Rebel falls, p.22
Rebel Falls, page 22
“Who else have you brought in to look him over?”
Kane paused before answering. “Well, I guess it won’t do any harm to tell you. Earlier today we had in Walter Ashley, part-owner of the Philo Parsons, the vessel the rebels commandeered to cross Lake Erie. Yesterday, it was the boat’s fireman. You’ve read the reports. Undoubtedly, you know the names. Much of the setup.”
I wouldn’t tell him that I knew more than perhaps anyone about how the attempt on the USS Michigan had been launched.
“Your other visitors?” I asked. “They said it was Captain Beall?”
“That they did,” Kane replied. “But none of them were around him as much as you, Miss Chase. After all, you met him in Niagara Falls, traveled with him to Ohio.”
I couldn’t disagree with that.
“You’re an important set of eyes for us,” Kane said. “We need to be certain before going ahead. He keeps insisting that his name is actually Baker, not Beall. He’s gone as far as to try and bribe one of the watchmen to let him walk in the middle of the night.”
“And if I identify him as John Yates Beall?”
“Then he’ll be formally charged as a foreign combatant.”
“And if sentenced?”
“He could hang.”
I shook my head. “So, you’re asking me to put a man to death.”
“No, ma’am. Simply verify that he is who he is. And then let the evidence decide what happens to him. He’ll have his day in court, or at least in front of a military tribunal.”
Was there no end to this nightmare?
“The two men from the Philo Parsons have already picked him out of a lineup,” added Kane. “Did it right quick, too, so there’s no need for that. We’ll keep him in his cell. As I said, it’s not very big, so we’ll walk you by once or twice, as many times as you need. We’ll douse the lights in the hallway, which will keep you back in the shadows. We can even dress you in a hood and cloak to better disguise your presence, if you’d like.”
“I walk by and do what?”
“You take a good hard look at him. You can take as many passes, linger as long as you need to. We need to know, without a doubt, if this is John Yates Beall or not.”
“And what if I refuse?”
“I wouldn’t advise it, ma’am. The major-general is eager to move this case forward. Let’s just say that the man can make things difficult for those who cross him.”
Soon afterward, I followed one of the guards down the backstairs to the first level of cells. Kane trailed close behind me. I wore the long cloak and pulled the dark hood as closely as I could around my face.
“He’s in the second cell on the left,” Kane whispered, and together the three of us filed past.
The person accompanying the space wasn’t a big man and at first glance he sported a strong resemblance to Captain Beall. He was huddled on his bunk, face turned away from the door of bars, and I lingered as long as I dared before moving past.
When we reached the end of the dark hallway, Kane drew alongside.
“Well?”
I found that I was holding my breath against the stench of the place.
“I’m not sure. I couldn’t see enough of his face.”
“All right,” Kane said. “We’ll try again.”
The guard turned to go back down the hallway, and I reluctantly fell into step behind him, with Kane again on my shoulder. As we neared the cell the second time, Kane stepped forward and ran his baton along the cell’s bars.
“Baker, is that you?” he shouted, and the figure in the shadows turned toward us. His face was bruised with welts, and he hadn’t shaved in days. While there was none of the madman’s bluster that I had witnessed that night on the Suspension Bridge, there was no mistaking those intense eyes. They fell upon me and briefly grew wide in recognition.
“Miss Chase?” Beall exclaimed, and with that Kane led me by the elbow, down the hall and out of sight.
57
Major John Bolles began his closing arguments in the crowded courtroom at Fort Lafayette, the island fortress in the narrows of the New York harbor, by saying, “The witnesses have clearly and unequivocally placed John Yates Beall at the center of several serious crimes against the Union. These include the taking of the Philo Parsons and then the Island Queen, which were part of the attempted attack on the USS Michigan. As we have shown beyond any doubt, this was an integral part of an organized plan to free the Confederate prisoners on Johnson’s Island near Sandusky in Ohio.
“The witnesses and further documentation also place the defendant at the raid just south of Buffalo, New York. Fortunately, this brazen attack did not result in any loss of life. And John Yates Beall was then apprehended during his attempt to cross over the border to a safe refuge in Canada on the Suspension Bridge in Niagara Falls.”
Here Bolles paused to survey the small courtroom, which was standing room only. I sat near the back, in the second-to-last row. In addition to me, the prosecution had brought forward five other witnesses: Walter Ashley, the co-owner of the Philo Parsons; William Weston, the vessel’s fireman; Charles Jenks, the officer who had officially arrested Beall at the Suspension Bridge; Edward Hays, the doorkeeper at the Mulberry Street police headquarters, the one Captain Beall had tried to bribe; and George Anderson, the seventeen-year-old who had been arrested with the rebel commander at the border at Niagara Falls.
Anderson had left no doubt about the scope of the Buffalo raid, confirming that it was done to free the Confederate generals and bankrolled by Jacob Thompson and the Northwest Conspiracy.
“And it’s this particular point that I must underscore in my final words to you,” Bolles told the courtroom. “You have heard a great deal of talk during these proceedings about what constitutes a spy. John Yates Beall’s defense has offered up letters and documentation from those in Richmond and Jefferson Davis himself that the planned attack on the USS Michigan and the later raid south of Buffalo were a part of the war effort. That it was, in essence, business as usual during such horrific times. I could not disagree more.”
Bolles paused and faced the table where Beall and his attorneys sat. He stared at the rebel commander, who glared back.
“These so-called commandos wore civilian dress and assumed aliases. Their actions were hundreds of miles beyond any battlefield, and innocent people were caught up in their web of deceit, several of whom you have heard from in this very room. The defendants want to cloak themselves in the honor and respect awarded to regular soldiers, but to do so becomes a corrupt action in this particular case. For John Yates Beall and his men do not deserve any respect. The only words that apply to what they have done are pirate, guerrilla, and, most of all, spy.
“That’s why I beseech the court that the only sentence for such action is death.”
A gasp ran through the courtroom. Major-General John Dix had entered the courtroom by this point. He stood along the far wall, not far from me. I saw Dix give a slight nod of appreciation in Bolles’s direction.
Within the day, a verdict was handed down by the military tribunal and endorsed by Major-General Dix himself. It stated that John Yates Beall was deemed a spy and ordered to be “hanged by the neck until dead on Governor’s Island” in four days’ time.
I couldn’t believe that my testimony had led to this. Helped send a man to the gallows.
In the hubbub after the verdict was read, Bennet Burley’s warning flashed through my mind. How the worst outcome would be to turn Captain John Yates Beall into a martyr. Someone the rebel cause could rally around for years to come.
58
“Rory, it is not within my power to pardon him,” Secretary Seward said. “Only the president can do that.”
Once again, I found myself sitting on the opposite side of a desk from one of the most powerful men in the Union. The study in his Washington residence bore a striking resemblance to the one in Auburn. Once again, my friend Fanny stood near the door, hanging on every word.
“Then when can I speak with him?”
‘The president?”
“Yes, sir.”
Secretary Seward turned toward the window. His Washington residence overlooked Lafayette Park, and beyond that stood the White House itself. By the grave look on the secretary’s face, however, I knew that my request wouldn’t be fulfilled as easily as I wished.
“The president is a busy man,” Secretary Seward began. Then he paused, as if unsure how to continue. “He’s pleased with your fine work regarding the warship, the Michigan. He appreciates it whole-heartedly. But right now, so much is riding upon day-to-day, even hourly decisions.”
“The war is finally winding down,” Fanny interjected.
“It’s not over yet,” the secretary warned. “So much remains open-ended until Richmond falls.”
“But I’ll only need a few minutes of the president’s time.”
“That’s nearly impossible right now,” Secretary Seward answered. “I’m sorry, Rory.”
Minutes later, I was ushered from the secretary’s office, walking with my childhood friend to the parlor. It wasn’t yet nine in the morning, and Secretary Seward would soon be leaving for his official office, a few blocks away, closer to the Capitol.
“Thank you for getting me in to speak with him,” I said. “I didn’t realize your father would be so busy this early in the day.”
Fanny smiled, “It’s like this all the time now. Everyone knows the war is racing to a close. With General Grant in full command, Lee cannot hold on much longer.”
The two of us sat by the window overlooking the square and listened to the front door open. Someone else asked for the secretary.
“I’ve been after Father to hire a doorman,” Fanny said. “He won’t hear of it, of course. He takes after the president in that way.”
“Can you get me in to see President Lincoln?”
“I don’t know, Rory. From what we’ve heard about John Yates Beall, his attempt on the Michigan, now this Buffalo raid—”
“Fanny, if he hangs, others will cherish his memory. Take up this evil cause. It’s best to do as Mr. Douglas once told me: ‘Lock him up and throw away the key.’ Let the world forget about him.”
My childhood friend took a deep breath. “I’m not one to argue with Mr. Douglas,” she finally said. “Few know the ways of the world, the good and the bad, better than he does.”
“So, let’s stop the killing then. At least this time.”
Fanny considered this as the room once again grew silent. I looked out the window at the small park and the people moving past. Everyone in the nation’s capital seemed to be in a hurry—eager to recast themselves before their world was transformed into something else, something new and bold and perhaps more reasonable.
“I don’t like working behind Father’s back,” Fanny said. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
59
At dusk, one could better picture what kind of city Washington might grow up to be. Even though whores, swindlers, and monkey grinders populated the muddy streets near the White House itself, and an open sewer ran along Connecticut Avenue after a heavy rain, the boulevards themselves were constructed wide enough, daring to stretch away in every direction from the blocks-long strip of land of meandering carriage paths and trees called the Mall. I didn’t consider myself much of a city person. I would always be more accustomed to the rhythms and the light to be found in the country, or certainly a smaller town. Still, I had to admit that I enjoyed walking many of Washington’s streets, especially as night approached. At dusk, amid the gathering shadows, one could better recognize what this world might one day be.
As I entered the Sewards’ home, Fanny called for me to keep my wrap on. In fact, Fanny was pulling on her coat and grabbing an umbrella from the canister near the coat tree.
“Let’s go before Father is any the wiser,” she whispered, grasping my hand. “President Lincoln will see us now—if we hurry.”
From the Sewards’ home, it was no more than a five-minute walk to the front door of the White House. No doubt the secretary had moved into the three-story town house to be closer to the president and available whenever he was needed.
At the White House door, Fanny was immediately recognized, and the two of us were ushered inside, where the advancing darkness had already cast many of the rooms into shadow and hushed conversation. If I had been on my own, I knew I would have been stopped here. My childhood friend was a familiar face, though, and soon we were heading farther into the gloom, which was becoming speckled with candlelight.
“Miss Fanny?” a boyish-looking man called out. “Is he expecting you?”
He was sitting at a small desk inside the door to one of the next rooms we passed by. Fanny refused to stop or directly answer.
“It’s important, Mr. Hay,” she said over her shoulder as she continued to nudge me along until the two of us nearly spilled into the adjoining room, with John Hay, the president’s private secretary, hurrying after us.
Once inside the room, I wondered if anyone was actually there. Without enough light, the place’s dimensions seemed to stretch forever, mimicking how the streets outside were laid out.
“It’s all right, John,” said a bemused but weary voice. “I’m always at Miss Fanny’s beck and call.”
In lieu of any formal introduction, the president stepped into the half-light, and Fanny said, “Mr. President.”
“What can I do for you, child?”
“I brought a visitor.”
“I see you have. A friend?”
“A good friend, sir. We’ve known each other since we were children, growing up in Auburn.”
“Then I’m delighted to make her acquaintance,” Lincoln said, nodding for each of us to sit in one of the upholstered chairs across the desk from him. “We have a few moments before the next round of scheduled interruptions. Come, let’s see if we can solve something that’s amiss with the world.”
As we sat down, Hay remained by the door, unsure of what to do.
“You must be Miss Chase,” the president began.
“Yes, sir. How did you—”
“You see, I know our Miss Fanny. And she usually teases things out in a cool, measured way. Like a cat with a fair-sized ball of yarn. For her to come in unannounced, to get my Mr. Hay all agitated and bothered, something very special must have happened, or she would not conduct herself in such a contrary way. And one Rebecca ‘Rory’ Chase is about the only reason I could come up with on such short notice.”
“Rory was in New York,” Fanny began.
“At the trial of John Yates Beall?” the president said.
“That’s correct, sir.”
“His actions and arrest are most unfortunate,” Lincoln said, stroking his forehead. “The war may soon be over. If he could have steered clear of trouble for a while longer, he would have been forgotten. Allowed to fade into what many of us desire after these long years of war—being unrecognized by fate.”
“Couldn’t you still offer him that choice, sir?” I asked.
“You mean pardon him?”
“Yes, certainly you could find it in your heart, Mr. President.”
Lincoln chuckled faintly at this. “Ah, Miss Chase, if you hang around this town long enough, you’ll soon hear that pardoning supposed sinners is all I’m good for. Isn’t that right, Mr. Hay?”
His secretary, still standing in the doorway, didn’t reply.
“I’ve pardoned more men than anybody in this place, the people’s house, can remember by this point. My military men say I sometimes mock them with another stroke of my pen.”
“So why not spare another one?” I said, daring to press the point.
“But my generals say that if John Yates Beall and his men had secured the Michigan,” the president continued. “Oh, the damage they could have done to the Union. Some, like Fanny’s father, have also advised me that it could have damaged my campaign to win the presidency for another term.”
“Yet they didn’t, sir.”
“I know, Miss Chase. I have you to thank for that as much as anyone. Your work in Sandusky to keep the prison at Johnson’s Island secure, the Michigan in safe hands, was exemplary.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
Lincoln tapped one of the many stacks of paper on his desk with an open palm. “I must admit that I don’t fully understand why you are coming to his defense now, at the eleventh hour. Especially considering that you helped derail his plans.”
How could I explain that I didn’t wholly understand my desire to save Captain Beall either? President Lincoln was right: it didn’t make much sense at all. None of it did anymore. Except something deep inside me kept saying it was the right thing to do. Especially now that the war was nearly over. Too tongue-tied, I simply sat there, staring the floor.
“If it’s any comfort, you’re in good company,” President Lincoln said and again lightly patted a stack of papers on his desk. “All of these are letters urging me to pardon one John Yates Beall. And their ranks include several Congressmen, members of the military on both sides of the conflict—in fact, even members of my own cabinet. Isn’t that so, Mr. Hay?”
“Afraid so, sir.”
“It seems Mr. Beall has a great many friends, ones willing to vouch for his character.”
“So why not let him be?”
Lincoln brought his long bony fingers into a steeple and rested his chin upon them.
“Because one man is adamant that I don’t pardon him.”
“Dix?” Fanny asked.
Lincoln smiled. “You are correct, my dear. How long have you been coming down from the north woods with your father? I bet it amounts to a significant tenure by now. Still, you know more about how Washington works, who is who, than almost anyone. I should have made you a general, Miss Fanny.”
