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

by James L. Swanson

  Ruggles was transfixed: “Instantly he dropped his weight back upon his crutch, and drawing a revolver said sternly, with the utmost coolness, ‘Yes, I am John Wilkes Booth, the slayer of Abraham Lincoln, and I am worth just $175,000 to the man who captures me.’”

  “Do you wish to go over the river now, sir?” an approaching voice interrupted. It was William Rollins, back from setting his nets. He had walked to his house, gotten his coat, and called down to Booth at the ferryboat landing where the assassin stood with Herold and the soldiers.

  “Yes,” Booth shouted back.

  “Come on then,” Rollins beckoned.

  But Booth hesitated and inched closer to Herold and the soldiers. Rollins shouted out to Booth again: “If you wish to go over the river, come on.”

  Herold spoke for his master: “If you are in a hurry go on; we are not going over now.” Instead, the fugitives huddled with Ruggles, Jett, and Bainbridge, concocting an alternative scheme. They told the trio that they wanted to throw themselves entirely upon their protection. Jett agreed to help, and Ruggles vouchsafed their fidelity: “We were not men to take ‘blood money.’ “The soldiers promised to accompany the assassins across the river in the ferryboat and help them on the other side.

  Booth had won their loyalty not by mesmerizing them with the riveting story of how he had struck down the president, but with his laconic, stoic demeanor. The assassin confided to William Jett that he thought the murder “was nothing to brag about,” and the soldier agreed: “I do not either.” Ruggles noticed about Booth the same thing his comrades did—the actor was in agony, but he took it like a man: “I noticed that his wounded leg was greatly swollen, inflamed, and dark, as from bruised blood, while it seemed to have been wretchedly dressed, the splints being simply pasteboard rudely tied about it. That he suffered intense pain all the time there was no doubt, though he tried to conceal his agony, both physical and mental.”

  Booth’s confession took them by surprise, and the fact that they were standing in the presence of—and even conversing with—Lincoln’s assassin stunned them. But Ruggles could not help admiring him: “[T]he coolness of the man won our admiration; for we saw that he was wounded, desperate, and at bay. His face was haggard, pinched with suffering, his dark eyes sunken, but strangely bright.”

  Before departing on the ferry, Herold and Jett walked back to Rol-lins’s place, found him outside, and made a curious request: did he have a bottle of ink? Rollins led them into the house, took a small bottle from the mantel, and laid it on the table. Jett sat in a chair, set out a piece of paper, and began writing. Herold told Jett to let him do it, and Jett tore off the part of the paper he had already written on. Herold copied it, writing five or six lines. They had forged an army parole document for Jett in case he encountered Union troops.

  The ferryboat had almost reached the Port Conway side of the river.

  Time to cross over to Port Royal. Herold picked up his carbine, wound the white, cotton sling around his shoulders, and again told Rollins that he and his friend did not need a ride: “I have met with some friends out here and they say it is not worth while to hire a wagon to go on to Bowling Green, as we can all go along together and ride and tie.” As Davey gathered his blanket, Rollins, admiring its luxurious shag finish on one side, made the oddest compliment.

  “That’s a very nice concern you’ve got there,” he said.

  “Yes, a lady in Maryland gave me that,” Herold acknowledged proudly.

  James Thornton, a free black man who operated the ferry for its owner, Champe Thornton, piloted the craft to the wharf. David Herold dismissed the wagon and Charlie Lucas turned his team around and headed for home. Herold reminded him to deliver Mr. Boyd’s letter to Dr. Stuart. Booth explained to Ruggles that he was unable to walk anymore, so the lieutenant lifted him onto his horse and prepared to board. James Thornton opened the gate and ushered the waiting customers—five men and three horses—aboard. To Thornton, the strangers appeared unremarkable—just another band of bedraggled rebels heading home after losing the war.

  Herold, Jett, and Bainbridge stepped onto the flat, wood planks of the ferry’s bottom, the two Confederates leading their horses by the reins. Ruggles, also on foot, carried Booth’s crutches, Herold carried the carbine, and Booth had the pistols and knife. Ruggles noticed that Major Rathbone’s blood was still on the blade. Around his neck Booth suspended the field glasses from a leather strap joined by an adjustable metal buckle. Ignoring ferry rules, the assassin, who wanted to avoid the searing pain that accompanied every mount and dismount of the horse, refused to get out of the saddle and he rode Ruggles’s horse right onto the barge. Mounted men made the ferry top-heavy, but Thornton let Booth’s infraction slide. Later, after it was all over, showman P. T. Barnum offered Ruggles a nice price for the saddle graced by John Wilkes Booth’s posterior during the short ferry trip.

  With his passengers all aboard, Thornton cut loose from the wharf and eased the slow-moving, awkward craft across the Rappahannock to the old, dilapidated colonial town of Port Royal. During the crossing the men hardly spoke, not wanting the colored man to learn anything about them. Bainbridge became suspicious of Thornton, anyway: “The ferryman eyed us all very closely and we said but very little.” Bainbridge unglued his eyes from Thornton and witnessed, as the actor towered over them, a memorable scene: “Booth sat squarely on his horse, looking expectantly towards the opposite shore.” As soon at they landed and Thornton opened the gate, Booth spurred Ruggles’s horse onto the wharf.

  The assassin was in good spirits again, and he laughed as Herold and their new friends gathered around him to celebrate the successful crossing. Broaching the humble Rappahannock was no great feat in itself, but it represented the culmination of this phase of the escape. Booth and Herold had crossed the mighty Potomac, escaped from Maryland, landed in Virginia, found—finally, after suffering bitter disappointments—loyal Confederate comrades, and passed safely south through the state’s northern neck. Now, south of the Rappahannock, John Wilkes Booth looked forward to a swift journey through open country, to the interior of the Old Dominion. Overcome with emotion, Booth sang out: “I’m safe in glorious old Virginia, thank God!”

  Or was he? There was something about young Willie Jett that Booth did not know. Had he known it, the assassin would have fled from this boy’s company faster than he had galloped away from Ford’s Theatre. Booth might have even shot him for it. On the surface, the thing seemed innocuous, even innocent. Neither Booth nor Jett knew it yet, but their meeting had set in motion a chain of events that would lead to the actor’s downfall.

  For now all was well and Jett led the caravan a few blocks to the Port Royal home of Randolph Peyton. Jett knew him and thought he would take them in. Before Jett approached the house, Booth asked him to continue the ruse and introduce him as a wounded Confederate soldier named James Boyd. Peyton’s two spinster sisters, Sarah Jane and Lucy, answered the door. Jett asked if they would be kind enough to give shelter for two nights to a wounded Confederate soldier and his brother. The Peytons agreed to take the strangers in, and Jett beckoned Booth to come forward. Booth hobbled inside and reclined on a chaise lounge. It was the first time he had stretched out on a piece of furniture since he napped on the upholstered, black horsehair sofa in Dr. Mudd’s front parlor. After a few minutes Sarah Jane called Jett aside. She wanted to speak to him alone in the parlor. On second thought, she explained, this man could not stay here. Her brother Randolph was away at his farm and would not be back tonight. It was not right, without their brother at home, to permit strangers to sleep in the same house with two unmarried women. Regrettably, Sarah Jane informed Jett, she must rescind her premature offer of hospitality. She hated to say no to a wounded Confederate soldier, but in her brother’s absence, she had no choice.

  Jett accepted the refusal graciously. Making a scene would do no good. He asked if the Peytons’ neighbors across the street, the Catlitts, might take in Mr. Boyd. Sarah Jane said she did not kno
w. Jett elected to try but discovered that, like Randolph Peyton, Mr. Catlitt was not home. Sarah Jane made a helpful suggestion: “You can get him in anywhere up the road—Mr. Garrett’s or anywhere else.” Jett agreed to try. At around 1:00 P.M. he helped Booth rise from the Peytons’ chaise lounge and stand up on his crutches. As they walked outside, Jett called to their comrades: “Boys, ride on further up to road.” After putting Booth on Ruggles’s horse, the men doubled up on the two remaining animals, Herold riding behind Jett, and Ruggles behind Bainbridge.

  THREE AND A HALF MILES AWAY, RICHARD H. GARRETT PREsided over his five-hundred-acre farm, Locust Hill. It was a happy time. His two eldest sons, both in Confederate service, had just come home from the war. The caravan of riders, pacing slowly from Port Royal to the southwest, arrived in the late afternoon. David Herold jumped off Jett’s horse as soon as they passed the gate, and loitered near the road with Bainbridge, who dismounted and gave his horse to Booth. Jett, Booth, and Ruggles rode on to the house. As he had with Miss Sarah Jane Peyton, Booth asked Jett to introduce him by his pseudonym. Willie Jett introduced himself to Mr. Garrett from the saddle and then presented James Boyd: “Here is a wounded Confederate soldier that we want you to take care of for a day or so: will you do it?”

  Garrett thought of his sons, who had returned safely just a few days ago. He would return that blessing with a kindness: “Yes, certainly I will.”

  Around three o’clock in the afternoon of Monday, April 24, John Wilkes Booth had found refuge for the night. And he had survived another day.

  Booth got down from Ruggles’s horse. Their mission accomplished, the Confederates wanted to push on. Jett and Ruggles bade the assassin a quick farewell—“we will see you again”—and trotted away from Locust Hill, leading Bainbridge’s riderless horse by the reins. Unbeknownst to Booth, Willie Jett had no intention of returning to Garrett’s farm or of ever seeing the assassin again. When Jett and Ruggles reached the gate, they reined their horses to a stop. Bainbridge mounted up and David Herold clambered on, riding double with him. Davey wanted to accompany them to Bowling Green to purchase, of all things, a new pair of shoes. He decided to spend the night with the young Confederates and rejoin Booth tomorrow, April 25, at Garrett’s farm.

  Almost like a jealous younger brother showing off, Herold boasted to Jett that he, too, had a tattoo, just like Booth. Indeed, Booth had only one, but Davey had two. He rolled up both coat sleeves above the elbow and displayed a heart and anchor on his right arm and his initials, “DEH,” on his left. Jett noticed that the “H,” although still legible, was blurry: during his idle time in the pine thicket Davy had rubbed it for hours, trying desperately to erase the identifying mark with friction and heat.

  The presence of Booth, Jett, and Ruggles in the Garretts’ front yard had provoked a dog’s bark, and the sound alerted John M. Garrett, one of Richard’s sons, who was lying down in an upstairs bedroom. John had joined the Confederate army at the beginning of the war in 1861, serving first in the Fredericksburg Artillery and then in Lightfoot’s Battalion. He was active for the duration until Lee’s surrender on April 9, when he returned to the family farm. Looking out the window a little after 3:00 P.M., he saw a man with two crutches, who was leaning on only one. The man was wrapped in a gray shawl and was standing near his father, while two men on horseback were talking. In a few minutes, the mounted men rode off, taking the lame man’s horse with them. John watched as his father and the stranger walked toward the house. It all seemed normal enough, and John Garrett returned to his bed.

  Booth and old man Garrett lounged on the front porch, which extended along the length of the house. In about half an hour, a little after 3:30 P.M., John Garrett came downstairs and walked out the front door to spend the evening with a neighbor. His father introduced him to James Boyd. Neither father nor son suspected that Boyd was anyone other than who he said he was—a simple Confederate veteran, making his way home.

  Chapter Nine

  “Useless, Useless”

  BOOTH HAD BEEN LUCKY. ON APRIL 24, THE MAJORITY OF THE manhunters were still spinning their wheels in Maryland, uncertain whether their quarry had crossed the Potomac. Compared with the level of activity in Maryland, Virginia’s northern neck was still lightly patrolled. That was about to change.

  That morning, Major James O’Beirne had a telegram sent to the War Department telegraph office in Washington. It was this office that, on the night of the assassination, sent Stanton’s telegrams that broke the news to military commanders, and to the nation. It was this office that transmitted Stanton’s orders to begin the manhunt. And from this office came the news flash that the president was dead. Now, ten days later, Major Thomas Eckert, head of the telegraph office, received a message from Major O’Beirne that galvanized the manhunt. Two men, reported O’Beirne, had been seen crossing the Potomac on April 16. If those men were Booth and Herold, then Lincoln’s assassin had been in Virginia for the past eight days. This report required action.

  And Colonel Lafayette C. Baker just happened to be on the scene when the telegraph arrived. The notorious detective and War Department “agent,” and a favorite of Stanton’s, had been in town since April 16, in response to Stanton’s dramatic telegram summoning him from New York to join the manhunt and find the murderers of the president.

  Since his arrival his imperious, deceitful, and self-promoting demeanor had rubbed a number of the hunters the wrong way. He tried to steal other detectives’ leads and, without prior authorization, he had even issued a $30,000 reward proclamation of his own. He was snooping around the telegraph office when Eckert heard from O’Beirne. Baker read the message:

  PORT TOBACCO, MD., April 24, 1865 10 A. M.

  (Received 11 A. M.)

  Major ECKERT:

  Have just met Major O’Beirne, whose force had arrested Doctor Mudd and Thompson. Mudd set Booth’s left leg (fractured), furnished crutches, and helped him and Herold off. They have been tracked as far as the swamp near Bryantown, and under one theory it is possible they may be still concealed in swamp which leads from Bryantown to Allen’s Fresh, or in neck of land between Wicomico and Potomac Rivers. Other evidence leads to the belief that they crossed from Swan Point to White Point, Va., on Sunday morning, April 16, about 9:30, in a small boat, also captured by Major O’Beirne. John M. Lloyd has been arrested, and virtually acknowledged complicity. I will continue with Major O’Beirne, in whom I have very great confidence. We propose first to thoroughly scour swamp and country to-day, and if unsuccessful and additional evidence will justify it, we then propose to cross with force into Virginia and follow up that trail as long as there is any hope. At all events we will keep moving, and if there is any chance you may rely upon our making most of it. Country here is being thoroughly scoured by infantry and cavalry.

  S.H. BECKWITH

  Baker seized the telegram, rushed back to his Pennsylvania Avenue headquarters across the street from Willard’s, and told his cousin, Detective Luther Byron Baker, the news.

  “We have got a sure thing,” Lafayette said, “I think Booth has crossed the river, and I want you to go right out.”

  “There are no men to go with me.”

  “We will have some soldiers detailed.” Lafayette begin writing a request for troops to General Hancock. “Is there no one in the office who can go with you,” he asked his cousin.

  “No one but Colonel Conger,” Luther replied.

  “Can he ride?”

  “I think so.”

  There was just one problem with O’Beirne’s clue. Yes, two men had been seen crossing the river on April 16. But they were not John Wilkes Booth and David Herold.

  aROUND THE SAME TIME THAT BOOTH ARRIVED AT GARrett’s farm, an unsuspecting young army officer in Washington, D.C., got swept up in the manhunt’s whirlwind. On the afternoon of April 24, capturing Lincoln’s killer was the last thing on the mind of Lieutenant Edward P. Doherty, a company commander in the Sixteenth New York Cavalry regiment. While others took up the f
renzied pursuit of John Wilkes Booth, Doherty’s unit had not received orders to join the chase. Instead, he whiled away the time enjoying the spring afternoon: “I was seated, with another officer … on a bench in the park opposite the White House.”

  A messenger tracked him down, interrupting his leisure with an urgent, written message: “HEADQUARTERS, DEPARTMENT OF WASHINGTON / April 24, 1865 / Commanding Officer 16th New York Cavalry / Sir: You will at once detail a reliable and discreet commissioned officer with twenty-five men, well mounted, with three days’ rations and forage, to report at once to Colonel L. C. Baker, Agent of the War Department, at 211 Pennsylvania Ave. / Command of General C. C. Augur.” Doherty’s commanding officer, Colonel N. B. Sweitzer, had annotated the order and assigned the mission to Doherty: “In accordance with the foregoing order First Lieutenant E. P. Doherty is hereby detailed for the duty, and will report at once to Colonel Baker.”

  Luther Baker, Lafayette Baker, and Everton Conger

  pose as manhunters for Harper’s Weekly.

  Doherty rushed back to his barracks, ordered his bugler to blow “boots and saddles,” and he took the first twenty-six men who jumped to the call. Doherty wondered what this mission was about, but it was not the business of a lowly lieutenant to ask questions. He would find out soon enough, when he arrived at Baker’s headquarters. Within half an hour the lieutenant and his detail reported to Colonel Baker, who handed him freshly printed, paper carte-de-visite photographs of three men. Doherty failed to recognize two of them—they were standing poses and the faces were tiny—but the clearer image of the third man electrified him. It was John Wilkes Booth. He was going after Lincoln’s assassin!

  But not by himself, Lafayette Baker admonished him. He was to take two detectives with him, Lafayette’s cousin, Luther Byron Baker, and Everton J. Conger, a former cavalry colonel from the 1st District of Columbia Cavalry. Colonel Baker decided to stay behind in Washington, where he could continue to intercept telegrams and also safeguard his interest in the reward money. Colonel Baker gave Doherty his destination, and with that the twenty-six-man detachment of the Sixteenth New York Cavalry, accompanied by two detectives, began its pursuit of Lincoln’s assassin. Doherty led his men to the Sixth Street wharf, where they boarded the steamer John S. Ide—an unusual name that combined the assassin’s first name with an insinuation of the ides of March and Julius Caesar’s misfortune. The vessel plied the waters of Aquia Creek and landed at the wharf at Belle Plaine, Virginia, where the troops disembarked and traveled overland, south toward Fredericksburg. If they kept moving, the troopers of the Sixteenth New York would reach Port Conway, where Booth and Herold had crossed the Rappahannock, by tomorrow afternoon, April 25.