As she is on the outside.
“To sin by silence when they should protest, makes cowards out of men.”
Abraham Lincoln
Washington Police Station
April 15, 1865
8:00 AM
Her body hurt, yes. The way Annabelle’s feet ached from walking, her raw eyes burned from crying, and her shoulders tensed from the burdens she carried all served to remind her of the harrowing night she had endured. But whereas it all brought a leaden weariness to her bones, it was the pain that ran even deeper that threatened to undo what little composure she still had left.
More than her physical condition, it was the exhaustion born of feeling too much—the terror in the theatre, the momentary joy of Matthew’s declaration, and then the crushing weight of despair that came with knowing that the horrors of the war were only now going to increase as the North took payment for Lincoln’s blood—that made her truly ache. Despite all she’d been through, Annabelle thought that perhaps this day, this day of national mourning, was the first time since it all had begun that her very soul hurt.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to remain calm. Surely they would not hold her much longer. After all, she had come of her own free will. But she remained in the small room long after she had steadied her pulse. Did they not know she held information that could bring this all to an end?
Annabelle tapped her foot nervously underneath the table as she waited for the lawman to return. Her head pounded with the pulse of unanswered questions, lurking fears, and the denial of sleep. She closed her eyes and attempted to push aside her doubts. Soul weary or not, this had been the right thing to do. Now, perhaps, it would all be over and she could finally return to Rosswood. Annabelle wasn’t certain how much more of the North she would be willing to endure. She’d been away so very long. Did she even have a home to return to?
She could hear the others, even this far down the hall—agitated voices and the hum of pent up frustration and excitement. How many of them were out there now? Fifty? A hundred? She suppressed a shiver and shifted her weight on the hard chair. Why were they detaining so many? It seemed as though every person in Ford’s had either come or had been dragged into the Washington police station.
Just then the door opened with a bang, and Annabelle jumped, her hand flying to her thudding heart. The officer, who’d introduced himself as Mr. Fitch, strode inside the cramped office, twitching his mustache as he flipped through a stack of papers in his hand and looking all the more displeased than when he’d first escorted Annabelle to this office. He circled around his plain desk and sat behind it, not meeting her eyes. Annabelle swallowed the lump gathering in her throat and tried to tell herself all would be cleared up soon.
The man looked exhausted, likely from also enduring a sleepless night. His oiled hair hung limp across his forehead, and as he squinted at the pages in his hand he kept angrily flipping the locks away from his eyes. The more he did so, the more disheveled he appeared. Annabelle watched him until he finally leveled his deep brown eyes on her.
“Now, you say you have new information?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Very important.” She tried to give a confident nod, but the policeman seemed as unconvinced as she felt. She’d known O’Malley had plotted an abduction, but she hadn’t known Mr. Booth sought murder. She glanced to the door, the noises of the people growing louder, and clasped her hands tightly.
He gave a sniff. “Already had eight young ladies in here that were in the theatre last night. All claimed their particular story was important.”
Annabelle regarded him flatly. She was in no mood to continue to be discounted. Had someone listened to her a week ago, perhaps neither of them would be regarding one another with thinly veiled distaste now. She lifted her chin. “Well, I don’t suppose any of them knows the identities of the conspirators nor foiled the original abduction plot on the road to the Soldier’s Home a month past.”
Surprise widened the officer’s eyes, and she felt a momentary swell of satisfaction. A short-lived triumph, however, because now his face reddened. “How would you know about that?”
She ran her trembling fingers along the embroidered edges of her dress. “I warned Mr. Lincoln’s driver about their plans.” She bit her bottom lip. “Tell me, sir, do you know how the president fares?”
He gave her a sour look. “He is dead. Passed about half an hour ago.”
Annabelle let a single tear roll down her cheek as she gave a small nod, then whisked it away. The faint tolls of the melancholy bells had long since told her what she’d not wished to know, and Mr. Fitch’s clipped words only provided the confirmation she didn’t truly need.
Mr. Fitch regarded her for a long time, and Annabelle held his gaze, unsure if she should speak further until he made his intentions clear. She flicked another nervous glance to the door.
Finally, Mr. Fitch pushed away from his desk and the sudden movement made Annabelle startle. Embarrassed, she offered a fabricated smile as he propped his ankle on his knee. She’d come here of her own accord. Surely, she had nothing to fear.
“Perhaps, Miss Ross, you should start from the beginning.”
She inclined her head. The beginning. Her mind scurried back across the last weeks and her swirling tumult of emotions. Deciding succinct words might best appease the stern face across from her, Annabelle settled on firing out only the most pertinent details. “I first discovered the plot while here in Washington about a month ago. I overheard men talking in the boarding house parlor, and they disclosed their intentions to abduct Mr. Lincoln later that afternoon and take him away to Richmond. They said they planned to ransom him for the release of Confederate soldiers.”
Mr. Fitch nodded along, though she wasn’t sure if he had prior knowledge of these things or not. Remembering the disaster she’d almost caused when she told the major at Elmira prison that George was her brother, she had already determined she would be forthcoming with all she knew, and accept whatever consequences that entailed. He glanced up at her, gesturing that she continue.
Resigned to her fate, Annabelle’s words tumbled faster. “While looking for a hired coach to take me to my mother’s family in New York, I happened upon a young man by the name of Thomas Clark, who claimed to be Mr. Lincoln’s personal driver. I told him some men were planning on overrunning the carriage on the way to the Soldier’s Home. It is my understanding that he warned Mr. Lincoln of this, and the president changed his plans, going to the National Hotel instead.”
Mr. Fitch stroked the pointed beard on the tip of his chin. “And where were you when you learned of this plot?”
“At the Surratt Boarding House.”
He leaned forward and plucked a small leather notebook from his desk and began writing quickly. “Which men had this discussion?”
Despite his apparent attempt to appear otherwise, Annabelle could see the information had excited him.
“Mr. David O’Malley and Mr. Harry Thompson. There were other men involved, but the only one I recognized was John Wilkes Booth.”
Forgive me, Father. I can’t say Matthew’s name. I cannot condemn him. Let him tell the tale of his own accord.
Mr. Fitch frowned at the remark on Booth, and made another notation. “And how do you know it was him?”
Annabelle ran her tongue over her lips, trying to get them moist again. “I followed the men, there were seven of them, I believe, to the road and watched the entire thing. I recognized Mr. Booth from a likeness I had seen in town. A playbill, or some such, I believe.”
“And you did not think to inform the law?”
Annabelle offered an apologetic smile Mr. Fitch did not return. “I’m afraid not. I thought the matter settled, and since I had urgent business in New York, I left later that day.”
“To see the family you mentioned.”
Her heart thudded, but she willed it to slow. She had promised herself to tell all. “Yes, but not only. I also went to Elmira prison.”
; “What for?”
“To find my….” Friend’s? Beau’s? “To find Mr. Daniels’s brother, who I had learned from the Commissary General’s Office here in Washington, was being held at Elmira.”
“And this was your reason for being in Washington a month past?”
“Yes, sir.” True enough. Finding George had been their reason to go to Washington.
“What more can you tell me on this matter, Miss Ross?”
Annabelle recounted leaving Washington and going to Elmira. When she reached the part about Matthew finding George on the river banks, she paused, feeling uncertain. Mr. Fitch leaned forward in his chair, waiting for the next piece of her tale.
“Well, Matthew found him freezing there, and took him back to our room to warm him.”
Mr. Fitch stared hard at her. “He stole a prisoner?”
Annabelle tugged on the pearl earring Grandmother had given her, but when she noticed how badly her hands were shaking, she quickly dropped her fingers to her lap. “He would have died otherwise. Though he was already in the process of being released on the allegiance papers he signed.”
Mr. Fitch dipped his pen and scribbled again. “And this is a Mr. George Daniels?”
“Yes, sir.”
Heat crept up her neck. When George had come back into the hotel during the wee hours this morning, it had been to find her and Matthew locked in an embrace. They’d not had time to discuss it, as George had insisted they go immediately to the lawmen.
“So why did you return to Washington after you took Mr. Daniels from Elmira?” Mr. Fitch asked without looking up from his writings.
“One of the men I mentioned, Harry, was discovered following us. When Matthew questioned him, he found out that Mr. O’Malley was working on another abduction plot. He came straight to Washington to try to stop Mr. O’Malley.”
“And when was this?”
Annabelle thought back. “I am not sure, exactly, but around the time when Richmond fell.”
“And you came with him?”
She shook her head. “No, sir. George, my grandmother, my maid, and I came separately.”
He set his pen aside and narrowed his gaze. “And none of you thought to report this to the law?”
Annabelle bristled. Did he think her dull? She straightened her shoulders, wishing she could rub at their aching muscles. “Of course we did. My grandmother informed Mr. William Crook about the abduction plans. He said that the president received many such threats, and that we shouldn’t worry, they would see to his safety.” Her tone held a touch of bitterness she could not contain.
Mr. Fitch scowled. “Indeed.” He sat back in his chair and propped his ankle on his knee once more, regarding her. “And why, then, were you at the theatre last eve?”
“Grandmother had gotten us tickets. I knew that Mr. Booth had been on the road that day O’Malley had first planned to abduct Mr. Lincoln. So when we learned Mr. Lincoln would be going to the theatre, we assumed Mr. Booth knew the building well and concluded it would be a good opportunity for the men to attempt another abduction.” Her voice hitched. “But we never expected….” She squeezed her eyes shut.
“There, there, miss. It’s all right,” Mr. Fitch said, fishing a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and surprising her with a dose of sympathy. “We all are distraught over this tragedy.”
She accepted the offered cloth and dabbed at her eyes, handing it back with a tired smile. “Thank you.”
Mr. Fitch simply nodded and placed the handkerchief into a drawer in his desk. He picked up his pen again and dabbed it into the ink well. “Did you inform anyone of your suspicions about this O’Malley and the possibility of an abduction at the theatre?”
“Mr. Crook knew. He promised Mr. O’Malley would be arrested immediately, should he be seen in the theatre.”
Mr. Fitch’s frown deepened and he made another note in his little book before snapping it closed. Annabelle wondered if the ink even had time to dry. Likely, all his notes would be smudged.
The stocky policeman rose and rounded the desk, and Annabelle stood as he approached. Feeling relieved, she turned toward the door. “I do hope this information has helped you some, Mr. Fitch. I’ll be in my room at the National Hotel, should you wish to ask me anything further.”
Mr. Fitch’s fingers clamped down on her elbow. She looked up at him, confused. His eyes looked sad, but there were hard lines about his mouth. “I’m sorry, Miss Ross, but I am afraid you cannot leave our custody just yet.”
“I…what?”
“I’m afraid I am going to have to detain you until we can look deeper into your claims.”
Annabelle blinked rapidly, but could not come up with a response as Mr. Fitch gently led her out the door.
Matthew paced the floor, his boots thudding against the wood in a steady rhythm. The holding area of the Metropolitan Police building overflowed with people of various degrees of unrest. Some seemed eager to be in the midst of the commotion while others fidgeted and paced nervously.
The close quarters forced the rubbed elbows of people who would not normally find themselves in the present company. The well-dressed turned up their noses at the working folk, who had been kind enough to offer up their seats. Men, women, and even a few youths, crammed into the small holding space and waited their turn at questioning. Matthew wondered if the lawmen had arrested everyone on the street outside of Ford’s.
He tightened his fists and tried to remind himself he was not one of the arrested. He’d come to offer information and would not be detained. Flashes of the conditions of Elmira lurched into his vision, and he had to shake his head in a futile effort to dislodge them.
A strangled noise off to his left made him twist, bringing his arm into a disgruntled gentleman in a fine suit. The other opened his mouth to protest, then seemed to think better of it and ducked away. Matthew frowned at him, wondering what had sent the man scurrying like a mouse. But as people began to shift and the space around him widened as they tried to distance themselves, Matthew became aware of the throbbing vein in his neck. Struggling to gain control, he forced his features to relax and lowered his eyes. Didn’t these people know he would cause them no harm? He merely struggled with frustrations that surely everyone here harbored.
Just then the door opened and a young man of about eighteen or twenty years entered. He scanned the room with a determined gaze. The fellow appeared confident, his shoulders set tightly in his pressed suit with his lawman’s polished silver badge shining brightly against his blue, double breasted jacket.
“Mr. Daniels?” the man called out over the hum of a dozen private conversations.
“Aye!” Matthew yelled a bit too loudly, already making his way toward the youth.
The younger man tilted his chin back to regard Matthew as he stepped near. “You are the brother of a Mr. George Daniels, is that correct?”
“I am.” Apprehension clawed at him, and he rubbed the back of his neck.
“This way, sir,” the policeman said, gesturing toward a hallway behind him.
Matthew tugged on the knot of his blue cravat in an attempt to keep the foul thing from choking him. George had been called back first, and it had been hours since Matthew had last seen him. Then they had taken Annabelle, and his composure had begun to slide as soon as her delicate fingers had slipped free of his grasp.
How long had he been waiting out here, trying to get someone to hear him? At least what he’d shouted to a passing officer about the Surratt house seemed to have been heard, and as far as he knew, men had apparently gone to investigate. If they’d found anything, though, it hadn’t made much difference. They still left Matthew waiting with the other people they had collected off the streets without thought to who might know something important and who might only be here for a bit of the excitement.
Matthew paused and allowed the young lawman to continue past him. He glanced around in a futile effort to find the others, but as he suspected, no one waited for him in the hallway b
eyond the door.
When George had returned to the hotel hours earlier, it had been to tell them he’d caught a glimpse of Booth galloping away, but had not been able to stop him. Matthew knew where the man might be headed, but even though he had come to this station to give the tale, it seemed they had not been the only ones with the idea. Every person who had been in the theatre or had joined the crowd outside in the streets thought they had something important to say, apparently, because everyone had come here.
Fools.
Matthew fell into stride with the lawman, trying to see into any open doors as they passed down the long hallway. Of the two he found open, neither contained Annabelle or George.
“Here we are, sir,” the officer said, opening a heavy door at the end of the hall. Without waiting for response, he turned and strode back toward the crowded waiting area.
Matthew poked his head inside the door, noting a man with dark hair and a trimmed mustache staring at him expectantly. The man motioned toward a chair in front of his plain desk. “Take a seat, Mr. Daniels,” he said as he flipped open a small writing book in his hand.
Matthew pulled the door closed behind him and positioned himself in the chair without taking his eyes off the man across from him. Matthew assumed by his manner that the man was another member of the Washington Police, but he did not sport a polished badge on his rumpled jacket.
The man dipped his pen in the inkwell and scribbled in his book. “State your name, please sir.”
“You already know my name.”
The man looked up from his paper with a sniff. “I have been told your identity. I wish to hear it in your own words.”
“Matthew Gregory Daniels of Westerly Plantation, Mississippi. Former captain, Mississippi Infantry, Confederate Army under the command of…”
The man held up his hand to slow Matthew’s words, but if he was bothered by the bite in Matthew’s tone, he didn’t acknowledge it. He scribbled this in his notebook without comment.
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