Previously: Just before shooting Lincoln, Booth thinks of the events leading to this moment.
On Good Friday afternoon, Booth went to his boardinghouse where he gathered what little he would need for his escape. He loaded his derringer, sheathed his knife and hid it in his pocket, and placed an old appointment book in his saddlebags. Booth pulled out his wallet and lingered as he gazed at the photographs of young ladies, including several actresses and his fiancée Lucy Howe, the daughter of a northern abolitionist senator. Sighing, he realized he might never see any of them again, but his loyalty to the South overrode romance.
He walked to the livery stable where he threw his saddlebags over his mount and rode to the alleyway behind Ford’s Theater. He gave the attendant a few coins to hold the horse until he came out. Looking at his pocket watch, he saw that the play had just begun. He had an hour to waste until the proper moment. Booth sauntered to the bar next to the theater where he ordered a glass of whiskey and sat nursing it.
When a man sat on the stool next to him and ordered ale, Booth glanced at him and sized him up. “A terrible last couple of weeks, wouldn’t you say?” he mumbled.
“What?”
“Horrible events the last couple of weeks,” Booth repeated.
The man grunted.
“Unless you’re a Yankee.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Neither would I.” He raised his glass in a toast. When the man clinked his glass, Booth smiled. “What did you think of that speech?”
“What speech?”
“You know, by that man in the Executive Mansion.”
“Oh. Not much.”
“Colored voting rights. Can’t stand that.”
“Me neither.”
“Why, if I pushed a darky out of my way on the sidewalk and if he pushed back I couldn’t shoot him.”
The man grunted. “That man in the Executive Mansion is my boss.”
“What?” Booth sat up.
“He’s my boss. I’m his guard. Like he needs one. A lot of people talk about killin’ him but nobody ever tries. So I just sit back and drink.”
Booth smiled. “That’s good to know.” He looked at the clock over the bar. “I’ve got to go.”
As he stood, the man said, “You look familiar.”
“I’m John Wilkes Booth, the actor.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of you.”
“Tomorrow I shall be the most famous man in the world.”
Booth entered the theater at the back of the house and noticed that Union officers and their fashionable ladies filled all seats. He walked up the stairs and circled the upper floor toward the presidential box. Sure enough, the chair outside the door was empty. He knew the guard was busy drinking ale. First, he bent over to peek through the hole he had dug out earlier in the day. Only four people were in the room, the president, his wife and the couple on a sofa against the far wall.
Carefully he opened the door and stepped inside. Booth held his breath, hoping no one heard him. The young couple chuckled. Mrs. Lincoln leaned over to whisper something to her husband. How he loathed the man, Booth thought.
Booth sucked hot air into his lungs as he stood in the shadows of the presidential box overlooking the stage. When he thought of Negroes’ having the right to vote his heart raced and his temple throbbed with rage. He had to compose himself, be in cool control of his emotions to complete his task. He looked down on the stage to see Laura Keene and Harry Hawk begin their conversation in the comedy Our American Cousin.
He knew the play by heart. He knew when the audience would giggle, he knew when it would sigh, and he knew when it would erupt in laughter and applause. One of those moments was coming soon, and, when it did, Booth was ready to pull the trigger and put a bullet into Abraham Lincoln’s skull.
Laughter from the audience sharpened Booth’s senses. He knew the big punch line was upon them. He looked around the box and noticed the young Army officer and his rather homely girlfriend sat on a sofa against the far wall. Booth smirked at him. He knew the soldier would be no threat after he fired the shot. He patted his coat pocket, which held his knife. If the soldier tried to stop him, Booth would slash him without mercy. Nothing was going to spoil his dramatic exit, a leap to the stage and dash to the back door.
Booth smelled the scent of the oil lamps, sweat and, he sniffed again, yes, yes, he could detect the greasepaint worn by the actors on the stage below him. He heard the audience reaction that stirred his emotions. He craved the attention he received while he performed in the theater. That was his biggest regret that night. He would no longer be able to be an actor, at least for a while. Booth was sure the South would greet him with open arms for killing its great enemy. There in the great capitals of the soon-to-be revived Confederacy he would once again tread the boards.
He took aim and waited for the fateful line by Harry Hawk to Laura Keene, which would cause the audience to erupt in laughter.
“I guess I told you, you sockdologizing old mantrap!” Harry Hawk shouted as Laura Keene exited the stage.
Booth pulled the trigger, and the bullet entered behind Lincoln’s left ear. The president slumped over. Mrs. Lincoln looked at her husband and then looked up at Booth with curiosity. He watched her eyes widen as she realized what had happened. She screeched.
The officer lunged from the sofa, grabbing for the gun. Booth took a couple of steps backwards which threw the man off balance. In that split second, Booth extracted the knife from his pocket. The officer pulled back his free arm to try to strike Booth across the face, but as his arm came down it hit the blade of the knife.
“Aahh!” The officer stopped and began to bend over in pain.
Booth brought the butt of the gun down with full force on the back of the man’s head. The officer fell against Booth’s chest and slid down. The homely girl whimpered and ran to the man, crumbling by his side. Booth strode past them and between the president and his wife, who was still screaming out of control, with her hands to her chubby cheeks.
“The president has been shot!” Mrs. Lincoln screamed.
Booth stepped to the top of the box’s railing with all due confidence. He had made similar leaps many times as his entrance in a play. This leap would be even more spectacular. Just as he began to jump, Booth felt a tug on his foot. The officer had grabbed at his trouser leg. Booth’s head jerked back to see the man in a crawl. I thought I had taken care of him, Booth thought as he furrowed his brow. The man’s eyes were wide with hatred, shock and desperation. My God, Booth gasped, this man is crazy. The distraction caused him to fall to the boards. Even though Booth felt a painful crack in his leg, he exhilarated in the moment.
“Sic semper tyrannus!”
As he turned to limp off the stage, Booth heard shouts from the audience. Again he smelled the gas lamps, the sweat and the greasepaint. God, he thought to himself, he was going to miss all this. For, since he began acting, the noise of the theater sounded like life.