Lincoln's Assassin

by J F Pennington

  He could not be any of that. He could only be dead. Gone. Useless. Useless!

  The mere thought of that word suddenly worked the magic upon me that I had escaped so many times before. How absurd that it should come to me at this moment—and like this. And, while I was not entirely convinced of the integrity of my revelation, I felt uncannily sure I was finally glimpsing the bitter truth.

  Corbett found me the next morning as I was leaving the hotel. My two companions, who I had come to learn were Hand’s own brother and nephew, had continued west on horseback at first light.

  He startled me as he approached cautiously and distractedly from one side of the hotel porch. “You are not the only man willing to kill for his convictions,” he started. “A black man of any stature does not belong with a white woman of even the lowest order. He was a gambler.”

  I looked at him somewhat surprised, but saw in his eyes that he knew what had happened the night before, perhaps even participated.

  “You mean prize-fighter.”

  Pulling a small soiled bag from his shirt pocket, he opened it with stained, unsteady fingers and stuffed a plug between his gums.

  “Both, yes. I knew it was not you—but not before I fired. The man I killed held no Union banknotes on his person. I was told there would be many. Thirty thousand dollars.”

  “How did you know? How would you remember this amount?”

  “How could I forget, one thousand dollars for every piece of silver? I know more than I have been told, that I was given this appointment to get me out of the way, for example. Not that anyone would ever listen to me. No difficulty proving my lunacy.”

  “But why? Whose orders?”

  “This I do not know. My information came from the surgeon who had treated me—when I was—”

  “A surgeon? Did you know his name? Do you remember?”

  “Of course,” he spit again. “As I told you, he had treated me—in Massachusetts General those years before. Never did tell me what he was doing down in the capital. Seemed a little odd at the time, what with the war and the field hospitals some distance away. A good surgeon like himself.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Bickley.”

  “Bickley? Lieutenant Bickley?”

  “I don’t think he was an officer. But he shared the information. Told me this might be a chance to do glory to my god and my country —and myself. It was quite a lot of money, would still be. No, he was no officer. Just a doctor, and a friend—or so I thought.”

  “He was an officer. Just not in the Union army.”

  ***

  I presume you have seen Mr. A. Gardner’s photograph of Lincoln’s second inauguration. If you look carefully you will see me in the upper balcony. What a splendid chance I had that day to kill Lincoln then and there, but that was not the plan—nor would I have risked it with Ella in my company. We had made plans to meet at the affair, she having come in her father’s carriage, which attended her return. But when we made our way back to the waiting coachman, and after assisting her into the cabriolet, I took hold of the reins, pulling at them so that the driver descended to discharge them from me. As soon as he lit I pretended to hand them to him, but instead flipped them up from the terret and mounted the carriage myself with a whistle and a whip and we were gone.

  Ella was so surprised she was almost giddy—especially to see the elastic look on her father’s high-hatted driver, as she called it. Nor was it easy to contain her enthusiasm as I urged our mount to muscle its way past a train of gentility.

  “My wife,” I variously called ahead to them as we impatiently approached, grabbing the blanket from beneath our bench, “is about to have our first child,” and rubbing at the bumpish lump of woven woolen with a broad smile.

  “Shall we name him Abraham?” I ribbed sideways to her alone

  Ella both enjoyed our little game and dared not contradict my pretense, but scowled at me to suggest she might look parturient, blushing all along so that I almost imagined she looked as though she was.

  And every encounter received smiles and shouts until we nearly thought the day was ours, and all had come simply to extend their blessings and share our joy. It was the fourth of March, 1865.

  ***

  Saturday, March 4, 1865. The capital grounds, Washington City.

  Afternoon. Abraham Lincoln’s second inauguration.

  A clear, breezy day with scattered high clouds and a bright blue sky. Wearing a high silk top hat, THE ACTOR stands on the balcony above the stand from which LINCOLN is speaking. On his left is the YOUNG WOMAN. Theater-owner JOHN T. FORD approaches through the crowd from the right and the two men exchange greetings. They appear surprised to see each other. On the lower level, far off to one side. THREE MEN of average height, ANOTHER MAN, rather short and swarthy and still ANOTHER MAN, very tall and large, exchange covert looks throughout the ceremony. A middle-aged WOMAN too seems to share their anticipation. Their names as yet unimportant, they all have somewhat familiar looks upon their faces.

  ***

  The idea was simple. Thousands of Confederate brothers lay wounded, half-starved, and untended in Northern interment camps. Without them it was certain the South could not hope to launch a meaningful offensive or do much more than merely linger on, the fighting continue indefinitely. With them certain victory could be ours.

  What ransom would bring the Union machine to the bargaining table if not the life of their leader, their president? It was not merely some pipe-dreamed notion. It would work, would it not? It must!

  I have heard the stories of the plans to introduce malaria or other such infectious disease into the cities of New York and Boston, contaminated clothing and blankets into the White House itself. I know not truly if it is Northern propaganda or if the individuals who prompted me to perform my duty had tried other even more desperate measures.

  I cannot swear even such gross inhumanity to be beyond them—even as it was not beyond their fathers, nor hope to convince you it would be far beyond me. You will believe, as I, what you must believe. Yet, listen, still.

  The Union president marched out regularly, and rarely with more than one or two troops in attendance. It would surely not be difficult for a well-briefed raiding party to abduct and secrete him, and hold him hostage to demands of prisoner release, it was thought. We had borrowed the very stratagem from the North, which had planned a similar raid on our Richmond capital but met with disastrous ruin. Such was the folly of the North that thought for a moment it might match our Southern abilities. Even manufactured a story that such a plan had been devised as early as February, but the intelligence of the otherwise inept agent Pinkerton and his men foiled it.

  When the idea was first brought to me it seemed a simple task to find a small party of trustworthy men to aid me. There were two men, Samuel Arnold and Michael O’Laughlin, recommended by Lutz to me as being perfect for the mission. Ultimately, thick-lipped Arnold, some four years my senior, would keep well his endorsed trust throughout the six served years of his life sentence, while gentle O’Laughlin’s silence, likewise kept, was sealed by an untimely death two years before his term could be similarly commuted. I was wanting only two or three more to complete what was described the “perfect number” for such a duty.

  Lewis Payne and George Atzerodt were men of little mental ability. Still, the one had the marvelous habit of asserting his natural size and the other a desire to do so based upon his lack of it. How could I ever think to blame the manifold fears that prevented foolish little Atzerodt from performing his role, fingers nervously working holes through each of his empty trouser pockets while he paced the floor of #26 Kirkwood House, the room above Vice President Johnson’s? Or the bumblings of the large and loyal Payne, whose puppy instincts delivered him, after his errand was at least attempted, into the hands of an executing master, not his supposed and remembered strokes and pettings. The gallows forced a sure and steady, if simple, conclusion to each.

  David E. Herold and John H
arrison Surratt were not complete opposites either, and Herold seemed particularly useful for a time. Though his working as clerk in a Mr. William S. Thompson’s apothecary store, at the corner of Fifteenth and Pennsylvania Avenues, where the Northern president habitually had his prescriptions compounded gave rise to an intricate if unfounded story of our early attempt to dispose of our target by the cup. And Surratt’s tavern on Northwest H. Street, managed by his unfortunate if repentant mother, seemed both convenient and inconspicuous until the end. Herold’s refusal to die with honor at Garrett’s and the treacherous Surratt, whose betrayal of my trust extended not only to a desired usurpation of my only love but even to a kind of silent and complacent matricide, I will not lightly excuse. He has blamed Weichmann for his perfidy. I swear both have an equal if dissimilar share.

  Spangler too I must mention, whose incidental and unrehearsed part yet sentenced him to the Dry Tortugas for six years—where he might easily have died along with O’Laughlin in 1867. And Mudd, sentenced to life along with Arnold and O’Laughlin, whose medical skill during the malaria outbreak helped win the freedom for all—Arnold, Spangler, and himself, in 1869.

  All were engaged for the plan with only a minimum of expense money but the promise of enormous rewards when the operation was completed, as well, of course, as the laurels for having truly benefited the South. There were many moments when it was felt this was all we would ever receive for our trouble. For all our dedication to a Southern cause it seemed scarcely enough. And though I had always been uneasy about our proposed success still, at the time, we were ready.

  There is no South. There never was. There is only the direction I have chosen and the source of every manner of illumination—the East.

  Here I mention, as historical footnote, the progress of my role in the deliverance of the Union president. The claims of my insanity and desperation are legion, even seeming to grow with the years. Ever fewer, by comparison, are those who understand my purpose. All are confused by the compilation of the facts. But who knows better than I my story?

  Sometime in February 1861, as it has lately surfaced, the Union president was warned by several sources of a plot to abduct his person. The veracity of the scheme is borne out of its several corroborations, not the least reliable of which was the account of Mr. Allan Pinkerton of the National Detective Agency. The execution of the plan was reputedly scheduled for Baltimore, my home. As a result of its exposure and thwarting the plan in its very formation, there being neither success nor apprehension of any of the villains, I have since been made to bear the stain of its design and failure. This is but one of two great debacles that have conveniently and circumstantially found their way into the camp of my detractors for the purpose of furthering my ignominy, the government’s claimed effectiveness, and the final defeat of a longstanding conspiracy. I can, however, claim credit for neither, whatever their effect on my reputation and person.

  The second of my alleged involvements is readily refutable. The story suggests a plot to poison poor Abe in August 1864. Evidence is commended in two pieces of what The Herald terms disguised writing. The first, that I engraved a Meadville, Pennsylvania, hotel-room window with a declaration of the completed deed, and in Washington, the president’s usual prescription being filled by an accomplice pharmacist’s clerk. A second writing sample is the somewhat cryptic and obviously forged letter, openly incriminating its recipient, Lewis Payne, in a manner unbefitting even the most amateurish assassin. The closing signature of Charles Selby, is an alias that I would never have thought to use while still openly naming the addressee, his wife, and at least two other agent-contacts. Surely the transparency of this hoax to further vilify Payne during the conspiracy trial of May 1865 is obvious.

  And, if one accepts for truth—and this is—the story of my attempt to abduct the Union president in March before the final deliverance, how might one also suppose I had been ready to kill such a worthy hostage nearly one year earlier? Then, to the facts.

  By October 1864 I was actively seeking to fulfill the errand for which I now tell you I was hired. I would tell you the name of my employer, but I still know it not. Only the aliases, or counter-names of his several agents, and only one of these can I say for certain I met on more than one occasion.

  The first time we tried our hand at the plan was mid-afternoon of March 15th, 1865. Not, coincidentally, the historic ides. My group and I had for some several months scouted the territories between the capital and the underground route to Richmond, that series of backwoods roads used by Confederate agents for the transportation of goods and information through the Union lines—and by certain Unionists for the transportation of a different sort of good. It was from Surratt that I had first learned even that such a route existed, and it was while scouring the same that I first met the feeble-minded Atzerodt.

  We carefully confirmed a series of checkpoints where we could be sure of aid and assistance in our errand—the home of this surgeon and that sympathizer, where hot meals and fresh horses would await us in our proposed flight. All of this Surratt easily arranged as per his previous usage on missions for the Secret Service of the Confederacy. Had this not, after all, been the reason for his introduction to me in December 1865 by Dr. Samuel Mudd, who had the previous season been introduced to me by Senator Nash?

  ***

  Wednesday, March 15, 1865. Surratt’s Hotel, Washington City.

  Morning. Kidnap attempt.

  By noon on the fifteenth we were all met at Surratt’s, talking nervously of everything else except the impending task. Pacing frantically about, pretending we were only storm and sinew. How funny to see Herold and Atzerodt adopt their postures of might and resolve, even at the time. Surratt and I escaped for a moment to a back room where he joined me in a pipe of my now-favorite mixture. This was not the first such time he accepted my invitation. We returned to join the rest in the salon and two or three shots of brandy later I felt ready for anything.

  By two o’clock that afternoon of the ides we left for the Seventh Street Road where it was reported that the Northern president would pass that evening on his way to a review at the Seventh Street Hospital, or Soldier’s Home. He was to be, as usual, in an unguarded carriage, with only his driver for protection—easy prey for even those less cunning and desperate than us. The only difficulty in the execution of the plan was in crossing the Navy Yard Bridge, but that was arranged, and all that remained was the deed itself.

  The Union president did not travel to the home that day as planned, whatever the reason. Secretary Chase went in his stead and we, disgruntled and disappointed after our months of preparation, disbanded for our several homes. That was our first and only time as a complete group, our only attempt at kidnapping. Completely disgusted, Arnold and O’Laughlin went their ways, unable and unwilling to remain for further promises of reward or lucre. I knew something more had to be done.

  With an even eye on my options and Lutz’s confirming recommendation, I began to formulate the second, lasting plan.

  Strophe

  What was my dream? Not of an independent South, only of that South’s right to independence. Not separation of the races, only acknowledgement of racial difference. Not the death of a president and leader, but the end of a tyrant with eyes too stony to see the stains of squandered youth and vigour he washed absently, guiltlessly from his hands.

  I awoke from a tossed and fevered night. Shaken with sweat and fear, I remembered my midnight choice. This time I could not try to forget. Every simple action, thought or word recalled the same. And as with any dream decided—envisioned past the dawn—the separate plots and parts become more certain with every contemplation, each meditation a staged rehearsal for the approval of prospective players.

  When first I sought my cast, my quiet madness only seemed to script my play. The voice and eyes of schooled declamation advantaged for my aim. Yet soon the contagion ran its course. The heralded dream became the completely embraced vision.

  Who could withstan
d the passion of the plan? Not Payne, of hands that daily dreamed of power and purpose. Not Atzerodt, of quivering lips that longed to grind a steady, mindful beat. Not Surratt, of heart and courage closest to my own. Not Herold, the eyes deeply searching for exchange of some forbidden urge, approval and acceptance of his misguided soul.

  And all then for their reasons ready. Arnold and O’Laughlin too. With their fury and speed. The several limbs and attributes primed for performance, posed for the couturier’s first fitting.

  Why? If you have not asked—truly asked, you truly will. You must.

  But how can I answer? For when I tell you I was commanded, you shall rightly ask, “By whom?” And how can I explain? Divine inspiration? It will not begin to elucidate the matter. Yet I tell you now—I swear—it was his voice I heard. It could have been no other.

  They said the South had lost the war. They were wrong. That the ruthless Sherman’s burning of Atlanta—the proud and beautiful “jewel of the glorious Southern diadem,” said Senator Nash—had wrecked the Southern spirit, broken the spine of our resistance. They were wrong.

  To resist tyranny is not a task to which one’s back is yoked. It is a burden of the soul. Immutable, unyielding—it exists in the soft marrow, where souls are deep and true.

  As for General Lee’s surrender—let him rot along with his forgotten oaths. Proud General Johnston will not yield in the East. Steadfast Major Quantrell will not yield in the West. The South lives! Its sons are still willing. This Booth will not forget his honor, cannot yield to oppression.

  Who are these people whose emancipation has engendered the enthusiasm of the unwitting? How is it believed their treatment is unjust?

  Looking upon African slavery from the same standpoint held by the noble framers of the constitution, I have ever considered it one of the greatest blessings—both for themselves and us—that God ever bestowed upon a favored nation.

  Where are the voices of the Northern factories and shops where people—white people—bear their children in attics and sweat in windowless closets the very days of their deaths? Their children never learn to sing but pray only for deliverance, anticipate cataclysm, that a next world would be of necessity kinder.