The Lincoln Deception (21 page)

F
raser arrived in the hotel lobby ten minutes late, just as he and Cook planned it. Townsend sat near the door, patiently looking at a newspaper.

“Doctor,” he called out, “good evening. Our carriage is at the curb.” In a quieter voice, he added, “Perhaps your colored friend could join us, which would save him the trouble of following us, and would save us the trouble of bringing him along.”

“I don't know what you mean,” Fraser said.

“My dear doctor, our business will go more smoothly if we are candid with each other. I come in peace.”

“I have no colored friend in the vicinity to invite along.”

Townsend shook his head. “Hairsplitting is a poor way to begin. Nevertheless, come along. We'll find him soon enough.”

 

Sunshine poured from the sky on a brilliant afternoon. Cook held the reins of a gig in front of the red brick station of the Baltimore & Potomac Railroad. To elude the Sons of Liberty, he had ducked through alleys and back streets to the stable where he rented the gig.

He had an unobstructed view up Sixth Street to the squared-off, five-story National Hotel. The carriage with matched bays stood at the curb. Fraser, shading his eyes, was following Townsend into the rear seat. Cook couldn't see the driver.

With traffic thin, Cook intended to hang about a half-block behind them. He was barely past the hotel when a carriage swung in front of him, then slowed down. Looking to pull around it, Cook found another on his left. A large man in the right-hand seat smiled at him. He lifted his hat and pointed to the curb, evidently instructing Cook to stop. Sons of Liberty, Cook muttered.

Cook whipped his horse and hauled it to the right. Whacking the horse's rump again, he got it up the curb despite a whinny of protest and a high bounce off the carriage seat. Tree branches swiped at his face. Cook shouted to pedestrians to clear away. Two stumbled in their rush to escape the carriage and sprawled on the ground. The horse, thoroughly frightened, picked up his pace as Cook yanked him back into the street, banging off the curb with a second crash. After pausing in confusion over Cook's swerving path, the two other carriages pursued him at speed.

Pulling hard on the reins, Cook turned left onto E Street. The gig leaned heavily on its two outer wheels, then righted itself as the horse careened down the street. Cook had no idea where the carriage with Fraser and Townsend had gone. He couldn't worry about them.

Though Cook's gig had only one horse while pairs hauled the pursuing carriages, his rig was lighter and his horse more than willing. He flew through the first three intersections with a combination of timing and luck. From the clatter and shouts behind him, he knew his pursuers were not so fortunate. His luck held at the next one also.

Cook thought he might pull away, but then a streetcar stopped in the middle of the intersection with Tenth Street, discharging and taking on riders. Worse, a motor car idled there, belching black smoke. Several horses pulling nearby carriages looked jittery. From half a block away, Cook could see the intersection promised only collisions and mayhem. He scanned the sidewalks. Too narrow. An alley opened to the right. He yanked on the reins to slow the horse, then leapt out before the gig came to a full stop.

Cook ran down the alley and around a shabby building. He ducked into a doorway that stood steps down from a crossing with another alley. He crouched there, trying to control his breathing and listening for Barstow's men. He fingered the revolver in his jacket pocket. The knife lodged in his boot would be the better weapon, silent in its deployment. But if he faced all four, he would have to use the gun. They would come after him. Someone was bound to have seen him run down the alley.

Little street noise penetrated to Cook's hiding place. He heard no voices. Then, there it was. A step at the alley's entrance. Maybe another. And another. Cook shifted his weight. He could try to slip down the alley to the east, away from the building, but he would have to cross twenty feet of open ground. The risk was too great. Carefully, Cook tried the knob on the door into the building. It gave to his pressure. He pushed the door in.

He stood in a warehouse, a jumble of wooden tables and overstuffed chairs, wooden shelving tipped at odd angles. The air was damp. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling near the entrance stairs. It cast a weak light, more shadows than illumination. Cook could search out a place to hide within this wreck of a building, a spot where no one could sneak up on him from behind, where he could at least be sure to defend himself. That would mean another fight. Barstow's men didn't discourage easily.

Or he could work his way to another exit from the warehouse and hurry over to where he thought Townsend and Fraser were going. He had to follow Fraser.

Cook reached a staircase at the building's front and crept up it. Halfway up, he saw a glint of light back on the lower level. It was the sort of flash that would come from opening the alley door. If he kept them behind him, he might get out in one piece.

He took his bearings on the first-floor landing. Another pale bulb pushed thin streaks of light into the gloom. He strained his ears but heard only blood pounding in them. Wait. That was a voice, at the back. Maybe it was the building's caretaker. Barstow's boys wouldn't be talking. Cook looked longingly at the front door leading to the street. It was too obvious. They would post someone there, probably two men. He needed a side exit to a side passage. That, too, might be a trap. Emerging into another alley and then into the street, he would be a sitting duck. The roof was his best bet. From the roof he could cross to another building, maybe even another one next to it, then flee.

He continued to climb. The second floor was stuffed with more crates of paper records. It had to be a government warehouse. This much paper meant tax records, or maybe veteran pensions. The second level was only a half-floor. It opened out to a view of an old theater stage, which also was piled high with boxes and crates. Of course. It was Ford's Theatre. A cold wind passed through Cook's heart. He turned his head to the right. He could just make out a theater box overhanging the stage, where Booth shot Lincoln.

There was a noise from below. Lincoln's bad luck was no reason for Speed Cook to come to a bad end here. He started up the stairs again.

The third level presented more forests of forgotten records. The light seemed even thinner. He needed a way out. He felt his way down an aisle, stumbling over spilled papers. Overhead, he could make out a drop ladder up to attic space. That had to be it. The way out.

When he pulled the steps down, they neither squealed nor screeched. He sprang up them. At the top, the light was better. His spirit sagged. No way out. The ceiling was elevated well above the floor. The only exit points were skylights at the crest of a peaked roof. They were at least fifteen feet overhead, beyond his reach. There was nothing to stand on to get that high.

He ran down the drop stairs. Hearing steps from the level below, he leaned back into a side row. Two men passed under the light at the top of the stairs. One was the man in the carriage who had doffed his hat. Their movements were lithe, sure. When they reached the drop stairs, they began to ascend. If two were inside the building, then two were waiting outside, probably one at the front and one at the back. Cook still had to leave through another building. He could think of only one way to do that.

He moved to the front window at the left corner of the building. It had a six-inch ledge, plenty of room. He slowly lifted the window, climbed out, and pushed the window down behind him. There he met an unhappy sight. It was at least four feet to the corner of the theater. The roof of the adjacent building was a couple of feet higher than the ledge he stood on. Not easy, but he had no alternative. He gauged the distance for a few more seconds, then moved. He half-reached and half-jumped to the corner of the building, fingers desperately gripping the raised brick edge on each side of the corner. He used his momentum to swing his feet high up to the adjacent roof. For a moment, he hung horizontally in place, straining every muscle to lever his hips up on the roof and push his body weight after them. With a final heave, he was there.

The pitch of this roof was gentle. Kneeling, he could see that the closest window below him was open. Holding the edge of the roof, he lowered his legs through the window. When he entered, he confronted a young Negro boy who rose from a clerk's table, pen in hand and astonished look on his face. Cook grinned and held a finger to his lips. “Just passing through,” he said in a low voice. “You have a fine day now.”

Cook sped down two flights of stairs and reached the front door. He took a breath. He decided to turn left out the door, away from the theater, then hail a hack as soon as he reached the cross street.

He pulled the door and stepped through it. Big as life, square in front of him, stood a stout older gentleman.

“Mr. Barstow,” Cook called out. When the man turned, the color drained from his face. Cook stepped next to him, his hand in his coat pocket pressing the muzzle of a revolver against Barstow's soft middle. “You and I are going for a walk.” Cook nodded to the closest corner and nudged the man in that direction. He came along quietly.

“You,” Barstow said in a voice that was surprisingly friendly, “are one acrobatic individual. You ought to be in the circus.”

A
s the matched bays pranced through Washington's leafy streets, Townsend became avuncular. For Fraser's benefit, he pointed out the homes of the prominent. He recalled the debutante party during the Civil War for young Blanche Butler, when her family's mansion on Fifteenth Street was festooned with thousands of white camellias. The fortress-like home of the Secretary of State, John Hay, loomed next to the equally monumental mansion of Henry Adams, scion of the Adamses of Massachusetts.

As Cook had predicted, the carriage pulled onto the gravel drive of a brick home at the corner of Seventeenth and Rhode Island Avenue, the home of General Longstreet. Tulip poplars, their leaves yellowing with the season, rose far above the three-story house. Townsend led the way up the front steps and opened the door. Confident that Cook was watching them from some concealed perch, Fraser followed.

Two burly men, somewhat past their best years, nearly filled the bright entrance hall. They advanced on Fraser.

“Doctor,” Townsend said as he placed his hat on a table, “these gentlemen will be glad to care for any weapons you may have.”

Flanked by the intimidating reception committee, Fraser replied, “This is hardly the way to welcome a gentleman.”

“Of course, you're right,” Townsend said, “but it is entirely appropriate in these circumstances, Dr. Fraser—or is it McIntire?” Fraser made a small show of reluctance as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a revolver. He handed it over, relieved to be rid of it.

Fraser followed Townsend into a parlor. The shades were drawn against the sunlight. The keepers of his revolver remained outside.

Fraser's eyes adjusted slowly in the darkened room. A single electric lamp glowed at the far end. Five empty armchairs formed a conversational group. Following the lead of his host, Fraser sat. He selected the chair closest to the hallway.

“Who else is coming?” Fraser asked.

“Patience, my dear doctor. All will be revealed.”

After a minute, Fraser asked again.

“Won't be long,” Townsend said.

More minutes eased by. Fraser yawned, pleased that he could seem unconcerned even as anxiety ate at his insides. Something was amiss on Townsend's side. Was there a problem with Cook? Townsend stood and walked to the front hall. On his return, he nodded to Fraser but said nothing.

A door on the far side of the room burst open and Barstow stumbled in. “Sam,” Townsend called out, standing up. Cook stepped through the same door, keeping a gun aimed at Barstow.

Two of the burlies from the hall piled into the room with guns drawn, but Barstow stopped them with an outstretched hand. “Afternoon, gents,” Cook said in a strong voice. “Sorry to be late, but your friend here threw me off schedule. If you make one move toward me, I will shoot this nigger-hating son of a bitch.”

“Go on,” Barstow said to his men. “Get out.” They backed out slowly.

With the gun, Cook waved Barstow into a chair next to Townsend. “Mr. Barstow,” he said, “you've been treating Dr. Fraser very poorly, when all he has done is exercise his American right to ask questions. However, he is a large-minded man, and more interested in the answers to his questions than in repaying your bad manners. So why don't you start telling us what this soiree's all about?” Cook sat across from Barstow and Townsend, who exchanged glances. “Now,” Cook said, “would be an excellent time to start talking.”

“Doctor,” Barstow said to Fraser, “you've gone to a great deal of trouble, and caused a great deal of trouble, to get to this conversation. Mr. Townsend here has persuaded me that I have been following a poor policy, attempting to prevent you from learning that which you have no reason to know. He insists that a better policy is to tell you what you want to know and rely on your good sense to understand that no one else should. For now, and under the current circumstances . . .” Barstow paused meaningfully. “I've decided to follow Mr. Townsend's recommendation. We will shortly be joined by someone who, I hope, will persuade you of the folly of your effort.”

Cook smiled slowly. “That's good, Sam, but just remember that even if you can't see the gun, it's pointed at you.”

Townsend cleared his throat. “With your permission,” he said to Cook, “I'll invite our guest?” Cook nodded.

Townsend walked to a door that led to the rear of the house. After a moment, an old man limped through it. Sporting extravagant white side whiskers, he leaned heavily on a cane of dark wood. His right arm hung limply. His cheeks had a translucent quality, revealing an inner terrain of blue blood vessels. He sat with elaborate care. Grunting with relief as he leaned back, he looked a greeting at each man in turn.

“General Longstreet,” Fraser said, happy to demonstrate his knowledge of the man's identity.

Longstreet placed his good hand on top of the cane before him and answered in a hoarse whisper. “I know who you are, and I propose to proceed directly to business. Is that agreeable?” Pausing for only a second, he began again. “I'm informed that you have contrived an interest in the activities and connections of John Wilkes Booth. That's so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Major Barstow's asked me to speak with you, with both of you.” He nodded to Cook. “Though long in the habit of distrusting Major Barstow, I have agreed, for my own reasons, to his request.”

Townsend interrupted in a loud voice. “Perhaps I should provide some preface. I have told both of these gentlemen”—he indicated Longstreet and Barstow—“about John Bingham's statement on his deathbed, which you shared with me in the spring, including his statements about Mrs. Surratt's confession. So they know why you're interested in this subject. Of course, I cannot know exactly what Mrs. Surratt told Mr. Bingham, but I have a fair idea of what Mr. Bingham might have concluded from what she said. And I have a fair idea of what you have been able to unearth. You've been most resourceful. That's why I proposed to Major Barstow and General Longstreet that we arrange this conversation.”

He nodded to Longstreet, who made to speak. Instead, the old man coughed lightly. He coughed again, then erupted in a hacking paroxysm that turned his face bright red. He spat into a large handkerchief produced from a jacket pocket. As the flush faded from his cheeks, he jammed the linen back in his pocket.

“I never met that young fool Booth, but I can tell you certain things that may put your minds at ease about the current state of our republic. Or perhaps not. That will be up to you.” Longstreet moved his gaze slowly from Fraser to Cook and back. “But I'm one of the few left who can tell you much of anything. There's always Major Barstow, of course, but I've never known him to tell the truth. Townsend describes you as men of sense, so I assume you wouldn't accept his word, or Townsend's, about anything.”

“General,” Fraser broke in, “we know that Booth had money from the Confederacy, and was actively working with agents of the Confederacy, but we think more were involved—”

Longstreet had reached down next to his chair with his good hand and lifted a shiny ear trumpet to his left ear. After a few moments, he dropped the device in his lap and raised a restraining hand. “I will do this my way,” he said in his urgent, raspy whisper, “or not at all. You can ask questions when I'm done. I may answer them. Or you're welcome to leave and meet whatever fate Major Barstow might have in mind for you.”

Cook smiled with some malice. “Or the major may meet the fate we have in mind for him.”

“That may be,” General Longstreet said quietly, “but the major, among his other qualities, is undeniably persistent. That is a quality you should respect.”

Fraser leaned forward to cut off the exchange. “We'll listen, General, then we'll decide what to do,” he said.

“Probably ought to start near the end of 1864,” the old man said. “By then, we knew—those of us in the army knew—that we were going to lose the war. If George McClellan had been elected president in November, an honorable peace between two American nations was possible. But that hope died with Lincoln's reelection. He wasn't going to end the war that way.”

Longstreet started coughing. Again, the coughing built in intensity until he appeared ready to burst. With a long, unsteady breath, he regained his composure.

In the silence, Cook asked, “What you mean is, McClellan would have agreed to one country with slavery forever?”

Longstreet looked over at him. “Yes, I suppose that was the idea. My service to my country during the war was also service to slavery. I have tried to atone for that ever since, and God will judge whether I have. That atonement, I fear, is the principal reason why I am increasingly denounced by my countrymen for most of the defeats suffered by the Confederacy.”

After the 1864 election, the old man continued, the Confederates contrived ever more desperate plans. One group proposed tunneling under the end of the White House that held Lincoln's office and blowing it up. “Lunatics,” Longstreet said. “Pure lunatics.”

Booth and others worked on the equally fanciful plan to kidnap Lincoln and hold him hostage, perhaps trade him for peace, or at least for Confederate prisoners of war who could rejoin the army and restore Southern military fortunes. The times, Longstreet repeated several times, were desperate.

“You see,” he went on. “The war changed wherever Sam Grant took over. He understood that he had to break our spirit, not just our armies. So he sent Sherman marching to the sea. He proved we couldn't protect our homes or our old people, or our wives or our children. And on the battlefield he showed us in the bloodiest way possible that we didn't have enough soldiers or bullets. I had loved Sam Grant like a brother since when we were at West Point together. He married my cousin, you know. But in war he was the very angel of death.” Longstreet shook his head ruefully.

“We always had spies and agents. They were supposed to find out where the other side's armies were, where they were going, how many of them there were. Then, as our affairs grew more perilous, the spies proposed to win the war for us. They were going to mount an invasion from Canada, to free our soldiers in Northern prison camps and open a new battlefront in the north.” Longstreet drew a long, uncertain breath. “It was crazy, every bit of it. One of the scarcest commodities during war is sense, and in an army that's losing, it's nowhere to be found.

“Major Barstow,” Longstreet said with a nod to the silver-haired man across from him, “came forward in the final days of the Petersburg siege. Bitter days. The men were starving. General Lee had decided, and I agreed, to break the siege and run to North Carolina. There we could hook up with Joe Johnston and his army and fight Billy Sherman. We'd had enough of Sam Grant. Major Barstow laid out a plot. He proposed to lop off the Union command: Lincoln, Grant, Edwin Stanton, even Andy Johnson. The next president would be weak, he told us, and would have no real legitimacy.

“None of us,” Longstreet breathed, “had ever heard of the man who was supposed to become president then. I still couldn't tell you his name. We knew that Billy Sherman would be the strongest man left standing, and some of us felt he had some sympathies with our side. He hated niggers the way only a northern man can. Major Barstow's plan involved bringing George McClellan back from Europe, making him president or grand high pooh-bah, and then everything would be peaches and cream. We'd make an honorable peace with the Copperhead Democrats of the North, one that would allow the Southern people to hold their heads high and live as they always had. He claimed this scheme had support all through the North—senators and congressmen, governors and mayors, bankers and railroad men. And cotton men.”

Longstreet stared at Barstow. “Just crazy, all of it,” he said. “But General Lee didn't object. I don't know that he thought about it very much. He was fighting a war, one that was going poorly, and that takes a right smart amount of energy and attention. But he didn't tell Barstow not to do it. Lee wanted to strike any blow against the enemy that he could. So Major Barstow went off to Richmond and presented his plan to President Davis. And with his customary genius, Jeff Davis thought it was a capital idea.”

After another coughing jag, Longstreet started again. “You gentlemen know how this ends. Major Barstow sent that pretty-boy actor to do the job with the damnedest bunch of defectives that's ever been collected in one place. No one had the gumption even to raise a hand against Sam Grant. I hear you've talked to Julia, his widow, about that, and so have I. They took one look at Sam and changed their minds, which was pretty smart, since Sam would have ate them for breakfast. The man they sent after Johnson ran away, too, and the one they sent after Stanton was so dumb he cut up Seward instead, the wrong damned man!” Longstreet allowed himself a rueful smile.

“Why, with Lincoln gone, Seward would have been a pushover for peace. Stanton was the strong man. But that idiot carves up Seward, most of his family, but doesn't even manage to kill him! It was fools as far as the eye could see. But one of them kept his head and did his job, and that was the pretty-boy actor. The only thing done right in that whole operation was to make sure he didn't live to tell who sent him.”

“Also,” Cook said in a flat tone, “the part about killing President Lincoln.”

“Yes, sir,” Longstreet nodded. “That, too.” He shrugged with his good shoulder. “Of course, I've always assumed that the confusion of the assassination allowed Major Barstow to complete a few more cotton and tobacco deals with his Northern friends. Just to ease himself back into peacetime.” Barstow did not react to Longstreet's remark.