Read Online The Judges of the Secret Court by David Stacton - Free Book Online
Authors: David Stacton
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that low-pitched, heavy, emotional voice of his. He did not seem to be listening. But he would do it, Booth knew that.
For an instant he hesitated, he did not quite know why. Payne disturbed him. It was Payneâs suggestion that he come with Cap. Booth could not have that. One had to go to fame alone. Yet as the conspirators broke up, and when Payne was gone, for a moment, as that bulky silhouette nudged its horse down the alley, he felt futile, and perhaps a little lost.
Then he, too, rode on.
The time was 9:15.
V
The first member of the Presidential party to arrive at Fordâs Theatre was Parker, the Secret Service guard. He came to his post highly recommended, if only because that was the only way his employers could pass him along to the next poor devil to be saddled with him. He had that capon look of any policeman who has been in the force longer than a year, slow, servile to his betters, and insolent when he could be, much given to feeling the slights of this world, very lazy, and addicted to prostitutes and drink. He had been selected for duty tonight by chance, and he was bored. Nothing would happen anyway, and who cared whether the President was shot or not? He had no intention of losing his life for another man; he did not relish being reduced to the status of an usher of the great, when he loomed in his own world quite large himself; and he badly wanted a drink. When at last the Presidential party arrived, he ushered them into the theatre. As the President was on his way to his box, Laura Keene, from the stage, improvised a patriotic joke; the patrons in the dress circle stood up and began to applaud; the rest of the theatre did the same; and Professor Withers, in the orchestra pit, lurched into yet one more performance of Hail to the Chief .
Mrs. Lincoln, for once, did not seem to be wearing white, though there was something white about her, the lining of her bonnet, perhaps. Both she, and the President in his rocker, sat well back out of view.
Whenever the stage action paused, those in the front seats of the theatre could hear the creak of the rocker. But it was a very faint sound. If it disturbed anyone, it was only to make him smile. It had to be admitted, whatever his vices, and they were many, that at least the President was picturesque and quaint.
The performance continued. Though she was no actress, Laura Keene could play herself to perfection, and the part suited her. The audience settled down to watch.
Parker was bored silly. He left the theatre and went round to a pot house to cadge a drink.
Atzerodt was also drinking. That was because he was terrified.
He knew he could not do it, but it took as much courage not to do it, and courage, as time had taught him, came only out of bottles for such men as he. No matter what he might look like, Atzerodt had had the usual shanty backwoods education. He had read the Bible and Pilgrimâs Progress , but they had given him no place in the human parable. He felt displaced and lonely.
Usually, at least in a bar, he could strike up some sort of acquaintance. He would stop at nothing to have at least the illusion of friendship. But he stopped at murder. Booth, he saw now, had not been his friend, but only Asmodeus, leading Christian astray.
All this talk of tyrannicide and the nobility of democracy, which is what his displaced liberal German relatives talked about in the old country, but never mentioned here, meant nothing. Murder was murder, no matter how praiseworthy the cause. It was a hanging offence.
By the time he left the Kirkwood House bar he was a little crazy. They had given him all these knives and guns. What did he know about knives and guns? He had not served in the war. He had killed no one. He was a coach painter by trade. He did not want to hang.
He staggered out into the nightmare streets, got caught up in the crowd, was carried along he knew not where, and threw his knife down furtively in the street. He did not want to be
For an instant he hesitated, he did not quite know why. Payne disturbed him. It was Payneâs suggestion that he come with Cap. Booth could not have that. One had to go to fame alone. Yet as the conspirators broke up, and when Payne was gone, for a moment, as that bulky silhouette nudged its horse down the alley, he felt futile, and perhaps a little lost.
Then he, too, rode on.
The time was 9:15.
V
The first member of the Presidential party to arrive at Fordâs Theatre was Parker, the Secret Service guard. He came to his post highly recommended, if only because that was the only way his employers could pass him along to the next poor devil to be saddled with him. He had that capon look of any policeman who has been in the force longer than a year, slow, servile to his betters, and insolent when he could be, much given to feeling the slights of this world, very lazy, and addicted to prostitutes and drink. He had been selected for duty tonight by chance, and he was bored. Nothing would happen anyway, and who cared whether the President was shot or not? He had no intention of losing his life for another man; he did not relish being reduced to the status of an usher of the great, when he loomed in his own world quite large himself; and he badly wanted a drink. When at last the Presidential party arrived, he ushered them into the theatre. As the President was on his way to his box, Laura Keene, from the stage, improvised a patriotic joke; the patrons in the dress circle stood up and began to applaud; the rest of the theatre did the same; and Professor Withers, in the orchestra pit, lurched into yet one more performance of Hail to the Chief .
Mrs. Lincoln, for once, did not seem to be wearing white, though there was something white about her, the lining of her bonnet, perhaps. Both she, and the President in his rocker, sat well back out of view.
Whenever the stage action paused, those in the front seats of the theatre could hear the creak of the rocker. But it was a very faint sound. If it disturbed anyone, it was only to make him smile. It had to be admitted, whatever his vices, and they were many, that at least the President was picturesque and quaint.
The performance continued. Though she was no actress, Laura Keene could play herself to perfection, and the part suited her. The audience settled down to watch.
Parker was bored silly. He left the theatre and went round to a pot house to cadge a drink.
Atzerodt was also drinking. That was because he was terrified.
He knew he could not do it, but it took as much courage not to do it, and courage, as time had taught him, came only out of bottles for such men as he. No matter what he might look like, Atzerodt had had the usual shanty backwoods education. He had read the Bible and Pilgrimâs Progress , but they had given him no place in the human parable. He felt displaced and lonely.
Usually, at least in a bar, he could strike up some sort of acquaintance. He would stop at nothing to have at least the illusion of friendship. But he stopped at murder. Booth, he saw now, had not been his friend, but only Asmodeus, leading Christian astray.
All this talk of tyrannicide and the nobility of democracy, which is what his displaced liberal German relatives talked about in the old country, but never mentioned here, meant nothing. Murder was murder, no matter how praiseworthy the cause. It was a hanging offence.
By the time he left the Kirkwood House bar he was a little crazy. They had given him all these knives and guns. What did he know about knives and guns? He had not served in the war. He had killed no one. He was a coach painter by trade. He did not want to hang.
He staggered out into the nightmare streets, got caught up in the crowd, was carried along he knew not where, and threw his knife down furtively in the street. He did not want to be
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