Assassin (17 page)

“Oh, I remember, but you wouldn’t want to help me kill the president, would you?”

I swallowed hard. What could I say? Should I agree to be part of his terrible plan? Did I want to live so badly as to agree to help kill Mr. Lincoln?

My face must have revealed my consternation because Wilkes laughed. “Don’t fret so, little Arabella. It was only a rhetorical question. I expected no answer. Even if you were willing, there is no part for you to play, not in this drama. You would be nothing to me but a liability. Now I must close this door.”

I drew a deep breath into my lungs, but he stopped
and opened the door wide again. I saw him reach for a shirt that lay on a nearby table, and he shoved it toward my mouth. “Open up,” he said, and he jabbed the gun into my stomach. “No one is in the building now to hear the shot, but someone might hear you call later.”

I opened my mouth, and he pushed the dusty material into it, making me gag. Then he began to push closed the door. I made desperate sounds, trying to beg, but I knew he could not understand. I knew, too, that even if he had understood me, my words would make no difference.

“I am sorry, Arabella,” he whispered before the final shove of the door. “In fact, when I am finished drilling a hole in the door of the presidential box, I will come back down if there is time and drill a few holes for you. I have no wish to know you have suffocated. The air will buy you time. Someone may find you before you die from thirst.”

The door was closed then, and there was nothing but darkness. I heard the bolt slide. Something wet must have been left inside my prison because a strong mildew smell mixed with the dust that filled my nose.

I strained to listen as Wilkes moved away from me, and then I heard his boots on the stone stairs, climbing. There was not much air. I wondered how long I would last. I wondered if he would come back to drill holes. Pictures of Steven flashed through my mind. If I had to die, I wished mightily that I had been able to tell him how sorry I was for the way I had disappointed him.

I was barely able to breathe by the time I heard the
steps returning. I wanted to make noise, but I did not have the strength. I heard him coming toward me, and then he thumbed around on the outside of the door. There was a scooting sound. I guessed he might be moving something, something on which to stand. “I’ll try to make these holes above your head, Arabella,” he said. “Perhaps you had best scrunch down as much as possible.”

Wiggling, I bent my knees, and just above my head he drilled holes. I could not be sure how many there were, but I began to breathe better. “I’m going now, Arabella,” he said. “I don’t think you will hear the shot, but probably the commotion afterward. I would imagine there will be a great deal of commotion. When those sounds reach you, you will know Abraham Lincoln is dead.”

HIS STORY

When I finished the holes in the trunk, I was free to go. Would the girl live? Her dark hair, her bright eyes, the pretty shape of her lips . . . would she ever feel the sunlight touch her face again? I had no wish to take her life, but if she were not found until thirst killed her, it would not matter, not really, not in history. And it was history I had to be concerned with.

Oh, yes, Mother, the flames spoke truly—the babe you held will affect his country; that babe grown up will save his country and be blessed by history.

Back at the Surratt house, I climbed the tall front stairs. On the landing, I stood looking at the city of Washington, thinking once more that after tonight I would never see its crowded streets again. I would live the rest of my life in the
newly born Confederacy . . . the government that would be reborn after Lincoln’s death. I would be adored, but it was not for adoration that I was willing to spill blood, no! Had I not already had the adoration of thousands? I killed for the same reason that Brutus killed, for the same reason Hamlet shed the blood of Claudius, even as Hamlet himself lay dying. I had appeared in all of Shakespeare’s plays. No doubt, were he alive, Shakespeare would write his greatest drama about a young actor, a son of the South, who strikes down the despot Lincoln. Ah, ’tis true, many of Shakespeare’s heroes died during the last scene. If it ’tis true of me, then so be it. My death is an insignificant matter in the great drama of life.

Inside the house, I went over the details with my small band of followers. My old friends Sam and Michael had gone back to Baltimore. There were but three with me now. They sat on the floor, looking up at me. I moved about, speaking of the glory inherent in what we were about to do. I held out my hands to them and said, “History will bear testimony to our goodness. A grateful people will call our names with love.” I could see in the faces of those three that they were with me.

Lewis Powell was to kill Secretary of State William Seward. Because Lewis was unfamiliar with Washington streets, he would need David Herold to guide him and to make sure he got out of the city after the deed. George Atzerod was to kill Vice President Andrew Johnson.

On my way out of the house, I asked Mrs. Surratt to
deliver a package containing guns, whiskey, and a field glass to the tavern that she owned but rented, thirteen miles from Washington City. I did not know how much the woman knew, how much her son told her, before he left town, of our first plan to kidnap the president. I did not question her. I was certain she would never betray us. The other men and I planned to meet at the tavern when our deeds were done.

That evening I dined with my darling Lucy and her parents, who thought she and I were only casual friends. Had I not been trained as an actor, I could not have gotten through the meal without revealing my excitement and fear. Would I ever see her again after tonight? If I did escape to find sanctuary in a rebuilt Confederate nation, would she come to me? Would she be able to stand up to her father, who considered himself a friend of Lincoln’s?

We ate oysters and lobster with her parents and a friend of theirs visiting from England. Lucy wore a black silk dress that seemed to be framed by the red velvet of the chair in which she sat. I took out my watch when the meal was done, looked at it, and said, “I must go.”

I began, just then, to feel strongly that I was in a play, that I was watching myself on the stage and had no control of how the play ran. I kissed Lucy’s hand and murmured some lines from
Hamlet
about how my sins should be remembered in prayer. I suspect she did not understand my quotation much at the time, but later, after she
heard, she would understand. And I truly did hope she would pray for me.

I left her then, left the woman I loved to do an act some would consider unforgivable for the South that I loved most of all.

Out on the street, the crowd cheered as the president drove by, and the carriage was slowed by the throngs of people. The newspaper had announced that the Lincolns would attend the performance, and the streets were full of fools who wished to see him, wished to applaud him. So much were they slowed that I was able to get to the theater first. “You won’t demand a ticket from me, surely,” I said to the ticket taker, and he waved me on with a smile.

I was in the back hall when the president and his party arrived. I did not see them, but when Laura Keene, who was on stage at the time, saw the president enter the nearby box, she stopped her speech. The band began to play “Hail to the Chief.”

They got up, every last fool of them, as far as I could see. They stood and clapped for him. Well, I thought, clap loud, for it will be the last time you put your fool hands together for the man.

I looked at my watch again—too long to wait. I would go to a nearby tavern and have a drink. I had several. Well, why not? What I was about to do was not easy. I worried about a guard I had seen outside the door of the hallway that led to the presidential box. I had not expected that. Lincoln frequently went places unguarded. If I shot the
soldier at the door, the noise would be a warning. Well, surely the man would recognize me. “The president asked me to stop by,” I would say.

During the afternoon I had stored a short length of lumber flat against the inside wall of the hall that led to the president’s box. It was the perfect size to slip across the beams of the hallway door, blocking it so that it could not be opened.

“Give me another drink,” I said to the bartender. “Too bad,” I said to him when he brought it, “that you are not over at Ford’s Theatre tonight. I’ve heard there will be a very special performance.”

He smiled. “Why, it can’t be too special, Mr. Booth,” he said, “being you are not starring in it.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said when I picked up my glass. “But you see, I do have a part. It is a small appearance, near the end of the show, but I think it is an important part, an important part indeed.”

“Must be, sir, or a man like yourself would not be playing the role.”

I swallowed down my brandy, left a generous tip, and called, “Good-bye, now,” to the barkeeper.

Back in Ford’s Theatre, I moved quietly up the stairs. Great joy! The soldier no longer stood guard at the door. First, I bolted the hall door. Then I bent to look through the peephole I had made that afternoon. I could see clearly into the box. The other man sat on a couch. Mrs. Lincoln and the woman guest sat in straight chairs. Lincoln was in
a rocking chair. Very good, I thought, he has rocked himself and is about to sleep.

I knew the play, knew when laughs would cover sounds. When the laugh I waited for came, I slipped inside. I waited for the next big laugh, quickly took the revolver from my pocket, aimed, and fired.

It took the others in the box a few moments to realize what had happened. Then Mrs. Lincoln screamed. The other man—I later learned his name was Major Rathbone—spotted me and tried to grab hold of me.

I dropped my gun and drew my knife. I remember laughing loudly as I slashed his arm. Strange, I think I saw a glimpse of his bone as my knife carved into his arm. Surprised and bleeding, he fell back. I vaulted myself up to the ledge of the box, so that I could jump to the stage below.

Jumps were no problem to me. I frequently made them in the course of a play, and the box was not far above the stage. It was that flag! That cursed Union flag caught my foot as I jumped, and I did not land straight. A piercing pain shot through my foot and leg, but I did not let it slow me.

I turned to the audience. It was my finest hour on-stage. No one outside the box yet knew of the shot, but still every eye was on me. More than fifteen hundred people had crowded into that theater that night to see the president, but now every eye was on me.

I raised my bloody knife in the air and shouted, “Sic
semper tyrannis!” It was the Latin motto of Virginia, the state I considered my home because Maryland had not seceded, and it meant, “Thus always with tyrants!”

Then I ran off the stage, through the back curtains, past the questioning faces of actors to the backdoor. “Hold this horse for me,” I told a stagehand earlier in the evening. “He is too spirited, and will break loose if I try to tie him.” I gave the man a goodly sum of money, so I knew the horse would be where I left it and ready to go.

Even with my leg paining me, I was able to jump on the horse. I grabbed the reins and was moving away when I heard shouts of “Stop him! He has shot the president.” The words filled me with an elation such as I had never felt even when being applauded by great crowds. It was done!

The horse was a fast one, and I urged him on. “The Choctaws are after us,” I said to him as I used to say to my pony Cola. For three miles we moved with no interruptions. Then the Eleventh Street Bridge loomed before me, guarded by soldiers. During the war the bridge had been closed to all traffic after sundown, but regulations had been lax since the surrender.

I pulled my horse to a stop, drew in a breath, and told myself to remain calm. There had been no time for news of my deed to reach this man.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Booth,” I told him, and in my mind I added, A name you will know well before this night is done.

“Why are you traveling?”

“I had business in Washington City and am returning home to Maryland.”

“What town?”

I told him that I lived in the country in Charles County. He told me that I was not supposed to use the bridge after nine, but when I explained that I had not known about the rule, he allowed me to cross.

On, on, I rode. At Soper’s Hill, about eight miles from Washington City, I met Davy Herold. He had been able to get out of the city after being separated from Lewis Powell. Herold told me, though, that Powell hadn’t got the job done with Seward, only injured him. Others in the household had interfered.

Davy also related the bad news that he had seen Atzerod drunk in the streets after he pawned the gun he was to have used to kill Andrew Johnson. I was disappointed that neither the vice president nor the secretary of state had been struck down, but I could not be too low. Not with the success I had just had with Lincoln.

“No matter,” I told him, and I saw the worried look lift from his face. He cares only for my approval, I thought, and I told him he did well. I told him too about my leg. “The pain is almost unbearable,” I said, “but we must ride on.”

We rode first to the tavern to pick up the guns, whiskey, and field glass Mrs. Surratt had delivered for us.
Davy went inside. I did not get down from the horse. We rode on into the night.

The pain grew worse. I no longer thought of the soldiers who must be riding behind us. The throbbing took away all other thoughts, and the pain in my back was now as bad as that in my leg. I pulled my horse to a stop. “Dr. Mudd is nearby,” I told Davy. “I must have help.” I had been there in his house, had spent the night there and sat at his table. Surely he would aid me.

Mudd was reluctant, but he examined me. He asked no questions, but I think he knew what I had done. He stroked his beard and delivered the bad news. “Broken, two inches above the ankle.” I thought of the cursed flag that had caused my injury.

The doctor set my leg and gave me something for the pain. I slept once more in a bed beneath his roof. The next morning he had a servant make crutches for me.