“I thought Charles Guiteau was a deranged job seeker acting alone,” Sarah said.
“The job seeker version was the official story. Apparently either Conkling got the version with him in it stifled, there was not sufficient evidence for a grand jury, or all of the above. Lincoln told me the story whispering as if he was afraid to say the words.”
“I don’t think he is the rough and ready fighter his father was,” Sarah said, adding, “or as crazy as his mother was. Or is.”
“She is dead. Almost a year ago to the day. I gather she may have had an unpopular personality but was beside Abe Lincoln until the night he died. There is some question about the truth of her being crazy. Our friend Robert had his mother committed to an insane asylum. She was released several months later and deemed sane. A number of people do not respect him because of how he treated his mother. Maybe he was trying to save his political career from embarrassment and, in turn, embarrassed himself more? I do not know.
“I do know this is an odd lot we have fallen into,” Pope said.
“You have amassed a lot of information. Have you been doing research?” Sarah asked, thinking she had the research abilities of the pair.
“A small bit, mainly by listening and asking vague but carefully pointed questions,” he said.
“Let’s go back to the Chinese and overall immigration matter as a possible cause for the threats. I will ask both of our contact secretaries for as much as they will, or can, share on the subject and try to get a feel for how the railroad tycoons may play in this,” Pope said.
They retired early and were awakened by a tapping on the hotel room door at two in the morning. Both had guns in their hands before the covers were down.
“Yes?” Pope called from beside the closed door.
“Bellman with a message we got at the front desk telephone, Mr. Pope.”
Pope eased the door open and found it was, indeed, a bellman. He took the message and closed the door. Sarah raised the gaslight’s brightness and they read it. It was from the desk soldier at the President’s House security room. They had a suspect in custody and asked him to come over and interview him.
Pope dressed quickly and trotted over to the President’s House. He saw the policeman and soldier on their rounds. He found from them the man had been apprehended only fifteen minutes ago. The subject was trying to get in the front door of the President’s House.
The two said they approached him with their revolvers drawn, so the man was unable to put his own into action before being disarmed. Pope thanked them and proceeded to the security room.
An unshaven man was sitting handcuffed at the worktable. The duty soldier was watching him carefully.
“I understand this man was apprehended trying to get in the front door. He was armed and the patrol took his weapon away. Has he made any statements?” Pope asked the man, Corporal Smythe.
“He started babbling and I told him to shut up until the provost marshal got here. He did.”
“Good work by all three of you, Corporal. Let’s see what we can learn from this gentleman,” Pope said.
He picked up a notebook and pencil and sat across from the man.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“I am the Provost Marshal for the secretary of war’s office. You will not be allowed any more questions until I tell you. What is your full name?”
The man’s response was as profane as could be imagined. Pope’s response was to backhand the man across the jaw and send him toppling onto the floor. Before he could get up, Pope was around the table and grabbed him at the collar and lifted him back onto his chair.
“You will answer me in a civil and truthful manner, or I will see you tried by a court-martial for coming here to shoot the president. You will be hung at the Washington Arsenal just like the Lincoln conspirators were. Do you understand me?” Pope asked with a growl.
“Go to hell!”
Pope got up and walked around the table, fists balled up ready to knock the man unconscious. For the first time, Pope saw actual fear in the man’s eyes.
He grabbed the man by the collar once again and leaned in, inches from his face.
“You aren’t helping yourself. I can and will get a lot rougher. You will be in a world of pain before I have you taken to the brig at the Arsenal. You will be hidden away there for a long time before anyone remembers to try your butt in court and hang you.”
“Oren Baker,” the man said.
Pope walked back around the table and sat down across from Baker.
“Where do you live?”
“Why do you care?”
Pope got up again and began to walk around the table when Baker told him his address.
“Where do you work?”
“I don’t have a job.”
“Why were you beating on the President’s House door at two in the morning with a gun in your pocket?”
“Because it’s his damn fault!”
“Whose fault?” Pope asked. He already knew what the man would say.
“The president. He’s letting those Chinese stay and others steal our jobs. It’s why Americans like me can’t work. Somebody read it to me from the paper.”
“Did they read you the Chinese and some other immigrants are working under slave labor conditions in hard jobs nobody else will take? Did they read the jobs are thousands of miles from here in the mountains and deserts?”
“Not the facts I heard!”
“Well, you heard wrong then. How many railroad tracks are being laid anywhere near Washington? I will bet your life if even a siding was being laid nearby, it is being done by white workers like you. So, Mr. Baker, you could have gotten killed for bad information. As it is, you will go to jail for bad information,” Pope said in a low voice.
“Mr. Baker, who sent you to shoot the president?” Pope asked.
“Nobody!”
“Do not lie to me!” Pope snarled menacingly.
“I ain’t lying!”
“If nobody sent you, who gave you the idea?”
“Nobody! We was talking about him loving the Chinese when I was in the bar.”
“What bar?” Pope demanded.
“Smileys over to 14th Street,” he said. Pope looked at the corporal who nodded.
“Corporal, what kind of gun was Mr. Baker carrying?”
“Something called a New American. It is .22 caliber,” he said as he handed the gun to Pope along with three cartridges.
“You hoped to assassinate someone with this?” Pope asked Baker incredulously.
“I doubt this will penetrate his suit, vest and shirt. Besides, he’s in bed asleep. You couldn’t have gotten anywhere near him. Bad idea, Mr. Baker. Stupid idea.
“Corporal, have the telegrapher call Washington’s finest to send a couple officers over to escort Mr. Baker to jail. Have him charged with attempted breaking and entering with a somewhat loaded weapon.”
“Should I say ‘somewhat loaded’?”
“No. Just B&E with a firearm to shoot the president ought to work.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pope waited until the police responded and took Baker to jail.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Corporal.”
“He’s an idiot, isn’t he?”
“Sure, seems like one. The problem is the three people who have tried to shoot or have shot presidents so far have had mental issues. So, we have to treat them as real threats. I am going back to bed. I hope the rest of your tour is less exciting.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pope climbed back in bed. Sarah mumbled, asking if everything was alright. He told her it was, and he would share it with her at breakfast.
The next day, Pope went to his war office first. He wanted to make sure both cabinet members knew about the attempt last night, feeble though it was.
After he shared the situation with Lincoln, the secretary commented it probably was not worth worrying about. He did say he would tell the attorney general who may want
to monitor the case.
“Sir, I would not take it too lightly. Even the dumbest pig makes good bacon. It just takes one badly aimed bullet to kill the president. I feel we need to take all attempts seriously and investigate to see if they may have been put up to it by someone else.
We have about four possible areas of interest in these threats. Sarah and I have developed a couple more we have not discussed with you. They need to be substantiated before we waste your time. The ones really worrying me though are the ones not on the list. Ones so far afield we have not even considered them yet.”
“Your points are well taken. Are you going to investigate this man Baker any further?” Lincoln asked.
“I thought I would dirty up a bit and have some beers at Smiley’s Bar on 14th Street. It’s in the district marked as off-limits to the soldiers during martial law in the war. The so-called ‘red light’ district. Maybe I can pick up something on what angry workers are saying,” Pope said.
“Let me know if you learn anything, John.”
“Always, sir.”
Pope left Lincoln’s office and asked around the War Building. He got the directions he needed and walked eight blocks to a second-hand store. He located a pair of overalls and two shirts which he thought would fit. A pair of scuffed up boots followed and a beat-up newsboy-type hat. It was too hot during the Washington summer to wear a jacket and cover his gun. He put the Bowie knife in his left boot and tied the sheath to his upper ankle. With the baggy work pants pulled over the hilt, it was virtually invisible.
He was certainly better armed than Baker had been with his dollar and fifty cent gun from Sears Roebuck.
Pope went out the back stairs of the Willard into an alley. He looked and nobody was around, so he rolled around. He wanted to get dirty but not with the urine or garbage he smelled. A bit of dust and dirt from a railing leading into the back of the hotel took care of his face and hands. He tousled his hair and mustache and put the cap on. Pope was, by every appearance, an itinerant who had worked at a basic labor job and was likely sleeping rough.
He walked to the bar and ordered a draft beer. It was warm and weak. The weak part was fine since he would have to spend some time at the bar listening.
After an hour, several men came in and sat at the bar near him. They were clearly day workers who showed up at a location for basic work and employers would come by and hire them for the day to unload wagons or train cars or dig ditches.
After a few beers, the three next to him got louder and friendlier. They felt they could afford to be friendly to someone who was both in their element and appeared to be one of their own.
“Ain’t seen you here, fella,” the man next to him said as the three and Pope ordered their fourth and his second beer.
“Naw. Just got into town. Found a job for today digging a garden for an old man,” Pope said. He did not want to offer too much. He preferred they ask him, and he would consider the best answer.
“Where ya from?” the man asked, his friends listening.
“I came in from Colorado on the very damn rails I used to make a good living laying.”
“Ticket musta been expensive,” the man probed.
“Nope. I rode in boxcars all the way and avoided railroad detectives. Didn’t cost me a cent!” Pope lied.
“You said you laid rails?” another of the men asked.
“I did. Good money, too. Then, the president started molly-coddling them foreigners and a good American like me was put out of work. Just not right, you know?”
“Doesn’t seem right. We heard he was giving special rights to foreigners. Chinese and all. We was talking about it two or three days ago in here. Some fella got all worked up over it. He agreed with us and stomped off. We talked after. My pa was born in Dublin. Hans, where are your folks from?”
“Outside of Solingen,” the man two barstools down said.
“The same place where they make them knives? In Germany or somewhere?” Pope asked in character.
“Yeah,” he said, with it sounding more like “yah”.
“So, you see what I mean? None of us been here for a long time. We are all kinda foreigners. I don’t see the harm in giving a man a chance. We agreed on it. But the fella the other night got himself worked up into a real lather.”
“What happened to him?” Pope asked, knowing the man was talking about Baker who he had questioned in the security office.
“Don’t rightly know. Ain’t seen him since. Probably moved along, looking for work.”
“I might do the same,” Pope said. “Go back out West. I like it better there. Too many people here. You boys hang in there. Maybe I’ll see you down the road somewhere,” Pope said and stood. He downed the beer. The men nodded at him and he put his cap on and walked out.
He thought about the men and Baker on the way back. He believed they did not know where Baker was or what he had tried to do. Baker was still in jail. There was no way they knew his predicament.
Pope did not consider this a dead end. He considered it one more item checked off his to-do list. He walked back to the rear entrance of the Willard and climbed the stairs to his and Sarah’s room. She did not know about him being disguised today, so he knew to be careful.
He tapped on the door and said, “It’s me, but I am in disguise.”
She cracked the door, and he knew there was a .44 in her hand, just out of sight.
“Hello there? Come right in. My husband won’t be back for an hour or two,” she said in a believably seductive voice.
“Thank you, Ma’am. I think an hour or two will be plenty of time,” he said, and she grinned broadly.
“Good disguise. If you weren’t dirty and smelly, I might take you up on a little fun,” Sarah said.
He grinned at her and asked if she would draw a hot bath while he got rid of the work garments. While he was in the bath, she put them, boots included, in a sack to take to a cleaner. He might need a disguise again before all this was over.
Pope had gotten used to being able to walk to a Chinese laundry in San Francisco. He would have to look around for a laundry in Washington. It would be bad tradecraft to have the soiled workman clothes washed by the Willard staff. Too many questions could arise.
Clean and redressed in clothes appropriate for an informal dinner, he briefed Sarah on his trip to Baker’s bar the day before.
“While the men at the bar are unlikely to be involved in a plot against the president, I don’t think it was a futile effort. We eliminated one specific concern and need to continue investigating. What was your experience today?”
“I came up with something worth further investigation. I just hit on it reading local newspapers in the Congressional Library. You and I discussed some senators and representatives were agitating to expand the boundaries of the country. We also were concerned about the growth in disruption by newly powerful Southern members.
“Well, I found three senators and two congressmen have some sort of group pressuring other members to vote for expansion into Mexico. Maybe even Canada, though Canada is lower on the list. Here is the list.”
She handed him a list of three senators and two congressmen and had their states in parentheses beside their names.
“There was also mention of funding possibly available from a finance firm in Dallas. It operates like a private bank and is very secretive. It’s called GC Financial. A man named Joe Selby Jr. is the president. The bank and he popped up in an article once and was never mentioned again. I thought it was pretty odd. Like somebody called the reporters off,” Sarah said.
“I will see if either secretary knows anything about it. It sounds significant enough to make a quick train trip to Dallas. Sure, wish I had Caesar with me.”
“Your horse is in high cotton. Or, maybe high grass, with your grandfather. You may have to arm wrestle the old mountain man to get your massive horse back from him!”
“I might. He’d probably win too,” Pope said. She grinned, having seen him lift an outlaw w
ho smarted off at her. He grabbed the man by the collar, lifted him up with his feet off the ground, and threw him several feet. Pope did this with one arm. Sarah would put her money on Pope in a match off with about anyone.
Pope stopped by the President’s House security office and reviewed the reports from last night. All was well. He then headed for his office at the war building.
Upon arriving, he requested a meeting when possible with Secretary Lincoln. He took notes during the hour wait before he was summoned.
“Hello, John. What is happening?” Lincoln asked.
“First off, I used a disguise and a lot of dirt and visited the President’s House attacker, Baker’s, bar on 14th Street. I spoke with the men he met with before coming to try to shoot Arthur. I believe he took what he wanted to hear and remembered only it. These men are all second-generation Americans and have no issues with immigration. If anything, I think they would support opportunities for people like their parents.
The anger over immigration is probably there, but I believe it resides in railroad executives who are patrons of various congressmen.”
“Makes sense, John. Second off?”
“Sarah did a lot of research. It seems there are some senators and representatives who are pressing for more domain for the United States. Here are their names and states. A funding source was mentioned, then dropped from the press like a hot potato.
“It’s GC Financial in Dallas. The chairman of the board is a former senator, but she included him on the list I just handed you,” Pope said.
“Old enemies of my father,” Lincoln said after a while, clearly disturbing memories were emerging in his mind.
“John, Senator Shelby was a Confederate officer. Perhaps more importantly, he was one of the founders of the Knights of the Golden Circle. The ‘GC’ in GC Financial stands for Golden Circle.
“The founders had one initial goal. It was to expand the land area of the United States by annexing northern Mexico and parts of southern Canada. Cuba was a possible target, too. The primary interest was on Mexico to avoid issues with England over Canada. The founders were not all southerners. They were power barons from a number of states.
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