A Night of Horrors: A Historical Thriller about the 24 Hours of Lincoln's Assassination (32 page)

“This is gonna hurt you,” he said factually. Booth took a long pull from the whiskey bottle and clenched his teeth together. He nodded at the doctor who then prised the boot from his heel. Booth was in excruciating pain and sweat stood out on his face and forehead. The doctor pushed up Booth’s pant leg that had been buttoned over the boot and studied his leg.

“How long’s this gonna take?” Herold asked nervously. He didn’t like being inside. The boy felt safer on the road where they could move and see something coming at them. In the house he didn’t know if soldiers were at the front door and ready to shoot them. He wanted to keep moving as Booth had said they would. The goal was to get to the Potomac on Saturday and then across to Virginny on Sunday.

“About another hour, I’d reckon,” Mudd said absently as he probed the wound with his fingers. Booth winced. “It doesn’t appear to be a severe break. It isn’t a compound fracture. That means I won’t have to reset it. But you will need a splint and some crutches to get around. Let me see what I can make do with in the barn.” When the doctor was gone, Herold leaned in towards Booth.

“We gonna keep movin’ like you planned?”

“It’s gonna be morning soon. I don’t think we should be out ridin’ on the roads in broad daylight, do you? I can’t ride much further tonight any way. My leg’s in great pain.”

“I don’t like sittin’ still. We’re like ducks.”

“Just hush up, the doctor’s comin’,” Booth snapped at him.

Doctor Mudd was able to splint Booth’s leg and then gave him some crude crutches he’d fashioned out of some lumber in his barn. “They aren’t fancy, but they should work for you.”

“Would you gentlemen like some breakfast?” A young woman had walked into the room unannounced. She was dressed in a plain blue dress and had long brown hair that was braided and pulled up and pinned on the back of her head.

“This is my wife,” Mudd said.

“I don’t know about eating, but we could sure use a rest. Do you have some spare beds?” Booth asked.

The husband and wife glanced at each other and then Mudd gave Booth a knowing look. Sleeping in his house had been specifically excluded from their understanding. But the southern doctor felt obliged to offer the rooms that were available upstairs, so Booth started slowly up the stairs. But Herold became impatient and told him to hold his crutches and put his arm around his shoulder. He served as a human crutch and they got up the stairs much more quickly.

“We should be movin’,” Herold hissed in Booth’s ear as he helped him sit on the bed.

“I told you I can’t ride. Let’s get some rest and then maybe you can find a wagon or a carriage that we can borrow or rent and take south later today or this evenin’.”

“We leave after we sleep then,” Herold conceded and left Booth to get himself situated in bed. He went to his own room and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Booth was slower to fall asleep. He pulled his jacket off and gently lifted his splinted leg onto the bed. He thought about standing behind the President, pulling the trigger, feeling the Derringer jump in his hand and the taste of the gunpowder on his tongue. The thought of the acrid smoke set his teeth on edge as he lay in the bed. He wondered what happened to the officer that he’d stabbed. The struggle and the stabbing had happened as quickly as a bolt of lightening appears and disappears in the sky. But he’d done it. He shot the President, stabbed an Army officer, and leapt to safety from the box. He had done it. Now it was just a matter of the news getting out and arriving in the South. He’d be cheered and paraded through the streets of Atlanta, Raleigh, Columbia, and Mobile. The South would rise again, with new vigor and hope, because the tyrant had been slain.

Booth settled into bed, resting his head comfortably on the pillow. He closed his eyes and smiled as he drifted to sleep. His was the deep and restful sleep of a man who had finally accomplished a goal that he had struggled for years to fulfill. All of the months of waiting, all of the taunts, all of the failed attempts, all of the dashed hopes, all of the bitter frustrations were washed away from his soul. Abraham Lincoln was dead, and John Wilkes Booth had shot him. Booth was safe. He was the savior of the South.

In the Petersen House on Tenth Street, Edwin Stanton was sitting at the writing desk again. Speed had finished the letter to Johnson that would inform the Vice President that Lincoln had died and he now assumed the office and duties of the great man. Both he and Stanton had signed it and Speed kept it in safekeeping inside his coat until he would gather the rest of the signatures at the right time. The only head of a department who wouldn’t sign it was William Seward. It was after four o’clock in the morning and Stanton felt it was time to send an update to General Dix and the nation. He wrote another message to be telegrammed to New York City.

Washington City, Numbers 458, Tenth Street, April 15, 1865

Major-General DIX:

The President continues insensible and is sinking. Secretary Seward remains without change. Frederick Seward’s skull is fractured in two places, besides a severe cut upon the head. The attendant is still alive, but assassins were engaged in the horrible crime, Wilkes Booth being the one that shot the President, the other a companion of his whose name is not known, but whose description is so clear that he can hardly escape. It appears from a letter found in Booth’s trunk that the murder was planned before the 4
^th
of March, but fell through then because the accomplice backed out until “Richmond could be heard from.” Booth and his accomplice were at the livery stable at 6 this evening, and left there with their horses about 10 o’clock, or shortly before that hour. It would seem that they had for several days been seeking their chance, but for some unknown reason it was not carried into effect until last night. One of them has evidently made his way to Baltimore, the other has not yet been traced.

Edwin Stanton

Secretary of War

Stanton blotted the paper so the ink would not smear and handed it to a soldier who stood close by. The solider ran from the house and relayed it to the next soldier who ran with it a few blocks until the message made its way via relay to the Telegraph Office on the second floor of the War Department. Stanton sighed deeply in the room, by himself for a few moments. Suddenly, without warning, tears sprung to his eyes. He blinked them away, but they came nonetheless. He wiped at them clumsily with the back of his hands. The truth of the situation flooded through his mind with the force of a violent summer thunderstorm. Lincoln had governed brilliantly. He had built coalitions, kept his party together, and won the support and love of the country. He had prosecuted the war as well as anyone could have expected when general after general refused to take the fight to Robert E. Lee. Above all, he had ensured that the Union was preserved and Democracy saved. The tears were flowing freely and Stanton was looking down at his empty hands laying palms up on the small desk. And now, in his day of triumph an
actor
had shot him—had robbed him of the satisfaction of the crowning achievement of his life—of any life! ‘My God, it could not be,’ he thought. But it was.

Stanton rose from the desk and walked with drooping shoulders across the small room from which he had been single-handedly running the country. He paused and stood up straight, wiped any evidence of tears from his face and straightened his coat and tie. Then he walked quietly into the room where the President lay. He was like a moth drawn to the flickering candle. They all were. As painful as it was to listen to the rattling breath and watch his face swell and the bruise change colors, they simply could not leave the President’s side. As the Secretary of War walked into the room, a few glanced at him and then looked back at Abraham Lincoln lying diagonally across the bed. They had long ago stopped trying to find fresh handkerchiefs to put under his head. The pillow itself was now thoroughly stained with the blood and the fluids leaking from the head wound.

Through the open window, those on the deathwatch could hear the clocks of Washington sound out the hour. It was six o’clock and the dawn was breaking a wet granite gray. It was much cooler outside than it had been at dawn on Friday, when the sun rose clear and warm above the city. Mrs. Dixon was at the door and coughed quietly. The First Lady came in and Senator Charles Sumner arose from the seat and held his hand out, beckoning her to take her place. He went and stood next to Robert Lincoln. Stanton shifted on his feet, but decided to stay. The President’s breathing had slowed and become more shallow in the past fifteen minutes. The doctors had announced that his heartbeat was slower and less sustained. He’d overheard Surgeon General Barnes say to the young doctor Leale that “it had begun.” The Secretary would not be absent when his Old Chief departed this world.

Mary Lincoln sat down and looked at her husband’s face. She remained calm this time. She gently stroked her husband’s hand and pathetically straightened the blankets stretched over his body. She wept, but her tears were quiet and almost subdued. The First Lady was exhausted from an endless night of weeping and hoping and mourning. Suddenly, though, her Abraham began to choke and grunt. His face, that had been oddly calm and serene in spite of the bruise now spreading from his right eye across to the left side of his face, began to twitch. His cheeks pinched themselves on the left and then on the right. His eyelids fluttered as if they were about to spring open. The corners of his mouth pulled backwards as if a string had been attached to the corner of his lips and pulled from behind, creating the effect of a gruesome smirk on her dying husband’s face. Mary Lincoln watched in horror as her husband’s face twitched on and on like he was possessed. She sprang to her feet and uttered a piercing scream that horrified everyone in the room more than the unnatural movements of the President’s face. Just as suddenly as she sprang up, she collapsed to the floor in a fainting spell. Immediately Mrs. Dixon and Robert were kneeling at her side, rubbing her hands and patting her face to rouse her. Dr. Leale quickly came around the bed and offered her restoratives. As she opened her eyes and sat up, she began to wail once again.

“Take that woman from this room. Take her now and do not allow her to return!” Edwin Stanton’s voice shook with emotion and he stood with his right hand raised and pointing out the door. His order was final and Mrs. Dixon and Robert helped the First Lady to her feet and got her back to the parlor where she collapsed on the sofa. She whimpered quietly, the images of her husband’s twitching face filling her mind.

Abraham Lincoln’s breath became more labored. Each time he drew in, the sound was rough and hoarse and made harsh barking noises. Then he would suddenly breathe lightly and freely, only to be followed by the heavy labored breathing. Dr. Leale determined that the end was at hand for Abraham Lincoln. His belief was that as a person died, recognition and reason often returned to those who had been unconscious. So he slipped between the bed and the wall on Lincoln’s right hand side and held Lincoln’s hand in his. If Lincoln were to suddenly regain his reason at the last moment of his life, then Leale was determined that the President would recognize that friends and family who loved him were all around him.

Gideon Welles felt the room closing in on him. He had moved closer to the open window in hopes of finding some relief, but it was just stifling to him. He felt woozy and his head was light. He needed to take a brief walk outside. He was worried that Lincoln would die while he was out, but he feared he would faint away if he stayed. So he grabbed his hat and coat and walked outside of the door. As he came down the front steps, the men in the crowd removed their hats.

“How’s Fathuh Abr’am?” Several asked him quietly.

“I am afraid that it’s only a matter of time before he dies,” Gideon Welles said quietly. They bowed their heads and some wept quietly. He moved through the crowd and was struck by how quiet they all were. ‘So many Negroes,’ he thought. ‘They mourn the loss of their liberator and savior.’ The crowd was quiet and respectful, as he walked among them. They all asked of news and bowed their heads when he shared it. As he got past the crowd, he took in mouthfuls of the cool fresh air. His great white frizzy beard stood in contrast to the dark coat that he wore. His salt and pepper hair was curled and lay on his shoulders. His cheeks were puffy and swollen from tears. He turned and looked back at the great crowd that was still standing and staring at the door to the Petersen house. He took a few more deep breaths and walked a little farther down Tenth Street, but would not go far. The theater was locked and soldiers stood in front of it to guard against those who had wanted to burn it down the night before, as if the building itself was evil and had joined in the plot to assassinate the President. Welles had only been outside the house for about ten minutes but he was already anxious and worried that the President would die before he could get back inside. The cool fresh air had done him a world of good, though. His head was clearer and he did not feel stifled and suffocated. He took a few more deep breaths and made his way back towards the house. The crowds opened for him and allowed him to easily pass through.

“Tell Fathuh Abr’am we loves him, suh. You tell him we a’prayin’ for him, suh,” they said quietly as he walked by. Welles was surprised at how moved he was by these quiet acts of devotion and words of encouragement and love as he walked back into the house. He was struck by the stark contrast the tense inhabitants of the house made to the still hopeful scene on the street. He removed his hat and coat and laid them on the coat rack as he quietly walked back down the hall. The gray light of the rainy day was filtering into the house now, replacing the sepia yellow of the gas jets throughout the night.