Hanging Mary: A Novel

by Susan Higginbotham

  “How often did he call? Once a week? Several times a week? Once a day? Twice a day?”

  “Sometimes twice a day.”

  Colonel Foster raised his eyebrows.

  “We found him very much of a gentleman.”

  “Yes, it seems you did. Did your son mention how he came to know Mr. Booth?”

  “Not that I recall,” I lied tiredly.

  “Weren’t you at all curious about how your son made the acquaintance of one of the country’s most sought-after actors? Did you not find it odd?”

  “My son is a country-bred young gentleman. I consider him capable of forming acquaintances in the best society. Besides, Mr. Booth often called when my son was not there. Sometimes he asked for him, sometimes he did not.”

  “Since the murder, have you not wondered what brought Mr. Booth and your son together?”

  “Certainly, but I cannot account for it. I do not think anyone was more surprised when we heard that Mr. Booth could be guilty of such an act. He was very clear of politics, and it was a subject that we never indulged in when he visited.”

  Colonel Foster looked at me intently. “What are your political sentiments?”

  “I don’t pretend to express my feelings at all. I have often said that I thought that the South acted too hastily. That is about the amount of my feeling.” Another lie. How many more would I have to tell?

  “Did your son say where he was going when he left you?”

  “No. He went out with Mr. Weichmann, who came back without him and said that my son had bid him good-bye. On Wednesday, my son sent me a letter saying that he was laying over in Springfield, Massachusetts, because he had overslept and the conductor neglected to wake him. He did not tell me where he was going, but I think he was going to Canada, because I had heard him say several times that he would leave the country. Last fall he spoke several times of going to Europe. I supposed he had gone to Canada, but I had no particular reasons for so supposing. He had not made any arrangements for going to Europe or Canada.”

  “Where is the letter?”

  “I have hunted my house over but cannot find the letter he wrote me. I laid it on the windowsill and have not seen it since.”

  Colonel Foster continued to fire questions at me. How long did it take to cross the Potomac River? How often had Johnny crossed the river? Did I know Mr. Atzerodt? Did he board with me? Who else came to board with me? Who had come to the house since the assassination? Some of his questions simply baffled me, so even when I was not trying to be evasive, I sounded like I was.

  Then Colonel Foster asked me a question I understood perfectly well. “Do you think your son was at the theater with Booth?”

  I sat up straight. “Not if it was the last word I had to speak.”

  32

  NORA

  APRIL 17 TO 18, 1865

  After Mrs. Surratt broke the news to us that we were under arrest, we were put into the care of a Captain Wermerskirch and ordered not to talk amongst ourselves while the head of the arresting party, Major Smith, accompanied her to get our wraps. As we had not been ordered not to talk to Captain Wermerskirch, I asked, “Where are they taking us?”

  “First to General Augur’s office for questioning. Then to Old Capitol Prison.”

  We all three started up. “But that’s for spies and traitors!” I said.

  Captain Wermerskirch gave an if-the-shoe-fits-wear-it sort of shrug. “You’ll be in good company,” he offered. “Belle Boyd was there for a time. So was Rose Greenhow.”

  “They were spies,” I snapped. “We’re not.” I leaned back and drummed my fingers nervously on a table. “My father! He won’t know what has become of me!”

  “You can send him a letter from prison, miss.”

  I settled back and gloomily composed the letter in my head. Dear Father, You will be surprised to learn that I am at present confined in the Old Capital Prison, among spies and traitors…

  For what seemed to be an endless time, we sat there waiting to be transported to General Augur’s headquarters, the only relief from the monotony being when a stranger came to the door. A young ruffian was all Mrs. Surratt, who was called to the hallway to get a look at him, would or could say. It was not until around midnight when we were at last filing through the hall on our way to the carriage that I saw him for myself. He had sort of a stocking cap jammed upon his head, and he was far too large for the dainty little chair in which he sat. But it was the look on his face that struck me most. Never had I seen an expression so entirely bereft of hope.

  His dejection fed mine as I looked back to see that the men were already beginning to search the house, flinging open doors and yanking out drawers. In an hour, these men would know everything about us that our belongings could tell.

  And what would happen when they found my photograph of Mr. Booth?

  “Come along, miss. Don’t poke.”

  I looked back one last time. “Someone please feed my cat!” I called as the door closed behind me.

  • • •

  At General Augur’s headquarters, Mrs. Surratt was taken away for questioning and the rest of us were put in a sort of waiting room. We were half dozing when the carriage, having made a trip back to the boardinghouse, returned with the man from the hallway. As Mrs. Surratt was still being questioned, they took him to another part of the room, separated from the rest by a railing, and hustled him into a seat. He was in handcuffs and could not remove his cap, so they yanked it off his head.

  Mr. Payne!

  I looked at him as closely as I could without being downright rude—not that Mr. Payne was in a position to complain. For he indeed was Mr. Payne. It was the odd cap that had kept me from recognizing him before, and now that I saw it lying on the floor, it did not appear to be a proper cap at all, but some makeshift one. There was the same black hair, the same muscular build, and those same piercing eyes. With his overcoat removed, I saw he was even wearing the same clothes he had worn when he had escorted me to Ford’s Theatre, although they were rumpled and dirty, and he himself was grimy. Had Mrs. Holohan seen him now, she would have been even more certain that he would not save many souls.

  I looked harder at Mr. Payne. Suddenly the words of the wanted poster began to run through my head. Hair black, thick, full and straight. Face moderately full. Nose straight and well formed. Mouth small. Neck short and of medium length.

  Why, this man could be the description come to life. And though I could not say for certain, not having seen the face, I would lay a bet that this was the man I had seen with Mr. Booth in Lafayette Square the night that President Lincoln talked of giving some colored men the vote.

  I was surely not the only one who had noticed the resemblance of Mr. Payne to the poster. A trio of soldiers had gathered around Mr. Payne, asking sharp questions, which he appeared completely unequal to answering, judging from his drooping countenance. I could hear only bits and pieces of the interrogation, but one thing became clear: Mr. Payne was giving no clues as to who he might be.

  No doubt I should have told someone that I recognized Mr. Payne. Had I recalled his identity under any other circumstances, I probably would have. But we were both here as prisoners, and was it not considered poor form to inform on a fellow prisoner? So I settled back and continued to listen to the soldiers hectoring Mr. Payne.

  “You are John Harrison Surratt! Why don’t you just tell us that, boy?”

  Anna sprang up, her fists clenched. “How dare you say that!”

  It was at that instant that Colonel Foster led in Mrs. Surratt, who was walking like a woman twenty years her senior. “Why, what on earth is the matter?” she asked tiredly.

  “That man said that ugly creature was my brother. He is no gentleman to say so.”

  “My daughter speaks the truth, sir. This is not my son.”

  Unruffled, the soldier motioned to a subord
inate. “Take the ladies into the other room. The boy from Seward’s house will be here soon to take a look at this fellow. And, ladies—if you do know who this man is, besides his not being John Surratt as you claim, I suggest you tell us.”

  I pressed my lips together and followed the other ladies out of the room.

  • • •

  I had expected that the rest of us would be questioned, but since Mr. Payne’s arrival, no one seemed to be interested in us, save for the bored soldier whose task it was to make sure we did not escape. Perhaps, I began to hope, we might be taken home after all. Anna leaned against Mrs. Surratt’s shoulder and dozed off, and soon the rest of us followed suit.

  It was nearly dawn when two men came in to blast my hopes. “All right, ladies. Time to go to the Old Capitol.”

  “How long will we be held?” Miss Jenkins asked.

  “Depends on how cooperative you are, miss,” said the soldier offhandedly.

  We were going through the same waiting area where we had been held, but there was no sign of Mr. Payne. “What happened to that man?” I asked.

  “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you, as it will be in the papers soon. Taken away in irons.” He handed us into the carriage. “That colored boy from Seward’s recognized him right away as the man who tried to murder the secretary. Pointed straight at him. Not a doubt in his mind. If he can do that in court, that man will hang.”

  • • •

  Occasionally, when walking around the city, I would sometimes pass Old Capitol Prison. I usually avoided it, though, because not only was it a gloomy place to contemplate, but it also stunk to high heaven.

  It had not been built as a prison. Congress had met there after the burning of Washington during the War of 1812, giving it its name, and afterward it had served as a boardinghouse before being bought by the government for its present use. Even more elegant had been the nearby Carroll Annex, consisting of five handsome houses in which a number of congressmen, including Abraham Lincoln, had boarded. But they had become run-down over time, and the government had bought the row as well, pressing it into service to house the ever-growing population of prisoners.

  So I had learned from my father, before joining this select company.

  From the moment our carriage pulled up at First Street and we alighted, I had the sensation of eyes upon me; very soon, I would learn that watching for new arrivals and guessing at what might have brought them here was one of the chief occupations of those residing there. After passing through the entrance guarded by two men with bayonets, we walked down into an office containing a conglomeration of desks and chairs but only one occupant at this early hour: the lieutenant in charge. “Good morning, ladies,” he said, suppressing a yawn. “I must ask each of you some questions and search you. I’ll start with this young lady, as you’re closest.”

  I sat where he indicated. “First, empty your purse.”

  I obeyed, spilling its contents on the desk. It yielded only a handkerchief, a few coins, and my house key.

  “Is that all the money you have?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pity. You’ll want a little spare change for the sutler’s. Newspapers and pies and all that.”

  “If only I had known,” I said dryly.

  “What is your name?”

  “Nora Fitzpatrick.”

  “Relation to James Fitzpatrick with the Metropolitan National Bank?”

  “I am his younger daughter. And he has no idea where I am today.”

  “You can send him a letter. Age?”

  “Nineteen,” I lied, partly because in those days no one expected a lady to be entirely forthcoming about her age and partly because I was feeling contrary.

  “Residence?”

  “Washington. I was born here.”

  “Why were you arrested?”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea.”

  “Accomplice to murder, I believe it is, like the rest of Booth’s associates.” My face must have matched the whitewashed prison walls, for he added, “Don’t look so scared, miss. They haven’t laid formal charges against anyone yet.” He scribbled down some notes in a ledger. “All right, miss, you’re done. When the others are ready, we’ll take you to your room.”

  I nodded and watched as my companions underwent the same interrogation: Mrs. Surratt calmly, Anna haughtily, Miss Jenkins sleepily. Then the lieutenant whistled, and a guard came in. “Take the ladies to room 41 in the annex.”

  We followed the guard through the yard, muddy from the night’s drizzle, in the direction of the once stately Carroll Annex. From a window, someone yelled, “Fresh fish!”

  “Fish?” I asked.

  The guard coughed. “That would be you ladies, miss. New prisoners.”

  “Pretty fish in pink,” someone called.

  “Nicely shaped fish in gray.”

  The guard glared and leveled his gun up at the window. Anna in pink, and I in gray, stared at the ground.

  Without further comment upon our persons, we passed up a flight of stairs and into a large room with an elegantly shaped window that looked out over the yard but had doubtlessly not been barred in this house’s heyday. Two mice—oh, if only Mr. Rochester had been with me!—scurried into their holes as we entered and gazed around us. Four iron bedsteads, covered with blankets of indeterminate color, a couple of stools, a woodstove, and a table with a jug upon it completed the room’s furnishings. Nails, placed at convenient intervals on the wall, would serve as hat and clothes racks.

  “This is one of our nicest rooms,” the guard said, nodding proprietarily as if this were the Willard. “Make yourself at home. You’ll get your breakfast around nine. Oh, and you’re free to mingle with the other ladies.” He coughed and looked at Mrs. Surratt. “But you might want to take care, ma’am, that the young ladies don’t mingle too freely. Some of the ladies here are—er—not ladies.”

  Left alone in our new surroundings, we looked to Mrs. Surratt for guidance. “Let us try to rest a little before breakfast,” she said.

  We obeyed, not daring to undress further than to remove our crinolines, lest a guard catch us in our dishabille. The beds we lay down upon were by no means comfortable, and I decided not to give much thought to the cleanliness of the linens and blanket, but soon we were fast asleep.

  “Head count,” a voice sang out, rousing us from what could not have been more than an hour or two of slumber. The door swung open, and two men, one holding a notebook, stepped into the room as we squealed in horror. “One—two—three—four. All right, ladies. Carry on.”

  As this seemed the signal to start our day, we began our morning toilettes as best we could. “Do you think they’ll let us get some clean things from home?” Miss Jenkins asked.

  “Don’t count on it,” a female voice called from behind the door. “Mrs. Catherine Baxley. May I come in?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Surratt said.

  A tall lady of about forty or so with light hair and blue eyes, who had somewhat of a masculine air, but who was not unattractive, entered the room. “Welcome to the Yankee hellhole,” she said, holding out a shapely hand. “Mrs. Surratt and daughters?”

  “One daughter, Anna. Miss Jenkins is my niece, and Miss Fitzpatrick my boarder.”

  “Quite a haul they got, then. To answer the miss’s question, you can ask for a lot of things here, and usually they’ll agree, but whether you ever get them is another matter altogether. But you can keep trying.” In a softer voice, she asked Mrs. Surratt, “They’re looking for your boy, aren’t they?”

  “They are.”

  “If you do know where he is, for God’s sake, don’t let anyone here know, and that includes your fellow prisoners. This place is full of Union spies, planted in amongst the prisoners.”

  “How do we know you aren’t a spy?” Anna asked.

  Mrs. Baxley g
ave her a freezing look. “Because I would throw myself upon the paving stones below before I would give this government a lick of help,” she said. “My only child—a lad of but seventeen—is a prisoner here, and ill, and I have not been allowed to see him in days.”

  “I will pray for him,” Mrs. Surratt said. She gave her daughter a rare disapproving look, which made poor Anna bow her head meekly. “We will all pray for the young man.”

  “How long have you been here?” I asked.

  “First time, six months. This time, since January and counting.” Mrs. Baxley sighed, then looked through the open door. “Now, these two are safe. Come in, ladies, and introduce yourself.”

  Mrs. Surratt opened her mouth, then closed it, as the pair obeyed Mrs. Baxley’s command, their entry heralded by an overwhelming scent of cologne. Sheltered as I was, I realized straightaway what these ladies did for a living; no person over the age of ten could have been mistaken as to that.

  “These are Maggie and Rosie,” Mrs. Baxley said as the two, faced with such pillars of respectability such as ourselves, seemed reluctant to open the conversation. “Picked up the Saturday after the assassination, and for what? Just carrying on business as usual.”

  “Trying to cheer up the men,” Maggie said.

  “Everyone was so sad,” Rosie said.

  “We should have worn black ribbons,” Maggie said. “I told you we should have been wearing them.”

  “I was wearing one. Just not on my—”

  “Maggie, Rosie,” Mrs. Surratt said. “Please remember there are young ladies here.”

  “Aw, we’re sorry,” Maggie said. “We just get carried away.”

  “Nothing to do but talk here, you see,” Rosie added.

  “I hope you do not have to spend a long time here for such a trivial matter,” Mrs. Surratt said kindly.

  “Well, it’s a rest,” Maggie said philosophically. “They say we’ll probably get out when Superintendent Wood gets back here. He has a heart for the working girl. But let’s not wear out our welcome, Rosie.”

  “They’re nice girls,” Mrs. Baxley said after they had sauntered away. “Not the way I would choose to earn a living, mind you, but it’s an honest living. Oh, here comes the slop.”