Booth’s Revenge Chapter Nine

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. Someone tries to shoot Andrew Johnson.
Another knock at the door interrupted Andrew Johnson’s thoughts about his sobriety. Turning, he wondered if “they”—the ones who had told the drunk to shoot him—had come to finish the job. In his younger years, Johnson would have flung open the door, grabbed the gun from the hand of the assailant, and beaten him with it, but he acknowledged he was an old man now who had a responsibility to stay alive for his family and his country.
“Who is it?” he called out in a strong voice.
“Mr. Vice-President!” a young voice replied in a loud fright-tinged voice. “Major Eckert sent me!”
The name was not familiar to Johnson, but he could tell by the young man’s tone he was in earnest. “What’s this all about?” he asked as he removed the chair from his door.
“The president has been shot!”
“What the hell?” Johnson opened the door to see a private, still panting and his eyes wide with excitement. He was drenched by the rain.
“He and his wife were at Ford’s Theater watching this play and while everybody was laughing—I don’t know what the joke was but it must have been awful funny because everybody was laughing and this guy shot the President in the back of the head, and everybody stopped laughing because the President’s wife Mrs. Lincoln started screaming and this man jumped to the stage and–”
“Please, private,” Johnson interrupted in a mellow voice, “please take a moment to compose your thoughts. I know this must be very frightening for you. I’m kind of scared myself.”
“But—“
“Sshh.” Johnson put his hand on the private’s shoulder. “You and I ain’t going to catch the attacker any time soon by ourselves. Take a deep breath.” He smiled. “You remind me of my son back in Tennessee. Mighty fine young man he is.”
The young man smiled, revealing how shy and frightened he was. He looked into Johnson’s eyes. “Thank you, sir. Mighty kind of you, sir.”
After a moment, Johnson asked in an easy-going voice, “How badly hurt was the President?”
“I don’t know for sure. The doctors are tending to him now. Across the street from the theater. A boardinghouse. Peterson’s, I think. The way the folks were acting in the hallway there, it don’t look good.”
“Did they capture the man?”
“No, he jumped from the president’s box to the stage and ran out the back. I don’t think anyone knew what was going on until he was gone and Mrs. Lincoln started screaming. I don’t know for sure, sir. I wasn’t there. Major Eckert ordered me to the boardinghouse only about an hour ago. I work for him at the Military Telegraph Bureau.”
“Do they know who it was?”
“I heard on the street that it was the actor, John Wilkes Booth,” the private replied. “But I don’t take much stock in what—“
“Did you say John Wilkes Booth?” Johnson said, remembering the note. He pulled it from his pants pocket to read it again.
Sorry I missed you. J.W. Booth.
“You ever see him on stage?” the soldier asked. “I don’t go to the theater myself but I understand all the young ladies have a soft spot for him.”
“Yes, I’ve heard,” Johnson mumbled. Was Booth the same man who had knocked on his door, he wondered. Johnson dismissed the thought. The man he saw was not an actor.
“I also heard Secretary of State Seward has been stabbed,” the private added.
“What? Seward too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, sir,” the private replied. “But he’s hurt real bad.”
“A man just knocked at my door within the last hour,” Johnson said, almost to himself. “He had a pistol. I think he intended to kill me.”
“They’re out to bring down the whole government.” The soldier shook his head.
“They?” Johnson thought about what the drunk had said at the door.
They told me….
“Does anyone have any idea who they are?”
“No, sir.” The private hung his head.
“Well.” Johnson patted him on the shoulder. “We won’t let anybody bring the government down, will we, boy?”
He smiled. “No, sir. We won’t.”
“I suppose you just ran over from the boardinghouse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m too old to do any running tonight. Will you please flag down a carriage for us while I get my coat?”
“Yes sir.”
After he put on his coat and tie, Johnson considered asking the hotel for coffee. No, he did not have time for that. He had to force his mind to focus on the task in front of him. Knowing Stanton as well as he did, Johnson expected to see him at the boarding house set up as commander-in-chief. He had to brace himself for a confrontation with the secretary of war.
Downstairs he dashed from the hotel to the open carriage door. He waved to the private to join him.
“No, no, sir. I’ll walk back.”
“Nonsense. Get in. It’s pouring!”
As they rode to the Peterson House, Johnson amiably asked the soldier questions. Where was he from? Did he see much action during the war? When was the last time he saw his family? The private answered every one of them with a smile, though Johnson did not hear any of it. He just nodded and smiled, his mind trying to figure out why John Wilkes Booth would have called on him at his hotel just hours before shooting the president.
Johnson’s head was swirling with questions. Who were the mysterious “they” mentioned by his own would-be assassin? If the president, secretary of state and vice-president had been marked for murder, Johnson thought, why had no one tried to kill Stanton?
The carriage stopped at the boardinghouse, and the private pushed through the crowd, making way for the vice-president. Dozens of hands reached out to touch him. Johnson tried to make contact with as many of them as possible. These were the common people. His people and they needed to know their government was going to be all right. Inside, Johnson stopped for a brief moment as he surveyed the crowded halls and staircase.
“This way, Mr. Vice-President,” the soldier said, leading him down the hall.
Johnson saw other Cabinet members milling about. Military officers shouted orders to privates who scurried from place to place. He paused by the back room where the President lay at an angle on a bed. Lincoln’s face was ashen. Doctors conferred over him and shook their heads.
“Mr. Stanton is across the hall,” the private whispered.
Johnson stepped into the parlor where, as he suspected, Stanton was in his natural environment, writing telegrams and giving orders. Officers brushed past the Vice-President, barely acknowledging he was there. When Stanton failed to look up, Johnson cleared his throat.
“Mr. Stanton,” he announced in a firm loud voice, “what are the President’s chances of survival?”
Stanton stopped making notes long enough to glance up. When his eyes focused through his small glasses, he dropped his pencil and his mouth fell open. Johnson always prided himself on his ability to read the expressions on men’s faces, and what he saw on Stanton’s face was shock and fear.
“My God,” Stanton finally said. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m the vice-president. I’m supposed to be here.”
“I mean,” Stanton fumbled with his words. “Thank God they didn’t shoot you too.”
Once again, Johnson observed, the mysterious “they”.

Another knock at the door interrupted Andrew Johnson’s thoughts about his sobriety. Turning, he wondered if “they”—the ones who had told the drunk to shoot him—had come to finish the job. In his younger years, Johnson would have flung open the door, grabbed the gun from the hand of the assailant, and beaten him with it, but he acknowledged he was an old man now who had a responsibility to stay alive for his family and his country.
“Who is it?” he called out in a strong voice.
“Mr. Vice-President!” a young voice replied in a loud fright-tinged voice. “Major Eckert sent me!”
The name was not familiar to Johnson, but he could tell by the young man’s tone he was in earnest. “What’s this all about?” he asked as he removed the chair from his door.
“The president has been shot!”
“What the hell?” Johnson opened the door to see a private, still panting and his eyes wide with excitement. He was drenched by the rain.
“He and his wife were at Ford’s Theater watching this play and while everybody was laughing—I don’t know what the joke was but it must have been awful funny because everybody was laughing and this guy shot the President in the back of the head, and everybody stopped laughing because the President’s wife Mrs. Lincoln started screaming and this man jumped to the stage and–”
“Please, private,” Johnson interrupted in a mellow voice, “please take a moment to compose your thoughts. I know this must be very frightening for you. I’m kind of scared myself.”
“But—“
“Sshh.” Johnson put his hand on the private’s shoulder. “You and I ain’t going to catch the attacker any time soon by ourselves. Take a deep breath.” He smiled. “You remind me of my son back in Tennessee. Mighty fine young man he is.”
The young man smiled, revealing how shy and frightened he was. He looked into Johnson’s eyes. “Thank you, sir. Mighty kind of you, sir.”
After a moment, Johnson asked in an easy-going voice, “How badly hurt was the President?”
“I don’t know for sure. The doctors are tending to him now. Across the street from the theater. A boardinghouse. Peterson’s, I think. The way the folks were acting in the hallway there, it don’t look good.”
“Did they capture the man?”
“No, he jumped from the president’s box to the stage and ran out the back. I don’t think anyone knew what was going on until he was gone and Mrs. Lincoln started screaming. I don’t know for sure, sir. I wasn’t there. Major Eckert ordered me to the boardinghouse only about an hour ago. I work for him at the Military Telegraph Bureau.”
“Do they know who it was?”
“I heard on the street that it was the actor, John Wilkes Booth,” the private replied. “But I don’t take much stock in what—“
“Did you say John Wilkes Booth?” Johnson said, remembering the note. He pulled it from his pants pocket to read it again.
Sorry I missed you. J.W. Booth.
“You ever see him on stage?” the soldier asked. “I don’t go to the theater myself but I understand all the young ladies have a soft spot for him.”
“Yes, I’ve heard,” Johnson mumbled. Was Booth the same man who had knocked on his door, he wondered. Johnson dismissed the thought. The man he saw was not an actor.
“I also heard Secretary of State Seward has been stabbed,” the private added.
“What? Seward too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, sir,” the private replied. “But he’s hurt real bad.”
“A man just knocked at my door within the last hour,” Johnson said, almost to himself. “He had a pistol. I think he intended to kill me.”
“They’re out to bring down the whole government.” The soldier shook his head.
“They?” Johnson thought about what the drunk had said at the door.
They told me….
“Does anyone have any idea who they are?”
“No, sir.” The private hung his head.
“Well.” Johnson patted him on the shoulder. “We won’t let anybody bring the government down, will we, boy?”
He smiled. “No, sir. We won’t.”
“I suppose you just ran over from the boardinghouse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m too old to do any running tonight. Will you please flag down a carriage for us while I get my coat?”
“Yes sir.”
After he put on his coat and tie, Johnson considered asking the hotel for coffee. No, he did not have time for that. He had to force his mind to focus on the task in front of him. Knowing Stanton as well as he did, Johnson expected to see him at the boarding house set up as commander-in-chief. He had to brace himself for a confrontation with the secretary of war.
Downstairs he dashed from the hotel to the open carriage door. He waved to the private to join him.
“No, no, sir. I’ll walk back.”
“Nonsense. Get in. It’s pouring!”
As they rode to the Peterson House, Johnson amiably asked the soldier questions. Where was he from? Did he see much action during the war? When was the last time he saw his family? The private answered every one of them with a smile, though Johnson did not hear any of it. He just nodded and smiled, his mind trying to figure out why John Wilkes Booth would have called on him at his hotel just hours before shooting the president.
Johnson’s head was swirling with questions. Who were the mysterious “they” mentioned by his own would-be assassin? If the president, secretary of state and vice-president had been marked for murder, Johnson thought, why had no one tried to kill Stanton?
The carriage stopped at the boardinghouse, and the private pushed through the crowd, making way for the vice-president. Dozens of hands reached out to touch him. Johnson tried to make contact with as many of them as possible. These were the common people. His people and they needed to know their government was going to be all right. Inside, Johnson stopped for a brief moment as he surveyed the crowded halls and staircase.
“This way, Mr. Vice-President,” the soldier said, leading him down the hall.
Johnson saw other Cabinet members milling about. Military officers shouted orders to privates who scurried from place to place. He paused by the back room where the President lay at an angle on a bed. Lincoln’s face was ashen. Doctors conferred over him and shook their heads.
“Mr. Stanton is across the hall,” the private whispered.
Johnson stepped into the parlor where, as he suspected, Stanton was in his natural environment, writing telegrams and giving orders. Officers brushed past the Vice-President, barely acknowledging he was there. When Stanton failed to look up, Johnson cleared his throat.
“Mr. Stanton,” he announced in a firm loud voice, “what are the President’s chances of survival?”
Stanton stopped making notes long enough to glance up. When his eyes focused through his small glasses, he dropped his pencil and his mouth fell open. Johnson always prided himself on his ability to read the expressions on men’s faces, and what he saw on Stanton’s face was shock and fear.
“My God,” Stanton finally said. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m the vice-president. I’m supposed to be here.”
“I mean,” Stanton fumbled with his words. “Thank God they didn’t shoot you too.”
Once again, Johnson observed, the mysterious “they”.

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