by Roy Lewis
‘Will Lincoln be returned?’
‘He is unpopular, but with the war coming to a successful conclusion, I think he will win his second term.’
That evening we parted, expecting it to be the last time we met. That’s not how things actually turned out.
My return to New York, and my making use of the contacts I had made in the saloons and bars, brought in some business, but not of the most lucrative kind. My work at the Clipper had necessarily come to an end, in view of my absences in Washington. During the following weeks, I had the occasional letter from Adah, who was enjoying a huge success in London and Paris, now counting Charlie Dickens and Algernon Swinburne among her admirers. I was briefed in two murder trials and obtained some publicity in the John Orpen murder case, but it was clear to me now that my chances of reaching the pinnacles I had touched in London were unlikely unless I could get elected as a police court judge. My contacts in Tammany Hall were not proving as effective as I had hoped. So when I was invited back to Washington to draw up a will for a rather acerbic old lady, I decided it was time to beard Stanton at the War Office, to bring to mind his earlier promise to me.
The matter of the will proved to be a rather tricky one. The wealthy old lady in question, a Mrs Van Buren, was estranged from her daughter on account of what she decided was an unwise marriage. The will she asked me to draw up left only a small amount of money to the daughter so I was not surprised when the son-in-law, a Mr Rhea, turned up at my hotel. It was clear he had got wind of what was happening and was incensed: no doubt he had married Mrs Van Buren’s daughter in the hope of eventually coming to share in a fortune.
He sat facing me in my sitting room, a grim-eyed fellow, handsome enough, but with a dissolute mouth marked with discontentment. ‘It won’t do, Mr James, it won’t do.’
‘How did you find out about the contents of the will?’ I enquired.
‘The old lady told my wife. She’s always sticking the knife in. She don’t like me, that’s plain.’
I shrugged. ‘I fear there’s nothing I can do about that. My task—’
‘I got another task for you,’ Rhea interrupted. ‘I want you to draw up a second will.’
‘For you? That’s no problem—’
‘For me? No, damn it! For Mrs Van Buren!’
I leaned back in my chair, folded my hands over my chest and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I’m not sure I can do that, Mr Rhea. The ethics of the situation—’
‘I ain’t interested in ethics, sir! I want only what’s right and due for my wife! Look here, you’ve met Mrs Van Buren. She’s a vicious old witch and she’ll deal a bad hand to my wife. But she’s eighty years old! She can’t be long of this world. There might not be time for her to consult you to change her will so I want to make sure that when she nears her end there’ll be a document which she’s able to sign without the trouble of calling in lawyers again.’
‘I still don’t see how I can undertake—’
‘If she signs the new will you write under my direction, it’ll supersede the earlier one, ain’t that so? Do it, Mr James, for the sake of my wife’s rightful inheritance and there’s five hundred dollars in it for you.’ He fixed me with those grim eyes. ‘And you’ll not find us mean-spirited when the old lady’s gone. There’ll be a further two thousand dollars for you from my wife’s inheritance.’
I was silent for a long while. I knew precisely what he had in mind: as the old lady’s faculties withered, he was hoping that she could be persuaded to sign the new will, drawn up without her knowledge, for the overturning of her original wishes. I thought about it for several minutes while he waited patiently, like a brooding, narrow-eyed vulture.
I don’t deny that the money offer had its effect upon my judgement. But I also reasoned that I would be doing nothing wrong in law, or even ethically. I was merely acting as Rhea’s legal representative, drawing up a document in legal form: what he did with it was his affair. I already had Mrs Van Buren as a client, but in my view that did not prevent me taking on her son-in-law as a client in addition. I see you frowning . . . well, things were a bit tight at that time, I was in financial trouble again, the practice wasn’t going well – and the developments that Rhea hoped for might never come to pass. So, in a word, I took the five hundred dollars and prepared the second will. After all, it was just a piece of paper, of no legal significance – until the old lady put her signature to it.
What happened after that? Well, the stubborn Mrs Van Buren refused to turn up her toes until some five years later. It seems she did in fact sign the new will, though I don’t know how Rhea managed that little trick. Anyway, I later got my two thousand dollars. But Mr Rhea failed in his efforts, finally: the second will was overturned by the courts after a complaint from a distant relative of the family and Mr and Mrs Rhea had to be satisfied with the pittance they received. None of my business of course: I kept my fees – after all, I’d merely been involved as a sort of amanuensis, you might say. There were comments of course, in the press. And I see a frown of disapproval on your face. But I was just acting under instructions, don’t you see?
I only mention the Van Buren business, which I see you find disagreeable, because it explains how it was I found myself in Washington on the day General Robert E. Lee surrendered to Union forces at Appomattox. And I was still in the city on the 14 April, 1865.
I stayed on for two reasons: the first was that the city was celebrating, the end of a long war was in sight and the capital was gaudily bedecked with flags and a grand illumination had been arranged. So much beer flowed in the gutters even the pigs got drunk. As a renowned jolly fellow, I joined in the celebrations in the saloons, but I also had another objective in view. I thought it was now a good time to call on Stanton to fulfil his promise and support my ticket in a judicial election.
So I turned up in the late morning at the War Department and presented my card to a spotty-faced clerk who took it with an undeserved hauteur and sneering eyes behind pince-nez spectacles. I requested that I be allowed to have a private interview with the Secretary of War. The supercilious clerk stared at me in amazement. ‘You have no appointment, sir, and it’s unlikely you’ll get one today.’
Now I have to admit I should have been more sensible, on that day of all days: there was bound to be much coming and going in Stanton’s office. But the clerk’s attitude annoyed me – I was used to being treated with more deference – and I was also burning with a righteous feeling that Stanton was in my debt after my work for Colonel Baker, and he needed to stick to his promise. So I coldly informed the clerk that I’d wait, while he sent in my card.
He did so with bad grace.
And I waited.
I saw them come and go. General Ulysses Simpson Grant came and went, as did Navy Secretary Gideon Welles. There had been a cabinet meeting that morning and Stanton now held a series of further meetings, clearly discussing the future promotion of the war – he wanted a military territory covering Virginia and North Carolina, I learned later, under his total control of course – but the plan found little support from the others. The president wanted no persecutions, a light hand on the fallen leaders of the Confederacy, and this no doubt angered the disciplinarian Stanton, who wanted reparations, seizures, the ruthless crushing of enemies.
So I waited.
The clerks changed, but attitudes did not. I was there for four hours. And there was no word from Stanton. It was late afternoon when a door opened at the end of the hall and Charles Di Rudio emerged in his lieutenant’s uniform. He seemed surprised to see me. I explained the reason for my presence and he shook his head.
‘You won’t see Stanton. He’s already gone home. And there’s all hell on.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Walk with me, and I’ll tell you.’
We left the War Office and found a bar nearby where we settled down to relax with a beer. Lieutenant Di Rudio seemed disturbed.
‘You think you know people, by their reputations. Ta
ke Grant, for instance. He is reckoned to be a hard, close man. He’s never been a parlour politician, always with his men, sharing their hardships, taciturn, in control, a perfect army general. But I suppose we all have our weaknesses. With Grant, it’s his wife.’
‘I’ve never heard criticisms of her, or their marriage.’
‘Ah, it’s not so much about problems within the marriage: Grant is devoted to her and their children. It’s that other woman. Mrs Lincoln.’
‘How do you mean?’
Di Rudio ran an exasperated hand over his face. ‘We know all about the president’s dirty jokes, inappropriate language and tall, backwoodsman stories, but Mary Lincoln is insanely jealous and gets into a rage if any other woman is near him. Mrs Grant – who is a wealthy, sophisticated lady – was shouted at by Mrs Lincoln when she was chatting to the president in his carriage, and she has also been denied an invitation to one of those interminable Thursday soirées where Mary Lincoln preens herself in unsuitable dresses, and as a result Mrs Grant wants nothing to do with her. It’s why Grant was here again, seeing Stanton this afternoon.’
‘I still don’t understand.’
Di Rudio took a swig of his beer and groaned. ‘You’ve seen the press announcements, surely. The performance of Our American Cousin at Ford’s Theater tonight.’
Of course. The president and General Grant will be attending. The theatre is sold out.’
Di Rudio grinned sourly. He put his hand into his jacket, and took out a piece of card. ‘Here’s a ticket. Exclusive. You can go in my place.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Colonel Baker arranged the ticket for me. He wanted me close by, with Grant, in case there was any trouble. But, Grant’s not going, so there’s no need for me to be present.’
‘Not going? Is the General ill?’ I enquired.
Di Rudio shook his head morosely. ‘No. Believe it or not, Mrs Grant refuses to join the presidential party. She doesn’t want to be in Mary Lincoln’s viperish company. Grant came to see Stanton this afternoon. You can understand his situation: an invitation from the president, to an army man, is the same as a command. He can’t refuse. But Grant can’t persuade his wife; she says she will not be snubbed by that woman again. So Grant asked Stanton’s advice.’
‘And Stanton said. . . ?’
‘Unbelievably, he’s advised Grant not to go. On grounds it would be too dangerous – to have the president and General Grant in the same box! So Grant should withdraw, while the president himself goes! What the hell is going on? Colonel Baker will be purple when he hears my report. And let’s be clear, you’ve seen the advertisements put out by the theatre. Grant’s name comes before Lincoln’s. It’s Grant the people want to see: Lincoln is a common sight in Washington. But the crowds have bought tickets for the theatre performance to see the hero of Appomattox Court House and there’ll be a stir when he doesn’t turn up! And there’s more. . . .’
‘Tell me.’
‘In the circumstances, the president has asked for an extra guard for this evening, to be present in his box. He asked for the muscular Major Eckert. And guess what? Stanton refused. Said Eckert was busy elsewhere! What in damnation is going on? Is Lincoln the Chief Executive or not? He’s taken the matter calmly. I don’t think the people will. Anyway, James, take the ticket. Enjoy the performance.’
As you’ll appreciate, I did not enjoy the experience. But I took the ticket, went back to my hotel, changed to go to the theatre, leaving Di Rudio in the saloon, drinking himself into steady, morose, Italian oblivion.
So, yes, I was there at Ford’s Theater that evening when the world-shattering events unfolded.
There was the expected buzz of disappointment when the president and his party took their seats in the box just after 8.30 p.m. The audience had wanted to see General Grant, would have been ready to stand and cheer him for his brilliant performances on the battlefield. Instead there was only the president and his wife with a single army officer and his female companion in attendance. The mutters of disappointment continued even after the performance began.
Our American Cousin was never regarded as a distinguished piece of theatre, you know. It had enjoyed a modest run, and that evening I found it not particularly well played. I was bored, in fact: I could have done better myself, in any of the major parts. So when the interval arrived, I decided I would not present myself for the later part of the play. At the intermission, I strolled from the theatre into the street outside, which was still gaily glittering with celebratory lights. There was a saloon near the theatre and I decided to take a drink there, for the night was warm. When I entered, I was met with a wall of sound; all the jolly fellows were enjoying themselves as only they knew how. I began to make my way to the bar but realized I would have difficulty shouldering my way through the mob and decided to leave after all. I turned and as I headed for the doors I caught sight of a face I knew.
Officer John F. Parker, police guard for President Lincoln. He was sitting at a table near the door with two companions, laughing and chattering gaily. I learned later the two companions were Mr Lincoln’s footman and the president’s coachman. I stood riveted to the spot. What was Parker doing here? He should have been guarding the presidential box . . . or perhaps he had been relieved of his duties by a colleague. I stepped out into the street. I will be honest with you, my boy, I cannot say that I had a dreadful presentiment, but I felt a deep curiosity. Stanton had told Grant he should not go to the theatre – which suited Mrs Grant very well – because it would be too dangerous to have both the president and General Grant in the same box. A curious argument, I thought. And now the president’s personal guard was not on duty!
So, vaguely disturbed, I went back into the theatre.
I had no problem getting back in. The second part of the play was in full swing. And I had no trouble climbing the stairs that gave access to the presidential box. No one questioned me, no one stopped me. And there was an empty chair outside the box itself. Parker had not been relieved: he had simply absented himself and gone for a drink with his two acquaintances.
Troubled, but more confused than concerned, I re-entered the theatre, causing a certain amount of muttering when I disturbed people in regaining my seat. I felt unable to concentrate on the play, but kept glancing up at the presidential box. I could not see Mrs Lincoln nor the army major and the lady accompanying him, but the president was clearly visible, leaning forward, chin in hand, smiling, enjoying the somewhat simple humour of the play. It’s a picture that still remains engraved on my memory: my second, and last sight of Abraham Lincoln.
I felt unable to settle, without really knowing why – other than musing over the odd behaviour of Police Officer John Parker. And nothing of interest occurred until the play was well advanced. It was 10.30 p.m. when there were only two actors on stage and the audience were laughing at one of the play’s obvious jokes, when the sharp report was heard. I looked up to the presidential box, but Lincoln was not to be seen.
Instead, a few seconds later – I believe the whole event lasted a mere thirty seconds – I caught sight of a man standing on the edge of the box, one hand on the curtain as though to steady himself. It was a theatrical pose, his other hand was raised, and I caught the glint of stage lights on the dagger blade he held. Then, a moment later, he leapt from the box directly onto the stage. It was a dramatic, athletic, stage-worthy entrance but it was somewhat spoiled by the man catching his spur in the flag that adorned the presidential box. He landed on the stage awkwardly, the two players left in confusion, and a general rumble of surprise began to spread through the audience. The man with the dagger stood there on the stage for several seconds, arms held wide, eyes staring, the weapon flourished in his hand. It was almost as though it was part of the drama, something to match Adah Menken’s wild ride on her stallion in the role of Mazeppa. But this was no play – though play-acting the man seemed to be.
He stood there, arms raised, staring at the audience and then shouted,
almost screamed the lines he had long planned to deliver.
‘Sic semper tyrannis!’
The actors had already fled the scene. The man with the dagger was hobbling as abruptly he left the stage to plunge behind the billowing back curtains.
The audience was in turmoil after the first stunned murmurs. But I had recognized the man with the dagger. I leapt to my feet.
‘Booth!’ I shouted. ‘John Wilkes Booth!’
The man beside me glared at me in brief incomprehension, and then turned and repeated what I had said, until from all corners of the theatre the call was taken up. ‘Booth! Booth! Booth!’
And yet Secretary of War Stanton did not immediately see fit to name the assassin of President Lincoln: he delayed the announcement until the afternoon papers appeared next day.
3
I returned to my hotel at three in the morning. After the audience had rushed from the theatre and wild rumours were sweeping the city I felt I could not return immediately to my hotel. The saloons and bars – I do not know how many I visited for I was in a state of heightened excitement, and shock – supplied me with all the conflicting news that might be expected. But one certainty was already current: President Lincoln had been assassinated by a shot to the head and the murderer had escaped but was now being hunted throughout the capital. There was no official word of the assassin’s identity but I knew who it was, and the name was readily bandied about in the gin palaces.
About half past two in the morning I caught a glimpse of Police Officer John F. Parker in the crowded street. He seemed somewhat dazed, staggering slightly. It could have been the drink, or it could have been recognition of the enormity of his actions in failing to guard the president. He had a woman of the streets in his custody and seemed to be heading for police headquarters. I recognized her: an occasional whore I had myself frequented, by the name of Lizzie Williams. Parker had arrested her: it seemed to me to be a useless attempt by the officer to show that he was still an active upholder of the law, attending to his duties even though he had failed to protect the president. A pathetic atonement for his negligence, perhaps.