Day Nine

by Clayton Spann

Tuesday, May 5

  Dawn was breaking when they pulled into the depot in Washington City. As they walked out of the station Mauer immediately saw the Capitol building and an adjacent crane. The white bulk of the building was draped in shadow except for the dome. He noted the gleaming dome was almost complete, lacking mainly the Statue of Freedom at the top.

  Mauer remembered his father saying that when Lincoln came to Washington in 1861 the dome was mostly incomplete. Lincoln, and the Republicans, insisted work continue as a symbol of determination to restore the Union. The statue was supposed to be in place by end of this year. Mauer vowed Allison Naylor would not thwart that crowning.

  They again confronted a chilly morning as Mauer approached a driver standing before a horse drawn cab. He did not mind the coolness at all. He remembered the cloaking heat and humidity that gripped Washington from late May through early September. Hopefully before late May they would be back through Transit One—except he would be getting off at 1996, instead of 2015.

  The driver, dressed in black frock coat and bowler hat, greeted them cordially. That was to be expected as they were customers. Yet since changing into respectable clothes they had experienced much better treatment, especially Chloe.

  He had to hand it to Chloe. Not a peep of complaint yet. He was very sore this morning, his thighs especially protesting each stride. It had to be worse for her.

  Walking however may have been the better option. As the horse stepped briskly onto C Street, the two wheeled carriage bounced over the rutted dirt surface. Chloe must have felt like she was back in the saddle. Mauer told the driver to slow down.

  At this hour, a quarter after five, C Street was mostly empty—of humans and horses. There was no shortage of horse turds and garbage. Near the intersection with 2nd Street a pair of pigs were rooting at some of the garbage. Farther up C Street a woman in a second story window flung the contents of a chamberpot into the road.

  Mauer saw Chloe watching agape.

  He had warned her. After passing through the tidy burgs of Mechanicstown and Frederick, she had probably dismissed his accounts of the capital as exaggeration.

  Her nostrils widened. As did his own. The smell of raw sewage tinged the air, and it was not caused by one chamberpot. He had been trying to get the acrid smell of the train’s coal smoke from his nose, but not this way.

  They drove past a seedy mix of frame houses, saloons, stores, stables and low rise hotels. Occasionally a brick structure did improve the view. He had to remind himself this was the “high” side of Pennsylvania Avenue. On the other side were supposedly the real slums.

  As they proceeded another smell seeped into his consciousness. The evil scent did not overpower, yet it could not be denied. It was the smell of the dead.

  “Louisiana Avenue near?” he asked the driver.

  “Yes, sir. One block over.”

  “What’s there?” asked Chloe.

  “Embalmer’s Row,” said Mauer.

  “Oh.”

  The undertakers had a steady business, even when a battle was long past. Soldiers kept dying in the numerous hospitals about the city. And disease took its toll all year around.

  Undertakers would shortly have all they could handle. The dead and dying would be coming in from Chancellorsville by the thousands. No way the undertakers could get enough ice to handle the backlog; then the smell of the dead would trump everything else.

  At 7th Street the taxi angled onto Pennsylvania Avenue. The broad avenue was mostly devoid of traffic.

  The carriage again bounced, now over broken cobblestones. Mauer saw tracks in the middle of the Avenue. He remembered more trivia from his father: a horse drawn trolley had operated on the Avenue, from the Capitol to Georgetown. Probably the only way to get a smooth ride.

  Activity did stir on the left side of the Avenue at 9th Street, where men were unloading wagons. They were carrying produce and meats into stalls in an open-air market. Flies swarmed about the meat.

  The taxi shortly reached the six-story Willard Hotel. The white brick hotel was immense, running the length of the block on 14th Street and half on the Avenue. Three large United States flags flew from the roof.

  They checked in. The clerk at the front desk had no news other than fighting continued in Virginia and Mississippi. Mauer had gotten the same reply at three this morning in Relay before they caught the train coming to Washington.

  Mauer asked specifically about Lincoln and the clerk frowned. He said a number of guests had come back from the Executive Mansion yesterday afternoon in a foul mood. They had been summarily kicked out. Some had been waiting days to petition Lincoln.

  Something was stirring over there, said the clerk. Guests reported the Mansion had become ringed with troops. Soldiers were even on the roof. Maybe they had gotten wind the rebs were going to try kidnap the President.

  Mauer was heartened, and relieved, that his alarm had been taken seriously. He feared it would be brushed aside.

  Naylor and Aaron would now have a much tougher time killing Lincoln. But Mauer refrained from exultation. Allison Naylor was neither stupid nor incompetent. If she had been thwarted in a quick strike—perhaps by something as simple as a horse going lame—she certainly had a plan B.

  They grabbed a couple hours of sleep, then at eight took breakfast in the cavernous dining room of the hotel. The room was nearly full. The air about them hummed with conversation.

  As they ate Mauer fortified himself with black coffee. He hoped the caffeine kicked in by the time they got to the Executive Mansion. He was stiff and sore, and fatigue clawed. He needed to be sharp when they encountered Ward Lamon. Lamon was one of the toughest customers around.

  In his telegram to Lamon Mauer said he would arrive at the North Portico around nine. Mauer wondered what kind of reception he and Chloe would receive. He had been able to bully the major at Monocacy Junction. Lamon he could only cajole.

  They departed for the Mansion. Traffic now filled Pennsylvania Avenue. Army wagons and ambulances, passenger carriages, carts laden with goods, the vehicles rumbled past. Dust arose, but the breeze that was bringing in a cloudy sky pushed it away.

  The shouts of sidewalk vendors joined the dim. A lad with newspapers stood at the corner at 15th Street opposite the Treasury building, and for a nickel Mauer bought a copy of the Washington Herald. The headline spoke of the battle in Virginia. The sub header proclaimed victory all but certain for Hooker’s army. Mauer shook his head.

  Once across 15th Street they walked on a wide, trash free sidewalk past the massive Treasury Department. The white marbled building dwarfed even the Willard. A myriad of columns and porticos adorned it.

  The air remained delightfully cool. Whether it was the refreshing weather or the caffeine, Mauer found a bounce in his step. He also found himself noticing how nice Chloe looked in her silk dress and spoon bonnet. Both were cobalt blue.

  Several times since they left the Willard he had eyed the snug bodice of her dress. The tight fit surprised him, this being the Victorian era. He supposed women would always find a way to show themselves off.

  Neither could he avoid the contrast between her narrow waist and the flare that underlying hoops imparted to her hips. He had to admit Chloe was actually an appealing woman. That was, if you could get past that intense, uptight and sometimes surly personality.

  Come on, what was he thinking? He had always known she owned a good figure, but she never before stirred physical desire. She just didn’t strike that chord in him.

  Mauer ordered himself to stow it. They were in 1863 for the mission, and only the mission. He must stay absolutely focused.

  Just past Treasury rose the much humbler State Department. The drab structure sat near the corner of 15th and the portion of the Avenue that fronted the Executive Mansion.

  The Mansion came into view as they turned the corner. It was strange to approach the building that he had visited two days ago, o
ne hundred fifty-two years forward. He felt more out of time and place than any moment since crossing Transit One.

  They continued on the sidewalk to one of the entrances, then turned onto the semicircular driveway that led to the North Portico. Mauer wished he had come sooner. A crowd of at least two hundred people milled in this arm of the driveway.

  Near the North Portico, at wrought iron gates, mounted soldiers with drawn sabers barred the crowd from proceeding farther. Inside the gateway infantry with bayoneted rifles surrounded the portico. About the Mansion more infantry guarded secondary entrances. He also spotted a half dozen soldiers on the roof.

  He knew this was not normal security.

  Usually only a pair of soldiers waited at the iron gates, and a squad or two might prowl the grounds. Security around Lincoln was lax. Purposely so at his insistence, despite the urgings of everyone from his wife to the Secretary of War.

  Amid the columns of portico stood a large man in civilian clothes. The scowling man was looking over the crowd.

  “Do you recognize that big guy on the portico?”

  Chloe peered, then said: “Ward Hill Lamon.”

  Mauer smiled. She smiled back.

  During the briefings Mauer and Chloe had studied a couple dozen photos of officials they were likely to encounter in Washington. Mauer had wondered he if could keep them all straight, much less Chloe.

  To show she was on her game she recited information on Lamon. He was a former law partner of Lincoln, and had provided bodyguard protection when Lincoln traveled to Washington after the election. Later Lincoln appointed him city Marshal and Lamon still served as de facto bodyguard.

  What Chloe didn’t say, because it had not been included in the briefings, was that Lamon could kill a man with a blow of his fist. Mauer couldn’t remember whether Lamon had already done so to an assassin stalking these grounds.

  Phillip Mauer had told his son another tale about this bear of a man so devoted to Lincoln. Once a Confederate sympathizer had shaken Lincoln’s hand overly hard. In turn Lamon shook the sympathizer’s hand—and broke it.

  Or maybe Lamon merely decked the guy, Mauer couldn’t remember for sure. But for sure, Ward Lamon could be counted on to protect the president.

  Mauer drew Chloe close as he shouldered through the buzzing crowd. He evoked hard stares and some curses. One gentleman with a walking stick threatened to thrash him.

  To everyone Mauer returned a smile, saying he must get through because of a presidential summon. No one believed him, but they couldn’t be sure he lied. So they gave way.

  He reached the iron gates where the mounted soldiers and their gleaming sabers waited. They looked spoiling for someone to try to get past. These boys probably belonged to the Union Light Guard, an Ohio unit. Lincoln usually only used them when he journeyed about the city.

  The infantry beyond also looked ready to thrust steel. Mauer could definitely identify their unit by the white tufts in their caps. They were part of the “Bucktail” company assigned protect the Executive Mansion. All were supposedly good marksmen.

  On the portico porch the predatory eyes of Ward Lamon swept the growling crowd. The well dressed brute—in dark top hat, frock coat, vest, cravat, and highly polished shoes—looked ready to bash each and all of the petitioners. Mauer took comfort in the man’s hate, hate that helped keep Lincoln alive.

  Mauer shouted to Lamon. “Marshal, I am Edwin Stein. I sent you the telegram yesterday and I must speak to you immediately.”

  The fierce gaze locked onto Mauer. Lamon’s fists balled. Well dressed the man might be, but his thick eyebrows, circle beard and unkempt mane—all jet black—said do not look for gentility in this man.

  Lamon summoned four of the Bucktails to the portico, then he said something to an officer. The officer stepped briskly towards Mauer.

  “Captain Derrickson, I presume,” said Mauer as the officer with ramrod posture approached. Derrickson was commander of the Bucktails.

  The captain sported no better mood than Lamon. “How do you know me? I’ve never seen you before.”

  Mauer smiled. “Your company is famous.”

  The captain opened the gate a crack. “Get in here. Any funny business, you’ll regret it.”

  Mauer stepped forward with Chloe.

  “She’s not allowed,” said Derrickson.

  “My wife doesn’t go, I don’t go.” Mauer hardened his voice.

  The captain looked back at Lamon. Lamon waved impatiently for them to come.

  “Alright,” said the captain. “Again, no funny business. We’ll shoot you right here.”

  Lamon was even more menacing once they reached the portico. The eyes of the barrel chested man glowed like coals. He directed the four Bucktails, rifles at port arms, to surround Mauer and Chloe. Chloe’s arm tightened against Mauer’s.

  Only a yard separated Mauer and Lamon. Lamon’s whole bearing said he would break Mauer in two if required. He radiated feral ruthlessness. Lamon had four inches height on him and probably fifty pounds. Those pounds looked all muscle.

  But Mauer knew he could take the man. Over the years he had taken many bigger men. A snap kick to break a kneecap would ground Lamon. A hand chop behind the ear would render him unconscious.

  Mauer of course did not move.

  “I checked with the Pinkertons,” snarled Lamon. “They have do have an Edwin Stein in their employ. But he’s spying in Richmond at the moment. So who the hell are you?”

  “Two people trying to save Lincoln.” Mauer reached to his frock coat.

  “Stop!” Lamon produced a pistol. The soldiers leveled their rifles. Chloe's arm really tightened.

  “I have photographs I want to show you,” Mauer said. “Of the conspirators.”

  “How do I know you are not the conspirators? Using deception get close to the President?”

  “If I wanted to kill him, I already would have. You know how easy it’d be. I hide a derringer, wait until I get called into his office, then shoot him between the eyes.” Mauer jerked his head toward the waiting crowd. “Like any of them can, any day.”

  The big man flustered and looked like he really was going to pop Mauer one.

  Then Lamon sighed. “That’s what I keep telling him. He won’t listen.”

  Mauer pulled out two photos. “He’ll listen now. I promise.” He handed the photos to Lamon. “We need to get these sketched and distributed nationwide.”

  Lamon studied the photos, then his eyes went back to Mauer and Chloe. “Why did you lie about being with Pinkerton?”

  “They wouldn’t have sent the telegrams otherwise. I’ll explain all later. Can you get me up to see the President right away?”

  “Step into the foyer.” He turned to the quartet of soldiers. “You’re with us.”

  Boots and shoes clicked on mosaic tile, not smooth marble, as they entered the lofty Entrance Hall. Mauer fought more disorientation as he viewed a ground glass screen blocking access to the Cross Hall. Gone was the Grand Staircase, replaced to his left by a closed door. Above him a gas lit chandelier hissed and on opposite walls stood two fireplaces. A broken mirror hung above one of the fireplaces.

  Lamon called to an usher. “Get Lizzie Keckley. Quick.”

  The usher scurried off.

  Lamon squared with Mauer. “I have to bodily check you.”

  “Of course.” Mauer raised arms above his head. Lamon patted him down.

  “Have to check your wife, too. That’s why I sent for Keckley.”

  “I understand,” said Chloe. She turned eyes to the broken mirror. “What happened there?”

  Lamon awarded his first smile. “That is Tad’s doing. He kicked a ball into it last evening.”

  Mauer smiled in turn. “I have heard he is lively lad.”

  “None more so.”

  Mauer recognized Elizabeth Keckley immediately as she stepped through a gap in the glass screen. It wou
ld be hard not to, as she was the only black person in the briefing photos. Keckley was Mary Todd Lincoln’s dressmaker and also her best friend in Washington. Keckley was one of the few people able to consistently get along with the First Lady.

  “You need me, Marshal?” asked the handsome woman with bronze skin and bold eyes.

  “Lizzie, if you don’t mind, I’d like you—to, uh—” Lamon searched for the proper words.

  Chloe turned to Keckley. “The Marshal wants to be sure I am not concealing a weapon.” Chloe lifted her arms. “Please. I don’t mind.”

  Keckley wasn’t sure how to proceed.

  “You don’t have to search her undergarments,” said Lamon. “Just feel outside.”

  “Forgive my touch, ma’am.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Everybody else turn their heads,” snapped Lamon.

  After Chloe was cleared, Lamon turned to the soldiers. “Tell Derrickson no one gets past the gate before I return. I don’t care how much they squeal.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was Tuesday, so there would be a cabinet meeting at noon. Mauer would try to get the President to cancel it. He and Father Abraham would have much to discuss. The President would also need time to let Mauer’s revelations sink in. Assuming, of course, Lincoln did not spurn the tale and turn them over to Lamon for disposition.

  The tailored hulk turned to Mauer. “All right, let’s go upstairs.”

  Despite his exhaustion, he continued to pace the straw matting of the office floor. Back and forth he tramped. Time after time he passed before the hanging map, the map of northern Virginia. Why had he not yet received word that Lee was defeated?

  “May God have mercy on General Lee, for I will have none.” Such had been Hooker’s promise before the battle began. Promise—or bombast?

  He had not returned from the War Department until one a.m., and he dozed only a couple hours before worry woke him. He wondered if he would ever again feel rested. Two years of murderous war, and how many more to go?

  His eyes drifted to the opposite wall, where the portrait of Andrew Jackson hung above the fireplace mantel. He wished he had Old Hickory on the battlefield fifty miles away. That man habitually made short work of the opposition.

  The door to the hall opened and Hill stuck in his big head.

  “Abe, I have some people you better see. Don’t think it can wait.”

  Lincoln fought chagrin. It wasn’t yet ten o’clock. He savored every second of respite before the beseeching hordes descended.

  But Hill never bothered him with trivial matters. Lincoln gestured to bring them in.

  A smartly dressed man and woman entered behind Hill.

  “This is Edwin Stein. And his wife Lillian.”

  Lincoln was surprised at how the pair regarded him. With what resembled awe. People had cast him many looks during the past two years, but awe was not among them.

  The cleanly shaved, solidly built man with sandy hair and lantern jaw bordered on handsome. The young woman, in blue dress and bonnet was neither pretty nor plain. Her hazel eyes were too close together, and there was baby fat in her cheeks. She however had a glowing, porcelain complexion. And he liked that sensuous lower lip and her soft chestnut hair.

  Lincoln towered over the two as they shook hands.

  “Sir,” said the man, “it is a very great honor to meet you.”

  “The greatest possible honor, Mr.—sir” said the woman, her eyes wide.

  Lincoln chuckled. These two must have bothered to learn he disliked the salutation of Mr. President. Or maybe it was word from Hill.

  Certainly few petitioners had greeted him with more respect and deference. So what did the gentleman and his wife expect in return?

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Stein?”

  “I have something to show you, sir. Something that will make you accept every word I say afterwards.”

  Stein reached inside his coat. He pulled out an object Lincoln strained to comprehend. The man offered it to him.

  Lincoln fingered the object, six inches square, which he could see through. The thing folded like cloth but felt more like rubber. It had thin blue and green stripes along one edge. At the stripes the square opened into a pouch.

  “Sir, run your thumb and finger over the colored lines. That will close the bag.”

  “Bag?”

  “Yes. Where I come from we call it a zip lock bag. They are very handy for storing items like a sandwich.”

  Lincoln moved his thumb and finger as directed. The square, the bag, closed. He pulled it open again.

  Lincoln saw Hill staring at the object in wonder. He probably appeared equally agape.

  “Who are you?” asked Hill.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Lincoln.

  The man eyed Hill. “I must ask the Marshal to leave. What I have to say from this point is for your ears only, sir.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone with the President!”

  “I mean no offence, Marshal Lamon. You are a great servant of the President. But you cannot hear what I tell him. The knowledge is too dangerous. And you must forget you ever saw the bag. Please order that, sir.”

  Lincoln wondered if he were napping, dreaming. Or hallucinating.

  But he wasn’t.

  “Hill, I’ll be fine with them.”

  “Abe—”

  “Please, Hill, go. And forget about this—bag.”

  Hill gave both the man and woman an ugly stare. “I hear any sign of trouble I’m right back in. I’ll be close.”

  Hill left.

  Lincoln held the nearly invisible square to his eyes. “By jings,” he said.

  “It goes for you too, sir. I must have your word you will never relate what I am about to divulge.”

  Lincoln smiled. Then he gestured to the chairs before his desk. “Please sit.”

  The two strangers sat.