“Sic semper tyrannis!” he shouted loudly.
At the same moment he raised the pistol he was carrying and fired at the President, who was just a few paces away from him.
AN ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION!
At was a moment frozen in time. The fallen Belgian officer was on his hands and knees; the other soldiers still stood at attention, still obeying their last command. Lincoln, shocked by the sudden appearance of the gunman from the crowd, stopped before taking a half step back.
The pistol in the stranger’s hand came up — and fired.
The unexpected is the expected in war. While both of these general officers accompanying the President had had more than their fill of war, they were still seasoned veterans of many conflicts and had survived them all. Without conscious thought they reacted; they did not hesitate.
General Grant, who was closest to the President, hurled himself between his commander in chief and the assassin’s gun. Fell back as the bullet struck home.
There was no second shot.
At first sight of the pistol, General Sherman had seized his scabbard in his left hand and, with his right hand, had pulled the sword free. In one continuous motion the point of the sword came up, and as he took a long step forward, Sherman, without hesitation, thrust the gleaming weapon into the attacker’s heart. He drew it out as the man dropped to the floor. Sherman stood over him, sword poised and ready, but there was no movement. He kicked the revolver from the man’s limp fingers, sending it skidding across the marble floor.
Someone screamed, shrilly, over and over again. The frozen moment was over. The officer in charge of the honor guard shouted commands and the uniformed men drew up in a circle around the President’s party, facing outward, swords at the ready. Lincoln, shaken by the sudden ferocity of the unexpected attack, looked down at the wounded general stretched out on the marble floor. He shook himself, as though struggling to understand what had happened, then took off his coat, folded it, bent over, and placed it under Grant’s head. Grant scowled down at the blood seeping from his wounded right arm, started to sit up, then winced with the effort. He cradled his wounded arm in his left hand to ease the pain.
“The ball appears to still be in there,” he said. “It looks like the bone stopped it from going on through.”
“Will someone get a doctor?” Lincoln shouted above the din of raised voices.
Sherman stood above the body of the man he had just killed, looked out at the milling crowd, which was pulling back from the ring of cuirassed officers who faced them with drawn swords ready. Satisfied now that the assassin had been alone, he wiped the blood from his sword on the tail of the dead man’s coat. After slipping the sword back into its scabbard, he bent and rolled the body onto its back. The white-skinned face, the long dark hair seemed very familiar. He continued to stare at it even as one of the officers handed him the still-cocked assassin’s revolver. He carefully let the hammer down and put it into his pocket.
The circle of protecting soldiers drew apart to admit a rotund little man carrying a doctor’s bag. He opened the bag and took out a large pair of shears, then proceeded to cut away the sleeve of Grant’s jacket, then the blood-sodden fabric of his shirt. With a metal pick he bent to probe delicately at the wound. Grant’s face turned white and the muscles stood out on the sides of his jaw, but he said nothing. The doctor carefully bandaged the wound to stop the bleeding, then called out in French for assistance, a table, something to carry the wounded man. Lincoln stepped aside as uniformed servants pushed forward to aid the doctor.
“I know this man,” Sherman said, pointing down at the body of the assassin. “I watched him for three hours, from the front row of the balcony in Ford’s Theater. He is an actor. The one who played in Our American Cousin. His name is John Wilkes Booth.”
“We were going to see that play,” Lincoln said, suddenly very tired. “But that was before Mary was taken ill. Did you hear the words that he called out before he fired? I could not understand them.”
“That was Latin, Mr. President. What he shouted out was ‘Sic semper tyrannis.’ It is the motto of the state of Virginia. It means something like ‘thus always to tyrants.’ ”
“A Southern sympathizer! To have come all this way from America, to have crossed the ocean just to attempt to kill me. It is beyond reason that a person could be filled with such hatred.”
“Feelings in the South still run deep, as you know, Mr. President. Sad as it is to say, there are many who will never forgive you for stopping their secession.” Sherman looked up and saw that a door had been produced and that Grant, his bandaged arm secured across his chest, was being lifted carefully onto it. Sherman stepped forward to take charge and ordered that the wounded Grant be taken to their suite of rooms on the floor above. He knew that a military surgeon accompanied their official party — and Sherman had more faith in him than he had in any foreign sawbones who might appear here.
It was silent in the bedroom once the servants left. The closed doors shut out the clamorous crowd. From the bed where he had been carefully placed, Grant waved to Sherman with his good arm.
“That was a mighty fine thrust. But then, you were always good at fencing at the Point. Do you always keep your dress sword so well sharpened?”
“A weapon is always a weapon.”
“True enough — and I shall remember your advice. But, Cumph, let me tell you, I have not been drinking of late, as you know. However, I never travel unprepared, so if you don’t mind I am going to make an exception just this one time. I hope you will agree that these are unusual circumstances.”
“I can’t think of anything more unusual.”
“Good. Why then you’ll find a stone crock of the best corn in that wardrobe thing in my room…”
“Good as done.”
As Sherman stood up there was a quick knock on the door. He let the doctor in — a gray-haired major with years of field experience — before heading off to find the crock. While he was away, the surgeon, with a skill born of battlefield practice, found the bullet and extracted it. Along with a patch of coat and shirt material that had been carried into the wound by the ball. He was just finishing up rebandaging the wound when Sherman returned with the stone jug and two glasses.
“Bone’s bruised, but not broken,” the surgeon said. “The wound is clean; I’m binding it up in its own blood. There should be no complications.” As soon as the doctor let himself out, Sherman poured two full glasses from the crock.
Grant sighed deeply as he emptied his glass; color quickly returned to his gray cheeks.
The President and Ambassador Pierce came in just as he was finishing a second tumbler; Pierce was flustered and sweating profusely. Lincoln was his usual calm self.