and therefore answered—faintly, it is true—in the affirmative.
“You remember the penalty?” asked the voice.
Could I have ever forgotten it? Remember it? Yes, indeed, did I remember it; perhaps, too vividly for the calm reflection of my mind at that moment. The very question, calling up, as it did, the remembrance, made me silent for the time, and I could not give a reply.
“Brother Knights!” exclaimed the voice, in a solemn tone. “Recall to the mind of him who now kneels here, the penalty of betrayal, either by sign, word or deed.”
A sound like thunder rang around me; the clanging of arms broke the former almost death-like silence, and a hundred or more voices murmured, hissed, whispered or groaned out, three times, the single word,
“Death! Death!! DEATH!!”
The first sound was horrible in its solemnity; the second utterance was terrible in its significance; the third and last was appalling in the repetition and the grave-like silence which followed it. My senses almost reeled under the influence of the fearful warning; my tongue appeared to swell until it filled my mouth and nearly choked me; I felt the hot blood rush over my brain and burn as it pursued its rapid course; it seemed as if the tortures of all the infernal regions had come upon me in a moment; I thought madness would be the result, unless the trial was soon to be ended, and yet I could not speak. And all this time my eyes were bandaged and my limbs bound. It was not the fear of death that caused within such terror—for I was willing to face any danger that could be seen; it was not the binding obligation I had taken—for I had firmly resolved to be true; but the nameless, unknown and unseen perils of that place and from those around me, appeared to call up to my imagination a thousand fears, indistinct and shadowy, yet plain enough to my mental vision. I had longed, craved for and earnestly desired to obtain a secret; but would, at that moment, have given up all I then possessed, or ever hoped to gain, could I have safely withdrawn from the “Circle” within which I found myself so inextricably enclosed. Shall I, can I ever forget that time, those few, long moments of agony?
Never; no not while life remains within this body, or until my senses become benumbed with the frosts of age or imbecility. Never!
How long the silence lasted, I know not; but the same solemn voice—it seemed miles away, and yet was plainly distinct—again addressed me in a slow manner, first repeating the awful word that had been repeated by so many voices, then admonishing me never to forget it, and finally inquiring whether I was ready to proceed with my initiation. I could return no verbal answer—my tongue refused its office—and I merely bowed my head, more mechanical than otherwise, for, to my present remembrance, it does not appear that I had any voluntary power left within my body.
“It is well,” said the voice. “Proceed!”
A movement of feet was next heard by me, followed by a low murmur of voices; the words uttered were drowned by the one single sound that burned through my brain, rang in my ears, appeared in letters of blood before my blinded eyes, and was present to me in every possible shape. That word was, “Death.”
The movements and sounds all ceased, and the solemn silence again ensued, which after a short interval was broken by the voice I had before heard, saying, “Show him all.”
A chorus of voices repeated the words, and the next instant the bandage was quickly taken from my eyes.
For a few seconds my vision was blinded by the light, the dazzling light that fell upon me at that moment; and, before I could recover from the strain thus inflicted upon those organs of sight, I felt a number of sharp points pierce my breast, back and sides. My right hand had become almost frozen with the cold object upon which it rested, while the remainder of my body was in a perfect fever. I gave one glance around me, and, amid what appeared to be a cloud of fire, stood a number of armed men, clothed in coats of mail, their helmeted heads surmounted by red and white feathers, and their faces covered with barred vizors of metallic plates. Each had a sword in his hand, and every one of the points were directed at my almost paralyzed body, puncturing the flesh, and causing the smarts I had so recently felt.
Gradually my sight became restored, and, one by one, the objects before and around me were visible.
The mailed knights stood as still as statues, and any movement of mine might have caused a serious if not a deadly wound from one or the other of their weapons, which shone with a bright, glaring and flashing brilliancy on every side. Had I desired it ever so much, movement or escape was an impossibility.
The light next appeared to become, through some invisible agency, slowly, very slowly of a dimmer character, and to burn with less radiance and dazzling glare; but whether this was actually the case, or some optical illusion, I am now at a loss to determine. I then perceived for the first time that I was kneeling before an altar on which burned a dull blue flame; that my left hand had rested on an open Bible, and my right—horror of horrors—on the face of a corpse.
“Death!”
How the word rang in my ears. With a horrifying glance I looked down towards the floor, and beheld another corpse, upon whose breast I had been compelled to kneel.
“Death!!”
Again the word rang in my ears. I raised my eyes to those around, saw no glance of encouragement beyond those helmeted faces, and could comprehend nothing but the bright, polished swords, presented at me on every side.
“DEATH!!!”
Still that pitiless word was present. A mailed knight stood beyond the altar, in the direction from which I had heard that solemn voice, and with his unsheathed sword he pointed silently to the ghastly object on which my right hand rested. Not a word emanated from his lips, but his sword’s point echoed the appalling, terrible word, “DEATH!”
Darkness appeared to spread itself before my vision. I felt my senses leaving me, and a nameless horror took possession of my whole soul!
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
Abraham Lincoln, helmsman of the Union in the Civil War and emancipator of the slaves, was the first US president to be assassinated. That “Honest Abe” died at the hand of conspiracy is sure-fire certain; the only debate is over the size and motive of the plot.
Lincoln was mortally shot by a single bullet to the head from a Derringer .44 pistol while watching the play
Since the killer was an actor—indeed a familiar face at Ford’s—and the crowd was 1,000-strong, he was not difficult to identify. Pausing only to have his injured leg fixed by Dr Mudd, John Wilkes Booth—for it was he—lit out for the South. Federal authorities caught up with him a fortnight later at a barn at Garrett’s Farm, Virginia, where he was shot dead before he could surrender by an itchy-fingered Sergeant Boston Corbett.
A memo book was found on Booth’s body, which left no doubt of his guilt. Neither did the Federal investigators have much trouble in rounding up Booth’s co-plotters, John Surratt, Mary Surratt, Lewis Powell, George Atzerodt, David Herold, Michael O’Laughlen, Dr Samuel Mudd and Samuel Arnold. After facing a military tribunal, Herold, Atzerodt, Powell and Mary Surratt were all hanged on 7 July 1865; the remainder were imprisoned, with the exception of John Surratt who escaped to Canada.
Such are the basic facts of the case. In orthodox histories, Booth is a Confederate “nut” who was motivated by racist indignation at Lincoln’s plan to extend the voting franchise to blacks and who sweet-talked a motley collection of acquaintances and Southern-sympathizers into helping him. However, for a century and a half, conspiracists have suggested that Booth et al were merely “trigger men” for vast dark forces, the conspiracists’ suspicions fuelled by the actions of some of the central characters. The behaviour of Sergeant Boston Corbett—who
