Let me start off by stating the obvious – I despise John Wilkes Booth, and what he did in 1865, with every resin fiber in my body. As a matter of fact, I can’t stand any pathetic, low-life, scum-bucket, maggot infested, soulless piece of useless flesh who picks up a gun and shoots another human being without just cause – like self-defense, taking down a dangerous criminal, or on the field of battle.
When Tom’s alarm rang at 6:00am on Sunday May 15, 2022, I knew I was about to get my fill of Presidential assassin John Wilkes Booth; the scoundrel who gunned down Abraham Lincoln in cold blood on April 14, 1865. My two companions had dedicated the entire day to following in the footsteps of Booth on his escape route – from Ford’s Theater in Washington to the site of the Garrett Farm, located near Port Royal, Virginia where the actor was killed. While some of the sites were the same ones the three of us had visited in 2021, there were other historic locations we didn’t get to see the previous year because my photographer had researched some bad information prior to that trip. This time, however, Tom and Bob were dedicated to being historically accurate.
We left the LaQuinta at about 7:30am with all of our belonging onboard the Jeep. The Sunday morning traffic into D.C. was a non-issue; before I could utter the words “Sic Semper Tyrannis”, we had arrived at our first Booth site of the day – the Mary Surratt Boarding House on H Street in downtown Washington. When I got my first glimpse of the historic home, I figured Mrs. Surratt must’ve been a Chinese KISS fan because the exterior featured a sign that said ‘Wok and Roll Restaurant’ along with Chinese lettering that spelled out ‘Chinese Food, Sushi, and Karaoke’. As I posed for a handful of photos in front of the former boarding house, I expected to hear Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley belt out the lyrics “I want to wok and roll all night and party every day.”
But the house that stood in front of me on that early Sunday morning was more than a Chinese Restaurant – at least to the three of us. It was historically linked with one of the most, if not THE most, heinous crimes in American history – the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Although the three-and-one-half story home was built in 1843, Mary Surratt’s husband John didn’t purchase it until ten years later on December 6, 1853. Since the Surratt’s already lived in Surrattsville, Maryland, John operated the home in Washington as a boarding house. When John died in 1862, Mary rented out their Maryland place to Confederate sympathizer John M. Lloyd in 1864 and she moved into the boarding house on H Street. On December 23, 1864, Dr. Samuel Mudd introduced Mary’s son John, Jr. to actor John Wilkes Booth; soon after, the scheme to kidnap President Lincoln began taking root in the Surratt Boarding House. Booth convinced John Surratt, Jr. to join his kidnapping plot; then shortly after, they were joined by George Atzerodt, Lewis Powell, and David Herold – each of whom either lived in the boarding house or visited frequently. On the morning of April 14, 1865, Mary Surratt met with John Wilkes Booth at the boarding house where the actor spoke privately with her and gave her a package that contained binoculars. Booth’s kidnapping plot had turned to assassination and later that evening, the actor was ready to wok and roll his way into infamy.
Fifteen minutes after we first arrived at the Mary Surratt Boarding House, the three of us boarded the Jeep for the half-mile drive to Ford’s Theater. Thankfully Tom was able to find a parking spot along 9th Street, and after he used his remarkable parallel parking skills, we were only one block east and within easy walking distance of the historic theater. Once we had walked to the corner of 10th Street, and the theater came into view, I nearly fell out of the camera case. There was no one in front of Ford’s Theater, the Star Saloon next door, or the Petersen House across the street. Both Tom and Bob were shocked as well. For once, they had the three historic sites to themselves and there wasn’t any scaffolding or other eye sores to mess up their photos. A few minutes after the pair went to work capturing their images, their unobstructed views of the historic buildings quickly changed; two busloads of students emptied, and those kids and their chaperones flowed towards the theater like ants swarm to a picnic basket. A few minutes later, Tom said to Mongo in a sarcastic tone: “We have nine o’clock tickets and when I bought them, the NPS website stated that space inside the theater was limited due to COVID protocols. There’s at least 200 people from those buses alone. What did the government limit the nine o’clock admission to – anybody who wanted to buy a ticket?”
The doors to Ford’s Theater opened precisely at 9am and the throng of people slowly went in like a herd of cattle. I nearly laughed out loud when I saw a sign on one door that showed a symbol of a pistol, circled in red with a red line running through it. The only thought I had was: “No guns inside the theater? What a concept. Had that rule been in effect in 1865, Abraham Lincoln would still be alive today.” Then it dawned on me – Lincoln was born in 1809 and would be 213 years old today. Then another thought popped into my resin mind: Perhaps that sign should feature a symbol of an assault rifle rather than a handgun. Criminals don’t use pistols anymore – at least not in the United States.
For some reason, when the doors opened at 9am, everyone was forced to visit the museum in the basement first. The NPS doesn’t allow visitors into the actual theater until 9:30am, which crammed a lot of people into a fairly small area all at one time. Most of the tourists, including Tom and Bob, wore face coverings, which was the steadfast rule set by the NPS. But there were a handful of people who refused to wear masks, and the rangers didn’t say a word to them. In my mind, why have a rule in place if you don’t enforce it? I imagine some of those same individuals were likely carrying guns as well. If you break one rule, why not break them all?
It had been three years since I’d been inside Ford’s Theater, and it seemed great to be back. The museum was amazing – it’s filled with dozens of artifacts from the assassination. Although every item in that museum was great, the single artifact that Tom and I gravitated to was the small single-shot Philadelphia derringer that John Wilkes Booth used to shoot the President. As I posed near the glass enclosure where the gun was on display, I couldn’t take my resin eyes off the weapon. Every time I see that gun, one thought fills my mind: “How could something so small cause so much damage. It changed the course of American history – and maybe world history?”
The following half-hour was spent touring the interior of the theater itself. I spent my time posing in the dress circle where Booth had walked before the assassination, as well as just outside the door where the actor accessed the Presidential box. At one point during our visit, Tom asked a NPS Ranger what it would take to gain access to the Presential box itself. That’s the moment my photographer nearly “blew a gasket” as he was informed by the ranger that due to COVID protocols, the close-contact area of the Presidential box was off limits to visitors. My camera guy was furious; especially when he saw dozens of visitors meandering about the museum and theater without the “mandatory face masks” and not one ranger confronted them about their policy. Tom said sternly to the young ranger: “This is a National Park Service site that is partially paid for by my tax dollars. You mean to tell me I can’t see the most historic area of the theater, even though I’ve been vaccinated, boosted, and I’m wearing a face mask? That’s a bunch of crap. The last time I was here, I couldn’t see that area because no one supposedly had the key to the door, but it was open to VIP tours for extra money. Now it’s supposedly closed off because of the damned virus. If the stupidity of our government’s ridiculous policies gets any worse, we might as well change our name to the Communist States of America.” With that, Tom turned and walked away; still mumbling to himself and to anyone within earshot.
With no access to the Presidential box that would’ve offered us a great view from behind the replica Lincoln rocker, my photographer carried me to a section of the balcony that was closest to the historic box. Tom clutched me tightly in his left hand, while at the same time, he leaned as far as he could over the balcony’s handrail. As he blindly took several images of me in front of the box, I was scared to death. I looked down and saw the stage twelve feet below; the same stage that John Wilkes Booth had landed on and broke his left leg after he jumped from the same height. I knew if I had slipped and fell, there would be pieces of me all over that stage. Not even Dr. Mudd, or Gorilla Glue, could save Humpty Dumpty from a twelve-foot plunge onto that hard stage.
At 10:10am, the three of us left Ford’s Theater and walked across 10th Street where we stood in line outside of the Petersen House with about a hundred other visitors. Social distancing? Don’t even think about it, although the “highly cautious” NPS allowed only 15 people inside the home at one time. But that caused another hurdle for me and my friends. Once we made our way into the small back bedroom where Lincoln had died, my companions had less than 30 seconds to capture all of their images. To make matters worse, an Asian guy was inside the room at the same time, and he took forever to take his photos. At one point, I heard Tom say to Mongo in a semi-whisper: “I think I could create a painting on canvas of this room faster than that guy takes his pictures. And the sad thing is – nothing in the room is moving. He doesn’t have to get an action shot. Just aim and shoot – he doesn’t even have to focus for crying out loud.” I could tell that my photographer was still seething from not having access to the Presidential box inside the theater. It was obvious Tom was having his first COBS (Crabby Old Bastard Syndrome) flare-up of the trip. Okay, maybe that was his second flare-up, because Tom did have an outburst with a ranger inside the theater. I thought the second one was justified, however, and occurred because a heavier-than-average ranger, who was seated down the hallway as he monitored the number of visitors inside, told us we had to move along. I even heard Mongo say out loud: “We’ll leave as soon as we get the pictures we want. So far, we haven’t been able to get close to the bed without someone in our way.” Even though Bob was fairly polite and politically correct about the situation, I wondered if he had contracted the highly contagious COBS disease from my camera guy.
Once we had vacated the Petersen House and then finished a quick tour of the adjacent museum which featured several more Lincoln assassination artifacts, Tom carried me out to the middle of 10th Street where I got my final look at Ford’s Theater. Five minutes later, however, I realized that wasn’t my last glimpse of the historic theater. Since our planned mission for the day was to retrace the escape route of John Wilkes Booth, we had one final location to visit before we left Washington – the back door of Ford’s Theater and Baptist Alley.
With me “snug as a bug” inside the camera case, Tom and Bob walked east along F Street until they reached the halfway point between 9th and 10th Streets. Although the entrance to the alley was nearly camouflaged by the surrounding buildings, a sign with Lincoln’s face had been placed along the sidewalk at the opening of the historic alley. We walked downhill in the alley for about a hundred yards; then as soon as we turned right, the backside of Ford’s Theater was directly in front of us. I posed for a handful of images near the building, but my favorite spot was at the doorway used by John Wilkes Booth when he made his daring escape.
Seconds after Booth had shot President Abraham Lincoln, he jumped onto the stage – only to land awkwardly and injure his left leg. After he recited his final lines as an actor – “Sic Semper Tyrannis” – Booth fled through the back of the stage and out a doorway that led into the alley as pandemonium erupted inside the theater. Once outside, Booth grabbed the reins of his getaway horse that had been held by Joseph “Peanuts” Burroughs, a stagehand, and he mounted the mighty steed. The assassin knocked Burroughs senseless with the butt-end of his knife, then he barely avoided the grasp of six-foot, six-inch tall Major Joseph B. Stewart who tried to snag the horse’s reigns. With the assassin in its saddle, Booth’s galloping horse fled out of Baptist Alley and turned right onto F Street. Now a fugitive, the actor made his way past the Capitol before he crossed the Anacostia River via the Navy Yard Bridge and into Maryland. Once accomplice David Herold made it safely over the same bridge, the pair hooked up and they disappeared into the darkness.
Roughly 90 minutes after Booth shot the President, he and David Herold arrived at the Surratt Tavern located in Surrattsville, now Clinton, Maryland. While the lame assassin stayed on his horse due to his broken leg, Herold entered the tavern to pick up two Spencer carbine rifles and other equipment that had been stashed inside for roughly a month. It was shortly after midnight and Booth needed help for his leg. The pair of fugitives left the Surratt Tavern and began their journey south towards the one man the actor knew could ease his pain – Dr. Samuel A. Mudd.
It’s been said the route that Booth had taken to the Surratt Tavern from Washington was only nine miles long, but that was by horseback in 1865. On our trip in 2022, Tom was forced to drive the main highways, which took us on a 19-mile not-so-direct route – although it only took us only 25 minutes to get to the tavern instead of 90 minutes by horse. Once we arrived at the historic site around 11:40am, Tom and Bob photographed the exterior, just like they had done in 2021. The big difference for us on that day, however, was the interior was open for tours – unlike the previous year. The three of us entered the building through a rear door, and although we heard voices somewhere inside the house, Tom and Bob took it upon themselves to do a self-guided tour. My companions felt they didn’t want to spend the extra time waiting for an official tour, especially when most of the furnishings inside the historic tavern were period pieces. My photographer carried me around from room to room where I posed for a handful of photos, including one where I stood on a French writing desk once owned and used by Mary Surratt.
Booth and Herold, along with their horses, left the Surratt Tavern shortly after 12 midnight on April 14, 1865. Watson and Moldenhauer, along with me, left the tavern shortly after 12 noon on May 15, 2022. The two groups, one notorious and the other obnoxious, had one destination in mind – The House of Mudd; located nearly 15 miles to the south.
Besides Ford’s Theater, the home of Dr. Samuel A. Mudd is arguably the most famous and historic site on the entire Booth escape route. The three of us had toured the entire home and grounds in 2021 and I looked forward to going back; even though my companions weren’t planning on visiting the interior of the home this time around. Instead, their goals were to once again photograph the home’s exterior and finish their visit with a quick “hello” to their 2021 tour guide named Marilyn, who the three of us thought was very cool. But when we arrived at the historic home that the Mudd family had named ‘St. Catharine’, Tom and Bob’s plans quickly changed. The first thing we learned was Marilyn wasn’t there – it was her day off. That disappointing news was followed by a chunky guy telling my companions they had to pay to walk the grounds – there was a small fee that “helps pay for the upkeep of the historic site”. Once Tom and Bob heard there was a fee to photograph the exterior, they decided to pay the entire fee for an interior tour as well.
Once my friends had paid for the tour, which was a very reasonable eight-dollar fee, we met up with our guide named Julia – who was dressed in clothing of the period. Tom and Bob mentioned to their guide that since we had visited the home a year earlier, the three of us only needed to see the highlights – the parlor where Dr. Mudd examined Booth’s leg and the upstairs bedroom where the assassin had spent the rest of his time while in the house. As soon as we entered the parlor, however, I could tell my companions weren’t about to settle for a water-downed version of a tour. They asked questions, we visited every room, I posed for photos on some cool furnishings, and everything was done in a timely manner. As a matter of fact, the entire tour that normally took 45 minutes to complete was finished in half the time. At the end of our tour, Julia posed with me on the front porch, which was the same place I had posed with Marilyn in 2021.
John Wilkes Booth and David Herald spent roughly 12 hours at the home of Dr. Samuel A. Mudd before they headed across Zekiah Swamp to the home of Colonel Samuel Cox. The three of us were on the Mudd property for about 40 minutes before we, too, headed for Cox’s place, known as Rich Hill. In 1865, the fugitives used the hired services of Oswell Swann to guide them safely through the swamp and on to Rich Hill. For Tom, Bob and me in 2022, we used our trusted GPS device affectionately known as Siri who guided us along the 17 miles of back roads to the home of Samuel Cox – which was located about a mile east of Bel Alton, Maryland.
My photographer and I figured our story about assassin John Wilkes Booth’s escape and our adventure as we followed in his footsteps would be too long for one post. Please stay tuned for Part II, which will begin with our arrival at Rich Hill, the home of Colonel Samuel Cox.
