Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [111]
Klayman found himself settling into his seat and enjoying what he was seeing and hearing. Much of what Bancroft was relating was familiar to him from his reading, but even those elements came to life when presented by this tragic-comic actor whose best days were long gone.
“Lincoln loved the theatre, particularly opera, and had seen John Wilkes Booth perform in The Marble Heart. He was also a lover of Shakespeare, Rick, being especially fond of Macbeth. Lincoln was rather like Macbeth, wasn’t he? A tragic figure in his own right.
“The play had started, a dreadfully pedestrian British work, Our American Cousin, starring Laura Keene, America’s so-called leading lady. She was to receive a portion of the proceeds that night, not bad for a mediocre actress. The public’s taste must never be trusted. Are you with me, Rick?”
“Yes, I am,” Klayman responded from where he sat.
“Good.”
Bancroft was becoming increasingly antic on stage, pacing its entirety as he replayed the night of the assassination.
“Booth, clever devil that he was, had no trouble prowling this theatre that day. He was known, and revered by everyone. That afternoon, he’d gone up to the presidential box and, using a penknife, cut a hole into which to wedge something against the outer door behind the presidential box to keep others from interrupting his plan.”
Klayman knew that whenever Lincoln attended performances at Ford’s Theatre, two small upper boxes to the audience’s right were made larger by removing a partition between them. Each box had its own door, both of which opened into a tiny vestibule. Booth’s plan was to gain entry to that vestibule, wedge the door shut, and wait for a particular line in the play that invariably generated loud laughter from the audience. A peephole just above the doorknob afforded him visual confirmation that the president was in his rocking chair, and allowed him to hear the action on the stage in anticipation of the famous line.
“The president and his party were late,” Bancroft continued. “The play had been on for an hour when they arrived. Laura Keene saw the president moving through the Dress Circle up there.” He pointed to the balcony jutting out over the rear of the theatre. “She motions to the orchestra leader—he stops what the orchestra has been doing and they launch into ‘Hail to the Chief’—Lincoln, his wife, and Major Henry Reed Rathbone and his fiancée, Clara Harris, reach the box and take their seats.” Bancroft now crouched onstage. “The time is getting close, Rick. President Lincoln takes his wife’s hand, which she shakes off, concerned that it would be too—too public a display of affection. A hard woman, Mary Lincoln.”
Bancroft was moving about the stage like a man possessed. He went to the door leading to Baptist Alley and opened it.
“Booth is here, Rick, when the play resumes. His steed waits outside to whisk him away. He asks a stagehand if he can cross behind the scenes to the side where the presidential box is, but is told he can’t. He’s not deterred. He opens a trapdoor leading down to a basement beneath the stage, goes down the steps, and feels his way along the dark underground passageway, the sounds on the stage above reverberating in his ears, reaches the other side, and comes up through a second trapdoor.”
Bancroft ran across the stage to position himself beneath the presidential box. He motioned for Klayman to