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chapter twelve THE LAST BULLET James Ferguson was upset. The saloonkeeper had not paid good money for two tickets to simply sit all evening and watch a threadbare play that he knew almost by heart—he had come expressly to see with his own eyes the hero of the day, Ulysses S. Grant. Thus, while his female companion watched the play, for most of the night Ferguson’s restless eyes peered through opera glasses at the box directly across the theater from where he sat. Throughout the evening, the anxious bartender kept his vigil, supposing that Grant—known for his aversion of the limelight—would try to slip in unnoticed. But the hours had passed, and it was now the third act of a three-act play and still no victorious general.1 Nevertheless, as Ferguson stared across the way, his eyes had more than enough to feast on. There was, of course, the gaunt, bearded president , at times happy, at times pensive, and at other times, as now, leaning forward with his chin on his arms as they rested along the rail, absentmindedly watching the crowd and the orchestra below. There was also the first lady, animated as always, laughing at every silly pun and jest, looking innocently to her husband to see if he was enjoying the humor as well. Increasingly, though, Ferguson’s attention was focused on the peculiar and perplexing actions of John Wilkes Booth. Even at that distance in the darkened theater, Ferguson recognized his friend and frequent patron. That very afternoon, the two had chatted about a swift horse Booth had just acquired.2 Hence, when the bartender saw the dapper young man leaning casually against the wall near the presidential box, there was no doubt in Ferguson’s mind who it was. But why an actor of Booth’s caliber and dramatic nature would lounge about the theater in his spare time watching a shallow, inane comedy was puzzling to Ferguson. Even more mystifying was why John Wilkes 95 96 the darkest dawn Booth, whose Southern sympathies were well known to everyone, would attend what amounted to a grand Union bacchanal here at Ford’s. Across from Ferguson, in the rows of seats near the president’s box, others also began to feel that if Booth’s actions were not bizarre, they were, at the very least, annoying. Some did not recognize the famous actor and were disgusted at being forced to move during the height of the play that an inconsiderate boor might creep ever nearer the box.3 George Todd, a navy surgeon, was sitting nearby: I heard a man say “there’s Booth,” and I turned my head to look at him. He was still walking very slow, and was near the box door, when he stopped, took a card from his pocket, wrote something on it, and gave it to the usher, who took it to the box. In a minute the door was opened and he walked in.4 “I had supposed him to be an ill-bred fellow who was pressing a selfish matter on the President in his hours of leisure,” recalled another man who watched Booth close the box door behind him.5 Across the way, James Ferguson now aimed his glasses more intently than ever on the box, wondering who it was within that Booth was on such intimate terms with.6 On stage, one of the play’s more humorous exchanges was taking place, and the audience watched keenly as Harry Hawk delivered his hackneyed lines: Mrs. Mountchessington: I am aware, Mr. Trenchard, you are not used to the manners of good society, and that, alone, will excuse the impertinence of which you have been guilty. (Exit.) Asa: Don’t know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal—you sockdologizing old man trap! While waves of laughter echoed through the theater, James Ferguson kept his eyes focused on Abraham Lincoln. Although the president joined the crowd with a “hearty laugh,” his interest seemingly lay more with someone below.7 With his right elbow resting on the arm of his chair and his chin lying carelessly on his hand, Lincoln parted one of the flags nearby that he might see better.8 As the laughter subsided, Harry Hawk stood on the stage alone with his back to the presidential box.9 Before he could utter another word, a sharp crack sounded. As...

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