Time To Quit

Time To Quit

By

Tom Rinkes

Epilogue

Date: 7 July 1865

To: Mr. William H. Doster, Attorney at Law.

To be delivered to 1289 Prospect Road, Richmond, Virginia 23219 on or about July 11, 2014.

I have fought the good fight. I came to this era with the noblest of intentions. To right the grievous wrongs of a distant relative; to clear my family name and derail the event that became one of the darkest days in American history was my goal, yet I failed miserably. I fashioned this as “my sacred mission” and indeed it was, but I had no plan of forethought nor proper direction to guide me. Now, as the dawn approaches, my date with the executioner is set in stone and I will not protest my fate for I have done murder, and for this I must pay the ultimate price.

My name is Ryan James Anderson. As I draw my last breath today it will be thirty years, one hundred forty-five days and three hours since my dear mother gave me life and I am so grateful that she is with our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. She may plead my case before Saint Peter, if he will hear it, and I might be permitted to reside with her in Paradise. I slew my distant uncle in self-defense at first we engaged, nonetheless his blood is on my hands, and it haunts me to this day. My only defense before the Almighty’s Court, if I am so allowed, will be to say the whole sordid plot was the concoction of that devil Booth and we were told, or should I say deceived, that the premise of his plan was a kidnapping, not an assassination. If I had done the proper research on the subject beforehand, instead of ignoring the truth all my life, I would have known what a liar he was and planned my scheme accordingly. I know now I should have heeded the consul of my pathfinder, a learned man named Endras, when he told me my cause was sublime, but may prove to be fruitless.

This may well be my last will and testament; that I have nothing to bequeath but my sorrow and guilt for the calamity I helped force on my Nation. I labored as best I could to stop the inevitable but have learned that every man’s destiny is sealed and a mere mortal such as myself can never derail the forces of the Universe. Abraham was martyred for a reason I know not, but accept all the same.

One jailor of mine, who I will only identify as MacMillan, has secretly garnered a typewriter, stood watch as I penned my last thoughts and will be kind enough to see it delivered at the appointed time. My lawyer, William Doster, is a good man whom I have treated in an uncivil manner. I finally told him the whole truth of my life thus far and for that he has classified me a madman and argued my case with an insanity plea. I did not come into this world as such but fear I will leave it that way.

I must tell you that I have argued and prayed for Mrs. Surratt’s sentence to be commuted to life without parole so she will not suffer the same fate as we, for she is a good woman converted to an insane plan brought forth by a master manipulator. To this conclusion I stake my honor, such as it presently is.

As to my Family; I love and miss you all. To Hailey, my beloved sister to whom I have confided much; this pilgrimage that I freely took was conceived with the best of intentions. It did not evolve as I had wished but I want you to—privately—tell Father and Pap that I tried to right the wrong but got caught up in a set of circumstances I could not control. If you are reading this then you know I am dead and will not be at your wedding. For this, I am truly sorry, but I wish you a long and fruitful union with your betrothed.

In closing I say to those in the future who will undoubtedly try to untangle this web I have woven, a journal of my trials, from start to finish, can be found at these coordinates. It will be buried by my confidant in a lead box wrapped in three layers of heavy canvas, approximately three feet deep, and can be readily found by the people who knew me and will understand the numbers below.

Longitude: 40.1017802

Latitude: -80.82205

Chapter 1

A Drive to Destiny

It was a warm but not especially sultry Virginia day that seventh of July 2014 when I cruised through Richmond with my windows down. My mind was awhirl with the significance of this date and I’d say the curse brought upon my family and its good name by an uncle of mine. I didn’t know how many three, five or nine times back he was and I really didn’t care. He was a deserter, a scoundrel and attempted to murder the standing Secretary of State as the helpless man lay in his sick bed, stabbing him seventeen times. By the Grace of God Mr. Seward survived the attack but Lincoln did not and the rest is the sordid history of one of the darkest days in United States history.

His name was Lewis Thornton Powell, and I loathed his memory.

“Ry, why you look so sad?” Hailey asked.

Hailey was my baby sister, five years my junior. She was sitting there, on the porch swing, moving slowly back and forth looking like she hadn’t a care in the world and really she didn’t. “Toots”, as we nick-named her, was tall with a slim but shapely build, dark brown eyes with long, wavy hair to match that had caught the eye of many an eligible bachelor. She was engaged to be married this coming August and I was glad that one of us might make dad a grandchild. Lord knows it won’t be me if my life keeps going the way it has.

“Awh…nothing really, Toots. Just the same old same old.”

I put the car in park and grabbed the six pack of beer from the front seat. I sat beside her, popped the top on two cans and gave her one. I sat silent, moving with her rhythm as we went to and fro. Finally, she broke the ice.

“Ryan, are you thinking about…him again?” she asked.

“Yeah…yeah I am. It’s been a hundred and forty-nine years since he took the big swing and people still look at us funny, especially when that damn History Channel keeps running the stories about the whole thing every year at this time. Why can’t people just…forget about it?”

“I don’t know, Ry, but can’t you just ignore them? I mean that was then but this is now. We didn’t have anything to do with that so why do you let it depress you so much?”

“Because, Toots, he was a relative of ours and did some heinous things. Things I just can’t…get past. How I wish I could go back in time so I could stop him…somehow. I really don’t care how, just get it done and come back.”

“I’m so sorry for you,” she said as she laid her head on my shoulder. “I never realized it bothered you so much.”

I put my arm around her, hugged her and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. I loved her so. She, at times, was the best friend I’d ever had and probably ever will. As we swung in silence a small envelope fell onto the porch floor.

“What’s that,” I asked.

“Oh, it’s a letter that came for you today.”

“Who’s it from?”

“Well, I don’t know. I ain’t opening your stuff. That’s against the law, but I did notice it didn’t have a return address. That’s only a misdemeanor.”

We both got a chuckle out of that crack. She always did know how to make me laugh. I picked it up and looked it over. It was a tan color, the sign of very good paper, I thought. My name and address were printed, nice and neat. I took a big swig of the Bud and opened it. Inside was another tan sheet folded three ways of the same type paper. I read it not once, but twice because I couldn’t believe exactly what this man was trying to tell me.

Dear Mr. Anderson,

I sense that you need a friend. You are a much troubled young man caught up in a calamity not of your doing, yet one that weighs upon you heavily. There are many ways to rectify this situation and I desire to help you. If you wish to discuss them I can be reached at Temple Shalom, Manassas, Virginia anytime and any day.

At your leisure,

Rabbi Menelek Endras

What can a rabbi do for me? I thought. I haven’t set foot in a church since mom died, let alone a synagogue. What is this…craziness?

I left the note lying on the small table by the swing and went in the house to take a nap. I thought it was someone playing a prank on me because they knew how irate I’d get this time of year, and who knows, maybe they thought it would cheer me up? But, I failed to see the humor in it and five seconds after I laid on the couch I was out like a light.

***

I awoke to the sound and feel of a dull thud on my feet.

“What…what, Pap? That hurts.”

Grandpa Anderson—a.k.a. “Pap”—was eighty-four years old and still a spitfire. At his best posture he was over six feet tall, always thin and a railroad worker for forty years before a bad back forced him into retirement. He always wore a white shirt and the tie of the day, of which I think he had hundreds. His oak cane slapped my flat feet twice, and since my mother died young of cancer Pap was my number one, and I’d do anything for the man. Little did I know that later on I’d put my money where my mouth was.

“Git up, Ryan. It’s time for supper.”

I walked slowly behind him to the dining room out of respect and to make sure he didn’t fall in one of his unstable moments. He sat at the head of the table; Dad at the foot with Toots and I across from each other. Pap always said the grace but today he was off a little as if his mind was elsewhere. We finished, Toots and I cleared the table and set things up for Dad to do dishes in which he insisted on doing himself. Dad was never the same after Mom died, and none of us could cheer him up or bring him out of his depression. Pap retired to the back porch to smoke number two in his three-cigarettes-a-day regiment, his only vice as I saw it. I joined him, making sure I was upwind.

“What’s up Pap?” I asked as I set down. “You’re not yourself today. I can tell.”

“Oh…it’s the same thing that gets you down every year this time. It’s just today…well…some smartass young punk left a message on the machine and it really pissed me off, pardon my French.”

“You’re excused. What did it say?”

“He sang—now git this—‘hang down your head little Lewis, hand down your head and cry. Hang down your head little Lewis, today you will surely die’. That made me so dadgum mad I erased it and even went on that thing called the internet for the first time ever. By the way, what’s malware?”

“Something real bad in a computer.”

“Well…I don’t know what I did but the sign said you got a few of ‘em now. Sorry.”

“Don’t fret it, old man. I’ll fix it. Why’d you go on the internet?”

He put out that Lucky Strike and immediately fired up another one. “Because I wanna see what it’d cost to move all of us to Alaska. I hear there’s a whole bunch of people that went there a long time ago to escape stuff like this. We all could git a cabin out in the boonies somewhere and not have to take no shit off nobody.”

Gramps was serious and very angry. He never used profanity unless he’d get mad at the Redskins and only then would he let a few fly. And then I remembered the letter from that rabbi and wondered if this was all planned by…someone?

“Pap, put that thought on the back burner for a while. I’m going up to Manassas tomorrow to look for work. We’ll talk about it when I get back. Okay?”

“Okey-doke. Only if you promise not to tell Toots about this extra smoke. I don’t want her up my ass about my quota. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

I don’t know why, but it is funny when young boys and old men swear. It’s my age bracket that gets the lectures and they get a pass. It’s not fair, but it is what it is.

-2-

MapQuest—after I cleaned all the virus’s out of my Toshiba—said the drive from Richmond to Temple Shalom would be approximately ninety minutes. I’ve always hated the word approximate. It tells you nothing. I want exact, but I guess I’ll have to live with app…that word. Anyway, I left at nine in the morning, got a large Mickey D’s coffee to go and hit I-95. Around eleven I pulled into Manassas proper and found the Temple amongst the hustle and bustle of Kruger Street. I sat in my still-running car and tried to talk myself out of this. Do you know what you’re doing? I asked my brain and better judgment. What can a “man of the cloth” possibly do for me? What can he— or anyone for that matter — say to ease my mind? I finally gathered some nerve, put the car in park, shut it off, walked to the front door and hit the buzzer.

“Yes? My name is Abraham. I am the Shamash (attendant). How can I help you?”

“Yes, sir. My name is Ryan Anderson. I’d like to talk to Rabbi Endras, if he’s in.”

“He’s constantly in. Come with me.”

As I walked down the long hall to his office I noticed pictures of various members of the congregation with Endras; some with Shimon Peres and one with Benjamin Netanyahu shaking hands with Endras and others.

And then I came across one of Endras shaking hands with what looked like a Zen Master or some other kind of white-cloaked weirdo.

“Shalom, Mr. Anderson. I am so glad you decided to visit me,” he said as he rose from his huge and cluttered desk. Endras was about five foot nine or ten inches tall, of slim build but with a set of muscular forearms that would’ve made the average biker jealous as they didn’t seem to fit his snow-white hair and aging eyes As he extended his right hand I accepted the greeting without thinking and I swear I heard at least two knuckles pop, and neither one was his.

“Sit down, young man, and let us talk. I understand that you and your family have a …stain, for the lack of a more gentle term, on your family lineage. Is that correct?”

“Well…yes we do. Yet, I’m curious. We live ninety miles away and I don’t recollect ever meeting you before. How do you know all this?”

“Oh, we have people all over this country—and the world for that matter—that know when others are in need. They stay, how should I say, behind the scenes? Suffice it to say it has been brought to my attention that you and your grandfather are in much distress this time every year and I may be of some service to you.”

Now what kind of service can he do for something that happened in 1865? I thought. The only kind of help I need to erase this scourge is a way to go back…no…don’t even mention it. He’ll call the guys with the straightjackets for sure. End this and hammer back home.

“Rabbi, I appreciate what you may think you can do for me against my long-lost wicked uncle, but you can’t help me. Nobody can unless there’s a secret way to…no…no…I’ve said enough. I’ll be on my way now.”

I rose, nodded my head in a “thank you” gesture and headed for the door. Just as I reached for the doorknob he calmly asked me one strange question.

“My son, have you ever heard of…Kabbalah?”

Chapter 2

Paranormal Plastic

I’d heard of Kabballah before but paid it no mind. I thought it was some of that new-age nonsense going around the net, and we all know you can’t believe everything you read there. But, something made me stop and release my hand from the doorknob. I stalled for a second or two before I answered.

“Yes, I’ve heard something about it, but that mumbo-jumbo is for dreamers, sir. I need a solution, not smoke and mirrors.”

“Ah yes, I agree with you. Yet, you have day dreamed about the concept of travel back in time to right the wrongs, have you not?”

“Yes…yes I have.”

“Please Mr. Anderson. Sit back down and allow me a few minutes of your time,” Menelek said calmly, matter-of-factly and convincingly.

I walked slowly over to the chair and eased back down. I took a deep breath and gave the man his due.

“Please forgive my bad manners, sir. I was raised better than that.”

“Not a problem, Ryan—may I address you as such?”

“Yes, sir, you may. I…don’t rightly know what to say, but I’m all ears.”

“Now,” Menelek said as he leaned back in his chair. “Kabbalah is an ancient study of the Universe, our relation to it and the things we can do if our thoughts are genuinely focused on changes for the common good. The ’Powers That Be’ will allow this if one’s cause is righteous in nature. Do you understand so far?”

“It’s sinking in. But how long has this…practice been going on?” I asked.

“Kabballah is as old as our King Solomon. You have heard of him?”

“Oh yeah. Everyone knows the wisest man in history.”

“And that he was, but only because he requested it above all other things. Wisdom and understanding of more than governing our people was afforded him and he passed much of his secret knowledge to those deserving of it. Very, very few people obtained that status and I must tell you truly that I am one of the ‘Select’. Do you wish me to go further or do you require a glass of water?”

The man was a mind reader. I was dryer than a box of popcorn at a Sahara theatre. As he talked his aura was almost hypnotic and part of me was mesmerized and the other scared to death. This man actually believes what he’s saying, I thought.

“Yes, I could use one,” I said, stuttering a bit.

Endras walked over to a mini-fridge and got me a chilled Avian. I gladly accepted it and downed half of it in three gulps. I rubbed the cold bottle across my forehead because I was starting to sweat just listening to him. I composed myself and asked the Master something.

“Okay, I’m alright now but help me to understand. First, I am not a righteous man and I know little of all things God and certainly don’t know a thing of Solomon or anything of the Old Testament. My dear mother—God rest her soul—tried to teach me about those things but I was bull-headed and wouldn’t listen. Are you saying that I can go back in time to rectify this?”

“Absolutely; you can try. Your cause is sublime and honorable, but I must warn you. Sometimes things cannot be changed if your cause and morality is found to be…lacking. Nonetheless, that shouldn’t stop us from trying. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“No, we shouldn’t. But I promise before you and the Almighty that I will do my very best to change my family’s history for the better. On this I give you my word.”

“Good then. First, I must ask you some questions. Do you have an I-Phone?”

“…Yes.” I was getting a little mystified…what a poor choice of words.

“Does it have Nav Clock?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then download that app ASAP. It will be a must for you. Let us meet at five pm, two days from now at the coordinates I will give you. Wear you normal wardrobe for the day but bring all the personal grooming supplies that you’ll need for one hundred days. Food, water and clothing will be up to you and your wits to provide. Thank you for coming and may peace be with you.”

When he rose I knew the meeting was over. As we shook hands goodbye he handed me an envelope of the same type as the one he sent in the mail. I didn’t open it there but waited until I got in my car. The numbers meant nothing to me but there were two words I understood.

A longitude and a latitude.

I hurriedly left and went straight home, only stopping long enough to get a Mc-Meal; # 3 to be exact.

-2-

After supper that Monday night Pap and I retired to the back porch again to have a coffee, him a smoke, and lollygag—as he always said—the evening away. We did a little small talk; he asking about the work prospect up in Manassas with me lying like a fish about it. It was then I decided to bring the “Lewis” subject up for the last time, I hoped. I told him that one never knows what will happen and maybe, just maybe, things wouldn’t be so bleak every year at this time.

“That’s funny, Ry. That’s the same words those two strangers said to me this afternoon.”

“What two strangers?” I asked.

“Two young men—well everybody is younger to me—but they came a calling about one o’clock dressed prim and proper, looking like two Dandies from the big city somewhere. They never did tell me their names except the taller one said he was a Jehovah’s Witness and the shorter one was wearing one of those harmonicas on his head.”

“You mean Yarmulke?” At least I knew that much.

“Whatever. Anyway, I think the shorter one was Jewish and he was carrying a big, black book about something torn, or another word that I couldn’t see right. You know, sonny, the eyes now ain’t what they used to be.”

“I bet it was the Torah, Pap. That’s our Old Testament. What exactly did they say?”

“Well, they started off talking about the weather and other things in life that can make a man’s day look…so bleak. And then they said that maybe things would get better for us and it’d be like nothing ever happened. The first thing I thought was these shysters were looking for a donation or a handout and I was about to kick them outta here with this cane but the way they looked at me…I don’t know. They made me feel…all peaceful inside. They bid me their adieus and left as quick as they came. Ryan Anderson, come here.”

I moved closer until we were face to face.

“Boy, whatcha know that I don’t”

“Nothing, Pap. Nothing at all.” And then I thought it best to change the subject. “Is that your third cigarette of the day?”

“It is.”

“Then fire up another one and save one for me. I’ll be back.” I thought it proper to smoke one, seeing as how I hadn’t had any for three years.

I got up out of my chair and started to walk away.

“Where you going?” Pap asked.

“Down in the basement to snatch that bottle of bourbon that you been hiding behind the furnace lo these many years.”

“So you’re the one that’s been thieving my hooch. I shoulda known.”

“Ever since my arms got long enough to reach it. Now you don’t tell Toots and neither will I. Deal?”

“Deal. Now hurry up. I ain’t gettin’ any younger.”

Later on, I would cherish that little buzz I shared with my Grandpa.

-3-

I started that morning like all the rest with toast and coffee and more coffee and some more coffee because I didn’t sleep well that night, but who could in this situation. I Google-mapped the numbers Endras gave me, got the Nav Clock app and narrowed it down to a farm field outside of Richmond. It was only a mile from here but I went upstairs to pack early. I found a raggedy-looking “traveling bag” of Pap’s in the attic the night before and in it was an old, rusty-looking straight edge razor that was all the rage years ago. A little CLR and a Brillo pad made it look like new so I packed it and a bar of shaving soap I borrowed from Pap’s stash. Then I got down to it.

Let’s see, I thought. I’ll take two…no three tubes of toothpaste, two bottles of shampoo, my last bottle of Old Spice, fingernail trimmers, a good pair of scissors…my nose and ear trimmer…better get a twelve pack of AA batteries, my blow dryer—no idiot, leave it here. Electricity ain’t even been invented there yet. My comb, favorite hair brush…better get two more tooth brushes, I’d say four…no five bars of Life Buoy and a shaving brush. What you better get is your ass to Walmart.

And that I did.

-4-

At four I told Dad, Pap and Toots I was going out to see some friends and not to wait up for me. This I usually did and they were none the wiser because I didn’t let on like anything was up. I knew I was on a “secret mission” but I didn’t know how long it’d take. Maybe all day; maybe an hour of 2014 time. I was so naive.

As I drove slowly down that dusty township road I kept checking my phone. Longitude 41.104, 41.103, 40. 127….40.110. I stopped and turned the phone left and right until my left side said -81.923…something. I drove slowly into what looked like a freshly mowed field and kept easing forward a foot at a time as things started to come together. Another foot…the numbers came down…a little farther and I was almost there…a little bit—OMG…

In front of me was a shed. Not a wooden model but one that looked like the Rubbermaid kind you’d get at any home store. I slammed on the brakes and stopped about six inches from knocking it over. I looked at my phone, and I was there.

Exactly 40.1017802—Longitude. -80.82205—Latitude.

I grabbed the phone, my bag and walked cautiously around the shed. It was a standard eight foot by four wide by four feet deep model, green with a plastic, black roof and something on top I’d never seen before on any model; a sky light. I didn’t know whether to yell, knock or hi-tail it out of there until I heard the unmistakable squeak of the door opening. That’s when I unzipped my bag, because if this wasn’t going to go down right I had to find that straight edge razor handily. As it swung fully open I put my weapon down.

“Menelek,” I said as I pointed to the building in question. “This is my time machine?”

“It is today, Ryan. It is your portal and your point of origin. It is here where you must return to your time if you choose to do so.”

“Well, there’s no ‘ifs’ about that. I’m going there, do what I need to get done and come back home.”

The Rabbi stood stoically in front of me, saying not a word one way or the other.

“Then let me tell you a few things beforehand. After you arrive in 1865 you are to leave this structure, walk one hundred and twenty paces straight ahead and there you will find rest, warmth and reprieve as you regain your strength. This is not negotiable; you must recover first. Please, explore you chariot,” Menelek said as he put forth a hand towards the door.

I peeked in and saw a five gallon, clear plastic jug of water with cup, maybe ten towels and a bench seat across the length. Lying on it was a huge and flowing blanket that looked like the one Buffalo Bill wore in all his pictures but appeared to be a sleeping bag.

Do I get to take a nap while I’m traveling? This may be a piece of cake.

“Stand right here in front of me, Ryan.”

I complied and found myself about a yard in front of him.

“Stand up straight and rest your hands at your side.”

I did.

“Now, I will recite to you the theory of the fourth song and the two threads.”

And now I was looking for my car keys because I didn’t come here for a fairy tale.

Chapter 3

Cabin Fever

Menelek removed his hat, folded his arms together and bowed his head.

“Oh Great Sovereign of the Universe, I call upon you today in great humility, because I wish to ask Your help in a mission of mercy. Your servant, one Ryan James Anderson, desires to right a great wrong done in the distant past by his bloodline. He wishes to purge that man’s cruel actions from history and Ryan’s intentions are honorable; his intent beyond reproach. I beseech You now to allow his ears to hear the beauty and wisdom of Your fourth song and allow him to journey between Your two threads.”

Then I noticed a cloud bank rolling in from the east. It stretched from one edge of the horizon to the other and I heard a most enjoyable noise. From nowhere—or everywhere—the sounds of a limitless choir started to sing a song that I didn’t recognize. The language was foreign to me, yet it had meaning. Something about it was comforting and I felt as if I could do no wrong. I was suddenly at peace with myself. I closed my eyes and dreamed of a happy place with my family beside me and smiling at me. My eyes were opened by the loud hum of something that I can only describe as electrical. I looked to my left and saw a thin, blue string or thread or something I couldn’t explain from the ground up as far as I could see. And then to my right the same anomaly but with a bright, white tone to it. The two threads of wonder began to compress and were closing in on my shed. I looked at my travel agent but couldn’t move or even take a deep breath.

“Are you ready, Mr. Anderson?” he asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s get started,” I said as I gained my composure.

“Then enter, lock the door behind you, sit as comfortable as possible and I will begin. When you’ve arrived it will be Monday, January second, 1865 at eight am. Godspeed.”

So I went in, sat my bag down and rested on the big robe, looked straight ahead and tried to relax. All was well until Menelek started to speak and his voice was changing into something very low and scary.

“Omnis Verto Masvenit Pro Redintegro Pro Elista!!”

The beautiful gathering of angelic voices continued, and I was really enjoying that, but my eyes fixated on the square beam of sunlight passing from the front door backwards across me. I then noticed a moonbeam—same size—as it did the same thing. I stood and looked up as far as the bubble-type skylight would allow and behind me the sun was rising again, but faster than I’d ever seen. I knew instinctively that behind me was west but the sun was moving so it would set in the…east? That’s when I began to lose it.

As the “magic rays” of light intensified its speed I felt dizzy and sat down. Am I going crazy? I thought. This is like nothing I ever imagined. I feel like I could throw up. As the speed of the light flew by in what seemed like a black and white circle I was breathing hard and panicking. When my exhale turned to steam I grabbed the buffalo robe and covered myself from head to toe and then I’d shed it as quickly when the temperature inside my crypt became hot and sultry. I sweat profusely and then froze as the atmosphere went from one extreme to the other. I looked up to see sunshine and then rain, then sleet and snow and back to balmy, over and over and over again. My clothes were wet with perspiration and then became as stiff as a January wind. I finally fell off the seat and poured a glass of water to quench my unearthly thirst and after gulping half of it I felt a terrible pain in my teeth as the hot liquid froze to my tongue…and I think I passed out. I came to in God only knows what century to the loud hum of the threads moving towards each other. The white was changing places with the blue and my torture started all over again. I learned to shake my covering and take a big gulp of water in record time before everything went Antarctic on me. And then, my time machine changed atoms.

The all-plastic capsule was now made of weathered and rotten-looking wooden planks. I eased myself up to the bench, sat down and immediately half my rump sank into a small hole. I jumped up not knowing, with what I’d just been through, if it was something that was trying to eat me or worse. The wooden bench seat had not one but two holes cut in the top and the aroma coming out did cause me to throw up. After I finished I lifted the cast iron latch and stumbled outside. I couldn’t believe that Menelek—with all his so called knowledge and wisdom—had seen fit to deposit me in an old-fashioned…outhouse.

Yet, at least it was a two-seater, and I guess I should’ve been grateful for that, but I wasn’t.

I turned around three sixty to survey my surroundings. The open field I left in was now totally covered with leafless trees and a cold wind chilled me to the bone. I went back in and retrieved my coat, bag, the water left and the only towels left that weren’t soaked or frozen. I turned to see the most welcome sight of all. In what I knew would be one hundred and twenty paces straight ahead was the homiest-looking log cabin I’d ever seen, and I gladly walked to it.

I stopped at the entrance to the one-step-up front porch and took a good look. It was not a shabby abode but a well maintained, one story structure of logs and “chinking” between them. It had two windows, I assumed for the only two rooms there. The door looked heavy and huge, but at that point I didn’t care if it was as solid as a bank vault. I was going in even if I had to pop a window and crawl in. One each side of the door were plies of split oak, cherry and dried locust. I was grateful to whoever set this up because I was getting hypothermic—I think—and was in dire need of warmth and rest. I knew then that Endras was not joking about the non-negotiables.

I knocked three times and got nothing. The door was unlocked so I sheepishly opened it slowly and peeked in. There was nothing there but a huge wood stove, one bed, a table and chairs made of roughhewn wood and two large floor cabinets. I made myself at home, gathered some kindling from a wooden box by the hearth, grabbed a tall match from a round, metal can and started a blaze using the locust first because that burns much hotter than the others. After an hour or so I filled the stove up, banked it down a little as it would last longer, threw off my filthy clothes—BVD’s and all—and dove headfirst into the huge, feather bed. I covered up with my trusty robe and I didn’t know how many hours—or days—I slept, waking only to relieve myself in very quick trips at the master bathroom right off the front porch and reloading the stove. I had never slept so well in all my life.

Tuesday (I guessed) January 3, 1865. Dark outside.

I woke sometime that evening about as ravenous as I had ever been. Walking fully robed and wearing nothing else, I got the fire going again and found a coal oil lantern to light my way. As soon as the warmth caused me to shed my hairy coat I tore into the tall cabinet highboy that would undoubtedly bring thousands someday at an Antiques Roadshow. I found a metal “tin” of brown flour, some dried meat that was either beef or deer jerky and more…flour. I had the water and the appetite so beef and biscuits it was, with water for dessert. I cooked the meat in a cast iron skillet and the biscuits on the wood stove. As I almost inhaled the feast I took a good look at myself. I was standing there, in someone else’s home, buck naked and barefoot.

It was time to clean house. With the help of a hand-pumping well off the front porch I filled two buckets with ice cold water, found a big cast iron pot and put the water on the stove to heat. Rummaging through every nook and cranny there I found a bar of soap, probably lye but burglars can’t be choosers. I washed the clothes, the birthday suit I arrived in and put my wardrobe over the two chairs to dry by the stove. Even though I was a porridge thief like Goldilocks, I did make the bed.

In a large, cedar chest was a pair of red long johns—as my Pap would always call long underwear—heavy wool socks, knee length leather boots with pointed toes. I chuckled when the phrase ”shit kickers” came to mind as that was what Pap would call this style of footwear. I pulled a pair of dark wool pants and shirt out of the second drawer and heard a sound like change jingling. In a far corner was a small, oak box with a flip-up lid. I gingerly opened it and found a pile of “Graybacks”, five silver and six gold coins. I counted the paper and found the owner of this house had $5,200 worth of Confederate dollars which were losing their value daily at this point in the Civil War.

Well I thought. You’re stuck here for a while. Might as well get nibby.

In the bottom drawer was a long, leather-looking bag that was weathered and dirty. I thought it might be part of a saddle bag it looked so rustic but I opened it to find piles of handwritten letters addressed to—my lucky day—Lewis Thornton Powell. So I was in his home, partaking in all that he had, ready to steal him blind and not feeling a bit remorseful about it. I turned the wick on the lantern all the way up and began to get a real education.

The first one was from Samuel Bland Arnold. His espoused the committed cause of a new Southern Nation totally separated from the north, and his thoughts about the North’s leaders were cold and chilling. The next was from Michael O’Laughlin. With the same sentiments as Arnold, he vehemently disagreed with the process suggested by their ringleader Booth. O’Laughlin was contemptuous of a mass kidnapping; he wanted to kill all three. The third was from Edwin Spangler and it seemed to me, by the tone of his pen, that he was not sure of the proper course of action but would support the majority in their plot and do whatever was necessary. I saved the best for last.

John Wilkes Booth. Who in America doesn’t recognize that name? I found his phrasing and penmanship exemplary, but he was an actor, and could put on a good show no matter what the medium. In his response to all four conspirators he spoke directly to each one, bringing forth his guidance in a manner I thought was soothing for a cold blooded killer. Booth led them to believe that kidnaping was the main goal, execution was secondary, but his best arguments and compassion were left for Lewis. I took it that he knew he could count on his right hand man to spirit away Secretary Seward, but in the advent of that being impossible Lewis would use his own discretion on Seward’s “neutralization” as Booth put it. I didn’t even think they used that term back then, but I was learning a lot about this war and the people in it that I never knew before. As the dawn cracked my dark world open I thought I heard a horse snort outside.

It was Lewis, dismounting from his gray mare and then looking at the roof. He started at it for a second, looked towards the front door and pulled out a pistol with a very long barrel. Instinctively I knew he’d spotted smoke coming from the chimney and knew an intruder was in his home. He walked tall and proud, but slowly, up the path to the house. We looked so much alike it was like watching a hologram of myself with beard, long, dirty hair wearing tattered clothes and stalking me in the High Noon mode. Did you come here to let him kill you? I thought.

Out of fear for my own survival and the completion of my mission, I grabbed a large butcher knife from the knife rack and hid behind the door.

Chapter 4

Felling No Paine

“Hey you in there! You git your trespassin’ ass outta my house right NOW! You hear me?” Lewis yelled at the top of his lungs.

What could I do? I couldn’t sneak out the back door because there wasn’t one. My robe was in a corner by the bed but I didn’t dare move from my vantage point. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d meet my uncle this way. He was known as a murderous bastard and would think nothing of killing me. I stayed silent and let him make the next move.

“All right, squatter, you asked for it. Make your peace with Jesus because I’m gonna send you to meet him.”

Goosebumps layered my naked body from scalp to shins as I saw the creaky door open slowly. The first to enter was the business end of his wicked-looking weapon and I drew my knife closer. Finally, after what seemed to be hours he popped his scraggly mug in and looked right then left. The sounds of his high-heeled boots and spurs vibrating as he walked in reminded me of every western I’d ever seen, but this was real and frightening. This could be my life or death if I didn’t say the right words.

“Un … un … cle Lewis?” I managed to stutter out. “Don’t shoot. I’m your future … I mean your long lost nephew.”

He turned quickly towards me with both hands on his weapon that was pointed at my forehead. I started to shake even worse then but he took a good hard look at me. His facial expression said to me he thought he was seeing a ghost. The color drained from both of us but mine was extremely visible for obvious reasons. His gun dropped just a little as if he was having second thoughts till he looked me up and down.

“That can’t be, yougin’. Ain’t no kin a mine would run around naked as a jay bird nowhere. Say you prayers sodomite, ‘cause I’m the last living thing you ever gonna see!”

And then I saw him pull the hammer back on his long gun, and I closed my eyes, resigning myself to the fact all this was for naught. The next sound I heard was almost as pleasing as the choirs of the Third Song.

CLICK.

A misfire saved my bacon, but not for long. I raised my knife up and the seasoned warrior quickly turned his gun around and gripped the barrel. He threw it at me with deadly accuracy and I turned my head to the left to avoid the impact, but it hit me above my right temple, bounced off and fell on the floor. The pain was intense and the blood immediate. Before I knew it he was on top of me and we began to wrestle for the knife. I was close to unconsciousness but a surge of anger overtook me. All the years of being de facto aligned with his crimes and the way he’d hurt my loved ones came boiling out. I felt a wave of heat from my feet first and then all the way up to my arms as I rolled him over in a move that surprised him.

His momentary lapse of courage was all I needed to grip the knife with my right hand and pull it away from his. All of a sudden he let out an insane war hoop and tried to snatch the dagger from me, but I was ripe for the fight that I’d—secretly—always wanted. I grabbed him hard behind his neck and with one quick move of superhuman strength that I knew I’d never feel again I turned the point to him. He stopped his advance as I laid on top of him.

“Lewis Thornton Powell,” I said in a voice so callous that it scared me. “Stop this and listen to me! I’m here to stop you from doing what I know you will do. Will you listen to me?”

He relented for a split second and we made direct eye contact. It seemed to me as if he knew who I was and knew that I knew what he was. His expression went from total understanding to one of malice and murder.

“No, I will never listen to you! You ain’t no relative of mine. You sound like one of them darkie-lovin’ Yankees and there ain’t no way you could be any blood to me. I will end this conversation here and NOW!”

And with that statement he lunged upward at me and I …I leaned forward with all the DNA that he’d sent my way over all these years. The blade went into his sternum to the handle and I watched the life start to drain from him. As blood began to appear on his lips I knew his time was short and I wanted—almost always wished—to leave him with one last thought.

“This is for my Father and my Pap, you filthy piece of shit. I know now I’ll see you in Hell.”

And then I slowly twisted the blade full circle, listening to it tearing his black heart in two.

Oh may God forgive me, but I couldn’t control myself.

***

I sat on the floor at the other end of the cabin for the longest time, trying not to look over at the violence I’d done to another human being, as despicable as he was. When I came to my senses I found my whole body covered with blood. At first I thought it was from my head wound until I looked across the room. His bloody form lay lifeless with the wooden handle of my murder weapon visible as he lay flat on his back. I raised my knees up and tried to hide my face between them knowing that I did strike him in self-defense, but also realizing I took delight in his speedy dispatch. The first attempt at my mission had developed faster than I’d expected and had went so terribly wrong, yet I still had a chance to fix this whole sordid affair … somehow.

Number one on my list was what to do with Lewis. I walked slowly over to his corpse, not wanting to look but knowing I had to. After I pulled the knife from his chest I picked him up, laid him on his bed and covered his whole body with the blanket. I put this seamy incident behind me as “what’s done is done” and then reheated the water on the stove. It took a while to clean all the blood off as I had to sit down a few times due to my dizziness.

I saved my hair for last. As I slowly dipped my head into the soapy water the pain was excruciating, but I knew I had to man up and take it. One thing I didn’t need, in this anti-bioticless age, was an infection so I gritted my teeth and thoroughly cleaned the wound. I looked at it with my round, shaving mirror and found it was about three inches long and deep enough to require stitches. I wrapped my head in the only clean towel left, dressed with all the warmest clothes and packed all that I could in my bag including his pistol. I knew from previous research that no man could be seen in public without a hat so I took a brown, stiff-rimmed derby hanging on a hook for later. As I got ready to leave I took one last look at my uncle’s make shift mausoleum.

You can’t leave it like this, I thought. You have to destroy all this and assume Lewis’ identity and you can’t have anyone finding his body.

In three hard kicks I knocked over the wood stove and spread the burning logs and embers around the cabin and close to everything wood. I grabbed two logs in full flame with a shovel and put them under the bed. Within seconds the flames grew and spread everywhere and I walked out knowing it wouldn’t be long before Uncle Lewis went out like a Viking warrior. I mounted his nervous steed, moved back far enough for the horse to settle down and watched his deposition as the flames consumed his tomb being the fiery animal it was. As the wind was being called to the flames I turned to leave but was stopped by an eerie, crackling noise. The trees surrounding his home were being attacked by the fire and within seconds the pine canopy was ablaze. Thinking this would draw some attention I kicked my ride in the haunches and we flew in the nearest path’s direction.

I was bleeding again and was in dire need of a “saw bones”.

-2-

Wednesday January 4, 1865

The weather warmed some that day, with bright sunshine and a cloudless sky leading me into a small town. If there was a sign naming this burg I didn’t see it, but I was feeling “a might poorly” as the old saying goes and really wasn’t paying attention. The clapboard-clad buildings looked as old as one could imagine, with a boardwalk for a sidewalk and some businesses had roofs over their frontage. The first person I saw was a young boy about ten or eleven. We caught each other’s inquisitive eye and he walked right up to me.

“Excuse me, mister. Are you all right? Ya’ look a bit peaked,” he said.

“No, sonny, I don’t feel well. I need a doctor. Does this town have one?”

“Matter-a-fact we do. Got the best damn—oh Lordy, sir, please don’t tell my momma I said that word. She’ll whoop my ass with a new switch ifin she founds out—doc in the whole state, right over there by the saloon. You want me to fetch him for ya’,” he eagerly answered.

“No, I can make it that far. What be your name anyway?” I said, feeling better already.

“I was baptized on my third day and christened Artimus J. Pyle, sir, the “J” being junior. My Daddy—God rest his soul—used to call me that when he was a-funning me. Can I be so bold as to ask your Christian name?”

“Yes you may, young man. It’s Lewis—do you really need to give that out yet? I thought. Your head hurts like hell and your body’s in great discomfort—Paine; spelled with an “e”. Now, can you tell me the name of this town?”

“Yessir, I’ll tell ya’ plainly. It’s Mechanicsville, Virginia.”

“What happened to your daddy, Artimus?”

He angrily changed his tone. “He got kilt by one of those shit-eating, wimun-violating Yankees up in Pennsylvania some two years back. You can tell my momma what I called ‘em ‘cause that’s what she calls ‘em and I’m thinking she’d be mighty proud of me seeing as how I’m such a quick learner.”

“If I ever see her I’ll do just that. Now, what’s this famous doctor’s name so I can address him properly?” I asked.

“Doctor Mudd.”

“…Say again?”

“Doctor Mudd. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him now.”

“No, I recollect the name. I imagine we’ll talk later Junior, but for now I’ve just got to meet this doctor. I thank you kindly for your help.”

I dismounted, tied off my horse and walked up to Dr. Mudd’s front door. What I saw printed on the glass gave me a little sigh of relief, but a little disappointment too.

Dr. George Dyer Mudd

Physician

“Can I help you, pardner?” he asked as he opened the door.

“I sure hope you can, doctor.”

“Oh my, look at the blood. Get right in here, sit down and let me have a look.”

Dr. Mudd was a tall thin man, I’m guessing in his late forties, wearing a long-sleeved white shirt, black tie and pants that looked like saddle worn and weather beaten. His balding head, beard and mustache stood behind me as he parted my hair whispering a few “tsk, tsk’s”.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“Oh, it’ll only take about five stitches. Can I ask as to how you acquired this?”

“I’d rather not say, Doctor. Do you really need to know?”

“No, not really. Just asking in case the sherrif comes round asking if I’ve patched up anyone because they got into a brawl, and he’s looking for the one that lived, that’s all”

“No. this happened way back. Not anywhere near this town. Will that suffice?”

“Good enough for me. Now, do you want to lay down while I do this?”

“Maybe. Can you use some of that new stuff … you know … morphine first?” I asked, hoping that he did.

“Not a chance. All I had has been confiscated for the war effort. I got some really good pain elixir I use with a fair amount of success. Want some of that first?”

“What’s in it?”

“One part good Kentucky bourbon and two parts laudanum.”

Laudanum was liquefied opium and was just coming into its own now. It’s funny how your brain can talk you into all most anything.

You’re no stranger to bourbon, and you did two years at Ball State, so a little bite of the Buddha won’t hurt. Lay down and take your medicine.

I did, and I still don’t remember feeling any pain, without the “e”.

Chapter 5

Cougartown, 1865

Thursday, January 5, 1895

After drinking a glass of the Big O chased with whiskey I felt this irresistible urge to primal scream, because I’d never tasted anything that evil before. As I laid down on the examining table I started to hallucinate, seeing the Ball State cheerleaders looking down on me and smiling.

This is some pretty good shit, I thought. Go to sleep and it’ll all be over sooo ,,,

I was getting used to waking up in strange places, but at least this one was comfortable and I was dressed properly. It was dark outside but bright inside and I found myself next to a huge stove fired fully with wood and coal. My vision was blurry but I made out the good doctor sitting in chair across from me. I was very hot and took the blanket off that he obviously put on me. He looked up from his paperwork.

“Morning Mr. …well, that’s not important right now. Want some coffee?” he asked.

“I’d be much obliged,” I answered, using the jargon of the era that I’d read about over and over again in my youth.

When he left for the kitchen I surveyed my surroundings. This was a very comfortable place he had, with curtains around the windows, solid handmade furniture and a hardwood floor. The sun was just peeking into the room and the smell of strong coffee filled the air.

“It’s black” he said as he handed me a large mugful, “It’s all I’ve got.”

“Black’s just fine for me, sir.”

I hurriedly drank half of it and began coming to my full senses. I was twenty miles or so out of Richmond but knew—seeing as how I wasn’t battle-hardened at all—that a horse ride to Baltimore was out of the question. I needed some answers from this man but he was already a little suspicious of me so I decided a frank conversation was in order.

“Doctor Mudd, I want to thank you for your help. You have been a life saver for me and I wish to pay you your fee, in cash of course.”

He looked me over and his face seemed to get kinder, as if we could have a man-to-man dialogue.

“Let’s say … three dollars should cover it. By the way, what’s your name, just for my record’s sake.” he said.

“Your fee sounds fair and it’s Lewis Thornton Paine, with an ‘e’,” I said as I tried to rise and get my bag. As soon as I got halfway up I sank back down as fast.

“Hold on, young man, hold on. You’re as weak as a kitten. Let me get it for you. You need to rest.”

He rose and just happened—I think—to gaze into my half open case. One of his eyebrows raised up in a Spock-style, yet he handed it to me without comment. When I pulled out my money box he said something that threw me for a loop.

“That would be three dollars silver or Union script.”

He was very adamant about that. I knew then that the Confederate cause was lost and financially bankrupt beyond repair.

“Well,” I said, closing the lid. “You look like a man I can trust. In this box I have over five thousand dollars Confederate plus some gold and silver coins. Can you give me a wild guess as to how much I really have to my name?”

“I heard yesterday the current rate of exchange for one Grayback dollar is about eight cents, so maybe you have sixty good dollars. That’s still a pretty fair sum nowadays, ifin’ you don’t get robbed.”

“I carry protection,” I answered as I pulled my equalizer from the bag.

“Ah yes, I noticed your long gun. That’s a Whitney revolver, ain’t it?”

“It is,” I said, hoping he was right because I didn’t have a clue.

“You do know that particular model has a tendency to misfire, don’t ya’?”

“I’ve heard that,”

“Then you know you have to keep it clean at all times. If you don’t then well … let’s say the next time we meet I’ll be preparing you for a burial.”

“Then let’s hope I take care of it properly, but I never was any good at paying attention to details.”

“Then let me learn you how.”

I gave him the gun and he pulled a table from the back of his chair. He broke it down into four separate pieces, oiled it and wiped the whole thing down to where it was clean and almost antiseptic looking. He put the paper cartridges back in the cylinder and handed it to me, barrel down and handle upright.

“Where you headed for now,” he asked.

“I’ve got people in Baltimore to see.”

“Then son, let me give you a bit of advice. You are completed exhausted and my diagnosis is that you need to rest for a least a week. And you might consider selling that horse to Amos Harrison over at his livery station and take a train up there. The Baltimore and Ohio runs there from here once a week. Just a thought you might want to ponder.”

“I’ll consider it, doctor. But I want to ask you a question. Have you ever heard of a Doctor Samuel Mudd?”

“I should. He’s my nephew. He studied with me up in Bryantown, Maryland where I have my main office. He was a good student and I hear he’s doing quite well. Why do you ask?”

Why couldn’t I have an uncle this reputable? I thought. I knew I had to give him some advice, yet I didn’t know how without revealing how I knew, so I just laid it all out.

“Because of this. I know of a man who may make your nephew’s life miserable someday. He is a very calculating and vicious individual who can manipulate people to his ends. I urge you to tell Samuel to stay as far away from this man as possible. His life and reputation are at stake.”

Dr. George Mudd looked at me funny. I knew he was thinking: Where does this transient get off instructing me on anything? He sat up in his chair and took another swig of coffee.

“And just what, pray tell, is this scoundrel’s name?” he asked.

“Booth. John Wilkes Booth. Please believe me and take it for what it’s worth to you. Now, if you would be so kind as to direct me to the stable, the bank and good lodging for the week, I’ll be on my way.”

We rose and I was much steadier on my feet this time. We shook hands, I told him I’d be back later to pay him properly and we parted ways. He was right about one thing. I did need to recover some more from this most exciting ordeal.

-2-

At this time in American history it was easy to find any enterprising town or city just by following the smell of fresh horse shit. I know that’s gross by 2014 standards, but this was a different era. True to my nostrils I found Harrison’s Stable right smack dab in the middle of this town’s business section. There was the livery next to the bank next to the saloon that was right across the dirt street from “Adele’s Place”, properly named the Mechanicsville Manor.

It was almost like a mini-mall, but I’m sure I’m wrong about that.

Amos offered me five dollars—Union—for my steed and I gladly accepted it not knowing if it was a fair price but not really caring. I wasn’t going to be here long; or so I thought. At the bank I traded my stash for sixty-two dollars good money and put down a week’s worth for a room at the Manor. After seeing all the “sportin’ ladies” waltzing around with wanton eyes and bosoms galore I knew I was in a high class whorehouse. I could tell it was upscale because they had a piano in the lobby, and a skinny but well-dressed man tickling the ivories as the male clientele tickled the girls. I made up my mind I would stay clear of this behavior pattern because the last thing I needed was a case of syphilis or gonorrhea, as it was rampant then.

I was firm on that, until I met Adele, and then I got a change of heart.

Miss Adele Lastrade—pronounced Less-trah-day as the piano player promptly corrected a drunken customer—was a tall woman with flaming red hair and baby blue eyes. I’d say for an experienced Madam she was in her mid-forties, dressed exquisitely with a large bosom and hospitality to match. I was just a bit smitten the first time I saw her as she sashayed softly and tenderly down the steps from her office to the bar as she knew how to make an entrance. I’d settled into a small room with an ample fireplace and plenty of wood stored by the hearth and had made myself comfortable with it. After finishing my evening meal of steak, potatoes and bourbon I felt drawn to her end of the long, oaken bar by her glances.

R. J., you know what she wants. Did you come her to enjoy yourself or to get a job done? But look outside! Do you really want to travel in that?

A winter storm had rolled in with the snow, the gale winds and the freezing cold. My doctor did say I should rest for a week. Did he say “or more”? I wondered. Whatever his wisdom was it went by the wayside as my hormones kicked in. I stood by the stool next to her and tried to be a southern gentleman.

“Miss Adele,” I said softly as I removed my hat. “May I sit beside you and be honored with your presence?”

“You most certainly can, handsome stranger. Come sit and tell me your story. And if I find yours interesting, I may tell you mine.”

My Pap once told me that God gave man two great things; a brain and a penis. The downside was He only gave us enough blood to run one at a time. I never understood that back then, but I sure did that day.

We sat there with her drinking a glass of burgundy and me trying to get through a mug of beer so skunky that rednecks would’ve thrown it out their truck window. It was small talk at first with a few “How do you like your accommodations?” and “How long have you had this establishment?” to other matters of foreplay this and that’s. She was indeed experienced in matters of the heart and other male parts as those beautiful baby blues seem to read me from my scalp to my toes. I don’t know if I fell in love with her right then or later but it really didn’t make any difference to me then anyway. All I knew was that I desired this lady like no other woman I’d met before and I had but one complaint about my room.

“You know, Adele, I noticed that my room doesn’t have a bathtub in it. How might a man clean up properly here? I feel a bit … crusty.”

“We have a community shower house out back, but it’s seasonal and I don’t think you want to freshen up in this climate, do you?”

“No, no. I’m not that brave.” I cautiously learned forward and took a quick sniff of her bare shoulder. “You seem to be as fresh as a spring rain. How do you manage that, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“I have a Parisian bath tub in my quarters.”

“What’s so special about that, my dear?” I asked with my eyes wide open.

“It will accommodate two people. One male and one female only.”

Oh my, my my, my my, my my. Be careful with your next question.

“And how much would it cost to experience this pleasure.”

She looked at me with those eyes, dropped them long enough to finish her wine and gave me my answer.

“That will depend on just how clean you wish to be, young man. Follow me.”

I helped her down from her perch and held her soft hand in mine as I helped the world’s first cougar up the staircase to her boudoir.

And this lady definitely knew how to make an exit.

Chapter 6

Artesian Adventures

Adele’s room was the best in the house, as one would expect. There was a parlor complete with two upholstered high-back chairs and a loveseat, a small fireplace with a wooden desk and chair in front of it. There were ledgers everywhere and papers on the top ready to be signed with the quill pen ready to be dipped in an ink well that looked of pure silver. In her bedroom was a small wood stove close to the bathing apparatus that I was dying to experience, and it was a large one. What caught my eye were the four black servants, i.e. slaves, carrying hot and cold water in buckets and pouring them in. After their second trip up the stairs Adele ran her fingers in the steaming mixture and dismissed them. Two were young girls, two adult males and I knew then, by the hopeless look on their faces, why we got into this war in the first place; no man should own another man.

Miss Lestrade was not a bit shy with her body or sexuality as she undressed fully and stood by the tub. She looked at me and I looked at her. For a woman at least fifteen years my elder she had the body of a maiden—at least that’s the way she looked to me—with an hourglass shape that sent chills up my … you know where. She gracefully entered our little love boat and coaxed me in with one, longing glance. I shed my clothes in Olympiad time and gladly joined her.

Beside the tub was a small three-legged table on wheels that held two fancy-looking glass bottles with lids, plus a few cups She pulled the table close to her, poured what I found out later to be perfectly prepared and aged bourbon in two glasses. She offered one to me and she started to sip on the other. We faced each other and eventually I placed my legs alongside her outer thighs and squeezed them, trying to say “I’ve got you now” but knowing she wasn’t going anywhere soon. After finishing her glass she reached behind her with both hands—exposing those lovely breasts that made my brain drain—and came up with a large bar of pinkish soap. All this time we’d said not a word to each other and it stayed that way as she turned her back to me and cradled her form against my groin.

“Wash my back and rub my shoulders, would you please?” she asked softly.

And of course my answer was what any red-blooded American or French man would say.

“Oh hell yes!”

After a nervous soap down—the damn bar kept sliding out of my hands, but things worked in my favor as the soap kept accidently landing in her lap and lower—I cleansed her back and shoulder muscles and then administered a back rub that consisted of thumbs up and down her spine then branching out to her shoulder blades. Her “Ooohs’ and “Aaahhs” were more potent to me than a ship full of oysters and on every groan I rubbed harder. Then she slid under the water—and I was waiting for the ultimate thrill—she came back up quickly, grabbed the other bottle and popped the lid. Immediately the aroma of lilacs filled the air and she handed it to me with another untimely request.

“Wash my hair, you gentleman you.”

So I lathered her up, gently rubbing what fingernails I had into her scalp for the deepest of cleansings and then massaged her temples and the base of her skull all the way across. From somewhere she handed me a very big comb and asked me to remove the soap from her hair and with each stroke I felt my blood begin to boil as the anticipation of what was to come next consumed all my dirty thoughts. She went back under, rinsed her haired, squeezed the excess with both her hands and turned to me. She put her arms around my shoulders, locked them onto the back of my head and kissed me as passionately as I had ever been kissed before. I was—at that moment—officially her boy toy, hers and hers alone, and I didn’t mind one damn bit.

And unlike them Yankees, a Southern Gentleman never tells of his sexploits.

No, never.

-2-

I spent the better part of a week with Adele, living in the lap of her luxury, basking in the warmth of her charms bi-daily and we even pulled a tri-daily the following Monday. And I think I just violated my own Oath of Honor by reporting this, but I was feeling my oats by the fifty-pound bag at a time and I was a happy camper.

Anyway, I was invited to play poker with three other gentlemen and seeing as how I was steeped into the online thing back in my time, I graciously accepted. I broke even only drawing my weapon once on another player who accused me of cheating, which I was. I bowed out gracefully, gave him his take back and hurriedly left the room to continue writing down all that had happened so far. My sweetheart had been kind enough to give me a blank diary of very fine paper and I recorded things of importance to the person or persons who may read this when that day comes.

It was time to leave. I knew it, and Adele knew it too by the distant look in my eyes. The storm had abated the day I boarded the train for Baltimore and she walked with me to the dock as the engineer yelled “All aboard!”

“My dearest Miss Lestrade,” I said with a nervous and stammering voice. “I want you to know you will forever have a place in my heart, no matter where I go or what I do. But, there are things I must tend to up north and I must leave you. I love you, Adele, and I always will.”

She said nothing but looked long into my eyes. As we embraced for the last time, I gave her a sweet kiss on the lips, forehead and hugged her twice as hard as she squeezed me. With a tear in both our eyes I turned and made the step up to my destiny, whatever now that may be.

-3-

Friday, January 13, 1865

It was an uneventful ride in the passenger car heated by a wood stove and comfortable seating. I was dozing when I felt the train grind to a halt and marveled at how quick the trip to Baltimore was. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

We had just crossed over the Union lines in Alexandria, Virginia when the porter ordered everyone off the train. As we exited we were met by two Union troops checking paperwork and whatnot, and I didn’t even have an ID. Immediately, one thought came to mind.

Dammit! RJ, this is Friday the thirteenth. Why didn’t you wait till Saturday to leave?

After mentally calling myself seven different kinds of dumbasses, I stepped up to their plate like I had nothing to hide.

“Name?” the man with the most stars and bars demanded.

“Lewis Thornton Paine, sir. Spelled with an ‘e’”.

“Can you prove that in any manner?” he said, like a smartass.

I knew the day would come when I’d have to dig deep into my psychology bag, but it never was much bigger than a tube sock to begin with. I thought of all the nights I watched Improv on the Comedy Central and decided to wing it.

“Well, sir, I could have up till three weeks ago. I was in my cabin, just a stone’s throw south of Richmond, minding my own business when this group of ruffians—I think they was part of that Mosby bunch—came bustin’ in and stole me blind. They even went so far as to raze my home to the ground with a fire and then hit me in the head with a pistol—looky here at this scar right there by my temple—and left me for dead. The last thing I ‘member is those bastards calling me a Yankee ‘cause I’m clean shaven and all. Truth be known I ain’t neither. I’m just a man trying to get by, that’s all.”

The Captain, Colonel or Sargent looked at me hard and straight into my eyes. I didn’t blink and he looked away and then swiftly back to me. I held my frozen face and my ground.

“Then would you be willing to take an oath to this great nation of ours?” he said.

“I most certainly would.”

“Then raise your right hand and repeat this out loud.”

He handed me what looked like a postcard with writing on it. I took it proudly and recited it with my shoulders back and my head high.

“I, Lewis Thornton Payne—Damn, he misspelled it. No sense making a fuss about it now—do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution and government of the United States against all enemies whether domestic or foreign; that I will bear true and faithful allegiance to the same, any ordinance, resolution, or law of any State, convention, legislature, or order or organization, secret or otherwise. I do this without any mental reservation or evasion whatsoever, and especially that I have not by word or deed or in any manner whatever given countenance, aid, comfort or encouragement to the present rebellion or to those who have been or are now engaged in the conspiracy against the government of the United States of America, so help me God.”

He made me sign it and I did just as he’d spelled it. He gave it back to me and shook my hand.

“Good. Where you headed?” he asked.

“Baltimore. Got family up there.”

“Well, have a safe trip and stay clear of anyone that looks like a rebel.”

“Not to worry, sir. I will do my best.”

I walked hurriedly past him, found the nearest latrine as he nearly scared the piss out of me. After we returned to our seats the rest of the trip went smoothly, and I even began to enjoy the scenery until nightfall.

-4-

Saturday, January 14th. One a.m.

I knew that Lewis would go see his girlfriend, Maggie Branson, as soon as possible but I was weary from the trip and spent my first night at Miller’s Hotel that was adjacent to the terminal. It didn’t seem proper to barge in on the family this time of morning who’d shielded my uncle in his time of needs. I drank one tall draught and a double shot of whiskey at the in-house bar contemplating my plan. Things were about to get serious now and I knew if I didn’t convince the players in this barbaric coup that I was who I said I was, I could end up as dead as the real Lewis. Being Uncle Lewis’ number one biographer, I knew his every move now and decided to jot down my plan in its order of importance.

1. Convince Miss Branson that I’m the lover she knew two years ago.

If I fail here, I thought, then I’m sunk. Yet, if Miss Branson is half the woman Adele was then this’ll be a piece of cake. Enough for one day. Go to sleep.

For some strange reason I dreamt I worked in a cake factory and a deranged-looking woman was throwing forks at me … for all eternity.

Chapter 7

Pages Six and Seven

I slept soundly until around noon when housekeeping knocked on the door as hard as they could. I stumbled one-eyed over to it, finally found the knob and opened it slightly. I was still in my longjohns and I read somewhere that if a woman would accidentally see a man like this then she had to marry the dude and vice versa if he saw her. Some kind of back woods, home spun, code-of-the-mountains bullshit that was common then in America.

“Mister, is you alive in there? I thought you might have expired in your bed ‘cause live people don’t sleep this late … do they?” she asked and philosophized.

She was sooooo cute in looks and demeanor, attired in a long, white dress flared out in an umbrella shape with the crinoline thing going and a black apron that I couldn’t get mad at her. After seeing that young, innocent face with her brown hair tucked tightly in a bun and a strand of curls hanging from each side, I was putty.

“They do when they don’t check in till midnight, miss. Give me five minutes and I’ll be out of here. By the way, where can a man get a good cup of coffee around these parts?”

“Well, sir, right downstairs in our little coffee shop. Best brew this side of Charlotte, South Carolina if I do say so myself,” she said.

“Thank you, missy. I’ll get dressed and be on my way.”

***

After downing three eggs—that I knew were fried in lard and were delicious—and sausage with two cups of coffee I sat back and surveyed the place. It was definitely mid-nineteenth century in décor as everything that hung high or sat on legs was made of wood. Stoves were abundant in this establishment and the coziness stopped my traveling plans for a while. Outside in the bitter cold was a man selling papers. I decided to educate myself.

“My good man,” I asked as I tipped my hat. “What publication is that?”

“Why, it’s the Baltimore Sun,” he said.

“How much would a copy of that cost me?”

The old man, who was dressed in shabby, winter clothes, a fur cap atop a plaid scarf wrapped around his face and flannel gloves with a few fingers missing, scratched his chin and sighed.

“Two … cents,” he answered, almost whispering.

“Two cents?!” I said quickly, not believing anything could be that cheap.

“I know, I know. I told those nimrods down at the main office that they shouldn’t a done it. I said one cent was enough for this rag, but they said they needed more money comin ’in for the new piece they were trying to push.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Advertising. I think it’s a crazy notion, but I’m just a cog in their wheel here. Anyway, that’s the best I can do, mister.”

I handed the man a dime.

“You want five of these?” he said after grabbing a handful of papers.

“No, just one.” I said. “Take the rest and go buy some good gloves.”

“Well now, that’s mighty kindly of you, sir. You from around here?”

“No. Richmond, all my life.”

“Then it is indeed a pleasure to meet a true southern gentleman. That’s the trouble with this town now. There’s way too many of those damn Yankees runnin’ round now. May God bless you,” he said as he offered me a handshake.

“Here’s hoping He always does. Try to have a good day now.”

***

I sat back down and resumed my caffeine infestation. The front page was about the war, second page about more war, the editorial page just tore into the Confederacy and the southern way of life unmercifully. Section two had a few elaborate ads with drawings of certain shops pitching their wares and services. The one that caught my eye was just what I needed to read.

Branson’s Boarding House

Welcome one and all. Please visit, try our cuisine and our fine, Southern manners.

All SOBER quests are welcome. Do not enter if you are afflicted by the spirits in any manner

16 North Eutaw Street, Baltimore proper

I grabbed my bag, put on my buffalo robe and headed for Eutaw Street; wherever that was.

-2-

After the paperman gave me the “three blocks that way, two to the right and halfway up the next block” directions I stood at the doorway of Branson’s place. It was a tall, at least three stories high, brick and mortar building and I contemplated my next move. I didn’t know a Branson from a Bratwurst so I had to figure a plan. I thought if I just went in and stayed silent someone might recognize me and start the ball rolling. The most important con to work would be Maggie. From Lewis’s bio I knew she and Lewis were an item and I guessed a little carnal knowledge had transposed between them, if you know what I’m saying without me coming right out and saying it.

As I entered I met an older woman sweeping the hallway. She may have been in her fifties with graying hair pulled back in a bun and a lean and slightly humped over frame. From the look of her red and chaffed hands I knew she was no stranger to hard work, but she wasn’t dressed like a maid. I froze, and hoped for the best.

“Yes sir,” she said as she looked up. “The name’s Rebecca Branson and I’m the proprietor of this hotel. What can I do for …? Lewis …is that you?” she said while she caught her breath.

“Yes, ma’am, it’s me in the flesh. It’s been a long time.”

She came over to me, put her hands on each side of my shoulders and gazed at me for an uncomfortable period of seconds.

“Well, now, you sure have changed some. I never knew you could clean up so … well. When did you find time for a good barber?” she asked.

“I’m traveling in disguise, Miss Rebecca. I’m a wanted man in some states right now and I thought I could stay here for a while, if it’s all right with you, of course. If you have a room I have cash Union money to pay for it.”

She kept looking me over as if her eyes were trying to search my soul from head to toe. I wasn’t getting the vibes I wanted so I quickly changed the subject.

“Ma’am, where’s Maggie?” I asked.

“She’s back in the kitchen doing up some dishes. You go talk to her and then we’ll talk about your lodgings.”

The last vibe I got from Mama Branson was something telling me to bob and weave.

***

I gingerly opened the double kitchen door and peeked in. There she was, standing bent over with her hands in the wooden sink, scrubbing and buffing the huge, ceramic plates. At about five foot five inches tall, I’d say, she was a trim woman with brown hair flowing gently across her shoulders and attired like her mom but with a flowery print in her dress. I tip-toed to within six feet of her and said the only thing I could think of.

“Margaret, it’s me, Lewis.”

Everything about her stopped and I swear she even stopped breathing. I heard a plate drop into the sink and then she slowly turned to me, and I mean like slow-mo style. And I immediately started thinking:

Oh shit!

“Lewis Thornton Powell, just who in blue blazes do you think you are?! You think you can just waltz in here looking all clean-shaven and handsome and such and woo me back into your bosom just by showin’ up? Why you horn-swogling, moth-eaten, good for nothin’ pile of horseshit, it ain’t gonna be that easy, mister. I’m here to tell you that.”

Back to my psychology bag, which out of necessity, was starting to get bigger.

“But Maggie darlin’. I was running with Mosby and that man wouldn’t let none of us write to our folks. He claimed it’d be easy for the Yankess to trace us and ifin you crossed that guy he’d just up and shoot your ass. Honest.”

That worked for about two seconds, and then she regrouped.

“Well I’m here to tell ya’ that Willie Roberts was with Gilmore’s Raiders and he wrote Sally Jenson letters to the tune of once a month and he’s still walkin’ round. Then there was James Aspinwall and he was with Quantrill for Pete’s sake, and that murderous sonbitch let him live. He wrote Elizabeth Hartley once a week and you can’t drop me a few lines in two years?! Forgive me, but you’re a liar. Here’s your welcome mat.”

And then she started what I jokingly called later the “Silverware Serenade”.

The first thing she hurled at me was a big-ass salad fork, but I dodged it. Then came a knife—a steak knife—and it bounced off my buffalo robe followed by a big spoon and that didn’t worry me because spoons can’t draw blood, but the corkscrew thing that sailed end-over-end sure would, and it nailed my on the side of my neck.

As I wiped the blood from the jagged wound I looked at her with anger in my eyes. An ass-chewing was in order—yes—but trying to kill me wasn’t very nice. That seemed to freak her out and she put her hand over her mouth and backed up two paces.

“Oh Lewis … oh Lewis … I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you but damn you, you shoulda wrote me. I been worried sick about your for the longest time. Come on over here, sit down and let me fix you up.”

I did as she ordered, staying silent and acting like I was in a fair amount of pain. I really wasn’t, but I wanted to milk this as long as I could because if her right cross was as accurate as her right pitch, I might wake up in a hospital. She brought warm water, soap that must’ve been laced with pure alcohol—it stung that bad—cleaned my wound and applied a fresh bandage.

“Now, this might make you feel better,” she said as she patted on my shoulder, “but don’t you expect an apology. The way I see it, you done me wrong and you’re the one who needs to apologize.”

Seeing as how she may have been right—and had a whole drawer of weapons that she obviously was not afraid to use—I whipped up a sad and mournful little boy face.

“My dearest Maggie. You are correct in your assumption that I did not treat you right. The only thing I can say in my defense is that I was involved in some … clandestine activities that may warrant the gallows, and in no way did I want you associated with my name.”

She looked at me, smiled widely and with a twinkling eye said:

“That will do for now. Give us a kiss.”

And then I did what any red blooded American guy would do; I gave her a smooch.

***

Even with all that schmoozing I still had to pay a dollar a day for room and board but Rebecca seemed cool towards me; always giving me a wary look whenever I entered her space. I hadn’t had to dodge anything metal for the last three days so I think Maggie was in my corner although, on the night I snuck into her room as soon as her mama started snoring—and ‘Becca could rattle windows—Maggie asked me a question that made me have to think up good lie.

“Where did you learn to do that? Don’t get me wrong, because it do feel good, but have you been stepping out on me?”

“No Ma’am. Cheat on a champion knife thrower like you? Surely not. It’s just that one of the Rangers had this book on … love stuff …you know …what we been doing.”

“What was it called?” she asked as she rolled over and placed her body against mine.

“The Kuma Sutra.”

“I never heard of that, but it sounds interesting,” she said.

“Good, ‘cause that was page six. You wanna read page seven?”

“Yes I do.”

Good night.

Chapter 8

The Game Plan

Saturday January 211st, 1865

I spent the next two weeks wooing the Branson ladies, with Maggie being the center of all my loving intent but Rebecca’s concourse posed a different problem. She was still stand-offish to me and I got the impression she wasn’t sure I was who I said I was. Everytime I’d speak or make a move her eyes were upon me, and her glare was anything but friendly. That morning she pulled me aside.

“Lewis, there is a man you must meet now.”

“And his name is?”

“David Preston Parr. He runs a China shop across the street. I think you may want to talk to him. All of you in the Circle share the same objective and he will be your liaison to the rest of your allies, the bravest of men.”

The Circle? I thought. It can’t be what I think it is. It’s just a myth thought up by those conspiracy nuts on the Military Channel. Maybe Rebecca is trying to set me up. I better play along.

“Allright, I’ll go see him at once,” I said.

“No, wait until tonight. David does his best business after dark.”

“As you wish, Mrs. Branson. I’ll retire to my room.”

“And make sure,” she said as she walked away, “that it is your room. Rumors abound since your advent.”

And I wondered if they use the term “ball-buster” in 1865.

-2-

Parr’s Hall China Shop looked quite charming at its frontage. His fine plates, saucepans and teacups shone brilliantly in the luster of the nearby oil-fired street lamp. I’d heard about this secret organization from my Pap for years, and he claimed the Knights of the Golden Circle were as real as he was standing there. Their stated goal—which they never tried to hide—was to create a new slave-state nation encompassing our South, Mexico and the Caribbean Islands. Most of the founders were men of means and meant every word they said, but I privately judged them as “too Masonic” and sloughed it off. Yet, finding out now that it was legitimate I surmised there had to be a secret handshake, Occultist writing codes or maybe even a special knock on the door. If I ever needed the advantage of my wild-ass imagination, it was now.

Lemme think here. If their plan was to create a new slave-state nation and it was drawn up in a circle … then a knock would have to represent that. They’re 360 degrees in a circle but it wouldn’t be 360 knocks … no, that’d take too long. Let’s see … 6 plus 3 equals 9 … it’s worth a shot.

So I tapped on the front door window nine times as my hand went in a circle and thinking this was the dumbest thing I’d ever done. I thought that right up until the door slowly opened and was greeted by the business end of another long gun.

“I didn’t hear a tenth knock, stranger. Promptly state your business,” a gruff sounding voice said.

So I missed it by one. What are the odds?

“Yankees know me as Lewis Payne, but it’s really Powell, and I was sure I did ten. My hands are about froze and numb in this bitter, night air so maybe I missed one, or you heard wrong. Can I come in?”

“Who’s the king?” he asked.

Pap told me the name of the man who started this apocalyptic group. What was it? It started with a “B”.

“Bickley!” I answered loud and proud and ready to run. Yet, some doctor named George Bickley did start this bunch of weirdoes.

“Come on in, brother. Forgive my manners, but things here now are tenuous.”

Mr. Parr was a short, middle age man who had curly brown hair, a handlebar mustache and dressed as classy as his product line. I followed him into a back room filled with ledgers, pens galore and a tall, upright safe that looked C-4 proof. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey and poured two glasses, which meant he trusted me because if you plan on killing a man, you don’t waste the booze on him. We sat across from each other and both partook in a long swig.

“Tell me, Lewis, have you met our leader yet?” he asked.

“Which one do you mean?” And that was a real question because I didn’t know; they were so many players in this group.

“The one who is making the Grand Plan for us is a man named Booth. Ever hear of him?”

“Oh yes, if you mean John Wilkes.”

“One and the same. He will be coming into town early next month. He has written me a letter, telling me of your adventures with Mosby and the tenacity of your punishments. If our plan fails we will need a man who is not afraid to commit murder. You do qualify in this requirement, don’t you?”

Thinking about my session with Uncle Lewis, the only answer was a true one.

“Yes.”

“Good then. We are about to depart on a mission that will determine the course of free men everywhere. There are many of us—the true Knights of our Golden Circle—that cannot bear to live in a world that will be someday dominated by the coloreds. This is an abomination to us, and if our plan works then we can save all of these United States from the tyranny of a dictator such as the one we have now. My thoughts tend to wish the speedy demise of all three men at once, not pirate them away, but if the nation moves toward total chaos men of our character can fill the void. Do you agree with us?”

“I most certainly do. And while we are being frank, whose idea is it to kidnap these men?” I inquired with the conviction I needed to stop part of this.

Parr looked at me suspiciously, as if he wondered why I’d be asking so many questions after we’d just met.

“Why do you ask, Lewis?”

I laid it on thick.

“Because, I’d like to thank the man personally. It’s an ingenious move, more practical than killing all three outright. We can parade them all over our land in cages and chains before we try them. We may even get the concessions we need to further our goal. As far as I’m concerned, the North no longer exists.”

That statement seemed to soften his tone towards me, and I surprised myself at how revolutionary I could be, yet he gave no answer. Then I thought this may have come too naturally for me, and that was not a welcome epiphany. I was daily finding things out about myself that were anything but comforting.

At that moment we heard exactly ten taps on the front door, and David rose to answer.

“This is your lucky night, young man. I believe a few of our brothers are here,” David said.

Two men stood in the doorway and shook hands with David. I knew the one from previous pictures but the other was a mystery. After they exchanged small talk and hung up their soaking wet coats, David ushered them into our room. I stood at attention waiting for the introductions.

“Lewis, this is John Surratt and Louis Weichmann. They have put in a harrowing night. Gentlemen, please come by the fire while I make us a round of warm rum.”

Weichmann was the first to greet me with a handshake and a warm smile. He didn’t fit the mold of the average rebel as he was short, rather stout and nursing a notable limp. He didn’t look like he could catch a cold, but Surratt was different. Taller than six foot, he sported a full shock of curly auburn hair, more red than brown, combed straight back with an unkempt moustache as his only facial characteristic. Judging by his appearance he looked like he could’ve been, at one time, a choir boy, but looks are deceiving.

Our host served up four glasses of the warm liqueur and we sipped slowly, waiting for someone to start the meeting. As it turned out, David was the chairman.

“Lewis, these gentlemen have been traveling for two days now to procure a vehicle that will be paramount in the completion of our plan. John, will you please inform our new brother of your adventure?”

Surratt looked over at me, judgingly, and then back at David.

“With all due respect, I don’t know this man from Adam. Can he be … trusted?”

“Absolutely. Mr. Powell, or Paine or whatever name he chooses to use, rode for over two years with Mosby. He is one of us,” Davis answered convincingly.

“So be it,” Surratt said as he eased up on his reservations. “I meant no disrespect, sir, but times now are perilous. Louis and I went down to a place called Port Tobacco. Are you familiar with this place?”

Lying through my teeth, and trying to use my best vernacular of this era, I said, “Yes, I am. I have heard that we having many … friends there. Am I correct in that assumption?”

“You are indeed,” Surratt said. “Louis and I have partially acquired a small boat to be used later if our mission is a success.”

David them chimed in. “Lewis—we have too many Lewis’s—can I call you … Mosby?”

“Yes, sir, you may,” I said with a smile. “It will keep confusion to a minimum.”

“Capital then. John, Louis, I and the others are open with the plan to kidnap the President, Vice President and the Secretary of State all in one fell swoop, sneak them as fast as possible across the Maryland side of the Potomac to the Virginia side. There these traitors will be skirted to Montgomery {Alabama} and tried for treason.”

“Why Montgomery, may I ask.” Why not Richmond?” I asked.

“Because Montgomery was our first capital, and to us, it will always be that,” David answered. “John, how did we fare on that?”

There was an uncomfortable period of dead air as John and Louis looked at each other and sheepishly to boot. Surratt cleared his throat to answer.

“It … didn’t go quite as planned.”

“How so,’ David asked, and his facial expression projected to me as “I’m not real happy to hear that”.

“Our man wanted more than we expected, especially for his services,” Surratt said.

“How much more?” David asked calmly.

“Three hundred dollars. Two hundred more for the boat and one hundred for his captaining skills.”

“So be it,” David said nonchalantly.

David went to the safe, turned the tumblers and retrieved a stack of bills, Union script.

“Here is what you need. Do you two feel like returning tomorrow?”

Surratt and Weichmann looked at each other, and they did look weary and worn out. Surratt said something that just tickled me to death.

“David, you know our devotion but Louis and I are next to exhaustion. Can you send someone else? Someone such as … Mr. Mosby?”

“Yes I can. Mosby, will you volunteer?”

“Yes I will,” I said proudly and without hesitation.

“Good then. John, fill him in on the particulars.”

“David, if I am successful in this, would one of you vouch for me where Rebecca Branson is concerned? I feel she mistrusts me.”

“Complete this, and it will be done,” David said.

John Surratt filled me in on the directions to the docks, train trip times, our greedy middle man’s name and handed me the money in an old, leather satchel. I went straight back to Branson’s to spend the night in the arms and charms of Maggie, my newest love.

I was finally in the game.

Chapter 9

The Better Actor

Sunday January 22nd, 1865

The Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, being the corporate types they all are, did not bow to Protestant pressures and travel on the Sabbath ran like any other day. My coach left promptly at 7:14 am and after two stops we arrived in Port Tobacco at precisely 1:17 pm. The line ran adjacent to the Potomac River and the docks weren’t hard to find. My contact was a man named Amos McGee, and one of his “hands” was kind enough to show me to his office. Via telegram, I presumed, he knew of my coming but didn’t seem to know my name. Maybe this was another test.

“Excuse me, but what is your name?” he asked.

I remembered a movie I saw once, Reservoir Dogs, about a group of high class criminals who were preparing to rob a huge, Los Angeles bank, and the different fake names they used. I looked around his boat-building shop to see long, bent planks, hand planes everywhere with dirt and shavings floor wide. I invented a new alias.

“Mr. Wood, and I assume you are Amos?”

“You assume correctly. Please sit and let us conduct our business.”

Amos could’ve been a poster boy for Old Man and the Sea monthly because he was aged, grisly-looking and smelled like the last time he had a bath was when the final waves of Hurricane Whoever rolled through his shop. I wanted to make this as quick as possible, but I also wanted to leave him with the impression I knew what I was talking about and I was no one to cross.

“Now,” he said as he pulled his large frame up to the desk. “Before we continue there is the question of the balance owed. Have you been made aware of that?”

“Yes, sir, I have. The two gentlemen who negotiated with you earlier filled me in on all the particulars,” I said, as cool as a cucumber.

He leaned back in his chair and gave me a long, cold scare.

You know his kind, I thought. He’s nothing more than a back alley bully. You’ve dealt with these types before in school. Show him what you’re made of.

“Well now … I would not call our conversations a ‘negotiation’. The way I remember it I set a price and they accepted it. If things have changed, then so have the services to be rendered,” he answered like a typical smartass.

And this dude had no idea how right he was.

I laid a wad of money on his desk and sat back while he counted it. He almost sang as he clicked off tens and multitudes of tens and one hundred then two hundred twenty, forty, fifty and then he looked up.

“Wood, this is fifty dollars light. The deal is off.”

“Well now, is that not a shame?” I said as I stood, pulled my long gun out and placed it directly against his forehead. At once his gaze shifted from the barrel to my stare and I believe I saw total fear in his eyes, as if my glare had murder without hesitation in them. It was nothing more than a bluff and I hoped my powers of persuasion would always stay that way.

“There is two hundred for the boat, according to plan. Then there is fifty dollars to guarantee that you do not guide anything other than a fork to that glutinous face of yours. In terms you may understand, on the night they wire you to be there you never,” I said coldly as I pulled the hammer back, “ever show up. Do you understand the language that I am speaking here, Mr. McGee?”

The old prick farted as he shook and may even have pissed his pants as he tried to speak.

“I … I … understand, Mrrrr. Wood. I will heed your instructions to the letter.”

“Good. You better, because I know where you live. Now, where is the best damn steakhouse in this shithole of a town?”

“Three doors down. Only Jackson’s meat is very expensive.” Amos said.

“I needn’t worry about that. Is case you haven’t noticed, you just gave me a fifty dollar tip. Live long and prosper, tuna breath.”

As I pigged-out on one of the best Porterhouse steaks I’d ever eaten, I remembered a moment in this plan’s history. Two weeks later Surratt and Weichmann returned to do a dry run of their midnight voyage thing, but Amos was nowhere to be found. They rowed all night and at daybreak they docked on what they thought was the Virginia side of the Potomac. Turns out they were back at their point of origin, rambling on the water all night long in a big-ass circle. And I thought:

Maybe theses cowboys should change their name, because the circle thing ain’t working for them. And that just breaks my heart.

I patted myself on the back for being a bigger smartass than Amos, rewarded myself with another bourbon while thinking Clint Eastwood would’ve been extremely proud of me.

This, I thought, was a very rewarding day.

-2-

Friday February 3rd, 1865

After breakfast Rebecca came by with a fresh pot of coffee. She refilled my cup as I looked up at her and I think the term “all aghast” would fit here. The lady had shown me nothing but a hard time since I arrived, and this bit of kindness was a tad un-nerving. She sat across from me and gifted me with a smile.

“Lewis Powell, I owe you an apology,” she said quickly.

“Fo … for what?” I stammered, trying to put on the innocent thing.

“For mistrusting you when you first appeared. I did that as a precaution, on the premise of your last performance with certain members of my household. I have since been corrected by the man you are to see today.” she said in a soothing tone.

“Apology accepted, ma’am. And just who is this mystery man?”

“David Parr. He stopped by yesterday and told me you were an immense help to him and for me to consider you henceforth an honored quest. That is to say your stay now will be charitable on my part.”

“I thank you greatly for the kindness,” I said, thinking that was just enough and to shut up while I was in the lead.

“Then it is settled. Yet, I feel I must get something off my chest,” she said in anything but a soothing manner.

Oh boy, I thought. There had to be a catch.

“I will tell you truly that I know what your mission is now and what it may be in the foreseeable future. My daughter has always been fond of you—for whatever reason—and when you disappeared before you broke her heart. When this time you part—as I know you will—you would be well advised to tell her beforehand. I have friends everywhere and … well… let’s just affirm the Good Book says a man will reap what he has sown. While I am not saying I am an agent of the Good Lord’s justice … I can say I am mighty close. Do we have an understanding, young man?”

“Yes, ma’am, we most certainly do. Rest assured I will do everything you have requested.”

“Good. Now be on your way, for Mr. Parr is a busy man.”

And I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

***

I immediately went to David’s shop and waited in the wings until he finished a sale. As the happy customer left, he signaled for me to follow him into his office. We sat and exchanged cordial greetings.

“I’ve been told that you wish to see me, David. Rebecca was emphatic that I come as soon as possible.”

“Yes, and I’m glad you heeded her request,” he said.

“After our conversation this morning, I will always honor her desires,” I stated, raising my eyebrows almost to my forehead. We both got a chuckle over that, and then got down to business.

“Lewis, it is now time for you to meet our leader. Mr. Booth will be in town late tonight and would like to lunch with you tomorrow. He has heard of your work so far and your tenure with Mosby. He is most anxious to meet you.”

“No more willing to meet me than I am he,” I said. “Where and when?”

“John Wilkes stays at the Barnum Hotel when he is in Baltimore. It is at the corner of Calvert and Lafayette Avenues, about six blocks from here in the downtown area. Now, I must tell you that this establishment is very expensive, but the cuisine is exquisite. How are you fixed for funds?”

Thinking about my bountiful trip to Port Tobacco I said:

“I have enough money as of now; a loan will not be needed.”

“That is comforting. Financing for our cause is becoming less and less now, but we will survive it. By the way, do you know what Mr. Booth looks like?”

“Yes. I’ve seen his face on many marquees. He is an actor, isn’t he?”

“The absolute best,” David said. We shook hands and away I went nervously knowing that if I was to pull this off, tomorrow would be Act One.

-2-

Saturday, February 4th, 1865. Noon.

The walk to Barnum’s took about a half an hour and I used that time to put on my “game face”. In case he asked about my uncle’s murderous missions with John Mosby, aka the Grey Ghost, I gradually went through every battle and skirmish I knew my relative was in. I guess studying Uncle Lewis’s exploits through the books Pap kept was working now in my favor, although at the time I thought of it as an abnormal obsession.

The house restaurant at Barnum’s Hotel was packed that lunchtime and the clientele were obviously the wealthy and powerful players of the day. Booth wasn’t hard to find as he sat in the middle of the gala sipping a bowl of soup. One tiny sip, and then he blow off the steam of the next dip and the next and I immediately gave him “asshole status” for his pompous demeanor.

He wasn’t just sitting in his chair, he was posing with his left fist resting on his thigh, lifting the spoon to his thin lips in a purely measured move with his right hand. His brown, curly hair was combed and pampered and his moustache was trimmed and groomed. Before I approached him I had to have a talk with myself. I said:

Self, you know you want to waltz over there and drop kick this asshole right out the door and on to the harbor, but you need to gain his confidence or your plan is nixed. He’s an actor, so you have to be one too.

“Mr. Booth, I assume,” I said as I stood by his table.

“You assume correctly, sir, and you must be Lewis.”

“Yes I am; at your service.”

He stood, we shook hands and I marveled at the strength of his grip. I made a mental note to comment on that for future plans. We sat, and a waiter came quickly, but I only wanted a hot cup of coffee and a piece of cherry pie.

“Tell me, Lewis. What do you think of our President?” he asked, looking right into my eyes.

Think hard RJ. This could be your last test.

“Sometimes, Mr. Booth, I almost feel sorry for the man. To die for such a worthless cause that we both know as unjust as well as immoral seems to be a terrible waste of talent. Nonetheless, he has had four long years to correct himself and yet he has shown us all what a stubborn man he can be. I almost pity him, and probably will, right up to the time you say the word and I slit his throat.”

Judging by the way his spoon-holding hand was suspended a few inches from his gaping and wide open mouth, I was as cold as I needed to be.

“Any more questions … brother?”

Chapter 10

Rowboat Blues

Booth continued with his last sip of soup as I sat there, looking right at him. He brushed his bowl aside, wiped his mouth by tapping the napkin on his lips and lit a small cigar. He offered me one and I accepted it and a light because, in this timeframe, everyone smoked.

“Well now,” he started carefully. “That is my plan for all three, eventually. But, my first choice is to seize them and bring them to Montgomery as fast as possible. I covet your thoughts on this, Lewis.”

“John, I am in total agreement with you on this. Yet … traveling with General Mosby has taught me one true fact; things never go as planned. We must think this through properly and have a counter if plan A fails. It would be whimsical to think all three guarded men can be carted off at the same time without flaws appearing.”

John Wilkes sat straight up, processing all of what I said and—I hoped—impressed with my presentation. I knew that if I could convince an accomplished actor that I was genuine, then maybe I could win an Oscar for my performance in eighty years or so.

“What you say is true, my friend. Nonetheless, our plans are as thus. Two of us will accost the Vice President, two for Secretary Seward with myself and one more trusted soul for Lincoln. Lewis, do you know of anyone who is qualified in both strength and intellect?”

“Judging by the firmness of your handshake and the tenacity of your resolve, I would say you might be able to pull that one off yourself. But, if it is your plan is to subdue the President and lower him to the stage—”

“Mr. Powell,” Booth interrupted quickly as his temperament changed to one of suspicion. “How did you know I was planning to do that?”

Oh shit, RJ, I thought. You’re on the verge of blowing this whole deal. Think fast.

“I would assume that, with you being an accomplished thespian and preforming at theatres everywhere in Washington, that you would attempt it there. You know the layout of all the finer entertainment houses, their exits, height of the balcony to the stage and of course Mrs. Lincoln is a well-known fan of yours. Who’s to say that Mr. Lincoln wouldn’t accompany her for a performance? I have been told that she is a hard person to say no to. With the strength we both possess my first thought was you lowering the President down from his balcony seat—I assumed he would sit up there—and I will cling to him as if my life depends on it, which I am sure it will. Then we will swiftly exit out a back door to the two—no, three—horses I will have tied up there beforehand. Please correct me if I am in error here. I did not mean to overstep my bounds, sir. ”

Now, if his ego is as big as I think it is, and my bullshit was first class, he will eat that up.

Booth eased his tightened posture, took a drag of his smoke and a sip of coffee. His disgruntled face turned to a smile and I had one thought.

Gimme that statue and a bottle of champagne.

“I have found,” Booth said “there are times men think alike when a proper plan of action is required and this may be such a period. That was my thoughts to the letter and I believe you are my comrade in this, for we seem to be of one mind. Yet, in the event all goes awry I feel I must do what I must do to ensure this tyrant can afflict us no more. If there is found no other recourse, do you accept that eventuality?”

“I do, but I will do my best to see that happens in Alabama. In this, I pledge my sacred honor.”

“Then it is done, Lewis. Now you must travel to Washington to meet the others. How soon can you depart?”

“There … might be a problem,” I said as I cleared my throat.

Booth gave me an ornery little smile. “I am sure Maggie will let you go for a few days or weeks. As you see, I have spies everywhere.”

“I gather that. But, I signed a pledge—under duress—when I got into this territory to not leave Maryland. This might pose a problem.”

“Let me see it,”

I handed it to Booth, he studied it and slid it back to me.

“Lewis, what type of writing utensil did this Captain use?”

“ … It looked like a pencil.”

He handed me a block eraser and I caught on immediately, being a little tiffed I didn’t think of this myself. A few swipes of the rubber tool and my travel restrictions were null and void.

“Why do you suppose this man used a pencil?” I asked.

“I did say I had spies everywhere, didn’t I? Never judge a man henceforth by the color of his uniform. Now, go to your sweetheart, make amends and pack. I will be in touch.”

We stood, shook hands and I departed for Barnum’s thinking this whole scenario over. But first, I knew I had to stop at a tobacco shop because, eventually, I’d have to stop smoking OPC’s.

That meaning, Other Peoples Cigars.

-2-

Monday February 6th, 1865

Surratt’s Boarding House, located at 604 H Street, wasn’t one of the finest bed and breakfasts in Washington, D.C. but it was suitable for me. Creature comforts—other than my Maggie’s embrace—meant nothing to me now because my mission had begun and its completion my only thought. I was anxious to meet the proprietor, knowing her legacy would be a topic of heated debate to the present day.

Mary Surratt answered my knock at the door and, at first sight, I found her a handsome woman in her mid-thirties, I’d say, with long, black hair parted in the middle and tied back tightly in a bun. A set of innocent looking brown eyes complimented her smooth complexion and I detected no malice in her person. I almost choked back a tear knowing she’d be the first—and I say guiltless—white woman to be hanged by the Federal government.

“Yes, sir. Can I help you?” she asked in a diplomatic manner.

“Madam, I was wondering if your son John was here today.”

SLAM!!

The breeze from her surprising answer almost blew my hat off. RJ, I thought. What did you do wrong? You know this is the right place. Do you look threatening? You took a bath and shaved before you came down. Do you still look like a vagabond? Try it again.

I removed my hat, brushed back my hair and thought of a new plan. I knocked ten times and, after a period of dead air, I heard loud footsteps coming to the door. I was greeted by a man I knew I’d meet eventually, but not this soon.

“Stranger, state your business,” he commanded.

Samuel Bland Arnold looked anything but his middle name. He stood tall, well-toned with dark, curly hair, and a slight growth of beard. His hazel eyes had the same devilish appearance that I saw on my uncle. He dressed all in black attire which gave him the semblance of what was referred to then as a “Highwayman”. They were indispensable in times of revolution or criminal enterprises because they would anything do to complete their mission. And I do mean anything.

“Excuse me, sir. My name is Lewis Powell to you, Lewis Payne to the bluecoats. I was instructed by … the actor to report here. If I have the wrong address then forgive my manners, and I’ll be on my way.”

He then loosened his stiff posture. “Come in and follow me. Do not look at anyone eye-to-eye but do not look away either. Put your hat back on, for any man with their hair exposed is considered suspect.”

I did as he said, thankful I’d been schooled on proper male etiquette before someone with a .44 parted my hair. We went to a smoke-filled inner room with a table and chairs, and well lit with four, large candles illuminating most of the room.

“What’s your pleasure, brother?” Sam said as he raised his empty glass.

What would he think if I asked for whiskey? It’s too early for hard alcohol. Yet … its noon somewhere.

“How about a cup of black coffee in a bowl filled with good, Kentucky bourbon?”

Sam smiled. “A man after my own heart. Two Irish coffees coming right up.”

After he left I surveyed the room and counted six chairs with an ashtray by every one of them. If my count was right then the “Final Solution” would be orchestrated and voted on here. If I did nothing else, I knew I had to steer that meeting towards the kidnaping aspect. Anything else would be a death sentence for all three parties and this whole experience a waste of history’s time.

“I received a telegram from the actor telling me of your coming visit. And, by the way, you can say Booth’s name here. We all are brothers in the Cause and soon you will meet everyone important. Since you are new to our clan I must tell you that anything said stays in this room. I will caution you just this once, but I’ve already gotten the impression you know that rule,” Sam said in a respectful manner.

“Oh yes, I know. If I learned anything from Mosby it was knowing when to keep still. Tell me about Mrs. Surratt. Why did I get such a cold greeting?”

Sam looked away and tilted back in his chair. “It wasn’t you personally, Lewis. She …she is a careful woman and dearly loves her son, John. She has no idea what we are planning but she is not stupid. Just because John will not tell her anything about our meetings gives her cause for suspicion. I am sure you can understand a mother’s concern for her only remaining son. Her other two boys were lost at Antietam, and she is … nervous.”

“Would there be any harm in telling her a little? Maybe that would ease her mind,” I said.

“Absolutely not. If John found out woe be it to that man. John is a careful soul, but can become murderous when he is crossed. Do not mention anything to her. It is for your wellbeing as well as hers—what the hell?”

Just then we heard a loud noise that sounded like a whole squadron of jack-booted troops coming our direction. Sam stood—showing no fear—and drew his weapon. So, I did too, knowing full well I’d miss if I had to shoot. My killing days were over as far as I was concerned. The first man through our door was Louis Weichmann, looking mad, bad and glad to yell at somebody.

“Samuel!” Louis yelled. “By God we better start to rethink this thing again, ‘cause that low-life, snake eatin’ smelly sonofabitch was nowhere to be found!”

“Who?” Sam asked.

“McGhee, that’s who. John and I rowed all night tryin’ to find Virginia in the dark. We ended up goin’ in a big damn circle. Wouldana happened if that catfish-fuckin’ ingrate had showed. And why the hell is he here?” Louis said as he pointed right at me.

Tempers seemed to soften as John Surratt walked slowly in. Weichmann looked no worse for wear but John was a different story. Visualize anything the cat would drag in, and that was he.

“Now settle down Louis,” John said as he eased him down to a chair. “Ain’t nobody’s fault but McGhee and he will be compensated for his betrayal; mark my words. Mr. Powell or Payne or Mosby or whatever the hell your name is this day, did you arrange this with McGhee like we asked?”

How could I answer that?

“He agreed to follow all my instructions to the letter,” I said, lying through one orifice or another, yet knowing that’s just what he did.

“Then this is your responsibility to correct. No one can double cross the Circle and get away with it. What say you?”

“… I say … first thing in the morning I head for Port Tobacco. Will that suffice?” I said.

“Only if Amos receives his just—and last—rewards.” Surratt said with the same set of eyes as Samuel.

I spent a fitful night at Mary’s House, wondering if my conscience would allow me to do what I knew they expected from me.

Chapter 11

Blood On My Hands

Tuesday, February 7th, 1865; mid-morning

I skipped the train ride down to Port Tobacco because the weather was warming and I detected a thaw in the air. John Surratt lent me a fresh horse and I was becoming an accomplished horseman now, only falling off my steed three times in as many weeks. My buttocks and pride were bruised, but not my determination and I even thought about a cushion for comfort. Then I imagined General’s Mosby or Custer seeing me like that and just shooting me right off my horse, so I quickly perished that thought.

After all, this was the 1860’s and men were men, sore asses or not.

I took my time that day, enjoying the warmth of the bright sunshine on my young bones. It was a time for soul searching and I reflected on my plan thus far. It wasn’t pretty—not by a long shot—nonetheless I had gotten myself into the inner circle of the conspirators. My goal still was to help kidnap President Lincoln, then disable his captors so I could steal him away and dispatch him back to Washington, thus clearing my family name. Afterwards I’d hustle back to my point of origin in Richmond and hopefully return to my life in 2014. Funny thing was, I didn’t remember asking Rabbi Endras for a round-trip ticket. Like I said before, I was terrible on details, and realized that flaw may come back to haunt me.

***

I arrived about six in the evening, just as the sun was setting. I tied off “Trigger”—or whatever his name was—to a hitching post in town and walked the quarter mile or so to McGhee’s boat shop. Waking by I heard three too many voices and figured he was talking to his crew, so I walked back to the tavern aptly named “TAVERN”. Sitting at the south end by a window I ate pork, mashed potatoes, with only one lump per spoonful, and had a beer and two, double shots of bourbon for dessert. Until then, I was shaking like a leaf.

It was dark when the men left, so I paid my tab and made the “High Noon” walk to a place I definitely didn’t want to go. I had one clear choice in this; to convince Amos somehow to leave here and go to Maine or someplace where the Golden Circle couldn’t find him. If I did this, then I was saving two lives; mine and his. I called upon all the television and movie slick-talking heroes of my past to help me with my presentation. I didn’t knock, I just walked in.

“What the HELL do you want now, Wood?!” he yelled as he looked up and sprayed some of his dinner my way.

When I called the man a gluten before, I pegged him right. Before him was a Thanksgiving-size plate of beef, at least one whole chicken, a few greens and a mug of something steaming on the side. I was glad I was ten feet back or I would’ve needed a dry cleaner to sanitize my best suit, but realizing that was fifty years in the future.

“I came to talk, Amos, because I heard you were a reasonable man. I have a favor to ask.”

“Favor my ass! It’s like this, rebel. You ain’t getting’ shit outa me from now one. In case you ain’t heard the war’s almost over and your side got its ass kicked. Get outta my town.”

I walked over, grabbed a chair and sat on his left side. I did it calmly, nonchalantly as if he didn’t scare me, which he didn’t. I wasn’t leaving until I got something concrete from this pig.

“Now, now, Mr. McGhee, let’s not get your panties in a wad. My proposition is simple. I will pay you fifty dollars now and fifty per month if you leave here and go north. All I will need is an address so I can send you your due on time. The South may have lost this war, but there are a group of very selective and wealthy men who are bound by their honor to continue this in a different … direction. Eventually these men will come looking for you and it would be unwise of you to discount their reach. Think about it for a moment.”

For a few seconds I thought I had him. He continued to chow down on a huge chicken breast, holding it with his filthy bare hands. As he filled both jowls he seemed to yield to my advice but then his forehead grew red and the veins bulged from his neck.

“Now hear this, Mr. Wood! The only person leaving this town tonight is you. Now git your fancy-lookin’ smooth-talkin’ ass outa my shop before I open this drawer.”

Brushing small McNuggets off my shoulder, my whole personality changed in a flash. I no longer disliked the man, I hated him.

“Wrong answer, my friend, but open that drawer anyway,” I said as cold as I could, hoping to bluff him out.

But, my best Raylan Givens didn’t work, and he started to pull the drawer open quickly. Faster than he, I slammed the door shut with the calf of my leg, then stood there and stared him down, almost daring him to make a move. Feeling like he had no recourse, he took a wild right cross which came almost in slow motion. I ducked it and swiftly came back with my own haymaker, knocking him off his chair. He slid into a tall cabinet with a thud, a grunt and some kind of eerie groan.

As I walked over to kick him in the shins—not hard, just enough to get his undivided attention—he looked up at me with this frantic stare. Then a chunk of something white flew out of his mouth like he was trying to spit it free. His chest heaved up and down and he grabbed his throat and tried to ask me for help, I think. The man was choking on his chicken and if I didn’t help he would die so I rushed over and put my arms around him to do the Heimlich and then … then I let go, retreating to a corner out of his sight.

And I let him die. God help me. I watched the man die.

Panting like a winded hound, I knew in the back of mind it might come to this. All he had to do was telegraph the whole story to John Surratt and all my efforts would’ve been for naught, and my life wouldn’t have been worth spit. History would continue and my family name would still be soiled and I would be stuck in 1865 and maybe on the run the rest of my life. No, I knew, this was a gift. Yet, I couldn’t let the word get back he choked to death on food; that just wouldn’t do for my reputation with the Knights.

As I calmed down I resigned myself to the cold hard facts. Directly across from me was a red, metal can with the words LAMP OIL stenciled on the front. I rose, straightened my coat and put my hat back on. I took the liquid and poured a circle around Amos, then gently closed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. I walked backwards to the front door, leaving a trail of the thick liquid in my wake. With all the will I could muster I lit a match … and dropped it. I walked back up town, mounted my horse and slowly left like I didn’t have a care in the world. At its edge I turned and looked back. The flames were growing and there was a mad rush of men manning the fire buckets, but as the inferno came through the roof I knew it was a total loss. I knew then these truths were evident. I was a murderer, an arsonist as well as depraved and indifferent to the gasps of a dying human being. All the way back to Washington the same emotion gripped my soul and wouldn’t let go.

I just wanted to go home. Home to my simple life in Richmond, Virginia 2014.

-2-

About midnight I stopped at another boarding house and paid the man two dollars for a room, bath and breakfast. After seeing to my ride’s meal I mounted and rode to Surratt’s house. Grabbing my bag I’d hoped for a quick exit, but John Surratt met me as I came down the steps. I froze, not knowing what to expect and then he flashed a huge smile.

“Lewis, I have a message from Booth,” he said.

“What does he want?” I asked.

“He wants me to shake your hand for him and congratulate you on a superb job. Well done, brother, well done.”

“News travels faster than I thought,” I said as I accepted the greeting. “Does he have any more instructions for me?”

“Not at the moment. He wants you to go back to Baltimore and someone will contact you through the Branson’s. You deserve a rest.”

“That I do.”

Next stop, Baltimore and the waiting arms of my Maggie.

-3-

Wednesday February 8th, 1865. Evening

I received a warm welcome when I arrived at Branson’s Boarding House, with Rebecca cordially greeting me and instructing the young, black maid—who I heard called Beulah—to carry my luggage to my new room. It was twice the size of my old one-room accommodation with a little parlor in front of a large bedroom. Speaking of large, the bed looked king size and I couldn’t wait to chase her daughter around it from end to end.

I was thinking that, of course, not saying it out loud. I’m a little dense at times, but never that stupid.

What shook me for a second was the way Beulah glared at me. This was the first time I’d met the young lady, yet her large, brown eyes did their best to stare a hole in me. She didn’t set my bag down; she let it drop to the floor, then turned in a huff and walked swiftly away. I didn’t give the incident a second thought and spruced up a bit before I made my next social call.

***

Miss Maggie was serving two couples their dinner and I quietly sat in a far corner where I could watch the front and kitchen doors. For some strange—or paranoid—reason, I felt the need to see everyone’s entrance and my quickest exit now. As much as I hated it, I’d become a highwayman and would now have the nagging feeling that someone would always be gunning for me. It was an unfortunate side effect of the path my life had taken, and I told myself to get used to it.

As Maggie turned to take some dirty dishes to the kitchen my eyes were upon her. She was a lovely woman no matter what the dress or the lack thereof. She smiled as she noticed me surveying her every curve and instinctively knew where my mind was, and I was hoping hers was in the gutter too. I needed to feel her warmth against mine and to experience the normality that her essence brought to my twisted and unsure world. Just as I was about to approach her my view was blocked by a dark figure clothed in black.

“Well, Mr. Karr, please sit down,” I said.

“As you wish, Lewis, but I can’t stay long,” he said as he sat on the edge of a chair. “I have a message for you from Mr. Booth. He has instructed me to tell you to rest the remainder of the week and be ready to travel Sunday morning. And he said for you to dress in the warmest of attire.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

“To Toronto.”

“Toronto where?” I asked, not even thinking about the obvious.

“Why, Canada, of course. We have many friends there. Good luck.”

And with that he was on his way, and I was thinking:

Friends of the Confederacy that far north?

C 12

My Midnight Special

After spending five great days and as many luscious nights with Maggie, I realized something was happening. As hard as I fought it, I was falling in love with her and this was the worst possible scenario for her. If things went my way I would be gone from this era in less than two months and would have to leave her here. I didn’t even know if I could go back, but then I had a thought,

Maybe if I do all this … and save the day … Maggie and I could get married; settle down and have children; live a normal life in this timeframe. Yet … I have my murderous past and it will come back to me. Maggie may be involved … guilt by association. They hanged one woman when Lincoln was killed … who’s to say they won’t harm Maggie? Shut up and enjoy the happiness you have today and take it for what it’s worth.

I dismissed that daydream and continued to savor my time with her. If memory of this time in United States history served me right, I was about to be in the company of some very powerful and rich men. I decided to splurge, take Maggie to an opera Saturday night and then depart at Booth’s command. Young Beulah came with us, uninvited, and stayed behind us all the way there and home. She gave me an uneasy feeling because it seemed she was watching every move I made, especially with Maggie. Maybe, I thought, she was here at the behest of Rebecca. If that was the case then there was nothing I could do but act like a southern gentleman during daylight hours.

The night was for Maggie and me, so R&B Detective agency could take a hike.

-2-

Sunday February 12th, 1865

“Lewis, are you ready for our informative journey?” Booth asked as we sat down for morning coffee.

“As ready as I’ll ever be. Can you fill me in on the details?”

“The particulars of our excursion are better left to the privacy of our train ride to New York. The ambience of the traveling noise is more conducive to private affairs, away from prying eyes and ears,” Booth said as he looked at Beulah.

“I have a bad feeling about that young lady, John. She watches me—and now you—way too closely for my comfort. Could she be a threat?”

“As I said before, never judge a person by the color of their uniform or now even the color of their skin. The negro has become more brazen since the President emancipated them, but that shan’t last much longer, if we have our way.”

He phrased the statement as “matter-of-fact” and with a cold and convinced look in his eyes. I knew then that John Wilkes Booth was not looking for fame or fortune in what he’d planned. He was committed to his Cause and I knew I’d be introduced to men who were as adamant as he, only they were much more dangerous because they had the money to see their whims through.

“One more thing before we go, Lewis. I will try to phrase this as delicately as I can … but is that the best outfit you own?”

“Yes, it is. I am but a poor man and have always been that way. Does this pose a problem?”

“Not entirely, because it can be fixed when we arrive today. Bring only your grooming materials, tobacco and any other personal items you think you need. The rest will be supplied. Now, drink up and let us check out.”

I rose, went to my room and packed a few things. Before I left I caught Maggie alone in her mother’s office. I kissed and hugged her tightly goodbye, telling her I’d be gone but a few days.

-3-

We left Baltimore at ten a.m. and during the trip we stayed in a two-occupant cabin with John immediately pulling the blinds down as we left the station. We lit our cigars and John offered me a hit from his silver flask. After we gulped down a big swig of good bourbon, he began.

“Lewis, I take it you have a lot of questions. What are your concerns?” he asked.

“They are not concerns, per see, but bewilderment that we had operatives in another country. I thought are movement was purely regional.”

“We have sympathizers all over the western world, but our real brothers are in the North Country. There are men of great means and vision who have found refuge in Toronto and Montreal, unencumbered by our Federalists. When we meet the man I have contacted, you will be surprised at his planning, for the South will rise again, only this time in new lands, far from the clutches of our dictator and his so-called righteous culture.”

“I look forward to meeting him,” I said.

“And I am sure he will reciprocate your arrival. Your reputation precedes you.”

I sat quietly the rest of the trip, contemplating not having the notoriety I’d earned at all.

-4-

John hailed a horse-drawn cab and we checked into the Revere Hotel, and revered it was. Situated on the corner of West Fork Avenue and Second Street, it was a five story brownstone of exquisite wood trimmed in white on the outside and all-natural cherry inside. The doorman let us in and after John paid for two rooms, side-by-side, we unpacked. We met at their spacious in-house restaurant, had a delicious late lunch and topped it off with large cups of aromatic coffee. That’s when we got down to business.

“Lewis,” John said in a serious tone. “When it comes to the people we will meet, presentation is everything. Today we will meet another brother who is a specialist in fine men’s clothing. He runs a haberdashery a few short blocks from here and we will visit him this afternoon.”

“Isn’t his shop closed on the Sabbath?” I asked.

“Yes it is, but not to us. Observe and learn.”

***

1177A, New Amsterdam Street was a tall, brick building with arched windows front and back. The frontage was closed but Booth and I walked up the fire escape to a door on the second floor. Booth slowly tapped ten times on the window with his knuckles and quickly it opened,

“John Wilkes, it is indeed a pleasure to see you again. Come in, come in,” the occupant said.

We walked in and stood a few feet from the door, presumably waiting further invites. The man was short, a little plump with grey hair circling the sides of a bald and shiny head. His glasses were of the style Ben Franklin wore, half-moons and hanging low on his nose. What caught my eye was a cloth measuring tape wrapped behind his neck and trailing off both shoulders. It was Sunday and, with no business allowed to be conducted on that day. I assumed he slept with it on.

“Lewis Powell, meet Clovis Bingington. Mr. Powell will be accompanying me to the North.” Booth said.

He and I exchanged handshakes with a quick and polite man bow. Clovis stood back, looked me up and down, then laid a thumb and forefinger under his chin.

“John Wilkes, this gentleman needs a new look. Follow me.”

Booth cocked his head towards the fleeting tailor and pointed the way for me to go with his hand. I followed Clovis to an inner room, stood on a one-step up platform and stretched, bent down, stood straight up and assumed all the accepted measuring profiles.

“Mr. Powell, I will start you out with the standard suit of the day on this side of the Mason Dixon. You are almost a perfect fit for that, as styles up here are quite plain and tasteless, if you ask me. The other outfits will be of the Southern style and you should wait until you cross the border before you wear them. They will need minor alterations. You and John can wait in my sitting room if you want and enjoy my latest shipment—banned up here, of course—of fine Louisiana coffee or Tennessee whiskey.”

“… Is there any reason why we cannot have both?” I asked, trying to break the ice.

“No, no, not at all,” Clovis said with a chuckle. “Try any combination you desire, but as for me, I have work to do. Gentlemen, at your leisure,” he said as he pointed towards the other rooms.

John and I retired to the parlor with cups in hand. We talked about our upcoming trip, when I should speak and when to listen, and I asked if he was still serious about the kidnaping aspect of the plan.

“As serious as a Lincoln impeachment, but that is not likely to happen. I know this is the best course of action and I am hoping I can count on you to persuade a few of our—how should I say?—more … squeamish partners.”

“Exactly how many partners do we have?” I asked as I slipped two fingers of whiskey in my cup.

“A minimum of four, a maximum of six; that number the preferred.”

“How many are wary of your plan?” I asked.

“Two men are hesitant and want to go straight for a kill. The other is a sheep and will do what he is told. Yet, we are still in the planning stage. Many of the minute details still need to be explored. This will not happen overnight. Ah, Lewis, I believe Clovis wants your presence.”

The tailor stood in the doorway holding a pair of black pants and a “Frock” coat to match. It resembled a tuxedo with a long tail that hung almost to a man’s knees to be worn with a white, long sleeve shirt and a pale, blue vest. As I tried it on Clovis and John nodded their approval. When I asked about a tie Clovis took a regular bow tie but tucked the ends up inside a very stiff collar. I think today it’s called an Ascot, and I did look and feel quite the dandy.

“Perfect, Lewis, just perfect,” Clovis said. “Now, what time do you depart tomorrow?”

“Nine o’clock in the morning,” Booth answered.

“Good. I will have his other two suits altered, pressed and delivered to him by eight sharp. Have a safe and, I pray, a successful trip.”

We shook his hand and departed for Revere House, to relax; I hoped.

-5-

Tuesday February 14th. Late morning.

It took all of twenty-four hours to arrive in Toronto, but was a pleasurable experience nonetheless. Booth and I shared a two-berth cabin, enjoyed fine dining, the best of cigars and wine. Once I wondered where Booth got the financing for these excursions because actors didn’t make this kind of money then and, seeing as how he was paying for this, I enjoyed the simple and slower lifestyle of this era to the max.

After several stops in Elmira, Buffalo and Erie Pennsylvania we departed for Toronto city. It was a beautiful town complete with Gothic-style cathedrals, lavish parks and wide streets. We checked into the Queensbury Hotel which made the Revere look like a Motel 6. After settling into our “suites” we went downstairs for coffee mixed with Canadian Club whiskey.

“Lewis, you are about to meet the number one operative in Canada. His name is Jacob Thompson and he is a very prosperous man. Turn to your right,”

I did as Booth said and without thinking I immediately stood, as if at attention. I knew by his stature and the sureness of his eye contact that he was a very serious individual.

C 13

The Grand Plan

“Lewis Powell, meet Mr. Jacob Thompson,” Booth said.

I extended a hand and Jacob graciously accepted it. He was tall, over six foot, with black hair and with a small growth of beard under his chin. His dark, brown eyes relayed a man convinced, sure of himself and his hands were the soft texture of one who’d always been rich.

“Gentlemen, let us rest,” Booth said.

We sat at a table for four and there was one conspicuous seat empty. Booth looked at it, and then at Jacob.

“Where is Clement?” Booth asked.

“Mr. Clay has been called to Montreal on important business. The first part of our prisoner program starts this week. You will undoubtedly see him soon, if all goes as planned,” Jacob said as he lit a huge cigar.

My look of being in a complete fog must’ve been obvious. I was clueless about any of their programs and, judging by the way my two compadres were smiling at me, they noticed it immediately.

“Jacob, I will now vouch for my friend. Lewis rode with General Mosby for two years and has the intelligence and tenacity to help see our plan through. I must also credit him with taking care of our Port Tobacco problem,” Booth said in a praising manner.

“Lewis, I am impressed. Your handling of the fisherman was just what we need to deter others who refuse to take us seriously, on our side and the enemies’. My compliments,” Jacob said as he raised his glass and tipped it my way. “Now that you are a Knight of our Golden Circle I feel I can tell you our plans. My partner, one Clement Claiborne Clay, and I have combined our resources to raise an army that we will need to back our stratagem. There are thousands of our troops detained at Union prisoner camps in Michigan and Ohio. We plan to liberate them as security there has loosened somewhat in anticipation an early end of this wretched war. We will see to their transport back to the South, their re-arming and training for our move against Mexico and Central America. What say you so far?”

My first instinct was to tell this man he was absolutely and positively batshit crazy, but that seemed a bit harsh. I knew this would cost a lot of green, so I formed my reply with that in mind.

“Sir, it has been my experience with General Mosby that plans are made in the mind but completed through the purse. Clothes, food, armaments and the convincing of Union camp guards to look the other way will be expensive. Mosby was never afraid to grease the wheels of progress and, as you well know, his wagon ran smoothly. That would be my only concern.”

“Would it ease your mind if I was to tell you that at the end of business today we will have six hundred thousand dollars to our credit?” Jacob said.

If my eyes had gotten any bigger they would’ve popped right out of my head. $600,000 was, in 1865, like millions in twenty-first century money. My Pap always told a braggart to never let his mouth write a check that his ass couldn’t cash, but that didn’t apply here.

“That surely does amaze me, Mr. Thompson,” I said with a tone of respect. “A lot of mountains can be moved with that kind of …push. Exactly what prison camp are you planning to liberate, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

Thompson looked over at Booth with the wide-eyed expression that I took meant, “Can I trust this man totally?”

“Jacob, I believe in Lewis. I have seen him at work and been told tales of his exploits. You can speak your mind.”

Jacob re-lit his cigar, took a long drink from his bourbon cup, and addressed me.

“Lewis, have you ever heard of Camp Chase?”

Think quickly, RJ, I thought. Its Civil war history … you know this… it’s in … Ohio. That’s it, a POW camp surrounded by armed and vicious guards.

“Yes, sir, I have heard of it, the caliber of the detainees and its top notch security. Why do you ask?”

“Because that will be our primary target. Of the five thousand men there around three hundred are officers. They must come out first and quickly, for we have transportation for them down the Ohio River and then the Mississippi all the way to Alabama. What we desperately need is an operative inside the camp. Someone who can be convinced to look the other way while fifty of our finest and brightest warriors flee unencumbered.”

“Judging by your presentation, sir, I assume you have someone in mind.” I said.

“We do,” Jacob said as he slid a letter-size, leather folder my way. “This is his dossier. Examine it and share your thoughts with us.”

Right now, I thought, is the time for you to think like a highwayman, even if you detest it. Look it over once … no, twice, and make a believable response.

His name was Ashael Fleetwood. His picture showed a man of forty to forty-five years of age, with dark hair and a full beard. Dressed in a Union officer’s best blues, he had the aura of a tough and no-nonsense man. Yet, I knew all men have a weakness they can’t seem to control.

“Mr. Thompson, for appearances sake I’d say this man would be a tough nut to crack unless, of course, he has a need that requires fulfillment.”

John and Jacob looked at each other and smiled. I assumed I’d past the first test, but I knew there’d be more.

“Very astute of you, young man,” Jacob said. “Read on.”

Down close to the bottom of page one I saw Mr. Fleetwood’s “financial report”. He, his wife and three children were living in a two room log cabin about a mile from the camp. Now being head of security, I knew he made good money plus whatever he could extort from the POW’s. Something was amiss. At the beginning of page two I saw he frequented a tavern called the Lighthouse. If beer and spirits were served then so was poker and blackjack. If he had a bad gambling problem, that fact might help.

“Mr. Thompson,” I asked as I close the folder. “How far is this man in debt to a loan shark?”

“Last count was six hundred and fifty dollars, which is a sizeable sum for his class. He may or may not ever be able to pay it off.”

“Oh, I think he will. If the price is right,” I said, confidently.

“But, you are surmising that he will come close to treason for sheer monetary gain. How can you be so sure?” Jacob asked.

RJ, use a line from the Godfather. It won’t become the standard for over a hundred years.

“… I will make him an offer he cannot refuse. Just give me a voucher for no more than a thousand dollars, and I will reason with the man. Trust me, I know his kind.”

Booth nodded his head in approval and Jacob took out his chain-drive wallet that bikers use, minus the chain. He counted the money in small bills, put it in an envelope and slid it across the table. I put it in my inner coat pocket and took a large gulp of coffee.

“Rest assured I will accomplish this, but is there a timeline on this?” I asked.

“The arrangement can be confirmed any day you wish. Mr. Booth will then coordinate a day of reckoning for the sinful three who are responsible for this whole abomination. We should begin our strike to coincide with that. Now, if there is nothing else I have business to attend to in town. I bid you a good day.”

Jacob rose, gave a small but curt bow to both of us and disappeared into the fray. We sat there silent, finishing our coffee and then filling our glasses with bourbon. Booth seemed quite at ease with this man but he was an actor and they’re all hard to read. I knew then, after my second swig of what I wished was good, old-fashioned Jim Beam, that I’d just met a bonafide mad man. I’d do his and Booth’s bidding because I knew the war would be over before their plan could materialize, and this would be a helpful experience for the conniving I wanted to do later.

-2-

Thursday, February 16th, 1865

The trip from Toronto to Columbus, Ohio took the better part of a day, with stops in Detroit Michigan, into Ohio’s Toledo, Findlay, Delaware and then the National Road Station in Columbus. We acquired rooms at the Rail Way hotel and made ourselves comfortable. As we ate a scrumptious supper, I watched our waiter at work. He was a young man in his early twenties, tall and clean-shaven as me. He walked with a noticeable limp and struck me as the informative type who could use the extra money. As he was figuring our tab, I laid a ten dollar bill on the table.

“What on earth are you doing?” Booth asked me.

“Accurate information comes at a price, my friend. Observe.”

As he laid our tab on the table, he eyeballed the ten spot. I asked him his name.

“Homer, sir. Homer van Dorn.”

“Now Homer,” I began. “You look like an enterprising young man. I was wondering where, in this neck of the woods, a man could find a decent brand of spirits, a good poker game and maybe … some sportin’ ladies.”

“Well now, I’ll tell ya’. There are several places where a man could whet his whistle—and anything else for that matter—right down the road from here. The locals know it as the Lighthouse, and ifin’ you caint find what you desire there, then it ain’t invented yet.”

“So a man could play five card stud all night there? Is that what you are telling me?”

“Absolutely. I play a hand or two myself now and again. Done all right most of the time.”

Then I went with the pitch.

“My friend and I have heard—through the grapevine, of course—that there is a man who plays there quite often and he is one to watch. They say he’s hard to beat.”

“What be his name?” Homer asked.

“Ashael Fleetwood.”

I believe poor Homer had to bite a whole in his lip to keep from laughing. “Well, sir, I do not know who sold you that load of horseshit, but he should be hung for tellin’ a whopper that big. The poor man keeps getting cleaned out every Friday and Saturday night, and it is a damn shame too.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“’Cause he has got a loving wife—a good Christian woman to boot—and three youngin’s who are half starved and shoeless most of the time. Ifin it wasn’t for the ladies at our Baptist Church, they would all be passed on or put in a pauper’s home. Now, if you are wantin’ to make a lot of money—and your conscience ain’t an issue—then he is the man you want. Good ‘nuff?”

“That will do fine, Homer. When we leave here do I go left or right?” I asked as I slid two singles his way.

“Hang a right and just follow the smell.”

And to think I paid twelve dollars to hear that.

Aw … horseshit!

-3-

Dark of Night

In my younger days I’d frequent an out-of-the-way biker’s bar where the bad boys would hang, and they nick-named the place “Ptomaine Tommie’s”. The Lighthouse was step or two below that, and my dinner was telling me to keep this as brief as possible. Ashael wasn’t hard to find. He sat in a corner nursing a beer looking forlorn and lost in thought. I took it he’d just lost all his money and I was about to make his day. I strolled slowly over to him.

“Why the sad face, pardner?” I asked.

“Who is asking?” he answered in a smartass manner.

“Someone who may solve all your problems,” I answered as I sat down.

“Now, stranger, just how the hell are you gonna solve my problems? Who are you anyway?”

“Well, sir, I can tell you I am a terrible poker player. Let’s go a few hands and I will show you.”

I pulled a deck off an unused table, shuffled them clumsily and offered him a cut. He smiled as if he’d found a sucker and split it three times. I laid a twenty dollar bill in the middle, dealt five apiece and awaited his reply.

“I caint play you mister. I am broke.”

“Not to worry, Ashael, not to worry. You will not be penniless for long. Check your cards.”

He looked them over and gave the appearance of a man with only a pair of twos.

“How do you know my name?”

“I know a lot about you, Captain Fleetwood. Enough to know you need a change of luck. I fold.”

His look of astonishment told me I had his attention. He showed me his winning hand; a pair of threes. He drug the money over and seemed to be speechless.

“Let us play one more hand. You deal,” I said as I leaned back and folded my arms.

He shuffled them like a Las Vegas pro, offered me a cut and I tapped the table (a pass). He dealt quickly and I put forty dollars in the pot. He looked at me funny for a second, and then put his only Jackson in with mine. As soon as he checked his cards I laid mine down.

“I give up.”

He now had sixty bucks. The hardened soldier leaned back and thought for a moment, then spoke his mind.

“Just what are you up to? This ain’t making any sense,” he said quietly.

“It will if you follow me outside. I have a proposition for you.”

To my surprise, the desperate man walked out with me, not knowing if I was a serial killer or a Baptist minister.

Chapter 14

The Uncommon Clay

We moved from the front of the bar to an alley between the buildings. Ashael followed me, but at a slight distance. As a military man he sensed a possible trap and was ready to react accordingly. I turned to him slowly, withdrew my pistol and handed it to him with the barrel down, grip first.

“What is this?” he asked, a little dumbfounded.

“It is a sign that I mean you no immediate harm, so maybe now we can talk as one man to another.”

“I’m listening,” he said as he flipped the business end of the firearm towards me.

“I will make this as brief as possible, sir. You have a debt that needs paid. I am prepared to relinquish you of that obligation, and then some. All I—and the powerful people that I represent—need from you is your cooperation at a later date.”

“What kind of cooperation, stranger?”

“On a night to be determined in late March or early April we will require a gate to be opened at Camp Chase. We feel that you are the man best suited for this, and are prepared to pay you handsomely for your effort.”

His look was astonishing. His posture loosened so much I thought he might pass out, and his hand shook so bad I was ready to duck if he fired the gun accidentally. Yet, he didn’t say no.

“Let me get this straight. You want me to allow some or all of those slimy rebels just to walk right out to freedom. Is this what you are telling me?” he said as he smartassily raised a hand behind one ear.

“Not all, just fifty selected officers. These men are trained in expert night maneuvers and will be out and long gone before they are missed. All you have to do is look the other way and see to it that your men do the same.”

“And just how much are you prepared to pay me for this act of treason?”

“One thousand Union dollars,” I said, nonchalantly.

As my gun started to shake again I gently removed it from his loosened grip and put it back in my holster. I awaited his reply, but could see by his REM that his wheels were turning.

“I—by the way, what is your name?”

“Mr. Wood will suffice.”

“I … might entertain this proposal, but I will surely get caught. My Commander is no fool, and will smell this rat immediately. I need reassured that I will not be held accountable, for what good is all this money if I end up at the gallows. I have a wife and children to consider.”

And I thought, Yeah, right dickhead. If you were thinking just about them you wouldn’t be in mess like this. Try to be diplomatic with this doucebag, even if it hurts.

“Then, sir, let us reason together. Our people will cause a diversion; a fire, or a fight. It will start at the end farthest from the escape way. Our side will be blamed for it all, and your superiors will be none the wiser. Will this suffice?”

“That would surely work, but I have not seen any money yet,” he said.

I reached inside my coat pocket and gave him the barter. He looked the money roll over, shook his head but put it in his pocket. We shook hands, I turned and started to walk away.

“Mr. Wood,” “Judas” Fleetwood said. “I sense that you are a trusting man, but maybe too much. What makes you think I won’t pocket this and then not keep up my end of the bargain?”

I turned to him slowly—remembering my past mistake with McGhee—with the best black-eyed look I could muster, told him why I knew he wouldn’t renege. Instantly, something biodegradable in him suddenly got chilled.

And it wasn’t his beer.

-2-

On the long ride back to Washington, D.C. it was a good hour before Booth and I spoke of my encounter with Fleetwood. Finally, he broke the ice.

“Tell me, Lewis. How can you be so certain this man will do our bidding?” he asked.

“You remember me saying I would make him an offer he could not refuse?”

“Yes, and I can’t wait to hear it?”

“I told him that if he did not do what we paid him to do, then I would return and kill his wife, his children, his dog and burn his house to the ground. I would spare his life though, and he could forever remember why such a calamity befell him. I trust he will do what is planned.”

For the first time since I met John Wilkes Booth, I saw a momentary sign of genuine fear in his eyes. I had him right where I wanted him, so I propped my feet on the seat across from me, pulled my hat over my eyes and took a nice, long nap.

-3-

March 10th, 1865

I spent the next two weeks traveling between Washington and Baltimore frequently, meeting the other financier of this whole charade. Clement Claiborne Clay was as tall as Thompson and dressed better, I’d say, as he wore a black, three-piece suit, wide black tie tucked under a white shirt collar. His topcoat looked wool, ample for this season, and his hair and beard were long but trimmed. As we entered his room at Surratt’s House he stood pompously with his top hat in one hand and the other leaning on a cane. Oh how I wanted to kick this arrogant piece of shit right square in the ass, but I belayed that because I just hated the way he looked, and that wasn’t enough to break a foot over.

I shook his ice-cold hand as Booth introduced us and I sense he was as impressed with me as I was with him. We sat, exchanged some small talk and then Clement got right down to business.

“John, I wish for you to assemble your whole team tonight. There is a restaurant not far from the White House that is friendly to us. I have told Mr. Gautier to expect a party of eight at eight o’clock. Can you arrange this?”

“… Eight? I have only five men currently enrolled, including myself,” Booth said.

“Yes, but I am sending you three more trusted men. Jacob and I feel that eight total will be what you will need to be successful in this. John Wilkes, you do see the wisdom in our choice, do you not?”

Clay looked Booth square in the eyes, not blinking nor moving off target. It obvious to me then that Clay was the real top dog in this insanity and would replace the assumed leader in a heartbeat if need be. I was impressed, for some strange reason.

With that, the meeting abruptly ended.

As we walked quietly back to Booth’s room I pondered what was going through his mind. Was he having second thoughts, I wondered. He was blind-sided by this change in plans. What would he do now? Would he cross a high ranking member of the Circle?

“Lewis, I want you to go to David Parr and have him inform the others of our meeting. He knows Mr. Gautier personally, and will set this up properly.”

“Do you want me to tell him about our newcomers?” I asked.

“Absolutely not. That is my cross to bear.”

In 2014-speak, my gang would call that a “no-shitter”, because I know I wasn’t going to do it.

-4-

The ride to 252 Pennsylvania Avenue was a short one as Booth and I took a horse-drawn cab to the front door. It was a classy-looking brownstone with huge windows in the front and a canopied entrance. The doorman helped us out of the coach and cheap-ass Booth paid the man, adding a fifty cent tip. I didn’t know if that was ample, so I gave the driver another four bits and he rolled away smiling like a teenage boy in a French village during WWII.

I mean all the men were gone off to war, if you get my drift.

***

We assembled in a spacious back room, illuminated by candle-laden wall mounts, chandeliers and several silver holders on the long, dining table. Present were I, Booth, Surratt, Weichmann, Arnold and the three newbies. We milled around with them and Arnold seemed to be the chattiest. Our little “bourbon social” was quickly interrupted by the sound of slow-moving and deliberately loud boot heels announcing someone’s entrance.

In Clay came, as proud as a horny peacock with a two by four stuck up its ass. He looked the room over and said:

“Let us be seated.”

Clay sat at the head of the table with the rest of us, four on each side. We pulled our chairs up and awaited Caesar’s instructions. His lit his fine cigar and looked at each one of us, eye-to-eye. The others seemed to be intimidated by him, but I had a reputation to keep, so I stared at him as long as he stared at me. Truth be known, I found Thompson a likeable type—as crazy as that sounds—but I detested this conceited prick and his ilk because, when the shit hit the fan, men like him were rich enough to flee prosecution in other lands and continue their Illuminati-type Utopia plans in safety.

“Honored gentlemen of the South,” Clay stated, “I bid you all my warmest greetings. Tonight we will plan a military coup and in that we will render inoperative the President, the Vice President, Secretary of State and General Grant. The latter is an option we will explore if things go our way, yet I have no doubt you will complete these tasks as any son of the Confederacy would do. Are we all in agreement?”

I heard eight “ayes”, zero “nays”.

“Mr. Booth. Have you assigned teams?” Clay asked.

“No, Clement. I was waiting until you present our new members. Then we can assess where best their talents lie and appoint them appropriately.”

“Forgive me, I moved too quickly. Mr. Atzerodt, Mr. Herold, Mr. O’Laughlen, please stand.”

George Atzerodt was a mean-looking bastard who reeked of whiskey. David Herold seemed to be but a boy amongst a brood of vipers with a strange, wild look about him and Michael O’Laughlen looked as much an assassin as Pee Wee Herman would. They stood in line next to Clay and we shook hands with them, yet I wasn’t a bit impressed with these three stooges.

No wonder, I thought, this plan would fail. These men are all scared of their own shadow. The only thing they’ll be good for is to rat the rest of us out.

“Now that we have been properly introduced,” Booth said, “Let us regain our seats.”

We sat obediently, and I studied all of them intently, trying to figure out who would be the most likely to shed blood. Atzerodt reached for his flask, took a two second swig and I knew then he was out. You can never trust an alcoholic to do anything right. O’Laughlen would follow his partner like a sheep in heat but would fold when the going got tough. Herold … David Herold was another matter. He sat with a blank stare in his dark, blue eyes that I’d seen many times on the television show “Investigative ID”. He had the cold look of the average serial killer, and seemed to be itching to get this going. Before anyone else grabbed him I made my move.

“John, I request to be paired with Mr. Herold. I believe we will make a great team.”

Booth looked at me and Herold and smiled.

“Of course, Lewis. I could not have done it better myself. If it is agreeable to Mr. Herold then so be it.”

“I could care less who I work with, Mr. Booth. As long as I get to kill at least one of these nigger-lovin’ Yankees, I’ll be satisfied. You okay with that there Lewis Powell or Paine or Wood or whoever the hell you are?” Herold said like the punk he was.

This was going to be fun, especially when I call him the name his mammy used to.

Chapter 15

Hooray For Belarus

“Well, let me tell you something, Davey boy, it is Mr. whoever to you! I rode with Mosby for two years and castrated a few piss-ant hooligans like yourself, so if you want to sire any kids as dumb as you then the smart thing for you to do is shut the fuck up and listen,” I stated as harshly as I could.

The boy’s eyes grew blacker and more threatening as he tried to stare me down, but I was a bit more intense and finally he caved as Booth leaned over and put his hand on Herold’s arm. A gentleman, in this era, never used the “F” word, yet it does have its shock value in all time frames. Just the fact I used it startled everyone. Finally, Clay stomped his cane on the floor and brought the meeting to attention.

“Gentleman! Gentlemen! Now, we will have order. Mr. Powell, I will caution you on your language and presume I will never have to do it again. Mr. Herold, you are new to this affair and I suggest you listen before you speak. And the plan thus far is kidnaping, not outright murder. That may be an option we will explore later, but for this meeting Mr. Booth will fill all of you on the details.”

I can’t speak for Herold, but as for me, I couldn’t remember a time when someone told me to shut the hell up so politely. I took notes on that aspect of proper diplomacy. Booth stood with the authority of the average school principle and set the itinerary.

“Tonight we are gathered to plan, dissect and examine a most perilous mission. After I reveal the operation to you the floor will be open to discussion, and your thoughts will be appreciated. After all, we are not Yankees.”

That brought a round of laughter from everyone. Any chance to chastise and make light of anyone north of the Mason-Dixon always brought a round of applause from this crowd. Booth continued.

“I have learned, from my sources at the White House, that on the morning of March 17th Lincoln plans to attend a play at the Soldier’s Home on Florida Avenue. The traitor has always visited his troops unescorted by police or bodyguards. I, along with one of you, will kidnap him there. At that time the rest will accost the Vice President and Secretary of State. Those teams will be assigned within the next week. Any questions?”

From the look on Samuel Arnold’s face, he was itching to provide input and he didn’t look a bit happy.

“With all due respect, Mr. Booth, do you actually think we can pull off a plan as dastardly as this? And in broad daylight? Why don’t we just run all three of them through and be done with it?”

John Wilkes Booth was not only an accomplished actor, but a great motivator too. His reply showed why he would be the assured Captain of this brood of killers.

“A very good question, Mr. Arnold. If this can be done, and God is with us, then this gang of three will be immensely more valuable to us alive than in their grave. For if it is our intention to slay them, run and hide the rest of our lives then yes, three bullets are all we need. Nonetheless, I do not wish to live like that. My vision—or better I would say my passion—is to stand as their judge before a Confederate Court and show the rest of the world what real free men do to despots. What a glorious day it will be for one—or all of us—when we can pull the lever on the gallows trap door and revel in their last gasps of liberty, just like they have so ruthlessly done to our brothers in arms. My only wish is that all of you will weigh this plan in your minds and hopefully see the wisdom in it. I rest my case.”

And I was thinking, Now who can argue with that? For a split second Booth almost had me won over, and I knew what a madman he was. Sam Arnold hung his head a little like he was mulling the presentation over in his mind or was just ashamed of his quick comments.

“Mr. Booth,” Sam said. “I now see your mind in your plan, and while I cannot speak for these other men, I will now yield to your leadership in this, our sacred duty.”

From across the table two mighty hands pressed the flesh, a nod was given each, we sat and poured ourselves a drink. I knew then these were men of conviction—however misguided it was—who saw a distinct difference between political assignation and murder. And then I wondered:

If someone had taken a 9 and popped a cap in Hitler’s ass after the Munich Conference in 1938, would the world be better off today?

I pawned that momentary lapse of sanity off to too much bourbon, but I drank one more round anyway and drifted off in the amorous thoughts of Baltimore and my sweet Maggie’s charms.

-2-

March 12th, 1865 Baltimore

I arrived quietly at the Branson Boarding House around five in the morning. I napped on the train ride up from D.C. and was ready and rearing—if you men know what I mean—to go as I stealthed my way to Maggie’s boudoir. There she lay, on her right side facing the wall, the vision of loveliness and femininity that I’d left. I quietly disrobed, took my boots and socks off, and crawled under the covers, caressing her form until we were the appearance of two, human spoons. I rested my cold feet against her toasty ones, and then all hell broke loose.

“Lewis Thornton Powell!!” she yelled. “What in blue blazes is wrong with you? Did you walk across a frozen pond in your bare feet before you came to my bed? I almost peed my crinolines. Git your artic-feeling butt over there by the stove and take care of those icicles before you return. And do not take all day about it. I really missed you.”

So … I did what any horny man worth his salt would do in a situation like this. I stuck my feets in the coal stove.

***

Before taking another chance at getting lost in the throes of passion, I tested the waters; I mean my toes next to hers. That brought a comforting “hmmm” from Maggie. I snuggled my nose against the soft nape of her neck and held it there for maybe three or four seconds and then my love asked a very sincere but untimely question.

“Lewis,” she said softly. “Have you any idea what time it is?”

“Ahh … what does my minute hand say?” I replied as I pushed my manhood against her crinoline-clad buttocks.

“That thing says you are late. Shall we catch up?” she said, oh so erotically.

“Absolutely.”

***

As we lay there basking in the moment I lit a cigar, and to my surprise, Maggie took a hit. Then she said a cup of coffee would really taste good, so I got dressed. When I was putting my boots on I noticed the crooked angle of a shadow coming in under the front door.

“Who is there?” I yelled.

“What is wrong? Be quiet or you will wake the guests. Shhhhhh.” Maggie said.

“Baby, there was someone outside the door, just standing there. I do not like the looks of this.”

“Oh, not to worry. It was probably Beulah. I think she has a crush on you. Whenever you are around she watches you constantly,” Maggie said, giggling a little.

“No, no, I doubt it is that. You take cream in your coffee?”

“Cream and two sugars.”

“I will not tarry.”

***

As soon as I turned the corner in the hallway, I felt like someone was boring a hole in my back. I swung around swiftly only to find Beulah hiding in a doorway. I knew she’d been eavesdropping on Maggie and I and my temper started to get the best of me.

“Beulah, what the hell do you think you’re doing? You ain’t supposed to hang around like that! What have you got to say for yourself?”

“I got nothing to say to you Lewis Powell. That is right—I know your name, and I know what you is. You is one of them filthy Johnny Reb spies. I knows you is up to no good and I aim to tell somebody about it. I might even tell the preacher man who stays in 204 that you and that whore Maggie have been making indecent and fornacatin’ every chance yous get. Just you try and stop me!!”

All the rearing my parents gave me about violence against a woman went right out the window. How dare she call my Maggie a whore? Without forethought I raised my right hand to her and smacked her hard right across her mouth. She fell against the wall, slinking slowly down to the floor and wiping the blood off her quivering lips.

“Little girl, don’t you EVER call Maggie that name again. Do you understand me?”

With a look of terror in her eyes she nodded an affirmation. I went down to the kitchen, fixed two cups and returned. I no sooner finished my first cup of coffee when there came a hellacious banging on our door that knocked a few knickknacks off the wall. I almost ran to the door thinking the place must be on fire or something worse, only to be greeted by a stone-faced Union officer with sergeant’s stripes and the look of a hangman in his eyes.

“IS YOUR NAME POWELL?!” he yelled.

If there was ever a time for you to play deaf or dumb or both, it’s now RJ. Act like you don’t understand English.

“Nada … I say…no. I understand not much English. I am …how you say …a sojourner in your great land. I mean no harm to any citizen.”

That act, plus the totally dumbfounded and dumbassed look on my face chilled his approach a bit. Truth is, I’d seen a skit like this on SNL once, so it wasn’t an original idea, although this dude did have a real gun on him and I was armed only with my best bullshit. The Sergeant looked over at the two Privates with him.

“I cain’t understand a word this shit kicker is saying. Boy,” he said as he looked back at me. “What foreign country are you from, or you just from Alabama?”

“I am Belarus. I am here for work on your railroads.”

“Is that right? Then why did you just whip the shit outta this young lady?”

“Because … it is a custom in my country. This lady … how do you say? … she defamed the voman I love. She called her a ‘painted voman’ and I must avenge that. I vould not be a man in my country if I did not. I hope you Americanos understand. In your country, is it not said, ‘a man must do vhat a man must do’?”

“Yeah, we do. Only we speak the Queen’s English here, not that Rousky shit you utter. Lemme see your papers. You do know what paper looks like, Vladimir?”

“Yes, Cap-i-tan.”

I handed them over and he looked at it, front and back. “Boy, it says here your name is Lewis Paine. That does not sound like anything I have ever heard coming out of your vampire land. How do you explain this?”

“It vas not spelled correctly. My last name is Painezsky,” I said, doing my best to keep a straight face.

“Well horseshit! Come on boys, let us move on. This crackerhead is too damn dumb to spy on anybody.” Then he turned to me and got right in my face. “Let me give you some advice, shit-for-brains. You watch your ass!”

As they turned to leave I almost told him that’d be hard to do seeing as how I didn’t have eyes in the back of my head, but I figured I was outta the deep shit pit and to leave well enough alone. I grabbed two cups of fresh coffee and headed back to warmer greetings.

Chapter 16

Disappointments And Deserters

That perilous day came and went, and there were only five days until our mission formally began. I knew what Booth had schemed would fail but planned on looking shocked and then offer my heartfelt advice that the kidnapping plan would work and just needed more time. On March 17th Booth called us together at the tavern next to Surratt’s House for a briefing.

“Gentlemen,” Booth said, “I will now go to the Soldier’s Home and await Lincoln. As soon as he enters the house I will come back and get you. Today is our day. Lewis, you and the others stay here till I return, then we will assign teams.”

With that he stomped out and mounted his horse. I ordered a round for everyone and I even spotted Herold one, just to gain his confidence so I could keep an eye on him. After a two-hour wait—and we were all pretty much shit-faced—Booth came back in looking lower than I’d ever seen him. We stood and waited for him to speak.

“Well boys, the no-good sonbitch did not show. He changed his mind and went and talked to a bunch of Indiana soldiers. Well … he slipped through this time, but his luck cannot last forever. Somebody pour me a double.”

-2-

March 18th to April 8th

For the next three weeks we planned, we schemed and we got frustrated because Booth’s “inside contacts” were about as reliable as an ashtray on a Harley. Everytime Booth thought he had it in the bag one or all of the marked men weren’t where they were supposed to be, which got me to thinking. Maybe there were sincere people around Lincoln that were taking evasive moves to throw any assassin off the track. The fateful shot at Ford’s Theatre always struck me as too easy, but maybe it was as Lincoln had more enemies than Booth & Co. One night Samuel Bland approached me.

“Lewis, can we talk privately?” he asked.

“Sure. Outside?”

We stepped into an alley, with drinks in hand. “Lewis … you seem like a level-headed sort at times. Can I share something with you?”

“I am all ears.”

“There is this … rumor going ‘round that the South is close to surrendering. Any man worth his salt can see the fallacy of fighting further. Grant has Lee surrounded at Appomattox, and I’ve been told—by different sources than Booth’s—that Lincoln will pardon everyone after this is over. Have you heard of this?”

Drawing on my knowledge of the future I told him I had.

“Then if that be the case, one wonders if we should abandon our current course of action and quietly blend into the mix, would it not?”

I’d always pegged Sam as the most cautious in the group and now I saw I was right. I knew I couldn’t say anything to test my loyalty to Booth in case it got back to him, so I tried to sow the seed of futility without getting involved directly. I chose my next words carefully.

“Samuel, I cannot speak to that because I will never surrender. It is my code of living that would prevent me from doing that, but every man has to make his own path in life and reap the rewards of his decisions. If you—and some of the others—are having second thoughts, then by all means vacate this town with all due haste, for your very neck and soul may depend upon it. As for myself, I will stand with Booth to the bloody end, if need be. I hope I have eased your mind, for mine is shut.”

Samuel looked at me, then down at the ground. He finished his bourbon and gave me his cup.

“Lewis, please give this back to the bartender. I need some time alone right now. May God have mercy on our souls.”

I took the cup and offered him a handshake. He accepted it, turned and walked away. His recompense in this would be prison time and even though he wasn’t in on any of the attacks, his guilt was association with Booth and the failure to report it. I almost felt sorry for the man because he’d gotten caught up in what he thought was a noble cause, but chose to abandon it too late.

And I knew he’d take others with him.

-3-

April 11th, 1865

Two days after Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox Courthouse, John Wilkes Booth was in a solemn and dark mood. He had but a handful of followers left but he still insisted that kidnapping President Lincoln was the best course of action. I knew this wouldn’t happen, but there had to be a catalyst in moving Booth to killing him. On this evening Booth and I went to see the President address a crowd from the balcony on the north side of the White House. In this speech, Lincoln discussed his plans for accepting the rebellious states back into the Union. Lincoln also announced that he wanted to see African-Americans given citizenship too. Booth seethed at the idea of giving blacks political power and said what I knew then to be the game changer.

"Lewis, do you know what this means? It means the niggers will have the right to vote. Now, by God, I will run him through. That will be the last speech he will ever make! We must move to Herndon House and finalize our plans.”

“Why a new place?” I asked.

“Because Mary’s house is being watched. She need not have anything to do with this. Follow me and I will take you there.”

I knew I was closing in on my time to act.

-4-

14 April 1865

On this fateful day I was surprised by the hard knocks on my hotel door. I ran towards it, pistol in hand concealed under my night clothes and asked who was there.

“It is me, Lewis, David Herold. I have good news that I would rather talk about inside.”

I let him in and told him to sit. He was almost out of breath and I thought he’d pass out. I got him a glass of water, told him to drink it and settle down. He did and then composed himself.

“Lewis, John just told me that Lincoln will be at a play tonight at Ford’s Theatre. There ain’t but four of us left and Booth said the first plan is off as of now, and he ain’t changing his mind, so he says.”

“So …we are to kill all three tonight?” I asked.

“Yup. We will be rid of those black bastard luvin’ Yankees all at once.”

Herold’s eye and facial expressions were reminiscent of a teenage boy’s look at his first car. He really was a sick pup and if anybody deserved the Big Swing it was him. I showed no emotion one way or another and I think that impressed the kid as I took the news nonchalantly, like killing someone was old hat to me.

“So what are we to do now, David?”

“John said we all would meet here in your room at eight o’clock tonight.”

“Who now is ‘all we’?”

“Just you, me, Booth and Atzerodt. We are going down in Confederate history as heroes, Lewis. Ain’t that just glorious?”

“Yeah. It will probably be the longest walk we ever took.”

And I wasn’t taking about up the Confederate Capitol steps.

The Afternoon

Seeing as how I’d rather milk king cobras than stay in a room all day with that idiot, I cleaned up and suggested we’d take a walk down by the White House. On Pennsylvania Avenue was a small theatre by the name of Canterbury Music Hall. What struck my eye was the beautiful woman plastered on the marquee by the name of Mary Gardner. I bought us tickets and we sat in the center, front row. When Mary came on the stage my hormones got the best of me and I started some serious flirting with her. Occasionally she’d look my way, wink an eye and when her set was over I excused myself, heading for the dressing rooms.

I don’t know how to tell you, the reader, delicately what happened next. In plain and simple terms, after a few minutes of small talk we became locked in some ferocious fornicatin’, as it was called back then. All I can say in my defense is that I left there questioning my purpose in life, my own sanity and whether I was morally up to what I once thought was my noble mission.

Was I any better of a person than my uncle Lewis? He had the morals of a snake and it was all I could do to stop myself from hopping a train back to Richmond, find the rubble of the house where I first stayed and plead for Rabbi Endras to take me back to 2014. As Herold and I walked back to our hotel I decided to try one more time to do what I came here to do, no matter what.

Eight o’clock p.m.

Right on the hour Booth and George Atzerodt came knocking at my door. They came in with blood in Booth’s eyes and bourbon on George’s breath. Booth got right with the program.

“Lewis, you and David go to Seward’s home. Take this little package with you and tell anyone guarding him that it is new medicine for him as ordered by his doctor. Whatever happens after that do not leave him alive. George, you must sneak into the White House and kill Johnson by any means necessary. Do all this as close to ten tonight as you can, and then make your way separately as deep into Virginia as you dare. There will be an intense manhunt, but if my plan goes accordingly then it will be split three ways. Do we have an understanding?”

We nodded our heads in agreement and everyone knew Booth was going to kill the President, but I wanted him to say it out loud.

“What are your plans, John Wilkes, and why ten o’clock?” I asked.

“Because I know the play he and his wife will be watching. Sometime between ten and quarter past that hour the band will perform a crescendo with symbols being struck several times. At that moment I will shoot Lincoln and then escape to the horse I will have tied up behind the theater. By the time this tribulation hits home they will be so slow to organize we all can make a clean escape. Are we together in this?”

We gave him the “all for one and one for all” head nods and he and Atzerodt left. It was just me and Herold again and the way he was pacing back and forth got on my nerve; because I only had one left.

“David,” I said forcefully. “Sit down and relax. We have a little time to plan first.”

“I gotta go take a shit—do you mind?”

“No, not at all. Better for you to do it here than in your pants later.”

He looked like he was going to strike me but I pinned his skinny little ass against the wall and put my right kneecap against his balls. “Now you listen to me you little shit! I call the shots on this job and all you get to do is obey my orders. You understand me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he squeaked out in a high pitched tone. “But I really do need to relieve myself. I’ll be right back, Bossman!”

I let the turd go and went about my business. Ten minutes went by, then fifteen and I got a bad feeling about this situation. I grabbed my coat, hat, the box Booth gave me and ran down to the outside privys. I checked each door with gun in hand, which caused one man to really shit his pants. The little bastard was nowhere to be found and I ran to the Hotel’s front hitching post and found his horse gone. I didn’t hesitate but mounted my steed and flew to Seward’s house.

If I was to set my families’ legacy straight, I had to beat Herold there before he drew blood, which I knew he was dying to do.

Chapter 17

Overreaching

Washington D.C., at this time, was a very well-lit city with tall, coal gas fired lanterns on each corner. I needed the help because I was low-riding towards Layette Square where Seward lived. A few weeks before he‘d been badly hurt in a carriage accident, was bed ridden at his home and the newspapers reported that; the dummies. Seward’s house was a large, two-story Victorian with a hitching post outside for people’s horses. Herold’s steed wasn’t there, but I thought maybe he parked in back so I slinked around there but found nothing.

Good, I thought. I beat him here. Maybe I can make this right after all.

I announced myself by tapping the large, lion-headed door knocker in the middle of the huge, oak door. A well-dressed black man in a butler’s suit met me and asked me my business.

“I have some extra medicine for the Secretary, sir, as per his doctor’s orders,” I said.

“Medicine? Well … Doctor Verdi just left here ‘bout an hour ago. He failed to tell me ‘bout any new alchemys,” he said with a hint of doubt in his tone.

“Well, what be your Christian name, friend?” I asked.

“Well, sir, they call me William Isaiah Bell, plain and simple.”

“It is like this, Mr. Bell. I am just a delivery boy, just a cog in the sternwheel of life. If I do not get this to Mr. Seward I could lose my position. You do not wish that upon me, do you sir?”

“I suppose not. C’mon in and go up those stairs right there. But, be quick about it. Mr. Seward is a fairly troubled man.”

“I shan’t tarry and thank you.”

I walked up the thirteen steps—and I have no idea why I counted them—to find a tall man standing on the landing in his night clothes.

“Halt! Who goes there?” he stated.

“I have some pain relieving medicine from Doctor Verdi. He said to give it to Mr. Seward personally.”

“Sir, you do not look like a man of medicine to me. I am Frederick, Mr. Seward’s son. I will give it to him.”

“But if you give him too much it may kill him. Doctor Verdi said specifically for me to do—”

That sneaky little weasel Herold was trying to slip behind us by crouching low against the wall to the back of us. He had a long, bowie knife in hand and his eyes flickered between us and a bedroom door. I pulled my pistol and aimed over Freddy’s shoulder to cap the punk before he got to Seward’s room and DAMN!… it misfired again. Immediately Freddy took it personal and thought I was shooting at him. He grabbed the gun and tried to wrestle it away from me while throwing wild lefts at my jaw that didn’t connect but made me angry anyway because I was only trying to save his old man’s life but he didn’t know it and finally I got ahold of my gun and with the barrel in my hand I had to pistol whip him three of four times until he collapsed on the floor.

Shocked, and breathing hard, I ran into the open bedroom just in time to see Herold raise the knife to this wretched-looking old man who appeared to be on his death bed. A woman was up against a corner hiding her face and sobbing unmercifully while another man lay bleeding from a severe arm wound. Neither one of them looked up and as Herold was about to deliver his first downward stroke I jumped on his back and tried to get the knife off him, but he was insane with adrenaline and brute strength and stabbed Seward below the rig cage. Blood squirted from the wound and sprayed both of us and that just excited this madman even more and he got two more in before I could stop him. He was so much smaller than me that I covered his whole worthless body but his thrusts took my arm down with him and as hard as I tried I couldn’t get him to release the man. This was my first time at trying to disarm anybody and I had no idea how hard it would be and maybe that’s why I might have done more damage than good because the weight of my body on top of his had to add to the ferociousness of the attack but I didn’t know what else to do and oh God why did you let me try to set this right when I’m just making it worse and I felt like I could throw up … and then Herold collapsed.

As I looked down at the man I felt could not survive a bludgeoning such as this my anger finally gave me a surge that I never knew I had. I grabbed the knife from this ruthless little prick and grabbed him by the hair and his ass and threw him out into the hallway. He slowly got up on all fours, gave me a psychotic grin and pulled out another knife and then ran down the steps. I heard him stop and then I heard a man scream in agony and knew he’d struck again. I turned around to see the other two people in the room staring a hole in me. The young lady was still sobbing and frightened and looked at me like I was Satan himself. The man had the look of revenge killing in his almost black eyes and it was directed at me. I thought that seeing as how I was so much bigger than Herold they may not have even saw him but caught my form, saw the blood and thought I did it. Oh Lord in Heaven I couldn’t have screwed this up any better if I had trained for it and I dropped my arms and yelled the only thing I could think of.

“I’M GOING MAD! I’M STARK RAVING MAD!”

I ran down the steps to see another man with blood gushing from his back and trying to roll over. The first thing he saw was me standing there still with the bloody knife in my hand, and he was trying to mouth the word “Why?” and I knew he thought I’d stabbed him in a cowardly fashion. I ran to my horse and dropped the knife in the gutter.

I had to get to the theatre. Maybe, just maybe, I could stop Booth in time for me and my uncle’s fate was now permanently sealed, and hopefully I could save the President.

-2-

Galloping along at high speed I had a revelation. I had no idea where Lincoln took his last breath. I stopped a man and asked.

“Sir,” I yelled. “Where is Ford’s Theatre?”

“Over on the northwest side of Tenth Street,” he answered.

“Please, point to me the way.”

He did, and I took off again. I had no idea what time it was but my heart was telling me it was close to the end for our President. As I came to the Play House that looked like an old church I dismounted and tied my horse to a post. By the front door were three heavily-armed Union troops. As soon as I walked up to them they went on the defensive.

“HALT!” they yelled. “Stop your advance, stranger, and state your business.”

I rushed up to the one who looked in charge only to be met by his bayonet pressed against his chest. Another soldier pointed a revolver at me and cocked the trigger.

“Sir … Sirs, I must get in to see the President, for he is in dire straits at this moment.”

“And what does that mean? Who are you anyway? We do not recognize you. Be still and be gone.”

“But you do not understand. There is a man who is making his way up the back steps to shoot the President. You must follow me and stop this travesty!”

“No one can get to Mr. Lincoln. One of my best men is outside his door. Sargent McCoy is—McCoy, what are you doing down here? Who is guarding the President?”

“I just came down to take a piss, Captain. I am gonna go right back … what the hell was that?”

We heard the muffled but unmistakable sound of gunfire and then screams from frightened women. I knew what had happened and I hung my head and let my tears slide to the ground. All this planning and scheming and lying had been for naught, and it’s a helluva thing on a man when he finally sees he is a failure, and a total one to boot. I walked away wiping my eyes with my dirty hanky, slowly mounted my horse and headed back to Herndon House.

Knowing I hadn’t changed a thing and knowing my uncle had disappeared for three days after this, I slowly walked up the hotel’s service entrance to my room and grabbed the only thing left important to me. If my mission was indeed over, I needed to fill out my journal for whatever reason. I knew I wouldn’t erase a thing. My sexploits, my con man act, my misjudgment of Herold and every other seamy detail that showed my misgivings in this era were to stay intact. Why hide it? I thought. Maybe you can find a way so that your family can read it someday. I know Pap would be proud of me just for trying to set things right. I put on my long, ankle length winter coat to cover my bloody clothes.

I felt the irresistible urge to go back where I started. I needed to go to Richmond.

-3-

I left D.C. train station sometime after midnight and tried to sleep. That was a waste of time and I think I relived the last four months at least three times total, trying to pinpoint where I went wrong. Then I remembered the one thing Rabbi Endras told me.

“The ‘Powers That Be’ will allow your success if your cause is righteous in nature.”

Righteous? I’d been far from that. Hell, I’d outright murdered one man; might as well have killed another. I committed sexual immorality three times and never felt a bit shy about it. As my coach eased to its final stop I knew I had to make my ending acceptable or explainable to someone. I rented a horse and headed for the outhouse where it all began.

***

Long before I got to Uncle Lewis’ cabin I could smell it. The stale stench of burnt wood, roasted metal and faint scent of burnt flesh in the damp, morning air caught my senses immediately. Slowly I rounded the turn to see the cabin’s chimney, piles of ashes and trees stripped of bark and leaf. I rode up close enough to see the bleached skeleton of the man I dispatched to where we both belong, turned immediately around towards the outhouse only to find it covered with ashes and shit. Then I had an epiphany.

I dismounted, took two broken branches and fashioned a cross by tying then together with my left bootlace. I took a rock and pounded it into the ground about two paces in back of my smelly ex-time machine, cut my other bootlace in half, strapped up and decided to become a horse thief too. “Sugar” and I meandered back to Washington, sleeping and knowing I needed to help Mary Surratt.

Chapter 18

Rope Therapy

April 17th, 1865

It was around midnight when I crept up to Mrs. Surratt’s front door. I knew the D.C. Police would be there as they suspected her son John in this fiasco from the onslaught. What a cowardly scumbag John was; to leave town and stick his mother with this mess. She was automatically deemed guilty just by owning the home where this serpentine cabal had met. I walked in still in my bloody clothes, only to meet the same Captain that refused my attempt to save the President.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. “Wait a minute … you look familiar. Did I not see you at the theatre entrance? Officers, arrest that man! He has to be guilty of some offense.”

I offered no resistance as they turned me and put the cuffs on. But, before I went I had something to say.

“Officers, please hear my plea! This fine woman is of no interest to you. I am guilty of many a crime, but she is blameless in this affair. I can tell you who the demons in this case are, but we must go outside.”

We walked swiftly and silently to a small alley in between the two homes. After a few steps inside it—and out of sight of any passersby—we stopped abruptly and I found myself surrounded by angry and impatient men.

“Traitor, what is your name?” the Captain demanded.

“Lewis Paine, sir. My papers are in my inside pocket.”

Roughly, one of his men jerked it out and showed it to him. He looked it over and it seemed to soften his glare.

“Tell me now, Lewis Paine and before God tell me the truth!”

“I can only tell you what I know. John Surratt, Mary’s son, and an actor named John Wilkes Booth were the ring leaders. The coward Surratt is on his way out of the country; I think Italy. I heard Booth limped off the stage. Is that true?”

“It is.”

“Then he travels to Virginia—southern Virginia—probably with a broken leg. He will undoubtedly seek a doctor to have it set, for his pace is greatly diminished,” I said, choosing my words carefully.

“Tell me stranger. How do you know these things? And why should I believe you?”

“Because … I have been with them since the onset. I know their minds and what they have discussed in private.”

“And how did you become privy to their privacy?” he asked.

“Captain,” I said with a smile. “Surely you must know that all boarding houses have maintenance hallways behind each outer wall. It is not hard to find a cracked board and bend one’s ear to it. I’m sure your own detectives have done as much.”

“Is there anymore that you can tell me now?”

“No, other than Mrs. Surratt had nothing at all to do with this.”

“Then that will be for a judge to decide. Off to jail with you now and step lively or we shall drag you there.”

I kept up their cadence stride for stride, knowing full well that I was only giving up one more person. Herold had his fifteen minutes of fame, and I planned to make him pay dearly for it.

-2-

I was taken to jail and then within the hour transported to the Monitor (warship) Saugus. They put me in a four by eight foot cell complete with a wooden bed—no comforts—and a “slop jar” in lieu of a toilet. It was indeed Spartan, but I didn’t need much. All I wanted was privacy and a chance to think about Herold’s fate. History—which I found I could not change—had David swinging right alongside me and I wanted him to feel pain before that day. It was then I met a man who would become my best friend.

“Laddie, is there anythin’ I can get ye?” he asked in a thick, Scottish accent.

The man was tall, stout with the standard wrap-around beard and moustache of the day. His Yankee-blue uniform complimented his grey hair and beard but his bushy eyebrows were dark brown. His demeanor screamed “no bullshit” but I could see a little heart in his brilliant blue eyes.

“Let us start with the keys to my cell,” I answered with a grin, trying to add a little humor to this gloomy day. But, he didn’t get it.

“Anything other than that, rebel?” he stated.

“No, sir, nothing other than that. Can I ask you your name?”

“Me mother christened me one Robert MacMillan, and a fine Christian lass she was. I shall be with you to your very end so let me tell you upfront. You are a guilty man, a man of homicide and anything you say will not carry any weight with I. Do we understand one another?”

“Yes we do. My Christian name is Lewis Thornton Powell. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Do not count ye blessings yet, laddie, for you have shed blood and I canit abide that. Save ye energies for the barrister who has the misfortune of representing ye.”

“Then when will I be able to talk to him?” I asked.

“He comes up the stairs even as we speak. Look lively … for as long as that lasts.”

Did I say he had a heart?

-3-

William E. Doster was a short, middle age man of slim build and ever-searching brown eyes. MacMillan usher him in and my military court-appointed lawyer stood and stared at me for the longest time. My jailor brought in a chair and a small desk and proceeded to make himself scarce. Doster sat, laid his briefcase on the table and unsnapped its locks, all the while never releasing his gaze from me. He didn’t want to be there and he didn’t like me; that was obvious. I stayed silent, not wanting to play his game or back off either. He took his hat off, pulled a familiar-looking book out and dropped it on the table.

“So, Mr. Payne or Powell or whoever the hell you are, tell me something. What in God’s name is this?” he asked as he pointed to my journal.

“Just my thoughts on different things, that’s all.”

“Well, I’ve been reading some of this bullshit and I need an answer, and I need it before we go any further.”

“Shoot, or is that a poor choice of words?” I replied in a smart ass manner because I really didn’t like this uppity prick anyway.

“It will be in a few weeks. Is this your handwriting?”

“It is.”

“And I assume it’s a first person narrative?”

“You are smarter than you look, counselor. Why you ask?”

“Then you actually want the court to believe you are some sort of traveler from the future? Is that what you are telling me?”

“That is the plan,” I said confidently.

He closed the lid on his case, snapped it shut and got ready to leave. He tapped on the cell bars and put his hat back on.

“Mr. Powell, the only way I can save your worthless hide is to plead you not guilty by reason of insanity which I can testify to without a shadow of a doubt, for you are the craziest one sonbitch I have ever met and I have made the acquaintance of more people than you can count. I will be in touch, but do not hold your breath—or is that a poor choice of words?”

“Nah, it fits. One more thing before you go.”

“And that is?”

“David Herold. He helped me attack Seward, but he will never own up to it. He is a tough little shit so maybe one of your interrogators can beat it out of him. Maybe make him feel the pain that he has afflicted on others and more than once, I ‘magine. Just throwing that out there.”

He nodded his head affirmatively, and Mac let him out. I don’t know why, but he left my journal there complete with pen and ink. I wasted no time filling in everything to date.

-4-

July 7th, 1865. Five minutes past midnight.

The trials were a sham, the verdicts a foregone conclusion. Mr. Doster—to his credit—did everything possible to save my skin, but to no avail. Our guilty verdicts and punishment—Mary Surratt, David Herold, George Atzerodt and myself—came down on July 6th with our “hanged by the neck until dead” decree to be carried out swiftly the next day.

With but a few hours to write to the people I loved the most, I penned my innermost thoughts to the two ladies of this era who’d shown me the most kindness and understanding. I thanked Adele for her loving and gracious ways and to Maggie I pledged my undying love and passion for the experience of her charms, telling her I would love her always and apologizing for bringing her into my wretched and derailed life.

Then, I ran out of ink.

“Mr. MacMillan, might I have a moment?” I asked.

He rose slowly from his wooden chair and walked over with the standard “What the hell do you want?” look on his face.

“Make it simple, laddie,” he gruffly said.

“Could you grant a dying man three wishes?”

“Maybe. What may they be?”

“I have one more letter to write and I have run out of ink. Is there any way possible that you could … bring me a typewriter and a few sheets of fine paper?”

“And whilst I am at that commission, would you like for me to fetch ye wheel barrel too?”

“What wheel barrel?”

“The one ye carry your balls around in. Ye have a lot of nerve.”

It must have been God’s will to assign me a jailor with a sense of humor, because I did get a chuckle out of that one.

“No, I will not be needing that but I thank you just the same. I want to write one more letter to my lawyer and I want it to be as legible as possible. My penmanship leaves a lot to be desired,” I said, humbly.

“I will see what I can do fer ya. Stay right where you are,” he said, with a smile.

At that time they were paying comedians upwards to two dollars an hour in the Big Apple, and I wondered why he was wasting his time here.

***

The Collins and Travis contraption he brought me was the weirdest looking thing I’d ever seen. It was shaped like a huge telephone of the 1930’s and must have weighed upwards of a hundred pounds. The paper was thick, cream colored and the edges crisp. He handed it to me quickly and I almost dropped it. I sat down at the table and put in the first sheet carefully and thought how I’d phrase my last testament.

Who do I blame? I thought. I’ve got to blame myself and no one else. It was an ill-prepared, half-assed plan and I thought nothing through. Or maybe … maybe it was not meant to be. Rabbi Endras gave me no guarantees and I stupidly asked for none. I’ll address this epilogue to my lawyer in the hopes he’ll pass it on as directed. Now I must convince MacMillan to deliver these in secret and pray he’ll grant my dying wish.

***

I carefully folded my last three letters in thirds and walked up to my cell door. Mr. MacMillan was sitting with his head down and arms crossed. I cleared my throat to get his attention. He looked up but straight ahead and not at me. As the hot, morning sun broke the horizon he spoke.

“Ya’ know, laddie, I jest had the strangest dream. I dreamt a small man, dressed in black and wearing some sort of cap on his head, asked me kindly to do what ye are going to ask of me. He said you have two last requests and the Man Above wants me to grant them. You are a strange one, Lewis Powell, yet ye have someone special lookin’ out for ye. Name your wishes.”

“I have three letters here. Two are to the ladies I have loved and I ask you to put them in the next post but please keep this all to yourself. There are innocent of any crime but their brief association with me will surely haunt them.”

“Aye. I can do that handily. And the other one?”

“On the outside are directions to a burnt out cabin a mile south of Richmond. One hundred and twenty paces east of that you will find the remains of an outhouse. By it is a cross. I ask that you bury my journal three feet deep in a lead box wrapped in at least three sheets of strong canvas. It will weather many years before it is found.”

“How many years?” he asked with his eyebrows raised high.

“One hundred and forty-eight.”

The look on his face was priceless. If he had any doubts about my insanity, they were long gone.

“I will do this for ye, laddie, but for now ye must get your mind and soul ready. They are coming up the steps, but before they arrive I just wanna … shake your hand and tell ye that it has been a pleasure knowing ye. May the Almighty show mercy to you this day.”

With that, we shook hands and I saw a tear flow from his strong eyes. As they led the four of us I had a few last thoughts. One was I’d become afraid of time and the misery it can bestow on men, families and nations. And the other was the realization it was time to quit this quest for as fragile and fruitless as it was, my time had run out. Please pray for me. Petition the Good Lord for justice for me and my cause. I did the best I could.

I bid you farewell.

The End