a sticky red clay, the mud was awful.”
On the morning of April 15, what thoughts must have raced through Edwin Stanton’s mind as he left the Petersen house? He kept no diary, so we do not know exactly what he was thinking. But there were questions that must have weighed heavily on him. Where were the assassins? Would there be more attacks? And what about Lincoln’s funeral? There must be one. But Stanton had no time to plan it. He must find someone to take over this important task. But who? And where would the president be buried? And the Union must still win the war.
But first it was time to bring Abraham Lincoln home to the White House. Lincoln’s body had been placed in a plain wooden box. Soldiers carried it into the street and placed it in a horse-drawn hearse. All of the soldiers in the procession, even the officers, walked rather than rode their horses. They removed their hats and marched bareheaded. It was a sign of respect for their fallen commander. There was no band, no drums. The officers set the pace with the thud of their own steps on the dirt street. It would be the first of three Lincoln death processions in Washington.
One observer remembered looking out the window to watch Lincoln’s body pass by. “I stepped to the window and saw the coffin of the dead President being placed in the hearse which passed up Tenth street to F and thus to the White House. . . . My hand involuntarily went to my head in salute as they started on their long, long journey back to the prairies and the hearts he knew and loved so well, the mortal remains of the greatest American of all time.”
A newspaper reporter, wandering the streets, met the funeral procession on its way. “Wandering aimlessly up F Street toward Ford’s Theater,” he wrote, “we met a tragical procession. It was headed by a group of army officers walking bareheaded, and behind them, carried tenderly by a company of soldiers, was the bier of the dead President, covered with the flag of the Union, and accompanied by an escort of soldiers who had been on duty at the house where Lincoln died. . . . Every head was uncovered, and profound silence which prevailed was broken only by sobs and by the sound of the measured tread of those who bore the martyred President back to the home which he had so lately quitted full of life, hope, and cheer.”
Arriving at the White House, the soldiers carried the temporary coffin into the Guest Room. They removed the flag that draped the box and then unscrewed the lid. They lifted the body and laid it on boards supported by wood sawhorses. They unwrapped the bloody flag from around Lincoln’s body. At the Petersen house, his clothes—suit coat, torn shirt, pants, plus the contents of his pockets—had been tossed in the box. Somebody had forgotten his boots; they were still under Willie Clarke’s bed. His tie was missing—somebody had already taken it. Abraham Lincoln lay naked on the boards. He had been dead for fewer than five hours. His body was still cooling.
Several doctors were waiting to perform an autopsy—an examination of Lincoln’s dead body. They prepared their instruments. Dr. Janvier Woodward would expose the brain. He took a scalpel, sliced through the skin at the back of the president’s head, and peeled the scalp forward to expose the skull. Then he reached for the bone saw. To get to the brain, he needed to cut off the top of Lincoln’s skull.
This was done. They looked for the bullet but did not find it at first. Then Dr. Charles Crane, the assistant surgeon general, lifted the brain out of the skull. He described what happened next. “Suddenly the bullet dropped out through my fingers and fell, breaking the solemn silence of the room with its clatter, into an empty basin that was standing beneath. There it lay upon the white china, a little black mass no bigger than the end of my finger—dull, motionless and harmless, yet the cause of such mighty changes in the world’s history as
On the morning of April 15, what thoughts must have raced through Edwin Stanton’s mind as he left the Petersen house? He kept no diary, so we do not know exactly what he was thinking. But there were questions that must have weighed heavily on him. Where were the assassins? Would there be more attacks? And what about Lincoln’s funeral? There must be one. But Stanton had no time to plan it. He must find someone to take over this important task. But who? And where would the president be buried? And the Union must still win the war.
But first it was time to bring Abraham Lincoln home to the White House. Lincoln’s body had been placed in a plain wooden box. Soldiers carried it into the street and placed it in a horse-drawn hearse. All of the soldiers in the procession, even the officers, walked rather than rode their horses. They removed their hats and marched bareheaded. It was a sign of respect for their fallen commander. There was no band, no drums. The officers set the pace with the thud of their own steps on the dirt street. It would be the first of three Lincoln death processions in Washington.
One observer remembered looking out the window to watch Lincoln’s body pass by. “I stepped to the window and saw the coffin of the dead President being placed in the hearse which passed up Tenth street to F and thus to the White House. . . . My hand involuntarily went to my head in salute as they started on their long, long journey back to the prairies and the hearts he knew and loved so well, the mortal remains of the greatest American of all time.”
A newspaper reporter, wandering the streets, met the funeral procession on its way. “Wandering aimlessly up F Street toward Ford’s Theater,” he wrote, “we met a tragical procession. It was headed by a group of army officers walking bareheaded, and behind them, carried tenderly by a company of soldiers, was the bier of the dead President, covered with the flag of the Union, and accompanied by an escort of soldiers who had been on duty at the house where Lincoln died. . . . Every head was uncovered, and profound silence which prevailed was broken only by sobs and by the sound of the measured tread of those who bore the martyred President back to the home which he had so lately quitted full of life, hope, and cheer.”
Arriving at the White House, the soldiers carried the temporary coffin into the Guest Room. They removed the flag that draped the box and then unscrewed the lid. They lifted the body and laid it on boards supported by wood sawhorses. They unwrapped the bloody flag from around Lincoln’s body. At the Petersen house, his clothes—suit coat, torn shirt, pants, plus the contents of his pockets—had been tossed in the box. Somebody had forgotten his boots; they were still under Willie Clarke’s bed. His tie was missing—somebody had already taken it. Abraham Lincoln lay naked on the boards. He had been dead for fewer than five hours. His body was still cooling.
Several doctors were waiting to perform an autopsy—an examination of Lincoln’s dead body. They prepared their instruments. Dr. Janvier Woodward would expose the brain. He took a scalpel, sliced through the skin at the back of the president’s head, and peeled the scalp forward to expose the skull. Then he reached for the bone saw. To get to the brain, he needed to cut off the top of Lincoln’s skull.
This was done. They looked for the bullet but did not find it at first. Then Dr. Charles Crane, the assistant surgeon general, lifted the brain out of the skull. He described what happened next. “Suddenly the bullet dropped out through my fingers and fell, breaking the solemn silence of the room with its clatter, into an empty basin that was standing beneath. There it lay upon the white china, a little black mass no bigger than the end of my finger—dull, motionless and harmless, yet the cause of such mighty changes in the world’s history as
Similar Books
