C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Pandemonium perked, but before it could boil over, Colonel Unzer's voice cut across the courtroom. “Freemont Engels, drop the revolver, or I'll bore a hole right through your heart.”
General Grant spoke up beside Unzer, “Bateman, you best keep your hands clear, too.”
Both military officers had their revolvers trained on their addressed targets. The court room erupted. Judge Jackson was calling for order but he may as well have been baying at the moon. Rebecca Unzer charged from the witness stand and fought her way up the aisle to where Preston stood, the revolver in one hand, the bloody bonnet in the other.
As Rebecca wrapped her arms around Preston, he let the bonnet drop to the floor and clung to her arm with his free hand. Tears were in her eyes as she said, “Oh! Adam, I was so worried they had found you. I thought Captain Wiley would go free, my story seemed so weak when I was telling it on the stand. I knew that lawyer would turn it inside out.”
Union military police hurried past and pushed their way through the mob to the bench. Soon they returned, marching the disarmed Engels and Bateman out of the courtroom. As he went past, General Engels glanced up and met Preston's blue-eyed glare. With venomous disgust Diamond spat, “Traitor.”
That evening, again relocated to the Unzer's, Preston Diamond enjoyed a much needed soak in Rebecca's big wash tub. He had slept, or dozed, the last two nights in the stable where General Grant kept his horses. He had been reluctant to stay at Unzer's for fear of bringing more grief to them and General Grant's house did not feel right either. Preston had harboured misgivings about Martha, the maid. He had kept his key though, and it was one of Martha's dresses and her bonnet that he had absconded with for the disguise. Besides smelling like a stable, the blood soaked dress was ruined anyway. However, Preston had been informed this afternoon, that Martha wouldn't be looking for that dress. She had disappeared. The cold breakfast she had left for Adam Forsythe had been salted with arsenic and Hardee, the butler, had sampled it when he discovered that Preston wouldn't be there to indulge. The labourer who had been repairing the Grants' back fence found the butler stretched out on a sofa, groaning in pain. A doctor was able to save Hardee and diagnosed poisoning.
As Preston finished drying himself off, he heard the sound of voices in the next room. He threw on his clothes, tucked the Colt in his pants and walked into the parlour.
“Ah,” Uncle Ulysses said. “The man of the hour. Even my maid is out to poison you, young man.”
“I don't think you ought to be eating Martha's cooking either, Uncle Lyss. She uses deadly spices.”
“Your performance in the courthouse today was admirable. If you had come as a witness the situation may not have turned out in our favour. Chances are, had you shown up as Preston Diamond, you may not have made it to the stand,” said Grant.
“Well, Adam isn't safe yet,” Colonel Unzer interrupted. “The court will want to hear first hand the conversation he overheard between Bateman and that fellow in the alley. Neither Bateman nor Engels will be able to save their necks so they aren't about to blab. Adam will be required to go on the stand again.”
Rebecca said, “And that fellow, John somebody, is out there worried about what is coming to him if he is caught. He'll be trying to keep Adam out of the courtroom, too.”
General Grant reached in his pocket and produced several folded sheets of paper. “These were found in Freemont Engel's quarters this afternoon. There is nothing incriminating, but there is correspondence here that is inexplicable. Maybe it is in code.”
Preston and each of the Unzer's took the proffered pages, read through them, trading back and forth until each had read all the three documents. Colonel Unzer finished first. “Makes no sense to me. I don't think Freemont would have been stupid enough to leave anything laying about that might put his tail in a crack.”
Rebecca echoed her husband's words, but Preston said, “Hold on a moment.” He went to his coat and dug the crumpled dispatch letters out of a pocket. He selected one and tucked the other back in his coat. Note in hand, he compared the handwriting and showed the others. “There is another person out there, maybe the ring leader. Whoever sent the letter to Chester Bateman, the one who signs his name 'F', is definitely not Freemont Engels. This writing does not match at all.”
“He'll be looking for you, too, Adam,” Rebecca said.
General Grant said, “There are two soldiers who accompanied me here this evening. They are waiting outside and will be my escort until such time as this dastardly business is straightened out. I think it is best if Preston moves into my house for the time being.”
Rebecca protested, “But Ulysses, you can't even trust your maid. And you were dead wrong about Engels. What makes you think your guards will be reliable?”
Preston spoke up. “I think Uncle Lyss is right, Rebecca. I don't want you and Colonel Unzer in the middle again. I don't think anyone is hunting the colonel but they will be hunting me. I think the person behind all of this may be fretting for his own hide… and he knows who I am.”
“Do you have any idea who it is?” Grant asked.
Preston shrugged. “Someone whose first name begins with an F and maybe lives across the river?”
So, other than for a good meal and a hot bath, Preston did not tax his hosts unduly. He collected his grip and packed it back to Grant House. Rascal stayed with the greys in Unzer's stable.
Diamond did not see much of Ulysses Grant over the next two days. The general was occupied with reports and general duties. He was at the Capitol most of the day and visited the White house the first night. Preston did not stay indoors as advised. He roamed the avenues and streets near Capitol Hill, keeping a low profile and making himself familiar with the hub of the nation. Twice he slipped in through the back of Unzer's yard and visited with Colonel and Mrs. Unzer. Rebecca made sure he had something to eat. On the second visit the couple asked Preston to accompany them to the theatre the following evening. The presentation, Our American Cousin, received high billing and Rebecca thought it would be good education for Preston.
His only good set of clothes were still out at Diamond/Tweed farm and Preston thought he may have outgrown them so Rebecca offered to take him to a tailor for fitting. For the youth, it was an endurance; for Mrs. Unzer, it was an event. Rebecca had never had the opportunity to buy clothes or toys for youngsters of her own, and now, at a grandmother's age, she was overflowing with delight. Colonel Unzer declined to come along. With a wink to Preston, he said, “Mother, make sure you buy the lad a man's clothes. He isn't a child anymore.”
Preston grinned and said, “And no more dresses, I don't want to wear one of those ever again.”
Rebecca hadn't shopped for young people's clothing, but she knew what to buy and where to buy it. The pair kept watch for trouble but encountered nothing suspicious. In a couple of hours Preston was back at Unzer house, red faced with embarrassment, modelling his new outfit for the colonel.
The colonel laughed out loud when Rebecca told of the tailor's dismay at finding a revolver tucked in Adam's belt when taking waist measurements.
“If it's alright, Rebecca,” Preston said, after changing back into his regular duds, “I'll leave the new outfit with you and dress here tomorrow, before we go to the theatre.”
Rebecca took the new clothes and brushed at an imaginary speck on the trousers. “Of course, Adam. I'll want to press them for you again, anyway.”
Adam Forsythe looked quite dapper in his new outfit and polished boots. Mrs. Unzer was dressed and bejewelled elegantly and the colonel stood tall in his brushed and pressed dress uniform. Since the distance to the theatre was not great, the Unzers and Diamond strolled through the evening light. Gas lamps were being lit and, as the trio drew nearer their destination, crowds were beginning to congregate. There was an air of gaiety on the street; everyone had heard the news of General Lee's surrender. Preston marvelled at the fine carriages, the dandy gentlemen and lovely ladies. He thought of his mother and the fine gown that Lily now owned; Cutler Diamond always told Constantina she was the most beautiful lady in attendance. Invariably, she was.
As the trio became part of the crowd, Rebecca leaned over and whispered in Preston's ear, “Pay no mind to the tongue wagging. These people are the worst kind of gossips.”
Preston had not noticed anything out of the ordinary until Rebecca had made mention. Now, without staring, he could see the ladies looking at him and, one hand covering their mouths saying something into the ear of the lady beside them. Many of the gentlemen were turned and casting covert glances toward him too. Preston caught the words of a lady who must have learned to whisper near an artillery gun. “That's the boy who dressed in a girl's clothes and shot that murderer in the courthouse two days ago. They say the man had killed the boy's parents…” The Colonel and Rebecca picked up the pace.
Talk didn't bother Preston. He seldom heard, and cared less, what people said about him. Cutler had counselled his son, “Never sacrifice your own character to please someone else. You are who and what you are, do your best and that will always be good enough.” The lady with the big whisper was already forgotten by the time Preston entered Ford's Theatre.
As they threaded a path to their seats, Colonel Unzer nodded toward a theatre box where a group had gathered. “President Lincoln,” Unzer said.
Our American Cousin was a comedy and the actors had Preston laughing out loud. During a short break between acts, the thought occurred to him that he had not laughed at all in the months since his parents were taken. He looked at the Unzers. They were so happy together, like Colonel and Señora Diamond had always been. Preston felt a pang of guilt.
The program had advanced to the third act when the fellow portraying the American cousin blurted a line that brought down the house. Above the roars of laughter and applause, a gun shot rang out. Preston turned toward the blast and saw President Lincoln pitch forward in his seat. A dark clad man with dark hair and long moustache was struggling with an army officer Preston had seen seated in the box with the President. The assailant leaped from the balcony, tripped on something and fell to the aisle below. He quickly regained his feet and, though he favoured one leg, limped on the stage.
The audience's applause had turned to mute stupefaction.
Marching across the stage, waving a bloodied knife in the air, the assassin cried out, “Sic semper tyrannus.”
Though the phrase was Latin, it parallelled Spanish close enough for Preston to roughly translate: así siempre a tiranía. Thus always to tyranny.
The killer, having shouted his line, ducked through a back door and disappeared from Preston's view. But not before Diamond recognized him: he was the gentleman who had driven the white horse and fancy carriage to Chester Bateman's house; probably he was the fellow who had the outhouse chat with the lawyer that same night; he was an actor Preston had seen in a play here at Ford Theatre two years ago.
The theatre was in an uproar that made the shooting at the courthouse look like an afternoon tea. Everyone was on their feet; ladies were crying and screaming; men were shouting and swearing; theatre attendants were pushing and elbowing to get up the aisles; President Lincoln's security people were shoving and shouldering to come down; no one was getting to the exit where the murderer had vanished. Preston's hand slipped inside his new jacket and gripped the butt of the Colt.
Colonel Unzer turned and said, “Rebecca, Adam, try to get out of here. Adam, please stay with my wife and keep that Colt loaded. I shall try to get to the President's box, though I can see from here that I am too late.”
Adam and Rebecca waited up for him and Colonel Unzer, still in his dress uniform, returned home at midnight. He sank onto a chair, his chin rested on his chest a moment. When he raised his head, Preston read the deep sorrow etched in his features. The colonel looked an old man. He said, “President Lincoln was shot in the back of the head. He is still alive but the doctors say there is no hope. Secretary of State, William Seward, also had an assassination attempt made on his life at his home tonight. He was seriously wounded but he will live. His attacker was apprehended. We have not captured the traitor who has murdered our president.”
“Do you know who he is?” Rebecca asked. Her voice was low, trembling with emotion.
“People at Ford's Theatre have identified him as one of their own actors. John Wilkes Booth.”
Diamond shifted in his chair. “John Wilkes Booth; JWB; the initials on the letter Mr. ' F ' sent to Chester Bateman. He is the person I saw with Bateman at his house. Though I could not see him, he is probably the 'John' I overheard in Bateman's garden…”
Preston sighed. “My father was right. There was a conspiracy to assassinate President Lincoln.”
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