ARDYTH KEN NELLY 
 
 Author of The Peaceable Kingdom 
 
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 By ARDYTH KENNELLY 
 
 Author of The Peaceable Kingdom 
 
 his name was John Wilkes Booth. On that Good Fri- 
 day in 1865, he crept into the Lincoln box in the Ford 
 Theater in Washington, and, standing close behind the 
 gaunt President, he pronounced the words "Sic sem- 
 per tyrannis," and pulled the trigger of his tiny, gold- 
 mounted derringer. With a light movement he vaulted 
 over the railing to the stage. But his spur caught in the 
 Hag draped on the box, and he fell. The audience sat 
 frozen as he hopped on one leg from the stage. 
 
 John Wilkes Booth was a star in the American 
 theater, adored by many women, lionized by many men. 
 What were the forces that drove him to commit one 
 of the most notorious crimes in our history? What led 
 him to assume a role more dramatic than anything he 
 had ever played on the stage? 
 
 Here are the answers. Here is the story of the twisted 
 emotions and the hidden passions that turned this hand- 
 some, talented voung actor into a bitter, psychopathic 
 killer. 
 
 Step by step the fascinating pattern emerges: young 
 Booth idolized by his family — his strange, narcissistic 
 love for his sister Asia, who had the same beauty he 
 saw in himself — his violent and unsatisfactory love 
 affairs — his fanatical hatred and jealousy for his 
 famous brother Edwin — his heavy drinking and wild 
 excesses — and finally, his disastrous dream of glory : 
 "The man who kills Lincoln can be sure of immortal- 
 ity — real immortality!" 
 
 Ardyth Kennelly, author of the peaceable king- 
 dom, has written an absorbing drama, combining his- 
 tory and fiction — the story of the man who killed 
 Lincoln. The story itself is one of the most provocative 
 and dramatic in our historical annals, and the character 
 of the erratic, gifted young actor is a fascinating one 
 to which Miss Kennelly has contributed a new and 
 challenging interpretation. 
 
LINCOLN ROOM 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
 MEMORIAL 
 
 the Class of 1901 
 
 founded by 
 
 HARLAN HOYT HORNER 
 
 and 
 
 HENRIETTA CALHOUN HORNER 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://archive.org/details/spurOOkenn 
 
THE 
 
 SPUR 
 
 By 
 
 Ardyth Kennelly 
 
 JULIAN MESSNER, Inc., NEW YORK 
 
 
PUBLISHED BY JULIAN MESSNER, INC 
 8 WEST 40TH STREET, NEW YORK 
 
 PUBLISHED SIMULTANEOUSLY IN CANADA 
 BY THE COPP CLARK COMPANY, LTD. 
 
 f COPYRIGHT 1951, BY ARDYTH KENNELLY 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
/ 0* I LU> 
 
 t>K 
 
 for 
 Egon 
 
I AUTHORS NOTE j 
 
 At the end of this book is a list of the works I have consulted, 
 every one of which served me greatly, but here I wish to acknowl- 
 edge the most considerable of my debts — first, to Stanley Kimmel, 
 whose book, The Mad Booths of Maryland, throws the biggest, 
 brightest spot ever to pick out Lincoln's assassin upon the stage of 
 life, and next, to The Unlocked Boo\, a Memoir of John Wildes 
 Booth, by the young tragedian's sister, Asia Booth Clarke. I also 
 relied much on Osborn H. Oldroyd's The Assassination of Lincoln, 
 Margaret Leech's ever-blooming Reveille in Washington, and Myths 
 After Lincoln, by Lloyd Lewis. 
 
 I would like to express my appreciation to the State Library staff 
 at Salem, Oregon, and especially to the staff of the Public Library, 
 Portland, Oregon, who have been my good angels for years. 
 
t THE SPUR j| 
 
I 
 
 'Something decisive and great must be done" 
 
 —booth's diary 
 
 His hairline was beginning ever so slightly to recede, and if 
 he had lived another twenty years, instead of just twelve 
 days, he might have gone bald, or very near it, and that would have 
 made him miserable. Anything would, that came and nibbled at 
 his beauty, or dimmed it a little, like losing a tooth or waking 
 up with a sty or having a vein cobweb across his cheek in a 
 miniature confluence, a red raveling of fine threads. Tonight, the 
 night of Good Friday, a few minutes past ten in the evening, 
 April 14, 1865, nothing was wrong with his looks. He was twenty- 
 six years old and as fresh as a daisy when for the last time he came 
 out of Peter Taltavul's saloon into the wet spring night and walked 
 up the brightly lit cobblestone street. It was only a few steps to 
 the door of the theater, and when he pushed it open and went in 
 there wasn't a spot or a stain,, a mildew, a wrinkle, a shadow, to 
 mar him. He had on elegant riding boots with slender steel spurs 
 that gave him a courier's consecrated yet debonair look, a black 
 broadcloth frock coat, tight trousers, fine linen shirt, checkered 
 necktie, brocade vest and soft slouch hat. 
 
 He was an actor named John Wilkes Booth and he was about to 
 murder Abraham Lincoln, the President of the United States of 
 America. He had the gun to do it with, a derringer about six inches 
 long, a lightweight, luxurious little weapon mounted in gold, and 
 a dagger, too, engraved with the spidery words America, Liberty, 
 Independance. The last word was misspelled, but the blade was 
 sharp. 
 
 Any other man as full of brandy as he was, for he had been 
 
 1 
 
drinking since early afternoon, would have been top-heavy, but 
 Johnny Booth was a Maryland gentleman, so he walked as if he 
 were sober, with a light, quick step, and did not stagger. 
 
 Under the lantern in front of Ford's was a wooden platform 
 where carriages could stop and the ladies get down without wet- 
 ting their slippers in case the street was muddy. Just here Johnny 
 slackened his pace and turned and looked over his shoulder. He 
 knew the carriage would still be standing at the curb near F Street, 
 and yes, there it was. 
 
 He entered the theater through the second door from the right, 
 the door President Lincoln had used an hour or so before when 
 he arrived with his wife and two guests. The party was late and 
 had missed the first act. The leader saw the President instantly, 
 gave the high sign and the orchestra struck up "Hail to the Chief." 
 Lincoln bowed from the box and smiled, and people clapped. 
 
 They would have clapped harder if Ulysses S. Grant had been 
 with him. There were notices in the papers to the effect that he 
 was going to be, and a great many people came just to see him. 
 But the hero of the hour wasn't there. General Grant and his wife 
 had turned down Lincoln's theater invitation at the last minute. 
 They left Washington around suppertime by train to go to Burling- 
 ton, New Jersey. Their excuse was that they were anxious to see 
 their children in school there, though actually Mrs. Grant wasn't 
 any too fond of Mrs. Lincoln, and would have hunted around for 
 another excuse if it hadn't been that. The President was disap- 
 pointed but Mrs. Lincoln invited somebody else instead, a young 
 engaged couple, Miss Harris and her stepbrother, Major Rathbone, 
 resplendent in uniform. 
 
 Nobody asked Johnny for a ticket. He had the run of the place 
 because he was in the profession and often played there, so all he 
 had to do was smile at the ticket taker, go across the lobby and 
 open the door of the orchestra circle. 
 
 The second scene of the third act was on. The play, Our Amer- 
 ican Cousin, was none too good, but the actors were bending over 
 backward for the sake of the President and his party, and for the 
 large and fashionable audience that filled the body of the house to 
 overflowing. Only one of the private boxes was filled — the other six 
 
were empty. There were more blue uniforms than black civilian 
 coats, and enough beards, mustaches, eyebrows, sideburns and 
 flowing manes to stuff half the mattresses in the nation. The women 
 had fanciful heads upon mother-of-pearl shoulders, and when they 
 stirred within their iron corsets in an aurora borealis noise of 
 rustling silk there were whirls of their good and bad perfumes and 
 flashes of their jewels like fireflies going on and off. The audience 
 sat deep in twilight and the stage was full of warm yellow light 
 that made the eyes of the actors sparkle like polished glass and 
 showed up their bright paint. Two people were on the stage, 
 playing the roles of Mrs. Mountchessington, a middle-aged female, 
 and Asa Trenchard, the hero of the play. She was saying something 
 haughty to him and he was looking drolly at her. A light laugh 
 rippled through the audience. 
 
 Johnny stood by the door and looked upward to the right, past 
 the big chandelier, at the two upper boxes. They were hung with 
 white lace curtains, like the windows in the parlor of a mansion, 
 with overdrapes of crimson damask. The partition between them 
 had been removed and they were thrown into one for this evening. 
 The curving fronts were draped with flags, caught up in the middle 
 and adorned by a framed picture of Washington. Where was Mr. 
 Lincoln? There was a young lady sitting close to the railing, 
 watching the play as if her life depended on it, and a young officer 
 behind her left shoulder, and yes, there was Mrs. Lincoln, with her 
 light eyes, small, sulky mouth and vainglorious nose, a girlish 
 wreath of flowers on her brown hair. But where was — ? Oh, there! 
 He was nearly hidden behind the draperies but nobody could mis- 
 take that stiff hair, sallow temple, high cheek and mossy beard. There 
 he sat. Ready and waiting. Watching the play and laughing. All set. 
 
 Johnny took a good look. Then he stepped back out into the 
 lobby, the box and its four occupants like a picture on his mind 
 — reading from left to right: girl, soldier, Mrs. Lincoln, President. 
 He crossed the lobby in no great hurry and went up the stairs 
 leading to the dress circle. Hat in hand he skirted around the 
 outer row of seats, walking softly on the carpeted floor until he 
 came to the small white door that led to the corridor off which the 
 doors to the two upper boxes opened. He put his hand on the knob 
 
and turned it. The door opened and he went in, shutting it behind 
 him. 
 
 Quite a few minutes before, the President's bodyguard had slipped 
 into an empty seat in the first balcony where he was laughing his 
 head off at all the funny sayings and doings of Lord Dundreary. 
 Lord Dundreary was a character if there ever was one. The body- 
 guard didn't see the black shadow that slipped past. Nothing was 
 going to hurt Mr. Lincoln. Nothing ever had. Nobody needed to 
 watch him. . . . Mr. Lincoln would say so himself, if asked. He'd 
 say, "Oh, go ahead and watch the play. Nobody needs to guard 
 me." The bodyguard would bet his bottom dollar. He had to get 
 his handkerchief out and wipe his eyes. That Dundreary! Split a 
 fellow's sides. 
 
 Mr. Lincoln did not know that he was unguarded, but something 
 cold came, a presentiment, something, like a draft. He shivered and 
 got up and got his overcoat and put it on. His wife and Miss Harris 
 did not notice it, or pull their light wraps up over their bare 
 shoulders. He clasped his big hands together, one warming the 
 other. Funny. There must be a draft somewhere. But then, he was 
 always cold. His blood had a long way to travel to his hands and 
 feet. 
 
 Nobody saw Johnny open the door and go into the corridor to 
 the private boxes. Nobody saw him shut the door behind him. 
 
 He knew where to put up the bar of wood three and one half 
 feet long that stood in the corner: into the groove dug out of the 
 wall to his left. Then wedge the other end tight against the door. It 
 worked fine, the way it had worked this afternoon when he tried it 
 out. Johnny stood back and looked at it. They'd have a time getting 
 in. Wouldn't they, though? 
 
 Now he turned and approached the door to his left. It led to 
 the box closest to the audience, the one in which Mrs. Lincoln and 
 Lincoln were sitting. There was another door directly ahead but 
 that led to the space occupied by the young lady and the officer. This 
 door to his left had a gimlet hole in it, bored this afternoon and 
 reamed carefully around the edge with a penknife. Johnny put his 
 right eye up against it and looked in. They . . . were . . . close 
 . . . now ... the people in the box . . . life size, natural. . . . 
 
While he looked in, Mrs. Lincoln leaned over and spoke to Lin- 
 coln. She smiled, and Johnny could see her so plain, he could see 
 the filling in her eyetooth, and the hole in her ear where the wire 
 of her tiny sapphire earring went in. Her husband's shaggy head 
 inclined to her for a moment. Johnny got his gun ready. 
 
 Up until this moment he had been thinking. 
 
 As he walked up the stairs, as he leaned against a pillar and 
 stood looking over the audience, as he went to the door of the 
 corridor to the boxes and opened it and went in, as he barred it, 
 as he advanced and spied through the tiny hole, he had been 
 thinking one thing only : that this was himself, Johnny Booth, with 
 a gun in his hand going to shoot the President of the United 
 States. The thought running in his mind was like an engine making 
 always the same pattern of sound, and he was so used to it he 
 didn't hear it any more. 
 
 But he heard it stop. It stopped, the words stopped that this was 
 Johnny Booth going to . . . and made an eerie room of his brain, 
 pitch dark, cold, empty. The assassin that Madam Tussaud was to 
 make out of wax and stand behind the wax President, eternally 
 about to die, would have the same kind of head on his shoulders 
 as he had, empty as a drum. 
 
 He twisted the knob without a sound and pushed open the door 
 and entered. 
 
 The box was red papered, lit only by the reflected glare from the 
 stage. Through the thick lace curtains it had a fitful, ruddy glow, 
 like a cave with a dying fire, too dim to see that the carpet on the 
 floor was red, too, and the chairs upholstered in rich red velvet. 
 
 Mrs. Mountchessington, the middle-aged female, said stagily to 
 the hero of the play: "I am sure, Mr. Trenchard, you are not used 
 to the manners of good society, and that, alone, will excuse the 
 impertinence of which you have been guilty." She flounced off. The 
 hero looked after her comically. The audience tittered. Then the 
 hero spoke: "Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I 
 guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal — you sock- 
 dologizing old man-trap." 
 
 The audience roared. 
 
 Within its laughter, as borne upon a wave, Johnny with his gun 
 
ready to fire took two steps up to the back of the head, and it was 
 like encountering a planet. He raised his gun. You couldn't miss a 
 target like that? You couldn't miss the Colossus of Rhodes sitting 
 in a mahogany rocking chair with legs crossed ? If you could hit the 
 side of a barn door, you could surely. . . . 
 
 Johnny could. He pulled the trigger. And did. 
 
 The gun went off with a ridiculously small sound. His voice, too, 
 when he opened his mouth and shouted "Sic semper tyrannisl" 
 came out a shrill and tinny noise, not loud. 
 
 When Lincoln went down it was with no biff, bang, kerthump, 
 like a boulder pushed of? a mountain. He never made a sound, but 
 stayed right where he was, sitting in his rocking chair, and his 
 chin settled down on his chest like a man asleep on a train. 
 
 Johnny's head started working and his eyes darted everywhere. He 
 dropped his gun and it thudded on the carpet at his feet. He grabbed 
 the sharp little dagger in his right hand. Mrs. Lincoln saw that 
 something fearful was happening but she did not know what. Miss 
 Harris saw but did not know. Major Rathbone made a dive for him 
 and Johnny thrust upward at him viciously, ripping the sleeve, 
 slicing the flesh of the long arm, nicking the bone, while blood oozed 
 soft after the knife. 
 
 It took ten seconds, all this. And what was the audience doing? 
 Nothing. As if by an enchanter's trick, it had a glass bell set down 
 over its good humor and bewilderment. Through the glass it could 
 see a man in the President's box fight with another man, shove 
 him away, duck through the lace curtains, grasp the velvet railing, 
 vault lightly over, come down — say, that was a long jump! — not 
 effortlessly, though, as one expected, for look, his spur is caught on 
 that looped-up flag — listen to it tear! — ah, there he comes — landed 
 on his feet, too! — but he must have cracked his ankle or hurt 
 himself, for down he goes on all fours. Say! Who is that, anyway? 
 What's he doing? What kind of a performance is this? 
 
 Look at him! He's up now — he injured his leg — must have — 
 look at him running diagonally across the stage to the left — hopping 
 — he's hopping, isn't he? — and what's that little flutter of blue at 
 his heel? Why, it's a piece ripped out of the flag, caught on his 
 
spur. Look — he's going out the door. There's his black hat on the 
 stage. He lost it. He's gone! Who was that, anyway? What was he 
 doing? What kind of a performance is this? 
 
 Mary Lincoln's scream shattered the bell of enchantment to bits. 
 It burst into a million pieces. 
 
 "Help me!" 
 
 Johnny went fast when he got through the door backstage, and 
 nobody stopped him. All the actors and actresses and stagehands 
 stayed right where they were, doing whatever they were doing, 
 surprised to stone. He collided with the orchestra leader and slashed 
 at him with his dagger as though he might have been alive and of 
 evil intent instead of nobody and nothing. Then he hopped past 
 the piled-up scenery, the dressing room doors, the covered stairway 
 to the basement, out the back door and into the dark alley. 
 
 His horse was right where he left her, the stagehand, Ned 
 Spangler holding the reins, because she wouldn't be hitched, not 
 her, the little bitch. 
 
 "Ned, Ned, listen — !" Johnny is as out of breath as though he 
 had run five miles. 
 
 "Mr. Booth, is that you?" Peanuts John, the boy who does odd 
 jobs about the theater and sells peanuts between the acts, steps 
 forward out of the darkness. "Ned couldn't stay, Mr. Booth. They 
 need him inside. So he told me to hold — " 
 
 Why should Mr. Booth hit him a crack? 
 
 "Let go, you idiot!" 
 
 Peanuts John could not seem to let loose of the reins. 
 
 "Let go, damn you!" 
 
 He let loose then and away went Mr. Booth! 
 
 Now, that was a fine way to do, wasn't it? 
 
 The bright little bay, with black legs, black mane, black tail and 
 a white star on her forehead like Hesperus, flew down the alley 
 to F Street at a thundering gallop. People in the alley huts ran to 
 look out. 
 
 Peanuts John, his mouth wide open, saw the sparks fly out as the 
 iron shoes clanged and banged over the cobblestones — cha-gallop, 
 
cha-gallop, cha-gallop — saw the sparks fly out in the dark from under 
 the iron hoofs as they struck the stones, saw a demon riding away on 
 a demon horse. 
 
 He stared until there was nothing more to see. 
 
 Now, that was a fine way to do! 
 
II 
 
 7 have given up all!" 
 —booth's diary 
 
 The last time through Washington! Past the Herndon House, 
 past the Patent Office, to the corner of Fifth and F! The under- 
 sized horse shot ahead and galloped over the cinder pathway under 
 the juicy leaves of the fresh-leaved trees of Judiciary Square to 
 Indiana Avenue! Then past the back door of the Capitol, past it 
 on First Street NW., past the south side of it on B Street, to Penn- 
 sylvania Avenue SE., down Eleventh Street SE. — nobody behind, 
 nobody following — listen, not a sound! — to the Navy Yard Bridge! 
 Like a light ball lightly tossed, the moon sailed up and over, 
 scattering the clouds as she went. 
 
 The Navy Yard Bridge led over into Maryland across the eastern 
 branch of the Potomac River. Johnny went this way because he was 
 going to follow the great Confederate Underground Mail Route 
 that messages, passengers and even light freight had passed along 
 through Washington to Canada and England, all during the war. 
 This led first to Surrattsville, then to Beantown, to Port Tobacco, 
 across the Rappahannock to Port Royal — at the crossroads steering 
 clear of the glutted Richmond Pike — then to Bowling Green, Rich- 
 mond, then down into the deep, dank South — from there, to any 
 safe place, never to be caught or punished, safe as houses! There 
 were friends to Southern sympathizers all along this mail route, 
 everybody knew. 
 
 So Johnny went that way, perfectly certain that people would 
 take him in, hide, feed and rest him, lend him fresh horses, press a 
 warm coat upon his back and offer him brandy. All the maidens in 
 their fine hair would thrill to think of such a hero going through, 
 
 9 
 
slayer of that despot and worse, Abraham Lincoln, who made life a 
 torment for so many. The daughters of the houses would blush with 
 delight when they offered dainty shirts, stitched by their own fair 
 hands. Their eyes would shimmer with tears when they said good-by, 
 wishing him Godspeed. All wives and women would offer their 
 love as he went by, the men and boys crowding up to shake his 
 hand, and the children being reminded: You must well remember 
 the day of seeing him. 
 
 Yes, that was the way to go, down the great underground mail 
 route. It was the only way, down through Maryland, for that battle- 
 ground Virginia was still swarming with troops and its shore 
 could hardly be landed on with safety, unless one went far down the 
 line to cross the Potomac. 
 
 A sentry on the Navy Yard Bridge heard him coming, stepped 
 out and called "Halt!" Johnny halted and a young sergeant ap- 
 peared to see who he might be. He had orders: be careful whom 
 you let pass. 
 
 "Who are you?" the Sergeant asked briskly. 
 
 The glittering little horse snorted and stamped and the drops 
 ran off her, but her rider was calm and smiling. 
 
 "The name is Booth, sir," he said. 
 
 "Where you been?" 
 
 "To the city." 
 
 "Where you going?" 
 
 "Home." 
 
 "Where's home?" 
 
 "In the Charleses, if you please." 
 
 "What's the name of the town?" 
 
 "Oh, no town. Not far from Beantown, though." Johnny took 
 out his handkerchief and blew his nose. "Got a little place there." 
 
 "Beantown? What kind of a town is that?" 
 
 Johnny laughed. He put his handkerchief away. "Good God, don't 
 tell me you've never been there, Captain!" 
 
 The Sergeant scowled upward. "Don't you know there's a law 
 that you can't cross this here bridge after nine o'clock at night? 
 Nobody can't." 
 
 10 
 
"No, I didn't," Johnny said. "It's news to me. I haven't been to 
 town for quite a while." 
 
 The Sergeant kept on scowling. "Why didn't you start home 
 earlier? — It's going on for eleven." 
 
 "Well, I thought if I waited I'd have the moon to ride home by." 
 He smiled. 
 
 "You got her," the Sergeant said, unbending somewhat. They 
 both glanced upward at her whiteness, through her white rays. "I 
 guess you can pass." 
 
 "Good evening to you then!" Johnny lifted his hand in an airy 
 salute that was half a wave; the sentry and the Sergeant drew back 
 and he started his horse off in a walk. No matter how his heart 
 beat, no matter how his blood raced, with these armed soldiers be- 
 hind him, he forced himself to hold the little mare in. He forced 
 himself to let her walk slowly all the way across the long wooden 
 bridge, clip clop, clip clop, like a peddler's horse hitched to a 
 wagon. As she plodded over the noisy, uneven planks in the moon- 
 light she recovered her wind somewhat. 
 
 But not for long! Now they were over the bridge, their echo like 
 a ghostly rider behind them, above the quiet rippling water! Now 
 they were down on solid ground again where a few houses and a 
 store or two, clustering along the road for some two or three 
 hundred feet, called themselves the village of Anacostia, and the 
 feel of the road sent the horse bolting ahead. Then — yes, this was 
 the sharp left turn to follow, and the road up Good Hope Hill. They 
 took it. 
 
 The man coming down the road proved to be only a tall boy. 
 Johnny reined up and the horse halted, but she stamped and danced. 
 
 "Is this the right road to Surrattsville?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, sir, it is," the boy said. 
 
 As he looked upward he brushed his hand quickly across his 
 eyes, but not so quickly that Johnny did not see the glint of tears. 
 The first person he met to be crying! Why? For whom? Had he 
 heard the news? A shiver went through him as though a black 
 cat had crossed his path. "Why should you be crying?" 
 
 The boy swallowed. "It's Pa," he said. "I'm working down near 
 
 11 
 
Beantown and today I got word that my father, he's dying, in the 
 city. So I started out — " 
 
 "I'm sorry," Johnny said, relaxing. He wasn't crying for him 
 then. "Maybe when you get home it won't be as bad as you think. 
 Maybe he'll get better." 
 
 The boy shook his head. 
 
 "I'm sorry," Johnny repeated. "Listen, has anybody come by 
 here?" 
 
 "Nobody for quite a while," the boy said. 
 
 "Nobody on a light roan? Black tail and mane?" 
 
 "I never seen nobody." 
 
 "Young fellow?" 
 
 "Not that I seen." 
 
 Johnny turned and looked down the road, then back to the boy. 
 "Thanks," he said. "And better luck than you look for." 
 
 "The same to you, mister." The boy went on. 
 
 At the top of the hill Johnny swerved into a little glade and 
 looked anxiously down the way he had come, the road bright in 
 the moonlight. The boy was a mere speck now, and soon he disap- 
 peared. The mare shook her mane and snorted under the low 
 branches of the trees. Johnny leaned forward in the saddle and 
 patted her neck. "There, there," he said soothingly, "good girl, that's 
 my girl." Still patting, he again peered down the road. It was very 
 still. He could hear his watch ticking. How long would it be ? How 
 long would he have to wait? How long could he wait? But there — 
 listen — wasn't that a gallop? He strained his ears, his heart begin- 
 ning to pound. It was! And here came a light roan with a black 
 tail and mane, galloping for all she was worth. He rode out onto 
 the road again. 
 
 "David!" he hollered. "David!" 
 
 "Oh, Lord, Johnny. I'm glad I caught up to you finally," the rider 
 exclaimed, pulling up so short that the mud flew. He gave an 
 explosive sigh. This was David E. Herold, not twenty, with a fuzz 
 upon his cheeks that the razor had never touched, ready to burst 
 out laughing and not be able to stop, ready to bawl at a rebuke, 
 ready to follow his idol to the world's end. 
 
 "Where's Lewis?" Johnny asked. "Is he coming? We haven't got 
 
 12 
 
much time. Did you two do what I told you? Is Seward dead?" 
 
 "I don't know, Johnny. I was outside on my horse, holding Lewis' 
 horse the way you told me, and he was inside the house — and all of 
 a sudden all this yelling started and here come the nigger butler 
 running out the front door yelling bloody murder — and people 
 started coming — so I got scared and rode off and left Lewis' horse 
 there. I thought I better skedaddle!" 
 
 "He'd have followed you if he got away— if he wasn't stopped at 
 the Navy Yard Bridge—" 
 
 "I got by the sentries all right," David bragged. "They come out 
 and asked who I was and where I was going. I says I was going 
 home to White Plains. 'What you doing out so late?' they says. 
 'Been visiting my lady love on Capitol Hill,' I says. Give 'em a 
 wink." He burst out laughing. "So anyway, they let me come on 
 across. They took a good look at me, though. They'll know me if 
 they see me again. But they won't see me again, that's the joke of 
 it. Nobody will!" He laughed again. "Mall be wild, though, so 
 will the girls. Glory, they'll be wild." David had a widowed mother 
 and seven sisters. 
 
 "You don't know whether he's dead, then?" 
 
 "Seward?" David shook his head. "Lewis was inside and then all 
 this yelling started and people started coming and I — " 
 
 "Well, come on," Johnny said. "We haven't got time to wait. If 
 he got away he'll follow us down the route. He knows the road we 
 planned to take." 
 
 They touched spurs to their horses and went galloping off, down 
 the other side of Good Hope Hill, taking the road to the right and 
 then to the left, David leading the way. 
 
 If only Lewis Payne and David Herold, his two henchmen, had 
 done the job he gave them to do! Johnny thought as he rode 
 along. Then Secretary of State Seward would be dead as well as 
 the President and he would have accomplished still more, given the 
 Confederacy yet another reason to call him hero and savior and 
 heap honors upon him. But that was the way of it. Never trust any- 
 body but yourself. If he had been told to go to Secretary of State 
 Seward's mansion and get into the bedroom of the Secretary, who 
 was lying in bed with a broken arm, and murder him, he would 
 
 13 
 
have done it! He swore under his breath. 
 
 They had gone only half a mile or so when Johnny drew rein 
 and called to David to stop. He did, rather far up ahead, and 
 wheeled his horse around and rode back to ask what was wrong. 
 "It's my leg," Johnny said, wincing with pain. "I didn't realize how 
 bad I must have hurt it. I think my ankle's broken. And this damn 
 horse rocks back and forth like a rocking chair. How about trading 
 me?" 
 
 David was off his horse in an instant and beside Johnny. '"You 
 didn't say nothing about getting hurt, Johnny. You didn't say 
 nothing about no leg!" He was greatly concerned. 
 
 "I guess I forgot it myself in the excitement," Johnny said, "but 
 now it's throbbing and paining like the very devil." 
 
 "What did you do to it? Bruise it or something? Bump into 
 something?" David helped Johnny to dismount and with great 
 gentleness used all his strength to boost him into the saddle of his 
 own horse. Then he climbed up on Johnny's little mare. "What'd 
 you do to your leg?" he asked. 
 
 Johnny was gasping with the pain of the move. He drew deep 
 breaths and bent far forward, recovering. Under his black hair his 
 face was as white as a woman's in a dead faint. "I jumped," he 
 said. "I took that jump out of the box. Some idiot had hung a cur- 
 tain or something up there on the front of the box and I got caught 
 in it, caught my spur." He glanced downward at his left heel and 
 saw the spur was missing. "I caught on this damn curtain or what- 
 ever it was, and instead of jumping, I fell. I think I broke my ankle." 
 
 "You — really — did — do — it — then?" David asked. 
 
 "Do what?" 
 
 "What you said you was going to do? Assassinate — kill President 
 Lincoln?" 
 
 "Did you think I was talking through my hat? Of course I did," 
 Johnny said scornfully. 
 
 David opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again and said, 
 "Is he really dead?" 
 
 "Of course he's dead. Wouldn't he be dead with a bullet in his 
 brain? A derringer hand-cast? Wouldn't you imagine?" 
 
 "Glory," David said, almost too awed to speak. "You really did 
 
 14 
 
it. How did you get away? It was right during the play, wasn't it, 
 and all the audience right there and everything, wasn't it? Wasn't 
 that what you told us this afternoon you was going to do?" 
 
 "If you'd listen once in a while instead of nothing but blab for a 
 change," Johnny said, "I'd tell you. The third act was on, the way I 
 planned. Second scene. I went upstairs and entered his box and — 
 that was all there was to it." He was silent a moment, thinking. 
 "Just before I fired I said, 'Sic semper ty 'ran nisi' " 
 
 "Why did you say that?" David was hanging on every word, 
 staring at him. 
 
 "Why, because that means Ever thus to tyrants. It's the state 
 motto of Virginia." 
 
 "Oh." David looked blank. "Didn't he try to jump up or noth- 
 ing?" 
 
 "He never moved." 
 
 "What about his wife? Didn't she scream or nothing?" 
 
 "There was a Union officer sitting pretty close to him. But he 
 didn't get far. So then I climbed on the railing and jumped down 
 onto the stage and got away, out the back door." 
 
 "In — front — of — all — the — people? The audience? Or had they all 
 gone home?" 
 
 "Of course they hadn't all gone home, you dolt. Didn't I just tell 
 you the play was going on ? " 
 
 "Didn't they do nothing?" 
 
 "Not a thing." 
 
 David considered this. "Glory, I'd of liked to been there. Why, 
 you must of jumped twenty feet. Right in front of everybody, 
 killed the President, jumped down on the stage, run out the back 
 and nobody lifted a finger." 
 
 "Oh, it's not twenty feet. More like thirteen or fourteen." 
 
 "But glory to God, Johnny. It's a wonder you didn't break your 
 neck instead of your leg. I would of, I bet." 
 
 "It's my ankle." 
 
 David turned his dazzled eyes upon it. 
 
 "It hurts like blazes," Johnny said. 
 
 "Maybe it'll quit after a while, Johnny," David said hopefully. 
 
 "Maybe it will." 
 
 15 
 
"Shall we go on then?" 
 
 "We sure as hell can't stop here." 
 
 They started again, childish David in a dream about the deed of 
 murder, marveling that his companion Johnny — his own friend — 
 had done so rash a deed in front of thousands of people and got 
 away to tell the tale. 
 
 "When we get to Surrattsville," Johnny said after a few moments, 
 "I won't get off the horse. You go into the inn and get Mr. Lloyd to 
 give you the things, won't you? And have him bring out a bottle. 
 Brandy, but he knows that already." 
 
 "All right, Johnny. How you sitting?" 
 
 "I think I wrenched my back, too, it's paining me, but this is a 
 better horse. Nothing like that little bitch you've got. She rocks like 
 a rocking chair. Listen, David." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Be sure Lloyd gives you everything, won't you? The carbines, 
 the ammunition, the field glasses and some brandy. Listen, though, 
 I think we'll just take the one carbine. You can carry it. It'd be 
 too much of a load for me with my leg like this. So tell Lloyd he 
 can keep the other one." 
 
 "All right, I'll tell him." 
 
 They galloped on and soon were entering the village of Surratts- 
 ville. Here, at the inn, young John Surratt, another henchman, 
 about six weeks before had brought out and deposited what they 
 were going to need if, and when, they kidnaped Abraham Lincoln 
 — Spencer carbines, a monkey wrench, coils of rope and other things. 
 Months before, with Johnny at the head, six young men had 
 banded together in a great scheme to kidnap the President and stop 
 the war, but nothing came of it and the idea was abandoned. How- 
 ever, in the midst of their preparations they had deposited these 
 things at the inn, and that was handy, for these two could pick them 
 up tonight. 
 
 On the left-hand side of the road they saw the Old Surratt 
 House, glimpses of it, set in a thick grove of trees. There was a 
 light in the northwest corner, in a room used as a barroom. They 
 rode around to the porch on that side and in a moment David was 
 off his horse and up the stairs and knocking on the door. 
 
 16 
 
The door opened a crack and a fat face peered out. "What you 
 want? Who is it?" The man was drunk and spoke thickly. 
 
 "It's us," David said. "We want the things Surratt brought out. 
 That is, not all, but some of them." 
 
 "Who's out there?" 
 
 "Just me and Johnny. Johnny Booth." 
 
 "The actor?" 
 
 "John Wilkes Booth." 
 
 Lloyd pushed the door open. "Come on in," he hollered into the 
 darkness. "How about a drink?" 
 
 "Send out the bottle with David there," Johnny called. "I've hurt 
 my leg and can't get on and off the horse very easily." 
 
 "Jumping out of a box," David explained, following the innkeeper 
 inside. "Twenty feet or more. At Harry Ford's Theater tonight." 
 
 "Well, that's an actor for you." 
 
 Johnny had time only to draw a sigh or two before David was 
 outside again, out the door and across the porch and beside him. 
 "Here," he said, holding up the bottle. 
 
 Johnny took it, put it to his mouth, took a long swig, swallowed, 
 sputtered and handed the bottle back. "That's not brandy, damn 
 it to hell. I didn't ask for whisky!" 
 
 "It was all he had, he said." 
 
 "I told him what I wanted!" 
 
 "It was all he had." 
 
 "Damn his soul to hell." 
 
 "Oh, go on," David wheedled. "This'll wet your whistle just as 
 good. It ain't so terrible. Go on and drink some more. Maybe we 
 won't get nothing for a long time. Go ahead and drink it, Johnny." 
 
 Johnny did, changed his mind. He drank deep and handed back 
 the bottle. "You tell him I said damn his soul to hell," but some of 
 the venom had gone out of his voice. 
 
 "All right, I'll tell him." 
 
 Lloyd was standing at the door when David went back up on 
 the porch. "Johnny says damn your soul to hell for this stuff in- 
 stead of brandy." 
 
 "Best I could do, Johnny," Lloyd called into the darkness tipsily, 
 with great good humor. "All I had." 
 
 17 
 
They heard an actorlike "Pah!" and both laughed. 
 
 In another two or three minutes David was back on his horse 
 and they were ready to ride away. Lloyd had followed him out and 
 stood swaying before them. "Which way you fellows headed?" 
 
 "Down the mail route." 
 
 "Crossing the river at Port Tobacco?" 
 
 "Yep," David said. 
 
 "Why dontcha stop over?" the innkeeper begged. "Everybody 
 around here goes to bed with the chickens." 
 
 "Would you like to hear a little piece of news?" Johnny asked 
 him suddenly. 
 
 "Yes," David put in. 
 
 "What kind of news? I don't care whether I hear any news or 
 not," Lloyd said. "No news is good news." 
 
 "Well, you might like to hear this," Johnny said. "We've assas- 
 sinated the President and Secretary Seward." 
 
 Lloyd's face changed. "The President?" he said. He staggered a 
 little. "President LINCOLN?" 
 
 "We're pretty sure we have," David said proudly. "Me and him. 
 Him, rather." 
 
 The two young men glanced at each other, exchanging a look of 
 amusement that the innkeeper was so flabbergasted by their informa- 
 tion. Then Johnny dug his one spur into the roan, David followed, 
 and together they rode out onto the main road again, the drunken 
 man staring stupidly after them and saying, "Why, it'd take an army 
 to do that. It'd take an army." 
 
 It was just before they reached the tiny hamlet of T. B., five 
 miles south of Surrattsville, where six roads branched out in as 
 many directions, that Johnny called another halt and announced a 
 change in their plans. It was called T. B. because of the initials of 
 one Thomas Brooke on a stone at the crossroads, marking a section 
 of the land he owned. There wasn't much more to it than the stone. 
 
 "I've got to have my leg seen to," he said. "I feel like the bone 
 is tearing through the flesh at every jump. I've got to have it 
 bandaged up. I've got to." 
 
 "Sure," David said anxiously. "But where '11 we go? Back to 
 Surrattsville? Is there a doctor back there we could go to?" 
 
 18 
 
"What I've been thinking," Johnny said, "is that we'd ought to 
 swing off to the east about here and try to get to a doctor's place 
 I know. Dr. Mudd, his name is. I got acquainted with him last 
 winter. He lives a mile or two from Bryantown. He'll fix my ankle. 
 Besides, maybe we could stay there for a while. I — I don't feel so 
 well. It must be that rotten liquor." 
 
 Instead, then, of turning to the west at the crossroads and taking 
 the much nearer road to Port Tobacco, where they intended to cross 
 the Potomac in a friend's boat and get over to the safe Virginia 
 side, they had to turn east, to Upper Marlboro, and ride for Bryan- 
 town. 
 
 Three miles from T. B. they crossed some railroad tracks. "The 
 Baltimore and Potomac and Pope's Creek Railroad," David said, 
 like a conscientious guide on a tour. "My nose keeps taking a notion 
 to want to run," he added. "Ain't it cold, though ? This here's where 
 you go from Prince George into Charles County." He put his hand- 
 kerchief up to his nose and blew loudly. 
 
 "It's like the middle of winter instead of April," Johnny said bit- 
 terly. "And we've got fifteen miles at the very least to go." 
 
 "What's this stream ? " he asked in a few moments when they rode 
 over the little bridge. 
 
 "It's a creek, Mattawoman Creek," David said. "There's lots of 
 ducks and reedbirds in these here swamps along here. The swamps 
 run along for quite a ways. It's pretty in the daytime when the 
 weather's nice. Me and my dad used to go hunting around here. 
 The Judas trees — " 
 
 "God, I'm cold." 
 
 " — the Judas trees," David went on, "they'll sure be a sight for 
 sore eyes in the daytime now. Pink, they get. Kind of pinkish." 
 
 "It was warm this time last year." 
 
 "All along here, it'll be pretty in the daytime," the boy persisted. 
 
 They came to another little village, Beantown, where a cross 
 gleamed brightly on the cupola of a ghostly litde church to their 
 left. They flashed through the village and came to a graveyard in 
 the forks of the road. 
 
 "Now which way?" David asked. 
 
 "Which road leads to Bryantown?" Johnny said. 
 
 19 
 
"The one to the right." 
 
 "Then it's this one straight ahead." 
 
 "Come on, then," David said. "A graveyard gives me the creeps. 
 Let's get going. One of my uncles claimed he seen somebody sitting 
 on every single tombstone, once. He had to pass by a graveyard. 
 They was spirits. You could see right through 'em. Woo," he said. 
 "That's the last sight I'd want to see." He shivered and reached for 
 his handkerchief again. 
 
 Johnny's teeth were beginning to chatter and he folded his arms 
 over his chest, holding the reins in his cold fists. 
 
 "Say, look how light it's getting," David said. "Well, that's a bless- 
 ing, ain't it?" 
 
 "It looks darker than ever to me," Johnny said. "We want to keep 
 our eyes open for a gate along here someplace on the right-hand side 
 of the road. We must have come two miles. It's two miles from the 
 graveyard that the gate's supposed to be. We might have passed it." 
 His sigh sounded like a groan. "Maybe we'd better turn and go 
 back." He passed his hand across his face, ran his fingers angrily 
 through his hair. "That's all we need! To get lost. To make every- 
 thing perfect!" 
 
 "There's your gate for you," David called out reassuringly. 
 
 And there it was. It stood open and they turned and rode through 
 it, up the straight, narrow road a quarter of a mile through a field 
 to the large house where Dr. Samuel A. Mudd lived. Johnny had 
 made his acquaintance a few months before when in the neighbor- 
 hood to buy a horse. He knew the house well, for twice he had slept 
 there as guest of the hospitable Mudd family. The doctor could fix 
 Johnny's leg and give him shelter. Maybe he and David could stay 
 right here until everything blew over. What a comfortable bed they 
 had given him, what good meals they put upon the table, how 
 charming young Mrs. Mudd was. David and he would stay right 
 here until everything blew over and then go away to Mexico or 
 perhaps abroad, maybe to England or France. These thoughts were 
 comforting and Johnny yawned cavernously. 
 
 "Bed's going to feel good, huh, Johnny?" 
 
 "I'm going to sleep for a solid week," he said. "David, you get ofjf 
 and knock at that door there on the right. That's the front door." 
 
 20 
 
They halted under the trees and David did as he was bid, dis- 
 mounted and went swiftly to the door. He put up his knuckles and 
 knocked, first softly, then sharply and loudly. 
 
 Down the long hall, in the big bedroom to the right, young Dr. 
 Mudd raised himself up on his elbow and listened. 
 
 "That's somebody at the door," he said. 
 
 His wife sat up quickly. "What could they want?" she said. "It's 
 the middle of the night!" 
 
 The doctor leaned over and lit a match, squinting down at the 
 big watch that ticked as loudly as a clock on the washstand by the 
 bed. "It's nearly four," he said, shaking the match out. 
 
 Knock, knock, knock! 
 
 He got up and a shiver ran over him when the cold air struck 
 his bare skin. "Well, I guess I'd better go see," he said, reaching for 
 clothes enough to cover him. 
 
 "You be careful, Sam, won't you?" 
 
 "It's probably Pa's gallstones again." 
 
 Knock, knock! 
 
 Lightly he stooped and gave his wife a kiss that just grazed her 
 temple. "I'll be back in a minute, lovey," he said. 
 
 Four years, lovey. They will arrest him for treason and assassina- 
 tion, imprison him, stick his head in a padded canvas bag through 
 the hottest days of summer, chain him and try him before a corrupt 
 jury. Then they will sentence and ship him away to a dungeon in a 
 fortress on the Dry Tortugas, where death grows, and disease, rich 
 as verdure. He'll be back. But he won't be the same again, lovey. 
 Never again. 
 
 "Is somebody coming?" Johnny called fretfully. "My God, you'd 
 think they'd have the decency to answer the door." 
 
 "Maybe they moved," David said. He laid his ear close to the door 
 and listened. "Here comes somebody," he announced over his 
 shoulder. "I hear somebody coming now." 
 
 A dim light moved across a window. 
 
 "Thank God," Johnny said. 
 
 Weary and trembling as he was, he took out a little tortoise-shell 
 comb and with care and precision combed his chill black hair. 
 
 21 
 
Ill 
 
 'What Brutus was honored for." 
 —booth's diary 
 
 Far up in the luxurious box a spiral of small smoke vanishes. 
 The blue and white Treasury Guard flag, slashed by the 
 assassin's sharp spur, hangs degenerate, and the picture of Washing- 
 ton, slightly teetering, looks lopsided. In that dim high place behind 
 the rich curtains, a woman screams outlandishly, screams again. She 
 grabs for the man who sits with his chin upon his chest as if in sleep 
 and shakes him. He does not wake. 
 
 The actors backstage, or slowly coming forward onstage, are not 
 yet turned to live people, except one, Miss Laura Keene. She is the 
 leading lady. She has reddish hair and the blood-brown eyes that 
 go with it. She has hidden her russet freckles under thick white 
 powder. 
 
 It gives her a thrill of powerful pleasure to use her trained voice 
 like a whip upon this maddened beast, the audience. "Keep quiet, 
 be calm, pass down the aisles quietly," the elocutionist perfectly enun- 
 ciates. "All will be well, keep calm. Keep calm. . . ." 
 
 They carried him between the crowds of people, out into the 
 damp, moonlit night. They stepped upon the cold cobblestones and 
 wondered which way to carry him and where to go. Three doctors 
 clung close, and hundreds of people clung to his going like bees 
 to a stump. 
 
 Across the street from the theater the door of a small brick house 
 stood open, a rectangle of yellow lamplight in the darkness. A man 
 came through it out onto the small porch. He looked down the 
 flight of steps and called, "What's the matter? What's happened?" 
 
 All of them told him, and then the litter and bearers came sinu- 
 
 22 
 
ously up the stairs, attracted by the light, and the man, fleeing back- 
 ward, gave way to the procession. He led them and their burden 
 down the long hall to the bedroom at the end of it. He was a 
 drunken, cruel fellow, this landlord and owner of the house, but 
 there was domestic pride to him, too. When he flung open the bed- 
 room door and lit the gas lamp, he was glad that his miserable 
 wife, now on a visit to Baltimore, had left the chamber so clean 
 and neat. 
 
 Down the stairs from the floors above came the young men who 
 lodged there. One was a portrait painter. He saw the face, with 
 discoloring shut eyelids, of the man they were carrying. ("The Presi- 
 dent has been shot and is dying.") He said in his mind: I did not 
 know he was so beautiful. 
 
 The room to lodge the dying was long and narrow. It had a 
 Brussels carpet on the floor and warm brown paper on the walls, 
 hung with lithographs and engravings: Rosa Bonheur's "Horse 
 Fair," Herrings' "Village Blacksmith," "The Stable," "The Barn 
 Yard." If he had opened his eyes and looked, Lincoln would have 
 seen these. And Mrs. Peterson, the absent landlady, would have been 
 proud if he had gazed upon her fancy crocheting, too, displayed 
 here, there and everywhere. Not a towel, pillowcase, pincushion, 
 washcloth or doily but bore her nervous handiwork. There was a 
 bureau with deep drawers, and a table. Chairs were handed over 
 people's heads in at the door until there were eight straight parlor 
 chairs, all there was space for. 
 
 The bed was a low walnut four-poster, covered with a woven 
 bedspread. Busy hands turned it back at first, then took it clear off 
 and bundled it up and dropped it at the foot of the bed. They turned 
 back the covers, too, and mussed up the bed as they did so. Some- 
 body tucked in the edges of the bottom sheet that had come un- 
 tucked, but did not do it without leaving wrinkles, so that when 
 they slid Lincoln in, sideways — for he was too big and tall to lie 
 straight up and down — he lay upon the wrinkles all night. But he 
 did not care, or feel any discomfort. For the long ordeal ahead, 
 he was very snug indeed. 
 
 The young officer, Major Rathbone, had tried to assist Mrs. 
 
 23 
 
Lincoln, now quiet but crying fretfully as a woman cries who has 
 been slighted and had her feelings hurt. He had lost quite a lot of 
 blood and began fainting so often that they had to take him home 
 in his ruined uniform. 
 
 Miss Harris, his fiancee, was very sorry about this, or she would 
 have been sorry if she could have collected her thoughts enough to 
 consider the matter. After weeping helplessly, moaning, biting her 
 handkerchief and having her feet stepped on by everybody who 
 rushed into the box, she managed to put herself into the way of 
 friends. They carried her off and took her safely home, with enor- 
 mous care, as though she had been a piece of Meissen, for she was 
 very famous that night, having been a member of the President's 
 party. She never was so famous again, even many years later when 
 she herself was murdered, by the hand of her husband (this same 
 Major Rathbone). 
 
 They sent for Robert, the Lincoln son, and he hurried there. 
 Half the time he let his mother twine him in her grief, half the 
 time he considered or stared upon the astonishing fact of Father 
 helpless, who had never been so before. In his new and modish 
 uniform, a pretty blue-eyed captain of twenty-two, Robert felt sad 
 and during the long night often took his handkerchief out and blew 
 his nose and cried. However, Father had never been as intimate 
 with his eldest son, as warmly intimate, as with everyone else. Even 
 when he was little, the talking in parables had distressed Robert. 
 The jokes, too, somewhat. A graduate of Harvard College, he was 
 a cut above Father. Mostly Todd, humorless, a conformist, full of 
 fierce pride, he took care to look and speak and act as little like his 
 father as possible, and succeeded in seeming almost no kin to him. 
 The painfully unique man who was — well, Father, of course, but 
 pusher and doer, lawyer, politician, party man, President, with the 
 deadly determined will to climb up on top of the heap and stay 
 there until he had to be assassinated like a king — that man had 
 used up most of the air of Robert's world, taken up most of the 
 landscape. Him hewn down, the boy would suddenly see, and be 
 amazed to see, how far space went. 
 
 He cried for the unfamiliarity of the hours, and the frightening 
 promise of the sudden view. This very morning Father had said, 
 
 24 
 
"Now, listen to me, Robert: You must lay aside your uniform and 
 return to college. I wish you to read law for three years, and at the 
 end of that time I hope we shall be able to tell whether you will 
 make a lawyer or not." (Now, the only business Father had to mind 
 was his own, that of dying. . . .) 
 
 Mary Todd Lincoln could only sit on the slick sofa in the front 
 parlor of the house picked out by fate to be the famous one where 
 died the Great Emancipator and cry and cry that anyone could be 
 so thoughtless and inconsiderate as to do this to her. It was a hor- 
 rible place to have to stay all night, she complained. The parlor 
 was clean, with presentable furniture — two cabinets with a pre- 
 dominance of large sea shells displayed upon them, one on either 
 side of the fireplace, a horsehair sofa across from it, so slippery and 
 round that it was almost impossible for a plump, short-legged 
 woman in a stiff corset and full, glassy skirt to sit upon it. There 
 was also a large oval center table dismally clothed in dark green, 
 and a stand against the front wall between the two lace-curtained 
 front windows. It was a carpeted room, but cold. Someone brought 
 wood in and built a fire, but it was damp and didn't catch well, and 
 nobody regularly tended it, so that it sputtered feebly and almost 
 died all night long, with no more warmth to it than a ghost fire 
 over a swamp. The fireplace didn't seem to draw the way it should. 
 Currents of cold air came from no known place. "Shut the door, 
 Robert," his mother begged wretchedly, but the parlor door was shut 
 most of the time, except when official-seeming men came in and out. 
 "There's a terrible draft from somewhere." She knew she would 
 catch her death of cold, and cried that anybody could abuse and 
 treat her so. Her back ached, her shoulder ached, she had a pain 
 in her neck. 
 
 Someone brought in another lamp, small and oil burning, of 
 hand-painted glass, and set it down on the center table, but the dark 
 wallpaper greedily drank up its streaming yellow, and the overhead 
 gas jets only made the room gloomier. 
 
 Through the big double doors the back parlor looked lighter and 
 brighter, a better place to be. Only there was no place to sit down, 
 unless one counted the tumbled bed in the corner some lodger or 
 lodgers had been routed out of, to make room for the night-long 
 
 25 
 
watchers over the President. They often left the small back chamber 
 where he was lying and came into it to whisper together and 
 stretch their legs. Here, too, a ghost fire spectrally burned in the 
 fireplace. A bureau stood at the far end of the room between the 
 two long windows that looked out upon the back porch, and there 
 was a washstand, center table and chair. Even if there had been a 
 rocking chair, close by a roaring fire, Mary Lincoln would have 
 thought twice before going in and taking it. For near the archway 
 between this front and back parlor stood another table, and at it, 
 writing out dispatch after dispatch, sat Edwin M. Stanton, Secretary 
 of War, the last man with whom Mary Lincoln wanted to sit. 
 
 Stanton kept going into the shadowy little bedroom where they 
 had pulled the bed over under the flickering gas jet, allowing it to 
 shine upon the dying man. It did not trouble him, though. The sun 
 could have been hung up there and the shut eyes, velvet curtained 
 under the dark lids with suffusing blood, would not have blinked. 
 
 Stanton, who "never wanted energy," would rather be writing 
 dispatches in the back parlor any day than sitting on a dining-room 
 chair at his chief's bedside waiting for the man to die. He wrote 
 some fierce ones that night, dozens of them, calling General Grant 
 back to defend the Capitol. Surely they were about to be attacked 
 by an enemy not defeated, as was supposed, not without arms, food, 
 clothing or the will to go on fighting, but mysteriously reanimated, 
 accoutered and ready to do battle, as the troops in Valhalla are 
 ready to do battle every morning, even if hacked to little pieces the 
 night before! He sent orders to the prisons that eagle-eyed watchful- 
 ness should be kept over rebel officers and soldiers, to the forts that 
 they be ready, with guns manned. He wrote out message after mes- 
 sage that the President was dying. . . . But he kept going back to 
 the little bedroom crowded with uncomfortable small chairs and 
 uncomfortable big men — Secretary of the Navy Welles, Attorney 
 General Speed, Quartermaster General Meigs, Surgeon General 
 Barnes, William Dennison, Charles Sumner, General Halleck — who 
 had never before had to do such a thing as sit in on the dying of a 
 president and hardly knew how to do it. They learned, staying in 
 one position so long, that a hand or foot went to sleep or began to 
 twitch with shooting pains, moving only to find, not comfort, but a 
 
 26 
 
new source of weariness and unease. They cleared their throats from 
 time to time, used handkerchiefs, always self-consciously, never with- 
 out consciousness of self, and spoke in as great an undertone as if 
 a favorite child, long ill and wakeful, had finally dropped into a 
 deep sleep from which one would not risk — no, not for any money — • 
 waking him. 
 
 Robert gently wrenched himself from the shoots, runners and 
 tendrils of his mother, and came into the room of death that night. 
 But his father, "an entirely public man," embarrassed him with this 
 entirely public dying, too, as with a gaucherie of which no man of 
 family and parts would be guilty, and Robert only gazed at him 
 and then helplessly looked at one important, solemn face after 
 another. Out in the hall the strolling, whispering Senators did not 
 stop him when he returned to his mother. They only said, loud 
 enough for him to hear, "Poor boy," or "Poor lad," as he went past. 
 
 "Where be his quiddities now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, 
 and his tricks?" 
 
 Upon his yellow face, the "most lovely" smile does not play. He 
 always said he never could remember a time when he couldn't read 
 and write, but he couldn't spell c-a-t now. 
 
 He didn't know where he was or who he was. 
 
 And who was he, anyway ? 
 
 His father said: "First sight of him was nothing to brag on." 
 
 His mother said: "He was the child that came, the boy I looked 
 for, the fastener with soft lips, the whimperer in my arms, the little, 
 the long, the grotesque, the beautiful." 
 
 His stepmother said: "One look at him — eleven years old and as 
 tall as myself — skeleton, spindle, hoe handle, never could fatten him 
 up — and I knew he was mine. One look at me and he knew I was 
 his. Welcome, says he. Welcome, says I. Oh, nest in my heart for- 
 ever." 
 
 His schoolteachers said: "All his school days together would not 
 make a year, but he was a pig for learning, he never got full." 
 
 The boys said: "There was no standing up he couldn't do for 
 himself." 
 
 The girls said: "He brought in the biggest backlog, built the 
 
 27 
 
brightest fire — we all sat around, watched the way the sparks flew, 
 told our fortunes. We saw him at meeting and spelling school — he 
 could spell down Shakespeare himself — but there was no standing 
 up he could for himself — let us look rosily on him, flick him with a 
 sash, brush by him, toss a curl or wink an eye and he was the 
 coward of the world before our beauty — overcome, done for, struck 
 into little pieces. We laughed like ouzels over ridiculous him." 
 
 His stepbrother said: "He contended an ant's life was as sweet 
 to it as ours to us! He'd pick out some damn fool thing like that 
 and contend it till the cows come home." 
 
 His first employer said: "I knowed right away he could think, and 
 when you got a chance to get hold of a man that can think, you 
 do it. And then, he wanted you to know what he was thinking. No 
 matter how hard it was to explain, he would try and try to put it 
 into words till the biggest simpleton would know what he meant, 
 for this was something he craved — to be heard and understood. 
 He said: 'I am never easy when I am handling a thought . . . till 
 I have bounded it north, and bounded it south, and bounded it east, 
 and bounded it west.' " 
 
 The first Illinois legislature in which he sat as a Whig member 
 said: "Lincoln? Oh, yes, the big, tall fellow. He didn't amount to 
 much." 
 
 The second Illinois legislature said: "We were the famous one. 
 We made history. We changed the state capital from Vandalia to 
 Springfield. Lincoln? We do remember — come to think of it — let's 
 see — we passed a resolution on slavery, resolving that we didn't want 
 any Abolition societies springing up or Abolition talk spouting, that 
 slaveholding states had the right to do what they damned pleased, 
 that the General Government had no business abolishing slavery in 
 the District of Columbia — and let's see, this Lincoln — yes, that's 
 who it was, Lincoln — this Lincoln got smart and entered a protest, 
 but he didn't get far — he only got one man to sign it with him, 
 a blatherskite from Sangamon, his own county. We remember now — 
 a know-it-all, Lincoln, butting into something that didn't concern 
 him." 
 
 Stephen A. Douglas said: "We met often in debate when we can- 
 
 28 
 
vassed the state, I a Democrat, he a Whig. I had him whipped any 
 way you'd look at it, but there was something about the man . . . 
 and he wouldn't be whipped. I had him whipped with Mary Todd, 
 too, but there was something . . . and she gave me the air for him 
 after all. Not that I don't praise God, seeing what she's grown — 
 but then, she was a tasty morsel, one of these little-waisted women 
 you could take a bite out of, you could bury your nose down a 
 couple of inches in her flesh and never touch bone — one of those. 
 She had me tossing on my bed many a night, no matter what she 
 is now, and she had him tossing, too, and he's the one that got her." 
 
 His wife said, in her heart: "Like they say, I knew he was going 
 to be something important — my brother-in-law and everybody said 
 so, and if J said I wasn't ambitious and didn't want to be married 
 to an important man, like the President of the United States, I'd be 
 telling a fib — but I wanted him because I loved him, too. He was a 
 woman's man, did you know that? He loved and wanted every 
 woman he ever laid eyes on. It's a pleasure to cage a man like that, 
 for he has gazed on all, and judged all, nothing has been too secret 
 and precious for him to gaze upon with his mind's eye, and what is 
 secret and precious of your own, he has found most beautiful. I 
 wanted to bind, blind and wind, stuff up his ears, turn all his love 
 and yearning upon me. But in little streams, in showerings, in a 
 pebble tumbling, or two or three, in jets and breaths — I could never 
 shut off all the places — he escaped me, by eeny and meeny, and I 
 had him, and didn't. He never was really mine. . . ." 
 
 He took his seat in Congress in 1847, the only Whig member 
 from Illinois, and the Congress said: "Lincoln? Oh, yes. Tall man. 
 Opposed the Mexican War, didn't he? Cost him his re-election, 
 didn't it?" 
 
 The first state convention of the Republican party said : "Abraham 
 Lincoln? Now there's a lawyer. There's a politician. There's a man 
 we can let do things, and get 'em done the way they'd ought to 
 be done!" 
 
 The Republican National Convention of 1860 said: "We nominate 
 Abraham Lincoln of Illinois to the office of President of the United 
 States." 
 
 29 
 
The people said: "We'll take him, thank you!" 
 
 The Confederacy, that new thing, said: "Abraham Lincoln is the 
 devil incarnate. That tears it. That does it. Fort Sumter, bang!" 
 
 His Cabinet said in seven distinct voices like seven exploding stars 
 upon the sky: "I would be a better man than he is with my hands 
 tied behind my back. Buffoon. Bungler. Babbler. Busybody. Bore. 
 Bigot. Bully. But BOSS." 
 
 His generals said: "If only he'd keep the hell out of what doesn't 
 concern him!" 
 
 His soldiers said: "We are coming, Father Abraham!" 
 
 The slaves said: "He walk de earf like de Lord ob Creation. Massa 
 Linkum am everywhere." 
 
 The people said, in 1864: "We'll take him again, thank you, and 
 tickled to get him!" 
 
 With the bullet in his brain, he did not know where he was or 
 who he was, or anything, but he was what the Voices said, from the 
 beginning of his life to the end. He was more than the Voices said 
 or dreamed of, more than he dreamed of himself. Once his young 
 hand wrote on the bottom of a page of ciphering: 
 
 Abraham Lincoln 
 
 his hand and pen 
 he will be good 
 
 but god Knows When. . . . 
 
 . . . while One down-looked him, smiling. . . . 
 
 The portrait painter, who lived upstairs, and his younger brother 
 went up and down the basement steps all night, carrying bottles of 
 hot water. The surgeons laid these beside the long, cold, dying limbs, 
 and it was a struggle whether the hot water would warm the flesh 
 or the flesh chill the bottles, but the undeflectable cold won out, 
 and in no time a surgeon would feel a bottle, and then another and 
 another, and sigh with exasperation and pull them out from under 
 the covers. 
 
 The portrait painter, running upstairs for the fiftieth time, ahead 
 of his brother, said, "I shouldn't be doing this. I should be painting 
 the most wonderful face on earth before it's too late." 
 
 30 
 
"Lincoln's?" his brother said, juggling a hot bottle. "Why, he 
 looks awful. Especially now." 
 
 The door opened and they saw the head of the walnut bed- 
 stead, past the crowding men, and saw the untrammeled, dusty 
 black hair, the imperturbable cheekbones and nose of the fallen 
 man. Someone took the hot bottles and handed out an armful of 
 cold ones. The brothers took them and downstairs they went again, 
 the cold of Lincoln's immortal dying against their hands. 
 
 "I'll never forgive myself," the portrait painter said. "Never if 
 I live a thousand years." 
 
 "Pooh," said his brother. "Mr. Lincoln would lots rather have 
 these bottles of hot water than have you daubing away at a picture." 
 
 "It's his last night on earth. Nobody will ever have the chance 
 again." 
 
 "Well, he's had his daguerreotype took," his brother said, "and 
 that's just as good. Better. In fact, I bet if he's had his picture took 
 once he's had it took fifty times, so what you hollering about?" 
 
 "I'm hollering — " the artist began, and gave up. "I might as well 
 not waste my breath," he said. "But a daguerreotype and a por- 
 trait — they're two different things." 
 
 "There is a draft from somewhere, Robert," Mrs. Lincoln said 
 piteously. "I'm so cold. My neck hurts. My back hurts. I'm so tired." 
 Her pale lips trembled. Her eyes were red rimmed with her long, 
 fretful weeping that sometimes broke out in a kind of howl that 
 turned Robert's neck red. Sometimes Robert supported her and led 
 her into the far bedroom where the important men shifted their 
 chairs back a few inches for her, or stepped back themselves upon 
 their glossy boots if they were wearily standing, and she tried to 
 throw herself upon her unconscious husband, her eyes streaming, 
 loud wails bursting from her lips. 
 
 "Keep that everlasting woman out of here," Stanton cried once, 
 when Robert had led her back to the parlor. "Keep her out!" 
 
 He could hear her in the front parlor as he wrote out his frenzied 
 appeals (Grant, bring the Army! Soldiers, put down revolt! Stop 
 the attack! Save the government! Save the Capitol! Save the Cabi- 
 net! Save me! Guard the prisoners! Man the guns! Watch the ram- 
 parts! Bar the gates! Keep out the enemy! Find the assassin!) in the 
 
 31 
 
next room. "That everlasting woman," he muttered angrily, issuing 
 dispatches about the President's condition. . . . 
 
 "Robert, Robert, I am so cold, so miserable, my legs ache, my 
 head aches — " 
 
 "It will soon be over, Mother." 
 
 "Don't say that!" She buries her face in her handkerchief and 
 cries loudly. (Maybe he will hear?) 
 
 "I mean, maybe they will let us move him and we can take him 
 home soon. Maybe by daylight." 
 
 "It's daylight now, nearly. There's a draft from somewhere, Robert. 
 Oh, law, oh, law, this night, this night!" 
 
 Stanton wrote that Lincoln was breathing his last, and when he 
 went back into the bedroom it was true, or nearly true. A clock 
 somewhere struck seven, "reluctant" morning began to steal through 
 the cracks of the blinds and lace curtains, making the live, unshaven 
 faces sickly white, making the dying face the tint of yellow against 
 the blood-spattered white towel over the white pillowcase. The eyes 
 looked black and blue clear down over the cheekbones. 
 
 Dr. Ezra W. Abbott added to the meticulous minutes he had been 
 keeping all night: "Seven o'clock. Symptoms of immediate dissolu- 
 tion." The clock struck, and a young and earnest doctor held up his 
 finger as though to say har\. 
 
 But it was not yet, and they waited. They waited twenty-two 
 minutes and then was the time. 
 
 Stanton got to his feet. Like bantam Napoleon crowning himself, 
 he clapped his hat upon his head. Then, recollecting, he took it off 
 and laid it over his heart. It was an ill-thought, unbecoming gesture, 
 but the words he spoke made up for it, for more, for everything. 
 "Now he belongs to the ages," he said, not whispering. 
 
 Don't be afraid of him because he is a dead man the color of 
 death. Upon the wrinkles in the sheet he is laid out with his hands 
 folded and silver half dollars upon his eyes to keep them from 
 opening. 
 
 All can go boldly into the house, down the long, narrow hall past 
 the steep staircase and into that small back bedroom and look at him. 
 He will not mind. 
 
 32 
 
They're leaving now. They brought Mrs. Lincoln in to see him 
 and she howled one last time, but not loudly, for she was very weary. 
 Robert saw at a glance that it was as entirely public a death as it 
 had been a dying, and bit his lips. 
 
 More than one stomach thought of history and immortality as no 
 commodities to compare with coffee, buckwheat cakes and fine 
 tobacco. 
 
 Upon the words that settle in Mrs. Peterson's now-stale house like 
 dust, all may come in and tread, for the house is emptying. They 
 are leaving to go into the drizzle of rain outside. "That dreadful 
 house! That dreadful house!" Mrs. Lincoln says when they open 
 the door for her upon day and chill air, and she looks across the 
 street and sees by gray light of it the theater. "Stained . . . with the 
 lifeblood of the nation," it stands, as guilty as the next one, dum- 
 founded in guilt. 
 
 It signifies little to have missed the prayer of the pastor who 
 dropped down upon his knees beside the bed and clasped his hands 
 and bowed his head. The Quartermaster is going to send over half 
 a dozen scared and solemn men to take the corpse out of this place, 
 
 but there is time, before they appear No, he is not entirely alone, 
 
 for there are two or three men, one sitting, one standing by the 
 bureau, one idly lifting the curtain and looking out — and we are 
 there. 
 
 Well, sir: 
 
 You never have to "open shop" in the morning at nine o'clock 
 sharp. That's over! 
 
 You never have to wonder when to use the semicolon. It's used 
 now, once and for all. 
 
 No more shad and strawberries or broke branches of blossom in 
 spring, but no more cold feet and cold hands in bitter January, either, 
 or soaking sweat through tiresome black broadcloth and thick, 
 starched linen in Washington July and August. 
 
 No constellations upon the eye or tunes of "Bluetailed Fly," of 
 "Blue Juniata" within the ear, but no sight of running blood or 
 shot boys' running tears, either, nor vision of their dead meandering 
 hair, their pebble eyes upon the dull, wet ground of battlefields. 
 Upon war for the preservation of a homeland called Union the wry 
 
 33 
 
mind need no more look, nor on the many-colored hands and faces 
 of black, plum, coffee, bisque. . . . 
 
 "Ben, Ben Butler, listen," Lincoln said. "I have been thinking. 
 Maybe the Negroes and the white people are going to take a notion 
 to fight each other sometime. Nothing like that would ever have 
 been seen before, nothing so violent and terrible. I've been thinking. 
 Couldn't the blacks be shipped to Liberia or to South America and 
 organized into communities so they could support themselves? 
 Wouldn't they be far happier and flourish? You figure out how it 
 could be done, will you, Ben?" 
 
 Ben Butler, with a face like a chuck-wagon cook, figured out how 
 it couldn't be done instead. "Why, my God," he came and said, 
 "they'd have to have the air space the law provides for emigrants, 
 wouldn't they? herded together in the hold like a bunch of cattle?" 
 
 "Oh, they'd have to have the air space," Lincoln said. 
 
 "Well, my God, then," Ben Butler said. "I've got the figures here, 
 I've made tables — " Lincoln reached out and took them and set his 
 glasses on his nose. "They would propagate faster, Negro babies 
 would be born faster, than all the naval and merchant vessels we 
 own could carry them from the country!" 
 
 Lincoln studied the paper, frowning. Then he looked up and 
 sighed. "Your deductions seem to be correct," he said. "But what in 
 the name of the Almighty can we do?" 
 
 That's no concern of yours now, man. No concern at all. 
 
 That "amiable weakness" of yours for wanting to stand back to 
 back and measure with other tall men! You have measured with 
 them all now, and not one is taller, nobody is taller in the land 
 than you. 
 
 By dear! by jing! your favorite expressions will fall into disuse 
 like Jute words lost long ago. 
 
 Your last laughter, neigh of wild horse, shrill and hearty whinny, 
 nine hours old, will be nine hundred years old and older, and for- 
 gotten as the laugh of the Curetes. 
 
 We shook your right hand so often you thought it was going to 
 drop off sometimes, and it ached like toothache, clear up to the 
 elbow, the shoulder even. But we want to shake a man's hand, we 
 want to say we shook a great man's hand when we had the chance, 
 
 34 
 
tell our children and grandchildren. This is "the sine qua non of 
 American good will and respect," so we shook your hand plenty 
 of times. 
 
 Nobody feared you. Sometimes, it would have been better if a 
 few people, not to name any names, had feared you, but how could 
 they, you with that "grotesquely attenuated figure" of yours, wrap- 
 ping your long legs around each other to get rid of them when 
 sitting, wrapping your long arms around your body when standing, 
 stooping so all could look up in your "mournful yellow face" and 
 see the light, warm eyes shining down upon them? 
 
 You didn't fear anybody, either, not your sweet-smiling enemies 
 in high and low places, or the madmen who wrote you letter after 
 obscene letter you carefully saved beneath the large-lettered word: 
 ASSASSINATION. For they were threats of death. You minded at 
 first that anybody — that so many — should want to kill you, but then 
 you said, "I got used to it finally. There is nothing like getting used 
 to things." 
 
 There isn't, is there ? 
 
 They said it to you often enough! "How's the weather up there?" 
 You always laughed and gave some answer. 
 
 How is it, Mr. Lincoln? How's the weather up there upon the 
 highest pedestal in the nation? 
 
 35 
 
IV 
 
 7 hoped for no gain." 
 —booth's diary 
 
 When Dr. Mudd opened the door it was not light enough for 
 him to see more than that a boy stood upon the stoop, and 
 Chat one of the two horses near the steps bore a rider. "What do you 
 want?" he asked. 
 
 "He fell off his horse," the boy said. "My friend here. His ankle's 
 broke. Could you set it, do you think, Doctor ? Are you Dr. Mudd ? 
 We re on our way down south. It hurts him like fury. We can pay 
 you for it. He's got money to pay." 
 
 "Well, of course I'll do what I can," Dr. Mudd said. "Bring him 
 in— down this hall and in the first door to the left, to the parlor. Put 
 him on the lounge there. I'll go get some more clothes on, and what 
 I'll need." 
 
 "All right," the boy said, and suddenly it was light enough for 
 the doctor to see what a winning smile he had, though his jaw 
 receded a little too much, and what a fresh pair of eyes, and that he 
 had never begun to shave the fuzz off his pink cheeks. 
 
 Dr. Mudd smiled back, before he turned and hurried down the 
 long hall, saying again over his shoulder, "Bring him in and put him 
 on the lounge in the parlor." 
 
 It has been boldly written like words cut into bronze, and sworn 
 upon a stack of Bibles as high as the Washington Monument, that 
 Dr. Mudd did not know the man on the lounge in his parlor. That 
 he did not recognize the handsome young man's milk-white face, 
 his black mustache, black eyebrows, black eyelashes half an inch 
 long and his curling black hair. That he did not recall those eyes 
 
 36 
 
with pupils so big their hazel color was pushed to an edge, a rim, 
 nothing, leaving black eyes of Spaniard or Italian. 
 
 And perhaps he did not. 
 
 But Johnny, lying there shivering in his spruce black broadcloth 
 coat, knew Dr. Mudd. Because he had been down into Maryland 
 on business twice — once five months before, and once three months 
 before, and both times he had slept under this same roof. 
 
 Dr. Mudd, at the terrible military trial which lasted the coming 
 summer from May 11th to June 30th when the commission found 
 all guilty as accused, swore up and down that he did not know 
 Johnny that early dawn of April 15th, did not recognize one feature 
 of that extraordinary face. 
 
 Questioned over and over again, in tears, Mrs. Mudd swore up 
 and down that she did not recognize one feature either. Cornered, 
 hysterical, she said he had a shawl drawn halfway up over his pale, 
 sick face. And he wore false black whiskers! She insisted upon it. 
 
 The Mudds did not know him from Adam, they said. 
 
 The terrible military commission, who believed nobody and noth- 
 ing, believed them. Perhaps they half believed them. Anyway, Dr. 
 Mudd was not sentenced to climb up on the gallows and be hanged 
 but instead was sentenced to life in prison on the Dry Tortugas 
 where he stayed four years, and then, because of great heroism 
 in a yellow fever epidemic, was turned loose and sent home. 
 
 If the terrible military commission half believed the Mudds, it 
 may be that they told the truth, and did not know Johnny when 
 he came to their house with David Herold to get his broken ankle 
 set and be put to bed and sleep seven hours. 
 
 To give them the benefit of the doubt, this is a perfectly silent 
 scene. The performers do this and that, their lips move as they speak 
 to one another, but all is as still as though enacted under water. 
 
 The scene is the parlor, papered with mustard and white, white 
 curtains hanging clear to the floor, a flowered carpet, too many 
 wide-framed pictures, too many bibelots, a book called The English 
 Poets that only a strong man could pack around, a book of engrav- 
 ings a strong man would stagger under, several handsome and 
 extraordinarily unaccommodating chairs, a round table under a 
 fringed, plum velvet cloth, a hard and narrow lounge. 
 
 37 
 
The early dawn light comes in undei the half-drawn blinds with 
 no feel of sun behind it, fitful like the spirit without the body, for it 
 comes down a cloudy path through promised rain. Dr. Mudd has 
 lighted the round-globed kerosene lamp, but through the thickly 
 painted purple grapes, green leaves and ripe red roses on the shade 
 not much illumination can come. Mrs. Mudd has brought a smaller, 
 brighter lamp, but the daylight, though so frail, is enough to shame 
 its brisk gleam into ineffectiveness, as an old practiced beauty may 
 sometimes put a young belle in the shade. 
 
 It is too late to see the exchange of greetings between these 
 four people. Right now, Dr. Mudd is slitting Johnny's left riding 
 boot up the side, drawing it gently off the swollen foot and ankle 
 while Johnny winces and bites his lip. It is an expensive, custom- 
 made boot of fine leather and Dr. Mudd does not see when he 
 drops it carelessly that inside the lining close to the top, in ink, 
 it says J. Wilkes. That fatal boot, left in the house when Johnny 
 goes off the next day on crutches, wearing the makeshift old shoe 
 that takes its place, will nearly hang Dr. Mudd, nearly ruin his life, 
 but it has no significance now. He merely takes it off and drops it 
 on the floor. 
 
 David Herold sits gingerly on the edge of one of the straight 
 chairs and watches the proceedings earnestly, observing how pale 
 Johnny is, though he always was pale. In fact, he is as white as a 
 ghost. In marble he is still more splendid, when, his luxuriance of 
 texture and tint secondary, his pure lines are drawn before the eyes. 
 Mrs. Mudd notes them, holding the lamp high for her husband, and 
 looks quickly away as befits the well-bred and guiltless young 
 matron. 
 
 With gentle fingers Dr. Mudd sets the broken bone, saying a 
 word now and then. Johnny's lips move. He talks a good deal but 
 seems too tired to gesture much as he is wont to do. He smiles 
 once, sunnily, when he fumbles for his handkerchief and wipes the 
 beads of perspiration ofr his forehead. Dr. Mudd makes a nice, neat 
 job of it, putting on splints from an old bandbox, and bandaging 
 the limb expertly. Then Mrs. Mudd says something and her hus- 
 band nods and turns to David. David gets up quickly, with a broad 
 
 38 
 
smile, comes over and stoops down to let Johnny reach up and put 
 an arm around his neck so that he may rise. 
 
 Mrs. Mudd goes before and Johnny, helped on one side by David 
 and on the other side by Dr. Mudd, follows after, out into the hall. 
 Johnny automatically glances into the familiar mirror as he goes 
 past, sees that the man they are half carrying, ill and worn out 
 though he looks, yet has grace and a kind of radiance, as though his 
 flesh gives off light. It satisfies him, that glimpse of his own curl- 
 shadowed face and form, as though he had taken a photograph of 
 a much-loved absent sweetheart out of his waistcoat pocket and 
 gazed on it, and then put it back, comforted by the sight of it. 
 
 The woman, with the three men a few steps behind her, goes up 
 the steep staircase, down the upstairs hall. She opens wide the door 
 into the bedroom directly over the parlor. It is furnished with two 
 beds, a pair of chairs and little else. She turns down the bedcovers 
 and goes out, stopping at the door to turn and say something — 
 possibly good night, sleep well — to her guests and to make a remark 
 to her husband. While he answers she takes the chimney off the 
 lamp and blows the flame out. She sets it back on and leaves with it, 
 carrying it high and carefully as though it were still shedding light 
 upon the darkness and broad daylight had not come. It has, such 
 as it is (in Washington the assassin's victim has two hours of dim 
 morning to die in), and Dr. Mudd, after he and David have got 
 Johnny undressed and in bed, goes over and pulls the green blinds 
 down, first at one window and then at another, but even when they 
 are down, it is light enough to see in the room. David is getting out 
 of his clothes, hugging himself now and again to show how cold 
 he is and how glad he's going to be to get under the covers. 
 
 Dr. Mudd says something and prepares to leave. He has got to the 
 door when Johnny lifts himself up on one elbow and beckons him 
 back, reaching out for his coat over the back of the chair near by 
 and fumbling in the pockets. Dr. Mudd raises his pink eyebrows 
 when Johnny offers him some greenbacks. He shakes his head, 
 oh, my, no, but when Johnny speaks with a flush to his cheeks, and 
 David good-humoredly joins him in his petition, the doctor finally 
 puts his hand out and receives the money. But unwillingly, for he 
 
 39 
 
makes a gesture as though he must return it, but Johnny will not 
 allow it — not for a moment. He has paid twenty-five dollars to have 
 his broken bone set and glad to do it. He smiles as he speaks. 
 
 At the door Dr. Mudd adds another word, lifting his finger as 
 though to caution the invalid, but Johnny's heavy lashes have come 
 to rest on the white cheeks and he would seem to have fallen asleep. 
 So Dr. Mudd addresses David, who, from the soft pillows, half sits 
 up so he can nod his head politely, smothering a gigantic yawn with 
 a soiled and boyish hand. He goes out then, shutting the door 
 behind him. David sinks back down into the pillows with a look 
 across the room at Johnny's quiet black head, and ... the fugitives 
 sleep. 
 
 Not until April 26th, on that farmhouse porch over in Virginia, 
 in his own blood, under the red rays of the rising sun, does Johnny 
 sleep so well again. His right hand lies under his cheek. He breathes 
 deeply and evenly, too tired even to dream. 
 
 At the Mudd home Johnny was able to get treatment for his 
 broken leg, but his stomach was too squeamish to eat the delicious 
 breakfast and lunch which were carried to him. He thought it 
 might have been because he had drunk so much the whole week 
 and especially the day and night before. He would have swallowed 
 a little brandy but they had only whisky in the house and he 
 declined that. Mrs. Mudd also let cheerful David carry up hot water 
 and a razor so Johnny could shave. He shaved his mustache ofT. 
 It was thought this would make quite a change in his appearance 
 but it did not seem to do so, except to make him look younger, 
 tenderer, thinner, and quite a lot more ill. They let him have a good 
 long on-and-off sleep — seven hours — in a good bed, with plenty of 
 covers. 
 
 Whatever transpired that wordless day in legend, Johnny and 
 David had to go on their way. The Mudds did not, would not or 
 could not allow them to stay. Johnny would have given ten of the 
 remaining years of the life, the long life, the golden life, he thought 
 he had coming, to have had a safe hole to crouch in when the 
 hounds went over. The Mudds' isolated farmhouse would have 
 been just the spot for him, but no. Here's your hat what's your 
 
 40 
 
hurry, Johnny, and the fugitives had to be on their way. 
 
 David tried to hire a carriage but there was none to be had. 
 While Johnny dozed in the upstairs bedroom, he went with Dr. 
 Mudd over to Dr. Mudd's father's house. But old Mr. Mudd would 
 not let his carriage go. Tomorrow was Easter and the ladies would 
 need it for church. All the ladies in the neighborhood would need 
 their carriages for church on Easter Sunday. 
 
 So Johnny couldn't ride away in a carriage. He had to go on 
 horseback again. While David got the horses he hobbled down a 
 lane back of the Mudds' house, with a pair of crutches the old 
 English gardener had made that morning — two long sticks with a 
 little crossbar on top to fit uncomfortably under his armpits — and 
 when David caught up with him he mounted — with great difficulty, 
 it almost seemed as if it couldn't be done, it was such a hardship — 
 the roan horse. David got on the bay horse, the little bitch, the 
 rocker, and off they went into Zachiah Swamp, Johnny sweating and 
 thinking to himself the dizziness would pass, the nausea, the faint- 
 ness, and he would be all right. He had to be all right. He had to. 
 
 Sounds again, now . . . the horses clop-clopping through the mud, 
 the creak of saddle leather, a jingle, a jangle, wind blowing in the 
 branches, Johnny's deep-drawn sigh . . . even such a small noise as 
 the drip of long-fallen raindrops that only now slide off the last edge 
 of stiff, early leaves and vanish in the soggy meadow. . . . 
 
 David said cheerfully, "And he told me the shortest way to the 
 river was across this swamp. It's called Zachiah Swamp. If you get 
 worse we're supposed to go see a doctor named Dr. Stewart over 
 in Virginia — when we get over there — he's a rebel and a good 
 doctor and a rich man and we're supposed to go see him — he's got 
 a big farm, it's his summer place. We're supposed to go there if you 
 get worse." 
 
 "We might as well stop off there anyway when we get to it," 
 Johnny said. "Even if I don't. And I don't see why I should. My 
 leg's been set — even if it hurts like the very old devil. It will heal. 
 Why shouldn't it? I'm not going to get worse." 
 
 "You sure look bad, Johnny," David said. "Like you been pulled 
 through a knothole." 
 
 "How far did he say it was to this Samuel Cox's?" Johnny asked. 
 
 41 
 
"He says fifteen miles straight across this swamp. He says we 
 won't have a bit of trouble. We can't miss the place. And from there 
 it's hardly any ways a-tall to the river. And there's where we can 
 get across." 
 
 "Who is this Cox supposed to be?" 
 
 "Well, he's a rebel, too. We can stay there all night tonight. He's 
 got a big place called Rich Hill." 
 
 "We'd ought to make it by suppertime." Johnny shifted painfully 
 in the saddle, dug his watch out of his vest pocket and looked at it. 
 It was four o'clock straight up. He put the watch back, and went to 
 make the familiar, automatic gesture of curling the ends of his 
 mustache upward under his thumb and forefinger, but the mus- 
 tache was gone. It gave him a slight shock for an instant and he 
 wondered what Ella would say. (Ella wouldn't say anything. She 
 had tried to kill herself with chloroform that morning when she 
 heard the news that Johnny had killed the President and was gone. 
 At the moment she was in bed in her sister's cozy brothel, only 
 partly conscious, so whether Johnny had a mustache or whether he 
 didn't — once a matter of great import — wouldn't signify much to 
 Ella now.) He wondered what Bessie would say, too, and Asia, most 
 especially her. 
 
 "Are you sure you know where you're headed, David?" 
 
 "Sure, I'm sure. He says just right straight across this swamp, and 
 we can't miss it. Fifteen miles. Right straight across." 
 
 "Yes, but how do you know we're going straight?" 
 
 "Oh, we're going straight all right. How you feeling, Johnny?" 
 
 "Not so bad." 
 
 "Leg hurt terrible?" 
 
 "Not so bad. I'm cold, though. Hot one minute and cold the next. 
 I suppose it will rain. . . ." 
 
 They both glanced upward through interlacing branches adorned 
 with new green at the sky that floated like layers of dirty tulle above 
 their heads, colorless, cool. The whining wind, having rooted and 
 rolled in rain somewhere farther off, smelled of it. 
 
 "Oh, I don't think it's going to rain," David said reassuringly. 
 "Anyway, when it does, me and you will be in out of it." 
 "I hope so," Johnny said, with a sigh. 
 
 42 
 
It was easy enough to set out "straight across" Zachiah Swamp, 
 harder to hold the course on horseback over a nonexistent path on 
 wet, spongy ground saturated with water. Thickly growing vines, 
 bushes, trees and grasses sprang from below, above and on all sides 
 like the anxious grove a sick slumberer might lose his way in, 
 in perplexing dream. It grew darker and darker. The rain began 
 too, or only half began, falling and not falling, the drops far be- 
 tween but large and cold, striking with little spats of sound on 
 leaves of taffeta and on the horses' bright rumps and on the two 
 heads hunched between the discouraged shoulders of the riders. 
 Johnny had lost his handsome slouch hat on the stage of Ford's 
 Theater, but he had a little plaid woolen shawl and this he wrapped 
 about his head and neck like an old woman. The horses went 
 timidly, slow as grief, and the later, colder, darker it became, the 
 more restless and irritable Johnny grew. His nausea was gone and 
 he felt a faint stir of hunger for food, but this could not match his 
 all-gone longing for a drink of brandy. He could not smoke his 
 pipe as, too late, it was discovered that neither of them had any 
 matches. Long sitting upon the horse had caused his injured ankle 
 and leg to throb like toothache. "My luck — my damn luck — " he 
 kept muttering. 
 
 "What's that, Johnny?" David asked. 
 
 "This swamp," Johnny fumed. "We've been in it for hours. How 
 do we know we're cutting straight across? Maybe we're going in a 
 circle. Maybe we'll land right back at Dr. Mudd's. Now, he'd like 
 that, wouldn't he? She'd like it, too, wouldn't she? They'd be 
 tickled pink, wouldn't they? I can just see them!" 
 
 "Johnny," David said, interrupting him, "it seems to me we're 
 on a kind of a road now. Don't it seem like it to you?" 
 
 The rain had stopped but the leaves kept letting go of drops, so 
 that the wayfarers thought it was still showering. Moonlight from a 
 nowhere-to-be-seen moon and a bright star or two shining down in 
 streaks through the gloom showed more a faint clearing than any- 
 thing resembling a road, and Johnny, looking down, said, "If it is a 
 road — suppose it is — where the hell does it lead to? Besides, it isn't 
 a road. It's just a sort of a cleared space." Gloomily he felt again in 
 the old way for the mustache that was not there, gnawing his full 
 
 43 
 
lower lip with an old, willful petulance that had sent women to 
 their knees to ask how they might please and make him smile again. 
 
 With one accord the two reined up their horses. David dismounted 
 and came over close to Johnny. A stray moonbeam lighted for an 
 instant a string of raindrops in his hair and lighted his eyes like a 
 spaniel's, but it vanished and the lights went out. "Listen, Johnny," 
 he said, "what do you say I help you down and you find a dry place 
 on the ground and wait here, and I'll go on ahead and try to find 
 out something." 
 
 "A dry place!" Johnny said. "In this mudhole? And how do 
 you know where I am? How could you come back here when 
 you don't know where I am, and don't know where you are your- 
 self, for that matter? And what could you find out except that 
 we're at the end of nowhere? Oh, this damn leg of mine!" he added 
 in a fury. "We'd have been in Richmond long ago. We'd have had 
 supper and be in bed. A bath, maybe. God!" 
 
 "Yes, but maybe — " David stopped short, listening. "Johnny," he 
 said in a whisper. "I hear somebody. Don't you hear somebody?" 
 He reached up and got his carbine off the saddle. 
 
 Johnny, his pistol already in his hand, was listening, too, above 
 the dismal croak of frogs. He had pulled the shawl down off his 
 head. The roan snorted, and new-learned fright found the circuit 
 it was to travel over and over within Johnny while he lived. He 
 leaned forward and patted the roan's neck. No sound came but his 
 lips said, "Easy, girl, easy." 
 
 "Listen, Johnny." 
 
 "I'm listening—" 
 
 "It's somebody singing — " 
 
 "Yes—" 
 
 "Johnny, I'm going to find out who it is. You stay here," David 
 whispered. "I'll be back in a minute." He set off, leading the little 
 bay, and their two ghosts faded away in the darkness. 
 
 The singer was a Negro named Oswald Swan, a young man who 
 lived all by himself in Zachiah Swamp, in a cabin not far from the 
 dim clearing the two fugitives had perceived. He had gone outside 
 the cabin door to relieve himself, and while about it had foolishly 
 sung his favorite, indeed almost his only, song, "De Peacock He 
 
 44 
 
Can't Fly Away," to keep back the dark. It brought David to him 
 as the moth to the flame, and brought troubles and aggravations 
 enough, as he told afterward, to divide between three men and then 
 each man have a load bigger than he could carry in a lifetime. Why, 
 a few days there in Washington, when they threatened him and 
 questioned him and worried at him like a cat with a mouse, he 
 didn't think he'd ever see home again, or Christmas again, or even 
 the dawn of the next day . . . and all because he couldn't go outside 
 his door and do his business without hollering his head oflf and 
 singing "De Peacock He Can't Fly Away." Of course, that taught 
 him a lesson. There was never a peep out of him again that any- 
 body ever heard of. Years later, when he quietly — oh, how quietly — 
 assayed once more to sing the old song, de peacock could not fly 
 away indeed, for all his pretty story had passed from memory and 
 could not be recalled. 
 
 Oswald Swan said, in his soft dialect, that there wasn't anything 
 at the time to make a man uneasy. He had been back in the house 
 maybe three or four minutes when the gentle knock came at the 
 door. He took his lighted candle with him when he opened it. 
 There was just this young man, "more like a chile, he was, about 
 seventeen, eighteen, awful sweet smile to his face. Not a mean- 
 looking boy a-tall. Wet as sop. Polite like. 'We've lost our way,' 
 he says. 'Me and my friend.' 'Where you going?' I says. 'To a man 
 named Colonel Cox,' he says, 'to a place called Rich Hill.' 'I knows 
 where that is,' I says. 'Are we on the right track then?' he says. 
 'You're on the right track,' I says, 'but you got quite a piece to go. 
 It's nine miles or better.' 'Well, how do we get there?' he says. 
 'Well,' I says, 'I'll tell you,' so I tells him, but he says, 'It's so ever- 
 lasting dark,' he says, 'I don't think we could find nothing in this 
 dreadful swamp.' 'I ain't got no bed to speak of,' I says, 'but if you 
 want to roost here till daylight — ?' 'No,' he says, 'we got to go on. 
 We got to go on to Rich Hill tonight.' 'You friends of Colonel 
 Cox's?' I says. 'Yes,' he says. He looks at me worried-like. 'Can't 
 you go with us?' he says. 'Can't you show us the way?' 'Well,' 
 I says, knowing it ain't a night nobody would want to be stomping 
 around in the mud and the rain when they had a chance to stay 
 home and keep warm. 'Listen,' he says, 'my friend will pay you 
 
 45 
 
well for it. It ain't we want you to do it for nothing.' Naturally 
 that threw a little different light on the subject," Oswald Swan 
 used to say, "so the first thing you know I had myself done up 
 ready to go with this boy. He wasn't no mean-looking fellow. More 
 like a chile. He says they was hungry so I took along a little some- 
 thing to eat, a little corn pone is all, and a bite of ham or two, but 
 it was all I had and they was glad to get it. Even the proud one on 
 the horse was glad to get it," he said. "He gobbled it down like he 
 ain't et for a week. He would of paid well for brandy but I didn't 
 have none of that. I didn't have nothing. . . . He didn't hardly say 
 boo," Oswald Swan used to say, "all the way over to Colonel Cox's. 
 It took us quite a while. He just sat up there on his horse like some- 
 body wore out, humped all over, but every once in a while it seemed 
 like he would think of something and this would make him 
 straighten right up like maybe he was Beauregard or somebody 
 proud like that, but then he'd forget what it was he was thinking 
 about and then he'd hump right back down again like somebody 
 sick or all wore out. He stayed on his horse all the time, he never 
 once got down. But this other one, this boy, he'd be on his horse 
 one minute and down walking along beside me the next. He ask 
 me if I wouldn't care to ride a ways but I said I wasn't no hand 
 with a horse. Once I sort of whispers to him, 'Is he sick?' and he 
 whispers back, 'He ain't sick exactly. He's got a broken leg. His 
 ankle's broke,' he says. 'How'd he break it?' I says. 'Fall down?' 
 'Jumped,' he says. 'He made a big long jump.' 'He'd better not of 
 made it,' I says. 'It kind of looks that way,' he says." Oswald Swan 
 often told the whole story. 
 
 It was nearly four o'clock in the morning when Johnny, half 
 dead with fatigue and in pain, and David, going along like a sleep- 
 walker, with the Negro in the lead, reached Rich Hill, Colonel 
 Cox's estate. In the last wash of greenish moonlight before dawn, 
 it was a place to warm the heart, though no lights showed in any 
 of the many windows, except a flickering one in the Negro quarters 
 out in back where a dark young mother saw to a crying child. They 
 could hear his wail, and hear it stop when she must have taken him 
 in her arms. 
 
 Johnny, with a great sigh of weariness, took a ten-dollar bill out 
 
 46 
 
of his purse and gave it to Oswald Swan. "Thank you for bringing 
 us over," he said. 
 
 "Oh, that's all right," Oswald said, pocketing the money. 
 
 "Next time we get lost in Zachiah Swamp we'll call on you again," 
 David said. He was off his horse again and close by Johnny, to speak 
 with him when the Negro had gone. 
 
 "Oh, that's all right," the black man repeated. "Wasn't no trouble." 
 When he started down the road he saw that the two were talking 
 earnestly together. Just before he got out of sight he heard loud 
 rapping on the front door. Glancing back he saw the drooping figure 
 of the "proud one" still upon the horse, while the one who seemed 
 "more like a chile" tried to raise somebody in the dark house. 
 
 47 
 
V 
 
 "O Oum-Aur, you have prevented me from the cup 
 when it should have been moving to the right; and yet 
 the one of us Three that you would not serve is not 
 the least worthy." 
 
 Pour Us Wine: ibn kolthum 
 
 Colonel Cox was a wealthy man. His farm, Rich Hill, was large 
 and fertile, with beautiful woodland surrounding it like the 
 thick frame around an old-fashioned picture. The many outbuild- 
 ings behind the house — a barn, summer kitchen, milk house and 
 the several small dwellings of numerous slaves — gave it the look of 
 a hamlet. The house itself was handsome, with capacious chimneys, 
 bright paint and glittering windows, an agreeable place, promising 
 to be full of soft beds, soft chairs, good food, good drink, and sights 
 to please the eye as well, a Reynolds or a Hogarth, and well-bound 
 books. Here must dwell a man of true hospitality, it seemed. 
 
 Rich Hill's master was an avowed rebel. Though not young, he 
 had captained a volunteer company throughout the war, his head- 
 quarters being at Bryantown where he became well acquainted 
 with the Mudd family. He was a hot-headed, well-born man of 
 haughty presence, with a long chin and a thin mouth. When David's 
 loud knock (he began softly, as was his way, to show he was sorry 
 to have to do it, and wound up by thundering upon the panel when 
 it occurred to him maybe nobody was home) disturbed his haughty 
 sleep, he roused, not with curiosity or concern, but in a blaze of 
 anger. He was out of bed and across the room and had the window 
 open and his head out in an instant. "What in God's name do you 
 think you're doing down there?" he shouted. "Tearing the house 
 down?" 
 
 48 
 
Johnny, on his horse, put his comb away. He hooked a finger 
 over his cravat, straightening it. His pale face reddened. He sat up 
 as tall as he could. David walked half the length of the pillared 
 porch and hurried down the steps and out onto the grass where he 
 could look up at the irate man in the window. 
 
 "We're friends, sir," he said. 
 
 Johnny sat silent, watching him. 
 
 "Well, what in God's name do you think you're doing?" 
 
 "Could you — could you give us a bed?" David asked, clearing 
 his throat. 
 
 Now Johnny spoke out, declaimed, rather, in the grand authori- 
 tative manner of the Shakespearean actor, with volume and purity: 
 "If you will do me the honor of allowing me to speak with you," 
 he called, "I will inform you what our business is and has been, and 
 what favor we are necessitated by unfortunate circumstance to ask 
 of a gentleman like yourself. We have come from Dr. Samuel 
 Mudd's home in Bryantown, and have ridden most of the night. We 
 are in need of food and shelter." 
 
 Instantly the head was drawn in, the window closed, the light of 
 a lamp became visible, and shortly afterward the front door swung 
 open. Colonel Cox stood in the doorway and watched, while David 
 helped Johnny off his horse, and then assisted him to the steps. He 
 let him painfully go up them himself, however, inexpertly using 
 his crutches, while he, David, at a word from Johnny, went back to 
 tie the horses to the fence. 
 
 Colonel Cox looked at him searchingly as he struggled to the 
 door. "Are you a wounded soldier?" he asked. 
 
 "I am John Wilkes Booth." 
 
 Colonel Cox opened his mouth, closed it. He stepped back and 
 with a beckon invited him in, also David, who had now come up 
 the stairs and was behind him. Johnny hobbled in, so stiff necked 
 and straight backed that he seemed not to be hobbling at all but 
 striding. "I heard the news," the Colonel said. "About Lincoln. We 
 heard it yesterday morning." 
 
 "We badly need shelter and food." Johnny held out his left hand, 
 the palm down, to show on the back of it the childishly formed, 
 faded letters J.W.B. tattooed upon it in India ink, as though it 
 
 49 
 
had been a brevet, a ticket of leave, saying let this man pass. 
 
 Colonel Cox gazed at him curiously, "There is no possibility 
 whatever for you to remain here," he said. "You must go on. You 
 can't stay here." There was no welcome, no friendliness, no admira- 
 tion in his eyes. 
 
 Johnny got paler. "Where shall we go?" he asked. 
 
 "Well, my God, man, you must know where you're going. You 
 didn't kill the President and then make a beeline straight for Rich 
 Hill and think you were going to stay here, did you? You must be 
 on your way somewhere." 
 
 "We are going to Richmond," Johnny said through bluish lips. 
 Observing his look of sudden sickness, the Colonel went across the 
 room to the heavy walnut sideboard and filled two crystal glasses 
 with honey-brown liquid from a cut glass bottle, handing one to 
 Johnny and one to David. 
 
 "You do not drink with us," Johnny said. The Colonel made a 
 little motion with his hand that meant he did not choose to avail 
 himself of the honor. 
 
 "The devil take the hindmost, huh, Johnny?" David's light voice 
 sounded unnaturally heavy in the humiliating silence. He went to 
 drink up bravely but there was too much fire in the liquor for his 
 young throat and he gave an explosive cough which brought a blush 
 that threatened to burn him to the ground. 
 
 Colonel Cox had pushed a chair up for Johnny and indicated one 
 that David, whose noise and confusion he ignored, might take. Then, 
 his cold eyes on the injured man, he sat down himself. "Now," he 
 said, "let's hear what you've got to say." 
 
 "Say ? " Johnny took a sip of brandy like a man replete with dinner 
 and wines, and took another quiet sip. Only his trembling hand 
 betrayed him. He could have drunk half the heavy bottle on the 
 sideboard in one long gulp, and more, he could have swallowed all 
 the brandy in Maryland; yet in pride and fury he drank his liquor 
 like a disdainful and overly mannered connoisseur. "Say ? Only that 
 an assassination was eminently in order. I took it upon my humble 
 self to perform the deed." 
 
 "You took it upon yourself to play the devil," the Colonel said. 
 
 David looked anxiously at Johnny, who took another mannered 
 
 50 
 
sip o£ brandy, who shrugged his shoulders, whose eyelids narrowed 
 upon his glittering eyes. 
 
 "This ain't so bad, Johnny," David said with forced good humor. 
 "At least, we got blankets, so we won't be cold, and he give us 
 some brandy. Of course, we can't build no fire in this grove in case 
 somebody sees the smoke, like Colonel Cox says. But he'll send us 
 something to eat, and see we get a rowboat to get across the river 
 in when the coast gets clear, and — and this is a safe place anyway. 
 Nobody couldn't find nobody in woods like these." He glanced 
 over at his companion, who, lying flat, wrapped in a worn blanket, 
 was gazing stonily upward at a patch of cold morning sky. "You 
 ain't said a word, Johnny. . . . It's true what he said. It stands to 
 reason, we couldn't stay in the house with all them niggers swarming 
 all over the place. They'd be sure to blab. The niggers want you 
 to get caught, of course, all the niggers do, that's the worst of it. 
 They loved Mr. Line — him, you know. They couldn't blab fast 
 enough. Besides, now it's different, with all them thousands of 
 soldiers and detectives everywhere, looking all over hell for you, 
 and then all that money for a reward. It's different now, Johnny." 
 
 Johnny still gazed upward, not blinking. 
 
 "See — we ain't seen no newspapers, Johnny. Glory, I didn't think 
 there'd be all that hullabaloo, did you ? It didn't hardly seem like it 
 would cause all that stir like it has, did it? Just the President shot. 
 The way Colonel Cox talks, you'd think you blew up Washington 
 or New York City or something." He lapsed into silence but the 
 coldness of the damp ground penetrating his thin blanket and light 
 clothing, the hardness of it, the wetness of the foliage, were not 
 tickets to instant slumber and so he spoke again. "It's Easter Sunday, 
 Johnny." He too looked upward at the gray sky and then back at 
 his companion, turning his head to see him better. "Hell of a poor 
 day for it," he said. 
 
 Now Johnny opened his lips but it was a moment before he 
 spoke, as though he were going to say something in a foreign 
 language he had only just learned. "Hell of a poor day for what?" 
 he said. 
 
 "Easter. The girls'll be mad as hops if it rains. They've every last 
 
 51 
 
one got a new dress. Ma'll be mad, too. She's got a new hat. Looks 
 like a birthday cake." 
 
 Johnny shut his eyes, turned his head back and forth and shifted 
 a few inches to the right, trying to ease his weary body. His leg 
 bothered him and he was so cold his teeth chattered, yet he was hot 
 at the same time. His cold face had the sensation of burning. "Why 
 don't you go on to sleep, David?" he said. 
 
 "Well, this ain't no feather bed. It takes a while." He shifted, too. 
 "Johnny?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Ain't it a hell of a note?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Well, the rebels. Didn't you imagine they'd treat us nicer? 
 Wouldn't a person imagine? Here they was supposed to be so 
 anxious to get rid of — of the President, and here they don't act 
 glad a-tall, just mad, like they'd been done some harm instead of a 
 favor, and here you jumped down twenty feet and broke your leg 
 and all that, and they won't hardly do nothing for us! And here 
 Colonel Cox says the war was over and everything was fine till 
 you come along and practically started it all over again, and says 
 that nobody, neither rebels nor Union, is ever going to thank you 
 for it. Now ain't that a fine thing for a man to come out bald 
 faced and say ? I'm glad you stood right up to him like you did and 
 showed him where to head in at." 
 
 Johnny laughed bitterly. 
 
 "But I'm glad you didn't just say c'mon, and go out, and me and 
 you ride off his place entirely, like I was afraid you was going to 
 do. I was glad when he offered to let us lay out here in this here 
 grove of his, that you said you would, and took the blankets and 
 brandy he give us." 
 
 "What else could we do?" Johnny said. "If the whole Federal army 
 is after us the way he says, all over Maryland and Virginia, and all 
 the detectives from New York and every place else, we'd be a pretty 
 spectacle riding down a public road in broad daylight, wouldn't we ? 
 And how would we get across the Potomac? Gunboats all up and 
 down it wherever you look, he says. We've got to watch our chance." 
 
 "Be blamed if I thought it would cause such a stir" David said, 
 
 52 
 
with deep admiration in his voice. "A hundred thousand dollars 
 reward! Or was it two hundred thousand? I thought it would be 
 wrote up in the papers and all like that, but I didn't think it would 
 cause — " 
 
 "So what could we do," Johnny went on as though David had 
 not spoken, "only to accept his \ind invitation to lie out here on 
 the wet, cold ground, in woods where I doubt the sun will ever 
 shine, without the privilege to build a fire to take the chill out of 
 our bones, without any hot food — " 
 
 "We got to watch our chance, all right. But glory, Johnny, what 
 if he don't send somebody? What if he don't see to it we get a 
 boat?" 
 
 "Oh, he'll see to it all right. He can't get us off his place fast 
 enough." 
 
 David was growing so sleepy now that he hardly heard the last 
 words. He drew his knees up to his chin, doubling his arm under 
 his head. "Just the same, I'm surprised at the rebels," he said 
 drowsily. "I sure thought they'd be nicer to us than — they — been — " 
 
 Johnny, half sitting now, sleep far away, leaning on his elbow 
 with his chin in his palm, looked down on his young companion. 
 "You could get away," he said softly. "Why don't you go on and 
 make it by yourself, David? I'm the one they're after." 
 
 David roused, having heard dimly what Johnny said. '"They're 
 after me, too, remember," he said with what pride he could muster 
 in his muddleheadedness. "Colonel Cox said so. He said my name 
 was in the papers as big as life and they was after me, too." 
 
 "Yes, but you didn't do anything. You could clear yourself." 
 
 "Why, glory, Johnny," David said, as though he was talking in 
 his sleep, turning over and taking the same position on the left 
 side, "with your leg broke and all, and the rebels acting so funny, 
 you couldn't get along without me" 
 
 The actor looked at him. "Why should you do it, though, David?" 
 
 "Well . . . you've been so nice to me . . . and here you're a big 
 actor and engaged to a senator's daughter . . . and you give me that 
 nice gun and all them free passes to the shows . . . and you said 
 . . . you know, when all this blows over . . . you said you was going 
 to make an actor out of me and get me on the stage . . . and you 
 
 53 
 
said . . . well, glory, Johnny, after all the nice things you done . . . 
 and give me money . . . well, I couldn't go off and leave you in 
 such a fix as this. ... I couldn't, you know . . . not if I was to die 
 for it. . . . But I sure am surprised at the rebels." 
 
 "I'm surprised, too," Johnny said. "David?" 
 
 "What, Johnny?" was long in coming and faint in sound. 
 
 "David, I wanted to tell you ... I won't forget this, the way 
 you've hung on. From now on I'm going to . . . going to try to 
 hold up my end of the bargain better . . . not act like a sorehead 
 all the time because things aren't going right." He moved his left 
 leg a little and winced. "God damn it," he said softly. 
 
 At least he had matches now. Clumsily he filled his pipe and lit 
 it, his face clearing as he puffed. 
 
 David slumbered peacefully, but Johnny went on talking as 
 though he were still awake. "Grandfather used to say — what was it 
 Grandfather used to say? What can't be cured must be endured. 
 And Mother — Mother used to say — she always says — " The thought 
 of her brought his hand before his eyes, shutting out the light, and 
 in the darkness here was home again, sweet home so long un- 
 thought of and unremembered. Here was summer, here was Cola 
 di Rienzi saddled and bridled and ready for a canter. Here was 
 Asia, the beautiful, running down the steps with a book in her 
 hands, saying Johnny, Johnny, wait till I get my kerchief and I'll 
 go with you. . . . 
 
 54 
 
VI 
 
 "My lad, how full of joy and woe 
 Your mother bore you years ago 
 Tonight to lie in the rain." 
 
 —A. E. HOUSMAN 
 
 The name of John Wilkes Booth does live in the history books, 
 even today, as he would have wished, but his act has left it 
 a poor thing. It is little, too, and his story has dwindled to a size that 
 would have shamed him. Let's see, now, how does it go ? He was an 
 actor, wasn't he? His brother was also an actor — in fact, he had a 
 couple of brothers who were actors. They were a theatrical family. 
 And — ? He killed Abraham Lincoln, shot him in the back of the 
 head in Ford's Theater. He said something — oh, yes, sic semper 
 tyrannis. He jumped down off the box and caught his spur in a flag 
 and broke his leg, but he got away. They got him, though, later on. 
 He was hiding in a barn or something — they tried to burn it down 
 or something — but anyway, they shot him. Soldiers or somebody — 
 anyway, he paid for his crime. 
 
 That his twenty-six years of passion and beauty, his torment, love, 
 influence, overwhelming exploit and denouement could shrink to a 
 paragraph, a sentence, a mere damaged patronymic in time and 
 depicture, he would not have credited. How could he? As he lies 
 here in the tangled thicket, a three-day-old assassin with an army 
 after him, the largest price ever offered for a man in America set 
 upon his head, with the added emphasis, the underlinement of 
 sharp-pointed physical pain, he is to himself several times bigger 
 than life. But then, he always was. Even when he falls asleep he is 
 many times bigger than life, he feels so, he always felt so, his unde- 
 cipherable nomadic dream bigger than an ocean. . . . 
 
 55 
 
His bed is a hard one and he moves restlessly upon it, seeking 
 warmth, comfort, in half slumber, that is not there. He will hide in 
 this patch of woods for six long days — it won't rain all the time, the 
 sun will shine, but not warmly enough through tree and vine to 
 warm the moldy ground and thin the blood — without fire, he will 
 be here for five long nights. Now, it is Easter Sunday at noon, and 
 not bells of rejoicing but sorrier bells are tolling all through the 
 land. In his repose he hears the midday puling of sparrow and cat- 
 bird, but does not hear the bells. It will be next Friday night before 
 he can sneak away by darkness and try to cross the river, the best 
 part of a week before he can rise and go. 
 
 Let us look at him and consider him, shall we? Consider why 
 John Wilkes Booth and no other is the man who killed Lincoln. 
 Consider who he was and how and why he came to do this. Why 
 he lies here upon the wet ground far from home (and will never 
 reach home again). Does it not seem that something has set him 
 apart for this special fate, for minimized death in immense life, 
 and small life in exaggerated death? And who or what was it, do 
 you think? 
 
 If anyone had asked him who or what it was, he would have 
 been quick to say: myself. If anyone had asked, And who are you? 
 he would have said: Wilkes Booth. (When he grew up and came 
 to fashion and renown he tried to drop the John, the Johnny, but 
 it clung, being a name that love could use. Love generally speaking 
 it, he scarcely had another.) If anyone had questioned further: And 
 who is Wilkes Booth? he would have been as perplexed as ourselves 
 or Socrates. He would have had to stop and knit his brow and 
 think, and no one knows what he would have answered. 
 
 Johnny was the ninth of ten children. His father was Junius 
 Brutus Booth and his mother was a beautiful woman named Mary 
 Ann Holmes. Their oldest son Junius was thirty years old and 
 Johnny was thirteen years old when the couple got married. The 
 reason they waited so long was that they couldn't get married before. 
 Junius Brutus Booth was already married. 
 
 He was an Englishman who emigrated to America. The wife he 
 left there was the mother of his small son, but he didn't love her. 
 He left her because he wanted to live with his mistress instead, who 
 
 56 
 
was for the first time pregnant. She was eighteen years old. The 
 only way he could live with her was to leave England and go to a 
 foreign land. He picked out America. So here they came across the 
 ocean, he and his sweetheart, glorious Mary Ann, and a little horse 
 named Peacock. They settled down in Maryland. Junius bought a 
 farm twenty-five miles from Baltimore and three miles from the 
 country town of Bel Air. It is still there, the town, and the farm, too. 
 
 Junius was a famous actor at the time. In fact, he was one of 
 the most famous actors in the business. He could play Richard so 
 that it lifted a man right out of his seat, and King Lear so that he 
 tore the heart out of the breast, and Sir Edward Mortimer in The 
 Iron Chest in a way to scare a person so he couldn't sleep for a week. 
 
 His father was a lawyer, named Richard Booth, and if there was 
 anything in the world Richard Booth did not want his son to 
 become, it was an actor. So he set him to reading law, but when he 
 was seventeen Junius put his foot down on that and took himself 
 off and did what he wanted. 
 
 He was still a very young man when he became famous, as 
 famous as his great rival Edmund Kean. He toured Europe and 
 made an ill-advised match with a Belgian woman five years older 
 than himself, but it did not seem so ill advised at the time. He was 
 quite taken with her lively ways and bright, tight costumes. He 
 brought her back with him to England, and his father was furious. 
 They set up housekeeping and soon they had a little boy. Junius 
 kept adding to his popularity and fame, and though actors were 
 not paid in those days as they are in this, still he made not only an 
 adequate but a comfortable living and his wife was entirely happy. 
 
 Junius bore then the tender heart he was to carry always, the easy 
 sympathy and kind ways, and he had only a few of the oddities that 
 were to multiply and transume into the eccentricities that would be- 
 come perilous fits of madness, a danger both to others and to himself. 
 But at that time he was only a remarkably gifted young actor, a 
 good earner, and Adelaide, his foreign wife, cherished him. 
 
 More and more, however, his eyes roved to other women, and 
 when they encountered Mary Ann Holmes, a Reading girl, daughter 
 of a widowed mother, selling posies in the Bow Street Market be- 
 fore the Covent Theater, they strayed from Adelaide forever. Tall 
 
 57 
 
for a girl, Mary Ann was light in weight, light and lustrous of skin, 
 with light, free movements. Her usual mouth was the earnest one 
 of the greatly loving, soft, unsmiling, but she could laugh at any 
 drollery. Later, when there wasn't anything to laugh at any more, 
 she learned to smile, but she learned it between tears and it never 
 served her well. Her hair was glossy, dark as night, a mass of glisten- 
 ing ringlets. It cost her some pain to gather them up into the decent 
 confinement of a twist or roll behind, when her first baby was six 
 months old and her years of discretion would seem to have begun, 
 but she did it resolutely. The pupils of her eyes were of such size on 
 most occasions that one would fancy her a black-eyed woman, but. 
 these eyes were of a dapple hazel, in constant sea, gem and cloud 
 change. Them, with her love of love, she bequeathed particularly 
 to her son John Wilkes. 
 
 Junius Brutus Booth, the famous young actor, won the heart of 
 Mary Ann in five minutes but valued it not the less for his easy 
 conquest, his own being given in return. First he took her to 
 France with him when he went on tour. Unwearying of her sweet- 
 ness (to his astonishment) he carried her then to Deal, in England. 
 He bought a horse named Peacock, a rompish little black pony 
 with markings like large white daisies scattered over him, and he 
 used to set Mary Ann upon Peacock while he walked alongside. 
 But Deal was a summer resort, people one knew crowded there, and 
 Junius cast about in his mind to think how he and his sweetheart 
 could be longer together without being discovered. Not long in 
 deciding, he bought passage to the West Indies, taking Peacock 
 along. When they stopped at Funchal, on the island of Madeira, 
 and Mary Ann told him ashamedly that she was pregnant, he began 
 to consider, not how he could retain her for a few weeks but how 
 he could keep her with him forever. Soon after, a clipper ship, the 
 Two Brothers, sailed from Funchal, bound for America. On it were 
 Junius, Mary Ann and Peacock. They walked off it forty-four days 
 later, in Norfolk, Virginia, as much in love as ever, except Peacock, 
 who considered himself ill used and was quite sulky for a week. 
 In America, Junius started acting, of course, and was appreciated 
 from the start. In October, in the year 1821, enough money was 
 taken in at his New York benefit so that a few months later he 
 
 58 
 
could buy a farm. That was what he decided to do: put Mary Ann 
 upon an isolated farm. She was not averse to it, for the need to be 
 seen and admired by all was not one of her failings. 
 
 Junius Brutus Booth, Jr., called June, was born around Christmas- 
 time, 1821, in Charleston, but the other nine babies Mary Ann pro- 
 duced without losing her figure were to be born at The Farm, just 
 outside Bel Air, Maryland. Junius did not break this piece of news 
 to his wife, Adelaide, in London. He merely wrote to her, first, 
 that he was "on tour" in America. Later, he sent word that he 
 was so enamored of the country that he would not come home 
 for a while. He continued to write, send her what money he could, 
 deceive and put her off for nearly thirty years. Finally Adelaide got 
 rather impatient and came over and surprised him — when the "little 
 son Richard" he had left behind was almost thirty-seven years old. 
 She was so scandalized by what she saw with her own eyes that 
 she divorced him, after many a noisy and conspicuous scene, and 
 it was a great shame to the Maryland Booths who never spoke of 
 the matter to anyone. After that, Junius and Mary Ann got married, 
 on Johnny's thirteenth birthday. 
 
 At the beginning and for many years (later they spent their 
 winters in Baltimore) Junius and Mary Ann lived on The Farm 
 exactly like lovers from time's beginning have wanted to live to- 
 gether. They had no close neighbors, no friends of nuisance pro- 
 portions, no wearisome social life. They had tastes in common, a 
 pretty home, three ferocious dogs to guard them, and plenty of 
 hired help. While they had no slaves, many masters would rent their 
 Negroes out for small pay, and all the hard labor of the land and 
 household was done by them. 
 
 A lonely spot, with only a crooked path leading to it, it did not 
 seem lonely, and the mail, thrown by the horn-blowing postboy once 
 a week over the gate a quarter of a mile away where the coach 
 road passed, came often enough to suit them. Junius took pride in 
 The Farm. The ample four-roomed cabin with loft above and 
 kitchen behind was whitewashed and plastered, the window frames, 
 shutters and doors painted red. This gave it a fine, fairy-tale look, 
 set as it was among trees, and many a queen if she could have 
 seen it would have given up her throne to keep house there with 
 
 59 
 
someone she loved. It was a large farm of a hundred and fifty 
 acres, and while some of it was left to forest and meadow, much of 
 it was cleared, a vineyard planted and an orchard laid out. A dairy 
 and stables were built. The wonderfully limpid spring falling into a 
 tiny pool where a big green bullfrog lived was made much of by 
 the pair and they had a marble ledge and steps constructed for 
 its embellishment. 
 
 Mary Ann did wonders with the inside of the house, furnishing 
 her simple parlor with a table, a few chairs, a corner cupboard full 
 of pretty china, brass andirons, a spinning wheel, three engravings 
 and a looking glass, yet these she arranged so tastefully and with 
 such care that it seemed a place of elegance. 
 
 A year after they came here to live, Junius' father, who had been 
 let in on the secret, arrived from London to see them. He was a 
 small, delicate man with a sharp tongue and gentle temper, a schol- 
 arly mind and worldly ways. He wore his hair, white as his spotless 
 linen, in a little pigtail down his back. He and Mary Ann had their 
 heads together in no time. He sent for his small library of books and 
 stayed on at The Farm till he died, which he did sixteen years 
 later when Johnny was a year old. Mary Ann cried for him for 
 months and, in fact, missed him the rest of her life. He drank, and 
 to excess, but not with Junius, his son, who could "drink with any 
 tinker in his own language." Each berated the other severely for his 
 lamentable weakness, but kept it from Mary Ann as much as 
 possible, Grandfather usually doing his drinking in the town of 
 Bel Air, and Junius his when on tour. 
 
 For of course the lover had to earn money, and that was where 
 the rub came. He had to be away for weeks and weeks at a time in 
 fall and winter, acting on the stage in all the large cities. Traveling 
 was no joke in those days. For every good bed there were twenty 
 uncomfortable ones, and it was the same with meals. Mary Ann 
 always thought that the strain of these journeys, and the strain of 
 acting, brought his madness upon him. 
 
 He was never very mad when at home, even in later years, but 
 abroad he was talked of more and more as "'odd as the very devil" 
 and in one newspaper account he was said to be "a lunatic of the 
 first water." Desdemona was scared to death of him half the time 
 
 60 
 
and Richmond, who had often to stand up and fight for his very life, 
 was once chased nearly two blocks by wild-eyed Richard III. He 
 might walk on stage drunk. He might, and frequently did, devise 
 and interject into the play some sudden bizarre stage business that 
 threw everybody off cue, but managers forgave his every sin and let 
 him do what he would. He was a heaven-born actor and they 
 knew it. 
 
 When June, their first little son, was two years old, Mary Ann had 
 Rosalie. Grandfather named her. Then she had a little boy named 
 Henry Byron. He died. Then she had three more children — Mary 
 Ann, Frederick, Elizabeth. They died, too, one after another. 
 
 When baby Mary Ann died, Junius was away. He got home a 
 week afterward. Frantic with grief, for she was a little beauty, he had 
 the Negroes go down to the family graveyard, down by the beech 
 and tulip trees, and dig her up and bring her to the parlor. There he 
 tried with all his power to make her wake up. He was "never very 
 mad" when at home, as has been said, but on a few occasions he was 
 mad enough. Another time was when, at the age of thirteen or four- 
 teen, daisy-strewn Peacock died. Death infuriated Junius, he would 
 not have allowed so much as a beetle to perish if he could have 
 helped it, and when the little piebald horse stopped breathing it was 
 more than he could stand. He begged Mary Ann to lie upon it, pray 
 and revive their dear old friend. She would not, so he thrust her 
 down upon the carcass, saying, "Pray! Pray, for God's sake!" Grand- 
 father couldn't do a thing with Junius. Finally the Negroes ran for 
 help, and the neighbors came to lift the tortured man up bodily and 
 get him to bed. He stayed there and slept for a whole day and night, 
 sobbing in his sleep. 
 
 Mostly, however, he was himself when at The Farm, loving, 
 merry, a delightful, indulgent son, husband and father. 
 
 Edwin was born when June was twelve years old, Asia, "in re- 
 membrance of that country where God first walked with man," two 
 years later; and three years after her came Johnny. The last child, 
 born when Johnny was two, was called Joseph. 
 
 It was lovely on The Farm. Evenings in bad weather were 
 spent indoors. Junius would read aloud to the family, or take the 
 parts of plays, or tell entrancing stories. He would often take a 
 
 61 
 
daughter or son on his lap, even when they were quite big — 
 Johnny was more than twelve when he sat there the last time and 
 his father took hold of his curly head and laid it on his shoulder 
 while he recited Lycidas. Balmy evenings in summer were as sweet, 
 for then Junius and Mary Ann and Grandfather took chairs out 
 under the trees. Children of the neighborhood would come there 
 and, with the Booth offspring, tread the green grass, joining hands, 
 dance around in a circle and sing. They sang "Lady Queen Ann 
 she sits in the sun" and "Oats, peas, beans and barley groves" 
 and "Here come three gallants out of Spain, all to court your 
 daughter Jane." The moonlight would come on like stage lights, 
 it was beautiful to watch them under it, going in and out of the 
 thick shade of trees, melodiously singing. When Junius turned to 
 Mary Ann her eyes would glisten and he often held her hand. 
 
 Mad abroad and sound, or mostly sound, at home, drunk abroad 
 and sober, or mostly sober, at home, Junius, the great actor, loved 
 Mary Ann undeviatingly for more than thirty years, and then he 
 died. 
 
 The way he died was this. June, the oldest boy, upon growing up, 
 became an actor like his father. His gifts being not so great, he 
 later took to stage managing and building and owning large theaters, 
 which made him rich and famous. However, he began as an actor. 
 When gold was discovered in California and people began flocking 
 there, he flocked, too. He went in 1850 and returned two years later 
 for a visit, not wealthy, but so full of stories of the wealth and 
 honor that an actor might reap there that his father's imagination 
 was quite inflamed. Nothing would do but Junius, Sr., must return 
 to Eldorado with his son June. He would remain there a few months 
 and come back with enough money so that he would never have 
 to leave Mary Ann's side again. He would, in short, be able to retire. 
 
 Even Mary Ann, who thought he had not been looking well and 
 to whom the thought of separation by such a distance bore heavily, 
 was seduced by the picture painted by her enthusiastic son. It did 
 not seem much to have to undergo — merely another of the partings 
 to which she was so accustomed, a few months of worry and wait- 
 ing, and then reunion, this time forever. She gave her consent. 
 Edwin, then past eighteen, wanted to go, too, for he was a budding 
 
 62 
 
actor in his own right and had been on a tour or two of his own, 
 but his father said he should stay home. 
 
 For some reason, as many times as Junius had taken leave of Mary 
 Ann, this was the saddest. He kissed her twenty times, their tears 
 mingling, and no one but themselves could have parted them, so 
 tightly did they hold each other. 
 
 In New York, while June was out buying their tickets on a 
 steamer to Panama, Junius went out to see the sights, met up with 
 old friends, got unspeakably drunk, and wound up back home on 
 The Farm! He did not know how he had got there, but he knew 
 why — to kiss his sweetheart Mary Ann, to hold her in his arms and 
 tell her how he loved her, one more time. This leave-taking, then, 
 was still more heart rending than the one before, but somehow, for 
 the sake of the happy years to come, they got through it. When he 
 left, Edwin went with him, to accompany him all the way to his 
 journey's end. 
 
 The three then, father, June and Edwin, set sail for California. 
 Junius gave brilliant performances there through July, August and 
 September. He started home the first week in October, leaving his 
 sons behind, with quite a hefty purse — not enough to retire on 
 but enough to say it had paid to go out there (not that Mary Ann 
 would care). Drunk and sick and sick and drunk the whole trip, 
 he discovered, upon arriving in New Orleans the middle of Novem- 
 ber, that whether he had lost, bet, gambled or been swindled out of 
 it, his money was almost gone. In panic he applied to his old friend, 
 the manager of the St. Charles Theater, and was engaged to give 
 six performances there. They were as splendid as anything he ever 
 did, the audience nearly tore the house down, and they were his 
 very last. He caught a bad cold. When he left New Orleans by 
 river boat he was so ill he could hardly stand. A day later he was 
 discovered in his stateroom to be in an alarming condition. 
 
 "Have you a wife?" they asked him. 
 
 He nodded, his eyes full of tears. 
 
 "The best . . ." he whispered. 
 
 There was no medicine on board. They tried to give him brandy 
 but he could not swallow it. Someone soaked a rag in it and laid 
 that to his lips but he pushed it away. "No more in life," he said. 
 
 63 
 
"Do you wish to send a message to your wife?" they asked. 
 
 He shook his head, but then he changed his mind and tried to 
 say something but nobody knew what it was. 
 
 He died on the last day of November, 1852. 
 
 They telegraphed Mary Ann that he was sick and she hurried to 
 meet the steamer in Cincinnati, praying every step of the way. 
 
 Like himself, now, she felt the fury against death. In Baltimore, 
 where she took the dead man, she kept him several days in a room 
 all hung with white, a bust of Shakespeare beside him. For some 
 reason, as though this perhaps would entice him back, she let down 
 her hair, streaked now with gray, in the old girlish way, refused to 
 put on black clothes and never left off crying. So long and so 
 intensely did she stare upon his face, that once his eyelids seemed 
 to flutter, his lips move. Transported by joy, she went for a doctor 
 in the middle of the night. 
 
 Junius Brutus Booth was buried after that, in the Baltimore Green- 
 mount Cemetery, while snow circled down in slow and heavy flakes. 
 
 64 
 
VII 
 
 'See, where 'mid work of his own land he lies, 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
 With light upon him from his father's eyes! 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
 Shaped by himself. . . ." 
 
 Intimations of Immortality: Wordsworth 
 
 Johnny's mother, ensnared from the minute he was laid in her 
 arms by the beauty he was to grow up with and carry to his 
 grave, insisted he was a remarkable baby. His father did, too. Even 
 June admitted it, Rosalie offered herself as his slave, and small Ed- 
 win and smaller Asia conjoined in treating him gently and kissing 
 him much through babyhood and acting as his staunch guardians 
 when he got bigger. Joseph, who came after him, never really had 
 a look-in. Johnny was the pet, prince and pendragon, but the last 
 little boy did not much mind this state of affairs. For one thing, he 
 never knew any difference, and at any rate, when he got old 
 enough, he fell as much under Johnny's spell as anybody. By grace 
 and spirit, daring, invention, tact, imagination, a strong will and a 
 sunny face, half rogue and half seraph, he wrapped them all around 
 his little finger. 
 
 Of all, perhaps his mother was most helplessly lost. She could not 
 bear to correct him, but then, as she said, he did not seem to need 
 much correction. His father, whenever he was at home, agreed 
 with her and said that if he would just learn his lessons there 
 wouldn't be a boy that could outshine him. His mother said he could 
 always learn his lessons — she pointed out that everything he liked 
 to do, he did well, it was only what he did not like to do that he 
 did badly or not at all — but he was a child only once. He ought to 
 
 65 
 
have a happy, healthy, carefree, thoughtless childhood, she said, all 
 little ones should, and nobody disputed the point with her, though 
 the rest of the children learned their lessons fairly well. 
 
 With books in the house, and all the family, Johnny included, 
 fond of reading, the problem of education was not a pressing one. 
 They had Grandfather's books here and there among a library of 
 their own — Shelley, Coleridge, Keats, a Gazetteer of the World, an 
 English and a French dictionary, Racine, Alfieri, Tasso, Dante, 
 Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, Plutarch's Morals and Lives, 
 Milton, all of Shakespeare, the Koran, Locke's Essay on the Human 
 Understanding, Paley's Theology, Byron, histories of Greece and 
 Rome, Felicia Hemans, the Life of Algernon Sidney and others. 
 
 However, they were all expected to go to school, and did. At first, 
 one after another as the time came, they went to the public school 
 in that vicinity, but it was not a good one. Not only through the 
 years were the teachers inadequate and ignorant, but also often 
 vicious. One, whose short career was a long, glorious holiday for 
 his little scholars, was a drunkard, one a dope taker. However, all 
 the Booth children had to go to this school, for longer or shorter 
 periods, depending on the depravity of the current teacher. They 
 learned the three R's after a fashion but finished their education 
 elsewhere. None had great erudition or many years of school, but 
 their parents did not greatly fear for their future, for they were all 
 readers and glittering with personality, except Rosalie, whose per- 
 sonality was like a ruffled dress turned inside out, so that she be- 
 came a real recluse and never married. 
 
 Johnny and Joseph went to the Bel Air Academy for some five 
 years. Asia was a day student at the Carmelite Convent. Then 
 Johnny, who would not apply himself, was put into a large boarding 
 school kept by Quakers, in a Quaker settlement at Cockeysville. 
 
 Wasn't he glad, though, when the last day of school came! 
 
 It was fine June weather and here Asia arrived, dressed in white 
 with a little white bonnet on her curls and white flowers in her 
 hands, and here Mother was — they had come by the cars to see the 
 program, and eat lunch, and take him home — looking beautiful in 
 pale-gray mull with lilacs all around her hat. Wasn't he glad though ! 
 He played a scene from Shakespeare like a starving lion gnawing 
 
 66 
 
on the thigh of a hartebeest. Never was there a more diabolic 
 fiend-in-human-form than Shylock, more palsied, more ancient, 
 more hideous. Oh, the fellow was a perfect horror, he writhed, he 
 twisted, he ground his teeth — "I am very glad of it, I'll plague him, 
 I'll torture him, I am glad of it" — until his mother had to hide her 
 smile behind her glove, her fond eyes beaming. Wasn't he happy! 
 They had a picnic lunch under the trees, a delightful one. A Quak- 
 eress said of him to her neighbor, "He is like a newborn rose with 
 the morning dew upon it," and it was true. 
 
 Going home to The Farm, he told Asia and Mother what the 
 gypsy told him. He had met her in the woods one day, she had 
 wide red-and-yellow skirts and a blue bodice and thick gold ear- 
 rings, there was a funny smell about her, delicious and strange, and 
 she had told his fortune. 
 
 He told them about it. "She was pretty old," he said, "about 
 twenty-five. She said she'd tell my fortune if I'd cross her palm 
 with silver. That means you have to pay them. They won't do it 
 for nothing. So I gave her a quarter — " 
 
 "That was too much," Asia said. 
 
 "Well, you have to," Johnny said. "Because if you don't cross their 
 palm with silver they won't tell you one word. So I gave her my 
 quarter. And then she said — " Now, as he liked to do, he imitated 
 her. Before their eyes her dark, mysterious face took shape beneath 
 her snakelike, coal-black hair, her thin and cunning lips prophesied 
 the future, her large and cunning eyes stared hypnotically. She gazed 
 down into his palm. "La, la, la," she said with an unidentifiable 
 accent, "bad hand, a bad hand, the lines are all criscras. It's full of 
 sorrow — here — and full of trouble — there — and hearts broke — here — 
 and hearts broke — there — oh, la, young man. A bad hand, trouble 
 everywhere. Young man! Live, you will, rich, famous, scattering 
 your money. Die, you will, young and like a star of beauty, a star 
 upon the sky fall'n down. Oh, the girls will cry! Oh, their scattered 
 hearts! Many will cry . . . but la, the enemies behind! The enemies, 
 many as the soldiers in a war in Spain, many as the enemies of 
 England!" 
 
 It took a little while for the gypsy to vanish. . . . They almost had 
 to rub their eyes. 
 
 67 
 
"Oh, Johnny, you must be fibbing!" Asia said. "She couldn't have 
 said all those mean things." 
 
 Mary Ann's eyes were grave. "She didn't really say all that, did 
 she, Johnny?" 
 
 "Of course she did." He laughed. "But I don't care. I don't care 
 if it all comes true. It'll be a long time off. And I'll be rich, and 
 famous, and that's the main thing." 
 
 "And have all the girls in love with you," Asia said teasingly. 
 
 "Girls," he said. "I don't know why I should bother with girls. 
 They can keep their old hearts — I don't want them." 
 
 "They shouldn't allow gypsies to roam around and tell children 
 such things — " Mary Ann said musingly. 
 
 "I'm not a child, I turned fourteen last month, you want to re- 
 member," Johnny put in. 
 
 "But of course it's all a big lie," his mother went on. "Except 
 maybe the nice parts, like where you're going to make lots of money 
 and get famous and break the ladies' hearts." 
 
 Johnny went one more year to school and that was at St. 
 Timothy's Hall in Catonsville, a military academy, where he was an 
 artillery cadet, handsomely clad in a tight-fitting steel-gray uniform, 
 and the Reverend Mr. van Bokkelen and Professor Onderdonk 
 tried to teach him what they knew. On the side he took lessons on 
 the flute, and dancing, learning to do the Highland fling, sailor's 
 hornpipe and a "difficult" Polish dance. 
 
 Mary Ann spent her winters in Baltimore, in a house there, and 
 only the summers on The Farm. June, the oldest boy, was long gone 
 from home. Rosalie, a grown woman, never seen except by her 
 immediate family, stayed as close to her mother as a chick to her 
 hen. Edwin, already an actor though untrained before he left for 
 California, was now, after long months of trial and error, a polished 
 one, and would go far. Asia, extraordinarily beautiful, was at home, 
 waiting, as young ladies must wait for their own reasons. She had 
 many beaux to choose from, little minx that she was, and the one 
 she favored — John Sleeper Clarke, also a young actor — she did not 
 as yet favor to the extent that she would consent to marry him. 
 Johnny did not like him very well, nor any of the beaux. Until, like the 
 
 68 
 
hero in a romance, he went away to seek his fortune, which would 
 not be long, he thought, he would just as soon Asia didn't bother 
 with other fellows. He liked to have her all wrapped up in him, in 
 his dreams and aspirations, talking to him and listening to him, 
 with her eyes — like looking into a glass at his own eyes — sparkling, 
 and her head on one side. My, she had thick curls, wonderful curls. 
 His would have been like that if he had been a girl and let his hair 
 grow long, as she did. 
 
 The beaux didn't bother so much on The Farm, though they 
 managed to get out there on occasion, no matter how hot it was or 
 whether it rained, and come up the crooked lane from the coach 
 road. 
 
 Johnny slept in the loft which faced the east, and he was glad it 
 did. "No setting sun view for me," he said. "It's too blamed melan- 
 choly. Let me see him rise every time!" He liked the smell of the 
 oak floor, kept so well scrubbed by black hands that it was always 
 slightly damp, and would not have a carpet upon it for this reason, 
 though it was often shockingly cold to his bare feet. A great pair of 
 antlers, spoils of some long-forgotten conquest, hung upon the walls, 
 and swinging from the points were swords, pistols, daggers and a 
 disqualified old gun with a flaring muzzle like a trumpet. He once 
 had had a lance he used to make rushes with, like Don Quixote or 
 the Champion Knight of the local tourneys, couching it properly or 
 merely waving it in the air while he galloped on his horse through 
 the woods, yelling wildly. He was practicing to be in the Deer 
 Creek Tournaments, he said, when Mother ran out of the house in 
 terror upon hearing the bloodcurdling shouts and begged to know 
 if he were killed. What was he yelling for, though? "The warriors 
 used to scare their enemies like that," he said. (They never came on 
 them from behind without a sound, except Indians.) "You scared 
 me out of my wits," Mother said. "I wish you would quit that game." 
 But he kept on doing it for a while until he got to be eleven or so 
 and it seemed sort of childish. Besides, the lance was broken. He 
 had a piece of it yet. 
 
 He had a few shelves running along one wall and on these were 
 ranged his schoolbooks, Bulwer, Marryat, Longfellow, Whittier,. N. 
 P. Willis, Poe. Byron and Shakespeare, carried up from the book- 
 
 69 
 
case downstairs, were often crowded in with them, or to be found, 
 open and face downward, either at the foot of the bed or on the 
 floor beside it. 
 
 One autumn he conceived a great admiration for Agesilaus, the 
 Spartan king, and discarded his feather mattress and pillow to sleep 
 on others of close-packed straw, but this enthusiasm passed, much to 
 his mother's relief, and he took them back when he struck up an 
 acquaintance with Epicurus, who suited him to a T forever after. 
 Asia took great pains to make him a multicolored quilt, of a com- 
 plicated pattern called Job's-tears. He begged in his winning way, 
 making them all laugh, even Asia who should have been vexed, 
 not to be obliged to accept it. "If there's anybody I can't abide, it's 
 Job," he said, "and to think of lying down under Job's-tears, espe- 
 cially such walloping big ones as these" — he put a finger on a patch 
 of green — "is more than I can abide." So Asia turned up her nose 
 at him and said he couldn't have it now if he begged on his bended 
 knees, but she wasn't really vexed. When he put an arm around 
 her neck and kissed her, she kissed him back and said he was a 
 perfect terror. 
 
 He was as tall now as he was meant to be, not as tall as he would 
 have liked, but Mother and Asia stood him up against the wall and 
 measured him, and said he was five feet eight inches. They didn't 
 press down very heavy on his thick hair though, and he had cun- 
 ningly arched his feet, bringing his heels a little off the floor, so he 
 may have been a few fractions of an inch shorter. From babyhood, 
 he had not lost his beauty for one day, even by that badge of boy- 
 hood, a discolored eye, or a temporary blemish like a pustule. Even 
 the loss of his baby teeth, the other ones growing in, the priceless 
 teeth he was to die with, did not seem to worsen his looks — nothing 
 did. The dark beard which came in across his rounded chin and up 
 his cheeks, proudly to be shaved off every day with his father's 
 dangerous old razor, did not change Ganymede to Vulcan, nor did 
 the broadening of his shoulders, narrowing of his waist or his voice 
 changing from high to low. 
 
 A very little boy may be beautiful, a young man must be hand- 
 some when he is not ugly or in between, but Johnny kept the look 
 of beauty that the Quakeress saw, that everybody had noted either 
 
 70 
 
with indifference or interest from the time they first beheld him, 
 and was indisputably beautiful, quarrel with the word as one may. 
 It was like a high rank and he enjoyed it, for he recognized its 
 worth at an early age. Even when he could not see himself in any 
 mirror or still or running water, even in the dark, snugly covered 
 in his bed, he was aware of it and far back in his mind could see 
 his own face and form. He looked upon his real reflection many 
 times a day and still oftener on the reflection of himself within him- 
 self — moving, smiling, speaking, riding Cola like a prince, lying on 
 his back on the grass with his hands under his head — so his beauty 
 was as perfectly familiar to him as sunlight. 
 
 What might have been a threat to it in others, like an ugly gash 
 or two where they showed the most, were his frightful displays of 
 temper when crossed or baffled, his sulkiness when slighted, his 
 belligerence when criticized, but these were the natural result of his 
 upbringing. Some other way came the fits of melancholy, not 
 known when little, that appeared and reappeared as he grew older 
 and might have muddied a face of lesser light. His they did not, 
 only to emphasize his splendor, as an artist by a soft-stroked shadow 
 concludes the statement of beauty that would be incomplete with- 
 out it. 
 
 Now he was as tall as he would be, sixteen, and nearly ready to 
 go and seek his fortune. He knew that he was going to be an actor 
 like his father and Junius and Edwin. Even if they had not been 
 actors, he would be, he felt, for he considered he had more power 
 and ability than could conceivably have been a family inheritance. 
 He had already committed several roles to memory and spent many 
 hours reciting them, with whatever gestures seemed to be in 
 order, to Asia, Rosalie, Joseph, Mother, the neighbors or household 
 servants. All agreed that there was nobody like him and that he 
 would zoom like a comet when once he got started. 
 
 But Mother said he had time, and of course he did have time, 
 there was no big hurry necessary. There were many ways to spend 
 it on The Farm in summer. When he was small he used to think 
 up things to make everyone laugh, like hitching up the horse to 
 the old sleigh and taking a sleigh ride all around the yard, singing 
 "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen," on the hottest day in July. But 
 
 71 
 
now he did not care particularly about making anyone laugh. He 
 would rather they marveled. He still played a prank or two but 
 only to show his finesse. Once he dressed up in Asia's clothes, tied 
 a bonnet on with a lace veil and went daintily out along the fields, 
 skirting the woods, to see "if the darkies can discover me." They 
 took ofif their hats and respectfully saluted him as he passed like 
 the most ethereal of ladies. 
 
 Best of all, perhaps, was to loll beneath the trees in the deep 
 grass and talk with Asia. Rosalie was always indoors with Mother, 
 Joseph had interests elsewhere, so the brother and sister were 
 thrown much into each other's company. Where Asia was, Johnny 
 was, and vice versa. 
 
 She was nineteen, a tender companion. Though of no great size 
 and of delicate complexion, she could ride as well as a boy. They 
 had no sidesaddle but she could keep a firm seat sideways on a 
 military saddle by holding tight with her knee to the front and 
 her toe in one stirrup and gallop her mount like a highbred lady. 
 They rode out almost every day, morning rides together when 
 everything glittered like diamonds with dew, and night rides by 
 moonlight or starlight, Johnny on Cola, Asia on Belle. Cola di 
 Rienzi was a colt as black as ink, with a graceful fall of mane and 
 tail and an "Ivanhoe" forehead. He could stamp for "No," bow for 
 "Yes," play dead and keep to heel like a hound, and he could run 
 like a gazelle. Johnny always started ofl: by saying, "The Choctaws 
 are after you! Run for your life! Run, laddie!" and Cola seemed to 
 believe it, for he shot ahead like an arrow. Belle merely galloped and 
 Johnny would be far ahead for half a mile or so, but then he would 
 start tugging on the reins a little so Asia could catch up. After that 
 they would lope leisurely along together, generally singing, "Fair, 
 Fair with Golden Hair," "I'm a-going Away by de Light ob de 
 Moon," "On a Bright and Summer's Morning," "Soldier, Soldier," 
 "Barbara Allen" and other songs. They discovered that the horses 
 liked to keep time — if they sang a lively tune, the horses stepped right 
 along to it, if a slow, sad one, they dragged as if they were pulling 
 a hearse. They used to try out different melodies to see, and Cola 
 and Belle always fell into measure. They decided animals must have 
 
 72 
 
a great ear for music, particularly when Asia discovered what the 
 frogs would do. 
 
 She was sitting on a mossy knoll one afternoon in the dense 
 woods some distance from the house, beside the swift little stream 
 that cut through the land there for some way and then lost itself 
 in a tangle of wild grapevine. Johnny had gone to Bel Air, and she 
 was alone, taking a lazy stitch or two on a piece of linen, and softly 
 singing. And the little brown frogs came out of the water and from 
 their coigns of vantage beside it to hear her! They gathered like 
 people to hear a concert, decently, decorously, all facing her, in a 
 sort of half circle, looking upwards. She nearly laughed out loud. 
 Later she made Johnny go with her and sit as still as stone. She 
 took the guitar with her this time, seated herself the same way and 
 began the music, and sure enough, here came the frogs again, one 
 by one, to the concert. It was like a great discovery, somehow, to 
 Asia and Johnny, it excited them and made them giddy for hours, 
 as though it were some wonder and they had been little children. 
 
 Johnny loved to read Byron, or other poets, aloud to Asia, but 
 Byron was a great favorite for them both, though they understood 
 very few of his allusions. Neither the boy nor girl mentioned what 
 they had got wind of by reading or hearing — that the poet and his 
 own sister, or half sister, which did not by any means halve the 
 black sin, were once really in love with each other, as people are 
 in love. Byron had cut his name and Augusta's in a heart on an 
 elm tree, a disgrace to them both. Once Johnny in an idle moment 
 had cut a heart with his jackknife upon a black walnut tree and 
 put in the letters J-o-h-n and thought A-s-i-a, but that was because 
 her name had four letters, too, and would fit — no other reason. Then, 
 his forehead hot, he had hurriedly carved out J-e-s-s, the name of a 
 neighbor's daughter whose hair was the wrong color. He felt angry 
 then, unaccountably, that he had cut the heart and put the names in 
 and scarred the tree, so he scarred it still more, angrily, chipping off 
 the whole thing, leaving a bare place as big as his two hands like a 
 bane upon it. 
 
 Don Juan gave them many an hour's amusement. Asia read some- 
 times, well enough, but without much emphasis, and Johnny was 
 
 73 
 
always eager after the proper interval to take the book himself and 
 hold forth, with great expression, 
 
 I hate inconstancy — I loath, detest, 
 
 Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made 
 Of such Quicksilver clay that in his breast 
 
 No permanent foundation can be laid; 
 Love, constant love, has been my constant quest, 
 
 And yet last night, being at a masquerade, 
 I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, 
 
 Which gave me some sensations like a villain! 
 
 It must be said that Asia wearied a little sooner than he, and 
 that was strange, for in this reading he was doing all the work! 
 But she was an amiable girl and would listen for hours. Sometimes 
 she sewed or made a pretense of tatting, but usually she had her 
 eyes on his face (ever in "flux and fleeting") while Johnny read, 
 ranted Shakespearean roles, or dreamed, as he often did aloud, of 
 the fame to be his for the seeking. There were a great many minor 
 details connected with the glorious harangue but this was the gist 
 of it: He was going to go away. He was going on the stage. He 
 was going to act better than Father. He was going to turn the world 
 upside down with wonder and admiration. He was going to be rich. 
 And then — and then — well, what wouldn't he do! 
 
 They went to a party, too, sometimes, in Bel Air or in the 
 surrounding neighborhood, but these seemed countrified and the 
 other young people a little barbarous to exquisite Asia and Johnny. 
 Her homemade, pure silk dress and his claret coat and dove-colored 
 trousers made a couple of courtiers of them, a little too good and 
 bright to be there at all, though they took part in the games, ver- 
 barium, the minister's cat, birds have feathers, and break the Pope's 
 neck. They danced; Asia was gracious to her supper partner and 
 Johnny sent his into a perfect fever with his gallantry, but it was as 
 though they had come from a castle in a strange land, to see how 
 doggerel creatures might be in the midst of their heathen customs, 
 as though they would go back and say, It was the most ridiculous 
 thing you ever beheld in your life. 
 
 He had "practiced up" for it in childhood, but Johnny never rode 
 in the Deer Creek Tournaments, though he took Asia and Mother 
 
 74 
 
there to see them once or twice. The men who participated were 
 dressed in spurious armor or as warriors of olden days, and they 
 rode like the wind at bars decorated by dangling rings, trying to 
 spear them with the long lances in their hands. Smaller and smaller 
 rings went up, the contest waxed hotter, and finally the rider who 
 had speared the most rings in a given time was declared Champion 
 Knight. It was dangerous sport, for the men were reckless and 
 one horseman had his neck broken when he was knocked from 
 his mount by a swiping lance. Johnny could ride like a Gaucho, 
 but even at sixteen it had come to seem a little rash to him to risk 
 one's unique life, and more than that, one's unique face, that a 
 broken jaw or gravel-scraped cut might mar forever, a grievance to 
 the very world. 
 
 He belonged to the Know-Nothings in Bel Air, a sort of de- 
 bating society, where the chief question contested was whether or 
 not a limit should be placed on white labor. With great privileges 
 falling into the hands of the unnaturalized Irish immigrants, it was 
 feared that white labor would eventually supersede that of the 
 blacks. Johnny plucked all his conclusions from the hot wind of 
 emotion and did not dip them from the cool well of reason, for 
 this, in him, was only a little trickle from the rocks. He decided 
 the Irish had no business coming to America at all, let alone making 
 nuisances of themselves the way foreigners generally did. 
 
 With the help of an esoteric vocabulary, half of whose words he 
 could not have defined if called upon to do so, which he never was, 
 a resonant voice, little diffidence and a great deal of fire, he managed 
 to be considered an astute debater. However, the Know-Nothings 
 more or less bored him. 
 
 The liquor was something else again. Persimmon beer or apple 
 cider, cherry bounce or juleps, corn whisky or brandies (he had a 
 taste for brandy even then, later to be his sole drink) made quite 
 an affair out of the little meetings. He was pleased to make the 
 discovery that he had a head for liquor, but this seemed a natural 
 attribute to one of such superior gifts as himself, so he was not 
 surprised. Draining the cup in those days was no great temptation 
 and like carrying coals to Pittsburgh, for he was already lit up with 
 vainglory and ardor and could have burst into flame if a door opened. 
 
 75 
 
He and Mother used to have a talk sometimes about the days to 
 come. Once she wondered timidly if he ought to be an actor, if it 
 weren't too hard and unsettled a life. He asked her ironically, what 
 he should be then? She racked her brain over the matter but all 
 she could suggest was, first, a lawyer, while he sat with his arms 
 folded and a wondrously becoming and comical sneer upon his 
 face, and then, a professor, while he lost the sneer and burst out 
 with a laugh like a stage villain that changed to his own boyish 
 one when she laughed, too. For it was really absurd. Then she con- 
 fessed that the truth was, the only thing she could think of that 
 would fit his attainments was for him to be a king and rule a 
 country like — well, like France perhaps. He thought so himself, 
 though he knew she spoke in fun, but he pointed out that a throne 
 might be pretty hard to get hold of. 
 
 Well, she said, anyway, she had saved all his father's costumes 
 and promptbooks for no one but himself — even if June had his nose 
 out of joint and Edwin sulked — and when the time came, he should 
 have them. These sons, making names for themselves on the Pacific 
 Coast, had assumed the responsibility for the family after their 
 father's death. They were regularly sending home money, not large 
 amounts, for they did not have it, and Junius had an extravagant 
 young actress to maintain, but enough to support the family in 
 strict economy, letting some of the help go. Yet Johnny was to 
 have the fine costumes and valuable promptbooks, though both the 
 other boys were actors of reputation and Edwin especially had had 
 his heart set on them. Junius and Edwin did not think it was fair. 
 
 Junius was to remain in California for fourteen years altogether; 
 Edwin returned to the East four years after his father's death. He 
 came home when Johnny was seventeen, a stunning young man of 
 twenty-three, with a dark, romantic look, half priest, half bandit, 
 debonair clothes and a polish laid upon him by many adventures, 
 defeats and triumphs. He was also a fine actor and was to be a 
 better one. Asia was nearly out of her wits about her brother at 
 first. It was Edwin this and Edwin that and Edwin wants apple 
 cake and Edwin sit out of the draft — until his younger brother felt 
 like pushing him into the creek. Brooding like a lover, Johnny 
 watched her primp and fuss, and he thought to himself there was 
 
 76 
 
never anything more preposterous in the world. But it displeased 
 Asia that Edwin had a girl ahead), even though he had just begun 
 playing the eastern theaters and only just got home. She sulked 
 about it and was sure he couldn't be really in love! 
 
 Edwin teased her and said maybe he was and maybe he wasn't, 
 but, good heavens, she didn't want him to fall in love with her and 
 marry her, did she? She answered sharply, and he teased some 
 more, and finally they fell out. After that, she turned back to 
 Johnny, capricious little witch that she was, and by her sweetness 
 and goodness, tenderness and wholehearted attention — also her sub- 
 sequent coolness to Edwin — soon formed with him an accord as 
 warm as ever and lifted his spirits to the skies. 
 
 Things were different, however. The Serpent had entered Para- 
 dise. Edwin left on a long and successful tour, Asia's allegiance was 
 Johnny's own again, the weather was lovely, the books were there, 
 The Farm was the same. But now Johnny grew restless, eager, he 
 had no more time to waste. He was in a hurry. Could Hyperion sit 
 around while Apollo was begging to be knocked off his perch? 
 Could Jason? With a big day's work cut out for him? Not much! 
 Johnny had to go. 
 
 He went, not to Mars or to Venus which seemed possible at the 
 time, but to Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love! 
 
 The night before, they had a celebration. Rosalie baked a big 
 cake that sagged somewhat in the middle and lasted well over a 
 week but was very pretty for the hollow place was filled up with 
 frosting. Before it hardened she wrote Johnny on it with a knitting 
 needle as though it had been his birthday. Mother constantly re- 
 membered things he must not forget to take with him and fretted 
 about what was to become of his linen in the hands of Irish washer- 
 women! He got a kiss every time she passed him, but he did not 
 mind, he was thinking so hard of other matters that he scarcely 
 knew it and sometimes gently brushed her away as one would brush 
 away a tiresome pet that worries one when deep in concentration. 
 Sometimes he burst out like an operatic baritone with "I love the 
 Merry, Merry Sunshine" or another of his favorites, or took a stance 
 and passionately recited To be or not to be, or came up behind 
 Rosalie to blow upon a scolding lock, making her scream and tell 
 
 77 
 
him to behave himself, or threw himself into a sailor's hornpipe 
 that threatened the china in the closet and sent them all running to 
 subdue him. 
 
 Asia picked flowers for the supper table, and set it with the best 
 linen and tableware, and shed many tears and said it was all her 
 fault. The reason she considered it all her fault was because her 
 fiance John Clarke (she had finally consented to marry the young 
 actor though she could not be brought to say when) was in Phila- 
 delphia, playing there. If nobody they knew was playing Phila- 
 delphia, Johnny wouldn't have taken a notion to go there, Asia said, 
 blaming herself. If John Clarke had not written her such letters as 
 he did about his reception there and how kind the city was to 
 actors, and she hadn't read them aloud to Johnny, even a few of 
 the love parts, which made him scowl, he never would have decided 
 to go to Philadelphia to start his career. 
 
 Mother said reasonably, yes, but he was sure to start somewhere 
 and it might as well be Philadelphia as anywhere else. She did 
 think, however, that the logical thing would have been to go where 
 his brother Edwin was, and get his start with Edwin, who could 
 have seen that he had some few little advantages and maybe offer 
 him a correction or two if he didn't know right away what he was 
 expected to do. After all, he had not had any real training and 
 there might be things — She looked carefully to make sure that 
 Johnny was not within earshot before she said all this. He would 
 have ranted terribly. 
 
 "Why, I wouldn't go within a hundred miles of him!" he said 
 dramatically when she had been so unwise as to make the shy sug- 
 gestion a few days previous. "I don't need Edwin, I can tell you!" 
 
 "What's Neddie done anyway?" Rosalie said mildly. "You used 
 to love him so when you were little and wrote him those nice 
 letters when he was out in California and everything. And now 
 he's come home again and doing so well, and you're just as naughty 
 as you can be about him." 
 
 "I don't need Edwin," he had repeated, glaring at his mother who 
 had started the whole thing. "It'll be a blamed cold day, I can tell 
 you, when I need Edwin." 
 
 78 
 
VIII 
 
 'Good morning to the day, and next, my gold: 
 Open the shrine, that I may see my saint!" 
 
 Volpone: ben jonson 
 
 He did not send a single glance backward after the gig got out 
 on the coach road and rolled for Baltimore. With his feet on 
 the luggage, his hands not half a minute in the same position, his 
 eyes on the sky (this being the best backdrop for himself in 
 Father's emerald velvet smallclothes, buskin boots, plumed hat and 
 jeweled dagger, taking bows before as many faces as stars upon the 
 Milky Way), he sang partly and whistled partly and hummed partly, 
 the whole way. "I'm going Away by de Light ob de Moon." Going 
 away by the light of the sun, getting the world for a watch fob to 
 dangle from his vest! Edwin? Who was he? As big as nothing. 
 Johnny? Who was he? Anybody so stupid he doesn't know that 
 had better wait and see! 
 
 Not much entranced by the sights along the way, as though this 
 were the fiftieth and not the first long trip he had ever made, 
 Johnny arrived in Philadelphia in the early afternoon. He was 
 little the worse for wear and such a sight for sore eyes as he came 
 hurrying up the street to John Clarke's boardinghouse that two girls, 
 arm in arm, turned their heads involuntarily to get a better look 
 at him. 
 
 In two hours, through John Clarke's manly help, his own good 
 looks, and the famous name of Booth (it was put down as J. Wilkes, 
 Johnny deciding that this would be commendable modesty in an 
 untried actor with laurels yet to win), Johnny had signed a con- 
 tract to attend daily rehearsals and appear in minor roles with the 
 stock company at the Arch Street Theater for eight dollars a week. 
 
 79 
 
He took a room across the hall from John Clarke's, a large and 
 drafty room that became more and more cozy and homelike as the 
 afternoon wore on. For the daughter of the house, a large girl with 
 an exceptionally small waist and blond eyebrows, and the little 
 maid-of-all-work, her face red with blushes under an unsteady pile 
 of hair, took it upon themselves, after getting a good look at their 
 new lodger, to arrive frequently with a soft tap at the door. Before 
 evening, between the two of them, they made the room quite 
 habitable. The daughter from time to time brought an extra down- 
 filled counterpane, a triangular cerise pillow, a crystal water glass, 
 a dented silver pin tray, a bottle of ink and a picture, under a con- 
 vex glass, of an old man watering sheep. The little maid brought 
 extra soap, extra towels, extra washcloths, and without saying a 
 word and as discreetly as a lapwing, her face scarlet, removed the 
 white china pitcher with water for washing, the washbowl and, 
 from its curtained hiding place, the very chamber itself, and took 
 them away. There was no cause for alarm, however, for she was 
 soon back with another pitcher, bowl and chamber painted with 
 cupids and garlands and trimmed with gold. "There!" she could 
 not help exclaiming. "That's something like it!" 
 
 Johnny said charmingly that he was very pleased. 
 
 "Are you, sir?" she said, and he said, very pleased, and when she 
 went to dust off a corner of the dresser her hand trembled. 
 
 Yet another rarity shortly found its way to his pleasant room. He 
 felt a twinge of regret when afterward the little maid's reproachful 
 eyes met his upon the stair or in the downstairs hall and she hurried 
 sadly by, for it was not she but the daughter of the house who had 
 been the bringer of this benefaction, and the servant was much 
 prettier. 
 
 The daughter, for her part, ought not have been so solemn about 
 it all, as though she had turned over the complete island of Ortygia, 
 or looked such a new potato when she cried — and why had she 
 cried ? 
 
 He began to be quite revolted by the young lady of the house, 
 for all her generosity, and avoided her as much as possible for the 
 rest of his short stay, even going in and spending the night with 
 John Clarke on one or two occasions on the pretext that his own 
 
 80 
 
room was too noisy. John offered to sleep there himself, but Johnny 
 then decided that it was homesickness that made him want com- 
 pany. For he was a gentleman in manners of the heart even then, 
 and would not for the world have brought the young lady into 
 disgrace by having her rashness disclosed. He congratulated himself 
 on his quick thinking when, after the lights were blown out and 
 the house was still, he strained his ears and heard soft footfalls and 
 then a light — a very light — tap upon his door. After an interval 
 he fancied he heard the hinges creak and thought of her groping 
 her way in to find her pretty starling flown . . . and began a 
 smile but stopped and looked tragic in the dark as though rehearsing 
 for the stage. 
 
 Love, then, was easy — he had only to open his lips and the fruit 
 of it fell in his mouth, had only to uncover his head and it ruffled 
 his hair like a fragrant breeze, had only to reach an arm's length 
 and the thick flowers of it were filling his hands till he couldn't hold 
 any more. 
 
 But Fame was a tougher nut to crack. 
 
 Of course they gave him the poorest conceivable role, no role at 
 all, you might say — that of a Venetian comrade in a very poor play, 
 really a frightful play, called Lucretia Borgia. He had almost nothing 
 to say and could not bring his mind to bear to learn even that, his 
 disappointment was so great that his first appearance did not find 
 him playing at least Hamlet, or Romeo. He was roundly rebuked 
 at the tedious afternoon rehearsals he came to dread because he 
 garbled his one long speech time after time. 
 
 The night he took his cue and instead of saying, "Madame, I am 
 Petruchio Pandolfe," came out with, "Madame, I am Pondolfio 
 Pet— Pedolfio Pat— Pantuchio Ped— damn it! What am I?" he was 
 sure the loud hisses from the audience came from a clacque placed 
 there by the management especially to humiliate him. These same 
 hired booers and hissers (he was sure they were hired) ruined his 
 appearance as Dawson, an execrable part in an execrable play called 
 The Gamester. They made him forget what he had to say entirely, 
 and he stood gaping like a fool, until he was dragged off into the 
 wings, their sibilances flying after him like an enraged swarm of 
 bees. He was white with fury that night at this plot to ruin him, 
 
 81 
 
particularly since a young lady of beauty and family, with whom 
 he had become acquainted by accident, came by his invitation to see 
 him in the night's performance. She, then, had seen his disgrace! 
 When she managed to get to him a day later (for he fled the theater 
 and did not escort her home as was planned) to say she was sorry 
 for what happened, he glared at her so haughtily that the poor girl 
 was bewildered and had no recourse but to take leave of him like 
 a wrongdoer. She never saw him again and never forgot him. 
 
 John Clarke, for the sake of Asia, with two or three other Thes- 
 pians who had known either his father or brothers, decided to pay 
 a call on him in his room. They stayed for two hours and talked 
 like Dutch uncles and when they left he was a sadder and wiser but 
 scarcely humbler young man. It was not a roomful of hired scum 
 of the earth, then, who had hissed him. It was the Philadelphians 
 themselves — Northerners — Yankees — who had dared. Northerners! 
 The ignorant and benighted, ugly, barbarous, inhospitable, rich and 
 bloated North! He hated them, hated it, wanted to grind it under 
 his heel, stamp on it, push it of! the face of the earth. But he would 
 show the North where to head in at! Just watch him! He strode 
 back and forth from window to bed and from bed to window until 
 the tornado of his rage blew over and he was enough distracted by 
 his appearance in the cloudy mirror to lean over and inspect his face, 
 put a hand to his brow, purse his lips and draw a theatrical sigh. 
 Then he began to feel a little better. 
 
 His Philadelphia sojourn might still have brought him some 
 triumph, he considered, if the varlet he challenged to a duel had 
 picked up the gauntlet and acquitted himself like a man. Why, in 
 Richmond they would fight to the death to avenge an "insulting 
 look." But this bumpkin, also a player of minor parts, would not, 
 and you cannot run a man through with a property sword if he 
 refuses to defend himself. Moreover, the fellow having apologized, 
 there was nothing for Johnny to do but accept his apology and they 
 became friends. Nevertheless, he did think a duel might have 
 brought him a good deal of notice. 
 
 Strangely enough, Johnny was not without friends and, in fact, 
 soon became the pet of everyone about the theater. His overscaled 
 vanity made him use his charm on one and all, whether scene- 
 
 82 
 
shifter, stage carpenter or leading lady, and this charm being great, 
 in spite of his faults, he was not long in winning real affection. 
 
 He had learned his parts now, and while no notice was paid of 
 him in the press, still he got through them passably enough — though 
 he never learned to breathe right — so that no more hisses turned 
 his blood cold in his veins. Once or twice he got a spatter of ap- 
 plause. He learned a good deal about acting, not consciously but by 
 absorbing it unawares. In his opinion, he had very little to learn. 
 Unable to accept without an argument whatever mild criticism the 
 portrayal of his parts elicited, he had to consider what they signified 
 more deeply than he might otherwise have done, in order to defend 
 his delineation of a given character. By this means he improved also. 
 After a few weeks he was told that he "had promise," and while 
 he wanted to laugh in the manager's face he merely looked modest 
 and said thank you. 
 
 He moved two or three times. He got away as soon as he could 
 from John Clarke's boardinghouse where the sight of the land- 
 lady's daughter revolted him, and the little maid was always re- 
 proaching him with her eyes because he had sullied another's honor 
 and broken another's heart instead of her own. The fine pitcher 
 and chamber and counterpane and bottle of ink went back where 
 they came from. No news of suicide reaching his ears in the days 
 following, he assumed that these misguided young females had 
 made shift as well as they could and were going to try to live out 
 their lives without him. 
 
 At each of two other boarding places, life was made pleasant for 
 him by a doting girl. One was a young actress with plump arms and 
 fresh blue eyes, who took him under her wing, the other a harpist 
 who went clad in green watered silk with a lilac sash. He did not 
 have to fly his nest another time ... or shudder. Yet he was grate- 
 ful to the first young lady for teaching him an important lesson: 
 that he had the power of choice, it was not obligatory to take what- 
 ever Fate dropped into his arms, and that beauty, though never so 
 authentic as one's own, was yet preferable to what was not beautiful. 
 Since they were all to be his for the taking, he resolved to be a 
 careful chooser and to take only the best, as a man in a field of 
 lilies will pick not all, but only the finest ones to make into a 
 
 83 
 
bouquet, or at a loaded buffet will take only those morsels which 
 tickle his palate most. From then on, he appraised with a cool eye, 
 and only great excellence of tint, texture and line could cause him 
 to surrender a small and temporary space in the sphere of his own 
 splendor. 
 
 He was there several weeks but he never learned to like Phila- 
 delphia and was glad to depart from it, feeling, however, that since 
 his apprenticeship was now served, the time had been well spent. 
 He secured an engagement in Richmond for the winter months and 
 on his way there stopped off at The Farm. At home, he was made 
 as much of as if he had won acclaim, not only on the whole Ameri- 
 can continent but in Europe as well! Again Rosalie baked too large 
 a cake, again Asia set the table with the best things, again Mother 
 kissed and fluttered, and for a brief, happy week he told over and 
 over the story of his many triumphs. Those upon another field were 
 not recounted, having in his eyes but small significance — like saying 
 he had been fed when hungry, and only with the most dainty fare. 
 Asia guessed at them jealously, but he did not tell even her. 
 
 When they got on Cola and Belle and went out in the old way 
 for one of their rides by moonlight, singing, it came to him that 
 perhaps, of all, only Asia was quite beautiful enough . . . but that 
 was like saying that only himself-in-herself was quite beautiful 
 enough, worthy enough for loving ... it rather pained him, it was 
 such a lonely thought. 
 
 He didn't like it at all that Edwin would be playing in Richmond, 
 too! 
 
 He learned the news at home and momentarily thought he might 
 not fulfill his contract but get one somewhere else, perhaps New 
 York. But then he changed his mind. He had been tried and not 
 found wanting (after that first disaster or two) and though he had 
 not been tried to the limit of his capacities, if there was a limit, still 
 he was a trained actor, and if he couldn't play in the same city with 
 Edwin, why, he couldn't play in the same city with a French poodle. 
 So when the time came he packed up and left again, and the tears 
 rained down behind him as before and he went to Richmond. 
 
 Even he had to admit that Edwin was no "Sir Oracle" and treated 
 him very well, engaging a room for him and making him acquainted 
 
 84 
 
with his friends. Johnny kept taking his concern for condescension, 
 though, and was irritated by it. With no excuse to show his irrita- 
 tion, he could only be constrained, and Edwin regretted the mys- 
 terious gap between them that he could not seem to bridge. He 
 wanted to smooth the way for Johnny if he could. 
 
 They were playing together and Edwin was careful not to offer a 
 word of correction to Johnny at the first rehearsals, but on the 
 second night after the show he went to his young brother's room 
 and sat there and smoked and waited for him to come in so he 
 could give him some advice. 
 
 Johnny smelled a little of brandy when he arrived with a hothouse 
 rose in his buttonhole. Excitement had blackened his hazel eyes to a 
 Spaniard's, but his step was not unsteady, for he had a head for 
 liquor and was to have a greater one. He took off his coat and hung 
 it over the back of a chair, then sat down and leaned back against 
 the rose, crushing it. 
 
 Edwin said, idly, thinking how he could begin without causing 
 the touchy young man to explode, "Why don't you put it in a glass 
 of water?" 
 
 "Put what?" Johnny asked, surprised. 
 
 "The rose. It's not dead yet." 
 
 Johnny shrugged. "Well, it soon will be. What's on your mind, 
 Neddie?" 
 
 "I'll tell you," Edwin said. "It's you. You've got to be told some- 
 thing and you've got to learn something, Johnny, or you're going to 
 pay dearly for it. I'll tell you what it is. It's how to speak." 
 
 "I know," Johnny said, sitting up very straight and beginning to 
 pale. "I've been expecting to hear something like that from you. I 
 can't speak at all! I'm deaf and dumb. I use my hands. I use signs." 
 
 "You know what I'm talking about," Edwin said coolly, "and 
 I'm taking the trouble to tell you for your own good, so don't be 
 smart." 
 
 Johnny folded his arms. 
 
 "The first principle of all vocal study," Edwin said, "is that your 
 chest should do the work, not your throat or mouth. You'll never 
 get the volume you need without it, and you'll half kill yourself 
 trying." 
 
 85 
 
"Oh, is that so? Well, I'm glad to hear it." 
 
 "Yes, Johnny, that is so," Edwin said, ignoring his sarcasm. "Your 
 chest has to supply the sound for talking or singing. You don't want 
 to do it with your throat or just with your mouth. You have to 
 strain so hard that the first thing you know, if you keep it up day 
 after day, you're going to play hell with your voice. I know. I've 
 seen it happen." 
 
 "You've seen a lot happen, haven't you?" Johnny said. "You're so 
 wonderful, aren't you?" 
 
 "I've seen that happen, I can tell you, and it's no joke. An actor's 
 voice is what he goes on, Johnny, it's his tool in trade, it's got to last 
 him, and if he uses it the wrong way day after day and week after 
 week, he's going to end up without any, and out on the street." 
 
 "Is that so? How kind of you to tell me." 
 
 "Yes, it's so, and don't sit there with that smirk on your face. I 
 {now, Johnny. I know what I'm talking about. Look, when you 
 want to send your voice as far as it will go, start here." He pounded 
 his chest. "Not here on top of your throat." He made a mewling 
 sound to demonstrate. "It makes you sound like you're talking 
 through your nose." He began the speech of Macbeth, "If it were 
 done when 'tis done, then 'twere well ... It were done quickly . . ." 
 exaggerating his nasal proclivity in order to bring the lesson home. 
 
 Johnny got to his feet, his eyes dangerous. "Thank you for the 
 fine lesson in the art of elocution, Professor Booth," he said with 
 icy politeness. "I will see what I can do to ruin everything I have 
 that ma\es me different from you and makes you shake in your 
 shoes for fear you won't be the grand Panjandrum much longer." 
 
 Edwin laughed. "Johnny," he said, "you're just like Father play- 
 ing Sir Edward Mortimer! Don't you see I want to help you, so 
 you'll develop, so you'll get everything there is out of yourself? Do 
 you think I'm jealous? Do you think I care if the time comes when 
 you can act circles around me? I'd be glad, Johnny. I'd be proud. I 
 couldn't any more be jealous of you than I — well, than I could have 
 been jealous of Father. You know how I loved him ... all I want to 
 do is help you get started right, the way he would have done." 
 
 "I can imagine," Johnny said. Deliberately he began to undress. 
 
 "I didn't say one word to you at either of the rehearsals because — " 
 
 86 
 
"You'd have made a fool out of yourself if you had." In his under- 
 drawers he reached under his pillow for his nightshirt. 
 
 Edwin stood up, "Well, the last thing I want to do, God knows, is 
 quarrel with you." Absently he plucked the wilted rose out of the 
 buttonhole of Johnny's coat and crumbled it in his hands, then put 
 it up to his face and took a deep smell of it. Johnny had climbed 
 into bed and was lying there stiffly, his eyes and hair like black 
 night against the white pillows. "Johnny, we might as well be 
 friends. We're going to be bumping into each other." He stooped 
 down and pulled out the chamber from under the bed and dropped 
 the petals into it. Then he shoved it back and stood up. "It would 
 break Mother's heart if she thought we couldn't get along." 
 
 Johnny stared at him silently. 
 
 Edwin leaned his elbows on the footboard of the bed and smiled 
 down. "I'm only playing here a few weeks. Then I'm going and 
 you're staying. But we'll be bumping into each other forever. What 
 can I do, Johnny, so we can get along?" 
 
 The boy was several seconds deciding whether to sulk or speak. 
 He decided to speak. "You can try leaving me alone," he said. "Not 
 butting into my business. Letting me act my way and you act your 
 way." 
 
 "I just wanted to help you overcome a serious — " 
 
 "Not helping me 'overcome' anything," Johnny finished. "Any- 
 thing I want to overcome, I'll overcome it, anything I don't, I won't. 
 I don't need any assistance from you!" 
 
 Edwin was silent now, thinking. "Well, will you be friends then ? " 
 he said finally. 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "If I don't — what you call butting in." 
 
 "Why shouldn't I be friends? I'm not jealous of you, in case you 
 don't know it," Johnny said. 
 
 The string of memory's necklace gently broke, the clear beads 
 rolled where they would and in them was Mother reading the 
 clippings from California, from Chicago, from New York ("Oh, 
 his father would be so proud," she kept saying) — about Edwin ... a 
 poorer model of himself, a first try, short, too light in weight, 
 hadn't the color, hadn't the spirit — but upon the stage, with abso- 
 
 87 
 
lute authority underplaying to overplay, moving like a blaze, speak- 
 ing like Niagara, his voice carrying into the very street yet soft as 
 the duvetyn cloak upon his back clasped by the great red gem against 
 his breast — damn Edwin, damn him, that other, different Johnny, 
 whose fault it was that there were two instead of just one-of-a-kind 
 (as Johnny would have liked) in all the world! Asia, sweet Asia . . . 
 running to put her best dress on when Edwin came home, throw- 
 ing her arms around Edwin's neck, kissing him — "Neddie, you are 
 perfectly horrid — horrid— horrid to have a girl. Isn't he horrid, 
 Mother?" Asia combing her hair, putting on her little brooch. . . . 
 Image by soap-bubble image dissolving, vanishing. . . . 
 
 "I'm not jealous of you," he repeated. "I've been willing to be 
 friends all along." 
 
 "Well, shall we shake hands on it then, Johnny?" Edwin reached 
 his hand out and bent forward as far as he could over the walnut 
 bedframe. 
 
 Johnny had to raise up to make his own hand reach. 
 
 "No hard feelings?" Edwin smiled as he had smiled when he 
 was fifteen and his little brother was ten. That was the year Johnny 
 tattooed his initials on his left hand with India ink — J.W.B. — and 
 Mother was so put out. She said it would be a permanent mark. It 
 had faded a little, though, but was still plain to be seen now on the 
 lovely long hand upon the coverlet. Father didn't like it, either. 
 
 "No hard feelings," Johnny said, and came around to smiling his 
 most captivating smile. Why not win everybody? It was so easy. 
 Why not win Edwin, too? 
 
 In the darkness his transcendency shone down upon him like 
 moonlight and he smiled with happiness. This, also! Edwin had the 
 leading roles but two rehearsals had made him so jealous that he had 
 to come running and try to ruin the rival who was going to put 
 him in the shade! Resonance. Breathing. Volume. Hell. 
 
 Opening his own door, Edwin thought, Well, I tried, anyway. 
 For Mother — and for Father's sake. But that's the last of taking 
 a hand with him. If he learns, all right, if he doesn't learn — well, 
 he'll just have to sink or swim. 
 
 88 
 
IX 
 
 'Right so of air, my leve brother, 
 Ever each air another stirreth 
 More and more, and speech upbreath, 
 Fill it be at the House of Fame." 
 
 —CHAUCER 
 
 Johnny as Richmond, fencing superbly, and Edwin, who won an 
 ovation in the title role, played Richard III that early winter 
 in the city of Richmond. Stubbornly, Johnny acted the way he 
 wanted. He mispronounced many words and neither drew nor 
 sent his breath out right, badly abusing his throat. It was crude 
 but he had a magnetic fire that compelled the audience. His was a 
 peculiarly old-fashioned and bombastic manner of acting, much in 
 contrast to Edwin's quiet, finished, modern style, and his older 
 brother wondered where he could have picked it up. Johnny could 
 have gone upon the stage with Peg Woffington and Charles Macklin, 
 dead nearly a hundred years, and outacted them in their own lan- 
 guage. It was noisy, it was wearing, it was absurd, but the audience 
 warmed to him in spite of it, and soon he had reason to think that 
 he was progressing very well indeed. He played Horatio to Edwin's 
 Hamlet and was letter-perfect in the role, for now he learned his 
 parts and there was nothing to complain of on that score. He came 
 late to rehearsal more often than he ought, but that was because 
 he didn't get to bed at a proper hour or get up when he should. 
 Edwin let this go unreprimanded as he wanted to keep on amicable 
 terms with his young brother. It would not have helped to scold, 
 and would only have sent Johnny into fits. 
 
 The only way to handle him was to let him go where he "listeth," 
 never rebuke, scold, lecture or disapprove of him, never to put a 
 straw in his path, but praise, commend and exclusively love him. 
 
 89 
 
That was all you had to do with Johnny. When you learned that, 
 he was a perfect angel, the best and most agreeable friend, lover, 
 son, brother in the world. Edwin took this easy path to deal with 
 Johnny because he was also an egotist, also a Booth, and because 
 he was a great actor in dead earnest and had no time to waste in 
 petty wayside quarrels. The time was to come when he would be too 
 irked not to quarrel, but those days in Richmond, after the first 
 clash, were days of friendship for the two brothers. Edwin hoped 
 Mother would understand, and Father, too, if he happened to 
 know it, why he had decided not to stick his finger in Johnny's pie, 
 even if he should have and a man ought to be his brother's keeper. 
 
 It was no wonder Johnny was late to rehearsal. The wonder was 
 that he got there at all! 
 
 Richmond liked Edwin. They stood in the aisles to see him. Rich- 
 mond Society with a capital S fell over itself for Johnny. He had 
 been a little too rich for the North, too luxurious, too overblown 
 even in dainty boyhood, too black, too red, too white, too romantic, 
 too — that old word again, like the monotonous ghost of King Par- 
 tholan haunting his tomb — beautiful — or would have been all these 
 things if the North had brought her cold eyes to bear upon him 
 and had taken a good look. The South did, and saw in an instant 
 that here was the boy for her, the ruthless, young, cruelhearted, 
 sentimental, brilliant cavalier, prince incognito, sweetheart and vil- 
 lain. Hero-type of an olden brighter world than this, he was the lad 
 for Virginia, Georgia, Louisiana. . . . She had languished for him, 
 and here he was! Her arms opened wide. She invited him to balls, 
 cotillions, supper parties. She laid down the red carpet and unfolded 
 the canopy. 
 
 It was a trial to him that he had not money enough to buy the 
 clothes he fancied he needed. But by spending all he had except 
 room rent and something to eat on, for boots, linen, a cape, thick 
 silk cravats and damask waistcoats, and borrowing Edwin's best 
 clothes whenever possible, he managed to present both a new and 
 dazzling appearance at each of the many functions he graced. 
 
 The young ladies who were so fortunate as to dance or play at 
 cards or sip champagne punch or stroll upon the terrace with him 
 on these occasions did not have to have recourse to writing him 
 
 90 
 
letters with ink colored like their own heart's blood or black as 
 their hair or purple as the osier. Yet even they wrote. Many, many 
 ladies wrote, in fine Italian hands and other sorts, upon rich vellum 
 or cheap rag, and their letters came in a pile to him, and said — well, 
 they should have been ashamed, but they couldn't help themselves, 
 poor ladies. Neither could you, if a woman and you had just seen 
 him on the street outside the theater or inside on the stage, or at a 
 party or riding down the street like Gawaine or Tristram on his 
 livery stable horse. You'd have sat down in your layers-deep skirts, 
 thrown off your scarf, grabbed your feather pen, dipped it in your 
 china inkwell, got ink on your fingers — your waterfall hairdo slip- 
 ping its moorings — and you, like all the rest, would have written as 
 they did — what nonsense they wrote. 
 
 Johnny read the letters quite carefully. An actress friend admired 
 the fine and gentlemanly way in which he tore all the signatures 
 off the bottom of the last page before he read a word of what they 
 had to say. Seeing her eyes upon him, he said, like a hero in one 
 of Congreve's plays, "The sting lies in the tail, little one. The 
 sting lies in the tail." She cherished this statement and used to repeat 
 it in after years. In spite of her protruding teeth, he was kind to 
 her, not kind as to a young woman but more as to some member 
 of another species, perhaps a young calf, and she was grateful as 
 long as she lived. 
 
 Indeed the South loved Johnny, and he loved her because she had 
 the sensibility to love him. All he asked was to be loved. All he 
 asked was not to be criticized and found fault with, all he asked was 
 just to be King of the world. In return he would act so well and be 
 so kind and shine so brightly. Philadelphia had no business hissing 
 him and booing him, not taking him in, not asking him to parties, 
 not noticing him, and if he hated, loathed and detested the North, 
 well — the North had nobody but herself to blame! 
 
 Even the young Richmond blades accepted him as one of them, 
 for his vanity worked every minute like a mill wheel turning, and 
 kept him at it till one and all fell beneath his spell. He learned a 
 new trick, too, to dim his beauty as you turn down a lamp, in 
 men's company, so that their natural suspicions were lulled and they 
 took him in. There was blazing political talk in those days when 
 
 91 
 
the men got together in a corner, and Johnny with his agile and 
 vigorous vocabulary took his part ably. Ably, not, alas, because he 
 was a very intelligent young man (he was not) but because he was 
 on the side of the Right. 
 
 Since his childhood he had heard some talk of Abolition and 
 Abolitionists. The Abolitionists did not live close by, or in Maryland 
 or Virginia for that matter, but far north, so whatever they thought 
 or said or did was wrong, and whatever they believed was wrong. 
 They wanted to overthrow the government and free the slaves — 
 give every Negro a house and land and cart and horse and barrel 
 of canary and new suit and beaver hat and God knows what else — 
 "free" them — but it was too silly even to imagine. 
 
 Johnny had never had a thing against Negroes in his life, any 
 more than he had had a thing against the horses, cows, sheep and 
 pigs on The Farm, but they belonged to people, that was all there 
 was to it. From boyhood, if he thought about it at all while he was 
 so busy thinking about himself, he would have thought about it in 
 this way: that if something belonged to somebody and somebody 
 else came and tried to take his rightful property away from him 
 (as if somebody came and tried to take Cola away from him, for 
 instance), why, the fellow should get a good beating. He liked the 
 colored help his parents hired year by year from the same masters. 
 Old Joe wove beautiful baskets, wicker cradle baskets for the 
 babies and harvesting baskets and ladies' sewing baskets, in the long 
 winter evenings. He knew many stories of wonder and magic, too, 
 and had once seen a ghost. And Althea and Harriet, one so fat and 
 one so thin, kept the round Dutch oven always baking with bread, 
 and the heavy pewter platters scoured and a thousand and one tasks 
 done, while they sang untiringly the songs that the Booth children 
 learned and sang. And Florry kept everything in repair; he could 
 fix anything, a broken harness or a cracked bowl, or an upset stom- 
 ach for that matter, for he also knew the remedy for any ailment. 
 And Welton built shelves and put in new steps, and Auntie's boys 
 kept the farm going ... so there wasn't anything wrong with 
 Negroes, as such. There was a great deal wrong, however, with the 
 lunatics who wanted to set them free. 
 
 Johnny wasn't particular where he gathered his weapons for 
 
 92 
 
argument, j ust as long as they struck home for the cause of what he 
 considered Justice and by so doing won him the approval of his 
 listeners. He reasoned little or nothing out for himself, having 
 neither the time nor inclination to do so, but by cleverly pilfering 
 a phrase here, a saying there, a remark here, and drawing upon a 
 rich store of emotion, he was soon as respected in Richmond among 
 the "political thinkers," "right-thinking citizens" and "patriots" as 
 among the callower Know-Nothings at home in Bel Air. Let him 
 attach himself to a group of disputatious men, let him casually enter 
 a conversation whose passionate subject was slavery, republicanism, 
 abolition or secession, and with darts picked up from a previous 
 company or parley he could soon dazzle them. 
 
 Johnny believed all he said about What Should Be and What 
 Was Right, at the time he said it, but absently, as he believed what 
 Horatio said or Florizel said when he happened to be Horatio or 
 Florizel. However, most of his ardor was bestowed as a graceful 
 compliment to the South, in return for her graciousness to him. Hav- 
 ing the background to be on the side of what was considered in that 
 vicinity to be the Right, he carried her banner willingly. 
 
 Persuading with the power of the true actor, using the gift of 
 emphasis which belongs only to the unself-conscious, unafraid of 
 the little-used word and lavish with plundered perceptions, he 
 trotted out a Right that awed his listeners. Under her fine array 
 she was weak kneed and spindle shanked, but that did not matter. 
 This argument, so pleasing to the citizens of Richmond, went like 
 this: 
 
 "Northerners are nothing in the world but British Monarchists. 
 They want a strong government so they can have a weak people. 
 
 "Southerners are gentlemen, scholars and true democrats. They 
 want a weak government so they can have a strong, self-reliant 
 people, in the true republican way. 
 
 "The North blabs about union. All they really want is disunion. 
 They want the government to fly apart so they can remake it 
 according to their own specifications. They don't want a democracy, 
 they want a despotism. 
 
 "The South did not invent slavery. It was thrust upon them by 
 the avarice of British traders. They made of it a benign institu- 
 
 93 
 
tion, a blessing to the servitors and a boon to civilization. 
 
 "The North does not keep slaves only because it is not profitable 
 to do so in a cold climate. That is why they turned the Negro loose, 
 set him free. 
 
 "There are only about forty thousand Negroes up there, that's why. 
 
 "If there were seven hundred thousand, they would be singing 
 a different tune. 
 
 "The Abolitionists are the Devil incarnate. Osawatomie Brown 
 is a fiend. The Republicans are dangerous lunatics who want a 
 dictatorship. 
 
 "The colored race is inferior and helpless. They need masters. 
 They are a thousand times better off under slavery than in their 
 own native Africa. And why a thousand times better off? Well, 
 consider: how did they live in Africa? They lived on snakes and 
 worms, that's how. They had no clothing at all, they ran around 
 like dumb animals, they were dumb animals. Sometimes their king 
 would order three or four thousand of them to be taken out and 
 slaughtered as a sacrifice to some hideous god — maybe a big rock 
 or an ugly tree. Did a master ever do that? No, never. Now listen. 
 You take a Negro with a master and you take a Negro without a 
 master and who's the happiest? Who is, every time? Why, the 
 Negro without a master is the most Godforsaken creature on the 
 face of the earth, it makes a man's heart bleed to see him. But he 
 runs away if he gets a chance, somebody might say. All right. Why 
 does he run away? Well, why does a sow run away or a cow run 
 away or a horse run away? Just to run, like a dumb animal, to see 
 what's over in the next field, not because servitude chafes him! 
 
 "Consider, too. All Christian nations have known for the past 
 two thousand years — and for two or three millenniums before that — 
 that the black man is an inferior being. Read your Bible! A man 
 who says a Negro is his equal is not respectable. 
 
 "If, God forbid, through the machinations of these maniacs the 
 black race and the white race ever mix, it's farewell to Civilization. 
 It might just as well take a slow poison, for it will sink down to the 
 same not-to-be-postponed ruin and dissolution. 
 
 "No greater Curse can befall Society than Mongrelism. Who can 
 
 94 
 
think without a shudder of the marcescence of Mulattoism? If 
 there is anything worse, name it. 
 
 "The Negroes and the whites are two distinct species. Read 
 Aristotle! God made both, but He gave the first, one talent, He gave 
 the second, ten talents. And why did He do this? Is it for us to 
 question His Inscrutable Will? Is it for us to meddle with Divine 
 Providence ? The Lord made an ox. Can you take that ox and make 
 an Arabian steed out of him? Try it, and see how far you get. The 
 Negroes were set upon earth to be slaves and slaves they must be. 
 
 "And now we come to Sovereign States' Rights. Gentlemen, I 
 wish to say — " 
 
 And so on and on. Johnny was delighted to be not only upon the 
 side of Right but upon the Right Side as well, and Richmond, 
 delighted, too, drew him closer and closer to her warm heart. The 
 fathers and uncles of the lovely young ladies approved of him, their 
 brothers and cousins and sweethearts took him into a secret society 
 called The Knights of the Golden Circle whose main praecognitum 
 was that they were not going to Stand For Anything. Johnny 
 endorsed this willingly, and felt honored. He felt still more honored 
 when he was made a member of the Richmond Grays. This was 
 the "dude" regiment of the state militia, to whom only young men 
 of the best families belonged, where haughty pride was a sign of 
 high breeding, ladies — except one kind — were not "named," and 
 Romance, that exquisite agony, stood first among the arts. 
 
 Johnny was, however, an actor by blood and he had a job at the 
 theater. Also he had a great many invitations to the handsome 
 family parlors of these same ladies whose appellations were so 
 sacred. Politics, therefore, these organizations, all the to-do about 
 the country going to the dogs, much as he might prate about it, 
 meant very little to him. Of course he did like the uniform of the 
 Richmond Grays very much, it was handsome and colorful, as for a 
 palace guard in a comic opera. He liked to put it on because it 
 became him to perfection — go to a muster, a parade or civic gather- 
 ing and watch the girls' eyes kindle. 
 
 When he got leave from the theater in order to go to Asia's wed- 
 ding, he was sorry he couldn't wear the uniform to Baltimore. It 
 
 95 
 
might look a little odd, though, and besides, Mother might think he 
 was in the Army and make a great fuss. He would have taken it 
 along just so he could show it to them (Asia would go wild) but 
 the high hat with the wonderful black cock's feathers and the strap 
 under the chin might be pretty hard to carry. He wanted to travel 
 light, as the cars would be crowded around the holidays, so he left 
 it behind. He wore his large, light overcoat with deep sleeves and 
 little swinging shoulder cape, and his low, soft hat and British 
 kid boots, and they went wild enough over that. Asia said Mahomet 
 would turn green with envy and Mother made him walk back- 
 ward and forward and turn around and bow before she would 
 permit him to take them off. Rosalie said she wondered how they 
 let him leave Richmond at all! He had to laugh at them. Joseph 
 was at home from medical school and he laughed, too. Edwin 
 couldn't come for the wedding, he couldn't leave New York. 
 
 Asia seemed a little petulant about marrying John Clarke, the 
 young actor, but she decided she might as well. There was so little 
 fun at home now, and she felt blue and empty — wicked Johnny, to 
 desert Asia — and she had no leanings for the stage. Other girls her 
 age were already married. She was nearly twenty-one and if she 
 sat around much longer she would wake up some fine morning to 
 find herself an old maid! Being already betrothed to John Clarke, 
 she decided that he would have to do. 
 
 She had received better offers, from young men of better family 
 or more fortune or both, but there was always something wrong 
 with the way they looked, if one remembered Johnny's face (or 
 Edwin's so like Johnny's). Either they had impossible hair, im- 
 possible eyes, impossible noses, bad complexions, straggly mustaches 
 or the wrong kind of teeth. If they had not — why, then they were 
 too short, too tall, too big, too small. If their faults were not these — 
 why, then they had unsweet breath, walked like pelicans, couldn't 
 ride, didn't like Byron or didn't pronounce their words right. John 
 Clarke wouldn't do either for that matter, but he came closest and 
 Asia decided that somehow or other she would have to try to 
 make him do, so she said yes, and set a day to marry him. 
 She wore, of course, a pure white dress, with a circlet of white 
 
 96 
 
flowers around her head from which a white veil fell down. Johnny 
 stood up with the couple. John Clarke unfortunately had a slight 
 cold so that he had to use his handkerchief at frequent intervals. 
 This rather shook his composure and whenever he tried to meet 
 Asia's eyes and couldn't, for she never seemed to look in his direc- 
 tion, it was shaken still more. 
 
 The bridegroom was glad when the ceremony was over, the wed- 
 ding supper eaten, and the dances begun to the pair of fiddles — 
 gladdest of all when he could take begrudging and beautiful Asia 
 home to the little rented house around the corner. John Clarke 
 liked Johnny all right — after all, he was only a boy — but while he 
 watched the brother and sister dancing a round dance together, as 
 like as peas in a pod except for the sharp difference of maleness 
 and femaleness, he got to thinking about Johnny in Philadelphia 
 last spring. Johnny had ruined that boardinghouse, ruined it for 
 John Clarke, that is, and up until then it had always been such a 
 comfortable place. Of course, Johnny only stayed a few days, but 
 he must have done something horribly rude to the landlady's 
 daughter and to the maid, John Clarke thought, because after he 
 left they were just as spiteful as could be. They thought there was 
 a connection between himself and Johnny and they seemed to want 
 to take their spite out on him for some unknown reason. They 
 changed his warm quilts for thin blankets, got away with his softest 
 pillow, left him dirty towels and stale water, and once he got such 
 cramps after eating tomatoes that he thought it possible they 
 had poisoned him. Whatever it was Johnny did to those poor girls, 
 it must have been reprehensible. John Clarke felt sorry when he 
 had to move from that once pleasant abode all because of Johnny's 
 mischief. He thought of it now. 
 
 How well Johnny could dance, though. Whether one cared for 
 him or not, it was the greatest delight to watch him . . . and how 
 well Asia could dance with him. It was no wonder they danced 
 reluctantly with everyone else and couldn't get back into step again 
 together fast enough. They went round and round and their black 
 eyes (not black, hazel, they only looked black) lit up the room like 
 candles. John Clarke blew his nose, put his handkerchief away, 
 
 97 
 
stuck his hand up surreptitiously to forehead and cheek and won- 
 dered if he had a fever. He thought he had and decided to soak 
 his feet in hot water before he went to bed. 
 
 His mother had a feeling in the middle of the night that there 
 was a light burning downstairs, and got her shawl on and went 
 down, and sure enough there was, in the back parlor. Johnny retired 
 when the wedding guests were gone, and yet here he was up again. 
 His legs were bare, too, and though he had put more coals on the 
 fire, there was every chance in the world that he might catch cold. 
 He had got the bottle of brandy out of the cupboard and was sip- 
 ping some in a glass. "What are you doing, darling?" she said, 
 coming softly across to the fire and looking down at him. "Couldn't 
 you sleep?" 
 
 "No," he said, smiling up at her. "So I thought I'd come down 
 and sit by the fire a little." Rancor and heartburning had kept him 
 awake. It was as if somebody had come and stolen a rich possession, 
 a province he owned, and he wanted it back again because it was 
 his, though he did not know its name. He did not know how to 
 think or speak of it or how to tell anyone, even himself, what 
 "lame and impotent conclusion" had got him out of bed and sent 
 him down here. The brandy, though, after a while, like a genie, had 
 whispered that what he had lost did not signify, so long as his 
 own personal glory was unaltered by the loss. The genie said nothing 
 mattered very much but that. 
 
 "Aren't you tired?" his mother asked. 
 
 "Tired? Oh, no. I just thought I'd sit here awhile." 
 
 "Johnny, tell me, darling. Are you worried about something? 
 Because if you've got some problem on your mind, about — well, 
 acting, or if you've got yourself into a mix-up with some young 
 lady, or something of that sort, you can tell me, I'll help you, 
 there's nothing that can't be straightened out." She looked at the 
 brandy bottle. "I don't like to see you — " 
 
 "I wasn't sleepy, that's all, Mother. Too much wedding, I guess." 
 He gazed into the fire and the clock in the next room gathered its 
 wheels and springs for a bong, bong, bong. 
 
 "It was pretty, wasn't it? Asia looked so lovely. I wish your father 
 
 98 
 
could have seen her, she's the first one of the children to get married." 
 
 Johnny seemed lost in a brown study and did not answer, so in a 
 little while she decided to go back upstairs. "You won't stay up too 
 long?" she said. At the door into the hall he called her back, but 
 softly, so as not to disturb the sleepers upstairs. 
 
 "Mother?" 
 
 "What?" She came back swiftly. 
 
 "I meant to ask you," he said, "but it slipped my mind, and now I 
 just happened to think of it again. What did Father used to take for 
 hoarseness?" 
 
 "Hoarseness?" She looked puzzled. "Why, I don't think he took 
 anything, Johnny. I don't believe I ever heard him say." 
 
 "But what did he do about getting hoarse? I mean, like after a 
 performance, when a person — gets hoarse, you know." 
 
 She knitted her brows and thought. "I don't think he ever had 
 any trouble with his throat, Johnny. At least I never heard t)f it. He 
 never mentioned getting hoarse. I don't think he ever did." 
 
 "But he must have, sometimes. What did he do about it?" 
 
 "Do you mean like a — like having a cold or something like that?" 
 She looked troubled. 
 
 "Getting hoarse," Johnny said irritably, "after a long performance. 
 I do sometimes, and I am sure he did, too, and I just wanted to 
 know what he did about it, if he had some medicine or something to 
 take." 
 
 Again she tried hard to remember, but she had to repeat, "I 
 never heard him mention it. But I'll tell you what I'll do. Next time I 
 go out to Bel Air I'll ask Florry. He knows the remedy for every- 
 thing and I'll tell you what he says." 
 
 She did better, she sent a bottle of evil-smelling liquid that Florry 
 said would clear up the voice the way the sun cleared up the storm 
 clouds. It did not taste bad, and it seemed to help him. Anyway, 
 the hoarseness did not come often, and then only after a performance 
 that stunned the audience. A frog in the throat wasn't much of a 
 price to pay for all that wild applause. It went away soon. And God 
 knew, it was nothing to be ashamed of. Quite the contrary, really. 
 He did not try to hide it any more than Michelangelo would have 
 tried to hide the callouses on his wondrous hands. 
 
 99 
 
X 
 
 'To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe, 
 
 Fro the place where thou dost stand? 
 
 The next payre of gallowes thou contest unto, 
 
 Turne in upon thy right hand." 
 
 —OLD BALLAD 
 
 He went home to The Farm for the summer, but it had 
 changed greatly. He could not seem to while away the hours 
 with the old enjoyment. He got on Cola and cried in the old way, 
 "The Choctaws are after you! Run for your life! Run, laddie!" to 
 start him orT quickly galloping down the deserted country roads be- 
 tween the trees, but Johnny did not sing. He took a play with him 
 and went out and sat on Asia's rock by the little creek, but he did not 
 try a concert for the frogs. Anyway, they seemed all to be gone off 
 somewhere, maybe following Asia. He thought he would write her 
 a letter and tell her, but was too indolent to do it. (Turn and 
 look behind you, sweet sister. Are the little brown frogs hopping 
 behind? They have all gone from the creek by the rock.) 
 
 The old green bullfrog lived in the spring beside the house, but 
 he croaked like an imp of Satan and Johnny would have liked to 
 throw a boot at him when, in the bright moonlight, he eased his 
 yearning with a serenade. 
 
 Sometimes Asia came out from Baltimore in a buggy with her 
 husband. She wanted to take Belle out and go for a ride but 
 Mother said she had best not. For the first time, she seemed quite a 
 lot older than Johnny, quite changed. He showed her the wig of 
 shimmering auburn hair he had added to his theatrical parapher- 
 nalia and told her about the girl. She was holding it in her hands, 
 looking at it, and when he told her she threw it down hastily on 
 
 100 
 
the bed as though it had burned her. "Good gracious," she said, 
 "I should think it would haunt you. A dead girl's hair!" 
 
 "Well, I didn't kill her, you know," he said teasingly. 
 
 "It's horrible." 
 
 "It's beautiful. You're green with envy." 
 
 "I am not. I just couldn't stand it around." 
 
 "Well, I can," he said. "That wig is worth a lot of money. Wasn't 
 I lucky to get the hair? I had met her only once, at that ball. I 
 didn't realize she had so much hair or that it was so pretty, because 
 she had it in this thick braid around her head, and kind of a puff 
 here and a puff there, not a very stylish coiffure, though I imagine 
 it was supposed to be. She probably copied it from a picture. It 
 wasn't very becoming, either, too old for her. Her dress was too 
 old for her, too, and a little too handsome, but then of course her 
 parents are awfully rich. But it was white, so that made it all 
 right, not vulgar or anything. She was about sixteen, maybe seven- 
 teen, with a little flat nose and big blue eyes and her mouth was 
 rather too small, I thought, but maybe she kept it pursed all the 
 time so it would look like that. And then she was so pink ... a 
 constant blush, I suppose . . . made her very attractive. I might 
 not have paid any particular attention to her," he said, taking the 
 wig up off the bed and smoothing it back as though from a live 
 brow, "but for some reason she was made a great fuss over by a lot 
 of the fellows — they crowded around and made a great fuss about 
 getting their names on her program and all that, and I happened 
 to notice. And then I saw her dancing and she really was very 
 graceful and her feet were so small, with fetching little red morocco 
 slippers laced up. Anyway, after that I went over and—" 
 
 "And took all the rest of her dances, I suppose," Asia said. "Don't 
 handle that dead hair like that. Hair is just as much a part of a 
 person as a— hand. It sends chills down my back." 
 
 "It doesn't feel dead at all. Here, just touch it, it feels lovely, and 
 alive, too — " 
 
 "I've never minded just touching a wig, but to know that it 
 belonged to a real person, who isn't cold in her grave — " 
 
 "Oh, she's cold all right," Johnny said. "That's been two months 
 ago at least. If she isn't cold now, she never will be. And she wasn't 
 
 101 
 
particularly a real person, at least not to me. She was just very 
 attractive." 
 
 "Ladylike?" Asia asked. 
 
 "Oh, very. You should have seen her, you'd have smiled. Old- 
 fashioned manners like from the French court. It was jolly to watch 
 her. Anyhow ... we danced, and I took her in to supper on my 
 arm, and then we strolled through the greenhouse and looked at 
 the pictures in the upstairs gallery, and when we parted I told 
 her I would come to call on the following Sunday. I did, too, but 
 when I got there the maid said she was very sick with some sort 
 of fever, typhoid, I think it was. And then I didn't think much 
 more about it until a couple of days later when their coachman 
 came with a package for me, with this hair." He had stroked it 
 into the arrangement he wanted and now he rested the wig against 
 his bent left arm, lightly propping it up with his right forefinger. 
 "There was a note from her father saying that he was fulfilling his 
 daughter's last wish. She had wrung a deathbed promise from him, 
 it seems, that I should have her hair, otherwise I don't imagine 
 they would have been very anxious to part with it since she was 
 their only daughter. Now that was an odd thing for her to think 
 of doing, wasn't it ? At first I couldn't imagine what in the world to 
 do with it, there was so everlasting much, and I thought good 
 heavens, it was bound to get on things, but then I decided it was 
 worth having made into a wig. I'm certain to be able to use it now. 
 The man who made it said it was the loveliest hair he ever saw." 
 
 "Did you thank the father for it?" Asia asked soberly. 
 
 "My dear Asia, I penned a flowery note and stained it with my 
 tears. Not only that, I paid a call, and before I left they were offering 
 me their condolences, instead of the other way around. I think they 
 thought I might have wanted to marry their lovely daughter, if 
 she had lived." 
 
 "Well, would you, do you think?" 
 
 He smiled. "I'm afraid she would have proved rather dull. But of 
 course she would have come into money. That would make a dif- 
 ference." A shaft of light came in and fired the hair to a glitter 
 against his breast. "I suspect she would have got too plump eventu- 
 
 102 
 
ally." He thought about this. "Poor girl. Perhaps it was just as 
 well " 
 
 Asia had tears in her eyes. "Johnny, she wanted you to carry that 
 hair of hers around with you, so you would never forget her. It was 
 the only way she could think of to be — to be united with you, sup- 
 posing as she did that you loved her as she loved you. . . . Oh, it's 
 so sad and cruel, Johnny." 
 
 "Why is it? I'm not going to forget her," he said, but his sister 
 knew he would. Soon he could take the wig out of its box and 
 not remember how all those sparkling tendrils had danced the 
 quadrille and schottische, how they shadowed pink blushes and 
 passionate glances. . . . Eventually, after a while, the hair could 
 even be quite lost and he would not miss it. It could drown at sea 
 and the maiden's pitiful immortality drown with it, and he not care. 
 Asia felt suddenly cold, bereft, as though it were herself he would 
 someday cease to remember. 
 
 He was glad to get back to Richmond and pleased when he saw 
 the parts he would play the coming season. Again the letters show- 
 ered down on him, again he tore the telltale names off their last 
 earnest pages and again the invitations poured in. He had more 
 and more need of his scraps and phrases about The Right, too, for 
 now all discussions, or almost all, whether at the theater, clubroom or 
 parlor, turned upon the big issue, whether a state whose sovereign 
 rights were deconsecrated, a word he cherished, had not the duty 
 to secede from the Union who had so deconsecrated them. He had 
 to collect new sentiments for this. Everybody decided that it was 
 not only the duty but the bounden duty, Johnny most vociferously 
 of all. 
 
 In October the papers were full of the tedious old lunatic John 
 Brown, who had already gobbled up so much news space when he 
 did whatever it was he did at Osawatomie. He had a maggot in his 
 brain that since nobody else would lift a finger, he would have to 
 free the slaves in the South all by himself. For some reason he was 
 dead set against slavery and could hardly take the trouble to earn a 
 living, he was so anxious to get the black man out of bondage. He 
 
 103 
 
had eighteen children — five by his first wife and seven sons and 
 six daughters by his second — and you would have thought a family 
 of that size might have kept him busy, particularly when he in- 
 structed them in theology, as he did, and virtuous deportment, and 
 kept an account of the chastisements he had to administer to which 
 child for what cause in a great double-entry account book, like the 
 Head Bookkeeper in heaven. But no, it did not. Neither did his 
 "remarkably plain wife" Mary, nor his various trades — tanning, 
 surveying, postmastering, wool dealing, stock raising, horse breed- 
 ing and chopping down trees — nor his Bible study. Nothing did. He 
 took a notion when he was a little boy and, unaccompanied, drove a 
 herd of cattle a hundred miles, that slavery was the most awful thing 
 upon earth and had to be stopped. For years he had helped Negroes 
 escape and sneak up into Canada, and you might have supposed 
 that would have satisfied him, too. But no, it did not. 
 
 The older he grew, the bigger the maggot grew, and finally when 
 he was an old, gray-bearded, wild-eyed Druid of a man of fifty-nine, 
 it got to such a size that nothing would do but he had to free all 
 the slaves — not just a piddling handful of runaways — all the slaves 
 south of 36°30' N. latitude, and a few extra ones besides. Well, he 
 couldn't open a gate in the night and let them all through, the way 
 he could the neighbor's sheep if he so minded, so he figured he 
 would get down there to them and arm them and let them battle 
 their way to freedom themselves, with him at the helm. It was quite 
 a big undertaking but he and some of his sons and a few other men 
 bit it all oil as though it were not going to be too big a chunk for 
 them to chew, which, of course, it was. 
 
 For a start, they seized the arsenal at Harpers Ferry, near Charles 
 Town, Virginia, on Sunday night, October 16, 1859. By Tuesday 
 night, October 18th, they were almost all dead, except John Brown. 
 He was captured and thrown into jail, as a "traitor to Virginia." 
 Just imagine. He was trying to start a slave rebellion! Now, wasn't 
 that the act of a stark, raving madman? The Republicans, angry 
 as they were at the stubborn South and all its works, thought so. 
 The most prominent of them gave statements to the papers to that 
 effect. Abraham Lincoln, private citizen, thought so, too. He said 
 so. He said it was an absurd adventure. But for some reason or 
 
 104 
 
other it "rocked the continent from sea to sea," like the biggest 
 earthquake ever known. 
 
 Johnny said he knew the newspaper by heart those days before 
 he even read it. There was nothing in it but John Brown, John 
 Brown, John Brown. His tedious name was on everybody's lips, too, 
 wherever one went. They held a trial for him on October 27th that 
 lasted a week, and sentenced him to be hanged on December 2nd. 
 
 Toward the last of November, the state militia was ordered out, 
 to go to Charles Town. That was in case Brown had an army 
 hidden away somewhere that would march down and try to rescue 
 him before he could be executed. 
 
 Johnny was on his way to the theater when the bell in the tower 
 of Capitol Square started to clang. He noticed there was a hustle and 
 bustle in the streets, too, and an astonishing number of uniforms 
 about. He asked one young man if war had been declared. "No," 
 the man said. "The militia is going to Charles Town to see that old 
 John Brown gets hung." 
 
 Now Johnny recognized a fellow recruit in the Richmond Grays 
 hurrying down the street. "Are we going, too?" he called. 
 
 The young man stopped and came over to him. "Can you come? 
 We're all going to meet at the station. Go home and get your uni- 
 form, you've got plenty of time." 
 
 "Well, I'm playing tonight — " Johnny began. 
 
 "Oh, there won't be any fighting," the soldier said. 
 
 Johnny glanced quickly at him but he did not seem to have in- 
 tended a slur. It was more a reassurance for himself, perhaps. He 
 had the mamma's-boy look that needed reassurance. "Too bad there 
 won't," Johnny said boldly. "I wish they'd put us up against a 
 couple of battalions of Abolitionists." 
 
 "Don't I, though!" 
 
 "I think I'll come along," Johnny decided. "I'll go home and 
 change my clothes and meet you lads at the station." 
 
 "Do that, Booth. It ought to be quite a lark." 
 
 It was a lark. Ten railroad cars packed as full as sardines carried 
 them the hundred and seventy miles to Charles Town, up in the 
 hills of Virginia, where John Brown lay in his cell, his wounds 
 
 105 
 
healing just as though he were not going to die at all. Something 
 delayed the train and they didn't pull out of the station until long 
 past midnight but nobody minded. They were off on a holiday, 
 high spirited, wearing their uniforms like soldiers at a masquerade. 
 It was cold in the train but they carried plenty to drink and plenty 
 to make them hot with excitement. It was the best sight in years 
 they were going to see, that damned old arch-Abolitionist, the 
 Daddy of them All, John Brown, burned at the stake. Well, of 
 course he wasn't going to be burned but hanged. That was nearly 
 as good, however. It ought to teach the rest of that outlaw mob of 
 blackhearted criminals to watch their step. They had gone about 
 as far as they were going. The South was about done with taking 
 guff off of anybody. 
 
 Johnny joined in the talk, throwing out his impassioned phrases. 
 Many new ones had been added to his repertoire, for the wind had 
 veered and was blowing in a different direction. It was war talk 
 now, talk of war, all the sentiments Johnny picked up had war, war 
 in them. We're going to have to have a showdown, we're going 
 to have to fight them, we're going to have to settle this thing once 
 and for all so it will stay settled. We could whip the blackhearted 
 cowards in a week, and we must do it. Not only our lives— our 
 personal lives, which are relatively unimportant — are in danger, but 
 Civilization itself totters on the brink of disaster. Everybody listened 
 when he spoke. 
 
 He had his uniform on and had borrowed a brace of pistols and a 
 knife at the theater. The manager was sulky and said he insisted 
 upon a performance, but Johnny said scornfully that he had to go 
 and do his patriotic duty. Most of the cast agreed with him and 
 thought it admirable, they came round to pat him on the shoulder 
 and wish him the best as though he were going to the battle front. 
 He had also been made assistant quartermaster. A stern-faced 
 lieutenant had come up to him in the station and said he had been 
 made assistant quartermaster. He had no idea what duties this title 
 would devolve upon him, but he thought he would wait and see 
 what developed. Since nobody ever mentioned the matter again, 
 he decided that either himself or the officer must have been drunk. 
 
 106 
 
He drank a good deal of brandy during the night but remained 
 clearheaded as usual. 
 
 The men wearied of talking, not all, but most, as the hours wore 
 on, and started singing. The car Johnny was in was so thick with 
 smoke you couldn't see a yard in front of you and the floor under- 
 foot was slick with tobacco-colored expectorations. He found himself 
 growing hoarse and decided it must be the bad air, but then he 
 remembered that he had been talking a great deal, with a great deal 
 of emphasis, so he quieted down and just sat there, taking a drink 
 whenever one was passed to him. 
 
 It was tiring to sit up all night, shoving hundred-pound weights of 
 musty heads of? your shoulders, disagreeable to doze off and wake 
 with a crick in your neck and a stubble of beard and no place to 
 brush your teeth. Early in the morning they pulled into a station 
 where women, trembling with the excitement of the occasion and 
 wearing a high color to see so many strange men at once (who 
 seemed to have put on new personalities with their uniforms, for 
 no group of gentlemen in civilian garb had such bold eyes or used 
 such banter), served coffee beside the steaming, snorting train — 
 giving womanish little jumps and screams at the noises — and handed 
 round bread-and-butter sandwiches. But before dawn the car began 
 to smell horrible and seemed more crowded than ever, for the 
 disarranged uniforms, the hair that had before lain down in place 
 and now stood wild, and the beards that grew like a thicket in the 
 night under the dim, flickering car lamps, seemed to take up more 
 room, and the men were bigger with the bloat that sprawling sleep 
 had brought upon the trimness of yesterday. Once during the 
 night somebody, turning purple in the face, pried open a window 
 and a cold wind rushed in, but that only made everybody cold and 
 they complained loudly. Johnny shut it himself and worried about 
 his throat. 
 
 He concluded that he didn't like soldiering so very much, if this 
 was soldiering. In actual warfare, there were probably still worse 
 discomforts. It was something else again when a fellow had his 
 Veillantif or Broiffort, his page, his armorer, his cook, his good 
 sword, his ladye's colors on his arm, his fluttering plumes, his 
 
 107 
 
king. . . . Something else again if one were king oneself, like the 
 Barbarossa or the Black Prince, and led the charge against the 
 enemy. But this was most uncomfortable. He decided never to go 
 to war. He could ride, he could shoot, he could fence, he boxed by 
 elegant English rules, he was not a coward (he told himself) but he 
 did not like all this herding together, with nobody knowing or 
 caring whether you were John Wilkes Booth or a butcher boy. 
 Besides, there was the danger to the face and form. Johnny decided 
 once and for all that soldiering was not to be one of his sources 
 of triumph. 
 
 It was worse at Charles Town. The Richmond Grays were as- 
 signed quarters in an abandoned tin factory and there, with some of 
 Colonel Robert E. Lee's guard, made themselves at home. It was 
 very cold and the building was draftier than a barn. They slept on 
 thin straw mattresses with only one blanket apiece and had large 
 amounts of such food as beans, cabbage soup, beef stew and sour- 
 tasting bread. Johnny, comforted by the thought that it was not 
 going to last forever and that in a few more days he would be back 
 in Richmond, made the best of it. His vanity, never oflf duty a 
 moment, made him agreeable, and in the old way he was soon a 
 favorite in camp. He helped willingly with the daily cleaning tasks, 
 but otherwise had only to stand guard as sentinel two or three 
 times. Evenings, he took his turn with the entertainment, gave 
 dramatic readings and was much applauded, or joined the groups 
 who wanted to talk about the pretty pass the nation had got herself 
 into. But he didn't like the experience, and he was glad when the 
 last evening arrived. 
 
 It was December 1st, and the militiamen whiled away the evening 
 hours with cards, singing, chatting, smoking or sentinel duty, and the 
 moon came up. The townspeople kept late watch at each other's 
 houses as though to witness a long-heralded comet roar across the 
 skies, or as they might do for the sake of sickness, or to welcome 
 the New Year in, drinking coffee and wearing their good clothes. 
 Over in his jail cell old man John Brown was spending his last 
 night on earth. His wife was there, as remarkably plain as ever or 
 perhaps a little more so, and she sang quite sweetly, like a young 
 girl, the hymns her husband asked for, "Blow Ye the Trumpet, 
 
 108 
 
Blow," and "Oh, Lovely Appearance of Death" and "With Songs 
 and Honors Sounding Loud." She also read Ecclesiastes to him, and 
 Psalm 127. 
 
 Everything he had ever turned his hand to, he failed at, Old John 
 Brown. You've known men like that, you must have known 
 several. A born failure, the neighbors say. They don't stick to any- 
 thing long, they never make any money, sometimes they drink. 
 Worst of all is when they've got a maggot in their brain at the 
 same time, some big, addlepated scheme, some Principle, some 
 Ideal, and can't just rest with their own shiftlessness. The neighbors 
 always feel sorry for the wife of a man like that. Poor woman, they 
 say, never knows what the next day's going to bring. They feel 
 sorry for his children, too. Poor bunch of kids, they say, never 
 know whether they're going to eat or go hungry, get shoes or go 
 barefooted. 
 
 Old man John Brown's wife, that last night when she was sing- 
 ing and reading scripture out loud, must have thought that it was 
 only a case of his failing again, and been maybe a little relieved that 
 it was for the last time. He must have thought so, too, must have 
 thought he had made the last big failure that made all his other 
 failures look sick — and now no more chance to try again, never a 
 ghost of a show again, and no more days to live, not even one, to 
 set things right. He could not know his failure was a fire alarm 
 going off in the land, starting a war, setting the match to the powder 
 train that would edge and eat and nibble and inch till a year and 
 four months later the whole kit and caboodle, North, South, East, 
 West, blacks, whites, dogs, cats and Louisa May Alcott would be 
 blown sky-high, high as the sky, the roof torn off, the walls caved 
 in, all the chimneys toppling down. 
 
 He had grumbled once, coming away from an anti-slavery con- 
 vention, "These men are all talk. What we need is action. Action!" 
 He put them to work, all of them, the whole nation, for four long 
 years and two thousand two hundred and sixty-one battles, shooting 
 and stabbing and killing and burying and singing and dying and 
 going mad and lying in prison and escaping, raping, gaping, march- 
 ing through Georgia to the sea . . . and finally he set the Negroes 
 free, scared of freedom like an unaccustomed weather of starfall and 
 
 109 
 
snow. He lit the match that started the blaze that burned down the 
 shed that burned down the house that set them freer than a flock 
 of crows! 
 
 He didn't know a thing about it, though, that night, and thought 
 differently. He thought it was just one more failure. Oh, he wrote 
 letters to people and said, "As I believe most firmly that God reigns, 
 I cannot believe that anything I have done, suffered, or may yet 
 suffer, will be lost to the cause of Humanity," but that was to save 
 a little self-respect, a little face, at the last minute, and Ecclesiastes 
 hit the nail on the head best of all, saying "I have seen all the works 
 that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation 
 of spirit." 
 
 John Brown was used to all the failure and loss that had started 
 long ago with the yellow marble the Indian boy gave him. He loved 
 that marble, it was as beautiful as the rare things mentioned in the 
 Bible, but he lost it and could never find it again. Once when he 
 was a grown man of twenty-seven he dreamed he found it in its 
 hiding place under a blueberry bush where it had been for twenty 
 years and it was as beautiful as ever! And then he had a little 
 bobtail squirrel, and that had got lost; it had run off to the woods, 
 though he had tamed it and it would eat out of his hand. He always 
 looked for it to come back. And then he had a ewe lamb, and 
 it died. Thoreau once wrote, "I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse, 
 and a turtle-dove, and am still on their trail. Many are the travellers 
 I have spoken to concerning them, describing their tracks and what 
 calls they answered to. I have met one or two who had heard the 
 hound, and the tramp of the horse, and even seen the dove dis- 
 appear behind a cloud, and they seemed as anxious to recover them 
 as if they had lost them themselves." His yellow marble, his busy 
 squirrel, his soft ewe, his hound, his horse, his turtledove — for yes, 
 he had lost these too, all gone, all gone. Now he had nothing more 
 to lose, only his life. It did not seem much, and was not much, but 
 it was all the life he had. 
 
 Johnny was pleased to see what a fair day broke for the hanging 
 and for his journey back to Richmond. With the rest of the Rich- 
 mond Grays he was leaving in the early afternoon and would be in 
 
 110 
 
his own deep bed before the next morning. It seemed nonsense to 
 be up at dawn when the execution was not to take place before 
 eleven, but up they all were, and had their breakfasts, before seven 
 o'clock. Then the men merely killed time, not the way they had 
 last night, but strolling aimlessly about the town or around their 
 quarters, or they tired of that and sat about in groups, talking 
 their never-palling politics, smoking and spitting. They talked about 
 John Brown, too, and wondered how it would feel to wake up and 
 know that this was the day you were going to die. Somebody re- 
 peated the words he spoke when he knew he was going to have to 
 surrender the arsenal, when the jig was up and they had him 
 over a barrel. He was supposed to have called out, "Well, my brave 
 boys, you can prepare a stretcher for me!" Johnny rather liked the 
 sound of that, and when he meandered on and joined the next little 
 group, sunning themselves on a log, he repeated it, and although 
 there was nothing much to it he made it into quite a dramatic story. 
 When he got to the old man's words, "Well, my brave boys, you 
 can prepare a stretcher for me!" he gave them such meaning and 
 pathos that it was like a scene out of Shakespeare. 
 
 His wife had brought them, and when old man John Brown 
 stepped out on the porch of the jail in the cold sunlight he had on 
 his good black broadcloth clothes. The suit was old, of course, he 
 had bought it many years before, but Mary brushed it and sponged 
 it and brushed it again, so he would look decent at his hanging and 
 in his coffin later on. It was a little too big for him now, quite a 
 lot too big, though it had once fitted like a glove. He had a yellowed 
 linen shirt on, also his best, a black string tie, gray wool stockings 
 and low black shoes. When he came out he blinked his eyes at 
 the light. The soldiers behind him with guns and bayonets did not 
 hurry him and he stood for a moment looking down at the two 
 lines of soldiers at attention along either side of the long gravel 
 walk. They looked straight before their eyes, or seemed to, like 
 men in the sulks. This may have been pride in their unaccustomed 
 duties, but they were angry, too, and few indeed had soft enough 
 hearts to cast him a glance of pity. 
 
 He had thought they would be afraid to come but on either side 
 
 111 
 
of the yard, a safe distance from the soldiers in their blue tunics and 
 black hats, uneasy Negro men and women stood, some with babies 
 in their arms and their older ones hugging their knees, and watched 
 the proceedings with solemn eyes. John Brown wanted to make some 
 gesture to them to tell them to take heart, keep hope, but his arms 
 were tied behind his back and he could not wave to them. He could 
 not force himself to smile, either, and then, upon consideration, it 
 seemed perhaps better not to smile or wave, in case it should make 
 them cry or cause some outbreak and snap the sulky soldiers' 
 thin-worn patience. 
 
 It was foolhardy of the barefooted young Negro woman in the 
 yellow waist to slip over so close to the line of armed men, but here 
 she came with her pop-eyed, woolly-headed little boy in her arms. 
 
 She said, "Pardon me, sir," and "Pardon me, if you please, sir," 
 in a soft and polite voice and, almost without thinking, two of 
 them stepped a little aside and let her through. When the muttering 
 began along the line they were sorry they had let her through, and 
 one of them called out, "Here, Auntie, you get back where you 
 belong," but she didn't go, she just went straight to the rough 
 wooden steps and stood there by the railing. The Captain was close 
 by, and he didn't say anything or make her get back, so the mut- 
 tering stopped. It started again when John Brown came down the 
 steps and stopped on the second stair from the bottom. He looked 
 fixedly and sadly at the woman as though to apologize, and she as 
 though to say there was no need to apologize but only to bless, held 
 her little boy out. He was afraid and sucked his lower lip in and 
 his pop-eyes began to glitter with tears, and he wriggled and pulled 
 his neck in and tried to draw back, but his mother held him out 
 and pushed him as close as she could to Old John Brown, and 
 the arch-Abolitionist, The Daddy of Them All, bent his head and 
 said to the baby, There's nothing to be afraid of, and kissed his hard 
 baby cheek that was wet now with tears. The muttering stopped 
 again when he came on down and started proudly up the gravel 
 walk between the tall guns to the cart in which he would ride with 
 his own coffin to the foot of the gallows. 
 
 They seemed very high to Johnny, as high as the scaffolding for a 
 two-story house, but he had never seen a hanging before and so 
 
 112 
 
could not judge if this was how they generally looked. He had had 
 plenty of time to shave and spruce himself up, not for the spectacle 
 mainly but for the trip back to Richmond in the afternoon. The 
 Richmond Grays and the guard of Robert E. Lee having, it was 
 decided, the noblest bearing, they were stationed in an exactly 
 drawn-up square around the scaffold under the command of the 
 godly Colonel himself. When Johnny saw him, he at once straight- 
 ened his shoulders still more, and lifted his chin still higher, for 
 nowhere out of Sparta was there a loftier bearing than this soldier's 
 own. His face was something to marvel at, too, and Johnny was 
 struck enough by its classic beauty to mark it well. 
 
 There were several men on the gallows and it was hard to get a 
 good look at Old John Brown himself. He looked neat and clean, 
 even his gray beard and long gray hair that fluttered in the wind 
 looked washed and clean. They did not hurry him. While they made 
 the last preparations he stood looking far, far away to the mountains 
 of the Blue Ridge. Johnny did not hear him say, "This is a beautiful 
 country. I have not cast my eyes over it before," but saw his lips 
 move when he said it to a man close by. He did not hear him say, 
 "I am ready at any time, but do not keep me needlessly waiting," 
 though his lips moved again a few minutes later. 
 
 When they put the thick rope around his neck, with the knot half 
 as long as the man's arm, and pulled it tight but not too tight, 
 Johnny began to get a terrible sickness in his stomach and a roaring 
 in his ears. He got dizzy, too. His mouth was as dry as a bone, he 
 stuck his dry tongue out and tried to lick his dry lips. They felt 
 cold and numb, the tip of his nose felt numb, cold sweat began to 
 run down from his armpits, his cold hands got so slick and wet 
 with cold sweat he could hardly hold his gun. He gritted his teeth 
 and wondered how long he could stand without falling, and 
 watched, growing sicker and sicker, while the signal was given, the 
 trap fell, the rope played out faster and faster and snapped up short, 
 and John Brown jerked, jerked and then swung there, swung and 
 swung like a heavy pendulum. Then stopped, with his neck craned 
 away over on one side and his face . . . 
 
 Johnny whispered to his neighbor, "I'm sorry, I'm ill, I'm very 
 ill — " and his neighbor whispered back, "You'll be all right, don't 
 
 113 
 
look, shut your eyes, you'll be all right in a minute, buck up, I'll get 
 you a drink in a minute — " And somehow he stood there but he 
 didn't look, while the memory of failure went out of the strange- 
 colored swinging thing in black broadcloth, and the memory of 
 what went and went and didn't come back, until it was as quiet as 
 a statue on a pedestal of air. 
 
 The drink fixed him up, but Johnny was still squeamish on the 
 train, and back in Richmond he went right to bed without eating 
 a bite. 
 
 114 
 
XI 
 
 'He hath marks about him plenty: 
 You shall know him among twenty!" 
 
 —BEN JONSON 
 
 He did not care particularly about attending Edwin's wedding 
 but Mother wrote and thought that one member, at least, o£ 
 the family should be there. He would be pleased to see New York, 
 however, and when the season closed in Richmond he went north. 
 Three days after the Fourth of July the wedding was held in the 
 parlor of a minister, and Johnny and another actor, Adam Badeau, 
 stood up with the happy couple. They were happy, though Johnny 
 thought the bride a somewhat drab girl, not at all what one would 
 imagine for Edwin. On second thought, however, maybe she was 
 exactly what one would imagine. It was plain to be seen that she 
 was a born lady, although she was an actress whom Edwin had met 
 in the theater, Mary Devlin by name. She was less than twenty, 
 Johnny's own age, but very mature in behavior, and pious, with her 
 hair parted in the middle and brought down severely on both sides. 
 Her dress was a sober gray silk and she did not seem very bride- 
 like. She plainly adored Edwin and he adored her, but Johnny 
 did not envy either one. There weren't two mouthfuls to her, and 
 besides, her lips were always trembling as though she might be 
 going to cry. She was the last girl in the world you would fancy 
 as an actress, although she was considered very promising. (She died 
 a little over two years later. . . . Edwin was away from her when she 
 fell into her last sickness and did not know of it, only that she 
 appeared to him in a vision at the moment of her death, begging 
 him to come to her. He hurried home to find her dead. When 
 Johnny heard the story, he believed it implicitly, as the whole episode 
 fitted her sphery personality to a T.) 
 
 115 
 
At the wedding supper for a few friends he found someone much 
 more to his liking than new little Mrs. Edwin Booth, and before 
 the evening was over he was calling her Isis, a nickname which 
 pleased her tremendously, and she was calling him Johnny and they 
 were drinking their champagne out of each other's glasses. Her hus- 
 band, a theater owner, was not with her. 
 
 In fact, Isis was much alone and Johnny took it upon himself to 
 keep her company in the days following, although she was a little 
 too tall for his taste — as tall as Johnny himself — and maybe thirty or 
 older. She wore Paris dresses, tight Paris shoes and gloves, Paris 
 unmentionables, clocked Paris hosiery and Paris hats constructed 
 like an edifice as by an architect. She also wore Paris scents, pink 
 Paris pastes and pearly powders, Paris necklaces, and she owned 
 something else from Paris, too, of pure, solid gold, that had ruat 
 caelum (let the heavens fall) engraved upon it. She was very proud 
 that she had no children, as though it were a talent of some sort, 
 like playing the ophicleide, as perhaps it was, and also of her many 
 possessions from Paris — there turned out to be more and more. She 
 had never been to Paris herself or was ever likely to go, having a 
 great fear of the water and drowning. 
 
 She was kind, oh, very kind, to Johnny, and had many occasions 
 to be, during his stay in the city. With her or alone he went around 
 and saw the sights, went to the picture galleries and was conducted 
 through Barnum's American Museum. Isis laughed at him and said 
 that for a young man as hard to impress as he was, she was sur- 
 prised that he should be so fascinated by a mere little midget like 
 Tom Thumb. He was, though. He marveled that so much conceit 
 could be encompassed in so small a scope. "He just stands up there on 
 the stage like Conceit personified," he said. "I want to die laughing." 
 
 "Well, why shouldn't he be conceited?" Isis said. 
 
 "Good God, why should he?" 
 
 "Because he's the one and only," she said. "Absolutely one of a 
 \ind, nobody else like him in the world. Anybody who knows he is 
 absolutely one of a kind always acts like that. It isn't conceit, 
 exactly, either, it's just knowing that." 
 
 Greatly aware of his own insularity he stared down into the 
 
 116 
 
brandy in his glass, shook it gently. "But, good God," he said, "that 
 insufferable little midget!" 
 
 "Take you, Johnny," she said. "You \now, Johnny." 
 
 "Know what?" he asked, looking up. 
 
 "How it feels to — to be someone who is absolutely one of a kind." 
 
 He thought of Edwin, resentfully. 
 
 Yes, Isis was a beguiling woman, and at first, amid all her Paris 
 things, and because of her size and shape and the odd peach color 
 of her hair, Johnny thought she was going to be quite different 
 from the others, but it turned out she was not. She began to pout 
 and then she began to cry and then she began to want him forever, 
 and worst of all, after he went away, first to The Farm and then 
 down into Georgia where he had an engagement, she began writing 
 him long letters. These continued as she saw that he was not coming 
 back to her to sniff a Paris perfume, no matter how delicate, to 
 unwind the scarf of a Paris dress from around her neck or to press 
 his head upon a Paris pillowcase. Worse than a schoolgirl in first 
 infatuation, she pleaded and wept, but it was over. He wrote her 
 plainly upon the matter, and then did not write again, but she 
 kept on, although as time passed the letters got fewer and farther 
 between, like the last gasps of dying Heloise. She would be silent, 
 and then something would remind her, and with purple ink as 
 thick as paint she would write one last time. ... (It was, in fact, a 
 letter from Isis that tumbled out of Johnny's overcoat pocket in 
 the parlor of Dr. Mudd, where he went off and left it after his first 
 visit. He never knew what became of it and did not care. It was 
 this letter Mrs. Mudd perused, reddening — poor Isis had written it 
 by the light of the full moon — and hastened to carry out and burn 
 in the kitchen stove.) 
 
 Johnny went from The Farm to Columbus, Georgia, when the 
 season opened that fall, to play Hamlet. He got there in time, but 
 he did not appear in the role for several weeks and then had a 
 slight limp. Strangely enough, he was wounded, and not in a duel. 
 The night the play was to open he sat in his dressing room in the 
 handsome doublet, hose and large jeweled chain inherited from his 
 father, his hair brushed back from his forehead and his eyes already 
 
 117 
 
taking on the immemorial melancholy, talking to a fellow actor. 
 
 In at the door walked another member of the cast, not a real actor 
 but a lawyer who thought he would try acting instead of law, with 
 a gun in his hands. His name was Canning, and he knew a hack 
 from a handsaw, but he thought he would stage a holdup as a joke 
 to amuse everybody while waiting for the curtain to go up. The 
 gun was, of course, assumed not to be loaded, but it went off and 
 shot Johnny (who had coldly got up and turned his back upon the 
 bandit and was looking into the glass) in his left buttock with a 
 real bullet. This so enraged him that he looked about for a knife 
 to stab the man, but the alarmed cast gathering round and the man 
 not fleeing but standing his ground like the most ashamed of 
 mortals, he got back his senses and decided it would look more 
 magnanimous to forgive his assailant and laugh off his wound like 
 a hero. He did, but not for long, as he soon fainted and had to be 
 carried to his room. They probed for the bullet but it was never 
 found. Like Arthur fallen low he stayed in his bed for several days, 
 holding court there, and later out on the veranda. He could not 
 play, of course. Everybody petted him and tried to help him while 
 away the hours, Canning most faithfully of all, until Johnny grew 
 quite fond of him. 
 
 He would not, under the circumstances, have minded having his 
 vacation prolonged indefinitely, had not a plan taken shape that 
 made him eager to get back to work. He was going to become a 
 star! He read a story in the daily newspaper that Edwin had got 
 five thousand dollars as his part of the profits for appearing in a 
 Boston theater for four weeks. That was wages, and not so much 
 because Edwin was worth his hire, Johnny decided, but because he 
 was a star. Therefore he resolved to be a star himself and wondered 
 how he had not thought of it before. 
 
 In those days it was a system, the star system. An actor became 
 a star upon his own volition. He traveled from theater to theater, 
 where he played a few days or weeks supported by the regular or 
 "stock" actors who stayed put and didn't travel. He had to have an 
 agent who made his engagements for him, went on ahead and sang 
 his praises, and begged, borrowed or stole as much newspaper or 
 other advertising space as possible to get his employer's name, looks, 
 
 118 
 
talents and foibles, if they were charming and printable, before the 
 public. The star system was then in its ascendancy and Johnny was 
 sorry he had not got into it right away. When he told Canning about 
 his plan, the lawyer was so enthusiastic and seemed to know so 
 exactly how to go about it that Johnny hired him as his agent then 
 and there. 
 
 Canning got started at once, and as soon as Johnny finished his 
 engagement in Columbus, Georgia, he went — with only a twinge 
 in his backside now and then and ever so slight a limp) — to Mont- 
 gomery, Alabama, this time as "our country's rising young tragedian, 
 J. Wilkes Booth," to play his father's great role, Richard III. He 
 was a huge success and was not hoarse the first or second nights 
 after the performance, but the third night he was. He didn't wonder 
 at all, anyone must see he had played like an angel, but it was 
 rather annoying, particularly since his throat pained him a little, 
 too. But that was only natural. He drank quite a lot of brandy and 
 that cleared his voice up fine. He had been going to write to Mother 
 and ask her to have Florry make up some more of that remedy, 
 but then he decided he wouldn't really have to, the brandy served 
 as well as anything. However, a week later he did write and ask 
 her, since it was just as well to have some on hand. 
 
 Successful as he was in Montgomery, Canning was having trouble 
 getting his star more southern engagements. Johnny didn't want to 
 go north, as Philadelphia's snub still rankled, but the South was in 
 too much of a turmoil for a theatrical manager to make plans very 
 far ahead. 
 
 It was just before the Christmas holidays in 1860, Lincoln was 
 elected and going to be inaugurated in March, none of the problems 
 confronting the two sides to the coin called Union looked as if it 
 was ever going to be settled and people felt as if they were sitting 
 out on a very short limb with a very long drop beneath. 
 
 Down in Georgia and Alabama property was put up for sale 
 "before the country goes to the dogs." Men wanted to fight a war, 
 they were itching for it, they wanted to get it over with. Whatever 
 else could be postponed, was postponed, while they waited for the 
 bugles to blow. If a house had to be painted, the owner said, "We'll 
 wait and see what happens." If a horse ought to be bought, an 
 
 119 
 
orchard planted, a fresh batch of calico got in at the store, it was 
 the same. "We'll hold off a while and see what happens." Men lost 
 interest in their work, they got together in anxious knots when- 
 ever they could, as though they had a hunch they were going to 
 have to be together for a long, bitter time and wanted to get the 
 feel of it, how it would seem without women. Children hated school 
 worse than ever, and teachers grew lax, for what was the use of 
 long division and past participles if there was going to be a war? 
 Boys played hooky oftener and were let off easier because "every- 
 thing is so up in the air anyway." Women started wondering what 
 in God's name they would do if war came and got so on edge they 
 weren't fit to be spoken to. Young girls, though they still riveted 
 their monograms to sheets and napkins so they would never come 
 out, did it more and more desultorily. The least little noise, a dog- 
 fight, a cart rumbling down the street or a boy rolling a hoop, 
 caused them to run to the window and stick their heads far out to 
 see if it had come at last. Quilting bees, taffy pulls, spelldowns, 
 dancing and play parties, sociables and church suppers were put off 
 till the time "this all blows over." Faraway war sent its shadow 
 ahead, it blued, purpled and blackened the sky while even the wind 
 stopped blowing . . . under it, the skirts and shawls that had flut- 
 tered hung straight down, hair becalmed, eyes hushed, love tarried, 
 birds sank down into ruffled feathers . . . and in the strange light, 
 all waited and waited. 
 
 Canning sent his feelers out but the theater owners and stage 
 managers declined the services of this "rising young tragedian" with 
 regret. "We do not wish to commit ourselves until whatever is going 
 to happen, happens," they said. "We shall have to bide our time 
 and see." 
 
 He said there was no use to beat their heads against a stone wall. 
 If Johnny wanted to act and keep on acting he would have to go 
 up north, Canning said. "They're all keyed up, too, up there, but a 
 Yankee will keep on making a dollar as long as he can. Those 
 Northerners are going to keep the streets clean and the ashes out 
 and the prices high and the shows running till the last dog's hung. 
 So that's where we'll have to go, that's where you'll have to wind up, 
 
 120 
 
Johnny, if you want engagements. Unless you take a notion you 
 want to stay and fight," he added doubtfully. 
 
 "There's no war yet," Johnny said. "Who would I fight?" He 
 laughed. 
 
 "Nobody so far," Canning said, "but that's because everybody 
 around here agrees with you and you agree with them, but there's 
 going to be a war, Johnny. And I get kind of worried about you. 
 If you start spouting some of that secesh talk up north like you've 
 been spouting it down here, you're liable to get your hair parted. 
 I've heard you say things that would get you laid out colder than a 
 mackerel if you said them up there to the wrong people. And the 
 biggest majority of them up there are the wrong people, you want 
 to remember. I get leery when I think of it. Maybe I just better go 
 on up by myself and you stay around here." 
 
 "For thirty or forty dollars a week," Johnny said scornfully. "I can 
 see myself! And Edwin up north making five thousand dollars a 
 month! I can just see myself. Do you think I'm crazy?" 
 
 "Well, but you're a born Southerner, Johnny, and your sentiments 
 run along the same lines as all the — " 
 
 "My sentiments lie where I can get some little return for my — 
 sacrifices," Johnny said, putting a hand to his throat. "Where I can 
 play the parts that suit me, before a proper audience, and get a 
 proper return for it. Go ahead and get the ball rolling up north." 
 
 "Rochester, for instance?" Canning asked slowly. 
 
 "Certainly, Rochester. Why not Rochester?" 
 
 "New York?" 
 
 He thought of Isis, but she could be avoided. "Certainly." 
 
 "Albany?" 
 
 "All of them, damn it. Wherever we can get a proper house and 
 a — proper return." 
 
 "I know, Johnny, but how about all this secesh talk?" Canning 
 was worried. "All you say about the Union and all that? You 
 haven't been up there lately, Johnny. You don't know how keyed up 
 they all are, just like everybody down around here, only on the 
 other side. They're ready to break loose, just like these fellows are. 
 You're liable to say something and stir up some trouble, and the 
 
 121 
 
first thing you know you're liable to wake up some morning and 
 find yourself dead." 
 
 "You don't have to worry about me," Johnny said, going over to 
 the brandy bottle on the dresser and pouring out two drinks. He 
 came back and handed one to the troubled agent and seated himself 
 with the other on the wide window ledge, looping back the curtain 
 so he could look out at the starry sky. "I'm not a blind fool," he said. 
 "I know when to talk and when — not to." 
 
 At Rochester he was a sensational Richard and got what even he 
 admitted was a "proper return," but an accident to his Richmond 
 rather spoiled things, at least for one performance. His sword 
 snapped and the point of it flew over and cut his fellow actor just 
 over the eye. He bled alarmingly and from the stir made backstage 
 you would have thought Johnny had cut the man's head off. But it 
 turned out that there was no great harm done, though Richmond 
 had to have four stitches taken and some fear was expressed that 
 the scar would show. 
 
 At Albany he played Romeo, and if he had not had such a grudge 
 against the North to start with, loathing her weather, architecture, 
 speech, clothing and manners, he must surely have weakened to 
 her then and let bygones be bygones. For Albany took him up the 
 way New York took up Jenny Lind. It was not the custom of the 
 Northerners to look upon actors as people one invited, no matter 
 how greatly one admired them. His audiences went mad over him, 
 attended all his performances and discussed his interpretations. 
 Women wrote him extravagant notes, bought his photographs and 
 saved his programs, men copied his clothes, his haircut and the 
 droop to his mustache, but it never entered anybody's head to invite 
 him to a ball, supper or to join a club. He was a player, a public 
 entertainer, and it would have been like taking up with a race horse, 
 a tightrope walker or a lady dancer. It was so impossible that it 
 simply never entered anybody's mind. If it had, the poor in their 
 humbleness would not have dared, the rich in their haughtiness 
 would have thought it recherche. The South had a different attitude. 
 
 Johnny was never, therefore, to lose his grudge against the North, 
 
 122 
 
but they applauded him. He liked the sound of that and gave them 
 all he had to make them do it. Every time the house went wild he 
 felt bitterly triumphant, as though he had his heel on the neck of 
 an enemy. For that, he was willing to grow hoarse six nights a week, 
 but of course it didn't cost any such price as that. His Romeo gave 
 the ladies insomnia and had them sugaring their eggs and salting 
 their coffee for days. His Juliet did not have to act the part, though 
 she was married, incorruptible and not pretty. It came out in the 
 papers that he was the handsomest actor on the American stage, 
 but this was disputed by many treble voices who proclaimed him 
 to be the handsomest man alive. When the idol, playing Pescara in 
 The Apostate, had the misfortune to fall upon his dagger, wound- 
 ing himself severely in his right axilla, and the reports came out, 
 his admirers were all of a tremble until they found out that the 
 axilla was only the armpit, not some mysterious vital part, and that 
 he was certain to recover. Again he was indisposed and had to stay 
 at home for several days, not confined to bed, but weak because 
 of an infection in his wound, enough to give him a slight fever, 
 and loss of blood. 
 
 He was bored and irritable, though he got stacks of mail, flowers 
 and other good things, and he thought the hotel dismally ugly. He 
 got into an occasional discussion with fellow actors or other guests 
 and for the first time heard the Northern side of the big argument. 
 "To him who is already convinced . . . everything is ground for 
 conviction," however. These phrases and sentences, to say nothing 
 of the ideas behind them, he let go in one ear and out the other. 
 He did not have to glean these in order to shine in Social Company, 
 for here there was no Social Company. Since he would not use them 
 himself, he considered them idiotic and based upon false premises. 
 The North was wrong from beginning to end. He decided, and 
 was not long in deciding, either, to keep his store of well-memorized, 
 slave state beliefs intact, not to change them in the least. Canning 
 worried, but Johnny had a way of sizing up his man at a glance. 
 He talked, of course, all the Southern slogans were trotted out to 
 alarm, astonish and anger his listeners, and he was not long in be- 
 coming known as a dyed-in-the-wool secesh — but he picked his time 
 
 123 
 
and place; he knew pretty well with whom he spoke and he was 
 careful. When there was real danger he kept silent or changed the 
 talk to other lines. He didn't get his hair parted or wake up some 
 morning dead. 
 
 Canning brought him books and periodicals but he seemed to 
 have lost the taste for reading, as grownups sometimes lose the taste 
 for sweets they had as children. He was never to get it back again. 
 He bitterly complained of the slow hours until he started in pursuit 
 of a girl! This astounded Canning somewhat more than if Johnny 
 had suddenly begun to study for the priesthood, for he had never 
 done such a thing before. Now he took it up with great enthusiasm 
 and found it to be an exhilarating sport, like trying to catch a 
 concolor gibbon in a dense forest. 
 
 She lived at the hotel, too, her name was Henrietta Irving, and 
 she herself was an actress playing with the other stock company in 
 town. Bored Johnny, with a great, thick bandage under and over 
 his arm and his coat worn over one shoulder like a toreador's cape, 
 saw her and began idly to admire her. She had insubstantial green- 
 ish brown hair combed back from a beautiful forehead, black eye- 
 brows, long eyelashes and lovely dark eyes. Her teeth were good, 
 her chin too small and she had nice feet and hands. Her clothes 
 had an air that Johnny liked; they were contrived, fanciful and as 
 if for the theater rather than for actual wear. He assumed she must 
 be quite young, and she was; passionate, and she was; rather odd, 
 and she was. It was not difficult to make her acquaintance, hold 
 conversation with her, have supper with her in his rooms and — kiss 
 her. 
 
 But then the fun began, for Miss Henrietta Irving, taught in the 
 ways of virtue by a sainted mother recently dead, could not be led, 
 enticed or pushed off the narrow path of virtue. Unconquered, she 
 went from his room with sad eyes and dragging step, and Johnny 
 was left in astonishment. When this happened again and again he 
 began to be excited and interested. It seemed clever and charming 
 of her to dance on ahead and flit from leaf to leaf, and not be 
 caught, and he decided she must be a great treasure, a tooth of The 
 Three Grey Ones at last, that gave its possessor power to walk over 
 water. Warming to the chase, he laid careful snares, set traps — and 
 
 124 
 
she always got away. It was the most delightful thing in the world, 
 particularly since she fell madly in love with him in no time at all. 
 
 "My strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure," 
 he remembered from his childhood, and her strength was as the 
 strength of ten. The contest went on and on while the hours scam- 
 pered. Canning could have brought puzzles and games, the most 
 ingenious made, and nothing would have been a better diversion 
 for the tedious days. They came to an end, for his wound was 
 healed and he could go back to the theater, but he was still diverted, 
 still setting snares for Henrietta Irving. 
 
 There was a big to-do in Albany that afternoon, when Johnny 
 stepped out of his hotel and started for the theater to rehearsal. 
 The sidewalks were crowded with people, whole families were in 
 town together, soldiers seemed to be everywhere, and so many 
 wagons, carts and buggies clogged the streets it was as if the whole 
 population had set out at once to escape the Black Plague and had 
 to go down Main Street to do it. He was going to ask someone what 
 it all meant, but then he remembered. Abraham Lincoln was going 
 through on his way from Springfield to Washington, to be made 
 President. It was February 18th. March 4th was the big day of the 
 Inauguration and Lincoln wanted to be there in plenty of time. 
 
 Johnny decided he would follow the crowds and see if he could 
 catch a glimpse of the next President, too. He wondered if it were 
 possible he was the ugly, ridiculous fellow the pictures and car- 
 toons made him out to be. He went along — and saw. 
 
 The pictures and cartoons lied. Johnny saw him, heard him say 
 a few words from a platform, got a good look at him. He got a 
 good look at all the people standing there listening, too, saw how 
 Lincoln had them right where he wanted them. He could pull 
 them around by the nose, anywhere, any direction, and they would 
 follow. He was a dangerous man, not ugly. Not ludicrous. Very 
 dangerous. Johnny felt a slow anger rising in him as he watched 
 the hated Unionist faces staring upward, watched the very dan- 
 gerous, very original man they yearned to and exalted. 
 
 This, then, was power, Johnny's first glimpse of it. 
 
 What was an actor? What was he? A man who acts upon the 
 stage. But if he told thirty million people to turn right, would they 
 
 125 
 
slowly and surely and every one turn right? If he told them to 
 turn left, would they slowly and surely and every one do it? For 
 the first time it came to him what power was, influence was, and 
 all that he had wished and wanted before seemed like the toys 
 of childhood. An actor was not even himself when seen and ap- 
 plauded, but somebody else, three hundred years dead or not yet 
 born, a man, a great man, a wise man, a wicked man, but never 
 himself, preponderant. This man, Abraham Lincoln, was himself 
 and that was all he needed to be. Angrier and angrier Johnny grew, 
 as though the man had done him a great wrong, and Edwin piddled 
 away to nothing as thief, as rival in the depths of his mind, the 
 great actor Edwin Forrest piddled away, all past envies and jeal- 
 ousies, past hatreds, ran together, boiled together in double double 
 toiling troubling bubbling hatred for the biggest man he ever saw 
 out of history, with the inestimable gift of power, who knew he 
 had it, used it, knew he was using it and knew why. 
 
 "If ever a man deserved hanging, it's that man," he said at the 
 theater. 
 
 "But why, Booth? What's he done, only to be elected President?" 
 they asked. 
 
 "Because he's got the people hypnotized," Johnny said. "You mark 
 my words. He'll make a dictator of himself yet." 
 
 "Oh, no, he won't. Why should he?" 
 
 "You wait and see." 
 
 He played Pescara that night in The Apostate. He was quite 
 hoarse afterward and took some of Florry's remedy. His audience 
 worshiped the ground he walked on. But when he was reading the 
 notices next day, he thought, If I said to thirty million people 
 turn right, they'd laugh at me. If I said turn left, they'd say I was 
 crazy. But there was a man in the country who could do it, and 
 what was the size of anybody else beside the size of him? The size 
 of Tom Thumb! He saw prancing Tom Thumb, in preposterous 
 conceit, and the thought was like an insult hurled, a nasty insult spat 
 at him which he was powerless to avenge. 
 
 When war broke out it was not really a surprise to anybody. 
 When the black cloud bursts and lets down sheets of rain and hail, 
 it astonishes him alone who expected cock's feathers and spinels. 
 
 126 
 
Fort Sumter was like Tuesday following Monday, its fall on April 
 13th like night after day. When Lincoln called out the state militia, 
 and summoned a special session of Congress, it seemed only natural. 
 When Virginia seceded, the Federals abandoned Harpers Ferry, 
 Lincoln proclaimed a blockade of the Confederate states from South 
 Carolina to Texas, the Sixth Massachusetts arrived in Washington 
 ready for business; it was all natural, war was natural. Like any- 
 thing else begotten that gets through the time of gestation, it was 
 merely born. Like anything else begotten and born, it would die. 
 Not for some time, of course, but eventually. In the meantime, it 
 was nothing to marvel at, not as if the sun went up in smoke or 
 the moon froze over, not for the living. The dead may have thought 
 differently, but nobody heard them say. 
 
 Having more to lose and more to gain, the South turned topsy- 
 turvy in her effort to get ready for the fray. But in the North, as 
 Canning had predicted, things went on much as usual. Dreams 
 changed, aims altered, but the shows kept running, everything kept 
 running. Once tried on for size and found to fit, the war settled 
 down on the back of the North as familiarly as a coat. 
 
 Johnny's engagement ran on, and for weeks, until long after 
 spring had come, he had his rare diversion with The Maiden. 
 Already skilled, he gained more skill, already subtle, he became 
 more subtle, but the little, trembling chalice stayed up ahead, stayed 
 out of reach . . . and the farther ahead, the lovelier. 
 
 When the day came, the night, that she did not, when the time 
 came that she was snared and trapped, when he lifted out his prize 
 and carried her to the light and saw her colors fading, going dim, 
 like a sea flower dimming, rubescence going gray, opalescence going 
 gray, cerulescence going gray, under his eyes and in his hands, he 
 could have wept with vexation. Witch flower, witch fire, treasure? 
 Walk upon water? He felt cheated and cross. The game was en- 
 tirely spoiled. 
 
 The snare was not of his devising but her own, her love for 
 him, and all the tears that all the ladies Johnny had ever known 
 had shed, were like a drop in the bucket beside hers. How they 
 poured down! And yet Johnny was gentlemanly to her. He did not 
 tell her how vexed he was and how glad he was going to be when 
 
 127 
 
the season was over and he could get back to Baltimore. But some- 
 how she knew it, and as the tedious days went on she cried harder 
 and harder. And why ? It turned out that this bird with the clipped 
 wings that could lift no higher than his cold heart, wanted him to 
 marry her! 
 
 He was astonished. He said no. 
 
 He asked Canning, "Tell me, Canning. Why do they cry so 
 much?" 
 
 "It's their tune," Canning said. "Why does the owl hoot? Why 
 does the cat meow?" 
 
 "It's a damned poor tune," Johnny said. "If I ever meet a woman 
 who doesn't cry, I think I'm going to get pretty damned friendly." 
 
 "Oh, she'll cry," Canning said, "sooner or later. And by the way, 
 Johnny, now that we're on the subject, if you don't mind my ask- 
 ing — what are you going to do about Henrietta Irving ? She stopped 
 me in the hall last night and she wants—" 
 
 "Do about her?" Johnny said. "Why, nothing." 
 
 But Miss Henrietta Irving, the sodden, motherless child lying in 
 the ditch beneath the narrow path . . . who was young, passionate 
 and odd . . . was going to do something about him. 
 
 She was going to kill him! 
 
 He did not much like it that she was in his room when he came 
 home, but at least her eyes were dry. He said, "Hello, Henrietta," 
 and decided that all one could do was to make the best of things. 
 His engagement had only two more weeks to run and then he was 
 going down to Baltimore. His hat he had taken off at once when 
 he saw he had company and now he got out of his coat as well and 
 tossed both over the foot of the bed. Henrietta was sitting in a 
 chair by the window. She had a black dress on and a black lace 
 shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her color was not good and 
 her bones had started showing. She smiled. 
 
 "Did the show go well?" she said. 
 
 He thought about remaining on his feet, to give her a gentle hint, 
 but then decided to take a seat on the side of the bed. He made 
 as if to begin to yawn, smothered the beginning of this. "As well 
 as usual." 
 
 "Did you take a lot of curtain calls?" 
 
 128 
 
"Eight or nine." 
 
 "Everybody says you're so wonderful, Johnny." 
 
 He laughed. "I am wonderful." 
 
 "No, but, really." 
 
 "Really." He looked at the brandy on the dresser. "Your show go 
 all right?" 
 
 "I stayed home tonight," she said. "I wasn't there." 
 
 Johnny got up and walked over to the dresser. He looked at her 
 and she shook her head, so he filled only one glass. He carried it 
 back to his seat on the side of the bed and took a sip. 
 
 "You're awfully late coming home. It's nearly one o'clock," she 
 said. 
 
 He saw that in spite of her smile she was going to cry. She was 
 all set. "Good God, Henrietta," he said, "if I ever meet a woman 
 who doesn't cry — " 
 
 She pressed her lips together and the tears that had gathered 
 spilled over and rolled down her cheeks. "Oh, they'll all cry," she 
 said. "They'll all cry, and cry and cry, till the very last one." 
 
 He swallowed the brandy and stood up. "I don't want to be 
 rude — " he said. 
 
 She got up swiftly from the chair and came over to him, put her 
 arms around him. "I want to go with you to Baltimore," she said, 
 laying her head against his chest. "Wherever you go, I want to go 
 with you. What I said about marrying — Johnny, I don't care now, 
 really, I don't care about anything. All I care about is for you not 
 to leave me, not to go away and leave me behind — " 
 
 It was uncomfortable, with the empty glass in his hand, to stand 
 there and have her clutching him like that. He pushed her away as 
 gently as he could and went over — and here she was again, throw- 
 ing her arms around him. "Please, Johnny, please— please, darling, 
 please — " 
 
 She felt very hot, her tears felt hot against his hand put up to 
 ward her off, her face gave off heat, her hair even, her thin, greenish- 
 brown hair. 
 
 "I can't take you to Baltimore," he said. "You should go back 
 now and go to bed. It's late, Henrietta." 
 
 "Johnny." She was limp against him, sobbing. It was strange how 
 
 129 
 
much heat she gave off, what a dead, dull weight she felt. 
 "Johnny?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Or anywhere, Johnny?" 
 
 "What do you mean 'or anywhere'?" 
 
 "You can't take me anywhere, ever?" 
 
 "Henrietta, listen— " 
 
 She raised her head up and looked at him. A fountain troubled — 
 muddy, ill seeming, thick, bereft of beauty — he tried to remember 
 the words. How did they go? And while 'tis so — no man will 
 dare — no, deign — no man will deign to touch — one drop of it. Good 
 God, if he ever got himself into anything like this again — "Henri- 
 etta, if you could see yourself you'd be ashamed — Henrietta, listen." 
 
 She put her left arm up around his neck, made him bend his stiff 
 neck, dragged his head down to her crumpled, crying face, kissed 
 him, radiating heat like a shoveful of hot coals, and with her right 
 hand, like a wronged girl in a bad, sad play, she reached under her 
 lace shawl, pulled out the knife and — stabbed him. 
 
 Well, not really. She just missed. He seemed to know, swift as 
 her movements were, something must have told him, a glitter, per- 
 haps. He shoved her off and jumped back and she made another 
 sharp thrust with that long and wicked-looking knife. His jacket was 
 ripped through across the shoulder, six inches from his neck. Sweat 
 broke out on his forehead. "Henrietta, listen, you fool, you little 
 idiot, give me that knife." But he didn't try to get it, he only kept her 
 fixed with his eyes while he backed to the door, edged to the door, 
 got his hand around behind him and opened it, and fled backward 
 and outward into the hall, then whirled and ran down to Canning's 
 room. 
 
 She did not follow. 
 
 It was hardly more than a second when they got back, Canning 
 in front, Johnny a little behind, and when they pushed the half- 
 open door open all the way they saw why she did not. She was lying 
 across the bed and the knife was on the floor. Canning picked it up, 
 scared as though she might leap down on it before he got it in his 
 hand. They couldn't see the blood on the front of her black dress at 
 
 130 
 
first, but then they saw it was all wet, it shone with satiny wetness 
 under the gaslight. 
 
 Canning wrote him next day that she was not too badly hurt and 
 was going to recover, also that he had straightened things out and 
 talked some sense into her, and that he didn't think she would 
 bother him any more. Johnny read the letter in Asia's house in 
 Baltimore. For no reason at all, when he folded it up and put it 
 back in the envelope, drawing a deep sigh of relief, he thought, It 
 happened on the twenty-sixth, as though he must mark that. The 
 twenty-sixth day of April. I still had two weeks to go, he thought. 
 Well, hell, Canning will fix that up, too, say there was a death in the 
 family or something. He sighed again, then smiled. 
 
 "Good news, Johnny?" Asia said. She came in with her baby girl 
 in her arms. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "A lot better than I expected." 
 
 131 
 
XII 
 
 "Tis not for nothing that we life pursue; 
 
 It pays our hopes with something still that's new." 
 
 — DRYDEN 
 
 When johnny heard that Edwin was taking his little wife and 
 going to Europe for a lengthy tour it was as good as getting 
 a present. For Johnny was a star now, with all the engagements he 
 could handle, and plenty of money in his pockets and all the clothes 
 he could possibly hope to wear. He was known, too, his face was 
 known everywhere. He never walked down the street, whether in 
 Baltimore, St. Louis, Chicago or New York, but that he felt people 
 pointing him out, heard people saying behind their hands or out of 
 the corner of their mouths, "There goes John Wilkes Booth, the 
 actor. John Wilkes Booth." He supposed that was fame, it felt like 
 it, it felt fine. But Edwin was famous, too, very famous, some people 
 still said he was a better actor than his brother, and he was making 
 even more money than Johnny. 
 
 They had a real family reunion at Asia's in the summer. Every- 
 body was there except June who was still out in California. The two 
 brothers did not agree on which side ought to win the war. 
 Johnny, where he could speak freely, paraded out his whole argu- 
 ment for the South. Edwin listened, but did not concur. While 
 Johnny smiled ironically and did not bother to interrupt, Edwin 
 said slavery was against the doctrine of Christ, a festering sore. The 
 South was a land of idle sons, ripe for viciousness. There was little 
 industry and no invention. While the Negro worked, the white men 
 decayed, and the South would have collapsed and fallen into ruin 
 anyway, no matter what the North did. Look what they had done 
 
 132 
 
with their forests and their mines— next to nothing. Look how they 
 abused their ground. 
 
 "Look at the sons of bitches the Yankees are," Johnny put in, still 
 smiling ironically. 
 
 "You're a damn fool, Johnny," Edwin said. "They aren't, and if 
 they were, that's got nothing to do with the argument." 
 
 Their mother did not know whose side to take, the war seemed 
 very silly and the quarrel between the North and South could have 
 been avoided if people had only taken the trouble. She was sure it 
 could. But she did not want the boys to argue. Johnny got so mad, 
 and he would take some stand and act as though he had to defend 
 it with his life, even when it might not mean anything to him at all. 
 He had always been like that. She hurried to change the subject 
 and get them started on something else. "Johnny," she said brightly, 
 "I've been meaning to ask you. How is your throat?" 
 
 "My throat?" He looked blank. 
 
 "Yes. You know. That hoarseness that comes on you. That Florry 
 makes up that 'coction for." 
 
 "Oh, that was just a cold. That's better. I got over it right away." 
 He did not glance at Edwin who was looking hard at him. 
 
 Mother was puzzled but then she caught on. For some reason, he 
 didn't want to talk about his hoarseness in front of Edwin. "Well, 
 I'm glad it's better," she said. 
 
 Yes, it was as good as a present when Edwin went to Europe. 
 There seemed to be more room, more air. And Johnny wasn't going 
 to waste the time while he was gone, either. He was going to have 
 the nation's audiences so sewed up and tied up with awe and ad- 
 miration for him that when Edwin came back he wouldn't have a 
 chance to overstep him. 
 
 He threw himself into the job, for the first time in his life work- 
 ing indefatigably, learning new parts — even light comedies — recon- 
 sidering and reshaping the old, never missing a rehearsal. Canning, 
 overjoyed, made up a grueling itinerary, starting with St. Louis, to 
 which Johnny had no objections. He played in Chicago. In Balti- 
 more a Grand Boothenian Festival was given the night before his 
 last performance and he was carried around on the crowd's shoul- 
 ders. His benefits were a gold mine. He played famously in New 
 
 133 
 
York, too, but there he was hissed because his Richmond (damn his 
 Richmonds, anyway) fell into the orchestra pit during the famous 
 duel scene. The audience thought he had pushed or maneuvered 
 him off balance deliberately, idiots that they were, because he had 
 thrown himself into the fight like a demon, as a great actor should. 
 The word got started that he was as mad as his father, but that only 
 added to his fame. Then he went to Boston, where he was brilliant, 
 wonderful, and people ran out of adjectives to describe him. 
 
 But a terrible thing took place there. For the first time, the hoarse- 
 ness did not come after but during the performance! He was at- 
 tacked by his enemy before all! He sweat blood. He doubly 
 mimicked, whirled, bounded, fenced . . . the veins standing out on 
 his forehead, his face glistening with sweat, his heart thudding. 
 
 That left him shaken. Quite shaken. He drank a whole bottle of 
 brandy before he went to bed. He was afraid the next night, trem- 
 bling, his mouth dry, before he went on, like the worst and most 
 sickening stage fright, but it was all right, his voice was all right, he 
 did well. He did better than well! The audience clapped, stamped, 
 whistled, nearly tore down the theater. But it came out in the papers 
 that the moving finger was writing, he should pay heed, there was 
 grave danger ahead for his voice unless he ... it was too silly to 
 read all the way through, the critic was an idiot. 
 
 He went to the Midwest, trying harder and harder, went all over 
 it like a conquering hero, then back to Boston, to theater after 
 theater, to Philadelphia where now they couldn't do enough, to city 
 after city, a long and glittering journey. 
 
 The war went on like background music at a festival, playing in 
 the distance. (Sad, it was, booming, like the surf.) There were 
 maimed men upon the streets, from First Manassas, Ball's Bluff, 
 Mill Springs, Shiloh, Williamsburg, Fair Oaks, the Seven Days, 
 Gainesville, Groveton, Second Bull Run, Chantilly, South Moun- 
 tain, Antietam, Perrydale and Stone River, maimed by these battles 
 and set back upon the public thoroughfares to crawl up and down. 
 There were more black dresses upon the ladies, more uniforms upon 
 the men, fewer dress suits. Otherwise, Johnny noticed it because 
 there was no news at all that was worth reading in the papers any 
 more. All you could read in the papers was the war! 
 
 134 
 
Washington, however, made it the genuine article, the real thing. 
 For every one soldier in every other city, there were a hundred, five 
 hundred, here. For every marred and scarred man, twice as many, 
 or more. For every horse, five horses, twenty. Thirty times more 
 hospitals. There was more of everything — fruit, flowers, street ped- 
 dlers, pinchbeck and gewgaws. More unfamiliar noise in station 
 and hotel, street and bar, louder talk, unfamiliar-sounding shouted 
 commands, rattling of spurs, rattling of swords, bounce of bales 
 unloaded, boxes banged down, barrels rolled, fife music, drum 
 music, hard soles stamping, gun butts set down upon cobblestone, 
 tinware of soldiers clattering, unfamiliar sounds to the stranger, 
 variations, musicale of war. More smells, too, of men at war, horses 
 at war, women at war under the heat of the hot sun. And no rooms 
 to be had! No place to crowd in and eat or stand up and get a 
 drink ! 
 
 Johnny played at Grover's Theater there in the spring of 1863, a 
 famous actor, so advertised first and then proclaimed to be, in all the 
 critical reviews — famous, radiant, handsome. 
 
 Washington was the center of the hive of Union, all her mighty 
 effort issued from there, streamed out, gushed out. She was the 
 North, but at the same time she was so like the South that Johnny 
 could have taken her in his arms. The climate was as good as 
 soothing syrup to the throat, and the city, though the streets were 
 wide, muddy roads in spring or half a foot deep with dust in 
 summer, the overly ambitious buildings half built by years like 
 ruined castles half unbuilt by centuries, the dooryards unkempt and 
 trees undisciplined, the shops small, the houses unimpressive, yet 
 was more like a great metropolis than any city in America. Big, 
 brave, multipotent, energized, glamorous with war, she was as stir- 
 ring as Paris. 
 
 Johnny settled down to stay a while. Edwin was at home now, 
 playing in New York. Johnny smiled to think what a run for his 
 money he had given him, what a surprise it must have been to 
 him to hear how his younger brother's name and fame had grown 
 while he was gone. By leaps and bounds, leaps and bounds. And 
 Johnny was not resting on his laurels. No, sirree. He was keeping 
 at it as hard as ever. 
 
 135 
 
He seemed to have found a way now to ward off the hoarse- 
 ness during a performance, besides the brandy. It would have 
 been hard for him to try to explain, but he dared it to come, he 
 kept it away by main force, bracing himself and holding it at bay 
 as he would have done a man, and that worked, somehow, it almost 
 always worked. Of course that left him a little strained and tired, 
 and inclined to be irritable. Even his vanity had to take a back seat 
 for his soreness, tiredness and tension. It didn't work twenty-four 
 hours a day to make him so charming that no one could resist him. 
 It just worked twelve hours a day, six, three, not that, eventually, 
 and he didn't have the friends he once had had. He was looked up 
 to, envied and emulated, but no longer the pet of all, the darling. 
 He was surprised to find that it did not matter very much, that the 
 fewer friends he had the better. 
 
 But he liked Ella. It was the first time he had really liked some- 
 one rather well. 
 
 Once he started to tell Asia about Ella but then decided not to, 
 and never did later. 
 
 Ella Starr, her name was, poetically, reminding one of the sound 
 of a phrase in Sidney. If Johnny had tried to say why he liked her 
 it would have been hard for him to do so, glib as he was. She was 
 not very tall, about as tall as Asia, small, about as big as Asia, but 
 blond haired and blue eyed. She did not look or speak like Asia, 
 and yet there was something about the way she looked and spoke, 
 yes, and laughed, maybe, and sang, maybe, that reminded one. . . . 
 
 Neither New York nor Chicago could boast the brothels that 
 Washington could boast during those war years. Some officers far 
 from home kept their ladies snugly in small houses or sly rooms, 
 like Frenchmen, and took them out upon their arms to theaters, 
 restaurants or driving, as bold as brass. They dressed them in fine 
 feathers and let them preside over suppers for friends, but many 
 were not bold enough to do this, few were rich enough, and lowly 
 and in-between and magnificent bordellos flourished. Ella Starr's 
 sister Nellie ran a handsome one. 
 
 Nellie's abode was just of? Pennsylvania Avenue, a nice house, 
 set in a spacious yard among shady trees. It was painted gray with 
 white shutters and had an upstairs veranda and a downstairs one. 
 
 136 
 
There were fifteen rooms upstairs and twelve rooms down, and 
 that meant a lot of housekeeping, but Nellie was good to the black 
 help and paid them well, so she had maids, a cook, two laundresses, 
 a gardener, and things ran smoothly. Her husband Dudall helped 
 see to that, he was as helpful around the place as a woman. 
 
 Nellie was older than Ella by eight years, which made her at the 
 time Johnny first made the sisters' acquaintance, twenty-seven. She 
 had great executive ability and while not beautiful was canny, and 
 by her own efforts set herself up handsomely at an early age. If 
 her little orphaned sister had gone respectfully through the Balti- 
 more school Nellie placed her in, she could have learned algebra, 
 philosophy, Milton and Mrs. Hemans and been an ornament to the 
 community someday. But Ella, poor girl, was not fond of learning, 
 and did not have the tact, temperature nor talent for respectability. 
 Disappointed, Nellie decided that if the child was not (according 
 to the worried headmistress of the school) going to be an ornament 
 to the community, in the usual sense, then she could be so in an- 
 other, with qualified help and guidance. So when Ella was seven- 
 teen she came to live with Nellie in Washington. There she throve 
 in the pleasant domestic atmosphere, fitted in charmingly with the 
 other young beauties, looked upon Dudall as a brother, helped in 
 every way she could and her sister was soon reconciled. 
 
 Nellie's establishment was the most expensive and also the coziest 
 place in town. All the furniture was on a small scale, upholstered 
 with. light, bright materials, pinks and reds predominating. All the 
 carpets were ruby colored, the chandeliers blazing with crystal 
 prisms, French wallpapers were unobtrusive and fresh, the wood- 
 work white, all the ceilings sky blue. The dainty French beds stood 
 in airy, white-curtained rooms where fires burned in open grates in 
 winter and the breeze blew through in summer. It was ornamented 
 by perfect order, flowers in vases, candles, notturnos, the glint of 
 damask wines, purling voices, pretty pictures and statuettes, but 
 mostly by the ladies who lived there. Some could stand the light of 
 day and some could not, but at night it was impossible to tell which 
 was which, so white and pink they were, and so fairly and taste- 
 fully clad from head to toe. Their company, aside from presents 
 they demanded and expected like petulant ballerinas, cost as much 
 
 137 
 
as the keep of a horse for a year, but was considered worth it. 
 Nellie's was known far and wide, to poor men as an unreachable 
 star shining in the sky, to rich and famous men as a palmy haven 
 in a troubled world. 
 
 When Johnny met Ella, he did not know of whom she reminded 
 him. It nagged at him, like a certain word that can't be recalled, and 
 when he decided that it was his sister Asia, he was rather shocked 
 and discomfited. But Ella was blond haired and blue eyed and he 
 told himself there really was not much resemblance (but there was), 
 and soon Nellie's establishment became to him the nearest thing to 
 home he had found in a long time, and Ella the nearest thing to a 
 real sweetheart he had ever had. 
 
 Ella promptly fell in love with him and became as a consequence 
 a sort of lay sister in the household, but more than paid for her 
 whim by taking over many tedious duties from Nellie. Dudall, Nel- 
 lie's husband, as busy as a bee from morning until night, said he 
 didn't know how they could get along without her, even in the role 
 of domestic helper, since she made herself genuinely useful. Nellie 
 thought Ella was foolish not to take advantage of her many oppor- 
 tunities but, instead, to stake all her hopes on Mr. John Wilkes 
 Booth. She didn't by any chance expect the famous young tragedian 
 to marry her, did she? Because if she did, Nellie admonished her, 
 she was going to be sadly disappointed. Ella said she didn't expect 
 that. Well, so long as she didn't expect that, Nellie told her, and 
 wouldn't mind when he dropped her, and wouldn't bawl her eyes 
 out when he went away and didn't come back and forgot her com- 
 pletely, why, it was all right. Ella said she wouldn't care, wouldn't 
 mind, wouldn't bawl her eyes out. Just see that you remember, 
 Nellie said. 
 
 One of Ella's great charms for Johnny was that she did not weep 
 over every little thing, any more than Asia would have done. If he 
 said he would come on Wednesday night after the performance and 
 stayed away instead, though she spent three hours getting dressed, 
 if he did not mention it later, nor apologize, Ella did not start cry- 
 ing her eyes out the minute she next saw him. When he promised to 
 take her to the trotting races on Sunday but changed his mind and took 
 Miss Bessie Hale, the Senator's daughter, Ella did not shed a tear. 
 
 138 
 
She wanted to, often, but never did. Once he showed her a brace- 
 let for Miss Hale. . . . Once, when she asked him if his hoarseness 
 ever bothered him when performing on the stage, he almost struck 
 her and flew into a frightful rage. She could have wept often to see 
 how very much he drank, how often black melancholy overcame 
 him for no reason, and when he told her he hated every living being, 
 always had and always would, and when he said profane and unre- 
 peatable things about Lincoln. But she was always dry eyed and 
 smiling. 
 
 It took some time for Johnny to realize that he could depend on 
 her for this equanimity that seemed to him so important an attribute 
 in a woman. He began to trust her, seek her and be at ease in her 
 company. 
 
 Miss Bessie Hale, on the other hand, was a born crier, and that 
 should have eliminated her at once, but she was a very rich senator's 
 daughter in the high society that he had been excluded from for all 
 these lonely months after his taste of it in Richmond. It was pleas- 
 ant to be introduced to famous names and faces, no matter what one 
 privately thought of them, and through her he was glad to avail 
 himself of this privilege. He decided he might possibly marry Miss 
 Bessie Hale, or marry some other rich, well-placed and pretty girl, 
 but he was not at all sure. The thought had lately come into his 
 mind that he ought to marry advantageously, as the thought had 
 come that he would very much like to go to England, but he had 
 not given any serious consideration to either prospect as yet. Miss 
 Bessie Hale might do, or might not. Sometimes Canning said to him 
 teasingly, "Why don't you marry an actress?" 
 
 Johnny loathed actresses, particularly that behemoth Miss Char- 
 lotte Cushman. He had developed a fibroid tumor on the back of 
 his neck and went to a doctor to have it removed. The operation 
 was performed skillfully and when Johnny asked him whether he 
 would be able to continue at the theater while the wound was heal- 
 ing, the doctor said yes. So Johnny kept on playing and went every 
 day or two to the doctor's office to have it dressed. It was almost 
 healed when that behemoth (it was the only word he could use 
 to describe her) Miss Charlotte Cushman, playing opposite him, 
 threw her arms around him as her role required her to do and, in- 
 
 139 
 
stead of using gentleness, clamped him around the neck like a — 
 behemoth. He winced and drew back but she hung on tighter, and 
 the upshot of it was that she tore the tender cicatrix open, the gap- 
 ing wound had to fill up by the process of granulation, and now he 
 had a scar to show for it. No wonder he disliked her! He was sure 
 she was the one who started the story that he must be a coward or 
 else he would be fighting for the South, the one who said, "If he's 
 so dead set on the rebels, why isn't he in uniform? Why doesn't he 
 join up? Anybody can tal\!' He was going to get to the bottom of 
 it all, the fur was going to fly, but Canning pointed out that it 
 wasn't worth it. The whole bunch of them put together weren't 
 worth the tip of Johnny's little finger, Canning soothed him. It 
 honored them too much for him to be irritated by what they said. 
 
 He did not know why he made that foolish request of the doctor. 
 He blurted it out without thinking. "Doctor, if anybody ever asks 
 you about this scar on my neck, you say you removed a bullet, will 
 you? Just say that. Say I had been shot once, and had this bullet in 
 my neck and you removed it." 
 
 "Will anybody inquire?" the doctor asked curiously. 
 
 "Oh, I don't think so," Johnny said. "But just in case they do." 
 
 Anyway, he loathed actresses, no matter how many he was charm- 
 ing to. 
 
 Miss Bessie Hale would wait a lifetime, he decided, if she had to, 
 for him to make up his mind what he was going to do about her, 
 if anything. 
 
 Ella, more and more, he liked. He did not know that when he 
 left Washington at this time to open in St. Louis, and didn't write 
 her, not even a brief note, she kept right on smiling. That would 
 have pleased him. 
 
 Dudall thought she looked pale and peaked and told Nellie so. 
 He told her he would be greatly relieved when she got that actor 
 Mr. John Wilkes Booth out of her system. Nellie agreed with him. 
 So did all the beauties who could be seen by day and the ones who 
 couldn't, lazily stepping downstairs in the early afternoon in their 
 streamered wrappers and perching about the table in the sunny 
 dining room while Dudall brought the coffee in, one cup at a time, 
 for they didn't all come down together. 
 
 140 
 
Clarinda said the fever was sure to pass, it was just like measles 
 or anything else. 
 
 "I do hope so," Nellie's husband said worriedly. A great many 
 little household tasks kept him occupied during the day, not least 
 among them being the care of Juanita, an impudent squirrel whose 
 ornate, revolving cage stood in the bay window of the dining room 
 and who was always being fed too many tidbits by the naughty 
 girls, but Dudall always found time to sit down for a cup of coffee 
 and a little gossip. 
 
 Nellie sometimes joined them but she was generally too busy with 
 florist's, grocer's and butcher's boys, the laundresses, upstairs maids 
 and the cook, to be able to do it often. When she bustled through 
 the room it warmed her heart to see how cozily Dudall sat with 
 them, chatting. He sometimes read the newspaper aloud, too, ex- 
 plaining the various battle maneuvers and clarifying the war situa- 
 tion whenever they were puzzled, which was often. He also told 
 them, step by step, what Lincoln was doing, what the Emancipation 
 Proclamation signified, why Burnside was thrown out and Hooker 
 appointed Commander of the Army of the Potomac, what the En- 
 rollment Act was, why Grant failed to take Vicksburg (he went at 
 it wrong, said Dudall), why Lee's army retreated in Virginia, who 
 were the idiots at Chickamauga and who saved the day at Chatta- 
 nooga. Eating spoon bread and strawberry preserves, he also offered 
 advice upon various matters such as repaying insults, what to do 
 about relatives wanting to borrow money, and what to take for a 
 headache or an upset stomach. If small disputes arose between Cla- 
 rinda and Guinevere, Esmeralda and Florence, or Dorothy, Pearl 
 and Fleur, he settled them and kept peace in the family. 
 
 Nellie had married him quite by accident and without enthusi- 
 asm, although he had rather a large fortune, but now she considered 
 him a real treasure and thought that the house would be at sixes 
 and sevens without him. 
 
 Fleur said that Ella was sure to come to her senses soon, but all 
 the beauties agreed that she was a little paler and more peaked than 
 they liked to see her. 
 
 141 
 
XIII 
 
 "The first angel sounded, and there followed hail 
 and fire mingled with blood, and they were cast upon 
 the earth: and the third part of trees was burnt up, 
 and all green grass was burnt up." 
 
 —REVELATIONS 
 
 Johnny went to St. Louis, and played as usual, gloriously. There, 
 however, for the first time, to Canning's dismay, he did not 
 size up his man, but paraded his well-worn Confederate slogans 
 before the wrong people. As a result, he found himself in a military 
 prison! 
 
 Canning thought he would be so angry that the jail would not 
 hold him, but when he went to bail his star out, he found Johnny 
 sitting docilely in a cell on the cot there with his head between 
 his hands. He looked up with a fiery enough glance, however, and 
 announced that he hoped they would all burn in hell — Lincoln, 
 government, army, Grant, Republicans, everybody. But he did not 
 raise his voice. 
 
 When Canning went to bail him out he found the authorities 
 would not release him. 
 
 "Not release him?" Canning said, thinking of their many com- 
 mitments. "Well, what in God's name can we do?" 
 
 "He'll never walk out of this jail unless he takes the oath of alle- 
 giance to the Union," the Captain said. 
 
 "Oath of allegiance?" Canning said, his heart sinking into his 
 shoes. 
 
 "And pays a fine." 
 
 "Oh, I'm not worried about the fine." 
 
 But he need not have been concerned. Johnny took the oath of 
 
 142 
 
allegiance to the Union before the Colonel in command without 
 batting .an eye. 
 
 His notices did not suffer, his audiences were as large and as 
 demonstrative as ever. 
 
 More cautious now, he still reiterated his old, worn tune, but 
 only to the known Southern sympathizers in the cast. Once, snap- 
 ping his fingers as though he had suddenly hit on a great discovery, 
 he said, "The man who kills Lincoln can be sure of one thing — im- 
 mortality. Real immortality, nothing sham!" And then he recited 
 some authorless lines of his school days that began : 
 
 The ambitious youth who fired the Ephesian Dome 
 Outlived in fame the pious fool who reared it — 
 
 "What was his name? The ambitious youth?" somebody inquired. 
 
 "I don't know," Johnny said slowly, as though rousing from a 
 dream. 
 
 "Well, if nobody knows what his name was, I don't see how he 
 could outlive in fame the — " 
 
 "Good God," Johnny burst out. "That's not the point at all" 
 
 "Well, then, what is the point?" 
 
 Canning stepped in at just the right moment and carried off his 
 star. 
 
 He went to Cleveland and was hailed as usual. But now he had 
 something else to complain of. There was nobody in his audiences 
 but women! Canning told him it wasn't true, that he imagined it, 
 that there were just as many men as ever. 
 
 But when Johnny cast his eyes out over the crowd, they all looked 
 like women. It angered him, like an insult, a slur, against him. 
 
 "It's the same thing as a boycott," he told Canning bitterly. "I 
 suppose they're soreheads because I'm not fighting down in Louisi- 
 ana! Getting my legs shot off or my eye gouged out with a bayonet; 
 they'd like to have that happen to me, they'd all be tickled to death! 
 Good God, I've paid for my substitute — I hope the rebels have put 
 him through long ago. In fact, I've paid for two substitutes, you 
 know very well I have. What more do they want? For me to come 
 crawling home without an arm or my ear torn off? I suppose they 
 go around blabbing to each other that I'm a coward, that I won't 
 
 143 
 
fight. I suppose they won't pay their good money to see a chicken- 
 livered coward!" 
 
 "Now, Johnny," Canning said. "You just imagine all that. It's 
 all in your mind. Nobody expects you to go fight. You're a real 
 actor. They love you, Johnny, all of them. There're just as many 
 men come to see you as ever." 
 
 "I'm no coward," Johnny said sourly. "The time will come when 
 I'll show them!" 
 
 "There're just as many men in the audience as ever. Honestly." 
 
 "I'll show them plenty!" 
 
 After his accident he left Cleveland as soon as possible, feeling it 
 an unlucky town. Generally the famous duel scene in Richard 111 
 was fraught with danger for Richmond, but this time Richmond 
 escaped unscathed and Johnny suffered. In the midst of the battle 
 his sword was broken. He reached out and grabbed it by the blade 
 and went on jabbing. His grasp being a light one, the next blow 
 from his unlucky Richmond caused it to fly out of his hands — and 
 his forehead was cut just above the eye. The blood gushed out. 
 Richmond stepped back, very pale, and would have stopped fighting, 
 but Johnny, still paler, caught up his sword again and said between 
 his teeth, "Damn you," and they went at it again. So roaring an 
 ovation did this action bring up like a tidal wave over Johnny that 
 he was not even angry at poor Richmond. The wound was not 
 very severe and the doctor promised that it would not leave a 
 scar, so he forgave his fellow actor, and invited him for a drink, 
 and, to Canning's surprise, made quite a chum of him during the 
 few remaining days. Johnny also invited him to accompany him 
 on the next engagement but the young man declined. 
 
 In Cincinnati he was kept oft* the stage for three of the nights 
 of his engagement there by his bronchial trouble. He had begun 
 calling it that and no longer thought of, or mentioned, his hoarse- 
 ness, by this ruse putting it into the act-of-God category, not trace- 
 able to his ignorant speech habits. That meant Cincinnati was 
 unlucky, too. 
 
 But now he had an opportunity to do something that delighted 
 him! Not since the war started over three years before had he 
 been farther south than Washington. A civilian could not get down 
 
 144 
 
without a good excuse into the blockaded Confederacy, and besides, 
 it was one big battleground, five hundred and seventy-nine battles 
 being fought before the end came, in Virginia alone, so only a 
 fool on a matter of life and death would risk it. Now, however, 
 from New Orleans, which was in the hands of Federal troops and 
 under the rule of General Banks, came an invitation to play in the 
 St. Charles Theater. 
 
 Canning made inquiries as to possible danger and what kind of 
 accommodations might be expected, and they accepted the invita- 
 tion with pleasure. The first week of March, therefore, in 1864, 
 Johnny opened in New Orleans to an overflowing house. 
 
 He had had to procure a military pass from General Grant at 
 Vicksburg in order to get through the Federal lines, but did not see 
 the great General himself, except from a distance when Grant got 
 off his horse and walked into headquarters. Great General! Johnny 
 wanted to burst out laughing. He wouldn't have known he was 
 a general at all if Canning hadn't pointed him out, he looked so 
 seedy, such a nobody, with a sweat-stained blouse and battered hat, 
 and a face like a greengrocer's. Great General! He remembered 
 the face of Divine Lee on the morning of John Brown's hanging. 
 What chance would a man like Grant have against him} He de- 
 cided it might not be a bad idea to remain for some time in New 
 Orleans and be established there as the city's leading actor when 
 the rebels won the war, as they were sure to do. He was always 
 convinced of it but now that he had seen Ulysses S. Grant he was 
 more convinced than ever. 
 
 He could not believe his eyes when he looked out of the train 
 windows and saw the desolation of the countryside they went 
 through, for the adversary had indeed "Spread out his hand upon 
 all her pleasant things." The South, once like the garden of a 
 mighty king, lay gutted and rutted, her fair houses uprooted, her 
 flowers and trees brought down, her men brought down like trees, 
 like the white alders that bleed red, her women uprooted like fair 
 houses, her princes sent treeless and houseless upon dust plains 
 in blowing rags. 
 
 "I can't look," Johnny said to Canning. "My God, see what 
 
 145 
 
they've done to her." He had the tears of Horatio in his beautiful 
 eyes. 
 
 "Well, don't look," Canning said. 
 
 So Johnny stopped looking and worried about the smudges on 
 his fine clothes. They played a game of whist together and matched 
 coins. Then darkness fell and he could no longer see outside of 
 the slow-moving windows so he grew quite cheerful, the tears of 
 Horatio drying almost before they fell. 
 
 New Orleans, in the hands of the Federals since Farragut cap- 
 tured the city, looked better, but not in a way to gladden the heart 
 of a rebel. Union flags and replicas upon silk of huge, Free State 
 seals fluttered in the street as thick as Chinese banners. The city 
 was quiet voiced, busy with its everyday affairs, not antagonized 
 nor resistant to the oppressors. This state of affairs shocked Johnny. 
 
 "They're craven, it's a craven attitude in the people. Why don't 
 they throw these blackguards out?" he demanded in the hotel bar- 
 room. 
 
 A cool-eyed man took his pistol out and laid it down, gave it 
 a shove and sent it spinning along the counter, while silence fell 
 upon the company present. The pistol stopped in front of Johnny. 
 
 "There," he said. "There's a shooting iron. You throw them out. 
 We've been waiting for a hero to show up." 
 
 Johnny whitened. 
 
 Canning leaned around him and sent the pistol spinning back. 
 "Too busy," he said smilingly. "Ask us a week from Tuesday." 
 
 The men laughed, and Johnny, oddly sick at his stomach, laughed 
 too. . . . 
 
 Florry's 'coction didn't seem to help the "bronchial trouble" as 
 it once had done. The brandy wasn't much good either, except to 
 make him forget how nervous he had become of late. He told Can- 
 ning that New Orleans was an unlucky city, the unluckiest of all, 
 and the South was greatly changed. 
 
 His Gloucester was spoiled almost before he began, by what the 
 papers for the first time called his "raucous voice." He stayed in 
 bed two nights and days, out of all drafts and benumbed with 
 brandy, and when he appeared again, it was better. He gave five 
 
 146 
 
performances and was all right, they loved him, but the thing was 
 bigger and stronger than it had been, harder to wrestle with, keep 
 at bay, throw off by main force. It was worse than Jacob's angel, 
 and he grew more and more exhausted, fighting it every minute 
 of the day and night. He told himself it would get better, he would 
 recover as from any other sickness. He had to! He would find some 
 remedy. He remembered some of the stories Old Joe had told of 
 marvelous cures and remedies. He would try to find a Negro sorcer- 
 ess of the kind Old Joe described, beg help from her; maybe she 
 could make a remedy to cure his trouble. 
 
 At last the moment came for which he was no more prepared 
 than for death itself. He was on stage — he opened his mouth to 
 speak — and no sound came. He tried again, again. No sound at all. 
 When he stopped trying he was in his dressing room with no rec- 
 ollection of how he had got there. All he could remember were the 
 hundreds of glimmering faces out front with their mouths open, 
 that he ran from in horror, tongueless, dumb, an anguished 
 animal. . . . 
 
 When Canning burst into his dressing room Johnny looked like 
 a man about to die of apoplexy, tears streaming down his cheeks, 
 breast heaving, his white-knuckled hands gripping the edge of the 
 table. He was glaring into the mirror, his horrified eyes on his 
 lips, trying to say mother, mother, mother. 
 
 He went to the best doctor in New Orleans. The doctor examined 
 him and prescribed complete rest for at least a year, possibly longer. 
 The damage was considerable, he said, but a long rest, early hours, 
 no drinking, no excitement, might possibly bring him around again. 
 
 He could use his voice in ordinary conversation after three weeks. 
 That cheered him immensely, for if he could speak at all he would 
 surely be able to go on with his acting soon. 
 
 How glad he was when he could open his mouth and say some- 
 thing again! He said, "I can talk. Listen, Mother, I can tal\!' By 
 that time he was in New York, at Edwin's, where his mother and 
 sister Rosalie presided over the young widower's bereft household 
 and helped care for his motherless baby daughter. Edwin did not 
 say a word about the catastrophe, except that he was sorry and 
 that he hoped his brother would recover soon. Johnny thought he 
 
 147 
 
detected sarcasm beneath his words but let it go unchallenged. 
 As he told Mother, he certainly didn't come here to see Edwin. 
 He came to see her. But he had another reason, too. He came to 
 see the best throat specialist in all New York, who would, of course, 
 cure him once and for all. 
 
 The European doctor, a tiny man of great bearing, with shrewd 
 eyes and shrewd fingers, took a long while to examine him, or so 
 it seemed to impatient Johnny. When he finished he sat down, 
 motioning Johnny to a seat beside his desk. He looked at him 
 musingly, a frown between his eyes, his lower lip pinched between 
 thumb and forefinger. 
 
 "You are a singer, no?" he said. 
 
 "A tragedian," Johnny said. 
 
 "An actor upon the stage, so. And how long is this your life? 
 What is your age, please?" 
 
 "Well, let's see," Johnny said, "I'll be twenty-six next month, and 
 I've been in the theater since I was eighteen — eight years." 
 
 "This throat — it is not the first time you have been troubled, yes?" 
 
 "It's the first time I ever lost my voice entirely," Johnny said, 
 "but I — you know, I told you — I have had bronchial trouble quite 
 frequently, quite a lot in the last two or three years. Doctor, what 
 can I take? How soon can you cure me?" 
 
 "Ah, there is the difficulty," the doctor said. Again he mused, 
 again frowned. 
 
 "Difficulty?" Johnny said weakly. 
 
 It seemed a long moment before the doctor spoke. "It is like this, 
 so," he said. "You have the sad misfortune — for the actor, the 
 singer — pachydermia of the larynx, the thickening of the vocal 
 cords. Upon some cases is nodules, not only the thickening. I have 
 seen in post mortem many such nodules, on a young tenor so sadly 
 who committed suicide because of this, nodules, and on others — 
 This is misfortunate, the time is long for cure. I will suggest for 
 this, your pachydermia of the larynx, or as it may be, nodules, 
 that—" 
 
 "But what can I do?" Johnny asked, taking his handkerchief out 
 and patting his forehead. "What causes it? Is it a disease? What 
 is the cure? I'm desperate. I have engagements — " 
 
 148 
 
"For you is no more engagements," the doctor said gently, "for 
 many months. Years, it may be." 
 
 "Years?" Johnny said in horror. 
 
 "Long rest, long rest, of the throat, so. Inhalations — I will give 
 you the powder and you shall put it into the hot water and make 
 the inhalations — and then you will come back, so, and I will make 
 the examination, and after that — " 
 
 "After that? I'll be all right? I can take up where I left off?" 
 
 The doctor shook his head. "Is no time for impatience now, my 
 friend, is time for patience, the great patience. For after the long 
 rest must come the long training — " 
 
 "Training?" Johnny asked. "In God's name, what kind of train- 
 ing?" 
 
 "The training," the doctor said, "to teach you the right way of 
 the elocution, the breathing, how the sounding for the speech and 
 the song must come from the chest, how from the trunk must come 
 the sounding, and then the throat, the mouth, expels it." 
 
 "I know elocution," Johnny said bitterly, while Edwin crushing 
 the rose between his hands and smelling it came into his mind and 
 he wished him struck dead and buried. "I am a star, sir, no actor 
 of minor parts, I am known everywhere, I am famous, if you want 
 to know it. I must know elocution! How could I be a famous trage- 
 dian — the youngest on the American stage — and not know elocu- 
 tion? It's outrageous, sir." 
 
 "This I do not know," the doctor said. He opened a drawer at 
 his side, took some powders out and folded them in a paper while 
 Johnny fumed. When he handed it to him Johnny took it and 
 stuffed it into his coat pocket. "I do know that what I say is the 
 only hope for the acting to continue," he said. "These suggestions, 
 so. The long rest, and the long training again to learn the elocution, 
 how the sounding must come from the chest. Like the young pupil 
 of speech must learn, so you, with the slowness and the patience." 
 
 "And otherwise?" Johnny said, getting to his feet. 
 
 The doctor shrugged. "The long retirement," he said. "The very 
 long." 
 
 Johnny thought at first he might commit suicide, but, pacing up 
 and down his room at Edwin's reciting To be or not to be hollowly, 
 
 149 
 
came to the same conclusion as Hamlet before him and did not. 
 He visited two other doctors and got no reassurance from them. 
 His speaking voice was now the same as ever, but they said it 
 would not carry him through enough performances to warrant his 
 attempting an early return to the stage. 
 
 He decided to try a long vacation, perhaps a whole year of rest. 
 That, of course, would be all the healing his throat needed, no 
 matter what the doctors said, and if he had nodules, they would 
 melt away; if he had a thickening of the vocal cords, that trouble 
 would vanish, too. He would be a better actor than ever! He would 
 have to be better than ever, he remembered feverishly, for in the 
 meantime Edwin would be standing on his head and bending over 
 backward, to be the cock of the walk! It came to him now that 
 Edwin must have put a curse on him. By speaking of this very 
 doom that night, those many years ago, he had brought it to bear, 
 conjured it out of nothing. He had exhorted disaster from out of 
 the shadows and brought it to pass, called down catastrophe upon 
 his innocent young brother's head. Such things were possible. The 
 Negroes on The Farm had often told stories of how such things 
 could be. Edwin suggested calamity, and lo, calamity appeared. Sick 
 with hatred for his brother, too full of despair to stay in his room, 
 Johnny went downstairs. 
 
 At the door of the drawing room he heard voices; Edwin was 
 in conversation with friends. "And Lincoln," Edwin was saying, 
 "Lincoln accomplished — Lincoln brought about — Lincoln has 
 been — " Johnny stood there a moment, not conscious of thinking, 
 while Edwin, Lincoln, Lincoln, Edwin, merged into one, and the 
 separate enmity against the two, that was to end in murder, con- 
 verged into one hatred, as the Potomac and Shenandoah flow to- 
 gether at Harpers Ferry. All the ice of rage against the upstart 
 North, all his frustrate bitterness, his envy of Edwin, his anguish, 
 humiliation, the disappointment of his hopes, distrust in his star, 
 despair of his future, swirled together in crashing flood of jealousy 
 and loathing, as the hated word dropped from the hated lips at 
 the one right, ripe moment! For when the sword hangs by a hair 
 it takes no plowshare to sever it. It can be slashed by a blowing 
 leaf, a sound, a single, simple name. 
 
 150 
 
 
"I know who he is!" Johnny said, of Lincoln, as though he did 
 know, for the first time, the well-kept secret name of the paramount 
 enemy. (As though he had never heard it before or seen the man 
 to whom it belonged.) "I'll pay him back," he said. He did not know 
 for what, or when, or why, but he would do that, sure. The thought 
 seemed to comfort and calm him. 
 
 He stood some moments more, with his hands clenched, breath- 
 ing quickly, before he ventured into the drawing room. "I hope 
 I am not intruding," he said, in his usual way. "I wouldn't want 
 to interrupt anything." 
 
 The company greeted him. 
 
 "Come on in," Edwin said, nodding in Johnny's direction. He 
 looked away and back again, at Johnny's face. There was some- 
 thing different — but no. The light, perhaps, and yet — and yet? It 
 puzzled him. He blinked. And it was gone. . . . 
 
 He told Mother what the doctor had said and she didn't know 
 what to advise him. She said she thought a long rest would surely 
 be enough, and the retraining of his voice seemed silly to her, too. 
 If anybody ought to know the art of elocution, it must be himself, 
 for wasn't he famous, a great tragedian? She promised not to tell 
 Edwin more than Johnny himself had told him. 
 
 He said to Edwin, "I'm going to take some time out, rest for a 
 few months, try and get a little enjoyment out of life for a change." 
 
 "Good idea," Edwin said. 
 
 "Life is too short to keep your nose to the grindstone year in and 
 year out. I'm going to try just living for a change." 
 
 He wouldn't try it long. By spring next year he would lie rotting 
 in his secret, close-mouthed grave. 
 
 151 
 
XIV 
 
 "And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great 
 mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea: and 
 the third part of the sea became blood; and the third 
 part of the creatures which were in the sea, died; and 
 the third part of the ships were destroyed." 
 
 —REVELATIONS 
 
 Anybody who said that idleness, that having nothing to but 
 u enjoy yourself from morning till night, wasn't a pleasure, 
 was a liar. Especially in Washington that heady last year of the 
 war. As Johnny told Canning, who was mournfully trying to pro- 
 cure other employment and would remain in New York, "I could 
 go anywhere, but there's the most going on in Washington." There 
 were activities and spectacles without end in the capital city. Also 
 Miss Bessie Hale was there, and other friendly and high-placed 
 ladies, and many great houses were open to him. Last but not least, 
 there was Ella, whom he had not thought of in weeks. 
 
 Dudall said that having John Wilkes Booth back in town was 
 better than any tonic he ever heard of. Nellie agreed, and so did 
 all the beauties. Ella, pale and thin and crawling around the house 
 from day to day like a chilled fly, hardly singing, hardly laughing, 
 though smiling as often and sweetly as ever, had been a sad sight 
 for the eyes of them all. Juanita the impudent squirrel had been 
 sick also, but she didn't keep moving as Ella did. She lay right 
 down in the bottom of her cage in a stiff trance. They were all 
 scared to death; Dudall sat up with her one whole night. He blamed 
 the beauties (but resignedly, not scolding, for though he had told 
 them over and over and over not to feed Juanita so many tidbits, 
 they really didn't know what they did) for her alarming state, and 
 
 152 
 
they chewed their lower lips and blinked back their tears. Even 
 their rich and famous guests acted much concerned. Shockingly 
 ill, Juanita recovered and was as good as new. It was different with 
 Ella. She was sick, too, but sick so that nothing, not even apples, 
 would comfort her. Nellie made her drink port with her meals; 
 Dudall supervised the making of an especially nourishing soup; 
 Clarinda gave her a lemon-colored basque with white bugle beads 
 and Fleur brought in the third of a bottle of frangipani scent. But 
 nothing would help, she got paler and thinner and crawled up and 
 down stairs more slowly, and then — the actor came back. 
 
 The little black maid brought Mr. John Wilkes Booth into the 
 bright parlor and bade him wait there. Then she ran upstairs to 
 tell Miss Ella, and Miss Ella, by some miracle getting herself up 
 like a queen in less than ten minutes by the clock, in spite of her 
 thundering heart and shaking fingers, turned all her lights on inside, 
 the lights in her eyes, the lights in her cheeks, the lights in her 
 lips, the lights in her hair, that had been snuffed so long — and down 
 she ran without touching the stairs or the railing, the little maid 
 staring happily after her. Miss Ella could not believe it but it was 
 as true as the gospel. Her Johnny was really there! 
 
 Dudall said that the actor was certainly a matter of life and 
 death to Ella, wasn't he? Nellie was sorry and hoped she would 
 soon get him out of her system, but the beauties shook their heads 
 and said between themselves that they didn't think there would 
 ever be an end to it. Yet everything has an end. Everything! 
 
 It was certainly no hardship to spend a vacation in Washington, 
 Johnny wrote Canning. In fact, he should have come back here 
 before, and he knew two years would flitter by like a dream. He 
 lived like a gentleman in Washington's best hotel, rising at ten 
 or eleven. He took great care to choose and put on his clothes in 
 the most becoming manner, never shaved himself but went every 
 day to the same barber, dined well, drank better, attended the 
 theater, went to the shooting gallery, went for drives or rides on 
 horseback. He strolled idly with organ grinder's music in his ear 
 under the ailanthus trees on the Avenue, or loitered and watched the 
 masquerade eddy by, the riding cloaks lined with magenta, grandee 
 hats, sashes, high boots, uniforms so tight the officers had to be 
 
 153 
 
melted and poured into them, the tiny caps that never fell off, 
 though how they stayed on God only knew, the women like walk- 
 ing bells. He also accepted many invitations, danced, played at cards, 
 joined in conversations with both Federalists and rebels, dissembling 
 on occasion as became a reasonable man. 
 
 And of course he saw Ella. Now more than ever like Asia, she 
 comforted him and knew the ways to please him. Since she was 
 attractive, wore her tasteful clothes chastely, did not talk all the 
 time nor call attention to herself in public, and had good manners 
 as well, he began to take her about with him here and there. It 
 was all she asked. 
 
 She would have been entirely contented if she had not seen with 
 the eyes of love how eventually the days of idleness began to pall 
 upon Johnny, how ennui began to etch petulance on his handsome 
 face, how ambition began to eat and gnaw on him and spoiled his 
 pleasures, how that center of him, his ego, with nowhere to expand, 
 nowhere to go, yet expanded, got hotter and hotter, steamed and 
 hissed, till it seemed sometime it must explode and destroy him in 
 a wild explosion. 
 
 One day Johnny thought about money. 
 
 All of a sudden it occurred to him that he was not a rich man. 
 He had made a lot, but spent a lot, too, thousands on his theatrical 
 wardrobe alone until, with the costumes of his father, he had the 
 finest of any actor in this country or any other. He traveled and 
 lived like an heir apparent. He was still living like that! But maybe 
 his money wouldn't last a whole year. Maybe when the year was 
 over, his voice wouldn't be cured, maybe it would be the way that 
 idiotic doctor had said, maybe he couldn't earn his living as an 
 actor any more! He broke out in a cold sweat. And what would 
 he do if he couldn't act? He had no other profession, no trade. He 
 looked down at his hands. "Useless, useless," he murmured. Useless. 
 They could do nothing. And if they could, if he could perform an 
 honest day's work, how should he bear to labor in obscurity? He 
 began sleeping less well, much less well, began eating less, drinking 
 more, finding the hours as slow as in sickness. 
 
 When he thought of putting what money he had to work for him, 
 to bring him more, he was delighted. For several weeks he had a 
 
 154 
 
new lease on life. Consulting with many, even Dudall, and giving 
 great consideration to the matter in all its aspects, he finally decided 
 to invest in oil land. Men were growing rich overnight in oil. He 
 would make a fortune, too. Taking Ella with him for company, 
 very pretty and pleased in a dark-blue taffeta and a tulle bonnet 
 tied under the chin with a plaid ribbon, he went up to Venango 
 County, Pennsylvania, where they stayed for several days, the hap- 
 piest time of Ella's life. When they returned to Washington he 
 was sorry he had been wary at the last moment and hadn't bought 
 more than a third interest in that valuable lease which was offered 
 him. He should have taken up the whole thing, he decided. Why, 
 that would bring him so much money that he would not have to 
 return to the stage at all unless he wanted to, and then only for the 
 renown. For that matter, even the renown might not be lure enough 
 then. Let Edwin and Forrest and the others kill themselves on the 
 stage and grow old before their time. Johnny, with incalculable 
 riches, might take Ella and go to Europe to live, France, Spain 
 or Italy, maybe all three, with a country house in England and a 
 shooting box in Scotland. . . . Maybe he would buy a whole island 
 somewhere. He had always respected money for what it could buy, 
 but beyond enhancing himself with fine garments and wanting to 
 be comfortable, his desires had been few. Now they were myriad 
 and there sprang before his eyes a coach-and-four, a ship of his 
 own, a train of his own, a stable of priceless horses, vast land tracts, 
 mansions, solid gold tableware, cellars of rare wine, paintings, sculp- 
 ture, black slaves. 
 
 Ella said he should not reproach himself until he saw how his 
 investment turned out. 
 
 "Then it will be too late," he said tragically. 
 
 Egged on by his new covetousness, he made two more trips up 
 to the oil fields, but both times he became apprehensive at the last 
 moment and did not invest as much as he had planned. He had 
 reason to thank his lucky stars, for the land proved worthless, and 
 only by the greatest good fortune was he able to get rid of his 
 holdings, suffering but a negligible loss. 
 
 This disappointment on top of that other disaster, the failure 
 of his voice, seemed almost more than he could bear. He spent 
 
 155 
 
less and less time in being charming, nothing pleased him. He 
 found diversions nowhere. Ella worried about him. She said he 
 was ill, didn't act like himself. 
 
 Miss Bessie Hale worried, too, but not because she noted any 
 personality change. He seemed to have lost flesh and the pink was 
 gone from his face, leaving a marble pallor that, while arresting, 
 might mean that his constitution was dangerously run down. One 
 night when she leaned over and asked him behind her fan to ease 
 her heart and tell her that he was quite well, he suddenly realized, 
 as though for the first time, how convenient a marriage with her 
 would be. Voice or no voice, his future would be secure, there 
 would be no more worry about money. He bent over and cupped 
 his hand up to her chin, pulled her face gently around and stared 
 hungrily into her eyes. They bulged and were too pale by far. A 
 slight shudder ran over him. 
 
 'Did you never hear of a man wasting away for love? I am 
 neither the first nor will be the last," he said. 
 
 She caught her breath. "Oh, Wilkes," she said, "Wilkes." 
 
 "This hand," he said, releasing her chin and taking her small 
 left hand into both of his, "this hand, bestowed upon me, this 
 finger" — he toyed with it — "wearing my ring — " 
 
 But he left it at that, did not come closer to a proposal, though 
 Miss Bessie in an ecstasy the following days told her chums most 
 secretly, "for Papa might object," that she was soon to marry the 
 famous young tragedian Mr. John Wilkes Booth who was now in 
 temporary retirement. 
 
 Then Johnny had the inspiration of inspirations! 
 
 In a sort of blinding revelation it came to him that he could be 
 rich without oil wells and secure without tedious Miss Bessie Hale! 
 He could be famous — immortally famous — without even going on 
 with his career upon the stage! He wondered why he had not 
 thought of it before, it was the most obvious and easy and fool- 
 proof scheme in all the world. 
 
 He would kidnap Abraham Lincoln. 
 
 He would carry him down to Richmond and turn him over to 
 the Confederate government. The Confederate government would 
 then dicker with the hated Federals who would go to any length, 
 
 156 
 
pay any price, to get their idol back. There would be an armistice, 
 the war would be terminated, peace would come with honor. Honor 
 to Johnny and honor to the South! 
 
 The man who accomplished all that — for even the North must 
 marvel and be grateful to have the war brought to an end — would 
 never have to worry about anything again in his natural life. The 
 princes of the Confederacy would see that he was repaid, a fortune 
 would fall to him from one source or another. Not only that, he 
 would be the most famous man in all America! Every baby would 
 be taught to lisp his name. Every paper cried upon the street would 
 tell the story of his life, describe his looks, proclaim his valor, exalt 
 his unprecedented act of wit and daring. Every history book would 
 perpetuate his fame. 
 
 When he first got this inspiration he wanted to rush right out 
 and tell someone. He was on the point of writing Canning. But 
 then the thought came to him that this idea was like an ingenious 
 invention. It must be kept in the strictest secrecy or it would be 
 stolen. He did not even tell Ella. 
 
 She noticed with a lighter heart that suddenly he was more like 
 himself than he had been in a long, long time. His terrible melan- 
 choly vanished. So charming, so sunny, so high spirited was he now 
 that she loved him, if that were possible, more hopelessly than ever. 
 Dudall and Nellie and the beauties were not so pleased to see the 
 change in him, for it only ensnared their poor little Ella the more, 
 and Clarinda said privately to Pearl that she feared, she really was 
 beginning to fear, that Ella was suffering from genuine, twenty- 
 four-carat love. If such was the case, she said, there was no cure 
 for it, it was just like leprosy. Once you got it you were done for. 
 Pearl would not agree to this. There was a cure for everything, she 
 said, if only you knew what it was. 
 
 Johnny spent three days closely considering his brilliant scheme. 
 He viewed it from all sides. He viewed it from the top and from 
 the bottom. The best way would be, of course, he decided, for him 
 to accomplish the whole thing singlehanded, capture Lincoln, carry 
 him down to Richmond and deliver him to illustrious Jeff Davis. 
 This scene evolved before his eyes, the actual deed rather fuzzy 
 and out of focus (for there were a great many minor details to work 
 
 157 
 
out), but his triumphant arrival at the Confederate White House 
 to deliver his prize was as clear cut as crystal, every detail standing 
 out. He would have on his fine riding boots, his gauntlet gloves. 
 Ushered into President Davis' office, he would sweep off his black 
 hat, bow low, say — He knew exactly what he would say, they would 
 smile in delight to each other over his modesty, all the Confederate 
 Cabinet, crowding around, wanting to be the first to shake his 
 hand. And Jeff Davis would stand there beside him, one arm about 
 his shoulders . . . 
 
 The only trouble with accomplishing all this singlehanded was 
 that it couldn't be done. He dismissed the alluring vision of his 
 triumph with a sigh and came back to the realm of possibility. He 
 would have to have help. He would need one man, perhaps two. 
 After long cogitation he decided on three. Then, as he studied by 
 inquiry and a close perusal of the daily papers Lincoln's ways and 
 habits, and knew approximately how, where and when he might 
 be kidnaped, Johnny consented to one more. Added yet another, 
 and one more. Finally he decided on six men and left it at that. 
 He would have to seek out six men and persuade them to assist 
 him. If his own name and prestige were not great enough to in- 
 fluence them, then he would hint that he was acting for the 
 Confederacy, under rebel sanction and direction. 
 
 His six henchmen, he decided, could not be men of fortune. Rich 
 men were hard to entice into danger, and anyway most of the 
 monied rebels were absent, having all, either before or early in the 
 war, gone south. They could not be persons of position and author- 
 ity, either. Such men would be inclined to argue every point, might 
 not take orders — and might even want to procure fame for them- 
 selves. 
 
 They could not be old men. They had to be strong and brave. 
 Johnny mulled it all over and decided just what he would look for: 
 six young men of no fortune and no standing. They must be docile, 
 fit and of mediocre attainments. He wanted no star in this show 
 but himself. It went without saying that they also ought to hate 
 the North. 
 
 Convinced there were a great many such men walking the streets 
 of Washington and Baltimore, Johnny set out to find them. 
 
 158 
 
He discovered the first man in Baltimore, a friend of his, an old 
 schoolmate from St. Timothy's. A little older than Johnny, Samuel 
 Arnold was a slender young man with a gentle face. He had joined 
 up with the South and fought a few months early in the conflict, but 
 soon got discouraged and made his way home again. He hoped the 
 rebels would win the war but doubted it. He spoke of their pros- 
 pects with a sigh. His own were not much better. When Johnny, 
 over a glass of brandy, after extracting from him a solemn promise 
 never to reveal what he was about to hear, broached his plan, and 
 Sam recovered from shock sufficiently to enable him to comprehend 
 it — drinking half a pint of brandy while he contemplated it in 
 all its ramifications — he made the statement that it might be pulled 
 off. He repeated that it might, just might, and he would join 
 forces with Johnny, but he sounded a little pessimistic. 
 
 "You know, Johnny," Sam said, after they had talked for hours 
 and were about to separate, "it would take you to think out some- 
 thing like this. Remember how you used to be at school? Always 
 thinking of things to do, always saying things. Remember how 
 we used to lie along the riverbank under the trees and smoke those 
 red clay pipes with the long stems — I'll bet those stems were a yard 
 long — and say what we were going to be? You'd always say that 
 you were going to be famous. That was all you ever seemed to 
 think of. Somebody would ask you how you were going to do it? 
 And you'd say such odd things." Sam paused, thinking. "You are 
 famous now, of course, Johnny. We've all been reading what a 
 big actor you are. Been reading it for years. How come you quit it?" 
 
 "Bigger fish to fry," Johnny said. 
 
 "Oh," said Sam, awed. "Well, anyway, you'd say such odd things 
 and finally you came up with this scheme about overthrowing the 
 Statue of Rhodes." 
 
 "Did I?" Johnny asked, smiling. He shook the drink in his glass. 
 
 "I'll never forget it," Sam said. "Remember how we all laughed ? 
 It wasn't so funny what you said but more how you said it. You 
 asked us had we heard about the Seven Wonders of the World? 
 Well, sir, you said, take the Statue of Rhodes, for instance. Suppose 
 that statue was still standing. Td overthrow it,' you said. 'How 
 would you do it?' we said. And then you went ahead and told us, 
 
 159 
 
some highfalutin scheme, but it sounded like it would work. And 
 then remember what you said?" 
 
 "No," Johnny said, "not exactly." 
 
 "You never cracked a smile and you said your name would 
 descend to posterity and be in all the history books, because you 
 pushed over the Statue of Rhodes. You set great store by your name 
 descending to posterity in those days, for some reason." He scratched 
 his nose, remembering. "And then there was another time, Johnny. 
 We were all down there by the river smoking our pipes and you 
 said, 'I wish there was a big arch or a statue at the mouth of the 
 Mediterranean Sea across the Strait of Gibraltar, with one side 
 fastened to the Rock of Gibraltar and the other side fastened to 
 the coast of Africa.' 'What for?' we said. 'I'll tell you what for, 5 you 
 said. 'I would never rest day or night till I pulled it down and 
 pushed it into the sea. Then I'd be famous, you bet,' you said. 'I'd 
 be in all the histories/ you said, 'American and English and French 
 and Spanish and every other kind.' So then somebody said, 'Yes, 
 but suppose that when the big arch or statue came down, you came 
 down with it? What good would it do you then?' 'I wouldn't care 
 a bit,' you said. I think it was me that said, 'I bet you would, 
 Johnny.' 'Oh, no, I wouldn't,' you said. 'If I did what nobody else 
 ever did in the world, that's all I'd care about,' you said. You were 
 dead set on fame in those days, Johnny. And isn't it queer?" 
 
 "Isn't what queer?" 
 
 "Why, you are famous, just like you wanted to be. You're a 
 famous actor!" 
 
 "That wasn't what I meant," Johnny said. "I think it was some- 
 thing else." 
 
 "Fame's fame." 
 
 "There are different kinds," Johnny said. "There's one kind, and 
 another." 
 
 Johnny's next recruit was Michael O'Laughlin and he was also 
 an old schoolmate. 
 
 He was an Irish boy, but he looked as Spanish as Jose's pig, re- 
 morsefuly so, with large, glistening dark eyes, curly dark hair and 
 mustache and an imperial in which he took great pride. He, too, 
 
 160 
 
had fought as a Confederate soldier but gave up and came home to 
 Baltimore, where he took an oath of allegiance to the Union and 
 procured a clerking job. He leaned toward the sensual pleasures, 
 wine, roses and poetry. He lived at home with his parents, a young 
 mother and an old father, and considered himself something of 
 a poet. 
 
 Michael thought the scheme was feasible, too. What Johnny pro- 
 posed seemed not only reasonable but alluring. Michael felt that he 
 could use the fortune bestowed upon him for helping to deliver 
 Abraham Lincoln to the Confederacy. He would retire and versify, 
 but not like this fellow Walt Whitman. He preferred Tennyson's 
 style. Half the time Whitman sounded addled, Michael thought. 
 Yes, indeed he would be glad to join the conspiracy, if Johnny was 
 going to attend to all the details. 
 
 Oh, Johnny would attend to all the details, he said. All they had 
 to do was to follow a few orders. There was no danger and no 
 difficulty connected with the project whatsoever. 
 
 He and Michael O'Laughlin shook hands on it. That night 
 Michael dreamed somebody locked him up in a dungeon and 
 wouldn't let him out. But there were baskets full of jewels standing 
 all over the floor like baskets of fruit, so he thought that boded 
 well. Next morning he kissed his young mother and said, "You 
 think of something you want real bad, Mother, because it won't 
 be long until you'll have it." 
 
 "All I want is for you to be good and happy," she said. 
 
 "I mean a present," he said. 
 
 The third, and youngest, man added to the growing cast of char- 
 acters was about as hard for Johnny to find, and attach to himself 
 by kindness and favors, as a homeless puppy. David Herold was a 
 slight boy of eighteen, beardless and lightly freckled. He loved brass 
 bands and partridge shooting and disliked work of any kind. He 
 was the youngest child and only son in a family of seven daughters. 
 His father was the principal clerk of the navy store at the Wash- 
 ington Yard for many years and had only just died, a man of fine 
 reputation. David missed him, for Father used to take him hunting, 
 from Washington to Chapel Point, crossing to Virginia and then 
 
 161 
 
back to Alexandria, and other places, too. They had fine times to- 
 gether, he and Father. They were always "getting away from the 
 girls" together and it was great fun. Really, seven sisters were a 
 good many. None of them was very pretty, and they were pious as 
 pelicans, all of them, Episcopalians, singing hymns and reading the 
 Bible out loud. Besides, they were always cutting out and sewing up 
 dresses; there was no end to the scraps and snips and bastings and 
 pins and screaming for lost scissors around the house. Or they 
 gossiped and pouted or giggled, and Mother was as bad as the rest. 
 Besides, there was no comfort at home, they were all such finicky 
 housekeepers. 
 
 David went to school a little but he had his mind on other things 
 and didn't learn much. When he got big enough his father tried to 
 make an apothecary out of him and put him to work in Thompson's 
 drugstore but Thompson, despite a firm friendship with Herold Sr. 
 and a liking for the boy, could not keep him. He was too frivolous 
 and trifling to become anything but a danger as an apothecary, 
 Thompson said, and suggested they utilize the boy's talents in some 
 other field. While David frolicked and hung around horses, dogs, 
 guns and brass bands, talking too much and laughing his head off, 
 his father, mother and seven sisters considered where to place him. 
 They had not decided at the time his father died, and many months 
 later, when Johnny took him up, he was still frolicking. 
 
 He offered to sign his name in his own blood to a legal statement 
 that he would never reveal the secret Johnny imparted to him. He 
 would also sign his name in blood to a legal statement that he 
 would do whatever task was assigned to him in the kidnaping of 
 Abraham Lincoln, and stick to the bitter end. Johnny, hiding a 
 smile, said it would not be necessary to go so far, he would take his 
 word of honor. As for the end being bitter, there was not much 
 likelihood of that. By all portents the end should be glorious, glorious 
 for all of them. They would make their fortunes and have the 
 rosiest futures imaginable! 
 
 "But I really will sign my name in blood," David said earnestly. 
 "Any time you want me to, I will." 
 
 "That won't be necessary," Johnny said, his eyes twinkling. David 
 was a peculiarly likable boy. 
 
 162 
 
Once Johnny asked him if he would like to be an actor someday. 
 
 "Glory," David breathed, pursing his lips and cocking his head on 
 one side. "Would I like to be an actor! I'd act till my tongue hung 
 out. I'd learn how to fight with swords and everything. I'd play 
 funny parts and make the people laugh." 
 
 "Well, when our work is done we may consider it," Johnny said, 
 to please him. 
 
 Now Johnny had three conspirators: Samuel Arnold, Michael 
 O'Laughlin and David Herold. 
 
 His fourth henchman was easy to snare, too. His name was Lewis 
 Payne and he was wandering around town without a thing to do. 
 Born in Florida, the son of a Baptist minister, he went to war at 
 sixteen alongside of his two older brothers, to fight for the Con- 
 federacy. He saw them both slain, first one and then the other. He 
 killed all the Federals he could, to revenge them, but that didn't 
 help very much, it didn't bring them back. He kept missing them. 
 He fought at Gettysburg and was wounded and captured there. 
 When he recovered they let him do some nursing in the hospital, 
 doing what he could for his comrades. Many had cause to remember 
 him with gratitude and affection. Then he was sent to a hospital 
 in Baltimore but he slipped away and went back to join the fighting. 
 He fought bravely until one day late in the war it seemed to him 
 that there was no point in fighting any more. So he laid down his 
 gun and quit, slipped through his own lines and went back to 
 Baltimore. He had just arrived there when Johnny struck up an 
 acquaintance with him. 
 
 Lewis Payne was the tallest, strongest and biggest of all the con- 
 spirators, also the best-looking. He walked and sat with grace and 
 held his head proudly. His profile was noble, his eyes gray and his 
 dark hair grew thick. 
 
 Lewis considered it and decided Johnny's scheme would work. He 
 did not want a fortune, but it seemed to him that perhaps he would 
 have fewer bad dreams if he helped bring peace with honor to the 
 South. He kept reproaching himself for deserting her, couldn't get 
 the thought out of his mind. His brothers kept coming back to 
 haunt him, one dead in the ditch in the moonlight with his arms 
 
 163 
 
flung up over his face, one dead under a shady apple tree at noon- 
 time with his eyes on the red apples in the bright green leaves. 
 Peace with honor for the South was the phrase Johnny used that 
 made a conspirator out of Lewis Payne. 
 
 The fifth man's name was George Atzerodt. He was the oldest 
 of the group, a stupid young man of thirty, foreign-born. He had 
 been brought by his German parents to Charles County, Mary- 
 land, when he was a little boy. When he grew up, he went into 
 business with his brother in Port Tobacco. They had a carriage 
 repair shop; his brother did the wood and iron work and George 
 did the painting. He was a good workman, homely, blond, blue 
 eyed, inclined to stoop. Port Tobacco, where he lived, and Pope's 
 Creek were two points of entry for the smuggling of mail and 
 supplies to and from the Confederacy. People also got into rebel 
 country from here, both men and women. Smuggling brought in a 
 lot of money throughout the war, and George built himself a boat 
 and got in on a good thing, too, while the getting was good. But he 
 drank and gambled and lived with a pretty woman who wouldn't 
 marry him, and it was hard for him to hang onto a dollar. He 
 feared the smuggling would soon cease to be a source of easy money 
 and the carriage repair shop alone made only a bare living. When 
 Mr. John Wilkes Booth mentioned riches, George Atzerodt pricked 
 up his ears. He thought that if he had a fortune his girl might 
 consent to be his wife. Then he would settle down and not keep 
 running up to Washington and Baltimore all the time but stay at 
 home and behave himself. If his girl would marry him, it would 
 be fine, he thought. It wasn't enough that she lived with him some- 
 times. He was always afraid he was going to lose her to someone 
 else and he loved her very much. 
 
 The sixth man was John Surratt. He was twenty-one years old, a 
 tall, skinny boy with a high forehead and scholarly face. He wore his 
 light hair long and brushed back over his ears, his insubstantial 
 mustache and goatee were scarcely worth the effort to keep them 
 trimmed. He had an older brother fighting on the side of the 
 rebels, but he himself did not go to war. Instead, he left school and 
 
 164 
 
took up courier duty, his job being to take messages handed to him 
 (by a man or men in high Federal office), concerning Union troop 
 movements, and deliver them safely to Confederate boats along 
 the Potomac. He was often in Richmond and had been praised by 
 the Secessionists for his daring and fortitude. He was inclined to 
 have stomach trouble and had a bad disposition. He was argumenta- 
 tive and hard to suit. Johnny had great difficulty persuading him to 
 join the group, and he liked him the least, but with his background, 
 knowledge of rebel territory and roads, his boldness and dash, 
 thought he might prove extremely useful. If, later on, he got a 
 swelled head and tried to take more credit for the coup than he 
 had coming, he would have to be dealt with. 
 
 John Surratt lived with his widowed mother and younger sister 
 Anna when he was at home, which was seldom. 
 
 Mrs. Surratt, his mother, ran a boardinghouse on H Street. She 
 had owned the building for a long time but only recently moved to 
 Washington. The family home was in Surrattsville, thirteen miles 
 south of the city. She and her indolent husband had turned it into 
 an inn long before he died, necessity having brought them to it. 
 From owning land and slaves they had come down and down, and 
 long before she became a widow Mrs. Surratt had begun to teach 
 her children how to live in genteel poverty. In the fall of 1864 she 
 leased the Surrattsville Inn to a man named John Lloyd and went 
 to Washington to live. When settled, she put an advertisement in 
 the paper that she had room for boarders. A Catholic convert from 
 girlhood, she derived much solace from her religion, kept its holy 
 days faithfully and abided by all its precepts. She was also a loyal 
 rebel and took great pride in her two sons' aid to the Confederacy, 
 one as soldier and one as courier. 
 
 Mrs. Surratt was in her middle forties, a plain-faced, large woman 
 with shortsighted eyes and unnecessarily severe hair. She was, how- 
 ever, warmhearted, generous and hospitable, and overly indulgent 
 to her children. John she adored, but Anna, her sixteen-year-old 
 daughter, was the apple of her eye. She used to say that when Anna 
 got married, with all her little notions and ways, she thought she 
 would die. Anna was a spoiled girl, and pretty, with fresh, fine 
 skin, lovely hair and clear eyes. Her mother gave her her way from 
 
 165 
 
morning till night, and no matter whether she finished her French 
 vocabulary for the day, played a tune on the pianoforte without 
 making more than three mistakes, gobbled down two helpings of 
 cobbler, tied her hair with a red ribbon or burned the biscuits, 
 Mrs. Surratt marveled over her. She couldn't be made to buy a 
 piece of goods for herself, but went around in rusty black. Whatever 
 was bought was bought for Anna. Her mind, while her hands 
 were engaged in endless household tasks, was always busy with the 
 problem of Anna's future, Anna's future, of course, meaning an 
 advantageous marriage. The fond mother worried constantly over 
 whether the rich man would be good enough or the good man 
 rich enough. Neither the one nor the other had yet appeared. 
 
 Johnny had all his men together now — Samuel Arnold, Michael 
 O'Laughlin, David Herold, Lewis Payne, George Atzerodt and 
 John Surratt — and all that was left to do was to act. 
 
 166 
 

 XV 
 
 "And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great 
 star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it 
 fell . . . upon the fountain of waters. . . ." 
 
 —REVELATIONS 
 
 \ ll he had to do was kidnap Lincoln. He had merely to say the 
 i\ word and his henchmen would move. He was irresolute, how- 
 ever, his plans were not quite completed, he had to think the 
 matter out more fully. There were so many possibilities: to do it 
 by day, to do it by night, to seize Lincoln from his carriage or 
 bedroom, or while he was walking over to the War Office, as he 
 sometimes did at one o'clock in the morning to get the latest reports 
 from the front, or while he was at the theater. There were a hundred 
 possibilities, each with a fresh set of details to work out. Johnny was 
 not yet halfway down the list of them. He told the boys to lie 
 low, hold themselves in readiness and wait until he gave the signal. 
 It would not be long, he said. A matter of days, a few weeks at 
 most. Then they would act. 
 
 They were glad enough to languish but hinted that they could 
 not do it on air. David Herold and John Surratt had homes. The 
 other four, once they came to Washington, had not. Johnny felt 
 it as a shock that he was applied to for money, but since he was 
 the mastermind of the undertaking and to all appearances well-to-do, 
 he supposed it was only to be expected. As they said, they had to 
 exist somehow. He had not calculated on any such contingency, but 
 hastily ran over his assets and began to dole out to the men as 
 much as he could afford. This disconcerted him, however. He had 
 assumed the paying or? would come later, and not from his own 
 pockets but out of the Exchequer of the Confederacy. He had to 
 
 167 
 
begin to practice small economies which he considered beneath him, 
 moved to cheaper quarters and took to shaving himself, a job he 
 detested. 
 
 He had two reasons for making a hurried trip up to Montreal, 
 Canada. 
 
 The first was because he wanted to get his fine theatrical costumes 
 and paraphernalia sent down to Richmond. They would be waiting 
 for him when he got down there himself with kidnaped Lincoln 
 in tow. It had come to him as a prick of conscience that for a great 
 actor like J. Wilkes Booth to withhold himself from the public 
 was little short of criminal. His voice, if tested, must certainly prove 
 to be as good as ever, and it was his plain duty to return to the 
 stage as soon as possible. He decided that after he got the President 
 down into Richmond, and turned him over to the proper authorities, 
 he would begin to act again! This thought cheered him greatly, for 
 he could imagine how people would fight to see their great hero. 
 It was possible that he would never return to the North again! But 
 if he wanted to begin acting right away, he would have to have 
 all his equipment there, where he needed it. 
 
 It seemed very roundabout to have to take his wardrobe clear 
 up to Montreal in order to ship it to Richmond, but he investigated 
 and was told that that was the only way to do. Confederate ships 
 ran the blockade frequently from up there and shipments got to 
 their southern destinations surprisingly soon and in good shape. 
 Arriving in Montreal, Johnny turned his trunks, hampers and boxes 
 full of velvets, satins, ermines, plumes, fake jewels and false whiskers 
 (among his wigs in a separate bandbox the auburn hair of the 
 dead Richmond maiden) over to a reputable blockade-runner. He 
 addressed the goods to the best hotel in the capital city of the Con- 
 federacy, felt much relieved when it was taken of! his hands, and 
 considered he had taken a big stride forward. For no particular 
 reason he opened an account in the Ontario Bank of Montreal, 
 depositing five hundred dollars. 
 
 His second reason for coming up to Canada was this: He thought 
 he might confide his great scheme to the Confederate officials who 
 had established headquarters there in order to communicate more 
 easily with England. Besides, the bank account of the Confederacy 
 
 168 
 
was in Montreal. It was a hotbed of agents and influential govern- 
 ment men. Johnny disliked intensely having to foot the bill for 
 the advancement of his design, and considered laying his plot before 
 some of the Secessionists in high office so that they could take over 
 the expenses. He was sure they would be only too happy to do so. 
 
 It was not difficult to make the acquaintance of these great men, 
 and he put himself in the way of casual introductions to most of 
 them. But, after all, he kept mum about his secret. Half a dozen 
 times he opened his mouth to confide it, but something held him 
 back. He did not really trust any of them; they were too proud of 
 themselves and their activities, too arrogant, too fond of influence. 
 Men like that would surely push him into the background, let him 
 do all the work, face all the danger — and then they would take the 
 credit for themselves! They might see that he got a monetary re- 
 ward, yes, but as for fame, that they would try to reserve for 
 themselves by any means whatsoever, Johnny was certain. It did 
 not enter his head that they might wholly reject the plan. 
 
 So he kept still, coming to the firm decision that he did not care 
 whether it cost him every cent he had in the world, just as long as 
 he could pull off his brilliant passado with no help from anybody 
 but a few paid men. Let these officials gasp in astonishment, let them 
 stagger with amazement when the time came, along with everybody 
 else! 
 
 Greatly self-satisfied and hugging his plot closer than ever to his 
 breast, he whiled away a few pleasant days in the glittering, snow- 
 frosted North, bought a yellow fur cap, took a sleigh ride or two 
 and then returned to Washington. 
 
 He saw his little band of men and told them to be patient. He had 
 accomplished a great deal in Canada, he said. He paid room rents 
 and gave out money to buy food with, bought David a gun (he 
 would buy guns for all) and Lewis a rainproof coat. He said that 
 now he was going to devote all his time to the kidnaping. They 
 would soon act. There would be no delays, he said. 
 
 But there were. For Johnny went back and acted on the stage 
 again, on two separate occasions. 
 
 The first was in New York. 
 
 June, the eldest son, having returned from California, Edwin 
 
 169 
 
wrote Johnny that he thought it would be a fine thing if the three 
 Booths appeared together in Julius Caesar, Edwin as Brutus, June 
 as Cassius and Johnny as Mark Antony. The purpose would be to 
 enlarge the fund for erecting a statue to Shakespeare in Central 
 Park, a project dear to Edwin's heart. Johnny's Up curled when he 
 received the invitation and he said to himself he would never "give 
 Edwin the satisfaction." Pride conquered him, however. If he re- 
 fused to play, Edwin might suspect the truth about his long vacation. 
 He knew he could get through at least one performance without 
 trouble (in case he had not improved as much as he imagined) and 
 so he wrote that he would accept. Telling his six followers to bide 
 their time and wait, for the end would come soon, he packed up and 
 went to New York. 
 
 It was the proudest moment in Mary Ann Booth's life when she 
 sat in a box with Asia at the Winter Garden and watched with two 
 thousand people her three talented sons perform together on the 
 stage. You would never guess that he had had anything wrong with 
 his throat, for Johnny acted better than his father ever did, better 
 than either Edwin or June. His mother couldn't keep her eyes off him 
 whenever he appeared, and though he had sulked about his costume 
 and considered it unbecoming, he looked wonderful in it. She leaned 
 over and whispered to Asia. "Doesn't he look wonderful? Isn't he 
 a great actor?" Her heart beat fast with joy as applause greeted her 
 three sons when they walked on stage together, side by side, and 
 when the three came and stood before her box, looking upward 
 smiling, and all bowed to her, Johnny the lowest of all, she thought 
 she would die of emotion. She was ashamed of herself to be so 
 carried away, but her lips trembled, she began to cry, couldn't find 
 her handkerchief and Asia had surreptiously to give her her own. 
 Oh, it was a proud, proud moment. She wished Junius had lived 
 and could see these boys of theirs. She could imagine how he would 
 have beamed at them. To her surprise, the papers next day gave 
 most of the acting honors to Edwin, although June and Johnny 
 were also highly praised. She hated to have her youngest son read 
 what they had said about Edwin, but it didn't seem to bother him. 
 He merely shrugged as though it was a matter of no importance. 
 
 At the table over their late breakfast the brothers began to discuss 
 
 170 
 
the war. Soon they were in a heated argument, with June and 
 Edwin on the side of the Union and Johnny taking up his old 
 stand for the Confederacy. Something new had been added to his 
 repertoire of slogans. Too goaded to remain seated, he rose majesti- 
 cally from the table and said, his eyes blazing, his face white, "You 
 fools, you confounded idiots. Don't you know if the North wins 
 the war, that man Lincoln will proclaim himself \ingt" So upset 
 was he that not until he started upstairs did he remember how 
 powerless the dangerous despot soon would be. Kidnaped, and in 
 the hands of the Confederacy, Lincoln would have very little chance 
 to do anything at all. This thought calmed him so much that when 
 his mother, who was as pained by her sons' bitter quarrel as she 
 had been happy the night before, came running after him and 
 begged him to return and make up with his brothers he did so 
 after quite a lot of tearful urging and kisses both from Mother and 
 from Asia, and their tender assurance that he was "the best and 
 the most precious of all." 
 
 In Washington he went back to plotting and scheming as though 
 engaged in a full-time occupation. He thought of nothing but the 
 kidnaping, had little time for Ella, less time for Miss Bessie Hale. 
 The former began to pale and diminish again, the latter to regret 
 she had spoken so hastily to her chums about marrying the famous 
 young actor in temporary retirement, Mr. John Wilkes Booth. He 
 was almost never to be seen, and if so, was so preoccupied that one 
 felt quite left out. 
 
 Consulting with John Surratt, the experienced courier, Johnny 
 drew up several schemes to seize the President. They chose the 
 famous Underground Confederate Mail Route as the best road to 
 carry him down, through Surrattsville, T. B., Beantown, Port 
 Tobacco and across the Potomac into Virginia. Once they landed 
 in Virginia and reached the Confederate lines it would be easy to 
 get on down to Richmond. 
 
 For his own satisfaction at this time, to get firsthand information 
 about the condition of the roads and where they went, Johnny took 
 a jaunt on horseback down into the Maryland country. He did not, 
 of course, tell any of the people he met what his business was, but 
 only that he was considering the purchase of land or horses. He 
 
 171 
 
went down in November and two months later he went down again. 
 
 That was how he happened to become acquainted with Dr. Mudd, 
 who lived on a farm a few miles out of Bryantown. Johnny, being 
 there on a Sunday, piously attended St. Mary's Catholic Church, 
 and afterward, when the worshipers were standing outside chatting 
 in the sunshine, a man named Queen introduced him to Dr. Samuel 
 Mudd. As was the hospitable custom of those parts, the doctor 
 invited him to his home for dinner, and to spend the night. 
 
 Dr. Mudd was a tall, slender man, washed with pink. His sandy 
 hair was pinkish, his light-blue eyes pinkish, and his straggly, pink- 
 tinted blond mustache and chin whiskers made him seem forty-five 
 instead of the thirty-one he really was. A graduate of Georgetown 
 College, he studied medicine at the University of Maryland, returned 
 to his wealthy father's estate, built a house on a section of it, 
 married a pretty young lady fresh out of a convent, and divided 
 his talents equally between doctoring and farming. He was the 
 father of three children. 
 
 Johnny went home with him after the services and made himself a 
 delightful guest. That evening he entertained the Mudds in the 
 parlor, recited poetry both humorous and sad, and recounted inci- 
 dents of life upon the stage. He often glanced at his image in the 
 gilt-framed mirror, a habit of his, but did it unobtrusively. Mrs. 
 Mudd, a year or two older than himself, turned tight lipped and 
 somewhat less than gracious upon meeting him, he was so hand- 
 some, but was soon won over by his compliments and gentle 
 manners. 
 
 Her distrust returned twofold the next forenoon when she found 
 the letter that young Mr. Booth lost out of his overcoat pocket 
 (the last letter from poor Isis) and realized he was no better than 
 a scoundrel. Reading it with shocked eyes, she found that the woman 
 was married. How he must have played upon her passions to make 
 her forget her sacred vows, she thought. What a wicked spell he 
 must have cast! She could see his face this minute — his ripe lips 
 under his silken mustache, his wonderful eyes under his thick hair, 
 his arms outstretched, whispering, offering, saying — Mrs. Mudd 
 rubbed her hand across her eyes and crumpled up the letter. For 
 this man, some poor woman's soul must writhe in eternal torment, 
 
 172 
 
and God have mercy upon her, whoever she was. She hastened to 
 the kitchen, took the lid on* the stove and stuck the wad of paper 
 into the fire. "Suppose it were — someone like me — " she said, and 
 the leaping flames for an instant colored her cheeks with burning red. 
 
 Two months later Johnny again spent a night at Dr. Mudd's and 
 again won over Mrs. Mudd, almost making her forget the letter. He 
 made another futile sally around lower Maryland and returned to 
 Washington. Soon after, Dr. Mudd happened to run into the actor 
 when on a visit to the city, and had a few moments' chat with him 
 (yet he always claimed that he did not recognize the man who came 
 to his house the early dawn of April 15th with a broken ankle, 
 though within the previous five months he had seen John Wilkes 
 Booth three times). 
 
 The delay began to irritate the conspirators. They were growing 
 restive, not David Herold or Lewis Payne, who grew fonder of 
 Johnny with each kind word or little favor and whose admiration 
 for his person and attainments knew no bounds, but the other four. 
 They muttered among themselves. John Surratt sometimes threat- 
 ened to withdraw from the scheme entirely. But as Johnny patiently 
 pointed out, he himself, Johnny, was the sufferer, not them. Every 
 hour's delay meant money out of his pockets, not theirs. He begged 
 them to have patience and said they would not regret the time 
 spent in preparation. 
 
 "Why don't we act?" John Surratt demanded. "What are we 
 waiting for?" 
 
 "We don't want a failure," Johnny said. "We have to know how 
 to proceed every step of the way. We're liable to lose all we've 
 worked for if we go into this thing headlong. We've got to know 
 just exactly what we're doing." 
 
 "Either we know, or we don't," John Surratt said stubbornly, but 
 Johnny took his own time. 
 
 He visited the Surratt home frequently. Mrs. Surratt was at 
 first uneasy about her son's friendship with an actor, but being 
 informed of his fame and soon thawing in the warmth of his charm, 
 she began to consider his appearance within her family circle as a 
 circumstance of great good fortune. Her son was sure to derive 
 benefit from knowing him, she thought. She was not, of course, 
 
 173 
 
told of the plot to kidnap the President, which would have horrified 
 her. It began to come to her mind more and more that perhaps this 
 might be the very man she had dreamed of for precious Anna, as 
 good as he was rich, as rich as he was good. For naturally he was 
 both, one could tell at a glance. 
 
 When John told her John Wilkes Booth drank like a fish and 
 had a relationship with a — he could not bring the word over his 
 lips — and did other things as well, his mother rebuked him. Mr. 
 Booth had always been a perfect gentleman, she said. He treated her 
 and Anna as if they were duchesses. Besides, he didn't have the 
 earmarks of a drinking man, he never smelled of liquor nor was he 
 ever the least bit tipsy. And she could read character! she said. There 
 was very little that was bad in a man who could sit in a parlor and 
 recite that poem "The Beautiful Snow" as he did, so that when he 
 finished the tears were running down his listeners' faces. 
 
 Poor, pious, innocent Mrs. Surratt did not object to Johnny, when 
 a timely objection might have preserved her from the dubious honor 
 of being the first woman to be put to death by the American gov- 
 ernment, and of hanging by the neck until dead. Instead, she only 
 thought that the Lord must have sent him to lift her children back 
 up to the station in life to which they belonged. 
 
 Oddly enough, Johnny's plan to seize the President was practicable. 
 Lincoln was often unguarded for long periods of time, his move- 
 ments were never concealed, he rode for miles in his carriage ac- 
 companied only by his coachman, and the White House was open 
 to any and all. He could be kidnaped easily. Mulling and mulling 
 over the act, however, Johnny got so he couldn't see the forest for 
 the trees. 
 
 It took, not weeks, but months to "work it out," though John 
 Surratt could not understand why. Johnny, when pressed, turned 
 uncommunicative. All he asked was just to be allowed to handle 
 the thing in his own way, he said. All his men had to do was wait, 
 the time would come. Their hopes brightened when they saw he 
 was buying a good deal of equipment — carbines, three pairs of duel- 
 ing pistols, rope, a monkey wrench and knives. 
 
 Under any other man the six followers might have given up 
 
 174 
 
long before they did, but Johnny, paying out his money, held them 
 together by sheer personality, a kind of bewitchment that hypnotized 
 them, even John Surratt. 
 
 He appeared one more time upon the stage, at the earnest request 
 of the actor whose benefit the night's performance was to be. When 
 asked, he was eager to oblige, remembering his wardrobe which 
 must be already waiting for him in Richmond and the radiant career 
 he would take up again down south as soon as Lincoln was in the 
 hands of the Confederates and the war ended. He was glad of the 
 opportunity to see if his throat was cured and his voice recovered. 
 To his great joy, it came out as clear as a bell and he considered 
 that he had never given a finer performance. The doctor was wrong, 
 he thought jubilantly. He was entirely well — his voice would never 
 break down again. After the show he was happier than he had been 
 in many a long day, wild with happiness. He could hardly wait to 
 perform his daring act and get started on the path of glory. 
 
 That night he was tender with Ella, kinder than he had ever 
 been. He asked her idly if she would like to live down south. Big 
 things were going to happen soon, he said, big changes. If he went 
 away, and happened to send for her, would she come? She said, 
 lightly, so as not to alarm him with her earnestness, that if he went 
 down into hell, and asked her to follow him, she would follow, with 
 never a backward look. 
 
 "Heaven," he said, drawing her close to him, "not hell." 
 
 "I wouldn't care which," she said. 
 
 His last performance on any stage was at Ford's Theater, on the 
 night of March 18, 1865, when he played Pescara in The Apostate, 
 unless one counts another portrayal at the same theater a few weeks 
 later, when he acted the part of an assassin with only one line to 
 speak. . . . 
 
 When the word came that tomorrow was the day, the big day, 
 the actual day, Samuel Arnold said that he, for one, could hardly 
 believe it. Michael O'Laughlin said he couldn't either. He never 
 would have thought a fellow could get so tired of loafing around, 
 he said. George Atzerodt looked wise and said it was no surprise 
 to him — a man like Mr. Booth didn't give all his time to something 
 and then have nothing come of it. Lewis Payne said that they 
 
 175 
 
could be sure of one thing, that after all Mr. Booth's preparations 
 everything would go like clockwork. David Herold said he did 
 hope it wouldn't be too easy, no soldiers or anything! He hoped 
 they'd have a run for their money so they'd know they did some- 
 thing. John Surratt, like a proud lieutenant, said, merely, that he 
 was ready. 
 
 The next afternoon President Lincoln was going to a performance 
 of Still Waters Run Deep at the Soldier's Home three miles out of 
 Washington on Seventh Street Road. Once the city was left behind, 
 this was a lonely stretch and a man alone in a carriage, behind a 
 single coachman, could fall easy prey to a band of seven armed 
 kidnapers. 
 
 That night Johnny sent David down to T. B. with some of the 
 guns, a length of rope and the monkey wrench. He was to wait 
 there for them at the crossroads. Then they would all go on down 
 to Port Tobacco, forty miles south of Washington. There they would 
 remain until dawn when George Atzerodt would take them over to 
 the Virginia shore in his boat. Once over in Virginia and through 
 the lines, they could obtain fast horses and be in Richmond before 
 nightfall. 
 
 Johnny had an answer for every objection, but there were few. 
 David Herold gladly did as he was bidden, saying as he left, "Well, 
 when you all get down to T. B. tomorrow evening, I guess old 
 Abe Lincoln's going to be pretty surprised to see me. 1 ' 
 
 "I'll be surprised, too," Michael O'Laughlin said jokingly. "Take 
 care you don't get lost." 
 
 They were all anxious to get it over with, anxious to move. Some 
 of the plot sounded like a play on the stage, but moving swiftly as 
 they intended, surprising everybody half out of their wits, they had 
 no doubts but that they could accomplish it. Even John Surratt 
 said they could. The mystery to him, though, he said, was why they 
 didn't do it weeks before. There had been, not one or two, but a 
 hundred such opportunities as today offered. 
 
 "You haven't been hurt by it," Lewis Payne said. "Johnny knows 
 what he's doing. He waited because there were reasons for him to 
 wait, you can bet on that." 
 
 "I'd like to know what reasons," John Surratt said. "It's a mystery 
 
 176 
 
to me." He was going to be glad when the thing was over. He 
 didn't like the way Johnny was honored and fussed over in his 
 mother's household, nor the way he would drop in out of a clear 
 sky. For that matter, he didn't like Johnny, even if he let himself 
 be led by him. 
 
 John Surratt's job was to seize the reins of the President's light 
 carriage and, while Lewis Payne overpowered the coachman, drive 
 it over the Eastern Branch Bridge. After a few miles, and at a spot 
 along the underground route where Surratt knew they could pick 
 up some horses, they would abandon the carriage, the trussed-up 
 President would ride in front of Lewis Payne and they would make 
 the dash to T. B. 
 
 Samuel Arnold wondered apologetically what they would do in 
 case there were sentinels on the Eastern Branch Bridge. 
 
 "Shoot them," Lewis said. 
 
 "But then they would be certain to shoot us," Michael O'Laughlin 
 worried, "and that would spoil everything." A dead poet can write 
 very little poetry. 
 
 But Johnny said there was to be no shooting. Instead, if con- 
 fronted by soldiers, Surratt was supposed to drive the President's 
 carriage still faster. The rest of them, on horseback, must salute, 
 call out something, and ride in close to the swiftly moving vehicle. 
 That way, the sentinels would think the President was merely being 
 guarded and accompanied on some important journey. As Johnny 
 explained it, it sounded very plausible! There were no further 
 questions. 
 
 It would have worked, they could have brought it off as planned, 
 there was no doubt of it. The difficulty lay in this: the President 
 didn't show up. He didn't come out the Seventh Street Road to the 
 Soldier's Home to see Still Waters Run Deep\ 
 
 When the performance was nearly over, one of the actors, taking 
 a breath of fresh air in the small garden back of the theater, was 
 astonished to see John Wilkes Booth, whom he knew by sight, 
 appear from nowhere. He had on handsome boots, flashing spurs 
 and carried a gold-handled riding crop in his hands. 
 
 "Who's inside?" Johnny asked, glancing over his shoulder. 
 
 The actor said they had a full house. 
 
 177 
 
"The old man?" he inquired. "Did he come? Lincoln?" 
 
 "Not that I know of," the actor said. "I didn't see him." When 
 Johnny turned to go, he added, "What's your big hurry ? Why don't 
 you go on in?" 
 
 "Can't," Johnny said. "I've got a new horse and he's nervous as 
 the devil." 
 
 They didn't give up right away. The President might only have 
 been delayed. Hidden in the brake they watched the long stretch 
 of lonely road, not speaking. John Surratt's lips were compressed and 
 he kept glancing at Johnny who was pale and kept his eyes fixed on 
 the horizon. 
 
 Then! Here came a coach! 
 
 "It's one of the White House coaches," Lewis Payne announced 
 excitedly. "I've been studying them. That's what it is. One of the 
 White House coaches!" 
 
 "He'll be in it," Johnny promised. "Get ready to ride." 
 
 They forgot to breathe, their hearts forgot to beat, their eyes to 
 blink, while they got ready. The rapidly rolling wheels came closer 
 and closer; Johnny gave the signal and they burst from cover, gal- 
 loped up onto the road, wheeled, got set — stared — stared — and the 
 man inside the White House carriage was not Abraham Lincoln 
 at all! They did not know who he was, had never seen him before, 
 never hoped to see him again. He returned their stares coolly and 
 while they sat on their horses, dumfounded, the coach rolled on 
 and on and out of sight. 
 
 "Our plot is discovered," John Surratt said sharply. "We have 
 been betrayed, or have betrayed ourselves. That man was placed in 
 that carriage by design. Our movements are known. I doubt if we 
 can get to our homes without being arrested!" 
 
 "Buncombe," Lewis Payne said. He tried not to look at Johnny's 
 pallor, the strange, dazed look in his eyes. 
 
 "Yes, buncombe," Samuel Arnold also said, and Michael O'Laugh- 
 lin echoed it halfheartedly. George Atzerodt was silent but he was 
 wearing the blush of a man caught in a painful faux pas. 
 
 "Well, I'm riding," John Surratt said, "and I've heard all I want 
 to hear about kidnaping and money to burn and blatherskite. I'm 
 all through, my friends." 
 
 178 
 
They all were, even Johnny, though Lewis Payne and David 
 Herold, the latter sent for and back in Washington with such a long 
 face it was a wonder he didn't trip over it, said they would hang 
 around for a while. Johnny might need them yet, they said. 
 
 "I left the stuff out in Surrattsville, at the inn there with Mr. 
 Lloyd, Johnny," David said. "George told me maybe we was being 
 watched so I didn't dare bring the guns and things on into town. I 
 can go out for them some of these nights, maybe." 
 
 He looked at Johnny but Johnny didn't answer. His eyes were 
 fixed on the tree outside his window. 
 
 "Or else we can leave them," David added with a bright smile. 
 "Who knows? We might need them yet!" 
 
 179 
 
XVI 
 
 "And the fourth angel sounded, and the third part 
 of the sun was smitten, and the third part of the 
 moon, and the third part of the stars . . . and the 
 day shone not for a third part of it, and the night 
 likewise. . . ." 
 
 -REVELATIONS 
 
 Johnny was always more than a little proud of his head for 
 liquor. He used to say that, much as he drank, he was never 
 drunk. Drunkenness was for the ill born, the vulgar fellows, churls, 
 even if Socrates was numbered among them. But the brandy was 
 stronger these days, or he had contracted a mysterious fever or some- 
 thing that made him vulnerable. On mere pints he became as raddled 
 and bef uzzled as a sot. It amused him and felt good, like a cool com- 
 press on a rampaging burn, but it puzzled him, too. He drank and 
 drank and drank, cherishing the new solace that disorientation, dis- 
 persal of painful entity and blank-faced unconsciousness brought. He 
 liked to be dead drunk. He had never liked anything so well before 
 in his life. 
 
 Ella thought he was drinking so much because his hoarseness, his 
 bronchial trouble, had come back on him. For three days he couldn't 
 speak above a whisper. 
 
 The night of the day his hopes were smashed, his scheme fell 
 through and Surratt deserted (he himself deserted, for suddenly it 
 was the most ridiculous enterprise in the world, it was impossible, 
 it made him sick to think of it) and the others deserted, too, except 
 Lewis Payne and David Herold, his old trouble came back. He 
 tried to speak and couldn't. All alone in his room for two nights and 
 two days, there wasn't any need to speak, however. It worried him, 
 but there was nobody to talk to so it did not matter. If he wanted 
 
 180 
 
to act again, he thought, going backward to the bed and forward 
 to the window, forward to the bed, backward to the window, a glass 
 in his hand, a glass never out of his hand as long as he could stand 
 up, if he wanted to act again, murmur the sweet soliloquy, thunder 
 the large expostulation, proffer the clamorous suit, act, there was 
 plenty of need for a most excellent and never-failing voice. What 
 would he do without one? Dance upon his hands? 
 
 He tried to take stock of himself. He did it oddly, for him. The 
 wrong words kept coming — fool, failure, folly, loss, shame, defeat, 
 coward, poltroon — words he did not want to think kept coming to 
 mind. He tried to forget them but could not. Even when he set his 
 glass down, leaned over to see in the mirror if his face was the same 
 face of beauty and light, found it was, and felt tears upon his cheeks 
 because it was, the words kept coming to mind. 
 
 He was supposed to be down in Richmond now, Jeff Davis* arm 
 about his shoulders, not here alone, abandoned. Everybody was 
 supposed to be singing the praises of their immortal hero because 
 under the eyes of the whole North he had seized that tyrant Abra- 
 ham Lincoln and delivered him into the hands of the Confederacy! 
 A fortune was supposed to be pressed upon him for his services, a 
 mansion, servants, fine friends, the spelling of his name verified so 
 that it would appear in print correctly, his portrait started in oils, 
 pastels, in black and white. . . . 
 
 And where was he? In a hotel room over an alley, walking back 
 and forth, his throat paining, without voice or hopes, all hopes of 
 every description gone glimmering — ahead, nowhere to look — ahead, 
 nowhere to go — and penniless. 
 
 No, not penniless. He could live a few weeks, live well for a few 
 weeks. Then he could get money from Mother (it would not matter 
 that she had to get it from Edwin) or Canning — no, not Canning. 
 Canning was always broke — but somewhere. By God, he would 
 marry Miss Bessie Hale. He thought of Asia, Ella like a lost land, 
 the three Ortygias those islands of beatitude, his heart ached think- 
 ing of that country. ... By God, he would show Edwin, show 
 Lincoln — Lincoln? who was Lincoln? For the first time he began 
 to realize he was drunk, getting drunker. He laughed because his 
 head had grown so tall, cried because his feet had grown so small, 
 
 181 
 
so distant, as useless as his voice, his hands as useless as his feet so 
 that they dropped the glass and it broke somewhere upon the rocky 
 shore far, far beneath. . . . 
 
 Ella came and found him, found David Herold and Lewis Payne 
 there swabbing him off with water and giving him black coffee. He 
 looked bad, but he said he was well. He had only been drunk, he 
 said, as if he had not once considered such a state beneath the true 
 gentleman and a shame to him. Ella did not know his two friends. 
 He said to them in his strange, whispering croak, "You might as 
 well go on about your affairs because I've given up the enterprise." 
 They said they would just keep themselves within call in case he 
 needed them. It sounded perplexing to Ella. "I won't need you," 
 he said. "I've given up the scheme. And you may as well know 1 
 can't afford to stand any more expense." They knew what he 
 meant. They said they understood that perfectly well, they didn't 
 want anything from him any more, only to be called on if needed. 
 Well, so long as they understood, Johnny said, that his decision was 
 final. When he pressed some bills into David's hand — Lewis Payne 
 backed away — he said, "This ends it, do you understand, David?" 
 They said they understood. "Everything between us is finished." 
 
 Ella asked Dudall's advice. '"He's having that bronchial trouble 
 again," she told him, "and imagine, this time he hasn't even been 
 acting on the stage. It must be terrible to have it happen when he 
 hasn't even used his voice, just in everyday life. I don't think he 
 knows what to do or which way to turn. I know it's because the 
 hoarseness came back that he's drinking so much. Dudall, can't you 
 think of anything someone could do for him? Isn't there a doctor— 
 isn't there some treatment? He never used to get drunk and now 
 the past week it seems like he's never sober. Can't you think of 
 anything?" 
 
 Her brother-in-law, full of the news of Sheridan's joining Grant 
 at Petersburg and considering how he could clarify the situation in 
 the minds of the beauties so that they would know what to expect 
 next, said, "The only thing I can think of, Ella, my poor girl, is 
 that you and Johnny Booth had ought to go separate ways. I've 
 thought it, and I think it, and the sooner it happens the better." 
 
 182 
 
"But you don't understand, he needs me so terribly, really he needs 
 me, you don't know — " 
 
 "I hate to say it," Dudall said gently, "but whatever's the matter 
 with him, you can be sure of one thing. It's a dispensation from" — 
 he glanced upward to a spot on the ceiling just under Clarinda's 
 dainty French bed (she slept directly over the dining room)— 
 "above." Juanita the impudent squirrel began to run as hard as she 
 could in her pretty cage and the wheel went whirling round and 
 round. "You know," he added, glancing at the brisk creature fondly, 
 "I sometimes think she understands every word we say. Do you 
 suppose so? Animals are a whole lot smarter than we give them 
 credit for." 
 
 "I don't know," Ella said sorrowfully, pulling at the tassels on 
 her sash, "I don't know." 
 
 Johnny's voice got better. He would be fine, he thought, if he 
 could just make a decision. If he could admit that Edwin was right 
 that night so long ago, that the doctor was right to advise him to 
 start in all over again and patiently learn the art of elocution, his 
 trouble would be over, the thing could never happen to him again. 
 If what they said was true, he could play forever. The day he stopped 
 playing his voice would be as good as the day he began. Look at 
 Edwin, look at Junius, look at Forrest. They could not compare 
 with him for force and fire, yet they had never lost their voices for 
 five minutes, no matter what grueling roles they played. 
 
 But how could he have been wrong? It was not possible that he, 
 Johnny, did not know how to breathe, how to speak! My God, think 
 how his audiences had groveled — think of his last tour — think of 
 the thousands that sang his praises — no, it was no fault of his. It was 
 all Edwin! Edwin had called down a curse upon him by naming 
 disaster. Edwin-Lincoln, Lincoln-Edwin (where did that tune come 
 from? how had that name crept in?) had eternally damned him! To 
 start in and study now would take months, years. And how would 
 he live? With Mother? She lived with Edwin. Asia? She had that 
 insufferable husband. How then? With whom? Where? On what? 
 And he would grow older, lose — he glanced quickly into the mirror 
 in case it was trying to slip away — his looks, his grace, be passed 
 
 183 
 
over, forgotten. Never heard of him, my friend, they would say. 
 Never heard of John Wilkes Booth. 
 
 Anyway, suppose he got his voice back, his fame back, was that 
 fame? What was fame? What was fame if — as another man than 
 yourself, uncontemporary or coexisting — you could lift two thousand 
 people out of their seats but couldn't as yourself in here and now, 
 tell thirty millions, forty millions, more, to turn right, turn left, and 
 see them do it as the moon saw the ocean sit up, beg, lie down and 
 roll over? What was fame, no matter how resounding if, when you 
 died, it died, too, as the pet lion starves and withers when the hand 
 that fed it is no more or anywhere? What was fame that died, a 
 name that died upon a tombstone hid with snow, hid under moss 
 and filth of flip-tailed birds ? Why, why, did beauty and genius walk 
 upon the earth, if not to be remarked and stored for future time like 
 honey stored, remarked, used, eat upon, forever? 
 
 There was a poem that had "rudderless" in it, which gave it a 
 horribly hopeless air, something about a rudderless ship upon a 
 dark ocean. He must ask Asia which poem that was. If only he 
 knew. He rubbed his face worriedly. But there were things he 
 needed to know more — which was north, which was south, which 
 way to steer for shore. Should he ask Miss Bessie Hale to marry 
 him? She would, of course. Jump at the chance. Oh, bulging, tear- 
 filled eyes. When he couldn't bear the sight of her or smell of her 
 another moment and stayed away and didn't come home, she would 
 cry, he would find her gruesomely crying. When he struck her she 
 would cry. When he drank. When he spent her money. My God, he 
 would spend it. All women cried. Not Ella, though. Why not take 
 Ella and go to England? Maybe that was all he needed. Yes, of 
 course it was. A change of climate. Why not take Ella and go? 
 
 Now what about his wardrobe down in Richmond ? How had his 
 valuable twenty-five-thousand-dollar wardrobe got down to Rich- 
 mond? Oh, yes, he shipped it himself from Montreal. Where was 
 his yellow fur cap? What had become of it? He might need that 
 fur cap again someday if he wanted to take a sleigh ride. 
 
 If he could make any sort of decision at all, no matter what, he 
 could think again, he would be all right, the same as ever. But he 
 
 184 
 
was so horribly perplexed, so many problems stared him in the face. 
 Should he take Lincoln's advice — not Lincoln's, pardon, Edwin's 
 (now why should he keep thinking of diabolic Lincoln?) — and 
 relearn how to use his voice? Should he take Asia — no, not Asia, 
 Ella (a man didn't have his own sister for a sweetheart) — and go 
 to England ? What would he use for money ? If he could decide on 
 something, he could live — anything, whether to shut the windows, 
 buy a paper, anything, he would be all right. He groaned and buried 
 his face in the pillow. "Help me, help me," he blubbered, to no one. 
 
 He did not look much different on the streets, in the saloons, at 
 the theater, at Miss Bessie Hale's, at Ella's. Still spruce, paradoxically 
 more spruce than ever, he had gone back to having himself shaved 
 and took great trouble with his clothes. He appeared here and 
 there as before. Drunk, charming, he explained as though he had 
 suddenly uncovered a talent to speak Latin, that he might pos- 
 sibly be intoxicated, and if so would wish not to offend. When 
 he staggered and obviously was, catching onto the edge of some- 
 thing to steady himself, he looked owlishly smug as though to say, 
 "You see? Did I lie?" Miss Bessie Hale was more smitten than 
 ever. Ella's love had gone out so far it had started to curve, like 
 space. Dudall and Nellie and the beauties began to despair of her, 
 and Clarinda repeated hollowly that real love was just like leprosy. 
 
 When Richmond fell, Johnny heard the news along with every- 
 body else. He was drunk, and had forgotten the war for some 
 centuries. At the bar in the National Hotel he was still trying 
 to decide whether to take Edwin's advice, whatever it was, or 
 whether to give the auburn wig to Miss Bessie Hale and say, 
 "Will you marry me?" "That was a dead girl's hair," he would say 
 to Miss Bessie Hale. "She bequeathed it to me so I would always 
 remember her, but to save my soul I can't even think what her 
 name was." Or perhaps he would get pen and paper and write and 
 ask Asia what poem that was about the rudderless ship. Perhaps he 
 would go and see her, ask her to come with him to England. "Ella, 
 will you come with me to England?" But how could he go? No 
 money, and with his valuable wardrobe in the guest room in the 
 house of Jeff Davis? For all he knew Jeff Davis was gone, and the 
 
 185 
 
house was locked, and Johnny had no key. Now, that would be a 
 fine state of affairs! — a star with no key, no wardrobe, no money, 
 nothing. 
 
 He heard people saying Richmond had fallen, Jeff Davis, his wife 
 and children were in exile, the Cabinet tiptoeing away. Abraham 
 Lincoln went down to Richmond, he heard, and rummaged in Jeff 
 Davis' papers and put his feet on Jeff Davis' desk. So he had the 
 key and it would have to be borrowed from him, if one wanted it. 
 Johnny in his drunkenness heard all the talk of Richmond falling, 
 heard it as the nervous child half asleep on the high-piled coats on 
 the bed in the strange house hears the noisy merrymaking going 
 on in other rooms. 
 
 He was still drunk when, six days later, the news came that Lee 
 of the divine face had surrendered to Grant, Ulysses S. Grant, at 
 Appomattox Courthouse. Johnny buried his head in his arms and 
 that hour heard the war end, the always-playing music die like 
 Rover dead all over, the toot-tooting, clang-clanging, chug-chugging 
 engine screech to a stop that had tormented all the days and nights 
 of four long years, and thought childishly that now, maybe, a person 
 can get some sleep. . . . 
 
 As the gift of prophecy is mysteriously given and sometimes as 
 mysteriously taken away in a mere matter of hours, before the 
 clairvoyant can more than foretell a single happening, so Johnny's 
 gift was taken from him and his old, regal talent for sobriety re- 
 turned. He drank yet, outrageously, but for all the good it did him 
 he might as well be lapping up the Potomac. He stayed completely 
 sober. The last night he was ever drunk, and did not know whether 
 he was afoot or ahorseback, was the night Ella — or was it David? 
 or Lewis Payne? — came and took him out for a breath of fresh 
 air. There was no air, no air at all, and the reason for that was — 
 millions of people in all shapes, sizes and assorted colors, and horses 
 caracoling and stomping, were all of them saying to each other, "The 
 war is over! The war is over!" For this was the evening of the day 
 of Appomattox when Grant and Lee met. And these people were 
 greedily gulping the air so there was none left for anybody. They 
 flooded the streets and it was hard to make way against their on- 
 coming current. Better to turn like driftage and float the other way 
 
 186 
 
from that which one intended, along with them, and on a green- 
 sward under the little-leaved trees catch hold of a tree trunk while 
 they eddied and slowly settled to a throbbing sea. Johnny, and it, 
 had come, it then appeared, to see a man step out upon a balcony 
 and give a speech. 
 
 The house he lived in was a white house, templelike. It had a 
 curved porch to the front, with white pillars. He was very rich. He 
 owned 3,026,789 square miles of land alone, to say nothing of 
 chattels real and unreal, properties both movable and immovable, 
 half interest in the sun, quarter interest in the moon, the whole of 
 the yearly yield of stars and every second bison. Yet he was only 
 twelve feet tall, not any bigger than two men if one man stood on 
 the other man's shoulders. He had two eyes, a nose, several warts, a 
 short beard, cranky dark hair, two ears, and his tie was on crooked. 
 He had tails to his coat that fluttered to one side behind him in the 
 breeze, two hands that held the white papers he read from. 
 
 He made a long speech. The last time Johnny was ever drunk in 
 his life he stood hanging onto this tree trunk in the sea and heard 
 this man make that long speech. It didn't make sense because it was 
 half English, half Eleusinian, half Orphic Greek and half Dombo- 
 shawan; and then, he read it so badly, he didn't breathe right, he 
 didn't know the art of elocution, how the sound has to start down 
 deep in the chest in order to have volume. Ned Spangler, the stage 
 carpenter at Ford's, even Peanuts John, could read it better. Some 
 of it sounded like this in the many languages: 
 
 We meet this evening not in sorrow, but in gladness 
 of heart. The evacuation of Petersburg and Richmond, and 
 the surrender of the principal insurgent army, give hope of 
 a righteous and speedy peace, whose joyous expression can 
 not be restrained. In the midst of this, however, He from 
 whom all blessings flow must not be forgotten. . . . 
 
 We all agree that the seceded States, so called, are out of 
 their proper practical relation with the Union, and that the 
 sole object of the Government, civil and military, in regard 
 to those States, is to again get them into that proper relation. 
 I believe that it is not only possible, but in fact easier, to do 
 this without deciding or even considering whether these 
 
 187 
 
States have ever been out of the Union, than with it. Find- 
 ing themselves safely at home, it would be utterly imma- 
 terial whether they had ever been abroad. . . . 
 
 It is also . . . unsatisfactory to some that the elective fran- 
 chise is not given to the colored man. I would myself prefer 
 that it were now conferred on the very intelligent, and on 
 those who serve our cause as soldiers. Still, the question is 
 not whether the Louisiana Government, as it stands, is quite 
 all that is desirable. The question is, will it be wiser to take 
 it as it is and help to improve it, or to reject and disperse 
 it? . . . 
 
 The colored man, too, in seeing all united for him, is in- 
 spired with vigilance and energy, and daring, to the same 
 end. Grant that he desires the elective franchise, will he not 
 attain it sooner by saving the already advanced steps toward 
 it than by running backward over them? Concede that the 
 new government of Louisiana is only what it should be as 
 the egg is to the fowl, we shall sooner have the fowl by 
 hatching the egg than by mashing it. . . . 
 
 ... it may be my duty to make some new announcement. 
 ... I am considering, and shall not fail to act when satisfied 
 that action will be proper. . . . 
 
 It took a great while. Johnny nearly went to sleep. 
 
 "Johnny, Johnny?" 
 
 Somebody kept saying his name in his ear most annoyingly. He 
 was going nightward with someone, David or someone. He craned 
 his neck painfully to see who it might be. It was David with no 
 edges. "Whatcha after me alia time for?" he demanded. 
 
 "Was that true what those men was saying, Johnny?" 
 
 "Wha' men?" 
 
 "Those men back there on the corner." 
 
 "Whish corner?" 
 
 "Back there. They was saying Lincoln's speech means nigger citi- 
 zenship. The niggers are going to get to vote, they said. Is that true, 
 Johnny?" 
 
 "Wha' true?" 
 
 "That the niggers are going to be citizens now like white folks 
 
 188 
 
 
and vote and everything? Like Lincoln said? Is it, Johnny?" 
 
 Johnny stood swaying, trying to remember who had put a curse 
 on him and why. 
 
 "Johnny, did Lincoln — " 
 
 Lincoln, of course. That's who it was. "By God, yes," he said. 
 "He said it. He was crumpling the rose. ... I heard him myself. 
 By God, I'm going to kill him!" 
 
 But delivered into Ella's arms he did not remember this, did not 
 remember where he had been. 
 
 "Were you out in that terrible crush of people, darling? I wonder 
 how you could get through it," she said. 
 
 "Breath ... of fresh air. . . ." he said thickly. 
 
 She took his hat and coat and made him comfortable, then sat 
 down beside him. "My," she said, making conversation, "isn't the 
 noise terrible?" 
 
 "Wha' noise?" 
 
 "Why, outside. All the celebrating and excitement because the 
 war's over. A person can hardly hear himself think." 
 
 He sat very still, listening. For the first time that day he heard 
 and recognized for what it was the mighty uproar of victory. 
 
 No one can blame a man who is so drunk he does not know 
 whether he is riding or walking. No one can blame him for not 
 deciding what he is supposed to do with his life. They blame him 
 for being drunk in the first place, but they do not blame him for 
 not solving his problems. A cold sober man they blame. The cold 
 sober man does, himself. That is one of the severe pains of cold 
 sobriety. Johnny tried to fix that when he woke on the morning of 
 April 12th, but the talent for intoxication was as strangely gone as 
 it had come, and he was delivered as to a jailer to his conscience, his 
 ego, his vanity, the three ravaging and separate minds of each. They 
 shot questions he had to answer and could not answer, all through 
 the day, all through the night, never let up, made demands on him 
 he could not fill, all day, all night, accused, pleaded, ordered, threat- 
 ened. Perfectly sober, he kept saying give me time, give me time, and 
 of all days and nights these were the most horrible and the longest 
 he had ever spent. 
 
 So was the whole day of the thirteenth, but in Ella's arms for the 
 
 189 
 
last time on the night of that day, while it rained outside and the 
 curtains blowing inward were draggletailed with rain, he made a 
 promise. As though he had found the name of their deity, shouted 
 it and stopped them in their tracks before they overcame him, his 
 enemies were repelled. Peace came. The clamoring tongue of the 
 separate minds of those furies, his conscience, ego, vanity, hushed 
 still beneath his sudden incantation: Tomorrow I will decide. 
 
 "Decide what?" Ella whispered, stroking back his hair. 
 
 "Everything," he said. In wonderful good spirits he sat up, laugh- 
 ing. "Oh, Ella," he said, turning to her eyes so bright she shut her 
 own against them, "to \now. Finally to know which way to turn!" 
 
 "Will you tell me?" she begged timidly. 
 
 "Of course I'll tell you. Tomorrow." 
 
 "You promise? You won't forget to come and tell me?" 
 
 "I give you my solemn promise!" 
 
 She pulled his hand up to her cheek, kissed it, as though tomorrow 
 it would lead her to where she had always wanted to go. She didn't 
 know the name of the place, or where it was, but he would take her 
 there. 
 
 He had a remarkable sense of well-being when he woke on the 
 morning of April 14th, as in the days of his boyhood when, because 
 the great King Agesilaus of Sparta once did, he slept without a 
 pillow on a hard mattress and woke with the faces of the June 
 roses looking in at him through the wide-opened window. The rain 
 had stopped. Outside, the air smelled of lilacs. He went home and 
 bathed and dressed, whistling. He sang some of the words of "Fair, 
 Fair with Golden Hair" and "I'm Going Away by de Light ob de 
 Moon." 
 
 This was the day he would know with perfect certainty what to 
 do. He did not have to think it out himself. An amnesty had been 
 declared upon him. The answer to all his problems would be sent, 
 it would arrive today, drop down from the sky. Attention: Mr. 
 John Wilkes Booth. 
 
 He went downstairs and breakfasted in the National Hotel dining 
 room. He was very hungry, but he ordered more than he could eat. 
 There were many mirrors and he saw himself in every one. While 
 
 190 
 
the coffee cooled too much, he contemplated his face seriously, re- 
 evaluating it even higher than before. When he beckoned and the 
 waiter padded over softly, he started to say, "Has the message come 
 yet?" but it was too soon and the waiter would not know. "Bring 
 me a cup of hot coffee, please," he said. 
 
 He thought of asking the newsboy, but didn't. He bought a paper, 
 yesterday's paper, which disappointed him because the fragrance 
 was gone from it, and strolled down the street reading about Mont- 
 gomery, Alabama, more meticulously about a coffee substitute called 
 Grain-O whose satisfied customer, Mrs. Geo. R. Brown, wrote in to 
 say, "I didn't like it at all at first but the more I drank it, the 
 better I liked it, and now I wouldn't drink anything else." He read 
 that in New Orleans cotton was forty-two cents a pound and good, 
 superfine flour nine dollars a barrel. 
 
 The barbershop seemed an extraordinarily good place to be, warm 
 with sunlight, the leather of the barber chair hot with it so that it 
 made a delightful seat on such a fresh, cool morning. The barber 
 was a wonderfully clean, bald-headed man. With sure hands he 
 plied the dangerous razor, wrung the steaming towel, shook out 
 the chilling drops of witch hazel, while Johnny, so comfortable, so 
 charmed, began to recite for him as in conversation all the old 
 slogans of the once-glorious Confederacy. 
 
 "It ain't the best policy now, though," the barber said. 
 
 "What isn't?" A bar of sun went through a blue glass bottle and 
 flowed uphill to make a tiny washing pool tinted palest blue upon 
 the ceiling. Johnny watched it dreamily. 
 
 "Why, to say all them things now, you know, about the North, 
 and Lincoln, and all that. The war's over, and least said, soonest 
 mended. I guess folks would just as soon forget as remember, now." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," Johnny said idly. A young fly crawled into 
 the wavering pool, dragged its legs and thin wings through it. 
 
 He wanted to ask the barber if the message from the skies had 
 come yet, but didn't. 
 
 He bought some roasted chestnuts from an Italian on the curb. 
 He almost said "Has word come?" but he doubted if the man could 
 speak English. Genially he said as he walked away, "Buenas 
 noches" and not till he got to the corner did it occur to him that 
 
 191 
 
this was Spanish, and not good morning as he had intended, but 
 good night. He gave the chestnuts to a little boy in the next block 
 who did not know about the message. He would have bought 
 hyacinths or woodbine from the old flower vendor if she could have 
 told him anything, but he was sure she could not. He tipped his 
 hat to her, however, and said poetically, "Good morrow." 
 
 He took a long stroll, waiting. Not thinking, under general par- 
 don, waiting. Not worried, waiting. The news would come, telling 
 him what to do. 
 
 He came back roundabout down Tenth Street and stopped at 
 Ford's Theater to get his mail. He liked to have it come there, it 
 kept him in touch with the profession. Harry Ford saw him coming 
 and said to the other loungers in front of the building, "Here 
 comes the handsomest man in Washington." 
 
 Johnny greeted them. 
 
 He had quite a lot of mail and sat down on the steps in the warm 
 sunshine to read it, not forgetting, though, not forgetting for a 
 moment that word would come. He tore off the end of an envelope, 
 slid the letter out and unfolded it. 
 
 "General Hill was certainly killed — " one man said, taking up 
 where he had left off when interrupted. 
 
 "I never heard so," another man argued. 
 
 "He was killed. I read it myself with my own eyes." 
 
 Killed. 
 
 Who was killed? 
 
 Johnny looked up, then back down at his letter. 
 
 "You're talking about General Fitz Lee. Fitz Lee was killed, not 
 General Hill. You want to kill off everybody." 
 
 Kill. Kill. 
 
 The word reverberated in Johnny's head. He read on, turned the 
 page, waiting. 
 
 "They both was killed, Fitz Lee and Hill. I can prove it." The 
 man sounded angry. 
 
 "You want to kill off everybody." 
 
 Kill off. Kill. 
 
 Johnny blinked. 
 
 Just in front of him and a little to one side Harry Ford was 
 
 192 
 
 
pursuing his own quiet conversation with an acquaintance. "So 
 anyway," Johnny heard him saying, "Lincoln is coming to the show 
 tonight." 
 
 Who? 
 
 Lincoln. Lincoln, Abraham Lincoln. This word reverberated, too, 
 so now there were two words. 
 
 "Is he coming with Robert E. Lee?" 
 
 Everybody laughed, and the two who had been arguing stopped 
 it, to get in on this new conversation. 
 
 "No, with Grant. But I wouldn't put anything past Lincoln!" 
 
 Lincoln. 
 
 Now what was the first word again? A very, very easy word — 
 
 Kill. 
 
 Johnny caught his breath. 
 
 Together, sounding together in his brain, the words said some- 
 thing. They made sense! Did they? What did they say? 
 
 Kill — Lincoln. That was what they said. 
 
 Johnny scrambled to his feet. 
 
 The message. That was it. It had come down from the sky. Atten- 
 tion: Mr. John Wilkes Booth: 
 
 KILL LINCOLN. 
 
 He started off rapidly. He had work to do. He could not loiter 
 here. 
 
 193 
 
XVII 
 
 "And the fifth angel sounded, and I saw a star fall 
 from heaven unto the earth: and to him was given the 
 key to the bottomless pit. And he opened the bottom- 
 less pit; and there arose a smoke out of the pit, as the 
 smoke of a great furnace; and the sun and the air 
 were darkened. . . ." 
 
 —REVELATIONS 
 
 Has he been full of folly? Johnny now has got the word he 
 waited for. He knows exactly what to do and how to do it! 
 
 The first thing he did was to step down the street to the Kirk- 
 wood House to pay a call upon Vice-President Andrew Johnson. 
 He was not acquainted with Vice-President Andrew Johnson, but 
 he wanted to get a military pass from him so that once he started 
 off he could ride straight down through Maryland without being 
 stopped. He said to the long-haired desk clerk, "John Wilkes Booth 
 calling to see Vice-President Johnson." 
 
 "To my knowledge, he is not in, sir," the young man said. 
 
 "If you will be so good as to see he gets this note, then, please." 
 He reached for a pen, dipped it into the ink and on a card from his 
 cardcase wrote in a firm hand, "Don't wish to disturb you; are you 
 at home? J. Wilkes Booth." 
 
 Then he went over to the Herndon House to see Lewis Payne. 
 "We will meet at six tonight," he said. "Is it all right if we use your 
 room?" 
 
 Lewis Payne told him George Atzerodt was back in town for a 
 few days from Port Tobacco and was staying at the Kirkwood 
 House. Also, he expected to see David Herold in the afternoon, he 
 said. He was delighted to see Johnny looking so well, acting like 
 his old self again. 
 
 194 
 
"In that case, when you see him, tell David to be here tonight 
 for the meeting," Johnny said. "I'll drop around and tell George. 
 I have to go back to the Kirkwood House again anyway. And I'll 
 tell John Surratt, too. So there'll be five of us — you, me, David, 
 George and John. Just like old times." 
 
 But John Surratt was not at home. His mother said regretfully, 
 flushing with delight when she saw her distinguished visitor, "I'm 
 so sorry, Mr. Booth, but John is not at home. He's gone up to 
 Canada." 
 
 John was sorry, too. 
 
 "Won't you come in, Mr. Booth? You're quite a stranger. We've 
 missed you." She opened the door wide enough so that this hand- 
 some, famous, rich and good young man could come in and marry 
 Anna if he wanted to. 
 
 "I haven't much time," he said. 
 
 "Well, I haven't either," she confessed. "I was just starting to get 
 ready to go home to tend to some business. But do please come 
 another time, and do please come soon." 
 
 "Home?" he said, puzzled. 
 
 "Out to Surrattsville. That's where we lived so many years. You 
 know, the inn there. It's an inn now, but it used to be our family 
 home. We told you." 
 
 "Oh, yes," he said, "how stupid of me." Surrattsville, of course. 
 The inn where David left the carbines and rope the day the kid- 
 naping plot fell through and he was afraid to bring them back 
 into town. Johnny would be going through there tonight himself! 
 "When are you leaving?" he asked. 
 
 "Pretty soon," she said. "One of my boarders is going to drive 
 me. Louis Weichmann. You remember him. Although you're such 
 a stranger," she added archly. 
 
 "I wonder, as long as you're going out to Surrattsville, if you 
 could leave a little package for me with Mr. Lloyd at the inn?" he 
 said. "Would I have time to go back to my hotel and get it before 
 you leave?" 
 
 "Most assuredly," she said. "I'd be glad to oblige. You just take 
 your time. Very glad to do it, Mr. Booth, no trouble at all. Pleased 
 to do it." Her lips quite trembled and her eyes beamed. 
 
 195 
 
"Well, I'll be right back," he said. 
 
 He returned to his room at the National Hotel and pulled a suit- 
 case out from under the bed. Then he squatted down, opened it 
 and in a corner found what he was looking for — a pair of field 
 glasses. He shut the suitcase, shoved it back under the bed, stood 
 up and wondered where he could find some paper. He found some 
 in a drawer and made the neat-looking package that was to slip the 
 hood over the head and tie the rope around the neck of the first 
 woman ever hanged by the United States Government. 
 
 On his way back from Mrs. Surratt's he stopped at Pumphrey's 
 livery stable across the street from the rear of the hotel. It was cool 
 and dark inside, with an oblong of golden light upon the floor from 
 the open doors, smelling of warm manure and polished leather. 
 There were soft stampings and other sounds of horses. A man came 
 forward out of the gloom, a lazy, fat little dog behind him who 
 immediately lay down flat in the sunshine. "Ah, Mr. Booth," he 
 said, recognizing his customer. "How can we serve you today, sir? 
 You're quite a stranger." 
 
 "I want that sorrel I usually ride," Johnny said. "Ill want her 
 about four this afternoon." 
 
 "What a shame," the man said. "The sorrel's in use for all day." 
 
 "Bother," Johnny said. "Well, what do you have for me then?" 
 
 "I'll tell you, sir," the man said, thinking hard. "There's a nice 
 little bay mare that I know would suit you fine." 
 
 (She's a bright little bay with black legs, black mane, black tail 
 and white star on her forehead like Hesperus. But she's a rocker, 
 Johnny. She'll be hell for a man with a broken leg to ride. And fast 
 as she travels, fast as she flies, she cannot outrun death.) 
 
 "All right," Johnny said. "I'll be back this afternoon." 
 
 He met Mrs. Surratt's boarder just outside her house. Louis 
 Weichmann was on his way to get a horse and buggy for the trip 
 out to Surrattsville. They greeted each other and Johnny ran up the 
 steep front stairs and knocked lightly at the door. Really, Mrs. 
 Surratt was very glad to deliver the package to Mr. Lloyd, she said. 
 It was no trouble at all! And she did hope Mr. Booth wouldn't be 
 such a stranger around here in future. 
 
 "I won't indeed," Johnny promised. 
 
 196 
 
Now he went to the alley behind Ford's Theater where there 
 was a small stable owned by an actor named Maddox. Johnny found 
 Maddox and asked permission to shelter his little mare there 
 through the afternoon and evening. They had a drink together in 
 Peter Taltavul's saloon. 
 
 After lunch, about two-thirty, he was again in the alley. An old 
 Negro woman looking out the door of her house, saw him. She 
 looked "right wishful at him," she said. And no wonder. If the 
 Quakeress had seen him she must still have said, as she said of the 
 half -grown boy, that he was as fresh as a new-blown rose with the 
 dew upon it. He was talking to some of the members of the cast, 
 an old friend of his father's among them. Inside, the rest of the 
 company was practicing a patriotic song composed by the orchestra 
 director for that night's performance. It did not sound like a very 
 good song through the open doorway and reminded one tantaliz- 
 ingly of other patriotic songs. When they got through practicing 
 and left, Johnny and one or two of the others went inside the 
 theater. 
 
 Somebody was hammering up in box number seven. Johnny went 
 upstairs and found that it was Ed Spangler, the stage carpenter, and 
 Peanuts John, who could turn his hand to anything, taking out the 
 partitions between boxes seven and eight to throw them them into 
 one for the President's party. Johnny knew Ed Spangler well, he 
 had come out to The Farm to do some building for his father when 
 Johnny was a little boy. He bought the carpenter a drink every once 
 in a while in memory of those days. 
 
 He jiggled the doorknob of the first door into the boxes while 
 he watched them work. "Feels loose," he said. 
 
 "Does it?" Ed Spangler said. He was sweating and took his 
 jacket off and hung it over the red velvet back of the finely up- 
 holstered rocking chair. The weight of it made it rock gently back 
 and forth. 
 
 "Don't you know that's bad luck?" Peanuts John said. "To rock 
 an empty chair? Means somebody's going to die. Besides, Mr. 
 Ford'll be awful mad if you get it dirty." 
 
 "I won't get it dirty," Ed Spangler said. 
 
 Johnny worked the doorknob some more, his eyes on the oppo- 
 
 197 
 
site boxes. Then he strolled across the floor of the box, lifted an 
 edge of the draped lace curtains and rested his hands on the wide, 
 velvet-padded railing. He stared down. Deserted, the stage seemed 
 a vast area a long way down. But it wasn't so far. He could make 
 a jump like that. He did not notice the flag decorating the front 
 of the box, caught up in the middle with a picture of Washington. 
 He gazed out over the dark auditorium, the rows upon rows of 
 empty seats, but they were not empty. . . . Two thousand ghostly 
 faces bloomed there. He flexed his knees a little and looked back 
 down at the stage. He could make a jump like that without turning 
 a hair. 
 
 He strolled back to the Kirkwood House to see Vice-President 
 Johnson but was told he hadn't come in yet. So he went up to 
 George Atzerodt's room and told him to come to the Herndon 
 House at six o'clock. "We're going to have a meeting," he said. 
 
 "I thought we was all done with that kidnaping scheme," George 
 said doubtfully. "I promised my girl we was all done with it." 
 
 "This is something different," Johnny said. "A lot different and 
 a lot better. We're not going to do any kidnaping." 
 
 On his way to Pumphrey's stable to pick up the little bay mare 
 he stopped and had some brandy. Outside the stable he met a 
 colonel he knew slightly. 
 
 "You hear Johnson's speech the other day?" the Colonel asked 
 him. "Outside Willard's Hotel?" 
 
 "No," Johnny said. 
 
 "You should have. It was a damned good speech." 
 
 "I can imagine," Johnny said politely. "It's a wonder somebody 
 doesn't blow out his brains sometime when he's making one of his 
 lovely speeches." 
 
 A quavering old man sunning himself against the building began 
 to flutter and scold. "It looks to me like we've had enough," he 
 fretted. "Haven't people had enough of blowing people's brains out ? 
 Aren't we all sick of it? Can't anybody talk about anything but 
 shooting, shooting, shooting?" 
 
 Johnny glanced at him, then looked at the Colonel and smiled 
 and winked, but got no smile in return. 
 
 The little mare was a beauty. "How about a tie-rein to hitch her 
 
 198 
 
with?" Johnny asked the liveryman when he came leading her out, 
 the lazy little dog at his heels. "I might want to stop and get a 
 drink." 
 
 "Oh, you can't hitch her," the man said apologetically. "She'll 
 break her bridle every time in the world." 
 
 "Well, what can I do then?" 
 
 "The best is to get a boy to hold her for you. That's the best, Mr. 
 Booth." 
 
 "But suppose there's no boy in sight?" Johnny asked, annoyed. 
 
 "Oh, there's sure to be, Mr. Booth. Why, you can't hardly step, 
 for bootblacks underfoot. You can always find a bootblack that will 
 hold her." 
 
 Johnny bit his lip, considering. "Well, I'm going to write a letter 
 now, and leave the mare in a stable close by, so she won't need to 
 be tied for the time being. I was thinking about later — " 
 
 "The best is to get you a boy." 
 
 Johnny sighed. Then, "Say, where's a good place for a ride?" The 
 aian scratched his head. "Well, now, you'd ought to know, Mr. 
 Booth. You must of rode around to most of the places. Crystal 
 Springs is nice, for instance. Although it may be a little early 
 for it." 
 
 "I may ride out there when I get my letter done," Johnny said. 
 He mounted expertly. 
 
 He had his letter done and in his pocket when he saw an old 
 acquaintance, an actor named John Matthews. "Hello," he called, 
 riding in close to the curb and halting his horse. 
 
 The actor slackened his pace and elbowed his way through the 
 afternoon throng, over to the edge of the sidewalk. "Hello, your- 
 self," he said. "You're a sight for sore eyes, I must say." 
 
 "Do me a favor, will you, Matthews?" Johnny said, taking out a 
 large envelope from inside his coat and handing it down to him. 
 "If I don't come by for this tomorrow afternoon by one o'clock, 
 take it over to the office of the National Intelligencer, will you? I 
 want it delivered to the editor in person." 
 
 "What is it?" John Matthews said. "My Travels Through Darkest 
 Africa?" 
 
 Johnny laughed. "They'll print this quicker," he said. 
 
 199 
 
He did not ride out to Crystal Springs but instead went down 
 Tenth Avenue again. He drew rein in front of Ferguson's cafe, a 
 small restaurant next door to Ford's Theater. Maddox was sitting 
 on the steps there and at that moment Ferguson himself pushed 
 open the door and came out. 
 
 "Just see what a horse I've got," Johnny called out to them. "Now, 
 watch this. Just watch her. She can run like a cat." He touched his 
 spurs to her lightly and she bounded away. 
 
 "Handsome cuss," Ferguson said, looking after them. Then he 
 gazed up at the sky. "Ain't it a day, though? Sweetest weather in 
 the world." 
 
 It was, after last night's rain. It was clear as crystal, clear as a 
 bell, that large, light day of Good Friday. 
 
 Johnny galloped the bay around a few blocks and then rode into 
 the alley back of Ford's Theater. This time he dismounted and led 
 her over to the half-open back door. He stuck his head in. "Span- 
 gler!" he called. "Bring out a halter, will you?" 
 
 Another stagehand appeared in a moment, a halter in his hand. 
 "He's busy right now," he said, "but here's a halter that was hang- 
 ing in the corridor." 
 
 Spangler appeared right behind him. "What you want, Johnny?" 
 he said, coming outside. He took the halter and deftly put it on the 
 little bay, who jerked her head like a girl who doesn't want her 
 hair combed. "Awful nice little horse, ain't she?" He reached up to 
 take her saddle off. 
 
 "Don't bother, Ned," Johnny said. "Let's leave her saddled and 
 bridled. She is nice, isn't she ? But she's a bad little bitch," he added 
 fondly, as though he had been acquainted with her a long time. 
 But after Spangler went back in he put her in the stable, took the 
 saddle off, locked the door behind Urn and went into the theater. 
 Maddox was in there, and Johnny invited him, Spangler and Pea- 
 nuts John to go next door to Peter Taltavul's saloon for a drink. 
 When they parted, the large, light weather was growing smaller 
 and a few scattered drops of rain were beginning to fall. The men 
 went to their early suppers, and Johnny walked around to the 
 alley by himself, opened the back door of the theater and stepped 
 softly in. 
 
 200 
 
"Anybody here?" he called softly. 
 
 No one was there at all. 
 
 It was as quiet as the grave. 
 
 He knew where Spangler kept his toolbox and got the tools he 
 needed. Then he went upstairs and inside the little corridor that 
 led to boxes seven and eight. He bored a gimlet hole in the door to 
 box number seven, bent his head slightly and squinted through it. 
 Then he reamed the edges with his penknife. He loosened the 
 screws on the keepers of the locks to both inner doors, so that if 
 they were locked that night he could just push and get in. He had 
 picked up a suitable length of wood, and now scraped a groove in 
 the wall next to the corridor door. This could be slipped into place, 
 when the time came, and the door effectively barred. He tried it out, 
 then brushed his hands together and flicked some whitish dust off 
 the sleeve of his coat. Then he went back and put his eye up against 
 the tiny hole again. He could see the whole interior of the box. 
 The red-upholstered chair seemed to be rocking a little back and 
 forth, but of course that was just a trick of vision. 
 
 At six o'clock sharp he was knocking on Lewis Payne's door in 
 the Herndon House. David was already there and George Atzerodt 
 came a few moments later. 
 
 "As you know," Johnny began, remaining on his feet, when they 
 had all taken seats, "for six months we worked to capture. Nothing, 
 however, my friends, was thought of sacrificing until today — for 
 our country's wrongs!" 
 
 They looked at each other, puzzled. 
 
 But Johnny went on magnificently. Not only did he know what 
 to do, he knew what to think, as though it were all written down 
 for him in a book, like a part in a play, and he had learned it by 
 heart. "Tonight," he said, "something decisive and great must be 
 done. We must strike boldly for our country, with brave hearts." 
 
 Lewis Payne slowly nodded his head. 
 
 "Our country?" David asked, pulling at his ear lobe. 
 
 George Atzerodt coughed nervously. 
 
 "Yes, our country," Johnny said gently. "All her troubles are 
 owed to one man, but there are others who do her grave wrong. 
 
 201 
 
Do you love this forced Union? No, nor I. Do you love the tyrant 
 who rules her with an iron hand? No, nor I. Do you love the man 
 who keeps her in the chains of tyranny? No, nor I. But in our 
 hearts we are patriots, we think as free men. And if we think we 
 must realize . . . that the time has come, as it came to Brutus, as 
 it came to William Tell, as it came to Charlotte Corday, to strike 
 the blow. I am ready — not for gain, for I want nothing — not for 
 revenge, for I have no private wrong, but because I am a 
 PATRIOT!" He was letter perfect in the role. 
 
 He recited without a hitch for over half an hour, and when he 
 ceased, and stood there, his two hands on the back of a chair, gazing 
 down on them with his hypnotic eyes, they were convinced that 
 every word he spoke was true. As Johnny said, a blow must be 
 struck for their country. Deep as was this conviction, however, 
 David Herold had so far never killed anything but a partridge 
 and George Atzerodt was scared of blood, so these two begged 
 reluctantly to be excused from assassinating Secretary of War Stan- 
 ton and Vice-President Johnson, the tasks Johnny had assigned them. 
 
 It was different with Lewis Payne. The job Johnny gave him to 
 do was to murder Secretary of State Seward within the next three 
 hours, and he said he would do it gladly. He had been a brave 
 soldier and knew the old familiar face of death as well as he knew 
 the faces of the two dead brothers who came to keep him re- 
 proachful company in the dark hours of night. "If you think it has 
 to be done," he said. 
 
 "For our country, Lewis. The way I've just been saying." 
 
 Johnny did not scold David Herold, for he was very young. He 
 let him off from killing Secretary of War Stanton and gave him 
 orders, instead, to accompany Lewis Payne to the Seward mansion, 
 where he was to wait outside. After that, Lewis and David were to 
 gallop to the river, cross the Navy Yard Bridge and meet Johnny, 
 who would be waiting for them in the little grove at the top of 
 Good Hope Hill, just out of Anacostia, Maryland. 
 
 "It will be easy," Johnny told Lewis Payne. "David will stay 
 outside and hold your horse while you go in. All you have to do 
 is to say you are from the apothecary's. As you know, Mr. Seward 
 has a broken collarbone and is in bed. He fell out of his carriage 
 
 202 
 
 
the other day, and he's still in bed, probably in one of the upstairs 
 bedrooms. All you have to do is to say you're from the apothecary's 
 with medicine for Mr. Seward, and explain that you have been 
 instructed to mix it and administer it yourself. The butler will let 
 you in. Once you're inside all you have to do is to go upstairs to 
 Mr. Seward's bedroom. There, think of our glorious country in the 
 hands of such despots as Lincoln — and Stanton — and Seward — and 
 strike to kill!" 
 
 He rebuked George Atzerodt for his cowardice. The poor car- 
 riage painter looked miserable under the withering blast, but he only 
 repeated stubbornly, "I couldn't hit the side of a barn door, honest 
 I couldn't, Johnny." However, he finally promised to "make a try." 
 He promised he would "make a try" at getting into Vice-President 
 Johnson's room at the Kirkwood House (if he were at home) and 
 "make a try" at assassinating him. 
 
 "At ten, then," Johnny said. "We must all dispatch our separate 
 duties as close upon the hour of ten as possible, and then meet over 
 in Maryland on top of Good Hope Hill as soon afterward as we 
 can make it." 
 
 He gave Lewis Payne money for the hire of three horses, one for 
 each of them, and briefly repeated his instruction. "May God be 
 with us this night," he finished. He remembered Asia's old history 
 book, and her reading aloud while he lay in the grass at her feet. 
 "And the day of the Battle of Edgehill broke, and the knight fell 
 to his knees. 'Lord,' prayed he, 'Thou knowest how busy I must be 
 this day. If I forget Thee, do not Thou forget me.' " 
 
 George Atzerodt fumbled for his handkerchief and unhappily 
 blew his nose. "I may have caught a — little cold," he apologized. 
 "I ought to be home in bed." 
 
 "Glory, Johnny," David said, slapping his knees. "We'll know we 
 done something, won't we? I don't think I'll go home for supper," 
 he decided. "I hate fish balls." 
 
 Lewis Payne spoke as one soldier to another, standing tall and 
 looking straight into Johnny's eyes. "I will do my best," he said. 
 
 "I know you will, my lad," Johnny said. "I know you will." 
 
 He took even greater trouble than usual with his toilet that eve- 
 ning. He bathed, shaved again, put on a handsome linen shirt, 
 
 203 
 
thick silk cravat and got into his best black broadcloth suit. It had 
 tight trousers, a rather long and well-fitting frock coat, and he wore 
 a brocaded vest. He put on a pair of fine leather riding boots that 
 went halfway up his thigh, and added silver spurs. 
 
 He looked at himself a long time in the mirror, stepped far 
 enough back so he could see himself full length. The riding boots 
 with the dress suit gave him just the look of drama he wanted. He 
 walked over to the closet and, after several moments' speculation, 
 finally chose a hat from the shelf. When he returned to the mirror 
 and tried it on and then stepped back to get the long view again, 
 he saw it was exactly right. It was a soft black hat and the brim 
 dipped a little over his right eye. Next time he went up close to the 
 mirror it was not to inspect the details of his costume but to see his 
 face. . . . Not a hair of his but what he knew as the scholar knew 
 his many alphabets; no astronomer was better acquainted with 
 Sirius and Aldebaran than he with his eyes; no geographer more 
 familiar with France, with Spain, than he with his nose and chin. 
 Saluting himself as lover salutes lover ("Till then, I salute you with 
 a significant look, that you do not forget me"), he turned away and 
 got his gold-mounted derringer from the dresser drawer, such a 
 small gun it could be hidden in the hand, and rummaged and 
 found the bright dagger with America, Liberty, Independance en- 
 graved upon the handle. 
 
 He strolled down to Tenth Street and into Peter Taltavul's saloon 
 next door to Ford's Theater for a leisurely drink. The rain that had 
 begun to fall in earnest while he was dressing had stopped, but the 
 cobblestone streets shone like lumpy satin from the wetting. Ford's 
 Theater looked busy, the front of the building was lit up famously. 
 The whole block had a bright, famous look because of the theater 
 in the middle, where people in their best clothes were driving up 
 in their carriages, stopping in front by the low platform, getting out 
 under the golden street lamp and going in. 
 
 At a little after nine he unlocked the stable door in the alley back 
 of Ford's, went in and saddled the bay mare. He led her out and 
 up to the rear door of the theater. The door was closed so he opened 
 it and called, not loudly, "Spangler! Spangler!" several times. 
 
 An actor named Debonay came down the passageway. "You 
 
 204 
 
want somebody?" he said. Behind him, like the noise o£ the sea, 
 came the distant rumble of the audience's laughter, then silence, 
 then laughter again. 
 
 "Tell Spangler I want him, will you?" Johnny said. "I want him 
 to hold my horse for me. She won't stay hitched." 
 
 Debonay had been trying to see who it was in the darkness. "Oh, 
 it's you, Booth," he said. "Righto." He turned and went back. 
 
 When Spangler came out he said, "I can't hold her but a little 
 while, Johnny, but give me the reins. I got too much on hand to 
 dast stay out here long." 
 
 Johnny went inside and bumped into Debonay again. The play 
 was going on. He could hear murmuring bits of dialogue. He took 
 the actor by the arm and asked him softly, "What's the chances of 
 getting across the stage right now?" 
 
 "None," Debonay said, "that I know of. The dairy scene's on." 
 
 "I'll go underneath," Johnny said, and opened the door to his left. 
 He went down the short flight of dimly lit stairs and disappeared 
 under the stage. 
 
 Debonay, whose part gave him almost nothing to do, again me- 
 andered to the back door and stuck his head out. 
 
 Spangler said, "Say, Mr. Debonay, won't you please find Peanuts 
 John and tell him to come outside and hold this horse for me ? The 
 next scene's coming up and I got too much to do to stand around 
 out here." 
 
 "Why don't you tie her?" 
 
 "She busts her bridle, Mr. Booth says, but I got to go back in. 
 Mr, Ford'll be mad as hops." 
 
 Debonay went back in and found Peanuts John who appeared 
 rather unwillingly in the doorway a few moments later. "I was 
 told by Mr. Ford to stand by the stage door and keep people out 
 that ain't got no business backstage," he said. "I can't hold no horse. 
 I ain't supposed to be out here in the first place." 
 
 "You come on out here and hold her," Spangler said. "If any- 
 body says anything to you, I'll take the blame." 
 
 "Well, all right," Peanuts John said, taking the reins and reaching 
 up to pat the little bay's nose, "but you just be sure you do, if any- 
 body says anything. You say it wasn't my fault." When Spangler 
 
 205 
 
went into the theater and closed the door behind him, the boy led 
 the horse closer to the building so he could seat himself on the 
 carpenter's bench by the back door. He swung his feet up and 
 stretched out full length, the reins doubled around his left hand, 
 and lay there so comfortably that he nearly dozed off to sleep. 
 
 When the second act of Our American Cousin was over, inter- 
 mission began. During it, Johnny was next door in Peter TaltavuPs 
 saloon having a drink of brandy, but he did not linger over it. He 
 saw the long hand of the clock measure out the wedge-shaped 
 minutes with little jerks and counted them, piece after piece. 
 
 He was back in the theater lobby by the door when the last of 
 the well-dressed stragglers wandered back to their seats. He watched 
 them, exchanging a few idle words with the doorkeeper. The cur- 
 tain rose on the first scene of the third act. Johnny went back to 
 the saloon and took his last drink in Washington, that one for the 
 short, winding and fatal road he was to travel. Then he wiped his 
 lips, ran his middle finger over the silken edges of his mustache 
 and turned away from the bar. 
 
 He drew a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, pushed open 
 the swinging doors and went out into the damp spring night. 
 
 It was only a few steps to the door of the theater. . . . 
 
 He lies now in Cox's grove, on Easter Sunday morning, and it is 
 raining. Wrapped in his thin blanket, his bent arm under his head, 
 he sleeps the sleep of exhaustion, while we consider him. 
 
 What set him apart for this fate of his? 
 
 To find the answer, we went back to the very beginning and 
 straight through his twenty-six years, as the heirs go through the 
 bureaus and bandboxes of the dead, sorting out all his days. And 
 now we know everything. 
 
 It may be, however, that in a trunk in an attic there is an en- 
 velope marked: The Unfathomable Will of the Unfathomable 
 Will, or in some secret drawer a box (full of hundreds upon hun- 
 dreds of numbers, each written upon a separate slip of paper) with 
 the words scrawled across the top : The Cause of Gods and Demons. 
 
 If so, his name is there and in these lie the last and the uttermost 
 secrets. 
 
 206 
 
 
XVIII 
 
 'Why, I was writing of my epitaph; 
 It will be seen tomorrow. . . ." 
 
 — Timon of Athens: Shakespeare 
 
 David awoke first, when twilight was falling, and went to see 
 if the horses, concealed farther back in the woods, were safe. 
 He heard them cropping the wet grass and pulling at the leaves. 
 By some miracle the little bay was still tied to the stout limb, but 
 she did not like her hiding place. She gave a whinny and a snort to 
 show her feelings. David came up to her and patted her neck. "Poor 
 old girl," he said softly, "don't you mind. We'll soon be on our way 
 over to Virginia." She turned her head toward him and he saw the 
 dark flash of her eyes. "Although I don't know how we'll get you 
 across the river," he said, "but we'll think of some way. Don't you 
 stand here and fret about it." She began to nudge and nudge his 
 shoulder as though he were an old friend and he put his arm up 
 around her neck in a sudden warm rush of affection. "You little 
 old no-account," he said, "I never seen nobody forwarder than 
 you." Then he stepped over a fallen log and went over to pat the 
 other horse so as not to hurt her feelings. "How are you, girlie?" 
 he said. 
 
 Johnny dreamed ... he was taking part in the old choosing 
 game, Lady Fair, and whichever direction he moved, wherever he 
 danced, somebody was always bumping into his sore leg. It annoyed 
 him and hurt frightfully, but he couldn't seem to keep out of the 
 way. While he sang along with the rest (many ladies, many men 
 in blue uniforms, a gypsy in red and yellow skirts and one very tall 
 man in a black suit) — remembering all the words — 
 
 207 
 
In this ring is a lady fair, 
 Dark brown eyes and curly hair, 
 Rosy cheeks and dimpled chin, 
 Take someone and choose them in. 
 
 Now you're married and married for life, 
 La, la, la, what a pretty little wife, 
 Pretty little wife and husband too, 
 Kiss him twice if once won't do! 
 
 he kept trying to reach down and rub his leg, that they would 
 kick, and would bump into. 
 
 He woke with a start when David broke a twig with a sharp 
 snap. He sat straight up, the words of the old song still echoing in 
 his head. "David?" he called, looking all around. It was twilight 
 outside on the road, lit with polished stars, but very dark in the 
 thicket. 
 
 "I've been to see the horses," David said, unexpectedly close by. 
 He sat down heavily on his blanket. 
 
 "Had she broken her bridle?" 
 
 "No," David said, yawning. "Glory, I'm cold," he announced. "It's 
 awful coolish in here among the trees. Wisht we could build a fire. 
 If Colonel Cox is going to send somebody with something to eat, 
 wisht he'd do it." 
 
 Johnny scraped a sulphur match into a spurt of bluish flame that 
 smoked thickly, and lit his pipe, taking a deep puff. He ran his hand 
 down his leg to his ankle but it was too tender to rub, too sore to 
 rest his fingers on. He smiled a little, thinking of the clumsy 
 dancers in his dream. 
 
 "Johnny, don't you wisht they was nicer to us the way we thought 
 they'd be?" 
 
 "Who was nicer?" Johnny asked. 
 
 "Oh, the rebels. We done — you done 'em a favor. They couldn't 
 stand the sight of Mr. Lincoln, they just hated him, and now look 
 how they go and do. Make us lay out in the cold. I wisht — " He 
 paused, listening. 
 
 "Be still," Johnny whispered. "Listen, David. There's somebody 
 coming down the road." 
 
 208 
 
They sat quiet while the soft footsteps came closer, closer, and 
 then stopped. 
 
 There came a low whistle, a pause, a low whistle. 
 
 "It's Cox's man," Johnny murmured, "but take your gun, just in 
 case. Find out for sure." 
 
 David reached for the carbine, got to his feet and started moving 
 cautiously to where the grove opened onto the road. 
 
 The man who stood there waiting for him was slender, straight- 
 backed, middle-aged Thomas Jones, a foster brother of Colonel 
 Cox's. He had been a signal agent for the Confederacy through the 
 war and was used to taking risks. His job was to transport south- 
 bound mail and passengers across the river, often under the very 
 noses of the gunboats that cruised up and down it. The mail he 
 brought back from Virginia he left in a three-pronged stump a mile 
 from the river to be picked up by other agents who carried it on. 
 That stump was very near the spot where Lincoln's assassin was 
 now hidden. Jones, while he stood there waiting, turned his head 
 in the direction of it, remembering those nights of danger not so 
 long ago. 
 
 A voice asked softly from the thicket, "Who are you?" and Jones 
 went toward it instantly. 
 
 "I am a friend," he said. He was — almost the sole friend they 
 would meet with on their journey. "Name's Thomas Jones." 
 
 "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jones," David said. Then he turned 
 and led him, carrying food, brandy and another blanket, into the 
 dark undergrowth. "This here's Mr. Jones, Johnny," he said. 
 
 Thomas Jones, accustomed to darkness, found the man sitting on 
 the ground at once. He went up to him and put his hand down 
 and took Johnny's surprised, unready hand and shook it. "I'm proud 
 to meet you, Mr. Booth," he said. "Proud, sir." 
 
 Tears gathered in Johnny's eyes and he was glad of the darkness. 
 He blinked, looking upward at a whitish blur that was this gen- 
 tleman's face. "An honor and a pleasure, I'm sure," he faltered. 
 
 Of all hours, those of the morning went quickest. Every night 
 faithful Jones brought food, brandy and the newspapers, and the 
 
 209 
 
next morning Johnny read every word of them, sometimes twice 
 or three times. He was always hopeful in the early part of the day, 
 saying to himself and David that tonight they could probably cross 
 the river and get over into Virginia. Every day he made his plans 
 and looked forward to leaving. When late afternoon came, and 
 Thomas Jones, pretending to look for hogs, arrived, bringing the 
 bad news that the fugitives could not leave but would have to 
 remain hidden in the grove, that lengthened the hours, especially 
 when darkness fell. His hope dwindled then and the hours dragged 
 on. Sometimes it seemed as though the night would never end. 
 
 It did, though, and morning came, and he could read the news- 
 papers left him the night before. But his cheer came back only to 
 vanish again at the end of the day. 
 
 With rapt interest he read all about the death of Lincoln, and 
 the subsequent events connected with it. He was not astonished, 
 as David seemed to be, that the assassination had caused such a 
 hullabaloo, and yet sometimes it did amaze him that the whole 
 country from one ocean to the other should be in turmoil because 
 of it. 
 
 It annoyed him that the crime was laid at the door of the now- 
 disrupted rebel government, and not upon himself alone who de- 
 served all the credit. Jeff Davis and his Cabinet were the prime 
 movers and they had instigated it, so the papers said. They went 
 further and stated that the assassination was only part of the gigan- 
 tic plot hatched by these same rebels to slay every Federal statesman 
 and legislator, and that thousands of Confederates were involved 
 in it. John Wilkes Booth, the papers reported, had performed the 
 deed of murder as a hired assassin and at the bidding of the black- 
 hearted villains who led the rebellion. 
 
 "Rubbish," Johnny said over and over. "Unspeakable rubbish. 
 It's that demented hen of a Stanton. Why don't they publish my 
 letter? That would explain the whole thing! What are they keeping 
 it back for? Hired assassin, am I? They make me sick!" 
 
 "What letter, Johnny?" David asked, watching a woodcock on 
 a flowering red-bush branch. He did want so badly to shoot at it 
 but Johnny wouldn't let him. He said firing off a gun might bring 
 unwanted visitors to their hiding place. But it wouldn't. What a 
 
 210 
 
shame Johnny wouldn't let him. There were all kinds of things to 
 shoot at. Down by the little stream from which he carried water 
 for Johnny to drink and wash in, there were rats, and he saw a 
 mink once, too. He wouldn't be surprised if there were deer around. 
 Certainly there were foxes, a raccoon, a 'possum. There must be 
 rabbits, too, and he had spied several bush-tailed squirrels. There 
 were hawks, robins, bluebirds, starlings, redbirds, a mockingbird, 
 and at night an owl that sent chills down David's back when it 
 said in plain English from the windy black branches overhead: 
 Who? Who? Who? It made him think of spirits coming back 
 from the dead and he wondered where Lincoln's spirit was. Was 
 it wandering all around without peace or rest or was it safe in 
 heaven ? He hoped it was in heaven and not wandering around, per- 
 haps in this very grove, like the ghosts in stories. ... It looked as if 
 Johnny would at least let him take a shot at that owl, but no, sir. 
 "What letter?" David repeated, sighing. 
 
 "I told you, David," Johnny explained patiently. "Friday after- 
 noon I wrote a letter to the National Intelligencer saying what we 
 were going to do and why we were going to do it. For our country, 
 you remember." 
 
 David nodded. 
 
 "Well, after I wrote it," Johnny went on, "I met a fellow I knew 
 on the Avenue, John Matthews, an actor, and I asked him if he 
 would deliver the letter for me the next day to the newspaper office. 
 I told him I wanted it delivered personally to the editor. He said 
 he'd do it. At the end of the letter I signed all our names — mine, 
 yours, Lewis Payne's and George Atzerodt's." 
 
 "Mine?" David asked happily. 
 
 "What I want to know — where is that letter? Why don't they 
 publish it? What are they holding it back for?" 
 
 (It was burned up, that's where it was, but Johnny was never 
 to know it. John Matthews was in Ford's Theater the night of the 
 assassination. He could not get away fast enough, fairly flew, for 
 at home was Wilkes Booth's dangerous letter. Locking his door 
 behind him, pulling down the blinds and lighting his lamp with 
 trembling fingers, he read it. Then he tore it up in little pieces, and 
 fed them one by one to the fire in the stove.) 
 
 211 
 
Early Tuesday a stranger appeared but gave Jones's whistle, 
 pause, whistle, so they knew he must be a friend. He was Colonel 
 Cox's overseer and he was carrying a gun. "The Colonel sent me 
 to get rid of the horses," he announced. 
 
 David got to his feet, his knees starting to shake. "Get rid of 
 them — how?" he asked. 
 
 "Shoot them," the man said. "The neighborhood's full of soldiers 
 and detectives and Colonel Cox is afraid they'll betray your where- 
 abouts." 
 
 "Can't he conceal them?" Johnny said. "Wouldn't Colonel Cox 
 allow them to be turned in with his own horses?" He looked at 
 David's grief -stricken face. "Isn't there some way — " 
 
 "Them horses is known like you fellows is known," the overseer 
 said. "Their descriptions been give out everywhere, like your pic- 
 tures been give out, in wholesale lots. I don't know how many soldiers 
 has come up to Colonel Cox's and how many detectives. Why, them 
 horses would be spotted so quick it would make your head swim." 
 
 "They're awful nice horses," David said, trying to keep his lips 
 from quivering. Since Sunday night he had paid them many visits; 
 it was something pleasant to do in this lonely place. The sweetest 
 bonds are those welded in adversity and he had grown as fond 
 of them as they of him. He liked taking a stroll through the thick 
 brush every hour or two to pass the time of day with them. It 
 shortened and lightened the tedious hours of waiting. They liked 
 it, too, though he never stayed long. They would almost smile and 
 say, "Here's David come to pay us a call." 
 
 "The little mare," David went on pleadingly, "she's what they 
 call a rocker, but she's — so fast, and so gentle. She's an awful nice 
 little horse, really she is. They both are. They're nice horses, ain't 
 they, Johnny? Ain't that little bay a fine little mare?" 
 
 "That's not the point," Johnny said gently. "The point is, the 
 horses are known, David, just like we're known, and as this gen- 
 tleman says, with so many soldiers in the neighborhood, they're 
 liable to betray us." 
 
 "But it don't look like they'd have to be shot for something they 
 never done. They never committed no crime," David said. "Please, 
 couldn't you — " 
 
 212 
 
"Maybe you'd better come along with me, boy," the overseer said. 
 "Colonel Cox wants it done and he wants it done fast." 
 
 Sickly, David went with him. He had to lead the bright little bay 
 several hundred yards into the dense pines, the overseer leading the 
 other horse. When the marsh began, the overseer took the reins out 
 of his hands. David wanted to say good-by to her but kept silent, 
 swallowing. The overseer mounted the other horse and led the little 
 mare, who kept pulling back and looking around for David and 
 rolling her eyes desperately while she plunged deeper into the leafy 
 water, her skin rippling with fright. When the water was deep 
 enough the rider climbed on a long limb that extended over it, and 
 raised his gun, took careful aim, while the li::le mare kept looking 
 back for David, plunging, neighing wildly, and the other horse 
 neighed more wildly still and tried to leap out of the water . . . and 
 the man shot once, twice. They sank quietly and quickly into the 
 thick water, more quietly and quickly than seemed possible. David 
 kept saying God damn you, sir, God damn you, sir, under his breath 
 while the overseer was climbing in along the branch to firm ground, 
 and he had his fists clenched tight. 
 
 That afternoon he went back to where the horses used to be and 
 it was a forlorn place, as where a house you loved has stood and 
 is now torn down and all the people you loved have gone away 
 and left no word behind them to say which direction they took. 
 Nobody was there to say "Here comes David. . . ." He never had 
 had a horse of his own, but he would have liked a bay like the 
 little mare with the white star on her forehead. He would have 
 kept her shining like a nigger's heel, you can bet. He'd have — been 
 nice to her, never used a crop, never used a spur, just leaned down 
 low upon her neck and whispered, "Get going, girlie. . . ." He 
 lay down under the tree she had been tied to, thinking of her, and 
 he put his hands up over his face. 
 
 Johnny didn't notice his eyes were all red. Johnny never said a 
 word about it. 
 
 Wednesday afternoon David looked up from the beetle on the 
 ground he had been watching with great interest. "Say, Johnny," 
 he said. "I meant to ask you. Why didn't you just stand behind the 
 scenes and shoot up into the box? You're such a good shot, you 
 
 213 
 
could of hit him from there, just as well as going up there and 
 shooting him and then having to jump down on the stage in front of 
 all the people? Then you wouldn't of got your leg broke," he said. 
 
 "What?" Johnny said, putting down his newspaper. His pain had 
 told on him, the cold, the ennui, the discomfort, the long waiting 
 to cross the river had told on him. He would have been surprised 
 to see how thin he was, how deathly pale, and that the years he had 
 not lived and would not live had set their marks upon his face. 
 "What were you saying?" he asked, his eyes dropping back to the 
 account of wholesale arrests: "The prisons overfloweth — full of 'sus- 
 pects' — not conspirators alone, but their relatives, friends, acquaint- 
 ances and persons having had dealings with them; proprietors of 
 theaters and their employees; actors from the north, east, west; 
 livery-stable keepers, telegraph operators, blockade runners, male 
 and female; rebel scouts and spies; whole households with their 
 menservants and maidservants, black and white, and the stranger 
 within their gates." Mrs. Surratt had been arrested Monday night, 
 at the same time as Lewis Payne. Mrs. Surratt, of all people! She 
 was called a "conspirator." George Atzerodt, Michael O'Laughlin, 
 Samuel Arnold, even Spangler had been imprisoned. There was 
 a great hue and cry after John Surratt. It was too foolish for 
 words. Why, only he himself and Lewis Payne had actually done 
 anything. Johnny had succeeded and Lewis Payne had failed, for 
 Secretary of State Seward did not die. But to read the newspapers 
 you would think forty people had done forty separate assassinations, 
 each one more terrible than the other. Johnny pushed the paper 
 off his knee in disgust. 
 
 "Why, what I was saying, Johnny," David repeated, "was, why 
 didn't you shoot from behind the scenes on the stage? You could 
 of hit him, like I could hit that catbird up there right this minute 
 if you'd just let me take a shot at him — " 
 
 "No," Johnny said. 
 
 " — so why did you take all them chances and go right up into 
 the box where you'd have to jump down in front of all the people 
 — when you could of drew a bead on him from lots farther off back 
 of the wings and it would of been so much easier?" he said. "And 
 you might not of broke your leg?" 
 
 214 
 
"I didn't think of doing it that way," Johnny said. 
 
 I couldn't even have thought of doing it that way, David. I'm an 
 actor, you must understand. My father was an actor, very great. My 
 brother is an actor, too, and he is great. But I was the greatest of 
 all. You don't know how I used to be, how I could play — you can't 
 imagine. But I had such trouble with my throat. It would come 
 on me. Florry's remedy helped at first, and brandy helped, but 
 finally nothing helped any more. And in New Orleans I stood there 
 on the stage and opened my mouth and — I couldn't speak a word. 
 You don't know how that felt, it was the most terrible thing that 
 could happen, not when I die will it be worse for me. I blamed 
 my brother, he had put a curse on me, I said. I can't tell you how I 
 felt about my brother, like he was the good side of me and I was 
 the bad side, or he was the bad side and I was the good side, I 
 don't know which, but since I — killed Lincoln, it's not like that. 
 I'm separate and distinct and he's separate and distinct. It's the first 
 time we are separate and distinct people. I don't have to think 
 about him and hate him, because he's not inside of me any more 
 and I'm not inside of him. It's a little as if I had killed my own 
 brother, you see, David, instead of Lincoln, and settled the score be- 
 tween us, though that sounds very odd. It is odd. But, you see, the 
 score's settled now, and other scores are, everything is settled. I 
 don't know how to explain it. . . . My leg hurts, and I'm more 
 miserable than you are, David. I can't get up and move around the 
 way you can, and my back aches, it's hard to eat, and no matter 
 how I lie or sit I'm never really comfortable, never for a minute, 
 day or night, but in spite of all that I'm happier than I've been 
 for a long, long time, now that the score is settled. I don't have 
 anything on my mind. 
 
 All I've got to do is escape. I don't have to marry Miss Bessie 
 Hale because she has money and is high placed. I don't have to 
 spend months or years taking elocution lessons as though I had 
 never been a famous tragedian, the youngest on the American stage. 
 I don't have to take Ella to England and tire of her there, as I 
 would have tired, though she was like Asia in spite of her blond 
 hair and blue eyes, but was not Asia — as nobody ever was, but Asia 
 herself. I don't have to wonder if my wardrobe arrived in Richmond 
 
 215 
 
and what they will do with it there in the best hotel. I don't have 
 to worry about what I'm going to use for money and what I'm 
 going to use for fame. All I have to do now is escape. Everything 
 else has been lifted of? my shoulders. I've just got one problem to 
 solve and that's better than having a hundred. No wonder I feel 
 easier. But you were saying . . . you were asking me before I wan- 
 dered off the track . . . why I didn't stand backstage and shoot 
 Lincoln from the wings? You were asking me . . . why I risked 
 going up into the box, and shooting him, and making that jump 
 in front of all those people? Haven't you any conception of who 
 those people were, David? Why, they were the audience. Can't 
 you imagine, David, what an audience meant to me, a great actor? 
 The shot I fired, the line I spoke, it was all for them. Could I hide 
 myself in the wings and not let them know who played the greatest 
 role they ever saw on any stage ? 
 
 "To tell you the truth," Johnny said soberly, not realizing how 
 long he had been silent, "I never even considered it." 
 
 "You could of hit him though, couldn't you, Johnny, from back 
 in the wings?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I guess I could," Johnny said. "But it didn't enter my 
 mind." 
 
 That afternoon the sun shone a little and David spread Johnny's 
 blanket down in what sunshine there was. It felt good, except on 
 his injured leg. That felt better in the cool shade and he shifted 
 around so as to stretch it out in shadow. 
 
 The previous night Jones had told them there had been a big 
 meeting of the searching squads from up north who converged 
 at Port Tobacco, a party of detectives, one thousand four hundred 
 men of the Eighth Illinois Cavalry, six hundred men of the Twenty- 
 second Colored Troops, and a hundred recruits from the Sixteenth 
 New York Cavalry. Every man had orders to go over the whole 
 territory with a fine-tooth comb. 
 
 Johnny had his pistols and knife laid out on his blanket beside 
 him. The crutches Dr. Mudd's gardener had made were close to his 
 hand but he scarcely used them. When he had to move, David was 
 always ready to lend him a hand, help him to his feet and support 
 him carefully. How long the day seemed! He had read the news- 
 
 216 
 

 papers until he knew them by heart. Lincoln's funeral was scheduled 
 for today (Wednesday) but not until Friday would he be able to 
 read about it. I wish I had something to do, he thought. 
 
 He must ask Thomas Jones to bring them a pack of cards. David 
 would like that. He grieved so over the horses. Two or three times 
 the boy had wandered off in the direction of the thicket where they 
 had been tied, and when he came back his eyes were red. Last 
 night he said in his sleep, "Don't, please, don't, please, don't," and 
 woke and said he thought the overseer had come with a gun to 
 shoot Johnny and him. 
 
 He really must remember to ask for a pack of cards, Johnny 
 thought. 
 
 Why not write in his diary? He had one in his coat pocket. He 
 turned over on his side to get it out, found a stub of pencil and, 
 supporting himself on his elbow, began to write. "April 14th, Friday, 
 the Ides," he started, then drummed against his teeth with his 
 pencil, thinking what to say next. Of course it wasn't April 14th, that 
 was last Friday. It was Wednesday, April 19th, but he might as 
 well begin it when the thing began. The Ides added to it sounded 
 better than just setting down the date, it was like noting some fa- 
 mous day of olden time. He said it over, trying the sound of it 
 —April fourteenth, Friday, the Ides. Now. What should he write? 
 That was very easy. He began, wrote rapidly. Just as he had known 
 what to say about his actions, so he knew what to write. The role 
 he had effortlessly assumed and unconsciously learned, he was still 
 playing and would play, whether he spoke the words or wrote them. 
 How easy it was to be a patriot who had avenged his country's 
 wrongs by spectacular assassination. How hard it had always been 
 to be himself! This role was so easy. It asked so ridiculously little 
 of him — just to lie here until the time came to cross the river, just 
 to keep from walking around on his broken ankle, just to escape. 
 He did not think or have to think beyond that shadowy time. Care- 
 fully, in his best hand, he wrote for the audience: 
 
 April 14th, Friday, the Ides 
 
 Until today nothing was ever thought of sacrificing to our 
 
 country's wrongs. For six months we have worked to cap- 
 
 217 
 
ture. But our cause being almost lost, something decisive 
 and brave must be done. But its failure was owing to others 
 who did not strike for their country with a heart. I struck 
 boldly, and not as the papers say. I walked with a firm step 
 through a thousand of his friends. ... A colonel was at his 
 side. I shouted Sic semper before I fired. In jumping I broke 
 my leg. I passed all his pickets. Rode sixty miles that night, 
 with the bone of my leg tearing the flesh of every jump. 
 
 I can never repent it, though we hated to kill. Our coun- 
 try owed all our troubles to him, and God simply made 
 me the instrument of his punishment. 
 
 The country is not what it was. This forced union is not 
 what I have loved. I care not what becomes of me. I have 
 no desire to outlive my country. This night (before the 
 deed) I wrote a long article and left it for one of the editors 
 of the National Intelligencer, in which I fully set forth our 
 reasons for our proceedings. He or the Gov't. . . . 
 
 He was stopped by the sound of galloping horses. He sat up 
 straight and reached for his gun. David appeared with the carbine, 
 white faced. He always had it in his hands and loitered about with 
 it. Growing restless, he would wander off deep into the woods and 
 scare up small game to shoot at — if only Johnny would let him. 
 He kept track of what he saw as though he had bagged it and used 
 to come and give Johnny the list of his kill — two rabbits, a chip- 
 munk, a squirrel, that damned old owl, a starling. 
 
 "Horses, David." 
 
 "Them, I guess " 
 
 They didn't make a sound, the two fugitives there in the pine 
 thicket, one on his blanket, one between two trunks of trees — while 
 the horsemen came on, on, down the road not two hundred yards 
 from where they were hidden, and swept past with a wonderful 
 and terrible sound of rattling sabers, their thunder dying away 
 behind them. David moved swiftly to go and peer after them but 
 Johnny motioned for him not to, so he came and sat down instead, 
 still holding the gun, saying "Whew!" 
 
 "Maybe tomorrow we'll get across the river," Johnny said, pitch- 
 ing his voice low. "Once we get over into Virginia, we'll be all 
 right." 
 
 218 
 

 "They be nicer to us, huh, Johnny?" David said as softly, his color 
 beginning to come back. 
 
 "Of course they'll be nicer to us," Johnny promised. "They're 
 real rebels, not like the Marylanders. They'll take us in and we'll 
 have good beds with nice, soft mattresses and clean sheets and soft 
 pillows — and I'll get my leg dressed every day. We'll have good 
 cooked meals, too, and hot coffee, and a hot bath every day — " 
 
 "I'll take my bath every other day, or maybe just twice a week," 
 David decided, laying his gun down and curling up on his blanket 
 with his hands beneath his head. "I heard somewheres that water's 
 awful weakening." 
 
 Johnny laughed. "And we can shave, and have clean underclothes 
 and clean shirts — and there's usually a young lady or two in a family 
 to sashay around in her best clothes and make herself charming. 
 You know what she'll do? She'll play the piano, or the harp, or 
 the guitar, badly, of course, but that won't matter. When there's 
 moonlight she'll look out the window and give a little scream as 
 though the barn was on fire and say good heavens, have you seen 
 the moon? What will you say, David, when she says that to you?" 
 
 David scowled. "What does she mean, have we seen the moon? 
 Does she think we're blind?" 
 
 "What will you say, though?" 
 
 "I'll say, I got eyes." 
 
 "That's no way to talk to a nice young lady with golden curls 
 who has done so much for you — sewed on buttons, made blancmange 
 with her own fair hands, showed you her scrapbooks and all her 
 tintypes and read Hiawatha's Wooing to you and stuffed you full 
 of bonbons — " 
 
 "Me?" David asked, astonished. 
 
 "Of course, you. Is that any way to act?" 
 
 "What way?" 
 
 "Why, when she asks you if you've seen the moon, to say / got 
 eyes." Johnny imitated him so exactly that David burst out laughing. 
 
 "Well, what'll I say then?" 
 
 "You must say," Johnny said, "you must say— Until you show it 
 to me, my dear lady, I have never seen it. But when you do, I shall 
 never see it again without seeing your face." 
 
 219 
 
"All that?" David said, dismayed. 
 
 "That isn't much," Johnny said. "That's only the beginning." 
 
 Thursday passed uneventfully save for a brief visit from Jones 
 who brought again for the fifth time the discouraging news that 
 they could not yet cross the river. Not only was the district still 
 full of pursuers, but there were more gunboats on the water than 
 had patrolled it during the war. "I've got a rowboat down there 
 waiting for you, though," he said, "hidden under the willows, and 
 the first chance I get I'll see that you get across." 
 
 Their benefactor did not inform them of a conversation he had 
 had in a barroom over in Port Tobacco where he had gone the day 
 before to try to find out when the soldiers would be withdrawn. A 
 detective who suspected his thin, expressionless face had sidled up 
 to him. "We know those two bastards are hiding in this neck of 
 the woods," he said. "The man who turns them in can get one 
 hundred thousand dollars in five minutes, cash on the barrelhead. 
 It'll be paid, my friend, not promised. Paid." 
 
 "That so?" Jones said, turning to him and looking him straight 
 in the eye. "That's a good deal of money to give for one man." 
 
 He would have blushed to speak of this, how steadfast he had 
 been, for he was a great gentleman, so he only told them he hoped 
 he would have good news tomorrow. 
 
 He did. 
 
 The next afternoon he came and said he had been to Allen's Fresh 
 and heard that all the soldiers had been ordered that morning to go 
 down to St. Mary's in the next county, where the fugitives were re- 
 ported to be. His news meant that after six long days and five long 
 nights in the pines they could go down to the wide river and attempt 
 to cross. 
 
 220 
 
XIX 
 
 "To get the start of the majestic world, 
 And bear the palm alone!" 
 
 —UNKNOWN 
 
 It took a good while to read the newspapers that Friday morn- 
 ing. The weather was gray and chill, full of mist that would 
 turn to rain before evening. Johnny's clothes felt heavy and damp 
 and his leg pained more than usual. Canning's bullet that had never 
 been removed from his buttock began to make itself felt last night, 
 and today he still felt twinges no matter which way he lay or sat 
 upon his dirty blanket. But he forgot his discomfort, there was so 
 much to read in the day-old paper today ! George Alfred Townsend, 
 a homely young reporter Johnny remembered to have been intro- 
 duced to at a party or reception, wrote up Lincoln's funeral, and 
 signed his long report proudly. It was studded as richly with adjec- 
 tives as a fruitcake with raisins and Johnny read it with close atten- 
 tion: 
 
 At Willard's alone four hundred applications by telegraph 
 for beds were refused. . . . Thousands of people spent Tues- 
 day night in the streets, in depots and in outbuildings. The 
 population of the city this morning was not far short of 
 a hundred thousand, and of these as many as thirty thou- 
 sand walked in procession with Mr. Lincoln's ashes. 
 
 All orders of folks were at hand. The country adjacent 
 sent in haywagons, donkey-carts, dearborns. All who could 
 slip away from the army came to town, and every attainable 
 section of the Union forwarded mourners. At no time in 
 his life had Mr. Lincoln so many to throng about him as in 
 this hour, when he is powerless to do any one a service. For 
 
 221 
 
once in history, office-seekers were disinterested, and con- 
 tractors and hangers-on human. These came, for this only, 
 to the capital of the republic without an axe to grind or a 
 curiosity to subserve; respect and grief were all their mo- 
 tive. This day was shown that the great public hearts beat 
 unselfish and reverent, even after a dynasty of plunder and 
 war. 
 
 The arrangements for the funeral were made by Mr. 
 Harrington, Assistant-Sec'y of the Treasury, who was beset 
 by applicants for tickets. The number of these were reduced 
 to six hundred, the clergy getting sixty and the press twenty. 
 I was among the first to pass the White House guards and 
 enter the building. 
 
 Its freestone columns were draped in black, and all the 
 windows were funereal. The ancient reception-room was 
 half closed, and the famous East room, which is approached 
 by a spacious hall, had been reserved for the obsequies. . . . 
 Deeply esconced in the white satin stuffing of his coffin, the 
 President lies like one asleep. The broad, high, beautiful 
 room is like the varnished interior of a vault. 
 
 Beneath the roof, the half light shines upon a stage of 
 fresh and fragrant flowers, upbearing a long, high coffin. 
 A cross of lilies stands at the head, an anchor of roses at the 
 foot. The lid is drawn back to show the face and bosom, 
 and on the coffin top are heather, precious flowers, and 
 sprigs of green. This catafalque, or in plain words, this 
 coffin set upon a platform and canopied, has around it a 
 sufficient space of Brussels carpet, and on three sides of this 
 there are raised steps covered with black, on which the hon- 
 ored visitors are to stand. 
 
 The fourth side is bare, save of a single row of chairs 
 some twenty in number, on which the reporters are to sit. 
 . . . All is rich, simple, and spacious, and in such sort as 
 any king might wish to lie. Approach and look at the dead 
 man. 
 
 Death has fastened into his frozen face all the character 
 and idiosyncrazy of life. He had not changed one line of 
 his grave, grotesque countenance, nor smoothed out a sin- 
 gle feature. The hue is rather bloodless and leaden; but 
 he was always sallow. The dark eyebrows seem abruptly 
 
 222 
 
arched; the beard, which will grow no more, is shaved close, 
 save the tuft at the short small chin. The mouth is shut, 
 like that of one who had put the foot down firm, and so 
 are the eyes, which look as calm as slumber. The collar is 
 short and awkward, turned over the stiff elastic cravat, and 
 whatever energy or humor or tender gravity marked the 
 living face is hardened into its pulseless outline. No corpse 
 in the world is better prepared according to appearances. 
 The white satin around it reflects sufficient light upon the 
 face to show us that death is really there; but there are 
 sweet roses and early magnolias, and the balmiest of lillies 
 strewn around, as if the flowers had begun to bloom even 
 upon his coffin. Looking on uninterruptedly! for there is 
 no pressure, and henceforward the place will be thronged 
 with gazers who will take from the sight its suggestiveness 
 and respect. Three years ago, when little Willie Lincoln 
 died, Doctors Brown and Alexander, the embalmers or in- 
 jectors, prepared his body so handsomely that the President 
 had it twice disinterred to look upon it. The same men, in 
 the same way, have made perpetual those beloved linea- 
 ments. There is now no blood in the body; it was drained 
 by the jugular vein and sacredly preserved, and through 
 a cutting on the inside of the thigh the empty blood-vessels 
 were charged with a chemical preparation which soon hard- 
 ened to the consistence of stone. The long and bony body is 
 now hard and stifT, so that beyond its present position it can- 
 not be moved any more than the arms or legs of a statue. It 
 has undergone many changes. The scalp has been removed, 
 the brain taken out, the chest opened and the blood emptied. 
 All that we see of Abraham Lincoln, so cunningly contem- 
 plated in this splendid coffin, is a mere shell, an effigy, a 
 sculpture. He lies in sleep, but it is the sleep of marble. All 
 that made this flesh vital, sentient, and affectionate is gone 
 forever. 
 
 The officers present are Generals Hunter and Dyer and 
 two staff captains. . . . The aides walk to and fro, selected 
 without reference to any association with the late President. 
 Their clothes are rich, their swords wear mourning, they go 
 in silence, everything is funereal. In the deeply draped mir- 
 rors strange mirages are seen, as in the coffin scene of Lucre- 
 
 223 
 
tia Borgia, where all the dusky perspectives bear vistas of 
 gloomy palls. The upholsterers make timid noises of driving 
 nails and spreading tapestry; but save ourselves and these 
 few watchers and workers, only the dead is here. The White 
 House, so ill-appreciated in common times, is seen to be 
 capacious and elegant — no disgrace to the nation even in the 
 eyes of those foreign folk of rank who shall gather here 
 directly. 
 
 . . . the funeral guns are heard indistinctly booming from 
 the far forts, with the tap of drums in the serried street 
 without, where troops and citizens are forming for the 
 grand procession. We see through the window in the beau- 
 tiful spring day that the grass is brightly green; and all the 
 trees in bloom, show us through their archways the bronze 
 and marble statues breaking the horizon. But there is one 
 at an upper window, seeing all this through her tears, to 
 whom the beautiful noon, with its wealth of zephyrs and 
 sweets, can waft no gratulation. The father of her chil- 
 dren, the confidant of her affection and ambition, has 
 passed from life into immortality, and lies below, dumb, 
 cold, murdered. The feeling of sympathy for Mrs. Lincoln 
 is as widespread as the regret for the chief magistrate. What- 
 ever indiscretions she may have committed in the abrupt 
 transition from plainness to power are now forgiven and 
 forgotten. She and her sons are the property of the nation, 
 associated with its truest glories and its worst bereavement. 
 By and by the guests drop in, hat in hand, wearing upon 
 their sleeves waving crepe, and some of them slip up to the 
 coffin to carry away a last impression of the fading face. 
 
 But the first accession of force is that of the clergy, sixty 
 in number. They are devout looking men, darkly attired, 
 and have come from all the neighboring cities to represent 
 every denomination. . . . All these retire to the south end 
 of the room, facing the feet of the corpse, and stand there 
 silently to wait for the coming of others. Very soon this 
 East room is filled with the representative intelligence of the 
 entire nation. The governors of states stand on the dais next 
 to the head of the coffin. . . . Behind them are the mayors 
 and councilmen of many towns paving their last respects 
 to the representative of the source of all municipal freedom. 
 
 224 
 
To their left are the corporate officers of Washington, zeal- 
 ous to make this day's funeral honors atone for the shame 
 of the assassination. With these are sprinkled many scarred 
 and worthy soldiers who have borne the burden of the 
 grand war, and stand before this shape they loved in quiet 
 civil reverence. 
 
 Still further down the steps and closer to the catafalque 
 rest the familiar faces of many of our greatest generals . . . 
 sitting in a chair upon the beflowered carpet is Ulysses 
 Grant, who has lived a century in the last three weeks and 
 comes today to add the luster of his iron face to this thrilling 
 and saddened picture. He wears white gloves and sash, and 
 is swarthy, nervous, and almost tearful, his feet crossed, his 
 square receding head turning now here now there, his 
 treble constellation blazing upon the left shoulder only, 
 but hidden on the right, and I seem to read upon his com- 
 pact features the indurate and obstinate will to fight, on the 
 line he had selected, the honor of the country through any 
 peril, as if he had sworn it by the slain man's bier — his 
 state-fellow, patron, and friend. Here also is General McCal- 
 lum, who has seamed the rebellious South with military 
 roads to send victory along them, and bring back the groan- 
 ing and scarred. These and the rest are grand historic fig- 
 ures, worthy of all artistic depiction. . . . 
 
 What think the foreign ambassadors of such men, in the 
 light of their own over-loaded bodies, where meaningless 
 orders, crosses, and ribbons shine dimly in the funeral light? 
 These legations number, perhaps, a hundred men, of all 
 civilized races. . . . 
 
 But nearer down, and most opposite the catafalque . . . 
 stand the central powers of our government, its President 
 and counsellors. President Johnson is facing the middle 
 of the coffin upon the lowest step; and upon his full, ple- 
 thoric, shaven face, broad and severely compact, two telling 
 gray eyes rest under a thoughtful brow, whose turning hair 
 is straight and smooth. Beside him are Vice-President Ham- 
 lin, whom he succeeded, and ex-Governor King, his most 
 intimate friend, who lends to the ruling severity of the 
 place a half Falstaffian episode. The cabinet are behind, as 
 if arranged for a daguerreotypist, Stanton, short and quick- 
 
 225 
 
silvery, in long goatee and glasses, in stunted contrast to the 
 tall and snow-tipped shape of Mr. Welles with the rest, 
 practical and attentive, and at their side is Secretary Chase, 
 high, dignified, and handsome, with folded arms, listening, 
 but undemonstrative, a half-foot higher than any spectator, 
 and dividing with Charles Sumner, who is near by, the 
 preference for manly beauty in age. With Mr. Chase are 
 other justices of the Supreme Court, and to their left, near 
 the feet of the corpse, are the reverend senators, represent- 
 ing the oldest and the newest state. . . . Beyond are the 
 representatives and leading officials of the various depart- 
 ments. . . . 
 
 Close by the corpse sit the relatives of the deceased, plain, 
 honest, hardy people, typical as much of the simplicity of 
 our institutions as of Mr. Lincoln's self-made eminence. No 
 blood relatives of Mr. Lincoln were to be found. It is a singu- 
 lar evidence of the poverty of his origin, and therefore of 
 his exceeding good report, that, excepting his immediate 
 family, none answering to his name could be discovered. 
 Mrs. Lincoln's relatives were present, however, in some 
 force. Dr. Lyman Beecher Todd, General John B. S. Todd, 
 C. M. Smith, Esq., and Mr. N. W. Edwards, the late Presi- 
 dent's brother-in-law, plain, self-made people were here and 
 were sincerely affected. Captain Robert Lincoln sat during 
 the services with his face in his handkerchief weeping 
 quietly, and little Tad, his face red and heated, cried as if 
 his heart would break. Mrs. Lincoln, weak, worn, and 
 nervous, did not enter the East room nor follow the remains. 
 She was the chief magistrate's lady yesterday; today a 
 widow bearing only an immortal name. Among the neigh- 
 bors of the late President, who came from afar to pay re- 
 spect to his remains, was one old gentleman who left 
 Richmond on Sunday. I had been upon the boat with him 
 and heard him in hot wrangle with some officers who ad- 
 vised the summary execution of all rebel leaders. This the 
 old man opposed, when the feeling against him became so 
 intense that he was compelled to retire. He counselled 
 mercy, good faith, and forgiveness. Today, the men who 
 had called him a traitor, saw him among the family mourn- 
 ers, bent with grief. All these are waiting in solemn lines, 
 
 226 
 
standing erect, with a space of several feet between them and 
 the coffin, and there is no bustle nor unseemly curiosity, not 
 a whisper, not a footfall — only the collected nation looking 
 with awed hearts upon eminent death. 
 
 This scene is historic. ... In this high, spacious, elegant 
 apartment, laughter and levee, social pleasantry and refined 
 badinage, had often held their session. Dancing and music 
 had made those mirrors thrill which now reflect a pall, and 
 where the most beautiful women of their day had mingled 
 here with men of brilliant favor, now only a very few, brave 
 
 enough to look upon death, were wearing funeral weeds 
 
 And this wonderful relief was carved at one blow by John 
 Wilkes Booth. 
 
 The religious services began at noon. They were remark- 
 able not only for their association with the national event, 
 but for a tremendous political energy which they had. 
 While none of the prayers or speeches exhibited great liter- 
 ary carefulness, or will obtain perpetuity on their own 
 merits, they were full of feeling and expressed all the 
 intense concern of the country. 
 
 The procession surpassed in sentiment, populousness, and 
 sincere good feeling, anything of the kind we have had 
 in America. It was several miles long, and in all its elements 
 was full and tasteful. The scene on the avenue will be al- 
 ways remembered as the only occasion on which that great 
 thoroughfare was a real adornment to the seat of govern- 
 ment. In the tree tops, on the house tops, at all the windows, 
 the silent and affected crowds clustered beneath half-mast 
 banners and waving crape, to reverentially uncover as the 
 dark vehicle, bearing its rich silver-mounted coffin, swept 
 along; mottoes of respect and homage were on many edi- 
 fices, and singularly some of them were taken from the play 
 of Richard III, which was the murderer's favorite part. The 
 entire width of the avenue was swept, from curb to curb, 
 by the deep lines. 
 
 The chief excellence of this procession was its representa- 
 tive nature. All classes, localities and trades were out. As 
 the troops in broad, straight columns, with reversed mus- 
 kets, moved to solemn marches, all the guns on the fortifica- 
 tions on the surrounding hills discharged hoarse salutes — 
 
 227 
 
guns which the arbiter of war whom they were to honor 
 could hear no longer. Every business place was closed. 
 Sabermen swept the street of footmen and horsemen. The 
 carriages drove two abreast. 
 
 Not less than five thousand officers, of every rank, 
 marched abreast of the cortege. They were noble looking 
 men with intelligent faces, and represented the sinews of the 
 land, and the music was not the last excellent feature of the 
 mournful display. About thirty bands were in the line, and 
 these played all varieties of solemn marches, so that there 
 were continual and mingling strains of funeral music for 
 more than three hours. Artillery, consisting of heavy brass 
 pieces, followed behind. In fact, all the citizen virtues and 
 all the military enterprise of the country were evidenced. 
 Never again, until Washington becomes in fact what it is 
 in name, the chief city of America, shall we have a scene 
 like this repeated — the grandest procession ever seen on this 
 continent, spontaneously evoked to celebrate the foulest 
 crime on record. If any feeling of gratulation could 
 arise in so calamitous a time, it would be, that so soon 
 after this appalling calamity the nation calmly and col- 
 lectedly rallied about its succeeding rulers, and showed in 
 the same moment its regret for the past and its resolution 
 for the future. To me, the scene in the White House, the 
 street, and the Capitol today, was the strongest evidence the 
 war afforded of the stability of our institutions, and the 
 worthiness and magnanimous power of our people. 
 
 The cortege passed to the left side of the Capitol, and 
 entering the great gates, passed to the grand stairway, 
 opposite the splendid dome, where the coffin was disengaged 
 and carried up the ascent. It was posted under the bright 
 concave, now streaked with mournful trappings, and left in 
 state, watched by guards of officers with drawn swords. . . . 
 This was a wonderful spectacle. . . . The storied paint- 
 ings representing eras in its history were draped in sable, 
 through which they seemed to cast reverential glances upon 
 the lamented bier. The thrilling scenes depicted by Trum- 
 bull, the commemorative canvases of Leutze, the wilderness 
 vegetation of Powell, glared from their separate pedestals 
 upon the central spot where lay the fallen majesty of the 
 
 228 
 
country. Here the prayers and addresses of the noon were 
 rehearsed and the solemn burial service read. At night the 
 jets of gas concealed in the spring of the dome were lighted 
 up, so that their bright reflection upon the frescoed walls 
 hurled masses of burning light, like marvelous haloes, upon 
 the little box where so much that we love and honor rested 
 on its way to the grave. And so through the starry night, in 
 the fane of the great Union he had strengthened and re- 
 covered, the ashes of Abraham Lincoln, jealously guarded 
 are now reposing. The sage, the citizen, the patriot, the 
 man, has reached all the eminence that life can give the 
 worthy or the ambitious. The hunted fugitive who struck 
 through our hearts to slay him, should stand beside his 
 stately bier to see how powerless are bullets and blades to 
 take the real life of any noble man! 
 
 When he finished reading, he lit his pipe and stared off into the 
 deep green branches, imagining the scene. He could not believe that 
 he could have built anything so big. Once he looked down at his 
 cold, not overclean hands, at the backs of them, and at his palms, 
 his fingers, too, every line and crease of them. The tattooed initials 
 in India ink: J.W.B. They seemed strange to him, his hands, as 
 though he had never really seen them before. 
 
 After Jones had been there and gone again with his good news, 
 that they could cross the river that night, David was so excited and 
 happy he could not sit down a minute. 
 
 "It'll be hours yet," Johnny reminded him. "Maybe midnight, for 
 all we know, so you might as well compose yourself." 
 
 "Oh, I can't," David said. "I just want to be up and moving. 
 Won't it be grand to go, Johnny, after all this time? It's awful hard 
 just to stay in one place and not have no fire, and nothing to do. I 
 sure got sick of it, didn't you?" 
 
 "Yes," Johnny said, "I got pretty sick of it." He was still thinking 
 of the death of Lincoln, bigger than a building. It kept coming 
 back, the size and shape of it, for him to marvel on — and it had 
 not seemed big at all, that moment, a week ago tonight. 
 
 "How does your leg feel, Johnny? Hurt you much?" 
 
 "About the same as usual," he said. "I guess it's pretty swollen." 
 
 229 
 
His trouser leg fitted it so tightly he could hardly pull it up a little 
 way over the soiled bandage. 
 
 "Shouldn't we ought to try to change it?" David said, coming over 
 and looking down at it. 
 
 "No," Johnny said. "Tomorrow we'll be over in Virginia at that 
 Dr. Stewart's place, the one Dr. Mudd told us about, remember? 
 I'll get him to dress it for me, put new splints on and everything." 
 
 "That'll sure be nice, won't it, Johnny?" David said. "I bet that'll 
 sure feel good to you." 
 
 "It will," Johnny said. "I'm looking forward to it." 
 
 David scuffed oif then, in his restlessness, and set about picking 
 a bunch of flowers, yellow dogtooths, wood violets, false rue. He had 
 quite a bouquet when he returned to his blanket and sat down with 
 it in his hands. 
 
 "What's the occasion?" Johnny said, rolling over on his side and 
 looking at the flowers. "Going to put them in the vase in the 
 parlor?" 
 
 "No," David said. "I just thought they was kind of pretty and I 
 — didn't have nothing else to do." He sat there, holding them in 
 his hands like a young lady about to have her picture taken. 
 
 "I'll tell you what. I'll read you something," Johnny offered, pick- 
 ing up the paper full of George Alfred Townsend's long article on 
 Lincoln's funeral and doubling it back to the last page. "Listen to 
 this." Deliciously mimicking the negro dialect when the time came, 
 he read: 
 
 A Raid. — A correspondent at Washington wrote: "Ow- 
 ing to Mosby's depredations, the word 'raid' is worked into 
 almost every expression. I have in my employ a contraband, 
 of double-dyed blackness, called John. I went out to my barn 
 one morning, and, noticing that his face was wet with per- 
 spiration, remarked that he looked pretty warm.' 'Yes, 
 massa,' was his reply, 'Ise had a pretty big raid on my 
 muscle dis mornin', and Ise mos' done gone!' " 
 
 David shouted with laughter, still clutching his flowers, and 
 Johnny had to caution him to be still for fear someone would hear 
 
 230 
 
him. He read another little squib down at the very bottom of the 
 page: 
 
 "Joe," said a soldier, looking up from the newspaper he 
 was reading, "where the devil's Status Quo ? I see this paper 
 says our army's in Status Quo." "Dunno," replied Joe. 
 "Reckon she must be in the east fork of the Chickamorgy ! " 
 
 This tickled David nearly as much, although he had no idea 
 where Status Quo was either. "Read some more, Johnny," he begged. 
 "I like when you read them funny stories. I could die laughing." 
 
 Johnny folded up the newspaper and tucked it down beside him. 
 "Those are the only two jokes there are today. There're no more in 
 the paper." 
 
 "Can't you tell me some, then?" 
 
 "I can't think of any right now, David." 
 
 "If you do, will you tell 'em to me?" He sat a while longer with 
 his fading flowers and then began to throw them away one by one. 
 
 It was pitch dark when they heard a horse's slow, soft walk and a 
 man's still softer footfalls on the road. They ceased, there was silence, 
 and then Jones's old whistle, pause, whistle, came to their ears for 
 the last time. David had gathered together their few possessions 
 before darkness fell, and now, taking them up and going to help 
 Johnny rise for the journey, he accidentally touched his friend's 
 cheek and found it as hot as fire, although Johnny's teeth were 
 chattering. 
 
 "Got your crutches?" David asked. 
 
 "Yes," Johnny said, giving a little groan as he supported his weight 
 momentarily on his injured leg while he shoved the clumsy crutches 
 beneath his armpits. "Go on, I'll follow you." 
 
 "I'd better help you," David said. "It's quite a piece to the road 
 for somebody crippled up. Glory, Johnny," he went on, as they 
 slowly proceeded around bushes, through the narrow openings be- 
 tween tree trunks and over the treacherous branches that brought 
 exclamations of pain from the injured man when they twisted 
 underfoot, "ain't it good to be leaving this thicket?" He glanced 
 back in the direction of the marsh, where its thick, shallow waters 
 
 231 
 
began. "Only I wisht — don't you wisht, Johnny ? — that we had them 
 little old horses. I keep thinking how nice it would be if we had 
 them horses and they hadn't of been shot that way, so mean." 
 
 "It would have been," Johnny said, wiping the sweat of! his 
 forehead, while he shivered and shook in his damp coat. "Only it's 
 no use — crying over spilt milk." 
 
 Jones said, when they finally reached him, "We'll put Mr. Booth 
 on my horse, and Herold, you walk beside him. I'll go up ahead 
 about fifty yards. Every little while I'll stop and give a whistle, real 
 low, and then you come forward till you catch up with me. I'll 
 keep going on ahead, and whistling, and you catch up with me, and 
 that way we'd ought to make it to the river with no danger." 
 
 "How far is it?" Johnny asked. 
 
 "Well, we've got to go down through the pines about a mile and 
 a half, over a path, and then down the public road another mile till 
 we get to the corner of my farm. That's the part I dread most," he 
 said, "that mile of road, because we're sure as hell to meet somebody, 
 and besides, there are two houses to pass along there that won't be 
 no snap. One of them's full of children that are always running 
 around the yard or playing in the road day or night, and the other's 
 got six or eight dogs that bark their fool heads of? if the least little 
 thing gets them started. So that stretch I ain't looking forward to 
 and that's the truth." 
 
 Though mounting a horse seemed almost an impossibility, it 
 wasn't as bad to sit astride as Johnny had feared. Jones kept far 
 ahead, then would stop, whistle, and they would catch up with 
 him, David walking on tiptoe and holding his breath about half 
 the time. They made it, the mile and a half through the pines, and 
 then entered the public road. 
 
 David glanced up into the dark heavens just in time to see a star 
 shoot in an arc and fall. "Johnny!" he whispered. "Look!" 
 
 "Shhh," Johnny said, leaning downward to speak as nearly into 
 his ear as possible. "I saw it." 
 
 "Does it mean bad luck?" 
 
 "Oh, no," Johnny said. "Good luck. It always means good luck." 
 
 It must have, for all along the perilous mile they met no one and 
 
 232 
 
they passed the two deadly dangerous houses without a child or a 
 dog arousing. 
 
 "Here we are," Jones said. They stopped near his table, a stone's 
 throw from the small house, where one window was orange with 
 lamplight. "I've got you some food wrapped ready to take along," 
 he said softly, coming up to the horse's head. "I'll just go in and get 
 it and you wait here." He started ofl. 
 
 "Wait, Mr. Jones," Johnny whispered after him. 
 
 He heard and came back. 
 
 Johnny's teeth clicked together. "Please," he said, "please. Couldn't 
 I come in with you? Couldn't we? Just to sit for a minute by the 
 fire?" 
 
 David said nothing, but his sigh added a plea to Johnny's. 
 
 "If we could just go in? And — warm our hands?" (And see how 
 the keeping room of a house looks lit by lamplight once more, see a 
 cupboard, a chair, a table, see how a log burning on an open hearth 
 looks, see a picture on a wall, a calendar, hold a china cup by its 
 small handle, hear a clock tick? Once more, once more?) "Maybe 
 we could — have a cup of coffee?" He gave a little laugh to cover 
 his shame. "I — we'd like it, sir. You can't imagine." 
 
 Jones's Adam's apple went up and down. "You got to get going, 
 Mr. Booth. There might not be no chance again." 
 
 "Just for a little while. Not for long, honestly. We won't impose — " 
 (I beg of you. I beg of you.) 
 
 "No, Mr. Booth," Jones said, swallowing again. "You just stay 
 here and I'll go in, and I'll be right out, and lead you down to the 
 river." When he turned away and started for the warm light of 
 home, it blurred a little before his eyes. 
 
 This time they went over a soft and rutty open field for some 
 distance, Jones walking on one side of the horse, David on the other. 
 He stopped them finally and said, "Now, Mr. Booth, we'll help you 
 down. It's about three hundred more yards and you'll have to 
 walk it." 
 
 They could hear the lapping water in the darkness ahead, went 
 toward it. It was slow work, for the crutches were useless in the 
 boggy ground and David carried them while Johnny hung his left 
 
 233 
 
arm around the boy's neck and leaned heavily against him. Every 
 downward step was an agony. When they reached the river only 
 its sound made a presence of it, fabulizing its width and depth, 
 spangling it, though it was as black as the night. 
 
 Jones gave them hasty directions. "Cross right here from Pope's 
 Creek, don't go down nor up but strike straight across which is five 
 miles. You'll land so's you can go up Machodoc Creek. Mr. Booth, 
 you steer, and Herold, you row." He lit a stub of candle and they 
 bent their heads over Johnny's compass, studying it, while Jones 
 cupped the telltale flame with his palm. He glanced at Johnny and 
 felt remorse when he saw how sick he looked. "I can't go with you," 
 he said. "I'm afraid the Negroes on the place would get suspicious 
 and maybe blab to someone. But you won't have no trouble. You 
 got it all straight?" He blew the candle out and handed it to 
 Johnny, who stuck it with the compass in his coat pocket. "Right 
 straight across to Machodoc Creek. Go up it a little ways and you'll 
 see Mrs. Quesenberry's house. It'll be off to your right about fifty 
 yards from the creek. Pretty little place, you can't miss it, in among 
 some poplars, got a porch in front and a red chimney, set on a nice 
 green lawn. You say to her I sent you — she knows me. And have 
 her get you in touch with my brother-in-law, name's Thomas Har- 
 bin. I can't promise he'll do nothing, he don't take much interest in 
 folk's troubles, but you can try him. You got all that?" 
 
 "Five miles straight across," Johnny repeated. "Machodoc Creek. 
 Mrs. Quesenberry's. Poplars. Red chimney. Have her get us in touch 
 with Mr. Thomas Harbin." 
 
 The boat was twelve feet long and shallow. It had a flat bottom 
 and didn't rock much when Johnny clambered heavily into it and 
 took his place. David came after him and managed not to stumble 
 over his injured leg. He sat down with a grunt and reached for the 
 oars. Jones started to push the boat off when Johnny said, "Wait a 
 minute, just a minute, wait. I want to give you this." He groped 
 backward in the darkness for Jones's elbow, felt for his hand, found 
 it, pressed some bills into it. 
 
 "Here," Jones said, "here, now. I don't want no money." 
 
 "There isn't money enough in the world to pay you for what 
 you've done for me, while every man's hand is turned against me," 
 
 234 
 
Johnny said in a husky voice. "But I won't take your boat without 
 pay. You may not get it back again." 
 "I don't want no money, Mr. Booth." 
 "Take it, my good friend, or we must remain here." 
 Reluctantly Jones closed his fingers around it, put it slowly into 
 his back pocket. "I wish you a safe journey," he said, with odd, gen- 
 teel formality, "all the way, every step of the way. I wish you may 
 fare well." His hand met Johnny's in the dark and gripped it. "Poor 
 lad," his lips said. "Poor lad. . . ." He shoved the boat hard and it 
 glided outward. There came the sound of oars rising and falling 
 and Johnny's last words to him in a stage whisper, "Good-by, my 
 kind, kind friend." 
 
 235 
 
'. . . Whereby I shall go see Thy ship ride on the strand 
 And think and say Lo where he comes and 
 Sure here he will land. . . ." 
 
 — tottel's miscellany 
 
 If they had been experienced navigators they must have reached 
 the other side eventually, though the river was at treacherous 
 flood tide. But added to the fact that they were not and that a 
 gunboat seeming little smaller than the Capitol loomed out of the 
 dark to send them wildly fleeing, whether to east or west, they got 
 hopelessly of! their course. When it grew light enough they saw 
 with a feeling of panic that in spite of all David's rowing, all 
 Johnny's steering, they were still on the Maryland side of the river. 
 
 "But we must have come miles!" Johnny said in horror. 
 
 They had. They had come twelve miles out of their way and were 
 no closer to — indeed, much farther from — their goal than when they 
 had started. They were drifting now, and weary David craned his 
 neck to see where they might be. "Say," he said, "we're up around 
 the Nanjemoy Stores. I recognize this place. Pa brought me hunting 
 here many a time. Ducks. We used to get mallards and bluebills 
 and all kinds. We hunted around here every so often." 
 
 Johnny, sick and exhausted, huddled in his shawl, kept silent. 
 
 "I know a man around here, too. I'll steer for right in that creek 
 there," David said, doing it, "and land, and go and try to find him. 
 He's got a round tower to his house and his boy got killed at 
 Antietam or one of them battles. He knew my pa and he knew 
 me, too. The times we'd come here, my pa would say, 'We'll pay a 
 call on Colonel Hughes and drink some of his buttermilk.' He had 
 fine buttermilk. Pa'd drink a couple quarts. Yes, sir, that's what 
 
 236 
 
I'll do," David said. "I'll land right along here and go and try to 
 find Colonel Hughes. He'll take us in, you can bet!" 
 
 He hid the boat under some willows. 
 
 "If you find him," Johnny said tiredly, "don't even ask him if we 
 can stay. I want to get out of Maryland. We've got to get over into 
 Virgina. We've got to. If you find him, just ask him how and when 
 we can cross the river, ask him what time's right, and ask him if 
 he can let us have some brandy." When David stepped ashore and 
 started out, he lay full length in the boat, so numb with cold that 
 even his pain was numbed, and then he dropped into a fitful slumber 
 that lasted a long while. 
 
 When he opened his eyes he didn't know where he was at first — 
 among willows and in a boat upon water instead of on the ground 
 under the pines. ... It took a moment to remember and when he 
 did he sat up in a panic, his heart pounding. He reached for his 
 watch with shaking fingers and stared at it in disbelief. Nine 
 o'clock, five minutes to nine and David had been gone over three 
 hours! They might have caught him! He might have run away! 
 "Oh, God," Johnny said through stiff lips, "please send David back, 
 I'm all alone, I can't make it by myself. I can't, dear God. Please, 
 please, send him back." He was crying, and he found his hand- 
 kerchief and wiped his eyes thinking I must be sick — I must be 
 losing my mind — crying. I've got to stop it. I can't sit here in this 
 goddamned boat crying like a two-year-old. He stopped, made him- 
 self stop, the better to confront the problem that faced him if David 
 never returned. He grew hotter and hotter, so hot that he leaned 
 over and hung his hands in the chill water. His lips blistering with 
 the strange heat, he began to cool them with his wet fingers, shut 
 his blistering eyes, praying, "God, God, send David back." 
 
 David came back. He lifted up the willows like the curtain of a 
 tent and stepped into the boat. 
 
 He had ham and bread with him, but no brandy. "Colonel 
 Hughes never had none," he explained. "But he give me this jar 
 of milk." 
 
 Johnny shuddered, and his fever abated little by little until he 
 was cold again. 
 
 "It ain't buttermilk, though. It's sweet milk." 
 
 237 
 
"Did he tell you how to get across? And when?" Johnny took the 
 bread and ham David offered him but he bit off little chunks with 
 distaste and found he could hardly chew and swallow it. 
 
 "He says we can get across easy — the river's only three miles wide 
 here — and then we can drift right down on the other side of 
 Machodoc Creek. But we got to stay where we are till dark tonight 
 because the tide won't be right till then." He talked with his mouth 
 full, and reached for the jar of milk. 
 
 "All day, till dark," Johnny said drearily. 
 
 "We're safe as houses," David said. "Nobody would think of 
 looking for us here where we are. So I'm going to take me a nice 
 little snooze. I can't hardly keep my eyes open. Say, you know 
 Colonel Hughes's place was lots farther off than I recollected? I 
 liked to walk my legs off before I seen that round tower. Say, 
 Johnny." 
 
 "What?" Johnny said, pressing his fingers to his throbbing temples. 
 
 "You know how you said not to ask him if we could stay because 
 we want to get on over into Virginia? Well, I can tell you one 
 thing. It wouldn't of done no good. Glory, Johnny, you should of 
 seen the look on his face when he seen it was me knocking on his 
 door. You should of seen how he snuck me in and snuck me out. 
 'Why, boy,' he says to me, 'I'd sooner see the very Old Nick than 
 see you right this minute.' 'That so?' I says. 'Why, the whole blame 
 Union Army is after you and that actor,' he says. 'They been run- 
 ning over my place like grasshoppers. They go on but there's always 
 new ones coming. I wouldn't dare keep you five minutes. And them 
 damn detectives,' he says, 'pussyfooting around. Why, they'd nab 
 you before you could count to ten. And what do you think's to 
 happen to the folks who lift a finger for you?' he says. 'What?' I 
 says. 'Execution,' he says. 'They'll be hung as traitors to the country.' 
 'I wouldn't want to see you hung,' I says, 'Colonel Hughes.' 'No, 
 and I wouldn't want to see myself hung either,' he says. 'Well, then,' 
 I says, 'if you'll just tell us when's the best time to cross the river, 
 and give us a little something to eat, and some brandy — ' I says. 
 But he didn't have no brandy. I bet he's still shaking in his shoes," 
 he added, wiping the crumbs off his lips but leaving the cheerful 
 smile intact. "I never seen a man so scared." 
 
 238 
 
Johnny reclined, bunching the blanket under his head for a pillow, 
 but that was not comfortable so he soon sat up, moving his injured 
 leg a few inches to the side with his two hands, and lit his pipe. 
 "You know, David," he said, "I got to thinking maybe you weren't 
 coming back." 
 
 "Not coming back!" David said, opening his eyes wide. "Where 
 would I go, for glory's sake?" 
 
 "I thought you'd just do the sensible thing and go on by yourself, 
 without dragging along a man with a broken leg. And I was trying 
 to figure out what I'd do— without you." He could smile about it 
 now, as one can smile about a nightmare. 
 
 "Why, I wouldn't do no such thing as that," David said reproach- 
 fully. "And anyway, my face is plastered all over the country just 
 the same as yours is. They'd nab me just as quick without you, as 
 with you. And besides," he went on, groping for the right words, 
 "you're my friend. You — been nice to me, give me a gun and free 
 passes and I don't know what all. Why, glory, Johnny, you're a 
 famous actor! I'm— proud you took to me." 
 
 "I'm proud you took to me," Johnny said gently. He looked at his 
 companion curiously as though he were seeing for the first time the 
 clear friendly eyes, straight brows and childish mouth that never 
 wanted to do anything but smile and chatter. David was thinner 
 than he had been and the cheeks under the transparent fuzz of his 
 first beard had lost their peach red. 
 
 He flushed under Johnny's scrutiny and put a boyish hand up to 
 his cowlick, smoothing it down. "And besides," he said, "wasn't you 
 going to make an actor out of me? Wasn't you going to learn me 
 to act on the stage?" 
 
 "Of course," Johnny said. "I haven't forgotten." 
 
 "Me, neither," David said. "I want to act more the funny parts, 
 like, and make people laugh. But the only trouble with me, I'm 
 liable to bust out laughing myself. That's what worries me. How 
 does an actor keep from busting out laughing himself at all that 
 funny stuff?" He laughed, speculating on this dilemma of the future. 
 
 "Oh, that doesn't need to worry you," Johnny said seriously. 
 "You'll learn. It's like learning anything else." 
 
 While David napped in the bottom of the boat through the long 
 
 239 
 
noontide and half the afternoon, Johnny in the green willow-light 
 got his diary out and wrote in it again with a patriotic hand the 
 patriotic words of his letter-perfect role. 
 
 The role, however, was growing harder to play. Almost as hard, 
 if one faced it squarely and took everything into consideration, as it 
 might have been to go ahead and play himself, a handsome young 
 actor full of unnatural love and hatred, with a soul in torment and a 
 lost voice. If it got much harder he might have to give up the part 
 altogether. But no, he could not do that, could he? He had to keep 
 on with it, because, terrifyingly, assassin and self were now one and 
 indissoluble. He brought his right hand up close to his face and 
 looked at it. That reverberating death of Lincoln, that enormity, 
 that amplest structure in America — he could not unbuild it now. 
 With this hand, it was built forever and nobody could push it down. 
 He hid his hand in the water over the boat's side, but not to cool it 
 for it was cold as death. 
 
 He went on thinking. He had . . . put on a costume, tried it on. It 
 became him wondrously, fitted like a glove, and he strutted about 
 in it so everyone could see. But now, of terrible oak and alder and 
 blackthorn, it had grown fast to him, was sealed, above, below, all 
 around. The buried corpse opens its dim eyes and sees the casket 
 so, scratches fearfully with its growing fingernails those sides and 
 top, squeaks like a chill, shrill mouse, chitters, claws, dimly and 
 twitteringly wails. . . . There was no way to get it off, get out of it, 
 go free. Coffin and corpse were one. Slayer and he were one, there 
 was no going back to being himself, because this was himself. He 
 breathed fast but there wasn't enough air. He looked around wildly, 
 his nostrils distended, his mouth half open, breathing frantically, 
 trying to get what air there was. He sweat and shook, burned and 
 shivered. "Help me, help me," he said, but David slept and the 
 plumes of willow waved in the unfledged wind. 
 
 When David woke up, the first thing he asked was, "What time 
 is it, for glory's sake?" 
 
 "Almost three," Johnny said, wondering if he looked so changed 
 that David would notice. 
 
 "Oh," the boy said in disappointment. He looked at Johnny, who 
 
 240 
 
anxiously watched and felt relieved when his eyes were not startled. 
 "I was hoping it would be five or six. Don't it seem like we got to 
 wait a long time till night and we can get going?" 
 
 It seemed two or three times as long as it actually was, but some- 
 how, by talking and being silent, dozing, restlessly changing posi- 
 tions and talking again, they managed to while away the hours 
 until darkness. 
 
 "I was thinking that old thicket back there on Colonel Cox's 
 place — " David said, "I was thinking that old thicket was about the 
 worst spot where anybody could have to stay, but now I kind of 
 wisht we was back there again, with me moseying around, and you 
 reading the newspapers and old Jones coming by. I bet it looks 
 funny there without us, the place where you slept and I slept, where 
 we wore the ground down smooth. I bet it looks lonesome, and 
 sounds lonesome, with us not there talking no more. I bet that old 
 owl wonders where we went to. You know something, Johnny?" 
 
 "No, what?" 
 
 "I'm going to buy me a horse someday. You know what kind?" 
 
 "What kind?" 
 
 "Just like that little old bay! She was awful nice, wasn't she, with 
 that white star on her forehead and the way she'd act so kind of 
 forward and flip. Wasn't she? You know something?" he said. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I just wanted to bust that overseer in the nose. I could of bawled 
 — but of course I didn't." 
 
 David liked to hear how it was going to be over in Virginia when 
 they got there, and pressed Johnny to tell him the whole story again. 
 Johnny did, though talking pained and tired him and it was hard 
 to keep his mind on what he was saying, but somehow it all seemed 
 quite likely, quite true, and the recital comforted him almost as 
 much as it reassured his young companion. 
 
 That night they had good luck and, the tide being right, crossed 
 the river. They drifted down the Virginia shore, hunting Machodoc 
 Creek. They kept their eyes open and went like a snail, but just 
 when dawn was beginning to break they left the river and paddled 
 up the wrong creek. There was no house, of course, with a red 
 chimney, fifty yards from the water to their right. They looked and 
 
 241 
 
looked for those poplars, that front porch, that patch of lawn. It 
 was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 "We've got off the track," Johnny said. "We've gone wrong 
 somehow. There's no such house as Jones described and I know 
 we've come far enough up to have seen it if there were." 
 
 "What'll we do?" David asked worriedly. "Go down her and out 
 in the river again, and try to find Machodoc Creek ? It's probably the 
 next one we come to." 
 
 "No," Johnny said. "It's too late for that. It's broad daylight. 
 There'll be too many boats on the. river. We'd be spotted sure. No, 
 I'll tell you what, David. Land in there under that big tree to the 
 left, and then maybe you'd better start walking off in that direction. 
 Mrs. Quesenberry must live around here somewhere. Maybe you 
 can ask somebody." 
 
 But David was reluctant to do as Johnny said. His conversation 
 with Colonel Hughes had sobered and made him timid. "It's too 
 early," he said. He pulled the boat up onto the sloping bank and 
 helped Johnny out. "Let's just sit here for a while." 
 
 Finally he was persuaded to go off and hunt for Mrs. Quesen- 
 berry 's house. Johnny drowsed off under the big walnut tree while 
 he was gone. He was never without pain but he had grown used to 
 it now after nine days and ten nights, as the exhausted mother of 
 the chronically crying child begins hardly to hear it. He was asleep 
 when David came back with a woebegone face, but he woke in- 
 stantly, though the boy made no sound. "What's the matter?" he 
 said, sitting up. "Couldn't you find the house? Wasn't the lady 
 home?" 
 
 David sat down heavily, thrusting his hands between his knees. 
 "She was home all right," he said. "The house is right off that way 
 a couple of miles." He pointed. "And I told her Mr. Thomas Jones 
 sent us and everything. But she said she wouldn't any more take us 
 in than fly to the moon. She says they'd every last one of them get 
 hung if she did, her, and her old man and all her kids. She says 
 it'd be as much as their lives was worth." 
 
 Johnny's lips tightened. 
 
 "I told her you was hurt bad and everything, and how we didn't 
 
 242 
 
have nothing to eat and no place to sleep and didn't know what we 
 was going to do next — " 
 
 "You shouldn't have told her that." 
 
 " — but nothing made no difference. 'I was loyal to the cause,' she 
 says, 'nobody can say I wasn't loyal to the cause, but I ain't risking 
 my neck and my loved ones' necks. You've got to get off my place,' 
 she says, 'and you've got to get that actor off my place.' 'He ain't 
 on your place,' I says. 'Well, see that he ain't,' she says. She's one of 
 them heavy-set ladies that their necks gets red and starts to beat so 
 you can see it like she swallowed a bird." He thought this over dis- 
 consolately. "And here we are over in Virginia and people ain't no 
 nicer than they was before!" 
 
 "So then what happened?" Johnny said. He did not seem to care 
 very much. Suddenly he felt too indolent to move an inch, to rub 
 the eyelid that itched, to light his pipe. 
 
 "Why, nothing, only finally I guess she felt sorry," David went on, 
 "because she says, 'You're only a boy, ain't you?' And then she 
 promised to send us something to eat. I told her about old Jones's 
 kin and she says he lives right near by. She's going to send one of 
 her girls for him. Then she'll have him bring the stuff to eat she's 
 fixing, down here to the creek. Gambo Creek, this is, where we are, 
 she says. If she can get him to do it. I bet nobody'll come. And what 
 are we going to do?" He picked up a little stick and began poking 
 into the ground with it. "What will we do next, Johnny?" 
 
 "I'll — figure something out," Johnny said, closing his eyes to the 
 sunlight beyond the circle of shade where he rested, too weary to 
 move off the pebble between his shoulder blades. But when he tried 
 to think, he kept thinking of the wrong things, of Juanita the 
 squirrel at Nellie's house, turning that awful wheel round and 
 round day in and day out without stopping, and Asia waiting. And 
 there was something he ought to do, if he could only remember 
 what it was, some important business like mailing a letter or going 
 to a rehearsal — could he recall the words when the time came? — 
 "Thus high, by thy advice, and the assistance, is King Richard 
 seated: But shall we wear these glories for a day? Or shall they 
 last, and we rejoice in them?" And somebody wanted him to jump 
 
 243 
 
off a little platform twenty feet above the stage, but his leg was 
 broken and he couldn't do it, even if the President was coming to 
 the performance. But of course that was a lie . . . the overseer shot 
 him and David cried. And Ella must be told not to wait any longer 
 in red and yellow skirts because the wheel kept going round and 
 it was hard for him to remember all the words of his part — "No, 
 Cassius, no? think not, thou noble Roman, that ever Brutus will go 
 bound to Rome; he bears too great a mind. But this same day. . . . 
 Must end that work the ides of March begun . . . and whether we 
 shall meet again I know not. Therefore our everlasting farewell 
 take. . . . Forever, and forever, farewell, Cassius! If we do meet 
 again, why, we shall smile. ... If not, why, then this parting was 
 well made." 
 
 "Johnny," David said. 
 
 He opened his eyes but he did not turn his head. 
 
 "Johnny, here's that Mr. Harbin that's the brother-in-law of Mr. 
 Jones." 
 
 He sat up then, painfully, and ran his hand over his dry lips. "How 
 do you do, sir," he said, trying to smile. It was so odd to dream and 
 be awake at the same time, most uncomfortably odd. He must try 
 not to do it. 
 
 Mr. Thomas Harbin had a face as friendly as a rusty pump over a 
 dry well. "You're barking up the wrong tree," he said. "Mrs. 
 Quesenberry sent you this satchel of stuff to eat but she can't take 
 you in and neither can I. None of us can, hereabouts." He handed 
 the pasteboard case to crestfallen David, who took it and said thank 
 you. "You'd best be on your way. That's all the advice I can give 
 you." 
 
 Johnny looked down at his leg. The dirty bandage on his swollen 
 ankle had stiffened with foul oozings until it was as hard as the 
 splints beneath it. "There's no better advice, I am sure of that, my 
 friend," he said sardonically, "but I have suffered a slight accident 
 and I can't walk. Also I have no horse, no wagon, no conveyance 
 of any sort. How would you propose that I carry out this apt 
 recommendation ? " 
 
 Harbin looked at him without expression. "That's no affair of 
 
 244 
 
mine," he said. "But just for curiosity's sake, where was you 
 aiming at?" 
 
 "Why, we're going — " David began eagerly. 
 
 "We are aiming at reaching the house of a man named Dr. 
 Stewart who is supposed to live somewhere in this locality," Johnny 
 said, his eyes not participating in the set smile upon his lips. "Do 
 you know where that would be?" 
 
 "Well, there's a Dr. Stewart about eight miles east of here," Har- 
 bin said unwillingly, "but he might not be the one. He's likely not." 
 
 "He likely is," Johnny said. "Would you drive us there for twenty 
 dollars?" 
 
 "Got no horse," Harbin said. 
 
 David backed up to the tree and began rubbing his shoulders 
 against it, his worried eyes first on Johnny's face then on their 
 visitor's. 
 
 "Do you know anyone who could or would take us there?" 
 
 The man considered. "Nobody but old Bryant," he said finally. 
 "He lives off that way," pointing to the east, "in among that stand 
 of forest. He'd do it for money." 
 
 "Would you be so good as to accompany us to his house?" 
 
 "Listen," Harbin said, ignoring Johnny's question, "all the advice 
 I got for you fellows is, you better get moving and not drag innocent 
 people into your troubles. Why, that damned Union government's 
 fixing to hang two, three hundred people before they get through. 
 I got to be getting back before some damned free nigger comes by 
 and sees us talking and goes and blabs and hangs the innocent with 
 the guilty." 
 
 "I will pay you five dollars to take us to Bryant's house," Johnny 
 said. He took the bill out and held it up. 
 
 The man's eyes wavered, and then he reached over and took it. 
 "Well," he said, "you fellows get back in your boat there and paddle 
 on up the creek till you get to the little bridge. I'll mosey along on 
 the bank and meet you there. You'll have to leave the boat then and 
 walk a piece, but it ain't so far through the woods. You can make it." 
 
 Mr. Bryant had a face still more unpromising than his neighbor's, 
 who left the two fugitives and fled as soon as cursory introductions 
 
 245 
 
had been made. But the twenty dollars spoke his language and he 
 consented to take them to Drv Stewart's in the late afternoon. "I 
 can't leave before then," he said. "Igot chores to do." It was within 
 the realm of possibility that he would shut the door of his small 
 cabin in their faces and leave them standing outside to wait during 
 the intervening three hours. 
 
 Johnny stood as straight as he could on his one leg with the 
 crutches under his arms. "May we come in?" he asked courteously. 
 
 Surprised, Bryant opened the door a little wider. "I guess so," he 
 mumbled. "Come on in." 
 
 David behind him, rubbing his hands on his trousers as though 
 this motion would make him presentable enough for polite society, 
 Johnny hobbled up the steps and past their unsmiling host, his 
 heart beating fast, and entered, as a man who is blind enters the 
 world of light again — a room. A small and poorly furnished room 
 it was, but very clean. The woman who kept it so was hovering by 
 the stove. A Negress of light color, she came forward timidly. "Wel- 
 come, sir," she said, as though she had been the lady of the house. 
 "Come and have a chair. It's warm outside but cold inside so we's 
 got us a fire." 
 
 David looked at Bryant out of the corner of his eyes, but Johnny 
 made a little bow to her. "Thank you," he said, "we shall be pleased 
 to do so." He smiled, and some of the old beauty came back, the 
 charm that had made so many do his bidding. 
 
 She smiled in return, a comely woman of a delicate tint like 
 molasses candy, her eyes matching her skin. She wore a clean blue 
 cotton gown tied with a spotted sash and she had bare feet. Her hair 
 was long and unbound, very dark, but not overly curly. 
 
 When she retired to another room, as she did soon, the place 
 where they sat seemed very quiet and empty. The two guests tried 
 to make conversation with their taciturn host but failed, even David 
 failed, and Johnny let his eyes rove about the room. Everything in it 
 seemed oddly unreal to him and not for actual use, like the exhibits 
 in a museum, the table, chairs, red japanned chest, even the woodbox 
 stacked with crooked lengths of apple boughs. It began to be much 
 too hot by the stove, and Johnny, sick at his stomach, wanted to 
 move away, but it was hard to find the energy and he could not 
 
 246 
 
imagine where else he should sit. He had again that grisly remem- 
 brance of Juanita in her cage and strove desperately to put it out of 
 his mind, because the more the wheel went around the sicker he 
 got. He licked his lips and put his hand up to his forehead, finding 
 it wet with perspiration. "Could I trouble you for a drink of water?" 
 he said, closing his eyes and holding on tight to the sides of the chair 
 to keep from being swept off into dizzy blackness. He hung on by 
 some miracle for days, weeks, until a cold, wet glass tickled against 
 his teeth and he was drinking thirstily. He could dare to open his 
 eyes then, but not let loose his grip on the chair, and he saw the 
 housekeeper bending over him. The deliciously cool thing on his 
 forehead was her hand, but she took it away almost at once. "You's 
 a sick man," she said in a high, sweet voice. "Best you gets to bed 
 for a while." 
 
 "He can't lay in this house and be sick," Harbin said. "I'm getting 
 him over to Dr. Stewart's place soon's the chores are done." 
 
 "He can lay here till he goes," she said. David was surprised that 
 Harbin didn't say a word back to her but just sat there fingering his 
 chin while the housekeeper, not even glancing his way, placed 
 Johnny's arm around her neck and helped him to rise. David came 
 and helped then, too, and together they got Johnny to a little alcove 
 and put him down upon a neatly made bed. Johnny was glad to be 
 there, away from the hot stove, he had been so warm, but now he 
 shivered and was grateful when the housekeeper came with a brightly 
 blocked quilt to throw over him. He saw the pattern through his 
 half -closed eyes. "Job's-tears?" he whispered. 
 
 "Johnny, you're not out of your head, are you?" David begged 
 fearfully, squatting down beside the bed. 
 
 "Of course I'm not," he said. 
 
 "No, young man," she said, "this ain't Job's-tears. It's just common 
 oF Wedding Ring. You know somebody blockin' Job's-tears?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 There was never anything so good as that bed and that goose- 
 down pillow with the clean calico case. As Johnny sank into slumber 
 it seemed that if he could just be here all his life, he would never 
 ask anything better, and all he had desired before seemd as idle and 
 foolish as the worthless old blunderbuss on the wall of his room at 
 
 247 
 
home. If Miss Charlotte Cushman, the clumsy actress, and a trunk 
 of theatrical costumes, had not sat so heavily upon his left leg, 
 which, while it did not pain him, was yet made extraordinarily 
 uncomfortable by this state of affairs, he might have rested very 
 well. He could wander away and leave the leg with its odd burden 
 but he could never forget it. He want to Mrs. Surratt's house on 
 two perfectly good legs and rapped at her door, but she was not at 
 home. All the streets were deserted. All the houses were entirely 
 empty. He said, "Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of 
 woman . . . shall e'er have power upon thee. Then fly, false thanes, 
 and mingle with the English epicures. . . . The mind I sway by, and 
 the heart I bear . . . shall never sag with doubt, nor shake with fear," 
 loudly all the way down the middle of the road but nobody stuck 
 his head out of any of the windows. With Asia lightweight as a 
 ghost upon his arm, he was going to a funeral. The dead man with- 
 out blood or heart or brain was so wonderfully, mystically and 
 magically embalmed that he had changed to genuine Italian marble 
 and would outlast the Giza Pyramids. "I understand it's quite a 
 sight," he explained, and Mother said — Asia said — "It should be 
 educational, should be educational, should be educational," whisper- 
 ing it like the wind. He could have gone anywhere he wanted with- 
 out that behemoth and that trunk upon his leg, that deadly weight, 
 but eventualy it always pulled him back to the bed in the alcove 
 where a mulatto woman was painted like clouds upon a high ceil- 
 ing that rippled above him. He might have slept as peacefully as a 
 babe. He did sleep peacefully. He watched himself sleeping with 
 his hand under his cheek and at the same time saw David out in a 
 boat rowing away as hard as he could until he was only a speck far, 
 far in the distance on the black waves, saw Ella in a bright cage 
 spinning and turning a hideous wheel. . . . 
 
 "Young man, young man." 
 
 He woke with a start. There was nothing on his leg, only the 
 splints and the stiff and grimy bandage. He wanted to rise to a 
 sitting position but it was very hard to do so; he merely thought 
 about it, gave it up and lay as he was, shifting his eyes to the side 
 to see who had spoken. 
 
 It was the housekeeper standing there, smiling. She had a plate in 
 
 248 
 
her hands with something for him to eat, and out of courtesy he 
 struggled upward. She helped him and he half sat. "I've done made 
 you a omelet," she said, putting the strangely heavy plate into his 
 hands. 
 
 He looked at it. "That was very kind," he said. It was feathery, 
 light and golden, sugared and cinnamoned. The sweat broke out 
 on his forehead. "I can't — eat it," he said, raising shamed eyes to her 
 face. "My stomach is somewhat upset." 
 
 "Couldn't you just take a little taste? It's most time for you to go. 
 They're out hitching up. You needs it for the stren'th." 
 
 "A thousand, ten thousand, pardons," he said wretchedly. "But I — 
 couldn't swallow a mouthful." 
 
 "You's 'fraid it would come right back up?" 
 
 He nodded, his cheeks flushing. 
 
 When she saw that he had to avert his eyes from it and nausea 
 was causing him to press his cracked lips tightly together, she 
 reached for the plate and sadly carried it out. 
 
 Johnny swung his feet to the floor and at that moment David 
 came in to help. "You was sure sawing away," he said. "I wandered 
 around outside and mostly sat on the steps by myself. That old 
 Bryant ain't no one to stay around if you got nowheres else to go. 
 I never seen nobody closer mouthed. Mean son of a gun," he went 
 on, lowering his voice, while Johnny stood swaying a moment be- 
 fore he felt well enough to take a step forward on his crutches, 
 "but that nigger woman's sure got him under her thumb. She says 
 something, it goes. Ain't that funny?" 
 
 He tried to think what to give her for her kindness, not money, 
 any more than he would leave money for a gracious hostess in a 
 refined circle, but some little memento. Johnny felt in all his pockets 
 but had nothing that would do except an unused linen handkerchief, 
 still folded, with his initials ornately worked. He folded it into a still 
 smaller square and slipped it under the pillow. 
 
 He looked for her in the keeping room and stuck his head in the 
 adjoining room, but she was not there. Neither was she anywhere 
 outside. When they drove off in the late afternoon sunshine he was 
 sorry that he had not seen her to tell her thank you and to say 
 good-by. 
 
 249 
 
"Now, I'm not such a fool as to be taking you by the regular 
 road," Bryant said, holding the reins tight and high in the manner 
 of a tandem driver, "so don't expect to be riding over velvet. We got 
 to go through the woods and byways, and we'll get a jouncing, but 
 that's better 'n being took up and hung." 
 
 It was not long before Johnny, white faced and agonized, began 
 to doubt it. But then, he had never been hung. 
 
 250 
 
XXI 
 
 7 have abandoned Troy, left my possession, 
 Incurred a traitor's name; exposed myself, 
 From certain and possess'd conveniences, 
 To doubtful fortunes. . . . 
 And here, to do you the service, am become 
 As new into the world, strange unacquainted: 
 I do beseech you, as in way of taste 
 To give me now a little benefit. . . ." 
 
 Troilus and Cressida: shakespeare 
 
 The sun was setting when the jolting stopped, and Bryant had 
 David get out of the wagon to open the sagging gate that led 
 into Dr. Stewart's estate. It was fenced and forested and when they 
 started up the half-mile, tree-lined road to the house hidden among 
 cedars and maples it was like going through a park. The grass, 
 bitterly green in the pink and lilac light, was clipped and smooth 
 and there were acres of it. 
 
 "What do you think the doc's worth?" Bryant demanded sud- 
 denly, startling even miserable Johnny, for he had hardly spoken 
 during their grueling trip. 
 
 David sat up straighter, pleased at the prospect of conversation. 
 He considered. "Well, he's sure got a lot of nice land here, and he's 
 got a great big house, what I can see of it. So I imagine — " be began. 
 
 "This ain't only his summer place," Bryant said, giving him a 
 contemptuous look. "This ain't only a drop in the bucket to what 
 he owns elsewhere. He's worth — why, that man's worth, if he's 
 worth a cent — " He paused to clear his throat and spit over the roll- 
 ing wheel. "Why, do you know who come here and stayed every 
 little while during the war? Stayed right here in that house?" 
 
 "No, who ? " David asked with great interest. 
 
 251 
 
It had been a punishing ride. But we will be there soon, it's only 
 a little way now, just a few steps really — why, I could almost reach 
 out and touch the house, Johnny thought. And he's a doctor, he'll 
 give me something to take, he'll fix my leg. I'll explain to him how 
 sick I've been and ache all over and can't eat, although my leg 
 doesn't pain the way it did, it just feels so heavy and queer. I'll tell 
 him all that. He'll know what to do. 
 
 Johnny could see himself carried into a large, cool room. They 
 took his clothes off . . . the first time he had his clothes off in how 
 many days? as sorely wounded knights were carried and tended in 
 olden time. They . . . sponged his hot skin and slipped him between 
 cool sheets in a great canopied bed. They went around pulling 
 down the shades and the light turned to greenish dark while they 
 said you have gone through enough, you have been brave enough, 
 now sleep and rest. 
 
 I'll count, he decided, gritting his teeth and trying not to mind 
 the going. It will only be a little while now, a few minutes. One, 
 two, three, four . . . when he got to nine he remembered that he 
 must comb his hair, smooth his mustache — no, he had no mustache — 
 make himself presentable. He tried to brush off his coat, in sudden 
 panic that he had waited too long, got out his little tortoise-shell 
 comb and with shaking fingers, the effort making the sweat run 
 down his ribs from his armpits, began to comb his hair. It felt stiff 
 and dry, and it came out in the comb, quite a lot of it. It perplexed 
 him to find the teeth of the comb wound with hair, and, as though 
 it might be somebody else's of another color than his own, he threw 
 away the combings with disdainful fingers and a revolted stomach. 
 
 "Why, General Lee's daughters, that's who!" Bryant said trium- 
 phantly. "Time after time, they come right here and stayed in this 
 very house with Dr. Stewart's folks while their daddy was off fight- 
 ing the war. No, sir," he said, "the Stewarts ain't nobody to bust in 
 on. They know who they mix with." He gave David that contemp- 
 tuous look again. "They know, all right. Anybody else is out on 
 their sit-downs!" 
 
 It looked the handsomest house in the world as Bryant jerked on 
 the reins and the horse halted, the wicked wheels made their last 
 racking turn and the wagon stopped before the flower-bordered 
 
 252 
 
walk that led to the wide front porch and the polished door three 
 times the size of an ordinary one. There were some young ladies 
 walking arm in arm in the side garden. Their dresses looked won- 
 derfully imponderable, though stiff standing and precious in the 
 red and purple evening, upon the green grass. Johnny saw the scene 
 as on a tapestry hung up in some dim place far off, while David 
 helped him down and worked his crutches under his arms, saying, 
 "This is sure nice, ain't it, Johnny?" He nodded, wondering why 
 his heart should begin pounding so fast and his breath should come 
 so short. Bryant had climbed down, too, and was rounding the 
 wagon when the large front door opened and a man came out and 
 started toward them. 
 
 He was tall and massive, with graying blond hair and mustache 
 and imperial to match. He had a nose like Washington's, light, 
 sharp eyes and a carnation complexion. He was wearing fine gray 
 serge, and an old-fashioned ruffled shirt under a plush waistcoat. 
 He walked like a soldier, which he was not, for he had served the 
 Confederacy in other ways. Twice he had been arrested and im- 
 prisoned for harboring gentlemen spies, once in Washington and 
 once on a prison ship, which he found so disagreeable that he never 
 wanted to repeat the experience. He came straight up to his newly 
 arrived visitors. 
 
 "I don't want to know your names," he said, "and I don't want to 
 know your business. My house is full and I have no room for 
 uninvited guests." 
 
 The ground lurched under Johnny's feet. He opened his mouth 
 to speak but the words he wanted wouldn't come. He felt David's 
 hand on his arm, steadying him, felt Bryant's insolent, sidelong look. 
 
 "He's hurt," David said. "He needs to get his leg fixed. It's broke 
 and he's got to get a new bandage put on." 
 
 "I am not a surgeon," Dr. Stewart said. "I do not carry on a prac- 
 tice. Who took it upon himself to send you to me?" 
 
 "Dr. Mudd, over in Bryantown," David said desperately. "He told 
 us you would put some new bandages on Johnny's leg. Didn't he, 
 Johnny?" 
 
 Johnny did not answer, could not. 
 
 "I don't know the man," Dr. Stewart said. "I am not a surgeon. 
 
 253 
 
I cannot help you in any way. And I am entirely unable to offer you 
 hospitality." He turned from them abruptly and started up the walk. 
 
 "Doctor," Johnny said in a clear, ringing voice. 
 
 Something in it had the authority to stop the red-faced man and 
 bring him back, though only a few steps. "There is no need to dis- 
 cuss it further," he said. "You will be so good as to leave the 
 premises." 
 
 With his old aplomb, summoned by terrible will, Johnny said, 
 "You do not wish to know our names, because you know our 
 names. You do not wish to know our business, because you know 
 our business was to serve our country by striking off the chains of 
 tyranny which held her fast. So be it, honored sir. It is not for such 
 as myself to basely grovel before such as you. I bid you good evening. 
 Come, David," he said. 
 
 "My money," Bryant, behind them, reminded him in a loud 
 whisper. 
 
 "But where shall we go, Johnny? We got no place to go!" David 
 besought him, and when he did not answer, hastened to the doctor 
 who had started up the path again. "Please, Doctor," he begged, 
 "please let us sleep in your barn, at least. We got no place at all, and 
 he's hurt bad, and I don't know what we can do. We can't bid 
 nobody good evening. We just can't, Doctor!" 
 
 The doctor was touched in spite of himself by the boy's distress. 
 "There's a colored man named William Lucas down the road a mile 
 or two. Go to him and he might let you sleep there," he said. "And 
 before you leave, you can go around to the back door and the cooks 
 will give you something to eat." 
 
 "David!" Johnny called sharply. 
 
 "You see, boy," the doctor said, "a man has duties and obligations. 
 I have a name and a family, and in these days of violence — " 
 
 "David." 
 
 "Yes, Johnny, I'm coming," David called over his shoulder and 
 then turned back to the doctor. "We'll go to that nigger's you said, 
 and many thanks to you. A lady named Mrs. Quesenberry sent us 
 some bread and stuff so we don't need nothing to eat," he said, "but 
 it's sure nice of you to offer." 
 
 Johnny hobbled up to them now. "Yes, indeed," he said cavalierly. 
 
 254 
 
"I must add my heartfelt expressions of gratitude to my com- 
 panion's. I despair to think how we can ever repay your kindness. 
 Come, David, we'll get Mr. Bryant to take us on." 
 
 Their driver had also approached. "I got to be getting back," he 
 said, humble and low voiced in front of the grand doctor. "It's dark 
 already." 
 
 "You wait a minute," the doctor said, and Bryant backed away, 
 climbed docilely into the wagon, took up the reins and waited. "You 
 are welcome to go around to the kitchen and be fed before you 
 leave," he repeated to the haughty cripple. "What food you have 
 with you, you can use later on when you may need it badly." 
 
 Johnny gave a short laugh. 
 
 "We maybe ought — " David said timidly, plucking at Johnny's 
 sleeve. 
 
 "This is no time for false pride," the doctor said. In the gathering 
 darkness his red and his gray faded out and only his white shirt 
 front remained like a countenance. 
 
 "You are right, sir," Johnny said tightly, his eyes brilliant in the 
 dark. "It is a time for true pride. Thus, I will accept your invitation. 
 My friend and I shall go like beggars to your back door and there 
 we shall break the bread of hospitality." Painfully he started off and 
 David, looking back an apology, went after him. 
 
 But in the huge, lamp-lighted kitchen lit like a smithy with a 
 roaring fire, beside the scrubbed pine table, he could not swallow 
 a mouthful of the steaming meat and vegetables that a silent black 
 woman of tremendous girth set before them. His companion ate 
 ravenously and in less than a quarter-hour they were ready to set 
 out again, the bottle of brandy sent out by the doctor under David's 
 arm. 
 
 In the wagon again, starting for the cabin they hoped to get shelter 
 in, Bryant said, "I should of been on my way long ago. I'm taking 
 you on as a favor to the doctor. But I could of told you ... the 
 Stewarts ain't nobody to bust in on. They know who they mix with! 
 Anybody else is out on their sit-downs." 
 
 It was dark enough now, dark and late enough so that nobody 
 would see or know. Johnny put his burning face in his burning 
 hands and cried without making a sound. 
 
 255 
 
William Lucas, the Negro, said doubtfully that the two travelers 
 could come in, he guessed, although his cabin had only one room 
 and was not what he would call "fit for white folks." Johnny, once 
 inside, hobbled to the table on which a candle burned, and clumsily 
 bringing a rickety chair up to it, sat down and began to write with 
 his stub of pencil on a blank page torn from his diary. 
 
 "What are you doing?" David asked curiously. "Old Bryant wants 
 his money." 
 
 "Tell him to wait a minute," Johnny said. "I want him to deliver 
 this note to Dr. Stewart on the way back. I am too galled, David, too 
 galled. I have to tell him" — he went on writing, pressing hard on 
 the pencil — "and I've got to pay him. I could never rest a minute, 
 not a minute, as long as I live if he isn't paid." He scrawled the last 
 word and folded it up with a five-dollar note inside. "There," he 
 said. "You take that and tell Bryant to deliver it to Stewart. And 
 here's his twenty dollars." 
 
 Puzzled, David did as he was bid. 
 
 A fearful Negro woman sitting in the corner saw that these young 
 men were heavily armed with carbines and pistols, and saw that the 
 ravaged, once-handsome face of the injured one had eyes that glit- 
 tered more than ordinary eyes, so she got up softly and went to 
 where her uneasy husband stood by the open door, waiting to let the 
 boy back in. "Le's sleep in the shed," she whispered. "Le's not sleep 
 in here." 
 
 When David entered and Bryant drove off, their host, with an 
 embarrassed chuckle, said, "We's got a place we can sleep, so you 
 jes' go ahead and take that bed in the corner." 
 
 Johnny, sitting by the table in a brown study, his head in his hand, 
 said, "This is very good of you, really." He looked up, frowningly. 
 There was something he ought to ask, something he ought to find 
 out about a journey of some sort. What was it? Oh, yes. "How far 
 is it to Port Conway?" he said. 
 
 Lucas gave his embarrassed chuckle again. " 'Bout seven, eight 
 miles, sir," he said. 
 "Could you take us there? Have you some sort of conveyance?" 
 "Well, sir, I's got a horse and Fs got a spring wagon, but tomor- 
 row I done promised — " 
 
 256 
 
"I'll pay you well for it." 
 
 Lucas shot a glance at his wife and she slowly nodded her head. 
 "Well," he said, "I guess if we starts early — " 
 "Oh, the earlier the better," David put in. 
 " — why, I guess we can." 
 
 For some reason, Johnny did not want the sputtering little candle 
 blown out. He wanted it left burning even after all the brandy was 
 gone and they were lying fully dressed upon the lumpy bed. 
 
 "Ain't you sleepy?" David asked, his own eyes heavy as lead. 
 
 "Not very," Johnny said. 
 
 But David did not fall asleep at once, either. "Say, Johnny," he said 
 as softly as the tiny room full of black shadows seemed to require. 
 "Did you notice when we got there at that — that place of Dr. Stew- 
 art's, did you notice them young ladies in the pretty-colored dresses ? 
 There was four or five of them and they was having a stroll in the 
 side garden, I guess. I seen 'em and then the next time I happened 
 to look, after Dr. Stewart come out, they was gone. Did you notice 
 them?" 
 
 "Yes," Johnny said, the tapestry of their loveliness and the loveli- 
 ness of the landscape unrolling between him and the empty wall. 
 "I noticed them." It pained his chest and he blinked the sight away. 
 
 "Well, coming here to this old cabin just now," David went on, 
 "I was thinking how — they must of been just like the ones you was 
 telling about when we was in Cox's grove. You know? The young 
 ladies that was going to play the piano and — do all them nice 
 things for us like you said — and — and — all that. Wasn't they?" 
 
 Johnny put his hand over his eyes and bit his parched lips. "Just 
 about like that," he said finally. 
 
 "Glory, Johnny," David said, drawing a deep sigh, "here we are 
 over in Virginia and it ain't no better than it was before. People is 
 meaner than ever, and here we thought they'd be nicer, and here 
 they're meaner. I don't know why folks act the way they do. And 
 ain't you scared to go to Port Conwav in broad daylight right down 
 the road?" 
 
 "I'll— pretend I don't feel well and lie down in the wagon," 
 Johnny said. 
 
 257 
 
"What if the soldiers come?" 
 
 "Soldiers?" Johnny said, bewildered. "Oh, the war's over. . . ." 
 Soldiers ? 
 
 "Not them soldiers, Johnny. The ones that's after us. And the 
 detectives." 
 
 "Don't you worry about that." 
 
 "Are we going to Richmond? Is that where we're going?" 
 
 "Yes, to Richmond. Yes, of course." 
 
 "Well, what if the people there ain't no better to us than everybody 
 else has been so far? What if they turn us down like all the rest? 
 What if they won't let us in nowhere and won't help us and won't 
 do nothing? What will we do, Johnny?" 
 
 With great gentleness Johnny put out his hand and pulled the 
 shawl up over David's shoulder. "You just go to sleep," he whis- 
 pered. "Everything will be all right. I'll fix it. . . ." 
 
 But after David was sound asleep, he could only say Richmond, 
 Richmond, Richmond and could go no farther. He thought if he 
 could ask his father how the next line went, why, Father could help 
 him. He would not ask Edwin, not for any money. It was dreadful 
 to stand here in front of everybody and not know how the next line 
 went. Mother said, "I wanted you to be the King of France, not an 
 actor." But Father could help him, Father could teach him, and 
 when he came home from California he would bring some gold 
 nuggets, not to spend but to put up on the shelf like ornaments. 
 "How does the next line go?" he would say. " Tis thus, my child," 
 Father would answer: 
 
 Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 
 (That last infirmity of noble mind) 
 To scorn delights and live laborious days; 
 But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
 And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
 Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears 
 And slits the thin-spun life. . . . 
 
 But no, Father, no. This play is quite another. You recite Lycidas, 
 and that will not serve, at all. This is a play, Father, the play's the 
 thing, you've said so, often. I had such trouble to learn the part, all 
 
 258 
 
in that strange language, and nobody coming to rehearsals and the 
 theater locked — I can't tell you — and my costume is so heavy, it 
 must weigh a thousand pounds, and I have been ill, Father, oh, very 
 ill, really. The overseer wounded me in the leg with his gun, I am 
 wounded like Achilles and Cheiron and wasn't there someone else, 
 Father? in the vulnerable part of my heel. They could not have 
 touched me otherwise. And how does the next line go? 
 
 The lights burn blue. — It is now dead midnight. 
 
 Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. 
 
 What, do I fear myself? there's none else by: 
 
 Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I. 
 
 Is there a murderer here? No; yes; I am. 
 
 Then fly, what, from myself? Great reason why: 
 
 Lest I revenge. What? Myself, upon myself? 
 
 Alack, I love myself. . . . 
 
 I am a villain: yet I lie, I am not! 
 
 No, Father, no. That is the wrong play. I beseech you, in the name 
 
 of God, do not tell me words I should not speak. 
 "Welcome, good Clarence, this is brother-like. . . ." 
 Not those, not those. I pray you, God, send me the lines I have 
 
 forgotten. 
 
 When the loud knocking began and he opened his eyes to the 
 scant morning in the little room, he called, "Yes, we are coming," 
 and wondered why the Richmond Grays had sent for him so early. 
 Then he remembered that he was in a Negro's cabin and that the 
 Negro was going to take them to Port Conway. The thought of Dr. 
 Stewart came and buttoned his chest in a waistcoat of pain. He 
 remembered their present and future peril and hazard. It took him 
 a little longer to recall that the boy he was shaking by the shoulder 
 was David, and only when David sleepily opened his eyes and 
 looked back at him was he quite, quite sure. 
 
 259 
 
XXII 
 
 'At last resolving forward still to fare, 
 Till that some ende they find, or in or out, 
 That path they take, that beaten seemed most bare, 
 And like to lead the labyrinth about. . . ." 
 The Faerie Queene: spenser 
 
 It was cloudy but it would not rain. Lucas, with his embarrassed 
 chuckle, said not. He thought they would have fair weather. 
 The fugitives had no trouble getting him to believe Johnny's made- 
 up story that he felt too ill to ride any way except in the bottom of 
 the wagon, where David, the shawl well around his neck and up 
 over his ears, would sit beside him for the eight-mile ride. The 
 Negro looked at Johnny when he told the fib, looked at him slant- 
 wise, but he believed it. When he went in the cabin to get a straw 
 tick to put in the wagon bed, David had to laugh at how easy it 
 was to fool him. 
 
 "He really believes you," he said. "Ain't that a joke? And here 
 your leg don't even pain you no more, does it, Johnny?" 
 
 "No, it doesn't," Johnny said. "That's right. It doesn't really pain 
 any more, at all, except that it feels so heavy and that's rather like a 
 pain, you know. But, of course, it isn't the same thing." 
 
 "He believes it like the gospel." David had to laugh again. 
 
 "Before we go," Johnny said, frowning. He was frowning half the 
 time, trying to keep his mind on the business at hand. It kept want- 
 ing to stray off. "Before we go," he began again, "fetch me a big 
 dipper of water from the spring, will you?" 
 
 "Glory, Johnny, you've drank six dippers already. You sure must 
 be thirsty!" 
 
 David could hardly keep his face straight when old Lucas came 
 
 260 
 
out with the straw mattress, and together they got Johnny settled 
 in the bottom of the wagon. They certainly had fooled him! 
 
 "Don't have to be tol' you's sick, gentleman," the Negro said. 
 "Shut my eyes and see dat. Anybody shuts dey eyes and sees dat." 
 
 It was a sandy road and the going was slow. When the wagon, 
 creaking, almost came to a halt, Johnny, in a doze, sat up and asked, 
 "Are we there?" He thought they had been traveling many hours. 
 
 "Why, this ain't but Edge Hill," their driver called back over his 
 shoulder. "We's only at the forks of the road, where you branches 
 if you wants to get to King George's Courthouse. They's a store 
 here. You gentlemens wants to stop?" 
 
 "No," Johnny said. "Go on. We don't want to stop." He caught a 
 glimpse of a small building just as David pulled him down flat on 
 the mattress again. 
 
 "There's a man sitting on the steps," he whispered into Johnny's 
 ear. "Maybe a detective!" 
 
 He wasn't, though. He knew their driver and his spring wagon. 
 "Where you headed?" the man hollered. 
 
 "Down the country," Lucas hollered back respectfully. 
 
 Just as he had said, they had fair weather. Going slowly and tortu- 
 ously over the sand road, they had bright sunshine and Johnny 
 turned over and put his arm up over his face, it shone so in his eyes. 
 But it felt good. As hot as he had been, as cold he had been. Now he 
 was just right and that put a fine ease and indolence upon him. This 
 is delightful, he thought, I hope we go on and on like this until we 
 get to California. June will be surprised. "June," he would say, 
 "give me a job. I don't get hoarse any more, have no trouble with 
 my voice whatsoever. That was all a wicked story of Edwin's to turn 
 the critics against me. But now that Edwin is dead. . . ." June would 
 not have heard the news yet. I'll have to tell him that and, oh, a great 
 many things, he thought. "Did you bring your costumes?" June 
 would say. "Of course," he would say. "I must show you an auburn 
 wig and you must hear the story of how I got it. Asia thinks it's very 
 romantic. You see, it was at a ball, and I met a young lady named 
 Miss Bessie Hale—" No, not Miss Bessie Hale. Something else. Let's 
 see, it started with D. Dora, Delia, Dinah — what was her name? 
 
 261 
 
Thinking about it made his head ache, and when he uncovered his 
 eyes and looked up into the cloudless blue sky full of lemon light, 
 that made his head ache worse, so he covered them again. Now 
 really, it was delightful to lie here, not a care in the world, not a care 
 in the world. . . . 
 
 It was past ten when they arrived at Port Conway and paid off 
 Lucas and he started back. 
 
 The thing they had to do now was to cross over to Port Royal on 
 the ferry. Johnny dragged his heavy leg and went on his crutches, 
 with David matching steps beside him, and they went down to the 
 landing. But the ferry was on the other side of the glassily flowing 
 Rappahannock. 
 
 "Oh, fiddlesticks," David said. "Why couldn't she of been right 
 here so we could of got on her and gone right across to Port Royal ? 
 No telling how long we got to wait, and no telling who will come 
 by here and see us." He looked anxiously at Johnny. "Ain't that 
 hell?" 
 
 It was too troublesome to stand. Suddenly, Johnny was much too 
 tired. He began to sweat, and something about the sweating brought 
 the nausea on. "Help me to sit down," he said, so David helped him, 
 and sitting was a good deal better, only the sun began to blaze 
 instead of shine and that made his nausea worse, not so much the 
 heat as the light. It was difficult to get up and move to the shade, 
 but David helped him again and he did it, and then in a little while 
 he began to feel all right. Only now he was cold, wishing he were 
 back in the sun, and very thirsty. "David, go and ask that man up 
 there in front of that little house if we can have some water, will 
 you?" he said. He added, when David obligingly got to his feet, 
 "But don't say who we are. They're all rebels, but that doesn't make 
 any difference. There's where we've gone wrong, revealing our 
 identity. Just say we're going home from the war and if anybody 
 asks, say I'm your brother and I'm wounded." 
 
 "Shouldn't we have on uniforms?" David asked, wrinkling his 
 brow. "If somebody says they're a soldier, shouldn't they have on a 
 uniform?" 
 
 "Not necessarily," Johnny said. He began to brush the soiled sleeve 
 
 262 
 
of his black coat idly. "We could be coming home — just as we are. 
 I don't know why not." 
 
 David's face cleared. "That may be better," he said, "not to tell 
 nobody. Just as we are." He took a couple of steps and turned back 
 smiling. "That sounds like the hymn Ma always sings. Just as I am, 
 without one plea, just as I am, I come to Thee. She always sings it." 
 He walked away whistling, but sudden homesickness choked off the 
 tune. 
 
 The man in front of the little house was working on some fish 
 nets. David got water from him and told how he and his brother 
 were going home from the war. 
 
 . "When's the ferry coming on back over?" he asked. "Pretty 
 soon?" 
 
 "She's aground," the man said. "I wouldn't wonder she can't get 
 back till the tide rises." 
 
 David took the water and went back and told Johnny that the tide 
 had to rise before the ferry would return. But Johnny did not seem 
 to care much. He only drank thirstily and said he was sure it would 
 not be long. 
 
 "Yes, but, glory, Johnny, this ain't no place for us to sit around in 
 broad daylight and — " He stiffened by what he thought he heard 
 then, listened and held his breath. 
 
 Even Johnny, pale as he was, turned such a white that it was mar- 
 velous to see. He began to struggle to his feet, his eyes glazing. What 
 was this? The hoofs of three horses that rounded the turn of the 
 village street and came plunging and galloping down the road to the 
 quay, bearing three armed horsemen! Terror transfixed the two. 
 David was the first to dare see the sight that turned his knees to 
 water with joy, his hands and middle to weak water — for they wore 
 gray coats! Rebel caps! They were blessed, glorious, beautiful secesh! 
 "Secesh," he bubbled. "Johnny, it's all right. They're secesh!" 
 
 They were. Although the youngest was eighteen, and the oldest 
 not twenty-two, they were three Confederate officers. 
 
 When David turned to flesh and bone again, and Johnny, still 
 shaking, sent him over to them, he asked, "What command do you 
 belong to?" 
 
 263 
 
The elder of the two captains looked at the shabby, dirty, tired- 
 looking boy with the wide smile and anxious eyes a moment before 
 he answered. "Why, Mosby's," he said. "Why do you ask?" 
 
 "Me and my brother was just wondering." 
 
 He looked so shy then that the Captain, his own age, put a word 
 in to set him at ease. "You waiting for the ferry ? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes," David said eagerly. "My brother and me. He's lame." He 
 glanced back to where Johnny was getting to his feet with difficulty 
 and putting his crutches under his arms. Their glances followed and 
 came back to himself. "I asked that man over there," he pointed, 
 "and he told me she's aground across the other side till the tide 
 rises " 
 
 "Aground, hell," the Lieutenant said cordially. "I know that 
 damned old nigger ferryman. I bet a dollar he's fishing." They 
 strained their eyes to see and sure enough, over on the other side, 
 somebody in a speck of calico shirt sat under an elder casting a line 
 into the water. "Sure, he is," he said, laughing. "She don't need a 
 special tide to come back on!" 
 
 David laughed heartily, too. It was cheering to stand and talk to 
 these brave rebel officers as if he were one of them. "My brother," 
 he went on eagerly, "he's lame, like I said. He was wounded down 
 around Petersburg. We was in the fight, you know. Could you take 
 us with you down to your lines, do you think?" 
 
 "What lines would you be talking about?" the boy Captain said 
 teasingly. "There are no more lines. You'd ought to know that." 
 
 David blushed painfully but kept smiling. "Well," he said, cocking 
 his head to one side and groping for words, "are you raising a — a 
 command?" 
 
 "What would we be raising a command for?" the Lieutenant said. 
 "To go fight the Battle of Waterloo? Don't you know when you're 
 licked, boy?" 
 
 Their laughter fanned David's fire to a blaze, but he said, laugh- 
 ing with them, "Well, you see, if you was raising a command, we'd 
 — we'd like to go south with you." 
 
 "No, boy, we're doing no recruiting," the Captain said. 
 
 "You don't understand," David blurted. "We're not really — what 
 
 264 
 
I said, about him being my brother and all that. We're — he's — the 
 man that shot Lincoln, and that's how he broke his leg, and that's 
 how — " He broke off when he saw how silent they had grown, 
 mouths hanging open, looking first at him and then at Johnny, who 
 was painfully coming toward them. They got down off their horses. 
 
 "How do you do, gentlemen," Johnny said when he joined them. 
 
 They couldn't take their eyes off him. They nodded, as slowly as 
 mechanical toys in the last stage of running down before they stop, 
 an acknowledgment of his greeting. 
 
 He looked questioningly at David who did not return his glance 
 but only said in a low voice, "This here is John Wilkes Booth, 
 himself." 
 
 Another slow-motion nod from the three soldiers. 
 
 Johnny put his head up proudly. "We have had little luck with 
 revealing our true identities," he said, "contrary to my expectations, 
 and I had only now agreed with my companion that in future we 
 should-" 
 
 "Glory, Johnny, they're rebels," David broke in, "and I had to tell 
 them. There wasn't no way I could think of, to try to get them to 
 take us with them, otherwise. Not that they've said they would, yet." 
 He looked wistfully at them. 
 
 "Well, gentlemen," Johnny said, "you now have the doubtful 
 pleasure of making my acquaintance." He made a little bow and put 
 his left hand forward, palm down, to show the boyishly formed let- 
 ters in faded ink, J.W.B., upon the back of it. "And my young com- 
 panion is David Herold." David acknowledged the introduction 
 with an embarrassed grin. "In our turn," Johnny went on, "we have 
 the honor — ?" 
 
 The youngest officer cleared his throat. "Captain Jett," he said. 
 
 Johnny looked at the next man smilingly. 
 
 "Lieutenant Bainbridge," he said. 
 
 "And—?" 
 
 "Captain Ruggles," added the last man. 
 
 They did not put out their hands. 
 
 "Delighted, gentlemen," Johnny said, bowing again. "You under- 
 stand we are worth a great deal of money to the man who turns us 
 
 265 
 
in. Between us, something over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars 
 at last count. Therefore, you may be as delighted to meet us as we 
 are delighted to meet you." He stopped smiling. 
 
 "You call us gentlemen," Captain Ruggles said stiffly. "Gentlemen 
 are not informers." 
 
 "We are of Mosby's command," the Lieutenant added as though 
 that were all the proof of honor and integrity a man would ever 
 need, as perhaps it was. His tone was haughty. 
 
 Captain Jett only set his lips, stared coldly and stood taller. 
 
 "Gentlemen," Johnny said, putting a hand up to his wet brow. 
 "I — humbly apologize. I do indeed, with all my heart. But we have 
 been badly used. I — " The nausea began to come over him again like 
 a pall, he struggled to look for David in the audience out front 
 where all the faces blurred together. To save his soul he could not 
 remember what came next. He opened his dry mouth, closed it, 
 opened it again. "Please — " he whispered. Someone sprang to help 
 him and it was David, it was someone else, too, a man in a Con- 
 federate uniform with twinkling buttons. . . . 
 
 Sitting, with his head down, he began to be better, and in a few 
 moments he could look up at them. "Richard's himself again," he 
 said, out of countenance. 
 
 The officers had tied their horses and were now sitting, too, quite 
 near him, except Captain Ruggles, who was standing and looking 
 down at him curiously. "You are quite ill, aren't you, sir?" he said. 
 
 "Not ill," Johnny said. "It's the injury to my leg, you see. My 
 ankle's broken. It was broken the night of the fourteenth, that's ten 
 days ago — " 
 
 "But it don't pain you now," David put in boastfully. "You should 
 of seen how he fooled that old nigger, said he felt sick and would 
 have to lay down, and the old nigger let him lay in the bottom of the 
 wagon all the way here to Port Conway. He didn't know no differ- 
 ent, thought Johnny really was sick." 
 
 Captain Ruggles kept his eyes on Johnny. 
 
 "No, I have little pain, really," Johnny said. "There's a peculiar 
 heaviness to my leg and side, which is rather uncomfortable, but it 
 isn't what I would call pain. . . ." 
 
 "Is your leg swollen?" Captain Ruggles asked. "I have had quite 
 
 266 
 
a lot of experience with wounds and injuries. I'll look at it if you 
 want me to." 
 
 "That is very good of you," Johnny said, "but since we have no 
 splints or bandages I think it is best to leave it as it is until I — reach 
 my destination. But if you wish to examine it without — " 
 
 "I won't disturb the dressing," Captain Ruggles said, squatting 
 down. He took off the cut-down shoe, pulled down the fine stock- 
 ing, stiff with dirt and perspiration, and looked at the foot. He 
 worked the tight pantleg up to Johnny's calf and worked gentle 
 fingers enough under the hard, tight wrapping to lift it somewhat 
 and peer beneath it, holding his breath so as not to breathe in more 
 of the frightful stench than he had to. He looked quite a long time, 
 looked at the toes again. The other two officers had slid over closer 
 to see the injury, but now they caught a whiff of the odor, too, and 
 involuntarily edged back to where they were. Captain Ruggles 
 pulled the stocking back up, worked the pantleg back down over the 
 thick, caked bandage and set the shoe back carefully on the foot. 
 He stood up. 
 
 "Healing all right?" Johnny asked. 
 
 "Well, it wouldn't hurt to see a doctor," Captain Ruggles said, 
 not meeting his eyes. 
 
 "Of course," Johnny said. "That is my intention. As soon as I 
 reach my destination. As I say, the pain has stopped, except that 
 sometimes the heaviness feels like pain — without being painful — if 
 you know what I mean." 
 
 The two officers had been watching their companion's grave face. 
 "What is your destination, sir?" Captain Ruggles asked gently. 
 
 "Richmond," David said, greatly pleased to mention it. 
 
 "Yes, Richmond," Johnny said. "Or — or somewhere else." It was 
 wearisome to have to look upward, so he dropped his eyes to the 
 Captain's dirty boots. He wanted badly to shut his eyes entirely but 
 did not do so, fearing they would interpret this as rudeness. 
 
 "Can't you stay over in Port Royal for a while?" the Captain said. 
 "Don't you know somebody there you could stay with?" 
 
 "Nobody — especially," Johnny said. "Not — that I can remember 
 offhand. You see — " He felt ashamed that he did not know anyone 
 in Port Royal, and then he felt sorry for himself that he did not. He 
 
 267 
 
felt so sorry and ashamed that he could have wept like a woman. 
 
 "We don't know nobody in Port Royal," David said. "In fact, we 
 been treated like dogs the whole time! In fact — " 
 
 "I know somebody in Port Royal," Captain Jett put in suddenly. 
 "She'd let him stay there, I'll bet. Old Miss Peyton. She's got a big 
 house and there's only her and her brother. She'd take them in, I'll 
 bet!" 
 
 "Let's try her," the Lieutenant said, getting to his feet and brush- 
 ing off his trousers. 
 
 "How about the damn ferry?" Captain Ruggles asked. 
 
 David scrambled eagerly up and now made for the edge of the 
 landing, where he stood staring with his hand shading his eyes as 
 though this action would bring the boat over upon the instant. 
 
 "Don't tell anyone who we are," Johnny said, beginning to pant a 
 little with excitement. They had friends now. Protectors. God be 
 thanked, they would find a refuge, they were going to make it all 
 right, going to be safe at last. He tried to stop the trembling of his 
 lips, tried to keep back the surge of dizzy sickness that relief 
 brought. Friends at last . . . protectors ... it was almost more than 
 he could believe. "They won't help us if they know. Please — " he 
 said. "Just say we are two brothers returned from — the war. Boyd. 
 Say our name is Boyd. James and — and David." He had not the wit 
 or energy left to replace David's name with another, but that would 
 not matter. Nothing mattered now except that they were going to 
 make it, going to be all right. 
 
 Lieutenant Bainbridge, close to David on the landing, cupped his 
 hands and shouted through them. They all jumped when he blasted. 
 "You over there! Ferryman!" he yelled. "Lay down that fish pole and 
 get that boat over here! We're soldiers, waiting to cross!" 
 
 "That will fetch him," Captain Jett said. "Those damn niggers 
 have guilty consciences. He's afraid we'll take his hat off with a shell 
 or two. That'll fetch him, you see if it doesn't." Laughing, he got up 
 and turned to give Johnny a hand. 
 
 Johnny laughed, too, immensely tickled. He began to feel quite 
 well, quite like himself, hardly sick at all. 
 
 The rule was that horsemen were to dismount when crossing on 
 the ferry, but though the silent Negro who poled them over glared 
 
 268 
 
at the crippled, white-faced man on the sorrel, he stayed right on his 
 horse as big as life. "Thank God, thank God," the man said, when 
 the boat grated against the Port Royal landing. The Negro ferryman 
 did not recall having seen him before, but guessed he must be a 
 returning resident changed beyond recognition by war, he was in 
 such a fever to get home. That did not excuse him. He had no busi- 
 ness staying on his horse when the rule was that horsemen had to 
 dismount. However, all the young massas in their gray uniforms 
 were generally pretty touchy with colored folks these days, as though 
 they had been to blame for everything, so the Negro ferryman had 
 to be satisfied with merely looking his hearty disapproval. 
 
 They put Johnny on Captain Jett's horse and let him ride onto the 
 ferry, though they led the other horses. It was hard for him to mount 
 but the minute he had the reins in his hands he looked bigger some- 
 how, perhaps the size he had been before disaster shrunk him. It 
 came to Jett that though he was so different now, he must once have 
 been a remarkably handsome and compelling young man. 
 
 While David and Captain Ruggles stood close to him, carrying on 
 a desultory conversation, Captain Jett sought out Ruggles. "Is he 
 hurt bad?" he asked softly. 
 
 "He'll be dead in a week," Ruggles murmured back. "His foot 
 and leg's full of gangrene. God knows how he's kept going. God 
 knows how he ever got this far. Certainly, he can't go much farther." 
 
 Johnny turned his head and saw them, smiled and gave a little 
 debonair wave of the hand. 
 
 They returned it with mock salutes. 
 
 "God," Captain Jett said, going over to the railing and leaning his 
 elbows on it. He stared down at the dented water. "Poor devil, think- 
 ing he's going to get away. Live." 
 
 "Yes," Captain Ruggles said, coming to stand beside him. "It's a 
 joke on somebody, I don't know who." But he did not smile. "How 
 are they going to pay death that hundred-thousand-dollar reward? 
 How are they going to stand death up and pin a medal on his 
 chest?" 
 
 Old Miss Peyton remembered Willie Jett very well. But how he 
 had grown! She set her glasses on her nose the better to see him. 
 
 269 
 
Yes, indeedy. And my, here he was an army officer, and here it was 
 only a little while ago that his mother was tripping by this very 
 house going to confirmation. What kind of an officer was he? A 
 sergeant ? 
 
 "No, ma'am, Miss Peyton," Willie Jett said. He glanced to his left 
 at the men and horses at the gate and then returned his gaze to her. 
 "What I came to ask you about — we've got two comrades with us. 
 One of them was badly wounded. Could you take them in for a few 
 days until he's well enough to go on?" 
 
 "Dear me," she said, "wounded. What a shame." She shut the door 
 behind her and came and stood on the edge of the steps, staring 
 frankly at the men. "Which one is he? Oh, I see. The man with the 
 bandage on his leg." 
 
 Behind her, Captain Jett began to nod his head exaggeratedly and 
 Captain Ruggles, behind whom Johnny had been riding, took the 
 cue and got down and turned to help him off. David and Bainbridge 
 dismounted from the Lieutenant's horse. 
 
 She was staring harder now. "They don't have uniforms on, do 
 they? Two of them don't have uniforms on, do they? They're the 
 ones, the injured one and that other one? He don't look any older 
 than you." 
 
 "No, ma'am," Captain Jett said. 
 
 "Why are they — carrying so many arms, Willie?" 
 
 "Well, ma'am, you see they — " 
 
 She took him by the arm, paling. "I can't take them in," she said 
 quickly. "You must excuse me. The truth is, my brother is not at 
 home and I would not dare risk his displeasure by opening our 
 house to strangers." 
 
 "When will he be home, Miss Peyton, ma'am?" Jett said anxiously. 
 
 "I don't know," she said. "You really must excuse me. Tell them 
 not to bring those men up here. Tell them at once, Willie. They are 
 opening the gate." 
 
 "Wait," the young Captain called. "Get back on the horses! I'm 
 coming in a minute!" 
 
 She was inside the door now, looking through half a foot of open- 
 ing. "I'm very sorry, Willie," she said, "but you must understand 
 that a lone woman — and my brother is not at home. You really must 
 
 270 
 
excuse me but I must shut the door, I have a cake in the oven, I 
 must—" 
 
 "Wait, Miss Peyton, ma'am, please," Jett said. "Where can we 
 take him? He's — very sick and needs shelter." 
 
 "I don't know, I'm sure, Willie. I'm sorry, but — " 
 
 "Isn't there somebody?" 
 
 "Why don't you go out to the Garrett farm?" she said hastily. 
 "Really, I've got to — you know where Garrett lives — his farm's about 
 three miles outside town on the Bowling Green road. To the — to 
 the left. He knew your ma's folks well. Please excuse me, Willie, 
 I'm very sorry." The withered old face she shut from view was 
 something else besides sorry. It was frightened. 
 
 "Her brother isn't home," Captain Jett explained when he got out 
 to the gate. "She daren't take anyone in without his consent. Afraid 
 he'd be mad, she says." He did not look at Johnny who did not look 
 anywhere but straight and blindly ahead at the back of Captain 
 Ruggles' neck. "She suggested old Garrett's farm out on the Bowling 
 Green road. It might be better anyway, come to think of it, out in 
 the country like that. It might be lots better." 
 
 David, up behind Lieutenant Bainbridge, cast an anxious look at 
 Johnny. "It'll be lots better," he called cheerfully, but when they 
 started ofl he drew a deep and tired sigh. 
 
 271 
 
XXIII 
 
 'Pitch here a tent, while the old horse grazes: 
 
 By the old hedge-side we'll halt a stage. 
 It's nigh my last above the daisies: 
 
 My last leaf 11 be man's blank page, 
 Yes, my old dear! and it's no use crying: 
 
 Juggler, constable, king, must bow. 
 One that outjuggles all's been spying 
 Long to have me, and has me now." 
 
 Juggling Jerry: george meredith 
 
 He opened his eyes because he thought he heard Asia singing, 
 and he wanted to tell her they would have time for a ride 
 before supper, but it was not Asia, it was a little girl calling the 
 chickens to come and feed. A very nice little girl with two long 
 braids. He could see a glimpse of her challis skirts far away in the 
 chicken yard, but it wearied him to look out the corners of his eyes, 
 so he looked straight upward instead, into the snow of the apple 
 tree. All the dark branches were thick with it, and it shook down 
 sometimes upon him. He looked as far as he could between the 
 snowy boughs into the cloudless blue sky, far enough to see a star 
 so young it could not shine. That sufficed, and he shut his eyes 
 again. 
 
 What a long time he must have slept here under the apple tree 
 on this quilt, on this soft pillow the kind lady of the house brought 
 out to him. He must give them all passes to see the play, in the best 
 seats. Let's see, that would be how many? There was Mr. Garrett, 
 Mrs. Garrett, the two boys just home from Richmond and still 
 wearing their gray uniforms, the two small boys, the little girl who 
 was feeding the chickens, and the plain young lady, Mrs. Garrett's 
 sister, who lived with the family. They were wonderfully nice 
 
 272 
 
people. Tears gathered beneath his eyelids when Johnny remembered 
 Mr. Garrett saying yes, of course, he could stop with them until his 
 wound was better and he could travel. 
 
 Captain Jett said, "Oh, thank you, sir," while Johnny stood, ready 
 to faint with relief. "This man and his brother were our comrades 
 and we don't like to ride on until we know they will have shelter 
 for a time." 
 
 Mr. Garrett said, "Gladly. I am so thankful to have my own two 
 boys back safe and sound that when another man's sons need help 
 on their way home I want to aid them if I can." 
 
 Then Captain Jett said, "I am going to Bowling Green for a day 
 or two, but Captain Ruggles here and Lieutenant Bainbridge are 
 going back to Port Royal to spend the night." 
 
 David came over to where Johnny was fixing his crutches under 
 his arms, and said bashfully, "Johnny, why couldn't I ride into town 
 with them? I need a new pair of shoes awful bad." He held his foot 
 up so Johnny could see the hole in the bottom of the sole. 
 
 He gave David money and David said, "Lieutenant, could I ride 
 into town with you? I got to get me some shoes." 
 
 "I guess so," the officer said. "But how will you get back? Oh, 
 well, maybe I'll ride out tomorrow and you can come with me." 
 
 "I can walk out," David said. "It ain't so far." 
 
 When they were gone, and Johnny was all alone here in this 
 strange place, the panic rose up that David had abandoned him and 
 would not come back. But it lasted only a little while, because after 
 all it was not so very strange a place. It came to him, when he took 
 a seat on the steps with Mr. Garrett and the eldest son, that the Gar- 
 rett farm was the most familiar place in the world. No matter how 
 far away he went, he always came back here, always had, always 
 would. Not a stick nor a stone but what he knew it. How many 
 times had he come up that long lane from the turnpike, the same 
 clouds of dust always behind his horse's heels, the ever-familiar house 
 to his left on the gentle hill in the locust grove? How many times 
 pushed open the gate to the ample yard, gone up the walk to the 
 porch that ran along the whole front of the house, walked up the 
 three shallow steps? Inside the house, what did he not recognize? 
 What was new to him? The tidy, simple parlor, large, bare kitchen, 
 
 273 
 
the upstairs bedroom he would share with the two small sons, the 
 other chambers, he knew them one and all, as he knew the pendu- 
 lumed clock, the steep staircase and worn chairs. They and he were 
 always coming back together again! Yet he had never been here 
 before in his life. 
 
 He would tell Asia how odd it was. 
 
 "You see, I would always reach this place eventually. I would have 
 all this frightful trouble, and then here, suddenly, I would be riding 
 up this lane. I knew it the way I know, better than I know, the old 
 Bel Air farm," he would say. "Imagine a huge square with a little 
 hill in the middle covered with locust trees and apple trees, a house 
 nestling in the middle of them. One side of the square would be this 
 long lane running up, two sides would be fenced, one side would be 
 the line of a black immortal forest. Now imagine this perfectly 
 familiar house, Asia, with all the various farm buildings behind, the 
 cow shed, corn cribs, stable and the tobacco barn. This is the place 
 I always came to, always arrived at eventually. For instance, take the 
 tobacco barn. I know it better than I know my own face — but that 
 is no comparison because my face is so changed now, Asia, I looked 
 in the parlor mirror and I thought it belonged to someone else, it 
 was so waxy yellow, you know, the eyes so sunken and the cheeks so 
 hollow and the hair — but the hair wasn't mine at all. This would be 
 Monday afternoon, you see, and that night I always ask if I can 
 shave before supper because I have over a week's growth of beard 
 on my face, and then I — But I was telling you about the tobacco 
 barn, Asia. You know how they build them so that the tobacco can 
 dry with plenty of air blowing through ? They leave four-inch spaces 
 in the boarding on the sides. I will whisper something to you. That 
 gives it the exact loo\ of a cage. It's got a locked door in front. I find 
 I must always be very careful not to go into it, because when I do, 
 I find I can't get out again. But that comes later, Asia. At first — " 
 
 It was very kind of Mrs. Garrett to come with that quilt and 
 pillow in her arms and touch him on the shoulder and ask him if 
 he wouldn't like to lie down under the apple tree for a nap, and then 
 help him do so and send out a glass of cold milk by the little girl 
 with the long braids. For at the moment she did he was feeling 
 quite awful, and to discourse upon matters of war and politics with 
 
 274 
 
the two men and keep them from knowing how hard it was to 
 think, to say the simplest things, made him sweat. It was very kind 
 of her to help him make a bed on the soft grass. He must remember 
 to give the whole family passes to the show, in the best seats. 
 
 He must have gone right to sleep, into the sweetest sleep imagin- 
 able, and slept two hours at least. 
 
 Now the little girl was clucking at the chickens, and the first star 
 was out in the sky that even in the five minutes since he had wak- 
 ened changed from blue to less and more than blue. He thought 
 happily, I feel so well! He thought happily, there will be no more 
 bad days! Only good days! He thought happily, I must go and ask 
 if I may shave before supper! 
 
 Jack Garrett said, of course he could shave and welcome. The first 
 minute Johnny looked into the little glass it made his hand tremble, 
 the face he saw was so utterly unfamiliar. But shaving fixed that all 
 right. By the time he finished it was habitual and beautiful again, 
 when memory, aiding him unbeknownst, filled it out, brought the 
 overbright eyes forward, turned up and freshened the sere lips, 
 amended the cheeks to pink. 
 
 Behind that restored face, at the supper table he felt so like him- 
 self that he charmed them all in the old way. But his stomach took 
 a stand of its own and, though he had a helping of all the good 
 things, it betrayed him, and he could swallow very little. He apolo- 
 gized to Mrs. Garrett, explaining that he had been somewhat 
 indisposed for some time and that his stomach was upset. Would 
 she, who had prepared food that was fit for the gods, forgive him 
 if he could not eat it? He apologized to Mrs. Garrett's plain young 
 sister and she blushed, his fine manners set her on so high a pedestal. 
 Up there, she instantly exchanged her own manners for a set so 
 graceful and exalted that the boys stared. Both she and Mrs. Garrett 
 said he must not apologize, they understood exactly what a trial 
 stomach trouble must be. 
 
 Mrs. Garrett asked him if he had ever thought of gallstones. 
 
 Johnny considered this earnestly and said no, never. 
 
 "Well, it wouldn't hurt to think of them," Mrs. Garrett said. 
 "Aunt Innocent Clotide had them for forty-three years, never sus- 
 pecting, digestion always acting up, thin as a rail, and then she 
 
 275 
 
took this Chief Pugamaugen Gallstone and Heartburn Remedy, and 
 I tell you, you wouldn't have known the woman from that day on. 
 Would he, Pa?" 
 
 Mr. Garrett said no. For his part, he said, fish alone of all foods 
 "did him that way," no matter what the kind or season. 
 
 The two young men, returned from the war only the day before 
 and still in their shabby uniforms, did not speak much. They were 
 either too hungry or too shy or both. The sadly muddied and 
 erupted complexion of one kept him in a state of unease under the 
 eyes of strangers, and the other had a slight impediment of speech 
 which made r and / come out as w. It was as well, when the family 
 pressed him to do so, that he refused to tell the little story of the 
 Captain that had amused them all so much last night. The blem- 
 ished brother, ducking his head and also refusing, Mr. Garrett did 
 the best he could with it. "Well, they was telling about this com- 
 pany," he said, "that was straggling along, not paying no attention to 
 order in the ranks or nothing else, they was that wore out, and here 
 come the Captain hurrying up, madder than a wet hen. 'Close up, 
 boys!' he hollers. 'Damn you all to hell, close up! Why, if the enemy 
 was to fire on you when you're straggling along that way, they 
 couldn't hit a everlasting damn one of you! Close up!' and doggoned 
 if they didn't close up, quick as a wink ! " It was all Mr. Garrett could 
 do to finish it, and they all laughed so much they had to wipe their 
 eyes, even the bashful boys, and Johnny joined them heartily. 
 
 Well and natural as he felt, he had to discard story after story 
 which might have diverted them because the telling would take too 
 much effort and breath. To the ladies' disappointment, and his own 
 (he had fancied that he might recite for them "The Beautiful Snow" 
 in the parlor later on), when the meal was over he begged to be 
 excused and to be shown his bed. 
 
 He knew the steep little room under the eaves with the two beds 
 in it, so hard to reach by the tall stairs. "They show me where I shall 
 sleep," he would tell Asia when he recounted the strange adventure, 
 "and it's always there, under the eaves, and the two smallest boys 
 sleep in the other bed. They come up later than I do, and catch the 
 gleam of my pearl field glasses in the starlight shining through the 
 window. They tiptoe over to the chair and take them up and look 
 
 276 
 
through them at the ghostly apple blossoms outside, but then 
 they lay them down and go to bed. They kneel down and say 
 their prayers, can't get them said fast enough, the way I could never 
 get mine said fast enough, and then they crawl under the covers and 
 disappear in the pillows. I hear them whispering. I always hear this 
 on the first night I am there. That would be the Monday night. 
 Then they fall asleep and I fall asleep and where am I then, dear 
 Asia?" 
 
 I am . . . not there. I walk all night on two light legs, I have 
 exchanged the dead and heavy leg for these. I promised Ella to tell 
 her what I decided to do — so I go there, but she is not at home, the 
 door is locked, the little squirrel is not at home. No one is. No matter 
 where I go, they are all gone. They are all at the funeral. They are 
 burying Edwin whom they have cunningly preserved by scooping 
 out his whole insides and filling him with Chief Pugamaugen Gall- 
 stone and Heartache Remedy which has turned him to pure Italian 
 marble. He will be a monument forever. I do not walk, I run, to put 
 as much distance between me and the cage as I can, for if I get far 
 enough away I am quite safe. I grow lonely and worn but behind 
 me my pursuers are more than the soldiers of France, more than the 
 enemies of England. They look like the black immortal forest but 
 I am not deceived. They are moving men. I have a long journey 
 before morning breaks. I must cross the Potomac, the Rappahan- 
 nock, the Afton, the Jordan, a river whose name I do not know. . . . 
 They have hidden my boat and my horse and all my wardrobe, but 
 I will procure others. I have powerful friends — Dr. Stewart, George 
 Alfred Townsend, a very tall man whose name has slipped my mind 
 at the moment, very tall, wears a black suit, gives public addresses — 
 you must know him, very influential, everyone knows him. And 
 Ella. I see Ella down at the end of Pennsylvania Avenue. I run 
 toward her on my light legs. She sees me and runs toward me, there 
 is no one but us running, and we meet, and I take her in my arms, 
 and we kiss, we kiss, but it is not she, it is Asia in my arms like a 
 lover in my lover's arms. I will show her where I have cut our two 
 names in a heart on the bark of the tree. See, Asia, how I have cut 
 our names. She spells out J-o-h-n, she spells out 1-o-s-t and turns her 
 eyes upon me crying, turns smoke, turns air, glimmers, while I reach 
 
 277 
 
for her and they come behind me. . . . The lieutenant makes a trum- 
 pet of his hands and shouts so loud that they fall back. I am safe now 
 and fleeing swiftly through the abandoned city, but he keeps shout- 
 ing ... his terrible voice will split my head in two. 
 
 After the rooster woke the sun and himself, though it rose duti- 
 fully and beautifully, Johnny lay abed until the call came for break- 
 fast and the two little boys, well trained, dressed with the speed of 
 city firemen and went leaping down the stairs like kangaroos. Then 
 he got up and dressed, but so inept was he, so unexpectedly un- 
 steady and unhandy in every part, that breakfast was long over 
 when by some miracle he managed to get down the steep stairs with 
 his crutches and hobble into the kitchen. The women felt sorry that 
 his stomach was not yet "settled." On the chance it would be, they 
 had a second batch of beaten biscuits in the oven, made especially 
 for him. Apologetically he drank his coffee and said he never had 
 been so put out by anything in his life. Mrs. Garrett reminded him 
 to think of gallstones, and he promised he would. 
 
 But outside on the quilt under the white and sun-filled tree, lying 
 with his eyes shut in late-morning country fragrance, he was too 
 contented to think of anything, only that he breathed in and breathed 
 out, that blossoms fell upon him, that country noises and faraway 
 children's laughter reached his ear like well-composed music well 
 played. 
 
 After midday dinner, with the lack of appetite for which he had 
 again to beg pardon, though he contrived to swallow a few morsels 
 and drink his strong coffee, he went out and sat on the front porch 
 with his host. There was a Fourth of July air of holiday about the 
 farm that day, and had been the day before. Only the most neces- 
 sary chores were done. As Mr. Garrett said, it wasn't every day 
 a man had two good boys returned to him without a scratch, al- 
 though they had done their part from Shiloh right on through to 
 the Battle of Richmond. That called for a little rest from labor, he 
 thought. That called for a little celebrating. 
 
 The young rebel with the speech defect came around the house 
 with an old six-barreled revolver. "We'we going to twy to hit a 
 tawget," he said. "Would you wike to do a wittle shooting?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed," Johnny said. "I'm not such a bad hand at it." But 
 
 278 
 
it was such trouble to get up and get out there that by the time he 
 dragged himself down the steps and across the yard to where they 
 had gathered, Mr. Garrett and the two big and two small boys, he 
 was drenched with sweat and his hands shook. They were steady 
 again when his turn came. 
 
 "You see that hole there in the gate post?" Johnny said lightly. 
 "Well, I can put every ball in it." He raised the old pistol that fre- 
 quently hung fire and, squinting, shot one, two, three, four, five, six 
 times. He handed over the gun with a flourish, smiling. 
 
 The youngest boy ran to examine the hole. "You never hit it 
 once!" he called. "Not once, mister!" 
 
 They all went forward to look, Johnny, too, and it was true. His 
 heart began to pound horribly. He began to feel so weak it seemed 
 as if he must fall. Most terrible of all, his mouth worked and he was 
 going to cry, the tears were gathering, they would spill down his 
 cheeks. They all laughed, not ordinary laughter but the wild and 
 prolonged shouting of succubi that grated on his nerves so that he 
 thought he would have to yell at them to stop. Trying to keep from 
 yelling at them, he drew his damp and ice-cold hand across his 
 eyes, blotting away his tears. They kept on laughing for a long, long 
 time while he bit his parched lower lip between his teeth and did not 
 yell or fall to the ground writhing, and when they stopped, the 
 farm was not the safe, idyllic place of refuge it had been. The sun 
 went behind a cloud. The forest strode several paces closer. The 
 tobacco barn, the cage, edged nearer. The blossoms yellowed, began 
 to wither as of today. The house shrank, became mean and secretive. 
 All faces became mean and secretive, even the dogs'. 
 
 Mr. Garrett took the revolver and broke it open. "Don't take it so 
 hard, Mr. Boyd," he said. "Look here. All the bullets are still in it! 
 It didn't fire. No wonder you couldn't hit your target!" 
 
 Again the wild, prolonged laughter. Johnny forced himself to 
 hear it out, murmured something, and then, with the sun gone, 
 the wind rising, he turned and hobbled to his quilt, where he lay 
 down under the withering yellowing tree and put his hand up over 
 his eyes. Bang! bang! bang! they kept on shooting, while the forest 
 stepped closer and the windows of the sly house glittered on him 
 like eyes. 
 
 279 
 
How could he have imagined David would come back? David 
 would never come back! No one would ever come but the pursuers, 
 and when they did, how could he run, with a gunny sack of stones 
 for a left leg? And if he ran, where would he run? Where did a 
 man run to? What was the name of the place? He kneaded his face 
 in his hands and thought, I must not scream, I must not make a 
 sound, for if I scream they will all be upon me. Deathly sick, hot, 
 cold, frenzied, he said over and over, David will never come back, 
 whispered it in case they were listening. Time stopped under the 
 apple tree that stopped dying because time stopped and Johnny, 
 kneading his face, whispered how David would not come. . . . 
 
 But he did come! The little girl with the braids flashed by and 
 called, "Your friend's coming up the road!" He sat bolt upright. 
 "No," he said, "no, no." But it was true, he could see when he 
 strained his eyes and looked over the gate. It was David. He was 
 coming. He reached for his crutches in a delirium of joy. All the 
 clocks started to run again, the apple tree to perish as a woman 
 perishes by petal and loosened petal . . . and he went dragging 
 to the gate on his sack of stones to meet his dear companion, to 
 embrace his only friend. 
 
 Going out to the farm, David riding up behind the Lieutenant, 
 and Captain Ruggles cantering along beside, the young officers told 
 the boy that John Wilkes Booth was a sicker man than he knew. 
 They told him about the gangrene. They said that John Wilkes 
 Booth was going to die in a very little while, the poison was creep- 
 ing all over him and would stifle his heart. David got his handker- 
 chief out and blew his nose, but they said for him not to feel bad, 
 because when Johnny was gone it would be so much easier for David 
 to escape by himself. He could see that. It would be easier. 
 
 "I found out about that battery over at Guinea Station, near Louisa 
 Courthouse," he said. "They're Maryland boys and they ain't sur- 
 rendered yet. I'm going to tell Johnny. It's only about twenty miles 
 away. That's where I thought me and him could go. We can go 
 over there and join up with them. We'd be all right with a bunch 
 of soldiers like that that ain't surrendered. Maybe they never will 
 surrender. That's just what we're looking for. He's going to be so 
 glad. But if it's like you say," he added woefully, "I'll just have to 
 
 280 
 
wait and then go and join up with 'em by myself, when — Johnny's 
 gone. Is it going to take very long?" He leaned over and asked 
 Captain Ruggles, "Is it going to take very long?" 
 
 "Wilkes Booth won't last three days, I'd bet my hat," the Captain 
 said. 
 
 "Glory," David said, hanging his head. "He was going to learn 
 me to act on the stage. And I — can't picture him dead. When I try to 
 picture him dead, I can't, he's always got his eyes open with all those 
 different looks on his face and he's talking, nobody else ever sounds 
 like Johnny, and he's planning all these different schemes and — I 
 just can't picture it." 
 
 He climbed down of? the Lieutenant's horse at Garrett's lane, and 
 when the two officers headed back for Port Royal David started 
 plodding up it on his thick-soled new shoes. No, he could not ima- 
 gine Johnny dead, and the more he tried, the sillier it seemed. Just 
 because he had a broken leg! Those officers didn't know so much. 
 That Captain Ruggles didn't know so much. "He says he ain't even 
 been duck hunting," David thought disparagingly. "He can't even 
 carry a tune. What does he know about Johnny?" And when he 
 looked up and saw him hobbling to the gate to meet him, he knew 
 for sure it was all a lie. Johnny was up, and dressed, and just the 
 same as ever! Captain Ruggles couldn't have been wronger if he'd 
 been Old Burnside himself. 
 
 Johnny was just as glad to hear about the Maryland battery that 
 hadn't surrendered yet, as David had known he would be. "I heard 
 it in Port Royal last night," David said. "The Captain and Lieuten- 
 ant let me stay where they stayed. But I paid for my own vittles, 
 naturally. How do you like my new shoes, Johnny?" He held one 
 foot out and admired it, planted it beside the other and admired 
 them both. "Ain't they fine? And besides, I got better'n a dollar 
 left." He dug into his pocket for it. 
 
 "Keep it," Johnny said. "They're fine. But what about this bat- 
 tery ? " He fixed his too-bright eyes on David's face. 
 
 "Well, I'll tell you," David said, reluctantly looking up from his 
 treasures. "I heard about 'em last night and I knew they was what 
 we was waiting for. They're this battery over at Guinea Station. 
 That's about twenty miles from here — and they ain't surrendered 
 
 281 
 
yet or ain't even going to, and they's Maryland boys, every blame 
 one of 'em." 
 
 "We'll join them," Johnny said, panting a little. "We'll try and ! 
 join them tonight. And we'll stay with them till the coast is clear, 
 and then — and then — " 
 
 "And then what'll we do, Johnny?" David asked, his eyes slipping 
 again to the nice new shoes. 
 
 "Come on," Johnny said. "There's a big map hanging on the wall 
 in the parlor. We'll take it down and I'll show you just where we'll 
 go." 
 
 He studied it carefully. They had it on the floor and were crouch- 
 ing over it. Johnny had his stub of pencil out. "You see, David," he 
 said, "here's our route. First to Norfolk. That's here." He made a 
 faint cross. "Then to Charleston, South Carolina. That's here." He 
 made another. "Then Savannah, Georgia. That's here. Then Galves- 
 ton, Texas. Then Mexico! Here, David. Look where I'm pointing. 
 Mexico. We'll go down there into the silver mines," he said, lower- 
 ing his voice so that the women in the next room would not hear. 
 "Who would ever think of looking for us in the silver mines of 
 Mexico?" 
 
 "Nobody," David said, delighted. "Why didn't we think of that 
 before?" 
 
 "Well, we've thought of it now," Johnny said, laughing. 
 
 "Glory, Johnny, silver mines! Maybe we can get rich at the same 
 time! Why didn't we thin\ of it? There's nothing to prevent us 
 getting rich at the same time, is there?" 
 
 "Nothing that I know of," Johnny said. "I don't know what it 
 would be." 
 
 They had just settled themselves on Johnny's quilt under the apple 
 tree, and David, measuring the long rays of sunlight slanting through 
 the clouds, had inquired with interest, "What time's supper around 
 here?" when a pair of horsemen riding up the lane attracted their 
 attention. While Johnny struggled to follow, David scrambled up 
 and hurried over to the gate. "Well, say," he hollered cordially. "I 
 thought I give you fellows your walking papers!" 
 
 "You did," Captain Ruggles said. "We came back to warn you." 
 
 282 
 
 
"Warn us?" Johnny said, coming up behind David. "What's up?" 
 
 "We met a fellow from our command riding out from Port Royal," 
 Lieutenant Bainbridge said. "He hailed us. We were on our way 
 back to town." 
 
 "He told us a party of Union cavalrymen are leaving town and 
 heading for Bowling Green down this road." Captain Ruggles 
 twisted in his saddle and pointed down to the turnpike. "They'll be 
 along in a few minutes. He said for us to make for cover, in case 
 we didn't have our paroles handy. So we came to warn you," he 
 said. "It's you they're after." 
 
 "Get over into these woods," Lieutenant Bainridge said. "They'll 
 never find you." 
 
 "David," Johnny said, "run upstairs and get our guns. They're all 
 in the attic room where I slept, shoved under the bed. Get them! 
 And hurry, for God's sake. I'll start for the woods." David raced 
 off and Johnny shakily pulled his crutches tighter in under his arms, 
 ready to move. He took two quick, uncertain steps, stopped and 
 turned back. "Thank you, gentlemen," he said. "You are gallant 
 and brave. I shall never forget your kindness to us and trouble on 
 our behalf." 
 
 "Don't mention it," Captain Ruggles said, not looking at Johnny. 
 
 "Don't mention it," the Lieutenant repeated gruffly. 
 
 "Good-by, gentlemen," Johnny continued. "And if we do not 
 meet again, God go with you." 
 
 "The — same to you, sir," Captain Ruggles said. 
 
 Darkness was falling when the two fugitives came out of the 
 woods and slowly made their way across the fields toward the lamp- 
 lighted windows of the Garrett house. How Johnny, crippled as he 
 was, and on his crutches, got over to that black retreat as fast as he 
 did was a mystery to David, for now he could seem barely to crawl. 
 Supper was over, David feared, but Johnny, speaking for the first 
 time in many minutes, told him not to worry, that the Garretts 
 would feed them whether supper was over or not. 
 
 There was a strange quietness about the house as they approached 
 it, like a fortress to the center of which all inhabitants have with- 
 
 283 
 
drawn soundlessly, preparing in utmost secrecy for an attack which 
 is certain to come. Two figures disengaged themselves from the 
 shadows of the front porch and came to meet them, the Garrett sons 
 in Confederate gray that melted into the evening and left only their 
 stemless faces. 
 
 Jack, the elder, spoke first. "There's been cavalry by the house 
 this evening. Rode down the road toward Bowling Green. They're 
 after Lincoln's assassinators. Now, why should you fellows take to 
 your heels and make for cover over in the woods?" 
 
 William said sternly, "We'd wike a stwaight answew. Haven't 
 you got pawoles?" 
 
 "Certainly, we have paroles," Johnny said. "I'll show them to you." 
 
 "Johnny—" David began. "We haven't—" 
 
 Jack said, "Now listen, because we mean business. We don't want 
 any trouble around here that's going to scare Ma and the girls half 
 to death. If you fellows have done something you're afraid of the 
 consequences of, you clear out." 
 
 "My dear young man," Johnny said, "we happened to get in a 
 little brush over in Maryland, and for the time being we happen 
 to want to avoid — " 
 
 "What kind of twouble?" William said. 
 
 "Nothing worth speaking of," Johnny said. "A couple of Union 
 soldiers met with an unfortunate accident and — " 
 
 "All right," Jack said. "You know your own affairs. But the 
 thing for you to do is clear out. We don't want trouble here. We 
 don't want Ma and the girls scared, and Pa's an old man and we 
 don't want him worried." 
 
 "We want you to weave," William added flatly. 
 
 "Nothing would give us greater pleasure," Johnny said. "We had 
 planned anyway to try to get over to Guinea Station tonight and 
 were going to ask you if you could take us or lend us some sort of 
 conveyance." 
 
 "We haven't got one," Jack said. 
 
 "But you have horses. Let us take them." 
 
 "No," the young man said. "We can't, they're all we've got and 
 we can't spare them." 
 
 284 
 
"Sell them to us then," Johnny persisted. "Ask anything you want 
 within reason." 
 
 "The horses are not for sale." 
 
 "Then how in the name of God do you expect us to clear out ? You 
 have eyes, sir, and you must see that I am badly crippled. Do you 
 expect me to walk twenty miles on these crutches?" 
 
 "That's mean," David said. "That's just downright mean. You 
 should of heard what them officers said. Why, Johnny couldn't make 
 it down to the road, let alone twenty miles, with his leg bad like 
 it is." 
 
 "He made it to the fowest fast enough," William said with fine 
 sarcasm. 
 
 "Our old nigger, Ned Freeman," his brother said, "that lives on 
 the place — he's got a horse and wagon. He may be able to take you 
 if you pay him to make it worth his trouble." 
 
 "Whatever he asks," Johnny said. 
 
 "William," Jack said. "You run across to Ned's cabin and ask if 
 he can take these two gentlemen over to Guinea Station tonight." 
 
 The three were sitting on the steps in a sulky silence when Wil- 
 liam came back and reported that Ned had gone into town and his 
 wife did not know when he would be back. However, she promised 
 that the first thing in the morning he would be there with his wagon. 
 
 "Well," Jack said, getting to his feet. "I suppose that's the best we 
 can do. I suppose we might as well go in and go to bed. Mr. Boyd, 
 or whatever your name is, you will take the room you had last night 
 and I guess your brother will have to sleep with you." 
 
 "Come on, Johnny," David said. "Although we ain't had anything 
 to-" 
 
 "If you don't mind," Johnny said, "I must refuse your kind offer. 
 I do not think I could climb the stairs again. I am — rather unwell." 
 
 "But you can't sleep outdoors," Jack said. "We'll help you up- 
 stairs." 
 
 "No," Johnny said, his breath coming short when he thought of 
 the smallness of the room, the lowness of the ceiling. "I shall be 
 quite comfortable here on the porch. However, David could go up 
 and go to bed if he wants to. I shall stay here." 
 
 285 
 
"I ain't going up there without you," David said. "You and me 
 can stretch out right here on the porch. It'll be better than that old 
 hard ground in the grove at least, huh, Johnny?" 
 
 "Why, the dogs won't weave you awone two minutes," William 
 said exasperatedly. 
 
 "If you won't go upstairs," Jack said, "and I know blame well Ma 
 wouldn't want anyone sleeping in her parlor, why, I guess the only 
 other place for you to sleep is the tobacco barn." 
 
 "The — tobacco barn?" Johnny repeated oddly. There wasn't light 
 enough from the narrow moon to make out the low building but 
 he turned his head and looked fearfully in that direction. 
 
 "There's straw on the floor," Jack said. "You'd be comfortable 
 enough there." 
 
 'Twenty of fwesh aiw," William put in. 
 
 "We've got some furniture stored for some of the Port Royal folks 
 in one end," his brother went on, "but there's plenty of room. You'd 
 be comfortable enough in the tobacco barn." 
 
 "That'll be a good place, Johnny," David said, coming over to him 
 and taking his arm and helping him get to his feet. "We'll sleep fine 
 there, you see if we don't, and tomorrow we'll get a nice, early start 
 for Guinea Station." 
 
 "The cage," Johnny whispered. "The cage." 
 
 (I always go into it at last, Asia. I feared it from the beginning — 
 I tried to escape — but it was no use. And here I am, in spite of every- 
 thing, they leading and myself following, making straight for the 
 cage. It is so again and again. It is so this Tuesday night, and so 
 forever. ... I walk into it. There is no escape.) 
 
 "What, Johnny?" David said. 
 
 "Nothing, David." 
 
 "I thought you said something about a cage." 
 
 The Garrett boys did not seek their beds, either, that night. Instead, 
 they took blankets and bedded down in the stable, so that if the 
 mysterious Boyd brothers decided to steal their horses and make ofT 
 in the night, they would have more on their hands than they bar- 
 gained for. 
 
 286 
 
XXIV 
 
 'Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
 Count o'er thy days from anguish free; 
 And know, whatever thou has been, 
 'Tis something better— not to be." 
 
 —BYRON 
 
 Every day and night since the large crime of assassination was 
 done in the land, astrologers had been busy spying among 
 constellations for its dark doer. They all knew which way he had 
 gone, what star to dislodge from its imbeddedness to find him scur- 
 rying from under. Spiritualists in black rooms called spectral shapes 
 to come and point which way he went, and they materialized and 
 pointed like branches of the whitethorn in all directions. Clairvoy- 
 ants lay underfoot like the ruined statues of Stymphalis considering 
 behind granite eyelids where he could now be and announcing where 
 the place was in tongues so nobody else would get the reward. All 
 ages, sizes, colors and shapes had visions by broad daylight and sym- 
 bolic dreams by night. They saw him as plainly as possible. He was 
 in a tree, down a well, dead, alive, dressed like a Negro, an Indian, a 
 woman, in Kansas City, Haddonfield, on a ship bound for Spain. 
 They wrote letters to all the papers, stood in line to see Stanton, 
 Woods, anybody, and give the good word for one hundred thousand 
 dollars that would effect the capture of John Wilkes Booth. 
 
 The soldiers and the detectives, being human, wanted the money 
 too. And because they did, it was hard to keep them in line. They 
 kept scattering on wild-goose chases after the quarry until their 
 leaders despaired of ever finding him save on wild-goose chases of 
 their own. With fifteen thousand men so engaged, it was inevitable 
 that some should get warm and warmer. 
 
 Warmest of all were twenty-five stout riders of the Sixteenth New 
 
 287 
 
York Cavalry under a lieutenant named Doherty, a lieutenant named 
 Baker and a colonel named Conger. They reached Port Royal on 
 Tuesday afternoon, April 25th, and did some lively research. They 
 pelted to Bowling Green, thirteen miles away, past the Garrett farm 
 that stood life size on their left. In that little town by darkness they 
 found Captain Jett in his bed at the hotel. No matter how, they 
 wrung from his lips the secret of Johnny's hiding place. They had 
 not been out of their saddles for days and night, but avarice and the 
 excitement of the chase cleared their heads, straightened their spines 
 and rekindled their blood. Back they galloped, like huntsmen fresh 
 out of bed in the morning, ten miles up the road to the Garrett 
 farm. 
 
 It was two o'clock in the thin, cold moonlight and heavy as they 
 were, men and horses, accoutered as they were, they yet managed to 
 move up the long lane to the gentle hill in the locust grove like 
 shadows and surround the house noiselessly. But for all their slyness, 
 the smell of their greed woke the dogs, and they set up a clamor 
 that would raise the dead. 
 
 Mr. Garrett threw open a window and stuck his head out. "Who's 
 below?" he called to the unfamiliar bushes that flourished in the 
 yard. One of them uprooted itself, slid to the kitchen door and began 
 hammering upon it with force enough to rattle the windows. "Who's 
 below?" he repeated. "Who is it?" his wife piped out behind him, 
 not daring to look. 
 
 "Come down," Lieutenant Baker said. "We are Federal troops. 
 We want to ask you some questions." 
 
 When the frightened rebel with his nightshirt stuffed in his pants 
 and a lighted candle in his fidgety hand opened the door, they 
 grabbed him and yanked him outside. 
 
 "Where are John Wilkes Booth and David E. Herold?" Colonel 
 Conger demanded. 
 
 "I don't know any such men!" 
 
 From behind, a rope with a knot in it the size of a small club 
 dropped down over his head and the noose was rapidly tightened. 
 Mr. Garrett let out a yell that brought his sons Jack and William 
 on the dead run from the stable. They were instantly collared. 
 
 Jack said, "There's a man who says his name is Boyd, asleep in 
 
 288 
 
the tobacco barn. He's a stranger to us. We let him spend the night 
 there." 
 
 "We wet him sweep there," William repeated. "He's a stwanger 
 to us. His bwothew is with him." 
 
 "Keep hold of them, boys," Lieutenant Doherty ordered. 
 
 The dead silent cage is as dangerous for the men outside as inside. 
 It would be easy for them outside to shoot through the black open- 
 ings between the boards and kill the two foxes hiding there if 
 Stanton did not want their skins undamaged, if he did not want 
 them intensely alive for the great holiday of public hanging. It 
 would be easy for them inside to aim through the cracks and kill 
 the bold soldiers, maybe half a dozen, before they ran out of bullets 
 or lifeblood. The bold soldiers furtively encircling the tobacco barn 
 had porcupine scalps and chilly backs, thinking this. 
 
 Lieutenant Baker slipped up, put a padlock on the door and 
 turned the key in it with a grating sound. He stood there listening 
 for a moment. "All right," he called softly over his shoulder, and 
 they brought averse William Garrett up to him. The darkness con- 
 tracted like the pupil of an eye and every bird, bug, animal, grass 
 and leaf wizened with it. Lieutenant Baker drew his heels together 
 and lifted his head like a soldier going to be decorated on the parade 
 ground. "You in there!" he called. "I have a proposal to make! I'm 
 going to send one of these farmer boys in! Give him your arms and 
 ammunition and let him bring them out to us, or we'll burn down 
 the building!" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 Lieutenant Baker reached out, unlocked the padlock and opened 
 the door wide enough to push the farmer boy through it. He 
 slammed it shut, locked it again and stood back. They could hear 
 a torrent of low-pitched speech and then William knocked on the 
 door in agitation. The officer let him slide out and men reached out 
 for him and pulled him off to one side. "They won't give up," he 
 said, "they won't give up theiw guns, they said they'we going to 
 stay wight thewe. The wittle one said they ought to shoot me fow 
 betwaying them but I said I didn't betway them, so then the cwip- 
 pled one said to get out!" 
 
 289 
 
"All right, you fellows in there!" Lieutenant Baker said loudly. 
 "Come on out. You haven't got a chance in the world to get away. I've 
 unlocked the door. Come out with your hands up over your heads!" 
 
 The voice of a trained actor rang out then, "Who are you, my 
 friend? What do you want with us?" 
 
 "You know what we want with you," Lieutenant Baker said. "We 
 want you to come out of there." 
 
 "But who are you?" 
 
 "That's our business. We know who you are, and that's the main 
 thing. You can't get away. There 're fifty of us armed with carbines 
 and pistols. You couldn't go five steps in any direction." 
 
 The actor considered this for what seemed a long time. "Captain, 
 this is a hard case, I swear," he said. "Perhaps I am being taken by 
 my own friends." 
 
 "Perhaps you are!" 
 
 "Give me ten minutes to think it over, won't you? This is a hard 
 case." 
 
 "Ten minutes, then." 
 
 "All right, time's up," the officer called. "Come on out with your 
 hands up. We're going to set the barn on fire!" 
 
 "Are you?" the actor said perfectly. "I am a cripple, a one-legged 
 man. Withdraw your forces a hundred yards from the door and I'll 
 come out. Give me a chance, Captain! I'd do as much for you, if I 
 were outside and you in here!" 
 
 "We didn't come here to bargain with you, Booth. We came to 
 get you. You're under arrest. Or would you rather go up in smoke? 
 This barn's going to be afire in ten seconds!" 
 
 Brush had been carried and piled against the south corner of the 
 barn. It was all ready to light. 
 
 "Well, my brave boys, you can prepare a stretcher for me!" 
 
 Where did he learn this line? From Shakespeare? Why no! 
 Old Osawatamie Brown said it when they had him cornered at 
 Harpers Ferry. A soldier in the Richmond Grays repeated it at the 
 hanging. It must have stuck in the actor's memory. It was a good 
 line then, and it's a good line now, dramatic. He recites it as if in a 
 play. 
 
 290 
 
He recites again. "One of us wants to come out! He wants to 
 give himself up!" 
 
 Who might this be who wants to come out ? 
 
 A very young man who is half out of his mind with the fear of 
 burning to death! 
 
 "Where are your arms?" the officer inquired of David behind the 
 door. 
 
 "I ain't got none," he cried hysterically. 
 
 "You were carrying a carbine yesterday. Hand it out first." 
 
 "No, I wasn't, I swear to God. What would I be doing with a car- 
 bine?" 
 
 The actor spoke out clearly, "The boy is telling the truth. The 
 guns are not his. They are mine!" 
 
 "He was the one seen carrying the carbine." 
 
 "It's mine, on the word and honor of a gentleman. He's empty 
 handed and guiltless. The guns are mine. I bought and paid for 
 them. Let him out." 
 
 "Yes, let me, let me, before you set the fire!" 
 
 "Put your hands out then." 
 
 The Lieutenant opened the door far enough for the very young 
 man to thrust his arms out. Lieutenant Doherty slipped a pair of 
 handcuffs on him and jerked him out. Rough hands dragged him 
 into the shadow of the corn cribs. 
 
 He was only a boy, hadn't shaved yet, never kissed a girl, wasn't 
 dry behind the ears, had tears in his eyes, was bawling. "You see," 
 he whimpered, "I wouldn't of left him but it come back to me what 
 they said, that he's going to die anyway. The gangrene's got in his 
 bad leg, and they said — and there ain't no sense in getting burned 
 up alive if he's going to die in two or three days anyway. Otherwise, 
 you see, I wouldn't of left him, but I thought— I thought— " 
 
 "Quit blabbing and listen." His guards strained their ears. 
 
 "Don't let them burn him up. Please don't. He's awful sick and 
 going to die anyway. Please — " There was so much saliva in his 
 mouth he had to stop and spit. He wiped off his wet lips with the 
 back of his hand, then wiped his wet eyes. "I feel awful sorry for 
 Johnny, he's been so bad off. You don't know what a hard time — "" 
 
 "Quit blabbing." 
 
 291 
 
"Draw off your men," said the beautiful voice from the dark 
 barn, hushing everything. "Let me fight them one by one. I could 
 have shot half a dozen of you tonight, but you are brave men — why 
 should I murder any of you in cold blood?" 
 
 Colonel Conger made a rope of straw. He set it on fire and thrust 
 it through a crack in the corner. It landed on a little pile of straw 
 inside the building and the straw caught fire. In the minute it was 
 all ablaze and the walls caught like tinder, lighting the room as 
 bright as day. 
 
 A sergeant named Boston Corbett, castrated and cowed child of 
 cantankerous God and long despairing of man's redemption, did not 
 too much mind risking his neck to step up within six feet of the 
 burning barn and peek through a crack at fine-feathered John Wilkes 
 Booth. He squinted and took a good look. Lit up by flames, fine- 
 feathered Booth on his crutches had a six-barreled revolver in his 
 hands and he might be fixing to take a shot at somebody. He cer- 
 tainly might. It looked like it to Sergeant Boston Corbett. A shot 
 at maybe two or three guiltless Christians. The Sergeant shook his 
 head and clucked softly. That ought to be put a stop to. In fact, 
 God leaned down and said the very same thing. That ought to be 
 put a stop to, my boy. So Sergeant Boston Corbett took steady aim 
 with his pistol, pulled the trigger and put a stop to it. 
 
 He shot fine-feathered Booth in the back of the head and he went 
 down in a heap. 
 
 They dragged him out of the barn and laid him on the grass 
 under a locust tree. He looked as dead as a doornail but Lieutenant 
 Baker put his ear against his chest and said he thought he could 
 hear the heart beat, although in the wrist there was no perceptible 
 pulse, so he was still alive. He started making funny little noises, too, 
 and the half-opened eyelids over the dusty bead eyes twitched, so 
 he wasn't dead. The war-whooping fire made everything light as 
 day, not real day but the contrived overbright of stage noontime. The 
 green grass was green as a billiard table under gaslights, and the 
 trees looked like a stage forest prepared for a production of Robin 
 Hood. Dragging Booth from the flames they pulled his shirttails 
 
 292 
 
out of his pants, and until an officer thought to poke them in again 
 and fold his coat together, his thin belly and jutting chest were 
 bare, and rather than white in the flaring glare the flesh looked 
 palest blue. So did his face and hands, and his hair and eyebrows 
 spuriously jet. 
 
 Lieutenant Doherty and many willing hands tried to save the 
 tobacco barn but they could not get water there fast enough and it 
 was a hopeless cause. They had to give it up and let it burn, going 
 back down through its stages of erection in reverse until it was only 
 a foundation again, to the ground. 
 
 By that time daylight had come, and very pale, poor stuff it looked 
 beside what had been. They had to move the shot man to a cooler 
 place and carried him over to the front porch of the farmhouse. 
 They met men coming out with a straw tick who dropped it right 
 there, neither in nor out, so that Booth when put down upon it had 
 his head and shoulders in the parlor and his feet and legs outside 
 on the porch. It made it very unhandy to tend him, but then, there 
 wasn't much to do for him. 
 
 Colonel Conger sent to Port Royal for a physician. All the officers 
 bit their lips with vexation that their quarry was so nearly dead, 
 and wondered what the reward would dwindle to for each of them. 
 Lieutenant Doherty muttered that Sergeant Boston Corbett ought 
 to have his block knocked off to blaze away with his gun and spoil 
 everything like that. They all said the Sergeant was crazier than a 
 loon with his religion anyway and should have been shut up long 
 ago. 
 
 They sloshed off Booth's head and face with cold water, and when 
 they tried to force a swallow of water down him he blew it out but 
 did not have breath enough to blow it all out, so what was left 
 trickled out the corner of his loose mouth. He opened his eyes then 
 and they saw he knew them and knew himself and where he was. 
 
 When the doctor, highly excited, arrived as he did soon after, and 
 examined the hole under the man's right ear where the ball had gone 
 through and the larger hole on the left side of his fifth vertebra 
 where it had come out, he said he would not last long. They asked 
 if there was any chance in the world to get him to Washington 
 
 293 
 
alive and he said no chance whatever. Off the porch and wandering 
 around the yard, having done all he could do, and looking over the 
 scene of the excitement, the doctor accepted a chew of tobacco from 
 a tired cavalryman and went into some detail about the dying 
 man's condition. 
 
 Booth was paralyzed from the neck down and did not know 
 where or how he was lying or if he was sitting, the doctor said 
 obligingly. Since he could not cough or swallow, his lungs were 
 filling up with saliva and that was about the same thing as drown- 
 ing. It must feel very like drowning, the doctor said. Not very pleas- 
 ant, no, indeedy. He knew everything that was going on, probably. 
 Felt like he was smothering and choking and drowning and was 
 helpless, couldn't do a thing about it. A man in a fix like that would 
 naturally say kill me, kill me, as somebody had just reported that 
 he was saying every once in a while. No, it was certainly not very 
 pleasant. Of course, his organism knew that this was the end, knew 
 that it had sustained the deathblow, the hit it would never stand up 
 against, it knew that, the body knew, the doctor said, and started 
 dying, and probably that was all the head thought about — dying, 
 finishing, getting done. 
 
 "So you don't think he's laying there thinking over all his past 
 life?" a cavalryman with corrupt teeth wondered interestedly. "The 
 way they say they do when they're dying and are conscious like 
 that? I been over there a time or two and looked at him. My home 
 folks'll be asking me twenty times. He's got his eyes open and he 
 looks like he knows what's going on." 
 
 "Someone was saying he said 'Tell Mother I died for my country, 
 I did what I thought was best,' " another man said. "So you see he 
 can say something once in a while. God Almighty, laying there like 
 that. Somebody was saying he keeps thinking his chest and throat 
 is filled up with blood and keeps wanting the Lieutenant to press it 
 out, but they can't do nothing. Laying there like that for better'n two 
 hours. Imagine." 
 "God." 
 
 "Like drowning, when the organism is paralyzed like that," the 
 doctor repeated, "only of course much worse, I would venture to 
 say." 
 
 294 
 
"He deserves it," a blue-eyed soldier decided, taking a chew of 
 tobacco. 
 
 "But imagine if it was yourself!" 
 
 "I wouldn't be in a fix like that." 
 
 "How does a man get himself in a fix like that anyway?" 
 
 "It beats me." 
 
 "Assassinating the President." 
 
 "And here he was a big actor and had all kinds of money." 
 
 "Somebody was saying he done it for the notoriety." 
 
 "I bet he was well paid by old Jefif Davis." 
 
 "Do you suppose he's laying there thinking over all his past life?" 
 
 The doctor repeated that he did not believe so. Not only was the 
 wound so grievous, but the man had sustained a stunning shock. 
 The doctor maintained that he probably was not thinking of any- 
 thing. He was merely dying. 
 
 Four or five of the soldiers strolled over and looked at the man's 
 one boot sole and one shoe sole that stuck out onto the porch, but 
 they did not go beyond the steps to get a look at his face, because his 
 head was in the parlor and Lieutenant Baker and Colonel Conger 
 were crouched on either side of him, and a woman inside was sitting 
 on the floor with a basin and was wringing cloths out of it. The offi- 
 cers were emptying his pockets and that made the men think he 
 might be dead, but somebody inquired respectfully and Conger 
 shook his head. Booth didn't have much on him because they could 
 tie it all up in a handkerchief, just a comb and a red leather book, a 
 pipe and a few things like that. A spur, too. The Colonel took the 
 little bundle and got to his feet and came down the steps and went 
 for his horse. Somebody said he was going to Washington. 
 
 They watched Lieutenant Baker take one of the wet cloths from 
 the woman and scrub Booth's hand with it and then hold it up to 
 Booth's face. When he let go of it the hand fell down. Booth mur- 
 mured something. 
 
 "What did he say?" they turned to each other and asked. 
 "What did he say, Lieutenant, please, sir?" they asked the officer 
 out of curiosity. 
 
 Lieutenant Baker turned his head and looked at them, his eyes 
 vacant. "What?" he said. 
 
 295 
 
"Booth. What was it he just said, sir?" 
 
 "Why, he said, 'Useless. Useless.' " He turned back to the dying 
 man and leaned over him. 
 
 The handful of soldiers looked at each other. 
 
 "What do you suppose he meant by that? Useless?" 
 
 "That maybe his hands was useless now that they're paralyzed," 
 one said. 
 
 But another shook his head. "Maybe he meant his life," he said. 
 
 They just stood around then and thought it was about time for 
 breakfast, and soon the officer got to his feet and said John Wilkes 
 Booth, the assassinator of President Lincoln, was dead. 
 
 The young fellow who had tagged along with him was bawling 
 over by the apple tree with his handcuffed hands up on the trunk 
 and his face laid down on them, and he was certainly a pretty sight. 
 
 296 
 
I AFTER | 
 
 When Ned Freeman, the Negro, rolled up to the gate in his 
 wagon and saw the burnt barn, the yard full of soldiers and horses, 
 and the Garretts standing around as white as ghosts, he thought he 
 might as well meander right on out of there, but he had no more 
 than picked up the reins when a high-and-mighty officer saw him 
 and came over to the fence. 
 
 "What's your business here?" the officer said. 
 
 "Got no business, sa," Ned Freeman said cordially "Merely comes 
 to get the two gentlemens wants to get to Guinea Station this mawn- 
 ing." 
 
 "And what two gentlemen were they?" 
 
 "Don't rightly know, sa. Never seed them." 
 
 "You stay right where you are," the soldier said, beginning to 
 smile slyly. "We've got a little job for you. One of the men has 
 changed his mind. He wants to be taken somewhere else, not Guinea 
 Station." 
 
 "That so, sa?" 
 
 "Yes, now he's decided he wants to go to Belle Plain." 
 
 "Do he?" 
 
 "Because he's boarding a boat there to go to Washington." 
 
 Ned Freeman was silent. The high-and-mighty officer had a look 
 on his face like it was all a big joke. 
 
 When they brought a dead body out sewed in a bloody blanket 
 and put it in the wagon, he knew that was what it was supposed to 
 be, and he attempted a sickly smile, although it did not seem very 
 funny. 
 
 A lieutenant climbed up on the rickety seat beside him and an 
 orderly dropped the end gate down and clambered on in back, his 
 feet dangling, beside the corpse. The officer said they would cross 
 
 297 
 
the Rappahannock and then go out the Belle Plain road from Port 
 Conway. The ferry was right there when they arrived at Port Royal 
 and they got across the river with no delay, which pleased the nerv- 
 ous Lieutenant. 
 
 The sandy Belle Plain road ran through miserable, desolate coun- 
 try, and all the way the officer kept looking back and to both sides. 
 It made Ned Freeman nervous to watch him out of the corner of 
 his eye, and the first thing he knew he was acting the same way. 
 Once he thought he saw the red and yellow skirts of a gypsy glide 
 through the woods and he felt a crawling of the skin. It seemed as 
 though she might be following and watching, but he did not catch 
 sight of her again. 
 
 Five or six Dixie soldiers loomed in sight and straggled down the 
 road toward them, coming home from the war, and the Lieutenant 
 grabbed hold of his pistol, but when they got close he took his 
 shaking hand off it and pretended he was not the least bit scared. 
 They hollered out greetings and he and the orderly returned them 
 with false heartiness. The raggedy soldiers looked in the wagon as 
 they went by and saw the long shape in the stained blanket. 
 
 "What you got in the wagon?" one of them called back. "A dead 
 Yankee?" His companions laughed. 
 
 "Yes," the Lieutenant said, looking round so they could see the 
 smile on his face. When they disappeared, he took his handkerchief 
 out and wiped the smile off at the same time that he mopped up 
 his sweat, and he was trembling like a leaf. 
 
 He didn't mind so much as Ned Freeman, however, when a king- 
 bolt broke on one of the little hills, the wagon reared up and the 
 dead body was as good as standing. "Get under there and fix 
 it," he ordered. Ned Freeman crept under and reached out, and at 
 that minute blood from the corpse began to seep through a crack 
 in the wagon bed and splashed like a raindrop or two on his hand 
 and ran in a little trickle up his arm. When he saw what kind of 
 rain it was he jerked back, bumping his head so hard it raised a 
 lump there, and scrambled out from under the wagon. He wanted 
 to turn his horse and wagon right over to the Union government as 
 a gift with no strings attached and make tracks for home, but they 
 said no, siree, to climb right back under there, blood or no blood, and 
 
 298 
 
fix that wagon. The Lieutenant had his gun trained on him and the 
 Negro had to oblige, praying under his breath and his eyes rolling. 
 
 Even after he scoured the blood off with sand, he kept feeling 
 like it was still on him all the rest of the way to Belle Plain, and 
 he looked on his hand and arm with loathing. 
 
 The Lieutenant was as glad to board the steamer, the John S. Ide, 
 waiting there, with his orderly and the dead man, as Ned Freeman 
 was glad to see the last of the three of them. The sun was low and 
 he had a long old trip ahead of him in a bloody wagon he would 
 look upon as haunted as long as there was a splinter left of it, but 
 the Negro started off bravely. When darkness fell, however, he began 
 to pray and, keeping his eyes shut tight the biggest part of the time, 
 prayed all the way home. 
 
 Soldiers removed the body from the John S. Ide at ten-thirty that 
 night when the steamer reached Alexandria, and put it on the 
 monitor Montau\ anchored off the Anacostia Navy Yard. Still 
 sewed in its blanket, they bore it to the forward deck and laid it 
 on a carpenter's bench. Armed guards stood around it all the balmy 
 starlit night as though it might get up and walk away. 
 
 By eleven the next morning the corpse had begun to smell so in 
 the beaming sun that the Commandant of the navy yard sent to the 
 Secretary of the Navy and asked what to do with it. He replied by 
 sending the Surgeon General and other officers to have a look at it. 
 With them were a few witnesses who had known the man in life, 
 the doctor who had operated on his neck, the desk clerk at the 
 National Hotel and some others. The blanket off, it took them a 
 little while to surely recognize the features of the dead man. They 
 did finally, and signed affidavits to the effect that this was indeed 
 John Wilkes Booth, but they were stumped for a minute that what 
 had been such a sight for sore eyes could now be what it was. 
 
 When it was pitch dark that second night, Lieutenant Baker and 
 some sailors carried a pine gun-box, with Booth painted in white 
 letters on the side, to the old penitentiary. The cells on the ground 
 floor were full of ammunition stored there by the Ordnance De- 
 partment. They cleared out one of these, lifted up a large flat 
 stone and dug a grave. They put the box in the grave and replaced 
 
 299 
 
the stone, and when they went out the Lieutenant carefully locked 
 the iron door behind him as upon a prisoner. 
 
 Asia? Whisperers said that, driven mad, she had been confined to 
 an asylum for the insane, after Johnny's death, but no, it was a lie. 
 She was not mad. In August of that sad, long year she gave birth 
 to two babies. Soon after, with them and her three other children 
 and the husband she could not love because he was not someone 
 else, she went abroad to live. John Clarke, her husband, she said 
 in the book she wrote in England about her younger brother, "was 
 an entirely opposite creation" from Johnny. And so . . . and so. . . . 
 When they saw each other for the last time (all unknowing) and 
 were about to part, Johnny put his arms out to her. "Oh, my boy," 
 Asia said brokenly, going into them, "I shall never be happy till I 
 see your face again." She did not swear it. She did not say, "I swear 
 it by my love," but it was a vow for all that, ever kept. 
 
 Ella Starr ? She waited, of course, but Johnny did not come when 
 he promised because that Good Friday night was the night he shot 
 Abraham Lincoln and jumped from the stage and galloped off 
 down into Maryland. When she heard the news they thought 
 certainly she would cry over him at last, the way she should have 
 done all along, but did she? Not Ella. She just got some chloroform, 
 went to her room, shut the door and tried to kill herself. She came 
 so near dying that Nellie and Dudall and the beauties and even 
 Juanita the impudent squirrel gave her up for lost, but then she 
 came out of it and lived. That Saturday, Nellie's habitation was at 
 sixes and sevens. 
 
 The Conspirators? David Herold had been caught, of course, 
 down in Virginia; Lewis Payne (who tried to kill Secretary of 
 State Seward and failed), Samuel Arnold, Michael O'Laughlin and 
 George Atzerodt were arrested within a few days after the assassina- 
 tion and thrown into prison. (John Surratt had disappeared, would 
 not be apprehended until two years later, in Alexandria, Egypt, 
 when he would be brought back, tried as a traitor and assassin, and 
 acquitted.) Willy-nilly with them at the bar of justice were Dr. 
 
 300 
 
Mudd, who set Johnny's leg, bewildered Mrs. Surratt and the stage- 
 hand Ned Spangler, whose crime was that he had known the Booth 
 family for many years. These seven men and one woman, christened 
 The Conspirators by the newspapers at the time of their arrest and 
 erroneously grouped under that appellation to this day, were 
 brought to trial before a military commission on May 11th, a little 
 less than a month after Abraham Lincoln's death, and on June 30th 
 they were found guilty as accused. 
 
 They were treated viciously the whole time. It was no wonder 
 people thought they were a gang of dangerous criminals. They 
 looked the part. Accustomed to the blackness of solitary, low- 
 ceilinged dungeons, what could their red-rimmed eyes do but blink 
 "evilly" when confronted by the light of day? No baths, no clean 
 underclothes, no change of garments in all those weeks — how could 
 they smell or look like a lady and seven gentlemen? Part of the 
 time they wore iron collars around their necks, with short chains 
 fastened to a heavy iron ball on the floor, so they could never look 
 up, but had to sit, hour after dreary hour, with their heads bowed 
 down. Their hands were manacled, their feet shackled, and when 
 heavy padded canvas hoods were put down over their heads, with 
 only a little hole to breath the oppressively hot air through, it was 
 a wonder they did not go mad. Perhaps they did, a little. The Sec- 
 retary of War had to write to the Commandant of the navy yard 
 and tell him to "secure" Lewis Payne "to prevent self destruction." 
 Lewis Payne was a mystery to his keepers — he did not move his 
 bowels even once in over a month. 
 
 Mrs. Surratt, Lewis Payne, George Atzerodt and David Herold 
 were sentenced to be hanged by the neck until dead, and on July 
 7th at two o'clock in the afternoon they were executed. It was a 
 sizzling day and their clothes were damp with sweat when the 
 soldiers cut them down and put them, still limp and hot, in their 
 coffins. 
 
 Samuel Arnold, Michael O'Laughlin, Ned Spangler and Dr. 
 Mudd were sentenced to life imprisonment in the military prison 
 on the Dry Tortugas. Michael O'Laughlin went free in a few 
 months by dying of fever, but the other three stayed more than 
 four years. 
 
 301 
 
Johnny's wardrobe never reached Richmond, Virginia. The vessel 
 sailing out from Montreal was wrecked, and though the trunks and 
 boxes were salvaged, the costumes were quite ruined. The Rich 
 mond maiden's auburn hair floated off and drowned and was never 
 seen again. Sold at public auction months later by decree of the 
 Canadian Vice-Admiralty Court this wardrobe, once worth thou- 
 sands, brought only five hundred dollars. Edwin obtained one of 
 the trunks from a man whose brother had bought it at the sale. 
 One winter night, something like eight years later, he burned all 
 the costumes in the furnace under his own theater, then about to be 
 given up for another. Rather, he let his valet burn them, while he 
 handed them over one by one, remembering his father, remembering 
 wild Johnny, but he did not shed a tear until he picked up the 
 Richard III velvet doublet. That, he cried against, as though it had 
 been somebody alive now going away and never coming back again. 
 He handed it over, though, in a little while (the valet pretended 
 not to see his bitten lips and wet eyes), and it went up in flames. 
 Then they broke up the trunk and burned it. . . . Edwin, who had 
 never felt any rancor for Johnny and would have been amazed to 
 know what jealousy and hatred could have smoldered against him- 
 self, had other things to remember his younger brother by. A picture 
 of the "rising young tragedian" in his fine coat and gloves, for one. 
 Something else, too, had Edwin — a bullet mounted in gold, en- 
 graved From Mark Gray to Edwin Booth, dangling from his 
 watch chain, a bullet that might not have been aimed at him if 
 Johnny had not committed his crime, though fourteen years seems 
 a long time to wait for revenge. He was on the stage of a Chicago 
 theater, reciting the last great soliloquy in Richard HI, when all of 
 a sudden — bang! and a bullet whizzed past, missing him by 
 inches. . . . 
 
 Two years after Johnny was buried under that stone slab in the 
 locked cell the old penitentiary was torn down, so they moved him 
 to a new grave. They took him to a large warehouse on the eastern 
 side of the Arsenal grounds and buried him with some old ac- 
 quaintances of his — Mrs. Surratt, Lewis Payne, George Atzerodt 
 and David Herold. He and David lay side by side again, just as 
 
 302 
 
they had those six long nights in Cox's grove, but this time they 
 had no dreams and no old owl said in plain English, Who? Who? 
 Who? 
 
 Andrew Johnson, ready to step out of office and turn the reins 
 over to the new President of the United States, Ulysses S. Grant, 
 gave the Booths permission to come and get John Wilkes Booth 
 and bury him in the family plot in Baltimore. He would not give 
 it, though, until they signed an agreement saying that they would 
 never put a monument over him, or mark his burial spot by any 
 means whatsoever. 
 
 Edwin hired a Baltimore undertaker named Weaver to go down 
 and bring back his brother's body. Arrived in Washington, Weaver 
 engaged two local undertakers to help him. Using a furniture 
 wagon, for word had been passed that the corpse of the man who 
 killed Lincoln was going to be transferred and they did not wish to 
 be molested by curiosity seekers, they went out to the Arsenal 
 grounds on a fine morning in early June. Weaver showed the Major 
 in charge President Johnson's written release. The Major helpfully 
 supplied some soldiers, they dug up the decaying gun-box with the 
 almost obliterated white letters on the side spelling Booth, and put 
 it in the van. 
 
 The two Washington undertakers decided it would be better not 
 to take the body to their place of business for the little wait necessary 
 before Weaver could put it on the train and ship it to Baltimore. If 
 the news got out that it was there, curious crowds might swarm in 
 and ruin all their nice decorations. One of them had the good idea 
 to store it in the stable they were renting in the alley back of Ford's 
 Theater, right close by, so they drove there in the furniture wagon 
 and put the box in the stable, covered it over and locked the door. 
 Johnny would have known where he was in a minute. It was the 
 very stable he had kept the bright little bay in, and led her out of, 
 that night of April 14th. . . . 
 
 Toward the last of June, four summers after Johnny died, all the 
 Booths except Asia (who would die some twenty years later in 
 England and be buried there) gathered at the Greenmount Ceme- 
 
 303 
 
tery in Baltimore on a Saturday afternoon. An expensive casket was 
 lifted out of Weaver's hearse. During the ceremonies, Mary Ann, 
 the mother, was quiet enough, but when the preacher began the 
 rite of solemn blessing over the coffin as it was slowly being lowered 
 into the grave, she put her hand up to her mouth as if that moment 
 her child was being killed before her eyes and she began to sob 
 most terribly, her knees buckling. 
 
 That grave of his. . . . 
 
 Johnny used to say when a little cat-chill ran down his spine, 
 "Somebody is walking over my grave," but he did not think there 
 really was a spot on earth earmarked for splendid him. There was, 
 though, and that was it. He lies there yet under grass, beneath a 
 bird or two and sauntering ivy, but no way is it written : he lies here. 
 
 304 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 Alcott, Louisa May. Hospital Sketches. Boston. 1863 
 
 Aldrich, Mrs. Thos. B. Crowding Memories. Boston. 1920 
 
 Bates, Finis L. The Escape and Suicide of John Wildes Booth. 
 
 Memphis. 1907 
 Beard, Charles A. & Mary R. The Rise of American Civilization. 
 
 New York. 1927 
 Buckingham, John E., Sr. Reminiscenses and Souvenirs of the As- 
 sassination of Abraham Lincoln. Washington. 1894 
 Campbell, Helen Jones. The Case for Mrs. Surratt. New York. 1943 
 Cheney, Ednah D. Louisa May Alcott, Her Life, Letters, and four- 
 
 nals. 1887 
 Clarke, Asia Booth. The Unlocked Book,, A Memoir of John Wildes 
 
 Booth. New York. 1938 
 Eisenschiml, Otto. In The Shadow of Lincoln's Death. New York. 
 
 1940 
 Eisenschiml, Otto. Why was Lincoln Murdered? Boston. 1937 
 Forrester, Izola. This One Mad Act. Boston. 1937 
 Harris, T. M. Assassination of Lincoln, A History of the Great 
 
 Conspiracy. Boston. 1892 
 Hornblow, Arthur. A History of the Theatre in America. Philadel- 
 phia. 1919 
 Howard, Hamilton Gay. Civil-War Echoes: Character Sketches and 
 
 State Secrets. Washington. 1907 
 Kimmel, Stanley. The Mad Booths of Maryland. New York. 1940 
 Laughlin, Clara E. The Death of Lincoln. New York. 1909 
 Leech, Margaret. Reveille in Washington. New York. 1941 
 Lewis, Lloyd. Myths After Lincoln. New York. 1929 
 Lewis, Montgomery S. Legends That Libel Lincoln. New York. 1946 
 Lockridge, Richard. Darling of Misfortune. New York. 1932 
 Miller, Frances T. ed. The Photographic History of the Civil War. 
 
 New York. 1911 
 Moore, Frank. The Civil War in Song and Story. New York. 1889 
 
Morris, Clara. Life on the Stage. New York. 1901 
 
 Mudd, Nettie. The Life of Dr. Samuel A. Mudd. New York. 1906 
 
 Official Records. Assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Trial of the 
 
 Conspirators. Trial of John H. Surratt. Impeachment and Trial 
 
 of Andrew Johnson, 17th Pres. of the U. S. 
 Oldroyd, Osborn H. The Assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Wash- 
 ington. 1901 
 The Oregonian. February — August 1865 
 Pitman, Benn., compiler. The Assassination of President Lincoln 
 
 and The Trial of the Conspirators. Washington. 1865 
 Sandburg, Carl. The War Years. New York. 1939 
 Stern, Philip Van Doren. The Man Who Killed Lincoln. New York. 
 
 1939 
 Townsend, George Alfred. Life, Crime and Capture of John Wildes 
 
 Booth. New York. 1865 
 Virginia: A Guide to the Old Dominion. New York. 1940 
 Warren, Robert Penn. John Brown. New York. 1929 
 Whipple, Wayne. The Story Life of Lincoln. Philadelphia. 1908 
 Wilson, Francis. John Wildes Booth, Fact and Fiction of Lincoln's 
 
 Assassination. New York. 1929 
 Winter, William. Life and Art of Edwin Booth. New York. 1894 
 
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BOYCHUK STUDIO, PORTLAND, ORE. 
 
 ARDYTH KENNELLY grew up in Salt Lake City, 
 and a Mormon household there provided the back- 
 ground for her recent best-selling novel, the peace- 
 able kingdom. She attended Oregon State College 
 preparing to be an English teacher, but since 1940 when 
 she married a Portland doctor, Egon V. Ullman, she 
 has successfully combined the life of a homemaker with 
 writing poetry, short stories and novels. She insists that 
 she enjoys keeping house, from scrubbing the wood- 
 work to cooking unusual dishes. Her husband shares 
 her interest in writing — he writes poetry, medical 
 papers and is now working on the story of Corti the 
 Italian anatomist who first discovered the eardrum. 
 
 the spur was inspired by her insatiable curiosity about 
 "the man who killed Lincoln." The controversial 
 explanations about Booth in both contemporary and 
 modern accounts only led to more reading, then re- 
 search of her own, and finally with enough notes to 
 "fill a bushel basket," the story of John Wilkes Booth 
 came to life on paper. 
 

 
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