CHAPTER XIII
THE ASSASSINATION OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN
On the evening of Good Friday, April 14, 1865, Laura Keene, an Englishactress of great repute in America, was to play _Our American Cousin_ atFord's Theater, the chief place of amusement for war-time Washington.
That afternoon, Assistant-Secretary-of-War Dana was notified by wirethat Jacob Thompson of Mississippi, once Secretary of the Interior underour poor old wavering President, Buchanan, afterwards a leadingSecessionist, would take a steamship for England that evening atPortland, Maine.
"What shall I do?" Dana asked Stanton.
"Arrest him! No, wait; better go over and see the President."
So Dana went to the White House. Office-hours were over. He foundLincoln washing his hands.
"Halloo, Dana!" was Lincoln's greeting. "What's up?"
The telegram was read aloud.
"What does Stanton say?"
"He says to arrest him, but that I should refer the question to you."
"Well, no, I rather think not. When you have got an elephant by the hindlegs and he's trying to run away; it's best to let him run."
Dana reported this to Stanton.
"Oh, stuff!" said Stanton.
But Thompson was not arrested, so that the last recorded act of Lincolnas President was one of mercy.
* * * * *
In the upper stage-box, to the right of the audience, that evening, satAbraham Lincoln, President of the United States, Mrs. Lincoln, a friend,Miss Harris, and an officer, Major Henry R. Rathbone. The cares of Stateseemed to have slipped for the moment from Lincoln's shoulders. He hadbowed smilingly from the box in response to the cheers of the packedaudience in the body of the house. He had followed intently the actionof the amusing play, constantly smiling, often applauding. The eyes ofthe little party of four were bent upon the stage, about ten o'clock,when the door of the box was jerked violently open behind them. As theyturned at the noise, Death stalked in upon them.
* * * * *
Five minutes before, Tom Strong had been idly strolling along TenthStreet and had paused at the theater door to read the play-bills postedthere. A small group of belated play-goers was at the ticket-booth. Aman shoved roughly through them. A woman's "Oh!" of surprise and protestdrew Tom's attention to the man. He had seen him but thrice before, yetthe man's face was engraved upon his memory. Once, at Charlestown,Virginia, Wilkes Booth had stood in the ranks of the militia, eagerlyawaiting the execution of John Brown. Once, upon a railroad train northof Baltimore, Wilkes Booth had drugged the boy and left him, as thescoundrel thought, to die. Once, upon a railroad platform at Kingston,Alabama, Wilkes Booth had recognized him and had again sought his death.Whose death did he seek to compass now? What was the Confederate spydoing here? Tom had scarcely glimpsed the hawk-like features, the pallidface, the flowing black hair of his foe, when Booth disappeared from hissight in the crowded lobby of the theater.
Instantly Tom pursued him. But he was delayed by the little groupthrough whom Booth had elbowed his rough way. And when he reached theticket-window, he found no money in his pocket with which to buyadmittance. He had put on civilian clothes that evening and had left hisscanty store of currency in his uniform. The wary ticket-seller, used toall sorts of dodges by people who wanted to get in without paying,laughed at his story and refused to give him a ticket on trust. Tom'sclaim that he was an officer caused especial amusement.
"That won't go down, bub," said the ticket-seller. "Try to think up abetter lie next time. And clear out now. Don't block up thepassageway."
"I _must_ get in," said Tom.
"You shan't," snarled the man, sure that he was being imposed upon.
The doorkeeper, attracted by the little row, had come towards theticket-window. He swung his right arm with a threatening gesture. As Tomstarted towards him he struck the threatened blow, but his clenched fisthit nothing. The boy had ducked under his arm and had fled into thetheater. The doorkeeper pursued him. But Tom was now making his way likea weasel through the crowd. He had caught sight of Wilkes Booth nearlyat the top of the right-hand staircase that led to the aisle from whichthe upper right-hand box was reached. Without any actual premonition ofthe coming tragedy which was to echo around the world upon the morrow,he still felt that Booth had in mind some evil deed and that it was hisduty to prevent him. As he struggled toward the foot of the stairway,Booth saw him, recognized him and smiled at him, a smile of triumphanthideous evil. Tom yelled:
"Spy! Confederate spy! Stop him! Let me follow!"
Upon the startled crowd there fell a sudden stillness. Nobody laid handupon Booth, but everybody made way for the frantic boy who rushed up thestairway as the scoundrel he chased ran down the corridor. He clutchedthe newel post at the head of the stairway just as Booth flung open thedoor of the box. Tom ran towards him.
* * * * *
The door of the box was violently jerked open. Wilkes Booth sprangacross the threshold. He put his pistol close to the head of the unarmedman he meant to murder. He fired. The greatest American sank forwardinto his wife's arms. High above her shrieks rose the actor's trainedvoice. He leaped upon the balustrade of the box, shouted "_Sic sempertyrannis!_" and jumped down to the stage. He was booted and spurred forhis escape. His horse was held for him near the stage-door. One of hisspurs caught upon the curtain of the box, so that he stumbled and fellheavily. But he had played his part upon that stage many a time before.He knew every nook and cranny of the mysterious labyrinth behind thefootlights. He rose to his feet, disregarding a twisted ankle, andrushed to safety--for a few hours. He reached his horse and gallopedinto the calm night of God, profaned forever by this hideous crime of abesotted fanatic.
* * * * *
The martyred President was taken to a neighboring house, No. 453 TenthStreet. In a back hall bedroom, upon the first floor, that that wasstill Abraham Lincoln, but was soon to cease to be so, was laid upon anarrow bed. Tom had helped to carry him there. Wife and son, John Hay,Secretary-of-War Stanton, and a few others crowded into the tiny room.Doctors worked feverishly over the dying man. Their skill was in vain.The slow and regular breathing grew fainter. The automatic moaningceased. A look of unspeakable peace came to the face the world now knowsso well. In a solemn hush, at twenty-two minutes after seven in themorning of Saturday, April 15, 1865, the great soul of Abraham Lincolnwent back to the God Who had given him to America and to the world. Amoment later Stanton spoke:
"Now he belongs to the ages."