The Mammoth Book of Conspiracies (45 page)

“Can this have been a deception?” thought I; “and has the trip from Washington to this place been made only to play a trick upon me?”

Patience is a virtue, but still it may at times be overtested; and, certainly, on this occasion, it required a great deal of it to reconcile me to remain (alone so long.) Young and impetuous, I wished to know the secret; but, at the same, I had no desire to be kept there in that manner – especially, as it might after all only prove a trick, a practical joke of my friends playing. This thought first excited me, then vexed, and finally made me mad; and, in an instant, starting to my feet, I rushed to the door by which I had entered the room. Useless – it was fastened.

“There is no help for it,” thought I; “therefore the best thing to do, is to wait and abide the result.”

The longer I had to wait, the more nervous I became; until at last my patience was entirely exhausted, and a nameless dread took its place. The salutations in the dark rushed to my memory; and the thought of facing fire and steel, to find out a secret that might in the end only prove worthless, was not entirely pleasant, even to me who never flinched from any known or open danger.

While in this state of mind I heard a voice, from some invisible form, say: “Arise, and follow, if you would be made acquainted with the secrets of the Knights of the Golden Circle.”

Without delay I sprang to my feet, but my guide was still not to be seen – at least, I had not yet observed him, although certain that the speaker must have been in the room when giving me the order to get up from my seat.

Suddenly the room grew dark, and I became aware of the fact that, by some unaccountable means, the heavy curtains had dropped before the windows, and had thus excluded the light. The next moment my hands were seized on either side, each by a strong and gauntleted grasp, and an unknown and unseen person next placed a bandage over my eyes. Then my clothing was torn from my breast, which was thus barer; and held and blinded, I was led from the room – whither, I knew not, and have not since divined. There seemed to be no end to the long path, if path it was; and the doors that were opened and closed were so numerous that all attempt at counting their numbers was soon given up by me.

At length we stopped before a door – at least, such I judged it to be, from the signal given upon it and returned from the other side – and the following question was asked in a military tone of voice: “Who comes here?”

“One who is true to our cause,” was the reply of one near me.

“How is he known to be true?” was the question next uttered by the first voice.

“By the recommendation of a tried knight,” replied my supposed guide, for the voice was strange to my ears, as indeed were they all.

“He can then be trusted?” were the next words uttered.

“Such is our belief,” was the reply.

“But should he fail, and betray us – what then?”

“He will learn the penalty soon enough.”

“Advance.”

We moved onward a few steps, when the same cold contact with steel, and the same sharp but slight puncture of the breast, was felt, as on a former occasion.

This time I did not flinch, although the sharp pain was as unexpected as before. Again I heard a solemn voice utter, in a slow and measured tone, the ominous words: “Those who would pass here must face both fire and steel.”

“Are you willing to do so?” asked another, addressing me.

Having, after a few moments’ consideration, answered in the affirmative, I was again told to advance, and commanded to kneel, on what seemed to be a cushion, as it yielded slightly to the pressure of my knee.

While in this position, an oath, terrible, horrible and appalling, was administered by the same solemn voice, and, while kneeling, I had to repeat the words after him in a slow and distinct tone, one hand resting on something cold as ice, the other on a book which appeared to be open.

The obligations taken, I was then informed that it would be necessary to remember every word I had uttered – can I ever forget them? – and not to forget the penalty of a disclosure of what I should learn, or a betrayal of the names of any one with whom I should be brought into companionship, no matter when, where, or under what pain, peril or promise. I was also admonished never to allude, either publicly or privately, to what I might then or hereafter learn; always to be ready to assist a brother-knight, even unto death; to abide by and follow all the directions of the order with which I had become connected; to carry out the objects which should be subsequently communicated to me, if found worthy of confidence; to bear witness and even to swear falsely in order to save a brother’s life or liberty, if arrested for anything appertaining to the directions of the order; never to give a verdict against a brother, if on a jury to try him for any offense arising from directions emanating from the order, or any of its officers; and, in every way, to make the business of the new body, to which I had become allied, pre-eminent before religion, political feeling, parental or fraternal duty, or even before love of country. It was to be first and foremost in everything, at daylight or midnight, at home or abroad, before the law of the land or the affection for a wife, mother or child; to be all and everything.

“Are you willing to abide by this obligation?” asked the voice.

What could I do, or say? Refuse, I dare not; for I had felt the sharp point of the sword at my breast, and the words of that horrible oath still rang in my ears and vibrated through my aching brain. I was powerless to refuse, and therefore answered – faintly, it is true – in the affirmative.

“You remember the penalty?” asked the voice.

Could I have ever forgotten it? Remember it? Yes, indeed, did I remember it; perhaps, too vividly for the calm reflection of my mind at that moment. The very question, calling up, as it did, the remembrance, made me silent for the time, and I could not give a reply.

“Brother Knights!” exclaimed the voice, in a solemn tone. “Recall to the mind of him who now kneels here, the penalty of betrayal, either by sign, word or deed.”

A sound like thunder rang around me; the clanging of arms broke the former almost death-like silence, and a hundred or more voices murmured, hissed, whispered or groaned out, three times, the single word,

“Death! Death!! DEATH!!”

The first sound was horrible in its solemnity; the second utterance was terrible in its significance; the third and last was appalling in the repetition and the grave-like silence which followed it. My senses almost reeled under the influence of the fearful warning; my tongue appeared to swell until it filled my mouth and nearly choked me; I felt the hot blood rush over my brain and burn as it pursued its rapid course; it seemed as if the tortures of all the infernal regions had come upon me in a moment; I thought madness would be the result, unless the trial was soon to be ended, and yet I could not speak. And all this time my eyes were bandaged and my limbs bound. It was not the fear of death that caused within such terror – for I was willing to face any danger that could be seen; it was not the binding obligation I had taken – for I had firmly resolved to be true; but the nameless, unknown and unseen perils of that place and from those around me, appeared to call up to my imagination a thousand fears, indistinct and shadowy, yet plain enough to my mental vision. I had longed, craved for and earnestly desired to obtain a secret; but would, at that moment, have given up all I then possessed, or ever hoped to gain, could I have safely withdrawn from the “Circle” within which I found myself so inextricably enclosed. Shall I, can I ever forget that time, those few, long moments of agony?

Never; no not while life remains within this body, or until my senses become benumbed with the frosts of age or imbecility. Never!

How long the silence lasted, I know not; but the same solemn voice – it seemed miles away, and yet was plainly distinct – again addressed me in a slow manner, first repeating the awful word that had been repeated by so many voices, then admonishing me never to forget it, and finally inquiring whether I was ready to proceed with my initiation. I could return no verbal answer – my tongue refused its office – and I merely bowed my head, more mechanical than otherwise, for, to my present remembrance, it does not appear that I had any voluntary power left within my body.

“It is well,” said the voice. “Proceed!”

A movement of feet was next heard by me, followed by a low murmur of voices; the words uttered were drowned by the one single sound that burned through my brain, rang in my ears, appeared in letters of blood before my blinded eyes, and was present to me in every possible shape. That word was, “Death.”

The movements and sounds all ceased, and the solemn silence again ensued, which after a short interval was broken by the voice I had before heard, saying, “Show him all.”

A chorus of voices repeated the words, and the next instant the bandage was quickly taken from my eyes.

For a few seconds my vision was blinded by the light, the dazzling light that fell upon me at that moment; and, before I could recover from the strain thus inflicted upon those organs of sight, I felt a number of sharp points pierce my breast, back and sides. My right hand had become almost frozen with the cold object upon which it rested, while the remainder of my body was in a perfect fever. I gave one glance around me, and, amid what appeared to be a cloud of fire, stood a number of armed men, clothed in coats of mail, their helmeted heads surmounted by red and white feathers, and their faces covered with barred vizors of metallic plates. Each had a sword in his hand, and every one of the points were directed at my almost paralyzed body, puncturing the flesh, and causing the smarts I had so recently felt.

Gradually my sight became restored, and, one by one, the objects before and around me were visible.

The mailed knights stood as still as statues, and any movement of mine might have caused a serious if not a deadly wound from one or the other of their weapons, which shone with a bright, glaring and flashing brilliancy on every side. Had I desired it ever so much, movement or escape was an impossibility.

The light next appeared to become, through some invisible agency, slowly, very slowly of a dimmer character, and to burn with less radiance and dazzling glare; but whether this was actually the case, or some optical illusion, I am now at a loss to determine. I then perceived for the first time that I was kneeling before an altar on which burned a dull blue flame; that my left hand had rested on an open Bible, and my right – horror of horrors – on the face of a corpse.

“Death!”

How the word rang in my ears. With a horrifying glance I looked down towards the floor, and beheld another corpse, upon whose breast I had been compelled to kneel.

“Death!!”

Again the word rang in my ears. I raised my eyes to those around, saw no glance of encouragement beyond those helmeted faces, and could comprehend nothing but the bright, polished swords, presented at me on every side.

“DEATH!!!”

Still that pitiless word was present. A mailed knight stood beyond the altar, in the direction from which I had heard that solemn voice, and with his unsheathed sword he pointed silently to the ghastly object on which my right hand rested. Not a word emanated from his lips, but his sword’s point echoed the appalling, terrible word, “DEATH!”

Darkness appeared to spread itself before my vision. I felt my senses leaving me, and a nameless horror took possession of my whole soul!

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Abraham Lincoln, helmsman of the Union in the Civil War and emancipator of the slaves, was the first US president to be assassinated. That “Honest Abe” died at the hand of conspiracy is sure-fire certain; the only debate is over the size and motive of the plot.

Lincoln was mortally shot by a single bullet to the head from a Derringer .44 pistol while watching the play
Our American Cousins
from the state box at Ford’s Theater, Washington DC, on the evening of 14 April 1865. The killer, after administering the fatal lead injection, leaped eleven feet from the box down to the stage, landed badly, but raised himself to shout dramatically, “
Sic semper tyrannis
!” to the audience. The Latin tag, which means “Thus ever to tyrants!”, is also the state motto of Virginia.

Since the killer was an actor – indeed a familiar face at Ford’s – and the crowd was 1,000-strong, he was not difficult to identify. Pausing only to have his injured leg fixed by Dr Mudd, John Wilkes Booth – for it was he – lit out for the South. Federal authorities caught up with him a fortnight later at a barn at Garrett’s Farm, Virginia, where he was shot dead before he could surrender by an itchy-fingered Sergeant Boston Corbett.

A memo book was found on Booth’s body, which left no doubt of his guilt. Neither did the Federal investigators have much trouble in rounding up Booth’s co-plotters, John Surratt, Mary Surratt, Lewis Powell, George Atzerodt, David Herold, Michael O’Laughlen, Dr Samuel Mudd and Samuel Arnold. After facing a military tribunal, Herold, Atzerodt, Powell and Mary Surratt were all hanged on 7 July 1865; the remainder were imprisoned, with the exception of John Surratt who escaped to Canada.

Such are the basic facts of the case. In orthodox histories, Booth is a Confederate “nut” who was motivated by racist indignation at Lincoln’s plan to extend the voting franchise to blacks and who sweet-talked a motley collection of acquaintances and Southern-sympathizers into helping him. However, for a century and a half, conspiracists have suggested that Booth et al were merely “trigger men” for vast dark forces, the conspiracists’ suspicions fuelled by the actions of some of the central characters. The behaviour of Sergeant Boston Corbett – who is the Jack Ruby of the Lincoln murder – is a case in point. Why did he not let Booth surrender? Was it because Booth might implicate someone high up the chain of the plot? Corbett was a religious lunatic, who had castrated himself to help his concentration on higher things, and was later locked up in an asylum. From which he then escaped and vanished without trace. Good going for a mad man, no?