On Secret Service (49 page)

“Who?”

Lon jerked Miller up by his lapels. “Don't try that. Where is he?” He pushed, slamming Miller's head into the dirt. “Where?”

“You can just go to hell.”

“Trying to make it harder on yourself?”

“Harder?” Miller laughed; he showed a strange mixture of fear and defiance. “You don't know the meaning. If I told you what I know, my life wouldn't be worth a gob of Yankee spit. You can drive nails through my hands and feet, you'll get nothing out of me. Go find Booth yourself.”

Lon rode the whole way to Washington with his revolver drawn and ready. Miller preceded him, sagging in the saddle with his hands roped behind his back. The two-man procession drew farmers and their families to the roadside, but no one interfered. Lon's gun deterred questions. They reached the city before midnight on Sunday.

With his stomach growling and his clothes stinking and his skin feeling filthy, Lon delivered Miller to the steps of the Old Capitol. He said to the guard on duty, “Lock him up by himself. No outsider is to see or speak to him unless authorized by Colonel Baker.” The jailer signaled another guard, who cut Miller's wrist ropes. Miller swung his leg over the saddle and tumbled to the ground, limp.

The soldier with the knife said, “Should we call a surgeon?”

Lon looked at the pathetic heap lying at his feet. Miller's eyelids fluttered.

“No. He's faking.”

Lon turned his horse away before anyone could argue.

 

He slept two hours, woke, and filled a basin with tepid water. He washed his body and watched the water turn from clear to dark gray. He shaved by candlelight in front of a small mirror, then wrapped a skimpy towel around his waist and sat down to write a report, which he delivered to Baker's office at seven o'clock.

“Miller says that he, not Davis, planned the assassination. He claims that persons high up in our own government cooperated and helped the conspirators escape.”

Baker laid his boot heel on the desk, a perennial sign of skepticism.

“What persons? You don't name them here.”

“He never told me. If he knows, he won't say. He's afraid of retribution.”

“We'll keep him isolated. That may break him down.” Baker tossed the report aside in a dismissive way that disturbed Lon. Or maybe everything disturbed him. He still ached from hours in the saddle. He wanted to see Margaret.

It wasn't to be. A few minutes after nine, an uproar in Baker's office brought Lon out of a little cell the detectives used for desk work. Choleric with excitement, Baker stood in the hall conferring with an Army lieutenant. As Lon ran up, Baker exclaimed, “Major O'Beirne's search party is at Belle Plain, on the Virginia side of the Potomac. O'Beirne found witnesses who saw Booth and Herold riding south, toward the Rappahannock. Booth's leg is splinted. He must have broken it jumping to the stage at Ford's. He can't be traveling fast. I will lead this expedition personally. Are you fit to ride with us, Price?”

Ready to drop from exhaustion, Lon said, “Yes, sir.”

“Find Conger, Sandstrom, and three or four others. Be ready in one hour.”

 

They boated across the Potomac in midnight darkness. Fresh horses waited on the Virginia side. They pushed south through the war-blasted countryside at a killing pace, greeted every hour or so by a military courier who came pounding up the road. About ten-thirty in the morning, after dismissing the newest courier, Baker wheeled his horse around and addressed his sweating and disheveled detectives.

“Booth and Herold have gone to ground on a farm near Port Royal. A detachment of the Sixteenth New York Cavalry discovered them. Apparently they've been there some time. The trap is sprung shut, gentlemen.”

Baker galloped away on the sunlit road. Lon dug his heels into the sag-bellied gray he was riding. He and Sandstrom and Everton Conger and the others ate Baker's dust trying to keep up with him.

About two in the afternoon, guided by an Army corporal, they reached a gate at the head of a tree-covered lane. At the lane's far end Lon saw a white-painted farmhouse, a henhouse, a corncrib, and a large tobacco barn.

Near the gate, a cavalry officer and a corporal held a prisoner at gunpoint. The prisoner was a young man of twenty with terrified eyes and tattered butternut clothing. The officer saluted Baker. “Lieutenant Jethro Murdock, sir.”

“Colonel Lafayette Baker. I'm taking charge. Who is this man?”

“Name's Willie Jett, sir. He brought Booth and Herold to the farm last night. He knows the Garrett brothers, who own the place. He suggested the fugitives rest here until a boatman could be hired to ferry them over the Rappahannock. He broke down the moment we caught him.”

A yellow butterfly circled Lon curiously. A mockingbird warbled in a bush nearby. Baker drew his Army Colt, leaned down, and pressed the muzzle against Jett's forehead.

“Where are they hiding?”

“In—in”—Willie Jett could barely sputter it out—“the tobacco barn. Leastways I think so.”

“Murdock, where are your men?”

“Just up the lane, sir. Out of sight behind that hedgerow.”

“We'll dismount and walk in. No talking. Divide right and left once we reach the property, but wait for my signal before advancing further.” Lon slid his Deane & Adams out of the shoulder rig.

Puffs of dust rose from the sun-dappled lane as they took their curiously pleasant walk in the spring air. The humming and buzzing and rustling of the new season contrasted with the tense faces and wary eyes of the soldiers who melted out of the hedgerow behind them. Baker's eyes shone under his hat brim.

The lane widened into a dooryard. A civilian, middle-aged, dressed in plow shoes and overalls, eyed them from the porch of the well-kept farmhouse. Baker walked directly to him.

“I am Colonel Lafayette Baker of the Washington detective police. Who are you?”

“R—R—” The farmer shook his head, angry at his stammer. “Richard Garrett. M—m—my brothers an' me own this farm.”

“We understand you're sheltering two visitors.”

“N—n—no, sir, ain't no visitors hereabouts. We—” He got no further because a long-eared hound ran from behind the tobacco barn and barked. Other dogs, unseen, joined in. Another civilian, younger, peeked out of the corncrib. One of the cavalrymen aimed his carbine. The younger man flung his hands over his head and came toward them, cowering.

“I'm John Garrett. Please don't shoot me.”

Baker said, “Not if you cooperate, Mr. Garrett. Where are Booth and Herold?”

One of the hounds kept yapping. John Garrett glanced at his brother, who scowled to silence him. John Garrett bobbed his head, apologetically, Lon thought. “Richard, they'll arrest us if we don't tell.” Before his older brother could react, John Garrett rolled his eyes toward the tobacco barn and whispered, “There.”

Baker smiled. He hitched up his wide belt and strode toward the barn, signaling men to follow. Lon fell in behind him, Sandstrom and Conger on either side. Outside the barn, Baker called, “Booth? Herold? We have you surrounded. Throw down your arms and surrender.”

The ensuing silence was so protracted, Lon wondered whether the Garretts had gulled them and the conspirators had slipped away. Finally someone answered. Lon recognized the voice, rich but weakened.

“I will not play the coward. I demand a fair fight.”

Baker gave a scornful snort. “Well, Mr. Booth, you won't get that, and you have no right to ask. Will you come out?”

“No.”

Someone else in the barn yelled, “I will.”

Baker waved Conger forward to the barn door. Lon and the rest heard Booth arguing and swearing at his cohort. The door rolled open. A stocky young man stumbled into the sunshine, hands over his head. Baker shouted, “Booth?”

A pistol shot from the dark interior scattered the detectives and the soldiers. Baker dropped to the ground. Conger rolled the door shut as two of Murdock's men seized Herold and hauled him off to the corncrib. Baker jumped up.

“You men gather up some of that loose hay. Pile it around two sides of the barn. We'll burn him out.”

In five minutes, they were ready. Baker called, “Your last chance, Mr. Booth.”

Silence. Baker slapped his hat against his leg.

“Mr. Conger, set the fire.”

The old, unpainted barn burned like fatwood once the flames reached it. The fire licked through cracks in the siding and spread rapidly inside. “Price, go up there. Look in. Tell me what's happening.”

Lon trotted to the side of the barn where no hay had been piled. He pressed his eye to a crack and saw Booth on his back holding a carbine, his splinted leg stuck out in front of him. Hay bales in the barn had caught fire. Booth's red-tinted face had a mad, wasted look.

“I see him, sir. He's obviously in pain.”

“Shoot, then.” Hair on Lon's neck stood up. “Kill him before he gets away.”

Lon spun around, unable to believe he'd heard correctly.

“Sir, he can't run. He's injured.”

“Do as I say, Mr. Price. Shoot him.”

And then Lon saw it all slipping away, the answers to questions about who had really planned the heinous murder in Washington. Baker's face had a sweaty, expectant look. The men around him, civilian detectives and soldiers alike, stared at Lon.

“I said shoot him, Mr. Price.”

This has been a long time coming,
Lon thought.

“Sir, I won't do it. Booth must stand trial, along with Cicero Miller.”

“I gave you an order.”

Smoke blew past Lon, stinging his eyes. In the midst of a sunny spring afternoon, everything was crumbling away, all reason, all logic, all humanity…

A peculiar calm descended on Lon suddenly. His pulse slowed. He felt as if a cool breeze bathed him, though in the fire's heat that was impossible.

“Colonel, I refuse. The country deserves to see Booth tried and punished.”

Baker raised his Colt; sighted along the barrel at Lon's head. “Obey the order, Mr. Price. You work for me.”

Lon fished in the sweated pocket of his black suit; found the badge.

“No, sir. Not as of this minute I don't.” He threw the badge in the dirt, took his revolver off cock, and shoved it under his coat. He stepped away from the burning barn.

Baker held his Colt at arm's length for ten long seconds. Lon waited, not breathing.

The gun barrel dropped to Baker's side. Flushing, he shouted, “Conger! Roll the door back. Someone—anyone—shoot Booth. I order it!”

A sergeant of the Sixteenth New York Cavalry ran up to the open barn door and fired once. The man capered and waved his weapon. “He's down. Got him through the neck.”

“Bring him out, bring him out,” Baker yelled. Sandstrom trotted forward, giving Lon a pitying look. Lon walked toward half a dozen men in the center of the dooryard, a human barricade. Other soldiers and detectives brought Booth's limp body out through the firelit smoke.

Lon kept walking toward those standing between him and the lane. Every man except Lafayette Baker fell back. Lon's heart pounded. He walked straight up to Baker and stopped.

Baker raised his Colt. He tucked the muzzle under Lon's chin.

“Mr. Price, you're finished.”

Lon touched the gun barrel; pushed it aside.

“And none too soon.”

He sidestepped, strode past Baker, and walked down the lane to his horse.

 

He learned later that the bullet fired by Sergeant Boston Corbett effectively paralyzed John Wilkes Booth. The actor lay on the Garrett porch until seven that evening, rousing twice to speak. “Tell my mother I died for my country,” he said. And then, when he caught sight of Willie Jett, “Did that man betray me?” He died a few minutes past seven, taking his secrets with him to whatever hell awaited assassins.

 

Lon's solitary ride brought him to the city at first light. A tarnished silver sky spread overhead. Swags of funeral crepe lay in gutters, befouled by dirt and dung. A few crippled veterans were already out, wearing their ragged uniforms and begging with their caps. One sleepy drab, fat as a house, screeched an invitation with her rouged mouth. Lon rode on.

As his horse plodded up the Avenue, a drizzle began. By the time he handed the reins to a black boy in front of Willard's, heavy rain pelted the crown of his hat and dripped off the brim. He dodged inside while the boy remained on the curb, hatless and miserable.

Half a dozen early diners occupied tables in the saloon bar. Another of the many barkeeps Lon knew, an Irishman with flowing auburn mustaches and his left sleeve pinned up, greeted him. Michael had lost an arm serving with McClellan on the Peninsula.

“Bourbon, Michael.”

“This early?”

“Just pour, if you please. The good bottle.”

Michael filled the glass. “Supposed to rain like the devil today and tomorrow. Maybe longer.” He slid the brimming glass to his customer. “I see one of your birds flew away Monday night.”

With the glass near his lips, Lon said, “What do you mean?”

“The reb at Old Capitol. You didn't know? Wait.”

Michael rummaged in a pile of newspapers on the back bar. He found the one he wanted, a
Star
. “Second page.”