Once inside Ford’s, Booth wanted to cross behind the stage to the other side of the building where a door led to a narrow passageway that ran to the front of the theater. Booth asked an employee if he could sneak across the stage concealed by scenery. That was impossible, he was told, as a scene that required the full stage was being performed and there was nowhere to hide from the audience by creeping behind the scenery. Instead Booth would have to cross under the stage and emerge on the other side.
Booth lifted a trapdoor and dropped down into darkness. He could hear the wooden planks of the stage creaking overhead, the distant, muffled voices of the actors, and laughter from the audience. He climbed the stairs at the end of the passageway, nudged open the trapdoor, and entered the area that ran lengthwise between Ford’s and the saloon next door. He emerged on Tenth Street. Anyone who saw him now would assume he had come down Tenth Street to take in the play. No one in the theater, except a few employees, knew he had a horse waiting out back. There was time for one last drink.
Booth walked into the Star Saloon at around 10:00 P.M. The narrow, dimly lit saloon attracted actors, stagehands, and playgoers from Ford’s Theatre next door. Alone, he drank whiskey. Any customers who recognized the handsomest, best-dressed man in Washington kept it to themselves and did not disturb him. Booth slapped a few coins on the bar and left without saying a word. As he exited onto Tenth Street, he noticed the president’s carriage, parked and waiting to take Lincoln back home.
In the alley behind Ford’s, John Peanut walked Booth’s impatient horse back and forth.
It was time. Booth entered the theater lobby, listening to the dialogue onstage. He was still on schedule. He climbed the curving staircase to the balcony, following the same path the Lincolns took to their box. He walked slowly along the wall. One theater patron, still hoping to witness General Grant’s arrival, looked up from his first-floor seat and saw a man approaching the box. He recognized Booth.
Booth could see the door of the vestibule that led directly into the president’s box. What he saw — what he did not see — surprised him. The door was unguarded. He expected to see an officer, a soldier, or at least a policeman seated there. Instead, seated near, but not blocking the door, was Lincoln’s servant, Charles Forbes. Booth showed Forbes something. To this day, no one knows what words they exchanged or what Booth showed him. Was it a letter? Or a calling card? A card with Booth’s name on it would open almost any door in Washington. Forbes did not attempt to stop him. Booth turned the doorknob and pushed open the vestibule door. There was no guard! No one stood between him and the president of the United States!
Inside the box, the Lincolns were enjoying themselves, not because of the play, but simply from being together, out of the White House, during their happiest week in Washington. Seated in his rocking chair, perhaps thinking of their carriage ride that afternoon, Lincoln reached out and held Mary’s hand. In pretend embarrassment, Mary scolded her husband for his boldness, “What will Miss Harris think of my hanging on to you so?” Lincoln replied to the last words he would ever hear his wife speak, “She won’t think anything about it.” He smiled at her affectionately. Booth closed the outer vestibule door behind him so quietly that no one heard anything. Bending down, he felt along the edge of the carpet near the wall for the pine bar — part of a music stand he had hidden there that afternoon. When no one was watching, he had entered Ford’s, sneaked into the vestibule and box, and made his preparations. He found the bar, grabbed it with both hands, and wedged it quietly, tightly between the wall and the door. Now no one could follow him into the president’s box.
The actor’s black eyes adjusted to the darkness, while fixing on the only light in the dim room, a faint pinpoint of light coming from the peephole that someone — probably Booth — had bored through a panel of the door into the box. Booth peeked through the dot of light on the door, seeing the interior of the box.
Lincoln sat at the far left of the box, closest to Booth, in his rocking chair. The left side of the president’s body turned toward the audience, he faced the stage below. Mary sat to Lincoln’s right, seated on a wood chair. On her right was Clara Harris, and next to her, Major Rathbone seated on a sofa. Booth could enter the box and shoot Lincoln without having to get past the major.
Onstage, there were four scenes left before the end of the play. It was around 10:00 P.M. Booth plunged his hands into his pocket and withdrew his weapons. In his right hand was the .44-caliber Deringer pistol, and in his left the sharp Rio Grande camp knife. The actor Harry Hawk entered the stage. It was not yet time — there were too many actors still onstage. Booth listened to the dialogue of the play for his signal. In a few moments, Booth knew, Harry Hawk would be alone onstage and would speak a line guaranteed to produce such energetic laughter that it would drown out the sound of just about anything, including, Booth hoped, the sound of a pistol shot.
(Previous page) Artists demonized John Wilkes Booth with lurid pictures of him as the devil’s disciple. This imaginative image shows Satan whispering in Booth’s ear to murder President Lincoln.
Booth’s thumb pulled back the hammer of the Deringer until he heard it cock into firing position. His hand reached for the doorknob. Though he could not see the stage, he could hear the dialogue. Now, Booth knew, only two actors remained onstage. The tension was unbearable. The dialogue spoken onstage no longer sounded like words but like the last ticks of a dying clock winding down. It was 10:13 P.M.
Once Harry Hawk was alone onstage, Booth opened the door and stepped into the president’s box. Hawk began reciting the last sentence Lincoln would ever hear, a series of corny insults that delighted the audience.
Lincoln was so near. If Booth wished to, he could reach out and tap him with the muzzle of the pistol. No one in the box had seen or heard him enter. They all continued to watch the action onstage. Booth began the performance he had rehearsed in his mind again and again. He stepped forward toward Lincoln, raised his right arm to shoulder height, and extended the pistol forward. He was so close to the president now that all he had to do was point the Deringer. Booth squeezed the trigger.
The comic line spoken by Harry Hawk, “You sockdologizing old mantrap,” was followed by an explosion of laughter from the audience. The black powder charge exploded and spit the bullet toward Lincoln’s head. The muzzle flash lighted the box for a moment like a miniature lightning bolt. Had Booth succeeded?
(Previous page) Published a few months after the assassination, this work of fiction was filled with exaggerations and lies, but its cover was an accurate depiction of the shooting.
If he had only wounded Lincoln, then the president, even at fifty-six years old, would have been a worthy opponent. The idea of the president fighting back against the young leaping and sword-fighting actor is not as farfetched as it sounds. With his creased and weary-looking face atop a thin, six-foot-four-inch frame, President Lincoln might have looked old and weak. The war had taken its toll, but beneath his baggy coat and trousers, there was a lean and strong body. Too soon doctors would discover and be amazed at the apparent difference in age between his face and his body.
Lincoln had not seen Booth coming. The bullet struck him in the head, on the lower left side, just below the ear. The ball ripped through his chestnut-colored hair, cut the skin, penetrated the skull, and because of the angle of Lincoln’s head at the moment of impact, made a diagonal tunnel through Lincoln’s brain. The wet brain matter slowed the ball’s speed, absorbing enough of its energy to prevent it from exiting the other side of the skull through the president’s face. The ball came to rest in Lincoln’s brain, behind his right eye.
Lincoln never knew what happened to him. His head dropped forward, his body lost all muscle control and sagged against the rocking chair. The sound of the pistol shot hung in the box for several seconds. It traveled to the stage below and echoed throughout the theater. The pistol shot did startle some people
in the audience. Some thought it was part of the play. Some people did not hear it at all.
Major Henry Rathbone, seated in the box just feet away from the president, was an experienced army officer, familiar with the sounds of gunshots. He was the first to realize that something was very wrong. He turned to his left.
The smoke from the gun, now tinted red from the gaslights, partly blocked his vision. Rathbone rose from his seat and stepped in the direction of the president. At that moment, he saw a wild-eyed man, his face ghostly against his black clothes, hair, and mustache. Like a demon, Booth emerged from the cloud of black powder and sprang at him. Rathbone lunged for Booth, grabbing him by the coat. The assassin broke free, shouting “Freedom!” and throwing his right arm up as high as it could reach. Rathbone saw what Booth had clenched in his fist: a large, shiny knife, its blade pointed directly down at him. At the last moment, Rathbone raised his arm to protect himself from what was intended to be a deathblow.
The major grunted in pain. His quick defensive move had saved his life, but the blade sliced through his sleeve and into his upper arm. Blood gushed from the deep wound.
Booth wasted no more time finishing off Rathbone. The clock in his head was still ticking down. If he was going to escape the theater, he had to get out of the box at once. He swung his leg over the side of the railing at the front of the box. By now, some members of the audience had looked up, seeing a man climbing out of the president’s box. As Booth positioned for the leap to the stage, Rathbone came at him again, grabbing his coattail. Thrown off-balance, Booth got tangled in the framed portrait of George Washington hanging on the front of the box. One of his riding spurs snagged one of the flags that decorated the box. He managed to free himself and landed, off-balance, but still on his feet. He felt something wrong in his left leg, near the ankle, but there was nothing he could do about it now.
Booth scrambled to center stage, turned to the audience, and stood up straight. Though every second was precious to his escape, he knew that this was his last appearance on the American stage. This would be the performance he would be remembered for. All eyes were on him. He stood still, paused to build suspense, and thrust his bloody dagger victoriously into the air. The gas stage lights shone on the shiny blade now stained with blood. “Sic semper tyrannis!” he thundered. It was the state motto of Virginia: “Thus always to tyrants.” Then Booth shouted, “The South is avenged!”
Harry Hawk, the only actor onstage when Booth made the leap, did not understand what was happening. Hawk, more than anyone else in the theater, was in the best position to hear the shot and see Booth climb onto the balcony. Hawk had known Booth and was not likely to mistake him. Hawk stood directly in Booth’s escape path. When Booth had nearly reached him, Hawk fled. As Booth moved across the stage heading for the wing, one audience member heard him say to himself, I have done it!
Booth fled into the wings, slashing his dagger at anyone who got in his way. The orchestra conductor said he felt Booth’s hot breath as the assassin pushed past him and struck at him with the knife. He did not attempt to stop Booth. Nor did anyone in the cast try. Booth had taken all the actors backstage by surprise and rushed past them.
A voice cried out from the president’s box, “Stop that man!”
Some in the audience gasped with fright and delight — they still thought it was part of the play.
“Will no one stop that man?” an anguished Major Rathbone again pleaded to the crowd below. Clara Harris shouted out, “He has shot the president!”
Rival publishers competed frantically to produce prints within days of the assassination. This rush to publish sometimes resulted in dramatic but inaccurate depictions. The president’s box was higher from the stage, Booth did not sail through the air, and Lincoln did not spring from his chair after being shot.
Less than a mile away, near the White House, all was quiet at the home of Secretary of State William H. Seward. Confined to his bed since a terrible carriage accident the week before, Seward drifted in and out of consciousness. The night of the accident, Seward’s face swelled so badly that his children could barely recognize him, and the blood pouring through his nose almost suffocated him. Seward’s doctors warned the family to keep him under constant watch.
Four days after the carriage accident, Lincoln walked from the White House to Seward’s big brick mansion nearby to check on Seward. The accident worried Lincoln. Carriage accidents were serious in wartime Washington and could prove deadly. The sight of Seward, alive if not well, relieved Lincoln.
During the war, Lincoln and Seward had become good friends and trusted confidants. After talking quietly for an hour, Lincoln left, and never saw Seward again.
Now, on April 14, Fanny Seward watched over her father and listened to the sights and sounds of the celebrations in the streets. A torchlight parade marched to the White House. A band played patriotic songs. Fanny was a tall, slender, brown-haired girl, educated in literature and politics and, at age twenty, her father’s favorite. A devoted and talented writer with an eye for detail, her secret diary, which she began at fourteen, detailed her observations and encounters with the political, military, and diplomatic elite.
Outside the mansion, in the shadows, Lewis Powell and David Herold were keeping the Seward house under close watch. The street was quiet. They saw no guards at the front door or anywhere on the street. The newspapers reported Seward’s carriage accident and described the serious injuries he had suffered, noting that he was recovering at home, bedridden. That made Seward, of all of Lincoln’s cabinet officers, Booth’s most appealing target tonight. The other cabinet officers could be anywhere — dinner parties, traveling — and would be difficult to track. Seward, helplessly lying in bed, was sure to be home when the assassins arrived. Booth issued simple instructions to his henchmen: Invade the house, locate the secretary of state’s bedroom, and kill the defenseless victim with pistol fire and, if necessary, a knife. This was a difficult mission even for a man like Powell, a battle-hardened and extremely strong ex-Confederate soldier.
Powell had three problems. First, how was he to enter the house? The door surely locked, he would have to ring the bell. If someone answered, could he just shoot or slash his way in? That might attract the attention of pedestrians or awaken the occupants of the house to defend themselves. Deception, not brute force, was the key. They came up with a brilliant plan. Powell would pretend he was a messenger delivering important medicine from Seward’s doctor. To make his story more believable, Powell carried a small package wrapped in paper and tied with string.
Powell’s second problem was that he would have to track down Secretary Seward himself — not just deliver the package to a servant or nurse. How would he find him in the large three-story mansion?
Powell’s third challenge: How many people were in the house? Seward might be attended by nurses, doctors, servants, maids, family members, and guards. There were certainly several people there, perhaps up to a dozen. Powell, fiercely loyal to Booth, ignored the risk and agreed to proceed with the plan. David Herold also went along, as long as he did not have to kill anybody and could wait for Powell outside, holding their horses.
From the shadows, Powell and Herold watched Seward’s doctors leave. The house was quiet now. They watched the gaslights go dim in several rooms, indicating that the occupants were settling in for the night. Powell handed his horse to Herold and walked across the street to the secretary’s front door. He rang the bell. Herold scanned up and down the block as he stood watch, keeping their horses ready.
On the first floor of the house, a black servant named William Bell hurried to answer the door. Late-night callers, mostly messengers, were not unusual. There was no reason why the servant should not open that door.
Before him stood a tall, attractive, muscular man, well dressed in fine leather boots, black pants, jacket, and hat. He was holding a small package in his hands. The decept
ion had worked. Nothing about Powell’s appearance raised suspicion in William Bell. He greeted Powell and asked politely how he could help the visitor. Powell explained his mission: He was a messenger with medicine from Seward’s doctor. That sounded reasonable. The servant reasoned the doctor must have prescribed some medicine and ordered it to be delivered to Seward immediately. Powell stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. Bell reached out to accept the package. No, Powell said, the doctor said he had to deliver it personally to the secretary of state and instruct him how to take the medicine. The servant said he would take the delivery up himself. Powell insisted, “I must go up.” He must see the secretary personally — those were his instructions. For five minutes, the assassin and the servant argued about whether Powell would leave the medicine with Bell. “I must go up,” he repeated. “I must go up.”
Lewis Thornton Powell, dressed in the clothing he wore the night he attacked Secretary of State William Seward; Powell operated under several aliases – Payne, Wood, and Hall.
Secretary of State William H. Seward and his brave daughter, Fanny, who helped fight off Lewis Powell’s knife attack on her family
David Herold, who accompanied Lewis Powell to Seward’s home
Powell inched toward the staircase, backing Bell up to the landing. The servant was in grave danger now. Powell was almost out of patience. Powell lifted a foot to the first step, then another to the second. Bell chattered on, but Powell kept pounding up the stairs slowly, his boots striking the steps with dull thuds that echoed to the floors above. Luckily for Bell, he did not try to block Powell’s path. Instead, he climbed the stairs with him.
Chasing Lincoln's Killer Page 3