Lincoln's Last Days Read online

  Surgeon General Joseph K. Barnes.

  Dr. Leale realizes that he is no longer needed in that cramped bedroom. But he does not leave. Leale, like the others, can barely hold back his tears. He has noticed that Lincoln is visibly more comfortable when the wound is unclogged. So he sits next to the dying man’s head, poking his finger into the blood clot every few minutes, making sure there’s not too much pressure on Lincoln’s brain.

  Outside, the crowd waits to hear the latest news. Even when a light rain starts falling, they will not leave. Secretary of War Stanton arrives, makes the room next to Lincoln’s his headquarters, and takes charge, acting as interim president of the United States.

  Word of the assassination has brought a number of government officials to the Petersen House. The police investigation is beginning to take shape. It is clear that Booth shot Lincoln, and many believe that the actor also attacked Seward in his bed. Vice President Andrew Johnson, whose luck held when his assassin backed out, now stands in the next room, summoned there after learning of Lincoln’s condition.

  The occupants of the bedroom change constantly, with clergymen, government officials, and other people stepping in for a moment to pay their respects. More than sixty-five people will be allowed inside before the night is through. The most frequent presence is Mary Lincoln, who weeps and even falls to her knees by the bed when she is allowed a few moments with her husband. Leale takes care to spread a clean white hand-kerchief over the bloody pillow whenever she is about to walk in, but the bleeding from Lincoln’s head never ceases, and before Mary Lincoln departs, the handkerchief is often covered in blood and brain matter.

  At three A.M., the scene is so horrible that Mary is no longer admitted.

  The various doctors take turns recording Lincoln’s condition. His breathing is shallow and fast, coming twenty-four to twenty-seven times a minute. His pulse rises to sixty-four at five forty A.M. and hovers at sixty just a few moments later. By that time, Leale can barely feel it.

  A Currier & Ives lithograph of the death of President Abraham Lincoln. This is a romanticized image. Lincoln’s wife and son were not in the room when he died.

  One of the physicians in the room, Dr. Ezra Abbott, makes notes on Lincoln’s condition:

  6:30—still failing and labored breathing.

  6:40—expirations prolonged and groaning. A deep, softly sonorous cooing sound at the end of each expiration, audible to bystanders.

  6:45—respiration uneasy, choking and grunting. Lower jaw relaxed. Mouth open. A minute without a breath. Face getting dark.

  6:59—breathes again a little more at intervals.

  7:00—still breathing at long pauses; symptoms of immediate dissolution.

  With the president’s death near, Mary Lincoln is once again admitted. Dr. Leale stands to make room. She sits in the chair next to Lincoln and then presses her face against her husband’s. “Love,” she says softly, “speak to me.”

  A “loud, unnatural noise,” in Dr. Leale’s description, barks up from Lincoln’s lungs. The sound is so grotesque that Mary collapses. As she is carried from the room, she steals one last glimpse of her husband. She has known him since he was just a country lawyer and has shared almost half her life with him. This will be the last time she sees him alive.

  The contents of Lincoln’s pockets on the night of his assassination.

  A life mask casting of Abraham Lincoln’s face and hands on display at Ford’s Theatre. The face was made in 1860 just before Lincoln was nominated.

  “I have given my husband to die,” she laments, wishing that it could have been her instead.

  Dr. Leale can’t find a pulse. Lincoln’s breathing becomes harsh, then ceases altogether before starting again. The room fills with a small army of elected officials, all of whom wish to witness the historic moment of Lincoln’s death. Outside, it is dawn, and the crowds have grown even larger.

  In the bedroom, Robert Lincoln, who arrived a few minutes ago, sobs loudly, unable to control his grief. He stands at the head of the bed and looks down at his father. Dr. Barnes sits in the chair, his finger on Lincoln’s carotid artery, seeking a pulse. Dr. Leale has moved to the other side of the bed and wedged himself against the wall. He once again holds Lincoln’s hand, simultaneously using his index finger to feel for a pulse on Lincoln’s wrist.

  Lincoln draws his last breath at seven twenty-one. His heart beats regularly for another fifteen seconds, then stops altogether at ten seconds past seven twenty-two A.M.

  More than twenty men are packed into the bedroom. Nobody says a word for five long minutes. Dr. Barnes reaches into his vest pocket for a pair of silver coins, which he places over Lincoln’s eyes. Dr. Leale, meanwhile, folds the president’s arms across his chest and carefully smooths his hair.

  He barely hears Secretary Stanton’s words: “Now he belongs to the ages.”

  Chapter

  40

  SATURDAY, APRIL 15, 1865

  Maryland Countryside

  Early Morning

  JOHN WILKES BOOTH and David Herold have escaped into the Maryland countryside. They meet up at their rendezvous spot of Soper’s Hill in the dead of night. There is no sign of Atzerodt or Powell, so Booth and Herold push on with their flight toward Virginia. However, Booth’s leg injury is so severe, and their horses are so tired, that they have been forced to find a place to rest. They are now hiding in the house of the physician and Confederate sympathizer Dr. Samuel Mudd, whose farm is about twenty-five miles south of Washington.

  In Washington, investigators stumble upon Atzerodt’s trail first. After failing to carry out the assassination of Vice President Johnson, he spent the night wandering around Washington, getting thoroughly drunk in a number of bars and making sure to dispose of the knife that was supposed to be the murder weapon. Atzerodt is all too aware that returning to his room at Kirkwood House would be a stupid idea. So just before three A.M., he checks into the Pennsylvania House Hotel, where he is assigned a double room. His roommate is a police lieutenant named W. R. Keim. The two men know each other from Atzerodt’s previous stays at the Pennsylvania House. They lie on their backs in the darkness and have a short conversation before falling asleep. Keim is stunned by the slaying of Lincoln. As drunk as he is, Atzerodt does an artful job of pretending sadness, saying that the whole Lincoln assassination is a terrible tragedy.

  Meanwhile, detectives are combing through his belongings at Kirkwood House. A desk clerk tells them he remembers seeing a “villainous-looking” individual registered in room 126. Atzerodt took the only room key with him when he fled, so detectives have to break down the door to investigate. Quickly canvassing the room, they come up with the first solid leads about Lincoln’s murder. In the breast pocket of a dark coat hanging on a wall peg, they discover a ledger book from a bank in Montreal. The name written inside the cover is that of John Wilkes Booth, whom many eyewitnesses have identified as Lincoln’s killer. The book confirms the connection between Atzerodt and Booth.

  Dr. Samuel Mudd.

  Searching through the bed, the detectives find a loaded revolver under the pillow and a knife underneath the covers. In fact, room 126 is a treasure trove of evidence: a map of Southern states, pistol rounds, a handkerchief embroidered with the name of Booth’s mother, and much more.

  Investigators now have two suspects: Booth and Atzerodt. Warrants are issued for their arrests.

  At the same time, a tip leads investigators to raid Mary Surratt’s boardinghouse on H Street. Nothing is found, but Surratt’s behavior is suspicious enough that detectives decide to keep an eye on her and the house. A similar tip leads police to room 228 at the National Hotel—Booth’s room—which is quickly ripped apart. Booth also has left behind clues—among them a business card bearing the name J. Harrison Surratt and a letter from Samuel Arnold, who had been part of the kidnapping plot, that implicates Michael O’Laughlen. It is obvious that John Wilkes Booth did not act alone.

  A few blocks away, detectives question Secretary
of State Seward’s household staff and add two more nameless individuals to the list: the man who attacked Seward and his accomplice, who was seen waiting outside. This brings the number of conspirators to six: Booth, Atzerodt, O’Laughlen, Arnold, and Seward’s two unknown attackers.

  Meanwhile, Washington is in a state of shock. Flags are flown at half-mast. Vice President Andrew Johnson is sworn in as the seventeenth president of the United States.

  Throughout the nation, as the news spreads, Abraham Lincoln’s worst fears are being realized. Outraged Northerners mourn his loss and openly pledge revenge, while Southerners rejoice in the death of the man who wouldn’t give them the freedom to form their own nation. The Civil War seems on the verge of erupting once again.

  Believing that catching Lincoln’s killer will end the unrest, Secretary of War Stanton spends Saturday expanding the search, making the hunt for Lincoln’s killers the biggest in American history. Soldiers, cavalry, and law enforcement officers throughout the Northern states are ordered to devote all their energies to finding John Wilkes Booth and his band of killers. Stanton sends a telegram to New York City, recalling Lafayette C. Baker, his former spymaster and chief of security, to help him in this effort.

  An illustration showing Andrew Johnson taking the oath of office for the presidency of the United States.

  As all this is going on, George Atzerodt wakes up at dawn on Saturday morning. He leaves the Pennsylvania House and walks across the city to nearby Georgetown, where he makes the unusual gesture of calling on Lucinda Metz, an old girlfriend. He tells her he is going away for a while, as if she might somehow want to come along. And then as mysteriously as he appears, Atzerodt leaves and pawns his revolver for ten dollars at a nearby store.

  Fate is smiling upon George Atzerodt. Nobody stops him as he leaves Washington. Soon he is in Maryland and, incredibly, it appears that he will escape the manhunt.

  Chapter

  41

  SATURDAY, APRIL 15, 1865

  Maryland Countryside

  Noon

  JOHN WILKES BOOTH IS MISERABLE. Flat on his back on a bed in the country home of Samuel Mudd, Booth screams in pain as the thirty-one-year-old doctor cuts off his boot and gently presses his fingers into the grossly swollen ankle.

  After the assassination, Booth and David Herold rode hard all night, stopping only at a small tavern owned by Mary Surratt to pick up some rifles she’d hidden for them. Herold boasted that they’d killed the president. He also bought a bottle of whiskey so Booth could enjoy a nip or two to dull the pain. Then they rode ten more hard miles on tree-lined country roads. Every mile was more painful for Booth than the last.

  Still, they’re close. Very close. Mudd’s estate is just north of Bryantown, Maryland, two-thirds of the way to the Potomac River.

  Booth’s pants and jacket are spattered with mud. His handsome face is unshaven and unhealthy looking. But more than anything else, John Wilkes Booth is helpless. He is completely dependent upon David Herold to lead their escape into the South. At a time when he needs all his intelligence and energy to complete the second half of the perfect assassination, he is in too much pain to think straight.

  Dr. Mudd says he’s going to splint the leg. Booth lies back and lets him, even though he knows he will no longer be able to slip his left foot into a stirrup. Now Booth must ride one-legged—if he can ride at all.

  Dr. Samuel Mudd’s medical kit.

  Mudd finishes splinting the leg, then leaves Booth alone in an upstairs room to rest.

  Booth rolls over, closes his eyes, and falls into a deep sleep, sure that he is being hunted but unaware that more than a thousand men on horseback are within a few miles of his location—and that Lafayette Baker is now on the case.

  John Wilkes Booth’s boot that Dr. Samuel Mudd cut open.

  Chapter

  42

  SATURDAY TO SUNDAY, APRIL 15 TO 16, 1865

  New York City

  LAFAYETTE BAKER IS IN HIS ROOM at New York’s Astor House Hotel when he hears that Lincoln has been shot. The former spy is not surprised. His first thought, as always, is of finding a way to spin the tragedy for his own personal gain. Baker loves money and glory. He understands in an instant that the man who finds Lincoln’s killer will have both wealth and fame. Baker wants to be that man.

  It’s noon on Saturday when a telegram arrives from Stanton, summoning him to “come here immediately and find the murderer of our president.”

  Lafayette Baker takes the overnight train to Washington. Arriving at dawn, he travels immediately to the War Department, where he meets with Stanton. “They have killed the president. You must go to work. My whole dependence is upon you,” the secretary tells him.

  Baker’s first act is to post a reward for $30,000 leading to the arrest and conviction of Lincoln’s killers. He also has photographs of John Surratt, David Herold, and John Wilkes Booth plastered all around town.

  Lafayette Baker.

  Chapter

  43

  SATURDAY TO SUNDAY, APRIL 15 TO 16, 1865

  Maryland Countryside

  DAVID HEROLD NEEDS A BUGGY. With a buggy, he and Booth can travel quickly and in relative comfort. He asks Dr. Mudd to lend them his, but the doctor is reluctant; secretly harboring fugitives is one thing, but allowing the two most wanted men in America to ride through southern Maryland in his personal carriage would implicate Mudd and his wife in the conspiracy. If they were hanged—for that was surely the fate awaiting any Lincoln conspirator—their four young children would be orphans.

  Instead, Mudd suggests that Herold join him and ride into the neighboring community of Bryantown to pick up supplies and check on the latest news. Herold agrees. But as they draw closer and closer to the small town, something tells Herold not to take the risk. A stranger will be too easily remembered by this tight-knit community. Herold lets Mudd go on without him and turns his horse back to the doctor’s home.

  It’s a good thing he does. The United States Cavalry now has Bryantown surrounded. They’re not only questioning all its citizens—they’re not letting anyone leave, either.

  Having seen the Union troops in Bryantown before they saw him, Herold knows they cannot stay at Dr. Mudd’s any longer. Just before dusk, he rouses Booth and helps him down the stairs and up into the saddle. Herold guides them south through the countryside, aiming for the Zekiah Swamp, with its quicksand bogs and dense forests. The few trails that exist there are almost impossible to see in the dark, and the pair are soon lost and frustrated. They turn back toward Mudd’s farm but remain out of sight, plotting their next move.

  As Easter Sunday dawns, Herold and Booth are camped in a grove of pine trees a quarter mile off the main road. A cold front is racing across Maryland, and they shiver in the damp swampy air. Booth isn’t wearing a boot on his injured leg, and his foot and ankle are in pain and quite cold from walking on swampy ground in the thin shoes he took from Mudd. Yet Herold doesn’t dare make a fire.

  David Herold.

  After leaving Mudd’s house, they find temporary refuge a few miles down the road at Rich Hills, the home of Samuel Cox, a former Confederate captain. It is not known exactly what was said between the men, but Cox does agree to help the assassins. Because Cox has forty former slaves living on his farm, it is too dangerous for Booth and Herold to stay on the property. Cox has his trusted foreman, Franklin Robey, take them to a thicket of pine trees where they can hide. Cox promises to send a man to ferry them across the Potomac River to safety. The rescue signal will be a soft whistle, a pause, and then another soft whistle.

  So now they wait. Hour after brutally cold hour, they wonder who will rescue them.

  Late Sunday afternoon, they hear the first whistle. Then a second. Confederate sympathizer Thomas Jones calls out to them in a low voice, announcing that he is walking into their camp.

  The wanted poster for the Lincoln assassination conspirators.

  Chapter

  44

  MONDAY, APRIL 17, 1865
<
br />   Maryland Swamps

  THOMAS JONES IS A forty-four-year-old smuggler who has done time in prison, outlived his wife, and lost his home. He now earns his living by transporting anyone, including secret agents and diplomats, across the Potomac River. If any man can get Booth and Herold to safety, it’s Jones.

  On his first visit to the campsite, he merely wants to get a look at the men to see if they are capable of enduring what might be a very long wait until it is safe to cross.

  His second visit comes one day later. Jones appears in their thicket, his pockets overflowing with ham, butter, bread, and a flask of coffee. In his hands, he holds the one thing Booth wants to see more than any other: newspapers.

  Cavalry are combing the countryside, Jones cautions the killers, and he reminds them to be patient. It might take several days before things die down. No matter how cold it gets, no matter how extreme the conditions, they must be prepared to hunker down in the woods until the coast is clear. As soon as it is, he’ll let them know.

  “I leave it all with you,” Booth says unhappily.

  Jones departs quickly.

  With a sigh, Booth turns his attention to the newspapers. He reads about the extent of the search. But his melancholy soon turns to rage as he learns that his actions are not being applauded. Instead he is being labeled a scoundrel and a coward for shooting Lincoln in the back. Washington newspapers call him the war’s ultimate villain and note that any “kindly feeling” toward the South or its sympathizers has disappeared, thanks to his actions. Booth’s achievement is described in the Richmond papers as “the most deplorable calamity, which has ever befallen the people of the United States.” And finally, the nation’s most staunchly anti-Lincoln paper, the National Intelligencer, is now crying out that Lincoln was a true American hero. The very newspaper that the actor had once hoped would print the letter explaining his actions is instead portraying him as the most terrible man on earth.