Night of the Murderous Actor
EJ McFall
April 14, 1865
Washington, D.C.
Artemus Gordon relished the feel of the luxurious theatre chairs. After spending the last four years as a counterintelligence agent for the Federal Army, he was more than ready to return to the life of a pampered actor. He longed to tread the boards as Hamlet or Macbeth. Or perhaps he'd forestall the dark plays for a time in favor of some of the more light-hearted fare that was becoming all the vogue in London. This evening's offering – Our American Cousin – was a mere trifle compared to the dramatic classics that he was accustomed to performing, but after years of bloodshed he was more than ready for a night of frivolity. The whole country was.
"It's simply stunning, isn't it?" Sylvia Draper, his charming companion, was suitably impressed by the special attention the Ford Theatre had taken to honor the night's anticipated guest. Red, white and blue bunting decorated the president's private box and adorned the stage and the aisles. It was a bit over-the-top for Artie's taste, but he couldn't really complain. The war was in its last days and Washington society ached to abandon its austere lifestyle and return to more elegant times.
"Not half as stunning as you are, my dear." Artie whispered into Sylvia's ear, catching the scent of the lilac she wore in her hair. It had been so long since he'd smelled anything quite so pleasant.
"You are a tease." Sylvia admonished him lightly, though her eyes belied her words. "Do you really think the president will be here tonight?"
"The theatre staff seems to think so." Artie indicated the lavish decorations. "I imagine he needs an evening of entertainment as much as any of us do. Perhaps more so, after all he's done the last few years."
"Oh, dear." Sylvia gestured towards the stage. "The curtain's coming up and he's not here yet."
"Never fear, sweetheart. Politicians and doctors are always fashionably late." Artie leaned back in his chair and gently slid his arm around Sylvia. She sent him a disapproving glance right before she relaxed against him. He was just settling in for the evening when the play abruptly paused and the orchestra played "Hail to the Chief." Artie stood with the rest of the audience to see the President and Mrs. Lincoln make their way to the Presidential box. "Strange."
"What is it?"
"Oh, nothing, I guess." Artie scrutinized the small procession as it made its way through the back of the theatre. "I just don't see many guards. And no one from his cabinet seems to be in attendance. Just a young major and his companion."
Sylvia shrugged, her attention on Mrs. Lincoln's elaborate dress. "You worry too much, Artemus. The war is over. It's time to enjoy life again."
"Yes, but the war isn't entirely over. There are still marauding guerrillas out there. Some of them might still pose a risk…"
"Artemus." Sylvia reclaimed her seat as soon as the Lincolns were sequestered in their box. "Stop being a soldier and start being my attentive escort."
"Your wish is my command, lovely lady." Artemus gave the woman's hand a gentlemanly kiss. "I am your most humble servant."
Sylvia bestowed a look of great promise on Artie, then quickly abandoned him as the play resumed. Artie sighed and forced his attention back to the stage. The tale was a well-worn one, centering around the sudden inheritance of a grand English estate by a long-lost bumpkin of an American cousin. The jokes were predictable, growing out of the contrast between English manners and American common sense. Still, as he drew closer to the lovely –and apparently willing—Sylvia, Artie decided there were definitely worse ways to spend an evening.
Still, he couldn't help the occasional upwards glance at the balcony box that housed the president and his party. Certainly the country's leader would be well-guarded, certainly his staff would be aware of the danger inherent in such an open forum. The theatre held nearly a thousand spectators, not to mention the dozens of actors and stagehands that would be milling about backstage. Any of them could…
"Artemus." Sylvia demanded his attention. "You're missing the best part."
"My apologies." Artie whispered. "I shall reform my ways at once."
Artie ordered himself to concentrate on the third act of the play. Asa Trenchard, the rough but honest American, was confronting an English social-climber who was seeking a rich husband for her daughter. "Don't know the manners of good society, eh?" The actor bellowed. "Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal –you sockdologizing old man-trap."
The audience burst into uproarious laughter, but Artie thought he heard something else –a shot, perhaps - over the noise of the crowd. He was about to excuse himself to investigate, when a figure leapt from the president's box and landed on the stage. "Sic semper tyrannis!" the man shouted while waving a bloody knife. From the balcony, a woman could be heard shrieking while a man begged for a doctor.
"Booth." Artie was on his feet. "That was John Wilkes Booth."
"What's going on?" Sylvia's shout blended in with the frightened cries of the rest of the audience. "Has something happened to Mr. Lincoln?"
"I've got to go." Artie ignored Sylvia's pleas as he joined the mob of soldiers who left their wives and girlfriends and bolted for the president's box. By the time Artie was able to push his way through the crowd, a half-dozen Union men were carrying the president from the theatre and into a private home across the street. He did his best to clear a path for the doctor who was struggling to follow his patient, then stood back as it became clear that there were more than enough people on hand to assist their injured leader.
Artie slowly made his way back to Sylvia, though he dreaded sharing his observations with her. It didn't take a doctor to realize that the assassin's bullet had found its target. Any veteran of the recent war knew a fatal head injury when he saw it. The last four years had made them all experts on death.
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