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

poor correspondent I am …” He continued reading, placing the second page atop the first as he moved along.
    “When you reach the last portion, read it aloud,” Augustus said.
    A moment later, Temple started reciting: “ ‘I am not a Know-Nothing. That is certain. How could I be? How can anyone who abhors the oppression of Negroes be in favor of degrading classes of white people? Our progress in degeneracy appears to me to be pretty rapid. As a nation, we began by declaring that “all men are created equal.” We now practically read it “all men are created equal, except Negroes.” When the Know-Nothings get control, it will read “all men are created equal, except Negroes, and foreigners, and Catholics.” When it comes to this, I should prefer emigrating to some country where they make no pretence of loving liberty—to Russia, for instance, where despotism can be taken pure, and without the base alloy of hypocrisy.’ ”
    Temple stopped, collecting himself.
    “Keep reading,” Augustus said.
    “ ‘Mary will probably pass a day or two in Louisville in October. My kindest regards to Mrs. Speed. On the leading subject of this letter, I have more of her sympathy than I have of yours. And yet let me say I am, your friend forever, A. Lincoln.’ ”
    Temple looked up at Augustus.
    “The letter was neatly folded in the back of the diary,” Augustus said. “The diary’s owner put it there. And if you read some of these other pages, it all becomes obvious.”
    “I imagine it does,” Temple said.
    “This diary belongs to Mary Todd Lincoln.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
THE SHOOTER
    N ail walked slowly to the back of his warehouse toward Augustus and Temple, who stared silently at the pages in their laps. The cogniacs fluttered and Temple began tapping his cane on the floor.
Tat, tat, tat, tat
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    “This half of my find from the B&O appears to be from Mrs. Lincoln,” Temple said. “Her initials, M.T.L., are embossed at the bottom of the diary’s pages.”
    “Well, you weren’t born in the woods to be scared by an owl,” Nail replied.
    “Joshua Speed was once the president’s best friend.”
    “What else do you have there besides letters?” Nail asked.
    “The diary goes back for four or five months, but the recent entries are of great interest. Mrs. Lincoln was fearful of the men who surrounded her,” Augustus said. “She was fearful of what it meant for Mr. Lincoln, I would think.” He began reading aloud from the diary’s pages.
    March 12, 1865: My Dear Husband is strained. He says that Northern greed will be as hard to balance as Southern bile when this great war ends. And the end comes. Mr. Stanton is with him day and night and of late all the talk is of Council Bluffs and another railway line; rebuilding the South and its railway lines; of opening the West with still more railways. Railroads to corset the country. Bankers from New York were here today and there was loud debate near his office at supper. He will not share these detailswith me. But he says it pains him to be at odds with Mr. Stanton, upon whom he relies so. Our Robert sides with Mr. Stanton and Father says that to be in opposition to his eldest son on any matter is a struggle. “Molly, he is our son,” he says. “And our son’s ambitions run deep.” Mr. Stanton, of course, despises me. I despise the group he brings to father’s office now, including Mr. Scott and Mr. Durant. They are all schemers. Father sees through them, but hasn’t the energy to wrestle them while still wrestling with General Lee
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    Augustus continued reading.
    March 25, 1865: Father didn’t sleep last night and he complains again of the nightmares. He has had many of a casket, surrounded by mourners, in the Executive Mansion. The casket is in the Green Room, where little Willie once lay dead. Father approaches the mourners in his dream and they tell him they are mourning for him! For him!! He is haunted. And his days remain haunted, too. My fears consume