The Violent Peace

by George G. Gilman

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE VIOLENT PEACE

  By George G. Gilman

  First Published by Kindle 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by George G. Gilman

  First Kindle Edition: June 2012

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance

  to actual events locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,

  electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information

  or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author,

  except where permitted by law.

  Cover design by West World Designs © 2012

  This is a High Plains Western for Lobo Publications

  Visit the author at:

  www.gggandpcs.proboards.com

  For F.T.H.

  who always knew things would be good

  CHAPTER ONE

  IN Washington the night of Friday, April 14, 1865 was cold. Damp mist curled insubstantial grey tentacles into the nooks and crannies of the re-united nation's capital. It muffled sounds from far off but seemed to amplify the weary footfalls of the blue-uniformed soldiers patrolling the sidewalk outside Ford's Theatre on Tenth Street.

  Inside the building, President Abraham Lincoln and his entourage looked down from the vantage point of a box, enjoying the performance of Our American Cousin. The remainder of the audience divided their attention between the stage and the occupants of the box. Some were merely curious to catch a glimpse of the nation's number one citizen in a brief period of relaxation after the grueling years of anxiety caused by the War Between the States. Others showed concern at how sick he looked. A handful were awe-struck at being in such close proximity to the country's leader. Four waited for the fatal bullet to be fired.

  Outside in the cold night a captain of the Washington Cavalry Police cast a nervous eye over the expanding group of sightseers that had begun to form on the street. The Appomattox surrender was only five days old and the fires of hatred still burned bright in countless Southern hearts.

  Far off, over towards the Capitol, a clock chimed and the police captain checked his vest pocket watch. It was nine forty-five.

  “Best move the President's carriage up, sir,” he suggested to an artillery captain.

  The army officer was blowing on his cupped hands. “Clock sounds closer somehow,” he said.

  Both men glanced up between the hissing globes of street lights and saw bright pinpricks of stars, each with a blurred halo.

  “Mist's clearing,” the police captain commented with a nod. “It'll make our job a little easier.”

  The army man blew on his hands again, as he turned and approached the presidential carriage. The bored guards stiffened and a sergeant major threw up a salute, then nodded several times as he listened to the officer's instructions. The transport for the President and Mrs. Lincoln was moved forward and the carriages for the other dignitaries closed up behind it. Finding their view of the theatre entrance obscured, the sightseers shuffled along the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. Movement alleviated their coldness a little. Anticipation that the activity in front of the theatre meant President Lincoln would shortly appear was more warming.

  “I know a place over on E. Street where they got women!” a man shouted with drunken excitement.

  Those in the centre section of the group of watchers turned towards the source of the sudden raucousness, eager for distraction to break the monotony of the wait. The double swing doors of Elmer's Barroom had swung wide and three happily drunk soldiers staggered out. There also emerged a splash of bright light and a comforting waft of warm air heavy with the smell of hard liquor and cigar smoke. Some of the men in the crowd licked their lips in a moment of wishful thinking, but each found himself in the unrelenting grip of a wife's steady hold.

  The trio of soldiers—all privates wearing the insignia of a Pennsylvania Rifles company— pulled up short and blinked at the sea of faces before them.

  “Which one of you guys is famous?" the smallest soldier asked, and belched loudly. "You didn't have to do this, folks," the man who knew about the bordello announced with a limp bow that almost toppled him. "We had a little help in winning the war."

  “What's the disturbance over there?” a voice called loudly from the other side of the street. The three soldiers glanced nervously at each other, coming close to sobering up. They had all been in the army long enough to recognize the voice of authority without needing to see insignia.

  “Let's move it, right quick,” the eldest of the trio said in an urgent whisper.

  He lowered himself into a crouch and scampered away behind the cover of the sightseers.

  “I smell a bad smell,” the short youngster hissed.

  “Must be an officer,” the third one said sagely. Then they followed the example of the first man to escape, veering to left and right on unsteady legs. Some of the watchers laughed. Others made throaty sounds of disapproval. But soon it was quiet again, except for low-voiced complaints against the cold For the ball of warmth which had exploded from the bar with the soldiers was long gone, dissipated through the frosty night air as it wafted in from the north-east in the wake of the mist.

  There was warmth to spare inside the bar. It was a long room with a scarred wooden bar running the entire length of the rear wall. The area in front of the bar was liberally featured with circular tables surrounded by ladder-back chairs. Only one of the tables was in use, occupied by four business-suited men in middle years playing penny-ante five card draw. They stayed, drew and raised with soft-voiced expressions of intent. Smoke from their cigars drifted slowly upwards to hang in a blue-grey pall among the cob-webbed beams across the ceiling.

  Beneath a nearby table, an elderly drunk with a toothless mouth and deeply, scored skin snored in a contented sleep, an empty gin bottle clutched lovingly to his chest. The barman, big broad and ugly with the expression of one who had not slept in many nights, cast resentful glances towards the old man, but made no move to throw him out. Instead, he leaned against a shelf of bottles and wiped wet glasses with mechanical monotony. The brooding eyes in his ugly face did not even have to guide his thick-fingered hands as they picked up a wet glass and set down a dry one.

  He had two other customers, both standing at the bar within three feet of each other, but not talking. One was about sixty, short, slightly built and impeccably dressed in an expensively cut blue suit with a black cape draped over his slim shoulders. His kindly, clean-shaven face wore a slight smile and he gave the impression that all was right in his particular world.

  He suddenly drained the heeltap of liquid in his shot glass and broadened the perpetual smile as he looked along the bar.

  “Another bourbon, if you'll be so kind, bartender,” he called. His voice betrayed a Deep South origin.

  The ugly man behind the bar sighed and interrupted his chore to reach for a bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind him. He dawdled down towards his customer as if the last thing he wanted to do was serve drink
s. He tilted the bottle over the empty glass and again he did not have to concentrate on what he was doing. Instead, he fastened his sullen stare upon the face of the second customer standing at the bar. This was a tall, haggard-faced man with receding hair and a thick moustache. He wore a black suit which looked too large for him. It was crumpled and stained; as ill-used as the man who wore it.

  The bartender knew automatically when to stop pouring and he did not spill a drop. He accepted payment without thanks and thrust the money into a deep pocket at the front of his leather apron.

  “Is that clock correct, sir?”

  The bartender's black eyes flicked over the smiling face of his customer and glanced at the grimy dial of the big clock hung on the far wall. The hands pointed out the time of four minutes to ten.

  “Ain't never known it be a second out since I bought this place,” he replied grudgingly, and looked pointedly back at the other man on the patron's side of the bar.

  “Should have been met here at nine-thirty,” the dapper little man said cheerfully, raising his fresh drink. “Still, I've waited almost five years for him. Guess thirty minutes or so won't make any difference. When a man gets to be my age_”

  The haggard-looking man at his side had seemed impervious to his surroundings. For a full quarter of an hour he had remained like a statue, not touching the glass of beer standing between his splayed hands, his wide eyes staring at the row of bottles on the shelf behind the bar. He had certainly been unaware of the bartender's blatant interest in him. But suddenly he whirled, like a machine powered into action. His hands balled into fists, matching the tension in his face: and one of them collided with the dapper man's upraised elbow. The contents of the glass were hurled across the drinker's shoulder, splashing on to the cape.

  “I'm sorry!” the younger man exclaimed, embarrassment fusing with anxiety in the lines of his face as he leaned across to brush ineffectually at the damp stain. “Let me get you another drink…. I do beg your pardon…. You called attention to the time…. I'll be late for an appointment. Please, I must—”

  The older man's surprise was fleeting, and the smile returned. “Quite all right, young man. Damage is only slight. Good thing, maybe. Had enough. Don't want to be in my cups when my….”

  His voice trailed away as he realized the man who had spilled the drink was no longer listening. He had completed the pivot and was striding purposefully between the tables towards the doors. A slight glimmer of satisfaction showed behind the sullenness of the bartender's eyes as he watched his customer go from sight.

  The dapper man clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth and sighed as he jerked out a silk handkerchief to mop at the stain on his cape. “These young fellers," he muttered. "All hassle and hurry." Then he shook his head reflectively and glanced towards the doors, but the man had left. "Got a feeling I've seen that one before somewhere.”

  “If you go to the theatre much, maybe you did,” the bartender answered with a growling tone, “Actor. Name's John Wilkes Booth.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE clock over towards the Capitol had finished striking the hour of ten when John Wilkes Booth stepped softly into Box Seven of Ford's Theatre and approached the back of the horse hair rocker in which the President sat. The derringer was already in his hand and he leveled it to point at a spot midway between his victim's left ear and the top of his spine. As a burst of laughter rose from the audience, the assassin squeezed the trigger of the tiny gun.

  “It's done, let's go.”

  The English voice, speaking in a whisper, dragged the eyes of three men away from the stage. They were seated, close to the Englishman, near the rear of the theatre within easy reach of the exit doors. Whilst the remainder of the audience continued to chortle at the comic dialogue spoken by the on-stage actors, this quartet glanced furtively up at the shadowy movements in Box Seven. Then they rose and filed towards the exit. “Revenge for the South!” Booth shouted hysterically, then whirled and raced from the box. The actors faltered in their lines and, as a piercing scream rose from the State Box, hundreds of startled playgoers swung around to look for the cause of the interruption.

  “Water!”

  “The President's been shot!”

  Another woman screamed, and slumped from her seat in a dead faint.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Please, get us some water!”

  “Is he dead?”

  The majority of people in the theatre seemed to have been struck dumb, paralyzed by the shooting, So that the pleas and questions yelled by a few sounded much like dramatic lines spoken before an awed audience.

  “It was Booth. I saw him running with a gun!”

  “Stop him! Stop that man!”

  Suddenly, the mass numbness was over. The entire theatre was filled with wails, screams and shouts, each counter-acting another that nothing could be heard clearly. Then hysteria forced its victims into movement and there was a scrambling rush for the doors.

  The four men who had been first to leave stood in the theatre lobby, smoking newly-lit cigarettes, in the calm manner of innocent, playgoers who had stepped out for a breath of fresh air. Their appearance had captured the fleeting attention of the police and army captains standing by the carriages, but the officers had immediately lost interest when they realized the opening doors did not signal the end of the performance.

  But suddenly the panicked mass exodus exploded in the lobby. An elderly man, his face as white as a sheet, was urged along at the head of the throng.

  “The President!” he screamed at the four men. “The President's been shot!”

  As the bringer of the news rushed out on to the street, repeating the same two phrases, his voice rising in pitch with every word, the four found themselves caught up in the crowd pressing in pursuit.

  “He's not dead!” a woman wailed. “He can't be dead.”

  While policemen and soldiers struggled to assimilate the awful announcement, the crowd of sightseers surged forward from the opposite sidewalk.

  “Murderer!” a man shouted. “Assassin! Stop the assassin!”

  “Mommy, mommy!” a small girl wailed from deep within the pressing crowd, “I wanna go home.”

  “Who did it?” a woman demanded to know, tears streaming down her face. “Who was it?”

  “It's the Johnnie Rebs!” a man shouted in response. “They've got Lincoln.”

  The four men who had left the theatre early found themselves thrust out into the street. They, and many more, were shoved viciously aside as police and military personnel struggled to get inside the seething lobby.

  The Englishman, a head taller than the others, launched a spiteful kick at the legs of a soldier who had levered him aside with a rifle stock. The soldier was prevented from falling by the mass of the people, but when he whirled to locate his attacker, the man was gone, he and his three companions elbowing their way towards the lights of Elmer's Barroom.

  “In the head, goddamnit!” a fuming old timer bellowed. “Right in the back of the head. Blood everywhere.”

  “He's not dead! I saw him when they lifted him. He was breathing.”

  A hundred hopeful faces turned towards the giver of this news. On the edge of the crowd, a young man with only one arm stared at the milling people with a fiery gaze. “I'm glad the nigger lover's dead,” he muttered.

  Fear leapt to his face and he stepped quickly backwards as the Englishman struggled clear of the crowd. The Englishman smiled at the one-armed youngster. “Amen to that, old son,” he said softly, and turned to look for his companions.

  As the three forced themselves clear, an old black man stretched his arms high into the air. “They shot him!” he cried. “It was all for nothing.”

  His fat wife dropped to her knees in the street and clasped her hands together. “He can't die. God won't let him die!”

  The Englishman and his three followers stepped up on to the sidewalk in front of the bar and looked across the heads of struggling crowds, swelling
to enormous proportions as news-hungry people came running from every direction.

  “Guards!” a distraught doctor yelled. “Guards - clear the passage!”

  Soldiers and civilians linked arms in two lines, enforcing a corridor through the press of sightseers.

  “God Almighty, get him to the White House!” a man implored as four artillerymen appeared, the limp form of the President slung between them.

  “He'd die on the way,” a second doctor responded, waving aside the captain who stepped forward to jerk open the door of the state carriage.

  The captain swung around and slapped the Colt from his holster, waving it in the faces of the shocked people on the other side of the carriage.

  “Out of the way, you sons of bitches!” he demanded.

  The crowd parted and the captain led the soldiers with their burden, followed by the doctors, out on to Tenth Street. A woman stood in an open doorway, craning to see what was happening in front of the theatre.

  “That house!” one of the doctors instructed squeezing between the soldiers and the crowd, then angling towards the opposite sidewalk. “He must be allowed to rest.”

  The woman swallowed hard and fell back before the advance of the doctor and the wan-faced men behind him. President Lincoln was carried into the house in which he would die.

  “He looks bad,” the Englishman said with mock gravity, keeping his voice low as a silence settled over the crowd.

  “Reckon he'll get worse?” one of his companions asked in the same tone.

  “Let's go and drink to it,” another suggested.

  A third pushed open the doors and they filed into the fetid warmth of the bar. It was a little more crowded than when Booth had left to shoot the President. The dapper man with a damp shoulder was still the sole customer standing at the bar, having decided to risk another bourbon. The drunk continued to snore beneath the table, clutching at the empty bottle as though it was a life-line, The poker game had ended, the cards in disarray on the table, the players having switched from beer to whiskey to try to calm shattered nerves. But now several other tables were occupied, by men in pairs, trios and quartets: all of them drinking in quiet contemplation.