In eighth grade we had to write a firsthand account of the Lincoln assassination, describing what we saw, heard, smelled, tasted(!), and felt. Here's mine in all its glory, with some awkward sentence constructions fixed for this special edition release. The man writing it is named Rodney Nichols, with the implication that he could be one of my ancestors, but I realized that he probably wouldn't include his last name while writing to his fiancee. The phrase "Dearest Catherine", by the way, was taken from the VeggieTales episode "LarryBoy and the Bad Apple" which was newly released at the time. I can't believe it's been so long...
My Dearest Catherine
April 14, 1865
My Dearest Catherine,
Tonight, April the fourteenth, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-five, shall go down in infamy forever, and rightfully so. The newspapers, I wager, shall be quick to tell you of it in the morning, before you even receive this letter, but my own account, from the point of view of an audience member and your fiance besides, rather than that of a disaffected reporter, shall surely provide a more gripping and, for that matter, accurate tale.
As I recollect, I was in the right-hand side of Ford’s theater, directly beneath the president’s box, at eight o’clock p.m. to watch “Our American Cousin” in celebration of my birthday. (I have dreamed of a magic box which instantaneously delivers sound and picture to the comfort of one’s own home; but such are delusions of heaven, and as of now it is still entertaining to watch bizarrely costumed peoples traipsing across a stage.) I noted, with a slight degree of alarm, that our normally punctual president (whose expected presence that night I had been alerted to by my friends who accompanied me there) had failed to arrive.
He did so about twenty minutes into the play, much to my relief. The entire show stopped, and the band played "Hail to the Chief." To top that, or so it seemed at the time, I saw John Wilkes Booth himself, walking towards the stairway which led to both the president’s box and the tavern. Surely he was not scheduled to be in this play, I thought, or the theater managers would have advertised his presence, knowing how their female audience would have literally quadrupled! Knowing how you admire him, Catherine, I desired to request an autograph for you, but decided against it, seeing that he appeared to be about an important errand and I had no wish to slow him down.
One of the actors reached a punch line - I hardly recall it now, for it hardly matters, though at the time it was nearly as entertaining as the battle, Richmond I believe it was, in which the Union troops advanced and were mowed down six or seven times. Enveloped in mirth, I joined the rest of the audience in raucous laughter, interrupted only by a programme falling from the box above and striking my scalp with its sharp corner. I drew it to the president’s attention, and he leaned over, motioning elaborately for me - ME! - to fold it into an aerodynamic sort of shape and fly it back up to him. (Perhaps someday these shapes could be used, in much larger forms, to transport people through the air - but such are more delusions of heaven, from which I suffer profusely.)
How great was my surprise when, before being given ample opportunity to do as the president requested, a loud BANG reached my ears. In confusion, I looked back at the stage, but the actors seemed as surprised as I, and the others assembled, besides which the sound had come from more of an upper-right direction. An elaborate trick, I assured myself, all part of the show, and looking in that direction discovered that the president, apparently shocked by the noise, had fainted!
A bloodcurdling shriek of agony and running footsteps alerted me to the fact that something was not entirely kosher in the state of Denmark. During the stunned silence that followed (my favorite noise in other circumstances), I noticed, with a double take, the smoke rising from the president’s head, amid the smell of roasted flesh, and the blood which dripped from his box and onto me. The president’s blood, on ME! I had never before tasted the sweet, salty taste of blood, nor witnessed a quantity large enough to be smelt, and will, with any luck, never again.
What stirred us up then was John Wilkes Booth. He appeared in the president’s box, where everything was apparently happening now, brandishing a spent one-shot pistol and a bloody dagger. Then, with agility that men half his age would envy, the handsome devil - if, Catherine, you would kindly pardon the expression, as I hate to ruin your infatuation with him, though I must - leaped towards the stage, some eleven feet down from where he was. I had just enough conscious thought at my disposal to grab one of the box’s curtains and give it a strong, solid yank.
As the curtain went taut, it snared one of Mr. Booth’s spurs, causing him to smash that same ankle as he landed on the stage. He shot me a look that would have encouraged a full-grown male Siberian tiger, capable of knocking off one’s head in a single swipe and playing a jolly good game of soccer with it, to become a strict vegetarian for the rest of its days. Naturally I feared for my life but, after what seemed long hours frozen in time, the authorities were finally running in, and he decided mauling me with his dagger to be the least of his priorities. I happily concurred with him on this point.
Limping to the stage’s center with astonishing speed, he extended a very triumphant fist and exclaimed - you must pardon any inaccuracies here, Catherine, for Latin has always been my subject of least expertise, and that was the tongue he used, being an actor - "As always to tyrants!" With that, he shot me another look and, making his way to the window, leaped out onto the back of a horse. This bit about the horse I know because it immediately galloped away, causing no small stir in the town.
I feel I must speculate momentarily on John Wilkes Booth’s final words as an actor to an audience. Was Abraham Lincoln indeed a tyrant? Surely a man who has freed the slaves of an entire nation could not be so. But, as Mr. Booth no doubt resented, he had kept the Confederacy from becoming a separate nation. He was justified by the fact that this new nation would have legalized slavery, but that was not his initial purpose, and on all other counts he arguably suppressed freedom by keeping them in the Union. But whatever happened, Old Abe meant well, and he was a good man.
He remains alive as I write this, but surely precious little longer, in the Petersen house across from the theater. I believe that if he had not leaned over to address me, the bullet would have, heaven forbid, struck a more crucial position and killed him instantly. But surely, with the crude, in fact downright crappy, medical technology of this generation (I shall spare you, for once, of my delusions of heaven, to preserve the solemnity of this anecdote) he shall die anyway, so of what avail is it?
Perhaps, in a theatrical display fitting for Booth’s final performance, to give us more suspense and time to mourn. Life is merely a play, I suppose, and even the greatest who grace its stage must reach a final curtain call. But that shall not stop us, I pray, from giving him, in these his last moments in our cruel uncivilized slum, a standing ovation.
With Love and Tenderness,
Rodney
Main Page: Short Stories by C. Randall Nicholson
My Dearest Catherine,
Tonight, April the fourteenth, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-five, shall go down in infamy forever, and rightfully so. The newspapers, I wager, shall be quick to tell you of it in the morning, before you even receive this letter, but my own account, from the point of view of an audience member and your fiance besides, rather than that of a disaffected reporter, shall surely provide a more gripping and, for that matter, accurate tale.
As I recollect, I was in the right-hand side of Ford’s theater, directly beneath the president’s box, at eight o’clock p.m. to watch “Our American Cousin” in celebration of my birthday. (I have dreamed of a magic box which instantaneously delivers sound and picture to the comfort of one’s own home; but such are delusions of heaven, and as of now it is still entertaining to watch bizarrely costumed peoples traipsing across a stage.) I noted, with a slight degree of alarm, that our normally punctual president (whose expected presence that night I had been alerted to by my friends who accompanied me there) had failed to arrive.
He did so about twenty minutes into the play, much to my relief. The entire show stopped, and the band played "Hail to the Chief." To top that, or so it seemed at the time, I saw John Wilkes Booth himself, walking towards the stairway which led to both the president’s box and the tavern. Surely he was not scheduled to be in this play, I thought, or the theater managers would have advertised his presence, knowing how their female audience would have literally quadrupled! Knowing how you admire him, Catherine, I desired to request an autograph for you, but decided against it, seeing that he appeared to be about an important errand and I had no wish to slow him down.
One of the actors reached a punch line - I hardly recall it now, for it hardly matters, though at the time it was nearly as entertaining as the battle, Richmond I believe it was, in which the Union troops advanced and were mowed down six or seven times. Enveloped in mirth, I joined the rest of the audience in raucous laughter, interrupted only by a programme falling from the box above and striking my scalp with its sharp corner. I drew it to the president’s attention, and he leaned over, motioning elaborately for me - ME! - to fold it into an aerodynamic sort of shape and fly it back up to him. (Perhaps someday these shapes could be used, in much larger forms, to transport people through the air - but such are more delusions of heaven, from which I suffer profusely.)
How great was my surprise when, before being given ample opportunity to do as the president requested, a loud BANG reached my ears. In confusion, I looked back at the stage, but the actors seemed as surprised as I, and the others assembled, besides which the sound had come from more of an upper-right direction. An elaborate trick, I assured myself, all part of the show, and looking in that direction discovered that the president, apparently shocked by the noise, had fainted!
A bloodcurdling shriek of agony and running footsteps alerted me to the fact that something was not entirely kosher in the state of Denmark. During the stunned silence that followed (my favorite noise in other circumstances), I noticed, with a double take, the smoke rising from the president’s head, amid the smell of roasted flesh, and the blood which dripped from his box and onto me. The president’s blood, on ME! I had never before tasted the sweet, salty taste of blood, nor witnessed a quantity large enough to be smelt, and will, with any luck, never again.
What stirred us up then was John Wilkes Booth. He appeared in the president’s box, where everything was apparently happening now, brandishing a spent one-shot pistol and a bloody dagger. Then, with agility that men half his age would envy, the handsome devil - if, Catherine, you would kindly pardon the expression, as I hate to ruin your infatuation with him, though I must - leaped towards the stage, some eleven feet down from where he was. I had just enough conscious thought at my disposal to grab one of the box’s curtains and give it a strong, solid yank.
As the curtain went taut, it snared one of Mr. Booth’s spurs, causing him to smash that same ankle as he landed on the stage. He shot me a look that would have encouraged a full-grown male Siberian tiger, capable of knocking off one’s head in a single swipe and playing a jolly good game of soccer with it, to become a strict vegetarian for the rest of its days. Naturally I feared for my life but, after what seemed long hours frozen in time, the authorities were finally running in, and he decided mauling me with his dagger to be the least of his priorities. I happily concurred with him on this point.
Limping to the stage’s center with astonishing speed, he extended a very triumphant fist and exclaimed - you must pardon any inaccuracies here, Catherine, for Latin has always been my subject of least expertise, and that was the tongue he used, being an actor - "As always to tyrants!" With that, he shot me another look and, making his way to the window, leaped out onto the back of a horse. This bit about the horse I know because it immediately galloped away, causing no small stir in the town.
I feel I must speculate momentarily on John Wilkes Booth’s final words as an actor to an audience. Was Abraham Lincoln indeed a tyrant? Surely a man who has freed the slaves of an entire nation could not be so. But, as Mr. Booth no doubt resented, he had kept the Confederacy from becoming a separate nation. He was justified by the fact that this new nation would have legalized slavery, but that was not his initial purpose, and on all other counts he arguably suppressed freedom by keeping them in the Union. But whatever happened, Old Abe meant well, and he was a good man.
He remains alive as I write this, but surely precious little longer, in the Petersen house across from the theater. I believe that if he had not leaned over to address me, the bullet would have, heaven forbid, struck a more crucial position and killed him instantly. But surely, with the crude, in fact downright crappy, medical technology of this generation (I shall spare you, for once, of my delusions of heaven, to preserve the solemnity of this anecdote) he shall die anyway, so of what avail is it?
Perhaps, in a theatrical display fitting for Booth’s final performance, to give us more suspense and time to mourn. Life is merely a play, I suppose, and even the greatest who grace its stage must reach a final curtain call. But that shall not stop us, I pray, from giving him, in these his last moments in our cruel uncivilized slum, a standing ovation.
With Love and Tenderness,
Rodney
Main Page: Short Stories by C. Randall Nicholson