A year ago, in a secondhand bin at Shillington’s popular bookshop, she’d discovered an 1844 novel, Fanny, the Female Pirate Captain, authored by some forgotten hack. The heroine was a buccaneer whose lover declared, “By my soul, thou shouldst have been a man.”
Thou shouldst have been a man. She never forgot the line. In the story, it was ardent praise. Her father would scream it as accusation. She should have been a man. Sometimes she desperately wanted to be. Could that be why none of her short and clumsy love affairs had satisfied her?
She trudged back to the house and crawled in bed in her undergarments. The house was frigid; she couldn’t buy stove wood until the Canterbury paid her for the week. Every night before sleeping, it was her habit to whisper all of Viola’s speeches, but tonight she was too upset. Through the door she heard Siegel’s mumbled litany of profanity. He cursed his luck, the Georgetown militia, American democracy—and he probably cursed her as well. She pulled a tattered blanket over her head and gave herself up to silent tears.
7
February 1861
Sledge worked his gold toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “God damn it, how long are they going to argue in there?” Lon couldn’t help a twinge of guilt. His preacher father had been fierce about the sanctity of the Lord’s name.
An Army officer, Captain John Pope, stood outside the suite to which Sledge referred. Lon and Sledge guarded the hallway between the suite and the staircase of the Jones House in Harrisburg. Captain Pope watched them with unconcealed suspicion.
“Maybe forever,” Lon said. “Colonel Lamon doesn’t like the boss, that’s plain.”
Sledge bent his knee and rested his boot heel against the pale wallpaper, where it left a mark. Lon stretched and yawned, using the move to edge closer to the suite. Under the gas jets he and Sledge looked pasty and worn. They’d been up since daybreak Thursday, when they left Baltimore for Philadelphia. They’d been ordered there to help protect Lincoln, his wife, sons, friends, and political cronies on the official train.
Because of death threats, Pinkerton wanted to spirit Mr. Lincoln to Washington immediately. Lincoln refused to cancel his Friday schedule. He’d raised a flag at Independence Hall to display the new star for Kansas and celebrate Washington’s birthday. Following that he’d made a quick rail trip to Trenton, then came on to Harrisburg to meet with the Pennsylvania legislature and Governor Curtin. Lincoln had been summoned upstairs from the hotel banquet room at six o’clock, at Pinkerton’s insistence. It was now half past eight.
Contentious voices were raised behind the double doors. Nicolay, the new President’s secretary, was in there. Norman Judd, a stout Illinois politician, was in there, along with two more officers charged with guarding the President-elect. The argument had gone on since last night, when Frederick Seward had arrived at the Continental Hotel in Philadelphia with a letter of warning.
“I say we should implement the plan.” That was Pinkerton, refusing to yield. “We had rumors of an assassination attempt as early as a month ago. Last night we had independent confirmation, sent from Colonel Stone’s Baltimore agents to General Scott, thence to Senator Seward, who dispatched his son with the letter. The evidence is strong, sir. I urge you to follow my plan.”
Lamon interrupted. “No, I object. We still aren’t sure.”
“Ward, hold on.” That was Lincoln. His was a thin, light voice that occasionally rose up high, most unpleasantly. Ward Hill Lamon was a lawyer, Lincoln’s closest friend among all those riding the special train to Washington. “Nobody wants to see the President-elect sneak into town like a thief in the night. I don’t. Since the election I’ve become familiar with death threats. I try to ignore them. But Seward and Scott are not alarmists. I do admit that both of them, and you, Mr. Pinkerton, could be reacting to the same set of rumors. Trouble is, we just don’t know.”
“I don’t believe in a Baltimore plot and I never have,” Lamon said.
“But the Baltimore gangs are notoriously lawless.” That was old white-haired Colonel Sumner, regular Army.
“Doesn’t matter. These so-called detectives are just promoting themselves with phantom conspiracies.”
Pinkerton said, “Lamon, that’s an insult. If duels were still allowed, I’d call you out. I’ve been undercover in Baltimore for a month, together with five of my best operatives. We were invited by Mr. Felton, president of the Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore, because of threats against his line. I’ve gained the confidence of leaders of the Southern faction, especially that barber at Barnum’s Hotel, Ferrandini. He’s part of a secret group called the Knights of Liberty. I have men planted inside the organization. Do you know what Ferrandini told me after I convinced him I was a secesh from Georgia? ‘One thing will save the South. Mr. Lincoln’s corpse.’”
“My, my,” Lincoln said with a weary amusement. “Hotheaded, those Latins.”
“The dago ought to be shot.” That was the other colonel, Ellsworth. He commanded a regiment of Zouave militia.
Pinkerton’s conviction strengthened his voice. “Ferrandini’s an ignorant lowlife, but I take him seriously. In Italy he was allied with the man who almost killed Napoleon the Third. Furthermore, gentlemen, you don’t know this slavery crowd as I do. No crime’s too heinous to preserve their ungodly system. Hang every adult male in the South and we’d all be better off.”
“Every one? That’s a pretty uncharitable view, Mr. Pinkerton,” Lincoln said.
“Nevertheless I hold to it, sir. I loathe and distrust the lot of them. The hour’s late. We have a one-car special waiting, to connect with the eleven p.m. sleeper out of Philadelphia. My agent Mrs. Warne has reserved space in the last car. You will travel as her invalid brother. Mr. Felton’s posted nearly two hundred men along the line, ready to signal if the track is sabotaged.” It was the same plan Pinkerton had proposed last night. The President-elect had seen hundreds of thousands of well-wishers on his long rail journey from Springfield. The crowds were friendly. Baltimore was the feared exception.
Lincoln sighed. “All right. We can’t slice this bacon any thinner. If ridicule is the only thing deterring us, I’m disposed to go along with the plan.” Lamon started to object again. “No, that’s it, Ward. I’ll change out of this funeral suit.”
“I have a hat and traveling shawl ready,” Pinkerton said.
Lamon burst into the hall and strode away with a glare at the detectives. He was an imposing fellow, with a dragoon mustache and a self-important air. Lincoln liked his singing and banjo playing, especially his rendition of “The Blue Tail Fly.” Lamon wore two concealed revolvers at all times.
Pinkerton rushed into the hall, flushed with excitement. He herded Sledge and Lon toward the stairs, away from the too curious Captain Pope.
“We’ll be on our way in half an hour. No other rail traffic will be allowed out of town until morning. Men are standing by to cut the telegraph wires. By six a.m. I’ll have the President safely at Willard’s Hotel. The rest of the party will travel through Baltimore tomorrow as planned. You two will accompany them.”
With his white tie undone, Lincoln poked his head out the door. He was a peculiar-looking man, almost ugly. He had sad, sunken eyes, straggly chin whiskers, and a rough, dark complexion. Woefully unpresidential, Lon thought.
“Pinkerton, I won’t go until Mrs. Lincoln’s told.”
“I’ll inform her personally, sir.”
Lincoln disappeared. Lon and Sledge exchanged looks as the boss marched to an adjoining suite, knocked, entered. Lon liked to be charitable; his father had taught him it was a virtue. But a day in the company of Lincoln’s haughty and sharp-tongued wife had overcome the training. They heard Mary Lincoln’s hysterical cry:
“I won’t have it. I won’t, I won’t!”
“Madam, he has agreed to go. He will be safe, I swear to you.”
“And who are you? A tradesman. Nobody! I demand that Colonel Lamon accompany you to protect my husband.”
“Acts like she?
??s First Lady already,” Sledge whispered. Captain Pope was rigid with embarrassment. They heard Pinkerton pleading:
“For pity’s sake, madam, keep your voice down. I accede to your request. Colonel Lamon may come with us.”
“And Robert.” Bob was the Lincolns’ oldest son, eighteen.
“No. Only Lamon.” Mrs. Lincoln’s shrill reply was lost under the voice of her son Bob trying to soothe her.
Lon wondered about Baltimore. It lacked a central depot, and an old ordinance prohibited locomotives from running through the central city. Passengers from the north had to travel a mile and a quarter from Calvert Street Station to catch the Baltimore & Ohio for Washington. Individual cars were pulled over horse-car tracks, but it had been planned for Lincoln to ride in an open carriage. In Baltimore, Pinkerton had been told that a group of conspirators would create a diversion, drawing off the police, while a smaller group closed in to shoot or stab Lincoln. The danger was heightened because of the police chief’s open support of the Confederacy. Lon didn’t sleep well that night.
“Must be a thousand out there,” Sledge said.
“Two or three times that,” Lon said as the passenger car creaked along the tracks. Lincoln was safe. An early-morning telegraph had brought word that “Plums,” Pinkerton, had arrived in Washington with his charge, “Nuts.” Lon laughed at the silly code names. Sledge said, “Careful, the boss probably made ’em up himself.”
They’d just left Calvert Street with a mob trailing them. In the station the mob was relatively controlled. Their ringleaders organized three cheers for the Confederacy, three for its new president, Davis, and three long groans for Lincoln. At this Mary Lincoln collapsed on a plush seat and wailed. Bob, the Harvard student, vainly tried to comfort and quiet her.
A plodding team drew the car through the gray winter afternoon. Occasional spatters of rain streaked the windows, some of which were open because of the mild temperature. Men ran along both sides of the car, spitting, cursing, yelling.
“Kill the gorilla!”
“That’s his wife in there!”
“Dirty whore!”
“Mama, what’s that mean?” The Lincolns’ youngest son, Thomas, called Tad, pressed against his mother’s side, round-eyed. Mary Lincoln’s powder had run down her face, melted by tears. She reminded Lon of a demented clown. She was a short, stout woman who might have been attractive once, in her days as a Kentucky belle.
A rock sailed in, ricocheting off a spittoon. “Close the blasted windows,” young Colonel Ellsworth yelled, and proceeded to lower the first one. Old Colonel Sumner and John Nicolay sprang to help. The windows went down, bang, bang, and then the curtains were drawn, but not before men spat tobacco on several panes and smeared one with something brown that looked like feces.
Lon and Sledge stood at the car’s rear door. The Army officers guarded the front. Lon’s hand clamped tight on the Colt .31 in his pocket. Tad and his older brother Willie, ten, had pestered Lon incessantly till he showed it to them. They were handsome boys, but they were spoiled and undisciplined.
Someone beat on the car with a stick. Others joined in. Mrs. Lincoln pulled Tad and Willie against her bosom, clutching their heads and heaving out deep sobs. Colonel Sumner shouted at the man driving the horses from the front platform, “How much further?”
“Another two blocks.”
“Go faster, Mrs. Lincoln’s in grave distress.”
Lon felt the car sway as the mob pushed the sides. Someone broke a window with a rock; glass fell out beneath the curtain. The chanting went on.
“Whore, whore!”
“He ain’t gonna live to be president!”
“My God, they’re madmen,” Lon whispered, never even thinking of his father’s disapproval.
Suddenly, through a small window in the door, Lon saw two men with mean faces and soiled clothes climb over the chain and mount the steps to the platform. A third stood on the rear coupler, ready to climb over the railing. Lon tore the door open, jumped outside.
The first man on the steps swung a billy. Lon jerked his head back, banging his skull painfully on the car wall. Sledge crowded past him, aimed his revolver at the man with the billy. The man immediately shoved his partner aside and leaped off the train.
Lon meanwhile was dealing with the man standing on the coupler. The man slashed out with a butcher knife, tearing Lon’s trouser leg and raking his calf. Enraged, Lon pistol-whipped the man’s face. The man fell off the coupler, his nose spouting blood. He lay across the tracks with his head at an odd angle.
On the steps, the last man watched Sledge extend his arm, point the Remington, and ask, “What about you, you son of a bitch?” The man jumped off like the first.
“Fucking cowards.” Sledge holstered his piece. The car pulled away from the crowd surrounding the man on the tracks. “I think you broke his damn neck. Congratulations.” Lon’s guilt lessened when the fallen man was lifted to his feet, dazed but upright. “Better get inside and take care of that leg.”
The flesh wound was more bloody than painful, but it seriously wounded Lon’s purse. He couldn’t afford to replace a pair of trousers right away. He bandaged the wound with cloth the porter found. He was still shaken from the fight.
The Pinkertons and the Army men kept the mob at bay until the car reached the other depot, where Mrs. Lincoln gradually calmed down. Rain fell steadily. As they crossed the border out of Maryland, Bob Lincoln led everyone in singing “The Star Spangled Banner.”
Lon didn’t sing with enthusiasm. Baltimore was a stinging lesson. The Southern partisans were a hundred times more violent and dangerous than Pinkerton had said. They had to be whipped, broken, prevented at all costs from spreading their murderous anarchy. He thought his father would have been proud of his resolve.
8
1836–1858
As a young man in Scotland, Mathias Price was attracted to the doctrine of God’s universal love preached by John Wesley. It offered hope to the masses who lived without it in the rookeries of Glasgow, his home. He was converted at a revival in Bristol, England, and ordained before he was twenty-three. He chose to answer the call of Methodism in America.
He stepped onto American soil at Charleston and there saw a searing sight: a slave whose naked back had felt the whip many times. Stripes of scar tissue crisscrossed black flesh “like a relief map of hell,” Mathias said.
In the 1830s the Methodist church in America was already reeling toward a schism over slavery. The Reverend Mathias Price would never serve in what he called the benighted South. He accepted a small pastorate in the village of Lebanon, Ohio, not far above Cincinnati. He’d been recommended by a first cousin, Dora Filson, and her husband, Silas, a prosperous farmer.
Mathias found a wife in the German community of Cincinnati. A year after their marriage, Christina Price died bearing their only child. The boy knew his mother only as a smudged pencil portrait made by an itinerant artist. His father kept it in an oval frame on his desk.
Mathias Price was a spare, strong man whose Christianity was as muscular as his body. He didn’t preach comfortable complacency about the next world, but militant reform of this one. Prominent in the parsonage was an embroidery he’d asked Dora to sew. It was his amended version of a verse from Isaiah 58:
Loose the bands of wickedness.
Undo the heavy burdens.
Let the oppressed go free.
He preached not only from the Bible, but from philosophers such as Emerson: “I do not see how a barbarous community and a civilized community can constitute a state. We must get rid of slavery or we must get rid of freedom.” He quoted Wesley to condemn “that execrable sum of all villainies called the slave-trade.” Southern sympathy was strong this close to Kentucky. Some in his congregation asked the bishop to remove Mathias. He fought back, held on, raised his son, Alonzo, to love kindness, intelligence, and above all, liberty.
Between Sunday sermons, the Reverend Mr. Price often disappeared for days. Sometimes he
returned scratched and bruised, accompanied by black men or women he hid in the root cellar until the next morning, when they were mysteriously gone. Young Lon took this more or less for granted, and accepted it when his father avoided direct answers to questions.
When his father was away, Lon ate and slept at cousin Dora’s farm. Silas, Dora’s husband, came from Paducah, Kentucky. He opposed the Reverend’s antislavery activity because the South couldn’t survive without slave labor. Dora objected on different grounds. “He’ll injure himself, or someone will kill him. It’s dangerous work.”
“But what kind of work is it?” Lon asked.
“Work that a man of the cloth shouldn’t be doing.” She would say no more.
The Reverend’s small library was a place of refuge and happiness for the growing boy. He did his schoolwork there and read his father’s books. He loved the chivalry and derring-do of Scott, the thrills of James Fenimore Cooper’s Leather-Stocking Tales, the jollity and melodrama of Charles Dickens. He had a vivid memory of standing in a crowd with his father outside a Lebanon inn called the Golden Lamb as the great literary lion alighted for an overnight stop on his first American tour.
Lon discovered Edgar A. Poe, whose unusual tales appeared in obscure literary quarterlies that came into the house. Particularly fascinating were the adventures of Poe’s Parisian detective, Dupin, who solved crimes with brainpower and observation. A Cincinnati newspaper article led Lon to the lurid memoirs of Vidoçq, founder of the Sûreté, the French criminal investigation bureau. Lying under a shade tree on hot summer days, Lon invented stories about himself as a clever policeman. In one of his first boyish love affairs—he was eleven, Patience ten—he said, “I want to be a detective like Dupin or the other one, I don’t know how to pronounce his name.”