by Hans Holzer
The other occupant of the house, Mrs. Curtain, was certainly not a steadying influence on them. On one occasion she saw the figure of a woman “float” down the front steps. That woman, she felt sure, was Mary Surratt. The house had of course been Mary Surratt’s true home, her only safe harbor. The one she later owned in Washington was merely a temporary and unsafe abode. Mightn’t she have been drawn back here after her unjust execution to seek justice, or at the very least to be among surroundings she was familiar with?
The floating woman returned several times more, and ultimately young Phyllis was to have an experience herself. It was in April of 1955 and she was in bed in her room, wide awake. Her bed stood parallel to the room where the conspirators used to meet, separated from it only by a thin wall, so that she might have heard them talk had she been present at the time. Suddenly, she received several blows on the side of her face. They were so heavy that they brought tears to her eyes. Were the ghosts of the conspirators trying to discourage her from eavesdropping on their plans?
Both Phyllis and her mother have had ESP experiences all their lives, ranging from premonitions to true dreams and other forms of precognition.
I decided to contact the present owner and ask for permission to visit with a good medium. Thomas Miller, whose parents had owned the Surratt tavern and who now managed it prior to having it restored, at great cost, to the condition it was in a hundred years ago, readily assented. So it was that on a very chilly day in November of 1967, Sybil Leek and I flew down to Washington for a look at the ghosts around John Wilkes Booth: If I couldn’t interview the victim, Lincoln, perhaps I could have a go at the murderer?
A friend, Countess Gertrude d’Amecourt, volunteered to drive us to Clinton. The directions the Millers had given us were not too clear, so it took us twice as long as it should have to get there. I think we must have taken the wrong turn off the highway at least six times and in the end got to know them all well, but got no nearer to Clinton. Finally we were stopped by a little old woman who wanted to hitch a ride with us. Since she was going in the same direction, we let her come with us, and thanks to her we eventually found Miller’s supermarket, about two hours later than planned. But ghosts are not in a hurry, even though Gertrude had to get back to her real estate office, and within minutes we set out on foot to the old Surratt tavern, located only a few blocks from the supermarket. Phyllis Amos had come down from Pennsylvania to join us, and as the wind blew harder and harder and our teeth began to chatter louder and louder in the unseasonable chill of the late afternoon, we pushed open the dusty, padlocked door of the tavern, and our adventure into the past began.
Before I had a chance to ask Sybil Leek to wait until I could put my tape recording equipment into operating condition, she had dashed past us and was up the stairs as if she knew where she was headed. She didn’t, of course, for she had no idea why she had been brought here or indeed where she was. All of us—the Millers, Phyllis, Gertrude d’Amecourt, and myself—ran up the stairs after Sybil. We found her staring at the floor in what used to be the John Wilkes Booth bedroom. Staring at the hole in the floor where the guns had been hidden, she mumbled something about things being hidden there… not budging from the spot. Thomas Miller, who had maintained a smug, skeptical attitude about the whole investigation until now, shook his head and mumbled, “But how would she know?”
It was getting pretty dark now and there was no electric light in the house. The smells were pretty horrible, too, as the house had been empty for years, with neighborhood hoodlums and drunks using it for “parties” or to sleep off drunken sprees. There is always a broken back window in those old houses, and they manage to get in.
We were surrounding Sybil now and shivering in unison. “This place is different from the rest of the house,” Sybil explained, “cold, dismal atmosphere… this is where something happened.”
“What sort of thing do you think happened here?”
“A chase.”
How right she was! The two hunted men were indeed on a chase from Washington, trying to escape to the South. But again, Sybil would not know this consciously.
“This is where someone was a fugitive,” she continued now, “for several days, but he left this house and went to the woodland.”
Booth hiding out in the woods for several days after passing the tavern!
“Who is the man?” I asked, for I was not at all sure who she was referring to. There were several men connected with “the chase,” and for all we knew, it could have been a total stranger somehow tied up with the tavern. Lots of dramatic happenings attach themselves to old taverns, which were far cries from Hilton hotels. People got killed or waylaid in those days, and taverns, on the whole, had sordid reputations. The good people stayed at each other’s homes when traveling.
“Foreign … can’t get the name … hiding for several days here … then there is … a brother … it is very confusing.”
* * *
The foreigner might well have been Atzerodt, who was indeed hiding at the tavern at various times. And the brother?
* * *
“A man died suddenly, violently.” Sybil took up the impressions she seemed to be getting now with more depth. We were still standing around in the upstairs room, near the window, with the gaping hole in the floor.
“How did he die?” I inquired.
“Trapped in the woods… hiding from soldiers, I think.”
That would only fit Booth. He was trapped in the woods and killed by soldiers.
“Why?”
“They were chasing him… he killed someone.”
“Who did he kill?”
“I don’t know…birthday…ran away to hide…I see a paper…invitation…there is another place we have to go to, a big place…a big building with a gallery…”
Was she perhaps describing Ford’s Theatre now?
“Whose place is it?” I asked.
Sybil was falling more and more under the spell of the place, and her consciousness bordered now on the trance state.
“No one’s place…to see people…I’m confused… lot of people go there…watching…a gathering…with music…I’m not going there!!”
* * *
“Who is there?” I interjected. She must be referring to the theater, all right. Evidently what Sybil was getting here was the entire story, but jumbled as psychic impressions often are, since they do not obey the ordinary laws of time and space.
“My brother and I,” she said now. I had gently led her toward another corner of the large room where a small chair stood, in the hope of having her sit in it. But she was already too deeply entranced to do it, so I let her lean toward the chair, keeping careful watch so she would not topple over.
“My brother is mad…,” she said now, and her voice was no longer the same, but had taken on a harder, metallic sound. I later wondered about this remark: Was this Edwin Booth, talking about his renegade brother John who was indeed considered mad by many of his contemporaries? Edwin Booth frequently appeared at Ford’s Theatre, and so did John Wilkes Booth.
“Why is he mad?” I said. I decided to continue the questioning as if I were agreeing with all she—or he—was saying, in order to elicit more information.
* * *
“Madman in the family…,” Sybil said now, “killed—a—friend….”
“Whom did he kill?”
“No names…he was mad….”
“Would I know the person he killed?”
“Everybody—knows….”
“What is your brother’s name?”
“John.”
“What is your name?”
“Rory.”
At first it occurred to me this might be the name of a character Edwin Booth had played on the stage and he was hiding behind it, if indeed it was Edwin Booth who was giving Sybil this information. But I have not found such a character in the biographies of Edwin Booth. I decided to press further by reiterating my original question.
“Whom did John kil
l?”
An impatient, almost impertinent voice replied, “I won’t tell you. You can read!”
“What are you doing in this house?”
“Helping John…escape….”
“Are you alone?”
“No…Trevor….”
“How many of you are there here?”
“Four.”
“Who are the others?”
“Traitors….”
“But what are their names?”
“Trevor…Michael…John….”
These names caused me some concern afterward: I could identify Michael readily enough as Michael O’Laughlin, school chum of Booth, who worked as a livery stable worker in Baltimore before he joined forces with his friend. Michael O’Laughlin was one of the conspirators, who was eventually sentenced to life imprisonment. But on Stanton’s orders he and the other three “lesser” conspirators were sent to the Dry Tortugas, America’s own version of Devil’s Island, off Florida, and it was there that Michael O’Laughlin died of yellow fever in 1868.
* * *
John? Since the communicator had referred to his brother’s name as John, I could only surmise this to mean John Wilkes Booth. But Trevor I could not identify. The only conspirator whose middle name we did not know was Samuel Arnold, also an ex-classmate of Booth. Was Trevor perhaps the familiar name by which the conspirators referred to this Maryland farmhand and Confederate deserter?
I pressed the point further with Sybil.
“Who is in the house?”
“Go away….”
I explained my mission: to help them all find peace of mind, freedom, deliverance.
“I’m going to the city….” the communicator said.
“Which city?”
“The big city.”
“Why?”
“To stop him…he’s mad…take him away…to the country to rest…to help him…give him rest….”
“Has he done anything wrong?”
“He…he’s my brother!”
“Did he kill anyone?”
“Killed that man….”
“Why did he kill him?”
Shouting at me, the entranced medium said, “He was unjust!”
“Toward whom?”
“He was unjust toward the Irish people.”
Strange words, I thought. Only Michael O’Laughlin could be considered a “professional” Irishman among the conspirators, and one could scarcely accuse Lincoln of having mistreated the Irish.
“What did he do?” I demanded to know.
“He did nothing….”
“Why did he kill him then?”
“He was mad.”
“Do you approve of it?”
“Yes!! He did not like him because he was unjust… the law was wrong…his laws were wrong…free people…he was confused….”
Now if this were indeed Edwin Booth’s spirit talking, he would most certainly not have approved of the murder. The resentment for the sake of the Irish minority could only have come from Michael O’Laughlin. But the entity kept referring to his brother, and only Edwin Booth had a brother named John, connected with this house and story! The trance session grew more and more confusing.
“Who else was in this?” I started again. Perhaps we could get more information on the people behind the plot. After all, we already knew the actual murderer and his accomplices.
“Trevor…four….”
“Did you get an order from someone to do this?”
There was a long pause as the fully entranced psychic kept swaying a little, with eyes closed, in front of the rickety old chair.
I explained again why I had come, but it did not help. “I don’t believe you,” the entity said in great agitation, “Traitors….”
“You’ve long been forgiven,” I said, “but you must speak freely about it now. What happened to the man he killed?”
“My brother—became—famous….”
This was followed by bitter laughter.
“What sort of work did your brother do?”
“Writing…acting….”
“Where did he act?”
“Go away…don’t search for me….”
“I want to help you.”
“Traitor…shot like a dog…the madman….”
Sybil’s face trembled now as tears streamed freely from her eyes. Evidently she was reliving the final moments of Booth’s agony. I tried to calm the communicator.
“Go away…” the answer came, “go away!”
But I continued the questioning. Did anyone put him up to the deed?
“He was mad,” the entity explained, a little calmer now.
“But who is guilty?”
“The Army.”
“Who in the Army?”
“He was wild…met people…they said they were Army people…Major General…Gee…I ought to go now!!”
Several things struck me when I went over this conversation afterward. To begin with, the communicator felt he had said too much as soon as he had mentioned the person of Major General Gee, or G., and wanted to leave. Why? Was this something he should have kept secret?
Major General G.? Could this refer to Grant? Up to March 1864 Grant was indeed a major general; after that time Lincoln raised him to the rank of lieutenant general. The thought seemed monstrous on the face of it, that Grant could in any way be involved with a plot against Lincoln. Politically, this seemed unlikely, because both Grant and Lincoln favored the moderate treatment of the conquered South as against the radicals, who demanded stern measures. Stanton was a leading radical, and if anyone he would have had a reason to plot against Lincoln. And yet, by all appearances, he served him loyally and well. But Grant had political aspirations of a personal nature, and he succeeded Lincoln after Johnson’s unhappy administration.
I decided to pursue my line of questioning further to see where it might lead.
I asked Sybil’s controlling entity to repeat the name of this Army general. Faintly but clear enough it came from her entranced lips:
“Gee…G-E-E-…Major General Robert Gee.”
Then it wasn’t Grant, I thought. But who in blazes was it? If there existed such a person I could find a record, but what “if it was merely a cover name?”
“Did you see this man yourself?”
“No.”
“Then did your brother tell you about him?”
“Yes.”
“Where did they meet?”
Hesitatingly, the reply came.
“In the city. This city. In a club….”
I decided to change my approach.
“What year is this?” I shot at him.
“Forty-nine.”
“What does forty-nine mean to you?”
“Forty-nine means something important….”
“How old are you now?”
“Thirty-four.”
He then claimed to have been born in Lowell, Virginia, and I found myself as puzzled as ever: It did not fit Edwin, who was born in 1833 on the Booth homestead at Belair, Maryland. Confusion over confusion!
“Did anyone else but the four of you come here?” I finally asked.
“Yes…Major…Robert Gee….”
“What did he want?”
“Bribery.”
“What did he pay?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he give him any money?”
“Yes.”
“What was he supposed to do?”
“Cause a disturbance. In the gallery. Then plans would be put into operation. To hold up the law.”
“Did your brother do what he was supposed to do?”
“He was mad…he killed him.”
“Then who was guilty?”
“Gee….”
“Who sent Gee? For whom did he speak?”
We were getting close to the heart of the matter and the others were grouping themselves closely around us, the better to hear. It was quite dark outside and the chill of the November afternoon crept into our bones with th
e result that we started to tremble with the wet cold. But nobody moved or showed impatience. American history was being relived, and what did a little chill matter in comparison?
“He surveyed…”
“Who worked with him?”
“The government.”
“Who specifically?”
“I don’t know.”
It did not sound convincing. Was he still holding out on us?
“Were there others involved? Other men? Other women?”
A derisive laughter broke the stillness. “Jealous…jealousy…his wife….”
“Whose wife?”
“The one who was killed…shot.”
* * *
That I found rather interesting, for it is a historical fact that Mrs. Lincoln was extremely jealous and, according to Carl Sandburg, perhaps the most famous Lincoln biographer, never permitted her husband to see a woman alone—for any reason whatever. The Lincolns had frequent spats for that reason, and jealousy was a key characteristic of the President’s wife.
“Why are we in this room?” I demanded.
“Waiting for…what am I waiting for?” the communicator said, in a voice filled with despair.
“I’d like to know that myself,” I nodded. “Is there anything of interest for you here?”
“Yes…I have to stay here until John comes back. Where’s John?”
“And what will you do when he comes back?”
“Take him to Lowell…my home….”
“Whom do you live with there?”
“Julia…my girl…take him to rest there.”
“Where is John now?”
“In the woods…hiding.”
“Is anyone with him?”
“Two…they should be back soon.”
Again the entity demanded to know why I was asking all those questions and again I reassured him that I was a friend. But I have to know everything in order to help him. Who then was this Major General Gee?
“Wants control,” the voice said, “I don’t understand the Army…politics…he’s altering the government….”