# John Wilkes Booth journal

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The assassin of Abraham Lincoln, John Wilkes Booth kept a journal during the eleven-day manhunt while he was being pursued. It was a 6" x 3.5" red 1864 appointment book, containing photographs of five women, as well as Booth's last writings. It was not entered as evidence at the trial of conspirators, though it was at the trial of John H. Surratt.
Until today nothing was ever thought of sacrificing to our country's wrongs. For six months we had worked to capture, but our cause being almost lost, something decisive and great must be done. But its failure was owing to others, who did not strike for their country with a heart. I struck boldly, and not as the papers say. I walked with a firm step through a thousand of his friends, was stopped, but pushed on. A colonel was at his side. I shouted Sic semper before I fired. In jumping broke my leg. I passed all his pickets, rode sixty miles that night with the bone of my leg tearing the flesh at every jump.
I can never repent it, though we hated to kill. Our country owed all our troubles to him, and God simply made me the instrument of his punishment.
The country is not what it was. This forced union is not what I have loved. I have not desired to outlive my country. The night before the deed I wrote a long article and left it for one of the editors of the National Intelligencer, in which I fully set forth our reasons for our proceedings. He or the gov'r-
After being hunted like a dog through swamps, woods, and last night being chased by gunboats till I was forced to return wet, cold, and starving with every man's hand against me, I am here in despair. And why? For doing what Brutus was honored for--what made Tell a hero. And yet I for striking down a greater tyrant than they ever knew, am looked upon as a common cut-throat. My action was purer than either of theirs. One hoped to be great. The other had not only his country's, but his own wrongs to avenge. I knew no private wrong. I struck for my country and that alone. A country that groaned beneath this tyranny, and prayed for the end, and yet now behold the cold hand they extend to me.
God cannot pardon me if I have done wrong, yet I cannot see my wrong except in serving a degenerate people. The little, the very little I left behind to clear my name, the Government will not allow to be printed. So ends all. For my country I have given up all that makes life sweet and holy, brought misery upon my family, and am sure there is no pardon for me in Heaven since man so condemns me. [condemns me so?]
I have only heard of what has been done (except what I did myself), and it fills me with horror. God, try and forgive me, and bless my mother. Tonight I will once more try the river with the intent to cross. Though I have a greater desire and almost a mind to return to Washington, and in a measure clear my name - which I feel I can do.
I do not repent of the blow I struck. I may before my God, but not to man. I think I have done well. Thought I am abandoned with the curse of Cain upon me, when if the world knew my heart that one blow would have made me great, though I did desire no greatness.
Tonight I try to escape these bloodhounds once more. Who, who can read his fate? God's will be done. I have too great a soul to die like a criminal. Oh, may He, may He spare me that, and let me die bravely. I bless the entire world. Have never hated or wronged anyone. This last was not a wrong, unless God deems it so, and it's with Him to damn or bless me. As for this brave boy with me, who often prays (yes, before and since) with a true and sincere heart - was it crime in him? If so, why can he pray the same?
I do not wish to shed a drop of blood, but 'I must fight the course.' 'Tis all that's left to me.