Fic: The Raven And The Nightingale Book III: Cherry Blossoms (5/22)
Title: The Raven And The Nightingale Book III: Cherry Blossoms (5/22)
Author: BradyGirl_12
Pairings/Characters (this chapter): Bruce/Dick, Nellie O’Connell
Genres: AU, Historical, Mystery, Romance
Rating (this chapter): G
Warnings (this chapter): None
Spoilers: None
General Summary: Bruce and Dick get caught up in political intrigue during a business trip to Washington City.
Chapter Summary: Bruce and Dick take a tour of Washington City and end up at Ford’s Theater.
Date Of Completion: October 27, 2015
Date Of Posting: February 7, 2022
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, DC does, more’s the pity.
Word Count: 1825
Feedback welcome and appreciated.
Author’s Note: The entire series can be found here.
V
FORD’S THEATER
On a spring night
In 1865,
The future was shattered,
And all those alive
Would always remember,
That night at Ford’s,
When the President
Was taken
In blood and fear,
Forever the date
Would elicit
Many a tear.
Anna Simpson McCarren
“April 1865”
1869 C.E.
Bruce led the way down Pennsylvania Avenue and Dick realized where they were heading. With an extra spring in his step, Dick nearly outpaced his companion as they approached the iconic black iron fence.
The fence was part of security, which had been upgraded after the assassination of the current occupant’s predecessor in 1901. During the 19th century, the Secret Service had guarded the President when needed, but their primary goal had been to combat counterfeiting. Various local police and the military were often called in for protection, but after three assassinations in thirty-six years, the Secret Service had been given the mandate to make the President’s safety their primary responsibility.
The grounds around the White House were regularly patrolled by Secret Service agents and D.C. police. Dick glanced at the guardhouse at the gate entrance.
“Today we’re just tourists. Tomorrow we get the VIP treatment,” said Bruce.
“VIP?”
“Very Important Persons.”
“Ah.” Dick was delighted with the explanation.
Bruce watched as Dick gazed at the White House, the dancer’s fingers curling around the iron spikes.
“So that’s the President’s House,” Dick said softly. He cocked his head. “It’s so simple, but its majesty somehow eclipses the great palaces of Europe.”
“I like the way you put that.” Bruce lightly touched Dick’s back.
Dick grinned. “I can’t wait to see the inside.”
“Modest compared to the Czar’s palace.”
“Maybe that’s what makes it so effective. The Czar’s palace is certainly beautiful and filled with gorgeous objets d’art, but the simplicity of this house seems to fit your country.”
“There are grand mansions here.”
“Yes, and I suspect the Capitol will be grand, but for the house where your leader dwells? A wise choice.”
“Must be that showmanship blood of yours. That’s very astute. Better than some of the chuckleheads already in Congress.”
Dick laughed. “Chuckleheads?” His blue eyes sparkled. “No translation needed.”
Bruce smiled. They contemplated the peaceful scene of the White House with a fountain merrily splashing in the foreground. Children frolicked on the green lawn with several dogs, and birds were in full throat.
“Pretty charming,” Dick observed.
“Well, Teddy’s got quite a few children. Hellions, actually. Alfred would be appalled.”
“We won’t tell him.” Dick winked.
After more admiration of the scene, they began walking again. Gradually they reached a street that seemed half-business, half-residential.
“This is a pretty quiet neighborhood,” Dick said.
“Mostly warehouses here mixed with private residences.”
“An odd mix.”
“Yes, well, a lot of old buildings were abandoned.” Bruce stopped. “Like that one.”
Bruce pointed to a sturdy, two-story brick building with a boarded-up doorway. If Bruce believed in fanciful romanticism, he would say an air of melancholy hung about the place.
“What is that place, Bruce?”
“Ford’s Theater.”
Dick’s eyes widened slightly. “No one has bought it?”
“I’m pretty sure the Government has. They might turn it into a warehouse or something.”
“It doesn’t seem right.”
“I know. There should be…” Bruce shrugged.
“Some sort of commemoration that one of your great Presidents was mortally wounded here.” Dick frowned. “Perhaps a back door is not impassable? There’s always a stage door in a theater.”
“Let’s investigate.”
They checked the stage door and were surprised that it was unlocked.
“Maybe someone’s in here,” Dick said in a whisper as they entered the building.
“Maybe.”
They trod lightly backstage, passing dressing room doors with faded stars tacked up and dust everywhere. They found the entrance to the stage and stepped out onto the boards.
“Careful, some may be rotted,” Dick warned.
Bruce exercised the proper caution and they stood on the stage and looked up at the presidential box. The flag bunting and faded picture of George Washington was still attached to the front of the box.
“Strange to think what happened here nearly forty-three years ago,” Dick said.
“Yes, the anniversary is next week.” Bruce sighed. “Since then we’ve had two other assassinations. Let’s just hope that the Secret Service can prevent any future attempts.”
Dick reached out and squeezed Bruce’s hand. “Europe is accustomed to assassinations and attempts at regicide. Court intrigue is a way of life.”
“It’s not supposed to be here. We aren’t supposed to be a banana republic.” At the inquiring cock of Dick’s head, he explained, “Central and South American countries change governments like we change socks. They shift power via coups and assassinations. We aren’t supposed to be like that.”
“So none of these assassinations brought on a coup?”
“None. Power was transferred without revolution. The only violence, sadly, was to the Presidents.”
“No cabals or conspiracies?”
“Not for Garfield or McKinley, just lone nuts.” Bruce squinted into the darkness of the box. “There was a definite conspiracy in the case of Lincoln. Secretary of State Seward was severely injured but survived from an attack in his home that night. Vice President Johnson’s attacker chickened out. The only complete success was Booth with Lincoln.”
“Hmmm.” Dick spoke softly. “In Europe, my parents and I heard stories about America, and Lincoln was talked about as one of your greatest Presidents. He freed the slaves, they said, and was killed for it. I read how he came from poverty and worked his way up to the most important office in your land. That is unheard of in Europe, ruled by Kings and Queens.” Dick’s voice grew contemplative as he mused, “I wonder if your history would have been changed much if Booth had failed?”
“Possibly.” Bruce rubbed the back of his neck. “Lincoln definitely had a plan for reconstruction of the South, and it was not as punitive as the Radical Republicans’ plan, that’s for sure.”
“I’ll have to study that era more exhaustively.”
Bruce smiled. “The Library of Congress can help you out with that.”
“Are we going there today?”
“If we have time.” Bruce looked out at the worn velvet seats in the audience area. The mustiness of the old, neglected theater was suddenly oppressive. “Come on, I’ve got another place to show you.”
“Can we go up to the box before we leave?”
Bruce considered. “Why not? We’re here. Might as well try.”
They left the stage and went up the aisle between the seats. In the lobby they discovered a door that led up to the private boxes.
The short hallway that led to the presidential box was dark and musty. They batted away cobwebs and reached the door of the special box.
“This is where the policeman was supposed to be, guarding the box,” Bruce said.
“And he wasn’t there that night.”
“No, stories said he was drinking at a bar.” Disgust suffused his voice.
“Criminal neglect of duty.”
“At the very least.”
Dick pushed the door open. It creaked slightly as the interior of the box was revealed.
Two plush chairs and a divan were arranged for maximum viewing. Tufts of stuffing spilled out from the divan. Dick touched the back of the chair on the left.
Bruce walked to the edge of the box and leaned down. “Quite a drop.”
“Hmm.” Dick joined his lover. “An athletic man could make it.”
“Booth broke his leg that night when he jumped down, shouting ‘Sic semper tyrannis!’”
“Poor deluded fool.”
“Yes, considering that Lincoln would have treated the South far better than his successor, who couldn’t control the Radical Republicans.”
“Politics can be quite stupid, can’t it?”
Bruce nodded. “The stupidest.”
Dick shuddered. “Imagine being shot in the head while just enjoying life.”
Bruce started down at the stage. It was closer than he had expected. The oppressiveness returned.
“Let’s go.”
& & & & & &
Once outside, Bruce took a deep breath of warm, spring air. The old theater felt too much like death.
And now I’m going to take Dick to another place of death, he thought wryly.
“Come on, let’s see if anyone’s home.” Bruce climbed the steps of a residence across the street and knocked on the door.
A middle-aged woman answered his knock, wearing an apron over a blue cotton dress and a white cap on her graying hair. She rested her weight on a broom.
“Can I help yer?”
“Yes, ma’am. May we see the Lincoln room?”
She tut-tutted. “Another one! Yer lucky that it ain’t rented out right now. Come on in; I ain’t got all day.”
Bruce and Dick followed the plump woman inside. The tiny foyer was clean and tidy.
“Thank you, Miss…”
“It’s Mrs, and the name’s O’Connell, Nellie O’Connell.”
“I’m sure you get many visitors, Mrs. O’Connell.”
“Nosy parkers, y’mean. Ah, tain’t so bad. Some are just ghouls but others really respect ol’ Abe.”
“We’re the latter, I assure you.”
Mrs. O’Connell harrumphed and stopped at a room in the back after traversing a small but neat parlor. She swept her hand out dramatically. “Here ya go.”
Bruce and Dick entered the room. It was a typical boardinghouse room with cheap furniture, but the room was clean and contained small touches like a handmade hooked run on the hardwood floor. The wallpaper was yellow-and-brown, and books were piled on the small pier table in the corner. The bed was large, but not big enough for a man well over six feet tall.
“The bedspread’s different,” said Mrs. O’Connell, “But the bed’s the same one.”
“The furniture?” Bruce asked.
“The dresser and wardrobe’s the same. Pier table’s new. Wallpaper’s the same, though it’s gonna need replacing. Too faded.”
“Yes.” Bruce could see that she was right upon closer examination of the wall. “You get a lot of scholars, I suppose?”
She snorted. “More than you’d think. Always interruptin’ me when I’m cleanin’. Everyone calls this place the Petersen Boardin’ House, though Old Man Petersen sold it years ago. Forty-three years after the President dies in that bed, and people treat it like a shrine.”
“It is history.”
“Ha!” Mrs. O’Connell shambled off to her chores.
“Not a student of history,” Dick said in amusement.
“Hardly,” Bruce replied dryly. He moved toward the bed. “I’ve seen pictures of this room that were taken after Lincoln’s body was removed.”
“I’m surprised a picture wasn’t taken with the body.”
“Yes, Victorians were fond of ‘death pictures’. Sometimes it was the only picture families had of a loved one.”
“Was the casket open?” Dick roamed around the room, gently pushing a rocking chair.
“Yes, another Victorian tradition. Some people continue that today.”
“Funny how the 19th century clings to the 20th.” Dick wandered over to stand next to Bruce.
“Good way of putting it.” Bruce gripped the footboard of the bed. “I truly hope we don’t go through this horror ever again.”
Dick put his hand on Bruce’s shoulder as Mrs. O’Connell’s mop rattled in a bucket down the hall.
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