You probably know the name of the man who shot Lincoln. You may even know the gunman was a famous actor in his day, a Southern sympathizer, and an ardent partisan. But, do you know the truly outlandish story behind the man who shot and killed the 16th President’s assassin?
Thick plumes of smoke billowed high into the air, escaping the heavy fog settled on the ground, fueled by a combustible mixture of kerosene, dry-rotted wood, and huge stocks of tobacco leaves, previously hung high above the floor from old frayed hemp rope.
The structure engulfed by the raging fire a tobacco barn, owned by one of the most prominent agrarian entrepreneurs of the day. In the dead of night, two outlaws were desperately held up inside the burning curing house, frantically weighing their options as twenty-six armed men surrounded the structure under cover of darkness, ordering them to exit and surrender or risk being burned alive.
The heat from the blaze grew so intense, it evaporated the heavy, rolling mist that previously surrounded and obscured the structure, singeing the grass around it, threatening to spread to nearby hay bales and grow totally out of control.
The dense smoke within the structure began to choke the two fugitives, who scrambled to find an undetectable escape route and quietly make their way back into the thick woods, where they had previously successfully hidden for the past few days.
But, no way out presented itself and their only choice was to break through a wall and run for it. Pressing in vain against a weak spot, they managed to create a small gap, but one far too narrow to pass through – only large enough for a single hand to protrude.
Outside, a detachment from the 16th New York Cavalry regiment and a pair of detectives stood, far away from the heat and flames of the blaze, anticipating the men inside would soon come out with their hands up. Any alternative was unthinkable. In mere moments, the outlaws would be incinerated in utter agony, far before smoke inhalation could render them unconscious and peacefully suffocate them.
Meanwhile, cornered with no way to evade capture or death, John Wilkes Booth, the man who shot and killed President Abraham Lincoln, and his accomplice, David Herold, a pharmacist’s assistant who guided Lewis Powell, a Confederate soldier, to the home of Secretary of State William H. Seward on the night of the assassination, in a second murder attempt, argued over their strategy. Booth was adamant about putting up a fight, but Herold favored surrendering to the posse and giving up after being on the run for twelve straight days.
Booth acted erratically, throwing tools and tobacco out of his way, still trying to find some route of escape. Herold stood near the barn door, gasping for fresh air from outside, sobbing and babbling incoherently.
Sensing their unwillingness to come out voluntarily, Luther Baker, one of the detectives, shouted, “Booth! Herold! Come out and surrender now!”
With no options left, slowly becoming incapacitated, and faint, Booth yelled back, “Give us a little time to consider it!”
“There’s no time left, come out now!”
Confused by the commotion and unable to see the posse’s faces outside the barn, Booth asked the men to identify themselves.
Detective Baker, immediately quipped back, “It don’t make any difference who we are. We know who you are, and we want you. We want to take you prisoner!”
Defiantly, Booth shouted, “I am a cripple. I have got but one leg. If you will withdraw your men in line one hundred yards from the door, I will come out and fight you.”
Baker refused with a simple, “No!”
“Then, give me just fifty yards, if you please!”
“No chance! Come out now, or be burned to death!”
Intransigent, Booth challenged, “Well, my brave boys, prepare a stretcher for me!”
Seeing Booth would not go without a fight, Herold flung the barn door open, ran outside, and knelt with his hands up in front of the men.
However, Booth had no intention of surrendering. Armed with a pair of pistols, a large Bowie knife, and a short-barreled rifle, he pushed the barrel of one gun through two wall slats, aiming at the nearest shadowy figure in the posse.
As Booth slowly squeezed the trigger, and the hammer cocked back, a shot rang out and a sharp, stinging pain radiated through his neck. He grasped his throat, which bled profusely, then immediately lost his balance and collapsed on the spot – a bullet had pierced three vertebrae and severed his spinal cord. The notorious assassin lay paralyzed in the burning curing house, completely helpless as the flames came closer and closer. An instant later, two men hurriedly ran in, grabbed him by the legs, and dragged him outside to safety.
It was now 4:00 a.m., but Booth would not succumb to his fatal injury for another three agonizing hours. During that time, the actor turned cold-blooded murderer begged several times for the men to kill him. But, none were sympathetic to his excruciating pain and let him suffer as much and as long as possible.
Just before 7:00 a.m., he requested water and one of the soldiers obliged, putting a canteen to his lips, although it did nothing to quench his thirst as the mortal injury prevented him from swallowing. Weak and barely able to speak, he pleaded with Detective Baker, “Tell Mother I died for my country.”
Just before he took his last breath, Booth asked a soldier to lift his arms so he could see them. Looking down at his limp hands, he lamented, “Useless, useless,” just before the life went out of his eyes.
Now, the presidential assassin was dead. And, with his untimely demise, went all his unspoken motivations. Worse still, key details of who else was involved and whether or not an active network of other rebels were set to unleash chaos through violence against the victorious North.
Although the government already held several people in connection with the conspiracy to murder Lincoln, as well as Secretary of State William H. Seward, and Vice President Andrew Johnson, none of them were initiators. Those individuals didn’t devise the plot. Instead, they were recruits or just means to an end.
For investigators and those in charge of the security of a fractured country, the death of John Wilkes Booth – without proper interrogation – was nothing short of a tragedy. At the very least, it represented a big missed opportunity.
“Major!”
“Yes, Detective Baker?”
“The sergeant who shoot Booth?”
“Yes, Sergeant Thomas Corbett, you mean?”
“Precisely. I take it you have ways of dealing with such hasty and irresponsible actions? For instance, fatally shooting a fugitive the Secretary of War, one Honorable Edwin Stanton, wanted to be brought to justice alive?”
“I do, Detective Baker… a court martial.”
“Lieutenant Doherty!”
“Yes, Major?”
“Take Sergeant Corbett into custody. He is to stand court-martial as soon as possible!”
Days later, Thomas Corbett, the man who shot and killed the man who shot and killed the 16th President of the United States expected to stand before a provost court with seven high-ranking officers ready to hear the evidence against the sergeant and determine his fate. But, it would not happen as experience had taught him.
This wasn’t the first time Corbett had faced courts-martial. The former street preacher, who took the moniker “Boston,” had already been in front of such military proceedings four years earlier in 1861 – only to be involuntarily discharged and rejoin the army two years later in 1863 at the age of thirty-one – an old man by the day’s standard, when the average life expectancy was just thirty-nine years old.
Born in London, England in 1832, Thomas H. Corbett immigrated to the United States in 1839, starting in New York City, when he was about seven. They moved frequently and eventually, settled in Troy, New York – a small town located to the north-northeast of Albany.
When he was a young man, Corbett apprenticed as a milliner or a hatter where he was exposed to mercury nitrate, a chemical used at the time to treat animal pelts or fur to produce felt for hats. During the early 18th century, many in the profession experienced symptoms such as twitching, known as “hatter’s shakes.” But, excessive exposure to the fumes also resulted in hallucinations and in some cases, psychosis.
Thomas returned to New York City after his apprenticeship and later married. It was, without question the most wonderful time of his life. His spouse gave him a sense of pride and purpose. And, when she told him she was pregnant, a whole new world of possibilities opened up. He even thought about starting his own hatter business.
However, on the very day his wife went into labor, all of those points of pride and lofty aspirations were dashed in one single, anguishing moment – neither his wife nor his child survived.
Devastated by their losses, Corbett relocated to Boston. Still, the change wasn’t enough, and despondent over the tragedy, he began to drink heavily.
Excessive alcohol consumption would take an immediate toll. Because of his drinking, he could not hold a job for any lengthy period of time and eventually found himself chronically unemployed. Without a steady income, he became homeless – forced to live his life on the street – something he was ill-prepared for and dealt with poorly.
The abrupt change didn’t stop him from drinking, though. He continued to abuse alcohol, using whatever means necessary to feed his growing addiction. But, after one particular night of heavy drinking, he was confronted in a stupor by a street preacher, who persuaded him to visit a local Methodist Episcopal Church.
Thomas took to the doctrines with full vigor and stopped drinking right after, swearing off alcohol for the rest of his life and vowing to dedicate himself to the church. To show his sincerity, he was baptized and changed his name to Boston, an homage to the city where he was converted.
Subsequently, Corbett regularly attended services at the Fulton and Bromfield Street churches and his wild enthusiasm earned him a new nickname by the parishioners: “The Glory to God man.” Instead of taking offense over the sarcasm, he embraced the role fully and let his hair grow long in order to imitate Jesus.
By 1857, he was again gainfully employed, working in his previous profession as a hatter. Although reputedly a proficient milliner, Thomas (now Boston), became increasingly erratic, despite the fact he had quit drinking. His unusual behavior typically manifested through impromptu proselytizing on the job and by suddenly singing hymns whenever he heard a coworker use profanity.
Simultaneously, Corbett started moonlighting as a street preacher, inspired by the clergy who convinced him to join the church. He often distributed religious literature in North Square before and after his public sermons. As a result, he gained a reputation for being an eccentric and it was probably this persona that lead to a truly bizarre, life-altering event, which occurred on the evening of July 16th, 1858.
Walking back to his room at a local boardinghouse after a church meeting, two women approached the milliner on the street.
“How are you doing tonight, Mister?”
“Fine, just fine, ladies. And, how does this evening find you?”
“Well, to be perfectly honest, the heat is quite bothersome. But, it does give us cause to seek privacy, where we can be rid of these heavy clothes. Perhaps, you’d like to join us? What do you say? We’ll even offer you a discount…buy one, get one free!”
“No, no thank you. First Corinthians, chapter six, verse eighteen clearly states, ‘Flee fornication. Every sin that a man doeth is without the body; but he that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body.’”
“Oh my! He’s got the Good Book memorized!”
“I do my best to abide by the Word.”
“Wait a moment, I know you! You’re Thomas Corbet! I’ve heard him preach on the corner.”
“Actually, it’s Boston…Boston Corbett.”
“All right, Boston. But even a good boy has got to have a little fun!”
“No, it isn’t okay…. Colossians three-five warns, ‘Mortify therefore your members which are upon the earth; fornication, uncleanness, inordinate affection, evil concupiscence, and covetousness, which is idolatry!’”
“Oh, honey, we’re not idols, we’re just two girls tryin’ to earn a living. Yeah, you know, ladies who are experts in their trade. And, since you’re such a well-known figure ‘round these parts, we’ll do somethin’ extra special for ya.”
“Extra special…for me?”
“Yes, indeed. Just follow along now sugar and be a good boy.”
Their provocative dress and enticing perfume caused Thomas to drop his guard. Before he knew it, they were both leading him by the hand down the street – straight to a hotel on the corner. The women whispered to one another, giggling mischievously.
Just before they entered the lobby, Corbett broke away, exclaiming, “I’m sorry, but I just can’t oblige! The temptation of the flesh is notorious for its ruinous effects! Kind David himself learned that hard lesson firsthand. In fact, the Bible has plenty of stories that somberly demonstrate what happens when one gives into lustful desires!”
Thomas, upset with the tempestuous proposition, pulled away, politely but curtly excused himself, and hastily made his way around the two women. The experience shook him so much, he visited the nearest bar and picked up a bottle of alcohol. Corbett then took the bottle up to his boardinghouse room and nervously contemplated what to do next.
He sat in the only chair, torn between drinking the indecent proposition away and reading the bible for distraction. Even though he resisted the seduction of the flesh, he could not help but feel despondent. Wrestling with what to do, he stood up, angrily grabbed a glass, and filled it nearly to the brim, corking the bottle and pushing it aside.
Corbett glared emptied-eyed at the glass, the King James bible laying right next to it, along with a comb and pair of scissors. Indignant over the encounter on the street, he grabbed the glass, his hand shaking, his brow sweating profusely.
Thomas put the rim of the glass to his mouth and titled it just enough to take a sip. But, as the alcohol reached his lips, he slammed the glass on the table, picked up the scissors, and grabbed his long hair as he stared at himself in the mirror in disgust.
He seriously contemplated cutting it short, tugging at his lengthy locks, feeling unworthy of imitating Jesus. But, just as he began to put the scissors to his hair some bible passages suddenly came to mind, he whispered to himself as he gazed at his reflection, “And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee….and there be eunuchs, which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven’s sake…the Gospel of Matthew.”
He whispered the verses again, then picked up the glass, gulped down the contents in a couple of swallows, then refilled it to the top again, thrusting the scissors into the glass, stirring the blades with a trembling hand.
Corbett, shaking with anxiety, retrieved a towel, loosened his pants, and began breathing deeply in through his nose and exhaling out of his mouth, pulling the scissors out of the glass, shouting in anger, “And there be eunuchs, which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven’s sake!”
On the verge of passing out due to the excruciating pain, he clenched the towel tight to stem the flow, tossed the bloody scissors back into the glass, then took two big gulps from the bottle, before emptying the last of the contents into the street below out of the window.
He cleaned up as best as he could under the circumstances, stuffing the towel in his pants, combing his long hair, and made his way to the closest tavern, where he ate a hardy meal before attending a prayer meeting and finally seeking medical attention.
For about the next three years, the self-castrated hatter continued in his profession and also as a firebrand street preacher. But, neither gave him a deep sense of purpose. Disgusted with the practice of slavery and its inhumane treatment, Corbett decided to take up arms against the south and joined the First Company of the New York militia’s 12th regiment.
But, it would ultimately prove a bad idea, regardless of his altruistic intentions. After one hard-fought battle, he approached his commanding officer and admonished, “It’s a sin to take the Lord’s name in vain!”
“That may well be true, but Corporal Corbett, I am your superior! And, in the heat of battle, I will do all that is necessary to lead my men to victory. That includes – mind you – spewing profanity! It’s a very powerful tool and I shall most definitely take advantage of its prowess!”
“Colonel, you may have authority over all of these men, including myself. But, I can assure you that you do not have any authority over our blessed Savior!”
Colonel Daniel Butterfield was a stout, by-the-book military commander, who did not tolerate any form of insubordination.
“Lieutenant!”
“Yes, Colonel?”
“Escort Corporal Corbett to the guardhouse. He’s to stay in the stockade until further notice!”
Although Boston remained locked up for several days, the experience did not deter him. After his release, Thomas continued his disruptive behavior, held unauthorized prayer meetings, and routinely found himself at odds with other superior officers. Eventually, his erratic and pious manner led to a court-martial. And, by August of 1863 – the same month Confederate General Robert E. Lee surrendered to Union General Ulysses S. Grant – Corbett was court-martialed and summarily discharged.
Still, Thomas remained very loyal to the Federal cause and later in the same month, re-enlisted with Company L, 16th New York Cavalry Regiment as a private. He continued to proselytize but not with the same audacity and fervor. Nearly a year later after his re-enlistment, in late June 1864, Corbett was captured by Southern troops in Culpeper, Virginia.
Shortly after, Thomas was just one of approximately two-thousand prisoners of war – all placed aboard trains and transported to Macon. When the convoy arrived on the outskirt of the town, the captured soldiers were ordered to disembark and were subsequently marched to an abandoned pasture near the railroad.
A stream ran along the grassland and upon spotting it, many of the prisoners attempted to rush toward the flowing water to quench their thirsts. But, the Confederate guards quickly formed a line and prevented anyone from passing. However, one Federal managed to reach the water and began to fill his canteen, only to be shot and drug under a tree, where he lay writhing in pain, bleeding profusely.
“Please, someone, anyone, fetch me some water!”
“Don’t a single one of you Yanks move! Any one of you scoundrels even so much as twitches will get a load of buckshot!”
The wounded soldier continued to plead for water, but none of his compatriots would challenge the rebel forces. As the man reached out for someone to come to his aid, Boston Corbett could no longer idly sit and do nothing.
Thomas boldly stood up, pulled his own canteen off his shoulder, and began to defiantly walk toward the creek. The Southern commander, shocked by what he saw, drew his pistol, aimed the barrel right at Thomas, and yelled, “Sit back down or be shot dead!”
Boston turned for just a moment, and replied, “This man needs some relief. The sun’s too much and he’s in a lot of pain. Seems wrong to do nothing and let him suffer unnecessarily.”
“Listen Yankee, I’m not here to make you or any of Lincoln’s Federals comfortable. You do what you’re told!”
But, Corbett nonchalantly turned his back, ignoring the threat, and calmly continued to walk toward the water.
An instant later, a shot rang out, and the Southern commander shouted, “Next one won’t be in the air, son!”
Thomas, though startled by the gunshot, did not heed the warning. Instead, he made his way to the bank of the stream, filled his canteen, took the water to his fellow soldier, giving the wounded man a cool drink.
The captured men rose one by one and cheered enthusiastically. Even the Confederates admired Corbett’s courage and applauded his bravery.
Boston left his canteen with the wounded trooper and quietly rejoined his compatriots. The next day, all the captured Northern soldiers were sent to Andersonville prison – a war camp where nearly one-third of all of the 45,000 Union soldiers sent there died – about 15,000. Corbett would survive, though he spent the next five months as a prisoner of war until an exchange occurred in November of 1864.
Over the next few weeks, he was treated for scurvy, malnutrition, and exposure in Annapolis, Maryland at an army hospital. When he finally returned to his company, he was promoted to sergeant, due to his heroic actions. Later, Corbett would testify on behalf of the prosecution against the Southern commander who threatened his life at Andersonville.
However, wasn’t long before his fortunes changed again. Approximately four months later, Boston would become part of history. Only this time, his instincts wouldn’t serve him as well.
On April 24th, 1865, Thomas’ 16th New York Cavalry Regiment was chosen to lead the manhunt for John Wilkes Booth and his accomplice, pharmacist’s assistant David Herold. By this time, the presidential assassin and his cohort had been on the run for ten days and were suspected to be just outside of the town of Port Royal, Virginia, located near the Rappahannock River. Although the intelligence wasn’t excellent, it did contain enough elements to make it a worthwhile spot to search.
The posse would be led by an experienced army Major, who took command of the 16th New York Cavalry Regiment several months before. His aide-de-camp was Lieutenant Edward P. Doherty, who survived no fewer than two skirmishes with offensive secessionist rebels at the outset of the war when the South was at its most aggressive and won initial battles. Along with the officers and enlisted, were Detective Luther Baker, a seasoned investigator, and Detective Everton Conger, a former military Lieutenant Colonel.
Altogether, the search party consisted of twenty-six men, each one eager to be the person who apprehended John Wilkes Booth. That was the order from Secretary of War Edwin Stanton – to bring the president’s assassin to justice alive. And, if possible, to capture any other conspirators, including David Herold.
However, the band was conspicuously absent a chaplain. And, this being a very dangerous assignment, this was quite unusual.
“Lieutenant Doherty!”
“Yes, Major?”
“We appear short one chaplain. We need a man of the cloth to accompany us!”
“Major, they’re all deployed. But, Sergeant Thomas Corbett could certainly serve in that particular capacity!”
“You mean the soldier who calls himself ‘Boston’? The one who gave one of our wounded water under threat of death on their way to the prisoner war camp at Andersonville?”
“That very individual, Major!”
“Send for the sergeant immediately Lieutenant!”
“Right away, Sir!”
The Lieutenant scrambled and eventually found Thomas leading an unauthorized prayer meeting.
“Sergeant Corbett! I see your reputation proceeds you. Isn’t this precisely the behavior that got you into trouble some years ago with the army?”
“Guilty as charged, I suppose, Lieutenant Doherty. But, seein’ that we’re about to undertake one of the boldest missions, I figured having the blessing of the Good Lord can’t hurt!”
“I get your point, Sergeant. The Major wants to see you immediately!”
“I’ll be right there, Lieutenant Doherty. Just let me finish up with a brief supplication to the Lord Almighty!”
“Certainly!”
Moments later, Corbett stood before the Major, who looked at the sergeant with curiosity. “Sergeant, I understand you’re a layman of the church.”
“Thank you, Major, that is a great compliment!”
“Word is you always carry a bible – even though you’re rumored to have the entire Good Book memorized.”
“Memorization isn’t the same as faith, Major.”
“Agreed. Now, we are in need of a chaplain and there’s not one to be had. So, given your disposition, I’m appointing you our honorary chaplain, Sergeant Corbett.”
“Thank you, Major! I’ll do my very best to serve in that solemn capacity.”
Thomas was always enthusiastic to do the Lord’s work, whenever it presented itself. He took the assignment to heart, even going so far as to adorn his uniform with a prominent cross, something only clergy of the day wore.
The twenty-six-man posse set out and within two days, were confident of their prospects, especially when they came across one William Storke Jett, a private in the Virginia 9th Cavalry Regiment, when the search party rode into Caroline County and arrived at the Star Hotel late in the evening, after speaking with a few witnesses earlier who claimed they’d seen two men fitting the descriptions of John Wilkes Booth and David Herold just days before.
Detectives Luther Baker and Everton Conger questioned Jett, who revealed during the interview he had found a hiding place for the fugitives – Richard Garrett’s tobacco farm, outside of Port Royal, about a half-hour ride.
“So, this rebel private, Private Jett, is given us Booth’s location, Detectives Baker and Conger?”
“Yes, that’s correct, Major.”
“Lieutenant Doherty, have the private taken into custody immediately! He’ll hang with the rest of the scoundrels!”
“Right away, Major!”
“Sergeant Corbett!”
“Yes, Major?”
“We’re not in friendly territory here. We’re surrounded by Johnny Rebs. Take a few men with you and gather as many Federals as you can find. Have them spread out, create as much of a circle as possible. That way, if Booth slips past us, he’ll have to get through them, too. Once you enlist as many as you can, join back up with us later tonight.”
“Will do, Major!”
By 1:30 am, the posse had not only reached Garrett’s tobacco farm but had numerous Union regulars and militia posted around the acreage. The twenty-six-man posse rode up to the farmhouse and demanded everyone inside come out to the front porch.
“You Richard Garrett, Mister?”
“Yes, I’m Richard Garrett.”
“I’m Detective Everton Conger. My party is here on good information you’re aidin’ and abettin’ the known fugitive and presidential assassin, John Wilkes Booth!”
“What’s a law enforcement officer doin’ leadin’ a military party?”
“I’m a former Lieutenant Colonel with the United States government. Now, tell me, where are the two men who stopped here at your house?”
“Gone to the woods, I suppose!”
“Into the woods, eh?”
“Probably.”
“Sergeant Corbett, bring me a lariat rope here, and I will put that man up to the top of one of those locust trees!”
“No! No! Don’t hurt the old man; he is scared; I will tell you where the men are…in the barn”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Mr. Garrett’s son, Detective.”
“Good enough. Lieutenant Doherty, have the men take these folks into custody…you secessionists are traitors to the United States. My guess is you’ll all be danglin’ from ropes in short order.”
The lieutenant readily obeyed, instructing his soldiers to place the Garrett family under arrest.
“Sergeant Corbett!”
“Yes, Major?”
“Say a prayer for these poor souls because they’ll need all the mercy they can get.”
It was now close to 2 am on Wednesday, April 26th, 1865. The search party, after securing the new conspirators, had surrounded the farm’s tobacco curing house. They could hear Booth and Herold fumbling out, trying to be silent and escape apprehension.
“Booth! Herold! This is Detective Conger! You men have exactly five minutes to come out before we set the building on fire!”
“Give us little time to consider it!”
“Time, he wants time to consider it? Is that what he really said?”
“Who are you again?”
“It doesn’t make any difference who we are. We know who you are, and we want you. We want to take you prisoner!”
“I am a cripple. I have got but one leg,” Booth replied. Then continued, “If you will withdraw your men in line one hundred yards from the door, I will come out and fight you!”
“You’re not in a position to barter, Booth! You and Herold need to come out now – before we strike a match. Sergeant Corbett, if you will, hand me a match safe!”
“If you won’t back off one hundred yards, then give us fifty!”
“You’ll never be granted such quarter! Exit the barn right now, Booth!”
“Well, my brave boys, prepare a stretcher for me!”
Moments later, thick plumes of smoke billowed high into the air, escaping the heavy fog settled on the ground, fueled by a combustible mixture of kerosene, dry-rotted wood, and huge stocks of tobacco leaves, previously hung high above the floor from old frayed hemp rope.
The heat from the blaze soon grew so intense, it evaporated the heavy, rolling mist that previously surrounded and obscured the structure, singeing the grass around it, threatening to spread to nearby hay bales and grow totally out of control and forcing the posse to back away.
The dense smoke within the structure began to choke Booth and Herold, who could be heard coughing and scrambling to find an undetectable escape route to quietly make their way back into the thick cover of woods and the dark of night. But, the two fugitives remained trapped, even though their would-be captures now stood well off for fear of being burned.
Realizing there was no way out, David Herold urged Booth to surrender, “John, we have to give ourselves up or we’ll be incinerated!”
“Better to die for principles than to give it to the mob!”
The search party could hear the two bicker and eventually, Herold burst out of the door, with his hands up, knelt down, and shouted, “I surrender! I surrender!” as Booth shouted in condemnation, “Damned coward! Damned coward!”
Detective Conger quickly approached Herold grabbing the fugitive by his arm, lifting him up, and spinning him around before tying the conspirator’s hands with a rope. “Tell me, what’s Booth armed with?”
“Uhm…a pair of pistols, a big Bowie knife, and a carbine.”
“Major, we’ll need your men at the ready! When the fire forces Booth out to take him into custody. I want him alive!”
The men closed in on the burning barn, pointing their guns at the door, anxiously waiting for the presidential assassin to run out at any moment.
“I can see him! He’s loading a pistol!” Boston yelled as he pulled his sidearm and pointed it toward the blazing curing house.
“Sergeant Corbett! Stand down! Do not shoot! Do not shoot! I want him alive!” the Major declared, waving Thomas off.
Suddenly, a shot rang out and Booth yelped in pain, grasped his neck, and instantly fell to the ground. Immediately after, two men hurriedly ran in, grabbed him by the legs, and dragged him outside to safety.
“Who fired that shot?! Who fired that shot?!” Detective Baker demanded to know.
“I did, Sir…it was me.”
“Sergeant Corbett…did you not hear the implicit order not to shoot?!”
“I did, Detective. Although, I’m not quite sure why. I believe Providence directed me!”
“Major!”
“Yes, Detective Baker?”
“Major, I take it you have ways of dealing with such hasty and irresponsible actions? For instance, fatally shooting a fugitive the Secretary of War, one Honorable Edwin Stanton, wanted to be brought to justice alive?”
“I do, Detective Baker… a court martial.”
“Lieutenant Doherty!”
“Yes, Major?”
“Take Sergeant Corbett into custody. He is to stand court-martial as soon as possible! Have an officer escort him off the farm and back to national headquarters.”
With that, Lieutenant Doherty accompanied Thomas to the War Department in Washington, D.C. to stand before a military tribunal. Just days later, Corbett sat quietly in a jail cell, where he remained for hours before being taken up to Secretary of War Edwin Stanton’s office, where the government official waited, along with Lieutenant Doherty.
“Sergeant Corbett, I’ve been assured that Detective Baker, Detective Conger, and the Major commanding the 16th New York Cavalry Regiment, did in fact, pass on my explicit orders that Booth was to be taken alive – that no one in the search party was to shoot either fugitive.”
“That is, indeed the case, Mr. Secretary Santon. We were given that very order.”
“But, you fatally shot Booth anyway, Sergeant?”
“Yes, I did, Lieutenant Doherty.”
“And, why is that, Sergeant Corbett?!”
“Well, Lieutenant…Booth would have killed me if I had not shot first. I think I did right.”
“So, it’s your contention that Booth was about to shoot you and you’re only recourse at the moment was to proactively shoot him?”
“Unfortunately, yes, Secretary Stanton. I admit, I disobeyed your order. But, I fired for fear of my own life.”
“All right, I accept your explanation, Sergeant Corbett. Lieutenant Doherty!”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary?”
“The rebel is dead. The patriot lives; he has spared the country expense, continued excitement, and trouble. Discharge the patriot!”
“Yes, Sir!”
“Oh, and see the good sergeant gets his share of the reward!”
“Right away, Secretary Stanton!”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Take Sergeant Corbett to Mathew Brady’s portrait studio at this very instant. Have his picture taken, I want this well-documented!”
“As you wish, Mr. Secretary!”
As Thomas and the Lieutenant left the Secretary of War’s office, they ran into a large crowd that had gathered after news of ‘Lincoln’s avenger’ was in town.
The people gathered outside the building swarmed Corbett, asking him for autographs and imploring him to tell his story.
Boston made his way to the nearest stairs, walked up, and addressed the enthusiastic crowd, explaining while pantomiming his actions, “I aimed at his body. I did not want to kill him….I think he stooped to pick up something just as I fired. That may probably account for his receiving the ball in the head. When the assassin lay at my feet, a wounded man, and I saw the bullet had taken effect about an inch back of the ear, and I remembered that Mr. Lincoln was wounded about the same part of the head, I said: ‘What a God we have…God avenged Abraham Lincoln!’”
That same day, Thomas was photographed, then interviewed by several journalists, and received his share of the reward money, $1,653.85. He would widely become known as “Lincoln’s avenger,” and he would capitalize on his new-found notoriety. In August 1865, he was honorably discharged from the army, and briefly returned to the hatter profession.
But, the industry suffered a slump, enough to cause Corbett to relocate to Danbury, Connecticut, leaving the city of Boston for the last time. He resumed his street preaching and due to financial need, and started to leverage his fame for killing Booth by giving paid lectures and appearing in front of Sunday schools, women’s groups, and tent meetings.
However, Corbett’s increasingly erratic, incoherent speeches, and shockingly bizarre behavior – likely due to mad hatter’s disease – cost him dearly. Most organizations would refuse to have him back. Additionally, he was hired and fired multiple times from various jobs.
Under such stressful and dire circumstances, Thomas also became paranoid. He feared “Booth’s avengers” would hunt him down and kill him. His paranoia grew so intense, he brandished his pistol a number of times at strangers and even friends he thought were suspicious.
In 1875, Corbett attended the Soldiers’ Reunion of the Blue and Gray in Caldwell, Ohio, believing his fame as “Lincoln’s avenger” would make him a welcome guest. Instead, he wound up getting into a heated argument when a couple of men taunted Thomas, joking that Booth died of suicide or smoke inhalation. Enraged by the provocation, Boston drew his pistol but was quickly subdued and thrown out.
Unable to function in decent society, Corbett relocated to Concordia, Kansas, acquired a plot of land through the homestead initiative, and constructed a dugout home on the side of a hill. There and around the region, he resumed his impromptu preaching and frequently attended revival meetings.
By January 1887, he had become enough of a fixture to be appointed assistant doorkeeper of the Kansas House of Representatives in Topeka. However, this position didn’t last long. On February 15th, convinced the officers of the chamber were plotting against him, Corbett threatened the men with his gun. He was subsequently arrested and the next day and a judge declared him insane.
He was sent to the Topeka Asylum, where he was to remain for the rest of his life. But, on May 26th, 1888, he managed to escape on horseback and rode off to Neodesha, Kansas, where he sought refuge with an old fellow prisoner of war, Richard Thatcher.
Afraid he would be found, Thomas decided to leave, telling Thatcher he was going to hide in Mexico. However, it’s believed that Corbett instead settled in a remote cabin in the Pine County forest outside Hinckley, Minnesota.
On September 1st, 1894, the Great Hinckley Fire broke out, and although there was no definitive proof of his presence at the time, the name “Thomas Corbett” appeared on the list of dead and missing.
It is still unknown to this very day the exact fate of the man who shot and killed the 16th President’s assassin.
