A Night of Horrors: A Historical Thriller about the 24 Hours of Lincoln's Assassination (22 page)

“Miss Keene, why thank you for bringing the water.” Leale took it from her and set it on the floor next to President Lincoln’s shoulder. She looked down at him and shook her head.

“He looks peaceful,” she whispered.

“Yes, but it is a mortal slumber, I am afraid,” Leale responded to her.

“Doctor, may I hold his head in my lap? I don’t think that his head should be on the hard floor, even if a handkerchief is beneath it.” She looked at Leale with beseeching eyes.

“Yes, Miss Keane, of course. If you will do it very gently.” Laura Keene, with all eyes in the box on her, except Mrs. Lincoln who had buried her face in her own hands, knelt down and took Abraham Lincoln’s head into her hands,placing it onto her bright yellow dress. She bent over him, staring down at the still face. She noticed that his right eye was beginning to turn purple and was swelling.

“We must move him now while he has the strength to withstand the transportation,” Leale repeated to Dr. Taft.

“You know, I believe there are boarding houses across F Street,” Dr. Taft suddenly said.

“Then we shall move him there,” Leale announced.

“Use this,” Major Rathbone called from across the box. He had his hand on one of the small sections of wall that had been removed to convert the two smaller boxes into the one Presidential Box. “This will serve as a litter so that you can more easily carry him.”

“Drs. Taft and King, please take a shoulder. I shall take the President’s head. You men, come and help us with that board and then help to carry him. They gently lifted the President onto the piece of wall. The two doctors held the President’s shoulders to make sure he remained secure on the piece of board. Four men, two on each side, held the board. An eighth man held the foot of the board. Leale led the way out of the box, gently holding the President’s head.

“Captain, clear a path for us!” Leale ordered, and the officer who had been standing at the entrance to the box drew his dress sword and called out to clear a path so that the President could be taken outside. As the men carrying the President of the United States emerged from the box, the milling about in the theater came to a halt. All heads turned to watch as the President was carried from the theater. Lincoln’s clothes had moved during the transfer to the litter. Now his shirt hung open where it had been cut away and his pale arm and chest lay exposed for all to see. His face was a chalky gray and looked like a death mask. Many stepped closer to see him better, but not a word was spoken as the dying man was carried around the back of the dressing circle, retracing the triumphant path he had made in his grand entrance just a couple of hours before. As they approached the stairs, Leale called out to have Lincoln’s feet brought around so that they would descend the stairs feet first. As they made their way slowly down the stairs and into the lobby, the party bearing the body of the President found that the doorway was completely jammed with people standing outside the theater and in the street. The captain turned and looked back to Leale.

“Surgeon, give me your commands and I will see that they are obeyed.”

“Captain, you must clear them away!” Leale repeated. “Clear a way to one of the houses across the street.” The Captain again took his sword and held it up and called out to clear a way for the President of the United States. He never once had to actually push or shove anyone. The crowd calmly and quietly stepped back and opened an avenue for them to carry the body of their fallen President. As they stepped onto the street, Leale called a halt and took the time to remove the clot from the head wound again. The men calmly stood there and waited for the surgeon to gently probe the wound with his finger to pull the coagulant away. Once he did this, the blood and fluids oozed freely once again and reduced the mounting pressure on Lincoln’s brain.

“I have relieved the pressure,” he announced. The other doctors nodded and they proceeded to carry Lincoln again. They moved slowly in order to reduce the jostling to the injured man and because the crowds would tarry in moving aside to capture a glimpse of the President in the darkness. His gray face was evident. As they got to the other side of the street, Leale halted the group once more and released the clot from the back of Lincoln’s head. As they stood in the street, a soldier pushed through the crowd and reported to the Captain that the house directly opposite was closed.

“Well open it then, damn it!” The Captain cursed at the soldier. Before the soldier could move to enact the Captain’s orders, they heard a man’s voice calling over the crowd.

“Over here! Bring him over here!” Leale looked up and saw a man standing on the elevated stoop of a house diagonally across from where they stood, waving a candle and beckoning them over.

“There, gentlemen. We will take the President there.” Leale motioned with his head and the group started off again, carefully carrying their precious cargo. When they reached the steps leading up to 453 Tenth Street, Leale called for the President’s feet to be swung back around so that they carried President Lincoln up the steps headfirst. It was a struggle getting him through the door with the board beneath him, but they made it. Once inside, the man who had beckoned them, walked them down a hall, past a hat rack and a staircase, and down a narrow hallway to a small room in the rear of the house. Leale, still holding Lincoln’s head, took in the small room.

“We must lay him on the bed, but do it carefully and slowly so that his head does not turn to one side or the other. Several men grasped Lincoln’s body and gently laid him onto the bed. Leale continuously held Lincoln’s head still, keeping his eyes trained on Lincoln’s face studying him for any signs of distress. Once Lincoln was situated, the doctor looked up and realized that the President’s knees were thrusting into the air because he was too tall for the bed. “He cannot remain in that position. You must take the footboard off so that we can extend his legs fully.”

Several men tried to take the footboard off, but realizing it was all one piece, Leale instead ordered that the President be rearranged on the bed diagonally so that his feet could hang off the corner. He propped Lincoln’s head and shoulders up on a large pillow and took a seat next to his head.

Major Rathbone had stayed back to make sure that Mrs. Lincoln was cared for. His fiancé, Clara Harris, had held Mrs. Lincoln’s arm as they walked behind the men who carried her husband’s prone body from the theater box. But in the dressing circle, the lights from the stage provided better illumination and Mrs. Lincoln looked in horror again at the blood spattered and streaked across Miss Harris’ face. She screamed out and stepped away from her.

“You have my husband’s blood on you! Keep away from me!” She broke into a paroxysm of screams and sobs, collapsing to the ground. Miss Harris turned to Major Rathbone with a beseeching look on her bloodied face and he stepped over and helped Mrs. Lincoln to her feet. The First Lady mumbled about the loss and the pain and that she should have been the one to die. Her words were barely a murmur, but Rathbone could hear her. He reached out with his right hand and made sure to keep his right side to Mrs. Lincoln so that she could not see the blood leaking from his stab wound and so he would not bleed on her dress. Both he and Clara Harris realized that the blood on her face and dress was his own, but it was not worth the effort to explain that to the tormented First Lady.

As he slowly walked her down the stairs, he steadied himself on the banister with his bad arm, sending shockwaves of pain through his body, leaving bloody handprints on the rail and wall. Rathbone played over and again in his mind the vision of the man in the black suit leaping over the railing of the box, his fingers catching, ever so briefly, on the tail of his coat. And then the sensation of the hard pull and his fingers coming up empty. Just a second, just a fraction of a second and he would have held the coat firmly and stopped him. But he had gotten away and now the President was being carried out of the theater. And then, there it was again, that odd sensation. A hard pull and his fingers coming up empty. He looked down at his right hand again. Still empty.

Behind him, Laura Keene slowly walked out of the box dazed and quiet while the President, and the party following him, disappeared down the broad winding stairs to the lobby below.

“Miss Keene, will the President live?” Several people standing still in the moments after the President was carried from the theater asked her. Her bright yellow dress was now stained with the President’s blood where she had cradled his head in her lap. Her face and hair were streaked as well with the President’s blood from where she had pushed the hair back behind her ear.

“God only knows,” she responded.

Escape Beneath a Bone-white Moon

Wilkes Booth’s horse pounded her hooves down F Street. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that no one was in pursuit. He rode east down F Street as hard and as fast as he could. Booth knew that he would not have much time to get out of the city before all of the defenses of Washington City were on alert bringing thousands of troops onto the city streets and sealing off all bridges and roads to southern Maryland. But his brilliant plan had come off! He had easily entered the theater, shot the tyrant where he sat and exited from the theater virtually unmolested. Just as Brutus had killed Caesar and delivered Rome, Booth had killed Lincoln and delivered the Confederacy. The damned Major had gotten in the way and caused him to hurt his leg. Booth was convinced that it was broken. Whenever he had to use it to urge the horse on or move her to the right by pressing his left leg firmly in her flank, it sent jolts of pain up into his spine. But Booth rode on because he had to get free of the city. The moon was rising above the city and it afforded Booth the light he needed. The hooves of his horse pounded dully on the packed dirt of F Street.

At the time Booth turned his horse right, heading south down New Jersey Avenue, Dr. Charles Leale was waiting impatiently for Major Rathbone to free the wedge from the door to the Presidential Box. Booth gulped in the cool air of the early spring night and felt the wind cooling the perspiration on his head. He continued to urge the horse on, not allowing her to slow her canter, until he arrived at the grounds of The Capitol. There he allowed her to slow to a walk. The horse was beginning to lather from the hard ride, but she still had most of their journey to go. He had to cross the river at the Navy Yard Bridge as his first big step towards freedom from Washington. From there he would head down to Bryantown, some 30 miles south.

The gardens behind the Capitol Building were mostly deserted. Booth passed one or two men walking through on their way home. Booth simply focused on navigating his way to Pennsylvania Avenue. There, Booth sunk his spurs into the horse once again and sent her bolting down the cobblestone street. The metal shoes of the mare clattered loudly in the quiet of the night. The man in black moved like a shadow through the gas lamps flickering along his route.

At Eleventh Street, Booth turned the horse directly south, and was soon approaching the bridge that stretched across the Eastern Branch, into southern Maryland. Booth knew that if he could get across the low wooden bridge, he’d be in Uniontown, but more importantly he’d be into southern Maryland and the farther south he traveled, the deeper he was into the hotbed of Confederate sympathizers.

Booth slowed his horse down to a trot and then to a walk as he came to the bridge. The guardhouse was a small white clapboard house with a picket fence, missing many of its boards, like an old man’s smile. Booth took a breath, attempting to slow his racing heart. He was sweating as much as his horse. His left leg throbbed miserably as if it was pounding against the side of the boot like a mallet against a drumhead. But he put his winning smile onto his face. A Union soldier walked out from the shadows of the house and held his hand to halt Booth. He held a pistol in his hand. It was almost 11:00 on Good Friday night, moments before Edwin Stanton and Gideon Welles would arrive at the Seward’s home and survey the carnage caused by young Lewis Powell.

“Where are you going?” He asked the lone rider. Before Booth could answer him a soldier of higher rank walked out of the house and called out to him, “Who are you, sir?” Wilkes could see that this man was a Sergeant.

“My name is Booth,” he answered and flashed a grin. He immediately cursed himself for using his real name, but continued to smile nonetheless. The mare refused to stand still and stepped back and forth, still worked up from the gallop through the city.

“Where are you coming from?” The Sergeant asked. His name was Silas Cobb. He had been on duty since sunset and was scheduled to stay on duty until 1:00 AM the next morning. The rules were that no one was supposed to pass out of Washington City this late at night, but Sergeant Cobb was a genial man who was especially full of good humor since the fall of Richmond and the surrender of Robert E. Lee in the past days.

“From the city,” Booth answered noncommittally and waved vaguely back towards Washington City.

“Where are you going, sir?” Cobb continued the standard interrogation.

“Why I am heading home,” Wilkes said flashing another smile. His teeth gleamed in the moon like the ivory keys of a piano reflecting the floodlights on a stage.

“And where is home?”

“Well, sir, home is in Charles,” the actor responded.

“Charles is a big county. You must live in a town?” Cobb pushed for details, his voice rising in a question.

“I live close to Beantown, but do not live in the town,” Booth responded coolly and smoothly. He was pleased with the casual banter that he had created with the Sergeant.

“Why are you out so late? Don’t you know the rule that persons are not allowed to pass over the bridge after 9:00?” Cobb asked firmly. This was news to Booth and he thought fast because he
had
to get across the bridge, and now!

“That is a new rule to me, sir,” Booth answered truthfully. “I was visiting a friend in the city and stayed later than I meant to. I stayed until this hour so I would have the moon to ride by,” Booth explained calmly and motioned to the sky and the bright moon that shone down.

Sergeant Cobb ran his eyes over Booth’s fine woolen coat, expensive riding pants and shiny boots. This man was obviously well to do. His responses had come easily and were all very natural and plausible. He didn’t appear to the Sergeant to be any kind of danger to society.

“If I allow you to pass, you will not be allowed to return until morning, Sir,” Cobb said finally.

“Hell, that is fine with me as I am goin’ home.” Sergeant Cobb stepped aside and motioned towards the bridge.

“Thank you, sir,” Booth responded and tapped his horse into motion. But the horse almost bolted and Booth had to rein her in, calming her down to a walk. Cobb thought it odd that the horse was so nervous and then noticed the lather on the mare as she walked by with her chatty rider. Something in the back of Cobb’s mind told him that something was amiss, but he couldn’t place it other than the lather on the horse. He kept his eyes on the rider as he clopped onto the low wooden drawbridge. As the black-coated rider and bay horse blended into the depth of the night, Cobb realized what had bothered him. The rider seemed so calm and jovial, but the horse was lathered and jumpy. Why was there such a contrast between the two?

Lincoln’s assassin had gotten past one more guard and had easily passed through to wider freedom. On the bridge, Booth exulted in the stupidity of the Union Army and the ease with which he had stabbed and gotten past the Major and now he had so casually disarmed not one but two guards with his easy banter. When the assassin stepped off the bridge and into the environs of Uniontown, he sunk his spurs into the sides of the mare and she immediately responded and galloped away. This time Booth gave her a loose rein and guided her to Harrison Road that led away from Uniontown and south. Eventually they would arrive at Surrattsville. He was heading for Mrs. Surratt’s tavern to pick up the field glasses and shooting irons that he’d given her that afternoon at her boardinghouse. Booth allowed his left leg to hang out of the stirrup now, attempting to ease some of the pressure on the continually throbbing limb. The galloping motion of the horse jostled the broken leg, sending pain searing up his calf and into his hips. It felt as if there were barbs of wire inserted beneath his skin that tore at his flesh. He clung to the mane of the horse with his left hand to keep himself stable in the saddle. Harrison Road began a long ascent and as he rode up the hill the night sky spread out before him. He felt as if he was riding into the field of stars.

Booth knew that he was already getting closer to the rebels, because Charles County was a hotbed of Southern sympathizers. But he wasn’t free yet, and he had to keep his concentration up. Wilkes needed to get past the two Union forts at the top of the hill. He prayed that Mary Surratt was right when she’d told him that afternoon that there would be no pickets on the road. As he crested the hill, Booth pricked the horse’s sides with his spurs to keep her moving. He did not receive a challenge and he was relieved as he galloped on. His next stop would be Soper’s Hill, about five miles past the forts. This was the rendezvous point the conspirators had agreed to earlier today.

Sergeant Cobb had just gotten back to the guardhouse and was stepping inside when another man came out of the darkness on a roan horse. David Herold was nervous, but he knew if he could get across the bridge he would be as good as free. It was a good thing he had spent his life hunting in the woods of Charles County in particular. He knew the woods and back roads of the county like the veins on the back of his hand. Herold’s trip to the Navy Yard Bridge had not been as eventless as Booth’s. He had ridden away from the Seward home, convinced that poor Lewis Powell had been captured. But by the ferocity of the lady’s screams pouring from the window, he assumed that Powell at least had killed the Secretary of State. The thought brought a brief smile to his lips. He pulled the light roan horse to a stop beneath a gas lamp on the street. He was taking in his surroundings, making one last check for Powell, and then he was high-tailing it out of the city to Soper’s Hill to link back up with Booth. As Herold was turned in his saddle, looking over his shoulder, he heard a man’s voice call out.

“You there! That’s my horse and she was due at the stable hours ago!” Herold spun around and saw John Fletcher, the stableman from whom Herold, Powell, and Atzerodt had rented their horses that afternoon, running toward him from across the street. The stableman was furious that all three of the horses were still out, far past their time to be back. Fletcher would be damned if he was going to get in trouble for the missing horses. He knew that Thomas Nailor, the owner of the stable, would hold him accountable. John Fletcher had been at the stable working earlier in the evening when George Atzerodt came by and asked if Fletcher would like a drink. Fletcher was familiar with Atzerodt, because John Wilkes Booth had told the stableman some weeks ago that Atzerodt would be selling a one-eyed bay mare for him, but until he sold her, Atzerodt could keep the horse at Nailor’s along with another horse and Booth would cover the cost. Atzerodt hadn’t been by the stable for a number of days, but then he came by the stable twice that same Friday in the afternoon. The second time he came by, he took the one-eyed horse, saying a friend was going to ride her, and then he had made an odd request of Fletcher: keep the stable open until 10:00 o’clock that night. Fletcher obliged, but when Atzerodt came by a third time close to 10:00 to pick up the mare, instead of taking the horse, he had asked Fletcher if he’d like to get a drink. The stableman was always open to some good warm ale, so he went with the German man to a bar close by, though he’d always thought the German was a bit off his rocker. Fletcher thought that the man might have already been drinking, becoming convinced he was drunk as they sat at the bar. Atzerodt was speaking more oddly than usual. After a glass, Fletcher said that he should get back because one of the horses was out still and he needed to make sure he was there if the man brought her back.

As the two men walked back to the stable, Atzerodt suddenly said, “If this thing happens tonight, you will hear of a present.” Fletcher, didn’t bother to ask the man to explain his comment, he knew he was drunk. When they got to the barn, the roan was still missing, and Atzerodt mounted the mare.

“You reckon you should be ridin’ in your condition?” Fletcher asked.

“I’m fine,” Atzerodt responded.

“I don’t reckon I’d ride that animal through the streets at night. She looks a’might skittish,” Fletcher observed. Atzerodt looked at Fletcher, then leaned down and patted the horse’s neck.

“She’s fine. She’s good on a retreat.”

‘A retreat?’ Fletcher really thought the man might not be a drunk after all, but a maniac. As Atzerodt turned the horse to go, Fletcher suddenly recalled that Atzerodt and the man with the light roan had visited the stable together with the actor, John Booth, in the weeks before.

“You know that younger man with the brown hair that you have come to the barn with? He’s taken a horse, a light roan who is a single-footed pacer, Charley’s his name.” He looked up at the drunken Atzerodt.

“What of it?”

“He’s not returned it. Do you know where he is? I need to get that horse back or Mr. Nailor will hold me responsible. I’ll be damned if I’m takin’ the blame ‘cause your friend didn’t bring him back.” Atzerodt looked back at the stableman.

“Oh don’t worry. He’ll be back after a while,” Atzerodt responded vaguely and then slowly walked the horse up the street. The stable was located close to Willard’s Hotel on Fourteenth Street. Fletcher suddenly became distrustful of Atzerodt and Herold. Here is a man talking of surprise “presents” and “retreats” and his friend has kept a horse out past its allotted time. ‘They are probably up to no good,’ Fletcher thought, so he followed the man on horseback down Pennsylvania Avenue until he watched him go into Kirkwood House around 10:00 PM. Fletcher walked back to the barn in a circuitous route, listening for the roan’s distinctive gait and scanning his eyes down the streets in hopes of finding her. After almost an hour of walking the streets, he found himself near Fifteenth Street. As he neared the Treasury Building, he thought he made out Charley’s gait and jogged toward the sound. He stopped and listened again.
 
Across the street, he saw a rider stop beneath a gas lamp and look around.
 
He was sitting on a roan horse! It was the man he was searching for!