The Darkest Dawn

by Thomas Goodrich

  Though some of the sheen had worn off after nearly two years of operation, Ford’s Theater still had the look and feel of a building that had opened but yesterday. Ford’s, praised a local newsman, was a “magnificent theater. . . . it had few superiors, even in our largest cities.”5 And seldom, if ever, in its brief existence had the playhouse been better represented than on this night. It had a seating capacity of over fifteen hundred, and most of the cane-bottomed chairs below and the wooden benches above were filled with a brilliantly attired audience.6 Although not present this night, Walt Whitman knew and spoke with those who were:

  [T]he theater was crowded, many ladies in rich and gay costumes, officers in their uniforms, many well known citizens, young folks, the usual clusters of gas-lights, the usual magnetism of so many people, cheerful, with perfumes, music of violins and flutes—(and over all, and saturating all, that vast vague wonder, Victory, the Nation’s Victory, the triumph of the Union, filling the air, the thought, the sense, with exhilaration more than all perfumes.)7

  As intoxicating as the atmosphere was, most were distracted. Despite the notices in the newspapers, Lincoln and Grant, the two great architects of that heady victory, had not arrived at Ford’s as announced. While many watched the doors, or looked anxiously to the box above the stage on the right, the minutes slipped by, the play continued, and it seemed that the crowning moment of the evening might be denied. By now, many in the audience were also cursing their gullibility. Aware of the demand, sharpers had bought out most of the theater’s tickets earlier in the day and resold them to the avid public at twice, even thrice, the original price.8 Nevertheless, the performance continued. Stale and hackneyed though the play may have been, it was already a historic evening of sorts. Laura Keene, the English actress who had made the comedy popular with hundreds of performances, would step down after tonight’s curtain fell, never again to star as Florence Trenchard.9 As a result, the auspicious occasion and the festive mood energized otherwise second-rate actors.

  “We were giving [a] good performance that night,” recalled Harry Hawk, whose rustic but witty American character, Asa Trenchard, poked holes in British society. “Both the company and the audience seemed in the best of humor.”10

  Then, around 8:30, Hawk glanced over the footlights to the dress circle on the second tier above. There was a stir toward the back, followed by a smattering of shouts and applause. Hawk continues:

  John Matthews, who was playing Lord Dundreary, had just asked one of his foolish conundrums, and then added in a listening way: “They don’t see it.” The people had turned and were rising in their seats. . . . I put in a “gag” line and said, “No, but they see him.” The house laughed and cheered.11

  As awareness of Lincoln’s entry raced forward like a wave, the ovation became a “storm of applause.” The crowd stamped their feet, rose from their seats, and waved hats and handkerchiefs, their cheers and shouts soon rising to a deafening roar.12 At his stand, the conductor, William Withers, tapped his baton and the orchestra struck up “Hail to the Chief.”13

  As the presidential party made their way slowly along the back wall toward the box, those in the rear could see Lincoln clearly. “I had the best opportunity to distinctly see the full face of the president, as the light shone directly upon him,” wrote Dr. Charles Leale. “After he had walked a few feet he stopped for a moment, looked upon the people he loved and acknowledged their salutations with a solemn bow. His face was perfectly stoical, his deep set eyes gave him a pathetically sad appearance.”14

  If the president seemed largely indifferent to the tumultuous welcome, his wife Mary was not. “Mrs. Lincoln smiled very happily in acknowledgment of the loyal greeting,” continued Dr. Leale. “[She] gracefully curtsied several times and seemed to be overflowing with good cheer and thankfulness.”15

  Just as Lincoln reached the door to the private box, he paused again and bowed formally to the people. The jubilant crowd would not be denied, however, and the cheers and stamping of feet continued even when the president entered and was lost to sight. At length, Lincoln came to the rail of the box, bowed one final time, then presented to the audience what it had demanded in the first place—one of his “never-to-be-forgotten smiles.” Only moments before, Daniel Beekman had thought Lincoln the homeliest man he had ever seen. When the president smiled, though, “it so changed his countenance, that . . . it was the most heavenly smile I ever saw on a man’s face.”16

  “It was positively beautiful,” added John Downing, Jr., as he looked up at the happy president. “I never saw one like it on any other human face. It seemed to come from the heart.”17

  At length, Lincoln finally took his seat, and after one last shout, the satisfied crowd returned to theirs as well.18 A buzz of electric excitement continued to fill the theater as most expected to see General Grant enter at any moment.

  Despite encroaching bad weather, the carnival atmosphere was also in progress beyond the walls of Ford’s. Even after a weeklong celebration, the denizens of the nation’s capital seemed unwilling, after forty-eight months of war, to return to normal. While crowds along Pennsylvania Avenue drank, shouted, and shot off roman candles and blue lights, a huge torchlight procession of blacksmiths, carriage-makers, painters, and clerks from the Federal Arsenal, with bands blaring, marched toward Secretary Stanton’s home to celebrate the flag-raising at Fort Sumter. Even after so many other parades, the spectacle of nearly fifteen hundred men carrying signs and banners was, said a viewer, “brilliant and imposing.”19

  A short distance away, outside Grover’s Theater, a large transparency, glowing eerily in the mist, spelled out the epitaph of the Confederacy:

  April, 1861, the cradle.

  April, 1865, the grave.20

  Inside Grover’s, the colorful extravaganza Aladdin, or the Wonderful Lamp was in progress. Seated near the front with his tutor, and with his eyes riveted on the stage, was Mary and Abraham Lincoln’s youngest son.21 Ill-mannered and utterly spoiled by his indulgent parents, Tad Lincoln was both a trial and a terror to White House visitors and staff, bossing and insulting any and all who crossed his path. To gain his father’s attention, the angry twelve-year-old once kicked over a game of checkers that the president and a friend were enjoying. In any other American family, such behavior would have earned the child a half-dozen strokes well laid on. Much to the shock of the checker opponent, the father merely smiled. The boy was on his best behavior tonight, though, and the colorful performance totally engaged his attention.

  Not everyone in Washington was in the theaters or reveling on the streets. The Lincolns’ oldest son, Robert, was spending an uneventful but restful evening at the White House, studying Spanish and joking with his friend, presidential secretary John Hay. The two also chatted at length about Robert’s impressions of General Lee.

  Just across from the White House, at the three-story home in Lafayette Park, all was still and subdued. While the president was receiving thunderous ovations and Edwin Stanton, who had visited the secretary of state earlier that evening, was delivering a torchlit speech to thousands, William Seward was dozing in bed with his jaw wired shut, the glory of victory passing him by. In the darkened room nearby, a nurse, Sergeant George Robinson, watched over his patient. Elsewhere throughout the home, Seward’s wife, Frances, his teenage daughter, Fanny, his grown sons, Frederick and Augustus, and a black servant, William Bell, ensured that the house remained quiet and that the secretary of state rested peacefully.22

  In his room at the Kirkwood House, Andrew Johnson was also spending a quiet night. After his ludicrous display at the second inaugural, rumors were rife that the vice president had taken the pledge and joined the “Temperance Society.” It would take much, much more than a vow of sobriety to rehabilitate Johnson’s tarnished career, however, and five weeks after the fiasco, he remained, as before, the scandal of the civilized world.23

  Florence: Why, what on earth has a dog’s tail to do with a cart?

  Lord Dundreary:
When it moves about, you know. A horse makes a cart move, so does a dog make his tail move.

  Florence: Oh, I see what you mean—when it’s a wagon.

  Lord Dundreary: Well, a wagon and a cart are the same thing, ain’t they?

  Florence: They are not the same. . . . there’s a very great difference.

  Lord Dundreary: Now I’ve got another. Why does a dog waggle his tail?

  Florence: Upon my word, I never inquired.

  Lord Dundreary: Because the tail can’t waggle the dog. Ha! Ha!

  Such a simpleminded script performed by a second-rate crew could hardly be expected to entertain a sophisticated audience that already knew the punch lines. And yet, with each stale pun and each corny joke, the jubilant crowd responded with round upon round of undeserved shouts and laughter.

  “It was one laugh from the time the curtain went up until it fell,” said Harry Hawk.24 As the actor well knew, much of the evening’s stellar success was due to its star, Laura Keene, who seemed bent on giving the greatest performance of her life.25 Another reason for the nearly nonstop hilarity was the willingness of the cast to extemporize. Encouraged by the shouts and cheers of the crowd, the players tailored their lines to suit the moment. When humorous asides were directed at the president, Lincoln “laughed heartily” and often stood to take a bow.26 In one scene, Harry Hawk and a young lady were chatting when the sensitive girl suggested that the two move elsewhere to avoid a chilly draft.27 Hawk rose to the bait.

  “You are mistaken,” announced the actor aloud. “The draft has already been stopped by order of the President.”28

  A great shout erupted, followed by thunderous applause; those who had lived in mortal dread of conscription now laughed “long and loud” in nervous relief.29 Many other humorous allusions were aimed at Lincoln and the war, with each drawing bursts of laughter. One line, which earned the least response and seemed ill-timed, came when Harry Hawk’s character had just won the prize in an archery contest.

  “[I] hadn’t done nothing,” said Hawk, “all it required was a steady hand [and] a clear eye—to pull the trigger & the mark was hit.” As the actor finished, he stared straight up at Lincoln. The strained silence was soon broken, however, by another silly pun and renewed waves of laughter.30

  “[T]hey laugh and shout at every clownish witticism,” wrote Julia Shepard, who, like many others, seemed more amused by those around her than by the farce on stage.31 Unfortunately for Julia and almost everyone else in the theater, little could be seen of Abraham Lincoln. Because of the position of his red rocking chair and the angle of the flag-draped box, only occasionally did the president’s famous profile appear. Several times Lincoln laid his arms along the railing, resting his chin absentmindedly as he searched the crowd for familiar faces.32 At other times, with his elbow planted on the arm of the chair and his head resting on his hand, Lincoln was visible, “looking utterly worn out and apparently in deep thought.”33 Feeling a chill, the president once arose to slip on his overcoat.34

  But if few could actually see Lincoln, all felt his presence. “[W]e know that ‘Father Abraham’ is there,” mused Julia Shepard, “like a father watching what interests his children, for their pleasure rather than his own.”35

  One man who did have a reasonably good view of the president was army physician Charles Taft. “[F]rom where I sat, almost under the box, I could see him plainly,” recalled Taft. “Mrs. Lincoln rested her hand on his knee much of the time, and often called his attention to some humorous situation on the stage. She seemed to take great pleasure in witnessing his enjoyment. . . . [He] never applauded with his hands, but he laughed heartily on occasion.”36

  Annie Wright, wife of the stage manager, was also below the box:

  Several times I glanced up at the Presidential party from my seat below and each time Mr. Lincoln was leaning on the rail of the box, his thin, long face resting between his great hands as his elbows rested on the rail. Each time I glanced upward it seemed that Mr. Lincoln had his gaze focused upon me, and I unconsciously recalled that I had been told that I resembled Mrs. Lincoln and became embarrassed. However, I couldn’t resist the temptation to look up at the President.37

  For all practical purposes, Clara Harris and Henry Rathbone might just as well have been the furniture they sat on. In love, on their best behavior, the couple remained all but invisible. Little noticed, the guests spoke when spoken to, laughed on cue, and strained every nerve to look relaxed and happy. At around 9:30, Clara Harris’s attention was distracted from the play to the rear of the box by the sound of the door opening. Glancing back, she saw in the darkness a man quickly scan the position of those in the box, then slip quietly back and close the door. The young woman dismissed the incident as little more than the rude behavior of a curious gawker.38 Indeed, across the theater opposite the presidential box, numerous people paraded to the dress circle to stand and stare in hopes of gaining a glimpse of Grant and Lincoln.39

  One man in particular aroused some passing attention. He seemed more intent on elbowing his way slowly along the wall toward the president’s box than on watching the comedy. At times, his handsome face appeared “restless, excited”; at other times it was perfectly relaxed. He was heard humming a tune.40 In the cast that night, Jeannie Gourlay was startled when she glanced over the footlights and saw him above. “He looked so pale,” she said, “I scarcely knew him.”41

  At the home on Lafayette Park, a doorbell rang.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  TERROR ON

  LAFAYETTE PARK

  AS A SERVANT IN THE SEWARD HOME, William Bell’s job was to ensure that the household ran smoothly. Among his many duties was screening those who called on the secretary of state. Since the carriage accident earlier in the month, the parade of friends, well-wishers, and the merely curious had been heavy, but with few exceptions most were turned away. Although he was slowly recovering, the secretary was in no condition to receive so many guests. Thus, when the young black man answered the doorbell at around ten this misty night, he knew that his response would be simple: The secretary was unavailable.

  As the slightly built servant opened the door, he saw standing before him a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a light overcoat. A wide-brimmed hat was pulled low on the man’s head, partly covering his eyes. In a pleasant voice, the visitor explained that the small package he held was medicine from Seward’s doctor. The handsome stranger then added that he had orders to deliver the medicine and instructions to Seward in person. When Bell announced that this was out of the question, that he would deliver the packet himself, the huge man glared down at him. “Must go up—must see him—must see him,” the stranger mumbled as he stepped around Bell. Fearing that the persistent intruder might indeed be an important messenger, the little servant decided that he would at the very least escort him to Frederick Seward or George Robinson. Dashing ahead, the worried employee led the way up the stairs.1

  “I noticed that his step was very heavy,” recalled Bell. “I asked him not to walk so heavy [as] he would disturb Mr. Seward.”2

  Clad only in his underwear, Frederick Seward stood waiting on the landing at the top of the stairs.3 When the man again insisted that he must deliver the packet in person, the son was firm: “You cannot see him; you cannot see him. I am the proprietor here; I am Mr. Seward’s son; if you cannot leave it with me, you cannot leave it at all.”4

  “Wouldn’t you think that person would be more quiet coming up to a sickroom?” Sgt. George Robinson whispered to Fanny Seward upon hearing the commotion beyond the bedroom.5 The secretary’s teenage daughter had joined Robinson to watch over her father until an older brother, Augustus, could relieve her at eleven. The gas jets had been turned down, and her father was resting quietly. With the noise outside, however, the injured man grew restless, then finally opened his eyes.6

  “I . . . hastened to the door, opened it a very little & found Fred standing close by it, facing me,” remembered Fanny. “On his right hand, also close by the
door, stood a very tall young man.”

  As Fanny peered through the crack, she could see that Fred was barring the way into the bedroom. Fanny also perceived that her slightly built brother was extremely nervous. When the huge stranger gruffly asked the girl if her father was asleep, Fred quickly pulled the door shut.7

  At length, Fred Seward’s determination seemed to pay off, and the unwelcome visitor turned to follow William Bell back down the stairs. After only a few steps, the servant again asked the man to walk more quietly. Hardly had Bell spoken when the stranger turned and sprang swiftly back toward the door. Pulling out a large pistol, the man brought it crashing down on Fred Seward’s head. Again and again he clubbed the stunned victim.8

  “[B]y the time I had turned clear round Mr. Fred. had fallen and thrown up his hands,” said the horrified servant. Racing down the stairs, Bell threw open the front door screaming “Murder . . . Murder.”9

  “What can be the matter?” Fanny asked George Robinson. Hearing several sharp and heavy blows, the girl first thought that a rat was loose upstairs, remembering one such incident in the past.10 Himself concerned, Robinson arose and opened the door. Hardly had the nurse glanced out and spotted Fred Seward covered in blood than he was himself knocked violently to the floor.11

  Bursting through the door, the attacker now ran into the bedroom and leaped on the helpless form of the secretary of state. Drawing a large knife, the man began slashing at the head and neck of his victim. The blade felt cold, thought Seward in his semi-conscious state, as did the liquid running down his face, which, in his delirium, he mistook for rain. When the injured man rolled from the bed and onto the floor, the savage blows continued.12