The Man Who Was Meant to Die

Washington D.C., 1865

By the time Elias Crowe first read the statements, the city had moved from shock to paperwork. Several statements from Ford’s Theater mentioned powder burns on a sleeve, smoke curling toward the ceiling, the sharp odor that clung to coats long after the shot was fired. Not the theatrical haze from stage effects, but the acrid sting of real violence, struck flint and burning cartridge paper in a nation already worn thin by war.

Elias Crowe was not in attendance at Ford’s Theater on that night, two days prior. As a junior clerk working in the War Department, the young man was asked to cross-check witness statements from the patrons who were in attendance. The darkest day in the nation’s history was reduced to lines of ink and numbered reports.

Elias’ pen froze. One man’s name appeared twice on the list: once as a shaken bystander pulled from the crowd and once as a body removed after the chaos.

At first, the clerk believed the duplication seemed like a clerical mistake. “Understandable,” he thought to himself. How would he have responded to being in the midst of a tragedy of historical proportions? In fact, earlier in the day, Elias had heard hallway whispers of accomplice names who had likely assisted John Wilkes Booth.

He looked closer. The names were written in the same slanted hand, with the same flourish on the capital letters.

Elias’ carefulness did not go over well. A senior War Department official, Edwin Harlan Beckett, stopped him from correcting the mistake and confiscated the notes. “This is no longer your concern,” he was told. Meanwhile, other paperwork piled up across the office as day turned to night. It had been a long day. Elias was due home to his wife and young daughter.

Beckett believed deeply in institutional continuity. Not ideals. But stability for his organization. Beckett waved him off and warned him not to inflame rumors.

Beckett’s intervention left Elias thinking about the unusual handling of a report that could be crucial to the investigation. Suddenly, he felt an eerie sense of being followed. Shuffling footsteps grew louder as he moved through the city streets.

The next morning, Elias could not stop thinking about his supervisor’s odd behavior. Returning to the theater brought no clarity. At the same side door Booth had used, he spotted a shiny pocket watch reflecting the morning light from within a storm drain. He kneeled and pried the iron grate aside with his penknife, fishing the watch from the muck below.

Fabricated from cheap brass plate, the timepiece did not look regal. The glass was cracked, but the mechanism was working. Elias inspected the watch and turned it over in his palm. A small square of stiff paper with frayed edges was attached to it.

The clerk, skilled at spotting minor details, held a hastily inked tag: Removed 11:45 PM – Name: Silas Mercer Hale – From: Dress Circle – Condition: Lifeless – By order of Provost Guard. The ink had smeared where blood or sweat had touched it. Elias realized he was holding a body tag without a body.

With his interest piqued, Elias investigated this anomaly on his own. His careful records provided him with key witness names to pursue for more information.

One stagehand became cooperative after being passed a five-dollar half eagle. Not being used to this kind of money, the stagehand weighed the coin in his hand. His gaze shifted to what was behind him. “Sir, things a few days ago didn’t go off as many think,” Elias was told quietly by the man with grease-stained cuffs. “Thank you,” Elias responded in a like hushed tone: “Please don’t share this information with anyone.”

Elias also approached a soldier working behind Ford’s Theater. The soldier lowered his voice as he insisted that the man carried out of the theater was not Booth. He was also not a civilian casualty. Elias noted the soldier had powder burns on his left sleeve. Powder burns did not come from carrying bodies. Probing further, the soldier appeared nervous and was unwilling to give up more information. Elias couldn’t help but wonder if this reluctance was out of loyalty.

Elias started for home. As he was attempting to memorize Silas Mercer Hale’s name, he tucked the watch into his waistcoat as footsteps again showed that someone was approaching from the west.

Upon returning to his office, Elias read a note left on his desk: “Looking for some kind of truth? Facts that will change how people see Mr. Lincoln and what he did." It continued: “The country cannot endure further agitation. It’s time for peace.”

“Was he being warned, or watched?” Elias wondered. Later that day, his question was answered, confirming his suspicions. A young boy confronted Elias as he walked through the commercial district. He stepped carefully to the curb. His goal was to avoid the muddy street. Elias couldn’t help but notice that mourning ribbons had already been placed on the lampposts.

“Mister, I was told to give you this envelope,” the boy said. Looking from the dispatch to the courier, Elias felt the dampness of the envelope. The boy had carried this for some distance. Kneeling down to meet the boy’s eyes, Elias questioned the youngster. “Who gave this to you?” The boy responded, "I received two bits for delivering this to you. That’s all I know.”

After the boy ran off the same way he had approached, Elias carefully examined the envelope that bore the official War Department seal, although it had already been unsealed. Upon retrieving the document, it was evident that the memorandum was not meant for him. The memo was instead intended for another clerk named “Baxter” in Judge Advocate General Holt’s office.

Elias read the handwritten text. His breath hitched as his eyes fell upon the words, an icy dread seeping into his gut. “Make sure that the task is done when attention is focused on the shooting. Mr. Silas Mercer Hale has to be removed from the theater—dead or alive. Failure to remove Hale will damage Mr. Lincoln’s reputation beyond repair.”

“But who is this Silas Mercer Hale?” Elias wondered. Was he a Union operative? The question led Elias to visit boarding houses near Ford's Theater. At one such home, Elias found a past guest named “S.M. Hale”. The landlady, when approached by Elias, described Hale as a gentleman with a Southern accent.

There wasn't much to work with here. However, the man questioned whether anyone at the theater had any knowledge of Hale.

Elias entered the building through the now-familiar rear entrance. Given the dim hallway, Elias was curious about how Booth had reached the balcony.

An interesting feeling came over Elias. He knew he needed to act and correct history. His plan was to get the memo to a contact he had previously made at The Washington Evening Star.

On his way to the newspaper offices, Elias was approached by a gentleman wearing a black sack coat and carrying a cane in one hand and gloves in the other. “Excuse me, sir,” the gentleman said to Elias. “You will need to come with me.” At that point, Elias attempted to turn and outrun the stranger. Two members of the Metropolitan Police department assisted in this clandestine operation to support the Union Army. The officers both stepped in from the side and detained the clerk. “We have some questions,” explained the gentleman.

Elias sat in the back of a horse and buggy. The stench of manure was evident. But that was comfortable compared to the dank basement where his captors led him for further interrogation.

The most unsettling feature of the large, dark room was the stillness. Elias could hear his own heart beating. And the faint, steady drip of water somewhere in the dark reaches. The closed door made him feel sealed in for an uncertain period. Air in the confined space was stagnant and musty.

In his mind, he saw his daughter wearing a favorite blue ribbon in her hair. And his wife, as she rolled out the dough for her wonderful bread.

The upper door opened, and Elias’ eyes adjusted to the light of a large candle being carried by two men descending the stairs. Right away, Elias could tell that these individuals meant him no harm. The lack of restraints. The calm tone of them asking their first question. “Sir, we want you to understand that certain lies are needed. To prevent worse violence than what we saw last week. You will destroy what you have collected.”

Elias listened carefully and asked, “Or what?”

The same man responded calmly, "Unfortunately, your life could be ruined, or you could be killed.”

It was a genuine dilemma for Elias. Neither option seemed optimal, so he figured he could satisfy the government and minimize possible retribution from withholding information critical to the facts on record.

As a piece of security, Elias made a secret copy of the memo before he returned the original to the War Department officers. He had no desire to encourage retaliation in the South. The copy would be stored inside the lining of his waistcoat in case it was ever needed to set the record straight or protect him from the threat of paying the ultimate price for his knowledge.

The nation felt brittle, like glass scored and ready to split. Elias imagined a headline in Baltimore accusing the government of staging the chaos inside Ford’s Theater. He could see veterans in gray gathering in taverns, swearing that Lincoln had arranged the removal of a Southern agent to hide some darker design. A whisper like that would not stay a whisper. It would move down rail lines and riverboats, into courtrooms and statehouses, until men who had only just stacked their rifles took them up again.

If Hale’s name surfaced with proof of a concealed order, it would not read as nuance. It would read as betrayal. By locking the truth away, he was sealing a crack before it spread.

Potomac Maryland, 1915

Now, at 74, the man had seen so much beyond what others saw 50 years earlier. Over the recent past, Elias watched a whole new generation study the assassination. Thinking nothing beyond what they were told.

Working in the government through three different administrations, Elias knew that the record was imperfect. Wrong. Flawed. But things continued to be stable, and the world was reaching a new apex of growth and prosperity. Little did Elias, or anyone else, know what was about to unfold on the world stage.

Through the years, he considered revealing the truth as he knew it. But who would believe a story that seemed so preposterous. Would the truth have saved the nation by complete knowledge of the history? Or, would the unsettling facts have broken the country that Elias so loved? With his ties to the Union, Elias’ secret could have reignited sectional violence.

For now, he just wanted to live out the rest of his life on his small farm. His daughter visited more since his wife had passed away. These days, he appreciated the security from the tactile sense of the familiar waistcoat’s lining brushing against his ribs. The secret still there.