Whippoorwill

by R. L. Bartram

  “You shouldn’t let him,” Susan, thin, prim and serious, sat on her bed, plating her hair. “Not before marriage, anyway.” She was nearsighted and wore spectacles to correct the condition.

  Cathy ignored her. “How’d you manage to snag a Captain, Ellen?” she asked Ceci, glancing at the picture of Trent she kept on her bedside table.

  For once, Ceci could display it openly. He was, after all, a Union soldier, although she still called him Frank.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Susan stopped plating and pointed. “She’s beautiful. Just the kind of girl officers want to be seen with. Not like me.” She lifted her specs off her nose and peered over her shoulder. “Do you think my behind’s too big?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Cathy glanced back at her. “But if you showed it to Jed occasionally, he might write more often.”

  “I’m not that kind of girl,” Susan’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

  “Well, I know Jed’s that sort of man,” Cathy informed her, with conviction.

  “How’d you know?” Susan asked suspiciously.

  “Because he’s a man,” she stated the obvious. “Have you never had a letter from Frank?” she asked, returning her attention to Ceci.

  “Not whilst I’ve been here. He’s not one for picking up a pen,” Ceci lied. “He’s got better things to do than write to me.”

  “I bet he’s a quiet one,” Cathy guessed. “Does all his talking with his hands.” She grabbed Ceci round the waist to illustrate her point, making her shriek. “I never noticed that before,” she remarked, stepping back. “You have a little scar there and another at the front,” she pointed at the bare space between Ceci’s drawers and her camisole. “It looks new. Is that a bullet wound?”

  Cathy’s curiosity came as a sharp reminder of her vulnerable position here. She could never allow herself to slip into complacency. “Just an accident,” she made light of it. The last thing she needed was awkward questions. “Why, does it spoil me?”

  “No, honey.” Fortunately, Cathy was easily distracted. “It’s not as if anyone else is going to see it, except Frank, and I’m sure there’ll be plenty of other things on display to keep him occupied.”

  “You’re awful,” Susan complained. “Don’t you ever think of anything else?”

  “If you come across something better than men,” she replied disdainfully. “You let me know and I’ll think about that.”

  Even though she wasn’t expected to gather information, Ceci kept her eyes and ears open and remembered what she saw and heard. The war raged on, with both Confederate and Union victories, but no clear end in sight. As winter gave way to spring and spring to summer, the northern chill, she found so disagreeable, dissipated. She’d been in the north and suppressed her southern accent for so long, she doubted if she could ever call it back, but her intentions remained unchanged. She felt marooned in Washington, forgotten, abandoned, isolated from the theatre of war, where she could make a difference. Why did Doucet insist on keeping her here? There seemed no purpose in it.

  Her position as maid in the White House had become a way of life. She was used to the routine. She’d actually begun to enjoy it. Initially, she’d been provided with funds to tide her over. Now, she existed on her wages, like any other employee. She was allowed one day off a week. Invariably, she went shopping. Unlike the stores in the south, Washington was packed with things to buy. There were no shortages here. Sometimes, it made her angry. She’d think of her hometown, in Louisiana, doubting that it fared so well. At times like these, the dark creature within her would howl impatiently, making her isolation seem all the more profound. It strengthened her resolve to strike against the Union, with or without Doucet’s orders. Alone, if necessary.

  Preoccupied with these dark thoughts she continued with her errands, until, from the corner of her eye, she saw she was being watched. Glancing up, she noticed a young woman, accompanied by a Union soldier, standing across the street. She held a small child in her arms and, as their eyes met, she smiled and began to wave. Ceci recognised her at once. It was Amelia Douglas. She must have married Frank and remained in the capital after her family had left.

  Without thinking, Ceci waved back, then stopped abruptly, realising she’d given herself away. Amelia faltered. The soldier spoke to her, looking in Ceci’s direction. She saw Amelia shake her head, believing herself to be mistaken, before moving on.

  Doucet’s instructions were clear on this point. ‘If you are recognised, at your earliest opportunity, draw that person in and eliminate them.’ He had trained her well, but he hadn’t eradicated her humanity. She wasn’t about to murder a young mother merely to protect her identity. She let it pass, and in doing so, broke the first rule of survival.

  Ceci hurried back to the relative safety of the White House, showed her pass to the sentry and went inside. Pass still in hand, she headed for her room. Her position had been compromised and that’s all she could think about. When she finally bothered to look up, she realised she was in the wrong part of the house. This was a restricted area, where only senior members of staff were permitted. Obviously, the guards had assumed she was one of them. Seeing the pass in her hand, they’d let her through. She clicked her tongue in annoyance and turned to retrace her steps, only to find herself confronted by a tall thin man.

  He wore a beard but no moustache and there was a distinctive mole on his cheek. She gasped, her eyes widening. It was him. The author of all her misery. Abraham Lincoln. The dark creature within her bared its teeth and growled. She could kill him now, it whispered. She could become that weapon she’d thought of on the day she learned of her family’s death. She could throw herself into the heart of the Union and destroy it. That was the reason for everything. That was what she’d lived for.

  “Are you lost?” he enquired, his voice soft and mellow.

  It completely disarmed her. “Yes,” she stammered, “I believe I am.”

  “In that case, young woman,” he smiled wryly. “You find yourself in good company.”

  She was transfixed by the sight of him, unable to act. She had expected to find a monster, but it was only a man. He looked so old. Old before his time. Worn thin and threadbare, bowed and haggard. There was an overwhelming aire of melancholy about him that was almost tangible. It was as if he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders. Despite herself, her heart went out to him.

  “Allow me,” he gestured towards a door at the end of the passage. She followed him, pausing as he opened it for her. “As one American to another,” he remarked, with the same wry smile. “Let us hope that we can exit this war as swiftly as you have left this corridor.” He took her hand in his and shook it.

  Ceci couldn’t help herself. She continued to stare up into his face. There was something in his expression, the look of destiny. She had seen it once before, on General Lee at Gettysburg. In that moment, she felt herself to be in the presence of true greatness. These were men whom only the will of God could destroy and she knew, full well, that she was not his chosen instrument. She blinked, waking from her trance, nodded dumbly, retrieved her hand and returned the way she’d come.

  Her chance meeting with Lincoln had initiated a change within her. She could feel it happening, even as she stumbled blindly along, his words echoing in her ears. ‘As one American to another’. Reaching her room, she staggered inside. Falling against a table, she gripped its edges for support until her knuckles whitened, her breath rasping over her teeth. She thought of her father and her sister, of the Bird spies, and of her home in Louisiana. The images crowded into her mind until she thought it would explode. She had failed them all. She had been tested and found wanting, but, under the circumstances, how could she have acted otherwise?

  In her frustration, she turned all her anger and hatred in upon herself. She began to tremble, the dark creature thrashed in the void, the table rattling under her
hands. She felt as if a higher force was at work, negating her fury, stripping the pain from her soul. She wanted to keep it. It made her angry. The anger gave her strength. She struggled against it, but to no avail. She could see her father’s face and that of Celeste. The vision touched her heart. How could she ever have believed that she could honour their memory with murder? How could the death of one man atone for their lose, after so many had died? She had been driven by the utter futility of revenge. The dark creature within her howled a final time and fell silent. The void closed, the poison flowing from her eyes as tears, long overdue.

  She collapsed onto her bed, feeling dazed and confused, drained and exhausted, with no clear idea of what to do next. She had no intention of abandoning the Confederate cause, although vengeance no longer played a part in it, but without the violent emotions that had driven her thus far, she felt powerless. She considered what so many others, who’d found themselves in this position, had said. What happened next would be the will of God, but, as she already knew, God had a sense of humour.

  ***

  Christmas at the White House was a lavish affair, not that Ceci saw much of it. The Lincolns’ had been generous enough to distribute presents amongst the staff. The maids received silk handkerchiefs with a tiny Union flag embroidered in the corner. For Cathy and Susan, they were treasured keepsakes. Ceci merely wiped her nose on it.

  There was a modest celebration in the servant’s hall. Defiant as ever, Ceci sat in on it, determined to be the only speck of southern soil in the heart of Union territory. Mistletoe had been hung and Cathy appeared to be kissing anything in trousers that passed under it, much to Susan’s dismay.

  Ceci remained indifferent to the festivities. The sound of laughter and the chink of glasses only served to remind her of the last Christmas she’d spent, with all her family on the plantation in Louisiana. Finally, she could stand it no longer.

  “Where are you going?” Susan asked in surprise. “You’re not on duty yet. The party’s just getting started.”

  “I have a headache,” she responded, touching a hand to her brow. “I need some air.”

  She made her way through the busy kitchen and out into the White House grounds. Wrapping her arms around herself, she shivered in the cold night air, gazing out across the frosted lawns. Again, she was reminded of her home in Louisiana and the garden there. She exhaled, watching her breath drift off in vaporous clouds. She missed the warmth of the South. If only Trent were here, she could bare it. The heat of his body would drive the chill from her bones. She wondered how many northern winters she would have to endure before she went home.

  More than a year had passed and still Doucet hadn’t contacted her. She began to think he’d left her here on purpose, to punish her for her failures. Bottled her up in a place she couldn’t escape from, just to keep her out of the way. If that was the case, she was surprised he’d spared himself the expense of a bullet. Then another thought occurred to her. What if he’d been killed. It was likely that he was the only one who knew she was here. She could spend the rest of the war working as a maid at the White House. The irony wasn’t lost on her. God’s sense of humour was becoming irksome.

  ***

  Easter was fast approaching. Ceci had been in the employ of the White House for sixteen months. She felt as if she’d done more service, albeit cleaning grates and polishing silver, to the Union, than she had to the Confederacy. It was her day off and she was getting ready to go out when suddenly the door burst open, making her jump. Susan stood there, red faced and breathless.

  “It’s just come over the telegraph,” she panted. “It’s all over the house. Robert. E. Lee has surrendered. Today at Appomattox.”

  The news hit Ceci like a thunderbolt. She tottered back, slumping into a chair, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks.

  “I know. It’s wonderful news. Isn’t it?” Susan misinterpreted her reaction. “You’ve dropped your gloves and purse.” She bent forwards, picked them up and placed them on Ceci’s lap. “I’d better get back to work. I just had to come and tell you.”

  The room seemed to shrink around her. The world shrank around her. How could this be, she wondered, recalling her meeting with General Lee and the words he’d spoken at Gettysburg. ‘By the grace of God, we shall yet prevail.’ Perhaps it was the issue of slavery that had caused God to favour the Union. The Pharaoh’s had enslaved the Israelites and he’d sent plagues on them. Perhaps servitude to the North was his punishment on the Confederacy? Then again, what if God had nothing to do with it? Maybe it was all about iron and steel, factories and northern industry, against southern cotton. Whatever it was, she couldn’t stay in this house a moment longer.

  The streets of Washington thronged with people. Union flags flew from every mast, draped every balcony. Bands marched along the roads playing ‘The Union Forever.’ The crowds joined in, singing the words, laughing and cheering. All Ceci could do was stand there and cry. The champion of the Southern cause had fallen. His battle flags lay in the dust, crushed under the feet of the Union, along with the hopes of the Confederacy. She had nothing to celebrate.

  Blinded by her tears, she pushed through the milling crowds that surged around her, hardly aware of where she was going. She was pushed and jostled, like a leaf in a windstorm, until finally, one man barged right into her, knocking her purse from her hand. She stood there, dazed, as he mumbled an apology and stooped to pick it up. As he rose, she recognised him. “Booth.”

  “In the purse,” he whispered, before tipping his hat and vanishing into the sea of bodies.

  Her meeting with Booth imbued Ceci with a renewed sense of hope. If he was here, Doucet couldn’t be far behind. Perhaps there was still something that could be done. Something that could be salvaged from this disaster. When she decoded the message, Booth had slipped into her purse, she discovered it was a room number at the National Hotel in Washington. He told her to meet him there, on Good Friday at five o’clock. It would be difficult to absent herself from the White House, but this was one appointment Ceci was determined to keep.

  Chapter Thirty One

  The National Hotel wasn’t hard to find. Ceci went to the room and tapped lightly on the door. It opened ajar and Booth peered cautiously out. Pulling the door wide, he caught her by the arm and dragged her inside.

  “I thought Doucet would be here,” she told him, noticing they were alone.

  “No,” Booth shook his head. “This is my operation.”

  Before she could say anything else, he spoke again.

  “I want you to go into the next room. There you’ll find one of Doucet’s satchels. Put on the Union uniform, then the Confederate and the dress, in that order. Be quick.”

  Ceci complied, pinning her hair back, until she thought she could wedge a soldier’s cap over it. It felt good to be going into action again. After all her months of isolation, she was eager to be of service.

  “Good,” Booth nodded his approval, as she emerged. “I belong to a group of southern patriots,” he explained. “We have a plan that will revive the fortunes of the Confederacy.”

  “How’s that possible?” she asked doubtfully. “General Lee has surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia.”

  “That’s not the only army at the disposal of the Confederacy,” Booth informed her. “We still have Johnston’s Army of Tennessee. The Army of the Trans-Mississippi, as well as Arkansas and New Mexico. There are still thousands of men, ready and able to fight.”

  “Surely, they’ll surrender as well,” she guessed. “Once they discover what’s happened at Appomattox.”

  “That’s the point of our plan,” Booth replied. “We intend to cut off the head of the Union snake. This will throw the Union government into chaos and allow the Confederacy time to regroup and reorganise. There’ll be no more surrenders, after that. The South will rise again.”

  “How’
d you intend to do that?” she asked. “Cut off the head of the snake, I mean.”

  “Tonight, Abraham Lincoln will attend a play at Ford’s Theatre,” he told her. “Our American Cousin. It’s a fine play. I’ve acted in it. You are, by now, a familiar face at the White House,” he continued. “Arrangements have been made for you to accompany Mrs Lincoln, as her personal maid.” He took a Derringer from his pocket, much like the one Alma had given her, and laid it on the table. “At the appointed hour, the policeman guarding Lincoln’s box, will be distracted. You will take this gun, put it against the back of the President’s head and kill him. This is the chance you’ve been waiting for,” he smiled confidently. “You will have the honour of executing the President of the United States.”

  Once again, Ceci felt as if a higher force was at work, compelling her towards a course of action she had already decided not to take. Before she’d met Lincoln face-to-face, she might have considered it, but now it was out of the question. She was a southern patriot, not a rabid fanatic.

  “You’re out of your mind,” she told him bluntly. “What good would that do?”

  “Hear it all,” Booth cautioned. “At the same time, my associates will eliminate Vice President Andrew Johnson and Secretary of State William Seward. Thus, cutting off the head of the Union snake. This is what Doucet trained you for. This was his ultimate plan, if we began to lose the war.”

  Ceci was astounded. “You mean to tell me he sacrificed the lives of three brave young women, in the name of this mad idea?” she reminded him of the other Bird spies.

  “Fortunes of war,” Booth shrugged dismissively. “Only the lucky or the strong survive. They were neither. Remember what you agreed to do. To penetrate deep behind enemy lines, for any purpose.”

  That phrase took on a new and more insidious meaning, every time it was repeated to her. Ceci couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The whole plan sounded insane. It smacked of desperation. She didn’t like the way Booth had casually dismissed the deaths of the other Bird spies. She didn’t trust his judgement now.