Altogether motionless, she merely looked to me for comment.
It was true, I suppose, although I had never before considered this group of people to which she belonged and wondered slightly who had, to term them so with some pretense of expertise. Had they then, by matter of course, detached themselves so far from passion or moment that they might analyze and catalogue for future reference or compliment? Yet one could scarcely deny her exquisite form, slender but buoyant, pulsing yet serene.
“I suppose so,” I shrugged off with an adopted proficiency of my own.
“Suppose?” she questioned with the plaintive tone of a harlot judged a schoolgirl or commended for her domestic ability.
***
Tuesday, February 28, 1865. New Orleans.
The second- or third-floor boudoir of a brothel, a YOUNG PROSTITUTE, blindfolded, giggling. THE ACTOR, bootless and breathy with liquor, lies atop her, also laughing. On one side of the room French windows open onto a slender balcony overlooking the New Orleans streets during Mardi Gras. Rockets and bombs explode.
THE ACTOR (playfully): Who am I?
YOUNG PROSTITUTE (mock terror): I don’t know. (comically) A rich man who does not have to worry for money or for work?
THE ACTOR: The greatest work is that performed upon the stage of life. There can be no money to pay for one’s heart. Who do you think?
YOUNG PROSTITUTE (laughing still): Think? How may I think? I cannot even see!
THE ACTOR (sudden violence): Who am I?!
The Young Prostitute reacts abruptly. The Actor controls his mood, calms somewhat—makes light of his own temper.
THE ACTOR (cont’d): Who would you like me to be?
YOUNG PROSTITUTE (still intimidated, plays her part by stroking his arms): I am happy with who you seem to be. Strong, handsome.
THE ACTOR: You cannot see if I am handsome.
YOUNG PROSTITUTE (seductively): I can feel. (kissing his neck) And I can taste. You are handsome. (still kissing) Very handsome.
THE ACTOR: Perhaps I am a favorite lover. A former beau?
YOUNG PROSTITUTE: You are all of these—this moment. (lustily) I have you now.
THE ACTOR: But if I were a killer? If I hated—
YOUNG PROSTITUTE: Why, Johnnie!
He starts, confused, nervous, then—
THE PROSTITUTE (cont’d): Johnnie Reb! My poor young gentleman of the South. (kissing his shoulders, arms) But I shall heal your wounds—I shall kiss them clean and shut. (unbuttoning his shirt) Let me lick your battered limbs.
THE ACTOR (taken by her seduction): How do you know I am from the South? And how can you see which wounds demand the most attention?
YOUNG PROSTITUTE (laughing again): Only a Southern boy would be so foolish! (quietly) And every hero suffers from the same affliction. (kissing down, well past his chest) It is your heart, of course, that bursts to breaking. (still kissing downward) Your heart!
***
We left the girl Marie asleep on the floor of the circus wagon and walked back into the woods toward the cabin. Hand seemed not the least disappointed with what I prefer to phrase my indifference, and in truth seemed to revel in his advantage of me. Still, he showed a kind of sympathy which, after all, is the reason, I imagine, he could not see me leave alone and rather left Marie to wake by herself in strange surroundings. The sun was still some time from arising, but our way was half-lit and well-worn.
***
I looked at Hand across the plates of our finished meal and noted a glance I had never known before. It silently goaded me into declaration.
“I do not care of Corbett. What has he done? Shot some unfortunate imposter to satisfy the government reports and the accountings of the penny press. I must find the man who truly murdered me.”
“So, you will not listen to me?” said Hand.
“I told you what I must do.”
“Z’en you must listen to me. Go West. To Okla’oma.”
“Oklahoma? West?”
“Yes. ’E is z’ere.”
“Who?”
“Your murderer, Coh’rbett.”
“How do you know where he is?”
“What does eet matter? What h’are you looking for—really?” asked Hand, sensing my preoccupation with the morning departure.
“I don’t know. Myself?”
“You h’are dead!” he said with his gleeful cackle.
“Then I’m looking for the man who killed me.”
I stopped short at my own simple logic. That was, after all, what had been bothering me. Haunting me the whole time. How should I be dead unless someone had killed me?
“Someone, a man, a stranger whom I daresay I never met, died at Garrett’s Farm. Badin, perhaps, someone. Whether by gallant choice or unhappy accident, I owe him my life. It is his murderer, too, I must find. If only I—”
“Mais, h’all z’e world knows. Z’e sergeant Coh’rbett. ’E is z’e one.”
“No. He was only the finger on the trigger. The tool of the hand on the gun. This was not the work of a single man.”
“A madman. Z’at is what Coh’rbett is. Coeur bête! ’Eart h’of a beast! A very, very mad man. And not h’even a man any more!”
He let out another cackle, this one gurgling deeper than the last. His eyes flashed as he grabbed at himself between the legs and moaned like a wounded wolf during a full moon.
“A madman to kill a madman!” he cackled and howled again. "Mais, ’o ’ired ’im? ’O paid ’im for ’is deed and ’is devotion?”
Scene IV
How the flakes gather and laugh as they go!
Strophe
From deep within my corn-husk crib I had unearthed a leather satchel—the only possession of my former life—which had once served as my theatrical make-up bag. How many times had it aided my various transformations?
“I told you I wished no part of the past,” I said to Hand, “the Christmas you brought this to me.”
He smiled reflectively, surely musing that despite my oaths I had kept it well.
“‘You will want it more, some day,’ you said,” I recalled. “But you could not have then known—could you?”
He continued to smile, looked straight at me and shook his head. Still I wondered.
Into the bag my journal, two drab shirts and a pair of striped serge trousers were stuffed alongside the spirit-gum and other theatrical effects. Leaving Hand and my needle behind, I donned my nankeen topcoat and was off.
It was not a cold wind that greeted my scalp that spring day. The sou’westers balmed steadily, but the sensation was cold, nonetheless. How could I travel then, back to New York where I might be recognized without some form of disguise? Booth was known for his raven curls, moustache and imperial—and eyes. But uneven strands and shocks of now stick-straight, salt and pepper hair and uniform silvery stubble seemed enough to change all—especially when aided by one patched eye.
The winds drew up draughts of moisture from the gulf to confirm the late afternoon. I had worn my hair and beard long for fully twenty years, and while it had begun of necessity as disguise, I shortly became rather fond of their appearance. They seemed to mask the eyes alone with a strange, reversed sympathy. It was still many months from the first before I felt secure in my new look, my anonymity, and I never truly felt safe from the eyes of any who had known me even a little, yet ever was. Each report that found Wilkes Booth at this location or that event, preaching from some Dixie pulpit or painting houses in several western settlements, was but another fantastic sighting. They affirmed the safety of my immediate asylum as well as its necessary refuge.
And now had I to chance whatever nature had in mind. But with a thought to safety still, and on Hand’s recommendation, I chose the route of my return to be more secure than direct. After traveling by coach to the Illinois capital of Springfield I would begin my journey east by train, first going north to Chicago. From thence I would continue to travel somewhat round-about, lest any—but who should there be, really?�
��might think to follow.
I felt strangely calm about my errand. It was not an end to exile—my name and face were banished still—but it was a chance at a strange new future. A future I could once again help to shape. This time with certain informed hands, would I see the way to make of tomorrow, regardless of the acclaim of others, the place where Wilkes could know his name.
Arriving in Springfield with more than an hour on my hands I stopped at a certain Diller’s Drugstore for a fruit-flavored soda water. It had been so long since this simple civility had been available to me that, I daresay, I relished it as if it were a shot of fine pale brandy. Upon leaving the fountain a yellow dog began to follow me and continued so all the way to the station. There he sat, as if to beg command that he should board the train with me, then barked twice when I mounted the platform without a word, without a command. A colored porter observed the scene and smiled at first on what he supposed my dog’s loyalty. His smile soon turned to puzzlement when he saw the lack of attention I gave the beast while it yet stared ever-faithfully. Once on the train I thought I heard a single yelp as the station-master cried, "All aboard," and the great steel wheels began to roll—but that was all.
Installed and on my way, it was yet some time before I was able to again read the letters brought to me by Hand.
The first ran simply:
Father,
Mother is ill. Unable now to travel to see her only daughter’s marriage. Near to death. What joy she might have had is gone forever. I am a man and can not honor you with the foolish and careless heart of a boy.
What you have done I cannot forgive, thought until this moment to have forgotten. But then, it is only you I must forget.
Sebastian.
The second, somewhat longer:
Dear Father,
You have always lived within my intuition, now rumor resurrects a deeper instinct—truth. Mother’s final wish was for my understanding. I believe I can grant her this, though she guards your “horrible secret” with her life.
But my life must have something more—hope. What had seemed even one year ago impossible is mine at last. The shattered fragments of a complicated youth, become whole. I will have a family. And I will be loved, cared for, and remembered.
My brother’s torments are legion, if not unlike my own. Mine have found a power from without, yet he still struggles inwardly and finds no solace. But he has a strong will and shall overcome. I pray it may be soon.
I thank God our shame is yet disguised from the rest of the world. Thank my uncle for giving us the security of a home to learn our faith. It was not easy. Where my mother always found her courage, I can only guess. And be thankful.
Still, I must forgive you. I pray for you and hope we shall never meet.
Your daughter,
Viola.
***
In Chicago I switched lines and paused just long enough for a short walk along the river and watch for twenty minutes where a side-wheel steamer was having some difficulty pulling either in or out of its quay. As I returned toward the station, I passed McVicker’s Theater, but the afternoon’s performance was on the street corner. A gaunt and grizzled man, fixing his stare at all who paused, raised a haunted bible against a strong head wind and shouted hoarsely, “As your Father in Heaven is perfect, be ye also perfect.”
***
“You did just right to wake me,” I told the porter as we pulled into Michigan City. The sky was bright and blue, and my simple breakfast of eggs and whitefish in the small railyard diner seemed, at that moment, the most exotic meal I could ever have had.
Switching lines again, the storm I had found myself in at Indianapolis continued for the entire eleven-hour leg from state capital to state capital. It was a gray and weighted Saturday in Columbus where I chose to board the night at the Petersen House before zig-zagging north again. Not at all like the Georgia city of the same name, where I played in the autumn of 1860 and found myself the victim of a certain incident involving a small pistol.
The mood of this city seemed summed up in a single glance at the sober masonry of its Soldier’s Hospital, upon which I rose to view early Sunday—regular and austere, and forever mourning what might have been could not have been helped.
Quite a contrast from this was the forest city of Cleveland. For, while the rain had begun again, the mood was welcoming and fresh as the shore of Lake Erie. The Union Station too was handsome and gay, and outside, as I walked through Monument Square, I was entertained by my memory of loud applause on a summer’s or winter’s night coming from the Academy of Music.
Overnight from Cleveland we arrived in Buffalo, twelve or more miles along the Erie Lake. Here, thirty years before, booked for a fortnight at the Metropolitan Theater in 1861, I had received standing ovations and singularly creditable reviews in the Sentinel for my two performances of Richard III.
This day none gave a second look to the strolling vagabond as I limped past the Metropolitan and St. James Hall before continuing en route to Rome. From my pocket I produced the half-written letter begun I know not how many seasons before, now stained with chocolate from the only supper I had purchased in Buffalo.
My dearest Ella,
I have on many occasions begun this, a simple letter to you, with no success. I, who was once the master wordsmith, could find none. No appropriate message for one as you.
Forgive me, I have not found it still—
It is dark on the train. I wake to the sound of the whistle and wheels. A steady chant beckons to either wake or sleep. I fumble to release my fingers from where they rest knotted about the handles of my one bag. Reaching for my throat, I feel the silver medallion suspended from my neck. So long has it hung there that I have learned to ignore its weight.
“Merry Christmas, Miss Nash,” it remembers.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Wilkes,” she smiles as I hand her the tiny velvet-wrapped box. “What on earth can it be?”
She giggled with the knowledge of a child fresh from discovering the cache of all her Christmas toys.
But she cannot know what it is, I think. And then realize why her eyes dance so lively, as her hands numbly pick at the ice-blue ribbons. It is the size of a ring box. I worried, as she surely awaited some special words.
“It is nothing, really.”
“Oh?”
“Well, of course, it means a great deal to me. And I hope—”
“Then it will mean even more to me,” lifting the lid. “And on your hopes will I ever pin my own.”
She picks up the medal. Her face changes. No longer the excited expression of a child, she looks strangely older, becalmed, fully loved and loving. She holds it to the light, turning it slightly to reveal its age.
“I want you to have it. It is for you.”
She did not take offense. She knew what I meant.
She held it up again and turned around. I imagined she had fastened chains about her neck a thousand times, but here it was right for me to hook the finely wrought silver clasp.
Instead, I sat down and began to laugh.
“It is from Italy.”
She cast an unbelieving glance over her left shoulder, her hands still raised, poised dumbly for the untendered aid. With a slight huff and shrug she walked to the mirror where I could see the reflected resolve and realization in her eyes for a moment before the sheer power of her femininity masked it with a flutter of well-placed distraction and cabal.
“Have you been to Italy without telling me, Johnnie? Amazing! Mr. Surratt threatens to go there one day, and you return from the same place the next. The two of you share more in common than I ever would have imagined.”
“John. The Evangelist. My patron saint,” I explain from the past, as I return to the present, afraid of an unknown and threatening future. “As a boy I had always regretted that it was he and not John the Baptist. I used to ask my mother every week to tell me for which of them she named me, always hoping for a different answer, as if I had misunderstood every time bef
ore.
“Of course, that is not as absurd as it may seem. Actually, I was named for a grandfather, you know. And the choice of this or that saint was only nominal. But I never understood why my mother preferred the apostle to the Baptist. John the Baptist was the rumored reincarnation of Elisha and the cousin of Christ, the bringer of redemption and light, and therefore somewhat more conspicuous—famous, if you will. But, “The Evangelist,” the dark messenger, was the answer she ever gave me.”
“And why did she make that choice?”
“I do not know, but I have always told myself it was for two reasons. First, because she thought his gospels to be the most stirring, most inspired works of the New Testament. I think I agree. As an actor, that kind of thing is especially significant, I imagine.
“The second is nothing, really. Mother’s very superstitious. The Baptist suffered his death at the hand of a tyrant who had fallen under the spell of a beautiful woman.”
Just now the sun begins to set as the engine pulls out from Albany. A scarlet shawl of sunset wraps the mountaintops with deep glens of chequered evergreen, and black boots their rocky steps as shadows of evening march east. My day sinks into jostled fragments of the earliest of dreams and scattered, half-planned itineraries for the days to come.
Scene V
Whirling about in its maddening fun,
It plays in its glee with everyone.
Strophe
I am a smuggler. I smuggle drugs as I had smuggled emotion—clandestine transportation of character, through my craft. The secret carriage of my own desires, when open commerce would surely have failed subsistence, exposed contraband.
It is my third career and progenitor of my longest love and affliction, the first having been, of course, that of my father and family: the theater. It had afflictions of its own. The second, I suppose, my short-lived if prominent post as assistant quartermaster for the Virginia Regulars. If I thought for any length of time about the way each had started, I would be very careful about ever boarding a train again.
Lincoln's Assassin Page 5