“But I— I’m afraid I don’t. I— I might. I mean, I thought I did, but—”
“And z’at ees more z’an z’ey can allow. Z’at ees somez’ing z’at ’as not changed in twenty-five years, you can be sure. Z’ere ees noz’ing else for you to do.”
Nothing, but to reflect on what I had just read. Hand knew the source of my preoccupation. Not the article. The letters from my children. Ella. The questions they had raised in a mind long unfamiliar with possibilities of almost any sort and, to be sure, completely unprepared for this particular set of them.
Strophe
I wanted—I don’t know what I wanted. To be loved. To be someone, somewhere else. But there was nowhere else. And only myself to be. And, Hand was right, nothing to do. I took my silent leave from him.
I walked down to the brook and slipped off my boots. How long had it been since I had rolled up the cuffs of my trousers and allowed my boyish toes to reminisce in the cooling, sun-spilled ripples. How I had longed for nothing more. Why could I then not be happy?
What still remains unsatisfied? The dreams of youth are ever anxious. Once fulfilled, they show that anxious, stirring sun, require further fantasy. I have shut my eyes too often to drink of their waters, imagining ease where I have found only Lethe. This is time to wake, Wilkes. Splash your face only.
***
The official report of my death runs as follows:
Two weeks after my deliverance of the tyrant’s worthless soul, having been informed of my general whereabouts by Pinkerton agents in the employ of the grizzly Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, a squadron of two dozen Union troops assigned to Lieutenant Edward P Doherty was dispatched from Washington by Colonel Lafayette C. Baker, chief of the federal secret service. Doherty, along with his men and former army Lieutenant Colonel E. J. Conger, was placed under the command of the service director’s cousin, Lieutenant Luther B. Baker. Arriving in the middle of the night at the Garrett family farmhouse on a fork of the Rappahannock River in northern Virginia, they straightaway confirmed information that David Herold and I were asleep in the small farm’s tobacco shed.
With orders to take us both alive, the squadron commander led the troops into a circle about the shed and demanded we give ourselves up lest he should have his men set fire to the barn. This, in the quickening flames of the threat’s fulfillment, the scared young Herold did, but before I could be likewise persuaded, a shot rang clear and I fell. A religious fanatic and self-inflicted eunuch named Boston Corbett, a corporal in the army previously in Conger’s own command and with his former commander temporarily assigned to duty with Baker, claimed credit for disobeying orders to hold his fire on the excuse that he was carrying out God’s will.
A not just slightly dissipated, scarcely recognizable man, weak from days as a hunted fugitive and now mortally wounded, was dragged from the burning shed by his heels, face down, that only his hands were burned. That was enough. The only truly identifiable marks, initials tattooed in younger days upon the inside of my left wrist, were thereby obscured. And the face so mangled that none could guess it was not Booth. The politic addition of last words about mother, who might swear it was not I? And then, this dying man half-paralytically held up both hands, as in one last gesture of defiance, gasped, “Useless, useless—useless!” and fell silent. John Wilkes Booth was dead.
The body, variously described as having been wholly or partly seared or charred from the fire, was returned to Washington where a government-supervised autopsy and nominal identification took place. No family members or close friends were allowed anywhere near it. Two doctors, one alleging to have filled a tooth of mine the previous winter, the other to have performed a minor surgery some years before, testified positively as to my identity. The most distinguishable characteristic being those tattooed if obfuscated initials never found mention in any official reports. The photographer Alexander Gardner, who would soon be asked to preserve the scene of my hanged compatriots, was invited to produce a posthumous portrait of the principle conspirator for the generations to come—though he was not among those who might have recognized me. But the one authorized negative and subsequent print handed over to the presiding military official never found their way to publication—nor even a simple mention in any sanctioned accounting. As far as the government was concerned, this death-mask photo had never been taken.
To all of this, add the quick and secret interment of the body, further confounding already circulating reports of a possibility of which Conger, the Bakers and Stanton—and I imagine even you—were too well aware:
It was not my body. I lived.
Strophe
If Jack Wilkes is alive, why does he not give himself up?
People say the most ridiculous things.
If there was really a conspiracy and he knows who is behind it, why does he not tell the world, and let justice be done?
All right, I killed Lincoln, but I was not alone in my planning. Still, how might I prove that? Who would believe a presidential assassin, and how could I think to be safe after any such disclosure? If those others were capable of implementing such a plan, certainly they would be capable of dispatching only a man such as I.
***
“I am only confused about one thing,” I stated firmly as I entered the cabin to see Hand now busying himself with our supper. He did not look toward me but gave me his attention with a pause.
“If you did not wish me to go, to make some sense of this—to say nothing of my life—why did you bring me that article? Or, more particularly, the letters from my children.”
Those last words stuck halfway in my throat. They were still so unfamiliar. There had been no time to get used to them, and now they had only to be accepted.
“What should I ’ave done?” he returned simply. “Lied to you, as all z’e rest?”
“You know me. You knew how I would react!”
“Per’aps. Mais, z’at h’ees not my decision.”
“And if I decide to go? Will you try to stop me.”
“No. I ’ave told you h’only what was yours to know. Z’e rest h’is up to you.”
“What would you do? Stay here?”
“If I were you? I do not know. One may never really know z’e oz’er side.”
His eyes shone clear, even at their most troubled and deep. “No. I mean, if I am to leave, what would you do?”
“Z’e traveler z’at journeys west, z’ey say, never sees z’e sun set, never recognizes or admits z’e passage of time. Mais, z’e wise man z’at journeys east, finds ’is shadow lengz’ening wiz’ z’e day. Z’e night is simply z’e consequence of ’is quest. ’Is nights are shorter and ’e is h’able to keep ’is back turned to z’e seasons. ’E watches h’only z’e rising sun.”
The dwarf was absorbed in his own philosophy.
“It is always glorious, golden dawn?” I mused.
But those were not my words.
“What would h’I do?” Hand ignored my last comment, and as an afterthought returned to my original question. “I would myself ’ave h’only one choice. To go wiz’ you.”
I smiled. He did not return it, but maintained that same familiar attitude.
“And if I forbade it?”
“Why would you? Am I not pleasant company, mon vieux?”
“Because these men of whom you speak may already be following you. Waiting for you to lead them to me.”
“Z’ey could not follow where I ’ave been.”
“No,” I smiled. “I am sure of that. Still, they may now be looking for us both. To travel together is to deliver ourselves to them. We do not, my friend, make a just slightly conspicuous pair.”
“I suppose,” he said with a resolute sigh, “you may be right about some z’ings, h’after all. Mais, I shall not leave z’is place, and when you come back wiz’ z’e news from Coh’rbett—”
“Corbett? I do not seek him. It is my brother, my children’s uncle, who I wish to see. I am once again in his shadow.”
&
nbsp; “Z’en, go. Go where you must. I will be ’ere when you return.”
“What about a disguise?” I wondered aloud.
“Disguise?” he laughed. “’Ave you not considered yourself lately? Z’at beard? Z’at ’orrible h’overcoat?”
He pointed to the shapeless rag hanging on the peg next to the cabin door.
“Of course, you are right,” I chuckled along. Then resignedly, “I suppose we must get some sleep.”
“Yes,” Hand agreed. “Mais, I will make for you a fine breakfast in z’e morning,” he nodded toward the still unwrapped packages. “Crèpes and zham—wiz’ real café. It will be h’Easter Sunday, you know.” I watched as he went about preparing for sleep and heard him whisper laughingly to himself, “A disguise?!”
The fire had dwindled to a few crimson embers only, and now Hand turned down the lamp after unrolling his beddings on the packed dirt floor. I sat on the edge of the cot that built out from the cabin wall to form my bed of cornhusks and bearskins.
“Hand?” I spoke his name with a question. He looked up at me, and through the dark I could still see that strange kindness I had come to understand. “I’m glad you came back.”
***
I shall not essay to have you believe there are a host of reasons—or pure altruism of any kind—that cemented the major’s loyalty and affection to me. I myself attribute its basis to a single, if unremarkable incident.
It had been some two or three days after we had left the monastery. The recommendation from his cousin came with an implicit trust that we would care equally, the one for the other. Henry’s devotion to my family was unquestionable, and I had every reason to expect the same of his own. I was right.
“I, too, h’am a criminal, Monsieur Booz’,” Hand said to me the afternoon of our second day together. “Mais, z’ey are not now ’unting me z’e way z’ey used to do. It seems z’at noz’ing in z’is world matters h’anymore since—excuse me—since you h’are dead.”
Hand seemed to understand and quietly respect the simple fear behind all my courage.
“Still, if z’ey should find me, z’ey would not z’ink to drag me all z’e way to Washington City to see me ’anged. Z’ey would shoot me h’on z’e spot.” His hands came together with a loud clap. “Z’en, for h’all z’eir talk, z’at is what z’ey would do wi’z you, too, no?”
He looked at me somewhat puzzled, but there was no confusion to be shared.
“I z’ink maybe we can not be sure what z’ey never do, yes?”
Hand was never specific about his crime, the reason he too was hunted, but there seemed an assurance that he was also a misunderstood casualty of war, that he was not merely some treacherous thief or murderer. And although the understanding was ever that I had no reason to doubt or fear, I must say those were perilously uncertain times for me to trust anyone, and I fully prepared myself to sleep with only one eye at a time and kill him if I must.
Perhaps the country was satisfied that John Wilkes Booth was dead, but I knew he was not. And I meant to keep it that way. The only thing I learned about Hand at that time is that he was for many years a free man. At age fourteen he had been sold to Napoleon Turner’s circus, with which he traveled successfully for three years. At that time, he bought his freedom on the pretense of being nineteen. His color, remarkable size and condition, as well as an undeniable ability to lie boldface, made it difficult to argue with him about anything and impossible not to believe. It was, as well, only two years’ difference.
All this I heard in great detail as we hiked unsteadily through leagues of uncut brush and brambles until the major and, later that same afternoon, I came to one of those myriad and boundless rivers that are part of the great Ohio system. Spring was full-on and the snows of the mighty and ancient Appalachians were by their movements mirroring our own, disguising their wintry hearts in shimmering tracks of westward meanderings.
The woodlands of the West Virginia territory are almost as venerable as their mountain fathers. Their thick interiors still host occasional fragments of a primeval sun, for thousands of years of diurnal coursings have gone unnoticed by their twisting undergrowth. Here, the bubbles of splashing waters and the crackling snaps of a lizard’s tread among the leaf-strewn rocks echo the tones of the first language, one that antedates the comparative sophistication heard in the whistlings of the minor birds.
“The water is deep here,” I said, overlooking Knob Creek from the bluff on which we stood. “I think we would be better to find a suitable place for fording downstream.”
“Z’ere ees no time for z’at, mon ami. Are you h’afraid of getting a leetle wet?”
“Afraid, no, but why must we—”
“Because, you forget, eef we h’are not on some pique-unique. Z’e time, h’it ees precious.”
With this, he began to take off his boots and shirt, tie them into a kind of knot with his bedroll and heave them across to the other bank with surprising ease. I followed his lead and did the same.
The waters were deep, but they were not the least rapid. There could be little problem crossing, after all. With a great splash, the major plunged into the water. Before I could do the same I paused for just a moment with a kind of eerie presentiment. The major did not come back up. I waited. Still nothing. I had no choice but to follow him.
Down into the water I swam until I saw him, eyes closed, silent, still. He lay motionless upon the shingles of the river’s bed as if he meant to yield entirely to Echo’s unintentional suit. Suddenly, his dark eyes opened huge and looked at me with an animal panic while he began to beat furiously at the water with his arms. As I reached around him, he hit me several times—nearly breaking my nose—before I could guide him to the surface and finally to the other shore.
He never let me forget that date, July 7. Nor could I. It was also the day they hanged Herold, Payne, Atzerodt, and dear Mary Surratt in Washington.
They had not been tried. They had been brutally held before a martial court with paltry defenses and no real chance at liberty. Their hands and feet had remained bound throughout, their faces masked. They had been able to utter not a single word on their own behalf.
This was my first real indication that I had killed the wrong man. Been wrong to think a single death could solve what had begun to tangle. It was a contagion that had long passed into the hearts and minds of the entire North.
I imagine I feel it is my duty to talk of more than vengeance here. For does it not have its more estimable side?
Strophe
Four people—American citizens—were hanged for the firing of a single bullet. The courage was theirs, the pistol mine. Is it not just that I should speak? What God wills he wills apart from human triflings and desires. He holds us in his hands but does not think or care to close his fingers, cup his palms. Three men and a noble woman committed themselves to his care the morning of their deaths. Four others found mercy in a sentence to live their lives’ remainders in a desolate prison.
Once a jury has decided—
There is no such thing as impartiality. What we believe, we will believe.
***
“I h’am sorry,” he coughed, as I dragged him up onto the bank. “You h’are very brave.”
“What happened?” I asked as he continued to spit out water.
“I cannot swim,” he said as bluntly as his accent and condition allowed. “Mais, I was not h’afraid.” He coughed again. “I was not h’afraid. Not to die, not to drown. Only for you. Henri would ’ave been h’angry if I left you h’alone.”
“I would have been angry, as well. In fact, I may never have spoken to you again.”
“You would not like me?” he began before understanding my attempt at comedy. “Oh! I see,” he chortled, pleased to have discovered I too could have a sense of humor.
That night we sat about our small fire, the major wrapped warmly in both our blankets, finally allowing me some reign. I had insisted he must care for the mouthfuls of river surely remaining in
his belly to manifest themselves as fever during the night. His hair glistening with a thousand stubborn droplets clinging to infinite curls, his skin showing purple in the glow of the camp, his face and mine giving sole expression to the moonless night.
“’Ow might one suppose z’at because a man h’ees possessed of some good ’e might not be equally stricken wi’z an amount of blinding h’evil?” he began to speak while following sparks from our fire as they rose to meet their brother stars.
“So, ’e desired to free my race? What right ’ad ’e to cause z’e blood of countless z’ousands to run as freely? Could h’any end be justified by such means? And ’ow might h’any man, given z’e h’obvious outcome of z’is present ‘emancipation’ z’ink any negro better for z’e generations of h’enmity to come?
“Was I not educated along wi’z z’e whip—first of z’e plantation, z’en of z’e circus—even as z’ey laughed at z’e ‘opof-my-z’umb’?”
“Hop-of-my-thumb” was an expression I recognized immediately, but did not know why. Perhaps I had once heard my father speak of dwarves this way.
“Did I not prove my h’own wor’z by z’e h’industry wi’z which I pursued and purchased my freedom? Why must I share z’at precious commodity wi’z h’innumerable o’zers whose h’outstanding achievement was z’e performance of some command when z’eir h’indolence afforded z’em not a single ’aystack behind which z’ey might ’ide to sleep away z’e afternoon in lazing dreams of h’idle Africa?
“Where h’are z’e proud cities of z’eir black ’omeland? What h’inventions can z’ey claim wi’z which z’ey eased z’e season’s natural h’afflictions? Are z’ey free men because z’ey walk upright, or must z’ey not prove z’emselves by more z’an a desire to be equal? Equal! ’Ow should z’ey not be held h’accountable to h’action as was I?
“And I h’am z’e h’aberration!” he drew a deep breath and cleared his throat. “You know, I have a broz’er. A twin, yes. Our moz’er died moments before I was delivered h’and my broz’er, h’Atlas—my own flesh, first born and fully formed—refused to ever h’acknowledge our fraternity. As h’if it would make ’im less z’e man to be related to a ‘Mr. Paap.’ Poor man carried z’e weight of h’our kinship h’on ’is shoulders,” he laughed.
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