Lincoln, the unknown

222 • LINCOLN THE UNKNOWN"Who are you? And why are you out so late? Don't you knowit is against the rules to let any one pass after nine o'clock?"Booth, strange to relate, confessed his real name, saying thathe lived in Charles County, and, being in town on business, hehad waited for the moon to come up and light him home.That sounded plausible enough; and, anyway, the war wasover, so why make a fuss? Sergeant Cobb lowered his rifle andlet 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 ofthem raced on through the shadows of lower Maryland, dreamingof 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 afternoonby Mrs. Surratt; drank a dollar's worth of whisky; then, boastingthat they had shot Lincoln, spurred on into the darkness.Originally they had planned to ride from here straight forthe Potomac, expecting to reach the river early the next morningand row across at once to Virginia. That sounded easy, andthey 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 withSpartan fortitude— galloped on, although the broken, jaggedbone was, as he recorded in his diary, "tearing the flesh at everyjump" of his horse. Finally when he could endure the punishmentno longer, he and Herold swung their horses off to theleft, and shortly before daybreak on Saturday morning reinedup in front of the house of a country physician named MuddDr. Samuel A. Mudd—who lived twenty miles southeast ofWashington.Booth was so weak and he was suffering so intensely that hecouldn't dismount alone. He had to be lifted out of his saddleand carried groaning to an unstairs bedroom. There were notelegraph lines or railways in this isolated region; so none of thenatives had yet learned of the assassination. Hence, the doctorsuspected nothing. How had Booth come to break his leg? Thatwas simple as Booth explained it—his horse had fallen onhim. Dr. Mudd did for Booth what he would have done for anyother suffering man; he cut away the boot from the left leg, setthe fractured bone, tied it up with pasteboard splints made