A Night of Horrors: A Historical Thriller about the 24 Hours of Lincoln's Assassination

by Berry, John C.

  “Sir, the President of the United States has been … shot.”

  “I have heard this nonsense already, Private. I do not believe the report,” Stanton said defiantly.

  “But, sir, I have just come from the boardinghouse where they took him. He was shot at Ford’s and has been carried to a house across the street.” Stanton reeled back on the step where he stood and lost his balance and ended up sitting on the stairway. He ran his hand down his beard. Mrs. Seward began to weep openly from the landing and quietly opened the door and called Gideon Welles out of the room.

  “Will he live?” Stanton asked looking up at the soldier who had delivered the news.

  “The doctors say it is a mortal wound,” the soldier responded.

  “Who has a mortal wound?” Gideon Welles demanded from the landing looking down the stairway at the mighty Edwin Stanton sitting on the stairway. The War Secretary was silent and continued to stroke his beard.

  “The President, sir, has been shot,” the soldier responded.

  “Well, that just can’t be. Impossible,” Welles responded. At that moment there was another knock on the door and a Navy Department messenger, whom Welles knew and trusted, walked in without waiting for the door to be answered. He looked about until he saw the Navy Secretary standing at the top of the stairs.

  “Sir, I am here to tell you that President Abraham Lincoln has been shot. There are rumors that Secretary Seward has been killed and most of the Cabinet have been killed as well. I am glad to see you and Mr. Stanton are safe.”

  “Sir, I remind you in whose house you are standing!” Welles said roughly placing his arm around Mrs. Seward who began to sob.

  “Mrs. Seward, I am most sorry. I did not see that it was you standing there in my urgency to share the news.” He bowed his head. Stanton sprang to his feet and held his hat in the air.

  “Let’s go, Welles, we must go to the President,” he announced and immediately began walking down the steps with Welles following quickly behind him.

  “Sir,” the Navy messenger spoke up, “I don’t believe it is wise for you to go. I have just come from Ford’s myself and the entire street is flooded with people and your unguarded presence in such a crowd would present a danger to you and Mr. Stanton. With all of the uncertainty, it isn’t wise.”

  “Welles, is your carriage still outside?” Stanton asked, ignoring the messenger all together.

  “Yes.” As they opened the door, they were met by a crowd of people milling about who had heard the news of the attack on Seward and were awaiting news of his health. Behind the crowd, they heard a man barking orders to soldiers who immediately began to pull people from inside the iron fence that encircled the Seward’s mansion. He ordered men to push the crowds back from the sidewalk and make them stand in the street or across the street and in Lafayette Park. Stanton immediately recognized him as General Meigs and Stanton called to him. The officer came directly over.

  “Secretary Stanton, I did not see you standing at the doorway. How can I be of service?” He asked.

  “You can get that crowd cleared away so we can take Secretary Welles’ carriage down to where they’ve taken President Lincoln,” Stanton replied in a terse voice filled with the tension of the possibilities that were before him. Was there a vast conspiracy in motion to kill all of the Cabinet members? Was Vice President Johnson in danger? Was the War Secretary himself in danger? Who else had already been attacked?

  “Sir, you should not go to the theater. It is not safe. You and Secretary Welles should be at home under guard. Respectfully, sir, of course,” the man replied when Stanton turned his eyes, glittering with anger at being instructed in what to do by the General.

  “Sir, if you are so worried, then instruct your men to mount and provide a guard for us. But send at least one of your officers immediately to the War Department. Tell them to send Major Eckert instantly to me so I can issue orders from the bedside of the President. At once!” He barked as they descended the steps and walked to their waiting carriage.

  “My God, Stanton, they’ve shot the President. The bastards have actually assassinated the President and the Secretary of State,” Gideon Welles said in bewilderment.

  “Let’s hope there are no others. This is proving to be a dark night, my friend.”

  “Dark indeed,” the Navy Secretary concurred. They turned to step up into the carriage.

  “Hello, Stanton, is that you?” A man’s voice called from the crowd. Stanton looked across the street and made out his friend, David Cartter, across the street. Cartter was the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court for the District of Columbia.

  “Let that man through!” Stanton called and the Chief Justice joined the two men.

  “What bloody work is this?” Cartter commented by way of greeting.

  “We are going to see the President, who has been shot. They’ve taken him to a house across from Ford’s Theatre,” Welles informed the Chief Justice.

  “My God! The President! I’ll join you then in case I can be of service.” The two Cabinet members stepped into the back of the carriage. Cartter joined the driver in the front of the carriage. The driver sat there holding the reins looking at the crowd milling around the Secretary of State’s house.

  “Hurry, man, we must get down to see the President,” Cartter said to the driver, who continued to stare vacantly around him.

  “I do no wish to go down there, sir. I do no wish to die myself,” the driver announced and set the reins into the hook on the board in front of him.

  “Damn it, then step down and I’ll drive myself,” Cartter said and pushed him out of the way. “General, if you’ll clear the way, we’re ready to go now,” the Chief Justice of the District of Columbia announced, holding the reins in his hands.

  General Meigs and his men took their dress swords out and swung them about to force the crowd back. After ordering one of his Colonels to the War Department to deliver Stanton’s orders, Meigs rode his horse in front of the carriage and quickly cleared the crowd away. His men rode in a neatly formed box around the carriage.

  The men left behind the crowds on the streets around Lafayette Square. As they drove down Tenth Street the streets quickly became empty and quiet. The two Secretaries glanced at each other with questioning eyes.

  “What does this all mean?” Welles asked. Stanton stroked his beard and squeezed his eyes shut, saying nothing at first.

  “The lunacy is now horrible fact. These were coordinated attacks. Both the President and the Secretary of State were attacked at roughly the same time. Since they were coordinated then there would have to be a conspiracy. If there was a conspiracy, then who benefits?” Stanton asked.

  “Why the rebels, of course,” Welles answered.

  “If the Confederacy has mounted a dastardly attack to murder the President and the Sewards, then there is every chance they are about to attack the city, taking advantage of the chaos that is about to ensue,” Stanton responded, half to himself.

  “We cannot let that happen, Edwin. I’ll send orders to put things in motion to ensure there are no ships coming up the Potomac. You’ve got to raise the alarm with the troops.”

  “I know it. I’ve got to get General Grant to turn around and return quickly to the Capital, but safely. I’ll get a chain of messengers set up between this house we’re going to and the War Department so I can send and receive messages.” They both looked up as the carriage slowed down in speed. As they turned onto Tenth Street and approached Ford’s there was an enormous crowd blocking the street and almost filling the block. The fog had dissipated but there was a dampness to the air that made the night hang close to the earth. General Meigs turned his horse and came back.

  “Gentlemen, we can ride no further. From this point, you will have to walk. I must again urge you to return to your homes and allow us to protect you there.” Stanton looked at the crowd, suddenly feeling weary. In just an instant his breath left him and he was void of speech. He sat there looking out at the f
aces turned up to see who was coming now to the President’s side. Were these the faces of friends or secret foes? If he stepped into this swirling night would the cries of the people become the screams of assassins? He sat mutely and continued to look through the glass of the carriage.

  “Get up Stanton, we must go to our fallen Chief,” Welles prodded verbally as he stepped over Stanton, who was closest to the door, and out of the carriage.

  “Of course, of course,” Stanton murmured and roused himself to walk into this surreal night and discover what other horrors there were in the damp darkness. The crowds stood with their backs to the theater and were fanned out in a dense semi-circle facing a brick tenement house. All eyes seemed to be fixed on one door. Meigs and his officers kept their swords out and surrounded the three men as they pushed people aside and gave orders to stand back. As people realized that Edwin Stanton, the Secretary of War, was moving through the crowd, they would stand back and silently watch him as he passed by with Gideon Welles. They were respectful and orderly and simply wanted a report and they urgently beseeched God Almighty that it would be a good report. As the three men ascended the ten steps to the front door, Stanton paused on the small landing to the boarding house and turned to the crowd. All faces were upturned and he realized that a good portion of the crowd were Negroes.

  “Tell Massah Abr’am we all loves him,” a lone voice called out. The crowd murmured in assent and heads bobbed up and down nodding their agreement and hands removed hats to bare their heads in reverence of the man who had just been mentioned by name. Stanton clenched his eyes tightly forcing the tears back, willing himself to walk through the door and face the man whom he had served and whom he loved—who now was fallen. He would find the men who did this and ensure that they were executed.

  A Death Averted

  Earlier in the night, Lewis Powell sat in the dimly lit dining room of the Herndon House and didn’t say a word. He watched as George Atzerodt tipped the bottle up to capture every last drop of red wine into his glass. He then tipped the glass, gulping the wine. He held it stem up until he captured every last drop from the glass into his mouth.

  “I ain’t goin—” the Prussian started to say, but Herold cut him off.

  “If you say that one more time I’ll shoot you on the spot and then I’ll kill the Vice President,” Herold snapped. “Now stop yer belly-achin’ and stop yer drinkin’. You heard Wilkes. He don’t want you all drunk t’night.”

  Atzerodt just looked back at Herold with a blank drunken stare. He slowly blinked his eyes and stood up unsteadily from the table.

  “Where are you goin’?” Powell broke his silence for the first time since booth had left the room and the two men looked at him.

  “What?” Atzerodt asked in a thick voice.

  “Where are you goin’?” Powell repeated.

  “Out.” Atzerodt lifted an arm and pointed vaguely out the door.

  “Are you goin’ out to fulfill your orders, Port Tobacco?” Powell asked.

  “What do you care?”

  “Well, if you don’t, then we might have to,” he answered and glanced over at Herold. Herold smiled up at Atzerodt who looked back and forth between the two.

  “What time is it?” Atzerodt asked. Herold consulted a clock in the hallway and returned.

  “It’s getting’ to be after 9:00. We best be gettin’ to it if we’re goin’ to be ready by 10:15.” He stood at the doorway and held his hand out to usher them from the room.

  “He needs to answer my question,” Powell said, remaining in his seat. The two men looked at George Atzerodt who sighed heavily and looked down.

  “I’ll go to the Kirkwood House as I’ve been told to do,” he said. His voice was barely a whisper, but it had the ring of abject submission.

  “You give yer word?” Herold asked from the doorway.

  “Yes,” Atzerodt responded in a barely audible whisper. Lewis Powell rose from his chair. Herold closed the door and stepped over to the table, pushing away plates, platters, and glasses to clear a space. On the cleared table, he laid out a pistol, a knife, and a box of snuff. The pistol was a Colt Navy revolver. The knife was identical to the one Booth had slipped into his coat pocket.

  “Take yer things, boys,” Herold said. “I done got mine.” Powell picked up the revolver, half-cocked the hammer and spun the cylinder. The chambers were empty. He looked up at Herold. The other held out both of his hands. In each was a slightly crumpled brown box that said ‘6 Combustible Envelope Cartridges’ on the top. Powell snatched it from his hand and walked past Herold and opened the door and walked down the hallway. Herold tossed the other box to Atzerodt who caught it and then walked around the table and picked up the box of snuff and put it into his coat pocket.

  “Good to see you’re not too far gone in liquor,” Herold commented. “Don’t fergit to be to Kirkwood’s at 10:00 and go to Johnson’s room. Do ya know where it is?”

  Atzerodt nodded and sighed. “I talked with the bartender ‘bout it this afternoon when I checked in.” Atzerodt stared at Herold and the other returned his stare.

  “In case there’s a guard outside his door, I got that snuff so you can throw it in his face. Then knock him down with the butt of yer gun. Then all ya gotta do is knock on the door and shoot him when he opens it.” Atzerodt stared at Herold as the other made the list of actions. “You got yer gun and knife still don’t ya?”

  “They’re in my room at Kirkwood’s. You do realize you’re talkin’ ‘bout killin’ the Vice President, right?”

  “Not jis him, boy, the President and Sec’tary o’ State, too. It’s for God and Country, Port Tobacco. And don’t forgit that Booth said it’ll make us all right famous in the South.” Herold’s face broke into a broad grin. His dirty and yellow teeth gleamed in the candle light like a leering rat. “I’ve got to catch up to him ‘cause I gotta guide him to Seward’s house. Don’t meander now, ya hear?” Herold waited just long enough for the Prussian to nod his head and then turned and walked quickly up to Lewis Powell’s room.

  Powell opened the door to Herold’s hard knock at the door. He immediately turned around and went back to his bed where his gun, knife, and box of cartridges were laid out on the bed along with a small box wrapped in brown paper and tied off with twine.

  “I gave him the snuff just like you tol’ me to,” Herold called out as he closed the door. Powell nodded and proceeded to pick up the gun. Unlike the Deringer pistol that Booth would take to shoot the President, the Colt Navy revolver was a six-shooter with contemporary paper cartridges that did not require Powell to pour gunpowder and wrap the bullet. He held the gun up to the light of the lantern and tilted it back and forth. He half-cocked the hammer and spun the cylinder, listening to it click by each chamber. He then took out a cartridge. It was a .36 caliber bullet with a wad of paper wrapped around its base. Inside the paper was the gunpowder to ignite the slug. He carefully placed each cartridge into its chamber and then unlatched the loading lever from beneath the barrel of the pistol and fully seated each cartridge into each individual chamber. Powell then opened a small jar and placed a dollop of grease over each cartridge in the chamber to prevent chain fires. He then carefully placed the hammer into the down position and engaged the safety detents to prevent a misfire while it was holstered. Powell didn’t say a word to Herold throughout the process and the other man watched the proficiency of the battlefield-trained soldier. Powell easily slipped the pistol into his holster and walked around the bed and put on his calf-length brown trench coat. He grabbed a broad-brimmed hat, a slouch hat, and stepped back to the bed to slip the knife into his coat pocket. He picked up the small box wrapped in brown paper and tossed it to Herold, who caught it and put it into his coat pocket. Powell gave Herold the slightest glance as he stepped past him and into the hallway. The two men made their way out of the Herndon House hotel and to their horses. They slowly rode west down F Street, crossing Tenth Street just a block from Ford’s Theatre. They were riding in the direction
of the Executive Mansion.

  “Now you recall what to do, right?” Herold asked.

  “Yes. I tell the servant who answers the door that I’ve come with medicine from the doctor and that I must deliver it to Secretary Seward myself. The doctor specified that I must do it myself. When I am shown into the room, I shoot him.” Powell recited the steps with a calm demeanor, as if he was reciting Bible verses by rote.

  “What is that doctor’s name? I can’t remember it,” Herold said looking up to the night sky as if he would see it written in the cold fog above him.

  “His name’s Doctor Verdi,” the other answered.

  “Payne, you got a good brain, boy. Now don’t fergit that if you don’t let ‘em take ye to the room you won’t never find out which one it is.” Powell nodded his head in confirmation. Powell wore his hat straight on his head. The flat topped, broad-brimmed hat gave him a slightly more mature look, though that was hard to do. His baby face belied his twenty years of age. He was very calm and showed no expression, but he felt his heart rising up in his chest as they approached the Executive Mansion and the turn they would make on Fifteenth Street, which would bring them just a couple of blocks away from Seward’s house at Lafayette Park.

  Powell had enlisted in the Confederate Army out of a sense of duty to his state and the South. After he had been wounded on July 2, 1863, at Gettysburg, he had been taken prisoner and was treated in the Union hospitals in Baltimore. Once he’d healed, he had signed an oath that he would not pick up arms against the Union again, which he never intended to fulfill. Once he’d left Baltimore, he worked his way back to the South where he was asked to join Mosby’s Rangers, a particularly plum assignment for any Confederate soldier. Mosby’s cavalry was famous for making incursions into Union territory or making surprise attacks on the rear of Union troops in battle. Colonel Mosby had come to Powell with a secret assignment to travel to Washington City and help with an attempt to kidnap the President of the United States. He had welcomed the assignment by Mosby to join the conspiracy to kidnap the President. If it now had turned to killing, then he would obey his orders. He looked upon the erratic John Wilkes Booth as his leader, his superior officer. He had been given a mission and he would fulfill it. But the delicacy of getting into a house that had any number of individuals (some soldiers, some men, some women, all unknown) and then to shoot the Secretary of State of the United States was something he’d never contemplated.