A Night of Horrors: A Historical Thriller about the 24 Hours of Lincoln's Assassination (3 page)

Lincoln came down the steps in his black suit, vest, and bow tie. His tie was slightly askew. The coat, with wide lapels, hung loosely on him as a result of his weight loss. Some concerned friends and colleagues had teased him that he was becoming nothing more than a skeleton in clothes. Food had never held much interest to him and his culinary tastes bordered on the dull, they were so simple. Nevertheless, his doctor had ordered him to increase the amount of food he ate to help him recover from falling ill due to extreme exhaustion. Lincoln had brushed his hair, but it stuck out in different directions and appeared as if he’d just gotten out of bed. When he walked into the family dining room, his youngest son Tad jumped from the table and gave his father a perfectly executed military salute while standing at attention.

“’Morning, Father,” he said as he straightened up.

“Good morning, General Lincoln,” the President said in response, and returned the salute with a beaming smile.

Tad ran and jumped and his father caught him and held him to his chest.

“Well, Tad, I can see that you are gettin’ too big to toss in the air like a sack o’ ‘taters now. I reckon that comes of almost being twelve years old.”

“Ah, Pa. You know I’m twelve now. Turned twelve just the other day!” Tad said as he stepped back and cocked his head up at his father.

“Twelve? Why I don’t recall any birthdays recently.” Lincoln put his hand to his chin and acted like he was pondering the situation. Tad stamped his foot and put his hands on his hips in mock anger.

“Well, I’ll be, Tad. If you aren’t the most rambunctious boy in the Executive Mansion.”

“Pa, I’m the
only
boy in the Executive Mansion!” Lincoln tilted his head back and laughed loudly and then bent over and slapped his knee. The boy had his father’s broad lips and they parted in a huge smile and then he joined in the laughter. Lincoln’s good cheer was always contagious and Mary Lincoln, his wife, who sat at the dining room table already, joined in the laughter. Lincoln ruffled his son’s hair and stepped over to his wife.

“Good mornin’, Mother. How’re you today?” Lincoln bent down and kissed his wife on the cheek.

“Good morning, Father. Aren’t you in fine spirits today?” Mary smiled at her husband as he took his seat at the other end of the table.

“Why yes, Mother, I am. I’ve had a wonderful night’s sleep. The best I can remember. Our son, Robert, has returned to us safely from this terrible war. And,” he paused before he spoke the words aloud for the first time, “I consider this the day that this terrible war has ended.” The breakfast room fell silent just for a moment. Tad and his mother looked at him sitting at the head of the table with arms extended and his big hands spread out on each side of his plate.

“Hooray!” Tad called out waving his napkin like a little flag. “The war is ended! Hooray!”

The Lincoln’s butler and footman, Charles Forbes, stepped into the room to pour the President some coffee. The Lincolns paid for their house servants out of their own pocket and since they had modest means, they had a small staff and some of their servants, like Charles, served in two roles.

“Why thanks, Charlie. Will you please cook me some bacon and some toast as well? This being a particularly celebratory breakfast.” Lincoln said to the man and returned the wide smile beaming from his servant.

“Yes, suh. A ‘ticularly celebratory breakfast.” The butler said as he turned to go to the kitchen and place the order.

Mary looked searchingly at her husband. She saw the hollowed eyes and the sunken cheeks. She had noticed that the experience of joy and celebration her husband had this week would quickly tax his system and he would go from being joyful and loud to quiet and introspective. She still worried that he was not fully recovered from the illness that had bedridden him just weeks ago, before the sudden and glorious turn in the war. The doctor had pronounced him utterly and completely exhausted. Even now she grew worried that the celebrations would tip him over the edge and dash his health. She hoped that the turn would prove to be a restorative.

“Taddie, please be civil at the breakfast table,” she said to her son as he continued to yell and wave his napkin. He stopped his yelling and looked over at this father and they exchanged a quick smile. The boy then spread his napkin in his lap and took a sip of his milk.

“Father, I thought you said the rebels still had 175,000 troops in the field. That Johnston had about 30,000 troops in North Carolina. How can you say the war is over?” Mary asked.

“Yes, Mother, you’re right. But Sherman has Johnston pinned down and I believe we’ll reach the end now without any further effusion of blood. Also, I had my ship dream last night. So I think this is a good mornin’.” He winked and smiled at her.

The Lincolns were believers that some dreams were significant and so they searched to understand their portents, both positive and negative. Mary would become frantic with worry if her husband had a nightmare. Lincoln, who dreamed of his funeral and death from time to time, would often keep these dreams from his wife so as not to worry her, particularly after she had a nervous breakdown after their son Willie died from fever. But Mary was familiar with this dream because Lincoln had dreamt of the ship on several occasions over the past few years and shared it with her each time.

“The dream where you are on a fast-moving boat?” She confirmed.

“Yes, Mother. I am confident of good tidings from General Sherman.” He smiled across the table and took a sip of his coffee. His eyes gleamed above the upturned cup. Her heart leapt at the sight of the old fire in his deep brown eyes.

Mary Lincoln sat in her chair with her satin dress spilling out around her. Her hair was gathered up into a bun with a braided cord holding it in place. Her hair was a rich black. Her dress had a lace collar, though on social occasions, like the grand levees or going to the theater as they planned to do that night, she preferred lower cut necklines. Mary Lincoln had full breasts and appreciated how a low neckline emphasized her bosom, as did her husband.

Robert Lincoln strode into the room as his mother and father were just beginning to eat their fried eggs, bacon, and toast. He was wearing his Captain’s uniform, flecked with dried mud and dirt from the chase to capture Robert Lee and the Army of Virginia.

“Rob is here! Rob is here!” Tad yelled and jumped from the table. The eldest son walked to greet his mother first, as was only proper, but his little brother intercepted him.

“Hey, old boy, I believe you’ve grown four inches since I saw you last.” Robert had knelt down to give his brother a hug. Mary stood and put her arms out to her eldest son.

“Oh, Robert, you’ve come home to me at last!” She held him and Robert patted her on the back with his left hand. He held a small-framed picture in the other hand. He smiled over at his father as he patiently waited for his mother to finish her embrace. Lincoln stood with one hand on the corner of the table, smiling at the reunion. At last, Mary released Robert from her motherly embrace. He walked around the table and extended his hand in greeting. Lincoln took his son’s right hand with his own and squeezed his forearm with his left.

“Good morning, Father, it is good to see you,” the son said.

“Robert, I am glad to see you as well.” Robert released his father’s grip and took his seat at the table. Charles, the butler, came in and poured Robert some coffee and asked if he wanted some breakfast. Robert asked for eggs and bacon. The boy’s hair was the same color as his father’s, but was not as wild and unruly. It was neatly parted high on the left side of his head. He had, as his father did, a broad forehead. His lower lip was a bit fuller, more like his mother’s. And Robert was sporting a thin mustache since he’d left for the war.

Lincoln’s oldest son was twenty-one years old. In January of that year, the President had finally yielded to his son’s repeated requests to join the army. He’d figured out that he could overcome his wife’s protests and earnest fears for his son’s life by writing to General Grant. He had asked the man to consider the letter as though he wasn’t the President but just a friend. Lincoln asked if Robert couldn’t join Grant’s military family without embarrassment to the General or detriment to the service. Lincoln had assured the general that he would cover his son’s expenses from his own pocket. Grant had graciously agreed and made Robert Lincoln a Captain and appointed him to his own staff, well behind the battle lines. This last point was all that soothed Mary’s worrying heart and mind.

“Well, Robert, you must share your experience of the great scene at Appomattox Court House. How was it?” Lincoln asked without any hesitation.

“I will, Father, but first I thought you’d want this. It’s a portrait of Lee.” He handed the framed picture to his father.

Lincoln took the portrait and laid it on the table above his plate. He stared down at the face before him thoughtfully. He had never met Robert E. Lee, but he’d seen pictures of him. This was the man who had eluded him these years and who had out-generaled his Union leaders for so long. Until Grant.

“It is a good face,” he remarked. “It is the face of a noble brave man. I’m glad the war is over at last.” Looking up from the portrait of Lee he caught his son’s eyes.

“Well, my son, you’ve returned safely from the front. The war’s now closed, and soon we’ll live in peace with the brave men that have been fighting against us. I trust that the era of good feeling has returned with the war’s end, and that henceforth we shall live in peace.”

“Yes, Father,” Robert responded. “I believe that General Grant and his staff are in agreement. His treatment of the rebels was generous. Just as you’d have wanted.”

“I’m pleased. Now listen to me, Robert. You must lay aside your uniform, and return to college. I wish you to read law for three years, and at the end of that time I hope that we’ll be able to tell whether you’ll make a lawyer or not.” The smile on the haggard face belied the firm tone of his voice. Mary took her son’s hand as he sat next to her and smiled her approval and support of her husband’s pronouncement.

Robert nodded his head in consent but added, “The war might not be over just yet. Let me see it all the way through and I shall do as you ask.”

Lincoln nodded his assent. “Now tell me about Grant and Lee.”

“The contrast was telling, Father, between the two generals. I just happened to be on the porch of the house as I saw a man approach who had just dismounted from his horse. It was the great Robert E. Lee.”

“Describe him, Robert. What was he like?”

“Up he walked, Father, as straight and proud as any man I’ve ever encountered. His head was white. He wore his dress uniform, and it was spotless. He wore a jeweled sword and gold spurs,” Robert’s brown eyes lit up with the recent memory of his brief encounter with General Lee. “His boots were so polished you could shave in the reflection.”

Lincoln nodded at his son’s description “And our own General Grant?” He asked by way of encouragement to the storyteller.

“Lee arrived early in full military dress, all clean and polished, as I said. A while later, I saw a small, stooping, shabby, shy man in a blue uniform with muddy boots and pants approach the house. He wore no sword and no spurs. I noticed that on his shoulder were the frayed and dingy shoulder straps of a Lieutenant General on the rumpled blouse of a Private!” Robert laughed and his father joined in lifting his right leg and slapping his thigh and crinkling up his entire face.

“What in the world was Grant doing in a Private’s blouse and muddy boots?” Lincoln asked.

“Apparently, word got late to our General of Lee’s plans to arrive early that morning and he had no time to dress properly. As he approached, he realized that his uniform was spattered with mud and not wishing to give offence by arriving in his field uniform, he took a Private’s blouse that was clean and transferred his General’s straps to it.” Father and son continued to chatter and laugh at the stories of the great surrender just five days earlier.

“Mr. President,” one of the house servants stood at the door to the dining room. “Mr. Colfax is here, sir.”

“Thank you,” Lincoln said to the servant, and then turned his attention back to his son. “Now remember, Robert, you must lay aside your uniform and return to college for your law degree.” Lincoln stood as he was speaking and looked down on his son, lifting his unruly eyebrows in appeal.

“Yes, Father, once the war is truly over,” Robert held his ground.

“Mother, our son is a politician in the makin’,” he said over his shoulder as he walked from the room. In a moment he returned with a smile on his face.

“Remember, Mother, we have our carriage ride this afternoon.”

“Yes, Father, I remember and I will not be late. You are far more likely to be late or forget than I.” She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head at him to reinforce her point.

“Mother, if you don’t beat all! Robert, I’m so pleased you are home.” With that, the President turned from the room and called goodbye to Tad over his shoulder.

Spring Shadow

Just several blocks away, down Pennsylvania Avenue, Wilkes Booth stood in the doorway of the small closet in his room in the National Hotel and looked at his dwindling collection of suits. He eyed a particular suit he liked to wear in the springtime. The suit was a bit more worn than he would have wished, but still good enough to maintain his reputation as one of the best-dressed men in the Capital. Booth pulled on his starched white shirt and fastened the collar. The inside of the collar was worn from long wear and was stained a grayish brown from the sweat of his neck. It had been months since he had purchased a new shirt much less a new suit of clothes. Booth longed for the days when money was not a care and he acquired whichever fine suit of clothes that caught his eye. Tailors used to step to their doorways and greet him when they saw him coming in hopes that he was visiting their store. But Booth hadn’t appeared as a star in a running show for many months now. He had foresworn acting in pursuit of his higher calling. He was in the secret service of the Confederate States of America now.

John Wilkes Booth was the second youngest of his mother’s nine children. The only child younger was his sister, Asia, for whom Booth held a passionate love and sense of protection. His father was one of the greatest stage actors of the nineteenth century in England and the United States, and Booth was determined that his star would outshine his father’s. John Wilkes was also convinced that his name would be greater than that of his older brother, Edwin, who was a truly great Shakespearian actor. Once Wilkes Booth had begun his career, his star had caught on and his popularity had grown with astonishing speed. He became famous for his energetic, almost frenetic, movements on the stage. His swordplay was so swift that he often came offstage bleeding from his cheek or arm because he had cut himself. On a few occasions his fellow actor was the one bleeding from Booth’s sweeping swordplay. Audiences watched in wonder as he made leaps from heights of ten or twelve feet and landed with the softness of a cat. Women repeatedly watched his performances and developed a private yet passionate love for him. And sometimes, these women—married, mothers or single—were not so discreet in expressing their desire for him in unblushing boldness in their letters. But Booth, fancying himself a gallant Southerner, always tore the signatures from the letters he received from these women and burned them so they could not be implicated for their impropriety. He also took advantage of their ardor and enjoyed some of these women in bed on a regular basis.

In 1864, just as Booth’s name was reaching national attention, he invested several thousand dollars into oil speculation in the Pennsylvania oil fields. At first his friends and family assumed he was attempting to parlay the small fortune he was making on the stage into a large fortune by speculating in the new oil industry. To the world, he’d sworn that his investment was paying off so handsomely he did not need to work on stage any more. So when his star was just about to reach an important apex, Booth stopped accepting acting engagements. His friends and family watched in confusion as Booth, who had become one of the most popular actors in America, stopped working on the stage and, instead, made several trips to Pennsylvania. Booth was also making trips to locations about which he didn’t tell his friends and family. In fact, Booth had made secret trips to Canada and to New York City where he met with agents of the Confederate Secret Service. In the summer of 1864, Booth had finally grown weary of the Union’s policy of not trading prisoners of war. Stanton, the War Secretary, had announced that the Union would no longer exchange prisoners of war with the Confederates realizing that the more prisoners he kept in Union prisons, the fewer Confederate men would be able to take up arms against the North. The Union had a much better supply of human resources than their southern foes. Angered over this latest attempt to bleed the South of her men, Booth had concocted a bold plan: capture President Lincoln, take him prisoner, and transport him to Richmond where he would be exchanged for the roughly 25,000 Confederate soldiers sitting in Union prisons.

As he had begun to develop his plans to make his strategy a reality, Booth had come into increasing contact with operatives of the South who lived in Maryland and New York. He had also traveled to Canada where much of the leadership of the Confederate Secret Service stayed. The South’s secret service bureau was an unofficial group of individuals who acted independently and sometimes in concert to thwart the North’s progress in the war. Some of their actions were nefarious and involved acts of espionage in the Capital. Other actions were purely political such as quietly working to defeat Abraham Lincoln in the general election of 1864—an effort that was unsuccessful. Since his new career was unknown to his friends and family, his mother and his sister, in particular, became very concerned with John Wilkes’ behavior. His mother was convinced that he was up to no good and about to run off with an unsavory woman. In an attempt to appease his family, and reduce their concerns, Booth agreed to appear with his two brothers, Edwin and Junius in New York City, in a production of
Julius Caesar
in the fall of 1864.

John Wilke’s little sister, Asia, traveled from her home in Philadelphia to see her three brothers perform on the stage for the first time. While at her mother’s home in the city, she became embroiled in a political discussion concerning the war. The older brother, Edwin, was an ardent supporter of the Union and enjoyed nettling his younger brother about his support of the South. As Edwin left the room, leaving Wilkes Booth fuming in frustration, Asia made a comment.

“If the North conquers the South, then they are of the North. They will become part of the one nation again,” she said. He turned to her, his face flushing.

“Not I, not I! So help me God! My soul, life, and possessions are for the South!” He stood up from the couch on which they were sitting and paced back and forth across the sitting room, his agitation rising with each turn.

“If you are so much for the South, then why not go fight for her then? Every Marylander worthy of the name is fighting her battles,” Asia countered.

Booth turned and looked at his sister and stared at her for several long moments. She sensed that he was struggling to share something of import with her and so she sat silently looking into his eyes. After a moment, he sat down next to her on the couch again. Just as she was beginning to regret the quickness of her cutting comment, he began to speak to her. He kept his pale face looking straight ahead, not catching her eye. Though she had seen his face countless times growing up and as a man, she still marveled at the perfectly set nose, the luster of his black curls, and the turn of his lip. He was altogether marvelous in his dark beauty.

“I have only one arm to give as other men do. My brains are worth twenty men, my money worth a hundred, Asia. I have free pass everywhere. My name is my passport to move freely in the north as well as those parts of the south I am allowed to visit. My precious money—never really beloved until now—is the means, one of the means, by which I serve the South.” Booth said the words calmly but with an underlying emotion. Though his words were cryptic, as he finished his sentence he turned his gaze fully upon his sister and the realization swept over her all at once: her brother was a spy for the South!

“So you have a pass to move freely, and…and you use this to go and visit Union troops?” The understanding was dawning within her mind. “You go to troops where ever you have acted? Kansas? Texas? Maryland?” Her eyes widened in fascination and horror.

“Just so,” Booth smiled slightly as his sister’s quick grasping of his role.

“A man came here the other day and asked for ‘Doctor Booth.’ What does that mean, Wilkes?” She held her hand up to her mouth and stared at her brother who was suddenly transforming into a new being right before her eyes, without changing a single feature on his face or a stitch of his clothing.

“I am he, my dear.
I
am Doctor Booth. I have knowledge of medicines, my dear, and the means to acquire and transport them. The drug that the South needs more than any other is quinine. Though many try to peddle some paltry version of the drug to me, I am far too expert in the matter to fall for that. I have men who provide me with the perfect article.” He smiled at his sister’s apparent inability to speak a word at his revelation.

“But how do you transport it?” She finally asked.

“Oh, horse collars and so forth. I help to run the blockades, my dear.” He laughed at her mounting concerns. ‘Just imagine if you knew the great plans I have for this tyrant in the Executive Mansion. That I will secure this buffoon and take him south and then I will have a name that is far higher than Edwin’s or father’s,’ Booth thought to himself while his sister struggled to bring this new view of her beautiful brother into focus.

Wilkes Booth’s thoughts returned to the present as he stood in front of the mirror in his sparse room at the National Hotel on Good Friday morning. He was reviewing himself before he went downstairs for breakfast. His suit, though worn, still showed him in an elegant light. The dark woolen suit had a plush velvet collar and a fine satin trim. He had a rich red cravat necktie puffing just so from the buttoned suit. As he walked down the steps he pulled the cuff of his white shirt down so they just peeked from the cuffs of his jacket. As he walked into the dining room, he was greeted by name and escorted to the breakfast table to which his room number was assigned. He saw that he had a breakfast partner who would be joining him. He knew the lady, an attractive woman in her early twenties. He walked over to Carrie Bean and bid her good morning. She was in a clean blue dress with a crinolette beneath that provided fullness to the back, but allowed for a narrower shape to the sides and in the front. It was a look that was just now coming into fashion in the United States. She was an acquaintance that the actor had made many months earlier when he was still acting. She smiled at him and smoothed her honey-blonde hair beneath the matching bonnet that she wore. Booth nodded to the maitre’ d and he seated the actor. They ordered and sat silently for a moment while they awaited their food to arrive.

“Did you go out to see the Illumination last night?” She asked with evident excitement in her voice.

He sighed loudly so she would understand that he was not enthused with this line of conversation. “Yes, I saw some of it around here. But I certainly didn’t wander the city like so many others apparently did.”

“It was magnificent. I have never seen anything so marvelous and wonderful. The entire city was aglow like it was a great lantern,” her eyes brightened as she spoke.

“Yes, I am sure,” he said and laid his right hand down on the table. Carrie Bean immediately noticed two things about his hand. His fingernails were perfectly manicured with no dirt beneath them and smooth-edged. Then she noticed on that soft triangular patch of skin between the thumb and forefinger were three crude letters tattooed onto his skin: JWB. The letters were formed poorly as if a child had done it.

“What’s that?” She asked tilting her head at this hand. He raised his eyebrows by way of asking what she meant. She leaned forward and placed her right elbow on the table. Then, drooping her forearm forward, she lightly outlined the letters with the nail of her forefinger. She raised her eyes to him and smiled. He returned the favor.

“That. Why do you have your initials on your hand? I’ve never noticed them before.” She continued to outline the letters ever so lightly and looked up and held his gaze. Her blue eyes were bright and looked fully into Booth’s face—her look and the touch of his hand were bold gestures that did not go unnoticed by him.

“I did it when I was but a boy,” he answered holding her eyes with his.

“Why in the world would you have done that?”

“I did it myself. I wrote my initials in Indian ink to remind myself that I would be great one day. So I would remember that my name was to be known across the entire land,” he answered.

“Well,” she smiled at him, “I reckon it worked didn’t it?” She traced the poorly formed letters once more, this time looking at his hand as she did so.

“Yes, Miss Bean, I reckon it did. But my name shall be greater even yet.” She looked up sensing the conviction in his voice. They continued to look at each other in silence as the waiter set down plates of eggs, Virginia ham, and grits before them. Booth knew it would be an enjoyable breakfast indeed.

Booth handed Miss Carrie Bean into the carriage and waved to her as the carriage pulled away. He decided that now was the time for a good shave and trim. He rubbed his finger over his chin and realized that his stubble was much heavier than he had realized and wondered what impression that made on her while they talked over breakfast. As he walked along Pennsylvania Avenue to go to Booker and Stewart, his barbers on E street, his mind wandered from the enjoyable conversation at breakfast to the passersby on the sidewalk. The ladies and gentlemen were in their interminable celebratory mood. He heard snippets of people talking about the Great Illumination from the night before: they spoke of how brightly the Capitol dome was lit or about all of the candles in the windows of the various executive office buildings.

Wilkes turned from Pennsylvania to Thirteenth Street and kept walking and listening and thinking. His mind began to turn over the events of the past several days. On Tuesday evening, just two days before, Booth had joined the crowds and walked to the Executive Mansion to listen to Abraham Lincoln give a speech. The expectation had been that the President would mark the occasion of Richmond’s fall and Lee’s surrender with a rousing speech of congratulations and victory. Booth was joined by two of his companions in his plot to kidnap Lincoln and ransom him for the Confederate prisoners, David Herold and a mysterious young Confederate soldier named Lewis Powell. As they gathered in the darkening night, Lincoln stepped up to a window. The crowds cheered for him and called for him to give a speech. He asked for more light and soon the room he was in was illuminated nicely, and someone stood next to the President holding a candle so he could read his prepared remarks.