The Willard

by LeAnne Burnett Morse

  Catherine had also learned while waiting for Chase to secure accommodations for the Grants that the city itself was preparing for a spectacular celebration this very night. They were calling it the Grand Illumination and every building, from the windows of private homes to the enormous banner declaring UNION being affixed to the Willard roof at this very moment, was to be lit tonight to celebrate the hard-won victory. Even the Capitol dome, which had been kept dark during the war so as not to make it a tempting target since its completion, would be ablaze in glorious light. Thousands of people had descended on the city to cheer and dance and drink and all around party. Tonight would be the biggest party of them all and the only man the public wanted to see as much as the president was his top general. The man who was thought unfit to lead the nation’s army because he enjoyed hard liquor would be toasted tonight as its greatest hero.

  When Chase returned to speak with Catherine he found she had disappeared. She wanted to walk and to think. Things were happening so fast and it was time for the rehearsal at Ford’s. She walked the entire way, turning her ankles from time to time on the rutted streets.

  When she arrived at the theatre she found that Laura had given her name to the man at the box office window and she was allowed entry. She crossed the small red-carpeted lobby and entered the back of the auditorium itself. She had never been to Ford’s before. It seemed much smaller than she imagined with its wooden chairs in a semi-circle facing the stage. She looked up and to the right and saw the opera box where the Lincolns would be seated and noticed there was no bunting across the front. In all the photos she’d ever seen of Ford’s, the flag bunting and the portrait of George Washington were always there. It dawned on her then that those items were there in her day because they were commemorating what happened here when Lincoln was shot. She guessed, correctly, that before the assassination the opera box was only the state box when the president was in it, sort of like Air Force One. Tomorrow, when they learned he was coming they would be draping it for his use.

  They’ll never take it down again. That was the thought burning in her mind.

  The rehearsal was in full swing. Laura saw Catherine standing in back and motioned her to come on stage. Catherine held up a finger to indicate she’d be back in a minute. She went back into the lobby and climbed the stairs leading to the second level. This level was called the dress circle and once Catherine stepped into the area she could see the easy pathway around to the small door that led to the state box. She walked around and opened the door. No one paid her any attention. She stepped inside the door and found a second door. Opening that one she found the large box that the president and his party would occupy. She stepped forward and looked down at the stage. It seemed to be about ten or twelve feet below her and, if memory served, this is where John Wilkes Booth would leap to the stage as part of his dramatic exit. He would break his leg in the process.

  Break a leg, huh, Booth? How many times did someone tell you to do that before you went on stage?

  Once again, Laura spotted Catherine and this time she spoke to her from the stage.

  “I see you’ve found the best seat in the house. I’ve heard Mr. Ford has been hoping the president might turn up tomorrow night. I know he’s looking to fill seats. Attendance has been dismal here lately. Come on down and see the view from the stage,” she said.

  Catherine slowly backed out of the box and closed both doors behind her. She felt a chill and wanted to get away quickly. Even now it seemed like a creepy place.

  Laura invited Catherine up some temporary stairs on the front of the stage. From there she turned her around and let her look out over the orchestra level with the footlights in her eyes. Even without an audience it was a surreal experience. The gaslights made a hissing sound and their blue flames danced across the bottom edge of the stage like a borderline to the abyss.

  “Those aren’t usually turned on for rehearsals, but I thought you might like to see what it’s like,” Laura said. She motioned offstage to a stagehand and the lights dimmed and went out. The hissing stopped, but the smell of gas lingered in the air mixed with the fragrance of greasepaint and freshly cut lumber that had been used to build scenery. She pointed to an area in the audience section on the stage right side a few rows back.

  “I’ve arranged for you to have a seat there. It’s a wonderful view of the stage and you might also be able to catch a glimpse of the president if he does come,” Laura told her proudly.

  “That’s very kind of you. Do I understand correctly that it’s a special night, your 1000th performance in this role?” Catherine asked.

  “Yes. I know this character as well as I know myself. I believe it will be a night we can tell our grandchildren about,” Laura remarked.

  “Yes,” Catherine answered. “I think you might be right.”

  CHAPTER 48

  TOM KELLY

  1962

  DEFCON 2. It was the highest state of military readiness the United States had seen since the system was implemented. Only DEFCON 1 was higher, and it meant imminent nuclear war. After Tom had given Volkov the classified information the president had given him to pass along, several hours passed while Volkov had his network run the information through and verify that Tom did indeed have extraordinary access. Back Channel was sitting on the information when they saw it come through the governmental clandestine network. This proved Tom was telling the truth and they gave Volkov the green light to work with him. Over the next twenty-four hours, messages went through the clandestine network and Back Channel reviewed them and double-checked them with Tom. So far, it seemed the accuracy of the information was holding. There was nothing Tom could identify that might be the catalyst for a change in history.

  On October 26th a letter came through from the Soviet premier that indicated he would remove the missiles and personnel from Cuba in exchange for a United States guarantee not to invade the island nation. It looked like de-escalation was to be the word of the day and everyone settled in for a night’s sleep in the wee hours of Saturday morning with high hopes, but they would be dashed the following day.

  The new day dawned clear and hopeful. Tom slept in and left his room at the Willard just after 9 o’clock. He ran into Edward Chase in the lobby.

  “Mr. Kelly, how are things progressing?” asked the concierge.

  “Things are going well, Mr. Chase. I think it will all be over today. Communication has been smooth and I think the crisis has been averted yet again.”

  The concierge didn’t look convinced. “Do you know the date, Mr. Kelly?”

  Tom paused to think about the question. “The days have all run together but I think it’s Saturday. That would make it October 27th, I think,” Tom said.

  “That’s right, today is October 27. It’s been twelve days since the first photos of the missile sites came to light. Twelve days, Mr. Kelly.”

  Tom could see that Chase was hinting at something but he was too tired to pick up on it.

  “What are you getting at, Chase? You think we’re not out of the woods yet?”

  “Mr. Kelly, did you happen to see the movie with Kevin Costner that was made about the crisis? I believe it was around the year 2000 and I know you are very familiar with movies.”

  “Yes, I saw it,” answered Tom. “It was called Thirteen Days. If today is day number twelve it stands to reason that we’re close to the end.” Tom didn’t see the problem.

  Chase continued, “Perhaps you should think back to the movie you saw. Day twelve wasn’t the wrap-up, Mr. Kelly. It was, in fact, the most dangerous day of the crisis. I believe you should get over to the White House right away. I have a feeling you will be quite busy today. I will continue to make sure no hotel staff enters your room and your secure communication equipment is not disturbed. I’m here if you need me.”

  Tom couldn’t remember anything about day twelve, but just the thought of it made him feel sick. He said goodbye to Chase and headed for the revolving door of the hotel. He passed a well-dr
essed gentleman reading the morning paper. Nothing about the front page looked exceptionally worse than it had over the past few days. The masthead listed the date as October 27, 1962. After today it would be referred to as “Black Saturday,” but Tom didn’t know that.

  He stepped outside and turned right for the short walk to the White House.

  CHAPTER 49

  CALVIN WALKER

  1963

  At the Washington Monument the crowd that had been gathering got tired of waiting for directions and began the march to the Lincoln Memorial without the organizers of the event. As they walked along they sang songs and waved signs. The closer they got to the Lincoln Memorial the more electric the atmosphere became. It was clear to all present that something extraordinary was happening. They had marched, sat at lunch counters, quietly protested at courthouses, and petitioned school boards, but nothing had felt like what they were doing today. Buses continued to arrive and the crowds grew as they began to assemble around the reflecting pool and up on the steps of the monument. They were standing shoulder to shoulder, pressing together to get as close as possible to the platform. To those looking back on the crowd from the stage area it looked like a sea of people with no end. And somewhere in that crowd there were members of a radical organization whose name literally meant white death. But they were surrounded predominately by black people, the same brothers and sisters they claimed they supported. What good could come of killing these innocents? The answer was simple and Calvin had figured it out on the walk here with a bomb slung over his shoulder in a duffle bag. Kifo thought of these people as lemmings. To them, the marchers were not the thinkers and the doers that they themselves were. The marchers were blindly following charismatic leaders who stood to enrich themselves and gain nothing for their people. The marchers were collateral damage in a war. Collateral damage was expected in war. It was accepted. It was even factored into battle plans. Today these lemmings would die in order to inflame the black population to take up arms with Kifo. The world would see that non-violence was nothing but a waste of time. The marchers even looked like they were out for a Sunday afternoon social. No, they couldn’t be taken seriously. But Kifo would be. After today they would not be overlooked. The Black Panthers might have Malcolm X, but Kifo would forever have the aftermath of the march. They planned to lead the way in reforming public life for the black race.

  Calvin had no idea where the others had been stationed, but he and Fish pushed their way to within a few yards of the stage. Something about Fish’s countenance caused people to make way for him. A few even gave up their prime viewing spots and left the immediate area, sensing he might be a danger.

  Calvin placed the bag by his feet. A few yards away he saw a couple of police officers. He quickly came up with a plan.

  “I’m going over to those cops to tell them the organizer’s motorcade needs assistance at the corner of Constitution and 17th. I’ll tell them I’m Dr. King’s assistant and that the police chief doesn’t want to radio for them because he’s afraid word will get out that he doesn’t have control of the crowd. I can get them out of the area,” Calvin said.

  Fish looked unconvinced, but he had noticed the wide berth some had given him. He hadn’t gone to any trouble to try and blend in and his black leather attire and menacing scowl had frightened some. He thought Calvin’s professorial look might help him convince them to move, which was a good thing because they might finger Fish for a troublemaker if they noticed him there. Reluctantly he let Calvin go, but told him he was watching him for any sign he was up to something dirty.

  Calvin navigated the crowd and approached the officers.

  “Excuse me, officers, I need your help.”

  The two white officers looked at Calvin dismissively.

  “What do you want?” one of them asked.

  “There are men in this crowd with bombs in duffel bags. One of them is ten yards behind me right now and there are at least seven other groups spread out in the area,” Calvin said as calmly as possible. He even managed to gesture in the direction of Constitution Avenue and 17th Street while he talked because he knew Fish was watching.

  The men seemed unimpressed. “Bombs, eh? Twenty minutes ago it was rifles on top of the monument and this morning it was gonna to be tear gas,” one officer said.

  The other officer joined in. “Don’t forget the kidnappers.”

  “Right. I forgot about the kidnappers. We’ve been warned all about the schemes you malcontents aim to use to get us to wade into that crowd and make it look like the big, bad, white police are trying to keep you from making your little speeches. Go back to your place, boy,” the bigger officer said. It must have been funny to the other cop because they got a good laugh from it.

  Calvin could feel Fish’s hard stare boring into the back of his skull. These knuckleheads needed to listen and it was clear they had no intention of taking him seriously.

  “I’m not kidding, fellas. If you don’t listen to me you’re going to have dozens of dead spectators on your hands in about an hour. Not to mention they might just get one of the organizers. Do you want that to happen on your watch?”

  “I told you to get back to your place, boy!” the officer made a move toward Calvin with his hand on his nightstick. This was going nowhere fast. Calvin knew he had to talk to someone higher up. At that moment he heard the opening bars of the national anthem. The program was starting. It was now or never.

  Fish was watching from his position near the stage. He had a bad feeling that Williams, as he knew him, was ratting them out to the cops. But it was too late now. The anthem was starting and his boys were in place. They wouldn’t be deterred. Even if the cops grabbed him right now it wouldn’t matter. The duffel bag he had with him was just a ruse, like all the others. None of them had working bombs. The real action had been placed the day before when the stage was being built. He had arranged to have some of his boys from out of state on the setup crew. He knew nobody would recognize them. They had planted the explosives directly on the support structure of the stage and the surrounding steel, and a trusted member of Fish’s group was standing by to detonate them on his signal. The duffel bags were decoys to bring the cops, nearly all white, into the crowd to see what was up. The Kifo boys had planned to fan out in the crowd and open the bags to reveal the “bombs” during the song by Mahalia Jackson. It was scheduled late in the program and all the principals would be on stage. The pandemonium would send the marchers running out and the cops running in. Before anyone could fully react, the stage charge would be fired. That way they could take out everyone on stage, plenty of spectators, and most importantly, the cops who would rush in to protect the organizers. Fish was the only one close enough to be in danger from the blast and he was just about to start making his way out of the area.

  For a second he thought it was a shame that Williams might turn out to be a rat. Fish thought he could be a useful resource in a later operation if he was a true believer in their cause. So what he saw next shocked him and seemed to prove Calvin was no snitch. Just as Fish had started to push his way through the crowd to get to a safe spot he saw Calvin, the suspected rat, pull back a fist and punch the strutting officer in the jaw. They had him on the ground with a knee at his throat in record time. The police had just made their first arrest of the day. And they had cuffed the only man who could have helped them.

  CHAPTER 50

  OLIVIA FORDHAM

  1913

  The telegram had been delivered to Victoria when she stopped at the hotel for lunch and a brief rest midday. She’d been having a wonderful morning with the other ladies preparing for the march, the only dark spot being the memory of her argument with James the night before. She didn’t know why she cared so much what a virtual stranger thought about her, but she couldn’t shake the disappointment that she was unlikely to see him again. All in all, the morning had been energizing and inspiring, but the message she read sent her spirits plummeting.

  Victoria

 
Deeply concerned by the news from Washington stop insist you return home at once stop ticket on five oclock train arranged Union Station stop obedience expected stop Father

  Victoria felt deflated by the message. All the excitement of the morning was wiped away. It was one thing to come to the city with her parents’ grudging, tentative permission, but another matter entirely to defy a direct order to return home. She had never defied her parents’ wishes and knew that doing so now would have serious consequences. Sadly she began packing her things and left them with the bellman before returning to F Street to say goodbye to her new friends and explain why she couldn’t help them after all.

  Olivia had stayed at headquarters while Victoria was at the hotel and she had no knowledge of the letter. She noticed the change in Victoria’s demeanor the moment she walked through the doors of the bustling office.

  “What’s wrong, dear?”

  “My father sent a telegram ordering me home on the five o’clock train. He’s heard some kind of news about the event and he refuses to allow me to be part of it. My things are packed and I’ve come to say goodbye.”

  Olivia felt her heart sink. If Victoria left she would fail the task Edward had given her, not to mention change the course of her own life. But it was more than that. Though she had never had children, this strange situation had her feeling like a mother to Victoria and she could feel the deep disappointment the girl was carrying.

  “Do you want to go home, Victoria?”

  “Of course not! I want to be here and be part of the march! I’ve seen so much these last two days. How can I go home and immerse myself in debutante balls and the social register when I know what I know now? I can’t turn my back on this work.” She paused. “And I don’t know why I care because he’s an insufferable fool, but I wouldn’t mind seeing James again.”

  There it was. Proof that Victoria herself had strong feelings about both her political advocacy and the young man with the old-fashioned opinions. Olivia felt she would be doing the right thing for all the right reasons if she encouraged her to defy her parents and stay. But it was much harder than she thought. She had no experience with the life of an early twentieth century upper-class girl whose parents held total sway over her choices. The more she encouraged Victoria, the deeper the girl dug in her heels saying there was no way she could defy their direct order to return. It simply wasn’t done. Olivia had to remind herself that times were different and she was beginning to lose hope as she watched Victoria make the rounds to say her goodbyes and offer apologies that she couldn’t stay. Alice Paul had been terribly disappointed and Amelia had tried everything she could to change the girl’s mind. Nothing was working and Victoria was making her way to Olivia to say a final goodbye and thank her for her kindness when the door opened and a woman neither had met walked through.