28

In 1863 a group of Virginia slave barons formed and financed a secret society the object of which was the assassination of Abraham Lincoln; and in December, 1864, an advertisement appeared in a newspaper published in Selma, Alabama, begging for public subscriptions for a fund to be used for the same purpose, while other Southern journals offered cash rewards for his death.

But the man who finally shot Lincoln was actuated neither by patriotic desires nor commercial motives. John Wilkes Booth did it to win fame.

What manner of man was Booth? He was an actor, and nature had endowed him with an extraordinary amount of charm and personal magnetism. Lincoln's own secretaries described him as “handsome as Endymion on Latmos, the pet of his little world.” Francis Wilson, in his biography of Booth, declares that “he was one of the world's successful lovers.... Women halted in the streets and instinctively turned to admire him as he passed.”

By the time he was twenty-three, Booth had achieved the status of a matinee idol; and, naturally, his most famous role was Romeo. Wherever he played, amorous maidens deluged him with saccharine notes. While he was playing in Boston huge crowds of women thronged the streets in front of the Tremont House, eager to catch but one glimpse of their hero as he passed. One night a jealous actress, Henrietta Irving, knifed him in a hotel room, and then tried to commit suicide; and the morning after Booth shot Lincoln, another of his sweethearts, Ella Turner, an inmate of a Washington “parlor house,” was so distressed to learn that her lover had turned murderer and fled the city, that she clasped his picture to her heart, took chloroform, and lay down to die.

But did this flood of female adulation bring happiness to Booth? Very little, for his triumphs were confined almost wholly to the less discriminating audiences of the hinterland, while there was gnawing at his heart a passionate ambition to win the plaudits of the metropolitan centers.

But New York critics thought poorly of him, and in Philadelphia he was hooted off the stage.

This was galling, for other members of the Booth family were famous on the stage. For well-nigh a third of a century, his father, Junius Brutus Booth, had been a theatrical star of the first magnitude. His Shakesperian interpretations were the talk of the nation. No one else in the history of the American stage had ever won such extraordinary popularity. And the old man Booth had reared his favorite son, John Wilkes, to believe that he was to be the greatest of the Booths.

But the truth is that John Wilkes Booth possessed very little talent, and he didn't make the most of the trifling amount he did have. He was good-looking and spoiled and lazy, and he refused to bore himself with study. Instead, he spent his youthful days on horseback, dashing through the woods of the Maryland farm, spouting heroic speeches to the trees and squirrels, and jabbing the air with an old army lance that had been used in the Mexican War.

Old Junius Brutus Booth never permitted meat to be served at the family table, and he taught his sons that it was wrong to kill any living thing—even a rattlesnake. But John Wilkes evidently was not seriously restrained by his father's philosophy. He liked to shoot and destroy. Sometimes he banged away with his gun at the cats and hound dogs belonging to the slaves, and once he killed a sow owned by a neighbor.

Later he became an oyster pirate in Chesapeake Bay, then an actor. Now, at twenty-six, he was a favorite of gushing highschool girls, but, in his own eyes, he was a failure. And besides, he was bitterly jealous, for he saw his elder brother, Edwin, achieving the very renown that he himself so passionately desired.

He brooded over this a long time, and finally decided to make himself forever famous in one night.

This was his first plan: He would follow Lincoln to the theater some night; and, while one of his confederates turned off the gas-lights, Booth would dash into the President's box, rope and tie him, toss him onto the stage below, hustle him through a back exit, pitch him into a carriage, and scurry away like mad in the darkness.

By hard driving, he could reach the sleepy old town of Port Tobacco before dawn. Then he would row across the broad Potomac, and gallop on south through Virginia until he had lodged the Commander-in-Chief of the Union Army safely behind the Confederate bayonets in Richmond.

And then what?

Well, then the South could dictate terms and bring the war to an end at once.

And the credit for this brilliant achievement would go to whom? To the dazzling genius John Wilkes Booth. He would become twice as famous, a hundred times as famous as his brother Edwin. He would be crowned in history with the aura of a William Tell. Such were his dreams.

He was making twenty thousand dollars a year then in the theater, but he gave it all up. Money meant little to him now, for he was playing for something far more important than material possessions. So he used his savings to finance a band of Confederates that he fished out of the backwash of Southern sympathizers floating around Baltimore and Washington. Booth promised each one of them that he should be rich and famous.

And what a motley crew they were! There was Spangler, a drunken stage-hand and crab-fisherman; Atzerodt, an ignorant house-painter and blockade-runner with stringy hair and whiskers, a rough, fierce fellow; Arnold, a lazy farm-hand and a deserter from the Confederate Army; O'Laughlin, a livery-stable worker, smelling of horses and whisky; Surratt, a swaggering nincompoop of a clerk; Powell, a gigantic penniless brute, the wild-eyed, half-mad son of a Baptist preacher; Herold, a silly, giggling loafer, lounging about stables, talking horses and women, and living on the dimes and quarters given him by his widowed mother and his seven sisters.

With this supporting cast of tenth-raters, Booth was preparing to play the great role of his career. He spared neither time nor money in planning the minutest details. He purchased a pair of handcuffs, arranged for relays of fast horses at the proper places, bought three boats, and had them waiting in Port Tobacco Creek, equipped with oars and rowers ready to man them at a moment's notice.

Finally, in January, 1865, he believed that the great moment had come. Lincoln was to attend Ford's Theater on the eighteenth of that month, to see Edwin Forrest play “Jack Cade.” So the rumor ran about town. And Booth heard it. So he was on hand that night with his ropes and hopes—and what happened? Nothing. Lincoln didn't appear.

Two months later it was reported that Lincoln was going to drive out of the city on a certain afternoon to attend a theatrical performance in a near-by soldiers' encampment. So Booth and his accomplices, mounted on horses and armed with bowieknives and revolvers, hid in a stretch of woods that the President would have to pass. But when the White House carriage rolled by, Lincoln was not in it.

Thwarted again, Booth stormed about, cursing, pulling at his raven-black mustache, and striking his boots with his ridingwhip. He had had enough of this. He was not going to be frustrated any longer. If he couldn't capture Lincoln, by God, he could kill him.

A few weeks later Lee surrendered and ended the war, and Booth saw then that there was no longer any point in kidnapping the President; so he determined to shoot Lincoln at once.

Booth did not have to wait long. The following Friday he had a hair-cut, and then went to Ford's Theater to get his mail. There he learned that a box had been reserved for the President for that night's performance.

“What!” Booth exclaimed. “Is that old scoundrel going to be here to-night?”

Stage-hands were already making ready for a gala performance, draping the left-hand box with flags against a background of lace, decorating it with a picture of Washington, removing the partition, doubling the space, lining it with crimson paper and putting in an unusually large walnut rocking-chair to accommodate the President's long legs.

Booth bribed a stage-hand to place the chair in the precise position that he desired; he wanted it in the angle of the box nearest the audience, so that no one would see him enter. Through the inner door, immediately behind the rocker, he bored a small peep-hole; then dug a notch in the plastering behind the door leading from the dress-circle to the boxes, so that he could bar that entrance with a wooden plank. After that Booth went to his hotel and wrote a long letter to the editor of the “National Intelligencer,” justifying the plotted assassination in the name of patriotism, and declaring that posterity would honor him. He signed it and gave it to an actor, instructing him to have it published the next day.

Then he went to a livery-stable, hired a small bay mare that he boasted could run “like a cat,” and rounded up his assistants and put them on horses; gave Atzerodt a gun, and told him to shoot the Vice-President; and handed a pistol and knife to Powell, ordering him to murder Seward.

It was Good Friday, ordinarily one of the worst nights of the year for the theater, but the town was thronged with officers and enlisted men eager to see the Commander-in-Chief of the Army, and the city was still jubilant, celebrating the end of the war. Triumphal arches still spanned Pennsylvania Avenue, and the streets were gay with dancing torch-light processions, shouting with high elation to the President as he drove by that night to the theater. When he arrived at Ford's the house was packed to capacity and hundreds were being turned away.

The President's party entered during the middle of the first act, at precisely twenty minutes to nine. The players paused and bowed. The brilliantly attired audience roared its welcome. The orchestra crashed into “Hail to the Chief.” Lincoln bowed his acknowledgment, parted his coat-tails, and sat down in a walnut rocking-chair upholstered in red.

On Mrs. Lincoln's right sat her guests: Major Rathbone of the Provost-Marshal General's office and his fiancee, Miss Clara H. Harris, the daughter of Senator Ira Harris of New York, blue-bloods high enough in Washington society to meet the fastidious requirements of their Kentucky hostess.

Laura Keene was giving her final performance of the celebrated comedy “Our American Cousin.” It was a gay and joyous occasion; and sparkling laughter rippled back and forth across the audience.

Lincoln had taken a long drive in the afternoon, with his wife; she remarked afterward that he had been happier that day than she had seen him in years. Why shouldn't he be? Peace. Victory. Union. Freedom. He had talked to Mary that afternoon about what they would do when they left the White House at the close of his second term. First, they would take a long rest in either Europe or California; and when they returned, he might open a law office in Chicago, or drift back to Springfield and spend his remaining years riding over the prairie circuit that he loved so well. Some old friends that he had known in Illinois had called at the White House, that same afternoon, and he had been so elated telling jokes that Mrs. Lincoln could hardly get him to dinner.

The night before, he had had a strange dream. He had told the members of his Cabinet about it that morning: “I seemed to be in a singular and indescribable vessel,” he said, “that was moving with great rapidity toward a dark and indefinite shore. I have had this extraordinary dream before great events, before victories. I had it preceding Antietam, Stone River, Gettysburg, Vicksburg.”

He believed that this dream was a good omen, that it foretold good news, that something beautiful was going to happen.

At ten minutes past ten Booth, inflamed with whisky, and dressed in dark riding-breeches, boots, and spurs, entered the theater for the last time in his life—and noted the position of the President. With a black slouch hat in his hand, he mounted the stairs leading to the dress-circle, and edged his way down an aisle choked with chairs, until he came to the corridor leading to the boxes.

Halted by one of the President's guards, Booth handed him his personal card with confidence and bravado, saying that the President wished to see him; and, without waiting for permission, pushed in and closed the corridor door behind him, wedging it shut with a wooden upright from a music-stand.

Peeping through the gimlet-hole that he had bored in the door behind the President, he gaged the distance, and quietly swung the door open. Shoving the muzzle of his high-calibered derringer close to his victim's head, he pulled the trigger and quickly leaped to the stage below.

Lincoln's head fell forward and then sidewise as he slumped in his chair.

He uttered no sound whatever.

For an instant the audience thought that the pistol-shot and the leap to the stage were a part of the play. No one, not even the actors themselves, suspected that the President had been harmed.

Then a woman's shriek pierced the theater and all eyes turned to the draped box. Major Rathbone, blood gushing from one arm, shouted: “Stop that man! Stop him! He has killed the President!”

A moment of silence. A wisp of smoke floating out of the Presidential box. Then the suspense broke. Terror and mad excitement seized the audience. They burst through the seats, wrenching the chairs from the floor, broke over railings, and, trying to clamber upon the stage, tore one another down and trampled upon the old and feeble. Bones were broken in the crush, women screamed and fainted, and shrieks of agony mingled with fierce yells of “Hang him!”... “Shoot him!”... “Burn the theater!”

Some one shouted that the playhouse itself was to be bombed. The fury of the panic doubled and trebled. A company of frantic soldiers dashed into the theater at double-quick, and charged the audience with muskets and fixed bayonets, shouting: “Get out of here! Damn you, get out!”

Physicians from the audience examined the President's wound; and, knowing it to be fatal, refused to have the dying man jolted over the cobblestones back to the White House. So four soldiers lifted him up—two at his shoulders and two at his feet—and carried his long, sagging body out of the theater and into the street, where blood dripping from his wound reddened the pavement. Men knelt to stain their handkerchiefs with it—handkerchiefs which they would treasure a lifetime, and, dying, bequeath as priceless legacies to their children.

With flashing sabers and rearing horses, the cavalry cleared a space; and loving hands bore the stricken President across the street to a cheap lodging-house owned by a tailor, stretched his long frame diagonally across a sagging bed far too short for him, and pulled the bed over to a dismal gas-jet that flickered yellow light.

It was a hall room nine by seventeen feet in size, with a cheap reproduction of Rosa Bonheur's painting of “The Horse Fair” hanging above the bed.

The news of the tragedy swept over Washington like a tornado; and, racing in its wake, came the impact of another disaster: at the same hour of the attack on Lincoln, Secretary Seward had been stabbed in bed and was not expected to live. Out of these black facts, fearsome rumors shot through the night like chain-lightning: Vice-President Johnson had been slain. Stanton had been assassinated. Grant shot. So ran the wild tales.

People were sure now that Lee's surrender had been a ruse, that the Confederates had treacherously crept into Washington and were trying to wipe out the Government with one blow, that the Southern legions had sprung to arms again, that the war, bloodier than ever, was starting once more.

Mysterious messengers dashed through the residence districts, striking the pavement two short staccato raps, thrice repeated—the danger-call of a secret society, the Union League. Awakened by the summons, members grasped their rifles and rushed wildly into the street.

Mobs with torches and ropes boiled through the town, howling: “Burn the theater!”... “Hang the traitor!”... “Kill the rebels!”

It was one of the maddest nights this nation has ever known!

The telegraph flashed the news, setting the nation on fire. Southern sympathizers and copperheads were ridden on rails and tarred and feathered; the skulls of some were crushed with paving-stones. Photograph galleries in Baltimore were stormed and wrecked because they were believed to contain pictures of Booth; and a Maryland editor was shot because he had published some scurrilous abuse of Lincoln.

With the President dying; with Johnson, the Vice-President, sprawled on his bed stone-drunk and his hair matted with mud; with Seward, Secretary of State, stabbed to the verge of death, the reins of power were grasped immediately by Edward M. Stanton, the gruff, erratic, and tempestuous Secretary of War.

Believing that all high officers of the Government were marked for slaughter, Stanton, in wild excitement, dashed off order after order, writing them on the top of his silk hat as he sat by the bedside of his dying chief. He commanded guards to protect his house and the residences of his colleagues; he confiscated Ford's Theater and arrested every one connected with it; he declared Washington to be in a state of siege; he called out the entire military and police force of the District of Columbia, all the soldiers in the surrounding camps, barracks, and fortifications, the Secret Service men of the United States, the spies attached to the Bureau of Military Justice; he threw pickets around the entire city, fifty feet apart; he set a watch at every ferry, and ordered tugs, steamers, and gunboats to patrol the Potomac.

Stanton wired the chief of police in New York to rush him his best detectives, telegraphed orders to watch the Canadian border, and commanded the President of the Baltimore and Ohio Railway to intercept General Grant in Philadelphia and bring him back to Washington at once, running a pilot locomotive ahead of his train.

He poured a brigade of infantry into lower Maryland, and sent a thousand cavalrymen galloping after the assassin, saying over and over: “He will try to get South. Guard the Potomac from the city down.”

The bullet that Booth fired pierced Lincoln's head below the left ear, plowed diagonally through the brain, and lodged within half an inch of the right eye. A man of lesser vitality would have been cut down instantly; but for nine hours Lincoln lived, groaning heavily.

Mrs. Lincoln was kept in an adjoining room; but every hour she would insist on being brought to his bedside, weeping and shrieking, “O my God, have I given my husband to die?”

Once as she was caressing his face and pressing her wet cheek against his, he suddenly began groaning and breathing louder than ever. Screaming, the distraught wife sprang back and fell to the floor in a faint.

Stanton, hearing the commotion, rushed into the room, shouting, “Take that woman away, and don't let her in here again.”

Shortly after seven o'clock the groaning ceased and Lincoln's breathing became quiet. “A look of unspeakable peace,” wrote one of his secretaries who was there, “came over his worn features.”

Sometimes recognition and understanding flash back into the secret chambers of consciousness immediately before dissolution.

In those last peaceful moments broken fragments of happy memories may have floated brightly through the deep hidden caverns of his mind—vanished visions of the long ago: a log fire blazing at night in front of the open shed in the Buckhorn Valley of Indiana; the roar of the Sangamon plunging over the mill-dam at New Salem; Ann Rutledge singing at the spinning-wheel; Old Buck nickering for his corn; Orlando Kellogg telling the story of the stuttering justice; and the law office at Springfield with the ink-stain on the wall and garden seeds sprouting on top of the bookcase....

Throughout the long hours of the death-struggle Dr. Leale, an army surgeon, sat by the President's bedside holding his hand. At twenty-two minutes past seven the doctor folded Lincoln's pulseless arms, put half-dollars on his eyelids to hold them shut, and tied up his jaw with a pocket handkerchief. A clergyman offered a prayer. Cold rain pattered down on the roof. General Barnes drew a sheet over the face of the dead President; and Stanton, weeping and pulling down the windowshades to shut out the light of the dawn, uttered the only memorable sentence of that night: “Now he belongs to the ages.”

The next day little Tad asked a caller at the White House if his father was in heaven.

“I have no doubt of it,” came the reply.

“Then I am glad he has gone,” said Tad, “for he was never happy after he came here. This was not a good place for him.”

28

一八六三年，弗吉尼亚州的一群贵族奴隶主出资成立了一个秘密团体，目标是暗杀亚伯拉罕·林肯。一八六四年十二月，亚拉巴马州的塞尔玛市的报纸上出现了一则广告，恳求公众捐款资助针对林肯的暗杀行动。其他的南方日报则刊登了暗杀林肯的现金悬赏。

但是最终杀了林肯的那个人，既不是出于对南方的热爱，也不是出于对金钱的追逐。约翰·威尔克斯·布斯之所以暗杀林肯是为了出名。

布斯是一个什么样的人？他是一个演员，上天赋予了他得天独厚的英俊外表和个人魅力。林肯的秘书曾这样描绘布斯：“像拉塔莫斯山上的恩底弥翁一样俊美，是他所在圈子的宠儿。”弗朗西斯·威尔逊（Francis Wilson）在布斯传记中这样写道：“他是世界上最成功的情人……当他在街上走过的时候，站在街上的女人们便会立刻爱上他。”

二十三岁的时候，布斯已是深受女观众喜爱的男演员。他最知名的角色是罗密欧。不管他在哪里演出，多情的少女们都会拿着充满柔情蜜意的情书向他涌去。他在波士顿演出的时候，喜欢他的女士挤满了蒙特饭店门前的街道，只为在他经过的时候匆忙看他一眼。某天晚上，善妒的女明星汉丽埃塔·欧文（Henrietta Irving）在酒店房间里刺了布斯一刀，然后便打算自杀殉情。布斯刺杀林肯后的那个早晨，他的另一位女友艾拉·特纳（Ella Turner）——华盛顿某家妓院的“小姐”——听说自己的爱人谋杀了总统并逃走了之后，将他的照片紧紧握在心口，吞下了氯仿，倒地死亡。

但是，布斯是否从女人们潮水般的爱慕中得到了幸福感呢？几乎没有。因为他的成功局限于穷乡僻壤那些鉴赏能力不是很高的观众，但他野心勃勃，渴望得到大都市里高雅观众的赞赏。

但是纽约的评论家并不看重他，在费城他甚至被赶下了舞台。

这是非常难堪的，因为布斯家族其他成员都在舞台上取得了巨大成功。他的父亲朱尼厄斯·布鲁特斯·布斯（Junius Brutus Booth）是一流的戏剧巨星，红了将近三十年。他对莎士比亚戏剧人物的精妙诠释成了街谈巷议的话题。美国舞台剧历史上没有哪位明星像他那样受欢迎。老布斯精心培养自己最喜欢的儿子约翰·威尔克斯，一心认为他会成为布斯家族中最伟大的演员。

但是事实上，约翰·威尔克斯·布斯几乎没有继承他父亲的戏剧天赋，而且后天也没有为此努力。他长相俊美，为人骄纵又懒散，从不肯花心思好好学习。他的青年时代是在马背上度过的。那时的他整日骑着马在马里兰农场上的林子间横冲直撞，拿着一根在墨西哥战争中用过的旧战矛朝空中乱戳，对着树木和松鼠说些荒唐的豪言壮语。

老布斯不允许家里的餐桌上有肉，他告诉儿子们，杀生——即便是杀一条响尾蛇——也是不对的。但是约翰·威尔克斯·布斯很显然没有听从父亲的教诲。他喜欢射击和搞破坏。他喜欢鸣枪吓跑奴隶们养的猫和猎犬，有一次他还杀了邻居家的母猪。

之后，他成了切萨皮克湾上的一名“牡蛎海盗”，再后来成了演员。现在，他二十六岁，是懵懂的高中女生心中的白马王子，但在他自己眼中，他是个失败者。此外，他非常嫉妒自己的哥哥爱德温，因为爱德温拥有他梦寐以求的声望。

为此，他郁郁寡欢地思考了很久，最后决定做一件绝对能一夜成名的事。

他一开始的计划是这样的：尾随林肯进入剧院，趁他的同伙关掉煤气灯的时候冲进总统包厢，用绳子将林肯绑起来，将他扔到下面的舞台上，挟持他从后门离开，将他塞进马车，发狂似的趁着夜色迅速逃离。

经过一夜急行，他可以在黎明前到达仍沉睡着的古老小镇烟草港。然后他乘船横渡宽阔的波多马克河，接着一路向南穿过弗吉尼亚，最后安全地在南方军身后的里士满会见联盟军总司令。

然后呢？

然后南方便可以肆意定下条件，从而立刻结束战争。

这伟大的成就归功于谁呢？当然是那个耀眼的天才约翰·威尔克斯·布斯。他会因此名满天下，比他那有出息的哥哥还要出名一百倍。他会名垂青史，成为美国历史上的“威廉·退尔”(8)（William Tell）。这便是他的美梦。

当时他在剧院一年可赚两万美金，但他毫不犹豫地放弃了。现在，钱对他来说毫无意义，因为他正在做的事比获得财富重要多了。因此，他出钱资助了一帮徘徊在巴尔的摩和华盛顿附近的同情南方的人，并许诺他们会得到财富和名望。

那帮人无疑是一群乌合之众。斯潘格勒是一名捕蟹渔夫，也是个酒鬼，平时在剧院做后台工作。亚瑟特是个自大的油漆工，也是一名偷渡客。他毛发稀疏，是个粗鲁凶狠的家伙。阿诺德是一个懒惰的农场工，还是南方军的逃兵。欧劳福林在马车出租行工作，身上满是马和威士忌的味道。萨拉特是一个自命不凡的小职员。鲍威尔是一个大个子浑球儿，总是怒目圆睁，疯疯癫癫。他的爸爸是浸信会传教士。赫罗尔德是个喜欢傻笑的无业游民，整日待在马厩里吹牛谈女人，靠寡妇母亲和七个姐姐救济过活。

在这群最劣等配角的陪演下，布斯出演了自己职业生涯中最重要的角色。他花了大量时间和精力计划细节。他买了一副手铐，安排好了逃亡路上换马的地点。他买了三艘船，停在烟草港。他还安排了桨手，随时准备着带他们渡河。

终于，一八六五年一月，布斯相信那个伟大的时刻终于到了。整个城市都在传当月的十八号，林肯将去福特剧院观看爱德温·福莱斯特（Edwin Forrest）出演的《杰克·凯德》。布斯当然听到了这些传言，于是当晚，他带着绳子和期待去了剧院——然后发生了什么？什么都没发生。林肯没有出现。

两个月后，又有传言说，林肯将在某天下午出城前往附近的士兵之家观看戏剧表演。于是布斯和他的同伙跨上马背，带着博伊刀和左轮手枪，藏在总统必经之路旁的树丛里。可是当白宫的马车呼啸而过的时候，林肯并不在车内。

再次挫败的布斯愤怒极了，一边咒骂林肯，一边扯着自己漆黑的小胡子，拿马鞭抽打自己的靴子。他受够了。他再也不想失败了。如果不能抓住林肯，那就杀了他。

几个星期后，李投降了，战争也就此结束了。布斯认为，现在绑架总统已经没有任何意义了，因此他决定立刻暗杀总统。

这一次，布斯没有等很久。战争结束后的第二个周五，布斯理了发，随后便前往福特剧院拿他的邮件。他得知当晚总统预订了一个包间。

“不是吧！”他大声说道，“那个卑鄙的无赖今晚要来？”

舞台工作人员正在为演出做准备。他们用有花边的旗子覆盖左边的一个包厢，在包厢里面挂上华盛顿的画像，移除隔断，扩大空间，贴上深红色的墙纸，还在包厢里放了一张大号的胡桃木摇椅，这样总统的长腿便可以伸直了。

布斯贿赂了一名舞台工作人员，让其将摇椅按照他的要求摆放。他希望摇椅放在靠观众的一侧，这样就不会有人看见他潜入了。他在摇椅后面的内门上钻了一个窥视孔，接着又在特等座通往包厢的门后的石灰墙上挖了一个缺口，这样他便可以用一根木条把这个入口堵起来。做完了这些后，布斯回到了旅馆，给《国民通讯员报》的编辑写了一封长信，并以爱国之名为自己有预谋的暗杀行为进行了辩护，并宣称后世子孙会以他为荣。他签好名后将信交给了一名演员，关照他第二天拿去发表。

接着他去了一家马车出租行，雇了一匹据说“跑得和猫一样快”的深棕色母马。他将手下人集合起来，给他们一人配了一匹马。他给了亚瑟特一把枪，让他枪杀副总统。他给了鲍威尔一把枪和一把刀，命令他暗杀苏华德。

当晚是耶稣受难日，照理来说是剧院一年中最惨淡的日子，但是当晚，城里挤满了想要一睹联邦军总司令风采的军官和士兵，整个城市都在庆贺战争结束，一派喜气洋洋。宾夕法尼亚大街上的凯旋门还没有移除，街上满是拿着火把的舞蹈队列。当总统骑马经过时，路旁的人群里发出了热烈的欢呼声。林肯到达福特剧院的时候，剧院已经人满为患，成百上千的观众被拒之门外。

总统一行人是在第一幕开演后不久入的场，准确时间是八点四十分。演员们向总统鼓掌鞠躬，身着盛装的观众爆发出热烈的欢呼声，管弦乐队适时地奏起《领袖万岁》。林肯鞠躬致谢，然后脱下燕尾服，坐在有着红色垫子的胡桃木摇椅上。

林肯夫人的右手边坐着她的客人，宪兵司令办公室的拉斯伯恩少校以及他的未婚妻克拉拉·哈里斯（Clara H．Harris）小姐。哈里斯小姐是纽约州参议员伊拉·哈里斯的女儿，是一位蓝血贵族。在华盛顿社交圈里，她的身份足够满足那位来自肯塔基州的女主人挑剔的要求。

劳拉·基恩（Laura Keene）正在表演流行喜剧《我们的美国表弟》的最后一幕。这是非常欢乐的一幕，观众席间爆笑声此起彼伏。

当天下午，林肯和他的夫人骑了很久的马。林肯夫人后来说这些年来从来没有见过林肯像那天下午那样快乐。他有什么理由不快乐？和平、胜利、团结、自由，都有了。那天下午，他和玛丽谈起第二任任期结束离开白宫后的打算。

首先，去欧洲或者加州好好休息一段时间。度假回来后也许会在芝加哥开一家律师事务所，或者回到春田市，将余生都奉献给他热爱的草原巡回法庭。那天下午，他将几位伊利诺伊州的老朋友请到了白宫，他兴奋地和朋友们讲着笑话，以至于吃晚饭的时候林肯夫人都请不动他。

前一天晚上，他做了一个奇怪的梦。那天早上他和内阁说起了那个梦：“我仿佛在一艘无法描述的小船上。船快速地朝着远处黑暗模糊的海岸驶去。每次发生大事前我都会做这个梦。安蒂特姆河之战、石河之战、葛底斯堡之战、维克斯堡之战前我都做过这个梦。”

他认为这个梦是一个好兆头，会带来好消息。他认为会有好事发生。

十点十分的时候，因为喝威士忌而满脸通红的布斯穿着黑色的马裤、皮靴和马刺，人生中最后一次走进了剧院，很快便看到了总统。布斯手里拿着一顶宽边软帽，走上通往特等座的台阶，挤过一条放满了椅子的走道，然后来到了通往包厢的走廊。

总统的保镖拦下了他。布斯自信地递过一张自己的名片，声称总统想要见他。接着，未等保镖同意便推门而入，随即关上走廊的门，并用乐谱架上的立柱从里面将门抵住。

通过总统身后内门上的窥视孔，他计算了一下距离，然后悄悄地把门打开。他将上了膛的高口径短筒手枪靠近受害人的头部，扣动扳机，然后立刻跳到了下方的舞台上。

林肯的头猛地向前垂下，然后又歪向一边。与此同时他的身体也瘫倒在椅子里。

他没有发出任何声音。

一瞬间，观众以为枪声和重物落在舞台上的声音也是一场表演。没有人——甚至演员——想到总统被暗杀了。

接着，剧院上空划过一声女人的尖叫，所有人的目光都转向挂着旗子的包厢。拉斯伯恩少校的一只手臂上满是鲜血，他大声喊道：“拿下那个男人！拿下那个男人！他杀了总统！”

整个剧院一瞬间安静了下来。一缕青烟从总统包间飘了出来。悬念解开了。观众发狂了。他们从座位上冲了出来，猛砸地板上的椅子，破坏栏杆，试图冲上舞台。他们互相推搡，老弱被踩在脚下，很多人在冲撞中骨折了，女人们尖叫着晕倒了。痛苦的叫声中夹杂着愤怒的狂吼——“绞死他！”“杀了他！”“烧了剧院！”

有人喊着应该把剧院炸掉。惊慌失措的人们心中的愤怒成倍成倍地增长。一连疯狂的士兵快步冲进剧院，拿着步枪和刺刀指着观众，大喊道：“出去！说你呢！出去！”

观众里的医生赶来检查林肯的伤势。医生认为总统生命垂危，经不起回白宫的路上的鹅卵石地面的颠簸，于是四名士兵将林肯抬了起来——两人抬着他的肩膀，两人抬着他的脚——然后将他那松垂的颀长身躯搬出了剧院。士兵们抬着林肯走在街道上，他伤口上滴下的血染红了马路，人们纷纷跪下用手帕擦拭地上的血迹——他们或许会将这块手帕珍藏起来，去世前将它作为传家之宝留给自己的子孙。

配备着闪亮的军刀和矫健马匹的骑兵队在人群中清出了一片空地，几双颤抖的手扶着病危的总统穿过街道来到街对面的一间简陋的公寓。他们将林肯颀长的身躯斜着放在屋内一张中间凹陷的床上。即便如此，这张床对于林肯来说还是太短了。接着他们将床拖到了一盏闪烁着黄光的昏暗的煤气灯旁。

这间屋子的主人是一个裁缝。这间屋子大约只有九乘十七英尺大小，床头挂着罗莎·博纳尔（Rosa Bonheur）的《马展》，是一幅廉价赝品。

林肯被刺杀的消息像龙卷风般席卷了华盛顿。接着又传来了其他的噩耗：在林肯遇袭的同时，国务卿苏华德也在床上被捅了一刀，大概也活不了了。在这些黑暗的事实面前，恐怖的谣言像连环闪电一样袭击着黑夜：副总统约翰逊被杀了，斯坦顿也被暗杀了，格兰特受到了枪击。一时间，谣言四起。

现在人们可以肯定，李的投降是一场阴谋，南方联盟的叛徒们已经潜入了华盛顿，意欲毁掉联邦政府，而南方的军队再次挥刀而来，即将发起比之前更惨烈的战争。

神秘的信使们穿梭在住宅区之间，短击地面两次，再重复三次——这是联邦同盟会的危急信号。听到召唤后，成员们拿起来复枪，疯狂地涌上街道。

整个城市满是高举火把的人，他们群情激奋，咆哮着：“烧了剧院！”“绞死叛徒！”“杀光叛军！”

这是美国历史上前所未有的疯狂之夜。

电报将消息快速地传遍全国，因此，全国人民的情绪都十分激昂。人们将同情南方和支持南方的北方人架在围栏上，在他们身上抹上焦油，再插上羽毛。还有一些人被铺路石活活砸烂了头骨。人们砸了巴尔的摩的照相馆，因为他们相信里面有布斯的照片。马里兰的一位编辑因为公开诽谤林肯遭到了枪杀。

现在，总统性命垂危，副总统约翰逊趴在床上不省人事，国务卿苏华德遇刺后也挣扎在死亡边缘，于是权力便牢牢地掌握在了粗暴、古怪又易怒的战争部长爱德华·斯坦顿手中。

斯坦顿认为，现在政府的顶级官员都被钉上了死亡的标签，于是他雷厉风行地下达了一道又一道命令。他坐在濒死的领袖床前，将这些命令写在了自己的丝帽上。他命令士兵包围布斯和他同事的住所。他查抄福特剧院，逮捕了所有涉嫌人员。他宣布华盛顿进入戒严状态。他调动了所有可以调动的力量：哥伦比亚区所有的兵力和警力，周边所有营地和防御工事的兵力，美国特工处以及军事司法局下属的间谍。他在全市范围内实行五十英尺一哨岗的封锁政策。他派人盯紧每一个码头，并命令拖船、蒸汽船和炮艇沿着波多马克河巡逻。

斯坦顿给纽约警察总长发电报，要求他即刻派出手下最优秀的侦探。他以电报的形式命令手下密切注意加拿大边境的情况。他命令巴尔的摩和俄亥俄铁路公司的主席乘坐辅助机车赶上格兰特的火车，在费城拦住格兰特并立即将他带回华盛顿。

他派出一个旅的步兵进入马里兰腹地，又派了一千骑兵追捕杀害总统的凶手。他一遍又一遍地说：“他肯定会往南方跑，从城里开始一直到波多马克河，全给我守住了！”

布斯射出的那枚子弹从林肯的左耳下方进入，斜穿过大脑，最后嵌在右眼旁半寸的地方。若是生命力不顽强的人，一定会当场死亡，但是林肯却坚持了九个小时。他就这样躺在床上，不断痛苦地呻吟着。

林肯夫人被安置在旁边的房间里，但每隔一个小时她就坚持要去林肯床边，一边哭一边尖声喊叫着：“上帝啊，是不是我害死了我的丈夫？”

有一次，当她一边将满是泪水的脸颊枕在林肯胸口，一边爱抚林肯脸庞的时候，林肯突然呻吟起来，大口大口地喘息。发狂的林肯夫人尖叫着跳到一旁，跌倒在地上，然后晕了过去。

听到动静的斯坦顿冲进了房间。他愤怒地吼道：“把这个女人拉走，不许她再进来！”

七点钟过后，呻吟声停止了，林肯的呼吸声也趋于平静。“他那疲惫的脸上露出了一种无法言说的平静。”林肯的秘书这样写道。

有的时候，人在弥留之际，神秘的意识海中会有记忆的碎片。

在那最后的平静时刻，也许那藏在心灵深处的破碎的幸福记忆会浮现在他的脑海中——那是很久以前早已消失的画面：印第安纳鹿角谷里的敞篷木屋前，温暖的柴火正在熊熊燃烧；咆哮的桑加蒙河从新塞勒姆村的水闸上奔腾而过；安·拉特利奇在纺车旁唱着歌曲；“老公鹿”嘶鸣着想要再多吃点玉米；奥兰多·凯洛格正在讲着那个口吃法官的故事；还有春田市那个墙上满是墨水印、书架顶端长着野草的法律事务所的办公室……

在林肯与死亡斗争的几个小时内，利尔军医一直握着总统的手，坐在他的身旁。七点二十二分，利尔医生将林肯那没有脉搏的手臂叠放在他的胸前，然后将两枚五角硬币放在他眼睑上，再用一块手帕绑住他的下巴。牧师做了祷告。冷雨吧嗒吧嗒地拍打着屋顶。巴恩斯将军扯过一块床单，盖在已逝的总统脸上。斯坦顿一边哭着一边拉下百叶窗，不让晨光照进屋里。接着他说出了那晚唯一一句值得纪念的话：“现在，他属于千秋万代。”

第二天，小泰德问一位白宫访客，父亲是否去了天堂。

“这是毫无疑问的。”对方这样回答道。

“那样的话，我很开心他去了，”泰德说，“自从来到这里，他一点儿也不快乐。这里对他来说不是一个好地方。”