Assassin (18 page)

The doctor was anxious for us to leave, but his wife protested. “Mr. Booth shouldn’t travel in that condition,” she said.

“We won’t go far if he is in pain,” said Davy, who was smart enough to know we must be on the road.

I wanted newspapers, wanted to read the words of praise in Southern newspapers. We came across a man named Jones who said he would take us across the river at night. He also said he would bring food and newspapers. I wanted papers more than food. We hid in the weeds,
waiting for dark. Waiting for the newspapers. We lay on our backs on the damp earth. Fever racked my body. The sky above me seemed at times to reach down to take me up into it.

When finally the papers came, I read, and cried out in pain. My pain was worse then than any pain caused by my swollen, discolored leg, far greater than the aches from the fever that racked my poor body. I read, and a deep pain came from my heart. All the papers denounced what I had done. Not one spoke of me as a brave patriot, not one.

The Richmond paper hurt worst of all, calling my act the heaviest blow ever to come to the people of the South. I drew in my breath, but wait—perhaps those first words were the result of the fever. Perhaps my eyes saw things that were not there. I sat up, leaning on one elbow. No! The words were really there. Jefferson Davis, they said, had talked of how the man who had done this cowardly act must be a crazy man, who thought he was acting in defense of the South but who was really the worst enemy of the Southern people.

The worst enemy of the South! How could they say such things of me, who had thought nothing of my own safety, who had been chased like a common criminal, chased with dogs and guns through swamps? Where was the praise? Where were the people who should be applauding what I had done? The fever rose in my brain. “Water,” I whispered to the man who had ridden with me. He put water to my lips, and I could see him plainly for a
moment, a simple young man who followed after me as a child might.

I strained to remember his name, and it came to me, Davy. “It was for nothing,” I said to him. “Useless, Davy, absolutely useless.” Then his face floated up and away from me into the sky.

I wanted to write of what I had done. In my pocket was an appointment book from last year, from 1864. It was small, but its pages gave me a place to write. My head cleared, and I wrote quickly, fearing the confusion of fever would return. I wrote words to justify what I had done. I wrote that were I to go back to Washington City and be allowed to speak, I could clear my name of wrongdoing. I wrote about how our country owed all its troubles to him. I wrote that I did not repent what I had done. God, I said, had simply made me the instrument of his punishment. I wrote that it was for God to judge me, not man.

When I was finished, I slipped the book back into the pocket of my coat. The mist from the nearby water seemed to connect to the sky, and it came to me that I was not really lying on the ground, staring up at water. This was, I remembered finally, only a play, a play about a terrible man who had led a people down dark paths. Someone had to come to kill the leader, and that person was the star of the play. Of course, the part was mine. Who else could play the role so well as I? It was not a Shakespearean play, but the tone was like Shakespeare’s. My life had been spent among Shakespeare’s words; always I had heard those
words from my father, from my brothers, from my own lips. Of course it would be I who starred in this Shakespeare-like play.

The scene changed. The boy Davy, who had been given the role of my helper, and I were in a boat in the night. In the night, Davy lost his direction, and we ended up on the same shore from which we had started.

A man named Garrett was kind to us. We slept in his house, and he gave us food, but the troops were near, and Garrett grew afraid, said we had to leave. Then he felt sympathy for us and let us sleep in the tobacco barn.

And so we were there among the leftover smells of the tobacco leaves that were harvested in the fall, hung in the barn, and then taken to market. There were tobacco knives on the wall with large curved blades, but they would do us no good.

“Come out,” the soldiers shouted.

“No,” I explained to Davy. “Our part calls for us to refuse to surrender.”

The soldiers set the barn on fire. Flames licked up around us, and Davy Herold began to cry. Poor thing, he had forgotten that this was a play. “A man wants to come out,” I called to those who played the soldiers, and Davy left the barn.

Flames licked at the walls, making the interior of the barn, which had been dark, light as day. “I will never surrender,” I shouted. I had no wish to be taken alive, to die
like a criminal. God, I prayed, spare me that. I have too great a soul to die in such a base way.

As if in answer to my prayer the bullet came through the crack, and it struck my neck.

They came inside then and dragged me forth to lie upon the porch of the house. They gave me water, and they waited, as did I, for death to come, for death to come with its final curtain on the drama that has been my life.

A straw mattress was brought to the porch. They placed me on the bed and put a cloth dampened with brandy against my lips. “Tell my mother I died for my country,” I said, and I slipped into unconsciousness, the images of my life flickering as the flames had flickered around me. I lingered for some time, then woke and asked to see my hands. A soldier held them up before my eyes. “Useless,” I whispered. “Useless.” Then the lights went out in the theater.

HER STORY

For a time I did not struggle against the ropes that held my arms. There seemed no reason, but then, crouched in my prison, I leaned against the wall and felt metal against my body. My scissors were in my pocket! They were my own scissors, given to me by my grandmother when first she began to teach me to sew. I liked the way those scissors felt in my hand, and so they traveled with me to work. If I could get to my scissors, they might help me escape.

I began to strain against the ropes, forcing my arms to separate over and over as far as possible. Each time my bonds felt slightly more loose, and my hopes grew. If I could get out of this trunk, I would run, crying out what was about to happen. As I worked at the ropes, I heard the sound of feet above me, people filling the theater.
Then came laughter. The play had begun, but that would not stop me from running onto the stage, screaming my warning to Mr. Lincoln.

Push, push, push, I told myself, and I felt the sting of rope cutting into my flesh. Next there was a dampness that I knew must be my blood. What part of my wrists did the blood come from? I had heard of people who died from cutting their own wrists, but the thought did not slow my work. Probably I would die here anyway, unable to scream for help. I would die from lack of water and from shame for having been such a fool as to let my head be turned by a handsome man with a smooth voice.

Finally, I thought the ropes might be loose enough to pull out one hand. Gritting my teeth, I tugged with every ounce of my strength. My hand was free, and the ropes fell to my feet. First I yanked the filthy gag from my mouth. “Help! Help me, please!” I screamed, but I knew no one would hear me.

I wanted to rest, but there was no time. I had to get to work. My right hand went immediately to my pocket, and my fingers closed on the scissors.

With my left hand, I touched the inside of my prison door. The holes Wilkes had drilled were too high for me to reach, but I searched for some other place to dig at with my scissors. Despite the darkness, I closed my eyes, trying to remember where the bolt fastened the door on the outside. If I were to escape, I would need to make a hole near that bolt.

In my mind I could picture the fastener. It was, I believed, near the middle of the chifforobe. I had stared at it, thinking that the iron bolt was thick, too strong to be broken by my weight thrown against the inside. It could be slid, though. If the hole could be made big enough for my hand, for my arm to reach through, the bolt could be moved, and putting the scissors back in my pocket, I began to use both hands to feel the door of my prison in the estimated area of the lock.

Wonderful! There was a small round spot where perhaps a screw or a hook had been. Retrieving my scissors, I opened the blades and pushed one against the hole, digging, digging. It was slow work, but the hole began to be bigger, large enough now so that the tip of my smallest finger could go into it.

How long will it take me to make a hole big enough to get my arm through? It could be hours, maybe days. A sob started up from inside me, but I held it in as if I were still gagged. Don’t go to pieces now, I told myself. You have to try. I began to dig against the tin.

Above my head the play and the audience’s laughter continued. Nothing had happened yet. Wilkes had said that I would know when the president was shot. There was still time. The hole was big enough now to be in the wooden part of the door. I began to tear at it with my hands. Pieces of wood stuck me, but I did not slow. Maybe I could get my hand through. I shoved with all my strength, my skin burning against the wood. I drew in a
great breath and lunged once more. Splinters cut at my arm, but finally my hot fingers touched the cool iron bolt.

Just then the sounds above me changed. A scream came to my ears. “It’s part of the play,” I said aloud, but I knew better. Screams echoed above me. Over and over I heard screams and running feet. For a moment I leaned against the back wall, my body shaking. It was too late. I knew the president had been shot, shot well, no doubt. Wilkes Booth was not a man who did a job halfway. Perhaps I should stop my efforts to undo the bolt. Would it not be better for me to die here than to live always with the shame of how I had lost all reason?

Slowly I closed my fingers over the bolt and slid it. A big push made the door swing open with a creak. The basement was dark, but a light from the hall above seeped through the crack at the stairway door. Bumping against old tables, chairs, and other discarded furniture, I made my way toward the light.

At the top, I drew in a deep breath and stepped out into the house. Colors blurred before my eyes. Crowds of ladies in colorful gowns and men in black evening wear pressed toward the front. There were too many of them between me and the door. I leaned for a few minutes against the back of an empty seat, but I had to see what had happened to Mr. Lincoln. I turned back and went behind the stage, where only a few people had sought the back exit.

Soldiers guarded the door, and one of them stood
questioning two stagehands. No one tried to stop me. I moved quickly down the steps. Then I ran. Holding up my skirts, I raced around the block to get to the front of the building.

In front, soldiers used their swords to mark the pathway that must be cleared. “Step back,” shouted an officer. “Step back or I’ll run you through.” The crowd moved back. I could see him then, carried by six soldiers. His long arms were folded over his chest, and his eyes were closed.

“We will need a carriage to get him to the White House, doctor,” the officer said to a young man in evening clothes who walked beside the soldiers.

“No,” the doctor said, “he wouldn’t live to get there. There’s a boardinghouse across the street.”

“He isn’t dead,” I said to myself. “He isn’t dead.” But the doctor had said he couldn’t survive the trip to the White House.

Mrs. Lincoln came from the building then, helped by two women, to walk behind the soldiers. She came to follow the men who carried her husband across the street and up the steps of the boardinghouse. She was sobbing. I stared at her white dress with red flowers and remembered the day Mrs. Keckley had fitted it, the day Mr. Lincoln told his dream.

For a while I stood there across the street from where they had taken the president. I leaned against the bricks of Ford’s Theatre and wrapped my arms around my body as
if to hold myself together. Groups of people stood about, talking. Some of them were kneeling in prayer. Soldiers were everywhere, and after a time they began to call, “Go to your homes. Nothing more can be done. Clear the streets.” It had started to rain, and I walked home wet and cold.

My grandmother roused from her sleep when I came in. “You’re terrible late, child,” she said.

I did not want to disturb her sleep with the terrible news. “I stayed long with the Lincolns,” I said, and she went back to sleep. I did not light a lamp. Undressing in the dark, I marveled at how unchanged things were. I laid my wet clothing across the same familiar rocking chair. I lay down in the same bed, the one I had slept in every night since I was eight years old. Outside my window, I could see the moon, unchanged from last night, and the same bird called, just as he had last night. How could all these things be exactly as they had always been when inside me all organs had changed to stone?

They say he died at 7:22 the next morning. They say that when his heart beat for the last time, the minister Reverend Phineas Gurley prayed about God’s will being done and that Mr. Hay, his personal secretary, noticed a look of great peace came to his worn face. They say Secretary of War Stanton raised his hands and said, “Now he belongs to the ages.”

Shortly after he died, church bells began to toll just as they had to announce the end of the war. Those bells,
though, had been joyful. These were slow and rang mournfully across the rooftops of Washington City.

I dressed quickly and went out to the street. Next door, our neighbors were hanging black crepe around their windows. I wandered about the streets, and it was the same everywhere, homes and businesses draped in black, a city in mourning.

The newspapers that day were edged with black. I bought one from a boy on a corner and stared down at a likeness of Wilkes. A $50,000 reward was offered to anyone who could lead authorities to him. The article described John Wilkes Booth as five feet seven inches tall, with dark eyes and dark hair. There was no mention of the power in his soft voice or of the magic in his smile.

They laid our president’s body in the East Room. The casket sat on a raised platform with an arched canopy, just as it had in Mr. Lincoln’s dream. Grandmother went with me, leaning heavily on my arm. I was glad for the need to support her, and I think that without that duty, I might have fallen in a faint when I looked on his face.