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雙語·林肯傳 28

所屬教程:譯林版·林肯傳

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2022年06月01日

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28

In 1863 a group of Virginia slave barons formed and financed a secret society the object of which was the assassination of Abraham Lincoln; and in December, 1864, an advertisement appeared in a newspaper published in Selma, Alabama, begging for public subscriptions for a fund to be used for the same purpose, while other Southern journals offered cash rewards for his death.

But the man who finally shot Lincoln was actuated neither by patriotic desires nor commercial motives. John Wilkes Booth did it to win fame.

What manner of man was Booth? He was an actor, and nature had endowed him with an extraordinary amount of charm and personal magnetism. Lincoln's own secretaries described him as “handsome as Endymion on Latmos, the pet of his little world.” Francis Wilson, in his biography of Booth, declares that “he was one of the world's successful lovers.... Women halted in the streets and instinctively turned to admire him as he passed.”

By the time he was twenty-three, Booth had achieved the status of a matinee idol; and, naturally, his most famous role was Romeo. Wherever he played, amorous maidens deluged him with saccharine notes. While he was playing in Boston huge crowds of women thronged the streets in front of the Tremont House, eager to catch but one glimpse of their hero as he passed. One night a jealous actress, Henrietta Irving, knifed him in a hotel room, and then tried to commit suicide; and the morning after Booth shot Lincoln, another of his sweethearts, Ella Turner, an inmate of a Washington “parlor house,” was so distressed to learn that her lover had turned murderer and fled the city, that she clasped his picture to her heart, took chloroform, and lay down to die.

But did this flood of female adulation bring happiness to Booth? Very little, for his triumphs were confined almost wholly to the less discriminating audiences of the hinterland, while there was gnawing at his heart a passionate ambition to win the plaudits of the metropolitan centers.

But New York critics thought poorly of him, and in Philadelphia he was hooted off the stage.

This was galling, for other members of the Booth family were famous on the stage. For well-nigh a third of a century, his father, Junius Brutus Booth, had been a theatrical star of the first magnitude. His Shakesperian interpretations were the talk of the nation. No one else in the history of the American stage had ever won such extraordinary popularity. And the old man Booth had reared his favorite son, John Wilkes, to believe that he was to be the greatest of the Booths.

But the truth is that John Wilkes Booth possessed very little talent, and he didn't make the most of the trifling amount he did have. He was good-looking and spoiled and lazy, and he refused to bore himself with study. Instead, he spent his youthful days on horseback, dashing through the woods of the Maryland farm, spouting heroic speeches to the trees and squirrels, and jabbing the air with an old army lance that had been used in the Mexican War.

Old Junius Brutus Booth never permitted meat to be served at the family table, and he taught his sons that it was wrong to kill any living thing—even a rattlesnake. But John Wilkes evidently was not seriously restrained by his father's philosophy. He liked to shoot and destroy. Sometimes he banged away with his gun at the cats and hound dogs belonging to the slaves, and once he killed a sow owned by a neighbor.

Later he became an oyster pirate in Chesapeake Bay, then an actor. Now, at twenty-six, he was a favorite of gushing highschool girls, but, in his own eyes, he was a failure. And besides, he was bitterly jealous, for he saw his elder brother, Edwin, achieving the very renown that he himself so passionately desired.

He brooded over this a long time, and finally decided to make himself forever famous in one night.

This was his first plan: He would follow Lincoln to the theater some night; and, while one of his confederates turned off the gas-lights, Booth would dash into the President's box, rope and tie him, toss him onto the stage below, hustle him through a back exit, pitch him into a carriage, and scurry away like mad in the darkness.

By hard driving, he could reach the sleepy old town of Port Tobacco before dawn. Then he would row across the broad Potomac, and gallop on south through Virginia until he had lodged the Commander-in-Chief of the Union Army safely behind the Confederate bayonets in Richmond.

And then what?

Well, then the South could dictate terms and bring the war to an end at once.

And the credit for this brilliant achievement would go to whom? To the dazzling genius John Wilkes Booth. He would become twice as famous, a hundred times as famous as his brother Edwin. He would be crowned in history with the aura of a William Tell. Such were his dreams.

He was making twenty thousand dollars a year then in the theater, but he gave it all up. Money meant little to him now, for he was playing for something far more important than material possessions. So he used his savings to finance a band of Confederates that he fished out of the backwash of Southern sympathizers floating around Baltimore and Washington. Booth promised each one of them that he should be rich and famous.

And what a motley crew they were! There was Spangler, a drunken stage-hand and crab-fisherman; Atzerodt, an ignorant house-painter and blockade-runner with stringy hair and whiskers, a rough, fierce fellow; Arnold, a lazy farm-hand and a deserter from the Confederate Army; O'Laughlin, a livery-stable worker, smelling of horses and whisky; Surratt, a swaggering nincompoop of a clerk; Powell, a gigantic penniless brute, the wild-eyed, half-mad son of a Baptist preacher; Herold, a silly, giggling loafer, lounging about stables, talking horses and women, and living on the dimes and quarters given him by his widowed mother and his seven sisters.

With this supporting cast of tenth-raters, Booth was preparing to play the great role of his career. He spared neither time nor money in planning the minutest details. He purchased a pair of handcuffs, arranged for relays of fast horses at the proper places, bought three boats, and had them waiting in Port Tobacco Creek, equipped with oars and rowers ready to man them at a moment's notice.

Finally, in January, 1865, he believed that the great moment had come. Lincoln was to attend Ford's Theater on the eighteenth of that month, to see Edwin Forrest play “Jack Cade.” So the rumor ran about town. And Booth heard it. So he was on hand that night with his ropes and hopes—and what happened? Nothing. Lincoln didn't appear.

Two months later it was reported that Lincoln was going to drive out of the city on a certain afternoon to attend a theatrical performance in a near-by soldiers' encampment. So Booth and his accomplices, mounted on horses and armed with bowieknives and revolvers, hid in a stretch of woods that the President would have to pass. But when the White House carriage rolled by, Lincoln was not in it.

Thwarted again, Booth stormed about, cursing, pulling at his raven-black mustache, and striking his boots with his ridingwhip. He had had enough of this. He was not going to be frustrated any longer. If he couldn't capture Lincoln, by God, he could kill him.

A few weeks later Lee surrendered and ended the war, and Booth saw then that there was no longer any point in kidnapping the President; so he determined to shoot Lincoln at once.

Booth did not have to wait long. The following Friday he had a hair-cut, and then went to Ford's Theater to get his mail. There he learned that a box had been reserved for the President for that night's performance.

“What!” Booth exclaimed. “Is that old scoundrel going to be here to-night?”

Stage-hands were already making ready for a gala performance, draping the left-hand box with flags against a background of lace, decorating it with a picture of Washington, removing the partition, doubling the space, lining it with crimson paper and putting in an unusually large walnut rocking-chair to accommodate the President's long legs.

Booth bribed a stage-hand to place the chair in the precise position that he desired; he wanted it in the angle of the box nearest the audience, so that no one would see him enter. Through the inner door, immediately behind the rocker, he bored a small peep-hole; then dug a notch in the plastering behind the door leading from the dress-circle to the boxes, so that he could bar that entrance with a wooden plank. After that Booth went to his hotel and wrote a long letter to the editor of the “National Intelligencer,” justifying the plotted assassination in the name of patriotism, and declaring that posterity would honor him. He signed it and gave it to an actor, instructing him to have it published the next day.

Then he went to a livery-stable, hired a small bay mare that he boasted could run “l(fā)ike a cat,” and rounded up his assistants and put them on horses; gave Atzerodt a gun, and told him to shoot the Vice-President; and handed a pistol and knife to Powell, ordering him to murder Seward.

It was Good Friday, ordinarily one of the worst nights of the year for the theater, but the town was thronged with officers and enlisted men eager to see the Commander-in-Chief of the Army, and the city was still jubilant, celebrating the end of the war. Triumphal arches still spanned Pennsylvania Avenue, and the streets were gay with dancing torch-light processions, shouting with high elation to the President as he drove by that night to the theater. When he arrived at Ford's the house was packed to capacity and hundreds were being turned away.

The President's party entered during the middle of the first act, at precisely twenty minutes to nine. The players paused and bowed. The brilliantly attired audience roared its welcome. The orchestra crashed into “Hail to the Chief.” Lincoln bowed his acknowledgment, parted his coat-tails, and sat down in a walnut rocking-chair upholstered in red.

On Mrs. Lincoln's right sat her guests: Major Rathbone of the Provost-Marshal General's office and his fiancee, Miss Clara H. Harris, the daughter of Senator Ira Harris of New York, blue-bloods high enough in Washington society to meet the fastidious requirements of their Kentucky hostess.

Laura Keene was giving her final performance of the celebrated comedy “Our American Cousin.” It was a gay and joyous occasion; and sparkling laughter rippled back and forth across the audience.

Lincoln had taken a long drive in the afternoon, with his wife; she remarked afterward that he had been happier that day than she had seen him in years. Why shouldn't he be? Peace. Victory. Union. Freedom. He had talked to Mary that afternoon about what they would do when they left the White House at the close of his second term. First, they would take a long rest in either Europe or California; and when they returned, he might open a law office in Chicago, or drift back to Springfield and spend his remaining years riding over the prairie circuit that he loved so well. Some old friends that he had known in Illinois had called at the White House, that same afternoon, and he had been so elated telling jokes that Mrs. Lincoln could hardly get him to dinner.

The night before, he had had a strange dream. He had told the members of his Cabinet about it that morning: “I seemed to be in a singular and indescribable vessel,” he said, “that was moving with great rapidity toward a dark and indefinite shore. I have had this extraordinary dream before great events, before victories. I had it preceding Antietam, Stone River, Gettysburg, Vicksburg.”

He believed that this dream was a good omen, that it foretold good news, that something beautiful was going to happen.

At ten minutes past ten Booth, inflamed with whisky, and dressed in dark riding-breeches, boots, and spurs, entered the theater for the last time in his life—and noted the position of the President. With a black slouch hat in his hand, he mounted the stairs leading to the dress-circle, and edged his way down an aisle choked with chairs, until he came to the corridor leading to the boxes.

Halted by one of the President's guards, Booth handed him his personal card with confidence and bravado, saying that the President wished to see him; and, without waiting for permission, pushed in and closed the corridor door behind him, wedging it shut with a wooden upright from a music-stand.

Peeping through the gimlet-hole that he had bored in the door behind the President, he gaged the distance, and quietly swung the door open. Shoving the muzzle of his high-calibered derringer close to his victim's head, he pulled the trigger and quickly leaped to the stage below.

Lincoln's head fell forward and then sidewise as he slumped in his chair.

He uttered no sound whatever.

For an instant the audience thought that the pistol-shot and the leap to the stage were a part of the play. No one, not even the actors themselves, suspected that the President had been harmed.

Then a woman's shriek pierced the theater and all eyes turned to the draped box. Major Rathbone, blood gushing from one arm, shouted: “Stop that man! Stop him! He has killed the President!”

A moment of silence. A wisp of smoke floating out of the Presidential box. Then the suspense broke. Terror and mad excitement seized the audience. They burst through the seats, wrenching the chairs from the floor, broke over railings, and, trying to clamber upon the stage, tore one another down and trampled upon the old and feeble. Bones were broken in the crush, women screamed and fainted, and shrieks of agony mingled with fierce yells of “Hang him!”... “Shoot him!”... “Burn the theater!”

Some one shouted that the playhouse itself was to be bombed. The fury of the panic doubled and trebled. A company of frantic soldiers dashed into the theater at double-quick, and charged the audience with muskets and fixed bayonets, shouting: “Get out of here! Damn you, get out!”

Physicians from the audience examined the President's wound; and, knowing it to be fatal, refused to have the dying man jolted over the cobblestones back to the White House. So four soldiers lifted him up—two at his shoulders and two at his feet—and carried his long, sagging body out of the theater and into the street, where blood dripping from his wound reddened the pavement. Men knelt to stain their handkerchiefs with it—handkerchiefs which they would treasure a lifetime, and, dying, bequeath as priceless legacies to their children.

With flashing sabers and rearing horses, the cavalry cleared a space; and loving hands bore the stricken President across the street to a cheap lodging-house owned by a tailor, stretched his long frame diagonally across a sagging bed far too short for him, and pulled the bed over to a dismal gas-jet that flickered yellow light.

It was a hall room nine by seventeen feet in size, with a cheap reproduction of Rosa Bonheur's painting of “The Horse Fair” hanging above the bed.

The news of the tragedy swept over Washington like a tornado; and, racing in its wake, came the impact of another disaster: at the same hour of the attack on Lincoln, Secretary Seward had been stabbed in bed and was not expected to live. Out of these black facts, fearsome rumors shot through the night like chain-lightning: Vice-President Johnson had been slain. Stanton had been assassinated. Grant shot. So ran the wild tales.

People were sure now that Lee's surrender had been a ruse, that the Confederates had treacherously crept into Washington and were trying to wipe out the Government with one blow, that the Southern legions had sprung to arms again, that the war, bloodier than ever, was starting once more.

Mysterious messengers dashed through the residence districts, striking the pavement two short staccato raps, thrice repeated—the danger-call of a secret society, the Union League. Awakened by the summons, members grasped their rifles and rushed wildly into the street.

Mobs with torches and ropes boiled through the town, howling: “Burn the theater!”... “Hang the traitor!”... “Kill the rebels!”

It was one of the maddest nights this nation has ever known!

The telegraph flashed the news, setting the nation on fire. Southern sympathizers and copperheads were ridden on rails and tarred and feathered; the skulls of some were crushed with paving-stones. Photograph galleries in Baltimore were stormed and wrecked because they were believed to contain pictures of Booth; and a Maryland editor was shot because he had published some scurrilous abuse of Lincoln.

With the President dying; with Johnson, the Vice-President, sprawled on his bed stone-drunk and his hair matted with mud; with Seward, Secretary of State, stabbed to the verge of death, the reins of power were grasped immediately by Edward M. Stanton, the gruff, erratic, and tempestuous Secretary of War.

Believing that all high officers of the Government were marked for slaughter, Stanton, in wild excitement, dashed off order after order, writing them on the top of his silk hat as he sat by the bedside of his dying chief. He commanded guards to protect his house and the residences of his colleagues; he confiscated Ford's Theater and arrested every one connected with it; he declared Washington to be in a state of siege; he called out the entire military and police force of the District of Columbia, all the soldiers in the surrounding camps, barracks, and fortifications, the Secret Service men of the United States, the spies attached to the Bureau of Military Justice; he threw pickets around the entire city, fifty feet apart; he set a watch at every ferry, and ordered tugs, steamers, and gunboats to patrol the Potomac.

Stanton wired the chief of police in New York to rush him his best detectives, telegraphed orders to watch the Canadian border, and commanded the President of the Baltimore and Ohio Railway to intercept General Grant in Philadelphia and bring him back to Washington at once, running a pilot locomotive ahead of his train.

He poured a brigade of infantry into lower Maryland, and sent a thousand cavalrymen galloping after the assassin, saying over and over: “He will try to get South. Guard the Potomac from the city down.”

The bullet that Booth fired pierced Lincoln's head below the left ear, plowed diagonally through the brain, and lodged within half an inch of the right eye. A man of lesser vitality would have been cut down instantly; but for nine hours Lincoln lived, groaning heavily.

Mrs. Lincoln was kept in an adjoining room; but every hour she would insist on being brought to his bedside, weeping and shrieking, “O my God, have I given my husband to die?”

Once as she was caressing his face and pressing her wet cheek against his, he suddenly began groaning and breathing louder than ever. Screaming, the distraught wife sprang back and fell to the floor in a faint.

Stanton, hearing the commotion, rushed into the room, shouting, “Take that woman away, and don't let her in here again.”

Shortly after seven o'clock the groaning ceased and Lincoln's breathing became quiet. “A look of unspeakable peace,” wrote one of his secretaries who was there, “came over his worn features.”

Sometimes recognition and understanding flash back into the secret chambers of consciousness immediately before dissolution.

In those last peaceful moments broken fragments of happy memories may have floated brightly through the deep hidden caverns of his mind—vanished visions of the long ago: a log fire blazing at night in front of the open shed in the Buckhorn Valley of Indiana; the roar of the Sangamon plunging over the mill-dam at New Salem; Ann Rutledge singing at the spinning-wheel; Old Buck nickering for his corn; Orlando Kellogg telling the story of the stuttering justice; and the law office at Springfield with the ink-stain on the wall and garden seeds sprouting on top of the bookcase....

Throughout the long hours of the death-struggle Dr. Leale, an army surgeon, sat by the President's bedside holding his hand. At twenty-two minutes past seven the doctor folded Lincoln's pulseless arms, put half-dollars on his eyelids to hold them shut, and tied up his jaw with a pocket handkerchief. A clergyman offered a prayer. Cold rain pattered down on the roof. General Barnes drew a sheet over the face of the dead President; and Stanton, weeping and pulling down the windowshades to shut out the light of the dawn, uttered the only memorable sentence of that night: “Now he belongs to the ages.”

The next day little Tad asked a caller at the White House if his father was in heaven.

“I have no doubt of it,” came the reply.

“Then I am glad he has gone,” said Tad, “for he was never happy after he came here. This was not a good place for him.”

28

一八六三年,弗吉尼亞州的一群貴族奴隸主出資成立了一個秘密團體,目標是暗殺亞伯拉罕·林肯。一八六四年十二月,亞拉巴馬州的塞爾瑪市的報紙上出現(xiàn)了一則廣告,懇求公眾捐款資助針對林肯的暗殺行動。其他的南方日報則刊登了暗殺林肯的現(xiàn)金懸賞。

但是最終殺了林肯的那個人,既不是出于對南方的熱愛,也不是出于對金錢的追逐。約翰·威爾克斯·布斯之所以暗殺林肯是為了出名。

布斯是一個什么樣的人?他是一個演員,上天賦予了他得天獨厚的英俊外表和個人魅力。林肯的秘書曾這樣描繪布斯:“像拉塔莫斯山上的恩底彌翁一樣俊美,是他所在圈子的寵兒?!备ダ饰魉埂ね栠d(Francis Wilson)在布斯傳記中這樣寫道:“他是世界上最成功的情人……當他在街上走過的時候,站在街上的女人們便會立刻愛上他。”

二十三歲的時候,布斯已是深受女觀眾喜愛的男演員。他最知名的角色是羅密歐。不管他在哪里演出,多情的少女們都會拿著充滿柔情蜜意的情書向他涌去。他在波士頓演出的時候,喜歡他的女士擠滿了蒙特飯店門前的街道,只為在他經(jīng)過的時候匆忙看他一眼。某天晚上,善妒的女明星漢麗埃塔·歐文(Henrietta Irving)在酒店房間里刺了布斯一刀,然后便打算自殺殉情。布斯刺殺林肯后的那個早晨,他的另一位女友艾拉·特納(Ella Turner)——華盛頓某家妓院的“小姐”——聽說自己的愛人謀殺了總統(tǒng)并逃走了之后,將他的照片緊緊握在心口,吞下了氯仿,倒地死亡。

但是,布斯是否從女人們潮水般的愛慕中得到了幸福感呢?幾乎沒有。因為他的成功局限于窮鄉(xiāng)僻壤那些鑒賞能力不是很高的觀眾,但他野心勃勃,渴望得到大都市里高雅觀眾的贊賞。

但是紐約的評論家并不看重他,在費城他甚至被趕下了舞臺。

這是非常難堪的,因為布斯家族其他成員都在舞臺上取得了巨大成功。他的父親朱尼厄斯·布魯特斯·布斯(Junius Brutus Booth)是一流的戲劇巨星,紅了將近三十年。他對莎士比亞戲劇人物的精妙詮釋成了街談巷議的話題。美國舞臺劇歷史上沒有哪位明星像他那樣受歡迎。老布斯精心培養(yǎng)自己最喜歡的兒子約翰·威爾克斯,一心認為他會成為布斯家族中最偉大的演員。

但是事實上,約翰·威爾克斯·布斯幾乎沒有繼承他父親的戲劇天賦,而且后天也沒有為此努力。他長相俊美,為人驕縱又懶散,從不肯花心思好好學習。他的青年時代是在馬背上度過的。那時的他整日騎著馬在馬里蘭農(nóng)場上的林子間橫沖直撞,拿著一根在墨西哥戰(zhàn)爭中用過的舊戰(zhàn)矛朝空中亂戳,對著樹木和松鼠說些荒唐的豪言壯語。

老布斯不允許家里的餐桌上有肉,他告訴兒子們,殺生——即便是殺一條響尾蛇——也是不對的。但是約翰·威爾克斯·布斯很顯然沒有聽從父親的教誨。他喜歡射擊和搞破壞。他喜歡鳴槍嚇跑奴隸們養(yǎng)的貓和獵犬,有一次他還殺了鄰居家的母豬。

之后,他成了切薩皮克灣上的一名“牡蠣海盜”,再后來成了演員。現(xiàn)在,他二十六歲,是懵懂的高中女生心中的白馬王子,但在他自己眼中,他是個失敗者。此外,他非常嫉妒自己的哥哥愛德溫,因為愛德溫擁有他夢寐以求的聲望。

為此,他郁郁寡歡地思考了很久,最后決定做一件絕對能一夜成名的事。

他一開始的計劃是這樣的:尾隨林肯進入劇院,趁他的同伙關掉煤氣燈的時候沖進總統(tǒng)包廂,用繩子將林肯綁起來,將他扔到下面的舞臺上,挾持他從后門離開,將他塞進馬車,發(fā)狂似的趁著夜色迅速逃離。

經(jīng)過一夜急行,他可以在黎明前到達仍沉睡著的古老小鎮(zhèn)煙草港。然后他乘船橫渡寬闊的波多馬克河,接著一路向南穿過弗吉尼亞,最后安全地在南方軍身后的里士滿會見聯(lián)盟軍總司令。

然后呢?

然后南方便可以肆意定下條件,從而立刻結束戰(zhàn)爭。

這偉大的成就歸功于誰呢?當然是那個耀眼的天才約翰·威爾克斯·布斯。他會因此名滿天下,比他那有出息的哥哥還要出名一百倍。他會名垂青史,成為美國歷史上的“威廉·退爾”(8)(William Tell)。這便是他的美夢。

當時他在劇院一年可賺兩萬美金,但他毫不猶豫地放棄了。現(xiàn)在,錢對他來說毫無意義,因為他正在做的事比獲得財富重要多了。因此,他出錢資助了一幫徘徊在巴爾的摩和華盛頓附近的同情南方的人,并許諾他們會得到財富和名望。

那幫人無疑是一群烏合之眾。斯潘格勒是一名捕蟹漁夫,也是個酒鬼,平時在劇院做后臺工作。亞瑟特是個自大的油漆工,也是一名偷渡客。他毛發(fā)稀疏,是個粗魯兇狠的家伙。阿諾德是一個懶惰的農(nóng)場工,還是南方軍的逃兵。歐勞福林在馬車出租行工作,身上滿是馬和威士忌的味道。薩拉特是一個自命不凡的小職員。鮑威爾是一個大個子渾球兒,總是怒目圓睜,瘋瘋癲癲。他的爸爸是浸信會傳教士。赫羅爾德是個喜歡傻笑的無業(yè)游民,整日待在馬廄里吹牛談女人,靠寡婦母親和七個姐姐救濟過活。

在這群最劣等配角的陪演下,布斯出演了自己職業(yè)生涯中最重要的角色。他花了大量時間和精力計劃細節(jié)。他買了一副手銬,安排好了逃亡路上換馬的地點。他買了三艘船,停在煙草港。他還安排了槳手,隨時準備著帶他們渡河。

終于,一八六五年一月,布斯相信那個偉大的時刻終于到了。整個城市都在傳當月的十八號,林肯將去福特劇院觀看愛德溫·福萊斯特(Edwin Forrest)出演的《杰克·凱德》。布斯當然聽到了這些傳言,于是當晚,他帶著繩子和期待去了劇院——然后發(fā)生了什么?什么都沒發(fā)生。林肯沒有出現(xiàn)。

兩個月后,又有傳言說,林肯將在某天下午出城前往附近的士兵之家觀看戲劇表演。于是布斯和他的同伙跨上馬背,帶著博伊刀和左輪手槍,藏在總統(tǒng)必經(jīng)之路旁的樹叢里??墒钱敯讓m的馬車呼嘯而過的時候,林肯并不在車內。

再次挫敗的布斯憤怒極了,一邊咒罵林肯,一邊扯著自己漆黑的小胡子,拿馬鞭抽打自己的靴子。他受夠了。他再也不想失敗了。如果不能抓住林肯,那就殺了他。

幾個星期后,李投降了,戰(zhàn)爭也就此結束了。布斯認為,現(xiàn)在綁架總統(tǒng)已經(jīng)沒有任何意義了,因此他決定立刻暗殺總統(tǒng)。

這一次,布斯沒有等很久。戰(zhàn)爭結束后的第二個周五,布斯理了發(fā),隨后便前往福特劇院拿他的郵件。他得知當晚總統(tǒng)預訂了一個包間。

“不是吧!”他大聲說道,“那個卑鄙的無賴今晚要來?”

舞臺工作人員正在為演出做準備。他們用有花邊的旗子覆蓋左邊的一個包廂,在包廂里面掛上華盛頓的畫像,移除隔斷,擴大空間,貼上深紅色的墻紙,還在包廂里放了一張大號的胡桃木搖椅,這樣總統(tǒng)的長腿便可以伸直了。

布斯賄賂了一名舞臺工作人員,讓其將搖椅按照他的要求擺放。他希望搖椅放在靠觀眾的一側,這樣就不會有人看見他潛入了。他在搖椅后面的內門上鉆了一個窺視孔,接著又在特等座通往包廂的門后的石灰墻上挖了一個缺口,這樣他便可以用一根木條把這個入口堵起來。做完了這些后,布斯回到了旅館,給《國民通訊員報》的編輯寫了一封長信,并以愛國之名為自己有預謀的暗殺行為進行了辯護,并宣稱后世子孫會以他為榮。他簽好名后將信交給了一名演員,關照他第二天拿去發(fā)表。

接著他去了一家馬車出租行,雇了一匹據(jù)說“跑得和貓一樣快”的深棕色母馬。他將手下人集合起來,給他們一人配了一匹馬。他給了亞瑟特一把槍,讓他槍殺副總統(tǒng)。他給了鮑威爾一把槍和一把刀,命令他暗殺蘇華德。

當晚是耶穌受難日,照理來說是劇院一年中最慘淡的日子,但是當晚,城里擠滿了想要一睹聯(lián)邦軍總司令風采的軍官和士兵,整個城市都在慶賀戰(zhàn)爭結束,一派喜氣洋洋。賓夕法尼亞大街上的凱旋門還沒有移除,街上滿是拿著火把的舞蹈隊列。當總統(tǒng)騎馬經(jīng)過時,路旁的人群里發(fā)出了熱烈的歡呼聲。林肯到達福特劇院的時候,劇院已經(jīng)人滿為患,成百上千的觀眾被拒之門外。

總統(tǒng)一行人是在第一幕開演后不久入的場,準確時間是八點四十分。演員們向總統(tǒng)鼓掌鞠躬,身著盛裝的觀眾爆發(fā)出熱烈的歡呼聲,管弦樂隊適時地奏起《領袖萬歲》。林肯鞠躬致謝,然后脫下燕尾服,坐在有著紅色墊子的胡桃木搖椅上。

林肯夫人的右手邊坐著她的客人,憲兵司令辦公室的拉斯伯恩少校以及他的未婚妻克拉拉·哈里斯(Clara H.Harris)小姐。哈里斯小姐是紐約州參議員伊拉·哈里斯的女兒,是一位藍血貴族。在華盛頓社交圈里,她的身份足夠滿足那位來自肯塔基州的女主人挑剔的要求。

勞拉·基恩(Laura Keene)正在表演流行喜劇《我們的美國表弟》的最后一幕。這是非常歡樂的一幕,觀眾席間爆笑聲此起彼伏。

當天下午,林肯和他的夫人騎了很久的馬。林肯夫人后來說這些年來從來沒有見過林肯像那天下午那樣快樂。他有什么理由不快樂?和平、勝利、團結、自由,都有了。那天下午,他和瑪麗談起第二任任期結束離開白宮后的打算。

首先,去歐洲或者加州好好休息一段時間。度假回來后也許會在芝加哥開一家律師事務所,或者回到春田市,將余生都奉獻給他熱愛的草原巡回法庭。那天下午,他將幾位伊利諾伊州的老朋友請到了白宮,他興奮地和朋友們講著笑話,以至于吃晚飯的時候林肯夫人都請不動他。

前一天晚上,他做了一個奇怪的夢。那天早上他和內閣說起了那個夢:“我仿佛在一艘無法描述的小船上。船快速地朝著遠處黑暗模糊的海岸駛去。每次發(fā)生大事前我都會做這個夢。安蒂特姆河之戰(zhàn)、石河之戰(zhàn)、葛底斯堡之戰(zhàn)、維克斯堡之戰(zhàn)前我都做過這個夢?!?/p>

他認為這個夢是一個好兆頭,會帶來好消息。他認為會有好事發(fā)生。

十點十分的時候,因為喝威士忌而滿臉通紅的布斯穿著黑色的馬褲、皮靴和馬刺,人生中最后一次走進了劇院,很快便看到了總統(tǒng)。布斯手里拿著一頂寬邊軟帽,走上通往特等座的臺階,擠過一條放滿了椅子的走道,然后來到了通往包廂的走廊。

總統(tǒng)的保鏢攔下了他。布斯自信地遞過一張自己的名片,聲稱總統(tǒng)想要見他。接著,未等保鏢同意便推門而入,隨即關上走廊的門,并用樂譜架上的立柱從里面將門抵住。

通過總統(tǒng)身后內門上的窺視孔,他計算了一下距離,然后悄悄地把門打開。他將上了膛的高口徑短筒手槍靠近受害人的頭部,扣動扳機,然后立刻跳到了下方的舞臺上。

林肯的頭猛地向前垂下,然后又歪向一邊。與此同時他的身體也癱倒在椅子里。

他沒有發(fā)出任何聲音。

一瞬間,觀眾以為槍聲和重物落在舞臺上的聲音也是一場表演。沒有人——甚至演員——想到總統(tǒng)被暗殺了。

接著,劇院上空劃過一聲女人的尖叫,所有人的目光都轉向掛著旗子的包廂。拉斯伯恩少校的一只手臂上滿是鮮血,他大聲喊道:“拿下那個男人!拿下那個男人!他殺了總統(tǒng)!”

整個劇院一瞬間安靜了下來。一縷青煙從總統(tǒng)包間飄了出來。懸念解開了。觀眾發(fā)狂了。他們從座位上沖了出來,猛砸地板上的椅子,破壞欄桿,試圖沖上舞臺。他們互相推搡,老弱被踩在腳下,很多人在沖撞中骨折了,女人們尖叫著暈倒了。痛苦的叫聲中夾雜著憤怒的狂吼——“絞死他!”“殺了他!”“燒了劇院!”

有人喊著應該把劇院炸掉。驚慌失措的人們心中的憤怒成倍成倍地增長。一連瘋狂的士兵快步?jīng)_進劇院,拿著步槍和刺刀指著觀眾,大喊道:“出去!說你呢!出去!”

觀眾里的醫(yī)生趕來檢查林肯的傷勢。醫(yī)生認為總統(tǒng)生命垂危,經(jīng)不起回白宮的路上的鵝卵石地面的顛簸,于是四名士兵將林肯抬了起來——兩人抬著他的肩膀,兩人抬著他的腳——然后將他那松垂的頎長身軀搬出了劇院。士兵們抬著林肯走在街道上,他傷口上滴下的血染紅了馬路,人們紛紛跪下用手帕擦拭地上的血跡——他們或許會將這塊手帕珍藏起來,去世前將它作為傳家之寶留給自己的子孫。

配備著閃亮的軍刀和矯健馬匹的騎兵隊在人群中清出了一片空地,幾雙顫抖的手扶著病危的總統(tǒng)穿過街道來到街對面的一間簡陋的公寓。他們將林肯頎長的身軀斜著放在屋內一張中間凹陷的床上。即便如此,這張床對于林肯來說還是太短了。接著他們將床拖到了一盞閃爍著黃光的昏暗的煤氣燈旁。

這間屋子的主人是一個裁縫。這間屋子大約只有九乘十七英尺大小,床頭掛著羅莎·博納爾(Rosa Bonheur)的《馬展》,是一幅廉價贗品。

林肯被刺殺的消息像龍卷風般席卷了華盛頓。接著又傳來了其他的噩耗:在林肯遇襲的同時,國務卿蘇華德也在床上被捅了一刀,大概也活不了了。在這些黑暗的事實面前,恐怖的謠言像連環(huán)閃電一樣襲擊著黑夜:副總統(tǒng)約翰遜被殺了,斯坦頓也被暗殺了,格蘭特受到了槍擊。一時間,謠言四起。

現(xiàn)在人們可以肯定,李的投降是一場陰謀,南方聯(lián)盟的叛徒們已經(jīng)潛入了華盛頓,意欲毀掉聯(lián)邦政府,而南方的軍隊再次揮刀而來,即將發(fā)起比之前更慘烈的戰(zhàn)爭。

神秘的信使們穿梭在住宅區(qū)之間,短擊地面兩次,再重復三次——這是聯(lián)邦同盟會的危急信號。聽到召喚后,成員們拿起來復槍,瘋狂地涌上街道。

整個城市滿是高舉火把的人,他們群情激奮,咆哮著:“燒了劇院!”“絞死叛徒!”“殺光叛軍!”

這是美國歷史上前所未有的瘋狂之夜。

電報將消息快速地傳遍全國,因此,全國人民的情緒都十分激昂。人們將同情南方和支持南方的北方人架在圍欄上,在他們身上抹上焦油,再插上羽毛。還有一些人被鋪路石活活砸爛了頭骨。人們砸了巴爾的摩的照相館,因為他們相信里面有布斯的照片。馬里蘭的一位編輯因為公開誹謗林肯遭到了槍殺。

現(xiàn)在,總統(tǒng)性命垂危,副總統(tǒng)約翰遜趴在床上不省人事,國務卿蘇華德遇刺后也掙扎在死亡邊緣,于是權力便牢牢地掌握在了粗暴、古怪又易怒的戰(zhàn)爭部長愛德華·斯坦頓手中。

斯坦頓認為,現(xiàn)在政府的頂級官員都被釘上了死亡的標簽,于是他雷厲風行地下達了一道又一道命令。他坐在瀕死的領袖床前,將這些命令寫在了自己的絲帽上。他命令士兵包圍布斯和他同事的住所。他查抄福特劇院,逮捕了所有涉嫌人員。他宣布華盛頓進入戒嚴狀態(tài)。他調動了所有可以調動的力量:哥倫比亞區(qū)所有的兵力和警力,周邊所有營地和防御工事的兵力,美國特工處以及軍事司法局下屬的間諜。他在全市范圍內實行五十英尺一哨崗的封鎖政策。他派人盯緊每一個碼頭,并命令拖船、蒸汽船和炮艇沿著波多馬克河巡邏。

斯坦頓給紐約警察總長發(fā)電報,要求他即刻派出手下最優(yōu)秀的偵探。他以電報的形式命令手下密切注意加拿大邊境的情況。他命令巴爾的摩和俄亥俄鐵路公司的主席乘坐輔助機車趕上格蘭特的火車,在費城攔住格蘭特并立即將他帶回華盛頓。

他派出一個旅的步兵進入馬里蘭腹地,又派了一千騎兵追捕殺害總統(tǒng)的兇手。他一遍又一遍地說:“他肯定會往南方跑,從城里開始一直到波多馬克河,全給我守住了!”

布斯射出的那枚子彈從林肯的左耳下方進入,斜穿過大腦,最后嵌在右眼旁半寸的地方。若是生命力不頑強的人,一定會當場死亡,但是林肯卻堅持了九個小時。他就這樣躺在床上,不斷痛苦地呻吟著。

林肯夫人被安置在旁邊的房間里,但每隔一個小時她就堅持要去林肯床邊,一邊哭一邊尖聲喊叫著:“上帝啊,是不是我害死了我的丈夫?”

有一次,當她一邊將滿是淚水的臉頰枕在林肯胸口,一邊愛撫林肯臉龐的時候,林肯突然呻吟起來,大口大口地喘息。發(fā)狂的林肯夫人尖叫著跳到一旁,跌倒在地上,然后暈了過去。

聽到動靜的斯坦頓沖進了房間。他憤怒地吼道:“把這個女人拉走,不許她再進來!”

七點鐘過后,呻吟聲停止了,林肯的呼吸聲也趨于平靜?!八瞧v的臉上露出了一種無法言說的平靜?!绷挚系拿貢@樣寫道。

有的時候,人在彌留之際,神秘的意識海中會有記憶的碎片。

在那最后的平靜時刻,也許那藏在心靈深處的破碎的幸福記憶會浮現(xiàn)在他的腦海中——那是很久以前早已消失的畫面:印第安納鹿角谷里的敞篷木屋前,溫暖的柴火正在熊熊燃燒;咆哮的桑加蒙河從新塞勒姆村的水閘上奔騰而過;安·拉特利奇在紡車旁唱著歌曲;“老公鹿”嘶鳴著想要再多吃點玉米;奧蘭多·凱洛格正在講著那個口吃法官的故事;還有春田市那個墻上滿是墨水印、書架頂端長著野草的法律事務所的辦公室……

在林肯與死亡斗爭的幾個小時內,利爾軍醫(yī)一直握著總統(tǒng)的手,坐在他的身旁。七點二十二分,利爾醫(yī)生將林肯那沒有脈搏的手臂疊放在他的胸前,然后將兩枚五角硬幣放在他眼瞼上,再用一塊手帕綁住他的下巴。牧師做了禱告。冷雨吧嗒吧嗒地拍打著屋頂。巴恩斯將軍扯過一塊床單,蓋在已逝的總統(tǒng)臉上。斯坦頓一邊哭著一邊拉下百葉窗,不讓晨光照進屋里。接著他說出了那晚唯一一句值得紀念的話:“現(xiàn)在,他屬于千秋萬代?!?/p>

第二天,小泰德問一位白宮訪客,父親是否去了天堂。

“這是毫無疑問的。”對方這樣回答道。

“那樣的話,我很開心他去了,”泰德說,“自從來到這里,他一點兒也不快樂。這里對他來說不是一個好地方?!?/p>

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