Chapter 1

“I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of stell …”

“And so, Madame, gentlemen, no part of the capital of South Carolina stands that was not made of stone or brick.” Major Ambrose Bierce slouched in one of the comfortable wing chairs gracing the Secretary of War’s office, looking deceptively at ease. In fact, he was growing increasingly furious with Lieutenant Colonel Alphonso Clay for placing him in this uncomfortable situation. For nearly two solid hours, Bierce had spun tales to divert the people in the room, distracting them from the fact that Clay had not responded to their urgent summons. To cover for Clay, Bierce had spoken of the stirring march through Georgia—and of the fate visited on the once-beautiful city of Columbia. Bierce knew that he was instinctively a spellbinding storyteller, but he also knew that the patience of the woman and two men in the room was near the breaking-point. He inwardly shuddered at the thought of their re­actions if they knew just what kept Clay dallying at Willard’s Hotel.

Secretary of War Edwin Stanton suddenly slapped the desk behind which he sat with a chubby hand. “Enough of this, Bierce! We have waited two hours for your friend Clay. Entertaining as your tales are, I have summoned Clay at the specific recommendation of General Grant. There is a threat to the Republic, and Grant feels that Clay may be the best man to counter that threat. I am not inclined to question the judgment of the General in Chief. Now, do I have to send a squad of Provost troopers to …”

A polite knock sounded at the door. Without waiting for an invitation, Alphonso Clay entered the room and saluted. Always a bundle of nervous energy, the short, burly Stanton shot to his feet, rushed across the room, and vigorously shook the young officer’s hand. Then he stepped back, and for a moment, each appraised the other.

Stanton saw a short, slender, blue-eyed officer with wire-rimmed glasses, straight blond hair reaching to his shoulders, his placid, expressionless face marred only by a very recent scratch on his left cheek, still slightly oozing blood. Clay saw an intense, grim man who stared at the world through thick spectacles, occasionally tugging at his long, grey-streaked beard, which was made to seem somehow even longer by his shaven upper lip. There was audible wheezing as he breathed, but his speaking voice was deep and clear.

“Thank God you’re here!” exclaimed Stanton abruptly. “Grant was not able to come to Washington; since Petersburg fell, he has been hot on the trail of Lee. If Lee can join up with Johnston in North Carolina there is no telling …”

“My apologies for the delay in my arrival, Mr. Secretary,” interrupted Clay smoothly. “A personal matter of some importance required my attention. However, now I am here. If the urgency is so great, please let me know at once how I can be of assistance.”

“Certainly, certainly,” replied Stanton, somewhat taken aback by Clay’s polite insistence on getting to the matter at hand. “First let me introduce Chief of Staff General Halleck and Miss Elizabeth van Lew.”

The balding, portly Major General Henry Halleck grunted in response to Clay’s salute, not bothering to return it. Instead, he absently commenced scratching at his left elbow with his right hand, staring at Clay with glassy eyes. Clay immediately concluded that the chief of staff of the army had sought to relieve the stress of his position with one of several opium-laced remedies, with rather too much success. Clay then turned to the middle-aged, painfully-thin woman who sat in the chair to Halleck’s right. He clicked his heels and bowed slightly. The hatchet-faced Van Lew acknowledged him with a curt nod.

“Miss Van Lew is the reason you are here, Colonel Clay,” said Stanton. “She is one of the most important heroes of the Union, but until this day, she had to remain virtually unknown. It was only when the 25th Corps took Richmond day before yesterday that she could dare to have her exploits publicized.”

Clay turned his expressionless face to the woman. “Indeed? I would be intrigued to know your story.”

“I will make it brief, Colonel,” Van Lew replied in the honeyed accents of Virginia, her sweet voice at odds with her sharp, angular features. “If you and Mr. Stanton will be seated, I will tell you why I believe the Union may be facing its greatest danger at the moment of its triumph.”

Stanton returned to his desk, while Clay settled into the empty chair beside Bierce. As Clay sat, Bierce murmured out of the side of his mouth. “Feeling refreshed, Alphonso? Two hours—surprised you’re still conscious.” Clay spared Bierce a murderous glance but said nothing.

“I repeat, I will make my history brief,” commenced Van Lew abruptly. “The only reason I tell it you all is to convince you that my fears are well founded. Colonel, may I inquire if you are related to Cassius Clay, the Kentucky abolitionist?

Clay nodded slightly. “I have that honor. He is my cousin.”

“I thought as much. There is something about you that reminds me of him. In any event, fifteen years ago he visited Richmond to give a speech advocating liberation of the slaves. It was a … tumultuous speech, as you can imagine, and not well received. By the end of it, death threats were being shouted from the audience. Despite the threats, he had made at least one convert. That was me. It was not so much the logic of his arguments or the power of his rhetoric but his complete certainty in his righteousness that convinced me. The recent cholera epidemic had taken my parents and my brother, and I had come into a substantial estate with several hundred souls in bondage. I freed them within a month of hearing your cousin speak and determined to devote my life to his cause. I have done so ever since, providing shelter to those who escape bondage and arranging passage to the North. When the traitor secessionists tried to take my beloved Virginia out of the sacred Union, I felt it was my duty to do everything that I could to preserve the Union and bring an end to the scourge of slavery.” The angular woman favored Clay with a wintry smile. “Being a woman, my options were limited. I gave some considerable thought to the matter and determined that I could best be of use to the Holy Cause by gathering information for the Union—in short, by being a spy.”

Clay was seldom impressed and even more seldom allowed it to show on his face. This was one of those rare times. “Miss Van Lew, to undertake to spy in the capital of the Confederacy was foolhardy, to put it mildly. You were at incredible risk.”

Again, came the wintry smile. “There was risk, but not quite as great as you suppose. Despite my well-known views on slavery, my parents were extremely well-connected in Virginia society, and their old friends were able to shield me from inquiries to a certain extent. I believe the chief traitors took a certain perverse pride in tolerating my presence in Richmond. I suppose it was something like having a single village atheist; he emphasizes the piety of the rest of the community by his presence. I became Richmond’s village atheist. In fact, I was occasionally invited to dine by Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson Davis, both of whom had known my family well. Traitors though they are, they both have impeccable manners, and those dinners were not disagreeable.”

“You dined with Jefferson Davis while spying for the Union,” murmured Bierce with wonder. “How did you get away with it?”

It was Clay who answered. “Major Bierce, you of all people should understand why, being such an enthusiast for the works of the late Edgar A. Poe. Surely you read his story, ‘The Purloined Letter’?”

Van Lew nodded approvingly. “Just so, Colonel Clay. Like the letter in Mr. Poe’s story, I displayed myself in plain view of the authorities. They could not imagine someone so vocally and publicly in favor of the Union Cause, let alone a woman, actually engaging in espionage. Incredible as it may sound, that is what I did. I slowly established contact with darkies working in the houses of all the major traitors—Breckenridge, Benjamin, Stephens, even the Davis’ themselves. I gave them a choice, which was theirs alone to make: I would either arrange to smuggle them through the lines to the North, or they could spy upon their masters and provide me with information of military value, which I would then arrange to send to the North.”

Clay’s eyes widened slightly; to someone having such iron control, it was equivalent to his jaw dropping in horror. “Surely they understood the fate that would await them if they were detected in betraying their masters?”

Miss Lew nodded again. “Better than you or I. Yet, not one chose to go North, not one!”

“Did they all evade detection?” asked Halleck, continuing to scratch at his elbow.

The wintry smile left Miss Lew’s face. “One did not. A coachman for a cabinet minister. He was flogged to make him reveal who else was involved in his conspiracy. He refused to utter a word. I learned later from the captain of the guard at the city jail, who spoke of him with grudging admiration, that he was flogged at intervals, and asked again and again to betray his comrades. According to the captain, who had not the slightest idea that my life was in the coachman’s hands, he would scream and cry, but never utter a coherent word. Not one word … before he died. The captain of the guard was a hard man, utterly devoted to the Confederacy, but as he told me of this, something like shame came over his features. As well it might.”

Silence hung over the room for a long moment.

Finally, Van Lew began to speak again. “With the aid of these brave souls, and of courageous scouts who risked death at the hands of pickets for both sides, I was able to provide information of some little value to Secretary Stanton and General Halleck.”

“Some little value!” exclaimed Stanton with an asthmatic wheeze. “The timing and amount of troop movements, for which we prepared. Scheduled arrivals of blockade runners carrying French and British munitions, which ‘accidentally’ encountered warships on the high seas. Even attempts to initiate widespread arson and other terrorist acts in our major cities, which were ‘accidentally’ thwarted every time.”

“You have my deepest respect, Miss Van Lew,” said Clay. “Fortunately, it would seem your work is done. Lee’s army has fled Petersburg, and Richmond has fallen to the XXVth Corps. Grant is in hot pursuit of Lee, and it is only a matter of time until his army is either captured or destroyed. Once Lee’s army is gone, the remaining Confederate forces will surrender quickly. This war is as good as over.”

“The war may be over, Colonel, but there is no peace. My source with the Davis household has delivered to me truly disturbing information. She had helped pack into a carriage the luggage that the Davis’ were taking with them to the railway station as they made ready to flee Richmond, the day before yesterday. My agent saw Jefferson Davis in a murmured conversation with a tall colonel she had never seen before. She was not close enough to hear the first part of their conversation. But as my agent moved closer, Mr. Davis, normally such a controlled man, suddenly burst out loudly. ‘Is there no other course?’ The colonel replied ‘No sir; it is our last throw. It will decapitate the Union and throw its forces into utter confusion and despair.’ Normally an inexpressive, cold man, Mr. Davis seemed to be close to tears, saying harshly ‘Then do it, and may God have mercy on my soul!’ Paying no attention to the colonel’s salute, he then entered the carriage where Mrs. Davis and their children waited and signaled the driver to make haste.”

Clay pondered for only a moment. “You hardly need me to tell you the significance of what was said. Acts of terrorism and murder are to be unleashed, undoubtedly directed not only at Lincoln, but at the rest of the Government as well, and possibly at such important centers as New York. Still, the murder of President Lincoln, tragic as it would be, would not be sufficient to throw the Union in confusion at this late date.”

“It might,” replied Stanton. “Consider Vice-President Johnson automatically ascending to power.”

There was a moment of silence in the room; all had heard how Andrew Johnson had shown up roaring drunk at his inauguration in March.

Clay nodded to acknowledge the point, but then said, “Still, no matter how … inadequate Vice-President Johnson might prove, he would presumably be guided to a certain extent by the other members of the government and preserved from the grossest errors. No, there must be more than an attempt on the President’s life involved.”

“General Halleck and I would like you find out the details of this plot,” said Stanton. “Will you accept the challenge?”

“Of course,” replied Clay promptly, “providing you allow me the services of Major Bierce and any other resources I may need.”

“Me?” blurted Bierce with surprise.

“You have some insight into my methods, and I cannot be everywhere at once. I presume you will accept the challenge of helping to save the Republic?”

Bierce emitted one of his unlovely, barking laughs. “Well, since you put it that way, I’m your man.”

Clay turned his attention to Stanton and Halleck. “I would recommend heavy guards around the President. General Grant as well.”

“The President will not permit more than a single guard when he goes about,” interjected Halleck, still scratching that troublesome elbow. “Secretary Stanton and I have repeatedly begged him to permit a more substantial guard, but in vain. Not even when an assassin shot off his hat while the President was riding to the Old Soldier’s Home, about six months ago.”

“I’ve heard nothing about that!” exclaimed Bierce, abandoning momentarily his air of cynical ease.

“Lincoln ordered us to hush the matter up,” explained Stanton grimly. “I kept begging him to permit more security, until he finally lost his temper with me, something he had never done before. ‘Don’t you understand, Stanton?’ he shouted at me. ‘When this war is done, so am I. There is not a thing on Earth that can be done to change that!’”

“Strange man,” muttered Halleck, glassy eyes seeming to stare off into the distance.

“And General Grant will permit no formal guard whatsoever,” continued Stanton, indignation in his voice. “I have taken care to extract promises from his two closest staff members, General Rawlins and Colonel Parker, that they will find excuses to be with him wherever possible, armed with Colts. That was the best I could contrive.”

Clay nodded slightly. “Proud, fatalistic men, the both of them. It would seem we must make haste to eliminate any threat. To start with, I will need a list of known Confederate sympathizers in Washington. They are unlikely to be directly involved, but may give us useful leads, if properly … encouraged.”

Stanton had frowned uneasily at the way Clay had said “encouraged.” Ignoring his own unease, he replied “The Washington police are useless for anything more than rounding up drunks and breaking up fights in the fancy houses. You will want to talk to Baker, Colonel Lafayette Baker. He took over from Pinkerton when …”

Stanton broke off speaking as he noticed a strange sound coming in through the open windows that faced Pennsylvania Avenue. The noise grew louder and louder and swiftly resolved itself into the yells and cheers of hundreds of people.

Muttering “What the hell …” Stanton sprang from his chair and bounded over to the room’s right window, leaning dangerously far out. The others in the room went more carefully to the left window and witnessed an astonishing sight. A crowd of several hundred men and some women, shouting, laughing, and in some cases, crying with apparent joy, were marching in a disorganized parade toward the War Department building, led by an army telegrapher. The amateur parade-master motioned the crowd to a stop directly under the windows to Stanton’s office.

Seeing the pudgy Secretary of War, the soldier made an exaggerated bow, then in a booming voice proclaimed, “Secretary Stanton, I have just come from the main telegraph office. My lieutenant is busy decoding a long message from General Grant. As soon as he read the first sentence, he ordered me to come straight away to you, and then to the President, to communicate its import. My apologies for violating army regulations, but on my way here, I could not help but share that sentence with these good people I encountered on the street.”

“Soldier, you shared the contents of an army communication with strangers on the street?” replied Stanton, a dark look appearing on his face.

The soldier simply ignored the expression of gathering dis­pleasure on the face of the Secretary of War. “Sir, the first sentence of the telegram reads, ‘I have the honor to report that today at Appomattox Courthouse, Virginia, General Lee surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia to the forces commanded by myself.’”

Stanton gasped; then to the surprise of everyone in the room, the grim, hard-charging Secretary of War began to cry, shedding tears of the purest joy. Briefly removing his thick spectacles to wipe his eyes with a large, dirty handkerchief, he called out from the window. “Wait for me! We will go tell the President. All of us together!” As the sound of ragged cheering began in the street, Stanton bustled to the door. He opened it, then paused, saying, “Miss Van Lew, gentlemen, please come with me. So often I have had to bring the President bad news. I would like you to witness me bringing joy for once.”

A serious look on his face, Clay shook his head slightly. “With respect, Major Bierce and I should begin our investigation; the danger may not be past.”

Stanton shook his head abruptly, as if being bothered by a large fly. “Whatever the Rebel plans, they will probably see that it is too late for anything they do to affect the outcome of the war. Still, should make sure. Do as you feel best.” Stanton offered his arm to the angular Van Lew, who nodded to Clay and Bierce as she left the room, saying “Gentleman, a pleasure. I hope to see you again.”

General Halleck stood, jammed his crumpled kepi on his head, and started to follow his superior. Just as he reached the door, he paused and fixed his glassy, far-away gaze on Clay and Bierce. Scratching again at his troublesome elbow, he began to speak. “Stanton has always been an optimist. Perhaps that is best when one has the kind of responsibility he has. It allows one to endure … setbacks. I am not an optimist. I do not worry about losing the war. I worry about losing the peace.” He seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment, then recollecting himself, he continued. “Gentlemen, be more diligent, not less. If the threat is genuine and you fail to stop it, you will carry the burden of failing your country. As do I.” Tears appeared in the chief of staff’s eyes. With an angry shrug, he shambled heavily out the door.

After Halleck was out of earshot, Bierce said jauntily, “Well, looks like our chief of staff has been into the laudanum. I have seen the signs before. That could explain his blunders that have cost so many lives.”

Clay shook his head slowly. “I rather think the blunders explain the laudanum.” A faint look of pity came over Clay’s normally expressionless features.

Bierce shuddered as he and Clay caught sight of the Old Capitol Prison. As its name implied, it had originally been the seat of Congress while the grand permanent Capitol building was undergoing its slow construction. Sorrowfully, the structure’s days of glory had fled before the beginning of the Civil War. Congress had moved out while guards moved in, to watch hundreds of prisoners arrested as disloyal, some for good reason, some for no reason at all save some officer was unconvinced of their enthusiasm for the Union. The grimy brick building now exuded a miasma of misery and despair. Clay and Bierce stopped in front of the pair of sentries at the main entrance. Bierce glanced up to see a pale woman’s face pressed to one of the many barred windows and to hear the distant babbling of someone ill with fever. Clay did not look up at all, but simply announced to the sentries, “We are here to see Colonel Baker. His office said he would be conducting business at the prison, and we cannot wait on his return.”

The slovenly guards looked over the officers insolently. Then, the elder of the two shrugged. “Hell, why not? Damn war’s over. Go on in.” They moved aside.

Bierce opened the door for Clay and followed the senior officer in—only to come to a shuddering halt. The ground floor windows were completely boarded over, and the gloom of the interior easily swallowed the uncertain light of the occasional gas lamp. After the brightness of the street, Bierce’s eyes had trouble making out anything in the shadowy interior. Bierce sensed rather than saw Clay’s impatience.

“Do not dawdle, Major; time is precious.”

“Damn it, Clay, give me a moment; I can’t see my hand in front of my face.”

“I have no trouble. I will guide you.” Bierce felt a strong hand with a surprisingly powerful grip on his sleeve and found himself almost being dragged along by the impatient Clay, being led toward the sound of a loud, hectoring voice. By the time they had reached the speaker, Bierce’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom as well as they ever would, and the fastidious young major almost recoiled at the sight that greeted him. A lean colonel with a scraggly beard stood in the middle of a large chamber that had once housed the Congress of the United States. The gas fixture that dimly lit his features gave a spectral cast to his face. He was flanked by two large soldiers casually holding Spencer carbines and was addressing an audience of about a hundred prisoners, equally divided between men and women, dressed in grimy clothes and seated on the floor in a semicircle before him. Even in the darkness, it could be seen that some of the prisoners were lousy, and all indifferent to the beetles that scurried about the filthy floor. It was clear that none of the inmates cared to hear what the colonel was saying, and equally clear that the guards gave them no choice.

“With the traitor Lee surrendered there is no hope for your precious Confederacy. None,” said the officer, who had obviously been going along in this vein for some time. “Do you Reb traitors know that Richmond has burned, much of it burned near to the ground?” A few groans came from the unwilling audience, but most were silent. “And the beauty of it was that your own boys in grey did it—set fire to the warehouses and skedaddled. Idiots! As if there was anything in those warehouses we needed. Only reason your precious Richmond did not completely burn is the nigger soldiers of the XXV Corps arrived and fought the flames. I want you to think on that. Niggers now occupy Richmond. Abe Lincoln has already gone there and has sat in Jeff Davis’ chair!

“Now some of you may think that you can go right home, now that the war is about over. Let me disabuse you of that notion. The reason Stanton kicked out Pinkerton and made me responsible for the security of Washington is that Pinkerton had been mollycoddling you traitors and Copperheads. You are staying here until Stanton tells me what to do with you. Maybe he will tell me to let you all go tomorrow. Maybe he will tell me to hang the lot of you tomorrow. Maybe he will tell me to hang some of you and release others. Maybe he will not decide at all for a year … or two … or three.”

A gaunt man rose to his feet slowly. He wore a suit of clothes that might have been of an expensive cut, but in the dim light, the suit was too grimy for an observer to be certain. “Colonel Baker, you have no authority to hold us for our sympathies alone,” he said in the cultured accent of an upper-class Southron. “You did not during the war and certainly do not now that combat has ceased. The Constitution makes that clear. Aside from the legality, there is the humanitarian issue. Many here are sick with the diseases that are inevitable under such conditions. Just yesterday, a young woman died of typhus. You must immediate release at least the women …”

He never finished the sentence. Baker gestured at one of the soldiers. With two swift steps, the guard came up to the prisoner and delivered a roundhouse blow to the man’s jaw with the butt of his carbine. The speaker dropped to the floor as if pole-axed, a spray of blood and bits of tooth visible as he fell. Absolute silence fell in the chamber; none of the prisoners approached the injured man or even seemed to look at him. Bierce sensed Clay was about to spring forward; the major placed a restraining hand on Clay’s shoulder and urgently hissed, “This is not our affair. We need Baker’s co-operation.”

Clay relaxed slightly, but Bierce could still sense the waves of outrage coming off his friend like a physical force. Knowing Clay’s capacity for sudden violence, Bierce wondered if Baker would realize just how much danger he was in at this moment. Instead of violence, dangerously calm words came from Clay.

“Colonel Baker, I am Colonel Alphonso Clay; this is Major Ambrose Bierce. The Secretary of War has entrusted us with a vital assignment, which must take precedence over your … administrative duties. We must speak to you privately.”

Even in the dark, the expression of sneering contempt on Baker’s face was clear. He seemed about to say something offensive, but then paused, visibly struck by a thought. “Alphonso Clay. I’ve heard about you. You’re Grant’s man, aren’t you?”

Clay bowed ever so slightly. “I have that honor.”

“Well, I can make some time for you. Got a little office I sometimes use here. Should be private enough. Follow me.” Ignoring the injured man on the floor, he led his two visitors to a door near the front entrance. Throwing open the door, Baker revealed a small office with a bare wooden desk and several chairs, illuminated by weak light filtering in from one of the few windows in the enormous building that had not been boarded over. A slovenly guard had been lounging in a chair, boots on the desk. At the sight of three officers, he scrambled to attention with comical speed. Jerking a thumb toward the door, Baker grunted, “Out. Close the door behind you.”

Squeezing past his superior, the soldier did as he was told.

Baker seated himself behind the desk, saying to his visitors, “Draw up a chair.” He then rummaged in one of the desk’s lower doors and produced a bottle of whiskey and a dirty glass. Without a comment to his visitors, he poured himself a shot and knocked it back in a single gulp. He then restored the bottle and glass to the door and looked at his guests. “All right now. What is so Goddamn important that you had to track me down here?”

“We require your assistance, specifically your knowledge of Confederate sympathizers in Washington. Evidence has been uncovered of a potential plot to take the life of high Union officials, possibly the President himself.”

Baker laughed, an unpleasant, ugly sound. “So, you’ve discovered a plot against Abe. Well, good for you. Listen boys, there have been Copperheads aiming to kill Lincoln since the war began. Half the men in this Goddamn Southern town would pay to see Lincoln’s blood. There are only two reasons they have not succeeded in taking his life.”

“What are those?” asked Bierce.

“Number one, they’re Goddamn cowards. All the brave ones went south to join Lee and left only those who valued their hides more than their precious cause. And number two, I’ve been rounding up those who might just have belly enough to risk their own lives to kill Abe. You didn’t much care for what I had done to that Copperhead in there, did you?”

Somewhat taken aback by the abrupt change in topic, Clay replied, “He gave no cause to be treated in such a manner. It was cowardly and dishonorable.”

Baker laughed again, mirthlessly. “Oh, that poor darling Reb, abused by that beast Baker. That’s what you think, isn’t it? Well, let me tell you about that Johnnie. He’s Courtney Delapore, of the Tidewater Delapores. Brought some of his family’s money up to Washington just before Fort Sumter and started a paper. That paper attacked everything the Union was doing to stay alive. Found out about military plans and published them for Richmond to know. Encouraged young recruits to desert; some did. Some of those deserters were caught and were shot. And yet Delapore could not be touched, wrapping himself in the First Amendment while he hopes and prays for every other scrap of the Constitution to be destroyed!” Baker then smiled grimly. “At least he couldn’t be touched until I persuaded Stanton to sign the arrest order. Now he’s mine, and I hope he rots in this hell-hole!”

“Well, that is neither here nor there,” replied Clay. “Would you wager Abraham Lincoln’s life that you have apprehended every last traitor capable of an act of assassination? With respect, to believe so smacks of hubris, in my opinion.”

Baker looked as if he were about to make an angry reply. Instead, with a visible effort, he reined in his temper. “Only a fool would claim to be absolutely certain of everything, and I’m no fool. Still, I have been damn thorough; would rather arrest ten innocents than miss one traitor.”

“No doubt,” replied Bierce. “Still, it cannot hurt to make ‘assurance double sure,’ as the Bard said. The concern is not among the ones you have arrested, but among those outside this prison. The lines between here and what is left of the Confederacy are porous. Can you truly be sure that no threat has arrived recently that has escaped your attention?”

Baker again looked as if he were about to give an angry reply, but paused for a moment and grudgingly muttered, “I suppose it’s possible.”

“Do you know of anyone—anyone not already in your custody—who would be knowledgeable concerning the pro-Confederate community in Washington?” asked Clay.

“Hell, they all seem to know each other. One traitor can always smell another out.”

“Anyone within your custody that might be especially knowledgeable as to Confederate sympathizers still at large?” added Bierce.

Baker paused for a moment. “That would probably be Delapore himself. He was up to his armpits in Copperheads and is one of the most recently arrested. If some new Reb trash has found its way into town since his arrest, I would be surprised.”

“Very well, we must make a beginning somewhere,” said Clay briskly. “You will release Mr. Delapore into our custody. Say it was a demand on our part, due to his recent treatment; that will cause him to look upon us with some favor and make it easier to secure his co-operation.”

“Now just a Goddamn minute!” exploded Baker. “This man is my prisoner, and a dangerous Copperhead. I’m not about to hand him over to some fancy-dan …” Baker’s words trailed off. He was staring at five gold double-eagles that had appeared on the desk before Clay as if by magic. One hundred dollars in gold—more than six months’ pay for a private. Tentatively, Baker reached out for the coins and carefully picked them up, hefting each one individually; Clay made no effort to stop him. Thoughtfully slipping the bribe into a tunic pocket, Baker slowly murmured, “I suppose I could cut an order for Delapore’s parole into your custody on humanitarian grounds.”

“That is very Christian of you, Colonel,” replied Bierce. Clay glanced at him and smiled slightly; it was amazing just how much contempt and distaste the young major could load into such a simple statement.

Teresa Duval lay stretched at full length on the bed in Alphonso Clay’s expensive suite at Washington’s exclusive Willard’s Hotel. She stared doe-eyed at the ceiling, a satisfied smile gracing her beautiful face. Most who knew her would have refused to believe that she could be found in a single man’s hotel room, luxuriating in post-coital bliss. The Teresa Duval the world thought it knew was a tireless, self-sacrificing nurse in the service of the Sanitary Commission, who dispensed medicine and pious religious sentiments to wounded Union soldiers with equal ease. In truth, the role of a nurse from New England was only one of several which Teresa Duval performed. She was naturally a brilliant actress, and in another life, she would have dominated the stages of the nation. Far from being a pious Christian from a middle-class New England family, she was a survivor of the Irish Famine, who had lived a bestial life in the slums of New York until the financier Jay Gould plucked her up from the gutter, gave her a veneer of sophistication and manners, and made her one of his most valuable agents. He had arranged for her to be assigned to Sherman’s army and directed her to send him coded telegraphs, apparently innocently addressed to her mother, giving advance knowledge of Sherman’s movements and prospects. Using that advance knowledge, he was able to anticipate movements in share and commodity prices in the financial markets—and make hundreds of thousands of dollars at a stroke. Gould had also arranged for her to secretly be discreetly appointed to the Secret Service, with the understanding that whatever she learned of financial interest while serving the government would be immediately shared with him. A lesser woman would not have been able to perform all of these apparently contradictory roles without giving herself away immediately. Teresa Duval was no ordinary woman.

Now, she was content simply to stare at the ceiling and review in her mind the two hours she had spent with Alphonso Clay earlier in the day, the two hours for which she had waited so long. Despite her fears of disappointment, those hours had been everything for which she had hoped, exceeding even the pleasure she derived from the act of killing. Her reverie was interrupted by the rattle of a key in the room’s lock. She smiled widely, anticipating a view of Clay. Clay did indeed appear as the door opened. Instantly, her smile disappeared, to be replaced by a feral snarl, when she saw that behind Clay was Ambrose Bierce, who was half-carrying a filthy-looking stranger with a bloody mouth. She quickly slipped off the bed and replaced the snarl of frustration with a look of efficient concern. She was certain that neither Bierce nor the stranger had noticed the snarl, but one look at the slightly amused smile on Clay’s lips showed her that he had noticed.

“Miss Duval, I am glad you are still here; you have saved me the inconvenience of locating you,” said Clay. “Major Bierce and I require your assistance. Our companion is Mr. Courtney Delapore, who as you can see needs some medical treatment. We have stopped at a chemist’s shop to pick up the supplies you might need.” Clay handed Duval a brown-paper package, tied with string. Duval took it to the bed and carefully undid the string. The open package revealed some bandages, medicinal brandy, some simple dental instruments, fine cat gut—and a small brown bottle of laudanum.

“Mr. Delapore, be so good as to lie down on the bed so I can inspect the wound to your face,” said Duval. Briskly but not ungently she seized the man’s jaw, moving it back and forth. Delapore moaned slightly, then made an obvious effort to silence himself; uttering not a sound when Duval inserted her fingers into his mouth to inspect the extent of his injuries, although beads of sweat popped out on his pale forehead. Finishing her inspection, she stepped back and looked appraisingly at the wounded man. “The jaw does not appear to be broken. As you are no doubt aware, you have a massive bruise on your cheek, and three of your teeth have been broken off at the roots. Mr. Delapore, if I did not know better, I would think you had been struck with the butt of a rifle.”

“Mr. Delapore is undoubtedly uncomfortable talking for the time being, so I will speak on his behalf,” interjected Clay. “Until today he was a resident of the Old Capitol Prison. He dared to speak up on behalf of his fellow prisoners and suffered the injury you see for his presumption. Major Bierce and I were able to … persuade Colonel Baker to release him into our recognizance.”

“The Old Capitol,” murmured Duval as she looked at Delapore, eyes narrowing slightly. “One of the sneaking traitors lacking the courage to put on a uniform.” English-loving bastard! she thought, as the image of a burning house flashed through her mind, with a corpse dangling from the tree in the yard where red-coated figures bent to an obscene task.

Seeing the subtle change in Duval’s expression, Clay turned to Bierce. “Major, Mr. Delapore seems to have been improperly nourished recently. His injuries prohibit solid food for the time being. I would appreciate it if you would go down to the kitchens and order up something appropriate. Beef tea, mush, and fresh milk should meet the case.”

Bierce nodded his agreement; then pausing only to cock an ironic eyebrow in Duval’s direction, he left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

“You will need to remove the roots of the teeth that have been broken, and clean and suture the injuries, both within and outside his mouth,” commented Clay. Beckoning slightly with his right hand, he added, “Please come to this side of the room. I must discuss something that is of no interest to Mr. Delapore.”

Duval glided over to where Clay stood, coming as close to him as was possible without actually touching. Hardly moving his lips, Clay spoke in a voice so low that the injured Delapore could not possible have picked up the words.

“I know what you are thinking. I know what can happen to Confederates under your care. This man is not to suffer a medical setback. Is that clear?”

Duval’s expression hardened in a way that would have frightened anyone but Clay. “He is a traitorous, English-loving bastard; he does not deserve to live,” she replied in a murmur as low as Clay’s.

“Your private war is your affair alone. However, I need this man. If it is any consolation, I hope he will lead me to more dangerous and important traitors who intend harm to the Union.”

Duval looked deeply into Clay’s eyes and saw that he spoke the truth. “Very well then.” She turned abruptly and strode over to the bed where Delapore lay. Rolling back the sleeves of her dress, she picked up a wicked-looking dental tool, announcing in a loud voice “Mr. Delapore, I must remove the remains of your broken teeth and pack your gums, or your injuries might lead to an abscess that could prove fatal. This will be painful, but I will give you some laudanum to take some of the edge off it. Please open wide.”

Eyes closed, with obvious pain, Delapore arched his neck and opened wide his mouth. Duval uncorked the brown medicine bottle and tilted it toward his mouth. Making sure her body blocked Clay’s view, she did not tilt it far enough for any of the pain-killing elixir to actually enter Delapore’s mouth. “Swallow, please,” said Duval briskly.

Due to the numbness in his injured mouth, Delapore was unaware he had received none of the drug, and painfully did as he was told.

“Now we will begin,” said Duval as she inserted the horrid dentist’s tool into the helpless man’s mouth. At the first stifled shriek from Delapore, a warm glow spread over her body.

Delapore sat in a chair by the open window. He appeared wan and frail, and he sweated despite the cool April breeze coming into the room. Gingerly he sipped a thin gruel of oatmeal and milk, trying to make sure it went down without touching the injured half of his mouth. Clay and Bierce sat in plush high-back chairs, watching the emaciated man eat in silence.

Quietly, the door to the room opened, and Duval glided into the room; she had been down the hall cleaning her hands and forearms of Delapore’s blood. As she closed the door, Delapore placed the bowl on the side table and unsteadily rose to his feet, bowing slightly. In a muffled, slurring voice he said, “Miss Duval, I am deeply grateful for the care you took of my wounds. I am sorry to have inflicted such distress upon you.”

“It was my job, sir. Frankly, I was amazed by your composure during what must have been a painful procedure.” Damn his eyes!

“A true gentleman must endure what the fates send,” he enunciated carefully. “May I offer you this chair? To be truthful, I feel somewhat dizzy; and this is the only other chair in the room. I can recline on the bed, but it would not be seemly for you to do so.”

Frowning slightly, Duval took the just-vacated chair, while Delapore lowered his thin body onto the room’s bed as if he were made of glass. Lowering his head slowly onto a pillow, he tiredly turned his attention to the two officers.

“Gentlemen, I am grateful you removed me from that place. I am not so naïve as to believe it was done for reasons of com­passion. What is it you need of me?”

Clay smiled slightly; he appreciated Delapore’s quick-wittedness despite his poor physical shape. “Indeed, Mr. Delapore. Although I was impressed by your standing up to a pig such as Colonel Baker and angered by his ordering an assault on a helpless man, I do indeed have an ulterior motive.”

The thin man on the bed sighed and closed his eyes. He then spoke in a low voice. “I thought as much. Let me anticipate you. I will betray no one into the hands of Colonel Baker. If that is the price of my freedom, I will not pay it; if it is the price of my life … I will not pay it. Pray give me a few moments to recover my strength, and I will return with you to the Old Capitol.”

Bierce felt an odd surge of respect for the Copperhead before them. Traitor he might be, but he seemed to be a true gentleman, and Bierce always respected true gentlemen. He spared a glance at Clay; as usual, the Colonel’s face gave little insight into what he might be feeling.

“I appreciate your intellect, Mr. Delapore,” replied Clay. “You cut to the heart of matters and save us all considerable time.” Suddenly Clay was aware of Duval’s lips beside his right ear, her whisper, barely audible.

“You and Bierce go for a little stroll, see the Executive Mansion. By the time you are back, I will have any information he possesses.”

Clay turned and looked into her dark, avid, hungry eyes, and shook his head slightly. “We will save that option for a last resort,” he replied in an equally soft whisper. He turned his attention back to the frail form on the bed. “Mr. Delapore, are you truly a traitor, or simply a fool?”

The eyes of the man on the bed opened and focused angrily on Clay. “If it is treason to believe that the sovereign states had the same right to leave the Union that they had to join it, to believe that the right of habeas corpus actually guaranteed a citizen a right to a jury trial, that the Constitution clearly recognized a property right in slaves, to give succor to those who held the same views, then yes, I am a traitor.” The fire went out of Delapore’s eyes, and the eyes closed. In a tired voice, he continued. “It would also seem that I was a fool to believe that the Government would respect the First Amendment.”

Quietly, Bierce replied. “You may be a traitor and a fool, but are you a murderer and assassin?”

Once again Delapore’s tired eyes became sharp. “What do you mean by that, sir?”

“You and your paper gave support to those who believed the same as you,” said Clay in an oddly unemotional voice. “Among them were those who would smuggle information and supplies to the traitorous government in Richmond. Beyond that, we have reason to believe that hiding among such low characters are even more despicable beings, monsters in human form who plan to bring murder and chaos to the country for no good reason save revenge. Tell me, Mr. Delapore, would you take joy in the death of President Lincoln?”

Delapore started, and then swung himself into a sitting position, looking intently at the three people who faced him. After a long moment, he said, “My uncle’s plantation was burned by General Wild’s brigade; they killed my uncle and left his only grandson a motherless waif. I could tell many other such stories.”

Duval felt an unpleasant sensation in the pit of her stomach. What the Rebel bastard had said recalled a similar, horrific event from her own past. With some anger, she realized the strange sensation was something akin to pity, an emotion she had seldom felt. Angrily, she shook her head to clear the annoying thought, while Delapore continued to speak.

“I had reason to wish Abraham Lincoln dead. Yet, what purpose would it serve now? Vengeance is an expensive luxury, and one the South can no longer afford. If he were to be killed now, and the South blamed, I tremble for what remains of the way of the life I loved. Besides … well, once late at night, I was taking a short cut through the cemetery when I saw to my amazement the President, entirely alone, standing by a tomb and weeping. I remained in the shadow of a tree for near an hour watching, Lincoln’s tears visible in the moonlight the whole time. Finally, he wiped his eyes with a large handkerchief and walked off in the direction of the Executive Mansion. When he was out of sight, I went over to the tomb where he had stood; it belonged to his son, the one who died three years ago. It is hard to completely hate a man grieving a child three years after his death.”

The room was now so silent that if a pin had been dropped, it would have sounded like a canon.

Finally, Delapore continued. “So, to answer your question, no, I do not wish Lincoln dead; for several reasons, I do not wish him dead. Further, I find it impossible to believe that any true son of the South would stoop to political murder. The dishonor entailed in assassination would prohibit it.”

“We will not argue the relative merits of our causes in the conflict that is rapidly coming to an end,” replied Clay. “Suffice it to say that most on both sides behaved with honor, while there were dishonorable scoundrels on both sides as well. For all its talk of gentility, the south had its Mosebys, its Quantrills … its Nathan Bedford Forrests.” An unearthly light briefly flickered in Clay’s eyes as he mentioned the last name.

“And the North had its Turchins, its Wilds, and its Clays,” replied Delapore. “Yes, I thought I recognized your name. The Devereaux family and their overseer died horribly, if I remember correctly.”

Clay tensed as if he were going to leap at the emaciated Delapore, but with a visible effort calmed himself. “Point taken. Indeed, you prove my point. The best of causes can harbor … monsters. So, let me ask you to consider what might happen in the South should Lincoln be murdered at the very time the war is ending?”

“There is no longer any prospect of separation. All that would be accomplished would be creating an everlasting hatred—a hatred that would cause even greater oppression to be visited on the South.”

“Nevertheless, there are those who might not see the situation as clearly as you. You and I may have chosen different sides in the current conflict, but we were both raised to hold dear the values of the South. I can respect your desire to protect those who hold your views, but could you respect yourself if you gave protection to an assassin?”

Once again Delapore’s tired eyes closed, and he sank back on the bed. “Even assuming there was an assassin, I do not know him to be one. The people that I know who are sympathetic to the South confine themselves to talk, for the most part. Those few whom I suspect are more active, limit themselves to carrying messages or smuggling quinine across the lines; hardly murderers, but Colonel Baker would hang them without benefit of trial. I could not bear that burden on my conscience.”

Bierce leaned forward in his chair. “Mr. Delapore, you must know by now that General Grant has paroled all of Lee’s army, including Lee himself. It is only a matter of time until similar forgiveness is granted … irregular supporters of the Confederacy.”

Without opening his eyes, Delapore replied, “A man could hang during that short time. No, with regret, I feel unable to be of help to you.” He opened his eyes, swung his legs off the bed, and rose unsteadily to his feet. “I am rested now and ready to return to my companions.”

Gazing at the emaciated Delapore expressionlessly, Clay spoke softly. “Many of your companions in the Old Capitol are in distress, their health deteriorating by the day. Is that not so?”

“That is so, Colonel Clay. It is especially hard on the children. Your … Colonel Baker has confined children of the women he has arrested with them.”

“What if I could tell you that I could secure the release of all prisoners not actually charged with violent crime who are now confined in the Old Capitol?”

“If I co-operate by betraying those I know into your hands.”

“If you co-operate. I emphasize that I am only interested in those plotting active sabotage or murder. I am operating under the authority of the Secretary of War, Colonel Baker’s superior. If I ask Stanton, he will order the releases.”

Swaying slightly, Delapore considered what Clay had said for some moments. Finally, he spoke. “Suppose such people never existed? Suppose even if they existed, they are unknown to me? Suppose even further that I know whom you speak, but deliberately aim you in the wrong direction?”

“As to your final supposition, it does not concern me. The very fact that you raise it shows your honor will not permit you to so act. As to the rest, all I require is your best efforts; even if they lead to nothing, I will secure the release of your compatriots in the Old Capitol.”

Still swaying, Delapore suddenly looked near to tears. “I do so wish to believe you, Colonel Clay. I fear I am a weak man. I fear returning to that place so much that I fear I am deluding myself as to your good faith.”

“Mr. Delapore, there is no reason why you should believe him,” said Bierce. “However, you must understand I have known Colonel Clay for two years now and have never known him to go back on his given word.”

Delapore suddenly sat down on the bed; a single tear flowed down his left cheek. His voice was calm as he said, “Very well. Very well. We have a bargain. I only wish I could be certain it was more for the others than for me.

“As you well know, there are many in Washington with emotional ties to the South. Relatives of those in the Confederate service, deserters from Lee’s army, and the like. I cannot believe who you seek would be among them; their concerns would be for themselves or their families, not the Cause. There are also several paroled Confederate soldiers, released in previous prisoner exchanges, who have chosen to stay in Washington, having had enough of war and fearful of being drafted back into the armies should they return home. They live on day labor and handouts and are in many cases pathetic; some still wear their Confederate uniforms for lack of money to buy other clothing, and this is such a common sight that just the other day I saw one in the full uniform of a Confederate artillery sergeant walking down Pennsylvania Boulevard, with no one giving him more than a glance. Such people are unlikely to have the fanaticism for the kind of horrid acts that you propose.

“Then you have some loud-mouthed braggarts who have spent the war proclaiming their devotion to the cause, while being careful not to risk their own skins. Most prominent among those is John Wilkes Booth and the sycophants who gather around him, at least when he is in town.”

“John Wilkes Booth of the acting Booths?” inquired Clay.

“The same. Actually, an impressive actor. I have seen him several times at Ford’s Theater. However, take my word for it; he is certainly no gentlemen. All of society talks of his relentless seductions and debauches.”

“Sounds like my kind of fellow,” interjected Bierce with a wolfish grin. Delapore favored the young major with a frown of distaste.

“It sounds as if you have a low opinion of those who oppose the Government’s policies without putting on the grey,” commented Clay. “Yet you yourself have not done so.”

Delapore sighed slightly. “I do not expect you to believe me any more than Colonel Baker. However, I will say it one more time. My opposition to the Lincoln government is due to its violation of the freedoms guaranteed by the Constitution. To take up arms against it would be treason, and I am no traitor, unless you consider defending and aiding those who suffer from the excesses of military government to be treason.

“I truly think you have been misinformed concerning a plot, for whatever motive. For instance, Booth is a vain, sensuous braggart, not the sort to risk his neck in active treason. Proceed if it will put your mind at ease; you can interview him for yourself. When he is in town, he stays at the National Hotel. Sometimes he visits a boarding house run by, I believe, a Mrs. Surratt; her son and the son’s friends admire Booth beyond reason, I have heard, and he enjoys basking in their admiration.”

Delapore hesitated, and then went on.

“There is one other individual that comes to mind, but I have never met him, and I know so little of him that I hesitate to mention him. I have heard a few whispers about a man who calls himself Colonel Ephraim Waite, who comes and goes mysteriously. Those who claim to have seen him say he dresses in black and pays well in old Spanish gold coins for information that would be of use to Richmond. I have no idea where he might be found in Washington, or even if he is more than a rumor. And that, gentlemen, is all that I know that could be of interest to you.”

Clay sat for a few moments, apparently lost in thought. Then, he stood up. “Mr. Delapore, it is not much, but it may possibly be enough to lead us in the direction of the conspiracy, or even better, to prove that the conspiracy does not exist. Mr. Delapore, I presume you have a home to return to.”

In a curiously unemotional voice, the emaciated man replied, “Yes, a townhome in Georgetown.”

“Major Bierce and I will escort you home.”

“I imagine your wife will be glad to see you,” added Bierce, who had noticed Delapore’s wedding ring.

Delapore looked at Bierce sadly. “My wife died two years ago while giving birth to a stillborn daughter.”

Bierce grimaced but did not make matters worse by attempting to apologize. The fact Delapore wore his wedding ring two years after his wife’s death told him more about the man than he was comfortable knowing.

In a surprisingly tender voice, Clay said, “Major Bierce and I will see you safely there.”

Duval added, “And I best go to my own room and get some rest. It has been a long day.” She made a display of stifling a yawn.

“You are late, Duval,” said Colonel Baker an hour later. He did not bother to rise from the park bench on which he sat, or to extinguish the cheap cigar he was smoking.

Duval hid the resentment she felt at this rude greeting. She looked across the small street separating Lafayette Park from the Executive Mansion, noting the lights flickering through the second-floor windows. “Is it a coincidence that you wanted to meet in a park bearing your Christian name?”

Lafayette Baker gave a nasty laugh. “It does amuse me. Besides, after dark it can be surprisingly quiet and unvisited. I prefer not to be seen talking to you; knowledge of our connection would limit your usefulness to me. Now, what is Clay doing with that traitor Delapore?”

Not for the first time, Duval felt regret that Allen Pinkerton had lost the political battle with his many enemies and had surrendered his security empire to the unpleasant officer sitting on the bench. Pinkerton had not been the fastest rabbit in the forest, thought Duval, but he had not treated her with such condescension. She found working for Baker much less enjoyable than working for Pinkerton.

“Colonel Clay suspects there is a major plot in motion, possibly to murder Lincoln, possibly involving other acts of violence. He feels that Delapore’s connections in the Copperhead community might have brought him some insights into who might be participating in such a plot.”

Baker uttered an amused snort. “And just why did Clay think Delapore would be straight with him?”

Smiling in anticipation of his reaction, Duval replied sweetly, “Because Clay promised to have Stanton release most of the prisoners in the Old Capitol.”

Exclaiming an obscenity, Baker surged to his feet, dropping his cigar in his outrage. “He has no right! Those traitors must remain where they are!”

“So, you can continue to demand from them and their relatives money in exchange for decent food and treatment,” said Duval. She had no feelings whatsoever for the prisoners but enjoyed seeing the coarse Baker’s outrage at the threat to his extra-legal income.

“Keep me informed about everything Clay does; you know the channels to use.”

“I will, providing my salary is promptly deposited to the account we have arranged. For some reason, the latest payment has not yet found its way into that account.”

“You will be paid,” growled Baker, who then stomped off into the darkness. When he was gone, Duval’s smirk was replaced by a thoughtful frown. She did not think keeping Baker informed would hurt Alphonso but wondered what she would do if it turned out it would. Pondering the future, she glided out of the park in the direction of Willard’s.

The dining room of the boarding house at 541 High Street was cramped. On the other hand, it provided an intimate setting for the five men gathered around the dining table.

At the head was John Wilkes Booth, probably the most famous actor in the country. Short, athletic, vain, his handsome face radiated an air of confidence and command. The other four men at the table gazed at him with looks that were not far short of worshipful.

To Booth’s left sat John Surratt and George Atzerodt. Surratt, the son of the owner of this boarding house, was a nervous, somewhat flabby young man whose hands were hardly ever still. Atzerodt was a lean, dark-visaged German immigrant, whose addiction to alcohol kept him from employment at anything more demanding than occasional day labor.

To Booth’s right sat David Herold and Lewis Powell. Herold, a puffy-faced pharmacist, had dreams of following his hero Booth onto the stage. Powell, a massively-muscled giant of a man, was a paroled Confederate prisoner of war who had attached himself to Booth before he could go home, and who followed Booth with the devotion of a dog, and about as much intelligence.

The five men sitting around the dining table were as different as five men could be. In fact, they were united by only three things: hatred of the Union in general and Abraham Lincoln in particular; love for the Confederacy and the idea of white supremacy; and the belief that now only John Wilkes Booth could snatch victory for the South literally from the jaws of defeat.

Booth had been holding forth for some time, but his worshipful followers still listened with rapt attention. Waving his small cigar for emphasis, he returned to a point he had made several times before that evening. He did not mind repeating himself, as after all, that is what actors do.

“So, the idea of kidnapping the President and holding him until all Confederate prisoners of war are released will no longer work. Andy Johnson hates the Confederacy as much as Stanton, and neither would release a single corporal to save Abe’s life. Therefore, we must decapitate the Government. Kill Lincoln, Johnson, Seward, and Stanton at the same time. Make it clear the South will never be governed against its will.”

“You them kill, others them replace,” said Atzerodt in his thick German accent.

“Then we or those who follow us will kill them,” replied Booth. “Soon, there will be no one in the North with the belly to take those positions. Furthermore, inspired by our actions, the South will rise up again; the North will simply not have the will to fight another war. We, in this room, will be the heroes of the entire South. Now, are we all agreed?”

An air of uneasiness went around the room; it was one thing to discuss assassinations in the abstract, another altogether to actually perform them. Still, Booth’s followers were hypnotized by his actor’s eloquence and did not pause to consider the gaps in Booth’s logic. A murmur of assent passed around the table.

“Very well. We will plan it for this Friday. Ford’s Theatre is putting on Our American Cousin, a dreadful old wheeze of a comedy that Laura Keene’s group simply will not let die. I have it on good authority that, for some reason, Abe will never miss a performance of that tripe. Well, Friday he will see it for the last time. I will check with the theater to make sure that he is coming; the Executive Mansion always lets the Ford brothers know when Lincoln means to come so they can trot out patriotic fluff to decorate the box. I will kill Lincoln. George, you will kill the Vice-President in his rooms at the National Hotel.” Atzerodt started but nodded his assent. “Lewis, you will answer for the Secretary of State. John and David, the two of you will handle Stanton; the Secretary of War may be guarded, so it might take two. We will all then make our ways separately south, where heroes’ welcomes await us.”

John Surratt responded with teenage bravado. “I can handle a slug like Stanton myself. I want the honor of performing the act on my own.”

Nervously, the squeamish Herold chimed in. “Ah, Mr. Booth, that will be fine with me. It might be better for me to be with Lewis. He doesn’t know this town near as well as me, and I can help him get down south.”

Booth shrugged negligently. “That’s all right then. We will meet here one more time on Thursday night. In the meantime, get reliable weapons, and assemble whatever would help you on a quick trip south.”

The door to the kitchen opened, and the tall, handsome Mrs. Surratt entered the room. “All right boys, time to pack it in,” she said in a pleasant, husky voice. “I need to lock up, and Johnnie needs his sleep.”

The meeting broke up agreeably; the conspirators liked the motherly widow and took no offense at her peremptory order. Booth was the last in line to go out the front door; before he could step outside, Mary Surratt touched his elbow and in a low voice said, “Your friend is here again, in the backyard. He would like a word with you.”

Frowning, Booth nodded and reversed direction. As he stepped into the darkened yard, Surratt softly locked the door behind him. Peering about, he spotted a dark form near the outhouse. Carefully picking his way through the cluttered yard, he walked over to the figure.

“Is the plan in place?” asked the figure without preamble.

“This Friday,” replied Booth.

“Do they suspect what will be happening in Virginia, and in New York?”

“No. They will be as astonished as the entire North.”

“Astonishment is hardly the word,” replied the dark figure. “The country will enter complete chaos. Big changes will be the order of the day; far, far bigger than pulling Richmond’s fat out of the fire.”

The dark figure laughed softly and was shortly joined by Booth.