Prelude to Assassination

by Brighid O'Sullivan

remembered once again his restless spirit. Rest is rust, he always said. He would most likely stay in Washington, war or no war.

  The horses seemed skittish, dancing all over the road and lifted their heads jerkily. They had no liking for the fireworks or noise. Father, apparently sensing my alarm beside him, put an arm around my shoulder.

  After we had gone some distance on Vermont Avenue, the door flew open once again. Father closed it but when we turned a corner it nearly flew off the hinges and Father said some unbiblical words that made Mary and I laugh behind our hands. We knew we shouldn’t, but it seemed a small thing to worry about what men say, though I’m certain Mother would disagree.

  The sun had peaked through a sliver of cloud. I felt the rays upon my nose, a faint burning sensation that made me tighten my bonnet and pull it forward to hide my face. Gusts of wind slipped under my petticoat each time the door flapped open, tickling my calves.

  Father was still cussing, though he put on his best gentleman manner when he addressed the driver. “Mr. Kay, would you stop the carriage please?” We came to an eventual stop outside the cobbler’s shop; the horses still clearly agitated, straining against their harnesses.

  No sooner had Mr. Kay and Fred hopped down, ready to repair the carriage door, when suddenly there was a loud bang and the horses jolted forward. Mr. Kay, was swung by the reins like a cat by the tail. I didn’t see where he landed though. Fred was running beside the carriage waving his arms, trying to head off the horses, but to no avail.

  The horses tore forward.

  The Wilkes Place passed by as we tilted onto two wheels, throwing us all against one side of the carriage, and leveled off as we turned the corner. Father stood up and threw his cigar out of the carriage. Then he tried to reach the reins though they were swinging so widely he had to reach so far out I was afraid he would fall.

  Mary and I were screaming. I had loosened my bonnet so I could breathe and it flew off my head.

  I envisioned my head smashing open as it slammed into the cobbles. Father yelled absurdities at the horses but they seemed to only be spurned on by this. Soon I could barely breathe between fits of coughing and wheezing. I saw the fear for me in Father’s eyes before he abruptly turned away as if in decision.

  He grabbed the top of the buggy with one hand and stepped out. One leg was still inside the carriage and his right foot rested on the long-step, which wasn’t very wide.

  Without a coachman, the horses had no real direction and meandered all over the road, nearly colliding with other carriages at one moment and skimming precariously close to the curb the next. We came close to a tree which nearly wiped Father off the side of the coach.

  “Sit down! Sit down, Mr. Seward. You’ll be killed,” Mary shouted.

  Ignoring her, he reached for the coachman’s seat and his low grey hat flew off his head. Mary continued to shout as I reached feebly for his coat-tail but I could feel the carriage going off balance again. He was just about to climb into the coachman’s seat when his shoe got caught somehow, pulling him back down and tipping him off balance.

  That was when I lost him.

  I managed a scream and turned to see him face down in the street, his great heavy over-coat pulled high over his head, covering his grey hair. “Fathererrrr!” I was sure he was dead and suddenly I didn’t care if the horses ever stopped. My coughing had ceased but I shook uncontrollably.

  Mary took my hand. “He’s all right. He’s all right,” she soothed.

  We had nothing to do now but hold onto each other.

  The horses careened down an alley. We brushed against a tree and I could see the corner of a brick house right in front of us. I was sure we would be smashed against it but the horses stopped suddenly between Mr. Taylor’s house and ours. We sat there for what seemed only a few minutes, catching our breaths and thanking God. Still shaking, I put my hand on the door handle and lifted my skirts, ready to step out. Before I could get out though, the horses flung their heads around and went dashing away again. Thankfully, a soldier headed them off, stopping the horses just before they dragged us into the stable. As I got out of the carriage I looked back to see a crowd of men carrying Father from the street. I was terribly out of breath and felt myself sinking. Mary grabbed my elbow, holding me up.

  Father was unconscious for several days. His right shoulder had dislocated, his right arm was broken and his jaw fractured on both sides. He was in severe pain and had suffered a concussion.

  We all took turns sitting by Father’s bed, feeding him, reading to him, and caring for him. Mother was telegraphed in Auburn immediately and came to be with us.

  What I didn’t know was that this was just the beginning.

  April 14, 1865

  I had just finished reading Legends of Charlemagne to Father. It was dark, for I had turned down the gas and it was very late.

  George Robinson, a convalescent soldier, sat by Father’s feet. I liked Mr. Robinson from the start. An educated man, he’d been wounded in the knee nearly a year ago and still hadn’t completely recovered. He could have easily gone home to his farm in Maine, yet he chose to nurse my father and had been with him for the last ten days.

  I heard something or someone at the door and thought perhaps the President was there or a telegraph messenger. I opened it part way and saw Fred with a tall man in a long tan overcoat.

  “Is the Secretary asleep?” asked the man. He looked to be in his twenties, tall and very fit, with sandy brown hair. Something in his manner frightened me.

  “I...I think so,” I answered, when Fred suddenly slammed the door shut.

  I heard a series of thuds and heavy steps. At first, I thought they must be chasing a rat in the hall but soon dismissed that thought.

  Robinson began to cross the room, but before he reached the door, the man burst in with a gun in one hand and a knife in the other. Fred was right behind him, his face covered in blood.

  The man ran toward Father.

  “Don’t kill him! Don’t kill him!

  The Assassin threw me against the wall where I stayed, watching in helpless horror.

  Then suddenly Anna, my sister in law was there. We both stood against the wall as we watched Robinson and the Assassin struggle. Robinson took many of the slashes meant for Father but the other man was younger, more agile and managed to break free of Robinson’s iron grip. Unfortunately, the Assassin still managed to strike Father several times in the face before Robinson pulled him off, probably saving Father’s life.

  My attention was averted when the door pushed open, sending in a flood of light.

  Fred stood in the doorway, his mouth parted as if to speak but his eyes were dull and staring as if he didn’t see anything at all. There was blood all down the side of his neck and shirt and he was mumbling incoherently. A flap of skin was sliced back from his head. I could actually see his brain—it frightened me so much I almost fainted.

  The Assassin stared at Fred; knife held in mid-air. He shook his head and then ran out into the hall. I heard more wrestling and shouting and then the thuds of leather boots clipping down the stairs. Blood had splattered across the walls and puddled on the floor.

  The room had grown even darker and I couldn’t find Father. I stared at his empty bed then at a bundle of sheets on the floor beside it.

  “Oh my God! He’s dead! He’s dead!”

  “No, Fanny. He’s not.” Robinson shook me and then led me to where Father had rolled onto the floor. I helped untangle him from the sheets and together, we gently lifted him onto the bed. Robinson put an ear to Father’s chest, listening. “His heart still beats.”

  I later learned the man’s name was Lewis Paine and that he was acquainted with a young actor named Booth. While Paine was trying to kill Father, Booth shot a bullet into our dear President’s head as he sat in Ford’s Theatre watching ‘Our American Cousin’.

  I had much respect and fondness for the President, but I could not help thanking God for taking the President instead of m
y father. I shall apologize to the President when I see him and tell him how sorry I am that he is gone. I fear I will join him in Glory very soon. I pray God watches over Father in my absence, since I was never very good at it.