Assassin (13 page)

Standing in the White House, I wondered how I would answer my father’s letter. A week had passed since my receiving it, and I fretted, knowing he would be anxious for an answer. But what could I say? I no longer thought of Richmond as home. I also wondered how I would react to seeing my father, who I had longed for so desperately. Could I forgive him for neglecting me so? Yet I hurt at the idea that he was hungry and cold.

It was that very evening at Ford’s Theatre that I first heard Wilkes’s terrible proposal. I had just settled in for an hour of work when I saw him. He suggested that I go with
him into the theater. My heart raced because I thought he had more news of my father.

There were no lights in the theater. Wilkes left the big doors open so that light could come in. Still, it was dim. Theater people, I had learned, called the rows of seats the house, and it was there that Wilkes led me, to the middle of the empty house.

“No one must hear our conversation,” he said. He stopped in the middle of a row, in the middle of the theater. “Sit down, Arabella,” he said, “and tell me at once if you see anyone.” He sat backward in the seat beside me, his body turned so that he could watch the other way.

He was quiet for a time after he was settled, and when I could stand the silence no longer, I asked, “What is it? What do you know about my father?”

He turned to look at me, reached out his hand, and rested it against my cheek. “Tell me, sweet girl, are you my friend?”

“Oh, yes . . .” I paused, then added, “Wilkes, I admire you so much and feel fortunate beyond belief that you would deem me worthy of a private conversation.” I took a deep breath and tried to relax and lean back in my seat.

He pressed his lips together hard. When he spoke, his voice was low and thrilling. “Oh, yes, my dear, this is a private conversation. It must ever be private, and you must pledge to me that you will never tell anyone what we discuss.”

My head began to swim. Wilkes Booth was about to
take me into his confidence. The man who had been called “the most handsome man in America,” sat beside me and asked me to share his secrets. I put my hand in the air to signify a pledge. “I will never tell a soul,” I said. “I give you my most sacred pledge.”

“Arabella,” he said slowly, and the sound of his saying my name made me weak all over, “I need your help with a plan that is, undoubtedly, the most important thing to ever come into either of our lives. I need your help to save the South.”

I felt a great coldness start in my feet and spread up into every part of my body. “To save the South?” I said weakly.

“Yes,” he said. “I have a plan that may well give the South the upper hand in this war. You do want to save the South, don’t you?”

What could I say to him? I could not bear to tell him the truth, that my sympathies now lay with the Union. He leaned toward me, and I could not stand to see him move away. “My father fought for the South,” I said, stalling for time to think.

“I know,” he said. “He suffers now in prison, but I have a plan that will ensure his release, and I need your help!”

“What could I do? I know nothing about the war, not really.”

“Ah,” said Wilkes, “but you do know about Mr. Lincoln.”

I was dumbfounded. “The president?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, “the president, the man who caused this all, the man who now has tried to free the slaves.” He threw his hands into the air. “What does he know of darkies? Can he not see that the colored man is better off as a slave? Has he not heard them singing in the fields as they work? Does he not understand that slavery has lifted them up from the conditions under which they lived in Africa? The man is a tyrant. He must be stopped.”

I knew he was wrong. I had seen how Mr. Lincoln bore the burden of the war. He did not seem a tyrant to me. Remembering Mrs. Keckley, I knew he was wrong about slavery too. I remembered the scars on her back and how she had been used by her master. I said nothing. I could not have argued against him, no matter what he said. I pushed down any thoughts of my own, and listened only to the beauty of his voice, full and melodious.

He stopped talking and looked at me. “Where is your father being held?” he asked.

“Fort Delaware,” I said.

“Ah,” he said. “On Pea Patch Island, in the river that separates Delaware from New Jersey.”

“You seem to know a lot about Fort Delaware,” I said.

A sad look came to his face. “I know this, that a man who enters a military prison will be lucky if he gets out alive.”

I gasped and moved to the edge of my chair. “He might be executed?”

Wilkes shrugged. “Well, I doubt that the guards are any too kind, but, no, it isn’t likely they would hang him. The biggest danger is disease, smallpox and the like. Crammed in there as they are and weak from hunger, disease spreads like fire in a dry field of grass.” He shook his head. “No, there’s not much chance your father will live to see the war over.”

“Oh,” I said softly.

“But there is a way if you want to help him.”

“Of course I do.”

Wilkes leaned back then to rest against the seat in front of him. “There is a group of us, me and a few very close friends, who have determined to kidnap Mr. Lincoln. We would take him to Richmond, where he would be held and ultimately exchanged for all the Southern men in Northern prisons. With thirty-five thousand men to go back into the fields, the war would be over soon.”

My head felt strange, as if I were dreaming the conversation. “What would happen to the president?”

“Lincoln? Oh, he would be treated well enough. I am sure the North would want proof that he was alive and well before making the deal. We have no plan to harm the man, though he mightily deserves it.”

“What would happen if the South won the war?”

“America would be two nations. How could that hurt anyone?”

“But I don’t understand what you would want me to do. How could I possibly help you?”

“You go daily to the White House. You must know that Mr. Lincoln frequently rides out to the Soldiers’ Home, the hospital with his summer residence on the grounds. It is only a few miles from the White House, and he usually goes alone.”

He reached out to take my arm, drawing me closer. He looked behind him again and then went on. “The place sits in a wooded area, a perfect spot for us to overtake him. If you got word to us when he plans to leave, we could go there, watch for his departure, and stop him. We could tie him in the back of the carriage, drive to the ferry over the Anacostia River. Fresh horses could be waiting for us, and we would ride on to cross the Potomac into Virginia.”

A great relief went through my body. “He goes out there mostly after sundown. I am always gone home by then, or to Ford’s to sew. I wouldn’t be around to tell you.”

Wilkes looked long and close at me, and then he smiled again. His smile was always something to behold, but this smile was even more special. Such a smile I had never seen; it seemed to flow over me like warm water, and I felt myself give in to it as I would to a relaxing bath. “It is simple,” he said. “You must change your hours. Give up this place altogether.” He put his hand into his pocket and brought out tickets. “I can easily supply you with theater tickets, more than you need.” He pressed the tickets into my hand. “You tell the dressmaker you need
to change your hours, that you are needed at home during the earlier hours and that she can leave work for you.”

“Oh, Mrs. Keckley is mostly at the White House all day. Often she spends the night there. She does a great deal more for Mrs. Lincoln than just make clothes.”

“Good, then, it should be perfectly fine with her if you come in to work later.”

I was not so sure of the ease of it all. “I would have to drop my work at once if I saw Mr. Lincoln leave. How would I explain that to Mrs. Keckley?”

Wilkes laughed. “My dear girl,” he said. “Have you not told me of your desire to act?”

“Yes,” I said softly.

“Here then is a perfect opportunity to ply your art. Think of something! Become an actress!” The sound of footsteps behind him made him turn to look. “Oh,” he said loudly enough to be heard, “here comes Wyatt, a producer. I’ve told him I want him to see you do your piece.”

So it was that I found myself on the stage of Ford’s Theatre, ready to recite “Annabel Lee” for Mr. Wyatt who took a seat about halfway back.

Wilkes stood leaning against the stage and looking up at me. “Speak up, now,” he said softly, “and say it for me the way you did the other morning.”

Somehow, I got Wilkes’s suggestion about Mr. Lincoln out of my mind and put everything I had into the poem. I felt the thrill of the words. When I came to the last
four lines, I thought my voice rose with just the right touch of passion.

“And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride
,

In the sepulcher there by the sea
,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.”

I curtsied slightly, and I heard, “Fine,” come from where Mr. Wyatt sat. “Fine,” he said again, and he clapped his hands. Next he rose and walked down to the stage, where he could look up to speak to me. “You’re a lovely girl, and you have a good voice. Still, you’ve a lot to learn, of course,” he said, “but the best way to learn is to watch real masters, like Booth here, at work. I’ll find a small part for you soon.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket. “Tell me your name again.”

“Arabella,” I said. “Arabella Getchel.”

“Good,” he said, and he spelled out my name, A-r-a-b-e-l-l-a G-e-t-c-h-e-l-l.”

“One
l
, sir,” I corrected him.

“Oh, right, must have it right when it goes up out front, aye?”

He was teasing me, I knew. It would be a long time before I could expect to see my name on a show card. Still, this was a beginning. A thrill passed through me. “Yes, sir,” I said.

He turned back slightly to speak to Wilkes who had
come toward us. “And I suppose Booth here will know where to find you when that part for you comes along.”

“Yes,” said Wilkes. “I will know where to contact Arabella.” He smiled up at me. “We are good friends.”

After the producer took his leave, Wilkes looked at his watch. “I am late,” he said. “I’m late for an engagement. Arabella,” he said, “I will count on you to change your work schedule soon, but we must talk more.” He paused and pursed his lips, thinking. “I have it,” he said. “How would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow evening?”

“Dinner?” I asked as if I had never heard of the word.

“Yes,” he said with a smile. “Dinner. You do eat the meal, do you not?”

Dinner with Wilkes Booth! Unable to speak, I merely nodded.

“Very well, then. Shall we say seven? Where shall I call for you?”

Suddenly the reality of what was being arranged came crashing in on me. “Oh, no,” I said. “My grandmother would never hear of my going out in the evening with a theater man. Besides, I am afraid I have nothing suitable to wear.” I looked down to touch my gingham dress. “This would certainly not do.”

“You look lovely, my dear,” Wilkes said warmly, and I felt my legs go weak. “You would be beautiful, I am sure, no matter what your attire.” He smiled that special smile again. “But if you would feel better, take a dress
from the costume shop. Don’t worry about its owner. You can bring it back, and there are no shows here tomorrow.” He took a notebook from his pocket, wrote a brief note, tore out the page, and gave it to me. “If Lillie or anyone else questions you, show them this, and as for your grandmother, perhaps you should meet me at my hotel, the National.”

He was gone then with a wave and a quick good-bye. I stood on the stage, staring after him. My legs felt like jelly, and I wondered if I could actually climb down from the stage without falling. I was going to dinner with John Wilkes Booth!

With dreamlike motions, I made my way back to the costume shop. Relieved that Miss Lillie was not there, I went to a rack where three dresses hung. One, a beautiful red gown, looked about my size. Quickly I slipped it into a box, and with the box under my arm I hurried from the theater.

At home I told Grandmother that I had brought a dress from Ford’s to take with me to Mrs. Keckley to ask her advice about an alteration. Relieved that Grandmother did not ask more questions, I slid the box out of sight under my bed.

“You’re quiet, child,” Grandmother said while we ate our evening meal. “Is something troubling you?” She peered closely at me as she dipped beans onto my plate.

Unable to meet her gaze, I looked down at my food. “Just tired,” I said. The truth, though, was that I had
never been less tired. In bed that night, I lay wide-eyed, a thousand thoughts going through my head. What would I tell Wilkes when he demanded an answer about my helping him kidnap Mr. Lincoln? I couldn’t do such a thing, could I? But how could I say no? Wilkes wanted to take me to dinner! He could have arranged to talk to me again at the theater, but he wanted to take me to dinner! He must like me, must want to spend time with me! Besides there was my father to consider. Shouldn’t I grab at a chance to help him?

I rolled about in my bed. I needed to sleep, needed to be fresh for tomorrow. I told myself not to think about Wilkes or his plan. Steven, I would think about Steven, but then I began to think of how Steven would hate Wilkes’s plan, would hate my being involved. Steven would not like my going out in the evening to meet Wilkes either.

I decided not to think about Steven. He was dear, my closest friend, and I loved him with all my heart. Steven would always be there for me, wouldn’t he? I knew Wilkes would not be a permanent part of my life, but why not enjoy the marvelous chance to know him? No other man was like Wilkes Booth. One look from Wilkes, and my body felt limp.

Finally, I let myself think of Wilkes without restraint. I imagined myself in the red gown, being held in his arms. I imagined our lips meeting in a kiss. Going over and over the scene in my mind, I finally fell asleep.

Despite the shortness of the night, I was up early at
dawn next day, and I went early to the White House. I was already at work when Mrs. Keckley came into the sewing room. I had practiced what I would say to her about the red gown. “I have a chance to go to a hotel dining room with some theater people,” I said. “It is an opportunity to actually spend time with an actress and actor who might be able to get me an audition.” I reached for the box that I had placed on the table beside me. “I’ve borrowed a dress, and I am hoping you will let me try it on, see if it needs altering.”