Rain pelted Booth’s back as he rode his bay mare quickly and boldly down Tenth Street away from Ford’s Theater. Few people were out in Washington City at this hour. They did not know the tyrant had been struck down. Booth’s mind raced with details of the day. Invigorated by his success, he was still unaware of the pain in his broken leg. He wondered if David Herold would have the sense to meet him on the other side of the Navy Yard Bridge over the East Branch of the Potomac River, commonly known as the Anacostia. Herold should be there soon. His family lived in a small house on the other side of the Navy Yard, considered to be the worst neighborhood in city. A bad place to be caught alone after dark. Booth arrived at the bridge sentry post.
“Stop,” the guard said.
In his mind, Booth composed a scenario that he was a gentleman of leisure on a late night ride to his home in the country. The sentry was only doing his job, and one must not be too concerned with the obligations of the working class.
The guard walked up, held up a lantern and squinted through the raindrops at Booth. “Where are you going, sir?”
“I’m going home, down in Charles County.”
“Where in Charles County?”
“I don’t live in any town. I live close to Beantown.”
“Beantown? Never heard of that.”
“Good God, man, then you never went down there.”
“Do you know it’s illegal to cross the bridge after 9 p.m.?”
“What time is it now?” Booth asked.
Fumbling with his pocket watch, the sentry held it close to the lantern. “It’s 11:40, a good two hours past the curfew. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of the curfew.”
“No, I haven’t been in town for some time so it’s new to me.”
“Why are you out so late?”
“It’s a dark road, and I thought if I waited a spell the rain would let up and the moon would shine through parted clouds. Well, when the rain persisted, I decided I would have to muddle through.” Booth watched the sentry look up in the sky where the moon ought to be on a clear night at this time, just clearing the tree line.
“I’ll pass you but I don’t know as I ought to.”
“Hell, I guess there’ll be no trouble about that.”
Booth rode about a mile after crossing the bridge and stopped to wait for Herold. Only a few moments passed until he saw a rider hunched over his horse coming down the road. Only David Herold slumped over his horse like that. Booth was relieved to see him. When Herold pulled up, Booth saw he was astride a roan. He always rode that particular horse. It was gentle and easy to control. Their other friends teased Herold about riding a woman’s horse, but it was his favorite and he was unconcerned about their joshing. Booth was relieved to see him, though he could tell Herold was nervous. He had an uncharacteristic twitch as he sat in the saddle.
“Davey, what took you so long?”
“I didn’t think that guard was going to let me through, Mr. Booth. Did you know it’s illegal to cross the bridge after 9:00? I didn’t know that. He asked me why I was out so late, and I had to make up something real fast. I don’t usually think that fast, but a story popped in my head that was sure to stop him cold in his tracks. I told him I couldn’t very well get there any sooner because I visited a Capitol Hill whorehouse and it took me a while before I could get off.” Herold paused to laugh. “Bet he never heard an excuse like that before, because he let me on through.”
“Did Paine kill Seward?” Booth interrupted. “Is the man dead?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“When Tommy came out he was all upset and screaming, ‘I’m mad!’ ‘I’m mad!’ It took me a while to calm him down. Tommy was covered in blood. He said he had to stab a lot of people to get to the old man. A leather brace was around his neck.”
“Who had something around his neck, Davey?” Booth could not abide by Herold’s babbling.
“Seward. He had something around his neck.”
“That’s right,” Booth muttered. “I read in the newspaper he had been in a carriage accident and injured his neck. Why didn’t Paine stab the chest?”
“Hell, I don’t know, Mr. Booth. I didn’t go inside with him. Tommy said he stabbed and stabbed but didn’t know if he killed the old man or not. He said there was a lot of blood everywhere.”
“Damn.”
“I couldn’t control him. He was pushing me away, trying to run down the street. He wouldn’t get on his horse. I had to let it go. Tommy ran off in the dark. I could still hear his voice. He really sounded crazy.”
By now, Booth began to feel throbbing pain in his leg. “Let’s move along. People will start looking for us soon.” He nudged his bay mare, which began a slow trot down the road.
“Looking for us? How will they know to look for us?” Herold asked as he followed.
“Everyone saw me leap to the stage, Davey. They know who I am.”
“But how will they know about me, Mr. Booth? I’m just a helper in a pharmacy. Nobody knows me.”
“They will know who all of us are by tomorrow morning.” Booth told Herold how he had written a note and handed it to an erstwhile friend John Matthews, another actor at Ford’s Theater.
“Why would you give him a note? I didn’t think you liked him.”
Booth did not like Matthews after he was unable to convince him to join their plot to kidnap Lincoln. He remembered that Matthews even had the gall to talk back to him one time when he was pontificating against equal rights for Negroes.
“If you pushed a nigger off the sidewalk and he pushed back, you could not shoot him,” Booth said, fuming.
“Then don’t push any niggers,” Matthews replied.
After that incident, Booth decided Matthews was a coward and unfit to live. His opinion of the man sunk even lower when Matthews gave him a bottle of whiskey as a sign of reconciliation. Booth accepted the gift and even visited Matthews at his boardinghouse around the corner from Ford’s Theater. He stretched out on the actor’s bed and promised to come see his next performance. Then he handed him the note to turn in to the National Intelligencer, a city newspaper openly hostile to Lincoln.
“What was in the note?” Herold’s voice quaked.
“It’s a statement of our allegiance to the South. I said many will blame us but posterity, we are sure, will justify us. And I signed it, “Men who love their country better than gold or life.”
“We, you said?”
“Yes, I signed it John W. Booth, Paine, Herold and Atzerodt.”
“Oh my God, everyone will know.”
“And will bless us for it.”
“Mr. Booth, I just went to my house on the other side of the Navy Yard to say good-bye. My sisters hugged me, but Mama wouldn’t even look at me. My God, Mr. Booth, what have we done?”
Booth winced with each jog of the horse. “Once we get into the countryside you will feel differently. They will welcome us as heroes. Everyone in the South hates Lincoln. They will praise me for killing him.”
“I don’t know. Mama looked awful disappointed in me. She—she always said I was her favorite. I was the only boy out of a family of eight girls. I had two brothers but they died young. She and my sisters always protected me. Maybe I should go back home and beg Mama to forgive me. She’ll take care of me. Would it make you too angry if I went to Mama’s house, Mr. Booth?”
He pulled up on the bridle and looked back at Herold. “I picked every man for this special mission. Do you know why I chose you?”
“Because I know about medicine?”
“Yes, Davey, you know medicine. The time I had the knot on my neck and cut it out, you brought the medicine.” He patted his swollen leg. “I broke my leg in the leap to the stage tonight. I need you to get me the right medicine, Davey. I also chose you because you said you used to hunt in the woods of southern Maryland. You know the way to the Potomac so we can cross into Virginia. So why would I want my guide to leave me before we get to the river?”
“But I’m so scared, Mr. Booth. I need Mama.”
“Do you know why I gave that note to John Matthews, Davey? Out of all the people I know in Washington City, do you know why I chose him?”
“No, sir, Mr. Booth.”
“Because when he delivers that note to the newspaper, everyone will think he was in on our plot, and he will hang. Nobody refuses to do what I want them to do. Do you understand that, Davey?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My leg is killing me. Switch horses. That roan is gentler. Then get me to a doctor.”
“Mr. Booth, sir, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, sir, but didn’t you say we had to drop by Mrs. Surratt’s tavern first, to pick up some things?”
“Of course we have to go to the tavern first, Davey,” he replied, trying to sound impatient with Herold’s incompetency through the increasing pain. “I thought you would have known that. Also, I told you those things were two carbines, shells and my field glasses.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get off that horse.”
Booth dismounted his bay mare with difficulty and slid onto the roan as smoothly as possible. He still grunted in agony. The bay mare reared as Herold got on him, and it took him a few minutes to get it under control.
They rode silently in the rain as Booth thought of what Herold had said about his family. He said he was his mother’s favorite. Booth was his mother’s favorite also among her ten children. Four of them died of cholera. When the attractive and winsome John came along, his mother Mary Ann protected him from the hard realities of life. Despite his mother’s adoration, Booth grew up to realize he would never be a great actor, like his father Junius or even as good as his brothers Junius Jr. and Edwin. Instead, he vowed to become the most beloved actor in the South, and he achieved his goal. All the belles giggled and fluttered their fans flirtatiously when he strode into the theater. They would appreciate him even more now, Booth smiled to himself through his pain.
Along the way, he took up the political views of the South, which did not set well with his brothers. His father, out of avowed principle, never owned slaves but still rented them from his neighbors.
Booth’s father died when the boy was fourteen, passing the family theatrical legacy to his children. The brothers often acted together, but Junius Junior and Edwin were ardent abolitionists, surpassing their father’s position. When the family gathered for dinner Booth kept his opinions to himself out of respect for his mother. Political fights always ruined conviviality around the table.
“What do you think your ma will think when she hears you shot the President?” Herold broke into Booth’s reverie.
“My mother will know I did what was necessary for my Country.” He did not care what his brothers, the misguided ideologues, thought. His sister Asia, however, was devoted to him. He knew she would defend him. His mother and sister always knew he was someone special. No matter what he did, he would be special in their eyes.
Through the trees, he saw the two-story frame house with a wide porch. Booth could not bear the pain to get down off the horse.
John Lloyd, the Surratt tavern keeper, walked out tipsily to greet them.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” Lloyd shouted.
“He’s drunk,” Booth whispered as he leaned over to Herold. “Go inside and get the guns Mrs. Surratt has left for us. Get the things as quickly as possible.”
“Would you like a shot of whiskey?” Lloyd asked.
“Oh yes,” Herold replied.
“No,” Booth corrected his partner. He winced at the throbbing and changed his mind. “Get a bottle to take with us. But hurry.”
In a few minutes, Herold and Lloyd came out of the tavern. Herold strapped the carbines, ammunition and field glasses, wrapped in brown paper, on the back of the roan. He then put the bottle of whiskey in the saddlebag. Finally he mounted the bay mare.
“He’ll tell you some news if you want to hear it,” Herold said as he tried to steady his horse.
“I’m not particular. You can tell me if you think it proper,” Lloyd replied.
“I assassinated the president,” Booth said.
“And we may have killed Secretary Seward too,” Herold bragged.
“May have?” Lloyd asked with a snort. After a pause, he slapped his beefy hand against his head. “You mean this is what all these shenanigans are about?”
“We stabbed him a lot,” Herold replied. “We don’t know for sure if he died. We didn’t stay around that long to find out.”
“You got me roped into a murder plot? Dammit! Well, keep my name out of it. And you better pay me for the whiskey too!”
Herold pulled out a coin and tossed it to the tavern keeper.
“Now get the hell out of here. And remember, you don’t even know my name. Get it?” Lloyd hissed as he caught the coin in mid-air. He turned back to the tavern.
Another hot spasm shot up Booth’s leg. “We must get to a doctor somewhere.”
“I don’t know of any around here. Last doctor I knew died last winter.” Lloyd shouted over his shoulder before he entered the house and slammed the door.
“You said all these people were going to treat us like heroes,” Herold said.
“He’s a drunk. Drunks don’t count. We’ve got to find a doctor.”
As they turned their horses south on the road through Charles County, Booth found the pain to be unbearable. The exhilaration of the evening had finally ebbed away. He always prided himself on his ability to endure pain. Once he took a pocketknife and cut a cyst out of his neck in the dressing room right before a performance. He ignored the anguish and went on stage, remembering all his lines and performing all his acrobatic stunts. But this time he could not disregard the suffering. He needed medical help.
After a few more miles Booth began to recognize the landscape. They passed through Bryantown and a mile down was St. Mary’s Catholic Church. He attended mass there back in December while on a search for some real estate. Someone told him Dr. Samuel Mudd had several acres that he might be willing to sell. After mass, Booth introduced himself on the church lawn. He could tell by the doctor’s manner that Mudd found him charismatic.
“So what do you say?” Booth remembered saying with a smile. “How much for a few acres?”
“Oh, land’s way too cheap now that the damn Yankees ended slavery,” Mudd told him, “so I’m not selling to anybody right now.”
“Well, I’m also looking for a horse.”
“Don’t have any,” Mudd replied. He motioned to a large burly man who was just walking down the church steps. “There’s my neighbor. He’s always looking to sell a horse.”
The doctor introduced them and told his neighbor Booth wanted to buy a horse.
“Oh yeah, I got a nice little brown saddle horse that would be perfect for you. Good price too.” The big man paused to look Booth over. “You ain’t a damned Yankee, are you? You talk like a damn Yankee.”
“Hell, no. I’m a Confederate through and through,” Booth replied. “I’m an actor. That’s why I talk the way I do.”
“That’s good, ‘cause I hate those damn Yankees.”
“Who with any common sense doesn’t hate Yankees?” Booth practiced his charm with a light laugh.
The man looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “I send stuff across the Potomac all the time. You know, contraband.”
“God bless you, sir.”
“If you don’t mind,” Mudd interrupted, “my wife is waiting in the carriage. I’m sure you two gentlemen can conclude your business without me.”
After Mudd walked away, the man leaned into Booth and whispered, “Sam’s a good man but he ain’t got the guts to be a good rebel.”
“I see,” Booth replied, nodding. “But, evidently, you do.”
“Damn right. I wait until dark of the moon, then I row my boat down at Nanjemoy Creek, across the Potomac and land at Matthias Point in Virginia.”
“Very interesting,” Booth said, stroking his square jaw. “Very valuable information.”
Later in December, Booth walked down a Washington street when he saw Mudd staring into a shop window. He called out to him. As he approached the doctor, Booth noticed a slight frown cross the doctor’s face before he smiled and extended his hand.
“What a pleasant surprise, Dr. Mudd,” Booth said, unctuously.
“Yes, I’m in town for some Christmas shopping for my wife. Well, it was a pleasure meeting you again, but I don’t want to take up any more of your valuable time—“
“Do you know John Surratt?” he interrupted.
“Yes, I do. Why do you ask?
‘I’m still interested in buying some land, and the Surratts are known for being major landholders.” Booth failed to mention that Surratt was part of the Confederate underground.
“His mother’s boardinghouse is just a few blocks over from here,” Mudd said. “Let me give you directions so I can be on my way, if you don’t mind.”
“That would be kind of you, sir.” Booth looked over Mudd’s shoulder down the street and saw two well-dressed young men walking toward them. “If I’m not mistaken, isn’t that Mr. Surratt behind you?”
Mudd turned to look, blanched a moment then smiled wanly. “Yes, it is. He looks as though he is on his way to an appointment. Perhaps we shouldn’t interrupt.”
“I think you overstate his demeanor,” Booth replied with an insistence in his tone. “Please introduce us.”
As the two young men came closer, Mudd called out to Surratt who smiled and approached them with his hand outstretched. “Dr. Mudd, what a pleasant surprise.” He glanced at Booth. “And who is this? Please introduce us.” Upon hearing Booth’s name, Surratt beamed. “This is also a pleasure. I think we share many friends.”
Booth detected an emphasis on the word friends and nodded in agreement. Surratt was known among Southern sympathizers in Washington as a man well acquainted with the Richmond countryside, valuable knowledge for anyone who considered kidnapping the president and holding him in the rebel capital.
“And let me introduce my long-time friend Louis Weichmann. We went to school together and now he lives at my mother’s boarding house.”
As Booth shook Weichmann’s hand he noticed the unusual stripes on his blue trousers. “Those pants you wear, Mr. Weichmann, look like a uniform.”
“As they should,” Weichmann replied with a smile. “I work at the war department for William Hoffman, the Commissary General of Prisoners.”
Booth stiffened. “Oh, I didn’t realize we were in the presence of one of President Lincoln’s minions.”
“Hardly a minion, sir,” Weichmann said with a laugh. “I take my salary from the Union government but my sympathies are entirely with the South. I have no doubt the Confederacy will flourish—“
“You might want to be careful with your words, young man,” Mudd warned, his eyes darting about the street. “You don’t know who might be passing by, picking up words here and there.”
“Then we must continue our conversation at my hotel,” Booth offered. “I serve only the best whisky.”
“That sounds grand, don’t you think, Louis?” Surratt said.
“Mighty grand,” Weichmann replied.
“Then I suggest you young people enjoy each other’s company,” Mudd interjected. “I must be on my way.”
As the rain slackened on the Bryantown road Booth looked for the sign to Mudd’s house. Within a few moments, he saw it: “Samuel Mudd, M.D.” After they reached the house, Booth hesitated, remembering Mudd’s eagerness to distance himself from Booth, Surratt and Weichmann on the Washington street at Christmas. Perhaps he would not be so pleased to see him again. Booth tapped Herold on the shoulder.
“I’ll wait here while you go to the door. Don’t tell him who I am.” Booth paused. “Tell him I fell off my horse and hurt my leg.”
He watched as Herold banged on the door until the doctor opened it, hurriedly pulling a coat over his shoulders. Herold pointed at him, and Mudd motioned to him to come in. As Booth hobbled toward the door, he kept his head down. As much as he thought he would be welcomed as the hero who shot and killed the tyrant Abraham Lincoln, Booth was not entirely certain, not even with Dr. Mudd.