Lincoln's Assassin

by J F Pennington

  “Z’e ’appiest moment of ’is life was z’e day h’I was sold to z’e carnival. Carted off like some wild z’ing to remind ’im no more of z’e dwarfed and crippled part of ’is h’own character.

  “H’our master did not sell me. H’it was my broz’er! I suppose ’e told z’e plantation h’owner I ran away, while ’e ’orded z’e miserable coins ’e received for me, knowing it would buy ’imself not freedom, a lifetime of whisky! Oh! h’it was h’only ’alf enough to purchase ’is papers, and ’e could never ’ave z’ought to save h’it until ’e found z’e oz’er part. Better to drink h’it slowly. Z’at h’is my broz’er!

  “Now z’ey will make ’im free, and h’I must once again compete wi’z ’is z’oughts of superiority. All z’is when ’e ’as never distinguished ’imself. ’Ow do I know? Oh! I kept contact with ’im. ’E was still my broz’er. Alz’ough ’e never knew I was watching ’im. Just enough to satisfy myself z’at ’e was wrong to z’ink ’is z’oughts of me. And I was right. ’is only claim is to be normal—man-size.

  “I h’am ’is equal in every part z’at matters to a woman, and ’is better h’in every part z’at must make a real man!” He stretched his neck straight above the wraps about his shoulders, as if accommodating his enlarged spirit, then sighed. “If h’eet ’ad been my cane, Monsieur Sumner would never ’ave risen!” he mumbled, poking at our fire with a willow branch.

  “Abolition! I will ’ave no part of z’at system. What h’ees wrong wi’z slavery? Save z’at eet should be h’inflicted on one race h’alone. Z’ere h’are many whites ’o are equally lame to contribute more z’an z’e force a master’s rod can supervise. Mais, any man ’o will content ’imself to z’e miseries of z’e yoke, ’o will not toil for ’is own freedom, and ’o would let z’e blood of innocent h’oz’ers pay z’e price ’e ’imself ees h’unwilling to pay, what h’ees ’e, but a leach upon z’e body of society? A ’erded vassal. A mindless drone. What should ’e be, but a bonded slave?

  “I love my cou’zahn Henri—h’as a friend may love a friend—still, e’ h’ees but some puppy dog of a man, willing to cast ’is loyalty toward ’omever ’olds z’e deesh!

  “If ‘Faz’er Abra’am’ was so just, where was ’is son when z’e field was taken? Why did ’e so ve’emently deny z’e rumors of ’is mixed blood, whez’er z’at blood was Afrhican or ’ebrew? ’Ow might z’e pay of ’is beloved ‘coloreds’ ’ave been so h’unequal, only one-’alf of z’e white men alongside ’om z’ey marched to equal dea’z? If ’e was so great and so wise and good, where was ’is soul and ’eart of ’earts z’at ’e could not see or feel or ’ear z’e sufferings of truly righteous men, ’ose labors were not to h’enslave z’e masses, but to make use of nature’s h’own bondsmen? Z’ose beasts, ’o, h’unprodded, would contribute only z’at which z’ey could not depend would be given to z’em? Z’e ‘rail-splitter’ was ever a ‘tongue-splitter,’ no’zing more!”

  ***

  What I am about to tell you is surely the most difficult part of my story to explain. You will take it for an excuse, for a flimsy explanation, for a fantasy of self-deception. And you will be justified to the extent that I could never truly hope for you to understand the mechanism of something so inherently unmechanical: Theater.

  When it is asked how I could have killed Poor Old Abe, I must respectfully submit by way of reply, how could I not? It was not a drama, you see, of my own design, but a role that I seemed to have been assigned in the space between the ages long past and those yet to unfold. I could as readily view my part as that of some fate-thwarted lover of life’s own comedy, some comic fool caught up in the tragedy you would deem the episode to have been.

  And, though I understand very well the means by which I came to play my greatest scene, I can not for an instant expect you to grasp the purity of my motive. You have no sense of the pageant beyond the diversion of an occasional evening. Your very association of the thing with frivolous play prohibits you from approaching it otherwise. This is not your fault. There has never been an attempt to convince you to the contrary. How should I imagine I might? Yet must I endeavor.

  The mysteries of the theater are ancient, venerable and, to the detriment of both spectator and this performer, unspeakable by custom. What appears to be mere posturing and apish prattle to some—my own brother among them—is at its depth an investment of the heart and spirit into a different circumstance, a different mind.

  When an actor is assigned a role, it may be commonly understood that he must choose a character, a mode of speech unlike his own, an altered gait, a distinctive manner or tic. This may be so for many. But when a man of the theater plays well his part, his choices are removed. The character lives and operates and breathes of its own, approaches its destiny with complete abandon. There is no motivation, as it were. There is necessity alone.

  In the jungles of the east, I have heard it told, there are annual festivals wherein whole villages partake of a timeless and primitive ceremony, to which no outsider has ever been allowed. Each year a member of the tribe is chosen to represent a beast of the wild. From year to year the representation changes from boar to bear to jungle cat and on, in a cycle of twelve.

  As the rest of the villagers celebrate the season with the gathering and dancing about of a huge bonfire, the elect slips cautiously away from the group and begins a ritual prowling at the village perimeter, granting glimpses only of his newly assumed form. What was a man is man no more. Under the influence of trance-inducing herbs and medicaments, the candidate begins grunting or howling a sort of occasional chorus to the songs of what had been his kinsmen, as their ceremony transforms to frenzy.

  When the chanting subsides, the young men of age select each a weapon of the hunt—some lassos, some nets, some clubs or spears—and rally off in search of their prey, while the elders and women and children commence to pray and prepare the banquet table.

  To say the chase is only another part of the initiation rite is to neglect the fervor with which both hunters and hunted proceed. Two or three days of intrepid tracking, and reports of knife wounds and teeth marks are not uncommon, it is said, before the beast is overpowered and transported back to the village, bound to the stake that is to become its turnspit.

  These are not cannibals to our understanding, though I have heard the fate of the elect spoken of uncertainly—and imagine the possible devotion and solemnity of the feasting itself as each member of the tribe shares in a portion of the sacred meal. But this is not as fantastic as it may appear. There are reasons to believe the Christian religion too with its Eucharistic traditions may stem from as unholy a source.

  Why would anyone, you may ask, allow themselves to be thus elected? It is a great honor, for the family as well as the individual, and the days of gluttony and excess preceding the event are in many societies reason enough. Surely you have heard of the triumphant warrior whose heart was plucked from his living chest atop some Aztec pyramid, or the beautiful virgin rewarded for her chastity by being thrown screaming into the depths of the fiery island volcano—of their glory and immortality?

  And have you not wondered why it was never the vanquished prince who foolishly chose to lead his people against the empire, or the harlot whose crimes were so grievous and innumerable as to defy the suitability of a simple stoning or branding? It is the hero, the martyr, the saint alone who can be imagined to quiet the spirits of flesh and fire when they call for appeasement.

  Actors are born. The first actors were not trained to populate the theaters, rather theaters built to house the actors—as assassins must be framed to dispatch tyrants.

  What makes a good actor? A certain disposition or predisposition, I imagine. What, in the theater, is commonly termed role-playing is actually an ability to channel emotions and even physical characteristics. During a brilliant performance an actor somehow seems to take on the corporal qualities of the character beyond the padding, shadings and vocal schemings. The actor assumes the context of the situat
ion. It is simple really. He allows himself to become a sort of host, a receptacle, the object of universal forces. The willingness to take risks, be vulnerable and submit to the miracle allow him to succeed.

  With me it wasn’t so much willingness as need, and less a matter of being vulnerable than merely being exactly who and what I am, completely vulnerable, sensitive and—if I have learned anything about myself in this life—even craving of affection.

  To assume a role is to embrace fate. One’s own and that of every member of life’s cast. To submit oneself to what Coleridge at the beginning of the century called the “willing suspension of disbelief.” For what may man believe but that all of life is fraught with doubt, and the only certainty is that which he freely and completely invests in it. A poetic faith that whatever shall be must be. And the knowledge of the difference between what is not dared and what is done.

  Once committed to the removal of the northern president, whether as hostage for the release of the thousands upon thousands of Confederate prisoners or no, I was committed to his removal. Once I accepted the role, I accepted its liabilities, even if I had to claw and scratch and bite my way through its performance. And you will not understand, you who have never been upon a stage, who think of performance only in terms of the possible attributes of a hired lover. Your broken heart is the only thing in life you have ever taken seriously.

  You will say Wilkes Booth is mad. It has been said before.

  ***

  Sunday, June 3, 1860. Petersburg Theater, Petersburg, Virginia. Dress rehearsal for Richard III. The DIRECTOR and the STAGE MANAGER have called for a break from the rehearsal process and are talking at the back of the theater. The stage is set as the interior of a royal palace. The CAST, as LORDS and LADIES, laze or mill about listlessly, speaking in Southern accents of the glorious cause of the Confederacy. THE ACTOR taunts and goads an older member of the Cast with a sword from which he has dangerously removed the fencing tip.

  THE ACTOR (waving his sword wildly): Fight, damn you! Fight, fight!

  OLD ACTOR (mimicking reproachfully): You are mad, mad!

  THE ACTOR (striking a pose and wielding his sword with great expertise until his opponent must fence or be inflicted): I am Richard! And you are my mortal enemy. (improvising iambic pentameter and taking swipes with every phrase) This day—I shall see you—gone to hell—an’ you will not—defend your honor!

  From among the Cast, a YOUNG ACTRESS, who has been watching the two with varied interest, gives an audible gasp and directs the attention of the others to the scene with concern. The Actor pauses and takes half a step back, realizing he has slashed a piece out of the Old Actor’s costume. The Director begins to come forward, but stays back to watch what may unfold.

  OLD ACTOR (rising and taking up his sword in self defense; he too removes its tip, begins fencing expertly and with force, while improvising Shakespearean verse between attacks and parries): If—you—will not—desist—(switching his sword into his left hand) then I —must show—you—I—am—the—better man. Not only—if only—with a sword—in hand.

  THE ACTOR (pleased by the provoked enthusiasm, also switches sword hands): Well spoken, then. And with—the silvery tongue—that marks each member—of your house—a liar!

  As they continue, the Old Actor mounts his assault, backing The Actor upon a riser representing a castle stair.

  OLD ACTOR: Is this—but some game—to you? (switching back to his right hand) They said—you were—your father’s son—and now—I see it—for—a fact!

  THE ACTOR (continues with his left hand, turning the insult into motivation): And yet—it can—be said—I know—my father’s name!

  The Cas, now follow the action with some, if mixed, delight as the two actors work their way across the stage.

  OLD ACTOR: You are—a fool.

  THE ACTOR (switching back to his right hand): But not—an old one, like—yourself.

  OLD ACTOR: Yet—one—marked—for certain—death.

  The Old Actor lunges, the tip of his blade disappears into The Actor’s side. The Young Actress lets out a shrill scream and there is a great commotion. The Old Actor tosses his blade aside and rushes to the side of The Actor who has collapsed in a heap. The Stage Manager and Director rush onto the stage.

  OLD ACTOR (frantic as he lifts The Actor into a sitting position, examines the wound): My God! (turning to the others) Fetch a surgeon!

  The Director pushes at the Stage Manager who rushes out of the theater.

  THE ACTOR (smiling): I’m—(taking a deep breath) all right. You—(another gasp as he grabs the Old Actor by the shoulder) can play a part—when you must. But—(clutching his side) Richard is supposed—to win the duel!

  The Actor grimaces as the Old Actor joins his strange humor with a crooked smile, wondering at the possible outcome of the performance later that day. The Stage Manager returns with a SURGEON, who quickly allays any fears for The Actor’s immediate recovery.

  Scene III

  Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow!

  It was to be our last night together, and I allowed Hand to take me to that place he knew so well. In every town, whether he had ever been before or not, he knew this place instinctively. Where else could a man such as he find the body’s simple comforts? He, who truly held the deformities of Richard Plantagenet, with neither throne nor crown nor sceptered treasure to lure his would-be loves. No, nor even the simple poetry of primal lust to express his desires.

  In years before I had been invited to go with him many times to these houses of seamy comfort, had ever envied him exercising his matured, if stunted, manhood and wanted the same for myself but could not. Thought little, but that it might be some time, perhaps never, before I should forget Ella long enough to remember only the animal in me.

  She had brought the beast in me to bay, and tamed him too. Now I was wild again, but clawless, without instinct. Hiding like some caved or cornered creature with eyes yet mindful and gloweringly green. I had no life, no desire, no animal at all, bleached bones only inside my pelted frame.

  When he had done, Hand returned to where I sat in the foyer glancing at a weekly and lost in my own thoughts. Behind him stood a young and pretty girl, scarcely eighteen I should think. With candid simplicity she wrapped a lightly tatted shawl about her shoulders and her half-buttoned blouse.

  “Z’ere is a circus on z’e oz’er side of town,” Hand addressed me with the tone of the returned warrior. “Our lovely Marie says it will only be ’ere for a few days, and I ’ave promised to take ’er. She ’as never been to one, but knows of my familiarity with z’em.”

  “Well, then; I can make my way home by myself.”

  “Mais, non! We want you to come. Eet will be good for z’e z’ree of us.”

  “But—”

  “He is even more handsome than you described,” said the girl, with a glint of out-of-place evil in her eyes.

  “Z’ere,” cried Hand. “You see! H’eet will be good for h’all of us!”

  He laughed again as he took his Marie by one arm and seemingly swooped me off the divan with his other. Throughout the evening Hand seemed all the gentleman, hardly the sideshow oddity whose crudity is ever at least the product of his pitiable and detested station. His knowledge of the circus was surely welcome, particularly when we discovered he had worked with half-a-dozen of the performers before and secured our ability to stay abroad after the show was ended.

  The three of us walked the grounds as the beasts were put to bed. Then ended up in the wagon of a friend of Hand’s, who had relinquished it to us for the night and supplied us as well with a bottle of fine bourbon. He more than once expressed unseemly regret that this friend, the camp’s contortionist, could not have joined us, and nudged Marie with short padded elbows of depravity.

  The effect of alcohol on the dwarf was extreme. He began laughing excessively, and his already contorted features brightly glowed both red and orange. A strange green light seemed to appear in front of his otherwise bla
ck eyes as they sparkled.

  I admit a kind of fear or apprehension, presentiment, if you will. It was the same spell upon the sturdy little man I remembered seeing as a boy, on those occasions when my father graced our household with his actual presence, if only as long as it took his beloved cider to whisk him away once again.

  At this moment the bourbon took hold of me with a not unfamiliar power, bringing my courage with it. I looked toward the young Marie. But rather than share any of my malaise, she seemed not just the slightest amused, nay pleased. And with that look that I had known before in other women, regardless of their age, and an almost unnatural quiver of her lower lip, she reached for me with sudden strength. Her brow creased disappointedly as I withheld my hand.

  “Touch me,” she said.

  But I could not. Only did I look back toward Hand where he seemed to gloat and stew in his snifter. He let out a cackle that gurgled down to his gut, and when he brought his head up again, another look at Marie forced it back down with a grin.

  She was sitting there, as before, a quiet intensity possessing her entire mood, looking at me longingly as she rubbed both hands over and then down into her blouse.

  “Touch me,” she repeated imploringly, yet with an insistent tone. “While our little friend watches. Yes,” she said with satisfaction. “While our little friend watches all!”

  He is not my friend, I thought. Some agency of evil whose curse has borne its mark upon his charred complexion and withered his form that he might slither, as if limbless, enticing those whose spines were lost to temptation or supple as his own, but recognizable at a glance to any who held trust in God and his ways.

  “Do you think I look better with my clothes on or off?”

  “What?” I frowned warily.

  “I have been told I am one of those people who looks better with them off,” she said matter-of-factly as she stood in the middle of the room and removed the last bit of laced silk.