From Baltimore, Provost Marshal James L. McPhail sent an order to B. B. Hough at Saint Inigoes, Maryland: “The President is murdered: Mr. Seward and son nearly so. One of the murderers, J. Wilkes Booth, actor, played at Holliday Street a year ago. Twenty-five years old, five feet eight inches high, dark hair and mustache. He took the direction from Washington toward Saint Mary’s and Calvert Counties. Use all attempts to secure him.”
Back in Washington, General Halleck, perhaps overly optimistic, made plans to imprison the assassins. In Halleck’s defense, if Booth was captured, the army would have to sequester him carefully to protect him from Lincoln’s avengers—rampaging mobs of vigilantes who might storm the Old Capitol prison—should they discover that the assassin was jailed there. It was too risky to imprison Booth anywhere on land. Halleck issued an order to General Augur: “Should either of the assassins of last night be caught put them in double irons and convey them, under a strong escort, to the commander of the navy-yard, who has orders to receive them and to confine them on a monitor to be anchored in the stream.” A watery moat would protect Booth from the angry citizens of Washington.
Water was the secretary of the navy’s element, so Gideon Welles issued instructions personally to Commodore J. B. Montgomery at the Navy Yard: “If the military authorities arrest the murderer of the President and take him to the yard, put him on a monitor and anchor her in the stream, with strong guard on vessel, wharf, and in yard. Call upon commandant of Marine Corps for guard. Have vessel immediately prepared to receive him at any hour, day or night, with necessary instructions. He will be heavily ironed and so guarded as to prevent escape or injury to himself.” Welles could hardly allow Booth to commit suicide aboard one of his ships. Just to be sure, Welles also sent an order to Colonel Zeilin, commandant of the Marine Corps: “Have extra strong and careful guard ready for special service, if called for.” The army, the navy, and the marine corps were ready. Now all they had to do was catch John Wilkes Booth, Lewis Powell, John H. Surratt, David Herold, and George Atzerodt.
Halleck telegrammed Major General Ord in Richmond: “Attempts have been made to-night to assassinate the President and Secretary of State. Arrest all persons who may enter your lines by water or land.” Late that day General Grant, now back in Washington, sent Ord a telegram ordering him to arrest all paroled Confederate officers and surgeons. “Extreme rigor,” Grant warned, “will have to be observed whilst assassination remains the order of the day with the rebels.”
Arrest everyone? a skeptical Ord wired back to Grant—even General Lee and his staff? That would be dangerous and unwise, Ord cautioned, and might incite a violent uprising in the former Confederate capital if rebel soldiers and the local citizenry feared that their hero Robert E. Lee was in danger: “Should I arrest them under the circumstances,” Ord continued, “I think the rebellion here would be reopened.” Grant relented: “On reflection I withdraw my dispatch.”
The doctors continued their useless ministrations to the dying president. They probed the wound with their bare, unsanitary fingers, sticking their pinkies inside Lincoln’s brain. They deployed the Nelaton probe to locate the bullet for possible extraction, as if that would have helped Lincoln. They poured a little brandy into their patient’s mouth to see if he could retain and swallow it. That unnecessary experiment sent Lincoln into a spasm of coughing that almost choked him to death. Eventually the assembled physicians gave up their tinkering and contented themselves to observe, monitoring Lincoln’s vital signs. Dr. Ezra Abbott, one of a dozen physicians who rushed to Lincoln’s deathbed, took notes on his pulse and respiration.
An emotional Dr. Leale held the president’s hand: “Knowledge that frequently just before departure recognition and reason return to those who have been unconscious, caused me for several hours to hold the president’s right hand firmly within my grasp, to let him in his blindness know, if possible, that he was in touch with humanity and had a friend.”
While Lincoln yet lived, the manhunt began. Soldiers and detectives rushed to Booth’s room, number 228, at the National Hotel. Of course Booth was gone, but they searched his trunk and discovered an incredible and mysterious letter signed only “Sam” that pointed to a large conspiracy against the government.
Several blocks from the National, just a few hours after the assassination, a raiding party showed up at Mary Surratt’s boardinghouse. In the bedlam in the streets outside Ford’s Theatre and the Petersen house, one or more anonymous tipsters reported that John Wilkes Booth and John H. Surratt Jr. were intimates, and that Mrs. Surratt’s boarding-house was just a few blocks away. Lewis J. Weichmann, a boarder and school friend of John Surratt, was the first to respond to the patrol’s arrival.
“I heard the front door bell ring very violently.” Weichmann pulled on a pair of pants and went to the front door. Without opening the door, he spoke to the caller on the other side.
“Who is there?”
“Detectives,” was the reply, “come to search the house for John Wilkes Booth and John Surratt.”
“They are not here,” Weichmann answered.
“Let us in anyhow.” They wanted to search the house.
Weichmann retreated from the front door and knocked on Mary Surratt’s first-floor bedroom door.
“Here, Mrs. Surratt, are detectives who have come to search the house.”
“For God’s sake! Let them come in. I expected the house to be searched.”
Weichmann returned to the front hall and unlocked the door.
John Clarvoe, James A. McDevitt, Daniel R. P. Bigley, and John F. Kelly entered the house. “They explored the house from top to bottom,” recalled Weichmann, “going into the rooms occupied by the young ladies and looking to see who they were.”
When the detectives got to Weichmann’s room, he asked, “Gentlemen, what is the matter? What does this searching of the house mean?”
Clarvoe replied: “Do you pretend that you do not know what has happened?”
Weichmann said he did not.
“Then I will tell you. John Wilkes Booth has shot the President and John Surratt has assassinated the Secretary of State.”
“My God, I see it all,” Weichmann blurted out.
Weichmann told the detectives that John Surratt was in Canada, and he offered to do anything in his power to assist their investigation.
When Clarvoe asked Mary where her son was, she said she did not know. When he responded skeptically, she retorted that during this war, many mothers did not know where their sons were.
Weichmann asked McDevitt how they came to Mrs. Surratt’s so soon after the assassination. The detective said that a man on the street said, “If you want to find out all about this business go to Mrs. Surratt’s house on H Street.”
Out of earshot from the detectives, Anna Surratt revealed her fear. “Oh, Ma! Mr. Weichmann is right; just think of that man having been here an hour before the assassination. I am afraid it will bring suspicion upon us.”
“Anna, come what will. I am resigned,” Mary replied. “I think that J. Wilkes Booth was only an instrument in the hands of the Almighty to punish this proud and licentious people.”
After the detectives left, Weichmann returned to his room and did not sleep any more that night.
At breakfast with the Surratts the next morning, Weichmann deplored the assassination, and suggested that Booth’s many visits to their home would provoke an official investigation. Anna Surratt interrupted him, saying that the death of Lincoln “was no worse than that of the meanest nigger in the army.” Weichmann disagreed. “I told her that I thought she would find out differently.”
Throughout the night and into the early morning, Mary Lincoln made regular pilgrimages from the front parlor to her husband’s bedside. Around 3:00 a.m., as Mary sat beside him, the president emitted a horrible, loud sound, and he gasped for breath. Frightened, Mary wailed: “Oh! That my little Taddy might see his father before he died!” Then, according to a witness, “she sprang up suddenly wit
h a piercing cry and fell fainting upon the floor.” Stanton, unnerved by her cry (and fearing that the president had just died), rushed in from the adjoining room and with raised arms called out loudly, “Take that woman out and do not let her in again.” She did not deserve that cruelty. It did not matter: Stanton was obeyed.
Stanton returned to the back parlor and drafted another telegram:
Washington City,
No. 458 Tenth Street, Apl 15, 1865—3 a.m.
Major-General Dix:
New York,
The President still breathes, but is quite insensible, as he has been ever since he was shot. He evidently did not see the person who shot him but was looking on the stage as he was approached from behind.
Mr. Seward has rallied, and it is hoped that he may live. Frederick Seward’s condition is very critical. The attendant who was present was stabbed through the lungs, and is not expected to live. The wounds of Major Seward are not serious. Investigation strongly indicates J. Wilkes Booth as the assassin of the President. Whether it was the same or a different person that attempted to murder Mr. Seward remains in doubt. Chief Justice Cartter is engaged in taking the evidence. Every exertion has been made to prevent the escape of the murderer. His horse has been found on the road, near Washington.
Edwin M. Stanton Sec. Of War
Stanton reached for a clean sheet of paper and wrote another telegram.
WAR DEPARTMENT Washington, April 15, 1865—3 a.m. Brigadier-General MORRIS Commanding District of Baltimore:
Make immediate arrangements for guarding thoroughly every avenue leading into Baltimore, and if possible arrest J. Wilkes Booth, the murderer of President Lincoln. You will acknowledge the receipt of this telegram, giving time, &c.
EDWIN M. STANTON Secretary of War
Booth needed a friend on the lonely road from SURRATTSVILLE to points south. After riding half the night, he and David Her-old neared their destination—an isolated farmhouse in Charles County, Maryland, a few miles north of a small village named Bryantown. A city-dwelling night rider unfamiliar with the sparsely populated region might have continued down the road and missed the turnoff to the house in the dark, predawn hours of April 15, but Booth spurred his mount forward confidently, found the way, and guided Davey up the path toward the handsome, well-built, two-story frame dwelling that glowed a pale, ghostly white in the distance. Booth recognized their sanctuary at once. He had been here before.
It was 4:00 a.m., fewer than six hours since Booth shot the president, and he and David Herold hadn’t seen a soul in miles. This was an auspicious omen for a man who, within a few hours, would be damned in the morning newspapers as the most wanted man in America. They could rest here, the assassin reassured his faithful companion. This would not be like their rushed, five-minute interlude at Surratt’s tavern, which was much too close to Washington and possible pursuers. Here, farther south, and deeper into the night of this remote countryside, they could tarry, rest, eat, and even sleep. And Booth could obtain medical care for his injured leg, plagued, he was now certain, by a broken bone. He also needed desperately to renew his strength after having been awake for almost twenty-four hours. He was dog tired, and his weary body ached from five bumpy hours on horseback.
By this time, the War Department had expanded the search beyond the vicinity of Washington, activating manhunters in places as distant as Delaware and Pennsylvania. In Wilmington, the commanding officer, Brigadier General J. R. Kenly, received this telegram: “J. Wilkes Booth, tragedian, is the murderer of Mr. Lincoln. No trains will be permitted to leave this city. Do your utmost to preserve order and keep a sharp lookout for Booth. Report your action.” In Philadelphia, Major General George Cadwalader was warned by Halleck: “Attempts have been made to-night to assassinate the President and Secretary of State. Arrest all persons who leave Washington to-night and hold them till further orders.”
Closer to Washington, General Augur ordered General J. P. Slough, military governor of Alexandria, Virginia, to join the hunt: “The murderer of the President is undoubtedly J. Wilkes Booth, the actor. The other party is a smooth-faced man, quite stout. You had better have a squad of cavalry sent down toward the Occoquan to intercept anything crossing the river. The fisherman along the river should be notified and kept on the lookout.” Slough complied within the hour: “All of the orders received during the night from you have been obeyed, except the sending of cavalry toward the Occoquan, which will be done as soon as a sufficient number can be assembled. The river and shore from Alexandria to Washington are abundantly patrolled, and are all active and vigilant. A tug-boat will start soon to notify the fisheries.” Augur emphasized the river’s importance in a second order to Slough: “It is possible that the parties have crossed the river. Patrol the river. Intercept all boats and vessels. Allow no one to pass down the river unless well known.”
Booth and Herold left the main road and approached the farmhouse, a quarter mile ahead. The moist, spring night air was still and eerily silent. No barking dogs warned of their approach, and the slow, quiet pacing of their horses’ hooves failed to arouse the six occupants— a man and wife and their four young children—or the three hired hands who slept nearby in the dependencies.
Herold dismounted, handed his reins off to Booth, and walked toward the house. The assassin remained in his saddle, alert for any sounds of danger. No lamplight shone through the window glass into the front yard. Davey would have to wake up the people inside. He knocked on the front door and listened for signs of life. Nothing. No one answered. Herold pounded the door harder, then returned to Booth’s side. This time his knocking penetrated the stout barrier and echoed through the five first-floor rooms and pricked the ears of the couple slumbering in the back bedroom.
The loud rapping worried the farmer: “I was very much alarmed at this, fearing it might be somebody who had come there not for any good purpose”—or so he would claim later. He rose from his bed and, without lighting a telltale candle or oil lamp, walked to the front door. “Who’s there?” he called to the person on the other side. Two strangers, replied a young man’s voice, hailing from St. Mary’s County and on their way to Washington. One of their horses had fallen, the man claimed, throwing the rider and breaking his leg. Hesitating, the farmer peered through a window and, satisfied, unlocked the door.
In the front yard he found two men about twenty paces away, standing under a cedar tree, “one on a horse led by the other man who had tied his horse to a tree near by.” John Wilkes Booth watched as the door opened, and a man stepped toward him. The assassin eyed him warily until the figure got close, and then relaxed at the sight of a familiar face. The farmer helped Booth get down from his horse, offering support when the fugitive’s body weight bore down on his injured leg. Booth’s feet touched the ground. Exhausted and grimacing in pain, but relieved and grateful, Booth staggered into the arms of Dr. Samuel A. Mudd.
Their faces now inches apart, Mudd helped Booth limp up the front steps and ushered him into his home. Davey stayed outside, proposing to take charge of the horses until they could be stabled. Mudd woke Frank Washington, his hired “colored man”—emancipation had robbed the doctor of his slaves months ago—and ordered him to put the animals in the stable. In a few minutes, Herold trailed Booth into Dr. Mudd’s farmhouse. Herold was a stranger to Mudd—the doctor had never laid eyes on him before—but Davey’s master was not.
The chain of events that led John Wilkes Booth to the threshold of Dr. Samuel A. Mudd in the predawn hours of April 15, 1865, began six months earlier in faraway Montreal, Canada. By late 1864, Booth had taken steps to consummate his fantastic scheme to kidnap President Lincoln. He attempted to recruit conspirators in disloyal, wartime New York City, a Copperhead stronghold that Walt Whitman described as corrupted by the “scent of thievery, druggies, foul play, and prostitution gangrened.” Naturally, Booth knew the city well. New York was the national capital of the American stage, and he was on intimate terms with its players—the actors, managers,
and employees of the theatre, along with the establishments—and female fans—who catered to them.
North of New York was Canada, a major base of operations for the Confederate Secret Service. In Montreal, nests of rebel agents armed with plans and gold were busy fomenting anti-Union conspiracies. The promise of aid and comfort beckoned Booth across the border. But more than cash, the actor sought contacts. He wanted to tap into the established network of Confederate operatives and couriers stretching from Washington to Richmond, and points beyond. He and his own little band could manage to snatch Lincoln, but kidnapping the president would not be enough. They would have to get him out of Washington. And to spirit Lincoln south to Richmond on horseback or by carriage, a distance of nearly one hundred miles, Booth needed help. He needed no less than a rebel version of the hated “underground railroad” that transported runaway slaves north to freedom. Booth’s railroad, however, would run in reverse, by taking south the tyrant who dared free the slaves. To pull off his daring plan to kidnap the president, Booth needed loyal Confederate agents and safe houses located at strategic points along the route.
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