We were first ordered to Washington to form part of the military escort at President Lincoln’s funeral, immediately after which we were sent here into Maryland in pursuit of Booth and some of his accomplices who were known to have come here. We traced Booth to the house of a Dr. Mudd where he went to have his leg set, a bone which had been broken by a fall off his horse. At this Doctor’s he arrived on the morning after the murder. He had with him a man by the name of Harrold, one of his accomplices and a desperado well known in these parts. Here he remained until 2:00 o’clock in the afternoon of the same day. From here we were unable to trace him farther for some days. In vain we scoured the country in all directions. I was out with my Company night and day. With us were some of the most expert detectives of the United States, but all our efforts to trace him further failed until at length a free negro came in and reported that he acted as a guide for them to the house of a Captain Cox some fifteen miles from here. At that time I happened to be the only officer off duty, and at 12:00 o’clock at night started with thirty men, two detectives and this same negro guide for the home of Captain Cox.
We reached there just at daylight, saw Captain Cox (a notorious “secesh!”) but he denied all knowledge of the parties.
We obtained evidence, however, that Booth and Harrold remained at his house some four hours in private conversation with him. They then mounted their horse, Booth being lifted on the horse by the negro guide whom they dismissed, and again we lost all trace of them. Cox we arrested and he is now in the Old Capitol prison.
The great difficulty is the people here are all traitors, and we can get no information from them. A report reached us the day before yesterday that they had been seen not far from where I am now writing. They came to the edge of a woods and called for this colored woman (our informant) to bring them some food. She describes the men and said one of them had crutches. We immediately surrounded and one hundred of our men searched it through and through, but found nothing. The country here is heavily wooded, making it next to impossible to find one who makes any effort to escape. I hope, however, we will yet find him if he is not across the Potomac.
Captain Hazelton’s hope was in vain. Booth had crossed the Potomac days ago, leaving behind him and the hundreds of other troops, detectives, and policemen who still, clueless, hunted for him in Maryland. Unbeknownst to them the theatre of action had shifted across the river, to Virginia.
he Sixteenth New York Cavalry rode into Port Con-way, Virginia, on Tuesday, April 25, between 3:00 and 4:00 p.m. William Rollins, sitting on his front steps, watched their arrival. Luther Baker spotted him and walked over to his house. Had Rollins seen any strangers cross the river at this spot in the last couple days? Baker asked. The detective was not interested in any parties crossing from Port Royal to Port Conway, just those that crossed over from the Port Conway side. Of course he had, said Rollins: “There were a good many people crossing there.” How about a man with a broken leg? Baker continued. Yes, he crossed yesterday around noon, the fisherman revealed. The report jolted Baker. It must be Booth. Finally, eleven days after the assassination, and more than a week after Booth seemed to fall off the face of the earth for several days during his pine-thicket encampment, the manhunters picked up a fresh scent of their prey. If it was Booth, then Lincoln’s assassin was only a little more than a day’s ride ahead of them.
Rollins offered additional details: “[T]wo men came . . . in a wagon the day before . . . and . . . crossed the river . . . I had some conversation with them.” Only yesterday, Booth and Herold had stood on this spot, in front of these same steps, conversing with Rollins just as Baker spoke to him now. The detective devoured every morsel of intelligence that Rollins could recall. These men wanted to go to Bowling Green, said Rollins, and they offered to pay him to take them there in his wagon. But, impatiently, they refused to wait for him to set his fishing nets. Instead, the lame man and his young companion made other plans as soon as they fell in with three Confederate soldiers, each mounted on horseback. They all crossed over the Rappahannock together on Thornton’s ferry.
Baker was intrigued by these Confederate soldiers. Earlier intelligence—reports from Surratt’s tavern and Dr. Mudd’s farm—indicated that Booth and Herold were traveling alone. This was the first time anyone heard that they had linked up with rebel troops. If Rollins was telling the truth, it might mean that the assassins had come under the protection of the Confederate army and were being escorted south on horseback. That would make it tougher to catch them now. Rebels with knowledge of the country could move fast and would be able to outrace the Sixteenth New York. Furthermore, the three soldiers at the ferry could be part of a larger Confederate force, superior in numbers to the Union patrol. The deeper Baker, Conger, and Doherty probed into rebel territory with their small, lightly armed unit, the greater their risk of being ambushed by Confederate forces, guerrillas, or bushwhackers.
Luther Baker decided to worry about those things later. Yesterday, John Wilkes Booth was in Port Conway. Today Baker had no choice but to pick up the chase from that spot. Baker reached into his pocket and withdrew three small, sepia-toned, carte-de-visite paper photographs, fresh from the photography lab at the U.S. Army Medical Museum. He showed the first carte to Rollins: is this one of the strangers who crossed the river yesterday? The image was of a tall, lean man without facial hair. No, replied the helpful fisherman. He had never seen that man. Rollins, without realizing it, had just given Baker a valuable piece of intelligence. John Surratt, Confederate operative, son of Mary Surratt, and wanted man, was not traveling with Booth.
Baker held out the second photograph, a full-length image of a younger man—he looked like a teenager—posing with his hand resting on a tabletop. What about this man? Yes, Rollins responded, that is the man who arrived in Port Conway on the wagon with the lame man. They were together and he did most of the talking for the fellow with the broken leg. Rollins had just identified David Herold. Baker’s excitement grew as he handed Rollins the final photograph—a bust portrait of a handsome, black-haired man with a black moustache, clothed in a black frock coat. The details in this photo were sharper than in the other two and appeared to be more professional.
Baker didn’t say a word while William Rollins studied the photograph. Baker read the hesitation on Rollins’s face and grew concerned. Rollins looked puzzled. “I was not sure whether he had a moustache,” the fisherman admitted. Baker relaxed. Rollins had now confirmed what the manhunters suspected—that Dr. Mudd had told the truth about the razor and the shave. And, indeed, the latest edition of the April 20 reward broadside was correct when it proclaimed: “Booth . . . wears a heavy black moustache . . . which there is some reason to believe has been shaved off.”
Rollins added another qualification: “And when I saw him his cap was pulled down over his forehead.” At that Baker was unsure if Rollins had seen the lame man’s face or not. “But,” continued Rollins, “I thought there was a likeness across the eyes.” Booth’s piercing eyes were hard to forget. Yes, said Rollins, this is “the likeness of the other man with the broken leg.” Baker rejoiced. Rollins had identified John Wilkes Booth. They were on the right track. Although the assassin enjoyed a full day’s head start over the manhunters, he would have to stop somewhere to rest. Baker believed that hard riding by the Sixteenth New York could close the gap.
In addition to providing positive identifications of Booth and Her-old, and confirming that they had crossed to Port Royal, Rollins had more information that made him an invaluable resource to the man-hunters. He could also identify one of the three Confederate soldiers who had escorted the men across the river. His name was Willie Jett, and Rollins had a pretty good idea of where that rebel was headed. He lived in Westmoreland County, and Rollins guessed that after landing in Port Royal, he rode straight for Bowling Green: “[He] was in the habit of staying there a good deal of his time.” The strangers had asked Rollins to take them to Bowling Green; wasn’t it plausible that they requested the sa
me of Jett, and that the rebel escorted them there? They might still be in Bowling Green: the lame man’s companion told Rollins that they needed to rest for a couple days.
Mrs. Rollins had even more to tell before they shoved off. In addition to Jett, she named the other two Confederate soldiers—Bainbridge and Ruggles—who had crossed with Booth and Herold. Then she offered up a true gold nugget of gossip: Jett, according to local rumor, “was courting a young lady by the name of Gouldman, whose father kept a hotel at Bowling Green.” She was Izora Gouldman, the innkeeper’s sixteen-year-old daughter. Jett and Ruggles stayed there on the twenty-fourth. Bainbridge had a friend, Joseph Clarke, whose widowed mother, Virginia Clarke, owned a thousand-acre farm southwest of Bowling Green. Herold and Bainbridge spent the night there, then retrieved Ruggles from Star Hotel, stopped at Trappe, then dropped Davey at the Garretts’ farm.
The Sixteenth New York’s mission was obvious: boots and saddles at once, and immediate pursuit. But first, before they could gallop to Bowling Green—or anywhere else—they had to float across the Rappahannock on the slow ferry. The crossing would consume valuable time, but they had no choice. The ferry could not hold more than nine men and nine horses per trip. It would take three crossings—requiring six one-way trips by the ferryboat—and almost two hours, to transport the entire command to Port Royal. Baker ordered a black man to go out on the dock and hail the ferry to come over right away from the Port Royal side. In the meantime, Lieutenant Doherty, followed shortly by Detective Conger, came over and spoke to Rollins. While they waited for the ferryboat, Conger had time to take down a statement in writing from Rollins.
Luther Baker, pleased with Rollins’s cooperation and the quality of information he provided, decided to press him into temporary service. The fisherman should accompany the cavalry across the river and lead the pursuit of Booth to Bowling Green. Will he, Baker asked, “Go of [his] own accord or under arrest?” Rollins considered his options. He did not object to joining the troops, but he and his wife, Betsy, worried what their neighbors might think. Cooperating with the Yankees might not go over well with the locals, and the family might suffer repercussions later. Rollins asked Baker to go through the ritual of placing him under mock arrest to avoid the appearance of impropriety. The detective agreed to the charade if it meant securing Rollins’s assistance.
Rollins got his horse and led the animal onto the ferry. On the other side a corporal whom Baker let in on the ruse took charge of Rollins and paraded him through Port Royal like a prisoner. By 4:30 p.m. on April 25, the entire patrol was across. With his reputation as a good Southerner secure, Rollins guided the Union cavalry toward Bowling Green. En route, about three miles out from Port Royal, they encountered a black man riding toward them from the direction of Bowling Green.
Not wanting to stop the cavalry’s progress to the Star Hotel, Doherty spurred forward to intercept the rider: “Not wishing to lose time, I rode ahead of the column and directed the negro to turn back and ride beside myself.” Brief questioning suggested that Jett was still in Bowling Green. Farther down the road, the patrol stopped at a halfway house between Port Royal and Bowling Green, the notorious den called “The Trappe.” Rollins stayed outside while Conger and Baker went inside for between half an hour and forty-five minutes to question the occupants.
Never was a Civil War roadside tavern more aptly named. Widow Martha Carter and her four or five unmarried daughters kept what Luther Baker described discreetly as “a house of entertainment.” The cavalry found no men at the log house, but, noticed Baker, “when we were searching the premises the ladies seemed very much excited.” The women disclosed that four men had passed through on April 24, but only three of them passed back on the twenty-fifth. It did not sound to Baker like Booth was among them: “From their description, we could not ascertain that the lame man was along.”
It was 4:00 p.m. on Tuesday, April 25. The sun would few hours, and John Garrett could tell that the Boyd cousins were not planning to go anywhere that night. Ten minutes later, as Garrett fretted about what to do with his now unwanted guests, an even more disturbing incident occurred. Two horsemen, riding rapidly from the direction of Port Royal, burst through the Garretts’ outer gate and galloped toward the house at top speed. Booth and Herold left the porch to meet them. Garrett recognized Ruggles, one of the two Confederates he’d spied from his bedroom window yesterday afternoon when they delivered Booth into his father’s care. Bainbridge was at his side.
Like Paul Revere, Ruggles and Bainbridge carried electrifying news—the cavalry was coming! “Marylanders you had better watch out,” one of them shouted. “There are forty Yankee cavalry coming up the hill!” Even as they spoke, the patrol was crossing the Rappahannock River on the ferry between Port Conway and Port Royal. The Confederates had seen them with their own eyes from a hillcrest overlooking the ferry landing. And the soldiers had spotted them on the crest, watching their movements from across the river. Soon the whole troop would be across the river and riding southwest, following the identical route that Ruggles and Bainbridge had just raced down. Without even reining their animals to a complete halt, the riders warned Booth and Herold to hide themselves. Then they turned their horses around and galloped to the southwest, away from Port Royal and toward Bowling Green.
Booth and Herold looked at each other and, with -out exchanging a word, made for the woods behind Garrett’s barn. They waited for a time, but no cavalry came. Was it a false alarm? After a while Herold emerged from the forest and walked back to the farmhouse, where John Garrett stood in the front yard. Amiably, seemingly unworried, Herold asked Garrett what he thought about the news of Union cavalry at Port Royal. Was it credible? Garrett did not think so; he could not imagine how the cavalry would have gotten to Port Conway. As they spoke Garrett spotted a “black boy” named Jim coming down the road from Port Royal. Jim had belonged to J. H. Pendleton, and Garrett knew him. Leaving Herold in the yard, Garrett hailed Jim and questioned him about cavalry crossing on the ferry. It was true all right, confirmed Jim. The Union troops were already over the river and in Port Royal when he left there.
Garrett reported the news to Herold, who acted unconcerned. If the pistol incident worried Garrett, Booth’s flight into the woods with Davey frightened him even more. Garrett complained vociferously: “I told him . . . that since he had come here my suspicions were aroused that all was not right with him and [Booth], and I would be very glad if they would leave our house for we are peaceable citizens and did not want to get into any difficulty.”
Herold laughed off John Garrett’s concern: “There is no danger. Don’t make yourself alarmed about it; we will not get you into any trouble.” Davey asked for something to eat but Garrett refused him: “I told him we had nothing cooked and that he could not get anything to eat . . . until supper unless he promised that he would leave.”
While Garrett and Herold stood in the front yard bickering, a thunderous sound coming from the direction of Port Royal shook the earth and caught them off guard. “There goes the cavalry now!” Garrett exclaimed. Incredibly, the soldiers, racing for Bowling Green, rode right past Locust Hill and the front gate that led to the Garrett farmhouse. Oblivious to their surroundings, the soldiers—either failing to notice or taking no interest in the two men standing in the front yard—galloped on by. Even their local guide, William Rollins, did not spot David Herold, owner of that beautiful blanket. “Well, that is all,” Davey observed nonchalantly.
John Garrett, certain that Davey knew the patrol’s purpose, asked him again to leave Locust Hill.
The cavalry out of sight, obscured by a trailing dust cloud, Herold turned to Garrett and asked if he knew where he could buy a horse. John said not likely: “Both armies had stripped the country pretty well of horses.” If horses can’t be bought at any price, then what about hiring a team and a wagon, Davey proposed. John told him about a colored man named Freeman who lived nearby and sometimes hired out a conveyance. And what did Garrett estimate it migh
t cost to engage transport to Orange Court House? Freeman, John confided, had a weakness for specie—coin money—and he might drive as far as Guineau’s Station for $6. Herold possessed no coins, but dug his hand into a pocket and pulled out a piece of paper currency: “Here’s a Secretary Chase note; I’ll give this to get there.” Would that be enough? The former druggist’s clerk picked up a twig, sat on the ground, and drew the mathematics of the value conversion in the dirt, calculating that the $10 note was worth $7.30 in coin, more than enough to pay the price of a wagon ride.
Herold handed Garrett the cash and asked him to arrange the ride. Leaving Davey on the front porch, Garrett rushed to Freeman’s place as fast as he could. If he could find him at home, and induce him with the $10 note to transport the Boyds, the Garretts could be free of the suspicious strangers within the hour, well before sundown. When Garrett returned home, Herold and Booth were waiting for him in the yard. “What luck?” Herold asked. Garrett told them that Freeman was not home, but he would nonetheless find a way to send them on their way, even if he had to take them himself. Garrett said he knew Booth could not walk, and he didn’t expect them to leave Locust Hill on foot.
But John Garrett did not tell the Boyd cousins what else he had learned from Freeman’s wife. After confirming to John that the horsemen were Union cavalry, she revealed what they were after: “They asked [me] if there were any white men there.” Mrs. Freeman was sure that the soldiers were hunting for someone. She confirmed Garrett’s every suspicion about the strangers. Yes, he must make them leave now, this very afternoon, as soon as he returned home from the Freeman place. He would give them the ride himself. When would they like to go? asked Garrett, implying that he was prepared to get under way at once. He didn’t get the answer he wanted. Unhurried, Booth and Herold said they did not want to leave until tomorrow morning. They would go on the morning of April 26. But it was suppertime now, and the “Boyds” were hungry.
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