The clerk at the desk had looked like Peter Ryan. Several persons along the streets had looked like him. Even one of the bellhops. At eight, Roger had met with Atzerodt, Herold, and Paine to discuss final plans. As they sat talking on horseback, the surrounding air reeked with alcohol causing Roger to wonder what shape the world would’ve taken had the first time warden gone back and rendered extinct the race of little bugs that ate sugar and excreted alcohol. That thought still teased his mind as he rode the mare down the alley, past the Negro shanties, to face himself.
He gathered his thoughts quickly, because, although the self behind the theater was no John Wilkes Booth, he did have a shockspan and he was a killer. Taking no chances, he had his own shockspan, actually the same shockspan, ready in one hand, the reins in the other.
There were so many things crowding his mind. Why hadn’t Ryan struck? Was he counting on his original appearance in front of the theater to take care of things by itself? That didn’t seem likely. Ryan had to know they’d be prepared for him this run.
“One killing at a time,” he muttered as the glow from the gas light appeared ahead. Suddenly there was the sound of footsteps in the shadows. “Who’s there?” demanded Roger as he reined in his mount, lifted his weapon, and aimed it in the direction of the sounds. After a minute staring into the darkness, Roger pressed his knees against the mare’s sides and turned his attention toward the next task. In a moment, himself, costumed and made up as John Wilkes Booth, came into view. He was reaching for his shockspan as Roger lifted his and sent a lethal charge into his own body. As the Roger Alfred beneath the gaslight dropped, the one on the horse felt something within himself die as well.
Two figures came rushing out of the darkness of the E Street end of the alley and bent over the body. It was Detective Wells and one of his men. Roger dismounted and looked up at the tall window through which the historical John Miles had seen everything.
“I got someone to send Miles on an errand,” said Wells. The detective gestured to his companion. “Let’s get going. I don’t fancy trying to explain all this to myself.” He glanced at Roger and said, “Good luck.” Then the two men and their corpse were gone.
Roger took a deep breath and called out, “Spangler!”
In a moment Ned Spangler came rushing out. “What is it, Mr. Booth?”
“Can you hold my horse for me here? I won’t be very long.”
“I can’t, Mr. Booth. I got me just too much to do.”
“Is there anyone else in there?”
“John Miles was sent off on an errand.” Spangler held up a finger in a classic eureka pose. “I know. Johnny Peanut. He don’t have nothin’ to do until the play’s over. I’ll get him.”
As Ned ran through the stage door Roger wondered if Johnny Peanut would turn out to be a tall killer named Peter Ryan. Instead he turned out to be a squat fellow whose main ambitions in life appeared to be filth and liquor. He supported himself by lighting the gas lights in the theater before performances and extinguishing them afterward. He took the reins of Roger’s mare and Roger entered the theater, removing his gloves. He nodded and grinned pleasantly to several fellow actors, and asked one if he could cross the stage behind the set. The actor shook his head and pointed toward the access tunnel that ran beneath the stage.
Roger stood for a moment in the wings and tried to see the president’s box through the haze. He couldn’t see anything, and a utility man came up beside him and asked, “Is there something you want, Mr. Booth.”
“No. I was just wondering if I could cross behind the set. I want to get to the other side.”
“No, Mr. Booth. The dairy scene is on. You’ll have to go under the stage.”
Roger headed for the passage, and once he was beneath the boards, he could hear the actors moving about, the mumble of their lines, the laughs from the audience. In a flash he was in the side alley leading to Tenth Street. He opened the alley door and peered to his right. There, beneath the gas lights, sat a lone soldier in a chair. He nodded at the man, turned, and entered Taltavul’s saloon. There he ordered a bottle of whiskey and water from Peter Taltavul, and listened as the room full of drunks toasted Union, Columbia, Grant, Lincoln, and Peter Taltavul’s bald spot.
At one point one of the drunks said to Roger, “You’ll never be the actor your father was.” Even though the barb was directed at John Wilkes Booth and not Roger, still Roger had an urge to ask the red-nosed souse if he would like Roger to stick his hand down his throat, grab his asshole and yank him inside out. He was a little on edge. Besides, there was a script.
“When I leave the stage,” quoted Roger, “I will be the most famous man in America.”
10:08 PM, 14 April 1865
Sergeant Dye shrugged his shoulders against the damp chill and the pungent odor of wood smoke and let his attention wander next door to the happy sounds coming from Taltavul’s. He had seen the famous actor John Wilkes Booth enter the saloon a short time before. The soldier passed his tongue over his lips and contemplated how a hot rum would go down at that moment. There was nothing going on right then and it wouldn’t take but a minute. Just then, however, the actor emerged from the front of Taltavul’s and stood talking with a man whose face Dye knew, the theater’s costumer, Lewis Carland. A man the sergeant didn’t recognize lit a pipe and joined the conversation. They were talking theater, and the sergeant felt a touch of contempt. The stage, he thought, is a silly place filled with silly people.
A fourth man came down from F Street and asked the trio the time. The man with the pipe looked into the lobby of the theater and said “After ten.” The questioner continued down the street and Sergeant Dye recognized him as a singer at Ford’s named Hess.
Drunken singing came from across Tenth Street and the distant sounds of fireworks and band music threatened to tease Dye from his post. The sergeant was impatient for the end of the play when he could go off duty and join the celebrants.
The performer named Hess returned and again asked the time. He explained that he was to go on just before the final scene and join two other singers in performing the new song by Professor Withers, “All Honor to Our Soldiers.” Booth laughed uproariously at this comment, and Sergeant Dye concluded that the actor was quite a bit in his cups, although his eyes seemed very wary. There was no shame in being drunk. The entire city was drunk.
From the direction of F Street came another man. He stopped and joined the conversation, concentrating his attentions on the actor. Dye recognized Captain Williams of the Washington Cavalry Police. “Mr. Booth,” said the Captain, gesturing toward Taltavul’s, “would you do me the honor of allowing me to buy you a drink?”
Booth pulled out his pocket watch, checked the time, and shook his head. “Keene will be onstage in a minute and I promised to take a look for her.” The actor made a complete turn as he checked around himself, looking for someone.
Another admirer approached from the direction of E Street and he stopped next to Captain Williams and seemed to study Booth for a moment. The man was clad in riding boots, as was Booth, however he wore dress more suited to the west than to the streets of the District. He was a tall lanky man, young and well built, with a clear face carrying few years. Beneath the brim of his western hat he had dark hair and eyes that seemed to glitter. “Wilkes Booth?” the man inquired.
Everyone but the actor seemed highly amused at the admirer’s question. It was obviously from one who had never seen the younger Booth on the boards. “I am,” answered the actor, looking up at the stranger.