So Little Time

by Al Lacy

  “Over here!” blurted Booth, and plunged his horse into a thick stand of trees a few yards from the road.

  When Herold caught up to him, they dismounted, tied their horses to low-hanging branches, and each took a position behind a tree trunk, eyes riveted up the road.

  They watched the troops draw up to the church, turn into the yard, and dismount. They counted eight men in uniform as they entered into the building two by two.

  Booth started to say something to his friend, but Herold looked over Booth’s shoulder, raised a vertical forefinger to his lips and said, “Sh-h-h!”

  At the same instant, Booth heard male voices and turned to see what Herold was looking at. Two middle-aged farmers were coming from a field behind the stand of trees, toward the road, talking. As they passed by without noticing Booth, Herold, and their horses, they were discussing the federal troops who had just gone inside the church.

  “Yeah, Lester, I heard that the Federals will be entering churches all over this part of Virginia today. They want to ask more people at one time if they have seen Booth and Herold, and if nobody in the congregation has seen ’em, then to encourage ’em to keep their eyes peeled for those two.”

  “Personally, I hope they get away,” said the other. “They are true sons of the South.”

  Booth and Herold looked at each other and smiled.

  While the troops were inside the Loretto church, some twenty miles west another federal cavalry unit rode into a churchyard on the outskirts of Bowling Green, Virginia, and began dismounting. Through the open windows, they heard the congregation just finishing the last line of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”

  Inside the church, the song leader stepped away from the pulpit while the people were easing onto the pews. Pastor Olan Granger left his chair, moved up to the pulpit, opened his Bible, and said, “John, chapter four in your Bibles, please. John, the fourth chapter. We will begin reading in verse one, and read down through verse—”

  Suddenly the pastor’s words were cut off by the sound of heavy footsteps in the foyer, then the doors opened, and every eye in the congregation turned to see seven uniformed men enter. Six remained just inside the double doors, while the seventh made his way up the aisle. “Pastor Granger, I apologize for interrupting your service, but I need to speak to your people. It is very important.”

  Noting the man’s rank by the insignia on his uniform, Granger nodded. “Please come up here, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the lieutenant said politely.

  When he stepped up on the platform, the pastor asked, “Does this have to do with your search for John Wilkes Booth?”

  “It does, sir.”

  “All right. You may address the congregation.”

  The officer moved up beside the pulpit and ran his gaze over the faces of the people. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Lieutenant Edward Doherty. As most of you already know, the federal government is on an all-out search for John Wilkes Booth, who assassinated President Lincoln, and his accomplice, David Herold. They were last known to be in Maryland, but military leaders in Washington, D.C., believe they may now be in Virginia.”

  While Doherty was giving a vivid description of the fugitives, the children in the congregation were looking on, wide-eyed.

  On the second pew from the front, a family named Garrett was sitting together. Ten-year-old Rya Garrett, who was positioned between her parents, gripped her father’s hand and looked up at him. Her eyes were round and luminous in the ashen pallor of her skin. “Papa,” she whispered, “I’m scared.”

  Richard Garrett bent his head down with his wife and other children looking on, and whispered, “Sweetheart, there is nothing to be afraid of. We aren’t in any danger.”

  Taking comfort in her father’s words, she nodded, and the fear left her big blue eyes.

  Having given the detailed description of the fugitives—including the fact that Booth had been treated for a broken left leg and was wearing a splint on his leg and using a crutch—the lieutenant said, “I must ask you now, have any of you seen either or both of these two men?”

  There was dead silence.

  Doherty took a deep breath. “All right. I am asking that if you should spot them, that you notify your local law enforcement authorities. They will, in turn, notify the army. Booth and Herold are dangerous men. Under no circumstances are you to try to capture them yourselves.”

  Doherty thanked the pastor for allowing him to speak to the congregation, then led his men from the building.

  Pastor Olan Granger ran his gaze over the faces before him. “As you know, we have already been praying that Booth and Herold will be captured. Lieutenant Doherty told you that they are dangerous men. My concern is for the innocent people in their path. The fugitives are desperate to escape capture. They no doubt will harm anyone who would seem to be a threat, and of course, must hide themselves as they travel to avoid capture. They will have to use people to do this, which will put those individuals in danger.”

  The people in the pews were nodding their agreement.

  Pastor Granger led the congregation in prayer, asking God to hasten the capture of the two fugitives, then preached his sermon.

  After the service, as people were leaving the building and heading for their wagons, buggies, and horses in the parking lot, the Garrett family was standing beside their buggy, talking to other members of the church about the two fugitives and the danger they were presenting to the people of Maryland and Virginia.

  Twelve-year-old Saul Garrett was in conversation with his best friend, McClain Reardon, who would soon turn thirteen.

  “McClain,” said Saul, “I stayed all night with you the last time, so it’s your turn to stay all night with me this time. Can you come home with me on Tuesday after school and stay all night?”

  McClain, who had a thick shock of black, wavy hair, grinned and said, “I think Mom will let me come.” His eyes ran to his parents who had just shaken hands with the preacher and were headed toward them. “Here they come. I’ll ask her.”

  Hal and Ruth Reardon drew up and were greeted by Richard and Laura Garrett.

  McClain said, “Mom, excuse me, but could I ask you something?”

  “Sure, son,” said his mother.

  “Saul wants to know if I can go home from school with him this coming Tuesday and stay all night.”

  Laura Garrett said, “Ruth, Saul already had permission from us to make the invitation. We’d love to have him again.”

  Ten-year-old Rya had picked up the conversation and was looking at McClain with adoring eyes. Observing the scene with great interest, she smiled to herself when Ruth Reardon turned to her husband and asked if there were any special chores he had planned for McClain to do on Tuesday after school. Hal Reardon said it was all right; he had no special chores planned for McClain any day this week.

  Rya’s smile broadened. “McClain, I’m glad you will be coming to spend the night at our house again.”

  Grinning at her, McClain said, “Thank you, Rya. I always enjoy staying at the Garrett farm.”

  Everyone in the group was looking on as Rya giggled and said, “Even when Saul makes you help him with the chores?”

  “I don’t mind,” said McClain. “When he stays at our place, he always helps me with my chores.”

  Seventeen-year-old Jack Reardon chuckled. “McClain, I hope Saul does a better job helping you with your chores than he does on his own chores at home. I have to go around and finish his work half the time.”

  Saul playfully punched his big brother’s upper arm. “Hah! It’s usually me having to finish your sloppy work for you so Papa doesn’t tan your hide.”

  Everybody laughed, and Hal and Ruth Reardon told Richard and Laura Garrett they would see them in the evening service. They headed for their wagon with McClain between them.

  Rya kept her shining eyes on McClain while the Reardons were climbing into their wagon. She had admired McClain Reardon since she first met him as a very youn
g child. Her beaming face showed how happy she was that McClain would be spending the night once again with her older brother. She kept her eyes on McClain until the wagon rounded a bend and he disappeared from her sight.

  Her big sister, Ella, who was fifteen, noted it and smiled to herself.

  “Well, we’d better head for the farm,” said Richard. “Your mama’s got a roast in the oven.” He turned to Jack. “You want to drive home?”

  “Sure!” said Jack, his eyes dancing.

  “Okay,” said Richard. “Let’s go.”

  As the Garrett family was climbing into the wagon, Saul elbowed Rya in the ribs. “Boy, little sis, are you ever stuck on my best friend!”

  Rya blushed, but did not deny it.

  While Jack was climbing into the driver’s seat, Richard helped Laura up beside him from the other side of the buggy, then sat down next to her.

  As Rya sat down on the second seat between Saul and her big sister, Ella giggled as she patted her arm and said, “Honey, you might as well forget about a romance with McClain. He’s too old for you.”

  Rya looked longingly toward the last spot she had seen McClain, but did not reply.

  5

  AS THE GARRETT BUGGY ROLLED DOWN THE ROAD toward their farm with Jack Garrett at the reins, Ella spoke up from the second seat. “Papa, have John Wilkes Booth and his partner left Maryland and come into Virginia?”

  Looking over his shoulder at Ella, Richard said, “I would think they’d come to Virginia because it is a Southern state, honey. Maryland does have a small percentage of people who are Southerners at heart, but it’s a Northern state. Virginia may have a few people who remained loyal to the North during the war, but the vast majority are true Southerners. Since Booth and Herold are going to need help evading the federal troops, it seems to me they would come to Virginia. And that’s why the Federals think they are in Virginia right now.”

  “If I was them, I’d sure want to get out of Maryland,” put in Saul.

  “But actually they are Marylanders, aren’t they, Papa?”

  “Yes, they’re in that small percentage of Marylanders who are Southerners at heart.”

  “Then why wouldn’t they stay in Maryland, Papa?” queried Rya. “Wouldn’t their family and friends help them hide?”

  “They would if called upon, sweet stuff. But the federal authorities are watching their families and friends real close, you can be sure of that. Booth and Herold know that, so they won’t go anywhere near them.”

  “Oh,” said Rya.

  “Booth must have had a deep hatred for President Lincoln,” said Laura as the sound of the horses’ hooves clopping on the road and the squeak of the buggy wheels filled the air. “He had to know he was taking a real chance to shoot him in a place filled with people like he did.”

  “Hatred does strange things to people, honey,” said Richard, meeting her gaze. “Like the crowd that day in Jerusalem who called for the Lord Jesus to be crucified when Pontius Pilate asked what he should do with Him. Their hatred for Him turned them into a frenzied mob.”

  “Bad people,” said Rya. “Jesus was so good to them.”

  “That He was, honey,” said Laura. “To show them that He was the Son of God, He healed sick people and even gave them food. He showed them nothing but love and kindness.”

  “Bad people,” repeated Rya. “Papa?”

  “Yes, sweet stuff?”

  “Since President Lincoln was an enemy of the South, and John Wilkes Booth was a Southerner at heart, was it right for John Wilkes Booth to shoot him?”

  “Mr. Lincoln wasn’t really an enemy of the South, Rya. He was an enemy of slavery. He didn’t believe that one human being should own another human being. And besides that, so many of the slave owners were brutal to their slaves. Mr. Lincoln knew that and condemned their brutality. But to answer your question, it was definitely not right for John Wilkes Booth to shoot and kill him. What he did was murder, and murder is never right.”

  “Never,” put in Laura.

  “What about when a policeman shoots and kills a criminal during the act of a crime, Papa?” asked Jack. “Is that murder?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “But the sixth of the Ten Commandments says, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ ”

  “Son—and I want all of you to listen to this—when law officers have to kill lawbreakers who are a threat to the lives of innocent people, it is not murder. No more than when soldiers fight on battlefields to defend their country and their families from aggressors, and kill the enemy soldiers.”

  “But Papa,” spoke up Ella, “the Bible still says, Thou shalt not kill.’ ”

  “You’ve got your Bible in your hand, honey,” said Richard. “Open it to Matthew chapter nineteen.”

  Saul and Rya looked on as their sister opened her Bible. “Okay, Papa. I’ve got it.”

  “All right, look at verse seventeen.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Notice Jesus is talking to a man about keeping the commandments?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, read us verse eighteen.”

  Ella cleared her throat. “ ‘He saith unto him, Which? Jesus said, Thou shalt do no murder, Thou shalt not commit adultery, Thou shalt not steal, Thou shalt not bear false witness.…’ ”

  “Jesus goes on, listing more of the Ten Commandments,” said Richard, “such as honoring your father and mother and loving your neighbor as yourself. But look again at the one that corresponds with ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ What did He say?”

  “ ‘Thou shalt do no murder.’ ”

  “Do you see it, children? Jesus is interpreting for us what ‘Thou shalt not kill’ means. It means ‘thou shalt do no murder.’ He is the only one we can always trust to interpret Scripture without error because He is the one who gave it to us. So when law officers have to kill criminals in the line of duty, and when soldiers have to kill the enemy to protect their homeland and loved ones, it is not murder.

  “When David killed Goliath with his own sword, it was not murder. He and Goliath came face-to-face, and Goliath told David he was going to kill him and feed his body to the birds of the air and the beasts of the field. For David, it was self-defense. It was kill or be killed. When it is self-defense, it is not murder.

  “We find in the Bible that God sometimes told the armies of Israel to go out and slay their enemies. Whether it was the Philistines, the Syrians, the Ammonites, or some other enemies, they were always armed, and the Israelites met them on a field of battle. Killing their enemies in battle was not murder.”

  “That makes sense, Papa,” said Jack.

  “Now, back to Rya’s question: it was not right for John Wilkes Booth to murder President Lincoln because he considered him an enemy of the South. Booth did not shoot Mr. Lincoln on a battlefield. Mr. Lincoln was unarmed and was posing no threat to Booth’s life. What Booth did was murder and it was terribly wrong. Do you all understand?”

  All four of the Garrett children said yes.

  “Good,” said Laura.

  “May I remind you,” said Richard, “that we should still be loyal Southerners. Booth and his accomplice do not represent true Southerners. True Southerners will sharply disagree with what Booth did. And something else—although as Christians, we must be against slavery, we are still Southerners and will remain loyal to the South, even though the war is over.”

  On Monday afternoon, John Wilkes Booth and David Herold were nearing the town of Bowling Green when they saw a lone rider coming toward them.

  As they and the rider drew nearer each other, Herold straightened in the saddle. “John, this fellow coming our way is a friend of mine. We’ll get some help now.”

  Booth focused on the rider. “Who is he?”

  “Willie Jett. His reputation as a Confederate soldier in the war is well-known. He was a tough sergeant and a hero in battle. He’s a true son of the South. We’ve known each other for years.”

  “Good,” said Booth. “It’s about time things we
re turning our way.”

  Herold lifted a hand and waved as the gap between them was closing.

  Recognizing Herold, the tall, slender Willie Jett smiled and waved back.

  As they pulled rein and met up, Jett said, “Dave, there are a bunch of troops all over this area looking for you. And this has to be John Wilkes Booth.”

  “John, shake hands with my old pal, Willie Jett,” said Herold.

  Leaning from their saddles, Booth and Jett shook hands.

  Jett said, “John, I’m proud of you for ridding the country of Abraham Lincoln. In my eyes, you’re a real hero.”

  Booth smiled thinly and nodded.

  “But like I said,” Jett went on, “there are lots of troops in these parts, looking for you two.”

  “We know,” said Herold. “We’re doing our best to elude them.”

  “Well, if you need a place to hide, I’ll find it for you.”

  The fugitives grinned at each other, then Herold said, “We sure do need a place to hole up.”

  “Well, with my reputation as an ex-Confederate soldier, it wouldn’t be safe for you at my place. The troops have already been there twice. They don’t trust me one little bit. They’ll be back again.”

  “I’ve been traveling under the name of Harold Smith,” said Herold, “and John’s telling people his name is James W. Boyd. Show him your tattoo, John.”

  Exposing the tattoo on his hand, Booth said, “Did that when I was a kid. So I had to come up with a name that matched these initials.”

  Jett studied the tattoo and nodded. “I know where I’m going to take you, Mr. Boyd and Mr. Smith. I’m acquainted with a farmer some three miles south of Bowling Green who is unswervingly loyal to the Confederacy. His name is Richard Garrett, and his family is as loyal to the South as is Richard. I know the Garretts will hide you if we make some changes.”

  “Changes?” said Booth.

  “Mm-hmm. We’ll have to tell the Garretts that you, Sergeant James W. Boyd, are a Confederate soldier who was wounded in the battle at Petersburg, Virginia, on April 2. And your friend Harold Smith is trying to get you home to Fairfax. However, your battered, broken leg is hurting you severely, and you need a place to rest for a few days. I’ll tell Richard and Laura that if the Federals who are looking for Lincoln’s assassin and his accomplice should come upon Sergeant James W. Boyd, they would arrest him for not reporting to the Union authorities since the war is over. They’ll gladly hide you, I have no doubt.”