Chapter 3

The Night of the Assassins

Cayce, Kentucky; Summer 1878

To judge by the landscape surrounding the railroad station, there was nothing to the town whose outskirts it occupied. Tall, scraggly ragweed and jimson weed predominated, albeit sparsely, almost the only thing that would take root in the cinders that covered the soil. Several decades’ worth of greasy soot had long since blackened the wood siding of the station-house and rendered its windows nearly opaque. The water tank on the opposite side of the tracks was in even worse condition, its sodden, moss-covered boards barely held together by the rusted iron hoops. It dripped constantly, the water mixing with the soot and cinders below to form oily puddles. At this time of day, it provided the only shade. All in all, it looked like a sere, barren place, offering little to anyone bothering to detrain there, belying the bustling, thriving business community beyond. But to the tall, lanky boy—for he was still a boy, despite the prodigious height which disguised his fifteen years—to the boy leaning laconically against one of the tank’s heavy timber supports, it was a bit of heaven.

The whistle of the approaching No. 2 drowned out that of the opening of the time portal; his attention on the train, Luther did not see the ignominious landing of the Voyager and his companion.

Jeffrey brushed himself off. “There he is, over there by the water tank,” he said.

“So how’s he supposed to get past his mother’s objections?”

“Well, she hoped he’d go into business, so he got a job as a telegrapher in the next town. But everybody there knew what he really wanted to do, so it wasn’t long before his boss started him as a brakeman. After that he was a fireman for a while—the kind that keeps the boiler’s fire going—before he got his first engine.”

The noise of the train pulling into the station then precluded further conversation, and they watched in silence as the engineer and his fireman alighted from the cab and walked around to the far side of the engine. A few minutes later, they came back, now with Luther in tow, the youth with an oilcan in his hands. He periodically stopped and applied it to the drive rods. The loud, rhythmic bursts of steam as the engine vented pressure made it necessary for the trio to raise their voices as they talked, and Jeffrey and Bogg had no trouble overhearing them.

“How tall are you, son?” the engineer asked.

“’Round six foot, I reckon,” came the reply from the red-faced Luther. Acutely aware of his unusual height, he hated it when anyone drew attention to it.

The engineer looked him over calculatingly. “Add two, three inches to that—you’re going to be a whale of a big man when you stop growing and fill out.”

Had the gangly youth chanced to glance toward the platform, he might have noticed Bogg giving him the same appraising once-over.

“Are you sure he’s only fifteen?” Bogg asked, leaning down to speak as quietly as possible over the racket.

“Positive,” Jeffrey assured him. “He ends up even taller than you.”

“Must be nigh on to twenty-one, ain’t you?” the engineer next asked Luther, then paused to gaze disparagingly at the surrounding desolation. “Boy, get yourself out of this godforsaken hole,” he said, shaking his head as his hand found the grab-rail. “If you aim ever to start knockin’ on a firebox door, it’s time you got goin’.” With that, he swung himself up into the cab. Moments later, with two shrill blasts from the whistle and a great belch of black smoke from the stack, No. 2 was on its way, with Luther gazing pensively after it.(1)

“You gonna do it?” Jeffrey made bold to ask.

The tall youth looked down at him, startled.

Jeffrey shrugged apologetically. “Sorry; couldn’t help overhearing. Are you gonna be a fireman?”

Bogg took that as his cue. Having seen the youth’s shyness and deciding that a boost in the morale department was just what the doctor ordered, he said, “Jeffrey, stop pestering the man and let him get about his business.”

His choice of words did not go unnoticed by Luther, who seemed to take on confidence before their eyes. Maybe being so tall at his age wasn’t such a bad thing after all. “Fireman, nothin’,” he snorted, his voice cracking in the manner of all adolescent boys. “Oh, I expect I’ll have to be one for a while, but I’ll be drivin’ them ol’ mudhens(2) before too long.” He paused. “Hafta talk my folks into it first, though.”

“Don’t I know it,” Jeffrey sympathized. “My dad told me all about the robberies and wrecks that used to happen.” He had to suppress a shudder at the memory, only minutes old, of the one in 1856.

“Well, sometimes wrecks do still happen,” Luther admitted. “But there ain’t been a robbery in years, not since they rounded up all them outlaws.”

“My folks were kinda hoping I’d be a professor like my dad,” Jeffrey offered, prodding for the opening he needed.

“My ma wants me to be a businessman,” came the response, and Jeffrey seized it.

“Railroading’s a business,” he pointed out. “Look at James Hill. Edward Harriman. Cornelius Vanderbilt. JP Morgan. If they’re not successful businessmen, I don’t know who is.”

“JP Morgan’s a banker,” Luther said, puzzled at the emphatic addition of that name to the list of railroad magnates.

“Yeah, but he bought the controlling shares in the New York Central a few years ago. He’s practically doubled his worth since then.”

A slow smile spread across Luther’s face as he looked down at Jeffrey. “Now that’s somethin’ I can use! Thanks!” With a cheerful wave, he broke into a loping run toward home.

Jeffrey looked expectantly at Bogg; smiling, the Voyager opened the Omni and turned it so he could see the green light for himself. “So, when does he make that life-saving run of his?”

Memphis, Tennessee; April 29, 1900

The night was dismally dark; not a star was to be seen in the cloud-covered sky, and the smell of impending rain permeated the air and filled their noses as they picked themselves up, only to be nearly bowled over when a tall engineer, discussing the upcoming run with his fireman, walked into them. “Where’d you two fellers come from?” he demanded, then his eyes rested on Jeffrey. “Son, don’t I know you?”

Swallowing hard, Jeffrey shook his head. Who would have thought the man would remember him after more than twenty years? “I don’t think so,” he managed.

“Well, you got yourself a powerful resemblance to the young pup that showed me how to clear my path,” he said, and dug into a pocket. “Now, I’ll tell you what. I don’t even remember that little feller’s name, but you look so much like him, I guess this’ll be kind of like repayin’ him. I’d like you to have these.” With that, he handed Jeffrey a pair of silver cufflinks. “I made ’em myself.”

Jeffrey’s eyes went wide. “Gee, thanks!” he grinned, his whole face alight.

“So long, Bud. I got me a train to run.” With that, he swung up into the cab. It sent a thrill through Jeffrey to hear for himself the whippoorwill call that Casey alone could coax from the whistle, just before the train began to move. Jeffrey waved once more, then turned to let Bogg see the coveted cufflinks

“He really make these himself?” the Voyager wanted to know.

“Kind of. He’d stick coins on the grease plugs to hold ‘em against the drive rods so they’d be rubbed smooth, then have a jeweler make cufflinks with them. He used to give ‘em to the kids that’d hang out at this one station to watch the trains come through.”

“Just like he used to do back at Cayce.” Bogg smiled, watching the boy handle the cufflinks almost reverently as he slipped them into a pocket. “So tell me how he saved those people.”

Suddenly sober, Jeffrey said, “There was a wreck. He stayed at the controls when he could’ve jumped to save himself. Not a single passenger got so much as a scratch, but Casey was killed.”

Bogg rested a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He really was a whale of a big man, then, wasn’t he?”

Jeffrey looked up at him with a sad smile. “Y’know, it was one thing to read about him; in 1982, it was so long ago, he would’ve been dead anyway. Now that I’ve met him, it hurts. But at least I did get to meet him.”

With that simple statement, the boy rose a few more notches in the Voyager’s estimation. He’d hoped Jeffrey wouldn’t have to face this type of assignment for a while yet, but he’d handled it like a real trouper, turning all his efforts to ensuring that Casey would realize his lifelong dream, even knowing how it would turn out. Smiling to himself, he opened the Omni. "Ready to see how that kid you rescued is doing?"

His eyes troubled, Jeffrey said, "I'm not sure I want to know now. I'd hate to find out he didn't make it."

"I don't think you have to worry; something tells me he's going to be just fine."

Alaska, June 16, 1897

They landed in the midst of a pine forest; the thick carpet of needles that covered the ground might have made for one of their easier landings if it hadn't been for the liberal scattering of cones. But neither of them really minded; their mood was just too mellow for such routine inconveniences to shake. They’d arrived in Wissahickon late the day after they’d left it, right in front of Mary Ambler’s home. The woman had happily informed them that little Nicky Cole had recovered completely, and she had insisted on feeding them and putting them up for the night. She’d sent them on their way the next morning after the best breakfast Jeffrey had eaten in quite some time, after which they’d briefly returned to Dayton to retrieve their own clothes before moving on to their next assignment.

There was a nip in the air, which quickly became a bite when the wind picked up, not unlike an early fall day in New York. That wind carried with it the sound of gunfire, punctuated by the rhythmic popping of Maxim guns(3) and the deeper boom of cannon. "That doesn't sound good," Bogg remarked as he checked the Omni, then grinned. "Hey, kid, we're in Alaska. Close enough to the North Pole for you?"

He ignored the dig. "1942?" he asked.

"No; 1897."

Jeffrey's brow furrowed in thought. The only shooting war he knew of in Alaska had taken place during the Second World War, when the Japanese had occupied three of the Aleutian Islands. But something important had happened in Alaska around this time... "The gold rush!"

"I thought that was in California."

"In eighteen forty-nine. There was another one in Alaska after gold was discovered at the Yukon River in 1896. Maybe they're fighting over a claim."

"Did claim jumpers use cannons and machine guns?"

Deflating a bit, Jeffrey admitted, "I never heard of any."

"Where is the Yukon River, anyway?”

“In the northern end of the state.”

“Definitely not claim jumpers, then; we're in the southeastern part." He snapped the Omni shut and started off in the direction of the battle. "When we get there, stay close and keep your head down."

They hadn't gone far, however, when a youth not much older than Jeffrey came into view, wearing an American uniform and moving at a quick jog. At the sight of them, he froze in his tracks, eyeing them warily.

"Hey, it's okay," Jeffrey told him. "We're on your side."

The young soldier—probably a drummer boy—sagged in relief. "Then let me pass," he said. "I have a message to deliver."

"Can you spare a minute to help us?" Bogg asked.

"Okay, but make it quick; I'm in a hurry."

"What's the fighting all about?"

"Where've you two been?" the youth demanded incredulously.

"You know how it is on those mountain trails," Jeffrey replied with a shrug. "You can go for months without seeing anybody."

"The Russians attacked one of our forts, crossed the border into the Oregon Territory to do it."

"The Russians? I thought Alaska was ours," Jeffrey said.

The drummer boy grinned tightly. "Not yet, but it will be after we drive those borscht-eaters out."

"But what happened to Seward?"

"Who?"

"William Seward. President Lincoln's Secretary of State."

"You've been out of touch for a real long time, haven't you? He was killed in his own home, the same night Lincoln and Johnson were shot."

Jeffrey turned wide eyes to Bogg and nodded.

"Thanks, son," Bogg told the messenger. "Best be on your way now."

"Yessir." With a tip of his hat, he was gone.

"Okay, kid, where to?"

"April 14, 1865, Washington, DC," he replied. "A group of Confederate sympathizers headed by John Wilkes Booth—"

"Booth," Bogg cut him off, looking up from setting the Omni. "Isn't he the one that shot the President?" He couldn't help looking smug when Jeffrey's surprised expression told him that he'd gotten one right for a change. "I do remember a few things, you know," he said.

The boy rolled his eyes and replied, "Killing Lincoln was only part of it. At the same time, George Atzerodt was supposed to kill Vice President Andrew Johnson, and Lewis Powell was sent after Seward. Atzerodt chickened out altogether. Powell actually stabbed Seward in the face, but Seward was wearing a jaw splint from an accident that happened some time before that."

"And the splint deflected the knife," Bogg concluded, and Jeffrey nodded. "So what's Seward got to do with what's happening here?"

"He's the one who negotiated the Alaska Purchase in 1867."

Once more, something clicked in Bogg's mind. "Seward's Folly?" he asked.

"Right," Jeffrey grinned as he rested a hand on Bogg's arm.

Washington, DC; April 14, 1865

It was midafternoon when they landed, this time in a market district. It was busier than Bogg had ever seen a market except in the last few days before Christmas, and the Omni told him that certainly wasn't the case here. It was Jeffrey—as usual, lately—who provided the explanation. “It's Good Friday,” he told the Voyager. “People are getting ready for Easter.”

“Buying last-minute Easter baskets?”

“More like last-minute food,” the boy replied, more quietly now, and Bogg cast a glance at him to see a sadness in his eyes. It made him remember the Easters of his own boyhood, when whole extended families had gathered for the feast.

Time to change the subject. “Well, we need to be looking for last-minute clothes,” he said, and Jeffrey gave him a grateful look.

“Wait here.”

It was a long wait, but finally he was back, and they retreated to the end of the alley, hiding behind some stacked crates as they quickly changed. As they did, Jeffrey provided more detail on the information he had given Bogg before they had left Alaska.

Bogg frowned in thought as he listened. There were two events to be set right here, both of them occurring at the same time in different locations, though one of them would be simple enough to handle. All it would take was a message left at the Kirkwood Hotel, where both George Atzerodt and Andrew Johnson were staying, telling Atzerodt to abort his mission. He could leave it at the front desk now, with instructions to deliver it at 10:15 tonight, giving himself plenty of time to get to Seward’s house, complete with cover story.

But that left Jeffrey at loose ends. From everything the kid was telling him, the situation was going to get very ugly, to the point that he could just about count on being wounded in the fray. It was no place for the boy—The memory of Jeffrey gunning down the Red Baron presented itself, and he shoved it away. He’d needed the extra hands that time, but that was not the case here; there was no reason to expose him to almost certain injury. He would have to leave him somewhere to wait, but if there was one thing he’d learned about the kid in the past two or three days, it was that it would take the threat of dire consequences to make him obey that order, a threat Bogg wasn’t sure he had the heart to carry out. His only viable option was to give him something to do, but it had to be a real task, essential to the assignment; the kid would see right through anything less.

“My collar's lopsided, isn't it?” Jeffrey's voice interrupted his musings.

Inspecting the boy's garb, he chuckled at the way the collar was twisted. He deftly undid the back, sraightened it, and replaced the stud.(6) "You're supposed to attach the back of the collar before you put the shirt on." He checked the boy's appearance and nodded. "That's better." He bundled up their own clothes and found a secure hiding place for them before leading Jeffrey back out into the street. “Okay; we're going to have to split up. I don't like it, but we don't have a lot of choice.”

Jeffrey hid an excited grin.

“I'll take care of Powell; your job is to stick to Atzerodt and make sure he abandons his mission. In fact, I've got an idea. Come on, kid.”

“Where are we going?”

“The Kirkwood Hotel. You're going to get a job.”

The hotel manager looked dubious when Bogg told him Jeff had never worked as a bellboy before. "I don't know about this, Mr. Bogg. This is a premiere hotel; our guests expect the best of everything. Perhaps it would be better for your nephew to work at one of the lesser hotels and let him acquire experience that way."

Bogg let himself sound exasperated. “We’ve already tried every other hotel in the city and gotten the same answer,” he complained.

The manager scrutinized the boy standing beside his uncle. Like most youngsters his age, he was looking around the luxuriously appointed lobby, but not with the boredom one usually saw in children who were forced to wait quietly while their elders conversed. No; those sharp dark eyes were clearly observing every detail, tracking each hotel employee and carefully noting what each one did and how he did it. One could almost see him file away anything he did not understand, to ask about it at the next opportunity, and the man found himself nodding in approval. The boy would be a fast learner and a diligent worker—and how much experience did one need to carry baggage, anyway? “Very well,” he said at last, slapping at the bell on the desk. “I’ll give him a chance. Now, we usually pay our boys in room and board…” He was interrupted by the arrival of a bellboy a little older than Jeffrey. "Tyler, this is Jeffrey Jones. Get him set up and show him the ropes."

"Yes, sir. Come on, Jeff."

~oOo~

Jeffrey was carefully measured and fitted for a uniform, and he was surprised to see that the outfit of a bellboy had changed little over the years. The ones he'd seen in his own time had sported a lot less trim and piping, and the single row of small brass buttons running down the front of the tunic had gone the way of the dodo bird long before 1982, but the cut and fit were the same. While hats had no longer been de rigueur by then, he'd always felt sorry for the few who’d still been required to wear those dorky-looking pillbox-type hats. Now he saw that the hat was as traditional as the rest of the uniform as he donned his own. Well, he consoled himself, at least it was only for a few hours.

Next he was shown to the servants’ quarters, where he was assigned a tiny room. Only twice as wide as the narrow bed, its length accommodated that bed with about a foot to spare; the bed itself was narrower than the twin bed Jeffrey had had back in New York. Next to it was a small nightstand with a single drawer, below which was a commode.(7) An oil lamp was provided on the nightstand to light the room, and there were four pegs on the wall opposite the bed for his clothes. Being a basement room, its only ventilation was a small window near the top of the wall. He was hanging his street clothes when Bogg found his way to the room.

He looked the boy up and down and grinned. “Not bad, kid.”

“The hat needs help,” Jeffrey groused.

“You’ll live,” Bogg reassured him with a chuckle. “I can think of some worse things you could be stuck wearing—and probably will at some point.”

The first thought that popped into the boy’s head was of the stuffed pantaloons of the Conquistadors, and he fervently hoped he’d be spared that indignity.

Bogg tossed a quick glance at Tyler. The young bellhop, apparently experienced enough to have learned the subtle nuances of body language, correctly identified a desire for privacy and backed out of the room, shutting the door behind himself. Once he was gone, the Voyager handed Jeffrey a folded sheet of paper. “At ten-fifteen tonight, give this to Atzerodt.”

Curiously, Jeffrey opened it. Inside was the single word abort in Bogg’s handwriting, a sort of modified Elizabethan script that could pass for a particularly ornate Spencerian hand.

“When he reads that,” Bogg was saying, “he should walk out like you said he's supposed to; you follow him until you're sure everything's back on track. Then come back and wait for me here. I mean it," he added firmly when Jeffrey opened his mouth to protest. "I catch you anywhere near Seward's house, and you won't like what'll happen, you understand me?"

Jeffrey nodded unhappily as he tucked the message inside his tunic. "Just be careful, Bogg," he said.

~oOo~

This was the part of any assignment he'd never get used to, Bogg thought as he left the hotel: wandering through a strange city, trying to find a particular individual when he had no idea where to look. Jeffrey had told him that Seward lived close to the White House; he was already on Pennsylvania Avenue, so he supposed that the White House was the best place to start.

He was surprised to see that it wasn't fenced; the pictures he remembered seeing had always shown the house and grounds surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, and the place fairly bristling with guards. But, according to Jeffrey, there were no regular security arrangements at this time, though Washington police or US marshals were sporadically used as bodyguards for various government officials, as well as the President.

The difficulties involved in getting his hands on a uniform made claiming to be a cop infeasible—Did the word “cop” even exist yet, he wondered. Marshals did not wear uniforms, but they did wear badges, again presenting acquisition problems. Despite what movies depicted, however, deputies, particularly those sworn in only temporarily, did not always wear them. Bogg nodded minutely to himself as his plan solidified, and he picked up his pace, even though he still didn't know where he was going.

His sudden acceleration threw off the judgment of a man passing in front of him, with the resultant inevitable collision. Bogg reached out quickly and steadied the man, preventing him from falling. "I'm so sorry," he apologized. "I guess I oughtta watch where I'm going, huh? You okay, Mr.…?"

"Seward," the man introduced himself. "Frederick Seward. I'm all right; don't worry about it."

Paydirt! It was Seward's son, the Assistant Secretary of State. "Phineas Bogg. I've been deputized to guard your father," he said.

Frederick looked puzzled. "But there’s already a soldier stationed at the house," he said.

"There's word that there may be an attempt on the Secretary's life tonight, and it was decided a little extra security was in order."

"By all means," Frederick approved. "I'm heading home now; why don't you come with me?"

It was that easy. Not for the first time in his career, Bogg marvelled at the way things had of falling into place with hardly any effort on his part.

~oOo~

“Sergeant George Robinson, this is Phineas Bogg,” Frederick introduced his companion when he got home. “He’s been sent by the marshal’s office; apparently there’s some threat to my father.”

“Glad to have the help, Mr. Bogg,” Robinson said, extending a hand, and Bogg shook it. “Will you be positioned anywhere in particular, or just generally around the house, like me?”

“Actually, I’ll be in the Secretary’s room, as the last line of defense,” Bogg replied.

“I’ll take you to him, then. His daughter is also there most of the time, taking care of him.”

“William,” Frederick addressed the butler, “please tell the cook there’ll be one more for dinner.”

“Very good, sir,” came the reply, and the butler headed toward the kitchens, whereupon Frederick excused himself and retired to his room, as Robinson led Bogg upstairs.

The woman who admitted them to Seward’s room might not have been one of the world’s great beauties, but neither was she hard on the eyes. Robinson greeted her with a half-bow. “Miss Frances Seward, may I present Mr. Phineas Bogg of the Secret Service,” he began the formal introduction. “Mr. Bogg, Miss Frances Seward.”

She smiled and extended her hand, the fingers held in proper fashion for a new acquaintance; with the same half-bow, Bogg took it and raised it to his lips. “An honor, Miss Seward.”

“Likewise, Mr. Bogg.” To Robinson she said, “Thank you, Sergeant; I’ll introduce him to Father.”

With another bow, Robinson took his leave, and Frances ushered Bogg into the room. Seward himself was sitting up in a great four-poster bed, his broken jaw immobilized by a bulky, complicated-looking affair. “Father, this is Mr. Phineas Bogg from the marshal’s office.”

“So they decided Sergeant Robinson wasn’t enough security, eh?” Seward said, his splinted jaw making him sound as if his mouth were stuffed with cotton.

“Sir, there’s evidence that some Confederate sympathizers may attempt an eleventh-hour coup tonight, so I’ve been assigned as backup.”

“I see. Well, have a seat; you may as well make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you, sir.” Bogg settled in one of the two chairs by the fireplace. Frances was in the other, embroidering.

“So, tell us about yourself, Mr. Bogg,” she said. “Have you any family?”

“Just my nephew,” he replied. “His parents were killed in a fire last year.”

“Oh, how dreadful! I’m so sorry. How old is he?”

“Almost twelve.”

“Poor thing. How’s he holding up?”

“He’s not doing too bad. I think the change of location since I took him out of New York has helped a lot.”

They continued to make small talk for a while, Frances’ coy looks making it clear that she wished they weren’t in the same room with her father. For his part, Bogg actually wished she’d stop the subtle flirting; it was only making his own frustration worse. He was actually relieved when the butler came in with their dinner.

“William, take Fanny’s to the dining room,” Seward told him. “She can eat downstairs with her brothers tonight; I think Mr. Bogg can take over for a while.”

Frances pouted briefly before leaving, and Seward chuckled fondly. “My daughter is a hopeless flirt. Don’t let her fool you, Mr. Bogg; her dance card is always filled within the first half-hour at the ballroom.(8) That will be all for now, William,” he added to the butler; when the man had left, Seward grimaced at his tray. “I am so tired of drinking my dinner,” he moaned. “I tell you, I would kill for something I could sink my teeth into!”

“I know how you feel,” Bogg said sympathetically. “How long has it been?”

“A little over a week,” Seward groused and sipped at a mug of broth.

Bogg glanced at his own plate and grinned conspiratorially. “Well, I don’t know about anything you’d really have to chew, but I can spare some of these mashed turnips.”

“God bless you, man!” Seward laughed as Bogg transferred a small bit of the vegetable to his bread plate and handed it to him. Though he winced painfully with every mouthful, he doggedly worked his way through all of it, then had Bogg remove the dish to his own tray before Frances or William came back. When the butler returned to remove the empty dishes, the two men looked at each other and started laughing like a pair of schoolboys who had gotten away with some prank; William’s professional deadpan expression slipped just the smallest bit as he guessed what had gone on.

Kirkwood Hotel, 10:15 p.m.

Making sure no one saw what he was doing, Jeffrey withdrew the folded message from his tunic and set it on a small silver tray, which he then carried into the hotel’s bar. “George Atzerodt!” he called, his high voice carrying clearly over the murmur of conversation. “Message for George Atzerodt!”

It was a measure of the man’s nervousness that he nearly fell off his stool in alarm when he heard his name. “Over here,” he called, and Jeffrey handed him the paper. Heaving a great sigh of relief as he read it, Atzerodt then wadded it into a crumpled ball and left it on the counter as he got to his feet and headed for the door. Jeffrey paused long enough to leave the tray and that awful hat on a table before following him outside.

Seward house, 10:10 p.m.

The sound of voices in the hall drifted in to them; Frances opened the door in time to hear a stranger’s voice say, “Dr. Verdi sent me with some new medicine for the Secretary; I’m to deliver it to him personally and show him how to take it.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but my father is asleep,” Frederick’s voice replied.

“Fred, father’s awake now,” Frances told him. Bogg, looking over her shoulder, yanked her back as Powell drew a gun. “Take cover!”he snapped as he darted into the hall.

Powell’s gun jammed; panicked, he reversed it and slammed it into Frederick’s head before Bogg could reach them. Tossing the now-useless pistol aside, the assailant drew a knife, then dove at the Voyager blocking the doorway. His lunge carried them both into the room, and they toppled to the floor, wrestling for control of the weapon. Momentarily pinned by the larger man, Powell flung his head forward into Bogg’s face, stunning him long enough to push him off and get to his feet. Bogg was on him again almost at once, but not quickly enough to keep him from reaching Seward. He made a desperate grab for Powell’s arm as the knife descended. The blade snagged in his sleeve, grazing his arm; though it slowed the attack, it wasn’t enough to prevent the blade from deeply scoring the Secretary’s face. Seward rolled off the far side of his bed onto the floor as protector and assailant struggled. Robinson and Seward’s second son Augustus rushed into the room as Powell broke free and ran out past them; they went after him, while Bogg remained to help Frances with her father.

She was kneeling next to him on the floor, mindless of the blood saturating her own sleeve. When had that happened, Bogg wondered. He’d been too busy to keep an eye on her as well. “Miss Seward, you’re hurt.”

She looked up at him, tears running down her face. “What difference does it make?” she sobbed. “My father’s dead. Oh, my God, Father’s dead!” she cried, and Bogg’s heart nearly stopped. Had he failed in his assignment?

No. Not possible. If a field worker is in imminent danger of failing a mission…another Voyager will always be dispatched to assist,(9) the Code assured him, and no other Voyager had appeared, so unless Mission Control was falling down on the job—which was just about impossible…

To Frances’ surprise and Bogg’s great relief, the wounded Secretary let out a groan. “I am not dead,” he growled and started issuing orders.

One police patrolman arrived with the doctor and assisted him and the household staff in picking up the pieces before he even started to question anyone. Frances’ wound was not serious; after the doctor had bandaged her arm and given her a mild sedative, one of the maids took her to her room. Frederick had a mild concussion and was also removed to his room. Augustine had been stabbed in the side as Powell had rushed past him in his escape; that wound needed six stitches, but had never been life-threatening. Seward himself would bear a scar, but would otherwise be as good as new.

Robinson’s left arm took five stitches and was now supported in a sling as he watched the doctor finish bandaging Bogg’s right arm. That wound was minor, as his coat sleeve had taken the brunt of what had essentially been a glancing blow, and he escaped without sutures. “I’m glad you were here,” the sergeant said. “You probably saved Mr. Seward’s life tonight.”

“A pity the same can’t be said of the guard at Ford’s Theater,” the policeman commented. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you before, but the President was shot tonight, at about the same time as the Secretary was attacked.”

Robinson looked sharply at Bogg. “Your superiors had the right of it,” he breathed shakily. “It was a coup. I just hope Johnson’s guard is as effective as you were.”

That was an exit cue if he’d ever heard one; Bogg turned and made for the door.

“Mr. Bogg, wait,” the policeman tried to stop him. “I’ll need—”

“Talk to me later; I have to check on my nephew,” Bogg said, yanking his good arm out of the man’s grip. “He’s a bellboy at the Kirkwood, where Johnson’s staying.”

A family man himself, the officer paled as the possible significance of that struck him. “Good heavens, man! Go!” he agreed hastily. Belatedly, he called after him, “Ah...where can I find you?” But he’d waited a split second too long; Bogg was already gone.

Washington streets, 10:20 p.m.

Trailing the reluctant conspirator proved to be no easy task. The man walked so fast, Jeffrey was forced to a half-jog to keep him in sight; once again he longed for his Nikes as his current shoes made moving silently difficult. Atzerodt continually looked over his shoulder, forcing the boy to keep to the shadows. At least those shadows were plentiful and deep in the dim gaslight. Finally, however, he saw what he was waiting for: Atzerodt cast his knife into a hedge as he passed. Jeffrey had to duck into a doorway when the man belatedly looked around to make sure no one had seen him discarding the incriminating weapon. When Atzerodt continued on his way, Jeffrey turned back toward the Kirkwood, debating whether or not to follow his instructions.

Bogg was the closest thing to a guardian he had left, and the prospect of facing life without him was truly frightening. The lot of a street urchin in this time zone was a poor one at best, and what passed as orphanages didn’t even bear thinking about. It would be worth facing that quick temper if his presence somehow ensured the Voyager’s survival.

Of course, if the worst did happen, he wasn’t completely unprovided; he already had a job that would provide him with food and shelter. He couldn’t see himself working in a hotel for the rest of his life, but other opportunities were bound to present themselves as time went on. It seemed a bleak sort of future at best, though; he would have been rescued from guardians who resented his presence, only to be left with no one at all. It brought back the same gut-wrenching fear he’d felt when Bogg had tried to abandon him a few days ago, and it now occurred to him that if the Voyager were still inclined to do so, this was his chance.

That thought stopped Jeffrey dead in his tracks with a wave of pain so intense, it stole his breath away. Bogg was nothing like his father, not even close, and yet he had slipped into the boy’s heart as if he’d always been there, as if he belonged there. That couldn’t be right; how could he turn his back on his parents that way? It somehow felt disloyal, but if he couldn’t have his parents, was it so wrong to want a guardian he liked? Beset by confusion and a new kind of guilt, he resumed his walk back toward the hotel, until another thought stopped him.

The Omni. If something did happen to Bogg, they would find the Omni, and that must not be allowed to happen. It was up to him to make sure it didn’t.

He was tired, his arm ached abominably, and, to be frank, he really was worried about Jeff. The Omni was green now, so the message had done its job, but that was no guarantee the kid was okay; experience had taught him that too well—his own current condition being a case in point. He hadn’t really liked the thought of making him walk through the empty, dimly lit streets alone, but the alternative had been far worse. As he made his way through the now-deserted market to the alley where he’d hidden their clothes, he reminded himself that Jeffrey was from New York City, a place that had more than its fair share of shady characters, just like every large city in any time zone he could think of. Surely the kid knew how to look after himself.

He was back on Pennsylvania Avenue, walking past the White House, when he spotted Jeffrey coming toward him, still about a block away. Though he was visible only as a silhouette in the darkness, Bogg would know that gait anywhere. The kid apparently recognized him in the same instant, for he broke into an eager run, and Bogg felt a smile slowly spread across his face, wondering at the way his weariness was dispelled by the boy’s obvious welcome. He had to struggle to replace the smile with sternness as he remembered his earlier warning.

Jeffrey slowed his pace, pivoted on one foot, and fell in beside him. Before he could say a word, however, Bogg demanded flatly, “What did I tell you?”

“I had to come,” the kid responded in a matter-of-fact tone. “I had to make sure nobody got his hands on the Omni if…if you didn’t make it.”

Bogg cast a startled glance toward the boy. Clearly the kid was taking this whole business as seriously as any seasoned Voyager, and Phineas was impressed despite himself. But then, what was the threat of mere punishment to a kid who had already shown himself willing to risk his life to ensure the survival of another? That thought reminded him of something he hadn’t thought of since long before VHQ had snatched him from the deadly grip of a stormy sea. As vividly as if it had happened yesterday, he remembered how lost he had felt when his own father had vanished from the portside village his family had called home. He’d been maybe a year or two younger than Jeffrey at the time, and he would gladly have welcomed even the elder Bogg’s disapproval, with the accompanying painful and humiliating punishment, just for the chance to see him again. Suddenly understanding what drove his young companion, he relinquished his stern façade in favor of grudging approval. “Good thinking—but not necessary,” he added, immediately throwing a damper on the bright smile that greeted his initial pronouncement. “If a Voyager is killed, the Omni is automatically recalled.(10)” He stopped and turned to face Jeffrey. “I’ll let it go this time, because you didn’t know. Next time, though—”

“I know; I won’t like what’ll happen,” Jeffrey finished.

“Smart kids give me a pain,” Bogg growled, but he was smiling again. “Omni’s green,” he reported, changing the subject.

“You okay?” Jeffrey asked.

“I’ve been better,” Bogg replied with a shrug as he started walking again.

“What happened?”

“It got crazy, just like you said it would; I don’t think anybody got out of there unhurt.” He was glad it was too dark for Jeffrey to be able to see just how much blood was on his clothes. “How about you?”

“Nothing to tell. It was a milk run.”

“At least one of us had it easy. What do you say we take advantage of that cubicle of yours and grab some sleep while we can?”

“We can’t both fit in that bed; it’s barely big enough for one,” Jeffrey pointed out.

Bogg shrugged again. “It won’t be the first time I’ve slept on a bare floor. Just make sure you don’t step on me in the morning,” he added with a grin.

* * * * * *

(1) Scene adapted from Casey Jones—Epic of the American Railroad by Fred J. Lee, Southern Publishers, Inc., Kingsport, TN, 1939.

(2) Old railroad slang for a locomotive

(3) Old railroad slang for a locomotive.

(4) The first true automatic weapon, invented in 1884, the Maxim was the next-gen version of the more well-known Gatling gun.

(5) Contrary to what is sometimes shown in old movies, drummer boys in the US Army were never on the front lines; rather, they worked as servants to officers, or as messengers.

(6) The detachable collars of the time were fastened to the shirt in the back and front with two studs, which were similar to cufflinks. The style survives today in some tuxedoes.

(7) A commode in this time was a small cabinet just big enough to hold a chamber pot, hence the modern euphemism used in those parts of the US where the word “toilet” is considered impolite.

(8) Since it was considered unseemly for an unmarried lady to dance with the same gentleman more than once or twice in an evening unless they were engaged, it was customary for singles of both sexes to carry “dance cards.” Each dance was numbered; one wrote a partner’s name

next to a number as “appointments” were made throughout the evening. Since one was expected to dance with multiple partners in an evening, the cards provided a means of keeping track of them. How quickly one’s card was filled was a measure of popularity.

(9) Voyagers’ Guidebook, section V-2, part IV, article xi.

(10) This isn’t in the Guidebook, but inferred from other information that is there.