Major Rathbone called, "Stop
him!" The cry rang out, "He has shot the President!" and from the
audience, stupid at first with surprise, and wild afterward with
excitement and horror, two or three men jumped upon the stage in pursuit
of the assassin. But he ran through the familiar passages, leaped upon
his horse, rewarding with a kick and a curse the boy who held him, and
escaped into the night.
The President scarcely moved; his head drooped forward slightly, his
eyes closed. Major Rathbone, not regarding his own grievous hurt, rushed
to the door of the box to summon aid. He found it barred, and some one
on the outside beating and clamoring for admittance. It was at once seen
that the President's wound was mortal. A large derringer bullet had
entered the back of the head, on the left side, and, passing through the
brain, lodged just behind the left eye. He was carried to a house across
the street, and laid upon a bed in a small room at the rear of the hall
on the ground floor. Mrs. Lincoln followed, tenderly cared for by Miss
Harris. Rathbone, exhausted by loss of blood, fainted, and was taken
home. Messengers were sent for the cabinet, for the surgeon-general, for
Dr. Stone, Mr. Lincoln's family physician, and for others whose official
or private relations to the President gave them the right to be there.
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