As he had begun to develop his plans to make his strategy a reality, Booth had come into increasing contact with operatives of the South who lived in Maryland and New York. He had also traveled to Canada where much of the leadership of the Confederate Secret Service stayed. The South’s secret service bureau was an unofficial group of individuals who acted independently and sometimes in concert to thwart the North’s progress in the war. Some of their actions were nefarious and involved acts of espionage in the Capital. Other actions were purely political such as quietly working to defeat Abraham Lincoln in the general election of 1864—an effort that was unsuccessful. Since his new career was unknown to his friends and family, his mother and his sister, in particular, became very concerned with John Wilkes’ behavior. His mother was convinced that he was up to no good and about to run off with an unsavory woman. In an attempt to appease his family, and reduce their concerns, Booth agreed to appear with his two brothers, Edwin and Junius in New York City, in a production of Julius Caesar in the fall of 1864.
John Wilke’s little sister, Asia, traveled from her home in Philadelphia to see her three brothers perform on the stage for the first time. While at her mother’s home in the city, she became embroiled in a political discussion concerning the war. The older brother, Edwin, was an ardent supporter of the Union and enjoyed nettling his younger brother about his support of the South. As Edwin left the room, leaving Wilkes Booth fuming in frustration, Asia made a comment.
“If the North conquers the South, then they are of the North. They will become part of the one nation again,” she said. He turned to her, his face flushing.
“Not I, not I! So help me God! My soul, life, and possessions are for the South!” He stood up from the couch on which they were sitting and paced back and forth across the sitting room, his agitation rising with each turn.
“If you are so much for the South, then why not go fight for her then? Every Marylander worthy of the name is fighting her battles,” Asia countered.
Booth turned and looked at his sister and stared at her for several long moments. She sensed that he was struggling to share something of import with her and so she sat silently looking into his eyes. After a moment, he sat down next to her on the couch again. Just as she was beginning to regret the quickness of her cutting comment, he began to speak to her. He kept his pale face looking straight ahead, not catching her eye. Though she had seen his face countless times growing up and as a man, she still marveled at the perfectly set nose, the luster of his black curls, and the turn of his lip. He was altogether marvelous in his dark beauty.
“I have only one arm to give as other men do. My brains are worth twenty men, my money worth a hundred, Asia. I have free pass everywhere. My name is my passport to move freely in the north as well as those parts of the south I am allowed to visit. My precious money—never really beloved until now—is the means, one of the means, by which I serve the South.” Booth said the words calmly but with an underlying emotion. Though his words were cryptic, as he finished his sentence he turned his gaze fully upon his sister and the realization swept over her all at once: her brother was a spy for the South!
“So you have a pass to move freely, and…and you use this to go and visit Union troops?” The understanding was dawning within her mind. “You go to troops where ever you have acted? Kansas? Texas? Maryland?” Her eyes widened in fascination and horror.
“Just so,” Booth smiled slightly as his sister’s quick grasping of his role.
“A man came here the other day and asked for ‘Doctor Booth.’ What does that mean, Wilkes?” She held her hand up to her mouth and stared at her brother who was suddenly transforming into a new being right before her eyes, without changing a single feature on his face or a stitch of his clothing.
“I am he, my dear. I am Doctor Booth. I have knowledge of medicines, my dear, and the means to acquire and transport them. The drug that the South needs more than any other is quinine. Though many try to peddle some paltry version of the drug to me, I am far too expert in the matter to fall for that. I have men who provide me with the perfect article.” He smiled at his sister’s apparent inability to speak a word at his revelation.
“But how do you transport it?” She finally asked.
“Oh, horse collars and so forth. I help to run the blockades, my dear.” He laughed at her mounting concerns. ‘Just imagine if you knew the great plans I have for this tyrant in the Executive Mansion. That I will secure this buffoon and take him south and then I will have a name that is far higher than Edwin’s or father’s,’ Booth thought to himself while his sister struggled to bring this new view of her beautiful brother into focus.
Wilkes Booth’s thoughts returned to the present as he stood in front of the mirror in his sparse room at the National Hotel on Good Friday morning. He was reviewing himself before he went downstairs for breakfast. His suit, though worn, still showed him in an elegant light. The dark woolen suit had a plush velvet collar and a fine satin trim. He had a rich red cravat necktie puffing just so from the buttoned suit. As he walked down the steps he pulled the cuff of his white shirt down so they just peeked from the cuffs of his jacket. As he walked into the dining room, he was greeted by name and escorted to the breakfast table to which his room number was assigned. He saw that he had a breakfast partner who would be joining him. He knew the lady, an attractive woman in her early twenties. He walked over to Carrie Bean and bid her good morning. She was in a clean blue dress with a crinolette beneath that provided fullness to the back, but allowed for a narrower shape to the sides and in the front. It was a look that was just now coming into fashion in the United States. She was an acquaintance that the actor had made many months earlier when he was still acting. She smiled at him and smoothed her honey-blonde hair beneath the matching bonnet that she wore. Booth nodded to the maitre’ d and he seated the actor. They ordered and sat silently for a moment while they awaited their food to arrive.
“Did you go out to see the Illumination last night?” She asked with evident excitement in her voice.
He sighed loudly so she would understand that he was not enthused with this line of conversation. “Yes, I saw some of it around here. But I certainly didn’t wander the city like so many others apparently did.”
“It was magnificent. I have never seen anything so marvelous and wonderful. The entire city was aglow like it was a great lantern,” her eyes brightened as she spoke.
“Yes, I am sure,” he said and laid his right hand down on the table. Carrie Bean immediately noticed two things about his hand. His fingernails were perfectly manicured with no dirt beneath them and smooth-edged. Then she noticed on that soft triangular patch of skin between the thumb and forefinger were three crude letters tattooed onto his skin: JWB. The letters were formed poorly as if a child had done it.
“What’s that?” She asked tilting her head at this hand. He raised his eyebrows by way of asking what she meant. She leaned forward and placed her right elbow on the table. Then, drooping her forearm forward, she lightly outlined the letters with the nail of her forefinger. She raised her eyes to him and smiled. He returned the favor.
“That. Why do you have your initials on your hand? I’ve never noticed them before.” She continued to outline the letters ever so lightly and looked up and held his gaze. Her blue eyes were bright and looked fully into Booth’s face—her look and the touch of his hand were bold gestures that did not go unnoticed by him.
“I did it when I was but a boy,” he answered holding her eyes with his.
“Why in the world would you have done that?”
“I did it myself. I wrote my initials in Indian ink to remind myself that I would be great one day. So I would remember that my name was to be known across the entire land,” he answered.
“Well,” she smiled at him, “I reckon it worked didn’t it?” She traced the poorly formed letters once more, this time looking at his hand as she did so.
“Yes, Miss Bean, I reckon it did. But my name sha
ll be greater even yet.” She looked up sensing the conviction in his voice. They continued to look at each other in silence as the waiter set down plates of eggs, Virginia ham, and grits before them. Booth knew it would be an enjoyable breakfast indeed.
Booth handed Miss Carrie Bean into the carriage and waved to her as the carriage pulled away. He decided that now was the time for a good shave and trim. He rubbed his finger over his chin and realized that his stubble was much heavier than he had realized and wondered what impression that made on her while they talked over breakfast. As he walked along Pennsylvania Avenue to go to Booker and Stewart, his barbers on E street, his mind wandered from the enjoyable conversation at breakfast to the passersby on the sidewalk. The ladies and gentlemen were in their interminable celebratory mood. He heard snippets of people talking about the Great Illumination from the night before: they spoke of how brightly the Capitol dome was lit or about all of the candles in the windows of the various executive office buildings.
Wilkes turned from Pennsylvania to Thirteenth Street and kept walking and listening and thinking. His mind began to turn over the events of the past several days. On Tuesday evening, just two days before, Booth had joined the crowds and walked to the Executive Mansion to listen to Abraham Lincoln give a speech. The expectation had been that the President would mark the occasion of Richmond’s fall and Lee’s surrender with a rousing speech of congratulations and victory. Booth was joined by two of his companions in his plot to kidnap Lincoln and ransom him for the Confederate prisoners, David Herold and a mysterious young Confederate soldier named Lewis Powell. As they gathered in the darkening night, Lincoln stepped up to a window. The crowds cheered for him and called for him to give a speech. He asked for more light and soon the room he was in was illuminated nicely, and someone stood next to the President holding a candle so he could read his prepared remarks.
As Lincoln began to speak, Booth clenched his jaw. The President had a high-pitched tone to his voice and a distinct Kentucky accent. The man’s voice always annoyed Booth. To his surprise, Lincoln did not spend too much time congratulating Ulysses Grant and the North on the recent victories. Rather he began a meandering statement about the importance of reconstructing the union of north and south. He felt that was the next great work that must be done. Booth looked around the crowd and noticed they were looking at one another in disappointment that they were being treated to a policy speech on a night when celebration was due. But the crowd stayed and looked up at the President. Booth scoffed at the moony looks of adulation on their upturned faces. He looked at Herold and Powell and shook his head and made a deprecating remark about Lincoln under his breath. They were standing apart from anyone else in the crowd so Booth felt confident in making his remark. Then, he looked back up as he caught some of Lincoln’s comments. He was talking about how the southern states might be readmitted to the union and then suddenly turned to the subject of Negro voting rights.
“I believe that those brave Negro men who have fought for our cause or who are very intelligent ought to be able to vote,” Lincoln said very clearly in his nasal tone. Wilkes Booth’s eyes suddenly flashed in the night light in fury. He spun his head over to his friends and then back up to Lincoln who continued talking.
“Did you hear that?” Booth demanded of both of his friends. “Did you hear that? He’s talking about nigger suffrage!” He spoke low but his voice was pitched into fury and he spit the words from his mouth.
“Do you have your gun?” He asked Lewis Powell.
“Yes, sir, I do.” Powell responded obediently. He pulled his overcoat away from his side so that Booth could see the Navy revolver in his belt at his side.
“Then shoot him! Shoot him right here on the spot!” Wilkes’ voice was getting louder and he was gesticulating and pointing up to the window where the President stood. Powell and Herold exchanged glances and told Booth to calm himself. Some of the people in the crowd turned and looked back at the three men standing apart from the group and making noise. The President was fully illuminated by the candles and gas jets lighting the room behind him. He was a perfect target for shooting, if someone was so inclined. Powell hesitated and looked from Booth to Herold.
“Did you hear me, man? Shoot him, damn it!” Booth urged again.
“I will not, sir. I will not shoot him.” Powell declared. As Powell responded, he filled his chest with air and stood up to his full six feet in height. Booth looked up at this Confederate soldier and was again impressed with the size and power of the man. He realized that he wasn’t going to sway him to act.
“I’ll be damned. What a wasted opportunity,” Booth said back at them. “Nevertheless, that’ll be the last damned speech he’ll ever make,” he stated and strode away from the crowd. The two other men followed after him. The President continued to discuss his thoughts on policies for readmitting Southern states to the union and dropping the sheets of paper to the floor as he finished reading from them. The crowds remained below the window and gazed up at the President standing just 15 feet above them.
Booth arrived at his barbers on E street and walked in the door.
“Welcome, Mr. Booth. The usual?” The barber asked as he took the actor’s jacket and hung it on a hook. Then he unfolded a white sheet and draped it around his neck to protect his shirt and pants. Booth came into this barbershop four or five times a week to get a shave and occasionally had his mustache and hair trimmed as well. This morning was going to be a simple shave. Wilkes Booth closed his eyes as the barber set the chair back. The barber gently laid the hot damp towel over his face, and it dimmed the bright light of the spring day. He always enjoyed these moments when the world was shut out, and the damp heat on his face calmed him. He opened his eyes beneath the towel and saw a dim whiteness. He imagined how he could somehow make good on his promise that Abraham Lincoln would never make a speech again. It was on that very night that he had begun to alter his thoughts from kidnap to assassination. Over the past few days a vague plan was emerging. He had realized that many of the plans they already had in place for the kidnapping could be altered and applied to an assassination plot. It actually would be easier because they wouldn’t have to take him prisoner. They would simply shoot him and then travel south along the same route they’d mapped out for abducting him. It really could work well, as long as they had the courage and the will to do it, of which Booth had both in abundance. Then the towel came off and he smiled at the soothing sensation of the barber using the brush to apply the shaving soap to his face and neck. ‘Yes, it will actually be simpler to just kill him,’ he thought.
His shave finished, Booth rose from the barber’s chair and slipped his coat back on. “Place it on my tab,” he called over his shoulder as he walked from the shop, buttoning his wool jacket. The spring morning was bright and still a bit cool, but warming up. It promised of the summer’s heat to come. Booth decided that he would stop by the National Theater and see if Lincoln would be attending the play. He understood from Dwight Hess, the owner, that he’d extended invitations to Lincoln the night before. Booth’s thoughts of murder were forming slowly, but Hess’ theater might be a good venue for the act. As he jogged up the steps, he met Mrs. Hess and her sister-in-law, Helen Palmer Moss, at the front door.
“Well good mornin’, Mrs. Hess,” Booth said as he took his hat off with his left hand and took each lady by the hand with his right. “It is delightful to see you this mornin’. Can I assume from this happy meeting that your husband is inside?” Booth asked.
Both of the women smiled and Mrs. Hess told Booth where he could find her husband. He walked in and found the theater owner where she said he’d be, in his office.
“Good mornin’, Hess, what’re you up to?” Booth called by way of greeting.
“Ah, Booth, good morning to you as well. What brings you to the National Theatre on this fine spring morning?” Hess looked up from the papers he was reading on his desk.
“How’s the house looking tonight for Aladdin?” The act
or inquired. “Do you expect a large turnout again?”
“Not so large as I thought. President Lincoln and his wife turned down my invitation. But, we still have a good crowd nonetheless. Aren’t quite sold out, but one still hopes.” He smiled at the actor standing in the doorway.
“Well, I hope so as well. Good day to you. I am on my way to Ford’s to pick up my mail and saw your lovely wife and thought I’d stop in.” Booth walked out of National Theatre and continued down E Street until he reached Tenth Street and turned left and approached Ford’s Theatre. As he drew near, Henry Ford, one of the brothers who owned the theater, stood on the steps talking with a friend, enjoying the spring weather.
“Well, here comes the handsomest and best dressed man in Washington City,” he said to his friend, but loud enough for Booth to hear.
“Good mornin’, Ford. How’re you? Do I have any mail?” Booth asked as he walked half way up the steps and stopped. Ford opened a door and called for Booth’s mail to be brought out and turned back around.
“So, Booth, have you heard that Lincoln and Grant shall be coming to the theater tonight?” The theater owner had a great grin on his face at the thought of the extra tickets that would be sold to theater goers coming in hopes of seeing the great conquering general and the liberating President together in public.
“You don’t say,” Booth replied appearing the picture of equanimity. “Will they be in his usual box seat?”
A Night of Horrors: A Historical Thriller about the 24 Hours of Lincoln's Assassination Page 4