing much more investigating of anything, to be frank. I’d’ve left Washington weeks ago, but Abe asked me to stay.”

  The president—who was like an honorary uncle—said because he’d known Adam since he was a boy, he knew could trust him, and since he didn’t have even a whiff of political aspiration, that made Adam even more valuable to him. “You’re the only person in this city who doesn’t want anything from me,” Lincoln told him.

  Adam still wasn’t certain how he felt about being cornered into staying in the city and dunked all the way into politics and formal gatherings and tight shoes when all he wanted to do was get back to the wide open space of the frontier, but he was here, and here he’d remain, to serve and protect a man he loved and respected.

  “I suppose now that war’s officially on, I’m going to be enlisting pretty damned soon,” Adam said, wondering if they’d even take him with his missing arm. He gritted his teeth. Probably not. “Unless the Rebs come in and end things quickly.”

  Lane, who’d been looking out the windows at the last bit of the sun setting over the marshy ground beyond the house, turned back. “The way I see it, our entire concept of democracy is at stake. If Washington falls, the American experiment of democracy does too.”

  “We’re going to have to put on a big show for the Rebs,” Adam replied. “Scare the wool out of them. At least they know Jim Lane’s Jayhawkers aren’t afraid to pull a damned trigger. They’ll think twice about attacking us.”

  “That’s right. If we make it through tonight, I’ll recruit more men tomorrow, and we’re going to do whatever we can to put out the word how many troops we got here. At least three hundred. Probably up to four hundred by now.” Lane grinned darkly, pursing his lips.

  “I’ll drop a few hints here and there at the bar counter at the St. Charles too. That’s the hotel where the Southerners mostly stay, and word’ll easily get back to the Confederates there’s hundreds of angry Free-Staters here at the mansion, experienced and ready to fight.”

  “For now, we’ve got the sixty—but we’ll make it look like more. Whether they invade tonight . . .” He made a thoughtful sound.

  Adam pointed out the window. “Just yonder, down the hill there and across the National Mall—you can’t hardly see it right now in the dark—but the Long Bridge is there over the Potomac. That’s where they’ll come.”

  Eight hundred feet away, across the river.

  As he looked out into the twilit night, squinting to determine whether there was any sign of enemy troops gathering in the shadows, he saw the faint glow from a tower of the Smithsonian Castle. The sprawling, gothic-style building made from red-orange brick—so different from all of the other white marble government structures—was right there, at the end of the Long Bridge.

  The fingers on Adam’s real hand tightened. That building was the first place the Confederates would see when they came across. Though the president would be their ultimate target, the Rebels could easily be distracted by the stately castle.

  And the occupants therein.

  But surely Joseph Henry, the director of the Smithsonian, had evacuated with his wife, daughters—and niece.

  But why was there still a light in one of the towers? In the East Tower, where the Henry family lived?

  Adam checked the revolver holstered at his waist and then his pocket for ammunition. He’d grab himself an Enfield on the way out. “I’m going to take a few men down to the Long Bridge—it needs to be guarded. Maybe we’ll make some ruckus too—give those Rebs something to worry about.”

  And while he was down there scouting, he’d find out who had a light on in the Smithsonian tower.

  CHAPTER 2

  DESPITE THE RUMORS RUNNING RAMPANT THROUGH THE CITY, SOPHIE Gates wasn’t particularly worried. At least, that was what she told herself.

  Even if the Confederates did cross over the Long Bridge and end up right in the shadow of the castle-like Smithsonian building, that didn’t mean they’d have any reason to come inside it. And even if they did, Uncle Joseph was a Southern sympathizer—so he’d probably welcome the soldiers inside with open arms.

  If he ever came back from wherever he’d been for the past several hours, that is.

  Sophie considered turning down her lamp so as not to attract attention should the Rebels make an appearance, but that would mean she couldn’t write.

  And a journalist had to write.

  Here she was in the East Tower apartments of the Smithsonian, with a bird’s-eye view of Washington. The city was holding its collective breath, surely soon to be invaded. She’d have the most unique and broad perspective of whatever happened, and her report would be filled with important details and news. She’d telegraph the information up to New York, and then, finally, Horace Greeley and his Times would have to take notice of her stories.

  Of course, the reports would have to be submitted under her nom de plume, Henry Altman, because most people didn’t think a woman journalist could write about anything other than gossip, fashion, or—she shuddered—housekeeping. But Sophie was bound and determined to prove them all wrong, and this could be her chance.

  If she had a quiver of nervousness about what might happen if the soldiers did come tonight, she refused to dwell on it. A newspaper correspondent had to take risks. And besides . . . she knew how to shoot the rifle she had loaded and rested against the wall behind her desk.

  She wasn’t a fool.

  Nevertheless, Sophie couldn’t completely quell a twitch of nerves about being alone here in the castle when or if the Rebels invaded.

  So she forced herself to focus on the words she’d written so far. She planned to prepare two versions: a brief report with the most pertinent information, short and sweet, that could be telegraphed for instant receipt.

  And she’d also write a more detailed story to be sent by mail, to be printed in full later. It was that version to which she now gave her attention.

  As the sun sets on a chill, rainy April day, all ears are turned toward any sound that might herald the arrival of the Confederate Traitors on the banks of the Potomac. If they dared cross the Long Bridge, the Union men of Washington City would meet them on the springy turf of the National Mall and—

  Sophie stilled, tensing. What was that noise?

  Her gaze went to the window, which faced northeast, over the mall. Heart thudding, she rose and, taking care to keep herself from being silhouetted by the lamp, peeked out from the edge of the glass.

  There was no sign of movement below, but she was looking toward the Capitol building. If the Rebels came, they would cross the Long Bridge, barely a spit away to the south and west of her—everyone said so, and Sophie had been listening to the rumors and arguments for days.

  The view of the Potomac and its bridge was from a different window than the one by her desk. Even though the night was cloudy from a day of rain, she might be able to make out some shapes and even count them. That would be good information. She started out of the room, then spun and came back for the rifle. Just in case.

  As she hurried across the hall to the south-facing chamber—her aunt and uncle’s bedroom—she heard the definite sounds of movement: thumping, clanking, thudding. It sounded like a massive army was marching over the wooden slats of the bridge. Inside, her stomach dropped and squished like tub of wet laundry.

  The Rebels are coming.

  Sophie gripped the rifle and tried to decide what to do. She was a woman alone in this huge building—which gave her many places to hide, if necessary.

&n
bsp; But she was also a journalist.

  It was her task to get the story. She would be the first reporter to see the Confederate troops; she could get their numbers, perhaps identify and even count their weapons—even follow them and watch as everything played out. Though her heart was thudding wildly, and her knees were a trifle weak, she knew this was her best chance to get a real story. She could be the first to get to the telegraph office and send word up to Mr. Greeley.

  Fired by determination, she began to make her way down the stairs of the tower, rifle still in hand. In the past when seeking out a story, Sophie had often dressed as a man in an effort to be taken more seriously—and to keep from attracting attention as a woman, particularly if she was going to places women generally weren’t supposed to go. But tonight, she didn’t have time to change out of the simple shirtwaist, skirt, and subdued crinoline she wore at home.

  She wasn’t certain whether her obvious gender would help or hinder her if she came face to face with the Confederates, but she would surely find out.

  She was nearly to the bottom of the dark stairs when she heard a sound at the exterior door. A thunk, as if someone was trying to open it.

  Her heart skipped a beat and she paused, holding her breath, feeling the sound of her pulse ramming inside her ears. Uncle Joseph, finally returning? Maybe he was drunk, and was fumbling for the latch in the dark outside.

  Or was it the Rebels, already determined to take over one of the government buildings, as they had done all over the South? The sounds of marching over the bridge were louder and steadier now that she was on the ground floor and closer.

  Thud, thud, thud . . . How many were there? She swallowed hard.

  The door clunked quietly again.

  Surely if it were the Confederates trying to get in, they’d be louder and bolder. Of course Sophie had never experienced a war before, or seen an army in action—unless you counted the gangs in New York, but she expected if a group of invading soldiers wanted access to a building, they wouldn’t be particularly polite about it. They’d pound on the door, demand entrance, even break their way in.