ONE EVENING IN LATE FEBRUARY, a large, muscular, dark-haired man appeared at the H Street boardinghouse and asked for John Surratt. Lou Weichmann, who answered the door, informed him that Mr. Surratt was not at home, and asked if he wanted to meet the lady of the house. The stranger, who gave his name as Wood, stepped inside. He seemed to be a man of culture and breeding, polite and well dressed. He chatted with the ladies, and when Mrs. Surratt ushered him into the parlor, he noticed a piano and asked if she would favor him with a song. When John Surratt returned home that night, he invited Mr. Wood to spend the night. Mrs. Surratt offered him a room on the third floor and asked Weichmann to take his supper to him there. The next morning, the visitor was gone. Eventually, the boarders would learn that his real name was Lewis Powell, and his brief stay at the Surratt house would change their lives.38
THE CONFEDERATES MADE a last-ditch effort to negotiate an end to the war, but when their envoys at Hampton Roads made an offer, President Lincoln responded by saying that they could have peace when they stopped asserting their independence. Like everyone else, Lincoln knew that the South’s days were numbered. Food, manpower, arms, and supplies had dwindled to almost nothing. Lee’s army had been holed up near Petersburg for months. Now, this diplomatic failure demoralized them even more.
The war news was depressing to Booth, and sometimes even frightening. The government had cracked down on “irregular warfare,” and in early 1865 they made an example of one of its more celebrated practitioners. John Yates Beall had been involved in a plan to capture a gunboat on Lake Erie, with the intention of using it in the rescue of prisoners on Johnson’s Island. His scheme never got very far. The plot was discovered, and Beall was later captured, tried, and sentenced to death. A long list of prominent citizens pleaded with the president to commute his sentence, but Lincoln declined to intervene, and on February 25, Beall was put to death. His hanging was a clear sign that the administration would deal harshly with terrorists.
The lesson was not lost on Booth. He knew that Charles County was infested with government agents, and he also knew that Port Tobacco, the county seat, was awash in rumors about George Atzerodt and his big plans. Sooner or later, someone would get to the bottom of those stories. Something had to be done.
Booth had not been foolish enough to associate with Atzerodt; in fact, they had never met. But Atzerodt’s behavior prompted Surratt to move him out of Port Tobacco, and in Washington, Booth reversed course and embraced his lowly cohort. They were introduced in Lou Weichmann’s office, and as Booth studied the broad, greasy grin and the easygoing manner, he must have wondered how he could possibly control this man who showed so little control over himself. For now, all he could do was take Atzerodt by the lapels and offer a stern word of advice: Don’t drink so much.
George Atzerodt wasn’t the only security risk. Several people were in a position to figure out what was going on, and Booth needed a strategy for neutralizing potential witnesses before they had a chance to hurt him. For Sleeper Clarke, whose house he used at all hours; for Lou Weichmann, whose office he used for meetings; for Dr. Mudd, whose introductions had brought Booth into the underground; for Herold, Atzerodt, Arnold, O’Laughlen, and a growing list of acquaintances, Booth did all he could to create and preserve the evidence that would intertwine their fates with his own. This, more than anything else, ensured the survival of his conspiracy when the odds favored exposure.
This strategy could work on anyone, and the target did not have to be a member of the plot, as the case of Sam Chester illustrates. Booth did not tell Chester of his intentions right away. He brought up a mysterious “speculation,” and mentioned it several times in subsequent correspondence. Naïvely, Chester responded in writing, and his letters must have seemed just as circumspect as Booth’s. When Booth finally decided he had the kind of evidence he needed, he met Chester again and laid out the details of his plot. The disclosure came with a warning: Betray me, and we’ll hang together. As he told Chester, “I have facts in my possession that will ruin you for life.” And just in case he should call Booth’s bluff, two witnesses—Canning and Ford—could tell detectives that Sam Chester did indeed try to get a job at Ford’s Theatre, just as Booth requested.
As the conspiracy developed, Booth grew adept at this strategy. He even directed it at his good friend John McCullough. The two of them shared a room at the National Hotel, and one day in early March, McCullough burst in without knocking. Booth was sitting on the bed studying a map, with gauntlets, knife, and pistol spread out around him. The intrusion startled him, and he jumped to his feet in panic. McCullough managed to calm him down, but Booth realized he had nearly been discovered. So he came up with a plan.
Booth prodded McCullough into renting a couple of horses for a ride in the country. Though McCullough was no horseman, he knew it was pointless to argue. He followed Booth out to a wooded area north of Washington and down along the Eastern Branch of the Potomac. Every now and then they would stop, and Booth would point out some topographical feature, saying something like, “Now, Johnny, if a fellow was in a tight fix he could slip right out here, do you see?”
McCullough was not catching on. “Well,” he said, “when I leave Washington I shall leave on the cars. I am all raw now with riding this old horse. For God’s sake take me back to the hotel.” McCullough never figured out that Booth had incriminated him. To all appearances, the two of them had gone scouting for a quick way out of Washington. And at least one man— the stableman—knew enough to infer what they were doing. Booth and McCullough had given their names, and Booth made a point of asking about Crystal Springs, a remote area on the way to the Soldiers’ Home.39
ON FRIDAY, MARCH 3, Lou Weichmann happened upon Booth and Surratt at a Washington restaurant. They took some refreshments together, and Booth invited the others for a walk to the Capitol. The legislative session was in its final hours, and they all wanted to see what was sure to be a spirited debate. Climbing the gallery steps, they came upon a statuary bust in a corner of the landing. Booth asked Weichmann who it was.
“It is Lincoln,” came the reply.
“What is he doing here before his time?” Booth sniffed. Nobody knew what to say.40
The following day, the careworn president renewed his oath of office in the old Senate chamber. After the ceremony, Lincoln walked to the Capitol’s east front to address the public. As he stood up to speak, the sun broke through the clouds and bathed him in a ray of bright light. He then began what many consider to be his finest speech, full of hope and promise for a reunited nation.
“With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation’s wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan—to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves, and with all nations.”
Many people were surprised that Lincoln had made it this far. He had beaten the odds, and he stood there now, in his moment of glory, to set a brighter tone for the nation’s future. Little did he suspect that in six weeks he would die at the hands of a man he would have recognized—and who was even then standing just a few feet away.41
TEN
“YOU CAN BE THE LEADER ... BUT NOT MY EXECUTIONER”
MARCH 5, THE MORNING AFTER THE INAUGURATION, WAS bleak and cheerless for Booth and Lucy Hale. They sat in Booth’s room at the National Hotel commiserating on life’s troubles and despairing of future happiness. They might not even have a life together; Lucy would soon accompany her father to Spain, where he was about to begin his duties as ambassador. The emptiness of the moment reminded Lucy of Whittier’s “Maud Muller,” and she jotted down some lines on an envelope:
For all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: It might have been!
Booth added a few lines of his own:
Now, in this hour, that we part,
I will
ask to be forgotten, never
But in thy pure and guileless heart
Consider me thy friend, dear Ever
J. Wilkes Booth1
When the inauguration excitement died down, Booth once more turned his attention to abducting the president. He moved the carriage into the shed in Baptist Alley, and brought the small bay mare in as well. He began renting a horse from Pumphrey’s Stable, just behind the National Hotel, on C Street. James Pumphrey had known John Surratt for years, and would only rent to Booth on his recommendation. Booth took out a high-spirited sorrel horse, and insisted on having the same one from then on.
Horses played a key role in Booth’s plans, not only in the abduction itself, but in the shell game he had devised to confuse potential witnesses. He still owned that half-blind horse he had acquired in Charles County, in addition to the small bay mare Arnold had bought in Baltimore. But not everybody knew that. One stableman thought the mare was Arnold’s, while another had the impression that John Surratt owned her. Adding to the confusion was another bay mare that looked like Booth’s. She was supposedly owned by Surratt.
For Booth, the shuffling around had a more subtle purpose: to bind each man to the plot. Surratt, Arnold, Herold, and Atzerodt all used the public livery, and all shared their horses with Booth. Each transaction was witnessed by a stableman, and each helped establish the intimacy that existed among these men. Thus, public stables gave Booth something to hold over his conspirators. Knowing this, none could expose the plot without implicating himself.2
TO AN ACTOR, deception can become second nature, and for Booth, lies were a vital means to an end. He lied to friends, to his conspirators, and to potential witnesses. He came to depend on the confusion and the false impressions his words had wrought—especially about his success in the oil business. His illusory wealth was a large part of what made his conspiracy work, and though John Surratt seems to have known from the beginning that it was a sham, the others learned the truth only over time. Eventually, Booth admitted to Arnold that he was forced to borrow money and sometimes had trouble getting loans. O’Laughlen knew this because his brother Billy was among the creditors. Once Herold learned the secret, he had to sell his favorite horse to raise money for the plot. To the rest of the world Booth was a wealthy man, and even George Atzerodt, who spent much of his time with him, never suspected that the oil money was just a mirage.3
On the stage, Booth had earned more than enough money to finance the plot. But he wasn’t acting anymore, and his charade was depleting funds at a rapid rate. Arnold and O’Laughlen lived reasonably at Mrs. Van Tyne’s, but meals at the Franklin House and a hefty bar tab at Rullman’s had to be factored in as well. Atzerodt’s room at the Pennsylvania House was hardly a top-flight accommodation, but food and livery added to the cost. Booth’s room at the National Hotel was expensive, and even when he stayed at the Herndon House, on Ninth Street, he had to maintain appearances. Travel may have been his greatest expenditure, with more than a dozen trips to New York alone. And then there was the cost of keeping several horses. All told, the conspiracy must have cost Booth a small fortune.4
It was vitally important that Booth’s associates look as if they belonged in his company. Most were happy to go along with the dress code: Powell bought a fine double-breasted sack coat and a light beaver hat; Surratt and Herold dressed like a couple of dandies in expensive suits, while Arnold and O’Laughlen wore dark business suits. George Atzerodt was the odd one out. Though Booth had bought him a new salt-and-pepper coat with pocket flaps, even that failed to make him look respectable.
Atzerodt’s lowly nature was always a concern. The manager of Howard’s Stable, who knew Atzerodt as “Azworth,” noted how different he and his companions were. “Booth was a pleasant man,” said Brooke Stabler, “and we felt rather an attachment for the two men—not for Azworth, we never liked him—but for Booth and Surratt we had a friendly feeling. They were gentlemanly in their manners.” Many people considered it strange in retrospect that Atzerodt, who was “in every respect . . . their inferior,” could appear to be so close to such “men of refinement.” A. F. Kimmel, former owner of the Pennsylvania House, wondered if Atzerodt might be a detective, but Stabler scoffed at the idea. “There was no detective in him,” he said. And anyway, everyone knew that Azworth was an “arrant rebel.”5
Kimmel was not the only one asking questions. At the house on H Street, Lou Weichmann asked Mary Surratt why her son brought such fellows as Atzerodt and Herold to the house. She said that John “wished to make use of them” for a cotton speculation. That was only one of John Surratt’s cover stories. In another, he and Booth were going to open up a theater with Atzerodt as their ticket agent. When Surratt told Weichmann he wanted to pursue a career on the stage, Weichmann was surprised. “Would you be an actor?” he asked.
“Of course I would,” said Surratt. “It is no disgrace.” In fact, Booth had told him he was a pretty good actor.6
Most of the conspirators used false names in addition to cover stories. Surratt was John Harrison, James Sturdey, Harry Sherman, John McCarthy, and Charley Armstrong; Atzerodt was Azworth and Atwood; Powell was Wood, Paine, Mosby, Kensler, and Hall.
It was the alias “Paine” that saved Powell from serious trouble in Baltimore. He had been living with the Bransons for about six weeks when, on March 6, he beat a servant girl, claiming she had been insolent to him. Arrested on orders from Col. John Woolley, he was taken to an old slave pen for interrogation. Woolley’s chief of detectives, Lt. Henry Bascom Smith, found him to be a “sullen, dumb looking, overgrown young person.” His oath certificate identified him as Lewis Paine of Fauquier County, Virginia, and Smith believed that that was who he was. He also thought he was extraordinarily stupid.
Asked whether he had ever been in the army, “Paine” said that he was only eighteen and a half years old. Asked why he wore gray clothes, he seemed unable to understand the question. Asked about his Baltimore connection, he said he was related to Miss Branson by marriage, but he didn’t know her sentiments on the war. He didn’t remember hearing any disloyal remarks at her house. Though he admitted whipping the servant, he gave up little else. When questioned about Mosby, he said he had heard of a few of the men who served with him. But the names he gave were false. Apparently, Lewis Powell wasn’t such a bad actor either.
Though Lieutenant Smith was sure that Powell was a spy, he stood little chance of proving it. On March 14, “Lewis Paine” was released on taking the oath of allegiance. He was free to go, but only on the condition that he stay north of Philadelphia. Presumably, being that far north would separate him from the subversive element.7
Powell’s associates anxiously awaited his release, and on the night of the fourteenth, John Surratt wired Preston Parr for an update. “Immediately telegraph if my friend is disengaged and can see me this evening in Washington. J. Surratt.” The response was immediate: “She will be over on the six P.M. train. Parr.”
Lewis Powell appeared at the Surratt boardinghouse that night and introduced himself as Reverend Paine, a Baptist preacher. His presence stirred up the boarders, who made fun of “Reverend Paine’s” cover story and wondered out loud why a Baptist preacher should seek out the home of a Catholic lady in the first place. One of the women called attention to the wild look in his eyes and said that he was a queer-looking preacher who probably wouldn’t convert many souls. Mary Surratt, however, thought he was “great looking,” and she offered him a room upstairs with her son. When one of the women referred to him as “Wood,” it suddenly occurred to Lou Weichmann that this same man had been there before. He had spent the night then, too, but under a different name.
Powell’s release was a relief to Booth, who was edgy about not having access to his people. Just the day before, on March 13, he learned that O’Laughlen had not come back from his usual weekend trip to Baltimore, and he wired a message to him: “Don’t fear to neglect your business. You had better come at once.” Now, with Powell’s arrival, every
one was in reach.8
On the night of the fifteenth, Booth, Powell, and Surratt took Nora Fitzpatrick and ten-year-old Apollonia Dean out for an evening at Ford’s Theatre. The play was Nicholas Rowe’s The Tragedy of Jane Shore, but the real attraction was the theater itself. Booth wanted his people to familiarize themselves with the presidential box, so he gave them all tickets to watch the play from there while he milled around with the cast and crew. Near the end of the play, he went up to the box and called the men outside for a private discussion. It was almost midnight when they all returned to the Surratt boardinghouse. The men dropped the ladies off, then turned to leave. Lou Weichmann asked where they were going, and Surratt replied, “Mind your own business.”
Later John Wilkes Booth went over to Gautier’s Restaurant, near Twelfth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, and paced nervously out front. Booth had rented a private room there and had it stocked with steamed oysters, liquors, and cigars to last the night. He was expecting some friends, and he asked a waiter, John Miles, to direct them upstairs when they arrived. Some of the men, he said, had made a fortune in the oil business, and he planned to win some of their money.9
Powell and Atzerodt arrived first, and they sat down with Booth for a game of cards. Herold had been sent to get Arnold and O’Laughlen, whom he had never met, and they came in a short while later. This was the first time that all these men had been in one place together, and for Sam Arnold and Mike O’Laughlen, it was a rude awakening. They had not been told in advance about the meeting, nor did they know the participants. The others, whom Booth introduced as Herold, “Mosby,” Surratt, and “Port Tobacco,” were complete strangers, save a brief encounter with Surratt. Indeed, Arnold and O’Laughlen had led a separate existence for months. They had never set foot in Southern Maryland after joining the plot. They had never heard of Mrs. Surratt. Their cover story was oil, not cotton. They met at Nailor’s Stable, instead of Howard’s, and their bar of choice was the one at their hotel, not the Star Saloon or the Greenback Saloon, on either side of Ford’s Theatre. In fact, Booth may have sent them to Rullman’s just to keep them away from Surratt. Adams Express had an office in the lobby there, and after Surratt’s abrupt departure from the company, he wouldn’t go near the place.10
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