The Day Lincoln Was Shot (25 page)

His mind was still far from the theater. He watched the footman help Mrs. Lincoln into the closed coach and he said to the
assemblage: “Grant thinks we can reduce the cost of the army establishment at least half a million a day, which, with the reduction of expenditures of our navy, will soon bring down our national debt to something like decent proportions, and bring our national paper up to par, or nearly so, with gold—at least, so they think.”

He was “unusually happy.” That was the reaction of Noah Brooks and Tom Pendel and Colfax. Not because of the theater engagement, but rather because he was now President of the
United
States. So far as Ford's is concerned, Lincoln stated his feelings to Senator Stewart succinctly:

“I am engaged to go to the theater with Mrs. Lincoln. It is the kind of engagement I never break.”

He waved to all and, as he stepped halfway into the carriage, Isaac N. Arnold came out of the velvet dark of the driveway, yelling to the President and waving his arms. Arnold was another old friend. He had neglected his own seat in Congress to preach Lincoln up and down the state of Illinois and, as a result, he had been defeated.

The President backed out of the carriage and listened to Arnold's confidential whisper, with head cocked. Then he said: “Excuse me, now. I am going to the theater. Come and see me in the morning.”

Up on the box in front, Forbes, the presidential valet and footman, sat back and folded Mr. Lincoln's heavy plaid shawl over his arm. He nodded to Burns, the coachman. The horses stepped forward, and gravel crunched under the wheels as the sixteenth President of the United States looked back at the White House and waved to his friends.

The conspirators held a final meeting.
*
Final agreements were reached. Booth would go to Ford's Theatre alone. He would arrive at nine or later and would assess the situation until 10:15, when he would strike. Afterward, he would head directly for the Navy Yard Bridge and, if the other actions were properly synchronized with his, all of the parties should meet at the bridge. Failing that, each party should proceed to Surrattsville and wait at the tavern. Lloyd had the guns and binoculars and, after a brief rest, the party would proceed directly to Port Tobacco and, once on the Virginia shore, head south.

Herold would guide Paine to Seward's home and lend whatever assistance might be necessary to dispatch the Secretary of State. In the event that no help was necessary, Herold would wait on the street with the horses, and guide Paine to the Navy Yard Bridge afterward. Atzerodt was to knock on the door of the Vice President's room—also at 10:15—and, when he answered the knock, shoot him. If someone else answered the knock, Atzerodt would push that person aside or, meeting resistance, shoot that person, and then find the Vice President and kill him. In leaving the Seward home, Booth thought it would be wise if Davey led Paine northward on Madison Place, giving any pursuit the illusion that the conspirators were headed in that direction, and then make a right turn and again a right turn so as to come down Fifteenth or Fourteenth Street and then turn easterly toward the bridge. If each of the parties struck at almost the same moment, an alarm spreading from one place would be met by an alarm coming in the opposite direction, and this was bound to confuse the government into thinking that the city was full of assassins. Timing was important.

The weakest point in the final plan was the matter of where to run to after Surrattsville. There was no longer a Confederacy to flee to for succor, assuming that the leaders of the South would lend themselves to assassination in the first place. John Wilkes Booth knew this. He was aware of current events and he prided himself on his knowledge of politics.
He might not have known that, now that the war was lost to the Confederacy, the literate citizens of the Southern states looked to Lincoln for a merciful peace, and would be horrified by his death and the ascension to power of the stern Andrew Johnson.

Still, although there was no friendly Confederacy to flee to, neither Paine nor Atzerodt nor Herold questioned the final plan of deed and escape. Herold suggested that he and Paine could get into Seward's house with less trouble if they claimed to have a prescription from a drugstore. He could arrange a small package and he knew that Seward's physician was Dr. Verdi. They could say that they had a prescription from Dr. Verdi and that the dosage had to be explained to the Secretary of State in person.

Booth thought about it. He agreed that it was a good idea. He closed the meeting by announcing that he had written a letter to a newspaper, explaining the high patriotic motives of all concerned in the scheme, and that they were “all in this thing together.” He had taken the liberty of adding their names to his. By indirection, this canceled all ideas of deceit on the part of the conspirators. It would be of no use now to think of
not
participating in the murders because Booth had committed them to the overall plot and, if one government official was killed, all would hang.

The letter locked the door behind them.

The leader asked Paine, with slight levity, how he liked the one-eyed horse he was riding. Paine said that the horse rode hard. Booth shook hands all around, and wheeled his little mare away. The band broke up into missions.

The President's carriage turned north at Fifteenth Street and east on H Street. It pulled up in front of the home of Senator Ira Harris. Forbes got down off the box and rang the bell. Miss Harris and Major Rathbone, flushed with excitement at
the unexpected honor, came out and stepped into the carriage. They faced the Lincolns, riding backward. The major, who affected muttonchop whiskers and a walrus mustache, was tall and slender and dignified. He was not in uniform, and he was not armed. The ladies talked animatedly on the short ride down Fourteenth, over F, and into Tenth Street.

Burns walked the horses as they approached the theater. Around the wooden ramp in front of Ford's, a few soldiers on leave sat or stood, gawking, waiting to see the President and General Grant. Inside, Act One was being played to an almost capacity house, although a small queue of patrons still waited for tickets at the box office. In the row of small houses across the street, people stood at windows, with curtains back, waiting to see the Chief Executive. Negro coachmen in cocked hats sat atop glittering carriages parked up and down both sides of Tenth Street. A policeman stood in front of the main entrance to the theater, keeping the pedestrians moving. Two cavalrymen, who had been riding behind the President's coach, now turned and swung back up Tenth Street to return to their units. They would come back after the last curtain, to escort the President home.

Against the wall of the main entrance, John F. Parker leaned. He had walked over from the White House, had studied the playbills of the theater and had looked at the crowds going in. A gusty wet breeze had come up, and Parker had gone into the theater and upstairs to the State Box. He saw the chair that he was to occupy, outside the white door, and he knew that, from there, he could not see the play; his back would be to the stage.

He went into the blind corridor behind the boxes, and opened the door to Box 7 and studied the layout. Everything looked all right. He came out, closed both doors, and went back downstairs. As he left, he saw Professor Withers lift his baton, heard the first soft strains of the overture, and saw two
Negro boys in red satin breeches come out through the flap in the curtain, and begin to lift both sides of it as they walked to the far sides of the stage. Many of the patrons looked up to the State Box and saw that it was empty. The show was on.

It was 8:25 when Lincoln arrived. Burns pulled up to the wooden ramp to protect the ladies' dresses and the men's boots from the mud. Forbes jumped down and helped the party to alight. A small knot of people gathered, and the policeman ordered them to make way. Parker did not move from his position. His duty, as he saw it, was partly done. He had examined the premises and found them to be free of danger to the President. Now he would lead Mr. Lincoln, by a pace or two, into the theater. Later, he would sit outside the corridor and, in time, see that the President got back into his carriage. At twelve midnight, Parker would be on his way home.

As the party walked into the theater, Burns swung the team around, and pulled up and parked north of the theater. Forbes, with the shawl, followed Major Rathbone, last of the group to alight, into the theater.

Mr. Buckingham, the ticket taker, bowed deeply to one and all. Parker led the way up the stairs. Onstage, Laura Keene, as Florence Trenchard, was in a scene with Lord Dundreary. He had mentioned a window draft, a medical draught and a draft on a bank.

“Good gracious!” said Miss Trenchard. “You have almost a game of draughts.”

Lord Dundreary laughed hysterically.

“What is the matter?” said Miss Trenchard.

“That wath a joke,” said Lord Dundreary. “That wath.”

As the audience chuckled, patrons in the dress circle began to stand and applaud and, onstage, Miss Keene stopped the action and applauded vigorously. The entire theater stood. The President of the United States was leading his party down the side aisle, through the white door, and into the State Box.

Miss Keene ad-libbed: “The draft has been suspended.”

“I can't see the joke,” said Dundreary.

“Anybody,” said Miss Keene, “can see that.”

Professor Withers raised his baton and the band swung into “Hail to the Chief.” Miss Harris and Major Rathbone could be seen taking their positions toward Box 8. Mrs. Lincoln was next—moving toward the front of the theater. Dimly, the figure of the President could be seen, partly hidden by drapes.

The band finished with a flourish, and everyone sat to prolonged applause. Forbes, the valet, sat to the rear of the box on a straight-backed chair and leaned over to whisper to the President about the shawl. Mr. Lincoln said that he did not want it at the moment. Forbes remained a little while, and then he left to go out and sit with the coachman.

Parker sat outside the corridor and looked at the faces in the dress circle and saw two army officers come down the side aisle and take the last empty seats in Row D. Several times Parker arose from his seat and peered around the edge of the wall at the action onstage.

The President was becoming absorbed in the play as, on H Street, Mrs. Surratt stepped out of the rig. Louis Wiechman said that he would return the horse and buggy and the widow said that, when he came back, she'd put up something to eat.

Mr. Stanton decided that he would go over and pay a call on Seward before retiring. It was 8:30 and he could be back in a half hour. At The Old Clubhouse—the Seward residence—he found the secretary to be in pain. He could not bear to have the arm moved, even when his nurses wanted to change his position.

Mrs. Seward had come down from Auburn, New York, and the family had agreed to sit certain watches with Mr. Seward. The mother sat the early watch from 6
P.M.
until 9
P.M. TWO
of
the younger children, Miss Fanny, a sensitive young lady who dreaded to see anyone in pain, and Major Augustus Seward, took over the night watch. Miss Fanny sat with her father from 9
P.M.
until 11
P.M.
The young major was with his father the rest of the night. In addition, Secretary Stanton had assigned two convalescent soldiers to assist the family.

The Secretary of War tried to be cheerful, but the Secretary of State groaned so much that it is doubtful if he heard what was said. Stanton left.

In the War Department, telegrapher David Homer Bates worked alone. He sat under a small night light, reading. The telegraph key began to chatter and Bates picked up a pencil and began to write:

Just before nine o'clock John F. Parker became bored. He got up, pushed his chair against the dress circle wall, and walked up the aisle and out of the theater. At the corner, he saw Francis Burns dozing in the driver's seat of the President's carriage.

“How would you like a little ale?” Parker said.

Burns awakened, and said it was a good idea. The two started down to Taltavul's when Forbes came out of the theater and joined them.

The big lights outside of Ford's Theatre were haloed in mist. Dimly coachmen could be seen hunched deep in their coats, their horses sleek and patient. The same off-duty soldiers waited in front of the theater, hoping for another glimpse of the President at intermission.

Inside, there were 1,675 persons. At least one was in a romantic mood. This was the President. He noticed that Major Rathbone, watching the play, had taken Miss Harris's hand in his. So he reached and found Mrs. Lincoln's hand and held it at the side of the rocker. After a moment, when he did not let go, Mrs. Lincoln leaned close to her husband and whispered:

“What will Miss Harris think of my hanging on to you so?”

“Why,” the President said, not taking his eyes from the stage, “she will think nothing about it.”

He maintained his grip. When the lights went up after Act One, the people in the audience studied the colorfully decorated box. Three persons could be seen plainly; the fourth sat in shadow. Those who were in the State Box could study the audience, a most fashionable audience of handsomely dressed ladies and stalwart men, many in uniform.

In an orchestra seat, Julia Adelaide Shepard used the intermission, and the brightened light, to write a hurried note to her father back home.