by Ginny Dye
Carrie nodded, feeling a fresh wave of grief and anger. “She’s gone.”
“Janie is a strong woman, Carrie,” Rose replied, her eyes soft with knowing.
“Not right now,” Carrie replied, her words almost a groan.
“No,” Rose agreed, “but I’m willing to bet she will find her strength when she needs it,” she said firmly. “Right now, fear is controlling her decisions, but at some point she will get tired of the fear and reach down to grab the strength that is waiting.”
Carrie smiled slightly. “You sound like your mama.”
Rose smiled back at her. “You couldn’t give me more of a compliment. My mama helped me through so many of my own fears. Every time my fears would grab hold of me she would remind me of how strong I was, and that I just needed to decide to be strong.”
Carrie sighed. “I would so love to sit down and talk with your mama right now.”
May walked in with a huge slice of cake. “I done heard so much about Old Sarah,” she said as she put it down. “I sure wish I could have known her myself. She sounds like she done been quite a woman.”
“That she was,” Carrie agreed. “Rose’s mama was one of the wisest women I’ve ever known. Besides helping me grow up, she taught me just about everything I know about herbal medicine.” She shuddered. “I hate to think how bad the suffering would have been in the hospital if we hadn’t had the herbal treatments I taught the women to make. Once the blockades stopped all medical supplies, it was all we had.”
“Mama was a saint,” Rose agreed softly. “Every time I look at little John I think about her. She would have loved him so much.”
“She sho ‘nuff would have,” May said just before she slipped into the kitchen. “That young’un is really somethin’!”
Carrie closed her eyes in delight as she ate the first bite of cake. She talked around her food, grateful no one was around to see her lack of manners. “I think your mama sees John every day. And,” she added, “I know John sees her every day because you’re becoming just like her.” She reached out and gripped Rose’s hand. “She would have been so proud of you.”
Tears shone in Rose’s eyes for a brief moment as she squeezed Carrie’s hand tightly. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I pray every day that I can be as fine a woman as my mama was.”
Carrie reached over to grab another fork. “You have to help me with this cake. There is no way I can eat all of this, and if I do, I won’t be able to waddle up the stairs.”
Rose laughed. “It’s not possible for someone as slender as you to waddle, but I’m happy to help you out of your dilemma, especially since no one is here to watch me eat off your plate!”
Just then Moses walked into the room. “What’s that I hear? Two southern women sharing a plate? I’m fairly certain the etiquette gods will come after you,” he teased as he sat down and reached for another fork. “Since you’ve thrown all manners to the wind, do you think I could have a bite of that?” he asked hopefully.
They heard the snort of laughter before the door to the kitchen flung open again. May slapped another huge slab of cake on the table, smiled at them, and disappeared back into her domain.
“Bless you!” Moses called as he pulled the new plate close to him and began to eat, pure satisfaction covering his face. “That May cooks like my mama,” he announced.
Carrie watched as the satisfaction faded away to be replaced by pain. She reached forward to grab his hand. “You’ll be strong enough to go after your mama soon,” she said. “You’re getting stronger every day.” She saw the spark of protest in his eyes. “To try and go after her now would be a mistake,” she said firmly. “It would be too easy for infection to set in. What good would you do your mama then?”
Moses stared at her and nodded reluctantly. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I know the war has only been over a couple weeks, but I’ve been wondering about my mama and Sadie for the last five years. I’ve got to find them.”
“And you will,” Rose assured him. “You will. But first you have to let your wound heal. And,” she added, knowing this would temper his restlessness more than anything, “John would be heartbroken if you were to leave now. He needs more time with his daddy.”
Moses’s frustration was replaced with a look of warm love. “You’re right. I can’t imagine saying goodbye to him right now.” He smiled as he looked at Rose. “Don’t think I don’t know how you’re handling me,” he said. “I guess I’ll have to be okay with it, because I know you’re right.”
“I’m always right,” Rose said smugly, sticking her tongue out at him.
Carrie laughed, the sheer normalcy of their conversation easing the pain of Janie’s departure. She jumped up from the table. “I’m going to leave you two children to fight it out,” she tossed over her shoulder as she ran up the stairs. “I’m going up to see Robert!”
Chapter Four
Matthew was waiting for Aunt Abby when she entered the dining room of the National Hotel. “Good morning,” he said somberly. “Did you sleep well?”
“I slept much better than I thought I would. The hotel is quite nice. This is my first time here.” She gazed around at the white-columned dining room, appreciating the linens covering the tables and the many beautiful plants that lent splashes of green. Then she frowned. “It’s hard to believe God would create such a perfect spring day for Lincoln’s funeral procession. I think I would prefer it to be cloudy and stormy. It would certainly be more fitting.”
“That may be,” Matthew agreed, “but it would also certainly be harder for the horses to pull the funeral wagon through the mud, and I daresay it would be rather uncomfortable for everyone.”
Aunt Abby sighed and took her seat at the table. “I know you’re right. It’s just that my thoughts are so dark this morning. I’m trying my best to find some sort of comfort and understanding, but it continues to elude me.”
“As it does the thousands who are here to watch the procession,” Matthew responded. “I’m afraid there is nothing to feel but sadness.”
“And anger,” Aunt Abby added, her eyes sparking. “I still can’t believe that John Wilkes Booth killed the only man who should be putting our country back together again. Everything he stood for…everything he came to believe and understand during the war…the love he had for the United States…” Her anger crumpled as her eyes filled with tears. “A waste…such a waste.”
Matthew reached forward to take her hand and then decided the best thing to do was offer a distraction after a long time of silence. “I do believe it’s at least safe to eat here this morning.”
Aunt Abby pulled her thoughts back to the table as she stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not aware of the mysterious sickness that seems to have come from this dining room about eight years ago?
Aunt Abby frowned. “A mysterious sickness? I’m afraid I’ve not heard of that.”
Matthew nodded, glad to see curiosity replace some of the trouble in her eyes. “Eight years ago, the National Hotel was the largest in the city.”
“The war has certainly changed that,” Aunt Abby replied. “I can hardly even remember the capital the way it was before the war. It’s changed so much.”
Matthew forged ahead, wanting to keep her distracted. “The mysterious illness made four hundred people sick. Nearly three dozen died.”
“What?”
Matthew was satisfied he had Abby’s full attention when he looked into her wide eyes. “The disease caused a persistent diarrhea, along with intense colic. Many were prostrate with nausea.”
“Food poisoning,” Aunt Abby murmured. “I was sick with that once when I was in my twenties. I was miserable.”
Matthew grimaced his sympathy. “People were indeed miserable. Thankfully, most of them did not die.” He paused, determined to be a good storyteller. “Some medical experts believe it was an attempt to poison hotel boarders.”
“But why?” Aunt Abby leaned forward and fixed her eyes on
him.
“What is known for sure is that the first epidemic happened at the same time as President-elect Buchanan’s first stay at this fine establishment. When he returned home, reports of new cases stopped.” He paused for dramatic effect. “When he returned two weeks later, the illness flared up again.”
Aunt Abby gaped at him. “Someone was trying to kill President Buchanan?”
Matthew shrugged. “We’ll never know, but among those who were killed were three members of Congress.”
“But surely there was an investigation,” Aunt Abby protested. “I seem to remember hearing something about this, but I was in the midst of the attempted takeover of my business back then. I’m afraid I was rather distracted.”
Matthew frowned, remembering much too vividly just how much danger she had been in. Certain men in Philadelphia had not taken kindly to the idea of her taking over her husband’s business. They had tried to force her out with intimidation, threats, and then an actual attack he had been there to thwart. “You had good reason to be distracted,” he said gruffly and then remembered why he was telling the story.
“There were doctors who believed there was someone in the hotel trying to poison the guests. Their investigations couldn’t prove that. They did discover that arsenic was used to try and eliminate rats in the hotel. One of the poisoned rats was discovered in the water tank after guests became sick.”
Aunt Abby carefully put down the glass she had just picked up.
Matthew laughed. “I believe it’s quite safe now.” To prove his confidence, he took a long swallow from his own crystal goblet. “Anyway, they never found evidence of arsenic in the autopsies they did. They did, however, put forth the theory that a poisonous miasma could have caused the illness.”
Aunt Abby stared at him. “Miasma? I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to enlighten this old lady. What is a miasma? It sounds hideous.”
“It is,” Matthew agreed. “A miasma is a poisonous gas that originates from the decomposition of vegetables and animals. The committee thought the infection could have entered the hotel from the Sixth Street sewer line. Evidently they discovered a leak coming into the building that was strong enough to extinguish a candle flame.”
“Disgusting!”
Matthew laughed. “I couldn’t agree more. The committee could never find evidence of water, food, or arsenic poisoning. People quit getting sick, so all the furor died down. Since then it’s simply been referred to as a mysterious illness.”
“Are you ready to order?”
Matthew looked up at the elegantly attired waiter. “Certainly.” He placed an order for both of them and then leaned back in his chair.
Aunt Abby spoke first. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For distracting me. I know what you were doing,” Aunt Abby said fondly.
“It worked?”
Aunt Abby smiled slightly. “For those few minutes.” Her forehead creased again. “I heard people in the lobby talking about Secretary of State Seward, but I didn’t catch much of what they said. Did something happen to him as well?”
Matthew sighed, knowing he would have to tell her sooner or later. “Yes.”
“What happened?” Aunt Abby asked quietly, bracing for more bad news.
Matthew knew better than to give her anything less than the total truth. “They tried to kill him the same night they killed Lincoln,” he said bluntly.
Aunt Abby gasped and covered her mouth with her napkin, tears sheening her eyes. She stared at Matthew, waiting for the rest of the story.
“Earlier this month, Seward was injured when he was thrown from his carriage during a ride with his family around the countryside. He was hurt severely and had been restricted to his bed.”
Aunt Abby nodded. “I heard he had been hurt. Didn’t it include a broken arm and a broken jaw that had to have an extensive metal splint?”
“Yes. Three days ago, the same night Lincoln was killed, a man arrived at his home claiming to be from the pharmacy. His name is Lewis Powell. He told the butler he had medicine for the secretary. It took some persuading, but finally the butler cleared Powell to go upstairs. At the top of the staircase he was stopped by Seward’s son, Frederick. Powell told Frederick the same story, but evidently the son didn’t believe him, so he said Seward was sleeping.” He stopped and took a drink of water.
Aunt Abby held her breath and waited for him to continue.
“Powell stabbed Frederick. The butler cried, ‘Murder! Murder!’ before he ran away in complete terror.”
Aunt Abby gasped. “No!”
Matthew nodded grimly. “Seward’s daughter Fanny heard noises but couldn’t tell what was going on, so she opened the door to let Frederick know his father was awake. She didn’t realize what Powell was doing, but she had alerted him to which room Seward was in. Powell evidently turned around to leave and then suddenly changed his mind and whipped out his pistol to shoot Frederick. He pulled the trigger but it misfired. Instead of pulling it again, he used the gun to bludgeon him around the head until he collapsed.”
Aunt Abby gasped again but remained silent, gripping her napkin tightly.
“Fanny looked out again, saw her unconscious brother, and screamed. Before she could do anything, Powell ran down the hallway, shoved her aside, and began stabbing Secretary Seward around the face and neck.”
Matthew stopped, frightened by the stricken look on Aunt Abby’s face.
Tears poured down her cheeks, but Aunt Abby shook her head. “Finish. I want to know what is going on in my country.”
Matthew hesitated but continued. “The splint in his jaw is evidently what saved him, because it kept Powell from penetrating his jugular vein. A guard and another of Seward’s sons, awakened by Fanny’s screams, tried to drive him away. The only thing that saved Seward,” he said grimly, “was that the blows forced Seward off the bed and onto the floor against the wall. Powell couldn’t reach him. That didn’t stop him from stabbing the guard, his other son, and Fanny before he ran downstairs and headed for the front door.”
“Oh, Matthew!”
Matthew felt sick to his stomach as he finished the story. “A telegram messenger had just arrived. Powell stabbed him as he ran out the door. I’ve heard he is permanently paralyzed. Before Powell ran out the door he cried, ‘I’m mad! I’m mad!’ and then he jumped on his horse and disappeared.”
“Secretary Seward?” Aunt Abby whispered through her tears.
“His face will be permanently scarred, but he’s very much alive and recovering.”
“And Powell?”
Matthew smiled grimly. “They arrested him two days ago. He showed back up at the Surratt House where he planned all this with Booth. The detectives were waiting for him. He’s under arrest, along with Mary Surratt, the woman who owns the inn.”
“Booth?”
“Still at large,” Matthew admitted. “But they’ll find him — no matter what it takes.”
Aunt Abby sat back and stared out the window. She could hear the singing birds. She could see the fluffy clouds in the blue sky, but none of it penetrated the darkness surrounding her heart. She shook her head numbly. “Is there to be no end?” she murmured. “No end to the madness? No end to the senseless death?”
Matthew sat quietly, knowing there was no answer to her question — at least not an answer he had the wisdom to offer her. He had just learned about Seward the night before. He had not been able to sleep much since then. Fatigue fogged his mind as weary grief seeped deeper into his heart.
Aunt Abby suddenly reached forward and grabbed his hand. “How long have you known about this?” she asked tenderly.
“Since last night.”
“And you haven’t slept a wink, have you?”
Matthew didn’t bother to deny it. A noise in the distance grabbed his attention. A quick look at his watch told him it was time. “We have to leave. The funeral procession will begin soon. I’ve arranged with a friend to watch it from the second f
loor of his building along Pennsylvania Avenue, but we have to get there before it’s too congested.”
Aunt Abby looked down at the untouched food sitting in front of both of them. “I know we should eat, but I can’t imagine swallowing a bite right now.”
Matthew nodded his agreement and reached out his arm. Aunt Abby took it firmly. Both of them knew it offered equal comfort and strength. They remained silent as they left the hotel, joining with the thousands who had already started to line Pennsylvania Avenue for the funeral procession that would not begin for four hours.
Aunt Abby gazed around her as they made their way down to Matthew’s friend’s house. Thousands already lined the broad dirt thoroughfare, but the silence was deep and profound, grief and confusion radiating from every face. Black crape decorated the front of every building, mocking the bright sunshine. Militia units had already begun to gather in the distance, but nothing happened to mar the almost total silence.
Aunt Abby gripped Matthew’s arm more tightly as they wove through the crowds. She was relieved when they reached his friend’s house. She hated the fear that trembled in her heart — hated the constant watching to see if there was someone else in the crowd with intent to kill. She hated knowing that after four years of war, they were probably worse off as a country than before the conflict had started. The war had done nothing but intensify the hatred and division. She bit back the groan that wanted to escape as she tried to imagine how the country could possibly come together without Lincoln’s steady leadership. “Was it all for nothing?”
Matthew’s understanding squeeze on her hand made her realize she had spoken her thoughts aloud. She gazed up into his warm blue eyes and took strength from what she saw there. She knew he could offer no answers, but the strength she saw gave her hope — hope that somehow the country could find its way from darkness into light.
She took a deep breath as they turned to walk up brick stairs lined with elegant wrought iron railings. When they reached the top stair, she stopped to look over the sea of people who waited solemnly. Every rooftop was full. Trees labored under the burden of people clinging to their limbs. Rows of people lined the street, a veritable wave of black draped buildings standing guard over it all.
