Hanging Mary: A Novel

by Susan Higginbotham

  “Playing cards?” Mr. Weichmann asked.

  Mr. Lloyd ignored the question. Instead, he unceremoniously thrust his packages at me—fish and oysters—and crouched over the fifth wheel, took the rope from Mr. Weichmann, and coiled it around various spots before tying it. “All done!” he pronounced. He attempted to rise but needed some help from Mr. Weichmann. “Thank ye, boy. Stay for supper?” Proving Mr. Weichmann’s incompetence appeared to have cheered him up.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “We must be going back to Washington. I want to try to go to church tonight.”

  “Each his own,” said Mr. Lloyd. He fumbled in the general direction of the pocket where men kept their flasks and nearly lost his footing.

  “Perhaps you should lie down, Mr. Lloyd.”

  “Maybe.” He raised his much-abused package in the air as a gesture of farewell and stumbled off, the tail of the fish flapping a good-bye.

  Mrs. Offutt hurried toward us as Mr. Weichmann helped me into the carriage. “I am so glad my sister isn’t here to see this. It’s the reason she stays away so much.”

  “Has he been like this often lately?”

  “Nearly all of the time, to the point of madness, I fear.” Mrs. Offutt hesitated. “I will be honest with you, Mrs. Surratt. I have urged him to give up this tavern after the lease runs out. It will be his ruination. He has always tippled a little, but he was never this bad until he had the stuff constantly within reach.”

  I nodded gloomily. How could I argue? There must be someone who could run this tavern without turning into a drunkard, but I had not yet found him.

  Although I did not have much confidence in Mr. Lloyd’s repairs, given the circumstances, we met with no mishaps on the road. Our ride was by and large a silent one, however, as the growing darkness required Mr. Weichmann to pay close attention to his driving, and I was brooding over the possibility of having to find another tenant for the tavern. Perhaps I could sell the place…

  Mr. Weichmann broke the silence. “Do you think Mr. Booth will ever return to the stage, Mrs. Surratt? He seems to be entirely idle now.”

  “I believe he may be done acting, except for his own amusement. If he marries that Miss Hale, I imagine he will want to find something more acceptable to her father. But if she refuses him, I imagine he will go to New York. There is little else to keep him here, I should think.”

  “He has spoken of his oil investments.”

  “Yes, and I fear that he might fall prey to some sort of bubble scheme. He wants to make money other than through acting, I think, to win her family over to him. I think he is a little crazy on the subject, truth be told.”

  “A man in love.” Mr. Weichmann chuckled mirthlessly. “Mrs. Surratt. Do you believe I have any chance with your daughter?”

  I shook my head. “No, sir. I am sorry. Anna takes very strong likes and dislikes, and she has never been one to change her mind easily. Her dislikings can be unjust, I confess, and I am sorry you have fallen on the wrong side of her, but there is nothing I can do.”

  “She is in love with Mr. Booth.”

  “I believe she is infatuated with him, but he has never given any sign of liking her more than Miss Fitzpatrick or my niece. I do not believe she has met her husband yet, Mr. Weichmann. It is that simple.”

  Mr. Weichmann gave a piteous sigh, and I patted his hand.

  “Mr. Weichmann, I know one thing. You would be unwise to go into the priesthood because you have been disappointed in love. Perhaps you have simply not met your wife either. Or”—I paused to reconsidered but pressed on—“perhaps you have. There are two very pleasant young ladies under my roof, sir, besides my daughter. Both Miss Fitzpatrick and my niece are fine young women.”

  My lodger made no reply. At least I might have planted a seed.

  We came upon a hill about a mile outside the city, and Mr. Weichmann gasped, for the illuminated city shone below us like something out of legend. It was a beautiful sight, but there was a melancholy aspect about it too, which made me say, “I am afraid that all this rejoicing will be turned into mourning, and all this glory into sadness.”

  “Why, what do you mean?”

  “Simply that after sunshine there is always a storm, and that when people are too proud and licentious, God will punish them.”

  Mr. Weichmann stared below him. “To be honest, Mrs. Surratt, I think we’ve had enough punishment for the past four years to last a lifetime.”

  • • •

  At about half past eight, we arrived home, where a letter from Johnny awaited me, written two days before and dated from Montreal.

  As I squinted to read it, I visualized Johnny’s lively face with each word. Johnny had bought a new pea jacket for ten dollars in silver—necessary because the cold was going straight through his Washington clothes—and clad in his new jacket, he had enjoyed wandering around Montreal and was especially taken with the French cathedral. His hotel was fine, but far too expensive, so he would probably be going to a boardinghouse or perhaps to Toronto, if his fancy took him in that direction. It was the most bland and pleasant of missives, but because Johnny had warned me to destroy all of his letters, lest the house ever be searched, I fed it to the fire that burned low on that chilly Good Friday night.

  • • •

  Anna had been sneezing periodically since I got home, and she at last took Mrs. Beeton’s recommended remedy—raisins, stick licorice, sugar candy, rum, and a bit of vinegar—and went to the attic room to retire for the night. In her absence, Olivia grew almost flirtatious with Mr. Weichmann, and soon she and Nora were jesting with him. Mr. Weichmann was emboldened enough to do his imitation of the sodden Mr. Lloyd—a rather good one, I am afraid—and all three of them were giggling so hard, I feared Mr. Holohan, who liked his sleep, would start banging on his floor. And the truth is, I was so keyed up, wondering what was happening with Mr. Booth, that I began to pace about.

  Nora stopped laughing for a moment. “Are you quite well, Mrs. Surratt?”

  “Yes, child. My leg is cramping from the ride to Surrattsville and back.”

  “You should stay with Grandma overnight next time, Aunt Mary, so you won’t have all of that dreary riding back and forth.”

  “Yes, that is a thought.” I paced some more.

  The young people resumed their joking. My head was pounding; it was too much. Finally, I clapped my hands. “Shoo! All of you, to your rooms,” I said in a light voice. “The Holohans are trying to sleep, and so is Anna.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Surratt.”

  “Yes, Aunt Mary.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Surratt.”

  And with that, the three of them dutifully trooped off to their three rooms, but not before Mr. Weichmann waved his hand in imitation of Mr. Lloyd’s sodden farewell.

  It was almost ten. Alone, I said a few prayers before going into my room, where Nora was already in bed. She slept like a little girl, a fist curled under her cheek, and I knew that when I lay down, she would half wake and snuggle closer to me, like she must have done when the mother she hardly remembered was alive. For the first time, it occurred to me how much the child would be grieved if Mr. Booth kidnapped Mr. Lincoln, whose every word she had been hanging on for the past two weeks.

  Much as I loved the South, I did not want this to happen. I wanted Johnny and Isaac back, working at steady jobs and looking for respectable wives, and I wanted Mr. Booth to marry Miss Hale and forget about this scheme of his.

  For a moment, I considered putting on my shawl and hurrying to St. Patrick’s and begging to see a priest—or going to the authorities. But I could not turn in Mr. Booth, who had brought so much light and color into our lives, after he entrusted me with his secrets. And I could not trouble a priest with the heavy burden that lay upon me now.

  No, it had gone too far, and we had to see out this play. I was right when I spoke as I did to Mr. Booth thi
s morning. It was all in God’s hands.

  Stepping quietly so as not to disturb the other boarders, I walked upstairs and knocked on the door of the next best thing this house had to a priest. There was a light shining underneath it; as I had suspected, Mr. Weichmann was likely working or reading. “Come in.”

  Mr. Weichmann was sitting at a desk, a manual of phonography spread out in front of him. He was evidently doing exercises in this art, for a sheet of paper in front of him was covered with the incomprehensible marks of the shorthand reporter. “Mr. Weichmann, may I ask you a favor? Would you pray for my intentions when you say your prayers tonight?”

  “I will, but I do not know what they are, Mrs. Surratt.”

  “It does not matter,” I said, withdrawing. “Please pray for them anyway.”

  26

  NORA

  APRIL 13 TO 15, 1865

  “I don’t want to leave,” Miss Dean wailed. “There’s another illumination planned tonight, and it’s going to be the best one ever!”

  “Darling, you have to leave,” Mrs. Dean said. “It’s Easter, and you have a lovely new outfit for church.”

  “I want to wear it here. Not in Alexandria. Nothing ever happens in Alexandria!”

  “This is no way to act, on Holy Thursday of all times! You are getting in this carriage now!” Mrs. Dean looked half apologetically, half accusingly at Mrs. Surratt. “I hope this has not been her normal conduct as of late, ma’am.”

  “No.” I spoke up. “She is normally as good as gold, Mrs. Dean, and Mrs. Surratt is very firm when it is needed. But Washington has been so full of excitement lately…”

  “That’s right.” Miss Dean whimpered.

  “Be that as it may, we must go,” Mrs. Dean said. “Grandmother is coming to see you.”

  “Grandma?” Miss Dean perked up.

  “She brings her candy,” Mrs. Dean said to us sotto voce.

  “Miss Fitzpatrick, will you promise to tell me everything about the illumination when I get back?”

  “Everything,” I promised. “I’ll even save the newspapers.”

  “Then I’ll go,” Miss Dean said. She hiccuped and let the carriage driver help her to a seat, then blew us kisses as her mother settled in beside her. “Good-bye, house!” she called as the carriage began to pull forward. “Good-bye, Washington!”

  “You’ll be back on Monday,” Mrs. Dean said. “For heaven’s sake.”

  • • •

  By now we in Washington were becoming rather jaded with illuminations, but Miss Jenkins and I went to this one anyway, escorted by Mr. Weichmann. Mrs. Surratt stayed home, to no one’s surprise, and Anna also stayed home, although on this occasion she had a good excuse: the sniffles. “I probably caught this wretched cold from standing in all that rabble watching the gorilla the other day,” she said as she settled on the sofa in her wrapper.

  “Or from shopping yesterday,” I suggested.

  Anna sniffed, though whether that was in derision or from her cold I could not tell.

  Miss Jenkins and I needed Mr. Weichmann’s protection, for the streets were teeming with people, many from out of town and many not quite sober. Still, despite the press of the crowds, I enjoyed myself thoroughly, for the city was a splendid sight. General Grant, newly arrived in town, could have leaned out of his hotel room at Willard’s and seen his name in gaslight in any number of places, while one clothing store asked archly in lights, “How are you, Lee?” Some of the visitors were dressed up as garishly as the buildings, and I, used to seeing the sober clothing of the city’s clerks, snickered at one young man in particular, resplendent in plaid pantaloons of purple and green.

  Even some houses that had been dark before were lit this night, at least by a single candle, and it was touching to see how the poorest colored people had decorated their houses. “It is a little mortifying to live in about the only house on H Street not lit,” I admitted to Mr. Weichmann as we turned into our block at last. “I wish I had a front room, so I could have put up a candle. But Miss Surratt would probably prefer to see the place burn.”

  “Well, at least it’s easy to distinguish it from the rest,” Mr. Weichmann said dryly.

  • • •

  On Friday morning, I accompanied Mrs. Surratt, Anna, and Miss Jenkins to St. Patrick’s, where we happened to meet my father, who to my delight joined us and sat next to Mrs. Surratt, although he was more engaged in casting approving looks at Mr. Weichmann, who was assisting at the veneration of the cross and admittedly did strike a dignified and pious figure. Afterward, my father returned to the house to join us for breakfast, and I made a point of praising the cooking.

  I walked with Father to his bank after breakfast. “Father, have you ever thought of remarrying?” I asked the question in what I hoped was the most casual manner possible.

  “Why, what makes you ask that?”

  “I have just always wondered, and now seemed a good time to ask. To think, you could live in a nice house like Mrs. Surratt’s, instead of in lodgings.”

  My father gave me an amused look. “Child, are you trying to marry me off to your landlady?”

  I scowled at being found so transparent. “Well, she is a widow, and you a widower, and you are both Catholic.”

  “Obviously a recipe for future happiness, with so much in common,” Father said dryly.

  “But she is pretty, you have to admit, Father.”

  “Yes, she is an attractive woman, and of good character, which is all the more important. But as for my remarrying anybody, I have little enough saved, but there is enough for you to live on, if you are frugal, without having to marry some rascal. I could not provide for your future adequately if I had a wife.”

  “But that’s so dreary a reason not to marry, Father, especially if I find employment, and I fear you are lonely.”

  “I have friends, child, and I live in congenial lodgings. And I have you children. If it makes you feel better, I am going to the theater tonight with the Misses Donovan.”

  “Father! Two ladies! And on Good Friday, yet.”

  “Well, as there is so much rejoicing in the city this week, it seems more permissible than it usually would,” my father said a little shamefacedly. “Anyway, the friend who planned to take them discovered that he couldn’t go, and they would not go without a man to escort them.”

  “So it’s an act of chivalry, really.”

  “If it were my party, I would invite you along, my dear. But it is not, of course, and besides, it is only Our American Cousin.”

  I nodded. This play was an old drawing-room comedy, always a crowd-pleaser, but one I had seen before. Besides, I rather liked the idea of my father having the undivided attention of the two old maids. “Some other time.” I kissed my father on the cheek as we parted at his bank. “Enjoy your evening with your ladies, Father.”

  • • •

  I spent the afternoon at the hospital and returned home to find that Mrs. Surratt had gone into the country with Mr. Weichmann. Anna was in a foul mood because she had been abed when Mr. Booth called, because she was not in a fit state to see him if he called again, and because he had not called again by the time the clock struck five. “Perhaps he is proposing to Miss Hale,” I suggested.

  “You’re tedious,” Anna said.

  I started to say, “And you’re deluded,” but thought better of it. Instead, I said mildly, “Well, I’m sure he has other engagements to attend to,” and went out for a walk.

  Anna’s bad mood continued throughout the evening, until she at last did herself, and us, a favor and took her sneezing self to bed, leaving Mrs. Surratt, Miss Jenkins, Mr. Weichmann, and myself in possession of the parlor. With her gloomy presence gone, the spirits of the rest of us rose, and soon Miss Jenkins and I were teasing Mr. Weichmann mercilessly about his not knowing his carriage needed repairing. He took it in good humor, though
, and we went on in this fashion very well until around ten when Mrs. Surratt decided we were making rather too much noise and shooed us, good-naturedly, to our respective rooms.

  It was time to retire anyway. I said my prayers and climbed into bed, wondering as I did how my father was getting on with the Misses Donovan. I didn’t think my campaign to have him marry Mrs. Surratt was over yet; he had admitted she was attractive, and wasn’t that half the battle? Perhaps once I got a job and he realized I could support myself, he would not feel obliged to remain single for my sake.

  Mrs. Surratt came in when I was half-asleep. “Good night,” I murmured as she got in bed beside me.

  “Nora—”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” My landlady stroked my hair as I curled closer to her. “Go to sleep.”

  And so I did, only to be awoken briefly by some shouts. But I thought nothing of them. Since Richmond’s fall, Washington’s streets had echoed at night with the sounds of drunken revelers; as the boardinghouse backed up to a stable, we got to hear the sounds of the comings and goings of their horses and carriages as well. I drifted off again, this time into a deep slumber.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  PART II

  “I was sound asleep when the fatal shot was fired. Thousands of times have I recalled it, for I was as contented as I could be… My sleep was peaceful; it was the sleep of innocence and of a clear conscience. I had done no wrong and meditated none. I owed no one a dollar, and as far as I know, in all the world, I had not an enemy.”

  —Louis J. Weichmann, A True History of the Assassination of Abraham Lincoln and of the Conspiracy of 1865

  “Here endeth the story of this tragedy upon a tragedy. All are glad that it is done. I am glad particularly. It has cost me how many journeyings to Washington, how many hot midnights at the telegraph office, how many gallops into wild places, and how much revolting familiarity with blood.”