. . . It was over, finished, the entire Cause was lost. I stood at the window of my room, there in the National Hotel, and I watched as the world came to an insidious end.

Word of Lee’s surrender had roared through Washington City on demon’s wings, and the mad fools below had wasted no time in celebrating. Men, women, and even children filled the square at Sixth and Pennsylvania, leaping and dancing about like lunatics loosed from an asylum. And the Negroes were among them, of course. The black monkeys congregated on every corner and chittered Lincoln’s filthy name, over and over again, until it sounded for all the world like the call of some garrulous bird. Somewhere a band played, adding to the hideous din, and the fools even launched fireworks over the Capitol dome. As I watched, a single rocket broke away from its normal trajectory, hissing through the night sky until it exploded almost directly above the monster’s den known as the White House. I found myself wishing, as the shower of brilliant sparks slowly settled around Old Abe, that they might really have been Confederate shells. The Original Gorilla was undoubtedly sharing the same sight, with a smile of triumph, no doubt, and the very thought, of his ugly, grinning face, made the humiliation that much worse. I threw the window shut and slammed my fist against the sill, and for the first time in my life I truly understood the Mad Dane’s terrible anguish. Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt . . .

“Johnny, are you all right?”

The girl’s voice startled me, and I nearly leapt out of my skin. “Oh, yes, I’m quite fine, Prudy,” I snarled over my shoulder. “I’m merely watching the world go to hell.”

She laughed at that—laughed!—as though it were actually funny. “Oh, Johnny, really . . .” I heard her slip out of bed and pad across the wooden floor, then I felt her soft, naked breasts press warmly against my back. “Don’t be like that, not tonight.” Her hands slipped around my waist and began a slow descent. “Please?”

I nudged her away, somewhat roughly. “Prudy, go away. I’m not in the mood anymore.”

“Really?” She pressed against me once again, and I felt the flick of her tongue across my shoulder. “You certainly were earlier, Johnny sweet. Perhaps I can change your mind . . . ?”

I started to push her away again, but for some reason, I decided to leave her hands to their skillful wandering. Despite my melancholia, I could not easily turn her away. Prudy was, without question, a delightful little tart. Prudence Elizabeth Carlysle, a nubile, green-eyed blond nymph, from one of the more genteel families of Baltimore. Or perhaps it was Annapolis. I couldn’t remember. She was a most intriguing young woman, no stranger to Washington’s most elite social circles. Or its most prominent bedrooms. Yet she was barely twenty-two-years old. She fancied herself an actress, and currently had a bit part in Our American Cousin, Laura Keene’s pet project that had been playing down at Ford’s for what seemed like a millennium. That was where I had met her, back in far better days. Prudy had indeed displayed a modicum of talent, those few times I had seen her act. But by far and away, her best performances were in bed. On that stage, Prudence Carlysle had absolutely no peer.

She had shown up at my door shortly after sunset, drunk with champagne and wanting a tumble. I was hardly in the amorous mood, having just returned from a turbulent visit with my brother Edwin in Boston, only to learn that the South had fallen. My first inclination was to send her packing, and then to drown myself in a dozen bottles of brandy. But Prudy was impossible to resist, especially as she’d been virtually naked beneath her cloak, and I had obliged her, though more as a means to vent my frustrated rage than to satiate desire. Not that it mattered one whit to my little actress.

Her fingers now played a particularly impressive role. “There now,” she whispered against my neck. “Doesn’t that feel good, Johnny sweet? Tell me, can your beloved Bessie do that?”

For several luxurious moments, I forgot what was occurring beyond the window. “My beloved Bessie,” I managed to sigh, “hasn’t the slightest knowledge of such wicked diversions.”

Prudy giggled mischievously. “But Johnny, she’s your fiancée.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Our betrothal is slightly more show than substance, my dear. Unlike yours, Bessie’s virtue proved a far more formidable bastion to my usual assaults. Even my poetry was ineffective.”

“So you proposed marriage instead?” Prudy’s laughter became nearly uncontrollable. “How delicious! But what about Senator Hale? Won’t he be furious when he learns his daughter’s precious innocence has been betrayed? And by the lecherous Johnny Booth, no less?”

“I hardly think he’ll even notice. The drunken sot can barely remember his own name, half the time. Besides, he’s been appointed ambassador to Spain. He’s leaving in June, and Bessie’s agreed to go with him, at least for a few months. We’ve agreed to postpone any firm commitment till after she’s returned.”

“And by then you’ll be conveniently on theatrical tour,” Prudy concluded, once more plying her wondrous dexterity. “Oh, Johnny, how wonderfully devious you are!” She kissed the back of my neck, then traced a curious finger along a rough, raised line of flesh beneath my ear. “Tell me, Johnny sweet, did you really get this scar in a duel over a lady’s honor?”

I glanced back at her, feigning an indignant scowl. “You find that difficult to believe?”

“I do,” she said sweetly. “The ladies you know have no honor. Not for long, that is.”

“Ah, but they lose it ever so gratefully.” I laughed, turning around to pull her close. I slipped my hands around her exquisite buttocks. “Just as you did, Prudy dear.”

She gave me an impish grin, through a tangled cascade of long blonde hair. “I’m afraid that wasn’t your conquest, Johnny sweet. So how did you get the scar?”

I shrugged. “Alas, just a lowly carbuncle. The surgeon’s incision opened during a play, when I was grappling with Charlotte Cushman. But a lady was involved, so I suppose you could say it’s half true.”

“I wouldn’t care if it was a lie.” Prudy sighed. She laid her head against my chest. “I wouldn’t care if everything you said were all lies, Johnny Booth. I’d still love you as much as I do now.”

I pushed her to arm’s length, frowning at her sharply. “Prudy, don’t—”

“Ooh!” Prudy suddenly squealed with delight, as another skyrocket exploded, bathing the room, and our naked bodies, in a garish red light. “Fireworks! I love fireworks! Don’t you love fireworks, Johnny?”

It was then that my depression, as well as my anger, returned with a vengeance. “I’d prefer them to be Confederate carronades!”

“Honestly, Johnny!” Prudy pulled away to slap irritably at my shoulder. “What’s wrong with you? I’d think you could at least be happy tonight, of all nights. After all, the war is over.”

“It isn’t over, it’s lost!” There was a bottle of Napolean brandy, my favorite comfort and balm, on the table near the bed. I swiftly snatched it up and pulled the cork, then drained a third of the contents in a single furious gulp. “Everything I ever believed in is lost. Though I suppose a brainless little whore like yourself couldn’t possibly understand that.”

Her lithe body stiffened in the dim light. “I’m not a whore,” she said finally, in a very small, very quavering voice. “And I’m not brainless, either. You shouldn’t say things like that, Johnny.” She turned up a lamp on the table, and I caught the glimmer of a tear in her eye as she started to get dressed. “I know where your sympathies lie. All of Washington knows it, for God’s sake! It just seems to me you’d take heart in the fact that the killing is finally over.”

I glared at her contemptuously. “What would you know about it, Prudy? What would you know about killing and war, or a cause you’ve devoted your entire life to?”

“Cause?” Prudy worked angry fingers at the buttons of her lace camisole, pausing long enough to cast me a cold, sardonic scowl. “What cause are you referring to, Johnny? The only cause you’ve ever been devoted to was your own vanity. And God help whatever man, woman, or country that ever stood in the way of that noble effort!”

Something inside of me seemed to explode, just like one of those damnable skyrockets. I stepped forward and slapped her, hard, and she fell back across the bed with a horrified yelp.

I stood over her with my hands clenched in trembling fists. “You contemptible little bitch! Who the hell do you think you are? Don’t ever presume you know me! No one knows John Wilkes Booth! No one!”

She rubbed at her face, finally losing the struggle to hold back tears. “You had no right to hit me, Johnny.”

Seething, I slowly moved towards her. “Oh, I’ll do more than just hit you, Prudy dear. I’ll make goddamned certain you never forget a single word I’ve said!”

There was an almost animal terror on her face as I fell on top of her, and indeed, she fought me like a lynx in a trap. But I was far too strong, and the noise from outside more than sufficient to muffle her screams. I had never taken a woman by force, not like that, and I suppose there was a part of me that cringed in shame even as I raped her. But it was almost as if Prudy herself did not exist. I was aware of her piteous cries, I felt her desperate struggles beneath me, yet it was more as though she had somehow become the very embodiment of everything I hated, and feared. Her words, which still rang in my ears despite the thunderous explosions outside, had come far too close to the truth. A truth which I could not bring myself to admit.

How long I assailed her I don’t remember, but it was only after she went completely limp beneath me that I finally pulled away. I stumbled away from the bed, covering my face with my hands at the sight of my depravity. “Oh, Christ! Prudy, I don’t . . . I can’t . . . Jesus, what have I done?”

Prudy rolled over, twisting and groaning in pain. “Oh, God, Johnny, you hurt me so bad!” Her voice was muffled by a pillow, but there was no mistaking her anguish. “Why did you hurt me so bad?”

I staggered to the window, staring down numbly at the crowd of cretins who, if anything, had doubled in size and gaiety since the night began. The sound of their laughter mingled with Prudy’s terrible sobs, and I couldn’t stand it. Not any longer. A drawer in the table held a LeMat revolver, and I tugged it open, staring wistfully down at the cold blue steel as if greeting a welcome friend. I reached out for it, fully intending to put it against my temple, but my hand suddenly pulled away before my fingers could even brush the ivory grips. I fell back against the wall, shivering in rage and despair. Lost. Everything, including my own nerve, was lost forever . . .

“Get out, Johnny,” Prudy suddenly said. “I don’t ever want to see you again!”

I turned around, sighing. “Prudy, please, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”

“Get out!” she hissed again. She sat up, anxiously fumbling for a beaded handbag that sat on the little stand next to the bed. A small, gleaming object suddenly appeared in one hand, and I found myself staring into the tiny black eye of a derringer. “I’ll kill you, Johnny,” she snarled above the gun. “So help me God, I will!”

Slowly, I stepped towards her. The gun never wavered, nor did the murderous look of hatred that twisted Prudy’s angelic face. “Go ahead, Prudy,” I said ruefully. “Shoot me.” My eyes locked with hers, and I tapped at my forehead. “Right here.”

She hesitated, beautiful lips quivering in silent, tearful fury as her knuckles went white around the gun. I leaned forward, nearly in tears myself.

“What are you waiting for?” I grabbed her arm, pressing the gun against my head. “Kill me, goddamn it! I can’t do it myself! For God’s sake, Prudy, I have nothing left to live for! Please,” I begged pleadingly. “Kill me . . .”

I heard the hammer click; a glorious, magnificent sound. Arms against a sea of troubles. I drew in my breath, closing my eyes gratefully as I braced myself for the shot.

It never came.

“I can’t.” Prudy sobbed. I opened my eyes to see her lying back against the headboard, staring at me with eyes that burned with both sorrow and betrayal. She tossed the gun into the rumpled bedclothes. “I hate you with all my soul, Johnny Booth, but I love you just as much. Just go away and leave me alone.”

I picked up the gun, staring bleakly at the ugly, blunt lines and tarnished steel. “Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all . . .”

“What did you say?”

I shook my head slowly, handing back the gun. “Nothing.”

Prudy waved it away angrily. “Keep it, Johnny. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find the courage to use it on yourself.”

A mutual wish, I wanted desperately to say. But I kept my dismal silence, picking up my waistcoat to shove the derringer into a pocket. “You can stay here if you want, Prudy,” I said as I started to get dressed. “I’ll take a room at the Kirkwood.”

She looked away, but I caught the painful wince. “Please, Johnny, spare me your hollow pity. I want nothing more from you, ever. I’ll be gone before morning. I just need to rest awhile.” She curled up on the bed and started to cry again, this time more softly.

I stared at her silently, unable to find words that matched my tumultuous emotions, then shrugged into my coat, turned down the lamp, and started to leave.

“Someday you won’t be so lucky, Johnny,” Prudy called out suddenly. “Someday someone will actually have the nerve to kill you.”

My hand paused on the latch. “I have no doubts you are right, Prudy. But I truly wish to God it might have been you. You would have been doing us both a favor.”

I opened the door and stepped out, leaving her to cry in the dark.