by David Healey
That wasn’t to mention the more practical reasons for the cemetery. In the wake of the battle, nearly every field around town had become a boneyard. Something had to be done.
The cemetery was laid out on a low ridge within sight of where the center of the Union lines had withstood the high tide of the Confederacy. It was arranged something like a Greek amphitheater, with designated sections for each Union state. At the center, where an amphitheater’s stage would be, there was instead a towering monument. The new headstones were flush with the newly turned earth. It was ground steeped in men's blood, and dignitaries like Lincoln and the scheduled orator, the famed Edward Everett, could say little to further consecrate the cemetery. Those buried there had already done that.
Percy had little room in his mind for such grandiose thoughts as the train steamed into Gettysburg. He hadn't slept all night. He was cold and stiff, and he wondered how in hell he was ever going to extricate himself from the iron skeleton of the train's tender without being seen.
When the train finally arrived in Gettysburg, the platform was nearly empty because almost everyone had gone to see the ceremony at the cemetery. In fact, the whole town was deserted. No one was there to meet the train except a handful of soldiers left behind on guard duty.
Once the train stopped, Percy slowly freed himself from his hiding place. He felt like a snail sliding from its shell, so tightly was he wedged beneath the car. His feet, when they touched the ground, had no feeling. He was forced to wait for several minutes as the blood began to circulate again.
He longed for a cup of hot coffee, warm biscuits, and a fire. He crouched under the belly of the train, rubbing his numb hands together until he had enough feeling in them to work a revolver.
No one at the station noticed him under the car, half-hidden by the tender's wheels. The guards would not be expecting trouble. Gettysburg was deep inside the Union and there was little reason for the sleepy-eyed soldiers guarding the station to expect anything out of the ordinary. Robert E. Lee had invaded just last summer with his entire Army of Northern Virginia, but because of the sacrifices of the men buried in the cemetery, it wasn't likely the Rebels would ever return this far north.
Finally, the president emerged from one of the cars. Percy looked out from behind a wheel and saw him up close, a tall, bearded man, thin to the point of emaciation, dressed in black and looking as tired as Percy felt. In the bright autumn sunshine, he looked even more gaunt than he had in the mountain twilight the night before.
The president clutched some papers in his long hands and looked puzzled about what to do next. He wore a stovepipe hat that made him tower over the men nearby.
A few others got off the train. There was a sturdy-looking officer Percy recognized as Major Rathbone, the bodyguard who had ridden with Lincoln in the car from Baltimore. Percy spied on him from his hiding place under the tender, and held his breath as the major glanced back at the train. Rathbone's gaze didn't linger on the train, however. Instead, the major carefully studied the station, but, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, appeared to relax. There was also a short, fat man Percy recognized as one of the passengers from the Chesapeake.
With stiff fingers, Percy drew the Colt revolver from his pocket and thumbed back the hammer.
• • •
On the platform, one of the soldiers nudged the corporal next to him. "I'll be damned but that tall fellow looks just like President Lincoln," he muttered.
"It can't be him, though," whispered the corporal, who had also noticed the resemblance. "We saw him ride past here this morning on his way to dedicate the cemetery."
Still, there was an air of dignity and command about the tall, bearded man. If this was Lincoln, the corporal briefly wondered, then who was at the cemetery?
"Damn peculiar, if you ask me," the first soldier said, staring at the man in the stovepipe hat.
"You there—where is everyone?" the major asked the soldiers.
"They're all up at the new cemetery, sir, watching the dedication," the corporal answered, offering a ragged salute. He was staring at the tall man in the black suit beside the major, still not quite sure what to make of him. "They're listening to Edward Everett, the orator ... and President Lincoln."
"Mr. Everett is a good speaker," the president said. "As for Mr. Lincoln— " He raised his bushy eyebrows quizzically and a glance passed between the president and Major Rathbone.
Percy decided it was now or never. He slipped out from under the tender and moved, stiffly and slowly, toward Lincoln. His right hand was wrapped firmly around the grip of the revolver. Percy walked toward Lincoln with as much dignity as he could muster after the long, cramped ride.
Strangely, he felt nothing. No fear. No excitement. Just a sense of calm. Only his heart, thumping in his chest, betrayed any emotion.
A lifetime of memories washed over Percy as he crossed the depot toward the president. He thought of home: green fields in springtime, sweethearts he had known, the first time he jumped a fence on horseback—
Duty.
One of the guards saw Percy and elbowed his companions.
"Look what the cat done dragged in," the corporal said, just loudly enough for Percy to hear. The men laughed quietly at the figure in the dirty coat. "You reckon he's left over from the celebration last night?"
A great crowd had come to town for the ceremony and some men had caroused too excess the night before. Although the man on the platform looked as if he had crawled out of some alley after a night of hard drinking, there was a determined quality about him. He strode deliberately toward the tall, bearded man in the stovepipe hat. His face was hard and set. The laughter stopped, the soldiers exchanged worried looks, and they nervously held their rifles at the ready. Something was going on, but they didn't know what.
Percy crossed the platform. None of the men in the knot immediately surrounding Lincoln had spotted him. He was thirty feet away, but he didn't trust his aim in the condition he was in. He walked closer. Twenty feet. Fifteen feet. Close enough. He raised the Colt.
• • •
Prescott, the fat lawyer, saw him first. His eyes went wide as he recognized Percy.
"Look out!" Despite his surprise, Prescott managed to shout a warning. "It's one of the Rebels!"
The men surrounding Lincoln did not have a chance to react. Percy's revolver was aimed at Lincoln's heart by the time Prescott managed to shout a warning. Too late, Major Rathbone lunged forward, trying to use his body as a shield in front of the president.
"Assassin!" Rathbone shouted.
Rifle fire cracked. Three bullets struck Percy all at once. The force of the bullets spun him around and Percy fell, sprawling, the revolver still gripped tightly in his hand. Percy had never pulled the trigger. His body rolled in the dust and lay still.
The soldiers on the platform had been watching the strange man intently, sensing trouble, and they reacted when they saw him run forward with a revolver. Now they stood with smoking rifles, staring at the body. Silence fell over the train station.
Calmly, the president broke away from the small group of men surrounding him and walked over to the figure on the ground. He stood for a moment, staring down at the body. He stooped to pick something up, his long body seeming to take a long time to bend toward the ground. He stood back up holding a pair of eyeglasses, the frame twisted and one of the lenses cracked.
"He was one of the raiders?" the president asked Prescott, without looking up.
"Yes, sir. He was the leader of the train raid, Mr. President," Prescott replied. Normally, he would have felt a pompous importance at providing information for the president, but the sudden violence had left him shaken. "His name was Colonel Arthur Percy."
"Ah. I remember that I spoke to him through the door," Lincoln said. "How did he get here?"
"I've been wondering the same thing, sir," Major Rathbone said. "He must have hidden himself aboard the train somehow. I don't know where—it's possible he was under the tender. That's about the only place h
e could have been."
"Remarkable," the president said. He added, as if to himself, "Why must we kill such men?"
"Because he was a Rebel, sir," the major said. "And he was about to kill you, from the looks of it."
The president nodded. Already, the incident at the train station was starting to draw attention. The dedication ceremony was ending, and people were beginning to drift back into town. Some townspeople looked curiously at the dead man on the ground, while others gawked at the tall figure in the dark suit and stovepipe hat, pointing him out to their companions.
Major Rathbone immediately ordered two of the soldiers who had shot Percy to take the body away. He then touched the president's arm, guiding him back toward the train.
A throng of people was just reaching the train station as the crowds spread through town. One of the passersby, a bony man with a black patch over his left eye, stopped to stare after the body being carried away. "What happened to that one?" the one-eyed man asked the lone soldier left on the platform.
The corporal was about to explain, but stopped when he saw the sharp look Major Rathbone gave him. "He just went crazy and got himself shot," was all that the corporal said.
"Is that right?" the man with the eye patch said. He looked doubtful.
"Well, that's what happened," the corporal insisted, although he didn't sound too sure of himself.
"Move along, sir," Major Rathbone said pointedly. "The excitement is over."
"I'm sorry I missed it," the one-eyed fellow said. "I suppose it was more interesting than the speechifying."
"Move along," Rathbone repeated.
"That Mr. Everett gave a fine oration, but awful long," the man said, ignoring Rathbone and using his one good eye to peer closely at the figure in the stovepipe hat. "President Lincoln hardly spoke at all. He got up there and sat back down before you knew it. We couldn't even hear him in back. Why, for all we know it could have been anyone making that speech."
The tall, gaunt man was listening intently. People stared at him with puzzled expressions. A low murmuring swelled among the citizens at the depot.
The major touched his elbow again. "Mr. President?"
Abraham Lincoln put his folded sheaf of papers in his coat pocket, took a last look at the dead Rebel being carried away through the crowd beginning to fill Gettysburg's streets, and climbed back aboard the train.
About the Author
David Healey lives in Maryland where he has worked as a journalist and community college instructor. He is also the author of two other Civil War novels, Sharpshooter and Rebel Fever. Visit him online at www.davidhealey.net.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
About the Author
