Free The Lincoln Conspiracy by Timothy L. O'Brien Page A

Davis, the Richmond capitol building, Andrew Jackson, Ceres, slaves hoeing cotton, George Washington, Stonewall Jackson, a Nashville bank, two women sitting atop a cotton bale, horses, John Calhoun, garlands, monuments, Minerva, and denominations of $2, $5, $10, $20, $50, $100, and $500 weredelicately and expertly carved into the plates, each of them a mirror of the counterfeit notes drying on the lines.
    “The Secesh use lithographs for their money, but in the North we print it with steel,” Nail shouted from the front of the warehouse. “I used steel plates for my Secesh cogniacs, to help bring our rebellious brothers into the monetary fold. Dry them, crumple them, and dip them in tobacco juice and they can’t tell the difference. Nobody trusts a crisp new note. They like ’em used and dirty.”
    As Augustus removed more of the plates, an opening appeared in the center of the stack and he spotted the leather satchel at the bottom. He yanked out the bag and withdrew the two diaries from inside. He looked back across the warehouse at Temple.
    “Go ahead, read them,” Temple said. “One of them appears to have been written by a woman. Look at that one first, if you will.”
    It was indeed a woman’s script, each of the letters formed in careful, tight loops. It had been written by someone who had an education, an elaborate vocabulary, and was given over to random enthusiasms; exclamation points ended many of the sentences. Augustus began reading.
    “Where do you get the plates?” Temple asked Nail.
    “We bribed insiders at the banks in the South. Cotton smugglers helped us get them out. Once I had the plates, I published pamphlets for shop owners and bank clerks on how to spot cogniacs. We made sure the books said notes that looked like ours were tried and true and all others weren’t worthy of consideration. And we sent the pamphlets back down South with the smugglers; most of the shops being vigilant for fakes were using my pamphlets.”
    “Well done.”
    “Ta.”
    “How do you know Pinkerton?” Temple asked.
    “Those who got south during the war had to know him. He set up the first spy network for McClellan. And then Stanton came to hate him and he packed it back to Chicago.”
    “So he wasn’t a spy for the government?”
    “Of a sort. Stanton replaced him.”
    “With who?”
    “Lafayette Baker.”
    “L.B.”
    “I heard you had his horse.”
    “And his riding crop,” Temple said, sliding his hand along his thigh.
    “Not many people walk away from encounters with Baker.”
    “And you know Baker from …?”
    “Anybody dealing cogniacs has to know him. Willy Wood has the Secret Service now out of the Old Capitol Prison, and Baker runs it for him and Stanton. Most of what he does is police the District and other cities for phony notes. And for spies. They’ve spent the last four years ripping the shat out of people—killing some of them—in closed rooms at the prison to get information on the Secesh. They pick up anyone on the streets they want to, and Baker has the run of it. But he doesn’t surface with regularity.”
    Temple moved a step closer to Nail.
    “You’re with me, yes, Nail?”
    “I have a deep debt with you, Temple. I’m with you. Tho’ I would greatly like to know what exactly it is that I’m committing to.”
    “I would like to know that as well.”
    Temple looked back at Augustus and paused. He was seated near the table of plates, holding two pieces of paper in one hand and one of the diaries in the other. He was staring blankly ahead. And there was a tear running down one of his cheeks.
    “Augustus?” Temple asked.
    No response. Temple limped to the back of the warehouse.
    “Augustus?”
    Temple reached him, and Augustus handed over the sheets of paper to him. It was a letter, pulled from the back of the black leather diary.
    “Read it,” Augustus said.
    Temple tipped the letter into a shaft of light and began reading.“August 24, 1855. Dear Speed: You know what a