Fortune's Fool: The Life of John Wilkes Booth

by Alford, Terry

  Adam Herold had died the preceding fall, an event that unsettled his son and put him at loose ends. Refusing to get a job, he spent his days hunting partridge in southern Maryland. His mother, Mary, tried tough love, locking him out of the house for the night if he was not at home by ten, but, as Herold laughed, “I am ahead of the old lady.”10 Nothing deterred him from gunning and tramping. His political opinions were unknown, probably even to himself, but he was a hardy, happy youth who loved adventure, knew the roads along the abduction route, and had friends at almost every farmhouse on the way.11 Surratt recommended him to Booth, and Booth asked him if he “would like to go into an enterprise to make money.” Herold joined the team over a glass of ale as the men stood on the porch of the Metropolitan Hotel. “Booth is a good fellow,” Herold told a friend.12

  Lewis Powell, a native of Alabama, was twenty-one. He enlisted at the outset of the war with the 2nd Florida Infantry and served continuously until wounded and captured at Gettysburg in July 1863. While detailed as a prisoner-nurse in Baltimore, he escaped to Virginia and joined Mosby’s guerrillas. Lonely, war-weary, and far from home, he reentered Union lines at Fairfax Court-House on January 13, 1865. Posing as a refugee named Lewis Paine, he took the oath of allegiance, sold his horse, and headed back to Baltimore. There he called at a boardinghouse run by Mrs. M. A. Branson and renewed his acquaintance with her daughters, Maggie and Mary, whom he had met while a prisoner.13

  The series of events by which Powell was introduced to Booth has never been made clear, and at this point it is probably past recovering. One may reject, as a deception conceived to protect the Branson family, Powell’s claim that the two met at the Richmond Theatre early in the war.14 Booth was not in Richmond at any time during the war. Equally implausible is the speculation that Powell was assigned by Confederate intelligence officials to contact and work with Booth.15

  The most likely scenario is that the Bransons introduced Powell to D. Preston Parr, a Baltimore china dealer, and Parr passed him along to Surratt, with whom he engaged in smuggling and espionage activities. Surratt found the young Floridian destitute and adrift, smarting with self-reproach for deserting a cause in which he deeply believed. Powell needed purpose. He was ready. All the conspirators needed to do was decant him. Their plot restored his dignity by allowing him to “still claim to be a confederate soldier.”16

  More than six feet tall, a muscular young man with blue eyes and a thick black shock of hair brushed off a broad forehead, Powell had an appealing sense of self-possession. “I liked [Powell],” said Captain Christian Rath, the Michigan officer who was to be both Powell’s jailer and hangman. “He was a magnificent man—big, strong, kind, generous, with an iron resolution, and a voice and manner as soft as a woman’s. He would have murdered a dozen men—would have waded through blood—and yet I believe he was thoroughly unselfish. The Confederacy was all and everything to him.”17

  After the assassination Lincoln’s secretaries John G. Nicolay and John Hay described Powell, Herold, and the other members of Booth’s ensemble as “a small number of loose fish.” Townsend agreed. “The Company of which [Booth] was President might well be labeled ‘limited,’ ” quipped the journalist. “They were a miserable parcel of country tools. There was a lamentable lack of material for any such eccentric episode as Booth had hit upon.”18 These harsh assessments indicate that Booth’s associates seemed commonplace to their contemporaries. They hardly seem the skilled “covert action team” of modern writers who posit Lincoln’s death as part of a grand Confederate strategy.

  In truth, Booth’s new comrades fit neither characterization very well. Herold, at first glance a trifling ragamuffin, was quick-thinking, remarkably loyal, and a fine shot. His attorney’s attempt after the assassination to make him look stupid, thus easily manipulated by Booth, was merely a legal strategy. School chums thought him a boy of above-average intelligence. “He was naturally quick and smart,” said a detective who chased him.19 And Powell, characterized by a Union officer as “a cross between a big booby and a sullen animal,” was a battle-hardened veteran who played chess and read medical books.20 In summary, the members of Booth’s gang were individually more substantial than they seemed, if less in aggregate than conspiracy buffs might wish them to be.

  the evening of march 3, 1865, was festive. Lincoln’s second inauguration would occur the following day, and the city teemed with excitement. There seemed to be faces in every window, flags on every building. Crowds milled about the streets, and bands played patriotic airs. It was too memorable a night to remain indoors, so Booth, Surratt, and Weichmann set off to see the preparations for the big event.

  As the trio made its way to the House of Representatives and ascended to the Capitol gallery, Booth stopped suddenly. “Who is that?” he asked.

  Booth was staring at a bust of Lincoln on a pedestal in a corner. It seemed inconceivable to him that a likeness of any living politician would be permitted in such a hallowed place. It smacked of deification. “What’s he doing in here before his time?” Booth demanded angrily. Weichmann had no answer but was struck by the hostility of the remark. It was the first time Booth had spoken of Lincoln to him in an unfriendly manner.21

  In his position as a clerk in the office of the commissary general of prisoners, Weichmann was proving useful to the conspirators. Fatty, as Surratt was wont to call him, gave Booth data on Confederate prisoners in federal hands and allowed Booth to use his office for meetings. “This corrupt scoundrel betrayed his official trust,” wrote William P. Wood, superintendent of Old Capitol Prison.22 Excited by the prospect of an adventure, Weichmann even wished to join the team. Booth remained suspicious of him, but Surratt spurned Fatty, who waddled when he walked, for a practical reason: “He could neither ride a horse nor shoot a pistol.”23

  Inaugural day commenced disagreeably. It had rained through the night, and the rain continued, blown about by strong winds. The public was undeterred. As the parade down Pennsylvania Avenue to the Capitol formed near the White House, a mass of people gathered “upon sidewalks and at every window, door, balcony, step, and on many of the roofs” along the route, wrote a Baltimore journalist. It was the largest crowd ever to witness an inauguration. The scene was tumultuous but noticeably less anxious than in 1861, when there were sharpshooters on the same rooftops and threats of revolution in the air.24

  The procession started forward down the muddy avenue. One mile long, it took an hour to pass any given point. Military units on horse and foot were featured. There were black soldiers among them, another startling contrast to Lincoln’s first inauguration. The presidential carriage, drawn by two horses, was in its appropriate place, but Lincoln was not seated in it. He was already at the Capitol, where he had gone earlier in the day to sign bills. Mrs. Lincoln, her son Robert, and Iowa senator James Harlan (Robert’s future father-in-law) sat in the president’s place.25 Preceding the carriage was a troop of federal marshals, distinctively attired with white scarves. Firemen from Washington and Philadelphia followed with gaily decorated engines, and still farther back a delegation from the Navy Yard hauling a replica monitor with revolving turret. A number of rebel prisoners under transfer accidentally merged with the procession at one point, “giving it somewhat the character of a Roman pageant, when captive enemies added by their misery to the triumph.”26

  Booth watched this cavalcade somberly from a spot on the embankment at the north wing of the Capitol near where the president’s carriage would pass. He was dressed casually as if ready to ride, with his pants tucked into the tops of his boots and an old felt hat drawn over his forehead. Anxious and moody, Booth ignored a friend who shouldered through the crowd to greet him. As Lincoln’s carriage passed, he turned away from the friend and walked off.27

  The day’s formalities were to begin in the Senate Chamber, where, with the president in attendance, Andrew Johnson would be sworn in as the new vice president. Then the president and party were to be escorted through the Rotunda to the east fro
nt of the great building, where Lincoln would take the oath and deliver his inaugural address. The public were welcome on the grounds, but entrance into the Capitol was tightly controlled. Every door to the building was closed except the east door of the north wing. Admission was to ticket holders only.28

  Booth had secured a ticket from Lucy Hale, one of a number given to her father for family and friends.29 It was a small rectangular card of stiff paper with a printed notice to “Admit the Bearer” signed by George T. Brown, the Senate’s sergeant at arms. “She gave the ticket innocently,” concluded John A. Bingham, an Ohio congressman who later investigated the matter.30 It was anyone’s guess what privilege this card conveyed. Perhaps two thousand people, far more than could ever be accommodated, had cards of admission. Roswell Parish’s ticket allowed the tourist to spend four hours to get from a line of soldiers at the door to the Senate itself.31 Inside, he found the chamber floor packed with the official party, cabinet secretaries and their top assistants, members and former members of the House and Senate, justices of the Supreme Court, judges of the federal courts, distinguished military officials, governors and ex-governors of the states, key mayors, the diplomatic corps, and other persons of importance. The families of these men and the press jostled for space in the gallery.

  Impressively, Booth elbowed close enough to witness the swearing-in of Johnson. When the ceremony was completed, the actor rushed for the Rotunda. “That man must be in a hurry,” a friend said to Otis S. Buxton, assistant doorkeeper of the House of Representatives, as Booth shot past them. “That is Wilkes Booth,” responded Buxton.32

  In the Rotunda a double line of Capitol policemen created a corridor from the north to the east door by which the president would pass to the outside for his inauguration. Ticket holders gathered to watch the procession. Ward H. Lamon, marshal of the District of Columbia and a longtime friend of Lincoln’s, led the way. He was followed by the former presidents and vice presidents, the justices of the Supreme Court, Sergeant at Arms Brown, and the inaugural committee. Warm applause sounded as Lincoln, with Johnson, appeared behind them. Those parties admitted to the floor of the Senate Chamber were to have followed the president in specified order. Protocol by rank collapsed due to the size of the crowd. The procession into the Rotunda became pell-mell according to Charles Adolphe Pineton, marquis de Chambrun, a French nobleman who inserted himself into the official parade.33

  Booth was standing on the south side of the police line near the exit to the portico. As Lincoln passed by and through the great doors to the outside, the actor suddenly broke through the police line and attempted to join the procession only a few feet behind the president. John W. Westfall, the nearest policemen, seized Booth by the arm, and a struggle ensued. “He was very strong,” recalled Westfall, who shouted for help. “His resistance was so determined that he succeeded in dragging [me] from the line and at one time broke loose from [my] grasp.”34

  Benjamin B. French, the commissioner of public buildings, had charge of security. Seeing the disturbance, he ordered the huge doors shut. They closed, muffling a thunderous cheer for Lincoln as he emerged before the throng outside. Inside, the procession staggered to a halt. Westfall regained a hold on Booth, and other officers rushed to assist him. French came over, put both of his hands on Booth’s chest, and ordered him back beyond the lines.

  Scowling, Booth swore at French and “said he had a right to be there and looked very fierce and angry that we would not let him go on.” For an instant French was taken aback. He ordered Westfall to release Booth. Neither man recognized the actor, and, given Booth’s vehement demand to proceed, it occurred to the commissioner that the interloper might be one of the new congressmen recently arrived in the city. French did not yet know all their faces.

  But Booth’s manner was just too troubling. “He gave me such a fiendish stare,” wrote the commissioner.35 Westfall thought he was “a lunatic or out of his right mind—he looked so wild and seemed so unnecessarily excited.” French decided to order him off. Booth was forcibly thrust behind the line and melted away among the spectators. The doors were reopened; the procession resumed. French gave no further thought to the incident. Not so the men who had grappled personally with Booth. One fellow officer who helped Westfall throw Booth back into the crowd said, “The intruder meant mischief.”

  A day or two after the assassination Westfall brought French a photograph of Booth. Studying it, the two realized for the first time who it was they had dealt with on inauguration day. “My God, what a fearful risk we ran,” exclaimed the commissioner. “The man was in earnest and had some errand. My theory is that he meant to rush up behind the President and assassinate him.” Added Marshal Lamon: “A tragedy was planned for that day which has no parallel in the history of criminal audacity. It is amazing that any human being could have seriously entertained the thought of assassinating Mr. Lincoln in the presence of such a concourse of citizens. And yet there was such a man in the assemblage.”

  Several weeks later Booth and Chester were having a drink at the House of Lords in New York City when Booth suddenly slapped his hand down on the table and blurted out, “What a splendid chance I had to kill the President on the 4th of March!” As Chester told it, “He said he was as near the President on that day as he was to me. I said something to him about being a foolish fellow, crazy or something of that nature. What good would it do him to commit an act like that? He said he could live in history if he committed it.”36

  Whether such an attack was planned for that day is a question whose answer was buried with Booth. Given his impulsive nature and the extraordinary occasion, it could have happened. “All that day he was saying queer, luny things,” declared McCullough. Intruding upon Booth in his room, he found his old friend in a trancelike state. Booth’s eyes were staring vacantly, his mouth working wordlessly. A large revolver sat before him.37 But Booth had no death wish. He talked big and acted boldly, but to the very end he was determined to survive the consequences of his actions. As disturbed as he was becoming, he may have appreciated Lamon’s observation that “nothing can be more certain than this—that the murder of Mr. Lincoln on that public occasion would have been instantly avenged. The infuriated populace would have torn the assassin to pieces, and this the desperate man doubtless knew.”

  Booth walked back from Capitol Hill to the National with Walter Burton, the hotel’s night clerk. His composure had returned. Burton loved Lincoln and “in all his association with John Booth never knew that the actor was not also a loyal admirer of the President.” He recalled, “I never heard Booth speak a word against Lincoln. I never suspected that he was less pleased [with the day’s events] than I was.”38

  the day after the inauguration, Booth and Lucy ended their courtship. The timing suggests that his odd behavior had attracted the notice of her family. Or their parting may have been due to the fact that the Hales were leaving Washington. His term in the Senate having expired, Hale was moving his family to prepare for his new assignment as American minister to Spain.39

  Booth and McCullough had shared their room during the inaugural crunch with John Parker Hale Wentworth, Lucy’s first cousin. Wentworth proved a handy go-between for their courtship. Now he offered a final service. He handed Booth an envelope from Lucy. If there was a letter inside, it is long gone. The envelope survives. On it Lucy copied the celebrated lines from John Greenleaf Whittier’s poem “Maud Muller.”

  For of all sad words from tongue or pen

  The saddest are these—It might have been.

  March 5th 1865

  Wentworth gave the envelope to Booth, who added his own sentiment just above Lucy’s:

  Now in this hour that we part,

  I will ask to be forgotten never.

  But in thy pure and guileless heart,

  Consider me thy friend, dear, ever.

  J. Wilkes Booth40

  Congressman Bingham thought Booth’s courtship of Lucy had been calculated in furtherance of his plot.41 But ev
idence is abundant from the Booth and Hale families that the couple were seriously attached. Moreover, Lucy was not close to the Lincolns. As a source of information, she knew no more about the president’s movements than any other belle in the city. Booth had better sources of intelligence, one of them a remarkable individual whose story has never been investigated in studies of the assassination.

  Spiritualism was one of the more interesting social phenomena of the nineteenth century. The glad tidings of this movement—that the dearly departed were ever present and ready to offer comfort and advice to the living—were powerfully appealing. Critics denounced it as a superstition and a fraud, but the movement attracted great interest, amplified by the grief that the war brought to countless American homes. Spiritualist newspapers proclaimed the faith, and circles of believers established themselves in the leading cities. The Washington circle counted among its members a number of government officials. Warren Chase, a lecturer and missionary of the movement, thought the interest shown in spiritualism was greater in the capital than in any other place.42

  Prominent among the mediums who served the movement was Charles J. Colchester.43 This English-born spiritualist, alleged to be the illegitimate son of a duke, had remarkable powers. He could read sealed letters, cry out the names of visitors’ deceased friends, cause apparitions to appear, and produce words on his forearm or forehead in blood-red letters. To the faithful he was an extraordinarily gifted intermediary with the other side. To skeptics he was a con man who employed sleight of hand, hypnosis, and sideshow magic in darkened rooms to fill his pockets at the expense of the troubled and the brokenhearted.

  Still, spiritualism was in its adolescence, and until the movement was fully understood, who could say what it was that Colchester actually offered? The civil and military elite, from General Grant on down, all flocked to witness his manifestations.44