Why wait here for Booth? He remained undecided. To capture the man and see him humiliated had its merits, as would watching the expression on his face as David gunned him down. His brows gathered. Did he really want to do that? Murder a fellow Southerner in cold blood?
“He stole your glory, you know. It belonged to you….”
David lurched to his feet and pulled his pistol, waving it around at the deepening shadows. Crickets began their symphony, undeterred by David’s pounding heart.
“Who’s there?”
No answer came other than the croak of frogs. David waited for several more moments, then relaxed and sank to the ground again. Just his own thoughts. He chuckled. Thoughts so real they seemed to come from someplace other than his own mind. “Foolish, all of it. The deed is done.”
“Yes, yes. A good deed.” The voice came from somewhere behind him.
David frowned, but something about the smooth tenor of the voice felt so familiar that he didn’t bother reaching for the gun again. He dropped his head back against the tree and let himself relax. “The tyrant had to be punished.”
“Such a shame, though, that it was stolen from you…” The voice bounced around the forest and tickled his ears. Odd, for something born of his own mind.
“What does it matter? Retribution has been paid.”
“Hmm…yes….” The voice hissed, slithering around him.
Anger began a slow simmer in David’s gut, but he tried to douse it. Now his own thoughts would fire against him? Make him feel inferior?
“I can help you…”
“Ha! No one can help me now. I am a failure.” He plucked a stone from the ground and tossed it in the river. It hit with a plop and then sank to the murky bottom.
“I can give you power. Such power to do what you deeply desire….”
David ground his teeth. The voice became annoying. He must push it out of his head, lest it drive him further into madness. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention, and something deep within him called out a warning. Fear skittered across his skin, raising hairs and causing a sheen of sweat.
David growled. “Go away!”
Laughter snaked around him, deep and sinister. David’s heart began to hammer in his chest and forced his blood to pound in his ears. He pressed his hands over his ears as the shadows began to writhe around him. Still, the laughter remained.
“I said go! Leave me be!” He screamed at the offending darkness, yet it seemed only to grow thicker, seeping into his lungs and searing his soul.
One heartbeat. Two. The laughter stopped. The oppressive feeling subsided.
Heaving gulps of humid air, David waited until his heart slowed and then he rose to unsteady feet. Very little light remained, and this was nothing more than a fool’s errand. He no longer cared if Booth crossed, drowned, or was captured. If he didn’t stop this obsession, he would become nothing more than a blithering idiot in an asylum. Liza wouldn’t have wanted that. He straightened his coat and turned to leave the water’s edge.
“You cannot be rid of me…” the voice hissed, slamming into him and making him stumble. “You are not sealed.” Gone was the smooth tenor, and in its place came a gnarled voice that slithered over him, twisting his insides into a knot. “Those who are not sealed belong to me.”
Sweat formed on David’s brow. He tried to force steel into his shaking voice. “I belong to no one. You are nothing more than a manifestation of my superior intellect—a mere gnawing of conscious for giving up on the cause, for failing my duty.”
The laughter came again, a dark chuckling that drove David to retreat. He must get out of here. Find a tavern with people, noise, and smooth spirits to chase away these thoughts. He ducked under a low limb and hurried along the bank, eager to escape the cackling behind him. He broke into a run, vaulting over roots and pushing aside any foliage that dared slow his way.
Heaving, he finally broke free of the woods, coming to a stop at the edge of a small town. Everything appeared normal. No oppressive darkness, only the bob of lanterns coming alive for the evening and the idle sounds of horses swishing their tales against insects. He wiped the sweat from his face and combed his fingers through his disheveled hair. He straightened his coat. Now, where to find what he needed? He took a step forward toward the town. Something to numb his mind and warm his belly….
“You do not control me, little one. No…We rule here.”
The voice came from right in front of him, a hot breath that seared him in place. The foul stench washed over him, choking him, stinging his eyes, and permeating every pore. He tried to call out, tried to break free, but could do nothing more than drop to his knees as the heat slipped inside his nose, ears, and mouth.
Then it no longer washed over him. Instead, it warmed him from the inside—a raging forge in his belly, ready to mold even the strongest iron will to its command. Somewhere, deep within him, his own voice screamed, but something stronger pushed it aside.
David stood, a smile he didn’t want contorting his face. He turned away from the town and plunged back into the cover of the woods, heedless of branches slapping his skin and thorns tearing his clothes. He ducked into the warm shadows, embracing them as they caressed him, and came to a halt on the edge of the bank.
Off to his left, three shadows emerged, scurrying like mice along the water’s edge. Two of them pushed a small boat into the edge of the river, then assisted the third. David narrowed his eyes, focusing on the man hobbling on a crutch. One man got into the boat, and the other helped the cripple.
The fire inside intensified, swallowing him up and melting every thought but one—he’d finally found his quarry.
“I hoped for no gain. I knew no private wrong. I struck for my country and that alone. A country groaned beneath this tyranny and prayed for this end. Yet now behold the cold hand they extend to me.”
John Wilkes Booth
Bowling Green
Virginia
April 24, 1865
Matthew raked a hand through his hair, loosening it from the leather tie at the nape of his neck and letting it fall free about his shoulders. He would need to cut it before his wedding. He’d not given much thought to having his hair in a fashionable style, but if he could, he’d like to surprise Annabelle by having their image captured on that joyous day. His cousin Charles had done it for his Lydia, and Matthew wanted to give Annabelle the same treasure.
Matthew rolled his shoulders to loosen the tension. How long until they could be wed? Hopefully, before summer came in force he and Annabelle would be sipping lemonade at Rosswood as husband and wife. The thought stirred his blood, and he ached for this quest to be over.
They had been running around for days, and it seemed to Matthew that the fool would never be caught. Likely, too many Southerners would hold Booth in secret, and he would dive ever deeper into the South. How long would the Union chase him? To the gulf coast, no doubt. Even if it took months, the Yanks would have their revenge.
Matthew stretched his shoulders and adjusted himself in the saddle. No one seemed to worry about him much anymore, and for the most part the Blues simply ignored him. No one even glanced back at him to see if he still followed. Part of him wondered how far he would get if he turned the horse around and galloped away. He grunted. Not far enough. Besides, that would only put the people he loved in further danger.
The dispatch of Yanks in front of him looked every bit as tired as Matthew felt. They had traipsed through the woods looking for Booth until they’d decided he no longer hid anywhere in the area, only to find they had missed him, and the murderer had likely already crossed into Virginia. Matthew scooped up the loose strands of his hair and retied the bit of leather to keep the wind from sending locks into his eyes.
His thoughts returned to Annabelle, as they most often did. Worry churned in his gut each time he thought about her, waiting in a cold prison cell for him to find the assassin and see to her freedom. Each day, each hour the man ran free, the more Matt
hew hated him.
He slipped a flask from the inside of his coat and turned it to his lips. The hot liquid slid down his throat and pooled in his belly. Three more sips, and his frayed nerves began to calm. Four years of war without taking a swig, and this mess had sent him reaching for the flask.
He pushed the hardened wooden stopper back into the flask and tucked it inside his traitor’s coat. He only needed a little. The ale the Yanks gulped every night had not been enough to soothe, and he’d needed the red-eye to make it through the long days with them.
And the nights. Truth be told, the nightmares were the worst of it. Boys too young to be in uniform melted beside him, their faces contorted in pain and fear. Boys he could not save. Other nights it was the prison. Watching the walking bones of Elmira usually sent him into a fever, and he would awake in a cold sweat.
He plucked the flask out again. One more sip wouldn’t hurt. The prison dreams were the worst. Last night he’d not only seen George’s shivering bones along the river at Elmira, but in the midst of it all stood Annabelle, her dress in rags and her pleading voice calling for him to save her.
A shiver snaked down his spine as one sip turned to a gulp. The rum’s fire would numb him. He tucked the flask away and pulled up on the reins, noticing the others had come to a stop.
“Were are we?”
A Yank about twenty years his senior twisted in the saddle. “Star Hotel. Got a tip a man here knows where Booth is.”
Matthew dipped his chin. “Let us hope that is the case, so we can see the fiend captured and this thing finished.”
The Yank appeared pleased with the cold steel in Matthew’s voice, and inclined his head. “Indeed.”
They dismounted, tied the horses, and in a few moments were filling the small lobby of the hotel in a wave of blue wool. Matthew plucked at his collar, the fire in his gut and the warm spring weather making him wish he could shed the coat and toss it in the street.
“We are looking for a man by the name of Jett,” Lieutenant Baker called out.
Matthew looked over the heads of the soldiers and to the main receiving desk for the hotel, where a wide-eyed proprietor gestured upstairs. Nodding, Baker scanned the soldiers.
“Doherty, Conger….and Daniels, come with me.”
Ignoring the looks he received from the soldiers he passed, Matthew wound his way through them, followed the lieutenant up the stairs, and waited in the hall as the officer pounded on the door. After a few moments, it swung open, and a dark-haired man stared out at them.
The fellow, apparently Mr. Jett, appeared to have been roused from his bed, though the day was more than half-spent. He stroked at a narrow chin, his smooth face delicate in its features. He reminded Matthew of a man meant for books rather than war.
“Yes?” Jett asked, his gaze skittering over their company.
“Where are the two men who came with you across the river?” Conger demanded, not wasting a moment on introductions or pleasantries.
The man’s dark eyes rounded, and he took a small step away from the door. Baker turned and motioned to Matthew. Knowing his role, Matthew straightened his spine, taking advantage of his height and bearing as he took a commanding step forward.
Jett gulped. “I know who you want, and… I can tell you where they can be found.”
Baker nodded. “That is what we need to know. Tell us all, and you will not be held in treason.”
Jett glanced at Matthew once more, and then his shoulders drooped. “I was on my way to Caroline County, Virginia, in company with Lieutenant Ruggles and a young man named Bainbridge.”
Conger, the detective, held up his hand. “Union or Confederate?”
“I was formerly a member of the Ninth Virginia Cavalry.”
Confederate, Matthew thought.
Conger grunted. “Go on.”
“At Port Conway, on the Rappahannock, I saw a wagon down on the wharf, at the ferry, on the Monday a week after the assassination of President Lincoln.” He tugged on the collar of his shirt, releasing the first button. “A young man got out of it, came toward us, and asked us what command we belonged to. We were all dressed in Confederate uniforms. Lieutenant Ruggles said that we belonged to Mosby’s command. The young man then asked where we were going, and then I replied that it was a secret.”
Baker frowned. “Why?”
Jett shrugged. “After that, we went back on the wharf, and a man with crutches got out of the wagon. We asked him what command he belonged to, and he replied, ‘To A. P. Hill’s corps.’ The young man then said that their name was Boyd, and that his brother there was wounded at Petersburg, and he asked if we would take him out of the lines.”
Baker and Conger exchanged a glance.
“We did not tell him where we were going,” Jett said again, noticing the exchange.
The lieutenant declined to reply and the muscles in Jett’s jaw tightened. He cleared his throat. “Then he asked us to go and take a drink with him, but we declined. Ignoring him, we went up to the house and sat down, conversing among ourselves. We’d only sat a few moments, however, when the man called Boyd came and asked me to speak with him privately.”
“And did you?” Baker inquired.
“I went down with him to the wharf, and he said, ‘I suppose you are raising a command to go south?’ and added that he would like to go along with us. At length, I said, ‘I cannot go with any men I don’t know anything about.’ Then he seemed very much agitated, and then he remarked, ‘We are the assassinators of the president!’”
Matthew’s hands clenched at his sides.
Baker’s features tightened, and he leaned closer to the wide-eyed Confederate. “And what then?”
“I was so much confounded that I did not make any reply that I remember.” Baker narrowed his eyes, and Jett hurriedly continued, “Lieutenant Ruggles was very near, and I called to him.”
“I thought you stated he was up at a house,” Conger interjected.
“He was watering his horse,” Jett replied, his brown eyes landing on each of them before returning to Baker. “I called to him, and he came, and Boyd said again that they were the assassins. Then the young man said that the other was Booth, and he was Harold, but that they wanted to pass under the name of Boyd.”
“And you believed this to be true?” Conger asked.
Jett nodded. “He did not seem very self-possessed, and his voice trembled, but he clearly pointed at the other man and said, ‘Yonder is J. Wilkes Booth, the man who killed Lincoln.’”
Matthew shifted in his stance, eager to be on with the hunt, lest the man continue to slip past them. Baker, however, remained calm and gestured for Jett to continue his tale.
“They went across the river with us, and then we went on up to the road to Port Royal and on to a Mr. Garrett’s and that is where we left them.”
“So you aided them?” Baker boomed.
Jett shifted his stance. “I will go there with you, and show you where they are!”
Conger scowled. “You have a horse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get it, and be ready to go.” He turned to leave and then paused. “You say they are on the Road to Port Royal?”
“Yes, sir, about three miles this side of it.”
Matthew groaned. They had just come that way, and had missed him. Likely, he would be gone before they could double back.
“We have just come from there,” Conger said, voicing Matthew’s thoughts.
Jett appeared embarrassed, and scratched his head. “I thought you came up from Richmond. If you came that way, then you went past them. I cannot tell you whether they are there now or not.”
Conger grabbed Jett by the shoulder and the man winced. “It makes little difference. You will take us back, and we will see.”
Jett closed the door while they waited outside for him to dress, and then they returned to the rest of the men waiting below. All eyes followed Jett, and in a few minutes, the man had his horse saddled and was riding beside Mat
thew.
Matthew regarded the man openly, but he would not meet his gaze. “I was in the Mississippi,” Matthew finally said.
Jett turned his narrowed brown eyes on Matthew’s uniform. “Yet you wear blues?”
“I must see this fiend captured, else they will not release my… intended.” The word felt good on his tongue and brought soothing warmth to his insides not brought on by the drink. He counted the days until he could make such a claim in truth.
Confusion marred Jett’s features.
“They are holding people,” Matthew explained.” More than a hundred, if I were to guess, until Booth is caught. Anyone who might be connected with him.”
“And your lady? Is she involved?”
Memories of everything they’d endured crashed on him like a foaming wave, but he shook his head. “She and my brother were simply at the theatre that night,” he said, too low for the Yanks riding in front of him to hear.
Jett pressed his lips into a line. “Our country is lost. I see no option other than to attempt to live under the rule of this one. Do what we must.”
Matthew tilted the kepi on his head and cast a long glance at Jett. “So we see the same, and you know why I wear blue.”
“Aye, I see it. I hope for your lady’s sake, then, he’s still where we left him.”
Matthew’s shoulders tightened and he curled his fingers into his palms, hoping that at long last they had come to the end of the chase and he could return to collect those he loved.
“For my country I have given up all that makes life sweet and holy, brought misery on my family, and am sure there is no pardon for me in heaven since man condemns me so.”
John Wilkes Booth
National Hotel
April 25, 1865
George laid aside the razor and assessed his reflection in the mirror. Tired, amber eyes stared back at him, taunting him with flecks of desperation he could not hide. Nor ignore. What would he do now? They had strict orders not to leave the city.
The Liberator Series Box Set: Christian Historical Civil War Novels Page 70
