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

by Berry, John C.

  “Gus, is he gone? Has he left?” She began to weep.

  “Yes. I believe he’s gone. You must be brave, Fanny. You woke Mother, and the rest of the house, with your cries for help and she is already on the landing with poor Frederick. You and Robinson tend to Father while Mother and I look after Freddie.” She looked at him mutely with tears streaming down her face.

  “What is wrong with Freddie?” she pleaded.

  “The man beat him on the landing before attacking Father in the room. He is very badly hurt, but we must be quick, Fanny, there’s no time. I’ll help get Father to the bed.” Robinson slowly made his way over to the far side of the bed. He had been slashed on the forehead, chest, and shoulders in five places in his encounters with Powell.

  “I will help you with the Secretary,” he said as he straightened the blouse to his uniform.

  “But you are hurt yourself, George,” Augustus replied.

  “As are you, Major Seward. Let’s get your father to the bed and tend to his wounds first.”

  Augustus carefully stepped over his father and took him by the shoulders. Robinson took his knees and they carefully laid him back onto the bed. Fanny gasped as she saw her father in the light of the lamps. The cheek on the right side of his face had been sliced open and hung down from his face, creating a gruesome grimace. His silk blue pajama shirt was a deep purplish color across his collar and shoulders as it soaked in the blood from his wounds. The chest also started out as a purplish color around the neck, but leached from deep purple to lighter shades of purple or deep blue, and back to the natural blue of the silk about the second button down from the neck. There were puncture wounds and cuts evident where the cloth of the pajamas had been cut and ripped by the flashing blade of the assassin.

  “Is he alive?” Fanny’s voice cracked and was barely a whisper.

  “Just barely,” was Robinson’s assessment as he held his head close to the Secretary’s face and chest, listening for any sign of life.

  “My God,” they heard from behind them. They turned to see Mrs. Seward, who had come to check on her husband, standing with her eyes and mouth open as she looked in amazed horror at the scene before her. She suddenly rushed to the bed, but she had to right herself as she slipped on a small puddle of blood on the hardwood floor. Once she had gained her balance, she stopped and looked from her husband, to Augustus, to Sergeant Robinson—all cut and bleeding.

  “Fanny, not you as well!” She exclaimed and gently touched her daughter’s swollen cheek, where Powell had backhanded her so viciously. “Dear God,” Mrs. Seward choked, and the tears now came. She leaned over and took her husband’s hand in hers.

  “William, be brave, dear one. The doctor is coming. I am here. Be brave, dear one. Be brave.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say to her husband. She could barely bring herself to look at him. His face was a horror of rent flesh, exposed teeth, and oozing blood that pulsed from his face with each beat of his heart.

  “Mrs. Seward, you must send for the doctor and bring me cloths and water,” Sergeant Robinson said.

  “I have already sent some soldiers for Dr. Verdi and the Surgeon General,” Gus Seward replied.

  “Mrs. Seward, please go for the water and cloths. Quickly, ma’am!” Robinson repeated himself, this time with a more peremptory tone. Robinson had served in battle and knew how to field dress wounds, and he also knew that the longer it took to get a wounded soldier to a doctor, the more likely he was to perish. Mrs. Seward remained hovering over her husband.

  “I asked the maid for clean cloths and water to be brought up before coming in here, George,” she replied without looking up.

  “I will go and look after Freddie now,” Augustus said and walked from around the bed. He cradled his right hand against his chest, pressing the palm against his body to staunch the flow of blood. Mrs. Seward followed her son from the room and pulled the door closed.

  “Gus, I am not sure Freddie will live,” she whispered. “Go and get someone to help you carry him to his bed. I cannot bear to lose both a son and a husband in one night, Gus.” Her eyes sparkled with tears, but she fought them back so she could remain focused.

  “Mrs. Seward, ma’am, there’s a messenger here,” William Bell, who first answered the door to Powell, called from the foyer. He had returned with the soldiers.

  “Tell him to come back later! We can’t take messages now!” She barked, impatient at the thought of receiving a message at such a time.

  “No, ma’am. I mean he’s hurt. He’s bleeding,” came the response from below.

  “Good God,” she said, looking over the railing at the man lying face-down on the floor of her home. “Go and check all of the rooms and make sure there is no one else who is injured.”

  “Millie!” she screamed, her frustration breaking through her calm appearance. “Where are the cloths and water I asked for? Bring me cloths and a basin of fresh water immediately!” Mrs. Seward let her eyes roam around her home. The floors were freshly swept, the rugs were aired and beaten just today. The tables and chairs were free of dust. But there were puddles of blood here, and spatters of red on the wall there, and the knobs of the doors were smeared with blood. Even her dress was stained crimson. She kneaded the linen kerchief in her hands over and over. ‘What to do? What to do?’ she frantically thought as the tears spilled over her eyelids.

  “I must care for my family,” she said aloud, answering herself. With that, she took some of the clean cloths from Millie, as the maid hurried up the steps with them, and escorted Freddie as he was carried to his room. Millie blinked back tears as she carried the rest of the cloths and water to Secretary Seward’s room and surveyed the carnage. The family and friends, staying at the Sewards’ home, were first awakened by Fanny’s screams of murder, slowly emerged from their rooms. Some lingered at the doorways of William and Freddie and surveyed the wounds for themselves. Others stayed below, not wishing to see any more than the blood on the walls. Eventually, they all would gather below the landing and await word of the condition of father and son.

  “Quickly, Millie,” Robinson called. He took a cloth and dipped it into the water and rung it out into the basin. Without a word, he gently lifted the flap of the cheek on William Seward’s face and held it in place with the damp cloth.

  “Now, Miss Seward, hold the damp cloth firmly against the wound. We must stop the bleeding.” Fanny pushed the cloth against her father’s face. She had not countered the pressure with her other hand, so his head turned eliciting a low moan from her father.

  “You must use your other hand to keep his head stable,” Robinson instructed her. “I have seen men recover from worse than this on the battlefield,” the Sergeant encouraged her. “The doctor will be here soon.” All the while, Sergeant Robinson efficiently pressed damp cloth after damp cloth against Seward’s wounds. He then took out his knife and cut away the blood-drenched shirt. He quickly looked down the Secretary’s chest and stomach and found no further damage. He then leaned forward and pulled each cloth back to inspect the depth of the cuts and punctures. Only two were somewhat worrisome to his mind.

  “Miss Seward, let’s switch. These two require more pressure than the others,” he pointed to the slash at the base of the Secretary’s neck and a puncture in his shoulder. Fanny waited for Robinson to take his position on her father’s face wound before switching places.

  “Millie, dampen another cloth and then go for more water,” he instructed. He replaced the now blood-soaked cloth and pressed the clean cloth against Seward’s face.

  “How much more can he bleed? And live?” Fanny asked, her tears dripping.

  “I have seen worse on the battlefield,” he repeated, though he was worried that the Secretary would never survive. He was already pale from the loss of blood and Robinson was having problems getting it to stop. And he knew that Seward hadn’t recovered yet from the carriage accident. Millie returned with fresh cloths and water. “We must keep pressure and clean cloths against his
wounds.”

  “Allow me to replace you while Millie tends to your cuts, George.” It was Mrs. Seward who had come back into the room to check on her husband. Robinson’s own shirtsleeve was stained red from wiping the blood from the cut on his forehead.

  “He requires firm pressure, ma’am,” Robinson resisted. She hesitated and then let her eyes fall on her sweet daughter’s face. The swelling on her cheek was now mottling red and purple.

  “Fanny, allow Millie to put a cold press to your cheek, my dear. I will tend to your father.” Mrs. Seward squeezed her daughter’s shoulder and Fanny instinctively tilted her face to it in affection, but the pain from where she’d been struck caused her to stiffen and pull away.

  “I am so sorry, Fanny,” her mother said, embracing her daughter from behind.

  “Oh, Mother, how is Freddie?” She asked as she stood up and allowed herself to be enfolded in her mother’s arms.

  “He is not well, Fanny. The skull has been broken and his brain exposed where he was beaten on the head. I fear he will not live through the night,” she answered candidly.

  “Then I will go to him,” Fanny said.

  “No, sit here and allow Millie to tend to you. We’ve had enough family hurt tonight. I do not need you fainting away as well.” Mrs. Seward was already pressing the cool damp cloths to her husband’s neck and shoulder. She let the tears drop from her nose now, mingling with the bloodstains on his bare chest. She quietly but fervently interceded to God for her family. She prayed that He would spare her husband, her son, and the messenger, whom she did not know. ‘So many have died, Lord Christ, let the dying stop with my men,’ she prayed.

  Mrs. Seward took the cloths away from the wounds. For a moment there was pale skin with a purplish gash, just a line or innocent mark on his body, then the blood began to seep and flow from the gash, down the neck and shoulders to the bed beneath him. She pressed the cloth firmly back to stop the effusion. The bed was stained and soaked in a bright splotch of red that spread away from her husband like a halo enlarging in direct proportion to his life’s pulse ebbing away. As she dropped the cloths in one basin, she took fresh ones and dipped them into the other basin. The blood on her hands diffused in the water, trailing and swirling from bright red into a diaphanous swirl of pink. This was repeated until the clean cloths ran out and then Millie repeatedly replaced the water and washed the used cloths over and over.

  Dr. Verdi finally arrived and in a dizzying procession went from Secretary Seward to Assistant Secretary Seward to Augustus Seward to the State Department messenger to Fanny Seward to Sergeant Robinson. The last refused to be treated until the doctor had ministered to all of the others.

  “What has happened here?” Dr. Verdi asked Mrs. Seward in horrific wonder as she numbly walked him from patient to patient. Mrs. Seward did not know how to respond at first. Then, she said flatly, “We have supped full on horrors tonight.”

  Powell ran into the dark night and flung the gate open at the end of the walkway.

  “I’m mad!” He yelled up to the night sky once again. The blood pounded in his head like the drums on the battlefield and his wide eyes roamed about Lafayette Park searching for his horse and his guide. He saw his horse standing alone, grazing on some grass. He made it to the one-eyed mare and grabbed the reins. She skittered about and he had to make a couple of tries before he mounted her. He looked around for Herold.

  “Where are you? Which way?” He called out, but no one was there. “Damn him!” He spun around searching in the night for his would-be guide. “Where are you?” He called out. His voice sounded puny in the dark night. “Damn him!” He repeated.

  He looked back at the house and saw a handful of soldiers arriving at the doorway, brought to the house by William Bell, the doorman, and then looking back at him. He kicked the horse and urged her on, but she didn’t move.

  “You there! Stop! Halt!” The soldiers called to him from the house and started to jog in his direction.

  “Hyaw! Hyaw! He said to urge the horse on. She stepped forward, but only continued at a slow walk. Powell glanced back at the soldiers heading his way. “Move, damn you!” He sank his heels into her ribs and she lifted her head. He had her attention now. He slapped her with the end of the reins and put his heels to her. She launched forth at an immediate canter.

  “Stop! You there, stop!” The soldiers called after him futilely as they ran towards him. Powell quickly got the horse to a full gallop, increasing the distance between him and his pursuers. The soldiers jogged after him, but had to give up as he rode away into the night. He realized his hand was wet and sticky from the blood and he wiped it onto the front of his coat. Herold had abandoned him as he suspected he would. He had no idea which streets to take to get to the Navy Yard Bridge to the rendezvous so he would take the back-up route that he had loosely mapped out in his head. He needed to ride east and north to try to get to Benning Road. More than anything, he simply wanted get the city lights behind him. He took a meandering route, losing his way, and slowed to a walk after several minutes when he was sure no one was following him. Powell worked to get his bearings and pick up the next street he needed, but he hadn’t taken a city map with him and his mind was hazy.

  In the darkened night, he kept feeling the clawing hands of the unknown men who tried to repel his attack in the bedroom. He took a breath and looked up. The fog was gone and he could see the stars and moon, but when he closed his eyes, he saw the wide-open eyes of Secretary William Seward staring up at him in frightened recognition as Powell raised the knife the first time. But mostly, Lewis Powell heard echoes of his own voice trailing after him through the streets of Washington City.

  “I am mad! I am mad! I am mad!”

  A Night of Horrors

  John Wilkes Booth stood behind the President and held the Deringer just six inches behind Abraham Lincoln’s head. The blood pounded in Booth’s ears and perspiration beaded up on his forehead. Booth’s heart lifted with the realization that he was about to achieve his great dream and deliver his beloved South from the hand of this tyrant. The audience burst into laughter at the best line in the play. Booth did not hesitate and squeezed his eyes shut as he pulled back on the trigger and let loose all of the pain and frustration and misery and hatred and despair of his defeated country.

  The hammer slammed down and ignited the powder he had so carefully tamped into the short barrel earlier, causing the round lead bullet to fly the short distance from barrel to brain. The gun jumped in Booth’s hand. Since Lincoln had turned to the left to look at someone familiar to him, the bullet slammed through his skull just behind his left ear and plowed a path of wreckage diagonally through his brain and came to rest behind his right eye. Lincoln’s arms jerked up and fell limp, and his head snapped forward from the blast of the gun. Mary jumped in her seat from the loud discharge and let out a small scream. She instinctively reached out and grabbed her husband to keep him from falling out of the rocking chair. She screamed aloud and looked to her husband with frantic eyes, but the box was full of smoke and her eyes now began to sting.

  “Freedom for the South!” Wilkes called out. He imagined that he had yelled it at the top of his lungs, but it was barely audible beyond the inhabitants of the private box. Booth saw Lincoln’s head fall forward and knew he’d hit his mark. He dropped the gun and transferred the knife to his right hand. He now had to get past the officer guarding Lincoln and then head towards the railing to make his escape across the stage and consummate the greatest scene performed in any playhouse.

  Major Rathbone, enjoying the play with his fiancé, jerked at the sound of gunfire so close to him and in the President’s Box. The smoke from the gunpowder filled the small box almost instantly and Rathbone tasted the metallic flavor he was used to from battles in the war. It was a surreal sensation tasting it here in Ford’s Theatre. He leapt to his feet, wild with the thought that someone had crept into the box and shot the President. He saw a man in a dark slouch hat, dressed in black drop somet
hing small but heavy and move through the smoke towards him. The world seemed to move in the slower motions of true horror. Rathbone’s mind was racing to make sense of the situation, but one thought clarified in his mind: that man mustn’t pass. As the assassin tried to rush past, Rathbone reached out to grab him. But Booth, who was a stranger to the Major, pushed him away with his left hand and raised the Bowie knife high into the air. Rathbone just noticed the glint of a bare blade in the lights from the stage. As the knife came down, aiming for the Major’s chest, Rathbone parried the blow with his left arm. The blade skimmed across his forearm, striking home above Rathbone’s elbow. With his hand raised up, the blade pierced his upper arm and the knife slid into the muscle down the full length of his upper arm, slicing through flesh, nerves, tendons, and arteries. Rathbone cried out in pain from the vicious wound. He looked directly into Booth’s gleaming eyes. ‘This man has shot the President of the United States,’ he thought. But no matter how badly he wanted to put the man down on the ground, the pain of the knife thrust staggered Rathbone. When Booth pulled the knife from his body, blood gushed out filling the void where the blade had been. As the Major turned and stumbled after the fleeing attacker, the blood sprayed from his arm and Clara Harris felt an odd warm mist on her face and neck in the midst of the strange commotion.

  As Rathbone staggered, Wilkes Booth rushed to the railing at the front of the box. Booth placed his left hand on top of the railing and began to vault over. As he came over the railing, the spur of his right boot caught in one of the flags draping the outside of the box. The flag ripped and a piece of the blue stripe tore and snagged on the spur, fluttering behind Booth. The Major, desperate to catch the assassin, lunged after him and grabbed at his coat, trailing after him as he was going over the railing. Rathbone closed his fingers on the cloth and felt the tug of the coat, but the man who had just shot the President of the United States continued over. Though Rathbone did not slow Booth down, he pulled him off balance. Booth landed awkwardly on the stage with all of his weight on his left leg. He heard a snap and felt a sharp pain shoot up from his ankle. His head whipped forward and the black slouch hat fell to the stage. He winced and paused, just so slightly, on all fours. Then he pushed himself upright. Instead of quickly moving to the rear of the stage and out through the wings, Booth angled towards the center of the stage walking awkwardly but with dramatic strides. The torn piece of the flag dragged behind him for a few steps and then came loose and lay on the floor of the stage. He watched Harry Hawk, the lone actor on the stage, back away from him with a fearful and confused look on his face. Once he was situated at center stage, Booth dramatically posed by raising the Bowie knife above his head and looking back over his shoulder at the audience.