The Darkest Dawn

by Thomas Goodrich

  “Such Monsters shall not remain in my com[man]d.,” swore one general, who thereupon had the heads of two soldiers shaved, then ordered the culprits marched in front of the brigade.39 When large numbers of men in an Indiana regiment began a spontaneous celebration of Lincoln’s death, the colonel ordered mass arrests. Some of the men were hung up by their fingers and thumbs while others were bucked and gagged.40 At the very least, federal soldiers who displayed joy at the assassination could expect weeks, months, even years of prison time at hard labor.41

  When the supply of vocal victims ran low, ever-ready rabble-rousers used the excitement to deal with political foes or anyone with a history of opposition to the war and the Republican party. In the horror and confusion following Lincoln’s death, and with rumors spreading like wildfire, hundreds of pro-Confederate Northerners, or “Copperheads,” as well as Democrats, neutrals, and even moderate Republicans, were seized by their frenzied neighbors to be beaten, clubbed, and sometimes killed.42

  In Philadelphia, Boston, Battle Creek, Michigan, and other cities, victims were mobbed, then forced to perform humiliating stunts, such as singing patriotic tunes and swearing loyalty while groveling in the dirt.43 George Stone of Swampscott, Massachusetts, was seized by an angry crowd, tarred and feathered, then dragged through the streets in a rowboat while being forced to wave an American flag.44

  “Hemp and Hell for Traitors!” urged one journal, a religious periodical that claimed to be a “high Methodist and Christian authority.”45

  On the stormy night following Lincoln’s death, a shouting crowd of several hundred men and boys combed the streets of Concord, New Hampshire, searching for disloyalty and treason. After barging into a number of shops and residences, “literally driving old ladies from their houses,” the mob surrounded the stately home of Franklin Pierce. “Where is your flag?” a cynical voice demanded when the former U.S. president appeared at the door. Although opposed to many of Lincoln’s policies, Pierce was no traitor. After a courageous and dignified address by the Democrat, the satisfied mob left to search for sedition elsewhere.46

  At Buffalo, when it was noticed that there were no signs of mourning on the house, an angry mob reportedly slung mud and splashed black ink on the residence of another ex-president, Millard Fillmore. Inside the home, the same man who had so cordially hosted the Lincolns on their trip to Washington in 1861 was now bedridden with a serious illness.47 In New York City, a gang of club-wielding teenagers burst into the Staten Island home of Julia Tyler, widow of the tenth American president. Although no one was injured, before the “patriotic young men” left, they snatched from the room what was believed to be a rebel banner.

  “The flag so rudely taken away,” wrote Julia a short time later, “was a fancy tri-color, made some ten years ago. . . . It hung as an ornament above a picture. There was no other flag in the house but a large United States one.”48

  As these incidents illustrate, in the fury of the moment the mob’s madness respected neither station, age, nor gender. Indeed, those who felt that female Copperheads had been protected from punishment over the past four years because of their sex now eagerly encouraged violence against them. “There are women among us who wept for sorrow when Richmond was taken—who lamented when Lee surrendered—who rejoiced when Lincoln was assassinated,” railed the editor of an Indianapolis newspaper. “There are women in the North who, to-day say those things for which men have been imprisoned, shot and hung.”49

  At Terre Haute, Indiana, a female who reportedly shouted for Jefferson Davis was grabbed by a mob, marched through the streets waving a U.S. flag, and forced to shout for the Union.50 In Detroit, two women were driven from their homes, with one being pounded unmercifully with a broomstick.51 Another woman in Iowa, long suspected of disloyal sentiments, also was rumored to have cheered over the assassination. According to a Des Moines newspaper:

  Without giving the subject the least investigation . . . a number of women, among them the wife of the presiding elder of the Methodist church, visited the house of Mrs. Peterson, and compelled her, an invalid, to leave her house and carry an emblem of mourning, which . . . was a flag, and march around the town. She protested that she had not uttered a word of exultation at the death of the President and implored them to confront her with [the] witness; but her protestations were answered by the insulting reply that she was lying. She assured them that she was unable to walk the distance required, and if forced to perform the humiliating service they must carry her. Her protestations of innocence, her demand for the proof, her widowhood, and even the precarious condition of her health, had no power to move their pity. Go she must and they forced her out of the house and dragged her around the streets to be scoffed and jeered at, tearing her dress nearly off.

  Not content with inflicting this gross indignity upon the sick woman, they attempted to compel her little daughter, thirteen years of age, to perform the same service, and because she had spirit enough to resist the outrage, she was beaten and bruised until blood streamed from her nose and her arms were black and blue.52

  Horrifying incidents such as the above finally forced the more stable in society to speak out. After self-appointed vigilantes gutted homes and stores in Fall River, Roxbury, and other Massachusetts towns, then forced citizens to perform public humiliations, the editor of the Springfield Republican in the same state erupted when mobs took over his town.

  “[T]he police, instead of doing anything to stop it, seem rather to go round with the crowd, and enjoy the fun,” snapped the indignant newsman. “These proceedings are too shameful to be tolerated. . . . [T]hey are outrages and ought to be stopped. If a man blatantly thrusts disloyal sentiments into the faces of the community, and is rash enough to insult the loyal heart of the people in this hour of its great sorrow, we are perfectly willing, nay anxious, that he should be summarily shut up and punished according to his deserts. . . . But as long as such men keep still, let them severely alone.”53

  Though well-intentioned, such cries for sanity were largely lost in the shouts for revenge.

  Because the city’s grand victory celebration—the greatest drunken display in its history—had ended only hours earlier, when the awful news from Ford’s reached Cincinnati the reaction was especially violent. Moments after hearing the word, two jubilant men stepped onto the street and announced they were “glad” Lincoln was dead. According to one who was there, “The words had hardly escaped their lips when a man drew a pistol and shot one dead on the spot. The other was literally cut to pieces.”54 Many others in the city fared little better.55

  With bloodthirsty mobs controlling the streets of Cincinnati, homes and businesses of suspected Copperheads were looted and destroyed.56 Fearing for his life, a physician who had earlier failed to display a U.S. flag during the celebration quickly hung one from his window. Unimpressed by the gesture, a howling mob now demanded that the flag be taken down. The doctor nervously refused. As bullets and rocks battered the home, police arrived and escorted the trembling inmates to safety.57

  Unlike Cincinnati officials, who at least tried to maintain law and order, the mayor of Philadelphia announced that any who did not display symbols of mourning need expect no aid from city police.58

  Already inhabited by some of the roughest elements in America, the West Coast was especially explosive. After the initial shock had passed, a storm of anger and violence swept through San Francisco.59 In short order, and with employees fleeing for their lives, frenzied mobs entered the offices of several “obnoxious” Democratic newspapers and went to work.60 When the rioters had finished, the businesses were totally destroyed.61 To the south, the same news “fell like an avalanche” on Los Angeles, where homes were burned and many, including a black, a Jew, and a Mexican, were arrested.62

  At Westminster, Maryland, an angry mob stormed the office of a local Democratic newspaper and smashed it to splinters. The editor, Joseph Shaw, was warned that if he returned to town he would be killed on sight. As added justification
, members of the crowd insisted that the journalist was a depraved debaucher who had “led to ruin a simpleminded girl.”63

  Near Berlin, Illinois, soldiers arrested five individuals and accused them of being Missouri guerrillas. When the men were later lynched, a Springfield editor admitted that at most the victims might have been guilty of being Copperheads.64 In far-off Washington Territory, fifteen men—”horse thieves and highwaymen”—were hung in Walla Walla, and a vigilance committee had a list of 150 more to be driven out or killed.65 And in numerous other instances, the line separating the personal from the political became blurred as opportunists seized the moment to punish their foes.

  During the height of the Cincinnati riot, one unscrupulous individual spotted an old and much-hated enemy who happened to also be a loyal Union man. Pointing at his foe, and beckoning to the mob, the man yelled: “You are not sorry, eh? You shout for Jeff. Davis, do you?” As intended, the innocent victim was swiftly set upon by the crowd.66

  At San Francisco, a drunk who suffered from insane fits of jealousy grabbed a pistol, then chased his screaming wife into the yard and tried to kill her. Although the ball fortunately missed its mark, the man justified his murderous action by insisting that the woman was a “damned secesh bitch.”67

  Throughout the frenzied North, the madness continued as a deeply wounded nation turned savagely on itself. In the hours following Lincoln’s assassination, hundreds died, thousands were beaten or jailed, and countless others were forced to flee for their lives. Indeed, for those well versed in the history of the French Revolution and the Terror that came with it, the horrors of the American terror must have seemed chillingly similar. As the nation teetered on the brink of anarchy, there was a very real fear among many sane individuals that one small ball weighing less than an ounce might accomplish that which tons and tons of rebel lead had failed to do.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THIS SOBBING DAY

  WITH LITTLE OR NO RESPITE, the rain that came with Lincoln’s death continued throughout the day in Washington on Saturday, April 15. Despite the downpour, the streets of the capital were crowded with citizens. Little was said. Faces full of sadness said all.1 It was if the people were compelled by some mysterious force to join with others and mourn over a loss so profound that words were meaningless. Many moved about the city as if in a stupor. Few felt the loss more sharply than soldiers. Those who had fought for years and had grown fond of Father Abraham now reacted as if they had indeed lost a parent. “It probably means more to me than it does to you,” a cavalryman sobbed to a comrade. “He signed an order that saved me from being shot.”2

  Returning to the army hospital soon after his nightmarish duty at the Petersen home, Charles Leale was concerned about the terrible impact the assassination would have on his wounded men:

  One of my patients was profoundly depressed. He said to me: “Doctor, all we have fought for is gone. Our country is destroyed, and I want to die.” This officer the day before was safely recovering from an amputation. I called my lady nurse, “Please closely watch Lieutenant ———; cheer him as much as possible, and give him two ounces of wine every two hours. . . .” This brave soldier received the greatest kindness and skillful care, but he would not rally from the shock and died in a short time.3

  Of all groups, however, blacks were perhaps the most tragically stricken. Many were prostrate with grief. From “Crow Hill,” “Fighting Alley,” “Buzzard Town,” and other communities around Washington, frightened blacks, like their white counterparts, journeyed into the rain to mourn as one and contemplate their future. “[T]hey seemed not to know what was to be their fate since their great benefactor was dead,” observed Gideon Welles.4

  “We have lost our Moses,” sobbed one colored woman to a white man who tried to console her.

  “God will send you another,” assured the well-meaning man.

  “I know that,” replied the woman, “but we had him already.”5

  Amid the dreadful gloom and despondency, the only sign of normalcy was the newsboys. Feeding the public’s ravenous need for news, the youngsters sold black-bordered newspapers and extras almost as fast as they were printed.6 Many were sharp businessmen. “The newsboys raised the price to ten cents a copy (the regular price was five cents) and sold them like hot cakes,” one man remembered. “I heard of one newsboy who made $56.00 selling newspapers on that Saturday.”7

  While thousands struggled inwardly with their emotions, the outward manifestations of mourning were everywhere. Within hours of Lincoln’s death, down the entire length of Pennsylvania Avenue, on side streets and main thoroughfares, from the meanest hovel to the most stately mansion, hung the black symbols of grief.8

  “Washington wears a mournful aspect from center to circumference,” wrote Charles Sanford to a friend. “Miles and miles of material—from fine & expensive crape to black calico, are devoted to draping the city in mourning.”9

  Swiftly, even at drastically hiked prices, the supplies of material in the stores and shops were exhausted, and the people were reduced to hanging black aprons, scarves, ribbons, and bits of rags from doorknobs and windowsills. U.S. flags, all now lowered to half-staff, were edged in black. Those who owned portraits of the late president hung them on the outside of their homes, adding such slogans as “Our Father,” “Our Savior,” and “We mourn our loss.”10 At the distant forts surrounding Washington came the slow, steady salute of cannons thundering the terrible news. And in the city itself, from dozens of steeples, deep-voiced bells added to the gloom. And yet, impressive as the formality was, the outward display could in no way give a true expression of the heart.

  “This frowning sky, this sobbing day, these low and agonizing words, these closed stores, offices and departments, these stern sentries, pacing to and fro in strange places, these miles of crape,” wrote one reporter, “are but signs of a grief that no outward manifestations can wholly express.”11

  With each faint cannon boom and each deep bell toll, the sadness of the city was driven into each heart again and again. In rainy New York, these same sounds were a double affliction to one poor woman. The bond between her and her son was “very close, very strong,” said one who knew the two well. “No matter how far apart they were, she seemed to know, in some mysterious way, when anything was wrong with him. If he were ill, or unfit to play, he would often receive a letter of sympathy, counsel, and warning, written when she could not possibly have received any news from him.”12 That morning, as the bells tolled in New York, Mary Ann Booth felt that something truly terrible had occurred to “the fondest of all my boys.” A friend happened to be with the mother that morning:

  Outside the newsboys, with strident voice, were calling, “The President’s death, and the arrest of John Wilkes Booth.” While in answer to these words the mother moaned: “O God, if this be true, let him shoot himself, let him not live to be hung! Spare him, spare us, spare the name that dreadful disgrace!” Then came the sound of the postman’s whistle, and with the ring of the doorbell a letter was handed to Mrs. Booth. It was from John Wilkes Booth, written in the afternoon before the tragedy. . . . It was an affectionate letter, such as any mother would like to receive from her son, containing nothing of particular moment, but ghastly to read now, with the thought of what the feelings of the man must have been who held the pen in writing it, knowing what overwhelming sorrow the next few hours would bring.13

  That “overwhelming sorrow” was perhaps felt no more deeply than in the heart of another of the mother’s sons:

  A fearful calamity is upon us. The President of the United States has fallen by the hand of an assassin, and I am shocked to say suspicion points to one nearly related to you as the perpetrator of this horrid deed. God grant it may not prove so!14

  Thus, from a note written by the hand of a friend, did Edwin Booth first learn of the events of the night before. Already steady fare in one of America’s most cultured cities—one hundred consecutive full houses for his role as Hamlet alone—
Booth was an all but adopted son in Boston. “All the women are crazy about him,” one star-struck lady sighed. “[S]o silent and dark and Gawain-looking and so delightfully indifferent and so distressed. . . . [E]very one would like to do something to console him.”15 And yet, all the adulation and popularity vanished from Edwin’s mind in a flash when he received the devastating news. Even as he was performing on the Boston stage Friday night and receiving waves of applause as he always had, even then the horrid act was being committed.

  “Oh!” wrote the shattered actor, “How little did I dream . . . when on Friday night I was as Sir Edward Mortimer exclaiming ‘Where is my honor now? Mountains of shame are piled upon me!’ that I was not acting but uttering the fearful truth.”16

  “The news of the morning has made me wretched indeed,” continued Booth to a friend, “not only because I have received the unhappy tidings of the suspicion of a brother’s crime, but because a good man, and a most justly honored and patriotic ruler, has fallen, in an hour of national joy, by the hand of an assassin.”17

  As Edwin explained to another consoling friend:

  Lincoln was my President for in pure admiration of his noble career & Christian principles I did what I never did before—I voted & FOR HIM! I was two days ago one of the happiest men alive. . . . Now what am I? . . . [T]he beautiful plans I had for the future—all blasted now.18

  Although at the moment it was small consolation to the distraught, sensitive actor, few in Boston were bent on harming him because of his brother’s deed. No such charity was extended to another brother by the citizens of Cincinnati. Overhearing the hideous news while at rehearsal Saturday morning, Junius Brutus Booth, Jr., collapsed on stage. When he was revived and tried to stand, again he fainted.19 During the ensuing riot that swept the city, the actor with the now infamous name was one of the first men called for by the mob. After ripping down his playbills throughout the city, several hundred rioters surrounded the hotel where he was staying. Only the quick wits of a clerk—who nervously announced that Booth had left earlier—prevented a lynching then and there.20