Killing Lincoln: The Shocking Assassination that Changed America Forever Part 7

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

MONDAY, APRIL 10, 1865 WASHINGTON, D.C.

NIGHT.

Booth's Washington residence is the National Hotel, on the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Sixth. Just around the corner is James Pumphrey's stable, where he often rents a horse. The actor feels perfectly at home at Pumphrey's, for the owner is also known to be a Confederate sympathizer.

Now, well past eight, and with no streetlights beyond the city limits, the night is far too dark for a ride into the country. But a half-drunk Booth needs to get on a horse now-right now-and gallop through Washington, D.C., rea.s.suring himself that he has a way out of the city after putting a bullet in Abraham Lincoln.

I am the man w ho w ill end Abraham Lincoln's life. That thought motivates Booth as he walks. He returns to the idea over and over again. He is thrilled by the notion, not bothered in the least by his ability to make the mental jump from the pa.s.sive violence of kidnapping to cold-blooded murder. I w ill kill the president of the United States.

Booth ruminates without remorse. Of course, killing a man is immoral. Even Booth knows that.

This is w artime. Killing the enemy is no more illegal than capturing him.

The actor thinks of Lincoln's second inaugural and how he stood so close to Lincoln on that day. I could have shot him then, if I had w ished.

Booth regrets the lost opportunity, then sets it aside. There will be another chance-and this time he will stand even closer, so close he can't miss. So close he will see the life drain from Lincoln's eyes.

I t occurs to him that no American president has ever been a.s.sa.s.sinated. I w ill be the first man to ever kill a president. He is now even more dazzled by his own violent plan.

The United States is just three months shy of being eighty-nine years old. There are thirty-six states in the Union, thanks to Nevada's recent admission. Lincoln is the sixteenth president. Two have pa.s.sed away from illness while in office. None of them, as Booth well knows, has died by someone else's hand. I f successful in his a.s.sa.s.sination attempt, the actor will achieve the lasting recognition he has always craved.

For a nation founded by rebellion and torn open by a civil war, the citizens of the United States have been remarkably nonviolent when confronted with politicians they despise. Only one American president was the target of an a.s.sa.s.sin. And that was Andrew Jackson, the man whose politics sowed the seeds of Confederate rebellion thirty years earlier.

Jackson was leaving a funeral in the Capitol Building on January 30, 1835, when a British expatriate fired at him twice. Unfortunately for the mentally unbalanced Richard Lawrence, who believed himself to be the king of England, both his pistols misfired. The bullets never left the chamber. Congressman Davy Crockett wrestled Lawrence to the ground and disarmed him, even as Jackson beat the would-be a.s.sa.s.sin with his cane.

Jackson was also the first and only American president to suffer bodily harm at the hands of a citizen, when a sailor discharged from the navy for embezzlement punched Jackson at a public ceremony in 1833. Robert Randolph fled the scene. Jackson, ever the warrior, refused to press charges.

These are the only acts of presidential insurrection in the nation's entire history. The American people are unique in that their considerable political pa.s.sion is expressed at the ballot box, not through violence directed at their leaders, whom they can vote out of office. I f judged only by this yardstick, the Democratic experiment undertaken by Americans four score and nine years ago seems to be working.

Maybe this is why Lincoln rides his horse alone through Washington or stands fearlessly on the top deck of a ship in a combat zone. The president tries to convince himself that a.s.sa.s.sination is not part of the American character, saying, "I can't believe that anyone has shot, or will deliberately shoot at me with the purpose of killing me."

A wider look at human history suggests otherwise. Tribal societies murdered their leaders long before the Egyptian pharaoh Tutankhamen was slain by his advisers in 1324 B.C. Stabbing and beating were the earliest methods of a.s.sa.s.sination. The Moabite king Eglon was disemboweled in his chambers, his girth so vast that the killer lost the knife in the folds of his fat. Over time, well-known historical figures such as Philip I I of Macedon (the father of Alexander the Great) and perhaps even Alexander himself were a.s.sa.s.sinated. And politically motivated killing was not limited to Europe or the Middle East-records show that a.s.sa.s.sination had long been practiced in India, Africa, and China.

And then, of course, there was Julius Caesar, the victim of the most famous a.s.sa.s.sination in history. The Roman ruler was stabbed twenty-three times by members of the Roman Senate. Of the two stab wounds to his chest, one was the blow that killed him. The killing took place during a lunar cycle known as the ides, fulfilling a prophecy by a local soothsayer.

The truth is that Lincoln, despite what he says, secretly believes he will die in office. He is by far the most despised and reviled president in American history. His closest friend and security adviser, the barrel-chested Ward Hill Lamon, preaches regularly to Lincoln about the need for improved security measures. More tangibly, there is a packet nestled in a small cubby of Lincoln's upright desk. I t is marked, quite simply, "a.s.sa.s.sination." Inside are more than eighty death threats. Every morning, sitting in his office to conduct affairs of state, Lincoln's eyes cannot help but see those letters. "G.o.d d.a.m.n your G.o.d d.a.m.ned old h.e.l.lfire G.o.d d.a.m.ned soul to h.e.l.l," reads one letter. "G.o.d d.a.m.n you and your G.o.d d.a.m.ned family's G.o.d d.a.m.ned h.e.l.lfired G.o.d d.a.m.ned soul to h.e.l.l."

"The first one or two made me a little uncomfortable," Lincoln has admitted to an artist who came to paint his portrait, "but they have ceased to give me any apprehension.

"I know I am in danger, but I am not going to worry over little things like these."

Rather than dwell on death, Lincoln prefers to live life on his own terms. "I f I am killed I can die but once," he is fond of saying, "but to live in constant dread is to die over and over again."

While the war still raged he told the writer Harriet Beecher Stowe, "Whichever way the war ends, I have the impression that I shall not last long after it is over."

A small number of a.s.sa.s.sins are delusional or impulsive killers, but on the whole, the successful a.s.sa.s.sin stalks his target, planning every detail ofthe crime. This means knowing the victim's habits, schedule, nuances, and security detail. Only then can the two most complex and dangerous tasks be successfully executed.

The first involves the shooting-and in 1865 it must be a shooting, because there is little likelihood of getting close enough to stab a major political figure. The a.s.sa.s.sin must figure out the when and where (a large crowd is ideal); determine how to get in and out of the building or ceremony; and choose the perfect weapon.

Second is the escape. A successful a.s.sa.s.sin is a murderer. A perfect a.s.sa.s.sination, however, means getting away from the scene of the murder without being caught. This is even more of a long shot than the crime itself. Plenty of men in those large crowds will want to play the hero. They will tackle and subdue the a.s.sailant without fear for their own lives. And even if an a.s.sa.s.sin eludes those crowds, he must escape the city in which it takes place, and then the country, until arriving at some foreign location of true refuge.

As Booth strolls to Pumphrey's, he carries a map in his coat pocket showing the location of General Joe Johnston and his Confederate holdouts, who are hiding in North Carolina. Booth knows the map by heart. He can pinpoint the precise route Johnston must take to evade the Federal troops and reignite the war. T o Booth, the map is much more than a detailed depiction of contours and boundaries. I t is also a glimmer of hope, reminding him that the n.o.ble cause is alive and well, and why he must do what he must do.

His mind wanders to his buggy, of all things. Booth bought it to transport Lincoln after the kidnapping. Now it serves no purpose. Booth makes a mental note to put the buggy up for sale. But in an instant, his thoughts revert back to President Lincoln, who now has only five days to live.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

MONDAY, APRIL 10, 1865 WASHINGTON, D.C.

NIGHT.

Booth turns onto C Street and then out of the cold, wet night into James Pumphrey's stable. His clothes are damp. He smells of drink and tobacco.

A quick glance around the stalls shows that most of the horses are already rented out for the evening. Pumphrey may be a Confederate sympathizer and a full-fledged member of the secessionist movement, but he has no qualms about making an honest buck off this night of Union celebration.

Pumphrey is an acquaintance of twenty-year-old John Surratt, the courier instrumental in ensuring that Booth's operation is fully funded by the Confederacy. Surratt travels frequently between Canada, the South, New Y ork City, and Washington, brokering deals for everything from guns to medicine. Like Booth, the young man is furious that the Confederacy has lost.

John Surratt is often hard to locate, but when Booth needs details about his whereabouts or simply wants to get a message to him, the task is as simple as walking to Sixth and H Streets, where his mother keeps a boardinghouse. Mary Surratt is an attractive widow in her early forties whose husband died from drink, forcing her to move to Washington from the Maryland countryside to make a living. Like her son, Mary is an active Confederate sympathizer who has been involved with spying and smuggling weapons.

She also runs a pro-Confederate tavern in the Maryland town of Surrattsville, where she and her late husband once owned a tobacco farm. The Maryland countryside is untouched by war and not occupied by Union troops.

Washington, D.C., with its Federal employees and Union loyalties, is a city whose citizens are all too p.r.o.ne to report any conversation that suggests pro-Confederate leanings, making it a dangerous place for people like Mary Surratt and John Wilkes Booth. Her boardinghouse and Pumphrey's stable are two of the few places they can speak their minds. For Booth, a man who deeply enjoys doing just that, such locations are safe havens.

I t would seem natural that Booth tell the others about his new plan. They might have insights into the best possible means of escape: roads under construction or in need of repair, overcrowded streets, bridges still under wartime guard-for the only way out of Washington, D.C., is on a boat or over a bridge.

The first exit is via the Georgetown Aqueduct, a mile and a half northwest of the White House. The second is Long Bridge, three blocks south of the White House. The third is Benning's Bridge, on the east side of town. And the last one is the Navy Yard Bridge, on Eleventh Street.

But Booth has already made up his mind: the Navy Yard Bridge. The other three lead into Virginia, with its plethora of roadblocks and Union soldiers. But the Navy Yard Bridge will take him into the quiet backcountry of Maryland, home to smugglers and back roads. Friends like Mary Surratt and Dr. Samuel Mudd can offer their homes as way stations for a man on the run, storing weapons for him and providing a place to sleep and eat before getting back on the road. The only drawback is that sentries man the bridge and no traffic is allowed in or out of Washington after ten P.M.

Booth wants to see those sentries for himself. T onight. Which is why he's come for a horse. He doesn't tell Pumphrey, just to be on the safe side.

In the end it doesn't matter: Booth's favorite horse has already been rented.

Not the least bit discouraged, Booth walks up to Ford's Theatre on T enth Street. This converted Baptist church is Booth's touchstone. After it was burned to the ground in 1863, owner John Ford rebuilt it as a "magnificent thespian temple," replacing the pews with seats and transforming the deacons' stalls into private boxes. Upon completion, Ford's became the most state-of-the-art theater in D.C.

Booth performed one night at Ford's in mid-March, but his theater appearances are few and far between these days. (I f asked, he explains that he is taking a hiatus to dabble in the oil business.) He still, however, has his mail sent to Ford's, and his buggy is parked in a s.p.a.ce behind the theater that was specially created for him by a carpenter and sceneshifter named Ned Spangler. Booth uses Spangler often for such favors and odd jobs. Thirty-nine and described by friends as "a very good, efficient drudge," the hard-drinking Spangler often sleeps in either the theater or a nearby stable. Despite the late hour, Booth knows he will find him at Ford's.

Inside the theater, rehearsals are under way for a one-night-only performance of the farce Our American Cousin. Like most actors, Booth knowsit well.

Booth finds Spangler backstage, befuddled, as usual. He asks the stagehand to clean up his carriage and find a buyer. Spangler is devastated -a great many hours of work have gone into modifying the theater's storage s.p.a.ce so that the carriage will fit. I t's a waste for Booth to sell the carriage, and Spangler tells him so.

"I have no further use for it," Booth replies. "And anyway, I 'll soon be leaving town." Booth will not say where he's going, leaving Spangler even more befuddled.

The word "a.s.sa.s.sin" comes from "Hashshashin," the name of a group of hit men who worked for Persian kings between the eighth and the fourteenth centuries. One of their jobs was to execute the Knights T emplar, a legendary band of Christian warriors known for their cunning and ferocity in battle. Legend says that the reward for a successful execution was being able to visit a lush royal garden filled with milk, honey, hashish, and concubines.

None of those things await John Wilkes Booth. He is everything an effective a.s.sa.s.sin should be: methodical, pa.s.sionate, determined, and an excellent strategist and planner. He is p.r.o.ne to depression, as many a.s.sa.s.sins are, but his ability to turn angst into rage makes him even more dangerous. He expects no reward for killing Lincoln, though infamy would be nice.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

TUESDAY, APRIL 11, 1865 WASHINGTON, D.C.

EVENING.

Lee's surrender at Appomattox is just two days old, but events are moving so quickly that it might as well be two months.

The citizens of Washington have spent today sleeping off their celebratory hangover. Now, as evening falls, they again spill out into the streets and sip a drink or two. Just like that, the party starts all over. As it grows and becomes more rowdy, every guzzle and utterance has a hum, an antic.i.p.ation: Abraham Lincoln is speaking tonight. Love him or hate him, the president of the United States is making a personal appearance at the White House, and everyone wants to see it.

And then, once again, the crowd is on the march. The spring air is thick with a warm mist as the sea of humanity parades down Pennsylvania Avenue. Thousands upon thousands are on their way to hear Lincoln speak, trampling the White House lawn and standing up to their ankles in the mud of once-manicured daffodil beds, pushing and straining against one another, climbing into trees, and even pressing up against the great building itself. All are desperate to be as close to Lincoln as possible. But hungover, dehydrated, and sullen, this is not the lighthearted crowd of the night before. I t is something akin to a lynch mob, thirsty for Lincoln's words, and yet ready to pa.s.s judgment on them.

And this is what the mob wants to hear: the South must be punished.

These men and women of the North, who have endured the loss of their sons, brothers, and husbands, want vengeance. They want the Confederate leaders and generals hanged, they want the South to pay war reparations, and they want Lincoln's speech to be full of the same self- righteous indignation they feel so powerfully in their hearts.

Booth leans against a tall tree, using it as a buffer against the crowd. He is close enough that Lincoln will be a mere pistol shot away. With him are two co-conspirators. David Herold is a former pharmacy clerk who was born and raised in Washington, D.C. Like Booth, he possesses matinee- idol good looks. But he is more educated and rugged. Herold's degree comes from Georgetown, and he is fond of spending his leisure time with a rifle in his hand, hunting animals. I t was John Surratt who introduced the two, four months earlier. Since then, Herold has been an impa.s.sioned and committed member of Booth's team.

The second co-conspirator is Lewis Powell-who also goes by the name Lewis Payne-a twenty-year-old who served as a Confederate soldier and spy before joining Booth's cause. Like Herold, he has fallen under Booth's spell.

The actor hasn't told either man that the plan has changed from kidnapping to a.s.sa.s.sination. That can wait. He brought them along to hear the speech, hoping that some phrase or antic.i.p.ated course of action will fill them with rage. Then, and only then, will Booth let them in on his new plan.

Soon Lincoln stands before an open second-story window, a scroll of paper in one hand. The president is wearing the same black garb he usually wears but no hat. He is somber. His speech is now written, and he is ready to give it.

Unseen by the crowd, Mary Lincoln shows her husband her support by standing next to him. She has invited Clara Harris, her dear friend and the daughter of a New York senator, to stand with her and witness this historical moment.

Outside, the mere sight of Lincoln elicits a prolonged ovation. The applause rolls on and on and on, continuing even as Lincoln tries to speak.

The crowd cannot possibly know the tremendous weight pressing down on Lincoln's shoulders. Looking out into the audience, he prepares to tell them about the daunting task ahead and how the ability to trust the southern states to peacefully rejoin the Union will be as great a challenge to the nation as the war itself. Lincoln clearly sees the faces of the crowd, with their spontaneous smiles and unabashed joy, and prepares to deliver a speech that is anything but warmhearted. I t is, in fact, a heavy, ponderous, de facto State of the Union address, specifically designed to undercut the revelry and prepare America for years of more pain and struggle.

The president begins gently. "We meet this evening not in sorrow, but in gladness of heart," Lincoln says. He thanks General Grant and the army for their struggle, and promises to have a national day of celebration very soon, with a great parade through Washington.

Lincoln is one of the best speakers in America, if not the world. He can read the mood of a crowd and adjust the cadence and rhythm of his voice for maximum effect, coaxing whatever emotion or response is needed to hold the audience in the palm of his hand. Lincoln's voice is clear, his p.r.o.nunciation distinct. He understands the power of words and emphasizes certain phrases to make a lasting impression. The Gettysburg Address is perhaps the best example of Lincoln's oratorical genius.

But tonight there is no theatricality. No tricks. Just cold, hard facts, delivered in a somber and even depressing monotone. The speech is so long and so unexciting that people in the audience begin shifting their feet and then lowering their heads and slipping away into the night, off to search for a real celebration. Booth stays, of course. He doesn't want to miss a single word. He listens as Lincoln talks of extending suffrage to literate blacks and those who fought for the Union.

Booth seethes at the outrageous notion that slaves be considered equal citizens of the United States, able to own property, vote, run for elected office, and maybe even marry white women. Suffrage, as preposterous as it sounds, means a black man might someday become president of the United States. Booth cannot let this ever happen.

"That means n.i.g.g.e.r citizenship," he hisses, pointing to the navy revolver on Powell's hip. Fourteen inches long, with a pistol sight and a .36- caliber round, the Colt has more than enough pop to kill Lincoln from such close range. "Shoot him now," Booth commands Powell. "Put a bullet in his head right this instant."

Powell is a dangerous young man, with powerful shoulders and a psychotic temper. But he refuses to draw his weapon. He is terrified of offending Booth but even more afraid of this mob, which would surely tear him limb from limb.

Booth sizes up the situation. I t would be easy enough to grab Powell's gun and squeeze off a shot or two before the crowd overpowers him. But now is not the time to be impulsive. Booth certainly doesn't tell this to Powell. Instead he lets Powell believe that he has let Booth down. Only when Powell believes that he has really and truly disappointed Booth will he begin thinking of ways to make it up to him. And that's when Booth will tell him about his amazing new plan.

"I' ll put him through," Booth sneers, planting another seed about a.s.sa.s.sination in the minds of Powell and Herold. "By G.o.d. I 'll put him through."

Then Booth spins around and fights his way back out of the crowd. Twenty-four hours ago he was still thinking of ways to kidnap the president.

Now he knows just where and how and when he will shoot Abraham Lincoln dead.The date will be Thursday, April 13.