A Night of Horrors: A Historical Thriller about the 24 Hours of Lincoln's Assassination (7 page)

In March, she was told that some men would be stopping by the house she owned in her native town. She had operated it as a tavern and inn down in Surrattsville, south of Washington City. Just in November of the year before, she had rented it out to a man named John Lloyd who operated the building as her innkeeper. When her son told her of the visitors, he instructed her that Lloyd was to make them welcome. John wouldn’t explain why, but when her son, Booth, and the other men rode off together one afternoon in mid March, she was pitched into a fever of worry and concern. They returned late in the afternoon, one at a time, and congregated in one of the boarder’s rooms upstairs. Though they mostly whispered to avoid being overheard, it was apparent through their muffled voices that they were angry about something. Later, she learned that one of the men who had stopped at her inn on that day had asked the innkeeper to hide two carbine rifles until they were called for. When she protested to her son, John told her that they were Wilkes Booth’s shooting irons, and they would be kept until called for. He left her no room for discussion.

To Mrs. Surratt’s surprise, the men suddenly stopped coming around after that day. Then, just a couple of weeks ago, her son John announced he was leaving for Canada.

She was surprised to find Booth standing in her dining room and even more surprised when Booth told her that the shooting irons would be called for that night. She knew that something was to happen. For Booth to call for them personally meant that he would be involved directly. The thought arose again in her mind that President Lincoln was in danger somehow, but she pushed it away as foolishness.

“Mr. Booth, I could leave for Surrattsville in a short while myself. One of my boarders could go and fetch the wagon and carry me down. I will let Mr. Lloyd know that he should have the irons ready for you,” she answered.

“Ask him to also have a bottle of whiskey at the ready,” Booth added. He glanced to the room where the boarders were sitting by the fire to make sure no one had left the room and might overhear them.

“He will have the whiskey,” Mrs. Surratt confirmed.

“Would you take this package with you to the tavern and have Lloyd keep it with the carbines and whiskey?” Booth asked and handed her the field glasses tied up in brown paper.

“Of course I will,” she took the package from him. Booth nodded his head in thanks and left the boardinghouse.

The man who had traveled to Surrattsville and waited at Mrs. Surratt’s tavern for the others in March was David Herold. He had gone down to Surrattsville with two rifles and a wagon. He was waiting for Booth, Payne, Atzerodt, Surratt, and two other men to arrive with President Lincoln in manacles. Booth had pulled them all together in a fervor because Lincoln was to travel to the Old Soldier’s Home that afternoon to watch a play. Lincoln often traveled to the Old Soldier’s Home just outside of Washington, as he made it his summer retreat. When he went there, he most often traveled alone in his carriage.

The men had hustled together, reviewed their plan, and rode off through the city. To Booth’s humiliation, Lincoln never showed up because he had made a late decline due to some pressing business. The event had splintered the conspirators. Two of them, Sam Arnold and Michael O’Laughlen were childhood friends of Booth’s and had left for their home in Baltimore, tired of Booth’s unfulfilled promises of heroic deeds for their beloved South. Surratt had departed for Canada. Just Atzerodt, Payne, and Herold had remained, but even Booth was losing hope at that point. In fact, he’d told them that he was going to return to the stage and pick up his acting career. And then the opportunity arose today to change the plan of attack from kidnapping to assassination—and Grant would be there as well!

Mrs. Surratt stood at the door and looked at Booth’s back as he descended the steps. A sense of dread crept up her spine and she felt the small hairs on the back of her neck tingling. Booth walked towards the National Hotel to retrieve the bay mare from Pumphrey’s stable behind the hotel. As he walked, he determined that he would stop in at the hotel to use pen and paper and write an explanation of his actions and have it ready to be published in
The National Intelligencer
newspaper. He would need to be quick as there still was much to get done. He continued to establish the checklist of things he must accomplish before tonight: retrieve the horse, bar the door to the box at Ford’s, check in again with Herold, make ready for the dinner, confirm the escape route, prepare his weapons, share the plan with the rest of them. Oh, there was much to be done and so little time. He worried that he could not get it all done before the theater began to fill up with the crowded house that was sure to follow when word was out that Grant and Lincoln would appear together that night. Though Ford hadn’t told him he would advertise that Grant and Lincoln were coming to the play, he knew the man would do it. He’d be a fool not to. It would ensure a packed house.

Wilkes Booth strolled into the National Hotel and approached the front desk.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Booth, I hope you’re well today,” said Henry Merrick, one of the long time clerks at the hotel, who was on friendly terms with Booth since the actor stayed at the National during his frequent and extended trips to Washington City.

“Afternoon, Merrick. I need some paper and a pen,” Booth said and looked around the lobby. As he reached out for the paper his hand trembled. The clerk noticed and looked up. The actor was gray as paste and a slight sheen of perspiration covered his forehead.

“Are you feeling well, John?” Merrick asked from genuine concern.

“I’m fine, fine,” Booth muttered, barely realizing he was engaged in conversation with someone else. He was already turning his mind to the task of justifying the great deed he was to perform that night. He would be the first man to assassinate a United States President that was true. But Lincoln had gotten himself reelected and was posing as President to make himself King of America. The man had brutally annihilated Booth’s beloved Confederacy. Killing Lincoln was a shocking deed, but one necessary to free his country. The immensity of his undertaking towered over him and he felt weak. He breathed deeply and resolved himself once more. He stood at the counter and dipped his pen in the inkstand and scrawled across the top of the paper:
To the Editors of the National Intelligencer
. Booth glanced around again and realized that the counter in the middle of the lobby of the National Hotel wasn’t the place to write such a proclamation.

“Merrick, let me go into an office to write this.”

“Just this way, John,” replied the clerk standing aside and opening a door behind him.

Once inside the room, Booth sat down at his desk and looked at what was written. He began again,
April 14, 18—.
He looked around the desk and on the wall for a calendar. “What is the damned year?” he said aloud. “What’s the year?” Huffing, he stood from the chair and walked to the door.

“Merrick, what year is it? Is it 1864 or 1865?”

“You must be joking,” the clerk replied laughing.

“Sincerely, I am not.” When Merrick saw how earnest Booth was, and noticed once again his pasty complexion, he answered him, “It is 1865, of course.”

“Indeed,” Booth answered and went back inside the office. As he took up the pen once again, the words began to tumble from him. The pent up frustrations of his aborted attempts to capture the tyrant, the agony of Richmond’s fall, the humiliation of Lee’s surrender, and the breaking of the Confederacy all came forth in a torrent of emotion. He would slay this tyrant and the world would see that he was as justified as Brutus was when he slew Caesar.

To My Countrymen:

For years I have devoted my time, my energies, and every dollar I possessed to the furtherance of an object. I have been baffled and disappointed. The hour has come when I must change my plan. Many, I know—the vulgar herd—will blame me for what I am about to do, but posterity, I am sure, will justify me. Right or wrong, God judge me, not man. Be my motive good or bad, of one thing I am sure, the lasting condemnation of the North. I love peace more than life. Have loved the Union beyond expression. For four years have I waited, hoped and prayed for the dark clouds to break and for a restoration of our former sunshine. To wait longer is a crime. My prayers have proved as idle as my hopes. God’s will be done. I go to see and share the bitter end. This war is a war with the constitution and the reserve rights of the state. It is a war upon Southern rights and institutions. The nomination of Abraham Lincoln four years ago bespoke war. His election forced it. I have ever held the South were right. In a struggle such as ours (where the brother tries to pierce the brother’s heart) for God’s sake choose the right.

People of the North, to hate tyranny, to love liberty and justice, to strike at wrong and oppression, was the teaching of our fathers.

I do not want to forget the heroic patriotism of our fathers, who rebelled against the oppression of the mother country.

This country was formed for the white, not for the black man. And, looking upon African slavery from the same standpoint as the noble framers of our constitution, I, for one, have ever considered it one of the greatest blessings, both for themselves and us that God ever bestowed upon a favored nation. Witness, heretofore, our wealth and power; witness their elevation and enlightenment above their race elsewhere. But Lincoln’s policy is only preparing the way for their total annihilation. The South are not, nor have they been, fighting for the continuation of slavery. The first battle of Bull Run did away with that idea. Their causes for the war have been as noble and greater far than those that urged our fathers on.

The South can make no choice. It is either extermination or slavery for themselves (worse than death) to draw from. I know my choice, and hasten to accept it. I love justice more than I do a country that disowns it; more than fame and wealth; more (heaven pardon me if wrong) more than a happy home. To give up all—my mother and sisters whom I love so dearly—seems insane; but God is my judge.

I have labored faithfully to further an object which would more than have proved my unselfish devotion to the South and her cause. Heartsick and disappointed I turn from the path which I have been following into a bolder and more perilous one. Without malice I make the change. I have nothing in my heart except a sense of duty to my choice. If the South is to be aided it must be done quickly. It may already be too late. When Caesar had conquered the enemies of Rome and the power that was his menaced the liberties of the people, Brutus arose and slew him. The stroke of his dagger was guided by his love of Rome. It was the spirit and ambition of Caesar that Brutus stuck at.

‘Oh that we could come by Caesar’s spirit,

And not dismember Caesar!

But, alas!

Caesar must bleed for it.’

I answer with Brutus:

‘He who loves his country better than gold or life.’

John W. Booth, Payne, Herold, Atzerodt

Booth took a deep breath and sat up from the desk over which he had been leaning. The words had poured from his pen and he took another deep breath and let his emotions begin to calm. He realized he was perspiring and took a linen handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. He folded the pages and placed them in an envelope and sealed it. He then scrawled
To the Editors of The National Intelligencer
on the front and slipped the letter into the breast pocket inside of his coat. He straightened his jacket and tie and then walked out of the office.

“Thanks, Merrick. I am off to Pumphrey’s to fetch my horse.” Booth walked around to C Street behind the hotel to retrieve the mare he had arranged with the stableman that morning.

“Now, Mr. Booth, I see you’re a’wearin’ spurs,” Pumphrey said to him by way of greeting. “Don’t kick her too much because she’s a feisty little mare and very fast. I know you can ride, but I jus’ wanted you to know.” Booth stepped up in the stirrup and sat in the saddle.

“Why, thank you, Pumphrey,” Booth said and kicked the mare hard with his spurs sending her into an immediate gallop. “Hyaw!” He yelled, and he urged her on and scampered from the stable.

“Damn fool,” James Pumphrey muttered as he watched the man gallop into the busy street, his coattail fluttering out behind him. Booth slowed the horse down as soon as he turned the corner from Pumphrey’s Stable. He took C Street to Pennsylvania Avenue and headed northwest, in the general direction of Willard’s Hotel and the Executive Mansion. Booth took the mare into a trot and directed her from side to side in an effort to get a feel for her. He was an excellent rider from the years he spent growing up galloping horses across the open fields behind his father’s house in rural Bel Air, Maryland, outside of Baltimore. Booth heard a commotion and looked up and pulled his horse to a stop. A large column of men in dirty and faded gray uniforms was marching toward him with Union soldiers marching along side and Union officers in bright blue uniforms riding ahead and behind. Booth watched in silence as the men marched by, their heads held high. He realized that these were Lee’s officers. These were the once proud leaders of the Army of Virginia.