Lincoln Must Die for the South to Live
A short time before the United States was turned literally upside down.
Washington D.C., The White House.
“The time I spoke of has come. You two must remain calm and act as you always do, as if nothing is happening. Everything will be over in an instant.”
“Good heavens… I’ve lived a long time, but I’ve never experienced anything like this.”
“But are you certain the information is accurate?”
Carnegie, who had conspired with Booth, had handed over all the information to Seuret, and Seuret had immediately tossed it to Lincoln. If the goal had been merely to prevent an assassination, they could have simply arrested the conspirators right then and there. However, the two men had discussed in detail how to leverage this, and in the end, Lincoln and Seuret devised a plan to milk the incident for every last drop, leaving nothing behind.
“In a way, this is an opportunity to mend the conflicts of the last war once more.”
“No, no—isn't it still too dangerous?”
“Of course, I have no intention of forcing danger upon the Secretary or the Vice President. You two need only stay in your quarters and arrest the culprits the moment they enter.”
“Even so, there is always the possibility of the unexpected, so I think it would be better to just catch them now…”
As Seward feared, no matter how thoroughly one prepared, one could never know what variables might arise in a situation where human lives were on the line. It was highly probable that the perpetrators might deviate from their original plan and act impulsively. However, arresting them at the scene, having actually moved to execute the crime, would have a far greater impact than catching them in the planning stage.
“You two will have no reason to face the culprits at all, so you need not worry.”
“No, what I am worried about is the President’s safety!”
“I, too, shall be in a safe place, so there is no need to worry. What we truly need to pay attention to is what comes after this.”
The assassination of a President. The repercussions of this absurd event—which had never happened before and should never happen again—would be immense. From now on, whenever the President moved, a massive security detail would follow, and all sorts of protective procedures would surely be tightened.
“Mr. President.”
Seward opened his mouth cautiously.
“To be frank, isn't this the perfect opportunity to legally suppress the South?”
“······.”
“An attempted assassination of the President. What better justification could there be?”
Andrew Johnson, who had been watching the situation quietly, nodded as well.
“Secretary Seward is right. Why don't we take this opportunity to root out the extremists in the South?”
“Let us simply implement military rule. No one will be able to raise an objection.”
Seeing the insane radicals of the South emerge like this, no one knew how many sympathizers might be lurking there. If they sent the army to crush them, the North would undoubtedly applaud with both hands raised, rather than oppose it.
However.
“If we do that, the path to true integration will be pushed back by at least fifty years.”
“······.”
“We must excise the rotten flesh, but the North must not profit from it.”
Lincoln was looking not at immediate gains, but at the future far beyond that.
“Naturally, those who have committed wrongs must be punished. But to stop there—that is true courage, and that is tolerance.”
“Mr. President…”
“But isn't the price of the tolerance you have shown coming back to you like this?”
They had endured so much; how much more were they expected to do? Would those wretched people even be grateful for such gestures? Naturally, Seward’s voice grew sharp.
“Even after an assassination attempt, you still intend to shield them?”
“I am not shielding them. It is not for the sake of the South. I am walking the path I believe to be right for my own sake.”
“And what will you do if something truly dangerous happens next time!”
“That is correct. If anything were to happen to you, Mr. President!”
“Then, at that time.”
They had simply been lucky this time, and there was no guarantee the same luck would follow. Yet.
“Would it not simply be that one fool who believed in the integration of the Union until the very last moment disappeared from the world?”
At that plain, simple remark, Seward was left speechless. The more he saw of him lately, the more he felt that the reason he had lost the primary was not just understandable—it was inevitable. The defeat had been bitter, but for the sake of this country’s future, this man had to be the one at the top.
However, to ensure that, the bastards who plotted this madness had to be thoroughly uprooted and swept away. If they didn't implement military rule, there was one problem.
“If you put it that way, I shall say no more. But if we say we will intervene directly to root out those involved, there will be idiots who will frame it as suppression. How will you handle that? Naturally, we must crush them, but I ask because I suspect that is not the direction you desire.”
“It would be best if the South cleanses itself.”
“...Excuse me?”
No, had his head suddenly turned into a field of flowers?
“Those Southern bastards would never do that...”
Just as he was about to grumble about why he was acting so out of character, a realization flashed through his mind.
“...Ah.”
Seward looked straight at Lincoln.
“Don't tell me... has that already been discussed?”
Lincoln smiled instead of answering.
“Excuse me? What is it? What has been discussed?”
Andrew Johnson, unable to follow the flow, looked back and forth between the two with a bewildered expression, but Seward waved his hand and let out a dry laugh.
“Nothing. I don't think this is a conversation to be had here.”
He wasn't sure if Andrew Johnson knew James Seuret or not, but there was no need to unnecessarily complicate the topic here.
“If it has been conceived to that extent, I have no objections.”
His instincts hadn't dulled. The meticulousness of not letting go of either ideals or practical gains. Once again, Lincoln was indeed Lincoln.
***
And so, the day of the assassination finally dawned.
Lewis Powell, tasked with the assassination of Seward, walked through the darkness, suppressing extreme tension.
‘I can do it.’
He could feel his hand holding the knife becoming damp with sweat. Although he had mentally prepared himself perfectly in advance, he couldn't help but tremble now that the deed was at hand.
‘Still, I must do it. Kill the Secretary of State... and become a hero.’
Fortunately, as per the information he had received beforehand, infiltrating Seward’s house was not difficult. The security was lax. Could it really be this easy to assassinate the Secretary of State? He felt a moment of doubt, but that just meant the information Comrade Carnegie had given him was that certain.
Powell gripped his knife tightly and opened the door to the room where Seward was supposedly resting. Now, he just had to plunge the knife into the throat of Seward, who would be taking a nap as usual, and walk out...
“...Huh?”
That was how it should have been.
There was no one in the room. An empty room. A made bed.
‘W-what? They said at this hour he would be taking a nap at his desk or on his bed.’
His brain froze, and cold sweat poured down. Something was wrong. Was the information wrong? Or had he woken up and gone to the bathroom? If so, he should hide and...
THUD!
At the same time, something struck the back of his head.
“Gah!”
Powell’s body collapsed to the floor, unable to even scream properly. The moment his consciousness faded, the sound of multiple footsteps—he didn't know how many—pierced his ears.
“Secured!”
“He has a knife in his hand! We are arresting him in the act.”
‘...I’m fucked.’
That was the last thought of Powell, who had come to assassinate Seward.
Meanwhile, at that same time.
George Atzerodt, who was supposed to assassinate Vice President Andrew Johnson, was still pacing in front of the hotel. It wasn't because he knew something had gone wrong.
‘Kill the Vice President?’
As he realized that he, with these very hands, had to kill the Vice President, his legs trembled and the pistol in his hand felt too heavy.
‘Right... come to think of it, isn't Andrew Johnson just a decoration? There’s no need to kill him, right?’
Wasn't the important thing the assassination of Lincoln? The next person to deal with was Seward, who could become the center of the Republican Party. In other words, if the two of them succeeded, he didn't necessarily have to escalate things further. Wouldn't it actually be more beneficial for the South in the long run if an incompetent Vice President remained alive?
Having succeeded in constructing a miracle of logic, Atzerodt eventually turned around. He wasn't running away. He was just going back to clear his head for a moment. But surprisingly, as he turned his back, people suddenly popped out from the nearby bushes.
“The target is trying to run!”
“Don't let him get away! George Atzerodt! Hands up and surrender!”
They were agents from the Pinkerton Agency who had been lying in wait to ambush him the moment he entered the hotel. Of course, would he surrender just because they told him to? Sensing that the plan had gone awry, Atzerodt ran without looking back.
However.
BANG!
“Argh!”
Before he could even take a few steps, Atzerodt, shot in the leg, tumbled to the floor in the same posture he had been running in.
“Secured!”
“Don't move, you bastard!”
One by one, the flopping fish were caught on the fishing rod and dragged out of the water. And the final runner, John Wilkes Booth, entered the theater to fulfill his destiny.
Ford’s Theatre. The place that would become the holy ground where he would execute the tyrant and save the white people of the South. His heart was pounding like crazy, but unlike his other bungling comrades, he did not hesitate. This was the moment that would change history, and he was an apostle executing justice for all the white people living on this land.
Without hesitation, he gripped the pistol in his pocket and moved through the dark theater without a hitch. The theater was darker than he had thought, but as expected, the play was being performed to great acclaim, receiving much response. As a popular actor himself, he knew exactly when the audience would be focused on the play, so he approached Lincoln’s seat without drawing anyone’s attention.
The private box with the best view of the stage. On that chair, which would become the tyrant’s coffin, he could vaguely see the suit he had memorized after seeing the real thing several times. The surroundings were strangely dark, so he could barely see a face, but the unique decoration Lincoln loved to wear was attached to the suit.
‘Your long-suffering destiny ends here at last.’
Booth took a breath and slowly pulled out his pistol. Now, exactly 10 seconds later, the funniest part of this play would come.
“Hahahaha!”
“Pfft!”
“Wahahaha!”
BANG!
Clap clap clap clap!
Amidst the sound of the audience laughing hysterically and clapping, a single gunshot blended in as if it were nothing. It was over. With this, the South would be saved...
“...Hmm?”
That’s strange. Is it because it’s dark? He didn't seem to see blood splattering. Even the person sitting right next to him didn't scream. Reflexively, Booth stepped forward to check the target he had shot, and his lips trembled.
It wasn't a person. A mannequin wearing a suit and a wig was sitting on the chair with its head blown off.
“T-this...! What on earth... what is this...”
No, he could sort out the reasons later; for now, he had to run. He turned his body quickly and tried to leave the theater in a hurry, but a sharp warning poured out from all sides before he could.
“Don't move!”
“Hands up! If you resist, we will fire immediately!”
Realizing he had walked into a trap, Booth slowly raised his hands. Was he the only one caught? What happened to his other comrades? What about Atzerodt or Powell? What about Carnegie?
Booth, who was being dragged out while still thinking of his comrades until the very end, was able to resolve his questions in front of the theater. The tyrant he had tried to kill. Lincoln was standing there, perfectly fine, staring straight at Booth as he was being dragged away.
“Lincooooooln! You...!”
Although he had failed here, he had to convey this much on behalf of all white people.
“Even if I have failed, someone who protects the true pride of the white man will surely bring divine punishment upon a tyrant like you...!”
Just as he was about to spit out the threat that a second or third Booth would emerge to execute Lincoln, he saw someone bowing and scraping in front of Lincoln.
“Your Excellency, has it not gone exactly as I said? Please continue to look favorably upon us in the future!”
“...Carnegie.”
The core member of the organization who had planned all of this and laid out the most efficient routes for his comrades. If that vermin had betrayed them, this whole situation made sense.
“You rotten traitorous bastard!”
He had thought he was an angel sent by God, but he was a Satan who had approached them with the intent to destroy them.
“Carnegie! You! Did you sell us out! You son of a bitch!”
But surprisingly, Carnegie didn't even look at Booth. No, to be precise, he did look, but he didn't even engage in a proper conversation.
“Do you happen to know me?”
He just tilted his head as if treating him like a stranger.
“You son of a bitch! You! You!”
“Take him away.”
While being dragged away unceremoniously, only Booth’s angry shouting filled the theater entrance. And Carnegie stepped one step closer to Lincoln, who was looking at the retreating figure with pity, and lowered his voice subtly.
“Your Excellency.”
To anyone watching, it was a scene of the President commending someone who had made a great contribution to the arrest operation, and everyone thought it was well-deserved. But the conversation passing between the two was nothing of the sort.
“May we begin today?”
“It is not a matter of whether we may begin; it must be done today.”
Lincoln’s permission to settle this whole situation had fallen.
“Send the telegram. Though, I would be grateful if you added a note to be careful not to cause too many casualties.”
“Understood!”
The assassination incident had come to an end, but the true stage had only just begun. Since a Southerner had caused the trouble, a Southern planter would clean it up. It was a perfect problem-solving method that no one could argue with.
‘Just as the Chairman predicted. Indeed, he is the man of stature to grasp the financial power of this country.’
And the fact that the Chairman had entrusted such a task to him personally meant that he, not Rockefeller, was indeed Seuret’s finest sword. The sweat running down Carnegie’s forehead as he ran to send the telegram shone refreshingly.