Join Scott and Jenn as they uncover the haunting history behind John Wilkes Booth's final days, culminating in his dramatic death on April 26, 1865. Their journey begins at Oak Grove Cemetery, where they seek the grave of Richard Garrett Junior, a boy who witnessed Booth's last moments. Through a vivid first-person narrative, we delve into Booth's psyche as he reflects on his actions and the despair of being hunted. The episode weaves together the significance of preserving history and the personal stories intertwined with it, revealing how the past continues to echo into the present. With a mix of humor and poignant storytelling, Scott and Jenn invite you to explore the complexities of a notorious figure and the legacy he left behind.
My apologies on coming out late with our episode this week.
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The month of October is incredibly, incredibly busy for my regular day job, and it's been difficult for us to keep up with production.
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We're going to do our best for the rest of this month, but I wanted to bring you a special episode of something that I had tried recording.
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So, it's a short story about the last days of John Wilkes Booth.
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I hope you enjoyed.
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Hey, you want to see this painting in the back of my truck?
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Jen and I looked at each other.
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These older gentlemen seemed harmless enough.
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It was a cool day, and their sons of the Confederacy jacket package were small, huh?
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We'd come to Oak Grove Cemetery in search of someone who had witnessed the last days of John Wilkes Booth.
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If you are familiar with the manhunt for the infamous assassin, you may know that Union soldiers finally caught up to Booth at the Garrett farm.
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Booth and David Herold hadn't done a great job at escaping.
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They got lost multiple times and were determined to make their way to Richmond, thinking that would be their best shot at finding passage further away from the relentless search for them.
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The Lincoln assassins.
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The Virginia sun beat down mercilessly, sweat stinging my eyes as I shifted my weight.
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14 days on the run had left my leg, a throbbing agony, a constant reminder of my folly.
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The Garrett farm, a haven at first, now felt like a gilded cage.
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The warm smiles of the family, the innocent faces of the children were a constant reminder of the life I'd taken.
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Little Richard, his eyes wide with childish wonder, had pestered me about my compass earlier.
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I, the man who'd plunged a nation into mourning, smiled as he stared in wonder at the mysterious force moving the needle.
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A hollow laugh escaped my lips, swallowed by this cicada chorus outside.
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Being an actor had its benefits, and my years of practice paid off.
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The first night at the farm, dinner was almost jovial for the garrets, yet still every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the wind sounded like approaching Calvary.
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Harold, ever the simpleton, ate with gusto, oblivious to the storm brewing within me.
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John Garrett, the elder son.
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He watched me intently, a spark of suspicion flickering in his gaze.
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Where did I put my pistol again?
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Misses Garrett's kindness was genuine, but a constant ache to me.
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Her gentle words, her concern for my injury felt like a branding iron on my conscience.
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I, a monster basking in the warmth of their hospitality.
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Later that night, Harold Snores offered a little comfort.
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Escape.
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It was the only thought that kept me, the creeping despair at bay.
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I had slept in the house the night before, but John had raised his father's suspicions, and they only offered me the barn tonight.
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No matter.
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I'm just.
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I'm so tired.
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Did I hear something at the barn door?
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A latch?
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No, that wouldn't make any sense.
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I'm just tired.
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Suddenly, shouts and the clatter of horses shattered the peace.
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Union soldiers, their faces grim, surrounded the farm.
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Panic twisted in my gut.
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I was trapped.
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One of the daughters, her face is pale, rushed to the barn.
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They're looking for you, she gasped.
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They'll burn the bar down if you don't come out.
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I had always had a way with women.
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Never seemed to have trouble getting them to believe me.
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She still didnt know who I really was.
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I wasnt jw Boyd, thats for sure.
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There was a flicker of humanity in her eyes, a plea I wanted to confess, to beg forgiveness.
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But pride, that old serpent held me captive.
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Let Harold go, I rasped, the words scraping my throat.
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He had nothing to do with it.
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She hesitated and nodded curtly.
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Harold stumbled out, bewildered.
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Escape.
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A bitter pill to swallow.
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With my legs still on the men, there was no chance of running.
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I grabbed my pistol.
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Flames erupted at the barn entrance, the heat licking at my skin.
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Trapped, I stumbled back, my breath catching in my throat.
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A voice boomed, demanding my surrender.
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My defiant reply died in my throat as a searing pain ripped through my neck.
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The world spun, then dissolved into darkness.
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The next sensation was a crushing weight on my chest.
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A voice, distant and muffled, spoke of justice.
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I tried to scream, to plead for mercy, but my body wouldn't obey.
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Paralysis, cold and absolute, had claimed me.
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I, Zhang Moks booth, the actor who had craved the spotlight, was reduced to a voiceless puppet in the grand drama of my demise.
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The flames danced a macabre jig.
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The only audience to my silent scream, Jen and I walked over to the older gentleman's suv, and he opened the back.
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There was only a single large painting back there, wrapped in a large blanket.
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Phew.
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As he unwrapped the painting, he was telling us how he got this from an estate sale not far away, his two friends echoing how good they thought it was.
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It looked pretty old.
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It was a painting of a civil war soldier dressed in confederate gray.
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It wasn't an amazing condition, but it actually looked pretty good.
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Someone's family had had this for a long time.
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I guessed it was real.
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Jen was skeptical, her museum curator training coming out.
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These men we met in Oak Grove Cemetery were there for a good reason.
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They had actually revived the cemetery from some disrepair over many years, erected monuments to those buried there who had fought in the battle of the ironclads.
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the yellow fever epidemic of:
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These are good men keeping history alive.
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It was nice to meet him.
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,:
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As Booth came charging out of the burning barn, he was shot in the neck by a young soldier named Boston Corbett.
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You may have heard that name in the last moments of his life.
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Booth asked one of the soldiers to hold up his hands.
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He had been paralyzed, having been shot in the neck.
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Looking at his old hands, Booth had actually muttered, useless.
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Useless.
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And then, at 715 am, he passed.
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The grave Jen and I had come searching for was the son of Richard Garrett, who owned the farm Booth had escaped to.
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The son had written a book recounting his memory of Booth.
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That's how we knew about the details about the compass.
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I had mentioned earlier that little boy was Richard Garrett Junior, who's buried here in Oak Grove Cemetery in Portsmouth, Virginia.
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This has been a walk with history production.
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Talk with History is created and hosted by me, Scott Benny.
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Episode researched by Jennifer Benny.
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Check out the show notes for links and references mentioned in this episode.
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Talk with history is supported by our fans at thehistory roadtrip.com.
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our eternal thanks to those providing funding to help keep us going.
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Thank you to Doug McLiberty, Larry Myers, and Patrick Benny.
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Make sure you hit that follow button in your podcast player and we'll talk to you next time.
