Previously: Just before shooting Lincoln, Booth thinks of the events leading to this moment.Stanton goes to Seward’s house when he hears of the stabbing.
The doctor told Stanton to get the hell out of Seward’s bedroom. Taking a step back, Stanton decided not to force a confrontation. Again, he felt humiliated, and his breathing became labored. With luck, Stanton told himself, Seward would be dead by dawn anyway. At the bottom of the stairs, he saw Welles talking to the other doctor attending to the State Department messenger on the floor.
“What does he have to do with this bloody business?” Stanton said.
“My God, man, don’t you have a heart?” Welles stared at him but when no answer was forthcoming, he sighed. “Poor man happened to arrive at the door with documents for Mr. Seward when the madman was escaping.”
“So he knows nothing,” Stanton stated nonchalantly.
“I suppose you heard about the President?” Welles asked.
“Yes, I did. I thought it was just a rumor.”
“It’s no damn rumor. The whole world has turned upside down.” Welles scrutinized Stanton’s face. “You look like you don’t give a damn.”
“That is an insult, sir,” Stanton snapped. “But I forgive you because of the emotional scene.” He paused. “I have a carriage outside. Do you want to join me on the ride to Ford’s Theater?”
Welles shook his head as he let out a sardonic laugh. “I don’t understand you. First you say I insulted you, and then you offer me a ride in your carriage.”
“That’s because I am a gentleman, sir.” Actually, Stanton conceded to himself, he was trying to control the situation again. He did not want to leave Welles at the Seward house asking too many questions. Stanton wanted Welles near him so he could filter any information received throughout the night.
The two cabinet members sat in tense silence as they rode through the streets in the rain. Occasionally Stanton coughed. The rain only made his condition worse. He listened to Welles drumming his knuckles against the wall of the carriage. Between the rapping and the dripping of rain on the carriage top made Stanton feel ready to explode. He bent over in an asthmatic rage.
“You should be home in bed,” Welles said in a way that was a lecture as opposed to expressing concern.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Stanton spat. “Then you could be in charge and not me.”
Welles just shook his large, parrot-like head and stared out the windows at the milling crowds. “All these people. The people who loved him.” Welles made the statement not to Stanton in particular but out the misty window.
Stanton, on the other hand, prayed that Lincoln would already be dead. The carriage pulled up in front of the theater. Stanton leaned out of the window and waved over a soldier.
“Where have they taken the President?”
The soldier pointed across the street to a three-story tenement. “There, sir.”
Both men stared at the huge crowd gathered under their umbrellas in the pouring rain.
“We may as well get out here,” Welles said. “No way will the driver be able to get the carriage any closer.”
Stanton went first, elbowing his way through the people. Inside, another soldier told them Lincoln was in a bedroom at the back of the stairs on the first floor. As they began to walk down the hall, Mary Lincoln appeared from the bedroom and screamed.
“How dare you!” she said at the top of her voice, pointing at Stanton. “How dare you show up here!”
“She’s overwrought,” Welles muttered.
“She’s insane,” Stanton replied.
She scurried down the hall and slapped Stanton full across the face. “It’s all his fault! I knew it was too good to be true! You would not let him live! You had to kill him!”
Welles tried to put his large hands on her shoulders but he could not control Mrs. Lincoln because of her flailing arms.
“You’re as stupid as all the rest of them!” She glared at the Secretary of the Navy. “Didn’t you know? Couldn’t you tell the difference?”
“Tell what difference?” Welles stopped trying to contain Mrs. Lincoln to look deep into her eyes.
Stanton motioned to a soldier. “This woman is hysterical. Take her to a parlor down the hall. Make sure she doesn’t leave until I say so.”
The soldier took her by the elbow and gently guided her away.
“A parlor this time? Not the basement? Why not the basement? Couldn’t you tell the difference?” she screamed.
“The basement?” Welles said incredulously. “And what did she mean? Tell the difference?”
“Like I said, the woman is mad.” With that, Stanton continued down the hall with Welles behind him. He barged into the tiny bedroom to find a young man in evening clothes bent over Lincoln who was naked.
“Who are you?” Stanton demanded.
The young man looked up and said, “ Dr. Charles Leale, Mr. Secretary.”
“You don’t look old enough to be a doctor,” Stanton replied gruffly.
Leale smiled a little. “Well I wasn’t one until six weeks ago.”
“Hmph. So. What’s the situation?”
“The president received a bullet wound on the left back of his head,” Leale explained. “The bullet is lodged deep inside.”
“So this is a mortal wound?”
“Yes, sir, I believe so, sir.”
“Very well. Carry on.” Stanton looked around. “Is Eckert here? Is Major Eckert here?”
“Over here, sir,” a voice rang out from the hall.
Stanton looked up to see Eckert, who was the chief of the War Department’s Military Telegraph Bureau, walking briskly toward him. Stanton liked him because he took orders without question.
“I got here as soon as I could, Mr. Secretary.”
“I need a room to set up in,” Stanton said.
“I already secured the back parlor across the hall, sir.”
“Good. Set up a relay between here and the department’s telegraph office on Seventeenth Street.” Turning, Stanton left the room and went across the hall with Eckert close behind.
“You still haven’t told me what you think Mrs. Lincoln meant when she said, ‘Couldn’t you tell the difference.’” Welles stayed on Stanton’s heels.
Stanton turned to Eckert. “First thing, get Mr. Welles a room also. He needs to keep the Navy informed of every development.” He looked at Welles. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Secretary? The assassins might try to make their escape by sea. You don’t want them to slip through our fingers, do you?”
Welles sighed wearily. “No, we don’t.” He turned away and began asking for a naval officer.
“Where’s my desk?” Stanton asked Eckert.
“Right here, sir.” He led the secretary to a desk and oil lamp.
Stanton sat and reached for paper to begin writing notes. “Shut down the theater. Take everyone there in custody for questioning. Shut down all bridges leaving the city. Telegraph the New York City police. Tell them to send every detective they can spare. Telegraph General Grant. Tell him to return to the city immediately.”
“Yes, sir.” Eckert saluted and left.
Stanton knew exactly why he made each of his commands. He wanted to give the illusion he was doing everything possible to catch the conspirators. He was certain the owners of the theater were innocent but blame had to be cast everywhere except on him. New York City had more detectives than any other city in the nation. Every one of them had to be in the District, getting in the way of the district police who knew where to look and who to interrogate. And he had to keep General Grant under his supervision. Left to his own devices Grant might start asking too many questions.
Stanton was now in his element. He was in charge. At this point of history, he was the Commander In Chief, and he relished every moment of it.
“Sir,” Eckert said, coming back into the room and leaning over. “The District chief of police is here, sir. He demands that his forces be in charge of the investigation.”
“No,” Stanton snapped. “This is not a civilian affair. This will be a case for a military tribunal. No question about it. Tell him to keep the mob orderly. That’s his job.”
Stanton instinctively knew if he could keep the war department in charge of the investigation and trial, he could control the release of information. No one must ever know the truth about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.