So Little Time

by Al Lacy

  “Mr. Lincoln asked a soldier who in the White House had died, and the soldier said solemnly that it was the president. He had been killed by an assassin.”

  “Oh, how awful, Ward,” said Sergeant Silas Cobb. “That must have upset Mrs. Lincoln.”

  “It very much upset her,” said Lamon. “In fact, she said she wished she hadn’t pressed him to tell it. But Mr. Lincoln took hold of her hand and said, ‘It was only a dream, Mary. Let’s say no more about it.’ ”

  Corporal Eddie Cavin rubbed his upper arms. “Brr! Just the thought of it gives me chills. Imagine—President Lincoln being assassinated.”

  “Gives me chills, too,” said Corporal Mike Hankins.

  Ward Lamon smiled. “Well, gentlemen, for Mr. Lincoln’s nightmare to become a reality would require an act of violence running against the tide of American history. Of the fifteen men who have preceded Mr. Lincoln as president, all have died of natural causes.”

  “Right,” said Cobb, “and just recently it was in the newspapers that Secretary of State William Seward said in a speech to Congress that assassination is not an American practice. And he doesn’t believe it ever will be.”

  “I sure hope not,” said Mike Hankins.

  Ward Lamon said, “Well, Silas, I really need to get on back to my hotel. I have to catch the early train to Chicago in the morning.”

  Sergeant Cobb shook the attorney’s hand, saying how much he appreciated him taking the time to come and see him. Cobb walked him through the seven-foot sentry gate where his borrowed horse was waiting. He stepped back inside the gate and locked it, and the three guards watched Lamon mount up and ride away. When the night had swallowed him and they were returning to the guardhouse, Eddie Cavin said, “I sure was glad to hear Mr. Lamon say what he did about how President Lincoln admires General Robert E. Lee. In spite of the hard feelings between the North and the South, I very much admire Robert E. Lee, myself. He is a kind and humble man. I really—”

  Gavin’s words were cut off by the sound of rapid hoofbeats drumming down Eleventh Street toward the bridge.

  “The moon’s bright,” said Cobb, “but you boys better get your lanterns so we’ll clearly see whoever this is.”

  Both corporals dashed inside the guardhouse, picked up lanterns that were already lit, and hurried back to the sergeant, who was moving toward the sentry gate. Seconds later, they were able to make out two riders slowing from a gallop to a trot as they neared the bridge. The horses were breathing hard as they drew up.

  Cobb peered between the bars of the gate at their shadowed faces. “I’m Sergeant Silas Cobb. What can we do for you, gentlemen?”

  One rider was holding onto the other, who was bent over in the saddle and clutching his left leg. While steadying his injured friend, the rider said, “We need to cross the bridge, Sergeant.”

  “Sir,” said Cobb, “since the Civil War began four years ago, the Navy Yard Bridge has been shut off to traffic after nine o’clock at night as a security measure. It is now nearly eleven. Even though the war is over, the enforcement of the regulation is still intact, except in extreme situations.”

  “My name is Harold Smith,” said one rider. “My friend is injured. He needs to get home to Beantown, Maryland, as soon as possible.”

  “Beantown?” said Cobb. “That’s a pretty good stretch. Maybe you’d better get him to a doctor here in D.C.”

  David Herold felt his temper heat up. “This is an extreme situation, Sergeant. My friend needs to get to his own doctor in Beantown.”

  “He’s hurt pretty bad, huh?” said Mike Hankins, lifting his lantern higher in order to see the injured man, whose head was bent low. “What happened?”

  Herold’s nerves were tight as he said, “Well, he—”

  “Hey, Sergeant!” blurted Hankins. “I know this man! It’s John Wilkes Booth, my favorite actor.”

  Booth’s head came up.

  Eddie Cavin gasped, raising his own lantern. “Mr. Booth, I’ve seen every play you’ve done here in Washington!”

  “I have, too!” said Cobb. “You’re great!”

  Masking his anxiety, the dark-haired, mustached Booth said, “Thank you for your kind compliments, gentlemen. My friend Harold Smith and I have been on an errand here in Washington. We had been delayed some, and by the time we were ready to leave, the moon hadn’t come up yet. So we waited a little longer in order to have the moonlight to ride by. We both live in Beantown. And for reasons I don’t have time to discuss—in addition to the fact that I really need to see my own doctor—we are asking you to let us cross the bridge and be on our way.”

  Cobb asked, “What is the nature of your injury, Mr. Booth?”

  Booth gritted his teeth. “Just as we were mounting back there in town to head for home, this big dog came out of the shadows and started barking. My horse shied, and I fell from the saddle, landing on the leg. If I can get to Beantown tonight, I’ll haul my family doctor out of bed so he can do whatever is necessary right away.”

  Brow furrowed, Sergeant Silas Cobb said, “I’ll let you through on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  A smile creased Cobb’s features. “I want your autograph.”

  Relieved, Booth said, “Sure.”

  “I want one, too,” said Hankins.

  “So do I,” piped up Cavin.

  Looking at Cavin, Cobb said, “Corporal, go into the guardhouse and get a pencil and some paper.”

  Setting his lantern down, Eddie dashed into the guardhouse, and returned quickly with three separate slips of paper and a pencil.

  When John Wilkes Booth had signed all three pieces of paper, the sentries thanked him. They opened the gate and waved as the two riders trotted across the bridge and vanished into the Maryland night.

  As John Wilkes Booth and David Herold galloped southeast, the full moon was clear-edged and bright against the deep blackness of the night.

  Booth’s leg was hurting fiercely. The wind created by the speed of the horses ruffled his hair, blowing wisps across his pale forehead. Booth looked at his partner and called out above the thunder of the pounding hooves, “Dave, I—I’m dizzy! I’m afraid I’m gonna pass out and fall from the saddle.”

  “Let’s stop!” shouted Herold, pulling rein.

  Booth yanked back on the reins, calling for his horse to stop, while gripping his leg and trying to stay in the saddle. Just as the panting horses came to a halt, Booth gasped and peeled out of the saddle, hitting the ground with a loud whump.

  Herold quickly dismounted and knelt beside him. John Wilkes Booth was out cold.

  Herold’s ears picked up the gurgling sound of a brook somewhere nearby. Rising to his feet, he looked around until he found the sound some thirty or forty feet from the road. Dropping to his knees again, he took Booth’s slender body into his arms, rose to his feet, and carried him into the deep shadows of the trees where the water flowed freely with the speckled moonlight dancing on its surface.

  Laying Booth down and stretching him out on the bank of the brook in the dappled moonlight, Herold dropped to his knees and splashed cool water in his face. “John … John … c’mon. Wake up.” Booth rolled his head back and forth, ejecting a low moan.

  After a moment, he opened his blurry eyes. He made out the vague form of David Herold looming over him and ran his tongue over his lips. “Dave, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.”

  “It’s all right,” said Herold, patting his shoulder. “Just lie there for a while till your head clears. You want some more water on your face?”

  “Might help.”

  Scooping the cool liquid from the brook in his cupped hands, Herold splashed his friend generously until he asked him to stop.

  Booth lay there a little longer, blinking against the haze that seemed to hang over his vision. “This leg’s gotta be broken,” he said. “It wouldn’t do this to me if it wasn’t.”

  “You’re probably right. I don’t know if Beantown has a doctor, John, but there is a good o
ne in Bryantown, which is just four miles past Beantown. I hear he’s real good. Name’s Dr. Samuel Mudd.”

  “All right. Lets go to him. How far’s Beantown, now?”

  “I’d say about ten or twelve miles from right here.”

  Booth gritted his teeth. “Four more miles after that?”

  “Yeah. Only four. You can make it. Just lie there till your head gets completely cleared up. Then we’ll go. I don’t want you felling out of the saddle again.”

  Booth nodded. “Could you give me some of that water to drink?”

  “Sure,” said Herold. Cupping his hands, he dipped what water he could hold and dribbled it into Booth’s open mouth.

  When Booth had taken his fill of water, he lay there and looked up at his friend. “Just a little longer, and I’ll be ready to go.”

  “Sure,” said Herold, shifting to a sitting position. “John, let me ask you something. Wasn’t there any other way you could have gotten out of Ford’s Theatre than jumping from the president’s box to the stage?”

  “No. I only had one way out. The hall behind Lincoln’s box is very narrow. If people had come into the hall at the sound of the shot, I would’ve been caught for sure.”

  “Couldn’t you have used your gun to make them get out of the way?”

  “It’s a single-shot Derringer, and anyone who knows guns would see that. There was no way but to jump from the elevated box to the stage.”

  “That’s only about ten feet, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s not so far. What did you do, land wrong?”

  “Exactly. My foot caught in the U.S. Treasury Guards’ flag that was suspended from the center column of the box. You’ve seen it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was in a big hurry to get outta there, and somehow my foot caught in that thing. I landed on my left foot, but it must’ve been slightly twisted when I hit the stage.”

  Herold shook his head. “Well, no doubt you were recognized by the people on the stage and many of them in the audience. The Federals will know who they’re looking for long before they’re told about it by those guards at the bridge.”

  Booth was grimacing in pain and did not reply.

  “If you’re up to it, we’d better get back in our saddles. Once the Federals find out we went into Maryland, they’ll have the troops on our trail.”

  Booth nodded and raised a hand. “Help me up.”

  Herold helped Booth to his feet. Booth stood wavering for a few seconds, then seemed to find his balance. Although he had to resist the urge to drop back to the ground, he let Herold assist him toward the horses. His limbs felt sluggish, as if their blood flow had become viscous.

  Soon they were riding again, and Booth seemed fixed in his saddle.

  Just over an hour later, they passed Beantown, but Booth’s pain was getting worse. His head stayed clear, for which he was thankful. Knowing he was only four miles from the doctor gave him the strength to hang on.

  As they headed toward Bryantown, Booth said, “Dave, I need to slow down. This leg is killing me.”

  “Sure,” said his friend. “Let’s just go at a walk.”

  While they rode, Booth said, “Dave, Dr. Mudd is going to want to know my name. You’ve seen this tattoo I put on the back of my left hand when I was fourteen.”

  “Oh. You mean your initials.”

  “Yeah. I’ll tell him my name is James W. Boyd.”

  “Good idea. We sure don’t need the troops on our trail any sooner than they already will be.”

  When they rode into Bryantown, Herold led his friend down the main street to the business section, then turned at a cross street. Half a block from the main street, they came upon Dr. Samuel Mudd’s office.

  Reading the sign by moonlight, they learned that the doctor’s house was behind the office. They guided their horses to the rear and drew up at the porch of the darkened house.

  “Dave, I’ll need you to help me down.”

  Herold dismounted, stepped up to the left side of Booth’s horse, and lifted his friend down.

  When they reached the porch floor after climbing four steps, Booth leaned against a post, trying valiantly to stay on his feet. Putting all of his weight on his good leg, he wiped a palm over his eyes and took several deep breaths, willing himself not to pass out again.

  Herold stood close, observing him, then said in a low tone, “You all right?”

  “Leg … hurts bad … and I’m … dizzy,” Booth replied, straining his words through clenched teeth.

  “Just hang on.” Herold turned and banged his fist on the door.

  Booth closed his eyes and leaned his head against the post that was supporting his body.

  All was still inside the house.

  Herold banged on the door again; this time louder and longer. “Come on, come on, Doctor.”

  He was about to pound on the door again when he saw the light of a lantern through the curtains on the window. The lantern glow came nearer and the door opened, revealing a tiny silver-haired woman in a voluminous gown and robe, who was wiping her eyes. A long, fat braid hung over one shoulder.

  Face flushed with sleep, she peered at the two men as she held the lamp up to get a good look at them. Their appearance at that time of night was a little frightening to her, but noting the man leaning against the post who was grimacing in pain, she said, “Gentlemen, I’m sure you are wanting to see my husband, but he has been out on a farm most of the night, delivering a baby. He got home a half hour ago and just got to sleep. He is very tired. Could you come back in the morning?”

  Suddenly she heard a wrenching moan come from the man leaning against the post and watched as he slid down the post and collapsed on the porch floor.

  Turning and kneeling beside Booth, Herold looked up at her. “Please, ma’am. My friend needs the doctor’s help right now.”

  Muriel Mudd widened the door and said, “Bring him in and put him on the couch. I’ll awaken my husband. He’ll want to take him to the office, but it’ll take a few minutes for him to get dressed.”

  Muriel turned and hurried into the parlor. While Herold picked Booth up and carried him into the room, she lit a lantern that sat on a small table, then rushed toward the rear of the house, carrying the other lantern.

  Booth was conscious, but a bit woozy as Herold eased him down onto the couch and did what he could to make him comfortable. “Hang on, John,” he said in a low voice. “The doctor will be here in a few minutes.”

  Nearly ten minutes had passed when Dr. Samuel Mudd appeared, running fingers through his thinning gray hair. Managing a sleepy smile, he said, “Mrs. Mudd says we have a man here in severe pain.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” said Herold. “My name is Harold Smith, and my friend is James W. Boyd.”

  Nodding, Mudd knelt down beside the couch, noting that Booth was clutching his left leg, eyes closed. “It’s the left leg?”

  “Yes, Doctor. We’re from Lexington Park, down near Point Lookout.”

  “Oh, sure. I know where it is. Just off Chesapeake Bay.”

  “Yes, sir. James and I were in D.C. on a business matter, and when we were mounting up to start back a few hours ago, a big dog came out of the shadows and started barking at us. James’s horse shied and he fell out of the saddle and landed on his leg. I think it’s broken.”

  Mudd picked up the lantern from the small table. “Let’s get him over to the office so I can examine it and take care of him.”

  “I’ll carry him, Doctor,” said Herold.

  “Fine, Mr. Smith,” said Mudd, heading for the door. “Follow me.”

  Moments later, Dr. Mudd led Herold into the office as he carried Booth in his arms. There was a strong odor of medicines and disinfectants as the doctor led them into the examining room.

  3

  LYING ON THE EXAMINING TABLE, John Wilkes Booth steeled himself as Dr. Samuel Mudd rolled up the left leg of his trousers. David Herold stood close by, looking on.

  After
rolling the pant leg above the knee, Mudd looked the area over between the knee and the ankle without touching it. “Mr. Boyd, something’s definitely not right, here. I think you have a fracture of the fibula, but I won’t know for sure without examining it with my hands. That will be painful for you unless I give you a strong dose of laudanum. Are you willing to take that?”

  Booth nodded. “Yes. If the leg is fractured, it needs to be set, and I want it taken care of.”

  “Good,” said the doctor, turning to his medicine cabinet. “I’ll mix you a strong dose and after fifteen or twenty minutes, I can begin my examination. If the bone needs to be set, the laudanum will take the edge off the pain. We’ll just leave your shoe on.”

  While Mudd was mixing the powder with water, Herold asked, “Doctor, am I right that the fibula is the outer and smaller bone in the leg between the knee and the ankle?”

  “Yes. If it was the inner bone, the pain would be greater when I correct the fracture, and it would be much more difficult for him to walk when I put it in a splint.”

  The doctor returned to his patient and gave him the mixture to drink. Booth made a face as he swallowed it.

  Mudd grinned. “I know it doesn’t taste good, Mr. Boyd. Laudanum is tincture of opium, and nobody likes the taste of opium. However, if I have to set a broken fibula you will be plenty glad you have it in you.”

  The doctor returned the cup to the counter of the medicine cabinet. “All right, we’ll give it time to take effect.” He moved back to the side of the table, and glanced at Herold. “Mr. Smith, I’m curious.”