American Brutus

by Michael W. Kauffman

  Herold lived near the Washington Navy Yard, where his father was the chief clerk of the naval store. Adam George Herold had eight children, and he would have given anything to start his only son on a respectable career. But David was indifferent to everything that came along. He preferred to spend his time hunting or swapping lies with friends in the service. Indeed, he was so resistant to growing up that some musicians in the Marine Band seemed to think of him as a mascot. They let him tag along to their concerts and nighttime jobs in the city’s theaters. That was probably how he met Booth in the first place.

  Dave Herold was instantly charmed. Though Booth was rich and famous, he never seemed to look down on anyone. For Herold, that was a novel experience. He was amazed that a star who had such a wide circle of friends would even take the time to converse with an insignificant pharmacy clerk. Booth made him feel at ease, and Herold quickly came to consider himself a friend. 39

  During his run at the National, Booth learned that the old Washington Theatre was available. Being free himself for almost a month, he arranged to rent the place in the interim. He hired some of the stagehands left unemployed by the Ford’s Theatre fire, and brought in some of his best friends to fill the stock company. In a matter of days, Booth had assembled a respectable lineup, with Sam Chester, Effie Germon, and Alice Gray in the cast. They worked together, made some money, and after a few weeks, quit. Then, right on schedule, Booth headed to his next engagement in Chicago.40

  BY MID-1863, the tide of the war was beginning to shift in the North’s favor. Their military victories were more conspicuous, and even the political opposition seemed to be losing ground. Intense as his feelings were, Booth managed to get through the first years with only a few outbursts. In St. Louis, he was briefly detained for saying that “the whole damn government can go to hell.” In New Orleans, he sang the forbidden tune “The Bonnie Blue Flag” on a dare, and had to talk himself out of an arrest. In New York, he railed at some fellow actors about the imprisonment of Baltimore’s police marshal, George P. Kane. “He is my friend,” Booth said, “and the man who could drag him from the bosom of his family for no crime whatever, but a mere suspicion that he may commit one sometime, deserves a dog’s death!” Kane’s arrest took place at a time when William Seward was overseeing such matters.

  By and large, though, he kept his feelings in check. One fellow actor said that Booth was known as a rebel, but “not the noisy kind.” Even the most staunch Unionists considered him a friend. He got along well with Julia Ward Howe, whose husband had been one of John Brown’s backers, and with Edwin’s friend Adam Badeau, who would soon be an aide to General Ulysses S. Grant. During the bloody New York draft riots, John Wilkes and Badeau were both staying at Edwin’s house in Manhattan. As a racist mob moved closer to the neighborhood, Badeau, who had recently been wounded, grew concerned for the safety of his African American servant. John Wilkes allayed his fears, vowing to protect the man at the peril of his own life. Touched by the gallant gesture, Badeau later admitted he would never have guessed that John Wilkes was an ardent rebel. Booth was proud of the deception. “Imagine me,” he told his sister, “helping that wounded soldier with my rebel sinews!”41

  Booth kept those “sinews” in check on November 9, 1863, when President and Mrs. Lincoln came to see him perform in the newly rebuilt Ford’s Theatre. The play was The Marble Heart, and in light of the star’s reputation, the Lincolns probably expected to see a gripping demonstration of true blood-and-thunder showmanship. But Booth showed little interest in gratifying the president. He merely walked through the part, giving an un-characteristically flat rendition of a role that was often regarded as one of his best. Later accounts would mention angry glares and insulting comments, but there was none of that. Booth just slogged through the performance, and made it, in the words of Lincoln’s secretary, “more tame than otherwise.” The president did not come to see him again.42

  TRAVEL AND TURMOIL WERE SAPPING Booth of the vigor and enthusiasm that had made him a star. No one doubted that he could still fill the houses, but in the estimation of critics, he was slowly sinking. Reviews now spoke more of promise than proven ability. “We do not pretend that Mr. Booth is the greatest actor on the stage,” said the New Orleans True Delta, “but we have yet to find any . . . who give promise of such excellence.” Booth seems to have put more stock in receipts than reviews. There is certainly no reason to believe what has been charged in the twentieth century: that critical comments about his acting “finally drove him to the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.” In fact, the comments were quite good, even to the end. Booth’s reviews were more consistently positive than those of any other actor of his day, Edwin included.43

  Later writers have placed a strong emphasis on Booth’s rivalry with his older brother. They claimed that John Wilkes was losing his voice and his career while Edwin’s star was on the rise. Seething at his brother’s good fortune, he could only watch his chance for fame slip by. This theory rests largely on reports of hoarseness that John Wilkes occasionally suffered on stage. An 1862 review in the Boston Advertiser ascribed the problem to vocal abuse:

  “In what does he fail? Principally, in knowledge of himself,—of his resources, how to husband and how to use them. He is, apparently, entirely ignorant of the main principles of elocution . . . [and] the nature and proper treatment of the voice as well.”44

  Historians have given this review a great deal of weight while ignoring the rest of the evidence. Another critic, watching the same performances, noted only that John Wilkes had a voice much like Edwin’s, with “the same smooth, silvery tones.”Though Booth was hoarse from time to time, the problem was not chronic. It always cropped up after a long journey, and usually in severe weather. One of the worst episodes occurred in 1862, when a Chicago engagement began right after an exhausting fifty-one-hour train ride from Boston. Knowledgeable critics took such things into account. Knowing what Booth’s life as an actor was like, they passed his hoarseness off as a temporary problem, or as a deliberate vocal effect. They did the same for his brothers, who were plagued by the same affliction. His brother June, for example, lost his voice completely during an 1864 engagement in Baltimore, and remained hoarse for a week.45

  Harsh reviews tended to focus on Booth’s spontaneity rather than on any lack of ability. Manager John Ellsler once noted the “unstudied effects” that cropped up in Booth’s performances, and asked him, “Did you rehearse that business today, John?” “No,” said Booth, “I didn’t rehearse it, it just came to me in the scene, and I couldn’t help doing it; but it went all right, didn’t it?” Those ad-libs didn’t always go over well. Older patrons and critics knew these plays down to the subtlest inflection. They knew what they liked, and any young actor who casually threw aside the old ways for something new risked a poor review for the “incorrect” reading. Booth’s many plaudits for freshness and originality can be taken as evidence that, at least sometimes, his improvisations worked. More important, they show him to be a confident and uninhibited man—hardly the type to be tormented by insecurities.46

  As for the sibling rivalry, there was none. Edwin and John Wilkes were often at odds, but their differences were political, not professional. In theatrical matters, they were mutually supportive. Actress Clara Morris once overheard John Wilkes telling someone, “No! No, no! There’s but one Hamlet to my mind, that’s my brother Edwin. You see, between ourselves, he is Hamlet, melancholy and all!” And Edwin returned the compliment, telling actor Edward M. Alfriend, “John Wilkes had the genius of my father, and was far more gifted than I.” A letter written by Edwin in 1863 confirms that high opinion:

  “I am happy to say that [John Wilkes] is full of the true grit—he has stuff enough in him to make good suits for a dozen such player-folk as we are cursed with. . . . I am delighted with him & feel the name of Booth to be more of a hydra than snakes and things ever was.” 47

  Critics often compared the brothers, and more often than not, they considered John W
ilkes the better of the two. Family friends agreed. John T. Raymond once said, “[John Wilkes] was always looked upon as the man of genius in the Booth family,” and Sir Charles Wyndham agreed. “His original gift,” said Wyndham, “was greater than that of his wonderful brother, Edwin.” Kate Reignolds Winslow, of the Boston Museum, hated John Wilkes, but admitted he “had more of the native fire and fury of his great father than any of his family.”48

  In early 1864, Edwin played a lengthy engagement at the National Theatre in Washington. Abraham Lincoln came to see him seven times, and on a couple of occasions he brought Secretary of State Seward with him. On March 11, Seward even hosted a dinner party in Edwin’s honor. The secretary’s daughter Fanny was especially pleased to meet her longtime idol, and his daughter-in-law Anna was positively giddy. As they sat and talked in the parlor of Seward’s house, the secretary couldn’t resist giving Edwin some unsolicited advice: Don’t make Cardinal Richelieu look so old. Edwin graciously thanked him for the suggestion.49

  John Wilkes Booth might have sneered at that visit, had he known about it, but he was on tour at the time. In late May he finished the season in Boston, then went to western Pennsylvania, where he was starting up a new business venture. John Ellsler and Thomas Y. Mears had formed a partnership with Booth in the Dramatic Oil Company. They purchased three acres along the Allegheny River just south of Franklin. Oil wells were springing up all over the region, and Booth felt he had a good shot at success with one of his own. But he never expected it to come easily. As he wrote to Ellsler, “This might be a big thing for us or it may be nothing, the last sure if we do not give it our attention. Throw things overboard and come as soon as possible.” Ellsler came as directed, and his friend Joe Simonds came down from Boston to serve as a manager and consultant. On Simonds’s advice, Booth purchased a one-thirtieth interest in a second property, and for much of the summer he gave the oil business his full attention.50

  Victory was slipping further away from the Confederates, who were now on the defensive in every theater of the war. All eyes seemed to be on Virginia, where General Robert E. Lee was trying desperately to keep his troops between the Union army and his own seat of government. General Grant, traveling with General Meade’s Army of the Potomac, pushed relentlessly toward Richmond. He might have ended the war that summer but for a stunning upset at Cold Harbor, ten miles east of the rebel capital. Though downplayed in the Northern press, this costly battle gave Grant his worst defeat, while providing new and fleeting hope to those who argued that the Confederacy might yet survive.

  War came directly to Washington in mid-July, when ten thousand soldiers under Confederate General Jubal Early engaged Union troops on the outskirts of the city. Col. Bradley Tyler Johnson, who served under Early, had planned to capture the president in the course of the fight and take him to Richmond as a prisoner of war. It seemed like a glorious idea, and Johnson’s commander, General Wade Hampton, thought it feasible enough to give it his approval. But hearing of the plan, General Early wanted that mission for himself, and he reassigned Johnson to a prisoner rescue mission in Southern Maryland. By the new orders, Johnson would swing around Baltimore, then head south and liberate twelve thousand men from the Point Lookout prison, at the extreme southern tip of St. Mary’s County. Early would capture Washington and hold it until the others could come up to join him.51

  The plan was overly ambitious. Untrained Union forces had left their posts in Baltimore and met Early at the Monocacy River, north of Washington. Though Early pushed them back, they had delayed his progress long enough for Grant to send additional troops to defend the capital. By the time the Confederates reached the city, a full-scale assault was no longer practical, and Early was turned back within sight of the Capitol dome.

  Bradley Johnson was foiled as well. Though his men did manage to cut telegraph lines around Baltimore, they never made it to Point Lookout. Word of the prison raid was leaked to the press, and the mission had to be called off. The Confederate plan to capture Abraham Lincoln ended in failure. 52

  It was becoming obvious that Cold Harbor had been a fluke. Military setbacks, food and manpower shortages, and the slow stranglehold of the blockade told the real story of 1864, and they seemed to put Confederate success further out of reach. Seeing their last chance at victory fade, Southern leaders planted the suggestion that subjugating them would cost the North more blood and money than anyone was willing to expend. In mid-July, they tried to pressure President Lincoln with a very public offer of peace. They knew that Lincoln had the upper hand and had nothing to gain from a peaceful settlement. But by proposing negotiations, they hoped to portray him as stubborn and indifferent to further bloodshed. Lincoln, however, refused to take the bait. In a letter to Confederate commissioners, he restated his long-held position on peace: return to the Union, recognize emancipation, and we’ll offer liberal terms. Benign as that sounds, the commissioners took it as a slap at their dream of diplomatic recognition. And that was no accident on Lincoln’s part. He had addressed his letter “To whom it may concern” to avoid even a personal recognition of the Confederacy’s existence. 53

  So Abraham Lincoln stood firm, and the South slowly crumbled. Confederate momentum was gone, and the only thing that could save them now was a bold and daring move.

  John Wilkes Booth had come up with a plan.

  EIGHT

  “MY PROFESSION, MY NAME, IS MY PASSPORT”

  CONFEDERATE COLONEL BRADLEY JOHNSON’S PLAN TO CAPTURE Lincoln was anything but a secret. All over Southern Maryland, people had a sense that something big was about to happen, and some knew exactly what it was. Johnson had arranged for local citizens to have fresh horses ready and waiting on the roads leading out of Point Lookout. A Marylander himself, Colonel Johnson trusted these volunteers. As he later wrote, “They were unanimously my friends.” 1

  JOHN WILKES BOOTH SPENT much of the summer on the road. His last acting engagement had been in Boston, and from there he went to western Pennsylvania, then back to Boston, then down to New York. He traveled more now than when he had been acting, even though he suffered from painful boils on his neck and erysipelas on his arm. As he told his sister Asia, he had to keep moving; it was the only way he could help the Cause. “I have only an arm to give,” he said, but “my brains are worth twenty men, my money worth a hundred. I have free pass everywhere, my profession, my name, is my passport; my knowledge of drugs is valuable, my beloved precious money—oh, never beloved until now!—is the means, one of the means, by which I serve the South.” He told her that he was involved in the underground, and the work demanded travel. The unexplained trips, the strange visitors at all hours, the callused hands “from nights of rowing”—to Asia, it suddenly all made sense. When someone had recently shown up at her house asking for Doctor Booth, she thought he had meant Joseph, who had once studied medicine in Philadelphia. But John Wilkes then confessed. “I am he, if to be a doctor means a dealer in quinine.” The South desperately needed this all-purpose drug, and Booth claimed to be providing them with it.2

  If Booth were really smuggling quinine, there is no evidence of it beyond his own word. Asia did not actually see him do anything, and before the fall of 1864, he had almost no opportunity. Theatrical business occupied his time through the end of May, and for months afterward, his travels were confined to the North. His movements are well documented. They cover more than 2,400 miles, and are so far removed from the South as to admit few opportunities to cross the lines.3

  THIS WAS AN ELECTION YEAR, and at midsummer, Abraham Lincoln seemed like a long shot to win a second term. His war measures still energized the opposition, and the split grew deeper as the fighting wore on. The lack of a clear victory would always play into the hands of Democrats, and many of them would have settled for a cease-fire under any terms. But there were two ways to end the war: let the South go in peace, or push more vigorously for a decisive win. By early March 1864, Lincoln’s choice was clear. He called for a draft of half a million more me
n, and appointed “Unconditional Surrender” Grant to their overall command. The army targeted food supplies, burned the houses of suspected rebels, and brought a “hard war” policy straight to the homes of Southern civilians. This stepped-up strategy began with the boldest stroke of all—a cavalry raid designed to “destroy and burn the hateful city” of Richmond and kill Jefferson Davis and his cabinet. The raid failed, but the strategy remained.4

  One of the most volatile issues of the campaign was a product of this policy. A cartel had once been in place for the exchange of prisoners of war, and the arrangement helped relieve the suffering of prisoners by trading them for captives held by the other side. But the process hit a snag when the South refused to exchange black soldiers, and as the North gained momentum, its leaders saw no need to resurrect the old agreement. General Grant was especially hostile to the idea. “It is hard on our men held in Southern prisons not to exchange them,” he said, “but it is humanity to those left in the ranks to fight our battles. Every man we hold, when released on parole or otherwise, becomes an active soldier against us at once either directly or indirectly. If we commence a system of exchange which liberates all prisoners taken, we will have to fight on until the whole South is exterminated.”