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 into Maryland where they hide in the Zekiah Swamp. Baker enlists his cousin’s help to save Booth’s life. Booth arrives at Garrett’s farm.
Luther Baker felt confident the next morning, April 25. As soon as the 16th New York Cavalry arrived in Port Conway, he spotted a black ferry operator, sweeping the deck of his boat. Riding up to the dock Luther called out to him.
“Hey you! I got some questions!”
The man put his broom aside and walked down the gangplank. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“We’re on the hunt for the men who assassinated the President.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Have you seen two men, one of them with a broken leg?”
“I seen a man with a lame leg but there was five of them, though. They wasn’t too pleasant, if you ask me. Didn’t even pay the toll. I took them across to Port Royal.”
“Five men?”
“Three Confederates, sir.”
“So they’ve enlisted help,” Luther said almost to himself.
“I don’t think so, sir. I know the boys, and they’re all local. I know one in particular real well, Willie Jett. He comes through here all the time.”
“Then we want to go to Port Royal,” Luther replied. What’s your name, boy?”
“James Thornton, sir. My boss, Mr. Champe Thornton, has instructed me to operate his boat while he attends to other matters. You and your men can board right now if you like, sir, but all your men have to get down off your horses for the trip. And it’s gonna take three trips to get you all across. That’s two whole hours. You got a problem with that?”
“Why no. It’s still the fastest way to get to Port Royal. And who would want to ride their horse on a boat?” Luther asked.
“The man with the lame leg.”
Luther rode back and forth on the ferry three times, staying by Thornton’s side asking him more questions about the Confederates.
“The other two are Mortimer Ruggles and Absalom Bainridge. Those gentlemen like to visit a tavern called the Trappe for the horizontal entertainments, if you know what I mean. It’s on the road between Port Royal and Bowling Green. Now the first gentleman, Mr. Willie Jett, don’t indulge in such activities because he’s courting a right nice young lady by the name of Izora Gouldman whose father runs a very respectable hotel in Bowling Green. Any time you want to find Mr. Willie you go to the Bowling Green hotel and that’s where he’s likely to be. The Star, that’s name of Mr. Gouldman’s place, the Star Hotel.”
After the third trip across the Rappahannock, Baker leaned into Thornton to whisper, “I wouldn’t be surprised if when you return you find a solitary gentleman on horseback waiting for you. He’s my cousin. A short, husky man with red hair. Most important of all, he will have a second horse carrying an unusual bundle. Do not ask anything about it, but deliver him to Port Royal as quickly as possible.” He handed Thornton a fist of silver coins. “Here’s the toll, and a little extra to take care of my cousin.”
***
Booth and Herold slept late the morning of April 25. The Garretts had given them the best bedroom in the house. Supper the night earlier was satisfying, excellent food, and the family around the table was very attentive as Booth regaled them with an invented story of how he was wounded at Petersburg as part of A.P. Hill’s division. On his trip home to Maryland he encountered a troop of Yankees. He cursed them and shot at them, causing the troops to chase him back into the hinterlands of Virginia. Booth warned the family that Union soldiers might be arriving at the farm to inquire as to his whereabouts. Garrett’s three young daughters, Lillian, Cora and Henrietta were particularly enthralled with Mr. Boyd, as Booth called himself. Afterwards he sat on the porch with the old man smoking a pipe with tobacco cured in Garrett’s own barn. The three girls lingered by the screen door and giggled.
Booth spent late morning lying under an apple tree telling stories to the sisters and teaching them how to read a compass. Garrett’s eldest son was late for lunch, and when he sat at the table with the family he announced the Richmond newspapers reported the reward for Lincoln’s assassin had risen to $140,000.”
“Well,” Lillian commented, “I suppose the man was paid to kill the president.”
Booth, swallowing hard on his potatoes, replied, “It is my opinion, he was not paid a cent but instead did it for notoriety’s sake.”
“Notoriety’s sake?” Coral repeated with a laugh. “Any man who would commit murder for notoriety’s sake must be insane!”
The family laughed long and hard at Cora’s comment, giving Booth the opportunity to tamp down his anger. He could tell Herold wanted to reply, but he caught the young man’s attention and shook his head no. Herold remained silent.
After lunch, Booth and his companion adjourned to the front porch where they luxuriated most of the afternoon, drinking in the vista of rolling green hills, salted with white-petalled Dogwood trees. A brilliant red Cardinal and his mate were building their nest in an oak tree at the corner of the farmhouse veranda, keeping the men company and providing them conversation fodder as they discussed the birds’ progress. In the distance a cow lowed peacefully. It was idyllic.
Late in the day, Garrett walked out with a well-worn school map of the Southern states and sat next to them.
“I’m sure you gentlemen will want to be on your way soon. Here’s a map so you may plot your journey back to Maryland.”
“That’s right neighborly of you, sir,” Herold replied with a crooked grin. “I imagine we could waste a bunch of time going up and down the countryside looking for home if left to our own devices.”
As the three of them pored over the map, noise from the road interrupted their study, causing them to gape in the direction of the sound.
“There goes some of your party right now,” Garrett commented pleasantly.
“Please get my pistols in the bedroom.” Booth voice was tense.
“Why would you want your pistols?” the old man asked.
“You go and get my pistols!” Booth bellowed.
Garrett pulled back and frowned a moment before rising to go into the house. Booth ordered Herold to help him to his feet and hand him his crutches, saying they should hide in the woods behind the tobacco barn until the riders pass. They had only made it halfway to the trees when they realized the riders were Jett, Ruggles and Bainbridge.
“Marylanders, you’d better watch out!” Jett yelled. “There are forty Yankees coming up the hill!”
“How do you know that?” Herold asked, fear tinging his voice.
“We saw them from a bluff overlooking the ferry landing. Half the soldiers are across and the last bunch ain’t far behind,” Ruggles said, huffing. “I think they saw us.”
“Maybe we ought to go with you right now,” Herold suggested.
“No, we’re better off here,” Booth countered.
“I suggest hiding out so they won’t see you,” Bainbridge warned. “They’ll be coming down this same road. We’re going to lay low in Bowling Green until they pass.”
“Good luck!” Ruggles shouted, as the three Confederates turned their horses and continued on the road to Bowling Green.
By this time, Garrett returned with the guns. Booth hobbled to him followed by Herold.
“My apologies, sir,” Booth said in his best sincere tones. “You were right. Those were our companions from yesterday. They were just paying their respects before moving on.”
Garrett studied Booth’s face before replying, “I’d never seen a man turn so passionate so fast as you did when you saw the men on horseback.”
“I told you when we arrived we had Federals chasing us,” Booth said in defense.
“Yeah, we don’t want to see those damn Yankees again,” Herold interjected. “I don’t rightly know if mounted cavalry could travel that fast to get to Port Conway and beyond. What do you think, Mr. Garrett?”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Garrett looked off and scratched his head. “It might be good if you caught up with your friends, where ever they might be going.”
“We intend on staying here all night.” An ill-tempered edge crept back into Booth’s voice.
“I’ll be honest with you, gentlemen. My suspicions have been aroused in the last hour. We are peaceable citizens, and we don’t want to get into any trouble with the government.”
“Oh, there ain’t no chance we’ll bring any danger to you and your family,” Herold said with a laugh. “Hmm, what does the missus have planned for supper? I’m beginning to get hungry.”
Before Garrett could answer, a thunderous rumble arose beyond the rise toward Port Royal. Dust lifted along the horizon.
“Now, that has to be the Yankee troops coming,” Garrett announced in irritation.
“Let’s skedaddle!” Herold yelped, turning to run to the woods.
Booth grabbed his arm. “We don’t have time. If they see us running, they will know something is awry.” He dropped his crutches and put his hand on Herold’s shoulder to balance himself. “Now we are merely three men standing in the farmyard having a leisurely conversation.”
Calmly they watched forty mounted cavalry gallop by on their way to Bowling Green. After they passed, Garrett wagged a finger at them.
“This is the last straw! You men must leave now!”
“Davey, pick up my crutches,” Booth said calmly. After Herold retrieved them and Booth was standing on his own, he continued in a soft voice, “If that is your wish, but we must have a wagon. The pain in my leg is intolerable. I cannot continue on horseback. We have money. We will buy a wagon ride.”
“I know a man about a mile away. He might take you anywhere,” Garrett replied.
Herold fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a bill, “Here’s a Secretary Chase note. Will this do?”
Garrett grabbed it. “I’ll make sure it’ll do.” He turned to the stable for his horse. “I’ll be back with the wagon in no time.”
They settled back on the porch. Booth pulled out the pouch of Garrett’s tobacco and filled his pipe.
“Tell me again how you cut that Army officer at the theater,” Herold said with a puppy-dog look in his eyes.
A couple of hours passed, and the sun began to dip below the skyline when Garrett rode back down the road. When he dismounted, he frowned. “The man wasn’t home. His wife didn’t know when he’d be back. She also said the troops stopped at her house to ask if she had seen a couple of white men, one of them lame.” He handed the bill back to Herold. “I’ll drive you in my wagon any place you want to go immediately. No charge.”
Booth smiled slightly and shook his head. “It’s too late now. It’d look suspicious if the Federals caught you out at night in a wagon. Feed us, give us a bed one more time and we’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
Garrett scowled. “You get supper, but I’ll be damned if I’ll give up my bed to you again. You and your brother—if that’s who he really is—can sleep in the tobacco barn.”

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 into Maryland where they hide in the Zekiah Swamp. Baker enlists his cousin’s help to save Booth’s life.
The crossing did not go at all as Booth had planned. The strong current forced the rowboat back to the Maryland shore, where they had to hide until the next night when once again the boat ended up on the wrong side of the Potomac. On the third night, Booth and Herold finally arrived on the Virginia coast at Gambo Creek, one mile from sanctuary at the home of a Mrs. Elizabeth Quesenberry. Jones had highly recommended her. Because of his injury, Booth decided to stay with the boat while Herold walked to the Quesenberry home. The sun set before Herold returned with a large broad-shouldered man and two saddled horses.
As they came closer, Booth recognized the man. He was Thomas Harbin, Cox’s brother-in-law whom he had met when visiting Mudd in Bryantown in December of 1864. Booth was glad. Harbin had a kinder disposition than Cox.
“We got us some food,” Herold said with a smile, handing a bag to Booth. “You’ll like it. Mrs. Quesenberry’s a good cook.”
“She’s not taking us in?”
“Mrs. Quesenberry is a very intelligent woman who has been an effective agent for the South,” Harbin explained. “She will do what she can to send you in the right direction but also give herself the ability to tell Union soldiers that she had never met you.”
“So where do we go from here?” Booth bit into a pone of corn.
“Down the road to Dr. Stuart’s house. You ought to have a doctor look at that leg,” Harbin said. “If it gets infected, there’ll be the devil to pay.”
With that, Harbin left them with the two horses, and, with difficulty, Herold helped Booth into the saddle. They hoped to reach the doctor’s house before he retired for the night. A lamp still flickered in his window when they arrived. Herold jumped down from his horse and knocked at the door.
“Who’s there?” a voice called out.
“Two Confederate soldiers from Maryland looking for shelter.”
“Go away. I don’t take in stragglers.”
“But my brother, he’s in pain,” Herold persisted. “A broken leg.”
Stuart opened the door to peer out. “I don’t know anything about broken bones. Go to the Yankees, get your paroles and they will take care of your brother.”
“But we ain’t givin’ up,” Herold explained with a big smile. “We’re joinin’ up with Mosby and keep fightin’. No damn Yankees are goin’ to stop us.”
“Mosby?” Stuart ventured out onto the porch with his lantern, squinting toward Booth. “Mosby has surrendered. I read it in the newspaper.” He walked closer to the horse raising his lantern to appraise the rider. “Yep, I can tell you’re in pain but you sit erect on the horse, your posture’s that of a well-bred gentleman. Even though you’re in dirty clothes and need a shave, I can tell you’re not a common foot soldier.”
“Kind sir,” Booth finally spoke, “if you would indulge us a few moments and listen to the circumstances of our case—of who we actually are—you will be more than willing, as a loyal son of the South, to help us out.”
“You don’t speak like a common soldier either,” Stuart added. His eyes widened. “As I recall the news of the assassination and the description of the desperadoes, one was an actor of good breeding and the other an ignorant youth of modest background. This leaves me with the inevitable conclusion I am courting disaster by even talking to you.” He turned back to his door. “I don’t want to know anything about you.”
“Have pity upon us, sir. Can’t you at least help us find our way to Fredericksburg?” Booth asked.
Before he closed the door, he stuck his head out. “A colored man by the name of Willie Lucas lives in a cabin down the road. I rent his wagon from time to time. He might help you, might not.”
After the door slammed shut, Booth looked at Herold and shook his head. “Oh, the cold hand they extend to me.”
Herold mounted his horse, and they followed the road until they reached a small, primitive cabin. By this time, it was midnight and the lights were out.
“Lucas!” Herold called out.
“Who is it?” Lucas asked.
“We need to stay here tonight!”
Lucas cracked his door. “I’m just an old colored man. Ain’t proper for me to take in white folks. I just got the one room here, and my wife is sick.”
“We’re Confederate soldiers, and we’ve been fightin’ for three years!” Herold yelled at the old man. “We’ve been knockin’ about all night, and we ain’t goin’ one step more!”
By this time, Booth had eased off the horse and was limping toward the cabin on his crutches. Bumping past Lucas he entered the cabin and with his crutches whacked at the two beds where Lucas’s wife and son slept.
“Get out of here! We’re taking these beds tonight!”
Lucas’ grown son tumbled from the bed and stalked Booth, who pulled out his knife and waved it in the air.
“God almighty, he got a knife, Charlie! Come on, Mama, let’s sleep under the wagon tonight,” Lucas cried, ushering his family out the door.
The next morning Booth ordered Lucas to have his son take them in his wagon to Port Conway on the Rappahannock River. When Lucas hesitated, Booth pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to Mrs. Lucas. Mollified, Charlie tied the bridles of the strangers’ two horses to the back of the wagon, mounted and drove the pair to the river city where they could catch the ferryboat. They rode in silence most of the way, with Charlie clicking reassurances to his horses to break the quiet. At the dock, Charlie wordlessly untied the horses, helped Booth out of the wagon then sped off back home, creating a cloud of dust in his wake.
Waiting to board the ferry with them was a group of Confederate soldiers.
“Who did you belong to?” Herold asked with a raffish grin.
“Mosby,” one of them answered.
“Where are you goin’?” Herold asked again.
“None of your business,” another one replied. “And who are you?”
“We’re the Boyd brothers. Just like you. Confederate soldiers on our way to Mexico to regroup with others like you to launch an invasion.”
“Why would any man even have a thought like that?”
Herold leaned into the group and whispered, “Then I’ll tell you the truth.” He turned and pointed to Booth. “Yonder, the man on the crutches, he’s the assassinator. Yonder is J. Wilkes Booth, the man who killed the president.”
They gazed in his direction. Booth hobbled over to them and said, “I supposed you have been told who I am?”
The black ferry operator called out, “Boarding time!”
Booth looked up sharply. “And who are you to be yelling at a group of gentlemen?”
“James Thornton, sir. It’s the only way I know to let folks know it’s time to get on the boat.”
“Is this your boat?”
“No, sir, it belongs to my boss, Mr. Champe Thornton.”
“Then why isn’t he giving the orders?”
“Well, sir, Mr. Champe, he used to own me and he taught me how to operate this boat so he could attend to other matters. I hope that meets with your approval, sir.”
Booth ignored Thornton’s last comment to look at Herold and say he had to mount on the horse first. He could not stand on his leg for the trip across the Rappahannock. The soldiers volunteered to hoist him upon his horse. As they guided the horse across the ramp, Thornton raised his hand.
“It’s against the rules to ride a horse on the ferryboat,” he said. “Made the ferry top heavy and the boss don’t like it.”
Booth’s face turned crimson because a black man dared to tell him what to do. “I’m injured! Can’t you see that?”
The three Confederates echoed his sentiments, putting their hands on their guns. Thornton backed up.
“I guess I can let it pass this time,” he mumbled as he retreated to the pilothouse.
The entire group gathered near the bow to continue talking after the boat cast off. The Confederates introduced themselves—Willie Jett, Mortimer Ruggles and Absalom Bainbridge—and vowed safe passage to Booth and Herold. No payment. The three men said they did not take blood money. By the time the ferry landed on the other side, Booth’s florid description of the assassination had completely enthralled them. He even showed them his knife, still stained by Rathbone’s blood.
On the other side as they debarked at Port Royal, Booth smiled broadly and announced, “I’m safe in glorious old Virginia, thank God!”
“Shouldn’t we pay the ferry pilot?” Herold asked.
“After he disrespected me? Absolutely not!” Booth replied.
“And I know just where you can spend the night,” Willie Jett said as he mounted his horse. “My friend Randolph Peyton lives on the other side of town with his two sisters. He will be glad to help you.”
Booth nodded. “Very good. Please continue our ruse. We are brothers returning home from the war.”
After a short twenty-minute ride, they reached the Peyton house. The group waited on the dirt street as Jett knocked at the door. The Peyton sisters joined him on the porch. Booth watched as Jett gestured toward the men. At first, one of the sisters nodded yes but the other leaned into the first one and whispered. The second sister then grabbed Jett by the arm and shook her head. Booth did not like the looks of the situation. Jett motioned again, but Booth sensed he was pointing beyond them to the house across the street. The young Confederate returned.
“Randolph’s not home, and the ladies feel uncomfortable having strange men in the house,” he explained. “I asked them about the Catlitts across the road there. She said it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
Once more Jett knocked on a door, and once more a woman answered and shook her head. Booth clenched his jaw.
“They know exactly who I am,” he muttered. “They are too cowardly to give me shelter! This is not the reception I expected.”
“I’m sure they’re doing the best they can,” Herold countered in a soft voice. “You know, we kinda have to take what we get.”
Jett walked back with a smile. “Her husband ain’t home neither. You can’t blame her, really. But she says she knows for sure the Garretts will take you in. They’re just three miles down the road. She says they got a real nice house.”
It was three in the afternoon by the time the group arrived at Garrett’s farm. An old man stood on the porch. Jett waved at him, and he waved back and smiled.
“We got two Confederate brothers returning home here. The Boyds. The older one has a broken leg. We want you to take care of them for a day or so. Can you put them up it?”
“My boys just got home from the war,” Garrett repied, stepping forward. “Of course. I’d be honored to help you.”
With a sigh, Booth slid off his horse with difficulty. “I greatly appreciate your kindness, sir. It seems you and these three gentlemen are the only true Southerners who appreciate what we have done.”

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.”

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. Mudd sets his lef and sends him away.
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. They 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 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 batted 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 approached him, one slow step at a time. He remembered meeting Jones 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.
“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. Just a few hundred yards.”
Herold looked up. “Water? I could go for some water.”

Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Stanton’s henchman Lafayette Baker takes Christy’s body to an embalmer. Booth and Herold join across the river in Maryland. Johnson takes the oath of office. Bodyguard Ward Lamon starts his investigation.
On Monday, Lafayette Baker stood in front of Stanton in his War Department office, trying to concentrate on what the small man was saying. All he could think about were the dead eyes of Adam Christy.
“This investigation is taking too long.” Stanton slammed his hand down on the desk. “Booth has disappeared. The man who was supposed to kill Johnson, no one knows where he is. And the madman who stabbed Seward, he has escaped.” He stopped to stare at Baker. “You know what these men look like,” Stanton continued in a softer voice. “You met them Thursday night.”
“It was dark under the bridge,” Baker replied. “The man who was to shoot Johnson had long straggly hair and spoke with a German accent. The man who stabbed Seward was young, tall, beardless, strong. That’s all I know.”
“I know they met at a boardinghouse somewhere. That private told me. Did they say which boardinghouse?” Stanton asked.
“No.”
A knock at the door interrupted them.
“Yes, yes, what is it?” Stanton snapped.
Colonel Henry Wells entered the office. Baker kept his head down and eyes averted, trying to hide his guilt. Men like Wells who went about doing their duty honorably must know when they were in the presence of immorality, Baker feared.
“I think we have valuable information, sir,” Wells said. “A colored woman came to the War Department this morning. She said her niece, who works for a Mrs. Surratt, told her she saw some suspicious men at the boardinghouse on Friday night.”
“Boardinghouse? What boardinghouse?” Stanton turned to stare at Wells.
“The boardinghouse of Mrs. Surratt, sir, at 542 H Street.”
Glancing back at Baker and nodding, Stanton replied, “I think we need to follow up on this immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Wells said. “I was planning on sending Major Smith and his men to talk to the woman.”
“Not Smith.” Stanton shook his head. “Col. Baker here will take troops to the boardinghouse.”
“Are you sure, sir?” Wells asked. “Major Smith is a capable officer—“
“No, I want Baker,” he interrupted him. “He knows exactly how to draw up the search warrant. I want this Mrs. Surratt arrested, along with everyone else in the house. Place a guard. If anyone comes near the house I want them arrested.”
“Yes, sir.” Wells left the office.
“I want you to tear the house apart, if necessary.” Stanton pointed a finger at Baker. “Every scrap of paper, every photograph. Look for weapons.” He smiled, his eyes blazing. “This is it. We’re going to capture them all.”
Baker had no response. He nodded and left the office, taking his time to walk the few blocks over to H Street and the Surratt boardinghouse. Standing across the street, Baker stared at the building, and considered how peaceful it seemed, with its unpretentious façade. He breathed deeply and wished he could take the next train to Philadelphia, tell his wife Jenny to pack their bags and escape out West to California, never to be found again. Baker spat on the ground. Nevertheless, that would not stop the killing. If not Baker, someone else would have to follow Stanton’s orders to round them all up and hang them. He remembered his vow from Friday night. No one else must die.
A terrible fatigue overwhelmed him. He had never been concerned with fatigue before, but now his whole body ached from it. Baker knew that at that moment in the afternoon sun, he could not knock on Mrs. Surratt’s door to arrest her. Instead, he returned to his hotel room, fell on his bed and went into a deep slumber, no dreams, no recriminations, just a blissful nothingness. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw that it was night. Another round of terror was about to begin.
Baker gathered his soldiers and surrounded the Surratt boardinghouse in the nocturnal darkness. After he knocked at the door, a woman peeked out of a window.
“Who’s there?”
“Col. Lafayette Baker from the War Department.”
“What do you want?”
“Open this door immediately if this is Mrs. Surratt’s house.”
Baker heard a lock turning. The door creaked open. He stepped forward over the threshold, claiming space and exerting authority. “Are you the widow of John H. Surratt and the mother of John H. Surratt Jr.?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’ve come to arrest you in connection with the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln.”
“How did you know–” Mrs. Surratt stopped abruptly. “What makes you think I know anything about that?”
Mrs. Surratt’s teen-aged daughter, tall, slender and as pale as her mother, clung to her side weeping.
“Don’t behave so, baby,” Mrs. Surratt said. “You’re already worn out with anxiety. You’ll make yourself sick, Anna dear.”
“Oh, mother! To be taken for such a thing!”
Baker turned to one of the soldiers. “Go get a carriage.”
“Make them walk,” the soldier replied.
“No, they will be treated kindly as long as they are in my charge,” Baker said, dismissing the private.
Baker smiled at Mrs. Surratt. “Shall we sit in your parlor until he returns?” He felt raw emotion welling in the pit of his belly and rising to his throat.
“Sir, may I pray first?” Mrs. Surratt asked.
“Why, yes.” The request caught Baker off guard.
She fell to her knees, held her hands to her breast and murmured. After a few moments, she stood and sat on the sofa next to her daughter, clutching her hands.
“I’m sorry to have startled you with such brusque language,” Baker said as gently as he could. “I should have not used the word ‘arrest’. We merely want to take you into custody to ask a few questions about Mr. Booth. You do know John Wilkes Booth, don’t you?”
“He was a friend of my son’s.”
“And where is your son?”
“He left last week.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
Anna breathed in deeply as though to add a comment, but her mother squeezed her hand.
“I said we don’t know where he is,” Mrs. Surratt said.
“Were there any other boarders who were friends with your son and Mr. Booth?” Baker asked.
“Louis Weichmann,” Anna replied.
“Everyone who lives here knows my son and Mr. Booth,” Mrs. Surratt added. “Mr. Weichmann actually is an employee of the Department of War. We offer rooms to people of all backgrounds, sir.”
“I would like to speak to him,” he said.
“Louis is out of town also,” Mrs. Surratt whispered.
“My, the house must feel empty.” Baker smiled, glancing at both women. “Do you ever seeing a young federal soldier with red hair visiting the boarding house?”
Mrs. Surratt and her daughter Anna looked down and shook their heads.
“Did Mr. Booth visit here often with your son?”
She lowered her eyelids briefly. “We—my daughter and I–have spoken to Booth a few times. He is a very famous actor, you know. Teen-aged girls like to talk to famous actors.”
Baker looked at Anna. “So you could tell me what Mr. Booth looked like, couldn’t you, Anna?”
Mrs. Surratt put her arm around her daughter’s shivering shoulder. “She is much too upset to answer your questions.” She paused. “Everyone knows what Mr. Booth looks like. As I said, he’s a very famous actor.”
“I don’t go to the theater,” Baker said without emotion. After a moment of silence, he continued, “I know he is of medium height, slender build with fair skin and dark eyes. Many men in Washington City share those same characteristics. Could you help me with anything that would be peculiar to Mr. Booth?”
Sighing and looking away, Mrs. Surratt replied, “He has his initials J.W.B. tattooed on his right hand.”
“Left hand,” Anna whispered, sniffing away her tears. “And he has a black scar, here.” She pointed to the right side of her neck. “He had a boil of some sort he cut out himself right before he went on stage. He’s very brave.”