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. Mudd sets his lef and sends him away.
Booth and Herold kept riding through the night, around the outskirts of Bairdstown where they heard muffled voices shouting out orders and the neighing of excited horses. They continued south until they came upon a sign for Rich Hill. Dawn was breaking as they entered the gate, carefully latching it behind them. As they had done at Surrattsville and at Doctor Mudd’s house, Booth stayed mounted on his horse as Herold went to the door and knocked.
“Who the hell is it?” a harsh male voice rang out.
“Soldiers loyal to the South,” Herold replied.
“What the hell do you want?”
“My brother fell off his horse and needs to rest.”
The door cracked, and a heavyset man with a bushy mustache peered out. “What the hell is that to me?”
“Doctor Mudd said you would be sympathetic.” Herold grinned and motioned to Booth. “Please, sir, my brother here is in an awful lot of pain. Can’t you give us shelter for a day or two?”
“Why didn’t Mudd take care of him?”
“He did. It’s just we’re hankering to get across the river back home to Virginia. Ma must be missing us something terrible.”
“So you figger you can talk about your ma and I’ll feel sorry for you and that fella you call your brother? As soon as I let you in my house you beat me up and take what you want.”
“Gosh, Mr. Cox,” Herold said as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Do I look like somebody who’d do a thing like that?”
“Hell yes. Never knew a baby-faced man who wasn’t a damned son of a bitch.”
Herold turned to look back at Booth and shook his head, his eyes pleading. Booth cursed under his breath. He did not want to swing down off his horse to keep Cox from slamming the door shut in their faces. He could feel the pain screaming up his leg already. Booth slid off the horse anyway.
“Sir,” he said, wincing as he limped toward the porch. “You must believe us. Have you no compassion for fellow sons of the south? We fought four long, hard years for your rights. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” Booth placed his right hand across his heart as though to swear to his sincerity.
Cox ambled closer to squint at him. He pointed to the tattoos on Booth’s fingers. “JWB. Those your initials?”
“Yes sir,” Booth replied. “How perceptive of you, sir.”
“I was in town today,” Cox said slowly, a smile verging on his lips. “I heard somebody killed the damn Yankee president.”
“Aww, gawd,” Herold moaned.
Booth shushed him and batted his eyes. “We heard the same thing, sir. God’s providence, I’d say.”
“It was an actor, they said. John Wilkes Booth.” Cox turned to spit off the porch. “You ain’t no soldier. And neither is that half-wit.” He nodded toward Herold.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Booth remonstrated.
“John Wilkes Booth. JWB. For God’s sake, man. You could at least wear some damn gloves.”
Booth grasped at the possibility hidden around Cox’s words. “Then you will help us, sir?”
“If you’re expecting me to let you in my house to rest a spell, hell no. But if what you really want is a ride across the Potomac to Virginia, then maybe I can do something. I know a man with a boat, a good boat. A river ghost. Ferried men and letters across the Potomac and never lost anything. Yankees caught him once, though. Ruined him. Took his land, money. He’ll do anything to get back at the damn Yankees.”
“God bless you, Mr. Cox,” Booth gushed.
“Better be asking God to protect you instead of bless me. The damn Yankees will shoot you on sight, and if they ask me anything about it, I’ll say I never saw you.” Cox walked to the end of his porch and waved toward the thickening underbrush of Zekiah Swamp to the west. “About a mile off there is a clearing. I was going to plant some tobacco there but never got around to it. Go there and wait.”
“So your man can take us to Virginia tomorrow night?” Booth asked.
“Hell, no. This is going to be tricky. It may take a few days. If I go running to Thomas Jones’ place and he disappears with his boat like that,” Cox explained, snapping his fingers, “the damn Yankees are sure to notice. Gotta take it slow.” He sniffed. “We’ll get food to you, somehow.” He paused and then whistled three times, one high and two low notes. “You hear that and you know somebody friendly is coming up. Can’t have you shooting the man bringing your supplies.”
“Newspapers,” Booth added. “I want to see newspapers and read what they have to say about me.”
“You are a damn actor, ain’t you?” Cox smirked. “Want to see your name in the headlines. Big man.”
By the time Booth and Herold rode their horses to the clearing, the sun was over the pine treetops. They tried to rest the best they could during the day. That lumpy bed back at Dr. Mudd’s home was luxurious by comparison.
Herold began a few conversations about what kinds of birds would make the noises they heard, but Booth ignored him. Booth had more important things to think about. Like his place in history. Or the pain in his leg. Or the gnawing emptiness in his stomach.
In the late afternoon, they heard whistling—one high and two low. Someone was coming.
“Sounds like a sick bluebird,” Herold whispered.
“Go see who it is.” Booth pulled up on his elbow and reached for his revolver.
Herold grabbed his rifle and walked slowly toward the sound. A large, burly man emerged from the thicket with a canvass haversack. Herold took aim. “Who are you and what do you want?”
“Thomas Jones. Cox sent me.”
“That’s all right. Come on here, real slow like.” Herold kept his rifle aimed at him.
“You can lower your rifle, Davey,” Booth assured his nervous companion. Booth put aside his own pistol and smiled at Jones who approached him, one slow step at a time. He remembered meeting Jones outside Mudd’s church before Christmas, and how the man made no secret of his dealing in contraband. “This is a good man. Dr. Mudd introduced us once. What do you have in your bag, sir?”
“Vittles and newspapers.” Jones put the haversack down by Booth and took a step back. “Mr. Cox said you wanted to see the newspapers.”
Herold loped over to peer into the bag. “Whatcha got? I’m hungry.”
“When do we leave for Virginia?” asked Booth, more anxious to get to the South than fill his empty stomach.
“I don’t know,” Jones replied. “Can’t look suspicious. Yankees know my sympathies. They’ll be keeping an eye on me. Might take a few days. Don’t worry. I’ll keep you in vittles. I’ll show your man here where a spring is. Not far. Just a few hundred yards.”
Herold looked up. “Water? I could go for some water.”