A Fugitive Englishman

by Roy Lewis

  What happened was that a pregnant Adah married Barklay, changed her mind after three days and tried to commit suicide. I got a message from her maid – a former actress I knew – and hurried down to her hotel. We pumped the pills out of her, and a few days later I booked her passage to Europe. Never saw her again. But she was a roaring success on the stage in London, Charles Dickens became a friend, that pretentious idiot Swinburne became her lover to much ridicule and speculation about what they actually got up to together in view of his sado-masochistic tendencies, and then she went off to Paris. I saw a copy of the rather risqué photographs of her with the elderly Alexandre Dumas, from which it was clear they had become lovers, and then, just a year or so later, she was dead. Alone. In a Paris boarding house. There was some confusion about the cause of death: some said it was the result of an accident, earlier, when she had fallen from her horse on stage. But it was a low-key funeral, anyway. Apart from the pall-bearers, no one turned up, it seems.

  What? The plot against the president? Yes, sorry, my mind has been wandering again, though it’s all part of a pattern, really. Time and consequences. Better minds than mine have puzzled over the concept of time – they argue whether it really proceeds always in a forward direction, or whether it can turn back on itself, return to the past. . . . My experience of life makes me believe it’s even more complicated – the events in my life have tended to return in a kind of loop to further complicate my existence. Adah, John Sadleir, the Cork Revengers, Mrs Grimshaw and the Reverend Pease, it’s all about loops in time and their consequences. . . .

  What? Yes, yes, all right, the plot against Lincoln. . . .

  I met Charles Di Rudio in Washington and he explained to me what Colonel Lafayette Baker wanted. The former Italian assassin sat there in his Union uniform with his peaked cap placed jauntily over one eye, as he gabbled excitedly in his heavily accented English.

  ‘The Colonel was never very happy about Stanton’s concerns regarding the invasion of Canada. He thought we were largely wasting our time when more important issues were raising their heads. Then the Secretary of War got rid of Colonel Baker when the Colonel pointed out he knew Stanton was involved in corrupt military contracts – but now Stanton has had to turn about again. He needs Colonel Baker’s skills, and the Colonel needs us to undertake the necessary tasks.’

  ‘Regarding the plot to kidnap the president?’

  ‘Exactly, Mr James.’

  ‘But what do we – what do I have to offer him here in Washington?’

  Charles Di Rudio calmed down a little, leaned back in his chair and lit his pipe. He had thickened during his years in America: the lean, urgent, impassioned assassin of earlier years had grown into a broad-shouldered, somewhat paunchy Union cavalry officer, with his imperial beard and bushy eyebrows which made up for the receding hairline that had broadened his forehead. He appeared to have softened his political feelings also, though perhaps it was the democratic freedoms that America offered that had brought about the change. This did not mean he had discarded a certain cynical view of life and the impact power could have on an individual’s actions, as I was to find out in due course.

  ‘It’s your experience and reputation as a sporting man and a jolly fellow,’ Di Rudio said, emerging from a cloud of blue smoke. ‘It’s like New York all over again: the way we worked together infiltrating the Clan na Gael patriots.’

  ‘That was New York,’ I argued. ‘Washington has to be a different case.’

  ‘Not at all! You and I, we saw the Five Points and Hell’s Kitchen together, the gambling saloons and cellar dives, the whorehouses, the opium joints and the gin palaces, but believe me Washington is little different even if New York is regarded as the wickedest city in the world! Colonel Baker has given me the list his operatives have compiled. There are one hundred and sixty gambling hells in Washington; there are at least three thousand drinking saloons – in some of them you can get a tin cup of whisky for a dime! The Colonel hasn’t even bothered to list the brothels – maybe they’re too numerous to count. And then there’s the impact photography has had on trade: the president himself recently had confiscated $20,000 worth of vile books, pornographic photographs and woodcuts and ordered them burned on the White House lawn. I think it was Mrs Lincoln who was behind that particular cull: she has something of a small-town mentality, you know, among her other weaknesses. So you see, the work we’ll be called upon to do will be in the same kind of milieu that we found in New York. You’re going to be a jolly fellow again; you and I are going to frequent the saloons and keep our eyes and ears open. And there’s the theatres, also.’ He drew on his pipe again, exclaimed irritably when he realized the tobacco was no longer alight, and threw it down on the table at his side. ‘I am told you are acquainted with the brothers Booth.’

  I was indeed.

  I had seen the acting brothers on stage in New York in Julius Caesar, and had written a review for the Clipper. I had been backstage with them, and dined with them. The older, Edwin Booth, was not only performing to considerable acclaim, but was also managing the Winter Garden Theatre at that time, staging mainly Shakespearean tragedies. He was famed for his performance as Hamlet. He was more handsome and much better known than his younger brother, John Wilkes Booth, but I knew them both well enough: I had even at one point shared a stage with the two brothers. I played Friar Laurence, in Romeo and Juliet. It was a benefit night, a celebration of the Shakespeare centennial in New York, and my performance was eulogized by the New York Times. Acting again? It was not on my part a decision to turn away from my legal career. I had taken the part knowingly: it would have curiosity value and could widen the range of my acquaintances. And more important, I enjoyed it after the inevitable feeling of depression consequent upon my quarrels with Marianne and her courtroom harassment. No, I still knew my best chance of success lay in the courtroom, not treading the boards. I had long since given up that idea and the hope of theatrical fame.

  ‘But what have the brothers Booth to do with our work?’ I asked.

  ‘Not Edwin Booth. He’s a staunch Unionist. It’s the younger one we’ll be watching.’

  The two brothers, I knew, were not the greatest of friends. On the stage, the younger brother lacked the other’s culture and grace – though Walt Whitman thought he had ‘real genius’ – but they also held different political views. Edwin Booth moved in Judge Daly’s circles socially and was open about his Union support. Indeed, I recall attending a dinner party at Judge Daly’s when Mrs Daly gushed about Edwin Booth, in the middle of her usual prattling gossip.

  ‘There is a clique of fast young married women here in New York, Mr James. You must have heard the scandal concerning the family of Mr Austin Stevens – his daughter Mrs Peter Strong has been behaving shamelessly with her brother-in-law, while coming and going to evening service no less! And then, I know you as a patron of the theatre and you know our dear friend Edwin Booth. He is so silent, dark and Gawain-looking, don’t you think so? He is engaged, you know, to a lady of good family, and only two years after the sad death of his dear wife! You will know his brother too! Quite a different political opinion there!’

  When she got on to the subject of Colonel Lafayette Baker, I became uncomfortable.

  ‘Judge Pierrepoint was here and fulminated about Colonel Baker: he claimed the Colonel was arresting honest, inoffensive men and sending them to prison in Washington! We, however, are grateful that he has been getting hold of public thieves and bounty hunters!’

  Hastily I returned to the theme of more interest to me.

  ‘You spoke of John Wilkes Booth, Mrs Daly.’

  ‘Ah yes. Edwin supports the Union cause as we do, but John Wilkes Booth on the other hand is more fiery and headstrong, makes no secret of his Secessionist sympathies, and particularly so when he plays in Albany and Boston, St Louis, and Chicago, where he knows his views could have popular support. Mr Lincoln has always been a president who lacked total support for his war against the South.’
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br />   So it was common gossip that John Wilkes Booth often spouted his views in public. He also seemed to be the recipient of funds from a mysterious source, which permitted him to invest successfully in land speculation in Boston. Unfortunately, Mrs Daly offered no gossip on that matter. I learned the truth about that later, from Colonel Baker.

  But Charles Di Rudio was telling me that the younger Booth was involved in something more than political ranting. I shook my head doubtfully. ‘Are you seriously suggesting young Booth is involved in a plot to kidnap Mr Lincoln?’

  ‘That is the rumour that Colonel Baker is asking us to confirm. Or not.’

  ‘It seems something of a fantasy,’ I murmured.

  ‘One attempt has already been made, Mr James.’ When my eyes widened in surprise, he went on. ‘An announcement had been made that the president was to attend a performance of the play Still Waters Run Deep at the Soldiers’ Home, three miles outside Washington. It seems the Secessionist group arranged for a look-out while they armed themselves with ropes, rifles and repair tools. They planned to extend the ropes across the road to delay pursuing cavalry after they snatched Mr Lincoln from his carriage, while the group rode on for Port Tobacco. That’s about thirty-six miles from Washington. They were going to ferry the president across to Virginia.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  Di Rudio’s eyes narrowed. ‘When they attacked the carriage, they quickly discovered the person inside was not the president. Their plot had been discovered by Colonel Baker. The conspirators fled, and were not caught. But Stanton is certain they hope to strike again. It’s to be our task to confirm the identity of the conspirators – and bring about their arrest.’

  ‘But how can we hope to do that?’

  Di Rudio smiled and stroked his beard. ‘We have an informant. One of the band itself. All we need to do is keep watch on the group, and act when the time is ripe.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘Who can say, at the moment? But we need to become jolly fellows again, Mr James. Eyes and ears open.’

  Well, I have to admit it was not an uncongenial task, visiting with some regularity the entertainment centres offered by Washington’s sporting life. And that’s how Di Rudio and I spent much of our time in the ensuing weeks. And I came up with some surprising information, not least with regard to the security arrangements surrounding the president.

  Of course, Colonel Lafayette Baker and his secret agents comprised one level of protection – they had discovered the first plot to kidnap Lincoln, and had foiled it. But there were others charged with protecting the president, men who were not under Colonel Baker’s control. There were four personal bodyguards employed by the Washington Metropolitan Police Force.

  One of them was a dissolute, unreliable officer by the name of John F. Parker.

  I first came across him at a house of assignation controlled by the buxom, bosomy Miss Annie Wilson. I am forced to admit that I was present at her establishment for personal reasons, rather than in pursuit of my investigative duties for Colonel Baker. Nor was Di Rudio with me – he never seemed to suffer from the normal lusts of the flesh that occasionally drove me towards the Miss Wilsons of the Washington underworld. On this particular occasion, I was being entertained by Annie Wilson herself in the front parlour of the establishment, carrying on the kind of genteel conversation that was her normal precursor to an enthusiastic romp in a bedroom upstairs, when the altercation in the adjoining room began. One of the clients had apparently arrived in a state of considerable intoxication, but because of his status as a police officer, no action had been taken other than to put him to bed with a young whore called Miss Elsie Green. But he was still in a wild state and using highly offensive language in describing the character of one of his fellow officers with whom he had quarrelled. He had finally waved his pistol around and then discharged it through the window. Elsie screamed, Annie screamed, my ardour vanished, and I decided to leave the establishment as soon as possible, but was unable to do so before a clutch of constables arrived.

  Annie had recovered her poise by then and told the officers it had all been a mistake, but they had recognized their colleague – who was not popular among them – and took him into custody. I learned later that the Police Board had, somewhat mysteriously, thrown out the charge of disorderly conduct in a whorehouse. John F. Parker – it was he who had discharged the pistol – clearly had influential friends.

  I thought no more of it at the time until, some months later, I found myself in an opium den run by a Chinese immigrant called Charley Yong. This time I was there working for Colonel Baker: I had never been a habitual user of opium. Charles Di Rudio and I had received information via Colonel Baker – presumably from his inside informant – that the kidnap gang included a young man by the name of David Herold. I had made his acquaintance casually, and discovered him to be an unlikely conspirator: he was boyish in appearance, trivial in manner, and almost witless in my opinion. He was of pleasant but trifling disposition, and fond of his drink. He also regularly partook of the recreative drug. I followed him when he entered Charley Yong’s opium establishment in Pell Street.

  You seem surprised. Chinese dens in Washington? You’ll have seen many in the course of your seafaring, no doubt: dens in Singapore and Hong Kong, Marseilles and Sydney, and I’ve no doubt they’ll have been more exotic than those in American cities! But I can tell you that such dens – or ‘joints’ as they were known in America – flourished both in Washington and New York, and were frequented by a wide range of individuals from all levels of society. Charley Yong himself maintained rooms at two levels in Pell Street and prided himself on the status of the clients who used the more discreet upper floor: politicians, judges, actors, wealthy gentlemen addicted to the pleasures of the pipe. Less well-heeled clients used the lower rooms and the crowded, fetid cellar. Laudanum, tincture of opium, pills and pipes, these were opiates which could induce pleasurable sensations as well as the relief of pain or discomfort: the alleviation of pain was usually provided by pills, while the more relaxing sensations came from smoking the drug. Men, and women – including half-naked whores plying their trade – used the joints and it was not unusual to see convivial little groups, chatting, smoking, whispering, giggling. It was always a scene of relaxation: the drug purveyed in the joints produced a feeling of warm, intimate good fellowship, an opportunity to lie down on a bunk and converse harmlessly with the friend who took a bunk by your side, even if you had never met him before in your life.

  But on this particular occasion, while hoping that I might be near Herold and hear some indiscreet comments appertaining to plots against the president, the man I found myself close to turned out to be the police officer John F. Parker. To my astonishment, he rather casually boasted, in between puffs of the pipe, that he had been assigned to the bodyguard staff at the White House, by none other than Mrs Lincoln herself!

  As I said, I was never a great partaker of opium and had taken a mere whiff of the pipe provided, in order to keep my wits about me, and as I lay beside Parker’s bunk curiosity overtook me. ‘White House guard? That must be an enormously important position for you to hold.’

  ‘Aye, it is that,’ Parker replied, rolling his eyes at the dark ceiling. ‘And that in spite of the bad cess I get from the other officers at the force. I’ve been victimized, you know; there’s them that don’t like me, and try to do me down. But I outwitted them. Joe Parker knows his way around, believe me, my friend.’

  He took a long draw at his pipe and remained happily silent for a little while. But he was keen to continue boasting of his good fortune. ‘You’ll be wondering how it was I got the attention of Mrs Lincoln herself, no doubt.’

  ‘She is your patron?’

  ‘I got the letter of appointment to the White House direct from her hand,’ he announced proudly, with a certain slurring of tone as he waved his pipe airily about him

  ‘Did you provide her with some service while working on the force?’
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br />   He chuckled throatily. ‘You could say that, my friend. Here, look at this.’

  He drew from his pocket a letter. It was on Executive Mansion headed notepaper. I can recall the wording even now, so astonished was I:

  This is to certify that John F. Parker, a member of the Metropolitan Police, has been detailed for duty at the Executive Mansion by order of Mrs Lincoln.

  The First Lady had signed it with a flourish.

  Officer Parker giggled. ‘It’s me passport, ye see! The draft had been announced, and they was taking officers from the stations to serve in the Union Army, just like anyone else who didn’t have three hundred dollars to excuse theirselves! I knew I’d be in the next draft, so I asked her to exempt me, and so she did!’

  ‘But did you know her well?’ I enquired, astonished. ‘I mean, you’re an officer on the beat—’

  He chuckled again, evilly. ‘It’s not that I knew her well – though she’s aware of me now! It’s the company I keep. One of my drinking friends happens to be a coachman at the White House, and he drives Mrs Lincoln on her shopping expeditions. And he’s become friendly, very friendly, with one of her personal maids. And do ye know what he had to tell me? Mrs Lincoln, she and her husband have certain points of disagreement, and so she’s had occasion to tell Old Abe something less than the truth from time to time.’

  I was intrigued. ‘She holds things back from him?’

  A haze of smoke was wreathed above Parker’s head; he contemplated it for a little while, dreamily, before answering. That was what the denizens of the joints loved more than anything else: the sense of dreaming, refreshment of the soul, escape from the brutal realities of life.

  ‘She’s nothing more than a country woman at heart, you know. Clumsy, ill-dressed, intensely jealous of her husband and highly nervous in polite society. But she’s keen to make a show in Washington, demonstrate she’s the First Lady of the land! It began with the interior decoration of the White House: she spent her Treasury allowance three times over and there was a great row with Old Abe, apparently, when he found out. He insisted she cut back on her expenditure. But she’s a flibbertigibbet, don’t know the value of money, and don’t care much either. From what my friend the coachman told me, she kept shopping and she got deep in debt. Fifteen hundred dollars for a set of china! The woman’s mad! And then I was told she fiddled the bill so that it showed the price as three thousand!’