Murder in the Oval Library

by C. M. Gleason

  “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been stopped by the constable,” George said with a low rumble of laughter as he followed Jennings into the kitchen. “But usually I can convince them I’m a hack, and they let me alone.”

  Driving a hackney cab was a lucrative job, and was one of the few allowable positions for a black man. It was also one of the only excuses a Negro could have for being out past ten o’clock.

  “Just so’s they don’t see what I got under my long coat,” he added, flipping it open to reveal the rifle he held tightly along his side. He grinned at the others in the room.

  Paul Jennings’s kitchen was packed with over fifty men—all of them black, and all of them free. And all of them were determined to protect themselves, their families, and their city from the Confederates. The very fact that they were meeting after ten o’clock at night, and that many of them were armed, would have sent the lot of them to the whipping post—and then to jail.

  If they were lucky.

  If they weren’t lucky and some greedy and enterprising Southern sympathizer had other ideas, any of the free men could be kidnapped and sent off into slavery in places like Alabama or Mississippi. It happened far more often than any of them cared to think.

  Just as slaves who ran away to freedom were there one day, then gone the next, a free man could be going about his business one day here in Washington, then be snatched off the street and sold down South the next.

  “I done lived through an attack on this city once,” Jennings said, though he’d told the story many times before—but George allowed there were new faces in the group who mightn’t have heard it. “Back in 1814, when I’s fi’teen years old and them British come. It was me and the doorman and the gardener—we all took down that big ol’ painting of Pres’dent Wash’ton and saved it from when the English soldiers fired up and burnt down the pres’dent’s house. Pres’dent Madison’s house it was then.”

  “Now do tell, Paul . . . was that the paintin’ was done by . . . what was his name, now . . . was it Gilbert Stuart?” asked one of the men with a hearty chuckle. Clearly he’d heard the story before and knew his lines to prompt it going on. “The one likeness as big as the general hisself? The famous’un?”

  “It shore was, and heavy as a dead cow it was. Took the three of us to save it away for Miz Madison. We put it on a cart with some o’them fancy silver vases, yea big,” he said, measuring with his hands, “and saved it from the British. An’ that’s why we’s here tonight, men. But tonight our enemy ain’t the foreigners of another country, but it’s them who would enslave us all again. An’ our wives an’ our chillen. I din’t save and save to buy my chillens’ freedoms to see any of ’em taken up by them Southerners.”

  Low murmurs of agreement filtered around the room, and George found himself nodding along. He might not have a wife or children, but he had patients and friends—and of course his own liberty that was at stake. Every man in the room knew that if the Confederates took Washington, they’d be shackled and sold off whether they had papers of manumission or not.

  “I writ a letter to Mr. Cameron,” said one of the men standing near the corner. Jacob Dodson was tall and lean and his eyes were bright with intelligence. He had his own Sharp’s rifle leaning against the wall next to him. “And he writ me back.”

  “The Secretary of War?” asked George.

  “Yes, sir. That’s him. I work as a footman in the Senate Chamber, and so I got the name of who to send to, and how to get it delivered. Then I writ Mr. Cameron to tell him I knew of some three hunnerd, very reliable men who would desire to enter the service of the city to protect it. And I signed my name so he knew I was a colored.”

  “Even though they don’t want no blacks in the military, you got paid for your service from before, din’t you? When you was with Mr. Frémont out West?” said Jennings for the benefit of those who might not know. Some of these men had joined the meeting tonight without knowing many of the others.

  But they all had the same reason for being there.

  “Yessir, you know I did, but it was special from Congress, ’cause they wouldn’t let me join the army. Officially. And so I sent a letter to see if they’d join us up now.” He shook his head. “But Mr. Cameron writ me back they don’t got no intention to call up any colored soldiers.”

  Though a little stung by the continued rejection of his race, George could do nothing but shrug. “Well, that doesn’t much matter, does it—since we’re already here. And we’re already armed.”

  “No, it sure don’t,” Jennings said vehemently, and the fifty other men in the room nodded soberly. Though they were each risking imprisonment or worse for owning a gun, that was far better than the possibility of being unarmed and helpless when the Confederates ran over the city.

  “And I bin storing up foods, too,” said Marcus Teller, who wore an eyepatch due to one of his eyes being burned away by his former owner. “In the cellar.”

  “And I tole Missy she need start saving all the leads and metals she can. We can make our own bullets if we need to,” added Brownie Bixley.

  The others nodded, murmuring agreement. All were stockpiling food as well as every bit of ammunition they could. The only thing they couldn’t do was march in the sorts of drills the likes of the other militias, and the Frontier Guard, were doing. It was too risky.

  “Since we can’t march,” said Jennings—who was the self-appointed leader of the ragtag militia—“we can at least be organizin’ where to meet when the Confederates come.”

  “And a watch schedule,” added Jacob Dodson, “to call the alarm. Using the communication we already got.”

  With the far-reaching and tight tentacles of the black community—both free and slave, connected both locally and also throughout the country, from Mississippi to Maryland to Ohio and Pennsylvania—information was spread quickly, news was shared, and warnings were given. All by word of mouth.

  By the time the fifty-odd men had agreed on a rudimentary meeting place for their militia, as well as where to take their families for safety in the event of an invasion, it was past one o’clock. Even though the meeting broke up then, they couldn’t all disburse at the same time for fear of being noticed.

  “I’ve got room for five in my cart,” George said as he replaced his hat and hoisted his rifle. “Under the canvas in the back. I’m going back into the First Ward. Whoever wants to ride with me.” He shrugged and gave a small grin. “I got papers saying I’m a hackney driver if I get stopped.”

  “A hackney?” Golly Best, a young man with eyes that always seemed to be popping wide with interest or astonishment, shook his head. “There’s bad times in this city now, specially with the war coming. But you hear there’s a driver was found, his throat cut open? Was a hackney driver too. Mebbe you best be watching your back, driving around like a hack yourself. Stick to doctorin’, there, Hilton. Be safer, mebbe.”

  “But at least I get paid in copper and silver when I drive them rich folks around, instead of the eggs and bread, maybe a sweet potato pie even, I get for doctoring people,” George jested. “Or, worse is when I get pickled beets. Man, I hate pickled beets.”

  The others laughed.

  “Well, you can save your pickled beets for me then, doc. Arissa’s in the family way again, and she’s got a taste for anything sour like that.”

  “Why, that’s good news,” George replied with a genuinely pleased smile as he extended his hand for a shake. The others slapped Golly on the back or gave him little congratulatory shoves of affection.

  The younger man accepted his handshake. “So I reckon if I take all the pickled beets off’n your hands, you’ll see that baby into the world, there, for us doc?”

  “I sure will. I’d be honored to, Golly.” When the congratulatory talk died down, George asked, “Now, who’s going to ride with me?”

  “More likely get stopped tonight, now the streets are clearer and the militias patrolling,” said Dodson. “Be careful. All of you.”

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nbsp; Moments later, George and his friend Brownie Bixley, along with three others who wanted rides, slipped out of Jennings’s back door and made their way quietly to his cart. He made short work of tucking them all beneath the heavy canvas covering, then climbed up and started off.

  They weren’t stopped by anyone. In fact, this, the northwestern part of the city was unnaturally quiet. The moonlight filtered through some clouds, but it was only a half-moon and it didn’t cast very much light at all.

  George dropped off the three other men at the beginnings of the alleys where they lived, and that left only Brownie Bixley. He climbed out from beneath the canvas and joined George on the front seat of the cart. They’d kept up the charade in sight of the others because the fewer the connections between the two men, the fewer the questions that might come up in the future.

  “Looking for information about a man named Jeremy Pole,” said George as they drove along. Bixley lived in the Third Ward, and it was a little risky driving him all that way this late at night—them being two black men. Though Bixley had light enough skin, with a hat on he could maybe pass for white with George as his driver.

  “He’s eighteen years old and ran away about two years ago. His momma’s name is Jelly, and she’s from down near Mobile. She thinks he might be in New York. She’s looking for news of him.”

  Bixley nodded. “I’ll send word up and around. Maybe the general’s heard of him. That Miz Tubman . . . she’s a little mad, but she shore knows what she doing.”

  “Much obliged, Brownie. I’ll ask Wormley next time I see him too. Sorry he wasn’t here tonight.” George navigated past a carriage parked in front of a wood-frame house, keeping a sharp watch for anyone who might stop them. But the street was silent and empty, and whoever was visiting the house wasn’t coming out.

  “I heard tell there was a man kilt up at the president’s mansion.”

  “There was. Throat was slit clean across, then he was stabbed in the back. Right there in the house, two doors from where Mr. Lincoln was sleeping.” George made a disgusted noise, but kept the rest of the information about Thorne to himself—including his involvement in the investigation.

  He’d finished his examination of the body on Friday, and here it was just before dawn on Tuesday and Adam Quinn still hadn’t come by to see him.

  George knew Brian had given him the message, so he supposed Quinn was busy trying to figure out how to protect the president and Mrs. Lincoln in case the Confederates came. And everyone said they would come—maybe even tonight. George didn’t know how Adam Quinn had come to be so trusted by Abraham Lincoln, but he’d seen with his own eyes the affection and respect between the two men.

  That day, walking into Mr. Lincoln’s office, had been one of the proudest days of his life—second only to the day he received his degree from the Toronto School of Medicine. Mr. Lincoln had thanked him for his help in capturing the man who’d killed Mr. Billings, and he stood in the office of the man who would—George believed it with every fiber of his being—free all the Negro slaves. Someday.

  “Miss Lizzie tell you anything else about it?” Bixley was still talking about the dead body, and he assumed Elizabeth Keckley would be telling George all of the gossip since he drove her around a lot.

  “Not very much.” George couldn’t reveal to anyone that he’d taken both Mr. Billings’s and Johnny Thorne’s bodies and cut them open to try and find out everything there was to know about how they died, and who they were. He was a black man. A doctor—something impossible for a Negro to be here in the United States. And he was mutilating the bodies of white people.

  That was not something he wanted others to know about.

  And that was part of the reason he’d been so shocked when Miss Lemagne had showed up at his makeshift office in the basement of Great Eternity Church.

  “There’s a passel of soldiers staying there,” George said so Bixley wouldn’t think he was holding out on him. “Right there in the president’s house.”

  “And some at the Willard too, I hear,” replied Bixley. “Almost got blown to smithereens Thursday night. You hear ’bout that?”

  “Not much.” Thursday night was the first night the Frontier Guard had been at the mansion, and Mr. Clay’s men had been barracked at the fancy hotel. It was also the same night Thorne had been murdered.

  “There was fifteen—maybe it was fifty—bundles of rags all over the hotel. Soaked in kerosene. Tucked in corners all over, with a long wick leading to each one so’s they could light it and get away before it all caught up and came down.”

  “How’d they find out about that?”

  “You know Birch? He the old doorman there, always in his white uniform, ever’day, all day? Nosy old bastard, but damn good thing he was. He was poking around and found one of them bundles. And then he found another, and the next thing you know, he’s got all the footmen and grooms and maids looking all over the place. He’s been telling that tale to whoever would listen. Surprised you ain’t heard it.”

  George gave a short laugh as he pulled up near Bixley’s street. “I’ve been damned busy. But good on Birch, then. Yeah, I know him. They catch the men who did it?”

  “Not that I know. Ask Birch next time you see him. He’ll be glad to tell you all, and more.” Bixley slid off his seat. “Jeremy Pole. I’ll put out the word. You got anything else coming?”

  “I might. Soon. You hear of anything, you send to me. You know I got my office underneath that Great Eternity Church, over on Ballard’s Alley. There’s space there.”

  “I sure will. Same to you.” Bixley squinted up at the moon, which had been waning last week and was nearly gone tonight. “Should be darkest tomorrow or Wednesday.”

  They looked at each other, nodded, then Bixley slipped off into the night.

  Dark nights were an invitation for invasion or attack.

  And for moving cargo a man didn’t want to be seen.

  * * *

  At the White House that night, Mrs. Lincoln refused to dress for bed.

  Instead, she and her companions—including Sophie Gates—remained in their clothing, sitting up, anxious and awake, prepared to be captured.

  CHAPTER 12

  Tuesday April 23

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY THEY DON’T COME!” CONSTANCE HAD to force herself to remain seated, even though frustration and excitement trammeled through her limbs and tempted her to pace the room. “Where are the soldiers?”

  She was sitting in the small but elegant parlor of her friend Rose Greenhow, along with several other ladies. They were all Southern sympathizers—at least, as far as Constance knew—and they ranged in age from seventeen to forty, which was the handsome and popular Mrs. Greenhow’s age.

  All of them had been expressing, in a more restrained fashion than Constance, their disappointment and concern over the fact that it was Tuesday morning—almost ten days after the war had started—and the Confederates still hadn’t invaded the city.

  “They need to wait for more men,” Mrs. Greenhow replied, leaning forward to pour coffee into her china cup. “Now that the Union troops from New York have arrived in Annapolis, they’ll be here sometime today. It was you who told me there were over a thousand men in the President’s House, Constance. And there are even more hidden throughout the city. We don’t want our men to be taken by surprise and outnumbered.” Although she spoke calmly, Mrs. Greenhow’s dark eyes were shrewd and thoughtful. “It’s better that General Beauregard should wait, so he can be thoroughly prepared to take the city. Because when he does, the war will be over.”

  She had a mysterious smile that caught Constance’s attention. “General Beauregard? But I thought he was in Charleston.”

  That smile curved into something more feline. “He’s not. He’s in Alexandria.”

  Constance almost asked how Mrs. Greenhow knew that particular information, but Mrs. Burnside interrupted. “And once General Beauregard takes the city, we will all celebrate at Mrs. Davis’s levee in the Executive Ma
nsion!” Her eyes danced. “Once that rail-splitting ape is chased out and civilized people are living there once again.”

  The ladies agreed with a round of applause, beaming at each other.

  “It’s so lovely that you’ve been able to stay here in Washington instead of moving back to Mobile,” Mrs. Greenhow said to Constance. “You’re quite an addition to our salons. And even though you must excuse me for the stingy repast”—she gestured to the simple corn muffins and tiny pot of cream on the table—“once our boys come, there will be flour and sugar and oranges for all!”

  “Miss Lemagne, did you say you wanted to show us something?” asked Mrs. Wagner. “A drawing?”

  “Oh, yes.” Constance withdrew from her small drawstring bag a copy of the likeness she’d done of Miss Jane Thorne. “A friend of mine is looking for this woman. Do you recognize her?”

  Mrs. Wagner took the paper. “Did you say you drew this? Why, you have quite some skill, Miss Lemagne! I’m thoroughly impressed. But, no, I don’t believe I know her.”

  She passed the drawing around the small circle.

  “Why is your friend looking for this girl?” asked Mrs. Greenhow, refilling all of the coffee cups that had gone low. “Is she gone missing?”

  Constance hesitated, then plunged into a careful explanation. “She was killed. Her body was found, but we don’t know who she is.”

  “She was killed? How terrible! What happened?” asked Miss Bettie Duvall, the youngest of the group at sixteen.

  “I’m not certain how she was killed,” Constance admitted. “I only saw her face when I was drawing it.”

  “Do you mean to say you saw her dead body? And you drew a picture of it?” Miss Duvall was aghast. “I declare, that’s the most ghastly thing I’ve ever heard!”

  “It certainly wasn’t very pleasant,” Constance said agreeably. For some reason, George Hilton (she still couldn’t think of him as a doctor) and the memory of his quiet and confident person invaded her thoughts.