The Murder of Willie Lincoln Read online

  Hay took his time. He sat up and waited for the straight lines of the cabinets to become sharp before he swung his feet to the floor. The carrot-haired youngster was drooling in his sleep. Hay reached under the cot and found his trousers and slipped them on without drawing anyone’s attention. And his boots. The right lace snapped when he pulled it; no matter. His frock coat, folded neatly at the end of the cot, was ripped in the shoulder—from the bullet, he assumed. He slid his injured arm into the sleeve without wincing—surely, no bullet was inside—but in arching his back to maneuver the other arm in, he yelped in pain. He glanced around; no one had noticed. Out of politeness or indifference or slumber—no matter.

  Hay climbed to his feet and felt the room spin, then sank back onto the edge of his cot. He let a minute pass, then tried again to stand, this time more slowly. His stomach rebelled. The best remedy for nausea, his professor of pugilism had taught, was to walk around. No better time than the present. One foot in front of the other. Concentrate, concentrate. Grit and concentration, Hay crept along the wide corridor, past the glass cases stocked with the nation’s cleverest brainwork. Striding toward him was a woman in a brown burlap dress—a nurse.

  “Privy,” Hay muttered, brushing past. He wondered too late what she thought of his frock coat. He was assuming, of course, that she had bothered to look.

  The corridor ended, and the hallway to the right had iron balustrades along both sides. The fresh smell was startling, a measure of the stink in the ward. The brightly colored tiled floor brought him to a grand hall with reddish pillars and marble walls. An alcove sheltered a staircase, and he leaned on the brass railing, hoping no one would see him descend. Two staircases delivered him to the ground floor, where the Patent Office was conducting its affairs, paying no mind to the damaged men upstairs. Hay found the door to F street and escaped through it. The sight of the Treasury Department’s fearsome façade, a half dozen blocks to the west, was a comfort.

  Midday traffic clogged the street. Hay fished for his pocket watch—it was gone! Any of the orderlies might have filched it. He would think about this later. First, he must get home.

  The squeaks of wagon wheels and the neighing of nags ruled the road. Along the sidewalk, unruly soldiers wrestled with vagrants and clerks for space. People stared at Hay. Did he look that terrible? The lack of an overcoat, perhaps—he had left it behind. Suddenly he felt dizzy. He thought of turning back—in the hospital, he could lie down—when he spied a hack at the curb. A woman with packages was hobbling toward it. Hay got there first.

  “The president’s house,” he said. “And hurry.”

  * * *

  Hay was running as fast as he could along the river—no, down a road—until his ankles started to burn, then his calves, his thighs. He was trying to outrace … something unseen. His pursuer was close behind—Hay heard the hoofs and harsh breaths. No, those breaths were his own. His pursuer overtook him and pressed a snout into Hay’s shoulder. Pain hurtled through his chest, just as a sweet, sarcastic voice cried out, “Mister Hay! Mister Hay!”

  Hay smelled Kate Chase before he saw her. A scent of lilacs so overpowering—truly, a woman who could make a man ill. He opened his eyes and smiled at her presence. She was beautiful. His wound did not extend below the waist.

  “The most beautiful thing you ever saw, n’est-ce pas?” she purred. “And the biggest.” Kate Chase tapped at the landmass between her neckline and her neck, made of amethysts and pearls. Above the necklace was a pair of mercenary eyes, belonging to a woman beyond Hay’s means.

  “Spriggs, is it not—the generous gentleman? I gather he has asked for your hand.”

  “How you jest about my Billy Sprague. Jealousy, I would guess. And a mean spirit. How … wise I was to have spurned your advances.”

  “Not all of them,” Hay pointed out.

  “Most.”

  At her coy smile, he missed her all the more.

  She said, “And what are you doing in bed at this time of day?”

  “What time is it?” Hay could not remember having arrived. “And what are you doing here?”

  “I went to your office, and it was empty. So I came looking. To tell you—to show you.”

  To rub it in, he thought.

  “And why are you still in bed?” she said.

  “I was shot.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic.”

  “No, I was.”

  “Who would want to shoot you?”

  Hay laughed, which hurt. “My question, exactly.”

  Hay tried to think about life without Kate Chase. He felt a flutter of disappointment, but an organ that did not ache at her news was his heart. Indeed, he felt pleasure at the prospect of her absence from his life. Seward was right, and he was free of her. Hay took a deep, painless breath. A bullet he had dodged.

  Nicolay strode in just as Kate Chase was leaving.

  Hay said, “Tell me, Nico, who would want to shoot little ol’ me?”

  “You are feeling better, I see.”

  “I mean it—who would?”

  Hay told him of the figure of the man he had glimpsed—thought he had glimpsed—in the woods. “The same blackguard who attacked me in the Ancient’s carriage. I am morally certain it was he.”

  “Johnny, for you to be morally certain about anything is a … Besides, you told me this morning that whoever it was, was aiming at Bob.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, when Stackpole and Old Edward carried you up here.”

  “They did?” So, Stackpole was back at his post. The corpulent keeper of the president’s door sharing Hay’s deadweight with the diminutive Irishman—Hay wanted to laugh but remembered not to. “When was that?”

  “Just before noon,” Nicolay said. “You looked like something the cat dragged in.”

  “Tad’s goats, more like.”

  * * *

  “We found her!”

  Hay was dozing and dreaming of laudanum—half dreaming, half desiring—and someone was shouting. Easy to ignore.

  “We found her, I tell you!”

  A rap at the doorframe opened Hay’s eyes. His left shoulder throbbed, and his right fist cocked at his ear. He was disappointed that the blur of Pinkerton was too distant for his cross to connect.

  “Come in,” Hay said unnecessarily. “Was she lost?”

  “Ye tol’ me she was.”

  “Who was?” They were speaking in riddles.

  “Eva, your runaway slave.”

  “Oh.” Hay was groggy. “You found her—where?”

  “The first place we looked. Ou’ in Riversdale. The Calvert plantation.”

  “What on earth was she doing there? That is where she escaped from. She went back?”

  “And was escapin’ again. Me men wen’ to make inquiries, and they saw her leavin’. Actually, scalin’ a low wall.”

  “Then let me talk to her—to-day, if I can.”

  Pinkerton’s thick beard jiggled on his face.

  Hay pressed, “Did she explain why?”

  No reply.

  “What did she say?” Then it dawned on Hay. “Tell … me … what … happened.”

  “She was tryin’ to escape,” Pinkerton said. “From us!”

  “Is she dead?”

  Hay marveled that keeping a blank face must be harder than it looked. “She was a fugitive slave who was tryin’ to escape,” Pinkerton said. “But I do have somethin’ that might help explain why she wen’ back.” The detective reached inside his coat and pulled out a ledger and handed it to Hay. Its cover was splotched and felt rough to the touch. “She had it on her. Stole it, as sure as a hen on an egg.”

  “For what earthly purpose?”

  “Tha’ is yer problem, Hay. And I see, my lad, ye have been up to no good.”

  The right shoulder of Hay’s nightshirt had been ripped, to make room for the bulge of bandages.

  “That distinction belongs to someone else, identity unknown.” Hay recounted the previous evening’s events, le
aving out the parts he could not remember, which was most of them.

  “Coul’ ye see who di’ it?”

  “I had the briefest look, and from a distance.” Hay told of the vague resemblance to the man with the blond goatee who had attacked him before. “In the president’s carriage—he might have thought I was Bob. This time, too.”

  “Ye don’t look a thing alike.”

  “Last time, the blackguard never looked. He opened the door and lunged. This time he was too far away. Or just a bad shot.”

  “Aye, bu’ the first time—it migh’ ha’ been Robert inside. This time, it was Robert, nearby. Bu’ … bu’ … ye say tha’ Robert was riding behind.”

  “I didn’t, but he was,” Hay said. “Behind and to my…” It all seemed such a haze. “To my right.”

  “And the rifle sho’ came from behind you, and to your left—is tha’ correct?”

  Hay had to think hard, but yes, that was correct.

  “So, shootin’ at ye,” Pinkerton said, “took a very different angle than to shoot at Robert. Which leads me to believe he was aimin’ at…”

  “First time was outside the mansion—anyone could have waited. But this was in Virginia.”

  “Meanin’, ye were bein’ followed, more likely than no’.”

  “Or Bob was.”

  “Across the Long Bridge. The man coul’ no’ have known where ye were goin’, correct? Meanin’, he migh’ ha’ left an impression in a sentry’s mind.”

  “If it was the same man,” Hay said. “But again, why would anyone want to shoot me?”

  “Oh, please,” Pinkerton said, “let me count the ways.”

  Hay laughed, then winced at the pain.

  * * *

  The knock at the door was timid—ladylike. Hay was dozing when he thought he heard it and decided to wait until he was sure. Soon, he was sure.

  “Come in!” he shouted.

  With the possible exception of General McClellan, it was the last person Hay expected—or wanted—to see.

  “Some apple charlotte, suh—from Cornelia, downstairs.”

  “Oh, thank you, Missus Lincoln. It looks wonderful indeed.”

  Had she forgotten her fury, or forgiven him?

  “I could not manage it myself, suh.”

  Ah, a hand-me-down. But a kindness, nevertheless. The bowl held a smudged spoon and most of a cooled apple crisp. Hay’s gratitude was real.

  “You are feeling better, Mistuh Hay?”

  “Much better, thank you.”

  “You were shot in the shoulder, as I understand, suh.”

  “That is my understanding as well.” Mostly, he remembered being surprised. “It takes more than a graze, ma’am, to incapacitate me.” But, he suspected, not much more.

  Hay tried to imagine the Hell-cat in a war hospital, drifting from cot to cot, dispensing kindness, one dose per missing limb. Here, she crossed her arms across her breasts, gazing down with a practiced beneficence, and Hay understood her reason for looking in on him. “Mother” is what Lincoln called her, and that is what she did best—at her best. The sicker the child, the better she got.

  * * *

  The calligraphy across the cover was confident—a Gothic script of understated size.

  Chas. B. Calvert

  of

  Riversdale

  Prince George’s County

  Maryland

  This was the congressman himself, that farmer turned politician. Inside the ledger, the handwriting was legible, professional. The first page was labeled Rock Creek Farm.

  Alexander

  65

  $50

  Betty

  60

  30

  Drucilla

  51

  1

  Rachael

  48

  75

  The middle column must be the person’s age, the column on the right—Hay felt ill—the price. Of Calvert’s slaves.

  Joe

  45

  250

  Isaac

  40

  750

  Airy

  38

  250

  Mary

  31

  250

  Caroline

  29

  300

  None of the names was familiar—no Eva. The Mary was surely too young to be Old Mary Dines. No dates, nor whether these were purchases or sales or merely valuations. Or why Isaac was valued so highly, and poor Drucilla at a dollar. Hay imagined himself put on the market, judged by his raw economic worth, and shook his head.

  The list went on for three pages. Then the North-West Farm filled two pages more. Seventy or eighty slaves, all told. A list of property—of assets. Without the corresponding liabilities, financial or moral.

  Hay was sitting up in bed, so engrossed in the casual evils of names and numbers that he did not hear anyone enter.

  “Ah do beg your pardon, Mister Hay, at this difficult time.”

  Hay was delighted to see Jamie Hall in an ankle-length sealskin coat. “A doctor is just what I need right now. A minimalist, a homeopath, best of all.”

  “On that, as on everything else, suh, Ah straddle the proverbial fence.”

  “As any man unafraid of castration would do.”

  A merry laugh from Dr. Hall, which Hay joined. He was feeling better already.

  Hay said, “In all honesty, Doctor—Jamie—is there any reason I must remain in this bed?”

  “Other than the prospect of collapsing from a loss of blood, Ah can see no particuluh reason a’tall. You are feeling up to snuff, I may infer, suh?”

  “You may. I can hardly feel my shoulder at all.”

  “But if you treat it unkindly, you will. Homeopaths and the … heroic physicians will tell you that, suh. This is why Ah would counsel more rest. If you were asking.”

  “Which I suppose I was, to my regret.”

  “Do you have a doctor of your own?”

  “Seems I must make do with you, if you will have me.”

  “Ah implore you not to count on me for a judgment such as that. Ah am a poor country doctor.”

  “As my father is.”

  “Ah am pleased to know that you come from worthy stock.”

  “I am relieved to know it as well. And what brings you here, my friend, other than kindness?”

  The pudginess in Dr. Hall’s cheeks stiffened, to signify the serious man. From inside his coat, the young doctor extracted a sheaf of papers. Only now did Hay remember bringing him Willie’s medical chart. Yesterday morning seemed an eon ago. Hay snapped as close to attention as he could in bed.

  “Ah found a pattern of sorts, Ah would say. A spike in the boy’s fever, suh, every day or two. Of three degrees Fahrenheit, on average. It went as high as 105.6. That would last for eight hours or thereabouts and then fall back.”

  “What kind of pattern is that—every day or two?”

  “Every two days for the first week, suh, every day or so after that. A pattern, to my uncertain eye. Not a perfect pattern, suh, but a pattern.”

  * * *

  Hay was alone again, fighting off sleep, when the slave ledger returned to mind. He had left it on the table by his bed. He opened it and found his place.

  Negroes kept

  Basil

  27

  700

  Isaac G. C.

  40

  750

  Caroline

  29

  300

  John Hanson

  10

  425

  Anna Maria G. C.

  1

  80

  The list, covering two pages, ran to three dozen names; the valuations totaled $10,000 or more. G. C.—what did that mean? The same initials showed up four more times on the facing page. The C. stood for Calvert, perhaps. The G. for … no way to tell.

  The next page, labeled Hired out, listed a dozen names. When Hay turned to the facing page, a chill climbed his spine.

  Negroes Sold to Armistead Burwell
/>   Names

  age

  val.

  sale

  James

  29

  $700

  $700

  Hanson

  23

  700

  700

  Henry

  19

  700

  700

  Matilda

  28

  225

  225

  Priscilla

  5

  250

  250

  Nothing familiar. On the next page, near the bottom, was a list of sales to Armistead Burwell from Calvert’s North-West Farm. Halfway down, Hay froze:

  Agnes

  24

  250

  250

  Elizabeth

  7

  300

  400

  This was it. It had to be. Agnes and Elizabeth, listed successively, of ages that plausibly made them mother and child. Then Hay noticed the valuations. Why would Calvert value a seven-year-old girl more highly than a fertile and comely woman in her childbearing years? Hay leafed back and noticed something peculiar: Among all the sold-off slaves, only Elizabeth fetched more than her valuation. Why would Burwell pay so much for the girl, unless … unless she was his child?