House Divided (173 page)

Lomas said thoughtfully: “I don't know. It sounds to me like an excuse to get this army together and steal a march on General Early. I'll look for a chance to warn him.”

The chance came when Sheridan directed another attempt against those bridges on the railroad from Lynchburg. They rode to the home of a man whom Lomas knew to be friendly, and who furnished a trustworthy Negro to carry their message through Ashby's Gap to Mosby.

Then they proceeded toward Newtown; but on the road a detachment of Sheridan's cavalry met them. Before Faunt guessed what was coming, he and Lomas faced so many levelled carbines that not even
his reckless courage ventured any resistance. Disarmed, they were escorted to Colonel Young, who was in charge of Sheridan's scouts.

“Well, gentlemen,” the Colonel said mildly, “I do regret that you submitted so peacefully.” His easy tone did not blind Faunt to the hard glint in the other's eye. “You see, I've been watching you. You spent a night at the house of Warren Hutley, and next morning his Negro took a mule and started east. It's true we could get nothing out of him. If he carried a written message he swallowed it. If he did, that was your great good fortune.” He added: “That and the fact that at least one of you is a
protégé
of Mr. Stanton. So there will be no court martial, and no sentence; but you'll be our guests at Fort Warren for a while.”

Faunt bit his lip in a dark frustrated wrath; but Lomas said easily: “You are mistaken in your suspicions, Colonel; yet I can see your point of view, and of course it's much better for you to make a safe mistake than one that might have bad results.” He smiled. “I've been so active in the field for months now that a few weeks' rest will be welcome.”

He saluted briskly, and the Colonel grinned. “I'd like to hang you. I think you'd look well on a rope.”

“I'm glad General Sheridan isn't quite so ready to forget past services.”

 

Lomas was soon on good terms with the guards who escorted them toward the railroad; but not till they were on the cars bound for Harper's Ferry did he and Faunt have a chance to speak together. Then, the noise of the train covering his words, Faunt said furiously:

“I didn't contract for a stay in a Yankee prison.”

Lomas whispered: “We'll be free in Baltimore.”

“How?”

Lomas shook his head for silence, but his prediction was fulfilled. In the Baltimore station, an uproar distracted their guards; and when the confusion reached its height, a sudden jostling crowd swept the two prisoners away. Lomas gripped Faunt's arm and led him quickly out into the security of darkness; and he whispered a question:

“Do you know Baltimore?”

“Yes, I've been here.”

“Meet me in an hour at the corner of Fayette and Calvert, outside Guy's Monument House. Don't speak to me till I'm alone.” He darted off.

Faunt took an opposite direction. Lomas must somehow have arranged that factitious disturbance at the station, and Faunt's respect for the man's capacities increased. Conceivably the guards were bribed; there were enough Confederate sympathizers in Baltimore so that if they were forewarned, to stage that small riot would not have been difficult. Lomas must have found a way to communicate with them.

Faunt delayed his approach to the rendezvous till the appointed time. Lomas was there before him, talking with a man of nondescript appearance. When this man departed, Faunt approached; and at Lomas's word they walked along Fayette Street together. Lomas handed him a sheaf of greenbacks and a key.

“That's the key to a room in Barnum's City Hotel,” he explained. “The room's on the fourth floor, toward the back of the house. Find it yourself. Don't speak to the clerk. I must go to Washington tonight, but I'll meet you in Guy's restaurant between six and seven o'clock tomorrow evening.”

“I'd feel more comfortable if I were armed.”

“Here's a Deringer, then; but if you stay in your room you'll not be disturbed.”

Faunt did not relish the prospect of hiding away for the twenty-four hours of waiting. There was a reckless mood upon him, and also he began to be hungry. He walked back to Guy's restaurant, taking a precautionary survey before venturing in; but when he did step through the door he felt a quick satisfaction. At a table by the wall a man sat half facing him, leaning to talk in low tones to his companion. Faunt recognized Wilkes Booth; and after a moment's hesitation he went boldly that way.

When Faunt approached the table, Booth looked up, and instantly he smiled and rose with extended hand. “Mr. Currain? Sir, I'm delighted to see you.” He indicated his companion. “You remember Sam Arnold, Mr. Currain.”

Faunt had met Arnold on one of his former trips to Baltimore. Arnold and Booth were boyhood friends; and the packets of drugs
which Booth sent South had once or twice come through Arnold's hands. Faunt sat down with them, and Booth said: “I was sorry not to meet you last month, during my visit in Mosby's Confederacy, Mr. Currain.”

“Were you there?”

“For ten fine days, yes.”

“Then you relished your adventures?”

“Never in my life have I been so drunk with delicious terror.” Booth chuckled, his eyes glowing. “Colonel Mosby had not returned from Richmond, but I was with Captain Richards at Mount Carmel. We killed thirteen of them there, took sixty-three prisoners and ninety horses, lost one man. Oh, it was glorious! I'll be forever grateful for that experience.”

“The gratitude is on our side,” Faunt assured him. “You've been a good friend of the South.”

Booth said strongly: “Sir, my possessions, my life, yes, my very soul, are committed to your cause!” He looked at Sam Arnold, then back at Faunt with brooding eyes. “Day before yesterday, I could have delivered a mighty stroke for the Confederacy. At the moment of his inauguration I was as near the tyrant as I am to you; near enough to—” His voice sank to a deeper register—“‘with a blow strike life out from his heart.' But the opportunity caught me unawares, and I faltered and paltered in the pinch. ‘The fault is not in our stars, but in ourselves...' Yet to resolve on such a course takes time. ‘Between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first motion, all the interim is like a phantasma, or a hideous dream.' But I will act!” His eyes flashed, he leaned nearer. “I will, sir! It's true that a dead man's place is soon filled; but not the place of a living man! I have before this done for the South what I could, but by the Eternal I will do more! I project, sir, an exploit worthy of Mosby himself, or of his men!” Faunt felt his temple pulses pound, and Booth said in measured tones: “Mr. Currain, I have in mind a blow that may well change the course and channels of the war.”

“Then it's high time the blow were struck. The tide's running out. But to turn the tide calls for a miracle.”

“Miracles can be worked. ‘I can call spirits from the vasty deep,' my friend.”

Faunt smiled faintly. “What's the next line: ‘Yes, but will they come?'”

The actor's voice sank to a whisper. “Mr. Currain, suppose Mr. Lincoln were delivered in handcuffs to Libby Prison?” Faunt saw Arnold turn to look uneasily around. His own heart leaped like a spurred horse; but then it slowed again and he shook his head.

“That can't be done.”

Booth flung up his hand. “I do not know that word, sir! To audacity, anything is possible.” He spoke to Arnold, as though seeing the other's alarm. “Be easy, Sam. Mr. Currain is a bold and a discreet man.” Faunt's eye fell upon the brandy bottle half empty here between them, and Booth saw the glance and said strongly: “This is no drunken dream, Mr. Currain! I have had it in mind for months to seize the President and thrust him into a carriage, with relays of fresh horses ready. Two hours would bring him to Port Tobacco ahead of any pursuit, while confusion covered the trail behind us. Then into a boat with him; and once in Virginia the rest would be easy.”

Faunt considered. “Well, not easy; but possible, yes. Anything is possible, once he's in your hands. The difficulty, I should think, lies there.” He tried to speak calmly, but he began to take fire. This scheme of course was folly. If he helped put Abe Lincoln in Libby Prison, that would not make the Northern armies drop their weapons. But let him once come within pistol range of that hedge-bred monster from Illinois and the Currain blood would at last be purged.

“There is no difficulty,” Booth assured him. “Come, Mr. Currain; we need a man like you to play this scene.” Faunt did not speak, and Booth urged persuasively: “We have considered every detail, sir. Mr. Lincoln sometimes drives without escort. We weighed the chance of seizing him on such an occasion; but to do so required foreknowledge of his movements, not easily to be had. He sometimes comes to the Theatre. He might be mastered in his box, swung down to the stage and out to a waiting carriage and away. Or we might take him when he walks alone at night along a dim-lit path from the White House to the War Department. There's an empty house near the river where he could be securely hidden till the hue and cry was past.”

Faunt shook his head. These were absurd and hopeless dreams. “You would surely fail.”

Booth nodded cheerfully. “We might,” he agreed. “Planning thus in the dark we might fail. But now luck deals us a winning hand.” He leaned forward, speaking earnestly. “On the seventeenth,” he said, “there will be a performance of
Still Waters Run Deep
for the pleasure of the wounded at the Soldiers' Home. Lincoln will drive out to grace the occasion with his presence. He will go unguarded, and a little troop of us will meet his carriage on the road.” He snapped his fingers jubilantly. “So!”

Faunt's blood at the word ran hot again. To kidnap Lincoln and escape was certainly impossible. Too many long miles of road lay between Washington and any Southern refuge. But a pistol shot, in the flurry by the carriage, was feasible enough. That would not save the South, true; but Faunt, already seeing a bearded face along his pistol barrel, already feeling the jump of the weapon as he fired, shook with a deep contentment. Let him live long enough for that moment; then what matter if he died?

“It might be done,” he said carefully. “But the seventeenth is almost two weeks away.”

“You're with us?”

“How many of you?”

“Seven. Eight with you. Sam here. Mike O'Laughlin. George Atzerodt. You know him at Port Tobacco. John Surratt. You've lodged with him in Surrattsville. He has a boarding house now on H Street, in Washington. And you know Lew Powell. Till six weeks ago, he was one of Mosby's men. He's our newest recruit. He calls himself Paine now; and he's big enough to carry the tyrant like a baby in his arms. Then David Herold—I doubt you know him—and I.” He leaned back in his chair. “We've enough without you, Mr. Currain; but with you the thing's a certainty!”

“Suppose there's some change in his plans.”

“If so, we shall know it in full time. Meet us in Washington, Mr. Currain, two days beforehand. Go to Maggie Branson's, on North Eutaw Street.” He looked at Sam Arnold. “Or go back to Washington with Sam tomorrow. He and O'Laughlin live at Mrs. Van Tine's, on D Street.”

Arnold spoke sullenly. “Three of us is too many there. Let him stay here.”

Faunt said: “I have the key to a safe room in Barnum's.”

“As you please,” Booth assented. “But if you choose to come to Washington I can find you lodging there. Do you know Gautier's?” Faunt shook his head. “Pennsylvania Avenue, near Twelfth Street. A restaurant. There are private rooms. Ask for me.” And he challenged: “Are you with us, Mr. Currain?”

Faunt's doubts gave way. “If I'm alive, I'll be there.”

Booth, with an exultant word, reached for the bottle. They finished it and another before Faunt, unused to heavy potations, felt his senses blur. When he rose to take his leave, he knew that Sam Arnold crossed the street with him to the hotel and guided him to the room to which he had a key; but once abed he slept senselessly till far into the day.

 

His sleep was disturbed at last by the sound of a bell ringing somewhere; and he came slowly back to consciousness to the tune of these repeated peals. Barnum's was always full of the sound of bells, guests ringing to summon the carefully disciplined servants, or the head waiter ringing his huge bell to announce that dinner was ready. Faunt on former occasions had dined in the public room. There a long central table was heaped with the rich and elaborate fare for which Zenas Barnum had made his hostelry famous, and attentive waiters bustled to and fro to bring each guest what he desired; but today Faunt had no desire for food, and the bells made his head ache, and he wished they would be still.

He kept his room till dusk, and these hours alone were heavy with the burden of his thoughts. He lay most of the time with his eyes closed; and against his translucent lids he watched the passing panorama of his years, from laughing youth to love and then to tragic loss and grief past any healing. He had dwelt in loneliness, yet his days were not all darkness; and his ways were gracious with an enriching pride and self-respect till that night at Great Oak left him to choke forever upon unconquerable shame.

Since then? Well, there was one credit on his score, for he had cleansed Anne Tudor's heart of any secret tenderness for him, and she was happy now. But the rest was ruthless killing, and the degradation of his hours with Neil.

Now there was one more killing to be done. What then? He felt within his breast the gnawing mice of death. Perhaps a bullet flung at random in the pitch and pinch of the affray this little actor planned might give him quick release. If not, why then he would go back to Nell. Whatever she was, she gave him happiness. Whatever she was, she loved him; and he would never be completely lost so long as he had her sure and loyal love.