Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

fleeing America in droves. But most of all, they talked of nothing: their families; their businesses; the miracle of photography.

It was precisely as I had hoped. My troubles were distant, my thoughts quieted, and I felt something like my old self again—if only for those ephemeral hours.

Sometime well after midnight, after Abe had kept his friend laughing with his bottomless well of anecdotes, he told him about a dream. A dream that had been troubling him for days. In one of his final journal entries, Lincoln recorded it for posterity.

There seemed to be a death-like stillness about me. Then I heard subdued sobs, as if a number of people were weeping. I left my bed and wandered downstairs. There the silence was broken by the same pitiful sobbing, but the mourners were invisible. I went from room to room; no living person was in sight, but the same mournful sounds of distress met me as I passed along… I was puzzled and alarmed. What could be the meaning of all this? I kept on until I arrived at the East Room, which I entered. There I met with a sickening surprise. Before me was a catafalque, on which rested a corpse wrapped in funeral vestments. Around it were stationed soldiers who were acting as guards; and there was a throng of people, gazing mournfully upon the corpse, whose face was covered, others weeping pitifully. “Who is dead in the White House?” I demanded of one of the soldiers, “The president,” was his answer; “he was killed by an assassin.” Then came a loud burst of grief from the crowd, which woke me from my dream. I slept no more that night.

II

John Wilkes Booth loathed sunlight. It irritated his skin; overwhelmed his eyes. It made the fat, pink faces of boastful Northerners blinding as they passed him on the street, crowing about Union victories, celebrating the end of the “rebellion.” You have no idea what this war is about. The twenty-six-year-old had always preferred the darkness—even before he became its servant. His home had always been the stage. Its braided ropes and velvet curtains. Its warm, gaslight glow. Theater had been the center of his life, and it was a theater he entered just before noon to collect his mail. There would no doubt be letters from admiring fans— perhaps someone who had witnessed his legendary Marc Antony in New York, or thrilled to his more recent Pescara in The Apostate, performed on the very boards now beneath his boots.

The backstage loading door had been opened to allow daylight in, as had the exits in the rear of the house, but Ford’s Theater remained mostly dark. The first and second balconies were draped in shadow, and every time Booth’s heel landed on the stage, the resulting echoes filled the emptiness. There was no place more pleasing— more natural to him than this. Booth would often pass the daylight hours in darkened theaters, sleeping on a catwalk, reading in an upper balcony by candlelight, or rehearsing for an audience of ghosts. An empty theater is a promise. Isn’t that what they said? An empty theater is a promise unfulfilled. In a few hours, everything around him would be light and noise. Laughter and applause. Colorful people packed together in their colorful finery. Tonight, the promise would be fulfilled. And then, after the curtain came down and the gaslights were snuffed out, there would be darkness again. That was the beauty of it. That was theater.

Booth noticed a pair of men working in the stage left boxes, about ten feet above his head. They were removing the partition between two smaller boxes in order to make a single large one, no doubt for a person of some import. He recognized one of the stagehands as Edmund Spangler, a callused, red-faced old acquaintance and frequent employee. “And who are to be your honored guests, Spangler?” Booth asked. “The president and first lady, sir—accompanied by General and Mrs. Grant.”

Booth hurried out of the theater without another word. He never collected his mail.

There were friends to be contacted, plans to be drawn up, weapons to be readied—and so little time to do it all. So little time, but such an opportunity! He made straight for Mary Surratt’s boardinghouse.

Mary, a plain, plump, dark-haired widow, was Booth’s former lover and an ardent Southern sympathizer. She’d met him years before, when he’d been a guest at her family’s tavern in Maryland. Though fourteen years his senior, she’d fallen passionately in love with the young actor, and the two had carried on an affair. After her husband died, Mary sold the tavern and moved to Washington, where she opened a small boardinghouse on H Street. Booth was a frequent guest—but in recent years, he’d seemed less interested in “matters of the flesh.” Mary’s feelings for him, however, remained unchanged. So when Booth asked her to ride out to the old tavern and tell its current owner, John Lloyd, to “make ready the shooting irons,” she didn’t hesitate. Booth had left a cache of weapons with Lloyd weeks before, in preparation for a failed plot to kidnap Lincoln and exchange him for Confederate prisoners. Now he would use the same weapons to take a more direct approach.

Mary’s love for Booth would prove her undoing. For delivering his message, she would hang three months later.

While Mary was on her fatal errand, Booth visited the homes of Lewis Powell and George Atzerodt in quick succession. Both had been involved in his failed kidnapping plot, and both would be needed to carry out the audacious plan that was still taking shape in his head. Atzerodt, an older, rough-looking German immigrant and carriage repairman, was an old acquaintance of Booth’s. The boyishly handsome Powell, not yet twenty-two years old, was a former rebel soldier, member of the Confederate Secret Service, and friend of the Surratts. A meeting was arranged for seven that evening. Booth gave no reason for it.

He merely told the men to be on time, and to bring their nerve.

III

Abe was in fine spirits.

“Laughter shook his office door all morning,” wrote Nicolay years later. “At first I mistook the sound for something else—so accustomed had I grown to the president’s cheerlessness.” Hugh McCullough, Treasury Secretary, remembered “I never saw Mr. Lincoln so merry.” Abe had been buoyed by the reunion with his hunters, and by the telegrams flying out of the war office on an almost hourly basis. Lee had surrendered to Ulysses Grant five days earlier at the Appomattox Courthouse in Virginia, effectively bringing the war to a close. Jefferson Davis and his government were on the run.

In order to personally congratulate Ulysses Grant on his brilliant defeat of Robert E. Lee, the Lincolns had invited him and his wife to the theater that evening. There was a new comedy at Ford’s, and a few hours of carefree laughter was exactly what the president and Mrs. Lincoln needed. However, the general had respectfully declined, as he and Julia were to leave Washington by train that evening. This set off a flurry of replacement invitations, all of which were promptly (and respectfully) declined for one reason or another. “One would think that we were inviting them to an execution,” Mary is reported to have remarked during the course of the day. It mattered little to Abe. No amount of rejection—respectful or otherwise—could sully his mood that warm Good Friday afternoon.

I am strangely buoyant. [Speaker of the House Schuyler] Colfax called this morning to discuss reconstruction, and upon observing me for a quarter hour, paused and asked if I had eschewed my coffee for a Scotch—such was my disposition. Neither the Cabinet nor [Vice President Andrew] Johnson were successful in their efforts to dampen my spirits today (though both tried mightily to do so). However, I dare not speak of this happiness aloud, for Mary would surely see such boastfulness as a bad omen. It has long been her nature—and mine—to distrust these moments of quiet as prelude to some unforeseen disaster. And yet the trees bloom beautifully today, and I cannot help but take note.

The journal entry was dated April 14th, 1865. It was the last Abe would ever make.

By late afternoon, with the day’s official business done, the president prepared to take a late afternoon carriage ride with his wife. Though not as jovial as her husband, Mary also seemed to be in unusually good spirits, and she’d asked Abe to join her for a “brief turn about the yard.” As the president stepped out of the North Portico, a one-armed Union soldier (who’d been waiting there most of the day in hopes of such an encounter) shouted, “I would almost give my other hand if I could shake that of Abraham Lincoln!” Abe approached the young man and