SAW LINCOLN SHOT

Southland Times, Issue 18965, 12 June 1923, Page 13

SAW LINCOLN SHOT

MAN WHO DIMLY REMEMBERS THE PAST. Henry Polkenhorn, of Washington, D.C., is said to be one of the few men living to-day who saw Lincoln shot. He was a little lad of about 12 at that time, and despite the dimming years, that one event is as fresh in his memory as if lived but yesterday. Little Henry, as he was dubbed by his older sisters and immediate members of his family, climbed the stairs to bed on the evening of that Black Friday of Apirl 14, 1865, his copper-toed boots punctuating with a decided period every step of the way. He was home from school at Georgetown to spend the Easter holidays and was especially anxious to attend this particular performance of "Our American Cousin.” His father, E. Polkenhorn, printed the programmes for the theatre, as well as much of the Government printing, and Little Henry had entree at all times to Ford’s, where he would slide into the best seat available. On this evening, however, he was stranded high on the desert isle of a stern mother’s disapproval of small boys hanging around playhouses at any time. This, in fact, was one of the principal reasons for his sojourn at Georgetown. This and a few other small matters such as that which had occurred the day before he took his departure. The Polkenhorns lived on the then fashionable end of East F street. In common with some of his playmates, notably John and Sam Usher, sons of President Lincoln’s Secretary of the Interior, Little Henry cordially disliked a certain crabbed neighbour. In order to relieve their feelings as well as let this individual know just how unfavourably they regarded him, they borrowed an assortment of eggs of uncertain age from the old Central Market nearby. Calling formally at dusk on the gentleman, they presented their compliments when he came to his door in answer to their loud ring. He with others, in doors, escaped asphyxiation, but the bills for redecorating were large. Hence, Little Henry’s intense and vociferously expressed desire to see, not only Mr Lincoln but also General Grant, who was expected to be present at the play that night, fell on deaf ears. Arguments and pleas by his sisters in his behalf made no impression and the usual programme of bed shortly after supper was carried out. After his sisters had departed with their escorts for the party, a small, dark figure with boots tied together and hung around its neck slid down the banister. After a hasty glance behind at the quiet couple reading in the living-room, it stealthily crept towards the front door. Once outside, a moment sufficed to draw on the copper-toed boots and, joyous as a bird set free, it skimmed down the street through the driving rain. "Hi, Misto—” to the doorman was Little Henry’s “open sesame.” It was getting rather late, but he crawled up through the trap into the pit and found a vacant seat in the orchestra just opposite the President’s flag-draped box. He liked that side where he watched the fascinating little man with the big bass viol at close range make it groan by the simple act of sawing across its tummy. He was sorry when the director put an end to its misery. The first few lines meant little to Henry, so he took time to look for the martial figure of General Grant, which had fired his boyish imagination. Not finding it, he slid out of his seat and sidled up to the director. He glanced up to the President’s box. "Mr Will—” he began. The sentence was never completed. A mysterious movement of a dark figure, leaning towards the President from out of the shadows— A shot—a flash of fire! A dark-haired, slender man leaped from the box, stumbled and fell on to his hands and knees—was up again like a sword erect. With a wild, dramatic gesture and eyes ablaze in the chalk-white face the man shouted something which Little Henry did not grasp, then ran across the stage and disappeared in the wings. Uncomprehending, the audience sat spellbound in a deathlike hush. Little Henry saw Mr Lincoln crumble forward. Then the long-drawn, wailing cry of a woman in distress cut straight through to the heartstrings. Then—pandemonium. Believing an accomplice might be within the confines of the house, all exits were hastily closed and guarded. The throng milled and struggled and shouted in vain. All but Little Henry. Shocked and more than terrified by what he had seen and the tumult going on, he howled unremittingly until some one sang out, "Let the kid go home—he is not guilty!”