Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

plantation in nearby Charles City. A wealthy tobacco farmer named Harrison had been to see his Hamlet and invited the actor to dine the following week. Booth meant to take him up on that offer a bit earlier.

He tied his horse to a tree in an orchard about eighty yards from the slave quarters—comprised of ten uniformly built, tightly packed brick shelters. Their chimneys were smokeless. Their tiny windows dark. Booth settled on the building nearest him (merely a matter of convenience) and peered through one of its windows. No fire burned inside, and there was hardly any moon in the sky above—yet he saw everything as if it had been illuminated by the gas footlights that blinded him nightly.

A dozen Negroes of varying sex and age slept soundly inside, some on beds, others on woven floor mats. Nearest him, directly below the window, a little girl of seven or eight slept on her stomach in a tattered white nightgown.

Minutes later, Booth was in the orchard, sobbing, her lifeless body in his arms, her blood running down his fangs and chin. He dropped to his knees and held her tightly against his chest.

He was the devil.

Booth felt his fangs puncture the thick muscle of her throat. He began to drink again.

V

After a full day of respectful rejections, the Lincolns finally had a couple willing to accompany them to the theater. Major Henry Rathbone and his fiance, Clara Harris, daughter of New York senator Ira Harris, rode backward facing Abe and Mary as the president’s carriage cut through a light mist. Mary could feel the cool air in her black silk dress and matching bonnet. Abe was perfectly warm in his black wool overcoat and white gloves. The party pulled up to Ford’s Theater just before eight-thirty, by which time the play, Our American Cousin, was already underway. Abe, who detested being late, gave his apologies to the doorman and greeted his relief bodyguard, John F. Parker.

Parker, a Washington policeman, had shown up for his shift at the White House three hours late with no explanation. William H. Crook, Lincoln’s daytime bodyguard, angrily sent him ahead to Ford’s and told him to wait for the president’s party. In time, the nation would learn that Parker was a notorious drinker who’d been disciplined for falling asleep on duty more than once.

Tonight, he was solely responsible for protecting Abraham Lincoln’s life.

The Lincolns and their guests were led up a narrow staircase to the double box, where four seats had been arranged. Farthest left was a black walnut rocking chair for the president. Mary was seated beside him, followed by Clara and the major at the far end. No sooner had the four of them taken their seats than the play was halted and the president’s arrival announced. Abe stood, somewhat embarrassed, as the orchestra played “Hail to the Chief,” and the audience of more than a thousand rose to its feet in polite applause. As the play resumed, John Parker took his seat outside the door. Here, he’d be able to see anyone approaching the president’s seats.

Backstage, no one paid much attention to John Wilkes Booth when he arrived an hour after Abe’s party. He was a regular at Ford’s, free to come and go as he pleased, and he often took in performances from the wings. But Booth had no interest in the play tonight; no time for small talk with impressionable young actresses. Using his knowledge of the theater’s layout, he wound his way through a labyrinth of hallways and crawl spaces until he reached the staircase that led to the stage left boxes. Here, he was shocked to discover that there were no guards posted. Booth had expected at least one, and had planned on using his fame to gain access to the president. A great actor paying his respects to a great man. He was carrying a calling card in his coat pocket for this very purpose.

There was nothing but an empty chair.

John Parker had grown frustrated by the fact that he couldn’t see the stage. Incredibly, during the second act, he’d simply left his post to find another seat. By the beginning of Act III, Parker had left the theater altogether, going for a drink at the Star Saloon next door. Now, all that stood between Booth and Lincoln was a narrow staircase.

Upstairs, Mary Lincoln held her husband’s hand. She stole a glance at Clara Harris, whose hands were resting modestly in her lap, and whispered in Abe’s ear, “What will Ms. Harris think of my hanging on to you so?”

“She won’t think anything of it.”

Most historians agree that these are Abraham Lincoln’s last words.

Booth quietly climbed the staircase and stood outside the box, waiting for the one line that he knew would get a huge laugh.

A laugh big enough to muffle the sound of a pistol.

Onstage, Harry Hawk stood alone, delivering a spirited soliloquy to the crowd. Booth held steady, waiting, as Hawk’s voice boomed through the theater. He crept forward, leveled the pistol at the back of Lincoln’s head, and carefully… carefully pulled the hammer back. If Abe had been ten years younger, he might have heard the click—might’ve reacted with the speed and strength that had saved his life so many times before. But he was old. Tired. All he felt was Mary’s hand upon his. All he heard was Harry Hawk’s booming voice: “Don’t know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal; you sockdologizing old man-trap!”

The audience roared. Booth fired.

The ball entered Abe’s skull, and he slumped forward in his rocking chair, unconscious. Mary’s screams joined the deafening laughter as Booth produced a hunting knife and turned to his next target—but instead of General Grant, he was met by the young Major Rathbone, who leapt from his chair and came at him. Booth plunged the knife into Rathbone’s bicep and made for the railing. Clara’s screams joined Mary’s as laughter gave way to murmuring and people turned their heads toward the commotion. Rathbone grabbed Booth’s coat with his good arm, but couldn’t hold on. Booth leapt over the railing. But as he did, one of his riding spurs snagged the Treasury flag that Edmund Spangler had put up earlier in the day. Booth fell awkwardly to the stage, breaking his left leg, twisting it grotesquely at the knee.

FIG. 6E. - A BLACK-EYED JOHN WILKES BOOTH FIRES THE FATAL SHOT AS MAJOR HENDRY RATHBONE REACTS

Though injured, the consummate actor couldn’t resist a flourish. He pulled himself to his feet, faced the audience, which had begun to panic, and yelled, “Sic semper tyrannis!” The state motto of Virginia. Thus always to tyrants! With that, John Wilkes Booth left the stage for the last time.

Like the speech to his conspirators, it was a moment he’d probably rehearsed.

VI

At roughly the same moment, Lewis Powell ran out of Secretary Seward’s front door, screaming, “I’m mad! I’m mad!” Although he didn’t know it yet, his mission had been a failure.

Herold, the nervous pharmacist, had done his part. He’d led Powell to Seward’s mansion. Now he watched from a safe distance as Powell knocked on the front door just after ten o’clock. When a butler answered, Powell delivered his own carefully rehearsed line: “Good evening. I have medicine for the secretary. I alone am to administer it.” Moments later, he was on the second floor, only a few yards from where his ailing target slept. But before he could slip into Seward’s room alone, the secretary’s son Frederick approached.

“What cause have you to see my father?”

Powell repeated his carefully rehearsed line, word for word. But the younger Seward wasn’t convinced. Something was amiss. He told Powell that his father was asleep, and to call again in the morning.

Lewis Powell had no choice. He drew his revolver, pointed it at Frederick’s head, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. The gun had misfired.

I’m mad! I’m mad!

There was no time. Powell bashed Frederick’s skull with the gun instead, sending him to the floor, blood pouring from his nose and ears. Powell then ran into his target’s room, where he encountered a screaming Fanny Seward, the secretary’s daughter. Ignoring her for the moment, he drew his knife and brought it down on the old