The Life, Crime, and Capture of John Wilkes Booth | Page 3

chairs similarly covered, and
six cane-bottomed chairs. Festoons of flags hung before the front of the
box against a background of lace.
President Lincoln took one of the arm-chairs and seated himself in the
front of the box, in the angle nearest the audience, where, partially
screened from observation, he had the best view of what was
transpiring on the stage. Mrs. Lincoln sat next to him, and Miss Harris
in the opposite angle nearest the stage. Major Rathbone sat just behind
Mrs. Lincoln and Miss Harris. These four were the only persons in the
box.
The play proceeded, although "Our American Cousin," without Mr.
Sothern, has, since that gentleman's departure from this country, been
justly esteemed a very dull affair. The audience at Ford's, including
Mrs. Lincoln, seemed to enjoy it very much. The worthy wife of the
President leaned forward, her hand upon her husband's knee, watching
every scene in the drama with amused attention. Even across the
President's face at intervals swept a smile, robbing it of its habitual
sadness.

About the beginning of the second act, the mare, standing in the stable
in the rear of the theater, was disturbed in the midst of her meal by the
entrance of the young man who had quitted her in the afternoon. It is
presumed that she was saddled and bridled with exquisite care.
Having completed these preparations, Mr. Booth entered the theater by
the stage door; summoned one of the scene shifters, Mr. John Spangler,
emerged through the same door with that individual, leaving the door
open, and left the mare in his hands to be held until he (Booth) should
return. Booth who was even more fashionably and richly dressed than
usual, walked thence around to the front of the theater, and went in.
Ascending to the dress circle, he stood for a little time gazing around
upon the audience and occasionally upon the stage in his usual graceful
manner. He was subsequently observed by Mr. Ford, the proprietor of
the theater, to be slowly elbowing his way through the crowd that
packed the rear of the dress circle toward the right side, at the extremity
of which was the box where Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln and their
companions were seated. Mr. Ford casually noticed this as a slightly
extraordinary symptom of interest on the part of an actor so familiar
with the routine of the theater and the play.
The curtain had arisen on the third act, Mrs. Mountchessington and Asa
Trenchard were exchanging vivacious stupidities, when a young man,
so precisely resembling the one described as J. Wilkes Booth that be is
asserted to be the same, appeared before the open door of the
President's box, and prepared to enter.
The servant who attended Mr. Lincoln said politely, "this is the
President's box, sir, no one is permitted to enter." "I am a senator,"
responded the person, "Mr. Lincoln has sent for me." The attendant
gave way, and the young man passed into the box.
As he appeared at the door, taking a quick, comprehensive glance at the
interior, Major Rathbone arose. "Are you aware, sir," he said,
courteously, "upon whom you are intruding? This is the President's box,
and no one is admitted." The intruder answered not a word. Fastening
his eyes upon Mr. Lincoln, who had half turned his head to ascertain
what caused the disturbance, he stepped quickly back without the door.

Without this door there was an eyehole, bored it is presumed on the
afternoon of the crime, while the theater was deserted by all save a few
mechanics. Glancing through this orifice, John Wilkes Booth espied in
a moment the precise position of the President; he wore upon his
wrinkling face the pleasant embryo of an honest smile, forgetting in the
mimic scene the splendid successes of our arms for which he was
responsible, and the history he had filled so well.
The cheerful interior was lost to J. Wilkes Booth. He did not catch the
spirit of the delighted audience, of the flaming lamps flinging
illumination upon the domestic foreground and the gaily set stage. He
only cast one furtive glance upon the man he was to slay, and thrusting
one hand in his bosom, another in his skirt pocket, drew forth
simultaneously his deadly weapons. His right palm grasped a Derringer
pistol, his left a dirk.
Then, at a stride, he passed the threshold again, levelled his arm at the
President and bent the trigger.
A keen quick report and a puff of white smoke,--a close smell of
powder and the rush of a dark, imperfectly outlined figure,--and the
President's head dropped upon his shoulders: the ball was in his brain.
[Illustration: Map. The Theatre and its Surroundings.
A Public School. B Herndon House. C Only vacant lot communicating