A Night of Horrors: A Historical Thriller about the 24 Hours of Lincoln's Assassination (10 page)

Next to Herold sat George Atzerodt. Atzerodt was a carriage maker and repair man by trade and had been engaged by various Confederate agents to ferry them across the Potomac from Maryland to Virginia and back again throughout the war. Atzerodt was a greasy man who tended to not wash his clothes, linen, or even his hair. His face was often smeared and dirty. His beard and mustache were unkempt, but they did not grow naturally long. His hands were dirtier than his face and his fingernails were black and long. He was from Port Tobacco and since some of the men in the group had problems pronouncing Atzerodt, they used his hometown as his nickname. Atzerodt, or Port Tobacco, had no political aspirations whatsoever, but had been tempted into the group by Booth’s promises of great wealth when the South showered them with gold in thanks for the great deed of capturing the President and exchanging him for all of the Confederate prisoners. Atzerodt was skeptical about this nighttime meeting as he well knew that all of the Southern soldiers had been exchanged from their jails and the war was essentially over.

Why had Booth chosen him?

The third man looking at Booth was Lewis Powell. He was the youngest of the four at the table at just 20 years of age. He was about six feet tall and had broad shoulders and a strong neck. He had an intelligent and thoughtful face with a slight cleft in his chin. His face was clean-shaven and that made him look even younger than he was. His hair was clean and he kept it cut short, just at the top of his ears.

Powell was the only true soldier involved in Booth’s plans. He had served in the Confederate Army for three years, enlisting at the age of 17. He had served bravely at Seven Pines, Gaines Mill, and the brutal battle of Antietam. He had also fought at Chancellorsville and Gettysburg. In this last battle, he was shot through the wrist and lay on the battlefield all night wondering if he would die, be captured, or gain the strength to find his regiment. Instead, he was captured by Union soldiers from Minnesota and carried into captivity. Powell recuperated in a Baltimore army hospital, signed an oath not to raise arms against the Union, and immediately headed back South to fight some more. His hatred of the Union was stoked by news of his own brother’s death in battle. He eventually joined up with Colonel Mosby, who led a daring and bruising Confederate cavalry unit that harassed the Union army, and was known as Mosby’s Rangers. During his time with the Rangers, Powell stayed at the home of General William Payne, and when Mosby hand-picked Powell to join a group of men to abduct President Lincoln, Powell assumed the last name of his patron as an act of tribute and became known as Lewis Payne.

Of all the men at the table, Booth held the most respect for Powell. He knew that Powell was a true Southern patriot and had joined in the conspiracy from a sense of duty. He also knew that Powell looked to Booth as his Captain and would obey his orders. The actor knew that he must play the part of military leader tonight and give these men the new plan in the form of orders. There must be no room for hesitation and there must be no shirking of duty. He felt confident that the soldier would follow orders. Herold would be fine. Besides, he wouldn’t give him any difficult assignments. But Port Tobacco was the wildcard. ‘What will this greasy German do?’ Booth wondered to himself as he surveyed the men around him. ‘Would these men be able to pull off this great coup?’ If so, then they would be able to decapitate the Union government and flee South to the accolades of a grateful country. Booth knew that the time to strike was now. Booth picked up his glass of wine and held it up. The other men followed his lead.

“To our mutual success,” he toasted and took a deep drink.

“Well, Wilkes, why have you drug us ‘ere?” Atzerodt asked. His speech was slightly slurred and Booth cast a harsh glance at Herold.

“I told you to keep him sober.”

“I tried, but he’s a hard ‘un to keep up with,” Herold whined to the leader.

“I thought we’d given up on this abduction plan,” Atzerodt stated flatly.

“Yes, well, a new opportunity has presented itself. We are going to strike tonight and use our plans to escape over the Anacostia Bridge into southern Maryland. Herold will lead the way as he knows the roads and then Port Tobacco, you’ll get us over the Potomac at Nanjemoy and into good ol’ Virginny.”

“But what’re we strikin’
at
?” Atzerodt persisted in interrupting.

“From there, we will continue south until we get down to North Carolina or South Carolina. At that point we can part ways, each to our own fortune.” He looked around the table. Atzerodt was eating the chicken with his fingers, bypassing the forks and knives at his disposal. Booth sighed, and gathered his thoughts, then leaned forward and placed his hands on the table to draw their attention.

“Gentlemen, tonight we will decapitate the Union government. Port Tobacco, you shall strike and kill the turncoat Vice President Johnson who has turned his back on his Southern brothers. He is staying at the Kirkwood House, where you already have a room. Lewis Payne, you shall go to Lafayette Square and there you will kill Secretary of State Seward, that black-hearted abolitionist who is primarily responsible for this war and the destruction of the South. I shall go to Ford’s Theatre and assassinate Abraham Lincoln, the tyrant who currently reigns from the Executive Mansion.”

The three men sitting around the table with Booth were stunned. They stopped eating and drinking and stared at him in mute astonishment. “Herold, you’ll go with Payne here and escort him to Seward’s home and then lead him out of the city as he doesn’t know his way around,” Booth continued his orders in an effort to fill the growing silence of the room.

“I ain’t goin’ to kill nobody. Especially the Vice President,” Atzerodt protested.

“You’ll do as I say or I’ll kill you myself,” Booth spat back. He stood and pounded his hand on the table, rattling the silverware and glasses. “You damned fool, you have no choice! You are too far into this with me now to back out.” Booth considered sharing that he had already written a letter explaining their deed and signing each of their names to it and had ensured it would be delivered to the papers in the morning. But he thought the better of it. Instead, he sprang into his professional acting mode and stood above them.

“I ain’t goin’ to kill the Vice President,” Atzerodt persisted.

“I tell you, sirs, now is the time to act, not to think. Or do we love our warm firesides more than our country? If so, we should stay indoors and let things take their course. But I know you and, indeed,
we
don’t want the present course. I feel that your country is foremost in your hearts, and you love her institutions more than aught in life. Something must be done. Lincoln’s very appearance, his pedigree, his coarse jokes and anecdotes, his vulgar similes, and his policies are a disgrace to the seat he holds. He is the tool of the North, to crush out, or try to crush out slavery, by robbery, rapine, slaughter, and bought armies. He is a false president and his reelection was nothing but a sham for a kingly succession.” Booth was animated and stalked back and forth in the dining room gesticulating and standing behind each of them, urging them on. His fierce dark eyes caught the candlelight and sparkled and danced in the shadows of the room.

“Oh how I have longed to see our nation’s flag break from the mist of blood and death that circles around her folds, spoiling her beauty and tarnishing her honor. Her once bright red stripes look like bloody gashes on the face of Heaven. I look now upon my early admiration of her glories as a dream. My love is for the South alone. Nor do I deem it a dishonor in attempting to kill this man to whom she owes so much misery. And you should not deem it a dishonor, but rather an honor, to slay the men who have propped him up as a tyrant and trodden on the faces of the brave men and women of the South.”

Booth’s face was flushed as he concluded his impromptu speech. He grasped the lapels of his coat and looked from face to face of the men looking back up at him. Booth returned to his seat. Lewis Powell, who was called Lewis Payne, was moved and swept up in the patriotic language. Herold was enthralled by the performance and eagerly asked for the details of Booth’s plan. Booth cut a piece of chicken and slowly chewed it and then followed it with a sip of wine.

“Port Tobacco, where is your room in the Kirkwood?” Booth asked.

“I have a room on the second floor,” he muttered.

“Then, you are simply to go downstairs from your room in the Kirkwood House and knock on Johnson’s door. I know that he is to be there tonight. If you have your gun at the ready, when he opens the door, you can simply shoot him in the face and be out of the hotel before anyone realizes what has happened.” Atzerodt looked from man to man around the table and found no ally in his resistance to this maniacal plan.

“What if there’s a guard?” He asked weakly.

“ I don’t believe you’ll find one. If you do, simply toss a tin of snuff in his face and knock him in the head and then knock on the door.” Booth said it matter of factly and stared back at the mute Prussian. Port Tobacco simply nodded and drank off the rest of the wine in his glass.

“I ain’t goin’ to kill the Vice President,” he muttered.

“Well, at least Powell and Herold have the courage that is needed. But what will become of you
now
, Port Tobacco? I believe you have registered your name at Kirkwood’s?” Booth looked at him and arched his eyebrows, taunting the drunken man. His face slowly broke into a grin that reminded Atzerodt of the ghoulish pumpkins carved on All Hallows Eve. “Well, I guess you better come along and get your
horse
, hadn’t you?” Booth leveled his eyes onto Port Tobacco’s eyes. The man now realized that Booth had had him going about town with that damned horse, paid for in Booth’s name, picking it up at the stable, riding it so he would be easily connected with Booth simply through their very public association over the past months. His mind was slow and sluggish because of the drink, but he realized that he was trapped whether he acted or not.

“Herold, you were once a clerk for a druggist. Go and get a small box and cover it with brown paper and tie it up with twine, just like the boxes of medicine you used to deliver.” He then turned to Lewis Powell, whom he knew as Lewis Payne. “Payne, you shall take this to Seward’s house and claim that you have come from his doctor and have been instructed to give the medicine to him directly. You must make it absolutely clear that you have to give him the medicine personally, otherwise you won’t know where they are keeping him. The house has three stories and you won’t have time to run from room to room. But if you keep the ruse and they take you, then you can simply shoot the man where he lies in bed and then rush from the house. Herold will wait for you and lead you to the Anacostia Bridge and down the road to our assigned meeting place at Soper’s Hill. You will do this, Payne?” Booth looked full into his face and the question was more a statement of fact that he expected the soldier to confirm.

“Yes, sir, I will,” was the response.

“Very well then, Gentlemen. We must strike simultaneously in order to bring this off. So make sure that you are about your business at 10:15.” This was the time that Booth had estimated the second scene of Act III would begin at Ford’s Theatre when there would be but one actor on stage. “Do you hear? 10:15 and no sooner. Now let’s eat.” With that, Booth turned to the food before him and ate every morsel with relish. Soon the men were laughing and toasting their success and the good fortune that would attend their deeds. Even the reluctant Port Tobacco was joining in the celebratory mood.

As the party of conspirators was enjoying their food and drink around 8:00 PM, Mrs. Surratt was returning from her trip to Surrattsville. In the wagon with her was a boarder who also helped her around the house and often drove for her. His name was Louis Weichmann. Like the rest of the boarders at the house, he had become enamored with the frequent visits of the famous actor John Booth. Weichmann desperately wanted to befriend Booth and become part of the social circle he had formed with John Surratt and a handful of other men who had either boarded at the house or come by for private discussions. Weichmann’s curiosity had gotten the better of him and he’d tried to ingratiate himself in these discussions and meetings that Booth held at Surratt’s Boardinghouse, but to no avail.

Once they had arrived at Surrattsville, while Weichmann was tending to the wagon, Mrs. Surratt met with John Lloyd, the innkeeper for her saloon, and ensured that he would have the rifles, whiskey, and the package ready, per Booth’s instructions. Upon leaving Surattsville, the pair crested a hill in their wagon, about a mile outside of Washington City. They paused and looked at the city spread out before them. The early lights of the evening twinkled in the darkness and in spite of the chill they pulled up and stopped to survey the view.

“It is a beautiful sight,” Weichmann commented. “You can feel the celebratory nature of the city even from here. Don’t you think, Mrs. Surratt?” He turned to look at her in the darkening light.

“I am afraid all this rejoicing will be turned into mourning, and all this glory into sadness,” she responded quietly.

“Why, whatever do you mean by that?” Weichmann asked, surprised at her morbid response at such a time of national celebration.

“Oh, just that after bright sunshine there is always a storm. These people are too proud and licentious and I fear that God might punish them,” she responded. “Drive on, Mr. Weichmann, or we shan’t be back to the house by 9:00.”

“Do you have a visitor?” The curious boarder asked.