The Murder of Willie Lincoln Page 11

  The silence in the hall was formidable. The Reverend Gurley, at the lectern, peered down at the president for five long seconds, then five more. Hay started to squirm, but Lincoln was gazing at the ceiling and paid no mind.

  “Sad and solemn is the occasion that brings us here to-day,” the pastor began at last in a sonorous voice. His vast forehead glistened, in faith or in fever. “A dark shadow of affliction has suddenly fallen upon this habitation and upon the hearts of its inmates. The news thereof has already gone forth to the extremities of the country…”

  Why use a single syllable, Hay thought, when three or four would do?

  “The beloved youth, whose death we now and here lament, was a child of bright intelligence and of peculiar promise. His mind was active, inquisitive, and conscientious; his impulses were kind and generous; and his words and manners were…”

  How tiresome to listen to an oily old fool extol the virtues of a whole-souled boy, but every word of it, Hay reflected, was true. Hay’s own vexation at Willie had been directed at the prankster in the boy, at the mischief maker, the mutineer against the world of adults, which any self-respecting American lad aspired to be. As John Hay had been. And Tad, who went too far because no one would stop him.

  “—and on Thursday last, the silver cord was loosed, the golden bowl was broken…”

  Outside, beyond the drawn drapes, thunder made the mansion shake.

  * * *

  Only upon setting out for the cemetery did Hay learn of the damage from the storm. The carriage he shared with Nicolay and—to his chagrin—with Allan Pinkerton was tenth or twelfth in an uncoiling line of dozens more. In front of Postmaster General Blair’s house, across the Avenue from the Executive Mansion, branches lay scattered in the roadway. The gale had peeled back the copper roofing at the central post office and at the Georgetown College infirmary—this was the driver’s report. At the Baptist church on Thirteenth street, the leaden bell had plunged through the roof.

  The rain had stopped for now, but the gusts of wind packed malice. Pinkerton sat facing the rear, in his flat bowler hat, his gaze fixed past Hay’s shoulder. He smelled of tobacco.

  Hay pointed to the downed elm and said, “That is the hand of God, Nico. And the dead sparrow I saw back there in the gutter.”

  “You were wise, Johnny, not to pursue the ministry,” Nicolay said.

  The carriage swerved side to side to avoid the branches in the road. At Twenty-third street, it skirted the equestrian statue of George Washington, which faced his native and now-rebel state to the south.

  “The Cross boy’s birthday,” Pinkerton said. “’Twas the fourth of February. And yes, Tom Cross cooked the breakfast. Though whether it was hotcakes or scotch pie or merely a pitiful porridge, this I was unable to learn.”

  Pinkerton was capable of sarcasm, Hay was pleased to find out.

  “And the commander at President’s Park?”

  “General Elias. A marvelous fellow. Never notices a thing. It is possible for someone to climb to the ramparts in President’s Park, which has a direct view o’ the path by the canal. Although it woul’ take a strong and accurate arm to hit someone.”

  So, the idea had made at least a modicum of sense. Hay felt less foolish than before. Except it was wrong—why not take his lumps?

  “You were right”—Hay volunteered to take his lumps—“about the … unlikelihood of that sort of attack.” Hay told Pinkerton about the arsenic in Willie’s remains and the evidence—or gossip—of secessionists in the Executive Mansion. “The alleged secesh. Do you think you could help me with those?”

  No reply.

  The carriage crossed the bridge into Georgetown, over the mouth of Rock Creek. Georgetown was a sleepy southern village, older than Washington City (and named not for that George but for King George II of England, whose successor lost the colonies to the colonists). Shabby shops lined Bridge street.

  The funeral cortege continued west. It took a roundabout route, north up High street, for a bone-rattling ride, then turned east at the reservoir, along Road street, past the row houses huddled in clusters. Four blocks along the heights of Georgetown, the sad procession arrived at Oak Hill Cemetery.

  A pair of white horses tugged the hearse up the hillside, until the road tapered into brown stalks and mud. Once the rig halted, six pallbearers slid the casket from the carriage and lifted it—achingly light—to their shoulders. The bareheaded president ambled behind, a loose-limbed Westerner on uneven ground, climbing through a wilderness of bare branches.

  Hay followed on foot. Last year’s leaves, dead and wet, banked against the tombstones. He tried to picture Willie gamboling across the South Lawn but could not escape the thought of a cloaked figure hovering over a supine body, feeding him … what? He shook his head, and his right foot stepped off the path and sank into a gulch. Immediately, the cold soaked up through his boot and past his ankle. Scrambling to catch up, Hay limped up the hill, just as the coffin reached the ridge. Just beyond, the slope dropped away, and Hay could hear the loud, rushing Rock Creek far below.

  The pallbearers waited with their burden outside the mausoleum’s iron gate. Over the arched doorway, carved in the limestone: WILLIAM THOS. CARROLL. The Supreme Court clerk was very much alive, although three of his children rested inside. Lincoln had boarded with Mrs. Carroll’s kinfolk a decade and a half before, during his single term in Congress.

  Lincoln stood behind the coffin, resting a gloved hand on the edge, raising his other, moving his lips. Then the pallbearers carried the casket inside, and Lincoln followed. Hay heard metal scrape against stone, and the pallbearers emerged, empty-handed. Lincoln stayed inside.

  Hay was of no use here, and the ache in his foot had risen past his calf. He nodded to Nicolay and weaved through the straggle of mourners. On the path, he balanced one foot in the mud and the other on the mashed-down thatch, hoping to avoid the brambles along the edge. Lines of poetry bounced around in his head.

  He groveled on the grainy floor,

  And kissed the dead child o’er and o’er.

  Hay had no idea what it meant, nor did he want to know. Or maybe:

  And at my door the Pale Horse stands,

  To carry me to unknown lands …

  More melodic, at least. Too obvious, perhaps. (Perhaps?)

  “Mistuh Hay!”

  Hay recognized Jamie Hall’s Kentucky drawl and let the president’s stepnephew catch up. His overcoat looked two sizes too large.

  “We need to talk, suh.”

  “My carriage,” Hay said. His companions would find another ride back.

  Dr. Hall kept hold of Hay’s wrist as the carriage twisted down the hill and remained silent until they reached the street. As if the graves had ears, Hay thought. Then he spoke so softly that Hay strained to hear, “About the arsenic.”

  “Yes?”

  Dr. Hall said he had visited the embalmer at home to inquire about his procedures—“just to be certain.”

  A sinking feeling. “Certain of what?”

  “That nothing Doctuh Brown did in the … procedure, suh, might have spoiled the Marsh test.”

  “And did it?”

  “Strictly speaking, no suh, it did not. Except that the blood used in the test was tainted with the embalming fluid. The fluid itself is mainly acetate of alumina and the chloride of alumina—if you would forgive the detail, suh. For funerals in which the coffin will be open, however, the good doctor adds two other ingredients. Carmine, for a pinkish coloration. And … arsenic.”

  The carriage, taking a corner too quickly, tilted on two wheels.

  “Damn! What on earth for?” said Hay, redirecting the pique he felt for the driver.

  “If you would forgive me again, suh, for my canduh, it is used to fend off … insects, as Ah understand it. Not in Europe any longer, suh, only he-ah. In Europe, the embalming fluid uses no arsenic at all. It was outlawed years ago. Seems that a lord of some renown in Paris died a trifle too unexpectedly for the authorities
to ignore it, and after he was embalmed without due delay, doubts were raised about the, uh, circumstances of his demise. Arsenic was found in his tissues, and suspicion turned to his mistress, who was charged with the murder.”

  “By Vidocq?” exclaimed Hay.

  “By who?”

  “Please, go on.”

  “At the trial, the embalmer testified that the fluid he had used contained arsenic, and the mistress went free. The embalmer’s name was Jean Gannal.” Dr. Hall tortured the French pronunciation. “The same Doctuh Gannal whose method of embalming the esteemed Doctuh Brown has licensed over he-ah. The one he used in preserving Cousin Abraham’s son.”

  “Which contained arsenic, you are saying.”

  “Yes, suh, it did. Perhaps arsenic was the culprit in Willie’s … passing. But because of the arsenic in the embalming fluid, it is impossible to know.”

  Hay sighed. “We are back at the beginning, then.”

  “Ah would not say that, suh. No, suh, Ah would not.”

  “And why is that?”

  “From the success of the embalming, we know—well, we suspect—that it was something, suh, something besides typhoid fever. Even if we do not know what.”

  “What else could it have been?”

  “If it was a poison, or a medicine serving as a poison, this leaves us now, suh, with two choices. Antimony or mercury. Possibly something more exotic, but Ah would doubt it.”

  “Because?”

  “’Twould be that much harder, suh, for a, uh, puhpetrator to find some. Why use something exotic when something common will do?”

  “All right. Then which of those two do you suppose…?”

  “Both are remedies; both are poisons. Either, in excess, can be fatal. But there is no fever associated with antimony. No fever. So it would not be mistaken for typhoid … well, fever. And Willie, so Ah am told, had a fever from the fuhst.”

  “Unless it was antimony and typhoid fever.”

  “Possible, Ah suppose, but unlikely. Mercury is far easier to acquire and to administuh than antimony. Blue mass pills or calomel—all too common, suh. All too common. In every apothecary. In half the households, Ah would guess—more than half.”

  Hay’s father always had both of them on hand. “And the symptoms?”

  “Of a toxic amount of mercury? For the most part, they match typhoid fever. Starting with a fever and chills. Then the intestinal troubles—at both ends. And red patches ’round the mouth. And a dullness in spirit that could pass for a stupah.”

  “Delirium?”

  “Close enough, suh. An agitation, confusion. Easily mistaken, Ah would think.”

  “Any symptoms that do not match?”

  “Cannot say, suh. That you might ask Doctuh Stone. He bein’ more familiar with … poisons, if you will, than Ah am. With the effects of mercury and with Willie’s symptoms.”

  As the carriage crossed over Rock Creek, back into Washington City, the sky had started to lighten. An ambulance clattered toward them, its nag looking near to collapse.

  “But there is no way to test for it, you said.”

  “Ah did say that, suh, and it is good of you to remember, but it seems Ah was mistaken. Doctuh Brown tells me there is a test for mercury, published in a journal in London back in ’twenty-two, by one James Smithson—yes, that Smithson.” The British chemist and mineralogist had never set foot in America but bequeathed his fortune to build the red sandstone castle devoted to science on the young capital’s national Mall. “A complicated procedure, it uses gold and nitric acid to detect the minutest amount of mercury and to measure its concentration. Meanin’ it could distinguish between a therapeutic, even a heroic, amount of mercury and a toxic amount that was meant to … to cause harm.”

  “Is the line that clear between … heroic medicine and … and…?” Hay could not bring himself to say murder.

  “We can hope, suh. We can hope.”

  The carriage stopped at Seventeenth street to allow a line of geese to cross the Avenue then turned into the grounds of the Executive Mansion.

  “Nobody in this country has conducted this test before,” Dr. Hall said. “Doctuh Brown has consented to conduct it himself. But … he will need … material to test.”

  Hay waited for Dr. Hall to continue. Then the wording sank in. Material. Not blood. Hay thought of the boy who had just been … no, not buried. More like stored on a shelf. What had been done could be undone, with a grisly ease.

  Hay said, “Would you rather I ask him?”

  “Ah will, if you prefer.”

  “No, I will.”

  * * *

  “Nico, you are useless.”

  “You are looking for a painless way to ask a father to let someone slice off a piece of his son. There is none. I say, and for the third or fourth time, just ask him. He wants this solved, and he will do what he has to. He always does.”

  This was true.

  They crossed Fifteenth street on the way back from Willard’s. “And,” Nicolay went on, “why do you ask my opinion if you mean to ignore it?”

  “Nico, how can I know what to think until I know what you think, then think the opposite?” On the far sidewalk, Hay crouched like a boxer. Nicolay poked him in the sternum.

  Upstairs in the mansion, Lincoln’s office was empty, but the door to the oval study was open. Hay walked in and saw the president slumped in his rocking chair, eyes shut, a National Intelligencer in his lap. Hay turned to leave—this could wait. Hay would prefer it.

  “John, stay. What I can do for you, my boy?”

  The fire in the hearth had dwindled to smoke and embers; a candle glimmered on the table next to the president. Hay lowered himself into the opposite chair. “There is something I need to ask.”

  “Then ask.”

  Hay explained how the Marsh test had found arsenic in Willie’s blood, but that the embalming fluid also had arsenic, so …

  “There is no way a court could judge, I can see that,” Lincoln said.

  “And so the next step is to test for mercury, which Jamie thinks is likelier than anything else.”

  “Sensible. Doc Stone gave him calomel, which I said he could do, so long as it warn’t too much.”

  “Too much of it, Jamie says, can”—Hay caught himself before saying kill—“cause harm.”

  “Too much of anything, John, can cause harm.” Lincoln’s face looked stricken; the left side was in shadow. “The sins of the father killed the son, I swear to you, John. My son.”

  “That is nonsense, sir. You know that.”

  “I know nothing of the kind.”

  Suddenly, Hay understood what he meant. Hay was one of the few people who knew of Lincoln’s past addiction to blue-mass pills. The blue pills—actually, gray pellets the size of rabbit turds—only intensified the bouts of melancholy and the rages that Lincoln had swallowed them to cure. Or so Lincoln had come to believe. Because the previous August, one sweltering day, he had stopped taking the pills altogether, and the rages ended.

  “You sent it to him through your blood, you think? Or by contact, skin to skin? Or possibly by an ether in the air? Six months after you stopped? This has nothing to do with the other, sir. Nothing. Yours was a medicine, and his was…” Here Hay was, soothing Lincoln. Terrifying.

  “Medicine, to a point. But that is not why I am responsible, John. He is my son—was my son, more than my son. That is why. More than anyone on earth, he is—was—who I am. What I gave to him was the essence of my self. He is part of me, and whatever happened to me was bound to happen to him—and for the same reason, whatever that reason was. And whatever happened to him must, therefore…”

  “This is”—Hay took the risk—“gibberish, sir. This was not your doing. You know this.”

  “It was not intentional, John, but it was my doing. And the answer to your question is yes.”

  “Yes, what?” Hay had not asked his question yet.

  “You may collect whatever part of him you need. Or Jamie may. As lo
ng as I can come along. So I can see my boy again.”

  Chapter Six

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 1862

  The brick stables lay ahead, on the South Lawn, behind the boxwood hedge. A plaintive whinnying greeted him inside—Willie’s pony, unridden for twenty-one days now, ever since the boy had fallen ill. This morning, the pony would have to wait. The other horses stood alert, on edge, quiet but for an occasional snort. Hay passed through the aromatic mixture of hay and manure, heading for the farthest stall.

  “Shhh, Hasheesh,” Hay cooed as he stroked his mare’s charcoal-gray mane. The animal poked him for the cube of sugar he slipped her from the pocket of his greatcoat. Hay had named her in loving memory of that long night in Providence when he and his friends had partaken to excess. He had not ridden the mare in more than a week, and she hated to be ignored; it would take a few minutes, at least, to earn her forgiveness. He lifted the saddle, slipped on a bridle, and led her outside. He fed her another sugar cube and mounted. The mare gave a shake, to show which of them was in charge, then settled down.

  The Avenue, too, had calmed from its usual morning rush. Hasheesh ambled along, and Hay was content to let her. Low buildings and low commerce lined both sides of the street.

  Hay thought, This is the central boulevard of the national capital? Is there a meaner capital in architectural adornment? Other nations’ capitals had physical grandeur and cultural weight. Surely, Washington City would never be a London or a Paris or a Rome.

  Hay had left Hasheesh at a livery stable behind the headless Capitol and now was hunched over a table in a tiny windowless room, leafing through the thin gray file marked Watt, John. So far, nothing Hay did not know already. The original invoices from the nursery in Philadelphia, before the numbers had been altered. A train ticket between Washington and Wilmington on the twenty-first of October, one day after (best Hay could recall) the Hell-cat had traveled the identical route. Testimonials—more accurately, antitestimonials—from the witnesses Potter had mentioned. “The associations of John Watt, gardener at the President’s House, are with known secessionists, and very intimately so…,” “heard him say that the Southern Confederacy must be acknowledged. That the United States never could conquer the south,” “that Jeff. Davis was the best and bravest man in America…,” “much elated at the result of the battle of Bull Run,” “that the federal army was composed of rubbish, and that the soldiers were cowards…,” “has the reputation of being in the league with the secessionists…”