THE MISSION

It is about 2 p.m. on the 14th of April, the date of Lincoln’s assassination at Ford Theatre. If everything goes smoothly, I should have enough time to save the President.

After my time travel contraption landed me in the middle of a small corn field, a passing farmer in a rickety wagon picked me up and took me all the way into Washington, dropping me near the Whitehouse.

By the way, my plan is first, to talk to Lincoln and warn him of the plot to assassinate him, and second, to find Booth and kill him.

Simple.

*

According to my briefing President Lincoln will take the misses out for a buggy ride around 3 p.m. to the Naval Yards and return to the Whitehouse about 5.

I figured I would forego the sleep I desperately needed which meant I had to be awake and sharp for another eight hours which seemed like a long haul at this time. I was so tired my body hurt, and my eyes burned. As a navy seal, I’d been trained to deal with extreme exhaustion but that didn’t make it any less painful.

My logic kicked in and I concluded that the sooner I killed Booth, the sooner I could sleep.

This gave me great motivation to kill him. Soon.

Sorry John Wilkes.

But first I need to warn Lincoln.

*

I estimated that I had enough time for some onsite surveillance, so I walked over to the Ford Theatre which was only several blocks from the Whitehouse.

I circled the theatre building a couple times noting that there was a staircase in the rear near the allley where Booth made his escape.

“We’re closed sir,” said the young, smiling attendant stationed near the entrance.

“I just need to check out some security issues,” I said releasing my friendliest smile. “Has John Booth been around lately?”

“Oh yes sir. He picked up his mail this morning and said he’ll be back for the performance tonight.”

“I understand the President is attending the play tonight." Then I said as if I could hardly believe our good fortune, "could that possibly be true?"

“Yes sir, and we think General Grant will attend also.”

“How wonderful!" I said with genuine excitement. "Thank you very much, young man," I said, then, "oh, could you please direct me to the Presidential seating area?”

I must say the theatre was quite impressive with its new paint, heavy, regal colored drapes, custom woodwork everywhere, and decorative sconces on the walls.

On the second floor, I found the presidential box, and the passageway to it. The stairs I saw out back entered into that passageway close to the box and the lounge was nearby. Well, if I did my job, Booth would be dead way before the Presidential seating arrangements were an issue.

I headed back to the Whitehouse, hoping to catch the President just after his buggy ride, which timewise would be ideal.

As I neared the Whitehouse, I saw a buggy moving along a dusty track, the locals called a street. I stepped into the road and waved my arms, wide slow movements. Nice and easy. The 2 cavalry escorts moved to the front of the carriage, watching me closely.

The small procession stopped when they were close but the small dust cloud kept on drifting at me.

“Sir, move to the side please,” said the mounted soldier. I noticed his hand was on the revolver at his hip which was already half-way out of the holster.

“I have an important message for President Lincoln,” I said holding my hands high in the air. I turned slowly around, showing I had no weapons.

A calm voice came from the carriage. “It’s alright sergeant. Please, let him pass.”

The horse backed up a couple steps but the sergeant, hand still on the revolver, maintained his steady focus on my every movement.

I nodded respectfully to the sergeant as I passed, walking slowly to the carriage.

"Nice day," I said. The sergeant didn't respond, just kept watching.

The other guard was on the far side of the carriage scanning the people out taking a relaxing stroll after the church service.

The President’s face was carved with deep wrinkles. His eyes were soft and friendly. He looked happy. I guess the war ending and his son returning home were like the slow release of an incredible pressure he had been feeling for years. He raised his eyebrows, encouraging me to get on with it.

I took off my wide brim hat and respectfully placed it over my chest and nodded at Mary Todd, Lincoln’s wife.

“May I talk to you in private sir, off to the side?”

“Will this take long sir?” Lincoln said still smiling. “We’re on our way to the play.”

“No sir. This will not take long, but it is very important.”

“Alright,” he said as he looked to his wife. “Mary, I’ll be right back.”

Lincoln, dressed in a dusty, black suitcoat and pants, and a white shirt, took off the stovepipe hat and clutched it in one hand as he unfolded his body, all arms and legs and clambered from the carriage like a gigantic bug.

“I sir am President Lincoln. Your name please.” The eyes were still friendly, watched me with interest.

I was unsure just what the man’s reaction would be so I went straight in. “Sir, I have learned of a plot to assassinate you tonight at the theatre.”

“Well,” Lincoln said as if amused by my directness, “you certainly don’t waste any time getting to the point do you Mr.? Your name again is?”

“Kyle sir.”

“Nice to meet you Kyle,” he said extending his hand. This surprised me but I clasped it, and he shook it as if genuinely happy to meet me, nodding and looking straight into my eyes. “Now, how did you learn of this plot?”

I paused a moment. Earlier, I’d decided not to say I had travelled back from the future as I figured that would label me a crazy man and my message would not be taken seriously.

“I am like a fortune teller sir. I see the future,” I said, which was barely a better story than time travel, but it was the best I could come up with at that moment.

“Oh, I see,” said the President nodding. "You know, I get word of maybe three or four plots to kill me per week. I must say, the fortune teller idea is a bit unique.”

“Being able to read the future, I know a lot about your upcoming day sir. I know General Grant will not be attending the play with you which he may or may not have told you yet. Your normal bodyguard is off tonight and being replaced by Parker who has a drinking problem. There will be a few of your best friends waiting for you at the Whitehouse when you return from this carriage ride.”

The President turned, looked at the Whitehouse and the doors opened at that precise moment. A few men stepped outside but they were too far away to determine who they were.

I continued. “You will be attending the play with Major Rathbone and his fiancé. The assassination is scheduled to happen in the third act while the guard is nowhere to be found.” I paused trying to gauge his reaction. “May I say sir that your security is mighty slim considering the war is about to end and the southern sympathizers are dangerous, and all over the city.”

Lincoln nodded, looked at me intently, said cheerfully, “Kyle, you look more like a trapper or hunter than a fortune teller.”

“Yes sir,” I said suddenly conscious of my fringed buckskin garb provided by my prep team in the future. “What I have said so far, you know parts of it to be true or you will learn it to be true shortly. All I want sir is your safety.”

“Well, I certainly do appreciate that Mr. Kyle.” Lincoln said smiling. There was a tone of sincerity coating his voice.

I paused hoping these facts were starting to make an impact. I was still unsure how this was going. “You are not the only target tonight sir. Secretary Seward and Vice President Johnson are also targets. Seward will be seriously wounded. Johnson will not be attacked. The three of you are to be assassinated simultaneously at about 1015 tonight.”

Those facts finally seemed to hit home. Lincoln looked off into the distances, said quietly, “who is the assassin?”

I took a deep breath again wondering how the President would take this one. “I hope you can accept this sir. John Wilkes Booth.”

Lincoln’s face tightened in disbelief his eyes snapped onto mine. “Booth, the actor?” After a short pause he turned away shaking his head. “I am familiar with his acting, and I’ve even invited him a couple times to the Whitehouse for a visit.” He paused a moment, said, “come to think of it though, he’s never accepted or even acknowledged the invitation.”

“Yes Mr. President. Booth is a radical, passionate supporter of the cause. As a matter of fact, approximately 2 weeks ago he was planning to kidnap you from a different play in exchange for prisoners. If you recall, you did not attend the play but attended a different ceremony.”

Lincoln stroked the beard at his chin. “You certainly know a lot about my business Kyle. But Booth? Very hard to believe.”

“Yes sir. I understand. I am only asking that you increase your security and please do not go to the play. Please warn Seward and Johnson. I will take care of Booth.”

Lincoln’s eyes widened, “take 'care' of Booth?” He emphasized the word 'care'.

“Yes sir," I said realizing by the look on his face I'd made a mistake. I'd vaguely told him I was going to kill Booth. I tried to cover it up, said, " and by that, I mean sir, I will find him and make sure he does you no harm.”

“Hmmm,” Lincoln looked at me closely, and nodded, the happiness of moments ago gone. "Just a moment Kyle.”

He turned and started walking away from me.

Not a good sign, I thought. I was losing him.

“Mr. Lincoln,” I called. “I have more information that will help you.”

He turned slowly back to me and took some steps in my direction.

“Yes?” he said. His look was more intense than I'd seen.

“I am not a fortune teller sir,” I said.

The President nodded for me to continue, said with a look of interest, “please continue.”

“You may not believe this sir, but I hope it helps you understand,” I paused, thinking this was my best chance to convince him.

I plunged forward, said, “I am from the future sir. Approximately 180 years into the future. We finally figured out how to travel through time, but currently we can only travel into the past. I was selected, and preventing your assassination is my mission.”

“Well,” he said in his cordial, folksy voice, “I thought the fortune teller story was hard to believe. But returning back from the future? Wow. Quite impressive Kyle.”

“Yes sir,” I said, feeling a flicker of hope that he was accepting this possibility. Then I realized this explanation sounded crazy, even to me. If someone had told me just 15 years ago that they were back from the future to save me, I would have thought they were delusional, and definitely not to be trusted.

I tried to be sincere and convincing by adding impressive facts. “Mr. President, in the future, our technology is incredibly advanced. We’ve put men on the moon. We have giant machines which fly people back and forth across the country.”

The President listened patiently. He said in a friendly tone, “Kyle, let me make sure I am understanding correctly. You have been sent back from the future to kill my assassin, John Booth. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir, I am a trained assassin, here to protect you.” I paused trying to gauge his acceptance of this fantastic story. “I understand that you may not believe me sir, but if you do not go to the play, you will be safe for tonight.”

“Trained assassin are you?” Lincoln asked. His voice was calm, as if discussing plots to kill him was as normal as discussing what to have for breakfast. “Could you kill me now?”

“I find that thought distasteful sir, but yes.” I felt the need to reinforce the message, as the conversation was wandering into unpleasant territory. I repeated with all the sincerity I could muster, “Mr. President, I am here to protect you.”

The President held up a finger, signaling for me to wait. “I will be right back,” he said with a smile, "everything is fine. Don't worry." He turned slowly and took about fifteen steps back towards the carriage. Mary was smiling at him and she held her hand out to him. He took it gently, held it for a moment, then let it go with a small laugh and turned to the mounted soldier.

*

Lincoln smiled as he spoke to the sergeant assigned to guard him. “Sergeant, I want you to arrest that man. I believe he is dangerous and intends to kill John Booth, the actor. Get the other officer and then take him. Please.” He patted the neck of the horse, smiled and laughed again in the soldier's direction.

Lincoln turned around to approach me, after a few steps he realized I was gone.

Damn, I thought as I walked briskly away from them, blending into a stream of after church walkers and then ducking into sculpted rows of bushes which led across a park. I figured that in my buckskin outfit I would easily stand out from the crowd which was now dressed in their Sunday best and theatre going attire.

Damn it. Now I’ve got the army after me, and my only chance of success is to kill Booth.

On the other side of the park, I melted into the growing crowds, and I headed towards Ford Theatre a few blocks away. The one thing I was certain of was that sooner or later, Booth would wind up at Ford Theatre.

At least, I thought, he doesn’t know I am here to kill him.

*

It had taken me longer than I’d hoped to lure a soldier into an alley, knock him out, tie him up in a warehouse and take his uniform. Except for the headache he’d be alright.

Not a bad fit, I thought as I strode towards the theatre, snapping off an occasional salute to passing soldiers. The boots were a bit tight but would have to do.

I noticed the three stripes on my arm. Sergeant, I thought, nice.

I was coming to a stable which was very near the theatre. According to my briefing in the future, Booth had his getaway horse stored there.

Dusk was settling on the town, and I saw a man stride purposefully from the stable towards the theatre.

Booth? I thought and began striding more quickly in his direction. It could be him, looked like him from the pictures I'd seen. He was still a good block away when he disappeared into the theatre.

I decided to wait a while outside the theatre near the stable and hope he would reappear. There was time before the play and I didn’t want to risk being captured, as I already sensed an increased presence of soldiers.

It was about 915 pm when I decided to go in and find him. I strode to the side entrance, entered and saluted the guard just inside. I expected some resistance but got none. I figured the guard probably hadn’t gotten the word yet from the President to be on the lookout.

I went up the stairs and found the lounge. I stepped slowly through the door and surveyed the room. Dimly lit, it was now holding only a few patrons, most of them scattered at small tables along the wall.

The man in the corner sitting alone with his back to me looked like the man I had seen outside from a distance. I figured him to be Booth.

A couple heads raised, cast me a quick glance and then turned away as if totally disinterested.

I walked to Booth’s table and pulled up a chair opposite him.

He looked up at me, his eyes widened in surprise, and then settled into a hard stare of hate.

“I don’t like coloreds at my table,” he said.

I said casually, “I know what you’re here for.”

His eyes widened again, before tightening into the same hard glare I saw moments ago.

“Leave the derringer in your pocket,” I ordered.

“And, Mr. Colored Sergeant, just what am I hear to do?” he said as he leaned back in the chair.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” I said. “I am here to stop you.” My gaze met his. I was waiting for him to move. I was ready. My heart was pounding hard.

His eyes looked like they were on fire. There was rage in them. Pure hate.

“Let’s go outside,” he said, “suddenly, I feel sick.”

“You first,” I said motioning with an open hand. I liked the idea of going outside because it increased the chances of my survival dramatically.

“You look familiar,” Booth spat. I’ve seen you a couple times today and I don’t like coloreds following me.”

I motioned for him to move with my hand, said, “just keep your hands where I can see them.”

Booth stood slowly and I rose at the same time in case he made a move for the derringer in one of his jacket pockets. I didn’t know where he had the knife my reports indicated he had on him, but I figured it was in a sheath at his waistband or in his boot.

Booth said with a smirk, “you don’t have a weapon sergeant.”

“I won’t need one,” I said. My heart was booming. The time of our life and death struggle was near.

He walked ahead of me. In my peripheral vision I saw a couple heads turn as we passed. I was focused on his hands, on keeping myself loose, and being ready to strike.

He pushed through the side door and in a few steps, we were behind the theatre in the broken shadows created by a bright moon. He turned to face me slowly. There was no fear in his eyes, just a furious hate.

I was about to break a couple rules of my training. As the assassin I was not to engage the target in conversation as that gives him a chance. Given the opportunity I was to kill him immediately, and then to disappear.

But I wanted to see Booth confront some facts that he probably couldn’t comprehend.

I opened with, “I know you are here to kill the President.”

I think that rattled him because all he could think to say was, “Yeah?”

“Get this,” I said going for some real shock value, “I’m from the future, 180 years away. I have been sent back to kill you.” I paused giving him time to try and process that concept.

He needed some prompting. I said, “so, John what do you think? I mean about me being from the future. Can you even grasp that?”

“You,” he spat, “are a lying negro.”

“Far in the future, you john, are in the history books for the assassination of, who many consider to be, the greatest president of the United States. You John Wilkes Booth, a man with a great future as an actor, has been deemed one of the worst criminals in the history of our country.”

Booth’s eyes were ablaze and in them I saw the fire of unrelenting hatred.

“You said I killed him,” Booth said.

“Yes John, that was in the ‘old’ history. You are so evil that of all the men I could have been sent back to kill, you were the one selected." I paused, wondering if any of this was getting through to him. "You see John, I am here to change history.”

“By killing me?” he said.

“John,” I said my face lighting up, “you are finally beginning to understand.”

I continued, “In the future John, every non-white race has proven itself to be at least the equal of the whites. They will become successful doctors, lawyers, business owners, real estate owners, scientists and will succeed in any occupation you can imagine. My own race has proven to be, physically superior in many sports. Can you believe it John?”

“No," he said fiercely, "I cannot.”

“By killing Lincoln, you made the path of the non-white races harder, but you did not stop us. We still achieved a measure of equality, and our options are improving every day.” I paused watching him.

“With me saving Lincoln tonight, changing history by killing you,” I said in a matter-of-fact tone, “I make the path ahead better for blacks, Asians, Hispanics, and all races. Because of hateful people like you, it will still be a difficult road for many, but this new future will be easier and will offer more opportunity for us and be better for our country.”

I was still watching him closely. I paused to see if there was a flicker of humanity showing in his eyes. There wasn’t. There was the roaring fire of blind hatred.

Booth was taller than I and had kind of a wiry, athletic build. He had a knife on him somewhere and I knew he would use it. He still had the derringer which I figured was inside one of the dress jacket pockets but hard to get at.

Considering all that, I figured he didn’t have a chance.

“Maybe you’re right,” Booth said looking down at the ground. His tone was changing, had softened just enough that I could detect a difference in him.

“I just find it so hard to believe. When I look at it, really look at the facts, I guess the coloreds have never done anything to me or done anything to deserve the treatment they've received. Maybe," Booth paused a moment, as if the next statement was difficult to say, "they deserve a chance.”

I was watching him intently, surprised that this man was capable of expressing a remote understanding of the suffering of others.

He must have sensed I was lost in an overwhelming thought which slowed my reflexes because that is the moment when, with surprising speed he sprang into me, hard, knocking me off balance. He was punching and kicking, fighting like the devil himself.

He was faster than I expected. And stronger.

The last thing I remember he was jabbing at me with a knife, the blade slicing in and out of the moonlight.

*

The next morning, President Lincoln was sitting at the breakfast table pouring himself a cup of coffee. He was considering some attitudes and policies he believed would help heal the nation, not tear it further apart.

There was a knock at his door.

“Come in,” Lincoln said.

A Colonel came through the door and snapped off a salute.

“Please relax Colonel,” Lincoln said, smiling as he leaned back in the chair. “What can I do for you?”

The officer was clearly disturbed by the news he was about to present. His delivery was fast, agitated. “Sir, last night Secretary Seward was attacked. The doctors say he will live, but the attack was brutal, his face mutilated.”

Lincoln froze for a moment, his eyes turning cold. He rose from the chair and with his hands clasped behind his back, he moved slowly to the open window and looked into the distances for what seemed a long time. From the window he looked back at the officer and asked, “how is Vice President Johnson?”

“He is good sir. He was not attacked.”

Lincoln returned to his seat at the table, added some milk to his coffee and stirred it slowly, watching the liquid change color. He asked quietly, “has Booth been found?”

“Yes sir. He was found dead behind the theatre. An arm was broken, and it appears he was strangled. A knife and a derringer were found nearby.”

Lincoln paused a moment leaned back in his chair. “Cancel the hunt for the colored sergeant. Immediately.”

“Yes sir.”

“Colonel, I would like you to double the security detail around me, twenty-four hours a day. Starting now,” he paused, smiled at the man still at rigid attention, said pleasantly, “that is all.”

“Yes sir.”

The Colonel saluted crisply and left the room.

Lincoln steepled his fingers in front of him, thought, time travel from 180 years in the future to save my life, Kyle?

Wherever you are my friend, America thanks you.