A Fugitive Englishman

by Roy Lewis

  Lizzie told me later she was promptly discharged when presented at headquarters.

  But when I saw Parker in the street I was exhausted, somewhat inebriated and very confused. I returned to my hotel and went to bed. But I slept badly. Booth. . . . Mary Surratt’s house . . . the kidnapping conspiracy . . . Booth’s suggestion that assassination was a better course. These thoughts whirled in my head. And there was the report Di Rudio and I had prepared for Stanton. The report he had ignored.

  And now Lincoln was dead.

  I was still in bed at ten that morning when my door burst open. It was Charles Di Rudio, wild-eyed, Devil’s eyebrows raised, excited, urgently buttoning up his uniform tunic.

  ‘Get up, James. We’ve work to do!’

  I was bleary-eyed. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’ve had a wire from Colonel Baker. He’s been recalled to Washington again: Stanton wants him back, to head the manhunt for Lincoln’s assassin. Stanton knows he can’t do without him. And Baker is putting all his operatives in the field.’

  ‘He ended my contract!’ I protested.

  ‘And mine. But now he wants us again.’

  ‘I see no reason why I should go gallivanting about the state simply because Colonel Baker snaps his fingers. I have my practice in New York. . . .’

  Di Rudio stood at the foot of my bed, glaring at me, eyes wild. He tugged at his beard in excitement. ‘You don’t understand! There’s a reward been announced for the capture of the killer. One hundred thousand dollars. The whole state will be riding the roads! I’ve ordered breakfast for you below. Come quickly.’

  One hundred thousand dollars. I got out of bed, my head clearing rapidly; the thought of money when you have little can do that.

  Di Rudio’s time in London had not only perfected his English and improved his accent, it had also taught him what an Englishman liked for breakfast. Not the New York fare of steak and potatoes, grits, hominies and the like, but kedgeree, kidneys, ham and turned-over eggs. As I tackled what was placed in front of me, Di Rudio was busy with a sheet of paper, drawing lines moving out from a central point, writing names beside the lines and grunting to himself. I took a good swallow of the harsh, bitter coffee. I reflected.

  ‘A hundred thousand dollars. And you rightly say the whole of Washington will be on horseback, seeking the murderer. You know it was John Wilkes Booth, don’t you?’

  ‘Stanton will make the announcement this afternoon,’ Di Rudio muttered. ‘Better late than never, but I can’t understand why he’s delayed identifying the killer. And yes, the militia, the police force, the reserves and half the male population will be out on the roads in force.’

  ‘So what makes you think we could succeed against such competition?’

  ‘When I was in England and working as a teacher of languages I learned your proverb: Set a thief to catch a thief.’

  I caught his meaning. Set an assassin to catch one: it was a road Di Rudio had travelled himself in Italy and France. He raised his head and looked at me. His mouth was grim but his eyes were sparkling, dancing with excitement. ‘It helps to think like a murderer if you must seek one.’

  I nodded. ‘That’s logical. But why do you want me along?’

  ‘Two reasons, James. You know Booth. You’ve seen him on stage and you’ve dined with him and his brother. You will be able to recognize him, in disguise or not. And secondly . . . if we obtain the reward, you can have half my share as well as your own: I would see it partly as recompense for the assistance you once gave my close and esteemed colleague.’

  Dr Simon Bernard, his co-conspirator in the assassination attempt on Napoleon III, the man I had saved from an English gallows.

  Di Rudio flourished the paper he held on the table. ‘We need to work quickly. Time is not on our side. Stanton has shown a criminal inability to act. Here I have sketched the main roads and bridges out of Washington. Booth will have fled the capital: he will seek friends who will succour him. Colonel Baker has wired me that Stanton has finally ordered a general alarm and the blocking of the roads to prevent Booth’s flight. I am told the roads to the north have been sealed and some fool has put it out that Booth is heading for Maryland! But that’s Union territory where he can expect no help! Squadrons are out patrolling roads paralleling the Potomac . . . here . . . and the military governor of Alexandria . . . to the south-west here . . . has been ordered to send out his entire police force.’ He stabbed a thick finger at the sketch. ‘But why would Booth go that way – the area is swarming with federal troops! Going straight west would entrap him between Washington and Leesburg and the same applies on the roads to Baltimore, Winchester and Harper’s Ferry. Roads, trains, ferries, riverboats, all will now, belatedly, be watched, the roads to Virginia are barred and the navy is bottling up the Potomac. Stanton has blockaded the whole Atlantic coast from Baltimore to Hampton Roads!’

  Di Rudio threw down his pencil. It rolled across the map he had drawn and fell to the floor, where it lay ignored. I sensed a degree of triumph in Di Rudio’s glittering eyes.

  I frowned. ‘You think you know where Booth has gone.’

  Di Rudio folded his arms across his broad chest and smiled coldly. ‘I have no idea what the strategists in the War Office use for brains, but think about Booth’s flight and the likelihood of its success. You know he was injured in his leap to the stage.’

  ‘I believe he injured his ankle. He was limping when he vanished.’

  ‘He will need medical attention at some point. This could have slowed him down. I think he is still not yet in the clear. But which direction has he taken? Stanton is wrong to consider the west because it crawls with Federal troops; the north-west does not lead to friendly territory; Baltimore would provide Booth with shelter but is nothing more than a cul de sac. He will need broad spaces to evade his pursuers.’

  ‘And you think you know the route he would have taken?’

  ‘It is the only likely one, to my mind. The underground railway.’

  I had heard of it, of course: it was the road to Richmond which was regularly travelled by Union spies and dispatch-bearers as well as Confederate mail-carriers and dealers in contraband throughout the war. The country thereabouts was full of Secessionist sympathizers, the population was sparse and scattered, the area swampy and networked with bad roads. Colonel Lafayette Baker had himself used the route when entering Richmond as a spy in his early career.

  ‘This is where Stanton should be searching,’ Di Rudio snapped. ‘Booth could hide there for weeks in relative safety. To close the route would be easy for the War Department – but I have received no information that this has been done. It is the road we must take, James, and quickly if we are to gain the reward. My guess would be that Booth will have intended crossing the Potomac at Port Tobacco, and might well have already done so. The journey would have taken him about six hours and by late this afternoon he could have been safe in Virginia. But what if his injury has delayed him? I know you ride well, James. I have ordered horses. We must go. Time is not on our side!’

  We were off within the hour.

  We left Washington behind and pushed our mounts hard, pounding through Surrattsville and on to Teebee where Di Rudio had wired for a change of mounts. By mid-afternoon I was tired but still exhilarated by the wild excitement of the ride and the thought of one hundred thousand dollars. I had confidence in Di Rudio’s summary of the situation.

  ‘My guess is that from here Booth will have headed for Bryantown and maybe attempted the Potomac south of Port Tobacco,’ Di Rudio suggested as we rode on with fresh horses. ‘But I’m still thinking of that ankle injury he sustained. And have you noticed something unusual, James?’

  I was somewhat out of breath by the hard riding but stammered I had not.

  ‘There should be as many as eight hundred cavalrymen scouring this area – but we have seen not a single patrol.’

  He was right. The roads we travelled were empty and unmanned: the underground railway had not been
sealed.

  It was only when we were allowing the horses a breather near Bryantown that we first set eyes on a detachment of soldiers. Curtly, Di Rudio told me to stay where I was and he rode forward, still in his dapper uniform, his cap with its crossed swords cocked over one eye, sabre at his hip. I watched as he approached the cavalry unit, saluted the young officer in charge, and had an extended conversation with him. Then he turned back to me, while the soldiers went on their way.

  ‘His name is Dana,’ Di Rudio explained to me as our horses cropped the grass at the roadside. ‘Lieutenant Dana. His brother is the Assistant Secretary of War, and closely linked to Stanton. The lieutenant thinks he’s been sent on a fool’s errand, to prevent a crossing opposite Piscataway. He has checked the crossing at the Navy Yard Bridge and he believes that the man we seek is still behind us. He’s scouring the country we have already passed through. I am not so sure he is right. And he gave me some interesting information, that he himself has not acted upon because of his belief.’ Di Rudio’s eyes seemed to glow as he stared about him. ‘Lieutenant Dana told me he had received a report from a gentleman called Mudd that his cousin yesterday extended hospitality to two strangers, one of whom required medical help.’ His eyes turned to me, quizzically. ‘I think the young lieutenant has made a mistake in not acting upon that information. I think we should spend the night in Bryantown. Make some enquiries there.’

  I was weary, saddle-sore and made no objection.

  Bryantown boasted of the best hotel in the district – though it was primitive enough – and we found lodgings there, took a welcome evening meal and visited the local tavern. We were in luck. When we asked about a person called Mudd we were told that Dr George Mudd was a local surgeon who was accustomed to taking some post-prandial refreshment in that very bar, most evenings. We decided to wait. The man himself strolled in about eight o’clock, short, portly, full-bearded. He took a table near the door and Di Rudio, bottle and glass in hand, went across and introduced himself. I joined them as our quarry accepted the offer of a drink, there was a brief conversation about the startling events of the recent days and the information we required was soon obtained. George Mudd was innocently open in his conversation.

  ‘My cousin is a medical man, like myself. I called on him yesterday morning and he informed me that two strangers had visited him the previous evening, stayed the night. He’d had to cut off the boot of one of them and bandage the swollen ankle. The man had broken a small bone in his ankle and was really in no condition to ride in view of the swelling.’ George Mudd finished his drink, and Di Rudio offered him another. When Di Rudio went to the bar to procure another bottle, George Mudd confided in me. ‘I was concerned about my cousin’s behaviour, I can tell you. He’s a simple man, has little truck with the world outside Bryantown. I mean, with the news from Washington he should be more careful. Two strangers, one of them injured! And he puts them up for the night! And today there’s been talk of that young man in town trying to hire a carriage to take him across the Navy Yard Bridge to Port Royal. He acted suspicious, I’ve been told. Nervy, scared, simple-minded even.’

  As Di Rudio joined us again with the fresh bottle, I said, ‘Can you describe this young man more clearly?’

  ‘Slim, boyish, fair-haired, giving the impression he was uncertain of himself. Almost simple-minded, as I said.’

  I glanced at Di Rudio; he knew what was in my mind. There was a strong likelihood that the young man seeking transport was one of Booth’s co-conspirators. David Herold.

  Di Rudio was a fair-minded man. He nodded sagely. ‘We met a cavalry unit this afternoon, commanded by Lieutenant Dana. I think your cousin should tell him what he knows about his two visitors.’

  ‘That’s what I already told him,’ George Mudd asserted. ‘And about the boot he cut off. It had JWB carved in the leather.’

  I stared at Di Rudio in excited surprise. He kept his own features immobile, as though unconcerned. But when we returned to our hotel he let out a whoop, and that night my dreams were filled with a cascade of dollar bills. We were close to becoming the heroes of the hour, Di Rudio and I. We were about to be the men who captured John Wilkes Booth, the murderer of President Lincoln.

  4

  The next day proved to be frustrating.

  The gossip in town was that Dr Samuel Mudd had indeed now laid information regarding his visitors and that Pinkerton detectives were being despatched from Washington to interview him. We were in no mood to hang about and allow the reward money to be lost, so Di Rudio and I rode out early, ranging the swampy countryside and making enquiries as to the possible whereabouts of the two strangers, who we were confident were the fugitives, Herold and Booth.

  It was late evening before we achieved success. Somewhat tired after our exertions, we had returned to our hotel and were stabling our horses at Nailor’s Livery when we met the stableman, John Fletcher. He was of the usual grumbling sort, the kind one often finds in the hostelry business. We fell into conversation with him when he arrived in a sweat at the stables, cursing and muttering.

  ‘You gents will probably be needing fresh mounts, the way it looks you worked them today. We can supply them. But I’ll be needing a strict arrangement. I just got back from east of the Potomac and I ain’t happy.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘This young feller came to me this morning, got a horse from me, but he stayed out beyond the time we’d agreed. I went out looking for him this afternoon and damn me, there I saw him spurring the animal hell for leather towards the Navy Yard Bridge! Watching for the horses in my care, it’s my job, you know, and I could lose it for the sake of one thieved horse, so I saddled up and went looking for that son of a bitch! And that damned guard Sam Cobb, on the bridge, he told me two men had crossed already, but if I was expecting to go after my horse I could do so, but then wouldn’t be able to re-cross the bridge till mornin’. He was closing it, under orders. So I turned back. I’ll have to go over in the early daylight to find that damned thief!’

  ‘This guard Cobb,’ Di Rudio said quietly. ‘Did he ask for the names of the two men?’

  ‘I reckon so. I recollect one of them: Booth. I don’t know whether that was the youngster I was after but I’ll damn well find out tomorrow!’

  We were stunned. Booth had given his own name to the guard on the Navy Yard Bridge! But on reflection, I realized it was in character. Ever the showman, the man who saw drama in everything he did, in his fantasies he still regarded himself as the hero who had committed the perfect crime in the most dramatic fashion, ridding the world of a tyrant. The heroic assassin did not want his name to be lost to posterity. There was to be no disguise of his features, and now no disguise of his name. As for the guard, he had presumably not received the news from Washington – and in any case there was no one to report the matter to.

  ‘What the hell is Stanton up to?’ Di Rudio muttered to me after we left the stableman. ‘He’s not sending out the information, and he’s not even closed the underground railway! You’d think he didn’t want Booth to be captured! Or else . . .’ Di Rudio pondered, ‘or else he wants to make sure the reward money goes to one of his own minions!’

  Early next morning, when the mists were still rising from the swampy fields, we rode through fields of cane tobacco. Di Rudio and I were headed for the Navy Yard Bridge and the track towards Port Royal. We crossed the bridge without difficulty, once Di Rudio showed his army credentials, and we then spent the rest of the day ranging along the Potomac banks, checking at farms and mills, hunting through pine thickets and crossing tobacco patches, and forcing our way through cane brakes and marshy, humid land for any sign of the men we were pursuing. We felt sure we were close on their heels. But it proved to be a long, frustrating and sweaty day. There were rumours swirling about: a hired girl was said to have seen two men, one on crutches, beckoning to her from a nearby swamp, asking her to bring food. We followed up that story and were soon joined by groups of soldiers and farmers, all eager
to get their hands on the reward money. As were we. The information proved to be false: the hysterical girl was never traced. Gossip. Rumour.

  There was another story that a coloured man had seen two men leaving a farm and crossing the river in a small boat that afternoon but that again came to nothing: no one now could even identify the informant. The whole area was now teeming with men searching the dusty roads for sight of the fugitives and time was draining away. We rode back into Port Tobacco late in the day, tired, dusty and hot. I took a bath in the hotel there while Di Rudio went to the telegraph office. He was there for some time, and I was in the dining room, ready for a meal when he joined me. He sat down, ordered a bottle of wine and glared at me.

  ‘I have made a communication with Colonel Baker. He has advised that we need look no further. He is pulling back his operatives, he says, at Stanton’s suggestion. But he is angry. And he has assigned his own cousin to continue the search – now that important information has come to his attention.’

  ‘His cousin!’ I exclaimed.

  Lieutenant Di Rudio was furious, and drank down a full glass of wine. He wiped his hand across his mouth, and shook his head. ‘This is no longer an attempt to use all means to seize the murderer of Lincoln. This is a naked, greed-driven manhunt, my friend, an opportunity to seize glory as well as money! Two detachments of cavalry have been ordered to return to Washington at once and our leader has given the latest information to a member of his own family: Lieutenant Luther Baker will be riding out in the morning before taking a boat down the Potomac. And you and I, we are told our services are no longer required!’

  I grabbed a glass of wine and drained it in a similar anger and frustration. I swore. When I looked at Di Rudio, however, I glimpsed a new determination in his eyes. His mouth was set grimly. ‘Eat well, James,’ he said sternly. ‘And sleep well tonight: we will need all our energy tomorrow.’

  ‘We’re not going back to Washington as ordered?’