The Lincoln Letter

by William Martin

  Halsey could not speak. He was holding down a dry heave.

  Webb shouted, “The suspect was seen accosting her in the street last night, and according to the Willard house detective, he was lurking about her room this evening. And one of our men at the National Hotel just talked to Mr. John Wilkes Booth himself, who says he believes these two were involved in flagrante delicto last night.”

  “In what?” shouted one of the reporters.

  “It’s Latin,” said Webb.

  “What’s it mean?” shouted another.

  “It means fuckin’,” said another.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Did Booth see them doin’ it?”

  Webb waved his hands. “That’s not important, boys.”

  “What else did Booth see?”

  “He saw the lady in this Hutchinson’s room a while back. And he said that on the day of the shooting at McDillon’s, Hutchinson asked him for the layout of the place.”

  Halsey felt a rope tightening now. There were three killings he had committed.

  “Is this feller dangerous?” asked one of the reporters.

  “Armed and,” answered Webb. “But the Metropolitan Police have jurisdiction here. The Provost Marshal claims control at the War Department.”

  “So the fugitive is military?”

  Fugitive? They were calling him that already?

  “He’s a soldier in a civilian department. So he’s wearin’ a brown suit and bowler hat. He checked out of his office at nine thirty. He told his partner that he was planning to see—here’s the quote, boys—‘the daughter of a certain congressman who was going back to New York.’ That’s like a confession. So the military is after him, and the War Department has detectives. But the Metropolitans are on the case, too, boys. Bet on us.”

  Jubilo Freedom whispered, “Shit on a shingle and feed it to Mama.”

  “What?” Halsey could finally speak.

  “You’s in a powerful lot of trouble, mister.”

  One of the reporters shouted, “How was she killed?”

  “He cut her throat. She’s dead in the bed.”

  “Was it bloody?” cried another.

  “Who found her?” cried another at the same time.

  Webb, a tall man with a bushy mustache and eyebrows to match, took a deep breath. “A maid found her, after a guest in the room below complained of the blood comin’ through the ceilin’. So, yeah, it was bloody.”

  Ugly, scandalous, bloody … nothing better to sell papers. The reporters all began to shout at once.

  Halsey wanted to jump out and say that he was innocent. But he didn’t think he had the strength, and he knew that he was being set up by … someone.

  Webb said, “He can’t cross the bridges without a pass, and we’re watching the depot. If he tries to ride north on the Seventh Street Pike, we have a patrol up at the tollgate, too. He can’t hide, and I tell you, boys, he has to swing for what he did.”

  Just then, Jim-Boy came back along the alley. He looked down the street at the cluster of men: then he said to Halsey, “I ask you this once, mister, is you a murderer?”

  Halsey shook his head.

  Jim-Boy said to Jubilo, “Do we believe him?”

  “Don’t know,” said Jubilo. “Don’t many white men tip their hats to us ever’day.”

  Halsey managed to get out the words, “I need a place to hide. Just for tonight.”

  “Don’t know ’bout that, neither,” said Jubilo.

  Halsey pulled out a fistful of paper money. “I’ll give you all I have. Fifty fresh new Yankee greenbacks.”

  Jim-Boy and Jubilo looked at each other, and Jubilo said, “That’s more than we make in a month diggin’ forts.” Then he snatched the bills. “Just for tonight.”

  “You’s on your own for the next four blocks,” said Jim-Boy. “Jess keep back, till we get to our meet-up. Then you be in the clear.”

  “Yeah,” added Jubilo, “so long’s you got a strong nose.”

  Halsey had no idea what they were talking about, but he did as they said. He waited until they had reached the corner of F Street, made sure that all eyes were still on the police superintendent, then slipped out of the alley.

  If the police were watching the Willard and the National, if the Provost Guard was looking for him at the War Department, if agents for something called the Knights of the Golden Circle were after him, too, he needed to hide, at least until he could find his way to McNealy, who had saved him once already that night. And he realized that McNealy might still be waiting for him in Georgetown, at the C&O Canal, by the first lock. So Halsey stopped at Eleventh.

  Jim-Boy looked back from the other side of the street. The corner was deserted, so he called out, “Don’t be laggin’ on us, mister. Our ride won’t wait.”

  Halsey hurried across the street, splattering through mud and puddles, and said, “I’m going back. I think I can find help in Georgetown.”

  “Georgetown?” said Jubilo. “That’s a long walk.”

  “I have a friend. He wanted me to meet him by the canal, by the first lock.”

  Jubilo and Jim-Boy looked at each other, and Jim-Boy said, “By the first lock?”

  “Can’t be much of a friend,” said Jubilo. “That’s how we come home. We cross the Akka-duck Bridge, then take the towpath, and—”

  Jim-Boy said, “They’s Provost Guards all over that canal tonight, like they’s lookin’ for someone.”

  So there it was, thought Halsey. His earlier instincts about McNealy had been true. He said, “Let’s keep goin’.”

  They went a few more blocks, when Halsey noticed a powerful stink and realized what they meant about a strong nose.

  “There’s our ride,” said Jim-Boy.

  “Yeah. Men makin’ money,” said Jubilo. “Good honest labor.”

  It was a wagon drawn by two horses, and it was filled to the brim with … shit.

  There were two Negro men on the seat. Jubilo introduced them as his brothers, Hallelujah and Zion.

  “Call me Hal for short,” said Hallelujah. “Our mama cry hallelujah and give praise every day that we’s free colored folk with our own jobs in our own city of Zion.”

  “That’s right,” said Jubilo. “We also pray every day for the year of Jubilo, when all our people cross the River Jordan and git on to Zion, the land of milk and honey.”

  Zion said, “Yeah, milk and honey … and the leavin’s of the white man’s bowels.”

  Hallelujah and Zion drove a night soil wagon. They worked between ten at night and six in the morning, emptying necessaries and hauling the contents away. Business was always dirty, but always good.

  Hal said that if their brother vouched for a man, they were glad to help him.

  Zion just chewed on a toothpick. “Is he in trouble?”

  “He’s in trouble, but he seem a righteous man to me,” said Jubilo.

  “And he give us fifty dollars,” added Jim-Boy.

  “Fifty dollars?” said Hal. “Then sit on the rail, sir, and mind the splatters.”

  The wagon rolled east through the quiet city, east toward the places where freedmen and contrabands had taken up residence on their long journey to Zion, and Halsey wondered what his father would think.

  Then the shock settled on him like an embracing fog, as it had when he was shot at Ball’s Bluff. It protected him from his grief at the death of Constance, and from the pain of realizing his own predicament, and from the stink of the night soil wagon.

  NINE

  Saturday Night

  No American city was more beautiful than Washington, D.C., at night. Los Angeles appeared to float on a sea of luminescence. New York pierced the sky with eighty-story spears of light. But Washington’s white monuments seemed at once more monumental and more accessible at night, like beacons in the darkness.

  So Peter had the limo driver take them by the Lincoln Memorial, just for a look at the temple of America’s most cherished myth: in a democracy, a boy born into
backwoods poverty could rise to the pinnacle of national power. But while the hero immortalized in that temple did not seem to suffer from what the Greeks called hubris—pride before an implacable fate—he had paid the ultimate price for his striving.

  The limo didn’t stop. It was enough to admire the memorial from a distance. Then they swung around the Mall and pulled up at the south entrance to the National Museum of American History.

  Peter and Evangeline showed picture IDs, passed through the metal detectors—even at big Washington parties, there were metal detectors—and heard music.

  Peter recognized the Ninety-seventh Regimental String Band, three guys in Civil War uniforms who played bass, mandolin, guitar, banjo, fiddle and sang familiar tunes like “Kingdom Coming” and “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” along with obscure artifacts of a forgotten time, like “Just Before the Battle, Mother” and “He’s Coming to Us Dead.” They were the soundtrack for an era and for the evening. And just then, they were singing the campaign song that gave the exhibit its title: “Lincoln and Liberty, Too.”

  “Hurrah for the choice of the nation, our chieftain so brave and so true.”

  Peter and Evangeline walked across the white stone floor and into the three-story glass-and-steel atrium. Rising in front of them was a wall with the impressionistic silver-spangled American flag. In the gallery beyond was the original Star-Spangled Banner.

  The Ninety-seventh was performing on a raised platform: “We’ll go for the great reformation, for Lincoln and Liberty, too.”

  Abraham Lincoln and his wife were greeting visitors, flanked by an honor guard of Union soldiers in crisp blue uniforms.

  Showbiz at the Smithsonian.

  While there were enough Lincoln impersonators in America that they had their own national convention, this guy was one of the best. Six-foot-four, gaunt, well bearded … he even had the raised nodule on his right cheek.

  And the woman next to him was appropriately short and round faced.

  Peter took a brochure from Mrs. Lincoln, who gestured to the huge atrium as if it were the family library in the White House. “Please avail yourselves of some refreshment, sir. The new exhibit is in the Albert Small Documents Gallery beyond the escalator.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Peter. “And you look marvelous tonight.”

  She curtsied.

  “But remember,” said Mr. Lincoln. “No food or drink in the exhibit rooms.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” said Peter. “And knowing that you don’t drink strong spirits yourself, I may abstain in your honor.”

  Lincoln bowed. “Enjoy the night.”

  As they walked away, Evangeline whispered, “Peter, they’re actors. Let them play the roles.”

  “Look around you,” he said. “Everyone in this room is playing a role.”

  Hundreds of people filled the grand atrium, crowding around the stand-up tables, the bars, and the huge hors d’oeuvres array in the middle of the floor. It was business attire for the men, but on a Saturday night, the ladies were wearing a few more sparkles, a little more silk, and lots more color than on a workday.

  Peter and Evangeline had been in crowds like this before, parties where they had stumbled into a “company town,” where everyone knew everyone else, or seemed to, and nobody paid them much attention because nobody thought they were, well … anybody.

  “We’ll go for the son of Kentucky, the Hero of Hoosierdom, too, the pride of those ‘Suckers’ so lucky, for Lincoln and Liberty, too.”

  The music echoed up to the skylight three stories above. So did the roar of conversation from an atrium full of insiders.

  Peter and Evangeline heard snippets about this committee and that hearing, this bill and that rider and all the earmarks, too. They also picked up on talk about the challenges faced by modern retailing in the world of cybercommerce because, as the program announced, “This exhibit was sponsored by the American Retail Sales Association.”

  “Our David’s good sling is unerring. The Slave-o-crat giant he slew…”

  Peter noticed Senator Kerry from Massachusetts. Chuck Schumer was there, too, attracting a crowd of New Yorkers. Most of the congressmen they saw were running unopposed. The rest were back in their districts campaigning.

  “Then shout for the freedom-preferring, for Lincoln and Liberty, too.”

  A few heads were finally turning their way. A good-looking couple always made heads turn, even an anonymous couple in Power Town, USA. Who were they? Worth a bit of conversation? A little schmooze?

  “We’ll go for the son of Kentucky…”

  “You get the wine,” said Evangeline. “I’ll get us some hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Can’t work the room on an empty stomach.”

  “Can’t work it without somebody to introduce you, either.” She scanned the room. “So where’s Diana? She said she’d be here.”

  “Maybe she’s over at the bar.” Peter headed in that direction.

  Evangeline loaded plates with California rolls, ginger, and soy. She wondered what Old Abe would think of people eating raw fish cut up by smiling Japanese chefs all in his honor. She popped one into her mouth and looked around for Congressman Milbury.

  “They’ll find what by felling and mauling, our railmaker statesman can do.”

  Instead, the congressman’s chief of staff, William Dougherty, found her.

  “I wish they’d shut up,” said Dougherty. “I can barely hear myself think.”

  “The People are everywhere calling, for Lincoln and Liberty, too.”

  “It’s a pleasure to see you, too,” said Evangeline. “Is the congressman here?”

  “Upstairs, at the permanent Lincoln exhibit. There’s a TV crew up there. He could find a TV crew in the middle of the ocean. Is your boyfriend here?”

  “We’ll go for the son of Kentucky…”

  “I take it you’re more interested in meeting him than me.”

  “I’m interested in a certain ‘something’ referenced in a certain letter.”

  “I thought the letter was secret,” said Evangeline.

  Dougherty looked around at all those people seeing and being seen, looking without seeming to, and he said, “In this town, nothing is secret … for long.”

  “The hero of Hoosierdom, too…”

  Peter excused his way back through the crowd with two glasses of wine.

  Evangeline took one and introduced Dougherty, “who knows about the letter.”

  “The pride of those ‘suckers’ so lucky, for Lincoln and Liberty, too.”

  Peter toasted with his glass, popped a piece of sushi into his mouth, and said to Dougherty, “So, which side are you on?”

  “I work for Congressman Milbury. We’re trying to get him reelected in a very difficult race.”

  “And what did you say his reelection had to do with the Lincoln letter?” asked Peter.

  “I didn’t,” answered Dougherty. “But the congressman says that if you found it, or the mysterious ‘something’ referenced in it, and donated it to the Smithsonian, he’d be indebted. And what a remarkable legacy for the nation’s most prominent treasure hunter.”

  Peter hated being called a treasure hunter almost as much as he hated being called “Pete.” He said, “I’m a dealer in rare books and documents, not a treasure hunter.”

  “So up with our banner so glorious, the star-spangled red, white, and blue.”

  Evangeline glanced at Peter’s breast pocket, as if to ask, Want to tell him that an hour ago, you took a half-million-dollar retainer to hand over this “something”?

  But she knew what he was thinking: nothing worse than politicians sticking their noses into his business. Invariably, they were looking for something … publicity, a contribution, or outright surrender to their city, state, or district. When politicians came in the front door, Peter usually headed for the back.

  “We’ll fight till that banner’s victorious, for Lincoln and Liberty, too.”

  William Dougherty said, “W
e wanted you to come tonight because this institution is near to the congressman’s heart.”

  “Staying in business is near to my heart,” said Peter. “So before I think about donating things, I have to find them. Then I have to think about their value.”

  “I’m sure you would agree that there’s a difference between the cost of something,” said Dougherty, “and its value.”

  Peter’s wineglass stopped in midair.

  Evangeline knew that he was now officially pissed. First Dougherty called him a treasure hunter. Then he came with the cost/value speech.

  She slipped a hand into Peter’s arm and said, “The Lincoln letter is worth more than three million dollars. I can’t imagine what a certain ‘something’ would be worth.”

  “Nor can I,” said Dougherty, over the final resounding chorus. “But I’ve asked one of our advisors to guide you through the exhibit. And since the speeches are about to start, it’s a good time to sneak off to the gallery.”

  As the sound of applause for the Ninety-seventh echoed, Dougherty led Peter and Evangeline through the crowd, past the escalator, to the Albert H. Small Documents Gallery.

  Two uniformed reenactors stood at the door, Union soldiers holding their muskets at parade rest. Beside them was a table for people to leave their glasses.

  Dougherty made a little wave to a tall, well-dressed gentleman who smoothly broke away from another conversation and came over: Professor Colin Conlon.

  Every town was a small town, thought Peter, no matter how big it was.

  “Professor Conlon is our expert in all things historical,” said Dougherty.

  “So you’re the document hunter,” said Conlon, with a tone that made “hunter” sound like “thief.”

  Peter disliked him even more than he had at the seminar, which he decided not to mention. He also decided not to mention his friendship with Diana Wilmington.

  Then Conlon turned to Evangeline. “And you’re the TV person, making a film about the Civil War without contacting the author of the newest work on Lincoln.”

  “Would that be you?” said Evangeline.

  “Yes, dear,” said Peter, all phony sweetness. “Lincoln at Law. It sounds interesting. It’s on my bedside.” It did sound interesting. It was not on his bedside.