“Mrs. Lincoln, his wound is mortal. It is impossible for him to recover,” he gently but firmly said to her. He had delivered similar news to officers’ wives and parents hundreds of times at the Army Hospital. But this news was different and Leale felt his own chest tighten beneath his suit coat. Mrs. Lincoln looked up at him and paused, blinking her teary eyes. Her eyes were oddly vacant for a moment and then they became clear and fixed as she understood the news that was just delivered to her.
“No, no, no, no,” she moaned and turned to cling to Clara Harris. As she did so, she looked down and saw that Miss Harris’ dress was splashed with blood from when Major Rathbone had been cut so deeply by Booth. She screamed out at the sight of the blood, thinking it her husband’s and pushed poor Clara Harris away. “No! It cannot be! Why him? Why did they not shoot me? Why him? Save him doctor, you must save my husband.” She then collapsed onto his shoulder. Leale allowed her but a moment before he said that he couldn’t sit there, but must return to her husband if he was to help him at all.
Behind him, the word was spreading from the vestibule out into the dressing circle and the entire theater that the President of the United States would die from the gunshot wound. Finally, the man came back with the brandy and Dr. Leale took it and gingerly tipped the bottle into Lincoln’s mouth. The brandy was taken and retained and this pleased Leale. He gently rearranged the cut shirt and coat so they covered his bare chest and stomach so that the President had as much dignity as possible. The white handkerchief was turning red and pink from the oozing wound in the back of his head. Lincoln’s breath came irregularly and his chest lifted slowly and slightly under the labor. His eyes remained closed. If Leale just looked at his face, ignoring the bloody handkerchief and ripped shirt, he almost appeared to be sleeping.
On the stage below, Dr. Charles Taft, a surgeon at the Army’s Signal Camp of Instruction at Georgetown, was climbing to the stage, trying to gain access to provide aid to the wounded Commander in Chief. Once onto the stage, he was lifted up to the railing of the President’s Box where he struggled to grasp and then climb over the railing to see if he could be of assistance. When he climbed into the box, he saw Charles Leale leaning over Lincoln, lifting the eyelids to check his pupils. Lincoln’s right eye was fully dilated and beginning to distend. The brain trauma was worsening and Leale’s prognosis was confirmed in his own mind. Leale stood up and bumped into Dr. Taft.
“I am a surgeon, young man, and can take care of things now,” Taft said and began to push past Leale to bend over the prostrate President.
“Sir, I am Dr. Charles Leale of the United States Army General Hospital at Armory Square. Mrs. Lincoln has put the President into my charge. I am afraid that he has been shot in the back of the head and the wound is mortal.” Dr. Taft ran his eyes over the young man before him and took in the news of the prognosis. Taft was bound to allow Leale to continue as the doctor in charge of the executive patient, though he was the senior physician, because Mrs. Lincoln had placed him in charge of her husband. They conferred with one another and Taft could find no fault with the steps that the young Dr. Leale had taken to preserve the President’s life. While they were standing there conferring, another man pushed his way through the crowd and stepped into the box.
“I am a doctor, may I be of assistance?” The man was Dr. Albert F. A. King, a Washington doctor who had been sitting in the dress circle. It had taken him all this time to work his way through the crowd and convince the officer standing at the entrance to the box to grant him entrance.
“I believe that we should move the President out of this box and to a place that is more suitable for him,” Leale said glancing from Taft to King.
“The Executive Mansion is a short ride away from here,” King answered.
“No. The ride over the cobble stones on Pennsylvania Avenue will certainly kill him,” Leale pronounced.
“There is a saloon next door. We could lay him on the bar,” a man in the vestibule called out.
“The President of the United States cannot die in a saloon!” Leale refused. As they talked about their options, Laura Keene, the starring actress of Our American Cousin appeared in the box carrying a basin of water. Leale barely noticed her, but she approached him holding the water out. He realized the woman was wearing very heavy make-up and only then recognized her as Laura Keene, the leading actress in the play.
“Miss Keene, why thank you for bringing the water.” Leale took it from her and set it on the floor next to President Lincoln’s shoulder. She looked down at him and shook her head.
“He looks peaceful,” she whispered.
“Yes, but it is a mortal slumber, I am afraid,” Leale responded to her.
“Doctor, may I hold his head in my lap? I don’t think that his head should be on the hard floor, even if a handkerchief is beneath it.” She looked at Leale with beseeching eyes.
“Yes, Miss Keane, of course. If you will do it very gently.” Laura Keene, with all eyes in the box on her, except Mrs. Lincoln who had buried her face in her own hands, knelt down and took Abraham Lincoln’s head into her hands,placing it onto her bright yellow dress. She bent over him, staring down at the still face. She noticed that his right eye was beginning to turn purple and was swelling.
“We must move him now while he has the strength to withstand the transportation,” Leale repeated to Dr. Taft.
“You know, I believe there are boarding houses across F Street,” Dr. Taft suddenly said.
“Then we shall move him there,” Leale announced.
“Use this,” Major Rathbone called from across the box. He had his hand on one of the small sections of wall that had been removed to convert the two smaller boxes into the one Presidential Box. “This will serve as a litter so that you can more easily carry him.”
“Drs. Taft and King, please take a shoulder. I shall take the President’s head. You men, come and help us with that board and then help to carry him. They gently lifted the President onto the piece of wall. The two doctors held the President’s shoulders to make sure he remained secure on the piece of board. Four men, two on each side, held the board. An eighth man held the foot of the board. Leale led the way out of the box, gently holding the President’s head.
“Captain, clear a path for us!” Leale ordered, and the officer who had been standing at the entrance to the box drew his dress sword and called out to clear a path so that the President could be taken outside. As the men carrying the President of the United States emerged from the box, the milling about in the theater came to a halt. All heads turned to watch as the President was carried from the theater. Lincoln’s clothes had moved during the transfer to the litter. Now his shirt hung open where it had been cut away and his pale arm and chest lay exposed for all to see. His face was a chalky gray and looked like a death mask. Many stepped closer to see him better, but not a word was spoken as the dying man was carried around the back of the dressing circle, retracing the triumphant path he had made in his grand entrance just a couple of hours before. As they approached the stairs, Leale called out to have Lincoln’s feet brought around so that they would descend the stairs feet first. As they made their way slowly down the stairs and into the lobby, the party bearing the body of the President found that the doorway was completely jammed with people standing outside the theater and in the street. The captain turned and looked back to Leale.
“Surgeon, give me your commands and I will see that they are obeyed.”
“Captain, you must clear them away!” Leale repeated. “Clear a way to one of the houses across the street.” The Captain again took his sword and held it up and called out to clear a way for the President of the United States. He never once had to actually push or shove anyone. The crowd calmly and quietly stepped back and opened an avenue for them to carry the body of their fallen President. As they stepped onto the street, Leale called a halt and took the time to remove the clot from the head wound again. The men calmly stood there and waited for the surgeon to gently probe
the wound with his finger to pull the coagulant away. Once he did this, the blood and fluids oozed freely once again and reduced the mounting pressure on Lincoln’s brain.
“I have relieved the pressure,” he announced. The other doctors nodded and they proceeded to carry Lincoln again. They moved slowly in order to reduce the jostling to the injured man and because the crowds would tarry in moving aside to capture a glimpse of the President in the darkness. His gray face was evident. As they got to the other side of the street, Leale halted the group once more and released the clot from the back of Lincoln’s head. As they stood in the street, a soldier pushed through the crowd and reported to the Captain that the house directly opposite was closed.
“Well open it then, damn it!” The Captain cursed at the soldier. Before the soldier could move to enact the Captain’s orders, they heard a man’s voice calling over the crowd.
“Over here! Bring him over here!” Leale looked up and saw a man standing on the elevated stoop of a house diagonally across from where they stood, waving a candle and beckoning them over.
“There, gentlemen. We will take the President there.” Leale motioned with his head and the group started off again, carefully carrying their precious cargo. When they reached the steps leading up to 453 Tenth Street, Leale called for the President’s feet to be swung back around so that they carried President Lincoln up the steps headfirst. It was a struggle getting him through the door with the board beneath him, but they made it. Once inside, the man who had beckoned them, walked them down a hall, past a hat rack and a staircase, and down a narrow hallway to a small room in the rear of the house. Leale, still holding Lincoln’s head, took in the small room.
“We must lay him on the bed, but do it carefully and slowly so that his head does not turn to one side or the other. Several men grasped Lincoln’s body and gently laid him onto the bed. Leale continuously held Lincoln’s head still, keeping his eyes trained on Lincoln’s face studying him for any signs of distress. Once Lincoln was situated, the doctor looked up and realized that the President’s knees were thrusting into the air because he was too tall for the bed. “He cannot remain in that position. You must take the footboard off so that we can extend his legs fully.”
Several men tried to take the footboard off, but realizing it was all one piece, Leale instead ordered that the President be rearranged on the bed diagonally so that his feet could hang off the corner. He propped Lincoln’s head and shoulders up on a large pillow and took a seat next to his head.
Major Rathbone had stayed back to make sure that Mrs. Lincoln was cared for. His fiancé, Clara Harris, had held Mrs. Lincoln’s arm as they walked behind the men who carried her husband’s prone body from the theater box. But in the dressing circle, the lights from the stage provided better illumination and Mrs. Lincoln looked in horror again at the blood spattered and streaked across Miss Harris’ face. She screamed out and stepped away from her.
“You have my husband’s blood on you! Keep away from me!” She broke into a paroxysm of screams and sobs, collapsing to the ground. Miss Harris turned to Major Rathbone with a beseeching look on her bloodied face and he stepped over and helped Mrs. Lincoln to her feet. The First Lady mumbled about the loss and the pain and that she should have been the one to die. Her words were barely a murmur, but Rathbone could hear her. He reached out with his right hand and made sure to keep his right side to Mrs. Lincoln so that she could not see the blood leaking from his stab wound and so he would not bleed on her dress. Both he and Clara Harris realized that the blood on her face and dress was his own, but it was not worth the effort to explain that to the tormented First Lady.
As he slowly walked her down the stairs, he steadied himself on the banister with his bad arm, sending shockwaves of pain through his body, leaving bloody handprints on the rail and wall. Rathbone played over and again in his mind the vision of the man in the black suit leaping over the railing of the box, his fingers catching, ever so briefly, on the tail of his coat. And then the sensation of the hard pull and his fingers coming up empty. Just a second, just a fraction of a second and he would have held the coat firmly and stopped him. But he had gotten away and now the President was being carried out of the theater. And then, there it was again, that odd sensation. A hard pull and his fingers coming up empty. He looked down at his right hand again. Still empty.
Behind him, Laura Keene slowly walked out of the box dazed and quiet while the President, and the party following him, disappeared down the broad winding stairs to the lobby below.
“Miss Keene, will the President live?” Several people standing still in the moments after the President was carried from the theater asked her. Her bright yellow dress was now stained with the President’s blood where she had cradled his head in her lap. Her face and hair were streaked as well with the President’s blood from where she had pushed the hair back behind her ear.
“God only knows,” she responded.
Escape Beneath a Bone-white Moon
Wilkes Booth’s horse pounded her hooves down F Street. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that no one was in pursuit. He rode east down F Street as hard and as fast as he could. Booth knew that he would not have much time to get out of the city before all of the defenses of Washington City were on alert bringing thousands of troops onto the city streets and sealing off all bridges and roads to southern Maryland. But his brilliant plan had come off! He had easily entered the theater, shot the tyrant where he sat and exited from the theater virtually unmolested. Just as Brutus had killed Caesar and delivered Rome, Booth had killed Lincoln and delivered the Confederacy. The damned Major had gotten in the way and caused him to hurt his leg. Booth was convinced that it was broken. Whenever he had to use it to urge the horse on or move her to the right by pressing his left leg firmly in her flank, it sent jolts of pain up into his spine. But Booth rode on because he had to get free of the city. The moon was rising above the city and it afforded Booth the light he needed. The hooves of his horse pounded dully on the packed dirt of F Street.
At the time Booth turned his horse right, heading south down New Jersey Avenue, Dr. Charles Leale was waiting impatiently for Major Rathbone to free the wedge from the door to the Presidential Box. Booth gulped in the cool air of the early spring night and felt the wind cooling the perspiration on his head. He continued to urge the horse on, not allowing her to slow her canter, until he arrived at the grounds of The Capitol. There he allowed her to slow to a walk. The horse was beginning to lather from the hard ride, but she still had most of their journey to go. He had to cross the river at the Navy Yard Bridge as his first big step towards freedom from Washington. From there he would head down to Bryantown, some 30 miles south.
The gardens behind the Capitol Building were mostly deserted. Booth passed one or two men walking through on their way home. Booth simply focused on navigating his way to Pennsylvania Avenue. There, Booth sunk his spurs into the horse once again and sent her bolting down the cobblestone street. The metal shoes of the mare clattered loudly in the quiet of the night. The man in black moved like a shadow through the gas lamps flickering along his route.
At Eleventh Street, Booth turned the horse directly south, and was soon approaching the bridge that stretched across the Eastern Branch, into southern Maryland. Booth knew that if he could get across the low wooden bridge, he’d be in Uniontown, but more importantly he’d be into southern Maryland and the farther south he traveled, the deeper he was into the hotbed of Confederate sympathizers.
Booth slowed his horse down to a trot and then to a walk as he came to the bridge. The guardhouse was a small white clapboard house with a picket fence, missing many of its boards, like an old man’s smile. Booth took a breath, attempting to slow his racing heart. He was sweating as much as his horse. His left leg throbbed miserably as if it was pounding against the side of the boot like a mallet against a drumhead. But he put his winning smile onto his face. A Union soldier walked out from the shadows of the house and held his hand to halt
Booth. He held a pistol in his hand. It was almost 11:00 on Good Friday night, moments before Edwin Stanton and Gideon Welles would arrive at the Seward’s home and survey the carnage caused by young Lewis Powell.
“Where are you going?” He asked the lone rider. Before Booth could answer him a soldier of higher rank walked out of the house and called out to him, “Who are you, sir?” Wilkes could see that this man was a Sergeant.
“My name is Booth,” he answered and flashed a grin. He immediately cursed himself for using his real name, but continued to smile nonetheless. The mare refused to stand still and stepped back and forth, still worked up from the gallop through the city.
“Where are you coming from?” The Sergeant asked. His name was Silas Cobb. He had been on duty since sunset and was scheduled to stay on duty until 1:00 AM the next morning. The rules were that no one was supposed to pass out of Washington City this late at night, but Sergeant Cobb was a genial man who was especially full of good humor since the fall of Richmond and the surrender of Robert E. Lee in the past days.
A Night of Horrors: A Historical Thriller about the 24 Hours of Lincoln's Assassination Page 22
