Harry Harrison: Stars and Stripes Triumphant

“It has indeed. With enlistment bonuses and better pay and conditions, our forces have grown and increased greatly. But at the present time I must admit, in private to you gentlemen, there are not really enough divisions existing to engage in a major conflict.”

Pierce was more interested in protocol than in world politics, worried about being late. While Lincoln sat bemused, trying to understand the ramifications of General Grant’s summation of the military situation, Pierce kept looking at his watch and fidgeting nervously. He relaxed only when General Sherman rejoined them.

“I am afraid that we must leave now, gentlemen,” Pierce said, opening the hall door and making small waving motions, stepping aside as they passed. He walked out after them. Fox remained behind, then closed the door.

The American mission with all their officials, clerks, and functionaries occupied the entire second floor of the Brussels Grand Mercure Hotel. When Abraham Lincoln and his party exited the rooms, they saw before them the magnificent sweep of the wide marble staircase that dropped down to the lobby. There was a growing murmur of voices from below as Lincoln and his party appeared at the top of the staircase.

“We are indeed expected,” he said, looking down into the lobby of the hotel.

From the foot of the stairs, stretching away to the outside door, two rows of soldiers, to either side of a crimson carpet, stood at stiff attention. Silver-cuirassed and magnificently uniformed, they were an honor guard, all of them officers of the Belgian household regiments. Beyond them, outside the glass doors, a magnificent carriage was just drawing up. The soldiers themselves, standing to attention, their swords on their shoulders, were silent, but not so the crowd that filled the lobby behind them. Elegantly dressed men and women pushed forward, all eager to see the President of the United States, the man who had led his country to such resounding victories. A small cheer arose when Lincoln’s party appeared.

The President stopped a moment to acknowledge the reception and raised his tall stovepipe hat. Set it back in place and tapped it firmly into position — then led the way down the stairs. Generals Sherman and Grant were close behind him, while Ambassador Pierce brought up the rear. They made their way slowly down the steps, then across the lobby toward the open doors.

There was a murmur from the crowd and a disturbance of some kind. Suddenly, shockingly, apparently pushed from behind, one of the ranked officers fell forward onto the floor with a mighty crash. As he fell, a man dressed in black pushed through the sudden opening in the ranks of the soldiers.

“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.

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.