Booth and the Spirit of Lincoln: A Story of a Living Dead Man

Front matter

‘A tod oF os, eee ee ee

—--

4a ee. hate & see oe i+ hae rar

Chapter I The Darling Of The Gods

‘¢ AND the Greek god who looks on the dance with flaming eyes but remains like a statue—who is he?”’

‘You do not know him?’

*“Tt seems I do—and yet—if I have seen him, where has it been?”’

*“On the stage most likely.’’

‘‘The stage? You do not mean—why of course! It is John Wilkes.’’

‘*Yes. John Wilkes Booth, the handsomest and most fascinating man that ever walked the streets of Washington.’’

‘*And such an actor! More than once I have been thrilled by the drawing of his sword. But never have I seen such fire in his eyes.’’

‘*His stage fire is that of art, consummate, but art. This is the fire of passion whipped high.’’

‘‘There must be a woman.”’

‘*Follow his eyes. They do not leave her.’’

The scene was in the ball room of the National Hotel in Washington during the last days of the Civil War. There was the sound of revelry by night that comes of music and laughter, of gay talk and the rhythmic tapping of slippered feet upon smooth floors. For here were gathered the wealthy, the beautiful, the talented and the brave of the land who, even though near-by battle fields were being reddened with fresh blood, danced on apparently as care-free as the famous fiddler of Rome who made music for devouring flames.

Living at the National during this period were Senator and Mrs. Hale with their daughter Bessie and Mr. and Mrs. Temple with Mrs. Temple’s greatly admired young friend John Wilkes, youngest brother of the famous Booth family of actors.

It was Mrs. Temple who, on the night of the dance where the actor was an angry on-looker, pointed him out to a guest from New Orleans.

‘She must be a beauty,’’ the guest observed watching the actor.

‘**You are right—one of the loveliest women God ever put breath in. She is on the far side of the ball room. When she comes back I will point her out if her enraged lover’s eyes do not direct you to her. Did you ever see anyone angrier? He has gone white. His gleaming teeth press hard against his lips. Jealousy! He is consumed with it!’’

‘‘He is a picture worth studying. You call him the ‘darling of the gods.’ I agree that if perfection of body and beauty of intelligence make a man such, you have not misnamed him. He looks the part without a blemish.’’

Mrs. Temple laughed well pleased as she said, ‘‘He is without a blemish except a few scars that have come of his profession—three to be exact. Do you notice how he holds his cane with his thumb tucked under? That thumb was twisted out of place as the actor made an effort to shift some scenery. It will never be straight again. If you were closer you would notice that his right eye brow is higher than the other—arched up in the middle. This came of asword cut. As ‘Richard,’ John Wilkes was practicing with the handsome McCullom who was ‘Richmond.’ Booth was urging him to strike hot and fast. In his excitement—John Wilkes always gets terribly excited while practicing and makes others feel the same way—in his

THE DARLING:.OF THE GODS 17 excitement McCullom forgot to count sword strokes and dealt an extra and terrible blow. Blood and excitement followed. The wound was stitched and healed. The scar is deep and will be a lifetime reminder of a story worth hearing in detail. Clara Morris who was present and holding his watch when the thrust all but opened Booth’s head, tells it better than he does.’’

‘*And the third scar.’’

‘Oh yes—the third. You would have to stand close and look for it. About a year ago he began to be troubled with a slight growth on the back of his neck—a little to one side. He consulted a physician who told him it was a tumor which must be cut out and he must keep quiet in bed until the place was entirely healed. This John Wilkes refused to do. He did promise, however, to be careful and the small growth was removed. But before it had entirely healed he had a love scene with Miss Charlotte Cushman in which she threw herself into his arms and clung to him in wild abandon. So much force was thrown into this act the wound on poor John’s neck was pulled open and he had to go back for more stitches. The physician said he would have an ugly scar for a long time. But it healed months ago and the scar amounts to little—just a lasting memory mark of a famous hug.’’ And Mrs. Temple laughed again.

“*T have often wondered about the practice of the actor’s art as I have watched the swing of the body and the thrust of swords on the stage. It looks real enough.”’

**TIt is real with John Wilkes. His body seems made for it—lithe—athletic. His leaps in Macbeth are natural. His sword play in Richard is not artificial, while ghosts—have you seen him in Hamlet? Have you watched him closely as he meets his father’s ghost? I almost believe that ghost is real to him. We have talked of it—Bessie Hale and I. We talk of him much. My admiration for the boy is boundless and Bessie Hale—the gir] adores him.”’

‘*Ts this the lady he is following with those flaming dark eyes—that ‘loveliest woman God ever put breath in’?”’

‘*Yes, Bessie Hale, and a handsomer pair of lovers you never saw. Iam as interested in their affair as if they were my own. It was I who brought them together. John Wilkes is a ladies’ man from the top of his raven-crowned head to the tip of his aristocratic foot. They go wild about him—young and old. The motion of his body—the light in his eyes—the vibrations of histvoice—these—stir up a woman. I knew when the eyes of Bessie Hale fell on John and the eyes of John met those of the girl that I had assured Cupid a good start. Nor was he slow in taking advantage of the situation. Nothing ever moves slowly in which John Wilkes is concerned . . . I shall not forget the first time she saw him in Hamlet. If John Wilkes had been less of an artist I should have watched the girl as she watched the melancholy Dane. She forgot herself even as he had forgotten himself in his superb acting.”

‘*He is wonderful.’’

‘*Yes—wonderful! And think how young he is— scarce twenty-six. What will he be when he is as old as his brother, the great Edwin? What will he be if he lives to the age of his actor-father Junius Brutus? For him the stars hold a roseate fate.’

**And Cupid got in his good work ?’’

‘““They are engaged but their course of love has had its rough currents. In the first place Senator Hale raised and still raises strong objections to the marriage of his daughter with an actor. On the stage an actor is all right. But for a husband? He says ‘No.’ It is not his profession, however, that is the only objection. Senator Hale is aloyal Unionman. John Wilkes is openly for Secession, having parted company with his entire family on this point,

; as ‘

J d

THE DARLING OF THE GODS te for the rest of them are loyal to the Union. Also, John Wilkes parted company with the religion of his fathers and joined the Roman Catholic Church. To Senator Hale,

‘strongly Puritan, this is another objection. Then too, John

Wilkes does not like President Lincoln while Senator Hale not only has unlimited faith in the President but is bound to him by peculiarly close ties of friendship.’’

““The fact that your ardent lover has no admiration for Lincoln would be rather a recommendation than a fault if I were judge.’’

**Quite naturally. We do not expect anything else from native Southerners. Yet it is true that those who know the President least, hate him most. If you could only know him as some of us here do.’’

**Is a personal acquaintance necessary to judge a man’s character? Must a man talk face to face with him to form opinions? I am of the opinion that in spite of all the stories told by his followers of his tender and sympathetic heart, he is the coldest hearted man that ever led a people into bloody warfare. Why do I think this? Look about you. It is a ball room filled with a gay crowd; no gayer ever gathered to make merry. Lights, music, silks, laces, jewels, perfume, the glitter of buttons and braid on officers’ coats, small talk, laughing, the beating of joy-heated hearts one against another in the intoxication of the dance—all this while men are being mangled and torn and heaped up on nearby battle fields. And to this sort of thing the Commander-in-Chief of your armies comes. He walks laughing among you as his guns do their deadly work. He shakes hands and tells stories while those for whose death he is responsible, groan and plead for water and breathe out their last agony. How can he do it if his heart is human ?”’

‘*What an arraignment. If you could only know— only know what torture it is for him to attend these balls.

Less than a week ago he had been especially invited and was expected to be present at a gay affair. It had been weeks since he had appeared at a social function. He promised he would attend. An hour before the time he came to the hotel to my parlor. The news from near battle | fields was discouraging. The President himself seemed to be disheartened. I have never seen his sad face sadder than on this night. He spoke of the reverses of warfare— of the hundreds of noble men who were giving their lives for the preservation of the Union, of the hundreds of mothers whose hearts were dripping blood because of their losses. ‘Mrs. Temple,’ he said, with something like a smothered choking of the throat, ‘it seem like mockery— these gay affairs while our country is shadowed by the black pall of warfare, brother against brother. It is hard for me to move among the people who seem so care-free, almost heartless. Yet they are not heartless and they are my people—I am their President as well as the President of the boys on the battle fields and their mothers. It is a duty I must perform.’ For nearly an hour that evening he sat alone in my parlor his face bent into his big hands. When we were ready to go I spoke to him. Lifting his face he moved his fingers slowly down over the deep lines of his cheeks as if trying to brush away or smooth something, arose and wasready. Half an hour later I heard him laughing heartily. ‘Can this be the same man?’ I asked myself.’’

‘*You too have been drawn into the net,’” Mrs. Temple’s cuest answered, smiling at the enthusiasm of her defense. “The spell the man easts is inexplicable to me unless it is that the campaign stories of him have been taken seriously. To come from a windowless cabin in the wild woods to the White House is an achievement—a romance, and who is impervious to romance? The story of his love for his mother—

THE DARLING OF THE GODS 21 to make it more impressive, a stepmother, is sentiment and who is there with heart so hard it will not respond to sentiment when the mother chord is played upon ?”’

‘Such prejudice! If I were to tell you of the love of John Wilkes for his mother—if I were to tell you the boy is passionately devoted to her, would you believe it? Would you believe that he thinks of her much, writes to her, visits her and on his shrine sets her above all women—except of course Bessie Hale?’’

“*Yes. I would believe it. But think what a mother and look at the son. Love and admiration seem to belong to him. Culture makes a background for love. Maryland —Baltimore, my dear Mrs. Temple, is different from the wolf-infested wilds where your Lincoln came from originally and his much-advertised mother lived. But look at Booth! He clutches his cane tighter! His teeth set harder against his lip, and his eyes—cold fingers would warm in their blaze!’’

‘*She is moving closer to him-—she will pass him in a moment if he holds together for the ordeal. See—there she is with that young army officer.’’

** Which one?’’

‘The dress of white lace garlanded with pink roses— see? A rope of roses crosses her shoulder and hangs over her skirt.’’

‘“What do you think of her?’’

**She is lovely—charming. And who is the fortunate young officer whose arms enfold her?”’

““That? That is Bob Lincoln, the President’s son, Captain Robert Lincoln. Isn’t he nice looking ?”’

** As far as looks go he will pass. But he does not look like his father.’’

‘*You are safe in conceding that he is nice looking,’’

Mrs. Temple laughed, ‘‘for he is like his mother’s family and some of the best blood of Old Kentucky runs in her veins.”’

‘‘T do not blame the young actor for looking on with — jealous eyes. The Captain is in love with the girl himself.”’

‘‘You speak no secret. He is madly in love with her. But I wish she were dancing with John Wilkes. This will result in a quarrel. Once before it happened the same way. John had to be at rehearsal and was late getting into the ball. Bessie thought she would be through her last dance with Bob Lincoln before he came in. If he did not know how much in love the President’s son is with the girl he might not have been so angry. But jealousy got the better of him and in his anger he said things to Bessie that she resented. The quarrel grew serious and for days he did not come near her nor send a message. She was actually sick over it. Then they got together, kissed, made up, kissed again and started out fresh. Now it is happening again. She knew he was to be at Ford’s Theatre rehearsing and thought, as she did before, she would enjoy a dance before he came in. He has come a little earlier than expected. You see how he is affected and I do not suppose she knows he is in the room.’’

The strains of a dreamy waltz were having a subduing effect on the dancers. There were more whispered words than spoken. Laughter was soft and half breathed out across bare shoulders and into understanding eyes and the contact of bodies throbbing in harmony with the vibration of veiled passion was closer if more quiet. Moving slowly to the dreamy strains, Captain Robert Lincoln and Bessie Hale came close to John Wilkes Booth. As they passed him the fire that had shone in his eyes seemed to vitalize him from head to foot.

‘‘Your Greek statue—your darling of the gods, has

Pare

. ae

THE DARLING OF THE GODS 23 become alive,’’ Mrs. Temple’s guest said as the young actor turned quickly from the scene.

**He is leaving,’’ she said. ‘‘Perhaps as he passes I can get in a word for Bessie.’’

The next moment the young actor, the fire in his eyes still blazing, paused before Mrs. Temple. He spoke under stress of high feeling.

‘‘Her people and his will take her from me yet—have taken her, for Zam done. Tell her so—tell her to take her blue-coated son of a nigger-loving President. Tell her to take him!’’

‘But John—John! She does not want him. Bessie Hale is not in love with Bob Lincoln. It is you she loves— you! John,’’ and Mrs. Temple laid a restraining hand on the excited young man’s arm.

‘‘Bet me go,’’ he whispered hoarsely shaking off the hand. ‘‘Let me go or I will kill him!’’

“Oh dear!’’ sighed Mrs. Temple as she watched his slender form in its nervously quick exit. ‘‘I wish Bessie had not done it. I wish the Hales could see that an artist like John Wilkes would be as good a match for their daughter as the son of a President—even Mr. Lincoln. Don’t you think so?’’

‘‘Between the actor, John Wilkes Booth with his talent —his future, and a young man who will be known as the son of a President, if posterity remembers him at all, if love were eliminated entirely, who would not choose the actor with his personality—his genius—his future, inevitably great if his life is spared ?”’

‘‘Hixactly the way I feel. And exactly the way Bessie Hale feels when her reason can calculate without being stormed by her love.’’

**You know the old saying about the course of true love.”’

‘*Yes, but it is when lovers go insanely jealous they wreck their chances of happy reconciliations by rushing out and marrying another than their love. John Wilkes could marry any one of a dozen young women he knows tomorrow. Before God I hope he does not do anything rash. But here © comes Bessie. She will ask me to watch for John Wilkes. She expects to dance with him. She dressed especially to please his artistic eye on this night. How disappointed she will be when she learns he has come—and gone. And his message—how can I soften it and yet let her know. Poor child—and poor John!’’

So =~ ete

Chapter II Plotters

In a two-acre lot near the confluence of the Tyber and Potomac rivers there stood an old brick house that dated back to the time when Davy Jones’ plantation embraced a third of Washington.

Hidden under branching trees, by matted shrubbery, and further protected from curious eyes or the approach of man by a high brick wall on the street side, this crumbling and mouldy old place seemed a fit rendezvous for birds of the night or such creatures as creep and crawl away from sunlight.

Notwithstanding its deserted appearance however, this place, in the dark of night was oftentimes alive with men of varied kinds and if the mouldy walls of its dank cellars could have told tales, strange and exciting would they have been for here the Knights of the Golden Circle met, the Fourth Degree in the farthest buried chamber and in the outer room the lesser initiated, fully as fat with plots and enthusiasm but possessed of less cunning.

Among those who had entrée to this forbidding place was a trio of which John Wilkes Booth, the brilliant young actor, was the leading spirit, the other two being John Surratt and Louie Weichmann. With these there were occasionally several other young men who seemed to revolve around the actor like lesser satellites.

Just what the common meeting ground of Booth and the other two was might not have appeared at first sight. There was an elegant ease about the bodily movements of the actor in strong contrast to the sharp angled movements of Surratt and the alert cautious motions of Weichmann’s body. In appearance the actor was handsome. The others were commonplace. The actor possessed a voice whose richness was a compelling harmony. The voice of Surratt was thinly metallic, while the voice of Weichmann suggested much oil where there would never be enough friction to use it. Booth was a thoroughbred. The other two at best were only grade stock. Heterogeneous enough—the one and the two. What like purposes drew them into secret nearness in this hidden place?

Perhaps a common and ardent sympathy with Secession was a binding cord for at least two of the three were proud to be known as rebels against the established order. Weichmann, though of like mind, made no open admission for he was an employe of the Federal Government and supposed to be loyal to the hand that fed him.

Or it might have been their religion, in some cases an unbreakable tie, for they were sons of one Church, attended the same mass and unburdened their hearts, supposedly, in the same confessional, Weichmann even at this time trying to get to Richmond to study for the priesthood.

Whatever the mystery suspected it would have been easy of solution had one curious been privileged to overhear a few moments of conversation between the three, or more properly between the two for Booth and Surratt did most of the talking, Weichmann seemingly of the opinion that walls have ears.

It was a plot that drew these men and their followers together. A plot that when fully flowered and effective would bring such applause as is bread and meat to hungry ambition. Even more than this, if, or when it became fact, there would be money for the plotters—good gold money and plenty of it waiting in Canadian banks.

Booth, who was author of the plot, was not in it for a financial consideration though quite naturally his would be the lion’s share. His short career as an actor had been

PLOTTERS ay, successful financially as well as artistically and his future held a fortune in store. Especially would the world be his when from the darkness of its hatching his plot had been consummated on the open stage of human events with the high lights of historical significance cast full upon it.

It was generally quite late at night when the plotters gathered owing to the fact that Booth was late getting away from the theatre where he practised much though, at this time acted little. In addition to his professional work, it was guessed by his companions that Booth was giving some of his time to a woman. Known as a ladies’ man this would have been expected had not the plot superseded all interest in women for the time being. Who the exceptional woman was, they did not know. She was out of their circle of acquaintances.

The night after Booth left the ball in a fit of anger at Bessie Hale was a night when there was to be a meeting of the plotters.

He had expected to dance with Bessie Hale before leaving her. Cheated of this pleasure he found himself on the street before he had expected.

He had not walked far when the flame of his anger began to lose heat. Mother Nature was about to give birth to spring, but there was as yet an unmellowed sharpness about the March air cooling to overheated blood.

Turning his steps toward H Street, the actor walking fast, was soon at the home of Mary Surratt, mother to John and acting mother to Weichmann whose home was with the Surratts.

The parlor was lighted as usual and as he ascended the steps he heard the strains of dance music on a violin.

In the parlor Booth found three girls, Anna Surratt the daughter of the house, a cousin and a young lady who boarded there. Anna and her cousin were dancing.

As he entered the room the music and dancing came to a quick termination and the actor was greeted with profuse and sincere expressions of joy.

‘‘On with the dance,’’ he exclaimed with graceful gesture after words of greeting had been exchanged. ‘‘Let — me take a turn with you,’’ and with a motion to the violinist, he took Anna in his arms and never did she dance a merrier waltz nor one that set her heart in such a whirl of delirious joy, for, in common with womankind whose paths touched his, Anna Surratt loved John Wilkes. Not before had he shown her so much attention nor seemed so glad to be with her.

It was over in a few short moments and he asked for her mother.

‘‘She is in the dining room. Call. She will answer you.’’

In the dining room Mrs. Surratt was sorting clean napkins when the actor entered with a gracious salutation and a question.

‘¢ John gone ?”’

fF eg???

‘“Weichmann ?’’

‘*He’s not here.”’

‘“What’s the matter with Weichmann?’’

‘‘Ts there anything ?’’

‘‘He’s always so damned afraid somethine’s going to get him. We’re none of us shouting our plans from the house tops. But, among ourselves, does he think there is a traitor in our midst?’’

‘<What makes you ask ?”’

“He acts as if he does.’’

‘‘He’s afraid I suppose.’’

‘“Who of—me—John Harrison Surratt—who?’’

‘““Who? Do you need to ask? Who do we all fear worse than we do the pains of death and hell? That monster in the White House. The heartless wretch who has

PLOTTERS 29 brought this war upon us—that is causing our sons to be murdered and that is going to turn our South over to niggers—to see that the black foot is put on the white neck! All day I have been heavy hearted because of news I read this morning. Abe’s blue coated devils are winning—winning, whipping our brave men. If things keep on Lee himself will soon surrender. Then will that nigger-loving, murder-loving brute in the White House be made King and we will be his slaves!’’

‘<Slaves to King Abe Lincoln? Never my good lady! The plan is too well ripened that will forever prevent this catastrophe. Nor will the gallant Lee hand the sword of our sacred cause over to any unworthy victor. A few days and, instead of seeing news of reverses in war, your grateful eyes will fall on words like these ‘Lincoln! Hostage of War!’ The letters will be bold and black, big and commanding. They will startle the world. And before you have finished the story which will be on the front page of every paper in the land, North and South, you will know that the President of the Union he could not save, is in Richmond where he will stay until every son of the South is turned out of every seabby hell-hole of a prison in the land—until the ablebodied are back on the firing line ready to save and take their own.’’

*‘Mr. Booth!’’ The words were exclaimed, not spoken. The woman’s expression of face suggested the remainder of what she would say.

‘*Yes. If Weichmann. comes up with his part tonight, which is only a bit of information from the War Department —and he has the code—before to-morrow night the deed may have been done! If he fails us, the great act will be delayed but fora few days only. Has ever history recorded anything so daring, so brilliant, so spectacular, so fraught with significance to an entire country—even to the world ?”’

**Holy Mary, Mother of God, grant you fail not. Grant that the end of this horrid war be near. Hear our prayers for peace. Grant our petitions. "

The actor was silent as Mrs. Surratt lifted her eyes and crossed herself. But he was in no prayerful mood. :

‘Tg there any of that brandy left John got last time I was here?’’

Mrs. Surratt turned to a cupboard and took out two bottles.

‘‘Here is the brandy. This other bottle is home-made wine. I made it myself. I want you to drink to the success of your plans with me.”’

She poured the sparkling wine and the two glasses were lifted.

‘“Here’s to ‘Lincoln—Hostage of War’,’ ’ and they drank.

‘‘Fine,’”’ the actor exclaimed. ‘‘Now for the other.”’

Again she poured and again he drank. When he had emptied the bottle his blood was bounding in his veins and the urge for movement turned his feet back to the parlor, Mrs. Surratt accompanying him.

He did not tarry but his adieu stayed with the party a long time. Lifting the hand of Mrs. Surratt he touched his lips to it with a gallantry that captivated the hearts of the three young girls, saying, ‘This for the wine of your making.’’ Then without hesitating he threw his arms around Anna and touching his lips to her cheek said ‘‘ And this for the charming dance—while to you’’ and to the musician he made such a bow as is seldom seen off the stage, ““my thanks for the music which has power to tame a mad man. Good night !’’

The next minute the women were alone to discuss, which they did as often as he left her house, John Wilkes Booth.

The newspapers had continued from time to time different pictures of Booth. From a collection of these Anna had selected one she liked best. In her room that night she took the back off a picture called ‘“Morning, Noon and

PLOTTERS 31

Night’’ which Weichmann had given her and inserted the picture of Booth behind it, and pasted a fresh paper over the back.

She could not put the picture where it would be seen. Her brother John would tell her once again as he had many times done, that she must guard her heart against the actor. She was not his kind.

So she hid the picture until such time as it might be brought out, little knowing, poor girl, that the place of its display would be before a military commission where her possession of this Booth picture would be used as damning evidence against her and hers.

So smiling and singing she went to bed to dream, as others more sophisticated than herself had done, of a man; to see his handsome and animated face; to thrill under sound of his rich voice and before she awoke to see the purple star of hope come sailing up from the dawn.

Chapter III

“*TINCOLN! HOSTAGE OF WAR!’’

‘*Laincotn—Hostage of War.’’ John Wilkes Booth repeated the words several times as he made his way to the rendezvous of his plot accomplices.