by Lyle Brandt
The night passed in an ebb and flow of rumors. Rebel spies were circulating through the city, planting explosive charges set for synchronized detonation at dawn, noon, whenever. Quantrill’s guerrillas, last heard from in Kentucky, were racing toward Washington, hell-bent on topping their civilian massacre at Lawrence, Kansas, back in August 1863. A force of Rebel regulars, defying Lee’s surrender order, was advancing on the capital to raze it, or to hold its people hostage.
None of those arrived, in fact, but Ryder recognized more local luminaries rushing into Peterson’s throughout the night. Secretary of the Interior John Usher, with his top aide, William Otto, joined their fellow cabinet members inside the boardinghouse. So did Attorney General James Speed and Postmaster General William Dennison. Hugh McCulloch, Secretary of the Treasury, arrived with chief assistant Maunsell Field. The senate’s leadership was represented by Charles Sumner of Massachusetts. John Hay, the president’s private secretary, arrived with the wounded chief’s son, Captain Robert Lincoln. He was outranked, in turn, by Gen. Henry Halleck, Gen. Montgomery Meigs, Gen. John Blair Todd, and Gen. Elon Farnsworth in their best dress uniforms, bedecked with medals.
Other faces Ryder did not recognize, but heard names whispered almost reverently as they passed. Chief Justice Salmon Chase, of the Supreme Court. Richard Oglesby, the governor of Illinois. Rufus Andrews, named by Lincoln as surveyor for the Port of New York. Justice Chase stayed briefly, left, and then returned about an hour later. Secretary McCulloch departed at five o’clock, with gray light rising in the east, shaking his head at questions called out to him from the crowd.
Full sunrise came at half past five o’clock, with no explosions audible from any quarter of the capital. No troops in gray appeared, and daylight found no battle smoke rising on the Potomac. Outside Peterson’s, some members of the waiting crowd departed to their homes or jobs, while others came to join the throng. It had become almost a living thing itself, some members of the grim assemblage mouthing prayers, while others joined in singing hymns. Ryder kept silent, but for a persistent rumbling from his empty stomach, hungry and embarrassed at the same time by his body’s failure to accommodate the solemn situation.
At 7:34 A.M. by Ryder’s pocket watch, Secretary Stanton emerged from the boardinghouse, facing the crowd. He waited for their murmuring to cease, then said, “The president is gone. His wounds proved mortal. Now he belongs to—”
A wail went up from the crowd, dozens of voices joining in and drowning out Stanton’s last word. Now he belongs to what? Ryder wondered. It sounded like ages, but could have been angels.
No matter. He turned away, eyes burning, breathing past a hard, painful obstruction in his throat. Swallowing grief, he moved with urgent strides toward Pennsylvania Avenue, already certain what must happen next.
APRIL 15, 1865
The U.S. Treasury Building at 1500 Pennsylvania Avenue had opened for business in August 1839, while only partially complete. Designed by architect Robert Mills—whose monument to George Washington had been stalled, uncompleted, since 1854—the Treasury Building was a classic example of high Greek Revival architecture, boasting thirty columns carved from single blocks of granite, each thirty-six feet tall, across its east front colonnade. Completed in 1842, the building’s 150 rooms had proved too small for its ever-growing staff by March 1855, when Congress approved the addition of a south wing, completed in 1861. Still, Treasury kept going, with a west wing begun in 1862, finished in 1864. Now, there was talk of a new north wing, but construction had not started yet.
Treasury would normally be closed to visitors on weekends, but this was no normal Saturday, and Ryder’s errand was no normal visit. He didn’t know exactly where to look for William Patrick Wood, whose Secret Service agency would not officially exist for three more months, but Treasury seemed the logical starting point. If Wood had not reported on this day of days, Ryder would find a guard, a clerk, a janitor—someone—who could direct him to Wood’s office or his residence.
And Ryder wasn’t going home until they’d spoken one more time.
From Pennsylvania Avenue, he climbed a flight of steps and passed beneath his destination’s massive portico. Four soldiers armed with Burnside carbines barred his entry to the building, one of them—a corporal, with new stripes on his sleeves—demanding Ryder’s name and business. They had no list of persons authorized to enter, but it hardly mattered, since they’d never heard of William Wood or anything related to the Secret Service. Ryder finally persuaded them to let him pass by mentioning Ward Lamon’s name, after they frisked him thoroughly for weapons.
Treasury was cold and cavernous inside. His footsteps echoed through the lobby, with its vaulted ceiling, marble underfoot. He’d been expecting someone else to challenge him, direct him, something, but the place appeared to be deserted. Ryder had a fleeting, childish thought of running willy-nilly through the empty halls until he found the cash repository to stuff every pocket that he had with greenback currency. It passed, and he embarked on a concerted search to locate someone, anyone, who knew his way around the place.
Ten minutes later, Ryder found him. Entering the south wing, he was met by a young man of twenty years or so, with curly auburn hair, a pair of pince-nez spectacles clamped to his nose. His style of dress, together with the batch of papers in his arms, identified him as some kind of clerk or secretary. He was clearly startled at the sight of Ryder, frowning as he clutched his paper bundle tightly to his chest.
As if from force of habit, be inquired, “How may I help you, sir?”
“I’m looking for the Secret Service office,” Ryder said. A gamble.
“Secret Service?”
“Mr. William Patrick Wood?”
“Hmm. Mr. Wood is … well, of course, I don’t know where he is. But you can find his office in the west wing, back that way.” A nod, in lieu of pointing, since his hands were full.
Another yawning corridor, with floors stacked overhead.
“How will I know it when I see it?” Ryder asked, growing impatient.
“Hmm. There ought to be a name plate on the door. If I am not mistaken, you should try the second floor.”
“And if he isn’t in?”
“Then I suppose he would be out, sir. Hmm?”
Ryder proceeded to the west wing, climbed a curving marble staircase, and resumed his search. Five minutes later, he was standing at a door that bore Wood’s name, head bent and listening for any sign of movement from beyond it. Nothing, but he took a chance and knocked, regardless.
“Enter!” came the order from within.
Ryder turned the brass doorknob and stepped into an office that was smaller than he had expected, barely furnished with a desk and single chair. The man he’d come to see was standing at the only window, overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. When Wood swiveled to face him, recognition sparking in his eyes, it seemed to Ryder that he’d aged a decade overnight.
“I’d say good morning, Mr. Ryder, but I hate to start a conversation with a lie.”
“It’s why I’m here, sir,” Ryder said.
“And why is that, exactly?”
“Rebel bastards killed the president and tried for Secretary Seward. Let me help you hunt them down.”
“As I’ve explained to you, I’ll have no agency or personal authority until July. If you return then—”
“I believe you’re doing something now, sir.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re not entirely wrong,” Wood granted. “In conjunction with the U.S. Marshals Service, I’m coordinating efforts to locate the individuals responsible for these attacks.”
“The Marshals Service has no use for me,” Ryder reminded him.
“Their loss may be my gain,” Wood said. “You would answer directly to me, not to Mr. Lamon.”
“Sounds better.”
“So, you’ll join us, after all?”
“It’s why I’m here, sir.”
“I’m referring t
o the service, Mr. Ryder, not the manhunt. I need men to go the distance.”
Ryder spent a long ten seconds thinking through it, then said, “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then I can tell you what we know so far. The president’s assassin, as you’ve no doubt heard, was John Wilkes Booth.”
“The actor, right.”
“The actor and Confederate partisan. He hails from Maryland, you know. In 1859, after Harpers Ferry, he joined the Richmond Grays militia, to guard against abolitionists trying to rescue John Brown from the gallows. I dare say that he was disappointed when they didn’t show. After the war broke out, he never missed a chance to criticize the Union or the president. St. Louis coppers held him for a while, in ’63, for saying—and I quote—he ‘wished the president and the whole damned government would go to hell.’ They let him go, of course.”
“Too bad.”
“Freedom of speech. Today, we know that he’s been close to Confederate agents, here and in Canada. He met with members of the Rebel secret service last October, on a trip to Montreal.”
“And wasn’t jailed when he returned?” asked Ryder.
“Understand, we’re learning most of this through hindsight, from informants. At the time …” Wood spread his empty hands. “It’s one more reason why we need the service you’ll be joining, come July.”
“There’s more,” said Ryder, confident that Wood had not shown all his cards.
“There is. We’re fairly sure that Booth has fled back home, to Maryland. We believe his object is to hide out somewhere in the South, or else—more likely, I suspect—to flee the country altogether. If he ships for Europe, or to South America, consider him as good as gone.”
“Send me to Maryland,” said Ryder.
“First things first. We also have a clue of sorts to Secretary Seward’s would-be killer. Near the scene of the attack, his bloody knife has been recovered from a gutter. Nothing points us to him yet, but I suspect that he, at least, is still somewhere in Washington or its immediate vicinity.”
“You have a good description of him?”
“Here,” Wood answered, passing him a printed sheet of paper from a stack atop his desk.
There’d been no time to have a portrait of the traitor done, but his description as compiled from witnesses to the attack was clear enough. Twenty to twenty-five years old, dark hair under a slouch hat, with a Deep South accent. He had posed as a messenger delivering medicine to Secretary Seward, then run amok when denied entrance to Seward’s bedchamber. Six witnesses stood ready to identify him, once he was in custody.
“You have a weapon, I assume?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve no credentials yet, you understand, but this should serve for now.” As Wood spoke, he removed a business card from his vest pocket, took a dip pen from the inkwell on his desk, wrote something on the backside of the card, and blotted it. Over Wood’s neat signature, the message read:
Agent of the U.S. Secret Service
“I’ll have something better for you in July, if you’re still with us.”
“Yes, sir,” Ryder said and pocketed the card.
He left Wood’s office thinking, One job at a time.
3
CHARLES COUNTY, MARYLAND
APRIL 26, 1865
I hate these damned mosquitoes!” Jimmy Lucas muttered, slapping at his neck. “They’ve got more of my blood inside ’em than I have in my own veins.”
“Forget about the bugs,” said Ryder, huddled on the skiff’s front seat with Lucas poling. “Let’s just get this done.”
Zekiah Swamp lay at the headwaters of the Wicomico River, a tributary of Chesapeake Bay on Maryland’s eastern shore. It sprawled over 450 acres, and every square foot of it lived up to the original Algonquin name of Sacaya, translated to English as “dense thicket.” Aside from mosquitoes and leeches, the marsh—Maryland’s largest, running clear across Charles County—also swarmed with snakes and snapping turtles, skunks, beavers, and black bears. Ryder hadn’t seen an alligator yet, but kept his lever-action Henry rifle ready, just in case.
With Lucas and the third man in their skiff, Bob Elder, he was hunting John Wilkes Booth. Throughout the swamp surrounding them, a dozen other three-man teams were scouring the wetland for a glimpse of Lincoln’s killer, each man hoping that he’d be the first to spot Booth or his partner, David Edgar Herold. In an inside pocket of his coat, Ryder carried a folded copy of the wanted poster Secretary Stanton had issued six days earlier. It offered fifty thousand dollars for capture of Booth, twenty-five thousand for Herold—his name misspelled in print as Harold—and for a third conspirator still at large, John Harrison Surratt.
The others—those who’d been identified, at least—were already in custody. Mary Surratt, John’s mother, ran a boardinghouse in Washington that catered to Confederates. City police and members of the U.S. Army’s Provost Marshal’s detail knew son John as a Rebel courier and an associate of Booth. They’d visited Mary’s place at two A.M. on April 15 and she’d put them off with lies, but two days later, one of Mary’s servants told investigators of a meeting held beneath her roof the night Lincoln was shot, including Booth and others. On their second visit, April 17, the officers searched high and low, discovering photographs of Booth and Jefferson Davis, a pistol, percussion caps, and a bullet mold. While they were hauling Mary out, one Lewis Powell arrived, introducing himself as a workman on Mary’s payroll. Confused, she denied knowing him, and he joined her in jail, soon identified as the man who had wreaked bloody havoc at Secretary Seward’s home three nights earlier.
On April 20, another suspected conspirator, George Atzerodt, had been run to ground at a farm outside Germantown, Maryland, twenty-odd miles northwest of Washington. According to police, Booth had assigned Atzerodt to murder Vice President Johnson, and while Atzerodt had booked a room at Johnson’s hotel, he then lost his nerve and fled, leaving a pistol and a Bowie knife beneath his pillow for police to find. Now, he was under lock and key with Powell and Mary Surratt, aboard the monitor USS Saugus, anchored at Washington’s Navy Yard.
Booth, David Herold, and John Surratt, meanwhile, were all in the wind. But Ryder thought their lead was narrowing.
Today, authorities knew that Booth had crossed the Navy Yard Bridge into Maryland, on horseback, within thirty minutes of the shooting at Ford’s Theatre. Herold made the same crossing, about an hour later, and rendezvoused with Booth before proceeding to Surrattsville, in Prince George’s County. There, they’d retrieved stockpiled weapons and other supplies, then ridden to Bryantown, stopping at the home of a local physician, Dr. Samuel Mudd. Mudd, in turn, had splinted Booth’s right leg—broken sometime during his escape—and fashioned him a pair of crutches. Booth and Herold had spent another day with Mudd, then hired a local man as their guide to the Rich Hill home of another Confederate sympathizer, Col. Samuel Cox. Fearing arrest himself, Cox spilled the fact that he had shown the fugitives a place to hide.
In Zekiah Swamp.
Cox swore the conspirators had moved on by April 24, crossing the Potomac River into Virginia with aid from a new guide, one Thomas Jones, but Ryder had his orders: leave no stone—or mossy, rotten log—unturned. Some thought that Cox was brave enough to lie for Booth and Herold even now, diverting searchers while they fled deeper into the South by some alternate route. Ryder disagreed, but he was under orders. More important, he thought there was a possibility—however slight—that one or both conspirators might still be hiding somewhere in the swamp, and he was not about to be the man who let them slip away through negligence.
Even without assassins in the underbrush, the hunt was perilous. Aside from copperheads—the reptile kind—and timber rattlesnakes, black bears and rabid skunks, the manhunt had already cost multiple lives. A barge loaded with Union soldiers tracking Booth, the Black Diamond, had collided with the steamer Massachusetts on the Potomac, both sinking near Blackstone Island. Among the fifty dead were Union prisoners of war lately paroled in exchange f
or Confederate captives.
All that, without a shot fired, yet.
Ryder had given up on bagging Booth himself, a fantasy he’d briefly nurtured in the early hours of the manhunt. Now, it seemed that someone else would have the honor, if the actor didn’t slip away entirely. Thinking of him safe and sound in Dixie Land infuriated Ryder, much less the idea of him sailing off to foreign shores. No other country had officially allied itself with the Confederacy, but France had sympathized with the Rebels—and its troops had invaded Mexico in December 1861, capturing Mexico City in June 1863. Maximilian I—an Austrian archduke installed as emperor of Mexico by France’s Napoleon III in April 1864—might well shelter Booth south of the Rio Grande, if he even knew where the assassin had concealed himself.
And could a lone, determined man then track Booth down and treat him to a taste of justice?
Possibly. Something to think about, at least.
A gunshot from the west snapped Ryder’s head around and made him raise his Henry rifle. Seconds later, he picked out another skiff with searchers in it, heading his way. In the bow, a man he recognized as Emil Crowe was waving, calling out, “It’s done!”
“What’s done?” Ryder yelled back at him.
“They got the sumbitch, in Virginia. Shot him dead as dirt.”
“Where in Virginia?” Ryder asked.
“On a tobacco farm, outside Port Royal.”
“You’re sure about this, Emil?”
“Positive. Had his initials tattooed on his hand, ’long with a scar somebody recognized, back of his neck.”
“And Herold?”
“He’s surrendered. No sign of Surratt, though. Thought is, now, he mighta run for Canada.”
