The conclusion of last month’s trip to Washington, D.C. to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the assassination of Abraham Lincoln ended with a trek I had been dreaming of since I was a young boy. I had participated in the 36-hour ceremonies at Ford’s Theatre and now I was going to retrace the 66 mile escape route of the assassin John Wilkes Booth. Along the way, I was determined to visit as many spots associated with Booth and his conspirators as I could possibly squeeze in to my last couple of days.
I visited Ford’s and pretty much turned that place out. I spent more time than I should have at the Petersen house where Lincoln breathed his last. I trod Lafayette Park across from the White House where Secretary of State Seward was attacked by Lewis Thornton Powell the night of the assassination. I found the National Hotel, where Booth roomed before the assassination (It is now the Newseum where George Stephanopoulos films ABC’s Sunday morning show “This Week”). I even ventured into the Surratt boarding house where the conspirators regularly met (now the Wok and Roll restaurant) for a serving of pork fried rice.
Having seen those D.C. sites, or at least what was left of them 150 years on, I was now off to chase John Wilkes Booth. I left the city and headed towards the Surratt Tavern in Clinton, Maryland (formerly Surrattsville). The old boarding house that was once home to conspirator Mary Surratt is now a museum. I took the tour on April 15th, 150 years to the day of Lincoln’s death and of Booth’s stopover there to pick up carbines for the escape. Although the elderly guide was enthusiastic, I would have liked to have heard more from him on the assassination rather than candlemaking and rope beds. The building itself however, did not disappoint and held me in awe.
From there I traveled to the Waldorf, Maryland home of Dr. Samuel Mudd, the physician who treated Booth’s broken leg and housed the outlaw and his companion David Herold for some 12-15 hours. The secluded house museum was well worth the trip as the employees were informative and welcoming. The elderly gentleman taking tickets at the counter was actually a relative of Dr. Mudd — how cool is that? The highlight of the tour, at least for me, was the actual horsehair couch upon which Booth rested while Dr. Mudd first examined his leg. The house and grounds remain much the same as they were back in 1865. The winding dirt wagon road behind the house that Booth and Herold departed on to Zekiah Swamp remains untouched and intact. Standing at the crest, it is quite easy to imagine the assassin and his minion dejectedly riding away on horseback towards their impending doom.
From the Mudd House, I traveled to the home of Samuel Cox, known as “Rich Hill.” Cox was a rabid Southern sympathizer who guided Booth and Herold to a place called “The Pine Thicket,” where the dastardly duo hid out for the next five days while Union cavalry searched the area for them. It was at the pine thicket where I first realized just how desperate their situation had become. The area is desolate, soggy and thick as the proverbial briar patch. To spend five days in this tangle of thorns could only be done by the most hopeless and forlorn. As I stomped my way into the brush, I was met by a trio of wild turkeys who really didn’t seem to take much notice of me. Apparently, they realized I would not be staying long.
From here I traveled to a house known as “Huckleberry.” The home belonged to Samuel Cox’s son-in-law Thomas A. Jones, a Rebel courier and spy who agreed to help Booth and Herold cross the Potomac into Virginia. From there I ventured to the point where the outlaws crossed the river. Although unremarkable as a landmark, it is hard to understand just how wide the river is until you stand at the water’s edge and try to see opposite shore. It is a long way made longer when you drive across the 301 bridge to get to the other side.
Once in Virginia, you get the sense that Booth soon knew his days were numbered. Up until that fateful river crossing on April 22, 1865, Booth could delude himself that he would be greeted as a hero once he got to the other side. He was gravely mistaken. Once in Virginia, Booth and Herold were treated as outcasts. Word of President Lincoln’s death had preceded them and although everyone the duo encountered was unsympathetic to Lincoln’s plight, they were equally unsympathetic to the fleeing assassins. In truth, many southerners believed Lincoln was their last best hope. By the time he crossed the river, Booth was quickly realizing that he was no hero — he was a pariah with only four days left to live.
I was closing in on Booth by busily visiting an ever-shrinking succession of southern estates and farmhouses where the criminals desperately sought asylum. I started by visiting the Quesenberry House near Gambo Creek where Booth and Herold first touched land. The house still stands but is privately owned and not open to the public. Mrs. Quesenberry refused to help the outlaws but did prepare food for them before sending them on their way.
Then came Cleydael, the home of Dr. Richard Stuart in King George, Virginia. Expecting food, lodging, and medical attention for Booth’s aching leg, instead they were again sent packing like a couple of hoboes with enough food scraps to get them off the property. Like the Quesenberry House before it, Cleydael is privately owned and not open to the public, although the current owners are renovating it and occasionally open the building to select groups.
Next, in what surely must have been one of the greatest ironies of Booth’s life, the criminals were guided to the home of a family of free blacks, the Lucas family. John Wilkes Booth was one of the most vehement racists of his day; a race hatred so white hot that it spurred him to kill a President. Booth and Herold forced William Lucas and his family out of their own house and slept in their places. The next morning the pair paid William’s son, Charley Lucas, to take them to Port Conway by wagon.
From here the duo traveled by ferry across the Rappahannock River to the Peyton House. The house still stands although it is boarded up and sagging with age. Weathered signs littering the house and property proclaim a restoration effort is in progress but it looks like they’ve been there for awhile. It was April 24, 1865 and this would be the last time Booth would experience a brief glimmer of what had been his former life of celebrity. The home was owned by a pair of spinster sisters who at first welcomed Booth and Herold into their parlor for a few minutes of flirtatious conversation before realizing the impropriety of the idea of two single women being alone with two single men. The outlaws were told they must leave and were guided to the Garrett farmhouse some three miles to the South. John Wilkes Booth has less than 48 hours to live.
Once at the farmhouse of Richard Garrett, the duo were introduced as former Confederate soldiers on their way home and Booth’s leg injury was presented as a war wound. Based on these lies, Garrett, whose two eldest sons had just returned from the war, welcomed them with open arms. Finally, Booth was getting the reception he felt he deserved. But it didn’t last long. Union soldiers were seen galloping past the farmhouse in a hurry and as they passed, the two strangers hid from them suspiciously. The Garretts knew something was up and refused to let the visitors sleep in the house.
Instead, Booth and Herold were told they could sleep in the tobacco barn some distance from the family home. Afraid the pair might steal the family horses, one of the Garrett boys locked the visitors in the tobacco barn with the intention of releasing them in the morning before shooing them off the property. The jig was up. John Wilkes Booth and David Herold’s fate was sealed. You know the story; the barn was surrounded by Union soldiers, lit on fire, and Booth was shot by Federal soldier Boston Corbett. Booth would die on the Garrett’s front porch with the flames of the barn flickering in his dying eyes.
Perhaps fittingly, nothing is left of the tobacco barn where Booth was shot or the Garrett farmhouse where Booth died early on April 26, 1865. In what must surely be one of the most anticlimactic ironies of any historical journey, let alone one of the magnitude of the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, the site of the “fait accompli” is now located smack-dab in the middle of the median of U.S. 301 about 3 miles south of Port Royal, Virginia.
A state historical marker stands near the site on the northbound lanes of the highway near milepost 122. To visit, you must park your car precariously on the roadside berm and negotiate your way north across two lanes of traffic, over two guardrails and up onto the elevated median. If you are not careful, you can find yourself in a real-life game of Frogger. The only way I knew it was there was to follow the cow path trod by previous assassinoligists to a dirt patch where the buildings used to stand. Traffic whizzed by at 60 miles per hour and there, alone in the middle of a semi-neglected Virginia State Highway, I realized that the end of my lifelong journey to trace the Booth escape route was somehow fitting. Like the assassination itself, my search for an answer proved fruitless. A secluded, stark, empty spot in an otherwise busy highway. It’s meaning lost and forgotten and, like John Wilkes Booth himself, a dirty spot on the pages of history.
Next week, the conclusion of the Lincoln assassiation 150 years later.
Al Hunter is the author of the “Haunted Indianapolis” and co-author of the “Haunted Irvington” and “Indiana National Road” book series. His newest book is “Bumps in the Night. Stories from the Weekly View.” Contact Al directly at Huntvault@aol.com or become a friend on Facebook.