American Brutus

by Michael W. Kauffman

  According to Townsend, Booth was not invited to return to the Arch for a second season. Maybe so. But when the 1858–59 season began, he was employed at a better theater, working for a higher salary. He moved up to Virginia’s leading playhouse, the Marshall Theatre, where critics rated the new stock company “fifty per cent better than that of last season.” Good productions, talented colleagues, and high visibility made the Marshall a fine place for any young actor to work. The star system was in full use here, and the house offered a steady flow of “new” attractions. They put a tremendous burden on the actors who would have to present them. Booth had to learn eighteen new parts, all in a two-week span. But such was life in a stock company. If Booth were not up to the task, he would not have been hired.14

  Richmond was a comfortable place for Booth, in part because he was surrounded there by hometown people. All the managers—John T. Ford, Thomas L. Moxley, and George Kunkel—were Baltimoreans, and Ford always made a point of staffing his houses with people from back home. Sam Knapp (now Samuel Knapp Chester) was the Marshall’s “first heavy,” and leading man Harry Langdon was an old favorite at the Holliday Street Theatre. Richmond and Baltimore were sister cities, in a manner of speaking, with a fairly extensive commerce between them. The newspapers of one city often copied local items from the papers of the other.15

  John M. Barron was in the stock company. He remembered Booth as a jovial and happy man of great natural talent—“born with the divine spark”:

  “He was the mold of form, delicately organized physically, with beautiful hands and small feet, graceful by nature, and in all a most effective actor. His eyes, like all the Booths [sic], were exceedingly brilliant and expressive of all the phases of his character.”16

  The Booths understood they were going to be compared to one another. In fact, it began early in John Wilkes’s career. Edward Alfriend, an actor who knew both Edwin and John Wilkes, remembered them both from those Marshall Theatre appearances:

  “It is saying a great deal, but [John Wilkes] was a much handsomer man than his brother Edwin. He possessed a voice very like his brother’s, melodious, sweet, full and strong, and was like him, a consummate elocutionist.” 17

  Looks figured prominently in every description. John Wilkes Booth had grown into a fine-looking man, with an athletic frame, dark, wavy hair, and the dark, lustrous eyes that were a Booth trademark. And, of course, there was raw talent. Alfriend thought that although John Wilkes was still in training, his natural ability was beyond question. Booth, as he recalled, had a knack for making friends. He knew “all the best men and many of the finest women.” He had inherited an air of confidence and an easy faculty for social success. He always left a warm and pleasing impression. With men he was dignified and bore himself with “insouciant care and grace.” To women he was “a man of irresistible fascination,” with “a peculiar halo of romance with which he invested himself, and which the ardent imagination of women amplified.”18

  John Wilkes’s sex appeal has, for some reason, drawn far more attention than it deserves. Certainly many women sought his companionship. They threw themselves foolishly at him, and we have no reason to suspect that he made a habit of turning them away. But in a breathtaking stretch of logic, George Alfred Townsend tied Booth’s “worthless moral nature” to his poor acting. This in turn, he opined, gave rise to a professional despair that led him to kill the president. Booth, said Townsend, was distracted by that “careless class of women who are always looking out for acquaintance with actors,” and he indulged too much in frivolous escapades at the expense of his studies. A more recent author went a step further, suggesting that Booth shot the president while suffering from the mental effects of tertiary syphilis.19

  Both are speculations. Townsend concedes that his information was based on “intuition and hearsay,” and little is really known about Booth’s personal affairs. He was discreet and never divulged the details of his love life. When women sent him “mash” letters, he cut off the signatures lest they should fall into the wrong hands.20

  Edwin, on the other hand, had been careless at times. He became engaged to the actress Mary Devlin, whom he regarded as the purest woman he had ever known. But before he would marry her, he insisted she go off to Hoboken, New Jersey, for a nine-month period of study to improve her mind. Mary never questioned the idea. “I know . . . that it is for me, for me alone, that your bounty gives so much,” she wrote. Edwin’s motives were not so altruistic, though. Just the year before, he had written June about “a little sweetheart of mine” who wanted to advance her theatrical career. Edwin had given her an audition, but not on the stage. She left him with a medical problem that would take the better part of a year to treat. Of course, none of this reached the ears of Miss Devlin, but the brothers knew all about it.21

  Edwin and Mary had met at the Marshall, and his return in 1858 was regarded as a milestone in his career. He made it one for John Wilkes as well, asking that he be cast in higher parts. The papers called this run the most successful in the theater’s history. One critic said of Edwin, “We are clearly of the opinion that, all-in-all, he is superior to any man of his day on the stage.” Though John Wilkes was barely noticed, Edwin undoubtedly reminded him that reviews were sometimes nonsensical, often contradictory, and always a matter of opinion. There was simply no way to account for them. John Wilkes could take comfort in knowing that at least he was steadily improving and working his way up in the bills. His time was coming.22

  THIS WAS A MID-TERM ELECTION YEAR, and William H. Seward was stumping for fellow Republicans in New York. As he saw it, America had always been two separate entities, one with slavery and one without. He spoke about the collision he saw in America’s future.

  “They who think that it is accidental, unnecessary, the work of interest or fanatical agitators, and therefore ephemeral, mistake the case altogether. It is an irrepressible conflict between opposing and enduring forces, and it means that the United States must and will, sooner or later, become either entirely a slave-holding nation or entirely a free-labor nation. . . .”23

  To Southerners, that speech was threatening and offensive, and it seemed to plot a new course for Republicans everywhere. In Illinois, a lawyer named Lincoln had recently said that “a house divided against itself cannot stand.” Together with Seward’s speech, it seemed to form a clear and aggressive strategy by Republicans to keep the issue of slavery alive. William Seward was taken to task for it. The New York Herald called him an “arch agitator” and said he was more dangerous than the most strident abolitionists. The New York Times believed he had advocated federal intervention in the slavery issue, “and it is this, more than anything else, which has made his name an object of so much terror to the South.” The most strenuous objections came from those who still believed in the compromises that, until now, had prolonged the peace and stability of the Union. To those people, the real message of Lincoln and Seward was simple: give up, and accept that this nation cannot last.24

  John Wilkes Booth, in the meantime, was too busy to take an active role in politics. New scripts created a constant demand for study, and in February 1859, William Wheatley and John Sleeper Clarke brought in a sensational new comedy called Our American Cousin. This play, written by the Englishman Tom Taylor, had become an instant success when Laura Keene brought it to the United States in October. Miss Keene had paid the author for exclusive rights to the show, but Wheatley and Clarke managed to obtain a copy of the script, and mounted their own production at the Arch in November. They even persuaded their friend Joe Jefferson to jot down some of the gags he had ad-libbed as the original Asa Trenchard. Theirs was a splendid imitation—so good, in fact, that Laura Keene sued them. She was awarded $500, but not the exclusive rights to the play. Wheatley and Clarke breezed into Richmond for a twelve-night run, and Our American Cousin was on the bill for eleven of them.25

  In April 1859, John Sleeper Clarke married Booth’s sister Asia. Though Clarke had done much to help John Wilk
es’s career get started, Booth did not approve of this marriage. The Our American Cousin episode and a season together at the Arch had convinced Booth that his new brother-in-law was a shameless opportunist. He warned his sister, but Asia was not dissuaded. From then on, relations between Clarke and John Wilkes would always be strained. 26

  John Wilkes was in his second season at the Marshall when a dramatic incident changed the nation forever. On the night of October 16, 1859, eighteen men slipped quietly into the town of Harpers Ferry, Virginia, and seized control of the federal arsenal there. Their leader was John Brown, an abolitionist leader and fugitive from the Kansas border wars. Upon capturing some night watchmen, Brown’s followers made a startling announcement: they intended to free all the slaves in Virginia, and any interference would lead to a bloodbath.

  The reaction was instantaneous. Troops were put on the alert, and a heavy guard was posted as far away as the Washington Arsenal, just in case the riot should spread that far. Virginia governor Henry A. Wise boarded an evening train for Harpers Ferry, along with one hundred men from Richmond’s home guard units. More city troops were ordered to follow in the morning.27

  The men traveling with Governor Wise were from the 1st Virginia Volunteers. The regiment was the pride of the Commonwealth, well drilled and magnificently turned out. Other troops were to join them in response to the raid, but a standoff at the arsenal ended before most arrived at the scene. A detachment of marines, under orders from Col. Robert E. Lee of the U.S. Army, captured Brown and some of his followers. They were to be taken to the county jail for trial.28

  Authorities believed that Brown wanted the slaves to rise up and exterminate all Southern whites. They knew he was capable of such butchery himself, as he was already known to have killed innocent people in Kansas. Now he had stockpiled a thousand pikes for distribution among the slaves, and his capture of the arsenal put a hundred thousand firearms within his reach. But Brown’s plan was too extreme to be practical, and as even the moderates agreed, he was less dangerous than those who inspired him. To the New York Herald, that meant William H. Seward. The Herald claimed that Seward and other abolitionist senators had known of the raid in advance. Along with Sumner, Hale, and others, he had “suffered the project to ripen and bear the disastrous fruit that it has borne. They—not the crazy fanatic John Brown—are the real culprits; and it is they, not he, who . . . would have to grace the gallows.” The Richmond Whig seconded that thought:

  “The ‘irrepressible conflict’ foreshadowed by a distinguished Senator from New York has had a practical commencement earlier than he perhaps foresaw, and more tragical, as well as short-lived and abortive, than even his theory contemplated. It was, nevertheless, the first fruits and effect of his bloody instruction....”29

  William H. Seward had nothing to do with Brown’s raid, but most people would have agreed with The New York Times, which thought that “Sewardism” and Harpers Ferry would be inseparable terms from this point on. The Richmond Whig called the senator an “atrocious assassin,” and soon-to-be governor John Letcher of Virginia said that if Seward were elected president, his state ought to secede.

  Many Northerners refused to condemn Brown, and some openly hailed him as a hero. To Southerners, that was an endorsement of terrorism, and it proved that sectional hatred was far more serious than anyone had imagined. Talk of disunion and war were in the air.30

  John Brown was tried in the county seat of Charlestown, and after four days of testimony, he stood convicted of murder, inciting slaves to insurrection, and treason. Judge Richard Parker sentenced him to hang, and an execution date was set for December 2.31

  Two weeks before the scheduled hanging, John Wilkes Booth was in Richmond preparing for The Filibuster when the bell tower on Capitol Square sounded an alarm. The governor had been informed that abolitionists planned to rescue Brown at Charlestown, and he called out the city militia for a second time. Virginia’s capital was electrified. As it happened, the Richmond Grays were set to deploy on a Richmond, Fredericksburg, and Potomac train. The railroad tracks ran straight down Broad Street, and the end cars, assigned to the First Virginia, were parked in front of the Marshall Theater. Looking down from a window, Booth decided it was time to get involved. He dropped everything and headed for the train.

  George W. Libby and Louis F. Bossieux encountered Booth at the door of the baggage car, and they told him that the train was reserved for militia members only. Booth persisted, and when he offered to buy a uniform, Libby and Bossieux gave in. They came up with trousers and a jacket, and soon the train pulled out with Booth aboard.32

  A writer for the Richmond Enquirer followed the regiment on the trip to Charlestown and noted how professional the men looked:

  “The Richmond Grays and Company F, which seems [sic] to vie with each other in the handsome appearance they present, remind one of un-caged birds, so wild and gleesome they appear. . . . Amongst them I notice Mr. J. Wilkes Booth, a son of Junius Brutus Booth, who, though not a member, as soon as he heard the tap of the drum, threw down the sock and buskin, and shouldered his musket with the Grays to the scene of deadly conflict.”

  The “deadly conflict” never came to pass, and the Grays only headed to the courthouse to provide security. That was a distinction that Booth himself didn’t mind blurring.

  Eleven hundred troops already occupied Charlestown, taking up every available space. Being among the last to arrive, the Grays had to settle for quarters in an old tin factory, with straw pallets on a bare floor. Brown himself remained in the county jail, treated as a sideshow curiosity. Activists, politicians, and spectators filed in to see him, and one paper noted that the prisoners “are worn out by these incessant visits....[John E.] Cook and Brown both complain that during the week, they have not had an hour to call their own.” Even the occupying troops were ushered in by turns to have a look at him.33

  On the day of the hanging, sharpshooters were perched in the trees, and sentinels paced silently through the town. In front of the gallows were cadets from the Virginia Military Institute, under the command of Major Thomas J. Jackson. Forming oblique angles on either side were the Richmond Grays and Company F, 1st Virginia. Seven regiments were posted there, and before long many of those men would immortalize themselves on the field of battle. John Wilkes Booth stood in front of the gallows, just a few yards from the man who would be known to history as Stonewall.

  The prisoner was escorted to the scaffold, where the sheriff and jailer stood on either side of him. They placed a hood over his head and a noose around his neck. A long, dead silence followed, as soldiers adjusted their positions in the field. When at last the troops were ready, the trap was sprung, and John Brown slowly strangled.

  Philip Whitlock noticed how the blood ran out of Booth’s face when the drop fell. “I called attention to it,” said Whitlock, “and he said he felt very faint—and would then give anything for a good drink of whiskey.” Booth would always remember this experience in the most solemn terms. He was moved by John Brown’s courage in the face of death. “He was a brave old man,” Booth told his sister.

  Whether in fear or admiration, the public saw Brown as a pivotal figure in history—a prophet or a madman, willing to kill and die for his cause. He had an audacity that even Governor Wise admired, and that no man could ignore. While others merely talked about change, Brown had taken action. His dream was Booth’s nightmare, but somehow that mattered little. His martyrdom was transcendent. “John Brown was a man inspired,” Booth later said, “the grandest character of the century!” 34

  In the subsequent investigation, authorities learned that some of New England’s most prominent men had supplied money for the raid, and many others were suspected of involvement. It was eventually conceded that most of Brown’s backers were ignorant of his true goals and probably would have been horrified at the scale of violence he had planned. All they knew was that Brown would get something done, and the abolitionists’ cause would somehow be the better for it. So e
ven the most respectable citizens played along without asking for specifics. Only in hindsight would they realize how cleverly they had been used.

  Brown had drawn them in with altruism, but kept his true aims hidden. In this way, he built the appearance of a large conspiracy—one that created panic in the public mind, wrought havoc with investigators, and gave his followers a false sense of support. It was a brilliant move, and something John Wilkes Booth would keep in mind when forming his own plot years later.35

  BOOTH LOST HIS JOB at the Marshall, but on hearing the news, a contingent of the Grays marched on the theater and pleaded to have him reinstated. Though George Kunkel gave him his job back, Booth had lost his enthusiasm for acting. The excitement of recent events had made him think once more of a career in uniform. The idea terrified his mother, but as Asia said, military service was probably her brother’s dearest ambition. His good friend Jesse Wharton had been commissioned in the army, and now John Wilkes pondered the idea of following him into the ranks. In the end, though, he chose to continue acting. Audiences loved him, and critical notice was uniformly good. When the fall season opened, he would return to the stage with top billing. 36

  Fallout from the Harpers Ferry controversy cost William H. Seward the presidency. Seward seemed too radical to be elected, and as he fell out of the public’s favor, a new man became the Republican front-runner. At New York’s Cooper Union, Abraham Lincoln issued his own closing comments on the Harpers Ferry incident. He denied that any member of his party had been implicated in Brown’s plot, and he told his listeners that the raid had always been doomed to failure. “That affair, in its philosophy, corresponds with the many attempts . . . at the assassination of kings and emperors,” Lincoln said. “An enthusiast broods over the oppression of a people till he fancies himself commissioned by Heaven to liberate them. He ventures the attempt, which ends in little else than his own execution.” The same might have been said of John Wilkes Booth in 1865.37