“Where are those parties who were at your house last night?” asked Baker. Garrett seemed befuddled, and had trouble getting out an answer. “Answer my question,” said the detective, “or I’ll blow your brains out!”
Richard Garrett couldn’t help stammering; he always did that when nervous. He said that some strangers had stopped by earlier, but had gone into the woods.
“What?” said Baker. “A lame man go into the woods?”
“He went with his crutches.”
Mr. Garrett was kept from going back into the house to get his clothes, but someone inside handed out a pair of pants and some boots. Everton Conger, watching this, asked where in the woods those men had gone. Garrett said that they had come without his consent, and he did not want them to stay, and—
“I do not want a long story out of you. I just want to know where these men have gone.” He didn’t think Mr. Garrett was getting to the point fast enough, and he ordered one of the men to bring out a rope. “I will put that man up to the top of one of those locust trees.”
A man’s voice came from out of the darkness. “Father, you had better tell him, for they have a whole regiment of cavalry here.” It was Jack Garrett, striding toward the porch in his Confederate uniform. Garrett had been sleeping in a corncrib with his brother Will. They had heard someone threaten their father, and Jack demanded to speak with the commanding officer. He said that two men had come there expecting to spend the night, but something was not right about them, and he had refused to let them sleep in the house. They were out in the barn.
About two hundred feet from the house stood a large shed, built with wide, open slats for the curing of tobacco leaves. The shed had not been used much, since tobacco was a labor-intensive crop and the older boys, who would have done the planting, had been away in the war. In recent years, the elder Garrett had been letting his neighbors store furniture and other valuables there to protect them from the Yankees. That is why their barn, unlike most tobacco barns, had a lock on the door.
Jack Garrett had kept a close eye on those men since yesterday afternoon, when the cavalry rode past the farm. He thought it strange that they had taken to the woods even though the war was over. So when they returned to the house, Garrett and his brother Will questioned them again. Herold said he had served in Captain Robinson’s company of the 30th Virginia—an unfortunate claim, since Jack Garrett knew there was no such captain in that regiment. He confronted them and, brushing aside their excuses, told them to leave at once.
But throwing them off the farm wasn’t so simple. The sun was setting, and the men were on foot. Throw them out now, and they would surely come back in the night to steal a horse or two. So Garrett allowed them to stay until morning, but told them to sleep in the barn. Will Garrett locked them inside, and the two brothers kept watch over the barn from a nearby corncrib. The two men could not have escaped.30
Lieutenant Doherty grabbed Jack Garrett by the collar and, shoving him toward the barn, told him to go inside and bring out those men. Garrett protested, saying that they would shoot him if he went in there. Byron Baker, walking up to the door, said, “They know you, and you can go in.” And besides, he would shoot him if he refused.31
Inside, Booth woke Herold and told him the barn was surrounded. Herold suggested they give up, but Booth wouldn’t hear of it. “I will suffer death first,” he said. Then Booth pulled Herold close, and said in a low voice, “Don’t make any noise. Maybe they will go off, thinking we are not here.”
As they whispered back and forth, the door opened, and by the light of a candle outside they could see the silhouette of Jack Garrett as he stepped inside. “Gentlemen, the cavalry are after you,” he said, speaking into the darkness. “You are the ones. You had better give yourselves up.” Booth remained perfectly still, but Herold made no effort to conceal his presence. Garrett repeated his advice, and pointed out that the barn was surrounded. As he said this, he thought he heard a man raise himself from a pile of hay. Then Booth spoke in a loud, angry tone. “You have implicated me!”32
Booth had just gotten the words out when Byron Baker, candle in hand, called out, “I want you to surrender. If you don’t, I will burn the barn down in fifteen minutes.” All of this was a surprise to Lieutenant Doherty. As commander of the detachment, Doherty had thought he was in charge of the whole expedition. But now, without a word of discussion, Baker had stepped in and taken over. And worse, he was threatening to flush out the fugitives in almost complete darkness. Conceivably, Booth and Herold might actually slip away, if the troops were somehow diverted. There was little Doherty could do; he was still positioning his men when Baker took charge.
Booth asked who was at the door and what he wanted. “This is a hard case,” he said. “It may be I am to be taken by my friends.” Baker declined to identify himself. He ordered Booth to turn his weapons over to Garrett, then give himself up. He could have ten minutes to consider it.
Herold was folding under the pressure, and he made up his mind to surrender. “You don’t choose to give yourself up,” he told Booth. “Let me go out and give myself up.”
“No,” snapped Booth, “you shall not do it.” They argued in low, angry tones, and Garrett, fearing for his life, backed up to the door. He called out to Baker, who let him out.
Between angry whispers to Herold, Booth held Baker off by asking for other options. He pointed out that if he had been inclined to shoot his way out, it would not have been difficult; the candles outside made Baker an easy target. The detective hadn’t thought of that. He looked around, then quickly backed up and placed the candle farther out in the yard. Going back to the door, he repeated his threat: Give up your arms, or the building will be set on fire. “Captain,” Booth replied, “that’s rather rough. I am nothing but a cripple. I have but one leg, and you ought to give me a chance for a fair fight.”
“This is no child’s play,” Baker responded. “We are in earnest, and shall carry out our threats. We will give you five minutes to consider the matter.” Booth kept trying to draw him into conversation, but Baker insisted he should just think about his options and make up his mind.
“Well,” said Booth, “you may prepare a stretcher for me. Throw open your door, draw up your men in line, and let’s have a fair fight.”
Everton Conger had had enough, and he decided to force the issue. He told Jack Garrett to get some pine twigs and pile them up against the side of the barn. Garrett came back with an armload, but Booth heard him placing it on the ground and warned him away. “You had better look out there. Put no more brush there or someone will get hurt.” Garrett backed off, and Booth turned his attention back to Baker at the door. In the meantime, Conger picked up some hay and twisted it into a small rope. He put a match to it and pushed it through a wide crack onto a pile of hay inside.33
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, flames crept up the wall, licking at the planks, fanned by a light breeze. Herold panicked. “I am going,” he told Booth. “I don’t intend to be burnt alive.” As he started for the door, Booth pulled him back and threatened to kill him if he went any farther. Then he said in a louder voice, “Go away from me, you damned coward.” As Herold started to pull away, Booth yanked him back and whispered, “When you get out, don’t tell them the arms I have.”
Then he addressed Byron Baker. “Captain,” he said, “there is a man in here who wants to surrender. He is innocent of any crime.” When Baker instructed Herold to hand out his arms, Booth said, “He has no arms. I own and have all the arms that are here, and he cannot get them.” Herold ran to the door and pounded on it, crying, “Let me out! Let me out!”34
With guns cocked, Lieutenant Doherty and a couple of his men moved in close. Baker pulled the door open, and the lieutenant told Herold to put his hands out, one at a time. He did as he was told, and Doherty grabbed him by the wrists, jerking him clear of the door. Corporal Newgarten took him away, to be searched and tied to a locust tree.
The flames had spread to the rafters, t
hrowing strips of flickering light through the cracks of the barn and onto the faces of the soldiers. A few soldiers peered through those cracks, watching Booth’s every move and waiting for him to make a quick break. He was the most hunted man in America, trapped like a wild animal, his eyes darting here and there, straining to see past the flames. In one hand, he gripped a Spencer carbine that he and Herold had picked up at the Surrattsville tavern. In the other, he steadied himself with a crutch. From the look of things, he seemed prepared to shoot his way out.
Booth appeared to be searching for something that would help put out the fire, but it was too late. As the flames swept through the barn, his expression suddenly changed from defiance to despair. He realized that his time had come. Taking one more look around, he dropped his crutch, turned on his heels, and shuffled quickly toward the door.
Barely ten feet away, Sgt. Boston Corbett watched closely through the slats of the barn. In his hand was a .44 Colt revolver, trained on the fugitive and ready to fire in an instant. As Booth turned toward the door, he also raised his carbine. Corbett fired.
Hearing the shot, Byron Baker threw the door open. Doherty, Jack Garrett, and some of the soldiers ran inside. Booth had fallen facedown, and was completely limp as they lifted him up by the arms and legs. Conger, who had heard the shot while running for the door, came in behind the others. “Is he dead?” he asked. “Did he shoot himself?”
Baker replied, “No,” though he didn’t know exactly what had happened. They checked Booth quickly and discovered a pistol wound on the right side of his neck. To all appearances, he was dead. They carried him outside and laid him on a soft patch of grass about thirty feet away. Conger went back inside to retrieve the carbine, and when he returned, he noticed that Booth was still alive. Though unable to move or speak clearly, he was trying to say something. The detective crouched over him and put his ear to Booth’s lips.
“Tell my mother I die for my country.” Conger repeated that, and asked if he had heard right. Booth signified yes.
While the soldiers scrambled to put out the fire, the detectives talked about what had happened. Conger was sure that Booth had shot himself, but each time he said so, Baker said it couldn’t be; after all, he had been looking right at him when he heard the shot. Sergeant Corbett overheard the conversation, and immediately he reported to Lieutenant Doherty, telling him that it was he who shot Booth. As proof, he showed the lieutenant a spent cap and the empty chamber in his revolver. They walked over to see Conger, and Corbett gave the details. “I went to the barn,” he said, “looked through a crack, saw Booth coming towards the door, sighted at his body, and fired.” Corbett said that he had been afraid Booth would either shoot someone or get away. Since, in Conger’s words, “they had no orders either to fire or not to fire,” the matter ended there—at least for now.35
As the heat from the fire grew more intense, Booth was carried from the lawn to the front porch of the house. Mrs. Garrett had placed a mattress there, and Booth rallied as they laid him on it. He could make himself understood, though only in a feeble whisper, and he asked for water. He couldn’t swallow. He asked to be turned facedown, then on his side, then his other side. Fluids accumulated in his throat, and he was powerless to clear it. Nothing anyone did for him eased his misery. Motioning for Conger, he whispered, “Kill me, kill me.”
Everton Conger wouldn’t hear of it. “We don’t want to kill you,” he said. “We want you to get well.”
And so it went. For the next couple of hours, Booth kept asking to be turned, but every movement brought extreme pain. His throat swelled, and his lips turned purple. He would gasp, and his heartbeat would fade. But then he would revive, his heart would flutter, and his eyes would move. Byron Baker sat at his side, bathing his wound and waiting for the inevitable. He occasionally left the job to Mrs. Garrett’s sister, Lucinda Holloway. When nobody was looking, Miss Holloway clipped a lock of Booth’s hair as a memento.
Dr. Charles Urquhart had been summoned from Port Royal, and was apparently unnerved by the sight of so many blue coats. He at first indicated that Booth would recover, but when one of the soldiers pointed out that the ball had passed clean through the neck, his prognosis dimmed considerably. Booth had suffered a spinal cord injury, and his vital organs were shutting down. He was slowly suffocating.
Everton Conger did not wait for the end. Hearing the doctor’s revised pronouncement, Conger headed back to Washington with the contents of Booth’s pockets. Booth apparently wanted to be sure that someone would pass along his final message, so he indicated he wanted to say something else. Baker put his ear to Booth’s lips, and the assassin repeated his declaration:
“Tell my mother—tell my mother that I did it for my country—that I die for my country.”
The morning sun broke over the hills, and Booth winced at the bright, warm rays striking his face. A shirt draped over the back of a chair gave a small measure of relief. He looked toward his hands, and Byron Baker lifted them up, limp and nearly lifeless, above Booth’s face. Baker leaned over as Booth made one last, feeble pronouncement:
“Useless. Useless.”36
SIXTEEN
“THESE PEOPLE AROUND HERE CONTRADICT EACH OTHER SO MUCH”
T. J. HEMPHILL, OF THE WALNUT STREET THEATRE, KNOCKED on the door of Sleeper Clarke’s mansion in Philadelphia. Pale and careworn, he could not raise his eyes to look at Asia Booth Clarke. She knew at once why he had come.
“Is it over?” she asked.
“Yes, madam.”
“Taken?”
“Yes.”
“Dead?”
“Yes, madam.”
Booth’s sister curled up in bed with her face to the wall, quietly thanking God that it was over. Mr. Hemphill turned to leave, choking on his sobs, and shut the door behind him.
Even as Lieutenant Doherty’s detachment was heading back from Garrett’s farm, James O’Beirne and Samuel H. Beckwith sent word to the War Department that they had traced Booth to a place about two miles north of Bryantown and they expected to capture him at any time. A similar report came from Colonel Wells, who also believed the fugitives were in Charles County. Yet at that very moment, Everton Conger and Boston Corbett were heading up the Potomac with evidence and “particulars” of the assassin’s closing scene. They were carrying Booth’s diary, and from it they erroneously deduced that Booth had broken his leg on the stage at Ford’s Theatre. That story would reach the newspapers within hours.
They arrived in Washington late that afternoon and briefed Secretary Stanton at the War Department. Booth’s revolvers, knives, keys, and compass were taken to the office of the New York Tribune, and reporters were invited to examine them. Some noted that a handkerchief taken from Booth’s pocket had been folded up with wood shavings inside—collected, evidently, when the assassin bored that hole in the door to the president’s box. A diamond stick pin taken from his undershirt was inscribed as a gift from his friend, the minstrel Dan Bryant. The display did not include Booth’s diary and his Spencer carbine; they were locked away in Stanton’s office. In a pocket of the diary were photographs of five women: four actresses, and Lucy Hale. 1
The stunning news of Booth’s death brought joy and relief to millions, and instant fame to Boston Corbett. The little sergeant was the talk of the nation, and he was already receiving monetary offers for his .44 Colt revolver. Within days, it would be stolen. For the moment, Corbett’s fame outshone even that of General William T. Sherman, who had accepted the surrender of Joe Johnston’s forces only hours after Booth’s death. Since Johnston had commanded the largest body of Confederate troops still in the field, his capitulation signaled the end of major hostilities.2
Ten hours after Conger and Corbett’s arrival, the John S. Ide steamed into the Washington Navy Yard. On board were Byron Baker, David Herold, the cavalrymen, and the body of Booth. Herold was hustled onto the Montauk, lying at anchor in the Eastern Branch, and confined in the ship’s wardroom. Booth’s remains were placed under
a strong marine guard on the deck of the same vessel.
The War Department had already been flooded with advice on how to dispose of Booth’s body. One man suggested they bury it beneath the threshold of Ford’s Theatre, so everyone who entered could tread upon it. Another suggested “dissection and public display” with a sign that read “Sic semper Percussorouibus.” Dozens of ideas were thrown around, and none of a very gentle nature. But no matter what choice Secretary Stanton made, he first had to verify that the remains were indeed those of Lincoln’s killer. An inquest was arranged, and on the morning of April 27, some of the army’s leading surgeons were ordered to report to the Montauk. They placed the remains on a makeshift table to be photographed and examined.
Surgeons Joseph Janvier Woodward and George Otis conducted a cursory examination. Removing a splint and bandage from the left leg, they found a fracture of the small bone, three inches above the ankle joint. It was swollen and badly discolored, but relatively minor as injuries go. Death was caused by a pistol ball, fired from several yards away, which passed through the neck from right to left. It punched through the fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae, driving bone fragments into the muscle and partially cutting the spinal cord. Surgeon General Barnes, who watched the examination, observed that “all the horrors of consciousness of suffering and death must have been present to the assassin during the two hours he lingered.” Dr. Woodward removed the vertebrae and the tissues adjacent to the wound. They were preserved for the new Army Medical Museum, and remain in its collections today.3
Booth was a familiar figure in Washington, and ought to have been easy to identify. Even so, the War Department wanted to erase all possible doubt. At the Garrett farm, Lieutenant Doherty had compared the face of the corpse with a photo of Booth. They matched. But since then, the remains had been lying facedown, and blood had pooled under the skin, giving it a haggard and freckled appearance. Their identification would have to rest on something more positive than mere appearance.
American Brutus Page 41
