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228 •LINCOLN THE UNKNOWNThe Garrett family went to bed, that memorable evening,half expecting a little excitement.And <strong>the</strong>y got it before morning.For two days and nights, a troop of Union soldiers had beenhot on <strong>the</strong> trail of Booth and Herold, picking up clue after clue,talking to an old negro who had seen <strong>the</strong>m crossing <strong>the</strong> Potomac,and finding Rollins, <strong>the</strong> colored ferryman who had poled <strong>the</strong>macross <strong>the</strong> Rappahannock in a scow. This ferryman told <strong>the</strong>mthat <strong>the</strong> Confederate soldier who had given Booth a lift on hishorse as <strong>the</strong>y rode away from <strong>the</strong> river was Captain Willie Jett,and that <strong>the</strong> captain had a swee<strong>the</strong>art who lived in BowlingGreen, twelve miles away. Perhaps he had gone <strong>the</strong>re.That sounded likely enough, so <strong>the</strong> troopers climbed quicklyinto <strong>the</strong>ir saddles and spurred on in <strong>the</strong> moonlight toward BowlingGreen. Arriving <strong>the</strong>re at midnight, <strong>the</strong>y thundered into <strong>the</strong>house, found Captain Jett, jerked him out of his bed, thrusta 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 <strong>the</strong> Nor<strong>the</strong>rn men back to <strong>the</strong>Garrett farm.The night was black, <strong>the</strong> moon having gone down, and <strong>the</strong>rewere no stars. For nine miles <strong>the</strong> dust rose in choking cloudsunder <strong>the</strong> galloping feet of <strong>the</strong> horses. Soldiers rode one on eachside of Jett, with <strong>the</strong> reins of his horse tied to <strong>the</strong>ir saddles, sothat he couldn't escape in <strong>the</strong> dark.At half-past three in <strong>the</strong> morning <strong>the</strong> troopers arrived in frontof <strong>the</strong> worn old whitewashed Garrett house.Quickly, quietly, <strong>the</strong>y surrounded <strong>the</strong> house and trained <strong>the</strong>irguns on every door and window. Their leader banged on <strong>the</strong>porch with his pistol butt, demanding admittance.Presently Richard Garrett, candle in hand, unbolted <strong>the</strong> door,while <strong>the</strong> dogs barked furiously, and <strong>the</strong> wind whipped <strong>the</strong>tail of his night-shirt against his trembling legs.Quickly Lieutenant Baker grabbed him by <strong>the</strong> throat, thrustinga pistol to his head and demanding that he hand over Booth.The old man, tongue-tied with terror, swore that <strong>the</strong> strangerswere not in <strong>the</strong> house, that <strong>the</strong>y had gone to <strong>the</strong> woods.That was a lie, and it sounded like it; so <strong>the</strong> troopers jerkedhim out of <strong>the</strong> doorway, dangled a rope in his face, and threatenedto string him up at once to a locust tree in <strong>the</strong> yard.At that instant one of <strong>the</strong> Garrett boys who had been sleeping