Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Stanton’s henchman Lafayette Baker takes Christy’s body to an embalmer. Booth and Herold escape across the river in Maryland. Walt Whitman takes Gabby to New York.
When the sun crept over the horizon on Saturday morning, Booth awoke to searing pain; nonetheless, his spirits soared. He shot the tyrant, and he was destined to be the hero of the South. Flinching, he reached down his leg to feel the brace Dr. Mudd placed on his fracture. If his good fortune continued, Booth would walk with perhaps only the slightest limp, nothing to impair him from returning to theaters in the South, Mexico or any other world stage he chose.
The Mudds had moved him to their finest room to recuperate after the doctor finished attending to his injury. It was not perhaps as grand a room as Booth, a great actor and political hero, deserved, but it was the best this country doctor could provide. It would do for the moment; better would come once his adoring public knew what marvelous things he had done. He was satisfied.
A knock at the bedroom door interrupted his thoughts. A black servant girl opened the door and entered with a tray of breakfast foods.
“Take it away. I am not hungry.” He stared out of the window, noticing the storm of last night had given way to sunshine. He waved his hand dismissively at the girl. “You may leave.”
“The missus said you needed to get some food in your belly, sir.”
Booth’s cold silence shooed her away with her tray of food. His gaze still fixed on the view of rural Maryland. Most of the time Booth felt obliged to treat inferiors with a modicum of congeniality, but the throbbing ache in his leg made the effort beyond his immediate interest. Close to noon, Herold came into the room, a big grin on his face. He plopped on the bed causing Booth to wince.
“Careful, Davey.”
“They don’t want to lend us their carriage because tomorrow is Easter. They want to ride to church in it. The doc, though, he said he’d ride with me into Bairdstown to see if we could find one there.”
“I need a razor, soap and a small bowl of warm water. I cannot be seen like this.”
Herold laughed. “If you get seen, it won’t make no difference if you got whiskers or not.” Booth glared at him. “I’m sure the doc has a spare razor around here someplace.”
“And crutches. I must have crutches. It’s going to be a long journey.”
“Oh, the doc’s already taken care of that. He’s got his man in the shed making you a pair right now.”
“Making them?” Booth’s eyebrows arched. “Surely, he has a finer pair in his office.”
“All I know is that he’s gonna get you some.” Herold stood, causing the bed to bounce again. “The doc is waiting for me to go into town.”
Booth wanted to impress on him the importance of keeping his identity a secret, but Herold was already out of the door.
Closing his eyes, he tried to sleep because he did not know when he would have the luxury of sleeping in a bed again.
Just as he was about to drift off another knock startled him awake, causing his leg to jerk. His face twisted into a grimace; he called for the intruder to enter. If it were the black girl again, he would unleash his greatest fury upon her. Booth fell back on the pillow when he saw that it was Mrs. Mudd with another tray of food.
“You must be famished by now,” she said with a gracious smile on her slightly wrinkled face.
“I’m sorry, dear lady, but my pain has taken away my appetite.” He paused. “You wouldn’t happen to have some bourbon, would you?”
“I don’t think my husband has any bourbon, but I am sure he has some whiskey.”
After she left, Booth closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Only a few minutes, as he supposed, had passed when he heard the front door slam downstairs and then feet stomping up the steps. Herold burst into the room, moving around with a nervous gait as he gathered Booth’s clothing, boots and saddlebag together.
“We gotta get out of here right now,” he mumbled. “The soldiers are all over town. Who knows when they’ll come riding up. I couldn’t get a carriage. Damn Easter.”
“Dr. Mudd told them?” Booth swung his legs off the bed.
“No. Least ways, not in front of me. Maybe he don’t even realize it’s us.” Herold brought his boots to him. “I don’t know if we can get the split boot on you.”
“Is Dr. Mudd with you?”
Herold shook his head. “He stayed in town. I couldn’t tell if he was mad or scared or anything. You know those proper Southern gentlemen. You never can figure out what they’re thinking.”
“What time is it?” Booth clinched his teeth as the boots came on.
“A little after three.”
“We can’t leave until dark. Nobody must see us.”
“They’ll see us all right, if those soldiers come marching down that road anytime soon.”
Booth limped over to the window to peer out. “I want to talk to Dr. Mudd before we leave. I must know if he will inform on us.”
After he dressed, he waited in the room with Herold, continuing to look through the curtains for any sign of someone coming down the road. Herold left him briefly to get the crutches from the man in the shed, returning with a serviceable, if roughly hewn, semblance of crutches. They would have to do. He could get better later, once he made it to the South.
Just after the sun set Booth saw a figure riding toward the house. When the man dismounted and hitched his horse to the post, the actor saw that it was Dr. Mudd. Within minutes, he heard a door slam, excited voices and then the heavy tromp of boots up the stairs. The door flew open.
“Why are you still here?” the doctor demanded.
Booth saw anger in his eyes. “We had to wait until darkness.”
“Of course you thought that. You didn’t want the federal troops to find you!”
“I’m glad you understand.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you had assassinated the President? Do you realize what peril you have placed my family in? I have been seen in your company at church and in Washington City. I cannot deny that I know you!”
“Then the tyrant is dead?” Booth stepped forward, thrusting his fist into the air.
“Of course he’s dead. You put a bullet in his brain!” Mudd went to the window, squinting as the shadows grew across the countryside. “Your presence here is untenable. Leave my house immediately. Never tell anyone who attended to your leg. Do you understand me?”
“You betcha, doc,” Herold replied amiably as he gathered their possessions and pulled on Booth’s arm toward the door, fumbling with the homemade crutches.
As they went down the stairs, Mudd whispered into Booth’s ear, “You have to circle around Bairdstown and then ride south to the Zekiah Swamp. A farmer Samuel Cox is sympathetic to the cause. His place is called Rich Hill. He has a large sign over the gate to his property. You can make it there before the night is over. Now mount your horses and go!”
Outside, Mudd’s man had the two horses ready for them.
“The best I can do for you now is to promise to stay home and silent until the federal troops arrive. I will tell them I treated the broken leg of a stranger.”
“I appreciate your help, dear friend.” Booth leaned down and extended his hand.
“I am not your dear friend.” Mudd turned abruptly and went into his house.