Booth was not riding his usual horse. The sorrel he preferred was not available at Pumphrey’s, so instead he took out a small bay mare, about fourteen hands high, with a black mane and a long black tail. She had a white star on her forehead, and a spirited disposition that would have rattled a less experienced rider. But Booth seemed pleased to have her. He told James Pumphrey that he was going over to Grover’s Theatre to write a letter, and he wanted a tie line for the horse. Pumphrey warned against it. She didn’t like being tied, and was likely to break loose. Better to have someone hold her.56
THE PRESIDENT AND MRS. LINCOLN took some time in the afternoon for a leisurely carriage ride through the city. It was a rare opportunity to be alone, and Mrs. Lincoln remarked that she had never seen her husband so happy. “We must be more cheerful,” he explained. “Between the war and the loss of our darling Willie—we have both been very miserable.” He drove the carriage eastward on Pennsylvania Avenue, letting his mind wander while his wife chirped happily on about her plans for the days ahead.
They ended up at the navy yard, where the massive ironclad Montauk had become a popular attraction. The ship had been damaged in the battle for Fort Fisher and was undergoing repairs to the turret and machinery. It was one of the wonders of the modern navy, and the Lincolns were piped aboard for a firsthand look.
Just around Greenleaf’s Point, to the west, the steamer Cossack brought in eight Confederate generals who were passing through Washington en route to prison in Boston. They joined 441 other rebels, most of them captured at Sayler’s Creek, for a long march down the avenue. Thousands came out to watch the ragtag procession. It was a scene never to be forgotten.
John Wilkes Booth was in front of Grover’s Theatre when they passed by. Booth had stopped in to ask Dwight Hess if Mrs. Lincoln had answered his invitation from the day before. Indeed, she had declined. Hearing this, Booth quickly changed gears, and asked for a piece of paper and an envelope. He wanted to write a letter.
Somehow, a rumor had gotten started that Robert E. Lee was one of those captured officers, and had checked in to Willard’s Hotel. Scipiano Grillo, who owned the Star Saloon next to Ford’s, ran into Dave Herold and suggested they go over and check it out. Lee wasn’t there, of course, but on the way, Grillo noticed that Herold was limping. They stopped so he could adjust his boot, and when he lifted up the leg of his pants, Grillo saw a large knife stuffed down into the boot. “What do you want to carry that for?” he asked.
“I am going into the country tonight on horseback,” said Herold. “It will be handy there.”
Grillo was amused at the bravado. He had known Herold for years, and could not imagine him using such a dangerous weapon. Half jokingly, he asked, “You ain’t going to kill anybody with that?” They went their separate ways—Herold to check on a horse, and Grillo to visit Geary’s Billiard Room, above the lobby at Grover’s. They both missed Booth as he came out of the theater.57
Booth was mounting up to leave when he happened to notice John Mathews hurrying toward him, waving. Mathews asked if he had seen the Confederate prisoners, and Booth looked over at the column kicking up dust in the distance. It was a depressing sight. With an agonized expression, he rubbed his forehead and said, “Great God, I no longer have a country.” Mathews thought that Booth looked nervous, and he asked what was wrong. “Oh, it is nothing,” Booth replied. He wondered if Mathews would do him a favor.
“Why, certainly, Johnny. What is it?”
“Perhaps I may leave town tonight, and I have a letter here which I desire to be published in the National Intelligencer; please attend to it for me, unless I see you before ten o’clock tomorrow; in that case I will see to it myself.” Mathews put the envelope in his pocket. Then, glancing around, he called Booth’s attention to a carriage that had just passed by. General and Mrs. Grant were in it, and judging from the baggage, they were leaving town. Abruptly, Booth excused himself and galloped up ahead to see them.58
Just across Pennsylvania Avenue, Dave Herold stopped at Nailor’s to pick up that roan horse. Fletcher, the stableman, charged him five dollars, and insisted he return it by eight or nine o’clock. Herold promised. Booth, meanwhile, went into the Kirkwood House—not to see Atzerodt, but to leave a message for the vice president. Taking a blank card from the desk clerk, he wrote out in pencil: “Don’t wish to disturb you. Are you at home? J. Wilkes Booth.” The clerk placed it in Mr. Johnson’s box, and Booth left.
George Atzerodt was supposed to be learning something of Johnson’s habits, but he wasn’t even sure what the vice president looked like. He saw a distinguished-looking man in the lobby and asked him where the vice president was staying. William R. Nevins said that Johnson was actually in the dining room having his supper. He pointed him out to Atzerodt, who looked, then walked away.59
DICK FORD HAD BORROWED two flags from the Treasury Guards, and his brother Harry arranged them, with some others, around the front of the president’s box. Unknown to both of them, someone else had already been there preparing for the president’s visit. In the passageway leading from the dress circle, a wooden board was hidden in the corner next to the door. A niche had been carved in the wall just opposite the door; the end of the board would fit snugly into it. A small peephole had been bored, about chest-high, in the left-hand door at the far end. One could hardly see anything through it—just the top of Mr. Lincoln’s rocker.60
ON HER WAY TO SURRATTSVILLE, Mary Surratt noticed some pickets just off the road, and she asked one of the soldiers if they were going to be there all night. “No, ma’am,” said the man. “We’re being pulled in after eight o’clock.” She thanked him, and said, “It is good to know that.”
She and Weichmann arrived at the tavern around five, and Weichmann went into the bar for a drink. A few minutes later, John Lloyd drove up to the back door to unload some fish and oysters. Lloyd had just returned from Upper Marlboro, where he had gone to testify against the man who had stabbed him in a bar fight two months before. The case had been continued to the November term, but since the bar in Upper Marlboro was closer than the one in Surrattsville, Lloyd had stayed awhile. Though he came home staggering drunk, he would always maintain that he was sober enough to remember his conversation with Mrs. Surratt. She told him to have those “shooting irons” ready, and a couple of bottles of whiskey as well. They were going to be called for that night.61
Lloyd seemed to think that Mrs. Surratt had come out there just to deliver that message, but in fact she did have other business. She needed to speak with John Nothey again about his outstanding debt. She was furious at Nothey for telling her creditor, George Calvert, that she was in no hurry to settle her debts. Indignantly, Calvert had fired off a demand for immediate payment, and his letter had been received just that afternoon. But in spite of the urgency, Mrs. Surratt did not see Nothey, nor did she go to his house. She asked Weichmann to write him a note, care of Bennett Gwynn, threatening to sue if he did not pay up within ten days. Gwynn happened to be passing by the tavern, and he joined them for supper. They socialized for a while, and at about six-thirty, Mrs. Surratt said that she was supposed to meet someone in Washington and had to be going. After fixing a broken carriage spring, she and Weichmann started back to the city. Lloyd, alone at the tavern, took her package upstairs and unwrapped it. It was a large field glass, which he put on the bed. He laid the carbines alongside it.62
JIM FERGUSON SAW BOOTH in front of the Greenback Saloon, mounted on a bay mare. He seemed proud of the horse. Seeing how Ferguson looked at her, he said, “She is a very nice horse. She can gallop and can almost kick me in the back.” With that, he took off down the street.
George W. Bunker and Henry Merrick were at the desk of the National Hotel when Booth came in. They both noticed how pale he looked, and Bunker asked if he was ill. Booth said he was fine. He asked for a piece of paper, and took it behind the desk to write. Merrick saw him still sitting there a few minutes later, with a confused look on his face.
“Is
it 1864 or 1865?” he asked.
“Don’t you know what year you live in?” Merrick replied.
Booth didn’t answer. He just folded up the paper and dropped it into the mailbox. He asked Bunker if he was going to Ford’s tonight. “You ought to go,” he said. “There is going to be some splendid acting tonight.”
George Atzerodt came into Nailor’s Stable with a horse he had just rented from Keleher’s Stable. She was a bay mare, much like the one Booth was riding, with a long, bushy tail. Atzerodt claimed she was his own horse, and he told Fletcher to keep her saddled and ready to go. He would be back for her at ten.63
ABRAHAM LINCOLN WAS always surrounded by people, and this night would be no exception. He couldn’t even walk to his carriage without encountering someone in search of a favor. Such annoyances came with the job. So as he left the White House this evening, he was not at all surprised to see Speaker of the House Schuyler Colfax and a few others waiting outside the door. Colfax was about to take a business trip out West and wanted to bid the president goodbye. Mr. Lincoln said that he and his wife were going to the theater and asked if he would like to come along. Colfax declined, and went on his way. George Ashmun was not invited. Ashmun, a former member of Congress, had brought a friend with him, and hoped the president would speak to him. But since Lincoln was already late for the play, he told Ashmun to come back in the morning. He took a small card from his pocket and wrote: “Please allow Mr. Ashmun & friend to come at 9 A.M. to-morrow. A. Lincoln.”
Finally breaking free, the Lincolns rode up to Fifteenth and H to pick up their last-minute guests, Clara Harris and Henry Rathbone. By the time they got to Ford’s, Our American Cousin had been under way for twenty minutes. Seeing them enter, Harry Hawk, in the role of Asa Trenchard, ad-libbed: “This reminds me of a story, as Mr. Lincoln says . . .” A commotion rippled through the dress circle, and the band struck up “Hail to the Chief.” All eyes turned to the president and his party as they worked their way through the audience. When they entered the box, Mr. Lincoln acknowledged their applause with a bow, then took his seat. The play resumed.
Francis Burke, the president’s coachman, parked the carriage in front of the theater and waited for the Lincolns to return. A police officer walked by on his beat, and they started talking. In a few minutes, the two went next door to have a drink.64
A few blocks away, Mary Surratt returned from the country and found Booth waiting in her parlor. They talked in private, and in a few minutes, Booth left. He rode into Baptist Alley and dismounted by the back door of the theater. Looking inside, he called for Ned Spangler. Being at the far side of the stage, Spangler didn’t hear him, so another stagehand relayed the message: “Mr. Booth wants you.” Ned came over to the door, and Booth tossed him the reins of his horse, saying she needed to be held for a few minutes. Spangler protested, but Booth ignored him and went inside.
Ned Spangler had a job to do, which he couldn’t do standing in the alley. He tried to pass Booth’s horse off on someone else. John L. Debonay refused. Since Peanuts Borrows was assigned to watch the back door anyway, Spangler waved him over and handed him the reins. “Here,” he said, “hold Mr. Booth’s horse.” With that, Spangler went back to work.
Lewis Powell and David Herold had already gone to Lafayette Park. The park superintendent always called out the time as he locked the gate, and as soon as that happened, Powell would approach the Sewards’ house. He would knock on the door, then tell the servant that he had medicine to give to the secretary. It seemed an excellent plan, but at the last minute, a complication arose: one of Seward’s doctors was still in the house. Now Powell either had to come up with a new cover story or delay his attack. Since nothing came to mind, he sent Herold galloping away to tell the others to hold off.
Booth was inside the theater, walking in and out of the lobby, talking with the doorman, John Buckingham, and asking for the time. He went next door to the Star Saloon, slapped a few coins on the bar, and called for whiskey and water. He checked on the time again, and paced some more. In the alley out back, Peanuts was lying on a bench, holding his horse.65
Herold leaped out of the saddle and ran into the Kirkwood House. He wanted to tell Atzerodt not to do anything yet, but the door to his room was locked and nobody answered. A block away, Atzerodt was sitting down to a glass of ale with John Fletcher. With an air of mystery, he told the stableman, “You will soon hear of a present.”
Booth walked up the stairs to the dress circle and edged his way along the wall to the president’s box. Charles Forbes, a White House messenger, was seated outside the door, and Booth took out some kind of card and showed it to him. Forbes, of course, let him pass. Stepping quietly into the dark, narrow passageway, Booth closed the door behind him, then barred it shut. The door ahead of him had been left open, and he could see Major Rathbone watching the play.
HARRY HAWK, alone on the stage, said, “Don’t know the manners of good society, eh? . . .”
With his eyes fixed on Rathbone, Booth stepped up to the inner door. In his left hand he clutched a hidden dagger. With his right, he slowly drew a pistol from his pocket.
MARY SURRATT STOOD in her front parlor. In her hand was a rosary, and as she nervously counted the beads, members of her household filed past her on their way to bed. As Lou Weichmann walked by, she said to him in a faint voice, “Please pray for my intentions.”66
TWELVE
"SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!"
NOBODY IN THE BOX KNEW BOOTH WAS THERE. HE STOOD in the passageway, derringer in hand, heart pounding, well aware that he had passed the point of no return. With his gaze fixed on Major Rathbone, he gripped the dagger in his pocket and took a deep breath. Stepping briskly into the box, he turned toward the president and thrust his pistol at the back of Lincoln’s head.
The sound of the explosion jolted Rathbone, and he leaped to his feet. He started toward the dark figure in the box, but pulled up short when he saw the flash of a knife. The man lunged at him, and Rathbone reeled backward with a deep cut in his arm. The intruder quickly turned toward the stage and, stepping between the chairs, planted one hand on the railing and threw himself over it.
Booth landed in a crouching position twelve feet below and sprang to his feet, light-headed from the rush of adrenaline. He set himself, faced the audience, and raised his dagger.
“Sic semper tyrannis!”
Booth was out of sight before anyone could reach him. He rounded the turn at the far end of the stage and barreled into the unlit passageway leading to the back door. Throwing the door open, he bounded into the alley, grasping for the reins of the horse that Peanuts Borrows had been holding for him. The mare was startled and tried to pull away, but Booth flung himself over the saddle and gained control with barely a second to lose. As he spun the animal around, Joseph Stewart burst out the door and fumbled in the dark to catch him. Stewart just missed the reins, and the assassin galloped away.1
Confusion and human nature had played right into Booth’s hands. He had entered the president’s box, aimed and fired his pistol, disposed of the Rathbone threat, and leaped dramatically to the stage without hindrance. He had even passed in front of a large audience, and still managed to get out the back door. He had gambled with his life, and so far his instincts had not failed him. They would be put to the test again as he tried to flee the city.
A low wooden drawbridge spanned the Eastern Branch of the Potomac, southeast of the Capitol. It bordered the Washington Navy Yard, but was guarded at both ends by army personnel. At 11:40 P.M., the sergeant of the guard was called out to examine a man who asked permission to leave the city. Though the man seemed quite at ease, his horse looked as if it had been driven hard for a short burst. The rider gave his name as Booth, and for every question Sgt. Silas T. Cobb asked, he seemed to have a forthright response. Asked where he was going, he responded, “I am going down home, down in Charles.” Asked to be more specific, he said, “I don’t live in any town . . . I live close to Beantown.” Sergeant Co
bb said he didn’t know the place, and Booth was surprised. “Good God, then you never were down there.”
“Well, didn’t you know, my friend, that it is against the laws to pass here after nine o’clock?”
“No,” said Booth. “I haven’t been in town for some time, and it is new to me.”
The sergeant eyed him closely. He seemed genteel and well-bred. His skin was ivory white, his hair perfectly coifed, his nails recently manicured. Cobb couldn’t help wondering what kept him out so late. “What is your object to be in town after nine o’clock when you have so long a road to travel?” he asked.
“It is a dark road, and I thought if I waited a spell I would have the moon.”
Cobb looked over his shoulder. A huge moon, a few days past full, had just cleared the heights in the distance. He saw nothing suspicious about the man, and he let him cross. “I will pass you,” he said, “but I don’t know as I ought to.”
“Hell!” said Booth, “I guess there’ll be no trouble about that.” It was all he could do to keep his horse under control. By the rules, he had to walk the animal to the other side.
Sergeant Cobb barely had time to get back to the guardhouse before another horseman came out of the darkness, riding a light roan. He was a smaller man, in his mid-to-late twenties, with pouchy cheeks and no whiskers. It was David Herold, but he gave his name as Smith.
“Where are you going?” asked the sergeant.
“Home to White Plains,” said the rider, referring to a place in Charles County.
“You can’t pass. It is after nine o’clock,” said Cobb. “It is against the rules.”
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