“And you served in the Rebel Army, is this correct?”
“I just said…”
“Brother to a George Daniels, also of Westerly Plantation, Mississippi?”
Matthew clamped the rounded edges of the armrests and refused to answer until the man lifted his eyes from his writing. “Who are you?”
“I am Mr. Fitch.”
They regarded one another for some time before Fitch turned his attention back to his scribbling. “You did not answer the question. Are you brother to a George Daniels of West—”
“Yes,” Matthew said, cutting the man’s repetition short. “What does that have to do with Booth?”
The man’s eyebrows dipped for only an instant before the indifferent look smoothed his forehead again. “You do understand, of course, that knowing the purpose and identity of all who give their account is imperative to our search, do you not?”
“And you, of course, understand that you have already wasted valuable time and let your quarry escape. I told your men hours ago I knew where he was going. Not one seemed interested.”
Fitch stroked his mustache. “How well do you know Mr. Booth?”
“Not well.”
“On how many occasions have you met with him?”
“Only one.”
“And this was…?”
Matthew regarded the man. Annabelle and George had both insisted that each of them give a full accounting. He’d even planned on coming here himself before O’Malley had made a run at the Grants. But now, sitting in this chair, looking at the Yank who stared him with thinly disguised suspicion, he felt the words sticking in his mouth.
The man started writing again.
Matthew scowled. “What are you doing? I didn’t say anything.”
“Precisely.”
Matthew made a low noise in his throat and Fitch looked up expectantly. “I met Booth on only one occasion,” he finally said, “when he was introduced to me by David O’Malley. After that introduction I was in his presence only once more, on the day when they planned to abduct Lincoln and take him to Richmond.”
“And you were a part of this ploy?”
“I was.” The words felt like needles as they passed his tongue. They pierced and stung with the promise of painful repercussions.
“And were you aware that Mr. Booth planned an assassination of President Lincoln yester eve?”
“I was not.”
“But you did tell one of my fellow officers…” he flipped through his pages, “that you ‘knew who the assassin was.’ Is that correct?”
“It is.” How much did this man already know? Judging by the look in his eyes, Matthew guessed he knew enough already to have decided Matthew’s fate. Everything within him rebelled against this pretentious Yank and his foul little notebook, but he stretched his neck and tried to release some of the tension from his shoulders. He settled back against the hard chair and regarded the man evenly. He’d promised Annabelle he would speak truth, and he would not break his word with this first test.
Fitch looked at him curiously, then slowly closed his book and sat back as well. “Is there something you wish to disclose?”
Hoping he wasn’t about to lose all he’d only so recently gained, Matthew nodded. “I was involved in a plot to abduct, but never to murder, your president. After the failed attempt to take his carriage, I left Washington. You can arrest me on those things if you wish, but for now, I suggest you listen carefully to what I am going to tell you, if you have any hope of catching the men responsible.”
Fitch snatched up his pen eagerly. “Men?”
“I know the location of the one sent to kill General Grant, and I also know where Booth would have gone after fleeing Washington. He would have gone to Surrattsville where they stashed weapons and supplies at the tavern.”
Fitch narrowed his eyes and stared at him for a moment, a myriad of emotions scurrying over his face. Finally, settling on determination, he gave a single nod.
“Very well. Mr. Daniels, I have a proposition for you.”
“Lincoln is gone at last. Booth has carried out his oft-repeated threat, and has, so it is said, really taken the life of the tyrant.”
John Surratt
George struggled to keep his composure as they led him deeper into the bowels of the prison. Sweat beaded on his forehead and some of it fell into his eyes, stinging. He squinted and wiped at his face with the sleeve of the fine jacket Mrs. Smith had given him.
Old Capitol Prison.
Only weeks out of Elmira, and already they were bringing him back! George tried to remain calm as the thought swirled around within him, stoking fires of both fear and anger. His breath began to quicken, heaving his chest rapidly, yet still not seeming to fill him with enough air to breathe freely. He lifted a trembling hand to his brow and whisked the moisture away again, his stomach beginning to roll.
Inside. At least it’s inside. Won’t freeze, now….
George shook his head vigorously in an attempt to clear his thoughts, and the lawman at his side took a small step closer. George swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He must remain calm.
Held for questioning. Short time. Just a short time.
His teeth began to clatter as though his body were already beginning to relive the horrors of Elmira. He struggled to remind himself he had come to the law of his own accord and that he was not being arrested on charges. They only wanted to question him. Just questions. No overcrowded tents, no coffin duty. No men wallowing in their own filth…the Hopeless on the wall staring at him with empty eyes….
No! Can’t go back. Won’t go back.
Suddenly, George spun around on the uneven stone floor and lurched forward. His guard let out a cry and lunged for him, but George sidestepped the move and broke into a sprint. His vision narrowed, blocking out his view of the other cells he passed, leaving his mind straining for the only hope of salvation—the lone doorway at the end of this impossibly long corridor.
His feet pounded on the floor, his hands reaching out in an effort to grasp it. It was there, heavy wood banded in iron, close enough now to promise escape. He could make it. Leaping over a broom handle that had fallen across the way, George ignored the startled expression of a boy who had been sweeping a moment earlier.
“You! Halt!”
He could hear the voice of the guard behind him, but he couldn’t stop now. He should have run from Elmira. Should have tried, at least. They had taken his pride, his honor, and nearly his life. And he had let them. Not again.
Three more strides. Five, at the most. How can it be so far away?
Liars. All of them. He’d signed their papers. Pledged himself to them—in treason to his own country!—and still they sought to lock him away! George’s hand closed around the cool metal of the door handle.
Victory!
The Yanks would not take him again. They would not get the chance to—
His breath left him in a whoosh as he hit the floor, jarring all the thoughts of escape from his head. Someone shouted, and a heavy weight pressed down between his shoulders. His captor wrenched his arms behind him, tying George’s hands with a course rope before rolling George over.
“Now what’d you have to go and do that for?” the man asked, befuddled.
George blinked at him rapidly, and the sneer of an Elmira guard, the one they’d dubbed Corporal Carnage, faded away. In its place loomed the curious expression of a man in his forties with sandy hair and bushy mutton chops.
“I…uh….” George licked his lips. What had happened to him? His heart still thudded wildly, but his mind was beginning to clear. “I apologize. I wasn’t…myself.”
The man grunted and pulled George to his feet. “I know it’s not the best, but orders are we’ve got to hold you all, at least until they catch him.”
The guard…policeman… seemed agreeable enough, even though he now kept a firm hand on George’s elbow as they started down the hallway once again. He kept glancing at George’s profile, and George couldn�
��t say he blamed the man.
“You have the nightmares?” the man asked softly.
George looked over at him. “Nightmares?”
The man nodded, speaking low. “I’ve seen lads like you. All tore up in the head about what they’ve seen on the battlefield. Gets to some more than others. Some, you wouldn’t even know it had them unless something sets them off.”
George found himself nodding along. He knew this wasn’t Elmira, but his body had seemed to respond of its own accord as though it were. “No, no nightmares,” he said, giving the boy with the broom a sheepish shrug as they passed.
“Hmm.” The man didn’t sound convinced. Not that George faulted him there, either.
They came to a stop in front of a cell with thick bars and naught but a cot and chamber pot inside. George shivered again. “That’s good, though, right?” he asked, his eyes not leaving the interior of the cell.
The lawman opened the door and guided George inside. Then he flicked open a knife and cut through the short length of rope, freeing George’s hands. “Most of the boys, they get nightmares. You had one of those attacks, best I can figure, which means you probably have the nightmares, too.”
“Attacks?” George asked, rubbing his wrist though the rope hadn’t been very tight.
The lawman looked at him evenly, the pity in his eyes making George uncomfortable. “Makes a fellow do funny things.”
George straightened himself in an effort to regain what little of his dignity he could. “Thank you…for telling me.” He tugged on the hem of his jacket. “And for not making it worse on me.”
“Don’t worry on it, lad. Soon as they find that actor fellow, then this will all be over and you’ll be free to go.”
George nodded and sat down on his cot. Free to go….
A moment later the door clanged, jarring his senses. Feeling his emotions begin to spiral again, he fell back on the hard bed. Closing his eyes helped some, as did focusing on each breath as he pulled it in and released it. Perhaps in a moment this strange sensation would pass.
Images began to flash through his mind unbidden. Broken bodies. The gut-churning smell. And the boxes. So many boxes to make….
No!
George rubbed his temples. He had to think on something, anything else, or he might find himself in a fit of madness with no one to come to his aid. George clenched his teeth. He’d spent weeks at the Smith house in New York without suffering any effects of his time at Elmira. Maybe if he thought about that instead…
A lovely face filled his mind. Smooth, delicate features. Shimmering waves of ebony hair that called to his fingers to come feel their softness. Lilly Rose. A mystery he had yet to solve. He thought about the way her eyes glimmered and the smile that bloomed on her lips for little Frankie.
As George thought about playing with the boy, his heartbeat began to slow. He pictured himself tossing the tot in the air and the joyful sound of childish giggles. Finally, his sweat dried and his breathing turned even. Keeping his eyes closed against the reality of the prison, George thought back on his time with Lilly and Frankie.
Lilly Rose, the strikingly beautiful woman who worked in the Smith house. Not a lady of family means, then, but what did that matter to him? Father could no longer dictate he must marry a woman of wealth. He was master of Westerly now and could court whomever he wished.
A warm sensation filled him at the thought, pushing away the lingering chill that seemed reluctant to leave his veins. He embraced the feeling and let his mind conjure images of evening strolls, afternoon teas, and morning rides. They would bring the boy along, and George would teach him to cast a line while Lilly set out a picnic lunch in the meadow.
George began to drift off, and smiled as the little Frankie in his mind struggled to pierce the worm on his hook while his momma made a face. After they ate, they watched the boy play with butterflies in the field and George took Lilly’s hand in his. Her brown eyes were wide as he slipped a ruby ring onto her finger. A marriage in the spring, and with any luck, a sibling for Frankie come Christmas. She smiled at him, her lips beckoning he come closer.
The wind picked up and bits of her hair slipped free from under her bonnet. So beautiful, so peaceful. This is what life should be, with Lilly and Frankie. Sighing with content, George reached up to tuck one of the freed strands away, but the sudden terror in Lilly’s eyes stilled him.
Silently, she pointed behind him. Her fingers trembled and tears welled in her eyes. George turned, only to see the creek where they had fished now filled with fallen soldiers, their life-blood draining away and turning the water red. He reached out to pull Lilly to him, but in her place now stood a sneering guard with his rifle pointed right at George’s chest.
“In the water you go, Rebel.”
George shook his head, but his feet moved without his command. Slowly, he trudged down the thick mud of the bank as fingers of it reached up and pulled on his trousers, trying to bring him down. He pulled one foot free, losing his boot and then plunging his toes into the icy water beyond.
His teeth clattered. Cold. So cold. Lifeless bodies floated by, bobbing on the current. All the eyes looked at him, accusing.
Where are our boxes? You didn’t make us enough boxes. Then you let us drown!
“No!” George cried, lunging to the water. “I tried to save you!” He grabbed the hand of the nearest man, his pock-marked face twisted in a snarl as his lifeless eyes stared at George. The corpse opened his mouth and began to speak.
No coffin. No coffin. Only the bottom of the river for me.
George screamed and released his hand, plunging into the icy depths that pulled at him, dragging him down. Down farther and farther until….
George bolted upright, panting. His clothes were soaked in sweat, and he shivered violently. He pulled his feet up under him and pressed his back against the wall.
The cold would come for him now, to take him in the vulnerable time of his dreams. His failures would haunt him. Where the prison walls robbed him of his waking freedom, the memories would steal his rest. He’d signed allegiance to the enemy, in order to save himself, leaving his brothers in arms to die in shoddy boxes or watery graves. He had betrayed them.
Lilly’s face rose up in his mind again, but this time he pushed it away. He could not bear to see what would happen to her if the nightmare returned.
Despite having been awake all night and the exhaustion that tugged at him, George rose from the cot and went to stand in the center of his cell. In standing, he could not sleep. And without sleep, he would not see their faces.
Outside, mournful bells tolled their sorrow, but George pushed them away as well. He was the mighty oak. Firm, still, and silent. He didn’t know for how long he stood there, his eyes drying out from being forced wide, but eventually, they began to droop. George fought the battle for as long as he could hold, and then, without warning, his body again betrayed him and sank to the floor.
Then the darkness came again.
“Dear Madam, No one can better appreciate than I can, who am myself utterly broken-hearted by the loss of my own beloved husband, who was the light of my life – my stay – my all – what your sufferings must be; and I earnestly pray that you may be supported by Him to whom alone the sorely stricken can look for comfort, in this hour of heavy affliction.”
Queen Victoria, in a letter to Mary Lincoln
I demand to speak to Mr. Crook! He can attest to my story,” Annabelle exclaimed, wrapping her arms around herself and pressing her trembling fingers into her sides.
The policeman shook his head. “Sorry, miss. But that won’t make any difference. We have been instructed to hold all persons associated with the murder of the president until things can be sorted out.”
Annabelle allowed the older man to guide her past several tiny rooms, the fronts of which were covered with iron bars. There were already plenty of people inside, all of them seeming just as confused as Annabelle. Presently, they came to a cell about halfway dow
n the corridor and the policeman pulled a heavy ring of keys from his belt and stuck one in the lock. It grated as it turned, and the haunting sound of rubbing metal sent a shiver down her back.
Annabelle looked inside and saw a young woman not much older than herself standing in the far corner wringing her hands. As the policeman gestured her through, Annabelle tore her gaze away from the frightened woman and looked back at her captor, straightening herself to her full height.
“Sir, I have already given my account, which I brought to you of my own free will. I do not see how this is necessary.”
The man pushed the cage door closed and the lock slid into place. Annabelle stepped close to the door, wrapping her fingers around the cold bars. “Sir? Did you hear what I said? There must be a mistake.”
“I heard you, miss. But all of Washington City is in turmoil, and until the assassin is caught, all suspected parties will be held.”
Before she could form another plea, he strode away down the unusually quiet hall. Did none of the others think to cry out at injustice? Perhaps they were too stunned by their imprisonment or too afraid it would make things worse.
Perhaps they were right. Annabelle straightened a pin in her hair that was beginning to slip and turned to regard the woman behind her. “Hello. I’m Annabelle Ross.”
The woman took a step forward and inclined her head, dipping into a shallow curtsy. “G’day, mistress. I’m Alice Taylor.”
Miss Taylor clutched her hands at her waist again, seeming unsure. Annabelle stepped closer, and the woman eyed her cautiously. Annabelle motioned toward the single cot in the room. “Why don’t we sit? Since we might be here for awhile, perhaps we should get to know one another.”
The woman drew her lips into a line, but did as Annabelle asked. She sat as close to the foot of the cot as she could manage, tucking the sides of her plaid skirt underneath her. She was dressed plainly, her auburn hair pulled away from her face in a simple fashion. She watched Annabelle with chestnut eyes as Annabelle settled next to her.
The Liberator Series Box Set: Christian Historical Civil War Novels Page 62
