April 14th, 1865. The war was over. The streets of Washington, D.C. buzzed with celebration, gas lamps flickering in the warm spring air as people clutched at the promise of peace. But in the shadows, a different fire burned.
At Ford’s Theatre, President Abraham Lincoln sat in the presidential box with his wife Mary, the young couple Major Henry Rathbone and Clara Harris nearby. The play, Our American Cousin, drew laughter from the audience, but Lincoln’s mind was elsewhere—haunted by war, yet hopeful for healing.
Behind the stage, John Wilkes Booth, a well-known actor turned conspirator, paced with manic resolve. The Southern cause was crumbling, but in his deluded mind, he could still strike a blow for the Confederacy. At around 10:15 p.m., he crept up the back stairs of the theatre, a derringer pistol concealed beneath his coat.
Lincoln’s laughter echoed one last time—then, a muffled pop. The bullet tore through the back of his skull, lodging behind his right eye. Mary screamed. Rathbone lunged at Booth but was slashed by a blade. Booth leapt from the box to the stage, fracturing his leg as he landed, yet roaring his twisted motto: “Sic semper tyrannis!”
Chaos followed. Patrons screamed and scattered. Blood stained the wooden box. Doctors rushed in, but it was already too late. Lincoln was carried across the street to the Petersen House, where he lay unconscious, his breaths shallow and labored. Through the long night, Cabinet members and family gathered, waiting, weeping.
At 7:22 a.m. on April 15th, the President died. “Now he belongs to the ages,” someone whispered.
But that wasn’t the end—it was only the beginning of a frantic manhunt, of retribution and suspicion. While Booth fled south, his co-conspirators plotted chaos elsewhere. In Canada, Confederate operatives celebrated. Across the Atlantic, in the streets of Liverpool, sympathisers of the Southern cause kept a tense silence. One fugitive, John Surratt, would pass through that very city in disguise.
This transatlantic thread—between the drawing rooms of Liverpool and the back alleys of Washington—forms the spine of The Americans of Abercromby Square by JP Maxwell. The novel imagines how spies, diplomats, and Irish exiles in 1860s Britain played their part in this American tragedy. Through its gripping narrative, Maxwell sheds light on how the echoes of Lincoln’s assassination rang far beyond Ford’s Theatre—deep into the heart of Empire.
THE AMERICANS OF ABERCROMBY SQUARE, the new thriller by JP Maxwell.How the trail of the Lincoln Assassination led all the way to Liverpool, England.
April 14th, 1865. The war was over. The streets of Washington, D.C. buzzed with celebration, gas lamps flickering in the warm spring air as people clutched at the promise of peace. But in the shadows, a different fire burned.At Ford’s Theatre, President Abraham Lincoln sat in the presidential box with his wife Mary, the young couple Major Henry Rathbone and Clara Harris nearby. The play, Our American Cousin, drew laughter from the audience, but Lincoln’s mind was elsewhere—haunted by war, yet hopeful for healing.Behind the stage, John Wilkes Booth, a well-known actor turned conspirator, paced with manic resolve.
The Southern cause was crumbling, but in his deluded mind, he could still strike a blow for the Confederacy. At around 10:15 p.m., he crept up the back stairs of the theatre, a derringer pistol concealed beneath his coat.Lincoln’s laughter echoed one last time—then, a muffled pop. The bullet tore through the back of his skull, lodging behind his right eye. Mary screamed. Rathbone lunged at Booth but was slashed by a blade. Booth leapt from the box to the stage, fracturing his leg as he landed, yet roaring his twisted motto: “Sic semper tyrannis!”Chaos followed. Patrons screamed and scattered. Blood stained the wooden box.
Doctors rushed in, but it was already too late. Lincoln was carried across the street to the Petersen House, where he lay unconscious, his breaths shallow and labored. Through the long night, Cabinet members and family gathered, waiting, weeping.At 7:22 a.m. on April 15th, the President died. “Now he belongs to the ages,” someone whispered.
But that wasn’t the end—it was only the beginning of a frantic manhunt, of retribution and suspicion. While Booth fled south, his co-conspirators plotted chaos elsewhere. In Canada, Confederate operatives celebrated. Across the Atlantic, in the streets of Liverpool, sympathisers of the Southern cause kept a tense silence.
One fugitive, John Surratt, would pass through that very city in disguise.This transatlantic thread—between the drawing rooms of Liverpool and the back alleys of Washington—forms the spine of The Americans of Abercromby Square by JP Maxwell. The novel imagines how spies, diplomats, and Irish exiles in 1860s Britain played their part in this American tragedy. Through its gripping narrative, Maxwell sheds light on how the echoes of Lincoln’s assassination rang far beyond Ford’s Theatre—deep into the heart of Empire.
Two ripping yarns as the Old West comes to Victorian England!Read or listen to WATER Street here: amzn.to/43yZ3Tr
And the sequel, THE AMERICANS OF ABERCROMBY SQUARE:Amazon: https://amzn.to/4eP8fYZ
Thrill rides into the past by JP Maxwell#historicalfiction #theAmericanCivilWar #LincolnPlot #SpyNovels
