Fates and Traitors

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Sympathy was the last sentiment John had expected to hear pass his erstwhile friend’s lips, and something in his chest wrenched. “I no longer have a country,” he lamented, sick at heart, steadying himself on the mare’s strong flank. “This is the end of constitutional liberty in America.”

  “Booth, what are you saying?” Concerned, Mathews drew closer, studying him. “You’re as pale as a ghost. How much have you had to drink today?”

  Not nearly enough, John thought. “I’m all right.”

  “You don’t look all right. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s nothing, but”—John inhaled deeply—“would you do me a favor?”

  “Why, certainly, Johnny. What is it?”

  “I may leave town tonight, and I have a letter here which I desire to be published in the National Intelligencer.” John reached into his breast pocket and withdrew the apologia he had written only a few hours before. It was a hasty sketch compared to the lengthier document he had entrusted to Asia, although she did not know the nature of the document he had asked her to lock up in her safe. Still, hastily composed or not, he meant every word, and he would have the world know it. “Please attend to it for me, unless I see you before ten o’clock tomorrow. In that case I’ll see to it myself.”

  “All right, Johnny.” Mathews tucked the letter into the pocket of his frock coat. “If it will help you.”

  John thanked him and mounted the mare, who, perhaps sensing her rider’s feelings, seemed impatient to be off. The grim parade had moved on, and carriages and riders were beginning to pass freely again. “Goodbye, Mathews.”

  Mathews nodded, but his gaze had fixed on something moving along the avenue behind John. “There goes the great man,” he said, shaking his head. “They won’t be happy to hear about this at Ford’s.”

  “Hear about what?”

  Mathews gestured, and John turned the mare and spied a two-seated top-carriage heavily laden with trunks and carpetbags moving by, so overfull that a Union officer sat up beside the driver instead of inside with the other passengers. “That’s General Grant, and from the look of things, he’s leaving town. John and Harry were expecting him in the State Box with President Lincoln tonight.”

  John stared after the carriage as it receded down the avenue toward the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad station. “You’re certain that was Grant?”

  “Of course. Doesn’t everyone know him by sight?”

  Without a word of farewell, John turned the mare, walked her into the clear, and kicked her into a gallop. He easily caught up to the carriage and peered into it as he passed, immediately recognizing Mrs. Grant and her young son from the Willard earlier that day, but not the other lady seated across from them. He rode twenty yards ahead, wheeled the mare about, and returned at the same swift pace, passing closely on General Grant’s side and studying him so intensely that it appeared to him that the so-called Hero of Appomattox instinctively drew back.

  Breathing heavily, exultant, John slowed the mare to a walk as the carriage continued on its way to the train station. He felt a thrill of triumph to have made the great general flinch, for it was unmistakably Grant, and he was unmistakably leaving Washington. John was not sure whether he ought to feel relieved or disappointed. He was sorry that he would not have the chance to kill Grant as well as Lincoln, but Grant was an experienced military man, and probably carried a sidearm. Grant’s absence no doubt improved John’s chances of success a thousandfold.

  Grant was leaving town. John knew where Lincoln would be that night, for Hess and Mathews had confirmed it. Seward was confined to bed, recovering from life-threatening injuries he had received in a terrible carriage accident nine days before. That left Johnson. Atzerodt was supposed to be keeping abreast of the vice president’s whereabouts, but with the hour steadily approaching, John could not leave anything to chance. He rode to Johnson’s hotel, the Kirkwood House at Twelfth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, paid a boy to hold the mare, and entered the lobby. Glancing about, he did not see Atzerodt, but he dared hope that meant the German had either hidden himself remarkably well or that Johnson was out and Atzerodt was stealthily following him through the city.

  Catching his breath, he smoothed back his hair, assumed an affable smile, and approached the front desk, but this clerk was not so easily charmed as the fellow at the Willard, for he refused to confirm whether Johnson was in or out, or even whether he had taken a room there at all, though it was common knowledge. He only reluctantly granted John’s request for a blank card and a pencil, and then he stood nearby looking decidedly put out while John dashed off a few quick lines. “Don’t wish to disturb you,” he wrote. “Are you at home? J. Wilkes Booth.” He waited until the clerk placed the card in Johnson’s box before bowing sardonically and quitting the hotel.

  John had not eaten since his late breakfast with Mrs. Bean, and the whiskey and ale were not sitting well in his empty stomach, so he rode back to Ford’s Theatre and stabled the mare in the place Maddox had found for him in Baptist Alley, about sixty yards from the back door of the theatre. It was really a modified shed that Spangler had fixed up to store a buggy, but John rented it from a widow lady for five dollars a month and he let theatre friends use it in exchange for keeping an eye on it in his absence.

  It was a short walk to the National Hotel, and as John made his way south down Sixth Street, he thought of Lucy and his pace quickened. He wished he had thought to invite her to dine with him that evening, but the day had been so strange and swiftly changing, his thoughts so full of the impending mission, that he had hardly thought of her since morning.

  He did not glimpse Lucy or any of her family as he entered the hotel, but other guests were mingling in the lobby and the parlor, and several couples and families were heading down the hallway to the dining room. Hurrying upstairs, he unlocked his room, filled the basin with cool water from the pitcher the maid had left, and swiftly washed and dressed, his heart racing with hope and anticipation. The moment he had crossed the threshold of the hotel where he and Lucy had passed so many pleasant hours together, he had been seized by an urgent hope and apprehension, an intense desire to see her that must be satisfied.

  He did not know whether he would ever see Lucy again after that night. He had dallied with other women, but Lucy—lovely, sweet, unspoiled, warmhearted Lucy—was the only one he truly loved. It pained him to imagine the life he might have enjoyed had not the Fates decreed otherwise—the adoration of an affectionate wife, the counsel of her distinguished father, ingress into the highest levels of society, the prosperity and respect that would follow. In recent days he had considered following Lucy to Spain, but in the immediate aftermath of his mission, he knew he would be needed in the South, to rally the demoralized people, to inspirit them with confidence and hope. After Confederate independence was established, he might be able to spare the time to go abroad, but he could not be sure Lucy would welcome him. She would not approve of what he must do that night—he had no doubt she would consider his actions abhorrent—but perhaps, in time, when she saw from afar what good had come of his brave deed, her heart would soften and she would love him again. Only time would tell, but that night he wished to leave her with one last, fond, affectionate memory of him, so in the years to come she would never doubt that he had loved her.

  Impeccably groomed and dressed in a plain dark suit, John checked his pockets for the derringer and the knife and the other things he typically carried on his person. Once satisfied that all was in order, he descended to the lobby, looked around in vain for the Hales, and strolled down the corridor to the dining room, hoping to discover the family just sitting down, and with one extra chair at their table. Passing the parlor, he glanced inside and was delighted to see Lucy seated with her parents, her sister, and a lady he did not know. His heart warmed to see his sweetheart smiling at some jest her sister had made, her dark hair shining in the lamplight, her blue eyes bright with intelli
gence and humor. Her elegant black silk gown made a pleasing contrast with the red velvet of her chair—and she must have felt his gaze upon her, for at that moment she glanced up, saw him lingering in the doorway, and smiled radiantly.

  Her family followed her line of sight, and it pained him to see their expressions turned guarded, even indignant, in Mrs. Hale’s case. Nevertheless, he fixed his smile in place, crossed the room, bowed politely, and was introduced to their companion, a Mrs. Temple, no one that he knew or needed to know. He lingered so long that Mr. Hale was obliged to invite him to dine with them, an obligation Lucy encouraged with numerous pointed looks. John graciously accepted.

  “Where have you been all day?” Lucy murmured as he escorted her to the dining room, following a discreet distance behind the rest of their party.

  “Oh, running here and there, to Grover’s Theatre to take care of business and to Ford’s to watch the rehearsal for Our American Cousin.” Her face fell slightly, and he hastened to add, “I was simply tying up loose ends. I didn’t accept any new engagements. They implored me to, they even offered me some rather enviable roles, but I declined. Frankly, my oil interests won’t allow me the time.”

  Her smile returned. It occurred to him then that soon he would no longer need to conceal that his oil speculations had ended in massive failure, that he was living on borrowed money and gifts from sympathetic friends. That awareness flooded him with an enormous sense of relief. How he would support her, if she would still have him after tonight, he did not know, but that was a concern for another day.

  Dinner was a pleasant affair, with Lucy on his right hand and the extraordinarily talkative Mrs. Temple on his left. Gentle, affectionate smiles were his reward when he looked in one direction, inane chatter and silly questions whenever he was obliged to turn toward the other.

  “Mrs. Hale and I have been talking about going to Ford’s Theatre tonight to see Miss Keene perform in Our American Cousin,” Mrs. Temple said, glancing to Mrs. Hale, who inclined her head in confirmation.

  “Mr. Booth observed the rehearsal earlier today,” said Lucy, smiling. “Perhaps he would share his professional opinion.”

  John’s throat constricted, and he raised his napkin to his mouth as he fought to chew and swallow. “Miss Keene was marvelous as ever,” he said hoarsely, pausing to sip water, “but comedy depends as much upon the mood of the audience as the skill of the performers. Tonight the theatre is likely to be half empty on account of Good Friday, so the play is sure to drag, through no fault of the incomparable Miss Keene.”

  “I would rather expect the audience to be excellent,” remarked Mrs. Hale. “The president, General Grant, and their wives are expected, or so it was announced in the papers.”

  “The papers are wrong,” said John. “General Grant and wife have left the city. I myself passed their carriage as they were heading for the train station earlier today.”

  “Oh, indeed?” Mrs. Temple pouted across the table at Mrs. Hale. “And I had so been looking forward to it.”

  “Perhaps we should go to the theatre tomorrow night instead,” suggested Mrs. Hale. “I’m sure we will find an enjoyable program, if not at Ford’s than elsewhere. We can see Miss Keene the next time she returns to Washington.”

  Brightening, Mrs. Temple agreed that Mrs. Hale’s plan suited her very well. “How fortunate we are that Mr. Booth was here to spare us a disappointing evening,” she added, smiling up at him, fluttering her eyelashes in girlish admiration.

  “It was my great pleasure, madam,” he said, and as Lucy looked on proudly, he felt a pang of love and regret so intense that it was all he could do not to seize her hand, kneel before her, and beg for her understanding.

  Perhaps it was not absurd to hope that one day he could make her understand.

  • • •

  When the supper ended, John escorted Lucy to the foot of the grand staircase in the foyer, and then he bade her, her family, and Mrs. Temple good evening. He waited for Lucy to move out of sight down the second floor corridor before he mopped his brow with a handkerchief and went to the front desk, where the evening clerk, Henry Merrick, was checking in a young man dressed in the uniform of a private with the 189th New York Infantry.

  “Hand me a piece of paper, would you, Henry?” he asked the clerk.

  “Sure, Mr. Booth.” Frowning, the clerk brought out both paper and pencil. “You feeling all right?”

  “You look very pale,” said the young private. “If you don’t mind my saying so, sir.”

  “I don’t mind,” said John shortly. His head spun.

  “Why don’t you have a seat back here at the desk?” offered Henry.

  Nodding, John seated himself and began writing at a furious pace. He had so much to say and so little time to say it. He wrote and wrote, and then signed his name, and then for the life of him he could not remember the date. Looking up from the page, he found Henry and the private watching him, concerned.

  “Is it 1864 or 1865?” he asked.

  The clerk and the private exchanged a look. “Don’t you know what year it is?” queried Henry.

  Eighteen sixty-five. Yes, that was it. Quickly John scrawled the date, rose from the chair, folded the paper, and dropped it into the mailbox. “Are you going out tonight?” he asked the young soldier cheerfully, feeling suddenly refreshed and restored to himself, as if the words had been a sickness he had purged from his body through the pencil.

  “I haven’t made any plans yet,” the soldier replied, as if the question surprised him, “aside from washing up and finding a good meal.”

  “You ought to go to Ford’s Theatre,” said John emphatically. “There’s going to be some splendid acting tonight.”

  • • •

  Striding briskly down Pennsylvania Avenue and turning north on Ninth Street, John reached the Herndon House and rapped on Powell’s door a few minutes before eight o’clock. Powell and Herold were already waiting, and Atzerodt scurried in just as the bells of St. Patrick’s Church fell silent after chiming the hour.

  “It’s no use trying to abduct Lincoln,” John told them flatly. “He’s proved impossible to catch. We have to kill him, and we have to kill those who would succeed him. I’ll take the old fox myself.”

  His words met with silence. Powell and Herold nodded, but Atzerodt only stared.

  He turned to Powell. “You take Seward.” Unflinching, Powell nodded again. An army veteran who had lost two brothers to the war, he wanted to avenge the wrongs done to the South as much as John did. He would not fail.

  “Here’s something.” Herold spoke up. “All day long, doctors are calling at Seward’s home on account of his injuries. I used to work as a pharmacy clerk, and I’m sure Powell would be admitted to the house if he claimed to be delivering medicines from Seward’s doctor.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Powell.

  Booth turned to Atzerodt. “You take Johnson.” When the German winced, he added, “Nothing could be easier than reaching that dirty tailor from Tennessee.” He beckoned to Herold. “Show him the letter.”

  Herold leapt up from his chair, took a folded paper from his coat pocket, and held it out to Atzerodt, who reluctantly accepted it. “It’s a document meant for Johnson,” Herold explained. “I got it off a printer. You can get close to Johnson by pretending to deliver it.”

  Atzerodt regarded the letter in his hand with revulsion, and then quickly set it on the arm of his chair as if it had scorched his fingers. “I went into this thing to capture, not to kill,” he said quietly, his gaze falling to the floor. “I will not do it.”

  “Then you’re a fool,” snapped John. “It is death for every man who backs out. It’s too late for that anyway. Don’t you see? You’re in this as deep as the rest of us. If we hang, you hang.”

  “Nein, nein,” Atzerodt moaned, shaking his head. “I did not come for that. I am not willing to
murder a person.”

  “Boy,” said John, low and menacing, drawing closer to the quavering man. “Boy.” He slapped his hand heavily on Atzerodt’s chest, pushing him back a step. “What is to become of you?” Suddenly John swung and struck him, sending him sprawling to the floor. “You must kill Johnson! Do it or I’ll blow your brains out!”

  Gasping, wide-eyed, Atzerodt scrambled to his feet and backed away.

  “What will become of you?” John said again, disgusted. “Young Herold has more courage than you. He will kill Johnson, and you, Atzerodt, will help.”

  Gulping air, tears in his eyes, Atzerodt nodded, eyes downcast, defeated.

  “Get your horses,” John ordered, in a voice that would allow no dissent.

  • • •

  Anticipation drove out anger as John walked down G Street alone. Atzerodt would be all right with Herold there to mind him. He had no concerns at all about Powell, who would do his duty. Turning north onto Sixth Street, he arrived at the Surratt boardinghouse as the bells of St. Patrick’s Church struck nine.

  Anna answered his knock, and, blushing prettily despite her obvious distress, she showed him into the sitting room and invited him to wait for her mother, whose step he soon heard on the stairs leading up from the kitchen and dining room on the ground floor.

  “Mr. Booth,” she greeted him with some surprise, as Anna left them to confer alone. “I thought you would be at Ford’s by now. Dare I hope that you’ve changed your mind?”

  The question did not merit a reply. “Did you see Lloyd?”

  “Yes,” she said, with a sigh of resignation. “I gave him the package. He said he would remove the various items from their hiding places and move them to his room, to have them convenient for any parties that might call tonight.”

  “Very good.”

  “Mr. Booth—” She hesitated and seated herself in the chair nearest him. “In his recent speeches Mr. Lincoln has spoken of forgiveness and reconciliation. I think he is inclined to be merciful to the South. Mr. Johnson, however—” She shook her head, her lips pursed together in worry and distaste. “He speaks of punishment, and of vengeance. If you remove Mr. Lincoln from the presidential chair, you allow an even worse villain to take it.”