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

by James L. Swanson

  If only Thomas Jones had piloted them across himself, directing Herold at the oars and Booth at the makeshift rudder while charting the course personally with the compass. David Herold was a competent enough navigator of the Maryland and Virginia coastal marshes, creeks, and rivers, but he was not a professional seaman. And it was one thing to ply the waters during daylight hours while hunting for pleasure, another to run them at night when in danger as the object of the hunt. Herold had never made a trip across the Potomac under conditions like these: under pressure, pursued, and in near total darkness. Thomas Jones, seasoned agent, had done it hundreds of times.

  They had been on the water far too long: they should be in Virginia by now. David Herold did not need a watch to tell him that. His chafed palms and fingers and his burning arm and leg muscles made it clear enough. He and Booth heard sounds, but the water played tricks with noises in the night, making it impossible to judge their origin or distance. They spotted a few lights but could not determine whether they were moving or stationary, a boat under way, or a fixed marker onshore. Disoriented, unsure of their location, the fugitives continued rowing north, then turned to the west, passing Mathias Point. Their boat was a tiny speck afloat on an unforgiving river. The water exhaled a cool, damp breath that chilled them to the bone, but at least the battered little gray skiff was holding up. Surrounded by darkness and water, traveling slowly but with far to go, Booth and Herold confronted the obvious: they were losing their race with the manhunters.

  They had to land soon. The slightly built Herold was no Lewis Powell, and he did not possess the strength to row all night. Booth observed the strain on Herold’s face with each stroke and sensed that the youth was failing. But where to beach the skiff? Herold turned around from his rowing position and searched the horizon ahead for landmarks. Then, off to their right, he spotted the contours of a familiar-looking sight: Blossum Point, beyond which flowed a wide-mouthed inlet, extending north. Herold told Booth that he recognized this place. If they rowed up that inlet, they would come to Nanjemoy Creek, a place Herold knew very well. He had made many hunting trips to this region of Maryland’s countryside: “I am passionately fond of partridge shooting and nearly every fall take two or three months for that purpose,” he later confessed.

  At the mouth of the creek, on the eastern side, they would find, Herold explained, a farm called Indiantown, and two men, Peregrine Davis and John J. Hughes. And Herold assured Booth that he knew these men well: “They are persons I have known for five or six years, and whom I have been in the habit of visiting for a long time.” Davis owned the property and his son-in-law, Hughes, farmed it. That was the good news. The bad news was that Indiantown was in Maryland. After a frightening, disorienting, and exhausting night on the Potomac, they were in the wrong place. Indeed, they were back in Maryland where they started, but twice as far from their destination, Machodoc Creek, Virginia, as they were when they embarked upon their crossing. Now, north of the original position where Thomas Jones shoved them off, they were, once again, vulnerable to the roving Union patrols that pursued them. They had labored on the water for more than five hours. Weary, disappointed, another day behind schedule, and again in grave danger, they put in to Nanjemoy Creek early on the morning of Friday, April 21.

  Booth and Herold concealed the boat as best they could. The Hughes farmhouse was not far from the creek, and Herold persuaded Booth to cover the distance on foot. Herold wanted to avoid the risk of Booth being discovered alone while he was off visiting Hughes. Taking their weapons, blankets, and other possessions, they proceeded to Indian-town. Herold was confident that Hughes would welcome them. The youth’s affable, hail-fellow-well-met manner had won him many friends in southern Maryland during his hunting expeditions over the last several years, and they had watched him grow from an eager teenager to a young adult and experienced outdoorsman. Moreover, Davey knew Perry Davis and John Hughes as men of Southern sympathies and actions. They would not turn him in to Union authorities. There was also a strong chance that the farmer already knew that Davey had been implicated as one of Booth’s accomplices in the assassination. Several newspapers had named him, and the day before, on the morning of the twentieth, the War Department had printed huge broadsides offering a $50,000 reward for Booth and $25,000 for Herold.

  Hughes was happy to see his old acquaintance but shocked at his raffish appearance. Hughes also immediately knew Booth’s identity. The farmer invited them into his home and fed them. What were their plans? Hughes asked. Davey explained their predicament: after rowing all night, taking the wrong course, and failing to reach Virginia, here they were, exhausted and stranded. They would try the river again tonight and make for Virginia. Until then, they must keep out of sight. It was too dangerous to walk around the countryside or launch the boat during daylight. A Union gunboat or shore patrol could spot them easily. May they, Herold asked, hide at Indiantown from morning until nightfall?

  Hughes wanted to help, but he did not want to die. It was much too dangerous, he argued, for the fugitives to remain in the house all morning and afternoon. The manhunters increased in number and got better organized every day. Union troops and detectives swarmed over Maryland, salivating at the prospect of the new War Department rewards announced on April 20. Yes, they may take refuge at Indiantown, agreed Hughes, but they must leave the house and hide outdoors. He would sustain them with food and news. Beyond that, there was little he could do for them on the Maryland side of the river. No overland escape was possible from Nanjemoy Creek. The only land route would take the assassins farther north, in the opposite direction from Virginia, and directly into the path of Union forces pouring south. The Potomac River remained their only possible escape, and Booth and Herold already possessed a sturdy boat. Hughes suggested a suitable place for them to hide. The three men agreed that it would be best for all if the fugitives left Indiantown as soon as possible.

  Booth’s heart sank. He was banished once again to lie on the ground—and wait. Tonight would mark another twenty-four hours that he and Herold had spent outdoors. They had been living outdoors for six days, ever since they left Dr. Mudd’s on the evening of April 15. The fugitives could not endure a second, grueling experience like the one they had just suffered at the pine thicket: five days and four nights without shelter, waiting to cross the river. No, they must cross tonight. Until then, they had no choice but to hide near the low-lying wetlands close to Nanjemoy Creek. Disgusted, Booth pulled his 1864 datebook from his coat and stared at the calendar he had drawn for late April, May, and June 1865. He found the day’s date, April 21, and scribbled down a one-word notation that summarized his view of the situation: “Swamp.”

  Datebook in hand, he flipped through the pages until he found the one containing the first entry he wrote after the assassination. He would make another entry now, he decided. Booth put pen to paper and, within a few intense minutes, produced an astonishing document.

  After being hunted like a dog through swamps, woods, and last night being chased by gun boats till I was forced to return wet cold and starving, with every man’s hand against me, I am here in despair. And why; For doing what Brutus was honored for, for what made Tell a Hero. And yet I for striking down a greater tyrant than they ever knew am looked upon as a common cutthroat. My action was purer than either of theirs. One hoped to be great himself. The other had not only his country’s but his own wrongs to avenge. I hoped for no gain. I knew no private wrong. I struck for my country and that alone. A country groaned beneath this tyranny and prayed for this end. Yet now behold the cold hand they extend to me. God cannot pardon me if I have done wrong. Yet I cannot see any wrong except in serving a degenerate people. The little, the very little I left behind to clear my name, the Govmt will not allow to be printed. So ends all. For my country I have given up all that makes life sweet and Holy, brought misery upon my family, and am sure there is no pardon in the Heaven for me since man condemns me so. I have only heard of what has been done (except what I did myself)
and it fills me with horror. God try and forgive me, and bless my mother. To night I will once more try the river with the intent to cross; though I have a greater desire and almost a mind to return to Washington and in a measure clear my name, which I feel I can do. I do not repent the blow I struck. I may before God but not to man.

  I think I have done well, though I am abandoned, with the curse of Cain upon me, when if the world knew my heart, that one blow would have made me great, though I did desire no greatness.

  To night I try to escape these blood hounds once more. Who, who can read his fate God’s will be done.

  I have too great a soul to die like a criminal. O may he, may he spare me that and let me die bravely.

  I bless the entire world. Have never hated or wronged anyone. This last was not a wrong, unless God deems it so. And its with him to damn or bless me. And for this brave boy with me who often prays (yes, before and since) with a true and sincere heart, was it a crime in him, if so, why can he pray the same I do not wish to shed a drop of blood, but “I must fight the course.” Tis all thats left me.

  Booth compared himself to not one but two ancient, persecuted villains, the first biblical, the second Shakespearean. By naming Cain, Booth conjured up the primal curse from the Bible’s first book, at Genesis 4:8–14: “[A]nd it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel, his brother, and slew him. And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: am I my brother’s keeper? And he said, What hast though done? The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground. And now art though cursed from the earth, which has opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy hand; When thou tillest the ground, it shall not thenceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth. And Cain said unto the Lord, My punishment IS greater than I can bear. Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall come to pass, THAT every one that findeth me shall slay me.”

  The second villain Booth did not identify by name, but quoted: “I must fight the course.” With that passage Booth invoked the haunted spirit of Shakespeare’s greatest tragic figure, Macbeth. In act 5, scene 7, the last act’s penultimate scene, death is near. Macbeth’s act of tyrannicide has summoned his own end. Ill omens abound: his enemies have massed for battle, Birnham Wood is on the move, war trumpets sound, the climax is imminent. Trapped, Macbeth vows to fight on: “They have tied me to the stake. I cannot fly, / But bear-like I must fight the course.” As in the hideous sport of bearbaiting, where the dangerous but ultimately doomed beast is tied to a stake and vicious dogs are set upon him, Macbeth is fated to struggle, then die.

  Booth shut the book and tracked the setting sun, waiting for the darkness. They would have reached Virginia about twenty-six hours ago if they had crossed the Potomac successfully the previous night of Thursday, April 20. Now they were another day behind schedule, for all the good the schedule had done them. Booth shot Lincoln on April 14 and now, seven days later, he was still in Maryland. Washington, D.C., was only forty miles away. The Deep South, far below Maryland and Virginia, where, after four years of civil war, many towns and counties had never seen a Yankee soldier, was beginning to seem an unattainable dream. The heart of Dixieland was a long way away.

  As night fell over Indiantown, it was time to push off. They knew the route: south to Blossum Point, east around Mathias Point, then south again, hugging the shoreline until they reached Machodoc Creek where, they prayed, Thomas Jones’s memorably named contact, Mrs. Quesenberry, was waiting for them. Then, at this critical moment, when they needed to escape from Maryland as quickly as possible, Booth and Herold did something inexplicable—they did nothing. During the night of Friday, April 21, they did not go down to the mouth of the Nanjemoy, retrieve the skiff, enter the Potomac, and row south to Virginia. Instead, they sat in the dark and did nothing.

  Why did they not take to the water that night? Was David Herold too tired and were his muscles too weak for consecutive nights of heavy rowing? Did Booth fear federal gunboats in the vicinity? Were they exploring another option, a new escape route, perhaps a daring and counterintuitive thrust north by land? Or were they just too dejected after their failed crossing on the previous night? Whatever the reason, Booth and Herold chose not to make the attempt. They paid a steep price for their delay. Now they would have to waste another day at Indiantown, concealing themselves through the morning, afternoon, and evening until, once more, the sun set and darkness came.

  While Booth and Herold remained in place, their hunters pursued them with renewed vigor. The evidence collected at Dr. Mudd’s, plus alleged sightings of the fugitives southwest of his farm, suggested that Lincoln’s assassin was making for the Potomac and a river crossing to Virginia. The couriers and the telegraph wires jumped all day with intense traffic. General Augur wrote to General Slough at Alexandria: “Has the Michigan Cavalry yet left for the lower country as we spoke of this morning? If not, hurry it up.” W. W. Winship, captain and provost marshal at Alexandria, reported to Colonel Taylor in Washington, “the cavalry will start immediately with instruction to publish to fishermen, negroes, and others a description of the assassins and the reward for their apprehension, and to scout and picket the river to below Dum-fried until further orders.”

  Winship also received an update from General Augur: “When Booth was last heard from he was near Wicomico River, Maryland. It is feared he has crossed into Virginia. He had broken his leg and was on crutches. He had also shaved off his mustache. Let your cavalry know these particulars, and let them go down below Aquia and, if possible, connect with the cavalry I send down by boat to-night into Westmoreland County.” Winship’s laconic reply promised action: “Your dispatch is received. The cavalry started at 5 P.M.”

  From Washington, Colonel Taylor, assistant adjutant general for the Twenty-second Army Corps, sent word to N. B. Sweitzer, commander of the Sixteenth New York Cavalry. “The major-general commanding directs that you place a battalion of your regiment on board a steamer … and proceed down the Potomac, debarking on the Virginia shore as nearly opposite the mouth of the Wicomico River, probably at or near Nomini Bay, as practicable. Having landed your people you will use them as you may judge best for the discovery of Booth, the murderer of the President, and any of his accomplices who may have succeeded in crossing the Potomac.”

  At 9:00 P.M. on Saturday, April 22, Gideon Welles telegraphed Lieutenant Commander Eastman, U.S. steamer Don, at Saint Inigoes, Maryland: “Booth was near Bryantown last Saturday, where Doctor Mudd set his ankle, which was broken by a fall from his horse. The utmost vigilance is necessary in the Potomac and Patuxent to prevent his escape. All boats should be searched for and destroyed, and a daily and nightly patrol established on both shores. Inform your people that more than $100,000 is offered for him. Allow none of your boats to leave, except for search elsewhere.”

  General Augur sent urgent word to Commander Parker, U.S. Navy at Saint Inigoes, Maryland. “There is reason to believe that Booth and an accomplice are in the swamps about Allen’s Fresh, emptying into Wicomico River. He is evidently trying to cross into Virginia. Have you the Potomac well guarded there and above? Fearing that he may have already crossed, I wish to send a force of cavalry to Nomini Bay. Can I land horses there or in that vicinity, and with how much water? Please inform me at once.”

  Augur flashed a second message to Parker: “There is no longer any doubt that Booth and an accomplice were near Bryantown on Saturday last, inquiring for Piney Church. He is very lame, having broken his leg, and was last seen on crutches. He was undoubtedly endeavoring to cross into Virginia. I am desired to request your most vigilant cooperation, by a rigid and active blockade of all the Potomac, to prevent his escape into Virginia.”

  Chapter Eight

  “I Have Some Little Pride”

  ON THE NIGHT OF SATURDAY,
APRIL 22, JOHN WILKES BOOTH and David Herold gathered themselves and made for their boat. They would have been in Virginia around fifty hours ago if they had crossed on the twentieth, and about twenty-six hours ago if they left Indiantown at the first opportunity, the night of the twenty-first. They compounded their original error by tarrying at Indiantown an extra day. All told, they had lost two days since they left Thomas Jones and had wasted more than thirty-six hours during their Indiantown diversion. If they had any hope of surviving the manhunt, they could not afford to squander any more time and make any more mistakes. They had endured so many setbacks: Booth’s debilitating injury; delays at Dr. Mudd’s and the pine thicket; the aborted river crossing; the Indiantown folly. These episodes robbed Booth and Herold of time, momentum, and mental fortitude.

  When they climbed aboard the skiff and rowed out to the Potomac, they knew their lives depended on navigating a proper course to Machodoc Creek, Virginia. The first sign was not auspicious. Herold nearly rowed into trouble moments after getting under way: “That night, at sundown, we crossed the mouth of Nanjemoy Creek, [and] passed within 300 yards of a gunboat.” But the lead-colored skiff melted into the colors of the water, and the sailors failed to spot it. Lucky to escape the U.S. Navy vessel, Herold stuck to the proper course, and, after several hours, spotted the mouth of a creek on the horizon, off his right shoulder. He turned west and rowed in that direction. They landed the skiff and disembarked with their pistols, carbine, and blankets. At last, on the morning of Sunday, April 23, nine days after the assassination, John Wilkes Booth and David Herold set foot on Virginia soil.