“I agree,” Fraser said. “It also would make Mrs. Surratt and her friends more guilty. In fact, it might even point to her own darling boy, John.” After a pause, Fraser started again. “I also think the cotton traders, beginning with Julius Spencer and Samuel Barstow, were behind Booth. They must have planned to move a mountain of cotton to Northern and English mills as soon as Lafayette Foster became president. They funded Booth. They must have given him his plans.”
“Mrs. Surratt could have told Mr. Bingham about Julius Spencer,” Cook said. “He was kin to Lafayette Foster, the man that Spencer and Barstow were trying to make the next president. She could have heard from Booth or her son about that Foster business, about Spencer backing Booth. Both of them passed through New York, probably met with Spencer. And Bingham thought this threatened the republic because those cotton men knew who they were acting for. It could’ve been any number of Democrats, even General McClellan.”
“Wait a minute. By disclosing this secret to Mr. Bingham,” Fraser said, “wasn’t Mrs. Surratt taking the chance that he would prosecute all of those Northerners who were supporting the South?”
“That’s exactly it. Don’t you see?” Cook grew more animated. “That’s what she wanted. Mr. Bingham was a real firebrand. Townsend called him a zealot. You’ve read the transcript. Every day of the trial, he was putting Jefferson Davis at the center of the conspiracy. Mr. Bingham’s the one you’d expect to be most enraged that Northerners like Spencer were involved in killing the president. In the moment of victory, she wanted to set the victors to tearing at each other’s throats. She was aiming to be like Samson pulling the temple down on herself and on her enemies, too.”
“But Mr. Bingham didn’t fall for it.” Fraser took a bit of bread.
“You know,” Cook started, “something started eating at me after you left Chestertown and while I was coming over here. We’ve put a whole lot of stock in what Bingham said while he was dying, about what happened thirty-five years before then. Well, what if he got it scrambled up when he talked to you? Maybe it was Stanton who told him something about Mrs. Surratt. Maybe Lewis Paine told him something about John Surratt. The man may have been delirious, or just not remembering too good, being old and sick and all.”
“I was there,” Fraser said. “He was in his right mind.”
“I figured you’d say that. What if he was just wrong back in 1865? What if he made the wrong decision? What if it made no difference to the republic whether he revealed or didn’t reveal what Mary Surratt told him? The man wasn’t perfect, we know that. He put those perjured witnesses on the stand. We could be running around risking our necks for nothing.”
“I don’t think so.” Fraser took a second. “Look, I’ve had those thoughts, too. And if you want out of this thing, I understand. But I know the man he was and I know what he said.”
Cook nodded his head. “Okay, okay, at least we know what you want from the meeting with Townsend.”
“What?”
“Proof. Something I can write in the Ohio Eagle that will get the attention of everyone in America.”
“You can write what we know. We’ve learned a lot. And we’ve got Barstow’s memorandum book—well, we had it.”
“Sure, I can write it, but I can’t say where I found it all out. That I stole Barstow’s book? He’ll deny it was his, and now it’s gone, a pile of ash somewhere. That you interviewed three old ladies? Talking to you at a party’s one thing, but that Chandler woman’s not looking to remind everyone that she loved John Wilkes Booth. Mrs. Foster? If she knows what we’re up to, she’ll never say anything to dirty her husband’s memory. The world will think I’m as crazy as the ones who say it was the Pope. No, thank you. You need to get us some proof.”
Fraser made no answer. He looked lost in his own thoughts. Cook kept on. “And another thing. We can tie Booth to Barstow and Spencer. Fine. But we’re still weak on who was behind them. You don’t think a couple of cotton hustlers were really the root of this whole thing, do you? In 1865, Barstow wasn’t any tycoon. He was a young officer in a losing army. Spencer was a cotton man at a time when the cotton business was nearly dead. Those weren’t men with big money or the connections to make this all happen. No, sir, there was someone back of them. So for both of those things—for proof, and for who was back of Barstow and Spencer—that’s what we need Townsend for. And he’s just the ticket for both.”
“Or maybe he’s my ticket out of this world.”
“That’s why we need to plan out how this thing’s going to work. Let’s talk about Townsend.”
“That’s another thing. It was only for a second, but I could swear it was him at that party last night. How could he have gotten there?”
“I’ve got no idea,” Cook said, “but I think I know where Townsend’s going to take you this afternoon.” He had visited the pricier stables in the city’s central district, asking about the fine pair of matched bays that pulled Townsend’s carriage. Cook had claimed that his boss wanted to purchase the horses. It wasn’t long before he found a stableman who knew and admired that team. Cook traced them to a house on the far side of the White House, on I Street past Seventeenth. The house, Cook reported, was owned by James “Pete” Longstreet, Robert E. Lee’s corps commander.
“Well, I’ll be,” Fraser said. “After all those denials, every one of them saying the Confederacy had nothing to do with the killing of President Lincoln. And where does this trail lead to but to Longstreet, who sat at the top of the Southern army.”
“Sure, but why,” Cook asked for what felt like the hundredth time, “did Bingham think that news about Spencer and Barstow would threaten the nation? The way I see it, that man Stanton’s at the center of it. He’s the one who Bingham goes to after Mrs. Surratt makes her confession, and he’s the one who persuades Bingham to keep it a secret. Maybe Stanton did it to keep himself in office, like Townsend said.”
Fraser frowned. “Why would we believe what Townsend said? Also, that would mean Stanton either hoodwinked Mr. Bingham into keeping mum or Mr. Bingham was in on it. He was too smart to be hoodwinked and too honest to cover something up for Stanton.”
“So,” Cook said, “I’ve been trying this one out. Say it was to preserve the peace by protecting someone, someone like Robert E. Lee. Lee’s no hero in my eyes. The man slaughtered a few hundred thousand men to preserve slavery, but he did surrender all his troops when he finally got beat for real and true. He didn’t take to the hills and keep the war going on and on, didn’t keep on solely to bleed the North to death. Maybe Bingham and Stanton were afraid that something that implicated Lee would undermine the peace. Lee was like a god to Southerners. Still is.”
Fraser shook his head. “You talked me out of that one months ago. Mr. Bingham was giving speeches that summer that Jefferson Davis planned the whole thing. He wasn’t afraid to accuse the rebels of killing Lincoln.”
Cook made a face. “Another thing. This connection between Townsend and Longstreet? I went up to the library at Howard University to check out Longstreet. After the war, he turned into a big Republican. He supported Reconstruction in the South. Still is a Republican. He’s Commissioner of Railroads now, in the McKinley Administration. Because of that, even though he should be a hero to Southerners—got all shot up, led armies all over and into Pennsylvania—his name’s poison down there. Some even blame him for losing the war.”
“Okay,” Fraser said. “So?”
“So why’s Longstreet working with Townsend? We know Townsend’s been shilling for Sam Barstow and the Sons of Liberty. Longstreet and Barstow were in the same army for four years, fighting for the noble cause of preserving slavery, but times’ve changed. They’ve been on opposite sides ever since the war. Doesn’t fit.”
“I’m getting confused.”
“I know. It’s just the longer we work on this thing, the less anything is the way it seems. I’m starting to appreciate one thing.” Cook pointed his finger at Fraser. “They should still be worried
about us. They still got lots to hide. After all, we know they’re killers. They beat you up once, threatened you once, and tried to kill you twice. And they’re not quite sure how much we know. And we’ve still got the frog book.”
Fraser smiled and patted his pocket. “So how do we use it?” “I’m not sure yet, but hang on to it. Now, let’s think about this Townsend thing.”
Chapter 27
Fraser arrived in the hotel lobby ten minutes late, just as he and Cook planned it. Townsend sat near the door, patiently looking at a newspaper.
“Doctor,” he called out, “good evening. Our carriage is at the curb.” In a quieter voice, he added, “Perhaps your colored friend could join us, which would save him the trouble of following us, and would save us the trouble of bringing him along.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Fraser said.
“My dear doctor, our business will go more smoothly if we are candid with each other. I come in peace.”
“I have no colored friend in the vicinity to invite along.”
Townsend shook his head. “Hairsplitting is a poor way to begin. Nevertheless, come along. We’ll find him soon enough.”
Sunshine poured from the sky on a brilliant afternoon. Cook held the reins of a gig in front of the red brick station of the Baltimore & Potomac Railroad. To elude the Sons of Liberty, he had ducked through alleys and back streets to the stable where he rented the gig.
He had an unobstructed view up Sixth Street to the squared-off, five-story National Hotel. The carriage with matched bays stood at the curb. Fraser, shading his eyes, was following Townsend into the rear seat. Cook couldn’t see the driver.
With traffic thin, Cook intended to hang about a half-block behind them. He was barely past the hotel when a carriage swung in front of him, then slowed down. Looking to pull around it, Cook found another on his left. A large man in the right-hand seat smiled at him. He lifted his hat and pointed to the curb, evidently instructing Cook to stop. Sons of Liberty, Cook muttered.
Cook whipped his horse and hauled it to the right. Whacking the horse’s rump again, he got it up the curb despite a whinny of protest and a high bounce off the carriage seat. Tree branches swiped at his face. Cook shouted to pedestrians to clear away. Two stumbled in their rush to escape the carriage and sprawled on the ground. The horse, thoroughly frightened, picked up his pace as Cook yanked him back into the street, banging off the curb with a second crash. After pausing in confusion over Cook’s swerving path, the two other carriages pursued him at speed.
Pulling hard on the reins, Cook turned left onto E Street. The gig leaned heavily on its two outer wheels, then righted itself as the horse careened down the street. Cook had no idea where the carriage with Fraser and Townsend had gone. He couldn’t worry about them.
Though Cook’s gig had only one horse while pairs hauled the pursuing carriages, his rig was lighter and his horse more than willing. He flew through the first three intersections with a combination of timing and luck. From the clatter and shouts behind him, he knew his pursuers were not so fortunate. His luck held at the next one also.
Cook thought he might pull away, but then a streetcar stopped in the middle of the intersection with Tenth Street, discharging and taking on riders. Worse, a motor car idled there, belching black smoke. Several horses pulling nearby carriages looked jittery. From half a block away, Cook could see the intersection promised only collisions and mayhem. He scanned the sidewalks. Too narrow. An alley opened to the right. He yanked on the reins to slow the horse, then leapt out before the gig came to a full stop.
Cook ran down the alley and around a shabby building. He ducked into a doorway that stood steps down from a crossing with another alley. He crouched there, trying to control his breathing and listening for Barstow’s men. He fingered the revolver in his jacket pocket. The knife lodged in his boot would be the better weapon, silent in its deployment. But if he faced all four, he would have to use the gun. They would come after him. Someone was bound to have seen him run down the alley.
Little street noise penetrated to Cook’s hiding place. He heard no voices. Then, there it was. A step at the alley’s entrance. Maybe another. And another. Cook shifted his weight. He could try to slip down the alley to the east, away from the building, but he would have to cross twenty feet of open ground. The risk was too great. Carefully, Cook tried the knob on the door into the building. It gave to his pressure. He pushed the door in.
He stood in a warehouse, a jumble of wooden tables and overstuffed chairs, wooden shelving tipped at odd angles. The air was damp. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling near the entrance stairs. It cast a weak light, more shadows than illumination. Cook could search out a place to hide within this wreck of a building, a spot where no one could sneak up on him from behind, where he could at least be sure to defend himself. That would mean another fight. Barstow’s men didn’t discourage easily.
Or he could work his way to another exit from the warehouse and hurry over to where he thought Townsend and Fraser were going. He had to follow Fraser.
Cook reached a staircase at the building’s front and crept up it. Halfway up, he saw a glint of light back on the lower level. It was the sort of flash that would come from opening the alley door. If he kept them behind him, he might get out in one piece.
He took his bearings on the first-floor landing. Another pale bulb pushed thin streaks of light into the gloom. He strained his ears but heard only blood pounding in them. Wait. That was a voice, at the back. Maybe it was the building’s caretaker. Barstow’s boys wouldn’t be talking. Cook looked longingly at the front door leading to the street. It was too obvious. They would post someone there, probably two men. He needed a side exit to a side passage. That, too, might be a trap. Emerging into another alley and then into the street, he would be a sitting duck. The roof was his best bet. From the roof he could cross to another building, maybe even another one next to it, then flee.
He continued to climb. The second floor was stuffed with more crates of paper records. It had to be a government warehouse. This much paper meant tax records, or maybe veteran pensions. The second level was only a half-floor. It opened out to a view of an old theater stage, which also was piled high with boxes and crates. Of course. It was Ford’s Theatre. A cold wind passed through Cook’s heart. He turned his head to the right. He could just make out a theater box overhanging the stage, where Booth shot Lincoln.
There was a noise from below. Lincoln’s bad luck was no reason for Speed Cook to come to a bad end here. He started up the stairs again.
The third level presented more forests of forgotten records. The light seemed even thinner. He needed a way out. He felt his way down an aisle, stumbling over spilled papers. Overhead, he could make out a drop ladder up to attic space. That had to be it. The way out.
When he pulled the steps down, they neither squealed nor screeched. He sprang up them. At the top, the light was better. His spirit sagged. No way out. The ceiling was elevated well above the floor. The only exit points were skylights at the crest of a peaked roof. They were at least fifteen feet overhead, beyond his reach. There was nothing to stand on to get that high.
He ran down the drop stairs. Hearing steps from the level below, he leaned back into a side row. Two men passed under the light at the top of the stairs. One was the man in the carriage who had doffed his hat. Their movements were lithe, sure. When they reached the drop stairs, they began to ascend. If two were inside the building, then two were waiting outside, probably one at the front and one at the back. Cook still had to leave through another building. He could think of only one way to do that.
He moved to the front window at the left corner of the building. It had a six-inch ledge, plenty of room. He slowly lifted the window, climbed out, and pushed the window down behind him. There he met an unhappy sight. It was at least four feet to the corner of the theater. The roof of the adjacent building was a couple of feet higher than the ledge he stood on. Not easy, but he had no alterna
tive. He gauged the distance for a few more seconds, then moved. He half-reached and half-jumped to the corner of the building, fingers desperately gripping the raised brick edge on each side of the corner. He used his momentum to swing his feet high up to the adjacent roof. For a moment, he hung horizontally in place, straining every muscle to lever his hips up on the roof and push his body weight after them. With a final heave, he was there.
The pitch of this roof was gentle. Kneeling, he could see that the closest window below him was open. Holding the edge of the roof, he lowered his legs through the window. When he entered, he confronted a young Negro boy who rose from a clerk’s table, pen in hand and astonished look on his face. Cook grinned and held a finger to his lips. “Just passing through,” he said in a low voice. “You have a fine day now.”
Cook sped down two flights of stairs and reached the front door. He took a breath. He decided to turn left out the door, away from the theater, then hail a hack as soon as he reached the cross street.
He pulled the door and stepped through it. Big as life, square in front of him, stood a stout older gentleman.
“Mr. Barstow,” Cook called out. When the man turned, the color drained from his face. Cook stepped next to him, his hand in his coat pocket pressing the muzzle of a revolver against Barstow’s soft middle. “You and I are going for a walk.” Cook nodded to the closest corner and nudged the man in that direction. He came along quietly.
“You,” Barstow said in a voice that was surprisingly friendly, “are one acrobatic individual. You ought to be in the circus.”
Chapter 28
As the matched bays pranced through Washington’s leafy streets, Townsend became avuncular. For Fraser’s benefit, he pointed out the homes of the prominent. He recalled the debutante party during the Civil War for young Blanche Butler, when her family’s mansion on Fifteenth Street was festooned with thousands of white camellias. The fortress-like home of the Secretary of State, John Hay, loomed next to the equally monumental mansion of Henry Adams, scion of the Adamses of Massachusetts.
The Lincoln Deception Page 21
