On the evening of 14 April 1865, US President Abraham Lincoln was shot in the back of the head by John Wilkes Booth, while attending a play at Ford's Theatre in Washington, D.C. He died the next morning. The assassination rocked the broken nation, still reeling from the horrors of the American Civil War, and would affect how the United States tried to heal itself as it headed into Reconstruction.
Background: A Victory, A Defeat
On the morning of 10 April 1865, the city of Washington, D.C., awoke to the sound of cannon fire. That sound, for the past four years, had been what Washingtonians had feared hearing most, as the bloody tide of the American Civil War had often flowed uncomfortably close to their city. But not anymore. The 500-gun salute that now resounded spectacularly through the air heralded peace – only the day before, Confederate General Robert E. Lee had surrendered to Union General Ulysses S. Grant at a place called Appomattox. Despite the poor weather, ecstatic Washingtonians rushed out of their homes to celebrate. "The streets, horribly muddy, were alive with people," wrote journalist Noah Brooks, who had been breakfasting with the president when the celebrations began. "[They were] cheering and singing, carrying flags and saluting everybody" (quoted in Meacham, 388). Throughout that dreary day, bands played, and people wept, and at night, the dark sky was illuminated with fireworks.
The next evening, 11 April, crowds gathered on the White House lawn to get a glimpse of the president, who was about to speak for the first time since news of the surrender broke. But if the eager throngs of happy unionists expected Abraham Lincoln to share in their jubilations, they were mistaken. Dour and gaunt, weary from four years of holding a divided nation together, Lincoln stood at a second-story window under the north portico of the White House. He read from a manuscript, aided by the flickering light of a candle held by Brooks. When he finished reading a page, he would let it drop, to be collected by his young son Tad, crouched at his feet. The president spoke not of the great victories of the past but of the struggles still to come. He spoke of the difficulties that would accompany Reconstruction, of the need to bind the wounds caused by the rebellion and restore harmony between all the states of the Union. He spoke of the need to extend suffrage to African Americans, particularly those who had served as soldiers. In short, Lincoln's speech acknowledged that though the war itself might be over, there was still plenty of work to be done.
Following the speech, the crowds dispersed as a light drizzle began to fall from the heavens. Some people were confused by the president's words, others disheartened. One man in particular, however, was furious. John Wilkes Booth was a young and handsome actor, known far and wide for performing roles in Shakespearean plays alongside his more famous older brother, Edwin. But while Edwin was a staunch Unionist, John sympathized with the South. Indeed, he had wanted to enlist in the Confederate army, but his mother, concerned for his safety, had made him promise not to. As the war dragged on, Booth watched from the sidelines, feeling bitter and helpless as the fortunes of war turned against the South. In the months leading up to the 1864 presidential election, Booth had hatched a plot to help the Confederacy by kidnapping Lincoln and holding him for ransom. He had gone so far as to enlist the help of several co-conspirators, but he had never found a chance to put that plan into action. But now, with the war practically over, Booth's thoughts grew dark and murderous. As soon as Lincoln finished speaking, Booth turned towards his friend Lewis Powell and made a vow. "That," he said, "is the last speech he will ever make" (quoted in Alford, 257).
Lincoln's Last Day
As usual, Lincoln was in his office at 7 a.m. on Good Friday, 14 April 1865. Although he had been ill the night before with a splitting headache, the president was in good spirits – his son, Robert Todd Lincoln, was up from Virginia for the weekend and would be spending the Easter holiday with his family. After attending to the usual stream of supplicants, Lincoln joined his son and his wife, Mary, for breakfast at around 11 a.m. Over the breakfast table, Robert presented his father with a portrait of Robert E. Lee and made a joke about the defeated rebel general. The president polished his glasses with a napkin before examining the photo. "It's a good face," Lincoln said softly. "I am glad the war is over" (quoted in Foote, 974).
After breakfast, Lincoln went back to work. He met with Schuyler Colfax, the Speaker of the US House of Representatives, and US Senator John Cresswell. "Creswell, old fellow," Lincoln exclaimed by way of greeting, "everything is bright this morning. The war is over. It has been a tough time, but we have lived it out" (ibid). Once their business had been concluded, the congressmen left, and Lincoln signed off on some appointments and granted a military discharge. In between these presidential duties, he found time to send a messenger to Ford's Theatre on 10th Street to reserve the State Box for that evening's performance of the comedy Our American Cousin. He informed the theatre management that they could expect a large turnout, for he would be taking along as a guest the man of the hour, General Grant. Surely all of Washington would want a glimpse of the savior of the Union.
In the early afternoon, Lincoln walked over to the War Department to meet up with Grant and some cabinet members. They were there to discuss the end of the war – while Lee may have surrendered, General Joseph E. Johnston was still in the field with a rebel army of over 20,000 men. Seeming unbothered, Lincoln said that he was confident they would get good news soon, for he had dreamed a dream. It was a peculiar dream, he said, the same one he had dreamt before every major event of the war; before Fort Sumter, before Antietam, before Gettysburg. In it, Lincoln was alone, on a raft that seemed to be "floating, floating away on some vast and indistinct expanse, toward an unknown shore" (quoted in Foote, 975). The president would only ever have this dream before some big event, and in this case, he was confident that it heralded Johnston's surrender.
After the meeting ended, Lincoln held Grant back, eager to discuss their evening plans. He was dismayed, however, to learn that the general would not be joining him. Slightly abashed, Grant explained that he was unable to make it because he and his wife, Julia, had to catch a train to visit their children in Philadelphia. But both men knew the truth – that Mary Todd Lincoln had become jealous of the Grants as of late, and Julia did not want to risk making a scene in front of an audience at Ford's Theatre.
Lincoln, unwilling to make Grant feel awkward, did not press the issue, but his demeanor turned gloomy after he made his way back to his office. His bodyguard, William H. Crook, noticed that the president seemed depressed, and even complained that he did not want to go to the theatre anymore. At 4:30 p.m., when Crook's shift was over, Lincoln sadly told him, "Good-bye, Crook", which struck the bodyguard as strange – Lincoln had only ever said "Good night, Crook," but never "good-bye".
Lincoln was apparently in a better mood when he joined Mary Todd in her carriage, on the way to the theatre. He held her hand and told her that, after his term was up, they would go to Europe together before returning to Springfield, Illinois, where he would resume his law practice. They picked up Major Henry Rathbone and his fiancée, Clara Harris – the last-minute guests chosen to replace the Grants – before arriving in front of Ford's Theatre at around 8:30 p.m. They were late, and the performance was already halfway through Act I, but this did not stop the orchestra from playing "Hail to the Chief" as soon as the Lincolns stepped out in the State Box. The 1,700 faces filling the audience looked up and began to cheer wildly. After the applause died down, the president and his wife sat to watch the show. Mary Todd, clearly moved by the affection her husband had shown her in the carriage, found herself clinging to his arm, in the manner of a young girl newly in love. "What will Miss Harris think of my hanging on to you so?" she whispered. Lincoln did not turn his attention away from the stage. "Why, she will think nothing about it," he said (quoted in Foote, 979).
To Kill A President
Around the same time that Lincoln was conferring with Grant at the War Department, John Wilkes Booth made his way to Ford's Theatre. "He was faultlessly dressed in a suit of dark clothes and wore a tall silk hat," one witness would recall, "he had on a pair of kid gloves of a subdued color, a light overcoat was slung over his arm, and he carried a cane" (quoted in Meacham, 398). The young actor greeted Harry Ford, one of the theatre's owners, and asked what was playing that evening. Ford gleefully announced that the show would be Our American Cousin. But that was not all. "The President is going to be here tonight with General Grant," Ford said, and then joked, "They've got General Lee as a prisoner. We're going to put him in the other box!" (quoted in Alford, 359). Booth did not appreciate the joke. "Never!" he snapped. "Lee would never let himself be used as the Romans used their captives and be paraded" (ibid).
Ford was a little taken aback by Booth's reaction and reiterated that, while he had been joking about Lee, Lincoln was, in fact, coming. Booth took his leave and began walking down 10th Street, only to bump into John F. Coyle, editor of the National Intelligencer. They greeted each other before Booth launched into a sort of tirade, lamenting the surrender and the downfall of the Confederacy. Then, the conversation turned to darker stuff – Booth asked Coyle what would happen if Lincoln and all his immediate successors were killed simultaneously. "Anarchy," Coyle guessed, "or whatever the Constitution provides. But what nonsense: they don't make Brutuses nowadays." (quoted in Meacham, 399). Booth agreed and walked on, the wheels turning in his mind. He called on Kirkwood House, where Andrew Johnson was staying, to inquire whether the vice president was in. A little while later, he passed by a group of 440 Confederate prisoners of war, the sight of whom horrified Booth yet served to harden his resolve.
At 8:00 that evening, he summoned his co-conspirators to a candlelit meeting at Herndon House. The time for merely kidnapping the president had passed, he told them. Assassination was now the only option. "It would be the greatest thing in the world," he exclaimed. But Booth was not satisfied with only killing Lincoln. Instead, he meant to decapitate the federal government entirely and avenge the defeated Confederacy by plunging the nation into chaos. He wasted no time assigning targets. His friend, the ex-Confederate soldier Lewis Powell, would kill Secretary of State William H. Seward. It was common knowledge that Seward had fractured his jaw and broken his arm in a carriage accident a few days earlier and was now bedridden. It would hardly be an obstacle to attack him in his bed. George Atzerodt, a German-American repairman, was tasked with going to Kirkwood to kill Vice President Johnson. When Atzerodt tried to back out, claiming he had signed on just to kidnap Lincoln but not to commit murder, a crazed Booth threatened to shoot him; Atzerodt reluctantly agreed to kill Johnson. Booth would kill Lincoln himself, while a fourth conspirator, David Herold, stood by to aid in their escape. Each murder was supposed to happen in tandem, at around 10 p.m.
The would-be assassins then went off into the night, to prepare for the grisly work ahead of them. Booth made his way back to Ford's Theatre armed with a .41 caliber Deringer pistol and a large Bowie knife. He entered the theatre at 10:10 p.m. As a famous actor, he had free access to all parts of the theatre, and so no one batted an eye when he walked toward the State Box. He was recognized by several friends, including the actress Jeannie Gourlay, who would later recall that he looked "pale as death" (quoted in Alford, 263). At 10:14 p.m., Booth quietly entered the State Box, closing the door behind him and using a wooden board to jam it shut. Then, he waited, standing in the shadows of the corridor, listening to the actors on the stage below for a line that he knew would produce an outburst of laughter from the audience. Presently, he heard it:
"Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Wal, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, you sockdologizing old mantrap!"
(quoted in Foote, 980).
As expected, the audience erupted with laughter. Now was the moment. "I care not what becomes of me," Booth would later write in his diary. "I struck boldly, for my country and that alone" (quoted in Alford, 265). He stepped forward, pulled out his pistol, and fired.
The Assassination & Aftermath
There was a flash, a half-muffled explosion. Lincoln slumped forward in his chair, his head drooping forward on his chest, as the bullet hit him just behind the left ear. Major Rathbone – the Lincolns' last-minute guest – stood up and instinctively lunged at the assassin, wrapping both arms around him. Like a rabid fox caught in a trap, Booth struggled to get free, snarling, "Let go of me, or I will kill you!" (ibid). Rathbone did not listen. He had just managed to grab Booth by the throat when the assassin jerked his right arm free, wrenched the knife from his pocket, and plunged it deep into the major's arm. Rathbone cried out in pain and released Booth, who jumped from the box and dropped twelve feet onto the stage below. He landed with a sickening crunch, breaking the fibula of his left leg in the fall.
But for now, the triumphant assassin, body flooded with adrenaline, did not feel the pain. He stood, raised the bloody knife above his head. Melodramatic as only an actor could have been, he shouted either "sic semper tyrannis" (‘thus always to tyrants', the state motto of Virginia) or "the South is avenged", or both. Then, he turned and began walking off the stage. The audience sat, dumbfounded, unsure of what they had just witnessed. They were shaken from their haze by a heartrending wail from Mrs. Lincoln, and the frantic cries from Major Rathbone to "stop that man!" Those who were in closest proximity to Booth would remember that "his lips were drawn against his teeth, and he was panting" and that he kept muttering to himself, "I-I have done it" (ibid). The assassin exited through a stage door and walked into an alley, where the theatre's teenage bill-carrier, Joseph ‘Peanuts' Borroughs, stood holding his horse. With great effort, the injured Booth pulled himself onto the horse and rode away. By the time soldiers and theatregoers emerged from the theatre to look for him, he was gone.
Meanwhile, a 23-year-old surgeon named Charles Leale rushed into the State Box. Leale would remember the way Lincoln looked, stretched out in his chair as if in a deep sleep. It did not take him long to recognize that the wound was mortal. Still, he and the two other physicians who joined him decided it would be best to move the president across the street to a boarding house owned by William Petersen. There, Lincoln was brought into a cramped nine-by-fifteen-foot bedroom and placed on a bed that was too small for his tall body. Leale and the other surgeons worked on the president as cabinet members and other officials crowded the building.
Vice President Johnson was there – Atzerodt had failed to work up the courage to attack him, just as Powell had failed to kill Seward; only Booth succeeded in his mission. Senator Charles Sumner, that great champion of Union, broke down in tears upon seeing the president, while the secretary of the navy, Gideon Welles, would remember how Lincoln looked: "His features were calm and striking. I had never seen him to better advantage than for the first hour, perhaps, that I was there. After that his right eye began to swell and become discolored" (quoted in Meacham, 404).
Mrs. Lincoln was inconsolable and had to be taken into the next room as she wept and wept. The surgeons did what they could, but before long, it was clear to all that nothing more could be done except to pray. At 7:22 a.m. on 15 April 1865, around 9 hours after he was shot, President Abraham Lincoln drew his final breath and died. The onlookers and surgeons stood around the body, misty-eyed, as Secretary of War Edwin Stanton spoke those immortal words: "Now he belongs to the ages."
Lincoln's body was brought to the Capitol Rotunda, where it lay in state from 19 to 20 April, before being loaded onto a funeral train for the two-week trip back to Springfield, Illinois; millions of Americans came out to pay their respects as the train went by. For his part, Booth went on the run and was the subject of a 12-day manhunt until he was finally tracked down and killed by federal troops. The assassination of Abraham Lincoln was a turning point for the nation as it headed into Reconstruction; just as the martyred president had predicted, some of the darkest and most tumultuous days in the nation's history still lay ahead.
