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

by Berry, John C.

  “As the second scene of the third act got underway, I noticed a man slowly moving across the back wall of the dressing circle. ‘That looks like Wilkes Booth,’ I thought. I recognized his face, but he was also wearing the coat I had seen him in when we’d spoken that afternoon when Booth had bragged about how fast his horse could gallop in front of the restaurant.

  “I wondered what he was up to. Then I turned my attention back to the play. A few minutes later I saw one of the flags moving at the President’s box and held up my opera glasses to get a better view. As I looked through the glasses, I could see that Lincoln had pulled one of the flags back and was looking down at the orchestra section. With the flag pulled away, I had an excellent view at Lincoln’s face. It was creased and shrunken with care and I noticed his eyes looked bruised, the circles around his eyes were so dark. As I was looking through the opera glasses, I realized, with a start, that there was a man standing behind Lincoln. It was hard to make him out because he was dressed all in black. I leaned forward in my chair, saying to my lady friend, ‘There is a man in the box with the President!’ Just then the audience burst into laughter and I thought there was the discharge of a gun. A single pistol shot. Through the opera glasses, I saw Lincoln’s hands fly up into the air and then the box was enveloped with gun smoke.

  “‘My God!’ I exclaimed lowering the glasses. In the next moment I saw the man in the black suit jump from the box to the stage. ‘Is that John Booth?’ I wondered. Then the sole figure on the stage limped to the center and looked at the audience and pronounced, “Sic semper tyrannis!”

  “‘That’s Wilkes Booth,’ I said to my lady friend, staring down at the stage. Then, in horror, Booth locked eyes with me. I can still see the hazel eyes gleaming malevolently in the footlights,” he said closing his eyes to see them again. “He frightened me so much and I wasn’t sure what the crazed man might do next, I pushed my friend by the shoulder to the floor. Booth then exited to the back of the stage. And I remember there was a scream from the box.”

  Henry Phillips, an actor-singer, was the next to give his statement. As he was getting settled into his chair, suddenly Mary Lincoln began wailing again. There were a set of folding doors that separated the parlor in which she sat and the small bedroom which Stanton had commandeered for his War Department headquarters. Stanton quickly became agitated as the shrill pitch of her wail increased in volume. Others in the room shook their heads and leaned over to whisper words of consolation about the First Lady to one another. Stanton simply became angry. He stood, held his hands together behind his back, paced behind the couch once or twice, and then strode from the room to look in on the President. But even there the room had become still as the piercing cries of the First Lady seemed to fill the entire house. Stanton exhaled loudly and then looked down at the President. There was no real change in his condition.

  The front door opened and Stanton looked back down the hall from where he stood to see who was coming into the house. When he saw that it was Mrs. Dixon arriving to comfort Mary Lincoln he sighed again, but this time in relief. He tarried at Lincoln’s bedside long enough for the new burst of grief to be vented by Mary at the arrival of her friend, and she then quickly calmed down. As Stanton was walking back into the testimony room to resume taking the statements, he saw Clara Harris leaving the parlor where Mrs. Lincoln had been. She was carrying her coat.

  “Are you leaving, Miss Harris?” He inquired, walking down the hallway towards her.

  “Yes, Mr. Stanton. Mrs. Lincoln is horrified each time she looks at me. Who could blame her?” She motioned to the dried blood on her dress as she said this. “And I must go and check on Mr. Rathbone. He fainted away earlier from the loss of blood and one of the doctors took him to his house to bind up his wound. I want to sit with him and make sure to do what I can for him.”

  “Of course, of course. Allow me to have an officer escort you, ma’am,” he responded and called for a Colonel who was standing close by.

  “Thank you, sir,” she paused and then continued. “You know, Mr. Stanton, this isn’t the President’s blood on me. It is Mr. Rathbone’s. The assassin stabbed him severely in his arm, but there was no way for me to explain that to Mrs. Lincoln. She would take one look at me and break down in sobs whimpering about her husband’s blood.” For the first time that night, Clara Harris began to cry. “But it’s not Mr. Lincoln’s blood, it is my Henry’s.” She shook her head and walked from the Petersen House with the Colonel holding her arm for support.

  Stanton returned to the room and the court of inquiry proceeded. The statements were taken slowly and with regular interruption. Stanton, the Secretary of War, seemed to be getting back to his regular self and assumed complete control of the situation. He would hold his hand up and the room became silent while he scribbled orders, called for Eckert, and received messages that he read and placed in a neat pile on the small table in front of him.

  When Stanton saw Abraham Lincoln stretched across the bed, he hadn’t seen just a fallen leader, but a fallen friend—a friend whom Stanton dearly loved and greatly admired. With the attack on Secretary Seward and Seward’s son, Stanton was convinced a broader conspiracy was underway as well. But how wide was the conspiracy and who else was a target? As the Secretary of War, he had to assume that he was on the list. Stanton was flooded with a mix of grief, fear, and anger. He was angry with the Confederate leadership who would perpetrate such a vicious crime on the best of men. He was angry that some two-bit actor seemed to have some how walked into the theater and shot the President in a theater full of Army officers. He was angry because just that afternoon he had warned Lincoln against going out to the theater because of the threats against his life.

  As Stanton gave rise to his righteous anger, he began to see his way through the dark night. He had established a small court of inquiry to gather evidence that he would use to identify the assassins. He was launching a massive manhunt so he could apprehend the brutes. He was taking the proper steps to ensure Washington City was safe and making a show of power so any Confederates in the vicinity would be cowed into submission. Stanton was handling his grief by simply taking control of the situation. In establishing order, Stanton was attempting to take control of events and not allowing events to control him. Or at least he felt that way. After listening to more statements, Stanton had a clearer picture in his mind of what had transpired that night. It was now his duty to inform the nation that their President had been shot. Stanton had learned during the war that New York had the best telegraphs and news to the nation could be distributed best from there. He took pen and paper and wrote a dispatch that he would send to Major General John Dix in New York:

  This evening at about 9:30 o’clock at Ford’s Theatre, the President, while sitting in his private box with Mrs. Lincoln, Miss Harris, and Major Rathbone, was shot by an assassin who suddenly entered the box and approached behind the President. The assassin then leaped upon the stage, brandishing a large dagger or knife, and made his escape in the rear of the theatre.

  The pistol ball entered the back of the President’s head, and penetrated nearly through the head. The wound is mortal. The President has been insensible ever since it was inflicted, and is now dying.

  About the same hour an assassin, whether the same or not, entered Mr. Seward’s apartment, and, under a pretense of having a prescription, was shown to the Secretary’s sick chamber. The assassin immediately rushed to the bed and inflicted two or three stabs on the throat and two on the face. It is hoped the wounds may not be mortal. My apprehension is that they will prove fatal.

  The nurse alarmed Mr. Frederick Seward, who, from an adjoining room, hastened to the door of his father’s where he met the assassin, who inflicted upon him one or more dangerous wounds. The recovery of Frederick is doubtful. It is not probable that the President will live through the night.

  General Grant and his wife were advertised to be at the theatre this evening, but he started to Burlington at 6 o’clock.

&nb
sp; At a Cabinet meeting at which General Grant was present, the subject of the state of the country and the prospect of a speedy peace was discussed. The president was very cheerful and hopeful, and spoke very kindly of General Lee and others of the Confederacy and the establishment of the government in Virginia. All the members of the Cabinet, except Mr. Seward, are waiting upon the President.

  I have seen Mr. Seward but he and Frederick were both unconscious.

  Stanton had this message delivered through the relay system that Major Eckert had set up to the Telegraph Office in the War Department. There, the men would polish the grammar, correct the time of the event to 10:30, and send it out to General Dix around 2:00 AM. Though Stanton had more than enough testimony and evidence to convince him that Wilkes Booth was his man, he chose to hold onto that fact. He firmly believed that the Confederate government was behind this and he wanted to publish more than the name of an actor as the perpetrator of the greatest crime in the history of the nation.

  Order Out of Chaos

  Leonard J. Farwell was a former Governor of Wisconsin and was at Ford’s Theatre watching Our American Cousin when Abraham Lincoln was shot. Farwell was a Republican and was in Washington, serving as the Inspector of Inventions in the Patent Office. Leonard Farwell and Andrew Johnson, Lincoln’s new Vice President, had become friends over the past few months. Their friendship was borne out of the fact they both had been Governors and were now serving in Lincoln’s second administration. Also, both men were staying at the Kirkwood House, a small, upscale hotel located at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Twelfth Street. The man was stunned by the tragic event, but he quickly became fearful because as he milled around outside of the theater different members of the crowd began to whisper of attacks on other Cabinet members. Farwell immediately became afraid that a major conspiracy was underway. His first thought was whether Andrew Johnson had been told of what had happened. Andrew Johnson must be warned and made safe and he must be informed immediately of the great responsibility that was about to fall upon his shoulders. At once, Farwell rushed a block up E Street, then down Twelfth Street to arrive at the Kirkwood House. He pounded on the door to Johnson’s room.

  “Mr. Vice President, I must speak to you!” He yelled through the door. He glanced around the hallway. There were no guards and no soldiers. His face was red and damp from the two block run he had made to get there. He was nervous that an attacker would lunge at him at any moment. He pounded on the door again and called out, “It is Governor Farwell, Mr. Vice President, and I must speak with you at once.” The door opened slightly and a robed Andrew Johnson peaked out.

  “Good God, Farwell, what is all this racket about?” He demanded, opening the door.

  Governor Farwell stepped inside the door. Johnson closed it and Farwell pushed him aside and set the locks in place.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Johnson asked again. Farwell turned and looked him full in the face and took a deep breath.

  “Mr. Vice President—Andrew, President Lincoln has been shot. I was there. At Ford’s Theatre tonight when a man entered into the President’s private box and shot him.”

  “That can’t be. Lincoln shot? But he will be fine, he shall recover. Certainly, he’ll recover.”

  “I cannot say with certainty,” Farwell responded. “There was a doctor at the theater and he believed the wound to be mortal, but I cannot say for sure.”

  “Then go and find out with certainty and return back to me at once. I’ll keep the door locked.” Farwell ran back to Ford’s Theatre and discovered that the President had been taken to the Petersen House. He was able to gain access to the house and learned not only of Lincoln’s mortal wound but that the Sewards had been attacked as well. While in the Petersen House, he bumped into Major James O’Beirne, the Provost Marshal of Washington City. Farwell explained to him that Vice President Johnson was at the Kirkwood House with no one guarding him. If there was a conspiracy, then he was an easy target. O’Beirne immediately rushed the two blocks back to Kirkwood House with Farwell. Before setting out, he sent an urgent message to John Lee, his trusted Chief of Detectives, to meet him at the Kirkwood House and to bring some men with him. While O’Beirne set about searching Kirkwood with Lee, to make sure there were no lurking assassins, Farwell went back inside the room to share the news with Johnson.

  “Apparently the assassin fired into the back of his head and the doctors have announced that it is indeed a mortal wound. William and Frederick Seward were also attacked, Andrew. Seward’s condition is not much better and his son, Frederick, has lost his sensibilities.” Johnson faltered and stepped backwards at the news.

  “What’s this you say?” His eyes widened as he put his hand to his mouth. “What’s this you say? It cannot be, Farwell. My God, it cannot be!” Tears sprung into his eyes and he immediately turned away and paced the floor, running his hands through his hair. “The Sewards are attacked? Lincoln is going to die? Are you sure?” He stopped pacing and turned to his friend.

  “Yes, Andrew. I am sure. Abraham Lincoln will die, probably tonight, and you will become President of the United States.”

  “What’s this you say?” Johnson repeated and began pacing again. “Not Lincoln. Not now. He cannot die, Farwell.” He stopped pacing again and turned to his friend once more. His eyes were wide and there was a frantic light to them. Johnson was an outsider in this land of Washington politics and his base of power was far away. He was full of worry and the weight of the knowledge that he was not equipped for the job that fate was handing to him. “Good God, Farwell, what will I do? My God, what will I do?”

  “Mr. Vice President, you will lead this country as best you can. You will secure the peace,” Farwell said, encouraging his friend. Johnson resumed pacing the floor, stuffing his hands into his silk robe. Johnson was self-conscious about his standing as an outsider in Lincoln’s administration. Lincoln had selected him as his vice presidential running mate because he was a War Democrat from a southern state, and the President believed that Johnson would deliver some of the Democratic votes he’d need to win reelection. Johnson had served as Governor of Tennessee and had helped to reconstruct the Federal authority in Tennessee after the Union reclaimed it early in the war. Lincoln planned to use the approach that he and Johnson had taken to reestablish Federal authority in Tennessee as a template of sorts for the other Southern states. Johnson so loved his home state and wanted to see the work he’d begun finished that he requested Lincoln allow him to stay in Tennessee rather than coming to Washington for the inauguration. Lincoln was adamant that Johnson be present for his installation as Vice President and Lincoln’s second swearing in.

  So the Vice President-elect had bowed to the President, arriving at Washington just in time for the ceremony. But he hadn’t been feeling well, particularly on the morning of the inauguration. So in an effort to both soothe his sickness and calm his nerves, he took liquor in the morning on an empty stomach when he wasn’t a particularly heavy drinker. The result was a disaster. In the Senate chamber, where the Vice President was sworn in before the President, his Cabinet, the Supreme Court, and other dignitaries, in a more private ceremony prior to the President’s more public ceremony, Johnson rambled on and on about his plebeian background and how he was a humble creature. He ran on for so long that he made Lincoln late for his own swearing in ceremony. The Cabinet, already distrustful of Johnson’s Democratic alliance, now resented him and was repulsed by him, convinced that he was an alcoholic. Lincoln, as always, was more forgiving and continued to tell his Cabinet that “Andy made a bad slip, but he was no drunkard.”

  Johnson, for his part, resented that Lincoln had summoned him to Washington City, yet did not meet privately with him until that very day, April 14th. When they finally did meet, it was very brief, and the President had essentially dismissed or ignored the Vice President’s advice that the traitorous behavior of the rebels should be dealt with harshly as the treachery that it was. Now Johnson realized that he was goi
ng to be in an impossible position: trying to heal the wounds of a wretched civil war while being surrounded by a Cabinet that disliked him and thought him a buffoon. These thoughts swirled in his mind as he paced the floor when he would suddenly stop and look at Farwell and lament the President’s eminent demise. Finally, the shock began to give way. He took a seat and Farwell sat down next to him.

  “I must go to him,” Johnson said with the greatest sense of calm that he had shown since Farwell broke the news to him. “It will look as if I don’t care for the man if I don’t go to him, Governor.”

  “Mr. Vice President, it isn’t safe for you to be walking about in the city. You cannot go without an escort. I urge you not to go out without a guard.” Johnson was moved by the heart-felt importations of his friend. “I have brought Major O’Beirne with me and he and his men are searching the house and have posted a guard outside your door.”

  “O’Beirne? Isn’t he the Provost Marshal? What men will he have?”

  “Granted, it is more of a police force than a military force, but they are under the direction of the War Department. Any show of force in uniform right now is what you need, Mr. Vice President.”

  “I shall dress myself in case I decide to go to the President’s side,” Johnson said vaguely. But when Johnson stood up, he turned and began to pace the floor once again. Though Farwell sat there with him, the Vice President of the United States felt completely alone in the world.

  Once O’Beirne and Lee had finished searching the hotel, the Major gently knocked on the door and stepped inside to report to the Vice President that the hotel was secure and to assure himself that the man was safe. Meanwhile, John Lee made sure there was nothing suspicious afoot at the Kirkwood. John Lee had earned his living as a sign hanger before the war broke out. Deeming it his patriotic duty, he enlisted in the Army and found success in the Military, advancing in rank and responsibility. He joined the Provost Marshal ranks when they were established to investigate draft dodgers and help maintain control of Southern states while they were being reestablished under Federal authority. Though he’d had no formal training as a detective, he had a common sense approach to investigations that served him well.