Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Stanton’s henchman Lafayette Baker takes Christy’s body to an embalmer. Booth and Herold join across the river in Maryland. Johnson takes the oath of office. Bodyguard Ward Lamon starts his investigation.
On Monday, Lafayette Baker stood in front of Stanton in his War Department office, trying to concentrate on what the small man was saying. All he could think about were the dead eyes of Adam Christy.
“This investigation is taking too long.” Stanton slammed his hand down on the desk. “Booth has disappeared. The man who was supposed to kill Johnson, no one knows where he is. And the madman who stabbed Seward, he has escaped.” He stopped to stare at Baker. “You know what these men look like,” Stanton continued in a softer voice. “You met them Thursday night.”
“It was dark under the bridge,” Baker replied. “The man who was to shoot Johnson had long straggly hair and spoke with a German accent. The man who stabbed Seward was young, tall, beardless, strong. That’s all I know.”
“I know they met at a boardinghouse somewhere. That private told me. Did they say which boardinghouse?” Stanton asked.
“No.”
A knock at the door interrupted them.
“Yes, yes, what is it?” Stanton snapped.
Colonel Henry Wells entered the office. Baker kept his head down and eyes averted, trying to hide his guilt. Men like Wells who went about doing their duty honorably must know when they were in the presence of immorality, Baker feared.
“I think we have valuable information, sir,” Wells said. “A colored woman came to the War Department this morning. She said her niece, who works for a Mrs. Surratt, told her she saw some suspicious men at the boardinghouse on Friday night.”
“Boardinghouse? What boardinghouse?” Stanton turned to stare at Wells.
“The boardinghouse of Mrs. Surratt, sir, at 542 H Street.”
Glancing back at Baker and nodding, Stanton replied, “I think we need to follow up on this immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Wells said. “I was planning on sending Major Smith and his men to talk to the woman.”
“Not Smith.” Stanton shook his head. “Col. Baker here will take troops to the boardinghouse.”
“Are you sure, sir?” Wells asked. “Major Smith is a capable officer—“
“No, I want Baker,” he interrupted him. “He knows exactly how to draw up the search warrant. I want this Mrs. Surratt arrested, along with everyone else in the house. Place a guard. If anyone comes near the house I want them arrested.”
“Yes, sir.” Wells left the office.
“I want you to tear the house apart, if necessary.” Stanton pointed a finger at Baker. “Every scrap of paper, every photograph. Look for weapons.” He smiled, his eyes blazing. “This is it. We’re going to capture them all.”
Baker had no response. He nodded and left the office, taking his time to walk the few blocks over to H Street and the Surratt boardinghouse. Standing across the street, Baker stared at the building, and considered how peaceful it seemed, with its unpretentious façade. He breathed deeply and wished he could take the next train to Philadelphia, tell his wife Jenny to pack their bags and escape out West to California, never to be found again. Baker spat on the ground. Nevertheless, that would not stop the killing. If not Baker, someone else would have to follow Stanton’s orders to round them all up and hang them. He remembered his vow from Friday night. No one else must die.
A terrible fatigue overwhelmed him. He had never been concerned with fatigue before, but now his whole body ached from it. Baker knew that at that moment in the afternoon sun, he could not knock on Mrs. Surratt’s door to arrest her. Instead, he returned to his hotel room, fell on his bed and went into a deep slumber, no dreams, no recriminations, just a blissful nothingness. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw that it was night. Another round of terror was about to begin.
Baker gathered his soldiers and surrounded the Surratt boardinghouse in the nocturnal darkness. After he knocked at the door, a woman peeked out of a window.
“Who’s there?”
“Col. Lafayette Baker from the War Department.”
“What do you want?”
“Open this door immediately if this is Mrs. Surratt’s house.”
Baker heard a lock turning. The door creaked open. He stepped forward over the threshold, claiming space and exerting authority. “Are you the widow of John H. Surratt and the mother of John H. Surratt Jr.?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’ve come to arrest you in connection with the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln.”
“How did you know–” Mrs. Surratt stopped abruptly. “What makes you think I know anything about that?”
Mrs. Surratt’s teen-aged daughter, tall, slender and as pale as her mother, clung to her side weeping.
“Don’t behave so, baby,” Mrs. Surratt said. “You’re already worn out with anxiety. You’ll make yourself sick, Anna dear.”
“Oh, mother! To be taken for such a thing!”
Baker turned to one of the soldiers. “Go get a carriage.”
“Make them walk,” the soldier replied.
“No, they will be treated kindly as long as they are in my charge,” Baker said, dismissing the private.
Baker smiled at Mrs. Surratt. “Shall we sit in your parlor until he returns?” He felt raw emotion welling in the pit of his belly and rising to his throat.
“Sir, may I pray first?” Mrs. Surratt asked.
“Why, yes.” The request caught Baker off guard.
She fell to her knees, held her hands to her breast and murmured. After a few moments, she stood and sat on the sofa next to her daughter, clutching her hands.
“I’m sorry to have startled you with such brusque language,” Baker said as gently as he could. “I should have not used the word ‘arrest’. We merely want to take you into custody to ask a few questions about Mr. Booth. You do know John Wilkes Booth, don’t you?”
“He was a friend of my son’s.”
“And where is your son?”
“He left last week.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
Anna breathed in deeply as though to add a comment, but her mother squeezed her hand.
“I said we don’t know where he is,” Mrs. Surratt said.
“Were there any other boarders who were friends with your son and Mr. Booth?” Baker asked.
“Louis Weichmann,” Anna replied.
“Everyone who lives here knows my son and Mr. Booth,” Mrs. Surratt added. “Mr. Weichmann actually is an employee of the Department of War. We offer rooms to people of all backgrounds, sir.”
“I would like to speak to him,” he said.
“Louis is out of town also,” Mrs. Surratt whispered.
“My, the house must feel empty.” Baker smiled, glancing at both women. “Do you ever seeing a young federal soldier with red hair visiting the boarding house?”
Mrs. Surratt and her daughter Anna looked down and shook their heads.
“Did Mr. Booth visit here often with your son?”
She lowered her eyelids briefly. “We—my daughter and I–have spoken to Booth a few times. He is a very famous actor, you know. Teen-aged girls like to talk to famous actors.”
Baker looked at Anna. “So you could tell me what Mr. Booth looked like, couldn’t you, Anna?”
Mrs. Surratt put her arm around her daughter’s shivering shoulder. “She is much too upset to answer your questions.” She paused. “Everyone knows what Mr. Booth looks like. As I said, he’s a very famous actor.”
“I don’t go to the theater,” Baker said without emotion. After a moment of silence, he continued, “I know he is of medium height, slender build with fair skin and dark eyes. Many men in Washington City share those same characteristics. Could you help me with anything that would be peculiar to Mr. Booth?”
Sighing and looking away, Mrs. Surratt replied, “He has his initials J.W.B. tattooed on his right hand.”
“Left hand,” Anna whispered, sniffing away her tears. “And he has a black scar, here.” She pointed to the right side of her neck. “He had a boil of some sort he cut out himself right before he went on stage. He’s very brave.”