"I might have spoken to you of other matters then, but you were not alone; you were engaged with this gentleman, whose identity I did not know." Jerry nodded at the tall youth beside him. "Since then I have been arrested. Early this morning, at my own hotel, Willard's. Today I was kept all day in prison. Beginning this evening I was questioned by someone I believe to be Colonel Lafayette C. Baker himself. I managed to get away, but not without giving and receiving some slight damage." He raised his left arm gingerly. When the sleeve fell back a little, an empurpled lump the size of a small egg showed on the side of his wrist. He could feel another, smaller, on the back of his head, and he was ready to present it as additional evidence if needed.
"How could you get away?" This, in a disbelieving voice, came from the older woman.
Jerry turned to her with what he hoped was a frank and open gaze. "It sounds incredible, I know. They—Baker and two of his men—had me in a jail somewhere near the Capitol. I was brought in through a side entrance, and when the chance came I walked out the same way. I have the feeling that most of the people there did not know of my presence, or the Colonel's either. I even had the impression that he himself might have been in that building secretly. We were quite apart from the other officers and prisoners there." He sipped at the cup of water the girl had now put down in front of him.
"Were you followed here?" the woman demanded sharply.
"Madam, I am certain that I was not."
"What did they want of you?" Booth asked. He had folded his arms now, and his eyes were probing at Jerry relentlessly.
"The names of some of my friends in Texas. But they learned nothing."
"And how did you manage to escape?"
"Baker—if it was he—sent his men out of the room in which he had begun to ask me questions. Evidently he hoped to hear from me something that he wanted to keep secret even from his own men. He thought he had already—disabled me." Jerry raised his left arm gingerly. "But it turned out he had not."
Something, a spontaneous mixture of envy, admiration, and despair, blazed for a moment in Booth's face; but he masked his feelings quickly and stood silent, thinking.
"I had heard," the older woman said, "that Lafe Baker was currently in New York."
"What," asked Booth, "did this interrogator look like?" When Jerry had described the man behind the desk, the actor commented thoughtfully: "That does sound like Lafe Baker himself. But I too had heard that he was in New York." He paused, creating a moment full of stage presence and effect. "So you are from Texas, Mr. Flint. May I ask, without probing into any private matters, what you are doing now in Washington?"
Jerry took a deep breath. He had anticipated this question, but still he thought his answer over carefully before he gave it. He was reasonably sure that these people did not really believe his story—yet. Much was going to depend upon his answer, and he was trying to remember something that Jan Chen had told him.
"I consider myself," he answered finally, "a soldier of the Confederacy, seeking upon my own responsibility to find what duty I can do here for my cause." And he dug in the side pocket of his coat—slowly and carefully, with the strong lad and Booth both watching—and brought out a heavy bunch of keys.
Jerry tossed them with a jingling thud onto the middle of the kitchen table. "Those," he added, "are Lafe Baker's. I have not examined them closely, but they may bear some evidence of ownership."
The strong man grabbed up the keys, then stood holding them in his hand, not knowing what to do next. Booth scarcely looked at the keys. His lips had parted slightly when he heard Jerry's answer. Again envy and admiration crossed the actor's face, this time mingled with awe rather than despair; it was as if he had just heard Revelation. Again the expression did not appear to have been calculated. He stood silent, staring at Jerry and making new assessments.
"Or else," said the older woman to Jerry, in a still-suspicious voice, "you are one of Pinkerton's agents. Or—" She had begun now to look closely at the keys in the young man's hand, and something about them evidently proved convincing. Her tone of accusation faltered.
"Pinkerton," said Booth sharply, "has been in New Orleans for a long time, out of the business more than a year. No, look at Mr. Flint's injury. I think he is an authentic hero for having achieved such an escape, and we cannot refuse to help him." He became courtly again. "Introductions have been delayed, but let us have them now. Mr.
Flint, this is Mrs. Surrat, the kindly landlady of this establishment. And this is her lovely daughter, Anna." Anna, flustered, tried to curtsy.
Next Booth nodded toward the powerful young man. "My good friend and associate, Lewis Paine."
Jerry's good right hand was almost crushed in a silent handshake from the youth. Meanwhile Booth went on: "And my acquaintance Mr. Ned Spangler, who works as a sceneshifter at Ford's. Mrs. Surrat, Anna—Mr. Flint deserves the best of hospitality. What is there to eat?"
"He's welcome to a supper." Mrs. Surrat began to bestir herself, then paused. "But he can't hide here. There's no place for him to sleep."
Booth started to frown, then appeared to be amused. "Very well, I'll find another place for him. Lewis, show the gentleman where he can wash up."
"Right, Cap'n."
Ten minutes later Jerry, having removed some of the scum of prison from his face and hands, was back at the table in the kitchen, whose windows were now securely curtained against any observation from outside. Pork chops and greens and fried potatoes were put before him on a tin plate, and he needed little urging to dig in. Paine leaned in a doorway, heavy arms folded, watching Jerry eat; Spangler and young Anna had both disappeared. Booth, an enameled cup of steaming coffee in front of him, rose from the chair opposite Jerry's to welcome him back.
"I suppose—" Booth began, then turned his head sharply, listening; held up a hand for silence.
Mrs. Surrat, at the sink, glanced at him but then went on rattling pans in water. Evidently the landlady here was used to conspiratorial maneuvers.
"Who was that?" Booth asked in a low voice of Spangler, who was just coming in from the front room.
"Only Weichmann." Ned stood blinkly at them all stupidly; he had brought fresh whiskey fumes into the kitchen with him.
"Who's Weichmann?" Jerry asked.
"A young War Department clerk," Booth informed him in low voice, turning back to face the table, "who boards here. I fear his sympathies are not with us, though he's an old friend of the landlady's son."
Mrs. Surrat turned from the sink, drying her hands on a towel, evidently willing to leave the dishes soaking until tomorrow when presumably there would be kitchen help. She looked at Jerry, and for the first time favored him with a trace of a smile. "You will wish to get out of Washington, I suppose."
"Yes. When I am satisfied that… that there is nothing more for me to do here, yes. " Jerry nodded. He had turned to face Mrs. Surrat, but he was aware of Booth watching him keenly. Only twenty-four hours, Jerry was thinking. I must have that much more time, free, here in the city. When I am through at Ford's, whatever the outcome there, then all of these people can go—
Mrs. Surrat asked him: "Where will you want to go?"
Jerry allowed his face to show the weariness he felt. "A good question. I'm afraid that I no longer have any country left."
Lewis Paine, leaning in the doorway, shook his head in gloomy agreement. Booth actually let out a small cry, as of pain; but when Jerry turned to look at him the actor, his face a study in tragedy, was nodding agreement too. "Now that Lee has surrendered…" Booth allowed his words to trail off.
What would another good Confederate fanatic say to that? "Lee could not help it," Jerry protested. "He had to surrender, to save his men from useless slaughter."
Booth was looking at Jerry as intently as before, as if hoping against hope to hear from him words that would mean salvation. "I know he could not help it; but now his army has disappeared. Richmond is lost, the government dissolved. Where will you go?"
"I mean
to find General Johnston," Jerry declared stoutly. "In Carolina. We can go on fighting in the mountains."
Booth looked as if he might be envious of this heroic dedication. Certainly he was moved by it—though evidently not to the extent of being ready to emulate it himself. "I wish I could come with you," the actor announced wistfully, and for a moment Jerry feared that his stratagem might after all be about to damage history beyond repair.
But only for a moment. Booth continued: "But alas, I cannot. Matters of even greater moment hold me here."
"I'm sure they do, sir." Jerry's reply was so promptly spoken and came with such obvious sincerity that Booth was gratified.
The actor sipped at his coffee, made a face, and stood up suddenly. "I will write you a note," he declared, "to present to a friend of mine. When you are finished, come into the dining room." But then he suddenly changed his mind and resumed his seat. "Never mind," he amended. "Take your time. When you have eaten, I will take you there myself."
Young Anna had returned now, with warm water in a basin, and a collection of bandages and unlabeled jars containing what Jerry presumed were household remedies. She began tending to his arm, which required that he first take off his coat. The old knife-cut in the sleeve, usually inconspicuous, became for the moment plainly visible.
Booth impulsively got to his feet, taking his own coat off. "If you would honor me, sir, by wearing mine. We appear to be of a size."
"That's not necessary, Mr. Booth."
"I repeat, I would be honored, sir, to have you accept it from me." There was a proud, almost threatening urgency in the actor's voice.
"In that case, sir, I shall be honored to accept."
FIFTEEN
Soon after Jerry had finished his supper, and thanked his hostess with what he hoped was sufficient courtesy, he and Booth set out upon the darkened street. Dogs in nearby yards barked at them mindlessly, undecided between offering greetings or challenge. Jerry now had an evil-smelling poultice bandaged to his left wrist, and was wearing Booth's coat. The garment, of some beautiful soft tan fabric, was a little loose in the shoulders but otherwise fit its new owner well enough. Booth meanwhile had somewhat gingerly put on Jerry's coat.
Hardly had the kitchen door of Surrat's boarding house closed behind them when Jerry recalled that the man called Paine, inside, was still in possession of his, or rather Baker's, pistol. But Jerry said nothing. He wasn't going to go back and ask for the weapon; he had never really trusted himself with firearms and in fact was rather relieved to be without it.
"It is only a few blocks to your lodging for the night," Booth had informed him courteously when they had reached the street. "If you are quite able to walk?"
"Food and rest have marvelously restored me. Food and rest, and a sense of being among friends once again. Please lead on."
They trudged west on H Street, Booth whistling a slow tune softly, and soon passed the imposing structure of the Patent Office. A conversational silence grew. Jerry kept expecting to be asked more details of his escape, but it was not to be. Perhaps Booth was jealous of the daring feat; or, perhaps, absorbed in his own plans.
Just when they had left the Patent Office behind, the streetlights dimmed suddenly, brightened again briefly, dimmed and then went out.
"Nine o'clock," Booth commented succinctly, striding on. There was still some faint light from the sky, and the occasional spill of illumination from the window of a house. Enough light to see where you were going, generally, if you were not too particular about what your boots stepped in.
Somewhere, not too far away, black-sounding voices were raised in a hymn. The April night was very mild. Summer here, thought Jerry, must be ungodly hot. He could remember it that way from his trip in the nineteen-seventies.
Now Booth as he walked was pulling something out of his pocket, passing it to Jerry. "Brandy?"
"Thank you," Jerry took a small nip and passed the flask back. They walked on, Jerry listening, thinking, or trying to think. Tomorrow night, less than twenty-four hours from now, he was quite possibly going to have to do something nasty to this generous assassin who walked beside him now. Or Booth would do something nasty to him. He, Jerry, would not be able to do much to anyone else in Ford's Theater tomorrow, he supposed, without derailing history.
Now Booth was saying in a low confiding voice: "Tomorrow, when you have rested, I should like to have a confidential talk with you. On the subject of what the true duty of a Confederate ought to be, at this time, in this city."
"I shall be glad to have that talk, Mr. Booth. But I shall be better able to give it the attention it deserves if I get some sleep first."
"Of course." They paced on another quarter of a block before Booth added: "It is difficult, in this city, for a man who has a great enterprise in mind to find someone reliable to work with."
Jerry made an effort to change the subject. "Where are we going?"
"To a certain house on Ohio Street, where they know me well. I am sure any friend of mine will be graciously received there."
They had passed Ninth Street by now and had come to Tenth, where Booth turned left. Ahead, the street was bright with private gaslights; Jerry realized that the path the actor had chosen for them was going to take them directly past Ford's Theater.
Tonight's performance was evidently not over yet, for both sides of the street in the vicinity of the theater were solidly parked with waiting carriages. A couple of taverns in the same block were doing a good business, various drivers and servants passing the time inside while they waited for their employers.
"Perhaps I will be recognized here," Booth muttered, as if to himself. "But it doesn't matter." He squared his shoulders and strode on bravely in Jerry's soiled and knife-torn coat, which fit him imperfectly.
Two more blocks south on Tenth Street, and they had passed the theater, without any sign of Booth's being recognized. At that point Jerry's guide crossed the Avenue, then turned right. Again Jerry had caught a glimpse of the White House in its park; again it seemed to him that nothing of any consequence in this city could be more than a few blocks from anything else.
Booth as he walked resumed his grumbling about his associates, still without naming any names. He could find one bright spot, though. "Paine, of course, has demonstrated his coolness and ability. He rode with Mosby in the valley, before he was captured and had to give parole."
Jerry could vaguely recall hearing of a Confederate guerrilla leader named Mosby. "Yes, Paine struck me as one who might be counted on in a pinch."
"Yes." Booth was sad again. "O'Laughlin—you haven't met him yet—is the only other one of the group with any military experience, and that no more than trivial."
Still it must be more than you have yourself, thought Jerry. The actor was obviously young, healthy, athletic. Jerry had seen and heard enough in this world to be sure that no one was kept out of the army—any army—for any such triviality as a perforated eardrum, say. So Booth could have been with Lee if he'd wanted to. Or he could be still fighting at this moment, with Johnston. But he had obviously chosen to remain a well-paid civilian, living and working in the North. An interesting point, but certainly not one that Jerry was going to bring up aloud.
A few more blocks and they had reached their goal, a large wooden structure on Ohio Street, set back in a deep, wide lawn behind an iron fence, and surrounded by tall trees already leafed for spring. Jerry, looking at the size of the building and the number of lighted, red-curtained windows it possessed, remembered suddenly that Booth had spoken of their destination as a "house". Now Jerry realized that the actor hadn't meant a home.
They entered the house—how else, thought Jerry?—through an inconspicuous side door. Farther back there stood a long hitching rail where enough horses were currently parked to outfit a squadron of cavalry. The music of a violin, playing something quick and sprightly, could be heard from somewhere inside.
A middle-aged woman elaborately gowned and made up, greeted Booth as an honored ol
d friend. On second glance the proprietress was considerably younger than a first impression indicated, the cosmetics being evidently a kind of badge of office deliberately intended to add years.
Booth squeezed the lady's right hand in both of his. "Bella, I would be happy if you could do something for a friend of mine, Mr. Smith here. He finds himself for one reason and another—it is altogether too long and tedious a story to tell it now—he finds himself, I say, temporarily but drastically bereft of lodging. It would be a fine and Christian act if you were to provide him with a bed for the night—on my account, of course."
Jerry, increasingly dead on his feet after a day of imprisonment, fight and flight, had taken off his hat and stood looking around him numbly. On a sideboard nearby lilacs, in a crystal bowl with other flowers, helped to fight off the presence of the nearby canal.
"Only a bed?" Bella wondered aloud, looking Jerry over and automatically taking a professional attitude. She could hardly have failed to notice that Mr. Smith and Mr. Booth had switched coats, but she was not going to say anything about it.
Booth was lighting a cigar, forgetting his manners so far as not to offer Jerry—or Bella—one. "A bed," said the actor, "is a minimum requirement. You will have to ask Mr. Smith what else he might enjoy. All on my account, as I have said."
"Of course." Bella, having come to a decision, smiled at them both, and patted an arm of each. "Leave everything to me."
They were still in the entry hall. A stair with a gilded rail ascended gracefully in candlelight nearby, and now someone, a blond young woman in a silvery gown, was coming down that stair. The actor's eyes lighted, and he bowed gravely at her approach.
"I thought I heard a voice I recognized," the blond woman almost whispered, resting a hand familiarly on Booth's shoulder. Then she brushed at the shoulder, frowning as a wife might frown at some domestic disaster. "Wilkes, what's happened to your coat?"
"Later we can discuss that, my dear Ella." Booth patted her hand in an almost domestic way. "Mr. Smith, I shall call for you in the morning, when you have rested." He gave Jerry a meaningful look, and a hard, parting handgrip upon the shoulder—thoughtfully remembering that the right arm was the good one. "There is much that we have to discuss."
AFTER THE FACT Page 15
