Abner & Me (10 page)

WHEN I OPENED MY EYES, THERE IT WAS
—
THE
Washington Monument. It looked exactly the same as it did in the photo, except it was dark out, and there were people all around. For once, I had traveled through time and landed at the exact spot I had been aiming for. Things were looking good. “Let's go,” Mom said. “We don't have a lot of time.”

“How will you know when you see John Wilkes Booth?” I asked as she grabbed my hand. “There could be a lot of guys standing around that bar.”

“I downloaded pictures of him from the Internet,” she said. “I know exactly what he looks like. He's about five eight, dark hair, mustache, very handsome.”

John Wilkes Booth

The streets of Washington looked like a big outdoor festival. Horses and buggies were taking people everywhere. Men were all dressed up in old-time clothes and hats and women were in fancy dresses. Everybody seemed happy.

“The Civil War ended just five days ago,” Mom told me as she led me across Constitution Avenue. “It was almost exactly four years ago today that the whole thing started. That's why everybody's celebrating.”

Mom had learned just about everything there was to know about the Lincoln assassination. She had even memorized how we would get from the
Washington Monument to 10th Street, where Ford's Theatre was located. She was walking quickly, pulling me along by the hand. “Can you tell me what time it is?” she asked an older man in a top hat.

“Nearly ten o'clock,” he said, after taking a watch out of his pocket.

“Oh no!” Mom said. “We might be late!”

Mom knew we didn't have time to waste. She had mapped out the route to Ford's Theatre.

We were running now, but it was hard to make progress because Constitution Avenue was choked with people and horses. Mom was just about shov
ing people out of the way so we could get by them.

Finally we reached 10th Street. I was out of breath. There was a flyer lying in the street, and I stopped to pick it up.

“This is it!” Mom said. “Let's hurry!”

Ford's Theatre was right down the street. I could see the Star Saloon next door. That was the bar where Booth would be having a drink before he shot Lincoln.

“What time is it?” I barked at a lady on the sidewalk in front of the theater. She glared at me, but pulled out a watch anyway.

“Eight minutes past ten,” she said. “But you should get some manners, young man.”

“We're late!” Mom exclaimed, pulling me toward the front door of the theater. “Booth went inside one minute ago! We'll have to change plans! He's going to shoot the president in seven minutes!”

A guy in a uniform was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“We need two tickets, please,” Mom said as politely as she could, under the circumstances. She pulled some money out of her purse. “And hurry, please.”

“We're sold out tonight, ma'am,” the man said. “Not a seat left for tonight's show. Mr. Lincoln is here, you know.”

“I know,” Mom said hurriedly. “We don't mind standing.”

“No standing room, ma'am.”

“This is an emergency!” Mom said.

“A
national
emergency,” I added.

“I'm sorry,” the guy said, unimpressed. “I suggest you come back tomorrow. A new play called
The Octoroon
is opening. We'll have plenty of seats once the president is gone.”

“I'm sure you will,” Mom snapped. “Look, did a man just come in here about a minute ago? Handsome guy? Mustache, bushy dark hair?”

“Sure. I seen him.”

“Did
he
have a ticket?” Mom demanded.

“No.”

“Then why did you let
him
in?”

“He is a very highly regarded actor,” the guy said. “He comes here all the time. That was Mr. John Wilkes Booth.”

Mom and I looked at each other in a panic. It figured. Here we were trying to save the president's life,
and we weren't allowed inside the theater. But the guy who is going to
kill
the president can waltz right in the front door, no questions asked. Life wasn't fair.

We had five minutes, tops, to save Lincoln. I thought about trying to take a run at the guy and bowl him over, but he was a lot bigger than me. Mom grabbed my hand and pulled me down the steps.

We ran around to the side of the theater. There was a dark alley there, with a horse tied up to a post. I looked around desperately for a fire escape I could climb onto and sneak into the theater, but I guess they didn't have fire escapes back in 1865.

“Joey! Look! A door!”

I was about to pull the large wooden door open when suddenly a man stepped out of the shadows and grabbed me.

“Hold it right there!” he said.

I turned around and gasped. I couldn't believe what I saw.

It was Abner Doubleday.

I didn't recognize him at first because he wasn't wearing an army uniform.

“What are
you
doing in Washington, General Doubleday?” Mom asked. She was smiling nervously, almost like she was flirting with him.

“I work here,” Doubleday said. “A better question is what are
you
doing in Washington? Don't I know you two from somewhere?”

“Yes, we met at Gettysburg, sir. Two years ago. I'm a nurse. You mentioned something about the
Medal of Honor. But I really don't have time to discuss that right now. It's very important that my son and I get inside the theater right away.”

“That won't be possible,” Doubleday said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because I'm placing the two of you under arrest.”

“What for?” Mom asked.

“For the attempted assassination of President Lincoln.”

“What?”

“There have been rumors circulating that a conspiracy is afoot to kill the president,” Doubleday said as he grabbed Mom by the shoulder. “It said in the newspaper that Mr. Lincoln would attend the play this evening. So I decided to stop by the theater in case there was any trouble. It looks like I found some.”

“You've got it all wrong!” Mom said desperately. “We came here tonight for the same reason you did. We're trying to
prevent
the assassination! The assassin entered the theater just a few minutes ago! And we only have a few minutes before he is going to shoot the president! We
must
get inside!”

“You seem to know an awful lot about this plot,” Doubleday said calmly. “Obviously, you must be in on it.”

“We're not in on it!” I shouted. “We're trying to
stop
it!”

“I suspected something about you two back in
Gettysburg,” Doubleday said. “I recall you were wearing a bizarre nurse's uniform, and you could not name your regiment. And the boy here proposed some preposterous notion that I invented the game of baseball. Obviously, both of you are lunatics, and possibly dangerous. The president will thank me when he learns that I apprehended you. Perhaps I will finally be reinstated to my rightful command.”

“General Doubleday, if you don't let us in this door
right now
, the president is going to get killed!” Mom yelled. “He won't be able to thank you for anything!”

“Tell it to the police,” he said, pulling us down the alley toward the street. “You two have some explaining to do.”

The sound of audience laughter could be heard from inside the theater. I saw Mom reach into her purse for something. I wasn't sure what it was at first, but then I saw it.

The stun gun.

“Do it, Mom!”

Bzzzzzzzzzzttttttttt!

Doubleday froze for a moment, just looking at us. His eyes got really big and his hair stood on end. Then he slumped to the ground and hit the dirt like a sack of potatoes.

“Let's go!” Mom said.

She was about to pull open the door when a gunshot echoed into the alley, followed by a woman screaming.

IT WAS TOO LATE
.
PRESIDENT LINCOLN HAD BEEN SHOT
.

The door we were about to open was suddenly pushed open from the inside, and almost slammed me in the head. A man charged out, his eyes wild, and a grimace of pain on his face. He was waving a knife around.

“Make way!”

It was obviously John Wilkes Booth. He ran out the door with a pronounced limp and almost tripped over Doubleday, who was lying still on the ground. Booth untied the horse and galloped away.

“We've got to stop him!” I shouted.

“Don't bother,” Mom said wearily. “I know what will happen to him. They'll hunt him down. Twelve days from now, they'll shoot him in a Virginia barn. They don't need any help from us.”

Mom was leaning against the wall, like she was too tired and depressed to stand up. She looked like
she might break down in tears.

I couldn't let it end like that. She had tried so hard to prevent the assassination. We weren't failures. If it hadn't been for Abner Doubleday, we might have saved the president. I put my arm around Mom and held her. And suddenly, I got an idea.

“Maybe you can still save Lincoln,” I said. “Couldn't you do your lifesaving stuff on him or something?”

Mom rested her head on my shoulder for a moment without saying a word. Then she lifted it, and her eyes were bright again.

“You're right!” she said. “Lincoln isn't dead yet! He won't die until tomorrow morning!”

“Right!”

“The bullet was only a half inch in diameter,” she said excitedly. “It entered slightly above his left ear in the back of his head and it was lodged behind his right eye. The doctors won't know that until after he's dead. But I know it
now
. Maybe I can save him!”

“Yeah!”

Mom pulled out her first aid kit. We stepped over Doubleday and rushed out into the street. There was already a crowd forming in front of the theater.

“The president has been shot!” people were shouting.

In seconds, it was pandemonium. Women started screaming. Men started weeping. People started pushing, pointing, shoving, yelling, and bumping
into each other. We couldn't get to the front of Ford's Theatre.

The front doors finally opened and four or five men came out carrying a stretcher. The only part of Lincoln I could see at first was his shoes.

“They're going to carry him to that house over there!” Mom said, pulling me across the street. “I've got to get inside.”

“Clear a passage!” yelled one of the men carrying the stretcher.

As Mom and I struggled to get past the people crowding the street, I caught a glimpse of Abraham Lincoln's face. His eyes were closed. There was blood on his head. He was a very tall man, and he barely fit on the stretcher. One limp arm was dangling down, almost touching the street.

“The carriage ride to the White House will surely kill him,” one of the stretcher-bearers said. “He must be taken to the nearest available bed!”

“Bring him in here!” yelled a man standing in front of the house Mom had pointed out.

There were so many people clogging the street that by the time we got to the front of the house, Lincoln was already inside it.

“I might be able to save him!” Mom yelled to the man who was closing the door behind him.

“I am a doctor, ma'am,” he said. “The wound is mortal. It is impossible for him to recover.”

“You've got to believe me!” Mom shouted at the guy. “I know things about medicine that you don't know. I know things doctors won't know for more
than a hundred years!”

“We will do the best we can, ma'am.”

“Please!” Mom begged. “I come from the future! I can help!”

“Lunatic!” the doctor said, and then he slammed the door in Mom's face.

While Mom was arguing with the doctor, I turned around and saw the one thing I really did
not
want to see at that particular moment.

Abner Doubleday.

He looked groggy, staggering across the street like a drunk.

“We gotta get out of here, Mom!” I said. “Doubleday woke up.”

“I don't care!” she said, pounding on the door for them to let her in. “I've got to save the president!”

Abner Doubleday looked like he was coming our way.

“Mom!” I shouted. “You zapped him with the stun gun before Lincoln was shot! Doubleday probably thinks we ran in the theater and killed the president!”

“You're right,” Mom said. “We'd better get out of here.”

“Stop them!” Doubleday hollered as we ran down the steps. “They're the ones who killed the president! The woman is insane, and she has a weapon of some sort!”

I'm not the fastest runner in the world. Mom is no Olympic sprinter either. But we tore out of there so fast, we could have set a world record. A few peo
ple chased us for the first fifty yards or so, but then we got lost in the crowd. Just to be on the safe side, we didn't stop running until we were at least a mile away from Ford's Theatre.

We collapsed to the ground, exhausted, under a tree in the middle of a grassy field. Nobody was around. It was actually quite peaceful. The only thing I could hear was my heart pounding.

“Do you know what they did to the people who conspired with Booth to kill Lincoln?” Mom asked me as we caught our breath.

“What?”

“They hanged them,” Mom said.

“Let's go home,” I suggested.

“Good idea.”

She pulled the pack of new baseball cards out of her purse and handed them to me.

“You know what?” Mom asked as I ripped open the wrapper. “I recognize this spot.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said. “What is it?”

“This is where they're going to build the Lincoln Memorial.”

I took a card from the pack. Mom and I held hands and closed our eyes. I felt a drop of rain hit my head, and then a few more. It wasn't long before the tingling sensation started to flow across my fingertips, down my arms, legs, and throughout my body. The rain was picking up.

“Where's my umbrella?” Mom asked. “I thought I brought my umbrella.”

And then we faded away.