The Judges of the Secret Court (6 page)

His absence made Booth angry. He had met Johnson once, backstage in Baltimore, and had hoped, on the strength of that, to get a safe conduct to the Maryland Shore out of him. Now he would have to bluff his way across the Navy Yard bridge, instead. Then there was the matter of Atzerodt. Atzerodt should have been in his room above Johnson's, at the Kirkwood House. But the man was an undependable coward. He was probably out drinking somewhere, knowing very well what he would have to do, once Booth caught up with him.

But Booth did not catch up with him. The day was dwindling away, and he could find none of his instruments. Herold did not turn up, Arnold was in Baltimore, and O'Laughlin, though in Washington, had refused to help. Finally he managed to collar Atzerodt in the street, before that silly, distasteful, hunched over little man could slither away.

“I am in trouble,” whined Atzerodt. “I will never be out of it.” Which was quite true, but not what Booth had to tell him. He would have to do something to bring these weaklings into line. So at about four o'clock that afternoon he wrote out a letter to the newspapers, explaining what he was about to do and why, signed it with all their names, and gave it to an actor called Matthews to deliver, since he would have no opportunity to deliver it himself. Then he was ready. He had even remembered to stop by and give Mrs. Surratt a little package to deposit for him at Surrattsville. Field glasses, by the feel of them.

Mrs. Surratt had hired a carriage for ten dollars, and now jogged across the Potomac, into Maryland, with Louis Weichmann to drive her. Not even the presence of that man could quite spoil her day, though he had been infuriatingly curious about the package. But then he was curious about everything.

There was even a little sun, and the weather on the Maryland Shore proved warm. It was as though there had never been a war. She began to unbend. When she unbended, one could see that locked up somewhere in her, under all that defensive gruffness, was something vulnerable and charming, but Louis Weichmann did not see it. Charm was not a quality he sought in life, and vulnerability was something he confused with weakness. He lived like a rat in a wheel, always paddling away at the same treadmill; and his dignity, of which he had none, unless frightened, was that of a rat rearing up on its hind paws to defend itself against danger.

Whether he was in danger or not, he did not know, but he did know that he had talked too much before his superiors about the Secesh tendencies of Mrs. Surratt and her boarders, and he did not want to be called a liar, any more than he wished to be unmasked as a spy. Yet he had no will to move. He was quite comfortable at Mrs. Surratt's. She kept a good house. But neither did he want, being weak willed, the responsibility of anyone's being arrested, guilty or innocent, on his word. Just the same he questioned her. He could not help it. Besides, though he liked her boarding house, he did not like her. He knew perfectly well what she thought of him. It was what he thought of himself.

For a moment Mrs. Surratt was alarmed, lest he was trying to ferret out something about her son John. Yet John was safe in Canada, she was quite the equal of Mr. Weichmann, thank you, and the country was so beautiful that in a while she forgot all about him, except for the badness of his driving.

You could tell from the way he held the reins that Mr. Weichmann had not been brought up among people accustomed to owning horses, whereas she had been, in Prince George County, and even at Surrattsville, a few years ago. She saw two mares, white, in a field, and automatically she said, “zit, zit”.

It was a game they had all played when she was a child. Whenever you saw a white horse, when you were out in the carriage, you said “zit”. Whoever said it first got a point. She could not remember what the point of the game was. Perhaps it had been its own point. But the memory of it made her smile.

So did the countryside. She did not care for the smell of Washington City, which was a mixture of whisky, dust and stale garbage in open drains. She loved the smell of green spring meadows flocked with flowers. Every winter she forgot it, and every April it was there again, like the memory of a happy childhood or of a happy day. She loved the world when it smelled young. She even loved the young themselves.

Along the low horizon, against the sky, the first redbud was in bloom.

It was as well she enjoyed the day, for her errand was fruitless. Her debtor was hiding somewhere and could not be found. But she did stop at Surrattsville and leave that irresponsible drunk of a tenant, Lloyd, Mr. Booth's package. She knew how scornful Weichmann was of Surrattsville. He was full of the scorn of those who own nothing towards those who prize the little that is theirs. True, it was little. It brought in only six hundred a year. But at least it was Surrattsville, it was named for her late husband, and any land one owns is Eden, if one has to visit it from town.

So she ignored Weichmann. As she drove back through the dusk, she could smell the drowsy odour of the redbud, and it soothed her as she had not been soothed in weeks. To relax so much, made her realize how tense she had been. But with John safe in Canada and the war over, and quite enough boarders at the boarding house, really, perhaps life would be better from now on.

Jounced, jostled, alone, but content, she sat in the dusk, listening to the horse, and smiled.

Mr. Lincoln's afternoon drive had not been so pleasant. He did not sleep easily these days. His nightmares were worse and more frequent, and they left him drained. He had made all the plans of a man who knows perfectly well that he is not going to live to fulfil them. He would take Mother, which is what he called his wife, to Europe with the children, once this second term had run its course. He would set up a law practice in Springfield again. He made plans the way a doctor reassures his patients. He talked of the future with everyone, for he knew he was not well. It was of his own death that he had nightmares.

The scene was always the same. He came back to the White House which was a disorderly, ill-run, and inhuman building, to find that a death had taken place. And the body in the coffin was always his own. It was when learning that that he always moaned in his sleep.

The guard in the corridor, Lamon, the one member of the Secret Service whom he trusted, because the man fussed over him so, sitting there in the half light, heard that moan night after night. But not many other people heard it, and Mary Todd Lincoln, if she did, paid no attention. Lamon was in Richmond, but Mother was here.

As though state affairs were not burden enough for him, Mother was worse than ever these days. He had long ago ceased trying to understand her, and she could not be helped. Certainly, in this life, she did little enough to help him, or anyone else she knew well, either, for that matter, though she was kind enough to strangers. It was merely with her intimates that she had not the patience to remain human. No matter how tired he might be, no matter how heavy a schedule he might have, Mother had to have her whims, and his only defence was to give in to them. So tonight they must go to the theatre, which he had no wish to do, and this afternoon, for a drive.

Mother's hysterics were the best kept open secret in Washington, but he was grateful to those who helped him keep it. He knew perfectly well why the Grants had left the city rather than come to the theatre. He thought it tactful of them. But one could not explain that to Mother.

Yet by five o'clock, when he finally arrived, late as usual, but that was not his fault, to escort her to the carriage, her tantrum had passed away. Perhaps they would have a peaceful drive. His only emotion at that was a relieved sigh, which was the most he could summon these days, unless someone told him a funny story.

If the event had been Armageddon itself, Mother would have insisted upon dressing like a belle of seventeen. No doubt on the day of Resurrection, in which, privately, he did not happen to believe, which would at least spare him one spectacle, she would do the same.

And yet, in her own way, it was quite true, even though she was harrowing and never gave much thought to behaving any better, he knew she was fond of him, as fond, he supposed, as she could be of anyone not her father. He was wistfully a little tired of doing his best to be the world's father, when what he wanted, sometimes, was someone to bring him a shawl when he was cold.

But Lamon did that, not Mother.

They got into the carriage, which trundled briskly through the White House gates and out into G Street.

The Presidential carriage was a surprisingly elegant barouche, low slung and gleaming. Despite the mud and ruts of the road, it glided smoothly by. There were few to watch it pass. Mr. Lincoln was not a popular man, either with North or South, for he had defeated the latter and to the former was the advocate of what no man likes for others, which is clemency; and no one thanked him for the new hordes of blacks who wandered everywhere and who, these last few years, had gotten uppity above their station.

If people looked at all, what made them turn their heads was the sound of Mrs. Lincoln's laughter. It was whole hearted, but it was not easy. There was a ragged edge of hysteria in it which slashed the silence like a piece of glass, the laugh of a woman who can never be noticed enough, and who is most embarrassing when most spontaneous. She was happy now, but who knew what she would be half an hour from now? Even the cripples turned to watch, and there were a good many cripples in Washington these days. Mrs. Lincoln did not like to see them, outside of a hospital ward, where they belonged. Flat in a bed and grateful for flowers from the White House, they were less disturbing.

The carriage swerved past the Capitol, past marching troops who no longer had anywhere to march to, past strings of prisoners. Yet the city was gay. Like most capitals, Washington City was irresponsible. And the President was just as bad. He looked like a corpse, and yet he sat there laughing.

Mrs. Lincoln stirred uneasily. He was not well. And laughter from the ill is apt to be a symptom. Such laughter does not sound spontaneous.

He was only trying to amuse her.

“I never felt so happy in my life,” he said. It was agreeable to be out in what was left of the sun, and to have the war over. That was all he meant. He did so want her to be pleased.

But she was thinking that laughter was unwise. The President had been in such a mood just before their son Willie died, at the beginning of the war. Her own father was dead. Who would she have left to turn to, if anything happened to Mr. Lincoln? He must not laugh this way. It was tempting fate. Her own face became serious. Whatever they did, they must not laugh.

Seeing the change in her expression, Lincoln gave up. There was nothing to be done with Mother in one of her moods. He blinked and looked at the crowds instead.

Those who looked at the barouche as it went by, saw only that Mrs. Lincoln was herself again. She might begin by smiling graciously, she was overweaningly timid, but it seldom took more than a city block for that worried look to come back again.

The wheels of the carriage went around and around.

At the Navy Yard Mr. Lincoln got out to stretch his legs, and was induced to walk up the catwalk to the monitor
Montauk
, which was anchored there. That little disk with steel turrets was already part of the past, victory had made it obsolete, but in early evening light the river was almost touching in its gentle swell and idle current. If they did not go to Europe, perhaps Mother would be satisfied with a farm on the Sangamon. He had always liked the Sangamon. But that was the river at home, and this was the Potomac.

He got back into the carriage and was returned to the White House. As they pulled into the
porte cochère
, they saw two men leaving, both friends from home, Oglesby, the new Governor of Illinois, and General Haymes. The President felt so happy to see a familiar face, that he stood up in the shaky carriage and yelled at them to stop. It was so seldom these days that he saw old friends, and they always cheered him up.

He knew what the world thought of him, though whether it was himself or the office the world hated most, he did not know. An office changes a man, so perhaps it did not greatly matter. But Oglesby and Haymes could remember the day when he was just a man, and seeing old friends was like being able to take one's shoes off, when they hurt.

He took them up to his office to swop jokes.

Wilkes was in his hotel room at the National. It had been his intention to take a nap, but of course he had not really slept. He lay on the bed, with his spurred boots over the edge of it, so as not to damage the coverlet, which was nubby and had an unpleasant texture.

His pocket watch told him it was 7:45, but he had no real desire to get up. He had had too much to drink today. The brandy had been too sweet. He felt faintly nauseated and faintly furry. The room had a high ceiling and an unpleasant dado. His mind was made up. And yet some part of it was having second thoughts.

Perhaps if he stood up he would feel better. He stood up; and it was true, he did feel better. He walked around the room. His recitation to young ladies was a parlour piece called
The Driven Snow
. He was good at it. When their eyes widened, he could pretty well tell how the little affair would end.

Bessie Hale's eyes had not widened at all; they had narrowed. He wondered what she would think of him tomorrow, and if she was thinking of him now.

When he was by himself, he recited only Shakespeare. Tomorrow he would be a hero and a tyrannicide, but he could never be sure when Bessie was not laughing at him, even when she seemed to take him most seriously. She came from the North. Her blood was cold. But the women of the South never laughed at him, or at any man. They had read their Sir Walter Scott, and they knew a hero when they met one. Tomorrow morning, he would be well into the South.

Besides, he could not back out now. He had already given that letter, signed with all their names, to Matthews, and if it appeared in the
National Intelligencer
tomorrow and he had not appeared at Ford's Theatre tonight, he would be an ignominious laughing stock to the world.