Fates and Traitors (36 page)

Junior returned home in time for dinner, visibly weary, and with little to contribute to the conversation around the table. His reticence passed unnoticed, as the other lodgers who had joined the throng outside the East Portico had plenty to say about the shaft of light that had broken through the clouds to illuminate Mr. Lincoln's haggard but kindly face, about the profound beauty of his speech, about the thunderous applause he had received, the roars of approval, the tears shed, the hats flung into the air, this and that and every other thing. Mary thought Junior might give her his own, more cynical, review of the spectacle when they found a moment alone, but all he did was shake his head and say that Mr. Lincoln was a fool to walk about so openly when
so many people despised him. “We never caught up with Booth afterward,” he added. “We lost him in the crowd. He said he expected to come so close to the president that he might snatch a button off his coat. Perhaps he'll bring you one as a trophy.”

“I'll display it proudly on the mantel,” she said dryly.

She longed for the dreaded day to speed to an end, but before it was quite over, a knock sounded on the ground-level door, a soft rapping that she and Junior might have missed except they had sought solace in the relative quiet of the kitchen, away from their happy lodgers.

Mr. Booth stood before them, as handsome as ever, though he was dressed for the muddy streets and not for the theatre. “May I commiserate with you?” he inquired, holding up a bottle of port.

Mary rarely indulged, having learned to associate the sensation of tipsiness with her husband's revolting drunkenness, but she knew from her years working at the tavern that the bottle Mr. Booth carried was a very fine vintage indeed. The day had been so wretched that it demanded something stronger than tea.

Somewhat abashed to receive such an illustrious guest in her humble kitchen, Mary tentatively suggested that they go upstairs to the formal parlor, but Mr. Booth shook his head and said wearily that if he had wanted to drink with their lodgers he would have called at the formal entrance as usual. So Mary took the small port glasses from the cupboard while Junior offered Mr. Booth a chair at the kitchen table, and soon they were seated together with wine in their glasses and woe in their hearts.

After a long, brooding moment, Mr. Booth raised his glass in a toast. “Today, many of our neighbors celebrated a beginning, but nothing lasts forever. Let us drink to the end of Mr. Lincoln's second term in office, and to anything and anyone that will speed that day.”

“Hear, hear,” said Junior, and they all drank. Then Junior raised his glass again. “To General Robert E. Lee, the greatest military mind of our century.”

They all drank again.

“To Jefferson Davis,” Mary said, because if she did not speak up for him, no one else would. “And to Mrs. Davis.”

They drank. Mary's head buzzed pleasantly, and she did not protest when Mr. Booth refilled their glasses.

“I was so close to him tonight,” Mr. Booth said mournfully. “So close. I stood in the rotunda, and I had worked my way through the crowd until I reached the double line of police standing to create a clear path for Lincoln to pass from the Senate chamber to the east door to the portico. The dignitaries were supposed to proceed according to rank, but the press of the crowd banished all protocol. Then Lincoln passed by me, and in the chaos, I was able to push my way through the line until I joined the procession only a few feet behind the president.”

“Goodness,” exclaimed Mary.

“I doubt he ever knew I was there,” said Mr. Booth. “A police officer seized my arm, but I pressed onward, hoping to escape his grasp but only pulling him from the line. He shouted for help, and some fellow officers came to his aid, and they detained me just long enough for the doors to swing shut, cutting me off from Lincoln.”

Junior leaned forward, intrigued. “What would you have done if you'd been able to reach him?”

“I don't know.” Mr. Booth took a deep drink. “Improvised a performance beyond anything ever before witnessed on the stage, I suppose.”

“Were you arrested?” asked Mary.

“No. I got into a bit of a shouting match with the officers, but they eventually shoved me behind the lines and ordered me away. I lost myself in the crowd and took the place to which my ticket entitled me.” He patted his breast pocket absently, and for a fleeting moment his expression turned ineffably sad. “I'll say this much for Old Abe: He certainly knows how to deliver a speech.”

Junior shook his head and muttered something caustic under his breath, but Mary conceded, “You're right, from what I hear, but I for one am enormously thankful that I've never been obliged to sit through one of his speeches.” She drank, savoring the rich flavor of the wine, knowing she mustn't have too much. “I pray I never will.”

They sat and talked quietly awhile more, and when bottle and glasses alike were empty, Mr. Booth sighed and said, “I must bid you both good night.”

“Don't go, Booth,” said Junior. “Stay the night.”

“Yes, do stay,” said Mary, her words slurring just a bit. “This is a boardinghouse, after all. We have plenty of beds.”

“You're very kind, but an acquaintance is expecting me at half past
ten, and if I leave now, I should still make it.” He planted his palms on the table and pushed himself to his feet, but his natural grace failed him for a moment, and as he kept his hands on the table to steady himself, his gaze fell on a silver ring he wore on the smallest finger of his right hand.

Junior studied him, brow furrowing. “Are you all right, Booth?”

Mr. Booth closed his eyes, raised his right hand to his lips, and kissed the ring. “Two nights hence,” he declared, his voice ringing with irony, “I will be escorting a lovely young lady to President Lincoln's inauguration ball—that is, if the young lady will still consent to speak to me.”

Mary felt a pang of regret for Anna, who would have given anything to attend a ball with the handsome actor. “The young lady would have to have a heart of stone to resist your charms, Mr. Booth,” she said. “Whatever you did, or neglected to do, I'm sure you'll find the right words to soothe her temper.”

“Temper? Oh, this lady is too good, too kindhearted, to ever suffer from an ill temper.” He straightened, rubbed his neck, and managed a rueful smile. “Her only objection to me is that I am an actor. My only objection to her is that she is an abolitionist.”

“Your young lady is a Yankee abolitionist,” said Junior, incredulous, “and her only objection to you is your profession?”

“She might object to my politics as well, if I were not obliged to dissemble for the sake of my mission, my livelihood, and I daresay my very life, here in the Yankee capital.”

“There's no shame in that,” said Mary stoutly. “We've all been obliged to play the part of loyal Unionists for our own protection.”

“This young lady is very clever, with rare understanding. I know I could make her see the justice of our great Cause in time—” Mr. Booth paused. “But of course, time is something I do not have in abundance. And that being so, I must bid you good night.”

Mary and Junior exchanged a quick look as they rose to accompany Mr. Booth to the door. They bade him farewell as he stepped out onto H Street, where the sounds of merrymaking could still be heard in the distance until Mary closed the door against them.

•   •   •

T
he jubilant visitors who had flooded Washington City to celebrate Mr. Lincoln's second inauguration departed soon afterward, but
the city remained full of strangers of an entirely different sort. Confederate soldiers were abandoning General Lee's army in greater numbers than at any point in the war, and while most of the deserters presumably went home, others crossed the lines and surrendered to Yankee pickets.

Some gaunt, unkempt former rebels straggled into Washington on foot, the tatters of their gray or butternut uniforms hanging from their emaciated frames, but most arrived around four o'clock every afternoon on the “deserters' transport,” unloading on railway platforms one or two hundred at a time. One newspaper reporter warned that they could represent a devious invasion by the enemy—experienced soldiers stealthily gathering, lulling the citizens into pity and complacency, awaiting the order to strike at the vulnerable Yankee capital from within. Junior, who continued to observe the troops in the field on his courier routes, told Mary that the truth was far simpler and more troubling. The Confederate soldiers were starving, and they seemed to have concluded that an army that could not feed its soldiers could not withstand its enemies much longer. They were hungry and tired and sick of war, and they did not want to die needlessly with the end so evidently near, especially as the arrival of spring always heralded a renewed intensity to the fighting. Junior had overheard many resentful troops decrying the futility of doggedly pursuing what they called a “rich man's war but a poor man's fight.”

Time was running out, if it was not already too late. Mr. Booth's bold plan might yet overturn what was increasingly appearing to be an inevitable Union victory, but Mary was certain that every postponement weakened the will of the conspirators and rendered their mission less likely to succeed.

Junior assured her that Mr. Booth had nearly completed his meticulous preparations and was studying Mr. Lincoln's movements scrupulously, awaiting the ideal moment to strike. “Lincoln changes his schedule on a whim, or so it seems,” said Junior. “Booth might have to make a decision only hours ahead of time, if an opportunity suddenly appears. Believe me, Ma, none of us have grown bored or disinterested from waiting.”

The men who called for Junior at the boardinghouse certainly seemed as determined and committed as ever, and the frequency of
their visits had steadily increased with time—though perhaps at the cost of discretion. On March 14, when the afternoon breezes were so mild that Mary was able to open all the windows to let in the fresh air, Louis tracked her down in the kitchen to say that he mistrusted one of their newest boarders, a certain Mr. Payne. “Curiosity compelled me to go upstairs to his room in the attic,” Louis confided, frowning worriedly, “but when I knocked and he invited me to enter, I discovered John and Payne sitting on the bed, playing with bowie knives.”

“In the house?” said Mary, feigning dismay. “You're right; that will never do. I hope they were careful not to cut the quilts and pillows.”

“It's not just the knives, Mrs. Surratt. Beside them on the bed I spotted two revolvers and four sets of new spurs.”

“You needn't think anything of it. Junior often rides out into the country on various matters of business, and also to check in to see how our tenant is managing the tavern. The roads are hazardous, and he must carry these weapons with him for protection.”

Louis appeared somewhat mollified, and yet he shook his head. “I tell you, don't trust this fellow Payne. He claims to be a Baptist minister, but he resembles that other man who came to us last February calling himself Mr. Wood—in fact, I have heard some of the ladies address him by that name.”

Mary hid a frown and resolved to speak to Mr. Payne about his carelessness. “I don't recall this Mr. Wood, but perhaps they bear a striking resemblance to each other, and the ladies have simply confused the two men.”

“I also overheard him tell John that he had been arrested in Baltimore for beating a young colored housemaid, but he managed to secure his release by swearing an oath of allegiance to the Union.”

“I don't know anything about that,” said Mary shortly, “but if the Baltimore authorities are satisfied, why shouldn't we be?”

The next morning, Junior took her aside and told her that Mr. Booth had arranged for the conspirators to meet at Ford's Theatre that evening to study the arrangement of the building, to examine the presidential box, and to plan the abduction. “Booth knows the owner well, as he's performed there many times,” Junior said. “Mr. Ford owed him a favor, so he allowed Booth to engage the two boxes usually reserved for the president and his party whenever they attend performances there.”

“That sounds ideal.” So desperate was Mary for decisive action that she was prepared to jettison all her perfectly logical reservations about Mr. Booth's revised plan just to see the matter begun. “If you asked to see the state box at any other time, you would provoke suspicions, but if Mr. Booth has tickets—”

“We will have every reason to be there.”

Later, at supper, Louis inquired if Junior wished to accompany him to a performance of
The Magic Flute
at Grover's Theatre that evening. “President and Mrs. Lincoln will be attending,” he added, “so you may be sure we'll be in good company.”

“I wish I could,” replied Junior, “but I'm already engaged for the evening. Booth has invited me and Payne to see
The Tragedy of Jane Shore
at Ford's.”

Louis made a face. “Come with me instead. Mozart is far superior to Nicholas Rowe.”

“Very true, but the seats Booth has arranged are better than anything you or I could get at Grover's Theatre tonight.” To prove it, Junior reached into his breast pocket and withdrew the tickets. “We'll be watching the performance from Mr. Lincoln's own box.”

“Looking forward to it,” mumbled Mr. Payne through a mouthful of boiled turnips.

“Those are ten-dollar seats,” exclaimed Louis, peering across the table enviously. “How on earth did Booth manage to secure—” He frowned. “Never mind. No doubt he charmed the box-office clerk.”

“Actually, it was the owner,” said Junior, smiling, “and it was in payment of a debt.”

Suddenly Louis brightened. “I see four tickets there. Could you spare one for an old friend?”

He extended a hand, but Junior held the tickets out of his reach. “I'm sorry, Lou, but Booth specifically instructed me to invite two charming young ladies to accompany us. Anna, sister? Would you grant me the pleasure of your company?”