Oh gentle South. Your seasons are long, your days over-languorous and balmy beyond nature, nor bitten with winded frost. Yet do your sons and daughters dream through their nights, rejoice at the sun-blessed days or even thank the storms of autumn and spring for the kindness of their torrents, the fury of their lightning strokes. A million firebugs rejoicing in the damp aftermath as their wings reclaim a day of flight.
That some men are more favored we know. That all will find salvation is scarcely wondered. Let us teach our children, black or white, to know the several blessings of our God. Only let us not give arms to babes, skilled instruments to the ignorant, powers to the inept. Free the niggers? Sooner set loose a herd of wild beasts upon a planted field. Franchise them too? Lay your first born in the fresh-turned furrows, all the same.
***
How had the metropolis of my youth changed? Not very. I felt familiar with it all. Every brick, every lamp to light a brand new street, still had the mark of a kinsman. And walking past the Merchants’ Exchange—where I ever remember seeing my father pose for a moment’s parlay with some vest-thumbed cheroot chewer, to dream of a more genteel life than that of some circus vagabond—my footsteps felt so planted, so sure, I nearly crossed toward the Holliday Street Theater, but settled for the quick deposition of two cents for a look at the Sun, that somehow should have mention of my latest triumph or my next challenge.
But when the capital city was spread around and below me, as engines scrawled their final course of tracks, it was no Tyrian carpet, even to my musings, no fabled kingdom promising wisdom to all who entered. And the silver piece that found its way unknowingly into my nervous hand, as the station pulled itself ever closer, managed to show only its tail-side through thirty random flips. This, though I promised I should replace it in my pocket as soon as it had blessed my mission with the propitious showing of its face. Then flip a coin, yourself at any time you wish to have it land face up in your palm—it is always the tail.
If I have seemed preoccupied with the detailing of my recollections of this or that theater in any other city, it is nothing compared to my feelings in Washington. The memories of Grover’s, the Washington, Ford’s, of course, overswept me all at once, that I could smell the spirit gum and cold cream, blinked to clear them from my clouded eyes. Though I still held Saturday’s half-read Baltimore paper in my valise, I could not wait to purchase the Sunday Morning Chronicle, to see what fare was being offered this week.
Still, how should I think of this fixation? How can I not but wonder at the remarkably unreal aspects of the occupier of my fancies, the catalyst of this fact. Somewhere I had been absorbed by a world of fantasy—yes, and soaked through the skin. Yet still was I lost in my attempt to reconcile its nature, to give it substance where my instincts knew there was none, that my shaded self might gain form and stature in its company.
***
Time. Place.
“Just think of it,” she said with her head upon my chest and her right hand massaging my shoulder.
The reflections of the lantern were lost in the auburn weaves of her hair.
“You will be the hero of Richmond.”
“Richmond has fallen. The South has surrendered.”
“Those are the reports of the Federal newspapers. You believe them?”
“They are all that is left to believe.”
“This is not the man I love. Where is your spirit? Where is your strength? What of the immortality of which you spoke? The ambitious youth who set fire to the Ephesian dome—”
“Outlives in fame the fool who built it? That was brandy talking. If you remember, I could not recall that youth’s name. I cannot now.”
“Wilkes!” she returned with a start.
“What, I? There can be no purpose now. No troops to exchange for the hostage president. The man you love is here. Who else would have had the courage to smuggle drugs under the watchful eyes of Grant’s army? And wave his own pass coolly, defiantly in their faces?”
Something caught the corner of my eye and without pausing to think I felt myself avoiding some strange shadow playing ominously at one side of the room. There it seemed to dance, or at least declaim with mighty strokes in a manner befitting some skilled tragedian, bent with age or hapless station. That vision of my death bravely interrupted, presented unrehearsed by my one true, if unmet friend.
“No. You have tried to kidnap him on two occasions. Tried and failed. Now, kill him.”
“What?”
“You said—”
“That was the brandy, too.”
“Perhaps it was the brandy, also, that spoke of your love for me.”
“Never question that.”
“I am not the only one—”
“You are my only love.”
“Then?”
“To what end?”
“Revenge. It is your destiny!”
The words of both the gypsy and John Brown raced helter skelter through my mind, seeking some balance, some form, some artful cohesion.
“You confuse me with another.”
“Perhaps I do. Ah, yes. I remember, now. You are the one whom Edwin Booth assured would not startle the world.”
“I will not have you repeat that again. That information was not even mine to give you, but told me by my brother June in a moment of confidence. Edwin often fills his letters with casual observations. He is not one to long contemplate his thoughts before expressing them.”
A silence matched in depth only by her hazel eyes ensued. I swallowed hard and felt the ancient wound in my throat.
“And if I fail?”
“You will not. Or I will follow you in infamy in a free South.”
***
Late afternoon. A stately home.
A drawing room furnished with overstuffed chairs and divans, dark, low tables with spindly legs and high, narrow sideboards lined regularly with bric-a-brac. An oriental carpet in the middle of the floor. Two large, planted vases flank curtained French doors.
YOUNG WOMAN: I cannot love you, Johnnie. I cannot. You know I want to—only I cannot let myself.
THE ACTOR: And you can stop it just like that?
YOUNG WOMAN: No, no; but my father can.
THE ACTOR: Your father? He has always despised me. Damn his duplicity. He despises me and he does not even know why. (gesturing) Because I am an actor.
YOUNG WOMAN: That isn’t true. Poppie isn’t like that. It would be different if—
THE ACTOR: If what?
YOUNG WOMAN: If you were famous—really famous—like your brother. Poppie thinks Edwin hung the moon.
The Actor begins to show signs of anger.
YOUNG WOMAN: Poppie likes you. You’re just—well, he’s done everything he could, spent his whole life to see that I had every advantage. Oh Johnnie! If you were rich I should marry you tomorrow. Today. This instant!
THE ACTOR: If I were president I would only have made three thousand dollars more last year. Did you know that? The difference between my income and the president’s? Three thousand dollars!
YOUNG WOMAN: And if you could make that money in an instant? Thirty thousand dollars! That would be enough money to pay for our wedding. Did you know that?
Her eyes show of desire. The desire they had once held unremittingly for him. The desire they would ever stir within him. The desire he felt that instant that she should be his or not at all.
He looked one more time into those passionate, flaming eyes and drove the dagger deep into her breast.
***
Saturday, March 18, 1865. Ford’s Theatre, Washington City.
Evening. A dressing room. WILKES prepares for his role as Pescara in Richard Lalor Sheil’s The Apostate. His sister, ASIA, writing letters in one corner of the room begins to speak without looking at him.
ASIA: Your wish is to be famous? By killing the president? The conflict is over. Jeff Davis is the one who continues and will not stop. Lee has surrendered his sword and pledged himself to the Union. Lincoln is
for peace. You still think the issue is saving the South? That would be wonderful. But save yourself first. Let your bullet find Jeff Davis in his sleep. Quiet him. Then you will be famous, and you and your Ella can live in peace.
WILKES: You do not care much for her, do you?
ASIA: You have changed since you met her.
WILKES: As have you—since your marriage to Sleepy.
ASIA: I despise that name for him.
WILKES: And yet it is so appropriate. Besides, it is Edwin’s invention not mine. And it is true. He is lazy, too lazy to make a career for himself. You know that is why he married you.
ASIA: So you tell me.
WILKES: You cannot accuse her of the same. If anything she is risking an otherwise certain future by her involvement with me.
ASIA: Perhaps. But she will remind you of it ever. I do not like her for you. But I shall be honest. I do not know if I would approve of anyone for my brother Johnnie.
WILKES: I sensed as much, and I love you for that. And I thank you for coming to see me. Do you remember that gypsy curse? It seems now so absurd, so far behind us. They have confirmed my commission as colonel in the army of the Confederacy.
ASIA: But? You are not enlisted.
WILKES: What does it matter? Can you think of any man who would look more handsome in a uniform than Mr. J. Wilkes Booth?
***
Same night. The dressing room.
THE ACTOR removes his costume while the YOUNG WOMAN vies for a place in front of the dressing mirror to adjust the bodice of her dress. The Actor defers his needs for self-reflection to hers.
Who is Gessler?
A villain. A horrible villain and tyrant. It was he who persecuted the noble Tell and bade him shoot an apple from atop his own son’s head. Where did you hear this name?
And what happened to him?
That same arrow next found his own blackened heart. What is this about?
Poppie says it will never work. Your plan.
He what?
Of course, he doesn’t know that it’s your plan. But all Washington knows it is a plan. Don’t sound so surprised. He was speaking with some gentlemen friends after you took me home the other evening. I heard them through the parlor doors. They were smoking the most dreadful cigars and I kept hearing the clanking of glasses. And who is Tinkerton?
Who?
Tinkerton. Poppie didn’t actually say it wouldn’t work, just that Tinkerton might get in the way. “He interfered once, and could again.”
Did he say interfere or prevent?
I don’t know. Does it matter? It’s the same thing, really. Who is he?
You’re right. It doesn’t really matter, because I have been assured he won’t interfere.
By whom?
Ella, you haven’t ever spoken of this to anyone else, have you?
No! I can’t believe—
No one?
No one.
Only with me?
Only with you. Only you, darling. Oh, Johnnie. You are so very—
***
I would say I took her then, but I am not sure how it happened, only that we kissed.
Scene II
The veriest wretch that goes shivering by
Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh;
For all that is on or about me, I know
There is nothing that’s pure, but the beautiful snow.
Cara,
You will not be completely surprised, my darling, when you read this rather than meet me tomorrow morning.
How could I take you at your word? You are too fine, deserve so much.
I will be lucky now to find sanctuary in the meekest and stalest of your tobacco barns.
Remember me,
John.
***
John,
How could you leave without farewell?
***
I am older than you are. What of it? Should I apologize for my past, my experience? As well to make excuses for my manhood, and that would I never.
You have often accused me of relying upon my form instead of character, yet you insist that no one will ever be able to share in one part of what we are, now were. This will change with time, and the memory of us will lose its substance, its reality, its form. Dissipate into nothingness.
What I will not believe is that you can name our children with me one day and forget our dreaming the next. How will you ever call your children by those long favored names without seeing at least my eyes, or mouth, or “too-small ears?”
***
Oh! Pet,
Why haven’t you written?
***
I continue to shave the moustache you long attempted to persuade me to abandon. I do not believe I look as ridiculous as I feared I would, though you might disagree.
My deepest regret is that only once we could have been together, fully, completely, recklessly. Will you so easily find new loves? How will you forget my scent for theirs? What names will they call you and you them? Any pet will never sound the same unless it sounds too much my name.
What lips will kiss your ankles in dark theaters, whose hands—I cannot continue. Is it not enough to know you hold my heart, or must you also see the spell that binds the deepest secrets of our love to painful memory?
Did you ever know my love? You said you did. I wonder if you knew your own. Or if you had, if you quite understood how knowing it would forbid you from ever truly knowing the love of another.
***
I know that I have not always been fair. You are far more, I think sometimes, than I deserve.
No one will ever be able to replace what we have. It will remain forever. You are too deeply a part of me.
But I must continue. I can not keep the schoolgirl fantasies. It seems knowing you kept my womanhood at bay. I must become the woman, wife, mother, I have always been.
How I will miss your dark curls and too-small ears.
***
Cara,
What could have been—
***
April 14, 1865. Washington City.
Good Friday. Afternoon.
A handbill in the showcase window of Ford’s tenth street theater announces a “Benefit! and Last Night” performance of Miss Laura Keene in Tom Taylor’s comedy Our American Cousin, with Mr. John Dyott and Mr. Harry Hawk, orchestra conducted by Mr. William Withers, to be followed the next night by Miss Jennie Gourlay in Dion Boucicault’s The Octoroon.
***
And did you know? That night Stanton’s own strongman Eckert was asked to go as guard for Lincoln, but Stanton refused him leave. General Grant was supposed to accompany the Lincolns but excused himself at the last minute for the reason of returning home with his wife to visit their children. It was at this point Lincoln invited Major Henry Rathbone and his fiancée Clara Harris.
***
Cara,
I am afraid to say you were right. Afraid to think the passions of my heart were always wrong, never one with the passions of my soul. Simply, I am afraid. Of life and love without you, and of what—yes—I have done to us. Mostly to you.
It will not change anything, make any of this better or easier to deal with, but if I think of you crying, hear your tears as I did this morning and know that I have been the cause, I am only miserable.
I wonder how I ever thought I could deserve you, how I could have taken you down with me. How I was so foolish, selfish, callous, blind. It will not help to know I loved you, even at those most ruthless moments.
Strophe
What little I have left of integrity, honor, truth—there is some—could never be enough for you. From that, as many other things, I am far beyond hope. I question and wonder only what is left for me. The final pain cannot be worse than this.
I have been a coward before. Yet through some unearned miracle have acted with occasional courage. It is not brave still, to do what is right. It is only just. It is brave to face it, perhaps, when it has always been simpler to turn away, shake one’s h
ead and smile as if everything is fine.
What are you thinking? What must you feel inside? What success could you have in suppressing our love?
***
I cannot truly be alone, or all those days and nights have never been. If somehow a curtain were to fall on all this play, still would I be lost in my character—be he lover, fool, hero, coward, or all of these. But walk away, simply and without memory, I cannot.
I was there. To feel your warm breath on my neck. Have your hands clutch at my shoulders and sides. And remember the playful toes nibbling swollen calves, plucking at the coarse, unruly hairs that mark the legs of a man for your jests and taunts.
Can you have no memory? Of the laughter, the sighing aftermath, the blessed afternoons of companioned strolls. How foolish I would be to recollect some other’s disapproval, a jealous instant borne of love, your teethmarks on my wrist.
What would I do to have back your love? If I continue, you will hate me more. Hate me for the tears that I will shed. The tears that you found more onerous than the verses I sent you out of love. Tears that were forgivable only as a part in some drama or the offspring of another drunken fit. Why was that our purest moment? What was there locked in both our souls that escaped only as we drank? Where was manhood in the cache of fears and tears and sober feelings?
Yours, ever,
John.
***
That afternoon I had taken Cola to run through the streets and whoop as loud as any man might. My object was clear, my mind made up. Still, how could I be sure of what I had to do, and then of how I could explain it to myself, to my god—to her.
Approximately 2 P.M., long after I had received word that the Northern president and his wife were sure to attend the theater, I received a strange message via my old friend whom I had met by accident outside Smitty’s tavern. There was no name attached to the message, merely a place and time, and the code name I had begun to know so well and accept as the signature of a true friend, H. A. B.
As I began to steer my horse toward the Adams Hotel where I had been summoned, I observed an unshaken figure in the middle of the street. It was a dark stranger of medium build with a long moustache visible beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat. Black patent boots shone nearly new under pin-striped pant legs. If the day had been a moment further along, and were it not for the stylishness of the clothes, I may have mistaken it for Herold. The eyes sparkled. It was Ella.
Lincoln's Assassin Page 22
