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chapter twenty-eight THE HATE OF HATE At 9 a.m. on April 26, Junius Brutus Booth, Jr., was escorted by several detectives to the War Department for questioning prior to his confinement in the Old Capitol Prison. On the previous day, the eldest Booth brother had been arrested at the home of a relative in West Philadelphia . His nervous system already shattered by the narrow escape from Cincinnati and the abuse heaped upon his name, Booth was now “dumbfounded” by this most recent development. “[I] wished John had been killed before the assassination, for the sake of the family name,” the actor admitted on his trip down to Washington.1 Junius’s arrest was not simply because of his relationship to the assassin , but because the federal government felt he might have played an active role in the conspiracy. Mundane letters exchanged between the brothers weeks and months preceding the murder, as well as esoteric allusions, were now scrutinized and suddenly took on sinister significance . Simple scribblings that had been torn up and tossed away were fished out of spittoons by eager detectives in hopes they might provide a clue. Jottings on a scrap of paper, copied from the 49th Psalms, were quickly retrieved and carefully examined.2 Another Booth brother, Joseph, also was jailed. So worried were government officials that he might somehow slip their net that even before the brother landed in New York, a cutter intercepted the ship that he was returning on from Australia.3 Even a Booth brother-in-law, John Clarke, was soon arrested. Already nervous over the future of his acting career— so much so that he demanded a divorce from Asia—Clarke now found himself accused of complicity in the assassination.4 “Poor old country,” wrote Asia in the depth of depression, “she has seen her best days and I care not how soon I turn my back upon her shores forever.”5 225 226 the darkest dawn While the Booth family was being jailed, countless others also were imprisoned, most on the shakiest of evidence. “Fresh arrests are being made each day,” announced one excited journalist, as if reporting on a fisherman’s daily net.6 Two brothers, a brother-in-law, dozens of friends, and hundreds of strangers still did not equal one assassin, however. In desperation, Washington authorities intensified their search in the capital itself. Some seriously advocated dismantling and demolishing every home and building in the city to uncover the murderer.7 On the evening of April 26, while a huge crowd swarmed about the Kirkwood House on Pennsylvania Avenue, hundreds of policemen and soldiers poured into the hotel itself. A short time later, the searchers fanned out to neighboring buildings, going from door to door and from roof to roof. Somewhere in the crowd below, a rumor had started which stated that John Wilkes Booth—painted black, wearing a “white negro wig,” clad in a dress, walking on crutches—had been recognized before limping away near the Kirkwood. “Joe, don’t say anything!” Booth had supposedly said after shaking hands with the friend. “Joe,” of course, promptly did and for the next several hours the furious manhunt for the murderer continued. At length, the source of the report was finally found—a local sot just released from the city holding tank. “Drunk again,” growled an angry policeman. “Go home and get sober.”8 The following day another rumor raced through Washington, and an even larger crowd hastened to the Potomac. Unlike the hoax of the night before, this report proved true.9 At 1:45 that morning, a tug had drawn alongside the gunboat Montauk as it lay anchored in the river. Several men had crossed over to the warship from the tug, including the Secret Service chief, Colonel Lafayette Baker. With them came the decomposing body of John Wilkes Booth. Although there was little doubt in anyone’s mind, a formal identification of the assassin’s body was scheduled for later that day. David Herold also was taken aboard, then whisked below, where he was heavily secured by double irons.10 As the sun rose and the report spread, thousands hurried down to the river, where they stood staring in grim fascination at the black ship.11 Hundreds of requests were made for passes, that the morbid and curious might feast their eyes on the “monster,” but only a handful were granted. Most simply stared and pointed from the shoreline or peered through field glasses...

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