“My dear girl, how are you?” Welles asked as they stepped closer.
“Mrs. Lincoln is distraught,” Clara said in a low voice so as not to be overheard. “I know that you must speak to her, but do not mention President Lincoln by name, I beg you. It will send here into a fit of wailing that is unbearable.” As she spoke the frantic look in her eyes belied the calm guise of her face.
“Yes, yes. Of course,” Welles replied, taking her hand and stroking it.
“Miss Harris, is there anything I can do to be of service for you?” Cartter asked her.
“Not for me, but for my fiancé. Major Rathbone was struck by the assassin and is bleeding as well, but the doctors are all occupied tending to President Lincoln.” As Clara spoke, she turned to face a corner of the room where Rathbone was sitting, holding his arm with his hand. He was as pale as chalk. The blood from his gashed artery still dripped from his arm to a puddle on the floor below.
“Yes, ma’am, I will see what I can do,” Cartter replied.
“Thank you so much, Chief Justice Cartter,” she replied and then went to sit next to Mrs. Lincoln. Stanton was the first to step to the First Lady. His deep bass voice broke the stillness in the room.
“Mrs. Lincoln, I am so sorry for the shock that has come to you and the nation on this night. No one feels the pain more deeply than you, I am sure.” Mary Lincoln’s body jerked at the booming voice above her. She flinched at the word “pain” and raised her eyes to Edwin Stanton bending down to her. Mary Lincoln had never trusted Edwin Stanton and disliked him intensely. She felt that he bullied and berated her through a stream of caustic notes lecturing her about nepotism and cronyism any time she asked if he might be able to appoint a relative or friend to a minor post somewhere in the War Department. She glared at Stanton through tear-stained eyes, then dropped her head to Clara Harris’s shoulder.
“Mrs. Lincoln, may God bless you,” Welles said gently, bending his tall and angular frame over the weeping First Lady.
“Yes, ma’am,” Cartter added weakly by his side.
With that done, the three men slowly stepped away from the sofa and walked out of the room, into the small foyer just as Major Eckert came through the front door. Eckert was the commander of the Telegraph Service that Lincoln and Stanton had expanded to every front and field of battle during the war to ensure they had near immediate communication with their generals in the field. Stanton had made sure to locate the head of the telegraph right outside his office in the War Department and reorganized the Telegraph Department so that it reported directly to him. Throughout the war, he had maintained strict control over which pieces of news on the war were released, when that occurred, and how the news was presented to the nation. He often routed orders from commanding generals through himself as well as all updates on battles raging in the field. He now planned to use control of the central nervous system of information to set the entire nation on alert after this series of coordinated attacks. Stanton looked at the burly man approaching him and quietly recollected Lincoln’s joke about Eckert breaking pokers over his arm. ‘Could you have stopped this from happening?’ He thought momentarily.
“Mr. Stanton, sir, this is sad news indeed,” Eckert said as he approached the War Secretary. “Sir, good evening” he greeted Chief Justice Cartter with a nod of the head.
“Have there been reports of any other attacks on the Cabinet or Vice President Johnson?” Stanton asked.
“No, sir, but the news is still getting out. General Augur has already put his garrisons on alert. I have ordered my men to form a relay between this house and the War Department so you can issue orders from here throughout the night. Assuming you wish to remain by the President.”
“Yes, Major. I do.”
“Mr. Stanton, I believe that this room here could serve as your War Department for the evening,” General Meigs called to the War Secretary. The General was pointing down the hallway to the open doorway of a room that was catty-corner to the room where President Lincoln had been taken. Stanton walked into the room and took it in. It was about the same size as the room where Mrs. Lincoln sat, but this room had a small bed, a couple of tables, and a washstand.
“Yes, General, I think you are right. This room will serve us well. Major, please make sure that this room is not disturbed. Mr. Cartter, if you are willing, I would like to have you remain here to help with the taking of testimony. Major, please send witnesses in to us one at a time as they arrive. Get a report from General Augur and Major O’Beirne.” General Meigs then quietly showed Stanton to the doorway of the room where the President lay. Stanton took a deep breath and turned to go see his President.
Throughout the war, Stanton had seen Lincoln more than any other Cabinet member. They worked closely together, reviewing the latest events of the war, discussing stratagems of war, and sitting up late into the night in his office across the hall from the telegraph office, awaiting news on the progress of major battles. This close working relationship often sparked envy and jealousy among other Cabinet members and made Stanton the brunt of personal attacks from political opponents. Stanton’s brusque and condescending approach to issuing orders to senators and enlisted men alike did not raise his esteem in many eyes. Even as he entered the Petersen House that night, word quickly spread that he had arrived. The immediate assumption was that Stanton would take command of the situation. Generals and Cabinet members alike deferred to him though they often hated him in their hearts.
At the same time that Stanton and Welles were leaving the horrific scene at Seward’s home and making their way to the Petersen House, Doctor Leale determined that he should make a full inspection of Lincoln’s body now that he was safely in a bed and would no longer be moved. He looked about the room and realized that there were too many in the room for him to conduct the inspection of the President with proper decorum. Once Mary Lincoln had been escorted to another room, he asked everyone except Doctor Taft to leave the room. Together, they cut Lincoln’s clothes away and tossed them in a pile on the floor between the bed and the wall. Once this was done, Leale carefully inspected Lincoln’s entire body and satisfied himself that there were definitely no other wounds on the President. Lincoln’s extremities were very cold and this caused Leale alarm that his circulation was slowing rapidly. As they began to cover his body, Leale and Taft stopped to marvel at the man’s physique.
“I do not know President Lincoln well,” said Dr. Taft, “and I had no idea that he possessed such a muscular physique. He is a man of unusual strength.”
“He certainly doesn’t look as if he is in his mid fifties,” Leale responded.
“I dare say that any other man would have died within ten minutes of such a wound as he’s received. His strength and fortitude will enable him to struggle on, but, God help us, there is no hope of recovery.” The two stood silently in the still room, looking down at the fallen leader. Lincoln’s breath rattled in his chest and brought them from their brief reverie. They quickly and silently set about covering him with the blankets so he would not become even more chilled. Leale stepped outside the room, gave orders for sinapisms to be brought from the hospital and for warm water bottles to be gathered to be put into bed with the President. He had already sent for Dr. Robert Stone, Lincoln’s family doctor and Dr. Joseph Barnes, the Surgeon General of the United States. Charles Leale awaited the arrival of these other two doctors.
“Would you like to examine the wound more closely, Dr. Taft?” Leale asked. The other doctor nodded and stepped over to Lincoln. Taking Lincoln’s head gently in his own hands, he cradled the head with his left and hand and carefully slid a finger into the open wound. The ball had passed too deeply into the President’s head for him to find it with his probing finger, though. The man’s head was heavy. The doctor held it firmly and continued to probe inside the wound with his finger, but he only found that he cleared away coagulants. Taft stood and wiped the blood and fluids from his hands with a towel.
“I believe we should ad
minister some brandy, sir,” he said to Leale with the tone of a superior.
“Sir, I gave him brandy while he was still in the theater. I do not believe that he will swallow it now and I do not want to strangle him.” Dr. Taft gave a curt nod and left the room, annoyed to have his recommendation summarily dismissed by the young Army Surgeon. In the meantime, the sinapism was brought, already made, and Dr. Leale set about smearing the mustard plaster over Lincoln’s abdomen and chest and the anterior of his body to raise his body temperature. The water bottles were also brought in and Leale placed these under the blankets to keep the President’s body as warm as possible. Leale then asked for Mrs. Lincoln and the friends of the President to be allowed back into the room. Mary Lincoln came in and sat in a rocking chair next to the bed, facing her husband. At the sight of him, she burst into tears and buried her face in the blankets.
Dr. Taft came back into the room while Mrs. Lincoln continued to weep, slumped in a heap on the bedside. “Dr. Leale, I have consulted with Dr. Barnes, who has just arrived, and he concurs that administering brandy and water would be advisable,” Taft held up small bottles of both for Leale to see.
“I do not concur, but seeing that you have asked others to weigh in, then I request that you administer to him only a small amount so as not to strangle him if he does not drink it.” A small smile flashed across Taft’s lips as he set the two bottles onto a small table and then poured brandy and water into a glass.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Lincoln, but I need to give this to the President,” he said gently to the First Lady so she would sit up. He carefully lifted Lincoln’s head. Leale hovered close by his patient, anxious to see the result. As Dr. Taft poured a small amount of the warming liquid into Lincoln’s mouth, a gargling noise was heard.
“There is laryngeal obstruction, sir,” Dr. Leale said and stepped in between Taft and the President. The President coughed and sputtered with the brandy mixture in his throat. Leale turned the President’s head to the side to empty the liquid from his mouth and gently dabbed inside his mouth with a towel to absorb any further liquid in the back of his throat. Leale glanced over at Taft, annoyed with himself for having given in to the older Doctor’s wishes. Taft, for his part, simply stepped back as if a coughing attack brought on by his administration of brandy was part of the treatment. As this was going on, Dr. Stone, Lincoln’s family physician, and Dr. Barnes, the Surgeon General, arrived.
Dr. Leale reviewed the prognosis and treatment that he had administered with both Dr. Stone and Dr. Barnes who stood by his side. Taft, who hovered by the three physicians, nodded for emphasis.
“Well, sir, I believe that you have done all that you could and done all that was correct,” Dr. Barnes pronounced.
“Yes, I believe I would have done just as you have done,” Dr. Stone added.
“We have found that in keeping the wound unobstructed, it is able to leak and thereby reduce the compression on the brain. I recommend that course of action be continued. With that, sir, as you are the President’s family physician, I turn the patient over to your care,” Dr. Leale said. “But I will stay with him until he expires.” The two men nodded at each other and Dr. Robert Stone took over responsibility for the care of the President of the United States.
Much of this activity took place while Stanton was being briefed and issuing his initial orders from the room next to Lincoln’s in the Petersen House. It was just as the formal exchange of care for the patient was taking place that Stanton took a deep breath and walked into the small bedroom and turned to face Lincoln. As he walked into the room for the first time, several heads turned to look at him, among them Mary Lincoln. When she saw the despised Stanton entering, she arose and left the room without acknowledging the man. The President’s head was propped on several pillows. He was laying awkwardly at an angle across the bed. His face was sunken and gray. Both of his eyes were closed and his right eye was swollen and bulging outward, forcing the eyelid open so just a slit of the eyeball was visible beneath. Purple and blue mottling was forming around his right eye as well, as the damage from the bullet lodged behind it became more visible. The pillows beneath his head were damp and brownish from the oozing wound. Stanton looked down at his fallen leader. His mind went blank as he took in the blood, the paleness of the skin, and the bruising eyes. But when he heard the rattling breath of the President, like a heavy box being dragged over gravel, it immediately reminded him of the labored breaths of his beloved first wife on the night that she died. ‘Abraham Lincoln is going to die,’ he said to himself.
Suddenly Stanton’s body convulsed and his breath flew from his lungs. His knees buckled and he sat down heavily into the chair that Mary Lincoln had just vacated. Edwin Stanton stared into the face of his friend, the Old Chief. More than anything he wanted him to sit up to tell one of his silly stories. Tears spilled from his eyes, streamed down his face and into his beard. His chin quivered, his lips pinched together and then he let loose a series of sobs that wracked his body. He reached his hand forward and took Lincoln’s hand. Stanton sat erect, his eyes fixed on the President, with no attempt to cover his face or hide the wracking sobs. His right hand quietly pounded down on his thigh in torment as he vented his grief and confusion. As Stanton sobbed, the room became utterly still and all present watched in amazement as the most feared man in the country wept at the side of the President.
Stanton took a couple of deep breaths and sat up. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face and blew his nose. The quiet conversations slowly began among the dozen or so people crowded around the bed. As he stood up, he noticed that Surgeon General Barnes was present.
“Dr. Barnes, I’ve just come from Secretary Seward’s home. What a sight that was. Do you think William and Frederick will live?” He asked, stepping to the man’s side. His voice, though he spoke quietly, filled the room and everyone turned to listen.
“I’m fairly confident in the father’s condition. The loss of blood was extreme, but I think he will recover. The son is the real concern. Frederick’s brain is exposed from the beating and the poor boy is comatose.”
“Yes, yes, it is difficult to believe that such carnage could be perpetrated by a single man,” Stanton observed.
“I believe the devil himself visited that house tonight,” Dr. Barnes responded.
“I believe the devil has visited our city this night,” Stanton said and turned his eyes on the bruised and swollen face of Abraham Lincoln.
The Petersen House was quickly becoming the seat of government for the United States of America, serving as the Executive Mansion, Government Departments, and Capitol Building all in one. Congressmen, Cabinet members, and generals were arriving every five minutes. As Mary Lincoln was returning to the small parlor in the front of the house, she whimpered that she wished her son was here.
“I will go for your son, Mrs. Lincoln,” said a young man from the threshold of the house. He was framed in the doorway in a smart suit of clothes. His name was C. C. Bangs and he was a member of the Christian Commission who had spent the day and evening delivering hospital supplies. He was wrapping up his duties from a very long day and was looking forward to rest and relaxation when drivers pulled up and announced that Abraham Lincoln had been shot at Ford’s Theatre. Stunned at the news, Bangs grabbed his suit coat and headed to Ford’s to see if he could be of help. He had pushed his way to the steps of the Petersen House, slowly worked up the steps and opened the door when he saw Mrs. Lincoln and heard her speak.
“And who are you exactly?” Demanded a Colonel standing with Mrs. Lincoln.
“I am from the Christian Commission,” Bangs replied and held out his lapel to show his Christian Commission silver pin. The Army officer smiled in return, grateful for the many kindnesses that the Commission had shown to officers and enlisted men alike during the long war.
“Well, Christian Commission, do you know the way to the Executive Mansion?” The Colonel demanded.
“Yes, sir. My job has made me fam
iliar with all of Washington.”
“Well, then, don’t just stand there. Go and get Mrs. Lincoln’s son.”
“Yes, sir!” Bangs turned and hurried down the steps, running straight for the Willard Hotel, where he hired a hack to drive him to the Executive Mansion. It was a short ride from the Willard to the Executive Mansion, but Bangs told the hack to turn the carriage around and wait for a return trip. He ran to the door where he was met by a guard.
“I must see Captain Robert Lincoln immediately,” Bangs said breathlessly.
“On what business?” the soldier requested.
“His father, the President, has been shot. I am with the Christian Commission and have come at the request of his mother to bring him to his father.” The soldier stared back at this young man and could see from the look on his face and the tone of his voice that this wild news was true.
“He is upstairs talking with Major Hay. I will take you directly to him,” the soldier replied, clearly rattled at the news. As they walked up the stairs, Bangs’ heart was pounding. His confidence began to give way as he wondered just how to deliver such a horrific announcement. They walked down the central corridor to John Hay’s bedroom. Major John Hay had served as Lincoln’s trusted secretary during his first administration. Most recently he had been appointed as a diplomat to Paris. While in Washington, he continued to stay in his room in the White House. Hay and Robert Lincoln had always been friends and ventured out into Washington City together at night when Hay returned from a trip abroad. This evening, they were swapping stories of Paris and Lee’s surrender at Appomattox. The soldier knocked on the open door to interrupt the two men. They turned and looked at Bangs and the soldier standing in the doorway.
“This man needs you, Captain Lincoln,” was all the soldier could say.
“What is it, sir?” Robert asked with a pleasant smile on his face.
A Night of Horrors: A Historical Thriller about the 24 Hours of Lincoln's Assassination Page 25