A Night of Horrors: A Historical Thriller about the 24 Hours of Lincoln's Assassination (15 page)

“What if it is true, Edwin?” The Navy Secretary asked with a voice pitched higher from nervousness. Stanton looked across the dark carriage to Welles and saw how wide and fearful the man’s eyes were.

“If William and Frederick were attacked and the President shot? On the same night and at the same time?” He responded by stating the man’s implied question. Welles nodded to him.

“But, Gideon, that is so farfetched as to be lunacy,” Stanton smiled, but his upper lip trembled so he pushed them back together.

“Yes, yes. Lunacy. And yet we are in a carriage after eleven o’clock at night rushing to their home. What if this lunacy is indeed fact?” Welles pressed the War Secretary, who had always been so firm and controlled throughout the war.

Stanton did not immediately respond, but looked out the window. He closed his eyes and then murmured, “Then may God help us, Gideon. May God in heaven have mercy on all of us.” Stanton’s mind swiftly worked through the implications of a simultaneous attack and his initial conclusion was this. If the Secretary and Assistant Secretaries of State were attacked at the same time that the President of the United States was attacked, then the Confederacy was making a bold and desperate attempt to cripple the national government. An attack on the Capital was very likely to occur. More Cabinet members and leaders of the Government were in danger or had likely been attacked as well, but he had not yet learned about it.

“We are here, Edwin,” Welles said as he swung the door open. Stanton looked up from his dark thoughts and followed him from the carriage. The Seward’s house was brightly lit and glowing from within, like a woodstove. The two men walked to the door and gently knocked. A young Negro opened the door to them.

“Secretary Welles and Secretary Stanton are here ma’am,” he whispered loudly as the two men stepped inside, removing their hats and holding them in their hands.

Stanton was struck by the subdued tension that filled the house. It was a stark contrast to the festive spirit of just an hour ago. A few servants were circulating around the sofa and chairs with tea and coffee and even cookies and cake. The Seward’s extended family and closest friends, who had come to see him as he recovered from his carriage accident, sat and talked in quiet voices. The result was an initial impression of a tea party, but the pale faces and furtive glances over their shoulders gave away the fear that gripped the inhabitants and visitors of the household. Stanton knew immediately that the two men must have been attacked as had been reported to him. He allowed his eyes to follow one of the servants of the home whom he recognized. She was walking briskly with a large basin of water and had several cloths held close to her chest. He blinked several times as she approached. She had two distinct smudges on her left cheek. Clearly, they were dried blood. The apron that was tied behind her back and strung around her neck to cover her chest was also covered in red splotches. Welles also saw the bloodstains and the two men quickly exchanged nervous glances.

“Mr. Stanton and Mr. Welles, you are here.” The two men followed the female voice up the stairs to a woman standing on the landing above outside of the door where Stanton had just left William Seward to a peaceful night’s sleep an hour-and-a-half earlier. It was Frances Seward, the Secretary’s wife.

“Mrs. Seward, we came at once when we heard the news,” Stanton called back.

“He is up here, but you must be quiet if you are going to come up,” she called back down in a loud whisper. Stanton noticed that Welles was looking down at the floor. When he followed the Navy Secretary’s eyes, he noticed a small pool of blood had soaked into the Persian rug where they stood. It fanned out from the side into a shimmering half circle on the rich oak wood floors. The red of the blood was a lustrous dark pool on the gleaming wood and reflected the many gas jets and candles that flickered throughout the house. The two men walked past, keeping their eyes on the semi-circle of blood and walked forward with their heads turning to look behind them.

“Good God,” Stanton muttered as they mounted the first step. The stairs before them had a carpet runner up the middle of the steps, held in place by a slim brass bar where the riser and tread met. The runner did not completely cover the steps, but left about a foot of uncovered hardwood on each side of the carpet. At the top of the stairway, there were three steps where blood had flowed over the edge and down to the next. Stanton paused with his hand on the great round ball at the beginning of the banister. His eyes followed the little waterfall of blood up and down the three steps and he shook his head. As the two Cabinet Secretaries mounted the stairs, they realized that the pictures hanging on the wall along the stairway and the wall itself were speckled. They were trying to figure out what would have caused such dark specks. As they neared the top of the stairway, Stanton realized the speckles were blood spatter. Welles took a quick breath next to him as he too realized the viciousness of the attack and wondered why William Seward was at the top of the stairway since he had been bedridden. The two men made it to the top of the steps only to find more bloodstains on the bright rug running down the middle of the hallway.

Frances Seward stood alone on the landing. She had just come from her husband’s side to check on the fresh cloths that were needed when she saw Stanton and Welles coming in the front door. Here eyes were bloodshot and swollen. The rims of her nostrils were raw and red. Her nose was running incessantly and she sniffed every few seconds. Her hair was pulled up into a tight bun, but there were errant strands of hair standing out from her head. Stanton thought, just briefly, that she had the appearance of a mad woman. Here eyes were a bit vacant and it took a few moments before they focused on his face.

“My God, Mrs. Seward, what has happened here?” Stanton asked with a look on his face utterly lost as to the logic of such actions. “Could the Secretary have survived such a vicious attack?”

“This isn’t William’s blood,” she said grimly. Stanton and Welles exchanged glances. “It is Frederick’s, and it gets worse, I am afraid.”

“Mother, we must be quiet,” a weak voice said behind Mrs. Seward. The three turned to see Fanny, Seward’s daughter, standing in the doorway. “The doctor said that Father must have rest and your voices are too loud.” The girl was pale and a deep purple bruise was swelling on the left side of her face.

“Miss Seward!” Gideon Welles called out and stepped towards her with his hand extended. He instantly saw the painful bruise on her face and wanted more than anything to do something to console her. But he simply took her arm.

“Fanny, dear, you mustn’t be up and about. You should go and resume your seat next to your father,” Mrs. Seward said. Her voice had a vague tone to it. She spoke slowly as if she were just waking from a deep sleep. Welles kept hold of Fanny’s arm and escorted her into the room. He realized the doorway into the Secretary’s bedroom was also splashed with blood.

“Mrs. Seward, what has happened here tonight?” Stanton implored. His eyes were wide open seeking some kind of comprehension of what he saw around him.

“A man broke into the house under the pretense of bringing Mr. Seward his medicine and proceeded to attack all who got in his way.” Mrs. Seward recited the damage in a numbed and distant voice. “Freddie has a fractured skull and might not live through the night. Gus was cut in several places. Poor Sergeant Robinson threw himself on the madman to save William and was cut in several places. Then the crazed man stabbed a messenger from the State Department who happened to be coming into the house when he was rushing away. Worst of all, he knocked Fanny unconscious when she threw herself at him to try and protect her father. William is barely alive he has been so badly cut and stabbed.”

Stanton looked back at her slowly shaking his head from side to side, running his hand down his beard. It was a habit that Stanton took to when he was in deep thought or perplexed about something. Stanton could sense the muffled motions of the family and guests below. He was trying to take it in. Attempted assassinations of the Secretary of State and the Assistant Secretary of State. Rumors of the President being assassinated. His sharp intellect quickly arrived at the fact that a combined attack would mean a broad conspiracy was being mounted. He hadn’t seen the facts to support that theory yet. Here it appeared to be the work of just one man.

“But, Mrs. Seward, you said mad
man
. Surely you meant mad
men
. How many were there?”

“Mr. Stanton, I assure it was but one man. And he was mad indeed.” She wiped at her nose with a handkerchief that was damp at this point from her constant flow of tears.

“You may see William, but please be quiet,” she said, sliding the kerchief up the sleeve of her dress. As she lifted her dress to turn and show Stanton into the room, he caught sight of a dark stain on the edge of her dress and realized that the hem of her dress was stained in blood. Her dress had been in a pool of blood long enough to leach up the fabric. She was encircled by a ring of her husband’s and son’s blood.

When Edwin Stanton stepped into the room, his eyes didn’t go to William Seward lying prostrate. Rather, he looked at the blood-soaked sheets that hung down the side of the bed. Fanny was sitting in a chair next to Stanton’s head and Welles stood silently behind her looking down on the Secretary of State with his hand on her shoulder. Stanton assumed it was as much comfort for Welles as it was for the young lady.

Stanton slowly walked up to the side of the bed. As he stepped on the throw rug beside the bed, he felt his foot sink into the carpet fiber because it was drenched. In some horror, he sprang back and looked down where he stepped. The outline of his shoe was clearly marked in the rug; his foot had compressed the carpet and small pools of blood stood inside of the impression his foot made. As he watched, the blood sank back down into the fiber, his footprint disappeared from view as the liquid that had been squeezed out from the pressure of his foot soaked back in and the fiber of the rug expanded and the impression of the footprint disappeared.

Stanton shivered and slowly brought his eyes up to Seward. The poor man was so pale that Stanton immediately thought of an exsanguinated corpse. Though the doctor had wrapped his face with clean linens, they were already soaked through and thin trails of blood streaked down his neck, into his collar that was no longer white, but a damp ochre color. Fanny would slowly lean forward and whisper “I am wiping your neck, Father” and gently dabbed the streaks until they would appear again. Though he wore a new silk robe over his night clothes, it, too, was blood-soaked around his chest, stomach, and shoulders but from the inside out. The blood had flowed so freely from the attack that his nightclothes were wet and clinging to his body, but there had been no time to change him. The doctor had triaged him quickly and did his best to staunch the flow and then had moved on to Frederick, Gus, and the others.

“Will he live?” Stanton asked to no one in particular. His stentorian voice seemed to echo in the still of the house. Seward flinched from the noise and moaned in his bed.

“Mr. Stanton, you must speak quietly,” Mrs. Seward almost hissed in her frustration.

“But I did, madam, I assure you,” he responded in the same deep bass. Seward moaned again.

“Please follow me, Mr. Stanton,” Mrs. Seward ordered and walked from the room. Stanton followed her like a child who was being led to the town magistrate. As they emerged onto the landing outside of the door and overlooking the foyer, Stanton noticed a movement at the front door as Mrs. Seward quietly pulled the door closed.

“You must be more quiet if you are to stay,” she followed his eyes to someone in uniform stepping inside the house. “We cannot have more visitors, Mr. Stanton.”

“Of course, madam, I will see to it at once that a guard is posted with orders not to admit anyone except on your authority.”

“You are too kind,” she said dropping the lecture she had planned for him.

“Sir, I must speak with you at once,” a soldier, who had just stepped into the house, called from the foyer.

“Quiet, my good man,” Stanton called back in a loud whisper. The man approached the steps to walk up and tell Stanton in person. Mrs. Seward went rigid behind him at the thought of Stanton holding a War Department conversation outside of her husband’s door in his condition. Sensing her anger, Stanton moved to walk down the steps and the two met in the middle. “Go on, then. Out with it,” Stanton ordered when the soldier hesitated.

“Sir, the President of the United States…” The man looked down and swallowed.

“Good God, man, say what you have to say. You vex me with this hesitation,” Stanton barked at him. Mrs. Seward shushed him from the landing.

“Sir, the President of the United States has been … shot.”

“I have heard this nonsense already, Private. I do not believe the report,” Stanton said defiantly.

“But, sir, I have just come from the boardinghouse where they took him. He was shot at Ford’s and has been carried to a house across the street.” Stanton reeled back on the step where he stood and lost his balance and ended up sitting on the stairway. He ran his hand down his beard. Mrs. Seward began to weep openly from the landing and quietly opened the door and called Gideon Welles out of the room.

“Will he live?” Stanton asked looking up at the soldier who had delivered the news.

“The doctors say it is a mortal wound,” the soldier responded.

“Who has a mortal wound?” Gideon Welles demanded from the landing looking down the stairway at the mighty Edwin Stanton sitting on the stairway. The War Secretary was silent and continued to stroke his beard.