The president did not take all the blame for this. There was a strong and lingering perception that William H. Seward was actually running the government—an impression he sometimes cultivated. Seward had taken the lead in implementing the war measures, and he was said to have relished his newfound power. “My Lord,” he supposedly told a British diplomat, “I can touch a bell on my right hand, and order the arrest of a citizen of Ohio; I can touch a bell again, and order the imprisonment of a citizen of New York; and no power on earth, except that of the President, can release them. Can the Queen of England do so much?”The secretary showed little compassion, and sometimes he even ordered extra prison time for anyone who tried to engage the services of a lawyer. President Lincoln almost always deferred to Seward’s judgment.18
The arrests stiffened resistance to the administration’s war effort, and when Lincoln sent out his first call for volunteers, Maryland refused to provide any. Instead, hundreds of men fled to Harpers Ferry, where they enlisted in Virginia regiments. Over time, the opposition at home moved underground. From Baltimore to the southern counties, subversive networks began to form among farmers and ordinary citizens. Confederate couriers would find a safe haven among them, and would come to depend on their help in running people, mail, and supplies across the Potomac to Virginia. Without these associations, Booth’s conspiracy would never have been feasible.19
Whether John Wilkes Booth took part in the events of 1861 is a matter of dispute. Later reports had him burning bridges, tearing up railroad tracks, and being arrested in the Pratt Street riot. But Booth himself claimed only to have been present when the 6th Massachusetts was attacked. In all likelihood, even that was an exaggeration. He was far too busy building his career to involve himself in the affairs of his home state. 20
Maryland was a place of divided loyalties, where the phrase “brother against brother” was often literally true. Long after the war, an old veteran from Baltimore reflected on his own divided family, and on what had become of the boys in his neighborhood. Though most had leaned toward the South, not all had served her cause. In all, he wrote, eighteen of his friends had joined the Confederate forces, and a few others tried to do so. Three had joined the U.S. Navy, and two went into the Union army. The Booth brothers, who grew up with all these people, were among the few who never served. 21
Though Booth may have wanted to get involved, he dared not do so openly. Too many of his relatives favored the North, and if John Wilkes had “gone South,” as he might have wished, the family would have split in two, perhaps for good. He had promised his mother he would never let that happen. The vow of neutrality put Booth in limbo for the duration. He would not leave the country, as Edwin and Joseph did, nor would he enlist. And it was not likely that conscription would affect him one way or another. The draft was easily avoided, especially by a man on the move. It was managed at the state level, and since Booth had not lived in his home state for years, the provost marshal there would have no cause to put him on the enrollment list. Officially, he was a resident of Philadelphia, but he wasn’t there much either, and no enrolling officer had the time, resources, or authority to track him down elsewhere. Thus, if all else failed, he could avoid the threat indefinitely merely by staying on the road.22
But staying out of the war did not keep Booth out of danger. During a return engagement in Albany, he was joined by Henrietta Irving, a pretty actress who had recently been cast opposite him in Rochester. Henrietta was infatuated with Booth, and for a while her affections were returned in kind. But on the night of April 26, they had a falling-out. Angry words passed between them, and Henrietta flew into a rage. She came at Booth with a knife, jabbing it straight at him. He parried the blow upward, and the blade glanced off his cheek, inflicting a bloody wound. Henrietta stormed out sobbing and a short time later was found to have stabbed herself. Both she and Booth recovered, but the incident made John Wilkes Booth appear jinxed. Only halfway into his first season as a star, he had been seriously wounded three times.23
Once, after seeing his brother act in Richmond, Edwin Booth wrote, “I don’t think he will startle the world.” But three years later, John Wilkes was doing just that. Houses were full, and critics gushed. He had achieved the highest level of stardom in record time. His acting was fresh and original, with an expressiveness many critics found hard to describe. A Buffalo review said, “We do not flatter him when we say he has extraordinary physiognomical power, almost electrical feeling and weird and startling elocutionary effects.” He had a “trained power of intellect,” and seemed to fit every movement, expression, or gesture perfectly to the part. Most of all, he had intensity, which one critic called “the lightning of the soul. . . . [It] cannot be taught to the mind.” Booth seemed not to play a part, but to become it.24
The key to his success, undoubtedly, was his originality. There was something mysterious in the way he moved. After seeing him in The Lady of Lyons, a Boston critic said, “When he moves, he does so with that aptness of motion, which forbids the observer to define it; he was there, he is here—he was seen to pass—but how he went, with what step upon the stage, or if borne through the air, can scarcely be told. . . . He has a physique . . . which is equal to any demands which he need make upon it.” The physique, in fact, was an important factor in his acting style. Matt Canning said, “He was the most remarkable actor we probably had on the stage for hardiness, endurance, and strength. We sometimes called him the cast-iron man. . . .” He restaged battle scenes to give them more energy, and he loved to add dramatic leaps—sometimes from twelve feet above the stage—for a startling effect when he entered a scene.25
The critical praise was overwhelming, but it was not unanimous. A review in Chicago called his performance “scarcely worthy of toleration,” and “somewhat below the median standard.” A Washington critic called him “little more than a second-rate actor.” But negative reviews were rare, and often contradicted. One, for example, said he “needs the development of arduous study,” while at the same time, another review insisted that “deep study has made him conversant with all he has undertaken.” One paper reported that Booth lacked grace and dignity, while another said that, in general, Booth had grace and dignity in abundance, but was too young to play some of his chosen roles. Whatever their observations, all agreed on one thing: few actors had ever risen to prominence with such éclat. His achievement was stunning.26
His onstage passion was sometimes too real, and injuries resulted. Actor E. L. Tilton once broke his arm when Booth knocked him into the orchestra pit. And on another occasion, Booth himself was cut across the eyelid by the swordplay of James C. McCollom; he almost lost his sight. Even the tamer roles were dangerous; Booth was playing Pescara when he fell on his dagger that night in Albany, and Romeo when he supposedly broke his nose. Some would call him reckless, and say that he cared little for the safety of his fellow actors. But his contemporaries knew better. They knew that even the most careful players had accidents. Such things are impossible to avoid, if one wanted a scene to look real.27
John Wilkes Booth gave his audiences everything he had, and they repaid the enthusiasm in kind. In Brooklyn, patrons were “pushing, crowding, and jamming” to get tickets. Louisville saw an “unprecedented” rush on the box office. And in St. Louis, more than twenty-five hundred fans came to see him, even in spite of extraordinarily cold temperatures. They loved to see action above all else, and that is where Booth excelled. Twenty-five years after his death, a Boston producer still believed the best stage duel of his generation was one involving Booth.28
His New York début went exceedingly well, and on his return to Baltimore, Booth found that John T. Ford was advertising his Holliday Street Theatre engagement in the most obsequious terms. Phrases such as “Baltimore’s favorite son,” “the brother and artistic rival of Edwin,” “the son of the noble sire,” and the like did not meet the new star’s approval. He found it annoying, and insisted that Ford replace them all with a simple phrase: “I am mys
elf alone.” That was a line from Richard III, and serious patrons would have known that the full passage began with “I have no brother, and am like no brother. . . .”
Richard was widely considered Booth’s best part, and he capped off every performance with an elaborate dance of death that led some critics to name him the very best Richard on the American stage.29
Booth’s style of acting was strenuous, and made all the more difficult by the rigors of travel. Getting from place to place was an uncomfortable business that could easily leave an actor too sick to perform. Dangerous coaches, rough terrain, and severe weather made any long trip stressful, yet for Booth there was no time to let up. His engagements took him to thirty-three cities, requiring trips totaling more than 24,600 miles—five thousand in the first six months of 1862 alone. The star rarely had time to shake off the effects of a long trip, and he sometimes arrived in town only hours before the first performance. Then, too, fatigue was often compounded by the stress of uncertainty about the upcoming venue. One week he might play the palatial St. Charles Theatre, and the next might find him at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, whose nine-man stock company rendered Richard III so ludicrous that one critic said, “The War of the Roses could not be carried on much longer without resort to a draft.” 30
Booth played in the occupied South, and was popular there, as historians have rightly claimed. But he was not “an essentially Southern actor,” as often charged. He was a particular favorite in Boston, and his closest friends believed that this was where he intended to make his home. Unlike the frantic New York or the boisterous Baltimore, Boston had an elegance and culture all its own. It was a place where, in the words of Adam Badeau, “mind and education are better appreciated; here it is talent and tact, and, above all, success that sways.” Certainly, the city opened its arms to this dark and handsome star. Indeed, that is where he had some of his best audiences. At the Boston Museum, playbills advised patrons to buy tickets early, “as the EXTRAORDINARY FURORE Excited by this Young Artist’s histrionic efforts has never been equaled by any star. . . .” One paper even claimed that “the carpenter of the establishment has it in contemplation to put a row of hooks and pegs around the lobby and gallery, for the late-comers to hang from.” John Wilkes felt so much at home here that he bought a lot at 115 Commonwealth Avenue, intending to build a house in Back Bay. 31
DEMOCRATS CONTINUED TO SNIPE at the president’s extraordinary war measures. But Lincoln was not running the war alone; when the government seized railroads and telegraph lines, confiscated property, and expanded the size of the armed forces, it did so under congressional mandate. In the last days of the Thirty-seventh Congress, forty-nine bills had been passed by voice vote or parliamentary maneuvering. One of the most important of these added a tenth justice to the U.S. Supreme Court. That gave the president five solid votes—and a deadlock—on all the most volatile issues.32
The Civil War was unlike anything known in modern times, and the nation came closer to collapse than most people realize today. Emancipation of slaves, confiscation of property, and the draft often led to deadly clashes between the public and civil authorities. The political storm threatened not only the federal government, but state governments as well. In Indiana, Republicans shut down the state legislature for two years, and Democrats, lacking a quorum, seized control of state troops from the governor. In Illinois, Governor Richard Yates refused to call the legislature for two years in order to prevent Democrats from hindering the administration’s war measures.33
In the middle stood Abraham Lincoln, blamed for the war and fired upon from all sides. It was not just the fringe element who hated the president; judges, senators, editors, and otherwise respectable citizens left no doubt of their contempt for him as well. Even the normally staid floor of the Senate saw its share of invective. One senator compared Lincoln to the tyrants of history, saying, “They are all buried beneath the wave of oblivion in comparison to what this man of yesterday, this Abraham Lincoln, that neither you nor I ever heard of four years ago, has chosen to exercise. . . .” To that senator and countless citizens, Abraham Lincoln was the American Caesar, out to establish a new empire from the ashes of a republic.34
Even when traveling among Unionists, Booth could hardly have missed the criticism. Editorials from one paper were often reprinted in another, for the benefit of a new and incredulous readership. Thus, Booth could have picked up a Louisville paper and read this editorial from the Richmond Dispatch:
“Assassination in the abstract is a horrid crime . . . but to slay a tyrant is no more assassination than war is murder. Who speaks of Brutus as an assassin? What Yankee ever condemned the Roundhead crew who brought Charles I to the block, although it would be a cruel libel to compare him politically or personally to the tyrants who are now lording it over the South?”35
And though Booth probably never read the London Times, he could have seen it quoted in the Indianapolis Daily Sentinel:
“Mr. Lincoln and his party have been dominant as no set of men ever were before in a land peopled by the English race. They have governed twenty millions of their countrymen with a revolutionary freedom from the trammels of law.”36
It may belabor the point, but such editorials were part of the atmosphere that engulfed Booth’s life no matter where he went, and they certainly influenced his thinking.
IN THE SPRING OF 1863, Booth played his first engagement in the nation’s capital. Washington was a Southern city then, and even though the war had dramatically expanded its population, the place was still much like a small town. The roads were unpaved, and livestock wandered the streets. The city’s main thoroughfare, Pennsylvania Avenue, was either dust or mud, depending on the weather. Here stood the Executive Mansion, where the president, his family, and a couple of secretaries lived. The household staff were still paid out of the president’s own pocket, and since the mansion was open to everyone, they all had to endure life in a very public setting. A steady flow of riffraff had taken its toll on the curtains, drapes, and silverware, and the president was occasionally vexed to find tourists tramping through his private rooms. He moved out to the Soldiers’ Home whenever the opportunity presented itself.
War conditions made Washington “a Sodom beyond redemption,” with more than a hundred bawdy houses and thirty-seven hundred saloons. Some would have argued that playhouses belonged in that same class. The city had only two major theaters. Ford’s, on Tenth Street, had once been a Baptist church, but was converted just before the war, after its congregation moved elsewhere. Three blocks to the west was the National Theatre, on E Street near Thirteenth. Both enjoyed a lively business in spite of the conflict, or perhaps because of it. Soldiers made up a large part of every audience. They seemed to regard theatrical entertainment as an escape from the boredom and occasional terror of a military life.
As a friend of the Fords, Booth might have been expected to play their theater whenever he was in Washington. But in late December 1862, Ford’s Theatre was destroyed by fire, and it would take almost nine months to rebuild. In the meantime, Booth played at the National and his two-week engagement there drew the largest audiences of the 1862–63 season. It was during this run that Matt Canning, in Washington at the time, noticed a large growth on Booth’s neck, and became alarmed. On April 13, he took Booth down to the office of Dr. John Frederick May, who diagnosed the growth as a tumor and recommended its removal. Always in a hurry, Booth suggested it be done right then and there. “Young man,” said the doctor, “this is no trifling matter. You will have to come when we are ready for you, when I have an assistant here.”
Nevertheless, Booth was insistent. “You can cut it out right now. Here is Canning, who will be your assistant.” Wasting no time with argument, he seated himself on a chair and draped his head over the back of it. “Now cut away!” he said. The doctor gave Canning some instructions, and the operation began. It was unexpectedly gruesome. “The first swipe he made with his knife nearly made me fall on the floor fainting,”
Canning recalled. The dark blood gushed out, and he actually wondered for a moment if his friend had been decapitated. Booth hardly even twitched, but as the work proceeded, his skin grew deathly pale. It was all too much for Canning, who finally passed out. Booth reeled and collapsed on top of him.37
In spite of his doctor’s orders, Booth returned to the stage that night. But he should have listened. Within days his stitches had been torn open, and he returned to May’s office in agony. There was not much that the doctor could do. The wound had not healed properly. It was jagged, and looked more like a burn than a surgical scar.
Booth had always wanted to be a man of action, and that mark of the scalpel at least gave him a chance to act the part. To a friend in Boston, he wrote, “[I] . . . am far from well. I have a hole in my neck you could run your fist in. The doctor had a hunt for my bullet.” Booth told the same story to anyone who would listen, and he asked Dr. May to confirm it if anyone should ask. He even convinced Matt Canning that the alleged bullet was the same one Canning had fired at him by accident several years before. “Do you know,” Canning later said, “that that ball which I shot into his side came out of that tumor? It was in his body, and there it had worked up from somewhere in the muscles to the throat, and worked out at the throat.” Booth must have been the consummate storyteller. He could make even the most ridiculous story seem plausible.38
HOURS AFTER THAT OPERATION, Booth was introduced backstage to a short, dark-haired young man with pouchy cheeks and a wisp of facial hair that barely qualified as a mustache. His name was David E. Herold, and the experienced eye of the actor sized him up instantly: fidgety, clownish, and more than a little insecure. At twenty, Herold still wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with his life. He had attended the best schools, including Georgetown College, and had learned the pharmacy trade. But years as a drugstore clerk had left him wanting more. He craved excitement and an opportunity to prove his manliness. Talk to him for five minutes, and he was sure to mention his sexual prowess and hunting skills.
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