by Jim Bishop
Stanton heard the commotion, the cries of the other ladies, and he came into the bedroom pointing a finger at the unconscious Mrs. Lincoln.
“Take that woman out,” he said loudly, “and do not let her in again.”
When the room had been cleared, Dr. Barnes ordered the patient to be turned toward the wall. The doctor sat on the bed and, with cotton soaked in alcohol, combed the black matted hair away from the round wound. Then, using a silver probe, he tried to locate and remove the bullet. The probe moved inward two inches, and met an obstruction.
Barnes asked his assistant for a long Nélaton probe. It had a tiny white porcelain bulb on the end. This, when inserted, passed the two-inch mark and continued onward diagonally across the brain. At a depth of four inches, it ran into an obstruction. Barnes turned the probe slowly so that segments of whatever the obstruction was would be found on the porcelain bulb. If it was a bullet, traces of lead would be found. He withdrew it. There was no indication of lead. The other doctors studied the probe and agreed that he had probably contacted a piece of loose bone which had been blown from the back of the skull by the impetus of the bullet. The Nélaton probe was tried again, without result. The Surgeon General, after a consultation, agreed that no further effort would be made to find the bullet.
Andrew Johnson felt that he had waited long enough to visit President Lincoln. Later, many would say that the Vice President did not want to go to Petersen House. Whether or not this was so, he received the Stanton message to be prepared to take the oath of office and at once insisted that he was going to Petersen House. Governor Farwell opposed it. He said that the future of the Republic was bound up with Johnson now, and that the Vice President should remain where he was. Major James O’Beirne was present, and he too opposed the visit.
Johnson said he would go anyway. At that, O’Beirne said he would summon a guard of soldiers. The Vice President refused. He wanted no guard, no carriage—he would walk. So Farwell and O’Beirne flanked the next President and walked him up Twelfth Street and across E to Tenth. Johnson said little. He had pulled his hat down hard over his eyes, raised his coat collar, and jammed his hands into his coat pockets.
Tenth Street was almost deserted. Cavalry horses were tied four and five to a picket post up and down the street and they looked dejected in the cool dampness of morning. A small group of civilians stood around Petersen House and two soldiers patrolled the front of the house.
The Vice President was shown into the bedroom. He stood with his hat in his hand, his hair mussed, looking down. He stood for a little while, never taking his eyes from the figure on the bed, not saying anything, not showing any emotion. Then he took Robert’s hand and whispered a few words. He stopped in the back parlor and said something to Stanton, who looked up at him and nodded curtly. He went back through the hall, through the bedroom with the flickering jet, and into the front room. He took Mrs. Lincoln’s hand in his and she looked up at him, whimpering.
Johnson walked back to Kirkwood House.
In New York and in Philadelphia and Chicago and Detroit and St. Louis and Boston, the morning newspapers were being made up. They knew. Now the editors were going to press with the biggest, saddest story of the age. Mourning rules were dropped into place by printers and many editors headed the story with the single big word “IMPORTANT!” This was followed by as many as fifteen and eighteen diminishing headlines which told, in brief, the facets of the story.
Radical Republican newspapers ripped out editorials which condemned Lincoln’s “soft” peace toward the South, and in their place went brand-new editorials which mourned the loss of a great man. Cartoons which slandered Lincoln’s features were tossed on the composing-room floor. Anti-Lincoln letters from irate readers were killed, the type distributed.
Mainly, the story ran down the left-hand column of page 1 and jumped from there to another page. Smaller sidebar stories, telling of the effect of the assassination on the national welfare, were run beside the main story. So were stories about Mr. Seward’s assassination, and there were a few stories about Johnson and Stanton.
The editors were also exasperated. They told their readers about the greatest crime of the nineteenth century, but in the story there was no criminal. They jammed the reopened wires to Washington with questions. A few who had stories which mentioned Booth removed the name from the copy because it seemed libelous. On the wires, the editors asked for confirmation, by a high official, of Booth as the assassin. Associated Press members were confused because they were asked, at one time in the night, to “kill” the story.
The editor of the National Intelligencer, who did not know that Booth had tried to give him a news beat and a confession in a letter, sat down at 2 A.M. to write an editorial in longhand. He gave his lead a lot of thought and then he wrote: “Rumors are so thick and contradictory that we rely entirely upon our reporters to advise the public of the details and result of this night of horrors. . . . We forbear to give the name of one of the supposed murderers, about whom great suspicion gathers. . . . At the Police Headquarters it is understood that Mr. Hawk, of Laura Keene’s troupe, has been held to bail to testify to the identity of the suspected assassin of the President, whom he is said to have recognized as a person well known to him.”
The Washington Chronicle, by comparison, stated the case for confusion as well as any newspaper: “We then ascertained that the police were on the track of the President’s assassin, and found that a variety of evidences, all pointing one way, would in all probability justify the arrest of a character well known throughout the cities of the United States. Evidence taken amid such excitement would, perhaps, not justify us in naming the suspected man, nor could it aid in his apprehension.”
Almost alone among the big daily newspapers, the New York Tribune named names: “Laura Keene and the leader of the orchestra declare that they recognized him [the assassin] as J. Wilkes Booth, the actor.”
Over on C Street, John Greenawalt had just retired at Pennsylvania House. He owned the hotel and the houseboys seldom disturbed him because, when he was sleepy, he was irritable. However, he had just become comfortable when a boy knocked, came in, and said: “There is a man came in with Atzerodt, and he wants to pay for a room.”
The houseboy was wrong. Atzerodt had not come in with anyone. He was in the lobby, dozing on a settee. He wanted a place to sleep, but he had no money. When a paying customer had come in, the houseboy used the event to say a good word for George.
Greenawalt got up, donned a robe, and went downstairs. He took some money from the paying customer and told the houseboy to show him to a room where some other men had left a vacant bed. Atzerodt sat up and asked if he could have his old room, number 51. It was occupied, Mr. Greenawalt said, but he was welcome to accompany the stranger and find a bunk in the same room.
The stranger registered as Sam Thomas. He gave five dollars and received change. Atzerodt tried to follow him up the stairs, but Mr. Greenawalt stopped him. “Atzerodt,” he said, “you have not registered.”
“Do you want my name?”
“Certainly.”
The conspirator signed his name and went to the room. He had finally found a place to sleep.
3 a.m.
Now the nation slept. Tenth Street was deserted. Washington City was quiet. So were Ashtabula and Asbury Park. The few who were acquainted with the tragedy slept as soundly as the many who had yet to hear of it. Night trains roared through the countryside with wide-awake engineers, and milk wagons clanked to stores east and west and north and south, and policemen in fawn helmets yawned at street corners, but still the nation slept.
Even young Anna Surratt and Honora Fitzpatrick had long since exhausted the giggles in remembering the fierce detective who had pulled back the bedclothes a little. They too slept. Atzerodt slept. Major Rathbone slept. So did little Tad Lincoln, who had been in bed at the White House since 8 P.M.
This hour was the quiet one.
In Petersen House, Stanton decided that
a second news bulletin should go at once to General Dix in New York. He still bustled at his work. Corporal Tanner yawned and pretended to be thinking, with eyes closed, of his notes. Justice Cartter sat, with crossed legs, staring out a back window which, by daylight, gave little view, and at night none. Stanton wanted to send this notice to Dix so that he could rectify an early mistake and name the assassin.
Washington City
No. 458 Tenth Street, April 15, 1865
3 a.m.
Major-General Dix,
(Care Horner, New York)
The President still breathes, but is quite insensible, as he has been ever since he was shot. He evidently did not see the person who shot him, but was looking on the stage as he was approached behind.
Mr. Seward has rallied, and it is hoped he may live. Frederick Seward’s condition is very critical. The attendant who was present was stabbed through the lungs, and is not expected to live. The wounds of Major Seward are not serious. Investigation strongly indicates J. Wilkes Booth as the assassin of the President. Whether it was the same or a different person that attempted to murder Mr. Seward remains in doubt. Chief Justice Cartter is engaged in taking the evidence. Every exertion has been made to prevent the escape of the murderer. His horse has been found on the road, near Washington.
Edwin M. Stanton
Secretary of War
He sent this to Bates, at the War Department Telegraph Office at once. Little time was wasted on any of Stanton’s messages. Troopers at the curb in front of Petersen House were given the dispatches, and rode at top speed down to E Street, across E to the south White House grounds, and up Seventeenth to the department. Here, young soldiers waited at the curb to take messages upstairs to Bates and, at the same time, to give messages to the troopers for Stanton.
It was an efficient system. The message above was sent over the wires at 3:20 A.M. By 4 A.M. it had been read to the New York press. The dispatch itself is significant only because it shows that Stanton was beginning to change his mind. He had begun with the notion that Washington was seething with assassins and arsonists; that a reign of terror had overtaken the city and death was to overtake many people before dawn.
Now, almost five hours later, he had a suspicion that the Federal Government was fighting one man. “Every exertion has been made to prevent the escape of the murderer. His horse has been found. . . .” If the new thesis was correct, then Stanton, with all the majesty and power of the United States Government behind him, was a damned fool. He had been outwitted, was being outwitted, and might continue to be outwitted by a lone actor. Because of this, and for no other reason, the Secretary of War would, in the days ahead, insist that this was all part of a huge conspiracy, inspired and approved by the defunct Confederate States Government. He could not admit, even to himself, that he was not battling Davis and Benjamin and Seddon and Stephens. It was big, or Stanton was ridiculous.
Speed wanted to leave the premises for a while, and he brought to Stanton the letter which would notify Johnson that the President had died. Stanton placed it on Corporal Tanner’s table, and the young man read it:
Sir:
Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States, was shot by an assassin last evening at Ford’s Theatre, in this city and died at the hour of—.
About the same time at which the President was shot an assassin entered the sick chamber of the Hon. William H. Seward, Secretary of State, and stabbed him in several places—in the throat, neck, and face—severely if not mortally wounding him. Other members of the Secretary’s family were dangerously wounded by the assassin while making his escape.
By the death of President Lincoln the office of President has devolved under the constitution upon you. The emergency of the government demands that you should immediately qualify according to the requirements of the constitution, and enter upon the duties of President of the United States. If you will please make known your pleasure such arrangements as you deem proper will be made.
Your obedient servants,
Hugh McCulloch, Secretary of the Treasury
Edwin M. Stanton, Secretary of War
Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy
W. Dennison, Postmaster-General
J. P. Usher, Secretary of the Interior
James Speed, Attorney General
To Hon. Andrew Johnson,
Vice President of the United States.
At police headquarters, Major Richards wrote an order of small importance to any but drinkers:
Washington City, April 15, 1865
Three o’clock a.m.
In view of the melancholy events of last evening, I am directed to cause all places where liquor is sold to be closed this entire day and night. The sergeants of the several precincts are instructed that this order is enforced.
A. C. Richards,
Superintendent.
General Augur received a report of the raid on Surratt House before he could organize his forces, and the news about the Surratt family was forwarded to Stanton with the news about the stableman who serviced Booth’s horse, the letter from Sam Arnold to Booth, and other late data including Atzerodt’s peculiar behavior at Kirkwood House. For the first time, a tavern in southern Maryland, at Surrattsville, came into focus.
Stanton and Cartter went over each report with care, and the more the two men listened and read, the more it became apparent that they were battling two or three men—or at most, a half dozen—all of whom had an affinity for southern Maryland or for Baltimore. The best news of all was the letter from Sam Arnold to Booth, because that established, beyond argument, that there was a plot; it established that such a plot had existed for weeks; it established that Arnold thought that Booth should not move until he first heard from “R d——.”
At once, the Secretary of War began to work on a new dispatch for General Dix.
4 a.m.
The steeple at Beantown was black against the night sky when John Wilkes Booth slowed his horse and Herold pulled the mare up. They were close to the home of Dr. Samuel Mudd, and whatever their plan was to be it had to be agreed upon now.
There is no record of the conversation between these two, but certain reasonable assumptions can be made from what happened. Booth did not regard Mudd as a friend. He put on the disguise of an old man.
Mudd was forty, tall, thin, had a bald forehead, blue eyes and brick-colored hair and whiskers. He was intelligent and independent. Until the Emancipation Proclamation, he had owned eleven slaves. Once, when a slave refused an order, Mudd drew a pistol and shot the man in the leg.
He owned a five-hundred-acre farm, and worked it. As was the case with his father and his brother, he liked property and he wanted more. He was a churchgoer and so was Mrs. Mudd. The doctor was influential in the neighborhood of Bryantown, and was a conservative Southerner in his politics.
Booth and Herold walked the sweat off their horses and talked about Mudd. The actor wanted to have the leg treated, and be gone. If it had to be bound, or splinted, all right. But Booth did not trust Mudd and, even though Booth was miles ahead of the news he had created, he knew that, if the doctor recognized him, sooner or later the Mudds would learn that Booth had killed Lincoln, and in that event the doctor had the type of character which would impel him to go to the authorities with the news. If Federal patrols were to come this way, looking for Booth, they would be here shortly after daylight—7 or 8 A.M. With luck, they might not reach this neighborhood until 10. But, once here, the story of the assassination and the search for Booth would be common gossip within an hour.
Booth, right now, was ten miles off his escape route. He was eighteen miles southeast of Surrattsville, when he should have been eighteen miles dead south. And, to get back to La Plata and down to Port Tobacco would now require the use of cross-country farm roads because there were no main roads. So, if Mudd could fix the leg so that riding would be bearable, they might get out of his house at 5 A.M. There would be some daylight then because sunrise would be 5:20.
> The riding would be slow, but, if they made Port Tobacco by 7:30, they might still be ahead of the Federals, and if Atzerodt was waiting, as he should be, they would be moving out into Pope’s Creek by 8 A.M. If Atzerodt wasn’t waiting, they would have to hire a boat to take them across to Mathias Point. Of one thing Booth was certain: when they reached Virginia territory, and the great heroic news was known, every loyal Southerner would give them shelter and do them honor. John Wilkes Booth never doubted this, nor could he afford to, because once the civilian prop was removed from his future the actor was dancing on air. Herold, nodding to the superior wisdom of his worldly friend, believed with him. It did not occur to either of them that any Southerner could or would greet them with contempt.
They swung off the road and up before Dr. Mudd’s house. They agreed that Davey Herold would do most of the talking. The boy dismounted, and gravel crunched underfoot. Somewhere, a hound dog bayed and, in other places, dogs took up the cry. Herold knocked. Dr. Mudd, in bed, heard it and resolved that whoever it was could knock twice more if the matter was important. Herold obliged. The doctor came downstairs in nightshirt, holding a candle, and, from behind the locked front door, inquired who was knocking.
“Two strangers riding to Washington.”
Mudd opened the door and, in the pale light, saw a young man. His horse was tied to a tree out front and the young man was holding the reins of another horse on which a silent man sat. The young man said that he and his friend were riding to Washington and his friend had taken a bad fall. His leg was hurt.
The doctor handed the candle to Herold, and went out and helped the other man off the horse. When he learned that the left leg was injured, he got on that side of the man and got under his arm and helped him up the stone step into the parlor. Herold followed with the candle.
