Fates and Traitors

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  There were hands upon him, he realized, inquisitive and none too gentle. He had been shot, he heard someone say. They found the wound on the right side of his neck. Someone had disobeyed orders and had shot the most despised man in America, robbing the Yankees of the trial and execution they surely craved.

  John felt himself rising, lifted roughly and carried away from the heat and light that flickered beyond his closed eyelids. He heard the crash of a roof falling in as he was placed on a patch of soft grass, his face turned toward the stars. Slowly at first, and then in a torrent, the blood rushed in his ears, and his head began to pound. He ached all over, his strangely heavy, frozen body sparking with pain.

  He had been shot through the neck, he realized, vaguely astonished, as the last of the white softness blew away. He was probably dying.

  He tried to speak, but he could manage no more than a wheeze, which was enough to draw the men closer. “Thought he was dead already,” one muttered.

  “He’s on his way to dying,” said another. “Hold on, he’s trying to talk.”

  “Tell—” John rasped. “Tell her—”

  A slim figure bent over him, lowered an ear close to John’s mouth. “Go on.”

  John took a shuddering breath through the thick fluid collecting in his throat. “Tell my mother . . . I die for my country.”

  Nearby, a man cursed. Another spat in the dirt. “Tell your mother you die for your country,” the slim figure repeated slowly. “Do I have that right?”

  John swallowed and tried to nod. The man nodded once and moved away.

  He drifted, jolted from time to time into wakeful horror by unexpected surges of pain running the length of limbs that felt nothing else. He could not move. He struggled even to breathe. He closed his eyes to the falling ashes but could not shut his ears against the soldiers’ words. One man repeatedly insisted that John had shot himself. John wanted to set the record straight, but he found it too difficult to gather the correct words and put them down again in the proper order.

  “I tell you again, that can’t be,” said Baker. “I was looking right at him when I heard the shot. His carbine wasn’t turned upon himself.”

  The discussion wore on, and John felt himself succumbing to wave after wave of exhaustion. Then two other men approached and settled the matter with a revelation: a Sergeant Corbett had shot the president’s assassin. He had the spent cap and an empty chamber in his revolver to prove it.

  Corbett, John thought. He knew no one by that name, could not imagine how he might have offended the man aside from killing his president and freeing him from tyranny. Perhaps this Corbett had a pretty little wife who had once waited outside a stage door to greet John with sweet blushes and flowers. He smiled and tried to offer the sergeant a gallant apology, but his lips moved without sound.

  “I went to the barn.” The new voice rang with zeal. “I looked through a crack, saw Booth coming toward the door, sighted at his body, and fired.”

  “Against orders,” said Baker, without rancor.

  “We had no orders either to fire or not to fire,” the sergeant protested. “I was afraid he’d either shoot someone or get away.”

  The lieutenant did not rebuke him.

  John drifted in and out of consciousness, succumbing to exhaustion only to be choked awake when blood and fluid pooled in his throat. As the heat from the conflagration rose to a blistering intensity, the soldiers carried him from the lawn to the front porch of the farmhouse, where Mrs. Garrett had placed a mattress for him. Her cool, soft hand on his forehead revived him, and when he struggled to ask for water, she understood his hoarse request, quickly filled a dipper, and brought it to his lips. But it was no use. He could wet his tongue but he could not swallow.

  He asked to be turned over, expecting a rebuff, but the soldiers complied, lifting him and placing him on his stomach. Still he could not clear his throat. Hating his helplessness, he asked to be rolled onto his side, and then the other, but that was no better. Panic and despair swept through him at the thought that he would drown in his own sick. Coughing, wrenching his head, he managed to catch the attention of the slim man who had taken his message for his mother. “Kill me,” he whispered when the man knelt beside him. “Kill me.”

  “We don’t want to kill you,” said the man. “We want you to get well.”

  So they could stretch his neck, no doubt. But he was already a dead man. And what, he thought wildly, had become of Herold?

  The hours passed. His throat swelled, his lips grew numb. He felt himself sinking, only to revive, time and again. He wished the slim officer would sit beside him, to hear and commit to memory his last loving words for his mother. As for last words for his country, as well as for the North, the manifesto he had placed with his sister for safekeeping would have to suffice. Dear Asia, childhood playmate and lifelong confidante, who disagreed with him vehemently on almost every political matter but loved him still—she knew not what he had entrusted to her, but news of his demise would remind her of the thick envelope locked away in her husband’s safe. Asia would find his last great written work, his apologia, as well as documents and deeds and a letter for their mother.

  Their mother. How grateful he was that she could not see how he suffered.

  He realized he had fallen unconscious when he woke to the touch of calloused hands bathing his wounds. He had been pondering something . . . yes, his last words. In Asia’s safe, in the home she shared with her husband and children. A sudden worry seized him. Would she burn the papers, fearing they would implicate her, endanger her family? No, not loyal Asia, not the family historian who had begged their mother not to destroy their father’s letters as she had fed them into the flames. Asia would spare his writings, and far from implicating her, they would exonerate her. He would have abandoned his mission rather than bring suspicion down upon any member of his family or upon any lady—even one such as Mrs. Surratt, who had lent her tacit support to the plot by harboring many of the conspirators in her boardinghouse, by giving them an inconspicuous place to meet. But none would condemn her for that, a respectable, devout widow unaware of John’s true intentions. Of all the women who loved him—and Mrs. Surratt did love him, as one loved a comrade in arms—she alone shared his devotion to the South.

  Fluid filled his throat; he choked, gasped, grew dizzy—and rallied, somehow. He wished he had not.

  His thoughts turned to Lucy. If only he could retrieve his diary from his coat pocket and gaze upon her portrait before the light faded from his eyes. He could imagine the shock and reproach in hers. She would mourn him, but in silence, lest his notoriety ruin her. He could not blame her for that. Few knew of their secret engagement, so Lucy would grieve, but in time her heart would heal, and with her ties to the assassin forgotten, she would eventually marry someone else. Someone safe, someone her parents could accept. That dull security would be John’s last bequest to her.

  The sky was softening in the east when a physician came to examine him, a South Carolinian from the sound of it, unsettled by the sight of so many armed Yankees but determined to do his duty. John fought to stay conscious throughout the examination, and was rewarded with one last comedic jest when the doctor announced that he was badly injured but would survive.

  If not for the smothering thickness in his chest John would have derided the fool. Throw physic to the dogs; I’ll none of it.

  “But the ball passed clean through the neck,” said Baker, incredulous. “How can he live?”

  Sighing in consternation, the doctor cleaned his spectacles, replaced them, bent over his patient again, and peered at the holes on either side of John’s neck. Then, straightening, he declared that closer scrutiny revealed that the shot had severed the assassin’s spinal cord. His organs were failing, one by one, and if he did not drown in his own blood and sputum first, he would slowly suffocate.

  “Well,” the slim man said, “that
’s it, then.”

  John was powerless to resist as the slim man bent over him and briskly searched his pockets, taking from him a candle, his compass, and his diary, in which John had placed Lucy’s photograph. Before he could beg the man to let him gaze upon her image one last time, the officer was gone, taking John’s belongings with him. But would he carry John’s last message for his mother?

  Agitated, John coughed and spat blood, gurgling in lieu of speech, desperate.

  He thought he would suffocate before anyone responded, but then the lieutenant was at his side, frowning intently down upon him. John jerked his head twice to beckon the officer closer, and though his mouth twisted in revulsion, Baker complied, bending over and placing his ear close to John’s lips.

  “Tell my mother—” He could scarce draw breath. “Tell my mother that I did it for my country—” He could not fill his lungs; his throat constricted ever tighter. “That I die for my country.”

  The sun had risen above the distant hills, harsh and unnaturally warm. He clenched his teeth, his eyes tearing against the glare until some pitying soul draped a shirt over a chair to shield his face.

  He was John Wilkes Booth. If he had done wrong in ridding the world of the man who would declare himself king of America, let God, not man, judge him.

  Out, out, brief candle!

  Did he not have a candle in his pocket? No, the lieutenant had taken it, and Lucy’s portrait, and his diary, his apologia. But he should need no candle to see by, with the sun so hot upon his face.

  Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.

  Yes, and so he should remind the good women who had loved him, to give them some measure of peace. If he could but find pen and paper and ink, and light his candle to see by, for it had grown so dark so suddenly. . . . He strained to pat his pockets but was surprised to discover he could not move, and surprised again that he could have forgotten something so important.

  Lieutenant Baker peered curiously down at him. “You want to see your hands?”

  He wanted the use of them, but since he could not speak to clarify, he could only lie passively, unresisting, as the lieutenant lifted his hands up and into his line of sight. He glimpsed the tattoo he had given himself as a child, his initials etched upon the back of his left hand between his thumb and forefinger, his defiant, indelible rebuttal to all those who would deny his right to bear the proud name of Booth.

  He gazed upon his hands, as limp and insensible as those of a corpse.

  “Useless,” he croaked. “Useless.”

  All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity.

  The world would not look upon his like again.

  CHAPTER ONE

  MARY ANN

  1838–1851

  Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest, but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me.

  —William Shakespeare,

  Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1

  On a beautiful spring morning in early May, Mary Ann was safely delivered of a healthy son, and the sight of him swaddled in the soft blue-and-white quilt she had lovingly sewn for him—so perfect, so pure, so full of promise—took her breath away. His hair was dark and silky, his eyes deep blue, his skin blushing roses on porcelain. In the exhilaration and exhaustion that followed her ten-hour labor, it seemed to her that he possessed the best qualities of the precious elder siblings who had passed on before he entered the world. It was almost as if a merciful God had returned them to her in the person of this one perfect child.

  As soon as Mary Ann had felt her labor pains come on, she had sent word to Junius, the eager expectant father, at the Holliday Street Theatre in Baltimore twenty-fives miles to the southwest, where he had been thrilling audiences with his masterful portrayals of Othello and Pescara. He had raced home to her at The Farm—their rustic country retreat, one hundred and fifty sublime forested acres in Harford County, Maryland—just in time to witness the birth. The experience filled him with wonder and awe, and as he cradled his newborn in his arms for the first time, Junius suggested that they give his father the honor of naming the baby.

  Richard, an Englishman born and bred but a fervent admirer of George Washington nonetheless, proudly selected the name of a distant relative on his mother’s side, a courageous and honorable member of the British Parliament who had ardently defended the right of the American colonists to rebel against King George III and to create their own sovereign, democratic nation. Only weeks after the Sons of Liberty had flung British tea into Boston Harbor, John Wilkes had infuriated monarchists by boldly predicting, in a fiery speech to the House of Commons, that the Colonials would rise to independence and power, to greatness and renown, for they would construct their government “on the solid basis of general, public liberty.”

  “With but a fraction of his namesake’s passion, the blessings of American liberty, and the Booth genius as his birthright, there’s no reason why this child should not become a great American,” his grandfather declared.

  “All I ask is that he not become an actor,” said Junius.

  “He’s so small to bear the weight of such grand expectations,” Mary Ann gently chided Richard, smiling to soften her words. “Let him be a happy child first.”

  But six months later, a startling vision came to her, leaving her with the vaguely unsettling certainty that Richard had made a prophetic choice.

  She was nursing John by the fireside, his head nestled upon the crook of her elbow, his tiny hand resting on her bosom, the fingers splayed. As she gazed into the fireplace, wondering what the future held in store for her beautiful boy, the flames suddenly leapt upward and seemed to form the word “Country.” As she watched, fascinated and frightened, the letters shifted into her son’s name before they faded back into dancing flame.

  What could it mean? she wondered.

  Even as she brooded over the vision, she knew that only time would reveal his destiny. For now, and for many years to come, he would simply be her precious child, whom she loved tenderly and with all her heart.

  • • •

  John Wilkes was Mary Ann’s ninth child, the fifth of those who yet lived. The eldest, Junius Brutus Booth Jr., had left The Farm a few months after John Wilkes’s birth, much to the chagrin of his parents. For years Richard had tried valiantly to teach his grandson Greek and Latin so that he might be trained as a doctor or lawyer, but despite great efforts to discourage him, June, as they all called him, was determined to become an actor. He had made his debut a few years before while chaperoning his father on tour, playing Tressel to Junius’s Richard III in Pittsburgh when the regular player fell ill. His performance had been in every way underwhelming. “June would make a better merchant than an actor,” Junius had written to Mary Ann afterward, sounding both relieved and disappointed. June evidently had a better opinion of his own talent, for shortly before his eighteenth birthday, he ran off to join a theatre company in Philadelphia. Handsome, athletic, and bearing the famous Booth name, he won several minor roles and performed them competently, though without brilliance. His swordplay was widely admired and his fellow players liked him, but while they offered him warm friendship, they damned him with faint praise. June was fairly good, mutual friends told Junius diplomatically, slow of speech but competent to the limit of his abilities.

  Junius blustered and threatened, but his namesake would not be persuaded to give up his folly and come home. Mary Ann too had misgivings, but what had Junius expected? The children idolized their dramatic, exciting, unpredictable father. They had absorbed Shakespeare at his knee, and they recited verses and soliloquies as other children told riddles. Their home was a treasure vault of scripts, costumes, props, theatre posters, and newspaper clippings of rave reviews. In secret they had watched their father onstage from the wings
, awestruck, whenever Mary Ann had been obliged to bring them along to the theatre to collect Junius’s salary before he could drink it away. It would have been more astonishing had June not resolved to become an actor, although privately his parents agreed that it seemed unlikely he would ever become a great one.

  There was no danger of their second child and eldest daughter, Rosalie, following her father and brother onto the stage. Quiet and gentle, Rosalie was so reserved that she rarely spoke, and then only in whispers. She was Mary Ann’s silent, helpful shadow as she went about her chores on The Farm, tending the garden, watching over the younger children. Though Mary Ann never spoke of it to Junius, she suspected that Rosalie had become profoundly withdrawn as a protective measure after suffering the loss of four younger siblings to terrible illnesses. Mary Ann understood her melancholia all too well.

  Yet even after suffering such unspeakable losses, Mary Ann’s broken heart had remained strong enough to welcome another child into the family. Junius had been on tour in mid-November 1833 when she had gone into labor on a night the heavens had put on a spectacular display of shooting stars. One had exploded with an earsplitting crack in the sky above Baltimore, lighting up the clouds like dawn and searing the sky with a trailing stream of fire. Bright ribbons of light still illuminated the darkness when Mary Ann’s son was born—safely, in perfect health, but with a transparent membrane swathed around his face. Shakespeare had referred to the marvel as “fortune’s star,” Mary Ann remembered, and Ann Hall and the other servants had declared that it meant that the boy was destined for greatness. Mary Ann had carefully preserved the caul, certain that the heavenly fireworks affirmed that her baby—unusually quiet and alert, his features resembling his father’s—was destined for a special fate. From Philadelphia, Junius had chimed in his agreement, adding that he wanted the boy to be named after his two best and most loyal friends, the actors Edwin Forrest and Thomas Flynn, and so the newborn was called Edwin Thomas.