beside the coffin.
Townsend decided, before others could report what he had done, to confess.
He sent a telegram to Stanton. “The photograph was taken while I was present,” he wrote. “I regret your disapproval, but it did not strike me as objectionable under the circumstances as it was done.” He would transmit the order about destroying the plates and the photographs. Who, he asked, should be in charge of the funeral train if he obeyed Stanton’s orders and returned the person responsible—himself—to Washington?
When Stanton learned that it was Townsend who had allowed the photographs to be made, he decided not to take away his command. The train was on the move, and there was nobody else available to take charge. But Stanton was still not happy. “The taking of photographs was expressly forbidden by Mrs. Lincoln,” he told Townsend. He worried “that her feelings and the feelings of her family will be greatly wounded.”
“I was not aware of Mrs. Lincoln’s wishes,” Townsend responded, “or the picture would not have been taken.” He added, “It seemed to me the picture would be gratifying, a grand view of what thousands saw and thousands could not see.”
Later Townsend sent yet another telegram, describing the photograph. It was not, as Stanton probably feared, a close-up view of Lincoln’s face, but a picture of the coffin, draped in black and surrounded by flags, as it had been viewed by thousands of New Yorkers. “The effect of the picture would be general,” Townsend assured Stanton, “taking in the whole scene, but not giving the features of the corpse.”
Stanton did not punish Townsend for what he had done. But he did order the photographs and the glass plate negatives seized. To this day no one knows what became of them. Perhaps Stanton destroyed the prints and smashed the glass negatives. Perhaps he stored them somewhere no one has ever found them.
But Stanton could not resist saving for himself at least one image of Lincoln’s corpse. Almost a century after Lincoln’s death, a sole surviving photograph made from one of the negatives was discovered, stored with Stanton’s personal files. Perhaps Stanton saved it for history. Or perhaps he intended that it should never be seen, and that it remain for his eyes only, a vivid reminder of the death of Abraham Lincoln.
The notorious Gurney image, taken inside New York City Hall. Edward D. Townsend stands at the foot of the coffin in the only surviving photograph of Lincoln in death.
Chapter Eleven
On April 26 two events took place far from New York that were each much more important than a photograph of a coffin. On that day, before dawn, at a farm near Port Royal, Virginia, soldiers caught up with Lincoln’s assassin, John Wilkes Booth, surrounded him in a barn, and killed him. Also on that day Jefferson Davis, still in Charlotte, North Carolina, learned that Confederate General Joseph Johnston had surrendered his army. It was now vital that Davis leave the state and cross the border into South Carolina.
Before Jefferson Davis left Charlotte, he wrote to General Wade Hampton: “If you think it better you can, with the approval of General Johnston, select now . . . the small body of men and join me at once.”
Then, in haste, Davis wrote a letter to Varina. “The Cavalry is now the last hope,” he told her. “I will organize what force of Cavalry can be had. [General] Hampton offers to lead them, and thinks he can force his way across the Mississippi. The route will be too rough and perilous for you and children to go with me. . . . Will try to see you soon.”
The funeral train left Albany at 4:00 P.M. , Wednesday, April 26. Mile by mile, the crowds got thicker wherever the train was scheduled to pass. At Schenectady railroad signalmen waved small flags bordered with black. The train stopped briefly in Little Falls, where a band played a dirge while women presented flowers for the coffin.
At 11:15 P.M. , the train
Townsend decided, before others could report what he had done, to confess.
He sent a telegram to Stanton. “The photograph was taken while I was present,” he wrote. “I regret your disapproval, but it did not strike me as objectionable under the circumstances as it was done.” He would transmit the order about destroying the plates and the photographs. Who, he asked, should be in charge of the funeral train if he obeyed Stanton’s orders and returned the person responsible—himself—to Washington?
When Stanton learned that it was Townsend who had allowed the photographs to be made, he decided not to take away his command. The train was on the move, and there was nobody else available to take charge. But Stanton was still not happy. “The taking of photographs was expressly forbidden by Mrs. Lincoln,” he told Townsend. He worried “that her feelings and the feelings of her family will be greatly wounded.”
“I was not aware of Mrs. Lincoln’s wishes,” Townsend responded, “or the picture would not have been taken.” He added, “It seemed to me the picture would be gratifying, a grand view of what thousands saw and thousands could not see.”
Later Townsend sent yet another telegram, describing the photograph. It was not, as Stanton probably feared, a close-up view of Lincoln’s face, but a picture of the coffin, draped in black and surrounded by flags, as it had been viewed by thousands of New Yorkers. “The effect of the picture would be general,” Townsend assured Stanton, “taking in the whole scene, but not giving the features of the corpse.”
Stanton did not punish Townsend for what he had done. But he did order the photographs and the glass plate negatives seized. To this day no one knows what became of them. Perhaps Stanton destroyed the prints and smashed the glass negatives. Perhaps he stored them somewhere no one has ever found them.
But Stanton could not resist saving for himself at least one image of Lincoln’s corpse. Almost a century after Lincoln’s death, a sole surviving photograph made from one of the negatives was discovered, stored with Stanton’s personal files. Perhaps Stanton saved it for history. Or perhaps he intended that it should never be seen, and that it remain for his eyes only, a vivid reminder of the death of Abraham Lincoln.
The notorious Gurney image, taken inside New York City Hall. Edward D. Townsend stands at the foot of the coffin in the only surviving photograph of Lincoln in death.
Chapter Eleven
On April 26 two events took place far from New York that were each much more important than a photograph of a coffin. On that day, before dawn, at a farm near Port Royal, Virginia, soldiers caught up with Lincoln’s assassin, John Wilkes Booth, surrounded him in a barn, and killed him. Also on that day Jefferson Davis, still in Charlotte, North Carolina, learned that Confederate General Joseph Johnston had surrendered his army. It was now vital that Davis leave the state and cross the border into South Carolina.
Before Jefferson Davis left Charlotte, he wrote to General Wade Hampton: “If you think it better you can, with the approval of General Johnston, select now . . . the small body of men and join me at once.”
Then, in haste, Davis wrote a letter to Varina. “The Cavalry is now the last hope,” he told her. “I will organize what force of Cavalry can be had. [General] Hampton offers to lead them, and thinks he can force his way across the Mississippi. The route will be too rough and perilous for you and children to go with me. . . . Will try to see you soon.”
The funeral train left Albany at 4:00 P.M. , Wednesday, April 26. Mile by mile, the crowds got thicker wherever the train was scheduled to pass. At Schenectady railroad signalmen waved small flags bordered with black. The train stopped briefly in Little Falls, where a band played a dirge while women presented flowers for the coffin.
At 11:15 P.M. , the train
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