Tonight no one was laughing. Earlier in the evening Surratt and Powell had attended a play at Ford’s, where they studied the layout from seats in the upper box customarily used by the president.75 Now they sat like lumps, listening without dissent to Booth. Everyone else was equally silent. “No discussion was had about failure,” stated Atzerodt, “and what to do in that case.”76 No one was thinking this through, wrote Arnold in his memoirs, “they being completely spellbound by the utterances of Booth, not looking at the consequences which would follow.”
Exasperated, Arnold listened to no more. The thing could not be done, he declared forcibly. O’Laughlen was about to concur when Booth cut him off and growled at Arnold, “You find fault with everything concerned about it.”
Arnold recalled, “I said no, I wanted to have a chance [of getting out alive], and I intended to have it—that he could be the leader of the party, but not my executioner. I wanted a shadow of a chance for my life.”
Booth responded angrily, “Do you know you are liable to be shot [for breaking] your oath?”
“If you feel inclined to shoot me, you have no further to go,” retorted Arnold heatedly. “I shall defend myself.”
The men glared at each other. For a second it was unclear what would transpire. “Two stubborn natures had met,” wrote Arnold, “and it looked very much as if the meeting would be dissolved with serious consequences attending it.” More seconds passed, the antagonists calmed themselves, and order was restored. The theater idea was finished, however, and it would not be revived. The showdown ended what Arnold described as Booth’s “only thought by day and, from his conversation, his frequent dreams by night.”
Frustrated, Booth rose to his feet. Slamming his fist down on the table, he exclaimed, “Well, gentlemen, if the worst comes to the worst, I shall know what to do.” Everyone at the table understood his statement as a threat to kill Lincoln, and the remark evoked alarm. “They had looked upon the plot as a melodrama and found, to their horror, that John Wilkes Booth meant to do murder,” wrote a contemporary journalist.77 No one had agreed to that game.
“I am opposed to it. I will not stay in it,” exclaimed Surratt.78 Others agreed, rising and reaching for their hats. Seeing he had gone too far, Booth sought to calm them. “Too much champagne,” he explained lamely. It was five in the morning before the exhausting and ill-favored conference came to a conclusion. Booth walked out into the chilly dawn with an ultimatum from Arnold on his mind. If the abduction was not attempted this week, the outspoken friend would sever all ties with the conspiracy.
The two scarcely spoke when they met that afternoon. Arnold stood about sullenly, Booth managed an apology of sorts, and the two shook hands. Arnold had to admit that Booth worked tirelessly on their behalf. “He was always busy and in motion,” the fellow conspirator said. Harbin and Joseph Baden, his associate, were summoned from Virginia to stand by. With them came word that the roads and the time were propitious. Booth had Mathews dispatch a trunk, through intermediaries in Baltimore, to Dr. Mudd. It was filled with potted meat, sardines, crackers, flasks of brandy, and toilet articles. These were intended for the use of Lincoln and the abduction party on their flight. Booth wished to treat the president as respectfully as the extraordinary situation of his captivity permitted, or so believed Mathews, the chief conspirator’s faithful friend and apologist.79
Arnold wanted action. Providentially it appeared. Campbell Hospital was a large military facility on Seventh Street at the northern boundary of the city. A collection of frame and canvas buildings, it served about 640 sick or wounded soldiers. The convalescents had an amateur acting troupe. Government officials attended its weekly shows, and professional actors dropped by occasionally to raise spirits with a free performance.80 E. L. Davenport, Booth’s old patron, and his partner, J. W. Wallack, promised to bring their company from the Washington Theatre on Friday afternoon, March 17, to perform the comedy Still Waters Run Deep.81
Lincoln had recently visited the hospital, helping himself to a slice of shortcake in the kitchen, and Booth showed up shortly afterward for a reconnaissance. The actor made himself agreeable, playing whist with Helen Cole, a nurse, and looking around.82 Lincoln, he learned, would be present at Friday’s performance.
Early on the afternoon of the seventeenth, St. Patrick’s Day, Booth gave the long-awaited signal. Herold departed Washington in the buggy with the carbines to await the others in the country, while the rest of the party, mounted and well armed, headed out Seventh Street in pairs. Their route passed quickly from residential neighborhood to farmland, not as isolated as the road to the Soldiers’ Home but acceptable terrain for a quick strike. Arnold and O’Laughlen were the first to arrive at the rendezvous point, the brewer Louis Beyer’s restaurant in a grove of trees near the hospital. After a short time Atzerodt and Powell rode up, followed by Booth and Surratt. The men pretended their encounter was accidental. Introductions were made, and hands were shaken.
While the party took a drink, Booth rode over to the hospital grounds. In the garden adjoining the large hall that served as chapel, lecture room, and theater, he found Davenport stretching his legs. Booth greeted him and asked, “Who is in the house? Did the old man come?”
Davenport said no, and Booth turned away. “It seems to me you are in a great hurry, John,” the friend called after him.
“Yes,” replied Booth. “I am trying a new horse, and he is rather restive.”
Booth looked around. The hospital grounds were fenced, gated, and guarded. Had he walked into a trap? Alarmed, Booth returned immediately to the restaurant. He was highly excited and advised the party that “he feared our movements were being overlooked,” wrote Arnold. Urging great caution, Booth ordered them to separate and return to the city by different routes.83
If the president actually intended to visit Campbell Hospital, it would have made for a busy afternoon. He was scheduled to take part in a ceremony at which Indiana soldiers presented O. P. Morton, their governor, with a rebel garrison flag recently captured at Fort Anderson, North Carolina. Shortly after 4:00 p.m. Lincoln emerged on the veranda of the National Hotel with Morton at his side. The large Southern banner was unfurled to display to the two thousand people who filled the street, the poet Walt Whitman among them. As the flag rolled out over the balcony, it caught on a gilded eagle mounted above the hotel’s front doors. It took several tugs to free it. That a secession flag should be impeded by a national symbol caught Lincoln’s attention, and he observed to laughter, “The eagle objected to having the flag put over it.”84
Historians have heaped scorn on Booth for not knowing what anyone with three cents for the morning newspaper knew that day. While he was riding the countryside looking for Lincoln, the president was speaking at Booth’s own hotel. Of course the actor knew this. He was back in town and in the crowd. As Lincoln’s carriage rolled to a stop before the hotel doors, Booth pushed frantically forward to reach it. The press of the crowd threw him back. Thomas E. Richardson, a Booth friend, saw him retire in disappointment among the spectators.85 From the veranda Governor Morton saw him, too, as Booth, arms folded and face upturned, leaned against an ornate lamppost that was a local landmark and gazed up at Lincoln.86
“There are but few views or aspects of this great war upon which I have not said or written something whereby my own views might be made known.” Lincoln began. “There is one—the recent attempt of our erring brethren, as they are sometimes called”—laughter rang out—“to employ the negro to fight for them. The great question with them was whether the negro, being put into the army, will fight for them. I have in my lifetime heard many arguments why the negro ought to be a slave, but if they fight for those who would keep them in slavery, it will be a better argument than any I have yet heard.”
Richardson turned to Booth, who had joined him, and asked, “Don’t you think Mr. Lincoln looks pale and haggard and much worn?” “Yes, he does,” responded Booth. “Can we hear well from here?” The agent noticed t
hat Booth looked more pallid than usual himself.
“I will say one thing with regard to the negro being employed to fight for them that I do know,” Lincoln continued. “I know he cannot fight and stay home and make bread, too. One is about as important as the other to them. They have drawn upon their last branch of resources, and we can now see the bottom. I am glad to see the end so near at hand.”
Booth had fixed Lincoln with an intense stare. His features twitched involuntarily, and “his face was the very embodiment of tragedy, every feature distorted [into] one of the most demoniacal expressions I have ever seen on the face of mortal on or off the stage,” recalled Richardson. The agent was unable to look away. For five full minutes this bizarre display continued. Richardson thought at first that the actor was just hamming it up for the crowd. He was certainly drawing notice. Far from histrionic, however, this was something disturbingly real. Booth stood transfixed and transported. He did not even hear Richardson when the agent attempted to speak to him. When the ceremony concluded and Lincoln prepared to leave, Booth recovered himself and again attempted to approach the carriage. Again he was rebuffed.
“Three cheers for the old flag, three cheers for the president!” someone cried.
chaos reigned at the surratt house when Weichmann returned from work that evening.87 Mrs. Surratt, weeping bitterly, kept repeating that her son had gone away and told her lodger he must do the best he could for his supper. Equally upset, Anna held a table knife in her hand and swore that she would kill Booth if anything happened to her brother. Weichmann stepped back. Having once been knocked flat by Anna when he attempted to steal a kiss, Fatty had a proper appreciation for the young woman’s volatility.88
Distressed and confused, Weichmann retreated to his room. He had just settled down with Dickens’s Pickwick Papers when the door burst open and John Surratt rushed in. The young man was still booted and spurred from the day’s ride, and he seemed completely unnerved. Waving a small revolver around in his hand, he cried, “I will shoot anyone that comes into this room.” He leveled the pistol at Weichmann. “My prospects are gone, my hopes are blasted,” he exclaimed. “I want something to do. Can you get me a clerkship?”
In a few minutes Powell charged into the room. He said nothing but was clearly agitated. As he adjusted his waistcoat, Weichmann observed a large revolver on his hip.
Minutes later Booth appeared, riding whip in hand, and rushed frantically around the room in circles. Weichmann hardly knew what to make of this extraordinary parade, but his eye caught one odd fact. Powell’s face was red with excitement. Booth’s was white.
“You here?” declared Booth, catching sight of him at last. “I did not see you.” Booth motioned, and the three men left the room and climbed the stairs to the small back attic where Powell slept. They stayed some thirty minutes and left the house together without a word to Weichmann.
The gang was bitterly disappointed with the outcome of the day’s events, but if they felt that their identities had been revealed, it showed great sang-froid or thick-headedness that they were back in public the following evening. On Saturday, Booth played Pescara for John McCullough’s benefit at Ford’s. Surratt secured a pair of complimentary tickets from Booth and brought Weichmann. They found Herold and Atzerodt in the audience. Booth, in fine form, thrilled the house, which cheered and stamped the floor in its appreciation of his performance. Weichmann wrote, “Never in my life did I witness a man play with so much intensity and passion as did Booth on that occasion.”89 It would be Booth’s last professional appearance.
The crew now scattered. Surratt went to Richmond as escort for a stranded rebel agent, then on to Canada with dispatches. Arnold and O’Laughlen went to Baltimore, Powell went to New York, Herold went home, and Atzerodt went wherever Atzerodts go. Booth headed north.
The actor said it was time to lie low, and perhaps it was. For the past several weeks Weichmann had relieved his conscience by throwing out hints at his office about the strange activities at his boardinghouse. He mentioned Booth by name and identified him as a rebel sympathizer. Frightened by what he witnessed, Weichmann opened up, wondering aloud if the group didn’t intend “the assassination of all the officers [of the government].”90 Meanwhile, Powell was in trouble for beating a servant at the Branson house in Baltimore. He was arrested, named as a spy in the Baltimore Sun, and ordered north of Philadelphia for the duration of the war. The Floridian was subject to arrest on sight in Washington.91 Meanwhile, Atzerodt aroused the interest of detectives in Baltimore by indiscreet talk about how he would soon be rich.92 Finally, Augustus Howell, a rebel agent from Maryland, was arrested at the Surratt tavern in Prince George’s County. This was worrisome to Booth because Howell was party to the plot. A federal detective, backtracking, showed up at the boardinghouse asking for Surratt.93 The government was nibbling at the edges of the conspiracy.
Booth made it to New York without incident and ran into June. The elder brother had learned that John’s oil adventures were not as successful as he had represented. When June scolded him for his deception, John replied that there was a woman whose love “was worth more to him than all the money he could make.” The engagement with Lucy Hale was back on, and he had come to see her.94 She was spending time in the city at the Fifth Avenue home of friends, taking Spanish lessons and preparing for her family’s relocation to Europe in May.95 Lucy would go with her parents, and what this meant for their relationship was unclear. It had everyone thinking, however. Herold told a friend that “the next time the boys heard of him he would be in Spain. There was no extradition treaty between the United States and Spain.”96
Booth visited his mother. Mary Ann always feared her son would become a soldier and die for his country, and during the winter she dispatched June to Washington in an unsuccessful effort to retrieve him. Weeks of frightful dreams about him ensued. Now the worst seemed realized. John’s talk and manner were highly alarming, and she was distraught as he departed. After he left, she wrote him a troubled letter. “I did part with you sadly, and I still feel sad, very much so …. I feel miserable enough,” it read. “I never yet doubted your love and devotion to me, but since you leave me to grief, I must doubt it. I am no Roman mother. I love my dear ones before country or anything else. Heaven guard you is my constant prayer.”97
When Booth returned to the capital on Saturday, March 25, he learned of the absence of Surratt and the arrest of Howell. Despite this, and despite the order he had given his men to disperse for a month, the increasingly erratic leader began anew. He summoned Powell from New York and telegraphed O’Laughlen in Baltimore to come with or without Arnold.98 Monday’s Evening Star announced that the president would attend an opera at Ford’s Theatre. Mrs. Lincoln had secured tickets for Wednesday, March 29. Booth discovered this and informed O’Laughlen, “We sell that day for sure.”99
Lincoln was not in Washington on March 29, however, having left the city the previous week to visit the front. He lingered there, not returning until April 9. Booth had failed again, and these repeated disappointments were wrecking his team. Yates and the boat party on the Potomac were exasperated with him. Herold spoke about traveling to the Idaho Territory to prospect for gold, Surratt dared not return to Washington for fear of the detectives, and Arnold was at his wit’s end.100 He poured out his unhappiness in a long letter to Booth, blasting his friend’s poor leadership and urging him again to seek Richmond’s approval for their plot. Anyway, “you know full well that the G[overmen]t suspicions something is going on there. Why not, for the present, desist?” Arnold sweetened the letter with a vague promise to rejoin Booth later, but for the present he announced that he was getting a job. The letter had an appropriate salutation—“Dear John.”101
All was civil when Arnold and O’Laughlen met Booth at the National Hotel a few days later. O’Laughlen came to collect the five hundred dollars Booth owed him and brought Arnold along for backbone. Booth had promised that if the latest effort failed, he would give up the plo
t. Now, at last, even he seemed defeated. He told the two men that he intended to return to his profession. He was wrapping things up. He would sell the getaway buggy. When Arnold asked what he should do with their weapons, Booth replied he should keep them, sell them, or do anything he chose with them. The enterprise to abduct Abraham Lincoln was over.102
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This One Mad Act
“for six months we had worked to capture,” Booth wrote. “But, our cause being almost lost, something decisive and great must be done.”1 While Booth made this decision rather late, the certain “something” had been in his thoughts for many months.
It stemmed from Booth’s belief that Lincoln was a tyrant and a dictator. One element in this conviction was a historical coincidence. It so happened that during Booth’s lifetime no president had ever had a second term. Prior to the constitutionally imposed limit of two terms that went into effect in 1951, it was easy for Lincoln-haters to believe that the president, seeking reelection, secretly yearned for kingship. George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Andrew Jackson had been attacked as aspiring monarchs when they took a strong hand, and their powers seemed paltry compared with Lincoln’s. “You’ll see,” Booth told Asia, “you’ll see that re-election means succession. This man’s re-election, I tell you, will be a reign!” “That will never come to pass,” she replied. “No, by God’s mercy,” exclaimed her brother, leaping to his feet. “Never that!”2
No less of a personage than Attila the Hun assured Lincoln “of regal power and a dictatorship for life.” At least that was how the gossip of Lincoln’s foes reported the word from the Georgetown spiritualist circle befriended by the president’s wife.3 The claim revealed their deep distress at the unprecedented manner in which Lincoln administered the government. “The most powerful monarch in Europe would not dare commit the outrages which have been put upon us by the Lincoln administration,” wrote an editor in the president’s hometown of Springfield, Illinois.4 The draft, the income tax, military supervision of voting, arrests of civilians, confiscation of property, suppression of newspapers, trials by military commission, and travel and trade restrictions constituted an unparalleled expansion of federal power. Emancipation and the suspension of the writ of habeas corpus, a principle declared by Supreme Court Chief Justice Salmon P. Chase in 1868 to be the crown jewel of American liberty, were truly breathtaking measures.5 These revolutionary steps would have been inconceivable to Lincoln himself before the war, but now he felt they were necessary to win it and preserve the nation. “So long as I have been here, I have not willingly planted a thorn in any man’s bosom,” Lincoln told a White House audience shortly after his reelection.6
Fortune's Fool: The Life of John Wilkes Booth Page 32
