Thus he writes:
November 8, 1864.—The election returns are in, at least enough to decide that McClellan is defeated. To save the South, Lincoln must be removed before the 4th of March. He shall never again be inaugurated. Booth wants his life, but I shall oppose anything like murder. It would serve our turn quite as well to capture the despot, and keep him for a while in Libby Prison. I reckon the South would then gain the day.
Surratt’s diary is not as damning as it seems; it was largely authored by its editor Dion Haco, who was not beyond exaggeration in the interests of a good sell. Which is not to say that the “Fifth Columnist” Knights of the Golden Circle did not aid John Wilkes Booth; it is merely to note that the “proof ” is not beyond reasonable doubt. The KGC certainly had the appetite for bumping off Lincoln. When Clement Vallandigham, the Knights’ titular head, ran a failed campaign for the governorship of Ohio, large numbers of despairing Knights departed for the Order of American Knights (OAK)—and
Like numerous other political secret societies, the Knights went under a bewildering number of pseudonyms, all intended to put Fed agents off their trail. They were known as the Knights of the Mighty Host, the Circle of Honor, the Circle (not to be confused with
Dion Haco,
Joseph Holt,
DOCUMENT: INITIATION INTO THE KNIGHTS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE: JOHN H. SURRATT, c. 1860
It might have been an hour, or only twenty minutes, that I had waited alone in that room; but, as I took no account of the time, it seemed almost an age. Every feature of the apartment had been examined, and I could have described every color therein, from the paper on the walls, and the hangings of the windows to the uniforms of the revolutionary heroes, and the background of the portraits. Still no one came, and the solitude became painful.
“Can this have been a deception?” thought I; “and has the trip from Washington to this place been made only to play a trick upon me?”
Patience is a virtue, but still it may at times be overtested; and, certainly, on this occasion, it required a great deal of it to reconcile me to remain (alone so long.) Young and impetuous, I wished to know the secret; but, at the same, I had no desire to be kept there in that manner—especially, as it might after all only prove a trick, a practical joke of my friends playing. This thought first excited me, then vexed, and finally made me mad; and, in an instant, starting to my feet, I rushed to the door by which I had entered the room. Useless—it was fastened.
“There is no help for it,” thought I; “therefore the best thing to do, is to wait and abide the result.”
The longer I had to wait, the more nervous I became; until at last my patience was entirely exhausted, and a nameless dread took its place. The salutations in the dark rushed to my memory; and the thought of facing fire and steel, to find out a secret that might in the end only prove worthless, was not entirely pleasant, even to me who never flinched from any known or open danger.
While in this state of mind I heard a voice, from some invisible form, say: “Arise, and follow, if you would be made acquainted with the secrets of the Knights of the Golden Circle.”
Without delay I sprang to my feet, but my guide was still not to be seen—at least, I had not yet observed him, although certain that the speaker must have been in the room when giving me the order to get up from my seat.
Suddenly the room grew dark, and I became aware of the fact that, by some unaccountable means, the heavy curtains had dropped before the windows, and had thus excluded the light. The next moment my hands were seized on either side, each by a strong and gauntleted grasp, and an unknown and unseen person next placed a bandage over my eyes. Then my clothing was torn from my breast, which was thus barer; and held and blinded, I was led from the room—whither, I knew not, and have not since divined. There seemed to be no end to the long path, if path it was; and the doors that were opened and closed were so numerous that all attempt at counting their numbers was soon given up by me.
At length we stopped before a door—at least, such I judged it to be, from the signal given upon it and returned from the other side—and the following question was asked in a military tone of voice: “Who comes here?”
“One who is true to our cause,” was the reply of one near me.
“How is he known to be true?” was the question next uttered by the first voice.
“By the recommendation of a tried knight,” replied my supposed guide, for the voice was strange to my ears, as indeed were they all.
“He can then be trusted?” were the next words uttered.
“Such is our belief,” was the reply.
“But should he fail, and betray us—what then?”
“He will learn the penalty soon enough.”
“Advance.”
We moved onward a few steps, when the same cold contact with steel, and the same sharp but slight puncture of the breast, was felt, as on a former occasion.
This time I did not flinch, although the sharp pain was as unexpected as before. Again I heard a solemn voice utter, in a slow and measured tone, the ominous words: “Those who would pass here must face both fire and steel.”
“Are you willing to do so?” asked another, addressing me.
Having, after a few moments’ consideration, answered in the affirmative, I was again told to advance, and commanded to kneel, on what seemed to be a cushion, as it yielded slightly to the pressure of my knee.
While in this position, an oath, terrible, horrible and appalling, was administered by the same solemn voice, and, while kneeling, I had to repeat the words after him in a slow and distinct tone, one hand resting on something cold as ice, the other on a book which appeared to be open.
The obligations taken, I was then informed that it would be necessary to remember every word I had uttered—can I ever forget them?—and not to forget the penalty of a disclosure of what I should learn, or a betrayal of the names of any one with whom I should be brought into companionship, no matter when, where, or under what pain, peril or promise. I was also admonished never to allude, either publicly or privately, to what I might then or hereafter learn; always to be ready to assist a brother-knight, even unto death; to abide by and follow all the directions of the order with which I had become connected; to carry out the objects which should be subsequently communicated to me, if found worthy of confidence; to bear witness and even to swear falsely in order to save a brother’s life or liberty, if arrested for anything appertaining to the directions of the order; never to give a verdict against a brother, if on a jury to try him for any offense arising from directions emanating from the order, or any of its officers; and, in every way, to make the business of the new body, to which I had become allied, pre-eminent before religion, political feeling, parental or fraternal duty, or even before love of country. It was to be first and foremost in everything, at daylight or midnight, at home or abroad, before the law of the land or the affection for a wife, mother or child; to be all and everything.
“Are you willing to abide by this obligation?” asked the voice.
What could I do, or say? Refuse, I dare not; for I had felt the sharp point of the sword at my breast, and the words of that horrible oath still rang in my ears and vibrated through my aching brain. I was powerless to refuse,
