The Day Lincoln Was Shot (19 page)

Horace Greeley, an editorial flirt, had been Lincoln's friend and was now his enemy. A year ago, he had parted politically from Lincoln when, in the New York
Tribune,
he had begged for peace at almost any price. Now he opposed Lincoln politically and personally.

After lunch, in New York, he went to the office of his managing editor, Sidney Howard Gray, and handed to him a sheaf of papers written in longhand. It was an editorial for tomorrow's paper and would be off the composing room floor at 2
A.M.
Gray, accustomed to Greeley's attacks on the President, read it after the boss left and found it to be so “brutal, bitter, sarcastic and personal” that, though he had it set in type, he hid the galley.

The President was aware, on this day and at this meeting, that, in America, he was now a minority political leader. The entire South, temporarily disenfranchised, opposed him. The Democratic party of the North opposed him. The radicals in his own Republican party opposed him. Most of the influential newspapers opposed him. Even the mild Senator Morrill
of Maine found it “truly most difficult to speak of the elements of Lincoln's character without offending public sense.” He was scorned, maligned, spat upon as a person lacking decision, character, intelligence and honor. He was an ape, a buffoon, a rascal of dirty mind and dirty jokes. He was held in low esteem by politicians and molders of public opinion. The only persons who loved him were the people, and they would not fully realize it until tomorrow.

To all of which Mr. Lincoln said: “As a general rule, I abstain from reading the reports of attacks upon myself, wishing not to be provoked by that to which I cannot properly offer an answer. . . .”

That is why, at this meeting, he was determined to block out the form of the peace no matter how long he had to hold the Cabinet together. He did not expect it to be formalized by signed documents; he wanted basic agreements. If that could be achieved, and the machinery to implement it were set in motion, then he would consider that what he had started out to achieve in 1861 had been, in the main, realized.

He noted with satisfaction that when Secretary of the Navy Welles offered his views about the course to be followed in Virginia, Secretaries Stanton and Dennison agreed, and the others said nothing in opposition. Thus, even among men who distrusted each other, Lincoln had harmony on this one day.

Frederick Seward saw “visible relief and content” on the face of the President and said that, in the regular order of business, none could refrain from chatting about “the great news” of the war's sudden end. Like boys who had recovered from an interminable illness, they tried to stick to their schoolwork, but they could not refrain from looking out the window at the sunshine and the lush grass and the dizzying atmosphere of feeling good.

The President asked General Grant to tell the Cabinet the details of General Lee's surrender, and Grant did, detracting
from his own role and saying nothing to lessen the figure of Lee. When he had finished, Mr. Lincoln spoke.

“What terms did you make for the common soldiers?”

Grant fingered his beard and said: “I told them to go back to their homes and families, and they would not be molested, if they did nothing more.”

In front of Kirkwood House, Vice President Johnson, hands thrust in pockets, scowled at the unnatural quiet of the city and walked back into the hotel. He went to his rooms, closed the door, and sat reading.

A short time later, George Atzerodt came in with a bundle and walked up the curving staircase to his room. If he made any noise in his alcoholic anxiety, it is not recorded that the Vice President, in a room almost directly below, made any complaint. He deposited huge pistols under the pillow on his bed and a knife under the sheet. He gave passing glances at the coat and materials left by Herold, and then he went back downstairs, where he asked the room clerk to point out the Vice President's room, and asked where Johnson was right now.

The room was pointed out to him, and he was told that the Vice President had just come in. George Atzerodt's reaction was to straighten up in shocked surprise, and to step into the bar. He was there only a short time when he paid for his drinks and walked out.

A few minutes later, the Vice President, having scanned a newspaper, glanced at his timepiece and got up and put his coat on and left. He had an appointment, an after-lunch appointment, with the President. Neither of them had been sure how long the Cabinet meeting would take, so Lincoln had suggested that Johnson “drop over” early in the afternoon.

Johnson walked up Pennsylvania Avenue, across Fifteenth at the Treasury Building, and around the corner to the White House. At the gate, two soldier guards recognized him and
snapped to attention. He nodded without smiling and walked on in. At the front door, he was met by a colored doorman, a soldier with carbine and bayonet, and the President's personal guard, Crook.

They held the door for him and he walked inside, down the corridor and up the staircase until he reached the big doors of the President's office. The soldier at that door said that he was sorry, but that the Cabinet meeting was still going on, and the President had not had his lunch. Mr. Johnson said that he would stroll around until the President was ready.

The early editions of the afternoon newspapers were being hawked on the streets and, on page 1 of the
National Intelligencer,
the top half of column four was taken up with an advertisement from Grover's Theatre, which announced

Underneath this, in a small advertisement, Ford's Theatre announced the “Benefit and last appearance of Miss Laura Keene in her celebrated comedy of
Our American Cousin.”
The Washington
Evening Star
was on the street with three small announcements, spread through the newspaper, which announced the presence of General Grant and Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln at Ford's Theatre this evening.

Under “City Items,” the announcement said:

A small advertisement in the
Star
pointed up the fact that the name of Mrs. Grant was not omitted by accident or by typographical error:

Two hundred and fifty miles to the north, the
Whig Press
of Middletown, New York, published the news that President Lincoln had been assassinated. No one found out the sources of this “news,” or why the editor published it without checking
by telegraph with General John A. Dix, commandant in New York, who would be among the first to know any such momentous news, or with the President's secretary, John G. Nicolay, at the White House.

In this time of poor communications, it is puzzling that, at the same hour, the people of Manchester, New Hampshire, were buzzing with rumors that President Lincoln had been shot. In far-off St. Joseph, Minnesota, forty miles from the nearest telegraph office, men met other men on the street and asked, in horrified tones, if they had heard the news that President Lincoln had been killed by an assassin.

The Cabinet meeting was drawing to a close. The interested parties were in basic agreement and the President said that he guessed they would all have to wait until later to hear from General Sherman. He got to his feet, and pulled his heavy gold watch from his vest. The other men arose and the meeting was adjourned.

The general, with Colonel Porter a pace behind him, walked over to the President and thanked him for the opportunity of attending a Cabinet session. Lincoln said it was a particularly amicable one and he was glad the general could be present. Grant then brought up the matter of the theater party. He fidgeted and seemed embarrassed and he said that Mrs. Grant would be sorely disappointed if their visit to the children was delayed any further. In fact, Mrs. Grant planned to take the evening train to Philadelphia.

Lincoln, looking down on his hero, joshed the commanding general and said that there would be plenty of time to see the children, and reminded him that the people would get great pleasure out of seeing at firsthand the man who had won the war. Grant subsided. He had not said “I will not go.” Nor had he followed Mr. Stanton's suggestion and said: “You should not go. Your life may be in danger.”

The groups were still chatting in the room when Colonel Porter brought a note to Grant. It was from Mrs. Grant and it said that she hoped that the general would not delay their departure on the six o'clock train. This was exactly what Grant needed to face up to the President. He showed the note, and said that he
must decide
not to remain in Washington. The President understood that this was a final decision.

Contrary to report Stanton did not participate in this conversation and there is no record that he stood beside his general and said: “Neither of you should go to the theater tonight.” As the meeting broke up, the President shook hands with Secretary of the Treasury Hugh McCulloch and said: “We must look to you, Mr. Secretary, for the money to pay off the soldiers.”

“You should look to the people, Mr. President,” said McCulloch.

The President smiled. “They have not failed us thus far,” he said, “and I do not think they will now.”

Frederick Seward bowed gravely and made his farewell. He reminded the President that a new British Minister, Sir Frederick Bruce, was in Washington awaiting his presentation to the President.

“Would any time tomorrow be convenient?” Seward said.

The President clasped his hands behind his back and studied the ceiling.

“Tomorrow at two o'clock?” he said.

“Yes,” said Seward. “In the Blue Room?”

“Yes,” Lincoln said. “The Blue Room.”

He had a small boy's scorn of the spurious expressions of esteem engendered in a formal meeting between ambassador and chief of state and he particularly winced at the florid speeches which the State Department made him read to newly arrived ambassadors.

“Don't forget to send up the speech beforehand,” he said. “I like to look it over.”

As the men left the office, Grant asked Stanton if he might stop by at the office later and see him.

“I'll be there until evening,” Stanton said.

Lincoln left the office at about 2:20 for lunch with Mrs. Lincoln. He did not see Vice President Johnson and, as the coquettish weather had become sunny and warm again, it may be that Johnson was walking around the grounds. There is no record of what conversation transpired at the lunch but it is almost certain that he told Mrs. Lincoln what he would say to others later in the day: Grant is not coming. I do not feel like going to the theater tonight and, if it were not for disappointing so many people, I wouldn't.

On H Street, Wiechman was writing a letter in his room. There was a knock. It was Mrs. Surratt. She said that she was sorry to intrude on his time, but that she had just received a letter from Mr. Charles Calvert and that Mr. Calvert said that she would have to go to the country again if she expected to collect her $479 from Mr. Nothey.

Wiechman folded his letter and said that he would drive her. She gave him ten dollars and asked him to get a horse and buggy. Just as Louis Wiechman was leaving the house (this was 2:30
P.M.
), John Wilkes Booth walked in. The inquisitive boarder was burning to remain and listen, but he had no excuse to do so, and, as he turned to close the front door behind him, he looked around and saw Booth with his back to the marble fireplace, one arm flung across it. Mrs. Surratt stood facing him.

The big fellow hurried around the corner to Howard's Stable and got a horse and buggy as quickly as possible and trotted the horse back to the boardinghouse. He hitched the horse and started up the inverted V steps, just as Mrs. Surratt
came out of the upstairs sitting room and said that, now that Booth had left, she was ready to go. He turned back to the buggy and she said: “Wait, Mr. Wiechman. I must get those things of Booth's.”

“Those things of Booth's” turned out to be a small package, about the size of a saucer, covered with brown paper and tied two ways with string. She got into the carriage and put the package on the floor between her feet.

“I must be careful,” she said, as Louis swung the horse out on H Street and started toward the Navy Yard Bridge. “It's brittle. Glass. I do not want it to get wet.”

The government clerk waited to hear more, but the widow had nothing further to say. She talked about the uncertainty of the weather and of how a body hardly knew what to wear these days, with rain and chill and then a hot sun and no breeze, but that the nice time of year would be along in about a week and, down in the country, they had been plowing and planting for two weeks and they were lucky that there hadn't been a frost because, when Mr. Surratt was alive, she had learned what one frost can do, if it is a proper freezing frost.