John Wilkes Booth was born in 1839 and, at the time of the assassination of Lincoln in 1865, he was 26 years old. He was a more or less indifferent Shakespearean actor whose second biggest mistake was in depending upon acting to earn a living. He left no particularly enduring mark on the theatrical profession. He shot President Abraham Lincoln in the Presidential box in Ford's Theater in Washington, D.C., on the evening of April 14, 1865, while the President and his wife were watching a play. Booth, upon the successful completion of his mission, leaped from the Presidential box onto the stage, catching a spur in some bunting which was decorating the boxes. He broke his leg upon landing on the stage and, scrambling to his feet, shouted "Sic semper tyrannis!1 ---The South is avenged!" Except for "The South is avenged," the foregoing represents essentially all that is agreed upon by historians. The remainder is in dispute.

It will be recalled that Booth was wearing spurs and there is nothing remarkable about that when it is remembered that he had a horse waiting for him as his means of escape. As can be imagined, Booth was greatly excited; he was perspiring and hyperventilating and his fractured leg was smarting. As he exited the theater, he leaped on his horse, or almost: several witnesses testified that he missed the horse on the first try, fell to the ground on the other side of the animal, got to his feet slowly and, muttering expletives, made his way around to the mounting side (left) and tried again, barely succeeding. The crowd of onlookers did not escape his attention. Ever the actor, Booth rose slightly in his saddle, waved his hat to the bemused crowd, dug his spurs into his mount, and shouting as his horse leaped into motion: "To arms! To arms! The British are coming! The British are coming!" Is it any wonder that Booth couldn't make a living as an actor?

As he headed south into Virginia, Booth's broken limb began to trouble him greatly and his mount seemed disinterested in making any great speed. Booth urged the animal to greater efforts, but the horse had a will of its own. Booth, invoking curses upon the animal and its ancestors and, vowing never again to use Hertz Rent-A-Horse, turned his full attention to securing help for his leg.

After riding through Alexandria at a pace of the horse's choosing, Booth spotted the office of Dr. Samuel Mudd, M.D., and immediately dismounted and entered the office. Apologizing for disturbing the good doctor after office hours and without an appointment, Booth made his plight known, but did not reveal either his identity or the manner in which the fracture was incurred. When the leg had been set, Booth pressed a Confederate twenty dollar bill into Mudd's hand,2 thanked the doctor, hurriedly left the office, and attempted to mount his horse. It wasn't that simple, as the horse, eager to resume its stroll, began to move down the road before Booth was in the saddle. Referring again to the horse's ancestry, Booth managed to catch the animal and the two of them headed southward.

While the Government languished in shock and confusion resulting from the assassination, Booth made his way along what is now US Route 1. In those days, the traffic was much lighter than it is today, but the average speed of advance has not materially changed. Booth knew that it wouldn't be long before the search for him was launched and he made the best speed he could, burdened as he was with a leg in a plaster cast and a mount not dedicated to any great speed.

His progress was steady but slow, and as the days passed, he became aware that the pursuit was on; it also occurred to him that he was leaving a trail of Confederate money in the restaurants and motels where he lodged during the journey and that, at that point in time, Confederate money was not the preferred medium of exchange. He realized that the recipients were not likely to forget his face and he concluded that it would best serve his interests if he changed his appearance somewhat. At the next opportunity, therefore, Booth stopped at a pharmacy, picked up some hair dye, and, at the first chance, shaved off his moustache, dyed his hair red, and, using materials from his makeup kit, gave himself freckles.

Booth correctly surmised that his trail was growing hot and that pursuers were rapidly closing the gap. By the morning of April 25, having arrived in the little town of Bowling Green, Virginia, after nearly two weeks on the road, Booth knew that his chances for escape were extremely remote and he sought some place of refuge where he could put up a defense. He dismounted, stuffed some Confederate bills in the saddle bag to pay his horse rental bill, and approached two men walking down the sidewalk. He pressed upon them a wad of bills which he didn't bother to count, persuaded one of them to return the horse to Hertz and the other to take him to some place where he could hide for several days. He was taken to a tobacco barn on the outskirts of town where he concealed himself. Union troops arrived the following morning and had no difficulty in locating the barn in which their quarry was hidden.

There is little agreement as to what then transpired. It is generally conceded that the Union troops surrounded the barn; they set the barn afire; there was one man inside the barn; that man was shot to death by the Union troops. Because there is a significant body of opinion which holds that the dead man was not Booth and that Booth escaped and because the opposite view is held by the vast majority of officials, witnesses and historians, this work will take no definitive position in the matter. Nevertheless, since Booth was either killed or he was not killed, logic requires that we assume that that which most likely occurred did, in fact, occur. In order to proceed with this explication and in light of the fact that the barn was surrounded by Union forces, it seems most unlikely that he could have escaped and we will, therefore, proceed on the assumption that Booth died in the fiery barn.

Ulysses S. Grant, former commander of all of the armies of the United States in the Civil War, was elected 18th President of the United States and, as such, was constitutionally the "Commander-in-Chief" of the armed forces. More than once he had occasion to regret the "promotion." He entered the Presidency in March 1869, as a mere child; he was 46.

He was confronted with his first crisis when a petty matter was submitted to him by William Belknap, Secretary of War. The Secretary had quietly and without official authorization, negotiated an agreement with the Caribbean nation of Santo Domingo (now the Dominican Republic) under the terms of which the United States would have a naval base in Santo Domingo for an undisclosed amount of money.

The trouble with the agreement, aside from its illegality, was that the base could only be constructed on land which then sheltered a cathedral which contained the remains of Christopher Columbus. The situation was fraught with emotion and called for resolution through quiet, sensitive diplomacy, a quality which the United States negotiators appear to have sadly lacked. As time passed, the negotiations began to grow ugly and, ultimately, were broken off with the United States delegation hurling imprecations at its Dominican counterparts. This fury did not subside with time and a united delegation presented to the Secretary a proposal that the United States annex Santo Domingo, Columbus included.

The Secretary refused to have any part in this scheme until an undisclosed sum of money from the coffers of the construction people who would build the base, led him to alter his views. These same entrepreneurs persuaded the Santo Domingo government, using the same "arguments" which they had successfully used with the Secretary of War, to sign the treaty, reserving, however, the right to move Columbus' remains.

After disorderly hearings, the Senate rejected the treaty. The matter was far from concluded, however. The House of Representatives impeached Secretary Belknap for accepting the bribes, but he was able to elude trial and conviction because the naïve and well-intentioned President accepted Belknap's resignation, thus incurring the wrath of Congress. This was only one of many scandals which beset the Grant administration. Grant --- the Commander-in-Chief --- could not control his subordinates as he had done on the fields of battle and he, therefore, decided to use the same tactics of command as made him such a brilliant and successful military leader: he took to the bottle.

In 1876, Grant gave up the Presidency and he became financially involved in an investment firm of which his son was a partner, using his name and prestige to encourage others to invest. The firm collapsed because of a swindle perpetrated by one of the partners and Grant's reputation was severely damaged. He never recovered financially. His time, from that point on, was spent in writing his memoirs which he completed shortly before his death.

In June 1885, Grant and his family moved to Mount McGregor, New York. In July 1885, Grant died and was buried temporarily in Riverside Park, New York City. While an elaborate tomb was being built as a permanent repository for Grant's remains, the casket was taken on tours for the public to view, including one to Washington, D.C. The casket was then to be shipped from Washington through Baltimore to New York in 1896 to await burial in the new tomb which was completed and dedicated in 1897.

Christopher Columbus sailed from Palos, Spain, with three ships in August 1492. As everyone knows, two months later, his little fleet made a landfall and Columbus, with the captains of the "Pinta" and the "Niña" and several Spanish officials who had gone along on the journey, landed at Guanahaní, one of the Bahama Islands, and renamed it San Salvador.

Columbus' troubles started almost immediately when the "Pinta" disappeared in a severe storm with Captain Pinzón aboard. A suspicious Columbus concluded that Pinzón had either taken off early to beat him to Cuba where the fabled source of gold could be found or, worse, he had sailed for Spain to take for himself the glory of the discovery. Columbus ended up in Haiti in his search for Pinzón where the "Santa Maria" went aground and was lost. He sailed for Spain in the "Niña", but was shortly joined by Pinzón in "Pinta." Columbus and Pinzón had a rousing argument, eventually reconciling their differences, but they remained estranged. This incident was illustrative of the mercurial nature of Columbus which would eventually lead to his disgrace. Upon his arrival in Spain, Columbus was showered with wealth and honors, but his greed was never satisfied.

He embarked on his second voyage to the New World in September 1493 and landed on an island in the Bahamas in November and promptly made himself hated by his tyrannical behavior. Word of Columbus' conduct reached the Spanish monarchs and when Columbus arrived in Spain in June 1496, his reception was far more modest than after the first voyage. On the second voyage, Columbus had managed to make enemies of many who had the ears3 of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella.

The Admiral embarked on a third voyage in May 1498 and, upon landing, found that the Spaniards which he had left in Española were in rebellion. Columbus acted ruthlessly in suppressing the uprising, including arbitrary hangings. The King and Queen, having learned of Columbus' actions, concluded that Columbus was a good seaman but a poor manager and designated Francisco de Bobadilla as Governor and chief magistrate of Española, placing him above Columbus. Columbus, of course, would have none of that nonsense and a very determined Bobadilla had the Admiral clapped in chains and returned him to Spain in that condition.

Columbus somehow worked his way out of the jam he had gotten himself into and won the monarchs' consent to make a fourth voyage on condition that he would not put in at Española. Predictably, as soon as he arrived in the New World, Columbus, in defiance of the express command of Ferdinand and Isabella, landed at Española and promptly caused mutinies. He conducted himself exactly as he had in the past. He finally set sail for Spain in 1504 and was received without honor. He took sick with what was probably arthritis and, on May 20, 1506, he died in Valladolid, Spain, and was buried there, or so it is claimed.

In 1513, Columbus' remains were allegedly transferred to the Monastery of Santa Maria de las Cuevas in Seville, but, even in death, Columbus was ever the traveler; his body was exhumed in 1542, along with that of his son Diego, and taken to Hispaniola (now the Dominican Republic) where it was interred in the Cathedral of Santo Domingo.

One would think that, at this point, enough would have been enough and that the restless Christopher Columbus would remain where he was buried or, at least, in one of those places. That, however, was not to be. In 1948, the remains were disinterred and reinterred in the Columbus Memorial Lighthouse at the mouth of the Ozama River in the Dominican Republic. The Spaniards steadfastly maintain that the remains of Christopher Columbus are resting in Seville; the Dominicans claim that Columbus lies in the Cathedral of Santo Domingo and while others insist that he is resting in the Lighthouse Memorial on the Ozama River site, still others proclaim that all of the foregoing are correct: he is buried in all three places! Legend has it, however, that the Admiral made one more trip to the New World and that contention will be examined subsequently herein.

Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston in 1809. He was orphaned very early in life and his upbringing was taken over by Mrs. John Allan, who was touched by the plight of the orphaned boy and his sister. His father was David Poe, who had already disappeared when, in 1811, his wife died. Poe took the name of his foster parents, Allan. His early life was spent in Richmond where his foster father's family lived, and in Baltimore, where his biological father's family lived. Poe's three or four years in Baltimore were characterized by failure and poverty although he continued to turn out poems which were not well received by the press or the public. Not surprisingly, Poe took to drinking and, while it is said that his drunken binges were infrequent, it seems that they occurred most often when he was in public.

In 1835, Poe moved to Richmond and, after quarrels with his publisher, he lost his job in 1837. He had married his cousin in 1836. His movements during 1836 are obscure, but it is known that he spent some time in New York and, in 1838, moved to Philadelphia where he spent about six years. These years were marked with despair and the usual

financial straits, but it was in this period that Poe produced much of the work which was to make him famous.

In 1844, Poe and his very sick wife moved to New York again and he got a short-lived position on a literary weekly magazine which soon folded. It was during this period, however, that Poe wrote "The Raven" and other poems which are so celebrated today. "The Raven" was published widely and was well received by the public. Having achieved this degree of success, Poe went on to have published some of his older works which had been rejected in the past.

Poe spent his mature lifetime practically commuting between Baltimore, Richmond, Philadelphia and New York. His life was marred by the effects of alcoholism and his professional life as a literary critic was characterized by literary feuds and bitter exchanges with well-known and successful writers. The Baltimore years (1831-1835) were years of great effort and comparative sobriety, but they were, nevertheless, years spent in squalor and poverty.

In 1847, Poe's young wife died and he himself became desperately ill---it is said that he suffered from a brain lesion---and resumed drinking heavily. The year 1848 was one which saw Poe involved in numerous flirtations and, it was rumored, affairs. It was during this period that Poe produced the poem "Annabel Lee." In 1849, while he was still living in New York, he took a train southward to Richmond where he spent a few relatively happy months among his childhood friends and relatives. He had edited the poems of a woman in Philadelphia in 1849 and was heading for Philadelphia to collect his money. En route, he stopped in Baltimore, broke his promise to remain sober, and was found unconscious outside a polling station on election day. He died four days later, some say from a brain lesion and others contend that he had a weak heart which was responsible for his death.

Poe, it is stated, was buried in the churchyard of the Westminster Presbyterian Church in Baltimore. Not so, maintain some, for there are no recognized contemporary accounts of a burial. Some of the more avid supporters of the "Poe Still Lives" cult say that Poe never was in the casket which was buried in the churchyard, but they cannot say who is in the coffin nor when the substitution took place, if it did. The few facts which have recently come to light prove them to be correct, but for the wrong reasons. The true account, as developed subsequently herein, is related to Poe's propensity for travel between Richmond, Baltimore, Philadelphia and New York.

Faithful followers of the foregoing accounts will perceive a nexus between the four people whose lives, and particularly whose travels, have been succinctly depicted in this work. All were national figures, all traveled extensively both before and after death, and the potential existed for being mistaken for someone else either before or after interment.

Grant's coffin, it will be recalled, was removed temporarily from the grave site in Riverside Park while awaiting the completion of his new tomb. In that space of time, the casket was taken on a tour ending in Washington, D.C. in 1896. The plans called for transporting the casket by railroad north from Washington to New York through Baltimore and Philadelphia.

By odd coincidence, Poe's coffin, supposedly buried in Baltimore, was due to be exhumed and shipped to New York from Baltimore via the Pennsylvania Railroad. It was thought best to accomplish the removal quietly and without letting the public know. When it was learned that Grant's body was to be shipped to New York at approximately the same time, the secrecy decision was reinforced and it was decided to place both coffins in the same car and to attach the car to the first train which was leaving Baltimore after midnight. Not only would such a plan simplify security, but it would save on all costs as well as minimizing the opportunities for the operation to be discovered. Not even railroad employees would by told the nature of their cargo, except on a "need-to-know" basis.

The people responsible for the operation were not notified that the train bearing what was thought to be Columbus' remains would be leaving New York, where it had arrived from the Dominican Republic, to be exhibited for ten days in the Smithsonian Institution in Washington. The location of his body was, as mentioned previously, quite uncertain. Because the remains had traveled so extensively without any public reaction or disturbance, no special security arrangements had been made. Consequently, the plans to send Columbus' remains south to Washington via Philadelphia and Baltimore went apace and were finalized shortly before the scheduled departure date.

Incredibly, plans were being made simultaneously to ship the body thought to be that of John Wilkes Booth from New York to its permanent resting place in Baltimore. These plans, shrouded in secrecy, of course, were largely the work of the Booth family whose deceased members were scattered all over the cemetery. The family was not unanimous in its decision to allow the body to be buried in the family plot; some of them wanted to have the body interred in an unmarked grave and all insisted that the reinterment be accomplished with the greatest secrecy. They agreed, furthermore, that the entire event should take place at night with no unusual security arrangements which might arouse curiosity.

Working closely with the railroad people, members of the Booth family learned, to their delight, that the Columbus car was scheduled to depart after dark and could accommodate Booth's casket. They realized that if the two caskets were shipped together, suspicion that something special was occurring would be diverted. The curious could be told that the bodies were those of Columbus and his son Diego.

The train carrying Columbus and Booth left Pennsylvania Station in New York well after midnight and made its way through the black countryside on its journey southward. The northbound train was scheduled to leave the Baltimore area before sunrise the following morning, shortly before the southbound train was to arrive just north of Baltimore. Actually, if all went according to plan, the two trains would pass at a point north of the city and the event might well be regarded as historic, in a manner of speaking. The irony of the former Commander of the Armies of the United States in the Civil War and former President of the United States passing the assassin who took the life of the President of the United States during the Civil War should not be lost.

The guards must have found the trip boring, for nothing untoward happened on either train. This might account, at least in part, for the laxity and inattention of the security detail on each train. All associated with the project probably sighed with relief as the southbound train began to slow as it approached Baltimore and its northbound counterpart, while still proceeding slowly, began to pick up speed.

In the distance, the engineer of the Baltimore-bound train saw the headlight of an approaching train and prepared to salute it with a blast or two of its whistle. As he began to slow and the number of tracks began to increase before the train actually entered the yard, the column of steam from the other train increased, but, strangely, the on-coming headlight did not move to either side. It remained dead ahead and the crewmen suddenly realized that the two trains were on the same track and one of them was increasing its speed. The engineer applied the brakes with a loud screech and simultaneously the fireman yanked the whistle cord. The shrieking whistle must have alerted everyone for miles around that a railroad man's worst nightmare was about to be realized. As the forms which were the locomotives grew rapidly, a second set of brakes added its horrible message.

Fortunately, both trains rapidly decelerated, but it was too late to avoid a collision. Because the southbound train was at the end of its run, the coal tender was nearly empty, leaving space for the crew to seek refuge; on the other hand, the northbound train was just beginning its run and the coal tender was full. In the meantime, the rest of the crew and the security people, well aware of what was about to transpire, huddled in the corners of their stations and braced for the impact.

The collision was announced by an ear-splitting impact of steel-on-steel and iron-on-iron accompanied by the loud hiss of ruptured boilers and the screaming of a stuck whistle. Among the injured, only the engineer and fireman of the northbound train were seriously hurt. In both trains, the casket cars were so badly jarred that all of the caskets were wrenched loose; identifying tags were lying loose on the floor and two of the caskets were forced open. Understandably, the crew and security details fled the train and only returned when fire and medical vehicles arrived.

It is not necessary to recite the details of the scene; it is sufficient to state that the scene looked like about what could be expected under the circumstances. When the initial shock wore off and the casualties had been removed, the security details went immediately about the business of straightening out the coffin mess. Since the doors of both cars had been sprung and the four caskets were intermingled with one another on the road bed, identification was a matter of guesswork. The coffins were sorted out according to the memories of the crewmen. Eventually, cranes and replacement cars arrived to clear the entangled iron and steel, By late afternoon, two empty freight cars had been supplied for the caskets. The caskets were tagged for identification by the crew and were hauled into the railroad yard to await the arrival of replacement locomotives and the resumption of their respective trips.

The caskets were loaded quickly before rumors could get started. Within three days after the accident, the caskets were under way to their respective destinations. In the light of the possible irremediable confusion which could easily have been generated as the result of the collision, it became imperative to transport, unload, and reinter the remains of each of the principals with haste in privacy and in darkness. This created more opportunities for error, but there were no feasible alternatives.

Nevertheless, the latest technologies (as of 1896) were applied in the effort to make identification certain. The frenetic identification efforts revealed that, based on those facts upon which the scientists were able to agree, each body was placed in its proper casket. Naturally. The advances in science and technology in the past five or six decades, however, have allowed more accurate conclusions to be drawn. Below is a chronicle of what we now believe to be true, despite the protestations of the contemporary authorities and their successors.

The recent proceedings indicate that Grant, whose train was heading north from Washington and Baltimore to New York, was replaced in Booth's casket which now reposes somewhere in the huge Greenmount Cemetery in Baltimore. The Grant family, of course, insisted in vain that the body buried in Booth's casket was that of Booth and none other. The authorities maintained stubbornly that "Booth was in Booth's grave and Grant was in Grant's tomb." The absurdity of that argument was manifest. Nevertheless, they wanted no part of the burial of a Northern hero in the coffin of a Southern villain. Simultaneously, the Poe-Booth controversy was raging in Baltimore and it began to look as if Booth's body, not unlike that of Columbus, was destined to travel from coffin to coffin, ad infinitum.

The recent data strongly suggest that Poe, whose train was also headed north from Baltimore to New York, was laid in Columbus' coffin and was, within three weeks, well on the way to some undisclosed final destination in the Dominican Republic. The Dominican officials refused to become involved in the the controversy, quietly disclosing to their Government their fear that the Americans would change their opinions and claim that the body in Columbus' coffin was that of Poe and not Columbus. The Americans, according to the conventional wisdom, would thereupon claim that Columbus' body was interred in yet a fourth place. Poe, unfortunately, had no family or coterie of devotees to protect his interests, such as they were. He was forever committed to the whims of the Dominicans.

Current intelligence posits that Booth, whose coffin was on the train which was heading south from New York to Baltimore, was put into Poe's grave partly because the Booth family was convinced that the body which was reburied in the Westminster Presbyterian Churchyard was, in fact, that of Poe, not Booth, but, in any case, whether it was Booth's or Poe's or somebody else's, it clearly belonged in a grave somewhere in Baltimore. If that was true, then the remaining body could only be that of Booth. But somebody's remains, generally believed to be those of Grant, were already buried in Booth's grave. Accordingly, in order to avert further disputation and a reshuffling of the bodies again, with the attendant danger of more strange bodies turning up, the Booths and the authorities agreed to accept the status quo.

According to the latest scientific findings, however, the body of Columbus, which was supposed to be aboard the southbound train out of New York bound for Washington through Baltimore, never was placed on the train, but remained, instead, in New York. Although some wags suggested that the body was actually shipped to---where else?---Columbus, Ohio, the authorities took a far more serious view of the matter. Their response to this situation was compelled by the realization that the second casket aboard the southbound train must have contained the remains of a complete stranger! If so, it would be necessary to account for five bodies and this the authorities were strongly disinclined to attempt.

Furthermore, if that were the case, why weren't there five caskets on the two trains? Perhaps there were! The situation was simply intolerable. Accordingly, they did what they had to do and with stealth and great speed, they laid "Columbus" to rest in Grant's tomb and allowed somebody to travel aimlessly throughout the Western world. There is a fifth body out there somewhere, people!

Notwithstanding the efforts of the authorities to persuade the public that all was as it should be, doubts persisted and, in fact, became stronger. So unconvinced was the general public, that Columbus' occupation of Grant's tomb was constantly the butt of jokes and the subject of debate. Indeed, the question became so all-pervasive that every TV game show host, sooner or later, would put to one or more of the contestants the question:

"WHO'S BURIED IN GRANT'S TOMB?"

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