“Oh,” Mr. Holohan said carelessly, “he’s under arrest. Not in prison but in custody. Settling down to sleep in the station with a knapsack for a pillow, last I saw him. Young man knows a bit too much, they think.”
30
NORA
APRIL 16 TO 17, 1865
It being Easter, we naturally went to church—even Mrs. Holohan, who left off her packing long enough to attend early services. In hopes of avoiding attention, Mrs. Surratt and Anna went to the seven o’clock service at St. Patrick’s. Father, my plans to match him with Mrs. Surratt in tatters, took me to the next service.
Black Easter, as everyone came to call it, was a strange occasion. Our church was half decorated for the joyous occasion of Our Savior’s resurrection, half draped in mourning. The congregation—at least we ladies—was as mixed as the decorations. We at the boardinghouse had decided to leave aside our new Easter finery and dress in quiet colors and our usual bonnets, but others, without our peculiar need for delicacy, flaunted their gay dresses and brightly trimmed bonnets, commemorating the slain president only through the mourning buttons and ribbons that appeared on almost everyone’s breast this Sunday. Still other ladies, however, had turned up in mourning, or at least half mourning, and one or two were in such unrelieved black, one would think they were trying to outmourn poor Mrs. Lincoln.
There was another boarder at church that morning: Mr. Weichmann, in company with Detective McDevitt. Father, who appeared to regard all of the men at the boardinghouse with suspicion, gave him only a curt nod when he caught sight of us. So much for my father’s own matchmaking plans, I supposed.
The manhunt for Mr. Booth and his accomplices had not stood still for this holy day. While we had been praying and singing hymns, Washington’s walls had been festooned with wanted posters, which naturally everyone coming from church hastened to read—and to note the thirty-thousand-dollar reward being offered. There were no pictures, only a description of Mr. Booth that pained me to read, for I could so clearly see the jet-black hair that tended to curl and the black eyes described in the poster, could remember him standing in our parlor and inclining his head forward and looking down when he spoke, just as the placard said he did.
Mr. Surratt was not named on the poster, which described poor Secretary Seward’s unnamed assailant in minute detail. “Why, this man is nothing like Mr. Surratt,” I said as I read it. “‘Hair black, thick, full and straight’—Mr. Surratt’s hair is light and thin. Face ‘moderately full’ and ‘rather round’—Mr. Surratt’s face is almost gaunt. ‘Neck short’—Mr. Surratt is practically all neck. It can’t be him, Father.” I laughed for the first time since Friday evening. “Mrs. Surratt will be so pleased.”
“Child, her son could still be involved in some way. He has been running the blockade, I have been told, and I fear that this plot reaches up to the highest levels of the Confederacy.” He sighed. “I hope for Mrs. Surratt’s sake that the young man took no part in this, for she seems a kindly woman. But I fear she may be deceived by maternal fondness about this young man’s character.”
We walked on in silence for a while before I said, “That description on the poster does remind me of someone I know. I just can’t think of who.”
Father looked at me sharply. “Someone who came to board with Mrs. Surratt?”
“Maybe. Several people passed through and stayed only a few days.”
“You must tell the authorities when you remember.”
“I know, Father. I will.” I frowned. “But first I must think of who it is.”
• • •
I came home to find Mr. Weichmann hurrying into the house. “You are back home, Mr. Weichmann?”
“Only for a change of shirt, Miss Fitzpatrick. The police are taking Mr. Holohan and me to Baltimore.”
“Yes, I heard you were under arrest.”
“I am assisting the police, Miss Fitzpatrick. I am a free man.” Mr. Weichmann held his wrists in the air. “No irons, you see,” he said with a pleasant smile. “Anyway, I must change.”
Later that afternoon, I went to St. Matthew’s to see a christening. I had gone to school with the child’s mother, so the congregation, of course, was full of my classmates, not a few of whom I had managed to tell about my acquaintance with Mr. Booth. They, naturally, had passed this on, so after the service, when we gathered around to congratulate the parents and give our gifts, a little crowd formed around me. Had I known Mr. Booth long? Had I known him well? Did he ever say anything that made me think he would shoot the president?
“Of course I didn’t know,” I said. “If I had had any inkling, I would have told someone.”
I would be saying that quite a bit in the weeks to come.
• • •
Mr. Kirby had come to check on Mrs. Surratt when I returned from church, so I left them and the rest of her family in the parlor and went into the bedroom. There, I delved into my trunk and pulled out my album. Holding it, I flipped past the usual keepsakes of a young lady’s life—photographs of my family and my friends, school prizes, ticket stubs—until I reached the page where Mr. Booth stared out at me, as handsome as ever.
Why on earth had he done it? How could he have done it? I studied the picture for what must have been a solid hour, as if doing so would conjure up some sort of communication from Mr. Booth. Getting none, I pulled the picture out of the album, intending to feed it to the fire. It was certainly where Mr. Booth deserved to be after such a horrid act.
But whatever the Lord’s decision about whether to feed Mr. Booth to the flames of hell, I found I couldn’t do the same to his photograph. When had he ever done me an unkindness? I thought of him gently examining my locket with Private Flanagan’s hair and comforting me, and my eyes welled with tears. No, even though Mr. Booth had committed the worst sin a man might commit, I couldn’t bring myself to cast him out of my life. Instead, I slipped the photograph in between two others and closed the album.
No doubt hundreds of young women across America were looking at their own albums and deciding what to do with Mr. Booth’s picture. I wondered what poor Miss Hale was doing with hers.
• • •
Mrs. Holohan came back late in the day on Monday to set out some laundry for Susan, who would be doing one more wash for the Holohans. “Guess where the detectives are dragging my husband and Mr. Weichmann now,” Mrs. Holohan said to Mrs. Surratt as she came into the parlor. “Canada.”
“To search for my son, I suppose.”
“Yes. They’re taking my husband so he can identify him. The more eyes the better, they say.”
Mrs. Surratt stared out the window.
• • •
Besides Susan, the servant girl, there were only four of us in the house now. Soon there would be three: Miss Jenkins was planning to take the coach back to Surrattsville on Tuesday. As Anna had predicted, Miss Dean, who was supposed to have returned that afternoon, had not. “You can sleep in Miss Holohan’s room if you’d like a little privacy,” Mrs. Surratt offered that night as we sat around knitting—all but Anna, whose cold had become worse. She was lying stretched out on the sofa, thumbing restlessly through Godey’s Lady’s Book.
“I’d rather stay with you, Mrs. Surratt.”
She gave me a smile. “Thank you, dear girl.”
I turned to Anna. “So what will we be wearing next fall?”
“Who cares?”
I went back to my knitting. “Sorry.”
Anna raised herself to a sitting position. “Ma, what will happen if Mr. Weichmann finds Johnny?”
“They will bring him here for trial, I imagine, and he will be found innocent. Don’t fret so, dear one.”
“And they will hang Mr. Booth if they try him,” Anna said. She lay back down listlessly and turned her face to the back of the sofa. Absently, Mrs. Surratt patted her head.
I looked up from m
y knitting and frowned. I had never been much for feeling odd sensations, but over the past few minutes, I had been unable to concentrate for the feeling that something was peculiar. With everyone in such dismal spirits over the hunt for Mr. Surratt, though, I said nothing.
Then we all heard it: footsteps, coming up the stairs to the door, followed by the familiar ring. Mrs. Surratt opened the window. “Mr. Kirby?” she called.
“No, but we must come in, if this is Mrs. Surratt’s house.”
Anna sat up. “Ma, don’t go!”
“I must, child. Perhaps they have news of your brother.”
I heard voices, too indistinct for me to make out. Mrs. Surratt, trailed by several men, came into the parlor. “Young ladies,” she said. “You must hear what I have to say calmly. We are all under arrest.”
31
MARY
APRIL 17, 1865
Since Saturday, I had known the police were not done with us—not after they arrested Mr. Weichmann. But I did not expect them to turn up at the door late Monday night, just when most of Washington was going to bed.
As was the case of the night of the assassination, there were four of them, but none had been here before, and two of them wore army uniforms. It was one of these—senior in rank, I supposed, although I was not versed in army insignia—who said, “Mrs. Surratt?”
“I am Mary Surratt, the widow of John Surratt.”
“And the mother of John Harrison Surratt?”
“Yes.”
The officer held up a piece of paper. “Major Smith, U.S. Army. I have orders, ma’am, from the government to arrest everyone in this house and to search the premises. You will be taken to the headquarters of General Augur, the provost marshal for the district.”
So we would not be in the hands of the Washington police, but the military. I took a breath to steady myself. “Everyone, sir?”
“Everyone.”
I turned without a word and went in the parlor, where I broke the news to the young ladies. Olivia and Nora took the news quietly, as I had expected, but Anna began crying.
Major Smith glanced at her. “Who is that, Mrs. Surratt?”
“My daughter, Anna. She is sick, sir. Must she—”
“Yes, everyone must go. And the other two?”
“My niece, Miss Jenkins, and one of my boarders, Miss Fitzpatrick.”
“Anyone else here?”
“Only a colored servant.”
“Where? Abed?”
“No. She is usually in the kitchen at this time of night.”
Major Smith nodded to the detectives. “See to her. We don’t need her at the general’s office at present, but keep her here. She may have information to give us. Detective DeVoe, get the carriage. Bring it within only a half block. We don’t want to scare that Mr. Kirby away.”
“Sir, Mr. Kirby is an upstanding man and a native of Washington. He has never been in trouble.”
“That may be, ma’am. I don’t doubt it. But you called down to us as if you were expecting him, and it’s our business to know what business he has here.” Major Smith turned back to Detective DeVoe, who had been standing stock still. “The carriage, sir.”
“Walking is good enough for this lot.”
“It certainly is not. One of the young ladies is sick. I will have her and the rest treated with common courtesy. Now get the carriage.”
I squeezed Anna’s hand. Major Smith said briskly, “It is a chilly night, ma’am. Come with me and collect what hats and cloaks you and the others need. Captain Wermerskirch, stay in here with the young ladies. Do not allow them to talk amongst themselves.”
With Major Smith trailing behind, I walked to Anna and Olivia’s attic room and got their warm things, plus boots for Anna, who had been wearing only a pair of flimsy slippers. In the room Nora and I shared, I reached for Nora’s beautiful Kashmir shawl, but Major Smith shook his head. “The young lady won’t want that in Old Capitol Prison, ma’am. Get her something plainer, if she has one.”
“I thought we were going to General Augur’s office, sir.”
“We are, but then to Old Capitol Prison.”
Old Capitol Prison, where spies, deserters, and miscreants of all stripes went. A memory of my threatening Johnny with it flashed through my mind. I could have never sent him to such a place, and he knew it. “I am ready.”
Major Smith nodded. “Very fast you are, ma’am.”
I gave Anna her shoes, but she stared at them as blankly as a native of deepest Africa. So I knelt beside her and eased her feet into them as Anna began to weep. “Do not behave yourself so, little one,” I said, reverting to my address for Anna when she was still in short skirts. “You are already so worn out with anxiety that you will make yourself sick. The officer who arrested us is in uniform and is a gentlemen and will treat us kindly.”
“But, Ma, he told us that we were to go to Old Capital Prison! To be taken there!” Anna began to sob again.
“Hush!” In her ear I whispered, “You must be brave for the South, and for Johnny.”
To my surprise, this actually worked. Anna nodded and sat back quietly.
With all four of us ready to go, I turned to Major Smith. “Sir, I would like to pray before we leave.”
“Certainly, madam.”
I knelt by the piano, and the girls, while remaining seated, bowed their heads. Silently, I prayed the Lord would keep them safe and give me courage to withstand my coming ordeal. I begged him, as I had every night since Good Friday, for his forgiveness for my role in what had happened. While I acknowledged that Johnny’s fate was in his hands, I asked that he keep my boy safe. And finally—although it might not have been entirely right to do so—I asked his help in not saying anything that would get my son into more trouble.
When I was done, I raised my head meekly, knowing everyone had been waiting for me to finish. But Major Smith said, “Have a seat, Mrs. Surratt. I would have thought DeVoe would be here with the carriage by now, but he’s not.” He paced around a bit before saying to his companions, “Whoever comes here must be kept inside for questioning. If the doorbell rings, let the caller in, then close the door behind him.”
Beside me, Nora whispered, “All that for poor Mr. Kirby?”
“I heard that, miss,” said Major Smith.
Nora nodded and gestured to Mr. Rochester, who had come into the parlor to give the soldiers a disdainful look. He jumped into her lap, and she cuddled him close to her. Anna leaned against my shoulder, and Olivia wiped a tear from her eye.
And then we all heard footsteps on the stair, followed by the doorbell’s peal.
I almost rose to answer it before remembering the circumstances. Instead, Captain Wermerskirch and the one I had heard called Mr. Morgan headed to the door, and Major Smith planted himself in the doorway leading from the parlor to the hall. After a rumble of conversation, he headed into the hallway, and after a few minutes more, he called for me. Standing in the hall was a stranger in a sort of skullcap.
“This man says that he was hired to dig a gutter for you.” Major Smith held up a pickax. “He brought this with him. Did you engage him to do so? Do you know him?”
I raised my hand. “Before God, sir, I do not know this man. I have not seen him before, and I did not hire him to come dig a gutter for me.”
Major Smith nodded. “Sir, your story does not hang together. I am placing you under arrest. Madam, return to the parlor.”
As soon as I took my place in the parlor—occupied only by us ladies at present—Anna asked, “Who was that, Ma?”
“A hard-looking fellow with a skullcap, who came here with a pickax.”
Anna began to cry once again. “He must have come to murder us,” she wailed. “Had those men not been here—”
Captain Wermerskirch stuck his head inside the door and raised his finger to his lips,
and Anna fell silent.
It was nearly midnight when Major Smith finally informed us that our carriage was here. As if Anna were an invalid, Olivia and I helped her to her feet, while Nora gave her cat one last hug. As we walked into the hall, I saw the man with the pickax slumped in a chair opposite the parlor door, guarded by one of the soldiers.
• • •
As our carriage rolled through the mist and fog of an April night in Washington, Detective DeVoe, riding in front beside me while the young ladies crowded together in a heap of skirts and hoops in the back, gruffly informed me that I should not expect much of General Augur’s headquarters; due to a fire, he had had to relocate to Fourteenth Street. “I am certain they will be adequate,” I said inanely.
When we reached our destination, Detective DeVoe hustled us out of the carriage and into a dingy room with a motley collection of chairs, in which he ordered the young ladies to sit and (changing to a more genial tone) to have a catnap if they wished. Leaving them in the company of a young soldier, he led me into a room where a man stood behind a large desk and another one sat behind a stack of paper, inkwells, and ink pens. Waving me to an upholstered chair, considerably more comfortable than those in which the young ladies were sitting, the man behind the desk said, “Colonel Foster. I would like to ask you a few questions. First, tell me where you live, and who lives there with you.”
I gave him the information.
“You did not mention your son John Surratt. Does he stay with you?”
“When he is in town he does.”
“And when did you last see him?”
“On April 3 of this year. The day Richmond fell.”
“He is a friend of John Wilkes Booth?”
“They are acquainted.”
“When did they make their acquaintance?”
Wearily, I tried to think back. “I cannot say exactly when.”
“Mr. Booth has been a regular visitor to your house?”
“Yes.”
Hanging Mary: A Novel Page 21