Chapter One
“All aboard!” the conductor cried, above the hiss of the steam.
Hearing that cry, Prudence Bradshaw clutched the box to her chest and climbed the steps to the Baltimore & Ohio train. The conductor took her arm to steady her on her way.
Still shivering from the February cold, she chose the bench right behind the heating stove at the end of the aisle. Sinking down gratefully into the cushioned seat, she put the precious parcel on the chair beside her and dropped her plaid woolen cloak to the carpeted floor.
It had been a long trip to get even this far, and her journey was far from complete. Already tired from the long train ride between her Philadelphia home and this Pittsburgh station, she closed her eyes briefly. They flew wide open again as she remembered why she had come here on her sacred mission, and realized how close she was to success.
The Anti-Slavery Ladies League had chosen her to make this trip, even though she was only 18. Her friends all knew she was descended from Letitia Bradshaw, the Revolutionary War heroine? Somehow or other, she had managed to keep the British troops distracted while the Americans crossed the Delaware, as her precious gift for General Washington.
Thinking of that, Prudence fingered her heirloom gold locket. Based on the picture inside it, Prudence looked a great deal like her great-grandmother, with the same soft golden curls and bright blue eyes. Now she was following in her footsteps, by bringing this gift for Mr. Lincoln.
Not that this task required the kind of courage Letitia had shown, as Prudence reminded herself sternly. All she herself had to do was present Mr. Lincoln with the pie her group had made for him. They had naturally chosen a cherry pie, as a symbol of their first great president, which would thus serve as a tribute to the president-elect. It thrilled her to realize that he was, at this moment, in the special car right behind her, riding towards his inauguration in Washington. As a Methodist minister’s daughter, she could hardly avoid feeling that Heaven had guided her this far.
She would present the gift along with the little speech that the Ladies League had composed for her. Although she had memorized it days ago, she went over it once more in her mind.
“Please feel free to enjoy this little gift we have baked for you,” she would recite, as she held it out towards him. “We only hope you will remember that we made it of our own free will…and also remember those who are forced to toil without their consent…while they call to you for liberty.”
And the enslaved were not calling in vain. His enemies in the South certainly thought so. They were already planning to leave the Union the moment he became president. It meant that war was almost sure to come. As good Methodists, she and her father were both certain that the Lord would fight for the Union and freedom. True. Mr. Lincoln had often insisted he had no plans to free the slaves, but she knew he leaned towards their side. Now she was doing her humble bit to make him lean a little further. She could not help smiling at the picture that called to mind, of that incredibly tall, lanky figure leaning anywhere.
The train lurched forward as the wheels began to turn, throwing her backwards and scattering her thoughts. After carefully checking to be sure her precious present was still intact, she pressed it against her bosom with one hand again as she headed towards the next car. It was slow work staggering down the aisle as the train bounced and swayed beneath her, forcing her to constantly grasp the back of a seat with one hand while clutching the box in the other.
Another obstacle soon appeared in the form of the train boy, when he came down the aisle shouting out his wares. Again and again, she had to stop while he sold another passenger a chunk of candy, a piece of fruit or a newspaper, from the tray fastened around his neck. The delay made her all the more eager to reach her goal…and all the more frustrated when the tall red-haired man came out of the president’s car and stood glaring down at her, from above the brawny arms that were folded over his broad chest.
Even beneath his suit jacket, she could see how powerfully built he was. The sight left her wondering how she could ever get past him when he was so obviously determined to stop her. Well, she decided firmly, she could be pretty determined herself, especially when she obviously had right on her side.
“And where in the world do you think you are going now?” he demanded. His voice clearly told her he must have come from Ireland, not too long ago.
“If it is any of your business, I am going to see the president-elect.”
“Oh, you are, are you?” He thrust out his jutting jaw.
Clutching the box even harder, she proudly tilted up her own round little chin and replied, “I certainly am. I am bringing a gift for Mr. Lincoln.”
* * *
“I will tell him you brought it,” John O’Malley assured her. “Now please go back to your seat.”
“I will tell him myself!” she exclaimed, as she tried to push past. He refused to even budge.
“How dare you!” she cried, her blue eyes flashing.
I’d like to dare to paddle her until she can’t sit down for a week, he thought. His broad right hand all but tingled at the thought. Instead, he said, as calmly as he could, “I dare, because I am a Pinkerton Agency detective, here to protect Mr. Lincoln. That means not letting just anyone barge in on him.”
At that, she pulled herself up to her full height, until her curly blond head reached his brawny chest. “I am hardly just anyone!” she proclaimed. “I have been sent here by the Anti-Slavery Ladies League to present this cherry pie to him, along with our message. I trust you do not object to our ideas?”
By this time they were quarreling so loudly, the other passengers were putting down their papers to stare at them. Both were too angry to notice.
“If I did object to your beliefs, I would hardly be guarding Mr. Lincoln, now would I?” the Irishman demanded. “If you care so much about him yourself, you should not be asking me to let just anyone go waltzing into his private car.”
“As I told you before, I am hardly just anyone. So why won’t you let me get by?”
For a moment, he actually opened his mouth to tell her why. Then he snapped it shut quickly. It was hard to believe that this silly little brat was one of the plotters…but then, her brainless behavior would have been a perfect disguise. Back in his days with the New York Police Department, he had learned that the most angelic faces could hide the deepest villainy.
“I have my orders,” he said at last.
“And I have mine!” at that, she tried to push past him again.
It was one time too many. To his own surprise, he found himself grasping her arm, turning her around and swatting her bottom three times. He doubted she could even feel it, through the layers of petticoats beneath her heavy blue woolen skirt, and she managed to keep holding her precious gift box through the entire attack. Indeed, she seemed more surprised than hurt, as she gasped in shock.
“How…how dare you?” she finally managed to cry. The other passengers were leaning forward now, their newspapers forgotten on their laps, as they avidly awaited his answer.
“You asked me that before, and I answered you then. I dare, because I am a Pinkerton Agency detective, I was sent here to guard the president-elect and I have had enough of your nonsense. So you go sit right back down until we get to the next station, where I can put you off.”
“How dare…” she began again, but quickly stopped as he raised his hand. A few seconds later, though, she opened her mouth once more, long enough to say, “That still does not give you the right to order me around!”
Instead of answering, he put both of his hands on her shoulders and pushed her onto the nearest seat. She yelped and tried to stand, but he held her firmly down. With reluctant admiration, he noted that she still managed to hold onto that precious pie of hers.
In somewhat softer tones, he asked, “Do you have enough money to take the next train home? If not, I can give it to you.”
“I have more than enough, thank you!” she assured him. “The Anti-Slavery Ladies League raised enough to pay for this trip with a little more besides.”
“That’s fine, then. So I can eat my dinner at the station without being concerned about you. That will leave me free to worry about Mr. Lincoln instead. Lord knows I’ve got enough reason for that.”
* * *
As she passed through the station’s general store on her way to the restaurant,
she was wondering if she could still find a way to carry out her plan. Hearing
an all-too-familiar voice inside, she stopped short at the door.
“I wish he were safe in Washington, that I do,” the detective was saying. “Detective Copeland is one of the best men we have, and I have warned him against that silly girl. I just hope he taking good care of Abe Lincoln right now.”
“So do we all, O’Malley,” his companion muttered.
O’Malley! So that was his name! Hearing it, she quickly decided to send a complaint to the Pinkerton Detective agency.
“Does your organization encourage its employees to spank strange young ladies in public?” With those words, she could certainly cause all kinds of trouble for that infuriating man.
She only wished she could have found some way to reach Mr. Lincoln instead. But now, due to that dreadful Detective O’Malley, she was ready to admit defeat. Putting the box down on the store counter, she sadly waited for the clerk to finish with his latest customer, so she could sell the pie to him. At least someone would enjoy it that way. She could only hope it would not be Detective O’Malley.
“…and twelve rock candies.” The youthful voice interrupted her thoughts. She looked up to see the train boy facing the cashier. As she did, she remembered reading Twelfth Night in school. The heroine had dressed up as her brother in order to take his place.
At that thought, she found herself glancing around at the piles of boys’ cotton trousers and caps, plus the bags of fruit, the bowls of candy and, of course, the latest newspapers. Fingering the purse at her waist, she realized she had enough money to buy what she needed. There was even enough left over to convince that train boy to linger in the restaurant until he had missed the train.
* * *
The Philadelphia Truthteller was filled with warning about the Southern states
and their threat to leave the Union. John O’Malley shook his head grimly
at the news. Like that annoying young woman, he was also opposed to slavery.
Lord knows, his own Irish people had been slaves to the English long enough…otherwise,
he might never have come here. Unlike her, however, he could not help wondering
if there might not be some way to end it without tearing the country apart.
Because he was sure of one thing. If Lincoln did free the slaves, the last
hope of peace would be gone.
Shaking his head sadly, he went back to his job of searching through the pages for any hint of the conspiracy that the agency called The Baltimore Plot. For a moment, he sighed with relief when he found none. But the Truthteller was not the only paper in the area, as he realized almost at once. One of the others might well spread the news, thus alerting the assassins to change their plans. He had no doubt that those fanatics would do just that, rather than abandoning their scheme.
“Train boy!” he called, as the slight figure brushed past him. “I want to see all your newspapers.” To his surprise, the young man ignored him and strode even more quickly towards the door…the one that led to Mr. Lincoln’s car.
“You can’t go in there!” O’Malley shouted. When the lad did not seem to hear him, the detective jumped up and reached above his tray to grasp his shoulders.
“I said, that car is private. Anyway, I can assure you that the passenger has everything he needs.” When he felt the slim shoulders trying to pull away, he grasped them even more firmly. As the youth struggled, the cloth cap fell to the floor, sending the imposter’s golden curls tumbling down to her bosom.
“You!” he exclaimed. “Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, woman, but you would try the patience of a saint!”’
“It isn’t what you think!” she cried, as she spun around to face him.
* * *
Then what could it possibly be? How could she possibly explain her presence here, disguised as a train boy? As she fought to find some reasonable explanation, saw that the passengers seemed enthralled by the scene.
“I was not trying to see Mr. Lincoln again,” she finally insisted. Firmly, she assured herself that she had the best possible reason for telling that absolute lie.
“I lied to you about having enough money to go home,” she raced on. Her bright blue eyes gazed sadly up at him, willing him to believe her. “I was too proud to take your charity. The truth is, I spent almost every penny to buy this merchandise, so I could pay my own way back to Pittsburgh.”
His hands fell from her shoulders, leaving her to rub them gratefully. “Just stay away from that car, then,” he told her, to her great relief. “And I’ll just look through your newspapers to see if you have any I have not read.”
As he glanced down at the tray still tied around her neck, his eyes filled with fury again. Following their gaze, she saw with a sinking heart that his attention was fixed on the little boxes towards the back, one of which was oozing cherry filling.
At that sight, his face turned so red that it almost matched his curly hair. “Jaysus, Mary and Joseph!” he howled.
“I wanted to sell those slices, too,” she insisted desperately.
“The Devil you did! You were still hoping to carry them in as a gift for Mr. Lincoln. So you are a sneak and a liar to boot!”
“Defending the president-elect may be your job,” she flared, shaking her fist beneath his nose. “But you have no reason to insult me.”
“Oh, but I do,” he told her, dropping his voice to a menacing murmur. The tone made her pull away in fear, while holding the tray up almost as a shield between them. “I have a very good reason indeed, indeed, indeed. You are a spoiled, stubborn, willful little brat who needs a good lesson, and I am the man who can teach it to you!” Pulling the tray from around her neck, he dropped it into a chair.
Now the other passengers were standing up to get a better view, and he did not disappoint them. Ignoring the train shaking beneath them, he dragged her through the train car towards the front row of seats. There, he had plenty of room to throw himself into a seat and drag her across his knee.
At that moment, she wished desperately that she were still wearing her layers of petticoats. Even when he had spanked her through them, she had felt the force of his broad, hard hand. Now she found herself close to shrieking in terror as she waited for it to fall across the seat of her thin cotton trousers.
But fear was not her only feeling.
The terrible truth was, the prospect of a public paddling had aroused a strange, tingling desire in her front opening, rising above even her fear, shock and shame.
Both her school and her father had held very progressive views, rejecting physical punishment in favor of verbal persuasion. She had read about paddlings, though, in stories about other children’s school days, until she was curious and even eager to learn what a good sound spanking really felt like.
Well, she was about to find out. At that thought, she squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the first blow to fall.
She did not have long to wait. It took only a brief moment for him to raise his hand high above his head and bring it down with all his force, right across the center of her quivering rear. Without thinking, she tried to jump up from his lap, only to feel his left arm falling like an iron bar across her back. Then she fought to kick her feet, but soon learned that one of his legs was clamped across hers, holding her firmly down.
In that helpless, humiliating pose, she felt the second blow fall right across the first. That first slap had smarted, and the second stung like a hive of bees, but she was still able to bite her lip to keep from crying out, in front of those eagerly watching strangers. At the third sharp smack, she found herself staring at the heating stove at the other end of the aisle. This was just how it must feel, she thought, if she were sitting with her bare bottom pressed to the red-hot lid. At that thought, she burst into tears.
“OUCH!” she cried, unable to stop herself any longer. “Please don’t spank me any more! I have learned my lesson, I promise I promise, I PROMISE! So you can stop spanking me!”
Desperately, she raised her head and cried, “Won’t anyone come and HELP?” To her dismay, the others laughed when one man answered, “That young fellow is doing all right on his own!”
O’Malley did not seem to have heard her. Instead of even slowing down, he quickened his pace. The blows fell ever harder and faster now, until they were raining down in a steady, fiery stream.
“Ouch! Ouch! OUCH!” she cried, as her bottom wriggled frantically, in a desperate effort to escape. It was no use: His hand always came down in just the right place to meet it.
Yet at the same time, another part of her was writhing too. Her lower body was opening and closing now, in time to his punishing rhythm, as her front opening grew as hot as her backside.
“What in thunderation is goin’ on here?”
At the sound of that twanging, prairie voice, her torment suddenly stopped. O’Malley pushed her off his lap and jumped to his own feet. Now the passengers were staring open-mouthed at this amazing new development.
She found herself looking up at the tallest man she had ever seen, and the most awkward, and possibly the ugliest…with the kindest face.
“I was just tryin’ to catch a nap, when I heard this awful ruckus.” He combed his long fingers through his tousled, lanky hair.
“Mr. Lincoln!” she wailed. “I came here to give you a pie and ask you to free the slaves, but this man would not let me and he spanked me in front of everyone!” Overwhelmed by her wildly conflicting emotions, she burst into tears.
“Why don’t we go back to my private car?” he answered. “That way, no one can see or hear us. It seems to me this bunch has seen enough already.” Without waiting for an answer, he pushed the heavy door open easily, reminding her that he had split rails in his youth. She scurried after him, carrying the tray, with O’Malley following close behind.
“I thank you for your gift, Miss…”
“Prudence Bradshaw,” she sniffled. “And it came from the entire Anti-Slavery Ladies League.”
“Well, Miss Bradshaw, I will be pleased and honored to eat your pie. I can’t promise to do what you want, though, so you might as well stop your bawling.” When she failed to do so, a slow grin started spreading over his rugged features. “Speaking of politics,” he went on, “I even heard a story about a candidate.”
“Which one?” she asked, as she brushed her tears away.
“The one about the man who was running for office. It seems he told his wife on election night that she would soon be sleeping with the mayor. Well, he lost the race and saw her walking out the door. ‘Wife, where you are going?’ he asked. Of course, she answered, ‘To his house.’”
O’Malley seemed shocked for a moment, at hearing such a story told in a lady’s presence. Then he burst out laughing, and Prudence managed a weak smile.
“Now, about that pie,” the president-elect said. Eagerly, she held out one of the little boxes. The detective quickly stepped between them.
“I’m warning you not to eat that, Mr. Lincoln,” he said.
“Afraid I’ll get fat?” With a grin, he slapped his notoriously scrawny belly. “It would take a whole lot of pastry to do that.”
This time, O’Malley did not smile at all. “That is hardly the problem, sir. We have evidence of a plot to assassinate you while you are changing trains in Baltimore. For all I know, the pie could be filled with poison.”
For a long moment, she stared at him in dismay. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she finally wailed, her eyes filling with tears again. “I would never do anything that could possibly put his precious life in danger! Here, I’ll show you how safe it is!” Pulling open the nearest container, she took a healthy bite, without noticing that she was leaving a smear of cherry filling across her tilted little nose.
“That’s good enough for me,” Mr. Lincoln said firmly. “Detective O’Malley, there’s plenty left for you.”
With a rather sheepish expression, O’Malley took a slice. “It’s delicious,” he admitted, in a grudging tone. “But I could not be too careful where Mr. Lincoln’s safety is concerned.”
“Of course not!” she exclaimed, after quickly swallowing her mouthful. “You should have arrested me, just because you suspected I might be trying to harm him…especially when I kept trying to get past you.”
“So, what should I do now?” the president-elect put in, sounding deadly serious again. “I assume the plotters are still somewhere around here, trying to get me. I hope you have some way of stopping them.”
“We want you to get off at Harrisburg and go the rest of the way in disguise.”
“You mean, sneak into my own capital city, for my own inauguration?” he demanded. “No, I want you to give me a gun or a knife, so I can defend myself. I am an old war veteran, and I can still give a good account of myself.”
“Until they shot you or cut you down,” she answered firmly. “Who knows how many there are?” No, Mr. Lincoln, you must listen to the detective here. He knows what’s best for you.” Lowering her eyes, she went on in a softer voice, “I only wish I had listened to him.”
“You are an impressive young woman,” the president-elect answered.
“And she would be even more impressive,” O’Malley put in, “if she got that cherry syrup off her nose.” He reached out one thick finger to wipe it away.
“You seem very fond of each other,” Mr. Lincoln observed.
“I would hardly say that, sir!” the other man exclaimed. “All I’ve done is try to protect you from her, until I wound up blistering her bottom to do it.”
“And all I’ve done was to worry and annoy you!” she wailed. “I’m sure you never want to see me again.”
“Well, I am just a simple country lawyer, but I am not so sure of that,” Mr. Lincoln said. “In fact, I think you might both want to see a lot more of each other.”
As she opened her mouth to protest, he went on, “Now, about that pie…”
AUTHOR’S NOTE: To this day, historians do not agree on whether The Baltimore Plot ever existed. One thing is certain, though: the Pinkerton detectives did believe it and tried their best to protect Mr. Lincoln…just as our own John O’Malley has just done. He and Prudence will later join together in a desperate to foil another plot against the president. This one is only too terribly real…hatched in the deranged mind of John Wilkes Booth.
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