Prelude to Assassination

Prelude to Assassination

  Copyright 2013 Brighid O'Sullivan

  A Short Story based on the Diaries of Fanny Seward

  April 5th 1865

  It confused me that Father was so unsettled amidst the glorious celebrations, though a nagging suspicion stabbed at my heart.

  In Washington, a thirty-six gun salute was fired after Richmond was deserted by the Confederate army. There were bonfires in every square, candles in every window and stoop, lights and banners draped across all the prominent buildings of Washington—including the capital. Fireworks illuminated the sky, a most peculiar tradition I think, that symbols of war would commemorate peace, though beautiful nonetheless.

  Still, men’s souls would not heal overnight. For some, death was a constant bedmate, no matter which side one slept on, the fragments of their dreams, like a dog gnawing flesh from a bone.

  The War Between the States was ending and I wondered, though briefly, how my life would change, if at all.

  Always a pawn between Mother in New York, and Father in Washington; the only thing I could hope for, was some semblance of peace between the two. Surely my parents loved each other but still... Mother insisted life was home in New York surrounded by family and friends. Father continued to write to her, declaring a wife belonged by her husband’s side no matter where that may be. Occasionally she did come to Washington, whether spurred on by guilt or longing for Father, I didn’t know, and sometimes Father traveled home. Neither one of them ever stayed more than a few days, however. In the beginning I was like Kentucky, not choosing sides, but each time I left Father I wondered if it were the last time I’d see him.

  Traveling always took its toll on me. I’d been sick my whole life, having contracted something called Consumption, and often I arrived in Auburn so sick with fever and malaise that I could barely get out of the coach. It took weeks for me to recover and I yearned to be back with Father in Washington the moment I arrived in Auburn.

  Mother was often ill as well, and so jumpy it was like living with a jack in the box. Not that there weren’t things to be concerned about. The papers were scathing, and not just about Lincoln, but about my father! Secretary Seward will bring us into a World War in the end, I read. I knew why they’d said it. Something about not being hospitable toward England if they traded with the South but still... To say such things! I had more faith in my father’s abilities as a negotiator than that. Why didn’t they?

  Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, who had been bold enough to omit the word “obey” from her marriage vows, told us to pay the papers no mind that it was just foolish drivel and we should pray for their souls.

  But there were still those in Auburn who were pro-slavery. Once, a rock came through our window just inches from Mother’s feet, scaring both of us half to death.

  To make matters worse and to add to my burden, all of my brothers left to work in Washington or join the Union army. Mother was beside herself and begged me not to leave her too. But what could I do? I missed Father terribly and when we began to read death threats in the paper, I was determined to protect him at any cost. I knew that wasn’t possible, but I always felt better when I was with him in Washington. My health was getting weaker though.

  I snuggled up to Father in our buggy and wrapped woolen blankets around my skirts. Sweet honeysuckle perfumed the air and crocuses poked their brave heads through stubborn patches of snow. Rally around the Flag played on a banjo somewhere. Mary Titus, my friend from Auburn, sat on my left. My brother Fred sat near Father and Mr. Kay drove the horses, clicking his tongue and humming to himself.

  “Too many have died,” I told Mary. “And so much hatred in our beloved country.”

  Mary nodded and then resumed describing the parties, picnics, and dances I’d missed back in New York. Her blue eyes shone bright as gold coins. “Perhaps we can go now, Fanny?” She gave me a sideways glance, smiling shyly from beneath her straw bonnet. She’d changed her ribbon to bright crimson, which she claimed was to reflect the color of our nation’s flag. I thought it looked like blood, though it did set off her coppery hair. I was grateful for her company but didn’t want to think about leaving Father so soon.

  “The Presbyterian Garden Party will be in a few weeks,” she said, bouncing in her seat. “I’m sure it will be simply lovely this time of year.” Father turned to me, one grey brow lifted and I sank back in my seat hoping the conversation would shift.

  I couldn’t deny there were times when I felt bored in Washington. Not really bored actually, but lacking the stimulation of people my own age. Then Mary agreed to visit and I half-heartedly decided to return home with her though I was careful not to say when. “Mother would certainly be happy to have me home,” I said, trying to smile.

  “Oh. Indeed!” Mary took this as a commitment on my part for she leaned back in the buggy, smiling with satisfaction. “Things will be better, Fanny,” she promised. “The country will heal. It’s all over...finally. Alleluia!”

  Father seemed nonplussed. He puffed away on his stub of a cigar. One leg was crossed over the other. I saw the heel coming unglued from his right shoe, a black square block, like a door opening to disaster.

  I wanted to tell her that the country would likely take years to recover, both economically and physically. Due to my frail health, I rarely visited the hospitals but I’d read the writings of a man named Walt Whitman in the papers. He’d gone to a place called the Lacy House to see his wounded brother; his first sight “a heap of feet, legs, arms, and human fragments, cut bloody black and blue, swelling and sickening.” Outside the hospital, he had described stretchers covered with dark grey blankets, the wounded or sick of the night before, now commended to the angels. What would the wives of those men do now, or their orphaned children? Who would tend their farms, reap their crops, and raise their children? And what of the Negroes? How would they survive? Tears stung behind my eyes as I clung to Father’s coat.

  The horses picked up speed and everything rushed by in a blur: tall reddish brick houses and shorter wooden buildings: the milliner, the grocer, the feed store, and apothecary, all with flat roofs. We passed several ladies all in mourning, black caped and veiled, sharp against a fallow field made muddy by spring rains. I heard the tapping of drums which grew louder as we turned past the National Hotel and our nation’s flag came into view, held high before a regiment of Negro Union soldiers trudging down the side of the road. The army must be a lot like slavery I thought, their lives orderly and predetermined. How would they survive after the war? They couldn’t go back, but how would they go forward? Had Mr. President thought of such things? I jerked upright, straightening my bonnet. “Father? Oh!”

  One of the horses whinnied in distress and the buggy lunge off balance, throwing me nearly onto Mary’s lap just as the door flipped open. Father pulled me upright, and then shut the door hard with a dull clicking sound, swearing under his breath.

  “Broken cobble,” Fred said. “Horses are fine now. Nothing to worry about.” Fred was Father’s secretary, sometimes a warm calming shadow falling on Father’s edgy exterior. Unfortunately, my anxiety wasn’t abated.

  The sudden excitement had thrown me into a coughing spell and I loosened the bonnet around my chin. The air was cold and damp—it rattled in my throat and I had the sense that something disastrous was about to happen. I wanted nothing more for our journey to be over, to warm my anxious throat with hot tea and honey.

  Father leaned forward and I could see the dark spot on the back of his coat from a snowball whipped at him as we had climbed into the coach. “Everything all right Mr. Kay?”

  “All’s well Mr. Secretary.”

  “Fine, fine,” Father echoed, flicking the ashes of his cigar outside the coach
. He took my hand in his, patting it reassuringly. “You were saying, Fanny?”

  “I—I heard there are men who plan on killing Mr. Lincoln.”

  It wasn’t exactly news, but Mary gasped in pretend horror and she leaned over Father, staring at me. “Why now, Fanny? Now that the war is over, what could they hope to gain?”

  “Mary’s right,” Father said. “And assassination is not an American practice. It’s been my experience that men who boast of what they will do—seldom follow through with what they say. Besides, if I believed every threat made from here to—” He pulled in a long languid breath on his smoke but then let it out in a rapid whoosh. Something was bothering him though. .He was jerking his knee up and down.

  “And you’re still here, Mr. Seward,” Mary finished.

  I nodded, linking my arm through Father’s, breathing in the spiced homey scent of his cigar. I trusted Father more than anyone but I couldn’t help remembering his prediction that the war would last a few short months. Instead, it had been four long years!

  I loosened the blanket around my knees. The day was growing warmer but menacing clouds gathered overhead, blocking out the sun, making it dark as a cannon before it explodes. I wondered briefly whether Father would come home now and then