Stars & Stripes Triumphant (3 page)

The President stopped a moment to acknowledge the reception and raised his tall stovepipe hat. Set it back in place and tapped it firmly into position—then led the way down the stairs. Generals Sherman and Grant were close behind him, while Ambassador Pierce brought up the rear. They made their way slowly down the steps, then across the lobby toward the open doors.

There was a murmur from the crowd and a disturbance of some kind. Suddenly, shockingly, apparently pushed from behind, one of the ranked officers fell forward onto the floor with a mighty crash. As he fell, a man dressed in black pushed through the sudden opening in the ranks of the soldiers.

"Sic semper tyrannis!"
he shouted loudly.

At the same moment he raised the pistol he was carrying and fired at the President, who was just a few paces away from him.

AN ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION!

At was a moment frozen in time. The fallen Belgian officer was on his hands and knees; the other soldiers still stood at attention, still obeying their last command. Lincoln, shocked by the sudden appearance of the gunman from the crowd, stopped before taking a half step back.

The pistol in the stranger's hand came up—and fired.

The unexpected is the expected in war. While both of these general officers accompanying the President had had more than their fill of war, they were still seasoned veterans of many conflicts and had survived them all. Without conscious thought they reacted; they did not hesitate.

General Grant, who was closest to the President, hurled himself between his commander in chief and the assassin's gun. Fell back as the bullet struck home.

There was no second shot.

At first sight of the pistol, General Sherman had seized his scabbard in his left hand and, with his right hand, had pulled the sword free. In one continuous motion the point of the sword came up, and as he took a long step forward, Sherman, without hesitation, thrust the gleaming weapon into the attacker's heart. He drew it out as the man dropped to the floor. Sherman stood over him, sword poised and ready, but there was no movement. He kicked the revolver from the man's limp fingers, sending it skidding across the marble floor.

Someone screamed, shrilly, over and over again. The frozen moment was over. The officer in charge of the honor guard shouted commands and the uniformed men drew up in a circle around the President's party, facing outward, swords at the ready. Lincoln, shaken by the sudden ferocity of the unexpected attack, looked down at the wounded general stretched out on the marble floor. He shook himself, as though struggling to understand what had happened, then took off his coat, folded it, bent over, and placed it under Grant's head. Grant scowled down at the blood seeping from his wounded right arm, started to sit up, then winced with the effort. He cradled his wounded arm in his left hand to ease the pain.

"The ball appears to still be in there," he said. "It looks like the bone stopped it from going on through."

"Will someone get a doctor?" Lincoln shouted above the din of raised voices.

Sherman stood above the body of the man he had just killed, looked out at the milling crowd, which was pulling back from the ring of cuirassed officers who faced them with drawn swords ready. Satisfied now that the assassin had been alone, he wiped the blood from his sword on the tail of the dead man's coat. After slipping the sword back into its scabbard, he bent and rolled the body onto its back. The white-skinned face, the long dark hair seemed very familiar. He continued to stare at it even as one of the officers handed him the still-cocked assassin's revolver. He carefully let the hammer down and put it into his pocket.

The circle of protecting soldiers drew apart to admit a rotund little man carrying a doctor's bag. He opened the bag and took out a large pair of shears, then proceeded to cut away the sleeve of Grant's jacket, then the blood-sodden fabric of his shirt. With a metal pick he bent to probe delicately at the wound. Grant's face turned white and the muscles stood out on the sides of his jaw, but he said nothing. The doctor carefully bandaged the wound to stop the bleeding, then called out in French for assistance, a table, something to carry the wounded man. Lincoln stepped aside as uniformed servants pushed forward to aid the doctor.

"I know this man," Sherman said, pointing down at the body of the assassin. "I watched him for three hours, from the front row of the balcony in Ford's Theater. He is an actor. The one who played in
Our American Cousin.
His name is John Wilkes Booth."

"We were going to see that play," Lincoln said, suddenly very tired. "But that was before Mary was taken ill. Did you hear the words that he called out before he fired? I could not understand them."

"That was Latin, Mr. President. What he shouted out was
'Sic semper tyrannis.'
It is the motto of the state of Virginia. It means something like 'thus always to tyrants.' "

"A Southern sympathizer! To have come all this way from America, to have crossed the ocean just to attempt to kill me. It is beyond reason that a person could be filled with such hatred."

"Feelings in the South still run deep, as you know, Mr. President. Sad as it is to say, there are many who will never forgive you for stopping their secession." Sherman looked up and saw that a door had been produced and that Grant, his bandaged arm secured across his chest, was being lifted carefully onto it. Sherman stepped forward to take charge and ordered that the wounded Grant be taken to their suite of rooms on the floor above. He knew that a military surgeon accompanied their official party—and Sherman had more faith in him than he had in any foreign sawbones who might appear here.

It was silent in the bedroom once the servants left. The closed doors shut out the clamorous crowd. From the bed where he had been carefully placed, Grant waved to Sherman with his good arm.

"That was a mighty fine thrust. But then, you were always good at fencing at the Point. Do you always keep your dress sword so well sharpened?"

"A weapon is always a weapon."

"True enough—and I shall remember your advice. But, Cumph, let me tell you, I have not been drinking of late, as you know. However, I never travel unprepared, so if you don't mind I am going to make an exception just this one time. I hope you will agree that these are unusual circumstances."

"I can't think of anything more unusual."

"Good. Why then you'll find a stone crock of the best corn in that wardrobe thing in my room..."

"Good as done."

As Sherman stood up there was a quick knock on the door. He let the doctor in—a gray-haired major with years of field experience—before heading off to find the crock. While he was away, the surgeon, with a skill born of battlefield practice, found the bullet and extracted it. Along with a patch of coat and shirt material that had been carried into the wound by the ball. He was just finishing up rebandaging the wound when Sherman returned with the stone jug and two glasses.

"Bone's bruised, but not broken," the surgeon said. "The wound is clean; I'm binding it up in its own blood. There should be no complications." As soon as the doctor let himself out, Sherman poured two full glasses from the crock.

Grant sighed deeply as he emptied his glass; color quickly returned to his gray cheeks.

The President and Ambassador Pierce came in just as he was finishing a second tumbler; Pierce was flustered and sweating profusely. Lincoln was his usual calm self.

"I hope that you feel as well as you look, General Grant. I greatly feared for you," he said.

"I'm not making light of it, Mr. President, but I've been shot a lot worse before. And the doctor here says it will heal fast. I'm sorry to ruin the party."

"You saved my life," Lincoln said, his voice filled with deep emotion, "for which I will be ever grateful."

"Any soldier would have done the same, sir. It is our duty."

Suddenly very weary, Lincoln sat down heavily on the bench by the bed. "Did you get off that message?" he asked, turning to Pierce.

"I did, sir. On your official stationery. Explaining to King Leopold just what happened. A messenger took it. But I wondered, Mr. President: Would you like to send another message explaining that you won't be able to attend the reception tonight at the Palais du Roi?"

"Nonsense. General Grant may be indisposed, but he, and General Sherman, have seen to it that I am fit as a fiddle. This entire unhappy affair must have a satisfactory end. We must show them that Americans are made of sterner stuff. This attempt at assassination must not be allowed to deter us, to prevent us from accomplishing our mission here."

"If we are going to the reception, may I ask a favor, sir?" Sherman said. "Since General Grant will not be able to attend, I would like to ask General Meagher to go in his place. He is not due to return to Ireland until tomorrow."

"An excellent idea. I am sure that no assassins will lurk in the palace. But after this morning I admit I will feel that much more comfortable with you officers in blue at my side."

Sherman remained with Grant once the others had left. The two generals shared a bit more of the corn likker. After years of heavy drinking, Grant had given it up when he resumed his military career. He was no longer used to the ardent spirit. His eyes soon closed and he was asleep. Sherman let himself out and the infantry captain stationed in the hall outside snapped to attention.

"General Grant, sir. May I ask how he is doing?"

"Well, very well indeed. A simple flesh wound and the ball removed. Has there been no official statement?"

"Of course, General. Mr. Fox read it out to us—I had one of my men bring a copy to the palace. But it was quite brief and just said that there had been an attempt on the President's life and that General Grant was wounded in the attempt. The attacker was killed before he could fire again. That's all it said."

"I believe that is enough."

The captain took a deep breath and looked around before he spoke again in a lowered voice. "The rumor is you took him with your sword, General. A single thrust through the heart..."

Sherman ought to have been angry with the man; he smiled instead. "For once a rumor is true, Captain."

"Well done, sir, well done!"

Sherman waved away the man's heartfelt congratulations. Turned and went to his room. Always after combat he was dry-mouthed with thirst. He drank glass after glass of water from the carafe on the side table. It had been a close-run thing. He would never forget the sight of Booth pushing forward between the soldiers, the black revolver coming up. But it was all over. The threat had been removed; the only casualty had been Grant being injured and left with a badly wounded arm. It could have been a lot worse.

That night a closed carriage was sent for the American party. And, not by chance, it was surrounded by a troop of cavalry as it made its way across the

Grande Place

and past the Hôtel de Ville. They drew up before the Palais du Roi. The two generals exited first, walking close beside the President as they climbed the red-carpeted steps; Pierce followed behind. Once they were inside, Pierce hurried ahead of the rest of the American party as they entered the hall, whispered urgently to the majordomo who was to announce them. There was a moment of silence when Lincoln's name was called out; all eyes were upon him in the crowded hall. Then there was a quick flutter of clapping and then the buzz of conversation was resumed. A waiter with a tray of champagne glasses approached them as they entered the large reception room. All of the other brilliantly clad guests seemed to be holding a glass, so the Americans followed suit.

"Weak stuff," General Meagher muttered, draining his glass and trying to see if the waiter was about with another.

Lincoln smiled and just touched the glass to his lips as he looked around. "Now, see the large man in that group of officers over there; I do believe that is someone I have met before." He nodded in the direction of the imposing, red-faced man, dressed in an ornate pink uniform, who was pushing through the crowd toward them. Three other uniformed officers were close behind him. "I do believe that he is a Russian admiral with a name I have completely forgotten."

"You are president, we meet once in your WashingtonCity," the admiral said, stopping before Lincoln as he seized his hand in his own immense paw. "I am Admiral Paul S. Makhimov, you remember. You people they sink plenty British ships, then they kill British soldiers... very good! These my staff."

The three accompanying officers clicked their heels and bowed as one. Lincoln smiled and managed to extricate his hand from the admiral's clasp.

"But that war is over, Admiral," he said. "Like the Russians, the Americans are now at peace with the world."

As the President spoke, one of the Russian officers came forward and extended his hand to Sherman, who had, perforce, to take it.

"You must be congratulated, General Sherman, on a brilliant and victorious campaign," he said in perfect English.

"Thank you—but I'm afraid that I didn't catch your name."

"Captain Alexander Igoreivich Korzhenevski," the officer said, releasing Sherman's hand and bowing yet again. While his head was lowered he spoke softly so that only General Sherman could hear him. "I must meet with you in private."

He straightened up and smiled, white teeth standing out against his black beard.

Sherman had no idea what this was about—though he dearly wanted to know. He thought quickly, then brushed his hand across his mustache, spoke quietly when his mouth was covered.

"I am in room one eighteen in the Hotel Grand Mercure. The door will be unlocked at eight tomorrow morning." There was nothing more that could be said and the Russian officer moved away. Sherman turned back to his party and did not see the captain again.

General Sherman sipped his champagne and thought about the curious encounter. What had caused him to respond so quickly to the unusual request? Perhaps it was the officer's command of English. But what could it all be about? Should he be armed when he unlocked the door? No, that was nonsense; after this day's events, it appeared that he still had assassination on his brain. It was obvious that the Russian officer wanted to communicate something, had some message that could not go through normal channels without others being aware of what was happening. If that was the case, he knew just the man to ask about it.