The Darkest Dawn

by Thomas Goodrich

  Surprisingly, the youngest and smallest put up the greatest struggle of all. As David Herold fought desperately to reach the rope that was slowly strangling him to death, his tortured body began discharging urine.76

  Among the stunned spectators, there was only “breathless silence” for several minutes as the two victims waged a mighty struggle between life and death.77

  “It was an awful sight,” one of those in the crowd said later.78

  At length, except for brief spasms of the legs and hands, the bodies of Powell and Herold, like those of Surratt and Atzerodt, were still. For almost half an hour the corpses were allowed to dangle and twist in the blistering sun, while shaken spectators silently moved to the shade or left the yard entirely. Finally, several soldiers were ordered up to cut down the bodies. In his haste, one corporal slashed the rope suspending George Atzerodt before those below were ready to catch him. The body dropped to the ground with a ghastly thump, causing a “swift and sharp shudder” among onlookers. The careless soldier was ordered down and reprimanded.79 When Mary Surratt was gently lowered and her limp head fell to her breast, another soldier jokingly commented that “she makes a nice bow.” An outraged officer nearby was not amused and hotly rebuked the callous individual.80

  While physicians began their medical examinations, those seeking souvenirs of the event were busily at work. Already the gallows itself was being hacked and carved for mementos. Those irreverent soldiers who had cut the bodies down now whacked off as much of the ropes as they could reach and began laughingly tossing pieces to friends below.81

  “The scramble for the twine far exceeded that for the blocks and scraps of wood,” wrote an officer. “The men scuffling good humoredly for a ‘rope-relic’ rolled into one of the freshly dug graves, and before they could extricate themselves half a dozen shovel fulls of earth had been thrown upon them by laughing comrades.”82

  The noose that had strangled Mary Surratt was removed from her neck and presented to an officer with pieces of flesh still clinging to the fiber. During an unguarded moment, when the officer laid his trophy down, it was promptly stolen by another soldier.83

  “After we were relieved from guard,” recalled a friend of the thief, “he divided it up among us. Then some of the boys went down town and bought some rope like it, cut it into pieces two inches long, and labeled them for each of those executed and sold them for 50 cents each.”84

  After the medical examination—not one neck had been broken—the bodies were placed in the coffins along with bottles containing their names.85

  As the dirt was being shoveled onto the boxes, many naturally saw this act as the final page in a seemingly endless tragedy that had begun so far back that it seemed from another age. And yet, even as the coffins were disappearing beneath the dust, a divisive debate spread across the United States that would continue for years. Raged the editor of the Washington Daily Times:

  Of the many dark deeds which disgrace the pages of history, the infliction of the extreme penalty of the law upon females is the most debasing. No gentleman of refinement . . . , no man who is mindful of the fact that to woman he is indebted for his existence—no man in whose breast the true fire of manhood burns—no matter what his position in life may be, could be guilty of affixing his name to an order for the execution of a woman upon the gallows. . . .

  But much as we, in common with all true men, deprecate the hanging of females, there was nevertheless, a woman hung in this city. . . . The capital of this fair nation has thus been disgraced. . . . [I]n conclusion, we will say, that for the men we had no sympathy. It is for the woman that we speak; her sex pleaded for mercy in her behalf. . . . Has manhood departed from the earth?86

  Some blamed the grim officers who composed the military tribunal. “That nine men of ordinary respectable character in the Federal army, colonels, brigadiers, and major-generals,” wrote one critic, “should have been so lost to all sense of duty and humanity, so ineffably brutal, as to sentence a woman to death for nothing, is a very strong proposition.”87

  As many more, though, including the editor of the Washington Evening Star, felt that justice had been served.

  The last act of the tragedy of the 19th century is ended, and the curtain dropped forever upon the lives of four of its actors. Payne [sic], Herold, Atzerodt and Mrs. Surratt, have paid the penalty of their awful crime. . . . In the bright sunlight of this summer day . . . the wretched criminals have been hurried into eternity; and tonight, will be hidden in despised graves, loaded with execrations of mankind.88

  Some editors, such as those at the Philadelphia Ledger, the Newark Advertiser, and the Alton Illinois Telegraph, were especially elated that the “she-rebel,” Mary Surratt, had paid for her crimes.89 It was Southern females, they argued, who had encouraged the war and helped prolong it in the first place, and it now seemed fitting that one, at least, should pay, not only for these sins, but for the most atrocious crime of the war. For these angry people, Mary Surratt was a “burnt offering”—the most visible symbol of all Southern womanhood.

  “I cannot see, for my life, why a woman who commits the same crime as a man, is not as guilty,” reasoned a Massachusetts teenager in his journal. “Mrs. Surratt was the great cause of Mr. Lincoln’s murder, and Mrs. Seward’s death.”90

  For the above reasons and more, that evening following the executions, huge crowds of morbid curiosity-seekers surrounded the Surratt house, drawn not only by the hope of seeing Mary’s body brought back, but also by the hysterical shrieks of Anna within. The surging mass became so great that a detail of policemen were dispatched to prevent the more brazen from entering the home. Already, before police arrived, relic-hunters had chopped pieces from the porch for souvenirs.91

  Also that evening, Burton Harrison was taken out of his cell at the prison for his customary walk around the courtyard. As he stepped through the door, Harrison was horrified to see, near the path he had worn down over the weeks, a scaffold rising from the ground. And just beyond that, also in his path, he saw the horrible mounds—” like beads upon a string,” he thought to himself over and over, “like beads upon a string.”92

  As with Harrison, the four conspirators who had escaped with their lives—Samuel Arnold, Dr. Mudd, Michael O’Laughlen, and Edman Spangler—were unaware in their isolation who had died that day and who, other than they, had lived. And for others in the prison, for those like Burton Harrison who were ignorant of their own fate, all aged “ten years in a day,” fully expecting that their turn on the drop would come with each minute that passed. That night, as Harrison lay in his cell, he listened carefully for the sound he was sure would never come again—the faint, melancholy whistle that had been his only salvation as he struggled with his sanity in solitary confinement. Throughout the night he prayed for the sound. And then, echoing ever so weakly up the ventilation shaft, he heard it—a “faint, tremulous, dejected whistle.” For Burton Harrison, the sound seemed the greatest of miracles. In a moment, the whistle was drowned out by his own loud and delirious laughter.93

  EPILOGUE:

  THE HAUNTED STAGE

  “THE CURTAIN HAS FALLEN upon the most solemn tragedy of the nineteenth century,” wrote the relieved editor of the Washington National Intelligencer. “God grant that our country may never again witness such another one.”1

  As the words above attest, after four years of terrible war, which had ended on the most tragic note imaginable, Americans desperately longed to put the past behind them and get on with a normal life of peace and prosperity. And yet, for millions of ordinary people, particularly in the South, it would be decades before the impact of the Lincoln assassination began to release its terrible hold on their lives. And for those directly involved in the events of April–July 1865, the curtain had certainly not rung down for them. Indeed, in many ways their ordeal had just begun.

  July 8, 1865

  Secretary,

  I make my last appeal to the authorities, that is, that they will allow me to receive
the remains of my mother. She lived a Christian life, died a Christian death, and NOW don’t refuse her a Christian burial. If it be in your power I know you will allow me her body immediately.

  Yours Respectfully,

  Anna Surratt

  This favor at your hands will be rewarded.2

  Edwin Stanton did indeed have the power. But to the tearful appeal, the secretary of war turned a deaf ear. Believing to his core that all the conspirators, including the distraught young woman’s mother, deserved death, Stanton had no intention of giving up the bodies, including Booth’s, out of fear that not only the curious public but rebel sympathizers would wear out a path to their graves and transform simple stones into shrines and cowardly assassins into martyrs.3 Already, the Surratt house was becoming one of the top tourist attractions in America, as was the scene of the opening act of the tragedy, Ford’s Theater. Unlike the former site, however, the latter was still under the iron grip of the U.S. military, and neither Stanton nor President Johnson had any intention of relinquishing it.

  After his release from prison, the financially strapped proprietor, John Ford, tried to reopen his theater on July 10 with a sold-out performance of The Octoroon. Before showtime that evening, a file of soldiers appeared and promptly shut the owner down again.4 Outraged by the act, furious that each day his theater sat vacant he was driven deeper into debt, Ford went to see the secretary of war. Curtly informing the theater owner that there would never be another performance on the fateful stage, Stanton showed Ford the door.5

  “Nothing could be more despotic,” fumed Ford’s friend Orville Browning, “and yet in this free Country Mr Ford is utterly helpless, and without the means of redress[.]”6

  With no other option left, John Ford placed his property on the block. Although many were interested, including Henry Ward Beecher, who had hoped to turn the theater into a church, all found the asking price, one hundred thousand dollars, too steep.7

  Even without the high-handed government decree, there is every indication that Stanton was merely expressing the sentiment of a majority of Americans. The thought of reopening the theater where Lincoln was shot, announced the New York Times, was “an outrage upon propriety.”8 Christian zealots, already convinced that the stage was an abomination where the only fare was “profanity and pollution,” were righteously indignant at Ford’s attempt to reopen. To allow him to do so, said one preacher, “could only be agreeable to the enemies of the cause in which Mr. Lincoln fell.”9 There were more menacing threats as well.

  “Take even fifty thousand for it, and build another . . . but do not attempt to open it again,” wrote an individual to Ford who signed his threat “one of the many determined to prevent it.”10

  Wisely, John Ford did not press the issue, and when the federal government offered him fifteen hundred dollars a month to keep the building closed, the defeated theater owner at last acquiesced.11

  The situation was reversed at the home of William Petersen. With the doors at Ford’s closed, hordes of frustrated tourists simply strolled across the street, where the door was more than open. At fifty cents per person, Petersen was growing rich showing an avid public the sofa where Mary Lincoln had shrieked the night away and the bed where her husband had died. Not satisfied with this bonanza, the wily homeowner continued to press the government for remuneration for the destruction he had suffered on the night of April 14–15. Five hundred and fifty dollars was the figure Petersen advanced for all the bloody pillows and torn sheets, as well as the mud-stained rugs. Many felt such a claim bordered on sacrilege.12

  “This latest demand is rather cool,” grumbled one incensed journalist.13

  Like Petersen, many others who thought they saw a chance to get rich quick pressed claims against the government. Although fewer than sixty individuals were directly involved in the actual apprehension of the nine main conspirators, when authorities later announced that they were ready to distribute the one hundred thousand dollars in reward money, fully five thousand persons eagerly joined the Washington gold rush.14

  The most famous of the reward claimants did eventually get his share, though it first had to be split thirty-four ways.15

  When Boston Corbett finally received his cut of the reward, it was a mere $1,653.95. Long before that though, the destitute former soldier would have gladly swapped the money—most of which was soon stolen anyway—simply to still the demons within.16 Already haunted by visions and voices, after Corbett left the military he was ruthlessly hounded by them.

  HELL, September 1, 1874

  Boston Corbett: Nemesis is on your path.

  J. WILKES BOOTH17

  Hate letters from ill-wishers like that above, which many famous people received, were pondered, then processed through Corbett’s disturbed brain until they were transformed into dozens of stealthy assassins relentlessly dogging his trail. Fearing the wrath of “Booth’s Avengers,” the “Secret Order,” and a host of other bloodthirsty organizations, Corbett remained ever vigilant and kept his pistol handy at all times. He was more likely now than ever to pull his weapon on suspicious strangers—which included virtually everyone—and fewer and fewer friends were willing to risk death by facing the fanatic’s dangerous paranoia.18

  After scratching out the most meager existence as a hatter and part-time preacher, the former army sergeant left the East for good in 1878 to stake a claim in the West. From a “little forlorn-looking house” in New Jersey, Corbett moved into a veritable hole in the ground in Kansas. Unfortunately for the novice homesteader, the letters in the mail and the voices in his head that had plagued him earlier not only followed him to Kansas, but they greatly increased.19 As a result, Corbett began wearing two revolvers.

  Almost immediately, the strange little man with the “wild look” caused trouble with his new neighbors. Whether it was warning trespassers from his land with a shotgun blast or whether it was waving his pistols at frightened youngsters who were innocently playing baseball on the Sabbath, the former soldier well earned his reputation as a dangerous, crazy hermit.20 The few times Kansans coaxed Corbett from his muddy home to present lectures on Booth and Andersonville, the zealot spent the entire evening exhorting the crowds to repent of sin, uttering not a word of his famous exploits.21

  Finally, in a well-intentioned, albeit misguided, attempt to parade one of the state’s most celebrated heroes, a local politician managed to appoint the recluse to the position of Third Assistant Doorkeeper in the Kansas Legislature at Topeka. The plan went well for nearly a month. On February 15, 1887, however, the voices in Corbett’s head became louder than usual. Pulling his pistol and a knife, the little man ran wildly through the capitol building, sending legislators, clerks, and janitors flying for cover.22 When the culprit was finally overpowered, he was hauled into court the following day. County prosecutor Charles Curtis, a Kaw Indian and a future vice president of the United States, needed only one look to satisfy himself that the defendant was utterly mad. That very day, at age fifty-five, Corbett was judged insane and led away several blocks to the state lunatic asylum.23

  For the next year, Corbett slipped in and out of delirium. The howls and screams of the other patients certainly did little to alleviate his paranoia or his reoccurring vision of assassins stalking the hallways.24 On May 26, 1888, while he and other inmates were enjoying their daily exercise, Corbett spotted an unattached horse. Before attendants realized what had happened, the former cavalryman had leaped on the animal and in a cloud of dust was last seen galloping south.25

  And thus, except for several reported sightings over the ensuing years, this was the last entry of Boston Corbett in the book of records. The famous slayer of Abraham Lincoln’s assassin had come onto the world stage anonymous, and anonymous he would leave it.

  Much like Corbett, others associated with the assassination were haunted by voices and visions until the day they died. The Booths, of course, were shattered beyond repair, and never would they reclaim their stature as the First Family of American
acting. After his release from prison, Junius Brutus, Jr., did return to the stage, and despite his vow, Edwin was also coaxed back to acting. Unfortunately, the specter of their brother stalked every stage the two men strode, and audiences could never forget even for an instant that the actors were brothers of the infamous assassin. In 1869, Edwin opened the glittering Booth Theater in New York, reputedly the finest opera house in the nation.26 Despite the appearance of some of the greatest names of the American stage, the venture failed.27

  For years, Edwin and his siblings refused to even mention the name of their dead brother, much less talk of him. “The sorrow of his death is very bitter but the disgrace is far heavier,” Asia Booth wrote. “[T]o us it will always be a crime.”28

  Nevertheless, when federal authorities finally surrendered their brother’s body, as they did Mary Surratt’s and the others, the Booths gratefully removed the remains to their private plot in Baltimore.29 Despite the family’s desire for a quiet affair, hordes of onlookers appeared, and though some had brought flowers to strew upon the grave, others brought scissors to snip off hair from the corpse when no one was looking.30

  Although family, friends, and the federal government were satisfied that John Wilkes Booth had died in Virginia in 1865 and was buried in Baltimore four years later, others were doubtful. Unwilling to accept the notion that the same man whose single act had brought a mighty nation to the brink of ruin could simply die as did other mortals, many felt that such an incredible individual must have surely escaped and that the reputed body was a mere decoy. One “accurate” report placed Booth in the West Indies. Another breathless individual insisted that the assassin had escaped to Mexico. Others were equally positive that the murderer had fled to Texas or lived out a rich, full life in Indian Territory. Hand in hand with these apocryphal reports, various mummies toured the country, and for only a nickel the gullible and dim could gaze upon the remains of the “greatest arch-fiend” in American history.