Manhunt: The 12-Day Chase for Lincoln's Killer

by James L. Swanson

  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.

  Chapter Five

  “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 condition:

  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.”

  “6:00 A.M., pulse failing, respiration 28.”

  At 6:00 A.M., a fainting sickness overcame Secretary of the Navy Welles He had been cooped up in the claustrophobic Petersen house all night. Welles rose from his bedside chair, where he had sat listening to the sound of Lincoln’s breathing. Welles needed fresh air and decided to go for a walk. When he got outside, stood on the top step, and looked down to the street, he witnessed a remarkable scene: thousands of citizens, keeping their all-night vigil for their dying president. Welles descended the turned staircase and walked among them. They recognized Lincoln’s bearded “Father Neptune,” and individual faces emerged from the crowd and spoke to him: “[They] stepped forward as I passed, to inquire into the condition of the President, and to ask if there was hope. Intense grief was on every countenance when I replied that the President could survive but a short time. The colored people especially—and there were at this time more of them, perhaps than of whites—were overwhelmed with grief.” After a while, Welles turned back: “It was a dark and gloomy morning, and rain set in before I returned to the house.” He wanted to be there at the end.

  “6:30 A.M., still failing and labored breathing.”

  “7:00 A.M., symptoms of immediate dissolution.”

  In Maryland, at the same hour, Lieutenant Dana arrived in Piscataway Dana, although he held junior rank, had senior-level connections in Washington. His brother, Charles, was Lincoln’s assistant secretary of war and a confidant of Stanton. David Dana and his patrol from the Thirteenth New York Cavalry had left Washington two hours ago, at 5:00 A.M. As soon as he reached Piscataway, he telegraphed Washington to report the progress of his early-morning expedition. “I arrived at this place at 7 A.M., and at once sent a man to Chapel Point to notify the cavalry at that point of the murder of the President, with description of the parties who committed the deed. With the arrangements which have been made it is impossible for them to get across the river in this direction.” Dana had already gotten his first tip, and he relayed it to headquarters: “I have reliable information that the person who murdered Secretary Seward is Boyce or Boyd, the man who killed Captain Watkins in Maryland. I think it without doubt true.” Of course it wasn’t Less than nine hours into the manhunt, Dana was pursuing the kind of false lead that would come to bedevil the manhunters in the days ahead.

  aT THE PETERSEN HOUSE, ABRAHAM LINCOLN BEGAN THE death struggle.

  The end was coming on fast. Surgeon General Barnes placed his finger on Lincoln’s carotid artery; Dr. Leale placed his finger on the president’s right radial pulse; and Dr. Taft placed his hand over the heart. The doctors and nearly every man in the room fished out pocket watches on gold chains. It was 7:20 A.M., April 15, 1865. More than once, they thought that Lincoln had passed away. But the strong body resisted death and rallied again, as it had so many times through the long night.

  It was 7:21 A.M. Death was imminent.

  At 7:21 and 55 seconds, Abraham Lincoln drew his last breath.

  His heart stopped beating at
7:22 and 10 seconds. It was over.

  “He is gone; he is dead,” one of the doctors said. To the Reverend Dr. Gurley, the Lincoln family’s minister, it seemed that four or five minutes passed “without the slightest noise or movement” by anyone in the room. “We all stood transfixed in our positions, speechless, around the dead body of that great and good man.”

  Edwin Stanton spoke first. He turned to his right and looked at Gurley. “Doctor, will you say anything?”

  “I will speak to God,” replied the minister, “let us pray.” He summoned up such a stirring prayer that later no one, not even Gurley, could remember what he said. James Tanner tried to scribble down the words, but at this crucial moment the lead tip of his only pencil snapped and he wasn’t able to write any more.

  Gurley finished and everyone murmured “Amen.” Then, no one dared to speak.

  Again Stanton broke the silence. “Now he belongs to the angels.”

  Edwin Stanton composed himself, reached for pen and paper, and wrote a single sentence. There was nothing else to say. It was the telegram that would, as soon as a messenger ran it over to the War Department for transmission, announce the sad news to the nation.

  WASHINGTON CITY, April 15, 1865.

  Major General Dix,

  New York:

  Abraham Lincoln died this morning at 22 minutes after 7 o’clock.