It was still dark outside at 4:50am when Tom’s alarm woke my companions up on Thursday April 25, 2024. The early wake-up call didn’t matter much because this was the day the three of us had been waiting for since the end of December when my photographer purchased tickets to visit the Dry Tortugas, which is a set of seven islands located 70 miles west of Key West, Florida. The islands are not only are the westernmost of the Florida Keys, but they are the most isolated as well. While most visitors to Garden Key, which features the historic Fort Jefferson as its centerpiece, make the daytrip to swim, snorkel, picnic, camp, or watch birds, my photographer and I had our sights set on only one particular spot on the 14-acre island – the prison cell once occupied by Dr. Samuel Mudd, the infamous physician who was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison at the fort for his role in the 1865 assassination of Abraham Lincoln. The Mudd connection was the sole purpose of our visit to the Dry Tortugas, and to mark the occasion, Tom packed a copy of a book titled ‘The Life of Dr. Samuel A. Mudd’, which was signed in 1992 by seven of Mudd’s grandchildren.
Once the valet retrieved our Jeep from the hotel’s $23 parking area, we made the short, two-mile drive to the Key West Ferry Terminal where the Yankee Freedom III awaited her passengers. But as usual, at least in Key West, my companions were forced to pay for more parking – this time the fee was $40 for the entire day. When I listened to my photographer complain, I heard the sound ‘cha-ching’ resonate in the air. After all, the fee he paid for the nine-hour excursion to the Dry Tortugas was nearly $400 for the three of us – and bobble heads were free.
My companions and I, along with 173 other people, sat inside the terminal where we waited to board the 110-foot-long aluminum catamaran known as the Yankee Freedom III. It was at that moment, roughly 15 minutes before we stepped foot on the boat, when I first got my fill of the endless list of rules from a NPS Ranger nicknamed ‘Hollywood’. The energetic, yet over-the-top tour guide mumbled over a horrible speaker system where we tried to decipher the countless number of things we couldn’t do during our visit to Fort Jefferson. “When you get to the island, do not touch any coral; do not collect any shells; and for goodness sake, don’t take any bricks from the fort. You also aren’t allowed to pick wildflowers; don’t disturb any wildlife; stay on the walking paths; only snorkel in designated areas and don’t do it alone; don’t feed the wildlife; don’t bring food into the fort; and once again, don’t remove any bricks.”
At 7:30am, the line of passengers headed out of the terminal and to the dock where our vessel awaited. A half hour later, Yankee Freedom III set sail for the two-hour, fifteen-minute voyage to the Dry Tortugas. Thankfully, the weather was ideal – the waters of the Gulf of Mexico were fairly calm and the sky above us was almost cloudless. A little over halfway through our 70-mile boat ride, ‘Hollywood’ grabbed the microphone and addressed our group with some facts about Fort Jefferson. But when the ranger recited the laundry list of rules for a second time, I heard my photographer say to Vicki, “Somebody needs to take that microphone away from that guy. How many times do we need to hear all the things we can’t do on that small island? Do we look like people who would snatch a brick for a souvenir?” I thought to myself, “That’s exactly what you look like, Tom, because I’ve seen you in action. Remember Middleton Place and Menokin?”
Two hours into the voyage where we cruised at just over 30 miles per hour into the blue abyss known as the Gulf of Mexico, Fort Jefferson came into view above the horizon. That’s the moment I breathed a sigh of relief – we hadn’t been headed towards Cuba. Even though I’m a Presidential historian bobble head, I didn’t want to see where the Cuban Missile Crisis originated in 1962.
Finally docked at Garden Key, just south of the fort’s entrance known as the Sally Port, our entire group congregated around the NPS sign where ‘Hollywood’ delivered more instructions. And let me be clear – they weren’t new instructions; he took it upon himself to recite all of the rules one final time. In my mind, I wondered if there was a rule against shoving a NPS Ranger into the moat just to shut him up.
Following ‘Hollywood’s’ annoying third spiel about the rules, it was time for the three of us to set out on our own to see what Fort Jefferson had to offer. Once we crossed the moat via a walkway, we headed through the Sally Port and took a step back in time. In my mind, I had the same view Dr. Samuel A. Mudd had when he walked through the same Sally Port for the first time on July 24, 1865 when he began serving his life sentence.
Fort Jefferson was built in 1847 and is the largest brick masonry structure in the Americas. The fort was constructed as a Naval outpost to thwart-off piracy in the Carribean waters off the coast of Florida. The historic fortress was primarily built with slave labor, which used over 16 million bricks during its construction. At the onset of the Civil War in April 1861, the United States Army sent an artillery regiment to the island to prevent the fort from falling into Confederate hands. By September of that year, the fort was transformed into a prison where court-martialed soldiers, deserters, and other convicts were sent.
But Fort Jefferson’s biggest claim to fame, at least in my painted eyes, came after the assassination of Abraham Lincoln on April 14, 1865. While assassin John Wilkes Booth was shot and killed by Union soldiers after their two-week manhunt found him hiding on a farm outside of Port Royal, Virginia, four other co-conspirators were caught, found guilty, and executed on July 7, 1865. There were also four others, however, who were tried by the military court, found guilty of conspiracy to help Booth assassinate the President, but escaped the death penalty.
Dr. Samuel Mudd was a 31-year-old doctor living on his farm near Waldorf, Maryland when he set Booth’s broken leg in the early hours of April 15, 1865. While Mudd likely didn’t know the famous actor had just killed the President hours earlier, he also didn’t report Booth had been at his home once he heard Lincoln had been assassinated. As a matter of fact, he waited two days to inform the authorities. For his role in the assassination, Dr. Mudd was sentenced to life in prison after escaping the death penalty by one vote. Two months after arriving at Fort Jefferson, Mudd attempted to escape by stowing away on a transport ship – he was caught and sent to the dungeon for three months. In the fall of 1867, a yellow fever epidemic broke out on the island – the disease spread quickly amongst the prison population. When the prison doctor died, Mudd agreed to take over his position and he helped stem the spread of the disease. Because of his heroic act during the yellow fever crisis, the doctor was given a clerical job at the prison until President Andrew Johnson pardoned Mudd on February 8, 1869. Exactly one month later, on March 8th, Dr. Samuel Mudd left the Dry Tortugas and headed home to his farm in Maryland.
Samuel Arnold, who was 30 years old, along with 27-year-old Michael O’Laughlen, had been recruited by Booth to help kidnap President Lincoln in early 1865. While neither man participated in the assassination on April 14, 1865, they were found guilty at the military trial on June 30th and sentenced to life in prison. While Arnold was pardoned by President Johnson a few weeks after he set Mudd free, O’Laughlen never saw freedom again. On September 23, 1867, the convicted co-conspirator died from yellow fever.
The fourth man sentenced to prison for allegedly helping John Wilkes Booth assassinate Abraham Lincoln was an employee at Ford’s Theater named Edmund Spangler. The 39-year-old Spangler helped lug furniture into the Presidential box and decorate it in preparation for Lincoln’s arrival. But at 9:30pm on April 14, 1865, Booth arrived at the back of Ford’s and summoned Spangler to hold his horse. The actor had been told his rented horse was high spirited and would break loose if left unattended. Since Spangler still had work to do during the performance of ‘Our American Cousin’, he made stagehand Joseph “Peanut John” Burroughs tend to Booth’s horse. During the trial, however, Spangler was accused of assisting Booth into the Presidential box, barring the entrance door shut to prevent others from helping Lincoln, and then helping Booth escape. With zero evidence to support any of those claims, because they weren’t true, the military tribunal still found Spangler guilty and sentenced him to six years in prison. The only “crime” he committed was holding the horse of a famous actor who had been a frequent visitor to Ford’s and had been given free access to go wherever he wanted inside the theater.
Besides the Lincoln assassination connection, Fort Jefferson had also been visited by two Presidents after FDR established the fort as a National Monument in 1935. Roosevelt became the first President to visit the island on November 30, 1937; he made the journey via the U.S.S. Potomac and stayed in the Dry Tortugas for four days. Nine years later, on November 22, 1946, President Harry Truman arrived at the island aboard the Navy destroyer U.S.S. Stribling and took a full tour of Fort Jefferson, including a visit to Dr. Mudd’s cell.
For a little over three hours, Tom carried me around to different areas of the historic fort where I posed for photos. But the highlight for the two of us came when we entered the casemate where Dr. Samuel Mudd was held prisoner for a good portion of his four years at Fort Jefferson. At one point, when my photographer placed me onto the ledge of one of the three narrow openings in the wall, it was as though Dr. Mudd was looking up at me. As a matter of fact, while incarcerated, Mudd wrote a letter to his wife where he described looking at the evening stars through the “loopholes” in the wall above the Sally Port.
Over the past 150-plus years, historic Fort Jefferson had been ravished by hurricanes and desecrated by vandals who likely didn’t hear ‘Hollywood’s’ speech. By 1906, the fort was completely abandoned and turned into a federal bird reserve. Although it became a National Monument in 1935, the Dry Tortugas, including Fort Jefferson, was established as part of the National Park Service on October 26, 1992.
“Just sit right back and you’ll read my tale, a tale of a dynamic trip. That started from this western key, aboard a tiny ship. The mate was a mighty bobble head, my photographer brave and sure. The three of us set sail that day, for an eight-hour tour. An eight-hour tour. The Gulf was far from rough, and no cookies would be tossed. If not for the accuracy of its GPS, the Freedom would be lost. The Freedom would be lost. Our ship set ground at the dock of this historic Florida key, with a bobble head, and ‘Hollywood’, too. My photographer, and his wife. The ghost of Mudd. The birdie nerds, wearing khaki shorts – here on the Garden Key.”
We left Fort Jefferson and its 16 million bricks behind as the Yankee Freedom III pulled away from the dock at precisely 2:45pm for the 70-mile voyage back to Key West. For the next two and a half hours, Tom, Vicki, and I sat on the stern’s upper level and basked in the sun.
While ‘Hollywood’ didn’t recite his laundry list of rules during the return trip, he did something nearly as annoying aboard the catamaran. Every fifteen minutes or so, he talked about the raffle tickets he was selling, which he said served as a ‘thank you’ to the ship’s crew. Tickets were five bucks apiece, or three for ten dollars – and when the winner was drawn just as we got close to Key West, the person holding the winning ticket won a cheap-looking Yankee Freedom III tee-shirt.
At one point during the return trip, my photographer became engaged in a conversation about the Presidents of the United States with a passenger from New Hampshire. Their discussion began because the guy liked the Lincoln shirt Tom was wearing. Out of the blue, my camera guy said to the middle-aged man, “Since you’re from New Hampshire, I’m going to ask you a Presidential question that’s related to your home state.” The guy shot back, while scoffing at the same time, “That’s easy – Franklin Pierce.” Tom rebutted with, “I’m not going to ask which President was from New Hampshire, that’s too easy. The question for you is: What city was Franklin Pierce born in?” The New Hampshire native smiled and said with a confident tone: “That’s easy – Pierce was born in Rindge.” “Oh, no, I’m sorry,” Tom said with a smile. “Your answer is incorrect. Pierce was born in Hillsboro and the site of his birthplace is now at the bottom of Franklin Pierce Lake. His boyhood home is still located in Hillsboro today and it’s not too far from that lake.” After the “know-it-all” told my photographer he was mistaken, Tom replied, “Do me a favor – when we get close enough to Key West to get an internet signal, look up Pierce’s birthplace on Google and you’ll see I’m right.”
As the Conch Republic came into view and we once again had iPhone service, Tom reminded the confident passenger that he needed to look up Pierce’s birthplace. Several minutes went by before the guy said, “Well, I guess you were right. Wikipedia says Pierce was born in Hillsboro on November 23, 1804.” My photographer had a huge grin across his face when he looked the man straight in the eyes and said, “I hate being right all the time – sometimes it feels like a curse, but I’ve gotten used to it.” Vicki rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop from laughing out loud. After that final exchange, the three of us never saw the guy again. I just shook my head and thought to myself, “That’s what that guy gets for thinking he can go toe-to-toe with a Presidential historian who’s visited nearly every Presidential site in the country, including all of their birthplaces; their homes; their Presidential Library’s; and all 39 Presidential gravesites.”
Docked at 5:30pm, ‘Hollywood’ had one final announcement to share with us. “As you disembark the boat, please feel free to tip the hard-working crew of the Yankee Freedom III.” Sure enough, as we walked the gangplank from the boat onto dry land, the crew stood in a line with a smile on their face and a gleam in their eyes that seemed to say, “Please, sir, can you spare some change?” Even though I’m not nearly as cheap as my photographer, I agreed one hundred percent when he said to Vicki, “The 175 people on this boat just paid two hundred bucks each for the ride out to Fort Jefferson. If my Marine City edjumacation is correct, that’s $35,000 – I think they got paid quite well for a day’s work. Not only did they get paid well, but the crew also split the raffle ticket money, which was all profit. And now they’re begging for more – that’s just wrong.”
At six o’clock in the evening, downtown Key West was bustling – the sidewalks were filled with people and music poured out from most of the bars. Not wanting to pay for parking again, and not in any mood to wait in line for dinner, my two companions decided to return to the Parrot Key Hotel & Villas where the valet service awaited them. After they left some of their belongings in our room, Tom, Vicki, and I walked across North Roosevelt Boulevard where they ate the fine cuisine featured at Five Guys – a fast-food hamburger chain.
Back at the hotel shortly after seven bells, the three of us relaxed on the porch just outside of our room. But as the sun slowly set in the western sky, my photographer’s eyelids slowly closed on his sundrenched face. Tom and Vic were exhausted from our daylong visit to Fort Jefferson, plus the intense heat of the sun helped sap some of their energy as well. After my photographer placed me alongside the TV set, he extinguished the lights in our room at nine o’clock – and I was left alone in the darkness with only my thoughts to keep me company.
At first, the sound of ‘Hollywood’s’ annoying voice filled my resin head as I envisioned him reciting more rules. “No snoring. No sleeping with your mouth open. No dreaming about Stormy Daniels. No sleepwalking. No wetting the bed.” Just as I began to get angry all over again, ‘Hollywood’ was gone, and the New Hampshire guy popped into my mind. Suddenly, as if summoned by the devil himself, the smug guy said to me, “I bet you can’t name the President who once lived in Key West for 175 days of his Presidency.” I immediately fired back with, “Ah contraire, Moose face. That President was Harry S Truman, and in the morning, I’ll be taking a tour of his Little White House where Truman lived for those 175 days.”
I hate being right all the time. Sometimes it feels like a curse!
