As Booth rode down the dusty lane toward Bowling Green, his mind blazed with thoughts about the short, stocky officer who just saved his life, the very same man who had been part of his conspiracy to assassinate the president, vice-president and two cabinet officers. Why had the man not kept his promise to kill Stanton? And who was the body he dragged into the barn? The light was so dim Booth was not able to make to see much, but his curiosity was aflame.
Night’s silence broke when he approached the main street of Bowling Green, illuminated by scores of torches. A throng of Union soldiers gathered in front of the hotel. On the porch stood a middle-aged couple and a teen-aged girl.
“Who goes there!” a voice called out.
Without a hesitation, he replied in a New England accent, “One of Father Abraham’s loyal sons.” Booth prided himself on his ability to mimic every dialect used on the Eastern Seaboard, a useful talent for an actor.
A federal officer strode into the middle of the road, raising his lantern. Booth slowed his horse to a trot and then to a halt, leaned down into the officer’s light and offered a snappy salute.
“Who are you, son?” the officer asked, his tone becoming softer.
“I’m with the unit that was after the assassin, sir,” he lied.
“So you’re one of Lt. Baker’s men?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
Tossing a glance toward the hotel porch, the officer lowered his voice to inform Booth, “The owners of this here hotel say they don’t know where Baker’s group went. They say Baker roused them out of a good sleep about 11 p.m. and forced them to tell where a Willie Jett was.”
“Willie Jett?” Booth blurted out the name of the boy who had deposited them at Garrett’s farm two days earlier. Biting his lip, he shook his head. “Never heard of a Willie Jett before.”
“Well, he’s the one who knew where the assassin was.”
“I knew Lt. Baker and the others came out of the hotel with this lad but I never did catch his name. So his name is Willie Jett.” In his mind, Booth cursed Jett for betraying him, vowing to take his revenge against the double-dealing informant one day.
“So did you men capture Booth and Herold?”
“We got Herold in custody, but one of the fellows shot Booth in the back of the neck.”
“Is he dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
“He’s dead, all right. I’ve seen enough of them to know what a corpse looks like.”
“Damn! Now why the hell did the fool do that?”
“I suppose he was following orders,” Booth replied.
“Orders were to bring both of them in for trial. Didn’t Baker tell you that?”
“No, sir. All I was told we were out after the assassins.”
The thought dawned on Booth that this man truly believed he was a Union soldier. His hand went up to scratch the thick stubble on his face as he realized as long as he was dressed like a soldier, talked like a soldier and looked like a disheveled soldier that the world would quickly accept the fact he was a soldier. He tried to hide a sly grin, thinking he must be a better actor than his father and brothers thought him to be. Yawning, he nodded toward the hotel.
“I ain’t got no sleep in a long time. You figure they got an empty bed?”
The officer glared at him. “You mean you deserted your post just to get some shut-eye?”
“No, sir. Lt. Baker send two of us out as couriers. My buddy went off to Washington, and I’m on the way to Richmond to inform the general there to call off the manhunt.” The lies flowed from years of acting experience. “I just thought I could wait until morning.”
“Absolutely not!” the officer barked. “You get on your way now! Only after you’ve reported do you request leave. And you may not get it even then!” He narrowed his eyes. “What is your name, private?”
“Adam Christy, sir.”
“Hmph, on your way, Private Christy. And take care not to neglect your duties again, or you will be written up!”
Booth gave another snappy salute and rode south on the road to Richmond, pleased his escape had been ordered by one of the despicable, pin-headed damn Yankee officers. Hah. As the night air chilled his face, he mulled why Christy’s name came to him so easily. Then he realized the identity of the corpse, which was dragged into the barn to be his body substitute. It was Adam Christy, the young man who only two weeks ago had been his ally in the assassination conspiracy. Who had killed him?
Only one answer came to Booth’s mind—the short stocky man who dragged the body into the barn. This evil man must die, Booth resolved. And if he chose to kill the private instead of Secretary of War Stanton, then Stanton must be in on this terrible plot. Not only a part of the plot but also most certainly the ringleader. Booth felt the back of his neck burn with resentment that his pure patriotic motives to assassinate a despot had been twisted into a diabolical attempt to stage a coup. As the western sky began to glow with morning’s light, his head began to droop and his eyes involuntarily closed in sleep. Realizing he was about to succumb to slumber Booth stopped his horse and led it into a secluded clearing off the road. There he tied up his mount and collapsed onto the ground and surrendered to sleep. Even the throbbing pain in his leg could not deter fatigue from overwhelming him
In his dreams, he again was on the stage. This time Booth was alone. Each time he turned to speak to another actor, that person faded into the darkness and refused to say his line. The unseen audience grumbled and shifted uneasily in their seats. Booth limped off the stage, but an elderly stage manager whispered in his ear, “Now is the time for you to play all the parts. No one else can complete this passion play but you.”
When he awoke, Booth felt his leg and sighed in relief when he noticed the pain was easing. No heat emanated from the injured area, which meant infection had not set in. Even though he sensed healing was underway, Booth knew he needed a doctor to examine it again, but what doctor in Richmond would tend to a wounded Yankee soldier? Even though the uniform had saved his life last night, it could spell his doom today. Looking around, he noticed the sun was leaning toward the west once more. In the cover of the oncoming darkness he would make his way through the familiar streets of Richmond to find a safe harbor.
A few hours later, after twilight, Booth rode into town, shocked by the devastation inflicted by the damned Yankee soldiers. Wondering if anyone were left alive, a familiar building caught his eye—the Marshall Theater where he had performed many times to thunderous applause. Riding his horse to the stage door in a dimly lit alley, Booth looked to see if any of the staff were still there. He pulled his mount up abruptly as he saw a giant hole in the side of the building, inflicted by Union cannon fire. Peering through the hole, he saw no one was inside. Who would be desperate enough to stay in a bombed-out theater? He would, Booth told himself.
Tying up his horse, Booth limped inside the door and felt his way around the wall to the men’s dressing room. Inside the dark room, he walked toward the make-up table. On the corner of it, he found an oil lamp. Next to it, his fingers fumbled over a box of matches. Taking one, he lit the lamp and smiled as he looked about the room, still filled with costumes, props and wigs. In the corner, Booth saw an abandoned actor’s trunk. As he opened it, he smiled again because in it were white face powder, India ink, several jars of pigment base powders, spirit gum and wool crepe, all the tools he needed to disguise himself as he walked among the common people once again.
Going to the clothes rack, he found several military suits, which would prove useful at some point and came across clothes for the common working man and a gentleman of leisure. To the side was a hat tree with several kinds of headwear including wigs, brown hair, gray hair, and even red hair. He took the red-haired wig and fondled it, thinking of the Union private he had so easily impersonated the previous night. Booth decided it might be useful to him to become Adam Christy again sometime in the future.
Taking the lamp with him, he ventured out of the men’s dressing room to the ladies’ next door. He would need all the makeup he could find to carry on his mission of—what? He paused to consider—his mission of survival, most certainly, but above all revenge. However, survival was his first goal. If he did not survive the next few weeks, then revenge did not matter.
Looking around the room he spotted a chaise lounge covered by an old quilt, better sleeping accommodations than he had been offered in the last two weeks. The next morning, Booth awoke with an unexpected freshness and excitement about how he would proceed. His leg ached less, but he knew he had to find another doctor to examine it to make sure it was healing properly. Feeling his uniform, Booth realized he had to change clothes immediately. A Union soldier would not be welcomed into Confederate homes, to be fed and pampered. While the three hundred dollars the dark short man gave him was a generous amount, he knew it would not last long if he spent it on biscuits and eggs.
Back in the men’s dressing room, Booth pawed through the rack with the military costumes. He considered making himself into a colonel but shook his head as he put it back. If he wanted to arouse sympathy from the lonely women in the city, he had to become a frightened wounded private who only longed to be in the loving arms of his mother. Booth hid the wallet filled with cash in the bottom of the makeup trunk. As he hobbled out on his crutch into the street, he became aware of his growling stomach. In front of the theater, he looked up the dusty road toward downtown Richmond that was nothing more than heaps of rumble and singular walls, quavering in the wind. His head turned to the opposite direction, which lead out of town where still stood wooden homes, neglected but still inhabited.
Walking in that direction Booth observed the residents as they left their front doors open to catch the refreshingly cool air and piddled around their yards. Older men with thinning gray hair sat on their steps sipping from liquor bottles. He had better avoid them, Booth decided. He also ruled out the homes where running, screaming children filled the yards. They would be too much of a distraction for the housewives if he were to draw their sympathies. Then he saw young women hanging clothes on the line. No, they could prove too much temptation for romance, and where would he find himself if the man of the house returned to discover a man in his wife’s embrace?
Finally, he smiled when he saw an older woman, approximately the age of his mother, sitting in a rocking chair on the porch, one hand to her cheek as she stared into nothingness. Booth had found his prey. He limped a few more feet until he was directly in her line of vision before swooning and falling to the ground. His eyes closed, Booth could hear the old woman gasp, walk down the wooden steps and rustling her crinolines as she rushed to him.
“My dear boy, what have those damn Yankees done to you?” She sat on the dirt road and gently lifted his head to her lap.
Booth’s eyes fluttered open. “Mother?” he asked weakly in an accent associated with the Tidewater region of Virginia. A small moan slipped from his lips before he closed his eyes again.
“Dear Lord, this is just terrible!” Carefully moving his head back to the ground, she whispered, “I’ll be right back with a nice cup of well water.”
A few minutes later Booth was feigning resuscitation as he sipped from the cup. “Please forgive me for passing out like I did. It’s been a long walk from Appomattox Courthouse. Forgive me for calling you Mother.” He took another sip. “I should have known better. Mother died of small pox right before the battle of Gettysburg.”
“You poor, poor boy,” she said, holding his head close to her small bosom. “Don’t you have nobody waitin’ for you back home?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. I ain’t got no letters since Mother died. Of course, Father wasn’t much for words on paper. But he was mighty puny looking when I marched off to war in ’61.” He paused to cough. “If you wouldn’t mind helpin’ me to my feet, I think I feel strong enough to fetch my horse. I left it tied up at that old bombed out theater down the road.”
“You will do no such thing!” She lifted him with a grunt, put his arm around her thin shoulder and began shuffling toward her porch. “You’re in no condition to be ridin’! You need a good meal, a bath, a clean bed and a good doctor to tend to that broken leg of yours.”
“I can’t take advantage of your hospitality, Miz—what is your name?”
“Jenkins, Mary Beth Jenkins. And you are not takin’ advantage of me. What kind of Confederate widda would I be to turn away one of our brave young men?”
“Mighty obliged, Miz Jenkins. My name is Adam Christy, from Port Royal.”
Shaking her head she replied, “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from Port Royal. Never you mind. Now take it easy with the steps.”
“But my horse, I can’t leave it tied up like that.”
“Don’t fret about the horse. I’ll go get it.”
Mrs. Jenkins was good to her word. She took his horse to a livery stable where she paid for it to be fed and cared for. Booth ate heartily during the coming days as his leg continued to heal. He told her how he broke it in a final, desperate defense against the marauding Union soldiers. She related him how both her husband and son died at the Battle of Shiloh in Tennessee. Mrs. Jenkins allowed him to soak in her copper tub as long as he wished while she fetched Dr. Lawrence who examined him as he sat swathed in soft fuzzy towels.
“Whoever set your leg did a mighty fine job,” Dr. Lawrence mumbled. “You need to stay off it for a good piece of time, and, Mary Beth, keep the bandages clean. I’ll be back in a couple of days to check in on the boy.”
After the doctor left, Mrs. Jenkins helped him into bed. “Now don’t you worry a bit, Adam,” she said. “Adam, a good Bible name. Is there anything you got a cravin’ for?”
“Whatever you have in the house will be all right with me. I know the damn Yankees must have cleaned out your larder.”
She smiled. “We all pull together, and somehow find enough.”
“I would like to see a newspaper, to keep up with what is going on,” Booth added hesitantly. “What am I talkin’ about. I suspect all the papers in Richmond were burn out.”
“Oh no. The damned Yankees didn’t destroy all of them, praise the Lord.”
“Well, if it ain’t too much of an inconvenience….”
“Not another word,” she interrupted him with a smile. “The newsstand is just down the street, and I can be back in an instant.” Mrs. Jenkins paused and leaned in to whisper, “I suppose you heard about what happened to that devil Lincoln.”
Booth’s eyes widened in innocence. “There was talk on the road, but I didn’t know whether to believe it or not.”
“Oh, it’s true all right. They killed the old heathen.” She put her finger to her lips. “It’s not safe to say too much around here. The damn Yankees have spies everywhere.”
Over the next couple of weeks Booth laid back to relax and heal his battered body. He hungrily read each newspaper Mrs. Jenkins brought to him.
Mrs. Surratt had been arrested. Booth fumed over the injustice of a woman languishing in prison. He felt no compassion for Herold, Atzerodt and Paine. They were all stupid and deserved what they got. On the other hand, he did feel a minor dissipating remorse for Dr. Mudd and his former childhood friends Michael O’Laughlin and Samuel Arnold, who had also been caught in the dragnet looking for conspirators.
He followed with interest stories about Lincoln’s funeral train which was to retrace his route when he came to Washington City four years ago for his inauguration—Baltimore, Harrisburg, Philadelphia, New York, Albany, and many to come. The trial of the conspirators would be held and executions carried out before the traitor was buried in Illinois. One day Booth sat up in his bed as he read a story about Louis Weichmann being called to testify. To testify! That was another travesty! Booth fumed. Why was he not charged along with all the others?
More questions crowded into his mind. Exactly how did Adam Christy and the short stocky man figure into all this? And why was Edwin Stanton still alive, still making decisions about who will live and die?
The trial would begin the middle of May in the Old Capitol Prison. He reached down and felt his leg. No more pain. He tried walking around the room on it and found he could maneuver quite well, at least for short periods of time. When he decided to move on, to make his way to Washington City to observe the trial first hand, he would need a wagon.
“Miz Jenkins, I appreciate all that you have done for me, but I must be on my way to Port Royal,” Booth lied using his full skills as an actor, relaying his feigned humility and desperation. “I have to find out if Father is still alive.”
“You are in no condition to ride,” she insisted.
“Maybe if I had a wagon….” His voice trailed off.
“I have a wagon in the back. My husband used it in his work. He delivered goods from the mercantile store he ran. He ain’t got no use for it now, bless his soul.”
Early the next morning, Booth hitched his horse to the wagon and gave Mrs. Jenkins a hug, thanking her for all the kindness. Before leaving Richmond, however, he went by the bombed out theater and loaded the actor’s trunk which held his purse of three hundred dollars and threw in the many costumes and props he would need for the coming months. Booth had blood to avenge.