Chapter
22
FRIDAY, APRIL 14, 1865
Washington, D. C.
10 A.M.
MARY LINCOLN KNOWS that the wildly popular farce Our American Cousin is at Ford’s Theatre. Tonight the legendary actress Laura Keene is celebrating the last night of her Washington run as her signature character Florence Trenchard. This event, Mary decides, is something not to be missed.
Mary Todd Lincoln. Photograph by Nicholas H. Shepherd in 1846 or 1847.
Thirty-eight-year-old Laura Keene is one of America’s most famous actresses. She owes much of her success to Our American Cousin. Debuting seven years earlier in New York City, it soon became the first blockbuster play in American history. Many of the play’s silly and made-up terms, like “sockdologizing” and “Dundrearyisms” (named for the befuddled character Lord Dundreary), have become part of everyday speech, and several spin-off plays featuring characters from the show have been written and performed.
Mary Lincoln is looking forward to celebrating recent Union victories by enjoying this popular comedy on a night that features Keene. At breakfast, she told the president she wanted to go to Ford’s Theatre that evening. Lincoln absentmindedly said he would take care of it.
Laura Keene, photographed between 1855 and 1865.
Now, between appointments, he summons a messenger. He wants a message delivered to Ford’s Theatre saying that he will be in attendance this evening if the state box, the special seating section set aside for dignitaries and honored guests, is available. General Grant and his wife will be with him, he says, as will Mary.
By this time, Lincoln is overdue at the War Department. He also has a cabinet meeting scheduled in just over an hour. He hurriedly steps out of the White House and walks over to see Secretary of War Stanton. Mary has made him promise to wear a shawl outside, and so he does.
The Ford’s Theatre advertising poster announcing President Lincoln’s presence that evening.
Lincoln enters Stanton’s office unannounced, plops down on the couch, and casually mentions that he’s going to the theater that night. The words are designed to provoke a reaction—and they do.
Stanton frowns. His network of spies has told him of increasing numbers of assassination rumors over the past few days. It is impossible to tell the difference between idle threats and serious ones. Stanton thinks the president is a fool for ignoring the rumors and argues that Lincoln is risking his life.
“At least bring a guard with you,” Stanton pleads, once it becomes obvious that Lincoln will not be dissuaded.
His business with Stanton concluded, Lincoln wraps his shawl tightly around his shoulders and marches back to the White House for his cabinet meeting.
Chapter
23
FRIDAY, APRIL 14, 1865
Washington, D. C.
10:30 A.M.
LINCOLN’S MESSENGER MANAGES to reach Ford’s Theatre at 10:30 A.M. “The president of the United States would like to formally request the state box for this evening—if it is available,” the note reads.
The state box is available, so the manager, James Ford, responds immediately, barely containing his excitement. He races into his office to share the good news with his brother Harry and then barks the order for the stage carpenter to come see him at once.
Ford’s may be the city’s most important stage, but business has been extremely slow this week. The postwar joy means that Washington’s theatergoers are making merry on the streets, not inside a theater. But now, with word that the president will be in the audience, the night should be a sellout. James wants to be sure that the state box is exactly as Lincoln prefers it.
* * *
Inside the theater, three seating levels face the stage. Gas lamps light the auditorium until the curtain falls, when they are dimmed. The chairs are simple straight-backed cane but, inside his special state box, Lincoln likes to sit in the red upholstered rocking chair that Ford’s reserves for his personal use.
Boxes on either side of the stage allow the more privileged patrons to look straight down onto the actors. The state box is almost on the stage itself—so close that if Lincoln were to impulsively rise from his rocking chair and leap down into the actors’ midst, the distance traveled would be twelve feet.
The interior of the reconstructed Ford’s Theatre, now a museum and historic site. The state box where the president sat is on the right, draped in flags.
On this night, with the Lincolns present, red, white, and blue bunting is draped over the railing and a portrait of George Washington faces out. The managers are doing all they can to make this an especially festive occasion.
* * *
At about the same time Lincoln’s messenger is handing James Ford the president’s note, John Wilkes Booth marches into Ford’s Theatre to pick up his mail.
Booth is in the office, gathering a bundle of letters, when stage carpenter James J. Gifford bounds into the room. When the theater manager shares the exciting news about the Lincolns, Gifford is thrilled. Booth, pretending not to hear, stares down at his mail as if he is studying the return addresses. He grins, though he does not mean to. He calms himself, makes small talk with Ford, then says his good-byes and wanders out into the sunlight. Booth sits on the front step, half reading his mail and laughing aloud at his sudden good fortune.
Booth knows that he will kill Lincoln tonight and in this very theater. Now he has to finalize his plans. The twofold challenge he faces is the traditional assassin’s plight: find the most efficient path into the state box and then find the perfect escape route from the theater.
The cast and crew at Ford’s treat Booth like family. His eccentricities are chalked up to his status as a famous actor. So, as Booth rises to his feet and wanders back into the theater to plan the attack, it never crosses anyone’s mind to ask what he’s doing. It’s just John being John.
John Wilkes Booth prowls Ford’s Theatre alone, thinking of how he will accomplish the assassination and make his escape. His journey takes him up the back stairs to the state box, where he steps inside and looks down at the stage. A music stand provides an unlikely burst of inspiration. He lifts it, nervous but elated, knowing how he will make use of it tonight. By the time he is done, Booth has come up with a bold—and brilliant—plan.
Two Ford’s Theatre tickets for the performance the night Lincoln was assassinated.
Chapter
24
FRIDAY, APRIL 14, 1865
Washington, D. C.
11 A.M.
GENERAL GRANT WALKS TO THE WHITE HOUSE for the cabinet meeting. That morning an invitation to attend the theater arrived from Mary Lincoln. He feels obligated to go. Julia Grant, who thinks Mary Lincoln is unstable and a gossip, has bluntly refused. General Grant is caught in the middle and has not discovered a solution.
The two soldiers standing guard at the White House gate snap to attention as their general in chief arrives. Grant tosses them a return salute, never breaking stride as he continues on to the front door.
The doorman nods graciously as Grant steps inside, moving past the police bodyguard and a rifle-bearing soldier. Then it’s up the stairs to Lincoln’s second-floor office, where another soldier stands guard. Soon Grant is seated in Lincoln’s cabinet meeting. Secretary of State William Seward, home recovering from his carriage accident, is represented by his son Frederick. As Lincoln leans back in his chair along the south window, the half-filled room feels more like a college debating club than a serious cabinet-level gathering. Lincoln guides the dialogue, taking no notes. As has been his habit ever since he became president, his behavior is that of a first among equals rather than the ultimate decision maker.
Before Lincoln was elected president, he was a successful lawyer. His skill for reasoned debate and ability to listen to different points of view and thoroughly examine an issue from every angle helped make him president. That is why he lets his cabinet members talk. These are strong-willed men with strong opinions. As they speak,
Lincoln directs the discussion—and thinks.
Secretary of the Treasury Hugh McCulloch, a member of President Lincoln’s cabinet.
The meeting is in its second hour as Grant is shown into the room, and his entrance injects a new vitality—just as Lincoln intended. The cabinet praises the general and begs to hear details of the Appomattox surrender. Grant sets the scene, describing the quaint McLean farmhouse and the way he and Lee sat together to settle matters. He doesn’t go into great detail, and he makes a point of praising Lee. The cabinet members are struck by his modesty, but they are eager for more details.
“What terms did you make for the common soldiers?” the president asks, already knowing the answer.
“To go back to their homes and families, and they would not be molested, if they did nothing more.”
Grant’s simple reply has the desired effect. Lincoln beams as the cabinet members nod in agreement.
“And what of the current military situation?”
Grant says that he expects word from Sherman any minute, saying that General Joe Johnston and his Confederate army in North Carolina—its last army—has finally surrendered. This, too, is met with enthusiasm around the table.
The cabinet meeting drags on. One o’clock passes. One thirty.
A messenger arrives with a note for Grant. It’s from Julia, and she’s not happy. Mrs. Grant wants her husband back at the Willard Hotel immediately, so that they can catch the six o’clock train to Burlington, New Jersey.
General Grant’s decision has now been made for him. After years of men obeying his every order, he bows to an even greater authority than the president of the United States: his wife.
“I am sorry, Mr. President,” Grant says when the cabinet meeting ends, just after one thirty. “It is certain that I will be on this afternoon’s train to Burlington. I regret that I cannot attend the theater.”
Lincoln tries to change Grant’s mind, telling him that the people of Washington will be at Ford’s to see him. But the situation is out of the general’s hands. Lincoln senses that and says good-bye to his friend.
Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles, a member of President Lincoln’s cabinet.
Chapter
25
FRIDAY, APRIL 14, 1865
Washington, D. C.
2 P. M.
BOOTH IS ON AN EMOTIONAL ROLLER COASTER as he thinks about the assassination and its consequences. He runs down his checklist of the tasks that must be done for tonight. He is dressed in dashing fashion, with tight black pants, a tailored black coat, and a black hat. The only thing he wears that isn’t black are his boots—they’re tan.
The first stop is Mary Surratt’s boardinghouse on H Street. She is walking out the door for a trip into the country, but Booth catches her just in time. He hands her a spyglass wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string, telling her to make sure that it doesn’t get wet or break and that he’ll be picking it up later in the evening.
Booth then walks the five blocks to Herndon House, where Lewis Powell is in his room, lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling. He and Booth discuss the evening’s plan. The trick in killing Secretary of State Seward, Booth reminds Powell, isn’t the actual murder. Seward is incapable of putting up any resistance.
A map of Washington, D.C., showing significant landmarks in the city in 1865.
No, the hard part will be getting in and out of Seward’s home. There is at least one male military nurse to protect the secretary, along with Seward’s wife and three of his children. In a worst-case scenario, Powell will have to kill them all, Booth says. Powell says he has no problem with that.
Then Booth heads for Pumphrey’s stable to arrange for his getaway horse. His favorite horse is already rented. So, Booth gets a compact bay mare with a white star on her forehead. Pumphrey warns Booth that the mare is extremely high-spirited. She mustn’t be tied to a post if he leaves her anywhere, because she’ll pull away and escape. Booth should have someone hold her reins at all times.
Booth saddles up and is on his way, walking the mare up Sixth Street to Pennsylvania Avenue. He stops at Grover’s Theatre.
Booth doesn’t have any business at Grover’s Theatre, but theaters are safe refuges, no matter what city he’s visiting. He’s sure to see a friendly face.
Against Pumphrey’s instructions, he ties the mare to a hitching post.
Inside Grover’s, Booth walks to the manager’s office. It’s empty. Sitting at the desk, Booth removes a piece of paper and an envelope from the pigeonholes. He writes a letter to the editor of the National Intelligencer newspaper stating, in specific terms, what he is about to do.
He signs his name, then adds those of Powell, Atzerodt, and Herold. They are all members of the same company, in theatrical terms. They deserve some sort of billing—even if they might not want it.
After sealing the envelope, Booth steps outside and mounts his horse, which has managed to remain hitched. He spies fellow actor John Matthews in front of the theater. Booth leans down from his horse to hand him the envelope and gives him specific instructions to mail it the next morning. However, hedging his bets in case things go bad, Booth says he wants the letter back if he finds Matthews before ten tomorrow morning.
An 1861 panoramic view of Washington, D.C., looking northwest from the roof of the Capitol building.
A photograph of activity on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C., taken in May 1865. The blurred and streaked images are the result of people, animals, and wagons moving too fast for the film to capture a clear image.
It’s a petty and spiteful trick, designed to implicate Matthews, who will be onstage in the role of Richard Coyle during Our American Cousin. Booth had asked him to be part of the conspiracy and was turned down, repeatedly.
Now Booth hopes to get his revenge by making Matthews seem guilty by association.
Chapter
26
FRIDAY, APRIL 14, 1865
Washington, D. C.
7 P. M.
WILLIAM CROOK STANDS GUARD OUTSIDE Lincoln’s office door. The twenty-six-year-old policeman and presidential bodyguard has had a long day. His replacement was supposed to relieve him three hours ago, but John Parker, as always, is late. Crook is deeply attached to Lincoln and worries about his safety. He also worries about Parker. How this drunken slob was chosen as the president’s bodyguard is a great mystery, but Crook knows that the president does not involve himself in such things.
The Lincolns eat dinner with their sons, and then Crook walks the president back to the War Department to see if General Sherman has sent a telegram about General Johnston’s surrender of the last Confederate army. There is no news.
As Crook returns to the White House with Lincoln, his eyes constantly scan the crowds for signs that someone means his employer harm. He remembers the advice of Ward Hill Lamon, the walrus-mustached, self-appointed head of Lincoln’s security detail, who said that Lincoln should not go out at night under any circumstances. “Especially to the theater,” Lamon had added.
William H. Crook in a photograph taken in the 1890s.
But tonight, Lincoln is ignoring the advice, going to the theater, and it’s no secret. The afternoon papers announced that he would attend Our American Cousin with General Grant and their wives—the Grants declined the invitation after the newspapers had been printed. Ticket sales have been brisk.
Mary was able to find two replacement guests, Major Henry Reed Rathbone and his fiancée, Clara Harris, who watched Lincoln’s speech with Mary three nights before. Mary is deeply fond of Clara, the daughter of Senator Ira Harris of New York.
Back at the White House, Crook hears feet thudding up the stairs. At last, John Parker ambles down the hallway, patting the bulge in his jacket to show that he is armed. He is a thirty-four-year-old former machinist from Frederick County, Virginia. Parker served a three-month term of enlistment in the Union army at the beginning of the war. After he was discharged, he rejoined his family and took a job as a polic
eman in September 1861, becoming one of the first 150 men hired when Washington, D.C., formed its brand-new Metropolitan Police Department.
Throughout his employment, Parker’s one distinguishing trait was that of a troublemaker who somehow managed to get away with things. He has been disciplined numerous times for charges ranging from drunk and disorderly conduct to indiscipline. He was repeatedly acquitted, so Parker had no hesitation about putting his name into the pool when, late in 1864, the Metropolitan Police Department began providing White House bodyguards. It was important duty. So far, the only blemish on Parker’s record while serving the president is a penchant for tardiness, as Crook knows all too well. So when Parker finally appears, several hours late for his shift, Crook is upset but not surprised.
Crook briefs Parker on the day’s events, then explains that the presidential carriage will be stopping at Fourteenth and H Streets to pick up Major Rathbone and Miss Harris. The presence of two additional passengers means that there will be no room in the carriage for Parker. “You should leave fifteen minutes ahead of the president,” says Crook, pointing out that Parker will have to walk to Ford’s Theatre—and that he should get there before the presidential party in order to provide security the instant they arrive.
As Crook finishes, Lincoln comes to his office door. A handful of last-minute appointments have come up, and he is eager to get those out of the way so he can enjoy the weekend.
“Good night, Mr. President,” Crook says.
He and the president have repeated this scene hundreds of times, with Lincoln responding in kind.
Only this time it’s different.
“Good-bye, Crook,” Lincoln replies.
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