Read Online The Lincoln Deception by David O. Stewart - Free Book Online

and the new Filipino insurrection. He said American soldiers were still making sacrifices, only now overseas. When Fraser and Cook remounted, they didn’t speak.
    Townsend’s land was a revelation. A fifty-foot stone arch, topped with three smaller arches and a medieval tower, loomed over the entrance. They gawked at the structure, then strained to read the writings carved into its walls, along with dozens of names.
    â€œWhat in blue blazes is it,” Cook wondered, “out here in the middle of nowhere?”
    â€œBeats me,” Fraser said.
    Townsend, a vigorous gentleman of about sixty, met them in the front drive of the stone mansion. His still-dark hair, combed straight back, gave him a sleek, aggressive look. When they reached a cavernous parlor, Townsend directed his colored servant to bring beverages. Fraser settled on a chintz-covered love seat—a feminine-looking piece in a setting that favored the gigantic—while Cook chose a straight-backed chair off to the side. When the servant appeared with drinks, he seemed diffident about serving Cook. Fraser drank off half his lemonade in a single swallow. Cook attacked his toddy with equal zest.
    Townsend explained that the stone arch commemorated newspaper writers who died during the Civil War. “Most were friends of mine,” he said, beginning to light a meerschaum pipe. He spoke around deep intakes of breath as he held match to tobacco. “Everybody . . . forgets the poor . . . scribblers who saunter out . . . on the battlefield . . . armed with but pencils.” He had ignited his tobacco. “They’re there so the people know what really happened. I’m fortunate enough to be able to make this gesture, and proud to do so.”
    Townsend recalled meeting Fraser at Mr. Bingham’s final dinner. Leaning back in his large leather chair, he puffed on his pipe, and spoke to the ceiling as though from a prepared speech.
    â€œBingham, as you doubtless know, was a zealot. I will never forget those great smoldering eyes of his. A zealot’s eyes. Yet behind those fiery windows into his soul resided a true amiability, which was no less genuine for being entirely surprising.”
    â€œIn Cadiz,” Fraser broke in, “I knew him as a friend.”
    â€œYes, yes, of course,” Townsend said, seeming annoyed by the interruption. “And your letter said you have some concern with how he prosecuted the Lincoln conspiracy case? If you will forgive my presumption, how could that matter to you, gentlemen?” Townsend looked directly at Cook, who made no answer.
    â€œI’ve been close to the Bingham family for many years,” Fraser said, “and have been assisting his daughters with his papers.”
    Townsend’s expression showed that Fraser’s remark did not answer his question.
    â€œI’m a newspaperman, Mr. Townsend,” Cook said suddenly, shifting on his upright chair.
    â€œAre you, indeed?” Townsend said. “That’s quite remarkable. For what organ of the press do you write?”
    â€œMy own,” Cook said. “The Ohio Eagle, it’s a colored paper.”
    Townsend’s answering grin seemed genuine. “Good for you, young man. Good for you. I don’t know the Ohio Eagle, I regret to admit, but I shall expect great things of it.” After gazing thoughtfully at the smoke rising from his pipe, he began a critical review of Mr. Bingham’s prosecution of the Lincoln conspirators. “Even a child should have known certain testimony was perjured,” he sighed. “Your friend Bingham, he was too pure a sort to bring forth false evidence intentionally, but he was, as I say, a zealot. Zealots are not terribly good at winkling out the truth. Otherwise, they couldn’t be zealots, could they?”
    After reciting other complaints about Bingham’s performance, Townsend said, “It wasn’t a good effort, not at all, not what history