Free On Secret Service by John Jakes

Lincoln’s shrill reply was lost under the voice of her son Bob trying to soothe her.
    Lon wondered about Baltimore. It lacked a central depot, and an old ordinance prohibited locomotives from running through the central city. Passengers from the north had to travel a mile and a quarter from Calvert Street Station to catch the Baltimore & Ohio for Washington. Individual cars were pulled over horse-car tracks, but it had been planned for Lincoln to ride in an open carriage. In Baltimore, Pinkerton had been told that a group of conspirators would create a diversion, drawing off the police, while a smaller group closed in to shoot or stab Lincoln. The danger was heightened because of the police chief’s open support of the Confederacy. Lon didn’t sleep well that night.
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    â€œMust be a thousand out there,” Sledge said.
    â€œTwo or three times that,” Lon said as the passenger car creaked along the tracks. Lincoln was safe. An early-morning telegraph had brought word that “Plums,” Pinkerton, had arrived in Washington with his charge, “Nuts.” Lon laughed at the silly code names. Sledge said, “Careful, the boss probably made ’em up himself.”
    They’d just left Calvert Street with a mob trailing them. In the station the mob was relatively controlled. Their ringleaders organized three cheers for the Confederacy, three for its new president, Davis, and three long groans for Lincoln. At this Mary Lincoln collapsed on a plush seat and wailed. Bob, the Harvard student, vainly tried to comfort and quiet her.
    A plodding team drew the car through the gray winter afternoon. Occasional spatters of rain streaked the windows, some of which were open because of the mild temperature. Men ran along both sides of the car, spitting, cursing, yelling.
    â€œKill the gorilla!”
    â€œThat’s his wife in there!”
    â€œDirty whore!”
    â€œMama, what’s that mean?” The Lincolns’ youngest son, Thomas, called Tad, pressed against his mother’s side, round-eyed. Mary Lincoln’s powder had run down her face, melted by tears. She reminded Lon of a demented clown. She was a short, stout woman who might have been attractive once, in her days as a Kentucky belle.
    A rock sailed in, ricocheting off a spittoon. “Close the blasted windows,” young Colonel Ellsworth yelled, and proceeded to lower the first one. Old Colonel Sumner and John Nicolay sprang to help. The windows went down, bang, bang, and then the curtains were drawn, but not before men spat tobacco on several panes and smeared one with something brown that looked like feces.
    Lon and Sledge stood at the car’s rear door. The Army officers guarded the front. Lon’s hand clamped tight on the Colt .31 in his pocket. Tad and his older brother Willie, ten, had pestered Lon incessantly till he showed it to them. They were handsome boys, but they were spoiled and undisciplined.
    Someone beat on the car with a stick. Others joined in. Mrs. Lincoln pulled Tad and Willie against her bosom, clutching their heads and heaving out deep sobs. Colonel Sumner shouted at the man driving the horses from the front platform, “How much further?”
    â€œAnother two blocks.”
    â€œGo faster, Mrs. Lincoln’s in grave distress.”
    Lon felt the car sway as the mob pushed the sides. Someone broke a window with a rock; glass fell out beneath the curtain. The chanting went on.
    â€œWhore, whore!”
    â€œHe ain’t gonna live to be president!”
    â€œMy God, they’re madmen,” Lon whispered, never even thinking of his father’s disapproval.
    Suddenly, through a small window in the door, Lon saw two men with mean faces and soiled clothes climb over the chain and mount the steps to the platform. A third stood on the rear coupler, ready to climb over the railing. Lon tore the door open, jumped outside.
    The first man on the steps swung a billy. Lon jerked his