Lincoln's Assassin

by J F Pennington

  And did I not use her ignorance as insidious confirmation that I was yet alone? That, while we professed our love for each other time and again, we were strangers at the heart? How might I have supposed she should have noticed it galloping away with my soul, when I was myself too familiar, too expert with the ride?

  Even with the change in my situation, the completeness I felt when with her, the total loss of the feeling of spiritual and emotional desolation, which those months before, had led me into my situation.

  ***

  Time. Place.

  The street. THE ACTOR and the YOUNG WOMAN walk along at half an arm’s length. She wears a silk pelisse over a white watered-silk dress, short kid gloves and a broad-brimmed bonnet set with pearl flowers and velvet streamers tied to one side of her chin. Thin pink stockings disappear into narrow ivory shoes.

  The crowd courses by, a parade of silks and satins, ribbons and tassels, parasols and canes, gaudy hooded and lined cloaks. The couple nod respectfully to those who pass. It is obvious they wish they could be closer.

  YOUNG WOMAN (quietly, privately): I have missed you. I need to be in your arms.

  A woman holding a parasol passes by, her nurse pushes a perambulator alongside her. She and the Young Woman exchange courteous nods.

  YOUNG WOMAN (cont’d): Naked. Now.

  THE ACTOR (coughing as he says facetiously): In my hotel room, with the windows wide open, a fire glowing brightly, rows of candles along the mantle and at the bedside?

  YOUNG WOMAN (perfectly serious): Yes!

  ***

  Time. The actor’s apartments.

  Evening. Candles lit upon the mantel. A freshly lit log burns in the fireplace. A red tinted oil lamp on a nightstand. The bed sheets are turned down and a single rose rests atop the foot of the bed. THE ACTOR sits in one corner of the room smoking a small cigar in calm anticipation. A knock at the door on the far side of the room.

  THE ACTOR (choking): Isn’t it open?

  The latch turns and the door opens. The outside hallway is dark. The rustle of a crinoline petticoat as a female silhouette walks toward The Actor and the fire’s glow. She is a PROSTITUTE.

  PROSTITUTE (meaningfully): Is it?

  Sidling up to him, pushes her dress against his legs, lifts it.

  ***

  I never knew a woman could drive a horse as she. Not that there might not have been such an Hippolyte. Euripides’ claim was plain to that effect, if only meant to humor. But I had never known her before, neither to my eyes nor ears.

  And, while she spurred and whipped with that certain brutality to which alone a strange beast will answer, Cola needed only to feel me on his back to know my mind and obey. Still, there was a kindness in her way, and that same courtesy led her to hire, each time we rode, the half-blind and discouraged dapple gray, as if he were the only choice, though the stable was full, and its master willed her choose another.

  “A horse more suitable to the grace and needs of a true lady, I should warrant.”

  Yet she and the gray held a dignity when bridled together that none could deny. And I fancied the beast even forgot his affliction, only pretending to stumble, of occasion, that none would suspect the vision her mounting restored. And so, when given circumstance to hire for myself, there was no choice which one I would have. If ill-fate would find me stumbling or caught, it would be on her horse and for her sake, and I would as soon be blinded myself as forget the vision of perfect form she had held those many mornings, as we drove our obliging friends into forgetting both cares and duties of the day.

  ***

  “Do you remember the ride we took that night to the woods at the point?”

  “It was only this past summer. The moon was extraordinary.”

  “You brought that flask of cognac, and I swore I could talk with the horses in a language only they and I understood—and you believed me.”

  “I did not!”

  “You should have. I can.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true.”

  Scene V

  Once I was fair as the beautiful snow,

  With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow;

  Once I was loved for my innocent grace, Flattered and sought for the charm of my face.

  That summer at Franklin, Pennsylvania, they called us the two Jacks—with all due deference to Samuel Hart. Harrison and Wilkes. Hector and Lancelot, and both of us tolling Ogiers. The brothers Edwin’s cholera had ever prevented us from being. Poor Edwin. Too much red meat.

  The crickets awakened the morning along with the carriage wheels as we rode out to the Franklin fields. The four of us mounted our newly purchased company horses just at the edge of one small field dominated by a silent derrick. It was already costing me quite a lot of money to become rich.

  Ella did not wait for my help to the saddle, but shot me a look while Surratt guided Anna’s right foot into her stirrup.

  “This is the way we will get rich,” he said. “And let them fight a war.”

  “If all you want to do is get rich, there are many easier ways,” chirped Anna, “than the Dramatic Oil Company.”

  “This one allows me to wear the face of a gentleman,” he replied stone-faced.

  “To be a man of property?” asked Ella, high to her horn.

  “We are men of property,” I said.

  He looked at me, then back at her with great intention.

  “Exactly.”

  “And Ellsler, and his henchman Mears?” she questioned next.

  “Ellsler is already a prosperous theater manager. Mears is retired—and was a successful prizefighter.”

  “I want more than that,” I interrupted, spurring past them all.

  Ella followed me straightaway. That was the last we saw of the others that day. Ella seemed relieved.

  We crossed as deeply into the fields as the horses cared to go, each taking turns leading the way first north then east. The sun gained height. We spread our luncheon of stewed chicken with smeared case and cream upon a blanket made of our two bedrolls. The horses’ hooves were silent as that first derrick now. Their panting promised mechanics to come.

  “It will take a lot more than property to make Mr. John Harrison Surratt into a gentleman,” she said as I leaned to kiss her. “I almost wonder if that could make him truly merciless.”

  She edged slyly. My kiss fell short. A host of cicada offered their applause, prompting me to try again. But here, instead, she kissed me. A quick first on the lips, a second on the right cheek, third on the left, and final fourth on the lips again.

  Then she just looked at me and smiled for an instant.

  “This is the way my mother’s family always kisses.”

  ***

  August 1864. The same night. Place.

  The YOUNG WOMAN reads the final page of a small manuscript while THE ACTOR hovers expectantly over her.

  THE ACTOR: Of course, it is only a start, but what do you think? Will you like it when it is done?

  YOUNG WOMAN: I don’t know, Johnnie. I just don’t. Of course, I like that I’m in it. (coyly) Although you fancy me much more—manipulative—than I am. (she smiles) Well, perhaps not very much, but more. Certainly more.

  THE ACTOR: It is the story of great events. Great people. Of course, I had to put you in it. But it is not our story; it’s about a world beyond this. Where adventure and glory and fame are possible. Always possible. That is why I have given it this name.

  YOUNG WOMAN: Yes, the name. I don’t understand it. The Avenger?

  ***

  Saturday, October 24, 1864. Corby’s Hall, Montreal, Canada.

  Evening. A cold, clear and windy night. THE ACTOR performs to a moderate house. Solo readings from The Merchant of Venice (as Shylock, trial scene), Julius Caesar (as Mark Antony, forum scene), Hamlet (selections), The Charge of the Light Brigade, and Remorse of the Fallen One or Beautiful Snow.

  Much of the audience leaves before the end of the recital and only two or three PATRON
S venture backstage to ask for an autographed carte-de-visite. The last of these admirers leaves, and The Actor, alone, puzzles over his tired features in a large, ornately framed, but worn mirror.

  Another figure JACK appears at the door. The Actor speaks, but does not turn.

  THE ACTOR: If it were not for this girl I could feel easy. Think of it, Jack, that at my time of life—just starting out, as it were—I should be in love.

  ***

  The same night. The St. Lawrence Hotel, Montreal.

  THE ACTOR and his companion JACK swagger up the stairs and down the hall to their rooms. They speak naturally as they stand at adjacent doors and fumble absently to fit their room keys into the locks. They have been drinking.

  THE ACTOR: I can hardly bear to think of it. Once I could fill a theater within a moment’s notice of my engagement. What can I do now? Not even keep those who attend, and impress few of those who politely stay throughout. Am I so old?

  JACK: No, nor hopeless, John. This is the North. Why, it is more than North. Besides, that is not the reason we are here. I knew this was a mistake.

  THE ACTOR (opening his door): Perhaps it is a mistake to be here at all.

  JACK: Oh? And will it be absurd to collect one hundred twenty thousand dollars? (these last words are spaced for effect) That is more than you could make in five seasons of full houses. More than your brother could make as well.

  THE ACTOR (glowering): Do not mention my brother. (hands raised in the air) What do I care of him? What do I care of money? This is not about money.

  JACK: No. I am sorry. It is about the South. (dramatically) The beautiful South! Our mother soil. Our—

  THE ACTOR: To hell with you!

  THE ACTOR enters his room and slams the door behind him. JACK shrugs with a smirk and struggles a moment longer with his own door before successfully opening it, going in and shutting his door, if less dramatically, behind him. Further down the hall the sound of yet another door being closed is heard. But there is no one else to be seen.

  ***

  Why do I laugh to think of my choices? What was it about J. W. Watson’s Beautiful Snow that so captured my imagination?

  Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow,

  Filling the sky and the earth below;

  Over the house tops, over the street,

  Over the heads of the people you meet;

  Dancing,

  Flirting,

  Skimming along,

  Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong.

  Flying to kiss a fair lady’s cheek,

  Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak;

  Beautiful snow, from the heavens above,

  Pure as an angel and fickle as love!

  Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow!

  How the flakes gather and laugh as they go!

  Whirling about in its maddening fun,

  It plays in its glee with everyone.

  Chasing,

  Laughing,

  Hurrying by,

  It lights up the face and sparkles the eye;

  And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound,

  Snap at the crystals that eddy around.

  The town is alive, and its heart in a glow,

  To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.

  How the wild crowd go swaying along,

  Hailing each other with humor and song!

  How the gay sledges like meteors flash by—

  Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye!

  Ringing,

  Swinging,

  Dashing as they go

  Over the crest of the beautiful snow:

  Snow so pure when it falls from the sky,

  To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by;

  To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet

  Till it blends with the horrible filth in the street.

  Once I was pure as the snow—but I fell:

  Fell, like the snowflakes, from heaven—to hell;

  Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street;

  Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat.

  Pleading,

  Cursing,

  Dreading to die,

  Selling my soul to whomever would buy,

  Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread,

  Hating the living and fearing the dead.

  Merciful God! have I fallen so low?

  And yet I was once like this beautiful snow!

  Once I was fair as the beautiful snow,

  With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow;

  Once I was loved for my innocent grace,

  Flattered and sought for the charm of my face.

  But how did it end?

  ***

  Friday, November 25, 1864. The Winter Garden, New York City.

  The day after Thanksgiving. (This is only the second year—1863 being the first, by declaration of Lincoln—of the national observance of the holiday on the last Thursday of November.) It is snowing. The brothers prepare to perform Julius Caesar for the Shakespeare monument fund. THE ACTOR as Mark Antony. JUNIUS plays Cassius. EDWIN plays Brutus.

  THE ACTOR (to Edwin): We do not have to be friends. We are brothers. That must suffice. Especially tonight, of all nights.

  JUNIUS: You sound as though we will never be together again.

  EDWIN: Our little brother has plans, June. And they do not include anyone, save himself.

  THE ACTOR: There is a patent absurdity in such an insult from you.

  EDWIN: If you have something to say—

  JUNIUS: Quiet! Both of you!!

  ***

  Friday, January 27, 1865. Grover’s Theater, Washington City.

  Late afternoon. THE ACTOR is dressed for his evening’s role as Romeo, in Romeo and Juliet. He paces and mouths his lines. The YOUNG WOMAN sits at his dressing table.

  YOUNG WOMAN: Jack has asked me to marry him.

  THE ACTOR: Has he?

  YOUNG WOMAN: He says we will spend our honeymoon in Italy. Are you surprised?

  THE ACTOR: Not at all.

  YOUNG WOMAN (coyly): You look surprised. You should be.

  THE ACTOR: I am not. Just curious.

  YOUNG WOMAN: Why shouldn’t he ask me? Do you think you are the only man who finds me desirable?

  THE ACTOR (casting an incisive look): Certainly not.

  YOUNG WOMAN: You’re not being very fair. How dare you question me! You know that you’re the only—

  THE ACTOR: And yet, as often as Jack calls on you at home in the mornings and afternoons, he can not be mistaken that your evenings are ever mine alone.

  YOUNG WOMAN: When you are not engaged in New York or Montreal or—

  THE ACTOR: Exactly. Perhaps you are the business often keeping him from joining me. Is there something you want to tell me, then?

  YOUNG WOMAN: You’re not being fair! No!

  THE ACTOR: It seems there is—

  YOUNG WOMAN: You were the first man I ever really kissed!

  THE ACTOR: Clearly, not the last.

  YOUNG WOMAN: What is a kiss, anyway? Nothing! It holds no passion in and of itself—no promise, no deep truth.

  THE ACTOR: I imagine that would depend on who was doing the kissing. It might even be comical. Presently, I imagine your kisses only ridiculous.

  YOUNG WOMAN: Why should you care if I marry another? You would still be my first love. (deliberately) And my favorite!

  THE ACTOR: Would I?

  YOUNG WOMAN (laughing somewhat nervously): Of course! (haughtily) And I will always be yours.

  THE ACTOR: What makes you so sure?

  YOUNG WOMAN: If I want you, what choice will you have?

  THE ACTOR: There are choices. You seem to know about them.

  YOUNG WOMAN: Alright. I kissed him. Twice. I kissed Starrett, too. And I’ll probably kiss a handful more before I reserve my mouth for only one man. What of it? Did you really expect me to begin and end with you? It’s too pleasant, too easy. And the looks on their faces are far too agreeable n
ot to advantage myself—on occasion. You’ve sampled life, but you want me to satisfy myself with borrowed accounts and testimonies of something purer?

  THE ACTOR (confused): Did you think I was lying when I told you that?

  YOUNG WOMAN (defiant): No. I believed you. I believe you still. That’s you, not me.

  THE ACTOR (angry): I thought we had some things in common!

  YOUNG WOMAN: We do! Don’t you see? (laughing) Those are exactly the things you would deny me. I’ve told Sothern of my plans to go on the stage and he thinks it’s a great idea.

  THE ACTOR: He doesn’t know anything about it. All he understands are his father’s business interests. If that.

  YOUNG WOMAN: You talk as if he’s the only man who received help from his father, or entered the family trade.

  THE ACTOR: If that is supposed to be a pointed remark, you can save it for Edwin and June. They’re the ones who went on tour with my father while "little Johnnie" was expected to be content with a military boarding school.

  YOUNG WOMAN (mocking): And was that very, very, difficult?

  THE ACTOR: No. But it wasn’t very, very easy. And it wasn’t what I wanted. I had to get that on my own.

  YOUNG WOMAN: So you say! The one thing I ask of you, you can’t do—even with your family name.

  THE ACTOR: What? What have I ever denied you? What have you ever asked of me that I did not give?

  YOUNG WOMAN: Success! To succeed! At anything!

  THE ACTOR: You told me you would love me regardless of that.

  YOUNG WOMAN: I was a girl then. I am a woman now. You seem to be having troubles with that too. Today I just want what should be mine. What I deserve. All I ask of you is to follow through—with anything. You don’t see that do you? That, at the least, is something Surratt knows to do!

  THE ACTOR: Then marry him!

  YOUNG WOMAN: I don’t want to! I don’t love him.

  THE ACTOR: Whom do you love, really?

  YOUNG WOMAN: Really? I don’t know. (pause) Maybe—you?

  ***

  Enid, Oklahoma, is not the kind of place a national hero would be imagined to live out his days, especially one who had been born in London and spent his youth in the great cities of the eastern seaboard. The trail there was miles only of uninterrupted monotony, filled with the kind of dust imaginable only as part of some desperate dream of reconciliation, some vision of frontier revival. Still, when Hand and I arrived I felt a strange sense of relief. Corbett’s crime against me had brought no reward at all. His existence was equally dismal as my own, and according to Hand’s accounting of it, possibly worse.