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

by Berry, John C.

  “Mr. Stanton, I went with Mr. O’Beirne to inspect Kirkwood House and make sure the Vice President was unharmed. While there, I learned about a suspicious character who had checked into the hotel, in a room directly above Mr. Johnson’s. The man is of German descent, unkempt, and goes by the name of Atzerodt. While inspecting his rooms, I came across a black coat. In that black coat were handkerchiefs, one with the name Booth sewn into it.” Stanton stood up when Lee spoke the name of ‘Booth.’ “Not only that, sir, but I found this bankbook in that same coat. You can see who owns the accounts right here.” Lee opened the bankbook to the page with the account holder’s name written in bold black letters and handed it to Stanton. Stanton let his eyes roam to and fro over the three names, reading them over and over again: John Wilkes Booth.

  “Did this Atzerodt fellow ever talk with the Vice President or come close to him?” He asked Lee.

  “I do not believe so, but the bartender said that the man came into the hotel around ten o’clock and sat at the bar for about fifteen minutes and left after drinking some whiskey.”

  “At ten o’clock you say?” Stanton clarified.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Both the President and Secretary of State were attacked around ten-fifteen.” The three men looked at each other. Stanton began to run his hands down his long beard. “Well, Mr. Lee, I’d say that you’ve uncovered another member of the conspiracy.”

  “That’s just what I’d say,” O’Beirne responded looking from Stanton to Lee and back to Stanton.

  On his deathbed, Abraham Lincoln’s arms suddenly began to flail about as his death struggle intensified. All eyes in the room opened wide and watched with hope. Robert Lincoln stepped towards his father and his mood suddenly brightened with hope that his father would simply open his eyes and acknowledge him. But before he could take even a second step closer, the movement stopped and the long muscular body of the President sagged back to its lifeless form. Shoulders sagged and heads dropped once again. Robert stood still and looked down at the bruised and swollen face of Abraham Lincoln. The doctors murmured to each other, loud enough for all to hear, that such movement was to be expected and that it was involuntary.

  Tears dripped from Robert’s eyelids once again and he whispered, “Father, do get up. Don’t die, Father, not now. Not in your hour of triumph.” Outside, clouds had gathered quickly and the moon was obliterated from sight. The balmy breeze of earlier was now raw and cold. Gideon Welles, standing close to the window in an effort to get some fresher air thought he smelled rain on the wind. He thought it would be appropriate for the rain to fall on this night of all nights. It was Good Friday, after all, and Abraham Lincoln had been shot.

  Rain Mingled with Impending Death

  Abraham Lincoln lay unconscious, surrounded by his Cabinet. His face was wrinkled and his left eye was sunken and darkened. His right eye was more swollen now so the eyelid was half open revealing the dilated and listless pupil beneath. The right eye socket and the cheek surrounding it were now deeply purple like the skin of a plum. There were murmurings in the room as quiet conversations took place between Cabinet members, friends of the dying President, or officers of the Army. Though the room in the back of Petersen’s boardinghouse was quite small, as many as twenty people were pushed into it. In his last hours, they all simply wanted to be close to the man that they served, loved, or both. Stanton continued to move from this room to the room catty-corner to this one where he was receiving reports, issuing orders, or observing Judge Cartter take evidence. It was deep in the night, past two o’clock in the morning, and a light rain had begun to fall on Washington City. Because the room was stifling due to the large number of people pushed together, the window remained open in spite of the rain.

  People moved quietly about the first floor of the Petersen House, shifting from room to room, talking in whispers. Above all of the quiet movements and whispered words rose the rasping, clawing, and rattling breath of Abraham Lincoln. It raked through his body like bullets in a battle. Then, after one particularly long exhalation, it simply stopped. Stanton, though he was in the other room in the midst of a conversation, held his hand up to silence his interlocutor and cocked his head. Everyone in the room with Lincoln turned and looked down at the man, waiting. Robert said, over and over to his father in his mind, ‘Breathe. Breathe.’ After the prolonged silence, the President took in another breath, stertorous and rasping, and everyone began to move again. Stanton turned back and resumed the conversation he had just interrupted. The quiet whispers drifted through the doorways and the doctors took notes on the pulse, breathing, and condition of the President.

  The rain tapped gently on the roof of the house and the streets of Washington City began to turn from dirt to mud. As messengers came from the Telegraph Office in the War Department with information for Edwin Stanton, they tracked mud in from the street. The news of the attacks had spread quickly and the streets of Washington City were quiet and deserted except for the Union soldiers who patrolled them to ensure there were no Confederates in waiting. Tenth Street, between Ford’s Theatre and Petersen’s boardinghouse was another matter. The rain, though it was now cold on this spring night, did not dissipate the crowds. They stood in the street, their eyes focused on the door, waiting and hoping that the news was incorrect. They stood in mute tribute and resolute hope that somehow and some way, Abraham Lincoln would rally. And live. But there was no hope of that in the hearts of those who stood in the room next to him. His swollen face. His bleeding head. His breathing, so labored it hurt his son’s chest to listen to it. Each foretold the outcome that was so sad but so true. Abraham Lincoln was all but dead. All that was left was the arrival of the moment in which his heart beat no more. The rain falling on Washington City mingled with impending death in the early morning of Saturday, April 15, 1865.

  William Seward’s home was also full of people. There were doctors who quietly checked in on the Secretary and Assistant Secretary. The father was in danger because of the extreme amount of blood loss, but they all agreed that he would make a full recovery. His cheek had been sown back together and a splint had been reapplied to his broken jaw. He was clean and asleep. But he was in for a long and painful recovery. Frederick Seward, the son, had a less certain future. His skull was fractured in two places and at one fracture the skull was broken away leaving his brain exposed. He had lapsed into a coma. The Secretary and Assistant Secretary were quiet and resting. Gus Seward, the other son, was in no danger at all from the cuts he received. Sergeant Robinson, the nurse, and Hansel, the messenger, were entirely another matter. Though both had been stabbed and cut severely, the doctors still remained hopeful of their eventual recovery. Soldiers stood guard outside of Seward’s home as they did outside of Andrew Johnson’s door, each Cabinet member’s home, Chief Justice Chase’s home, and outside of Petersen’s boardinghouse. There would be no further violence done on the heads of the United States Government on this night.

  George Atzerodt meandered his way through the streets of Washington to the Pennsylvania House. The Pennsylvania was a low-class hotel that rented beds for the night to men. And when they had more men than beds, they simply put two men to a bed. Atzerodt had stayed here off and on over the past number of months. Just the week before, he had shared a bed with a Lieutenant in the Union Army since the hotel was so full. Around two o’clock on this rainy morning, he made his way back to the hotel and drank a warm glass of ale at the bar. Then he walked heavily to the check-in counter.

  “Give me a bed,” he asked.

  “You’ll be sharin’ it if’n you want it,” the man behind the counter replied.

  “Tha’s fine,” Atzerodt replied. His words came out slow and thick. He had gone to three different bars over the past four hours. He realized after the last one, that he’d waited too long to try to leave Washington tonight. The soldiers would be out in force and all of the roads would be closed. He had no choice but to look for a room, knowing that he could never go back to the K
irkwood.

  “Sign the reg’ster,” the man behind the counter said pointing at the book. Atzerodt looked slowly from the book and up to the man who had bent over to look at something behind the counter.

  “You wan’ me to sign?” He asked thickly.

  “Tha’s what I sed,” came the reply. The man pointed at the book again. Atzerodt hesitated, wondering if he should sign a different name. But he’d been here several times in the past few months and they might realize that he was signing a false name. So he took up the pen and scratched G. A. Atzerodt above the line and dropped the pen onto the book splashing little drops of ink from the head of the pen. Atzerodt slowly mounted the steps to the large room at the top of the stairs that held several beds. He kicked off his boots and climbed into bed, exhaling loudly in the dark. Before he could get comfortable and drop off to sleep, though, a figure entered the darkened room and approached his bed. It was a soldier. In fact, it was the same Lieutenant that Atzerodt had shared this very bed with a week ago! The Lieutenant kicked off his boots and climbed into bed, laying head to toe.

  As he settled in he asked, “Did you hear that the President was assassinated tonight?”

  “That’s awful,” Atzerodt mumbled, his mind racing and flashing with images of Wilkes Booth in the candle light over dinner, prancing and preening and preaching about Atzerodt’s duty to shoot the Vice President. “That’s just awful,” he repeated and closed his eyes. All he could see were the glowing pupils of Wilkes Booth and the stern face of the man he knew as Payne. ‘Oh God,’ he thought, ‘I’m a dead man as sure as hell.’

  About the same time that Atzerodt was making his way from the saloon to the Pennsylvania House, John Fletcher, the stableman from Nailor’s Stable, was walking into the Washington City police headquarters. He’d heard the news along the way that President Lincoln and Secretary Seward had both been attacked. He knew that the Police would have much more important things to worry about than finding his missing roan horse, but he balanced that knowledge with the fact that Mr. Nailor, the stable owner, would flay him if he didn’t explore every last possibility to find that horse. As he was telling the police officer his story, the man surprised him by saying that he had been told that a riderless horse was brought into the headquarters of the XXII Corps at Seventeenth and I Streets.

  “You might try there as our hands are full ‘ere,” the police officer said turning quickly away from Fletcher. An officer of the Provost Marshall’s office insisted on escorting Fletcher over to General Augur’s headquarters building just north of Lafayette Square, where Seward’s house was. As they rode along, the man from the Provost Marshall’s office peppered Fletcher with questions and learned about his encounter with Atzerodt and how he chased Herold all the way down to the Navy Yard Bridge. The officer was convinced that Fletcher had important information in the assassination of the President. As they rode by Lafayette Square on H Street, the officer pointed out Seward’s house. Fletcher could just see the brightly lit house and people milling around outside as he rode by. They rode quietly after that, taking Seventeenth Street north to the intersection with I Street. They dismounted, and Fletcher followed the officer inside.

  “General Augur, here’s a man that knows all about the party!” The officer called out as soon as they were inside. Fletcher was a bit surprised by the boast and walked into the office of General Augur, Commander of the XXII Corps of the U. S. Army. Augur sat Fletcher down in his office and immediately began to ask him questions. Sitting next to Augur’s desk was a saddle and bridle. Fletcher began to tell the General, as he had just shared with the officer on the ride, of his encounters with Herold and Atzerodt, though he did not recall their names. He simply wanted to recover the roan horse that had been stolen from the stable, but the guard wouldn’t let him cross the bridge to chase the man who took it.

  “No, son, orders have been issued to close all roads leading out of Washington City until the murderers are arrested. Tell me about this other man that you followed,” Augur encouraged. Fletcher was a talker and he shared the most minute details of the night. He not only described the hat and jacket of the men he chased, but he also shared the temperature of the ale he drank earlier and what the air felt like going to and from the Kirkwood House. As Fletcher answered Augur’s questions and shared more details than the general cared to hear, the General noticed that Fletcher continued to glance at the saddle laying next to his desk.

  “Son, does that saddle look familiar to you?” He finally asked the stableman.

  “Why, if I’m not mistaken, that belongs to one of the men I’ve been describing to you. It looks like the one he has been keeping for a one-eyed horse at Nailor’s stable where I work.” Augur sat up, his entire attention glued to the young man.

  “You don’t say. That horse was found walking the streets without a rider earlier tonight. He was all lathered as if he’d been ridden very hard. Who is this man you followed? When did you last see him?”

  “The man keeping the horse that saddle belongs to ain’t one ‘a the men I saw tonight. But that one I follered to the Kirkwood earlier this evenin’, Gen’ral? He took that one-eyed horse in the afternoon to somebody else.”

  “That man went to the Kirkwood House? That’s where Vice President Johnson is staying. Then who was riding the one-eyed horse?” The General inquired.

  “I ain’t so shore ‘bout that, Gen’ral. I reckon that one of his friends took it earlier in the day.”

  “Do you know this man’s name?”

  “Well, Gen’ral, I don’ reckon I can’ think of that right now. But I got a card with his name on it. I recall that it’s a foreign soundin’ name. Real funny like. But I ain’t got no idea what it is from mem’ry,” Fletcher looked back down at the saddle. “But that’s his saddle all right.”

  “You there,” General Augur said to the officer from the Provost Marshall’s office who had escorted Fletcher over from Police Headquarters. “Take this man back to his stable and get the name of the man who owned this saddle. And then return here immediately with the information. It is very important.”

  Fletcher rode quickly back to Nailor’s Stable and rifled through his things until he found the card that he was looking for. The odd German man had given it to him when he’d come to the stable along with the actor. Fletcher couldn’t quite recall his name, but the odd German had written his name on the back of the card and given it to him. He turned it over and read G. Atzerodt.

  “His name’s At-zer-odt,” Fletcher said slowly, pronouncing each syllable to sound out the name.

  “And he was an acquaintance of the man you chased down to the Navy Yard Bridge?” The Officer clarified.

  “Yup. The one that stole the roan horse. Mr. Nailor’s gonna flay my hide fo’ shore,” Fletcher said shaking his head. The two men rode back and gave the card with Atzerodt’s name to General Augur.

  “Well, son, we don’t have your horse, but you have certainly been a big help tonight. I hope you find your horse,” General Augur said and turned back to the business of the night. As he issued orders to his men stationed in northern Virginia and at Point Lookout, Maryland, Augur wondered if this Atzerodt was one of the conspirators and if the lathered horse was somehow associated with the assassinations. The more he thought about it, the more he thought that he should share the information with the Secretary of War. He had a messenger take a hand-written letter to Edwin Stanton, reporting that a one-eyed horse that could be one of the assassin’s was recovered. He also told Stanton that a man by the name of Atzerodt was somehow associated with the horse and that he had gone to the Kirkwood House that night. This information came from a stableman from Thompson Nailor’s livery stable on E Street who had chased an unidentified man to the Navy Yard Bridge. That man had crossed over and might be an associate of Atzerodt’s.

  It was now just four hours since Abraham Lincoln had been shot and the Seward household cut to pieces. Already, the various investigations had identified John Wilkes Booth as the Presi
dent’s assassin, George Atzerodt as a possible co-conspirator and assassin for Andrew Johnson, and that yet a third man had fled the city at the Navy Yard Bridge. The investigations were far from complete, however. At the police headquarters, where Fletcher had first gone to report his stolen horse, Detectives James McDevitt and John Clarvoe of the Washington City police force had been busy taking testimony from theatergoers immediately following Lincoln’s assassination. Some of the testimony came from John Ferguson, the restaurant owner, who identified John Booth as the man who shot Lincoln. As they questioned him, Ferguson mentioned to the officers that Booth spent a lot of time with a young man by the name of John Surratt. Ferguson thought that Surratt or his mother had a boardinghouse that wasn’t too far away.

  “You might talk with Surratt if you want to find out where Booth has fled to,” Ferguson suggested as he finished his conversation with the policemen.

  The two men had already begun to make a list of the names of people that they would pursue for further questioning based on the conversations they’d already had. Clarvoe had a couple more people to talk with so McDevitt decided to go out and talk to people on the street and see what he could dig up. As he was talking to a husband and wife outside the police building, a man came up behind the couple and listened in. McDevitt was asking them if they’d been to the theater, if they knew John Wilkes Booth or anyone who worked at the theater. The couple weren’t of much help to the detective when suddenly the man behind them spoke up.

  “If you want to get Booth, then you need to get John Surratt. He has a boardinghouse on H Street. Surratt’s involved in this—trust me. And I’m sure the others are, too.” The stranger stood just outside the glow of the streetlamp and wore his hat pulled low, so his face was hidden in shadow. His voice was low, but McDevitt thought he sounded educated and a bit refined.