Killing Lincoln: The Shocking Assassination that Changed America Forever Part 8

Or, as it was known back in Julius Caesar's time, the ides.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

TUESDAY, APRIL 11, 1865 WAs.h.i.+NGTON, D.C.

NIGHT.

"It seems strange how much there is in the Bible about dreams," Lincoln says thoughtfully, basking in the afterglow of his speech. I t is just after ten P.M. The people of Was.h.i.+ngton have moved their party elsewhere, and the White House lawn is nearly empty. Lincoln is having tea and cake in the Red Room with Mary, Senator James Harlan, and a few friends. Among them is Ward Hill Lamon, the close friend with the beer-barrel girth. Lamon, the United States marshal for the District of Columbia, has warned Lincoln for more than a year that someone, somewhere will try to kill him. The lawman listens to the president intently, with a veteran policeman's heightened sense of foreboding, sifting and sorting through each word.

Lincoln continues: "There are, I think, some sixteen chapters in the Old T estament and four or five in the New in which dreams are mentioned ... .

I f we believe the Bible, we must accept the fact that in the old days, G.o.d and his angels came to men in their sleep and made themselves known in dreams."

Mary Lincoln smiles nervously at her husband. His melancholy tone has her fearing the worst. "Why? Do you believe in dreams?"

Y es, Lincoln believes in dreams, in dreams and in nightmares and in their power to haunt a man. Night is a time of terror for Abraham Lincoln.

The bodyguards standing watch outside his bedroom hear him moan in his sleep as his worries and anxieties are unleashed by the darkness, when the distractions and the busyness of the day can no longer keep them at bay. Very often he cannot sleep at all. Lincoln collapsed from exhaustion just a month ago. He is pale, thirty-five pounds underweight, and walks with the hunched, painful gait of a man whose shoes are filled with pebbles. One look at the bags under his eyes and even hardened newspapermen write that he needs to conserve his energies-not just to heal the nation but to live out his second term. At fifty-six years old, Abraham Lincoln is spent.

There have been threats against Lincoln's life ever since he was first elected.

Gift baskets laden with fruit were sent to the White House, mostly from addresses in the South. The apples and pears and peaches were very fresh-and very deadly, their insides injected with poison. Lincoln had the good sense to have them all tested before taking a chance and chomping down into a first fatal bite.

Then there was the Baltimore Plot, in 1861, in which a group known as the Knights of the Golden Circle planned to shoot Lincoln as he traveled to Was.h.i.+ngton for the inauguration. The plot was foiled, thanks to brilliant detective work by Pinkerton agents. In a strange twist, many newspapers mocked Lincoln for the way he eluded the a.s.sa.s.sins by wearing a cheap disguise as he snuck into Was.h.i.+ngton. His enemies made much of the deception, labeling Lincoln a coward and refusing to believe that such a plot existed in the first place. The president took the cheap shots to heart.

The Baltimore Plot taught Lincoln a powerful message about public perception. He adopted a veneer of unshakable courage from that day forward. Now he would never dream of traveling in disguise. He moves freely throughout Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. Since 1862 he has enjoyed military protection beyond the walls of the White House, but it was only late in 1864, as the war wound down and the threats became more real, that Was.h.i.+ngton's Metropolitan Police a.s.signed a select group of officers armed with .38-caliber pistols to protect Lincoln on a more personal basis.

Two remain at his side from eight A.M. to four P.M. Another stays with Lincoln until midnight, when a fourth man takes the graveyard s.h.i.+ft, posting himself outside Lincoln's bedroom or following the president through the White House on his insomniac nights.

The bodyguards are paid by the Department of the Interior, and their job description, strangely enough, specifically states that they are to protect the White House from vandals.

Protecting Lincoln is second on their list of priorities.

I f he were the sort of man to worry about his personal safety, Lincoln wouldn't allow such easy public access to the White House. There is no fence or gate blocking people from entering the White House at this time. The doorman is instructed to allow citizens to roam the first floor. Friends and strangers alike can congregate inside the building all day long, seeking political favors, stealing sc.r.a.ps of the curtains as keepsakes, or just peering in at the president while he works. Some pet.i.tioners even sleep on the floor in the hallways, hoping to gain a moment of Lincoln's time.

Lincoln's bright young secretary John Hay frets constantly about his boss's safety. "The President is so accessible that any villain can feign business, and, while talking with him, draw a razor and cut his throat," Hay worries aloud, "and some minutes might elapse after the murderer's escape before we could discover what had been done." Lincoln, however, reminds Hay that being president of the United States stipulates that he be a man of the people. "I t would never do for a President to have guards with drawn sabers at his door, as if he were, or were a.s.suming to be an emperor," he reminds them.

Death is no stranger to Abraham Lincoln, and in that way it is less terrifying. The Lincolns' three-year-old son Edward died of tuberculosis in 1850.

In 1862, the Lincolns lost eleven-year-old Willie to a fever. Willie was a spirited child, fond of wrestling with his father and riding his pony on the White House lawn. Mary, who already suffered from a mental disorder that made her p.r.o.ne to severe mood swings, was emotionally destroyed by the loss of her boys. Even as Lincoln was mired in the war and dealing with his own grief, he devoted hours to tending to Mary and the silent downward spiral that seemed to define her daily existence. He indulged her by allowing her to spend lavishly, to the point of putting him deeply in debt, though he is by nature a very simple and frugal man. Also to please Mary, he accompanied her to a night at the theater or to a party when he would much rather conserve his energies by relaxing with a book at the White House. And while this indulgence has worked to some extent, and Mary Lincoln has gotten stronger over time, Lincoln of all people knows that she is one great tragedy away from losing her mind.

Normally, their history precludes Lincoln from talking about death with Mary present. But now, surrounded by friends and empowered by the confessional tone of that night's speech, he can't help himself.

"I had a dream the other night, which has haunted me since," he admits soulfully.

"You frighten me," Mary cries.

Lincoln will not be stopped. Ten days ago, he begins, "I went to bed late."

T en days ago he was in City Point, each man and woman in the room calculates. I t was the night Lincoln stood alone on the top deck of the River Queen, watching Grant's big guns blow the Confederate defenders of Petersburg to h.e.l.l. "I had been waiting for important dispatches from thefront. I could not have been long in bed when I fell into a slumber, for I was weary. I soon began to dream."

In addition to being the consummate public speaker, Lincoln is also a master storyteller. No matter how heavy the weight of the world, he invests himself in a story, adjusting the tone and cadence of his voice and curling his lips into a smile as he weaves his tale, until the listener eventually leans in, desperate to hear more.

But now there is pain in his voice and not a hint of a smile. Lincoln isn't telling a story but reliving an agony. "There seemed to be a deathlike stillness about me. Then I heard subdued sobs, as if a number of people were weeping. I thought I left my bed and wandered downstairs. There the silence was broken by the same pitiful sobbing, but the mourners were invisible. I went from room to room. No living person was in sight, but the same mournful sounds of distress met me as I pa.s.sed along. I t was light in all the rooms. Every object was familiar to me. But where were all the people who were grieving as if their hearts would break? I was puzzled and alarmed. What could be the meaning of all this?"

Lincoln is lost in the world of that dream. Y et his audience, uncomfortable as it may feel, is breathless with antic.i.p.ation. "Determined to find the cause of a state of things so mysterious and shocking, I kept on until I arrived in the East Room, which I entered. There I was met with a sickening surprise. Before me was a catafalque, on which rested a corpse wrapped in funeral vestments. Around it were stationed soldiers who were acting as guards. And there were a throng of people, some gazing mournfully upon the corpse, whose face was covered, others weeping pitifully. 'Who is dead in the White House?' I demanded of one of the soldiers. 'The President,' was the answer. 'He was killed by an a.s.sa.s.sin.' Then came a loud burst of grief from the crowd."

Mary can't take it anymore. "That is horrid," she wails. "I wish you had not told it."

Lincoln is pulled back to reality, no longer sound asleep on the River Queen but sitting with a somewhat sh.e.l.l-shocked gathering of dignitaries in the here and now. Young Clara Harris, in particular, looks traumatized. "Well it was only a dream, Mary," he chides. "Let us say no more about it."

A moment later, seeing the uneasiness in the room, Lincoln adds, "Don't you see how it will all turn out? In this dream it was not me, but some other fellow that was killed."

His words convince no one, especially not Mary.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 12, 1865 WAs.h.i.+NGTON, D.C.

MORNING.

After a light breakfast and a night of restless sleep, Booth walks the streets of Was.h.i.+ngton, his mind filled with the disparate strands of an unfinished plan. The more he walks, the more it all comes together.

I t is the morning after Lincoln's speech and the third day since Lee's surrender.

Booth frames every action through the prism of the dramatic, a trait that comes from being born and raised in an acting household. As he builds the a.s.sa.s.sination scheme in his head, layer by layer, everything from the location to its grandiosity is designed to make him the star performer in an epic scripted tale. His will be the biggest a.s.sa.s.sination plot ever, and his commanding performance will guarantee him an eternity of recognition.

He knows there will be an audience. By the morning after Lincoln's speech Booth has decided to shoot the president inside a theater, the one place in the world where Booth feels most comfortable. Lincoln is known to attend the theater frequently. In fact, he has seen Booth perform- although Lincoln's presence in the house so angered Booth that he delivered a notably poor performance.

So the theater it will be. Booth has performed at several playhouses in Was.h.i.+ngton. He knows their hallways and pa.s.sages by heart. A less informed man might worry about being trapped inside a building with a limited number of exits, no windows, and a crowd of witnesses-many of them able-bodied men just back from the war. But not John Wilkes Booth.

His solitary walk takes him past many such soldiers. The army hasn't been disbanded yet, so they remain in uniform. Even someone as athletic as Booth looks far less rugged than these men who have spent so much time in the open air, their bodies lean and hard from hours on the march. I f he thought about it, their familiarity with weapons and hand-to-hand combat would terrify Booth, with his ch.o.r.eographed stage fights and peashooter pistol.

But Booth is not scared of these men. In fact, he wants to linger for a moment at center stage. With the stage lights s.h.i.+ning down on his handsome features, clutching a dagger with "America, Land of the Free" inscribed on the blade, he plans to spend what will surely be the last seconds of his acting career making a political statement. "Sic semper tyrannis," he will bellow in his most vibrant thespian delivery: Thus always to tyrants.

The dagger is useless as a stage prop. Booth has no specific plans to use it, knowing that if he fires a shot from a few feet away and it misses, there will be no chance to run at Lincoln and stab him. He has borrowed the idea from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar , which he performed six months earlier on Broadway with his two actor brothers, both of whom he despises. Booth, ironically, played Marc Antony, a character whose life is spared from a potential a.s.sa.s.sin.

Those performances provided Booth with his inspiration about the ides. In Roman times it was a day of reckoning.

The ides are tomorrow.

Booth walks faster, energized by the awareness that he hasn't much time.

He must find out whether Lincoln will be attending the theater tomorrow night and, if so, which one. He must find out which play is being performed, so that he can select just the right moment in the show for the execution-a moment with few actors on stage, if possible, so that when he stops to utter his immortal line there won't be a crowd to tackle him. The details of his escape are still fuzzy, but the basic plan is to gallop out of Was.h.i.+ngton on horseback and disappear into the loving arms of the South, where friends and allies and even complete strangers who have heard of his daring deed will see that he makes it safely to Mexico.

But that's not all.

There are rumors that General Grant will be in town. I f he attends the theater with Lincoln, which is a very real possibility, Booth can kill the two most prominent architects of the South's demise within seconds.

And yet Booth wants even more. He has been an agent of the Confederacy for a little less than a year and has had long conversations with the leaders of the Confederate Secret Service and men like John Surratt, discussing what must be done to topple the Union. He has, at his disposal, a small cadre of like-minded men prepared to do his bidding. He personally witnessed the northern crowd's malice toward the South at Lincoln's speech last night. Rather than just kill Lincoln and Grant, he now plans to do nothing less than undertake a top-down destruction of the government of the United States of America.

Vice President Andrew Johnson is an obvious target. He is first in line to the presidency, lives at a nearby hotel, and is completely unguarded. Like all Confederate sympathizers, Booth views the Tennessee politician as a turncoat for siding with Lincoln.

Secretary of State William H. Seward, whose oppressive policies toward the South have long made him a target of Confederate wrath, is on the list as well.

The deaths of Lincoln, Grant, Johnson, and Seward should be more than enough to cause anarchy.

T o Lewis Powell, the former Confederate spy who watched Lincoln's speech with Booth, will go the task of killing Secretary Seward, who, at age sixty-three, is currently bedridden, after a near-fatal carriage accident. He was traveling through Was.h.i.+ngton with his son Frederick and daughter f.a.n.n.y when the horses bolted. While reaching for the reins to try to stop them, Seward caught the heel of one of his new shoes on the carriage step and was hurled from the cab, hitting the street so hard that bystanders thought he'd been killed. Secretary Seward has been confined to his bed for a week with severe injuries and is on an around-the-clock course of pain medication. Seward has trouble speaking; he has no chance of leaping from the bed to elude a surprise attack.

Powell's job should be as simple as sneaking into the Seward home, shooting the sleeping secretary in bed, then galloping away to join Booth for a life of suns.h.i.+ne and easy living in Mexico.

For the job of killing Johnson, Booth selects a simpleton drifter named George Atzerodt, a German carriage repairer with a sallow complexion and a fondness for drink. T o him will go the job of a.s.sa.s.sinating the vice president at the exact same moment Booth is killing Lincoln. Atzerodt, however, still thinks the plan is to kidnap Lincoln. He was brought into the plot for his encyclopedic knowledge of the smuggling routes from Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., into the Deep South. Booth suspects that Atzerodt may be unwilling to go along with the new plan. Should that be the case, Booth has a foolproof plan in mind to blackmail Atzerodt into going along.

Booth has seen co-conspirators come and go since last August. Right now he has three: Powell, Atzerodt, and David Herold, the Georgetown graduate who also accompanied Booth on the night of Lincoln's speech. One would imagine that each man would be a.s.signed a murder victim.

Logically, Herold's job would be to kill Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton, the man who trampled the Const.i.tution by helping Lincoln suspend the writ of habeas corpus and did more than any other to treat the South like a b.a.s.t.a.r.d child. Stanton is the second-most-powerful man in Was.h.i.+ngton, but in the end no a.s.sa.s.sin is trained on him. Instead, Herold will act as the dim-witted Powell's guide, leading his escape out of Was.h.i.+ngton in the dead of night.

Why was the secretary of war spared?

The answer may come from a shadowy figure named Lafayette Baker. Early in the war, Baker distinguished himself as a Union spy. Secretary of State William Seward hired him to investigate Confederate communications that were being routed through Maryland. Baker's success in this role saw him promoted to the War Department, where Secretary of War Edwin Stanton gave him full power to create an organization known as the National Detective Police. This precursor to the Secret Service was a counterterrorism unit tasked with seeking out Confederate spy networks in Canada, New York, and Was.h.i.+ngton.

But Lafayette Baker was a s.h.i.+fty character, with loyalties undefined, except for his love of money and of himself, though not necessarily in that order. Secretary Stanton soon grew weary of him, so Baker returned to New Y ork City. His movements during this time are murky, as befitting a man who thinks himself a spy, but one elaborate theory ties together his activities with those of John Wilkes Booth. This theory suggests that Baker worked as an agent for a Canadian outfit known as the J. J. Chaffey Company. Baker received payments totaling almost $150,000 from that firm, an unheard-of sum at the time. The J. J. Chaffey Company also paid John Wilkes Booth nearly $15,000 between August 24 and October 5, 1864.

He was paid in gold, credited to the Bank of Montreal. In the same month the last payment was made to him, Booth traveled to Montreal to collect the money and rendezvous with John Surratt and other members of the Confederate Secret Service to plot the Lincoln issue.

The common thread in the several mysterious payments and missives involving Baker and Booth is the mailing address 1781/2 Water Street.

This location, quite mysteriously, is referenced in several doc.u.ments surrounding payments between the J. J. Chaffey Company, Baker, and Booth.

T o this day, no one has discovered why the J. J. Chaffey Company paid Lafayette Baker and John Wilkes Booth for anything. A few clues exist, including a telegram sent on April 2, 1865, the very same day on which Lincoln stood atop the deck of the River Queen to watch the fall of Petersburg. A telegram was sent from 1781/2 Water Street to a company in Chicago. "J. W. Booth will s.h.i.+p oysters until Sat.u.r.day 15th," it reads, intimating that Booth, a man who never worked a day in his life in the s.h.i.+pping or the oyster business, was involved in some kind of project that was totally inappropriate for his skills. And yet no one has been able to conclusively determine what the telegram alluded to.

Lafayette Baker freely admitted that he had tapped Secretary of War Stanton's telegraph lines, though he never explained why he did what he did. Baker would have known that if Lincoln were a.s.sa.s.sinated, ascension to the presidency could eventually fall to Stanton-the man who ran against Lincoln in 1860. The United States has had a succession plan in place since 1792, with the vice president replacing the fallen president, as when Zachary T aylor died in office and was succeeded by Millard Fillmore. I f a more elaborate a.s.sa.s.sination plot were hatched, one that killed Vice President Andrew Johnson and Secretary of State William Seward along with President Lincoln, a skilled const.i.tutional scholar like Edwin Stanton could attempt to manipulate the process in his favor-and perhaps even become president. This connection between Baker, Booth, and Stanton continues to intrigue and befuddle scholars. Why was Baker, a spy, paid an exorbitant amount for his services? And why did John Wilkes Booth secure a healthy payment from the same company?

Clues such as this point to Stanton's involvement, but no concrete connection has ever been proven. Circ.u.mstantially, he was involved. Secretary Stanton employed Baker, who was in regular contact with Surratt and Booth. Some historians believe that Stanton fired Baker as a cover and that the two remained in close contact.

Or so the elaborate theory goes.

Whether or not that is true, Stanton will be the sole reason that Baker's role in the dramatic events of April 1865 is hardly over.

Booth is satisfied that his plan is simple enough that the synchronized slayings will not tax the mental capacities of his underlings. Now all he needs to do is find Lincoln.

The odds of the Lincolns' remaining in the White House on such an auspicious night of celebration are almost nonexistent. The president and Mrs. Lincoln are known to be fond of the theater and p.r.o.ne to making their public appearances in such a venue. They will be either there or at one of the many parties being held to celebrate the city's Grand I llumination.

I f it is to be an I llumination party, Booth will canva.s.s the city's notable residences for signs of a celebration. Once the president is located, the next step will be waiting for a moment when he is unguarded, whereupon Booth can use his celebrity to gain entrance and then shoot him.

I f it is to be the theater, the obvious choices are either the Grover or Ford's, both of which are staging lavish productions. Booth must reacquaint himself with their floor plans so that when the moment comes he can act without thinking.

Booth turns the corner onto Pennsylvania Avenue. First stop: Grover's Theater. The a.s.sa.s.sination will be tomorrow.