Outlaw Style: Poems

Site Visit: Ford’s Historic Playhouse

SiteVisit: Ford’s Historic Playhouse When you visit Ford’s Theater, as I trust you will, the neoclassical pilasters facing Tenth Street will leave you unimpressed. The bricks are chipped and distressed, etched with the cruel edge of our history. Passing, then, through a door to the salon and lobby whose opulence will astonish, you will notice a plaque’s brass apology: The luxurious décor of Ford’s famous theater is far superior to the unfinished exterior. Perhaps you will respond, if only in silence, that Lincoln himself was so construed. As you approach the narrow vestibule and then the presidential box, the question Why? will already assail you, since the war was over, leaving the actor’s beloved South protected only by the Liberator’s aptitude for mercy. Be that as it may, Booth had lately been crazed with hatred for one he believed favored imperial rule. The brash assassin, as books and color brochures testify, was affluent, dashing, a famous face called by one reporter“America’s new Romeo.” Madness, it seems, ran rampant in his family. He was at home in this theater and once, rumor has it, refused after a performance of The Marble Heart to meet and shake 48 1SMITH_pages.qxd 8/13/07 10:44 AM Page 48 the hand of his“tormentor.”“I had rather,” he said,“have the applause of a nigger,” as if such venom were a sign of wit. Familiar with the slack habits of the sentry, he slipped along the passage, a shadow smiling in stealth, fortified by raw brandy —cliché, yes, but essential to the story— a Derringer of large caliber and one scrap of Latin borrowed from a flag. Desperation cold as his has spelled the end of many. No doubt a dark melody suffused his brain. The original rocker with which the President kept cadence like a cradle’s from overture to the“last act” is missing and under custody of the Ford estate in Dearborn, but the replica is enough to stop your heart—the feminine pattern and back padding. The tufted sofa and Turkish carpet, sash and valance, all the yellow curtains and Nottingham lace convey the luxury, the sense of safety, as“Father Abraham” had scoffed at threats. The banners and chandeliers will reinforce the sense of vintage civility. All in black, Booth seemed a carrion bird. Our American Cousin, that night’s play, is a comedy. Booth twisted its history into a tragedy of revenge with his shot and shout, the leap most any matinee gallant playing the paladin would envy. Did he break his shin bone? 49 1SMITH_pages.qxd 8/13/07 10:44 AM Page 49 He managed to reach his horse in the alley. The aftermath was, of course, a frenzy, the dying statesman at that time despised by many hauled across the street, blood seeping from the skull. The First Lady wept so hard she had to be carried. Ford himself was arrested as the night’s other assigned deeds unfurled, and the assassin fled through marshes and slept in sheds. Surveying the orchestra pit, the long rows of seats, an exquisite auditorium famous for its ventilation, you cannot but imagine the stench of limelight, brutal acoustics of a firearm’s echo, the audience drawing a collective breath, as sconced gaslights flickered like hell itself. This was shock drama so unembellished Shakespeare would not have staged it. Cold, fevered in Zekiah swamp, Wilkes, as his friends called him (though his family preferred Johnny), was desperate to see newspapers. A star, he was eager to read the reviews and expected congratulations and envy. But before you leave, you will perhaps remember how he was cornered at dawn in a tobacco barn, leaning on his crutch, defying commands to surrender. The shot, against orders, severed his spinal cord, and the assassin’s assassin reported,“God 50 1SMITH_pages.qxd 8/13/07 10:44 AM Page 50 Almighty whispered that I must kill him.” No tour of the Theater is complete without this reminder: a detective with the cavalry who tracked him down, wrote much later, “We set the barn afire, and when he stood in the doorway waving his fist, he looked for all the world like great Helios there, aglow, showing nor fear nor shame. He was trimmed— I shall never forget it—in unearthly flame.” One doubts the prudence of such enthusiasm, and the bitter...