The Day Lincoln Was Shot: An Hour-by-Hour Account of What Really Happened on April 14th, 1865
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The Day Lincoln Was Shot is a gripping, minute-by-minute account of April 14, 1865: the day President Abraham Lincoln was tragically assassinated.
It chronicles the movements of Lincoln and his assassin John Wilkes Booth during every movement of that fateful day. Author and journalist Jim Bishop has fashioned an unforgettable tale of tragedy, more gripping than fiction, more alive than any newspaper account.
First published in 1955, The Day Lincoln Was Shot was a huge bestseller, and in 1998 it was made into a TNT movie, with Rob Morrow as Booth.
Elmira. It was called a Canadian coat. The young man walked in and asked for a white shirt. He was pleasant, and had a nice smile. He was fairly tall, had a domed forehead, and wore a faint, wispy goatee. He asked for a very special style of white shirt. Mr. Cass told him that he was sorry; he did not keep that particular brand, but he had others just as good. In a moment, the sign had been temporarily forgotten, and the urge toward business had stepped forward. Cass brought out a number of fine
toward the War Department. They approached a group of celebrants on the walk, and it was obvious that these men were in the violent, argumentative stage of drunkenness. Crook had to jump ahead, to clear walking room for the President. After the two men had passed by, Mr. Lincoln said: “Crook, do you know, I believe there are men who want to take my life.” This surprised the guard, because it was the first time that the President had initiated such a topic. “And I have no doubt they will do it,”
Lincoln would permit them to come to Washington City could wait until morning. At The Old Clubhouse, Dr. Verdi, Seward’s physician, paid a short visit to his patient. The few visitors in the room excused themselves and waited outside in the third-floor hall. When the doctor emerged, he said that the patient was doing as well as could be expected, and pain had to be expected; sometimes, unremitting pain. He had left instructions with the sergeant about a sedative, and the Secretary of State was
back—forward and down. For a moment, he paused. Rudely, he pushed the mouth open and got two fingers inside and pushed the tongue down to free the larynx of secretions. Dr. Albert F. A. King was admitted to the box. Leale asked each doctor to take an arm and manipulate it while he pressed upward on the belly to stimulate the heart action. A few soldiers started to clear the box of people. From onstage, questions flew up to the box. Mostly, they were unanswered. “How is he?” “What happened?”
sitting near who the President’s messenger was, and learning, exhibited to him an envelope, apparently official, having a printed heading and superinscribed in a bold hand. I could not read the address and did not try. I think now it was meant for Lieutenant General Grant. The man went away.” And Clara Harris, weeping, said: “Nearly one hour before the commission of the deed the assassin came to the door of the box and looked in to take a survey of the position of its occupants. It was supposed