These Hallowed Grounds

Abraham Lincoln Is Assassinated

The Assassin Strikes

The man stepped out of the hotel lobby into the pleasant dusk of a Washington spring evening. The humidity, which would become deadly later in the summertime as it always did, was perfect for an evening stroll. He was well dressed, as always, though not extravagantly so, as he sometimes was.

His residence was the National Hotel, on the northeast corner of 6th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, where he occupied room 228. He always stayed at the 5-story National whenever he was in Washington, where he preferred a room on the second floor at the rear, just like the room he occupied now. Before the war the National had been the gathering place for Southern sympathizers, a counterweight to the Northern sympathizers at Willard’s Hotel, eight blocks up Pennsylvania Avenue at 14th Street. Now, at the war’s end, it was dangerous to be an overt Southern sympathizer, for one could be picked up and arrested for any number of "disloyal acts" and held in Federal prison without trial by the feared War Department Secret Service. Once in prison on such a charge, one could expect little sympathy from the organization’s ruthless head, Lafayette C. Baker, or Baker’s boss, the iron-willed Secretary of War, Edwin M. Stanton. The National still attracted clientele because of its gracious charm; any closet "Southrons" there were careful what they did and to whom they spoke.

There was no doubt what this man intended to do. He had committed himself. Just a few hours earlier, he had written a letter to the editor of The National Intelligencer, the newspaper he considered the most sympathetic to his beliefs of the eight newspapers in Washington. In it he predicted exactly what he would do, when he would do it, and explained why he felt impelled to do it. After he finished the letter and sealed it in an envelope, he rented a horse from the livery stable just behind the hotel on C Street, and was on his way to personally deliver the letter to the newspaper when he met a friend, actor John Matthews. The two stopped to chat on Pennsylvania Avenue near its intersection with E Street. It was an appropriate place for actors to chat, for it was just in front of Grover’s National Theatre on the north side of E Street. They talked about the subject that had been on everyone’s lips all week: Lee’s surrender in Virginia, which had taken place the previous Sunday. For all practical purposes the long brutal Civil War was over. Celebrations had been going on in Washington all week; there were even some more scheduled for this night, despite the fact that it was Good Friday. As Southern sympathizers who had been spared the full horrors of the war, they mused about what this outcome would mean for them. On an impulse, or perhaps because he wished to avoid being recognized and fussed over at the newspaper office, the man gave his letter to Matthews and asked him to deliver it the following morning, saying he might be out of town that evening. Matthews agreed, pocketed the letter, and the two men parted.

Entrusting the letter to a friend was a calculated risk on the man’s part. Someone might open it and read it before he carried out his plan, in which case authorities would be waiting for

him at his objective. However, he wanted the letter to be in the newspaper office by tomorrow morning, a Saturday, and he knew he couldn’t possibly deliver it himself then. Matthews could be relied upon for delivery; he wasn’t involved in the plot.

Now the man was about to do what he said he would do in the letter. From the hotel he did not go north on 6th Street the 5 1/2 blocks to Mrs. Surratt’s boardinghouse on H Street, where he had gone often enough in the past to meet with his little band of followers. The time for talk was past. It was now time for action.

The man rode slowly up Pennsylvania Avenue, enjoying this broad boulevard for perhaps the last time. The lamplighters had lit the street gas lamps, giving a dusky glow to the city’s main thoroughfare. There were lots of people about, though not nearly so many as during the day. There were always lots of people on Pennsylvania Avenue, especially on a Friday. Today was Good Friday. If this Christian day of remembrance had measurably reduced the number of people milling about the city, the man didn’t notice it. If anything, it was livelier. This was the first weekend since Lee’s surrender, and people were celebrating the Union victory.

There was the usual crowd and noisy confusion at the Center Market, on the south side of Pennsylvania Avenue at 8th Street. Even after dark, there were still wagons waiting to load and unload, horse-drawn cars, hacks from the nearby hack stand, horses, a few private carriages, buyers, sellers, pedestrians, and loiterers -- not to mention a few thieves -- all competing for space around the city’s biggest market, the clamor of human voices filling the air. It was the most colorful place in town, if a long way from the most elegant.

The man rode past the market and the business district north of it. At 10th Street he turned north and rode two blocks to Ford’s Theatre, between E and F Streets.

The man knew Ford’s Theatre intimately. Not only had he been in it many times, he had played upon its stage less than a month before. Being an actor, he knew the layout of the building behind and underneath the stage, areas the public never saw. He was considered part of the theater family. The management was honored to have him come here. He even picked up his mail here.

It was while picking up his mail at noon this day and chatting casually with Harry Ford, the youngest of the three Ford brothers, that he had learned the astonishing news that President Lincoln and General Ulysses S. Grant, with their wives, were expected to attend this evening’s performance of Our American Cousin, starring the popular actress Laura Keene. The news struck the man like a thunderbolt, though he tried hard not to show it. Lincoln and Grant! The two men most responsible for the defeat of his beloved South! Together! He had spent months trying to come up with a workable plan to get close enough to the president to kidnap him or kill him. His group had even successfully intercepted the president’s carriage in March during one of the president’s frequent trips out to the Soldier’s Home, several miles north of the White House, only to learn that President Lincoln was not on board. Now the president and his top general were both going to be at Ford’s Theatre that evening.