About ten o'clock, J. Wilkes Booth, a young actor twenty-six years of age, and very handsome, glided along the corridor towards that box. Being himself an actor and well known by the employees of the theater, he was suffered to proceed without hindrance. Passing through the corridor door he fastened it shut by means of a bar that fitted into a niche previously prepared, and making an effectual barricade. A hole had been bored through the door leading into the box so that he could survey the inmates without attracting their attention. With revolver in one hand and dagger in the other he noiselessly entered the box and stood directly behind the President who was enjoying the humor of the comedy.
"The awful tragedy in the box makes everything else seem pale and unreal. Here were five human beings in a narrow space—the greatest man of his time, in the glory of the most stupendous success in our history, the idolized chief of a nation already mighty, with illimitable vistas of grandeur to come; his beloved wife, proud and happy; a pair of betrothed lovers, with all the promise of felicity that youth, social position, and wealth could give them; and this young actor, handsome as Endymion upon Latmos, the pet of his little world. The glitter of fame, happiness, and ease was upon the entire group, but in an instant everything was to be changed with the blinding swiftness of enchantment. Quick death was to come on the central figure of that company—the central figure, we believe, of the great and good men of the century. Over all the rest the blackest fates hovered menacingly— fates from which a mother might pray that kindly death would save her children in their infancy. One was to wander with the stain of murder on his soul, with the curses of a world upon his name, with a price set upon his head, in frightful physical pain, till he died a dog's death in a burning barn; the stricken wife was to pass the rest of her days in melancholy and madness; of those two young lovers, one was to slay the other, and then end his life a raving maniac" (Nicolay and Hay, X. 295).
The revolver was thrust near to the back of the head of the unsuspecting victim—that kind man who had "never willingly planted a thorn in any man's bosom," who could not bear to witness suffering even in an animal. The report of the pistol was somewhat muffled and was unnoticed by the majority of the audience. The ball penetrated the President's brain, and without word or sound his head dropped upon his breast. Major Rathbone took in the situation and sprang at the murderer who slashed him savagely with the dagger, tore himself free, and leaped over the balustrade upon the stage. It was not a high leap for an athletic young man, but his spur caught in a flag with which the box was draped, so that he did not strike quite squarely on his feet. The result was that he broke his leg or ankle. But gathering himself up, he flourished his dagger, declaiming the motto of Virginia, Sic semper Tyrannis (Thus ever to tyrants), and before the audience could realize what was done, he disappeared. He ran out of the rear of the theater where a fleet horse was in waiting. He mounted and rode for his life. For eleven days he was in hiding, with the curse of Cain upon him, suffering all the while excruciating agonies from his broken leg, which could be but imperfectly cared for. He was finally corralled in a barn, the barn was set on fire, and while thus at bay he was shot down.
Aid came at once to the President, but the surgeons saw at a glance that the wound was mortal. They carried him out into the open air. When they reached the street the question arose, Where shall we take him? On the opposite side of the street was an unpretentious hotel. A man, standing on the front steps, saw the commotion and asked what it meant. On being told, he said, "Take him to my room." It was thus that the greatest man of the age died in a small room of a common hotel. But this was not unfitting; he was of the plain people, he always loved them, and among them he closed his earthly record. He lingered unconscious through the night, and at twenty minutes after seven o'clock, on the morning of April 15th, he died.
The band of assassins of which Booth was the head, planned to murder also other officials. Grant escaped, having suddenly left the city. The only other person who was actually attacked was Seward. Though the assassin was a giant in stature and in strength, though he fought like a madman, and though Seward was at the time in bed with his right arm and jaw fractured, he having been thrown from a horse, yet strangely enough he was not killed. The assassin inflicted many and terrible wounds, especially upon Frederick Seward, his son, who did not regain consciousness for weeks; but no one in that house was killed.
Surely never did the telegraph hear heavier news than when it flashed the message, "Lincoln has been assassinated." More than one ex- Confederate stoutly declared that "when Lincoln was murdered the South lost its best friend." And thousands of others replied, that was the truth! At the dedication of his monument in 1874 General Grant gave utterance again to this thought: "In his death the nation lost its greatest hero; in his death the South lost its most just friend."
CHAPTER XXXIX.
A NATION'S SORROW.
The outburst of sorrow and indignation over the foul murder of the President was so great as to lead people to assume that Lincoln was at all times and universally a favorite. Those who know better have sometimes thought it discreet to preserve silence. But the greatness of his work cannot be appreciated at its full value unless one bears in mind that he had not the full measure of sympathy and a reasonable help from those on whom he had a right to depend. During the four years that he was in Washington he was indeed surrounded by a band of devoted followers. But these people were few in numbers. Those who sympathized with Fremont, or McClellan, or Greeley, plus those who were against Lincoln on general principles, constituted a large majority of the people who ought to have sustained him. All of these factions, or coteries, however much they differed among themselves, agreed in hampering Lincoln. For one person Lincoln was too radical, for another too conservative, but both joined hands to annoy him.
Much of this annoyance was thoughtless. The critics were conscientious, they sincerely believed that their plans were the best. They failed to grasp the fact that the end desired might possibly be better reached by other methods than their own. But on the other hand much of this annoyance was malicious.