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

by James L. Swanson

  Monday, April 17, closed as the most successful day in the three-day-old manhunt. Earlier that day government agents arrested Samuel Arnold in Baltimore. On April 14, detectives had ransacked Booth’s room at the National, on Sixth and Pennsylvania, a short walk from Ford’s Theatre. The “Sam” letter, discovered within hours of the assassination, had, along with a detective’s tip, led to Arnold’s arrest. Arnold, age thirty-one, a former schoolmate of Booth’s and a Confederate army veteran, confessed that he’d participated in Booth’s earlier scheme to kidnap the president, but he denied any involvement in or knowledge of the assassination. He argued that the “Sam” letter, rather than proving his guilt, was evidence that he had quit the conspiracy weeks before the assassination.

  Michael O’Laughlen, age twenty-eight, another of Booth’s boyhood friends and also a former Confederate soldier from Baltimore and participant in the kidnapping plot, was also seized on April 17. Provost Marshal McPhail knew O’Laughlen’s family, and Michael turned himself in to “spare his mother.” After O’Laughlen’s arrest, Charles Dana telegraphed McPhail in Baltimore with instructions on how to transport him to Washington: “Bring [him] here in the train which leaves Baltimore at 6 P.M. Have him in double irons, and use every precaution against escape, but as far as possible avoid everything which can lead to suspicion on the part of the people on the train and give rise to an attempt to lynch the prisoner. A carriage will be in waiting at the depot to convey him to the place of confinement.”

  Edman Spangler, the thirty-nine-year-old Ford’s Theatre stagehand who briefly held the reins of Booth’s horse, had been arrested on April 15, and was then released, only to be rearrested on April 17 along with Arnold, O’Laughlen, and Powell. In Spangler’s room, detectives made what they thought was an ominous discovery: a long coil of strong rope. Was it for Booth to rappel down from Lincoln’s box to the stage? Under any other circumstance, a rope is an innocent stagehand’s accessory, but in the aftermath of Lincoln’s murder, it led to Spangler’s arrest. Poor Spangler had nothing to do with the assassination—or the earlier kidnapping plot. But his long association with Booth, the rope, holding the bay mare’s reins, and the allegation by another theatre employee that Spangler said not to tell pursuers which way Booth went down the alley, earned him a cell in the Old Capitol prison. Many other people in the theatre were rounded up, including the Fords. Edwin Stanton declared the theatre a lair to which Lincoln had been lured, and surely those connected to it must have conspired with the assassin. How else could Booth have escaped so smoothly and easily? The theatre building itself was “arrested” by the government—it was ordered closed and was eventually confiscated from the Fords.

  These were not the only arrests. The dragnet rounded up more than one hundred suspects: Junius Booth, one of the assassin’s brothers; a strange Portuguese sea captain named Celestino; various Confederate sympathizers and agents; and others who expressed disloyal sentiments.

  Although the arrest of one suspect after another filled the headlines, Booth and Herold had vanished. The New York Herald reported Booth sitting nonchalantly aboard a train to Philadelphia; Washington papers argued Booth was hiding in the capital. One of the most famous and recognizable men in America remained free. The American people demanded vengeance. Across the country, mobs beat suspected Booth sympathizers, and in several cases murdered them. A Union soldier named John F. Madlock, an officer of the U.S. Colored Cavalry in Port Hudson, Louisiana, wrote “a man who rejoiced at Lincoln’s death received 16 bullets in his carcass … served him right.” Vigilante groups and soldiers forced Booth sympathizers to wear crude, hand-painted wooden signs around their necks reading “assassination sympathizer.” According to the Daily Morning Chronicle, in nearby Baltimore, an unidentified group of men set upon a photographic studio when rumors spread that the owner sold prints of the infamous actor.

  The tumultuous news of the assassination raced the breadth of the nation by telegraph and soon reached U.S. Army posts in California. In San Francisco, General McDowell issued an order to arrest anyone who spoke against Lincoln.

  Head Quarters Department of the Pacific

  San Francisco, Cal., April 17, 1865.

  GENERAL ORDERS,

  No. 27

  It has come to the knowledge of the Major-General commanding that there have been found within the Department persons so utterly infamous as to exult over the assassination of the President. Such persons become virtually accessories after the fact, and will at once be arrested by any officer or provost marshal or member of the police, having knowledge of the case.

  Any paper so offending or expressing any sympathy in any way whatever with the act, will be at once seized and suppressed.

  BY COMMAND OF MAJOR GENERAL McDOWELL:

  R. C. DRUM,

  Assistant Adjutant General

  In Grass Valley, California, a minister wrote a letter to a friend back east describing the violence that followed the arrival of the news: “When the news came of the assassination of Lincoln the excitement was tremendous! Several men were shot right down dead by the Copperheads! And others were killed by Republicans in self defense! I loaded my double guns, with four small balls to each barrel and kept it in my study ready for any emergency. I thought I would pray God have mercy on our Country, but I would have a little lead for the Rebels!”

  In Illinois, a U.S. Marine wrote a letter to his mother in Lockport, New York, describing the danger to those who spoke against Lincoln.

  Mound City, Ill.

  April 18th, 1865

  Dear Mother,

  We are all in an uproar in this place about the death of the president and one or two has been shot in this place for using disloyal sentiments and there will be more shot if they do not keep their mouths shut. I hope that the president will hang every one of them now and not leave one just exterminate the whole race. It is not safe for any one to be out after dark in this place although I am up all hours of the night… it will not do to use any disloyal sentiments where we can hear it or they would get smacked very quick. I was in hopes that the war was nearly over but as things look I am afraid it has just begun but I hope not… it was hard for Lincoln to die now when he was just on the eve of seeing this rebellion trodden under foot when every body was rejoicing in his administration and when every thing looked bright for him. I would like to have my say with that Booth. I’ll bet he never would want to kill another president. I would take a pair of shears and cut him in pieces as you would cut a piece of cloth. Then I would dig out his eyes and then pour in boiling hot oil. I’d fix him well… mother give my love to all the folks and believe me your affectionate son.

  Wesley Severs

  U.S. Marine Barracks

  Mound City, Ill

  Booth’s escape incensed, but also thrilled, the nation. Photographs of him became so popular that soon the government banned their sale. Impossible to enforce, Stanton had the order rescinded. Ads appeared in Harper’s Weekly, Frank Leslie’s, and other newspapers that shamelessly offered Booth photos for sale—alongside mourning ribbons, badges, and photos of the martyred president. In Boston, a lithography company commissioned an artist to create a handsome bust portrait of the assassin that it sold in two sizes—small carte-de-visite form for the family album, and as a large print suitable for framing. Other printers rushed out less flattering products—fantasy prints of Satan whispering in Booth’s ear moments before he shot Lincoln, and of Booth riding furiously through a swamp infested with alligators and monsters. A carte-de-visite reproduced an allegorical painting titled The Assassin’s Vision, depicting Booth fleeing Washington, the great dome visible in the distant background, and multiple images of Lincoln’s ghost sprouting in the trees above him. A Boston publisher released a piece of sheet music—“The Assassin’s Vision Ballad/Words and music by J. W. Turner”—to accompany the eerie artwork. It was the first song written about John Wilkes Booth and the manhunt.

  “The Assassin’s Vision.” Lincoln’s ghost haunts the
fleeing Booth.

  The Assassin rode on his fiery steed, His murd’rous work was done—

  In the darksome night with fleeting speed, Through woods his courser run!

  As he hurried away from the scene of death, On his brow were looks of despair:

  Before him! around him! The evening’s breath Told him God’s vengeance was there!

  The pale moon beamed as onward he fled, The stars looked down from on high,

  The hills and valleys were crimson red As blood to the murd’rer’s eye!

  He shuddered! he trembled! And oft looked around, And dreary seemed each passing breeze,

  And lo! the assassin at ev’ry bound Saw a vision appear in the trees.

  Heaven had witnessed! He could not escape! The assassin’s fate was sealed—

  “Vengeance is mine!” saith God in his might, As the vision that night revealed.

  The assassin rode on with trembling and fear, And mournfully murmur’d the breeze;

  Before! around him! All vivid and drear, The vision appeared in the trees.

  Edwin Stanton needed help. By the third day it had become obvious that he could not devote his time and brainpower exclusively to the manhunt. He had a lot on his mind. The president’s murder was not only a national tragedy, but also a deep personal loss to the secretary. Ever since the wild carriage ride on the night of the fourteenth, and his first sight of his friend in the deathbed, Stanton had used his iron will to suppress his powerful emotions. He had almost broken down at the Petersen house after Lincoln died, but his brain was able to rule his heart. There were other concerns. He had a war to win. Just because Lee had surrendered did not mean that the Civil War was over. Strong Confederate armies remained in the field in North Carolina, Texas, and elsewhere, and their generals had not followed Lee’s example. Jefferson Davis was still at large, the subject of another sensational manhunt. And like the search for Booth, the manhunt for Davis had failed. Soon the conflict might degenerate into a brutal, guerrilla war that might take years to win. And without Lincoln at his side, Stanton had to go on alone. The new president was not ready to assume the role of commander in chief.

  There was more. Stanton had to organize Lincoln’s majestic funeral and then send the body on an unprecedented national tour, on the way home to Springfield. He had to help plan the reconstruction of the South, manage the entire Union army, conduct the everyday but still vitally essential business of the War Department, decide what to do with Booth’s captured conspirators, and organize a military tribunal to try them. He had to investigate the crime, determine the nature and extent of Booth’s conspiracy, and send pursuers after the assassin and the rest of his gang. It was more than one mind, even Stanton’s brilliant and well-disciplined one, could handle. He had to delegate authority to a small circle of trusted subordinates.

  WHEN JOHN WILKES BOOTH PLANNED THE ASSASSINATION and his escape he did not prepare for an extended campout under the stars. No, he had focused entirely on the need for speed and movement, not on cowering in the forest like a wounded animal, fearful that every passing sound meant that his hunters were about to grab him. Booth fled Ford’s Theatre like a pony express rider, traveling light for speed, unburdened by heavy equipment. Of course, an express rider carried the news: Booth fled from it. He disdained many of the ordinary accoutrements that a cavalryman took with him in the field: pistol belt, cartridge boxes, cap box, ample ammunition, carbine shoulder sling, field glasses, canteen, tin cup, eating utensils, rubberized gum blanket, wool blanket, saddlebags, provisions, and more. Booth had sacrificed necessities to achieve the sprinting speed his horse needed to get from Ford’s Theatre to the Eleventh Street Bridge.

  This strategy worked superbly and ensured his quick escape from downtown Washington. But it left him ill prepared for the next, unanticipated phase of his journey: outdoor living in open country, the consequence of his broken leg and the dangerous, delaying detour to Dr. Mudd’s. Booth fled Ford’s Theatre wearing the equivalent of a modern-day business suit. The fabric of his black wool frock coat and trousers was coarser, sturdier, thicker, and a little warmer, but his fine suit remained unsuitable for camping out in the pine thicket. And Booth packed no change of clothing, so his garments soon became soiled. It was one of the first things Thomas Jones noticed about him. Indeed, with each passing day Booth and Herold became less presentable to strangers, ruining a key element of Booth’s trademark, winning style—his elegant, beautifully dressed appearance. They could not bathe, change clothes, or even wash the clothes on their backs, and they looked rougher—and smelled worse—every day. They looked like the fugitives they were. Beyond aesthetics, however, their vagabond, ruffian appearance jeopardized the friendly reception they expected to receive at proper Virginia households across the river.

  Although Maryland’s mid-April spring climate that year was not cold, the nights were chilly and damp, especially for men with no overcoats. The weather wore on the assassins, sapping warmth from their shivering bodies. And the ground was uncomfortable. They had no proper bedding, just a blanket for each man, supplied by either Dr. Mudd or Captain Cox. At least Herold could stand up, walk about, and stretch his legs to relieve his cramped muscles. But Booth’s body ached and atrophied as he lay on the ground, shifting positions occasionally to ease his pain. As far as Thomas Jones could tell from his daily visits, Booth never rose from the ground during the time in the thicket.

  On the morning of Tuesday, April 18, Jones paid his third call on the fugitives. This visit was briefer and less was said because Jones was in mortal danger. He risked his life every time he ventured into the thicket. Federal cavalrymen and U.S. detectives spread out along the nearby riverbanks and searched day and night for Booth. If soldiers caught Jones with the president’s murderer, they might shoot him on the spot or hang him from a pine tree. Soldiers had visited Huckleberry Farm several times, and even searched his home once. Now, Jones handed over the food and more newspapers quickly, then departed. Booth’s curiosity about the country’s reaction was insatiable, and he beseeched Jones to bring all the papers he could. Jones remembered the scene vividly: “He never tired of the newspapers. And there—surrounded by the sighing pines, he read the world’s condemnation of his deed and the price that was offered for his life.”

  What he read stunned him. Whatever papers Booth held in his hands—the Daily Morning Chronicle, Evening Star, or National Intelligencer from Washington; the Sun from Baltimore; the Inquirer from Philadelphia; or the Herald, Tribune, or Times from New York City—they all reviled him for his loathsome act. Even worse, Booth witnessed the first draft of history transform Abraham Lincoln from a controversial and often unpopular war leader into America’s secular saint. Newspapers everywhere condemned the assassin in the most unsparing, unforgiving, vicious language imaginable. The accounts of the Seward attack sent Booth reeling. Had Powell gone insane? The indiscriminate viciousness of his coassassin’s assault shocked and revolted Booth. Yes, Seward had to go, and the early, erroneous news accounts reporting the secretary of state’s death delighted the actor. But the sons, the nurse, the messenger? At least Powell didn’t murder the girl. “Booth then,” Herold recalled, “made the remark that he was very sorry for the sons, but he only wished to God that Seward was killed.”

  Booth wasn’t the only one of his coconspirators stunned by news accounts of the attempted murder of Seward. John Surratt, still in Elmira a few days after the assassination, bought, on April 17, several of the New York papers. What he read terrified him. The stories identified him as Seward’s assailant. “I could scarcely believe my senses. I gazed upon my name, the letters of which seemed to sometimes grow as large as mountains and then dwindle away to nothing.” It was time, Surratt concluded, to flee the country.

  Booth searched the papers frantically for the article he wrote—his self-justification for killing the president—for publication in the Intelligencer. On the afternoon of the assassination, he had presented it to his actor friend John Matthews in a seal
ed, addressed envelope for delivery the next day. Incredibly, not one newspaper published or even mentioned his manuscript. So he wrote another one.

  Booth drew from his pocket a small datebook for the previous year, 1864. Although obsolete, the book, bound in worn, black covers, contained a number of unused pages. Booth thumbed through it until he reached a blank page, which he annotated “Ti Amo/April 13–14 Friday the Ides.” Then, in a cramped, hurried hand, unlike his usual expansive style, he began his manifesto.

  “Until today nothing was ever THOUGHT of sacrificing to our country’s wrongs. For six months we had worked to capture. But our cause being almost lost, something decisive & great must be done. But its failure was owing to others, who did not strike for their country with a heart. I struck boldly and not as the papers say. I walked with a firm step through a thousand of his friends, was stopped, but pushed on. A Col. was at his side. I shouted Sic semper BEFORE I fired. In jumping broke my leg. I passed all his pickets, rode sixty miles that night, with the bone of my leg tearing the flesh at every jump. I can never repent it, though we hated to kill; Our country owed all her troubles to him, and God simply made me the instrument of his punishment. The country is not what it WAS. This forced Union is not what I have loved. I care not what becomes of me. I have no desire to out-live my country. This night (before the deed), I wrote a long article and left it for one of the Editors of the National Intelligencer, in which I fully set forth our reasons for our proceedings. He or the Govmt …”

  At that moment, in midsentence, something—perhaps an interruption by David Herold, an alarming noise in the distance, or the black fall of the night—compelled Booth to stop writing, and his manuscript ends abruptly. Booth was wrong when he accused the newspaper or the government of suppressing his manifesto. He thought that he could trust John Matthews to deliver it. He didn’t consider that his friend, terrified of being connected to Lincoln’s assassin, might read the letter and then destroy it.