Wrathbone and Other Stories Read online

  I still hear it all—the blast from Booth’s pistol, the First Lady’s screams, and my own beloved shouting for the same help that would never come. I hear them in my dreams and while I ruminate. But the ghosts have evolved their torture. A new face haunts me now.

  Clara.

  * * *

  “How do I look?”

  “Clara Harris, I do believe that the stars themselves are no match for your beauty.”

  Perhaps it seemed pedestrian, for I was a soldier, not a poet. Nevertheless, I meant every word. Nothing on earth or in the heavens could compare to the beauty of Miss Clara Harris, my betrothed. I had known her since we were children, and for a time, we’d lived beneath the same roof. In all those years, I never loved another so deeply. So infatuated was I that the very thought of being without her stifled my breath and unbalanced my heart. For the length of the war, I had been without her … too long. Before my country demanded service afar, I asked for her hand. To my prodigious good fortune, she had accepted my own. War, that vile antithesis to the sublime wonder I shared with Clara, had called me away from my beloved.

  With Lee’s surrender and with the Confederacy a waning crescent, I returned to Washington and the only embrace that mattered, my raison d’être , my one love, Clara.

  I would not be apart from her again.

  My heart swelled with blood and sentiment that only the most passionate could hope to know, that only the most gifted artists could hope to portray. Love—surely I felt it, but the feeling was more than that, all-consuming, written into the fabric of my being. I do believe it was Clara who set my heart in rhythm, made my legs prone to dance to its beat when not subdued by a normally reserved composition. Outwardly, I must have glowed whenever she drew near. Inwardly, I was afflicted with nothing less than euphoria, which I wholeheartedly welcomed.

  Her brown hair curled upon her forehead like waves rolling in to kiss the shore. Her eyes shone brightly, as did her smile. In them, I saw happiness, my own happiness, and the man I knew I could be, so long as she remained at my side.

  In preparation for the night’s festivities, Clara had donned a long white satin dress, elegance clothed in elegance. The modest dress could not hide her form from the scrutinizing eye. Heat flashed across my cheeks, no doubt the shame of wantonness manifesting. Clara was much more than a mere carnal desire and was deserving of a proper gentleman.

  My heart skipped. I knew my eyes would not be alone in their wayward advances, for Clara was the light that illuminated the room. Hers was the beauty that could move sound men to delirium and lesser men to roguish conduct.

  I would have to be on guard.

  “Let us stay home, my dear. I feel as though we’ve not spent any time alone since my return.”

  Clara leaned in to kiss my cheek. The slightest caress of her soft lips stirred the animal inside me, though I kept it discreet and myself dignified. I would never let it show. And with that briefest touch, Clara chased my insecurities into the cellars of my mind. Her reassuring smile stabbed them profusely, lest they dare to emerge anew.

  “Henry, all your fretting will shorten your years, I swear. A lifetime together awaits us. I am afraid you will be tired of me come winter.”

  “Never.”

  She giggled and covered her mouth with her hand, then she smiled sweetly and curtsied. That was Clara: positive, sensible, and carefree. She was the day to my night, an everlasting sunshine parting the gloom. She straightened her dress on her shoulders. “Besides, it is bad form to turn down a presidential request.”

  I laughed. “The play has likely begun, and we only received our invitation two hours ago. Surely we were not the first guests the President had in mind.”

  “General Grant and his wife, Julia, had to cancel upon short notice, as Mary tells it. The Lincolns were left scrambling for a suitable substitute. We should be honored that they thought of us.”

  In fact, I did feel honored, and Clara’s excitement was infectious. How could I spoil it with groundless worry? In love and war, there are no victors, simply conquerors and the conquered. Many would see the President harmed or worse for the Southern secession and the bloodshed that had followed. A fanatical insurgent would not likely be deterred by the innocents who stood in his way.

  The President was no fool, and I was aware that his advisors had secured the services of the Metropolitan Police to bolster security. My anxiety lessened, and I took a deep breath. We were protected, and even if we were not, who would dare commit a deed so foul as to attempt harm on our great nation’s leader, so near his home, while he was surrounded by friends? That would be treason of the most devious kind.

  Still, any risk to my Clara’s safety was not a risk I would undertake frivolously. She was not a dog to be leashed. A woman of stronger convictions, I had never known. Idle threats would not temper her desires. If she was to attend the theater, then I would be her companion and her sentry.

  She stroked my arm and offered another smile. “Come, Henry. It will be a night worth remembering, an evening with the President as he stands at the peak of triumph.”

  She must have noticed the tactic had failed to move me, for she altered her strategy. “I had a wonderful time when I attended the showing of The Magic Flute at Grover’s Theatre with the Lincolns.”

  “As I recall, you said he was grumpy the entire play, excepting when he snoozed.”

  “Henry,” she said, placing her hands on her hips. “A month ago, the Union was fractured. Now, it is only beginning to heal, and he is healing with it.”

  I took her hands in mine and gazed silently into her eyes. Outside, hooves clomped upon the road. “Let us be off then.” I forced a smile. “Our evening with the hero of our Union awaits.” I laughed and escorted her outside, her arm tucked around mine.

  “He is not the Union’s only hero, you know,” Clara said, snuggling against me. I flinched, taken aback by her perhaps-inappropriate forwardness, though the act made my knees quiver and my heart flutter, as if I had what poets were wont to ponder through scribbles but could never achieve, not with smell, taste, and touch. And sight! What a sight! I might have thought Clara’s beauty unimaginable had it not stood before me. At that moment, I cared little for the Union, so long as I was a hero to her as she was to me, my candle in the dark.

  As we stepped inside the carriage, a black barouche of exquisite craftsmanship, the Lincolns met us with warm smiles and kindly greetings. Not a whiff of insincerity lingered about the President. He looked absolutely regal in his frock coat, waistcoat, trousers, boots, and bow tie—all black, unadorned yet magnificently refined. Mary looked elegant in her white-and-black striped dress, black lace veiling her hair. We were in the best of company.

  If the state of the nation troubled the President, no one was the wiser. As wheels turned toward Ford’s Theatre, my unease fell away like a robe from my shoulders.

  Mary and Clara shared the latest gossip while the President and I talked over the more pressing matters of the day. Clara was better suited to engage the President in politics and governance than I was, but we all had roles to play: he, the austere leader; Mary, his dutiful and devoted wife; Clara and myself, the young couple in love, both concerned with my advancement. And in love we were, though we showed only the amount of affection that was proper in high social circles. I was vexed to have my most cherished desire so near yet be forbidden fruit. What kind of culture had we that shunned the spectacle of love?

  “… measuring up to Albany?” The President’s words startled me from my thoughts, though I had already forgotten where I had drifted.

  “Forgive me, Mr. President, but I did not hear your question.”

  The President smiled knowingly. “A young man oft finds himself distracted when sitting alongside such a lovely woman.” He bowed his head toward Clara. Holding his wife’s arm in his, he said, “We were young once, believe it or not.” He patted his wife’s hand. “Although you, my dear, remain as lovely as the day I met you.”

  Li
fe lightened the browns of the President’s eyes, then was gone. His irises dulled to a brown so dark it was almost black as he leaned back into shadow. “I was merely asking how our great capitol was measuring up to Albany, your home before the war, if I am not mistaken.”

  “It was, though I can hardly say I miss it. Here, I have the pleasure of Miss Harris’s company all to myself.”

  Clara blushed. “And our chaperones, of course.”

  The President and his wife shared a look but remained silent.

  “Of course,” I said, then cleared my throat. “Still, where better to cultivate a career of servitude to the Union than in the burgeoning capitol itself?”

  The President sighed and rested his head against the carriage wall. “You come from means, but there is much to be said for simpler life, one of work and the fruit born of it, away from the schemes of men with snake-oil wares and the devils that drive them.”

  He leaned forward, his long arms folding over his knees, and looked me straight in the eye. “I have seen good men do evil and evil men do the unthinkable, often for little more than a step up. I have tried to guide this nation fairly yet firmly, staving off darkness from without and from within. Evil is everywhere. It has followed me on my long road to the presidency and into that altogether-too-large house.” He sighed. His sad, tired, deep-set eyes were nearly hidden by the eaves of his brows. “That house of pride and greed,” he muttered. He rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes as if the wan light were sending invisible pitchforks into his brain. “Yes, I do think when this is all over, I would like to return to a simpler life.”

  A rather morose perspective from one so accomplished , I thought. Someone so much more than Major Henry Rathbone. We rode the remainder of the journey in uncomfortable silence.

  Arriving at the theater, we were surrounded by the President’s men. His valet and messenger, Charles Forbes, introduced us to John Parker of the Metropolitan Police, who would be standing guard outside the theater box all evening. Once inside, we traversed the staircase and stepped into the dress circle. The talented Laura Keene halted the performance to announce the President’s arrival, whereby the Lincolns were met with thunderous applause and a standing ovation while the orchestra blasted “Hail to the Chief.”

  Clara beamed with pride, as if her mere proximity to the President earned her praise for his accolades. She looked on the President with such awe and approval that my own status shriveled.

  At that moment, I understood what greatness looked like: tall and awkward, far from comely, yet worthy of mass admiration premised upon deeds alone. Wanting to be a great man, I clapped along with the crowd as my head hung low.

  For Clara.

  At last, the applause faded, and we carried on to the President’s Box. Forbes took a seat nearby at the end of the dress circle. Parker took up his post in the vestibule. We entered the President’s Box through Door Eight. The President approached the rail for another round of applause. Humble and gracious, he bowed to his adoring fans.

  I stood in the back of the box, unseen, like an ant in the shadow of a mountain.

  The President sat. His wife took a seat beside him, and their hands entwined.

  “I will never grow accustomed to their cheers … or their false faces,” the President whispered as I helped Clara to her seat beside Mary. “I wonder how many of them would sooner see me dead.”

  I must have leaned closer to him, for at that moment, the President turned to me and asked, “Would you, Major?” He smiled broadly at me, baring a toothy grin that fringed the edges of human capability.

  The President, I had thought, was good-natured but reserved, tending toward anecdotes and dry wit, not nefarious humor, if it could be considered humor at all. I stumbled upon my words. “Of-f … no, no, of course not, sir.”

  His smile shrank into something less devious then returned to plain and somber. “You are a good man, Major. I think perhaps your story will not end here, but will yet fill many pages. As men, we will rise and tumble and rise again, but our greatest triumphs will always be the bonds we share in marriage and in love.” He winked at Clara. “Cherish her, Major.”

  “Always, sir.” And I meant it.

  Clara’s was the last of three chairs, so I offered her my coat before taking my own seat on a sofa along the back wall. I have to admit, I felt the excitement, as well. Embarking upon an evening with the most prominent figure of our time, with my beloved by my side and Our American Cousin playing out onstage, I could not conceive of a more stimulating affair. That I could barely see the performance did not matter. At that moment, there was nowhere else I would rather have been.

  My gaze fell upon on Clara, and I watched her as intently as she watched the play. With powerful friends and family to help us on our way, our future was destined for greatness. I wasn’t so naïve as to think myself the next American President, but a senator perhaps, or a diplomat. Clara was the crutch that could steady my stride. She and I would face the future as the President and his wife were facing it: hand in hand.

  Our union was stronger than our country’s had proven to be. Our life would be a joyous adventure, I knew, filled with laughing children and open doors. Open, like Door Eight was. The lock was broken. We had seen no need to close it. With Forbes and Parker just outside, we were secure, safe … and happy.

  Harry Hawk pranced across the stage, gearing up for one of the play’s biggest laughs. “Don’t know the manners of good society, eh?” he asked, his voice booming. “Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal—you sockdologizing old man-trap.”

  The crowd rumbled with laughter. I, too, could not hold back a good guffaw, until another sound earned my attention. To my left, only seven feet away, a blast rang through the box and shook the pillars of a nation. A man stood behind a cloud of smoke. In his hand, a Derringer fumed like the mouth of a dragon.

  Clara! I thought only of her as I leapt from my seat. But as I lunged at the intruder, I saw the President slump in his chair. The back of his head looked like matted fur, thickest behind his left ear.

  My mind was quick to register what had occurred. Only one pistol had fired, and the bullet’s intended victim was clear. The ladies were shouting, calling for help, but they were unharmed. I meant to keep them that way. But the President …

  My God! My body acted before my mind could comprehend the nature of our peril. I knew not whether I faced a single shooter or a legion of Confederates. I wish I could say my soldier’s training propelled me into action, but selfishness—nothing more than the fear of losing her—spurred me toward the man who had infiltrated the President’s Box and stolen our peace.

  I seized him, held him firmly in my grasp. Then my stare met his. A current coursed through my veins like a drug that must have overwhelmed me. I swear I saw his face melt!

  One moment, I stared at a mustachioed man close to my age, with wavy hair and eyes filled with striking determination. The next moment, his face was ablur, twisting and contorting as if reflected upon warped glass. My muscles tensed, and despite my fear, I pulled him closer. Chills ran down my spine as hot waves sizzled from the faceless man’s skin onto my own.

  A new face drew itself upon a blank canvas as time slowed around me. A smile, as wide as a shark’s and filled with nigh as many pointed teeth, settled across his cheeks. An upturned nose with nostrils stretching like fingers into his forehead steamed like a kettle over flame. Eyes as black as night penetrated mine and tested my courage. They were abysmal pits, and at their bottoms, hate and despair dwelled. This, I could not see, but felt, and I knew it as sure as I knew that my lungs needed air and my heart needed Clara.

  Darkness eternal. Oblivion.

  I could no longer swallow. This feeling of desolation, Death’s fingers clutching my throat, was no stranger. I had always felt Death’s cold hands draped over my shoulders as I stood on the battlefield. Then, he had been a passive observer.

  This thing I saw, that demon , was not Death but a bringe
r of it, a harbinger of suffering, evil’s executioner. Terror ate at my sanity like mealworms through bread. It urged me to abandon my post and stilted my resolve.

  Still, I held fast.

  I blinked. Before me stood a man. Only a man. A man with a large Bowie knife.

  Pain set my arm afire. The man slipped from my grasp. As I reached for him again, he turned toward the railing. He bounded over it, his coat catching in my fingers and tearing as he plummeted onto the stage below.

  “Sic semper tyrannis! ” the man yelled as he fled.

  “Stop that man,” I shouted. I could not believe what my eyes were seeing.

  Nearly two thousand people were on hand for the play. Not one of them answered my plea.

  “Stop that man!” Clara yelled, adding her voice to mine. “Won’t somebody stop that man? The President is shot!”

  My God, the President!

  Mary’s screams drowned out the drumbeat of my blood pulsing through my temples. I turned to see her cradling her husband’s head in her arms. Clara, sweet Clara, was at her side, trying to comfort the hysterical woman. The President’s grave condition was immediately apparent. Hoping he was still alive, praying he could be saved, I raced to the vestibule door, only to find it barred.

  Parker. Where in God’s name is Parker?

  I had no time to consider the man’s whereabouts. My sleeve had absorbed all the blood it could. Dark fluid seeped through the fabric and trailed down my arm, dripping off my fingertips and reminding me of my injury. That, too, would have to wait. My strength was beginning to fail me. Funny, I hadn’t noticed the blood—so much blood—before then.

  Fists pounded against the opposite side of the door. Their owners cried for entry. I shook off my wooziness and heaved the wooden plank that barred us from them. The door to the vestibule burst open. A crowd stared at me with quizzical faces, some wrought with horror, others with accusations. Mouths assigned blame, and fingers pointed—at me.