He glared at Gretchen over the cup’s rim. If he were less exhausted, he would tell her a thing or two to wipe that smirk off her face. Who did she think she was?
Then he noticed her sleeve had blood on it. He figured it had to be his. Gretchen must have cradled his head, perhaps while bandaging it. He was in no position to show a temper; she was right about that.
“Why did you come to my farm? Why not leave on the trains with the other prisoners? It’s in the newspapers. They’re releasing people by the hundreds.” Gretchen sat in the chair at the foot of his bed, resting her hands in her lap.
He remembered seeing her, too far away to make it worth the effort to call out. And then, she hovered over him, asking where he came from. And him admitting, like the fool he was, that he had escaped from Camp Chase.
“You don’t like to talk much, do you?” Gretchen asked. She slipped her hand back into her skirts. “I told you I didn’t tell my aunt where you came from, and I won’t tell Mama, either. It would only get both of us in trouble.”
He took another swig of water. “Why bother, then?”
Gretchen’s head tilted. “For the adventure?”
“Adventure has a way of being nothing like you expect,” he said.
Gretchen leaned back, having the nerve to pout. “Well, I did save you. And my Tante Klegg is too smart to say anything to anyone else until we know who you are.” She waited for him to speak. “Well, come on then, who are you?”
He touched the bandage on his head. Maybe Gretchen was worth trusting.
“I’m…” He blinked at her, waiting for the words to come. He rubbed his eyes hard. His right ear began to hurt. A roaring noise crowded his brain. He was more tired than he thought.
Of course he knew his own name.
Gretchen’s eyes narrowed. “You won’t tell me?”
His mouth began to water, and he swallowed with a grimace. “I don’t know it.”
Her fists perched on her hips. “You must think I don’t know beans.”
He scratched the crown of his head, shifting the bandage. He patted it back in place. “Doc said I was in real trouble for a while. Maybe lost some of my mind from the fever.”
“Which battle gave you the fever?” Gretchen asked. “Maybe we could find a newspaper and your name.”
He shrugged, not sure it mattered. Those lists of living and dead and missing never got it right. He knew two men who had read of their deaths while in the prison! Fact was, they had sent him straight to the hospital barracks, and no one ever asked his name. Whoever called his name expecting an answer would have counted him among the dead by now.
“Well, I have to call you something. My aunt will insist you have a name. She’s proper about things like that,” Gretchen mused. She glanced at the door again, expecting Tante Klegg to appear any moment. “And my aunt will like you better if you’re German.”
“Are you German?” he asked, unsure how else to respond.
“Mama and Tante Klegg are, so, yes.” Gretchen snapped her fingers. “We’ll call you Karl. Karl is a steady German name.” She stood, turning her back to him. “We’ll say your mother is German, and your father is American, like me. Mama will have to take pity on you. You’ll remind her of my brother.”
“Tell falsehoods to your mother often, then?”
Gretchen paused, her hand on the doorknob. “When it suits me, why not? My aunt says I’m blessed with knowing souls. That has to count for something.”
“How can you know the soul of a man who doesn’t know his own name?” he scoffed.
“Gretchen!” Tante Klegg called. “Your mama wants to speak with you. Now.”
Gretchen shook her head at Karl. “It’s always now, now, now with Tante Klegg. You’ll learn. Don’t keep her waiting.”
Karl blinked at the hem of Gretchen’s sweeping skirts as she scampered away. Should’ve stayed at the prison.
'Union' Celebration
Saturday, 15 April 1865 / The Ohio Daily Statesman
The ‘Union’ Celebration, as it was called in the published programs, was opened at six o’clock yesterday morning by a salute of one hundred guns in Capitol Square, by the ringing of bells and the display of flags on public and private buildings.
A salute of one hundred guns was also fired at noon, and again at six o’clock in the evening. During the forenoon, the streets were generally empty and quiet; but in the afternoon, they began to be a little lively with people from the country and citizens promenading.
Three
Saturday, 15 April 1865 / Grove City, Ohio
“Slow down,” Gretchen heard her mother say to Tante Klegg. They were on the porch just outside the kitchen, which adjoined Werner’s bedroom. “You know I cannot understand when you snarl.”
Instead, Tante Klegg shouted, not bothering to translate from German. She pounded the wall with her fist.
Gretchen understood enough to know she should stop eavesdropping, unless she wanted more trouble.
Gretchen’s mother sighed. “Why do you do this?” she asked. “We are in America. We are Americans. We should speak English.”
Silence outside.
Gretchen imagined her mother, market basket in hand, and Tante Klegg, towering over her. She stoked the cooling stove fire so if they entered, she would look busy.
The silence continued, unnerving her. Usually, Tante Klegg would retort when her mother demanded she speak English. For Tante Klegg to remain silent could only mean she was too angry to say a word. Gretchen poked at the fire a little harder, hoping the next words out of Tante Klegg’s mouth were not that they had found a prisoner and put him on Werner’s bed.
Gretchen’s mother had a terror of Confederates. She hoped when her mother saw Karl, she would change her mind. After all, Karl could hardly carry a tin cup. His eyes had the dazed brightness of a child woken from a nightmare and his forehead sweat with a light fever. His halting words and labored breathing emphasized his weakness.
Karl was too ill to harm anyone.
“Stop hiding,” Tante Klegg said, raising her voice as if Gretchen could not hear her. “Come tell your mama what you have done.”
Gretchen whispered a prayer for courage.
She heard Tante Klegg snort. “Praying will not help you!”
“Edelgard,” her mother chided. She also raised her voice, since Gretchen had yet to walk outside. “Gretchen, come. Your Tante Klegg tells me you have done a terrible thing.”
Gretchen smoothed her skirts so the revolver would be difficult to detect. No need to worry her mother before explaining things.
“Not a terrible thing, Mama,” Gretchen said, walking outside.
“Annoying, then?” Her mother’s hands rested on her stomach, and when she smiled, her nose crinkled. She never let her smiles for Gretchen reach her hazel eyes.
“I think for Tante Klegg, yes,” Gretchen admitted. She dropped her gaze to her hem and clasped her hands behind her back.
Her aunt huffed, but she did not argue.
“Then you must tell me what you did. You have made it my problem to solve again, I think,” her mother said. “And then I must tell you my news.”
Gretchen paused at the sound of her mother’s choked voice and looked up.
Her mother’s eyes seemed bloodshot in the harsh afternoon shadows. She clasped her hands together and pulled them apart, suddenly seeming frantic enough to burst. She looked from Tante Klegg to Gretchen and back.
It had to be news about Papa. Or Werner. Gretchen pushed Tante Klegg aside and grabbed her mother. “What is it? Are they hurt?”
Tears welled in her mother’s eyes and her mouth moved, but she made no sound.
“Stop sniveling, Adelaide,” Tante Klegg said.
Gretchen’s mother shook her head. “No, no, my news is not about them. I do not know if they are safe or dead! My son, what will come of him?”
Gretchen gripped tighter, glaring into her mother’s face. “Papa and Werner will return; don’t you dare say th
ey’ve died.”
Her mother stifled a sob behind pressed lips.
Gretchen softened her hold into a light hug. Her mother maintained her posture, refusing to lean into Gretchen’s arms. “What is it, then?”
“Our president. He is dead!”
Gretchen exchanged a puzzled look with Tante Klegg. The war was over. President Lincoln and the Union were the victors. The newspaper had just shared his speech about reconciliation with their rebellious southern brothers. The president could not be dead. Someone must have been teasing her in the market.
“Where did you hear this? There was no news of his illness,” Tante Klegg said.
Her mother’s skin was a mottled red, her tidy hair falling from its careful coif. “Not illness! Murder.” She did not give Gretchen or Tante Klegg time to understand. “Killed by an ungrateful, rascal Confederate sympathizer.”
Gretchen’s stomach churned. She wondered if she was about to taste her breakfast a second time.
“A Confederate killed the president?” Tante Klegg asked, glancing at the house.
Gretchen knew what she was thinking. They had just put a Confederate in Werner’s bedroom. And he was not dead.
“What more is there to know?” her mother said. “A young man leaped at the president, shot him, and ran away. For all the papers know, he could be in Ohio by now!”
Tante Klegg threw a nasty, satisfied smile at Gretchen. The expression dashed her hopes of explaining “Karl” to her hysterical mother.
“I think it is time to tell your mother your news,” Tante Klegg said to Gretchen. She took the trouble to sit on the porch steps.
“Do you not hear me, Edelgard?” Her mother advanced on her aunt. “The president is dead. Someone murdered him! The war will never end now, and we will never see Werner or Gregory again!”
Tante Klegg waved her sister’s concerns away. “You worry about the wrong things, Adelaide. Ask your daughter what she has done, and you will see why it is important.”
Gretchen froze.
“Tell me, then,” her mother said, “if you think it is so important.” In the awkward silence that followed, she studied Gretchen. “Is that blood on your sleeve? Werner?”
Gretchen snatched her mother’s elbow to stop her. “No, no, Mama, not Werner, not anyone we know. He is not… from… this area.”
Her mother stared at her, her expression darkening.
Gretchen gulped. “I think the young man is a rebel, Mama. I think he came from Camp Chase.”
“A rebel!”
“He’s fresh from Camp Chase, Mama. There is no way this man could have shot the president. He’s weak. He’s just a boy.”
Her mother frowned, her brows scrunched together. “Boys know how to use guns, Gretchen, and this boy might have shot your Papa, or Werner.”
Gretchen winced.
“Show me.” Before Gretchen could stop her, her mother rushed into the kitchen. Her hoop skirts flew up, revealing dusty petticoats as she burst into Werner’s bedroom.
Gretchen chased her, Tante Klegg close behind. They stumbled over each other trying to get into Werner’s bedroom first.
“Get out of my son’s bed,” her mother shrieked, ripping the blanket from Karl.
Karl cowered, curling into a fetal position with big eyes as Gretchen’s mother clawed at his thin frame.
“Mama, stop,” Gretchen said, prying her mother from Karl. She looked at Tante Klegg for help, having never seen her mother so hysterical.
Tante Klegg watched from the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. “Adelaide, let go of the child.”
“This is not a child. This is a man. And he is a Confederate. What more do we need to know? Have you sent for the sheriff?”
“Of course not,” Gretchen said, panting. “He isn’t dangerous. Look at him. He’s shivering like a leaf.”
Karl’s teeth chattered and the old bed quaked with him. He watched Gretchen’s mother as if his life depended on her. Perhaps it did.
“He does look pitiful,” Gretchen’s mother said.
“He is pitiful,” Gretchen said, snatching the opportunity. “We had to carry him into the house. This can’t be the man who shot the president.”
Her mother did not take her gaze from the shaking Karl.
Karl glanced at Gretchen, beseeching and frightened.
“Think about it, Mama,” Gretchen continued. “Why would he stay in Ohio? Wouldn’t he go straight south?” She touched her mother’s arm. “Mama, what if this was Werner, trying to get home to us? Wouldn’t you want some girl to take care of him until he could make his way home?”
“Devilish child! Playing with my emotions like that!”
Tante Klegg entered the room to replace the blanket over Karl. “She is right, though, Adelaide. You would want Werner watched over.”
Gretchen, surprised by Tante Klegg’s endorsement, smiled at her. Tante Klegg’s expression was thoughtful.
“This is true,” Gretchen’s mother admitted.
Somewhere in the distance, church bells began tolling.
“They are marking the death of the president,” her mother whispered. “And we stand here with a man who might as well have done it himself.”
Gretchen played with the end of her braid, looking from her mother to Karl to her aunt. President Lincoln had said everyone had to do his or her part to reconcile after the war. But Karl was a Confederate on the day President Lincoln died. Killed by some Confederate actor, her mother babbled.
Gretchen’s eyes narrowed. She had never seen an actor, but she knew they were master liars. Their entire purpose was to lie to people, to make them believe what was not real. Karl could be pretending to not remember his name. He could be lying about having escaped Camp Chase. She had no idea how far she was from the nation’s capital, but while it sounded impossible, there were trains to cross the country in a hurry.
Gretchen watched Karl as he hid under the blanket. She hoped she was right in thinking there was no way he could be the killer.
$100,000 Reward
Thursday, 20 April 1865 / Washington City, District of Columbia
Major General Dix: The murderer of our late beloved President, Abraham Lincoln, is still at large.
$50,000 reward will be paid by this department for his apprehension, in addition to any reward offered by municipal authorities or State Executives.
$25,000 reward will be paid for the apprehension of A. C. Surratt, sometimes called Port Tobacco, one of Booth’s accomplices.
$25,000 reward will be paid for any information that shall conduce to the arrest of either of the above named criminals or their accomplices.
All persons harboring or secreting the said person, or either of them, or aiding or assisting their concealment or escape, will be treated as accomplices in the murder of the President and the attempted assassination of the Secretary of State, and shall be subject to trial before a military commission and the punishment of death.
Let the stain of innocent blood be removed from the land by the arrest and punishment of the murderers. All good citizens are exhorted to aid public justice on this occasion. Every man should consider his own conscience charged with this solemn duty, and rest neither night nor day until it be accomplished.
[Signed] Edwin M. Stanton, Secretary of War.
Four
Saturday, 15 April 1865/ Grove City, Ohio
They were talking about him again. They were always talking about him. Always as if he were not there, the spiteful things. As if he could not hear their disgust and worry. He knew he was not the cleanest prisoner, but he had taken care to wash his face on occasion.
His head felt hot, so hot, and heavy, so heavy, and… red. He felt red. Could a person feel red? If they could, that was how he felt. Red, hot, heavy, wet. His eyes were wide, yet he could not see. That should worry him, but the blurred shapes soothed his aching head. He clutched his arms close and shivered. Seemed he was not quite over his fever spells. He dreaded the confusion that was cert
ain to take over.
Female voices spoke, rather than the male voices he had grown accustomed to hearing. He was glad they had allowed women back into the prison. They were gentler with their poking and prodding to see if he was still alive. They tried to smile to bolster his hopes.
He looked up at a whitewashed ceiling. That was a nice touch. Made the small room seem bigger; all that white to bounce the sunlight around.
He could hear himself panting. He knew he did not have the breath to ask for medicine. He hoped maybe they could read his pained expression and relieve him without asking.
But no, the women had no time to look at him, other than to point at him and raise their voices. Arguing did not seem helpful for a hospital barracks. Not when they could go to the next man in the cot down the way. It was so quiet. Had all the other prisoners died? Maybe that was why they argued about him. He was the last one, and they were not sure what to do with him.
Oh, they were arguing whether he should stay? He could answer that question: no. He opened his mouth and felt his lip crack open. The sudden iron taste of blood startled him. He wondered when he last had water. He had been in the prison long enough for someone to give him water.
Water. The thought made him lick his lips and sigh the way other prisoners did when thinking about girls back home.
That was right; the young woman had given him a sip from a cup. He looked around for the cup, but with his unclear head, he had trouble finding it.
The voices rose an octave. He winced. If they did not want him in Camp Chase, that was fine by him. He did not want to stay anyway. Who would? Crowded, sweaty, muddy. All day, every day. Random gun shots in the night. Prisoners without an arm or leg or heart, shot because they were trying to light a fire in the frigid winter air.
But it was not winter anymore. He had walked in hot, humid weather. His lip bled from being so parched. It was April, springtime; time for Pa to try to pull him from school again.
The Last April Page 2