following morning, she learned the man himself had postponed the meeting due to urgent official business with the city council. The nation was in mourning and accordingly, Rebekah’s father immediately ordered his entire household to put on black.
President Abraham Lincoln was dead.
Henry still could not believe the news.
The president has been assassinated! How can this be? And shot during a performance at Ford’s Theatre? His wife seated just beside him?
He didn’t know what sickened him more—the thought of the slain leader or the fact that less than forty-eight hours ago, he had shaken hands with the perpetrator of the crime. The ride to the train station with John Wilkes Booth replayed through his mind over and over again.
“Rest assured, my name will make all the papers.”
Indeed it had, for now every press was churning out the details.
“He leapt from the president’s box...”
“...from the stage he shouted to the crowd...”
“Wielding a blood-smeared dagger, he then fled...”
A Federal manhunt was now underway. Those suspected of aiding Booth were quickly being rounded up. Henry nervously wondered if the provost marshal would soon come calling for him.
I drove him to the train station... I shook his hand...
Fellow councilman George Meriwether nudged Henry, jolting him back to the business at hand. “Your vote, Nash,” George whispered.
Fearing bloody reprisal in the wake of the president’s death, the mayor had suggested that saloons be closed and the entire city police force be put on alert. Henry agreed.
“Aye,” he cast.
The measure passed. With business concluded, the council then dismissed. In a daze, Henry slowly made his way home. Is it really true? Is the president really dead, or is this some horrible nightmare from which I will awake?
But every step he took toward home dripped with reality. Already the church bells were beginning to toll. They would continue to ring until noon. The patriotic bunting that had draped the government buildings all week in celebration of victory was now being replaced by black crepe. Flags were lowered to half-mast. Nearly every person he passed on the street wore a grief-stricken or confused expression.
Henry didn’t know whether to weep or clench his fists in anger at the enormity of the country’s loss. While he hadn’t voted for Lincoln, or agreed with all of his policies, he had believed the president truly wanted what was best for the nation. In the end, Lincoln had wanted peace, and had died just as it was achieved. What a cruel and senseless conclusion to the man’s life.
What will this mean for our country now? he wondered.
Upon reaching home, James, his manservant, met Henry at the door. Already he wore a black mourning band on his upper left arm. Taking Henry’s greatcoat and hat, he said, “You had a visitor earlier. I told him you weren’t here.”
“Who was it?”
Before James could answer, Henry’s father stepped from the parlor. “That’ll be all, James.”
Henry shot his father a disdainful glare as James exited. He didn’t like how Harold ordered his servants about.
“You could have let him answer,” Henry said.
“You’d better be grateful that James didn’t ask your visitor to stay.”
“Why is that?”
“Because Detective J. E. Smith is the one who paid the call.” His father offered the calling card for proof.
Fear slowly snaked its way up Henry’s neck. He’d had dealings with this particular provost marshal detective before. Last year, a city council member had been investigated on accusations of bribery and extortion. The man was not guilty, and eventually his name was cleared, but not before his entire life had been turned upside down by Smith and his men.
Does Smith know of my encounter with Booth? Henry wondered. Is that why he came to see me?
Harold was well aware of the interaction with the detective, and he knew the fear it stoked. He added fuel to the fire. “You’ve another matter with which to be concerned.”
“What do you mean?”
He encouraged Henry toward the study. On his desk was a copy of the day’s paper. Picking it up, his father explained, “A man by the name of Lewis Paine is now under arrest for the attempted murder of Secretary of State William Seward. They say he spent time here in Baltimore.”
“I never shook his hand,” Henry said, more for the easement of his own mind than that of his father.
“No,” the older man conceded, “but you did grasp the hand of his hostess.”
“His hostess?”
“Apparently this man was a boarder at the house on Eutaw Street as recently as last month.”
“You mean the Branson Boarding House?”
“I do.”
Harold tossed him the publication. Henry quickly read. According to the Free American, twenty-two men and women from the Branson Boarding House had been taken into custody by the provost marshal and were presently being questioned for possible involvement in Lincoln’s death and the conspiracy to murder Secretary Seward.
The paper also noted that this was not the first time the boardinghouse had been under scrutiny. As Henry read the next paragraph aloud, a chill spread through him. “Miss Branson, a former volunteer nurse, was questioned in September 1863 by the provost marshal. She was suspected of helping a rebel prisoner, Lewis Thornton Powell, also known as Lewis Paine, escape from the US General Hospital here in Baltimore. No charges were filed then.”
“And you visited that same boardinghouse,” his father reminded him, “listening to that same woman complain about Federal soldiers prowling about her door.”
Henry raked back his hair. His mind was racing. Those soldiers saw me enter. The boarder in the parlor saw me, as well. He probably heard our very conversation.
He told himself he hadn’t done anything wrong—certainly not anything illegal—but he knew that didn’t matter now. The nation had just endured four years of war. Suspicion still ran high. Henry had entered the home of a Southern sympathizer. That was all the proof some men would need to declare him guilty.
I’ll be linked to the scoundrels who conspired to kill the president and his men. God help me, he thought. What do I do now?
“You need to keep your wits,” his father reminded him. “You need to protect yourself.”
Anxiety pulsing through him, Henry made the mistake of asking how.
“Van
