But this was no ordinary Monday.
They’d selected the date purposely, offering them extra security that they’d get their goods without issue. The eyes of the country were firmly locked on the presidential election. Republican Rutherford Hayes, was in a political battle with his rival, Democrat Samuel Tiden, for three states: Florida, Louisiana and South Carolina. Both candidates claimed to have won the vote and the nation prepared for an independent adjudicator to determine the outcome of the dispute. Any usual strays who wandered the land in the dead of night had disappeared to the town centres, desperate to hear the outcome of the election from their town criers.
Once they’d prised open the entrance to the crypt, they walked deep down beneath the headstone into a tunnel. Only the glow from their candles allowed them to navigate their way into the tomb, which sat beneath a large obelisk with a statue of its inhabitant above.
They glanced over the details of the stone to ensure that the individual beneath was who they presumed it was, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy their boss. With high profile deceased men, it was not uncommon for their gravestone to be a ploy, while their bones were hidden in a secure location elsewhere; in these circumstances, what remained behind was simply a cenotaph. Big Jim had demanded that they personally check the credentials of this particular gravestone.
They opened the sarcophagus. The stench of rotting meat radiated from the casket, throwing its retching intruders away from the open coffin. Despite the decomposition of his midriff, the identity of the body remained recognisable from his famous beard, facial mole and his greying hair, which was remarkably preserved. His face had little erosion and only a small bronze bruise from a bullet wound scarred his ascertainable characteristics.
‘That’s definitely him,’ said Mullen, wrapping a scarf around his airways to conceal the smell.
‘That’s him alright,’ Hughes replied triumphantly. ‘President Abraham Lincoln.’
*
It had been nearly two years since the president had been laid to rest and during that time he’d been left undisturbed. The four fugitives were now breaking the peace which the nation’s hero rightly deserved; he’d unshackled the slaves after all. In 1865, following his assassination at Ford’s Theatre, the body was transported by rail from Washington DC to its final resting place in the Illinois capital, which he had once called home. During his time in Springfield he worked as a lawyer, had taken office as State Senator, and began his campaign for the presidency. Now Abraham Lincoln was leaving town once again.
‘Where are we taking him again?’ Hughes asked as he gawped over the famous corpse.
‘To some sand dunes in Northern Indiana.’
The villains replaced the lid over the corpse and prepared to shift the coffin that Lincoln lay within. They took a corner each, and after a count to three, they pulled the casket off the ground.
But the coffin would not shift.
The cedar case inhabiting the president was lined with lead and was too hefty for the weedy gentlemen; a heavyweight champion would have struggled to carry it out of the graveyard.
‘Billy,’ Mullen called between breaths towards their getaway driver. ‘Go and get the wagon.’
Billy turned towards Swegles, who shot him an encouraging nod. He ran up the stone steps, leaving the others to circle the tomb and contemplate their options.
‘I don’t want to wait around too long. It ain’t good to hang around a crime scene. We’re gonna have to shift the body. Come on, place it in that sack we brought.’
‘But, sir, it stinks!’ Hughes protested.
‘I don’t give a shit. We’re never gonna shift this casket. We’re gonna have to take him out and carry him. You only have to climb up a few steps until we can get it into Billy’s car. Big Jim needs his goods and I sure as hell am gonna deliver on my word. I don’t care if we have to chop him up and you have to carry his head out on a pitchfork, you’re carrying this body, whether you like it or not.’
‘Sir, I also don’t feel too good about this. Lincoln freed the slaves. Can you imagine the uproar when everyone discovers his body has gone?’
‘If you’re having second thoughts by all means leave, but I don’t think Big Jim will be too pleased though.’
Hughes gulped and took a seat on a nearby rock. Nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of Big Jim. His enemies had a habit of disappearing.
‘Where’s Billy with the car?’ Mullen asked, glancing at his wristwatch. He’d been gone almost twenty minutes. ‘Jesus, it’s getting warm in here, can you see anything, Hughes?’
‘No, sir,’ Hughes replied, raising his head around the spiral staircase, but the only activity he could detect was rain. ‘He could just be up there waiting for us.’
‘Well come on, let’s go and see what’s happening. If I stay down here much longer, they’ll have to add my name to his gravestone.’
‘I think I’m going to be sick if I have to spend any more time with this body. Are we bringing it up with us?’
‘No, leave it for now. Let’s go and see what’s going on. We’ll need Billy’s help anyway.’
They walked up the steps and reached the vestibule. At the entrance, fifteen men aimed their slingshot rifles in their direction. They were dressed in navy uniforms and cream hats with a large brim across the front.
They’d been rumbled.
‘Shit,’ Mullen whispered under his breath.
‘This is the police, put your hands in the air!’
Mullen and Hughes obliged. To their surprise, Swegles nonchalantly ignored the request and made his way to the officer.
‘Job done, Captain Tyrrell.’ Swegles shook his hand with an air of haughtiness, before walking to the back and joining his
