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222 • LINCOLN THE UNKNOWN"Who are you? And why are you out so late? Don't you knowit is against <strong>the</strong> rules to let any one pass after nine o'clock?"Booth, strange to relate, confessed his real name, saying tha<strong>the</strong> lived in Charles County, and, being in town on business, hehad waited for <strong>the</strong> moon to come up and light him home.That sounded plausible enough; and, anyway, <strong>the</strong> war wasover, so why make a fuss? Sergeant Cobb lowered his rifle andlet <strong>the</strong> rider pass.A few minutes later Davy Herold, one of Booth's confederates,hurried across <strong>the</strong> Anacostia bridge with a similar explanation,joined Booth at <strong>the</strong>ir rendezvous, and <strong>the</strong> two of<strong>the</strong>m raced on through <strong>the</strong> shadows of lower Maryland, dreamingof <strong>the</strong> wild acclaim that was sure to be <strong>the</strong>irs in Dixie.At midnight <strong>the</strong>y halted in front of a friendly tavern in Surrattville;watered <strong>the</strong>ir panting horses; called for <strong>the</strong> field-glasses,guns, and ammunition that had been left <strong>the</strong>re that afternoonby Mrs. Surratt; drank a dollar's worth of whisky; <strong>the</strong>n, boastingthat <strong>the</strong>y had shot <strong>Lincoln</strong>, spurred on into <strong>the</strong> darkness.Originally <strong>the</strong>y had planned to ride from here straight for<strong>the</strong> Potomac, expecting to reach <strong>the</strong> river early <strong>the</strong> next morningand row across at once to Virginia. That sounded easy, and<strong>the</strong>y 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 <strong>the</strong> pain, Booth galloped on that night withSpartan fortitude— galloped on, although <strong>the</strong> broken, jaggedbone was, as he recorded in his diary, "tearing <strong>the</strong> flesh at everyjump" of his horse. Finally when he could endure <strong>the</strong> punishmentno longer, he and Herold swung <strong>the</strong>ir horses off to <strong>the</strong>left, and shortly before daybreak on Saturday morning reinedup in front of <strong>the</strong> house of a country physician named MuddDr. Samuel A. Mudd—who lived twenty miles sou<strong>the</strong>ast 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 <strong>the</strong>natives had yet learned of <strong>the</strong> assassination. Hence, <strong>the</strong> 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 anyo<strong>the</strong>r suffering man; he cut away <strong>the</strong> boot from <strong>the</strong> left leg, set<strong>the</strong> fractured bone, tied it up with pasteboard splints made