Customarily, I do not write on the Lord's Day, but this morning the Spirit of God prompted me to recount the events of a week that will change this nation's course forever.
     On Palm Sunday, just one week ago today, Lee signed surrender documents in Appomattox, Virginia.
     After hearing news of the war's end, I proceeded from Richmond, Virginia immediately to Washington, arriving mid-afternoon Monday at Sheppard's Boardinghouse. I found it overrun with returning soldiers. Mrs. Sheppard expressed regrets at having to turn me away as she handed me the unexpected letter from John Ezra. It detailed the arrival of his family on Tuesday afternoon by train from Gettysburg. John will also return my two matching knapsacks.
     So I left Mrs. Sheppard's with a spring in my step. Joy filled my heart as I looked forward to my promised staff position in Lincoln's second term and a reunion with John Ezra and his family. Now, only a few legal details remain to complete my adoption of Angelina.
     I crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and walked to the edge of the marshy tidal basin. Viewing the unfinished monument, birds roosting in her scaffolding, and pigs wandering about her base, I wondered if our national government would enjoy greater success at reconstructing our broken nation than those who attempted to raise this edifice.
     I found lodging late Monday night at the Herndon House, a boarding facility run by Mrs. Murray. I experienced the most restful sleep since the beginning of the war.
     Tuesday morning, parades and marchers filled the streets and numerous speeches were offered. That afternoon I spent five minutes alone with Lincoln. His face was haggard and tired. We discussed his plan to restore the South. He assured me that he would clearly define my role in his administration and scheduled me for a more detailed briefing the following Monday at 2:00 P.M. I was exuberant.
     I wrote most of the day Wednesday, my door and window open to take advantage of a slight breeze. As the hours passed, a peculiar character caught my attention, a Mr. Payne. He kept the room across from mine. At noon, Simon, a free black of many years, brought my lunch. "Mr. Payne likes to eat by hisself every day, too." he explained. "Mostly stays away from Mrs. Murray, myself, and the rest of the boarders."
     I passed Payne in the second floor hall about an hour later. A young man in his early twenties, he had broad shoulders, a clean-shaven face and thick lips. Something about his countenance unnerved me, the furtive look in his eyes, his tight, serious mouth.
     That afternoon and evening, an odd collection of folks came and went from his room, further awakening my inquisitiveness. I began to suspect that Payne was conducting some sort of illicit business.
     Late Wednesday evening I picked up a small piece of paper from the floor in the hall. It was a letter addressed to "Friend Wilkes." It spoke of an oil deal, of stock worth eight thousand dollars, of sinking the well deep enough, and of a supposed escape route through Capon and Romney.
     As I read it, Payne's door burst open and a mustachioed man wearing an open-necked, long-sleeved white shirt with fancy gold cufflinks stepped out and snatched the letter from my hand. Our eyes met. "That's mine!" he snapped.
     I concluded that these folks were involved in some sort of oil speculation. But in retrospect I now see that a deadly intrigue was brewing.
     On Thursday evening, several of these same gentlemen gathered at Herndon House to share a meal. Uncharacteristically, Payne ate in the dining room. I sat at the far end of the table. They carried on a hearty discussion amongst themselves, highlighted by catlike glances and knowing looks. It was an odd meal, unlike any of my fond memories of dinner at Mrs. Sheppard's. I retired early with a dark foreboding in my spirit.