A Night of Horrors: A Historical Thriller about the 24 Hours of Lincoln's Assassination

by Berry, John C.

  “But let me be clear, gentlemen, now is the time for us to act decisively and with speed. There is no greater or more important question that has come before any past or future Cabinet. It is, in my estimation, Providential that this great rebellion is coming to an end just as Congress has adjourned. From now until December, when they return, there will be far fewer disturbing elements of that body to hinder and embarrass us. We have the chance to reanimate the Union and get the Government reoperational in those states if we act with wisdom and discretion. We can do better and accomplish more without, rather than with, the Congress.

  “You know that I respect that body, but there are men there who are full of vindictiveness and hate for the rebel leaders. Their motives are good, but their feelings become a force for division rather than unity. As for the rebel leaders, frighten them out of the country, open the gates, let down the bars, skeer them off,” he said with great animation in his voice; he emphasized his Midwestern accent and waved his arms about as if he were trying to scare off sheep. “I, for one, hope there will be no persecution, no bloody work, after the war is over. No one need expect me to take part in hangin’ or killin’ those men, even the worst of them. Enough lives have been sacrificed. We must extinguish our resentment if we expect harmony and union. I know there are powerful men in Congress who wish to dictate to those states, to treat those people not as fellow citizens. There is already too little respect for their rights. I do not sympathize with these feelings.” Then Lincoln looked from face to face of the men sitting around the table to quietly reinforce his authority and his policy of malice towards none. The long Cabinet meeting began to break up, now well past 1:30.

  “Mr. McCulloch, we must look to you to ensure that our soldier boys are fully paid for their gallant services to the country,” the President said as he took his Treasury Secretary by the hand.

  “And I, sir, will look to the people who have never failed us in this regard,” answered McCulloch. As McCulloch left the President’s office, he wondered if the people would be able to fully service the nation’s unprecedented $2.4 billion debt.

  The various secretaries filed from the room. Stanton took time to gather up the various papers he had brought over in support of his policy proposal. Lincoln noticed that General Grant was lingering.

  “Well, General, now you see how all this works,” he said and waved his hands around the office referring to the inner workings of a President’s Cabinet meeting.

  “Yes, Mr. President, it was most interesting and most enjoyable.” Grant took the President’s hand and continued. “Mr. President, I regret that Mrs. Grant and I will not be able to attend the play with you this evening, as delightful as that would be to us. I have been able to finish the work at hand and we are very anxious to see our children in Burlington as it has been some weeks since we have done so. I hope you will accept our regrets.”

  “Well, General, I believe the people will be more disappointed than Mrs. Lincoln and me, and I think you might talk to Mrs. Grant about delaying your trip by just one day to afford the people the opportunity to see you.”

  “I appreciate that, but we have already made the arrangements and our train will be leaving in just a few hours. Please accept our kindest regrets.”

  “If it must be, it must be. Safe travels, General,” Lincoln called to his conquering hero as he left the office.

  “Well, Seward, how is your father?” Lincoln turned to the Assistant Secretary of State who had stayed behind to talk to the President about another matter.

  “He heals remarkably fast, sir. He was able to take some soft food for the first time today. Thank you for asking. I will let him know that you inquired after him.”

  “And tell him that I will come by in the next day or so and sit with him.”

  “Sir, I did want to remind you that Sir Frederick Bruce is the new British Minister to the United States and you have not formally received him. Would you be able to do so now?” Seward asked.

  Lincoln thought for a moment and said, “Let’s do that tomorrow at two. In the Blue Room I suppose?”

  “In the Blue Room it will be,” Seward said and left the room. Out in the corridor and on the steps leading down to the first floor, the Cabinet members were walking and talking together.

  “That was the most satisfactory Cabinet meeting we have ever had,” Speed commented.

  “Indeed. Did you see the ol’ Chief? Didn’t he look grand?” asked Stanton.

  “He has never appeared to better advantage,” observed Welles as they walked from the Executive Mansion, each continuing on to his own carriage.

  A Plan Falls into Place

  About the same time that Lincoln was sharing his remarkable dream from the night before, John Wilkes Booth was walking away from Ford’s Theatre. One of the plans he had developed to kidnap the President had involved Ford’s. The plan had been to capture Lincoln in the box he always used at the theater, which overlooks the stage, and then to bind him and lower him down to the floor of the stage and quickly exit with him out the back. Booth recalled with bitter regret the resistance this plan had met from his cowardly crew. ‘How much easier they will find it to simply kill the tyrant and his puppet general and then use the stage as the exit route from the theatre,’ he thought.

  Our American Cousin was on the bill for Ford’s Theatre that night. Booth went through the play in his mind, which he knew well having performed it many times in his career on stage. Booth had both hands behind his back as he walked along, repeating the lines, the stage directions, and reviewing each scene in the first two acts. As he completed the first scene of the third act and went to scene two in his mind, Booth stopped dead in his steps on the sidewalk.

  “That’s it,” he said aloud to himself. He literally walked backwards on the sidewalk until he came to the end of the first scene and began to walk, more slowly now, murmuring the lines aloud to himself of the second scene. ‘What would you advise, Mamma?’ ‘Dear, obedient child … this American is rich … incline to Asa Trenchard.’

  “Just three on stage at this point,” Booth murmured. He ran his hand through his hair realizing he had come across the perfect point in the play. He continued talking to himself in a low voice as he walked down the sidewalk. “But Augusta is sent to her room. ‘Augusta, dear, to your room.’ ‘Yes, Ma, the nasty beast.’ That leaves just two: Mrs. Mountchessington and Trenchard. Am I right? Yes, yes. That’s right, just two. But then she exits. ‘I am aware you are not used to manners of good society … will excuse the impertinence of which you have been guilty.’ Mrs. Mountchessington exits in a huff,” Booth said the stage direction aloud.

  He stopped again on the sidewalk and a couple brushed his shoulder as they quickly stepped around him to avoid bumping into him. Booth was oblivious as he was realizing the perfect moment to pull the trigger. “Asa Trenchard is alone when he says the funniest line in the play. It always gets a laugh, and a loud one at that!” He said to himself in a rushed and frantic whisper. Booth again walked back a few paces and began to walk again, saying the lines, the stage directions, running his hand through his neatly coiffed hair to make sure he was right. “That’s the moment!” A broad smile broke across his pale face and he looked up to see where he was on the streets of Washington City.

  Booth realized that he’d been walking up E Street and he was at the intersection with Pennsylvania Avenue. He decided to step into the Willard Hotel and see if he could use their messenger to send a note. He walked up to the concierge.

  “Good morning, Mr. Booth,” the man instantly recognized the actor. “I did not realize you were in the hotel, sir. How can I be of service?” Booth did not inform him that he was staying at the National Hotel down the street. If he kept quiet, he knew he’d get the messenger sent for a small gratuity to the concierge rather than the full fee he would be charged as a non-guest.

  “I need to send an important message to a friend. I assume you have someone here who can take it for me?”

 
“Of course,” the concierge picked up a red card and held it above his head. From across the room a boy jumped up and walked quickly to the table where the two men stood. Booth took a piece of paper and turned his back on the man so he could write with privacy. We will strike tonight! Send word to the boys and have them gather at the Herndon House at 7:00 for a dinner and to discuss plans. Then find me at the National or Surratt’s. Booth sealed the note with a wax stamp and turned to the messenger boy. “Take this with all speed,” and he handed the note to the boy and gave him directions to the Pennsylvania House, the hotel where David Herold was staying. Booth knew exactly where Herold and the others were staying, because he was paying their bills. A flurry of activity across the lobby caught Booth’s attention. A party was walking down a set of stairs to the dining room and a number of people seemed to be watching and commenting on them.

  “Who is that?” Booth asked half interestedly.

  “That, Mr. Booth, is Mrs. General Grant and Mrs. General Rawlins.”

  “Which is which?” Booth asked, suddenly greatly interested. ‘The wife of the puppet general, right here,’ he thought. ‘God is certainly smiling down on me!’ After the concierge pointed out which of the ladies was Grants’ wife, Booth tipped him and walked across the lobby to the dining room and took a table directly across from where the women and their children were sitting.

  Booth did not have much time, and wasn’t hungry from his late breakfast, but he was very interested in studying the wife of the general he planned to shoot that night. As the women chattered back and forth, as happy and carefree as the rest of the capital city, Booth stared hard at Julia Grant. He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs and imagined the theater box where the Lincolns and the Grants would be that night. ‘Where will you be sitting?’ he thought, looking at Julia Grant and the young boy next to her. He presumed he was her son. ‘Your face will not be so happy and smiling when I take the life of your husband at the theater this evening.’ His eyes burned holes into her. He began to run the play through his head one more time to make sure that he had figured out the exact moment in the play when one actor would be on stage and the laugh line would cover the gunshots. Booth was not worried about that actor either, because he knew Harry Hawk. ‘Harry won’t even begin to stop me. He won’t put two and two together until I am across the stage.’

  Booth realized that he had been staring far too intensely at Julia Grant when he noticed that she kept glancing his way and then talked to the others at the table and angled her head his direction. He drank the last of his coffee and dropped some change on the table and walked out of the dining room. He felt their eyes watching him leave and the thought came to him that he would need to arrange for his horse to be rested and ready. Booth crossed over on Pennsylvania Avenue and then headed south on Fourteenth Street until he reached C Street, where he turned to go to Pumphrey’s Stable which was behind the National Hotel. James Pumphrey was a thin man, almost bald, with a large brown mustache and stubble from a few days without shaving. His wiry frame was misleading, because he had a powerful grip and sinewy muscles from the work he did with the horses. He walked out to greet Booth, but did not shake his hand, which was his practice, since his hands were invariably dirty, mucky, or otherwise smudged.

  “Pumphrey, I’ll be calling later today, around 4:00, for that nice sorrel I’ve been riding of late,” Booth said.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Booth, but she’s engaged to another today. I have a nice bay mare that—”

  “Simply put off the other person,” Booth interrupted, “as I’ve been engaging the horse for days now.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot do that, Mr. Booth,” Pumphrey resisted and wiped the sweat from his forehead onto the sleeve of his shirt. He stared at Booth for a moment and then continued. “As I was saying, I have a fine bay mare, a beautiful riding horse, who will do just fine for you. She’s just there. As you can see she stands about 14 hands high.” He turned and pointed at a fine mare with silky brown hair and a black mane and tail.

  “She’ll be fine, as long as she’s a good one. I’ll be back in an hour or so to pick her up. Make sure she’s ready and have a tie rein on her as I’ll be stopping at some places to conduct business.”

  “You won’t want to hitch her as she is in the habit of breaking the bridle,” Pumphrey replied.

  “But I might be going in to get a drink and dinner,” Booth protested.

  “Oh, you can find plenty of bootblacks about the streets to hold your horse, Mr. Booth,” Pumphrey explained.

  “Well, have her ready at 4:00 then,” Booth stared at the stableman and then turned on his heel and headed for the hotel. When he arrived, he found David Herold sitting on the steps waiting on him.

  “What’s this news ‘bout t’night?” Herold called to Booth when he saw him.

  “Shut up, man!” Booth hissed at him when he was face to face. “Are you an idiot calling out like that! Do you want the entire city to know we’re up to something?” He had grabbed the other man by the back of his collar and held him close to his face. David Herold was about the same age as Booth, early twenties, but the two were starkly different. Where Booth was the image of the dashing young actor he was, Herold wore a dirty shirt, with an unbuttoned vest, and a black woolen jacket that had smudges and threadbare cuffs. Booth’s hair, in spite of running his hands through it earlier, was still arranged and dabbed with cologne. It was obvious to any who passed close to him that Herold had not bathed in the past number of weeks. Wilkes Booth pulled him off to the side of the steps to the hotel and away from passersby.

  “Davey, did you get a-hold of the boys?” Booth asked Herold eagerly, his anger instantly gone.

  “Yes, Wilkes, I did. They’re all in. They’ll be there t’night. Port Tobaccy, that ass, sed it better not be ‘nother bust,” Herold said looking up to see if Booth would have a reaction to this. Port Tobacco was the name they had bestowed on George Azterodt, a Prussian immigrant who had been recruited to the conspiracy from Port Tobacco on the Maryland-Virginia border. Atzerodt had an intimate knowledge of the best river crossings on the Potomac and he had access to boats. His task, when the plan was to kidnap the President, was to row the manacled leader and the rest of the gang across the Potomac and into Virginia—from North to South.

  “He’s a damned fool. This won’t be a bust. Tonight isn’t going to be—” Booth looked around at the folks walking by and thought better of talking to Herold on the street. “Tonight is the night. Make sure that you arrange for horses for each of you. Go to Nailor’s and take care of it. We will take the route we’ve planned over the Navy Yard Bridge and through Charles County to the Potomac. I’m goin’ to Surratt’s and arrange for the carbines and whiskey to be ready for us when we pass through tonight. Payne and Atzerodt must also have horses, Davey. Make sure they know and are ready. Tell Atzerodt to be sober, for God’s sake. We meet at the Herndon House at 7:00, as I said. They will need their pistols and knives. Be on the lookout for more notes with further instructions from me today. Now go.” Wilkes Booth patted Herold on the back like a father sending his young son off on an errand.

  Booth went back up to his hotel room and quickly changed from his fine pants and into his riding pants and pulled on his riding boots. His mind continued to race through the possibilities of this great act he was about to perform. There was no role in all of Shakespeare that could surpass that of Brutus, except for the role he would play tonight on the stage of Ford’s Theatre. He would be immortal and all of the South would welcome him as the great slayer of the tyrant who tried to stamp out its existence.

  “This should be enough to reenergize the revolution,” he said aloud as he stomped his foot to get the heel to settle into the riding boot completely. “Lee will pull the Army of Virginia together again and we will crush the Union once and for all.”

  Booth crossed the room and opened a trunk sitting in the corner. In it were the tools he had planned to use to kidnap the President: some rope, a small aug
er to bore holes, a Derringer, a Bowie knife, rope, manacles, and field glasses, the new kind used by the Army with a knob between the two small telescopes to adjust the focus. He wrapped the field glasses in some brown paper he took from the trunk and tied it with some twine to hold it together. He put the auger into his coat pocket and headed out of the hotel to walk up Sixth Street to H Street where he turned west towards Mrs. Surratt’s boardinghouse at 541 H Street.

  Booth paused outside of a three story row house with a wooden stairway leading to the main entrance that was raised five steps up from the sidewalk. It was painted white with black wooden shutters on each window and heavy molding over the doorway, which was also painted black. There were two large dormers jutting out from the roof and a red brick chimney that had smoke rising out of it in a gray pillar ascending into the clear blue sky. Though it was turning springtime in Washington City, the homes remained chilly until well into the afternoon. Booth walked up the steps and knocked on the door.

  A woman in her early forties answered. Her dark hair was pulled tightly back behind her head into a bun. She wore a drab gray dress that billowed out from her in a dome due to the crinoline and petticoats she wore beneath the dress. She smiled when she saw that it was Wilkes Booth at the door and stepped away to invite him in.

  “You do recall that my John is away to Canada, do you not?” She asked her unannounced visitor.

  “Why, yes, Mrs. Surratt, I do. But I came to see you.” He half smiled at her with a knowing look and slightly tilted his head to the sitting room where Mrs. Surratt’s boarders chatted around the fireplace. She stepped into the dining room and Booth followed her.

  “What is it, Mr. Booth?” She inquired in a low voice so not to draw attention.

  “I will be in need of the carbines that you have at your tavern down yonder. Please arrange to have them ready for me to pick up late tonight,” Booth stated flatly. Mrs. Surratt’s eyes widened slightly as she took in Booth’s meaning. Her son, John Surratt, Jr., had fallen in with the actor some months earlier. She knew that her son ‘conducted business’ (as he said) for the Confederate Secret Service. She was sympathetic to the South, but worried for her son’s safety. When she realized that her son and Wilkes Booth were involved in some conspiracy, she became even more worried. Her son, Booth, a greasy Prussian man, and a powerful young man they called Payne would hang about the house and talk into the night together. She wasn’t sure what they were plotting, but feared that it had to do with somebody important. Possibly even President Lincoln.