The Liberator Series Box Set: Christian Historical Civil War Novels

by Stephenia H. McGee

  Booth spun on his heel and stalked away, pushing startled onlookers out of his way.

  David O’Malley watched him go, excitement fluttering up in his chest. So, all was not lost. Oh, indeed, the North would pay for its heinous crimes. He swung his gaze back up to the western window.

  A smug smile turned up the corners of his mouth. Starting with the tyrant himself.

  “And so the end shall come,” he whispered.

  Then he made his way through the crowd.

  The story continues in

  Losing Lincoln, The Liberator Series Book Two

  Historical Note

  The quotes at the top of each chapter are taken from the private journal of John H. Surratt, one of the actual conspirators in the plot to kidnap Lincoln. The diary is on file with the library of congress, and is an interesting read. In his diary, Surratt lists March 7th as the date they attempted to take the president. During my research, I found some sources listed this date as March 17th and others as March 20th. I chose to use the date listed in the diary.

  While John Surratt and John Wilkes Booth were actual people involved in the plot to kidnap Abraham Lincoln, my characters – Annabelle, Matthew, David O’Malley and friends – are fictional and in no way associated with the historical figures or historical events and outcomes. All words in the book used by Surratt, Booth, and Lincoln are actual historical quotes. (Booth’s words at the restaurant prior to the attempted kidnapping are taken from different sources and did not occur in succession.) I did, however, give fictional words to Mary Surratt (John’s mother and owner of the boarding house). The boarding house location and description are historically accurate, to the best of my ability.

  When Annabelle is in Washington, she sees posters for Clark in de Boots playing at Ford’s theatre. While this was a play showing at this location, it was actually featured on February 11, 1865. I took liberties with this for my timeline.

  History tells that Lincoln changed his mind and did not attend the production at the Soldiers’ Home and instead went to the National Hotel. I was never able to locate what made him change his mind. My character’s involvement is, of course, fictional, as is the driver that Anabelle speaks to and his involvement in thwarting the plot. During my research, I was unable to find any accounts on what happened on the road after the conspirators leave the restaurant. The decoy carriage and ensuing chase were products of my imagination.

  Rumors abound saying that the Confederate government was aware of a large group of spies and conspirators that operated throughout the South and had ties to secret government agencies based in Canada. I used this information to expand the reach of the group of historical conspirators associated with the attempted kidnapping. A larger ring of people sharing coded notes with Booth and supporting his activities could have been possible, but are not recorded—at least, not to my knowledge. It simply made a good “what if…” idea for the story.

  I attempted to weave together the historical facts and fiction to create an interesting story. Any deviations from actual historical events were purely fictional.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you Doc for your meticulous edits. Any remaining mistakes are my own. You always help me make my work shine.

  A special thanks to everyone involved in the photo shoot and design of the cover. Ada McCombs for the gorgeous gown and Melissa Harper for costume work and photography. I’d also like to thank the beautiful Katie Beth for her wonderful work as the cover model. Ravven, you are truly skilled in combining everything I send you and are simply wonderful to work with. Thank you for bringing my cover to life.

  A special thanks to Colonel Walt and Miss Jean for allowing me to use their beautiful home as a setting for my story. As of this writing, Rosswood plantation is a bed and breakfast located in Lorman, Mississippi and an exceptional place to enjoy fine company and a dose of history. And in the morning, you’ll even be treated to an outstanding breakfast, made by Rosswood’s very own Miss Peggy. A sweet lady I simply adored so much I borrowed her name for my story.

  Thank you to Rich Stevens, who helped me check facts in association with army movements and the proper details of a soldier’s life. Any historical inaccuracies or misrepresentations are entirely my own. I’d also like to thank Jessica Stevens for her help with concepts and design elements. Thanks to her and my other early readers for helping me make this book possible.

  And of course, thanks to my dear husband and two little boys, who put up with my strange work hours, wild imagination, and obsession with the old south. I love you three dearly.

  Losing Lincoln

  Copyright © 2016 Stephenia H. McGee

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved

  www.StepheniaMcGee.com

  This novel is a work of fiction. Though some locations and certain events may be historically accurate, names, characters, incidents and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the author’s intent.

  All rights reserved. This book is copyrighted work and no part of it may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or any information storage and retrieval system) without the author’s written permission. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the author’s permission is illegal and punishable by law. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights by purchasing only the authorized editions.

  Cover art: By The Vine Press, Photography by Melissa Harper

  Cover Models: Katie Beth Simmons and Richard Mark Greenwood Jr

  Cover Design: Ravven

  Library Cataloging Data

  McGee, Stephenia H. (Stephenia H. McGee) 1983 –

  Losing Lincoln; The Liberator Series Book Two/ Stephenia H. McGee

  358 p. 5.5 in. × 8.5 in. (13.97 cm × 21.59 cm)

  By The Vine Press digital eBook edition | By The Vine Press Trade paperback edition | Mississippi: By The Vine Press, 2016

  Summary: A Southern Belle and a Confederate Captain caught in the crossfires of America’s first presidential assassination.

  1. Historical Christian 2. Clean romance 3. Presidential assassination 4. Mystery and adventure 5. Redemptive healing 6. Overcoming racism 7. Spies and espionage

  Dear Reader,

  Losing Lincoln dives into the “what if….” Realm of possibility between history and fiction. Many of the events in this story are historically accurate and feature historical figures. However, most of the story is fictional. I had a lot of fun weaving the two together. At the end of the book, please see the historical notes section to discover exactly how and where I blended fact and fiction.

  Thank you and I hope you enjoy this second instalment of Annabelle and Matthew’s story.

  Happy reading!

  For Jadon and Levi,

  My two little monkeys.

  The White House

  Washington

  April 13, 1865

  The guard at the door nodded to Ward as he entered the White House. Servants took his coat and hat and then scurried away on other business. He no longer needed to be told where to find his old friend. If Abraham wasn’t in his office at this hour examining news from the field, then he would be taking his pipe in his private parlor with his wife.

  Ward tapped on the door and was granted entrance by Abraham’s voice, a voice that had grown ever more haggard these last years. The president and his wife both smiled at Ward, gesturing that he take a seat in the chair across from their shared couch.

  Ward stretched his legs in front of him and examined the face of the president as he loosened his cravat. Lincoln seemed tired, even more so than usual.

  “Well, you are correct, I suppose. The Bible is filled with an abundance of dreams,” Mrs. Lincoln said, obviously continuing a conversation they had shared prior to his arriva
l. He had business in his pocket to attend to, but knew that it wouldn’t be mentioned until Mrs. Lincoln retired.

  “And if we are to believe the Bible,” Lincoln replied, “we must accept the fact that in the old days, God and his angels came to men in their sleep and made themselves known in dreams.”

  Mary clasped her hands and glanced over at Ward, but he merely shrugged. Who was he to interrupt a conversation between the president and his wife?

  “Well,” Mary said, “that is true enough, but I do not think it applies to your dreams.”

  Ward perked up at this. Lincoln had mentioned strange dreams before, and odd as it seemed, they often corresponded to important events within the war. Despite Lincoln’s protests that he did not believe in the dreams, Ward knew the president took them seriously enough.

  “What dream?” he asked, eyeing the president as Lincoln sipped his evening tea.

  “One that has haunted me ever since….” Abraham said vaguely, his brows gathering into deep wrinkles. He did not seem likely to continue, so Ward looked to Mary and cocked his head. Mary would insist Abraham speak his mind, and she wouldn’t give him peace until he did.

  “Come, tell us of this dream,” Mary prompted.

  Abraham shot Ward a look, and he knew that he’d been caught. He turned his gaze to the hearth and watched the flames, hoping the president wouldn’t ask him to step out.

  To his surprise, the weary president settled back in his chair and began his tale. “About ten days ago I had the strangest of dreams. It was after I had gone to bed late, having stayed up waiting for important dispatches from the front.”

  Mary nodded as if she remembered this. Abraham’s look turned distant, and he spoke in a voice that seemed most haunting. “I felt a death-like stillness about me that roused me from my bed. Then I heard the sound of subdue sobs, and so I walked downstairs in search of the mournful sounds of distress. I encountered no living persons, so I continued on to the east wing.”

  Ward looked at Mary, who seemed to have paled. The president continued, as if not noticing the effect his words had on his wife. “In the east room, I found a most sickening surprise.”

  “What?” Ward asked, unable to contain himself.

  The president regarded him a moment, as if deciding whether or not he wished to continue. He shook his head slowly. “There lay a covered corpse resting on a catafalque, surrounded by soldiers, with mourners gazing at the body and weeping.”

  Ward frowned, not liking the sound of this. It was nothing like Abraham’s dreams of swift sailboats on the open sea. Mary looked aghast, but did not stop her husband from continuing the account. She shivered, though the room was pleasantly warm.

  “I looked at the soldiers and demanded to know who was dead in the White House.”

  “Who?” Mary squeaked, though she did not seem like she truly wanted to know.

  “‘The president,’ was the soldier’s answer. He was killed by an assassin!”

  Mary gasped and Ward shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The written threats and calls on his life must have finally eaten away at Abraham. A man could stand only so much stress and constant threats of assassination. He would have to see to it that the president was no longer allowed to read them, and such things were kept from his ears.

  “There was a loud burst of grief from the crowd,” Abraham continued, “and I awoke.” He stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. “I did not sleep again that night, and I have been strangely annoyed by it since.”

  “It is only a dream,” Mary said, though she looked anything but convinced.

  Abraham seemed to shake off his musings and his expression softened as he regarded his wife. He reached across the couch and took her hand. “Of course it is, my dear. Let us think no more on it. I shouldn’t have even brought it up.”

  The couple sat in silence for some time after, and Ward watched Lincoln closely. This war had been too much, and Ward was beginning to worry about the president’s state of mind.

  “Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other.”

  Abraham Lincoln

  Elmira, New York

  March 14, 1865

  Annabelle shivered against the wind and pulled her wrap tighter. Beside her, Matthew repeatedly clenched and released his fists as if they were itching to land a blow. Not that she could blame him. What kind of people did such things?

  She studied the backs of the people waiting in line in front of them. From all appearances, they seemed to be normal enough. Nothing about their heavy winter outerwear or their idle chatter marked them as heartless. But what else could they be? They seemed fascinated by suffering and had even turned it into a means of entertainment. Annabelle shivered again, and this time not from the biting cold and drizzling rain.

  The man in front of them took another step forward, moving the line and bringing their little group to the bottom of the wooden staircase that led to the observation platform above.

  “This here ain’t right,” Peggy grumbled. Annabelle cut her eyes to shush her, but even Matthew’s piercing gaze didn’t do the job. “What?” she huffed. “We’s all thinking it.”

  Matthew stepped closer to Annabelle. “Perhaps your maid should wait for you over there with the others.”

  Annabelle glanced behind her to the groups of colored folks waiting around hitched carriages and chatting amongst themselves. She nodded. “Perhaps he’s right. Why don’t you wait for us, Peggy?”

  Peggy opened her mouth to protest, but Annabelle didn’t give her the opportunity. She leaned close to Peggy’s ear. “See what they know. Keep your ears open.”

  Peggy drew her lips into a line, but slipped off without another word. Ever since it had been the three of them on the road, Peggy began to cling to Annabelle like a wet shawl.

  The man ahead of them paid his fee and walked up the stairs as a well-dressed coupled descended. Annabelle studied the woman’s fine furs. Did the well-to-do in this town have nothing better to entertain themselves?

  “That’ll be ten cents, sir, for you and the lady.” The young man held out his hand expectantly.

  The muscles in Matthew’s jaw tightened and Annabelle slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, giving it a small squeeze. His jaw barely unclenched enough for him to speak. “I was told it was three cents to visit the observation tower,” Matthew said, his words clipped.

  The youth shrugged. “Sorry, sir. It’s a nickel apiece now. Includes binoculars, though, so don’t worry, you’ll get your money’s worth.”

  Annabelle could practically feel the anger seeping out of Matthew. “Oh, that’s good, isn’t it? We will be able to get a closer look then….” she trailed off, hoping Matthew caught her meaning.

  He thrust his hand in his pocket and shoved a dime into the boy’s open palm. Unfazed by Matthew’s glower, the boy nodded up the steps. “Got refreshments for purchase, too, case you want to linger.”

  Disgust bubbled in her stomach, but Annabelle simply inclined her head and drew Matthew up the stairs before the boy found himself at the wrong end of Matthew’s ever growing fury. At the top, they stepped onto a wide platform raised as high into the air as the top floor of Rosswood. It was like standing on a balcony, except this one was disconnected from a building.

  The entire structure was a bit unsettling, being so high in the air with nothing more beneath her than some planks and a few poles. Annabelle tried not to think of the open void below and took a place at the railing near several other visitors, careful not to touch the banister. The flimsy thing didn’t look as though it would hold her weight, should she lean on it too much.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Annabelle watched Matthew snatch a pair of binoculars from the spindly man distributing them to his customers. Matthew stalked to her side, the veins in his neck bulging with fury and his jaw clenched so tightly she feared his teeth might break. Without a word, he put the looking contraption to his face.

  “Excuse me, miss?” asked
a nasally voice behind her.

  She turned to see the spindly man dangling another pair of the lenses from a short loop of rope. “You forgot to get yours,” he said. When Annabelle hesitated, he wriggled his bushy gray brows. “You’ll get to see their punishment much better with these.”

  Annabelle stared at him for a moment before reaching out to take the binoculars. He simply flashed a yellowed grin and continued down the platform to the next waiting group of onlookers. She turned the contraption over in her hand. She’d never used a pair before.

  “I don’t see him,” Matthew said with a growl, interrupting her inspection of the slender metal and two different sized sets of lenses.

  Annabelle faced the railing and put the smaller set of lenses up to her eyes. Immediately, everything out in front of her appeared larger. She blinked and removed them, looking at the scene below. She positioned the glasses again, and she could suddenly see the scene with sickening detail, just as if she had been only a few paces away.

  Below the platform, a swollen river snaked between the town proper and the massive walls of Elmira prison. Tents lined both sides of the muddy banks and scattered between these lines of sagging structures, small clusters of men huddled among piles of debris and refuse. With their pitiful clothing hanging loosely on gaunt bodies, they looked like little more than walking bones. Annabelle gasped.

  “Why are they out there in tents?” she mumbled to herself. “I thought all the prisoners were kept inside the walls.”

  “Too many of them, now,” answered a feminine voice to her left.

  Annabelle glanced over at the older woman she hadn’t noticed approach. The lady pointed below. “Word is they have nigh on ten thousand in there. Too many for the barracks to hold, for sure. They stacked them in there until the walls nearly burst.”