The Darkest Dawn
THE DARKEST DAWN
THE
DARKEST
DAWN
LINCOLN, BOOTH,
AND THE GREAT
AMERICAN TRAGEDY
THOMAS GOODRICH
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© 2005 by Thomas Goodrich
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No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The Association of American University Presses’ Resolution on Permissions constitutes the only exception to this prohibition. The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Goodrich, Th.
The darkest dawn : Lincoln, Booth,
and the great American tragedy / Thomas Goodrich.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-253-32599-4 (cloth : alk. paper)
1. Lincoln, Abraham, 1809-1865—Assassination.
2. Booth, John Wilkes, 1838-1865. I. Title.
E457.5.G66 2005
973.7'092—dc22
2004015980
1 2 3 4 5 10 09 08 07 06 05
Tearfully—and joyfully—have we
witnessed these events.
—Horatio Nelson Taft, May 30, 1865
CONTENTS
Preface
PART I
Prologue: The Omen
1. Three Electric Words
2. The White City
3. The Last Man
4. Star of Glory
5. The President and the Player
6. Sic Semper Tyrannis
7. Towards an Indefinite Shore
8. The Clown and the Sphinx
9. One Bold Man
PART II
10. A Night to Remember
11. Terror on Lafayette Park
12. The Last Bullet
13. Murder in the Streets
14. A Spirit So Horrible
15. The Darkest Dawn
16. Hemp and Hell
17. This Sobbing Day
18. Black Easter
19. A Double Disaster
20. In Dungeons Dreadful
21. The Wrath of God and Man
22. The Curse of Cain
23. The Mid-week Sabbath
24. Oh! Abraham Lincoln!
25. The Fox and the Hounds
26. Blade of Fate
27. The Bad Hand
28. The Hate of Hate
29. The Heart of Israel
30. Dust to Dust
PART III
31. Old Scores
32. The Living Dead
33. The Most Dreadful Fate
34. Beads on a String
Epilogue: The Haunted Stage
Acknowledgments
Notes
Bibliography
Index
PREFACE
WITH THE POSSIBLE EXCEPTION of one or two screaming infants, I was undoubtedly the most disgruntled and agitated person in the audience. While the excited, noisy chatter among the pre-teens and tour groups rose to a roar as the curtain call approached, I sat mostly mute. Deb and I had come to Washington the day before to conclude research on a book we’d been pounding out for nearly a year, The Day Dixie Died. The story unrolls with Lincoln’s assassination and describes the horrific conditions in the South following the Civil War, caused in large part by the murder of the sixteenth president. We still had plenty of material to go over, perhaps several days’ worth of work, and, as anyone who has spent time in the capital knows, D.C. in high season is anything but cheap. Hence, the meter was ticking. Every minute tarried added to our bills—and my woes.
At almost any other time I would have loved to be sitting in Ford’s Theater—it had been a desired destination of mine for years. And at almost any other time I would have died to view a live performance on this historic stage—it is what every American historian dreams of. But today? Time was short, we needed to be busy, and here we were in a noisy theater playing tourists for a matinee musical of dubious quality. A half-hour run through the Ford’s museum below would now mushroom into a half-day downtime in the theater above.
“Excuse me, sir,” said a lady who had approached us earlier as we stepped from the theater onto the busy sidewalk. “I have these two tickets to Reunion that we can’t use. . . . It’s about the Civil War. Would you like to buy them?”
Before I had time to think and answer “No, thanks,” Deb was counting out twenty dollars. The good lady was no scalper—the tickets were clearly marked “$10” each. But as I sat in the packed theater, not only was I miffed at missing a day’s worth of research, I also was upset that I hadn’t forced Deb to dicker down the woman to, say, five dollars a ticket or, depending on her desperation, a much more appealing five dollars for both. To compound my chagrin, as we hiked back into the crowded lobby, another lady stepped forward and offered us tickets—free tickets! And so, when the curtain went up and the hall finally quieted, I, the historian, sat stewing in my seat, more or less determined not to enjoy myself.
Two hours later, when much of the audience had filed out, Deb and I remained in our seats, lost in thought. During those two hours, something exciting had seized both of us and stirred us to our historical bones. Reunion was spectacular—worth every cent of that ten-dollar ticket and more. But when, toward the end, the theater had quieted and dimmed and the spotlight had cut through the darkness upward to the box—the box—we, like everyone else in the audience, had sat spellbound. Since childhood, we had seen the paintings, sketches, and movies of that box; we had thought of that box and imagined that box until that box had become a part of ourselves as much as anything else in our history: the dark, bearded president, the happy first lady, the fatal shot, the assassin’s leap, the confusion, the horror—and here, with our own eyes, we were staring into that box where perhaps the most memorable of American events took place.
Silly as it may sound, from that moment I knew I wanted to do something on Abraham Lincoln, John Wilkes Booth, and the circumstances surrounding what I have come to call Our Great American Tragedy. Despite dozens of books on the subject—some brilliant and wonderfully told—I decided to set to work. From the start, it was not my intention to unravel conspiracies, real or imagined, or to delve into hairsplitting minutiae. My hope instead was not only to add something new to the story, but also to tell the tale in such a way that the reader became emotionally invested in the drama, much as I was.
To my surprise, Deb also was fired by that day at Ford’s—so much so that she went to work on First Widows, an account of the four women whose husbands were murdered while serving as president.
And so, indeed, that day at Ford’s Theater cost us a good deal more than twenty dollars and a few hours lost. When tallied, the day drew from us a cumulative five years in research and writing time, more money than I care to consider, and thousands of miles of sometimes great and sometimes grim wandering. All said and done, it might have been better for all parties concerned had we never entered the theater that day; but for my effort, at least, you the reader will in the end decide.
PROLOGUE
THE OMEN
THOSE WHO WITNESSED THE PHENOMENON that day would never forget it. The sight was so sudden and unexpected that most could only look to the sky, then to their neighbors, then shake their heads in stony disbelief. Some, those of a religious strain, stared in awe and considered what they were witnessing as nothing short of a heavenly message sent from on high. Others in the throng, those earthbound souls less prone to flights of fancy, nevertheless viewed the event as utterly amazing. Whichever the persuasion, whoever the viewer, no one in the crowd that day would ever forget what they beheld at noon, Saturday, March 4, in the year of their Lord 1865.
The day was all the more remarkable because it had such an evil onset. The sun did not smile down on Washington that morning. At 6 A.M., following a week of nearly uninterrupted gray and gloom, a furious storm burst upon the nation’s capital from the south.1 Although the blast—which uprooted trees and toppled outbuildings—ended in only a matter of minutes, torrential rain soon followed in its wake.2 When the deluge eased around nine that morning, it seemed to many as if the worst had passed. A short time later, though, as thousands of elegantly dressed men and women ventured cautiously up Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capitol, again the rain came.3
“Such a wet, dirty morning as this . . . hardly ever dawned upon Washington,” wrote one depressed reporter covering the day’s ceremony. “[T]he proverbially filthy streets of the political metropolis [are] filthier and more unpleasant than ever.”4
“Mud, mud everywhere,” cursed another journalist, “and not a dry spot to set foot upon.”5
For the tens of thousands of men and women who had arrived by train throughout the week from Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York, and all points north, there was little to do but tuck pants into boots or loop hoop skirts and endure the agony in mute misery. About them on the wide street, rain-soaked flags and bunting drooped in soggy silence.
For many of these Americans, some of whom had made the very same trek four years earlier, the irony was inescapable. Back then, although the weather was dry, high winds had swept the streets.6 Even to those at the time, the dusty tempest sending dirt and grit into everyone’s eyes seemed to presage an awful accounting ahead—an omen of a terrible scourge awaiting America. And for sure, a mighty maelstrom of blood, fire, and iron did indeed ravage the face of the land soon after. Now, four years later, the very heavens seemed to be frowning again, showing that, all reason and logic to the contrary, the end was not yet; that the great national trial would continue, perhaps for another four years, perhaps forever.
By noon, a great crowd of spectators stood huddled around the Capitol, silent and shivering. Among all, there was an air of dejection and defeat.7 “Men, women and children soaked about quietly, caught cold, and waited,” wrote one depressed observer. “The rain had taken all the starch out of them.”8 Contributing to the grim and gloomy mood was the knowledge that should more rain now fall, the ceremony all had come for would be held indoors, where only a favored few would be able to attend.9
Just when the miserable assemblage felt that it could get no worse, the black clouds above began to thin somewhat, then soften. Soon, the startled thousands pointed to streaks of blue smiling through the parting gray. Within minutes, a sweet breeze from the northwest rippled the surfaces of ponds and puddles all around and swept away the dark, dank smells that had plagued the capital all week. Color returned to the land. From a drab and seemingly lifeless landscape, the first buds on trees reappeared. Grass was green again. Almost on cue, songbirds awakened, and their beautiful music began to sparkle the world.10
And then, as if some unseen hand had staged the entire performance, the massive doors of the Capitol building swung open. A tall, gaunt man appeared. Dressed in black, he walked onto the portico, followed by the government of the nation. At that precise moment, the sun suddenly burst from the clouds and spread a blinding light over the entire Capitol grounds. Above, the newly completed dome glowed “snow white” in the brilliant display.11
“Every heart beat quicker at the unexpected omen,” noted an amazed newsman, Noah Brooks.12
At length, the tall man in black approached the podium. As he did so, he paused for a moment, then smiled to himself, as if he, too, was aware of the miracle.13 Around him, a loud, explosive cheer rose up from the tens of thousands who were startled by the strange and wonderful coincidence. “Finally,” wrote a witness, “the tumult subsided . . . and in the universal hush, the President addressed the people as follows”:
Fellow-countrymen: At this second appearing to take the oath of the Presidential office, there is less occasion for an extended address than there was at the first. . . . The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known to the public as to myself, and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. With high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured. . . . Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive; and the other would accept war rather than let it perish. And the war came.14
With excitement racing through the throng, many anxiously pressed forward, eager to catch every sound.15 “His voice was singularly clear and penetrating,” recalled one man mere yards away. “It had a sort of metallic ring. His enunciation was perfect.”16
Unfortunately, only a fraction of the estimated thirty thousand in attendance could actually hear the address.17 For most, however, mood was everything. A burst of optimism and hope had suddenly swept over the multitude, and all applauded spontaneously, though they heard not a word.18
“The crowd kept pushing nearer and nearer the platform,” recorded a reporter for the New York Herald. “Negroes ejaculated ‘Bress de Lord’ in a low murmur at the end of almost every sentence. . . . [The president’s] face glowed with enthusiasm, and he evidently felt every word he uttered.”19
Fondly do we hope—fervently do we pray—that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman’s two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, “The judgements of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.”20
Of all the many viewers in that vast sea of faces, of all those who felt they were witnessing the dawn of a new day, none was so swept with emotion or so flooded with words as Walt Whitman. Too old for active service, the white-haired poet served as a volunteer at a local military hospital. As he scanned the crowd around him searching for what he did not know, the old man eventually glanced toward heaven. There, to his astonishment, the poet saw that for which he sought.
“A curious little white cloud, the only one in that part of the sky, appeared like a hovering bird, right over him,” wrote Whitman.21 Whether the object was indeed a cloud, or a bird, or a God, or even a figment of the imagination, it mattered not—the poet saw it, and he, like everyone else this day, looked for signs, longed for signs, prayed for signs. To Walt Whitman, the ethereal vision meant that he would no more hear the shattering, ear-splitting screams of the broken bodies he ministered to daily. For others this day, some who spotted noonday stars overhead, the portents meant they would no longer need search the long lists of names issuing from the fields of slaughter to the south. For all, the signs meant a merciful end to the national nightmare.
With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan—to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.22
As the last word echoed across the crowd, the ripple of reflexive applause soon swelled to a thundering roar when the full weight of the beautiful senti
ments sank in. After taking the oath of office and kissing the Bible, the president smiled warmly to his people, bowed politely, then turned and quietly departed.23 After one final burst of cheers and shouts, the huge throng thereupon began to disperse.24 Unlike the gloomy mood before the address, the atmosphere after it was one of emotion and joy. Many were moved to tears.25 Most felt that they had not only witnessed but played an active role in a historical event of mystical proportions. On this day, March 4, 1865, not only the words of man but the hand of God seemed to be saying in ever so soothing terms, “The end has come and peace is nigh; the long, cruel agony is over.” The day was, said one stunned viewer simply, a “bright omen of the future.”26
But as the people departed, each aglow with renewed strength and optimism, one alone stood out from the rest. His normally pale, handsome face was not bright with happiness; instead it was black with quiet rage. To him, the words just spoken meant slavery; the songbirds were hateful crows; the sun was death. He had planned and plotted that this day might never come. But it had. Now, he would work against fate—work to ensure that the vision just glimpsed by so many happy thousands would ultimately be nothing more than a mere mirage.27
CHAPTER ONE
THREE ELECTRIC
WORDS
CLICK, CLICK, CLICKITY-CLACK. . . . CLICK, CLICK, CLICK. . . . CLICKITY-CLACK. Staccato sounds. It was as far from glory and honor as any man or boy could get. It was here at the War Department in Washington that news from the battlefields of the South first touched the North. Along with other employees, it was the job of a “bright-faced Vermont boy,” Willie Kettles, to translate the clicks and clacks into dots and dashes and the dots and dashes into words and sentences.1 As a volunteer in the department, Kettles held a surprisingly important post for one so young. Battles won and lost, military movements, strategy, supplies, encampments, orders and counter-orders, all came rattling in on his telegraph receiver to be transcribed in pencil by the fourteen-year-old. When the clicking stopped and the scribbling was complete, the boy would then relay the message to his supervisor. If he deemed it important, Willie’s boss then passed on the note to the undersecretary of war, who in turn delivered it to the office of the secretary of war if it was judged critical. Really urgent reports went straight to the president himself. Though an important task, like anything else, after weeks and months the job soon became mundane and monotonous. Each message meant more writing, more paper and pencils, more work, more war.