Eighteen Pages

By C. Fenway Braxton

John Wilkes Booth, an actor and patriot for the Southern Cause, found himself in a difficult situation. For months he had planned to kidnap the tyrant Lincoln and, with Lee's surrender at Appomattox, the time to act was running short. He only had more shot to accomplish his purpose: Good Friday, April 14th, 1865, and at a location he was familiar with, Ford's Theater.

In the audience that evening, in the packed house, was a young reporter, Donald Etheridge. He was not fond of the theater but attended at the urging of a young lady in whom he was interested. Imagine his shock as the evening unfolded!

But his shock was nothing compared to Booth's. As the actor entered the Presidential Box at the appointed time, he saw someone shoot the Tyrant and then attack him. Realizing he was being set-up, he fled the building and the city.

During the next agonizing week, the actor-turned-fugitive has to try and piece together what went wrong as he waited for his escape from Maryland. He wrote his ruminations on eighteen pages of his small "diary".

Meanwhile, the young reporter spends the week in the capital attempting to piece together the story from his end, gathering evidence from the many witnesses not rushed into imprisonment in the Old Capitol, as well as from the constantly changing news reports passed out daily from Secretary Stanton.

What he and his fiancee discover is a conspiracy which seems to have little or no connection with either Booth or Stanton, and seemingly very little to do with Lincoln either.

Whereas Booth concludes the case to his own satisfaction before climbing into the boat that will take him to safety in Virginia, Donald is horrified at what he has discovered going on in Washington. But who can he possibly tell the truth to, without finding himself arrested or killed as well?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martian Publishing
• Release date: Apr 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476066592

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Palm Sunday

APRIL 9, 1865

It was not the end of the world. The end of their part in the drama, perhaps, but at least a momentary cessation of the hostility of hunger and decimation which had dogged them these past months.

The General rode erect on Traveler, looking more like the victor than the vanquished, exhibiting no outward sense his feelings of betrayal. The man riding beside him tried to emulate his commander though the weight of the crushing defeat and resultant humiliation made such outward display difficult.

What do you suppose will become of us now? Col. Marshall spoke after they had ridden in silence for some distance from the small grouping of buildings called the town of Appomattox Court House.

Lee grunted. The war is not over yet, Colonel, except for our small part in it.

But, the Colonel's anguish got the better of him, they will claim Grant was a better general than you, sir.

The distinguished gray beard turned toward the younger man and a smile slowly creased the ancient face. "Charles, is that what bothers you so? Never mind what history will tell about it. History has a way of changing to match the tenor of the society. Caesar and Bonaparte both have been viewed as tyrants and then saviors as the years progressed and I can see the same happening for us as well, regardless of the outcome of this conflict.

As for that man being a better general, it depends on the school of thought. Many will say that a general's task is to win battles – and that he has done often enough – but I believe the general's task is to win intelligently and spare the lives of his men. This is something Grant has missed in his education.

The Colonel nodded. Yes, he usually has lost two to one in most the battles.

At least two to one! And that did not matter if he won or lost. It is a barbarian's attitude: throw as much brute force against the enemy as you can until you are victorious. He shook his head and stared at Traveler's ears. By simple attrition he could lose three for every one of us until the Confederacy was depopulated and there would still be five million Yankees left standing. You can win a war in that manner, but that is not generalship. Any student of war could see as much.

The Colonel still wondered what would become of them but hesitated to repeat the question. Sensing the awkwardness, perhaps, the General spoke again.

He would have me contact the President – the other generals as well – and advise capitulation. Grant thinks like a politician and will probably do better in that arena, as I am certain that is his ultimate goal. But generals do not make policy, they follow the policy their leaders make. His demeanor changed, lips tightening. I sorely miss Thomas at times like this.

A wave of sadness for his commander passed over the Colonel. Yes, General Jackson would have bolstered our forces…

Certainly! But he would have done more than that. He was a rock, a deeply devout mainstay in this sea of annihilation. Whenever I doubted what course the Almighty would have me take, Thomas could invigorate my faith. He sighed. I could have used a dozen of him, many times over. Do you know, at the end, he came to the realization that the man who shot him did not do so accidentally? He reasoned that it had been purposed by the enemy – I think we all had prices on our heads and I'm surprised no one ever took up my bounty… No, Charles, he raised a gloved hand to forestall any protest, "being the frail creatures we are, greed affects some to do truly horrible things. But Thomas – knowing it was such an act – said to take no action against the man because it was obviously God's will that he remove from us. I did not fully understand at the time, but I think I understand more clearly now.

Because the enemy uses such tactics does not mean the Almighty condones their use; because they waste their men so horribly does not mean we do the same; because they adhere to treachery and assassination does not make it right for civilized gentlemen. Thomas was correct: do not judge his killer, there is a Greater Judge for that hearing.

The Colonel nodded, satisfied with the answer. So, everything is in God's hands.

Is it not always so, Colonel?; always so. And so it is now as well. And today is Palm Sunday. It was so in the original Week of Passion, and will be so this week as well.

Oh! Is that why your message to Johnston and Mosby was…

Exactly so, Charles. They should wait a week to see what happens.

And the end of the Passion Week was…

Just so, Colonel, else our sacrifice would be for naught.

The Colonel was deep in his thoughts the remainder of the ride.

~~~~

Good Friday

APRIL 14, 1865

CHAPTER ONE

Sleep had come raggedly, when it had been kind enough to come at all.

He was still staring at the ceiling as the dawn crept into the room like an accusing finger. The watch in his hand, ticking the seconds, dragged him ever forward into the day. The idle thought flickered through his mind: was the anxiety from trepidation of the act itself, or the anticipated relief of having the task put firmly behind him at last?

He recalled the old gypsy's reading: Your lines are all criss-crass. You will live a charmed life, but it will be brief and you will die violently. He had thought that meant he would go off to war and be killed which was why he had promised his mother he would not join in the fight. Still, his mother's prophecy remained: he would endure the fires of persecution but emerge as a patriot for his country in the end. That was the road he had chosen and the final act was fast approaching.

He might never be able to journey to the stage anywhere in the Union again after this act, but he would be a patriot in his country – his true country – the Confederacy. Still there was the end of the drama to be enacted before that would come to pass. He rolled over and threw his legs off the edge of the bed; time to get started.

It was Good Friday in Washington and the city had been alive in celebration since Tuesday last with the news from Appomattox Courthouse: Lee had surrendered, the war was over… almost. And the great John Wilkes Booth lay in the gathering dawn in the throes of the worst 'opening night jitters' he had ever encountered. Was he looking forward to the deed or its being finished with?

Both, he mused, as he stirred his body into motion. Sounds beyond the windows were muted, not as brisk as the usual had he remained in his own room at the National. He rose and turned back to the form of the woman he had passed the evening with. Her hair disarrayed on the pillow seemed a bed of coals on which she rested her dreams. Freckles ran the course on the entirety of her body – yes, every square inch.

Ella had been a comfort – as he had expected – but her coupling had been but meager bulwark against his internal enemy; the anxiety had found him regardless. Though the comfort was not enough, it was good to have any comfort at this time. And the child growing in her womb was another promise of the future. It was not something he had considered, but perhaps the Almighty had seen fit to gift him with some stake in the future on a more personal level; a deeper meaning of his actions on the generations to come.

Taking his clothing from the chair upon which they had been carefully draped in the rush of the evening before, he dressed slowly, mechanically, thoughts elsewhere. Had they planned this thing well enough? Were they enough people? Was every contingency accounted for? In the rush to get this thing accomplished before the South was a mere footnote in history, he felt that nagging impression that something had been overlooked.

Ella stirred and brought him back to the present. Eyes closed, her hand sought him. Not finding him, her eyes opened.

Wilkes? Must you leave so soon?

Yes, my dear, he shrugged into his jacket, then adjusted his vest. Business calls and I must attend to certain matters.

Will you be back this evening? Accusation and hope both in the question.

He smiled. I will try and return sometime this afternoon. Who knows what may come of the day's enterprise.

She rolled to his side of the bed and slid her legs to the floor. Clutching the sheet to her, she rose and gave him a quick kiss. Don't forget, now.

Oh, I shan't, I shan't. Smiling over his shoulder, he placed his hat on his head and went for the door.

A dream skirted the edge of his consciousness. The full content slipped from him but the intent seemed to play with his senses. Had Lee a higher purpose? When the news arrived of his surrender at Appomattox Court House, he had cursed the man for what he had assumed a coward's solace. But what if the message was deeper than the face of it? Was there some significance that it had been Palm Sunday or was that mere coincidence?

Descending the stair he reddened somewhat chastened at the personal affront it had seemed, only to recall it was his failure that had brought it on. Had he succeeded in removing Lincoln from the equation before now the scene at Appomattox might have been very different.

Monday evening the word had arrived from the front; Tuesday he had steeled himself to the necessity of immediate action. Failure stared him harshly in the face: act NOW or forever allow the evil injustice to perpetuate.

In the greater scheme of things no one would know of his failure. Friends and family already understood his stand and would think him chastened sufficient by this outcome, but he was not just working toward the salvation of the South but of the North as well. Did they not understand that if the tyranny over the Confederate States continued it should be visited on the North as well? His actions could save them all – though they knew it not.

It was not for personal glory he did this but for the safety of his descendants and those of his family and friends. That was what his father had instilled in him by naming him after the great John Wilkes: selflessness.

Walking across the small lobby, nodding toward the faces turning toward him and smiling, greeting, touching the brim of his hat in acknowledgment of the ladies he passed – yes, they were all 'Ladies' to him regardless of social standing; a Southern attitude he clung to with pride – he stepped out into the sunlight of Ohio Avenue on this glorious Good Friday.

He breathed deeply, closing his eyes a moment to savor the breath. It was Good to be alive on this Good day, and Good to be about the Good Lord's work. He thought it so, even if others close to him did not see it. His steps turned east toward the National Hotel, where he should have spent the night past – would have if sleep had not so doggedly eluded him – and where he was supposed to have met his small band of stalwarts for breakfast.

The dream of General Lee rushed past his awareness again. There was some message there he could not completely grasp but its intent seemed painfully clear to him now: the General did what he had to do to save his men from certain starvation. And the fault for that could justly be laid at his own feet even as they carried him down the avenue. If he had succeeded in his endeavors would the soldiers have been starving?

Had he captured the Tyrant before now, supplies and reinforcements would have been available to Lee and his troops before now: his failure had brought about the dreadful humiliation at Appomattox Court House.

Across the expanse of Pennsylvania Avenue ahead he saw a small cluster of men – worried looking men – beside the entrance to the National Hotel. And he saw the relief in their faces when they noticed his approach. Atzerodt waved, Herold smiled and Paine nodded at his approach, each as different as day is to night. He bitterly wished Surratt had not had to leave the City at this crucial juncture. The trio came forward to meet his approach.

Morning, fellows. Did you all sleep well?

Herold smiled sheepishly. Slept better than I woke. Not being able to find you and all.

A slight smile crossed Paine's face, evident more in his eyes than his mouth. It would seem you were the one who could not sleep so well, Wilkes.

He reddened slightly. Yes, indeed. The worst case of stage fright I ever entertained, I must admit.

Thought maybe you done ditched us, run off, Atzerodt muttered. When we seen your bed had not been slept in.

I told 'em, Herold nodded like the young pup he was, said you wouldn'ta run off 'cause your stuff was still in your room.

Paine grunted.

Well, he didn't think so, Herold added quickly, but George here was a mite peeved by it.

The older man nodded. Won't deny it. After all these delays… He shrugged. I figgered it was just another one.

Booth threw an arm around his shoulder and squeezed his older comrade. So I should have thought myself had the situation been reversed. But I am much gratified to find you all together here on this fine morning awaiting my arrival. He released Atzerodt after a squeeze and nodded to each of the others.

Is it all set for tonight then? Herold asked.

Yes, by God! we shall at last be rid of this Tyrant from our midst. And the wounds his war has wrought can at last be healed. Wilkes could not contain his flair for the dramatic – he was an actor, after all – even if the drama was fairly well wasted on the likes of the men walking beside him.

I sure wish you could wait until John gets back.

No time, my good man, no time at all. Besides, I think he has quite given up this enterprise as a waste of time, like Sam and Michael. There is not another minute to waste. We have had to wait until Satan came out of his feral cave and this is the first chance since word arrived of Lee's surrender. I do hope Johnston can hold out against the demons until word of our actions can reach them in the Carolinas.

Do you really think it could turn the tide?

Booth stopped and cast a sideways glance at the younger man. Do you have any doubt? It's not as if opportunities were piling up before us, you know. We have to grasp what Good Providence has set before us! Strike a blow in the manner we have been availed. While we still have the time God has so fortuitously bestowed upon us.

He looked around the sober faces and nodded. Shall we go in for some breakfast, then?

As they moved inside the hotel's restaurant, Booth mused that his small group had a better chance than the others – and, yes, he knew about the others trying to get at Lincoln – but those military groups were probably being watched, to be thwarted like Harney had been a few days ago. Imagine: attempting to blow up the White House to disrupt the war effort! That would have had no effect but to move the Tyrant to a more unassailable position. Fools! And they had promised to help him any way they could! Bureaucrats!

And those other military men who had attempted kidnapping Lincoln on the road north of town last autumn had been equally useless. Did they not understand that this was not some simple military operation? This affair demanded finesse.

He was certain his small group could finally have the success denied them on their previous attempts.

Are you certain he will go to the theater? George spoke even before they sat.

Booth looked around. Most the restaurant was empty, it being quite late for breakfast, but he should hate to be overheard. He sat. Of course. The man is, if nothing else, predictable. He conveniently forgot his absence at the earlier kidnapping attempt. And with the war being over – he thinks – he shall probably enjoy a diversion. He likes the theater and it is Friday evening, you know. He winked. And I did nudge Grover's to send him an invitation.

But are you certain he will go?

Herold nodded. Wouldn't you?

Atzerodt muttered something unintelligible.

Won't know until we know, old fellow. Paine grinned. George scowled.

Booth shook his head. George, I swear, Davy here is grinning ear to ear and you're fretting like a mother hen. Leave off, eh? He leaned forward and lowered his voice. Of course he will go. He usually does after a crisis has passed and there is no better form of relaxation available to him. Davy snorted.

The chatter ceased for a time. They ordered. Fresh biscuits were placed on the table and disappeared quickly, each ruminating on their own thoughts. Booth looked over his band: not a group to encourage excitement to any professional, but then neither would they attract surveillance by the authorities; still he knew them to all be true sons of the South and dedicated to their enterprise.

David Herold, the youngest of the group, had been a lowly pharmacy clerk, living with seven sisters. He had helped with Booth's earlier enterprise of running contraband into the South. His knowledge of the Southern Maryland escape route was vital.

George Atzerodt, the eldest of the group, a short German-accented mouse of a man. Hesitant to do anything to draw attention to himself, he nevertheless spent his time ferrying goods and agents across the Potomac at Port Tobacco, aiding the Confederate communications across the Federal lines since the beginning of this War of Aggression.

And then there was Lewis Paine, one of Mosby's best. Only once or twice had he been able to draw the young man out at all and those revelatory chats were eye opening. He was a veteran – something Booth himself had longed to be – and had served with the regular forces as well as with Mosby's Irregulars. His activities had been surreptitious as well, spying in various locales under various names and disguises. He had even been on the stage! Harrison, Renfrew, Powell, Wood; Booth could not recall all the names the man had used in his exploits from the Carolinas to Gettysburg, but he had certainly packed a lot of activity into his not so many years.

Each brought with him his own assistants and contacts as well as his own strengths to the cause. Wilkes was proud to call each a friend, and a partner.

Soon the meal was behind them and they returned to the street, where they could converse with more ease.

George was still agitated. Do we have enough to carry this thing off? I'd feel more comfortable if we had a larger crew.

More people would only draw more attention to us. We had a larger force on the attempt last month and it did us no good. Most of them fretted so much that they have given up the enterprise.

Yeah, George, David grinned, walking around with a large group, armed to the teeth, would certainly have the Provost Marshall's interest, don't you think?

And we do not require more men, George. I know you should prefer to wait at Port Tobacco on your boat for us to arrive and David here to wait at Surrattsville to guide us south, but your boat will only carry a small number across the river so we all have to run the full course.

Yes, but… The German worried his lips a moment. How do you know your contact – this Major Harris – can be trusted? He did foul us up on the kidnapping last month.

Oh, that is your worry! Well, he explained that…

And isn’t this fellow from a northern state?

Yes, George, he is. But that doesn't mean much in this war. Don't you remember Lewis telling us about 'Big Yankee' Ames and his friends? They deserted from the New York infantry when Abe announced his emancipation. Said that wasn't what the war was all about and went over to the Confederacy. Been one of Mosby's best men. Right, Lewis?

Paine, silent as usual, simply nodded.

And with the war winding down, the Major knows his usefulness to the cause is coming to an end. That's why he will be joining us this time.

You're sure he's gonna be there?

You were worried earlier that I had skipped out too, you remember. Ease your worries, my friend.

Worry never gained an inch in any contest.

That's right, Lewis. George, listen to good advance and rest easy. Don't worry until things go wrong – if even then – I much prefer action to worry. He looked around the street. By tomorrow evening you will be back in Virginia, hailed as heroes.

And perhaps Maryland will finally secede and join her sisters.

That's right, Davy, exactly right.

Having grown up in Baltimore, Booth was entirely convinced the state would have 'gone South' if Lincoln had not arrested the duly