The Lincoln Letter

by William Martin

  “Now, open the door,” said Max Milbury.

  The ranger looked skeptically at the congressman in his trim blue committee-meeting suit, then more skeptically at the congressman’s entourage, all of whom looked as if they had been up half the night: Peter and Evangeline, the pretty African American prof from GWU, and the black New York detective who was holding a tool kit. But Ranger Barison saved his most skeptical glance for the film crew that had arrived to shoot with Evangeline.

  Abigail Lynne Simon said to Peter, “Just go in and start talking. You’re miked. And we have a boom for wild sound.”

  The ranger said, “Congressman, this is on your head. Film crews are supposed to be permitted.”

  “They have a permit to shoot at the Lincoln Memorial. We’ll write in the lock keeper’s house, too,” answered Milbury.

  The ranger popped the padlock and used another key in the door lock.

  Peter and Evangeline stepped in right after the ranger. The congressman followed. Then came Henry and the film crew. Diana stayed outside and peered in.

  It was cold, damp, and smelly in the single room, about twelve by sixteen, with fireplaces at both ends. The place was filled with empty barrels, rakes, shovels, and other garden tools for the crews that worked the Mall. There were four windows downstairs. All were barred. One was boarded.

  Henry looked around and said, “I bet if you were an old slave shoeshine man, this must have felt like a palace.”

  The ranger explained, “It was the lock keeper’s house till about 1880. His job was to keep records, collect tolls, and when a boat was coming up from the lower canal, he would fill his lock with water, so that the boat could start uphill. The land rises from here. Then the boat would be towed up to Rock Creek and the next lock, and so on into the heartland.”

  “No carbon footprint on none of that,” said Henry. “Now, do you got a cellar?”

  The ranger shook his head. “No cellar. And poking around in a historic structure with whatever’s in that tool kit is highly irregular, no matter what you’re after.”

  Henry said, “Listen, my stiff-brim friend, we have come here to find something that is priceless to the American people, so I would appreciate a little help.”

  “He’s right,” said the congressman. “Now, if you don’t have a cellar, you must have a crawl space.”

  The ranger pointed to the stones that made up the floor. “Those are laid directly on top of a slab.”

  “Has it always been storage, since the canal days?” asked Evangeline.

  “No. It was a Park Police station in the thirties. And it was a comfort station in the fifties. Men’s and ladies’.”

  Peter heard the sound of motorcycles roar by. He peered out the window. The boys of the Bonnie Blue Flag pulled up on the other side of Constitution.

  Others were showing up, too. Kathi Morganti was peering in a window. William Dougherty had come up to the door and was craning his neck for a look inside.

  “Word travels fast,” said Evangeline.

  Henry pulled out his hammer and tapped it against the palm of his hand.

  Peter looked up at the joists above him. All exposed. So there’d be no hidden boxes in the ceiling. He asked the ranger, “What’s in the loft up there?”

  “More of the same.”

  The Park Police were now cordoning off the area.

  Evangeline heard Kathi Morganti complaining as they moved her away from the window. Then she heard Diana’s voice. “Officer, I think you should let that man pass.”

  A moment later, Diana poked her head inside the door. “Peter, Professor Conlon is here.”

  Milbury said, “Keep that hypocrite away from me.”

  Diana said, “You really ought to hear him, Congressman.”

  Conlon stuck his head into the lock house and said, “Good morning, all,” as though he were addressing his class.

  “Not for you it isn’t,” said Congressman Milbury. “After the grants I’ve sent your way, to betray me to work for renegades.”

  Conlon offered a letter. “The renegades found this in the back of the engraving of Frederick Douglass. They knew from that moment where the book would be found in a certain house, but they just couldn’t figure out what house.”

  Milbury gestured to Peter. “He’s the expert. Give it to him.”

  Peter took the letter and read, “Dear Mother Freedom—” His eyes dropped to the bottom of the page. It was signed HH, hole man. Halsey Hutchinson?

  “Read,” said Evangeline.

  “Yes,” said Milbury. “I have a hearing starting at ten.”

  “‘Dear Mother Freedom, Nothing can ever repay you for what you did for me. And nothing can ever ease the pain of what you gave to America, any more than we can ease the pain of generations lost to bondage. But know that I am your friend. And if you or Zion are ever in need, go to the Bone family. Tell them to look in their house, in the knee wall, in a place where a man can awaken to see Washington and Lincoln, too. This letter and the letter from President Lincoln that I also include are all you’ll need to show the world that you came honestly by what you’ll find in that knee wall. Then find a fair broker, and you will get a fine price. You may or may not hear from me again. But I will go on to a righteous path.’”

  “Wow,” said Henry.

  “The Bones and Mother Freedom,” said Diana. “Building the piers to suspend the bridge.”

  “But where’s the knee wall?” Peter looked around. “Upstairs?’

  The congressman told the ranger to open the trapdoor, which was locked, and pull down the loft ladder.

  Peter said, “Flashlight.”

  The congressman shouted, “Flashlight!” out the door.

  A policeman handed one in.

  Peter whispered to Henry, “Follow me up the ladder. Block the way for me. And bring that hammer.”

  Henry winked.

  Peter climbed and stopped once he was halfway through the trapdoor. He looked around: dust, junk, traffic cones, old boxes of … whatever, papers, records, the forgotten work of forgotten NPS bureaucrats. And four dormers where a man might slide a bed and still have a view, especially the dormers on the east side.

  Peter lifted himself up. Henry popped up after him and stopped, so that his bulk filled the trapdoor opening.

  The loft area was only a half story, so Peter had to scuttle, first to the front dormer, from which he could not see the Washington Monument. But from the back dormer … He pushed some boxes away and stretched out.

  He imagined awakening there, on a low mattress. If he looked up, he would see the Washington Monument out the south dormer, close enough to touch. And if he sat up, he would see the White House through the north dormer, and perhaps imagine Lincoln there, peering through a telescope toward the smoke of battle on an August afternoon.

  The book had to be here. So with the hammer head, he started tapping on the stonework in the dormer knee wall. Tap. Tap. Tap. Solid. Solid. Solid.

  The ranger shouted up, “That’s government property, mister!”

  “Y’all relax,” said Henry. “We’re findin’ history.”

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Solid. Solid. Thunk. Thunk?

  Peter tapped that stone in several places. It sounded thin, like a piece of slate rather than stone. It was about a foot square, give or take a few jagged edges.

  Peter looked back to the trap hole and told Henry, “Give me a screwdriver with a wide head.” Then he went to work, using the screwdriver as a chisel, tapping gently on the mortar all around the slate.

  “I’m warning you!” said the ranger.

  “Relax,” said the congressman. “Repointing the mortar will not affect the deficit.”

  Henry chuckled.

  Finally Peter had worked all around the edges. He put the tools down and wiped his hands on his rumpled Dockers. He looked up at the Washington Monument. He glanced out at the White House. He looked down the Mall to the Lincoln Memorial, and he whispered, “Here goes.”

  He wedged
his fingers, and the piece of slate slid off the wall. He caught it before it fell. The space beyond had been hollowed out.

  And from across the floor, Henry said, “That sure looks like a book to me, No-Pete.”

  Peter gave Henry a big grin. “It sure does.”

  It was a small red leather-bound book in perfect condition. He opened it, and a letter fell out. He slipped the letter into his jacket pocket for the moment, because he was more interested in the book, and the signature on the endpaper: A. Lincoln. His mouth went dry. He wiped his hands on his jacket.

  Then he opened the first page to the words, March 3, 1861. Congress proposes Constitutional amendment …

  He flipped to the last page, April 16, 1862: Immediate general emancipation is a thing I consider but am not ready to do …

  Peter whispered, “Yes, yes, yes.”

  And on the back endpaper, he saw a scrawl in pencil: Picked up with gun kep gun for pertekshun hope this helps m. Lincoln. N&J.

  “Is that it?” whispered Henry.

  “Stay right there.” Peter had one more task to perform.

  “What’s going on up there?” cried the congressman.

  Evangeline looked outside. Kathi and Dougherty had drawn together, each perhaps wondering who would be losing their job if their secret came out.

  Up in the loft, Peter Fallon was using his iPhone to photograph each page of the diary. A few were brittle as he turned them, and he knew he should have been more careful. But by and large, the book was in excellent condition, the ink only slightly faded.

  Click. Turn. Click. Turn. Ten pages. Twenty. Forty.

  “Mr. Fallon!” The ranger stepped onto the bottom rung of the ladder.

  Henry looked down at him and said, “Y’all just keep your place. You can’t climb over me. I am what you call big-boned … and bigger bottomed.”

  The congressman shouted, “Mr. Fallon! What are you doing up there?”

  “I’m authenticating.”

  And Evangeline laughed out loud. He had it.

  When Henry’s big butt started down, she waved to the film crew.

  The camera pushed close to the ladder, to capture the moment that Peter descended and put the book into the congressman’s hands. “May I present to you and the American people the diary of Abraham Lincoln.”

  “Holy God,” whispered Ranger Barison in awe, as if now, he got it.

  Peter said to Henry, “Tell the cops to draw their guns. This is worth twenty-five million, maybe more. We don’t want anybody getting ideas.”

  “It’s priceless,” said Professor Conlon. “I told you that already.”

  “You’re right,” said Peter. “For once.”

  Evangeline said to the congressman, “What do you have to say?”

  Comgressman Max Milbury’s face reddened, and his hands shook with the awe of what was holding. And he said, “Mr. Dougherty … al … al … alert the media!”

  * * *

  Peter and Evangeline stepped out into the sunshine just as the four motorcycles roared away.

  Keeler took off his Bonnie Blue Flag ball cap and gave them a wave. Peter waved back. Keeler had done the honorable thing after all. Without him, they might never have figured out where to look.

  Then Peter turned to Diana and whispered, “Do you have a secure e-mail, one that you know hasn’t been hacked?”

  “I opened it last night. It’s LadyT@gwu.edu.”

  Peter laughed, typed it in, and attached seventy-five of the most priceless pages any scholar in America had ever gotten a look at.

  “Go up to your office now. The diary will go to the Library of Congress for conservation. There’ll be all kinds of hoo-ha, but no scholar will get to look at it for months. I shouldn’t do this, but what the hell. Go write your next book … Lady T.”

  At the same moment, Evangeline was walking over to Kathi Morganti. “Like you said on Saturday, you never know who you’ll meet on the Acela to Washington. A literal power trip.”

  Kathi looked at Evangeline as if she might bite.

  Evangeline tapped her camera and called up a shot. “I love to take candids.”

  Kathi looked at the picture of herself and Doughtery.

  “True love or fake passion?” asked Evangeline.

  Kathi said, “In this town, it’s hard to know. But, I’m a mom. I showed you that picture of my kids on the train. They really do like Pop-Tarts.”

  Evangeline said, “This is none of my business. Which is not what we usually say these days if we can score a point on a political enemy … so.” She tapped the DELETE button and the picture disappeared.

  Kathi Morganti said, “Thank you.”

  And from behind them, William Dougherty said to the congressman, “I think we should get up to the Hill, sir, and get back to work.”

  “Yes,” said the congressman. “This is an important day.”

  And Kathi said to the congressman, “Perhaps you should get back to your district instead, considering the poll numbers from last night.”

  Evangeline laughed at the Kathi-and-congressman version of the Washington give-and-take. It was starting up again because, well, that was what they did.

  Evangeline took Peter by the sleeve and drew him away. “Nice work.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Milbury had given the diary to Ranger Barison with instructions to take it directly to the Library of Congress. Now he sidled over to Evangeline and said, “You promised more information. Please tell me it’s about a certain lobbyist who somehow figured out that we would be here this morning and came to annoy me.”

  “I have nothing on Ms. Morganti,” Evangeline lied. “I was planning to rat out Professor Conlon. But Peter did it first.”

  The congressman glanced at Conlon, who was talking to Abigail Simon about getting “a few minutes of camera time.” He said, “I think Conlon redeemed himself this morning.” Then he called for his Chevy Tahoe.

  Peter heard Henry growl, “Well, damn.”

  “What?”

  “See the little dude in the runnin’ pants, over in front of the OAS building? That’s Ricky the Rican, takin’ pictures, little motherfucker. He needs a talkin’ to.”

  “It’s over,” said Peter. “Let him go. Just don’t trust him on your next job.”

  “After runnin’ with this crowd,” said Henry, “I don’t think I’m trustin’ anyone ever again about anything, except my friends.”

  “A man can always use friends.”

  “Damn straight.” Henry glanced at his watch. “If I leave now, I can be back in New York by one o’clock, and the Yanks are playin’ a day game. See ya, No-Pete.”

  “Until next time.”

  * * *

  An hour later, the film crew was setting up in front of the Lincoln Memorial.

  The morning tourists were already gathering.

  The Great Emancipator was gazing down.

  And Peter was gazing out from the steps of the Memorial, wondering about the river of time running under the bridge that led them at last to that little stone house, wondering about Halsey Hutchinson.

  Why had he given those Negroes the keys to one of history’s kingdoms, the mind of Abraham Lincoln?

  Perhaps they would never know.…

  SIXTEEN

  May 1865

  After Lincoln’s assassination, Halsey had hunkered another two weeks in Ward A, fearing discovery. Then they had discharged him. They were beginning the process of emptying the hospital, which would close and be torn down in August.

  But Walt Whitman had returned and took Halsey into his rooming house on M Street.

  He said, “The nurses think I offer hospitality to young men because I have ulterior motives. But I do it because I am a generous man. And a good friend to good friends.”

  And it was true. Halsey came to rely on Walt’s friendship. And Walt, for “special” friendship, relied on Peter Doyle, the gentle streetcar conductor who had also had been in Ford’s Theatre on that a
wful night.

  Halsey did not tell Walt everything. He never told anyone everything about that night, not even Samantha.

  But she pieced together much of the story when she read accounts, buried deep in the papers, of the mysterious deaths of two men in the city canal. One was a known thug, the other an unidentified gentleman who remained a John Doe until he was finally buried in a cemetery for indigents.

  Halsey had spent those two weeks in the ward, expecting that Major Eckert would come through any day looking for Jeremiah Murphy. He did not.

  And a greater worry was that Lafayette Baker, who had been brought back to direct the manhunt for Booth, would also loose agents to find the killer of Joseph Albert McNealy. But Baker had enough to do with Booth, who remained at large for twelve days after shooting Lincoln. And Baker may never have known that the John Doe killed the same night as the president was one of his own men.

  However, the climate of vigilante fear that Baker brought with him pervaded official Washington long after Booth had been run down and killed in a burning Maryland barn. It convinced Halsey that stepping forward with the daybook and the promise of a presidential pardon, in effect throwing himself on the mercy of a court that was hanging all of Booth’s co-conspirators, would not be the best course.

  Nor would it change the attitude of so many who were already planning to drive the freed Negroes into a new form of economic slavery, one from which they might never emerge.

  Among that number was Dr. Joshua Wiggins.

  At first, Halsey feared him the most. He waited for Wiggins to send his henchmen, so he begged Samantha to transfer to Armory Square, where he could protect her.

  But it would seem that Wiggins and his henchmen were busy fighting among themselves, because Wiggins’s name appeared in the paper two weeks after Lincoln’s assassination. He had been murdered on his way home from a patient visit, stabbed neatly between the ribs and left to bleed on the street. But neither his watch nor his money were gone. The next day, a man named Jeffords was found murdered in his home in Georgetown, along the canal.