"I've overheard a threat to kill the President"

“That’s the last speech Mr. Lincoln will ever give.”

The man uttering the words had clearly not intended for Will Chambers to overhear him, but Will couldn’t help whipping around to look at him anyway. The crowd gathered outside the White House was solemn but triumphant; they listened to their President with rapt attention. Therefore, it surprised Will to find some ninny with overgroomed hair glaring at him.

“You heard me,” the man said. “Lincoln just promised voting rights for nig...”

“Shh!” Will snapped at him. He wouldn’t let such an ugly word escape this prissy man’s pretty little mouth, and told him so. Also, he demanded to know, “Was that a threat?”

The man mocked Will’s accent, noting that he couldn’t pronounce a “th” sound. Then he looked Will up and down with disgust, noting his blue Union uniform. “Wouldn’t you like to know, foreigner,” he said. “Where’d you come from, big man? You Irish or something?”

Will crossed his arms over his wide chest. He’d answered this question a thousand different times when he was guarding Confederate officers on Johnson’s Island. He took a deep breath.

“Close. I am a Manxman,” he said. He didn't feel like explaining how he was an Irish Catholic who had grown up on the Isle of Man, that his loyalties and culture were Irish despite his tendency to sound British when he spoke. Sometimes, it benefited him that he also spoke an obscure language no one else knew.

The man furrowed his brows for a moment, as Will expected. Then he scoffed. “Never heard of ‘em.”

“I figured. Well, certainly you have heard of the United States Marshals,” Will replied. “And I think it’s best you leave before I summon them, unless you prefer I remove you myself.”

The man took a step backward and raised his hands. As Will expected, this man would mouth off only so long as Will did not challenge him to a fistfight. Southern men always had nasty slurs in their arsenal, but they also knew they were lacking in brute strength.

“You simmer down, big man,” the dark-haired man replied. He looked like an actor, or someone else inclined to spend a great deal of time on grooming. He began walking away, then muttered, “Mind your business, foreigner.”

Will didn’t know how long he could expect to be here in Washington D.C. He had been formally invited to have dinner with General Grant and his wife, Julia, along with several other soldiers who showed exceptional courage during the war. Will would finally receive a small dose of respect, which was long coming. The downside was that the dinner would take place at Grant’s convenience. At least, in this city, it was hard to stay bored.

As Will took a walk around the theater district, he mulled over the Southerner’s sinister prediction. Perhaps he should have taken it more seriously, detaining the man himself until the Marshals could arrive. But he hadn’t wanted to divert attention, from the President’s speech to this lone man’s impotent threat. And after Johnson’s Island, he knew Southerners were the masters of impotent threats. They had big mouths, but they couldn’t hold their own in a fight—let alone fight off several burly Marshals to get at the President.

It was after ten o’clock at night when he went to the tavern next to Ford’s Theater. Everyone knew the President and the First Lady were inside, watching the play “Our American Cousin.” Will was a little disappointed he hadn’t gone to the show, but at least he had plenty of money left over for whiskey. He settled up at the bar and ordered a drink, grateful that the barmaid did not ask him about his accent for once.

“Well, well, well, would you look what the cat dragged in.”

Will turned to find the same man from Lincoln’s speech. He harrumphed.

“The man is like a roach, revealing himself soon as you thought you’ve squashed the last of them,” Will grumbled. The barmaid giggled. The man looked enraged.

“You mind speaking up?” the man said.

“I do,” Will said. “I’m no more willing to repeat myself than you were, when you heckled Mr. Lincoln the other day.”

The Southerner turned to the barmaid, looking red-faced. “Who is this man? What’s his name? Doesn’t he know who I am?”

It was clear Will had no idea who he was, which enraged him further. Will sat calmly, sipping his beer. He slid his double-shot of whiskey down the table.

“Tylor Mor,” he said.

“Boy, what does that mean? I don’t speak your funny Man’s-man language or whatever you called it.”

“Manxman,” Will said, now aware that everyone in the bar was laughing at this arrogant fool. “You asked my name. It’s Tylor Mor.”

It was Manx for “The Big Man,” which the Southerner himself had called him. Will decided he liked the ring of it, so long as it was in his own language. The barmaid sailed by, dropping a china dessert dish in front of Will.

“Dessert?” she asked. “It’s on the house to thank you for your trouble.”

The Southerner took this as the last straw, his cue to leave. He jumped up from his seat.

“Hey, drink that whiskey before you go,” Will said.

“Why?”

“‘Tis rude to reject a drink,” WIll replied, then added, “You must be unable to hold your whiskey like a man.”

The Southerner glared at him, then downed the drink, pretending not to gag. Then he stormed out, stumbling into the door on his way.”

“Hey, watch your step, lightweight,” Will called after him. He turned to the smiling barmaid.

“That was John Wilkes Boothe,” she said, grinning. “He’s an actor, and clearly a legend in his own mind. Let’s hope he breaks a leg tonight stumbling around like that.”