Everyone in the Seward household will survive. Atzerodt, Powell, and Herold will not. They will hang, along with Mary Surratt, at whose boardinghouse the plotting is suspected of taking place.

—

As to June and Sleeper:

The government has letters from June to John about the oil business, which in June’s case means the oil business, but amongst co-conspirators has meant the plot. The government has nothing on Sleeper beyond Asia’s concealment of John’s comings and goings, but this seems to be enough to hold him. June is philosophical. Sleeper is furious. Why is he locked up when Edwin is not?

Asia is kept out of prison by her pregnancy. She remains under house arrest, an agent placed inside to watch her every move. This agent wants to add his wife to the household. He’s disturbed that Asia isn’t crying. He thinks she needs a woman’s sympathy. Asia needs nothing of the kind.

She needs her mother. She’s learned that she’s carrying twins and either from that or the tragedy her life has become, the pregnancy is at risk. The nurse who’s been tending her refuses now to do so because she’s a Booth. Her doctor sends word that he’s too frightened to come. Only Becky, the nursemaid, has been willing to stay. Asia is all but alone except for the children and the federal agents.

Probably nothing else could have gotten Mother out of bed. On hearing of Asia’s distress, she rises silently, packs her bag, and asks Edwin to take her to the train. She’s on her way to Philadelphia when she learns that John is dead. Sitting, looking out the window, pretending she sees the fields and copses, the towns and churches, the whole brutal charade passing, while the other passengers whistle and cheer.

iv

There are so many times John Wilkes Booth could have died. He could have drowned while at St. Timothy’s Hall; he could have frozen while fetching a cow. Matthew Canning’s bullet could have severed his femoral artery. Secessionists could have murdered him in Montgomery, Alabama. He could have been killed in the New York draft riots. He could have died of St. Anthony’s fire.

Instead it happens thirteen days too late and in this way: He’s fled with David Herold who, having abandoned Powell at the Sewards’, reconnoitered with John. They’re tracked to a barn near Bowling Green, Virginia, before dawn on April 26th. Herold surrenders, but John won’t come out. He seems to think he should be given a sporting chance. “Be fair and give me a show. Draw your men off fifty yards,” he shouts, a courtesy he didn’t extend to Lincoln. Nor is it given to him.