The Great Abraham Lincoln Pocket Watch Conspiracy Read online

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  For students and teachers of history everywhere

  Acknowledgments

  Any work of history is like a watch with many wheels, and this book would not have been possible without the help of many people.

  First and foremost, I must thank my parents and my entire family for their constant love and encouragement. Every act of my life is a product of the time we have always shared. I would also like to thank Jonathan Maberry; my agent, Sara Crowe; my editor, Michael Homler; Lauren Jablonski; and the many people at St. Martin’s Press for allowing me to share this book with the world. To all of you, my deepest thanks.

  Special thanks go to Ray Errol Fox for his timeless friendship and guidance; Erzsébet Fazekas for her love, support, and feedback; Daniel Eltringham for being my ingénieur; Anthony Losorelli for his bare-knuckle fight choreography; Kate Resler for her expertise on turn-of-the-century costumes and etiquette; Harry R. Rubenstein of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History for his exhaustive research on Abraham Lincoln’s pocket watches; Marc Wortman for his profound writing, research, and understanding of Yale life; Barbara Narendra at the Yale Peabody Museum of Natural History for her assistance and kindness; Judith Ann Schiff and Bill Landis of the Yale University Library Manuscripts & Archives Department for helping me break into the Skull and Bones Tomb—in 1911, of course; Ray Henderson of the William Howard Taft National Historic Site for his help; Roger and Eric at the Ford’s Theater National Historic Site; Eric Frazier at the Rare Book and Special Collections Division of the Library of Congress; the staff and volunteers at Hildene, The Lincoln Family Home in Manchester; the staff and volunteers at the Morgan Library & Museum; the library at the United States Military Academy at West Point; the White House Historical Association; Jane E. Gastineau at the Lincoln Financial Foundation; Brian Richards of the New York Yankees Museum for his undying love of baseball; my professors at Susquehanna University and Syracuse University in Florence for everything they taught me; Pennsylvania Region 6, the “DO IT LIVE!” region; Colin Hicks for being right all the time; Tim Lieb and F. James Walton for their friendship; Eden for her frequent insight; David Mitchell for always listening to me no matter how busy he was; Professor Lawrence Beaston for always telling me that I should be a writer; Nadejda Golovchanova for her assistance in nineteenth-century Russian; the Latin/Greek Institute at the Graduate Center, CUNY for always helping me with my Latin; The New York Times for their online article archive; the countless historians, historical societies, and veterans groups who dedicate their lives to their causes; everyone who reviewed this book; everyone at Crisan Bakery who put up with me as I wrote it; and all the good people at Cracked.com, particularly its awesome readers.

  And lastly, I would like to give a very special thanks to Dr. Don Housley of Susquehanna University for encouraging a certain sophomore to explore new ways to make history more enjoyable for all audiences. Such as humor.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  1. “Taft! Taft! Taft!”

  2. The Flying Machine

  3. The Surprise

  4. Meanwhile …

  5. “Hail to the Chief!”

  6. “So, What Do We Know About Aliens?”

  7. “Mr. President! Thank God You’re Here.”

  8. Taft vs. Taft

  9. “Madam President.”

  10. Up in the Air

  11. [Written in Shorthand]

  12. “Taxi!”

  13. The House of Morgan

  14. “BULL—!”

  15. Theodore Rex

  16. Pirouette

  17. Reunion

  18. Wide Awake

  19. “Till death do us part, my dear.”

  20. The Family Plot

  21. The Skull

  22. Commencement

  23. “He’s in.”

  24. The Tomb

  25. The Secret Passage

  26. The Gentleman

  27. The Universe of Battle

  28. Skull and Bones

  29. “That’s my cue.”

  30. The Pullman Conference

  31. The Airship Logbook of Major Archibald W. Butt

  32. “Ye Olde Cock Tavern.”

  33. The Colossus

  34. April 14, 1912

  35. “Welcome aboard.”

  36. “What the bloody hell is this?”

  37. Midnight

  38. “Bob…”

  39. “Major Butt!”

  40. Wilkie

  41. Taft

  42. Taft and Roosevelt

  43. In Memoriam

  44. Justice

  Epilogue

  For further reading …

  Praise for the Author

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  April 14, 1865

  FLO

  [throwing arms around Mary’s neck]

  What treason is this, Mary? No one to love you, eh, what’s the matter? You’ve been weeping, and I met that American Savage coming from here …

  Abraham shifted anxiously in his wooden rocking chair.

  It had nothing to do with the play, mind you. On the contrary, Abraham was enjoying the show quite a bit. Miss Laura Keene, the star player and one of the most gifted actresses in the country, was giving everyone at Ford’s Theatre an unforgettable farewell performance of Our American Cousin. The theater was packed with nearly two thousand patrons, among them the president of the United States; his wife, Mary; Miss Clara Harris of New York; and her fiancé, Major Henry Rathbone of the Union Army. The four were seated in an ornate, imposing state box overlooking the stage. For this particular evening, the box was draped in American flags.

  Abraham stirred again, this time slightly more bothered than before by an unseen, unknown nuisance he could not quite put his finger on. Mary, completely misreading her husband’s countenance as absorption in the play, coyly cradled his hand and shot him a playful look. Abraham returned to reality and smiled lovingly at his wife, whose bright face was lightly haloed by the crimson walls around them. As she turned back to the stage, however, her husband’s smile faded. His busy mind wandered inward and went straight back to work. He scratched his beard with his left hand while Mary continued playing with his right. Something refused to sit well with the president in that theater, and it seemed determined as the devil to interfere with his evening.

  Was it something unresolved from earlier? Abraham doubted this. He had been on his feet since seven o’clock and briskly moved through his day with supreme satisfaction. In Charleston Harbor, Major General Robert Anderson proudly hoisted the same flag over Fort Sumter he had taken down in defeat exactly four years ago to the day. In Washington, Abraham’s eldest son, Robert, was home from the war with stories to share and a future to build. His father looked forward to discussing both subjects in greater detail the next morning. The presidential cabinet, now charged with the delicate task of reconstruction, met with the Union hero General Ulysses S. Grant that midday. Abraham could not have been more pleased with Grant’s report on Confederate General Robert E. Lee’s surrender at Appomattox and expected more good news to come from General William T. Sherman in North Carolina. Abraham’s afternoon
carriage ride was calm and pleasant, and so unusually full of cheer that even Mary was surprised by her husband’s euphoria. Between Lee’s surrender and the triumphant return of the battered Stars and Stripes to Fort Sumter, the nation’s great civil war finally appeared to be over.

  So, why did it feel like something was gnawing at Abraham like a tick with each passing second?

  Did he forget to bring something? Abraham glanced at his hat, shawl, and greatcoat stacked neatly on a chair alongside his ebony walking stick in the far corner of box 8. Although he was too far away to reach them, he was confident everything was accounted for, right down to those ill-fitting white kid gloves Mary always insisted he carry. Those tacky, loathsome burdens were safely stowed in his left coat pocket, completely and deliberately unused all evening.

  Still searching for answers, Abraham’s thoughts returned to his cabinet meeting. Something stood out there for some reason, and he had a feeling it involved that strange dream he had shared with his secretaries: the one where he was standing on a vessel floating toward a vast, unknown shore at fantastic speed. The dream preceded every major Union victory of the war, but this was the first time Abraham discussed the subject with his staff. Grant dismissed the idea that the dream foreshadowed any developments for Sherman, but Abraham could not ignore the shared expression on so many faces in that room: his naval secretary Gideon Welles, Assistant Secretary of State Frederick Seward, and …

  With that last name, Abraham instinctively moved his left hand to his timepiece, only to find an empty pocket where his new pocket watch should have been. Abraham looked down at his waistcoat, aghast. A rather magnificent pocket watch, one unlike any he had ever seen or dreamed possible, was missing. As was its gold chain and gold watch fob.

  The watch was gone? The entire watch? The whole world around Abraham seemed to slow. He started patting his pockets frantically, but caught himself once he realized Mary was still in possession of his other hand. Fortunately, she was too focused on the play with her binoculars to notice her husband’s quandary, sparing him some embarrassment. If Mary learned the president’s pocket watch was missing, Abraham suspected she would have the Army lock down the whole building just on principle. The flummoxed chief executive scanned the carpet for anything that glittered, but to no avail. Reddened, Abraham sank deeply into the scarlet damask of his wooden rocker. He had not felt so robbed since Robert nearly lost his first inaugural address four years beforehand.

  Abraham knew the only option left was to empty his pockets. If the watch was indeed missing—or worse, stolen—he would have to send his messenger Charles Forbes to notify the Seward household, Allan Pinkerton, and possibly even the War Department. However, the president was mindful that he had to choose his next moves carefully. His position within the state box offered fantastic privacy from the audience, but he did not wish to alarm anyone in the opposing boxes or the orchestra, never mind any of the actors onstage. He looked over his right shoulder at his greatcoat, and then slowly peered at the audience from behind the Treasury Guard flag to his left. Abraham was up to something, and he wanted to keep it safe from the picklocks of history. His demeanor exuded cool indifference, but his mind was all clockwork.

  “I’ll be right back,” he whispered to Mary.

  She turned her head in surprise. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I just feel a slight chill coming. I should get my coat.” It sounded like a perfectly satisfactory and even halfway honest excuse.

  “But you’re sweating.”

  Abraham froze. “Am I?” A cold mixture of sweat and pomade was trickling down his forehead and neck. “I better get my shawl as well.” Abraham smiled uneasily, and then darted toward his bundle in box 8. Mary, completely mystified by her husband, shook her head and returned to Laura Keene with her glasses.

  Abraham checked his hat—empty—and carefully put on his coat, which, even during times like these, he appreciated as one fine item from Brooks Brothers. He then glanced at Miss Harris and Major Rathbone, who, though preoccupied with the play, were still a little too close for Abraham’s comfort. In need of privacy, the president quietly opened the door to his left and stepped into the darkened narrow passage connecting the state box to the theater’s dress circle. The sole light in the vestibule was a peephole cut into the box 7 door, but otherwise the corridor seemed to disappear into total darkness.

  Abraham stood with his back to the passageway and started searching his coat until he heard what sounded like a board creaking behind him. The president turned and stared into the Cimmerian hallway. For a second, he swore he could hear someone breathing. “Parker?” he whispered, thinking it might be his bodyguard. There was no reply and the breathing stopped, so Abraham dismissed the sound as either nothing or just an actor.

  Within the open doorframe to this chamber, Abraham rummaged through his pockets and took inventory:

  One pair of spectacles folded in a silver case.

  One padded lens polisher.

  One pocketknife: six blades, ivory with silver mounting.

  One Irish linen handkerchief with “A. Lincoln” embroidered in red. Abraham quickly wiped his brow with it and continued.

  A second pair of spectacles: gold-rimmed, mended in one hinge with string, in a second case marked “Franklin & Co Opticians, Washington, D.C.”

  One sleeve button: dark blue enamel with a gold “L” initial.

  One wallet: brown leather lined with purple silk, containing a small pencil, eight newspaper clippings, and a five-dollar Confederate note Abraham found in Jefferson Davis’s desk in Richmond the previous week.

  And …

  Eureka! Abraham felt a hard, heavy lump in his left coat pocket, beneath his gloves. He reached in and pulled out a bauble that beckoned him back to the flickering gaslights of Ford’s Theatre. It was a watch fob: pyramidal with a gold setting and a single polished fragment of gold-bearing quartz. The alluring stone looked like liquid gold frozen in icy marble that shimmered like a glacier beneath the northern lights. Although its timepiece and chain were nowhere to be found, Abraham could not help but admire the fob’s tiny, whispering gold specks in awe.

  Unfortunately, Abraham was out of time. The audience was clapping, signaling an end to Scene 1 along with the president’s futile search for his pocket watch. Defeated but not empty-handed, the president slipped the fob into his waistcoat and dutifully adjusted the gloves in his coat pocket—the latter something Mary caught with her keen blue eyes. Abraham threw his shawl around his shoulders and returned to his wife as the stagehands readied Act III, Scene 2 of Our American Cousin. In his hurry, it never dawned on Abraham to shut the door to the passageway behind them.

  The president probably should have dispatched his messenger once it was evident his pocket watch was missing, but something stopped him. As Abraham brooded in his rocking chair for the next few minutes, an image even more captivating than the watch fob seized him: a large outstretched eagle surrounded by Union shields and bearing a banner in its beak reading “One Country, One Destiny.” The eagle was stitched into the lining of the president’s greatcoat, and he always made a habit of reflecting on it whenever he put the coat on. As the image of this great eagle fanned its wings across Abraham’s mind, the president instantly deduced the one place in the world his pocket watch had to be.

  A smile spread across Abraham’s face and he clasped Mary’s hand tightly. Mary, feeling the warmth returning to her husband’s fingers, embraced him dearly and directed him back to the play.

  MRS. MOUNTCHESSINGTON

  I am aware, Mr. Trenchard, you are not used to the manners of good society, and that, alone, will excuse the impertinence of which you have been guilty.

  Abraham raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

  ASA

  Don’t know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal; you sockdologizing old mantrap!

  Abraham and Mary grinned brightly as Ford’s Theatre exploded w
ith the sound of laughter.

  * * *

  “Hey, Bob. You awake?”

  Secret Service Chief John E. Wilkie, the mustached, choleric character on Robert’s right, gently nudged his aging neighbor back to the world of the living.

  “Yes, I am.” Robert nodded, slightly jaded. He scratched his beard and straightened himself on his wobbly barstool.

  “I’ve never seen someone sozzled on Darjeeling before.” Wilkie grinned. He had a dying cigar in his mouth and a full set of stained yellow teeth.

  Robert looked down at his lonely teacup, which by now had completely lost its warmth. “Sorry. My mind was worlds away.” The sixty-six-year-old adjusted his spectacles and reacclimated himself while sipping cold black tea. 1865 became 1910, Washington faded like a photograph into London, and the thespian temple that was Ford’s Theatre decayed into a crowded, noisy pub: the Lamb & Flag. Colloquially known as the “Bucket of Blood,” this Covent Garden locale was a favorite of Samuel Butler, Charles Dickens, and other greats smart enough to avoid it on evenings like this one: an unlicensed British bare-knuckle boxing championship.

  “I hear John Dryden was nearly beaten to death outside this place,” said Robert. “He was poet laureate at the time.”

  “No kiddin’. Was he here for the fight as well?” Wilkie lit a fresh cigar that filled his pince-nez with flame.

  “I don’t think so. It was over two hundred years ago.”

  “Great,” Wilkie puffed. “That means I don’t need to know about him.” The Secret Service chief turned around and scanned the scene behind a growing cloud of smoke. The three agents he had planted throughout the pub saw their signal and immediately converged toward the bar. Like their boss, they were wearing bowler hats to blend in with the crowd this evening.

  “I admire your ardor for your work,” remarked Robert as he finished his tea.

  “What is this, a date? Quit twaddling about sweet nothings. I’m here to bring you upstairs, Bob. The big man is ready.”

  Robert nearly swallowed his teacup. “He’s not already up there, is he?”