Assassin (16 page)

I stepped back to lean against a wall. My entire body had gone weak with sudden knowledge and determination. Here was my chance, my duty. Here in Ford’s Theatre, the building that had been a home to me, I would make my move. Here I would claim my destiny.

Still unable to walk far, I made my way to a chair just outside the box where I pretended to busy myself with my mail, but where I was able to watch as they carried comfortable chairs, a sofa, and a rocking chair with a red upholstered seat into the box. “Mr. Lincoln always sits in this one,” I heard James Ford say to the man who carried the rocking chair.

When the furniture was arranged, they busied themselves with decorating the front of the box. They draped sheets of red, white, and blue cloth from one corner to the other. A flag stand was secured to the box, and a big flag put in it. The last preparation was a large portrait of George Washington that was fastened to the center of the box.

When the men were finished and gone about other tasks, I slipped quietly into the small hall that led to the box. I would need to drill a hole in the door of the box, so that I could look through and be sure of the right moment to enter.

I went down to the shop where scenery was made to
find a tool with which to drill. I was reaching for the drill when I heard the girl’s voice.

“Wilkes,” she said. “I came here hoping to see you.”

I whirled around to see Arabella Getchel. My impulse was to brush her off quickly. She was not needed in this new venture, and her presence would be a liability. I steadied myself, though, before I spoke. Better to get rid of her gently. “Arabella,” I said, and I smiled. “How good to see you.”

“I’ve wanted to see you,” she said, “since—” She frowned first, and then her face brightened. “Well, things didn’t turn out as you planned,” she said, “but at least now all the prisoners will go free just as you wanted.”

The strain of the last few days overtook me, and something inside me snapped. “You foolish, simpering child,” I thundered. “Did you think that is all I wanted? Just to free the prisoners? Didn’t you know that my plan was to ensure victory for the Confederates?”

She stepped back from me. “You needn’t be so hateful,” she said. “You should be glad your plot did not work. Kidnapping a president is a dangerous thing.”

Wild with anger, I pulled my revolver from my pocket. “Dangerous? What do I care for danger? There are much bigger issues at risk. I am about to change the course of history.”

I realized at once that I had gone too far, but it was too late. The girl turned to run, but I was quicker than
she. I lunged after her, grabbing her arm and twisting it behind her.

She cried out in pain. I put the gun to her temple. “Hush, Arabella,” I said. “Screaming will only force me to shoot you. Besides, the workers are all gone. Only you and I are in this whole big building now. Just us two. If I let you go, you will run to the authorities, won’t you? Never mind answering, I know full well that you would.”

HER STORY

I ran all the way to the Surratt house to tell those men that Mr. Lincoln was going to the Soldiers’ Home. I walked home slowly, though, and as I walked, the truth of what I had done settled over me. I had helped to kidnap the president, a fine, gentle man who had been nothing but kind to me. I had also turned my back on my best friend. I did not ask myself why I had done such terrible things. I knew the answer. I had fallen completely under the spell of an actor. Wilkes had said nothing about seeing me again. He wouldn’t be able to come back to Washington City, ever. Because a handsome, famous man had been kind to me, I had seemingly lost all control.

I did not know that a message came just as the president
was leaving. I did not know that the fall of Richmond made Mr. Lincoln’s plans change.

Had I known, I would no doubt still have felt guilty over what had almost happened, but probably I would not have tossed and turned all night in misery, unable to sleep, unable to forgive myself for my actions. The next morning I could eat nothing for breakfast. “Are you sick, Bella?” Grandmother wanted to know.

I nodded my head. Then I folded my arms on the table, rested my head on my arms, and cried. “Child, child,” said my grandmother. “What is it?”

“I’m worried about Father,” I lied. Then I got up and ran from the house. I had not taken a coat, and the early April morning was cool. Without deciding to do so, I headed for the White House. I was about to cut around to the back when I saw Mr. Lincoln step out onto the balcony.

Suddenly I didn’t feel cold anymore, and the smell of the lilacs growing nearby filled the air. The president stood on the balcony for a moment, put out his arms, and seemed to be drawing in a deep breath of air. I hoped he could smell the lilacs too. A great joy flooded through me, and I clapped my hands. With a singing heart, I ran to the back entrance and up to the second floor.

“Have you heard the news, Bella?” Mrs. Keckley asked as I entered the sewing room, and I listened as she told me all about Richmond. “The president is planning to go there,” she said. Then she remembered why I had
left early the day before. “How is your grandmother?” she asked.

“Much improved,” I said. “Isn’t this a wonderful spring day?”

“It is,” she said, and she smiled at me. “It is also a day when we have work to do. The war may be over any day now. Mrs. Lincoln will need dresses to wear for celebrations.”

Later, while Mrs. Lincoln tried on a white dress with red flowers so Mrs. Keckley could make adjustments, the president came into the room. It was not unusual for him to come into the sewing room when Mrs. Lincoln was there. It gave them a chance for a brief conversation in the middle of a busy day. No one looked for him there, and he could relax by partially stretching out on the fainting couch for a few minutes’ rest.

He had been relaxing for a few minutes when he sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Mother,” he said to Mrs. Lincoln, “did I tell you about the dream I had last night?”

“No,” she said. “You did not. Was it a nice dream?”

He shook his head. “No, it was not a pleasant dream, not at all. I dreamed that I woke from a sleep, here in the White House. I knew at once that something was wrong and was not surprised when I began to hear sobs, subdued but definite. I put on a dressing gown and walked down the hall to see who was crying.

“The sobs grew louder, and I knew many people were crying. I made my way down the stairs to the East
Room. I opened the door slowly and saw that the room was full of mourners. At the center of the room stood a casket with soldiers standing all about it. A soldier also stood by the door.

“I went to him and asked quietly, ‘Tell me, please, who is dead in the White House?’

“The young man turned to me, and with tears in his eyes, he said, ‘Why, it’s the president. Mr. Abraham Lincoln is dead, killed by an assassin.’

“Just then the sobs grew louder, and they awakened me. There I was in my bed, not dead at all, but I can tell you, Mother, the dream disturbed me. It really did.”

At such times, when the Lincolns talked to one another, Mrs. Keckley and I kept our heads down, our eyes on our sewing as if we were not there, but this time I could not keep from glancing up at Mrs. Lincoln. She was a woman who always had color in her cheeks, but her face had grown white, her eyes big and frightened.

“Oh, Father,” she said, “it was only a dream. Forget it. It meant nothing.”

Lincoln sighed. “Oh, I know, Mother. I should not have troubled you by telling you about it.” He gave a little forced laugh. “I needs get back to my work and not waste time repeating foolish dreams.” He got up and left the room.

“I am frightened, Lizzie,” said Mrs. Lincoln. “I am very frightened.” She gave her head a little shake. “I won’t think about bad things.” She smiled. “We’re going to
Ford’s tomorrow night to see a comedy. Should do us both good, and General and Mrs. Grant may go with us.”

I got up from my work and slipped out into the hall and then out onto the balcony. Standing there where I had seen the president earlier, I fought to keep from crying. How could I ever forget what I had almost done? “God forgive me,” I prayed. “If you will only forgive me, I will show you that I am stronger now. I will go to Wilkes Booth and say that I am glad his plan did not work. I will face him and tell him I am glad Richmond has fallen, that I am not a Southerner at all. I will tell him I do not need his false friendship, and I will write to Steven and beg his forgiveness.”

For several days, I tried to keep my promise to God. I went daily to Ford’s Theatre to look for Wilkes. “He hasn’t been around much,” Miss Lillie told me. “He usually comes by more even when we’re doing a comedy, like
Our American Cousin
. Wilkes doesn’t appear in comedies much, you know. It is tragedy for him, Shakespeare’s tragedy mostly. He’s a pure tragedian, that one is. If he shows up, though, I’ll tell him you are looking for him.”

The next day I went to the National Hotel. It took a great deal of courage for me to go to the counter and ask, “Will you tell me, please, what room Mr. J. Wilkes Booth has?”

The man behind the counter smiled at me. “Oh, no, my dear young lady,” he said. “We can’t give out Mr. Booth’s room number. Why, if we did, there would be a
constant parade of ladies, young and old, clamoring to see him.”

Embarrassed, I stationed myself outside the door to watch, but there was no sight of him. When I grew too weary almost to stand, I made my way toward Ford’s Theatre. I would try it again before I gave up and went home.

A workman I had come to know a little was putting away a ladder as I came in the front door. “By chance, have you seen Wilkes Booth around?” I asked.

“Think he was headed toward the shop,” he said.

He was here! Facing him with the truth had seemed much easier when I could not find him. I moved to the door left of the stage and made my way down the narrow, dark hall. A sound came from the room in front of me. My hand shook as I reached for the doorknob.

I knew something was different about him as soon as I saw him. It was his eyes. All the familiar softness had left them. Now the darkness of them seemed sinister, frightening. If only I had stopped there in the doorway. If only I had not stepped inside.

By the time he took the gun from his pocket, it was too late to run. He jerked my arm hard, and I cried out in pain. “I don’t want to hurt you, Arabella,” he said, but I saw no assurance of that in his eyes.

Holding the gun close to me, he let go of my arm. “Take the rope.” He pointed to a small piece that hung above the worktable.

Shaking, I did as he said. “Now put your hands
together with the rope between them.” Holding the gun with one hand, he used the other hand to wrap the rope around and around my wrists.

“Please, Wilkes, you’re hurting me,” I said as he pulled hard on the rope.

“So many people have been hurt, sweet Arabella,” he said. “Pain doesn’t matter much now, not yours, not mine.”

He put the gun against my ribs. “We are going to go down into the basement,” he said. “You will walk in front of me, and if you make any unexpected moves, I will have to shoot you.”

He pushed the gun against me, hard. “Move,” he said.

I had never been in the basement, but I knew the stairs behind the stage led to them. Windows in the back of the building were small, and because the hour was around five, what light that did come in was not strong. I gasped when I reached the stairs, and stared down them.

“Be careful, Arabella,” Wilkes said. “These steps are steep and made of stone. I am afraid if you slipped, the fall would kill you.”

There was a strange, unreal sound to his words. Did he intend to push me? I wondered. I tried to grasp the rail with my bound hands, but I could not do that. Hoping for a little stability, I did rest my hands on top of the rail, as I moved slowly down.

The basement, when finally we reached it, was one large room. Three tiny, grimy windows on the back wall
let in dim streaks of light. I could see stage props everywhere—dilapidated furniture, some dressing screens, old costumes hanging on racks and stacked on the tables. There were also several big trunks.

“What are you going to do with me?” I asked.

“Hush,” said Wilkes. “I’m thinking.”

I saw then that he had a length of rope across his shoulders that hung down on both sides in front. Suddenly, I was certain that he intended to hang me. My eyes searched above me for what he might use. There were some pipes not far above my head.

Wilkes, though, didn’t seem to be interested in looking up. Instead he was looking around the basement. “There it is,” he said. “I thought there was one down here.”

He jabbed the gun into my ribs. “See that chifforobe over there.” He motioned with his head. Against the wall beneath the windows, stood the large piece of furniture. “Move,” he said, and I walked toward the chifforobe.

It was made of wood and tin. Wilkes shifted the gun to his left hand, and with his right he lifted the latch, and then he tugged at the door. Maybe it won’t open, I thought—Oh, God, don’t let it open. And at first the door did not budge. Gradually, though, it began to move. Sweat poured down his face, but finally he had it open.

“Get in,” he said.

There were drawers in the top part, and beneath them was just enough space for me to stand. “Oh, good,” he
said, and his voice sounded more familiar, almost normal. “You are a perfect fit.”

“Don’t make me get in, please,” I said.

“Oh, Arabella,” he said. “Don’t beg. It will only make me feel bad. You don’t want me to feel bad, do you?”

“Wilkes,” I said, “please.”

“Well,” he said, “there is one other choice.”

“What?” Surely almost anything would be better than being crammed into that musty old chifforobe.

“I could shoot you.” He smiled. “Probably that would be kinder.” He shrugged his shoulders, then reached out to touch the chifforobe door. “This thing seems pretty tight. I wonder how long you can live in there with such little air?”

“Don’t kill me. I am your friend—remember how I tried to help you?”