The Last Weeks of Abraham Lincoln

by David Alan Johnson

  The front of the box had been decorated with red, white, and blue bunting, along with the regimental flag of the Treasury Guard and a portrait of George Washington. After the Lincolns and their guests sat down, the audience could not see anyone in the state box—they were seated too far back to be seen from below. The president made it even more difficult by leaning back in an upholstered rocking chair, which the management of the theater had provided for his comfort. Most of the people in attendance had come to see the president, not the show; scalpers were charging $2.50 for tickets that normally sold for $0.75 to $1.00, and the house was nearly sold out. Many had hoped to see General Grant, as well. But everyone was very glad to see President Lincoln and more than happy to pay the inflated ticket prices just to get a glimpse of him.

  Our American Cousin is a three-act British farce by Tom Taylor. The plot revolves around Asa Trenchard's visit to his relatives in England, where has gone to claim his inheritance. Asa Trenchard, the American cousin, is an awkward country bumpkin; his English relatives are aristocratic snobs and are generally not very bright. The play had first been performed in the United States in 1858 and was very well received—it had played for five consecutive months in New York.40 Laura Keene, the well-known British actress, played the part of Florence Trenchard, the daughter of the patrician family. For this particular performance, new lines were added to bring the script up to date. One of the new exchanges occurred when a character complained about sitting too close to a drafty window: “If you please, ask the dairy maid to let me have a seat in the dairy. I am afraid of the draft here.” Lord Dundreary responds, “Don't be alarmed. The draft has already been stopped by order of the President.”41

  Everyone seemed to be enjoying the play, including the Lincolns and their guests. Mary Lincoln frequently applauded the action down on stage, and the president laughed out loud whenever a line struck him as particularly funny. He would occasionally lean forward, which made him visible to the audience. Whenever this would happen, everyone would stop looking at the stage and turn toward the president's box. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Abraham Lincoln was the star at Ford's Theatre that night.

  Mary Lincoln was glad that her husband was having a good time, particularly after such a long and active day, and “seemed to take great pleasure in his enjoyment.”42 But the president's official duties did not end just because he happened to be at the theater. During an intermission, a message from the War Department was delivered to the president at his box. President Lincoln read the telegram and decided that his response could wait until morning. The sudden appearance of the messenger startled Clara Harris; she had not expected anyone to call on the president while he was at the theater.

  The president saw Henry Rathbone take Clara's hand during the performance. Inspired by his guest's example, he decided to follow suit and took Mary's hand. She leaned close to her husband and whispered, “What will Miss Harris think of my hanging on to you so?” The president smiled and said, “She won't think anything about it.”43

  The performance carried on toward the play's inevitable happy ending. During the third act, when the comedy was nearly over, a loud noise came from the president's box. Afterward, people in the audience recalled that it was more of a “crack” than a “bang.” Nobody thought that it was a gunshot. Immediately after the strange noise, which happened at about 10:13, a man with a knife in his hand jumped out of the box and landed on the stage. It was not a clean jump—the spur on his right boot caught on the Treasury Guard flag, which caused the man to land heavily on his left foot. He fell forward on his hands, got up, shouted something at the audience—some thought it was “Sic semper tyrannis,” others thought it was “The South is avenged”—and limped off into the wings.44

  The audience had no idea what had happened. Some of the spectators thought that something special had been added to the performance, an unusual bit of stage business to mark the president's appearance. Quite a few people recognized John Wilkes Booth as the man who jumped out of the Lincolns’ box. Booth was very well known to the theater-going public, and had appeared at Ford's Theatre on any number of occasions. But when he landed on the stage, the performance came to a dead stop—none of the actors seemed to know what was happening either.

  There was just as much confusion in the president's box. Mrs. Lincoln turned toward her husband when she heard the noise. Major Rathbone stood up and tried to stop the intruder. John Wilkes Booth dropped his derringer, drew a dagger, and stabbed the major in the arm, slashing it to the bone. Booth forced his way past Rathbone, shouted something about revenge for the South, and jumped over the edge of the box onto the stage. Major Rathbone shouted for someone to stop him. Mary Lincoln finally realized what had happened and began shrieking, “They have shot the President! They have shot the President!”45

  The audience was also now aware of what had happened. Most people were on their feet. Some tried to leave the theater. Some wandered up onto the stage. From the stage, Laura Keene shouted for everyone to keep calm. But everyone was too excited to pay any attention. Some made their way out onto the street and began spreading the word that the president had been shot.

  Charles A. Leale, a young army surgeon, managed to reach the president in spite of the chaos and found Lincoln slumped over in his rocking chair. He ordered some soldiers who were standing outside the box to lay President Lincoln on the floor, and began an examination to find the wound. The doctor was looking for a knife wound—he had heard someone say something about seeing a man with a knife and knew that Major Rathbone had been attacked with a knife. But after removing the president's shirt and undershirt, he could not find any sign of a knife wound. Dr. Leale looked at the president's head, and found the bullet wound that had been made by John Wilkes Booth's derringer.

  The bullet—actually a .44 caliber lead ball—had entered the president's skull behind the left ear and had gone through the brain toward the right eye. “The ball entered through the occipital bone about one inch to the left of the median line,” according to an autopsy report written by Dr. J. J. Woodward on April 15.46 Dr. Leale examined the wound to determine if the lead ball had exited the skull, and found that it had not—it was still lodged in the brain.

  The doctor cleared the blood clot that was forming around the bullet wound, which relieved pressure on the brain. Next, he opened the president's mouth and opened up his airway, so that he could breathe more easily. Another army surgeon, Dr. Charles Taft, was also admitted into the box. He assisted Dr. Leale by raising and lowering the president's arms while Dr. Leale administered artificial respiration. The two doctors soon had President Lincoln breathing again, but he did not regain consciousness. Both Dr. Leale and Dr. Taft agreed that the president's wound was mortal.47

  While the doctors were doing their best to save President Lincoln, several other people had come into the president's box. Clara Harris was doing her best to comfort Mrs. Lincoln, Laura Keene had also entered the box, and a young obstetrician named Albert King had also managed to find his way to the president's side. It was evident that President Lincoln had to be moved out of this crowded setting. Dr. Leale ordered six soldiers to carry the president out of the box. They carried him down the stairs and out into the street. There was some discussion over where the president should be taken. Dr. Leale decided that moving him to the White House was out of the question. His concern was “that with the jostling in the street going back to the White House, they could have made the injuries far worse because the bullet was still in the brain, potentially bouncing around.”48 Instead, he was taken to the home of William Petersen, just across the street.

  The president was carried up the steps, through the front door of the house, and into a small bedroom, where he was placed diagonally across a four-poster bed—he was too tall to fit lengthwise. Major Rathbone and Clara Harris went back to Ford's Theatre to bring Mrs. Lincoln over to Petersen's house. When she saw her husband, she screamed, asked someone to bring Tad, and shouted that she her
self should have been shot instead of her husband. After a few minutes, she was gently led away to another room, where she cried uncontrollably.

  News of the shooting had already begun to spread throughout Washington. The Marquis de Chambrun was getting ready to go to bed, at around 11 o'clock, when a “fellow lodger” knocked on his door and shouted, “The president had been assassinated.”49 The two of them rushed out into the street and made their way over to Ford's Theatre through the crowd that had already gathered. Just opposite the theater, “a cordon of troops” had been stationed in front of the Petersen house. “The soldiers were crying like children, but were also dangerously exasperated,” Chambrun observed. “At the smallest move among the bystanders, they would have fired without hesitation.”

  Chambrun could see that there was absolutely no chance of getting anywhere near the Petersen house, so he decided to stand out in the street and wait for news. While he was waiting, the marquis recognized Clara Harris; he had spoken with Clara that afternoon at the White House. “The unhappy girl was spattered with blood but found words to tell me that the President was dead.”50 The blood was probably Major Rathbone's, not the president's, and Lincoln was not dead, Chambrun was informed—“slight pulsation could, it seemed, be detected, showing that the heart still beat.”

  General and Mrs. Grant first heard about the assassination in Philadelphia, where they had stopped on their way to Burlington, New Jersey. The general had not eaten anything since nine o'clock that morning; he and his wife were at a restaurant when the news came—a telegram from the War Department was handed to him while he waited for a dish of oysters:

  War Department, Washington

  April 14, 1865, midnight

  Lieut. Gen. U. S. GRANT

  On the night train to Burlington

  “The President was assassinated at Ford's Theatre at 10 30 tonight & cannot live. The wound is a Pistol shot through the head. Secretary Seward & his son Frederick, were also assassinated at their residence & are in a dangerous condition. The Secretary of War desires that you return to Washington immediately. Please answer on receipt of this.”

  Thomas T. Eckert51

  As soon as he read the dispatch, General Grant turned pale and his entire demeanor changed. He wife noted the change, and asked, “Is anything the matter?”52

  “Yes, something very serious has happened,” the general answered, and asked his wife not to cry out or show any emotion when she heard the news. “The President has been assassinated at the theater, and I must go back at once. I will take you to Burlington (an hour away), see the children, order a special train, and return as soon as it is ready.”

  The general did not say very much on the trip to Burlington. Julia Grant asked if he had any thoughts as to who might have shot the president and what might have been the motive. “Oh, I don't know,” General Grant said. “But this fills me with the gloomiest apprehension. The President was inclined to be kind and magnanimous,” he continued, “and his death at this time is an irreparable loss to the South, which now needs so much both his tenderness and magnanimity.”

  “This will make Andy Johnson President, will it not?” Mrs. Grant asked.

  “Yes,” General Grant answered, “and for some reason I dread the change.”

  When the Grants arrived at their house in Burlington, nobody went to bed; they had callers all through the night. “Crowds of people came thronging into our cottage to learn if the terrible news was true.” Julia Grant remembered. General Grant left for Washington during the night, “while it was yet starlight.”53

  Secretary of State Seward and Vice-President Johnson had also been marked for assassination. Some believed that General Grant had been targeted, as well. Assistant secretary of war Charles Dana sent General Grant a warning about a possible assassination attempt, which arrived directly after the general received the War Department's telegram. “Permit me to suggest to you to keep a close watch on all persons who come near you in the cars or otherwise,” Dana advised, “also that an engine be sent in front of the train to guard against anything being on the tracks.”54

  According to Colonel Horace Porter, Charles Dana's warning was well-founded. Colonel Porter gave an account of an incident involving General Grant that took place on the train to Burlington. “Before the train reached Baltimore a man appeared on the front platform of the car, and tried to get in,” he wrote, “but the conductor had locked the door so that the general would not be troubled by visitors.”55 On the following morning, a note written to General Grant arrived at the Grants’ house in Burlington. Julia Grant opened and read it: “General Grant, thank God, as I do, that you still live. It was your life that fell to my lot, and I followed you on the cars. Your car door was locked, and thus you escaped me, thank God!”56

  Vice-President Andrew Johnson was also to have been killed, but his intended murderer, George Atzerodt, did not carry out his assignment. Atzerodt had taken the room directly above Vice-President Johnson's at the Kirkwood House hotel, a short walk from Ford's Theatre. According to John Wilkes Booth's instructions, Atzerodt was supposed to have knocked on Johnson's door, entered his room, and stabbed him with a Bowie knife. But he could not go through with his assignment. Instead, he left the hotel and spent most of the night drinking in a local bar.

  Lewis Powell very nearly carried out his assignment, which was the murder of Secretary of State William Seward. Powell arrived at Secretary Seward's house in Lafayette Square just after ten o'clock. He knocked on the door, walked past a servant, and walked up the stairs toward the secretary's bedroom. Frederick Seward met Powell at the top of the stairs. Powell told Frederick that he had some medicine for Secretary Seward, showed Frederick a small package he was carrying, and explained that he was under orders to deliver it to the secretary in person. Frederick assured Powell that he would make certain his father would receive the medicine. Powell appeared to turn around, as if to leave, but turned and drew a revolver from his coat. The revolver misfired; Powell struck Frederick Seward over the head with it, knocking him unconscious and fracturing his skull.

  Secretary Seward was in bed, recovering from his carriage accident, and was being looked after by his daughter Fanny and an army nurse named George Foster Robinson. Private Robinson heard the scuffle, and opened the bedroom door to see about the noise. Powell punched Robinson—“struck at his breast,” according to a newspaper account—ran past Fanny, and rushed toward Secretary Seward's bed with a large knife.

  Seward was much too weak to evade his attacker. Powell jumped on the bed and began stabbing, cutting Seward's face, head, and neck. By this time, Robinson had recovered. He pulled Powell off the bed and onto the floor, which gave Secretary Seward the chance to roll off the bed and out of harm's way. Fanny had been screaming hysterically through all this, which awakened her brother Augustus Seward and sent him rushing off to his father's room. Young Augustus and Private Robinson wrestled with Powell, but somehow he managed to get away. He ran down the stairs and out to the street, shouting that he was mad, and rode off on his horse. When Secretary Seward rolled out of bed, he had dragged the sheets onto the floor; Robinson and Augustus found him wrapped in the sheets, “lying in a pool of blood.”57

  Gideon Welles came to see Secretary Seward shortly after Powell left the house. A messenger had informed him that both the president and Secretary Seward had been assassinated. Because the Seward residence “was on the east side of the square, mine being on the north,” he decided to visit the secretary first—his house was just a short walk across Lafayette Square.58

  As soon as Secretary Welles entered the house, the servants confirmed the fact that “an assassin or assassins had entered the house and assaulted the Secretary,” and said that “Mr. Frederick was also badly injured.” Frederick Seward's wife pointed the way to William Seward's room. “The Secretary was lying on his back, the upper part of his head covered by a cloth, which extended down over his eyes,” Secretary Welles remembered. “His mouth was open and the lower jaw
dropping down.” His cheek had almost been cut off his face, and just flapped loose. A metal brace, which he had been wearing ever since his earlier accident, saved his jugular vein from being severed, and also saved his life.

  Welles also looked in on Frederick Seward, who was lying in an adjoining room. “His eyes were open but he did not move them, nor a limb, nor did he speak,” Welles wrote. The doctor in attendance said that he was “more dangerously injured than his father.” Young Frederick's skull had been badly fractured; there was a good chance that he would not recover.

  Secretary of War Edwin Stanton entered the Seward house directly after Secretary Welles. After visiting Secretary Seward and his son, they left the house together and decided to “attend the president immediately,” riding by carriage over to the Petersen house. Quartermaster General Montgomery Meigs and District of Columbia chief justice David K. Cartter rode in the carriage along with them. Major Thomas T. Eckert of the War Department Telegraph Service rode behind the carriage, and two soldiers rode on either side.

  The group and their escort made their way through the crowds that had taken over that part of Washington. “The streets were full of people,” Secretary Welles would later write. “Not only on the sidewalk but the carriage way was to some extent occupied, all or nearly all hurrying towards 10th Street.” When they reached Tenth Street and drove toward the Petersen house, “we found it pretty closely packed.”