“They will never capture me,” replied Booth.
At a crossroads several miles from Bryant’s house, Harbin stopped to turn for home. “They will get you,” he repeated.
“No,” said Booth, patting one of his pistols. “If I get in a tight place, I will take my life with this.”
Harbin had a sentimental streak. He knew Booth well and regarded him as a decent person but one whom hatred and excess had driven mad. Never was anyone more clearly the author of his own tragedy. As Harbin rode back to Cottage Farm, he felt tears on his cheeks.
dr. richard h. stuart was having none of this, and he glowered at Herold and his importunities. Tall, large, and well fed, the laird of Cleydael was a splendid-looking man in his late fifties and a wonderful incarnation of the old Virginia aristocrat. No one’s blood ran bluer. During the war, which was waged for the benefit of Stuart and his fellow grandees if for anyone, he had done his share. He had smuggled drugs, harbored agents, languished in prison, lost slaves, buried children, and mourned relatives killed in combat.69 His friend and distant kinsman Robert E. Lee had now surrendered. Even the redoubtable Mosby had thrown in his hand. The war was over at Cleydael.
“We are Marylanders,” continued Herold.70 He explained again that he and his brother were weary, hungry, and in need of accommodations.
“It is impossible. I have no accommodations for anybody,” Stuart replied. Cleydael was a summer house with wide hallways for breezes and accordingly a relatively small number of rooms. There were already nine adults and two children inside. Every bed was taken. Stuart had turned away another group of Marylanders that day. Now dirty old Will Bryant wanted to drop off more driftwood at his front door. It really was too much.
Dr. Mudd had recommended them, persisted Herold. The brother had a broken leg.
“I don’t know Dr. Mudd. Nobody was authorized to recommend anybody to me.” Furthermore, added Stuart, he was a physician, not a surgeon, and thus unable to help with such an injury. “I did not really believe he had a broken leg,” Stuart later told authorities. “I thought it was all put on. I did not like their appearance. I did not like the manner in which they urged the thing on me.”
“If you will listen to the circumstances of the case, you will be able to do it,” countered Herold.
“If you have any secrets, keep them. I don’t want to know anything about you,” the doctor rejoined. He would feed them; that was all.71
The family had just finished supper, so Booth and Herold came in and replaced them at table. Herold was loquacious. Booth was reserved, although eager to speak with Stuart privately. The doctor evaded the pleasure.
Major Robert W. Hunter, the fiancé of Stuart’s daughter Margaret, was present. He was a recently paroled rebel officer. On the field with Lee at Appomattox two weeks earlier, he carried forward one of the truce flags that signaled the surrender. Hunter had been a friend of John Yates Beall and present when John Brown was hanged in 1859. He recognized Booth from that occasion and finally said, “I know you, sir.”72
Booth opened up. He was indeed John Wilkes Booth. What they had heard about Lincoln was true. He had originally intended to capture the president, he explained. That failing, he planned the assassination in a single night and then did the deed.
Greatly disturbed, Hunter went to Stuart and told him he must get these men out of the house immediately. “I expect to enter your family, and I feel that I ought to interfere in this matter for your protection,” he told the doctor.
The two were of one mind. Stuart grabbed his hat and set out to chase down Bryant while Hunter went back into the dining room. “Without any further discussion or controversy, I must tell you that you must leave this house at once and for good,” he said to Booth. The subdued assassin, a heavily fringed gray shawl falling in folds from his shoulder, tottered to the door and passed outside into the chilly night.73
Bryant was pressed back into service, this time to take Booth and Herold to the cabin of William Lucas, a free-born black farmer and neighbor of Stuart whom the doctor thought might put the men up for the night. The family dogs, a neighing horse, and strange voices calling his name woke Lucas, but, given the unsettled times, he was unwilling to open the door. “People had been shot in that way,” he said.74 Finally, realizing Bryant was among the party, he ventured out.
“We were sent here,” said the visitors as they pushed forward. “We have been knocking about all night and don’t intend to any longer. We are going to stay.”
“You cannot do it,” protested Lucas. “I am a colored man and have no right to take care of white people. I have only one room in the house, and my wife is sick.”
“Dave, we will not go on any farther, but stay here,” declared Booth. Turning to Lucas, the assassin said, “We understand you have good teams.” The men wanted a ride south to the ferry on the Rappahannock River in the morning, and Lucas would take them.
“Gentlemen, you have treated me very badly.”
By the time Lucas said this, Booth was seated and in no mood to argue. He replied, “We offer to pay you for your accommodation and if you will not accept pay, we will take your horses, your wagon and we will compel you to take us where we want to go.” When Lucas continued his protest, saying he needed his horses to put in his corn crop the next day, the assassin grew menacing. “Fellow, do you know we are some of Mosby’s men?” Booth responded. The assassin pulled back his coat, revealing his revolvers and knife.75 Lucas was frightened, as he should have been, and the dispute ended.
The farmer wisely changed the topic, asking Booth where he was from. Danville, replied Booth. He had escaped from the Yankees in Washington. Attempting to flee a gunboat, he had fallen from his horse and broken his leg. Now he simply wanted to get home. Lucas believed none of this, of course, but had heard enough stories about Mosby to fear that the crippled man might murder him, take the horses, and decamp. Booth was dangerous, and Lucas prudently decided to keep his distance. He and his wife sat on the stoop of their cabin until daybreak, afraid to sleep.
As he settled in for the night, Booth seethed with indignation. He had been specifically directed to Cleydael by friends in Maryland. Bryant offered to take him elsewhere, suggesting doctors closer by, but Booth said no. He had been determined to call on Stuart, whose welcome for fellow rebels was legendary on the other side of the river. Cox, Jones, Harbin, Mudd’s in-laws, and many other Marylanders had enjoyed it. And yet the wealthy Virginian gave him a bum’s rush to a black man’s shanty. Booth, whose exhausting day started on the other side of the Potomac, had not slept under a roof in more than a week. Now he had been humiliated by those who should acclaim him. Worn out, mortified, and dishonored, he let Stuart have a piece of his mind.
“Dear Sir,” he wrote on a page from his diary.76
Forgive me, but I have some little pride. I hate to blame you for your want of hospitality; you know your own affairs. I was sick and tired, with a broken leg, in need of medical advice. I would not have turned a dog from my door in such a condition. However, you were kind enough to give me something to eat, for which I not only thank you but on account of the reluctant manner in which it was bestowed, I feel bound to pay for it. It is not the substance but the manner in which a kindness is extended that makes one happy in the acceptance thereof. The sauce in meat is ceremony; meeting were bare without it. Be kind enough to accept the enclosed two dollars and a half (though hard to spare) for what we have received.
Yours respectfully,
Stranger
April 24, 1865
Tearing out the page, Booth rolled up the note with the money inside and closed it with a straight pin. Lucas would carry it to Stuart’s house the following day. Reading it, the doctor exploded in anger. He had no intention of taking lessons in good manners from a murderer. He threw the letter across the room toward the fireplace.77
Monday morning was cool and clear and the sun well above the horizon when Lucas put his wretched-looking horses in their traces. Booth and
Herold were finished with the breakfast Lucas’s wife had prepared and were ready to depart.
If Lucas can be believed, Booth’s plan was for Herold to drive the team to Port Conway and then, apparently, just keep going. In other words, he intended to steal the horses. Herold vetoed the idea. “You have a large family and a crop on hand. You can have your team back again,” the younger man said. Charlie, Lucas’s son, could drive the ten miles to the Rappahannock and return with the team.
Booth paid Mrs. Lucas twenty-five dollars for the family’s forced hospitality, and by 7:00 a.m. he was under way. The assassin was very tired. He lay down in the back, attempting to sleep amid a load of old furniture, which provided some concealment.78 Other than a frequent “Hurry up!” thrown Charlie’s way, he said little as the cart rolled south.
The wayfarers arrived at Port Conway about noon. Herold jumped down and asked for water from an old-timer standing beyond the gate of a rail fence at one of the few buildings in the forlorn-looking village. A tin dipper full was handed him. Booth, sitting up in the wagon bed, called out, “Bring it down here.”79
William Rollins, a fisherman with a broad sunburned face, came around the corner of the house as Herold was returning with the dipper. The young man asked him if there was anyone who could take them west to Orange Court House. Booth cautioned that they would have to bypass Fredericksburg “as the damn Yankees were too thick there.” Well, Rollins replied, he had a wagon for hire. He never went as far off as Orange, however. In fact, he did not even know how far that was. He could take them south to Bowling Green. That town had a hotel where Booth could rest and gain easy access to the railroad. Rollins would carry them there for ten in gold. Too much, countered Booth, but he might go ten in paper. Or, the fisherman continued, if they just wanted over the grayish Rappahannock, he could take them in his fishing boat for ten cents.80 Whatever they decided, they would have to cool their heels for a while. The tide was rising and he had nets to attend to.
As Rollins headed off, three horsemen crested a small hill nearby and rode directly down toward the landing. It looked as if they were heading straight for the fugitives. Herold tensed and slipped a hand inside his coat to rest on his pistol. The men rode up and passed him without a word. They were Confederate soldiers!
The three were Lieutenant Mortimer Ruggles, the son of a Southern general, Private Absalom Bainbridge, Ruggles’s cousin, and Private Willie Jett, their boyhood friend. Ruggles and Bainbridge were soldiers in Mosby’s command, while Jett belonged to the 9th Virginia Cavalry. All were young, younger than Herold. They were returning from the Piedmont after learning that Mosby had disbanded his soldiers instead of surrendering them.81 They had come home to visit, seek paroles, and make their peace with the new order.
Gray wool meant one thing to the fugitives. They had reached the Confederacy, or at least some shred of it, and Herold lost no time in speaking to the men. Identifying himself by the last name of Boyd, he told them that his brother had been wounded near Petersburg. Lucas refused to take them any farther in the wagon, he complained, and they needed the soldiers’ help to cross the river and continue south. Herold appeared anxious and overly inquisitive, and the men grew wary. They declined his offer to take a drink. Summoning the ferryboat from the opposite shore, the three rode back to Rollins’s house to tie up and wait. Herold followed.
Bainbridge was a superb-looking fellow, tall, broad-shouldered, and narrow-waisted. Looking much like his athletic cousin, Ruggles was an even larger man and equally handsome. Between them the slight, dark-haired Jett sat like an afterthought, his face long and drawn. The eighteen-year-old had been shot in the abdomen in a cavalry skirmish the preceding summer. The wound nearly killed him. Perhaps because Jett appeared less intimidating than his companions, Herold tapped him on the shoulder and asked for a word in private.82
The two walked back to the wharf, where Herold renewed his petition for help. If the soldiers were raising a command to go south, or even to Mexico, he and his brother wished to go along.
Mexico? All this sounded quite odd to Jett. “I cannot go with any man that I do not know anything about,” he replied. “Who are you?”
This was too much for Herold. His voice trembling, he said, “We are the assassinators of the President.” Pointing to Booth, who was hobbling their way, he added, “Yonder is J. Wilkes Booth, the man who killed Lincoln.”
The words rendered Jett nearly speechless.83 All he could manage to do was to motion for Ruggles, who was watering his horse nearby. “Here is a strange thing,” Jett finally stammered to the lieutenant.
“I suppose you have been told who I am?” said Booth as he joined them.84 Given the huge rewards being offered for him, the assassin was displeased that Herold had identified him to strangers, but there was no retreat now. Booth looked directly at the men and added provocatively and with a display of his pistols that he was worth a lot of money to the men who captured him.
The soldiers stared back in awe. They knew of Lincoln’s death, of course. Mosby had spoken approvingly of the assassin and even exclaimed, according to Jett, “By God I could take that man in my arms.”85 But they thought that Lincoln’s assassin had already been captured. “We were greatly surprised [to meet him],” said Ruggles. “The calm courage of the man, in the midst of his great peril, and while racked by suffering, impressed me in spite of myself, for there was no braggadocio about him. The man won our admiration for we saw he was wounded, desperate, and at bay.” Be that as it may, they were not the type of men to take blood money, and Ruggles said so. Booth relaxed on hearing his words and thanked them.
Herold asked their names, and introductions commenced. The assassin dropped all pretenses. His shawl, normally employed to conceal his tattooed initials, fell away, revealing plainly that Booth was who he claimed to be. “This brand would betray me,” mused Booth, looking thoughtfully at the letters, then continued, “If I had captured Mr. Lincoln for a hostage, the South could have commanded peace. But it was not to be, and I had but one course left. I took it. It is done. If I have done wrong, then I am the one to meet the consequences.” Rollins, who had returned from the river, was not close enough to hear these words but saw clearly that the soldiers were excited.
“We will help you,” Ruggles said. “We will take you across the river.” Bainbridge pledged to help as well, and Jett added, “I want to do the best I can for you.”
“God bless you,” Booth replied with emotion.86
With Ruggles’s help Booth mounted Old Whitie, the lieutenant’s horse, and rode it onto the old flatboat.87 Jett and Bainbridge followed on their mounts, and Herold and Ruggles walked on, the latter holding the assassin’s crutches. Booth sat squarely astride his horse and gazed expectantly at the village of Port Royal on the opposite shore. He pulled nervously on the scraggly beginnings of his new mustache. The group fell quiet, as the ferryman, Jim Thornton, was black and seemed to eye them closely as he poled along.
Booth looked bad, thought Ruggles. “His face was haggard, pinched with suffering, his dark eyes sunken but strangely bright, and upon his lip and face was a beard of some days’ growth,” recalled the officer. “His wounded leg was greatly swollen, inflamed and dark, as from bruised blood. That he suffered intense pain all the time there was no doubt, though he tried to conceal his agony both physical and mental.”
“Whatever you deem best to do with me, my friends, I’ll agree to be satisfied with,” said Booth as the boat struck the wharf.
“Jett understands this country, and I think it will be well to act as he directs,” responded Ruggles.
“Do with me, boys, as you think best” was the reply.
Booth’s spirits were plainly brightening right in front of them. Surratt had told him that he would be safe if he only could get beyond the Rappahannock, and sure enough it was true. Things were turning up. He laughed heartily at his improved fortunes as the young soldiers clustered around him. “I’m safe in glorious old Virginia, thank God!” he cried.
....
The Last Ditch
“now which way?” asked Booth.
That was a good question. Sarah Jane Peyton of Port Royal had opened her door to the cripple. Booth hobbled in, then hobbled back out when Miss Peyton decided it would be improper, in the absence of her brother, to have a strange man in the house. Across the street G. W. Catlett was not at home, while other potential hosts were unavailable or unaccommodating. There seemed to be no refuge for the assassin along the broad streets of the village.1
“I propose to take our friend Booth up to Garrett’s house. I think they’ll give him shelter there and treat him kindly,” Jett said to the group.
“I’m in your hands,” replied Booth.
The invalid was remounted on Old Whitie, Jett took Herold up with him, and Ruggles took Bainbridge. Riding up a series of hills that climbed to a plateau, the group headed south on the road to Bowling Green.
His black hat pulled down over his forehead, Booth had little to say as they rode along, but Herold was as talkative as ever. He informed Jett that Booth was not the only person with a tattoo. He had them, too. He had a heart and anchor, the symbols of love and of safety, hope, and salvation, on his right arm. Rolling up his sleeve, Herold showed them to his saddle mate.2
In midafternoon they arrived at the gate to the Garrett farm. Here the party split up. Herold stopped to wait with Bainbridge since he intended going with the soldiers to Bowling Green to buy a new pair of shoes. Jett, Ruggles, and Booth turned off the main road and headed toward Garrett’s. As he rode off, Booth suddenly turned his horse around and, lifting his hat above his head, waved it at the pair. “Come and see me again,” he called playfully to Herold and Bainbridge. “I shall always be pleased to see you.”
“I’ll be with you soon, John,” responded Herold. “Keep in good spirits.”
Fortune's Fool: The Life of John Wilkes Booth Page 39
