Since the fall of Richmond, and more so since Lee’s surrender, bands of citizens intoxicated with joy—and often more—would roam the streets at night bearing torches, waving flags and banners, playing musical instruments, and singing songs. Wandering from place to place, they visited the White House, where, to their delight, the president appeared and addressed them. They visited hotels, theatres, and public houses, and sometimes they wandered aimlessly. Some serenades came together spontaneously, pulled together, it seems, by random gravitational forces. Others were organized in advance with military precision by government workers. Tonight the War Department clerks, the first men in Washington privileged to learn the news of Richmond and Appomattox, would, by prior arrangement, call upon their boss. By the time Stanton got home, he could already see the approaching torches bobbing in the street. “Mars” played his part and welcomed them graciously. After he addressed the crowd a little after 9:00 p.m., it marched to its next destination: Ford’s Theatre. The serenaders wanted to surprise President Lincoln after the play, when he stepped out onto Tenth Street.
After Stanton bid some army officers good night, he closed his front door and locked it. It was 10:00 p.m., and he walked upstairs and began undressing for bed. Not long after the doorbell rang. His wife, Ellen, still downstairs, unlocked and opened the door. If Ellen Stanton had known that murder was afoot in Washington that night, she most likely would not have answered the door. When Ellen heard the news from the messenger, she screamed, “Mr. Seward is murdered!”
Her piercing cry echoed upstairs to her husband, who scoffed at the tale. “Humbug,” he shouted down, “I left him only an hour ago.”
When a dubious Stanton came downstairs, he found not only the excited messenger but several other highly agitated men. Alarmed by the insistence and vividness of their accounts, he decided to investigate the rumor personally. Within a few minutes, he was racing in a carriage to the Seward home. It could not be true, Stanton tried to convince himself. In four years of Civil War, countless incredible—and false— rumors swept in and out of Washington as predictably as the tide and the phases of the moon. But assassination? Impossible. Yes, Stanton had scolded the president regularly for his inattention to his own safety. But perhaps he was an alarmist. After all, as William Seward himself had written in 1862, political murder was alien to our customs: “Assassination is not an American practice or habit, and one so vicious and desperate cannot be engrafted into our political system. This conviction of mine has steadily gained strength since the civil war began. Every day’s experience confirms it.”
Stanton’s ride took only a few minutes, and the first sign was not good—people filled the street and crowded around Seward’s front door. An hour ago, when Stanton left the Seward home, the street was deserted. What were all these people doing here? As soon as the carriage halted, an army sergeant named Koerth babbled that he had just come from Ford’s Theatre and had terrible news: the president had been assassinated. Stanton had arrived moments before the secretary of the navy, Gideon Welles, reached Seward’s house.
Welles had retired to bed around 10:30 p.m. and was just falling asleep when his wife, Mary Jane, said someone was at their front door. The secretary heard a man’s voice yelling for his son, John, whose second-floor bedroom was at the front of the house. Welles got out of bed, raised a window, poked his head through the opening, and peered down at the man standing at his door. It was James Smith, his Navy Department messenger. Smith looked up at his boss and shouted the news:
Secretary of War Edwin McMasters Stanton.
President Lincoln has been shot, and Secretary Seward and his son, Frederick, have been assassinated.
Welles told him his story was “very incoherent and improbable.” To Welles, Smith looked “much alarmed and excited.” Where, asked the navy secretary, “was the president shot?” At Ford’s Theatre, Smith replied, adding that the Sewards had been attacked at home. “Damn the Rebels,” Welles cursed, “this is their work.” He dressed immediately and walked with Smith to Seward’s house.
Stanton, just behind Welles, charged upstairs to Seward’s bedroom. It was true. A scene of mayhem replaced the domestic tranquility Stan-ton had seen little more than an hour ago. “The bed,” Welles saw, “was saturated with blood.” Several doctors hovered over the bloody secretary of state, working feverishly to save his life. Then the rest of the nightmare came into focus: Fanny Seward, wandering like a pale ghost, her dress dripping with blood; Augustus Seward stabbed and his brother unconscious from a crushed skull; Sergeant Robinson with multiple stab wounds; and the messenger Hansell sliced through the back.
Recovering from their initial shock, Stanton and Welles realized that there was nothing they could do now for the victims at the Seward slaughter pen; it was in the hands of the doctors, and God. They turned their thoughts to the president: “As we descended the stairs, I asked Stanton what he had heard in regard to the President that was reliable. He said the President was shot at Ford’s Theatre, that he had seen a man who was present and witnessed the occurrence.” Welles proposed that they go immediately to the White House. But, Stanton said, Lincoln wasn’t there. He was still at Ford’s. “Then let us go immediately there,” Welles said. Stanton agreed, but first he gave orders to rush military guards to the home of every member of the cabinet and to Vice President Johnson’s hotel. On their way out of Seward’s house, Stanton and Welles ran into Montgomery Meigs, quartermaster general of the United States Army, who warned them that the trip to Ford’s could be dangerous. Meigs begged Stanton not to go down to Tenth Street. What if assassins had marked the president and every officer in his cabinet for death that night? Stanton had no entourage or army escort to protect him, but still he ignored Meigs and called for a carriage to transport him and Welles to the theatre at once. They would ride alone—if they left now, they could make it in less than five minutes. The quartermaster general insisted on joining them, as did Judge David Cartter of the Supreme Court of the District of Columbia, who had rushed to Seward’s as soon as he heard the news.
On Tenth Street, Dr. Leale ordered Lincoln’s bearers and the officer spearheading the procession to head straight for the man with the candle. They carried the president up the curved staircase. In this elevated position, for the first time since he was carried into the street, the near lifeless body of Abraham Lincoln became visible to the entire crowd. Awestruck, the people watched as their president disappeared into the Petersen house. Except for a handful of doctors, government officials, and family friends who would, in the hours to come, be granted access to the closely guarded house, that glimpse of the president, ascending the stairs of the Petersen house, was the last time Americans saw Abraham Lincoln alive.
As Stanton and Welles were leaving the Seward house, a lone man on horseback raced up and tried to stop the carriage. It was Major Thomas Eckert, one of Stanton’s most trusted aides, head of the War Department’s telegraph office, and a favorite of Abraham Lincoln, who marveled at the major’s physical strength. Eckert implored Stanton to turn around and not approach the theatre. “At this moment,” Welles recalled, “Major Eckert rode up on horseback and protested vehemently against Stanton’s going to Tenth Street.” Eckert had just come from there. The mob in the streets had already grown to thousands, and by the minute it was swelling in size—and danger—as news spread and citizens from all over the city converged on the site. Stanton and Welles defied him—nothing would stop them from attending the president. Meigs, in a concession to Eckert, ordered two soldiers to accompany the carriage. Eckert spurred his horse around, got in front of their carriage, and escorted it in the direction of Tenth Street. If he couldn’t stop them, at least he could try to protect them. Ford’s stood five blocks east and two blocks south of the Seward place.
As the carriage clipped along, it passed the indistinct shapes of men running haywire in all directions, some away from Ford’s and others right to it. At first, there were not enough people in the street to stop Stanto
n’s progress, but the closer the carriage got to Ford’s, the thicker the crowds became. Welles described the scene: “The streets were full of people. Not only the sidewalk but the carriage-way was occupied, all . . . hurrying towards Tenth Street.” As the carriage came down F Street and neared Tenth, Major Eckert, in the lead, was the first to see it, right ahead: a roaring, unruly, frenzied, and angry mob of thousands of people teeming at the corner of Tenth and F. Eckert spurred his horse forward.
Almost thirteen miles out of Washington, Booth and Herold had the road to themselves. An inconsequential encounter with two men and a broken-down wagon proved harmless and hardly slowed their escape. They rode quietly as they closed on their destination: Sur-rattsville, Maryland, not a real town of any size and little more than a crossroads outpost, named after the family that owned the tavern there. Before they could continue south, where they would seek medical treatment for Booth’s injured leg, they had business at that tavern.
The dark outline of a building appeared vaguely on the horizon. Surratt’s place was hard to spot at night—the two-story, frame structure was unpainted, and the dull wood boards, unlike a pigmented surface, reflected no light. Built in 1852, the tavern had served three functions in its heyday: saloon, inn, and post office. It was not a high example of the carpenter’s art: the structure was plain, boxy, and finished roughly. Indeed, the doorframe was even crooked. The original owner, John Surratt Sr., sold whiskey by the finger, rented out rooms by the night, and served as U.S. postmaster. When John died in 1862, his widow, Mary Surratt, inherited the place and stayed on with her children. One son, John Jr., won the appointment of postmaster, replacing his father.
The government issued him an impressive, oversize commission, measuring fifteen by eleven inches, engraved with a handsome patriotic eagle and the boldly printed legend: “Post Office Department/Montgomery Blair Postmaster General of the United States of America.” The document continued in the flowery language typical of executive branch appointments in that day: “To all who shall see these Presents, Greeting . . . on the 1st day of September 1862, John H. Surratt was appointed Postmaster at Surratt’s in the County of Prince George, State of Maryland; and whereas he did, on the 8th day of September 1862 . . . [take] the oath of office . . . know ye, that confiding in the integrity, ability and punctuality of the said John H. Surratt, I do commission him as a Postmaster.” Surratt’s commission was signed by Montgomery Blair on September 10, 1862.
Eventually, the government caught on to the questionable status of Surratt’s loyalty and integrity and revoked his commission. In 1864, Mary moved her family to her Washington, D.C., boardinghouse and rented the tavern to a man named John Lloyd.
The tavern operated in the usual fashion of a nineteenth-century roadside establishment. The premises were divided into private and public spaces. Paying customers entered, not through the front door and center hall, but through a side door that led directly into the bar and post office. The room smelled like wax candles, oil lamps, tobacco, burning stove wood, whiskey, soiled clothes, and boot leather. Drink and meal prices were posted on a wall or chalked on a board. Nighttime callers were not unusual. During the war, the Surratts and Lloyd grew accustomed to them.
Booth and Herold rode their horses to the side entrance. The night was still, and, inside, the tavern was quiet and dark. They had to make this quick. Herold dismounted and strode to the door while Booth remained in the saddle. They had no time to tarry, and it would hurt Booth too much to dismount and put weight on his foot. The stirrup was painful enough; dismounting and then mounting the horse again would be excruciating. Herold’s pounding fist finally awakened the hard-drinking Lloyd. He climbed out of bed, went downstairs, and opened the side door. He recognized David Herold, a friend of John Surratt. Herold, impatient, hissed at him: “Lloyd, for God’s sake, make haste and get those things.”
Davey did not have to be more specific. Lloyd knew what they wanted. After Mary Surratt’s afternoon visit, he took the “shooting irons” from their hiding place so they would be ready for the callers. Lloyd left Herold in the bar with a bottle of whiskey and went into the house. Herold poured himself a glass. Lloyd returned in a moment, bearing a small package wrapped in twine—the field glasses—and a loaded Spencer repeating carbine. Herold seized the weapon and carried the bottle outside to Booth. While sitting on his horse the actor swallowed several big gulps to steady his nerves and dull the pain. Lloyd offered the second Spencer to Booth but he declined it. With his broken leg, he didn’t want to carry any more. He needed his hands to hold on to the saddle. His pistols would have to do. He would pick them up at his next stop.
Herold retrieved the bottle from Booth and brought it back to Lloyd. “I owe you a couple of dollars,” he said. “Here.” Herold handed him a one-dollar note that, Lloyd calculated, “just about paid for the bottle of liquor that [they] had just pretty nearly drank.” As Herold and his master prepared to ride off, Booth could not resist the temptation any longer. The boastful, impulsive thespian had to tell someone or he would burst.
“I will tell some news, if you want to hear it,” Booth offered.
Lloyd responded indifferently. “I am not particular; use your own pleasure about telling it.”
“Well,” continued Booth, “I am pretty certain that we have assassinated the President and Secretary Seward.”
Lloyd, “very much excited and unnerved” by his own account, said nothing. He watched them ride off into the night “at a pretty rapid gait,” not understanding exactly what Booth had meant. Then he went back to bed. Booth and Herold had spent less than five minutes in Surrattsville.
They continued on to the south and east for an unplanned but necessary detour.
Booth’s leg was throbbing painfully. He needed a doctor. And he knew just where to find one, a four hours’ ride away.
At the Petersen house, Abraham Lincoln would soon have more doctors than he could ever want, but little use for any of them.
As soon as the president was carried across the threshold, Dr. Leale commanded Henry Safford to “take us to your best room.” To his right Leale saw a narrow staircase leading up to the second- and third-floor bedrooms. To his immediate left was the front parlor where, just a few minutes earlier, Safford read quietly until he heard the commotion in the street. In front of Leale a dim hallway led to the rear of the house. Safford told the doctor to follow him there. Leale, and as many of Lincoln’s bearers as could squeeze their bodies into the tight passageway, carried the president behind their host. As they shuffled along, they passed a second parlor on the left situated directly behind the first. They could not see the bed until they actually stepped into the back room, glanced to the right, and found it wedged into the northeast corner, its side running along the north wall and the headboard pushed against the east wall, close to the door. Leale’s eyes cast about the chamber. The occupant, William Clark, was out for the evening, celebrating the end of the war. This would do. It would have to.
Chasing after the president, Mary Lincoln, escorted by Clara Harris and Major Rathbone, with Laura Keene trailing at their heels, burst into the Petersen boardinghouse. Wringing her hands in anguish, Mary looked “perfectly frantic” to George Francis, one of the tenants. “Where is my husband? Where is my husband?” she pleaded to no one in particular. Behind the first lady’s party, a number of opportunistic strangers scampered up the stairs, and, taking advantage of the confusion, slipped into the house before any guards could be posted at the door. The interlopers were probably no more than heedless curiosity seekers, but who could guarantee that more assassins were not lurking among them, intent on finishing Booth’s work? The strangers invaded the first-floor parlors and worked their way down the hallway, inching closer to the president. If someone did not take command soon, the situation in the Petersen house would break down into utter chaos.
At the corner of Tenth and F streets, Secretary of War Stanton’s carriage approached the surging mob. Apprehensive, Major Eckert doub
ted whether the horses would drive through it. Wary of the crowd’s size and sensing its mood, they might balk. And there was the possibility that the throng, refusing to yield, might overwhelm them. But Stanton and Welles were determined to ignore the danger. They must push on.
In the back bedroom, Dr. Leale ignored the chaos around him. Only one person mattered now. Someone tore back the coverlet and top sheet. Someone else turned up the valve of the gas jet protruding from the wall to full fl ame. In an instant the hissing, burning vapor illuminated the grotesque scene. The others laid the unconscious body upon the mattress. Mary Lincoln burst into the room, and the bright gaslight confirmed to her that this was not the nightmare she hoped it was—this was real.
Leale held the president’s head steady and ordered his helpers to stretch Lincoln’s body out to its full length, in preparation for a complete examination. When Lincoln’s heavy boots kicked the footboard, his legs were still not straight. The bed was too short, and his bent knees stuck up in the air. Break the footboard off the bed, Leale demanded. But it wouldn’t budge. Try again, exhorted Leale. Impossible, Doctors Taft and King explained. It was integral to the construction of the bed, and if they broke it off, the whole bed would collapse to the floor with Lincoln in it. Frustrated, Leale laid Lincoln out across the bed diagonally, with his head on the corner of the mattress closest to the door and his feet on the corner closest to the wall.
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