ELAM M. HACK, a young typesetter for the Washington Critic, was rousted from bed by a pounding on the door. Some officers informed him that Secretary of War Stanton had authorized an offer of $10,000 for the capture of the assassins. General Augur wanted flyers printed up as quickly as possible, and since the Critic was conveniently located on Ninth Street, just around the block from Ford’s Theatre, it seemed the logical place to go. Hack went right to work, selecting the largest type in the shop. The flyer was no work of art:
$10,000 REWARD!
HEADQUARTERS DEPARTMENT OF WASHINGTON,
APRIL 15TH, 1865.
A REWARD OF $10,000 WILL BE PAID TO THE PARTY
OR PARTIES ARRESTING THE MURDERER OF THE PRESIDENT,
MR. LINCOLN!
AND THE ASSASSIN OF THE SECRETARY OF STATE,
MR. SEWARD!
C. C. AUGUR, MAJ. GEN. COMD’G. DEP’T.22
STABLEMAN JOHN FLETCHER KEPT THINKING about George Atzerodt, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that Atzerodt was tied to the assassination. With Charlie Stowell’s encouragement, he decided to pick up where he left off—chasing that roan horse into Southern Maryland. He had a fair idea where to look. He remembered that Atzerodt had once mentioned a little village called “T.B.,” in the southern part of Prince George’s County. He didn’t dare ask Thompson Nailor to supply him with a new mount, since he had just lost one of Nailor’s best horses. So, borrowing a couple of sickly “hospital” horses from the K Street corral, Fletcher and Stowell headed down to police headquarters, where Detectives McDevitt, David Bigley, and Clarvoe joined them for a trek into Southern Maryland.23
First Lieutenant David D. Dana, 3rd Massachusetts Heavy Artillery, was already on the same mission. Dana was stationed at Fort Baker, southeast of the city, and just before dawn he set out for Maryland with an escort from the 13th New York Cavalry. General Augur had ordered the expedition, based on his interview with John Fletcher, but he left the specifics up to Dana. Unfortunately, the lieutenant had not yet spoken to Sgt. Silas T. Cobb, of the Navy Yard Bridge detail. Cobb was the man Fletcher had spoken to the night before, and he also served in Dana’s regiment. He was one of the few people in Washington who knew that two men had crossed out of the city on Friday night. One had given his name as Booth.24
AS THE GRAY MORNING LIGHT CREPT over the city, most Washingtonians were already on the move. Thousands in this town had not slept the night before, and those who had awoke to a different world. Outside the Petersen house, hundreds still waited in the rain for word of the president’s condition. An announcement, they knew, would be a mere formality. Col. George Woodward arrived at dawn. Woodward had spent most of the night in the saddle, inspecting pickets to see that they were properly deployed and attentive. He closed out his rounds with a stop at the Petersen house. Though reluctant to go inside, he eventually did, and the memory of that visit stayed with him for the rest of his life. General Augur was sitting on the hallway steps, looking thoroughly exhausted. Muffled wailing sounds came from behind the parlor door. At the entrance to the back bedroom stood General Meigs, stiff and silent as a sentinel. Just beyond lay the president, who could be seen through the doorway, and Surgeon General Barnes, who knelt next to him, sopping up his blood.
The vigil still moved in fits and starts. “Every now and then,” Woodward recalled, “the sounds would cease, and for a moment or two it would seem as if the end had come; then they would begin again, and the failing flame of life would feebly flicker on.”25
NOT EVERYONE IN WASHINGTON KNEW what had happened the night before. To some, the terrible news came with the morning light. Benjamin B. French, the commissioner of public buildings, was one of those who missed the excitement. French had fallen asleep at around ten o’clock, and when he awoke at daylight, he was surprised to see that the street lamps were still lit. On the sidewalk below, a sentry paced in front of his house. Puzzled and concerned, he dressed hastily and ran down to the front door. “Are not the doings of last night dreadful?” someone called to him. French asked what the man was talking about. “Have you not heard?” came the reply. Staggered by the news, French threw on his overcoat and hurried over to close the Capitol building. He then headed for Tenth Street.26
POLICE WERE FIRMLY CONVINCED that some of Ford’s employees had played some part in the murder, and they concentrated first on Ned Spangler. He was said to be especially cozy with Booth, and according to backstage gossip, he had spoken disparagingly of Lincoln on Friday afternoon. Someone quoted him as saying, “I hope the damned son of a bitch will be killed here tonight.” The more police learned, the more suspicious Spangler, along with Jake Rittersback, looked. Both were backstage at the time of the shooting, and both had behaved suspiciously in the preceding hours. At dawn on Saturday, orders were drawn up for their arrest as material witnesses.27
Spangler told police he had known Booth for eleven or twelve years. Booth had come to the theater on Friday at about five or six o’clock with a little bay mare. He took off her saddle, but insisted the bridle be left on. “She is a bad little bitch,” Booth said, and would not stand to be tied. Together, they locked the mare in the stable, then went for a drink. That was the last Spangler saw of Booth until the play was under way.
Spangler was posted on the same side of the stage as the president’s box. His job was to shove flats, or background pieces, into place when the scenes changed. At some point during the performance, actor John L. Debonay came over and told him that John Wilkes Booth was asking to see him at the back door. Going out to the alley, Spangler found Booth standing outside the door with the same little mare he had put in the stable earlier. The actor asked him to hold the horse for ten or fifteen minutes. “I have no time,” said Spangler, “but I could call Peanut John.” Booth wasn’t listening. He brushed past the stagehand and went inside, leaving Ned Spangler holding the reins. Impatiently, Spangler passed the horse off to Peanuts Borrows, then went back to his post. He was there when he heard the shot.
In another room down the hall, Jake Rittersback was putting a different spin on things. Rittersback had been employed at Ford’s for only the past four weeks, and though he had seen Booth around, he had only recently learned his name. He knew that Spangler did favors for Booth, and on the day of the assassination he had seen them together in the alley talking about a bridle for a horse. Beyond that, he didn’t know much. Though Rittersback disavowed involvement in the killing, he was not so sure about Peanuts. On his suggestion, police went looking for Borrows, who was milling around on Tenth Street. When they took him to the station house, they let Rittersback go.28
THE PRESIDENT TOOK A DEEP BREATH—so deep, in fact, that it brought everyone in the room to attention. His chest rose, and the doctors waited for it to drop. They kept waiting, as the room went silent and time itself seemed to freeze. Then the chest slowly fell with a ghastly wheezing sound. His muscles relaxed, and the doctors waited for another breath. Nothing. The surgeons exchanged glances. The president was perfectly motionless. To all appearances, this hopeless vigil had come to an end. Dr. Ezra Abbott, sitting on the bed, looked down at his pocket watch. Another moment passed in silence, and Dr. Barnes flipped open his watch as well. Six-fifty A.M., and the president of the United States . . . drew in another breath. This was another false alarm.
AT HOWARD’S LIVERY STABLE, near Sixth and G streets, foreman Brooke Stabler was mulling over the events of last night when a young man appeared at his office door. He looked like an educated man: well-dressed, soft, and mannerly. Stabler had seen the man before, but could not recall his name. They exchanged greetings and talked about the assassination. The fellow tried his best to appear casual, but he was shaking all over; he looked scared to death. In conversation, he mentioned that his friend John Surratt had gone to Europe. Surratt, he said, had been in trouble with detectives, but the reason for mentioning that was not really clear. In further conversation, he seemed to hope that Stabler would forget that he had even mentioned Surratt, but in fact th
is strange talk had the opposite effect. It reminded the foreman that John Surratt was a friend of John Wilkes Booth’s.
Now Brooke Stabler began to wonder if Surratt had had anything to do with the assassination. Surratt and Booth were close friends, and they often came to the stable together. They shared horses and buggies. The more Stabler thought about it, the more he realized that he might be able to help the investigation. In the desk was a note given him by John Surratt a few months ago:
Mr. Howard
Will please let the bearer Mr. Azworth have my horse whenever he wishes to ride also my leggins and gloves and oblige.
Yours &c.
J H Surratt
Feb. 22, 1865
541 H St Bet 6 & 7 Sts
Stabler had always regarded this man Azworth as a suspicious character, and though he was a friend of Surratt’s, he still refused to rent him a horse. He was a German man, with dark hair, light mustache, and whiskers. Typically, he wore a gray “salt and pepper” suit, and he always stooped a little. Stabler tried to remember all he could about Surratt, Booth, and Azworth. He wrote down everything he considered relevant, and sent it over to Colonel Ingraham’s office.29
THAT LAST FALSE ALARM had reawakened the president’s weary doctors, and they stood over him now, convinced that death was imminent. In time, the chest sank, and the pulse trailed off. Again, the doctors braced themselves, and the seconds ticked along. Dr. Abbott, watch in hand, stared and waited for the next breath. It never came. Abbott looked at his colleagues, then back at his watch. He made note of the time. Twenty-two minutes past seven. The suffering was over.30
The Reverend Dr. Gurley cleared his throat and stepped up to the bed, saying, “Let us pray.” As the minister began his prayer, James Tanner quietly reached into his pocket for a pencil. In his haste, he broke off the point. The prayer went unrecorded.
The news took Mary Todd Lincoln unawares. “Oh! Why did you not tell me that he was dying?” she asked her son. All through the night, she alone had refused to give up hope. Now, she clung to Robert and wept.
The earthly life and suffering of Abraham Lincoln were over. The sun rose on a new nation that morning, and attention would now turn from the president to his killer.
The hunt was on.
FIVE
“A SINGULAR COMBINATION OF GRAVITY AND JOY”
THERE WAS NO QUESTION THAT JOHN WILKES BOOTH WAS the assassin, but his whereabouts now could only be guessed. The natural assumption was that he would find a safe haven among those who sympathized with his act. Anti-Lincoln partisans had inspired him with their violent rhetoric, and some now openly approved of what he had done. But these people could be found anywhere. They were not all Southerners; indeed, Democrats in the loyal states could be just as strident as anyone in the South, and many observers blamed them directly for the assassination. Even as far away as San Francisco, editorials reflected this common belief:
The deed of horror and infamy . . . is nothing more than the expression in action, of what secession politicians and journalists have been for years expressing in words. Wilkes Booth has simply carried out what the Copperhead journalists who have denounced the President as a “tyrant,” a “despot,” a “usurper,” hinted at, and virtually recommended. His weapon was the pistol, theirs the pen; and though he surpassed them in ferocity, they equaled him in guilt. . . . Wilkes Booth has but acted out what Copperhead orators and the Copperhead press have been preaching for years.1
It was a valid point. John Wilkes Booth was not a Southerner, but a native of Maryland, where political heat was more intense, but often stifled by the threat of arrest under martial law. While Southerners fought openly on the battlefield, Marylanders often took their war underground, by spying or ferrying people and contraband across the lines. An informal network in the state’s southern counties could easily have helped Booth escape. Though it was by no means certain that he had headed their way, it had to be considered a possibility.
In many ways, Maryland was the key to the assassination. It was between North and South, and, more to the point, between Northern soldiers and the Southern battlefields. Surrounding the capital on three sides, it was an obstruction to the war effort that could not be ignored or dealt with at a later time. A heavy military presence was required, and martial law was swiftly put into place after the onset of hostilities in 1861. That in itself became the overriding concern for Marylanders, regardless of how they felt about other issues. It made opposition to Abraham Lincoln as strong there as it was in any state below it. This atmosphere nurtured the Lincoln conspiracy.
JOHN WILKES BOOTH’S LIFE BEGAN among the rolling hills of Harford County, Maryland. The landscape there reminds one of Pennsylvania, just a few miles to the north, rather than the land of Dixie. Farms and woods spread over the countryside in a patchwork of earthen hues. It was there that John’s father, Junius Booth, settled after his arrival from England in the early 1820s. In London, Junius had enjoyed a meteoric acting career and was considered a serious rival to the great Edmund Kean. But, abruptly, he left for America, where he toured for a while and eventually bought 150 acres of wilderness, three miles from the village of Bel Air, Maryland. His new surroundings offered an escape from the yellow fever epidemics then raging in the cities, and a pleasant refuge from life’s troubles, of which he had more than a few. He resumed his work on the stage, and became an even bigger success in his adopted country.2
Junius and his wife, Mary Ann, lived in a rambling four-room log house that they had bought from a neighbor, then rolled on logs to their own land. The feat branded Junius a genius, though perhaps an eccentric one. His father, Richard, came over from England to live with them, and in time other London relatives joined them as well. Seven of Junius and Mary Ann’s children would be born here.3
They had ten children in all. Junius Jr., Rosalie, and Henry Byron, named for the poet, came along in the first few years. Mary Ann, Frederick, and Elizabeth followed in succession, but an 1833 cholera epidemic would claim all three of them in a single month. Henry died of smallpox four years later on a visit to London. The loss of four children brought Mary Ann closer to those who survived, and to those born afterward. Edwin, Asia, John Wilkes, and Joseph Adrian were smothered with affection.4
They called their place The Farm, and though life here was spartan, it was never uncomfortable. The parlor walls, papered with the “family colors” of dark green and gold, were adorned with scenes of classical antiquity such as “Timon of Athens” and “The Roman matron showing her husband how to die.” The place had a quiet, comfortable dignity about it. It was a home, but more than that, it was a sanctuary, where Junius Booth could put aside the habiliments of a make-believe world and return to a place where everything was real.5
For the children, Junius built a swimming pond with an island shaded by willow trees. For the servants, he built sturdy and comfortable quarters. As a matter of principle, the Booths never owned slaves, but rented them from their masters for a set period of time. Most servants enjoyed life with the family, and they always found Mr. Booth to be a kind and indulgent employer. Hagar, Nancy, Amenda, Henry, George Brown, and “Pomp” Williams were just a few of the African Americans who grew up as companions to the Booth children. Much of what we know of the Booths’ life in Maryland comes from the fond recollections of the people who served them there.6
John Wilkes Booth was born at The Farm on May 10, 1838, and by all accounts he was his mother’s favorite. Attractive and good-natured, “Johnny” was one of those children who always seemed able to win over friends. His personality inspired high hopes of success in life, but Mary Ann had fears as well. Tragedy and personal loss had taxed her ability to explain life’s hardships in earthly terms, and superstition filled the void. Even the most enlightened people took Edwin’s birth during the most spectacular meteor shower in history as a portent of a glorious future. But with Johnny, the signs were written in flames. When he was six months old, Mary Ann had a vision of the word “countr
y” rising from a fire in the hearth. She took it as an omen and watched over him constantly, lest he should involve himself in some dangerous patriotic cause.7
Though John was his mother’s darling, the dominant figure in his life was undoubtedly his father. Junius Booth was a larger-than-life figure. It is no exaggeration to say that he was more than a celebrity; he was an entertainment phenomenon. According to a recent biographer, he gave more than 2,800 performances in sixty-eight American cities. His habit of accepting almost any engagement, no matter how small or remote the venue, helped spread his fame, and the legitimate drama, to the far reaches of the American wilderness. Though he died when John Wilkes was only fourteen, his influence outlived him and guided the lives of all his sons. Three of the Booth boys followed him onto the stage, and were always conscious of having large shoes to fill. 8
Walt Whitman called Junius “by far the greatest histrion I have ever seen in my life,” and the Spirit of the Times said he was “undoubtedly the best tragedian in this country at the present day, and in the world, to our knowledge.” A compact, muscular man with a forceful personality, Junius could electrify an audience with the power of his acting. He had a powerful intellect as well; he spoke many languages, studied disparate cultures, and had a lifelong passion for words. He studied Milton, Locke, and Plutarch. He read Dante and Alfieri in Italian, Racine in French, Leibniz in German, and Vasquez in Portuguese. In his library, one might find Sterne and Byron alongside the Bible, the Koran, and the Talmud. He preferred verse to prose; Shelley, Keats, and Coleridge were familiar to all in the Booth household.9
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