So Little Time

by Al Lacy

  After a while, lightning showed them the shack. They picked up pace as much as possible and drew up to the door. They tied the horses to the shack on the opposite side from where the wind was coming and scurried inside.

  More lightning showed them a dirt floor and some old, broken chairs. Other than those, the shack was empty. They sat on the dirt floor and did what they could to wipe the water from their faces and to squeeze it out of their hair.

  Speaking above the rumble of thunder, Herold said, “John, the best thing we can do is try to sleep.”

  “I know,” said Booth, “but it’s going to be pretty hard with all this noise around us.”

  “Well, let’s try.”

  Both men lay on the floor for some time as the storm continued to assail the shack, then it began to abate. By the time the storm was gone, and all was quiet, both men were asleep.

  The angry crowd that had gathered on Pennsylvania Avenue kept roaring the word “Coward!” as John Wilkes Booth was ushered from the police wagon toward the gallows that had been hastily constructed next to the iron fence that surrounded the White House. His hands were shackled behind his back.

  Between the tall, vertical iron rods of the fence, Booth caught a glimpse of the impressive white presidential structure as strong hands pushed him closer to the steps of the gallows platform. A single noose dangled from the heavy beam that ran the length of the gallows, tossed by the slight breeze.

  His knees went watery as they pushed him up the steps, and the terror that gripped him moved into his midsection, eating at his stomach. When Booth reached the floor of the platform, his eyes fell on the outline of the trapdoor. Revulsion swelled the muscles of his throat, sealing off the air to his lungs.

  The crowd continued to scream at him, making the word Coward! burn into his consciousness.

  When the strong hands halted him beneath the swinging noose and on the trapdoor, Booth’s chest was in spasms. He felt his heartbeat throbbing behind his eyes, in his ears, and in his throat.

  And then … they dropped the noose over his head and cinched it up tight around his neck. Above the pounding of his heart and the roaring of the crowd, he heard one of the police officers ask, “Where’s the hood? Aren’t we going to put the hood on him?”

  “No!” came the answer. “The crowd wants to watch every contortion of this cowardly assassin’s face when he hits the end of the rope!”

  Down below, Booth saw the hangman place his hand on the lever that would release the trapdoor and drop him to the end of the rope.

  Booth’s mouth stretched into a hideous angle as the trapdoor gave way, caught forever at the moment of a chopped scream as he plunged downward.

  Suddenly John Wilkes Booth found himself sitting up in the shack with moonlight streaming through one of the dirty windows. He gasped. “No-o-o! No-o-o!”

  A sleepy-eyed David Herold sat up and peered at him. “John, what’s wrong?”

  “I … I was having a nightmare!” he said, partially choking on the words.

  “About what?”

  “I … I was being hanged in front of the White House with a huge crowd looking on! They were calling me a coward.”

  “Well, settle down,” said Herold. “It was only a dream. You’re fine. Go back to sleep.”

  “I … I can’t. I might dream the same thing again.”

  Herold’s brow furrowed. “You’re never going to sleep again? Come on, pal. You need your rest. We can’t get to Thomas Jones and across the Potomac into Virginia if you’re worn out.”

  Booth palmed cold sweat from his face. “All right. I’ll go back to sleep.”

  4

  THE ANGRY, WILD-EYED CROWD that had gathered on Pennsylvania Avenue kept shouting out the word Coward! as John Wilkes Booth was ushered from the police wagon toward the gallows next to the iron fence that surrounded the White House grounds. His hands were shackled behind his back.

  Booth’s knees were turning watery as they pushed him toward the steps, and he suddenly dug his heels in the ground, screaming, “No-o-o! No-o-o! Not again! You can’t hang me again! No-o-o!”

  “John!” came the voice of David Herold into his nightmare. “John! Wake up!”

  Suddenly Booth came awake, opened his eyes, and saw the form of his friend bending over him in the pale moonlight. The trees of the forest swayed in the breeze above him. Their gnarled and twisted limbs seemed to stretch their arms toward him in a sinister embrace.

  Booth gasped and swallowed with difficulty. “It was the same nightmare again, Dave. They were calling me a coward and were going to hang me.”

  Herold sighed. “That’s two nights in a row, John. Was it exactly the same as last night in the shack?”

  “Exactly,” said Booth, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “It’s horrible, Dave.”

  “Well, maybe that’ll be the last one.”

  “I hope so.” Booth sleeved cold sweat from his brow. “I can’t take much more of this.”

  They were near the edge of the woods. Herold looked across the fields to his left and set his eyes on the farmhouse and outbuildings some three hundred yards away. “Well, since we found Thomas Jones’s place just after midnight, thanks to those nice people in Tall Timbers, I’m sure he’ll have us across the river by tomorrow night. Maybe once you’re in Virginia, you won’t dream like that anymore.”

  “I sure hope you’re right. So when are we going to knock on Mr. Jones’s door?”

  “Well, I suppose we’d better wait till he’s had breakfast. Since he’s got milk cows, he’ll no doubt do the milking before breakfast. We’ll just have to keep an eye on the place.” He paused. “Do you think you can get back to sleep now? It can’t be more than two o’clock.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good. Come sunup, we’ll eat this food we picked up in Tall Timbers for breakfast and get some more laudanum in you. How’s the leg?”

  “Hurting a little, but not too bad. I can wait till morning.”

  The morning sun was shining down from a partly cloudy sky, and the birds were singing in the trees as the fugitives stepped onto the porch of the Jones house. John Wilkes Booth was leaning on his crutch as David Herold knocked on the door.

  Seconds later, they heard light footsteps inside, and when the door came open, they were looking at a woman in her early fifties with her dark hair pulled back in a bun. There were silver strands at her temples and crinkles at the corners of her eyes. She smiled. “Hello. May I help you, gentlemen?”

  “Are you Mrs. Jones?” asked Herold.

  “Yes.”

  “We need to talk to your husband if possible. It is very important.”

  “Does my husband know you?” she asked politely.

  “No, ma’am. But I know about him. My name is David Herold. I’m a Marylander, but I’m a true son of the South, as is my friend here.”

  Mrs. Jones let her eyes stray to Booth, who was leaning on his crutch a couple of steps behind Herold. “Oh, my. You’re hurt.”

  “He is, ma’am,” said Herold, “and his injury is related to the reason we need to see Mr. Jones.”

  “Who is it, Beth?” came a masculine voice from inside the house.

  “A couple of men who are asking to see you, dear,” replied Beth, turning her head toward him to speak.

  There were rapid footsteps and a tall, slender man in his mid-fifties with a handlebar mustache appeared. He noted the man with the crutch, then set his pale gray eyes on Herold.

  Looking at Herold, Beth said, “This is Mr. David Herold, dear. Both of these men are Confederate sympathizers, and live here in Maryland. I didn’t get the other gentleman’s name.”

  “David Herold,” repeated Jones. “Your name has a familiar ring, but I don’t believe I know you.”

  Herold smiled. “Let me see if you know the name of my friend. Does John Wilkes Booth ring a bell?”

  Jones’s mouth sagged and his eyes widened. “Oh, my!”

  “Thomas!” Beth gasped. “This is the man w
ho—”

  “Yes! Who shot Abraham Lincoln! And now I know why Mr. Herold’s name is familiar! Beth, I’m going to take them out to the barn. I must hide them quickly.”

  Beth nodded. “I’ll stay right here. If I should see a cavalry unit coming, I’ll ring the dinner bell as a warning.”

  Booth hobbled swiftly on his crutch in order to keep up with the other two men as they led the horses across the yard. When they were inside the barn, Jones faced them. “Mr. Booth, you did the country a great favor! But the federal cavalry is known to be combing this area with slavering mouths. Like beasts of prey, they want to catch you in the worst way. With my reputation as a Confederate agent, I dare not keep you in my home. My place is bound to be searched any day.”

  “What we were hoping, Mr. Jones,” said Herold, “was that you could get us across the Potomac into Virginia.”

  “I’ll be glad to do that, but it’s too dangerous to try it right now. The federals are combing the river bank. I will take you to a place in the swamp where you can hide. You’ll have to stay there till the army has given up on finding you in these parts and has turned their search elsewhere. You’ll have to remain in the swamp until it is safe to cross the Potomac. My boat won’t hold your horses, so you’ll have to leave them behind.”

  “We’ll find some after we get into Virginia,” said Herold. “Main thing now is to get out of Maryland.”

  Booth looked Jones in the eye. “Have you heard about Lincoln? Is he still alive? The last we heard, he was.”

  Jones smiled. “Lincoln is dead. I found out late yesterday afternoon from a neighbor who had just been in Washington that the archenemy of the South died at 7:22 the morning after you shot him. Abraham Lincoln’s tombstone will say he died on April 15, 1865.”

  Elation washed through Booth like warm water. Popping his palms together, he said, “Great! All the pain I’ve suffered is worth it!”

  “Word is that you hurt your leg when you jumped onto the stage from the president’s box to make your escape,” said Jones.

  “Right. I broke it. Found a doctor Dave knew about, got the bone set and the splint put on. It’s been rough traveling with it like this, but like I said, it’s worth it.”

  “You’re a brave man, Mr. Booth,” said Jones.

  Booth looked at Herold and smiled. “That’s better than what they tell me I’m being called in Washington, huh?”

  “Sure is,” said his friend. “In Washington, they’re calling him a coward.”

  Jones chuckled dryly. “I guess it depends on which side you’re serving. Well, let’s get you two out into the swamp. Mrs. Jones and I will see that you have plenty to eat and drink.”

  It was almost nine o’clock the next morning when Thomas Jones appeared in the swamp carrying food for his guests.

  Herold mixed the laudanum first, which Booth drank down quickly. While they were wolfing down their food, Jones said, “I just got word from a neighbor who was in town early this morning that the newspapers are reporting the whole story of the assassination, including that you two are being hunted all over Maryland. He told me the paper he read said that Lewis Paine, Samuel Arnold, Michael O’Laughlin, Edman Spangler, and George Atzerodt have been arrested by federal authorities as conspirators with you two in the assassination of the president. Were they really in on it with you?”

  “Sure were,” said Herold.

  Booth frowned. “Did your neighbor say how they were detected and caught?”

  “He didn’t give me much in the way of details, but it had to do with a boardinghouse in Washington, D.C., where Lewis Paine was staying. Anna Surratt, the woman who owns the boardinghouse is a Confederate sympathizer, and the day after Lincoln was shot Paine was bragging to her about the part he and his four cohorts had in helping you two get away. A young man who was a guest in the boardinghouse overheard it all and reported it to the federal authorities. Within a couple of days, all five had been arrested and jailed.”

  Booth pulled at an ear nervously. “They’ll probably hang them.”

  “I’d say so,” said Jones.

  For the next two days, Booth and Herold continued to hide in the swamp. They were brought food and newspapers by Thomas Jones. The newspapers were full of the accounts of the assassination, the president’s death, the arrest of the five accomplices, and of the dogged search for the assassin and his accomplice throughout Maryland by the federal troops.

  Just before dawn on Thursday, April 20, Jones made his way through the heavy brush, carrying a partially loaded gunnysack, and found the two men asleep. Standing over them, he said in a hoarse whisper, “Mr. Booth! Mr. Herold!”

  Herold was first to stir and open his eyes. “Yeah?”

  “Just wanted you to know that the cavalry is moving through the immediate area, and should be gone sometime this afternoon. They will search my place, I’m sure.”

  Booth began to stir.

  Lifting the gunnysack, Jones said, “There’s food and water in here for your breakfast, lunch, and supper. I dare not come out here until the troops are gone, and I have no idea when they’ll show up. Once they’re gone, and are positively out of the area, I’ll come out and let you know.”

  Booth opened his eyes and focused on Jones in the dim light. “Something wrong?”

  “Not really,” said Jones. “I explained it to Mr. Herold. He can explain it to you.”

  With that, Jones laid the gunnysack down and said, “I need to get back to the house. I’ll take you across the Potomac to Sandy Point, Virginia, under cover of darkness tonight.”

  Thomas Jones guided his boat up to the bank of the Potomac River near Sandy Point, jumped out, and pulled the bow up on dry ground. The moon was behind a bank of clouds, but there was enough light for David Herold to safely help his injured friend from the boat.

  “Well, gentlemen,” said Jones, “you’re on your own, now. I hope you find a good place to hide from here on out.”

  “We’ll be fine, Mr. Jones, now that we’re in Confederate territory,” said Booth. “And thank you so much for all you’ve done for us.”

  “My pleasure,” said Jones. “I’d do it all over again, if needed.”

  As he spoke, Jones shoved the boat off the bank and hopped in. Taking the oars in hand, he began rowing back across the river.

  “Thanks, again!” called Herold.

  Jones waved a hand.

  “Well,” said Herold, “we’d better get going. First thing is to steal us some horses, so you won’t have to hop very far on that crutch.”

  It was almost dawn on that Friday morning when the fugitives came upon a small farm where they spotted several saddle horses in the corral. Leaving Booth at the corral gate, Herold worked fast. He found saddles and bridles inside the barn, and soon they were riding away.

  Less than an hour later, they caught sight of a cavalry unit riding out of a farmer’s yard. Rushing their horses down into a gully, they pulled rein, fear showing on their faces.

  “Wouldn’t you know it?” said Herold. “They’re searching for us in Virginia, too.”

  “So what do we do now?” asked Booth.

  Herold pondered it a moment. “Keep riding, and keep our eyes peeled for more cavalry units. Let’s head south. I think the farther we go in that direction, the safer we’ll be. The farther we get from D.C., the more true, loyal Southerners there are. We’ll find somebody who will hide us till the Federals give up. If not, we’ll go on down into the Carolinas. Somebody, somewhere down there will help us.”

  Herold dismounted and cautiously climbed to the lip of the gully. After studying the land around him for a few minutes, he returned to his friend and said, “They seem to be gone. Let’s ride.”

  After riding for almost an hour, keeping their eyes peeled, Booth and Herold caught sight of another cavalry unit. This one was riding away from a small settlement where they had been talking to a group of people and were turning their direction.

  “Come on!” said Booth, veering his horse off th
e road into the dense forest they had been skirting.

  Herold followed, and they hastily threaded their way deeper into the forest a good hundred yards before stopping amid a thick stand of trees.

  When they felt they had given the cavalry unit plenty of time to pass the forest and be a good distance away, they returned to the road and kept moving south.

  Saturday proved to be difficult, too, with federal troops combing the area. When the fugitives were hiding in another thick stand of trees at midmorning, watching the soldiers talking to a farmer and his family in their yard, Herold’s voice was lined with discouragement as he said, “John, we don’t have a chance. There are too many army units. They’re going to stay on our trail till they catch us.”

  Booth frowned at his friend. “Dave, this doesn’t sound like you. Come on. We are gonna make it. We have to. If they caught us, I’d be the one to hang, but because they consider you my accomplice, they’d lock you up in prison and throw the key away. We can’t let that happen. We’ve got to keep our chins up. Sooner or later we’ll find somebody who will help us—like you said. After so much time goes by, the federals will find other things to do rather than hunt for us.”

  Herold sighed and nodded. “Sure. You’re right. We have to keep going and not give up.”

  Late that afternoon, they rode their horses across a broad place in the Rappahannock River where the water was shallow, and found a secluded spot in the nearby woods to rest for the night.

  That evening, Herold left Booth and went to the nearby town of Loretto to get food.

  The next morning—Sunday, April 23—they ate a late breakfast, and with a fresh dose of laudanum in Booth’s system, they rode down the road that led to Loretto and soon found themselves approaching a church on the outskirts of the town, where many buggies, wagons, and saddle horses were collected in the parking lot. As they drew near, they could hear the congregation singing.

  Suddenly, they caught sight of a cavalry unit as it topped a hill on the same road no more than a mile away.