Into the Long Dark Night

by Michael Phillips

  But where? I couldn’t see it, couldn’t find it. Danger to whom? I wasn’t the one who was in danger. It was someone else . . . someone important. Who could it be? I had to warn them . . . then came again the hurt, the stab of pain in my own heart.

  Visions of the battlefield began to distort everything . . . blood and screams . . . broken bodies lying everywhere, explosions of gunfire . . . mangled limbs and hands and feet . . . red bandages and blood dripping from them. Then came nurses all dressed in white. There was Clara and Mrs. Bickerdyke. They were talking in hushed tones. . . . Then again came the pain—were they talking about me? Had I done something they disapproved of? Why were they talking. . . . I couldn’t quite hear them, couldn’t make out their voice . . . if I could just listen more intently. . . .

  The white figures disappeared, and there were two men, leaders, commanding men, standing in front of thousands, trying to speak, but no words would come from their lips. I thought I recognized the two men, but why could they not speak? Why were such looks of sadness and pain upon their faces?

  Then I did hear voices again . . . softly this time. Still the two bearded leaders moved their lips, but I knew the voices were not theirs. There were other voices, speaking in hushed tones . . . not wanting to be heard . . . speaking evil things. They were talking about the men in beards, whispering so as not to be heard.

  And still over it all was such a feeling of dread . . . of pain . . . of suffering to come. But I couldn’t hear them . . . I couldn’t make out the words . . . if only I could. . . .

  Chapter 48

  Voices in the Night

  Suddenly I was awake!

  The room was dark. It was the middle of the night. I couldn’t even guess the time.

  And there were voices!

  Not voices from a dream, but real voices—speaking in subdued and hushed tones, yet above a whisper. Through the thin walls I could hear them plainly, although I could not make out the thread of the conversation. The discussion was fervent, but not exactly an argument.

  I listened for several seconds in the blackness. Then all the feelings of oppression and dread and fear and hurt from out of my dream blanketed me all over again. But this time it was real! Now I knew why my dreaming consciousness had felt such pain at the sound of the voice that had intruded through the walls and into my sleeping brain.

  My heart pounded, and my whole body broke into an instant sweat. Along with the pain, a new emotion rose up within me—anger! I was filled with such a tumult of feelings that I almost began to wonder if I really was awake!

  I threw back the covers and sprang to my feet. In the darkness I sought a drinking glass that I’d set on the nightstand. It was still half full of the water I’d brought to the room with me. Hastily I put it to my lips and swallowed it in two gulps.

  I tiptoed silently to the wall near my bed from which the sounds were coming. With great care I placed the open end of the glass against the wall, then rested my right ear against the other end.

  Again I strained to listen, and I could hear the voices in the next room clearly.

  There was no mistaking it. I did know the voice. It was Cal Burton!

  I couldn’t believe my ears! How could it be? Yet I knew it was him!

  “ . . . That may be, Surratt,” he was saying, “but I don’t think even your contacts could get you in that close.”

  “There are times when the protection breaks down. It only takes a second and the deed is done.” The speaker must have been Mrs. Surratt’s son.

  Cal laughed. “And one more second for you to be killed too,” he said.

  “Kidnapping is the best plan,” interjected another voice. “Then we could exchange him for every Confederate prisoner they’re holding.”

  “That’s still the wrong target, Booth,” said Cal. “You’re all a bunch of crazy malcontents—”

  He was interrupted by a German voice I could barely make out, “Watch what you be saying, Burton, you swine, or I kill you first.”

  “Atzerodt’s right, Cal,” chuckled the fellow he had called Booth. “We outnumber you three to one.”

  “In everything but brains,” rejoined Cal. “Look at the practicalities of this, Booth. When you aim too high and miss, you’ve wasted your chance and you won’t get it back. The kidnapping scheme’s foolhardy. It would never work, and would only rally people around him all the more. I know you think you’ve been cowardly all this time for not joining up, and I know you dream of being a spy like our friend Surratt here—”

  “Be careful of the insults, Burton, or I’ll give my German friend leave to wring your neck.”

  “Are you going to deny what I’ve said?”

  Booth was silent.

  “Then like I said, look at the practicalities. No foolhardy deed of heroic daring is going to do the Confederacy any good. If we want to turn the tide of the war, we can’t make a martyr of the old gorilla. It’s Grant we’ve got to concentrate on, I tell you. If he’s not stopped, he’ll eventually push Lee back and overrun Richmond and all will be lost.”

  “And what do you propose?” asked the man called Surratt.

  “That we focus our efforts there, on Grant. If we can eliminate him, the will of his army will collapse.”

  “And are you going to infiltrate his camp?” asked a skeptical Booth.

  “Of course not. I’m no assassin.”

  “Who then?”

  “I have someone high up in his command whom I am confident can be persuaded to see that there’s an accident.”

  “You can get closer than you think I could?” said Surratt.

  “Not me personally. One of Grant’s officers. If you can lay your hands on the sum of money you spoke of, and one of the two of you, either you or Booth, can get it to me in Richmond, I have ways of contacting my friend, the lieutenant. He will do it for us, I’m certain. Then none of you will face the gallows.”

  “Or you,” added the German voice.

  “I have no intention of getting so close myself that my hands get blood on them.”

  “I don’t know whether I trust you or not, Burton,” said Booth, “but your scheme has a ring of sense to it. But believe me, if it fails, we will have to look to stronger measures.”

  “Have it your way, Booth,” laughed Cal. “You and your demons of greatness! You would make the world your stage if only given half the chance. I, on the other hand, only believe in taking what opportunities are presented. Pragmatism, Booth. It’s probably not a word you are familiar with. But I tell you, Grant is the target that is within our reach, and which will serve the Confederacy just as well.”

  “We will go along with you . . . for now.”

  “Good. Then meet me in Richmond. Will four days be enough, Surratt?”

  The other mumbled something, but I could not make it out.

  “We’ll make it five then. You be in Richmond on Wednesday next. At noon, say. I’ll meet you at Winder Supply. I’m on good terms with the owner. He’ll have a room we can use.”

  “I don’t know the place.”

  “Down the hill from the State House, on the river, about a hundred yards along the waterfront.”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Wednesday,” repeated Cal. Then I heard him rise and leave the house.

  Chapter 49

  Midnight Flight

  What could it be but a plot to kill General Grant?

  My mind was racing a thousand directions at once. Even all the old anger and pain over what had happened with Cal disappeared. I temporarily forgot about the money he’d stolen. He had obviously gotten mixed up with some evil-sounding men and was still willing to do just about anything for the sake of his own personal gain. And it sounded, too, as if his allegiance to the Confederacy had grown considerably. Maybe he had become one of the South’s important men, just as he’d wanted.

  But killing? I could hardly believe that . . . even from Cal! Yet I’d heard what I’d heard, and by now I was wide awake—so wide awake I was shiveri
ng both from the cold and from the fearful things I had overheard. I was remembering, too, things Mr. Hay had said about the Surratts. I felt very alone and exposed and isolated.

  And suddenly I felt very unsafe in this house!

  I had to get away and somehow get word to General Grant of the danger. Should I notify the President? No, he was still in Philadelphia. Mr. Hay was there with him.

  Whom could I tell? Who would believe me? If I went to the police or the army headquarters, I would sound like some crazy lunatic. They wouldn’t know me, wouldn’t know my connections with the President. And what difference did those connections make, anyway? Who would believe such an insane story?

  As my mind raced over it all, my hands fumbled about in the darkness for my clothes. In a few minutes I was dressed.

  Should I leave immediately? What if they heard me?

  I hadn’t heard the front door open or close. What if they were all staying here tonight? What if Cal himself were in the next room? If they heard so much as a peep out of me, they’d pounce on me in a second.

  But how could I wait till morning?

  There wasn’t a moment to lose. One way or another, I wasn’t going to wait for them to find me, and then do whatever awful things they might do to me!

  I had already been stuffing my things into my leather bag, and now squeezed it shut and cinched up the leather straps. It was still dark, but I dared not light a candle. I was confident I could make it down the stairs in the dark and to the safety of the street outside.

  I picked up my bag and tiptoed softly to the door. I didn’t care how threadbare it might be, I was happy enough for the old rug on the floor to keep my feet silent.

  Slowly I grasped the latch. With hardly a squeak it turned. I pulled the door open. It gave no sound and I breathed a silent sigh of relief. I stepped out onto the bare wood floor. Neither the landing nor the stairs were carpeted.

  I swung the door closed behind me, then took two or three small steps across the landing, feeling about with my foot for the edge of the first step.

  I found it, paused, then gingerly began making my way down the narrow flight. My heart was pounding so rapidly I thought it would wake the entire house!

  Slowly, one step at a time, feeling my way with cautious steps, I inched down the stairs . . . one step . . . two . . . three. If only I could remember how many there were! Six . . . seven.

  It seemed there were twelve or thirteen, maybe sixteen in all!

  . . . Nine . . . ten . . . I had to be over halfway. Any moment my foot would find the bottom landing and the outside door.

  . . . Thirteen . . . fourteen . . .

  Suddenly what sounded like an ear-splitting creak gave way under my foot. I’d forgotten how terribly the bottom three stairs squeaked! I remembered noticing it almost every time I climbed them!

  I froze in sheer panic. The only sound in the blackened hallway was the beating in my chest! Maybe no one had heard it. I would wait, then would stretch my leg all the way to the bottom and avoid the first two offending slabs of loosened wood.

  I remained stock-still.

  “Who’s there?’ suddenly came from somewhere upstairs behind me.

  My heart jumped into my throat!

  “Who’s there, I say?” It was Mrs. Surratt’s voice. I heard the sound of her footsteps trudging across the floor of her room. “John, is that you? George? Who’s there?”

  For another moment I was paralyzed. Then I heard her hand on the latch. It was all I needed to jolt my legs into activity once more. Even as the light from her candle entered the hallway above and sent its inquiring rays down the stairs, I flew down the remaining steps, heedless now of either the squeaks of the wood or the echo of my footfall, and raced across the entryway to the door. My free hand found the latch and turned it hard. It was locked.

  Behind me I now heard Mrs. Surratt’s hastening feet and angry voice. “John,” she cried to her son, “John . . . get out here now, I tell you!”

  I had dropped my bag and was now fumbling with the bolt and latch of the door with frantic and sweating fingers, paying no more attention to the noise I was making. The metallic sounds echoed badly in the still night!

  The door swung open! I grabbed up my bag again and the next instant was through and onto the porch. The cold night air slapped me in the face, but I was hardly aware of it. Behind me Mrs. Surratt’s muffled feet were followed by the thick clomping of boots down the stairs.

  “After her, John!” cried Mrs. Surratt.

  I was running now, clumsily carrying my bag. The night was black. How thankful I was there was no moon!

  I crossed the street in seconds, then ran to the left, staying on the dirt of the street rather than pounding loudly along the wooden walk. I sprinted as fast as my legs would carry me. It seemed like an eternity, but must have been only two or three seconds.

  I heard the bolt and latch open behind me from where I had just come. That same instant I threw myself into an alley that appeared on my right, stopped, and leaned against the side wall of a feed store, out of sight of the boardinghouse.

  I heard John Surratt take several steps across the porch and onto the street.

  “Hey . . . what do you think you’re doing?” I heard him call out into the night. “Come back here . . . come back, or I’ll have to hurt you . . . you hear me!”

  My lungs heaved up and down. My mouth was wide open, trying to gulp down the air as silently as I could. My chest burned with pain. I stood absolutely still, not moving a muscle.

  I could hear Surratt’s boots walking slowly across the street. Then the sound ceased.

  In terror I listened for the next sound. I knew he was looking up and down, trying to figure out which way I had gone. At any moment he could appear at the entrance of the alleyway beside me. Then his hands would grab me and close around my neck!

  “Come back, and I won’t hurt you,” he called out again.

  The sound was still some distance away. Then he began slowly running again along the street. His footsteps receded. He was going the other direction!

  I let out a long breath. When he was about a block away, I slowly stuck my head out from behind the edge of the wall. The door to Mrs. Surratt’s was closed. At least she had not followed him outside. I craned my neck out a bit more to see if I could see her son in the distance.

  It was too dark to see him, but I could still hear his booted feet. They were even farther away than before.

  I crept out of the alley and back into the street. If I couldn’t see him, neither could he see me from the same distance!

  As rapidly as I was able without breaking into a noisy run, I began walking along the street in the opposite direction. I walked the rest of the way to the next street, took it to the right, and, now that I was well away from the boardinghouse, eased again into a gentle run.

  I went on for two or three more blocks, turning several times.

  All at once I realized I had arrived at the railroad yard.

  I was still too close to the boardinghouse! Where could I hide?

  I glanced around. Everything was still and quiet and mysterious. The vague shadows and outlines of the silent trains and buildings gave a spooky and frightening look to the night.

  I listened behind me, sure that at any moment I would hear John Surratt’s heavy feet chasing after me!

  I had to get out of sight, out of the open. I had to conceal myself somehow!

  I kept moving slowly, without direction or a plan, across the yards, stumbling across the huge iron tracks.

  Suddenly looming before me were the huge boxcars of an immobile freight train. I squinted into the darkness. One of the cars appeared empty, its great sliding door standing open.

  I approached slowly, trying to quiet my feet on the rocky surface below.

  “Is . . . is anybody in there?” I whispered up into the car as loudly as I dared.

  No sound came back through the night.

  “Hello . . . anybody?” I repeated.
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  Still there was no answer.

  I hoisted my bag up onto the floor of the car, then felt about for an abrupt edge or a hook or anything to get my hands on. In another few seconds I was scrambling up into the freight car. In another second or two, I had my bag beside me and was safely hidden away in the blackness inside.

  John Surratt would never find me now!

  I leaned back against the wall of the car, finally aware of my exhaustion, breathed deeply, and closed my eyes.

  Chapter 50

  Uncertain Thoughts

  When I next came to myself, the gray of dawn had spread over the city of Washington.

  How long I had been there I could hardly guess. I stretched the kinks out of my muscles and tried to rearrange myself, then glanced about. The car was empty.

  I stood up and poked my head out.

  The freight yard was still silent, and the city still slept. But I could hear a few voices and clanking sounds in the distance. Morning was approaching, and I knew there would be a great deal of activity around here within an hour as the trains were readied for their various destinations.

  I sat back down inside. I had to think.

  Cal had said five days. Now there were only four. Yesterday was—what was it? We’d arrived back in the Capital on Thursday afternoon . . . that made today Saturday . . . no, that was only yesterday. Today was Friday!

  There were still five days!

  Five days to get word to General Grant!

  There must be someone else I should tell! I couldn’t go chasing off as I’d done two or three times in the past. I was older now, not so impulsive and foolhardy, as Pa had called me then. I’d been lucky that everything had turned out so well when I’d ridden off to Sonora after Derrick Gregory. But now there was danger to more people than just me. I had to settle down and think through what would be the wisest thing to do!

  I could go to Mrs. Richards’ house as soon as the sun was up. I could talk to her about—