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 the theater 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 act 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.
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 and 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 slightly 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 battered 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 cautiously approached him. He remembered meeting him 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 with food.
“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 from here. Just a few hundred yards.”
Herold looked up. “Water? I could go for some water.”
“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 the 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’s part. 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 a military attaché assigned to the Executive Mansion by the name of Adam Christy. He 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 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.”