30

The instant that Booth fired at Lincoln, Major Rathbone, who was sitting in the box with the President, leaped up and grabbed the assassin. But he couldn't hold him, for Booth slashed at him desperately with a bowie-knife, cutting deep gashes in the major's arm. Tearing himself from Major Rathbone's grasp, Booth sprang over the railing of the box and leaped to the stage floor, twelve feet below. But, as he jumped, he caught his spur in the folds of the flag that draped the President's box, fell awkwardly, and broke the small bone in his left leg.

A spasm of pain shot through him. He did not wince or hesitate. He was acting now the supreme role of his career: this was the scene that was to make his name immortal.

Quickly recovering himself, he brandished his dagger, shouted the motto of Virginia, Sic semper tyrannis—“Thus ever to tyrants”—plunged across the stage, knifed a musician who accidentally got in his way, floored an actress, darted out at the back door, jumped upon his waiting horse, raised the butt of his revolver and knocked down the boy, “Peanut John,” who was holding the animal, and spurred madly down the street, the steel shoes from his little horse striking fire from the cobblestones in the night.

For two miles he raced on through the city, passing the Capitol grounds. As the moon rose above the tree-tops he galloped on to the Anacostia bridge. There Sergeant Cobb, the Union sentry, dashed out with rifle and bayonet, demanding:

“Who are you? And why are you out so late? Don't you know it is against the rules to let any one pass after nine o'clock?”

Booth, strange to relate, confessed his real name, saying that he lived in Charles County, and, being in town on business, he had waited for the moon to come up and light him home.

That sounded plausible enough; and, anyway, the war was over, so why make a fuss? Sergeant Cobb lowered his rifle and let the rider pass.

A few minutes later Davy Herold, one of Booth's confederates, hurried across the Anacostia bridge with a similar explanation, joined Booth at their rendezvous, and the two of them raced on through the shadows of lower Maryland, dreaming of the wild acclaim that was sure to be theirs in Dixie.

At midnight they halted in front of a friendly tavern in Surrattville; watered their panting horses; called for the field-glasses, guns, and ammunition that had been left there that afternoon by Mrs. Surratt; drank a dollar's worth of whisky; then, boasting that they had shot Lincoln, spurred on into the darkness.

Originally they had planned to ride from here straight for the Potomac, expecting to reach the river early the next morning and row across at once to Virginia. That sounded easy, and they might have done it and never have been captured at all, except for one thing. They could not foresee Booth's broken leg.

But, despite the pain, Booth galloped on that night with Spartan fortitude—galloped on, although the broken, jagged bone was, as he recorded in his diary, “tearing the flesh at every jump” of his horse. Finally when he could endure the punishment no longer, he and Herold swung their horses off to the left, and shortly before daybreak on Saturday morning reined up in front of the house of a country physician named Mudd—Dr. Samuel A. Mudd—who lived twenty miles southeast of Washington.

Booth was so weak and he was suffering so intensely that he couldn't dismount alone. He had to be lifted out of his saddle and carried groaning to an unstairs bedroom. There were no telegraph lines or railways in this isolated region; so none of the natives had yet learned of the assassination. Hence, the doctor suspected nothing. How had Booth come to break his leg? That was simple as Booth explained it—his horse had fallen on him. Dr. Mudd did for Booth what he would have done for any other suffering man; he cut away the boot from the left leg, set the fractured bone, tied it up with pasteboard splints made from a hat-box, fashioned a rude crutch for the cripple, and gave him a shoe to travel with.

Booth slept all that day at Dr. Mudd's house, but as twilight drew on he edged out of the bed painfully. Refusing to eat anything, he shaved off his handsome mustache, threw a long gray shawl around his shoulders so that the end of it would cover the telltale initials tattooed upon his right hand, disguised himself with a set of false whiskers, and paid the doctor twenty-five dollars in greenbacks. Then once more he and Herold mounted their horses and headed for the river of their hopes.

But directly across their path lay the great Zekiah Swamp, a huge bog matted with brush and dogwood, oozy with mud and slimy with stagnant pools—the home of lizards and snakes. In the darkness the two riders missed their way and for hours wandered about, lost.

Late in the night they were rescued by a negro, Oswald Swann. The pain in Booth's leg was so excruciating now that he couldn't sit astride his horse; so he gave Swarm seven dollars to haul him the rest of the night in his wagon, and as dawn was breaking on Easter Sunday the driver halted his white mules before “Rich Hill,” the home of a wealthy, well-known Confederate, Captain Cox.

Thus ended the first lap of Booth's futile race for life.

Booth told Captain Cox who he was and what he had done; and, to prove his identity, he showed his initials tattooed in India ink on his hand.

He implored Captain Cox, in the name of his mother, not to betray him, pleading that he was sick and crippled and suffering, and declaring that he had done what he thought was best for the South.

Booth was in such a condition now that he couldn't travel any farther, either on horseback or by wagon; so Captain Cox hid the two fugitives in a thicket of pines near his house. The place was more than a thicket, it was a veritable jungle densely undergrown with laurel and holly; and there, for the next six days and five nights, the fugitives waited for Booth's wounded leg to improve enough to permit them to continue their flight.

Captain Cox had a foster-brother, Thomas A. Jones. Jones was a slave-owner, and for years he had been an active agent of the Confederate Government, ferrying fugitives and contraband mail across the Potomac. Captain Cox urged Jones to look after Herold and Booth; so every morning he brought them food in a basket. Knowing that each wood-path was being searched and that spies were everywhere, he called his hogs as he carried the basket and pretended to be feeding his live stock.

Booth, hungry as he was for food, was hungrier still for information. He kept begging Jones to tell him the news, to let him know how the nation was applauding his act.

Jones brought him newspapers, and Booth devoured them eagerly, searching in vain, however, for the burst of acclaim he had coveted so passionately. He found in them only disillusion and heartbreak.

For more than thirty hours he had been racing toward Virginia, braving the tortures of the flesh. But, violent as they had been, they were easy to endure compared with the mental anguish that he suffered now. The fury of the North—that was nothing, he had expected that. But when the Virginia papers showed that the South — his South—had turned upon him, condemning and disowning him, he was frantic with disappointment and despair. He, who had dreamed of being honored as a second Brutus and glorified as a modern William Tell, now found himself denounced as a coward, a fool, a hireling, a cutthroat.

These attacks stung him like the sting of an adder. They were bitter as death.

But did he blame himself? No. Far from it. He blamed everybody else—everybody except himself and God. He had been merely an instrument in the hands of the Almighty. That was his defense. He had been divinely appointed to shoot Abraham Lincoln, and his only mistake had been in serving a people “too degenerate” to appreciate him. That was the phrase he set down in his diary—“too degenerate.”

“If the world knew my heart,” he wrote, “that one blow would have made me great, though I did not desire greatness.... I have too great a soul to die like a criminal.”

Lying there, shivering under a horse-blanket, on the damp ground near Zekiah Swamp, he poured out his aching heart in tragic bombast:

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—for what made Tell a hero. I have stricken down a greater tyrant than they ever knew, and I am looked upon as a common cut-throat; yet my action was purer than either of theirs.... I hoped for no gain.... I think I have done well, I do not repent the blow I struck.

As Booth lay there writing, three thousand detectives and ten thousand cavalrymen were scouring every nook and corner of southern Maryland, searching houses, exploring caves, ransacking buildings, and fine-tooth-combing even the slimy bogs of Zekiah Swamp, determined to hunt Booth down and bring him in, dead or alive, and claim the various rewards—approximating a hundred thousand dollars, offered for his capture. Sometimes he could hear the cavalry who were hunting him, galloping by on a public road only two hundred yards away.

At times he could hear their horses neighing and whinnying and calling to one another. Suppose his and Herold's horses should answer them. That would probably mean capture. So that night Herold led their horses down into Zekiah Swamp and shot them.

Two days later buzzards appeared! Specks in the sky at first, they winged closer and closer, finally wheeling and soaring and soaring and wheeling directly above the dead animals. Booth was frightened. The buzzards might attract the attention of the pursuers, who would almost certainly recognize the body of his bay mare.

Besides, he had decided that he must somehow get to another doctor.

So the next night, Friday, April 21—one week after the assassination—he was lifted from the ground and put astride a horse belonging to Thomas A. Jones, and once more he and Herold set out for the Potomac.

The night was ideal for their purposes: dense with a misty fog, and so dark that the men literally had to feel for one another in the inky blackness.

Jones, faithful dog that he was, piloted them from their hiding-place to the river, stealing through open fields, over a public highway, and across a farm. Realizing that soldiers and Secret Service men were swarming everywhere, Jones would steal ahead fifty yards at a time, stop, listen, and give a low whistle. Then Booth and Herold would advance to him.

In that way, slowly, startled by the slightest noise, they traveled for hours, reaching at last the steep and crooked path that led from the bluff down to the river. A stiff wind had been blowing that day; and, through the darkness, they could hear the mournful sound of the water pounding on the sand below.

For almost a week the Union soldiers had been riding up and down the Potomac, destroying every boat on the Maryland shore. But Jones had outwitted them: he had had his colored man, Henry Rowland, using the boat to fish for shad every day, and had had it hidden in Dent's meadow every night.

So when the fugitives reached the water's edge this evening everything was in readiness. Booth whispered his thanks to Jones, paid him seventeen dollars for his boat and a bottle of whisky, climbed in, and headed for a spot on the Virginia shore five miles away.

All through the foggy, ink-black night Herold pulled at the oars while Booth sat in the stern, trying to navigate with compass and candle.

But they hadn't gone far when they struck a flood-tide which is very strong at this point, owing to the narrowness of the channel. It swept them up the river for miles, and they lost their bearings in the fog. After dodging the Federal gunboats that were patrolling the Potomac, they found themselves, at dawn, ten miles up the river, but not one foot nearer to the Virginia shore than they had been the night before.

So they hid all that day in the swamps of Nanjemoy Cove; and the next night, wet and hungry, they pulled across the river; and Booth exclaimed: “I am safe at last, thank God, in glorious old Virginia.”

Hurrying to the home of Dr. Richard Stewart, who was an agent for the Confederate Government and the richest man in King George County, Virginia, Booth expected to be welcomed as the saviour of the South. But the doctor had already been arrested several times for aiding the Confederacy, and, now that the war was over, he wasn't going to risk his neck by helping the man who had killed Lincoln. He was too shrewd for that. So he wouldn't let Booth even enter his house. He did give the fugitives a little food, grudgingly, but he made them eat it in the barn, and then sent them to sleep that night with a family of negroes.

And even the negroes didn't want Booth. He had to frighten them into letting him stay with them.

And this in Virginia!

In Virginia, mind you, where he had confidently expected the very hills to reverberate with the lusty cheers that would greet the mere mention of his name.

The end was drawing near now. It came three days later. Booth had not gotten far. He had ferried across the Rappahannock at Port Royal, in the company of three Confederate cavalrymen returning from the war, had ridden one of their horses three miles farther South, and, with their help, had then palmed himseif off on a farmer, saying that his name was Boyd and that he had been wounded in Lee's army near Richmond.

And so for the next two days, Booth stayed at the Garrett farm-house, sunning himself on the lawn, suffering from his wound, consulting an old map, studying a route to the Rio Grande, and making notes of the road to Mexico.

The first evening he was there, while he sat at the supper table, Garrett's young daughter began babbling about the news of the assassination, which she had just heard through a neighbor. She talked on and on, wondering who had done it and how much the assassin had been paid for it.

“In my opinion,” Booth suddenly remarked, “he wasn't paid a cent, but did it for the sake of notoriety.”

The next afternoon, April 25, Booth and Herold were stretched out under the locust trees in the Garrett yard, when suddenly Major Ruggles, one of the Confederate cavalrymen who had helped them across the Rappahannock, dashed up and shouted: “The Yanks are crossing the river. Take care of yourself.”

They scurried away to the woods, but when darkness fell they stole back to the house.

To Garrett, that looked suspicious. He wanted to get rid of his mysterious “guests” at once. Was it because he suspected that they might have shot Lincoln? No, he never even thought of that. He imagined they were horse-thieves. When they said at the supper table that they wanted to buy two horses, his suspicions grew, and when bedtime came, and the fugitives, thinking of their safety, refused to go upstairs and insisted on sleeping under the porch or in the barn—then all doubt was removed.

Garrett was positive now that they were horse-thieves. So he put them in an old tobacco warehouse that was being used then for storing hay and furniture—put them in and locked them in with a padlock. And finally, as a double precaution, the old farmer sent his two sons, William and Henry, tiptoeing out in the darkness with blankets, to spend the night in an adjoining corn-crib, where they could watch and see that no horses were whisked away during the night.

The Garrett family went to bed, that memorable evening, half expecting a little excitement.

And they got it before morning.

For two days and nights, a troop of Union soldiers had been hot on the trail of Booth and Herold, picking up clue after clue, talking to an old negro who had seen them crossing the Potomac, and finding Rollins, the colored ferryman who had poled them across the Rappahannock in a scow. This ferryman told them that the Confederate soldier who had given Booth a lift on his horse as they rode away from the river was Captain Willie Jett, and that the captain had a sweetheart who lived in Bowling Green, twelve miles away. Perhaps he had gone there.

That sounded likely enough, so the troopers climbed quickly into their saddles and spurred on in the moonlight toward Bowling Green. Arriving there at midnight, they thundered into the house, found Captain Jett, jerked him out of his bed, thrust a revolver against his ribs, and demanded:

“Where is Booth? Damn your soul, where did you hide him? Tell us or we'll blow your heart out.”

Jett saddled his pony, and led the Northern men back to the Garrett farm.

The night was black, the moon having gone down, and there were no stars. For nine miles the dust rose in choking clouds under the galloping feet of the horses. Soldiers rode one on each side of Jett, with the reins of his horse tied to their saddles, so that he couldn't escape in the dark.

At half-past three in the morning the troopers arrived in front of the worn old whitewashed Garrett house.

Quickly, quietly, they surrounded the house and trained their guns on every door and window. Their leader banged on the porch with his pistol butt, demanding admittance.

Presently Richard Garrett, candle in hand, unbolted the door, while the dogs barked furiously, and the wind whipped the tail of his night-shirt against his trembling legs.

Quickly Lieutenant Baker grabbed him by the throat, thrusting a pistol to his head and demanding that he hand over Booth.

The old man, tongue-tied with terror, swore that the strangers were not in the house, that they had gone to the woods.

That was a lie, and it sounded like it; so the troopers jerked him out of the doorway, dangled a rope in his face, and threatened to string him up at once to a locust tree in the yard.

At that instant one of the Garrett boys who had been sleeping in the corn-crib ran up to the house and told the truth. With a rush the troopers encircled the tobacco barn.

There was a lot of talk before the shooting started. For fifteen or twenty minutes the Northern officers argued with Booth, urging him to surrender. He shouted back that he was a cripple, and asked them to “give a lame man a show,” offering to come out and fight the entire squad one by one, if they would withdraw a hundred yards.

Herold lost his courage and wanted to surrender. Booth was disgusted.

“You damned coward,” he shouted, “get out of here. I don't want you to stay.”

And out Herold went, his arms in front of him, ready to be handcuffed, while he pleaded for mercy, declaring from time to time that he liked Mr. Lincoln's jokes, and swearing that he had had no part in the asassination.

Colonel Conger tied him to a tree and threatened to gag him unless he ceased his silly whimpering.

But Booth would not surrender. He felt that he was acting for posterity. He shouted to his pursuers that the word “surrender” was not in his vocabulary, and he warned them to prepare a stretcher for him as they put “one more stain on the glorious old banner.”

Colonel Conger resolved to smoke him out, and ordered one of the Garrett boys to pile dry brush against the barn. Booth saw the boy doing it, and cursed him and threatened to put a bullet through him if he didn't stop. He did stop, but Colonel Conger slipped around to a corner of the barn in the rear, pulled a wisp of hay through a crack, and lighted it with a match.

The barn had originally been built for tobacco, with spacings four inches wide left to let in the air. Through these spacings the troopers saw Booth pick up a table to fight the mounting fire—an actor in the limelight for the last time, a tragedian playing the closing scene of his farewell performance.

Strict orders had been given to take Booth alive. The Government didn't want him shot. It wanted to have a big trial and then hang him.

And possibly he might have been taken alive had it not been for a half-cracked sergeant—“Boston” Corbett, a religious fanatic.

Every one had been warned repeatedly not to shoot without orders. Corbett afterward declared that he had had orders —orders direct from God Almighty.

Through the wide cracks of the burning barn, “Boston” saw Booth throw away his crutch, drop his carbine, raise his revolver, and spring for the door.

“Boston” was positive that he would shoot his way out and make a last, desperate dash for liberty, firing as he ran.

So, to prevent any futile bloodshed, Corbett stepped forward, rested his pistol across his arm, took aim through a crack, prayed for Booth's soul, and pulled the trigger.

At the crack of the pistol Booth shouted, leaped a foot in the air, plunged forward, and fell face down on the hay, mortally wounded.

The roaring flames were moving rapidly now across the dry hay. Lieutenant Baker, eager to get the dying wretch out of the place before he was roasted, rushed into the flaming building and leaped upon him, wrenching his revolver from his clenched fist and pinioning his arms to his side for fear that he might merely be feigning death.

Quickly Booth was carried to the porch of the farmhouse, and a soldier mounted a horse and spurred down the dusty road three miles to Port Royal for a physician.

Mrs. Garrett had a sister, Miss Halloway, who was boarding with her and teaching school. When Miss Halloway realized that the dying man there under the honeysuckle vine on the porch was the romantic actor and great lover, John Wilkes Booth, she said he must be cared for tenderly, and she had a mattress hauled out for him to lie upon; and then she brought out her own pillow, put it under his head, and, taking his head upon her lap, offered him wine. But his throat seemed paralyzed, and he couldn't swallow. Then she dipped her handkerchief in water and moistened his lips and tongue time after time, and massaged his temples and forehead.

The dying man struggled on for two and a half hours, suffering intensely; begging to be turned on his face, his side, his back; coughing and urging Colonel Conger to press his hands down hard upon his throat; and crying out in his agony: “Kill me! Kill me!”

Pleading to have a last message sent to his mother, he whispered haltingly:

“Tell her... I did... what I thought... was best... and that I died... for my country.”

As the end drew near, he asked to have his hands raised so he could look at them; but they were totally paralyzed, and he muttered:

“Useless! Useless!”

They were his last words.

He died just as the sun was rising above the tops of the venerable locust trees in the Garrett yard. His “jaw drew spasmodically and obliquely downward, his eyeballs rolled toward his feet and began to swell... and with a sort of gurgle, and sudden check, he stretched his feet and threw back his head.” It was the end.

It was seven o'clock. He had died within twenty-two minutes of the time of day Lincoln had died; and “Boston” Corbett's bullet had struck Booth in the back of the head, about an inch below the spot where he himself had wounded Lincoln.

The doctor cut off a curl of Booth's hair, and gave it to Miss Halloway. She kept the lock of hair and the bloody pillowslip on which his head had lain—kept them and cherished them until, finally, in later years, poverty overtook her and she was obliged to trade half of the stained pillow-slip for a barrel of flour.

30

在布斯朝林肯开枪的瞬间，当时和总统一起坐在包厢里的拉斯伯恩少校便立刻跳起来抓住了刺客。但他还是让刺客逃脱了，因为布斯用博伊刀狠狠地划了他一刀，在他的手臂上留下了一道很深的伤痕。逃脱了拉斯伯恩少校的控制后，布斯跃上包厢的扶手，然后跳到十二英尺下的舞台上。但是他往下跳的时候，脚上的马刺勾到了覆盖在总统包厢上的旗帜，因此他摔得十分狼狈，并摔断了左腿。

钻心的疼痛瞬间击穿了他。但他没有退缩，也没有犹豫。他现在正扮演着职业生涯中最为重要的角色——他将因为这一幕而名垂青史。

布斯很快反应过来，他挥舞着匕首，喊出了弗吉尼亚的座右铭：这就是暴君的下场。他闯入舞台，刺伤了一名无意中挡在他面前的乐师，放倒了一位女演员，从后门窜了出去，跃上早已等在那里的马，抡起左轮手枪，用枪托砸晕了帮他看马的“皮纳德·约翰”，然后不要命似的骑马狂奔起来。在夜空的映衬下，只见马儿的铁掌在鹅卵石地上敲击出了阵阵火花。

布斯在城里狂奔两英里，穿过了国会大厦。当月亮升至树梢的时候，他迅速策马来到横跨安那考斯迪亚河的桥上。联邦军的哨兵科布中士举着来复枪和刺刀冲了出来。他质问道：

“你是谁？为什么这么晚出来？你不知道九点过后不得通行吗？”

说来奇怪，布斯坦白地说了自己的真名，说自己住在查尔斯县，这次来城里是为了做生意，现在特意等月亮升起来后借着月光回家。

布斯的说辞听起来有些道理，再加上现在战争已经结束了，没必要小题大做。于是科布中士放下了来复枪，给布斯放行。

几分钟后，布斯的同伙赫罗尔德用类似的理由也通过了安那考斯迪亚河，并与布斯在约定地点会面。接着，两人穿过马里兰边界向南飞驰，梦想着回到南方时会受到南方各州的盛赞。

午夜时候，他们来到了萨拉特所在的小镇，在一家小酒馆门前停了下来。他们给大口喘着粗气的马儿喂了水，拿走了当天下午萨拉特夫人放在那里的望远镜、枪支和弹药。他们喝了一美金威士忌，宣称他们已经暗杀了林肯，连夜飞奔到这里。

他们原本计划从这里直接前往波托马克河，争取在次日凌晨时分到达，然后立刻乘船驶向弗吉尼亚州。这听起来很容易，他们完全可以做到，也永远不会被抓住，但是他们忘记了一件事。在原先的计划里，布斯并没有摔断腿。

那天晚上，布斯强忍着疼痛，以斯巴达式的坚忍不停地向前奔驰，即便断裂的腿骨——按照他在日记中所说——“随着马每走一步都传来撕心裂肺的痛感”。终于，布斯再也坚持不下去了。他和赫罗尔德不得不向左勒转马头，在周六破晓前来到了乡村医生塞缪尔·莫德（Samuel A．Mudd）门前。他的家在华盛顿东南二十英里处。

布斯非常虚弱，他处于极度的疼痛中，甚至不能自行下马。他被抬下马鞍，抬进了二楼的卧室。一路上他一直在呻吟。在那个与世隔绝的地方，没有电报也没有火车，因此谁也不知道林肯被暗杀的事。于是，医生并未怀疑。布斯的腿是怎么伤的？很简单，按照布斯的解释，他坠马了。莫德医生像对待其他伤患一样处理布斯的伤：他切开布斯左脚的靴子，将断骨复位，将帽盒上的硬纸板拆下来固定在断骨处，做了一根简易拐杖，最后又给了布斯一双鞋。

布斯在莫德医生家里睡了一天。黄昏时分，他强忍着痛苦从床上爬了起来。他没吃东西，刮掉了帅气的胡子，在肩膀上围了一条很长的灰色围巾。围巾边缘正好可以遮住他右手上那个泄露自己身份的名字缩写文身。他粘上了一套假胡子，并付给医生二十五美金。接着他和赫罗尔德再次跨上马背，朝着他们的希望之河奔去。

但是，挡在他们面前的是著名的泽基沼泽。沼泽里落了很多灌木和山茱萸，渗出的泥水聚成了一个个死水塘——那里是蜥蜴和蛇的家园。布斯和赫罗尔德在黑暗中迷路了，他们沿着沼泽边缘徘徊了数小时。

后半夜的时候，黑人奥斯瓦德·斯万（Oswald Swann）救了他们。布斯被腿上的疼痛折磨着，甚至做不到好好地坐在马上。于是，给了斯万七美金后，他便在斯万的马车里度过了夜晚余下的时间。在复活节的黎明到来之际，斯万将自己白色的骡子停在了“里奇山”前。这里住着一位富有而著名的南方党人——考克斯上尉。

就这样，布斯结束了自己逃命行程的第一阶段。

布斯告诉了考克斯上尉自己是谁，做了什么事。为了证明自己的身份，他露出了右手上用墨汁纹的名字缩写文身。

他恳求考克斯上尉以母亲的名义发誓不会背叛他。他说自己很虚弱，腿脚不便，承受着很大的痛苦，并宣称自己做了自认为对南方来说最好的事。

现在，布斯不管是骑马还是坐马车，都无法远行。因此考克斯上尉将这两个逃犯藏在了他家旁边的松林中。那片土地与其说是松林，倒不如说是一片野生的丛林，里面草木横生，松树下方还长满了月桂和冬青。接下来的六天五夜，两个逃犯便藏在此处，等待着布斯的腿伤恢复至能够继续上路的程度。

考克斯上尉有一个义兄，名叫托马斯·琼斯（Thomas A．Jones），是一位奴隶主，数年来一直是南方联盟的特工，曾多次帮助逃亡者横渡波托马克河，并私下为南方联盟越过波托马克河传递邮件。考克斯上尉请琼斯去照顾布斯和赫罗尔德，因此每天早上他都会提着一个篮子为他们送饭。他知道每条道路都在搜查中，并且到处都是特工，因此每次送饭的时候，他总是带着猪一起出门，看上去就像去喂猪一样。

布斯虽然渴望食物，但是更渴望得到消息。他不断地恳求琼斯告诉他最新的消息，迫切想知道整个国家正用何种方式为他的壮举喝彩。

琼斯给布斯拿来了最新的报纸，布斯如饥似渴地翻看着，却发现上面并没有他做梦都想得到的赞扬。布斯非常伤心，心中充满了幻灭感。

布斯曾强忍着肉体上的疼痛，向弗吉尼亚狂奔三十个小时。可是现在，和布斯正经受着的内心的痛苦相比，那肉体的疼痛似乎变得没那么难以忍受了。北方很愤怒——这没什么，他早已预料到。但是当他看到弗吉尼亚的报纸上说南方——他的南方——背叛了他，正在谴责他、与他撇清关系时，他陷入了失望和绝望的疯狂之中。他曾梦想自己会成为第二个布鲁特斯(3)，成为现代的威廉·退尔，成为受万众尊崇的伟人，但是现在却成了一个备受谴责的懦夫、蠢蛋，一个为钱卖命的小人，一个十恶不赦的杀人犯。

面对这些攻击，布斯就像被蝰蛇咬了一口般疼痛，甚至比死亡还难受。

但是他有没有自责过呢？当然没有。相反，他把这一切怪罪于除他和上帝以外的所有人。他是全能的上帝的工具——这便是他为自己的辩护。他在上帝的授意下枪杀亚伯拉罕·林肯，他唯一的错误是他一直在为“堕落至极”从而无法理解他的壮举的人民效劳。“堕落至极”这四个字是他日记中的原话。

“如果世界能明白我的心，”他写道，“那么那一枪便会让我永垂不朽，虽然我并不刻意追求伟大……我那伟大的灵魂不允许我作为一个罪犯死去。”

布斯躲在泽基沼泽周边的区域，躺在一条马鞍褥下瑟瑟发抖。他用悲剧式的夸张言辞宣泄着内心的痛苦：

潮湿，寒冷，饥饿，千夫所指。我身处绝望之中。为什么会这样？因为我做了一件伟大的事，一个让布鲁特斯备受尊崇、让退尔成为英雄的伟大举措。我除掉了一位前所未有的暴君，可他们却将我看作是普通的杀人犯。我的行为比他们任何人都要高洁……我并不奢求回报……我认为我做得很好。我并不后悔开了那一枪。

就在布斯蜷缩着写日记的时候，三千名侦探和一万名骑兵正在对马里兰南部的每一个角落进行地毯式搜索。他们挨家挨户地盘查，不放过每一个洞穴和每一处建筑。他们甚至还搜索了泥泞的泽基沼泽。他们下定决心要将布斯抓捕归案，活要见人死要见尸。为了抓捕布斯，他们还发布了十万美金的悬赏。有时候，布斯都能听到抓捕他的骑兵从距离他两百码的公路上疾驰而过。

有时，他能听到周围的马儿嘶鸣着呼唤同伴。布斯想，他和赫罗尔德的马也许会回应外面的那些马，那就意味着他们会暴露。于是当天晚上赫罗尔德牵着他们的马来到沼泽，然后枪杀了它们。

两天后，死马的尸体引来了秃鹫。一开始天空中只有几个小黑点，渐渐地秃鹫越飞越近，不停地在空中盘旋，最后直奔死马的尸体而去。布斯非常害怕，因为秃鹫可能会引起追捕者的注意，而那些追捕者肯定一眼就能认出那匹深棕色母马是他的。

此外，他也意识到自己必须去看医生。

于是第二天晚上——四月二十一日星期五，暗杀发生一周后——布斯的同伙将他从地上抬起来，扶他跨上了托马斯·琼斯的马。布斯和赫罗尔德再次踏上了前往波托马克河的逃亡之路。

那天晚上的情况非常适合逃亡：空气中弥漫着浓重的雾气，夜色如墨水般漆黑，只有靠触摸才能感受到身旁的人。

琼斯很忠诚，领着他们从藏身处前往波托马克河。他们快步穿过田野，越过公路，接着穿过一片农场。到处都是士兵和特工处的人，于是开路的琼斯每次只向前走五十码，然后停下来听一听周边的动静，确认安全后吹一记低沉的口哨，布斯和赫罗尔德便再跟上。

一路上，任何风吹草动都能让他们胆战心惊。就这样走了几个小时后，他们终于到达了那条通向波托马克河的崎岖山路。那天风势猛烈，河水在茫茫夜色中拍打沙滩的声音清晰可闻。

一个星期以来，联邦的士兵们踏遍了波托马克河沿岸的每一寸土地，摧毁了马里兰沿岸所有的船只。但是道高一尺魔高一丈，琼斯让自己的黑奴亨利·罗兰（Henry Rowland）每天白天驾船捕捞鲱鱼，晚上再将船藏在草场里。

因此，那天晚上当布斯和赫罗尔德到达水边的时候，一切都已准备就绪。布斯小声地对琼斯表达感谢，花十七美金买下了琼斯的船和一瓶威士忌，接着便爬进船舱，朝着五英里外的弗吉尼亚进发。

在笼罩着浓雾的夜色中，赫罗尔德用力地划着桨，布斯则坐在船尾，拿着指南针和蜡烛辨别方向。

然而，因为河道狭窄，他们没走多久便遇到了大涨潮。涌动的潮水将船向上游推进了几英里，一时间他们在浓雾中迷失了方向。他们忙着躲避波托马克河上巡逻的联邦炮艇，等到了黎明的时候发现已经向上游漂了十英里，但是和头一天晚上相比，根本没有靠近弗吉尼亚河岸一步。

于是，接下来的一天他们一直躲在纳杰莫尔湾（Nanjemoy Cove）的沼泽里，直到第二天晚上，浑身湿透又饱尝饥饿的逃犯才最终渡过了波托马克河。布斯兴奋地喊道：“感谢上帝！我终于来到了古老而充满荣耀的弗吉尼亚！我终于安全了！”

他们奔向理查德·斯图尔特医生（Richard Stewart）的家。斯图尔特是南方联盟政府的人，也是弗吉尼亚州乔治王县的首富。布斯本以为自己会以南方救世主的身份受到热烈的欢迎，但是斯图尔特医生曾因帮助南方联盟而被逮捕了好几次，现在战争结束了，他自然犯不着冒着生命危险帮助暗杀了林肯的人。对于布斯的求助，医生非常警觉，甚至不允许布斯进入自己的房子。他勉强给了布斯和赫罗尔德一点儿食物，并把他们赶到谷仓吃饭。晚上便让他们去一个黑人家过夜。

甚至黑人一家也不欢迎布斯。布斯不得不用恐吓的方式迫使黑人一家答应让他留宿。

这便是弗吉尼亚对待布斯的态度！

布斯曾满心期待地认为，在弗吉尼亚，只要提到他的名字，山野间便会回荡着人们响亮的欢呼声。

三天后，布斯迎来了自己的死期。布斯并没有走很远。他在三名返乡的联盟骑兵的陪同下从皇家港渡过了拉帕汉诺克河，然后跨上骑兵的马，向南奔驰了三英里。在骑兵们的帮助下，他骗过了一位名叫加勒特的农民，谎称自己叫博伊德，是李将军的手下，在里士满附近受了伤。

接下来的两天，他便住在加勒特的农舍里。布斯躺在草地上晒着太阳，一边承受着伤口带来的剧痛，一边查看地图，寻找去格兰德河的路线以及前往墨西哥的道路。

在布斯来到农舍那天晚上，吃晚饭的时候，加勒特的小女儿喋喋不休地谈论着刚从邻居那儿听到的总统被暗杀的消息。她不停地说着，猜想着到底是谁做了这件事，又收了多少钱的好处。

“在我看来，”布斯突然插话道，“他一分钱也没收。他这么做只是为了出名而已。”

第二天，也就是四月二十五日下午，当布斯和赫罗尔德正躺在加勒特院子里的刺槐树下晒太阳时，曾帮助他们渡过拉帕汉诺克河的拉格尔斯少校突然冲上前来朝他们喊