American Brutus

by Michael W. Kauffman

  In the middle of all the turmoil, James R. “Dick” Ford arrived to find his place of business under siege. Ford was the treasurer of his brother’s theater, but had spent the day in Baltimore looking after the Holliday Street Theatre. He returned just in time to see a crowd of men carrying the president across the street. By then, a swarm of bystanders had begun making threats against the theater. Bent on revenge, they blamed the building for what had happened there. Many were still inside, vandalizing the place and carrying off decorations for souvenirs. There was nothing Ford could do but watch in despair. Afraid even to identify himself, he walked through the crowd, staying until soldiers forced everyone out.19

  President Lincoln never regained consciousness, and doctors could do little more than check his vital signs, which had remained relatively stable. Before midnight, his pulse rate settled at around 45, but the heart seemed weaker with every beat. The number of doctors in attendance grew, as Surgeon General Joseph K. Barnes and others arrived. Dr. Robert King Stone, the Lincolns’ family doctor, was there by then, and at Dr. Leale’s request, Stone took charge of the case.

  Soon afterward, Edwin M. Stanton arrived, and thereafter nobody could doubt who was really in charge. Gideon Welles, Justice Cartter, General Meigs, and Major Eckert accompanied Stanton. Their presence transformed the home of William Petersen from a simple boardinghouse to the seat of government, as each officer began putting the federal behemoth back in working order. Major Eckert took immediate steps to get his telegraph lines working. He called in Stanton’s messenger, Sgt. John C. Hatter, and instructed him to set up a relay between the Petersen house and the department’s telegraph office on Seventeeth Street. Soldiers were to be posted on every block, ready to pass along messages as fast as humanly possible.20

  After consoling Mrs. Lincoln, Secretary Stanton was briefed on the overall situation. Then, bracing himself, he went to the back bedroom. As he looked down at the president, Surgeon General Barnes whispered the obvious: Mr. Lincoln cannot recover. Acknowledging with a faint nod, Stanton lowered himself into a chair next to the bed. All eyes turned to him in anticipation of some pronouncement, but instead he burst into loud, convulsive sobs.

  Nobody was prepared for that. It had not occurred to anyone that a close personal relationship had developed between the war secretary and the president—or anyone else, for that matter. To one and all, Stanton was a man of steel, unmoved by events or personal feelings. But in fact, the war had forged a bond between him and the president. Beneath that hard exterior, this god of war felt a deep and abiding respect for Lincoln. For several minutes, he sat with his face buried in his hands, shaking and quivering and weeping aloud. It was an awkward sight, and those around him busied themselves checking pulses, wiping up blood, and the like. In time, Stanton composed himself and got back to business.21

  A FEW BLOCKS TO THE NORTH, an eighteen-year-old delegate from the U.S. Christian Commission was relaxing in his cot. C. C. Bangs had spent a long, tiring day at his job, delivering hospital supplies, and he was looking forward to a quiet evening alone. But one of the commission’s drivers rushed in with the stunning news. Bangs quickly threw on some clothes and ran down to Ford’s Theatre. He threaded his way through the crowd and bounded up the steps of the Petersen house. Someone had just opened the front door, and Bangs could see Mrs. Lincoln standing a few feet inside the hallway. She was asking if someone could go to the White House and get her son. Surely, she said, her husband would revive at the sight of his son. Bangs saw an opportunity to help.

  “I’ll go, madam!” he blurted out.

  The intrusion startled a colonel standing by the door. “And who are you?” he demanded.

  “A member of the Christian Commission,” said Bangs, showing a silver insignia on his lapel. That was always a welcome sign to army officers, whose wartime fatigue was often relieved by organizations like the commission.

  “Well, Christian Commission, do you know the way to the White House?”

  “Yes, sir, and anywhere else in Washington,” came the reply.

  “Well, fire away, then.” With that, C. C. Bangs ran down the stairs and hurried to Willard’s, four blocks away. Bangs needed a carriage, and he knew that he could always find one, day or night, in front of this grand establishment. From there he rode to the White House at full speed, telling the driver to turn the carriage around for a return trip. News of the assassination had not yet reached the staff, and Bangs had to take an usher aside to explain why he was there. The man led him upstairs, to the bedroom of the president’s oldest son. Captain Robert Todd Lincoln was almost ready for bed. Stunned at the news, he hurriedly dressed himself and followed Bangs down to the waiting carriage. The mansion staff had gathered at the bottom of the stairs, anxious to hear more about the president’s condition. Senator Charles Sumner had just come in, and he, too, was eager for information. Sumner was one of Lincoln’s close friends, and Robert suggested he ride along to the house on Tenth Street.22

  THERE WAS A COMMOTION on Tenth Street as the crowd rushed toward police headquarters, just below Ford’s, shouting “Hang him!” From the look of it, Booth or one of his accomplices had been captured and was being hustled into the building. The excitement continued to build, but the police refused to confirm or deny anything, and eventually it became apparent that the man in custody was a witness, not a suspect. The crowd settled down, and their attention turned once more to the tailor’s house just up the street. This manhunt was not over yet.

  That would not be the last false alarm of the night. Time and again, police ushered some hapless witness into their offices, and each time the mob grew more impatient to tear the poor man apart. Many of these witnesses were employees at Ford’s Theatre, and they knew that people already blamed them for the president’s murder. Some in the crowd called for setting the theater on fire—with them inside it. Stagehand Edman Spangler was terrified. Spangler was one of those who normally slept at Ford’s, but now that soldiers were taking over the place, he had nowhere to go.

  Actor Harry Hawk’s predicament was slightly different. He had been staying at the Kirkwood House, not the theater. But since he was one of the stars, he might be recognized and set upon by the mob. Afraid to go back to his room, he roamed the streets for hours, then eventually spent the night with a friend. The actress Laura Keene, meanwhile, took a room at the Metropolitan Hotel, on Pennsylvania Avenue. Her husband’s family owned a house in Georgetown, but she seemed eager to avoid the place.23

  Dick Ford, the treasurer, never managed to find a room. He was afraid to go back to his apartment, which adjoined the theater. The last train had already left for Baltimore, and his Washington friends, who might have given him a room, spent the night in and out of police custody. So Ford wandered around until daylight. His older brother, John, happened to be in Richmond, checking on elderly relatives. He was spared the indignity of being taken into custody, at least for now.

  Midnight approached, and none of the conspirators were in custody. Frustration added to fear and anger made for a combustible mix, and in every gathering there were at least a few who wanted to take out their frustrations on the nearest Confederate. It was no secret where the rebels could be found. The Old Capitol Prison had been Washington’s most notable repository for spies, traitors, and political prisoners since early in the war. It also housed prisoners of war, and, with its Carroll Annex, it could hold nearly a thousand at a time. The main building had once served as a temporary home to Congress and the Supreme Court after the original Capitol was burned by the British in 1814. It was later converted to a boardinghouse, and some of Washington’s most prominent men had lived there. But in 1861, it began to house a different clientèle. The State Department took it over as a pen for political prisoners, and dissidents came to refer to it as an “American Bastille.”

  The Old Capitol was filled to capacity, and this night, an angry mob wanted to get at those prisoners. Someone suggested they storm the building and usher those “damn Rebels” in
to eternity. Congressman Green Clay Smith of Kentucky heard what was going on, and he gathered together some friends to try to cool down the crowd. Standing on a crate, Smith delivered a rousing patriotic speech that he hoped would distract the mob from violence. When he finished, one of his friends stepped up and held forth with another rousing oration. And then another. Meanwhile, Smith slipped away unnoticed and alerted Secretary Stanton to the volatile situation. The secretary dispatched troops to the scene, and in a short while, two thousand men formed a battle line around the Old Capitol. No mob, drunken or otherwise, dared challenge them.24

  Most of Washington had been secured by then. Guards were already in place at the White House and the homes of leading officials. The Petersen house, to which almost everyone of importance had gone, was protected by twenty-five soldiers from the 9th V.R.C., who cordoned off the entire block. In fact, troops were deployed all over the city. Twenty-six thousand men were stationed in Washington, and almost all were put on duty in the course of the night. Southeast of the Capitol, a detachment from the 13th New York Cavalry reinforced the guard at the Navy Yard Bridge. Other units covered the roads in every direction. Garrisons arranged their pickets in a line to connect all of Washington’s forts. Their orders were often specific: “Detail an officer and ten Enlisted Men to accompany each train which leaves this City for Baltimore . . . the Officer in charge will search every Car in the train and arrest if found John Wilkes Booth and other parties whom you deem it for the interest of the service to apprehend.” The chief engineer of the Fire Brigade was ordered to watch out for an incendiary strike. Similar messages went to commanders in Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York. Authorities had done everything in their power to guard against further attack, but much time had gone by since the shooting, and no one could say whether their net would capture anyone of interest.25

  CLARA HARRIS WAS A WRETCHED SIGHT. Her eyes were swollen, her hands and face smeared with blood. She was worried sick about Henry Rathbone, whose wound was more serious than anyone initially thought. Booth’s knife had severed an artery just above the elbow and nearly struck the bone. For more than an hour, Clara had cradled Henry in her arms and watched him grow faint while doctors hovered over the president, who couldn’t be helped in any event. A surgeon finally took the major home, while Clara stayed at the Petersen house. She thought that Mary Lincoln needed her company, but soon realized that the first lady could hardly stand the sight of her. “Poor Mrs. Lincoln,” she told a friend, “all through that dreadful night would look at me with horror & scream, oh! my husband’s blood, my dear husband’s blood. . . .” It was Henry’s blood, not the president’s, but explanations were pointless.26

  It is no accident that Mary Todd Lincoln found herself alone for much of the night. When Assistant Treasury Secretary Maunsell B. Field arrived at the Petersen house, Clara Harris met him at the front door with a warning. “Oh, Mr. Field,” she whispered, “the president is dying! But for heaven’s sake do not tell Mrs. Lincoln!” Field was surprised to find the first lady standing all by herself in the front parlor. His first impulse, naturally, was to offer words of solace, but as soon as their eyes met, she latched onto him. “Why didn’t he shoot me?” she shrieked. “Why didn’t he shoot me? Why didn’t he shoot me?” Field fumbled for words. He asked if there was anything he could do, and she said yes, he could go and get Dr. Stone. Major Eckert, standing nearby, came to the rescue. He pointed out that Dr. Stone was already there, and he suggested that the assistant secretary send for Dr. James C. Hall instead. The grateful secretary nodded and backed away slowly, an expression of concern frozen on his face. He was gone in a flash.

  Mary Todd Lincoln could not understand why she was still alive. She seemed to think that because she had been sitting next to her husband, she should have seen and stopped Booth. But it had all happened too quickly. She never even heard the shot. When a man in black tumbled over the rail in front of her, she thought for an instant that the president had fallen out of the box. The assassin was gone before she even realized what had actually occurred.27

  She may have been surprised when her son Robert arrived with Senator Sumner. It was actually Tad she had wanted to see. But Robert was here, and after a word with his mother, he went to be near his father. He stood near the head of the bed, staring vacantly and occasionally weeping on Sumner’s shoulder. He stayed there the rest of the night.

  EYEWITNESSES WERE STILL REHASHING the night’s events, but by now their accounts were purely redundant. What really mattered were the physical clues left at the scene: the spur, the hat, the board used to jam the box door. They spoke of nerve, premeditation, and prior access to the site. At Seward’s, the evidence presented more of a puzzle. Here the crime scene had been ransacked. Rugs, walls, and bedsheets were stained with blood, and many things in the secretary’s bedroom had been broken in the scuffle. One of those was a bowl on a washstand. On the floor beneath it was an old navy revolver made by Whitney. A plain lead ball was chambered and ready to fire. Others were loaded as well, but the rounds were too small for the weapon, and their paper cartridges barely kept them from falling out. The gun might have been operational when the assault began, but at some point its steel plunger link, just under the barrel, had been broken—apparently over Frederick Seward’s head.28

  On the inside of the bedroom door was the bloody imprint of a hand. Fanny Seward had wanted to preserve it, but before anything was said, the maid washed it away. In searching over her father’s room, Fanny picked up a fawn-colored hat that had fallen on the floor. It was an expensive and fashionable beaver hat, size 7, with a wide brim, low crown, and silk lining. On the sweatband inside was the inscription “Exposition Universelle. Médaille de 1ère Classe. Paris. New York. London.” A man of wealth and taste would wear such a hat, yet this one had been dropped by a cold-blooded killer. It was saturated with blood.29

  No matter how they looked at it, the evidence on Seward’s assailant was contradictory. He was well-dressed, but not well-armed or -mounted. He was strong and silent, like a cool professional, but he bungled the attack through panic. Was he a hired killer? A rebel acting on official orders? As the authorities sorted through the mess at the crime scene, they were unsure whether they would ever be able to make sense of this crime.

  As the hours went by, some measure of reason settled over the city. An uprising now seemed unlikely, and a massive conspiracy, if one existed, failed to wreak any further havoc. Would their assumptions that this was a Confederate plot prove true? Would the assailants be caught? The uncertainty was as unsettling as the fear. As Dr. William A. Child, of the 5th New Hampshire Infantry, wrote to his wife that night: “Are we living in the days of the French Revolution? Will peace ever come again to our dear land? Are we to rush on to wild ruin? It all seems a dream—a wild dream. I cannot realize it though I know I saw it only an hour since.”

  The nation’s fortunes had turned on a heartbeat. As Col. George Woodward observed, “What a change a few hours had wrought! From a scene of rejoicing the capital would in a brief space of time be filled with mourning . . . the nation’s chief had been stricken down by the bullet of an assassin, and hearts that had been elated with joyful anticipation of peace and reunion and the re-establishment of fraternal amity would be sickened with dread forebodings of evils yet to come.”30

  THREE

  “THE PRESIDENT’S CASE IS HOPELESS”

  WHEN ASKED WHETHER HE THOUGHT THE ASSASSINATION was an act of insanity, Major Henry Rathbone said he had serious doubts. The crime had been carefully planned. The box had been prepared, a wooden bar had been laid in place for a barricade, and the strike was timed to leave the stage clear for Booth’s flight across it. “These preparations were neither conceived by a maddened brain, designed by a fool, nor executed by a drunkard,” Rathbone said. “They bear most unmistakable evidence of genius, industry, and perseverance in the perfect accomplishment of a deliberate murder.” Odds were, an escape had been laid out just as carefully. Capturing all th
ose responsible would be a formidable challenge.1

  In the days and weeks that followed, many theories emerged about the conspirators and the people who might have backed them. Finding them was crucial, not only as a matter of justice, but for national security as well. It was natural that the task should fall to the War Department. It was the only government agency whose facilities embraced all the transportation, communications, and manpower resources of the nation. Every mile of railroad track, fifteen thousand miles of telegraph lines, and more than six hundred thousand armed soldiers fell under the department’s control. Its provost marshals held police power over the entire North and much of the South. Its military commissions could try anyone in the United States. Its $516 million budget was more than adequate to absorb the cost of a manhunt. 2

  With the right help, Booth might remain hidden indefinitely, even inside the city. Outside, he had more options, though the risks were there as well. He might seek refuge in the South, but much of the former Confederacy was now in federal hands. He might escape by boat on the Chesapeake, but the bay was heavily patrolled, especially at its mouth. He could have headed for Baltimore, but his haunts there were well known. In truth, however, authorities had no idea where to look.

  One incident was very much on Stanton’s mind, though, as he directed the pursuit in those early hours. In the wide plain east of the Capitol stood a complex of tents that made up Lincoln Hospital. Near this place a couple of pickets on patrol had heard two horses galloping toward them in the darkness. They called for the countersign, but the riders ignored them and kept coming. When the pickets called again, more riders darted out of the woods and joined the first two. The guards, in a full panic, shouldered their weapons and called once more for the countersign. The answer this time was a fusillade of small arms fire. The pickets scattered for cover, and when the dust settled, they found that one of their own had been wounded. The riders, meanwhile, galloped into the darkness, toward the road that leads to Baltimore. To the soldiers, that confirmed what they had already begun to suspect: that these men—presumably the conspirators—were Baltimoreans, headed back home.3