A Night of Horrors: A Historical Thriller about the 24 Hours of Lincoln's Assassination (11 page)

“Yes, I am expecting someone.”

“Who would be calling on you at such a time?”

“I have a visitor,” she repeated evasively and he decided to let it rest there.

Booth walked out of the Herndon House and went south on Ninth Street until he came to Pennsylvania Avenue. There he turned left and walked the three blocks until he arrived back at the National Hotel. The celebratory mood of the passersby on the street no longer angered him. Rather, he thought to himself how their mood would be changed in just a few hours.

Booth walked into the hotel and asked for his key. He went up to his room and walked over to the trunk. He removed the pistol and knife that were wrapped in cloth. Booth laid them on the bed and then placed a chair next to the bed and sat down at it like a desk. He unfolded the cloth and cradled the .44-caliber Philadelphia Deringer in his hands. He gently rubbed the cloth along the German silver barrel forged from nickel and copper alloy. It was a single-shot, muzzle-loading percussion cap pistol, small enough to fit into a man’s pocket or a woman’s purse.

Booth stood and turned the gas higher, illuminating the small room in a yellow glow, and sat back down and let his fingers slide down the muzzle, almost like a caress. The muzzle was short, just a couple of inches long. The hammer was engraved with intricate designs on the base metal that bolted the muzzle into the Walnut handle. Booth held the gun out in his open hand, admiring the carvings in the wooden handle and the polished Walnut of the gun. His dark eyes glimmered and he looked over this precious tool of destruction. He brushed the tips of his fingers down the short muzzle, gently tracing the designs, which twisted and turned around each other like the interlocking tendrils of a vine. His stomach tightened in anticipation.

‘Now to load it,’ he thought. He gently placed his thumb on the hammer and pulled it back, listening to the metallic click as it slipped into a half-cocked position. This way, he would not have to worry about a misfire if he accidentally bumped the trigger while he was loading it. Next, he took out a small sack of cloth biting off the end. He poured gunpowder into the muzzle, just 25 grains were needed. After that, he gently slid a round lead ball from a package. He held it up in the yellow light of the lantern and candles. The slug was wonderfully light, not quite an ounce in weight. He studied it like a diamond, making sure there were no flaws in the perfect orb of death. It was magical to think that this slug of lead would soon slam into the head of the Presidential pretender.

Booth delicately wrapped the ball with a swatch of cloth then tamped the wadding down as a plug to hold it in place in the barrel until he was ready to fire it. He ensured the patched lead ball was firmly against the gunpowder to prevent a short start. He finally armed the pistol with a fresh copper percussion cap to make sure that the damp Washington air hadn’t put enough moisture on the old cap to prevent a fire when he needed it. Booth left the small pistol half-cocked and then laid it parallel to the edge of the bed. Next, he unfolded a knife from the cloth he had taken from the trunk. It was shiny and new. At the base of the seven and-a-half-inch blade was inscribed “Rio Grande Camp Knife.” It was clean and sharp. He held it up and watched the flickering flame of the gas jets and candles dance along the bright sharp edge of the blade. His hazel eyes came to life as he realized that he was to act out his dream in just a couple of hours. Booth slipped the knife back into its sheath and laid it next to the gun. He carefully arranged them side by side, as gentle as a mother arranging her children for bed.

Booth sat further back in the chair and propped his elbows on his knees, resting his forehead against his hands. His fingers were interlaced and he assumed the attitude of prayer. But his mind was overactive and unable to focus and articulate. Could he really do this? All of the North would come after him and chase him down. They would be relentless in their pursuit and fathomless in their hatred. If he did not get South—if he didn’t get out of the city!—he probably wouldn’t live through the night. What would his sister and his mother think of him?

But he loved his Country—his Confederacy—more than his family and more than his life. This was his opportunity to do more for the South than Robert Lee had done. With one pull of the trigger, he would slay the butcher of his people and give rebirth to the Confederacy. Booth could feel his heart beating and the blood streaming through his veins. His breath was quick and short and he could feel perspiration on his forehead. He rubbed his knuckles back and forth across his forehead and took one deep breath.

“God be with me,” he said aloud and put the gun in his right pocket and the knife into the left pocket of his coat. He stepped to the looking glass to make sure he was properly arranged. Booth’s riding pants were cleanly brushed and the pant legs buttoned down onto his boots. His tie was straight and his vest buttoned. Wilkes took his slouch hat and locked the door of his room behind him. He returned the key to the clerk at the hotel desk on his way out.

“Will you be going to Ford’s tonight?” Booth asked nonchalantly.

“No, sir, I will be working,” the clerk replied.

“You ought to go. There is to be some splendid acting tonight.”

A Night of Leisure

Lincoln strode down the corridor of the first floor of the Executive Mansion with the gray shawl tossed over his shoulders. William Crook was sitting in a chair by the door that led to the conservatory and the west lawn. William Crook was a policeman in his early twenties when he had been assigned to be a bodyguard to the President of the United States. Edwin Stanton had arranged, against the wishes of Lincoln, for individual guards within the Executive Mansion as well as a detail of cavalry to accompany the President during his frequent trips around the city in his carriage. Lincoln had come to accept the guard on most occasions, though he was still prone to leave the grounds without a guard and take the carriage without the cavalry accompanying him, as he had that afternoon.

“Crook, are you still here?” Lincoln asked as the guard stood when he saw the President approaching down the hall.

“Yes, sir,” the man replied and nodded.

“Is that rascal Parker late again?” The President laughed. John Parker was the guard assigned to watch the President from four o’clock to midnight. Crook had been at the Mansion since eight o’clock that morning and was on duty well past his assigned time. But Crook could not bear the thought of leaving the President unattended, much less the thought of Stanton’s wrath if he discovered that one of the guards had left his post prior to the other arriving.

“Yes he is, sir. Are we off to the War Department?” The President nodded his confirmation and Crook fell into step beside him as they walked out into the chilly evening.

As they left the Mansion to cross the west lawn to the War Department, Lincoln’s mind began to run through the issues most weighing on him. He was like a mathematician running permutations and combinations. He thought through what he might do, what his political enemies would do in response, and then would reject that approach or explore a variation of the combination. Tonight, Lincoln was continuing to refine his plan to bring the Southern states back into the Union and avoid the bloodletting that so many in Congress desired of the rebel leaders. These men had done terrible things, but Lincoln longed for the time when there would be no more bleeding. And hanging Rebel leaders was just another form of bleeding in his mind.

Once the sun had gone down, the air had cooled quickly and brought an evening mist in. The gathering fog made the night feel closed in and caused the streetlights to become muted globes of dim light. The President, who had been deep in thought, paused in his long strides as he was nearing the edge of the west lawn.

“Why, Crook, I suddenly feel like we are in a strange place,” Lincoln said to his bodyguard, looking about. He could just make out the War Department building looming through the fog like a ship emerging from a fogbank on the sea.

“It is the fog, sir. It always makes me feel like I am in another city completely.” The two men began to walk again, crossing over the dirt street to the building. Lincoln paused again, as a group of men passed by through the mist. They were loud and obviously drunk, and the haloed light of the streetlamp cast shadows across their hulking figures. The guard watched them to make sure they walked on and did not harass the Commander in Chief.

“Crook, do you know there are men who want to take my life?” Lincoln suddenly asked his guard. As they walked again, Lincoln said in a slight voice, almost a whisper to himself, “And I have no doubt they will do it.” Earlier in the day, Lincoln had responded to a letter from General James Van Alen, who had written expressing his concern for the President’s safety. Van Alen had told Lincoln that going to Richmond and walking the streets so openly had exposed his life to danger. Van Alen had urged Lincoln for the sake of the nation to better guard his life. Seeing the drunken men skulking along the street had brought this letter to mind. Crook was taken aback and dismayed by the President’s question and protested.

“But why would you think so, Mr. President?”

“Other men have been assassinated,” Lincoln replied calmly, simply stating fact.

“Well, I hope you are mistaken, Mr. President.” The disappointed tone of Crook’s voice belied his hurt feelings. He felt that he had somehow failed the President if he was so certain that his life could be taken. Lincoln glanced over at him as they neared the front entrance to the War Department and realized his comments had been taken as an assessment of his guard’s capabilities.

“I have perfect confidence in those who are around me—in every one of you men. I know that no one could do it and escape alive. But if it is to be done, it is impossible to prevent.” Crook stepped forward and opened the door for the President and watched him as he slowly mounted the steps to the second floor where Stanton’s office and the Telegraph office were. Crook was struck by the melancholy nature of their conversation, which stood in such contrast to the genial mood of the President over the past several days.

“Halloo, boys,” Lincoln called to the men sitting at their desks. “Any news from Sherman?” Lincoln’s face was paler than when he had visited in the morning. His shoulders were sagging again. The carriage ride with Mary, while serving as a palliative to his burdened heart, had also proved taxing. The sheer expression of his joy over the prospects of peace tended to sap his strength and energy these days. The conversation with Crook on his potential assassination had greatly dampened his spirits and Bates, the telegraph operator, saw it as soon as he turned to face the Commander in Chief.

“No, sir. It has been a quiet day,” David Bates said, standing to his feet.

“Please sit, Bates. I am in a bit of a hurry tonight, so I won’t be able to read through the telegraphs, unless there is one worth readin’?” He asked, hopeful of news form Sherman.

“No, sir. Not a one. I hope you enjoy the evening.” Bates nodded his head as a type of salute and sat back down at his desk. Lincoln walked across the hallway and into Stanton’s office. His War Secretary was sitting at his desk responding to correspondence and making orders. Lincoln knew that he simply needed to walk across the lawn to find Stanton in his office most any time, day or night.

“Well, Stanton, what news do you have?” Lincoln asked and hung his shawl over the open door to Stanton’s office.

“Mr. President, I still have no news from Sherman. But I remain convinced, as you do, that Johnston has no more fight left in him. Sherman has pinned him down. Jefferson Davis is still on the run, but we will catch him soon enough. The combination of capturing Richmond and Lee’s surrender has placed us on a sure path to peace.”

“From your lips to God’s ear, Stanton,” Lincoln replied. “Have you seen Seward lately? Is he on the mend? I have not been to see him in a few days.”

“I am going to go by his house tonight after dinner with my wife.” The two men talked several more minutes and then Lincoln stood to leave.

“Mr. Stanton, you can rest easy as Major Rathbone will be with Mrs. Lincoln and myself at the theater tonight!” Stanton looked up at him from his desk and his face flushed slightly. He remained adamantly opposed to the President’s theater-going. Stanton was the sort of man that once he made his mind up on something, he became a bulldog in maintaining his position. The President, on the other hand, took great delight in frustrating his War Secretary’s protective mode by slipping from the Executive Mansion without his detachment of cavalry, or coming and going to the War Department without a guard present.

“Is Parker with you at least?” Stanton asked, standing to his feet.

“No, Crook is still here.” Lincoln smiled and left. Stanton’s confidence in their position and the near-certain surrender of Johnston had reinforced Lincoln’s conviction that the war was truly over. As he came back down the stairs, he found Crook standing just inside the door beneath the gas jet mounted on the wall. The vestibule of the building was cast in a warm golden light and Crooks eyes were hidden by shadows.

“Let’s go, Crook, I must get back and finish some business before we start for the theater. Mrs. Lincoln has gotten up a party for us and we are to see
Our American Cousin
at Ford’s tonight.” They headed back across the dirt road and to the lawn of the Executive Mansion. The campfires of the soldiers bivouacked on the lawn of the White House glowed in the thickening fog.

“You know Crook, I am suddenly very tired. I’d rather not go to the theater tonight, but I feel that I cannot disappoint the people as our attendance has been advertised.”

“But, Sir, you enjoy the theater more than any man I know,” the guard responded in surprise.

“Indeed, I do. Now Crook, you have worked very hard and you are here far past your time. Go on home and get some rest,” he said as they walked back to the portico. “Goodbye, Crook,” he said and walked into the Mansion. Crook turned to head for the stable to get his horse and go home. He thought to himself that it was the first time he’d heard the President say ‘goodbye’ to him rather than ‘good night.’

Lincoln was told that Schulyer Colfax was in his reception room outside of his office so he headed upstairs.

“Halloo, Mr. Speaker!” Lincoln called in greeting.

“Well, Mr. President, I have come back to take my leave as you requested. I hope that I am not disturbing you.”

“Not at all, Colfax. I am pleased to see you. I envy you this trip out West. I was just telling Mrs. Lincoln this afternoon that I wish I could go with you! The West holds a fascination to me and it is one of the first places I shall travel to when I leave this office. Say, why don’t you come with me and Mrs. Lincoln to the theater tonight?”

“Mr. President, that is a kind offer. But I am starting very early in the morning and still have some papers to put in order prior to my departure. I hope you understand.”

“Of course I do,” he replied. A smile broke across Lincoln’s face. “I shall tell Mother that the number is thirteen,” he said half to himself.

“What, Mr. President?” Colfax asked, not understanding the comment.

“It is nothing. You are the thirteenth person to decline our invitation to the theater is all,” he answered laughing aloud.

“Surely, you and Mrs. Lincoln are not going alone?” The Speaker asked in surprise.

“No, Major Rathbone and Miss Harris will be joining us.”

Both men stood as Mary Lincoln stepped into the reception room.

“Mrs. Lincoln, good evening,” Colfax said, bowing his head to the First Lady.

“Good evening, Mr. Speaker,” she replied to him. “Why, Mr. Lincoln, are you going to take me to the theater tonight or not?” She asked her husband with a smile on her face.

“Why of course, Mrs. Lincoln.” He turned to the Speaker of the House, “Now, Colfax, you remember to tell those people that the natural resources of the West are needed to service the national debt and bring this nation back onto the road of prosperity after this long and awful war.” The two men shook hands and the Lincolns wished him a safe trip.

“Well, Mother, let’s go!” Lincoln said to his wife and they walked out of the reception room. As they headed down the stairs, Edwin Rollins, a congressman from New Hampshire was walking up the stairs towards them.

“Good evening, Mr. President,” he called out.

“Rollins, we are late for the theater. What can I do for you?”

“Sir, I need to see the Secretary of War on a matter, but I was hoping to have your endorsement with me when I went,” Rollins responded handing the President a letter.

“Trying to grease the skids, eh?” Lincoln winked at him and took the envelope from the congressman and a pencil from his pocket. He leaned down and placed the envelope on his knee and wrote:

Hon. Secretary of War, please see and hear Hon. Mr. Rollins & oblige him if you consistently can.

“Here you are, Mr. Rollins. Though I’m not sure how much greasing that will get with the Secretary.” He smiled and handed the letter back.

As the Lincolns came down the steps, Charles approached them carrying a card from George Ashmun. “Sir, Mr. Ashmun and a friend have been awaitin’ in the Blue Room for you.”

“Well, we’ll never know he’s waitin’ if he’s in the Blue Room, Charlie. You should have sent him up to the reception room. Give me the card.” Lincoln took the calling card and again bent to his knee and wrote:

‘Allow Mr. Ashmun & friend to come in at 9 AM tomorrow. A. Lincoln.’

“Tell them that I cannot see them now as we are late for the theater, but this card will give them admittance in the morning.” Charles turned to go to the Blue Room with the directions of the President and the couple walked down the corridor to the carriage awaiting them. Lincoln opened the door and Mary walked out to the portico and their waiting carriage. Charles hurried back from the Blue Room and held the door to the carriage open for the President and the First Lady.

“Thank you, Charlie,” Lincoln said. “Burke, is that you drivin’?” He called up the carriage driver.

“Yes, sir, it’s me,” the driver called back and tipped his hat looking around the front of the carriage to the President.