The Lincoln Letter

by William Martin

Onstage, Mrs. Mountchessington was saying, “I am aware, Mr. Trenchard, that you are not used to the manners of good society, and that alone will excuse the impertinence of which you have been guilty.” And off she went.

  Halsey glanced again at the president’s box and suddenly, in the glittering lights and clashing emotions, he thought of the words Booth had spoken to him on an April morning at the shoeshine stand: “Do not say son of Kentucky. This nation lies in perpetual winter, until Kentucky is removed from the seat of power.”

  Booth wasn’t going into that box to discuss Shakespeare.

  But the man behind Samantha was moving. Toward her? Was he going to do it right then? Did he have a knife?

  Asa Trenchard looked up into the dress circle, took a deep breath, and delivered his big line, “Don’t know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I know enough to—”

  Halsey thrust his hand across the two people at the end of the aisle and reached for Samantha.

  “—turn you inside out—”

  Halsey whispered, hard and low, straining his voice, “We have to leave. Now.”

  “—you sockdologizing old mantrap!”

  From the corner of his eye, Halsey saw movement in the presidential box. And he realized in an instant what was happening. He tried to cry out, “Mister President!” But he could barely croak the first syllable before the house exploded with laughter.

  In the same instant, the knife flashed in the hand of Samantha’s assailant, and a light flashed in the president’s box, and a pistol popped.

  A pistol?

  The man with the knife looked toward the sound.

  Halsey felt Samantha’s hand touch his. He closed tight around it.

  Now there was a struggle in the presidential box, the sound of two men grappling.

  The actors were looking up, and the audience was turning as Booth appeared in full at the railing. Even the man sent to murder Samantha still hesitated, and that saved her life.

  Halsey pulled on her hand.

  Booth swung a leg over the railing.

  The theater had gone silent, except for the sound of tearing, of ripping, of rending.

  Booth dropped to the stage, trailing the fabric of a flag that had caught on his spur. He landed and twisted his left leg, which broke as he hit. Halsey could tell. But Booth steadied himself with his hands and kept from falling, graceful even then. He rose, looked out, held up his knife, which glittered like a diamond in the stage lights, and proclaimed, “Sic semper tyrannis.”

  Halsey knew what that meant. “Thus ever to tyrants.” And he knew that it meant something truly terrible.

  He pulled harder on Samantha, all but dragging her along the front of the dress circle and into his arms.

  Booth limped past the stunned actor playing Asa Trenchard and exited stage right, shouting, “The South is avenged!”

  For a second … or two … or three, there was silence. They were all in a theater together, the stage brilliantly lit, brighter than day. They had just watched a new scene. Yes. That was what had happened. That was all. But this was a comedy. Booth had just played a scene from tragedy.

  Then Mrs. Lincoln’s scream pierced the still air, a scream sharper than Booth’s knife.

  People were moving now, to look around, to look up.

  Mrs. Lincoln’s scream became a wail: “Help! Help! Help!”

  And the young man in their box shouted, “Somebody stop that man!”

  Mrs. Lincoln’s wail became a horrified shriek: “They have killed the president! Oh, God!”

  And the whole theater exploded with screams, cries, sounds of horror more terrible than anything Halsey had heard in that final brawl at Gettysburg. Some men were clambering onto the stage; others were leaping for the presidential box. Chairs were collapsing and falling to the floor as people stood and turned and tried to do something. Help, pursue, escape. Men and women were stumbling, moving, milling, cursing, crying, and rumbling in every direction.

  Halsey realized they had to get away, right away.

  He wrapped an arm around Samantha and put himself between her and the man with the knife. But the crowd was now pressing in every direction, so there was no way that the man could get at them. Halsey dragged her to the door and started down the red-carpeted stairs as the doctors were rushing up.

  * * *

  They could not sleep that night. They wrapped themselves in blankets, sat on a bench in front of the ladies’ quarters at the hospital, and listened to the cries and lamentations in the city.

  Samantha wept softly.

  Halsey held McNealy’s pistol on his lap and watched the shadows, waiting for some attack that might come from Doc Wiggins or his men.

  The gloom of the nation that dawn could not have been more personal. Halsey had almost taken his identity back. And Booth had snatched it along with everything else.

  Halsey did not even tell Samantha of the pardon the president had promised.

  It would only have meant more pain.

  But several times during the night, he said, “I should have known … I should have known sooner what Booth was doing. I looked into his eyes.”

  Samantha tried to soothe him. “Booth is an actor. He knew what to hide and what to reveal.”

  “I tried to call out when I realized. But my voice is weak, and the laughter—”

  “Booth waited for the laughter. He knew it would cover the cry of anyone who saw him at that moment, especially a man whose voice was damaged in the service of his country.” And she touched his hand.

  That soothed him more than her words.

  Around seven, the barouche came to take Samantha up to Harewood Hospital. In some small ways, the work of the world had not stopped, could not stop.

  Samantha said that she could not let sick men suffer the anguish of that day alone. She had to go.

  Halsey decided it was safe. If Doc Wiggins and his men had what they came for, Squeaker’s ledger, they no longer had reason to menace Halsey’s nursie-girl.

  So Halsey rode with her up to Seventh at G, got off, and walked across to Tenth.

  A crowd had been on the street all night, waiting for word from the house where they had taken the president to die. A light rain had begun to fall. But the people did not seem to notice. They simply stood and waited.

  Around seven twenty, a shriek of grief pierced the gloom. It was Mrs. Lincoln, crying out.

  And a great sobbing groan rose from the street.

  A few minutes later, as if horrible news traveled by some strange telegraphic electricity in the air, a church bell tolled … then another … then another.

  Halsey stayed until they brought a long white box out of the house. Abraham Lincoln was in it. They put it onto a hearse. Then, accompanied by the infantry company that guarded the White House, the hearse rolled up Tenth Street, through the cold April rain.

  Somewhere, a cannon boomed in mourning.

  Halsey turned and headed back to the ward. He carried Lincoln’s daybook and the Lincoln letter in his pocket. And he felt as if the world had ended.

  FIFTEEN

  Monday Morning

  Peter Fallon walked down Tenth Street and stopped in front of Ford’s Theatre.

  It was four in the morning, the time when the ghosts owned the ground.

  On that Good Friday night, there would have been soldiers, hangers, gawkers waiting for the president and his lady to emerge after the play.

  Peter wondered if his own historical ghost, Halsey Hutchinson, the man he had now tracked across the Civil War, had been there, too, with the Lincoln letter in his pocket and that “something” in his hand.

  And then, Peter saw Booth’s ghost step out of the storefront to the right, the Star Saloon. He moved quickly, with long strides, and stopped to talk to a few of the ghosts on the street.

  One of them invited him to have a drink.

  Booth begged off. He said he had promised to watch Laura Keene, and she was due onstage in a few minutes. That was his story.


  Peter wanted to tell the others, Don’t let him go in. Stop him now.

  Then Booth’s ghost looked over his shoulder, right into Peter’s eyes. His brow furrowed as if he recognized Peter, or feared that Peter knew what he was about to do. But Peter could not move. He could do nothing to stop Booth. There was no bridge to Booth, no river of time for Peter to travel.

  And Booth seemed to know it. With that studied grace, he turned, leaped the step, and went inside … as he did every night for some street wanderer who happened to stop there in the hours before dawn.

  A police car rolled by. Peter gave the officer a nod. The officer smiled, as if he had seen many people standing there in contemplation, just like that.

  Peter’s head was clear now. He could go back to reading the Washington Daily Republican.

  * * *

  In the suite, Henry was snoring. He had the Magnum on his lap. He had urged Peter not to go out, that the Bonnie Blue Flag boys might be out there, or J-Man. But Peter had gone anyway.

  Evangeline had finally given up and gone to bed. She had an eight o’clock call for the shoot at the Lincoln Memorial.

  That night, they had divided the task of reading the Washington newspapers, searching for anyone named Bone, or Molly, or Hutchinson, or Jeremiah Murphy. They had been working year by year. Peter went through 1865 before he took his break. Diana worked through 1866 and into 1867. Up in Boston, Antoine was reading into the 1870s until he sent an e-mail:

  Got nothin’. Eyes crossed. Going to bed.

  The chance to find that last lost expression of Lincolnian thought and eloquence was fading. Maybe Donald Dawkins was right. Maybe it was in a landfill.

  But Diana was still awake, still working at her laptop.

  “Any luck?” he asked.

  “A few little bits. I wish there was a search engine that could go through every old newspaper and index it all.”

  “This is old-school research, the way we used to work. You read everything, even the advertisements. They tell you how people lived in the details. And we look for God in the details.”

  “Then try this for a detail.” She picked up her notebook. “An ad from April 1867: ‘Night soil collected, low rates, family business.’ And here’s the fine print: ‘Only remaining son of Freedwoman Molly Blodgett, known as Mother Freedom, continues in business. Contact Mr. Zion Molly, Eleventh near Maryland.’”

  “Wow.” Peter sat on the sofa next to her. “That’s where we were tonight.”

  “God’s in the details. Don’t know what it means or how it helps me to get tenure.”

  “Henry told you, the fix is in on that. Professor Conlon is now your champion.”

  “I want real tenure.”

  “Then read on. I will, too.”

  Peter grabbed his iPad, and an e-mail from Antoine appeared:

  Dear Boss, Could not sleep. Thinking about you having all the fun in DC. Envious. So I went back to work. See the story, lower left corner.

  Peter opened the link to page two of the Republican.

  Washington Canal to Be Filled

  The Mayor of Washington has announced the decision to fill the City Canal up to Rock Creek. The City Canal, from the Anacostia to the foot of Seventeenth Street, was opened in 1815. The connector was completed in 1833. It is believed that this will be a ten-year job.

  “However,” said the city engineer. “If we are to modernize Washington, we must eliminate this open sewer pit running through the city.”

  The only lock keeper’s house is at the head of the Washington Branch, at the foot of Seventeenth. It is believed that the keeper and his family will be able to stay there for a span of five years.

  “I sure do hope we can stay longer,” said Noah Bone, the first Negro lock keeper. “My grandbabies been born here. And it’s a fine place to live, with the river and the White House and the Washington Monument for a view.” Bone was vouched for just after the war by Major Thomas Eckert, who convinced the city fathers that Bone, having shined the shoes and cleaned the boots of most of the major men of the time, having given one of his sons to the war, a son who dreamed of this job, should receive a sinecure.

  Peter finished reading and said, “Aha!”

  Diana looked at him. “What?”

  He handed her the tablet. “I just had an aha moment. At least I hope so. Eckert knew Halsey Hutchinson. And he knew Noah Bone, who, according to what we could decipher from the ghosting from the second letter fragment, knew ‘Hutch.’ Halsey Hutchinson.”

  “And who also had ‘a valuable item’ for Molly Blodgett, also known as Mother Freedom.” Diana paused, reread the piece, then asked, “So Noah is the bridge?”

  “We can’t be sure of all the connections, but yeah, an old black shoeshine. He’s the real bridge.”

  “And now we know where he lived out his days.”

  “In a place run by the National Park Service.”

  Peter got up and shook Henry awake.

  Then he went in and woke Evangeline and whispered, “Do you still have that picture of Kathi Morganti and William Dougherty?”

  “What … what?” She rolled over.

  “It may be a bargaining chip.”

  “Chips? No, I don’t want any chips. They’ll give you thunder thighs and—”

  “Wake up, baby. This may all be over in a few hours.”

  * * *

  They pulled up in front of Congressman Milbury’s Georgetown town house at seven.

  Henry and Diana stayed in the car.

  Peter and Evangeline went to the door.

  Some congressmen shared apartments, because they spent so much time on Capitol Hill or in their districts. But Congressman Milbury had planted his flag in D.C. over twenty years before, and from the look of his three-story town house, he liked to live well.

  He came to the door in his bathrobe. His white hair was combed and his skin was shower-pink and smelling of aftershave. “What is this about?”

  Evangeline said, “Do you remember me from the train?”

  “I’m a politician. I never forget a face or a name. Now, why are you bothering me at my home at the crack of dawn on a day when I begin my campaign for a major change to American tax policy?”

  “We have a deal for you,” said Peter.

  “You’re the treasure hunter, aren’t you? Dougherty told me about you. I thought we’d meet on Saturday night. I have a few things I’d like to talk over with you about your business practices.”

  Peter said nothing. Now was not the time to get annoyed.

  Evangeline said, “We need your help.”

  “My help?”

  “We need you to contact the NPS,” said Peter.

  “Why?”

  “Because you keep a bust of Lincoln in your office,” said Evangeline. “Isn’t that what you said the other night?”

  Milbury looked from face to face and said, “I’m not here to enrich you, Mr. Fallon, at the expense of our nation’s heritage.”

  “There are some who say you’re not here to enrich anyone except the tax collector,” answered Peter.

  Evangeline gave him an elbow. Then she said, “We only care about the truth, Congressman. And the hunt for this Lincoln treasure has gotten very dangerous.”

  “That’s not my problem. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a very important day.” The congressman started to close the door.

  Peter put his foot in it. “If the Lincoln diary is where we think it is,” said Peter, “it’s on government property. So you’ll get all the credit if we find it, and we’ll have to give it up.”

  “All the credit,” said Evangeline, “and all the votes.”

  “Votes?” Again Milbury looked from face to face. “And what do you get?”

  “The satisfaction of a job done,” said Peter. “The satisfaction of giving Americans back a piece of their heritage.”

  “And no more killing,” said Evangeline.

  “Killing?” said Milbury.

  “There are at least three dead,�
� she said.

  “Dead? Did you do it?”

  “No. And the ones who did the first murder died in a home invasion.”

  Milbury said, “They were shot, I imagine. We have to get guns off the street.”

  Evangeline knew that Peter had some opinions about that, too. This was not the place for them, so she held up her iPhone and said, “Help us. It will enhance your reputation, put a national treasure into the nation’s hands, and give you a piece of information recorded on this telephone that might be very valuable in your present battles.”

  But the congressman was not convinced. Poker, legislation, saving a priceless national document … he could play the steely-eyed game no matter the stakes.

  So Peter said, “The ones who died last night—you’ll see it on the news—worked for the man who’s trying to bring you down. They worked for David Bruce.”

  “Can you spell ‘scandal’?” asked Evangeline.

  Milbury gave that some thought.

  Evangeline said, “And we have more. You don’t get it till we get what we want.”

  “I need more right now,” said Milbury. “And even more later.”

  “All right,” said Peter. “Try this: Professor Conlon is working for another set of rivals, not for you or the American people, as he has said so many times.”

  Milbury reddened. “That son of a bitch.”

  “So help us,” said Peter. “You can even come with us. It should only take an hour. Then you can go on to Capitol Hill and whatever you have planned for America.”

  “Let me call Bill Dougherty, then I’ll get dressed.”

  “Bill Dougherty, yes,” said Peter. “Go ahead and call him.”

  Evangeline pocketed her iPhone and rolled her eyes.

  * * *

  “Congressman, this is highly irregular.” The NPS ranger in charge was in his forties, ramrod straight, stiff brim hat, all business. His name tag read BARISON. He had four Park Police with him, too. “There are chains of command we’re supposed to follow from the bottom to the top.”

  “I’m the ranking Democrat on the House Committee on Natural Resources,” said Milbury. “I am the goddamn top.”

  They were all standing on the corner of Constitution and Seventeenth Street, in front of one of the oldest and most incongruous little structures in Washington, the stone lock keeper’s house for a canal that had disappeared 130 years before. The Washington Monument loomed over them. The Mall stretched east and west. The morning traffic roared by.