Halsey suspected the man who had killed Harriet Dunbar and threatened Samantha that night at Ford’s Theatre. Had he killed over an argument among traitors, or had someone hired him? Benjamin Wood, perhaps, when he learned that Doc Wiggins had the ledger and was planning blackmail? Wood or his brother would enjoy using a man’s own henchman against him. A quiet assassination, a quiet payoff, a quiet flight into the country.
Halsey worried less for Samantha after that, less for himself as well.
* * *
He grew his beard and went about the city as he had in the summer of ’62, careful but confident that he had friends.
On a warm day in the middle of the month, he visited Mother Freedom. The old woman had been worn by her losses, but she still carried herself straight and proud. And she sang out a praise to the Lord the moment that she saw Halsey’s face at her door.
Zion was not there that day. He had taken a wife and moved to another house.
So Halsey and Mother sat and drank tea and talked … of politics and books, of Mr. Lincoln and Frederick Douglass, of her dreams for her race.
When he rose to leave, she said, “You helped to set my people free, Halsey Hutchinson. You and my boys and all the other fine boys who fought. I knew when I saved you that the Lord set you on the righteous path, and you took it, just like you promised.”
“But I’m still running for freedom myself,” he said.
“You’ll find it, son. You’ll find it.”
He promised her that he would be back.
It saddened him to think that he might not.
But he rejoiced with Noah when he learned, in the middle of May, that Major Eckert had arranged for the Bone family to move to the lock keeper’s house on the Washington Canal. It had been the dream of a dead son. It would be the fulfillment of his family.
Some things, thought Halsey, worked out.
* * *
Samantha received her discharge from the Harewood Hospital in mid-May. They would be closing that one, too. The nation had spent millions more than it had to hold itself together. Now, it would skimp on the care of the men who had done the holding with flesh, blood, and bone.
In that way, it was like all wars.
And like all wars, the victors enjoyed a grand parade.
On a brilliantly bright May 24, the drums beat, the bands played, tens of thousands marched, hundreds of thousands watched, and for the first time in five weeks, the American flag flew at full staff above Washington.
Halsey and Samantha found a fine perch on the steps of the Treasury. From there, they could gaze up Pennsylvania, all the way to the Capitol, and watch the great blue phalanxes marching toward them, giant squares of bayonets weaving the air with flashing sunlight, thousands of men, parading proudly to the beat of drums and the blare of brass. Infantry units, cavalry units, artillery units with their limbers and guns, pioneers, engineers, support troops. For hours and hours they came on, an endless stream of manhood, from the cities and the farms, from the law offices and the counting houses and the logging camps and the fishing boats.
And after all they had been through, after all the terrible battles, after all the generals, from hesitant McClellan, who hated the sight of a dead soldier, to resolute and bloody Grant, who spent the young manhood of the North as if he would empty the Union vault of human capital, after all that, the Army of the Potomac had prevailed.
Samantha said, “It’s too bad their leader is not here.”
Halsey said, “He’s watching, from somewhere.”
And they knew that Walt would be watching from Fourteenth Street. So late in the day, they walked down into the crowd and found Walt and Pete Doyle right on the corner, a short distance from where Halsey had heard the report of the police superintendant that long-ago night.
Halsey stood there boldly now. He did not fear the crowds. In the crowds there was anonymity. In the bright sunlight, suspicions were wiped away.
When the Fifty-first New York marched past, they all screamed and shouted for Walt’s brother, George Whitman, who gave them a great wave.
Then arm in arm, Samantha and Halsey strolled east on Pennsylvania.
They held each other close in those last days of May, because she was bound for Boston. But he knew he could never go back. As he had said before, there was no statute of limitations on murder. And with his father no longer alive, there was little reason to risk arrest in a place where he would certainly be recognized. His sister could have his inheritance. He would go West and have his freedom.
And as they walked, feeling the joy of the crowd and the power of the music in that late spring sun, they noticed a Negro standing on the corner.
He was wearing a kepi with the “Bugle and 54” on the crown.
It was Zion Freedom, saluting as the American flag went by.
Halsey went up to him. “Brother Zion?”
He looked at Halsey with tears streaming down his face. Most Negroes had been crying for weeks at the thought of Father Abraham’s loss. But these were not tears of joy or sadness. Not surprisingly coming from Zion, they were tears of anger.
Halsey took Zion’s hand and said, “It’s been a long time. Did you ever get that Adams pocket pistol you always wanted?”
“I never did. And it’s a good thing, ’cause I might’ve used it.”
Halsey did not pursue that. He said, “Did Jim-Boy ever make it back?”
“He did, but not my brothers.”
“They were good men,” said Halsey. “They died for their country.” It was an easy thing to say, because in those days, so many said it as a way to soothe so many more who needed to hear it.
But Zion answered through clenched teeth, “Their country? They died for their country?” Then he looked out at the troops marching past. “You notice anything?”
“I notice they look spiffed and polished and better fed than I ever was in two and a half years of fighting,” said Halsey.
Zion looked at Samantha. “What about you, miss?”
She smiled and shook her head.
Zion said, “There’s no colored troops. None.”
And Halsey realized that it was so.
“The white troops and the white folks want themselves a white march. They don’t want to give a hundred thousand black men a bit of credit for savin’ their damn country, not one damn bit. But my brothers bled just as red, and they died just as dead.”
All that Halsey could say was, “That’s not right. Not right at all.”
Zion shuddered with sobs. “Damn near broke my ma’s heart to learn the truth.”
The drums thrummed, and the pounding step of the troops shook the ground, and right then, Halsey Hutchinson knew what he would do with the Lincoln daybook.
* * *
On the last day of May, he bade good-bye to Walt Whitman with an embrace and a kiss on the cheek. Walt gave him an envelope as a parting gift, “a little something I’ve just written.” And the poet’s eyes filled with tears, perhaps at losing a friend, perhaps because they filled with tears every day at the thought of losing Lincoln.
Halsey left Walt’s rooms on M Street and walked over to Seventeenth, to the lock keeper’s house. There were no boats in the canal. Business was slow, getting slower. Old Noah was sitting in a rocking chair beside the lock, looking out at the world.
“I’ll be leaving soon, Noah,” he said.
“You takin’ that girl with you?”
“No. She needs to see Boston again. But she promised to come when I send for her, from wherever I land. There’s a big country out there.”
Noah rocked back and forth and said, “I’ll stay right here. From my little bed in the dormer upstairs, all’s I need to do is raise my head and I can see Mr. Washington”—he pointed to the stub of the monument in his backyard—“or Mr. Lincoln in his White House”—he pointed across the President’s Park—“all in the roll of an eye. That’s good enough for me.”
“I have something that belonged to Mr. Lincoln, and seeing
as I’ll be traveling, maybe you’ll hold on to it for me, for safekeeping. If I need it, I’ll send for it. Or if my other friends in Washington need it, they’ll be able to let you know. They’re good folk who live out on Maryland Avenue.”
“Is it that book? The one me and Jacob saved that terrible night?”
“You’ve earned a piece of it, for your sacrifice, for your friendship.” As Halsey opened it to show Noah the Lincoln signature, an envelope dropped out of the endpapers. It was a letter that Halsey had written to anyone who found the book. He picked it up and slipped it back.
“And the other colored folks who helped me, they’ve earned a piece of it, too. If they ever come to you with a letter that has Lincoln’s signature on it, just match it to the signature in the book and you’ll know they’re the right folk.”
Noah took the book, looked at the handwriting of the president, and said, “I know just the place. And once it’s hid, I’ll have Jacob write a nice letter to your friend. He spells better than me.”
“Mr. Lincoln would be glad to know that you have it.”
“And since you’re leavin’”—Noah pulled the Adams revolver from a little box beside the rocking chair—“you ought to have your gun back, for pertekshun.”
* * *
That night, Halsey and Samantha stayed in the Willard Hotel together. He had grown comfortable in his anonymity by then. She had grown comfortable in their love, unsanctified by matrimony but tested in so many other ways.
So they loved in the big hotel featherbed and slept and loved again the next morning.
They had breakfast in their room, with the sun streaming in the window.
And he pulled out the envelope that Walt had given him the day before.
“What is it?” she asked.
“A poem.”
“Read it.”
He scanned it and said, “But it’s not exactly a love poem.”
“Read it anyway.”
So he cleared his throat and read, “‘O Captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done; / The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won; / The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, / While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: / But O heart! heart! heart! / O the bleeding drops of red, / Where on the deck my captain lies, / Fallen cold and dead.…’”
Halsey looked up. “Should I go on?”
“Some other day.” She reached out and touched his hand. “I wish you could come with me. I have to go home for a while, beat a path to my old mother’s door.”
“That’s what makes you so good. You never forget the things that matter. But I can’t. So, as Emerson says, I’ll go where there is no path and leave a trail.”
Later that morning, Halsey wrote a letter to Mother Freedom and put it into a box that also contained the Lincoln letter and his Adams pocket revolver. In the letter he told the Freedoms all that he had told Jacob. And someday, he added, a letter from Abraham Lincoln would be a valuable thing in itself.
They left the box in the hotel post office. Then he and Samantha headed together to the train depot, a few blocks north of the Capitol.
Samantha had two trunks.
Halsey was carrying his rucksack and wearing a brown suit taken from the charity bin.
He was sure as he walked in the front of the depot that he saw bearded Lafayette Baker, scanning the crowd of comers and goers, looking for … someone. He would be glad to leave that city of intrigues forever.
They called her train first.
Halsey and Samantha embraced a final time as a big steam engine sent gray clouds of mechanized breath into the air.
He said, “Tell my sister I love her and someday I’ll come back.”
They kissed again and held each other for as long as they could. Then she boarded. As the train began to move, she dropped a window and called to him. “Find a place, and I’ll come. I’ll be there in the time it takes the train to travel. I promise.”
He waved again and watched the train until it was out of sight. Then he turned to the message board. They were erasing the 10:30 Baltimore train and writing in the track for his Harrisburg train. From there, he would take a train to Cleveland, then Chicago, then … where?
Suddenly, Halsey Hutchinson felt very alone again.
As he walked toward a bench, he noticed a man in a wheelchair. Men in wheelchairs were common sights in Washington in those days. This man had a bag on his lap and a vacant look on his face. But he was familiar.
Halsey walked over. “George?”
George Smith looked up. He was frowning. “Jeremiah.”
“How are you?”
“Fine. Your voice sounds better. Where’s your brogue?”
Halsey knelt in front of him. “You’re going home, are you?”
George Smith shrugged, as if he didn’t much care. “No one to see me off, no one to meet me, either. My wife ran off when she heard I lost my legs. I told her I still had a dick, but— You need a friend?”
Halsey stood, thought for a moment, and said, “Can you ride a horse?”
George Smith laughed. “No, but I can drive a wagon, if you strap me in.”
“A wagon? I suppose a wagon could take us a long way.”
“A long way.”
“Let’s go change your ticket.”
A few hours later, they were rocking northwest out of Washington, through the countryside where they had fought so ferociously, a countryside already gone green and soon to grow bountiful, a countryside healing itself.
It was late afternoon, but the sun was high. The longest days lay ahead, stretching before them like the continent.
Halsey began to hum. He was happy that the notes held together in his throat. He hummed the “Battle Hymn.” He hummed it slow and low, and it sounded … beautiful.
SEVENTEEN
Monday Afternoon
“And that’s a wrap,” said the producer.
The shoot around the Lincoln Memorial was done. The story had been told.
So Evangeline walked up the steps and joined Peter on the perch he’d kept all morning.
The view took their eye along the reflecting pool, past the Washington Monument, all the way to the Capitol dome.
Peter looked and said, “Amazing.”
“What?” She took off her shoes and massaged her feet. She didn’t think Old Abe would mind.
“Amazing that it’s so beautiful. There’s something big about it all, no matter what kind of human foibles are on display in these buildings every day. Congressman Milbury is up under that dome right now, cooking up new ways to extend the power of the federal government. Meanwhile, David Bruce and Volpicelli are already into damage control, at least until Volpicelli turns against Bruce or the other way round.”
“What was it Henry said last night?”
“Everybody fucks everybody else?”
“Crude,” she said, “but accurate.”
“And still—” Peter leaned back on his elbows and surveyed the scene. “—we get this.”
“We must be doing something right.”
They sat in the warm sun and listened to the chatter all around them as people saw the great statue of Lincoln for the first time. It comforted them both somehow, just to be there.
Then Evangeline she said, “Any thoughts on what you’re going to do with that half-million-dollar check from David Bruce?”
“I can’t really take it in good conscience.”
“You weren’t going to take it anyway, were you, and give those guys a tool to use in the spin wars?”
“There’s not a lot to spin out of a man wrestling to do what’s right, then doing his best. Diana finished reading the daybook, and she says that’s the big theme on every page. And the theme of her next book.”
“But the check?”
“I’ll tear it up.”
“Prove it.”
Just then, a voice came from behind them. “I hear you found it.”
It was Volpicelli. He wa
lked down the stairs and stopped beside them.
“You’re a little late,” said Peter.
“Mr. Bruce has decided that you violated the terms of the agreement.”
“I had no choice,” said Peter.
“He’d like the money back.”
Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out two envelopes—the check and the envelope that had fallen out of Lincoln’s daybook that morning. In all the excitement, he had forgotten about it.
He handed Volpicelli the check and put the other envelope back into his pocket.
“Mr. Bruce wants you to have this in exchange.” Volpicelli took a manila folder from under his arm. “It’s the Lincoln letter. Since Sorrel never cashed the check, Mr. Bruce doesn’t believe it was a proper sale. And he’s an honorable man. He thinks you’ll know what to do with this.”
Then Volpicelli turned and started down the wide flat steps of the Memorial, as if he couldn’t stand to be there any longer.
Evangeline watched him go and said to Peter, “He’d better be careful of Jan Bruce. She seemed to know what was going to happen to Sorrel before it happened.”
“I was thinking that myself. But hard to prove. Hard to prove.”
She stretched her legs in the sun. “What will you do with that envelope?”
He opened it, looked inside, ran his fingers on the Mylar. “Get some legal advice. Technically it belongs to Sorrel. But, if it’s up to me, we sell it. Dawkins gets half the money, Diana’s museum gets half, and a flea market paperback peddler by the name of Douglas Bryant gets my commission.”
“I like it.” She pointed to his pocket. “What about that one?”
He took it out and opened it and looked at the signature: “Halsey Hutchinson.”
She said, “Wow.”
And they read it together: “‘May 30, 1865, Dear Sir or Madame, I leave this daybook here because the Negroes who inhabit this house deserve a link with the man who emancipated them. Until white and black can know each other as people, as equals in life and partners in the building of America, until they can march together after the nation’s battles shall have been won, the work of Lincoln is unfinished. It will be for you to complete. I hope that when you read this, government of the people, by the people, and for the people has not perished from the earth but flourishes. So many, white and black, gave their lives to guarantee it. Halsey Hutchinson.’”
The Lincoln Letter Page 48
