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

by Berry, John C.

  Stanton returned to his makeshift office and sat down to write another telegram to Major General Dix in New York City. It was now about three o’clock in the morning and he wanted to update the General and the nation on where things stood. Surgeon General Barnes had checked on Seward prior to coming to be with Lincoln and had shared the updated prognosis with Stanton. Stanton now had a much better idea of what had happened that night and who was suspected. His body had sagged when he sat down in the chair with the worries of the day. He was nearly overwhelmed with the thought of what lay before him. ‘And how would Andrew Johnson behave as President? How can that man assume the same office as Abraham Lincoln?’ He wondered to himself.

  Stanton shook his head to clear away these thoughts, dipped his pen into the inkwell, and began to write another message to be telegrammed to General Dix in New York City. The sights and sounds of this night filled his mind in the dark hours of the morning and Stanton’s energy was flagging.

  Major-General Dix,

  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 from 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.

  But of course, it wasn’t Booth’s horse that had been discovered. It was the horse that Lewis Powell had ridden and that had thrown him in the countryside of Maryland. Powell had roamed around the cemetery for almost an hour. Finally, he sat on the ground and leaned against a crypt. He held the pickaxe across his lap, like a child holds her doll. He regretted throwing his blood-stained coat into the woods now, because it was cold. Rain was also beginning to fall, but Powell was tired. He was suddenly so tired that his bones ached. He tried to tilt his head back, but the rain falling on his face kept him awake. He stood up and walked over to a large oak tree that had just begun leafing out. He curled up beneath the tree and found the rain didn’t fall quite so hard on him here. He pressed his eyes closed and saw flashes of the wide eyes of Fanny Seward looking at him through the halflight. He heard her hoarse screams and the odd sound that the knife made as it sunk into the man’s back as his departing act. Powell drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep. Next, his sleep was disturbed by the flashing eyes of William Seward looking up at him from the bed and the sensation of the hot blood spurting from his cheek and onto Powell’s hand. He could hear himself saying, “I am mad” and didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d gone mad. He still might be mad. ‘It was my duty,’ he thought. ‘But what a horrible duty.’ He pressed his eyes closed again and again he saw Fanny Seward’s eyes searching for him through the darkness, accusing him of murdering her father.

  More than twenty miles from Washington City, John Wilkes Booth and David Herold were now on the road that ran from Bryantown. The rain that was falling in Washington City and the cemetery where Powell slept uneasily was not falling in Southern Maryland, but Booth could feel the damp cold seeping into his bones. The leg, long ago broken, continued to send waves of pain up his leg and into the base of his spine. The cantering horse jangled and jostled the leg as it hung out of the stirrup. As painful as that was, it was far better than trying to keep it in the stirrup. Booth had tried that and found the pain unbearable. When the pain became especially bad, the sweat would break out across his face, down his back, coating him in a light and wet sheen, deepening the chill.

  They were en route to a doctor’s house, but not only because Booth needed his leg to be set and splinted. They were heading to a specific doctor whom Booth knew and had spent time with just a few months before. This doctor, Samuel Mudd, was a part of the network of Confederate sympathizers in southern Maryland. He was a true believer in the southern cause and a supporter of the plot to kidnap the President. Mudd had agreed that Booth could stop by his house on his way to Virginia with the captive President. But surely the doctor would have assumed by now that the plot had long ago been abandoned, especially since Richmond had fallen and Lee had surrendered the Army of Virginia. Booth would have to make his moves with Mudd carefully, like a dancer moving his debutant gracefully across the dance floor. Booth thought to himself, ‘What will you do, Doctor Mudd, if you discover that I have killed the President of the United States?’

  Deathwatch

  The crowd of concerned citizens continued to throng outside of Petersen’s boardinghouse. The rain was falling fairly steadily and it was now four o’clock in the morning. It was a cold rain that chilled the bones. But that didn’t stop the crowds from waiting in the deepening mud of the street. They watched the door and waited for word on the condition of the President. Many of the onlookers were former slaves. Many had always been free Negroes. But because of the war that Abraham Lincoln had fought on their behalf, their freedom had come to mean something more. They felt they had a right to that freedom. Their liberty had come to be truer and more honest because of the horrible war. And the man who was inside that house had been the one to fight and win the war that made liberty sweeter and cleaner, as if the blood of all those boys had somehow washed the stains of the country clean. So they stood and they waited to see if the man who had done so much would be walking out of that house or if he’d be carried out in a wooden box. They hoped, they prayed, and they sang spirituals—all in the hope that he’d be walking out. He just had to be walking out. Because if he didn’t walk out of that house, then sweet liberty would have a very bitter aftertaste.

  Inside the house, Mary Lincoln had made her once-an-hour visit to the bedside of her husband. Mrs. Dixon helped her stand to her feet and walk slowly and patiently to the door. Once in the hallway, Mrs. Dixon would walk down the narrow hallway in front of Mary Lincoln, because there was no way for them to walk side-by-side. At the doorway to the room, Mrs. Dixon would very quietly clear her throat and then turn for Mrs. Lincoln, who would slowly walk in. At the sound of Mrs. Dixon’s cough, the doctor or Secretary or whomever else was sitting in the chair that had been turned to face the President would rise and give the seat to Mrs. Lincoln. Invariably, Edwin Stanton took this as his cue to leave the room, if he was indeed there when the First Lady arrived. The Secretary of War didn’t leave because he disliked Mary Lincoln, though indeed he disliked her to an extraordinary degree. He left out of deference to her. He knew that there was every likelihood that she would break into tears and lamentations. Stanton felt her outbreaks were undignified and diminished the stature of the man whom she mourned. So rather than being in the position of asking her to be removed again from her own husband’s bedside, Edwin Stanton removed himself. As he walked from the room, he heard her sobs begin once again. She continued to ask the same questions that they all would like to have answered: “Why did this happen? Why him and not me? Why? Why?”

  Stanton had turned the responsibility of guarding the city over to General Grant. The commanding general of the United States Army was en route back to Washington City from Philadelphia. Grant and his wife had arrived in Philadelphia by train and were driving across town to the wharf, where they would board a ferry to get to Burlington, New Jersey. But Grant hadn’t had a good meal since breakfast and he had arranged ahead of time to stop at Bloodgood’s Hotel near the ferry for a late supper. As he and Julia Grant took their seats, a soldier came in on crutches and handed Grant a dispatch. He read it quietly and dropped his head. He took up the paper and read it again and laid the paper on the table. As he was looking up to his wife, another soldier came in with a second dispatch. Grant took it and read
it slowly and then sat there mute, with the paper in his hand shaking just the slightest bit. Julia stared at her husband from across the table, fear mounting in her chest that the children were hurt or that the war had broken out again. Before she could ask what was the matter another telegram was delivered and the General read that one in silence as well. They were the only ones in the restaurant and she heard the dishes being moved around as the food was being served onto plates back in the kitchen.

  “Ulysses, what is the matter? Has something happened? What do the telegrams say? What is the news?” He looked up at her and held her eyes with his own. She could see the pain there and knew it wasn’t good news at all.

  “I will read them to you, Julia. But first you must prepare yourself for the most painful and startling news that we could receive. And don’t say a word to the servants about it.” He took up the first dispatch that had arrived and read in a hushed and pained voice. He stopped at the ends of sentences. At commas, he took a deep breath that wasn’t needed for his words, but to calm the emotion that gathered in his chest.

  Lieutenant General U. S. Grant, on the night train to Burlington. The President was assassinated at Ford’s Theatre at 10 30 tonight & cannot live. The wound is a Pistol shot through the head. Secretary Seward & his son Frederick, were also assassinated at their residence & are in dangerous condition. The Secretary of War desires that you return to Washington immediately. Please answer on receipt of this. Thomas Eckert.

  Grant looked up at his wife. Tears were already spilling over her eyelids. “The other telegrams asked that I use all caution to ensure my safety. One was from Assistant Secretary Dana who suggested that I return by special train and have a second engine go before my train to ensure the tracks are cleared. What a business this is.” Grant immediately began sending orders to have a special train and a second engine to be brought to the Philadelphia station. When he found that it would be a couple of hours before the preparations could be finished, he went ahead and took his wife to their children in Burlington by way of the ferry and then returned to take the train back to Washington alone. On the way, he had orders sent out from the stations each time they stopped to apprise Edwin Stanton of his progress in returning to Washington City. Grant also sent orders at the station stops on how to secure the city and southern Maryland.

  With Grant assuming responsibility for the defense of Washington, Stanton turned his mind to policy and succession. He asked one of his attendants to bring Joshua Speed, the Attorney General, from the President’s room. Speed had only been a member of Lincoln’s Cabinet the past few months, at about the same time that Salmon Chase became the Chief Justice of the United States of America.

  “Mr. Speed, the doctors say the wound is mortal. We know that the President will not survive this day, if we face the painful truth.” He paused to judge the reaction of the Attorney General.

  “I am surprised that he has lived as long as he has with that damned bullet in his brain, Stanton. I will be surprised if he is alive at noon today. But I’m not a doctor. Now I don’t suppose you wanted me to come here to talk about how long the President is going to live. What is it, man?” Stanton liked that Speed was so forthright.

  “I believe that the Constitution is clear that the Vice President shall become President in the event of a President’s death in office. If I recall correctly, the wording is something like ‘the duties of the President shall devolve on the Vice President.’ Do you agree with my interpretation?” Stanton, who had been a nationally known trial lawyer, arguing cases before the Supreme Court, looked over to Joshua Speed. Speed crossed his legs on the couch and closed his eyes and pursed his lips. The question was of great importance. The nation was in shock and the job of ensuring that the government move forward was now up to the men of the Cabinet. Stanton was laying out a path forward and attempting to reach clarity.

  “Yes, Edwin. I believe those are the exact words in fact. The powers and duties of the said office shall devolve upon the Vice President.” He said this last sentence quietly and more to himself, but he was reciting the words from the first section of Article II in the Constitution that described the responsibilities of the Executive Branch of government. “There is also the precedent of Tyler when Harrison died. He became the President.”

  “Just so and just as I saw it. Now, Joshua, I don’t know that many of the heads of Department believe that Johnson is the best man to become President at this time and place, if we speak honestly or from our heart. But the fact is that he is the Vice President of the United States and the Constitution declares that when a President dies in office, then the duties of the President devolve upon the Vice President. It is important that the Cabinet be of one voice in this matter.” The Attorney General nodded in agreement, waiting on whatever the request was that he knew was coming from the Secretary of War.

  “I’d like you to write a letter from the Cabinet to the Vice President stating the duties of the office of the President have devolved upon him. We will send it to him when President Lincoln dies. You sign the letter and bring it to me and I will sign the letter. Then, we will gather the signatures of the Cabinet members here tonight at the appropriate time. We must be ready to act with swift decisiveness when the inevitable comes.” Stanton stopped talking and looked at Joshua Speed.

  The Attorney General did not hesitate because he agreed it was the right thing to do to demonstrate solidarity and support for the man who was to become President of the United States. “I will do it. Let me get to writing.” Stanton stood up and motioned to the small desk at which he had been writing his telegrams and orders throughout the night. He left the room and returned to stand by the bed of Abraham Lincoln. The room was quiet and there were maybe thirteen or fourteen people now crowded around the bed. There were two or three who had slipped into the small space between the bed and the wall. They would look down, staring at Lincoln’s face. To them it seemed like the mask of an actor on stage. One side was serene and composed like a man in an easeful slumber. The other was bruised and swollen to the point of not recognizing it as the face of Abraham Lincoln. His breathing continued to be regular and periodically it was stertorous and painful to even hear. The doctors kept the head wound free of coagula to reduce the swelling of his brain, and they continuously checked his pulse. The heart beat weakly, but it beat. And the great man continued to live on.

  Wilkes Booth and David Herold had stopped talking to one another hours before. They had driven their horses hard through out the night. They had turned their horses off of the road that runs from Bryantown and were about a quarter mile off the road. It was after four in the morning. The gray light of dawn would be coming soon. Booth wanted to get his leg fixed, and he wanted to get them off the roads until night fell again. He directed them up a small dirt lane that ended at a farm. They slowly rode their horses up to the farmhouse. It was two stories high with paned windows above and below. The two chimneys had thin trails of gray smoke coming from them, as the fires that burned when the family went to sleep now smoldered and barely produced any heat.

  “Knock on the door, Davey,” Booth instructed. “It’s the home of a doctor who’ll help us.”

  Herold slipped from his horse and tied it to a tree. Booth stayed on his horse, too injured to get off unless he was planning to stay off the horse. Herold walked slowly, trying to work out the saddle sores, up to the front door and knocked. He had to rap on the door three or four times before they heard somebody moving in the house. Once Herold detected that someone was coming to the door, he walked back and stood next to Booth and his horse.

  The door opened slowly and a man in his nightshirt stood in the doorway holding a candle. “Who is there? Who comes to my house so late at night?” He held his candle up trying to see who was there.

  “My friend here was thrown from his horse and done broke his leg. We need your help,” Herold called to the doctor.

  “What are you doing on the road so late?” Doctor Mudd was clearly concerned that t
he two were robbers or worse. He couldn’t see who the men were through the gloom of the night.

  “We’re headin’ to see friends in Dent’s Meadow,” Herold called back. “Ain’t you a doctor? Ain’t you gonna help him?”

  “I’ll pay you,” Booth spoke for the first time.

  The doctor set his candle on the floor inside his house and slowly walked from his house towards the two men. He was cautious. The breeze billowed his night shirt and sent chills up his back. He strained to see the face of the two men. He had no idea who the man standing was, but there was something that seemed familiar in the voice of the man on the horse.

  “Are you in pain?” He asked, hoping to hear the voice again.

  “Great pain. Do you have some whiskey to dull the pain?” The voice was familiar! Doctor Mudd looked up at the man sitting on the horse and reached up to help him down. As the man leaned forward to him, Mudd recognized the face of John Wilkes Booth. He breathed a sigh of relief and helped him into the house. Booth sat back on the couch, wincing in pain. “I am sure that it is broken,” Booth said with a hoarse voice. Dr. Mudd gingerly lifted Booth’s left leg. He realized that the leg was so swollen he’d have to cut the boot away. He told Booth what he needed to do and stood up. Mudd wasn’t much taller than Booth. He was bald on the top of his head and sported a thick mustache and goatee that he wore long. The doctor’s face was smooth and pale. His brown eyes were set a little too close together giving him the look of a rodent.