“I don’t know if you could be of much help, ma’am. Maybe the opposite. I’ve heard tell that they’re still looking for Mr. Surratt after that trip to Richmond of his. They think that he’s gone back to Maryland.”
The day before, I had a letter from Johnny postmarked Montreal. Knowing my boy was safely out of the country, I laughed. “To Richmond and back in that short a time? The government must think my Johnny a very smart man indeed.”
Having bidden Mr. Lloyd and his companions good-bye, we continued into Maryland, passing so many carriages and horsemen heading in the opposite direction that I wondered if there would be anyone in Surrattsville for me to see. Judging from the gay attire of most of the young men, I guessed they were bound for Washington’s taverns, music halls, and oyster houses. Those with companions laughed together; those without companions were quick to introduce themselves to each other.
I truly wished I could join in the festive mood. Why should not these young men rejoice? They would not be called away from their loved ones, their professions, and their homes; they would not fall in battle. I could find some cause for celebration as well: as Miss Fitzpatrick had pointed out, the end of the war meant Isaac would likely return to me soon, and perhaps Johnny as well. But I could not help but think of the devastation that had been wrought upon the South, and of Richmond in flames.
24
NORA
APRIL 11, 1865
I received several replies to my inquiries about positions, all amounting to the assurance that although there were no vacancies, I would be given due consideration when one came available. “That’s to be expected, child,” Father said as we walked to the White House on the Tuesday after Lee’s surrender. “Don’t let it discourage you.”
“I want things to happen now,” I said. “I never was very good at waiting.”
That night, the president was to give his speech about the future of the nation, and Father, hearing the news during his rounds, had stopped by the house and offered to take me. This would have been an excellent excuse to invite Mrs. Surratt along, but she had gone to the country with Mr. Weichmann on business and had not yet returned by the time we set out, early so as to get a place where we could have a good vantage point.
The buildings, public and private, were again illuminated—probably there were none happier about the end of the war than the town’s candle sellers, for in addition to the elaborate gaslight displays in the large buildings, nearly every residence in the city glowed with at least one candle. The White House itself glittered to such effect that one could have confused it with the Crystal Palace.
“Perhaps on Easter Sunday, Father, you could go to church with us,” I suggested as we stood there waiting for the president. And perhaps, I thought to myself, Mrs. Surratt could wear her lavender gown, which brought out the color of her eyes.
“I don’t see why not.”
A misty darkness settled over the city. The crowd stirred, and in the window near the one at which the president would speak appeared a handful of beautifully dressed ladies—Mrs. Lincoln and a few friends, one of whom I later learned was Miss Clara Harris. They looked to be in excellent spirits and seemed to be admiring the size of the crowd as they stood chatting at the open window.
The crowd roared, and Mr. Lincoln, wearing spectacles and clutching a handful of papers, stepped forward, illuminated from behind by a candle that someone held up. “We meet this evening not in sorrow, but in gladness of heart,” he began.
It was a quiet, thoughtful speech, one that had my father nodding approvingly but many of the crowd looking somewhat perplexed, having expected the sort of verbal fireworks that would match the real fireworks planned for later in the evening. It was a bit dry for me too, I confess, but at one point, I perked up when Mr. Lincoln mentioned that some had called for giving colored men the vote. He himself, he said, would prefer it be given to the very intelligent and to those who had served in the war.
The excitement of the last few days was beginning to catch up with me. When Mr. Lincoln finished his speech, to vigorous but somewhat restrained applause, I yawned, and my father smiled down at me. “Let me take you home, Nora.”
I nodded and let him guide me away. As we made our way out of the crowd onto Lafayette Square, I saw a familiar figure hurry by, talking intently—angrily, even—with a taller, huskier man whose face was averted from me but whose build looked somewhat familiar as well. “Why, that’s Mr. Booth,” I said to Father. “He must have been here for the speech as well.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your theatrical acquaintance, my child?”
“Not tonight,” I said, glancing back in Mr. Booth’s direction. “Somehow he doesn’t look as if he wants company at the moment.”
25
MARY
APRIL 13 TO 14, 1865
On Holy Thursday, Nora and I went to confession, Anna and Olivia having overslept as was their wont.
I did not know what to say. I was a party to something that, if it happened, would certainly be regarded by many as a crime, although others would think differently. And yet nothing had happened yet, and perhaps never would. Was I to ask for forgiveness for something that might never come to fruition?
And in these desperate times, could such a desperate act even be accorded a sin?
In the end, I did not task Father Walter, the kindly priest who heard my confession at St. Patrick’s, with such questions. Instead, I confessed my usual sins—pride, sharpness of tongue, envy of those women who were more comfortably situated than me. No doubt Father Walter had heard the same sort of confession from nearly every woman in his congregation, and I distinctly heard him suppress a yawn as he ordered my penance.
• • •
The next day, Mr. Weichmann came home from work around noon, just after I heard the mail flutter through its slot. “Secretary Stanton closed the War Department early so that those of us who wanted to attend Good Friday services could do so,” he explained. “So I have done so. Wasn’t that kind of him?”
“Very kind indeed,” I said, frowning at the mail he handed to me. Atop the pile was a letter from George Calvert, the son of my husband’s chief creditor. Not only was he pressing me for the money he was owed, but he also had heard I had been attempting to collect the money owed to me. He appeared to have the idea it was only my own recalcitrance that had kept Mr. Nothey, my debtor, from settling with me.
For what had to be half an hour, I paced around the house. Then I made up my mind and knocked on Mr. Weichmann’s door. “Mr. Weichmann, do you have plans for today?”
“No, Mrs. Surratt. Merely reading, and perhaps attending services tonight. May I escort you?”
“Yes, but not to church. Mr. Weichmann, that man we saw the other day, Mr. Nothey, has told my husband’s old creditor that I am not willing to settle with him—or, at least, I think he has. I must do something about this. I cannot bear having this weigh upon my mind on this holy weekend. Will you take me to Surrattsville again, sir?”
“Why, of course.”
“You truly don’t mind?” I looked at the book lying on a table. Though not a great reader myself, I knew that those who were—even Nora—could grow testy when one came between them and their books. And I was half beginning to reconsider this journey. What if no one was able to see me? “I do not want to disturb you.”
“No, Mrs. Surratt. This book is rather dull, and I am happy enough to be called away from it to try driving another time.”
He looked so eager, in fact, that I put my own misgivings aside. At least I could take advice from my brother, who I knew from Olivia would be at home. “Then let me give you the money for the buggy.”
Mr. Weichmann was headed out the door when I heard him speaking to someone on the stoop. “Mrs. Surratt, Mr. Booth is here,” he called.
“Send him in, please.”
Mr. Booth came in, h
olding a package of some sort. He waited until the door closed behind Mr. Weichmann and we saw his form heading down the steps to the street before he said, “Mrs. Surratt, we are going through with our plans tonight.”
Something in me wanted to beg him to reconsider, to tell him it was too late for any good to come of it now. Something else made me want to urge him on. “Tonight” was all I could manage.
“Yes. I have a great favor to ask of you—one last favor. Could you possibly go to Surrattsville this day?”
“Why, I am on my way there on business.”
“Such luck, then!” Mr. Booth held up his package. “I would like for you to leave this at your tavern—careful, it is glass—and to tell your tenant, Lloyd, that it and the shooting irons will be called for tonight. Those, and two bottles of whiskey. It will be of immense help, dear lady.”
“I will do so.”
“I thank you. I have always been able to count on you. I hope this is the last time I shall have to ask for your assistance.”
“I fear you are running a great risk. If something should go wrong—”
Mr. Booth shrugged. “‘If it be now, ’tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now.’ Have you heard these lines, dear lady?”
“Yes, and I understand them. I will have you in my prayers. And I will give you this.”
I unfastened my necklace. On it dangled a cross and a couple of medals, including a battered medal of Saint Jude Father Finotti gave me many years ago. Once, in one of his drunken rages, my husband tossed all of my medals into the fire, but I retrieved this one before the flames could reach it. “Take this,” I said, sliding it off the chain. “It was given to me by one who was dear to me, and it has seen me through much over the years.”
Mr. Booth stared at it as I placed it in his palm. In someone else’s hands, it looked much smaller. “I am moved, dear lady. Your husband gave this to you?”
“No. Someone else who holds a special place in my heart.” I fastened my necklace again. “God keep you, Mr. Booth. It is all in his hands now.”
I could swear I saw tears in Mr. Booth’s eyes. He was about to speak when the door opened, and Mr. Weichmann called, “I have the buggy, Mrs. Surratt.”
“Then I will wish you a good day, Mrs. Surratt,” Mr. Booth said pleasantly, turning around. “And to you too, Mr. Weichmann.”
• • •
I almost forgot the papers I was to take with me to Surrattsville—Mr. Nothey’s promissory note and the correspondence we had had on the subject—and I did actually forget the package Mr. Booth gave me and had to hurry back into the house and fetch it while Mr. Weichmann looked on quizzically. “It’s glass,” I explained as I carefully placed the package by my feet, where it was least likely to be harmed if Mr. Weichmann brought the carriage to one of the sudden stops that seemed to characterize his driving.
Mr. Weichmann nodded. “Giddyap!” he hollered in a voice I feared would send the horse stampeding down H Street. The horse, however, being well accustomed to all sorts of drivers, calmly moved forward, and so we began our second journey in three days to Surrattsville.
My thoughts were busy as we made our way down H Street. How was Mr. Booth going to effect his scheme? Who, if anyone, was going to help him? I thought of what happened in March, when Johnny and the others came home in such states of agitation after their kidnapping plan failed, and in my heart of hearts, I wished something would change Mr. Booth’s plans again. And how easy would it be to seize the president? This was not the Washington of a month before: since Richmond fell, the adoring crowds had hardly let the man out of their sight.
And what if the plan was foiled and the men caught? I did not care to dwell on that. To cover my thoughts—which raced through my mind at such a pace I could not imagine why they were not fully visible—I began chattering to Mr. Weichmann. “You are a quick study, Mr. Weichmann. Your driving is much improved over the other day.”
Mr. Weichmann preened a little but allowed modestly, “It may just be a better horse. Have you ever driven, Mrs. Surratt?”
“Yes, on occasion. My brother taught me. Of course, it was a necessity in the country. I used to be quite good at it, actually. Let me see if I can still manage it.” I reached for the reins.
Mr. Weichmann handed them to me, albeit a little reluctantly, and I urged the horse in a voice I called up from my youth. Back then, I did indeed drive quite often when I was home from my school in Alexandria, but naturally, when I married, I fell out of the habit—save for the occasional time when John was too inebriated to manage the carriage.
I sighed at the memory. To prevent myself from falling into melancholy and back into my worry about Mr. Booth’s plan, I began to chatter at Mr. Weichmann once more. “With the war almost over, Mr. Weichmann, will you be able to keep your position, do you think? Or have they said?”
“I daresay there will be something for us to do, Mrs. Surratt, though maybe not of the same nature. In any event, I need only to last until September, when I can resume my studies for the ministry.”
So he was still set on that. I considered taking another stab at dissuading him, for it still occurred to me that he might be an eligible husband for Nora. After all, they had been gallivanting around to the festivities in Washington lately and seemed quite happy in each other’s company. But Mr. Weichmann was stubborn enough, and male enough, to persist the more I tried to dissuade him. So I said, “That is right. I had forgotten about that. Perhaps you could put in a good word for Miss Fitzpatrick with someone? She wants to work in an office, and I daresay she would be good at it. Unless, of course, you hold the notion that women should not work in offices.”
“No, Mrs. Surratt. I believe that ladies can be of great use in an office. And they have certainly put their organizational skills to use through their relief efforts. In a way, the war has been a boon to your sex.”
“Well, I imagine most would have preferred the boon come in another way. But I take your meaning.”
At the tavern, I sent for Mr. Gwynn, a man of some substance in the county who had helped me with my business affairs occasionally. He obliged me with a few minutes of his time, and I gave him a stern letter, composed by Mr. Weichmann, to hand to Mr. Nothey. I felt somewhat easier about my affairs as we walked to our waiting carriages. Then Mr. Gwynn frowned. “That is your carriage, Mrs. Surratt?”
“Yes.”
“Why, it needs a repair, or it will not get you safely to Washington. I could rig up something, but my wife is feeling poorly and will be wanting me home.” He turned to Mr. Weichmann. “It’s simple to do, really. Are you mechanically minded?”
“I consider myself a quick study, sir.”
“Then I think you can manage it. Get a piece of rope…”
As Mr. Gwynn gave Mr. Weichmann directions, I spotted Mr. Booth’s package sitting patiently on the floor of the buggy. What if I had come all the way here and forgotten my promise to him? I snatched it up and hurried inside, where Mrs. Offutt was bustling about. “This is for Mr. Lloyd. There are parties who will call for it tonight. Please tell Mr. Lloyd to—”
“I believe I hear him now, ma’am.”
Sure enough, Mr. Lloyd had pulled into view. “I was just speaking of you,” I said and smiled. “As the saying goes, speak of the devil and his imp will appear.”
Mr. Lloyd got out—no, all but fell out—of his carriage. In my short acquaintance with the man, I had seen him in various stages of drunkenness, but this day he was as drunk as a man could be and still be upright. “I am not aware I wash a devil before,” he said, glaring at me with a face as red as one.
“A mere saying, Mr. Lloyd. I beg your pardon.”
Mr. Lloyd hiccuped.
Years of dealing with my drunken husband had not been entirely wasted on me. “I do have some good news, Mr. Lloyd,” I cooed.
“Good news,” Mr. Lloyd said.
“Yes. Those guns that have been an annoyance to you will be called for tonight.”
“Damn guns. Nuisance. Should have never let that young fool son of yours leave ’em here. Bane of existence.”
I passed over this rude comment about Johnny. “They will be called for tonight and will no longer trouble you.”
“I know, woman! Stop repeating yourself.” Mr. Lloyd glared at me. “Not stupid.”
“I know, Mr. Lloyd. Forgive me. Now, I have one more thing to tell you. I left a small package with Mrs. Offutt just now.”
As if taking a cue, Mr. Lloyd dropped the package he held, and I give silent thanks I had not entrusted him with Mr. Booth’s glass object, whatever it might be. “Just fish,” he said, bending over to retrieve it. “No harm. No harm!” He winked at me. “Dead, you know.”
“Indeed. Mr. Lloyd, please give the package to the parties who call for the shooting irons. They will require two bottles of whiskey as well.” At least, I thought, Mr. Lloyd should be able to remember that part of his instructions.
“Package and shooting irons. Whiskey,” Mr. Lloyd repeated. “Got it.” His countenance suddenly fell. “I feel sick,” he pronounced.
“Fancy that,” I muttered under my breath.
Mr. Weichmann had spotted the two of us and hurried over, carrying a rope. “Mr. Lloyd,” he said plaintively. “Would you be able to lend a hand with a repair?”
I shook my head and mouthed “drunk” to Mr. Weichmann, but Mr. Lloyd, who did indeed appear to be on the verge of sickness, snapped to attention. “Repair! Fix anything if put mind to it.” He glared at Mr. Weichmann. “Book learned, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes.”
“Useless, useless! Fool good-for-nothing schoolboys.”
I cast a warning look at Mr. Weichmann—even in Mr. Lloyd’s sodden condition, I was not certain he would lose a fight to Mr. Weichmann—and we headed toward the carriage with Mr. Lloyd shambling behind. When he finally reached the carriage, he listened a moment to Mr. Weichmann’s explanation, then snapped, “Boysh! Think they know everything. Carriages, playing cards…”
Hanging Mary: A Novel Page 17