It was the spring of 1865, a momentous period in the history of the American Civil War. The pages of the New York Times bore witness to the final stages of the conflict. A front-page article titled "Countdown to Victory" heralded the collapse of the Southern Confederacy. Just the previous September, General William Tecumseh Sherman's federal forces had captured Atlanta in a lightning strike, devastating the heart of the enemy's war machine. The Union's follow-up, the audacious "March to the Sea," left a trail of destruction, dismantling Southern military infrastructure and crippling its economy. Meanwhile, to the east, General Ulysses S. Grant's relentless pursuit of the Confederate forces had brought the Union Army to the very doorstep of Richmond, the rebellious capital.
By early 1865, the Confederate states were unraveling. Black freedmen flooded out of the plantations, seeking refuge in Union-held territories as the once-stable plantation economy collapsed. Federal naval blockades had severed any remaining trade with Europe, and dissent within the Southern ranks grew. Small farmers rallied to the Union cause, and increasing numbers of deserters abandoned their posts as supplies dwindled and the Southern resistance faltered. The end of the war seemed imminent, the clock ticking down to a final reckoning.
James sat in his dimly lit study, the newspaper clutched in his hands. The words of the article resonated deeply, confirming what he had long suspected—the war was nearing its end. Yet as he glanced at the date—April 2, 1865—something gnawed at the back of his mind, an unsettled feeling that he had forgotten something significant.
He set the paper down and turned his gaze to the food on his dinner plate, his stomach turning. Meals had become a daily torment for him, a reminder of the gnawing emptiness that lingered within him. It was as if every bite he took was forced, an act of survival rather than sustenance. Each mouthful felt like feeding a beast that recoiled in disgust, yet continued to consume.
The months of rigorous self-discipline and intense boxing training had begun to yield results. James' mental resilience had strengthened, his ability to control his emotions had improved, and his blood's natural turbulence had begun to subside. But still, the darkness lingered, always pressing against the edges of his consciousness. He finally understood why Victor had spoken so often about the relentless challenge of advanced training. The mind's tyranny could destabilize even the most practiced discipline, and the vampire's powers only complicated things further.
James, having endured months of solitude and the isolating pain that his healing abilities could not fully remedy, felt more detached from the world than ever. The weight of isolation pressed down on him. He thought of his friends—Butler Wayne, Teacher Daniel, Abraham—each one bound to leave him behind in the end. He wondered: How many true friends did he have left in this world?
Abraham. Abraham Lincoln. The thought of the president's name rang out like thunder in his mind, electrifying his senses. Gripping the newspaper with newfound urgency, he glanced at the time and reached for the summons bell. Something had been forgotten—something important. The realization struck him with sharp clarity.
Meanwhile, in a dimly lit room on the other side of Washington, John Booth brooded. He had been drinking heavily for two days now, drowning in his frustrations. Despite the South's repeated defeats, Booth had believed the Confederacy still had a chance—especially with General Joseph Johnston's army still intact, and two Southern states yet to fall. But Lee, in a moment of what Booth deemed cowardice, had surrendered without a fight.
His hands clenched into fists, and the hatred simmering in his veins was palpable. Booth had long been a committed supporter of the Southern cause, using his fame as an actor to gather intelligence, supply crucial medicines, and aid in various covert missions. But the war's end—so abruptly declared—had shattered his resolve. His eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep, narrowed with disdain as he stared at his reflection. Lee's surrender, he thought bitterly, obliterated everything I fought for.
He picked up the brandy bottle, taking a long swig, the fire of his resentment stoking even further. A knock on the door broke his reverie.
"John, are you there?" The voice came from outside, unmistakably the voice of his fellow actor, Herold. Booth froze for a moment, then quickly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His appearance was far from pristine—his hair was matted to his forehead, and his once-dashing figure now appeared worn and disheveled. He hastily straightened himself up and opened the door.
"Good evening, John. Haven't seen you in a while," Herold remarked, stepping inside and quickly covering his nose at the rancid smell in the room. "The owner of Ford's Theatre invited us to a performance on the 14th. They're staging a new play about Gettysburg. I hear President Lincoln and a few high-ranking officials are attending. You interested?"
Booth's interest piqued. Gettysburg? His eyes glinted with sudden curiosity. "Who's going?" he asked, his voice tinged with an intensity he could no longer mask.
"Lincoln, Vice President, Secretary of War, General Grant... all the top brass," Herold answered, snapping his fingers as he spoke.
Booth's mood shifted. For the first time in days, he felt a spark of excitement. "I'll be there. Ford's Theatre, the night of the fourteenth." The thought of being in the same room as Lincoln, as the man who embodied everything he despised, filled him with a sense of purpose.
Herold blinked, surprised by Booth's sudden enthusiasm. The actor had seemed near the edge of collapse, but now there was something renewed in him—a dangerous gleam in his eyes.
Later that evening, as night fell over Washington, Jack Pete and his companions disembarked from their train at the station. Tired and weary from days of travel, they considered a brief rest before reporting to the White House. Yet, Jack knew that their mission was urgent—No delays. James' orders are clear. They had to meet President Lincoln, and they had to do it immediately.
"Let's rest first, then meet the President tomorrow," Lauren suggested, but Jack, his mind clouded with unease, shook his head.
"No time to waste," he replied with quiet determination. "We must see the President now."
Their mission had been urgent, but Jack could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. James had been more agitated than usual, his eyes wild with some unspoken dread. It was not a request Jack had wanted to act on, but duty required it. They would meet Lincoln, even if it meant no rest.
Arriving at the White House, Jack, Lauren, and Chris hurried through the briefing office. The President was scheduled to attend a play at Ford's Theatre tonight, and the White House staff was well aware of the importance of their presence. Jack prepared to take up his position at the door, but something kept pulling him toward the theater.
Once there, Jack saw a figure standing across the street, clutching a small bottle in his hand. His instincts, honed through years of service, screamed at him to follow. The figure was Booth, his demeanor frantic, moving quickly toward the theater's interior. Jack followed at a distance, sensing the tension that permeated the air.
Booth slipped through the shadows, disappearing into the depths of Ford's Theatre.
Inside the theater, the audience was riveted by the drama unfolding on stage. President Lincoln, relaxed and enjoying the performance, was unaware of the danger that had crept into the building. On the second floor, Booth took out a small pistol, his heart racing with anticipation. His plans, years in the making, were about to come to fruition.
With a single, swift motion, he pointed the gun at Lincoln's head and pulled the trigger.
Boom.
The sound echoed throughout the theater. History would never forget that moment—the night President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. But for those who stood in the shadows, the events that followed were only beginning to unfold.
Visit patreon.com/Purhitee for more chapters