THE ASSASSINATION OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN
On the evening of Good Friday, April 14, 1865, Laura Keene, an English
actress of great repute in America, was to play _Our American Cousin_ at
Ford's Theater, the chief place of amusement for war-time Washington.
That afternoon, Assistant-Secretary-of-War Dana was notified by wire
that Jacob Thompson of Mississippi, once Secretary of the Interior under
our poor old wavering President, Buchanan, afterwards a leading
Secessionist, would take a steamship for England that evening at
Portland, 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 found
Lincoln 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 hind
legs 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 Lincoln
as President was one of mercy.
* * * * *
In the upper stage-box, to the right of the audience, that evening, sat
Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States, Mrs. Lincoln, a friend,
Miss Harris, and an officer, Major Henry R. Rathbone. The cares of State
seemed to have slipped for the moment from Lincoln's shoulders. He had
bowed smilingly from the box in response to the cheers of the packed
audience in the body of the house. He had followed intently the action
of the amusing play, constantly smiling, often applauding. The eyes of
the 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 they
turned at the noise, Death stalked in upon them.
* * * * *
Five minutes before, Tom Strong had been idly strolling along Tenth
Street and had paused at the theater door to read the play-bills posted
there. A small group of belated play-goers was at the ticket-booth. A
man shoved roughly through them. A woman's "Oh!" of surprise and protest
drew Tom's attention to the man. He had seen him but thrice before, yet
the man's face was engraved upon his memory. Once, at Charlestown,
Virginia, Wilkes Booth had stood in the ranks of the militia, eagerly
awaiting the execution of John Brown. Once, upon a railroad train north
of Baltimore, Wilkes Booth had drugged the boy and left him, as the
scoundrel 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 spy
doing here? Tom had scarcely glimpsed the hawk-like features, the pallid
face, the flowing black hair of his foe, when Booth disappeared from his
sight in the crowded lobby of the theater.
Instantly Tom pursued him. But he was delayed by the little group
through whom Booth had elbowed his rough way. And when he reached the
ticket-window, he found no money in his pocket with which to buy
admittance. He had put on civilian clothes that evening and had left his
scanty store of currency in his uniform. The wary ticket-seller, used to
all 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's
claim that he was an officer caused especial amusement.
"That won't go down, bub," said the ticket-seller. "Try to think up a
better lie next time. And clear out now. Don't block up the
passageway."
"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 the
ticket-window. He swung his right arm with a threatening gesture. As Tom
started towards him he struck the threatened blow, but his clenched fist
hit nothing. The boy had ducked under his arm and had fled into the
theater. The doorkeeper pursued him. But Tom was now making his way like
a weasel through the crowd. He had caught sight of Wilkes Booth nearly
at the top of the right-hand staircase that led to the aisle from which
the upper right-hand box was reached. Without any actual premonition of
the 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 his
duty to prevent him. As he struggled toward the foot of the stairway,
Booth saw him, recognized him and smiled at him, a smile of triumphant
hideous evil. Tom yelled:
"Spy! Confederate spy! Stop him! Let me follow!"
Upon the startled crowd there fell a sudden stillness. Nobody laid hand
upon Booth, but everybody made way for the frantic boy who rushed up the
stairway as the scoundrel he chased ran down the corridor. He clutched
the newel post at the head of the stairway just as Booth flung open the
door of the box. Tom ran towards him.
* * * * *
The door of the box was violently jerked open. Wilkes Booth sprang
across the threshold. He put his pistol close to the head of the unarmed
man he meant to murder. He fired. The greatest American sank forward
into his wife's arms. High above her shrieks rose the actor's trained
voice. He leaped upon the balustrade of the box, shouted "_Sic semper
tyrannis!_" and jumped down to the stage. He was booted and spurred for
his escape. His horse was held for him near the stage-door. One of his
spurs caught upon the curtain of the box, so that he stumbled and fell
heavily. But he had played his part upon that stage many a time before.
He knew every nook and cranny of the mysterious labyrinth behind the
footlights. He rose to his feet, disregarding a twisted ankle, and
rushed to safety--for a few hours. He reached his horse and galloped
into the calm night of God, profaned forever by this hideous crime of a
besotted fanatic.
* * * * *
The martyred President was taken to a neighboring house, No. 453 Tenth
Street. In a back hall bedroom, upon the first floor, that that was
still Abraham Lincoln, but was soon to cease to be so, was laid upon a
narrow 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 moaning
ceased. A look of unspeakable peace came to the face the world now knows
so well. In a solemn hush, at twenty-two minutes after seven in the
morning of Saturday, April 15, 1865, the great soul of Abraham Lincoln
went back to the God Who had given him to America and to the world. A
moment later Stanton spoke:
"Now he belongs to the ages."