Primarily, however, this jubilee was the affair of the community, rather than the Government. The city councils had inspired the residents with a belated fervor of loyalty. Some there must still have been who closed their houses and wept, as Weichmann said that Mrs. Surratt did; but there was every indication that most Southern sympathizers were ready to turn their coats. Down from New York came boxes of lanterns and fireworks and Union flags. Candles were sold by thousands. Dealers advertised the merits of special “illuminating candle-sticks.” Competitive in their patriotism, private houses, as well as shops and offices and hotels, were arranging prodigious spectacles. The supply of flags was exhausted, and the president of the Board of Aldermen had to send to Alexandria to procure suitable decorations for his residence on H Street.
In the midst of Thursday’s excitement, General Grant arrived in the capital. It was a dramatic moment for the advent of the commander-in-chief, but Grant was not thinking of ovations. He was preoccupied by military details; and he was especially anxious to confer with Mr. Stanton, for his main purpose in hastening to Washington was to curtail the enormous expenditures for the army. In spite of the acclaiming throngs at Willard’s, he was simple enough to suppose that he could quietly walk over to the War Department, and the police had to rescue him from the crowd.
As Grover’s partner, C. D. Hess, was going over a manuscript with the prompter, Booth entered the office, seated himself and began to chat about the evening’s festivities. Did Hess intend to illuminate? he inquired. The manager told him, yes, to a certain extent. His great night, however, was to be the following one.
Friday, April 14, was to be observed with appropriate ceremonies at Fort Sumter as the fourth anniversary of the surrender. Undoubtedly realizing that the entire population would be gaping on the streets on Thursday evening, Grover’s had cannily decided to hold a patriotic gala on Friday. It was, of course, Good Friday, a poor night for places of amusement; but people were in a merrymaking mood, and on that evening the theatres would suffer no greater competition than a torchlight procession of the Arsenal employees. Grover’s was going to have fireworks, and the current attraction, Aladdin; or, The Wonderful Lamp—a Grand Oriental Spectacle—was to be diversified by the singing of a new patriotic song, and the recitation of “The Flag of Sumter,” an original poem by Major French.
Was Hess going to invite the President to attend? Booth asked. For several days, the manager had been meaning to do so; and, after this reminder, he addressed a note of invitation to Mrs. Lincoln.
Booth often dropped in at Grover’s, but Hess and the prompter, working over their manuscript, were a little jarred by his interruption. They were evidently busy, and Hess had not invited Booth to come in and take a seat. Aside from the intrusion, there seemed nothing remarkable in the little interview. On the actor’s handsome face, there was no sign of the purpose in his heart; and Hess could not guess that Good Friday had been chosen as the ides, or that this was Brutus who conversationally lounged in Grover’s office.
By seven o’clock on Thursday evening, the last candle was burning. “The stars,” said the Star, whose proprietor was brother to the mayor, “twinkled in a sort of faded way, as if . . . . earth had become the great luminary.” Ostentatiously, the City Hall sat dressed in gas jets, with as many as sixty candles apiece in some of its windows; while, from the square, the radiating streets seemed to stretch in unbroken vistas of flame. On the Avenue, the south side vied with the north in grandeur, and Seventh Street was dazzling.
“Union” and “Grant” were the words that the gaslights flashed on every hand. “Victory brings peace,” proclaimed the transparencies; “Stand by the flag,” and “God wills that we remain united.” Lengthy Biblical and patriotic quotations covered many shops and houses. Others had original mottoes. “Glory to God, who hath to U. S. Grant-d the Victory” was suspended on the banking house of Jay Cooke and Company, opposite the Treasury. “God, Grant, our Country, Peace” was the contribution of the Y.M.C.A. on Seventh Street. The clothing store of E. L. Seldner queried “How are you, Lee?” “How are you, Johnny Bully?” slyly inquired Lowenthal and Company, opposite Willard’s.
In all the seven wards, from Rock Creek to the poorhouse, from the Arsenal to the Northern Liberties, there was no section which lacked its patriotic display. At the mansions of the rich and prominent, the great windows were brilliant, and fireworks played on the festooned flags. Lonely suburban streets shone with illuminations in the tenements of laboring men. The broken shanties of the Negro settlements and the poorest alleys showed humble flickers of candlelight.
Down the Avenue, with music and transparencies, went a parade of workmen from the Government repair shops. The pavements eddied with people, staring at the lights until their eyes ached. Many out-of-town visitors had come to see the show. A party of young men from Baltimore included Michael O’Laughlin, tricked out in a dahlia-colored coat, and a double-breasted vest and pantaloons of purple and green Scotch plaid. He was working in Baltimore now, while Sam Arnold had gone to Fort Monroe to clerk in a sutler’s store. O’Laughlin stopped in at the National to call on Booth, but he spent the rest of the time with his party, gallivanting in his flashy new suit in the populous barrooms along the Avenue.
There were fireworks in Franklin Square, and serenaders gathered around the residence of the Secretary of War. Mr. Stanton was holding a reception that evening, and Grant was among the guests. The city blazed and echoed with the military chieftain’s name, but Grant remained in Stanton’s parlor, making but one inconspicuous appearance in the midst of a group on the steps, while the Secretary of War responded to the serenade. Stanton, fearful that a tragedy might occur in this season of popular agitation, was opposed to any public appearance on the part of either the general-in-chief or the President. David Bates, manager of the War Department telegraph office, said that extra precautions were taken to protect them both because of secret service reports that attempts might be made to kidnap or kill them during the excitement. Marshal Lamon, in recent weeks, had repeatedly told one of Lincoln’s friends that he believed the President would be assassinated. Seward, though he was of the opinion that assassination was not an American practice, had some reason for thinking that the President should not expose himself at this time.
Terrified that he might be implicated in the disloyal activities at the Surratt boardinghouse, Louis Weichmann had talked. In March, he had confided the story of the abduction plot to a fellow-clerk at the War Department, Captain Gleason, whom he begged to keep the matter secret, lest his friends discover that he had betrayed them. Gleason, however, promptly gave the information to an assistant provost marshal on Augur’s staff. Weichmann, on learning of the disclosure, hastened to put himself in the right by making a report to another officer. The War Department authorities had thus been thoroughly advised of Booth’s conspiracy. Gleason thought that the reports were made before the inauguration, and that an attempt was planned for that day—a contention supported only by the case of the man, later recalled as resembling Booth’s photograph, who broke through the police lines at the Capitol. Weichmann said that he did not confide in Gleason until the day after the attempt on the Seventh Street Road.
Lincoln must have taken the warnings of danger more seriously than he admitted. He had confessed to his wife and Lamon that he had lately dreamed of a corpse, lying in the East Room on a catafalque surrounded by a guard of soldiers. The sound of people sobbing had drawn Lincoln, in his dream, from bed. “Who is dead in the White House?” he asked one of the soldiers. “The President,” was the answer. “He was killed by an assassin!” A loud outcry of grief had awakened Lincoln. He had not slept again that night. Even in recalling the dream some days afterward, he was grave, pale, visibly disturbed.
In view of the threatening rumors, the fantasy might well have frightened a less nervous woman than Mrs. Lincoln, but she had taken it very sensibly, merely making the remark that she was glad that she did not believe in dreams, or she would be
in terror after hearing this one. She proceeded to behave in a manner which showed no great concern for her husband’s protection. On Thursday, she invited Grant to take an evening drive around the city with her and the President to see the illuminations. Aside from the fact that Mr. Lincoln was suffering from a severe headache, there was every reason against proposing this excursion. The streets were blocked with people, there was much drunkenness, and the sight of Grant would have caused the President’s carriage to be mobbed.
There was no mention of Mrs. Grant in the invitation. One of Grant’s aides said that the general took a drive with Mrs. Lincoln during the day. There was no excursion from the White House in the evening. The lights glittered on the wreathing evergreens, the corps flags and the guidons and the cavalry standards. Crowds, gathering at the mansion, were not rewarded by the appearance of the President.
Marshal Lamon, who had been sent on an errand to Richmond, had asked Lincoln not to go out at night during his absence. He wanted the President to promise, in particular, not to attend the theatre. Lincoln had made an evasive reply. The fears that troubled his dreams did not influence his actions, and he acceded to his wife’s proposal for a theatre party on Friday night. Instead of attending the patriotic gala at Grover’s, the tickets for which were turned over to Tad, Mrs. Lincoln planned to go to Ford’s, where Miss Laura Keene was offering, as her benefit and closing performance, Tom Taylor’s comedy, Our American Cousin. For years, this flimsy piece had been a favorite with the public, who enjoyed a good laugh at the shrewd Yankee, Asa Trenchard, and the ridiculous Englishman, Lord Dundreary. Its first run in New York, before the war, had brought stardom to Joe Jefferson and Sothern, and Florence Trenchard was the outstanding success of Miss Keene’s theatrical career. Much repetition, however, had diminished the comedy’s popularity, and in 1865 it was only a fair box-office attraction.
The suggestion apparently came from Lincoln that Grant and his wife should be asked to go to Ford’s. Perhaps he had some thought of atoning for the discourtesy of Mrs. Lincoln’s omission of Mrs. Grant from the invitation to drive around the city. He himself extended the theatre invitation to Grant, when he saw him on Thursday. Grant remembered making the answer that they would go if they were in town, but that, if he could get through his work, he was anxious to leave on Friday to see his children. Although the children later became fixed in Grant’s mind as a plausible excuse for an early departure, it is improbable that his reply to the President was expressed in the vague and conditional terms which he recalled. Caught unawares by the verbal invitation, he must have blundered out a half-hearted acceptance; for it was certainly Lincoln’s understanding that the Grants were going to the theatre, and the White House messenger so informed Ford’s, when he went to reserve the President’s box at ten-thirty on Friday morning.
Grant must soon have regretted that he had not been quick-witted enough to refuse the invitation outright. It was impossible that Mrs. Grant should enjoy the prospect of an evening in Mrs. Lincoln’s society. At City Point, she had recently been a pained witness of Madam President’s wild tempers, and had even received an angry insult or two herself. Grant, on his own account, was impatient to get away from Washington and its embarrassing ovations. A visit to the theatre would be the occasion for a grand demonstration in his honor. The year before, he had broken an engagement with the President and disappointed the audience at Grover’s, and he was ready to do it again at Ford’s.
When Stanton got wind of this theatre party, which controverted all his admonitions, he vehemently opposed it. The telegrapher, Bates, said that he urged Grant not to go to Ford’s because of the danger of assassination. Grant willingly agreed, telling Stanton that he only wanted an excuse; but he did not use the excuse which the War Secretary had given him, nor try to dissuade the President from attending the theatre, as Bates said that Stanton had asked him to do. He offered the same rather lame excuse that he had had all along, that he wanted to visit his children. He did not bring himself to utter a decisive refusal until about two o’clock in the afternoon, when the afternoon papers were appearing with announcements that he would be at Ford’s.
Grant went to the White House at eleven on Friday for the Cabinet meeting. It was a prolonged session. The President was confidently anticipating the news of Johnston’s surrender to Sherman, and three hours passed in the discussion of plans for the harmonious restoration of the Union. One of Grant’s aides, Colonel Horace Porter, heard the general make some apologies to Lincoln, emphasizing his wife’s disappointment, if the visit to the children were delayed. The President pressed him a little, Porter said, reminding him of the pleasure it would give the people to see him. The appointment still hung fire, until a note from Mrs. Grant was handed to the general, expressing anxiety to leave on the late afternoon train. Thus fortified, at the close of the meeting, Grant firmly told the President that he must decide not to remain.
Frederick Seward, attending the Cabinet meeting in his father’s place, verified the time of the definite refusal. At about two o’clock, young Seward heard Lincoln speak to Grant about the theatre, understanding the general to excuse himself on the ground of a previous engagement.
Grant himself attributed his vagueness about fulfilling the engagement to uncertainty about finishing his work in time to leave on Friday. “I did get through,” he wrote, “and started by the evening train on the 14th, sending Mr. Lincoln word, of course, that I would not be at the theatre.” Although there is a want of candor in Grant’s casual treatment of the whole episode, and his pretext was disingenuous, since he had little time to work on Friday, he plainly acknowledged that he made a last-minute decision.
Nevertheless, on the basis of two accounts, one by Speaker Colfax and the other by the telegrapher, Bates, it has been said that Lincoln knew of Grant’s intended departure at an early hour on Friday. By internal evidence, Colfax’s conversation with the President could not have taken place during his morning call, at about nine o’clock, at the White House. The President asked Colfax to go with him to the play, adding that Grant had promised to do so, but had gone north; and he also said that he supposed that he himself must put in an appearance, in order that the people might not be disappointed. Not only was Grant in town until early evening, but the White House messenger did not reach Ford’s until the middle of the morning. These remarks were undoubtedly made during a second conversation which Colfax had with the President at seven-thirty in the evening.
Similarly, although Bates thought that Lincoln spoke of the broken engagement in the morning, he probably did so during an early evening visit which he paid to the War Office. Both Noah Brooks and the guard, Crook, substantiate Colfax’s statement that the President went to Ford’s out of a sense of duty to the public. For some reason, he did not want to go, after the Grants had backed out. It was the advertisement of the plan which induced him to carry out his intention. Ford’s did not send the notice to the evening papers until very late in the forenoon. If Grant had given a plain refusal either on Thursday or early on Friday the President would have been able “to give up the whole thing,” as he told Brooks he had felt inclined to do.
The news that Grant would accompany the President to Our American Cousin threw the Tenth Street theatre into a furor. John T. Ford had hastened down to Richmond to see his relatives, but his brothers, James and Harry, bestirred themselves to prepare for a gala evening, well aware that the presence of the commander-in-chief would completely eclipse the patriotic doings at Grover’s.
The usual company rehearsal was prolonged to practice a new song, “Honor to Our Soldiers,” the music for which had been composed by Professor Withers, Junior. The costumer, Mr. Carland, went shopping for ribbons to make badges for the gentlemen of the cast to wear during the rendition of this song. Fresh playbills were ordered. Spangler helped to remove the partition which separated the two stage boxes, and young Harry Ford arranged the decorations. This work was the duty of Mr. Raybold, the upholsterer of the theatre, but he was s
uffering from a severe neuralgia of the face, and the responsibility fell on Harry. Flags were tied at the sides and the middle column of the lace-curtained double box, while across the railing was draped the big blue flag of the Treasury Guard, which had been borrowed for the evening. Harry introduced a novel touch, which had never occurred to Raybold, by hanging a picture of General Washington in the center of the Treasury flag.
To furnish the box with suitable elegance, a sofa and some easy chairs were brought from the property and reception rooms. Among them was the upholstered rocking chair which the President had occupied on his first visit to Ford’s new theatre. Harry entertained a respectful admiration for this fine chair; and, as the ushers “had greased it with their hair,” he had had it removed to his own bedroom in an adjoining building. It had not been used in the box that season. This, Harry felt, was an occasion worthy of the rocking chair, and a colored boy, Joe Simms, carried it on his head through the alleyway, and set it in place for the President.
One more chair was needed. It was put in the narrow passageway which led from the dress circle to the box, for the bodyguard to sit in.
On Friday morning, according to one story, Booth engaged a box for the evening’s performance at Grover’s. He did this surreptitiously, through one of his cronies, John Deery, who was the proprietor of a large billiard saloon, situated over Grover’s front entrance. The excuse that Booth gave Deery for not going direct to the ticket office was that he did not want to be under obligations to the management for complimentary seats. Deery said that the box he engaged for Booth adjoined the one which was reserved for the President.
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