“Please, miss. No one needs to be in here until the doctor can do his job.”
Before she could reply, he turned away, leaving her staring dumbly after him as he once again closed the door. She moved to take a step forward anyway, but Grandmother clutched at her arm, pulling her back.
“There is nothing we can do. Let the doctor work.” With blood pounding so heavily in Annabelle’s ears, she almost couldn’t hear the words, and allowed Grandmother to ease her away from the door.
Annabelle stumbled backward and slumped against the wall, her weak knees nearly giving out underneath her. She stood there transfixed, the scene around her seeming as though it were something from a nightmare.
Footsteps sounded down the hall, but Annabelle could not lift her eyes to see to whom they belonged. Inside the box, she heard a woman wailing, her frantic shouts echoing in Annabelle’s mind and mingling with the clamor of her own jumbled thoughts.
Failed!
So much worse….
We should have been able to save….
She shook her head to dislodge the buzzing thoughts, stinging at her mind like wasps. She needed to pull herself together and think clearly. She steeled herself and raised her head to look at the door again. It stood open. The injured would need her help. She shakily took a step closer. But then, another cry came from within the box that brought a new chill to her veins.
“The president is assassinated!”
Her knees once again gave way, and she slumped against the wall, feeling as though she hadn’t even the energy to stand upright. As the First Lady’s cries of torment permeated the hall, Annabelle put her head in her hands and wept.
Washington Train Station
April 14, 1865
10:38 PM
Mist hung in the air as Matthew exited the train, and by the time he reached the end of the platform, he could feel the moisture clinging to his skin. He flagged down one of the waiting coachmen and presented a stolen coin for the ride into the heart of Washington, trying to assuage his guilt over the thievery by reminding himself he had just saved two lives.
He instructed the driver to move with haste and swung up into the coach, ducking his head to make it inside. Matthew had barely pulled the door closed when the carriage began to sway.
The inside of the carriage was shrouded in shadows as Matthew took off his coat and brushed the water from his hat. Feeling better out of the damp clothing, he leaned back and closed his eyes. The more he’d thought about it on the train ride back, the more he worried over what O’Malley had said.
Would someone else seek to finish what O’Malley had started, or did the madman now work alone? He’d mentioned Booth, but he’d mumbled all kinds of things, and Matthew could not be sure what was truth. Either way, Matthew thought it best to stop by the theatre, just to be sure they did not still try to accomplish the abduction. Then, he would go to the law and tell his story. Hopefully, when questioned, Mrs. Grant would recognize him and be able to affirm the tale. With any luck, they might even be able to get O’Malley from the pub before he could run off.
Presently, the carriage came to a stop, and Matthew could hear shouts out on the street. Curious, he pulled aside the curtain and saw a mob milling about. In an instant, his curiosity morphed into horror. Something was terribly wrong.
He pulled open the door and jumped out, not even bothering to grab his coat and hat. The driver shouted something at him as he bolted away, but he could not turn back. Just ahead, people were flowing out of Ford’s Theatre and more were quickly gathering on the streets, blocking the carriages. Women wailed and men shouted incoherently. Even in four years of war, Matthew had never seen such a chaotic scene.
He grabbed the shoulder of the nearest man. “What has happened?” he shouted over the growing cacophony.
The man looked at him with horrified eyes. “The president’s been assassinated!”
Matthew could feel the blood drain from his face. O’Malley had not been the only one with murderous intent. “Where?”
The man nodded to the theatre. “There! They are saying he was shot during the play!”
Matthew thrust the man aside and pushed his way through the press of bodies. Men in uniforms of various sorts shouted and converged, all of whom seemed to be in a great hurry to do something. Seeing a man of the police, Matthew reached out and snatched his arm as he passed by.
The startled man looked up at Matthew. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I know who the assassin is!” Matthew blurted. “It’s John Wilkes Booth!”
The man looked at him in disgust. “Everyone knows that, you fool. Join the search or be gone with you!”
The man pulled free as Matthew stood there, too stunned to move. Everyone knew? Search? Matthew shook off his surprise and pushed farther into the crowd. Apparently, Booth had already gotten away. His mind raced. Surely he would not be so foolish as to return to the Surratt house. But, where then…?
Suddenly, Matthew remembered that during the abduction plot, Harry had gone to Mrs. Surratt’s tavern to deposit a stash of guns and ammunition. If he had to make a guess, he would bet that likely would be where Booth was headed. He searched for the policeman whom he’d grabbed, but the man had already disappeared.
He started to walk toward another when a great wave of cries arose off to his left. Matthew turned to see a tight knot of men coming out of the theatre, a man hoisted up between their arms.
“Guards clear passage!” one of the men shouted, and soon Union soldiers were thrusting people out of the way as the group parted the crowd like the Red Sea.
When the crowd opened, Matthew got a glimpse of what he’d feared: the body of Lincoln, limp in their arms. Transfixed, he watched them somberly carry the body of their dead leader through the wailing crowd. Time seemed to slow, each breath an eternity as the group waded through the river of tears and anguish poured out by the mourners on the streets.
As the fallen president passed, Matthew’s eyes drifted back to the throng filling in behind the procession. There, at its head, trudged a small woman in a white dress, her sleeve smeared in so bright a red that even the dim light and misting rain could not hide its nature.
His senses snapped back to clarity, the fog of the moment giving way to the harsh light of reality. What was she doing here? He’d left her safe in New York!
Matthew’s feet began to move even as his thoughts crashed into his consciousness. He put his hands together like a plow, and began turning people aside, moving them from his path as though they were mere stalks of wheat, swaying in a desolate wind.
“Annabelle!” he screamed.
In the darkness, he saw only her. She was the lighthouse that would bring an end to this night of horrors. If only he could reach her before the waves smashed his soul upon the rocks.
“The president has been murdered!” someone shouted.
“Kill the murderer!” another screamed.
Annabelle struggled to keep her composure as she followed those carrying Lincoln out of the theatre.
Screams of fury mingled with the anguished moans of mourning as the people crashed down from their victory jubilation to the dark waters of loss below. In a matter of days, they had tasted the sweetness of an ended war, reveled in the promises of a rebuilt nation, and now were doused in the bitter rains of hopelessness. The one who would see the nation restored and the reign of peace begin now walked the lonely road to eternity, leaving them behind to navigate uncharted territory alone.
Grandmother latched onto Annabelle’s arm, and they continued to follow the president’s body across the street. Two doctors and several soldiers had passed by her and into that box, and all the while Mrs. Lincoln had sobbed so uncontrollably that Annabelle had known the president was dead.
But then, she’d heard the young doctor say that he could hold a finger in the wound, and that it might hold off the bleeding for a time. Not long after, they had begun to move him, and Annabelle had trailed behind, praying that a miracle would see
him restored to life.
As she walked, she continued to mumble prayers, pleading that she would not once more have to see another lost whom she had been unable to save. Somewhere off in the sea of chaos, she thought she heard someone call her name, but she didn’t bother to look for the source. What did it matter? All that mattered now was to cling to the fragile hope that Lincoln would make it through the night.
Grandmother clutched tightly to her arm, a frightened cat digging her claws into the branch that swayed above the river. Annabelle forced her mind to remain calm lest she be caught up in the current as well. With plodding steps, they and many others followed the president inside a house opposite the theatre, and up the stairs to a small room.
The press of people was so heavy that Annabelle could not see well into the room. Between shoulders and bobbing heads, she caught glimpses as they laid him across a bed. Someone shouted annoyance at those in attendance, and soon a Union soldier began pushing them all from the room.
Annabelle turned away, the tears on her cheeks rolling down to her chin. There were doctors with him now. She would be of no use with others more skilled than she in attendance. And with the way her elder clutched to her arm, Annabelle would not have been able to give assistance even if she’d been allowed.
With heavy steps the two women returned down the stairs and found a place by the wall near the front door. Grandmother stood silently beside her, both of them too shocked to do much more than watch as people shouted for aid and some were admitted into the house as others were turned away. Outside, she could still hear the crowds calling for answers.
None seemed to take notice of the two women, however, and Annabelle suspected that if she remained quiet and still, she might be allowed to remain. Men were sent out with telegrams and instructions to spread the news, and others appeared to take accounts.
Failed. Saving him from abduction that day on the road had gained nothing. She’d merely prolonged the inevitable. Tears welled again and slid down her cheeks, but she paid them no mind.
“Seward has been attacked as well,” a man said as he passed, jarring Annabelle from her thoughts.
She glanced at Grandmother, about to comment, but the older woman shook her head, tears running down her wrinkled face. Annabelle drew her lips tight, knowing Grandmother was right. They would learn more if they remained nothing more than a fixture on the wall, two bits of furniture easily dismissed.
Oh, how woefully wrong they’d been! All this while they expected abduction. Now, it seemed, the plan had been much more than that. As whispered words and bits of information drifted their way, Annabelle learned that there had been a series of coordinated attacks, meant to take out key members of the government in a single blow.
There was a commotion upstairs, and soon a booming voice called out. “Take that woman out of here and do not let her in this room again!”
Mary Lincoln was escorted down the stairs, and into the parlor just off to the right of where they stood. The poor woman’s body heaved with sobs, and her wails were so distraught they tugged at Annabelle’s already bruised heart.
Annabelle glanced at Grandmother and saw the compassion on her face from one widow to another. In an instant, life could end. The ones you loved could be gone in a flash of pain.
Matthew’s face filled her mind, and she choked on a sob. What would life had been if the war had not come, and she and Matthew had courted as their fathers’ had intended? Would she have had an unscarred heart, and he the easy laughter of a man not maimed by pain and desperation?
She bit her lip. There was little point in wondering what could have been. War had stolen those whispered promises and had trodden over them with thundering cannons. She could not undo what these last years had made her, and Matthew could not turn around and abandon the path he’d set himself upon.
Tears of anger stung her eyes. Fool! She’d seen glimpses of the man he’d been and could be again. Why had he let his pride and bitterness steal it all away, just to be a part of a group so bent on their misplaced revenge that they destroyed everyone around them?
How could men who claimed to act in justice for wrongs done to the South commit the same atrocities they accused Lincoln of being responsible for? Blood to avenge blood served no one and brought only further heartache.
“Who here has borne witness?” A man shouted, jarring her back to focusing on her current surroundings.
His gaze fell on Annabelle and Grandmother, and she opened her mouth to offer up what she knew, but she didn’t get the chance. He pointed at them, glaring. “Get these women out of here! And no more people in here who don’t have business!”
Someone took her arm. “Sorry, miss,” he said gently. Annabelle didn’t even look up at him as he guided her and Grandmother out the door.
Outside, the damp air hit her face and jolted her system back into some resemblance of normalcy. The haze of shock cleared, and she was met with a press of people stained with worried expressions. Some pleaded for answers she could not give, and others shouted incoherent venomous calls for revenge. Did they not see? Such things would only bring more pain, an endless watermill of blood that never found the final turn.
Annabelle let her gaze roam over them, wishing there were any bit of good news she could offer. Any bit of peace and comfort that would sooth troubled brows and calm murderous lips.
Then, she spotted him. Standing tall above the others, with a face wet with rain and eyes filled with worry, stood the very man she had prayed would have not been a part of this mess. As long as he had not been here, there had been a small seed of hope clutched tight to her chest.
Upon seeing him, something within her snapped, and her precious little seed withered to nothing more than a shriveled husk.
“So then, dearest Mother, forgive and pray for me. I feel that I am right in the justness of my cause, and that we shall, ere long, meet again.”
John Wilkes Booth
The streets of Washington
April 15, 1865
12:00 AM
Anger buzzed through her veins like a swatted nest of hornets, and in a matter of moments, she had pushed her way through the crowd, heedless of their protest.
“Annabelle! I was so worried….” Matthew said, reaching out to take her hands.
She glared up at him, and before she could stop herself, wound back and released her fury as a slap across his face. Her palm stung and tears blurred her vision. She raised her hands to beat on the solid muscle of his chest in her blind rage, but he grabbed hold of both of her wrists and pulled her close to him instead.
“Annabelle! Please, my love, calm down and tell me what has happened.”
She craned her neck up to look at him, her breath coming in rapid spurts. “You…you knew! You helped them!”
He shook his head, the pain in his eyes stopping her next words. “No! I swear it! I thought I had stopped him.”
Annabelle glared at him, knowing the winter in her eyes could freeze over the hottest Mississippi day. He reached out and gently cupped her chin, the warmth of his hand bringing a balmy breeze that, despite her best efforts, thawed some of her resolve to despise him.
“O’Malley planned to murder General Grant and his wife. I stopped him.”
Annabelle stared at him with wide eyes, wanting to believe his words. He leaned his head low, looking at her with sincerity. “O’Malley said he’d planned on coming to this theatre to attack the president, so as soon as I knew the Grants were safe, I came here. I had nothing to do with this!”
The Grants as well? She pulled her face from his hand. How many were intended to be murdered this night? Someone bumped into her, and she stumbled.
Matthew put a hand around her waist and pulled her close. She shivered, glad for the protection he offered even as her traitorous heart warred with her logic.
“Please, I will explain all. But, we must get out of here,” Matthew pleaded, gently tugging her away from the house where the president struggled to hold onto
life.
She parted her lips, a protest ready to fly from her tongue.
“The tyrant got what he deserved!” someone shouted.
There was a roar, and then the pop of gunfire. Annabelle screamed, her defiance forgotten. Lightning fast, Matthew lifted her off her feet and pushed through the crowd. Annabelle struggled to breathe as he pressed her against his side, her body jarring roughly with each of his pounding footfalls.
“Grandmother!” she finally managed to squeak, struggling to expand her ribs with enough breath to make her call heard.
“What?” Matthew asked, his footsteps not slowing.
“Grandmother!” Annabelle yelled, struggling against his iron grasp.
Matthew jerked to a halt, quickly releasing her. She dropped to the ground, breathing hard. “Grandmother is back there!”
In the mêlée of emotions, she had left Grandmother alone!
Matthew grabbed her hand and pulled her toward a shop entrance, pressing her into an alcove and out of the throng of bodies. He hesitated. “Please. Wait here.” He turned without waiting for her reply, pushing through people and sending several stumbling out of his way.
Her heart pounded as she watched him trudge through the masses, his great height affording her the advantage of not losing sight of him. He neared the house where she’d stepped away from Grandmother and bent down. After a moment, he turned back in her direction, wading through the mass of shouts and fury, tugging her grandmother along behind him.
When they finally reached the alcove and Grandmother peered around Matthew’s back to spot Annabelle, she pulled her hand from his grasp and ran forward. “Child, you nearly scared the life from me!” she cried, wrapping Annabelle in a crushing embrace.
Annabelle only briefly returned the squeeze, pulling away without apology. “Where is George?”
Matthew stiffened. “George? Did you all come?”
“Yes,” Grandmother snapped. “To try to save you.”
Matthew scowled and opened his mouth to reply, but only shook his head instead. “Which way did George go?”
The Liberator Series Box Set: Christian Historical Civil War Novels Page 59
