Hanging Mary: A Novel

by Susan Higginbotham

  “Surely not with your brother sleeping below.”

  “Maybe not, but he’ll smoke his cigar.”

  “That is certainly bad enough.”

  We quickly got our things together and carried them downstairs, not without escaping the notice of Mr. Surratt, who called, “Making yourself more comfortable, girls?” Fortunately, he, Mr. Weichmann, and Port Tobacco went upstairs, leaving us the field of the parlor.

  “I can’t imagine what Johnny wants with that man,” Anna said as we settled into bed for the night. We were alone, Miss Dean being home on a visit to her parents. “Surely he can’t be involved in that business scheme Johnny’s’ talking about.”

  “Well, I think Johnny’s plans are quite clear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why, he’s brought Port Tobacco here to marry you.”

  Anna slammed me full across the face with her pillow, a classic boarding school move, but having spent much of my own youth at boarding school, I was no mean pillow fighter and was ready with my own goose down to hand. We scampered about the room, shrieking and pummeling each other in a manner that did our respective alma maters proud, until someone banged on the floor above us and Mr. Surratt’s voice called, “Ladies! We gentlemen are trying to sleep. Show some womanly consideration and feeling for us, please.”

  “We will,” we chorused dutifully. Then we renewed our match, until the sound of Port Tobacco’s contented snoring filled the house.

  9

  MARY

  JANUARY 1865

  In late January, my older brother, John Zadock Jenkins—Zadock, as I always called him—sent me a letter telling me our mother was ill. As Mother was at the age where even a minor illness could prove to be her last, I accepted his offer to come to Washington where he had business, to fetch me to Mother’s house, just a mile or so from the tavern in Surrattsville.

  As usual since the war started, it was a somewhat uneasy drive to Surrattsville. Zadock was that rarest of creatures in Prince George’s County—an avowed Unionist in a county where most of the few men who did support the Union kept their opinions very much to themselves. I had never discussed politics with my brother, but then, I had never needed to. I had a son in the Confederate army; Zadock stood guard with his gun under a Union flag to keep Confederate sympathizers from tearing it down. Yet my brother and I were by no means divided completely asunder. To our mother’s disgust, he, like me, was a convert to Catholicism. His sons were friendly with Johnny, and his daughters—especially my own favorite, Olivia—had a standing invitation to visit us in Washington. By keeping to safe topics—mostly gossip about our respective churches, to my shame—we passed the time pleasantly enough.

  To my relief, when we arrived, my mother was in bed but sitting up, alert and spry. The only sign of illness I could detect was a slight rasp in her voice and an occasional cough. “How is your girl?”

  “Anna is well, Mother.”

  “Caught herself a man yet? No? You best take care that she doesn’t turn into an old maid. Set in her ways a little too early, I always thought.”

  “When the war is over, I have no doubt that she will find a suitable young man.”

  “Best hope she doesn’t take up with one of your tenants. I never liked the idea of your running a boardinghouse, Mary. All sorts of riffraff there.”

  “My only male tenant at present is a very respectable young man, a former schoolmate of Johnny’s, and Anna is not the least bit interested in him.”

  “There you go, too set in her ways. So how is your Johnny? Working?”

  This was still a sore spot with me, despite Mr. Booth’s intervention, and Mother knew it only too well. “No, Mother, not at present.”

  “In my day, young men wanted to work. But I reckon things are different now.”

  Zadock shot me a look that was a combination of sympathy and mischief, for he and most of Prince George’s County knew perfectly well Johnny occupied his time in the service of the Confederacy. “He makes himself useful,” I said stiffly.

  “Well, are you liking it in Washington with your Catlickers?”

  As I had been doing for decades, I counted to ten and pretended my mother had merely mispronounced the word. “I am very glad to be able to attend church regularly again, Mother.”

  “I still don’t understand why you and your brother can tolerate that papist mumbo-jumbo.”

  My mother was sick and fractious, I reminded myself, though in truth, she was not much different when she was in the peak of health. “I have found great comfort in my religion, Mother. It has helped me through some very difficult times.”

  “Ah, that’s not the only thing I’ve heard you’ve found comfort in. Tongues still wag about that priest of yours.”

  “Surely, Mother, you know that was a pack of lies.”

  “Maybe. But it was enough to make people talk.”

  “I cannot help what these foolish people talk about.”

  “You certainly could have. A lady should never do anything to get herself talked about.”

  “I did not—” I started to say but gave up the point as a futile one. “Can I get you anything, Mother?”

  • • •

  As I settled for the night in the bed in which I spent my girlhood, I remembered what I hated most about the country: how its quiet forced one to focus on one’s thoughts. My mother’s words brought back a conversation I had many times with my husband about the man he called “that greasy Italian priest of mine.” It was the bone he picked most often when deep in drink: our rumored sin together. “John, how many times must I tell you that was nothing more than idle chatter?”

  “Idle chatter, my foot. Why did they send him to Boston? Why were you spending so much time in his company? How many times a day do you damn Catholics need to go to confession anyway?”

  “I was not making my confession all of those times.”

  “So you admit it.”

  “I admit nothing! Father Finotti was my confessor, but he was also my friend. We enjoyed each other’s company. There were so few educated people here at the time—”

  “There you go, bringing up your fancy education again! Woman, why don’t you just tell everyone I’m not good enough for you? Do it. I dare you. Go down to the tavern and tell everyone there, ‘John Surratt is not good enough for me!’ Who knows, maybe one of the guests will take you to bed. Maybe you’d like that, now that your dear priest friend is gone.”

  And yet John had not been entirely wrong, for I had sinned many times with other men, albeit only in my own thoughts. It was the only way I could bear the marital act in the last years of our marriage, on those nights when John, just sober enough to negotiate his way to our bed, would insist on taking me. I had tried other defenses. Sometimes I had begged to be left alone, or even flat-out refused, but at best I would be ignored, at worst slapped or forced to perform acts I could not bear to this day to think about. Two or three times I had gulped a shot of whiskey before going to bed, only to be left with a raging headache the next morning. So finally I had retreated into a world where the hands touching me were gentle and caring, safe in the knowledge that John was too far gone to guess where my thoughts might be. There was no other way I could perform my duty as a wife.

  Occasionally in my widowhood, especially on chilly nights such as this, I found myself missing the arms of a loving man. Even the embrace of my husband was once a welcome one, before drink stole him from me. But why should I lie alone when I might remarry? At forty-two, I was not too old to do so. No one had ever asked me, but there were a couple of widowers at church I suspected might be predisposed to that, given a little subtle encouragement.

  But then I thought of the risks: my little property being squandered, the man who smiled at me so pleasantly at church being a slave to the bottle at home. No, I would not remarry. These night urges would pass; they al
ways did.

  • • •

  Having scolded me the day before to her heart’s content, Mother was genial enough the next morning, and she looked much improved. I could therefore depart for Washington in good conscience. Zadock having business elsewhere, I was waiting for the stage in the parlor of my tavern when my tenant, John Lloyd, shuffled in. There was something all too familiar about his gait, not to mention the odor of his breath. “Afternoon, Mrs. Surratt.”

  “Good afternoon. How is business?”

  “Excellent. Good night!”

  “It is barely afternoon, sir.”

  “Nott’ll take care of things. Nott takes care of everything! Good night!” He left the room, and I heard his unsteady progress upstairs.

  Reluctantly, I stepped across the hall and into the bar, where Mr. Nott, whom I knew slightly from the neighborhood, stood behind the little counter.

  “Is Mr. Lloyd quite well?” I asked him.

  “Well enough. You saw him just now?”

  “I did.”

  “Pretty tight, wasn’t he? That’s the way he is more often than not now. That’s why I’m here, I suppose. Someone has to be able to stand up and tend to the customers.”

  Was every man who stood behind this counter doomed to turn out a drunkard? Not for the first time, I silently praised the Lord that Johnny was no longer living here, even if he was unemployed and risking his neck for the Confederacy. At least Mr. Nott seemed sober—for now. “How is business?”

  “Quite good, ma’am. Mr. Lloyd can afford to stay tight.”

  The arrival of the stage put our conversation to an end, and none too soon, for I was in no mood to linger here. Perhaps if the boardinghouse did well, I would be able to sell this place.

  As I made my way home from the stage’s stopping point at Washington’s Pennsylvania House, I saw Anna run down the steps to meet me. My first heart-stopping thought was that there was bad news of Isaac. But I barely had time to prepare myself for the worst when Anna said, “Ma, there is a dreadful man at our house, and you must not let him board here.”

  “Is that all? What a turn you gave me! I thought Isaac was dead.” Mr. Weichmann had joined us, and I smiled as he relieved me of my carpetbag. “Thank you, Mr. Weichmann. Now, who is this man?”

  “Port Tobacco.”

  “His name is George Atzerodt,” Mr. Weichmann said. “The young ladies call him Port Tobacco.”

  “It’s the name he said we could call him. What does that tell you about him, Ma?”

  “Not much at all. Who is he? How did he come here? I have not placed an advertisement in the paper for some weeks.”

  “Johnny brought him.”

  “Well, if he is a friend of Johnny’s…”

  “He can’t be a friend of Johnny’s. Johnny would never have such friends. He must go, Ma. You know I have very strong likes and dislikes, and I strongly dislike this man.”

  “He’s on the unkempt side,” Mr. Weichmann said helpfully. “Rough looking, but not rough acting. He seems harmless enough to me.”

  “And did anyone ask your opinion, Mr. Weichmann?” Anna tugged on my arm. “Come inside, Ma. He was lounging about the parlor like some sort of king of the jungle. Miss Fitzpatrick is terrified of him.”

  I entered the parlor with trepidation, but all seemed harmless enough. Miss Fitzpatrick, far from exhibiting terror, was trimming a bonnet, and the man I assumed was Mr. Atzerodt was reading the newspaper. He stood when I entered the room. Hardly a barbarian, I had to admit.

  But hardly a gentleman either. I could only hope he had not been using his room as a spittoon. Mr. Fitzpatrick, with his immaculate linen and perfect posture, would be aghast to see his darling in company with such a man, as would Mrs. Dean, a fretful lady who wrote me every other day to inquire about her little daughter’s health. And Father Wiget from church had found a couple, Mr. and Mrs. Holohan, in need of respectable lodgings. What would they think if they arrived to see this grimy fellow in the parlor?

  No, much as I hated to turn away a paying lodger, Mr. Atzerodt could not stay. My opinion was strengthened a little later at dinner. Even if Mr. Atzerodt had not belched three times, to Anna’s consternation and to Miss Fitzpatrick’s amusement, his victuals alone would ruin me, for he accepted two helpings of everything and looked somewhat disappointed when no third was forthcoming.

  So that evening, when Johnny had returned from that business that occupied so much of his time lately, I said to him, “A word with you in your room, please.”

  Johnny obediently followed me upstairs. Mr. Atzerodt remained below with Mr. Weichmann—who, oddly enough, seemed to like our new boarder. Perhaps Mr. Atzerodt reminded Mr. Weichmann of one of his German relations. “My instinct tells me you are going to question me about our boarder, Ma,” Johnny said.

  “Your instinct is correct, Son. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “More a business associate.”

  “What kind of business does he do?”

  “In theory, he paints carriages over at Port Tobacco—not the center of the carriage industry, so he’s slack of work, as you might guess. In practice, he ferries men across the Potomac. He’s quite good at it.”

  “Including you?”

  “Including me. He’s saved my neck more than a couple of times. I hope you consider it in the rent.”

  “Grateful as I am, Johnny, he can’t stay here. He is not a gentleman, and the young ladies’ parents have a right to expect that the other boarders here will be of their sort. And your sister cannot bear him.”

  “If Anna was our criteria for accepting boarders, we’d have only you, Miss Fitzpatrick, and perhaps Miss Dean staying here. I’m not sure she’d allow me.”

  “Anna can be particular, but in this case I believe she has a point. I am sorry, Son. We will give him a day or two to find new lodgings. I am sure he will find something more congenial and less expensive.”

  “But, Ma, I was going to give Anna the task of making a gentleman of him. Her Estella to his Magwitch, maybe. Granted, that doesn’t quite fit, but it’s the best I can do on short notice.”

  “He must go.”

  “Am I to break the news? What am I supposed to tell him? He’s a sensitive soul under that grime, you know.” Johnny’s face brightened. “I’ll tell him that the servant noticed the liquor in his room when she was making his bed.”

  “Is there liquor in his room?”

  “Of course there is. A man like Mr. Atzerodt needs his lubricants, you know.”

  “Then I have no scruples about sending him away.”

  “Well, I’ll tell him, Ma. I just hope the news doesn’t send him into a consumption. Though come to think of it, he probably already is consumptive.”

  He turned to go, and I touched his sleeve. “Johnny. If your Port Tobacco friend is running the blockade in Maryland, why is he staying here in Washington?”

  Johnny turned and kissed me on the forehead. “Don’t trouble yourself with such things, Ma.”

  10

  NORA

  FEBRUARY 1865

  “My brother-in-law, Mr. Clarke, is playing at Ford’s for the next few weeks,” Mr. Booth said as he settled into his accustomed chair one chilly February day. I winced, for it was also Mr. Rochester’s favorite chair, and he had undoubtedly left a few snow-white hairs on it in revenge for being displaced—and sure enough, Mr. Booth was wearing black pantaloons. “I am certain I can procure some tickets if you would like. From Mr. Ford, mind you, not from Mr. Clarke.”

  “You don’t like him?”

  “Indeed no, Miss Surratt. Even if we got on well in the ordinary course of things, which we do not, he is married to my sister, and no man is good enough for her. I suppose you understand that sentiment, John.”

  “Indeed I don’t,” said Mr. Surratt, who was leaning on the mantelpiece. “Anna can marry anyo
ne she pleases, and I won’t raise an eyebrow. She can even bring home a Yankee, and I won’t care.”

  “There’s no danger in that,” Anna said. “I despise the Yankees, and it’s a mark of my affection for Miss Fitzpatrick that I put up with her ministering to them.”

  “She doesn’t literally minister to them,” Mr. Surratt said. “She doesn’t preach sermons to them. Or do you, Miss Fitzpatrick? There may be a whole world of doing on Miss Fitzpatrick’s part that we know nothing of. Maybe she performs surgery upon them.”

  “I just read to them and keep them company,” I said. I looked at Mr. Booth, who wore a thoughtful expression. “And write letters for them sometimes. They’re perfectly nice men, and it is very hard for them, being ill and far from home. I think there is wrong and right on both sides, but they shouldn’t suffer for the wrong.”

  “I quite agree with you, Miss Fitzpatrick. What do you read to them?”

  “Oh, Dickens, of course, and Trollope, and there used to be one man who was fond of Poe, but he was sent home. One man will have nothing but dime novels. It is quite mortifying to buy them for him, but it makes him happy to have a fresh one.”

  “You must try Shakespeare on them one day. You do have a volume of Shakespeare, I trust.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Then bring it here, if you please, and we shall have an elocution class. I did the same thing with some young ladies at my hotel. All of you shall read for me. It will be great fun.”

  I hurried into my room and delved into my trunk, where I stored my small collection of books—my tattered copies of Charlotte Brontë’s novels, a few volumes of Dickens, and the Shakespeare I had used in school. When I returned with Shakespeare in hand, Mr. Booth gave a courtly bow to Mrs. Surratt. “As the lady of the house, will you go first?”