When the three of us arrived at Rich Hill at roughly 1:45pm on Sunday May 15, 2022, I was happy to see we were alone. During our first visit to the historic home a year earlier, a construction crew was on site as they made repairs to the weathered building. It appeared much more work was needed to whip Rich Hill back into shape, or at least get it to resemble what it looked like in 1865. When Booth and Herold arrived at the home, there was a large porch across the front, as well as a single-story addition that was to the right of the front door. That addition, which was no longer there, contained the home’s dining room and the bedroom of Samuel Cox and his wife, Walter Ann Cox. It was very likely the fugitives ate their meal in that dining room.
Booth and Herold arrived at the doorstep of Colonel Samuel Cox, a Confederate sympathizer, at roughly 1am on Sunday April 16, 1865. Although Cox invited the pair into his home to feed them, he didn’t want to endanger his family by harboring the fugitives. Once they were fed, Cox asked his farmhand Franklin Robey to lead Booth and Herald to a dense pine thicket, which was located nearly one mile west of the home. There, the pair of fugitives could stay concealed until their safe passage across the Potomac River was arranged.
Our visit to Rich Hill was short – Tom and Bob walked all around the house as they captured their photos; we left the historic farmhouse roughly 20 minutes after we had arrived. Booth and Herold were likely on the property a little longer than that – but not much longer; just enough to eat and get thrown out.
The next stop on our Booth escape trail was located one mile west of Rich Hill – it was the infamous pine thicket, or at least part of it, where the fugitives hid for five days and nights. While the three of us saw only trees and brush at the fugitive’s secret lair, that pine thicket had significant historical importance in the Booth escape story. After they were led to the wooded area following their meal at Rich Hill, Samuel Cox sent word to his foster brother, Thomas Jones, to care for the two men and help them get across the Potomac River and into Virginia. Each day, Jones went to the fugitive’s hiding place where he delivered food, whiskey, and the newspaper. It was in that pine thicket where John Wilkes Booth first read the news and learned that he wasn’t the southern hero he had envisioned. As a matter of fact, most of the southern leaders viewed Lincon’s assassination as heinous and would cause more problems for the former Confederacy. While still concealed in the heavy brush, as he and Herold waited for the right moment to be safely guided to the river by Jones, Booth wrote in his diary: “Our country owed all her troubles to him, and God simply made me the instrument of his punishment.” On several occasions during their five days in the thicket, Federal troops rode very close to the pair in their relentless manhunt for the fugitives. At one point, when the men feared their horses would make noise and alert the troops, Herold led the two animals to a swampy area where he shot them – their lifeless bodies left to sink in the quicksand.
Once Tom and Bob had captured their images, the three of us spent a few extra minutes near the thicket with the hope the Boer goats we saw in 2021 would appear, but that didn’t happen. I was disappointed. One of the goats we saw on our first visit was the cutest animal my photographer and I had ever seen, and I had hoped to get a glimpse of that critter again. But with no animals or fugitives in sight, we boarded the Jeep and headed towards the Potomac River – which was about four miles away.
At some point during the evening of April 20th, 1865, Thomas Jones figured the coast was clear; at least enough for him to lead Booth and Herold to Dent’s Meadow where a small boat had been stashed for them. Dent’s Meadow was located a little over a mile behind Jones’ home ‘Huckleberry’, which was the farmhouse the three men had stopped to rest at and eat once they finished their harrowing journey from the thicket. Jones went inside his home and brought out food for the two fugitives. After a quick bite to eat, the men crossed the meadow and continued towards the shore of the Potomac River. At that time, Booth’s leg was swollen, and he was in excruciating pain – but Herold and Jones managed to get the wounded assassin down the steep, narrow trail on foot to the bank of the river. Once safely there, Jones and Herold went into the thick marshy area along the creek and dragged the 12-foot, flat-bottomed fishing boat to the edge of the Potomac River. Booth was helped into the stern, and was given an oar to help steer the boat. Herold climbed onto the seat at the bow where his job was to row. Jones handed the men a candle, which he lit, and then he pointed-out a direction on the assassin’s compass that would get the pair of fugitives to Machodoc Creek in Virginia where Mrs. Elizabeth Quesenberry lived. Just as Jones began to push the boat on its way, Booth insisted on giving his accomplice some money for his help. Thomas Jones took eighteen dollars, which was what he paid for the boat; a boat he would never see again. The most sought-after fugitives in America said goodbye, Jones shoved the boat out into the Potomac, and John Wilkes Booth and David Herold disappeared into the damp, dark night.
I was excited to see the precise spot where Booth and Herold left Maryland, even though my photographer was a bit nervous because his attempt to secure permission to walk the grounds had failed. Dent’s Meadow, and the area where Thomas Jones’ boat had been stashed along the creek, was on the private property of the Loyola on the Potomac, which was a Jesuit Retreat House. Seconds after Tom turned the Jeep onto Loyola Retreat Road, my companions noticed a sign stating it was private property. Thankfully, both Tom and Bob decided they had nothing to lose by going further. Once we passed a small, white, one-and-a-half story house, which turned out to be ‘Huckleberry’, we didn’t see anything else but trees along the narrow one-mile roadway. Then out of nowhere, as we reached a clearing, the huge Jesuit retreat house came into view – we had arrived, and it was only 2:20pm.
When a knock on the back door went unanswered, the three of us headed inside the main building in search of humanity – we wanted someone’s permission to walk their grounds. After ten minutes of fruitless meandering, we finally crossed paths with a woman who appeared to be a staff member. Her name was Sonja, and she said she was the head cook at the retreat house. My companions explained the reason for our intrusion, and Sonja had no reservations whatsoever. As a matter of fact, Sonja said she knew where that site was and gave us directions to drive to it – which seemed to surprise my photographer a bit. The cook directed us back out to the main road where she said we needed to turn and drive north for about a mile until we reached a dirt road. Sonja wanted Tom to drive for a couple of miles west on that dirt road to the very end – that would be the site where Booth and Herold departed.
Back in the Jeep, Tom followed her instructions to a tee. We made it to the dirt road, then passed a large farmhouse where my companions waved to the owner standing in her yard. Several hundred yards past the farmhouse, the road turned into a large two-track lane that continued towards the back of the property. Once the path turned south and took us past a large barn, the two-track began to grow smaller, while the weeds in the center became taller. After a few more minutes of driving, our narrow trail led us into a dense, wooded area – which was part of the instructions given to us by Sonja. By that time, we were off-roading through the woods; I could hear the three-foot tall weeds as they hit the bottom of our vehicle. At one point, I heard Bob say: “Thankfully we have a Jeep. I don’t think we could’ve made it this far riding in a regular car. If the trail gets much worse, your Jeep might not be able to get through either.”
Sure enough, Bob was right. When we arrived at what seemed to be the crest of the wooded terrain, we began a downhill descent towards what my friends believed was the river; that’s when the path became a huge concern. There were several trees that had fallen across the rugged two-track, and my companions also noticed water-filled ruts on the path. When I heard that, I figured for sure we’d get stuck, which would’ve been disastrous. I was worried the Jeep’s tires would get buried in the mud and that would surely end our Booth escape route tour for the day. It would also take a miracle for my companions to get a tow truck out to the middle of nowhere to pull us out. Not willing to give up, however, my photographer parked the Jeep in a dry and fairly open area of the woods and the three of us continued on foot through the mosquito-infested jungle. After a three-hundred-yard downhill hike, we had reached the end of the trail. But where was the Potomac? Where was the small creek where Thomas Jones’ boat had been stashed? Had Sonja purposely given us faulty directions just to get us off their property? As those questions flooded my resin mind, Tom pulled out his phone and he finally examined the map’s GPS. That’s the moment I heard my photographer say, as his finger pointed to an area on the map, “We’re not close to where we need to be. I know for a fact we should be here, and this is where we’re at. We need to go back to that retreat house and find a way to the river from there.”
We retraced our route out of the woods and back to the farmhouse; where low and behold, the owners were standing next to the roadway. Thankfully, the young couple were understanding, friendly, and most importantly, unarmed. As a matter of fact, during their brief conversation, the owners said they once saw the spot from their boat and Tom and Bob would have to climb down a steep cliff to reach it. When the couple described the site, I don’t think my camera guy was convinced they were accurate. In his mind, Tom knew exactly where the historic site was located; we just needed to find the path that would get us to the “promised land”, and that was still on private property.
Once we had made our way back to the Loyola on the Potomac retreat house, Tom parked the Jeep in a more-secluded area that wasn’t very close the building. My companions figured they didn’t need to seek out permission again as Sonja had blessed our mission earlier. As the three of us hiked across a mown section of the property, I thought to myself: “This must be Dent’s Meadow. We’re likely taking the same route used by Booth, Herold, and Jones some 157 years ago.” What amazed me the most was the fact those three men had attempted the same journey in complete darkness, likely through thick brush; plus, one had a broken leg and was in severe pain. In our small group, I was the only one with broken legs, which were glued, taped, and didn’t hurt. As a bonus, I rode along inside the camera case under the light of the afternoon sun.
That distinct hiking path led us directly towards the river; as a matter of fact, at one point, we saw the two-mile-wide Potomac off in the distance. In a few places where the terrain had grown steep, steps with handrails had been put in place. Those steps were a blessing to my camera guy; even though he griped a bit throughout the entire hike. Bob had gone ahead to make sure the three of us were on the right path. When I heard Mongo yell out: “I made it. I’m standing on the edge of the Potomac and that small creek is right where you said it would be. Come on, Tom, you’re not too far away and it’s not too steep to get down to the beach”, I was thrilled and relieved at the same time. One hour and twenty-six minutes after we had first arrived at the Jesuit retreat house, we had finally made it to the historic site.
I posed for several pictures in the rocky sand along the river’s edge, as well as near the unnamed narrow creek. During the entire time I stood in the sand, I wondered if Booth and Herold had touched the same sand or small rocks that were there. Even though the wind and tide had likely swept-away the sand over the past 157 years, I thought perhaps a stone or two may have remained from that time period. At one point, Tom set me down into the Potomac River, just far enough so the waves washed over my base. But out of nowhere, I suddenly tipped over; river water washed over my head and shoulders – it smelled a little like fish. In my mind, I wondered if I had been pushed over by something – perhaps the spirit of a Presidential assassin?
When Tom and Bob had captured their final images along the shore of the Potomac, we began the strenuous uphill hike back towards the retreat house and where the Jeep was parked. Their mission was a complete success, although my companions were concerned the extra time it took to find the place would come back to haunt them later in the day. After all, the clock read 4:15pm when Tom started the Jeep’s engine and we had five sites yet to visit before sunset.
When Booth and Herold disappeared from Thomas Jones’ sight on the night of April 20, 1865, the pair of fugitives began their desperate attempt to row their accomplice’s fishing boat across the two-mile-wide stretch of the Potomac River. But instead of following the point on Booth’s compass that would’ve taken the pair south towards Machodoc Creek in Virginia, something went terribly wrong. Exhausted and wet, John Wilkes Booth and David Herold came ashore at Nanjemoy Creek, which was north and west of their departure point at Dent’s Meadow. To make matters worse, they were also still in Maryland. Was it due to poor compass reading and navigation skills by Booth himself? Did the pair go off course to avoid a federal gunboat? Some historians believe a more-natural cause led to their confusion. The one crucial piece of information that Thomas Jones had forgot to mention to Booth and Herold that night was the strong floodtide, which could push their boat northwards if they weren’t cautious or aware.
And that’s exactly what happened. When the pair finally came ashore, it was at Nanjemoy Creek along the property of Indiantown Farm; located near present-day Welcome, Maryland. The farm was owned by Peregrine Davis, whose son-in-law John J. Hughes allowed the fugitives to sleep in a slave cabin on the property until it was safe for them to cross the river again.
With little time to spare, Tom began the 17-mile drive that took us north to La Plata, Maryland, then southwest through Port Tobacco and on to the Indiantown Farm, which was once again a private residence. After a quick stop at McDonald’s in La Plata, which helped stave off my photographer’s hunger pains, we arrived in front of the farm at roughly five o’clock. Once at Indiantown Farm, my companions came face to face with their biggest challenge of the day; and potentially, their largest disappointment as well. The two front gates to the property were closed, and a Trump banner hung from the home’s porch. I laughed to myself when I heard Mongo say to my photographer: “This looks like ‘Trump Country’ and that means we’d likely get shot if we climbed over that fence and onto the private property. I’d like to shove that Second Amendment right up their…” Thankfully, Mongo stopped short of finishing his statement. Even if we had parked our Jeep and snuck over the fence, like we had done at dozens of other sites around the country, the slave cabin where Booth and Herold had stayed was nearly two miles behind that farmhouse. We’d be discovered for sure, and the consequences likely wouldn’t be very positive. We remained parked directly in front of the gate for over five minutes because Tom had a brilliant idea. My camera guy figured the home’s owner would come to the gate to see what we needed; at that time, he could explain our mission and ask for permission to enter the property. That idea was our only hope, but unfortunately, that hope faded away quicker than Trump’s mental recollection from January 6th.
John Wilkes Booth and David Herold remained in the slave cabin on the Indiantown Farm property for nearly 48 hours. When the pair felt rested enough to attempt the crossing again, the fugitives began their long, grueling 15-mile journey to Machodoc Creek in Virigina after the sun went down on April 22, 1865. Herold paddled the boat silently through the dark waters of the Potomac, while Booth continued to steer from his seat at the rear of the small vessel. In the early morning hours of April 23rd, the pair of fugitives finally arrived in Virginia. However, their plans had once again gone awry. Instead of washing ashore at Machodoc Creek, near the home of Mrs. Elizabeth Quesenberry, the boat came to shore at Gambo Creek – the fugitives were roughly two miles short of their intended destination.
An hour or so before the sun rose in the east, Herold left his partner-in-crime in the boat, which remained concealed along the shore of Gambo Creek. David walked two miles to the home of a widow named Elizabeth Quesenberry, whose husband Nicholas was killed in the Civil War. Back at Dent’s Meadow, Thomas Jones had told the fugitives that Quesenberry would likely help them, providing they made it to her home. But when Herold arrived at the “cottage” and asked to buy a couple of her horses, he was refused. Quesenberry did, however, send some food and water with Herold, who returned to the boat extremely mad. Quesenberry also asked Thomas Jones’ brother-in-law, Thomas Harbin, to rendezvous with the fugitives and assist them in getting help for the wounded Booth. Harbin agreed and met Booth and Herold at their boat hidden at Gambo Creek. Once there, however, Harbin pawned the fugitives off onto an unsuspecting farmer named William Bryant, who was tasked with leading them to the nearby home of Dr. Richard Stuart.
While it took Booth and Herold the entire night to discreetly row their boat 15 miles to their Virginia destination, it took my photographer only a half-hour to drive the Jeep roughly 27 miles to the same location – the home of Mrs. Quesenberry. The best part of all: none of us had to row anything. Instead, Tom drove into Virginia via the Governor Harry Nice Memorial Bridge. The three of us were dry and we weren’t exhausted; plus, it was only 5:30 in the afternoon. We still had plenty of daylight left to visit the remainder of our sites.
When I posed in front of the Quesenberry home, I envisioned an angry David Herold as he began his two-mile hike back to Gambo Creek – with only a little food to show for his efforts. While the historic home has been considered a historic site on the John Wilkes Booth escape route, the Lincoln assassin never stepped foot on that property. But that was okay, at least to me, because Quesenberry’s home was still an intricate part of the entire assassination saga that had played-out over 12 days. After Tom and Bob finished taking their pictures of the house, my companions walked down to the nearby marina where they caught a glimpse of Machodoc Creek. During their time by the water, Bob asked a local man about Gambo Creek. That guy said, in no uncertain terms, the mouth of the creek was situated on a nearby military base, and it was inaccessible to the public.
Without any aid from Elizabeth Quesenberry, except for some food, Booth and Herold began their six-mile journey on foot to the home of a wealthy Virginia doctor named Richard H. Stuart. Once at his home, the pair hoped Dr. Stuart would help ease the actor’s excruciating agony. It had been nine days since Booth broke his leg at Ford’s Theater, and although Dr. Mudd had set it with a splint, the fugitive’s lower left leg was swollen and throbbed with every step he took.
William Bryant, who may or may not have known the true identity of the pair, led Booth and Herold to Cleydael, the summer home of Dr. Richard H. Stuart, the wealthiest man in King George County. When the fugitives arrived in the late afternoon of April 23, 1865, Stuart recognized Booth immediately and knew what he had done. It was obvious the actor needed medical attention, but Stuart refused – likely because he didn’t want to be accused of aiding Lincoln’s assassin. The doctor did, however, allow the pair to enter his home where the fugitives ate a quick meal. Once Booth and Herold finished eating, Stuart sent them packing – the doctor suggested they could find shelter at the nearby Lucas family cabin. Once again, John Wilkes Booth was furious over the lack of aid or compassion he had received since arriving in Virginia.
Cleydael, built in 1859, was a two-story frame house with a wraparound porch that’s now a private residence. During our 2021 trip, Tom and Bob, along with me in the camera case, walked up the long driveway and got fairly close to the home without any incident. In the past several months leading up to the trip, however, my photographer had discovered the owners of the house had, at times, greeted visitors in their yard and welcomed them to photograph their home. That was music to my ears because I knew Cleydael was the next site on our agenda, and I was confident Tom and Bob would attempt to get closer to the home than they had the previous year.
It was roughly 6:15pm when we arrived at the historic summer home once owned by Dr. Stuart. As soon as Tom parked the Jeep along Peppermill Road, the three of us saw a guy mowing his yard across the street from Cleydael. Bob engaged in a quick conversation with the friendly gentleman, who had volunteered to stop his lawn mower when he saw Mongo with a video camera – he didn’t want the mower’s noise to be a distraction. At that moment, Bob mentioned to the guy that Tom had read an article that stated the owners of Cleydael were very friendly, and they enjoy tourists who walk onto their property to see the exterior of their historic home. He replied: “Well, I know the Parkers and they are very nice people. But as far as allowing people onto their grounds, I can’t say for sure. I guess all you can do is try.”
The “very nice people” part was all my companions needed to hear, even though the three of us would’ve walked up to the house anyway. But on that day, Tom and Bob were confident they could get closer to Cleydael than they had the previous year and without any consequences. As a matter of fact, when we got within 20 to 30 feet of the front porch, I heard Bob say to my photographer: “I wish the owners would come outside so we can meet them and talk with them about their home.” Almost on cue, as if the entire moment was scripted, Renee and Charlie Parker walked through their front door and onto the porch – thankfully they had smiles on their faces. After Tom explained to the owner’s the reason for our visit, Bob said, “We read somewhere that you two are very friendly, and you also like to greet tourists when they walk up to your home.” Renee replied without hesitation, “We are very friendly. Would y’all like to see the inside? Maybe you’d like to take some pictures of Mr. Jefferson where John Wilkes Booth once stood?” I was astonished; I thought my resin jaw was about to fall off my face. The Parker’s had just invited two total strangers and a bobble head into their home – how cool was that? Before the three of us entered their home, however, Renee had a surprise for us. She went inside Cleydael and returned to the porch with a bobble head in her hand – it was John Wilkes Booth. I nearly wet my breeches! The hard plastic assassin had a gun in his right hand and his head was kinked to the right; perhaps that happened during his jump to the stage at Ford’s. After my photographer asked the Parker’s to pose for a group photo with me and Booth, the six of us went inside the historic and amazingly restored Cleydael.
The Parker’s were more than friendly – they were extremely hospitable and very knowledgeable about the history of their home. The couple took us through the parlor and living room, then we went into their dining area where I posed for a photo near the original door that Booth and Herald used when they entered the home. Renee mentioned the room located adjacent to their current dining room was where the fugitives had eaten their meal while in the company of Dr. Stuart. Tom and Bob asked questions, and they listened to stories. As a matter of fact, they were so enthralled by the Parker’s, I grew worried we wouldn’t have time to finish our escape route tour before sunset.
Tom and Bob thanked their gracious hosts for their hospitality, then we headed for the Jeep. As we walked through the Parker’s front yard, I knew in my mind that we were walking in the footsteps of the assassin and his accomplice when they left Cleydael and headed to the nearby cabin of William Lucas, which was located roughly a half-mile to the northwest.
Late in the day on April 23, 1865, Booth and Herold were asked to leave Cleydael. The assassin was extremely infuriated by the lack of compassion and treatment he received from Dr. Richard Stuart. When the actor and his accomplice arrived at the small cabin of William Lucas, who was a freed black man, the pair of fugitives evicted the Lucas family from their own home – likely by knifepoint. It was in that cabin where John Wilkes Booth and David Herold spent the night and plotted their next move.
On Monday morning April 24th, John Wilkes Booth hired William Lucas’ son, Charley, to take him and Herold south to the Rappahannock River. The pair crawled into Lucas’ wagon, Booth paid Charley $20 for his services, and they headed for Port Conway – located roughly 12 miles away along the north shore of the river.
At first, when Tom fired up the Jeep, I thought our next stop would be at the Lucas family cabin. However, that was impossible – the cabin had been razed years ago; destroyed without leaving a trace. But that wasn’t a surprise, at least to me. When I saw photos of the shack on Tom’s phone, it appeared to be dilapidated and ready to collapse 157 years ago.
Around noon on April 24, 1865, Booth and Herold were dropped off near the ferry in Port Conway, Virginia. It seemed surprising to me that the most wanted criminals in America had begun traveling during the light of day. Without the cloak of darkness to conceal their movements, it seemed the fugitives would soon be recognized and reported for the reward money. Had they become overconfident once they reached Virginia? Or had they become so weary that they simply let down their guard and did what was easiest for them?
During their two-hour wait for the ferry, Booth and Herold met three Confederate soldiers who were returning home from the war. At first, the fugitives hid their true identities, but the young 23-year-old couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Herold boasted to the Confederates: “We are the assassinators of the President. Yonder is J. Wilkes Booth, the man who killed Lincoln.” Surprisingly, Private Willie Jett, Lieutenant Mortimer Brainbridge Ruggles, and his cousin Private Absolum Brainbridge, all agreed to help the assassin and his accomplice. At 2pm, the five men and their three horses boarded a “horse boat” that carried them across the Rappahannock and into Port Royal, Virginia. Once they were back on dry land, the newly formed posse headed directly to the home of Randolph Peyton, located roughly three blocks from the ferry dock.
The three of us were luckier than Booth and Herold. We rode to Port Royal in a luxurious Jeep Grand Cherokee with the air conditioning flowing and the radio turned way up. We made the 12-mile journey to the Peyton House in about 15 minutes; we used the Port Royal – Port Conway Bridge instead of traversing the river via “horse boat”. Once Tom had our vehicle parked in front of the historic house, the three of us walked into the front yard where my companions photographed the neglected building. The Peyton-Brockenbrough house, which was built around 1765, didn’t look any better than it did a year earlier during our first visit in 2021. Many years ago, that house was considered to be the showcase mansion of Port Royal, but now it appeared ready to collapse. As I posed for a handful of photos near the bee-infested front porch, I envisioned Booth, Herold, and the three soldiers as they rode onto the property in search of help and a place to stay.
It was early afternoon when Willie Jett and his friends brought the fugitives to the home of Randoph Peyton. Jett explained to Sarah Peyton, Randolph’s sister, that they were soldiers returning home from the war and one of them was wounded. The Private asked if his wounded comrade could spend a couple of nights in the house where he could rest and recover. At first, Sarah obliged; she invited the men into her brother’s house and Booth quickly made himself at home in the parlor. Even though young Sarah didn’t recognize Booth as the Presidential assassin, she soon changed her tune – there was no way she could allow a man to stay in her house while her brother was away. I thought to myself: “Those Virginian women sure do like to keep up a prim and proper image!” When Sarah led the five men back out onto the porch, she mentioned they could find shelter at the Garrett Farm, which was located about two miles west of town.
Moments after my photographer fought-off a swarm of bees when he placed me on the historic Peyton House porch, it was time for the three of us to make the short trip to our final stop of the day – the site of the Richard Garrett farmhouse known as “Locust Hill”. At ten minutes past seven o’clock, we left Port Royal, Virginia – we had exactly one hour and three minutes before the sun was scheduled to set; and it was already somewhat darker than usual due to the overcast sky. Tom drove the Jeep south on Highway 301 for roughly four miles until he found a turnaround, where he pulled a U-turn onto the northbound lane of 301. Minutes later, we saw a historical marker on the right side of the road that read ‘Assassin’s End’, but that sign was not accurate. The actual site was located roughly 100 yards past the marker and in the median of the highway. Luckily for anyone who visits the site, including us, there’s a decent-sized pull-off located on the shoulder of the left northbound lane on Highway 301.
After Bob had used duct tape to wrap garbage bags around his lower legs to protect himself from poison ivy, the three of us went on what could be described as a scavenger hunt for an assassin. Tom mentioned to his friend that we were in search of a government-issued warning sign and a two-foot-tall pipe that stuck out of the ground near the sign. In 2021, my photographer was unable to locate either of those items that marked the actual site of ‘Locust Hill’. Richard Garrett’s farmhouse and outbuildings were demolished in the early 1940s after they fell into disrepair.
Once my companions had walked into the median and climbed over the chain that guarded the overgrown trail, the search for the site had begun. From an opening in the camera case, I could see my photographer as he struggled to keep his balance while he walked through a jungle of high weeds, brush, small trees, uneven ground, thorned vines, and of course, poison ivy. When Tom and Bob reached what appeared to be the crest of the median, they split up – my photographer went north, while Mongo walked to the south. A minute or two later, I heard Bob’s voice call out: “I’ve found a large metal sign. I think this is it!” Tom made his way over to his friend’s position and sure enough, they were on the site where Garrett’s farmhouse once stood. The six-foot-tall sign read: “NOTICE – FEDERAL AND STATE LAW PROHIBITS THE DISTURBANCE OF ARTIFACTS FROM THESE LANDS. VIOLATORS SUBJECT TO 5 YEARS IMPRISONMENT AND $100,000 FINE. SURVEILLANCE IS CONDUCTED.” After he read the sign and openly scoffed, my photographer looked around and discovered the grey, two-foot-tall pipe. During his research, Tom discovered the pipe had been pounded into the ground where the farmhouse fireplace once stood. We had made it; and it was easy to see that Tom and Bob were extremely proud to be standing on the spot where the largest manhunt in American history had come to an end.
John Wilkes Booth, David Herold, and the three Confederate soldiers arrived at the Garrett Farm at roughly 4:00pm on April 24, 1865 after they had completed the two-mile ride from the Peyton House. Booth and Herald were introduced as Confederate soldiers and cousins named ‘Boyd’; James Boyd had been wounded in battle. Richard Garrett welcomed the injured Booth into his home while the three soldiers, along with David Herold, rode off towards Bowling Green where they spent the night. The assassin stayed in a room with Garrett’s sons.
The following morning, April 25th, David Herold returned to Locust Hill to be reunited with Booth. Old man Garrett became suspicious with the arrival of Herold; and he grew more wary when the two fugitives hid in a nearby woods as a detachment of Union troops rode past the farm. At nightfall, both men were denied rooms in the house. Instead, they were given the option to spend the night in the nearby tobacco barn. At some point before midnight, one of the Garrett boys locked the barn door to keep the two fugitives from stealing their horses. Around two o’clock in the morning, Booth and Herold were awakened by the all-to-familiar sound of troops and their horses on the move. Sure enough, within minutes, the Garrett Farm was crawling with 26 troops from New York’s 16th Cavalry Regiment.
After an officer had threatened Richard Garrett to spill his guts with information on the whereabouts of the two men, the troops converged on the tobacco barn and surrounded it. The goal was to take the two men alive, because the Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton, wanted to question Lincoln’s killer. But when negotiations for Booth’s surrender failed, the only solution was to set the barn on fire and smoke the fugitive out. Before the barn was torched, however, the unarmed David Herold emerged from the tobacco barn; he went from fugitive to captive in a matter of seconds. Once the barn was set on fire, Booth had three choices to make: suicide, surrender, or burn alive. As the flames lit up the interior of the barn, as well as the surrounding farmland around the barn, Booth hobbled around inside the inferno with his Spencer carbine cocked and loaded. As the assassin hurriedly searched for an option behind ‘door number four’, a single shot rang out – Booth instantly dropped his rifle and fell to his knees. A couple of soldiers burst through the barn’s door and dragged the wounded fugitive’s limp body outside – he was alive but paralyzed.
When the flames totally engulfed the tobacco barn, the soldiers retreated to the farmhouse; they carried the mortally wounded actor with them and placed him down on the porch. Blood from the back of Booth’s head began to pool on the wooden boards of the porch. Ironically, John Wilkes Booth was shot in the back of the head near his left ear; the same place where the actor had shot Lincoln. Shortly after he was shot, Booth whispered to those who stood nearby: “Tell mother, I die for my country.” But in his final moments of life, the assassin asked a soldier to lift his arms up to his face so he could see his hands. When his request was fulfilled, Booth whispered: “Useless. Useless” as he stared at the hands that killed Abraham Lincoln. Moments later, as the sphere of the sun broke over the eastern horizon on April 26, 1865 and daylight bathed the Garrett farmhouse in a golden hue, 26-year-old John Wilkes Booth took his final breath.
I’ve visited a countless number of sites where a historical figure or a person of interest was killed, or simply had taken their last breath. When I stood on the site where JFK was shot in Dallas, or where Buddy Holly’s plane had crashed in Iowa, it was an extremely sad moment for me. But when Tom placed me down on that unmarked, weed-infested section of ground in the median along Highway 301, there wasn’t a single ounce of grief or sadness anywhere in me. John Wilkes Booth had died on that spot; but that scoundrel was a murderer, an assassin of the greatest President in American history. For one fleeting moment, as I absorbed everything about the site, a poem filled my head; a small verse that was written by Sir Walter Scott many years ago. It was my personal tribute, or perhaps a final sarcastic taunt, to John Wilkes Booth. “The wretch, concentered all in self, living, shall forfeit fair renown. And, doubly dying, shall go down. To the vile dust from whence he sprung. Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.” Seconds later, I was pushed face-first onto the ground. Touché, Booth, touché!
Tom picked me up, placed me in the camera bag, and the three of us retraced our steps back to the Jeep. Once we were safely out of the jungle, I watched as Bob stripped his legs of the garbage bags while my photographer plucked a small tick off his blood-splattered arm; sliced open by one of the hundreds of thorn-covered vines we had just encountered. I laughed to myself and thought: “There’s not much those two won’t do to visit a historical site!”
We had finished the entire 90-mile Booth escape trail, from Ford’s Theater to the Garrett Farm site, in eleven-and-a-half hours – saving the most harrowing of the sites for last. At one point, when they realized there was still a half-hour of daylight left, my companions thought they could cram in one last site before darkness. One of the guys mentioned we should head north to Bryantown, Maryland for a quick visit to the gravesite of Dr. Samuel Mudd. After all, that cemetery wouldn’t be too far off the beaten path on our way to the hotel near Arlington, Virginia. A few minutes after we headed north towards Port Royal, however, those plans were in jeopardy. The northwestern sky had grown pitch black, filled with ominous clouds. Were we about to face the wrath of the gods for walking in the footsteps of an assassin?
With Tom behind the wheel, we had made it about ten miles past the Rappahannock River before the skies opened up. Blinding rain pelted the windshield; strong wind gusts rocked the Jeep; and lightning lit the black sky. But that wasn’t the worst of our problems – my photographer was forced to navigate the narrow, winding back roads of Virginia with poor visibility for roughly 25 miles before we’d intersect with I-95. At one point, I heard Tom say to Mongo: “It’s been a long time since I’ve driven in a storm this bad. I’m having a hard time seeing the road and the oncoming headlights make matters worse. The windshield wipers can’t keep up. I’d pull off the road and wait for the rain to subside, but I can’t even see a place where I can safely do that.”
When we finally made it to the “civilization of I-95” near Falmouth, Virginia, the heaviest of the downpour had subsided; it seemed as though the worst of the thunderstorm was behind us. And that was great news because we still had 50 miles to drive before we reached our hotel. But what about dinner? The last thing my gluttonous camera guy had eaten was a couple of hamburgers from McDonald’s in La Plata, Maryland – and that seemed like a lifetime ago. At one point during our journey, and I’m not sure where we were because I couldn’t see out of the camera case, Tom and Bob stopped at a Walmart that didn’t seem too far off the expressway. When they returned to the Jeep from their late-night shopping spree, their dinners were in a couple of plastic bags. I laughed and couldn’t help but think to myself: “Tom and Bod are eating gourmet cuisine tonight. I bet it’s a frozen turkey dinner and a microwavable burrito!”
At 9:45pm, my photographer pulled into the parking lot of the Comfort Inn Pentagon City in Arlington, Virginia; it was a hotel we’ve stayed at in the past and it was located next to the “Cockroach Inn” from 2014. When he turned off the engine, Tom collapsed back in the seat, his knuckles still white from the stress-filled driving experience. It took less than 15 minutes for the guys to get registered and their belongings lugged up to the room. My photographer placed me alongside the room’s TV set where another harrowing experience soon started – I was forced to watch as Tom ‘went to town’ on two Hungry-Man turkey dinners that he heated in the microwave. But when I saw Bob shove a Walmart burrito into his mouth, I knew, at least in my mind, it would be a long night filled with thunder; and not from another storm.
When the lights in the room were finally extinguished at midnight, I was left alone with my thoughts – the image and words of John Wilkes Booth filled my head. At the end of the play, when the final lines were read and the curtain dropped, the lead actor had been reduced to the most hated man in the world. No one, except perhaps his beloved mother, shed a tear when Booth drew his last breath. Three days before his demise, however, as he sat in the slave cabin at the Indiantown Farm, the assassin had time to write his final passage in his diary – and a few of his penned words flooded my mind that night. “After being hunted like a dog through the swamp, woods, and last night being chased by gunboats till I was forced to return wet, cold, and starving, with every man’s hand against me, I am here in despair. And why? For doing what Brutus was honored for? What made Tell a hero? And yet I, for striking down a greater tyrant than they ever knew, am looked upon as a common cutthroat. Tonight, I try to escape these bloodhounds once more. Who, who can read his fate? God’s will be done. I have too great a soul to die like a criminal.”
John Wilkes Booth – a legend in his own mind; a criminal in everyone else’s!
**NOTE: This post is dedicated to Renee and Charlie Parker for their generosity, time, and hospitality during our visit to their home, Cleydael.
