It was at
once seen that the President's wound was mortal. He was carried
across the street to a house opposite, and laid upon a bed. Mrs.
Lincoln followed, tenderly cared for by Miss Harris. Rathbone,
exhausted by loss of blood, fainted, and was taken home.
Messengers were sent for the cabinet, for the Surgeon-General,
for Dr. Stone the President's family physician, and for others
whose official or private relations with Mr. Lincoln gave them
the right to be there. A crowd of people rushed instinctively to
the White House, and bursting through the doors shouted the
dreadful news to Robert Lincoln and Major Hay who sat together in
an upper room.
The President had been shot a few minutes after ten o'clock. The
wound would have brought instant death to most men. He was
unconscious from the first moment, but he breathed throughout the
night, his gaunt face scarcely paler than those of the sorrowing
men around him. At twenty-two minutes past seven in the morning
he died. Secretary Stanton broke the silence by saying, "Now he
belongs to the ages."
Booth had done his work thoroughly. His principal accomplice had
acted with equal audacity and cruelty, but with less fatal
result. Under pretext of having a package of medicine to deliver,
he forced his way to the room of the Secretary of State, who lay
ill, and attacked him, inflicting three terrible knife wounds on
his neck and cheek, wounding also the Secretary's two sons, a
servant, and a soldier nurse who tried to overpower him.
Pages:
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229