“Yes, sir,” Adam replied more formally than he would have done if he and Abe were alone.
“The case of Johnny Thorne—but it was actually Pamela Thorne, was it not?—has been concluded then?” Lincoln asked, getting down to business.
“Actually, her name was Pamela Buckthorne. She was using the name Johnny, and a shortened version of her last name, in case someone might recognize it. Jim might have known the name Robert Buckthorne from his days in Kansas—although it sounds as if they’d never actually met—and Pamela, for whatever reason, had decided she no longer wanted to be with her husband, and chose to . . .” Adam studiously avoided looking at Miss Gates as he pushed on, “be in an affair with Jim Lane. It started back in Kansas, some months ago.”
“But Buckthorne knew this, is that correct?” Lincoln asked, still twirling his spectacles. “And he was displeased about being cuckolded—and not only cuckolded, but by one of his loathsome enemies, Jim Lane—an anti-slavery proponent.”
“That’s what I understand,” Adam replied. “He knew she’d come to Washington with Lane, and when he saw her marching with the Frontier Guard on the day they came from the Willard to garrison here, he was furious—”
“Because she was wearing trousers and dressed as a man,” Miss Gates said with a definite bite to her tone. “He called her some inexcusably crass names, Mr. President.”
“Yes, I can see how that cuckolding business might make a man testy,” replied Lincoln. “But then he went on and killed her over it? Right down the hall from here. I’m not hesitant to say that I hope the man burns in hell for what he did, and how, and why.”
Adam couldn’t agree more. “He killed her partially because he was furious about her relationship with Lane, but also because she knew about their plans to burn down the Willard. He realized the moment the news came out that the Willard had burned down—which was planned but didn’t actually happen—Pamela would know who was responsible, and she’d tell Lane or someone else. And then that would ruin their real plans to burn down the White House.
“That was why she had to die that night—because Buckthorne and Leward Hale and their other men expected the next day to dawn with the hotel nothing more than a heap of ashes.”
“And, no doubt, a number of dead bodies,” Hilton said in that mild, low voice of his.
“Murder and the great destruction of property,” Lincoln said with a dark look. “And the doorman Birch is responsible for stopping it.”
“He is. He would have been here today to meet you, sir, but he’s still recovering from the beating he took Tuesday night,” Adam explained.
“He was a fine man,” Lincoln said. “Very polite, and with amazingly white gloves. I look forward to thanking him in person when he’s recovered.”
“I know he was upset at missing his chance to meet you today, Mr. President,” Hilton said, a wry smile tickling his lips. “And he intends to return to his post as soon as he is able to stand readily. He wanted to go back today, in fact—said he never knew when there’d be another plot he had to stop, and that was ‘right important, all things considered.’ But I convinced him he’d best stay in bed for one more day, even if he had to miss a day of work—which seemed to bother him more than missing a meeting with the President of the United States.”
Lincoln looked at him for a moment as if uncertain whether to believe him or not, then began to laugh heartily. “Well, that is a man with loyalty and dedication. I believe I’ll need to make a visit to see him at his door someday instead of requiring him to come all the way up here.” He was still chuckling when someone knocked on the door. “Yes?”
Nicolay poked his head into the room. “Mr. President, the Seventh is on their way here.”
“Yes, I’ll be there in one more moment.”
The door closed, and Lincoln looked back at the three of them. “Just a few more things and then we can put this matter to rest, I believe. First, Adam, the library can be cleaned up and refurnished? The boys have been nagging to get back in there to retrieve their toys, and the bloodstains—well, I wouldn’t want to give them any ideas. Especially Tad.”
Adam chuckled. “Yes, there’s no reason I can think of to keep the oval library closed off any longer.”
“And it was just by chance that you went up there last night, Miss Gates, and encountered Buckthorne—interrupting his scheme?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “I was looking for something to read. I was thinking Poe might be a good option—”
“Ah, yes, ‘The Purloined Letter’ or ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’?”
“I thought perhaps either of those might be too macabre . . . especially the Rue Morgue,” Miss Gates replied with a smile. “But then I saw what looked like a bundle of clothing on the floor, and it hadn’t been there before. When I got close enough to look at it, I realized it smelled like kerosene—just like the bundles of rags at the Willard—and then . . . and then he was there. With that awful knife.”
Her shudder was noticeable, and Adam felt another rush of relief that he’d made it back to the White House before anything worse than a bad scare happened to her. He’d never have forgiven himself if something had happened to Miss Gates.
“As I recall, you came bursting through the front door without even waiting for Old Ed to open it,” Lincoln said to Adam.
“I’d just been in the Second Ward, and Leward Hale, the man who—”
“Gave you that arm,” the president said, looking soberly at him. “Among other horrendous things.”
“Yes. He’d just confessed to the plan of burning down the White House, and I was hoping to get here before any of the plot was put into play.” He glanced at Miss Gates. “I got here and was looking around for signs of where the fire was to be set, and I—and half the house—heard you scream.”
“You threw a candle at him?” Mr. Lincoln asked with genuine interest.
“It was on a small metal holder with a sharp edge, and there was a good portion of hot wax collecting there,” Miss Gates explained. “I was waiting for the right moment, but then he startled me and I just . . . threw it at him.” Her eyes were wide, and Adam noticed her face was pale even now. “And then I managed to grab the ink pen off the table, and I jabbed it at him, and . . .” She broke off and swallowed audibly.
The president was nodding. “Yes, Miss Gates, you did a right brave thing. And I believe you saved us from this great white house burning down and the signal to Beauregard to march across the river. Although my wife might be slightly disappointed in not being required to start from scratch on the outfitting of a presidential mansion,” he added with a deprecating laugh, “I think all around, it turned out well.”
He turned to Adam. “What of Leward Hale?”
“He’s got a large knot on his head, but he’ll recover—in prison, most like, for his attempt to explode Willard’s.”
“And Jim Lane? What was his involvement?”
Adam shrugged. “A few falsehoods to hide his infidelity, sir. I believe that’s the extent of it.”
“That’s a relief. Now,” said the president, “let us all go out and celebrate the saving of the city. There’s to be a band playing and a march on the Mall, and later tonight, I’m told, there will be more music and revelry on the square. As for the three of you—once again, I thank you all for managing all of the other tasks set upon you as well as this one—and doing it so well. Not one of you, I think, could have finished this problem without the help of the others.”
Although he said the words, and clearly meant them, it was Adam on whom the president’s eyes rested the longest. It was as if he knew that, for Adam, the effort and time, and the very point of being here in the city, was the most trying and difficult of them all. His deep gratitude and understanding was reflected in his gaze, and Adam nodded with acknowledgment in return.
“Oh,” said the president as they turned to go. “There was one other thing that became clear to me now that this debacle has ended.”
The three of them paused at the door.
A smile played about Lincoln’s mouth as he looked at Miss Gates. “Buckthorne was brandishing a terrible knife at you, wasn’t he? And in the midst of it all, you managed to stay him with a mere ink pen.”
She began to giggle, clearly anticipating what he was about to say, as the president, also fighting a chuckle, went on: “Which just goes to prove that the pen is mightier than the sword, doesn’t it, Miss Gates?”
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
The twelve-day span between the firing on Fort Sumter—the “official” start of the Civil War—and the influx of reinforcements from the North was an extremely tense, anxious time for the City of Washington. I’ve done my best to depict with accuracy the main course of events and general mood during this time period in Murder in the Oval Library.
Although the resources I tapped while researching this book are numerous and could never be itemized in this limited space, in particular, I found The Siege of Washington by John Lockwood and Charles Lockwood and The 116: The True Story of Abraham Lincoln’s Lost Guard by Charles Muehlberger particularly invaluable to me for filling in the details, and understanding on a day-to-day basis what was happening in Washington from April 13 through April 25, when the Seventh New York did, in fact, finally arrive to great fanfare and wild relief. Additionally, Lincoln’s White House by James Conroy was also invaluable for my understanding of not only the plan of the mansion in 1861, but also the details of the household itself.
I chose to depict Senator Jim Lane in this book as a close friend and confidant of Adam Quinn’s, and although there were many who loathed the man and considered him mad and ruthless, there is no doubt he was a brilliant and bold military tactician, and an excellent statesman for Kansas. His reasons for fighting to abolish slavery were related more to the economic impact of the “peculiar institution” than that for social justice, but regardless, he was a tireless advocate for the free statehood of Kansas.
His experience fighting the pro-slavers during Bloody Kansas, and the fact that he and Abraham Lincoln had much in common and had met during Lincoln’s visit to Kansas in late 1859, made him the perfect leader for the Frontier Guard—which was installed in the White House on April 18 just as I’ve described in this book. Lane was a philanderer and had a rocky marriage (as indicated herein), and a personality that bordered on unstable. Many historians believe he suffered from depression or bipolar disorder, and unfortunately, Senator Lane died in 1866 due to a self-inflicted wound.
While one cannot attribute the fact that the Confederate Army didn’t descend on Washington solely to Jim Lane’s guerrilla warfare tactics, it’s clear they most certainly had an impact on keeping Beauregard from invading. Lane had fought the pro-slavers in Kansas, and he knew how to manipulate them and their collective psyche. But aside from Jim Lane, there were other men in Washington working to spread rumors about the number of troops and militia in the city—and as the city was overrun by Southern sympathizers, it wasn’t a difficult proposition.
Whether the Confederates muffed their chance to take the capital because of administrative military issues (which is part of the explanation in The Siege of Washington) or because of the careful spreading of rumors and visibility tactics, we won’t ever know for certain. But there is evidence in letters and reports to support the fact that every time the Rebels thought they had enough men to invade, more information (usually false) came out that spooked them. Either way, the fact that the Confederate Army did not take Washington when it had the opportunity is likely one of the most important lost-chance military operations ever—and would surely have ended the war almost before it began.
Clara Barton came on the scene in this book in much the same way she began, in real life, what would be her iconic career as the woman who founded The American Red Cross: by helping the Sixth Massachusetts men when they disembarked from the train after the Baltimore riot. And, yes, she actually did conduct shooting practice in an empty lot near the National Mall (although I’m fairly certain her target was not a poorly rendered barnyard painting).
The British-born actress Mrs. Jean Davenport Lander did, in fact, visit the White House at approximately midnight on the night of April 1819, and although the “extra” rider on the hackney carriage is a product of my imagination, the details about her visit are truet
Additionally, there was a foiled plot to burn down the Willard Hotel on that same night of April 18–19, and although I have no idea who discovered the bundles of rags throughout and was able to stop the plan, it certainly seems reasonable that someone as dedicated as my fictional Birch would have been the one to do so.
Although Leward Hale and Robert Buckthorne are also fictional characters, and what happened to Adam Quinn and Tom Stillwell’s family in Kansas is also fictional, they are all based on actual people and events related to the horrific Bloody Kansas war during the last half of the 1850s. There were numerous instances of ballot-box stuffing, tarring and feathering, murder, kidnapping of free blacks, ambushes, and the wanton and random destruction of Free State families and their homesteads. Unfortunately, none of the descriptions I provide in this book are exaggerated in relation to that miniature “civil war.”
The garrisoning of soldiers in the White House, the Willard Hotel, and the Capitol Building did happen just as described—up to and including the awful sanitation problems and the tobacco spots, grease stains, and destruction of the desks and property of Southern Senators in the Chamber.
As strange and dangerous as it seems to us today, the depiction of the job-seekers being a near-constant presence in an executive mansion during wartime is also shockingly true. Although Nicolay and Hay eventually helped to limit the hours that the president—or as they nicknamed him, the Tycoon—would be available to meet with those pressing for positions, the house was open and accessible during this time to anyone and everyone. It is more than probable that someone like Robert Buckthorne could have been there every day, ostensibly waiting for the president while casing the place—and even hiding his bundles of rags—in preparation for the plan to send the mansion up in flames. And it’s quite true that anytime anyone stepped out of the bedchambers or any of the rooms on the second floor, they could easily encounter a stranger or the lineup of people waiting to see Lincoln.
Finally, a word about Adam’s tracking abilities and approach. My presentation of tracking in such a way—by employing not only the mechanics of looking at shapes, angles, the movement of ground, etc., but also the spiritual sense of “seeing” and “understanding” what the creature is doing—is taken directly from traditional Native American teachings. I find it not only fascinating, but also extremely intuitive that the best trackers—of which I hope Adam continues to be—use not only their five basic senses, but also the natural connection to their world and the perception of a broad consciousness in order to succeed in following and understanding the actions and movements of an animal or man.
I hope you enjoyed reading Murder in the Oval Library, and have come to agree with my take-away from the vast amounts of reading and research I’ve enjoyed with this project: that truth is, really, truly, stranger than fiction.
—C. M. Gleason, September 2018
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