The Lincoln Deception

by David O. Stewart

  “On the subject of what you might be prepared to do,” Fraser said, not rising from his chair, “you should understand that we are in possession of a small leather book with a fetching image of a frog on its first page. You know what I am describing?”

  “Go on,” Barstow said quietly.

  “That book, and our interpretation of it, are in a safe place. A very safe place. And it will reside there unless something happens to one of us.” He pointed at Cook and then at himself. “In that event, well, that frog book would immediately be released to the public, along with everything we know about it. You don’t want that to happen, Mr. Barstow.”

  “I don’t know what you’re on about,” the older man said, “and I don’t think you do, either.”

  “I’m on about the boss frog of New York City and his good friends.”

  “You can’t mean it!” Cook was pacing across the small hotel room, covering it in three strides and turning back.

  Fraser sat in the lone straight-back chair. He shook his head. “I can. Longstreet made sense. Even Barstow made sense. No one’s going to believe us. They’ll all deny it. We don’t have any hard proof, not even the memorandum book anymore, not to mention the frog book being a wreck. Thank God we can use it as a bluff. What would it gain us to make accusations we can’t back up?”

  “It’s the truth!”

  “Keep your voice down. We’ll get thrown out of the hotel.”

  “That’d be a good start. Then we ought to burn this place down.” Cook stalked to the window and stood with his hands on his hips. “I knew it. I knew you didn’t have the gizzard to see this all the way through. Well, I do.”

  “Speed, you do what you think is best, but you need to consider what Longstreet said. He’s right about what Mr. Bingham wanted. Think about the sacrifice he made. Mrs. Surratt gave him the evidence to prove he’d been right all along, that the Confederacy had planned the assassination, but he suppressed that evidence his whole life. Lots of people conceal facts that prove them wrong. Not many conceal facts that prove them right.”

  “I’ve had it up to here with the saintly Mr. Bingham. He did what he thought was right. Fine. This is thirty-five years later. We have to make up our own minds.” He pointed at Fraser. “I know what’s making you turn tail and run. It’s what Barstow said.”

  “I haven’t backed down from Barstow and his men.”

  “Not that part. I mean the part about your lady friend. You’re going to conceal the biggest crime in our history just so you can sweeten up that woman, so you keep her secret. I’ve got news for you—there’s lots of women out there.”

  Fraser ran a hand through his hair. “I still think Longstreet’s right. We can’t go ahead with this. Anyway, I can’t.”

  “I can.”

  Chapter 29

  When a cold October wind whipped through the plaza in front of the Harrison County Courthouse, several thousand people shivered as one. It was eighteen months since the last such gathering, when John Bingham died. It seemed a lifetime ago. The old gentleman had brought out this crowd as well, or at least his memory had. This time Mr. Bingham was present only as a bronze likeness. Another endless ceremony dulled the crowd’s vitality. This one was to dedicate his statue, which towered in front of the courthouse.

  It was Fraser’s second time in Cadiz since the meeting with General Longstreet. He came back during the winter to pack up his things and arrange to sell his remaining property. In three short weeks he had helped four Cadiz babies into the world, starting with the Gable family. He greeted each birth with unmixed joy, one more sign that his soul had grown lighter. Eliza did that. She changed a great deal more for him. He would be a country doctor no more.

  On the dais, Senator Spriggs was working through some standard pieties about Mr. Bingham. He assured the crowd that Bingham would be a household word long after each in the audience had ceased to be, and after what they had done had crumbled and decayed. After spending half a year chasing Mr. Bingham’s secret, Fraser had no confidence in history’s memory. Would anyone remember Mr. Bingham one hundred years from now? Would what they remembered be even remotely true?

  Fraser took Eliza’s gloved hand and gave it a small squeeze. She was the prize from the race that he and Cook had run. She had taken persuading to marry, but she wanted to be persuaded. Marrying her meant he would leave Cadiz. She was too bold a bloom for Harrison County, and Fraser found that New York suited him. There he could improve his medical knowledge and skills, drinking in the advances of new research. And Eliza’s theater world remained magical to him. Her generous skirt concealed her current condition, only three months along, and he hoped to be luckier this time. Poor Ginny. He and Eliza laid flowers on her grave that morning. He felt sad about Ginny, but also grateful to her. She had brought him joy. Now he was blessed with a second chance at love, one he could not claim to deserve, but he intended to make the most of it.

  Cadiz was doing itself proud for this ceremony. The speakers numbered not only a United States senator, but also a Japanese diplomat and now, after the singing of the hymn, Reverend Wolf stepped forward. The pastor of the A.M.E. church proudly recited the achievements of Harrison County’s colored people. They had acquired property, founded schools, started farms and businesses. They were, he said, the best testament to Mr. Bingham’s wisdom in fighting for their rights. His voice rising, he proclaimed that they had redeemed the man’s sacrifice.

  When the program was over, many seemed reluctant to leave. The town band continued to play, showing an unfortunate enthusiasm for the marches of Mr. Sousa. Men and women admired the Bingham statue, exclaimed over the current harvest, and expressed hopes that the new president, young Roosevelt, would be equal to the task of succeeding McKinley, shot down by an assassin only a month before. At least there was no mystery about that assassination.

  Fraser and Eliza greeted his old friends, asked about their lives and told about life in New York. After some time, Fraser spied a large figure some distance away. He excused himself.

  “Speed!” he called out.

  “Dr. Fraser.”

  “I hoped to see you.” Fraser stretched out his hand. When Cook took it, Fraser used a two-handed grip.

  “I came to pay my respects.” Cook nodded at the statute.

  Fraser grinned, releasing his friend. “I’m glad you did. Can we talk?” They fell into step and circled the crowd. “You printed it after all. I saw the edition you put out about the assassination.”

  “Ah,” Cook said, “fat lot of good it did. We ran off our usual thousand copies, and another thousand for posterity. I mailed it to every American newspaper I could find an address for. Do you think even one of them picked it up? Even one? They probably all laughed themselves sick over the gullibility of that poor colored man down in Steubenville, he must be crazy stupid. More evidence of the power of the lie.”

  “But you did it. You were true to yourself.”

  “I also mailed that edition to every library I could think of, hoping they’ll save it, maybe the time will come, maybe fifty years from now, maybe a hundred, when someone will look back at that and say, damn, that man was on to something.” After a second, he looked over at Fraser. “Is Mrs. Fraser angry about it?”

  “I tried to explain it to her, but I can’t say she sees your point of view. Not entirely.”

  “How about Dr. Fraser, my investor?”

  “I think I know why you did it. Maybe I would have, too, in your place. But I’ve got to say I’m just as glad no one else picked it up. I’m sorry I couldn’t join you in writing it.”

  “You’re not the first man’s done the wrong thing for a woman. But it shouldn’t matter that you wouldn’t write it with me. I wrote it, wrote it all up just so. I shouldn’t need a white man to say what I wrote is all right.”

  After a few more strides, Fraser said, “The articles you’re doing on Jim Crow have been terrific. Are you getting any reaction—any threats?”

  Cook stopped and gla
red at Fraser. “Threats? Threats are my breakfast. It’s the rocks through the windows that make me jumpy. You tell me, how can I live in this country, where I’m supposed to sit down and shut up, just because I’m colored?” He resumed walking. Cook fell into that passionate form of declamation that Fraser had come to know during their journey together. America was getting worse, Cook said. Segregation was spreading, lynchings every week. Freedom from slavery wasn’t enough. Equality was what colored people needed, and they were getting less of it, not more. Colored people, he said, had no future here. They needed to go to Africa, where they could live their lives proud and hold their heads up high. When they were chasing Mr. Bingham’s secret, Cook couldn’t go to places where Fraser went, do things that Fraser did. Cook didn’t know that he could take that anymore.

  They kept walking, now on their third orbit of the plaza.

  “It didn’t feel right,” Cook said, “using your money to print all that about Miss Eliza’s daddy.”

  “I knew what you were going to do. And I think I wanted you to try. You were entitled to that.” Fraser stopped and smiled. “You know, I’ve trusted my life to one man in my life, and that man took care of me.”

  Cook shook his head. “You always were the sentimental one. So now I’m supposed to say the same thing about you?”

  Fraser grinned and put his arm around Cook’s shoulder. “Come on, now. You feeling brave enough to say hello to my wife?”

  Author’s Note

  The opening scene in this novel—the deathbed statement of John Bingham about the mysterious midtrial disclosure of Mrs. Mary Surratt—is drawn from Bingham of the Hills, a largely unread 1989 biography of Bingham by Erving E. Beauregard. Beauregard describes the scene in a single paragraph and attributes it to a family story related to him by the grandson of Bingham’s physician. I came upon the passage while researching a book about the Andrew Johnson impeachment trial (Impeached ); it stuck in my mind for several years and would not be dislodged. I read widely about the Booth conspiracy and became dissatisfied with the standard portrayal of Booth as the crazed, vindictive assassin. The conspiracy was too big to fit in that frame. Because the provenance for Bingham’s deathbed scene is by no means sturdy, and because Bingham never disclosed what Mrs. Surratt told him, a fictional treatment allowed me the freedom to explore the Booth conspiracy in the speculative fashion warranted by the known facts.

  The character of Jamie Fraser is inspired by the physician who attended John Bingham but is an entirely fictional character. Speed Cook also is inspired by an actual person: Moses Fleetwood Walker, who came from Steubenville, Ohio, and was the last black man to play in the big leagues until Jackie Robinson officially broke the color barrier. More about Walker is in David Zang’s book, Fleet Walker’s Divided Heart: The Life of Baseball’s First Black Major Leaguer. The various Surratts and Booths portrayed in the book, along with Bessie Hale and the widows of Lafayette Foster and Ulysses Grant, all were alive in 1900, when Cook and Fraser set off to unravel the secrets of the Booth conspiracy—all, that is, but the fetching Eliza, John Wilkes Booth’s illegitimate daughter. Although it is entirely plausible that Booth sired a child out of wedlock, and although a courtesan named Nelly Starr did attempt to kill herself after the Lincoln assassination, Eliza is an entirely fictional character. Also, Lafayette Foster was second in line for the presidency in April 1865, a fact that seems to have interested virtually no one over the years. Until now, that is.

  I am grateful to a number of people for helping this novel along, beginning with my extraordinary agent, Will Lippincott, who supported me on this departure from my previously beaten path. I am most fortunate that John Scognamiglio, my editor at Kensington, saw some potential in this book and has been an insightful reader. I also thank the early readers who have helped improve all of my books, and did so again: Solveig Eggerz, Joye Shepperd, Catherine Flanagan, Phil Harvey, Robert Gibson, Frank Joseph, Kathy Lorr, Leslie Rollins, Susan Clark, Tom Glenn, Alice Leaderman, and Linda More-field.

  I have heard it said that when a man writes a book, his principal purpose is usually to impress some woman. For me, it’s always the same woman—my wife, Nancy. She says she likes this one. I hope so.

  Please turn the page for a very special Q&A

  with David Stewart!

  Why did you want to write about one of the worst crimes in American history, the assassination of Abraham Lincoln?

  That’s exactly the reason. The assassination denied America the leadership of its greatest president at the beginning of perhaps his greatest challenge—rebuilding a nation torn apart by civil war and somehow integrating the freed slaves into American life. And there are still so many unanswered questions about the crime.

  What are those unanswered questions?

  This was not just a lone gunman, some crazed lunatic. Booth had assembled a team of assassins, though not all were terribly impressive human beings. They targeted anywhere from three to five top officials of the Union government—not just President Lincoln, but also his vice president, his Secretary of State, and very likely his Secretary of War and the General-in-Chief of the Union Army. As the lead character in the novel realizes, it was not an assassination so much as an attempted coup d’état. Could this one unemployed actor plan all of that by himself? Hard to imagine.

  Who was John Bingham?

  Bingham was the lead prosecutor of the Booth conspirators in the summer of 1865, and as a congressman went on to write the guarantees of “due process” and “equal protection” in the Fourteenth Amendment. On his deathbed in 1900, Bingham confided to his doctor that Mrs. Mary Surratt—one of the Booth conspirators who was hanged—had told him a secret that could destroy the republic. The secret, he said, would die with him, and so it did. This book tries to imagine the terrible secret that Mr. Bingham took to his grave.

  What evidence leads you to conclude that the Booth conspiracy was wider than generally thought?

  Really, five broad points:

  It was a giant conspiracy that targeted the top leaders in the North; as noted above, more of a coup d’état than an assassination. Not the plan of a lone crackpot.

  Booth and several of his coconspirators lived without resources for many months before the assassination; someone was paying for them. (“Follow the money!”)

  Booth and John Surratt both were agents of the Confederate secret service.

  Booth’s escape route led him repeatedly to Confederate spies as he successfully evaded thousands of Union soldiers who were searching for him; not something a lone evil genius could have achieved.

  Mr. Bingham’s deathbed statement: What else could he have learned from Mary Surratt that would have threatened to destroy the republic?

  Your two lead characters are very different—a white doctor from small-town Ohio and an African-American ex-ballplayer. How could they become friends in America in 1900?

  That relationship was one of the challenging elements of the writing process, and the short answer is that it’s a very rocky partnership—as you would expect. They are united in their need to find out the truth about the Lincoln assassination, but race and experience keep pushing them apart. America was a very racist place in 1900; the Jim Crow segregation laws were spreading, and it was fascinating and infuriating to imagine the feelings of an educated and sophisticated African-American like Speed Cook. The bond between the two men becomes real and powerful through the story, but I felt that a racial divide would always be there. And so it is, right to the end.

  One of your main characters, Speed Cook, is an African-American crusader for racial justice who was the last man of his race to be driven out of professional baseball. Did you just make him up?

  Cook is an entirely fictional character, but he was inspired by a very real man, Moses Fleetwood (“Fleet”) Walker, who came from Steubenville, Ohio. Walker was, in fact, the last African-American to play in the big leagues between 1888 and 1947, had attended Oberlin College and the University of Michigan, and was a figh
ter for the rights of black people. He wrote a remarkable pamphlet after the turn of the century arguing that black people should return to Africa because they would never be treated fairly in America. For a multi-talented man like Fleet Walker, being a black man in America in 1900 had to be a special form of torture.

  Why move from writing non-fiction—you have had three successful books on American history—to a novel?

  It was all about this particular story. I first read about Mr. Bingham’s deathbed statements when I was researching my second book, Impeached, about the impeachment trial of President Andrew Johnson (Mr. Bingham was the lead prosecutor in that trial, too!). The account of Mr. Bingham’s deathbed statement appears in a very obscure biography and has never been explored by anyone. I walked around with it in my head for three years, trying to figure out what I could do with it. I read as much as I could about the Lincoln assassination and finally decided that only a fictionalized account would allow me the freedom to explore what Mr. Bingham said and what it might have meant.

  Why set the story in 1900, thirty-five years after the assassination, when the trail of the Booth conspirators would already have been quite cold?

  The most obvious reason is that Mr. Bingham told no one about his secret until 1900 and I wanted to be faithful to that fact. There’s a saying about historical fiction that you can make up a lot, but Abraham Lincoln has to be tall; that is, you should be faithful to facts when they’re known. Also, sometimes an investigation can be more successful many years later, when passions have cooled; some people may be more likely to talk when they are facing the prospect of taking their secrets to the grave. Finally, I have always loved Josephine Tey’s novel, The Daughter of Time, in which a twentieth-century detective attempts to investigate the strangling of the little princes in the Tower of London almost five hundred years earlier. I hoped to work some of that same magic with the Booth story.