I saw the man who pulled the trigger

“Are you comfortable, Mrs. Wingard?” Fred Lockley asked the aged widow as she sat in his Oregon Journal office.

“Yes I am, Mr. Lockley.” She was quite spry for a woman of her eighty-eight years.  She wore a starched white bonnet that was nearly forty years out of fashion in 1925.  

“Good, good.” He clasped his hands togethers as she made herself comfortable in the cushioned chair. “The reason I want to interview you is that you have a connection with the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln on April 14, 1865 at Ford’s Theater, is that correct?”

“Yes, Mr. Lockley, I saw the man who pulled the trigger.” She said without a hitch in her voice.

“You did?” Lockley nodded.  

“Actually that is not true.” She smiled, “It was Good Friday and I felt it was not proper to spend such a solemn day at the theater watching a comedy.  But I told my late husband he could go and he took our nephew John Bingham.  They both saw the man who shot the president leap from the private box where he and Mary Todd Lincoln sat shouting ‘Sic semphris tyrannus.’ as he landed on the stage.  He broke his leg, too.” 

“Yes, I have read the account.” Lockley laughed at the way she made it sound as if it had happened yesterday.  

“According to my husband, he was a lawyer in Washington at that time,  they carried President Lincoln to a room across the street from the theater.  Poor man, I heard the bed was too small.  He was a very tall man, the president, you know.”

“So I have heard.” Lockley chuckled again.

“John Wilkes Booth, the actor and brother of Edwin.  I saw Edwin once on stage and he was the best Hamlet I have ever seen.” She clasped her hands in front of her as she spoke, “I so loved Edwin Booth.”

“Yes ma’am.” He ran his pencil across his pad.  

“When he came home and told me what had taken place, I was so disheartened. After that horrible war, he would succumb to his wounds.  So sad.” She sighed as a single tear ran down her wrinkled face.  Removing a silk handkerchief from her pocket, she elegantly wiped the tear and replaced the cloth to where it had come from.  

“I understand you attended the trial.” Lockley leaned back in his chair.

“Yes...yes we both did.” She nodded. “Bess, my husband’s sister, married John A. Bingham, the judge’s special advocate, so we got tickets to the trial.  Mercy me, we sat no more than ten feet from the conspirators.  They all looked so haggard and unruly.” 

“So you were at the trial?” Lockley checked his notes.

“We were.  John Wilkes Booth did break his leg and he found Dr. Mudd who set his leg at Bowling Green at the Garrett Farm.  A couple days later Sergeant Boston Corbett shot Booth in the neck.  He would live another hour or two before he expired.”

“Is it true that some people knew of the conspiracy to assassinate Vice President Johnson, Secretary of State Seward and other top officials?” Lockley had read an account from one of the orderlies that included a plot by a man named Kennedy to set several buildings ablaze in New York City.

“One of the men confessed to have included Secretary of War Stanton and General Grant.” She said in a near whisper as if this information was still quite sensitive. “All I know for sure was that no one took all that information seriously so nobody did anything until it was too late.”

“Really?” Lockley let out some air between his teeth.  This revelation seemed to be earth shattering and yet here she was passing it along as if everyone knew the secret story. 

“Yes, all of it came out much later.  Some of it was used as evidence against the condemned men.  Each of them was assigned to kill someone the night of April 14. Each of them.” 

“But that did not come to pass.  Well except for William Sewart who was slashed by one of the conspirators.” Lockley read from an account he had on his desk.

“Yes, Lewis Powell.  He had gone to a bar to get some liquid courage.” She said in a low tone as to avoid social embarrassment. “He was hanged with the others.”  

“I see.” Lockley could not help smiling. 

“I remember feeling sorry for Mary Surrat.  She was the only woman.  They were all shackled together during the trial.” Mrs. Wingard turned her head to glance out the window at the early spring day.  “You have a wonderful view.” 

“Well thank you, Mrs. Wingard.” He folded his hands across his chest, “I spent some time in the Klondike Gold Rush.”

“Up there in all that snow?” She seemed awestruck by his assertion.

“Nome, but it wasn’t all snow all the time.” He nodded.

“My son Judiah wanted to join the rush, but then he got consumption and was not able to go. It’s bad enough having to bury your husband, but there is nothing worse than burying a child you have given birth to.” She tried to smile, but failed miserably.  

“Would you like some water?” Lockley asked.

“I suppose I am a bit parched.” She nodded.  Fred Lockley poured her a glass of water from a pitcher on a table near his desk.  She took it from him, “Thank you so much, Mr. Lockley.” 

“You are quite welcome, Mrs. Wingard.” He replied.

“Wilma.” She said after taking a swallow.

“Wilma?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes.  Please don’t put my name down in your story.” She put the glass on the edge of his desk near her chair.

“Why not?” He sat up.

“I don’t wish to be known as the woman who spilled the beans.” She bowed her head.

“You could become one of the most famous women in the country.” He folded his hand under his chin with his elbow on his desk. 

“I don’t wish to be any such thing.” She shook her head.

“One of the most dramatic events in our history and had a front seat to it all.” He tilted his head. “People want to know who was there.”

“All good and fine, but I don’t want to go to my final rest as that woman.  I have lived all my life as a wife and mother and I must admit that is how I wished to be remembered.” She took another sip of her water.

“I will never go against your wishes, but I am quite startled to hear this.” His eyes twinkled as he spoke.

“I know how things are.  You covered the war in Europe.  It was dreadful.  Many of our boys never came home.” She peered out the window again, “The war I lived through was just as awful.  So many mothers laid their sons to rest.  I remember seeing them in their black dresses during services at the church.  The blank expressions on their faces, the forlorn looks in their eyes as if it was them who had been laid in their son’s graves.  I’ve seen young men missing arms and legs as a reminder of what they had lost fighting for their country.  I sat with Mary Todd Lincoln as she poured out her grief about all the soldiers she had seen taken from the battlefields when she accompanied her husband.  Please, let them rest.”

Fred Lockley felt a catch in this throat that wasn’t there when he had begun his interview.

“I want to stay in the shadows until Jesus calls me home.” She was upset as she spoke.

“I am so sorry to cause such grief, Mrs. Wingard.  This was truly not my intention.” He reached out and put his hand over hers.  Immediately he noticed her hand was cold and shaking.

“Dear boy, I have lived a long life in my eighty-eight years.  I now know why death comes to us all.” She wiped the tears from her eyes as she let Lockley hold her other hand in his warming grip. “I came here fully aware that I would become emotional telling my story.”

“I find your courage extraordinary.” He offered her a smile.

“I appreciate you saying that.” She was still trembling, “My husband never quite understood, you know.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes, he was a man’s man and a good provider.  I have no complaints, but he never saw my emotions.  No, I kept those to myself.” She sighed. “Even though they were all convicted and sentenced to hang, I felt sorry for every one of them.  Even John Wilkes Booth.  To be remembered as the conspirators who killed a great president, I’m sure was not what they had wanted to be remembered for.”

“You are right.” He shook his head. “No one wants to be the villain in the play, do they?”

“No, they don’t.” She shrugged, “I did keep in touch with Mary for a bit after they buried her husband, but she lost a young son and then her husband.  She was never quite the same after that.  She had such problems with depression, but no one ever talks about that either.”

“No they don’t.” He shook his head.

“She was such a vulnerable person.  So frail.  She really did not do well being the First Lady.  Oh, she loved shopping, but when all was said and done, she really suffered in the end. I remember running into Robert before I came out west to Portland.  He had been at the train station when someone shot President Garfield.  Imagine having to witness both tragedies first hand.” 

“Yes, quite a coincidence.” Lockley agreed. 

“I am sorry, Mr. Lockley, but I have found I get quite tired at my age.” She nodded. 

“Would you like to take a break?” He suggested.

“I am afraid I would.” She leaned on her cane as she came to her feet.

“There is a hotel across the street. I can have you put up there. We will pay the fee.” He towered over her as he stood up.

“That would be extremely kind of you.” She grasped his arm as he led her out of the building onto the muddy streets of Portland.  Some of the streets had been paved for automobile traffic, but many of the roads still accompanied equine traffic.  

“I hope you have a good night’s sleep so we can conclude your story in the morning.” Lockley said as they came to the front door of the hotel where some men lodgers were dressed for a night on the town.  A few of them sent up clouds of smoke from the cigars they had purchased from the shops in town.  

“My husband used to smoke those smelly old things.” She waved her hand as they made their way to the front desk.  

“I have never partaken.” He smiled.

“And a good thing too.” She waved a bony finger at him as they both laughed. 

“May I help you?” The desk clerk appeared as if he was in need of a good night’s sleep.

“I’d like to register, Mrs. Wingard.” Lockley replied to the clerk.

“Wilma.” She interjected.

“Mrs. Wilma Wingard.” Lockley corrected himself as the clerk wrote down her name.

“I will have someone escort her to her room.” The clerk mumbled. 

“Very well.” Lockley beamed.

“Thank you so much for all your hospitality.” She kissed his cheek as he bent forward so she could reach it.

“I will see you in the morning.” He tipped his hat. Turning to the clerk, “Say my good man, is the bar open?” 

“Right through those doors over there.” He pointed.

“Thank you, sir.” He strode toward the commotion of the establishment.

“Any time.” The clerk uttered as he opened his newspaper. “Say, are you the owner of this newspaper?” 

“I certainly am.” Lockley acknowledged as he entered the bar where a giant taxidermied bear stood guard.  

“Fred.” George Abner called out to him from his barstool at the bar. 

“Abner.  Good to see you.” Lockley plopped on the stool next to one of his ace reporters.

“Hey saw you speaking to that old lady before I left.” George was already on his second lager.

“Yes, Mrs. Wingard.  Wilma.” He held up his finger.

“What can I get you?” The bartender asked.

“Gin and tonic.” Lockley answered.

“No, can’t serve that.” The bartender shook his head.

“Why not?” Lockley asked a little short.

“Prohibition.” The bartender shrugged. “Beer we can do.” 

“I am not a beer drinker.  We are a short distance from Canada.  Surely you can bend some rules.” Lockley pleaded.

“If the boss sees me serving liquor, I get canned.” He shrugged again.

“Very well, make it a beer.” Lockley was disappointed.

“Hey we’re lucky we got beer.  Some places won’t even serve that.” George lit up a cigar he had in his vest pocket.

“Hmpt.” Lockley was still fuming from the refusal.  The bartender set a mug of bubbling brew in front of him, “Thanks.” 

“Sure.” The bartender hustled away to serve another customer. 

“So what was that old lady telling you?” George pushed his fedora to the back of his balding head.

“She said her husband saw the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln at Ford’s Theater.” He took a sip of his beer.

“And two bits will still buy you a mug of beer in this place.” He said with a heavy tone of sarcasm in his voice. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lockley sat back and looked at his reporter.

“She’s an old lady.  Her memory is suspect at best.” George took a long puff on his cigar.

“Are you saying that she was fabricating her story?” Lockley shrugged.

“No, not lying, but having trouble recalling what really took place.” George let a thick cloud of smoke out. “Poor old dear might be senile, right?”

“Suppose.” Lockley shrugged.

“Well any stringer worth his salt would know better than to sail a ship on her word.  She’s a remarkable woman and all, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t take much stock in her story.  We have all kinds of political corruption going on to fill out newspaper on both sides of the Columbia.” 

“I suppose you’re right.” Lockley sighed.

“Sure I am.” George took another big puff, the red glow from his cigar illuminated his pushed in face partially concealed by a thick mustache.

“I'm still going to talk to her in the morning.” Lockley acknowledged.

“Sure Fred, keep in mind what I told you.” George smiled.

“I will.” He bowed his head, “This beer just isn’t what I was hoping for.  I think I’ll go home and pour myself some of the bathtub variety.” 

“Good talking to you.” George waved as Fred Lockley left the bar. 

The next morning, Fred Lockley walked into the hotel.  The clerk at the front desk seemed alert and eager to serve the customers.

“What can I do for you, sir?” He asked Lockley when he approached the desk.

“Looking for a customer.” He tipped his hat.

“Name, please.” The clerk nodded.

“Mrs. Wilma Wingard.” Lockley leaned on the desk.

“Hmmm.” The clerk checked the ledger. “Seems she sighed out early this morning.” 

“Are you sure?” Lockkey was startled by the outcome.

“Yup, right here.” The clerk put his finger on the line.  Lockley looked at the entry. “Signed out by her grandson.  Nice guy.” 

Fred Lockley walked across the street and sat in his office.  A strange feeling of loss and futility overcame him as he sat in silence staring out his office window.  The woman who had a deep connection to the first assisination of an American president, had slipped back into the obscurity from which she had come.