- By Sarah Solomon

April 14, 1865

The sun was a dull yellow against the tops of the buildings across the street, sifting into the hotel room on the sixth floor of the National Hotel. John Wilkes Booth snapped his eyes open and adjusted them against the morning blur as the image of Lucy Lambert Hale arranged itself in front of the half-illuminated window. She stood to the left of the window, slightly behind the plush red armchair which was subtly covered in cigarette burns and tears, and lightly brushing the white curtain in such a way that it swayed every few seconds at her touch. John instinctively ran his fingers through his mustache and let his feet hit the floor.

"You're up I see," said Lucy, as John approached the glass and peered outside.

"Up and ready. What a beautiful day," said John. He took a step closer, took one glance at her back and put his hands on her waist. "Beautiful day."

"I thought we'd go get some tea at the Whitefield's down the street. Then I've got to get going… father said he wanted me home by two o'clock, and I've still got to buy a train ticket down at the station. But we have time for some breakfast."

"Tell Mr. Hale you're stuck in Washington D.C. doing business. What did you tell him you were doing again?"

"Picking up paper work. The other senator from New Hampshire is giving him some trouble."

"I would be too if my partner was preaching abolition left and right, like it had any worth or actual merit."

"Choose your words wisely, John. One day the whole world will turn its back and set on a completely new path, and you and your morals will be left behind, with no one watching but yourself, stranded in flames."

"No need to be so histrionic, darling."

"Speak for yourself."

The sun had fully risen by the time they found themselves on the northeast corner of Sixth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. Whitefield's was down the street, located directly center in the sun's glare, as if it had been transformed into a stricken target of light. To its left was Booker and Stewart's barbershop, and to its right an empty store front window, with dust gathering in the corners and a stray black cat scratching its back against the door.

They sat down for tea. Lucy dangled her tea bag in and out of her mug, mindlessly watching the ripples expand and break at the gray ceramic. Her train was due in twenty-five minutes. They sat in the silent hum of the café, one or two men setting tables for the hopeful day's work.

John said, "Michael O'Laughlen is in town."

Lucy dipped her tea bag back into the murky depths. "He said he might stop by."  She took it out again, a soggy bag dripping steadily onto her saucer.

"Well I said he could. He's going to be at the National Hotel in a couple hours. I wanted to get my hair cut before then so I'd better get a move on."

"I'll walk myself to the train station."

"Are you sure? I've got a couple minutes."

"Yeah I'm fine. I have quite a headache anyhow."

They said their goodbyes outside the café, not knowing they would be the last, and Lucy hurried off downtown. John felt movement at his feet, and looked down. The black cat was weaving its way around his legs, staring up at him with huge neon eyes. He peeled his eyes away from the creature and headed toward Booker and Stewart's.

"Until today nothing was ever thought of sacrificing to our country's wrongs. For six months we had worked to capture, but our cause being almost lost, something decisive and great must be done"

***

After a brief cup of coffee, Michael O'Laughlen left John's hotel room just as the maid walked in, wearing a crisp white apron that looked like it would crunch if folded.

John took a good look in the mirror; his eyes rolled over his black shirt, how the unfastened top button glimmered in the glare from the morning sun. He hastily flattened his mustache. He reached over to the mahogany closet and took out his tall black silk hat he had bought up in New Hampshire the last time he had visited Lucy. He carefully balanced it on his head, artfully flattening down a cluster of dark curls onto his forehead.

As he headed for the door, he slipped on his beige gloves, and snuck one more glance in the mirror.

John Wilkes Booth: the illustrious American actor.

He walked the few blocks down to Ford's Theater, a mysterious new spring in his step, as if something wonderful and unforeseen awaited him just around the next corner. In the shadows. Hiding. He walked through the back door of the theater and headed toward the mail room. He placed his bony hand on the iron cast doorknob just as someone opened the door from within. It was Henry Clay Ford.

"Hello Mr. Booth. Good morning?"

"Yes, thank you Henry."

Ford seemed to balancing on tiptoe, rocking back in forth in what was obviously a weak attempt at concealed excitement.

"Are you alright, Henry?"

"Oh yes, yes. Yes, definitely." His cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink. "We've got quite some company tonight! Yes. Quite some company!"

John had a sneaking feeling. It has finally happened...

"Anyone I would know, Henry?"

"Yes, yes, quite! Now I know he's not a favorite of yours, Mr. Booth, and for god's sake don't try any funny business! But it's Mr. Lincoln, you see, Mr. And Mrs. Lincoln!"

John felt like his stomach had unleashed writhing snakes into his body, filling him with an excitement too deep to measure, a delusional feeling, now so infused in his blood, too hard to pinpoint.

"Ah, the Lincolns."

John Wilkes Booth: the imminent future of America.

He said a hasty goodbye to Henry Ford, and waited in a dark corner until he was sure of Ford's departure. He then made his way into the theater.

The crimson curtains hung down ominously, spanning the entire back wall of the theater. The seats were sorted into balconies, staggered slightly so that everyone would have an appropriate view of the stage. To the right of the stage was the President's box, draped with white linen, trimmed with regal gold stitching.

So it's "Our American Cousin" tonight. So the best time to get him would be when Harry Hawk is alone on stage, receiving all the laughter. That will be at approximately 10:15 tonight...

He scanned the room again. The stage, the President's box, the exit. The stage, the President's box, the exit. The stage, the President's box, the exit.

With a swish of his coat he walked back up the aisle to the doors, which he clicked shut with a bang.

"Though I am abandoned, with the curse of Cain upon me, when, if the world knew my heart, that one blow would have made me great, though I did desire no greatness. Tonight I try to escape these bloodhounds once more."

***

The plan had already started to form in his head. In fact, it seemed as if it had been growing like mold in the depths of his skull even before that morning. Yes, he had planned to kidnap the president. But this, this was so much more. So much better than ever before.

He headed for the stable on C Street.

He ran his fingers through his mustache.

James Pumphrey welcomed him at the door with his stoical expression and glacial stare. The tone of his words made up for none of this iciness:

"What can I do for you."

This was not a question, but rather a necessary hassle, as if each word was simply a strain that was absolutely called for before any business deal was made.

"I'd like to reserve a horse. For, say, around 4:00 this afternoon," said John.

"I've got a mare."

"A mare? Yes. That would be fine."

"You want it?"

"Yes. I'll pick it up at 4:00."

"Make sure of that."

By this time, the day burst with the smell of fresh flowers and the sound of birds, finally returning from their winter vacation down south. John, in his completely black assortment of clothing, stood out like a dead sunflower in a valley of daisies as he left Pumphrey and started sauntering toward the Herndon House, where he had a friend who was sure would assist him in his plans for glory.

John Wilkes Booth: The great conspirator.

He ran his hands through his mustache.

In order to get to the Herndon House, one must walk down a narrow alleyway, and then turn left into an ominous looking courtyard, blocked by a huge gate. The gate entering the Herndon House was of a rusted iron. The intertwining veins of green intricately covered the metal bars, which were themselves braided into an elegant pattern, straddling two thick pillars on either side of the entrance. John creaked the gate inward and proceeded to the cracking front steps.

He lifted the heavy brass knocker and dropped it, letting it crash into the door with a muffled bang. Within a few minutes, a young man of twenty opened the door slightly, so that an inch of light crept through the doorway, leaving the man's face in shadows.

"It's John, Lewis."

Lewis Paine opened the door fully and let John step inside. Lewis had a strange look about him; his face almost looked as if it was twisted, but it was impossible to pinpoint the exactly feature that threw off the typicality. His voice was smooth, yet his speech was jagged and disjointed.

"Is um… is anyone else…"

"No, we're all set," said John. "No one else needs to come. You are who I want to speak with right now."

"Are the plans all set?"

"Yes. Well, the idea at least. I just have to inform the rest of them. Well, first you. Then Atzerodt and Herold. Then some minor details."

"What do I do?"

"If you deal with William Seward at 10:15 tonight, it will perfectly coincide with my plans for Lincoln."

Lewis smirked, distorting his face to an even greater degree. He then said:

"So you know how to..."

"Yes, Lewis. I have it all figured out."

John leaned toward Lewis, so that the maid in the kitchen could not hear, and whispered inaudible instructions in Lewis's ear. As his hand was reaching for the doorknob, John turned around with a final request.

"Oh yes, and Lewis? It is time to check out of the Herndon House."

And with that, he tipped his hat and exited the room.

"Who, who can read his fate? God's will be done. I have too great a soul to die like a criminal. Oh, may He, may He spare me that, and let me die bravely."

***

John headed over to Atzerodt at the Kirkwood House, but he was not in. He checked his watch. It was almost 4 o'clock… he had to pick up his mare from Pumphrey.

As he retraced his steps back to the stable and picked up the reluctant horse, his thoughts slowly started to deteriorate from comprehensible contemplation to a fragmented melange of images and words. He was John Wilkes Booth, the illustrious American Actor. John Wilkes Booth, the imminent future of America. John Wilkes Booth, the great conspirator. And he was about to fulfill his lifelong desire to create the perfect America. One free of nonsensical rights and undeserved freedoms. The images and words spun around his head. Lincoln, gun, Ford's Theater, Lincoln, dead, run. The sound of a car horn jolted him back on the sidewalk. Lincoln, shot, dead, escape. His feet led him where they pleased. He found himself twitching, sweating. He wiped his forehead. It's just the heat, he said to himself, the heat. He looked up. There was a sign that indicated that he had reached Grover's Theater.

He walked upstairs to Deery's Tavern and bought a drink. A whiskey. He sat by himself near a window and looked at the patterns of dust on the glass. As the whiskey started to affect him he felt the vibrations of the tavern's motions at his feet, and leaned forward on his elbows. Lincoln, dead. He was ready. He had never been surer of something in his life. But his fingers trembled as he reached for his mug. Lincoln, dead. He ran his fingers through his mustache. The world spun and he stood up and walked downstairs.

He found himself at a desk, a piece of blank paper in hand.

And the world spun.

He addressed the letter to the editor of the newspaper The National Intelligencer, and started writing. He could not tell his fingers what to write; however they flew across the paper of their own accord.

Now the world would know what he had done.

He returned outside to his horse, and delivered his letter to actor John Matthews, who would be playing the part of Richard Coyle in that night's performance of Our American Cousin, and told him to deliver the letter to the newspaper the next day.

After he said a hasty goodbye to Matthews, John unexpectedly ran into George Atzerodt on the street, outside of an old, worn-down building which John had never taken a second-glance at during all his time in Washington.

"Aha! George! Just the man I wanted to see!"

"Henrietta said you stopped by?" George said, with not an attempt at a hello.

"I did."

"Don't tell me you've got another hopped up scheme. Just when y-"

John cut him off with an agitated rebuttal.

"I do have a plan. Lincoln's at the theater tonight." George's face slackened as he listened on. John continued. "And I need you to-"

This time it was George who interrupted. "And what do you expect me to do? No. Not this time."

"You need to take care of Andrew Johnson at 10:15 tonight."

"You want me to deal with the vice-president? Not everyone's as crazy as you, John."

"Not everyone's as clever as me, either."

John left a reluctant George Atzerodt in the shadows of a side alley, hopelessly staring up at the sky.

***

John Wilkes Booth stood outside the door to the President's Box at Ford's Theater. He stood erect and motionless, gimlet in hand.

He brought the gimlet to eye-level, and then to the thick oak panels.

He began to drill.

Look through the hole. Open the door. Shoot. Jump over the balcony. Pick up the mare. Escape.

He planned it all in his head, and imagined himself carrying out his great deed.

Escape. Ride to the Navy Yard Bridge. Maryland. Lloyd's Tavern.

He was actually going to do it.

Open door. Shoot. Escape.

The wooden shavings that he had scraped away from the door lay on the carpeted floor, overlapping and laying on top of one another in a golden heap. Sawdust floated above it like a shimmering cloud, wafting upward, dissipating into nothing but the slightest scent of wood. John sneezed, took a glance through his peephole, and left the theater.

"I bless the entire world. Have never hated or wronged anyone. This last was not a wrong, unless God deems it so, and it's with Him to damn or bless me."

***

Back at the hotel he enjoyed a large dinner and had a long rest in the red armchair by the window. By this time the sun had started to set, and a faint rose glow had painted itself over the tops of the buildings to the west. He leaned over and untied his shoes. One by one he pulled them off, and laid them off to the side. He got up and went over to his closet, which was overflowing with various black garments.

He redressed himself in clean black clothes. His shirt was stiff from being cleaned by Lucy early that morning; he could hear it rustling as he buttoned it up to the neck. He could just remember Lucy telling him: "Button it up all the way, John. It looks fine and proper that way. And don't forget to neatly fold the collar. Father needs a good reason to find you slightly tolerable…"

He reached into the back of his closet and pulled out his calf-length boots and attached to the heels shiny new spurs. He pulled out his black jacket and slipped it on over his neatly folded collar. As he reached for his diary, he spotted his compass on his dresser, the chain sprawled over his bowie knife. He picked up both and slipped them into his left pocket.

John hesitated before he unzipped his suitcase. He stared at the undecipherable label on the front flap, the artful stitching along the sides. He clutched the cold metal zipper in his hand, and slowly dragged it along the suitcase's circumference.

Inside, tucked carefully into the corner, was his derringer. He picked it up. It was extremely light, only eight ounces, and fit perfectly in his grip. On the side were intricately designed mountings, made of German silver, engraved with Henry Derringer of Philadelphia near the trigger. The handle was short and blunt, with a small compartment for extra percussion caps. He loaded the gun with .44 caliber bullets, imagined their journey down the barrel, the puff of smoke, the explosion, the screams.

He had to leave; he had plans for a final meeting with his fellow conspirators at eight o'clock. The six-inch derringer fit into his pocket with ease. He walked past the mirror, picked up his hat, and left his room at the National Hotel for the last time.

"I do not wish to shed a drop of blood, but 'I must fight the course.' 'Tis all that's left to me.'"

***

John left the pub where he had his meeting, and let himself back out into the evening with a stark touch of wicked fate etched across his harsh jaw. The hair on his arms stood on end as a brisk wind caught up with him on his way to the Ford's Theater. He took his familiar route through the back gate, and checked to make sure his mare was still in place. She was tethered to a white picket fence, if you could call it white, what with half of the paint chipped off, revealing the bare wood underneath. He leaned against the fence, and watched Ned Spangler, one of Ford's employees, amble over to the lamppost that John was stationed under.

"Hey, John!" Ned hollered from the theater's entrance. "Ready for your performance tonight?"

"As always, Ned, as always," John said, his typical streak of confidence piercing through his eyes.

"Well yes, of course-- " Ned started to mumble.

"Ned. Thought you might be a bit of help to me. See this horse?" John pointed over his shoulder to Pumphrey's mare. "I need you to watch her for me, just for a couple hours. Until the play's over."

The corners of Ned's mouth dropped as confusion set in.

"Why do you need a horse after the play? Aren't you going out with everyone aft--"

"I'm afraid I can't tonight. Simple, really. I just need the horse. Can you watch her?"

"Well I guess--"

"Good. That's settled then."

John walked back around the theater, and entered the neighboring tavern for a bottle of whiskey and water to take with him on his anticipated journey. He walked in with a swagger, tipping his hat to patrons of the theater attending that night's showing of Our American Cousin. As he was leaving the counter, one disgruntled woman two tables over said: "You'll never be the actor your father was!"

John Wilkes Booth, flaming and red in the face, whipped around. "When I leave the stage, I will be the most famous man in America."

**

The minutes passed like water through a sieve. Every second was another tick of the clock, every clock was a reminder of how much time there was left. Time to live, for others to live, to die, to fight. The play started with tumultuous applause, but after an hour into the play the clapping still rang in John's head. He saw the faces, the laughter, the cheers. One day that will all be for me. He clenched his fists. One day everyone will be cheering for me. He straightened his mustache. For me.

It was time. Ten o'clock. He left backstage and walked up the marble steps to the lobby. To his left was the staircase leading up to the dress circle, where the Lincoln's footman, Charles Forbes, was seated. He cleared his throat and approached Forbes, handing him a card displaying his rights as a Ford's Theater actor to enter all areas as desired. He opened up the door to the back of the box. Ahead of him was the oak door that he had previously punctured with his gimlet. He gently closed the door shut and approached the peephole.

There he is. He felt the derringer through his pocket. He waited for the laughter that he knew would come. Harry Hawk is alone on stage, it should come any second now. He saw Lincoln's head turn to say something to the person on his right. He took out his derringer, caressed it between his fingers. Any second now...

And there it was. The roaring laughter, echoing around the theater with the force of a thousand cannons. He swung open the oak door, took three steps toward Lincoln, aimed the gun above his left ear, and shot.

A bang. A scream. A piercing cry. Still the laughter echoed. He leaped off the balcony, adrenaline flooding every vein. One of his spurs got caught in a decorative flag as he dropped the eleven feet to the stage. He crashed onto his left leg, snapping a bone above his ankle. An excruciating stab of pain shot up and down his calf. He staggered up and hobbled behind the red velvet curtains. He roared to the stunned audience, some still laughing at Harry Hawk's joke, some aware of the horrendous event that had just taken place: "Sic Temper Tyrannus! The South is avenged!"

Sic Temper Tyrannus. Thus always to tyrants. The South is finally avenged.

And with that, John Wilkes Booth leapt up onto his mare, and made his escape.

***

April 26, 1865

He was surrounded by flames, red, orange, and yellow, soaring above him in layers of light. He had been on the run for days, for weeks, he had lost track. Now they had caught him. The heat licked his face in waves of triumph, sweat beaded on his forehead. One by one, beams holding up the barn's roof toppled down into ash. He wouldn't survive much longer. The white-hot pain in his left leg throbbed uncomfortably every few seconds; a fresh bullet-wound in his neck oozed blood. His memory seemed broken, like a ruined movie reel, playing over images and sounds in his mind sporadically in an unlinked chain. He remembered the black cat. He remembered the gates. He remembered the gimlet. He remembered Lucy's words: One day the whole world will turn its back and set on a completely new path, and you and your morals will be left behind, with no one watching but yourself, stranded in flames.

And there he was, only him and the scorching fire, slowly inching itself toward him, enveloping him in encroaching death.

He held up his hands, shielding himself from the soldiers approaching him. He uttered his last words.

"Tell them it was for my mother... my mother..."

His neck burned, his eyes flashed, and then slowly fluttered shut. John Wilkes Booth was shuddering to an end, and all went black.

"Useless... useless..."