“I am not dead; send for a doctor, send for the police, close the house,” the secretary mumbled.
Relieved to know Seward yet survived, Braham said, “I’m afraid for the president. I’m going to the theater.”
Both Gus and Frederick climbed to their feet, slipping in the pools of blood.
Braham grabbed a towel off the washstand, rammed it into his coat, and pressed it against the shoulder, then he ripped a long strip from a clean sheet and made a sling for his arm. Satisfied he’d done the best he could for his injuries, he stumbled back down the stairs, leaving another set of bloody footprints.
He had to get to Ford’s Theatre to protect the president. His right arm was numb and blood oozed down his coat sleeve and dripped off the tips of his fingers. It took three attempts to mount his horse. The reins were slippery from his blood-coated hand, and his bloody boot kept slipping out of the stirrups. If he could remain in the saddle and reach the theater, he could warn someone. He galloped away like a crazed man, crossing the unpaved, wheel-gouged, muddy streets. Several times he almost fell off, but managed to keep his seat, grasping the reins and mane as he raced five blocks east and two blocks south to Ford’s Theatre.
As Braham galloped down F Street, he could see an unruly, frenzied mob gathering at the corner of Tenth Street. He slid off his horse and pushed his way through the crush of humanity, staggering toward the front of Ford’s Theatre.
“Guards, clear the passage. Guards, clear the passage.” Bearers emerged from the vestibule with a small force of guards, shoving gawkers aside. A septet of men supported Lincoln, two at his shoulders, and others supporting his head, torso, pelvis, and legs. They carried him from the lobby, out the doors, and across the stone stairs. The crowd gasped at the sight.
“For God’s sake, take him to the White House to die,” someone yelled from the crowd.
Braham pushed his way through the half-insane mob and faced Doctor Leale, the army surgeon attending Lincoln. With eyes as steady as he could manage, Braham drew his sword from its scabbard and said, “Surgeon, give me yer commands, and I’ll see they’re obeyed.”
Yelling over the din, Leale said, “Take him straight across the street and into the nearest house.”
Braham fought his way forward, cutting a virtual seam through the mob. Halfway across the street, Leale halted the procession and yanked a blood clot from a hole in Lincoln’s head, tossing the gooey mass into the street. Fresh blood and brain matter oozed from the doctor’s fingers. Stranded, with nowhere to go, the president of the United States was dying in the middle of a street surrounded by thousands of frenzied witnesses.
A man opened the front door of 454 Tenth Street, came out on a high curved staircase, raised a sole candle, and shouted, “Bring him in here.”
The somber bearers carried the president up the stairs and through the doorway, leaving the frantic crowd behind. Braham collapsed on the stairs, holding his saber in a shaking, bloody hand, and pointing it at the mob. He had failed to protect his president from an assassin’s bullet, but he was determined to protect Lincoln’s final moments from the hungry rabble.
Braham closed his eyes and blackness overtook him.
69
Washington City, April 14, 1865
Charlotte stood at the window in Braham’s drawing room, listening to the chattering and courting of the mockingbirds under the light of the moon. The shutters were open, and cool air poured in, both chilly and soft, the way spring nights were meant to be. But this wasn’t a normal spring evening. Edward had turned down the gaslights and banked the fires. The darkness didn’t bother her, but a strange stillness, broken only by the singing birds perched in the leafing trees, did. The room’s cool air stroked her arms, and the hairs rose quietly on her skin.
Jack had managed to procure two tickets to the production of Our American Cousin at Ford’s Theatre, but she had adamantly refused to go. He, however, couldn’t pass up the opportunity to be an eyewitness to one of the biggest events in United States history.
“Braham might succeed tonight,” she had told Jack before he had left for the theater.
“Either way, I’ll still be an eyewitness to history.”
Charlotte wanted to be as far away from the theater as possible. Jack was a writer; she was a doctor, and they had quite different perspectives on the evening’s events. If she had been there and Braham failed to save Lincoln, she would rush to the mortally wounded president’s side, and in the process, earn a place in history—a woman from the future imprinted indelibly onto the past. In her heart, she hoped Braham would succeed. How much her life would change when she returned to the twenty-first century didn’t seem to matter right now. She let out the breath she had been holding in a sigh like the April wind. She checked the time on the mantel clock. Lincoln should be at the Petersens’ house by now, brain dead.
Unless…
Her throat was as sticky as glue. She turned away from the window, willing the tears pricking the backs of her eyes to stay where they were. Needing to loosen the pasty feeling in her throat, she tilted up her glass of whisky and gulped. Fire trailed down her esophagus, but the alcohol did nothing to soothe the worry and sadness burdening her heart.
The window curtain fell back into place, and she walked over to refill her glass at the sideboard, but the clatter of carriage wheels and the jingle of harnesses pulled her back to the window. Jack, barely visible in the shadow of the gas streetlights, was helping a man out of the carriage. She watched, puzzled. Was the man drunk? When Jack moved out of the shadow, the light glinted off the man’s blond hair, and she saw his blood-streaked face.
She ran toward the door, threw it open, and dashed down the front steps. Jack had propped Braham against the side of the carriage. Reaching him, Charlotte immediately checked his breathing, since his head hung limp. His breath warmed her cheek. She pressed her fingers against his neck to feel his carotid pulse—too fast and maybe a little weak, but palpable. Blood oozed from his forehead, and his jacket had a large wet crimson stain.
“What happened? Has he been shot again?”
“I don’t know.” Jack grabbed Braham around his waist and lifted him over his shoulder. “He was unconscious when I found him.” Jack rushed up the stairs and through the door, leaving behind a trail of blood.
Charlotte followed closely, suddenly missing her hospital, the efficiency of the ER, and the medical advances which could save Braham’s life again. “Put him on the dining room table and get his clothes off. If there’s active bleeding, put pressure on the wound. I’ll get Edward and my bag.” She ran down the hall, calling the butler.
He poked his head out of the kitchen. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Braham’s hurt. Jack’s putting him in the dining room. I’ll need clean cloths and boiling water.” Charlotte ran up the stairs for her medical bag. On her way back down with her supplies, she patted her pocket, touching the brooch. Regardless of what Braham wanted, she refused to let him die.
Jack and Edward had Braham stripped to the waist. Blood saturated both his discarded shirt and jacket. He had a deep gash in his right shoulder, but there was no spurting vessel. She grabbed her stethoscope and checked his lungs. Sounds were shallow but equal on both sides. The knife probably had not punctured his lung, but she couldn’t be sure with him lying down. She would listen again carefully when she could sit him up. His heart rate was fast but regular. His color was good; there was no active bleeding, and his blood pressure was low normal.
Satisfied he wasn’t in any immediate danger, she turned her attention to the shoulder wound. A cut rotator cuff could impair the strength and use of his shoulder. For even a preliminary evaluation, he needed to be awake, and if the injury was serious, he’d require an orthopedic surgeon. Even after repair, it could be months before he had full use of his arm again.
The six-inch gash on his forehead was still oozing blood, but it was a bruise on the side of his head which made her recheck her pocket for the brooch. The impa
ct was close to the site of his previous head trauma, which she suspected to be the cause of his frequent headaches. She opened each eyelid and brought a candle close. The pupils reacted. Good.
“How is he?” Jack’s voice was jittery with worry and concern.
“He’s stable. Heart and lungs seem okay. He’s lost a fair amount of blood, but not enough to be life-threatening. I can’t tell yet how much damage has been done to his shoulder, and he could well have a concussion.”
“What can I do?” Jack asked.
“I need light, then hold him down. I’m going to examine his shoulder wound for deep bleeders, and then sew up the shoulder and facial lacerations. If he wakes up, he’s not going to like the pain I’ll be causing him.”
While Charlotte organized her surgery table, Edward set an armload of logs onto the brass dolphin andirons and stirred the glowing embers until the fire roared to life, bringing light and heat to the room. He hurriedly lit every candle he could find to supplement the light from the gaslit chandelier.
Charlotte sterilized the instruments and a small tray in a pot of water a house servant set on the fire.
“I need a bottle of whisky,” she said.
Jack grabbed a bottle and handed it to her. “Can’t you wait until you fix him before you start drinking?”
“Remind me to laugh later. Now pour some over my hands and the wounds. I don’t want to touch the bottle.” She checked her instruments, which were cooling on the tray, needle and thread, the position of the lights, and Braham’s blood pressure. “Hold the candle close.”
Jack moved to the head of the table, holding the light.
Her examination of the shoulder injury revealed a three-centimeter puncture wound. “There’re a couple of little vessels I need to tie off. There may be some functional damage, but I can’t evaluate it right now. If he’s lucky, his shoulder will heal with reasonable function. As soon as I close this, I’ll work on his forehead.”
Braham woke briefly in an agitated state. Charlotte hit a tender area, and he flung out his free arm then passed out again. She talked to him to determine his level of cerebral function, but he only responded to pain.
“Do you need anything else, Miss Charlotte? Will the major recover?” Edward asked.
“Grab some pillows and blankets and put on a pot of coffee. And, yes, he’ll recover. The major’s like a cat, and he still has a few more lives left in him.”
Edward left the room and returned shortly with a stack of linens. Following on his heels was one of the kitchen servants carrying in a tray of food and a carafe of steaming coffee. She set the tray on the sideboard with cups, plates, and silverware.
“A buffet in the operating room. A luxury I could get used to,” Charlotte said.
An hour later, she had cleaned and tied off all the little bleeders she could find and closed his wounds. The head wound had been more tedious to repair. It was a clean cut, but long and down to the bone. She had closed it in layers. Because the repair would be forever visible, she had taken care with each stitch.
Braham had barely stirred while she worked on his head, and it concerned her. To see if he would respond to pain, but with some reluctance, she pushed on his shoulder wound. He moaned and opened his eyes for a second.
“How’d this happen? Do you know?” she asked.
“No.” Jack shook his head, looking sober. “I found him on the steps up to the Petersens’ house with his saber in his hand, as if he was guarding the door. He was barely conscious.”
“I saw him earlier this evening. He was on his way to the War Department and then to Seward’s house. I bet he was knifed trying to protect the secretary.” She cut the last thread and set aside the needle.
“Nice job,” Jack said. “You worked the old scar into the new one.”
“I guess the assailant skimmed the knife across his forehead, then straight down into his shoulder.” She had read the report of what happened at the secretary’s house in the history books. It had been a bloodbath. Had Braham’s appearance changed the outcome? He shouldn’t have been there, because he should have died at Chimborazo. Maybe the secretary’s injuries weren’t as bad as they would have been.
“Let’s try to get him to sit up and open his eyes. See if he can swallow a sip of water. If he can, I need you to get the mortar and pestle from my bag and crush two Keflex and two Aleve. We’ll have him swallow the drugs mixed with a bit of water.”
“Is he going to be okay?” Jack asked.
“He’s been on an antibiotic since Richmond, so he shouldn’t get an infection. If his brain recovers, yes, he’ll be okay.”
“Does this mean you plan to stay for a while?”
“Only until I’m sure he’s on the mend. I have to get back. I have a medical practice which might disappear if I stay away much longer. Let’s see how he is in a couple of days.”
With Jack’s help, they brought him to a sitting position. Braham grimaced, and his eyelids fluttered. She brought a glass to his mouth and tipped in some water. “Braham, swallow.” He did, and the action warmed the chill in the pit of her stomach, but only by a degree or two.
“Get the mortar and pestle and start crushing,” she said.
Jack dug the ceramic bowl out of her bag, dropped in the pills, and used the pestle to crush the medicine into powder. “He’s been shot, tortured, caught in a fire, and now stabbed. His body can’t take much more.”
He’d also had several sleepless nights in bed with her. “Occasionally people who suffer concussions lose their memories. This memory might be a good one to lose. Will you check the newspapers tomorrow and see what you can find out?”
Before laying Braham back down, they gave him the medicine mixed with a sip of water. Then, very carefully, they shifted him to a pad on the table for comfort and elevated his head on goose down pillows to decrease the intracranial pressure. He groaned but didn’t open his eyes again.
“I’ll sit up with him. Why don’t you go rest?” Jack said.
“No. These first few hours are critical. I want to be close by to check his level of consciousness hourly.” She shrugged against an almost staggering feeling of helplessness. “There isn’t much I can do if he starts to deteriorate.”
“If it happens, I won’t object to you taking him to the hospital.”
“It might be too late.”
Jack screwed up his nose as he peered intently into Braham’s face. “He doesn’t want to go.”
She unfolded a quilt and pulled it up over Braham, tugging it to his chin. Had she done everything she could for him? She rubbed a finger between her brows, mentally rewinding the tape of the last hour then playing it again. Yes, she had. Satisfied, she straightened the creases in the blanket, tucking it neatly under his sides. “Let’s see how he does over the next hour.”
“Do you want me to move a sofa in here so you can stretch out?” Jack asked.
“It would be more comfortable. Thanks.” She blew out the extra candles and turned down the gaslights. In the dimness Braham was no more than a dark shape on the table, his breathing slow and hoarse.
Edward and Jack pulled the sofa into the dining room. With cups of coffee in hand, she and Jack eased back against the cushions as quiet descended into the room.
After several minutes, Jack said, “He’s a fine man.”
“Fine and stubborn.”
Jack tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowing. “You’re in love with him, and he’s in love with you, but you won’t stay, and he won’t leave.”
“It’s hard to imagine never seeing him again.”
“After all you’ve been through,” Jack said.
“I’d rather not dwell on it. Let’s get him well first.”
They sat there listening to Braham’s breathing and the crackling fire.
Jack interrupted the silence by clearing his throat. His voice shook slightly when he said, “It was horrible.”
Sleep was encroaching on her consciousness, but she heard him speak and j
erked upright, shaking herself hard. “What?”
“What happened at the theater was horrible.”
She reached for him, and his arm was tense beneath her hand. He shied away, not wanting to be touched.
“I never imagined it would be…well, like that. I was focused on the play, waiting for the lines Booth believed would produce the most uproarious laughter from the audience and cover the noise of the shot. ‘Don’t know the manners of good society, eh? Wal, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal…’
“When I heard the lines spoken from the stage, something clicked inside me, and I had what I could only describe as an out-of-body experience. I was there, but I wasn’t.”
Jack turned away from her, and his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room, inward probably, where he wouldn’t have to share his thoughts or emotions with her. Tonight, she wouldn’t intrude, would simply give him room to say what he needed to say. She didn’t move except to breathe more deeply and hide her knotted fists within the folds of her skirt.
“Lincoln never knew what happened to him. His head dropped forward, his chin hit his chest, and he sagged against the upholstered rocking chair. It didn’t sound anything like twenty-first century gunfire. It was more of a poof that echoed to the ceiling, and to the stage, and then reverberated through the theater. No one moved. People weren’t sure at first whether it was part of the production, or a celebration, or what.
“Major Rathbone was the first to realize something was wrong. I was sitting close by and had been watching for his reaction. He glanced up, so did I. The smoke from the pistol swirled in front of the gaslights and gave the crimson upholstery and wallpaper in the box a devilish glow. Booth looked like a demon. His face seemed ghostly against the black of his clothes and hair and mustache. In his right hand, he brandished a big knife—bright as a diamond in the stage lights—as he leaped from the box onto the stage.
“I was the only person there who had read the script and knew the storyline. It all happened as history recorded, and everyone played their roles perfectly.” Jack’s voice fell to an anguished whisper. “Only it wasn’t a play. It was real…and the bastard killed one of greatest and finest men who ever lived.”
The Sapphire Brooch Page 46
