Impending Love and Madness

by Laura Freeman

  “The doctors have made him as comfortable as possible, but I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done,” Logan said.

  Cass leaned toward Jem. “I’ll understand if you want to return to Pierce House, but I’d like to remain here.”

  “I’d rather wait and hear the news,” Jem said. “I couldn’t sleep until I knew. I pray the doctor is wrong.”

  Logan conferred with the driver, who agreed to stay where he was while they awaited news of Lincoln. He provided blankets to keep them warm. Cass covered Jem and tucked her cloak around her shoulders. “Are you warm enough?”

  “I’m the big sister. When did you become my caretaker?”

  “I learned from the best.”

  Jem stroked her cheek.

  Zach stared at their intimate tenderness. Jem and Cass had a special bond he had not known even with his brother, Pax. He was an intruder. How could he ever think that Cass would love him more than her family? Why would she leave them for him when he had nothing to offer but his soldier’s pay? He had attended a year of college before enlisting but doubted he would return to school. His grandfather wanted him to take on the responsibility of running the family horse farm as soon as he was mustered out. Even though he was heir to Ravenswood, he would have to earn his inheritance. It would be years before he could marry.

  In spite of the drizzle, the crowd grew through the night as word spread of the attempt on Lincoln’s life. Most waited in silence while others prayed or sobbed. Those who carried umbrellas, shared them. Others preferred the rain, washing away the tears that flowed in grief.

  Cass stared silently out the window, whispering prayers. “Please spare Mr. Lincoln. Please let him be all right.”

  They maintained a vigil all night, waiting, praying, and crying. Jem napped, resting against the shoulder of her husband. Cass snuggled against Zach, but she never slept. She recited one of Lincoln’s speeches. He joined her. Even if Lincoln died, his words would live on.

  It was nearly seven-thirty a.m. April 15 when a man stepped outside of the boardinghouse and announced Lincoln had died. The news rippled through the crowd. At first no one reacted. The truth was too horrible to accept.

  President Abraham Lincoln could not be dead. He had laughed along with the rest of the audience during the play. The soldiers had called him an ordinary man, one they would follow into the darkest hours of war. The former slaves, who had escaped their masters and plantation life, called him Father Abraham. Emotions, kept at bay with hope, broke into wails and cries of distress.

  “Noooo!” a woman mourned and fainted into a man’s arms.

  Others denied the message. “He can’t be dead. He can’t.”

  Cass buried her face in Zach’s shoulder. He embraced her, turning to Logan, who comforted his wife. Logan was crying. Afraid his grief would overcome any fragment of self-control he still possessed, Zach turned to anger. “What did this man think he would achieve?”

  “He was a Southern sympathizer,” Logan said.

  “The South lost the war,” Cass said. “Couldn’t he accept that?”

  “Now he’s changed history.” Zach stared at the crowd. “Whatever his intent, he has set in motion events that will alter the future. For everyone.”

  Chapter Three

  Logan motioned to the driver who eased his way through a crowd numb with grief. He urged the team away from Ford’s Theater to G Street and then back to Pierce House using Seventh Street to Pennsylvania Avenue.

  They passed homes decorated to celebrate Lee’s surrender. “We hung red, white, and blue bunting yesterday.” Cass sobbed. “Now we’ll have to replace it with black crepe.”

  The driver stopped at Pierce House. “The children are at Mermaid’s Mirth,” Jem said.

  “You need to rest,” Logan said. “And I have work to do.” Logan would report to the Treasury Building and help sort through the chaos of the aftermath of the assassination.

  “I’ll stay with Deidre and Chauncy at Mermaid’s Mirth so you can sleep,” Cass said.

  Jem tenderly stroked her sister’s cheek. “You could use some sleep, too.”

  Cass looked around as morning sunshine filtered through the clouds. It didn’t match the heaviness in her heart. “I can’t stop thinking about what has happened. We were so happy with the birth of the baby and Morgan’s return.”

  Logan helped Jem descend and leaned inside the carriage door. “You need to warn Morgan to stay inside. Retribution could turn ugly for any Southerner.” He paid the driver. “Take them to Mermaid’s Mirth on Maryland Avenue.”

  “Yes, Mr. Pierce.”

  Cass twisted the dry handkerchief Zach had given her. “How will I tell them what’s happened?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Zach said. “I’ll tell them.”

  It was her responsibility, but she was willing to share the burden. “We’ll tell them together.”

  They were a short distance from the hotel when soldiers stopped the carriage and peered inside. Zach shielded Cass. “What do you want?”

  “The president has been shot.”

  “We know. We were at Ford’s Theater last night.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  He grabbed a program Jem had discarded on the vacant seat and waved it in his face. “We were watching the play.”

  “Why are you returning home this morning?”

  “We waited with the crowd to hear news of the president.”

  “Who is that with you?”

  Cass leaned forward. “I’m Cassandra Beecher. I live at Pierce House.”

  The soldier removed his kepi. “Sorry to bother you, miss, but we have orders to search for the assassins.”

  The soldier sent them on their way before his words registered. Assassins. Booth had not acted alone.

  Cass took Zach’s hand as he helped her descend from the carriage. The Mermaid’s Mirth was a three-story hotel that offered beds to wounded Ohio soldiers. A sign near the road identified the hotel and was painted with a mermaid who bore an uncanny resemblance to her sister, Cole.

  When they entered the foyer, the aroma of maple syrup and cornbread drifted from the dining hall and kitchen at the far end of the hallway. The staff was awake, preparing breakfast for the boarders. Some were soldiers like Zach, recovering from wounds, but most worked in the city. Those who worked on Saturday had already departed for their jobs.

  They avoided the guests and climbed the staircase to the second floor. Cass waited at the newel post as Zach hopped on each step to reach her.

  Cole was chasing her son, Jake, in the hall. The soon-to-be two-year-old was naked.

  Cass caught him, and he struggled. “No, no, Aunt Cassie. Put Jake down.”

  Cole wrapped a towel around him. “It took me forever to bathe him.”

  “Don’t you usually bathe him at night?” Cass ran her hand through Jake’s damp ginger curls.

  “He poured maple syrup over his head instead of on his johnnycakes this morning.”

  A wide grin creased his chubby cheeks. “Jake cakes.”

  “You’re sweet enough without syrup,” Cass said to her nephew.

  Cole stared at their evening clothes. “Have you been out all night?”

  Cass fought any outbreak of tears. “Yes.”

  Zach put his arm around her trembling shoulders.

  “If you think you can compromise my little sister without a proposal of marriage, you are in for a rude awakening, Zach Ravenswood.” Cole turned to Cass. “Why wasn’t Jem chaperoning?”

  Her resolve to be brave failed, and Cass burst into tears.

  “What’s wrong?” Cole clutched Jake. “Did Jem lose the baby? She had a difficult time when she was carrying Chauncy.”

  “No,” Cass gasped. “President Lincoln is dead.”

  Cole stared, her face pale. “What do you mean he’s dead? How can that be?”

  “An assassin shot him at Ford’s Theater during the play,” Zach explained.

  Cole pulled Jake ag
ainst her breast. “You saw it?”

  “We should warn Morgan,” Zach reminded her.

  “Is he with Jess?” Cass headed for her sister’s room.

  “Since he arrived.” Cole followed with Jake in her arms. “What does Morgan have to do with this?”

  Zach rested on his crutch. “He’s a Southerner.”

  “But Grant pardoned him at Appomattox Courthouse.”

  Cass paused at the door. “The man who shot Lincoln was a Southern sympathizer.”

  “John Wilkes Booth,” Zach added.

  “I know that name,” Cole said.

  “He’s an actor,” Zach said. “Who would be suspicious of an actor in a theater?”

  “Wait.” Cole placed Jake on the floor, snatched the diaper from her shoulder, and pinned it in place around her son. “The actor John Wilkes Booth shot President Lincoln during the play?”

  Cass nodded. “We waited in the carriage all night, but the doctors couldn’t save him. He died this morning.” She knocked on the bedroom door. “Are you awake?”

  “What is it?” Jess called from inside the room.

  “May we come in?” Cass shouted through the door.

  “It better be important,” a man growled. She was about to meet Morgan Mackinnon. Because he was a Confederate, only a few family members had met the big Scotsman who had captured her sister’s heart.

  Cass opened the door and stepped toward the bed. The heavy draperies in the window blocked the morning sun from the room where Morgan and Jess were nestled in bed. Jess was two years older than Cass and opposite in coloring with wavy blond hair cascading around her shoulders. Morgan was bent over their newborn son nursing at his wife’s breast.

  Morgan turned. His dark red hair framed a face that had seen the horrors of war. Jess had cared for Morgan after he was wounded in the Wilderness. Nine months ago, he had returned to Richmond and waited out the siege by the Union forces. Once the Southern capital fell to General Grant on April 3, Morgan had marched with the Army of Northern Virginia’s dwindling forces to Appomattox Courthouse where General Robert E. Lee surrendered. Forced to wait three days for the formal ceremony, Morgan had rushed to join Jess at Mermaid’s Mirth. His battered gray uniform lay discarded on the floor.

  Morgan shielded Jess when he saw Zach. “Who are you?”

  Zach saluted. “This is Mrs. Blake Ellsworth, Miss Cassandra Beecher, and I’m Sergeant Zach Ravenswood. I’m in the Twenty-ninth Ohio Veteran Volunteer Infantry.”

  “I know Colleen and Jake.” He looked from Cass to Jess. “Another sister?”

  “She helped deliver your son.” She pressed a finger against her breast to release the suction of her son’s mouth on her nipple and closed her gown. “Jem trained Cass to be a midwife.”

  He turned to Zach. “Blake’s regiment?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He looked at his crutch. “Wounded?”

  “Broken leg, sir.”

  “Broken leg?” Morgan shook his head. “What did you do, trip over your long pants?”

  Zach snorted at the reference to his boyish appearance. “A sharpshooter took out the man next to me, and I grabbed him. His weight pulled me over the side of the bridge we were on…”

  Zach stopped his narrative when Morgan sat on the edge of the bed. The coverlet fell to his waist, exposing his emaciated upper body. His ribs poked through his bruised skin from months of starvation. The scars of bullets and cuts from past injuries marred his fragile flesh.

  Morgan reached for a tattered shirt discarded on the floor. His arms and chest rippled with muscles forged from long marches and four years of battles. “I hope this isn’t a family tradition.”

  “A what?” Cass looked at the others for an explanation.

  He slipped the shirt over his head. “Are you planning to greet us every morning in bed?”

  Jess paused in burping the baby. “Something has happened.”

  Cass shook her head in agreement. “Something awful.”

  Jess grabbed her husband’s arm. “They’ve taken away Morgan’s pardon.”

  “No, but he may be in danger,” Zach said. “President Lincoln was assassinated last night.”

  “Assassinated?” Morgan and Jess mirrored the same emotion—fear.

  “At Ford’s Theater during the third act,” Cass said. “He was shot by a man who entered the presidential box.”

  “But Lee surrendered,” Morgan said. “He said go home.”

  “This wasn’t a soldier,” Zach said.

  “A Southern spy?” Morgan demanded.

  Cass shared the details she had learned from Logan. “John Wilkes Booth entered the presidential box and shot Lincoln in the back of the head while the audience laughed at a joke in the play. Then he wrestled with Major Rathbone and stabbed him before he jumped to the stage and escaped out the back.”

  “It sounds like a theatrical stunt,” Morgan said. “Are you sure the gun was real?”

  Zack nodded. “A derringer.”

  “A one-shot derringer? Who uses a toy to kill a man?”

  “An actor,” Cass said. “We didn’t realize it was real at first. Booth appeared to be part of the show. Something special for the president. But he wanted people to know he did it. He gave a speech when he landed on stage. He wanted to be famous.”

  “He’s probably at a saloon bragging about his greatest performance.” Morgan stared with golden eyes that penetrated like a hawk. “Are you sure Lincoln is dead?”

  “We waited for the announcement,” Cass said. “He died this morning.”

  Morgan ran his hands through his thick curls. The movement revealed a jagged scar on the side of his head. A near fatal wound. “I liked Lincoln. He wrote a fine speech about Gettysburg.”

  “I memorized the words,” Cass said.

  He smiled, and the years of war fell away to reveal the handsome Scotsman who had won her sister’s heart.

  Morgan’s sister, Tootie, and her husband, Sid Wilson, pushed open the door. Sid had lost the lower part of his leg at the battle of Antietam and used a peg leg for mobility. He removed his spectacles. “Lincoln has been killed.” He slid the back of his hand across his eyes.

  “We delivered the horrible news,” Cass said.

  Tootie grabbed the edge of her apron and swiped at a tear. She had dark hair and a face full of freckles. Her resemblance to Morgan was minimal even though they shared the same father.

  “The rest of the family has arrived.” Morgan stood. The long shirt covered most of the worn-out sections in his short pants. He grabbed a battered gray frock coat from the floor.

  Tootie snatched it from him. “You can’t wear your uniform. I’ll find something for you.”

  “I walked into Washington City wearing my uniform,” Morgan said. “Waving my pardon under the nose of every man who stopped me.”

  “Soldiers are searching for Booth and arresting any Southern sympathizers,” Zach warned. “They stopped our carriage on the way here.”

  “You wear that uniform, and they’ll arrest you,” Tootie said.

  “Wasn’t it one man?” Morgan said. “Why arrest others?”

  “It was a conspiracy,” Sid said.

  “The soldiers who stopped us said assassins, but we were at the theater,” Zach said. “Major Rathbone was wounded, but only Lincoln was killed by Booth.”

  “I’ve been talking to people all morning on the way back from the market,” Sid said. “Secretary of State William Seward and his sons were brutally attacked at their home in Lafayette Park a little after ten p.m.”

  “But that’s when Booth attacked Lincoln,” Cass said.

  “This assailant wasn’t Booth,” Sid said. “His gun misfired, and he beat Frederick Seward with his pistol before using his knife. He stabbed a sergeant guarding Seward and attacked a courier who had arrived at the door before he ran away.”

  “Morgan had nothing to do with those attacks,” Jess said. “He’s been in bed with me since returning home.”

&
nbsp; “We know that, but mobs are forming,” Sid said. “People are angry. They want someone to pay.”

  Cole adjusted Jake on her hip. “No one is going to harm a guest under my roof.”

  “I’ll stand guard at the front porch,” Zach said.

  Cass stifled a yawn. “You’ve been awake all night.”

  “I’ll take first watch.” Sid looked at Zach. “You get some sleep. You can take over guard duty after you rest.”

  “No one needs to guard me.” Morgan searched his haversack. “Grant allowed officers to keep their side arms.”

  “No more shooting!” Cass raised her hands in the air. “President Abraham Lincoln is dead, and all he wanted was unity. Can’t we have a little peace?”

  Cole put her arm around her. “Let’s put you to bed. You were awake Wednesday night delivering the baby and now all night again. You must be exhausted.”

  “By the time anyone recognized Booth was a threat, it was too late,” Cass said. “All we could do was witness Lincoln’s death.”

  “It happened so quickly,” Zach said. “One lucky shot. If Lincoln had rocked forward or the gun misfired, he might have survived.”

  “As a soldier, you know you can’t dwell on what could have been.” Morgan turned to Sid. “What happens now?”

  “Vice President Andrew Johnson is being sworn in this morning,” Sid said. “He’ll decide what’s next.”

  Chapter Four

  Signs of mourning couldn’t be ignored. Flags were lowered to half-staff, and black crepe was draped over windows, balconies, and doorways.

  Zach, Cass, and the others gathered in front of Pierce House on Wednesday afternoon. The sun was shining on April 19, a day too beautiful for the solemn occasion. Logan had spent the previous day at the Treasury Building where six-hundred ticket holders gathered before attending the services in the East Room. This afternoon, crowds lined Pennsylvania Avenue waiting for the body of Abraham Lincoln to be transported from the White House to the Rotunda of the Capitol.

  A funeral service had been conducted by several clergymen before the procession began at two p.m. Pennsylvania Avenue had been cleared the entire route. Bells in church towers tolled, and minute guns fired to signal the start of the march of mourners.