The Thackery Journal

by John Holt

  The Colonel was reading something. He looked up and heaved a sign. “Sit down Captain.”

  He looked down at the paper. “Captain I have an assignment for you. I have just been advised that The President is going to the theatre this evening. Mrs. Ford will be with him. I need you and your men to attend and give what protection you can.”

  “Are you expecting problems then, sir?” Miles asked.

  “Captain, you know as well as I that there are always rumors going around, nothing definite you understand, but threats,” replied the Colonel. “Lincoln, of course, has dismissed them as nothing more than insane ranting and of no real concern.”

  “There are always a few who will criticize, sir.”

  “Quite so, Captain, but this isn’t just criticism according to the Brigadier,” replied the Colonel. “It is only 5 days ago that we were at war and there are many who would, shall we say, still have a grievance, especially those from your part of the world.”

  Drew knew that was certainly true. There were many who blamed Lincoln for the war, blamed him for the thousands now dead or badly wounded. There were many who would gladly see Lincoln dead. Why he had a file full of names back in his office. But the war was now a thing of the past, and the dead were dead. Nothing could change that. Killing Lincoln would change nothing he would simply be replaced by another President.

  “I need you to go to the theatre tonight, Captain,” the Colonel continued. “Perhaps your cousin would enjoy it. The play is ‘My American Cousin’ apparently.”

  “It’s actually ‘Our American Cousin’, sir,” replied Miles. “I’ll tell the Sergeant, he can get things organized.”

  “Thank you, Captain. That will be all.”

  * * *

  “April 14th 1865 – the day has arrived. All is in readiness, and there is no way back. For my part I have no regrets whatever the future brings. It is the right thing to do. Today a tyrant will die. Today my poor dead parents will be avenged. May God have mercy on my soul.”

  Jacob Thackery had arrived in Washington earlier that day, and had booked into a small hotel close to the theatre. All of the planning was completed, the talking was over. Today those plans would be put into operation. He now stood at the corner a few yards down from the Petersen House, a small boarding house opposite the entrance to the theatre. He had been there for thirty minutes already, arriving a little before seven thirty.

  The Ford Theatre - 1865

  It had been a few years since he had last been in Washington. At that time the land on which the theatre now stood had been occupied by a Baptist Church. He tried to visualize the Church but couldn’t. After all it had been ten, or twelve years since he had been there. It hadn’t been a particularly significant building, so why should he remember it? Apparently that building had been converted into a theatre sometime in 1861, but it had burnt down the following year. He just couldn’t imagine the old church as a theatre. It had been constructed just two years ago, in 1863.

  When I was in the thick of it with Lee at Chancellorsville, there were people whose only concern at that time was to build a theatre, he thought disbelievingly. Over three thousand men died that day.

  Thackery looked down the street towards the Petersen House. He heard the loud creaking of a door opening. As he watched the thick heavy paneled door opened wide and two people came out. They closed the door behind them, and quickly walked down the staircase. As they reached the bottom the door had opened once again. Standing in the open doorway was a lady.

  “Have you got the tickets?” she called out.

  The two people stopped at the bottom of the stairs. A young man turned and looked up at the entrance door. He started to smile, and then shook his head. “No,” he said. “I forgot them, just as you said I would.”

  The lady at the doorway held up her hand. “Here they are,” she said, and started to walk towards the staircase. The young man laughed, and ran up to meet her. She handed him the tickets, and kissed him. “Here you are,” she said. “Enjoy the show.”

  “Thank you mother,” the young man said. He waved, turned and ran back down the stairs to the young lady who was waiting for him.

  Thackery smiled. So they were going to the theatre to see the show, he murmured. I am willing to bet that the performance that they will actually see will be nothing like the one they expect.

  He watched them as they crossed the street and headed towards the theatre. The performance should be starting quite soon now, he thought. He looked to the side of the theatre. There was the huge poster which announced that The Ford Theatre was proud to present a performance of “Our American Cousin” starring Laura Keene.

  President Abraham Lincoln and his wife Mary were due to attend together with General Grant. However he had excused himself, citing a cold. He was extremely sorry but he would not be able to attend. In his place Mrs. Lincoln invited another couple, Major Henry Reed Rathbone, and his fiancée Clara Harris.

  The performance was due to start at eight o’clock. Thackery checked his watch. It was ten minutes to eight, and people were still coming in, including many Union soldiers, who had presumably come to see Grant, their beloved General Ulysses S. Grant. They were going to be sorely disappointed.

  Thackery wondered how much of a risk the soldiers actually posed. Would they manage to stop the assassination? Would they manage to prevent Booth from escaping? Perhaps they would get him before he even reached Lincoln’s box.

  The element of surprise though was on their side. They simply would not be expecting any trouble. Furthermore the soldiers would be trapped in their seats. They would not be able to get out quickly or easily. They won’t know what was happening until it was too late.

  He looked down the street. There were a few late stragglers still making their way, but no more carriages. He checked his watch once more. If it was on time the play was just about to start. He checked the street once again. Where was Lincoln? Had he missed him? Was he already inside? He shook his head. There was no way he could have missed him. He just hadn’t arrived, not yet anyway.

  Suppose he wasn’t coming. Suppose he had changed his mind. But why would he change his mind? Perhaps some important business had been necessary. Maybe he just couldn’t get away. Perhaps he had been warned not to come. Perhaps he had found out about the plot. No, that was unlikely. If the authorities had known about the plot, the theatre would have been surrounded with armed soldiers and arrests already made, including himself. No the plot had not been discovered that much was certain.

  He checked his watch once again. It was ten past eight. The play had now started. He walked into the foyer. It was almost deserted, apart from two or three theatre staff. He turned around and quickly left the theatre. As he came out he looked up and down the street once more. Still there was no sign. He started to pace back and forth. If Lincoln wasn’t going to attend the theatre then the plot was finished before it had even begun. He would need to warn Booth, and the others. But he did not expect to see Booth for at least another two hours. What should he do? He kept pacing. The rain was now falling steadily.

  Then he noticed somebody opposite. The figure seemed to be watching him. Thackery looked away, and quickly walked to the corner, and turned into the alleyway. He stopped and slowly walked back to the corner. He looked around the corner, and back towards the theatre. The person had gone. Had he been watching, Thackery wondered. Did he see me? Did he suspect anything?

  Thackery sighed and took a deep breath. What would he suspect anyway? I am merely walking up and down in the rain. Where’s the harm in that? I’m just waiting for someone that’s all. That much was of course was quite true. He was just waiting for someone. Once more he looked at his watch. Twenty past eight. He shook his head. Lincoln isn’t coming, he muttered once again.

  * * *

  It had been a busy day for the President, causing him and his party to be late leaving for the theatre. That morning there had been a meeting with his cabinet. The meeting had been long and ard
uous. There had been much discussion about how the defeated South was to be treated. Despite much opposition the President had urged compassion. He had written in his diary:

  “I hope there will be no persecution, no bloody work after the war is over. No one need expect me to take part in hanging or killing those men, even the worse of them. Frighten them out of the country, open the gates, let down the bars, scare them off, enough lives have been sacrificed. We must extinguish our resentment if we expect harmony and union.”

  * * *

  Suddenly Thackery heard the noise of horses travelling quite slowly. He ducked back into the alleyway. The horses continued along the street, past the theatre, and down to the saloon a further fifty yards along. Thackery checked his watch for the tenth time, and looked back along the street. Still there was no sign of the President. Clearly something had happened.

  Thackery emerged from the alleyway and started to walk back towards the Peterson House. As he did so he heard the sound of a carriage as it turned the corner into the street. Without stopping he turned his head. There were two outriders in front of the carriage, and a further two behind. Thackery gave a sigh of relief. Lincoln had arrived at last.

  The carriage stopped in front of the Ford Theatre. Two armed guards got down and took up position either side of the door. Thackery checked the time. It was just a little before eight thirty. The manager of the theatre, John Ford, rushed out to greet his guest, just as the tall figure of President Lincoln descended from the carriage. As he stepped onto the ground he replaced his stovepipe hat. The President turned back to the carriage and held out his hand and helped Mrs. Lincoln down. Two other members of the Presidential party, Major Henry Reed Rathbone, and his fiancée Clara Harris, followed. The party was led through the arched doorways of the west façade and directly into the theatre lobby.

  Thackery checked his watch once again. Wilkes was not due for another hour and a half. He crossed the street and casually walked up to the carriage. As he reached the entrance to the theatre, he stopped and glanced through the entrance doors. He could just see the tall figure of the President going up the main staircase, to the specially prepared Presidential box.

  The Presidential Box was entered by a four-foot wide vestibule about ten feet long, opening off the south aisle of the dress circle. A fancy tufted sofa and a red rocking chair had been brought from Henry Clay Ford’s living quarters on the third floor of the south addition and placed therein. Fancy tufted chairs were also added to the decor. The interior was papered with a figured wallpaper, dark red in color, and yellow satin draperies overhung Nottingham lace curtains and gave greater privacy. Soft illumination reached the interior from a chandelier suspended some twelve feet from a cantilevered beam centered over the top of the box.

  The performance was some way into the first act as the President took his seat in the red rocking chair and his party settled down. The show was briefly stopped to acknowledge the presence of the President and First Lady. The conductor, William Withers, struck up “Hail to the Chief.” The audience stood and turned to face the box. The actors on the stage stopped for a few moments, until they were signaled to continue.

  * * *

  Thackery continued passed the entrance doors. As he passed the security guards they gave him a cursory glance, but said nothing, and merely continued their conversation.

  “I hear that Grant isn’t coming,” said one.

  “Is that right?” the other responded.

  The first guard moved closer to his colleague. He nodded his head. “Absolutely,” he replied. “I heard Lincoln himself say to his good lady, just as they went inside.”

  The second guard shook his head. He hadn’t heard anything. It was just like his friend to act as though he knew everything, trying to make him look foolish or something.

  He started to speak, but was stopped, as the first guard continued. “Some important business I imagine.”

  The second guard shrugged. “There’ll be a lot of disappointed people then.” He walked away.

  Thackery smiled. Then he started to laugh. It suddenly seemed so strange. A few short months ago he and Grant had been on opposite sides. Now he was actively engaged in bringing him to power. He shook his head. “Why?” he asked. “Why am I doing this?” He had no answers. He shrugged his shoulders and sighed deeply. He simply had no choice.

  He turned away and walked to the far corner of the street.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  14th April 1865 - Lincoln Assassinated

  It was about nine o’clock when Booth arrived at the back door of the Ford Theatre. He was leading the mare that he had rented. He asked Ned Spangler, a stage hand, to hold the horse for him. Spangler had work to do and could not leave his post. Booth then approached J. L. DeBonay, another stage hand, and instructed him to summon Joseph “Peanuts” Burroughs, a youngster who ran errands for the actors, to hold the horse.

  Shortly before nine thirty Thackery watched as Booth left the theatre through a narrow passageway, and out on to 10th Street. He entered the Star Saloon. No one followed. Booth saw Thackery on the other side of the street, but made no sign of recognition.

  * * *

  During the second act Lincoln’s bodyguard, John Parker of the Metropolitan Police Force was stationed in the corridor close to the presidential box. He was bored. Every few moments there would be laughter coming from the audience. Clearly they were enjoying the comedy. He shook his head. Yes he could hear the laughter, but he couldn’t see what was happening. He had been given a similar task previously. It was always boring. Nothing ever happened. He was one of six officers on duty that night. The others were all stationed inside the auditorium. They could all see the play; they could all see what was happening. They could all join in with the laughter.

  What did he have? Nothing.

  “You will have the most important task,” he had been told. “You will be stationed directly outside the President’s box.”

  Important task, he murmured. What a joke. It was the most boring job there could possibly be. He looked along the corridor. Nothing was happening. He looked over to the other side. Again, there was nothing. Nobody was going to come along here, not now, not tonight.

  He needed a drink. He heaved a sigh. He had intended bringing a small silver hip flask with him, but it was not to be. His chief, back at the station, had discovered the flask, and it had been confiscated.

  “Think yourself fortunate, Parker, that you haven’t lost your job as well,” his Chief had said, as he took hold of the flask.

  Fortunate indeed, he murmured. All I want is a drink, a little drink that was all. Where was the harm in that? Why all the fuss? Anyone would think that he was a drunkard, an alcoholic. Just a little drink, that was all. He could handle that, with no problem.

  He licked his lips and tried to swallow. It did not help. In fact it made matters even worse. He looked up and down the corridor once again. There was no one around. He had been there almost an hour and a half and no one had come near the place. Clearly there were going to be no problems, not tonight. He could slip away, just for a few minutes. A quick drink, and then he would rush back. No one would ever notice. He would be back before you knew it. He probably wouldn’t even be missed.

  . * * *

  A few minutes later the police officer walked out of the front doors of the theatre and quickly turned to the left and made his way to the Star Saloon a short distance down the street, the same saloon that Booth had entered shortly before. He saw Thackery on the opposite side of the road and pulling his hat down over his eyes he looked down, and quickly walked on.

  Thackery saw the man leave the theatre, and assumed that he was one of the theatre workers having a break, or maybe they had finished for the night and were going home.

  He gave a wry smile. They will miss everything, all of the excitement, their moment with history. Briefly he wondered how they would feel knowing that something momentous had happened, and that they had miss
ed it because they had finished work, or had merely taken a break. How would they react? After all it wasn’t everyday that their President got killed was it.

  He shrugged his shoulders, and then dismissed the thought completely from his mind. What did it matter anyway? He had far more important matters to think about.

  * * *

  Booth returned from the tavern, a few minutes after ten o’clock, and entered the main entrance. Again there was no one following. Thackery heaved a sigh of relief and quickly made his made around the side of the theatre, to the narrow alley at the rear.

  As Booth entered the foyer he was humming a tune. James E. Buckingham, the doorman, automatically extended his hand for a ticket.

  “You don't need a ticket from me, Buck,” Booth replied. “You know me.” Buckingham nodded and smiled, and waved him through. As an actor who had performed on the stage at Ford’s Theatre, Booth knew his way around. This time, however, he had come to play a different role.

  Booth made his way to the staircase up towards the dress circle. As he did so, a voice called out from behind. “Mr. Booth,” the voice called. “Is that you? I didn’t expect to see you here tonight, sir.”

  Booth turned around. It was one of the stagehands. Booth couldn’t remember his name. He smiled. “Oh I’m not performing, I’m only a spectator tonight,” he replied. “I’m just part of the audience, sitting up in the balcony.” He paused hoping that the man would go away, but he didn’t. “It’s a good play isn’t it?” he continued.

  The stagehand had no idea whether it was a good play or not. He never got a chance to actually see it. He merely pushed things on and off of the stage. He merely nodded, and then smiled. “And the President is here.” he said. “That’s such a great honor. I saw him come in. I wish I could meet him.”

  Booth nodded. “And the President is here,” he repeated. “That’s just where I am going, right now,” he said, as he continued towards the staircase. “I have been summoned to meet with the President. So I must get on, you understand.”