The Lincoln Letter

by William Martin

  Lincoln gave Halsey that benevolent, inscrutable smile.

  He knows more than he is letting on, thought Halsey.

  * * *

  In the daylight, Halsey and the president did not have to keep to the path. They could pick their way through the trees and head for the side door of the White House.

  Lincoln went with the felt hat pulled low and his head hunched down so that he looked considerably shorter than his six feet and four.

  But voices were soon echoing through the trees. “Mr. President, sir, my petition. Did it reach you yesterday?” “Mr. President! My cousin, Orvis, from Illinois, he said I should tell you that he sent me!” “Mr. President, I need just a minute of your time!” “Mr. President, please, sir!” “Mr. President!” “Mr. President!”

  Lincoln whispered to Halsey, “If any of ’em come too close, show ’em your pistol.”

  “Yes, sir.” Halsey put his hand into his coat.

  “These people just don’t seem to understand that there are too many pigs and not enough teats.”

  They legged it all the way to the door at the west side, the one that led onto the ground level, out of sight of the carriage drive and the crowd.

  Lincoln pulled off the hat and ran a hand through his wiry black hair. He meant to straighten it but did no more than tousle it. Then he tugged his vest and said, “McManus tells me a young officer came to the door yesterday. Said he came on official business. Had a first name that sounded like a last name. Wore a fine tweed suit. Was it you?”

  “It wasn’t really official business, sir.”

  Lincoln furrowed his brow. “Unofficial, then?”

  “I wanted to apologize to you for—” Come up with something, thought Halsey, anything. “—speaking my mind the night before.”

  “What about?”

  Keep lying, Halsey told himself. “Why … the coloreds … how I thought you were giving them extra reason to break curfew. I may have sounded a bit disapproving and—”

  Lincoln laughed, as if he knew where Halsey was headed. “These days, Lieutenant, I feel like a man walkin’ along the top rail of a rickety fence between two fields. There’s wild dogs in one field and snakes in the other. So I step as careful as I can. I only tell people what I think it’s time for them to hear, and I try not to lose my balance by sayin’ too much … or not enough … or the wrong thing.”

  “Well, sir—”

  “So I don’t take offense at what people say to me, not my enemies, and certainly not my friends. Have a good day’s sleep, Lieutenant.”

  II.

  Find the daybook. Find the daybook. Find the daybook.

  That’s what Halsey was thinking as he left the White House grounds.

  As usual, he passed the two Negro laborers, one carrying a shovel, the other a mule harness, on their way to wherever they worked. They tipped their hats. He tipped his and kept walking.

  Lincoln’s trust had made him feel even worse. Whatever the president was thinking about slavery, it would not do him or the country any good to reveal his thoughts too soon.

  So Halsey decided to find the daybook, perhaps right then, because he thought he knew where it was. He took to the bad side of Pennsylvania and at Twelfth turned south into Murder Bay. He went half a block and met two women.

  Their faces were painted and powdered, and one of them was wearing a dress that showed the tops of her breasts. She said, “Lookin’ for friendship, mister?”

  “I’m looking to play a bit of faro.”

  The girl put a hand under each breast. “You can play with these. Faro, Twenty-one, even poker.”

  “Yeah,” laughed the other one. “Poker all you want.”

  “Poker.” Halsey just looked at them … first at the breasts, then at the women. “Not this morning. Faro.”

  They both pulled long faces.

  He said, “Now, a faro parlor? Is there one around here called Squeaker’s?”

  “You mean Squeaker McDillon’s?” She jerked her head to a line of row houses and seven-stair stoops on the other side of the street. “The middle one.”

  He tipped his hat. “Thank you, ladies.”

  “Ooh, ladies, he calls us. Ain’t we gettin’ fancy?”

  He left them and crossed the muddy street. There was little business at that hour. The all-nighters had gone home, the day-timers had not come out. A man in a red kepi sat outside McDillon’s door. He was whittling with a huge Bowie knife.

  As Halsey approached, the man extended a leg, so that Halsey could not climb the stoop. Without taking his eye from his whittling he said, “You want somethin’?”

  “Is this Squeaker McDillon’s?”

  “Who’s askin’?”

  “I’m lookin’ for faro.”

  The man looked up. “I said who’s askin’.”

  Halsey thought about pulling his pistol. But he was here to scout, not battle. So he said, “Are you open for business? Or do I ask the Superintendant of the Metropolitan Police about your hours?”

  “You a soldier boy? Or the law?”

  “So you’re not open?”

  The man just went back to his whittling, then he shouted, “Hey, Shag!”

  At the top of the stoop, the front door opened. “Yeah?” said Shag.

  Halsey recognized the beard and the voice. He held his breath and hoped that his tweed suit and hat would be disguise enough.

  “This feller wants to know, do we got gamblin’?”

  Shag was wearing a suit of long white underwear and a gun belt holding a brace of Navy sixes. He gave Halsey a look.

  Halsey decided that if he saw a flicker of recognition on either face, he would step back and start shooting.

  But Shag said, “No faro till two o’clock. Find someplace else.” And he slammed the door.

  Halsey released his breath. But he would not be walking into McDillon’s, flashing a pocket pistol, and finding out what he wanted to know, not with those Navy sixes waiting.

  “Anything else?” grunted the Whittler.

  Halsey looked up at the building, then noticed the alleys at either end of the row, separating the joined façades from freestanding houses.

  “I asked you a question,” growled the Whittler. “Anything else? If not, move along or I may just bop you off the head with the handle of my knife.”

  “Better than stickin’ me with it.”

  “That’s the first right thing you’ve said.”

  Halsey tipped his hat and went on his way. And he went quickly because most likely, it was the Whittler who had bopped him in his hotel room the night before.

  But as he went, he heard a door open. Then he heard a voice, like a gate turning on a rusty hinge: “You’re in line for some extra scratch. That was one damn good get.”

  “Man should pay his gamblin’ debts. Not lay ’em off on his cousin.”

  Halsey glanced over his shoulder:

  Two men were coming down the front stairs of Squeaker McDillon’s.

  The one called Shag had put on his pants and hidden his guns under his coat.

  The other one was shorter, cleaner. His blue suit and neat beard made him look more like a barrister than a gambling boss. But those eyes gave him away. They were nervous squirrel’s eyes set in a nervous squirrel’s face. They flicked at Halsey, then flicked away, then flicked back again. They said that this was a man always looking for an advantage … or a buried nut.

  Halsey pulled his hat low and crossed the street. When he reached Pennsylvania he stopped, as though trying to decide which way to go.

  Squeaker and Shag did not give him another glance. They dodged a passing omnibus and crossed to the good side of the Avenue.

  Halsey shadowed them, and their trail led straight to the Willard.

  * * *

  If a man did not have the smell of money or power about him, he could easily lose himself in Willard’s lobby. He could drift from one conversation to another, disappear behind a newspaper, pretend to snooze on the settee, or sidle up
to the bar and order a brandy and scan the room.

  Halsey ordered, sipped, and enjoyed the pleasant burn on his tongue. But where were Squeaker and Shag?

  At first, he feared that they had retreated to some upstairs room to peddle what they had stolen from him. Then, through the dining room doors, he noticed Shag at the breakfast buffet. So he took his brandy and sauntered over for a better look.

  And what he saw reminded him that while the world might go to Willard’s, the world was truly a small place: Squeaker McDillon was sitting with a woman, sitting boldly, sitting in plain sight.

  Harriet Dunbar, widow of a Maryland tobacco planter, had been known before the war as one of the most gracious hostesses in the city, a lady who welcomed politicians and opinionators from all sides. She still entertained, though her salons were now attended mostly by men wearing blue uniforms. She had even entertained Halsey, though he doubted that she remembered him. In the morning light falling through the front window, her face looked severe, pale, all heavy brow and tightened jaw.

  Squeaker casually reached into his pocket, took out a piece of paper, and slid it across the table to her.

  Jester the waiter came by and said to Halsey, “Mornin’, sir. Y’all need a seat?”

  “No. But … that Mrs. Dunbar, does she come here often?”

  Jester looked over the bobbing heads. “You mean the lady talkin’ to Squeaker?”

  “You know Squeaker?”

  “Everybody know Squeaker. And Miz Dunbar, she used to be a reg’lar, but she don’t come here too often no more.”

  “Because of the war?”

  “I reckon,” said the black man. “And on account of so many of her friends leavin’ when Secession start. They left. She stayed behind.”

  So, wondered Halsey, was Squeaker offering something to a Southern spy? More than one Washington lady had come under the eye of government detectives. Some now resided in the Old Capitol Prison, and some were still out there stealing Union secrets, sneaking them south in the strands of their hair or the folds of their skirts.

  Mrs. Dunbar glanced at Halsey. Her brow furrowed as if she recognized him.

  So he turned, finished his brandy, and left.

  * * *

  The lobby of the National was smaller and quieter. Halsey preferred it.

  Harvey, the desk man, greeted him and asked if he cared for breakfast.

  Halsey then heard a voice from a chair by the lobby fireplace: “Or would you join me in a coffee, Lieutenant?”

  A curl of smoke rose from behind a newspaper. The headline announced: VAST MOVEMENT OF TROOPS UNDER WAY IN VIRGINIA. That was a lie. There were vast numbers of troops in Virginia, but none of them seemed to be moving.

  Halsey said, “Good morning, Mr. Booth.”

  “Call me Wilkes.” Booth lowered the paper. “Coffee?”

  “I don’t mind if I do.” Halsey sat in the chair on the other side of the fireplace. The flames crackled and took the morning chill off the lobby.

  Booth filled a cup from the china pot beside him and handed it to Halsey. “A hard night, Lieutenant?”

  “Every night is a hard night, Wilkes. And call me Halsey.”

  “I hear that the Original Ape comes by your office every night.”

  “You mean the president?” Halsey sipped the coffee.

  “Don’t play coy with me. You know the line of my talk.”

  “The president visits most every night. I also hear he visits the theater.”

  “For all his flaws, he is a student of the Bard,” said Booth.

  “And you? A hard night for you?”

  “I was excellent onstage, less so at the faro table.”

  Right then, Halsey decide that stopping to talk to Booth was most fortuitous. “Where do you gamble?”

  Booth looked around and lowered his voice, as if revealing an intimate secret. “I have visited half the gambling hells in this city. An actor should observe many people and play many roles.”

  “Ever been to Squeaker McDillon’s?”

  “A clip shop,” snapped Booth. “If you have a taste for cards, there are far more reputable places.”

  “I have a taste for danger,” said Halsey, letting that croaking voice croak a bit more, as if to put some conviction into his words. “I hear it’s a dangerous place.”

  Booth grinned. He seemed to enjoy danger, too, or at least the promise of it.

  “Can you tell me, Wilkes, what their parlor looks like?”

  “I think you can imagine. They call them ‘gambling hells,’ not ‘gambling halls.’”

  “Do you remember the layout? Faro tables in the front or the back?”

  “What difference does it make?” asked Booth.

  “I like to enter by the front and leave by the back. That way I can’t be tracked.”

  “Tracked? By whom?”

  “The men who know that I win. I tend to win.”

  Booth thought that over and nodded, as if he approved. “You can’t leave directly by the back, because the tables are in the upper parlor, at the top of the front entrance. The back door is on ground level and opens on an alley.”

  Then Booth pulled a small book from his pocket. It was the same size, the same thickness, and had the same red leather covering as Lincoln’s daybook. For a crazy moment, Halsey thought that it was Lincoln’s daybook. But it was a common thing. There were probably thousands like it.

  Booth took a pencil and began to sketch. “I’ll give you a map of the establishment in question. In exchange, you will go with me and show me how you win.”

  “But I’ll go early, before my shift at the War Department. You’ll be on the stage.”

  “So I will.” Booth looked at Halsey a moment, then tore out the sheet and handed it over. “I’ll expect that list of Boston ladies, then. I leave soon.”

  Halsey took the sheet, put it into his pocket, and said, “I shall ask Miss Samantha Simpson of Wellesley, Massachusetts, to see to your welcome.”

  “You could also ask your sister.”

  “Sister? My sister is in Boston.”

  Booth looked to the man at the desk. “Did you hear that, Harvey? He says his sister is in Boston.”

  “Perhaps I should call for the house detective, then,” said Harvey.

  Halsey felt the heat rising around his collar. “House detective?”

  “A young lady came in a while ago and presented herself as your sister,” said Booth. “I was tempted to show her to your room, with perhaps a stop in Two Twenty-eight to read her a few of my notices. Would you like for me to help you now?”

  “I’ll see to this myself.”

  * * *

  Upstairs, Halsey put a hand on his pistol and pushed open his door.

  The silhouette of a woman blocked the light from the window. Her hands lay folded on the front of her hooped skirt. Her hat sat primly on her head, as if to announce that she did not intend to stay and would admit of no activity but business.

  Halsey said, “Miss Wood?”

  “I am appalled that I was kissing a thief yesterday, a spy, right in the War Department.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Out of her purse she pulled an envelope. Out of the envelope she pulled a page—diary sized—on which were written the words: The real problem with a general emancipation is—

  “Does that look familiar?” she asked.

  Halsey felt his stomach clench. He had read this page the morning before, the last page in the Lincoln daybook. He said, “Where did you get this?”

  “It came to my uncle’s suite and was slipped under the door.”

  “Has he seen it?”

  “No. Nor has he seen this.” She pulled a note from the envelope.

  It read:

  Recognize the handwriting? Torn from a diary. There’s more. It’ll cost you. Send word if you’re interested. McD.

  She snatched the page. “This is the exact size of the book you had yesterday, the book with Lincoln’s sig
nature on it, the book you dropped.”

  “You mean my daybook, which slipped from my pocket as we embraced?”

  She looked down at the floor, then into his eyes. “It was a very pleasant embrace.”

  He thought about embracing her again and turning this in a new direction. After all, she had come without chaperone, and she was a powerful temptation, even as she stood motionless before the window, like some Renaissance Madonna … with her hat on. He stepped closer. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”

  “Think about this instead: Someone has betrayed the president, someone who knows that my uncle would do anything to damage him. Was it you?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because you won my uncle’s approval. I was your reward. What did you promise him?” She held up the page. “Lincoln’s diary?”

  Halsey stepped back. “I promised him nothing.”

  “Then what did you say to him?”

  “I said nothing.”

  “Not even that Union without abolition would be preferable to no Union at all?”

  “That’s what Lincoln believes,” answered Halsey. “He also believes that to preserve the Union, he will do what he must. He’ll call for more troops. He’ll suspend habeas corpus. I assume you know what that is.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Halsey. The right of every person to be presented before a judge when accused of a crime, a right that may be suspended in times of rebellion.”

  “Lincoln suspended it without Congressional approval. And he had your uncle’s paper shut down simply by denying him postage, and—”

  “You work for a man you disagree with, then?”

  “I’ve made a choice to fight for union, just as Lincoln has.”

  “Then you believe that the Negroes are not the issue?”

  “There would be no war without the slaves,” he said, “but they’re not the issue.”

  “Some of us believe they’re the only issue, and we’ll do anything to free them.”

  Halsey laughed. “You’re an Abolitionist, then?”

  “Not just an Abolitionist. An absolute Douglass-ite.”

  “Douglass-ite?”

  “It’s my own word. A disciple of Frederick Douglass.”