American Brutus

by Michael W. Kauffman

  As Stanton dressed to leave, Major Norton Chipman, from the Bureau of Military Justice, came to check on him. Chipman had heard about the Seward attack, but not about the president’s shooting. He and Stanton talked over the situation and agreed that the ruckus in Ford’s Theatre was probably just a row among drunken soldiers. They ought to go straight to the secretary of state’s house.3

  When Secretary of War Edwin Stanton arrived at the Seward house, he stepped into a nightmare. A trail of blood ran from the third floor to the entrance foyer. Augustus Seward had been cut three times, twice all the way to the bone. Private Robinson was cut on the forehead and back. He could still move about, and insisted the others be treated first. Emrick Hansell, the State Department’s messenger, lay on the floor of the downstairs hallway. A massive wound, more than two and a half inches deep, ran down the length of his back. Frederick Seward remained on the hallway floor upstairs, with at least five fractures in his skull. In some places, the brain was exposed. His recovery was doubtful.

  In the secretary’s bedroom, Fanny Seward found what she thought was a bloody pile of bedclothes on the floor. On closer inspection, it proved to be her father, lying between the bed and the wall. He looked ghastly, with his face badly cut. His lower jaw, already broken in the carriage accident, hung loosely from the skull and made his mouth gape. Robinson checked for a pulse, then assured the distraught girl that her father was still alive. With help from the orderlies, he lifted the secretary back onto the bed. Seward, reviving slightly, gave his daughter a reassuring touch on the arm. “I am not dead,” he whispered. “Send for the police and surgeon, and close the house.”

  His face had been cut along the jawline for several inches on the left side. The second and third blows had glanced off the bone on the other side, and the cheek hung in a loose flap. A metal brace, designed to ease the effects of his recent injuries, had been nicked in several places. It had also shielded his jugular vein, saving the secretary’s life. Luckily, shock deadened the pain, and all Seward felt was the sensation of blood drops “slapping” him on the face.4

  Witnesses described the assailant as a mass of contradictions. He was a large, powerful man with the smooth, pink face of a boy. His hands were small, but possessed of superhuman strength. Crude in manners but elegantly attired, he had dark hair and blue eyes that glared with an unforgettable intensity.

  Three young soldiers had nearly caught him on his way out. Theodore Bailey, Samuel Lynn, and Martin Gorman were orderlies in the office of General Augur, which happened to be next door. Standing outside on a short break, they had noticed a horse hitched to the iron fence surrounding Lafayette Park, across the street. Nobody thought much about it, and they went back into the office. But a few minutes later, someone came running out of the Seward house screaming “Murder!” and that horse immediately came to mind. Running back outside, they saw the animal at the far end of the block. The rider was having trouble getting it to gallop. For a moment it looked as if they might actually overtake him, but they didn’t quite make it, as the man finally got his horse up to speed. When they last saw him, he was on H Street, cursing and flailing at his stubborn animal.5

  In the hour after the attack, Seward’s parlor filled with dignitaries inquiring about the secretary’s condition. Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles had arrived just ahead of Stanton and was trying to calm the servants, who were still frightened out of their wits. Stanton and Welles went upstairs together and found three doctors attending to the injured. The war secretary immediately cornered one of them and started peppering him with questions. Welles bristled at his insensitivity, and he was pleased when another doctor angrily told Stanton to do his questioning elsewhere.

  Welles asked Stanton if he had heard rumors of the president’s assassination. Stanton said yes, and in fact, he was going over to Ford’s now; perhaps they should go together. On their way down the stairs, they encountered General Montgomery C. Meigs, Quartermaster General of the Army, and invited Meigs to go with them. The general was horrified. He would go himself, certainly, but he didn’t think the secretary of war should go anywhere near Ford’s Theatre. His comments made Stanton hesitate, and suddenly Welles became the impatient one. “We’re wasting time,” he barked. General Meigs followed him out the door, with Chief Justice David K. Cartter of the newly created Supreme Court of the District of Columbia right behind. Stanton followed, but with some trepidation.

  The excitement had unnerved their carriage driver. All those injured people, and the blood—streaming down the walls and spattered across the woodwork—was beyond belief. Worst of all, the people who had done this were still at large. Nobody knew where they were, or how many more might still be lurking in the darkness, waiting to attack. Such thoughts had the poor carriage driver paralyzed with fear, and he just sat there, unable to move. Exasperated, Chief Justice Cartter let out a sigh, then shoved the man aside. He drove the carriage himself.6

  PRESIDENT LINCOLN HAD FINALLY REACHED the house across the street. The main floor was well above the sidewalk, and the soldiers had to carry him up ten steps just to reach the front door. Inside, a long hallway ran the length of the house, past a couple of rooms on the left and a staircase on the right. The rooms made up a double parlor, then occupied by George Francis and his wife, Huldah, who had already gone to bed. Their doors were locked. At the end of the hall was another room, fully furnished with a bureau, a couple of chairs, a washstand, and a dark walnut spool bed. It had been rented out to William T. Clark, a War Department employee, but Clark wasn’t home. For Dr. Leale, the decision was an easy one: Willie Clark was giving up his room for the night.

  There was just one problem. At six feet four, Abraham Lincoln was too tall for the bed. The doctors tried to take off the footboard, but it wouldn’t budge. The soldiers still holding the president were getting tired, so the doctors pulled the bed away from the wall, and the patient was laid diagonally across it. The room began to fill up as surgeons, officials, and the merely curious filed in. The deathwatch had begun.7

  A MILE TO THE NORTHWEST, Col. George Woodward and his friends continued to spread the alarm. In the last thirty minutes, they had sent an orderly to find General Augur; sounded the alarm at Martindale Barracks; notified General George W. Gile, in command of the city’s garrison troops; and alerted the Fire Brigade at Nineteenth and I streets. Through their efforts, hundreds of soldiers were awake and ready for duty. When the sound of “To horse!” cut through the humid night air, cavalry patrols were ready to mount up. They just didn’t know where to go.

  Seventy-two forts surrounded the city, and many were connected to a telegraph system. The first orders went out before midnight: close off the city.

  Head Quarters Department of Washington

  22nd Army Corps, April 14, 1865

  Lt. Paul Brodie

  Signal Corps

  Telegraph to all your stations that nobody is to be allowed to pass out of the lines this evening. Have them all arrested. Communicate this order to all officers Commd along the lines.

  By command of Major Genl Augur

  Capt. and AAG8

  RUMORS MADE A BAD SITUATION WORSE. According to one, the entire Cabinet had been killed, and the vice president as well. Abraham Lincoln was dead; prisoners had broken out of the Old Capitol; and General Grant, en route to New Jersey, had been slaughtered in his railroad car at Havre de Grace. Some of these stories were put down quickly, but others persisted for days, and many made it into the newspapers. They fed the paranoia of senior officials, who wondered if they too were to have been assassinated. Some were convinced of the danger. Secretary of the Interior John P. Usher reported that suspicious men had come to his door at about the time of the assassination. Attorney General James Speed had heard a man walking on his back porch at the same time. Another man, seen hiding near Stanton’s house, had run off into the night.

  Wild stories even spread through official channels. In an army camp across the Potomac, an orderly woke Private Richtmyer H
ubbell, 1st Wisconsin Heavy Artillery, with the news that Lincoln had been killed and an insurrection was under way. While Hubbell and his unit awaited orders, a second courier arrived with a “correction”: Mr. Lincoln had only been shot in the hand, but the vice president had been killed. Stories like these left the soldiers anxious and agitated, and it is a wonder that they controlled their anger as well as they did.9

  AT THE PETERSEN HOUSE, across from Ford’s, people began showing up in ever-growing numbers, pressing for a glimpse of their dying leader. Realizing how quickly things might get out of hand, Dr. Leale asked a captain to help him clear the bedroom. Then, when all but the doctors had left, they began a thorough examination of the patient. Leale carefully removed the president’s garments and tossed them, with the half-Wellington boots, off to the side. He was surprised to see what a remarkably strong physique Mr. Lincoln had. At fifty-six, he still had the chest and arms of an athlete. The doctors marveled at his muscular development, and one observer noted that if Lincoln were not possessed of such vital power, he would have died within ten minutes of being shot.

  The head wound was his only injury, but his circulation was poor and worsening. Leale ordered synapisms and bottles of hot water to stimulate circulation and warm his legs. A couple of Petersen’s boarders volunteered to get water from the kitchen. In the meantime, doctors covered the president with blankets and sent a hospital steward out for mustard plasters.10

  The signs were not encouraging. Lincoln’s left pupil was slightly dilated, while his right was contracted. His right eyelid was discolored, and the bruising had spread beyond the socket. The eye itself had begun to swell. The wound oozed constantly now, spreading a deep red stain over the pillowcase. A towel placed under the head would quickly be saturated as well. But as the doctors soon realized, bleeding was a positive sign. As long as it continued, the president’s condition remained stable. When the flow stopped, his vital signs weakened. The proper treatment, apparently, was to keep the wound free from blockage, and the only way to do that was to have someone hold the head up and away from the pillow. For now, Dr. Taft assumed that duty. In the meantime, more surgeons arrived at the house. They all agreed on the prognosis: the president would not survive the night. 11

  ANDREW JOHNSON, the vice president, had been living in the Kirkwood House, a hotel just a few blocks west of Ford’s Theatre, since his inauguration in early March. Everyone in town knew where he lived, and his room was easily accessible from the street. When news of the Seward attack reached Leonard J. Farwell at Ford’s Theatre, he thought of Johnson immediately. Farwell, a former governor of Wisconsin, also lived in the Kirkwood House, and he sometimes visited the vice president, a fellow former governor, in his first floor suite. He raced over and pounded on the door. “Governor Johnson,” he yelled, “if you are in the room, I must see you.” The vice president, who had already gone to bed, was slow to respond.

  Johnson wept at hearing the news. Farwell offered words of support, but there was no getting around the awesome responsibilities that were about to fall on Johnson’s shoulders. They talked about how to handle the emergency, and Farwell suggested they make security their first priority. He offered to check on the president’s condition and that of the Sewards. While the vice president locked himself in his room, Farwell arranged for a watchman to stand outside.12

  Back at the Petersen house, Governor Farwell found Washington’s provost marshal, Major James R. O’Beirne. Major O’Beirne wasn’t a criminal detective in the usual sense; his job was to track down deserters and enforce the draft laws. But when Farwell pointed out how vulnerable the vice president was, O’Beirne hastily arranged for his security. He went straight to the Kirkwood House, and sent for his chief of detectives, John Lee, to meet him there.

  Before working for the provost marshal, Lee had had no experience as a detective. He was a sign hanger by trade, but he had enlisted early in the war and found that military life agreed with him. At fifty, he was the oldest man on O’Beirne’s staff, and his good, practical sense put him in good stead with the major. He arrived at the Kirkwood House just after his boss, and immediately assessed the hotel’s security. It was a large place, and a recent addition had more than doubled its former size. Posting men on the ground level, Lee checked the building from top to bottom, eventually ending up in the bar.

  Michael Henry, the bartender, did not know John Lee personally, but he knew what his job was. He approached the detective and told him of a suspicious man—a grubby-looking German fellow—who had checked in Friday morning. He was a villainous-looking fellow, and Henry felt he didn’t belong in such an elegant hotel. Henry did not know the man’s name, but he suggested Lee talk to Lyman Sprague, the manager. At the hotel desk, Sprague took out the register and looked at the entries for April 14. Running his finger down the list, he tried to imagine which of the guests might be that suspicious man: “Wm. W. Snow . . . Thos. Clark . . . J. T. Hauser . . .” There it was. Near the bottom of the page, in a crude and spidery scrawl, was the German name they were looking for: G. A. Atzerodt, from Charles County, Maryland. He had paid for a full day in advance, and was assigned to Room 126, on the second floor.13

  Lee and his men nearly tripped over one another looking for the room. It was up the stairs and all the way to the back of the new section. The door was locked, and no one answered their knocks. Back at the desk, Mr. Sprague confirmed that Atzerodt had taken the room’s only key. Nonetheless, Lee took a full set of keys back and tried them all. When nothing worked, he forced the door open and his men rushed in. They found the room unoccupied.

  The first thing Lee noticed was a black coat hanging against the wall to the left of the door. He looked all around the room, then began a detailed search, checking under the rug, in and around the washstand, under the bureau, and in all the drawers. He even took the ashes out of the wood-stove, sifting through them carefully. Nothing suspicious. Moving to the bed, Lee took up the covers one by one, feeling the quilt to see if anything had been sewn inside it. He soon found something of interest. Under the pillow was a pistol, loaded and capped. A Bowie knife was under the sheets in the middle of the bed. John Lee headed back down to tell Major O’Beirne what they had found.

  O’Beirne had already left, so Lee made a list of the items. Some things were unremarkable: a piece of licorice, a toothbrush, a pair of gray socks, and a colored handkerchief, along with a mutilated copy of the Evening Star from April 11. But Lee also found three boxes of .44-caliber cartridges, and a pair of gauntlets. That coat on the wall turned out to be the best find of all. In its pockets were two handkerchiefs—marked “Mary A. H. Booth” and “F. M. Nelson”—and two small books. One was a copy of Perrine’s Map of the Southern States; the other, an account book from the Bank of Ontario. The account holder was John Wilkes Booth.14

  GEORGE COLTON MAYNARD, of the War Department’s telegraph office, was not supposed to transmit messages without orders. Though such orders had not come in, he still took the initiative in alerting his counterparts at the Washington Navy Yard. He told Henry H. Atwater, an operator there, that the president had been shot at Ford’s, and suggested he pass the news on to the commandant of the yard. Though Atwater found the news incredible, he knew that when something came over that line, it was to be taken seriously. He ran over to headquarters, arriving at the same time as the commandant. Commodore John B. Montgomery was skeptical at first. He had just come from uptown, and had heard nothing of it there. Atwater assured him the story was true; the shooting had occurred just a short while ago. Taking no chances, the commodore put his entire staff on full alert.15

  THE POLICE WERE INUNDATED with eyewitnesses. Lyman Bunnell, who had been sitting in the dress circle, told officers about three suspicious men who had taken seats near the president’s box. They had all disappeared when the shot rang out. William Somersett Burch, an inventor who lived around the corner from Ford’s, told police he had heard a strange, shrill whistle in the alley behind the theater. That had been just be
fore the shooting. John B. Pettit had heard the whistle too. Pettit had been reading a book in his room on F Street. His window was open, and he had heard low whistles, like signals, coming from a vacant lot near the theater. The last was loud, and it came just before the commotion started. There were other suspicious circumstances. A. Q. Stebbins saw a horse on F Street, hitched and waiting next to the alley. It looked out of place there, and he didn’t see it when he looked again after the assassination. Taken together, these details painted a disquieting picture of a neighborhood inhabited by conspirators.16

  What of Booth’s own neighborhood? Not long into the investigation, A. C. Richards began to wonder if the assassin had planned to hide among his hometown friends. It was common knowledge that Booth was from Baltimore, but the police did not have a telegraph system with which to alert anyone there. Superintendent Richards ran over to the American Line telegraph office, where he sent a message to Maryland authorities letting them know that Lincoln’s attacker might be heading their way.17

  William Heiss had been thinking of the Baltimore connection in a different way. Manager of another telegraph service, the People’s Line, Heiss controlled a commercial wire that led directly to Booth’s hometown. His brother, Courtland V. Hess, was in the Ford’s Theatre stock company, so Heiss already knew something of the Booths and their Maryland roots. He was less concerned with the assassin’s escape, though, than with the violence that might still be in store. If this were indeed the opening spark of a general uprising, news of the shooting in Ford’s would undoubtedly be the signal to set it all in motion. Heiss was determined not to let his own company help the conspirators. So he shorted out his line, making it unusable until he or someone else reestablished the proper connections.18