The Blue and the Grey

by M. J. Trow

  One of them was watching Grand as he disappeared into the darkness of the hull. Luther Baker was lolling on the top rail, a pipe in his mouth and a coldness in his eyes. The investigation into Lincoln’s assassination was going well, but he didn’t like Matthew Grand. And he didn’t trust him.

  The blackness of the Montauk’s hold hit Grand like a wall, and he had to check himself against the planking of the hull. The steps took him down into more darkness, a sailor with a candle leading the way. ‘Watch your step, sir,’ was about all the man could offer by way of advice. They turned a corner at the end of a narrow passageway. The smell down here was revolting; tar and rope and gunpowder and the river all mingling to make Grand’s gorge rise. He held on to himself, especially as candlelight was now helping to make sense of the scene. Between Grand and the flame, a huge black shape loomed – one of the Montauk’s massive twenty-four-pounders, the gun port closed and locked, the screw in position.

  There was a rattle of chains, and Grand nearly fell over a pair of shackled feet. In the half light, he could make out a hooded figure slumped against the wooden wall with its iron ribs. Next to him was a second, shackled and hooded too, but bigger. His shoulders were huge, and even in his chained position he was a head taller than the other man.

  ‘Good morning, Captain Grand.’

  The voice made him turn. Lafayette Baker was sitting on a low stool, in his shirt sleeves, a bottle of rye and a half empty glass glinting in the candlelight. ‘It’s good of you to come.’

  ‘I didn’t feel I had a choice,’ Grand said.

  Baker ignored him and got to his feet. He reached down and hauled the canvas hood off the first man. ‘Allow me to introduce,’ he said, ‘Lewis Thornton Powell, also known as Payne. He likes cutting throats, especially if they belong to Secretaries of State.’

  Lewis Powell was Grand’s age or a little younger. Unusually for those days, he was clean shaven, although his face was bruised and bloody. It took the man a while to acclimatize his eyes to the light, and he squinted up at Grand. Another Federal uniform. Another officer. Was he supposed to be impressed? Or was this a specialist torturer Lafayette Baker had brought in to get the information he wanted?

  Baker wanted to know: ‘Have you seen him before?’

  Grand shook his head. ‘Never,’ he said.

  Baker took another swig of rye. ‘Mr Powell and I have been having a long chat,’ he said, nursing his knuckles. ‘He assures me he’s a handyman who was hired to dig a drain at a house right here in Washington. The house of Mrs Mary Surratt. Know that name?’

  Grand shook his head again.

  ‘You’re not much help this morning, Captain,’ the detective said with a sigh.

  ‘If you’re asking did I see this man at Ford’s, no, I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, we know he wasn’t there,’ Baker said, putting his glass down and leaning back against a beam. ‘Four days ago, while you were in the theatre, no doubt enjoying the play, Mr Powell here was knocking on the door of Secretary of State William Seward in Lafayette Square. He claimed to have medicine from Seward’s doctor – you may or may not know the clumsy old bastard fell out of a gig earlier in the week. Then he forced his way in and fired his gun at Seward’s boy, Fred.’

  Baker leaned down to the prisoner. ‘But that darned gun just wouldn’t fire, would it? If I were you, Lewis, I’d send me a letter to Colonel Colt. Man’s got a right to expect his weapon of choice to work, huh?’ He slapped Powell across the face, and the big man winced, straining against his chains. Baker chuckled. ‘The thing about old Sam Colt’s guns is they’ve got a weight, haven’t they? So Lewis here, he brains young Fred with the butt. He was all set to do the same to Fanny, Seward’s daughter. She’s a sweet kid; I’ve met her several times. Anyway, having been let down by Colonel Colt, friend Powell here takes refuge in Colonel Bowie, whips out his knife and stabs Seward himself.’

  Baker leaned back again. He continued: ‘Now, the rumour is that Mr Powell is slow-witted. Easily led. Poor boy, that wicked John Wilkes Booth worked on the lad and persuaded him that what he did was for his country’s good.’ The detective looked at Grand, the chill smile gone from his face. ‘Well, I can tell you, Captain, that Lewis Powell is about as slow-witted as a rattler. But he did make one mistake – he assumed he’d done the job on Seward. Which is a shame for him, ’cos the old bastard’s still alive, if not exactly well. And you still say you’ve never seen this man before?’

  Grand nodded.

  Baker threw the hood back over Powell’s head and whipped the canvas away from the other one. ‘What about this one?’ he asked.

  Grand looked at the second prisoner. He was older than Powell, with short brown hair and a straggly beard. Again the captain shook his head.

  ‘You’re sure?’ Baker asked.

  ‘I am,’ Grand said and heard the detective laugh. It was not a sound many people heard.

  ‘You know, you’re like Peter the disciple,’ the detective said. ‘If I had a third conspirator here, no doubt you’d say you don’t know him either. Denying three times before the rooster crows kinda makes me suspicious, Captain. Say hello to Edman Spangler.’

  ‘Spangler?’ Grand echoed.

  ‘You know the name?’ Baker watched the man intently.

  ‘I’ve heard it,’ Grand said. ‘When I went back to Ford’s after the shooting, I talked to a peanut seller …’

  Baker nodded. ‘John Burroughs.’

  ‘Peanut John, yes,’ Grand said. ‘He mentioned Spangler. Said he was a stagehand who told Peanut to hold Booth’s horse.’

  ‘If only it was that simple,’ Baker said. ‘You see, Spangler here knows John Wilkes Booth pretty well. In fact, he’s known him for the best part of five years. Mr Spangler has the habit of telling people around the theatre not to say which way Booth rode. Ain’t that right, Edman?’ He delivered a kick to the man’s ribs, and the stagehand groaned. He had clearly received several of those in the last few hours.

  Baker put the hood back over Spangler’s head and motioned to a guard, half hidden in the shadows. ‘Any conversation between these two,’ he said, ‘I want to know about it.’ He beckoned Grand to him, and they made for the upper deck.

  ‘You remember Cousin Luther.’ Lafayette Baker had hauled on his tunic by the time they reached the deck, and the lanky detective nodded at Grand.

  ‘Captain Grand.’ Luther showed no inclination to shake the man’s hand or to salute him.

  All three men looked across the Navy Yard, with its cluster of masts and spars like a forest at the edge of the water. ‘Yonder.’ Lafayette pointed to the wooden bridge that crossed the Potomac. ‘That’s the way Booth went when he left you.’

  ‘We didn’t exactly part as friends,’ Grand reminded him. He felt his temple, tender and puffy under the bruise. ‘And I’ve still got a score to settle.’

  ‘Settle it, then,’ said Baker flatly.

  ‘How?’ Grand frowned.

  ‘You see, what worries me a tad—’ Lafayette motioned Luther closer – ‘is that you claimed a minute ago you didn’t know our friends downstairs.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Grand maintained.

  ‘Now, that’s odd.’ Cousin Luther had opened his ubiquitous attaché case and produced the same inauguration photograph that he had shown Grand at the hotel. Lafayette tapped two faces at the bottom. ‘That’s Lewis Thornton Powell,’ he said, ‘and that’s Edman Spangler. And you saw this photograph … what … thirty hours ago? You’ve got a short memory there, son.’

  The detective was right, at least about the photograph. That was definitely Powell under the brim of the wideawake and that could well be Spangler in the derby standing next to him.

  ‘I’d know this man again,’ Grand insisted, pointing to the tall bearded individual standing to Powell’s right.

  ‘Well, I’m glad,’ Lafayette said, handing the photograph back to his cousin, ‘because I want you to find him.’

  ‘Me?’

  The chief
of detectives nodded. ‘We’re burying the President tomorrow, Captain Grand. I assume you’ll want to be there, pay your last respects?’

  ‘Of course,’ the captain said.

  ‘Good. After that, you’re going to England. There’s a ship leaving New York on Friday.’

  ‘England?’ Grand repeated.

  ‘You said the man you met in Baptist Alley had an English accent.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And the chances are he wears English – specifically London – cufflinks. Kinda narrows down the options, don’t you think?’

  ‘London’s the biggest city in the world, and, anyway, he could still be here in Washington,’ Grand reasoned.

  ‘He could,’ Lafayette said, ‘but the word’s on the streets now. You’ve already met two of the conspirators, and we’re catching more every day. If he’s a Britisher, he’ll be on his way home by now.’

  ‘Canada?’ Grand said, looking at all the options. ‘Isn’t that a possibility?’

  ‘We’ve got Canada covered,’ Luther said. ‘If he turns up there, we’ll know it.’

  ‘I’ve got a fiancée,’ Grand said. ‘I’m in this man’s army.’

  ‘For the greater good.’ Lafayette smiled. ‘I’m sure your fiancée – Miss McKintyre, isn’t it?’

  Grand nodded; this man knew everything.

  ‘She’ll wait for you. And as for the army, well, there’s two ways of looking at it. Catch the conspirator and they’ll make you a general. Don’t catch him and the war’s over anyway. Hell, there are a lot of men who’ll need a career change in the next few days.’

  ‘What about expenses?’ Grand asked.

  ‘You’ll be on my payroll,’ Lafayette said. ‘A National Detective in all but name. Money’s no object – within reason. Besides, you’ve got kin in … where is it, Luther?’

  ‘Hampstead,’ his cousin said, ‘a little village, they tell us, north of London.’

  ‘I’ve never met them,’ Grand said. It was no more than the truth.

  ‘They might provide a bolt-hole for you. Or at least a cover. Tell them – tell anybody who asks – you’ve had a bad time in the war. You need to get away for the good of your health, let’s say.’

  There was a mysterious light in the man’s eyes. Was this some sort of test, Grand wondered. Was Baker giving a potential suspect a chance to exonerate himself? It seemed an extraordinary risk, yet everything about these April days was extraordinary.

  ‘Can I think about it?’ the captain asked.

  ‘I’ll find you tomorrow,’ Baker said, nodding. ‘At the funeral. Let me know by then.’

  And Grand took his leave.

  The Bakers watched him go, collecting his weapons at the gangplank before crossing the yard. ‘We’ve got him, Luther,’ Lafayette said. ‘Better make the arrangements. Oh … and let our friend know.’

  James Batchelor was not a natural sleeper-in, and his three pounds, ten shillings and fourpence three farthings nest egg had not encouraged him to go out and drown his sorrows in drink. He had returned to his room at Mrs Biggs’ and done some serious financial planning, costing food, rent and other expenses to see how long he could survive with what he had to hand. The final reckoning had made his mouth go dry and a strange high-pitched buzzing fill his ears. It appeared that he could either stay in his room at Mrs Biggs’ house for another three weeks or eat. He had to think quickly and decide whether he wanted a roof over his head or something in his stomach. He hadn’t led an easy life, he had never been rich or even well off, but he had never had to make that choice before. He got up as dawn was breaking and washed hurriedly, dressed and was about to clatter down the stairs when he saw Mrs Biggs appearing at the bottom and politely stood aside as she came up, carrying a pile of linen and puffing and blowing as usual.

  ‘Mr B,’ she gasped.

  ‘Mrs B.’ It was their little joke, and Batchelor’s heart sank a little at the thought of leaving, as he feared he must.

  ‘Your laundry,’ she said, handing it over. ‘I hope you don’t mind—’ she dropped her voice – ‘I’ve had to charge a bit extra. The … stains … took some shifting.’ She managed to leave an unspoken question dangling at the end of the sentence, which Batchelor studiously ignored.

  He picked up a corner of the shirt and examined it. ‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘White as snow. Could you put it in my room for me? I’m just off out.’

  ‘Not at work, Mr B?’

  Batchelor’s heart jumped in his chest. Did he have some mark of Cain on his forehead? ‘Late start today. Flower show.’

  ‘That’s early.’

  ‘Um … spring cabbage, that kind of thing.’

  She wrinkled her forehead. ‘That will be hard to write about,’ she offered. ‘Quite boring, cabbages are.’

  ‘They are, Mrs B, and that’s why I must be away. There’s a book all about them in the library at the paper, and I will have to do a bit of looking up.’

  She patted him with her free hand, wrinkled with washing. ‘You’re so clever,’ she murmured. She liked professional gents as a rule but you had to be careful with journalists because, say what you liked about them, they loved a drink. But young Mr Batchelor was going places, that was plain, and a bit of blood on his shirt now and again she could overlook. And that reminded her – the pat turned to a finger in the buttonhole. ‘As I said, Mr B—’ she smiled up at him, her face like a kindly currant bun – ‘it was extra.’

  ‘Can you put it on my rent, Mrs B?’ he asked. ‘Only, I really must run if I’m to do my reading about cabbages.’

  ‘I think I’ll have to have it now, Mr B, if that’s quite all right with you. I need to pay the girl; you know how it is with these rough girls, they won’t wait.’

  ‘No, I did not know that. How much would you like?’ His heart was in his boots, but he couldn’t see a way out.

  ‘An extra shillun if you’ve got it, Mr B? I never worry about you owing me, you know that, but the girl …’

  ‘I do understand.’ Batchelor rummaged in his pocket and handed over a coin which, to him, represented a dinner he now couldn’t have.

  The woman pocketed it and squeezed past him to the door of his room. ‘I’ll just put this washing away for you, shall I?’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said and watched her open the door. Every move struck him like a sting of hail; it might be the last time anyone ever did his laundry and put it away for him. He felt his mouth go dry again and swallowed hard. ‘Those cabbages won’t wait,’ he said and clattered down the stairs and out into the street.

  James Batchelor made his way home that evening dispirited and just a little poorer. He had eaten no breakfast and had known by twelve that that was a false economy – he had gone into an alehouse and bought a pie and a pint which he had devoured so fast that he had indigestion all afternoon and had spent more than he would have on two sensible meals. Live and learn, he told himself, live and learn; if he didn’t die of starvation first. He had started along Fleet Street, presenting himself to editors of the newspapers whose offices lined the road on either side. He had started high – no harm in selling himself short – and ended up speaking to a rather odd gentleman who was doing preliminary work on a publication, Boys of England, which he was hoping to launch shortly. After some time speaking at cross-purposes, he had declined to engage Batchelor, on the grounds that he was low on funds. If Batchelor would like to work for nothing, of course, or, better still, should he be of independent means … But the young man had turned him down and gone home wearily, having charmed a costerwoman to sell him a cabbage for a farthing, a trophy to take home to Mrs Biggs. Every little helped when worming a way to a landlady’s heart, and at this rate, he would need a little goodwill before long.

  The canal had never looked more dismal. It was grey, like the sky in the early morning, and it was the open sewer of Washington, the graveyard of 20,000 cats.

  All night had come the sound of hammering from the East Room of the White H
ouse where an army of carpenters had been erecting the wooden steps and tiered seats that would give everyone a clear view of old Abe as he lay at rest. As the first weak rays of the sun gilded the Capitol, the Washington Monument and the cold columns of the Lee mansion, the cannon roared in the forts that circled the city as the gunners in their black armbands went through their paces in a land at peace. Then the bells rang out: all of the churches, with their solemn, sober peals, and the more hysterical clanging of the firehouses.

  Answering a silent and invisible signal, the grey of the dawn became the bright sun of spring, without a single cloud to frown on the occasion. The magnolias, blooming early in Lafayette Square, fluttered with life, and the crowds now gathering picked the blossoms to strew on the coffin lid or to thread into their buttonholes. Everywhere was black – the crêpe and the ostrich feathers of mourning. Only the little children wore white, squinting up to the sun and not understanding why their parents were crying. Some joined in, distressed and confused, and were hushed, pressed to shoulders shaking with grief. Not a shop was open, not a market stall.

  The great and the good went in to the White House by numbered ticket; and the crowds along the route whispered to each other – ‘there’s Grant’, ‘that’s Farragut’ – and a few hats came off in respect as President Johnson entered ahead of his cabinet. William Seward was not there. The old man was still lying in his bed, his throat and chest bandaged, his family terrified, his heart broken. Nobody noticed Lafayette Baker and his cousin, with plainclothesmen from the District of Columbia Cavalry, mingling with the crowd. No one knew their hands never left the butts of their pistols all day. Or that their eyes were everywhere. No president would be left unguarded again.

  Matthew Grand stood with a knot of other unattached officers along Pennsylvania Avenue. A much-needed leave had brought them all to the capital but their units were still in the field. Lee may have surrendered, but there were rednecks out there still, Johnny Rebs for whom the war would never be over. Across the broad street, on a raised platform, Grand could see the McKintyres, all in black, waiting with their friends.