A Fugitive Englishman

by Roy Lewis

  He shook his head. ‘We can ride as fast and as far as the redoubtable Luther Baker!’

  ‘But he has information—’

  ‘So do I! I also have read the telegrams from Washington. And Lieutenant Baker is an arrogant, incompetent fool, a hothead. We need only to follow his early trail, to confirm his intentions, and then we can outrun him. We are armed, you and I, we are determined men, and we can find the fugitives quicker than Baker! And once discovered, David Herold will present no problem, thus we need deal merely with a man who can only hobble, not run. And we have the advantage that you know him; you will recognize him; we can be first to seize him!’

  And the one hundred thousand dollars would be ours.

  I make no apology for the thought, my boy. The prospect of the reward was now driving everyone in the manhunt. That was the reason why it had become almost farcical: no one was giving information to any other group, intelligence was being suppressed, cavalry units, men with dogs, farmers, policemen, detectives were charging about blindly in every direction. The whole area was being picketed and searched but not in an organized way. Every man was out for himself. Luckily for us, Di Rudio had access to Colonel Baker’s telegrams from Washington and had seen the way the nepotistic wind was blowing.

  Lieutenant Baker’s troop left at midday, and we followed their dust. We kept our distance, stopping at intervals while Di Rudio used his Austrian-made binoculars to check the surrounding countryside. He was inordinately proud of those binoculars, you know: some years later he lent them to General Custer on the march to the Little Bighorn, and never got them back. He remains angry about that to this day, I believe. And another thing: Di Rudio might have been an officer with the 7th Cavalry, but he was no expert horseman: several times during our ride following Lieutenant Baker he almost fell off, rolling in the saddle like a drunken sailor as soon as we broke into more than a trot. Some years later, at Little Bighorn, according to his memoirs, he had his horse shot out from under him, which was why he survived the massacre, but I have my doubts. I think it’s more likely that when ‘Garryowen’ was played and the charge was sounded, he just fell off his horse. . . .

  What? The pursuit?

  Yes, well, with Di Rudio’s binoculars we kept the troop within our sights while remaining ourselves unobserved.

  ‘They are heading for the ferry on the Rappahannock,’ Di Rudio finally asserted with confidence. He wiped a dusty glove across his forehead. ‘We can get ahead of them – look at this map. That arrogant cousin of Colonel Baker has disregarded this track here: he’s not even using local maps efficiently. We can get ahead of him, and see what we find.’ He stared at the map spread out across his knee. ‘There are two farms along this route. The Cox holding, and then, beyond Chapel Point there is Garrett’s Farm. This is where we search – ahead of that damned Luther Baker!’

  And you know, my boy, he was right. We scouted around Cox’s farm – not knowing at the time that it had indeed hidden Booth and Herold for some days – but it was there we made our mistake: we spent too much time searching the fields and tobacco patches in the area, to no effect. In the meanwhile Lieutenant Luther Baker had ridden past – directly to Garrett’s Farm. He didn’t bother with Cox and Scotia Point: he had received better information than us, after all.

  And Di Rudio and I did not reach Garrett’s Farm until late that evening. Too late. In the fading light we could see the glimmer of torches, and hear the tumult of voices shouting orders, men running here and there like excited rabbits. The detachment of some twenty-eight soldiers had been deployed: they were surrounding the wooden tobacco shed at the farm. Baker himself was standing directly in front of the barn door, pistol in hand, a candle emitting a feeble light at his feet. It seemed he had finally cornered Herold and John Wilkes Booth.

  Di Rudio slumped in the saddle, hugely disappointed. I felt too fatigued after our long days in the saddle to experience much emotion – this had not been like riding to hounds in Norfolk years earlier. This time we were hunting men, and we had failed to be first to reach the target.

  Slowly, unchallenged, we rode down from the cane brakes to join the men encircling the barn. All eyes searched the dimness surrounding the structure; no one paid any attention to us. From what we heard, however, it would seem that both fugitives were holed up in the barn.

  You know, when Di Rudio and I were at Mary Surratt’s house, listening to the conspirators, we had heard John Wilkes Booth declare himself ready to die for the cause. Drama, theatre, monomania – all contributed to his posturing. And now we heard his voice again clearly, as Lieutenant Luther Baker tried to parley with him through the closed shed door, calling for his surrender. The answer was in accordance with all I knew about the actor: I had played such parts myself on the stage of my youth – shaking a fist to the heavens, declaiming death before dishonour, a determination to defy overwhelming odds. In this case, I heard Booth yelling he was determined to shoot it out with his pursuers.

  He was alone in that determination, however. A short while later, a shaky David Herold came staggering out of the barn with his terrified hands in the air. And shortly afterwards, the shed was set on fire.

  ‘Are you mad!’ Di Rudio exclaimed, seizing a nearby trooper by the shoulder. ‘All you have to do is wait! Booth is lame, alone, he has nowhere to go, he will have to surrender by morning!’

  The excited trooper seemed barely to notice him. He threw off Di Rudio’s hand, and concentrated his attention on the blaze consuming the barn. The troops had probably piled some hay at the entrance and the shed was powder-dry in any event, so the fire took hold with a furious rush, outlining the waiting troopers blackly against the roaring red glow of the flames. It was like a scene from Hell, believe me, and all we could do, Di Rudio and I, was watch in frustrated horror.

  ‘Why are they doing this?’ muttered Di Rudio angrily. ‘Don’t they want to take Booth alive?’

  We received the answer a short while later.

  The shed was beginning to disintegrate. Burning planks of wood were detaching from the walls, the roof was in a state of collapse as red fingers of flame licked about the building and the whole area was lit up like day. Some troops fell back to avoid the stifling heat and a few minutes later we were able to see, through widening cracks in the wooden walls, the figure of the man inside, outlined blackly against the red and orange glow, still defiant, still challenging his pursuers. But finally, it seemed, John Wilkes Booth came to his senses. He began to hobble towards the door: bowed, half overcome by the smoke and heat, it seemed to me he had decided to surrender. The horrific reality of burning to death would seem to have finally overcome the fantasy of his histrionic stage performance.

  He was still some feet from the door when someone fired.

  He fell on the porch, just before the sun rose upon the grisly scene.

  It’s always the same, isn’t it: over the years wild rumours spread as they always do when great events occur. It was suggested that the man who died in the burning shed was not John Wilkes Booth, but another who had taken his place. That isn’t so. In the chaotic scenes that followed, both Di Rudio and I were able to move close to the body, which was being stripped and investigated by Luther Baker. I got near enough to confirm in my own mind that it was in fact the actor who had been shot there that day. Why he had to be shot – and by whom – on the other hand, was something I could not explain. Booth was presenting no danger to the waiting troops. In my view he was about to surrender. But as for identity . . . the man who lay there with sightless eyes was certainly the man I had known at dinner parties and on the stage in Washington and New York.

  I watched with distaste as Lieutenant Baker searched the body for identification. When he stood up to look more closely at the papers he had recovered, I noticed that one of the items he held in his hand was what seemed to be a memorandum book. He glanced through it, then rapidly thrust it into his pocket. I watched as the body was stripped: a knife, pistols, a belt and holster, a file; one of
the soldiers picked up Booth’s spurs, a pipe, some cartridges.

  We stood disconsolate, unable to do anything and unwilling to take part in what seemed to be turning into a macabre free-for-all, the taking of souvenirs from the dead assassin. ‘Come, James,’ Di Rudio said quietly at my shoulder. ‘There’s nothing we can now do here.’

  We left, and rode back for the ferry in the growing dawn. We were despondent. Our dream of a rich reward was shattered.

  A week later I finally got the interview I had been waiting for with Secretary of War Edwin Stanton.

  The most unpopular man in Lincoln’s cabinet received me in his office: once again, he did not rise to greet me. He sat there, half-turned away from his desk, peering at me over his wire-rimmed glasses, scratching at his perfumed beard with a penholder, and holding an important-looking document in his left hand. He exuded confidence: brusque, insolent, cruel, he had always held himself in great regard, believing no one could do his work as well as he. He saw himself as a leader among men – one who indeed himself deserved the presidency – and now he was confident he could maintain his status against the already discredited drunken Vice President Johnson, who was presently succeeding Abraham Lincoln as the Chief Executive. But Stanton was also a coward at heart, and could be almost obsequious to anyone who strongly opposed him.

  Today he clearly felt on top of the world. It was almost as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He seemed exhilarated. I was surprised, and curious, at his attitude.

  ‘Hah! Our eminent English lawyer, Mr James,’ he remarked jovially – though with the hint of a sneer – as he waved me to a chair facing him. ‘You have been seeking an interview.’

  ‘For some time,’ I replied, and remained standing.

  ‘Ah, well, you must appreciate, urgent matters of state, the conduct of the war, the heavy responsibilities of office; my time has been limited to important matters. And then, of course, the assassination of Mr Lincoln . . . and the burden of office shifting to Mr Andrew Johnson.’ He grimaced, thoughtfully. ‘President Lincoln. . . . You know, Mr James, the scene was heart-rending at his bedside. We were all there; he was breathing only shakily; the bullet, you know, had entered the back of his head, there was no chance that he would survive, but we waited in hope, we mourned. I closed Ford’s Theater where he was shot, of course, as a mark of respect. And I was there at his bedside when Mr Lincoln breathed his last. It was then that the words came to me, an epitaph for a great man: Now he belongs to the Ages. An appropriate benison, do you not think so? Now he belongs to the Ages.’

  I had also been told that on that mournful occasion, Stanton had snapped at his subordinates, when the hysterical Mrs Lincoln was sobbing and screaming at her dying husband’s side, Will someone get that damned woman out of here! Now, his words to me rang with insincerity.

  ‘And his assassin has duly met his own Maker, where he will be held responsible for the great sin he committed,’ Stanton murmured, cold-eyed.

  ‘I was at Garrett’s Farm when Booth was shot,’ I said in an even tone.

  Stanton twitched, surprised, hesitated, but regained his composure quickly. ‘I think half the world now so claims,’ he replied blandly.

  ‘The killing of Booth seemed a rash and unnecessary act. In my view he was about to surrender.’

  ‘The man was a murderer.’

  ‘And now his mouth is closed.’ I paused. ‘Though I believe there was a diary on the body. It was recovered by Lieutenant Luther Baker.’

  Stanton seemed momentarily uneasy, and was silent for a little while; but there was a glint of malice in his piggy little eyes. ‘Enough of all that. Why have you requested this interview, Mr James?’

  He knew full well the reason for my presence, but he wanted to make me squirm.

  ‘The last time I was in this office, Mr Stanton, you made me a proposal. You suggested that if I were to help Colonel Lafayette Baker in his endeavours, I would in return receive your support for judicial office. I did all you asked: I infiltrated the Fenians in New York—’

  ‘And enjoyed yourself in the taverns, I understand,’ he smirked.

  I ignored the comment. ‘And when that task was completed I agreed to assist the Colonel once more in the trapping of the Secessionist conspirators. I provided you with a report,’ I thought I detected another uneasy glint in Stanton’s eyes at this point, ‘on which for reasons known only to yourself no action was taken. And I was drawn into your service again when the president was assassinated.’

  ‘Into Colonel Baker’s service,’ he contradicted me. ‘Not mine, sir.’

  I allowed the point to pass.

  ‘The reason for my presence here now, Mr Secretary, is to request that you fulfil your promise to assist me in my seeking a judicial position in New York.’

  There was a short silence. Stanton sat there, not looking at me, stroking his beard thoughtfully. Behind his pince-nez spectacles his eyes glinted maliciously. At last he stirred awkwardly in his chair.

  ‘You know, Mr James, there are many who thought my service would end when Mr Lincoln was murdered. It is well known that the new president, Andrew Johnson, has no great liking for me. And yet here I am. Still with the reins of power in my hands. President Johnson is, of course, a drunken incompetent, but not so foolish as to throw me out of office. He knows what I know. . . . But I am also a realist. I am fully aware it will not be long before the president feels strong enough to dislodge me. And then, well, perhaps I will call in the many favours I am owed and seek my own nomination. Or failing that possibility, a judicial appointment for myself in the Supreme Court.’

  Stiffly, I remarked, ‘It’s my future I’m here to discuss, sir.’

  ‘Your future. . . . Hah, yes. But you come at a difficult time, sir, seeking favours.’

  ‘I seek only fulfilment of a promise!’ I flashed angrily.

  ‘You must understand that this is a difficult time,’ he continued smoothly as though I had not spoken. ‘We are in a time of transition, with the development of a new administration, the ending of the war between the States. . . . Can you not see I don’t have time for such trivialities as these? I’m sorry, Mr James. You have been paid for the time you spent in the service, albeit secretly, of the War Department. I really cannot be called upon to pull strings on your behalf at a time of national emergency. Besides, I think you overestimate my powers. Washington is Washington – but New York is a different ball game. Tammany Hall rules there. I have little influence among those damned Democrats! And judicial appointments . . . well, let’s see. I understand your own legal practice staggers along rather than races ahead of the competition. And you must realize, whatever the system might have been in England, in New York judicial appointments are of a political nature, and in New York the support of Tammany Hall is critical. The powers of preferment among the Boss Tweed crowd at Tammany are wide-ranging . . . one might almost say, exclusive. Rather than turn to me, you should be seeking entry into the good books of that corrupt animal Tweed and his crew.’

  ‘So there is nothing you will do for me.’

  ‘There is nothing I can do for you, Mr James.’

  At that point, I have to admit, I lost control of myself. And in my anger at what I saw as Stanton’s betrayal in casually reneging on his promise I said more than I should have done. ‘There is, at least, one thing you can do for me, sir. Explain to me why all roads were blocked to John Wilkes Booth when he rode from Washington . . . all roads except the one he took, which was the obvious route for his flight!’

  Stanton’s head came up. He was silent for a while, his mean little eyes glittering at me from behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. At last, he grimaced and said, ‘I can assure you, sir, that all attempts were made in due order to capture the villain.’

  ‘Then why did you delay informing the public of the identity of the assassin? I was at Ford’s Theater: I recognized Booth, as did many others.’

  Stanton’s head was lowered. His hand was shaking slightl
y and he seemed short of breath. ‘I think that’s enough, Mr James.’

  ‘And what about Garrett’s Farm?’ I insisted, far from finished with my tirade. ‘Why did the pursuit end there, in the hands of your own trusted lieutenant? And why was Booth not brought back alive?’

  Stanton was always a coward; now he was trembling, and his voice was shaky. ‘These are wild words, Mr James, and I choose to ignore them. This interview is at an end!’

  And rather than wait for me to leave he rose and without a backward glance walked out of the room through its rear entrance. He was tottering slightly, but he closed the door behind him with a bang.

  What? You appear bemused, shaking your head. You find my accusations far-fetched, beyond reason that I should attempt to suggest that Secretary of War Stanton was part of a conspiracy to murder the president? That he had been providing Booth with funds, was fully aware of the conspiracy to kidnap the president – which would have left Stanton in full control of the reins of power at that crucial juncture in the war?

  No, don’t deny it. When I was at the Bar I could always tell what a man was thinking when he was in the witness box. It was the key to my success. And I see in your eyes now, my boy, your disbelief. But let me put it to you like this. I would dearly have loved to face Stanton in a witness box and put to him arguments that would have made him wriggle like a stranded fish in a net. Quite apart from the closing of the roads – except the one that permitted Booth to escape – I would have asked him about Officer John Parker. Why was that man not shot for dereliction of duty? In fact no action was taken against him and he was even promoted. Why did Stanton tell Grant not to go the theatre, thus disobeying what was in effect an order from his President? If Grant had been there, Booth’s mad endeavour would probably have failed. Why did Stanton deny the president the additional guards he requested? And after the death of Booth, why were all conspirators, once arrested, silenced by unusual methods, banishment, or death?