Hanging Mary: A Novel

by Susan Higginbotham

  “You’re going to Baltimore tomorrow? So am I,” said Mr. Surratt. “We can travel together, if you wish. Share a hotel. It will be just like Ma’s house, without Ma’s cooking.”

  Poor Mr. Weichmann did not crack a smile. “That would be fine. Why are you going?”

  “Oh, business,” Mr. Surratt said airily. “We can talk more on the train. But it would be a shame to leave before the pantomime. Mr. Booth has said that we may visit him backstage, and would you want to break Anna’s heart, or Miss Fitzpatrick’s, by losing this opportunity?”

  Anna and I lost no time in protesting that our hearts could not be trifled with in this fashion. Mr. Weichmann sighed and agreed to stay.

  This being settled, I turned my attention to the young lady who had been watching Mr. Booth. She had light brown hair that fell in ringlets and was a little older than Anna, I guessed, with a face that was a bit chubby, rather like that of Mrs. Lincoln, whose photograph I had bought at Brady’s gallery for my album. Her gown, as much as I could see of it, was of the highest quality, and she wore a many-stranded coral necklace of the sort I had coveted. With her in the box were a stuffy-looking older couple, the gentleman carrying a handkerchief that branded him as the one who had coughed, and another young lady. All were plainly well-to-do. A lawyer’s or a doctor’s family, I guessed, or perhaps a congressman’s.

  The play ended in the usual manner, sending Anna and I into floods of tears. We needed the pantomime afterward to compose ourselves so we would look sufficiently presentable to go backstage. None of us had ever been in the working part of a theater before, and we were standing in our box uncertainly, wondering how we might get there, when a man appeared and said, “Mr. Booth’s people? Follow me.”

  Mr. Booth had changed into his street attire by the time we arrived in his dressing room. When Anna and I in our hoops went inside, it proved too small to accommodate Mr. Surratt and Mr. Weichmann, who stood in the doorway.

  “Your acting was marvelous, Mr. Booth,” Anna said. “It was truly heartfelt.”

  “I am glad to hear that, Miss Surratt, as it has been some time since I have acted the role.” He smiled wistfully. “But it probably helped that my own Juliet was in the audience tonight.”

  “The young lady you were acting at?”

  Mr. Booth quirked an eyebrow. “So you spotted that, Miss Fitzpatrick. Well done! You should have been a theater critic, for you miss nothing. Yes, that is my Juliet. I hope she was as observant as you, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

  “I never saw her take her eyes off you, sir. Of course, I was attending to the play most of the time, not to her. Were those her parents and sister? Do they approve?”

  “Yes, they were, and I heartily doubt that they approve. She is Miss Lucy Hale—the daughter of Senator Hale from New Hampshire. Needless to say, an actor is not their first choice of a husband for her.”

  I clucked my tongue sympathetically. Flattering as it was to have Mr. Booth’s undivided attention, I wished someone else would contribute to the conversation. Mr. Weichmann had been sunk in gloom ever since Anna rebuffed his attempt at hand-holding, and I did not dare turn to see the expression on Anna’s face after Mr. Booth had revealed this romance. Mr. Surratt was lost in admiration of some dancers who strolled by showing a generous amount of ankle, arm, and bosom. “I am sure all will come right in the end,” I said lamely. “After all, this is Washington City, not Verona.”

  Mr. Booth chuckled. “Well said, Miss Fitzpatrick. Now, shall I give you a tour of the theater? It shall be an abbreviated one, as everyone will be wanting to lock up and go home, but there are a few things I can show you.”

  For a good half hour, Mr. Booth led us around, showing us all of the wonders that went into creating the magic of the theater. He had a friendly word for everybody he passed, from his leading lady to the scruffiest of stagehands, and I had the distinct impression they would have kept the place open another hour if he had asked them to do so. When he led us to the exit, he said, “Mr. Surratt, Mr. Weichmann, why don’t we have a drink together after you take the ladies home? I confess I am restless tonight and not ready for my bed.”

  I expected Mr. Weichmann to demur, owing to his trip to Baltimore, but he said firmly, “I would be happy to,” even before Mr. Surratt could accept on his own behalf.

  • • •

  “Why didn’t you tell me about that woman?” Anna demanded as we braided our hair that evening in our front attic room. It was practically the only thing she had said to me since we had seen Mr. Booth in his dressing room.

  I had no need to ask what woman. Instead, I said mildly, “I didn’t know anything about her until Mr. Booth mentioned her.”

  “You said he was acting at her and that she was staring at him.”

  “Well, all women stare at him. And I thought it might just be some sort of acting trick, his gazing at one person in the audience like that.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Pleasant. Pretty, I suppose, but nothing really out of the ordinary. A little plump. She was very well dressed, though. Of course, she would be so, being a senator’s daughter.”

  “Is she prettier than I am?”

  “No. I think you’re far prettier,” I said truthfully. “But sometimes it’s not the only thing men care about.”

  Like many very pretty girls I had encountered over the years, Anna looked completely taken aback by this idea. Then she nodded. “Money,” she said glumly. “Of course. Money and social position. That’s what I don’t have that she has.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “My father was a drunkard—oh, even I know that now—and my mother keeps a boardinghouse. Why should I have ever thought that someone like Mr. Booth could have ever wanted me?”

  I wrapped my arm around Anna. “He’s known her longer. I’m sure that’s it. Maybe it might have been different if he had met you first. And he does like you, Anna. He invited you backstage and gave you tickets. I’m sure he doesn’t do those things for everyone.”

  “He does those things because of whatever business Johnny is handling for him. He pays me no more attention than he does you, and you know it. We’ll both die as old maids.”

  Although I could have taken offense at this, now was not the time. “Anyway, you heard him; her parents don’t approve of her seeing an actor. Maybe he’ll give up on her.” Although privately, I doubted I would like Mr. Booth nearly as well if he dropped Miss Hale simply because of that.

  “Maybe she’ll die of consumption.”

  “She didn’t look at all consumptive.”

  Anna flipped her braid behind her neck angrily. “Let’s go to bed.”

  I was sleeping quite soundly when I heard a commotion in the street, followed by a banging at the front door. I opened the dormer window and looked about. Standing on the porch, barely visible in the moonlight, were two shapes, one of which, upon hearing the window open, yelled, “Mother! Anna! Miss Fitzpatrick! Miss Dean!”

  “Miss Anyone!”

  I made my way downstairs. By the time I reached the parlor hall, Mr. Surratt and Mr. Weichmann had opened the door and were weaving their way inside, Mr. Surratt holding a key aloft in triumph. “Found it!”

  “He found the key,” Mr. Weichmann said, “the material key, the object itself. But he did not find the key to our existence.” Mr. Weichmann jabbed a finger in the air and nearly lost his balance, staggering into Mr. Surratt, who did not absorb the impact well.

  I glared at the men and tried to guess who was more intoxicated. My money would have been on Mr. Weichmann, although Mr. Surratt could certainly have made it a fair contest. “You’re drunk,” I pointed out.

  “Miss Fitzpatrick speaks with the voice of Delphi,” said Mr. Weichmann.

  “A veritable oracle,” Mr. Surratt agreed. “Oh, good evening, Ma.”

  Mrs. Surratt had come out of her bedroom
and was regarding the men with a steely eye. “What is this about?”

  “Renunciation,” said Mr. Weichmann, flopping down on a chair and displacing Mr. Rochester, who mewed in protest and stalked away. “I have renounced the fair Miss Surratt, Mr. Booth has renounced the fair Miss Hale, and Mr. Surratt has renounced—what did you renounce, John?”

  “Renunciation. I renounced renunciation.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Surratt said. “Go upstairs, you two, and go to bed.”

  “But we must have a song first. Miss Fitzpatrick, play us a song.”

  “I will not.”

  “Then we’ll sing anyway. One, two, three! ‘I wish I was in the land of cotton’—sing, Weichmann.”

  “‘Old times there are not forgotten—’”

  “‘Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land!’”

  “Upstairs!” said Mrs. Surratt. “Now!” She picked up the poker. “Or I shall take this to you. Go!”

  The men obeyed, their slow progress up the stairs marked by the thump of their boots and by a version of “Dixie” my maiden ears had not heard before, and which I hoped never to hear again. At last their bedroom door banged open, then shut. I squeezed Mrs. Surratt’s hand. “They went out with Mr. Booth, ma’am.”

  “So I gathered.” Mrs. Surratt yawned. “Go to bed, Nora. Thank you for letting the young fools in.”

  She kissed my cheek, and I made my way to bed, puzzled. Knowing what I did about her husband, I had thought Mrs. Surratt would have been quite upset about this little spree, but she seemed to be taking it in stride. Perhaps she’d have been more perturbed if their drinking companion had been other than Mr. Booth.

  Anna yawned as I crawled back into bed. “What was all that racket?”

  “Just a musical interlude,” I told her. “Go back to sleep.”

  • • •

  The next morning, Mr. Weichmann and Mr. Surratt left the house for the railway station—or, I should say, slunk out of the house, looking as if the small carpetbag each held bore the weight of the world inside it. To spite them, Mrs. Surratt had made their favorite breakfast, which neither of them could touch. Having eaten heartily myself, I packed a basket full of the leftover biscuits and went to the hospital to visit my soldiers.

  I would occasionally play a game of cards with a patient, but usually I read to them or wrote letters home for them. Many of the men had been here for weeks, even months, and I had settled into sort of a routine. Captain Patterson worried a great deal about his farm and would dictate letters about its proper handling that went on for pages, though I personally thought he probably underestimated Mrs. Patterson’s ability. Private Murphy liked to assure his mother he was being well fed, and he also never failed to add a postscript for her to give his dog a pat for him (“and a bone,” I sometimes added). Private Morgan was terrified his sweetheart might take up with someone else and could not be persuaded by me, nor by Private Murphy (who occupied the bed next to his and regarded himself as an expert on affairs of the heart), that instead of dissuading the young lady by issuing her admonitions to this effect, he might be putting ideas into her head. Private Cohen preferred the Evening Star; Lieutenant Green preferred the Daily National Intelligencer. Private Biddle wanted only the Bible to be read to him; Private Armstrong preferred the penny dreadfuls, which Private Biddle said a lady should not be reading. There was a Dickens contingent and a Trollope contingent, and alas, not a Brontë contingent at all. But I tried my best to please them all, because I had learned early on that some of them would never leave this place alive.

  I had a favorite patient, however: Private Flanagan. It had taken me two visits to begin to understand him, so thick was his New York accent, though he claimed he talked perfectly normally and it was I, with my Washington drawl, who was incomprehensible. He liked me to read only amusing things to him, which he said were made even more amusing by my accent.

  Private Flanagan had lost his right arm—or, as he pointed out, he hadn’t lost it, since he knew perfectly well where he had last had it. It was, he said, at least a good excuse for not having to write long letters.

  Because he was my favorite, I usually saved Private Flanagan for last. On this day, when I settled at his bedside, he grumbled, “I thought you’d never stop jawing with those others.”

  “I’m sorry. They need company too.”

  Private Flanagan harrumphed.

  “Well, shall I read to you?”

  “Nothing else to do to pass the time.”

  This was completely unlike Private Flanagan, but as it was not at all unusual for the men to have their snappish days when they were in pain, I shrugged it off and began to read from The Pickwick Papers. I had barely gotten through the Christmas at Dingley Dell when Private Flanagan said, “That’s enough. I’m tired. You can go.”

  “Very well,” I said. I rose. “Would you like me to leave my book with you? You can read it when you are feeling more yourself.”

  “No.”

  “It is light enough that you could hold it—er, one-handed.”

  “I don’t want the damn book, Miss Fitzgerald! Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.” I turned to go. “And it is Miss Fitzpatrick, sir. If you are going to be rude, at least make the effort to get my name correct.”

  “Miss Fitzger—Miss Fitzpatrick. Wait.”

  I turned—not a quick operation in those hoopy days—to see Private Flanagan stretching out his left arm to me. “Yes?”

  “I’ve been calling you by the wrong name all this time, and you never said a blasted thing. Why?”

  “At the time, it seemed so trivial. And I suppose it just never occurred to me to correct you, sir.”

  “But I thought we were friends. Don’t you call your friends by the right name?”

  “Well, I hope I do, sir. Perhaps they have never corrected me, though.”

  Private Flanagan chuckled. “I’m sorry I was a bear today, Miss Fitzpatrick. You see, I was thinking of what I could do back home with one good arm. There doesn’t seem to be a whole lot.”

  “Oh, I am sure there is something that a man as intelligent as you are can do. Why, I have seen advertisements for the art of left-handed penmanship.”

  “I’m not well educated, Miss Fitzpatrick. I can shift to read and write, and that’s about it. Shanty Irish, that’s all I am.”

  “You are not shanty Irish! You had to earn a living starting young, I suppose, and there is no dishonor in that.” I looked at the book in my hand. “I have an idea. What if I helped teach you to read and write better?”

  “That’s a lot of trouble, miss.”

  “It is not a lot of trouble. It makes perfect sense. You have plenty of time on your hands”—I grimaced at my mistake—“plenty of time to spare, and learning will help take your mind off your arm.”

  “I don’t know if I can learn at my age.”

  “Of course you can. That’s pure silliness. And you won’t have me to read to you forever, you know.”

  “No, I suppose I won’t.”

  “So shall we commence on Monday?”

  Private Flanagan nodded slowly. “Let’s try it, miss.”

  • • •

  My plan to improve Private Flanagan wasn’t completely foolhardy. I’d been quick at school, though I had not always applied myself, and my teachers at Georgetown Visitation had been clever enough to realize that what I might not do if left to my own devices, I would do when others were involved. So I had been set to helping the younger girls with their lessons, and I discovered that, like my brother, I had a certain knack for this—although it was not something I cared to advertise, as to teach school would surely mark me out as an old maid more than I was already. But this was for a good cause.

  So between Mr. Booth’s visits to our boardinghouse and my planning Private Flanagan’s lessons, January slid by quickly. It was
nearing its end when, on a day when Mrs. Surratt had gone to the country, Mr. Surratt came home with a guest.

  This man could not be more unlike Mr. Surratt’s last guest, Mr. Booth. His clothes never seemed to make the acquaintance of a brush, and I suspected he slept in them more often than not. His eyebrows nearly met over a broad nose, and his face, which had an unfortunately froggy shape to it, was half forehead. Worse, he reeked of tobacco. Poor Anna’s fine nose was twitching like a rabbit’s at the smell, and I felt my eyes begin to water.

  Mr. Surratt seemed blithely unaware of the less than happy impression his companion was making. “Mr. Weichmann, ladies, joining us from Maryland this afternoon is my friend George Atzerodt.”

  “Mr. At—who?” Anna asked.

  The man shrugged. “The ladies never can pronounce it,” he said cheerfully in a slight German accent. “So just call me Port Tobacco. That’s where I live, over in Charles County.”

  “Port Tobacco,” we echoed. He certainly lived up to his name, I thought.

  “He’ll be staying here awhile,” Mr. Surratt said. “Unless, I trust, the attic rooms have all been rented in my absence.”

  “No,” Anna said, clearly with regret, “they have not been. But shouldn’t you consult Ma?”

  “Of course, but there’s no harm in having him stay here in the meantime, is there? Be a good sister and have the girl make up the bed for him.”

  Anna obeyed with the greatest show of reluctance, although Mr. Atzerodt, looking about the parlor as though in a place of uncommon luxury, appeared oblivious. “Be quick about it,” she hissed as Mrs. Surratt’s colored servant, Susan, headed upstairs with clean linen. Anna flashed a smile at Port Tobacco. “Would you excuse Miss Fitzpatrick and myself, Mr. At—Mr. Port Tobacco? We must make certain the girl does her work correctly. She’s new here.”

  Port Tobacco—I feel it unnecessary to include the salutation—nodded graciously, and I followed Anna up past the floor where the men slept and up to the attic, where we had been sleeping since Miss Dean’s arrival. Susan was quite competently making up the room, a task that hardly required supervision. “We can’t sleep up here with him, Nora. We must sleep in Ma’s room. He’ll murder us. Or ravish us.”