Booth’s Revenge Chapter Sixteen

Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape.Stanton goes to Seward’s house when he hears of the stabbing. Stanton’s henchman Lafayette Baker takes Christy’s body to an embalmer.
Rain pelted Booth’s back as he rode his bay mare quickly and boldly down Tenth Street away from Ford’s Theater. Few people were out in Washington City at this hour. They did not know the tyrant had been struck down. Booth’s mind raced with details of the day. Invigorated by his success, he was still unaware of the pain in his broken leg. He wondered if David Herold would have the sense to meet him on the other side of the Navy Yard Bridge over the East Branch of the Potomac River, commonly known as the Anacostia. Herold should be there soon. His family lived in a small house on the other side of the Navy Yard, considered to be the worst neighborhood in city. A bad place to be caught alone after dark. Booth arrived at the bridge sentry post.
“Stop,” the guard said.
In his mind, Booth composed a scenario that he was a gentleman of leisure on a late night ride to his home in the country. The sentry was only doing his job, and one must not be too concerned with the obligations of the working class.
The guard walked up, held up a lantern and squinted through the raindrops at Booth. “Where are you going, sir?”
“I’m going home, down in Charles County.”
“Where in Charles County?”
“I don’t live in any town. I live close to Beantown.”
“Beantown? Never heard of that.”
“Good God, man, then you never went down there.”
“Do you know it’s illegal to cross the bridge after 9 p.m.?”
“What time is it now?” Booth asked.
Fumbling with his pocket watch, the sentry held it close to the lantern. “It’s 11:40, a good two hours past the curfew. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of the curfew.”
“No, I haven’t been in town for some time so it’s new to me.”
“Why are you out so late?”
“It’s a dark road, and I thought if I waited a spell the rain would let up and the moon would shine through parted clouds. Well, when the rain persisted, I decided I would have to muddle through.” Booth watched the sentry look up in the sky where the moon ought to be on a clear night at this time, just clearing the tree line.
“I’ll pass you but I don’t know as I ought to.”
“Hell, I guess there’ll be no trouble about that.”
Booth rode about a mile after crossing the bridge and stopped to wait for Herold. Only a few moments passed until he saw a rider hunched over his horse coming down the road. Only David Herold slumped over his horse like that. Booth was relieved to see him. When Herold pulled up, Booth saw he was astride a roan. He always rode that particular horse. It was gentle and easy to control. Their other friends teased Herold about riding a woman’s horse, but it was his favorite and he was unconcerned about their joshing. Booth was relieved to see him, though he could tell Herold was nervous. He had an uncharacteristic twitch as he sat in the saddle.
“Davey, what took you so long?”
“I didn’t think that guard was going to let me through, Mr. Booth. Did you know it’s illegal to cross the bridge after 9:00? I didn’t know that. He asked me why I was out so late, and I had to make up something real fast. I don’t usually think that fast, but a story popped in my head that was sure to stop him cold in his tracks. I told him I couldn’t very well get there any sooner because I visited a Capitol Hill whorehouse and it took me a while before I could get off.” Herold paused to laugh. “Bet he never heard an excuse like that before, because he let me on through.”
“Did Paine kill Seward?” Booth interrupted. “Is the man dead?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“When Tommy came out he was all upset and screaming, ‘I’m mad!’ ‘I’m mad!’ It took me a while to calm him down. Tommy was covered in blood. He said he had to stab a lot of people to get to the old man. A leather brace was around his neck.”
“Who had something around his neck, Davey?” Booth could not abide by Herold’s babbling.
“Seward. He had something around his neck.”
“That’s right,” Booth muttered. “I read in the newspaper he had been in a carriage accident and injured his neck. Why didn’t Paine stab the chest?”
“Hell, I don’t know, Mr. Booth. I didn’t go inside with him. Tommy said he stabbed and stabbed but didn’t know if he killed the old man or not. He said there was a lot of blood everywhere.”
“Damn.”
“I couldn’t control him. He was pushing me away, trying to run down the street. He wouldn’t get on his horse. I had to let it go. Tommy ran off in the dark. I could still hear his voice. He really sounded crazy.”
By now, Booth began to feel throbbing pain in his leg. “Let’s move along. People will start looking for us soon.” He nudged his bay mare, which began a slow trot down the road.
“Looking for us? How will they know to look for us?” Herold asked as he followed.
“Everyone saw me leap to the stage, Davey. They know who I am.”
“But how will they know about me, Mr. Booth? I’m just a helper in a pharmacy. Nobody knows me.”
“They will know who all of us are by tomorrow morning.” Booth told Herold how he had written a note and handed it to an erstwhile friend John Matthews, another actor at Ford’s Theater.
“Why would you give him a note? I didn’t think you liked him.”
Booth did not like Matthews after he was unable to convince him to join their plot to kidnap Lincoln. He remembered that Matthews even had the gall to talk back to him one time when he was pontificating against equal rights for Negroes.
“If you pushed a darkey off the sidewalk and he pushed back, you could not shoot him,” Booth said, fuming.
“Then don’t push any darkeys,” Matthews replied.
After that incident, Booth decided Matthews was a coward and unfit to live. His opinion of the man sunk even lower when Matthews gave him a bottle of whiskey as a sign of reconciliation. Booth accepted the gift and even visited Matthews at his boardinghouse around the corner from Ford’s Theater. He stretched out on the actor’s bed and promised to come see his next performance. Then he handed him the note to turn in to the National Intelligencer, a city newspaper openly hostile to Lincoln.
“What was in the note?” Herold’s voice quaked.
“It’s a statement of our allegiance to the South. I said many will blame us but posterity, we are sure, will justify us. And I signed it, “Men who love their country better than gold or life.”
“We, you said?”
“Yes, I signed it John W. Booth, Paine, Herold and Atzerodt.”
“Oh my God, everyone will know.”
“And will bless us for it.”
“Mr. Booth, I just went to my house on the other side of the Navy Yard to say good-bye. My sisters hugged me, but Mama wouldn’t even look at me. My God, Mr. Booth, what have we done?”
Booth winced with each jog of the horse. “Once we get into the countryside you will feel differently. They will welcome us as heroes. Everyone in the South hates Lincoln. They will praise me for killing him.”
“I don’t know. Mama looked awful disappointed in me. She—she always said I was her favorite. I was the only boy out of a family of eight girls. I had two brothers but they died young. She and my sisters always protected me. Maybe I should go back home and beg Mama to forgive me. She’ll take care of me. Would it make you too angry if I went to Mama’s house, Mr. Booth?”
He pulled up on the bridle and looked back at Herold. “I picked every man for this special mission. Do you know why I chose you?”
“Because I know about medicine?”
“Yes, Davey, you know medicine. The time I had the knot on my neck and cut it out, you brought the medicine.” He patted his swollen leg. “I broke my leg in the leap to the stage tonight. I need you to get me the right medicine, Davey. I also chose you because you said you used to hunt in the woods of southern Maryland. You know the way to the Potomac so we can cross into Virginia. So why would I want my guide to leave me before we get to the river?”
“But I’m so scared, Mr. Booth. I need Mama.”
“Do you know why I gave that note to John Matthews, Davey? Out of all the people I know in Washington City, do you know why I chose him?”
“No, sir, Mr. Booth.”
“Because when he delivers that note to the newspaper, everyone will think he was in on our plot, and he will hang. Nobody refuses to do what I want them to do. Do you understand that, Davey?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My leg is killing me. Switch horses. That roan is gentler. Then get me to a doctor.”
“Mr. Booth, sir, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, sir, but didn’t you say we had to drop by Mrs. Surratt’s tavern first, to pick up some things?”
“Of course we have to go to the tavern first, Davey,” he replied, trying to sound impatient with Herold’s incompetency through the increasing pain. “I thought you would have known that. Also, I told you those things were two carbines, shells and my field glasses.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get off that horse.”
Booth dismounted his bay mare with difficulty and slid onto the roan as smoothly as possible. He still grunted in agony. The bay mare reared as Herold got on him, and it took him a few minutes to get it under control.
They rode silently in the rain as Booth thought of what Herold had said about his family. He said he was his mother’s favorite. Booth was his mother’s favorite also among her ten children. Four of them died of cholera. When the attractive and winsome John came along, his mother Mary Ann protected him from the hard realities of life. Despite his mother’s adoration, Booth grew up to realize he would never be a great actor, like his father Junius or even as good as his brothers Junius Jr. and Edwin. Instead, he vowed to become the most beloved actor in the South, and he achieved his goal. All the belles giggled and fluttered their fans flirtatiously when he strode into the theater. They would appreciate him even more now, Booth smiled to himself through his pain.
Along the way, he took up the political views of the South, which did not set well with his brothers. His father, out of avowed principle, never owned slaves but still rented them from his neighbors.
Booth’s father died when the boy was fourteen, passing the family theatrical legacy to his children. The brothers often acted together, but Junius Junior and Edwin were ardent abolitionists, surpassing their father’s position. When the family gathered for dinner Booth kept his opinions to himself out of respect for his mother. Political fights always ruined conviviality around the table.
“What do you think your ma will think when she hears you shot the President?” Herold broke into Booth’s reverie.
“My mother will know I did what was necessary for my Country.” He did not care what his brothers, the misguided ideologues, thought. His sister Asia, however, was devoted to him. He knew she would defend him. His mother and sister always knew he was someone special. No matter what he did, he would be special in their eyes.

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