Shooting For Justice, G. Tilman [best historical fiction books of all time .txt] 📗

and began to walk around the table when Baker told him his address.

“Where do you work?”

“I don’t have a job.”

“Why were you beating on the President’s House door at two in the morning with a gun in your pocket?”

“Because it’s his damn fault!”

“Whose fault?” Pope asked. He already knew what the man would say.

“The president. He’s letting those Chinese stay and others steal our jobs. It’s why Americans like me can’t work. Somebody read it to me from the paper.”

“Did they read you the Chinese and some other immigrants are working under slave labor conditions in hard jobs nobody else will take? Did they read the jobs are thousands of miles from here in the mountains and deserts?”

“Not the facts I heard!”

“Well, you heard wrong then. How many railroad tracks are being laid anywhere near Washington? I will bet your life if even a siding was being laid nearby, it is being done by white workers like you. So, Mr. Baker, you could have gotten killed for bad information. As it is, you will go to jail for bad information,” Pope said in a low voice.

“Mr. Baker, who sent you to shoot the president?” Pope asked.

“Nobody!”

“Do not lie to me!” Pope snarled menacingly.

“I ain’t lying!”

“If nobody sent you, who gave you the idea?”

“Nobody! We was talking about him loving the Chinese when I was in the bar.”

“What bar?” Pope demanded.

“Smileys over to 14th Street,” he said. Pope looked at the corporal who nodded.

“Corporal, what kind of gun was Mr. Baker carrying?”

“Something called a New American. It is .22 caliber,” he said as he handed the gun to Pope along with three cartridges.

“You hoped to assassinate someone with this?” Pope asked Baker incredulously.

“I doubt this will penetrate his suit, vest and shirt. Besides, he’s in bed asleep. You couldn’t have gotten anywhere near him. Bad idea, Mr. Baker. Stupid idea.

“Corporal, have the telegrapher call Washington’s finest to send a couple officers over to escort Mr. Baker to jail. Have him charged with attempted breaking and entering with a somewhat loaded weapon.”

“Should I say ‘somewhat loaded’?”

“No. Just B&E with a firearm to shoot the president ought to work.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pope waited until the police responded and took Baker to jail.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Corporal.”

“He’s an idiot, isn’t he?”

“Sure, seems like one. The problem is the three people who have tried to shoot or have shot presidents so far have had mental issues. So, we have to treat them as real threats. I am going back to bed. I hope the rest of your tour is less exciting.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pope climbed back in bed. Sarah mumbled, asking if everything was alright. He told her it was, and he would share it with her at breakfast.

The next day, Pope went to his war office first. He wanted to make sure both cabinet members knew about the attempt last night, feeble though it was.

After he shared the situation with Lincoln, the secretary commented it probably was not worth worrying about. He did say he would tell the attorney general who may want to monitor the case.

“Sir, I would not take it too lightly. Even the dumbest pig makes good bacon. It just takes one badly aimed bullet to kill the president. I feel we need to take all attempts seriously and investigate to see if they may have been put up to it by someone else.

We have about four possible areas of interest in these threats. Sarah and I have developed a couple more we have not discussed with you. They need to be substantiated before we waste your time. The ones really worrying me though are the ones not on the list. Ones so far afield we have not even considered them yet.”

“Your points are well taken. Are you going to investigate this man Baker any further?” Lincoln asked.

“I thought I would dirty up a bit and have some beers at Smiley’s Bar on 14th Street. It’s in the district marked as off-limits to the soldiers during martial law in the war. The so-called ‘red light’ district. Maybe I can pick up something on what angry workers are saying,” Pope said.

“Let me know if you learn anything, John.”

“Always, sir.”

Pope left Lincoln’s office and asked around the War Building. He got the directions he needed and walked eight blocks to a second-hand store. He located a pair of overalls and two shirts which he thought would fit. A pair of scuffed up boots followed and a beat-up newsboy-type hat. It was too hot during the Washington summer to wear a jacket and cover his gun. He put the Bowie knife in his left boot and tied the sheath to his upper ankle. With the baggy work pants pulled over the hilt, it was virtually invisible.

He was certainly better armed than Baker had been with his dollar and fifty cent gun from Sears Roebuck.

Pope went out the back stairs of the Willard into an alley. He looked and nobody was around, so he rolled around. He wanted to get dirty but not with the urine or garbage he smelled. A bit of dust and dirt from a railing leading into the back of the hotel took care of his face and hands. He tousled his hair and mustache and put the cap on. Pope was, by every appearance, an itinerant who had worked at a basic labor job and was likely sleeping rough.

He walked to the bar and ordered a draft beer. It was warm and weak. The weak part was fine since he would have to spend some time at the bar listening.

After an hour, several men came in and sat at the bar near him. They were clearly day workers who showed up at a location for basic work and employers would come by and hire them for the day to unload wagons or train cars or dig ditches.

After a few beers, the three next to him got louder and friendlier. They felt they could afford to be friendly to someone who was both in their element and appeared