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

by Berry, John C.

  “Sic semper tyrannis!” He called out in his full fluid bass stage voice. The words hung in the air and the bloody knife gleamed in the stage light. The actor-turned-assassin scanned his eyes across the audience. He let his gaze pause and rest on a few faces that he knew. Booth, his exit almost complete, limped dramatically towards the rear of the stage. His stride was overblown and awkward from the pain in his leg, but he pressed on.

  Rathbone sank to his knees in the box, already feeling weak from the wound. As if waking from a dream, he blinked his eyes, watering from the gun smoke. His arm pulsed in excruciating pain and he felt hot liquid drip from his fingertips. He spun around to confirm that Lincoln was actually shot and saw him slumped in the rocking chair. Mary Lincoln looked at Rathbone with a pitiful and mournful face and then he heard her emit a wail that shifted to a scream as if her very soul was being sent forth from her lungs.

  “They have shot the President! They have shot the President!” She yelled in a tormented voice.

  Rathbone spun back and stepped to the railing and yelled, “Stop that man! Stop that man!” But John Wilkes Booth had already made his dramatic pronouncement in the middle of the stage and was now fleeing through the flats for the door and out to safety.

  Major Joseph Stewart was in uniform in the Orchestra section right up front. He was an avid theatergoer and was looking forward to this benefit performance of Our American Cousin for Laura Keene. He was in the midst of laughing when his breath left him because he was startled at the discharge of a gun behind him. Instinctively, Stewart knew it had come from the President’s box and meant trouble. As he was standing and looking back and up to the box behind him, he saw a man leap to the stage over the railing from the box. ‘Good God, he’s shot the President,’ was his immediate thought. As the black-suited man made his way to center stage, Stewart attempted to step from the balustrade and cross the orchestra pit to catch the villain. As he put his second foot on the balustrade, though, he lost his balance and fell back to the orchestra seats. So he climbed down into the orchestra pit and stepped across a few chairs and then pulled himself onto the stage.

  The director of the orchestra, who had come backstage to talk with the stage director, saw Booth approaching him from the stage and thought his face was familiar. Not knowing why John Wilkes Booth would be onstage, and hearing a commotion brewing in the audience, the director stepped towards Booth whose eyes were now wild. Wilkes was muttering to himself. When Booth saw the orchestra director approaching, he slashed at him and cut his coat and shirt. Booth made his way to the door that led to the alley and his horse. He pushed the door open and thought he heard movement and voices behind him.

  As Major Stewart stood on the stage he called out, “Stop that man!” He pointed at Booth but none of the actors or stagehands made a move towards Booth. They just stared in confusion. Stewart bolted after Booth and closed the distance. His mind was racing, wondering who had shot the President of the United States and why there were no soldiers in pursuit of this man. Stewart lost sight of Booth as he made his way backstage and through the flats standing in ready for the next scene. He caught a glimpse of him going through a door to his left and ran as quickly as he could. The door slammed closed. Stewart was now just a step behind the assassin, but he knew he would be able to catch him. In his haste, he reached for the knob on the wrong side of the door and lost precious moments in panic and confusion. ‘Where was the damned doorknob?’ He looked up and down the door in confusion until he realized his mistake.

  “Damn!” He cursed as he threw the door open and pounded his feet in hot pursuit.

  Booth had just burst through the back door of the theater. The night was dark, but he moved on painfully while his eyes adjusted. He just made out Peanuts John holding his horse rather than that fool Spangler.

  “Give me the horse, boy!” Booth called reaching for the reins. Wilkes went to step up into the stirrup and onto the horse as he’d done hundreds of times before, but his left leg did not have the strength to hold him. The horse skittered and danced around as Booth reoriented himself. Peanuts John was asking if he could help. Booth heard the door open and Major Stewart yelled, “Stop!” He looked at Peanuts and hissed, “Help me you idiot!” Peanuts quickly stooped down and cupped his hands together and Booth placed the shin of his broken leg into them and grimaced as he pushed up and swung his right leg over the saddle. He had mounted the horse, but she was spinning in a circle as he gathered the reins.

  “Now outta the way, boy!” Booth snarled at Peanuts John and kicked him in the chest with the boot of his right foot. Suddenly, as Booth began to urge the horse forward, Major Stewart appeared at his side grabbing for the reins. Booth righted himself in the saddle and kicked the horse and easily guided her to the right and out of the grasping reach of the soldier.

  “Stop! Stop!” The Major yelled from behind him.

  Booth put his spurs to the horse, each kick sending pain up his left leg and into his spine. He rode out of Baptist Alley and turned right, galloping east down F Street. ‘I have done it. I have done it.’ The words kept repeating in his mind. The many months and years of frustration and anger had been spent in one brief moment. ‘I have done it,’ he exulted again. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that the soldier wasn’t following him and no one else was in pursuit. He was the only one flying from the alley.

  “Stop! You there! Stop!” Stewart yelled as the attacker rode out of the alley. Stewart stood with empty hands and watched the man who shot Abraham Lincoln ride off into the night. The horse’s hooves sounded hollow on the packed dirt of the street. The moon was rising above Washington City and the fog and mists were clearing away.

  Army Surgeon Charles Leale had joined in with the crowd and laughed heartily when Asa Trenchard called Mrs. Mountchessington a “sockdologizing old mantrap.” The loud sound of a gunshot brought his laughter up short. He sat up straight, blinking his eyes in surprise. He realized that the entire audience was quiet as well as the lone actor on the stage. It was an odd silence. A small puff of gray smoke drifted out of the President’s Box and hung over the stage. There was the sound of a brief struggle and a man dressed in black jumped from the box through the smoke and onto the stage, landing on all fours. Leale grew more confused with what was happening, trying to figure out how this action fit into the play and growing concerned about the smoke that came from the President’s Box. The man in black now hopped across the stage as if he was hurt and flourished a dagger, clearing the stage before him.

  Suddenly, another man stood at the railing of the box and pointed at the stage.

  “Stop that man!” He commanded. Leale, along with the rest of the audience, was still in a state of confusion and looked from the box to the stage and at the audience members standing and sitting around him. Then came a piercing scream from the President’s Box.

  “They have shot the President!” It was the unmistakable voice of the First Lady, her voice ladened with pain and heartbreak.

  “What is that you say?” People in the audience called.

  “The President has been shot!” Others called out. Suddenly, men rose to their feet and pointed to the stage, growing angry. Leale looked to where they were pointing.

  “Catch that man!” But there was no one on the stage at all. Just the footlights shining on an empty set.

  “Hang that man!” Another growled out and flung his arms in empty anger.

  “Catch him! Kill him!” The audience began milling about and pressing towards the stage and the orchestra pit. In the dressing circle, Charles Leale and the rest were looking here and there hoping to see something that would instantly clarify the situation or explain what was happening. But no one had the answers. Down in the orchestra section, a man jumped onto the stage and chased after the assassin in vain. The voices rose in a cacophony of confusion. Leale felt himself jostled back and forth. He was standing, but not sure how he could help. Then, over the crowd, he heard another woman calling from the President’s
Box.

  “Is there a surgeon in the house? Is there a surgeon in the house?” A woman called down from the railing of the President’s Box. Leale’s head instantly cleared of any confusion. He rushed across the aisle and vaulted over seats, making a direct line to the President’s Box. Leale elbowed his way through the crowd pressing around the entrance to the President’s box, explaining that he was an Army Surgeon and needed to get in to help President Lincoln. Men were pounding on the door and pushing against it with all of their strength, demanding entrance. The door did not open nor even move in the slightest.

  “Stop pushing! There is a wedge on this side that will not allow you in and you must stop pushing so I can remove it!” Charles Rathbone stood on the opposite side of the door and was trying to remove the wooden wedge with his good arm. The plank that Booth had set against the door functioned so that the more pressure that was applied to get inside only worked to set the plank in more securely.

  “Stop your pushing, damn you!” Rathbone yelled again through the door. On the other side of the door, the men stopped their pushing. In the moment of calm as they waited for the door to open, Leale stepped forward.

  “Okay. It is open,” he heard Rathbone say from inside. The door flung open. Rathbone stood there with a pale face, his left arm hanging at his side.

  “I am an Army Surgeon and I can help if the President has been shot,” Leale said to the Major.

  Rathbone pointed past Leale to a Captain standing behind him in uniform. “You, keep the room clear of anyone who isn’t a doctor.” He turned and walked away. Leale followed him quickly into the small vestibule that led to the box with many men pushing in behind him. Leale was about to rush into the box when he felt a strong sense to ‘Halt!’ It was as if an order had been issued. He paused in the threshold of the box and surveyed the scene.

  Major Rathbone was standing just inside the door looking from Leale to the President slumped in the rocking chair. His left arm, hanging limp at his side, had dribbled a bloody trail from the box to the door and back again. Next to the slumping figure of President Lincoln sat Mrs. Lincoln, her hand still on her husband’s chest. Next to Mrs. Lincoln sat Clara Harris, stroking the First Lady’s shoulder, speaking softly to her. Leale did not know what he was about to encounter, but he reminded himself that he was an Army Surgeon and he was about to serve a man who had been shot. He had done this hundreds of times in the past few years. He focused his energies onto this moment and this patient and stepped into the box.

  “Help me, please! I’ve been terribly wounded,” Major Rathbone pleaded with Dr. Leale holding his left arm up to him with his good right hand. Leale stopped and pulled open the rip in Rathbone’s coat and examined the wound. It was a small cut of just an inch or two. The amount of blood that was oozing from the wound indicated that the knife had plunged deeply into the Major’s arm. It wasn’t mortal and the President of the United States sat unconscious and possibly dead just a few feet away.

  “Sir, you are deeply wounded, but it is not life threatening. I must tend to the President.” He turned away from Leale and stepped over to Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln.

  “Oh, someone help him. Someone help my husband. Are you a doctor?” Mrs. Lincoln called out to Leale, whimpering and blubbering. Her uncontrolled grief deeply affected the young surgeon. Leale looked down to Mrs. Lincoln and took her outstretched hand. He glanced and saw that Abraham Lincoln’s head was slumped over on his chest and his face was extraordinarily pale.

  “I am an Army Surgeon, ma’am. Would you like me to treat your husband?” He asked her.

  “Oh, Doctor! Is he dead? Can he recover? Will you take charge of him? Do what you can for him. Oh, my dear husband! He’s been shot. Will he recover?” Tears streamed down her face and her pitiful cries coursed from her mouth without pause. The young doctor quickly realized that her pleas were directed to him.

  “Mrs. Lincoln, I will do all that can be done for him.” As Leale stepped over to the President slumped in the chair, he bent over to look more closely at him. His training and instincts kicked in and he swung into action.

  “You there,” he pointed to a man hovering in the doorway, “Go and get some brandy. And you,” he pointed to another man, “go and get some water in a basin and cloths.” Leale returned to the President and began to examine him. The great leader appeared to be dead. His eyes were closed and his head was fallen forward onto his chest. He did not appear to be breathing. If Mrs. Lincoln did not have her hand on his chest, he would fall to the floor.

  Leale took up Lincoln’s hand and checked the right radial pulse, but he couldn’t perceive any movement in the artery. He felt his own pulse pounding. He knew that he would need to get the President onto the floor so he could resuscitate him. He called out for help in moving him to the floor. The doctor made sure that he took the President’s head and shoulders and allowed others to take his long legs. They cleared the chairs back and stretched him out onto the floor. Leale then cleared the box of all visitors except Rathbone, Clara Harris, and Mrs. Lincoln. As he gently laid Lincoln’s head and shoulders onto the floor, he pulled a clean kerchief from his pocket and laid it out to ensure that Lincoln’s head wasn’t on the floor. Leale also realized that his own hand was bloody. As he moved the President, he had come into contact with a great clot of blood near his left shoulder.

  Dr. Leale looked up and asked if anyone had a small knife. Leale, thinking of Rathbone’s wound and recalling that the assassin had waved a knife about on the stage, thought that Lincoln might have been stabbed. A man stepped forward and held up a dirk knife. “Please cut away his shirt and coat from the neck to the elbow,” Leale commanded. The surgeon kept his eyes continually on Lincoln’s face. “Please check his shoulder and arm for a hemorrhage or wound.” The man did as he was instructed. Leale still saw no movement on the President’s face and had no sense that the man was breathing on his own.

  “There is no bleeding or wound, Doctor,” the man responded.

  “Then it must be his head,” Leale murmured, more to himself than to anyone present. He gently lifted the President’s great head in his hands and felt along the back of his head with his fingers, gently feeling through his hair. His hands paused when his fingers had worked to the back of Lincoln’s head behind the left ear. The surgeon’s right hand found a warm wet mat in his hair. He probed gently into the mat with his finger and found a wound clotted with blood and coagulants. He worked his ring finger gently into the clot and felt a ragged hole in the President’s skull. He eased the clot out of the wound and felt warm blood begin to ooze onto his hand. The surgeon knew that he needed to release the pressure that was building on the President’s brain. Leale pushed the tip of his finger into the base of Lincoln’s skull and realized that the wound was mortal. He knew of no man who could survive an hour after receiving a gunshot to that part of the head at such close range. He blinked his eyes with the realization that Abraham Lincoln had been assassinated. But he could do his best to resuscitate him and keep him alive for as long as possible.

  “Thank you,” Leale said to the man who had cut the President’s shirt and coat away. “Please step back so I can try to revive him.” Mrs. Lincoln whimpered and clung to Clara Harris at the word ‘revive.’ Charles Leale knelt on the floor facing the President with a knee on each side of his pelvis. He leaned forward and spread open Lincoln’s mouth and used his extended middle finger and forefinger to push open the mouth and press down his tongue to move the larynx and open the President’s breathing passage.

  “You there, with the knife, come over here,” Leale motioned to Lincoln’s left arm with his head. “You, come to this arm,” he called to another man who had helped place the great man on the floor. “Take his arms and lift them, at the same time, over his head. When I give you the signal, push them back down to the floor. You must keep his arms straight and you must do it at the same speed. Is that clear?” He looked each man in the eye and they nodded, holding onto Lincoln’s huge hands. They almost
looked like children holding their father’s hands his were so much larger than theirs.

  “Now!” Leale called. As they lifted the arms, Leale placed his hands on the upper part of Lincoln’s abdomen and pushed the diaphragm upwards. “Wait for me,” he urged as they began to move Lincoln’s arms again without awaiting his cue. “Okay, now.” The three men fell into a rhythm and the process caused air to be drawn in and out of Lincoln’s lungs. When the two men would bring the arms down to his side, Leale would quickly push the thumb and fingers of his stronger right hand under the ribs and stimulate the apex of the dying President’s heart. The men repeated this several times. All eyes in the box and the vestibule were on the young surgeon and the strange movements they were making with the President of the United States.

  Leale once again checked Lincoln’s right radial pulse and felt a small movement of blood. He checked for other signs and sensed that though the President was responding, something more must be done to restore the great man’s life. Leale gestured for the two men to leave Lincoln’s arms on the ground. He leaned forward with his weight on his hands, his chest hovering directly over the prostrate man’s chest. Leale tilted the President’s head back and drew in a deep breath and then blew a long and hard breath into Lincoln’s mouth and nostrils. The young surgeon did this again and again. Each time, he could feel Lincoln’s chest expand slightly beneath him, so he knew that he was getting air into the man’s lungs. After waiting a moment, Leale placed his ear to Lincoln’s thorax and found the heart beating more strongly. Since the heartbeat was improving, Leale knelt upright and looked down at the President, studying his breathing. It was weak, but the surgeon was convinced that he’d breathe on his own for the time being and the chance of his immediate death had been avoided. Leale took one of the cloths and used it to clean his hands. He stepped over to Mrs. Lincoln and knelt down next to her. He took her hand into his, looking into her eyes.