American Brutus

by Michael W. Kauffman

  Purdom thought the information demanded an urgent response, even though the story was three days old before it reached him. Now, with the sun hanging low in the sky, he set out to file a report with the 1st Delaware Cavalry, camped twenty miles away at Monocacy Junction. On the way he ran into Private Frank O’Daniel, whom he knew, and told him about this Andrew Atwood. O’Daniel notified his sergeant, George Lindsley, but hours went by before Lindsley was able to pass the report on to his superiors. Somehow he failed to convince his commanding officer that it ought to be taken seriously. Captain Solomon Townsend ordered a detachment to pursue Atwood, but not until morning.

  Something must have happened to change Townsend’s mind. Shortly after he issued that first order, he summoned Sgt. Zachariah W. Gemmill and told him to assemble a detail of six men right away. Their orders were to go and get Mr. Purdom and to take him in search of this man Atwood. The detachment left immediately, but even at a gallop, they did not reach Purdom’s house until ten o’clock. Their informant joined them, and in a few minutes he was leading them to Germantown. According to rumors, Atwood was supposed to be staying there, at the home of his uncle, Frederick Richter.24

  They arrived at about four o’clock in the morning. After posting some of his men around the house, Gemmill knocked on the front door. The man who answered it was Ernest Hartmann Richter, thirty-one, a son of the owner. On questioning, Richter said that his cousin, Atwood, had been there earlier in the week, but had gone to Frederick just the day before. When Gemmill announced that he was going to search the house anyway, Richter changed his story. Now he admitted that his cousin was in the house. The sergeant pushed him out of the way, and two men followed him inside. The front room had a “confused appearance,” and seemed to be the living quarters of young Richter and his wife, Mary. Seeing nothing suspicious, the soldiers went upstairs, where they found Frederick Richter in one room and three other men in another. The three were sharing a bed, and two of them—Mary Richter’s brothers—awoke right away. But their companion seemed to be sound asleep. Someone shook him and asked for his name. With some hesitation, he said it was Atwood.

  “Get up and dress yourself,” said the sergeant.

  The soldiers and their prisoner were gone by sunrise. At Purdom’s suggestion, they stopped at the home of Somerset Leaman, who identified Atwood as the maker of those suspicious remarks. As an afterthought, Gemmill then went back to the Richter house and placed the suspect’s cousin Hartmann Richter under arrest as well. Richter asked why they were taking him away, and it suddenly occurred to Gemmill that it was a question Atwood had never asked. 25

  MOST OF THE PRINCIPAL SUSPECTS were now in custody, but Booth and Surratt were still at large. Edwin Stanton had been losing his patience, and now he was losing control of the investigation as well. On April 19 he called for Lou Weichmann and learned that both Weichmann and John Holohan had left the country. They had gone to Montreal with two of A. C. Richards’s detectives.

  Stanton could hardly believe what he was hearing. Two important witnesses had been spirited out of the country by the government’s own agents? This was a huge embarrassment, and all the more so because Stanton had begun to think that Weichmann might be implicated in the plot. At least, that’s what his fellow boarders were saying. They thought he was more intimate with the conspirators than at first supposed. Now he was in Canada, supposedly on a search for John Surratt. But if he chose to stay there, the government could do little to get him back. Relations with all the British provinces were poor, and Canada in particular had been reluctant to entertain requests for extradition. So Weichmann and Holohan were mingling among the Southerners in Montreal. They would soon leave for Ottawa, and officials in Washington would lose track of them for days.26

  Lou Weichmann was not Stanton’s only problem. Booth’s brother-in-law, John Sleeper Clarke, had taken Booth’s letters from the safe and turned them over to William Millward, a U.S. marshal in Philadelphia. The one addressed “To whom it may concern” had just appeared, with Millward’s blessing, in The Philadelphia Inquirer. Again, Stanton objected: publishing the assassin’s words could only help generate sympathy for him, and it might even telegraph his defense strategy to fellow conspirators. He angrily demanded an explanation, and the marshal defended his actions by saying that he thought the publication was appropriate, since the letter proved the existence of a conspiracy. It was ironic, then, that some newspaper editors thought it was concocted to help the conspirators by denying that there was ever a plot.27

  THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE FILED into the new Capitol rotunda to view the remains of Abraham Lincoln. They lined up for more than a mile, standing quietly and respectfully for hours just to get one final, momentary glimpse of their fallen president. One observer was struck by the way “the refined and cultured walked by the side of poor untutored and lately emancipated slaves, each seemingly oblivious to the presence [of the] other.” Many wept, and some left small tokens of their grief. A good many kissed the coffin as they passed. Nobody who witnessed the scene could help but be affected. 28

  AS EARLY AS APRIL 18, Lt. Alexander Lovett had made up his mind that it was Booth who had stopped at Dr. Mudd’s for medical treatment. Yet he did not report this to his superiors until the twentieth. Since Lovett was one of the few people who had interviewed Mudd, his delay meant that almost a full week had gone by before authorities in Washington knew that Booth was traveling with another man, or that he had broken his leg. To Col. Henry H. Wells, those points were vital. If the cavalry was pursuing a pair of travelers, they needed to know that. And a broken leg would have slowed Booth down, making it more difficult for him to get across the Zekiah Swamp. In all likelihood, the fugitives were still near Dr. Mudd’s. Stanton agreed and, on April 20, he ordered Wells to make his headquarters in Bryantown, a few miles from the Mudd farm. Wells would personally direct the search from there.

  Stanton was sure that somebody had been sheltering Booth, and on the twentieth, he took steps to break the assassin’s hold on the disloyal public. He issued a proclamation:

  $100,000 REWARD

  THE MURDERER OF OUR LATE BELOVED PRESIDENT

  ABRAHAM LINCOLN IS STILL AT LARGE.

  FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD WILL BE PAID BY THIS DEPARTMENT FOR HIS APPREHENSION, IN ADDITION TO ANY REWARD

  OFFERED BY MUNICIPAL AUTHORITIES OR STATE EXECUTIVES.

  He said that $25,000 would be paid for the arrest of John Surratt and another $25,000 for the arrest of David Herold. Liberal rewards would also be paid for any information that led to the arrest of a conspirator.

  Stanton’s proclamation was a threat as well as an inducement. It said that any person found to be harboring or secreting said persons would be treated as accomplices and subject to trial by military commission. The punishment was death. “Let the stain of innocent blood be removed from the land by the arrest and punishment of the murderers,” it said. “Every man should consider his own conscience charged with this solemn duty, and rest neither night nor day until it be accomplished.”

  The results of the proclamation were mixed. The promise of a reward made detectives guard their leads more jealously, but the threat of death made witnesses more cooperative. Certainly, the prospect of hanging was enough to shake a confession out of John M. Lloyd. Since his arrest two days before, Lloyd had been interviewed by Colonel Wells, Lieutenant Lovett, and Detective Cottingham, among others. They all offered the same advice: unburden yourself, and tell us what you know. Lloyd had resisted, but now seemed to weaken. George Cottingham had always treated Lloyd kindly. With the instincts of a good detective, Cottingham paid particular attention to the way Lloyd wept at the thought of leaving his wife. He would use that for leverage.

  “For the sake of your family, make a clean breast of the whole matter,” he said. “I have the proof against you.” Cottingham left Lloyd alone to think it over. After a few minutes, he asked again if the prisoner was ready to talk.

  “My God, they will kill me if I implicate
them,” Lloyd sobbed.

  “Well,” said Cottingham, “if you are afraid to be murdered yourself, and let these fellows get out of it, that is your business, not mine.” He advised him once more to come clean. This time Lloyd gave in. He said there were guns hidden at the tavern, and Mary Surratt had come out on Friday to tell him that they would be needed that night. Booth and David Herold called for them at about midnight, and Herold came in to get them. Booth never got off his horse. He said he had broken his leg, and couldn’t carry a gun, though he did take some whiskey. Booth said they had killed the president and Seward. Lloyd would have shot him right there, but he was afraid.

  He now claimed to know where Booth was. “And if I had been taken there when I was arrested,” he said, “I could have captured him.” Cottingham pointed out that until just a minute ago he had denied knowing anything at all. Lloyd conceded the point, but said he supposed the fugitives were heading for Allen’s Fresh.

  This was the first time anyone had mentioned those hidden guns, and Cottingham was eager to find them. He went up to the tavern with Andrew Kaldenback, a friend of Lloyd’s, in hopes of locating the rifle Booth and Herold had left behind. Lloyd said it was still there, between the studs of the dining room wall. When they failed to find it by prodding and searching, Kaldenback smashed through the plaster in what turned out to be just the right place. It was jammed tightly inside the wall.29

  THOMAS JONES HAD HOPED to take the fugitives to Allen’s Fresh, where the Zekiah Swamp empties into the vast tidal flats of the Wicomico River. The Potomac, just beyond, is six miles wide at that point, but gentle currents there made boat crossings relatively easy. There was just one problem: authorities had the place under constant surveillance. After several days of keeping his ear to the ground, Jones finally gave up on Allen’s Fresh. On Wednesday, April 19, he told his servant, Henry Woodland, to bring back the rowboat he had been keeping there, and to leave it in the small creek near Jones’s farm, known as Huckleberry.30

  The following afternoon, Jones was in Allen’s Fresh when a small cavalry unit rode up to Colton’s store and dismounted. A couple of the soldiers came inside for a drink. Before long their guide rushed in with an announcement: “Boys, I have news that they have been seen in St. Mary’s.” In just a moment, the entire detachment had gone off to chase Booth and Herold somewhere to the east.

  “Now or never,” Jones thought. He rode at full speed to the fugitives’ hiding place in the pine thicket. He arrived after dark, and approached with more than the usual caution. Booth and Herold were pleased to see him, and thrilled at the news he brought: that they would finally get a chance to cross the river. “The coast seems to be clear,” said Jones, “and the darkness favors us. Let us make the attempt.” While Booth rode on Jones’s horse, Herold walked alongside. Jones himself walked fifty or sixty yards ahead of them, checking for signs of danger, then whistling for them to proceed. If they did not hear a signal, they were to slip quickly and quietly into the woods.

  Thus did they make their way through the darkness for more than two miles to Huckleberry. They were there by ten o’clock, and Jones told the fugitives to wait outside. “Oh,” said Booth, “can’t I go in and get some of your hot coffee?” It was a pitiful request from one who had not been under a roof, tasted hot food, or felt the warmth of a fire in nearly a week. Jones hated to refuse it, but he had no choice.

  “My friend,” he said, “it wouldn’t do. Indeed it would not be safe. There are servants in the house who would be sure to see you and then we would all be lost. Remember, this is your last chance to get away.” Booth and Herold waited out by the stable while Jones went into the house. He found his own supper waiting on the table and Henry Woodland eating in the kitchen. Henry confirmed that the boat had been left in the creek. They talked awhile, and when everyone else had gone to bed, Jones slipped outside with some food.

  Near the Huckleberry farm was a patch of dense woods with a winding stream cradled by steep hills and meadows. The bluffs rose sharply, then dropped fifty feet or more to the banks of the river. This is where the Potomac bends southward, turning toward Chesapeake Bay sixty miles downstream. The view from the heights is stunning, but otherwise it was a place to avoid. The river narrowed considerably from both directions, and the currents were unusually strong. It was said that anyone falling into the river here might never be found. Unfortunately for Booth and Herold, they had no other place to cross.

  Jones guided the fugitives through the narrow gully to the mouth of the little stream. His boat was tucked under the weeds here, ready for immediate use. It was a flat-bottomed skiff, twelve feet long, equipped with only one oar and one paddle. Still, it was probably the best Booth could hope to get. Jones took Booth’s pocket compass and, by the light of a candle, showed him how to steer a course of 190 degrees. “Keep to that,” he said, “and it will bring you into Machodoc Creek. Mrs. Quesenberry lives near the mouth of this creek. If you tell her you come from me I think she will take care of you.” He pulled the boat into the open water, then steadied it as Booth and Herold seated themselves inside. With the waves lapping at the sides of the skiff, Jones offered some last-minute advice. He reminded them to keep low and to keep their candle flame hidden. He took eighteen dollars for the boat, but nothing more. As he said later, “What I had done was not for money.”

  In a voice trembling with emotion, Booth bid him farewell. “God bless you, my dear friend, for all you have done for me,” he said. “Good-bye, old fellow.” Jones pushed the boat away from the shore and watched it glide out of sight.31

  AT ABOUT THE SAME TIME, a special train pulled into the B&O station in Washington, and a cordon of soldiers surrounded it, blocking exits and keeping all passengers in place. Colonel Ingraham and Marshal Murray walked up to the last car and met Brigadier General Erastus B. Tyler there. As commander of all troops outside Baltimore, Tyler had personally supervised this important mission—to escort the prisoner George Atzerodt to Washington.

  As General Tyler transferred custody of the prisoner, he insisted on getting his handcuffs back. Marshal Murray replaced them with a pair of his own. While changing them, Murray pinched the prisoner’s wrist. “Don’t pinch me,” snarled Atzerodt.

  The marshal snapped back: “I will pinch your neck before you are a week older.” Murray delivered Atzerodt and Hartmann Richter to the navy yard, where they were placed in close confinement aboard the Montauk.

  For nearly twelve hours, George Atzerodt had been sitting in General Tyler’s headquarters chattering about Booth and the plot against Lincoln. Everything he said was recorded by a stenographer. But then, late in the day, a rather forceful message came over the wires from Secretary Stanton: allow no examination of the prisoner—none whatever. The order arrived too late, but Tyler passed it down the line, and for the time being, everyone on his staff pretended not to know anything about the prisoner or the stories he told. The transcripts have never been found.32

  THE RIVER CROSSING WAS NOT GOING WELL for Booth and Herold. The weather was rough and visibility poor. They had almost reached the Northern Neck of Virginia when just off their path to the right, the faint glow of a ship’s lantern cut through the fog. Seeing this, Herold pulled harder on the oars. The wind and current fought against him, and a gunboat rapidly closed in. They clearly couldn’t outrun her, so Herold stopped rowing. He and Booth kept perfectly still, hoping the current would push them unnoticed past the point of danger. They were at nature’s mercy, and all they could do was let the fog close in over them, hoping that the men on board the vessel would not hear the sound of their hearts pounding in fear.

  Nothing was going according to plan. They were supposed to have rowed nine miles south, but a stiff breeze had forced them almost due west, toward Mathias Point, Virginia. The U.S.S. Juniper lay at anchor just south of there, and though the Juniper was stationary, the movement of the water and of Booth’s own boat gave the impression that she was closing in on the fugitives. So they stopped rowing and rode th
e current north, then west where the river bends around Mathias Point. From there, they drifted across to the Maryland shore.

  As the morning light broke over the distant bluffs, David Herold recognized the familiar sight of Nanjemoy Creek. On its bank was Indiantown Farm, owned by Perry Davis, a prominent politician and a man General Hooker once described as “one of the noisiest” rebels in the area. Davis’s son-in-law, John J. Hughes, lived here. Reluctantly, Hughes allowed the fugitives to stay in an old slave shack near the water’s edge.

  In some ways their arrival was a lucky break. Herold had friends living nearby; in fact, some of them had been keeping an eye on the boat Surratt had bought for the abduction. But on the other hand, Nanjemoy Creek was in Maryland, and that is not where they wanted to be.33

  FIFTEEN

  “I MUST FIGHT THE COURSE”

  AT 8:00 A.M. ON APRIL 21, A SPECIAL TRAIN PULLED OUT of the B&O station in Washington. On board were the mortal remains of Abraham Lincoln.

  The train was heading for Baltimore on the first leg of a journey across seven states. It would travel nearly seventeen hundred miles and be seen by thirty million spectators. Its route had been laid out at the last minute. It would go from Baltimore to Harrisburg, then to Philadelphia, Trenton, New York, and Albany; thence westward, through Buffalo, Cleveland, Columbus, Indianapolis, and Chicago. Two weeks after its start, the journey would end at the president’s hometown of Springfield, Illinois.

  Its crew and attendants were to be governed by a long list of rules. The timetable had been calculated to the minute, with no room to dally. The train would consist of at least nine cars, with an engine supplied by whichever company owned the tracks. A pilot engine would ride ahead of the train to keep the path clear. The president’s remains would be kept on one of the last cars: the United States, a luxury car designed in 1864 especially for Mr. Lincoln, but never used by him. Alongside his coffin was that of his son Willie, who had died in the White House three years before. The V.R.C. escort and members of the Lincoln family occupied the car behind it. Local dignitaries got on and off at different points along the way.1