There were but a few drunks and merrymakers in the alleys as I hurried through the balmy night. Most were too deeply immersed in their cups to notice me, although I was wearing my best silk coat and diamond stickpin, and surely presented a tempting sight to any ruffian. But my visage, within the dim lantern light that filtered from nearby windows, must have been equally portentous, for, while one or two burly fellows did stumble in my direction, they just as swiftly reeled away when I coldly met their bloodshot eyes. And the sight of a bone-handled dagger, which I always kept sheathed beneath my cloak, undoubtedly assisted in the persuasion.

But the alleys could not mute the night’s bacchanal air, and I found myself thinking, as I trudged through the muck, how much Edwin would have enjoyed these festivities. He was a staunch Unionist, my brother, and our parting words, as I’d left him in Boston only a few days before, had not been the least pleasant. The war had been the sole issue that held the two of us so fiercely at odds. Yet it seemed almost preordained that such division would exist, given the very nature of our locales. Edwin was the toast of Broadway, the darling of the North, while I was more popular in the South. And our older brother, and our father’s namesake, Junius, held sway over his own audiences in the far western realm of San Francisco. It was said, and not without some veracity, that the Booth brothers were as diverse as America itself.

Edwin and I had tried to put our political differences aside, and had even appeared together, along with Junius, in a benefit production of Julius Caesar less than five months before in New York City. But that selfsame night, as Edwin’s Brutus was denounced by my Antony, a band of Confederate loyalists set a series of fires across Manhattan. Backstage, I had praised their heroic efforts, angrily reminding Edwin of the conflagrations that had consumed Atlanta and the Shenandoah Valley. But, as was usual, my brother had only contempt for all things Southern. Even Junius, who proudly boasted of his affiliation with the San Francisco Vigilance Committee, had voiced his fervent hope that the saboteurs might be hanged. Critically, our performance that night was considered a triumph. Privately, I could not wait to return south. And I doubted sincerely that the Booth brothers would ever perform together again.

I stepped out of the alley at E Street, and for a moment or two stood pondering my next course. A group of Negro soldiers huddled on the corner, glibly warbling some insipid tune about “freedom” and “Moses,” and I had to look fumingly away. The sight of those jackanapes in that uniform was enough to make my blood boil. I hurried across the street, ignoring a teamster’s angry curse as I raced in front of his team. It was much more preferable, as far as I was concerned, to be run down by a beer wagon than face such a damnable disgrace.

I thought about heading north, to H Street and Widow Surratt’s, then swiftly, and dejectedly, thought the better of it. I wasn’t up to facing John and the others tonight, kindred spirits though they were. Whatever schemes we might have fashioned, no matter how bold or decisive, were absolutely futile now. And it did no good to dwell on what could never be. Cursing under my breath, I turned and headed west.

Chris Made’s Grand Saloon, at the corner of Tenth and E, was alive with light and sound. Yet I passed on by, scowling at the raucous laughter, and a few steps later, found myself outside of Volkner’s. The sounds that emanated from within were far more subdued, so I took a chance and slipped inside.

Volkner’s was what the fine ladies of Washington society sneeringly referred to as lowbrow; meaning that it was frequented by the common working man. It was run by the widow of it’s original owner, Hans Volkner, who had tied on her husband’s stained apron when Hans died of smallpox barely a year after arriving in America. Unlike the Grand, where one was apt to find gold-braided military officers and silk-suited Congressmen, Widow Volkner’s clientele were far less dignified, and included mechanics, teamsters, stagehands, and other such nefarious riff-raff. Yet I found myself far more relaxed and lethargic within its filthy, tar-papered walls than among the polished brass and red-carpeted finery of the Grand. It was, at least to my way of thinking, the same sort of retreat my father would have sought for himself. Junius Brutus Booth had been a man of the streets, rising from the very gutters of London to become the most popular actor in both England and America. Yet he never once forgot his origins. These selfsame commoners, lowbrows, and castoffs had been his people, and now they were mine.

Volkner’s atmosphere was as sullen as the smoky lantern light that barely illuminated the cramped interior. Many of the widow’s patrons were Southern sympathizers, another reason I found solace within, and like myself, they had very little reason for rejoicing this bitter night. A handful of Union soldiers, cavalrymen, by their muddy boots, raised their glasses in chortling toasts in a dim corner. But the vast majority of customers, hunched over rickety tables or huddled around the dilapidated bar, kept their conversations to a glum murmur.

A few looked up as I entered, and I suddenly heard my name called eagerly.

“Johnny!”

“Wilkes Booth, you rascal! Where the hell have you been?”

“Come on in, John! Come drown your sorrows with us!”

I waved my walking stick in a weary acknowledgment. “Greetings to you all, gentlemen.” I flicked a wary glance towards the Yankee horsemen. “Though I wish they might be given under more joyous circumstances.” I walked up to the bar and tossed several coins on the gouged and warped oak surface. “A bottle of your best, Carl. Let me know when that runs out, and I’ll happily replace it.”

Carl Gustav, Hannah Volkner’s brother and sometimes barkeep, scooped up the money in a huge hand and loosed a beer-scented guffaw. He flashed a broken-toothed smile beneath his bushy mustache. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Booth. I don’t let you go thirsty.” He reached under the bar and set a bottle of brandy before me. True to form, he offered no glass.

“Where is Widow Volkner tonight?” I asked as I pulled the cork.

Carl pointed over his bald head. “Upstairs. I tell her you’re here, Mr. Booth.”

I shook my head quickly. “Don’t disturb her. I’m afraid I’m not fit company tonight.” I turned and headed towards an empty table in a far corner.

“Say, Wilkes,” someone called. “How about a verse?”

Several others echoed the request, but I waved them off. “Gentlemen, please, not tonight. Normally I would love to accommodate you, but I’m simply not in the mood.” I studied each face somberly. “Surely you can understand.”

“Just one verse, Mr. Booth?” A thin young man, whom I knew to be a prompter over at Grover’s Theater, as well as a fellow Southerner, touched me gently on the shoulder. “Please?”

I started to object, then caught the dismal glimmer in his dark eyes, undoubtedly a twin to my own. “All right,” I nodded at length. “But just one.”

The barroom went silent, as every man’s eye turned towards me. Even the soldiers were watching with curious frowns. I drew in my breath and lifted my gaze to the soot-stained rafters.

“Come not, when I am dead,
To shed thy tears around my head,
Let the wind weep, and the plover cry,
But thou, oh fool man, pass by . . .”

I lowered my eyes to the cheerless stares around me. “Tennyson.” I smiled, slowly raising the bottle. “To the Confederacy, dear friends. God grant she may never be forgotten.”

“To the Confederacy!” several toasted mournfully. The cavalrymen glanced angrily at one another, then at me, but apparently felt themselves sufficiently outnumbered. They swiftly drained their glasses and hurried out.

I continued on through the bar, nodding quietly at the countless backslaps and mumbled compliments. I sat down at the little table, with my back to the wall, and gulped down what I hoped would be the first of many welcome swigs. Something gouged against my hip, as I leaned back in the chair, and I dug through my coat pocket and pulled out the little derringer I had taken from Prudy.

It was an odd-looking little gun. A Brown, according to the letters etched under the barrel, though I had never heard of that particular gunsmith. The two-inch barrel swiveled sideways, when I pressed a tiny lever, revealing a single brass cartridge in the breech. I tugged out the bullet, frowning over the lead projectile which, only a short while before, I had wanted so desperately put through my skull. It was not yet too late, I sighed to myself. I reloaded the gun, then held it cradled in both hands, lost in a sea of anxious and troubled thoughts.

“Planning to kill someone, Johnny?”

I snapped out of my reverie, glancing up to meet the smiling but wary eyes of the Widow Volkner.

“Not really.” I forced my own smile as I quickly pocketed the gun. “No one of importance, anyway.”

“Good,” she nodded. “Too much killing already, ja?” She waved at one of the chairs. “Mind if I sit down?”

I stood up, offering my most gracious bow. “I insist upon it, Widow Volkner.”

She laughed as she settled into a rickety chair. “Ach, Widow Volkner, is it? Mein Gott, Johnny, I am not old lady!” She studied me silently, appraisingly. “Not that old, anyway.”

I had to laugh. Hannah Volkner was nearly fifty, but in truth, she was still quite comely for her age. Her hair was the color of woven flax, with more than a trace of silver, but she always wore it braided, in the fashion of her native Bavaria. Her eyes were dark blue, and her full mouth had but a few unsightly wrinkles tugging at the sides. Her figure was not quite so youthful, confined as it was beneath a tight corset and a heavy green muslin dress, yet I could not help but believe Hannah had been a most desirable woman merely a few short years before. And, much to my own surprise, I found myself wondering what it might have been like to bed her, given that she was nearly twice my age. I had tumbled with a number of women, to be certain, but none beyond the age of forty. But it was still most provocative . . .

Hannah must have caught the speculative gleam in my eye, for I saw her blush slightly and turn her eyes away. “You don’t come here so much anymore, Johnny,” she said quickly. “Not since last month, ja?”

“I’ve been away,” I shrugged, taking another deep drink. “I had to travel north for a few weeks, on business.”

Her indigo eyes widened eagerly. “You are in a play, ja? The Marble Heart, maybe?” She gave me a broad, genuinely adoring smile. “That one is my favorite, Johnny. You are so good in that one.” She put her hand against her ample bosom, and I actually saw tears begin to well. “When you carve the statues, and they come to life, it is so beautiful it nearly breaks my heart!”

“No, I wasn’t in a play, Hannah. To be honest, I haven’t been on the stage for some time now. I was visiting my brother Edwin. And I have some money invested in oil leases, in Pennsylvania and Canada.”

She frowned at me in bewilderment. “Oil? What you want with oil, Johnny? You are an actor, ja? You belong on the stage.” She slipped a warm hand over mine. “So tell me, when does Hannah come to see you act again?”

This time it was my turn to look away. “I don’t know, Hannah. I truly don’t. I’ve had trouble with bronchitis this past winter. My stage voice isn’t what it should be. I’ve been hoping the time I’ve spent away from the theater might have helped, but I seem to stay hoarse almost constantly.” I gave her a reassuring wink. “Perhaps in another month or so I’ll be back in top form.”

“You will invite Hannah to your performance, ja?”

“I promise you’ll have a front row seat.”

“Good!” She squeezed my hand affectionately and stood up. “I must go back upstairs, Johnny. I have ledgers to balance, ja? Carl tells me you are here, but I can only say hello.” She bent down and gave me a gentle, motherly, yet somehow, extremely enticing kiss. “Perhaps you come back sometime later, ja?”

I smiled up at her. “Perhaps.”

She turned and quickly disappeared through a narrow doorway near the bar. I stared after her for a moment, frowning speculatively to myself, then quickly shook my head in chagrin and turned my attention back to my rapidly-emptying bottle. I waved at Carl, who nodded when I tapped the amber glass. That’s when I noticed the tall, bearded man who stood at the bar, staring directly at me with a look of unbridled contempt. He wore a dark suit of a rather common cut, but there was something about his bearing, like the squared shoulders and coiled-spring stance, that suggested he usually wore a uniform. A blue uniform.

I held his cold stare for several moments, breaking with his dark eyes only when Carl brought me another bottle. Yet they were waiting when I glanced back, with the same stark, malevolent glare. I began to feel exceedingly unnerved. He hadn’t been in Volkner’s when I had arrived, and I hadn’t seen him come in. Nor did I have the slightest idea as to who he might have been. He held a drink in his left hand, while the right rested against his hip, just inches away from a Colt revolver tucked into his trousers. He saw me glance at the gun and he smiled; a thin, evil little curl of his lips beneath the thick beard. I took another pull at the brandy and swiftly, anxiously, forced my gaze away.

The front door banged open suddenly, and a very stout, very drunk little man reeled into the barroom, waving a miniature Union flag with tremendous glee.

“God bless America!” he shouted jubilantly. “God bless President Lincoln!”

Several men fairly leaped out of their chairs, swiftly surrounding the drunken fool like a pack of snarling wolves. He fought at them, thoroughly confused, flailing his thick arms and screeching wildly. They had nearly forced him to the door by the time I made it across the room.

“Let him go!” I shouted above the din. I pulled two of the attackers away, then brandished my cane at the rest. “Let him go, damn it!”

They gaped at me in confusion, but they let go the drunk.

“But Mr. Booth,” the young prompter from Grover’s pleaded. “Didn’t you hear what he said?”

“I heard,” I said curtly. “But we are Southern gentlemen, not Yankee hooligans.” I turned to the fat man, who was indignantly brushing himself off, glaring about through bloodshot and totally befuddled eyes. “Sir,” I said to him calmly, “that name is neither mentioned nor welcomed in this establishment.”

“Wha . . . ?” He tried, unsuccessfully, to focus his angry stare on me. “What are you talking about? What name?”

I forced myself to hiss the word. “Lincoln.”

He started at that, mouth falling agape. “But . . . but, he’s our president, for God’s sake!”

“He may be your president, but he is most assuredly not mine. I have no use whatsoever for the likes of King Abraham.” I waved the cane towards the door. “Please take your exuberance elsewhere.”

He finally understood what was occurring. “Copperheads,” he snarled furiously. “Goddamn treasonous copperheads!” He shook a pudgy finger at the glowering faces that surrounded him. “They ought to hang the lot of you bastards!”

I gave him a mocking smile. “Be that as it may, the fact remains that you are still unwanted here. And a man of your considerable bulk shouldn’t tarry where he isn’t wanted.” I nodded at the others. “I can’t promise how long I might be able to restrain my companions.”

He stumbled forward, frowning curiously as he studied my face. “Say, don’t I know you? Where have I seen you before?”

I drew myself up, proudly. “My name is John Wilkes Booth.”

“Booth? The actor? Son of a bitch!” He shook his head in open disgust. “I never would have taken you for a traitor!” He reached down and picked up his fallen flag, then headed for the door. He stopped, suddenly, turning to spit on the floor. “That’s what I think of you secesh bastards! I hope they hang Jeff Davis! And Bobby Lee!” The door slammed sharply behind him.

“You should’ve let us have him, Mr. Booth,” the young prompter said bitterly. “We’d’ve taught him a thing or two about the South.”

I shook my head. “The fat slob wasn’t worth it. No Yankee’s worth it.” I suddenly thought about the bearded man, and I glanced around the barroom quickly. He was nowhere in sight. I looked at Carl Gustav. “Carl, what happened to that tall fellow, the one who was standing by the bar?”

“He leave out the back,” the barkeep replied, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “You know him, Mr. Booth?”

“No. I never saw him before.”

“He knew you,” Carl insisted. “Said to tell you he’d see you again, and for you to say hello to Mr. Surratt and Mr. Paine. You know those names, Mr. Booth? Mr. Booth . . . ?”

“What?” I suddenly regained my composure. “Ah, yes, yes of course! His name must have slipped my mind for a moment. I remember who he is, now.” I dug into my pockets, trying to force my hands to stop their desperate trembling. I peeled off several notes from a thick wad of currency, flashing my broadest smile to the barroom. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I’m too fatigued to linger with you any longer. But please, enjoy what little comfort you might on Wilkes Booth.”

There was a chorus of gratitude as I threw the money on the bar and hurriedly made my way to the door.

“How about another verse, John?”

I stopped, turning to shake my head quickly. “No, gentlemen, no more verses.” I smiled my goodbyes and swiftly stepped outside, where I barely managed to stumble into a nearby alley before I was violently sick.

I pressed my hands against a nearby wall for support, shivering in a night that was not cold. “No more verses,” I heard myself rasp. “No more life . . .”