In October 1864, Booth ventured north into Canada to find the Confederate agents who could ensure his success. On October 18, he checked into the St. Lawrence Hall hotel. During his nine nights in the city, he met secretly with a number of rebels, foremost among them Patrick Charles Martin. Martin, a blockade runner, was once a liquor dealer in Baltimore, a city that Booth knew well and would soon turn to for recruits. The actor entrusted Martin with his theatrical wardrobe, an extremely valuable property in an age when all the great thespians traveled with trunks overflowing with fabulous, custom-made costumes. Booth wanted the wardrobe sent south aboard a sailing vessel. Once he kidnapped Lincoln, he could hardly return to the North to reclaim the professional tools of his trade. Martin agreed to handle the matter.
Martin also provided an infinitely more valuable service—the names of two prominent residents of Charles County, Maryland, who would help Booth execute his plan. Even better, Martin offered to write letters of introduction vouchsafing the actor’s devotion to the Confederacy and requesting aid. Before John Wilkes Booth left Montreal for New York City on October 27, 1864, Patrick Martin gave him two letters, one addressed to Dr. William Queen, and the other to Dr. Samuel A. Mudd.
Mudd was thirty-two years old and had attended Georgetown College. He received his M.D. from the University of Maryland in 1858. He and his thirty-year-old wife, Sarah Frances, lived on a 218-acre farm with their four young children, three boys and a girl, aged between one and six years old. In 1859, he built a handsome new farmhouse and enjoyed life as a physician-farmer. He was anti-Union, antiblack, and the owner of up to eleven slaves before emancipation freed them.
By November 9, Booth was back in Washington at his primary lair, the National Hotel. Two days later, eager to pursue Patrick Martin’s contacts, he traveled by stage to the Bryantown Tavern in Charles County, Maryland. A combination saloon, inn, and post office—not unlike Surratt’s Tavern—the establishment was known among Confederate operatives and sympathizers as a reliable safe house and place to exchange information. To the curious, the actor explained the trip as merely an exploration for real estate to purchase on speculation. Booth was known for his speculative investments in Pennsylvania oil fields, so it was credible when he passed himself off as merely a real estate investor. He found Dr. Queen quickly and spent the night of November 12 at his farm.
Booth told Queen about the kidnapping plot, and Queen agreed to help. The whole county was anti-Lincoln—in the presidential election of 1860 Abraham Lincoln won 6 votes out of a total of 1,197 cast—and was home to a number of Confederate agents, operatives, and couriers. Queen would have no trouble, he assured Booth, in identifying those sympathetic to his plan. And tomorrow, at church, he would introduce the actor to one of them, Dr. Samuel A. Mudd. In the meantime, Queen had to get word to Dr. Mudd to attend Sunday services at St. Mary’s Catholic Church, Dr. Queen’s parish, instead of St. Peter’s, Mudd’s customary place of worship.
The Queen family took Booth to church with them on Sunday morning, November 13, 1864, and John C. Thompson, Dr. Queen’s son-in-law, made the fateful introduction, presenting Booth to Dr. Mudd. The next day Booth returned to Washington by stage and checked in at the National.
On December 17, 1864, Booth returned to Charles County to visit his new friends and to meet another one. He spent the night at Dr. Queen’s and the next morning attended church with the family. Again, Dr. Mudd appeared at St. Mary’s. Booth embellished his cover story. Now, in addition to looking for farmland to purchase, he said he wanted to buy a horse. That part of his story was actually true—Booth did need horses for the kidnapping gang he hoped to assemble. He could easily have purchased mounts in Washington, but shopping for them in Charles County gave him an excuse to travel to Bryantown. Samuel Mudd was happy to offer assistance. After church Booth rode home with the doctor and spent the night of December 18 at his farm. The next day Mudd introduced his guest to one of his neighbors, George Gardiner, who sold him a peculiar, one-eyed horse. At the Bryantown Tavern, Mudd also introduced Booth to a much more important friend—the prominent Confederate operative Thomas Harbin. Harbin’s job would be to help Booth after the kidnapper and his prize continued south through Charles County and approached the lower Potomac for a river crossing. Harbin joined the conspiracy, and on December 22, Booth rode the one-eyed horse back to Washington.
Dr. Mudd had served Booth well in Charles County, but now the actor needed the doctor’s help in Washington. A Confederate courier named John H. Surratt Jr. operated out of his mother’s boardinghouse on H Street and from her country tavern at Surrattsville, Maryland, about twelve miles south of Washington and located at a strategic point along Booth’s likely escape route. Booth asked Mudd if he would come to the capital city on December 23 and introduce him to Surratt. Mudd agreed and called on Booth at the National Hotel the next day. Together they walked to Mary Surratt’s boardinghouse, but before they got there, Mudd spotted John Surratt and another man walking toward them on Seventh Street. Mudd introduced Booth to Surratt, and the actor invited everyone—Mudd, Surratt, and Louis Weichmann, Surratt’s friend and a boarder at the H Street house—back to his room at the National for drinks and private conversation. Booth recruited Surratt into the conspiracy and soon became a frequent H Street visitor, where he befriended Surratt’s widowed mother, Mary, and his impressionable young sister, Anna.
His work done, Samuel Mudd returned to his farm just before Christmas 1864 and awaited further word from Booth, which never arrived. Lincoln’s second inauguration came and went on March 4, 1865, Richmond fell on April 3, and Lee surrendered on April 9, but Dr. Mudd saw no more of Booth. Yes, Booth had sent liquor and supplies to Mudd’s farm for hiding until the day came, but it never did, and Booth never returned to call for them. Given the disastrous events of April 1865, Mudd assumed that Union victory had overtaken Booth, and that the actor surely had abandoned his scheme to kidnap the president.
Now, four months later, Booth was here again, though the doctor, standing in the pitch black of his front yard, did not know it yet. Once inside, Mudd guided the stranger to the upholstered settee in the front parlor. Booth sat, rotated his fatigued body, and immediately reclined into the soft, welcoming fabric. Mudd struck a match. The tiny flame hinted at no more than the vague outline of a human form lying upon the settee. Mudd lit an oil lamp and dialed the flame up to permit a proper examination of his new patient. Their eyes locked in recognition and in an instant the doctor knew the identity of the man who lay prostrate before him. How could he fail to recognize the stage star’s familiar thick, black hair, porcelain pale complexion, trademark moustache, and striking good looks? But what on earth, he wondered, was Booth doing here, in the middle of the night? Booth saw no reason to tell him, at least not yet. So, unlike at Surratt’s tavern, where, just four hours ago, the assassin had boasted promiscuously to John Lloyd, this time he held his tongue.
Before Mudd could proceed with examination and treatment, he would have to pry the tall, thigh-high cavalry boot off Booth’s left leg. Booth was in no condition to remove it. Mudd stood at one end of the settee, took firm grip of the heel and sole, and tugged. Booth’s jaw clamped tight in pain. The boot would not budge. Mudd tried to rock the pliable leather past Booth’s ankle but the boot held fast, as though it had been cemented to his foot. In a way, it had. The injury had caused Booth’s tissue to swell up and create a skintight seal that could not be broken without inflicting agony upon the patient and possibly augmenting the damage.
Mudd reached for a surgical knife, its shiny steel blade glinting under the lamp’s yellow flame. If he could not pull the boot free, then he would cut it off. He sliced a longitudinal, six-inch incision along the top of the boot near the ankle, careful not to cut too deep and open Booth’s soft flesh. Mudd set the instrument aside, seized the boot firmly, and pulled slowly. This time it slipped off. He dropped the boot to the floor, removed Booth’s sock, pushed his pant leg up his calf, and began the examination.
David Herold interrupted and told Mudd that they were in a hurry. “His friend urged me to attend to his leg as soon as possible, as they were very anxious to get to Washington,” Mudd noted. The doctor worked his fingers slowly along Booth’s calf, ankle, and foot, feeling for bone beneath muscles, tendons, and tissue. He found it quickly, a broken fibula near the left ankle. The diagnosis was elementary: Mudd informed Booth that he had suffered a “ ‘direct fracture’—one bone broken about two inches above the ankle joint.” The doctor did “not regard it as a peculiarly painful or dangerous wound,” reassuring Booth that he “did not find the adjoining bone fractured in any way . . . there was nothing resembling a compound fracture.”
And yes, Mudd could treat the injury, but he possessed no splints for broken bones and improvised. He rummaged around for an old bandbox. “I had no proper paste-board for making splints . . . [so] I . . . took a piece of the bandbox and split it in half, doubled it at right angles, and took some paste and pasted it into a splint.” Dr. Mudd finished his work within three-quarters of an hour.
It was about 5:00 a.m. now. Booth knew he should press on. If federal troops were lucky enough to pick up his scent, they could capture him at Dr. Mudd’s by first light. David Herold spoke up again. If Booth could not ride, Davey pondered, perhaps Dr. Mudd could help them find another mode of transportation?: “[Herold] enquired if they could not reach some point on the Potomac, where they could get a boat to Washington.” Booth considered his options. Yes, he could ride on, but how much more could he and the horses take, given their present condition, and how far could they run without breaking down? And the morning sun’s first light would expose the assassin to great danger on the open road. Satisfied that no one in Mudd’s locale—including the doctor himself—knew about the assassination yet, Booth calculated his next move. The assassin knew he was still traveling ahead of the news, but he also knew that soon the news would spread and overtake him, making the daylight hours unsafe for travel.
Booth weighed the risks and chose sanctuary. No one in the world knew he’d gone to Dr. Mudd’s this night. He hadn’t known that he’d go there himself until after he shot Lincoln and injured his leg. Better to hide out and chance discovery than be caught in open country at sunrise. They would spend what few hours remained of this night at the farm, rest there until the evening of Saturday, April 15, and then, once more, vanish into the night.
Mudd invited Booth and Herold to remain in the house, enticing his guests with visions of soft mattresses and beds, and leading them from the parlor to the front-hall staircase. Booth grasped the railing tightly, supporting himself while Mudd aided his ascent to the second floor. The doctor offered them a room to share, bade them good night, descended the stairs, and returned to his wife. The men will spend the night, he informed her. Unbeknownst to Mudd, he had just extended his hospitality to Lincoln’s assassin and his accomplice. Mudd stepped outside, walked around his farmyard giving instructions to his hired hands for the day’s work, and returned to bed.
Their secret safe from the Mudds, and their whereabouts a mystery to the manhunters, Davey and Booth collapsed into their beds. As Booth drifted off to sleep, he still did not know whether his master plan had succeeded or failed. Had George Atzerodt and Lewis Powell carried out their missions and assassinated Vice President Johnson and Secretary of State Seward? And what of the president—had Booth killed Abraham Lincoln, or did the tyrant still live?
While Booth slept the first cavalry patrol rode south from Washington, heading for Piscataway, Maryland. Soon this contingent from the Thirteenth New York Cavalry, commanded by Lieutenant David Dana, would ride close to Dr. Mudd’s farm. Booth had about seven hours.
“Find the Murderers”
No more dreams came to Abraham Lincoln during the night of his deep, last sleep at the Petersen house. His brain was dead and beyond the reach of any nocturnal imaginings. His soul would soon embark on the journey that he had traveled many times before in his recurring dream. Soon he would travel farther than he ever had before, finally reaching the indistinct shore that, to him, foretold the coming of great events.
By 4:00 a.m. Edwin Stanton was sure that he was dealing with a conspiracy. The evidence seized in Booth’s hotel room included a mysterious letter that seemed to foretell the assassination.
Hookstown, Balto Co. March 27th, 1865.
Dear John:
Was business so important that you could not remain in Balto till I saw you. I came in as soon as I could, but found you had gone to W___n. I called to see Mike, but learned from his mother he had gone out with you and had not returned. I concluded therefore he had gone with you. How inconsiderate you have been. When I left you, you stated we would not meet in a month or so. Therefore I made application for employment, an answer to which I shall receive during the week. I told my parents I had ceased with you. Can I then under existing circumstances, come as you request. You know full well that the G___t. suspicions something is going on there. Therefore, the undertaking is becoming more complicated. Why not for the present desist, for various reasons, which if you look into, you can readily see, without my making any mention thereof. You, nor any one can censure me for my present course. You have been its cause, for how can I now come after telling them I had left you. Suspicion rests upon me now from my whole family, and even parties in the country. I will be compelled to leave home nay how, and how soon I care not. None, no not one, were more in for the enterprise than myself, and to day would be there, had you not done as you have—by this I mean, manner of proceeding. I am, as you well know, in need. I am, you may say, in rags whereas to day I ought to be well clothed. I do not feel right stalking about with means, and more from appearances a beggar. I feel my dependence, but even all this would and was forgotten, for I was one with you. Time more propitious will arrive yet. Do not act rashly or in haste. I would prefer you first query, “go and see how it will be taken at R___d,” and ere long I shall be better prepared to again be with you. I dislike writing, and would sooner verbally make known my views. Yet your non writing causes me thus to proceed. Do not in anger peruse this. Weigh all I have said, and as a rational man and a FRIEND, you can not censure or upbraid my conduct. I sincerely trust this nor aught else that shall or may occur, will ever be an obstacle to obliterate our former friendship and attachment. Write me to Balto as I expect to be about Wednesday or Thursday. Or if you can possibly come on,
I will Tuesday meet you in Balto. At B___, Ever I subscribe myself.
Your friend, Sam.
The recovery of this letter, which Booth had carelessly—or possibly willfully, given his incriminating letter to the National Intelligencer— failed to destroy, was a stunning development. Stanton realized that it brimmed with clues: Booth had at least two conspirators named “Sam” and “Mike”; Sam was in Baltimore; the assassination was premeditated, planned before March 27; and the Confederacy might be involved. What else could “see how it will be taken in Richmond” mean?
The Daily Morning Chronicle, one of Washington’s major papers, described the frantic beginning of the manhunt:
No sooner had the dreadful event been announced in the street, than Superintendent Richards and his assistants were at work to discover the assassins. In a few moments the telegraph had aroused the . . . police force of the city. . . . Every measure of precaution was taken to preserve order in the city, and every street was patrolled. At the request of Mr. Richards General Augur sent horses to mount the police. Every road out of Washington was picketed, and every possible avenue of escape thoroughly guarded. Steamboats about to depart down the Potomac were stopped.
As it is suspected that this conspiracy originated in Maryland, the telegraph flashed the mournful news to Baltimore, and all the cavalry was immediately put upon active duty. Every road was picketed, and every precaution taken to prevent the escape of the assassins.
Stanton sent another telegram to General Dix telling him about the new evidence and updating him on Lincoln’s conditio
n:
Washington City,
No. 458 Tenth Street, April 15, 1865—4.10 a.m.
Major-General Dix:
The President continues insensible and is sinking. Secretary Seward remains without change. Frederick Seward’s skull is fractured in two places besides a severe cut upon the head. The attendant is alive, but hopeless. Major Seward’s wounds are not dangerous.
It is now ascertained with reasonable certainty that two assassins were engaged in the horrible crime, Wilkes Booth being the one that shot the President the other a companion of his whose name is not known but whose description is so clear that he can hardly escape. It appears from a letter found in Booth’s trunk that the murder was planned before the 4th of March but fell through then because the accomplice backed out until Richmond could be heard from. Booth and his accomplice were at the livery stable at 6 this evening, and left there with their horse about 10 o’clock, or shortly before that hour. It would seem that they had for several days been seeking their chance, but for some unknown reason it was not carried into effect until last night. One of them has evidently made his way to Baltimore, the other has not yet been traced.
At the Petersen house Dr. Abbott recorded melancholy statistics in the minutes he kept that night: “5:50 a.m., respiration 28, and regular sleeping.”
Manhunt Page 14
