by Jim Bishop
Although there were barbs in the copy, aimed at him, the President almost always laughed at these stories. Once, he said: “For the genius to write these things, I would gladly give up my office.” On another occasion, he said: “I am going to write Petroleum to come down here, and I intend to tell him if he will communicate his talent to me, I will swap places with him.”
Word came that a cold supper was waiting and Governor Oglesby and General Haymes begged off and said that they had appointments, that they stopped in just for old times’ sake, and would see the President again over the weekend.
The Lincolns, with Tad and Robert, ate together and Robert said that he had an evening out scheduled and did not know whether or not he could use the tickets to Grover’s Theatre. This reminded Mrs. Lincoln that she had invited a young engaged couple, Clara Harris and Major Henry R. Rathbone, to come with them to the theater. Miss Harris was dark and lovely, a full-figured girl with rows of tiny spitcurls on her forehead. The major was tall and slender, a quiet, handsome man. It was a unique love affair. Miss Harris was the daughter of Senator Ira Harris of New York. The major was the Senator’s stepson. Mrs. Lincoln said that, en route to Ford’s Theatre, they would pick the couple up at the Harris home on H Street near Fourteenth. The President received the news in silence and nodded.
It was getting dark when, a hundred miles to the south, Marshal Ward Hill Lamon, the presidential worrier, drove through Richmond for the first time. The President was in his thoughts often, and there is no doubt that, as he saw the burned-out shells of once fine homes, and saw the deep strain of bitterness in the faces on the walks, he shuddered when he thought of the President walking these streets a week ago.
And if he continued to think of Lincoln, he must also have thought of the changes which had slowly come over the President, changes which old Hill saw, and which others, including Lincoln, could not see. He saw Lincoln coming to believe in his destiny as a great man, coming to believe in portents and dreams, coming to believe that it had been written in the stars scores of centuries ago that he was to be cut off at the very height of his fame and power, coming to believe that he must die at the hands of an assassin.
Hill was particularly vexed at the presidential belief in dreams as a portent of good and evil. When he told a dream in unsympathetic company, Lincoln sensed it and made fun of the dream and said that everybody knew that they had no meaning, but it was obvious to Lamon that Lincoln not only believed in them, but was preyed upon by them and worried about them.
Once the President had said that he believed that dreams were part of the “workmanship of the Almighty.” If Lamon made fun of this thesis, Lincoln would turn his heavy-lidded eyes on his old friend and say: “Hill, play a little sad song for me,” and Lamon would plunk it out on a banjo, the two of them listening to the cracked notes, the plaintive air.
The President said that, before he came to the White House, he was lying on a couch in Springfield and he glanced up at a mirror and saw two images of himself: one glowing bright, one ghastly in death. The meaning, he said, was decipherable: he would be healthful in his first term of office, and death would overtake him in his second. He admitted that, since that day on the couch in 1860, he had tried many times to conjure the same double image and had failed.
Dreams were in code; they were warnings, clues, waiting to be understood. He could plumb their meanings and he believed that the art of understanding dreams was shared only by common people. “The children of nature,” he called them. He had a deep respect for the wisdom of the “children of nature” and believed that they were wiser, in many ways, than those with vast formal educations.
As he rode through the streets of Richmond, Ward Hill Lamon thought of the dreamer back home in Washington City. He loved Lincoln, and he knew that, if the President went outdoors on any of these nights, he would never forgive himself for not remaining at his side.
Ford’s Theatre opened. The sun was setting at 6:45 and Peanut John came out front and lit the big opaque gas globe in front of the main entrance. A small, steady line of people stood before the box office. The ushers were dusting the gas globes around the walls inside the theater and Spangler, Maddox and Ritterspaugh sat out on the stone step in back, each pleasant in the glow of whiskey and each wondering if Booth would come back later and buy some more. John Matthews arrived backstage and removed his frock coat, the one with the letter in it. Harry Ford went out to the box office to remind Joseph Sessford—who was substituting for the sick Thomas Raybold—not to sell any box seats for tonight’s performance.
The Night Hours
* * *
7 p.m.
Night came like a gentle sneak and the city lamplighters fought it with ladders in one hand and tapers in the other. Women about to go out for the evening studied the feeble lakes of light in the sky and decided to take good warm coats; some even carried small muffs. The people were still on the town, still celebrating, and with darkness came license. The rented carriages did a fine business, merely standing in front of a saloon until a couple came out, and those who had never hired one before hired a carriage tonight and, in the sour perfume of partly digested whiskey, men kissed their girls passionately and made promises which, in the morning, would not be remembered.
It was another gala night in a succession of them. Man had been harassed and fatigued by war for so long that he had forgotten that this was not the normal way of life, and now that he was free of anxiety, he was excessive in his desire to taste what it was like. Those who had least believed that this day would come made the most of it.
In the White House, William H. Crook stood outside the President’s office with hands clasped behind his back. He was angry, but he was good at hiding his feelings. He had worked the 8 A.M. to 4 P.M. tour of duty as Lincoln’s bodyguard today, and, since 4 P.M., he had been waiting for the night man to relieve him.
John F. Parker was now three hours late. Crook would not complain to Mr. Lincoln, nor to anyone else. This had happened before, and John Parker’s shiftlessness as a member of the Washington City police force was well known. No one seemed to know who had selected him as a personal bodyguard for the President. His record, as Crook knew, was bad, but that too seemed beside the point right now. The only thing that mattered was that John F. Parker was three hours late.
William H. Crook was still thinking about it when he saw Parker walking down the corridor. The good policeman choked down his anger and merely said: “The President is going to the theater tonight. You will go with him. Are you armed?” Parker said he was, and patted his pocket. Crook told him, tersely, the White House news of the day, and said that, after supper, he had walked Mr. Lincoln over to the War Department for a final evening visit, but that telegrapher Bates, and newspaperman Noah Brooks, who had been there, said that there was no news from General Sherman. Mr. Stanton, they found, had gone home. So too had Major Eckert. Grant would not be going to the theater with the President tonight; he had gone to visit his children. The President was going to take an engaged couple instead, which meant that there would be no room in the presidential carriage for Parker, and perhaps he had better leave the White House fifteen minutes ahead of time, and wait there for Lincoln.
All this he told the night man, and then, when the President appeared at the office door for a moment, Crook said: “Good night, Mr. President.” The President looked at him and said: “Good-by, Crook.” On the way home, William H. Crook thought about it. The President had always said “Good night, Crook.”
The night guard assumed his post outside the office. As a man, John F. Parker was somewhat less than average. He was thirty-four, sandy-haired, married, father of three small children. His outstanding virtue was that he had none. He was born in Frederick County, Virginia, had served three months with the Union forces in 1861, and lived with his family in small quarters at 750 L Street. He had been accepted as a policeman on the Washington metropolitan force early in 1861.
On October 14 of his first year, Par
ker went on trial before a police board for using profane language to a grocer. The superior who suspended Parker filed an additional charge of using vile and insolent language to a superior officer. Parker was found guilty reprimanded and transferred. Later, he was charged with insulting a woman who had asked for police protection. In succession, Parker was further charged with abusing a superior officer, and with being found sleeping on a streetcar.
In April 1863, he was charged with being found drunk and disorderly in a house of prostitution, where he had appeared as a customer. The house was operated by Miss Annie Wilson and, at the trial, Miss Wilson and her coworkers appeared as character witnesses for the policeman. One girl told the police board that Parker had been staying at the house for five weeks and had not been seen drunk or disorderly in all that time. It was testified that he had been sleeping with Miss Ada Green.
When the hearings were finished, the police board found that Parker was “at a house of ill fame with no other excuse than that he was sent for by the keeper” and, in addition, found that there was “no evidence that there was any robbery there or disturbance of the peace or quiet of the neighborhood.” He was acquitted.
Two weeks later, a roundsman brought Parker up on charges of not patrolling his post. He had been found sleeping on a Third Street car. Parker’s defense was that he and a police partner were investigating the squawking of ducks on the streetcar and, in the midst of his investigation, he had fallen asleep. The charges were dismissed.
Ninety days later, a woman citizen charged Parker with using insulting language to her because she had protested to him against disorderly Negroes in her neighborhood. The charge was dismissed.
This is the man who drew the 4 P.M. to midnight shift as personal guard to the President on April 14, 1865. There was nothing sinister in the assignment. Since late in the previous winter, the Washington metropolitan police force had been furnishing men to the White House for this purpose. Out of a force of fifty men, four had been picked for this duty; two others had been selected as substitutes on days off. Of the forty patrolmen who might have pulled White House duty, many of the older men did not want it and, by seniority, managed to evade it. Of the younger ones, a few aspired to this assignment because it was known that the President, or Mrs. Lincoln, would keep such men from being drafted for army duty.
Three of the guards (Crook, Alexander and Parker) had asked for such letters to the draft board. It can be assumed that no police superior, including Major A. C. Richards, superintendent of the force, acquainted the Lincolns with the past records of the guards. Both the President and his wife took for granted that the character and courage of the men sent to them were beyond question.
Over on K Street, Mr. Stanton finished his dinner and said that he felt tired. Mrs. Stanton suggested that he lie down, but he said that he wanted to read the evening newspapers. He compromised by fixing pillows on a couch downstairs, and read as Mrs. Stanton sewed. Other Cabinet members were spending a quiet evening at home: Speed, Usher, Welles.
Downtown, boys ran through the streets passing out specially struck handbills.
* * *
FORD’S THEATRE
Tenth Street, Above E
Friday Evening, April 14, 1865
This Evening
The Performance will be honored by the presence of
PRESIDENT LINCOLN
Benefit and Last Night of
MISS LAURA KEENE
in
Tom Taylor’s Celebrated Eccentric Comedy,
As originally produced in America by Miss Keene,
And performed by her upwards of one thousand nights entitled
OUR AMERICAN COUSIN
* * *
The name of General Grant, it will be noted, had been eliminated from the handbill. It is probable that the actor Matthews, returning from the Avenue, informed the Fords that Grant had been seen on his way out of town, and therefore could not be expected at the performance. Maddox, now acting as stage manager, went up to the President’s Box to make a last-minute inspection, and he found everything as it should be.
Booth too was busy. He finished eating and went to his room and loaded his pistol. It was a brass derringer, a single-shot firearm with a short barrel. It would fire once, and could not be fired again without reloading. The derringer could almost be hidden in a lady’s hand. It fired a good-sized lead ball, almost a half inch in circumference.
The actor loaded it carefully, and placed a percussion cap under the hammer. The derringer was ready. He patted the sheathed knife stuck in the waistband of his trousers, and assured himself that it was there. Booth had a disgust of knives, and for the type of wounds they inflicted. He kept the blade as insurance.
From his trunk he pulled a false beard, a dark mustache, a wig, an oversized plaid muffler, and a makeup pencil. When all of the accouterments of assassination had been inspected and counted, he dropped on the bed, being careful to keep his boots and spurs hanging off the edge. It is hardly possible that, with the small amount of time left for inactivity, he slept at all. Booth was sobering a little, and he probably watched the shadows on the hotel ceiling, and listened to the chatter of the merrymakers on the street below.
No one knows, or ever will know, when it first occurred to him to utter a phrase after the murder. He was not a Latin scholar, and beyond what little Latin the study of English etymology would give him, he knew none at all. He decided to use as his bid for immortality the phrase “Sic Semper Tyrannis.” This was the motto of the State of Virginia: “Thus always to tyrants.”
At 7:45, he got off the bed, packed his impedimenta, and, at the last moment, decided to take two big revolvers. The others might need them; he would not. Downstairs, it was said by some, he walked across the lobby, elegant and poised as always, and nodded to the desk clerk.
“Are you going to Ford’s Theatre this evening?” Booth said.
“I hadn’t thought of it,” the clerk said.
“Ah,” said Booth wagging a finger, “you should. You will see some fine rare acting.”
He went out into the darkness and got his impatient mare. The night clouds were low enough to be seen in the reflected glare of lights from the city. There was a fine mist in the street and, in it, the lighted dome of the Capitol looked to Booth like an apparition viewed through a frosted window. Still, the streets were crowded and a parade of government employees was making up and musicians were sounding their instruments. The gaiety, in fact, seemed enhanced by the hour, and the same revelers who, for days past, had vowed that they could not celebrate any more, were out again tonight drinking toasts to Lincoln, Grant, Stanton, Meade, McClellan, Sheridan, Ord, Sherman, Hooker, Farragut, Porter, and, when they got to thinking of Lee, they knew they were good and drunk.
Vice President Johnson was lying on his bed, clothed. He heard a knock on the door. He got up, adjusted his galluses, and opened it. The visitor was ex-Governor Leonard J. Farwell of Wisconsin. He said he was tired of sitting around the hotel. He needed someone to talk to and he wanted to stop in for a minute or two. Johnson turned up the table lamp and the two men, both lonely, talked peace and politics and Farwell said that he had a ticket to go to Ford’s Theatre tonight. It had been announced, he said, that Lincoln and Grant would be there.
The Vice President did not rise to any faintly implied invitation to come along. He told the governor that he was tired—very tired—and he was going to get to bed early.
At Mrs. Surratt’s house, John Holahan awakened from a nap and looked at his watch. He reminded Mrs. Holahan that, tonight, the employees of the arsenal were putting on a torchlight procession from the Capitol to the White House and that it would be a good idea to go down on the Avenue and watch it. Mrs. Holahan was not interested. She could think of things that had to be done right here in the house without getting dressed to stand out on a wet night watching parades.
Holahan washed his face in a basin, put his coat on, and left. He walked down Sixth Street to the Avenue, then ove
r to Seventh, and stood in front of Seldner’s Clothing Store and waited for the parade. The big Irishman was moved by the ruddy flames of the torchbearers and the music and the grinning faces and, when the parade had passed, he decided that he might as well go to Ford’s Theatre and see Lincoln and Grant.
He got as far as Eighth Street and D when he remembered that this was Good Friday. Holahan was Catholic. He decided to go home. Had he gone to the theater, he stood an excellent chance of purchasing one of the few remaining seats in the theater, the first seat in Row D of the dress circle—a few short steps from the little white door. Had he been seated there, he would have seen anyone passing by en route to the President’s Box and, had he recognized an idol, Holahan would have engaged him in conversation beyond doubt. What would have happened no one knows, but Holahan was a big man, and a strong one.
In the White House, the President worked. Speaker Colfax was in the office and he was explaining to Lincoln that he had scheduled a summer trip to the Rocky Mountains and California but he wanted to cancel it at once if the President decided to call a special session of Congress. Lincoln shook his head. He had not decided to call a special session, and he did not expect to call one. Let the Speaker go on with his trip. In fact, right now the President would write out a few remarks about the important part the people of the West Coast would play in the coming peace with their gold and silver mines.