Now it was clear that Booth had been keeping them in the dark as well. If they felt put off by that, they would just have to keep it to themselves. They drank and smoked and played cards with the rest until 1:30 A.M., when the last of the waiters left. Only then did Booth get down to business, and what he told them was incredible. He said that the Lincolns frequently attended plays at Ford’s Theatre, and were always given an upper box above the stage. They had all been to that box by now, and they knew what it looked like. Booth believed that the president could be captured there and spirited out of Washington with little trouble.
The plan went like this: on Booth’s cue, Sam Arnold would rush into the president’s box and seize Mr. Lincoln. Booth and Atzerodt, or “Port Tobacco,” would handcuff the president and lower him to the stage, where Powell, or “Mosby,” would wait to catch him. All would gather around their hostage and hustle him out of the building. With a carriage waiting in the alley, they could make a quick dash out of the city, then meet up with Surratt and Herold on the other side of the Eastern Branch.
Booth sat back and waited for reaction. After a stunned silence, someone pointed out that the president was a strong man, and perhaps it ought to be “Mosby,” not Arnold, who subdued him in the box. Someone else wondered how they were going to keep an entire audience at bay. There were understandably quite a few objections, but with each one, Booth merely adjusted the details; he still thought the plan was sound. They fought and argued, and over time a new script evolved. Now O’Laughlen and Herold were to put out the gaslights. Arnold would catch the president on the stage, and Surratt would join “Port Tobacco” as a guide outside the city.
The revisions did not placate Arnold. He had joined a plot to capture Lincoln in the country, not in a crowded theater, and he didn’t see how this new scenario could possibly work. Even if they managed to get the president out of the building, he said, they were bound to run into a sentinel somewhere on their way out of the city.
“Shoot the sentinel,” Booth snapped. But someone would surely send up an alarm, and the whole thing would collapse around them.
In fact, Arnold had a long list of complaints. They had been talking about doing this for months, and it seemed to be nothing but talk. Opportunities had come and gone, yet nothing ever happened. When the president had appeared in public, Arnold had called it to Booth’s attention . . . and still nothing. Just this evening, in fact, the Lincolns had gone to Grover’s National Theatre for a performance of The Magic Flute, but Booth took no notice. And what if they did abduct the president? What would they do with him? As Arnold recalled, the whole point of capturing Lincoln was to force a resumption in the prisoner exchange. Yet that had been accomplished without them. Though little had been said of it at the time, Grant had actually resumed the exchange in mid-January.
Arnold’s revelation was explosive, and potentially fatal to Booth’s plot. Indeed, his information was accurate. That very day, in fact, a thousand more prisoners had come home under the new arrangement. General Grant had testified on Capitol Hill about it, and the papers were filled with stories about the soldiers’ return. So the question naturally arises: Why did Booth keep planning to abduct the president, knowing his goal had already been achieved?
Though he didn’t dare say it, Arnold was getting uncomfortably close to the answer. The policy change on prisoners had come at about the same time that Booth had changed his plan. Was he really serious about capturing Lincoln in the theater? Did he adopt this ridiculous scenario hoping it would go awry and lead to the president’s “accidental” death? Was this new scheme just a blind for assassination? Arnold’s own account of the meeting—the only one ever written from the inside—skirts the issue completely. It was ridiculous to think that the president of the United States could be successfully carried off from among a thousand of his friends. Any such attempt would surely meet with armed resistance, and Arnold urged Booth to go about it in some other way. “I want a shadow of a chance,” he said. O’Laughlen tried to second that, but Booth cut him off, saying sharply that Arnold found fault with all of his ideas. In reply, Arnold told Booth, “You can be the leader of the party, but not my executioner.”
Subsequent events show clearly that Booth convinced his people that he had not given up on capturing Lincoln. The president would always be a viable hostage, for peace or Confederate independence if nothing else. He urged his people not to give up, and at least some of them were persuaded.11
Booth rarely failed at the art of persuasion. He had always been extremely effective at laying out his arguments. A keen intellect, forceful gestures, the graceful modulation of his voice, and those expressive, dark, and lustrous eyes served him in life as they had on the stage. But the conspirators were not a theater audience, and Booth sought more than their approval; he was asking them to risk their lives in a scheme that did not look feasible even with the best presentation.
Booth was angry with Arnold, and he reminded him of the oath they had taken last summer. “Do you know you are liable to be shot?” he said. Arnold’s answer was that the plan had changed since then, and as far as he was concerned, it was Booth who broke the compact. “If you feel inclined to shoot me,” he said, “you have no farther to go. I shall defend myself.” Ultimately, Booth backed down and agreed to stay with the original plan. Arnold relented as well, but with an ultimatum. “Gentlemen,” he said, “if this is not accomplished this week I forever withdraw from it.” It was already Thursday morning.
Booth glared at Arnold, his eyes flashing and his jaw clenched. The whole plot seemed about to unravel, and he was speechless.
The meeting broke up at five A.M., and Manning, the watchman, locked the door behind them as they left. Nothing had gone as Booth anticipated. Sam Arnold had stirred things up, and he might undo the entire enterprise. He had to be dealt with.12
On Thursday afternoon, George Atzerodt stopped at the boardinghouse to see John Surratt. Lewis Powell joined them, and all three went up to Lou Weichmann’s room for a discussion. An hour later, Atzerodt was gone, and Weichmann walked in to find Surratt and Powell sitting on his bed surrounded by Bowie knives, revolvers, and four pairs of spurs. They offered no explanation, but merely stared at him until he left. Suspicious, Weichmann came back later and looked around. He noticed that “Reverend Paine” had left a false mustache on a table by the bed. Weichmann tucked it away in his lockbox, then played dumb when Powell returned to look for it.
The lady in the veil slipped into the boardinghouse that same afternoon. Sarah Slater kept to herself all evening, and left for Canada early the next day.13
BOOTH COULD NOT GET that incident with Sam Arnold out of his mind. Arnold was a threat, but not in the way that Sam Chester or John Mathews was. He knew a great deal more than either of them, and would require special handling. Fortunately for Booth, he found a way to compromise Arnold, using Mathews to do it. He learned that Mathews was going to Baltimore and asked if he would mind dropping something off with a friend there. It was a trunk filled with canned meats, sardines, crackers, brandy, and toilet items to be kept for the president’s use in the event they captured him. Mathews didn’t know what the items were for, but obligingly he took the trunk as requested. The addressee—most likely, Sam Arnold—was not home, so Mathews left a note:
My Dear Sir:—
Please deliver this trunk to Mr.——, who will see that it is delivered to Mr.——, who will have it safely shipped to its destination of which he is informed. Be careful.
Very truly,
John Mathews.
That note, in Mathews’s own hand, might have been used as evidence of his complicity in the plot. His account of the incident did not reveal the identities of the people involved—it used dashes in place of their names— but his later account referred to the intended recipient of the abduction supplies as Booth’s “friend on Fayette street.” The Arnolds lived at Park and Fayette. Though Sam Arnold was trying to leave the plot, Booth was, in effect, planting evidence a
gainst him where it might easily be discovered.
John Mathews had been staying in the house of William Petersen, across the street from Ford’s, and Booth sometimes visited him there. So it came as no great surprise when he came home on March 16 and found Booth stretched out on his bed, waiting to see him. (This was the same bed in which Abraham Lincoln later died.) James Wallack and E. L. Davenport were with Mathews at the time. Both actors who were then appearing at the Washington Theatre, they were scheduled to perform the following afternoon at the Campbell Hospital, not far from the Soldiers’ Home. The hospital had a five-hundred-seat theater, and every Friday, real professionals would give a matinée performance there as an act of charity. Tom Taylor’s Still Waters Run Deep was on the bill for the following day, and that is what Wallack and Davenport talked about in the back bedroom of the Petersen house. Booth sat to the side, saying little. An idea had just come to him. As he left the house, he told Mathews that he might stop by the next day to watch the play.14
That afternoon, Booth went to Rullman’s and apologized to Arnold for the harsh words that had passed between them. Obviously, he said, Arnold had been drinking too much.
“No!” Arnold shot back. “It was you and your friends who were drunk. I was never more sober in my life.” He assured Booth that he had meant everything he said, and he repeated his ultimatum: If nothing happened by the end of the week, he would sever his connection to the plot. Booth probably suspected Arnold would say that, but wanted to be sure. Though his Baltimore friends were no longer vital to the plot, they could not just walk away. They had more than just secrets; they knew where the weapons and handcuffs were, and Booth did not. Two weeks before, he had packed carbines, a monkey wrench, ammunition, and rope into a black box and sent them, by way of a hotel porter, to Mrs. Van Tyne’s. Fearing discovery, Arnold and O’Laughlen had passed them off to an unidentified friend in town, and that man still had them. Now Booth had to get them back, and he had to do it quickly; Arnold’s deadline was only a day off.
At about two o’clock the following afternoon, Booth sent Arnold and O’Laughlen an urgent message: Get those things together; something is about to happen. They joined up with Booth, Surratt, Powell, Herold, and Atzerodt on H Street, in front of Mrs. Surratt’s boardinghouse, and Booth told them all that the moment had arrived. The president, he said, was supposed to be watching a play out at Campbell Hospital. That was practically on the way to the Soldiers’ Home, so their first abduction scheme could be carried into effect.15
They had already discussed the plan, and knew it by heart. Herold would take the carbines down to Southern Maryland, where he would stand ready to escort the party to the lower Potomac. The others would wait in a remote area along Seventh Street, and when the president returned from the hospital, they would ride up alongside his carriage and overpower the driver. John Surratt would mount the box and take over from there. They would ride across the Benning Bridge, switch carriages in Southern Maryland, and, with Herold joining them, make for the lower Potomac. Going through Surrattsville, they would stop for fresh horses in the little village called “T.B.,” then zigzag through some of the more deserted roads of Charles County. They would ditch their horses and carriage at the Lock 11 farm, near Nanjemoy, and take the boat from there to Virginia. If everything went as planned, they could be on Confederate soil in a few hours.
While Herold took the carbines out to Maryland, Booth led Arnold and O’Laughlen to a staging area in a restaurant near Seventh and Boundary streets. They waited for the others, and when no one else appeared, all three rode out Seventh Street toward the hospital. After riding about a mile, Arnold and O’Laughlen turned back, and Booth continued by himself. Eventually, all but Herold returned to the restaurant, and when Booth rejoined them, he announced that the plan was off. He said he had learned at the hospital that the president had not shown up and the play had gone on without him. He would keep the supplies, but the men were free to go. Perhaps they could try again some time, but for the next month or so, they ought to keep a low profile.16
This incident has gone down in history as a failed attempt to kidnap Abraham Lincoln. To Booth, however, it was anything but a failure. Going into that day, some of his people were about to quit the plot. They had Booth’s weapons, and they knew what he intended to do with them. But when it was all over, Booth had his guns back, and more important, he had something more to hold over each of the defectors. By lying in wait for the president, they had each committed a crime, and arguably an act of treason. And since Booth had deliberately assembled them in a public place, rather than a deserted stretch of road, their “kidnap attempt” had been witnessed by many people. At Rullman’s Hotel, Howard’s Stable, the H Street rendezvous, and the Seventh Street restaurant were plenty of witnesses who could place each of Booth’s men together in a criminal conspiracy. Now each was responsible for anything that resulted from that plot, even if he quit.
Booth knew something about the law, and in all likelihood, he staged this event to make it work for him. He really had no reason to think that Lincoln was planning to go to Campbell Hospital; in fact, the president was scheduled to be in the National Hotel that afternoon, presenting a captured battle flag to the governor of Indiana. There are some indications that Booth himself may even have attended that ceremony. Still, he needed everyone in position for the abduction, even if he knew it would never come off. The conspirators did as they were told, and Booth got some measure of security in the bargain. Once more, deception was a useful tool. 17
Lou Weichmann sat in his room, burning with curiosity about Surratt and his friends. Dan Hawkins, the servant, had told him that “Massa John” had ridden off with six other men that afternoon, including Booth, Port Tobacco, and that big dark-haired man who was staying at the house. The story piqued Weichmann’s interest, but when he went downstairs to ask Mrs. Surratt about it, he found her sobbing. “John is gone away,” she said. “Go down to dinner, and make the best of your dinner you can.” She went to her room.
About two hours later, John Surratt burst into Weichmann’s room, very much excited. He paced the room like a caged wolf. “I will shoot anyone that comes into this room,” he said. “My prospects are gone, my hopes are blighted. I want something to do. Can you get me a clerkship?” He wouldn’t explain, but kept walking around nervously. Minutes later, Powell came in, also armed and agitated. Like Surratt, he had no intention of sharing anything. The two paced in silence, and soon Booth too stormed into the room, whip in hand, to join them. He seemed startled when Weichmann spoke. “I did not see you,” Booth said. They all exchanged glances, and then without a word, the three went upstairs to Powell’s room and shut the door. In thirty minutes they were gone. This strange and unexplained incident left Weichmann feeling unsettled.18
Somebody forgot to call David Herold back to the city. Posted with the buggy in Maryland, Herold waited around until sunset, then headed south along the planned route, just in case the others had gotten past him by a different route. Along the way he encountered his friend Walter Griffin, and they continued to Surrattsville together. John Lloyd, the tavern keeper, was there when they arrived. He was a huge man who didn’t care much for strenuous activities, such as standing up. He settled himself into a barroom chair, then invited the others to join him in a game of cards. Herold said he would like to, but had to keep an eye on the road. He couldn’t do that and play cards at the same time—that is, unless he could leave the door propped open. It was a bitter cold night, and Lloyd would have none of that. So Herold solved the dilemma by giving Lloyd’s young nephew a quarter to sit outside and watch for traffic.
At ten o’clock, Herold suddenly remembered some pressing business he had to take care of. He ventured into the cold, bound for the crossroads village of T.B., five miles to the south. He checked in to the T.B. Tavern and asked the bartender, William Norton, if he might bring in some weapons. By “some weapons,” he meant two shotguns, two carbines, a revolver, and a dirk knife. Norton was
surprised, but he let Herold take the smaller weapons to his room, while he left the larger ones hidden behind the bar. As Herold went to his room, he said that he wanted to be awakened if John Surratt and another man came by.19
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, John Surratt and George Atzerodt set out to look for Herold. They found him just beyond Surrattsville, coming toward them on the road from T.B. He had all the weapons with him. Surratt explained that the abduction attempt had failed and suggested they keep the guns hidden somewhere, ready for another try. Herold said that he wanted to leave them hidden in T.B., but nobody down there would let him. Under the circumstances, Surratt said, they would have to take them back to the tavern. He knew of a good hiding place there.
Lloyd’s Tavern was always a busy place, but when Surratt, Atzerodt, and Herold walked into the barroom on the morning of March 18, they found one traveler they didn’t expect to see. He was John C. Atzerodt, brother of George, and now a detective for the state provost marshal. John was just passing through on the way to Charlotte Hall in search of deserters. He saw his brother, and they sat down for a drink together.
American Brutus Page 24
