4. THE FATEFUL NIGHT
When I returned to the Oval Room of the White House—which served as both a library and parlor—the whisky had already been poured and Mr. Lincoln and his guests were seated in front of the blazing hearth for there was still a chill in the April air.Suddenly the President leaped to his feet.
“Durham,” he demanded. “Who’s taller, you or me?” (I knew what was coming.)
“Well” said Durham cautiously, “I reckon I’m about six feet four or thereabouts.”
“He used to be six foot seven,” volunteered Blanset. “But rebel fire shaved about three inches off him at Gettysburg.”
“Let’s measure,” declared the President. “Take off your boots.”
This time it was my turn to roll my eyes. I’d witnessed this challenge before. It was often the President’s way of “breaking the ice” when his visitors were ordinary folk who might be intimidated by the Presidential presence. I also knew—as did Mr. Lincoln—that Mrs. Lincoln absolutely abhorred these “measuring contests.” In her opinion they were definitely beneath the dignity of the President of the United States.
While Private Durham removed his boots, the President struggled to remove his without the benefit of a boot jack. These were the new boots procured for his inauguration and which he had specifically put on an hour earlier in anticipation of riding the gift horse from the troopers.
The new boots were still stiff and Mr. Lincoln was having difficulty removing them. He sat down on the bench at the entrance to the Oval Room and tugged mightily at his right boot. Then before I could help or intervene, Stedman and Blanset had seized him by the shoulders while Durham seized the offending boot, pulling vigorously in the opposite direction.
For an instant the stubborn boot resisted their combined efforts. Then it yielded so suddenly that the President fell backwards off the bench with Stedman and Blanset underneath, while Durham tumbled to the floor in the other direction.
At precisely this moment, a figure appeared at the door of the sitting room. It was Mrs. Lincoln.
She had become impatient waiting for her erstwhile theatre companion and had come looking for him. Now she stared in utter disbelief at the scene before her—the President on the floor on top of two troopers; a third trooper also on the floor holding the President’s boot; and me standing there, gaping like an idiot. I prayed that I might dissolve into the woodwork, but there was no escape.
“Abraham Lincoln,” she spluttered in astonishment. “What on earth do you think you’re doing? We are supposed to be at the theatre, and here you are wrestling with these, these (she searched in vain for the right word), these ruffians.” Again words failed her, as she glared malevolently at the troopers.
“Now, Mother,” said the President, untangling himself from Stedman and Blanset, “These boys are cavalrymen from the 12th Illinois. They fought at Gettysburg and they brought me a horse, and we were just….”
Mrs. Lincoln cut him off. “I don’t care who or what they are. And I don’t care if they brought you General Lee’s head on a platter. You and I are supposed to be at the theatre, and here you are rolling around on the floor and making a fool of yourself while I am left to twiddle my thumbs.”
She stamped her foot in anger.
“And you!” she spat, fixing me with a withering stare. “You are supposed to be looking after him, and making sure he keeps his appointments, and here you are standing there like a fool doing absolutely nothing…” Tears of frustration streamed down her cheeks.
“Now, Mother,” repeated the President, “don’t fret so. I’m terribly sorry. I’ll say goodnight to these men, and we’ll be off to the theatre in no time.”
But his words were to no avail.
“Abraham Lincoln! After this escapade—oh the humiliation of it all—I wouldn’t go to the theatre with you tonight if this were our last night on earth!”
And with that, she flew from the doorway and up the stairs to the second-floor living quarters. The sound of a slamming door reverberated after her.
Mr. Lincoln dusted himself off, and pulled on the offending boot. The troopers, now back on their feet, looked around uneasily, with Durham murmuring that maybe it was time for them to go.
But the President, perhaps secretly pleased that his attendance at the theatre was no longer demanded and apparently wanting to give Mrs. Lincoln a little “cooling-off time” before trying to make amends, would not hear of it.
“Don’t feel bad boys, he said. “It’s all my fault, not yours. These last months of the war have been very hard on Mrs. Lincoln—on her nerves—and you mustn’t think badly of her for being upset. I won’t be going anywhere now, so let’s have another round, sit a while longer at the fire, and maybe we can exchange a story or two.”
To my astonishment and that of the troopers, he then returned to the fire, settled himself in one of the chairs, and beckoned with his hand for the troopers to do likewise.
“Since it’s a horse that has brought us together, tell me a horse story, boys. You cavalrymen must have dozens of them.”
“Well” said Durham tentatively, “there’s the one about ...” And the story-telling began, accompanied by much laughter all around. The President joined in until his shoulders shook with the exertion. I couldn’t help but contrast this scene with ones I had seen in the Cabinet room, when on occasion, to relieve the tension, the President himself had got into his story-telling mode, only to be greeted by the most tepid response from his colleagues who felt such nonsense was, as Mrs. Lincoln so often put it, “beneath the dignity of the President of the United States.”
Mr. Lincoln had left his chair and was leaning against the mantle of the fireplace as Durham concluded yet another horse tale.
Suddenly, as if a cloud had passed over the sun, his smile and laughter vanished.
“And now tell me boys, how is John Buford these days?”
The troopers’ laughter also came to an abrupt halt. They looked uneasily at each other. Surely the President was well aware of what had happened to Major-General Buford. What was the meaning of this question and why was he asking it now?
It was Durham who replied.
“John Buford is dead sir. He wasn’t well, sir, even at Gettysburg—weakened by wounds suffered before we ever got there. He died of typhoid fever in December of ’63. But I’m sure you knew that, sir—you honored him by appointing him Major-General on his death bed. You sent your personal condolences to the regiment as well as his family and I’m sure you attended the memorial service for him right here in Washington.”
The President, still staring into the fire, started murmuring to himself. I was becoming alarmed—I had never seen him behave like this before, not even in the privacy of his office let alone in the company of others.
“Buford is dead.” The President repeated—now completely oblivious to the troopers and myself. “Buford is dead, and Winthrop is dead, and Bidwell, Russell, and Blaisdell. All dead.”
He continued, “Ellis is dead and Zook and Weed and John Reynolds, all dead—killed at Gettysburg.”
More names poured from his lips. “Young Ellsworth is dead—killed when the war had scarcely begun. I had to tell his parents. And poor Mrs. Bixby—all five of her boys dead and gone. What could I say to her?”
More names—Tom Williams, Bill Terrill, Lew Benedict, Jim McPherson—I recognized many of them. They were the names of military men and civilians small and great who had fallen in the last four terrible years of War. They were the names of men to whose parents, widows, children, brothers, sisters, and friends Mr. Lincoln had written dozens and dozens of personal notes trying vainly to assuage the grief and heartache which could never be assuaged.
The names were all stored somewhere in his memory, and tonight for some reason at the mention of the death of Buford the dam had burst. Those names all came flooding out in a paroxysm of grief and remorse that caused the tears to stream down the President’s cheeks and shook his whole frame with great heaving sobs.
Taken aback as I was, I nevertheless had had a premonition that a time like this would one day come. On the one hand I had dreaded its coming and yet on the other I had longed for it too.
For four long years, the President had far too often “held it all in”—the emotions that had been stirred within him time and time again by the grim news of death and destruction coming daily from the war front. With death and destruction all around it was his job as President and Commander in Chief to show strength never weakness, to encourage, inspire, and console others and always to bury his own disappointment, sorrows, and grief.
Now that the terrible War was finally over, it was at last time, for his own good and that of those around him, to release that stream of emotions and feelings that he had so often and so long suppressed. But I had thought that when such a moment came it would perhaps be in the presence of his closest cabinet colleagues, or that of Mrs. Lincoln and son Robert, or perhaps in the privacy of his office with John Nicolay and myself—not at a chance meeting with three troopers whom he scarcely even knew.
But now as I witnessed the scene before me, it suddenly seemed somehow quite appropriate. If Mr. Lincoln was ever going to “let himself go,” was it not fitting that he do so in the presence of precisely such men? These three troopers were far more representative than his political associates or even his family of the rank and file of the American people and the soldiers who had borne the brunt of the terrible burdens imposed by the war.
I watched as if in a trance as Durham rose from his chair. Without any hesitation—as if he knew exactly what was required of him at that moment—he went to the President. He gently wrapped his giant arms around him. Rocking slowly back and forth, he held and sought to console him as tenderly as any mother would her weeping child.
I, who considered myself one of the President’s closest associates, suddenly felt out of place. This was a sacred moment between men who had suffered immeasurably the ravages of war and could only draw consolation from each other. I quietly left the weeping President in the company of the three troopers and retired to my office.
Twenty minutes later I returned to the sitting room. The troopers had left and the President was sitting alone before the dying fire.
He rose from his chair when I entered.
“A most extraordinary evening, Hay,” he murmured. “A most extraordinary evening.”
He walked toward the door of the Oval Room.
“I’d better go now and do some fence-mending with Mrs. Lincoln, don’t you think?”
He passed through the door and slowly climbed the stairs to the second-storey bedrooms.
Once again I retired to my first-floor office to collect my thoughts and prepare for the following day. I had been there scarcely half an hour when I heard a loud commotion outside. Rushing to the window, I saw mounted cavalry and soldiers with torches surrounding the White House. Cannon were being rolled on to the lawns, their muzzles pointing outward. My heart leapt in my throat. What was happening?
I rushed to the front door and hailed Major Frank Stewart whose men were on sentry duty and responsible for protecting the premises.
“What is the meaning of this, Major?” I yelled.
“Big trouble, Hay, big trouble.” was Stewart’s curt reply. “Somebody just shot Vice President Johnson at the Ford Theatre. They were probably after the President. Secretary of State Seward has also been attacked at his home. Maybe it’s some last stand by rebel agents—nobody knows. My orders are to triple the guard at the White House, and stand by.”
“What should I tell the President?” I shouted. It was hard to make myself heard above the melee.
“Give him the news,” yelled Stewart, “but tell him and the family to stay on the second floor away from the windows and doors. We’ve sent for General Grant and someone will be along shortly to fill the President in on what’s happened.”
I rushed back inside just as President Lincoln appeared at the head of the stairs leading from his living quarters.
“What’s going on, Hay?”
I relayed Stewart’s message and the President’s face turned ashen.
“Poor Johnson,” he murmured, “poor Johnson, Seward too. Let’s pray neither of these cowardly attacks is fatal.”
A flintiness then returned to his voice reminiscent of his tone in so many previous crises.
“I’ll be dressed in a moment, Hay. Have someone come up here and stay with Mrs. Lincoln—I want her kept informed but I don’t want her to be left alone. Then get someone over here from the War Office who can give us a full report on tonight’s events.”
5. THE MORNING AFTER
None of us slept that night. Even if one’s nerves had permitted it, the noise of the coming and going of the troops surrounding the White House made sleep impossible.General Grant arrived shortly after midnight. He and the President spent about half an hour together alone. The General then left with orders from the President to take whatever steps he deemed necessary to assure the safety of the administration and maintain the peace.
Before 8:00 a.m., members of the Cabinet with the exception of Johnson and Seward began to arrive at the White House. All were under heavy guard.
The President greeted each one at the door, and at 8:00 a.m. sharp their hastily called meeting began. General Grant was also present, as were Nicolay and myself.
The General gave a brief summary of the state of affairs: Johnson was unconscious and fatally wounded. The doctors said he would not survive the day. Everything possible was being done to ease his passing and assist his family. Seward was seriously injured—slashed in the face and neck by his knife-wielding assailant—but was expected to live.
Johnson’s assassin was a deranged actor and southern sympathizer named John Wilkes Booth. After shooting Johnson, he had escaped on horseback from the Ford Theatre but was even now being pursued by Union troops. Their orders were to bring him back to Washington dead or alive.
“It’s too soon to tell,” the General concluded, “but these attacks last night on key members of the administration appear to be the work of a small band of southern conspirators operating on their own. I do not believe they represent any organized resurgence of rebel military operations, although the entire Union Army has been put on alert until this can be ascertained with certainty.”
“One other thing, gentlemen,” he added. The General looked straight at Mr. Lincoln. “The events of the last twelve hours are tragic, but we should still thank God that it was Johnson and not the President who went to the Ford Theatre last night. Had the President attended the theatre last night, this morning we would be dealing with an even greater tragedy.”
This last remark was greeted with a solemn nodding of heads around the table. The President himself said very little, other than to again express his sorrow at the fate of Johnson and his intention to convey the condolences of the entire cabinet to the grieving family.
After a few more questions had been put to General Grant, the Cabinet dealt with two other matters of routine business. The President insisted that this be done, saying he wanted to be able to report to the public that, notwithstanding the events of the previous day, the administration was “conducting the nation’s business as usual.” He then dismissed the meeting.
Nicolay and I accompanied members of Cabinet to the front door of the White House. Each was to remain under twenty-four-hour guard. When I returned to the President’s office he was at his desk. I inquired if there was anything particular that he now wished me to do.
Mr. Lincoln leaned back in his chair and said, “Yes there is, John, yes there is.”
“I’m sure you realize, as do all of us, that this fellow Booth was out to kill me, not Johnson. And if I had gone to the theatre last night, as we had originally planned, it would be me lying this morning at death’s door.”
“Yes, I have thought of that, sir. In fact, I have thought of little else since Major Stewart first told me what happened last night. If it hadn’t been for those three troopers from the 12th Illinois...”
The President finished my sentence himself. “If it hadn’t been for those three troopers, and their wanting to give me the horse, and us having a drink and telling stories and such, I would be a dead man by now and this country would have an even greater crisis on its hands.”
“We owe those troopers a huge debt of gratitude, sir, a huge debt.”
“My feelings exactly, Hay, and Mrs. Lincoln’s too.” The President was becoming quite animated.
“So here is what I want you to do. Go over to the War Office. Find out whatever you can about those three troopers and their present whereabouts. They said the 12th Illinois was being disbanded. Find out if they are still around Washington, or if they’re headed home. And then get them back here so they can be truly and appropriately thanked for their service to me and the Union. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!” I said, as I hurried out the door on my way to the War Office.
At the War Office I went immediately to see Captain George Weston, the liaison officer from whom I usually received telegrams and dispatches intended for the President.
He greeted me cheerily, “Haven’t seen you for a week, Hay. War must be over.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “You’ve heard about the attacks last night?”
“Yes, of course. Lucky thing they didn’t get the President.”
“There was more than luck involved,” I replied. And I briefly told him about the fortuitous visit of the three troopers and the President’s request.
“Give me the names.” Captain Weston was now all business.
I wrote them out for him on the back of the War Office requisition form he shoved towards me across the desk.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said. “Will you wait or do you want me to send my findings over to you at the White House?”
“I’ll wait.”
Five minutes turned into ten, then fifteen, then half an hour. What could be keeping him? The information we were requesting should not have been that hard to find.
At last, Captain Weston returned. He had a strange look on his face.
“Those names you gave me—you say they were the names of troopers from the 12th Illinois Cavalry who fought at Gettysburg and that they visited with the President last night?”
That’s correct,” I snapped, not trying to hide my impatience.
“There must be some mistake,” he replied, handing me back the paper on which I had written the three troopers’ names.
Below the names, Captain Weston or someone in the records department had written a single sentence in response to our request. I read it, looked at Weston incredulously, turned on my heel, and hurried back to the White House.
The President was still at his desk, but he looked up as I burst panting into the room.
“Well, Hay? What did you find out about our trooper friends?”
He was amazingly relaxed for a man who had just escaped assassination by a hair’s breadth.
I said not a word, but thrust into his hand the paper with the troopers’ names and the response of the War Office.
He silently read the sentence below the names. Then glancing quizzically at me as if demanding an explanation, he slowly read the words out loud.
“Privates Gabriel B. Durham, Homer C. Stedman, and Thomas G. Blanset, all of the 12th Illinois Cavalry, were killed in action on the first day of the Battle of Gettysburg, July 1, 1863.”
