Eighteen Pages More

By C. Fenway Braxton

A reporter plagued by inconsistencies in the Lincoln assassination thinks he has discovered the missing link until a visitor reveals he knew far less than he could have possibly imagined.

Together they embark on a journey to fill in the blanks each has and place the final pieces together.

Now if they could only keep the killers off their tails long enough...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martian Publishing
• Release date: Nov 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463015025

Book preview

EIGHTEEN PAGES MORE

By C. Fenway Braxton

MARTIAN PUBLISHING

Copyright 2019 by Martian Publishing Company

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

No portion of this volume may

be reproduced in any format

without the express written

permission of the copyright holder.

This is a work of fiction.

Any resemblance to persons or

organizations, living or extinct,

is entirely coincidental.

September 14, 1901

PROLOGUE

The Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo was a rousing success. It would make America the envy of the world for some years to come. Fresh off the rising tide of a successful first term – which saw the conclusion of the Spanish-American War and the expansion of American territories oversea – President McKinley was into his second term, wildly popular, speaking to the assembled crowds in the lofty tones of Manifest Destiny and the preeminence of American interests on the world stage.

Cheering, the crowd welcomed him among their number as he came down from the dais to shake hands with the loving populace and make his way into the next pavilion on the exposition fairgrounds.

Quite suddenly, and unexpectedly, a man stepped into the President's path. The President faltered a moment, his smile seeming to slip as he tried to fathom the other's intent. Momentum carried him to the side, a bit, and he made to go around the fellow. And this should have been easily accomplished but for the appearance of a metal device appearing in the man's hand.

The hand extended and two shots were fired before someone knocked him to the ground where he fell next to the man he had just shot. Another wrestled the pistol from the madman's grip while others surged forward to assist the fallen leader.

Some thought in horror that it was Garfield all over again, the tableau at the train station came to mind. Others, somewhat older, thought it was Lincoln all over again, but with more present than simply Rathbone to overpower the assailant and hold him over for justice.

There would be no mad manhunt through the wilds around Lake Erie, no drawn out roundup of conspirators, no hanging pronounced on one of the female gender. It was a fairly cut and dry case, once the President died, to visit vengeance on the deranged assassin.

With no nest where a plot was hatched and no alcoholic successor to draw the scorn of the populace, the transition went smoothly and the largesse of the nation was called up to rename the highest mountain in North America on their fallen leader.

That was a high as they could ever lift him.

Then, life returned to normal.

~~~~

January 9, 1903

CHAPTER ONE

I had not put much energy toward my interest in the Lincoln Assassination case for many years. As time wound down, those persons who had a part in the affair had made their way individually into the great beyond. Few were the witnesses – other than those sundry sort whose recollections either diminished over time or evolved into something transcending reality – who had any close dealings with the case. As a reporter, this lack was instrumental in my burying the case.

Then something occurred which brought my mind back to the previously singular event and in such a sinister state of mind that I could hardly contain myself from rushing to the attic and looking for the records I had previously stored.

But contain myself, I did. Caroline has always taken a dim view of my fevered interest in the case and its macabre implications, so with some constraint and a forceful resolve I was able to withhold my interest. But the subject kept itself foremost in my thoughts for many weeks.

Then her father was taken ill and the poor dear, in such a panic over the impending loss of her only remaining parent – though knowing it was surely to come sooner rather than later granting the man's advanced age – bid a speedy farewell as I placed her on the train to Trenton.

The house was quiet and I was left to my own devices. The children were all grown and moved out to form their own lives elsewhere. An occasional letter or call on the telephone were the only contact from that quarter and other intrusions were unlikely. The usual social contacts we laid claim to were of Caroline's construction and as they had all been informed of her rapid departure, I was certain none would come calling on my very monkish person.

The attic summoned and I answered the call at last. Kneeling in the half-light, pawing through carton after carton of stored years' worth of dust and memory paraphernalia, mussing the traveling suit I had worn to take Caroline to the depot, I was neither concerned nor bothered by the impropriety of my comportment or manners.

For almost a year and a half, a question had gnawed at me hoping for some chance to delve again into the hieroglyphics of earlier puzzle pieces acquired; after such long divide, I was now finally able to attempt an answer to the riddle.

Some short time later, I descended in triumph, disheveled, dirty, but smiling ear to ear lugging the treasure of El Dorado, it would seem, into the confines of my study. Caroline would have skinned me alive if I had scattered dust in any other room of the house other than my personal demesne. Memories came back in a flood along with the age-old questions of the case as I flipped through the ancient notes and clippings of the most horrific crime in history. A singular event, I had thought at the time, as it was inconceivable that the horrific event would ever find its equal.

Today I would have to alter that judgment as two other Presidents had followed Lincoln's violent exit. Garfield some twenty years ago and now President McKinley.

The shooters of the latter two leaders had neither the stature nor the intelligence of Wilkes Booth – whom most people now call by his first name, though I gather he rather disdained the commonplace moniker – but had all paid for their crime in a much less dramatic a fashion than Booth.

Charles Guiteau was hanged June 30, 1882, and Leon Czolgosz was executed by electric chair Oct. 29, 1901, just over a month after the killing of McKinley.

The latter seems to have been influenced by the anarchists and the other by the Oneida Community, though it was hard to see how this group could have led so naturally to assassination.

Lincoln died April 15, 1865, killed by a single bullet to the head. Garfield was shot twice July 2, 1881: the first grazed his arm, the second lodged behind his lung. McKinley was also shot twice this past September 6, 1901: the first grazed his shoulder, and the second lodged behind his kidney.

Bits and pieces of information flowed through my fingers as I searched for the tidbit that had beckoned me to search through the dust and spiderwebs, the din and clatter of history. And then, I had it.

On that fateful Friday evening, April 14, 1865, Robert Lincoln spent the evening with John Hay, the President's Secretary, where they learned of the crime of the century. The next page clipped to it had the next piece in the series: Robert Lincoln, then Secretary of War, was standing next to Garfield when he was shot.

I searched around for a moment on my desk for the recent clip I had found: Robert Lincoln was currently President of the Pullman Car Company and was at the Pan-American Exposition at the express request of the President when McKinley was shot. The article did not mention if he was anywhere near the victim at the time but John Hay was there, as McKinley's Secretary of State.

Was there something here that I had missed all those years ago? Fragments of facts, pieces of the puzzle, seemed laying in a heap before me and though I had been over them countless times I had the strangest feeling I had been looking at the information the wrong way round.

But how else could I have been looking at it? Was there some connection between Robert Lincoln and John Hay that I had never sought out before? Was there something going on here behind the scenes?

And how could I find out?

Of all the people involved in the horrible affair some thirty-six years before, I could not think of many still remaining alive. Stanton had died years before but I cringed at thinking of contacting him even if he were still among the living. Of course, I could contact one of Caroline's spiritualist friends and hold a séance to try and contact his spirit as some had already tried in eliciting assistance from Booth's shadow. But that notion was as fleeting as it was humorous.

Pulling more papers from the box, I encountered the missive I had posted the day of Lincoln's funeral. Caroline and I had gotten to a point in the investigation where we became convinced the true plotters were still among us in the City while forces were spread far and wide in search of the inestimable Mister Booth. The fear was so strong upon as that we ceased our investigation of the crime and I wrote down everything we had uncovered – as well as a few surmises – and sent it off in a packet to myself at my Father's address.

The envelope had been recovered by myself only a few months afterward but I had never opened the packet. Even now I recalled concisely everything I had put to paper on that fevered evening so long ago. So much so that opening it now would give me no fresh insights, I was certain.

I was as certain that there must be a thread of information we had overlooked earlier, but that we must have encountered somewhere along in our travels otherwise the niggling thought would not have entered my brain. It nagged and tugged for my attention but I could not nail it down with any degree of certitude, nor ascertain which direction from which it pulled at me.

Louis Weichmann, a boarder at Mary Surratt's house in the City and longtime friend of John Surratt, had moved to Indiana, last I heard, and may still be alive. But I had no way to contact him even if I knew him to be alive.

Doctor Mudd had lived for many years after being freed from prison but he was already gone eighteen years now. An earlier attempt at contacting the man resulted in a rather sizeable bruise on my arm from being struck by that man's cane. He may have been old at the time but his vigor had not seemed to have diminished, nor his reluctance to discuss the case.

Surratt married and moved to Baltimore where he took a position with the Baltimore Steam Packet Company, a position he still held at my last enquiry. Perhaps he might be the first to try since I did have the telephone exchange for the company offices in Baltimore.

I pondered this character a moment. It is true that he had made a complete admission of his involvement in the case some years ago in Rockville, Maryland, shortly before he took up a teaching position in that city, but he seemed to have put off reporters after that time. Any attempt to draw him out on the subject had brought nothing but a cold stare. But perhaps time had softened his stance in this regard. Especially since two other presidents had now been killed.

It seemed unlikely that Surratt would have much knowledge of Robert Lincoln or John Hay, but I would never know until I broached the subject.

Hesitantly, I pulled a pad of paper with me and walked to the telephone in the entry hall. I cranked and asked the operator for the Baltimore exchange. Getting connected to the company in less than a minute. It seemed propitious.

Good morning, Baltimore Steam.

Good morning, madam, could I speak to John Surratt, please?

Yes, just a moment while I connect you.

In a moment his familiar raspy, southern drawl was heard, sounding much like it had the last time I spoke with him some twenty years previously. Good morning, John Surratt speaking, how may I help you?

Mister Surratt, you do not know me but I was wondering if you could help me with a problem I am having. Do you recollect any connection of either yourself or Mister Booth with either John Hay or Robert Lincoln?

There was a pause. I am afraid, sir, that you have me at a disadvantage. To which shipment are you referring?

This is not about a shipment, Mister Surratt, but whether or not you know of any connection between Wilkes Booth and the son of President Lincoln.

The pause was even longer this time. Sir, I do not have any knowledge of what you are discussing. You have reached the wrong party. Do not call back again.

And the line went dead.

I looked at the receiver strangely – I am sure – before replacing it on the hook. My earlier expectation seemed comically naïve in retrospect. I should have realized the man had been hounded for years about the issue and probably wished nothing more than to forget his youthful mischiefs.

Staring at the telephone a moment, I sighed and realized I should rather search out someone else that still had an abiding interest in the case. But who? I returned to the study to sift through more records and cogitate on the idea.

The only other major personality of the era that I could find mention of that was still alive was John Singleton Mosby, commander of the famous Confederate rangers. There was some talk, years ago, that he had been involved with the extraction of Booth – and the captive President, supposedly – to safety in Virginia. As it seemed there had been no further investigation of this connection, it seemed to me that it had been quietly shunted to the side. But for what reason?

Mosby had worked for President Grant in several capacities and was now working for the Department of the Interior but I was unsure if he worked out of the office in the City or at some other location across the country.

I returned to the hallway and snatched up the phone again, still unsure of how I should broach the subject to the former commander. Perhaps by reminiscing about the old days…

Clutching the receiver, I turned the crank.

After the connection was made, I heard: Department of the Interior, Undersecretary Clark. How may I be of assistance?

Yes, good morning, Mister Undersecretary, I was wondering if I might have a word with John Mosby.

Just a moment and I will see if he's in.

The pause found me crossing my fingers and holding my breath. Then there was a click on the line.

Hello? I hoped I did not sound too much like the anxious bride.

Yes, hello. I am sorry to say that Mister Mosby is on assignment in Wyoming at the present. I do not have a number where he can be reached but if you call the Wyoming office, you might be able to leave a message for him.

All right. Thanks you very much, Mister Undersecretary.

You're most welcome. Have a good day.

And I was left staring at the receiver. Was I the only human being who even cared about the affair anymore? Why did everything seem so nice and rosy a package to everyone else while I still had questions?

I sighed one stage away from total defeat and sat again at my desk, toying with the sundry notes and clippings collected over some thirty-odd years of searching. Perhaps there was no one but myself anymore, so why did it seem so clear to others and so cloudy to me?

Perhaps if I sorted all my notes in a logical sequence, the matter might clarify itself to my mind and end my ageless yearning.

Removing my jacket, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

~~~~

CHAPTER TWO

I was poring over a note from one of the Executive Mansion staff – they call it the White House these days – that mentioned the bewildering sight of Robert Lincoln burning a lot of his father's papers just after the assassination, with him saying that it would cause irreparable harm to his father's memory should they be discovered.

What the papers contained was never learned nor what irreparable harm would fall upon the Lincoln legacy. Another note said a reporter in Springville, Illinois, reported Robert doing a similar act with more of his father's papers that had been shipped from the City.

Trying to figure what sort of papers could possibly have marred the man's legacy was at the forefront of my thoughts when the phone rang. Not expecting a call, I was on the verge of simply ignoring it – so lost in my study was