Blood on the Moon

by Edward , Jr. Steers

  Back at Rich Hill, Cox sent word to Thomas A. Jones, his foster brother and one of the Signal Service’s most trusted and effective agents. For the first two years of the war, Jones had lived in a house located on a high bluff overlooking the Potomac River.11 Years later he described the scene: “My small one-story house was built upon a bluff about eighty feet high. I could stand in my back yard and look up the river until my view was cut off by Maryland Point, seven or eight miles distant; while down the river I could see the water almost as far as the eye could reach.”12 It was the ideal location for a signal station, a fact not overlooked by the Confederacy. Jones was enlisted into the Confederate Signal Service (secret service) and placed in charge of the courier agents that trafficked contraband mail through Charles County. “I entered with zeal into the Confederate cause,” Jones wrote in his memoir. For four years he oversaw the flow of Confederate mail through Charles County and personally arranged for ferrying a continuous stream of agents and enterprising men and women across the river. Throughout this time he was arrested only once, in 1861, and after several months in the Old Capitol Prison he was released after swearing an oath to uphold the Constitution of the United States. Such oaths meant nothing to Jones or his friends, and he immediately returned to his clandestine work. In 1863 Jones moved into a small cottage that he called “Huckleberry,” not far from his old home over looking the Potomac. He continued his work ferrying men and materiel over the river.

  In December of 1864 Jones became aware of a plan to capture the president. The plan involved the famous actor John Wilkes Booth and one of the Confederacy’s better agents, John H. Surratt Jr. Jones understood that the captured president was to be carried from Washington over the Navy Yard Bridge into southern Maryland and then through Prince George’s and Charles Counties until the Potomac was reached. From here the captors and their prize hostage would cross the river into Virginia and head for Richmond, where the president would become the guest of Jefferson Davis and his cabinet. The plan to capture Lincoln never took place, and Jones concluded its failure was a result of “the wretched condition of the roads during the latter part of the winter and early spring, due to mild weather, frequent rains and constant hauling over them of the heavy army wagons.”13 Four months later, he learned that the plan had changed and that Lincoln had been assassinated.

  On Saturday evening, April 15, as Booth and Herold were leaving Dr. Mudd’s company, Jones was talking to two Federal soldiers. The soldiers had warned Jones to keep a close eye on his skiff, as there were “suspicious characters somewhere in the neighborhood who will be wanting to cross the river.” They farther cautioned the crafty Jones, “if you don’t look sharp you will lose your boat.”14

  The following morning, Easter Sunday, a knock came to Jones’s door. It was Samuel Cox Jr. Jones invited the boy into his house and listened to his message. Captain Cox had sent his adopted son to ask Jones to come right away as the Captain needed to talk with him about “seed-corn.” Jones sensed that something was up. “Even had I not heard the evening before of the assassination of Mr. Lincoln, knowing Cox as I did, I would have been sure he had sent for me to come to him for something of more importance than to talk about the purchase of seed-corn.”15

  The two men mounted their horses and rode to Rich Hill three miles to the northeast of Huckleberry. Cox met Jones at his front gate. He told his son to take care of the horses. Cox and Jones then walked off into the field in front of the main house. Standing where no one could possibly hear their conversation, Cox told Jones about his two visitors. Then he asked Jones if he had heard the news. Lincoln was shot. Jones said he had heard. There was a minute of silence before Cox spoke again, “Tom, we must get those men who were here this morning across the river.” Jones replied, “Sam, I will see what I can do, but the odds are against me. I must see these men; where are they?”16

  Cox told Jones about the pine thicket. He had given the men some food and a pair of blankets, and oh yes, he had arranged for a signal by which an approaching friend could be recognized. It was a “peculiar whistle.” Jones was troubled. It would be a difficult and hazardous task. “It was with extreme reluctance I entered upon this hazardous enterprise. But I did not hesitate; my word was passed.”17

  At his hiding place among the pines Booth suddenly sat up. He thought he had heard something on the far side of the thicket. He picked up one of the two Colt revolvers that had been carefully placed by his side on his blanket and pointed to Herold to pick up the carbine. From somewhere off in the darkness the two men heard a strange whistle. It was the whistle Cox had told them to expect. Herold got up and slowly made his way out of the small enclosure where the two men were resting. A short distance in front of him he saw a man standing still as if waiting to be recognized.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?” Herold asked.

  “I come from Cox. He told me I would find you here. I am a friend; you have nothing to fear from me,” Jones replied in a low voice.18

  Herold motioned to Jones to follow him, and the two men made their way into the thicket undergrowth where Booth was waiting. Jones later described the scene: “He was lying on the ground with his head supported on his hand. His carbine, pistols, and knife were close beside him. A blanket was drawn partly over him. His slouch hat and crutch were lying by him. He was dressed in dark—I think black—clothes; and though they were travel stained, his appearance was respectable. ... He wore a moustache and his beard had been trimmed about two or three days before.”19

  Jones was mistaken about one thing. Booth did not wear a moustache. He had shaved it off two days before while at Dr. Mudd’s house.20 Jones told Booth he and Herold would have to stay put until the right moment presented itself when they could be placed on the river. In the meantime Jones would keep them supplied with food and information. They could build no fires, and the horses that were grazing nearby would have to go. They were too dangerous to leave around where they would surely raise suspicions. Their presence was too easily detected by sound and smell. Besides, they would have to be fed during their stay, which would make Jones’s job that much more difficult and dangerous. Cox would later tell Jones that he saw Herold lead the two horses into the Zekiah Swamp and a few minutes later heard two reports of a pistol. He assumed that Herold had shot the horses and left them to sink in the quicksand of the swamp. A few days later Cox went to the spot where he thought Herold had taken the horses but could find no trace of the animals. The captain assumed the horses had slipped beneath the surface of the water and were pulled down in the swampy quicksand without a trace.21 Whether or not Herold disposed of the horses as Cox suggested isn’t known. The horses were worth a good bit of money, as were their saddles and accoutrements. Some believed that they died of old age pasturing on one of the many Charles County farms.

  The long waiting now began. Booth and Herold huddled in the pine thicket while Jones visited them daily, bringing food and newspapers. Booth now had time to rest and reflect on the events of the past few days. He searched the newspaper for his letter to the National Intelligencer. It would explain his actions. He could not find it. What he did read in the papers disturbed him. He was not given the slightest benefit for having struck down the great tyrant. The Baltimore Clipper described Booth’s act in vile terms: “Whilst we mourn over these fiendish acts … cowardly and vile … whilst we shrink with horror from the contemplation of atrocity so fearful and startling, the thought will occur of the utter madness that could have prompted the authors of these crimes.”22

  Booth’s escape route from Washington, D.C., to the place of his death at the Garrett farm near Port Royal, Virginia.

  “Cowardly and vile, . . . atrocity . . . utter madness. ...” Were these newspaper writers themselves mad? How could they have so misjudged his act? It was neither cowardly nor vile. It was an act of heroism, of liberation, an act of patriotism ridding the country of its hated Caesar. Booth wrote in a little memorandum book that he carried with him: “I struck boldl
y and not as the papers say. I walked with a firm step through a thousand of his friends, was stopped, but pushed on. A col. was at his side. I shouted Sic Semper before I fired. In jumping broke my leg. I passed all his pickets. Rode sixty miles that night, with the bone of my leg tearing the flesh at every jump.”23

  This was perhaps a little exaggeration, but it was not too far from the truth. Booth was stopped by Lincoln’s messenger, Charles Forbes, at the door to the box. The man with Lincoln in the box was a major, not a colonel (Major Henry Rathbone). All reports indicate that Booth shouted something after he fired his derringer, not before. He rode thirty miles, not sixty. And the bone never broke the skin. It was not a compound fracture. Still, Booth was right to think that his act was not cowardly. One of stealth perhaps, but not cowardly. While Booth may have been fanatic in his cause, he was not a madman. There is a difference. A century of writing has cast Booth as mad and his act one of insanity. These writers are wrong. To assassinate Lincoln took considerable fortitude. It was a calculated act of war, even if driven by hate.

  Booth wrote: “Our cause being almost lost, something decisive and great must be done.” Does Booth mean “our Confederate cause?” And what about “being almost lost.” Clearly Booth felt the cause was not lost yet. There was still time to save the cause. What could have been more decisive than to murder the president of the United States and commander in chief of its military forces? Booth was clearly angered that these papers, even these Northern, Lincoln papers, could not see his act as “bold,” “decisive,” and “great.” Truly Booth must have felt as King Lear did: “I am a man more sinn’d against than sinning.”24 He must have wondered what it had all come down to: “After being hunted like a dog through swamps, woods, and last night being chased by gun boats till I was forced to return wet, cold and starving with every man’s hand against me, I am here in despair. For doing what Brutus was honored for, what made Tell a hero. And yet I for striking down a greater tyrant than they ever knew am looked upon as a common cutthroat.”25

  While Booth lay nursing his ego, venting his defiance, Thomas Jones was hard at work. Each day he would ride to the small community of Allen’s Fresh where one could be sure to find the cavalry. Here he could learn the news of the massive manhunt. Each day was the same. The countryside was in a frenzied state as rumors passed from tavern to tavern. Booth was here. Booth was there. Booth was everywhere. To make matters worse, the government had announced reward money totaling $100,000 for the apprehension of those involved in the president’s murder.

  On April 16, Captain Thomas H. Hines, another of Jeff Davis’s agents, while on his way to Canada, stopped at a bar in Detroit where he was falsely identified as Booth. Holding a crowd at bay with his revolver, Hines made his escape on a ferry over the Detroit River into Canada.26 On April 19, Booth was reported on the train passing from Reading to Pottsville in Pennsylvania.27 On April 20, passengers arriving from Point Lookout, Maryland, on the western shore of the Chesapeake Bay reported that a man fitting Booth’s description attempted to cross the Potomac River near that place.28 With so many false sightings, Jones had to be careful. All of the reports of Booth’s whereabouts just might result in a false sighting in the area and cause a search by local cavalry.

  On Tuesday Jones rode into Port Tobacco. It was the day most people came into the village to conduct business. It was a good time to do a little reconnaissance. Stopping by the local barroom at the Brawner Hotel, he made the acquaintance of Captain William Williams, a military detective who had spent the morning at Dr. Mudd’s house listening to the doctor tell of his two guests. Williams invited Jones to have a drink with him, and Jones obliged. A crafty detective, Williams knew the ways of getting information innocently given. But Jones was wily too. He had managed to stay out of Federal prisons during much of his service to the Confederate cause. Williams turned to Jones and said, “I will give one hundred thousand dollars to any one who will give me the information that will lead to Booth’s capture.” Without hesitation Jones replied, “That is a large sum of money and ought to get him if money can do it.”29

  Williams was a sharp detective and probably knew of Jones’s reputation locally. Williams tried to loosen Jones up with a promise of big money. But Jones was no fool. Jones knew that Williams was in no position to give him one hundred thousand dollars—or twenty dollars for that matter. The two men lifted their glasses in salute to each other and swallowed the last of their whiskey. Jones had to keep his fugitives under cover. The time was still not right.

  On Thursday, April 20, Jones made his daily trip to the village of Allen’s Fresh near the mouth of the Wicomico River.30 Like Port Tobacco, it was a good place to pick up information and monitor the local troops in the area. Jones finally hit pay dirt. While he was sitting in the local establishment, word came that Booth and Herold were sighted in St. Mary’s County a few miles southeast of Allen’s Fresh. Within minutes the cavalry troop was mounted and riding hard to the southeast. Jones knew it was now or never. Waiting until the last of the troopers rode out of sight, he mounted his horse and rode hard for the pine thicket. It was dusk when he left Allen’s Fresh, and darkness had settled in by the time he arrived where Booth and Herold were hiding. The moon would not rise until sometime around 2:00 A.M., giving them full cover of darkness.31

  Jones gathered up the two men and told them it was time to cross the river. Booth was lifted onto Jones’s horse and the three men began the slow journey. Jones moved out ahead to make sure the coast was clear. He would then signal for them to make their way to where he was waiting. He had come this far and didn’t want to fail so close to the end. It was around 9:30 P.M. when the trio reached Huckleberry. Jones told the two men to wait by the barn some fifty yards from the house while he went inside to get food and make sure his former slave, Henry Woodall, had left the boat hidden in the grass near the shore. The two friends had fished the river numerous times together, and both men had labored on the land for so long that any distinction of race had long ago faded away.

  When Jones entered the house he saw Woodall seated at the table eating. Jones asked Woodall whether he had had any luck fishing for shad. Woodall said he had. Did he leave the boat where Jones had asked him to leave it? He had. The Black man knew what Jones meant. They had talked about keeping a skiff safely hidden in a grassy creek out of sight. Henry would take care of it, making sure he was seen each evening plying the shore around Pope’s Creek. The more conspicuous the better. Nothing suspicious in that. Jones gathered up some food and slipped back outside. No one asked any questions.32

  Handing the meager victuals to Herold, Jones led the pair down the long descent to the river. The path was steep and narrow in spots, too steep for a horse. They would have to make the final descent on foot. With Booth leaning on Herold, Jones led them down the trail. The sound of the water lapping against the sandy shore guided them as they approached the river.

  Reaching the shore, Jones found his boat right where Woodall had said he left it. It was a large, fourteen-foot, flat-bottom skiff painted a leaden grey. There were three oars carefully tucked under the seats. Jones helped Booth crawl into the stern and gave him one of the oars, which he would use as a rudder by sculling over the stern. Herold seated himself at midships and carefully slid the oar pegs into the pivot holes in the gunwales. Jones took a small candle from his pocket and, shielding it with one of the oilskin overcoats he carried, lit the wick. From his other pocket he took a small wooden box no larger than a match safe. Inside was a compass. He handed Booth the compass and, holding the candle over it, showed Booth the course to steer. “Keep to that and it will bring you into Machodoc Creek,” he said. “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. Be sure to hide the light.”33

  Jones started to push the boat out into the river when Booth spoke: “Wait a minute old fellow.” Booth took several bills from his pocket and offered them to Jones. Jones carefully counted out eigh
teen dollars, the cost of his boat. He knew he would never see it again. Then Booth spoke, his voice choked with emotion, “God bless you, dear friend, for all you have done for me. Good-bye.”34 Jones nodded and pushed hard, sending the boat out into the dark waters of the river. He stood silently listening to the rhythmic lapping of the oars as they dipped into the water. With each stroke the sound became fainter and fainter. After a few minutes only the sound of the water gently washing onto the sandy beach could be heard. Jones heaved an audible sigh. He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with the cool night air. Suddenly he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his chest.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Roundup

  LIBERAL REWARDS will be paid for any information that shall conduce to the arrest of either of the above-named criminals, or their accomplices.

  War Department Poster

  It was a little after 10:00 P.M. when George Atzerodt walked into the bar of the Kirkwood House and ordered a glass of whiskey. Not far from where he stood was the room of Andrew Johnson, the new vice president. Johnson had taken a room at the Kirkwood House until he could find a more suitable residence for himself and his family. Atzerodt denied later that he agreed to murder Johnson.1 But at the assigned hour of 10:00 P.M. he was at the Kirkwood House and he was armed. If Atzerodt had no intention of murdering the vice president he was certainly in the right place at the right time to do it.