The Day Lincoln Was Shot

by Jim Bishop

  At Kirkwood House, Andrew Johnson went to bed. Governor Farwell had gone off to the theater. Johnson’s secretary, Browning, was out. There was no one to talk to, and he had read all that he wanted to read. The night was damp; the bed felt warm.

  The food was always plentiful and plain at Surratt House and Louis Wiechman and Mrs. Surratt ate a late supper. He talked with Anna Surratt, who, with young Honora Fitzpatrick, was in a teasing mood. The upstairs bell rang and Anna left the basement and hurried upstairs. Five minutes later, Wiechman* heard someone walking back down the front steps. Anna came back to the basement, but she volunteered no information about the caller and the big boarder was piqued.

  Mrs. Surratt, with pride, brought out the letter from Canada and showed it to Wiechman, who read it and handed it back without comment. The ladies went upstairs to the sitting room for the evening—Mrs. Surratt was a fair pianist—but Wiechman begged off and said that he was tired. He was in bed at 9:45. The people of Surratt House were indoors for the night.

  At the White House, S. P. Hanscom called. Mr. Hanscom was a small, persevering man, editor of the National Republican, a newspaper which was liberal, unreliable, gossipy, and tried to exude the aura of being the President’s unofficial organ. Hanscom irritated most editors and all reporters by being so ingratiating in his dealings with Lincoln that, little by little, he was permitted to walk into the President’s office without appointment, at any hour of day or night and, after light chatter with Lincoln, would go back to his office and write an entire column on the state of the Union and the conduct of the war.

  Now Mr. Hanscom was surprised to find that, had he read his own newspaper today, he would have learned that the Lincolns were going to Ford’s Theatre. He sat with a few members of the staff and gossiped. A sergeant came in from the War Department and said that he had a telegraph message for the President. It was sealed, and at once the staff assumed that it contained news of Johnston’s surrender. It would have to be delivered to the theater at once.

  Hanscom said that he was walking up toward Tenth Street and would be glad to deliver it. The message was given to him. The editor left at once and arrived in front of Ford’s at intermission time. The front walk was crowded with patrons, out for a breath of air or a cigar. Hanscom looked for the President’s carriage, found it near the F Street corner, but no one was in attendance, so he went back to the theater and on up the stairs to the dress circle. As he passed down the side aisle, he saw two uniformed officers of the United States Army on the edge of Row D, and he asked quietly where he could find the President. One pointed to the little white door.

  Hanscom went there, and found the President’s valet, Forbes, sitting against the wall. The editor said he had an important message for Mr. Lincoln and Forbes thumbed him inside. The message was delivered (when he entered Box 7, Miss Harris turned around in alarm) and Lincoln thanked Hanscom cordially. The editor left and went home.

  The message was of small consequence. It read:

  Richmond Va. April 14, 1865 11 a.m.

  (Received 9:30 p.m.)

  President of the United States:

  Mr. R. M. T. Hunter has just arrived under the invitation signed by General Weitzel. He and Judge J. A. Campbell wish a permit for their visit to you at Washington, I think, with important communications.

  E. O. C. Ord,

  Major-General.

  Both men had been prominent in the Confederate States of America, Hunter as a Secretary of State and Campbell as a Justice. The matter of whether Lincoln would permit them to come to Washington City could wait until morning.

  At The Old Clubhouse, Dr. Verdi, Seward’s physician, paid a short visit to his patient. The few visitors in the room excused themselves and waited outside in the third-floor hall. When the doctor emerged, he said that the patient was doing as well as could be expected, and pain had to be expected; sometimes, unremitting pain. He had left instructions with the sergeant about a sedative, and the Secretary of State was now dozing and he would suggest no more visitors tonight.

  At 9:30, a mare picked her way lightly through the dark alley behind Ford’s Theatre. She was sure-footed and her dainty feet rang on the stones as she approached the single light at the stage door.

  Booth dismounted and shouted “Spangler!” He held the reins forward and waited. The only answer he got was the surf roar of laughter from inside the red brick building. Up high in the flies, John Miles, a Negro, heard the actor and, through the tall, almost cathedral back window, could see John Wilkes Booth standing outside with his horse. Booth called twice more. Miles, looking downward through the flies, saw Ned Spangler, who shifted scenes on the same side of the theater as the President’s Box, leave his post and run to the door.

  Still looking, Miles could see Booth talking to Spangler and tender a bridle rein. In the pantomime, he could see Spangler gesturing toward the theater, probably pleading that he was too busy to take care of the horse. Miles saw Spangler come back into the theater, go into the Green Room, and come out with Johnny Peanut. Peanut went out back, sat on the stone step, and held the mare.

  Booth came in, removing gauntlet gloves, bowing and smiling to fellow actors, and whispered to an actor in the wings. The actor shook his head and pointed to the tunnel. Booth could not cross backstage at that time. In the wings, the conspirator tried to look across the stage to the President’s Box, but Miles could see by the way he shaded his eyes that the powdery haze prevented him from seeing much.

  At this moment, or a moment close to this one, President Lincoln told Mrs. Lincoln that he felt a chill. She wanted to get the comfortable shawl that Forbes had brought, but the President stood and put on a black coat instead. He sat in his rocker, and, looking across the stage to the wings opposite, he could no more see the assassin through the hanging lights than the assassin could see him.

  Booth listened to the lines of the actors, lines which he could mouth with them. The responsible utility man, J. L. Debonay, stood beside him, hands jammed in his pockets, watching the action, and Booth asked if he could cross behind the set.

  “No, Mr. Booth,” said Debonay. “The dairy scene is on. You will have to go under the stage.”

  Booth went down in the subterranean passage. Overhead, he could hear the creak of the boards, the mumble of actors, the shrill laughter of women in the audience. He came up on the other side of the stage, peeked out at the packed house, and went out through the side alley to Tenth Street.

  He had time.

  Down on E Street, Atzerodt decided to again pick up the horse he had rented in one stable and boarded in another. He walked into Tim Naylor’s place, across from Grover’s Theatre, and asked John Fletcher for his mare. Atzerodt had been to this stable several times with David Herold, and Fletcher, who had a chronic fear of having horses stolen from him, didn’t like either one of these men. Still, this mare didn’t belong to Fletcher, so he brought her out, saddled and bridled her, and said she “looks kind of scarish.”

  Atzerodt was grinning and perspiring. “Will you have a drink with me?” he said.

  Fletcher took a hitch in the bridle around a stable post and said, “I don’t mind if I do.” They walked a few doors down to the Union Hotel and Atzerodt had a whiskey and Fletcher drank a big schooner of beer. On the way back, Atzerodt, feeling the camaraderie engendered in buying a man a drink, said: “If this thing happens tonight, you will hear of a present.” Fletcher, who had no idea of what might happen tonight, said nothing. He had already made up his mind that this man was drunk.

  At the stable, he helped the customer to mount. Fletcher took five dollars, an exorbitant amount for boarding a horse for a few hours, and threw in some advice free: “I would not like to ride that mare through the city tonight,” he said. “She looks so skittish.”

  Atzerodt settled himself in the saddle. “Well,” he said, “she is good on retreat.”

  “Your friend,” said Fletcher, “is staying out very late with our horse.”

  Atzerodt slapp
ed his heels into the horse and said: “He’ll be back after a while.” The mare moved out onto E Street in a slow, biased trot. Without guidance, she turned east and Atzerodt almost fell out of the saddle. He had wanted to turn west, but had forgotten to guide the animal. He forced her to make a big turn in the street, then headed her to the point where E slices into Pennsylvania Avenue, then he turned left.

  Fletcher stood in the stable doorway puffing on a pipe. He had a shrewd thought. Atzerodt might lead him to Herold. The two men were friends. So, leaving a stable full of animals alone, Fletcher started off on foot after Atzerodt. The trail led to Twelfth Street on the Avenue. The stable foreman saw Atzerodt dismount, hitch his horse, and go into Kirkwood House. Fletcher waited. In a few minutes, the carriage maker came out, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and remounted. He went off up Twelfth Street, in no apparent hurry, and Fletcher decided to go back to the stable and hunt for Herold later.

  John Wilkes Booth stood in front of Ford’s, studying the playbills. One announced a benefit tomorrow for Miss Jennie Gourlay in The Octoroon. Another said that Mr. Edwin Adams would appear at Ford’s for a limited engagement of twelve nights only.

  Booth went into Taltavul’s and asked Peter Taltavul to set a bottle of whiskey and some water before him. This was unusual, and Taltavul remembered it, because the actor usually asked for brandy. Booth drank. Farther down the bar, Burns the coachman and Forbes the valet had rejoined John F. Parker for a few more drinks. A man gaily intoxicated, lost in anonymity, lifted his glass to Booth and said: “You’ll never be the actor your father was.”

  The conspirator smiled and nodded. “When I leave the stage,” he said quietly, “I will be the most famous man in America.”

  10 p.m.

  The night air cleared. The mists rolled away with theatrical speed and, in the gaps between the scudding clouds, the signals of far-off stars could be seen tapping blue dots and dashes. The moon was due to rise at 10:02 P.M. but the men at the Naval Observatory up beyond Rock Creek saw nothing in the east except the silvered edges of clouds over the Maryland shore.

  The roisterers were still in the streets, and public singing was plentiful and cheap. At Lichau House, Mike O’Laughlin sang a flat baritone which most customers thought was good, and sad, or perhaps good and sad. In the freshly washed night air, the Capitol dome looked like a picture postcard and lights were on in many homes at an hour when most good families were in bed.

  At Surratt House, the widow kissed Anna good night and began the job of turning off the kerosene lamps in the downstairs dining room and the upstairs sitting room, taking the last lighted lamp with her along the hall to the bedroom she shared with Honora Fitzpatrick. If she gave a thought to her son John, she thought of him in Canada, but, in reality, he was in northern New York State, in a small town where thousands of Southern prisoners were kept. He was on a final mission for the Confederate States of America.

  George Atzerodt trotted his horse up Tenth Street again and he looked at Ford’s Theatre as though fascinated. He saw the President’s carriage and he saw off-duty soldiers lounging and he saw a few civilians on the sidewalk. He rode back to Kirkwood House to kill the Vice President but his feet carried him into the bar and he drank and looked at the clock and drank some more.

  In the theater, the play was more than half over. The second scene of the third act had begun. President Lincoln, momentarily distracted from the action onstage, watched a portly officer come down the right-hand orchestra aisle. He knew the man. It was General Ambrose E. Burnside, an officer who did not believe that he was big enough to command the Army of the Potomac and, when Lincoln gave it to him, proved it. The President watched him come down front, split the tails of his uniform coat, and sit. Lincoln may have wondered what kept him so late. The presidential attention reverted to the stage.

  Booth came out of Taltavul’s and stood talking to Lewis Carland, the theater costumer. Mr. Carland was a sponge; he absorbed the moods of his friends. James J. Gifford, the stage carpenter, came out puffing a freshly lighted pipe and joined the conversation. A singer named Hess came down from F Street and asked what time it was. Someone looked at the lobby clock and said “ten.” Hess returned a few minutes later and asked the same question. He was scheduled to go on, just before the last scene, and sing in concert with a young lady and another man “All Honor to Our Soldiers,” the new song composed by Professor Withers.

  Another man walked up from E Street to join the conversation. He was Captain William Williams of the Washington Cavalry Police. The captain was an admirer of John Wilkes Booth. He invited his idol into Taltavul’s for a drink, but Booth looked at his watch, and declined with thanks.

  “Keene,” he said, “will be onstage in a minute and I promised to take a look for her.”

  He bowed and left the group and walked in the main entrance to the theater. Absentmindedly, John Buckingham, ticket taker, held out his hand, and Booth said, in mock shock: “You will not want a ticket from me?”

  Buckingham laughed and bowed. “Courtesy of the house,” he said. The actor looked at the lobby clock. It read 10:07. He saw Buckingham chewing, and borrowed a bite of tobacco. Buckingham said that, if Mr. Booth did not mind, he would like to introduce a few friends. The actor winked, and said: “Later, John.” He turned and bounded up the stairs to the dress circle.

  In Boston, his brother was, on this night, playing the part of Sir Edward Mortimer and, with a declaiming sweep of his hand, moaned: “Where is my honor now?”

  Here in the dress circle, a man and a little girl were disappointed. James Ferguson, restaurateur, occupied the extreme left seat in the front row solely to see Abraham Lincoln and General Ulysses S. Grant. He did not want to see the play. He had brought the little neighbor’s girl along because she too had an appreciation of historical figures which matched his. With her own eyes, she wanted to see the President of the United States and the man who had won the war.

  All evening long, he had studied the State Box and the right-hand aisle. The President was in the box but, except for one brief moment when he had leaned forward to look down in the orchestra, they had not seen him. The general was not present and Mr. Ferguson kept telling the little girl that Grant was sure to be along at any moment. Now he saw a figure move down the right-hand aisle and he squeezed the little girl’s hand. She followed his glance and saw a man step down the broad steps with easy grace. Ferguson shaded his eyes against the glare of the stage lights and, after a look, smiled sadly and said that it wasn’t General Grant after all; it was a famous actor named Booth.

  Almost as though to assuage the disappointment, James Ferguson noticed that, at the same time, President Lincoln was leaning forward in the box, with his left hand on the ledge, looking at the people below. It was the first time that Ferguson had seen Lincoln come into plain view, and he nudged the little girl and pointed. She looked steadily, and nodded. For the first time in her life she had seen, with her own eyes, the President of the United States.

  John Wilkes Booth, slightly ahead of schedule, came down the dress circle steps slowly. He heard the lines onstage and he knew that he had about two minutes.

  Asa Trenchard walked onstage and Mrs. Mountchessington said: “Ah, Mr. Trenchard. We were just talking of your archery powers.”

  Asa, who was played by Harry Hawk, was a slender drawling Yankee.

  “Wal,” he said, “I guess shooting with bows and arrows is just about like most things in life. All you have got to do is to keep the sun out of your eyes, look straight, pull strong, calculate the distance, and you’re sure to hit the mark in most things as well as shooting.”

  Booth looked down at the little white door and saw the empty chair. Confused, he looked at patrons sitting in dress circle seats as though wondering which one was the President’s guard. He saw the two army officers and he moved by them. For the first time, he realized that he was going to get into that box with no trouble; no challenge; no palaver; no argument; no fight; no stabbing. He was going t
o be able to walk in as though Lincoln had been expecting him.

  He walked down to the white door, and stood with his back to it. He studied the faces nearby, men and women, and he saw some of them glance briefly at him. A real wave of laughter swept the theater and attention reverted to the stage.

  Mrs. Mountchessington had just learned that Asa Trenchard was not a millionaire.

  “No heir to the fortune, Mr. Trenchard?”

  “Oh, no,” he said.

  “What!” young Augusta shrieked. “No fortune!”

  “Nary a red,” said Asa brightly. “It all comes from their barking up the wrong tree about the old man’s property.”

  Now was the time. Booth knew that, in a few seconds, Asa would be alone on the stage. He turned the knob, pushed the door, and walked into the darkness. The door closed behind him. He found the pine board, held it against the inside of the door, and tapped the other end down the wall opposite until it settled in the niche he had carved for it. Pursuit could not come from that direction. Nor interference.

  He moved toward the door of Box 7 in the darkness. A tiny beam of yellow light squeezed through the gimlet hole in the door and made a dot on the opposite wall.

  Wilkes Booth could still hear the actors faintly. Mrs. Mountchessington had just said: “Augusta, to your room!”

  And Augusta said: “Yes, Ma. The nasty beast!”

  “I am aware, Mr. Trenchard,” said Mrs. Mountchessington in her frostiest tone, “that you are not used to the manners of good society—”