 Section 9 of The Kidnapping of President Lincoln and Other War Detective Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Josh Kivi. The Kidnapping of President Lincoln and Other War Detective Stories by Joel Chandler Harris. The Kidnapping of President Lincoln, Part 3. When Bethune and Mr. Sanders went to breakfast the next morning, they were escorted to a table at which sat John Omahandro, who saluted them in the most familiar manner. Bethune, whose temperament lacked that off-hand heartiness which is sometimes attractive and sometimes repelling, bowed coldly. Mr. Sanders, who was heartiness itself on almost every occasion, smiled vacantly at Omahandro remarking, I have seeded your face somewhere as I really do believe. Why, certainly, said Omahandro in his drawing voice, I have traveled with you from Albany to New York. That's so exclaimed, Mr. Sanders, you're the fella that helped the omens' baby while she gave it Castile. Well, you're a mighty handyman, but I've been in such a buzz and racket and seeded so many folks that I'd never unknowed you again. They talked on indifferent subjects until the meal had been dispatched, and then they sat in the reading room of the hotel and talked business. What about your program, inquired Omahandro? It's foolhardy, but I'm willing to go into it on conditions. I mean this kidnapping business. It's as easy as falling off a log, replied Bethune. Lots easier remarked Sanders, but now you're beginning to say something. But, but how are you going to get away? You don't know a step of the road. How are you going to get Mr. Lincoln safely to the south? Trust a luck, I reckon, replied Bethune. What I was trying to say when you jumped in betwixt me and my words was that the job is easy, but to it be a pity to put it through. You've said something again, remarked Omahandro. Mr. Lincoln, as the hardest time of any human being I ever saw. He reminds me of my father. He puts me in mind of all the good men I've ever known. He takes them all in, said Mr. Sanders. He's a good deal like you, Bethune declared. Well, I wish to the Lord I was more like him, said Mr. Sanders solemnly. I'll tell you what, fellas. That man has looked troubled in the eye so long that he pities everybody in the world but himself. Frank, I'll go into this business if you'll let me do the engineering. If you'll put it in my hands. Oh, I've no objection to that. Ha-ha. Ascended Bethune with a short laugh. He's so different from what I expected. By George, don't you believe it will break his heart to be taken away from here? Mr. Sanders pursed up his mouth and looked at the ceiling. No, oh, oh, oh, it wouldn't break his heart, he announced after some reflection. He's a good strong man, and from the look he has in his eye, he's seen so much trouble that he's ready to shake hands with it whatever he meets it. Knowing pretty well that it'll get some fun out and it's somehow or somewheres. You leave it to me, Frank, leave it to me. Well, said Omahandro, if it's to be done, tomorrow night is the time. Between ten and twelve, the nearer ten, the better. Mr. Stanton usually calls about half past twelve or one. Mr. Lincoln may ask you to stay at a supper. If he does, say yes, and thank you too. If you take supper here, carriage will be waiting for you at the door. If there is more than one vehicle near the hotel entrance, the driver on your carriage will say, whoa, Billy. If you don't take supper here, the carriage will drive until the White House grounds precisely at ten o'clock. The driver of the carriage will stay with it until he hears pursuers, or until you meet another conveyance in the road driven by a country chap. If you are pursued, one of you must be on the driver's seat to take the lines when my man retires, and then you'll have to take the consequences and get out the best way you can. I tell you candidly I don't see how you are going to get out with the President, and before orders from Captain McCarthy I wouldn't make a move in it. I'm fond of Mr. Lincoln. I feel like he's kin to me. Well, there are bigger principles at issue than kin folks and presidents, remarked Bethune with some emphasis. That's so assented, Mr. Sanders, but I wish for my heart he was more like some of the other presidents we have had in North America. Good night, Sadoma-Hundro. We may never see one another again. I'm going to help you out all I can, but I can't say that I wish for your success. Nor me, neither, commented Mr. Sanders. The next day found Bethune and Mr. Sanders at the White House. While Mr. Lincoln was busy, they walked around the grounds with Elise Clapton. They were not in a very gay humor, as may well be supposed, and it was a relief to their minds to listen to the ladies chatter. She related her experiences from the time she left Shadydale to visit her family in Maryland, and if her reports were correct, she had been through many daring adventures. She was quite a heroine in her own estimation, and there is no doubt that, frivolous and giddy as she was, she possessed both courage and presence of mind. Mr. Stanton paid her a high tribute when he told Mr. Lincoln that she was quite the most dangerous and daring spy that had operated around Washington, and he wanted to make an example of her. As Mr. Sanders remarked on more than one occasion, there were good points about the lady if you didn't have to live on the same lot with her. Curiously enough, she conceived a romantic friendship for Mr. Lincoln. Isn't he the dearest man, she said to her companions as they strolled about, enjoying the warm sunshine? I think he is just grand. I am dead in love with him. Oh, he is the most fascinating human being I ever saw. I used to hate him, clasping her hands and throwing her head back, and now I love him. How can our newspapers abuse him as they do? Presently, Tad, Mr. Lincoln's little son, came from the rear of the house with his goats, and was soon joined by his father, who was assiduous in his attentions to the lad. Elise wanted to go where they were. Now, Elise, don't let's make geese of ourselves, said Mr. Sanders. The man hardly has time to speak to his family. Let him alone. Oh, don't you believe that, said Elise? Why, he's the most devoted man to his family I ever saw. He allows them to impose on him right and left. It's perfectly grand to see how patient he is. And look at that child's clothes. See what a misfit they are. It's the fashion I reckon, responded Mr. Sanders. Elise laughed merrily. The fashion! Why, the world never saw such a fashion as that. Well, a president and his family don't have to be in the fashion. When it comes to that, their mighty nigh is as independent as me, I reckon. The president heard Elise clopped and laugh, and seemed Bethune and Mr. Sanders with her joined the group, Tad following with his horned team. You seem to be worried this morning, Mr. Lincoln, said Elise with one of her brightest smiles. Yes, we all have to worry about something that sometime or another, replied the president. There's a man down in Tennessee they are trying to hang, because he wandered off from camp one night, and his mother's at this end of the line crying her eyes out. I have spent half the morning trying to get a dispatch to the officer in command. Before they hang or shoot the boy, I want to see the record. But it's all right now, he said with a sigh. They walked a little in silence. Finally Mr. Lincoln turned to Mr. Sanders. Does Joe, the president, have much opposition? Not among them that he can get his hands on, but Joe Brown is after him with a sharp stick, and Bob Toomes wears a round, and they manage to keep the water warm if not a violin. The state's rights plaster does pretty well when you slap it on someone else, but when the other fellow slaps it onto you, it burns like fire. How is that? Mr. Lincoln asked his eyes fairly dancing with amusement. Well, Jeff Davis was put into slap the state's rights plaster onto you all, and now you can hardly get a law passed, but what Joe Brown bobs up with the state's rights plaster and slaps it onto Mr. Davis? Mr. Lincoln roared with laughter. I don't think it's fair, Mr. Sanders went on, but some of the boys apparently get a good deal of fun out in it. The president's unrestrained laughter attracted the attention of Tad, who left his goats to the temporary care of Elise, and went running to Mr. Sanders. I wish you'd stay here all the time, he said in a pleading tone. What fellow I'd like to know, inquired Mr. Sanders, lifting the lad in his strong arms. Because you make Papa laugh, replied Tad. He laughs that way with me sometimes, but I want to hear him laugh that way when he's with grown people. That puts me in mind of the little chap that wanted a candy elephant, said Mr. Sanders. He worried about it so till his pappy sent off and bought a dollar's worth of sugar, and his mammy put it in the preserved kettle, poured in a couple of gourdfuls of water, and stewed it down, and then, after so long a time, took it out, pulled it the best she could, and then built it up into some kind of animal that a blind man might take to be a rough imitation of a wooden elephant. Then she called in the little chap and turned the elephant over to him. Well, he took this elephant out of the wood shed and started in on him, but he had not his way no further than one of the hind legs till he was the sickest boy you ever saw, and after that he turned pale and cried if anybody so much as said candy elephant to him. And no wonder, exclaimed Tad. That's a fact, responded Mr. Sanders. No wonder, and I wouldn't be here a week before your pappy would pull out his hanker and cry if he'd be so much as heard the name of Sanders. Would you, cried Tad, turning to his father? Why, certainly not, replied the president. Satisfied, the lad slipped from Mr. Sanders' arms and went skipping to his goats. I'll tell you the truth, my friend, Mr. Lincoln went on, laying a familiar hand on Mr. Sanders' shoulder. You have no idea what a joyous relief it is to meet a man who knows how to say things, and who doesn't want to post office for himself, or his wife's cousin, or who doesn't want to take a man of all the armies in the field, or take entire charge of the government, or who hasn't some complaint to make or some objection to offer. Why? It's like seeing the sun again after a couple of months of rainy weather. I reckon it's worse now than ever before, remarked Mr. Sanders. They were walking along together, but soon having lagged behind, and tint on his own reflections. Yes, I reckon it is, said Mr. Lincoln. If it wasn't for Stanton, who likes to have his hand in everything, I don't know what I'd do. He can stand up to more hard work and worry than any man I ever saw. Now, if you had a machine full of intelligence that was greedy for all the work you could pour into the hopper, you wouldn't mind as much if it pinched your fingers once in a while, or took off a fingernail now and then would you? I just reckon not, responded Mr. Sanders, with emphasis. Well, that is the reason I take no offense when Stanton cusses me out behind my back, or when he cuts up his capers before my face. I see, said Mr. Sanders. When you want to bluff some feller that's a little too smart, you fetch out Stanton. It puts me in mind, in some ways, of Roche's race-horse. How was that, Mr. Lincoln inquired? Why, there was a young chap in our settlement by the name of Waters, and he had a quarter-horse that he vowed and declared could outrun anything on four legs, including a steam engine. Well, he bragged about his horse and went on, so that one day, old man Johnny Roche, who had about a thimble-full too much of dram, up and said he had a racer that could beat Waters' horse so fur that he'd turn and meet him halfway coming back. Waters bented him for a bet in a trial, and he got both. They set the day, and when the time come, Waters was there with his pony, and presently Uncle Johnny's youngest boy come galloping up on a steer. Now, everybody in the country know the steer. He was old as the hills, but he was game, and his horns was a plumb curiosity. From the pint of one to the pint of tether was mine at nine-nine feet, and he had a way of shaking him that made folks stand round. Waters began to take water right off. Says he, that ain't no horse. I never said he was a horse, says old man Johnny. I said he was a racer. Well, he ain't no racer, says Waters. That's yet to be decided, says Johnny Roche. The money's up, says he, and I'm going to walk off with it. Waters hummed and honed, but it didn't do no good. Get ready, says old man Roche, some of you men give the word. Well, says Waters, I don't know whether your steer can run or not. Be to get back, he's liable to do some damage, and now not run my horse again him. So Roche's boy rode the steer over the course, and old man Johnny pulled off home with the stakes in his pocket. Mr. Lincoln seemed to enjoy this anecdote very much. He said there was very pungent morale in it, which could be given a variety of applications, and he forthwith added it to his already large collection of stories. All this while Bethune was wondering about the lawn, with head hung down like a boy with the pouts. He was thinking hard, and his thoughts were not pleasant ones. Nan Doreington gazed at him through the mists of memory with sad eyes. Of the many familiar faces he could remember, only one seemed to wear a smile, and that was the face of Miss Puyola Gillum. Bethune came to Washington, it will be remembered, to seize and carry off the President. He had in fact hit upon the only plan, which was in the least likely to paralyze the North, bring about peace, and establish the Confederacy. Though the Georgian was a young man, he had tolerably fair judgment, and he had already seen that this patient kindly man, with a bright smile and sad eyes, melancholy at one elbow and mirth at the other, was the sole mainstay and reliance of the vast machine that was carrying on the war. That but for his provision intact, the halls of the capital and the corridors of the departments would swarm with relentless and ruinous factions. It was true that Bethune's head was full of romantic notions. He had descended from a chivalrous race and had been reared in a region where chivalry and nightly courtesy were very real things to those who aspired to them, and he now felt himself pulled about by conflicting emotions. He was keen to perform some feat or accomplish some result that would advance the Southern cause, and here was the opportunity, and yet the bare idea of carrying it out left a bad taste in his mouth. He was at war with himself. He felt, in a dim, vague way, that the President was the heart of a mystery, the center of a wonderful problem. As in an old picture, a light from some unseen source appeared to fall on the worn face of this man, who, born with the wolf at the door and in the most abject surroundings, had been lifted up to guide the nation. Bethune had been so wrapped up in his own reflections that his antelese could hardly make him hear when she called him. He lifted his head inside, and then a frown fell on his face as he realized that she was speaking to him. Her frivolity irritated him, her gushing volubility oppressed him. Ha ha ha! Franko! Frank! she called, laughing. Pray stop thinking about your sweetheart and come with me. The President told me I was not to go outside the gates, but I'm going now just to see what he'll say. Won't you come with me? For answer, Bethune turned sharply away from his ant. She ran after him. Don't be so cross, Frank, she cried. It's not becoming to you. I wasn't going at all. Do be pleasant. You and old Billy Sanders between you will cause the people here to think I have no standing in my own family. Both of you are very rude. What have I done to deserve it? This last remark was spoken with some show of temper, for the beautiful Elyse could be spiteful at times. Nothing antelese, replied Bethune, but in your position a little more dignity would be suitable. Elyse laughed loudly, but her face was red with indignation. Ha! A professor of etiquette, she cried, before you tried to teach me etiquette nephew, do learn to be polite and agreeable. Mr. Lincoln, talking with Mr. Sanders some distance away, noticed by the actions of Bethune and his ant that something was wrong. What's the matter with our young friends, he asked. They seemed to be quarreling. Well, it's a family fuss, I reckon, replied Mr. Sanders. Frank was never fond of Elyse, nor she of him. The lady seems to be somewhat flighty, remarked the president, but I've remarked the symptoms in so many charming women that I rarely notice it now. Mr. Sanders pursed his lips as a country lawyer does when he is about to make some remark which he thinks is unusually profound. Elyse is about as good as the common run, I reckon. She's not nigh as flighty as she looks to be. A right smart of it is put on, same as her clothes. When you come to know her, she's got a lot of good pints. Well, all her gavel she never tells all she knows. I don't like her much, but I don't know but what that's my fault. Likely enough it is, said the president. I've had a great opportunity to find out what people think of me. Nine out of ten misjudge or misunderstand my words, my actions, and my motives. You should be president for a little while, friend Sanders, just for the fun of the thing. Me, exclaimed Mr. Sanders, would I have to have a secret parry of war? Why, certainly. That's a part of the game. Well, you'll have to excuse me. I don't mind taking a turn to checkers, or marbles, or mumble peg, but that's about the limits of my appetite. No, sir. No playing president for me if there's a secretary of war in the game. I may have to tassle you before I leave this town. If I do and it don't hurt your feelings too much, I am to make a clean, healthy job of it. Mr. Lincoln laughed and excused himself. A great many people had passed them by, going to the White House, some on business, some moved by curiosity, and some impelled by interest and sympathy. It takes a heap of people to make a world friend Sanders, said the president, as he turned away, and I must go and examine some more of the specimens. When you get ready to come in, Ms. Brandon, I mean Mrs. Clopton, will show you how to avoid the crowd. I hope, he said, pausing again, that you'll take dinner with us. Maybe you'd prefer to call it supper. About what time, Mr. President? Early candlelight, replied Mr. Lincoln with a twinkle in his eye. The phrase was so familiar that the Georgian took it as a matter of course. Any gal company, inquired Mr. Sanders? No, I think not. Mrs. Lincoln will have some of her friends to dine with her, and we can have a snug little dinner of our own. We'll have a member of Congress who was in Georgia once upon a time, and Stanton threatens to come too. Well, I don't know about Frank Bethune, but none of them can turn my stomach. Stanton says he wants to discover whether you were fish, flesh, or fowl, remarked the president, smiling. Just tell him I'm a plain old snap and turtle from Georgia, with red eyes and cold feet. Mr. Lincoln turned away, laughing, and Mr. Sanders was left alone until a little tad came along driving his goats. He fell into conversation with Mr. Sanders, and the talk was so interesting to both of them that they sat flat on the grass. They went from one subject to another until Mr. Sanders, who was a famous hand with young ones, landed tad in the midst of that wonderful collection of animal stories with which southern children have been familiar for many generations. The old Georgian told them so simply, and with such apparent confidence in their reality, that the little son of the president accepted them as facts and was, for the time being, in another world, the world that had been created by the Negro Romancers who lived long ago. Great statesmen passed and repass them as they sat or lay reclining on the grass. Generals of the army, congressmen, civilians, office seekers, a curious and motley throng formed part of the procession, but so far, as Mr. Sanders and Tad were concerned, they were all phantoms, invisible to the eye. Bethune and his aunt were soon on good terms again, and they made their way slowly back to the White House, evidently thinking that Mr. Sanders had gone in. Presently a servant came out hunting for Tad. We have been searching for you everywhere, the man said. Your lunch is ready. Lunch, cried Tad. He had been brought out of Fable Land so suddenly that he could hardly realize his surroundings. Won't you come? he said to Mr. Sanders with appealing eyes. Please? Oh, please come. No! I reckon I'd better wait for you out here, or in the pen where they put the office hunters, said Mr. Sanders. We have some extra fine soup, sir, remarked the servant by way of a suggestion. When Mr. Sanders had been made perfectly sure that whatever pleased the child would be pleasing to his father and mother, he took Tad's hand and together they went to the children's lunchroom. It is doubtful if Tad ever had another such day. The fun, for him, began when he made a somewhat riotous protest against a bib. Don't you wear him? inquired Mr. Sanders in tones of surprise. While I always do, he turned to the waiter. I wished you'd pin one around my neck. I don't feel right with Alm. Then, with a napkin on, he made believe to be a little boy, and he carried out the pretense so solemnly that Tad fairly screamed with laughter. In fact, the youngster reached the point where he'd laugh almost to exhaustion every time Mr. Sanders looked at him. Mrs. Lincoln, hearing this unusual sound, left her guests for a moment and peeped in the door. For an instant, she couldn't realize the situation. Mr. Sanders was saying, What's your name? And Tad was telling him, to which the reply was, Well, I'll name little Billy and I want some syrup on my plate so I can stop it. As Tad could say nothing for laughing, Mr. Sanders went on. One time, I was eating a chicken gizzard and I got to laughing and the first thing anybody know, the gizzard was stuck in my goozle. My mammy seat I was choking and she hit me a lick on the back as hard as a mule can kick and the gizzard flew out and knocked the crew at stand off on the table. This made me laugh and my mammy says, Supposing you'd have been on on the whole chicken, where'd you be now? And I says, Humph, you better act where the chicken be. This was too much for Tad. He slid out of his chair and fell on the floor where he fairly screamed with laughter. The dignified waiter caught the contagion somehow. He turned his back upon the rest and leaned a half bent against the wall, trying to hold his sides with one arm. Mrs. Lincoln ran back to relate the episode to her guests and in her efforts to tell of the scene she witnessed, her laughter became uncontrollable and pretty soon she and her guests were in a state bordering on the hysterical. All except one, an elderly lady, the wife of a cabinet minister, who sat looking from one to the other with eyebrows lifted and a countenance expressive of contempt. This lady seized upon this unpropitious moment to take her departure and the gravity of her demeanor as she bowed herself out was such as to give new cause for laughter. The finishing touch was given when Mrs. Lincoln, who had a keen eye for the ridiculous, so far succeeded in controlling her countenance as to give a swift imitation of the solemn exit of the lady who had retired. This last incident, as free from malice as an innocent caper of a schoolgirl, was duly reported to the cabinet minister's wife and that lady made it her business from that time forth to spread a broad hints of Mrs. Lincoln's flightiness and out of these hints, so industriously planted, grew the thousand and one fictions that were scattered up and down the land in regard to the mental condition of this bright lady of the White House. That evening at dinner, after Bethune and Mr. Sanders had been introduced to Mr. Stanton and to Congressman Hudspeth, Mr. Lincoln referred to Tad's enjoyable luncheon, an enthusiastic account of which the lad had already given his father. Mr. Sanders made some humorous remarks on the subject of amusing children. For a time the talk was wholly between these two. Mr. Stanton seemed to be absorbed, though he watched the two Southerners very closely, while Hudspeth's thoughts appeared to be far afield. Finally, Mr. Sanders turned to Mr. Hudspeth and asked him if he had ever been to Georgia. Yes, I had some peculiar, as well as some very pleasant experiences there. I allowed I met you there. You, led with Addison Abercrombie, remarked Mr. Sanders. You needed me ashamed of it, he went on, for Mr. Seward was a schoolteacher down in that neighborhood years ago. Well, I wonder, exclaimed Mr. Lincoln. Stanton, the governor, has never told us about that. Well, well, I mind him well, Mr. Sanders continued. He was as thin as a rail, with a big nose, and his Adam's apple stuck out like a pot leg. He had red hair and a freckled face. Mr. Hudspeth asked about Little Crotchet, who was dead, and about Aaron, the Arab, in regard to who Mr. Sanders volunteered the information that he now owned the Abercrombie place. What nonsense exclaimed Mr. Stanton almost angrily. I mean, sir, exclaimed Mr. Sanders with a deprecatory gesture. That Aaron is by the Abercrombie place like some folks I've seen or about the government. He thinks he owns it, and he don't. They think they're running the government, and they ain't. Mr. Stanton swelled up like a gobbler, as Mr. Sanders described it afterward, but Mr. Lincoln came to the rescue. Laughing heartily, he cried, A fair hit, friend Sanders. You've touched my weak point. I reckon I do put on too many heirs. Mr. Sanders had a remark ready, but he felt his foot pressed, and he held his peace. At that moment Mr. Stanton addressed him. Who gave you a commission to come here? A fellow named Doyle, who was Bethune who answered, and not Mr. Sanders. Doyle gave me a pass from Mr. Lincoln. I regarded it as an invitation. And so it was, said Mr. Lincoln. Who invited you, inquired the secretary, turning his spectacles on Mr. Sanders? Well, I'm not the stranger at the infair. The folks on hang around the door, and some of them asked him what he was doing there, and he said, says he, I had the fiddling and the shuffling, and smelt the jam, and I just thought I'd look on and see well done done well. Well, you may say that you had an invitation too, remarked Mr. Lincoln. I wouldn't have missed knowing you for a good deal. I can vouch for that. Said Mr. Stanton ironically. If you can, Mr. Secretary, so much the better. Mr. Lincoln declared with some emphasis. But those gentlemen are my guests. If they are to be cataclyzed and cross-examined, I'm the one to do it. But will you, inquired the secretary eagerly? No, I won't, replied the President. Well, Mr. President, cried Mr. Sanders. He don't pester us one grain. Mr. President, I have just one more question to ask, said the Secretary. Fire away, exclaimed Mr. Sanders. Did the man Doyle give you a dispatch to be delivered at the War Department? He did, replied Bethune. I suspected that it was a trap laid for us, opened it, and headed to Cyford. I kept a copy of the translation, and will now take occasion to present it to the President, so that he may see how lives of human beings are trafficked him by those who desire to win Mr. Stanton's favor. We fell into the hands of a man named Autry, but we insisted that he should bring us to the President. He handed the copy of the dispatch to Mr. Lincoln, who read it, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Then he turned to Bethune, and regarded him with a half humorous, half melancholy, but wholly attractive smile. May I see this extraordinary dispatch, Mr. President? Asked the Secretary, holding out his hand for it. You have no objection? The President nodded to Bethune. None in the world, Mr. President, was the common confident reply. Well, anyhow, I reckon I'd better put it in my pocket, said Mr. Lincoln, in his slow, deliberate way. It might worry you, Stanton, and it's a matter to trifling for you to be worried about. No, I'll take charge of it myself. With that, he folded the copy carefully and placed it in an old Morocco pocketbook. He was absorbed and thought a moment or two, drumming on the table with his fingers. Then he lifted his head and laughed, remarking, It reminds me of a story I heard. Good night, Mr. President. Good night, Hudspeth, exclaimed the Secretary sharply as he arose from the table. You too, he said, indicating Bethune and Mr. Sanders, will hear from me again. My post office is Salem and Gianni, remarked Mr. Sanders, in his matter-of-fact way. This was too much for Mr. Lincoln, who laughed uproariously as Stanton stalked out. But he suddenly grew grave again. I'm always forgetting my dignity, he declared. Stanton is angry, and he has a right to be. But if he had seen this affair, tapping this pocket, he'd have half a regiment on guard here, and he'd keep it up until I went out and dismissed him, as a country showman dismisses his audience. Congressman Hudspeth had a good many questions to ask about old acquaintances, and he and Mr. Sanders were soon engaged in a friendly discussion over the rights and wrongs of the war. It was a discussion altogether useless, a fact which the President called attention, with the result of putting it into it. Shortly afterward, Mr. Hudspeth, he being a prominent member of the Military Committee, excused himself and retired, and Bethune and Mr. Sanders soon followed his example. I had asked you to sit up with me awhile, said the President, but I'll have a busy night of it. Come tomorrow night about ten. We must talk about your trip south. Miss Brandon, as she calls herself, is very particular, and we must try and meet her views. You leave her to me, Mr. President, remarked Mr. Sanders suggestively. Gladly, gladly, my friend, exclaimed Mr. Lincoln so heartily that Mr. Sanders was compelled to laugh, and even Bethune smiled. Curiously enough, neither of the Southerners, as they returned to their apartments, spoke of the scheme which had originally brought them to Washington. Each was anxious that the others should make a suggestion to abandon it altogether, while each, for reasons that will be clear to every masculine mind, hesitated about making such a suggestion. Thus it was that neither mentioned the plan in any shape or form that night or the next day. It was a queer situation, and it was altogether characteristic that Bethune should worry over its embarrassments while Mr. Sanders was inwardly chuckling over its humorous features. It was not until they were about to leave the hotel at the hour agreed upon that a word was said on the subject. I reckon you're feeling a little nervous, Frank, suggested Mr. Sanders. Not more than you, I venture, replied Bethune calmly. As Mr. Sanders had expected a somewhat different reply, he merely pursed his lips as though he were going to whistle and said no more. The carriage was at the door, and Bethune and Mr. Sanders were driven swiftly to the White House. The two Southerners found Mr. Lincoln in high good humor. He welcomed them in the heartiest manner, slapping Mr. Sanders on the back and displaying in the most unaffected manner his delight at seeing two friends from Georgia, as he called them. You must have heard good news, Mr. President, suggested Bethune. Well, if I had, I wouldn't tell you, fellows, it would be bad news to you. But, as an old friend of mine used to say, no news is good news. And when there's no fuss in the family, and no quarrel about a fence line, and the cow is giving down her milk, and the hens are laying, the man who forgets to be happy will miss a mighty good chance. That's so, assented Mr. Sanders. By the way, said Mr. Lincoln, turning to Bethune, what put it into that man's head to charge you fellows with plotting to kidnap the President? Doyle, you mean? Well, Mr. President, he could as easily have charged us with plotting to assassinate the President. I wonder he didn't, since all he had to do was choose the word, replied Bethune. Well, when you two get back, what will you do to this man? Asked Mr. Lincoln. Why, we are in hopes this case will be attended to before we lay eyes on him again, was the answer. Is that so? exclaimed Mr. Lincoln, sitting bolt upright. Then he laughed lightly, and leaned back again, throwing one of his long legs over the arm of his chair. Well, don't be too hard on him. The President, leaning back with his hands behind his head, gazed at the ceiling in silence for some time, apparently in a profound study. Then he laughed aloud at some amusing thought, and once more sat upright in his chair. Now, about this kidnapping business, he remarked, do you think it would be an easy matter to kidnap the President? Mr. Sanders gave a gasp of surprise as he turned in a seat. Mr. President, said Bethune, leaning forward and speaking in grave, measured accents. Mr. President, it would be the easiest thing in the world. What time is it? asked Mr. Lincoln. About half after ten, replied Mr. Sanders, consulting his silver watch, which was as big as a biscuit and weighed about half a pound. Well, Stanton is to be here about half past eleven, and he usually comes ahead of time. Now what I want you to do, Mr. Lincoln went on with some eagerness, is to show me how that kidnapping business could be carried out. Let's suppose a case, what we lawyers call a hypothetical case. Let's take it for granted that, in the performance of your duty as you look at it, you had concluded that the easiest way to achieve what you call your independence is to seize the President and carry him south. Then let us suppose that matters had fallen out pretty much as they have. Here you are, two quick-quitted Confederates. Now show me how the kidnapping could be carried out. But Mr. President exclaimed Bethune, that is precisely, Mr. Lincoln stopped him. I know, I know, he cried, and his voice overboard that of Bethune. No, what did he know? I know how you feel about it, but this is purely a hypothetical case. I am supposed to be taken unawares. Both Bethune and Mr. Sanders had arisen from their chairs partly to conceal their excitement and partly to seize what seemed to be a providential opportunity. The event had, as it were, been taken out of their hands. They seemed to have no choice in the matter. Well, Mr. President, supposing that we had come here on such a mission, said Bethune, it would probably be carried out in this way, making due allowances for emergencies. He went on to the inner door and looked in. Then he went to the outer door and looked out into the wide entrance. The moment was propitious. He returned, stood by the President's chair, and then touched him sharply on the shoulder. Mr. Lincoln, great emergencies sometimes call for cruel remedies. Bethune's voice was grim in its earnestness. We are two Confederates. You are our prisoner. Make no outcry. Not a hair of your head shall be harmed if you obey instructions. The situation is desperate for us, but it is more desperate for you. The President looked into Bethune's eyes and seemed to understand the situation. Well, you'd certainly make a fine actor, he remarked. Come, Mr. President, we have not a moment to lose, said Bethune. Let me get my hat, suggested the President. Having secured this, he said, Some sort of weapon is necessary where a force is talked of. What is this? Asked Bethune, holding up a pistol. And this, said Mr. Sanders, holding up its mate. The argument is concluded and the witness is with you. Remarked Mr. Lincoln with a chuckle. Then he added, But kidnapping can't be carried on foot. I'm a pretty good walker, but if I was to take the studs and lie down on the road, you'd have some trouble. The carriage waits, Mr. Lincoln, replied Bethune grimly. Remember, you are supposed to be going of your own accord. By Jing, exclaimed the President, I reckon this is what the play actors call a full dress rehearsal. He went forward very cheerfully, however. When they came to the carriage, the President entered first, Bethune following. Mr. Sanders mounted to the driver's seat. Where are you, Sanders, inquired Mr. Lincoln. I'm going to take the air, Mr. Sanders replied. Well, here, swap hats with me. I can't wear mine in here unless we cut a hole in the roof. Mr. Lincoln leaned from the window and passed his tall hat up to Mr. Sanders and received in return the soft felt hat that Mr. Sanders wore. The carriage turned into the street and went whistling away in the direction arranged by John Omahandro. Which way are we going, the President asked. I couldn't say, Mr. President, I'm not familiar with this part of the country. Mr. Lincoln said nothing more for some little time. Then, don't you think this affair is getting to be a little too natural, he suggested. I had some such idea, Mr. President, replied Bethune. I was thinking, said Mr. Lincoln, that if Stanton should come to the White House and find me gone and begin to inquire about, I was just thinking what would happen to that kinswoman of yours. Well, he would have to reckon with Mrs. Lincoln, replied Bethune. That's so, said the President with the chuckle. Stanton is not much of a favorite with any of the family except me. But if Mrs. Lincoln should take alarm, then there would be trouble for the Southern Lady. This was the new phase of the affair. But Bethune felt that Providence or fate had tied his hands. He could do nothing. They went forward rapidly for two or three miles. Then they heard a protesting voice. How old on there, will you? Ain't you got no eyes on your blame noggin? I lay if I take a rock and knock you off in that barouche you'll think you saw something. There was a light wagon in the road to which a couple of horses were hitched. The driver of Bethune's carriage stopped his team, handed the reins to Mr. Sanders and joined the complaining person, who was no other than John Omahandro in the road. Wait, said the latter in a low tone. He put his hand into his ear and listened. I hear a cavalry squad coming. Jumping the carriage turned around. There's plenty of room here, and drive back to the way you came. Any danger for me, asked the driver. Not a bit in the world, responded Omahandro. Get a move on you. You want the cavalry to meet you with your horse's heads turned toward town. No time was lost in making this movement. The driver put the last of the horses as they were making the turn, and when they met the squad of pursuing cavalry, the carriage was moving toward the city at a brisk trot. Halt, cried a commanding voice. Well, if you'd known who you was, Halton, maybe you wouldn't be so uppity, exclaimed Mr. Sanders. The captain, making out the outline of Mr. Lincoln's hat, which the genial Georgian was wearing, cried out, Is that you, Mr. President? For answer, Mr. Lincoln leaned his head from the window and said, Yes, it's me. What's the trouble? Any bad news from the front? Speak out, my man. I'm used to trouble. You seem to be excited. What is it? Why, Mr. President, Mr. Stanton is at the White House in a great state of alarm. He thinks you have been seized and carried off. He gave me orders to take Tinman, pursue the carriage, and overtake it at all hazards. What then, asked Mr. Lincoln. He took me aside, Mr. President, exclaimed the captain, and said, When you catch these villains, let your patriotism dictate your course. Well, what does your patriotism dictate? Asked Mr. Lincoln dryly. I am under your orders, Mr. President. If you have done to give, I will have the honor of escorting you to the White House. It is unnecessary, replied Mr. Lincoln. Ride on ahead, and when you arrive at the White House, tell Secretary Stanton to disband his forces, horse, foot, and dragoons, take down the barricades, and permit my friends and myself to enter on the terms that have always existed. The officer saluted in the dark and was about to give the necessary orders when Mr. Lincoln again spoke. What time is it? The officer struck a match and looked at his watch. Ten-fifty, Mr. President. Thank you. The Secretary was a notch or two ahead of time, Mr. Lincoln remarked. Yes, Mr. President, a man named Doyle arrived from the South tonight and informed the Secretary that two rebels— You mean Confederates, I reckon, Captain—suggested Mr. Lincoln. Yes, Mr. President. Two Confederates had come to Washington for the purpose of kidnapping you. When he described the men, the Secretary made haste to the White House, summoning me as he went. When he arrived there and found you had gone off with the very men accused by Doyle, you may imagine his excitement. Yes, I am mighty glad I wasn't there. Well, Captain, you have acted with commendable energy, and I am under obligations to you. Call on me some day at the White House. I want to have a talk with you. Thank you, Mr. President. I have simply done my duty. He wheeled his horse, gave a curt order to his detachment, and the small cavalcade was soon clattering toward the White House, where, in no long time, the Captain reported to the Secretary who was still in a fury of rage and excitement. Did you seize the two spies? Where are they? he thundered. Under the circumstances, Mr. Secretary, I could but obey the commands of the President. Remain here with your men, Mr. Stanton said. Then, his fury getting the better of him, he paced up and down the floor crying, Oh, he will ruin the country! Don't you think you had better restrain yourself, Mr. Secretary? Asked Mrs. Lincoln, who, coming out of the state of alarm and apprehension into which she had been thrown by the wild and stormy excitement of Mr. Stanton, was now somewhat angry. Nothing but providence has saved your husband from those two spies and traitors. That is, if he is saved, they had everything planned to carry him off tonight. I don't believe a word of it, exclaimed Mrs. Lincoln. But every word is true, madam, declared Doyle, who was sticking as close to the Secretary as he dared. They planned it in my presence in Richmond. I don't know you, replied Mrs. Lincoln. What were you doing in Richmond? Serving my country to the best of my poor ability, ma'am. As a spy, there was so much scorn in the lady's voice that Doyle assumed a more chastened attitude. After a while, the carriage drove up, and the President, Bethune and Mr. Sanders, alighted. Mr. Lincoln was in high glee. As the carriage stopped, he was seen to Bethune, you remember when I asked you if the affair wasn't getting to be too natural, too real? Bethune assented, but the President waited until they were near the portico of the White House, then he continued. Well, I remember it too. It reminds me of the fellow who set out to play ghost in his village. He had tolerable success, until he happened to run across a crabid old fellow who had a good deal of money out at Interest. The ghost says, Squire Brown, you've got too much money. What'll you do with it when you die? Squire Brown gripped his hickory, and says, You talk lots too natural for a ghost. And with that, he lit in and frailed the fellow out. Bethune had no time to digest the moral, which might or might not be attached to this brief narrative of a village incident. As the three walked into the light, Secretary Stanton cried out with a voice full of passion. Mr. President, I hope you are convinced that I was correct in what I said about those detestable spies. Captain Bird, do your duty. But before the Captain could make a movement, Mrs. Lincoln burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter in which she was joined by all except Mr. Stanton. Even the officer failed to maintain his dignity. Mr. Lincoln, tall and lank, was wearing Mr. Sanders' felt hat, which, slashed as it was, gave him the aspect of a pirate. On the other hand, Mr. Sanders was wearing Mr. Lincoln's tall beaver. It was tipped to one side a trifle, and this, together with the fact that he wore a bobtail jeans coat, added the last touch of the comic to his rotent figure. Mr. Lincoln joined in and led the laughter, and for several long minutes, the hilarity ran high while Mr. Stanton gazed with undisguised scorn and contempt upon the scene. Presently, taking advantage of a lull in the laughter, he cried in harsh commanding tones. Captain Bird, arrest those men! Why, what have we done, Stanton, demanded Mr. Lincoln? What are we guilty of? The Secretary, with an angry gesture, turned a Doyle. Mr. President said, Doyle, these men came here to seize you and carry you off. I am willing to make oath to that fact, but for the energy of Secretary Stanton tonight, their plot would have succeeded. What is your opinion, Captain Bird? What did you find when you came up with your detachment? Inquired Mr. Lincoln. Mr. President, we met the carriage on its way to the White House, in accordance with your orders, hurried here in advance of it. My friend, said the President, turning to Doyle, if there was any plot to kidnap tonight, I am the guilty party. That's so, Mr. President, Mr. Sanders solemnly asserted. You not only took us off, but you took my hat. It looked to me like mighty squally times out there in the dark road, but anyhow, I think you kindly for fetching this back. Oh, you are more than welcome, friend Sanders. There's another thing I want to say to you, gentlemen, remarked Mr. Lincoln, straightening himself up. The less you say of this affair, the better. If it slips into the newspapers, I propose to see that the public get the straight of it. One thing more. These gentlemen here, Mr. Bethune and Mr. Sanders, are in Washington by my invitation. They are my guests. I am responsible for their conduct here, and whoever interferes with them will be held responsible by me. Captain Bird, I thank you again for the energetic way in which you carried out your orders. If the Secretary of War has no more for you tonight, neither have I. Mr. Stanton had retired in disgust to the inner office, where the Captain sought him, returning in a moment, to bid the President good night and to lead his squad of cavalry to their quarters. Mr. Doyle stood where the Secretary had left him, and his embarrassment was so plain that Bethune, following one of his impulses, said, Mr. President, I think I consent Mr. Doyle right. But before I do so, I'd like to ask what Grudgey bears me. Grudge? I have no Grudge against you, Doyle asserted. Why did you try to use my own hand to entrap me? Why did you entrust me with the dispatch in which you committed me to the gallows, not for the good of the country, but for the advancement of yourself and your friend Autry? Why, I give you no such dispatch as that, Doyle asserted. Well, the President has a copy of it, remarked Bethune dryly. Mr. Lincoln looked at Doyle with the puzzled expression on his face. He seemed to be studying the man. It was a very embarrassing stare. What? Put the notion in your head, said the President, turning to Bethune with something like a sigh, that the gentleman needed to be set right with me. It struck me, Mr. President, that you might misunderstand him, considering all the circumstances, replied Bethune. No, I think I understand him perfectly. But he still continued to regard Mr. Doyle with the puzzled, melancholy expression on his face. But if you'll permit me to explain, Mr. President, Bethune persisted, and Mr. Lincoln shook his head and raised his long arm in a protesting gesture. No, not now. I'll have a talk with this gentleman at another time. He must excuse me now. Bethune, you and Mr. Sanders come into my private office. He bowed to Doyle and went out. As Bethune was following, Doyle caught him by the arm and detained him. What did you intend to say to him, he asked? Why, I intended and still intend to tell him the simple truth, replied Bethune. That you came to kidnap him, gasped Doyle. Why, certainly, I don't want him to believe that you are engaged in ensnaring men merely to advance your own fortunes. Do you think I do the like for you, inquired Doyle? Why, I never asked myself the question, replied Bethune, regarding the man with the smile. I owe you no goodwill, but I owe it to myself to be honest and straightforward. Now, answer me this, why did you have men ready to follow me out of Richmond? Doyle hesitated, but finally spoke out. I wanted to make sure that you fell into the hands of the right parties when you reached Washington. If I had to do it all over again it wouldn't be done, and I want to say to you that I'm glad I met you. Well, we have no time for compliments. Good night. Mr. Sanders was waiting for Bethune, and together they went into Mr. Lincoln's private office. The President and Mr. Stanton were in the larger room, and the tones of their voices coming through the door showed that they were conversing as if nothing unusual had occurred. It seemed that Mr. Stanton had been, for the moment, entirely subdued. Presently Mr. Lincoln came to the door. Sanders, you and Bethune come in here. I want you to see that my Secretary of War is not always ready to eat folks up. Mr. Stanton greeted them in a friendly manner. He had his glasses off for the moment, and for the first time the two Southerners saw that in repose his features were cast in a genial mould, and that his eyes could command a kindly expression. Bethune, said the President, what was that explanation you wanted to make about Doyle? Mr. Stanton seems to appreciate his abilities. I don't know how able he is, but that last part of his dispatch doesn't sound nice to me. Mr. Stanton agrees with me about this, but he says the first part is correct. The copy of the dispatch lay open on the table between the President and the Secretary. Mr. President, after what has happened tonight, taking everything as it occurred, I feel sure that you'll not misunderstand my motives when I say to you that the first part of Mr. Doyle's dispatch is correct. Bethune's tone was quiet but firm. I told you so, remarked Mr. Stanton with emphasis. Well, then why didn't you carry out your plan tonight? They had a very good reason, exclaimed the Secretary of War. Mr. President, said Mr. Sanders, suddenly and emphatically, there ain't enough cavalry in the fifty mile of this town to have kept us from carrying you off tonight. You know where we turned around? Well, right there was a light wagon, and all we had to do was hustle you in it. The man driving it knows every foot of ground but tweaks to your enrichment. No doubts, said Mr. Lincoln, but why didn't you take advantage of all this? Mr. President, I would as soon kidnap my grandfather or someone else equally dear to me, Bethune declared, but it was a great temptation. It was so, especially to a young feller, remarked Mr. Sanders. The horses turned, I fully expected Frank to stick his head out and use some words that you don't hear in parlors. And when he didn't, I never was so happy in my life. What we modded done if you hadn't gone and kidnapped yourself right before our face, I can't say. I'm like the fellow the mule kicked in the stomach. Says he, I see'd her switch her tail, that I see'd pintedly. What she'd done after that, I can't say. If you would only trust me, Mr. President, exclaimed Mr. Stanton, there was no bitterness in his voice. Why, I trust you precisely as far as I can trust myself, replied Mr. Lincoln earnestly. No man could do more. Would any other man do as much? The Secretary made no reply. He resumed his spectacles and turned to Bethune. But why, now that the affair is over, do you come in here and admit what nobody could have proved? What is Doyle to you? Less than nothing, Mr. Secretary. I think the President understands my motives. Perfectly, perfectly, said Mr. Lincoln, but I don't understand why you changed your mind when you had everything in your own hands. Well, I can only say this, Mr. President, that if the plain people of the South knew you as well as we know you, the war wouldn't last much longer. Mr. Lincoln arose from his chair and laid his hand on Bethune's shoulder. My son, he said solemnly, no human being ever did or ever can pay me a higher compliment than that. I wish all your people would take a month off and come up here to kidnap me. They are engaged in some such adventure now, remarked Mr. Stanton dryly. The President paid no attention to the remark, but walked about the room with his hands behind him and his head forward. Finally he paused and stood before Bethune and Mr. Sanders, his feet pointed somewhat apart. I'll tell you, gentlemen, the honest truth, he declared, raising his right arm high above his head. My heart bleeds night and day, for every wound the war inflicts on both sides. If I know my own mind, I know no North and no South. All that I hope for and pray for is the Union, the Union preserved, and the Union at peace, with all factions and all parties working together for the glory and greatness of the Republic. I would, if I could, take the South in my arms and soothe all her troubles, plot all the old difficulties and differences, and start the nation on a new career. I have the will, but not the power. He paused a moment and then resumed with a smile. Stanton there says I'm a politician, and I reckon I am, but if I were nothing else I'd be ashamed of myself. Mr. President, said Bethune gravely, if we had found you to be a politician, petulant and intriguing, you wouldn't be here tonight. Ain't it the truth, exclaimed Mr. Sanders with unction? Well, Mr. President, remarked Mr. Stanton arising from his chair, your friends are more agreeable than I suppose they would be. But hereafter, I hope you will believe that I know what I am talking about. Why, I never doubted it, Mr. Lincoln declared, but you'll have to take me as you find me. The trouble with him, Mr. President, said Mr. Sanders, is that he's afraid he'll not be able to find you. The Secretary regarded Mr. Sanders from behind his inscrutable glasses, smiled faintly, and exclaimed, Ain't it the truth? Then, as if the effort to mimic Mr. Sanders had thought him out, he shook hands with the two Southerners, laughing softly to himself, and went out. The episode was sufficient to show that the Great War Secretary, and he was truly great in his line, could be agreeable when he chose to be. That's the only fun he's had since the war begun, Mr. Lincoln asserted. Nothing more remains to be told. Bethune, Mr. Sanders, and Mrs. Elise Klopten had no difficulty in making their way south. They had to escort through the federal lines, and returned over to their compatriots under a flag of truce. End of Section 9 Section 10 of the kidnapping of President Lincoln and other war-detective stories This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Amy The Kidnapping of President Lincoln and Other War-Detective Stories by Joel Chandler Harris The Whims of Captain McCarthy Part 1 Colonel Albert Lamar of Georgia, who was secretary or clerk of the Confederate Senate at Richmond, used to tell his intimate friends that the mystery of Philip Doyle was one of the few things in his experience that had kept him awake at nights. Those who have followed the course of the preceding narratives will remember Mr. Doyle as the obliging gentleman who was kind enough to afford Francis Bethune an opportunity to run his neck in a halter. This mystery, briefly stated, was this. Given the fact that Mr. Doyle was in the employ of the Federal Secret Service, how did he manage to obtain an important position in one of the departments of the Confederate government? It should be remembered that up to the moment when one of Captain McCarthy's clerks in the New York Hotel interpreted the cipher dispatch, which had been entrusted to young Bethune, there were but two men in the Confederacy who suspected Mr. Doyle. One of these was Colonel Lamar and the other was John Amohandro, who, while acting as one of Jeb Stewart's scouts, was also connected with the Confederate Secret Service. Doyle seemed to be high in the confidence of the chiefs of the various bureaus, but Colonel Lamar soon discovered that this impression had been produced by Doyle himself, not alone by his attitude and manner, but by his general conversation. Inquiry also developed the fact that none of Doyle's superiors knew anything about him beyond the fact that he had managed by some means or other to secure a position to which were attached few duties and a very comfortable salary. Colonel Lamar, who seemed to be always taking his time, was one of the most indefatigable of workers. His easygoing and genial manner was a cloak to a temperament at once fiery and reckless. Step by step he pushed his way back through various channels of information until he found that Mr. Doyle had been appointed on the recommendation of a firm of London bankers, which was not as prominent in the financial world then as it is today. Of course this firm had connections with Wall Street, just as it had with all the money centers of the world. But the problem that presented itself to the mind of Colonel Lamar was this. Why did this British firm desire to have Mr. Doyle appointed to a position which was a very responsible one, even if its duties were light? Now the present writer has no intention of uncovering and parading in print the various interesting facts which this investigation brought to light. The details do not belong to history as it is written. Almost without exception, since money became a power, the real politicians in all ages and countries have been and are the leading financiers. Since the dawn of civilization, history has been made up of conclusions and deductions that are not only superficial, but false. Your true historian will be the man who is fortunate enough to gain access to the records of the most powerful financial institutions of the various nations of the earth. The great political leaders of the world who have not been dominated by the financiers may be numbered on the fingers of your hands. Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and a few others. This is true not because politicians are corrupt, though many of them fall in that category, but because the financial interests of the world are more powerful and in the minds of a majority of men, more important than all the superficial issues of politics. Thus it is that parties, political contests, oars, and all great movements are so manipulated by the masterminds of finance that neither the beneficiaries nor the victims have any notion of the real issues that have been contended for or the results that have been brought about. These manipulations do not constitute. They are the origin of history, and it is only occasionally that they may be said to become obvious. Sufficient has been said to indicate why the facts and names which yield themselves up to the pressure of Colonel Lamar's energetic investigations cannot be made public. It should be said, in Mr. Doyle's behalf, that he, himself, had no actual knowledge of the real interests he was serving. He had very genuine feelings of patriotism. Those feelings which cool heads and masterminds find it so easy to take advantage of. He was heartily for the Union, and in addition to that he was ambitious to rise and shine in the service to which he was devoting himself. Indeed it was his personal ambition that destroyed his usefulness at the Confederate capital. He had a great deal more adroitness and dexterity in his profession than has been indicated, but he was anxious to attract Mr. Stanton's attention, and he supposed that something sensational was necessary to that end. The trap he laid for Francis Bethune would have succeeded beyond all question if his scheme had provided against such a contingency, for instance, as Mr. Sanders. In the nature of things this was impossible for the reason that the personality of Mr. Sanders was unique, nor could Mr. Doyle provide against the swift suspicions of John Amandro. Nevertheless, when all his energies were aroused, Philip Doyle was a very shrewd and capable man. The morning after Bethune and Mr. Sanders started on their journey, he got hold of a piece of information that seemed to him to be of the utmost importance. Quite by accident he learned of the Bureau of the Confederate Secret Service, which had its headquarters in the New York Hotel. Careful inquiry in the right direction enabled him to procure a list of the officers and employees serving this Bureau. Now this was information of the first class, and Mr. Doyle deemed it of sufficient importance to justify his prompt retirement from Richmond. He was delayed for several days by urgent business, but, as we have seen, he arrived in Washington on the night that President Lincoln insisted on having himself kidnapped. The next morning his presence became known to Amandro, who carried this information to McCarthy's Lieutenant at the Federal Capitol. The day after this advertisement appeared in the personal column of the New York Herald to Terence Nagel, late of Augusta, Georgia. Jack sends this message to Mack. Fix up the house for company and be sure the dishes are washed clean. The web patterned Doyle's should be well laundered. Jack. This advertisement appeared twice, and on its second appearance it caught the eye of a cab man who was waiting for a fare near the New York Hotel. He dismounted from his seat and sauntered toward the entrance where a porter was sweeping. Where's the nagel lad, he asked. The porter looked around. Answer in a bill, I don't know. So I'd have a word with him when it's convenient. The cab man went back to his vehicle and paced up and down beside it. Presently Terence came to the door, flourishing a whisk broom. Oh, tissue, Mike. Have you seen the Herald today? He took it from his pocket and laid his heavy forefinger upon the advertisement. Terence scanned it carefully. Then he laughed and held up both hands in admiration. What a man is Captain Mack, he exclaimed. He heard the news ahead of the editor, upon whom he solely did. Before the breakfast hour, yesterday morning and the cleanup was all over and done with, and the woodmen and the boys was gone. And Terence left in the lurch. We gobs, said the cab man. In the lurch is it, retorted Terence, glowing with good humor. Says the captain to me. Maled, I'm lovin' you for to do the head work, he says. You have a cool head, he says. A keen eye and a clean mind, he says. And I'm trustin' in ye, disgreatness, altogether. Did he say that now? Cried the cab man, appearing to be highly pleased. He did, replied Terence. And he said more. He said, says he. Do you give me regards to Mike and the boys, he says. And tell them, for to tip Terence the wink when they have fares for 231 Playsville Avenue, Brooklyn. Be gobs will do it, said Mike, the cab man. If there's no more than four, you're to give me the wink, drive about a bit, and then take them straight to the number, where they'll find wrist and refreshment for man and baste. And if me two eyes tell me no lies, the chance is runnin' right at your head for most. This last remark was made pertinent by the appearance of two men in the doorway of the hotel. One of them turned back to buy a couple of cigars. The other came toward the cab. Just then, Terence was hitting the rolled curtains of the vehicle a lick or two, with the whisk room and saying, If you were a bit tidier, maybe you'd play to a bigger audience. He turned when the gentleman came up. Are you acquainted with Brooklyn, asked the newcomer. It was there I lived when I first landed, replied the cab man. Well, my friend and I want to go to 231 Playsville Avenue. Are you acquainted with the locality? I know it well enough to drive you there, sir, but you'll find it cheaper to go by bus and ferry. But we're in a hurry, the gentleman explained. We have a friend there who may perhaps desire to return with us. The cab man bowed and opened the door of his vehicle. From under his own seat he drew a duster, and with this he carefully brushed the cushions inside. This done the two gentlemen took their seats and the cab moved off. In this case the cab man had been under no necessity of tipping the wink to Terence, the bell-boy. That lively lad had been on hand with his ears open, and in answer to an imaginary summons from the office, he went running into the hotel. I'm for book on it, sir, he said to the clerk, and that functionary smiled and bowed an affable consent. But an instant was required for Terence to change his blouse-working jacket for coat and waistcoat. Running out through the lady's entrance, he climbed to the side of a burly-looking cab man, said something in his ear which caused him to arouse himself with a smile. He looked at his watch as he gathered up the reins and smacked his lips over his white face. His cab was drawn by two horses, and they seemed to be very spirited animals when in motion. Now, Barney, do you know what's to be done? asked Terence. If Mike knows as well, replied Barney, both jobs will be done well. But, mind you, what chasens to be done must be done in the village where there's nothing but preachers and babies. Mike knows, said Terence confidently. Then we'll be first at the finish with forty-five minutes to spare. Does the old man need more than that? Terence laughed exultantly. Says Captain Mack, says he. Give me ten minutes, be lad, says he. And we'll have court and session when our friends come, he says. As Barney, with his two smart horses, was turning out of Broadway to go into a street where there were fewer obstacles, he nudged his companion and pointed with his whip. A block away, Mike and his fares had been caught in one of the jams for which the lower part of Broadway is famous. This particular jam seemed to be as impassable as a lumber boom, and it was all occasioned by a half-dozen words in Gaelic spoken to the drivers of two big trucks. The cab man and the two truckmen shook their fists at one another defiantly and used language which, to say the least, was not invented in the mild atmosphere of the parlor. The blockade attracted attention for several blocks. It had sprung up, as it were, unexpectedly. It was begun and carried out with great vehemence of language and gesture. A half-dozen policeman, men of long experience in such matters, did their utmost to straighten out matters and provide a channel for traffic. If the jam had occurred at a crossing, all would have been well, but its center was in the middle of two long blocks, and the vehicles that were caught in it found it impossible to beat a retreat. What's the trouble? asked one of Mike's passengers, putting his head out of the window. Does the devil in all to pay, sir? answered Mike, looking at his watch. Ten minutes and more had been gained. He nodded his head to truckman number one, who waved his hand at truckman number two. Then, Hi there! said number one. Look sharp there! cried number two, and lo! What the policeman had failed to do was accomplished in five minutes, for in that space of time the blockade melted away and traffic resumed its tireless march. The ferry at which Mike the cabman crossed was 30 minutes farther from Playsdale Avenue than the one at which Barney and Terence had crossed, and he made the distance still longer by indulging in some of those tricks of driving that are part of the cabman's trade. Finally, however, the vehicle drew up at 231, and Mike dismounted from the seat to open the door. You will wait for us, said the gentleman who had engaged the cab. Will he be long, sir? Mike's tone was extremely solicitous as he consulted his watch. Why, no, replied the gentleman who had acted throughout as spokesman. As much as an hour, sir, insisted the cabman. Why, certainly not. Ten minutes at the most, the gentleman asserted. Oh, see! remarked the cabman. And he regarded the two men with an expression on his face, which they remembered afterward. Now, one of those gentlemen was Mr. Philip Doyle, of whom we have heard, and the other was Mr. William Webb, the accomplished officer who had fallen into conversation with our old friend Sanders in the dining room of the New York Hotel. Mr. Doyle had a fair reputation with his superiors for energy and secacity, but Mr. Webb was the pride of the Secret Service Bureau, and he was very ambitious. Moreover, he was almost as intensely devoted to the cause of the Union as Mr. Stanton. No fatigue was too great for him to undergo in the performance of his duties. He had a clear head and high courage, and all his faculties were keenly developed. When Mr. Doyle came up from the South, Webb was naturally the first person he sought out after reporting to his chief. He had worked with Webb and liked him, and while in the South had been under Webb's direction, the trouble with Doyle was that he set too much store by his personal ambition. He was for the Union, of course, but first and foremost he was for Mr. Phillip Doyle. Therefore, instead of laying the information he had before the chief of the Bureau, he kept it to himself until he found an opportunity to consult with Webb. The temptation which the situation presented to the latter was not as strong perhaps as it was in the case of Mr. Doyle, but it existed. It would be a great stroke if he, with Doyle, should be the means of unerthing the conspiracy against the government and arresting the man who was responsible, therefore. Have you the documentary proof in your possession? Mr. Webb asked Doyle at their private consultation. It is very important to have that. It is easy enough to arrest men, as has been done on too many occasions. What we want is the actual proof. For answer Mr. Doyle took from the breast pocket of his coat a package of papers and handed them to his companion. He examined them very carefully. If you think that settles it, Webb said with a smile, wouldn't it be best to lay these documents before the chief, get an order for approval scoured and make an end of the matter? And when that is done, where would the credit lie? Mr. Doyle inquired. Why, with the Bureau, of course, was the response. But if we undertake it and carry it out successfully, what then? That is true, said Mr. Webb. You are sure you have said nothing of this to anyone else? Why, I haven't had time to think about it until now, Mr. Doyle declared. I hoped to make a big strike by the arrest of the fellows who were plotting to kidnap Mr. Lincoln. But you know what a failure that was. I do indeed, replied Mr. Webb. Altogether, it is the most peculiar case I ever heard of. I have been trying to unravel it to my satisfaction, but the more I think about it, the more mysterious it becomes. And then there's that chap, Autry. He has resigned and gone south with Bethune and the Old Bethune. Well, Autry is a southern man, you know, and the people down there, or, the most of them, act on principles that are dim to me, remarked Mr. Doyle. But about this case of ours, what shall we do about it? Can't you get a signed order for the arrest of this man? Oh, there's no difficulty about the order of arrest. Such orders are thick as leaves on the trees, replied Mr. Webb. I am well acquainted with the head waiter of the New York Hotel. If he is the man we want, there can be no difficulty about arresting him. He is rather a shrewd man. He sees through all my disguises without trouble, but I judge from his face that he was once an actor, and that he has some weakness which has prevented him from following his profession. That's the way I've sized him up. A more amiable man I have never met, and he seems to know how to hold his tongue. Now, the character of work that has been mapped out at the New York Hotel and successfully carried out by the Confederate agents would never be in the hands of a man willing to accept a menial position. Take the case as it stands. Why should a man capable of such work desire to figure in a position that is, at least, servile? All he has to do is to lock himself in a room, and his whereabouts would never be suspected. But here are the documents, Mr. Doyle and Sister. True, replied Webb. But how do you know these very documents were not intended to mislead? You must remember that the business we are engaged in requires considerable head work. We must never underrate the abilities of an opponent that a very shrewd and shifty man is doing the secret service work for the rebels is very evident to me. It is likely that his name and object would be spread out on the records in Richmond. Now, I think not, but they were not spread out, as you call it, said Doyle. They were in a very safe place, and it was only by accident that they came into my hands. There is another fact to be taken into consideration for Sued Webb, who was very fond of his theories and very happy, as he supposed, in inventing them. The reader will admit, too, that his deductions were logical. Another fact, and a very important one, he repeated, and then paused. What is it, Mr. Doyle? Why the general character of the Southern people and the peculiar characteristics of a Southern man capable of managing a secret service bureau in the heart of the enemy's country. I know something of these people, but you know more. Now I ask you again. Is it at all likely that a man who is in a position to command men would step to flourish a toil and usher guests to their seats in a public dining room? Why, such service would leave a bad taste in my mouth, and in yours. This being the case, how would it affect the pride of our friend, the enemy? Still, Doyle was going on to repeat his belief in the records he had abstracted, but Webb interrupted him. I'm only trying to prepare you for the inevitable, he said. I'm going with you, and I propose to act just as if I placed as much confidence in these documents as you do. More than that, if we succeed, the credit shall all be placed to your account. If we fail, I'll share the failure with you. I am simply trying to show you that what is true must be reasonable. But if we fail, suggested Doyle, no one need know about it. True enough, respond at Webb, but I'll know it, and you'll know it. That is the reason I have been at some pains to give you my views on the subject. The head waiter's name is McCarthy. That much I am certain of. And your documents say that an inquiry for McCarthy means an inquiry for the chief of the bureau in New York. Well, we'll try our hands. If we fail, well and good. Mr. Doyle was careful not to produce his list of activations and clerks of the bureau. He kept this for his own use, hoping to bring himself still more prominently to the attention of his superiors by arresting the agents and clerks one at a time. He had mapped out a very successful program in his mind and saw himself advanced in the line of promotion until he became famous all over the world. His professional pride, as such, was devoted wholly to his own advancement, whereas Mr. Webb, with less energy, rather liked his work. And when one of his theories turned out to be the true one, he rejoiced over it, as the artist does, who makes a happy stroke with his brush. The two men took the night train for New York, where they arrived at an early hour, and were driven at once to the New York hotel. They secured a room and were soon in the dining room. A head waiter was on hand, but he was not McCarthy. Presently, Mr. Webb called the man and asked for McCarthy. Why, I think he is ill, sir, but the gentleman in the office can tell you more about it. I was suddenly called to take his place yesterday, and I heard someone say he was ill. The man who brought their breakfast had practically the same report to make. He had heard that the former head waiter was ill. He was not sure, but he thought it was a sudden attack of inflammatory rheumatism. At the office, the gentlemanly clerk was cool, but polite. He had not heard of McCarthy's absence or illness, but the evidence should be at hand. He searched a while, and was about to dismiss the gentleman, when, as it seemed, a thought struck him. Wait, he said, snapping his finger, impatiently. I believe I've been looking over the wrong file hook. In five minutes he came across a note from a physician stating that the head waiter was ill at his home. Two, three, one, he placed L Avenue, Brooklyn. Inflammatory rheumatism be unable to report for duty for several days, perhaps for several weeks, so the clerk interpreted the scroll spread out over the face of the certificate. Mr. Webb wrote the name of the street and the number in his memorandum book, and shortly afterward, as we have seen, engaged a cab to take his companion and himself to the house. End of section 11. Section 12 of the kidnapping of President Lincoln and other war detective stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kay Hand. The kidnapping of President Lincoln and other war detective stories by Joel Chandler Harris. The whims of Captain McCarthy. Part 3. Number 231 was part of a brick tenement and was marked by very neat surroundings. At the moment, when the two visitors arrived, there was more of a bustle about the place than Mr. Webb deemed desirable. A large truck drawn by two heavy-built horses had backed up to the pavement opposite the adjoining number, and several stout men in blouses were standing around apparently awaiting orders. Evidently, someone was moving in or out of number 233. The door of number 231 opened promptly in response to the ringing of the bell, and Webb and Doyle were ushered into the sitting room and then into a smaller room, in which was a writing desk and a chintz-covered sofa with cushioned chairs to match. As the two men disappeared, Mike, the cabman, remarked to Barney, who was now arrayed in blue overalls. Oh, Barney! He says he'll be out in ten minutes. Did he say that now? replied Barney with a grin and a grimace that would have made his fortune on the vaudeville stage. He did, begobbs. He says them very worried. By way of comment Barney raised his hands and let them fall again in a despairing gesture, as if there could be no hope for a man who made such offhand remarks. The room in which Webb and Doyle found themselves was, as has been already hinted, very modestly furnished. The pictures on the wall were cheap, but with one exception they were fair reproductions of some of the old masterpieces. The exception was the portrait of a wonderfully beautiful young girl. Mr. Webb had a daughter, and the portrait fascinated him. Suddenly the door opposite the one by which they entered was thrown half open and a lad with a pleasant face called out. He would speak with Mr. Doyle. Do you mean Doyle? inquired the owner of the name. Sure, sir. I said Doyle. Mr. Doyle turned an inquiring eye on Mr. Webb, who after reflecting a moment nodded his head and Doyle followed the lad. The door was shut after him with something like a bang. Mr. Webb had no opportunity to theorize about this bang, for the door near him opened and Captain McCarthy entered. He greeted Mr. Webb with a cordial smile and shook hands with an appearance of heartiness which took the detective somewhat aback. Why, I heard you were ill with rheumatism, remarked Mr. Webb. And you thought a change of air would be good for me, suggested Captain McCarthy, smiling. Well, I have heard stranger and truer things than that. Did you send for Doyle just now? inquired Webb. Never in his life did he feel less like performing a disagreeable duty. He was summoned from the room because I wanted to have a private conversation with you, said McCarthy, seating himself. He regarded the portrait of the child intensely for a moment and then turned to the detective. Did it ever occur to you, sir? he asked courteously, that perhaps you were after the wrong man, that in order to do successfully what is, for the moment, your duty, you should strike higher than a poor old hotel servant? I have certainly had some such thought, replied Webb. Nevertheless, my duty compiles me. At that moment the door through which Doyle had made his exit was opened and Terence Nagel came in with an apologetic smile. He held some papers in his hand. The gentleman says you're welcome to these if they'll do you any good, sir. His word, sir, was that he'd see you later. Very well, my lad, whenever it suits his convenience, remarked Captain McCarthy, taking the papers and giving a cursory examination to each. Mr. Webb, whose duty had compelled him to have fries from his seat, sank back in his chair with an exclamation of surprise. He saw that the papers which McCarthy held in his hands were the documents on which Doyle had depended to prove the charges to be brought against the head waiter, the charges on which he was to be arrested. Is Doyle gone? asked Webb. I can best answer that by saying that the chances are you'll never see him again, answered McCarthy. Has he been murdered? cried the other, rising to his feet. Tuts, man, do you take me for an assassin? If you will resume your seat and restrain your feelings I will make the case of Mr. Doyle perfectly plain to you and yours as well. But yours first. Would you like a glass of wine? Not at present, said Mr. Webb, expecting poison perhaps. As you please, remarked the head waiter, now then, in regard to your affairs, you have a brother in the Confederate Army. That is true, I am sorry to say, responded Webb. I see no cause for weeping, said McCarthy, dryly. Now, six, yes, eight months ago this brother of yours was in prison. His health was not good, and you are anxious to secure his release. You tried every honorable plan that could suggest itself to you, and at last, when you had come to the end of your resources, your brother was still languishing. Yes, that is the word, languishing in prison. That is true, assented Mr. Webb uneasily. Well, what happened then? McCarthy asked, fixing his eyes upon the face of the detective. Mr. Webb shifted his position, and finally arose to his feet and crossed the room as if to get a nearer view of the child's portrait on the wall. That is my daughter, remarked Captain McCarthy. She is very beautiful, said Mr. Webb, and then there came a knock on the door, and Nora followed the knock like an echo. Dada, she cried, shaking her hair away from a face in which modesty and mischief were carrying on a perpetual contest. Dada, the cabman is uneasy. He says the gentleman was to keep him waiting only ten minutes. She turned to Mr. Webb with a smile and a blush. Mr. Webb, this is the little girl of the picture. Nora, darling, tell the cabman that his fare is paid and he may return at once. The gentleman will remain a little longer. The picture doesn't do her justice, said Mr. Webb. Oh, she'll never get justice this side of paradise, exclaimed Nora's father with sparkling eyes. You were saying? About my brother, responded Mr. Webb, resuming his seat. Well, my brother is very dear to me. To me he is both father and brother, and my affection for him led me into a very dishonorable action. Oh, we are not discussing principles, interrupted Captain McCarthy. We shall never know the exact line of duty when it is a question between kindred and country until we get to heaven. If we ever do get there, remarked Mr. Webb. Certainly, with a great many, that is also an open question. While at any rate you owed some sort of duty to your brother. Yes, and in spite of the fact that I had a commission as an officer under the United States government, I made every effort to aid my brother to escape, and finally succeeded. The only time my conscience has been easy in the matter was when I saw him in the arms of our old mother, and heard her thank heaven that her eldest son was free once more. But how did the facts become known to you? Why, it is the simplest thing in the world. I was working to the same end, and when I had everything ready I found that someone had interfered, and my scheme fell to pieces. But when I found what you were trying to do I joined hands with you and your plans were successful. Well, upon my word, exclaimed Webb, Now then, when your brother was delivered into your hands on that dark and stormy night, he turned back to the carriage in which he had come and said something to the man inside. Do you remember what it was? Certainly, responded Mr. Webb, he said, Goodbye Larry, and God bless you. Well, commented the head waiter with a tender light kindling in his eyes. My name is Lawrence McCarthy, and the chosen few of the men of this world whom God permits to love me call me Larry. Again Mr. Webb walked across the room and then receded himself. Of course you know that this information you have given me completely ties my hands. Excuse me sir, said Captain McCarthy with stern emphasis. We are not children. I gave you the information because your brother Martin is a very dear friend of mine, and I am trying to give you an opportunity to withdraw from your pursuit of a poor old serving man and direct it toward those who are worthier of your attention. You owe me no gratitude and I do not propose for you to go away from here, if you go at all, under any fancy obligation to me. What I did or tried to do for your brother was for his sake alone and the course I propose to take with you is for his sake and not for yours. But make no mistake about it, I am under no obligations to him nor he to me. In the course of Providence it happens that his name is written on the tablets of my friendship and there it will remain. This of course tended to throw Mr. Webb back on his personal dignity. My duty, he began, but Captain McCarthy interrupted him. Pardon me, I am not discussing duty. The pursuit of that lies between each individual and his conscience. What I propose to do, if I can get your consent, is to provide for my own safety by providing for yours. You think I am in your power then? suggested Mr. Webb. As completely so as if I had you surrounded with a regiment of men. Not only that, you will be in my power should you leave this house and return to Washington. Am I free to ask an explanation? remarked Webb with a touch of sarcasm in his tone. That shall be forthcoming whether you ask it or not was the response. Captain McCarthy went to his desk and produced a copy of the Herald of the day before. Did you by any chance see this advertisement in the Herald? It was printed again today. He indicated with his forefinger the personal which has already been given. Mr. Webb read the notice and turned to McCarthy with an expression of perplexity in his face. Who could have sent that? It was sent by a person who was unknown to you. You will observe that he not only announces your coming but gives your name and that of your companion. But no one knew the errand we were coming on, protested Mr. Webb. Nevertheless, the person who sent that advertisement to the Herald knew, remarked the head waiter with a smile. But I have shown you the notice merely to convince you that your movements are perfectly well known to the person who wrote that warning. It may interest you to know that this man has in his hands absolute proofs of your complicity in the escape of your brother. He has affidavits from two men whom you employed to aid you. Well, to what end are you telling me all this? Asked Mr. Webb drawing himself up. Does it not occur to you? Your safety is involved in your silence with respect to me. I suggest that you impart to no one the information you have received from this man Doyle. It is there on my desk, and that you personally refrain from moving against me. All things considered, it is not an immodest nor a sweeping request. Fly at whom you please, but leave me alone. Permit an old serving man to indulge his whims in peace. Mr. Webb laughed with genuine amusement. Whatever you are, he said, you are no serving man. You may be a preacher or an actor, but you are not now and never have been a head waiter. Captain McCarthy smiled. That is a queer statement to make when your own eyes have been witnessed to the fact that I performed my duties in the hotel to the best of my poor ability. You place your demand, that is what it amounts to, in the shape of a suggestion. If you are as powerful here as you say you are, why not exact pledges? My dear sir, exclaimed Captain McCarthy, I wouldn't give a bad shilling for a mountain of pledges secured by compulsion. You have reflected, of course, that I have made no request of your late companion, the man Doyle. I have disposed of him without even having seen his face. Well, where is Doyle? asked Mr. Webb, betraying some excitement. He was surprised that his companion's continued absence had not disturbed him. The case of Mr. Doyle is a very interesting one, Captain McCarthy explained. He has been eating the bread of the Confederate government with his mouth and conspiring against it with his head and his hands. Others have been using the United States government in the same way, retorted Webb. That may be so, but the practice of what is wrong and principle does not make it right. Mr. Doyle accepted an important office under the Confederate government. Was the oath he took when he received his commission a mere formality? More than that, he suggested the kidnapping of President Lincoln to a lad, a mere boy, and then did his utmost to lead this land to his destruction. The youngster, being strangely modest and tractable for one of his temper and training, submitted himself to the will of an older and a wiser head and so escaped. But Mr. Doyle will not escape. You may depend upon that. Is he in the next room? asked Webb. Let us see, replied Captain McCarthy. He led the way to the door by which Doyle had passed and opened it. There was another door immediately beyond it, which Webb rightly judged led into the adjoining tenement. Captain McCarthy opened the second door and Webb saw that the room was empty. He called aloud. Doyle, Doyle, fill! His voice rang strangely in the chamber, which, but for some loose litter on the floor, was entirely empty. Webb turned to Captain McCarthy. Man, you'll have to answer for this. Possibly, but you may be sure that Doyle is on the way to answer for his transactions. But why do you dispose of Doyle and make propositions to me? asked Webb. Suggestions, not propositions, corrected Captain McCarthy. The real reason is, as I have told you, Providence has been kind enough to give you a brother whose qualities have endeared him to me. Now let me ask you a question. Why do you insist on putting yourself in the same category with this man, Doyle? Mr. Webb did not reply to the question. He sat silent a long time, and McCarthy was careful not to interrupt his reflection with idle conversation. I think I'll take that glass of wine now, he said, after a while. The wine was soon forthcoming, and as they sipped it slowly, McCarthy spoke. What are your conclusions? I mean, what course do you intend to pursue with respect to me? I think, replied Webb with a friendly twinkle in his eye, that it is I who should ask that question. Well, sir, you have a brother whose friendship I am permitted to enjoy, and you have drunk of my wine. Under the circumstances you will go forth from this house as free as a bird on the wing. I think that will be best for both of us, remarked Mr. Webb. I have made up my mind to resign. Captain McCarthy held his glass of wine between his eyes and the light, and watched the bubbles die out on the amber-colored fluid. Your decision is wise, one, he said, after a while. The unquestionable talent you have displayed in certain details of this business in which you are engaged would be of great service to you in the management of a railway line. And I think—I'm not certain, but I think—I have a friend who can give you a good excuse for sending in your resignation. Now, said Mr. Webb, as my cab is gone, you will have to show me the way out of this Brooklyn jungle. I propose to go with you, Captain McCarthy declared. He opened the door by which he had first entered the room and spoke to someone who was apparently waiting there. Terrence, my lad, tell Barney to bring the carriage around. The rest of you may go now. There was a shuffling of feet and then silence. Presently Terrence reported that the carriage was ready. Barney raised his hat as the captain saluted him. We want to get back as quickly as possible, Barney, suggested McCarthy. I'll take you by a shorter cut, soar, then might fetch the gentleman, replied Barney with a grin. Near Wall Street, McCarthy and Webb entered a banking house which has since made a great name in the financial world. At that particular time the firm was very much in need of a trustworthy man to look after its interests in the management of an important railway line. The firm had endorsed the bonds of the road and there was reason to suspect that there had been sharp practice on the part of the local managers. What claim Captain McCarthy had on these bankers or what connection he had with them was not clear to Mr. Webb, but his influence with the firm was due to the fact that he had rescued from a southern prison by perfectly legitimate methods the son of one of the members of the firm. As the result of that piece of work, Mr. Webb secured a position from which he climbed, step by step, into the management of the road and its later acquisitions. End of Section 12. Section 13 of the kidnapping of President Lincoln and other war detective stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kay Hand. The kidnapping of President Lincoln and other war detective stories by Joel Chandler Harris. The Whims of Captain McCarthy. Part 4. Captain McCarthy and Mr. Webb were engaged with the bankers until the lunch and hour, and as they drove up Broadway in the direction of the New York Hotel, they passed a truck which was hauling a box that appeared to contain an upright piano. Four men stood in the body of the truck. They were engaged in holding the box in place. They saluted the occupants of the carriage as it passed and were soon left far behind. Some of your men, I suppose, suggested Mr. Webb. While they are often valuable as acquaintances, replied Captain McCarthy. In the piano box Mr. Doyle was confined. His position was not as uncomfortable physically as might be supposed. He sat in a cushioned chair, and though his hands and feet were tied, yet due regard to his comfort had been taken even in this. While this sort of confinement would have been intolerable if it had lasted for any considerable length of time, Mr. Doyle suffered no great inconvenience, for after being hustled about considerably and somewhat shaken up, he found himself apparently flying through the air for a space, and then the box in which he had his temporary habitation was slowly lowered until it rested on he knew not what. But presently he felt his small prison rocking slowly and regularly, and then he heard the soft lapping and splashing of water. Could the villains have thrown him into the river? No, for there were a number of small holes and vents in the box, and through these the water would have trickled. After a while he felt the trembling jar of machinery, and then he knew he was in a boat. But with or bound? Meanwhile a great search was going on in all parts of the boat for a missing man. A distinguished looking gentleman, who seemed as if he had seen service, was hunting everywhere for his cousin. His restless movements and eager inquiry showed that he was in great trouble. The Sarah Bolton, plying occasionally between New York and Bermuda, had few passengers on her outward trip, but to the most of these at the supper table the distressed gentleman confided the information that his cousin was one of the best men in the world, and had as sound a mind as anyone except on one particular subject. He imagines, said the gentleman, that he is a secret service agent for the United States. One day he has captured several dangerous conspirators and the next day he has been or is about to be captured. This afternoon, coming down to the boat, he suggested that it would be an easy matter for the rebel conspirators to capture a detective and ship him off his freight in the hold of a steamer. He talked about it after we came on board. As if such a thing were possible in this prosy age, remarked a tall, romantic looking young woman who sat at the captain's table. Why, the more impossible it is, the more plausible he makes it appear, ma'am, said the distinguished looking gentleman with a bow. If you didn't know his peculiarity, you'd be bound to accept everything he said. He makes his incidents and adventures fit together just as they do in, well, in, Sylvania's Cobb's stories. Oh, have you read The Gunmaker of Moscow? I think it is perfectly delightful. The favorite author of my unfortunate cousin, ma'am, is Emerson Bennett, said the gentleman, blandly, where at the genial captain came near drowning himself in a glass of water as the saying is. It was the only way the unsympathetic man could get rid of the laughter stored in his chest. What I am afraid of is that the poor man has jumped overboard, remarked the gentleman. No, no, that couldn't be, you know. This boat has a watch, a captain, a mate, a bosun, and a watch. That's what she has. I'll find your cousin, my friend. Don't give my old lady a bad name before you come to know her. When the captain arose from his table, the distinguished looking gentleman arose with him, but paused with his hand on the back of the chair long enough to say, My cousin's name is Doyle, Philip Doyle, and should any of you find him hiding in your state rooms, don't be alarmed. He is as harmless as a child. Simply said word to the captain, or the first mate, and all will be well. If I find him in my state room, remarked a tall young woman emphatically, I know I shall faint. The captain and the distinguished looking gentleman left the dining saloon and went to the lower deck. In one corner, along with a lot of freight that had not been placed in the hold, sat Mr. Doyle's small prison house. Two or three of the crew were within call. There's a stowaway aboard. Take a lantern and search the hold as well as you can. When the men had descended out of sight, he seized a hatchet and proceeded to knock away the boards that formed the roof of the box, remarking to his companion. I ordered this piano for the lady saloon. The old one is laid up for repairs. You say you can play the piano, and you ought to be a good judge of the thing. The firm guaranteed this one, and if you find a flaw in her, right back she goes. I'll not be swindled by chaps ashore. I'll, why, split my fossil. What's this? Well, I am swindled. Why, he's tied and gagged, exclaimed the distinguished looking gentleman. He whipped out a pocketknife, and Doyle was soon released from his uncomfortable position. Well, I've sailed the seas high and coast-wise for nine-thirty years, but you're the first passenger I ever took on as freight. Wait! Take your time and get your reckonings. In fifteen minutes you'll be all right, and then you can give me your name and destination. No doubt your clearance papers are all right. But there was no need for Mr. Doyle to wait. He was sore and stiff, but otherwise he was as sound as a dollar. Come right here to the galley, said the captain. You need something to eat, and many is the meal I've taken right here when in a hurry or when the wind was blowing hard. He gave some sharp orders to the cook, and Mr. Doyle was soon enjoying what he regarded as the most delicious meal he had ever eaten. And while he was eating, the captain worked the box to the gangway opening, and heaved it overboard, while the distinguished looking gentleman went upon the saloon deck and soon gave out the information that his cousin had been found. He's improved in some respects, but in others he's worse. He was in the hold, hiding from rebel emissaries, but he says he was captured by them today and brought a board in a box. He says there was a chair in the box, and that he would have done very well if he hadn't been tied and gagged. He doesn't recognize me as his cousin, but his manner is more subdued. His eyes have lost their wild expression. The doctor said a voyage to Bermuda and back would help him, and I hope he's made his last exhibition. It is very distressing. By this time all the passengers had gathered around the distinguished looking gentleman. I was in hopes, he went on, that there would be no need of saying a word about my cousin's condition, but it has been unavoidable, and I am glad now that it is so, for I am a very poor judge of human nature indeed if I do not read sympathy in your faces. Now the only request I have to make is that you will treat my cousin as if he were perfectly sane. Humor him by expressing surprise or indignation when he refers to his imaginary troubles. This is the doctor's advice. The voice of the distinguished looking gentleman was charged with a persuasive tenderness that brought tears to the eyes of the tall, romantic-looking young woman, and stirred the emotions of all who heard him. His gray hair combed away from his forehead, and his strong features gave great impressiveness to his words. As by a common impulse the passengers came forward and pressed his hand one by one. I beg to differ with Shakespeare in one respect, said the romantic-looking young woman, as she pressed the gentleman's fingers. It is not the touch of nature, but the hand of trouble that makes the whole world kin. I thank you all for your sympathy, the gentleman exclaimed in husky tones. Then he raised his hand and listened. They are coming, and now, he said, let us break the monotony of the voyage with a little wist, or if not wist any game that will give an air of sociability to the company. The captain was talking to Doyle and evidently trying to soothe him. Don't you worry about it. I'm my own purser, and you can just consider your passage paid. Your yarn is all right all the way through. A man that's been through what you have can ship with me any day. You're on the Sarah Bolton, an Essex Bolton is your captain. That's me, and I'm glad to have you. You'll have as good a stateroom as there is on the vessel, and I'll take you back to New York. So don't worry. You'll find your fellow passengers cleverer people. I didn't pick them out for their cleverness, but the Sarah Bolton has never had the bad luck to carry an ugly passenger. Now just make yourself at home. You say you have no luggage. Well, Mr. Webb there will accommodate you with a change of linen until you have a chance to go ashore. Webb? Did you say Webb? said Mr. Doyle. Why, that is the name of a very good friend of mine. That is what the captain calls me, remarked the distinguished looking gentleman with a grave bow. My name is Doyle, said the other, though it is a wonder I haven't forgotten at such a time I have had. Now Doyle was just as sane as any man on the boat. In fact he was a man far above the average in intelligence, but such is the force and effect of prejudgment that everything he said and did confirm the idea of his fellow passengers that his mind was unbalanced. Their minds had been prejudiced in advance. They sought for evidences of monomania and they found them in abundance, especially when the gentleman who had been called Webb cuddly drew from Doyle the story of his day's adventure and humored him into an unconscious exaggeration of the details. He narrated his adventure with such vividness and invested the events with such reality as it seemed to his hearers that more than one shook their heads when out of Doyle's sight and hearing and remarked that it was a pity that a mind so vigorous and an imagination so powerful should be the prey of a mania, however harmless it might be to others. Indeed the romantic young woman, Miss Henrietta Estes was her name, took the main incidents of Mr. Doyle's narrative and wove them into a love story. Its title was The Mysterious Voyage by Catherine Mary. The curious will find it in the Seafoam Library series. These facts are mentioned here to provide against any possible charge of plagiarism that may be aimed at the present writer by those who have preserved copies of the pleasing and popular works included in the Seafoam series. By the time the Sarah Bolton reached Bermuda, Mr. Doyle had conceived quite a friendship for the gentleman who had called himself Webb. There was a reserve of strength and undercurrent of courage and hope in his conversation and something so restful, refreshing and pleasing in his countenance, gestures, and attitude that Mr. Doyle was irresistibly attracted toward him. There seemed to be something more important than courtesy behind his affability and the modulations of his voice appeared to speak for a mind full of tenderness and toleration toward all humanity. One morning as the two sat under an awning on the upper deck, Doyle's companion waved his hand toward the horizon. To the left of the flagstaff there, you may see the northern portion of the Bermudas. I see nothing that looks like land, replied Doyle. Perhaps not, but if you were to follow the sea for a few years, the land's line would be plain to you. Look along the line of the horizon. Can't you see a vague, misty marking of fog color, a thin streak? I suppose I could bring myself to imagine I saw it, responded Doyle, laughing. Well, it will be plain to you in half an hour. I suppose then I shall see the last of you today, and I am really sorry, remarked Doyle. Sorry, exclaimed his companion. He clasped his hands behind his head, leaned back in his chair, and regarded Doyle with a fixed and surging gaze. Yes, truly sorry, replied Doyle. I don't know whether you have noticed it or not, but all the passengers on this boat regard me with an air of suspicion. Anyhow, I have been thrown back upon you for companionship, and your conversation has been of great help to me. I've made many serious mistakes, and somehow you have held them up before me. Of course you didn't, intendant. My mother was a deeply religious woman, but I had forgotten all about her teachings until I came to associate with you. Come now. I hope I haven't been preaching to you, cried his companion, shaking with laughter. No, oh no, protested Doyle, that is the beauty of it. You haven't said a word that even a mocker could twist into can't. But somehow, he paused as if feeling for a word. Well, I can't explain it, but I have been hopelessly wrong in my methods, and I am in the wrong business. Well, that is a good beginning, remarked his companion with a cheerful smile. Caution takes command when we begin to distrust ourselves. It is then that discretion finds an opening, and discretion is closely related to virtue. It is equality you can't twist or change. A thief may be cautious, but he never can be discreet. The old saying, discretion is the better part of valor, has a very vivid meaning when it is taken literally. Your really valorous man is always discreet. Well, I have made up my mind to retire from the detective business, said Doyle with a sigh. My unknown friend McCarthy has taught me a lesson. I am going back to New York, and will try to serve my country in some capacity where I can be more useful. No more secret service for me. Yet I judge from all you have said that you have information which would lead to the undoing of this McCarthy. Well, he'll never be bothered by me or my information, exclaimed Doyle emphatically. Now that statement needs explanation, said the other, leaning forward with an appearance of interest. Why, don't you see that the man has been uncommonly kind to me. It was a contest as to which it should hang the other. If we had captured him he would have been hanged without a doubt. Now he did capture me, and instead of dropping me into the bay or transporting me back to Richmond he has taken this course. I am truly grateful to the man, and I intend to tell him so when I get back to New York. Perhaps your gratitude is premature, remarked the other, dryling. How can that be, inquired Doyle. He had me completely in his power, and here I am. That is true. Here you are. This gentleman whom the captain had called Webb, regarded Doyle with a curious stare as if he were studying a new problem. Yes, and life takes on a new kind of tone when a fellow goes through such an experience as mine. It gives a man something to think about. Anyhow, it has given me some new views. He paused and looked out over the slowly heaving sea. Do you know McCarthy? He asked after a while. While I have never actually seen the man face to face, but I know of him. He has a little girl of whom I am very fond. She is just jumping into her teens, using the years as a skipping rope. She is a very charming child. And just think, exclaimed Doyle, bringing his fists down on his knee. If my plan had carried, that child would have been an orphan. An orphan indeed, said his companion gravely. Her mother is dead. Doyle jumped from his chair and walked up and down excitedly. Tut, man, remarked his companion. Order a brandy and soda. Your experience has unnerved you. You are never more mistaken in your life, exclaimed the other. I am stronger now than I ever was. I know what I'm about. I tell you, when you have been tied and gagged and placed in a box and left in the dark in more than one sense, not knowing what moment you are to lose your life, you have time to do a lot of hard thinking. Now, I must have been in that box about eight hours, and I saw then, as I never could have seen but for that experience, how I had been at outs with the plainest suggestions of duty. I tell you, I seemed to be at a theatre where I was watching myself perform as a kind of comical, heavy villain, if there is such a thing. The two men watched the island slowly rise out of the sea until it presented a picture fair to the eye. They were silent for some time. Presently Doyle's companion spoke. And so you've made up your mind to seek out this Mr. McCarthy and present him your compliments? Yes, I have, replied Doyle emphatically. I know he'll think I'm a fool and he'll not believe me. Now, don't prejudice the man, the other protested. If I could explain my feelings to him as freely as I can to you and be as sure of his appreciation and sympathy as I am of yours, it would be different. But are you sure of mine? Why certainly, exclaimed Doyle, that is why I regret to bid you goodbye. Perhaps I shall be able to transact my business in time to return with the boat. Indeed, I think it is more than probable. Will you go ashore with me? No, replied Doyle. I'll hang around the boat and watch and hope for your return. Well, in any event, I shall return to bid you goodbye, said the other. When the boat had been made fast to the landing, the passengers hurried ashore. Doyle observed that every one of them seized an opportunity to shake hands with the man to whom he had talked so fully, and he wondered why. The wharf at which the Sarah Bolton lay soon became the center of great activity. As fast as the freight was unloaded and carried away, fresh freight arrived, and it continued to accumulate at a great rate. It was a curious conglomeration, representing hundreds of the manifold forms of appetite and desire. But Doyle noted that there was one class of freight which occupied a section of the wharf all by itself. It was composed of boxes or cases, long in stout, and seemed to call for careful handling, partly on account of its weight and partly on account of its quality. For though it seemed to be heavy, in comparison with the size of the cases, it was cautiously lowered to the floor of the wharf. Doyle concluded that these boxes contained arms and ammunition, and he judged that they had been purchased by the government to arm new troops called out by Mr. Lincoln. But he had never heard that Bermuda manufactured munitions of war. Somehow, the matter gave rise to a wonder which was so mild that it was soon forgotten in the contemplation of his own position and purposes. End of section 13