The raids with Mosby and his Rangers had required stealth and cunning, but that was in the open country. The stealth was to maneuver through woods, along back roads, and creep up on the Union Army who was unaware of your coming and then attack them in complete surprise. That he could do—the sneaking and shooting and fighting. That he had relished at times. And then, when, the blue bellies began to catch their breath and were regrouping, the Rangers would quickly ride off in different directions, eluding capture, only to regroup and do another surprise attack in the next day or two. They called this elusive maneuver “skedaddling.” Tonight, though, he would be in a closed house, a small room no less, and not outside. He would be counting on Herold to guide him out of the city rather than skedaddling on his own. He had sized Herold up and thought he would be less than trustworthy in a situation like this. So Powell had every expectation that when he came out of the house, after killing the Secretary of State, he wouldn’t find Herold there to guide him. So he had consulted maps on his own and had designed his own path for the exit. Powell silently reviewed the route that he had mapped out for himself, ignoring Herold as the other rider prattled on while they turned north on Fifteenth Street. ‘I need to have my own plan because there is no way he will resist the urge to skedaddle by himself,’ Powell thought.
When the two men turned their horses from Fifteenth Street on to H Street, they were just a block away from Seward’s home. Herold’s prattle died away rather quickly. The flames of the street lamps fluttered inside their glass casements, creating a yellow glow. The fog had mostly lifted, but some patches lay on the ground like puddles pooled against the houses. As they approached Lafayette Park, Powell drew his horse to a stop and looked over at Herold.
“Give me the box,” he said extending his hand. Herold slipped a small box, tied around with twine, from his pocket and handed it to him. “Now, I have something for you to remember. Hold my horse and don’t leave ‘til I come back, no matter what. Can you remember them two things?” He looked Herold full in the face. He could see the fear in the other man’s eyes. “Can you remember them two things?”
“Yes. I’ll be here when you come out, don’ worry,” Herold’s voice was thin in the night air.
“You best be, boy. Else, I’ll hunt you down like a dog.”
Atzerodt watched Herold leave their private dining room at the Herndon House and looked about for a bottle of something to drink, but the bottles in the room had been drained. He walked out of the Herndon House and down F Street for a block and then turned south and headed down Tenth Street, walking past Ford’s Theatre. Atzerodt stopped in front of the theater and looked at the fires burning in the barrels in front of the theater and noticed the President’s carriage standing right outside the front door. He wondered if each of them would really do it. Atzerodt had not promised to kill the Vice President, rather he had promised to go to the Kirkwood. So he would keep his word for that much of it. But shooting the Vice President of the United States? That was madness. He walked over to Nailor’s stable and retrieved the horse that Booth had been letting him ride. He took the stableman to a bar close by and they both drank a beer. When Atzerodt invited him to another, the man said he needed to get back, so Atzerodt went back with him and took the horse. He slowly rode the horse over to Twelfth Street to arrive at Kirkwood’s.
Atzerodt went in and asked for the key to his room. As he put his hand out to take it, his hand was shaking. He took the key and went over to the bar and asked for a whiskey. He downed it in one gulp and then walked down the hall and slowed his pace as he went by the suite where Johnson was staying. He looked at the door to the room and wondered what the Vice President was doing behind that door. He fingered the tin of snuff in his pocket, realizing that it wouldn’t be needed as there was no one guarding the Vice President’s room. He felt his heart racing in his chest, the blood pounding in his fingertips. He walked past the doorway and went up the stairs to his room; he fumbled with the key as he tried to insert it into the lock. His hands were shaking more violently than he’d ever seen them shake. Once in the room he leaned back against the closed door and gulped the air in.
“George, what’ve ye gotten yerself into?” He asked the empty room. He looked over and saw Booth’s black coat that he had borrowed and not returned yet hanging on a wall hook. “Damn you, Wilkes Booth. Shoot me yerself will ya?”
He walked over to the bed and pulled a revolver and knife from under the pillow and placed them on the top of the dresser. He took out the box of .44 caliber cartridges and took one cartridge from the box. His hands were shaking again. He took a deep breath and half-cocked the Colt Navy and tried to drop the paper cartridge into an empty chamber. The paper fluttered back and forth because his hands were shaking so much and he couldn’t slip it into the chamber. He took another breath and told himself to calm down. He tried to slip the paper cartridge into the empty chamber one more time. The end of the paper fluttered before him just like he could feel his heart fluttering in his chest. He dropped the cartridge onto the bureau and set the gun down with a thud. He paced back and forth and wiped at his face.
“Do this, man,” he said to himself and took another breath. He picked up the cartridge and the gun and though his hands still shook, he was able to get the cartridge in. He then went on to load the last five rounds with some difficulty and then set them correctly in the barrel with the load lever. He looked at the loaded gun laying on the bureau.
“I could be rich,” he said to himself. His voice sounded thin and weak in the empty room. “I could be.” He shook his head and picked up the gun and knife and put them under the covers of the bed. He smoothed the covers out and turned and walked out of his room, down the stairs. He didn’t hesitate at the Vice President’s suite but walked back out to the bar. He sat down and ordered another whiskey. He took a long pull on it and set the glass back down. It was half empty. His hands were shaking again.
“What time is it?” Atzerodt asked the bartender.
“See fer yerself,” the Bartender answered and tilted his chin up to a clock on the wall. It was just after 10:00 PM. Atzerodt, once he saw it, couldn’t take his eyes from it. He strained to hear the ticking of the clock but to no avail. Time is no ally when you want it to pass more quickly. And then, when the minute hand shifted closer to the quarter hour, he blinked in surprise at the sudden progression of time and how swiftly it flowed. When it finally passed the ten minute mark and was ever closer to quarter after, Atzerodt stood up from the bar and then turned his back on the hallway that led to the Vice President’s suite.
The man walked out of the hotel and wandered the streets, terrified to think about what might be happening at Ford’s Theater and at the Seward household. He stumbled from street to street until he arrived at a familiar façade: The Pennsylvania House hotel. Atzerodt had stayed here many times when in town with Booth and the rest of the group as they made their plans and laid in waiting to kidnap the president. He would know the bartender and the men who would be drinking here. He went in and sat at the bar and ordered a glass of beer. The suds felt warm and comforting on his upper lip. He took a deep drink and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He would stay here for the night, finding comfort in familiar faces and the numbing effects of his beer.
Act III, Scene 2
Earlier, Booth walked out of the back door of the National Hotel with his loaded Deringer and knife placed safely in his coat. Booth had looked at the clock when he was crossing the lobby. It was approaching 8:45 PM. The play was well underway. He hoped like hell that Lincoln had actually come to the play. Wilkes knew this would be his last and best opportunity to strike a blow for his beloved South. He had toiled for so many months in secret, sapping his fortune, surreptitiously working on behalf of the people and the country he loved, and committing his deeds in the dark. Now it was time to stride to center stage to stand in the footlights and be recognized for the patriot that he was. This would be his greatest act on stage. Booth was dressed immaculately with
his best riding pants buttoned around his riding boots, his coat freshly brushed, and his shirt freshly cleaned and neatly pressed. He walked to Pumphrey’s where he had kept the horse while he prepared his weapons, and rode up Sixth Street to talk with Mrs. Surratt at her boardinghouse. He was glad to see the fog was lifting as he would need the moon in order to ride as quickly as he could to Surrattsville and then on to Virginia.
Booth smiled to himself as he watched the merry citizens of Washington City walking by and riding in their carriages. They were still giddy with the joy of their recent victories. ‘You won’t be merry for much longer, my friends,’ he thought. As Booth rode along he reached into his right coat pocket and checked the Deringer and then his left pocket for the knife. He knew both were there, but he was nervous and the confirmation provided a small sense of comfort. ‘One shot is all you’ll have, Wilkes. One shot and then the knife,’ he thought to himself. Once Booth realized that Lincoln would not be joined by Grant, he had given the Colt Navy revolver to Powell to use on Seward. In reality, he didn’t give the other assassin the six-shooter because Powell was going to a house full of people. He had given himself the single-shot Deringer because it would make a much grander gesture. It was a more dramatic statement of his great act for God and Country. He had one shot, one opportunity, to kill this wretched tyrant.
“With one shot I’ll fell that bastard,” he said aloud as he turned onto H Street. “God I wish I were there.” His voice was an earnest and almost feverish whisper. The urgency of his body stirred the horse beneath him. “Shush you randy bitch. You’ll be ridden soon enough!” He laughed as he pulled the horse up at Mrs. Surratt’s boardinghouse. He called for a Negro servant boy to come and hold the horse.
“Don’t tie her up or she’ll spook on ya. Understand, boy?”
“Yassir,” the servant answered.
“I’m sure you do,” Booth laughed and playfully rubbed his head. “I won’t be long.” He mounted the steps and knocked on her door. Mrs. Surratt opened the door and saw that it was Booth. She glanced over here shoulder at the boarders in the sitting room around the fire and gave him a meaningful look. She then gestured with her head over her left shoulder and walked into the dining room where they had spoken that afternoon. Booth followed her and she turned to look at him. The oil lamps were turned low in the room and Booth’s face was cast in shadow as he looked down on her. She stared into his hazel eyes that seemed dark and menacing this night. She looked away, too frightened to hold his intense gaze.
“Mrs. Surratt, you seem troubled tonight. Are you okay?” Booth asked. Before she could answer they heard footsteps approaching the room.
“Who’s there?” Mrs. Surratt called out. Booth did not turn to look so that the intruder could not see his face. The steps stopped.
“It’s me, Louis, Mrs. Surratt. Is everything fine with you? I thought I heard a knock and wanted to ensure you were safe with a visitor at such a late hour.” It was Weichmann, who had accompanied her to the tavern that afternoon and evening. Mrs. Surratt rolled her eyes, becoming exasperated with his curiosity and childish need to know everything that happened in her house.
“Yes, Mr. Weichmann, I am fine. Thank you for checking on me.”
“Are you alone?” He asked. She took a breath, becoming more annoyed with his typical curiosity into the visitors and conversation of the boardinghouse.
“Mr. Weichmann, please return to the sitting room and enjoy your conversation,” she answered. Booth and Mrs. Surratt paused, looking at each other, until they heard the footsteps as Weichmann retreated to the sitting room.
“Are you well?” Booth asked his question again.
“Yes, Mr. Booth. I am very nervous and concerned with what I have done and why I have done it. Is my boy mixed up in this?” She asked, brushing her hands along her hair, checking to make sure her hair bun was still neat and in order. It was a nervous movement. Her hands really didn’t touch her hair at all, but skimmed along the side of her head to see if any stray hairs touched the palm of her hand. Booth saw that her hands shook. He smiled.
“Why, Mrs. Surratt, you are the one who told me that your boy Johnny had gone to Canada.” He looked at her knowingly with a strange glint in his eye. She knew that he was playing with her, using her for his own sinister purposes without revealing the full picture of what he was up to. It was tortuous for her nerves and she sensed that she was a participant in something grand yet malevolent. Though she shared Booth’s sympathies for the South, she was never sure how far his sympathies would take him. Many of Booth’s friends had stayed or eaten at her house over the past few months. She knew full well that they were up to no good for the Union, but she didn’t know the full picture. Nor had she ever asked to have it explained to her. She had played hostess to something but she had left herself dangerously out of touch with the specifics.
“Did you deliver my package and arrange for the shooting irons and whiskey to be ready tonight?” He asked her in a whisper.
“Yes. Mr. Lloyd will have them ready if he didn’t drink himself into a stupor before he did it.”
“Damn fool. We rely too much on men who enjoy the bottle so much,” he replied, thinking of Atzerodt and wondering if he was actually capable of going to Kirkwood’s to shoot the Vice President.
“Indeed. I also checked on the sentinels on the road to Surrattsville and they will not be posted tonight. Once you clear the bridge, you will be free to ride all the way to the tavern.” Mrs. Surratt wanted to ask him if he rode alone tonight down that road. She wanted him to explain the full plot in which she was playing a part. But she simply looked up at him, quickly, because his eyes were lit with a fierce fire that disturbed her sensibilities.
“Mrs. Surratt, thank you for your assistance. We strike for the South tonight so pray for God’s blessing on our grand deed.” Booth nodded his head in appreciation and put his slouch hat back on and pulled the brim low before his face. He quickly walked to the front door, making sure to turn his face away from the sitting room and Weichmann’s prying eyes. The ride to Ford’s Theatre was quick. He rode to Ninth Street and across F Street, then took Baptist Alley to the back of the theater. He rode up to the back door of the theater and called out for Ned Spangler to come and hold his horse. Someone opened the door and asked who was there. Booth replied asking for Ned to be sent out to him and he emerged a couple of minutes later.
“Ned, I need you to hold my horse. I’ll be back in due time and she must be here,” he ordered the stage man.
“But, Wilkes, I can’t. I have t’ move them flats shortly. I can’t jist stand here all night. I’ve got work to do,” he protested looking back at the theater door. “I’ll be needed shortly.”
“Hold the horse. She’ll spook if you tie her. And she damn well better be here when I need her. Understand?” He thrust the reins into the Spangler’s hand and glared down at him.
“What’re you up to?” Spangler asked seeing a gleam in his eye that unsettled him.
“Just hold the damn horse,” Booth responded and walked through the back door.
Spangler looked anxiously after the closing door aware that a scene change was approaching and he would be needed backstage to push the flats to set the stage. He saw a movement in the dark shadows and thought he recognized the form.
“Peanuts, ‘s that you, boy?”
“Yassir,” was the answer. The boy walked out of the shadows towards Ned.
“What’re you doin’ lurkin’ in the dark, boy?”
“Nothin', mistuh Ned. I jus’ waitin’ to see if I was needed s’all,” the boy answered.
“Come here, then. This is Mr. Booth’s horse. You stand here and hold it until he comes back. Don’t tie it up, ‘cause it don’t like that. Fer God’s sake don’t let her go, boy. You do that fer Mr. Booth?” Peanuts John took the reins of the horse.
“I’ll do anythin’ fuh mistuh Booth,” he said with a smile on his face. Spangler rushed back towards the door.
Once in
side, Booth saw the stage director sitting in his chair off to the side of the backstage where he could view the actors without being seen by the audience. Booth walked over to him and nodded.
“Booth, what brings you here tonight?”
“Can I go across the stage now?”
“No, John. The flats have some openings and you’ll be seen. You’ll have to go under if you can’t wait.” Booth thanked him and walked over to a trapdoor in the floor. He lifted it up and revealed steps leading down into the darkness. As he walked down the open wooden steps, and carefully replaced the trap door, he listened for the dialogue of the actors on the stage. They were still in the early scenes of Act II.
‘Still time for a drink,’ he thought. As he stepped onto the dirt floor beneath the stage, he breathed in the musty air. He could hear the actors walking and their muffled voices as they played their parts on the stage. Only actors and stagehands knew that you could walk from one side of the stage to the other beneath the stage. The footlights cast a soft light in the darkness beneath the floor that sifted through the cracks between the boards of the stage and revealed props and set pieces from other plays that were stored below the stage. It was a dim light, but enough for Booth to cross over and find the steps ascending on the other side. He slowly walked up the steps and quietly opened and closed the trapdoor. From this side of the stage, Booth now was able to take a side door that led him down an alley next to the theater and he stepped in to the Star Saloon. This was Taltavul’s tavern where he had taken Spangler that afternoon. He went to the bar and sat down. He reached into both of his coat pockets ensuring his weapons were still safe. He ran his fingers over his mustache and bounced his right leg up and down as he placed his foot on the brass footrest.
A Night of Horrors: A Historical Thriller about the 24 Hours of Lincoln's Assassination Page 17
