At the top of the staircase, Seward’s son Frederick confronted Bell and the stranger. Powell did not know it, but Frederick stood only a few feet from the closed door to the room where Secretary Seward lay. The stranger explained his mission again. Frederick explained that his father was asleep and that he would take delivery of the medicine for him. Again Powell refused, arguing that he must see the secretary. Incredibly, Powell, thanks to the little package he showed as a prop, had still not created suspicion about his true intentions. To Frederick, he seemed like a stupid and stubborn messenger.
From inside her father’s bedroom, Fanny Seward sensed someone was in the hall. She hurried to the door and opened it only a little to shield her father from the bright gaslight from the hall. She saw her brother and the tall stranger in the hat and overcoat. She whispered, “Fred, Father is awake now.” She knew in an instant she had done wrong. Powell leaned forward and tried to peek into the dark room, but Fanny held the door close, and the assassin was not able to see his target. He stared at Fanny and in a harsh and impatient tone demanded, “Is the secretary asleep?” Then Fanny made a terrible mistake. She glanced back into the room in the direction of her father, and replied, “Almost.” Frederick Seward grabbed the door and shut it quickly.
It was too late. Innocently, Fanny had given Powell the information he desperately needed. Secretary of State William H. Seward was in that room, lying helpless in bed, defended by no one — Powell probably assumed — but a frail-looking girl. Powell did not know that Sergeant Robinson was in the bedroom, too.
Robinson, a wounded veteran, was serving as an army nurse, keeping watch over Seward as he recovered.
Frederick, still arguing with Powell, gave him an order: Surrender the medicine or take it back to the doctor. Powell glared, still refusing to give up his package. He finally pretended to give up, stuffed the package into his pocket, turned around, and started to walk down the stairs. He did not remove his hand from his pocket. William Bell, walking down ahead of Powell, looked ahead to the front door through which, in a few moments, he would take the ill-mannered visitor into the street. At the top of the stairs, Frederick Seward, satisfied at turning away an annoying pest, took his eyes off Powell and headed for his room. In an instant, Powell turned and rushed up the stairs. Before Frederick could turn around, Powell stood behind him. Seward whirled around, but too late: Powell was pointing a revolver at him, the muzzle inches from his face. In another moment, a .36-caliber bullet would explode in his face, and the hot black powder would, at such close range, not only kill him instantly but also burn his flesh a hideous black.
Powell, staring into Frederick’s eyes, squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell and struck the percussion cap. Seward had no time to move — he knew he was dead. Then he heard . . . a metallic click. Misfire! The gun had not fired off its round! Frederick was still alive. But Powell, unlike his master, Booth, had five more rounds in his revolver. He could draw the hammer back with his thumb and take another shot. Then Powell made a mistake that jeopardized his mission. Instead of trying to fire again, Powell raised the pistol high in the air and brought down a crushing blow to Frederick’s head. He hit him so hard that he broke the pistol, jamming the cylinder and making it impossible to fire the weapon again. In a fury, using all his strength, Powell clubbed Frederick Seward with the barrel of the broken revolver. William Bell ran down the stairs and into the street, shouting, “Murder!”
Watching from across the street, a nervous David Herold knew this was not part of the plan.
Fanny, unaware of the chaos on the other side of the door, sat in the chair beside her father. She heard the sounds of Frederick being beaten, and wondered what the noise was in the hallway. As soon as Sergeant Robinson opened the door, Fanny saw a horrible sight — her brother’s face, wild-eyed, covered with blood. Powell moved quickly. He shoved Frederick aside and struck Sergeant Robinson in the forehead hard with the knife, stunning him with the blow.
(Previous page) In this woodcut published by Harper’s Weekly, Lewis Powell launches his attack on the household of Secretary of State Seward.
The assassin pushed past the stumbling sergeant and the frail girl blocking his path. He ran to Secretary Seward’s bed, clutching the knife in his right hand and the pistol in his left.
In near darkness, Fanny raced Powell to her father’s bed, trying in vain to throw her slender body between the huge assassin and her helpless father. The assassin reached the bed and pounced on Seward. “Don’t kill him!” she shouted. Seward awoke, trying weakly to raise himself. He saw Fanny, then glimpsed Powell’s unforgettable rugged face and burning eyes. The assassin pushed hard on the secretary’s chest, pinning him to the bed. Powell used every ounce of strength he had to land a tremendous blow but, in the dark, missed twice. Determined not to miss again, he delivered a third mighty blow aimed at Seward’s throat. The agonized groan that came from the bed told Powell that he had finally hit his target. The blade slashed open Seward’s cheek so viciously that the skin hung from a flap, exposing his teeth and fractured jawbone. His cheek resembled a fish gill. Seward choked on the warm, metallic-tasting blood that spurted from his mouth and poured down his throat.
(Previous page) This action-packed April 22, 1865 issue of the National Police Gazette portrays scenes from what it calls “The Assassin’s Carnival” — the assassination of Lincoln at Ford’s Theatre, the attempted assassination of Secretary of State William H. Seward in his bed, and the deathbed of the president.
Across the room, Sergeant Robinson regained his senses. He would fight to the death before he allowed the assassin to murder the secretary and Miss Fanny. He charged into Powell. In an instant, the two battle-hardened Civil War veterans grappled in a death struggle. Powell’s strength surprised Robinson — he could barely hold on to him as Powell went for Seward again.
Fanny screamed in an endless howling, terrifying wail that woke her brother Augustus, who was sleeping in a room nearby. She opened a window and screamed to the street below. That was enough to frighten David Herold into fleeing. He kicked his horse and fled, abandoning Lewis Powell. Powell kept fighting. Powell’s experiences as a soldier would not permit one man and a screaming girl to scare him off.
Augustus Seward, dressed in his nightshirt, raced to his father’s room and saw the shadows of two men fighting. Confused, he thought his father had become delirious and the male nurse, Sergeant Robinson, was trying to restrain him. As soon as he grabbed the shadowy figure he thought was his father, he knew it was someone else. Now combating two men, Powell fought harder, slashing wildly with the knife. He stabbed Robinson twice in the shoulder, deeply and to the bone. Robinson ignored the wounds and kept fighting. The sergeant and Augustus wrestled Powell into the hall and into the bright gaslight. Powell and Augustus, their faces inches apart, fixed their eyes on each other. Then Powell spoke. In an intense but calm voice, the assassin confided to Augustus, as though trying to persuade him, the strangest thing: “I’m mad. I’m mad!”
Powell wound his arm around Robinson’s neck in a choke hold, and the sergeant braced himself for the knife that was sure to follow at any moment. Then, in a curious act of mercy, Powell let him go and, instead of stabbing him again, hit him with his fist. Powell fled down the stairs, out into the street, his eyes searching desperately for David Herold. He found nothing more than his lone horse. Powell tossed his knife to the ground, mounted his horse and, instead of galloping into the night, calmly trotted away. William Bell, waving his arms in the street, pursued Powell on foot for a few blocks, yelling all the way. Unable to keep up with the horse, he gave up and returned to the Seward house.
Fanny ran back to her father’s room only to find the bed empty. She saw what she thought was no more than a pile of discarded bedsheets on the floor — but it was her father, in a bloody heap. To save his own life, he had rolled out of bed during the attack and crashed to the floor, hoping to escape Powell’s rea
ch in the dark room. Fanny slipped on a big puddle of blood and tumbled to the floor beside her father. He looked “ghastly . . . white, and very thin.” And that made her scream, mistakenly: “O my God, Father’s dead.” Sergeant Robinson, ignoring his own wounds, lifted the injured Seward from the floor and laid him tenderly in his bed. Seward opened his eyes, looked up at his terrified daughter and, in unimaginable pain, spit the blood out of his mouth, and whispered, “I am not dead; send for a doctor, send for the police, close the house.”
Back at Ford’s Theatre, the manhunt for Booth almost ended before it began when one man, an army major, rose from his front-row seat to pursue the assassin. The man, Joseph Stewart, long-legged at six foot five, decided to leap from the first row across the orchestra pit to the stage. In a few moments, he reached the stage and followed Booth into the wings. Stewart was the lone audience member who chased Booth.
Booth continued rushing through the wings of the stage and down the passageway leading to the back door that opened to the alley. A few more seconds and he would be in the saddle! The more immediate danger to Booth lay behind him. Stewart, following him down the passageway, was closing the distance between them with every stride.
Booth hoped that Ned Spangler or John Peanut stood on the other side of that door, still holding the rented horse. He burst through the alley door, sucked his lungs full of fresh air, and slammed it shut behind him. Booth spotted his horse standing quietly in the alley, just a few steps away. He eyed the man reclining on the bench near Ford’s back wall and commanded, “Give me my horse, boy!” Booth pulled himself up onto the black-legged bay mare with a white star on her forehead and grabbed the reins. He balanced himself in the saddle. At that moment, Stewart swung open the theater door and saw Booth about to gallop away.
Stewart reached for the reins, but Booth, an experienced rider, spurred and pulled the horse in a tight circle away from Stewart. Stewart tried for the reins again, but Booth broke free and kicked the horse hard. The horse galloped down the alley, vanishing from sight.
Booth rode to F Street at the end of the alley. No one blocked his way. He entered F Street and turned right. He had escaped Ford’s Theatre — barely. Could he escape Washington, its streets filled with thousands of soldiers and loyal citizens, all there to celebrate the end of the Civil War?
Booth rode past Herndon House, where just two hours ago he had met with his gang and dreamed of this moment. As he continued east on F, he approached two of Washington’s greatest landmarks: to the left, the huge marble Patent Office. Just weeks ago, it had been the scene of Lincoln’s inaugural ball. To the right was the massive marble post office, where hours ago Henry Clay Ford had picked up the letter that he handed to Booth on the front steps of the theater. Gaslight bounced off the slick, polished walls of both buildings. Booth galloped past the buildings, onto Pennsylvania Avenue.
(Previous page) Map of the area near Ford’s Theatre. Booth escaped down the alley onto F Street.
Few people saw him as he rode through downtown Washington. That was understandable, however, because Booth rode away from the crowds celebrating on Pennsylvania Avenue. Booth crossed the Capitol grounds, racing under the shadow of the great dome. He galloped toward the Navy Yard Bridge that led out of the city and into Maryland. Could he reach the bridge and cross it before pursuers or news of the assassination caught up with him? Luck was with him that night. His hard riding kept him ahead of the news. As he approached the river, he slowed his horse to a trot. He saw guards ahead. Be natural, he thought. Don’t arouse suspicion.
Sergeant Silas T. Cobb was standing watch at the Washington side of the Navy Yard Bridge. He saw an approaching rider. He knew his orders: Allow no one to cross the bridge after dark. Cobb and the handful of men under his command prepared to challenge the rider. With the skill only an actor could manage under such stress, Booth prepared for a “performance” to talk his way across the bridge. The time was between 10:35 and 10:45 P.M.
“Who goes there?” Cobb challenged.
“A friend,” the actor replied. Perhaps Cobb would recognize the star and wave him across with a smile? No such luck.
“Where are you from?”
“From the city,” Booth replied.
Cobb asked his destination.
“I am going down home, down in Charles County.”
The sergeant noticed that the horse was wet with sweat and had been ridden hard. Cobb continued to question Booth, asking if he knew that the bridge leaving Washington was closed at 9:00 P.M.
Booth claimed he did not know. He claimed that he had started out of the city late so that the rising moon would light his way.
Cobb reluctantly agreed to let Booth pass.
This was a lucky break for the assassin. If Cobb refused to let the actor cross the bridge, Booth had no other way out of the city. He could not turn back. He had to cross the river now, at this spot, into Maryland. Open, isolated countryside waited for him on the other side of the bridge. There he would be welcomed by friends. Armed with only a knife, he could not have fought the soldiers who blocked his way. Had Booth tried, the sergeant and his guards would have shot the actor out of his saddle and the manhunt would have ended then and there, less than an hour after Booth had assassinated Abraham Lincoln.
Once over the bridge, Booth turned to see if his henchmen — David Herold, Lewis Powell, or George Atzerodt — followed in the distance. This was their escape route, too. Booth saw no one, neither friends nor pursuers, behind him. From across the river, he saw a beautiful scene: a looming moon, high over Washington, with the great dome glowing in the moonlight. He had done it. And he had escaped.
Booth and Powell had left behind so much blood. Blood-soaked, Sergeant Robinson and Fanny Seward worked to save Secretary Seward’s life. Robinson showed Fanny the best way to slow the flow of blood from the wounds with cloths and water. If they could stop the bleeding until a doctor arrived, he might live.
Within minutes, messengers arrived with the doctors who relieved Fanny and Sergeant Robinson. The doctors confirmed that, despite their hideous appearance, the wounds were not fatal. To his doctors, Seward looked ghastly pale, corpselike, but he would live. One doctor treated the others Powell had so viciously attacked — Sergeant Robinson, Fanny, Augustus, and Frederick Seward.
As the night wore on, Fanny feared that Powell might return, or other assassins might be lurking in the house. Disobeying her mother, Fanny prowled from room to room, searching for hidden assassins. Finding none, she returned to her father’s bedside and sat with him. Weakly, Seward reassured his brave girl that she had done well this night.
The Seward house grew quiet again. Everywhere she looked, Fanny saw signs of the horror that she and her family had just survived. She looked at herself: her hands, her arms, her long pretty dress, all drenched in blood. She could not stop screaming.
The president’s box at Ford’s Theatre was also drenched in blood. Mary Todd Lincoln stared at the president. He was still, his head hung low, his chin resting on his chest. She spoke to him, but he did not answer.
Clara Harris saw Henry Rathbone, wild-eyed, staggering, and clutching his left arm with his right hand. He could not stop the flow of blood flooding over his hand. Booth’s knife had penetrated deep. Clara attended to her fiancé’s wound.
Down in the audience, more than fifteen hundred people went wild. Some climbed to the stage, asking the occupants of the president’s box what had happened. Hundreds of people turned to friends, spouses, and strangers to ask: “Has the president been shot?” “Who was that man onstage?” “Was that a knife?” “What did he say?” Half-crazed voices cried out demanding vengeance: “Kill the murderer!” “Hang him!” “Shoot him!” “Cut his heart out!” “Catch him!” “Don’t let him escape!” None of them realized that the assassin was already out the back door. The mood inside Ford’s became dark, ugly, and menacing. Under the d
im glow of the gaslights, people fled in a panic. The voices grew louder until nearly all fifteen hundred of them created an angry roar. This was a mob!
Sitting just a few yards from the door to the president’s box, Dr. Charles Leale jumped up from his seat. He made a direct run for the box — ignoring the aisles and jumping over chairs blocking his route. He struggled to get into the box through the door, which was barred by a piece of a wood blocking it. Leale, not in his Union uniform, announced his rank and profession. Major Rathbone, standing between Leale and Lincoln, asked the doctor to treat him first, holding up his injured left arm to show his wounds. Leale looked into Rathbone’s eyes and, when he determined that the major was in no immediate danger, rushed to the president’s side.
Dr. Leale introduced himself to Mary Todd Lincoln as a U.S. Army surgeon. He reassured her that he would do everything possible for her husband. As Mary wept, Leale began his examination of the president.
Lincoln looked dead. His eyes were closed, he was unconscious. Leale, remembering Booth’s bloody dagger and recalling Major Rathbone’s severely bleeding wound, assumed that Lincoln had been stabbed. Leale called for a knife. He had brought no surgeon’s tools for a social night at the theater. If Lincoln had been stabbed, how could he stitch the wounds without needle and thread?
Leale was handed a pocketknife. He cut open Lincoln’s collar, shirt, and coat to examine him for knife wounds. There were none. Then Leale lifted the president’s eyelids, studied the pupils and understood the seriousness of the wound: It was a brain injury. Leale weaved his hands gently through Lincoln’s hair, and as he worked them thoroughly around the head, discovered that the hair was matted with blood. Leale’s fingers probed for the source of the blood and found it behind the left ear: a neat, round hole, about the diameter of a man’s fingertip, clotted with a plug of coagulated blood. Leale’s heart sank.
Chasing Lincoln's Killer Page 4