Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Nine

Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Baker saves Booth’s life at Garrett’s farm. Booth sneaks away to Richmond, where he tricks a widow into caring for him. Lincoln’s friend Lamon interviews Mrs. Surratt in prison.
The guard appeared and unlocked the door, letting Lamon out. He turned and led Lincoln’s friend down the hall to the cell which held Samuel Arnold, a slender young man sitting in a corner with a canvas hood over his head.
The sight startled Lamon, and he took a step back to whisper to the guard, “Why does he have a hood on his head?”
“All of them have hoods,” the guard replied brusquely. “It’s what they deserve.”
“Mrs. Surratt didn’t wear a hood,” Lamon said.
“Oh. She’s a woman,” the officer explained. “I guess there are benefits to being a woman, even a woman guilty as hell.”
When the guard unlocked the door, Arnold’s head came up. As Lamon spoke to him he realized that here was an educated young man, somewhat astonished at his situation but not particularly unsettled by it either.
The hood obscured Arnold’s facial expressions, but a large hole at the mouth allowed the inmate to eat, drink and speak clearly. The tone of Arnold’s voice told Lamon that he genuinely did not know anything specific about Edwin Stanton or Lafayette Baker other than what he had read about them in the newspapers. The same was true of the suspect in the next cell Michael O’Laughlin. Both of them admitted they knew Booth and had agreed to participate in a kidnapping of the president but they withdrew when the plan changed to assassination. Edmund Spangler, in the next cell, knew even less than Booth’s two friends. The only thing Spangler admitted was holding the stage door for Booth. That was the same courtesy he would do for any actor, for a price.
After Spangler, Lamon visited with Dr. Samuel Mudd who sat erect, with his back against the wall. Lamon introduced himself and took Mudd’s hand to shake. The doctor’s grip was quite strong.
“I can help you,” Lamon kneeled next to Mudd and whispered in as agreeable a voice as he could manage. “I know you must not think very highly of us Yankees, but please believe I want to help.”
“Of course. You have to have more honor than that little shit,” Mudd replied in a calm voice.
“I beg your pardon?” He was not expecting that sort of response.
“The little shit. That damned actor whose leg I set. My life is over because I did my job.”
Lamon sensed the doctor was rehearsing his defense as Mrs. Surratt had done, but he chose not to confront Mudd with his assumption.
“Yes, that is an injustice.” He paused. “There are so many others who are guilty of much more than you and they will go free.”
“What?”
“The other conspirators.”
“They won’t let the half-wit go free,” Mudd said.
“No, I don’t mean him. The others. The ones really responsible.” Lamon held his breath, hoping the doctor would take his bait.
Mudd shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The short man with red hair.”
“What man with red hair?” He spat in exasperation. “Who did you say you were? What are you talking about?”
“I must be mistaken. I won’t take up any more of your time.” Lamon stood to leave.
“If you’re from a damn newspaper,” Mudd hissed, “I’ll kill you if I ever get out of here.”
Lamon felt his neck burn red with embarrassment as he rapped on the cell bars. The guard next escorted him to the cell of George Atzerodt. As the guard unlocked the door, Lamon decided he wanted to avoid the same mistake he made with Mudd when he spoke to this prisoner.
Of all the men, Atzerodt reeked most of alcohol. His clothing seemingly was soaked in it. Like the other men he had talked to so far, his face was concealed by a canvas hood.
“Do you know who Lafayette Baker is?” Lamon asked.
“Verdammt, er ist grob.”
“What?”
“Der man, he vas bigger dan dey say. I—I couldn’t do it.” Atzerodt’s thick German accent muddled his mumblings to the point of indiscernibility.
“They say?” Lamon was not sure he had understood him correctly. “You said they say? Who were they?”
“Verdammt, er ist grob.”
Realizing he was not going to extract any more information out of Atzerodt, Lamon told the guard he was ready to move on to the next cell which confined David Herold. Even as the guard unlocked the door, Lamon could hear Herold’s mumblings and cries. Lincoln’s friend stopped abruptly as he entered, his nostrils flaring with the smell of the suspect’s urine and feces. Herold’s hood was dripping with saliva as he constantly chewed on it.
“Mr. Herold,” Lamon said, trying to be as soothing as possible, “is anything wrong? Anything I can help you with?”
“I want my mama and my sisters,” he said between the sobs. “They always know how to make me happy. They won’t let them take me home. Why won’t they let Mama take me home?”
“Maybe after the trial.” Lamon kneeled beside him and tried to pat Herold’s shoulder but he lurched away.
“Don’t hurt me! Don’t you dare hurt me!”
Lamon waited a moment, hoping the young man would calm down. His sobs softened, but he continued to chew on the canvas. Lamon looked down between Herold’s legs and watched his urine soak his pants again.
“What can you tell me about the short man with red hair?”
Herold jerked his head in Lamon’s direction. “The man with red hair?”
“You must remember him. You and the others met him under the bridge right before your friend Wilkes Booth killed the president. You remember. He had a special way of tapping his foot.”
“Who are you? Do you have red hair? Are you him? You here to kill me?”
“My name is Ward Hill Lamon, a federal marshal. I’m not here to kill you.”
“You got red hair?”
“No, I have dark brown hair. I’m over six feet tall, almost as tall as the president.”
Herold cocked his head. “Say something else.”
“Ring around the rosey, pocket full of poseys, ashes, ashes we all fall—“
“No, you don’t sound like him. The red-haired man smelled like cigars.” He leaned in to smell Lamon. “You smell like piss.”
The marshal did not want to confront him with the fact that the hood prevented him from smelling anything beyond his own body. He smelled his own urine. Herold seemed to be on the verge of trusting him. “I apologize for that.” He paused. “Did the red-haired man say who he was working for?”
“No. He just said we had to get even. The damn Yankees took our country away from us, and we had to get even.” Herold bowed his hooded head. “He wasn’t a nice man. He called me an idiot. I’m not an idiot. I work for a pharmacy and deliver medicine. You have to be smart to deliver medicine.”
“Of course, you’re smart. Anybody can tell that.” Lamon chuckled softly. “So who put him in charge?”
“He put himself in charge. And Mr. Booth, he didn’t like that one bit. Wilkes told the man he wasn’t no gentleman for sure and then Mr. Booth asked the red-haired man who the hell was he goin’ to kill, and the red-haired man said he was going to kill Secretary of War Stanton.”
“You know Stanton is still alive. Nobody tried to kill him.”
“I knew he was a coward. Most fellas who talk the most can’t do nothin’.”
“Have you told anyone this story?”
“Sure, I tell it to everybody I can, but it don’t do no good. They all think I’m crazy.”
“Of course, you’re not crazy. Are you going to tell your story in court?”
“Hell no. That’ll show the judges that I knew something was going on.”
“You were caught in the tobacco barn with Booth. They already know you knew what was going on.”
“Oh God! That’s right! What am I goin’ to do!”
“Maybe I can help you.” Lamon was willing to promise Herold anything to get his cooperation.
Herold started crying and chewing on the hood again. “I want my Mama! I want my sisters! I don’t want to die! I wanna go home!”

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