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The President’s carriage was parked on 10th Street outside the theatre;
Forbes the coachman dozed in the driver’s seat. A slight drizzle dampened the
streets. Once inside the foyer, Wilkes checked the time again: three-quarters to ten. He
nodded at ticket taker John Buckingham and ascended the stairs to the dress circle. From
within the auditorium he could hear muffled echoes of stage dialogue. He recognized the
lines he knew so well. He knew Our American Cousin; he knew that in Act III, Scene
2 -- at any moment now -- only one actor would be left alone onstage. That would be his
cue.
Across Washington, the other conspirators synchronized their timepieces. Their plan was
to strike all at once, to throw the city into confusion, thus making their egress from the
city more possible. In Lafayette Square, adjacent to the Seward home, Paine checked his
tools of trade: a revolver and a Bowie knife. A few blocks away, David Herold shivered in
a fine mist that sent chills through him there in the gloom of Stanton’s yard. He
gulped, panic tightening his throat. George Atzerodt was drunk. He had no intention of
killing anyone. When he discovered his bottle was empty, he left the Kirkwood House in
search of the nearest tavern. Damn the Vice President.
Within Box 7, the Lincolns and their evening’s guests -- Major Henry Rathbone and
his fiancee, Clara Harris -- were immersed in the zany goings-on below the balustrade.
Lincoln leaned over in his rocker toward the stage and was roaring. Beside him, wife Mary
was pleased just to watch her husband finally at ease. Their backs were toward the box
door. No one detected their visitor now standing behind them, his hand reaching inside his
coat.
It was now time to fell the Colossus of Rhodes. Fifteen feet below, comedian Harry Hawk
stood mid-stage, the entire platform his, still howling retorts in the direction of the
other characters who had just exited stage right. The house was in stitches.
Wilkes did what he always enjoyed. He stole the scene. In one movement, he drew his
derringer, fired a leaden ball into Lincoln’s skull, and threw a leg over the
balustrade to jump. Major Rathbone, half-realizing what had happened, grappled at the
intruder, then recoiled when a dagger slashed his arm.
But the major’s action had thrown Wilkes off balance so that, in thrusting
himself from the railing, one boot spur tangled with a decorative government flag hanging
there. Instead of taking the graceful leap intended, his body twisted sideways until it
dropped, deadweight, onto the stage. Harry Hawk turned around at the noise, stunned. The
spectators twittered...what is this? what does this have to do with the
scenario? isn’t that J. Wilkes Booth?
Something was wrong with his left leg. Wilkes sensed it immediately. The ankle
ached like the devil, and it didn’t want to support him. Nevertheless, the actor he
was, he found time to deliver his line...a phrase actually, the motto of the State of
Virginia..."Sic semper Tyrannis!" Latin for "Thus may it be ever
to tyrants!" He turned his back on his last audience and hobbled past an
opened-mouthed backstage crew until he reached the alley door where his bay roan waited.
It wasn’t until he was gone that the realization of what had happened seeped in.
It came in the form of Mary Lincoln’s scream for help.
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| President's box at Ford Theater |
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