The odd man looked over the crowd of occupants, the smallest flash of surprise registering in his gaze before it was buried. The officer held open the door, and the odd man entered, twisting the handle of his pickax.
“Whom do you want to see?” the lawman inquired, watching the strange man closely as he started toward the parlor without invitation.
“Mrs. Surratt.”
The officer exchanged a glance with Major Smith, and then nodded to the man. “You are at the right place.” He gestured toward the parlor. “Walk in.”
The man slid his gaze over Matthew and the others and then took a seat, propping his pick axe by his chair.
The new officer followed in behind him, watching the newcomer with a frown that many of the room’s other occupants shared.
“What is your business here, this time of the night, sir?” the officer asked as soon as the younger man got situated.
“Work, Mr…?”
“Morgan,” the officer supplied.
The man nodded. “Well, Mr. Morgan. I’m here for work. I came to dig a gutter for Mrs. Surratt.” He puffed out his chest. “She sent for me.”
Mr. Morgan scoffed. “In the middle of night?”
The man looked around the room, then scratched at the curious hat upon his head. “I was only going to inquire as to what time she wished me to start in the morning.”
Mr. Morgan’s scowl deepened, a feat Matthew would have thought could not have been accomplished. “And where do you board, sir?”
“I have no boarding house, Mr. Morgan. I am but a poor man.” He gestured toward the axe. “I get my living with the pick.”
Mr. Morgan reached down and picked up the axe, examining it closely. “How much do you make in a day?”
“Sometimes nothing at all.”
Matthew’s brows drew low. Something about this entire thing was exceedingly odd, the man’s attire notwithstanding. Mr. Morgan must have displayed the same expression, because the axe man hurried on.
“But sometimes a dollar, and sometimes a dollar and a half.” He smiled at Mr. Morgan confidently, as though the statement cleared him of suspicion.
“Hmm. Have you any money now?”
“Not a cent.”
Mr. Morgan turned to look at Major Smith, who was positioned by the very hearth where O’Malley had stood just days earlier and had told Matthew to see to the end of Harry. The major’s gaze shifted and locked with Matthew’s own. The major assessed him, and then gave a nod toward the parlor door as he lit a pipe. Matthew grunted and moved to block the exit.
Once again it seemed his stature, rather than anything else, had somehow positioned him into the middle of a precarious situation. Matthew entertained the thought that if he’d been born a man of average height, then maybe he would have been left to live a life of predictable normalcy.
The movement drew the odd man’s gaze to him before it darted back to Mr. Morgan. He shifted in his seat, licking his lips.
“How long have you known Mrs. Surratt?” Mr. Morgan inquired.
“Don’t, sir. Never met her.”
Mr. Morgan leaned closer. “Then why would she select you?”
This seemed to give the man pause, but only for a moment. “She knew I was working around the neighborhood and that I’m a poor man, and so she sent for me.” He smiled, seeming satisfied with the response.
Mr. Morgan grunted and stepped away, putting his hands behind his back. “How old are you?”
“About twenty.”
“About? You don’t know?”
The other man cringed as Mr. Morgan closed the gap again, leaning down close. He narrowed his eyes. “Where do you hail from?”
“Fauquier County, Virginia.”
Mr. Morgan’s eyes darkened. “A Southerner.”
The man quickly pulled out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and waved it at Morgan, who ignored it and instead turned on his heel to give a meaningful look to the major. The major nodded, and Morgan looked back to the squirming man in the chair.
“When did you leave there?”
“Some time ago. February, I think it was.”
The same time when Matthew had been drawn into O’Malley’s plot. Interesting. He’d never seen this man before, but O’Malley had often enough stated that the group was far-reaching. What part did this man play? Silence hung thick in the room like the unpleasant scent of overripe fruit.
“I didn’t want to join the army, you see,” the man finally said, his voice beginning to strain. He cleared his throat. “Prefer to make my living by the axe. So I left.” He wagged the paper again. “I have oath papers.”
Matthew watched with more interest now. What would the traitor papers really gain a man under obvious suspicion? Mr. Morgan took the paper and scanned the contents, then passed it to Major Smith. The major read them over and then took another puff on his pipe, seeming content to let Mr. Morgan have the run of things.
“Lewis Payne, is it?” Mr. Morgan asked, taking the paper back and shoving it in his jacket pocket.
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Morgan patted his pocket. “You’ll have to go up to the Provost Marshal’s office and explain.”
Mr. Payne shifted in his seat, then he turned his gaze onto the rug and remained silent.
Before he could come up with anything else to say, Mrs. Surratt and two other women came down the stairs in a waterfall of ruffling skirts and petticoats. Seeing her, Mr. Morgan gestured for Mr. Payne to rise, and Matthew stepped aside as Mr. Payne hurried out of the parlor.
Matthew turned and placed his hands behind his back, watching Mrs. Surratt carefully as the other two approached. Morgan gestured toward Payne. “Mrs. Surratt, do you know this man and did you hire him to come dig a gutter for you?”
She looked at Payne and sniffed, then raised her right hand. “Before God, sir, I do not know this man, and have never seen him. I did not hire him to dig a gutter for me.”
Payne stared at her, saying nothing. Matthew pressed his lips in a line. So she did know him, then. Why else would she spew forth such unnecessary histrionics?
Morgan grabbed the man by the arm. “You are under arrest as a suspicious character, and will have to go to Colonel Wells for further examination.”
Matthew watched Mrs. Surratt closely, but if the news distressed her in any way, she gave no indication of it. Matthew wondered how Payne had been involved in the plot, and why Mrs. Surratt determined to deny she knew the man. For that matter, why pretend not to know Matthew, either? He’d already told the lawmen of his connection. Not that she would know of it.
The women were ushered outside to a waiting carriage without further questioning, and after a moment they were rolling away into the darkened streets. The clack of the wheels seemed loud in the quiet street, the bell ringers having finally retired from their doleful duty and leaving the somber city to rest.
Morgan turned to the other men. “Mr. Samson, Mr. Rosch, take him,” he said, indicating the stoic Mr. Payne. In a moment, the strange man was escorted away and the eerie silence crept in from the streets and enveloped those remaining inside.
“Mr. Daniels?” the major asked, jarring Matthew with the bark of his voice. “Did you know that man?”
Matthew straightened himself. “No. He was not one of the ones involved. At least not with the men I was with, to my knowledge, at least.” He frowned. Did that make him sound dishonest?
The major stood at stiff attention and his face gave no indications of his thoughts. “Do you think it possible he was a part of this plot?”
Matthew rubbed the muscles at the back of his neck. “I think he seems suspicious. His story does not seem to hold up. So, yes, I do think it is possible that he is involved in something, at least.”
The major regarded him thoughtfully before finally seeming to come to a conclusion. He gestured toward the narrow staircase. “Show me which room belonged to this O’Malley you spoke of and come search it with me.”
Giving a nod o
f acquiescence, Matthew led the major up the stairs, and for the next two hours aided in the search of the Surratt house, solidifying him as a turncoat.
“My name is mentioned as connected with this affair. The states is no longer a safe place for me, especially as Mother has been arrested.”
John Surratt
Old Capitol Prison
Washington
April 18, 1865
Annabelle rose and brushed the dust off her skirts. Kneeling to pray had only further ruined the dress, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She’d knelt at the side of the cot until her knees protested, but still she didn’t feel any more at peace than she had at the start. What was a dirty dress compared to a distressed heart?
Behind her, Annabelle could hear her cell mate pacing again. Without looking, Annabelle knew that the woman would be wringing her hands and muttering about losing her employment. Annabelle had tried to calm her, but it seemed the opposite had taken place. The woman’s constant fretting had frayed the last of Annabelle’s nerves. Annabelle regarded her for a moment and then opened her mouth to offer some kind of reassurance, but gave up before any words could form. What difference had any of those words made these last three days? If anything, her attempts at consolation and friendship had only crumbled into a smoldering pile of hatred. No, Alice wanted nothing at all to do with her.
Annabelle turned her face away. Three days. She reached up to smooth tangled locks that she’d lost all hope of keeping in pins. Her clothes were dirty, and she desperately needed a bath. Yesterday she’d used half of her drinking water and the hem of her petticoat to wash her face and neck. Not that it had helped much. She got the lace hem of her blouse sleeve and started trying to scrub some of the grime from her teeth.
A loud clanging sound hammered on the bars from somewhere down the hall. Annabelle cringed and dropped her sleeve. Oh, no. Not again.
She waited with tensed muscles, but all remained calm. Finally, she resumed her scrubbing, hoping that horrid man had grown tired of the game and would let her be.
That hope shattered a moment later when the man began to shout. “Hey! Hey, you! Do you hear me?”
Annabelle shuddered and turned away, dropping down onto the floor in the far corner of the cell where she had learned to take refuge. She lowered her head and straightened the skirts around her feet. Perhaps no one would join him this time. Yes, certainly after yesterday they must have grown tired of such cruel nonsense.
She cast a quick glance at her cell mate and her stomach dropped in dismay when Alice stopped her muttering and looked down the hall. Her face crumpled into a frown, and before Annabelle could look away, the other woman’s gaze locked on hers.
“You!” She sneered. “This is all your fault!”
Annabelle hung her head and tried to press her back farther against the wall. No amount of logic, pleading, or attempts at polite conversation had swayed the woman’s opinion yesterday, so what good would it do to try now?
Alice stepped closer and spat at Annabelle’s feet. “I hope they never let you out. It’s traitors like you that ought to be in here, not hard working loyal folks like me.”
Annabelle squeezed her eyes shut, but Alice said nothing more, instead stepping back toward the bars.
“Hey! You! Rebel quisling!” The man’s voice shouted again.
Annabelle knew he wanted her to answer, but she wouldn’t. It made no difference what she’d said, all her arguments and attempts at explanations had somehow done nothing more than stoke ire. That man seemed to thrive on instigating trouble. Well, she wouldn’t be taken in this time. It was better to ignore him.
“She’s too uppity to answer you, Tom. Stop all the yelling.” Alice cast a squalid glance over her shoulder at Annabelle.
Annabelle pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. At least the others hadn’t joined in. Not yet, anyway.
“Guard! Guard!” Tom yelled again.
No one answered.
They sat in silence until the shaft of light that fell through the only window and settled on the stone floor had snaked its way almost to the center of the cell. Their first afternoon here, she and Alice had taken turns standing on the cot and looking out the small rectangular break in the stone wall. If they stood on their tip toes, they could reach just high enough to get a glimpse of the yard out back.
But that was before Annabelle had made the mistake of telling anyone she was from Mississippi.
The metallic clang of the metal door at the end of the hall signaled the return of the guard, likely with their noon meal. Annabelle listened to the clinking and shuffling sounds as the guards opened the doors and pushed the metal trays inside. Finally, one of them reached Annabelle’s cell.
“You have to let me out of here!” Alice wailed.
The guard pushed the metal key into the lock and wrenched it open. “You know the answer to that, lady. No one’s leaving until the murderer is caught.” He thrust out the tray toward her.
She shook her head. “I know, I know. Not that.” She cast a scathing look at Annabelle. “Just move me to another cell.”
The guard frowned and turned his attention onto Annabelle’s huddled form. “Why?”
Alice crossed her arms over her chest and jutted her chin at Annabelle. “I don’t want to be stuck in here with that Rebel a moment longer.”
The guard’s eyes widened with surprise for only an instant before they dropped into a scowl. He glanced back at Alice and gave an apologetic nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Don’t none of us want her in our cells either!” a man shouted from somewhere down the line.
The guard ignored him. “I would have to put you in with two other women. Three might make it kind of tight.”
Alice nodded as though Annabelle had the pox. “Better than being stuck with one of them.”
Annabelle gulped and tried to understand the look of pure hatred tightening the features of the people in front of her.
“She was there, you know,” Alice declared. “At the theatre. I bet she laughed when the fiend shot Lincoln, too.”
Heat slithered up Annabelle’s neck. “I did no such thing! I tried to help!”
The guard grasped Alice’s elbow and led her out of the cell. “I bet you did. What happened, didn’t get close enough to finish him off?”
Annabelle opened her mouth, but no words could find their way past her thick tongue. The guard grunted and slammed the door closed behind him.
Alice squared her shoulders, the look of relief on her face sending stabs of anguish through Annabelle’s gut. The key had already ground out its screeching chorus before Annabelle found her words again. “Wait!”
The guard looked at her over his narrow shoulder, beady eyes crawling over her as though she were fetid milk, left out in the sun.
“What…what…about my meal?” Annabelle stammered.
The guard laughed, and soon it was joined by the eerie echo of hollow chuckles down the line of cells. “Want to eat, do you? Well, maybe you should have thought of that before your kind murdered our president.”
Annabelle sprang to her feet and scurried over to the door, clasping the cold bars in her trembling hands. “No! I tried to help. Tried to save him.”
Alice jutted a pointy chin at Annabelle. “All those Rebels are nothing but liars and thieves.”
There was a cheer, and soon all the prisoners were banging on the bars. Alice made a face at Annabelle before the guard led her farther down the hall. Tears gathered in Annabelle’s eyes and slid down her cheeks.
Oh, Lord. Help me.
She stood there trembling at the gate while calls of “Rebel harlot!” and “lying wench!” reverberated down the hall. A few other names flung at her were so foul that she finally covered her ears and dashed to the cot, flinging herself onto the stiff bed.
At least I won’t have to sleep on the floor, now, she thought. A small comfort. Finally, the other prisoners grew tired of their jeers and turned
to eating their meals. Annabelle’s stomach rumbled, but she curled herself into a tight ball and ignored it. Maybe if she pretended they were not out there, and she didn’t answer their calls, they would forget about her and leave her in peace. But how long could she go if they refused to give her any water?
A shiver ran down her spine and she dug the heels of her hands into her eyes to keep back the sobs. She wasn’t sure how long she lay curled up on the cot, but it was long enough that her tears had dried on her cheeks and she had begun to drift into a tense sleep.
The bars rattled and startled her up right. “Miss Ross!” A voice boomed, chasing the cobwebs from her mind.
Annabelle staggered to her feet, but hung back in the shadows. Outside, three figures stood in the gloom of the hallway. Suddenly one of them squealed and leapt forward, thrusting an arm through the bars.
“Miss Belle! Oh, baby girl!”
Annabelle stood frozen to her place, horrified by the sound of Peggy’s voice. She rushed forward and grasped Peggy’s outstretched fingers. “Peggy! You shouldn’t be here!”
“Neither should you,” Grandmother scoffed, stepping closer. Her nostrils flared and she looked up at the man standing at her side. “Mr. Crook! Is this how you have treated my granddaughter? She looks a fright!”
Annabelle batted wide eyes at Mr. Crook as his gaze assessed her. He gave a grunt. “I apologize. We are quite overrun, you know.”
Grandmother pointed a finger at the man. “You let her out this instant.”
Mr. Crook hesitated, scratching at the scruff on his chin. Annabelle’s heart pounded in her chest, and Peggy clutched her fingers so tightly her bones ached.
“Come now, William. We’ve been through this,” Grandmother admonished.
Mr. Crook’s features tightened and he seemed about to protest the tiny woman standing in front of him, but he finally pulled a ring of keys from his belt and slid one of them into the lock. Relief swept over Annabelle so powerfully that her knees began to buckle and she swayed forward.
The Liberator Series Box Set: Christian Historical Civil War Novels Page 64