No one had talked to Dr. Charles Leale about the assassination since President Lincoln had died. He presumed someone would contact him about testifying about the exact route the bullet took through the president’s skull. Months passed, and Dr. Leale found himself standing in line with the other curiosity seekers hoping to find a seat to witness the trial. The first few days were closed to the public because of the “sensitive nature of the testimony,” a term which only piqued the doctor’s curiosity. Newspapers reported the military tribunal would create a makeshift courtroom in the Old Capitol Prison, which it would be open to a limited number of visitors starting Monday, May 15.
Even though Leale arrived at an early morning hour, he still found himself at the back of a long line of impatient citizens. The procession moved slowly because a guard questioned each person. Leale overheard the man in front of him explain that he was a congressman from Illinois and therefore felt entitled to be present. The guard tipped his hat and allowed him in the door.
“And you might you be?” the guard asked, his tone going flat and emotionless.
“Dr. Charles Leale,” he replied.
“Nobody sick here.” The guard shook his head.
“I attended President Lincoln as he lay dying at the Peterson boardinghouse.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, young fella.” The guard laughed. “You really expect me to believe they would have let a youngster like you near the president that night?”
Leale took a deep breath and smiled. He was accustomed to cynicism about his boyish appearance and apparent lack of experience as a doctor.
“I was the first doctor at the scene of the shooting. My wife had insisted on attending the theater that evening so—“
“I don’t have time to listen to your domestic history, laddie. There are real people behind you waiting. We have only one chair left for the public and it ain’t goin’ to the likes of you.”
Shrugging, Leale stepped aside, not feeling the situation warranted that much complaint. The trial would last several days. If he wanted to witness this chapter of history, he told himself, he would have to arrive earlier the next day.
“Name?” the guard asked brusquely of the next person in line.
“John Johnston,” an elderly man replied in a marked Midwestern accent.
Something about the crispness of the voice, yet an inherent fatigue, drew Leale’s attention. When he turned he saw a man about his own height and weight, slightly hunched over with a thick shock of white hair and the beard of a Kentucky colonel. The old gentleman leaned heavily on his cane.
“And what makes you think you deserve a seat for the proceedings?” the guard demanded.
“Oh, for myself, I have no merits at all. It’s just that my mother was wanting a personal report, that’s all. I won’t take up any more of your valuable time. After all, she really was only Mr. Lincoln’s stepmother. Not like they shared a blood kinship.” The old man began to turn away.
“Did you say, the president’s stepmother?” The guard’s voice softened.
“Yes, Sarah Bush Johnston Lincoln. My father, Mr. Johnston, died when I was twenty years old. Then she married Mr. Lincoln, and young Abe was only—oh dear, how old was the boy—yes ten years old. I hardly knew him myself, but my mother, bless her heart, raised him as if he were her own. So sorry for wasting your time. I’ll be moving along now.”
Reaching out to take Mr. Johnston by the arm, the guard said, “Nonsense, sir. A gentleman like yourself should be allowed the best seat in the house every day.”
Leale continued to watch the old man as he entered the prison, still not figuring out what it was about Mr. Johnston that fascinated him so much. The next morning, Leale refused his second cup of coffee and only ate a portion of the large breakfast his wife had prepared, nibbling on a biscuit before rushing off to the Old Capitol Prison. He smiled to himself when he saw the elderly Mr. Johnston at the end of the line.
“Good morning, sir,” Leale said with a bold enthusiasm. He noticed his greeting caused Mr. Johnston to flinch. “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnston. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Turning to look at the doctor, Mr. Johnston wrinkled his brow. “How did you know my name?”
“Oh, you probably didn’t notice me yesterday. I was in line ahead of you and was refused entry; but when I overheard who you were, well, I was pleased to have been inconvenienced for your sake.”
“I appreciate your kindness, young man.” He tipped his hat and returned his attention to the line ahead of him.
“I hope I am able to be seated today.” Leale paused. “Did I miss much?” When Mr. Johnston did not respond, Leale repeated, “I said, did I miss much?”
“Oh, excuse me, young man. No, you did not miss much at all. Gen. Ulysses Grant testified, although I don’t know why. He was not at the theater.” Johnston shrugged. “A couple more official types. I don’t even recall their names.”
“Rumor had it that the general and his wife were to attend the performance. Perhaps if they had gone to the theater, a larger contingent of guards would have been present and Mr. Lincoln would have been spared the assassin’s bullet. Can you imagine? After four years of war and to be taken down by a mere actor.”
“And why do you have such an interest in this proceeding?”
Leale stepped back when he sensed the impatience in Johnston’s voice. “I beg your pardon, sir. I know my interest seems out of place, but, you see, I was the attending physician at President Lincoln’s side that night.” He noticed the old man’s mouth gape a bit.
“You were there for Mr. Lincoln’s last breath?”
“Yes, sir, I was. So you can understand why I have an undue curiosity about the case.”
“I would say so.” The corners of Johnston’s mouth went up in a slight smile. “Then we must make every effort to be companions during this trial. We have so much to learn from each other.”
“I have only two seats left!” the guard called out. After a moment he pointed at the old man and waved him forward. “You, sir! I remember you. You’re related to the president. Please, come this way.”
Johnston took Leale by the elbow and guided him forward. “This is my friend,” he paused to lean into the doctor. “What is your name?”
“Dr. Charles Leale.”
“Yes, my good friend Dr. Charles Leale.”
The guard frowned. “That liar? I turned him away yesterday! Said he was there the night the president died! Nonsense!”
“It is not nonsense at all,” Johnston replied, his voice dropping which caused the guard to step closer.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“I said,” the old man repeated in an even softer voice, “it is not nonsense. Dr. Leale was there the night my stepbrother died. I am in poor health myself and need the attendance of a physician during such trying circumstances.” By the time Johnston finished, his voice was barely above a whisper.
Leale could tell by the expression on the guard’s face that he had not understood most of what the old man had said. The guard stepped back, tipped his hat and bowed.
“Anything you say, sir.”
Johnston glanced at Leale. “I hope you remembered to bring my medication.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, Mr. Johnston. Of course I did.” Leale patted his breast pocket. “We need to be on our way. You shouldn’t be exposed to the glare of the sun, sir.” Once they were inside the prison, the old man guided Leale toward the staircase. The doctor stopped. “Stairs? Do you think you will be able to climb those?”
“Of course, I can,” Johnston replied. “I’m in perfect health, except for this bum leg, but I have my cane.” He cocked his head. “Don’t act so shocked that I lied. You wanted in, didn’t you? And you lied about having my medication. Lying is part of life.” He chuckled. “Who do you think taught my half-brother how to be a politician, eh?”
Leale felt taken aback by the brazen frankness but recovered to take Johnston’s elbow to guide him up the stairs to the third floor courtroom. Even though he was only twenty-five years old, the doctor found himself breathing hard by the time they sat in the row of chairs against the far wall. Johnston’s inhalation was normal. After composing himself, Leale leaned into the old man to observe, “A smaller room than I expected.”
“The room was not chosen to accommodate the public but to control the flow of information. There is much more going on here, young man, than a mere murder trial.”
During the next month and a half Leale arrived early each day and searched for Johnston. A few things struck the doctor odd about the old man; for instance, he always politely declined any dinner invitations. He changed the subject when Leale asked questions about Lincoln as a youth. Sometimes Johnston used the same ploy with him as he had with the guard, gradually talking in softer and softer tones until he was incomprehensible. The doctor in due course found the president’s stepbrother to be inscrutable. Rarely speaking, Johnston nodded often, leaning in to hear witnesses as they spun stories of the day the assassination took place. The drunken innkeeper at the Surrattsville tavern stumbled over testimony that Mrs. Surratt, accompanied by a boarder called Louis Weichmann, arrived in the afternoon to retrieve “those firearms” left by Booth.
“What do you think?” Leale whispered. “Do you think the woman was part of the conspiracy?”
“Absolutely not.” The reply came quickly with a touch of antagonism. Johnston cleared his throat. “Forgive me for holding the views of my generation. Ladies never involve themselves in matter so distasteful as politics, war and—how shall I phrase it—murder? And one has only to observe Mrs. Surratt to see that she is a lady in every sense of the word.”
Leale, as was his lifelong predilection, studied the old man’s face. In fact, one reason he acquiesced to his wife’s wishes to attend the theater that night was for the off-chance that he might be able to study President Lincoln’s facial contours and how emotions played across them. Before he could make much of an assessment of Johnston, Leale observed that the old man noticed the attention and turned his head away.
Johnston exposed his emotions to the utmost on the day Louis Weichmann testified against Dr. Mudd. He claimed he was present one day in January when Booth, his friend John Surratt and Dr. Mudd met in a Washington hotel room. Johnston impatiently tapped his cane on the rough wooden floor. The unexpected clatter drew Leale’s attention, and he wrinkled his brow and smiled in curiosity at the old man.
“He’s lying,” Johnston blurted. His head shuddered as he continued in a softer, calmer tone. “I have made it a habit to study certain subtle gestures that reveal the truth behind what men say. If you noticed, when he spoke he looked away, as though to avoid a confrontation over his statement. Also, notice the gentle tapping of his left foot, an undeniable sign of nervousness. Why would he be nervous if he were not lying?”
Since this was the same interest that Leale held, he discerned that Johnston, himself, glanced away in the direction of the military judges’ table as he spoke and could not control the incessant rapping of his cane.
“I also find it fascinating to study human tics and reflexes.”
“Well, take care, young Dr. Leale, it takes a lifetime of observations to draw accurate conclusions. You cannot assume a set of random behaviors to mean what you think it might mean.”
“So you think the man Weichmann knows more than he is letting on?”
“Indeed, the opposite,” Johnston replied without pause. “He knows nothing at all, but he’s afraid he will be drawn into the web of conspiracy so he is saying anything to exculpate himself, even damning good, honest, innocent people. You need only to peruse his countenance to determine he is a weak, foolish man, controlled by his own personal demons.”
“Your assessment may very well be true, sir. Through my military contacts I have learned Secretary of War Stanton himself gave strict orders that Weichmann be spared legal prosecution if he gives enough evidence to convict the others.”
Johnston broke his custom and looked directly at Leale. “Secretary Stanton? And why would he take such a personal interest in this case?”
“Why, I suppose he—isn’t it standard prosecutorial procedure to offer immunity in certain cases to ensure a conviction?” The doctor blinked several times in reaction to the old man’s outburst.
“I suppose you are right.” Johnston leaned back in his chair and returned his gaze at the row of the accused conspirators. “It’s just that,” he paused as though to collect his thoughts, “I have heard Mr. Stanton’s name in several instances that do not reflect well upon his character.”
Leale smiled. “He is not a pleasant person if that is what you mean. On the night of the assassination, Mr. Stanton tried to take over everything at the boardinghouse, even questioning my treatment of the president—“
“Sshh.” Johnston’s hand went up as he leaned forward to listen to Weichmann’s testimony.
“I never could understand the sympathy and affection which existed between Booth and Surratt,” Weichmann stated from the witness stand.
Leale thought, though clear and articulate, Weichmann’s voice lacked strength and—what? Perhaps courage?
“…so dissimilar in their natures, education and the social position they held in life” Weichmann continued with trepidation, “…never were two individuals thrown together so utterly at variance with one another.”
The cane tapping stopped. Leale watched the old man’s knuckles whitened as his fingers clenched the top of his walking stick. At the end of the day, he mumbled his farewell and quickly left Johnston still seated, leaning forward, staring into a void.
By the next morning, Leale noticed his companion’s conviviality had returned and his reaction to the testimony of the conspirators was muted. Johnston chuckled as David Herold’s attorney described him as though he were an eleven-year-old boy in a twenty-two year old man’s body. George Atzerodt was called a complete coward, incapable of performing any violent criminal act, and Lewis Paine was painted as a brave hero deranged by the ravages of war.
As the trial dragged on, promising little entertainment with the defense of the stable boy and two childhood friends of Booth, Johnston announced with a sigh that his failing health could not endure another moment of ennui. The panel of judges had just adjourned for the day.
“I promised mother to witness the trial,” he whispered to Leale, “but what would it avail her if I died of boredom before I could return home and report the more interesting aspects to her?”
Leale’s first reaction was to remember how Johnston had told him the first day that he was in perfect health but now the old man described his condition as “failing”. However, he had witnessed the man’s volubility on the day of Weichmann’s testimony, and the doctor decided he did not want to revisit that emotional experience. Instead, he nodded with an sympathetic smile.
“I understand the verdict will be announced through the newspapers and not at a public hearing. Perhaps I shall be home with mother when she reads the news. I think she would like that. She’s always looked to me for comfort.” Johnston rose and extended his hand. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Leale.”
The doctor’s smile faded as he looked at the clasp of their hands. The old man’s grip was extraordinarily firm for a man of his years. He also became aware of a sort of greasy grittiness to Johnston’s hand. As he pulled his own hand away, Leale noticed a smear of what appeared to be greasepaint in his palm.
He looked up to comment on this enigmatic situation, but the old man had disappeared, submerged in the ambling crowd.