The Lincoln Deception by David O. Stewart Read Free Book Online Page A

was rich from his clothes. They were beautiful. We didn’t see clothes like that. I still remember that gray suit. He got off that stage from Washington, which bounced people around like popcorn, but with that gray suit he looked like he stepped out of some magazine drawing.”
    â€œWhat’d they talk about?”
    â€œLord, I don’t know. By that time, white folks was careful around us colored. Everybody knew things wasn’t going good for the South, and that meant the colored was going to be citizens, gonna happen sometime soon, so they got real careful ’round us.”
    â€œDid you see that New York man again?”
    â€œNo, not again. But after Mr. Lincoln was killed, that Harbin was around some. You know, we all heard that Booth was hiding somewhere near. Couldn’t keep a secret like that.”

    The road back to Cadiz was softer after the rain, making the mare’s work that much harder. Cook asked Fraser what he was after with the old lady.
    â€œI’m not sure. You see, I don’t like coincidences much myself. Mr. Bingham, you know, when he prosecuted the Lincoln case, he claimed the Confederacy was behind Booth, even had witnesses who said so. When it turned out the witnesses were liars, Mr. Bingham didn’t change his tune. Ever since, people have been dreaming up all these conspiracies Booth could’ve been part of, but Mr. Bingham never wavered. He stuck by what he said first. Makes me curious.”
    â€œDid Rachel help?”
    â€œI don’t know. What she says jibes with what I was thinking. People don’t pay much attention to how Confederate agents took care of Booth when he was trying to escape. That makes me think the assassination might have been a Confederate plan, just like Mr. Bingham said. Maybe that man Harbin was part of it. He was a Southern agent, he said so himself.”
    â€œWhat about that Surratt woman?”
    â€œSome people claim she was innocent, just a weak woman, but Mr. Bingham never doubted she was guilty. Called her a she-lion. The way Rachel described her—a strong, smart woman, running her business—that sounded like the woman Mr. Bingham talked about.” Fraser sighed. “I’d like to figure this out, just curious, you know.”
    â€œIf you was going to try to figure it out, how would you do that?”
    â€œWhy’re you so interested? What’s it to you?”
    Cook scowled. “What’s it to me? I’m interested, that’s what’s it to me. Biggest crime in history, I’m interested. I’m supposed to be some ignorant coon, don’t care why the sun comes up in the morning?”
    Fraser wondered how this high-strung Negro had lived long enough to have gray hairs. “I’ve thought about writing to this newspaper man,” Fraser said. “He was there back then, there in Washington when Lincoln got shot. He wrote about it then, wrote more about it since. He was a friend of Mr. Bingham’s, knew everyone. Maybe he knows more.”
    â€œIf he knew more, why wouldn’t he write it?”
    â€œIt could be the sort of thing he’s not quite sure of. Or even could be something that he doesn’t really know he knows, something he doesn’t see how it’s important.” Fraser didn’t add that doctors know all about that, about missing the evidence that’s right in front of your eyes and you end up diagnosing a patient wrong.
    â€œAnd you’ll see it, you’ll see it when this writer fellow didn’t?”
    Fraser smiled and looked out at the road. “I suppose that’s why I haven’t written him. It was just a thought.”
    â€œSounds like you’re missing the big story.” Cook switched the reins to his left hand, pointing in front of him with his free hand. “This woman Surratt, see, it doesn’t sound like she’s any big deal. Hell, they hanged her,