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 where they hide in the Zekiah Swamp.
Yes, Mr. Jones, show Davey the spring. I’ll look at the newspapers.” After Herold grabbed his canteen from his saddlebags, he disappeared with Jones into the thicket. Booth rummaged through the haversack and found the bundle of newspapers. He hungrily grabbed them and began reading headlines on the front pages. What he read stunned him. His eyes wide with bewilderment and his lips trembling, Booth fumbled with each newspaper, each one with the same message.
Somehow, the loathsome tyrant had transformed into the savior of his nation, and Booth had become the cowardly murderer, cringing in the shadows of the theater box, daring only to shoot the newly anointed saint in the back of the head.
The Washington newspapers reported that the Southern press also scorned the assassination. The South held higher ideals, the stories said, than to shoot a man from behind. Booth, according to the land he so loved, sullied the honor of true heroes who sacrificed all on the battlefield.
Clinching his jaw, Booth reached into his own saddlebag to find a datebook he had purchased in 1864. Flipping through it, he found he had left several pages blank. Booth took out a pencil and began scribbling his defense. He was not a weakling. He had paced forward with manly fervor across the theater box, knowing Union officers and supporters filled the house. He even faced down a major in the President’s box, slashing his arm and leaving him crumpled on the floor whimpering. And Booth insisted he shouted, “Sic semper tyrannis” before he shot, not afterwards as the newspaper accounts claimed. Saying the Virginia motto before the shot proved he was a hero and not a coward. He rode hours in pain from his broken leg. Were these the actions of a coward? Booth put aside his datebook when he heard Herold and Jones returning from the springs. For now, he would keep his thoughts private.
“That spring water tasted mighty good,” Herold said with a smile. He extended his canteen. “Want some?”
“Yes, thank you,” Booth replied, reaching for the canteen. He tried not to slurp or dribble too much. He didn’t want Jones to think he was a barbarian.
“I better be moving on,” Jones announced as he walked back to the thicket. “Don’t want nobody to get suspicious. Be back tomorrow with more vittles and newspapers.” He turned to smile. “Now, don’t start making any commotions, you hear?”
Booth and Herold heard him chuckling as Jones disappeared among the trees.
“Anything good in the newspapers?” Herold asked as he plopped on the ground and began munching on a load of bread from the haversack.
“Anything good?” Booth answered in reproof. “All of the North is looking for us. Does that sound good to you?”
“Oh.” He stopped in mid-chew. “Well, the papers from the South must be on our side.”
“No, they are not,” Booth said slowly. He picked up another newspaper and scanned it. “I see Secretary of State Seward survived Paine’s attack. Most unfortunate.”
“Well, it wasn’t on account of lack of effort by Paine. He had blood all over him,” he interrupted.
“And Vice-President Johnson lives. I would have suspected as much from Atzerodt. Cretin! Secretary of War Stanton is still alive. The man with the cigar under the bridge said he would kill Stanton.”
Herold shrugged. “Maybe he chickened out like Atzerodt.”
“No, that man was no coward. He was no gentleman, either, but he was no coward.” Booth paused. “I wonder if he never had an intention of killing Stanton.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. All I do know is that man seemed to have a master plan that included us in the execution but excluded us from the ultimate goal.”
“What goal was that?”
Booth exhaled in exasperation. “Davey, please. I have suspicions. I have no facts, yet. Just my suspicions.”
The next day Booth filled eighteen pages with his suspicions about the shadowy short man with the cigar under the Aqueduct Bridge who had been brought into the conspiracy by Pvt. Adam Christy,military attaché assigned to the Executive Mansion. Booth defended his own actions as arising from deep-seated passions for the South and against the man who had destroyed the South’s efforts to be free. He made the decision without outside encouragement to assassinate the president. Case closed. Still lingering, however, were niggling doubts that the mysterious man was trying to guide him and his men into the same action but for different reasons.
In late afternoon, they once again heard whistling, one high and two low. Jones had returned. This time he entered the clearing boldly and tossed the haversack of food to Herold and the newspapers to Booth. Looking over at the horses, he nodded.
“You don’t expect to take those horses across the Potomac to Virginia with you? My boat ain’t that big.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Herold replied, his eyes widening. “I guess we could just turn them loose.”
“Oh, the damn Yankees would like that,” Jones said with a smirk. “That’s just the kind of present they’d really like, just like it was Christmas morning.”
Booth did not glance up from reading the headlines. “And what would you suggest, sir?”
“I’d shoot them and sink them in the swamp.”
Herold’s mouth dropped open. “Couldn’t you take them with you?”
“And when it got around town that I had two extra horses, don’t you think the damn Yankees would be on my doorstep asking questions? I’ll help you boys escape, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to die for you.”
“Thank you for your advice, Mr. Jones. We appreciate the food and newspapers, and anticipate with great joy the day we may cross the river in your boat,” Booth said.
Jones turned to leave and spoke again over his shoulder. “You better make up your mind about what to do with the horses real soon.”
Herold went over to his roan and petted it, causing the horse to whinny and jostle about.
Jones laughed. “Yeah, the damn Yankees are all around here. They’re going to hear that horse.” He disappeared in the underbrush.
Herold stumbled toward Booth who was looking through the second newspaper.
“My letter hasn’t been printed in any of the papers,” he said with exasperation.
“You don’t think he was serious about shooting the horses, was he?”
“Matthews didn’t keep his word and deliver the letter.” Booth threw the newspapers aside. “I always knew he was a coward.”
“We ain’t really going to have to shoot the horses, are we?”
“Of course, we are. Right now. Get the rifle.”
Herold backed up. “No, no. Not the roan. I don’t mind shooting the bay mare. It’s kinda mean, but the roan is so gentle. Maybe we could just let the roan go. One horse by itself won’t draw no attention.”
Booth struggled to his feet on his crutches. “I said get the rifle,” he ordered.
“All right. I’ll shoot the bay mare.” The rifle was propped up against the tree. Herold picked it up and straight away led the mare a few hundred yards to the swamp, sloshed into the middle and shot the bay, which slowly began to sink into the mire. The roan whinnied and reared. Herold hurried back to the clearing and went toward the horse and waving his hands. “Shoo. Shoo now. Get out of here.”
The horse came toward him and nuzzled his shoulder.
“You see,” Booth said as he hobbled toward him. “That horse will not wander off on its own. If you did scare it momentarily, it would return. And the federals would be following it. Shoot it now.”
Herold began sobbing, laying his head against the horse. “But it’s such a sweet horse. All the times I rode it, it never gave me any trouble at all.”
Booth now stood next to him, leaning in to yell. “Kill the damn horse! You damned coward! Just like John Matthews! He was too big a coward to take my letter to the papers and you’re too big a coward to shoot the horse!”
“No, no, it’ll be good and go away and make no trouble.” Herold pushed at the horse. “Shoo, shoo.”
“Shoot the damn horse!” Booth balanced on one crutch, using the other one to hit Herold, until he finally started to lead the roan toward the swamp where the bay was almost beneath the muddy water. Booth stopped at the edge and screamed at Herold. “Now shoot the damn horse!”
Herold’s shoulders trembled as he finally raised the rifle, took aim and pulled the trigger. He fell on top of the roan, crying and caressing its coat as it began to sink as the bay mare did.
“Get up before you get all muddy,” Booth ordered as he turned to hobble back to the tree where he collapsed, closing his eyes to shut out the sound of Herold’s simpering as he splashed out of the swamp.
Neither of the men spoke to each other except for the most essential communications for the next few days as they waited for Jones to announce it was safe for them to cross the Potomac. After five long days, the night finally arrived for their departure. Jones allowed Booth to ride his horse and he and Herold walked the three miles from their camp to the riverbank. There they saw the small boat, which was all but invisible in the heavy fog.
“That’s not big enough for three men,” Booth said as he dismounted.
“That’s because only two men are going to be in it,” Jones replied. “Here’s a compass and a candle. The oars are in the boat along with a canvas. You can hide under the canvas and read the compass by candle light. Your man can paddle.”
“I thought you were going to take us across,” Booth said.
“No, I agreed to see that you got across,” Jones corrected him brusquely. “The river is filled with gunboats and all sorts of craft filled with men out to capture you. If I was in the boat when they caught you I’d be strung up right alongside you, and that’s the God’s honest truth. Now get going.”
“What if we get lost?” Herold asked in a weak voice.
“Then that’s your problem.” Jones turned, mounted his horse and disappeared into the misty darkness.
Herold helped Booth into the boat and pushed off. From under the canvas, Booth lit the candle and peered at the compass. “Due west,” he whispered. “Straight ahead, toward Virginia. By morning we shall be safe among friends.”