The Day Lincoln Was Shot (34 page)

Senator Sumner, sitting near the head of the bed, took the President's left hand in his and, bowing his head to the bed, began to sob. Seeing this, Robert Lincoln began to weep. Dr. Charles Taft, leaving, said: “It's the saddest death scene I've ever witnessed.”

Among those for whom this ordeal was difficult was Dr. Leale. He had a professional interest, and a personal interest. No one knew—and Leale did not mention it this night—that the young doctor had idolized Lincoln for a long time. On Tuesday, he had finished his surgical duties at the Soldiers' Hospital early so that he could stand in a crowd and hear Lincoln speak at the White House. He had come to stand in front of Ford's Theatre tonight, not to gawk, but to look upon the face of a man he loved. He had bought postcard pictures of Lincoln to hang in his room. To Leale, the sixteenth President was the greatest.

Now he was a doctor on a case. And his opinions were crisply professional as he worked through the final hours. A clot formed in the bullet hole every few minutes, and Leale insisted that he would remove them, and no one else. He remained at the President's side and sometimes, if the Surgeon General watched, he would see Leale holding the President's hand. He wasn't taking a pulse. He was holding the hand.

Dr. Leale had a reason for this. He thought that, just before death, reason and recognition often return to a patient for a brief moment. Leale held Lincoln's hand, as he explained later, so that if reason did come for a moment, “he would know, in his blindness, that he was in touch with humanity and had a friend.”

In the back parlor, Attorney General Speed made the finished copy of the formal notification of Lincoln's death at 1:30
A.M.
and called upon the members of the Cabinet to sign it. This was done at once. At almost the same time, Stanton decided to release the news, through General John Adams Dix, Commandant, New York. General Dix resembled Secretary Seward in looks, having the same gray hair, smooth cheek, and patrician air.

Thus the first news of the assassination was designed for release in New York. The reader may quarrel with the small errors Mr. Stanton made in his report, but the big one is that he knew the name of the assassin but did not mention him. This, in effect, prevented the newspapers from broadcasting an alarm for Booth, because it left them with no high official source to attribute the name to. At this hour, every newspaper in Washington and the Associated Press in New York knew that the actor Booth was the man being hunted as the assassin, but, when they saw the Stanton statement in General Dix's hands, most of them decided not to use Booth's name; a few decided to hint by announcing that the “scion of a famous family of actors is being sought.”

At military headquarters in Washington, General Augur had completed questioning most of the witnesses, and had
time to think. The more he thought about stableman Fletcher's story of the blind horse, the more he thought that the conspirators might be traced through a stable. He ordered fresh patrols of cavalry out to canvass every stable in Washington City. If Booth rented a horse, he could hardly have concealed his identity. He wanted any stableman who had seen Booth brought to him at once.

The man arrived shortly before 2
A.M.
He had seen Booth off on a small roan mare at four o'clock, he said. Augur listened. There was a sort of loose partnership in horses, the stableman said, between Wilkes Booth and a man named John Surratt. It was hard to tell which one owned the horses, because both men used them. Sometimes, either of them gave permission to a man named George Atzerodt and another man named David Herold to use the horses. And another strange thing: Booth had a big one-eyed gelding which only today he had ordered stabled in the back of Ford's Theatre.

It was then that some unremembered officer on Augur's staff figuratively snapped his fingers and, in substance, said: Just a moment. Didn't we get a report on an alleged kidnapping of President Lincoln some months ago, and wasn't someone named Surratt a part of that report? Didn't a woman named Surratt keep a boardinghouse somewhere nearby? Wouldn't that explain why, with the bridges closed and armed patrols all over the city, we have not been able to find John Wilkes Booth? Couldn't it be that he is hiding right now in Washington City?

It could.

General Augur was still thinking about Booth and the boardinghouse when Richards, at police headquarters, made up his mind to raid the place. Before him he had the names of Booth, Herold, Surratt. The only one of the three with a known address was Surratt, and Richards remembered that the military had issued a confidential report on the Surratt house based on intelligence given by an informer in the War Department.

The superintendent of police called Detective John A. W. Clarvoe and explained his hunch. He asked that Clarvoe select a squad of good detectives and go up to H Street and raid the place now. Richards asked him to bring back Booth and Surratt, if they were there. Richards might have said: “Bring back anyone on the premises,” but his hunch was still only a hunch and he did not want to be in the position of instigating terror raids at 2
A.M.

In fifteen minutes, Clarvoe was standing in front of the darkened house. H Street was deserted. He had ten men with him and he posted them carefully. One went to the back of the house, in the yard, one in the alley to the east, four men at the four corners of the building. Then Clarvoe, accompanied by Lieutenant Skippon, Detective Donaldson, Detective McDevitt and Officer Maxwell, climbed the white stone steps to the parlor floor. Clarvoe pulled the bell.

The men could hear it jangle inside. Maxwell kept a hand on his gun. The detective was ready to pull the bell again when he heard a sleepy male voice from inside the door.

“Who is it?”

“We're police.” The door opened slightly. “Who are you?”

“Louis Wiechman.”

“Is John Surratt in?”

“No. He is not in the city.”

“Does his mother live here?”

“Yes.”

“I would like to see her.”

“I'm sorry. She's in bed.”

“It makes no difference. I must see her.”

“All right. I will speak to her first.”

The big boarder tried to close the door. Clarvoe and Skippon leaned on it and stepped inside. Wiechman was frightened. He stood with a small lamp, his nightshirt tucked into his trousers, his feet bare. He walked to the back of the house, Clarvoe a step behind him. The other policemen began to light lamps in the house. One went upstairs to the top floor, the other down to the basement dining room and kitchen.

Wiechman knocked on Mrs. Surratt's door and, through the closed panel, held a whispered conversation. Detective Clarvoe stepped closer and said: “Is this Mrs. Surratt?”

“Yes,” said the woman behind the door.

“I want to see John.”

“John is not in the city, sir.”

“When did you see him last?”

“It must be two weeks ago.”

Clarvoe signaled for another detective to take over the questioning of Mrs. Surratt. He turned to Wiechman and walked back to the sitting room.

“Do you belong here?” Clarvoe said.

“I do.”

“Where is your room?”

Wiechman pointed.

“I want to see it,” said the policeman.

Wiechman led the way upstairs, followed by Clarvoe and Lieutenant Skippon. The boarder opened the door to his room and stepped inside. He turned the kerosene lamp up.

“Is that your trunk?” said Clarvoe.

“Yes sir.”

As the policeman stooped to open it, Wiechman laid a timid hand on his shoulder. The boarder's eyes were pleading.

“Will you be kind enough to tell me the meaning of all this?”

Clarvoe straightened. “That is a pretty question for you to ask me. Where have you been tonight?”

“I have been here in the house.”

“Were you here all evening?”

“No. I was down the country with Mrs. Surratt.”

A second detective was rummaging through a closet. “Do you pretend to tell me that you do not know what happened this night?”

“I do,” Wiechman said. “What happened?”

“I will tell you,” Clarvoe said. From his pocket he pulled a piece of wilted collar and a small bow from a tie. The collar was stained orange. “Do you see this blood? This is Abraham Lincoln's blood. Wilkes Booth has murdered the President and John Surratt has assassinated Mr. Seward.”

The boarder clapped a hand to his forehead dramatically. “Great God!” he moaned. “I see it all now!” He staggered. “Is it really true?”

Clarvoe rummaged through the trunk and Skippon, who had finished with the closet, nodded to him. They went downstairs with Wiechman. At the foot of the stairs, Mrs. Surratt was answering some questions asked by Detective McDevitt.

The boarder said: “What do you think, Mrs. Surratt? President Lincoln has been murdered by John Wilkes Booth and the Secretary of State has been assassinated.”

Mrs. Surratt raised both hands above her head and said: “My God! You don't tell me so!”

Clarvoe closely watched the reactions of the landlady and the boarder to the news, and both seemed to him to be genuinely shocked.

“Mrs. Surratt,” said the detective, “I am going to ask you a couple of questions and I want you to be very particular how you answer them because a great deal depends upon them. When did you see John Wilkes Booth?”

The little landlady thought for a moment. “Why,” she said, “two o'clock this day.”

“You mean yesterday?”

“Yes, yesterday.”

“When did you last see your son John?”

“About two weeks ago.”

“Where is he?”

“The last I heard, in Canada. I received a letter from him. There are a great many mothers who do not know where their sons are. What is the meaning of all this?”

Clarvoe started up the stairs again. He nodded to McDevitt: “Mack, you tell her.” He went to the top floor and tried a doorknob. The door was locked. He heard a female voice say: “Who is it?” On the opposite side of the hall, a door opened and John Holahan came out in his nightshirt.

“John,” said Clarvoe, “how do you do? What are you doing here?”

Holahan, half awake, squinted in the gaslight and roared: “And how are you, John? I board here. What's the matter?”

“How long have you been here tonight?”

“Why, I took a walk and got in early. Nine o'clock, I think.”

“President Lincoln has been murdered.”

Holahan reacted like the others. He took a staggered step backward.

“Great God Almighty!”

Clarvoe took the doorknob in his hand, and Holahan restrained him. “My little daughter is in there,” he said. Clarvoe tried to go into the other bedroom. “John,” said Holahan, “my wife is in there. Let me talk to her and then you can come in.”

Clarvoe waited outside of both doors. The boarder talked to Mrs. Holahan and said that she would be presentable in a minute. The detective wanted to know if there was anything upstairs, and Holahan told him a furnished attic, and led the way. Anna Surratt was there and, with her was the young girl who usually shared a bed with Mrs. Surratt, Honora Fitzpatrick.

“Do you mind,” said Holahan, “if I warn them first that someone is coming in?”

“Go ahead.”

Holahan stepped into the room, awakened the young ladies, and told them to get dressed, that police were in the house. The girls did not get dressed. In fright, they elected to cover their heads with bedclothes and remain where they were. Clarvoe searched the room and, realizing that he did not know who was under the bedclothes, said that he was sorry, but that he would have to see their faces. He pulled the bedclothes back a little and took a look.

He went back downstairs, met Mrs. Holahan, examined that bedroom, peeked into the one across the hall where young Miss Holahan was, and then joined the others down on the parlor floor. Clarvoe and Skippon went down to the basement and searched it. In the kitchen, they saw a Negro woman.