O’Malley brightened. “Oh, yes. Of course. I’ll have them finished and be back to the theatre in time.”
Matthew cocked his head. “Theatre?”
O’Malley’s eyes gleamed. “This isn’t the end, you know.” He chuckled, but the sound only sent a shiver down Matthew’s spine. “Not only will I take the arm, but then the very head as well!”
Matthew fought to keep his composure, praying that O’Malley’s pride would continue to loosen his tongue. Sure enough, O’Malley sat back against the plush seat and smiled wistfully. “It will all be over soon. And then, peace. We take the arm now, and then it’s back to Washington to kill the tyrant. Why let Booth whisk him away during the play?”
“No,” Matthew agreed. “He’s too weak. You are the only one with the fortitude to pull it off.”
O’Malley beamed. “See? Even a half-wit like you can see it. Oh, yes. Forget whatever abduction plans Booth has. While the tyrant laughs at that ridiculous play at Ford’s, I’m going to put a bullet in his back,” O’Malley whispered with glee. “The waiting is done, my friend. The waiting is done.”
Matthew rested his head on the cushion and willed his thudding heart to slow, trying to decide on what to do. When the last of the passengers boarded and the train let off a shrill whistle, Matthew had formulated a plan. It rang of deception and cowardice, but he could see no other way. He could not risk being detained and not making it back to the theatre to try to stop the abduction.
The train began to move forward, the heavy wheels making a grinding noise beneath them as they started to roll along the tracks.
Then, quick as a darting snake, Matthew turned on O’Malley. In an instant, Matthew’s hand clutched the soft spot at the top of O’Malley’s neck, just below the jaw, and he began to squeeze.
The National Hotel
April 14, 1865
7:00 PM
Annabelle gathered her white skirt and stepped into the hired carriage. Grandmother and George followed, and soon the three of them were on their way to Ford’s Theatre.
“What if they are not there? Or we don’t see them?” Annabelle asked, unable to leave the worry unspoken.
“Then that is best, wouldn’t you say?” Grandmother replied, lifting her brows.
Annabelle looked at her like she’d misplaced her wits. “How can that be a good thing?”
“It would be a good thing because it means perhaps you were right. Maybe Mr. Daniels did, indeed, thwart this O’Malley.” She smiled. “Then all will be well.”
Perhaps, Annabelle thought, glancing at George. “Indeed. But, what about Booth? He still has a part in this. I’m sure of it.”
George nodded. “That is unmistakable. He was with O’Malley.”
Grandmother pursed her lips, still seeming unconvinced, despite all the evidence against the actor. “Very well. Though he was likely only brought into it because of his knowledge of the theatre.”
Annabelle’s annoyance flared, and she could not keep the bite from her tone. “No, Grandmother. I saw him during their first attempt as well.”
Grandmother bit on her lip. “Then we will call upon Mrs. Lincoln tomorrow and let her know your suspicions.”
Annabelle gaped. “You can do that?”
“Well,” Grandmother said, lifting her shoulders. “I can try.”
Annabelle groaned and fell back against the cushions. They continued the remainder of the short journey in silence.
The carriage came to a stop and the footman opened the door, assisting the ladies out at the front of the theatre. After a moment George presented their tickets and they were permitted entrance. If not for the circumstances, Annabelle might have been excited to attend her first performance, but as it were, her insides gnawed with apprehension.
The building was beautiful. The seats on the floor curved around the stage, giving the audience nearly equal viewing. Above, firelight danced gleefully from rows of lamps positioned along the edge of an upper balcony, sending a shimmering glow over the polished wood of the stage.
A man ushered them toward assigned seats near the rear of the viewing floor. Annabelle gathered her skirt and petticoat to slide between the rows and sat in between Grandmother and George.
“I am sorry for the quality of the seats,” Grandmother said, “but I could not get anything in the boxes.”
Annabelle followed her grandmother’s gaze to the sets of private seats up above them. Presently, her gaze landed on a box nearly overhanging the stage, decorated in tassels and a Union flag. “Is that where he will be?”
“Yes,” Grandmother said, straightening herself to face the stage once more.
Annabelle followed suit and looked forward at the raised stage. Cupped mirrors had been placed along the edge, so that the lamplight was directed away from the audience and concentrated upon the stage. The curtain hiding the platform was brightly lit, and Annabelle had no trouble believing the show would be easy to see, even this late at night.
Below the stage, men with instruments began tuning, and a disjointed sound of mismatched notes flowed into the murmurs of the gathering crowd. Like many others around her, Annabelle’s eyes kept turning up toward the presidential box, waiting for a sighting of Lincoln.
However, when the curtain began to draw back and the box still remained empty, her heart began to pound. What if they had already carried out their plan while she sat here like a fool watching a silly play?
The musicians had just begun to play the opening notes when something inside the box moved. Annabelle held her breath. A couple she did not recognize entered and sat in two of the chairs. Her heart pounded and she strained to see. If he did not come, she did not know if she could stand to sit here any longer.
There! Finally, the unmistakable height of the president stepped into the box, and Annabelle’s racing heart began to slow. She watched as he saw his wife seated, and then took his place next to her.
The others in the theatre must have noticed him as well, because a cheer arose. The actors on the stage paused, waiting as the president waved to an adoring crowd. Relief washed over her.
With Lincoln safely in his box and Mr. Crook watching for any sign of O’Malley, she could take a few moments to breathe easy. For now, they could simply enjoy the performance and worry about clandestine plots on the morrow.
Philadelphia Train Station
April 14, 1865
7:00 PM
The train ground to a halt at the Philadelphia platform, and O’Malley was still unconscious. He breathed slowly, his face serene. To any that had walked by during their trip, the man had simply seemed to be sleeping.
He was, in fact, although not of his own accord. Matthew had hated to cut off the man’s air, and his stomach had turned watching O’Malley struggle until his face had turned purple. Even so, Matthew had held on until he felt O’Malley’s muscles go lax, and then waited for the final contraction they would give if he held on too long.
As soon as O’Malley had stiffened, Matthew released his grip and watched as breath pulled back into his lungs and he slumped to the side, unconscious. He would have a monstrous headache when he finally awoke, but he would survive. Unfortunately, it had been the best solution Matthew could conjure.
Matthew leaned out into the aisle and waited until most of the other passengers had disembarked, including the Grants, before rising. As he pulled on his coat, he saw the same ticket man who had been at the door earlier and waved him over.
“How long before the next train back to Washington?” Matthew asked.
The man looked past Matthew at O’Malley, but dismissed the sleeping man. “One hour. Are you returning so soon?”
Matthew nodded. “My charge’s family does not live far. They are going to meet me and take him home, and I will want to be back in Washington to sleep in my own bed.”
The man smiled. “Certainly, sir. But, you probably better hurry and wake him, if you hope to make it in time.”
Matthew threw O’Malley’s arm
over his shoulder and pulled him from his seat. O’Malley groaned a little, but his head fell against Matthew’s shoulder and he did not wake. Matthew tugged him from the seat and into the aisle, his feet barely skimming the floor. “Afraid I can’t. I had to give him some of the sleeping draught to keep him calm, and it will be awhile before it wears off.”
The ticket man frowned, and opened his mouth, but then shook his head and walked away. Relieved, Matthew hauled O’Malley off the train and onto the darkened platform. If any of the busy passengers noticed them, they paid no mind.
Matthew set his jaw and dragged O’Malley along until he found what he needed. Ahead, sounds of laughter spilled onto the road. Music and the merriment of men deep into their ale directed him to the nearest pub as surely as the scent of pie brought hungry bellies to the kitchen.
Matthew nudged the door open with his foot and hauled O’Malley inside, but none of the Yanks celebrating their victory seemed to care about the unconscious man. He stood just inside the door, looking around until he spotted a man he hoped was the proprietor.
Men sat at several tables playing cards, their cigar smoke permeating the air and clinging to Matthew’s clothing. He wove his way around the tables and past the jangling piano as the man sitting at the keys pounded out a vibrant tune. Instead of soothing, the buoyant song only further scraped at Matthew’s already failing portrayal of calm.
Finally, he reached the serving bar and shifted O’Malley’s weight. He might be a slight man, but carrying his full weight such a distance had still become taxing. The old wound in his calf began to ache, and he consciously had to keep a grimace from his face.
“Need something?” the man asked, handing a customer a mug of ale and then wiping his beefy hands on a towel as he walked toward Matthew.
Matthew gestured toward O’Malley. “My friend here needs a place to sleep off his drink.”
The barkeep glanced at the drooping man and chuckled. “Mighty early to be that bad off.”
Matthew shrugged. “It’s common enough for this one. He’ll be a bear in the morning, though.”
The large man, nearly as tall and broad as Matthew, gestured toward the stairs at the back of the crowded room. “I’ve got one room left, if you want it.”
“Thank you. He just needs to sleep it off. I have business I must return to, so if I can just pay now…?”
The man shrugged. “Sure. Want me to let him know when he wakes?” Someone called for another drink and the big man shouted for him to wait a moment.
“You’re busy. I’ll leave him a message. I doubt he’ll be up until morning.”
The man seemed pleased with the answer and they decided on a price for one night and a hot breakfast. Matthew used O’Malley’s funds to pay for the room, and then hauled him up the stairs.
He pushed open the door that the man had mentioned and dragged O’Malley to the single bed. It wasn’t a fancy place, but it was dry, warm, and a good bit better than the alley where Matthew had briefly considered leaving him.
The unconscious man never stirred as Matthew removed his boots and covered him with a quilt. Matthew stepped back and looked at O’Malley, giving a small shake of his head. “I’m sorry, David,” he whispered. “I just couldn’t let you go through with it.”
He turned and left the room, pulling the door closed behind him. He stuck in the key and turned the lock, then he tucked it away and hurried back to the train station.
“Many, I know—the vulgar herd—will blame me for what I am about to do, but posterity, I am sure, will justify me.”
John Wilkes Booth
Ford’s Theatre
April 14, 1865
10:20 PM
Annabelle found herself drawn into the play, giggling at another joke the actors made. She glanced up again as the room filled with the sounds of roaring laughter and could make out the president sitting in his box, leaning forward as his shoulders shook.
Annabelle turned her attention back to the performance where the man playing the cousin stood alone on the polished stage, strutting about like a deer in full antlers. The lamplight shone brightly on his face, his wily expression as easy to see as if it had been daylight.
“Don’t know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal. You sockdologizing old man trap!”
The audience howled and the theatre filled with hysterical laughter. Even George, who had seemed stoic throughout the first half of the performance, leaned over as he clutched his stomach and slapped at his knee.
Annabelle giggled and looked back at the actors, enjoying the freedom of easy laughter and the relief that all was well.
Suddenly, there was a loud pop from above that was nearly lost in the roar of the crowd. Annabelle’s heart fluttered. Gunfire? She glanced back at the stage, and the actors were still in the full swing of their performance.
Perhaps it is part of the play….
Then a scream arose and tangled with the sounds of merriment. Startled, Annabelle’s gaze immediately turned up toward the president’s box, still hoping she had merely become paranoid.
No! In the darkness, two men struggled up in the box as one reached for the outer railing. O’Malley! How had Mr. Crook missed him? Words strangled in her throat as she pointed toward the box.
In an instant George was on his feet, trying to make his way out of the crowd, stepping across patrons who cried out as he climbed over them as he tried to get to the main aisle. It seemed the audience had not noticed the commotion in the box, since they were too absorbed in the comedy.
Suddenly, a man jumped up on the railing of the box and Annabelle wailed, springing to her feet. O’Malley had been caught in the act, but now he was trying to get away! Someone grabbed at the man’s coat just as he prepared to jump, and O’Malley lost his balance.
As the conspirator leapt, his foot became entangled in the Union flag hanging off the railing and he came down hard on the stage. Annabelle gasped as the man rose and hobbled across the stage, his leg obviously injured.
His plot had failed! He could not have abducted….
Her hope flickered out as the man came forward on the stage. There stood not David O’Malley, as she had suspected, but John Wilkes Booth. The crowd buzzed with confusion, unsure if the actor had performed the stunt as part of the show.
Then he lifted a bloody knife over his head, and chaos broke out as the audience realized this was not part of the play. She had expected Booth would help O’Malley to get the president captured, but not this!
Terrified, Annabelle looked back to the box, but the shadowed figures were hard to see. She squinted.
There. The president still seemed to be seated, but his head hung off to the side. His wife had her arms around him, screaming.
“Stop that man!” someone yelled from above.
Booth, seemingly undeterred, shouted something Annabelle thought to be Latin. Then as if the truth of the matter finally took hold, the crowd surged forward. One man even made a mighty leap over the orchestra pit and scrambled up on the stage in pursuit. There was no way Booth could escape this many.
Annabelle struggled toward the end of the row, stumbling over Grandmother in her haste and nearly falling. George had made it into the aisle by then and had pushed through scores of stunned people, heading for the stage. Grandmother stood transfixed until Booth dropped the bloody knife and ran off the stage, finally realizing that his end was nigh.
As though a spell were broken, Grandmother came to her senses and grabbed Annabelle’s arm. “Come on!” she shouted.
Annabelle watched George’s progress for only an instant, then followed Grandmother as they elbowed their way through the crowd, heading for the rear of the theatre. Pushing and shoving with all sense of manners forgotten, they made their way to the stairs leading to the private boxes.
When they reached the top, the hall was empty. Annabelle stumbled to a halt, fear sending a shiver down her spine. No one guarded the private doors.
Panic drummed in her chest. What had happened to them?
Grandmother let out a wail, calling her friend’s name, but Mr. Crook was nowhere to be seen. Grandmother picked up her skirts, and the two of them dashed toward the president’s box undeterred.
They’d made it only a few paces down the carpet when footsteps sounded heavily behind them. Annabelle looked over her shoulder and saw a young man running their way, his mustached face set in hard lines.
“Excuse me!” he shouted as he passed them, nearly knocking Annabelle over as he darted around her.
The man grabbed the door of the president’s box and gave it a hard yank just as Annabelle arrived, only steps behind him. Horrified, she lunged toward the stranger, grabbing his arm and trying to pull him away.
“Release me, woman! I am a doctor and people in here require my aid!”
Stunned, Annabelle let go just as Grandmother gained her side.
The man pounded on the door. “I am Charles Leale, surgeon of the Union Army. Allow me entrance!”
There was no reply, so the young man pulled on the door again, but it held firm. Finally, after several tries, a shout came from the other side of the door.
“Stand back!”
There were scraping noises, and finally the door came open with a jerk. A man stood there, bleeding profusely from a deep gash in his chest that ran the length of his upper arm. He clutched at the wound, and already his face was growing pale.
Before anyone could say anything about his condition, the man gestured back toward the box. “I can wait. See to the president. He’s been shot!”
The doctor’s face became a storm cloud, and he hurried through a second door into the private box without hesitation.
Annabelle cried out, and the man who had opened the door glared at her. She ignored him, her shock compelling her to move forward. She opened her mouth to tell the man she’d been a nurse’s aide and could help, but before she could get the words out, he grabbed tight onto her arm.
The Liberator Series Box Set: Christian Historical Civil War Novels Page 58
