Manhunt (35 page)

T
HOMAS
J
ONES
R
ETURNED TO
H
UCKLEBERRY AND KEPT
J
OHN
Wilkes Booth's secret for nearly twenty years. Because of his silence, the saga of Booth's missing “lost week” remained a puzzle, indeed, the chief unsolved mystery of the twelve-day chase for Lincoln's killer. Then, in 1883, George Alfred Townsend vowed to solve the mystery. Townsend, friend of Mark Twain, and a leading journalist of the nineteenth century, and one of the best writers who covered the Civil War, reported the Lincoln assassination for a newspaper and also wrote a vivid, luridly entertaining book about John Wilkes Booth. Possessed by the assassination and the manhunt, Townsend could not let go. Beginning in April 1865 and continuing on and off for the next two decades, he haunted the scenes of the crime, tracked down many of the Southerners who helped Booth during the chase, and interviewed a number of the MANHUNTERS. Townsend collected obscure names and facts that would have been lost to history without his detective work.

In 1883, during his third attempt to retrace Booth's escape route, Townsend coaxed Judge Frederick Stone, in 1865 a defense counsel at the trial of several of Booth's conspirators, and now a U.S. congressman, to talk about Booth's notorious lost week. Stone confessed that there was a man who hid Booth and Herold and helped them cross the Potomac. This man was still alive. Perhaps, after all these years, he would talk to Townsend. The tip elated the journalist, whose scoop-seeking sensibilities alerted him to the value of breaking the story on the great mystery of the manhunt. But Stone refused to name Booth's savior. In Port Tobacco, the very place where Thomas Jones had refused to betray the assassin for $100,000, Townsend persuaded several young locals, including members of Captain Cox's family, to divulge the elusive name. Townsend wrote a letter to Jones: “I am a writer for the press and, sometimes, of books. It might be of mutual advantage for us to meet.”

He courted Jones with letters until, finally, the aging but still quickwitted veteran agreed to meet in Baltimore, Maryland, on December
11, 1883, to reveal his story. There, in room 52 of the Barnum Hotel, Jones broke his lifelong silence and told the story that, eighteen years ago, he refused to confess under threat of death or sell for a reward of $100,000. The times were different now, thought Jones. He could not harm John Wilkes Booth now. And he was an old man. If he did not preserve his memories soon, the story of his great adventure would follow him to the grave. Too many stories of the War of the Rebellion had already died with their tellers. Townsend sat spellbound as Jones regaled him until almost midnight with the thrilling, hitherto-lost tale of the pine thicket and the Potomac crossing. Jones so mesmerized Townsend that the writer beseeched him to meet again the next day to continue the story. Jones agreed. For the interview, and for the coveted, once-priceless knowledge that could have brought Thomas Jones sudden death—or instant riches—George Alfred Townsend paid him the grand sum of sixty dollars.

Later, several years after Townsend wrote about Jones, another journalist staged a dramatic reunion of the river ghost and Captain Williams. Modestly, Jones wondered if the captain would even remember him. Williams recognized him instantly: “Of course I remember you. I can never forget that come-to-the-Lord-and-be-saved expression you wear now and then. But if I had known then what I do now, how different things would have been! Why, you ought to be shot! If you had told me where Booth was you would have been the biggest man in America, and would have had money by the flour barrel full.”

Jones demurred, just as he did that day long ago at Brawner's Tavern: “Yes, and a conscience full of purgatory, and the everlasting hatred of the people I loved. No, Captain, I never the first time thought of betraying Booth. After he was placed in my hands I determined to die before I would betray him … how could I give up the life of that poor devil over there in the pine thicket hovering between life and death.”

The captain said that Jones didn't fool him then: “Myself and the other officers believed that you knew more than you would tell, but that sanctimonious look of yours saved you.” Williams elaborated: “I remember
when I made the offer … in the saloon he was standing next to me at the bar and I could not detect the least movement or change of face. There was something which told me he knew where Booth was, or could give us which could lead to his capture, but he couldn't be worked. No amount of money or glory would have tempted him. No human being can read his face and tell what is passing in his mind. It is like a stone.”

In April 1894, the twenty-ninth anniversary of Lincoln's assassination, an old man ambled up Tenth Street in Washington, D.C., until he stopped in front of house number 453. The rectangular wood, painted signboard attached to the famous brick house read: “THIS HOUSE IN WHICH ABRAHAM LINCOLN DIED CONTAINS THE OLDROYD LINCOLN MEMORIAL COLLECTION OF OVER 3,000. ARTICLES RELATING TO ABRAHAM LINCOLN. OPEN ALL HOURS DAY & EVENING. ADMISSION 25 ¢.” Osborn H. Oldroyd, Washington eccentric, had become, like George Alfred Townsend, obsessed with the assassination. He occupied the Petersen House and turned it into a tourist attraction nearly three-quarters of a century before Ford's Theatre, a gutted ruin, became the museum it is today. In Petersen's basement, Oldroyd installed his personal museum, a late-nineteenth-century cabinet of curiosities where preposterous relics of dubious provenance lay side by side with priceless historical treasures, all preserved under thick display glass in oak jeweler's floor cases, illuminated unevenly by yellow, incandescent, electric bulbs. Over the years Oldroyd amassed an impressive but indiscriminate hoard of trash and treasure, and for the bargain price of a quarter tourists could ogle his collection and view Abraham Lincoln's death room. Soon Oldroyd, like Townsend, would retrace Booth's escape route and write about his adventures. But today history showed up at his door.

The old man, now seventy-four, gripped the cast-iron railing and ascended the same stairs where, a generation earlier, Dr. Leale and the others carried the dying president up to the little, second-floor back bedroom. He stood silently in the death chamber. The room was quiet
now, not like the
night twenty-nine years earlier when frantic doctors stripped Lincoln of his clothes, searching his body for wounds, while Mary Lincoln's wailing, unsettling cries echoed through the halls. The old man visualized the bloody scene that unfolded here and recalled his memories of the assassin who scripted that mournful night. Satisfied, he sought out the proprietor of this haunting memorial to sadness and death. “My name is Thomas A. Jones,” he informed Oldroyd, “and I am the man who cared for and fed Booth and Herold while they were in hiding, after committing the awful deed.”

Within the year, in March 1895, Thomas Jones joined Abraham Lincoln and John Wilkes Booth in death. His estate was valued at a meager $271.70, prior to claims that reduced the balance to $181.60. Obituaries in the Southern papers remarked on his “zeal,” “fidelity,” “courage,” and, of course, above all the other antebellum virtues, his “honor.” One newspaper published this benediction: “There is no one who does not believe that Thomas A. Jones acted the part of a hero.” His grave at Saint Mary's Church in Newport, Maryland, was marked by a fragrant cedar stob that rotted away a long time ago.

D
AVID
H
EROLD DIPPED THE BLADES DEEP AND PULLED HARD
, and the skiff, unburdened of its usual heavy cargo of fish and waterlogged nets, responded to his experienced touch at the oars. He and Booth could see Thomas Jones standing motionless at the river's edge, watching them glide away. Soon their guardian angel, like the river ghost he was, vanished from sight, followed by all signs of the shoreline, blanketed by the cloaking mist. The gentle, rhythmic rocking of the boat upon the water exhilarated Booth. After the detour to Dr. Mudd's and the interminable delay at the pine thicket, it felt good to be on the move again. Miraculously, these delays, although exposing them to great danger, had not proven fatal to their escape. Now Booth and Herold could say good riddance to Maryland and all their troubles there, leaving behind the stymied detectives and federal troops who pursued
them. With each stroke, Herold propelled them a few yards closer to Virginia.

Booth bent down low, huddled over his compass, and checked their bearings. He dared not light the candle again—its reflection on the water could magnify its tiny flame into a shining beacon that would reveal their position to the Union gunboats that patrolled the river. But he had no choice: he couldn't read the dial in the dark. Puzzled, he stared at the needle dancing on its spindle as melting wax dripped over its glass and wood housing. They were supposed to be rowing from Maryland west across the Potomac to Virginia and then south until they reached Machodoc Creek. But the needle indicated that they were heading northwest, in the opposite direction. Was the compass broken? Booth shook and rotated the case, but the needle always returned to the proper position, still tugging north. No, the compass was true.

If only Thomas Jones had piloted them across himself, directing Herold at the oars and Booth at the makeshift rudder while charting the course personally with the compass. David Herold was a competent enough navigator of the Maryland and Virginia coastal marshes, creeks, and rivers, but he was not a professional seaman. And it was one thing to ply the waters during daylight hours while hunting for pleasure, another to run them at night when in danger as the object of the hunt. Herold had never made a trip across the Potomac under conditions like these: under pressure, pursued, and in near total darkness. Thomas Jones, seasoned agent, had done it hundreds of times.

They had been on the water far too long: they should be in Virginia by now. David Herold did not need a watch to tell him that. His chafed palms and fingers and his burning arm and leg muscles made it clear enough. He and Booth heard sounds, but the water played tricks with noises in the night, making it impossible to judge their origin or distance. They spotted a few lights but could not determine whether they were moving or stationary, a boat under way, or a fixed marker onshore. Disoriented, unsure of their location, the fugitives continued rowing north, then turned to the west, passing Mathias Point. Their
boat was a tiny speck afloat on an unforgiving river. The water exhaled a cool, damp breath that chilled them to the bone, but at least the battered little gray skiff was holding up. Surrounded by darkness and water, traveling slowly but with far to go, Booth and Herold confronted the obvious: they were losing their race with the manhunters.

They had to land soon. The slightly built Herold was no Lewis Powell, and he did not possess the strength to row all night. Booth observed the strain on Herold's face with each stroke and sensed that the youth was failing. But where to beach the skiff? Herold turned around from his rowing position and searched the horizon ahead for landmarks. Then, off to their right, he spotted the contours of a familiar-looking sight: Blossum Point, beyond which flowed a wide-mouthed inlet, extending north. Herold told Booth that he recognized this place. If they rowed up that inlet, they would come to Nanjemoy Creek, a place Herold knew very well. He had made many hunting trips to this region of Maryland's countryside: “I am passionately fond of partridge shooting and nearly every fall take two or three months for that purpose,” he later confessed.

At the mouth of the creek, on the eastern side, they would find, Herold explained, a farm called Indiantown, and two men, Peregrine Davis and John J. Hughes. And Herold assured Booth that he knew these men well: “They are persons I have known for five or six years, and whom I have been in the habit of visiting for a long time.” Davis owned the property and his son-in-law, Hughes, farmed it. That was the good news. The bad news was that Indiantown was in Maryland. After a frightening, disorienting, and exhausting night on the Potomac, they were in the wrong place. Indeed, they were back in Maryland where they started, but twice as far from their destination, Machodoc Creek, Virginia, as they were when they embarked upon their crossing. Now, north of the original position where Thomas Jones shoved them off, they were, once again, vulnerable to the roving Union patrols that pursued them. They had labored on the water for more than five hours. Weary, disappointed, another day behind schedule, and again in grave
danger, they put in to Nanjemoy Creek early on the morning of Friday, April 21.

Booth and Herold concealed the boat as best they could. The Hughes farmhouse was not far from the creek, and Herold persuaded Booth to cover the distance on foot. Herold wanted to avoid the risk of Booth being discovered alone while he was off visiting Hughes. Taking their weapons, blankets, and other possessions, they proceeded to Indian-town. Herold was confident that Hughes would welcome them. The youth's affable, hail-fellow-well-met manner had won him many friends in southern Maryland during his hunting expeditions over the last several years, and they had watched him grow from an eager teenager to a young adult and experienced outdoorsman. Moreover, Davey knew Perry Davis and John Hughes as men of Southern sympathies and actions. They would not turn him in to Union authorities. There was also a strong chance that the farmer already knew that Davey had been implicated as one of Booth's accomplices in the assassination. Several newspapers had named him, and the day before, on the morning of the twentieth, the War Department had printed huge broadsides offering a $50,000 reward for Booth and $25,000 for Herold.