The Thackery Journal

by John Holt

  The stagehand could not believe it. His eyes lit up, and a big smile spread across his face. “Oh sir, that is great news. To actually be meeting the President. I better not keep you then, had I?”

  Booth smiled. “Yes I better go. Can’t keep the President waiting can we?” He casually waved at the stagehand. “Good night, er….”

  “Benson,” the man said quickly. “It’s Benson, sir. Tom Benson.”

  Booth nodded as he remembered the name. “Benson, so it is. Well good night Mr. Benson.”

  Benson smiled, and raised his hand. “Good night sir,” he called out as Booth walked on. “Oh, and give my very best to Mr. Lincoln.”

  Booth never heard him. He had already reached the top of the staircase, and was making his way toward the Presidential box where the Lincolns were sitting with Clara Harris and Henry Rathbone.

  Booth was surprised to note that the guard who normally occupied the chair outside the alcove at the back of the boxes was not in place. All that he needed do now was to pass unnoticed through the outer door, secure it behind him with a bar, slip into the box, and wait for the right moment.

  At a little after 10:15 p.m. he entered a narrow hallway between Lincoln’s box and the theatre’s balcony. He turned and barricaded the door. As he did so he could hear the President and his wife laughing at one of the play’s funniest lines.

  Augusta - Yes, ma, the nasty beast. [Exit R.]

  Mrs.M - I am aware, Mr. Trenchard, you are not used to the manners of good society, and that, alone, will excuse the impertinence of which you have been guilty.

  Asa - Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal — you sockdologizing old man-trap. Wal, now, when I think what I've thrown away in hard cash to-day I'm apt to call myself some awful hard names, 400,000 dollars is a big pile for a man to light his cigar with. If that gal had only given me herself in exchange, it wouldn't have been a bad bargain. But I dare no more ask that gal to be my wife, than I dare ask Queen Victoria to dance a Cape Cod reel.

  Enter Florence.

  Flo - What do you mean by doing all these dreadful things?

  Asa - Which things.

  Flo - Come here sir. [He does so.]

  Asa - What's the matter?

  Flo - Do you know this piece of paper? [Showing burnt paper.]

  Asa - Well I think I have seen it before. [Aside.] Its old Mark Trenchard's will that I left half burned up like a landhead, that I am.

  Flo - And you're determined to give up this fortune to Mary Meredith?

  Asa - Well, I couldn't help it if I tried.

  Flo - Oh, don't say that.

  Booth could hear the audience laughing. Even Mrs. Lincoln could be heard as she too enjoyed the banter on stage.

  Mrs. Lincoln leaned forward and whispered to her husband, who was holding her hand, "What will Miss Harris think of my hanging on to you so?”

  The President replied, “She won’t think anything about it.”

  Booth slowly opened the door to the State Box. As he did so he reached inside his coat and withdrew a small pistol, a single shot derringer. He released the safety catch, and slowly, quietly, walked behind Lincoln’s chair. As he drew level with where Lincoln was seated he stretched out his arm, raised the gun, took aim, and gently squeezed the trigger. Lincoln was hit in the back of the head at near point-blank range. He slumped over in his rocking chair, unconscious. Mrs. Lincoln screamed.

  The Assassination of Abraham Lincoln

  The noise of the shot echoed, and reverberated through the theatre, and acrid smoke spread through the auditorium. There was the sound of screaming, and people rushing to get out of the theatre.

  A shout rang out “He’s been shot. The President has been shot.”

  Rathbone jumped from his seat and tried to prevent Booth from escaping, but Booth stabbed the Major in the arm with a bowie knife. Rathbone tried to grab Booth once again as he was preparing to jump from the sill of the box. Booth stabbed Rathbone once more, and then vaulted over the rail and down to the stage. As he did so his foot caught onto a flagpole. As he hit the floor he snapped the fibula bone in his left leg just above the ankle.

  John Wilkes Booth Makes His Way Across The Stage

  Almost instantly he raised himself up and, holding a knife over his head, yelled, “Sic semper tyrannis” (“Thus always to tyrants.”) Booth flashed his knife at the audience, as he made his way across the stage.

  Someone in the rear of the orchestra seats thought that they had recognized the murderer. He stood up and called out. “That’s Booth. John Wilkes Booth.”

  “It’s Booth, the play actor,” yelled another.

  “He’s the assassin,” cried a third.

  Miles Drew was seated in an aisle seat, some fifteen rows back from the stage. At the sound of the gunshot he looked at the Presidential Box and saw Lincoln slumped in his chair. “Stay where you are Lucy,” he said as he stood up. “Look after her Clive.” He then ran towards the stage.

  Two cavalry officers of the Thirteenth New York Cavalry Regiment, Captain Tom Hageman, and First Lieutenant John W Hutchinson, were seated in the middle of the house, approximately a half a dozen rows back from the stage. They had gone to the theatre that evening specifically to see Grant. As they saw Booth jump on to the stage, the two men leapt to their feet, the revolvers drawn from their holsters. They made their way along the aisle, but had no chance to fire at the assassin before he had disappeared into the wings.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty

  Escape

  Everything happened so fast no one had time to stop Booth as he ran into the wings. A few wild shots rang out, wide of their target. Some of the men in the audience chased after him, but failed to catch him. As the assassin ran across the stage Colonel J. B.Stewart who was sitting in one of the front seats in the orchestra, on the same side of the house as the box occupied by Mr. Lincoln, sprang onto the stage and followed him.

  Booth quickly moved through the rear section making his way towards the stage door, as he did so he kept screaming, “The President, the President. Lincoln has been shot,” continually pointing behind him. “Get help, quick.”

  Booth swept past Laura Keene, who was standing beside the prompter's box, and rushed down the broad right passageway that lead to the rear door. As he did so he came upon Mr. William Withers, the leader of the orchestra, who, annoyed over Miss Keene's decision to postpone “Honor to Our Soldiers” until the end of the performance, was standing in the passage. Booth slashed out with his knife causing wounds in two places.

  A moment later Miss Jenny Gourlay, an actress, unwittingly blocked his path. He roughly pushed her to one side and made his way to the back door previously left open at the rear of the theater.

  He ran through the stage door, out into the alleyway at the rear of the theatre, where his horse was waiting for him. He leapt upon the horse and rode out through the alley leading into F Street, and across the Navy Yard Bridge.

  * * *

  Out in the alleyway Thackery heard the muffled sound of gunshot. He checked his fob watch. Twelve minutes past ten. It is done, he murmured. He rushed to a nearby doorway, and hid in the shadows.

  A short time later he saw Booth come out of the Stage door. He was surprised to notice that he was limping quite badly. Had he been shot Thackery wondered. He watched as Booth mounted his horse and rode away.

  Booth Makes His Getaway

  As Thackery continued to watch a soldier emerged from the stage door close behind Booth. Seeing Booth mounting his horse, he gives chase. “Stop that man,” he called out.

  He then stopped and drew his pistol. He raised the gun and carefully took aim. Thackery looked down the alleyway. Booth was still fifty yards or so from the end. Thackery looked back at the soldier. He was ready to fire. He could not miss.

  Thackery took his revolver out of his holster, and pointed it towards the soldier. He was hesitant. He looked along the alleyway once again.
“You will be Booth’s protector,” Jarvis had said. “You should prevent anything happening to him.” Thackery turned to face the soldier. The soldier saw him from the corner of his eye, and momentarily turned. Thackery took aim and fired. The soldier fell to the ground dead

  Thackery ran back into the shadows. Booth turned momentarily and saw the soldier falling, and then continued on his way, and was soon out of sight.

  A moment later two Union soldiers, Captain Tom Hageman, and First Lieutenant John W. Hutchinson, came around the corner. They were panting, and had been running hard. Thackery stepped back into the shadows. Then they saw the trooper lying prone close to the stage door. They ran over to him. There was nothing they could do.

  Thackery looked down to the end of the alleyway. There was no sign of Booth. Then he noticed that one of the soldiers was looking up at the building opposite. Thackery looked over in the direction the soldier was looking. He saw a woman looking out of a window on the second floor. It looked directly into the alleyway. She must have seen Booth leave the theatre, and to run down the alleyway. She must have seen the soldier shot. Did she see me he wondered?

  Jacob knew at that moment that there was no escape. He was doomed. He knew that although Lincoln was almost certainly dead the plan had failed. Perhaps it had never had a chance of success. There wasn’t anything noble, or righteous, in what they had done. It was cold blooded murder, nothing more and nothing less. He was now a hunted man and had to get away fast.

  He looked back at the two soldiers, as they started to walk closer to the building. As they drew near they stopped. Captain Hageman called up to the window. “Did you see anyone come out of the theatre a few moments ago?” he asked.

  She looked at the soldier for a few moments, and nodded her head. “Yes, yes I did,” she called back. “I saw a man. He was on horseback, and galloped down the alley, a few minutes ago.” She pointed towards the end of the alleyway. “He was here earlier, about an hour ago.” She paused for a moment or two, trying to recall something. “He stopped at the rear door of the theatre, over there,” she said as she pointed. “He was calling for someone.”

  “Calling for someone,” Captain Hageman repeated. “Do you know who that was?”

  “Ned,” she replied quickly. “He was calling for Ned.” She paused once again. “Probably Ned Spangler, he’s the stage carpenter.”

  “Did you recognize the man?” Lieutenant Hutchinson asked. She shook her head. “Had you seen him before?” the Lieutenant continued. She shook her head once again.

  “Did you see the soldier get shot?”

  “No,” she replied. “I just heard the shot, but I saw nothing.”

  The Captain thanked her for her help, and asked her name.

  “Anderson,” she replied. “Mary Jane Anderson.”

  The Captain saluted and thanked her. “Mrs. Anderson, you have been most helpful.”

  * * *

  Not long after another figure emerged from the stage door. The figure turned to look in Thackery’s direction. As he did so Thackery was shocked to see that it was his friend Miles Drew. Has he seen me, Thackery wondered? Miles walked over to the other two troopers. They explained about Mrs. Anderson, and then went back into the theatre.

  Miles then turned and looked down the alley. He un-buttoned his holster and took out his revolver, and slowly started to walk forward. After a short distance he stopped and looked down at the ground. There were spots of blood. He squatted. Clearly his quarry had definitely been injured. He stood up and continued his journey. Thackery looked in the direction that Miles was walking. Clearly Booth would not be discovered. He was long gone by now. Then he suddenly realized that his own horse was still at the end of the alley. Should Miles discover it he would almost certainly know that it belonged to a Confederate officer, and he would also guess that the officer was somehow involved with what had just occurred.

  Furthermore, if the horse were actually taken away Thackery’s own escape would be in jeopardy. Panic set in. He had to do something to prevent his horse from being discovered.

  He took his revolver from his holster, raised it and directed it towards his friend. Slowly he started to squeeze the trigger. Cold sweat ran down his face, and his hand started to shake. He knew no matter what happened he could not fire upon his friend. He lowered the gun and moved further back into the shadows. Miles continued to make his way down the alley.

  Thackery ran out from the shadows of the doorway. Miles saw something in the corner of his eye, and half turned. Thackery hit him hard in the side, knocking him backwards, sending his crashing against the wall. He hit his head, and collapsed to the ground, unconscious. Thackery bent down and checked Miles’ pulse. He was still breathing. Thank goodness, Thackery murmured. Had Miles seen him? If so had he recognized him? It was unlikely, it had all happened so fast.

  Thackery didn’t have time to stand around speculating. Whether Miles had seen him or not was of little consequence. Whether he had been recognized or not was academic. Did it really matter? The main thing now was escape. He had to get away, as far away as possible, before any others came. He looked back towards the theatre. There was no activity. He looked down the alley. There was no sign of anyone. He stood up and started to run. He had left his horse at the end of the alleyway. A few moments later he arrived at the rail. There was his horse, and there was Sergeant Trelor waiting patiently.

  “Hurry sir,” he whispered. “Booth is a long way ahead.”

  * * *

  As Captain Tom Hageman, and First Lieutenant John W Hutchinson, re-entered the stage door they could see several people milling around on the stage. They walked on to the stage and over to Laura Keene, who was standing close to the wings. She was crying

  “That was John Wilkes Booth who shot the President,” Hageman said. “Did you see him?”

  She shook her head. She had seen nothing. She had been back stage at the time. “It was near the intermission,” she commented. “I don’t think it could have been John Booth.”

  She looked around at the other members of the cast who had accumulated. They all nodded in agreement with her. “It wasn’t John,” said one. “It must have been somebody else.”

  Hageman shook his head. “It was Booth all right,” he replied.

  “He was identified by several people,” added Hutchinson.

  The two men then descended from the stage into the main auditorium. Inside the theatre there was a great deal of confusion, and the wildest excitement. Crowds huddled together. Everyone was standing, talking animatedly, about what they had seen, or thought they had seen. Several people had identified the assassin as Booth.

  Many others just did not believe that he would be capable of such a deed. “There is just no possibility,” said one learned gentlemen.

  “It was not Booth,” said another. “And that’s final.”

  The officers pushed their way through the crowd, into the lobby, and then went outside. An immense crowd had already gathered in the street in front of the theatre. Several were demanding that action be taken. There was much talk of seeking revenge. There were suggestions of marching on the prison, and attacking the Confederate prisoners.

  Then a cry, “Let’s burn the prison,” went up from every side. On that same day a number of Confederate prisoners had been brought into Washington, and marched along Pennsylvania Avenue, to the prison. Several cavalry officers were visible. In the middle of them someone was issuing orders. It was General Tom Jarvis. The Sixteenth New York Regiment was given the task of going into Virginia, to follow and catch the assassin.

  Meanwhile up in the Presidential box Lincoln had been examined by a doctor. Instructions were given for him to be moved to somewhere more comfortable. He was severely injured, and unconscious, although he was still breathing. Mrs. Lincoln was screaming hysterically, the tears flowing down her face. The limp body, surrounded by a group of soldiers, was gently carried out of the box and into the lobby. The group then made its way through the crowd, down
the stairs, and out of the theatre. The body was then taken across the street to the Petersen House. It was carried up a short flight of stone steps, and into the building. Guards were positioned at the entrance, and at several positions within the building.

  Abraham Lincoln never regained consciousness and passed away at twenty-two minutes past seven on the morning of April 15th 1865, at the Petersen House some nine hours after the shooting.

  Approximately three hours earlier John Wilkes Booth had arrived at the home of Doctor Samuel Mudd.

  * * *

  “I can never repent it, though we hated to kill. Our country owed all her troubles to him, and God simply made me the instrument of his punishment. The country is not what it was. This forced Union is not what I have loved. I care not what becomes of me. I have no desire to outlive my country. The night before the deed I wrote a long article and left it for one of the editors of the National Intelligencer, in which I fully set forth our reasons for our proceeding – John Wilkes Booth.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  On The Run

  The following day arrest warrants were issued for several of Booth’s associates and Captain Jacob Thackery, of the Confederate Army. Two of Lincolns’ own top ranking soldiers, Generals George Walker, and Jed Butler were arrested and taken in for questioning.

  As a result of concerns expressed by Captain Miles Drew, a third Union General, Thomas Jarvis, was brought in for questioning. However due to a lack of evidence he was later released without charge.

  * * *

  Without a word Thackery and Sergeant Trelor rode down the alleyway, turned left at the end and turned onto "F" Street. They then headed toward the Navy Yard Bridge which crossed the Anacostia River, the first point of a pre-planned escape route to the south.