Hotels, restaurants, and shops were decorated with red, white, and blue bunting with candles or oil lamps in the windows. Citizens filled the streets, and musicians formed bands on the street corners. The excitement in the air was contagious. Cass recognized the tune as the music grew louder and sang the familiar words, “The Union forever, hurrah, boys, hurrah! Down with the traitor, up with the star.”
The others joined in and had finished a verse and another chorus by the time they passed Taltavul’s Star Saloon, and the carriage stopped in front of Ford’s Theater. The front of the brick building had five decorative archways. The street was muddy, and someone had placed boards to form a ramp to the center entrance.
Logan paid the driver to find a place to wait along Tenth Street. Zach hopped to the ground and placed his crutch under his arm. He offered his hand to Cass and escorted her inside to the lobby where the ticket booth was located. Logan had already purchased tickets, and a boy offered them programs. They removed their cloaks and hats, and Logan gave them to a young man who stored them with other patrons’ belongings. A staircase led to the second and third floors of the theater, but they were seated on the main floor on the right side near the presidential booth. Logan entered the row of straight back cane chairs so Jem and Cass could sit next to each other. Zach took the aisle seat, which gave him extra room for his splinted leg.
Patrons murmured in their seats, glancing toward the empty corner box overlooking the stage. The president was late, but productions at Ford’s Theater were punctual. The gaslights dimmed at eight p.m. as the play began.
Lincoln had not been popular because of the war. Even victories at Gettysburg and Vicksburg had not guaranteed his reelection, and he had changed his choice for vice president to Andrew Johnson who was from Tennessee. But time and victory had softened the opinion many had of the gangly, homely man who had been born in a log cabin, studied law by candlelight, and was elected twice as president of the nation.
Cass and Zach could recite the Gettysburg Address and lines from Lincoln’s other speeches. His words contained a beauty and inspiration rarely uttered by politicians.
She stared at the empty booth reserved for Lincoln. The tall arched openings were framed with gold and white draperies and standing flags. A loose flag was draped across the front of the balcony in thick folds with a portrait of George Washington in the center. “Maybe the president decided to see Aladdin.”
Zach laughed, and even though the play was a comedy, he received a few harsh stares from those concentrating on the actors’ lines.
The low lights allowed the actors to see the audience, and some of the thespians spoke directly with those seated in the front rows as the play progressed.
Zach took her hand into his and squeezed her fingers. Even with both of them wearing gloves, it was scandalous public behavior, but they weren’t famous enough for gossip to ruin their reputations.
“I don’t mind missing the president when I can spend time with you,” Zach whispered.
Her heart raced at his compliment. But did his words mean he enjoyed her platonic company or he considered her more? Did a romance require a declaration of love before it became official? And how would she find the courage to say I love you to Zach? What if he laughed at her tender feelings? What if he didn’t feel the same way? Thankfully, the play prevented her from speaking.
The play was twenty minutes into the first act when Laura Keene said the word president, a cue that signaled Lincoln’s arrival. The audience turned toward the back balcony, and the orchestra played “Hail to the Chief.”
The audience stood. Cass helped Zach balance on one foot. She rested her hand on his back, ready to grab his coat if he faltered. Zach put his arm around her bare shoulders and grinned. His bold smile frightened her. Had she encouraged him too much? Would he take liberties if alone with her? And how did she discourage him if he did? Instead of medical training, she should have sought courting maneuvers from her older sisters.
Lincoln surveyed the crowd and entered a hallway before emerging in the presidential box. Cheers echoed in the theater as Lincoln acknowledged the audience and actors. Mary, whose short stature contrasted against her husband’s tall frame, sat in a red chair near the railing. Ulysses and Julia Grant were missing.
“Who is that?” Cass whispered as an officer and young woman took seats to Mary Lincoln’s right.
“He’s no general,” Zach said under his breath.
“That’s Major Henry Reed Rathbone,” Logan said. “The young lady is his fiancée, Clara Harris, the daughter of Senator Ira Harris of New York.”
“What happened to Grant?” Zach seemed disappointed.
Logan shrugged. He was a secretary, and although it was his job to know important people, he wasn’t privy to decisions made by superiors. But Logan was friends with Lincoln’s primary secretaries and had been to the White House on numerous business occasions.
Lincoln nodded in their direction, and Cass turned to Logan. “Lincoln acknowledged you.”
“Wishful thinking,” Logan said. “He could have been nodding at you, Cassie.”
Lincoln bowed a second time to the audience and took his seat in a rocking chair on the near side of the balcony. A curtain hid him from view except for the times he rocked forward and peeked at the audience.
Cass removed her fan from her reticule and waved it in front of her face. The crowd of warm bodies and late hour were making her sleepy. The third act had started at ten p.m. The play would be over soon. She covered a yawn. “I’m sorry.”
“I think a funny part is coming up,” Jem said.
“Have you seen the play before?”
“A year ago, but the president wasn’t attending and neither were you.”
Cass looked at her program. Actress Helen Muzzy stood and said, “I am aware, Mr. Trenchard, you are not used to the manners of good society, and that, alone, will excuse you the impertinence of which you have been guilty.” She departed, leaving Harry Hawk, who was portraying Asa Trenchard, alone on the stage.
“Don’t know the manners of good society, eh?” Hawk demanded. “Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal, you sockdologizing old man-trap!”
“Sockdologizing?” Zach repeated amidst the loud laughter of the audience. He turned toward the presidential box. “Was that a gun shot?”
Chapter Two
Zach pointed at two men wrestling in the state box. “What is the major doing?” The other man was dressed all in black. He leaped over the railing of the box toward the stage but caught his right boot in the thick folds of the decorative flag and landed on his left leg and hands. “Who is that?”
“It looks like John Wilkes Booth, the actor,” Logan said.
Booth rose to one knee and shouted, “Sic temper tyrannis! The South is avenged!”
Zach turned to the others. “Is this part of the play?”
“He was speaking Latin,” Cass said. “Thus always to tyrants.”
“You said you heard a gunshot?” Logan looked toward the balcony.
Major Rathbone pointed to Booth who was limping to the back of the stage. “Stop that man!”
“Won’t somebody please stop that man,” Clara Harris cried from the box.
“What is the matter?” a man shouted from the audience.
“The president has been shot,” Clara said.
Silence answered her declaration. Then murmurs.
“Why would anyone shoot President Lincoln?” Cass looked at Jem. “Are you sure it isn’t part of the show?”
Logan and Jem’s stricken faces revealed the horrible truth. “I should do something.” Zach stepped on his splinted leg and winced. His mobility was limited, and he carried no weapon. He was useless.
A Union officer climbed over the orchestra pit and footlights to reach the stage. Booth had disappeared in the shadows.
“I don’t have my medical supplies, but I could help.” Jem stood.
“This crowd will trample you. Stay he
re, and I’ll see what I can find out.” Logan turned to Zach. “Protect the ladies.”
“Yes, sir.” Zach braced himself against his crutch, ready to defend them. He saw the fear and shock on the ladies’ faces. He’d seen the same look on men facing battle and afterward when surrounded by the dead and dying. “I’m sure the president will be fine. He’s strong,” he reassured them.
While some of the men ran toward the stage to pursue Booth, the crowd surged against them and headed for the back, away from the stage, away from the last sighting of the shooter. Zach blocked a man heading heedlessly toward them. “Go around.”
“Stay here, and you’ll be shot.” He knocked over several chairs in his struggle to pass the sea of retreating bodies.
Zach searched the crowd for suspicious characters. “I don’t think he had any accomplices,” he reassured them.
Cass gripped his arm. “I hope not.”
The presidential box was crowded with soldiers and civilians. Sobs echoed in the theater, an expression of utter desperation. It had to be Mary Lincoln.
Cass twisted her handkerchief in trembling hands, her gaze on the box. “I hope someone in the balcony is a doctor. They have to save him.”
Zach choked back his own grief. Lincoln had suffered insults and verbal attacks by his enemies yet returned their viciousness with wisdom and kindness. He had fought to unite the nation torn apart through a horrible war. He had freed the slaves. “It’s utter madness.”
He maintained his post and guarded the end of the row while Jem and Cass waited for Logan to return. They whispered prayers, begging for a miracle. A few clusters of tearful patrons remained on the main floor of the theater, their gaze focused on the activity in the presidential box, waiting for news. Most of the crowd had surged outside, overturning chairs and leaving crumpled programs trampled under the fleeing mob. Gawkers crowded the second floor, hoping to catch a glimpse of the president if and when he was carried out.
Zach looked at his watch. It was after eleven p.m. The presidential box had only a few people moving in the shadows. Where had they taken the president? Logan approached from the back. He carried their cloaks and hats.
“Are we leaving?” Cass asked as Logan distributed their belongings.
“Soldiers are carrying Lincoln outside to his carriage.” Logan’s voice caught in his throat. “The doctor said it was a mortal head wound.”
“Is this doctor experienced?” Jem asked.
“Yes, and the other doctors agree with his prognosis.” Logan arranged a cloak around Jem’s shoulders. “The president was shot with a derringer at close range. The major was stabbed with a Bowie knife in the arm but will survive.”
Zach helped Cass put on her cloak. Tears glistened on her lower lashes. One broke over the fragile barrier and streamed over the smooth skin of her cheek. He reached forward and brushed the droplet away. More followed.
“It can’t be true,” she whispered.
Zach pulled her against his chest and offered comfort. A man going into battle prepared for the chance he might not survive, but this crime, a shot from the shadows while his victim enjoyed a play in the company of his wife, was a violation of all that was decent.
Logan took Jem’s arm. “A crowd is gathered outside. We should leave before the road becomes impassable.”
“Could we wait for news?” Cass looked at Jem. “Head wounds can be unpredictable.”
Logan looked worried. “Are you sure you want to be in a crowd?”
“I’m not ill,” Jem defended.
“But it’s raining.”
“We could sit in the carriage,” Cass suggested. “I couldn’t go home until we know what has happened to the president.”
Zach looked at the two sisters. Although trained as midwives, they had worked as nurses. “Is there a chance he could survive?”
“We can pray and hope until there is none,” Jem said. “I’ve seen miracles at the bedside of gravely wounded men.”
Logan’s expression was grim. He was not as hopeful.
It would be better to spare the women the crowd and anxiety of waiting, but Zach would not sleep until Lincoln’s fate had been confirmed. He hobbled toward the door as Logan led the way.
They found the hired coach, but the driver was missing. Logan looked at his watch. “He’s probably waiting in one of the saloons. He should return soon.”
Logan helped the women enter the carriage. Zach hopped onto the step and paused, surveying the scene over the roof of the vehicle. News of the shooting had spread, and the crowd had swelled, filling the street.
From his perch he counted six soldiers carrying Lincoln on a long board. They paused in front of the entrance, their forms outlined by the eerie yellow light from the tar torches in the front of Ford’s Theater. A soldier returned from the saloon next door and shook his head.
A doctor pointed across the street, and the soldiers gripped the board with the president’s body and stepped into the muddy street, shouting for the crowd to clear a path.
“They’re taking him across the street, but they’ll never get through that mob.” Zach waved his crutch over the roof of the carriage. “Make way! Let them pass!”
The soldiers bearing Lincoln pressed against the crowd but made little headway.
“Can you help them?” Cass asked.
Zach cursed his broken leg. He was helpless because of his injury.
Logan patted Jem’s hand. “I doubt I can make much of a difference, but I can try.”
“Wait.” Zach pointed toward mounted soldiers. “Cavalry heading this way. They’re Ohio boys,” he added. “They’ll part the crowd.”
The Seventh Independent Company of Ohio Volunteer Cavalry used their horses to make a path, and the soldiers carried a motionless Lincoln across Tenth Street.
“Bring him in here! Bring him in here!” A man waved a lantern in front of a row house.
The soldiers bore Lincoln up the steps and inside. Among the soldiers and doctors was Mary Lincoln sobbing into her handkerchief.
As soon as the door closed, the crowd rushed forward and waited for news of the president’s fate.
Logan turned his coat collar upward and addressed Zach. “If there’s any trouble, take my wife and Miss Cassie home.”
“Yes, sir.” Zach entered the carriage and sat next to Cass. They peered out the window facing the street as Logan pressed his way through the crowd toward the boardinghouse. He spoke to a soldier outside and headed for the alley.
Cass turned toward Jem. “Logan is going around back.”
Jem stared out the window by her seat, her gaze following the fading figure of her husband. “The president can’t die. Not now. He’s guided the country through horrible years of death and destruction, but his work isn’t finished. We need him.”
Cass grabbed Zach’s hand. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Zach wanted to be with Logan. He was a soldier, a man of action, but he resigned himself to the mission of comforting the women. He stared at their tear-streaked faces. How did he offer support? He’d spent the last two years with fellow soldiers. He was ignorant of women, but Cass had smiled at his jokes and listened attentively to his comments the past few weeks. Besides being clever and talented, Cass was the most beautiful woman he had ever met.
He wanted to impress her, but he was little better than a cripple until he shed his crutch. He was a helpless spectator in this drama. Could he have done anything to save the president’s life? He hadn’t seen Booth moving toward his prey. But why? Why now when the end of the war was so near had Booth taken the life of the man who had promised reconciliation instead of revenge? Booth needed to be caught. The public needed to know that the heinous act of murdering the president would not go unpunished.
The driver opened the door and peered inside. “Did the play end early?”
“Where have you been?”
The man backed away at Zach’s shouting. “Having a drink with an old friend.” He surveyed the crowd. �
��I heard outlandish rumors on my way here. Do you know what’s going on?”
“Lincoln has been shot,” Zach informed him.
“It’s true? But who would shoot the president?”
“It was John Wilkes Booth,” Jem sobbed.
The driver frowned. “The actor?”
Cass dabbed at her tears. “Do you know him?”
“He was drinking whiskey at the Star Saloon.”
Zach leaned toward him. “When?”
“It’s been an hour or…”
“Was he alone?” Zach asked.
“Yes, with a look on his face that didn’t invite company.”
Zach ran his fingers through his damp hair. “Doesn’t Lincoln have a bodyguard?”
“Yes,” Jem said. “They were chosen from the police officers.”
Zach shook his head. “How could one man get past an armed guard?”
“John Parker is his bodyguard,” the driver said. “He was drinking with Lincoln’s carriage driver at Star Saloon.”
“What? He should have been outside the presidential box!” Zach shouted. “What sort of man is this Parker?”
“Parker is a lazy drunk,” the driver said. “He must know someone in authority to keep his job.”
Cass pressed against Zach. “How could he leave Lincoln unguarded?”
“It’s dereliction of duty,” Zach said. “A soldier would never leave his post. Is Parker in the saloon?”
“I think he left during the commotion,” the driver said. “Do you want me to drive you home?” He looked around at the people surrounding the carriage. “I don’t know if I can get through this mob.”
“No, we’ll wait,” Zach said.
“Here comes Logan.” Jem pointed across the street.
He squeezed through bodies and acknowledged the driver who held the door. Logan brushed the rain from his coat before sitting next to his wife. His face was grim. “The Secretary of War Edwin Stanton is with Lincoln along with Mary and their son, Robert. Tad was at Grover’s Theater.”
“Thank goodness he wasn’t with his father.” Jem took Logan’s hand. “Poor Mary. Losing Willie and now this. It’s too much for one woman to bear.”
Impending Love and Madness Page 2