The Assassination of Abraham Lincoln

On the evening of Good Friday, April 14, 1865, Laura Keene, an English actress of great repute in America, was to play Our American Cousin at Ford's Theater, the chief place of amusement for war-time Washington.

That afternoon, Assistant-Secretary-of-War Dana was notified by wire that Jacob Thompson of Mississippi, once Secretary of the Interior under our poor old wavering President, Buchanan, afterwards a leading Secessionist, would take a steamship for England that evening at Portland, Maine.

"What shall I do?" Dana asked Stanton.

"Arrest him! No, wait; better go over and see the President."

So Dana went to the White House. Office-hours were over. He found Lincoln washing his hands.

"Halloo, Dana!" was Lincoln's greeting. "What's up?"

The telegram was read aloud.

"What does Stanton say?"

"He says to arrest him, but that I should refer the question to you."

"Well, no, I rather think not. When you have got an elephant by the hind legs and he's trying to run away; it's best to let him run."

Dana reported this to Stanton.

"Oh, stuff!" said Stanton.

But Thompson was not arrested, so that the last recorded act of Lincoln as President was one of mercy.

In the upper stage-box, to the right of the audience, that evening, sat Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States, Mrs. Lincoln, a friend, Miss Harris, and an officer, Major Henry R. Rathbone. The cares of State seemed to have slipped for the moment from Lincoln's shoulders. He had bowed smilingly from the box in response to the cheers of the packed audience in the body of the house. He had followed intently the action of the amusing play, constantly smiling, often applauding. The eyes of the little party of four were bent upon the stage, about ten o'clock, when the door of the box was jerked violently open behind them. As they turned at the noise, Death stalked in upon them.

Five minutes before, Tom Strong had been idly strolling along Tenth Street and had paused at the theater door to read the play-bills posted there. A small group of belated play-goers was at the ticket-booth. A man shoved roughly through them. A woman's "Oh!" of surprise and protest drew Tom's attention to the man. He had seen him but thrice before, yet the man's face was engraved upon his memory. Once, at Charlestown, Virginia, Wilkes Booth had stood in the ranks of the militia, eagerly awaiting the execution of John Brown. Once, upon a railroad train north of Baltimore, Wilkes Booth had drugged the boy and left him, as the scoundrel thought, to die. Once, upon a railroad platform at Kingston, Alabama, Wilkes Booth had recognized him and had again sought his death. Whose death did he seek to compass now? What was the Confederate spy doing here? Tom had scarcely glimpsed the hawk-like features, the pallid face, the flowing black hair of his foe, when Booth disappeared from his sight in the crowded lobby of the theater.

Instantly Tom pursued him. But he was delayed by the little group through whom Booth had elbowed his rough way. And when he reached the ticket-window, he found no money in his pocket with which to buy admittance. He had put on civilian clothes that evening and had left his scanty store of currency in his uniform. The wary ticket-seller, used to all sorts of dodges by people who wanted to get in without paying, laughed at his story and refused to give him a ticket on trust. Tom's claim that he was an officer caused especial amusement.

"That won't go down, bub," said the ticket-seller. "Try to think up a better lie next time. And clear out now. Don't block up the passageway."

"I must get in," said Tom.

"You shan't," snarled the man, sure that he was being imposed upon.

The doorkeeper, attracted by the little row, had come towards the ticket-window. He swung his right arm with a threatening gesture. As Tom started towards him he struck the threatened blow, but his clenched fist hit nothing. The boy had ducked under his arm and had fled into the theater. The doorkeeper pursued him. But Tom was now making his way like a weasel through the crowd. He had caught sight of Wilkes Booth nearly at the top of the right-hand staircase that led to the aisle from which the upper right-hand box was reached. Without any actual premonition of the coming tragedy which was to echo around the world upon the morrow, he still felt that Booth had in mind some evil deed and that it was his duty to prevent him. As he struggled toward the foot of the stairway, Booth saw him, recognized him and smiled at him, a smile of triumphant hideous evil. Tom yelled:

"Spy! Confederate spy! Stop him! Let me follow!"

Upon the startled crowd there fell a sudden stillness. Nobody laid hand upon Booth, but everybody made way for the frantic boy who rushed up the stairway as the scoundrel he chased ran down the corridor. He clutched the newel post at the head of the stairway just as Booth flung open the door of the box. Tom ran towards him.

The door of the box was violently jerked open. Wilkes Booth sprang across the threshold. He put his pistol close to the head of the unarmed man he meant to murder. He fired. The greatest American sank forward into his wife's arms. High above her shrieks rose the actor's trained voice. He leaped upon the balustrade of the box, shouted "Sic semper tyrannis!" and jumped down to the stage. He was booted and spurred for his escape. His horse was held for him near the stage-door. One of his spurs caught upon the curtain of the box, so that he stumbled and fell heavily. But he had played his part upon that stage many a time before. He knew every nook and cranny of the mysterious labyrinth behind the footlights. He rose to his feet, disregarding a twisted ankle, and rushed to safety—for a few hours. He reached his horse and galloped into the calm night of God, profaned forever by this hideous crime of a besotted fanatic.

The martyred President was taken to a neighboring house, No. 453 Tenth Street. In a back hall bedroom, upon the first floor, that that was still Abraham Lincoln, but was soon to cease to be so, was laid upon a narrow bed. Tom had helped to carry him there. Wife and son, John Hay, Secretary-of-War Stanton, and a few others crowded into the tiny room. Doctors worked feverishly over the dying man. Their skill was in vain. The slow and regular breathing grew fainter. The automatic moaning ceased. A look of unspeakable peace came to the face the world now knows so well. In a solemn hush, at twenty-two minutes after seven in the morning of Saturday, April 15, 1865, the great soul of Abraham Lincoln went back to the God Who had given him to America and to the world. A moment later Stanton spoke:

"Now he belongs to the ages."