Killing Lincoln: The Shocking Assassination that Changed America Forever Part 9

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 12, 1865 WASHINGTON, D.C.

AFTERNOON.

Inside the White House, just a few blocks from where John Wilkes Booth is walking the streets, a beaming Mary Lincoln holds a slim leather-bound copy of Julius Caesar. She is in a good mood for a change, and the new book is certainly helping her disposition. The president will be thrilled by her purchase. This is most important to Mary Lincoln. Even in her lowest moods, she craves the attention and affection of her husband.

Lincoln's fondness for all things Shakespeare is well known. While he enjoys lowbrow entertainment, like the comedian Barney Williams, who performs in blackface, he never misses the chance to attend a Shakespearean tragedy. During one two-month span in the winter of 1864, he saw Richard III, The Merchant of Venice, Hamlet, and, of course, Julius Caesar.

The actor playing all the lead roles was Edwin Booth, John's older brother. In addition to his acting, he did the Lincolns an inadvertent favor by saving the life of their eldest son. When twenty-year-old Union officer Robert T odd Lincoln was shoved from a crowded railway platform into the path of an oncoming train, it was Edwin Booth who s.n.a.t.c.hed him by the coat collar and pulled him back to safety. Robert never mentioned the incident to his father, but his commanding officer, Ulysses S. Grant, personally wrote a letter of thanks to the actor. Edwin's brother's reaction to this incident has never been determined-if he knew at all. This is the second remarkable coincidence linking Robert T odd Lincoln to John Wilkes Booth, the first being his infatuation with Lucy Hale, Booth's fiancee.

Robert is due back in Washington any day, as is Grant. Lincoln's spirits will soar at the sight of both men, but in the meantime Mary cannot wait to see his face light up when she presents him with Julius Caesar.

Lincoln is fond of two books more than any other: the Bible and Shakespeare's collected works. Like his dog-eared Bible, Lincoln's volume of Shakespeare has become frayed and worn over the years. This brand-new copy of Julius Caesar will certainly keep the president's mood upbeat, which, in turn, will do wonders for Mary's morale. Their euphorias and depressions are so closely intertwined that it's hard to say which one's emotional peaks and valleys influence the other more.

Lincoln is not at the White House right now. He's taken a walk over to the War Department, where he sits on a comfortable sofa, hard at work on the business of healing the nation. His first test is immediate. The Virginia legislature is about to convene in Richmond. These are the same elected representatives who once voted to leave the Union. Now this "rebel legislature" will meet in the giant columned building designed by Thomas Jefferson, determined to rebuild the shattered state and return it to its former glory.

On the surface, this is a good thing. Lincoln himself urged the legislature to convene during a visit to Richmond the previous week, saying that "the prominent and influential men of their respective counties should come together and undo their own work."

Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, the brilliant Ohio lawyer who is for whatever reason not on Booth's list of targets, and in whose office Lincoln now sits, is strongly opposed. He tells Lincoln that to "place such powers in the Virginia legislature would be giving away the scepter of the conqueror, that it would transfer the result of the victory of our arms to the very legislature which four years before said, 'give us war.'"

Lincoln disagrees. He is reluctant to see the United States Army turned into an occupying force, policing the actions of legislatures throughout the South. But he also realizes that by allowing Virginia's lawmakers to meet without close Federal observation, he is setting a dangerous precedent.

There would be nothing to stop other southern states from pa.s.sing laws that conspire against the Federal government-in effect, keeping the Confederacy's ideals alive.

Stanton and Lincoln were once sworn rivals, two opinionated and charismatic midwesterners who came to Washington with their own personal visions of what the country needed. They are physical opposites-Stanton's stump to Lincoln's beanpole. Stanton didn't vote for Lincoln in 1860, but that didn't stop the president from crossing party lines to name him attorney general, then secretary of war. Lincoln's low wartime popularity was matched only by that of Stanton, who was relentless in his prosecution of any Union officer concealing Confederate sympathies. "He is the rock on the beach of our national ocean against which the breakers dash and roar, dash and roar without ceasing," Lincoln once said of Stanton. "I do notsee how he survives, why he is not crushed and torn to pieces. Without him I should be destroyed."

As General Sam Grant glibly described Stanton: "He was an able const.i.tutional lawyer and jurist, but the Const.i.tution was not an impediment to him while the war lasted."

Stanton, with a graying beard extending halfway down his chest, has the sort of strong-willed personality that terrifies timid souls. The Civil War may be over, but Lincoln has made it clear that the secretary of war will be instrumental in helping the country rebuild. He trusts Stanton's counsel and uses him as a sounding board when tough decisions like this must be made. In many ways, Stanton does not behave as if he is subordinate to Lincoln. He expresses himself without fear of edit or censure, knowing that while Lincoln has strong opinions of his own, he is a good listener who can be swayed by a solid argument.

Now Stanton paces before the couch where Lincoln reclines, compiling his detailed argument against allowing the Virginia legislature to meet.

He warns of the laws that might be pa.s.sed, limiting the freedom of former slaves. He notes that the legislature has proven itself to be untrustworthy.

And he reminds Lincoln that during his recent visit to Richmond the president made it clear that the Virginia lawmakers were being given only conditional authority-but that these same untrustworthy men are surely capable of ignoring those limits once they convene.

At last, Stanton explains his idea for temporary military governments in the southern states until order can be restored.

Lincoln doesn't speak until Stanton finishes. Almost every single one of Stanton's opinions runs contrary to Lincoln's. Nonetheless, Lincoln hears Stanton out, then lets his thoughts percolate.

As Stanton looks on, Lincoln slowly rises off the couch and draws himself up to his full, towering height. He walks to the great oak desk near the window, where he silently composes a telegram withdrawing permission for the Virginia legislature to meet. For those representatives who have already traveled to Richmond for the session, he guarantees safe pa.s.sage home.

Lincoln hands the telegram to Stanton, whose thick beard cannot hide his look of satisfaction after he finishes reading. Calling the wording "exactly right," he hands the telegram to his clerk.

During the course of the Civil War, Lincoln's use of telegrams-his "t-mail"-made him the first leader in world history to communicate immediately with his generals on the battlefield. He has sent, literally, thousands of these messages through the Department of War. This is his last.

On the walk back to the White House, Lincoln composes another sort of note in his head. I t is to Mary, a simple invitation to go for a carriage ride on Friday afternoon. His words are playful and romantic, a reminder of the way things were before the war, and before the death of Willie. Their eldest son, Robert, is due home from the war any day. Surely, the cloud of melancholy that has hovered over the Lincolns is about to lift.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

THURSDAY, APRIL 13, 1865 WASHINGTON, D.C.

MORNING.

The ides. As Booth takes the train to Baltimore, hoping to reenlist a former conspirator for that night's expected executions, General Ulysses S.

Grant and his wife, Julia, arrive in Washington at dawn. They have taken an overnight boat from City Point, Virginia. Grant is in no mood to be there.

He is eager to push on to New Jersey to see their four children, but Secretary of War Stanton has specifically requested that the general visit the capital and handle a number of war-related issues. Grant's plan is to get in and get out within twenty-four hours, with as little fuss as possible. With him are his aide Colonel Horace Porter and two sergeants to manage the Grants' luggage.

Little does Grant know that an adoring Washington, D.C., is waiting to wrap its arms around him. "As we reached our destination that bright morning in our boat," Julia later exclaimed, "every gun in and near Washington burst forth-and such a salvo!-all the bells rang out merry greetings, and the city was literally swathed in flags and bunting."

I f anything, Grant is even more beloved than the president right now. Strangers cheer the Grants' open-air carriage on its way to the Willard Hotel, on the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Fourteenth Street. As they pull up to the entrance, workers are on the roof, installing the gas jets that will spell out UNION for that evening's Grand I llumination-a ma.s.s lighting of every candle, gas lamp, and firework in the city. Thousands upon thousands of people are now streaming into Washington to witness what will be an attempt to turn night into day as yet another celebration of war's end.

Grant, who has seen more than his share of fiery explosions, could not care less about the I llumination. Their journey has been an odyssey, and the Grants are exhausted. Since leaving Lee at Appomattox, Grant has endured two days of train derailments, another day waiting for a steamer in City Point, and then the dawn-to-dusk journey up the Potomac. But standing beside his beloved Julia revives Grant.

They have been a couple for more than twenty years and have endured many a long separation, thanks to the military life. I t was Julia's letters that sustained him during the Mexican War, when he was a homesick young lieutenant. And it was Julia who stood by her husband's side during the 1850s, when he was discharged from the army and failed in a succession of businesses. They are happiest in each other's company. Both are still young-he is not quite forty-three; she is thirty-nine. They have their whole lives in front of them. The sooner they can flee Washington, D.C., and get back to normal life, the better. And right now that means getting to their room, washing up, and letting the general race over to the War Department as quickly as possible.

There's just one problem: the Grants don't have a reservation at the Willard.

Grant has slept so many nights in impromptu battlefield lodgings procured on the fly by his staff that it never crossed his mind to send a telegram asking for a room. What he wants, he tells the fl.u.s.tered desk clerk, is a simple bedroom with an adjacent sitting room. I t's understood that Colonel Porter will need a room, too. The sergeants will bunk elsewhere.

The Willard Hotel is overbooked. Yet to allow the famous Ulysses S. Grant to take a room elsewhere would be an unthinkable loss of prestige.

Some way, somehow, rooms are instantly made available. Within minutes, Julia is unpacking their suitcases. Word about their location is already flying around Washington, and bundles of congratulatory telegrams and flowers soon flood the desk and bedroom. Julia will spend the afternoon reading each one, basking in the awareness that the man whose potential she had seen so long before, when he was just a quiet young lieutenant, has ascended from anonymity and disgrace to the level of great historical figure.

Not that General Grant cares. He just wants to get on with his business and get home. Within minutes, he and Porter meet in the lobby before the short walk to the War Department. I t's three blocks, just on the other side of the White House.The two men step out onto Pennsylvania Avenue. At first the trek is easy, just two regular guys in uniform joining the sea of pedestrians, soldiers, and all those tourists pouring into the city for the I llumination. But Grant is hard to miss. Photographs of his bearded, expressionless face have been on the front pages of newspapers for more than a year. Soon the autograph seekers and the well-wishers, startled but elated by his presence, surround him. Porter tries to push them back, protecting his general in peacetime as he did in warfare. But he is just one man against many, and the diminutive Grant is swallowed by the mob. Porter pushes and elbows, grabbing Grant with one arm while shoving people back with the other.

I t's a benevolent crowd, cheering for Grant even as they strain to touch him. But Porter knows a simple truth: this is a perfect opportunity for a disgruntled southerner to take a shot at Grant, then disappear in an instant.

Just when the situation begins to border on pandemonium, the Metropolitan Police come to their rescue. Grant and Porter are soon on their way again, this time inside a carriage, with a cavalry escort.

An introvert, Grant is pained by the attention and stares. Once inside the War Department, he hurries to formally conclude the logistics of war.

Pen in hand and cigar clenched in his teeth, he tells the quartermaster general to stop ordering supplies and suspends the draft and further recruitment. With these orders, he saves the nation $4 million per day.

Though Grant hates public appearances, the city of Washington has planned the Grand I llumination celebration for this very night, specifically so he can be there. The Capitol dome will be lit, the Willard Hotel will illuminate the word UNION, and the governmental buildings are having a compet.i.tion to see which can be the most brilliantly decorated. Stanton is fussing over the War Department's display, which includes guns and flags as well as lights, while over at the Patent Office some five thousand candles will glow from every window. There will also be a ma.s.sive fireworks display. And, of course, the bonfires that have blazed all week will still be burning bright. As intensely as Washington celebrated on Monday, Thursday night's Grand I llumination will be even more monumental.

That afternoon, Grant meets with Lincoln in the Oval Office. The last time they met was the day after Petersburg fell, on that veranda in the midst of that shattered city. There, Grant promised Lincoln that he would catch Lee and end the war. Now that Grant has fulfilled that promise, a grateful Lincoln offers his congratulations. He calls for a carriage. The two men ride around the crowded streets of Washington with the top down, shocking the flood of arriving visitors, who can't believe that they are actually laying eyes on President Lincoln and General Grant. The ride is Lincoln's way of giving Grant his moment in the sun after so many months of being second-guessed and labeled a butcher and of deflecting the glory showered upon him onto the man whose genius made it all possible.

I t works. The two men are loudly cheered on every street corner.

When it is done, they make plans to meet again that night for the I llumination. They will be the center of attention, these two men who won the Civil War, watched by one and all.

Meanwhile, John Wilkes Booth and his band of a.s.sa.s.sins tend to their work of sharpening knives and cleaning their pistols, eager for their night of reckoning.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

THURSDAY, APRIL 13, 1865 WASHINGTON, D.C.

NIGHT.

The four conspirators squeeze into room 6 at the Herndon House hotel, a few blocks from the White House. Booth, David Herold, Lewis Powell, and George Atzerodt lounge on the chairs and perch on the edge of the bed as Booth talks them through the plan. His recruiting trip to Baltimore was unsuccessful. He is too agitated to sit, so he paces as he thinks out loud. The wooden floor becomes a stage, and his oration a performance that takes him from stage left to stage right, then back to stage left again as he breaks down the plan. The parties outside are neither a distraction nor an offense, but a reminder of why they have gathered. Logically, each man knows that there must be plenty of Confederate sympathizers in Washington, huddled in their homes with jaws clenched as they endure the revelry. But right now the would-be a.s.sa.s.sins feel that they are the only ones who can right the grievous wrong.

Lewis Powell is the youngest and most experienced of the conspirators. He is a tall, powerfully built, and otherwise very handsome man-save for his face being deformed on one side, thanks to a mule's kick. Unlike the others, Powell has actually killed a man, and may have enjoyed it very much. During the war the Floridian fought in several major battles, was wounded at Gettysburg, successfully escaped from a prisoner-of-war camp, and worked for the Confederate Secret Service. He is a solid horseman and quick with a knife. Thanks to his military training, Powell knows the value of reconnaissance. He prepped for his attack that morning by walking past Secretary of State Seward's home on Madison Place, scoping out the best possible ways in and out of the building. He boldly struck up a conversation with Seward's male nurse, just to make sure the secretary was indeed at home.

The reconnaissance is good news for Booth. He thus knows the location of two of the intended victims. Now it is his job to find Lincoln. An afternoon talking to stage managers had led to the inescapable conclusion that Lincoln is not going to the theater tonight. Booth, it seems, will not have his grand theatrical moment. Much to his dismay, it appears as if shooting Lincoln will be as mundane as putting a bullet into his brain on a crowded street during the Grand I llumination and then running like h.e.l.l.

I t finally dawns on one very drunk George Atzerodt that the plan has shifted from kidnapping to murder. The only reason he joined the conspiracy was that, in addition to running a small carriage-repair business in Port Tobacco, Maryland, he moonlights as a smuggler, ferrying mail, contraband, and people across the broad Potomac into Virginia. I t is a hardscrabble and often dangerous existence. Atzerodt's role in the kidnapping was to be an act of commerce, not rebellion. He was to be paid handsomely to smuggle the bound-and-gagged Lincoln into the hands of the Confederates.

But there is no longer a Confederacy, no longer a kidnapping plot, no longer a need for a boat, and certainly no longer a need for a smuggler-at least in Atzerodt's mind. The thirty-year-old German immigrant slurs that he wants out.

Booth calmly springs his blackmail.

Booth cannot do without Atzerodt. His boat and his knowledge of the Potomac's currents are vital to their escape. A ma.s.sive manhunt will surely begin the instant Lincoln is killed. Federal officials will seal off Washington, D.C., and canva.s.s the Maryland and Virginia countryside, but with Atzerodt's guidance Booth and his men will rush through rural Maryland ahead of the search parties, cross the Potomac, and then follow smugglers'

routes south to Mexico.

Booth has rehea.r.s.ed for this moment. He knows his lines and recites them with great drama.

"Then we will do it," Booth says, nodding at Herold and Powell, never taking his eyes off the drunk German. "But what will come of you?"

And then, as if pulling the solution out of thin air: "You had better come along and get your horse."

At the word "horse," Atzerodt's heart skips a beat. He's trapped. Booth long ago suggested that the two men share horses from time to time. The horse a man rides is part of his ident.i.ty. By sharing Booth's favorite horse-which seemed like such a simple and thoughtful gesture on the actor's part all those weeks ago-Atzerodt is now visibly connected to the a.s.sa.s.sination plot. Atzerodt has ridden Booth's horse all over Washington and has even helped him sell a few animals; so there will be no shortage of witnesses.

Atzerodt sighs and nods his head. Murder it is. There is no way out for him.

The time has come. The four men stand, aware that they are about to commit the greatest crime in the history of the United States.

Before opening the door, Booth reminds them that their post-a.s.sa.s.sination rendezvous point is the road to Nanjemoy, on the Maryland side of the Potomac. Normally the sight of a lone horseman galloping out of Washington, D.C., long after dark would make the sentries guarding the bridges suspicious. But tonight is not a normal night. All those folks who've come into Washington for the I llumination will be making their way back home when it's all done. Booth and his men will easily blend in with the same drunken bleating ma.s.ses who are now making that wretched noise on the streets outside room 6.

I f for some reason they can't do the job tonight, they will remain in Washington and try again tomorrow.

Booth shakes hands with each man. They leave one at a time and go their separate ways.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.

THURSDAY, APRIL 13, 1865 WASHINGTON, D.C.

NIGHT.

There once was a fifth conspirator, the one Booth traveled to Baltimore to corral the day before. Mike O'Laughlen, a former Confederate soldier who grew up across the street from Booth, was one of the first men recruited by him last August. Just a month earlier the two men had lain in wait together for a certain carriage making its way down the lonely country road to the Soldiers' Home, only to find that its occupant was a Supreme Court justice instead of the president.