by Jim Bishop
Lewis Paine liked that idea. He said he would do it. This is the first time on record that the thoughts of John Wilkes Booth turned from capture to kill.
The soldier waited in the bushes one night and, when he returned to the boardinghouse, he told Booth that he had lost his nerve. He insisted that he had been close enough to have strangled the President of the United States.
Lincoln had walked back to the White House that night with Major Thomas Eckert, the chief of telegraphers, and Paine had heard the President say, in a jocular way: “Major, spread out, spread out or we shall break through the ice.”
Sometime in March 1865, the clerks in the office of the Commissary General of Prisoners were talking about the illness of the President, and some fell to wondering what would happen to the Union if he died. This, in turn, led to a discussion of the assassination plots featured in the newspapers and Louis Wiechman, the fat boarder at Surratt House, assumed the air of a man who has a rich morsel of gossip and said that a plot was hatching against Mr. Lincoln in the very house where he boarded. A group of “Secesh” people were scheming to do away with the President.
Unless Wiechman’s character is being read wrong, this was intended as thrilling gossip, nothing more. Had the boarder feared for the President’s life, he might have been expected to report directly to his superior at the Commissary of Prisoners, or, conceding Wiechman’s flair for the dramatic, he might have gone directly to Secretary of War Stanton. The least he might have done was to report the matter to Major General Christopher C. Augur, Commander, Department of Washington, 22nd Corps.
Wiechman was surprised and worried when he found that his morsel got out of hand. He was questioned by Captain Gleason of the office, who said that he would report the matter at once to Assistant Provost Marshal Lieutenant Sharp. Wiechman was worried. He was intelligent and he may have feared that someone might suspect that he was part of the plot. He hurried at once to a nearby office and breathlessly reported the entire matter to Captain McDavitt, U.S. Enrolling Officer. Thus Wiechman was on record as having patriotically warned the nation of the impending peril, even though he later admitted that he “talked secesh, but it was buncombe,” and even though it was proved that, after exposing the plot, he entertained Atzerodt in his bedroom and lent his military coat and cape to Atzerodt and Paine, and he continued to share a bed with John Surratt.
Louis Wiechman told Captain McDavitt the names of all the habitués of the boardinghouse, as well as the residents, so the government was armed with information. No captain would, on his own authority, withhold such information. It can be assumed that it boiled upward toward Stanton. Captain Gleason had the same information, independently, and he brought it to the attention of Lieutenant Sharp, who also sent it to higher echelons for evaluation. At the top of both heaps was Stanton, who was so chronically worried about assassination attempts that he was seeing plots where there weren’t any. Is it too much to suggest that the United States Government, on one level or another, was aware of John Wilkes Booth and his band, plus the boardinghouse at 541 H Street, in mid-March of 1865? Is it too much to expect that the government officers would give this report more than casual attention because it could not be classified with the crackpot anonymous letters which usually told about such plots, but came, rather, from a trusted clerk who worked for the War Department?
Mr. Stanton had caused the arrest of 38,000 persons in the war years, many on far flimsier evidence than the word of an army informer. Besides, Stanton was almost always in an arresting mood and, with the suspension of the writ of habeas corpus, it would have required only a nod to put Booth and his band, and the Surratts too and their boarders, behind bars. In separate cells, under interrogation, no one can doubt that Atzerodt—and perhaps Herold too—would have cracked and told the story of the “capture” within a day or two.
Nothing was done, although detectives would insist later that they had the Surratt boardinghouse under surveillance for weeks. The safest surmise is that both reports, Gleason’s and McDavitt’s, were read, assessed and filed somewhere on the road up. They were never found. The detectives who said that the house had been watched for weeks were asked to relate the daily habits of any of the boarders, and couldn’t.
To Booth, time was running out for the Confederacy. Whatever was going to be done would have to be done quickly. All the war news was, to him, tragic. The South was collapsing and, if he didn’t hurry, the war would be over and the Confederacy would be dead and there would be no cause to help.
On Monday, March 13, he began to call his band together and he started by sending a telegram to Mike O’Laughlin:
MR. O’LAUGHLIN
57 NORTH EXETER STREET
BALTIMORE, MD.
DON’T FEAR TO NEGLECT YOUR BUSINESS. YOU HAD
BETTER COME AT ONCE.
J. BOOTH
By Friday, Booth was ready. For the first and only time, all of the conspirators were together. He asked both groups to meet him at Gautier’s Restaurant, 4 1/2 Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, at midnight. Early that evening, he asked John Surratt to take Paine to Ford’s Theatre so that the ex-soldier could become acquainted with the premises. Surratt rented a closed carriage and took Paine, in Wiechman’s military cape, and two ladies, Miss Honora Fitzpatrick, nineteen, and Miss Appolonia Dean, eleven years of age. All sat in the President’s Box. Booth had determined that Paine was the man who had the nerve to kill and that, if there were others to kill or capture besides Lincoln, he wanted Paine with him.
At intermission, Booth appeared in the dark doorway and asked if everybody was enjoying the play. He called Paine and Surratt out into the dark corridor behind the boxes. In ten minutes, they returned. When the final curtain dropped, Surratt and Paine took the ladies back to the boardinghouse, and then proceeded to Gautier’s Restaurant for the meeting.
Booth had engaged a private dining room. Cold cuts and cheeses and bottles of whiskey and champagne had been set up. The actor had asked Mr. Lichau, who owned Gautier’s as well as Lichau House, to please see that this party was not disturbed. At it, everybody except Herold drank freely. Booth drank champagne and did most of his talking standing up.
He introduced each conspirator aloud, pointing his finger at each man in turn. The Arnold-O’Laughlin wing had not met the Herold-Atzerodt-Surratt-Paine group until now. Except for Booth, no one seemed to have any heart for the “capture” of Lincoln. Most of them, when permitted to speak, said that the government was already aware of the plot and that it would be dangerous to proceed.
Atzerodt sat with his brown beaver hat on, chewing on a cigar, his tiny eyes darting from face to face. Surratt, slender and pale, studied his drink and listened. Paine, big and blank, tried feebly to mask his contempt of the others. Sam Arnold, opposed to the whole thing and frightened as well, was obliged to Booth for the suit he was wearing. Mike O’Laughlin, in checked trousers and fawn-colored longcoat, stroked his long mustaches and drank his whiskey neat; Herold, happy to be a man among men, paid rapt attention to his idol.
Booth talked on. He admitted the difficulty of removing the Chief Magistrate, against his will, from Ford’s Theatre. Paine, he said, would assist him in the State Box. The two of them would truss the President, screened from the audience by the folding drapes on the box and, at a signal, Sam Arnold would walk onstage, with drawn gun, and wait below the box for them to lower the burden. At this time, Mike, below stage, would shut the petcock and the gaslights would go out. Surratt and Atzerodt would be waiting on the far side of the Navy Yard Bridge and would lead the whole party to the flatboat. Davey Herold would sit on the driver’s seat of the covered carriage behind Ford’s Theatre and would drive out of the alley as Arnold jumped in back with Lincoln. O’Laughlin, Paine and Booth, on single mounts, would remain in the alley a moment with drawn guns, to hold off pursuit, and then would rejoin the wagon.
It was simple. Or was it? Booth finished speaking and fell silent. He waited for comment. None came. His skin began to whit
en. At last, Sam Arnold coughed and opened his mouth. He, for one, he said, was opposed to the plan. He intended no offense to Wilkes, the most loyal of friends, but, in the first place, no one was ever sure when Lincoln would attend the theater. In the second place, there was no guarantee that the President would submit meekly to capture. Third, it would be dangerous to work under the noses of a thousand witnesses. Fourth, the entire North would be alarmed immediately after the deed and the group would be captured within an hour.
He didn’t mention the fifth item: that it was apparent to everyone that the South had lost the war and that the capture of Lincoln would be dramatic and pointless. Arnold looked up and saw that Booth was standing almost over him. Without looking alarmed, Sam fingered his drink and said, mildly, that it would be better for all concerned if the capture could be arranged to take place in the suburbs. He had read somewhere, he said, that the President was scheduled to attend a matinee at the Soldiers’ Home, away out on Seventh Street, and it would be much easier to stalk a carriage on a lonely road, beat the guards into submission, and run off with Lincoln. In that way, he added, it would be quite some time before the government became aware of what had happened, and so the band would be well on their way into southern Maryland before an alarm could be sounded.
Booth was pale.
“Another thing,” Arnold said. “If this thing isn’t finished within a week, I am going to withdraw.”
“Any man,” said Booth slowly, “who talks of backing out ought to be shot.”
All eyes turned on Sam. He shrugged, looked at his drink, and then smiled up at his patron.
“Two,” he said, “can play that game.”
Booth stood shaking, subsided, drank another glass of champagne, and apologized to Arnold. Free discussion was encouraged, and most of the men favored Arnold’s plan. At dawn, Booth surrendered to his men. All right, he said in effect, if Lincoln is going out to Soldiers’ Home it will be a matinee performance and I will hear about it at the theater, because some of our players help out at Soldiers’ Home. I am appearing at Ford’s Theatre tonight (Saturday, March 18) and I will get whatever news there may be. I will pass the word after the performance.
That night Booth played the part of Pescara in The Apostate. He learned that Sam was right. Some of the Ford troupe had been booked to play a matinee at Soldiers’ Home on Monday.
It was a busy weekend. Surratt and Atzerodt rode to Surrattsville, where they met Herold. The three drove southward five miles to a village called T.B. An hour later, they returned and sat in the tavern playing cards.
Surratt took John M. Lloyd, the alcoholic who had leased the tavern from Mrs. Surratt, to the front room. There, on a sofa, was a bundle of material. There were two army carbines with covers, a coiled length of hemp, a monkey wrench. Surratt asked Lloyd to hide the stuff for him. The tavernkeeper said that he wanted nothing to do with guns. Union patrols, he said, had been searching homes in the area looking for weapons and contraband, and he was not going to be found with guns.
John Surratt said that, when he had lived in the tavern, he had found an excellent hiding place over the kitchen, a tiny room with bare studs and beams. Lloyd, who had been all over the premises many times, doubted the existence of such a place. Surratt took the guns and rope, and led the man to the place. There, between the joists, the material was hidden.
“We’ll pick it up in a few days,” Surratt said.
On Monday morning, March 20, the final plans were laid. The conspirators left Washington City, on horses, in pairs. Arnold and O’Laughlin left first, at noon; Atzerodt and Paine departed next; Booth and Surratt last. Herold was stationed at the tavern in Surrattsville, waiting with the “stuff.” He was told to get some axes too. In the event of close pursuit, the rear guard of the conspirators would fell trees and, after sundown, stretch rope across the road at low level. A boat was waiting at Port Tobacco.
Booth’s only worry was a shortage of horses. None of the men had their own, although Surratt boasted to friends that he kept his own mounts at Howard’s Stable on G Street. Booth owned two horses, the small trotter, and the big draft-type blind in one eye. Both of these were kept in a small stable behind Ford’s Theatre.
There was a small, sagging building about a hundred feet south of the theater in the alley, and Ned Spangler, a stagehand who had once worked for Booth’s father at Bel Air, had renailed old clapboards on this building and had hung a new door. Spangler, an untidy man of brown hair and squinting eyes, was another in a parade of heavy drinkers who worshipped John Wilkes Booth. Now he offered the barn to Booth, and he groomed Booth’s horses and kept them fed. Ned Spangler’s biggest recompense came when Booth offered to buy him a drink at Taltavul’s, next door to the theater.
As the men trotted out of town, the Washington City newspapers announced that President Lincoln would visit the Soldiers’ Home, where Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln spent considerable time each summer, to witness a matinee of Still Waters Run Deep. At the Home, Dr. A. F. Sheldon, medical director, was busy supervising the dressing of the stage and the arrangement of chairs. He put on as many shows as he could, and was an early believer in recreation for ambulatory patients.
At 2 P.M. six men on horseback were waiting in a grove of trees a short distance beyond Seventh Street and Florida Avenue. The day was cold and gray and Booth explained, for the final time, the duties of each man. When the carriage was sighted coming around the bend, he and Surratt would ride out to meet it. They would assume a position ahead of the carriage and permit it to catch up with them.
The others were to wait a moment or two, then move out behind the carriage and not try to overtake it until they saw Surratt grab a bridle and pull it to a stop. The others were then to come up at once, and Paine would leap inside the carriage to subdue the President. Surratt and Booth would eliminate the coachman. Surratt would then don the driver’s coat and silk hat and would drive the carriage. Booth and Paine would sit in back of the carriage with Lincoln. Arnold and O’Laughlin were to take care of mounted guards, if any. Atzerodt was to remain a few yards behind the scene, ready to respond to a call for help from any of the others.
The conspirators waited. There was no sound on the road. It was empty. The horses snorted and shook their heads. The men conversed in whispers. Carriage wheels were heard. Booth whispered, “How many?” but no one answered. He dashed out into the road to peer around the bend for an advance look, and came back shouting that this was the right one. In a moment, the others could see the shiny black vehicle coming around the sandy road.
The actor and John Surratt moved out. The others waited in concealment. Booth and Surratt rode ahead, then slowed, and, as the carriage came up, they parted so that they flanked the horses. Booth pulled rein and bent low to peer inside. There was one passenger, a smooth-faced man who looked startled. The actor motioned to Surratt to break away and the two rode back to the group. A violent argument broke out. Arnold and Surratt maintained that it was the President’s carriage and the fact that the President wasn’t in it proved that the government was aware of the plot and had sent the coach as a decoy. Federal cavalry would be along at any minute. Booth argued that this was merely the first coach to come along; that, if they had patience, Lincoln would be along in a few minutes. The men decided to wait.
In fifteen minutes, the conspirators broke up in fear and cursing. Lincoln had not shown up. Arnold and O’Laughlin swung away and, at a dead run, headed toward Baltimore. Atzerodt, with coattails flying, said that if anyone wanted him he would be at Port Tobacco and that he would stop at Surrattsville and explain everything to Davey. Surratt, angry, rode away alone. Booth and Paine, the one blind with rage, the other impassive, turned north toward Soldiers’ Home.
The band would never again be at full strength. Arnold and O’Laughlin promised each other not to have anything further to do with plots. Surratt quit in disgust, because he had worked hard and earnestly for the Confederacy and he felt that this was an opéra bouffe plot.
Outside of Soldiers’ Home, an actor named Edward Davenport was taking a breath of air when Booth rode up alone. The younger of the great Booths was wearing riding breeches, polished boots, and fawn-colored gauntlets.
“Good evening, Ned,” said Booth. “Who is in the house today?”
“Hello, Wilkes,” said Davenport. “Well, it is filled. Seward, Stanton, Chase—full up.”
“Did the old man come?”
“The President?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Booth turned away.
“What’s the hurry?” said Davenport.
“I have a skittish horse.”
On H Street, Mrs. Surratt was weeping. She sent Wiechman downstairs to early supper alone. The big man saw the tears and asked what the matter was. She shook her head. At the table, Wiechman told Dan, the Negro houseman, that Miss Mary was upstairs crying. Dan said that he knew that she was crying and he had asked her what was the matter and Miss Mary had told him she saw John go off on horseback with some other men and she did not like it.
At 6:30, Surratt came into the second-floor sitting room— the one immediately off the inverted V front steps—with a Sharp pistol in his hand. Wiechman looked up from a newspaper and John waved the pistol angrily.
“My prospects are gone,” he growled. “My hopes are blighted. I want something to do. Can you get me a clerkship?”
Before Wiechman could reply, Surratt was on his way upstairs to his room. A few minutes later, Paine came in with a pistol in his hand, saw Wiechman, and said nothing. He was breathing hard, like a man who had been running. Booth came in, talking loudly about his poor luck, and he paced the floor in agitation before he noticed Wiechman.
“I did not see you,” he said, and went upstairs with the others. An hour later, Booth left the house, bound for New York, and Paine left for Baltimore.