The Assassination of Abraham Lincoln by the Thespian John Wilkes Booth

The man sat in the back of the trolley with a look of most ill contempt about him. He stared out the window as if each passing visage was a brutal enemy of his. He twisted his moustache in a way that classic villains would when coming up with a murderous plot. His hair was black, blacker than the night that the train was cutting through. It was around two in the morning and the train had been going for about 6 hours now, but the man had never moved from his spot. The women pushing the carts were afraid to approach him and ask if he would like any tea. He didn't look like a tea man anyway. He looked like a man who liked coffee black, black as the hair that sat upon his head and twice as dark as the night the train he was riding was cutting through. It was dark alright.

The man was John Wilkes Booth, famed thespian of his day and proud Confederate sympathizer. He took the end of his moustache and twirled away at it with his thumb and forefinger, risking to pull it out by the roots. He was maddened with deep thoughts the last few hours, hardly blinking and constantly going over in his mind the same events. He couldn't stop thinking about it, he just twirled and twisted away. The same thing had been on his mind the whole train trip up to that point.

"Where did I leave my keys?"

Booth was remarkably forgetful and quite short-sighted when it came to doing things. He had placed his keys inside his locked briefcase for "safe keeping." Now remembering this, he slapped his forehead with fury and cursed himself for his lapse in judgment. For this error, he would be left with the clothes on his back for at least another day. In the process of cursing his name, the cart pushing lady passing by took notice and became entranced at who she had been afraid of this whole time.

"Wilkes Booth?" John Wilkes Booth the actor?"

"Thespian."

"Golly, if my eyes don't tell lies, you are Booth." The woman put her hand to her chest in awe. "I loved you in that play."

Booth waited a moment for her to explain which play, but when he realized she wasn't and was just going to gawk at him, he relented.

"Thank you," he said through a false smile.

"Would you do me the honor of letting me get you something?"

Booth's voice became absolutely menacing, "Coffee. Black as the night of which this train cuts through. With sugar."

The woman nodded, still in disbelief over meeting a celebrity. She grabbed her cart and began to trot away. As she did, the other door that led into Booth's trolley opened and a kindly old man shuffled in with a newspaper. Booth watched his movements with dread, for he knew what was coming. The trolley was empty, as most midnight trains were, but this lonely old man was going to take the liberty of sitting next to him. Booth's anger grew exponentially. First the key, now this. He hated conversing with strangers, especially when he had serious thinking to do. Plans were to be laid out in his mind, and how could they unfurl when Father Time is next to you talking about why he can't stand up too long these days.

The Old Man asked quietly, "May I sit next to you, young man?"

"Burn in Hell."

The Old Man took his seat next to Booth and smiled. Old men who were hard of hearing were the bottom rung of society, according to Booth. Below even the homeless and the Negros lay the deaf old men, who put forth nothing toward society but stories that go nowhere. As The Old Man reclined back in his seat, Booth cursed himself again for forgetting his Bowie knife in his briefcase, as he could really use it to his advantage at the moment.

A moment of brilliance came over Booth. He tended to think best when speaking his plans out loud and quite nefariously. What better time than to spill his secrets to The Old Man as he sat reading the newspaper? No. It wasn't worth it. The plans that existed in his head sounded pretty good. Shoot. Jump. Escape. A three step plan toward success he ever heard of it. But he needed to fill the gaps. What to say after the shooting? It had to be grand, something memorable, and downright chilling.

"The man has been shot!"

Brilliant. Shoot. "The man has been shot!" Jump. Escape. And after the jumping he would need to do something just as good, so the audience would never forget it.

"I'll wag my finger," Booth thought, "And say, 'Nay to those who agree with the man I just shot.' Lord, it'll be a show!"

Booth was enamored with his scheme when the woman came back silently with a cup of coffee. She had a wavering smile and she seemed to be near tears, as if on the edge of hysterics. Booth took the cup and looked at her curiously.

"Goodness, woman, what is it? Did you expel saliva into my beverage?"

"N-N-No, Mr. John Wilkes Booth. I'm just so guffawed. Excuse my expression, but may I have an autograph?"

"Listen carefully, I'm on a very important...acting venture. If you are to do me a favor, I will give you an autograph, and a lock of my hair. Now, don't come back here until the train reaches Washington. Do you understand?"

The woman couldn't speak. She simply nodded violently and left the room. Having forgotten her cart, she came back in 30 seconds later to retrieve it. The Old Man just kept reading, nothing bothered him, and he bothered no one. Booth liked this man. Perhaps he had been too hasty earlier when he envisioned himself jamming a large blade into the man's neck. Maybe.

They had dozed off together, The Old Man and Booth. When they awoke, they gave each other an odd look and went about their business. Booth gathered his case, and The Old Man left the room and wiped the drool from his face. The train had reached its destination just as the morning broke. Booth looked out the window once more and saw a ray of light flying endlessly though the tree branches in the distance. And a squint of the eyes revealed the historic White House. He smiled, with a mix of amazement and pure evil. Then the train started to move again. Booth gobbled up his belongings in his arms and raced toward the nearest exit, jumping out just before he ran out of platform to land on. There amongst his scattered cases and the curious onlookers, John Wilkes Booth laid on the ground as the happiest man around. He was finally in Washington D.C.

But laying on the ground was for idle dilly dalliers, and John Wilkes Booth had a mission to accomplish. With that, he dusted himself off, gathered his belongings, and gave his moustache one last wicked twist for good luck. He made his way through the early morning crowd and found his way outside the train terminal and onto the busy streets of the downtown district, all bustling with politics and high-class gentlemen. Booth could hear it in the air.

"So I hear beards are really catching on."

"You don't say? Perhaps it's time I began giving my whiskers a break from the old cream and shave."

"Here here!"

It was like sweet music to his ears, this city and its people were just utterly sophisticated. For a moment, he considered walking to his destination, as the morning was brisk and the early spring air was dewy and invigorating. Alas, Booth had to get a move on, so he gave a whistle and a wave and hailed down the nearest horse-drawn carriage. He threw his things into the carriage and stepped in, slamming the door behind him. The driver of the carriage opened the little wooden door that separated the passenger's carriage to the driver's seat outside. The driver was a young man with a gleaming smile and mutton chops that startled Booth upon first glance.

"My Lord. What beastly hair."

The driver ignored him and spoke in a New York accented voice that told Booth two things. One, the driver had shipped on down to Washington in hopes of the rich political clientele bettering his pay and tips. And two, that the driver had been forced to memorize this speech to give to all customers.

"Hey there, sir. Thank you for choosing Right and Proper Carriage Company. I will be your honored chauffeur to wherever you wish to go. To what location may I so happily drive you to today?"

"The theater."

The driver's eyes widened, "My God...you're John Wilkes Booth! Of course, I'll get you to the theater right away, sir. You know, I saw you perform a few years ago in New York. You are remarkable man, anyone ever tell you that?"

"Yes."

"Do they?"

"Yes. Get a move on."

"Do they ever say how absolutely astounding you look."

"Yes. Mostly the women."

"Yeah, I bet. Because you're a beautiful man and I would-"

"This conversation is going down a markedly homosexual path. Perhaps we begin moving."

"Right you are, John Wilkes Booth."

As the driver closed the little door, Booth let out a heavy sigh of relief. Why did all his fans either have to be ugly women or gay carriage drivers? Those two had to have consisted of at least 85% of his fan base, Booth thought.

The ride was uneventful, just the kind of ride Booth was a fan of. The only interesting aspect of the voyage is when Booth saw his brother in a carriage alongside him. Booth took an apple he was saving for later, opened his carriage's door and hurled it at the driver of his brother's carriage, knocking him unconscious. Booth belted out a sinister laugh and shut the door, continuing his uproar all the way to the theater. Not that his brother had done anything to him, this was simply the bastard that John Wilkes Booth was.

Upon arriving at Ford's Theater, Booth took out a pocket full of coins and threw them at his driver, three of them striking his right eye simultaneously.

"Wow, hit in the eye with money by John Wilkes Booth. What an honor!"

Booth threw his bags over his shoulders and proceeded to flip the driver off. He crossed the street and opened the theater's doors with a swift power kick. There to greet him was the theater's owner, John T. Ford. Ford was a man in his forties but with the looks of a teenager. His heart belonged to the stage and his mouth likely came from a filthy sailor. Despite his ribald remarks and tendency to act aggressively toward woman, and occasionally men, he was a proper gentleman and quite the charmer.

"Booth, you slick son of a bitch. Where have you been?"

"Good morning there, John."

"You better come with me, we ain't want them homo carriage drivers swarming after you like last time. Come on, I'll take you to my office."

Booth was led through numerous backstage doors and stairs, all of which he was familiar with, until they reached the small and unorganized office of Ford. They stepped in and proceeded to step over the many papers and liquor bottles that lay strewn about the floor. As Ford closed the door behind them, Booth looked out the window of the office that was meant to look out onto the stage but was becoming more stained with cigar smoke every time Booth visited the place. Just as he turned back to face Ford, he noticed the theater owner moving papers around in a drawer until he pulled out his cigar box. After a subtle offer to Booth and a subsequent wave of the hand in a polite turn down, Ford sat back in his seat and lit up. Booth crossed his legs and ran his hand through his hair. Each man looked at each other, both knowing how the conversation was going to begin, but neither wanting to start it. Finally, Ford gave in.

"The hell are you doing here, Johnny?" Ford asked in a more subdued tone.

"I'm here on official business."

"Let's not beat around the bush, eh? Come on, Johnny, you're talking to your best friend here. What in the name of Christ are you doing here?"

"I plan to make history tonight."

"You know I'm a big fan of vague one-liners, truly, I am," Ford's face began to redden with anger, "But if you don't give me a straight answer, well, I'm gonna start getting hot-tempered. I got the President coming tonight, Johnny. You know that? I can't have Mr. Quit-The-Theater-Business-And-Go-To-Montreal-For-Three-Months running loose in my place tonight."

"I'm here to kill the President, John."

"Holy Mother of shit. Are you a lunatic? He's a goddamn President. The goddamn President! You have got to have some firm plums to come into my office on my birthday and tell me you're about to kill the goddamn President in my establishment. Firm plums, my friend."

"It's not your birthday."

"Hey, good morning, Johnny, on this fine Sunday in April. The day of my birth! Fuck you it's not my birthday! "

"It's Friday the 14th."

Ford leaned on the desk in front of him with both elbows digging into the maple wood. Taking hard, serious puffs, and considering what various curse words he could put into a stunning rebuttal. Without anything to come back at his friend with, and accepting that his birthday was not for another two days, he pointed his cigar straight at Booth.

"Well you better have a damn nice present on Sunday for me."

"I do."

"Okay, good. Now you listen right clear and hear me out because I'm only going to say it once or twice. I'm not big on leaders getting killed, especially in my place of business. But you are a dear friend. And I owe you one for the time with the thing and I'll never forget it."

"The pleasure was mine."

"With that being said. I will let you go about your business on one condition."

"That being?"

"You have to be in the summer production of Hamlet."

"Damn..."

"That's right, you'll be performing alongside your brother again. I've already envisioned you as Horatio and your brother as Hamlet. Have you seen your brother lately?"

Booth pictured the carriage riding through the dirty, Irish part of the city with his brother trembling inside and the driver slumped over in the front, horses walking where they please. He laughed maniacally.

"Those drunken scoundrels will tear him apart!"

Booth calmed down and told Ford he was unaware of where his brother might be and that he hadn't seen him in months. Ford snuffed out his cigar with no mercy and gave out a heavy cough. He then pulled out a massive bottle of 75-proof whiskey and ten shot glasses.

"Well, Johnny, you can scurry about the place until the play tonight. Let me know if you need anything."

"Are you expecting visitors?" Booth asked in regards to the alcohol and glasses.

"No, I simply plan to drunken myself."

With that, Booth took his leave of the office and gazed at the stage from the balcony in the back. The real performance tonight would be found in the luxury booth were the President will be killed, Booth thought. He then realized the connection to where he planned on killing him and his own last name and it proved to be a sense that this was meant to be. He twisted and twirled his midnight black moustache at the brilliance of it all.

Booth spent the day walking and going over his obsessively elaborate plan. The three-step plan was engraved in his mind, along with the phrases he planned to yell between each step. Everything was falling into place, absolutely perfect in every facet of the scheme, nothing had yet gone wrong and nothing seemed to be doomed on the horizon. He thought again that such a situation going so well must mean one of two things. Either this was fate that he was conscious to, something pre-ordained that could not be altered or stopped without serious repercussions. If not that, then something at the last moment would ruin everything, the whole deal falls through, the President survives, the Confederacy dies, and Booth himself would find his new home to be 8 feet by 10 and with a gorgeous view of stone walls on all but one side. There was no gray area to Booth, it was one or the other, and he knew if he dwelt on the other too long that it was bound to come true. So for the day he thought of this, his plan's steps, and if he should partake in some popped corn before the show began.

Time flew and the clock struck nine o'clock in the evening. The President was due to arrive any second. Booth felt in his vest pocket for his weapon and after feeling the reassuring touch of the trigger, he put the plan into action. He fled out of a backdoor exit and into the alley behind the theater, leaving a rock in the door's path so it wouldn't close on him and lock him out. He jogged down the alley until he reached the gas lamp streets of nighttime Washington D.C. His hair blended in perfectly. He waved about at a young man no older that 18 who was galloping about on a horse. The lad slowed to a halt and recognized Booth.

"By golly, Mr. Booth the actor!"

"Thespian. Now, how much for this steed?"

"Shucks, I reckon my Pa paid 10 dollars for it. I'd need at least 15 to give him up."

"Done," Booth shot back as he produced 15 dollars so quickly it looked as if it came out of a skin pocket in his hand.

"Boy, my family sure ain't gon' believe this. Thanks, Mr. Booth!"

"Wait, what's his name?"

"Umm..."

"Well, the beast must be endowed with a title. What is it?"

"John Wilkes Booth."

"You damn scamp!"

Booth reached for the boy's collar, but the young chap was already paces ahead and soon far out of reach. Booth grit his teeth and made a peculiar noise that startled the horse. How dare someone name such a simple creature after a brilliant stage actor, he thought. He pulled hard on the reins and led the horse down the alley, grinding his teeth all the way.

Now with his getaway tied up to a rusty water pipe and swatting its tail at pesky bugs, Booth could move on to the next step. He made his way back to the door and removed the rock, slipping himself in and silently closing it behind him. He found the path that would lead him to the luxury booth and smiled again at the connection. Tip-toe after tip-toe eventually led him to the his endpoint. He read the placard that graced the door of the room, "Presidential Box." They had changed it just for the President's visit tonight. Booth's eye twitched with increasing madness, his hands balled up into cracking fists of rage, and his mouth was making odd movements that seemed to be unconscious it their randomness. He may have even made a high-pitched squeal. All of this because he knew it was an early sign that not all was going to fall into place as he liked it. He managed to compose himself, however, and pulled out the weapon from his vest pocket, a one-shot Derringer pistol. Three deep breaths were followed by a barely audible mutter.

"Let the show begin."

Booth slowly turned the knob of the door and let it open by itself. The tip toeing he had just perfected were put to use once more as he inched himself toward the President's seat which was now within an arm-and-a-half length away from Booth. He cocked the gun back and took aim when he caught sight of another man seated at the far end of the Box speak to his fiancee. It was one, Henry Rathbone, a military man and unfashionable beard enthusiast.

"Excuse my leave Clara, it seems the fish dinner we took to earlier tonight is producing a bit of a rumble in my stomach."

This was Booth's door of opportunity closing. He took aim at the President's head, closed his eyes and without any hesitation, pulled the trigger.

The result from the shot was a chorus of yells from ladies down below in the audience and a shocked Rathbone, who Booth took by surprise with a left hook to the jaw, knocking him out. The President's wife and Rathbone's fiancee stayed in their seats and they watched Booth smile and laugh at his historical accomplishment. He stood up on the ledge of the Presidential Box, one hand on the pistol and the other on a knife he had pulled out of his pocket. He smiled to the audience just as the spotlight shone its light upon his body. All eyes were on him.

"The man has been shot!" He laughed and cackled and roared and then repeated the process.

An older gentleman in the audience stood up and pointed at the madman Booth.

"By Heavens, that's John Wilkes Booth! He's made a surprise appearance after three months leave."

The crowd murmured and whispered amongst themselves until another man stood up.

"And he's pretended to kill the President and knock Mr. Rathbone on his back! I do say, what an entrance!"

The crowd, now believing this all to be an act, began clapping and hollering at the unorthodox return to the stage by the beloved John Wilkes Booth.

A random fellow shouted out sarcastically, "Shoot him again, Mr. Booth!"

The crowd burst out into uproarious applause, uncontained and unstoppable. No security guards were rushing toward Booth as expected, for they were on the ground dying of laughter.

Another man yelled with mock worry, "Hey, Rathbone, how's the view from the ground?"

The chuckles were deafening, and it was then that Booth realized history had set him up to play the fool. The twitch returned, along with the odd movements of the lips. He had to make his escape, the embarrassment of this misconstrued assassination was insufferable. He grabbed hold of his knife and dug it into the flag next to the Presidential Box, he held onto the blade's handle with both hands and slid down, the knife cutting the flag all the way. Unfortunately, sweat that had began emminating from him due to the humiliation of this experience. As a result, his grip slipped and he fell 10 feet to the ground floor face-first.

The crowd at Ford's Theater had never laughed so hard.

Booth picked his disgraced self up and with the determination only he could muster up at the moment, and finished through with his three-step plan.

Through teary eyes and a drooping moustache, he yelled, "Nay to those who agree with the man I just shot!"

He then dropped his head, faced the ground and hobbled away as quickly as possible on a broken ankle through a crowd of cackling men and women. His tears flowed with heat down his face as he kicked open the doors of the theater out onto the street. He would go to the alley, get the horse-version John Wilkes Booth, and ride off.

Meanwhile, the crowd laughed without interruption for 10 minutes with a chanting of "Encore" mixed in near the end. Eventually, though, the laughter came to a chuckle and soon to an end altogether. The crowd, now all suffering from sore throats, looked back up to the Presidential Box and and waited for the President and military man to pop back up. Yet, nothing happened. The two women in the Box merely cried and moaned. After another five minutes, the audience caught on. The first being the older gentleman who first believed the whole assassination to be a joke.

He looked down, thought deeply, then rose his head up when he came to realize the truth.

"Good God."

The rest is history.

_______________________________________________


The following is a podcast that is loosely tied to the story above. It was done as a historical trial of a famed person who never went to trial for reasons such as death or whatnot.

This is John Wilkes Booth's trial, it takes place a few months after his death, and all the characters are voiced by me.

First, click on the icon that says "Posts" and click on "The Prosecution of John Wilkes Booth." Listen to that first before listening to the Defense, which should play right after. Enjoy!


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