Sky Parlor: A NOVEL

by Stephen Perkins

  “I’m afraid arrangements have already been made for the fourteenth of April, when Booth is scheduled to perform at Ford’s theater along with the magician you read about – Abigail de Orleans. The president will be completely vulnerable because not only will security be ordered to stand down, but it can be done during intermission, while the audience retreats to the lobby for refreshments and concessions. The president’s White House steward is secretly on my payroll. He tells me that on the night Abigail de Orleans visited, the president greatly warmed to her and, given what I told you about that incident along the Potomac, he may even have developed romantic inclinations. It is likely, that during the intermission while the first lady retreats to the lobby with most of the theater patrons, he will seek to steal away to her backstage dressing room. This is the best solution to do what needs to be done, but at the same time,” Grant elaborated between desperate puffs on the dwindling stub of his cigar, “keep our hands clean in the whole god-damned affair. After all, how would it look to the public if, they suspected their president’s closest and most trusted confidants had conspired in his assassination?”

  Though syllables formed on the secretary’s stunned lips, the general’s brutal frankness had stricken them mute. Attempting to rise from his chair, Stanton felt his unsteady limbs quake with a foul mercury’s terrible virus. Slowly, he turned and shuffled toward the green curtained window. Observing the horizon’s snarl of gray clouds had grown ever more threatening, he tried to ignore the twitch of his agonized nerves, pounding beneath the skin like sadistic mallets.

  “I know this sort of thing may offend your otherwise delicate sensibilities, Mister Secretary,” Grant’s softened tone attempted to reassure, “but given the president’s increasingly debilitated mental and physical condition, in my opinion, there could be no greater, merciful ending. As I’m sure you’ve read from Washington’s society papers, the young Booth is a crack pistol shot, and when he fires from close quarters it will be over quickly. The president won’t suffer any excruciating pain. Hearing of the president’s death by the hand of a Confederate agent will recommit the people to supporting the North’s aggressions against the South. But you should also know, Edwin, there is an ulterior motive involved here,” Grant began to elaborate while still hungrily puffing at the cigar.

  Stanton felt his limbs shudder, when a shock of lightning sparked from beneath the gray clouds gathered on the far horizon.

  “I can promise you whatever you’ve already got planned,” Stanton hissed in a sand-papery whisper, “I don’t want there to be any mistakes.”

  The general sprang from his chair and, with the burning cigar stump tightly affixed between his thumb and forefinger, he gestured with an upturned palm.

  “You have my word, Mister Secretary,” Grant reassured. “Booth will be the patsy but will be allowed to escape, while arrangements have been made so that the body of Abigail de Orleans is found at the conclusion of what the public will be told was an extensive manhunt. There won’t be any official autopsy for identification purposes, obviously. But the public will be told otherwise and, they’ll believe it. Besides, I didn’t like the way Lincoln allowed this magician to dress me down. It was embarrassing and a thorough disgrace, Edwin. But you should also know, for posterity’s sake and, the future security of the Union, part of the plan is to seize the blueprints for this magician’s machine. I have it on good authority they’ve been officially registered at the patent office. Once control of the patent is gained, both of us can make a profit licensing the rights to whomever. My friends in the banking industry tell me, there is a fellow named Edison, a struggling inventor who may find some practical purpose for them. Let’s face it, Edwin, the newfound efficiency of machines and the opportunities of the industrial revolution are where humanity’s future lies. I can foresee a time when humans could be convinced to develop an affinity with machines and maybe, become so dependent and even enamored, they will want to somehow merge with them. Over a period, maybe a century or more, this hologram technology could entice humanity to even want to turn into machines. There will come a time when a war’s battlefield will not be fought with armed soldiers over some patch of land, but inside the skull, for possession of the mind. Just like this silver light cube, machines can be programmed right, told what to do and when. Just imagine, Edwin, when that day arrives, how easy it will be to program and control everyone?”

  The secretary began to tingle with intrigue, and he tore his lingering gaze from the window’s storm-threatening vista.

  “I had never considered nor realized, until now, General, how prophetic your prediction may turn out to be – an efficient world governed by a council of technocrats, and the human spirit merged with machines. It would be foolish to deny the changes happening around us. For I have indeed General,” a grave Stanton acknowledged, gesturing with his hands, “observed the truly remarkable capabilities of this miraculous machine described in your letter, firsthand. I believe gaining control of those patents is a most worthy cause.”

  “Precisely, Edwin,” the general snorted. “That is why, while the press maintains Booth was the assassin and builds him up to be a martyr for the Confederacy, we must also take Abigail de Orleans out of the picture, completely. Then, my friends with the Pinkertons will persuade and direct the major newspaper editors to toe the official line. You see, what I didn’t tell you in the letter is that Orleans gave a good old song and dance, about how she happened upon this magical device. Suspecting this young woman, this trickster, had handed over a bad bill of goods, sure enough, when I wired the patent office to ask about it, they wired back and said the patent is filed under the name of some European fellow named Nicola Tesla.”

  Grant drew closer to the secretary’s desk and Stanton felt his heart palpitate in time with the sound of the general’s black boots as they scuffed along on the varnished wooden floor.

  “Only thing is Edwin, I had one of my Pinkerton contacts investigate further, and wouldn’t you know, Tesla is some small child, the child of a servant working on the estate of the Duke of Orleans – it’s a stolen identity. The name Nicola Tesla is one of the many phony aliases used by this royal aristocrat to disguise herself, this traveling magician, Abigail de Orleans. But after she’s gone, we can continue to use it as a front to build an historical legend. As you know, the public can always be duped with a fallacious but robust appeal to authority.”

  With the general’s steely gaze fixed upon him, Stanton’s lips became a tangle of wriggling calamity. For a woman, he considered, de Orleans was uncommon, both formidable and cunning.

  “Very well, General Grant,” the secretary finally resolved, “But allow me to say, I don’t like this – about the president, I mean. No matter what history has demonstrated, these sorts of actions are only tolerable when necessary, and permissible only when they are ultimately successful. I trust your Pinkerton agents will be successful in handling this young actor, Booth, and the editors at all the major news periodicals. The consequences of even the most miniscule mistake would be inconceivable.”

  “Not only will things go smoothly, but the vice president is on board with this as well,” Grant darkly replied. “You have my word as both an officer of the Union’s forces and a sterling gentleman – there will be no mistakes.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Grant took once last puff on his cigar. With poisonous dread still surging in his crestfallen blood, Stanton watched as the conspiring general swaggered towards the door. “And General Grant,” the secretary’s trembling voice uttered, “may God have mercy on all of us for the history we are about to make.”

  The general whirled on the heels of his tarnished black boots.

  “Tell me, Edwin,” Grant replied, “how merciful can God be, when history’s pages are soaked in the blood of dead kings and tragic martyrs?”

  From outside, Stanton heard the charging hooves of an approaching horse. Peering through the curtained window, the secretary saw a uniformed currier hastily dismount and rush
over the stone walk towards his door. Nearly breathless, the currier burst into the study. Upon seeing the general, he halted while his burning lungs heaved in desperation to regain his breath.

  “Well, what is it? Speak up, boy,” Grant chided the currier.

  “Mister Secretary – General,” the gasping currier finally said, “I bring word that President Lincoln has just met with General Lee at the Appomattox courthouse.”

  Grant wheeled on the heels of his black boots. His eyes, while centered upon the secretary, molded into probing slits.

  “What else?” Grant huffed.

  Stanton’s velvet soft jowls became embroidered with stitches of alarm.

  Regaining his composure and his breath, the currier assumed a formal posture as if he were standing at attention during a military roll call.

  “Not only that,” the currier’s voice trembled while the general peered over his shoulder, “but I also bring word that General Lee has successfully sued for peace and that President Lincoln, with President Davis’s signed agreement, has negotiated and finalized the Confederacy’s formal terms of surrender.”

  How dare that rail-splitting bastard Kentuckian bard try to outmaneuver me!

  In rapid order, Grant’s stony features sculpted into grotesque dismay. Stanton began to wince as in deliberation, the general’s heavy boots stomped forward. Grant drew close enough for the secretary to detect the strong hint of whiskey on the general’s breath.

  “I hope you take good care to remain with me in this plan of ours, Stanton,” the general’s stern, deep baritone warned. “If you betray me now, I shall see to it you’re carved into pieces and fed to my fox hounds.”

  6

  Ford’s Theater, Washington D.C.

  (April 14, 1865)

  From out of the hushed darkness grew a steady rumble of awed murmurs. Donned in a dignified black top hat and plaid wool suit, a lone figure appeared, showered in magnificent swells of angelic footlights.

  Enraptured, the audience swooned with avid mayhem.

  “Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen,” the thespian greeting rang out. “Here, on this night, my performance shall be dedicated in sole tribute to your president, the savior of the Republic, and his honorable first lady, both of whom have graced us with their presence in the balcony above us.” Abigail’s silken voice flourished like the mellifluous tone of a maestro’s violin.

  The stupefied audience held its collective breath while the mesmerizing gestures of Abigail’s dazzling white-gloves blurred both time and dimension. From clouds of belching smoke and a plethora of flashing light, emerged a pair of midnight-black ravens. Spreading their enormous wings, they took flight and soared above the wide expanse of the theater’s stage. Again, Abigail’s spell weaving hands silently commanded mysterious forces. Cathartic cheers roared over the stage as the wild birds alighted upon either side of Abigail’s shoulder.

  “Intuition indicates, though miraculous enough, this is merely a preliminary exercise for the young mistress,” an amused president whispered to his contented first lady.

  “I shall tell you plainly husband,” Mary Lincoln softly replied, “Abigail de Orleans is possessed of especially uncommon gifts.”

  Lincoln caressed the first lady’s diminutive hand.

  “Oh indeed, Mary,” Lincoln affectionately confirmed, “it is quite plain, the young mistress is more uncommon than we realize.”

  Again, Abigail’s hands wove in hypnotizing gyrations and, while summoning what appeared to be supernatural powers, the strange birds disappeared as quickly as they materialized. Awash in the audience’s unbridled cheers, Abigail doffed her tall top hat and graciously bowed, waiting for the wild cacophony to subside before raising her hands again. Several seconds passed, before again, the entire theater fell into an entranced pall. Swiping back some errant strands of her dark hair before redonning her top hat, with the precision of a symphony’s conductor, she summoned yet another mystical shaman’s spell, ordering the chaos of invisible forces from nether dimensions into material order. A pachyderm’s guttural cry blasted throughout the theater like a crude trumpet. Apprehension thrummed at the theater’s walls. Jolted, in equal measure with both fear and delight, the gasping audience collectively squirmed.

  There, before them on the stage, stood a mammoth animal, brutal serenades sounding from its long, gray trunk. Though dwarfed in comparative stature, an intrepid Abigail attempted to calm the savage beast. Reaching up, she began to warmly stroke the tamed pachyderm’s swinging trunk. Now seemingly relieved, the hooting alarm of the capacity audience gave way to greater, wilder applause. Slyly grinning, Abigail drew away from the majestic behemoth. From another flash of her pearl-white gloves, Abigail summoned mystical forces.

  In the wake of blinding lights and billows of black smoke, the stage was left vacant where the great beast had stood only moments before. The entire theater howled with rapturous delight. Again, Abigail doffed her hat, then turned stage left in the direction of the high balcony.

  “And now,” Abigail began to announce as everyone in the theater once again held their collective breath, “for the benefit of our president and first lady and, for this charming audience, I present to you, the grandest illusion of the evening. I shall resurrect the dear but tragically deceased young family member of our commander in chief, President Lincoln’s third son, William.”

  Abigail felt the great force of a wild cry spring up from the dark wilderness beyond the footlight’s glistening apron.

  “Did she say, she would resurrect our dear, young Willie,” Mary whispered to her husband.

  “I do believe she did, Mary,” the president replied. “It seems there is no miracle the young mistress cannot eclipse.”

  Clasping her eyes shut as if in prayer, Abigail faced the audience and flung her arms into the shape of a pyramid. A cocooning wave of electric current washed over the theater. Like the grasp of a colossal hand, it seized the audience within the warm envelope of its palm. Vibrant colors like flickering stars, first blue, then green and finally yellow, flew from the center of the pyramid. The stars blazed a swirling, celestial trail to the theater’s pinnacle. Then, sweeping over the audience like a streaking comet, began to spin in a wild, cyclonic vortex. Mary Lincoln reached out to grasp her husband’s hand then – slowly, she rose from her chair to behold the inexplicable vision of the rosy-cheeked young child, standing before her in the balcony.

  “Oh, my dear boy,” Mary Lincoln cried, reaching out with both hands to caress the resurrected boy’s innocent face.

  Instantly, a reverent lull fell over the capacity audience.

  “My dear, dear, lovely Willie,” the echo of Mary Lincoln’s declaration reverberated throughout the cavernous theater.

  “Mother, father,” the innocent voice came forth, “I’ve missed you both so much.”

  The first lady knelt to tightly embrace the child while Abigail basked in the great, collective swoons sweeping in great waves over the stage.

  The statuesque president’s wispy frame rose and while standing tall near the edge of the balcony, looked down upon Abigail. His lips began to tremble like an autumn’s cascading leaf. A trickling rivulet began to emerge, dampening his cheek.

  “I wanted to come back to tell I love you both, so much,” the child said. Mary Lincoln withdrew her embrace, lavishing the child’s peach textured skin with yearning kisses. “I have to go back now,” he added, “but you needn’t worry, we shall see one another again.”

  Before Mary Lincoln’s longing arms could again embrace her resurrected child, his image faded into a whirling tornado of bright colors that seemed to disappear back into the mysterious and invisible ether from which they came.

  Thunderous applause ruptured the profound silence. Bowing several times, Abigail strode toward the wing of the stage and before disappearing behind the theater’s enormous curtain, bowed toward the balcony in acknowledgment of the astounded president and the first lady.

  During the short intermis
sion, the theater’s red carpeted lobby filled with throngs of buzzing patrons. Thick wreaths of smoke circled the heads of congregated men puffing on long stemmed pipes, while gaggles of woman, donned in colorful, crinoline petticoats and evening shawls, stood nearby brimming with speculative gossip, about what miracles the intriguing young magician could possibly have next in store. Many had gathered around Mary Lincoln while she regaled the group with her astonishing experience. Meanwhile, backstage, from beneath the custom-tailored sleeve of her plaid blazer, Abigail produced the mysterious machine through which she summoned her magical powers, the silvered cube. Centering it in the palm of her hand, she looked up, thinking she heard the insistent shuffle of footsteps from outside the half-opened door of the dressing room.

  “Bravo, young mistress,” Abigail heard the stentorian baritone compliment. “The first lady and I have agreed; you are a showman par excellence.”

  As if in relief, Abigail exhaled a terse breath.

  “It has been an honor and a privilege to have performed for you and the first lady here this evening, Mister President,” she replied, laced with sincere humility. “But tell me,” Abigail beseeched, “have you made all the necessary arrangements so that no one will know of your escape?”

  “Indeed, I have, young mistress,” the president assured. “You should know, the first lady has been briefed on the particulars,” Lincoln added. “And now, that I have negotiated the terms of Lee’s surrender at Appomattox and the Union is saved, she is prepared to remain in the White House and play out her role until the expiration of my second term – which shall not be long now.”

  Abigail’s comely features blossomed with ecstatic radiance.

  “I shall tell you, Mister President,” Abigail said, softening her tone to speak in confidence, “with my machine, I shall repair the illness that I hear has stricken your mortal flesh. And afterwards, it shall be possible for you to live into the next century, to become the greatest and wisest elder statesman, the most virtuous champion of those cherished ideals of freedom and liberty mankind’s history has yet seen or shall ever witness.”