The Last April Page 10

  Gretchen did not want to be another Mary Surratt, or given her nickname, “mistress of the devil’s work.” Gretchen was a loyal patriot, and she wanted to do right by her countrymen. She knew the nation needed to heal. What she did not know was how that could be possible without Abraham Lincoln to guide everyone.

  Cities around the nation mourned the president’s death as the news reached them. Indianapolis reported all forms of business had stopped. Owners closed doors and covered windows with black crepe minutes after the announcement.

  Nashville’s parade celebrating the surrender had just begun when the news hit the city. The parade broke down. Soldiers returned to camp with their firearms reversed, marching instead to a dirge.

  Baltimore crowds had grown rowdy and indignant. Someone found “obnoxious pictures” of John Wilkes Booth and smashed bricks through a photographer’s shop window. Gretchen shook her head. The day before, those photos must have brought customers. Who had not wanted a photo of the famous Baltimore actor, John Wilkes Booth?

  What a difference a day—a choice—made to so many people.

  Gretchen shivered, even though a moment before her palms had been sweaty. She stared at the paper in her hand until the letters blurred. The scattered news reports made it clear that this was not the result of one decision.

  John Wilkes Booth had put a lot of thought into taking the president’s life. He had thought about it so much, he had George Atzerodt attempt to kill the vice president and Lewis Powell attempt to kill the secretary of state. What a stroke of luck that Atzerodt turned out to be terrible at stabbing vital organs and that Powell chickened out entirely.

  The fact was, Booth tried to destroy the Union in one fell swoop. Booth wanted the war to continue after the Confederate surrender.

  Gretchen dropped the newspaper and brought her palms together. “Lord,” she whispered, “I know I don’t ask for your counsel much. I let Tante Klegg and Mama do that for me. But these stories… they tell me the world doesn’t know which way is up anymore.”

  “Please don’t make the war go another four years.”

  Her voice broke, but she kept her palms pressed together. “And please help Karl know who he is. It doesn’t feel right sending him away if he doesn’t know who he is or where he’s going. But the longer he’s here, the more danger we’re in. So please, watch over us, too, and keep us in your grace.”

  There was no gesture or signal that anyone had heard, but that was all right. Gretchen figured if her little prayer did any good at all, it was worth the time.

  She picked up the newspaper, dusting it with her apron hem. The advertisement in the bottom corner caught her eye. It was the only positive news in the entire sheet. Dry goods prices were dropping for the first time since the war began. They would have to think about replenishing their sugar stores.

  That sent Gretchen scouring the newspaper for other tidbits of good news. Anything to combat the overwhelming hopelessness that caused her shoulders to droop.

  And there it was, halfway down page four. Secretary Seward and Major Seward had survived their attacks. And Vice President—well, President—Johnson had evaded an attack altogether. It all appeared linked to Booth’s original assassination plan.

  Gretchen leaned back, her eyes closed. She listened to the chickens below her clucking amongst themselves. Those dumb birds. Gretchen wondered how much her aunt and mother knew, and how much they had chosen not to tell her.

  The sudden creaking sound of the barn door opening made Gretchen freeze. She crawled across the hayloft on all fours, intending to snatch the ladder.

  By the time Gretchen untangled her skirts and spit the straw from her mouth, Karl was halfway up the ladder. It was short, five rungs, so even a man of his little strength could make the climb.

  “Well,” Karl said, plopping onto a bale beside her, “your ma and aunt gave me an earful. They know we heard them yesterday.”

  “And how would they know that?” Gretchen said, her tone accusatory. She yanked her skirt away from his muddy foot. For some reason, he preferred to go barefoot. Not that she minded; she preferred to be barefoot herself. But if her aunt saw her dirty skirts, it would be her turn for an earful.

  “Because they couldn’t hear us arguing,” Karl replied as if it were the most sensible thing in the world. “The farm was so quiet, they figured we was eavesdropping.”

  She stared at him.

  “I mean, we was eavesdropping.”

  “I know,” Gretchen retorted. She tucked the newspaper under her skirt. Better that she be the only one aware of things for now. “I got to hear all about an uncle I didn’t know existed.” She did not like the soft expression she saw move across his face and linger. “What?”

  “You’ve been crying.”

  “Not about that.” Her expression turned rueful. “Why would I cry about a man I never met? I didn’t have an uncle yesterday. I guess I still don’t have one today.”

  Karl shrugged. “Why would you befriend a Confederate and bring him in your home? I don’t pretend to know you, but you got to admit you have a pattern of pretending you don’t care when you do. A lot.”

  Gretchen grabbed a fistful of straw and threw it at him. “Who cares about your patterns?” She meant to sound more cross than she did. In truth, she was a little pleased Karl had noticed such a thing about her, if only because no one else seemed to.

  Karl wiped the straw off his lap and smiled.

  “What’s our punishment for eavesdropping, then?” Gretchen asked. “Confess to the pastor and ask for absolution?”

  “Do what now?”

  Gretchen waved her hand at him. “It’s Tante Klegg’s favorite thing about being Lutheran, confessing her sins. She makes me do it all the time, but no one else confesses these days. That’s for grandparents. Go on, what’s our punishment?”

  He shook his head. He picked apart a piece of straw and would not look at her.

  Come on,” Gretchen teased, “it can’t be worse than a counterfeit engagement.”

  “You got to teach me how to run the farm in case your father and brother don’t come back,” he said in a rush.

  Gretchen was dumbstruck. “But we know Werner is coming back. Alina said as much.”

  “They said it would build up my strength. And your character.”

  “My character’s plenty strong,” Gretchen said.

  “Well, I suppose there’s strong character, and then there’s strong-willed,” Karl recited.

  “Tante Klegg told you to say that,” Gretchen said.

  “Yes, ma’am, she did.”

  Gretchen sighed. “Well, come on then. It’s time to find the eggs anyway.”

  Karl frowned. “You mean, the chickens?” He curled his fingers into his palms.

  “What’s wrong?” Gretchen said, crawling to the ladder. “You got something against chickens?”

  “I don’t, but they got something against me,” he said.

  Unrepentant Leaders to be Punished

  Tuesday, 18 April 1865 / The Ohio Daily Statesman

  PRESIDENT JOHNSON TO BE MERCIFUL TO THE PEOPLE OF THE REBEL STATES—UNREPENTANT LEADERS TO BE PUNISHED.

  The Post’s special says President Johnson yesterday said to a clergyman who begged of him to be merciful to the rebels, that mercy to individuals was not always mercy to the State. He also declared to a prominent member of Congress that he was willing to act with the utmost magnanimity towards the common people of the rebel States, but that the unrepentant leaders must be punished.

  Developments of One of the Conspirators

  Tuesday, 18 April 1865 / The Ohio Daily Statesman

  It is understood that the party alluded to as under arrest here, states that the original design of the conspirators was merely to capture President Lincoln, some time back, and make him a prisoner, and in this way compel a general release of all rebel prisoners then held by the United States.

  When the general exchange of prisoners commenced, this project was aband
oned by him and others as no longer necessary, and he says he refused to have anything further to do with it and endeavored to induce others to give up their designs upon the life of the President…

  A False and Dastardly Charge

  Wednesday, 19 April 1865 / The Ohio Daily Statesman

  The Journal of Tuesday morning, in an article headed “The Rule of Succession,” says, referring to the assassination of President Lincoln and the attempt to assassinate Secretary Seward:

  “Those not actually engaged in the rebellion, but who, from partisan ties or other considerations, have been inclined to apologize for those engaged in it, and palliate their offense, should now feel themselves called upon to come out from those associations and renounce all fealty to a party having such proclivities.

  For although Democrats, as a party, may disclaim the act, and but few of the party are probably directly responsible for the enormity in which it has culminated, yet it is a fact that the assassination is distinctly traceable to the teachings of that party, and it behooves all honest men who are disinclined to share in such grave responsibility, to separate from the association of those who are to a greater or less degree answerable for the act aimed, as well at the life of the nation, as that of the President.”

  Here are two distinct and explicit charges brought against the Democratic party as a class of citizens, and against every man belonging to it:

  That Democrats are inclined to apologize for those engaged in rebellion, and palliate their offense.

  That the assassination of the President is DISTINCTLY traceable to the teachings of the Democratic party.

  As to both these charges, and other malicious insinuations contained in the foregoing extract from The Journal, we brand them as false and infamous, and charge that the editor of The Journal knew them to be such when he wrote them down.

  Seventeen

  Tuesday, 18 - Wednesday, 25 April 1865 / Grove City, Ohio

  While the world lost its mind hunting for John Wilkes Booth, Gretchen studied Karl. At first, she had thought he could help her. There were many chores and only her hands, since her aunt tended the farmhouse and her mother refused to leave her bedroom.

  One thing was clear: Karl was not a dairy or chicken farmer, that was certain. Or if he were, he was terrible at it. It was not just that he pulled plants thinking they were weeds. He did not know how to milk a cow or pull eggs from a chicken without losing an eye.

  Gretchen supposed Karl might have been a crop or horse or sheep farmer, except he got spooked any time an animal his size or larger came too close. Karl’s lack of skill drove Gretchen to distraction.

  And he daydreamed. All. The. Time. Gretchen told Karl to get water from the well only to find him half an hour later staring at a cobweb. When asked what he was doing, Karl said something about water droplets caught on the strands. When sent to pick kindling for the stove, he disappeared for an hour. Gretchen found him studying the veins of a leaf in the sunlight. She could not understand his obsession with light.

  Karl’s hands were not meant for farming, or not yet anyway. His hands lacked calluses; he had town hands, like a shopkeeper.

  It went like this for a week. Gretchen would hand something to Karl to test him. He would panic and refuse to try, or surprise her with his skill, or wander off to sit and think alone.

  Last week, it had seemed so easy to bring Karl into the house. He needed help, and she looked to help. Her aunt, for whatever reason, had gone along with it, only to turn on her as soon as Karl was trouble.

  The newspaper clipping describing John Wilkes Booth stayed in Gretchen’s pocket. She could not figure out why she hesitated to tell her aunt and mother about it. They rarely read the newspaper. The only reading material in the house was their Lutheran Bible, and that was in German. Gretchen felt confident her family did not know how unlike Karl was to John Wilkes Booth. Yet rather than rushing to tell them, she kept it to herself.

  Deep down, Gretchen knew it was because she had only confirmed they did not know anything about Karl. He had been at Camp Chase. He might have been a prisoner left by the wayside. The authorities might throw them all into prison for not turning him in right away.

  Gretchen stared at the ceiling of her bed that night. Knowing Karl was not John Wilkes Booth did not seem to solve anyway. Karl had been a Confederate, which was as almost as bad as shooting the president anyway.

  Gretchen counted the cobwebs in the rafters above her bed. Karl had pointed them out to her earlier in the day. He showed her they were not annoying wisps that caught her hair, they had patterns. They sparkled in the light and danced in the night breeze.

  Well, they would have, if there were a breeze. The night air was stuffy despite the window being open. There was no cross breeze, and Gretchen sweltered in her nightshift. Her thoughts tossed and turned because her body was too hot and sweaty. Every move she made caused her thin, wet mattress to squeak against the ropes. It was a hot, terrible night, and she suffered from hot, terrible thoughts.

  Without the drama of harboring a criminal, babysitting Karl was tedious. Gretchen had to change his bandages and teach him to help with chores. She had to endure him following her around because he was afraid of staying in the house with her family.

  Well, that was not true or fair anymore. It had been tedious at first. Gretchen now understood her brother’s annoyance when she chatted his ear off around the farm.

  Karl did not chat her ear off, though, she spent all of her time talking to him. Gretchen found she liked to say ridiculous things if it meant Karl might smirk. That was as far as he went, smiling-wise. And it had been annoying earlier in the week, but now Gretchen liked when Karl made her stop and look at something. He sure knew how to paint words.

  As she struggled to catch sleep, Gretchen wondered what Karl was thinking about. He had earned the privilege of not sleeping every night tied to the chair. Instead, he crawled into the hayloft with a thin blanket to protect him from scratches. It puzzled her, wondering what a man without memories did to fall asleep.

  Did he recite children’s rhymes until his lids were heavy? Did he plot his escape, assuming he still considered them his captors rather than his friends?

  Gretchen sat upright and knocked her head into the roof beam above her. It was one thing to wonder whether Karl considered them captors or friends. When had she changed her mind from being his captor to being his friend?

  Karl was dangerous, but not because he shot the president. Gretchen resolved to tell her aunt and mother in the morning that Karl was not John Wilkes Booth. She knew it would mean they would kick Karl out of the house. They would have to.

  And then Gretchen could stop her little flights of fancy. They did not happen all the time. Now that she had built up Karl’s confidence to do little chores that did not wear him out, she found herself watching him. The trouble with watching was it led to daydreaming.

  Sometimes, Gretchen imagined Karl taking her hand and walking along the creek’s edge. No aunt, no mother, no assassination, and no war. Just the two of them, talking about things they read, and places they wanted to see.

  Gretchen rubbed her forehead and stifled a groan. She was starting to sound like Alina.

  Patriots did not go around developing feelings for their prisoners. It was nonsense. And Gretchen, while she would admit she was spontaneous, she was not nonsensical.

  Eighteen

  Tuesday, 25 April 1865 / Grove City, Ohio

  It was now nine days since the president had died. Gretchen decided it was time her aunt and mother knew Karl was not the murderer. It was time for Karl to leave, before she started making a fool of herself.

  Gretchen pulled the newspaper clipping from her pocket as she entered the kitchen. The edges were well-worn, and the black-filled margins had faded to gray.

  Tante Klegg and her mother sat at the table, resting their foreheads in their palms.

  “Mama?” Gretchen said. She brushed her fingers on her mother’s shoulder and placed the c
lipping on the table.

  Her mother took it, her expression impassive in the waning sunlight.

  “He didn’t kill the president,” Gretchen whispered. She did not know why she was whispering. Karl slept in the barn.

  Her aunt stared at her. “Of course, he did not.”

  Gretchen froze. Her thoughts skidded to a halt. She tried to understand why Tante Klegg looked at her like she was a fool. All Gretchen could think was how much she hated Tante Klegg sometimes. Always so righteous, so sensible, so ready to correct Gretchen.

  “Did you believe a man in his condition could travel from Washington to Grove City overnight?” Tante Klegg asked.

  Her mother tore the newspaper. “We have known all along,” she said. Her tone was so nonchalant it made Gretchen want to scream.

  Instead, Gretchen said, “You swore that he killed the president!”

  “He did!” her mother said. She lifted her skirts so Gretchen could see her grind her heel into the shredded paper. “They all did. Every last one who stood against this nation. Every last one who shot a bullet at my husband and son. They tried to ruin this country, and they killed the president in their plot to do so.”

  “I will say that whatever this Karl was, he could not have been a soldier. He cowers from a gun,” Tante Klegg said. She turned to stoke the fire for dinner.

  This was not going the way Gretchen had imagined it. After her revelation, she expected her mother and aunt to show shock or surprise or relief. She expected them to say how long Karl could remain on the farm. She expected them to make plans so they could all move on with their lives.

  “What do you know about soldiers, anyway?” Gretchen burst.

  “I know enough,” Tante Klegg said, her tone forbidding Gretchen to press further.