King Cotton II: Kentucky Gold

By Richard A. Noble

In the spring of 2023, a Kentucky farmer noticed the furrows behind his plow begin to sparkle in the sun. He had just inadvertently unearthed hundreds of Confederate gold coins, the newest from 1863. No one knows how or why they were there. Well, one man does. Cotton trader, photographer, philanderer, and Civil War veteran (having served with dubious distinction on both sides), Jack Bailey is back in King Cotton II – Kentucky Gold. Picking up exactly where King Cotton ends, just moments after Lincoln’s assassination, Bailey flees Washington justifiably fearing that he’ll be implicated. During his ensuing travels he encounters many of the famous characters of the day, such as Jefferson Davis, Wild Bill Hickok, Kit Carson, Frank and Jesse James, and Buffalo Bill Cody. Prior acquaintances, including Allan Pinkerton, Ulysses S. Grant, distiller John Beam, and P.T. Barnum return. As usual, Bailey’s exploits place him at many notable historic events, including the first quick draw gunfight in the old west, herding longhorn up the Old Chisholm Trail, one of the earliest train robberies in America, Black Friday of September 1869, and the Battle of Beecher Island, Colorado. True to form, he finds himself in various boudoirs along the way, entertaining ladies that range from famous actresses to borderline sociopaths. As it was in King Cotton, all of the events, timelines, and most of the characters in this sequel are real. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: May 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9781977274939

Richard A. Noble

Richard Allan “Rick” Noble began his career in publishing at Canada’s National Newspaper, The Globe and Mail. He moved to the U.S. in 1990 and continued to work in digital publishing in the newspaper, periodical, medical, aviation, and K-12 industries before retiring in 2022. He holds a B.A. and an M.B.A. from the University of Toronto, and currently resides in Colorado. 

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Chapter 1

FULL FLIGHT

I was moving so quickly that it felt as if only two or three strides took me clear across 10th street and to the front of Ford’s Theatre. The mob spilling out of both it and the Star Saloon next door slowed my progress, but I elbowed through it as best I could, trying not to draw attention to myself. My plan was to look as if I was going to the Star to fetch Mrs. Lincoln a brandy, but my real intent was to pass right by it and be out of Washington within the hour.

The President’s been assassinated! Lincoln’s been shot! people wailed. And is likely dead I thought, given the amount of blood I’d just seen on the floor of the front hall of the Petersen House. I knew that the mood in Washington would evolve quickly from shock to anger – and then to a desire for revenge. I needed to be out of the city and well on my way south before that transition ran its course.

Good God I’d been a fool. In courting Anna Surratt¹, I’d spent a great deal of time at her mother’s boarding house on H Street over the past four months. Several of my visits happened to put me there at the same time as some of her brother John’s demented friends, including Powell, Herold and Atzerod². That arrogant ass John Wilkes Booth had also been present more than once, and I’d just had a drink with him at the Star not more than an hour ago. Thinking back on our conversation there, there was no question in my mind that Booth had played some role in creating the hysteria around me. And having heard some of the ravings from the rest of his lot, chances are they were all in on it. Given my proximity to it all, I would probably accuse myself of being part of their conspiracy in an honest moment. But, unfortunately, there was more.

Despite my friendship with Pinkerton and certain other members of his detective agency, I doubted that I would have a fair opportunity to prove my innocence in the pandemonium that would surely come. I simply had to flee, and my first instinct was to go straight to the stable where Mathew Brady kept his horses and take one. I’d leave cash for it of course, so as not to add horse thievery to the list of charges I could expect to face if captured. But as I ran I started thinking that the roads out of Washington, especially those heading south, would likely be blocked in short order³. It then occurred to me that a better option might be the river, so I kept moving southeast along Pennsylvania toward the Navy Yard. I’d sailed up and down the Potomac from there countless times during the war, and with any luck might find a captain or crew that I knew. If not, I had enough cash on me to make friends in a hurry. Between supplies going south and wounded soldiers coming north these past few months I knew that the boat traffic on the water was plentiful, so I hoped I would have options.

Although my panic would likely have enabled me to run the entire three miles or so to the river, I decided to hail a buggy. It was too soon after the assassination for word to have spread very far, and equine legs would be faster than mine. When I arrived at the docks I was relieved to see a high level of activity, especially at this hour. With harbor instincts that were well-honed by the shipping I did out of Charleston in the early 1860’s and my travels during the war, I had no trouble identifying the craft that were close to departure. The first one I approached turned me down flat. But, after concocting a story about needing to get south to help Mathew Brady take some photographs and presenting my old Brady Studio’s carte de visites⁴ (along with a generous pile of currency), I was soon on board another and due to cast off in twenty minutes. Thankfully, this vessel held a great deal of army materiel and very little in the way of passengers or crew. Even better, its ultimate destination was Savannah, 600 miles south of here. Part of me would have preferred to be bound for my adopted hometown of Charleston, SC, but, if the Union was coming for me, that would be among the first places they looked. The time at sea would allow me time to think, and I needed to do a great deal of that in order to minimize the chances of my capture and prosecution.

When I find myself in a frenzy I often tend to spiral and imagine the worst. This time was no different. Once we were well down the Potomac and my head had begun to clear, I added the following to the worries I’d had about Booth and Surratt during my initial moments of frenzy. First, I’d taken shots at Lincoln in July of 1864 as he stood upon the ramparts of Fort Stevens, just north of Washington. But it was all just a show to establish my bona fides with John Surratt Junior. I knew that Old Abe was out of range and never in danger. Second, it was a bullet from my pistol that knocked the iconic stovepipe hat off of Lincoln’s head as he approached Soldier’s Cottage last August. John Surratt Junior had pulled the trigger. But who could blame him if he swore that it was me, Jack Bailey, that did the deed in an effort to negotiate a lighter sentence? The fact that the incident was never widely reported in the press would add to his credibility. How could he possibly have known about it if we hadn’t been there? Third, in addition to having drinks with Booth at the Star Saloon just a couple of hours ago, I had hobnobbed with him on other occasions, including backstage after his performances in both New York City and Washington. If Booth was involved in Lincoln’s shooting, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to assume that I was as well. Forth, I once shot two Union soldiers dead on the Combahee River. Yes, it was to spare Harriet Tubman⁵ from their evil intentions, but the fact remained that I killed two Union soldiers with the gun that I was carrying right now. And, last, I had been a guard—a Confederate corporal in the 5th Georgia Infantry no less—at the notorious Florence Stockade, which housed thousands of Union prisoners, many of whom perished.

I could come up with other embarrassing facts, but it was clear that being seen at Surratt’s boarding house with Booth’s rabble was probably the least of my worries. There was far more damning evidence against me should anyone care to dig for it. And if I knew anything about Allan Pinkerton, Kate Warne, and the rest of their ilk, there would be plenty of digging in the weeks ahead.

Uninterrupted, our journey to Savannah could have easily been completed in two or three days, but we stopped to drop supplies along the way at Norfolk, Virginia, and Wilmington, North Carolina. While I was familiar with those cities, I stayed on board and out of sight at both of them. I didn’t get any restful sleep during the five days it took us to come within view of Tybee Island, Georgia, and I was on deck as we turned past the heavily pockmarked Fort Pulaski and started northwest up the Savannah River. I found myself thinking about how three years ago, in April 1862, the Union first used rifled cannons on Fort Pulaski’s walls. Those cannon were accurate from four or five miles away, allowing Union ships to stand off and do their deadly work, well clear of any serious return fire. A seemingly constant improvement in weapons was leading to ever more deadly and destructive conflicts. I found myself wondering where it would all end. At least Sherman had spared Savannah during his March to the Sea. He had ceremonially gifted the city to Lincoln this past Christmas and I would find it largely untouched. Good God, poor Lincoln.⁶

Photographed from the angle where Union artillery fired upon Fort Pulaski Source: The Photographic History of the Civil War in Ten Volumes: Volume Five, Forts and Artillery. The Review of Reviews Co., New York. 1911. Page 261

As my boots hit the docks in Savannah, I immediately started to carry out the plan I had formulated during the journey down here. The first step involved satisfying a long-time habit by buying a newspaper. But, in the end, I didn’t need to. Today was Wednesday, April 21, 1865, and lying on a crate on the docks I found a discarded copy of the April 17th edition of the Daily Constitutional Union out of Washington. A few quick glances confirmed all my worst fears. On the front page and just to the right of several announcements about theatre closings due to the national calamity and the death of our beloved President was a series of brief reports under the general title of, The Murder of President Lincoln. Subtitles included Clear Description of the Event by an Eye-Witness, and Heavy Rewards for the Capture of the Assassins, and Description of John Wilkes Booth and the Other Assassin.

So it was in fact Booth, not that I had had much doubt. They said that he entered Lincoln’s box at Ford’s and shot the President in the back of the head with a pistol, then leapt onto the stage and escaped out the back. I had a fleeting thought about young John Peanut Burroughs standing there in Baptist Alley that night holding a horse for Booth. I was certain he was innocent of any role in this and couldn’t help but hope that the authorities saw it the same way. Was I suspected of being the other assassin?

The notion of an accomplice at Ford’s Theatre hadn’t occurred to me, and my stomach dropped as I decided that they must mean me. But as I read further I realized that they were referring to a concurrent attempt on Secretary of State William Seward’s life at his home. The identity of that second would-be killer was unknown, but after reading the description of him in the newspaper, Height, six feet one inch; hair black, thick, full and straight; no beard or appearance of beard; cheeks red on the jaws, face moderately full; 22 or 23 years old…, I knew in my heart it was Lewis Powell. In addition to Seward, Powell had apparently wounded seven others, including a bodyguard and four of Seward’s children. This confirmed for me that a conspiracy existed and that it involved the cabal of lunatics that was meeting regularly at the Surratt boarding house. With yours truly often on the premises. I had also, by sheer happenstance, attended Lincoln’s second inauguration with both Powell and Booth on March 4, just a few weeks ago. Scores of people would have seen me there, including Allan Pinkerton. I’d even had a conversation with him at the time.

My mother used to say that things are never as bad as they seem. In this case that was certainly true. They were worse.

Chapter 2

GETTING ORGANIZED

The plan I had formulated on the journey down from Washington was to acquire a horse and supplies here in Savannah then head west to Texas. Texas seceded from the Union in 1861 and supplied troops to the Confederacy, but a significant number of Union sympathizers also called it home. I hoped that mix of loyalties meant that people kept politics to themselves. After all, who wants to stir up trouble with their neighbors? More importantly, however, I figured that Texas was far enough away to be well clear of anyone that might recognize me. When things cooled down I would write to Pinkerton and explain everything, using my man Dawson at Bailey Importers in Charleston as an intermediary. Frank Dawson was a trusted employee, and I was confident that he would have no objection to reposting my letters, even though doing so could make him an accomplice in hiding my whereabouts. He enjoyed his pay and the lack of oversight from me too much to be difficult. And he rarely distinguished himself for having an ability to think things through.

I decided to lie low in Savannah for a few days, secure the provisions I would need for the 1,000-mile journey west, get some rest, and keep my eye on the newspapers. Being somewhat familiar with the city from my work in the cotton trade, my first instinct was to check into the Marshall House on Broughton Street near the harbor. But as I approached I saw that the hotel was being used as a hospital for Union troops. General Sherman’s troops, as it turned out. I doubt he was there, but William Tecumseh Sherman would recognize me in an instant. The first time we met (he was a Colonel at the time) he arrested me in a tavern on the eve of Bull Run in 1861. It was all a misunderstanding that I was able to clear up by presenting him with a safe passage letter from Lincoln that I had sewn into the lining of my coat. But that’s another story. Our paths had crossed on other occasions since then, most recently last February outside of Columbia, South Carolina. But I had no appetite for a reunion at this point. On the advice of a passerby, I walked along Drayton for about a half mile and presented myself to the proprietor of a small inn on Jones Street, a widow in her 60’s named Eliza Thompson⁷. I used a false name and, in my best southern accent, mentioned that I was in the cotton business. Turned out her husband Joseph, who had passed away ten years earlier, was in the same trade. So she took a shine to me.

Over the next few days, with some helpful direction from Mrs. Thompson, I was able to buy a horse and procure some jerked beef and other provisions, a couple of canteens, tobacco, and, most importantly, more gunpowder and ammunition. Much to my delight, I was also able to acquire a Spencer⁸ repeating rifle in a back alley near the harbor. I acquired it from an emaciated young man that I am certain had very recently been a Confederate soldier. Neither of us had any desire to ask the other too many questions, which kept everything simple. Out of sympathy, I paid him his asking price without debate. Just for the record, when it comes to weapons, I hope to never have to use them and find that their visible presence is almost always enough to avoid trouble. But if it comes down to a situation that’s binary—be harmed or not—I have no problem pulling a trigger.

I was lucky to be carrying a lot of coin, which was only the case since it was just a few days ago that I had planned to elope with Anna Surratt. I’m not sure what I would have done in these circumstances had I been skint. Poor Anna. In my panicked state I hadn’t given her much thought these past few days, other than in the context of her damned family and how my association with them had put me in this predicament. We’d had our share of difficulties no doubt, including what I am reasonably sure was a dalliance she’d had with Booth. But I had strayed on occasion myself—most notably just a few months back. An embarrassing episode that very likely caused the burning down of half of Columbia. I was also reasonably certain that, while she was sympathetic to the Confederacy, Anna couldn’t have been in on the assassination. Her affair with Booth had ended badly, with him jilting her for Lucy Lambert Hale⁹ of all people. If Anna had known about the plot, I am sure she would have eagerly reported Booth to Union authorities for revenge. But the fact was I loved her, and I wanted her to know that. And tell her that I was certainly not an accomplice to murder or attempted murder. All these thoughts and emotions eventually evolved into an idea and caused me to sit down and write her a letter.

Of course I could not send such a letter from Savannah. Even though it would probably take weeks to get to Washington (if it arrived at all, given the sorry state of the nation), the Surratt’s mail was likely being monitored. Intercepting correspondence was an old Pinkerton trick that I knew for a fact he had used on Rose O’Neal Greenhow¹⁰ during her stay at the Old Capitol Prison in Washington. Even though the knowledge that I was or had been in Savannah would be dated, it would be infinitely more information than Pinkerton had on me right now. If I could find a way to play it safely, however, I actually wanted him to read this. So I composed a heart-wrenching mixture of lost love, anger at fate and damned coincidences, outrage at what had happened to the President and Secretary Seward, and my certainty that she had nothing to do with any of it. Throughout it all I took every opportunity to profess my own innocence and, of course, my love for her. I sealed it in an envelope with no return address and tucked it away in my kit. I was determined to find a way to send it at some point, assuming I could do so without revealing its origin.

During these few days at the Eliza Thompson House I began to relax a little when it became obvious that news wasn’t traveling quickly. In fact, the local papers were scarce and largely useless. All that said, I decided to depart on April 26th to begin the journey west. As I ate breakfast that morning, I saw Mrs. Thompson greeting a new guest and I couldn’t help but notice a newspaper tucked through the handles of his satchel.

Excuse me sir, I said, assuming you are finished with it, how much for your newspaper?

I’m not finished with it, he replied, but you are welcome to read it over your breakfast while I unpack and wash up. Just leave it there on the table when you are done.

Why thank you very much. There hasn’t been much in the way of real news from the local papers here, I said, so your kindness is greatly appreciated.

As soon as he disappeared upstairs I got straight to it. It was the April 24th edition of the Daily National Republican from Washington, and it didn’t take much of a reading to reignite my anxieties. The front page contained several stories and quotes of interest:

IT IS TIME THE AMERICAN PEOPLE SHOULD BE TAUGHT TO UNDERSTAND THAT TREASON IS A CRIME—NOT IN REVENGE—NOT IN ANGER—BUT THAT TREASON IS A CRIME AND THAT IT SHOULD BE ESTEEMED AS SUCH AND PUNISHED AS SUCH. ANDREW JOHNSON, President of the United States, April 20, 1865. Just below that was another Johnson quote from 1861 in which, referring to traitors, he says, I WOULD HAVE THEM ARRESTED, AND, IF CONVICTED WITHIN THE MEANING AND SCOPE OF THE CONSTITUTION, BY THE ETERNAL GOD I WOULD EXECUTE THEM. The newspaper’s use of all capital letters bothered me. Also, having met him, I could easily imagine Johnson’s steely gaze boring right into me as he bellowed those words. Based on my own experiences meeting him, it was also easy to imagine the smell of liquor on his breath.

Following all that was an article titled THE PURSUIT OF THE ASSASSIN, BOOTH—HIS WHEREABOUTS—WANT OF ENERGY. Therein, amid calls to search every building in Washington, several other sentences caught my attention. Among these, It is a notorious fact that Washington and Georgetown contain among their inhabitants’ large numbers of secessionists and rebels. Many of these are females. The most dangerous enemies of the National Government, residents in this city the last four years, have been female, mothers, sisters, aunts, and wives of rebels in arms against this Government. They have been permitted to live here under the protection of a Government which they cursed hourly, and which their nearest male relatives were fighting to destroy. Many of them have made it their business to let rooms whereby to entrap federal officers, and thus gained information for our enemy.

All true, I had to admit. I could name some of them. I could also sense Pinkerton’s hand in these accusations. And as if all that wasn’t enough, it became clear that they had captured co-conspirators Paine (a name I had heard John Surratt call Lewis Powell more than once) and Atzerodt. So the net was closing. God knows what those cretins were telling the authorities as they negotiated for their own skins. Before I put the paper down I also noticed an article about Sherman being in North Carolina to bargain for the surrender of Confederate General Joseph E. Johnston. I would soon discover that Johnston stood down his Army of Tennessee on this very day. He had almost 90,000 rebel soldiers under his command, including all those in the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. Jefferson Davis would call Johnston a traitor for this, and Currier & Ives would soon memorialize the moment in one of their iconic drawings. But my concern was that tens of thousands of armed, battle-hardened men would now be roaming around a countryside that I was about to traverse. No doubt most would return to their families and farms, but in such situations there are always a few who, having developed a taste for blood, violence, and pillaging, would find that those old habits die hard.

Courtesy of the National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution

Chapter 3

TEXAS BOUND

I finished packing up after breakfast, settled my account with Mrs. Thompson, and rode off just before midday. Just as I had done with Kate Warne when we traveled west to South Carolina from Fort Caswell, I decided to take a path that would keep me south of the likes of Columbus, Montgomery, and Jackson. Major centers like these would be more likely to have current news, which could include descriptions and photographs of people wanted in connection with Lincoln’s assassination. Like me. I hoped that I wouldn’t be on any wanted lists but didn’t want to take any chances. Despite being on the run I wasn’t in any particular hurry, and it felt good to be on the road again. In the confines of a city people can be upon you before you know it. But out here, assuming that you are paying attention, it’s difficult to get caught unawares. The apparent lack of progress in locating Booth also gave me some comfort, because I was certain the Union’s main priority would be to find the man who pulled the trigger. That said, I couldn’t count on them to be ignoring suspected accomplices, and it was likely that names and descriptions had been sent out to Union troops across the country. So, in addition to having to be mindful of roving ex-Confederates, the threat from blue uniforms wasn’t insignificant either. I just needed to stay away from everyone. I decided not to push my horse too aggressively just in case I needed to drive her hard at some point to stay clear of pursuers.

Using a map I procured in Savannah I struck out to the southwest toward a railroad bridge that spanned the Ogeechee River just south of where the Canoochee branched off to the west. When I arrived I was relieved to see that the bridge had survived Sherman’s March to the Sea. I crossed and continued west, planning to camp overnight just north of Richmond Hill. From there I would continue along a course that would keep me south of Macon and Columbus. I chose not to light a fire that evening, although I did indulge in a cheroot after I had washed down some jerky with a few swigs from my flask. The night passed uneventfully, and I was back in the saddle not long after sunrise. I had travelled another twenty or so miles when my horse threw a shoe. I cursed myself a fool for not anticipating this, as it would have been a simple enough thing to have included a few nails in my kit. Now I needed help. I consulted the map again and decided that Hinesville, a town just to the south of my position, likely offered the best bet. Even though the ground in this part of the world is generally soft in the spring, I walked the horse, which I had decided to name Émilie, the remaining few miles so as not to exacerbate the problem. Why Émilie? That was the name of the younger woman my father had married an inappropriately short time after my mother’s passing. Much younger. The thought of riding her while wearing spurs appealed to me on some hateful level.

When I reached Hinesville I stared in amazement at the desolation. I’d seen the results of Sherman’s work before, most notably last February around Columbia, South Carolina. Truth be told, in that case I had unintentionally contributed to the problem. Maybe it was the eerie quiet or perhaps it was because I was in desperate need of assistance, but somehow the destruction here felt more personal and lonely. Farms and plantations I had passed in the countryside had also been destroyed, but here in town, with many buildings still intact but abandoned, the lost echoes of lives being lived rang in my ears. Even the courthouse was deserted. When I happened upon a stable just off Market Street I found a disheveled old man repairing fencing.

What are the chances of getting my horse reshoed, sir? I asked hopefully.

Chances are pretty good, if you can pay, he replied. When I nodded he continued, Bring her round the back. I followed him to a shed that was attached to the barn. He shifted a few boards on a pile of lumber next to it, dug around, then pulled out a canvas tool kit.

The damned looters around here force us to hide everything, he said. "Don’t know which is worse. The bluebellies, the freed slaves or our own glorious C.S.A.¹¹ Makes no difference in the end. Most of the townspeople have moved on for fear of the lot of them. I got nowhere to go, or I’d think on that myself."

Surely the Yankee bastards have left, I said, hoping to give the impression that we shared political leanings.

I wish, he responded. Fact is, they think this is all theirs for the taking. At least Lincoln got his due. I ignored the last bit but couldn’t resist asking more about the rebel marauders and freed slaves. I needed to know what to expect on this part of my journey.

Our own soldiers and slaves? he responded. They are usually hungry and often have no place to go, are angry and, at least with the soldiers, armed. We just had a band of our own boys come through here this morning and they weren’t much better than the enemy. They are heading west, and they too are not shy about helping themselves to anything they please. And what are you doing in these parts, come to that?

I’m a cotton trader out of Charleston, I offered truthfully. At this time of year I usually travel out to see my suppliers, but I’ve found most of their plantations abandoned. And many in ruin. It seems I’ll be forced to cast my net a little wider this season.

Mostly just indigo and rice plantations around these parts, he said. Although there are a few cotton. At least there were. As I said, a lot of people have moved on.

So I’ve noticed. What I hadn’t noticed were any of these gangs you mention. Is there a place here in town I could bed down for the night to put some distance between myself and the Confederate troops you say just passed through? I asked.

Simon and Mary Fraser have been known to let out rooms, he responded. "That large home over near the courthouse¹². Of course they never would have considered such a thing before the war, but not many among us can afford to pass up a little extra income these days."

I intentionally avoided asking for his name since I didn’t want to provide mine, and once he finished I paid up, thanked him with a handshake, and rode over to the home he’d described. After a knock on the door and a brief negotiation with Simon Fraser, he showed me to a room and allowed how I might join the family for dinner in an hour. The house was enormous, with eleven-foot ceilings on the ground floor and nearly that height upstairs as well. It was magnificent, and I said as much once seated at the dinner table with Simon, his wife Mary, their three sons, and another guest named Frederick Barnes. Mary proceeded to point out