Hanging Mary: A Novel

by Susan Higginbotham

  I watched hungrily as two colored women bore in trays, which they set on the table. On the trays were two pots of coffee, four delft mugs, four slabs of bread, and an infinitesimal pat of butter. “Is this it?” Anna asked Mrs. Baxley as the servants went out just as they had come in, without a word.

  “I’m afraid so, miss. Mind you, the men have it much worse. They have to go to a mess hall and push and shove to get what we get brought to us.”

  I poured myself some coffee, noticing as I did so that my cup was still wet, I hoped from washing. Though the sip I took of it was very cautious, I still sputtered as Mrs. Baxley looked on with sympathy. “What on earth is this?”

  “Now, that’s something no one here has ever figured out. In theory it’s coffee, of course, but no one’s certain what exactly is in it. It varies, and it hasn’t killed anyone here yet. That’s the best I can tell you.”

  I put the coffee down and stared at the bread. Mrs. Surratt reached for it. “Come, girls. We must eat or we will be ill.”

  “What if eating makes us ill?” Miss Jenkins asked.

  Mrs. Surratt ignored this very sensible question and began to chew. We followed suit as Mrs. Baxley looked on. “Dinner will be even worse,” she promised us.

  33

  MARY

  APRIL 18 TO 22, 1865

  I am ashamed to admit that normally I would not have cared to associate with such a woman as Mrs. Baxley. She was separated from her husband, and she spoke of her men friends in such a way that I wondered if they were much more than friends.

  But she was a mother also, and her tale broke my heart. She had only one son, a lad of seventeen, and when she was imprisoned here the first time, the boy, then fourteen, was thrown upon his own resources—his father, I gathered, having no use for him. For a time, he found work at the sutler’s here so he could be near his mother. When Mrs. Baxley, penniless, was released on the condition that she leave her Baltimore home behind and go south, he followed her, and at age fifteen, he enlisted in the Confederate army. Twice he had been captured and imprisoned by the Yankees. The first time, he was kept at Fort Delaware for nearly eighteen months; the second time, they brought him here.

  “He has wasted away so, that when they brought him here with the other prisoners earlier, I did not recognize him, even though I was looking out the window when they came in,” Mrs. Baxley told us. “He even called to me, ‘All is lost! Our cause is hopeless, and I am badly wounded.’ But I merely kissed my hand in sympathy toward him. Then that brute of an assistant superintendent, Wilson, came and told me, ‘What do you think, madam? Your precious angel is here, and wounded. Birds of a feather, eh?’ In the past, I would have scratched the man’s eyes out, but instead I begged to see my boy. I had not seen him for two years. He refused. Superintendent Wood came back—a good man, I must say—and had him brought to the annex where I could nurse him. But Wood has gone away, and Wilson will not allow me to see my boy. And he was growing so weak.”

  I put my arm around her. “Who is nursing him?”

  “A stranger, a colored servant here.”

  “Then let me ask if I can take your place until Superintendent Wood returns.”

  Mrs. Baxley whispered, “Thank you.”

  That afternoon, I sought out Mr. Wilson. “I have a request for you, sir.”

  “Already?”

  “I understand from Mrs. Baxley that her son is ill and that she is unable to see him.”

  “That woman’s a damned nuisance—excuse me, madam, a nuisance. We let her see the lad, even moved him into a room all to himself so she could tend to him. And she started ranting and raving about how we were killing him by not giving him some chicken he begged for when he was out of his head. It’s not a hotel we’re running here, but we feed the boy well enough. She made her own bed; let her lie in it. She can see him when she can act a little more like a lady.”

  “I would like, sir, to have permission to nurse him myself. It would comfort her, and comfort him, I believe.”

  Mr. Wilson pondered this. “Well,” he said at last. “I suppose there’s no harm in it.”

  So I went to the garret room where young William Baxley, the pride of his mother’s life, lay, and my heart broke for his mother. This boy was dying. The prison doctor told me he might have been saved had his injured leg been amputated, but it was too late for that now. There was little I could do for him but try to keep him comfortable and to calm him when his mind began to wander, as it often did. Except at night and at the times when I went to my room to rest or to check on Anna, at which time the servant took over, I was always by his side.

  His uniform was little better than rags, and he was painfully thin—God only knows when the lad last had a good meal. He was quite small for his age too. All in all, he looked more like a street urchin than a soldier.

  The funeral procession for President Lincoln, held on Wednesday, terrified him. On the morning after the assassination, he had had a hemorrhage, and it was when he was in that weakened condition that he heard someone say a mob would storm the prison and murder all of the rebels inside. Since then, each time his fever climbed, he begged not to be tormented to death but to be shot quickly. I, at last, was compelled to give him some laudanum, and soon he was resting quietly.

  He had a little diary with him, and—telling myself it would make me a better nurse if I knew him better—I could not stop myself from reading through it as he slept. Sadly, he recorded the deaths of various friends. Laconically, without any self-pity, he noted his own imprisonments and hospitalizations. He was no angel; at Fort Delaware, where he was held for a year and a half, he recounted the pranks he and his young friends played on the older prisoners. Once he got hold of some whiskey, and he liked a chew of tobacco. He longed for a real cup of coffee. Most of all, he longed for a sweetheart to write to, a set of whiskers, and a few more inches of height, all of which turned out to be related complaints, for the various young ladies he encountered were kind but treated him as they might their little brother, and even the camp followers shooed him off as too young for their services. He had never kissed a girl, he wrote while being held captive at City Point before being sent here, and he supposed that perhaps he never would.

  I put down the diary and wept.

  But he was not always delirious or even unhappy. Word had spread around the prison about his condition, so those prisoners who could afford it had the sutler send him delicacies, which he made a gallant effort at devouring. He adored his mother, and the only time I saw him lose his composure when in his senses was when he told me how his father beat her (something Mrs. Baxley had not mentioned) while he stood by, too young and small to come to her aid. I had his bed moved by the window so when he was able to, he could sit propped up against the pillows and watch the passersby. Though his diary led me to believe that in health he was outgoing, nearly as talkative as his mother, in his sickness he was content to be left to his own thoughts while I sat by his side and made what repairs I could to his uniform.

  “You know what I’d like to do someday, Mrs. Surratt?” he asked once after several hours of silence.

  I followed his eye to a pair of giggling young ladies passing by the prison. “What, dear?”

  “Go to the Canterbury here.” He blushed. “One of the men told me the girls there are really pretty.”

  “So I hear.” I patted his hand. “When you are better, and when my own sons are back, perhaps you can make a party of it.”

  I was not at all certain how confident these whens sounded. But they seemed to give William hope, for when I next looked up, he was sleeping, a half smile on his face.

  • • •

  Superintendent Wood—a short, rumpled man who looked more like one of the prisoners than our keeper—returned on the day after the procession, and after much cajoling, he released two prostitutes who were imprisoned here, and who often stopped by our room to c
hatter. I did not believe they were bad girls at heart, but I confess I was glad to see them gone, for while I know Our Savior consorted with thieves and prostitutes, he did not have a daughter to think of.

  But most importantly, Superintendent Wood ordered that Mrs. Baxley be admitted to her son’s room again. My duties did not cease, however, for it turned out that the boy had grown attached to me, and Mrs. Baxley too needed comfort (and, she confessed to me, wanted a companion lest she again say something that would get her sent away). So a few times a day, I read to them from a little pocket Bible (found in William’s uniform, and admittedly not very well thumbed) while Mrs. Baxley sat by her son’s bedside, stroking his dark hair as mother and son listened to those words of heavenly comfort.

  • • •

  On Friday, Superintendent Wood came to our room. “I’m going to Maryland to help them look for Booth,” he announced. “They’ve raised the reward to a hundred thousand dollars, and I’ll be as happy as any other man to claim it. Fifty thousand for Booth, and twenty-five thousand each for Herold and your son John.” He nodded toward Olivia. “And I’m taking you, young lady, with me, and returning you to your father’s house. Maybe it might make the good people of Prince George’s County a bit more forthcoming.”

  “Oh, thank the Lord! But can we stop by my aunt’s house and get my clothes?”

  “Of course.” Superintendent Wood winked. “What’s catching an assassin to making sure you have gowns? Besides, we’ll be going to that neighborhood to pick up Kirby.”

  “Mr. Kirby?” I asked. “You mean my friend Mr. Kirby?”

  “Yes, I’ve detailed him as part of my search party,” Superintendent Wood said offhandedly. “He knows your son, and twenty-five thousand is nothing to sneeze at.”

  “Sir, is the reward for them dead or alive?”

  “It doesn’t say. But all in all, I imagine the authorities would prefer to have them taken alive.”

  I hugged Olivia, too distracted by thoughts of my son being led back here in chains, or carried in lifeless, to bid her a proper good-bye.

  • • •

  Mrs. Baxley cried when she heard of Superintendent Wood’s departure, certain it would mean another separation from her boy. But not even Mr. Wilson would be so callous as to part them, for it was apparent that William Baxley had just hours to live.

  Mr. Wilson sent for a priest, who heard the young man’s confession and gave him the last rites before leaving the boy and his mother alone, with me nearby as requested. William was very weak but generally in his senses, and he listened patiently as Mrs. Baxley apologized to him at great length for everything she had ever done wrong. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be repenting, Ma,” he said with a faint smile. “Ma, is it my birthday yet?”

  “No, my love. A few days off.”

  “Oh.” William Baxley’s face contracted. “Kiss me, Ma, like you used to when I was a little fellow, and hold my hand while I sleep.”

  She obeyed, and just around three in the morning on April 22, her son slipped quietly out of this hard world.

  • • •

  I left Mrs. Baxley alone with her dead son, returning after daylight to help her lay him out in the pine coffin Lieutenant Colonel Colby ordered. We were about to dress him in his tattered gray jacket when Mrs. Baxley shook her head and put the garment aside, folding it tenderly for herself. Other than this, his Bible, his diary, and a ring, which I took off his hand for his mother, the boy had no effects. I cut a lock of his hair for Mrs. Baxley, and with her permission, one for me as well, for it hurt to think how few people would mourn this handsome young boy who, but for this cruel war, would have married a sweet young woman and fathered children.

  Superintendent Wood, expecting the worst, had left orders that the young man be taken to Congressional Cemetery and that Mrs. Baxley and anyone of her choice be allowed to attend his funeral. She chose me, and together we rode in the carriage Lieutenant Colonel Colby had hired to the cemetery. It had far too many fresh graves.

  I watched as they slid William’s coffin into the public vault, where it would rest until Mrs. Baxley could find the means to move it to a place of her own choosing. The coffin held a boy of seventeen who had seen men die horribly, who had experienced hunger and pain and privation, but who had never kissed a girl. The unfairness of it filled me with so much rage that I began to shake.

  And then I understood exactly why Mr. Booth did what he did.

  34

  NORA

  APRIL 22 TO 24, 1865

  Having spent most of my life at boarding schools, I settled into routines naturally, and I soon settled into this one. We had our morning and nightly head counts, our three meals a day, and a couple of exercise periods, and in between all of these regularly scheduled events, we ladies wandered about in each other’s quarters and looked out for fresh fish. There was quite a full net of us over those first couple of days, including so many people connected with Ford’s Theatre or the acting profession that we might have gotten up private theatricals here, complete with scenery, if anyone had been so inclined.

  As fish were concerned, it soon appeared that I was a mere minnow, for on the first Saturday of our captivity, while Mrs. Surratt was at the Baxley boy’s funeral, Mr. Wilson came to our room. “Collect your things, Miss Fitzpatrick. You’re to be released, and your father is waiting to take you home.”

  “What about the others, sir?”

  “The orders concern only you, miss.”

  I embraced Anna. “They’ll free you and your mother soon, I just know it. They’re investigating and realizing that we’re innocent of all this.”

  “I hope so.”

  Brushing my eyes as I left the dejected Anna behind, I followed Mr. Wilson to the office where I had been searched. There my father was pacing around. “Nora!” He took me into his arms. “My darling child, I have been frantic with worry.”

  “And she’s safe and sound, just as I told you,” Mr. Wilson said. “Can we give you a ride in the ambulance? It’s a dreary day, as you know.”

  “Thank you, but I would prefer to take my daughter home myself,” my father said stiffly.

  “As you wish.” He handed me a piece of paper. “Sign this—a loyalty oath—and you are free to go.”

  I never signed a paper so quickly in my life.

  We passed out into the street, I taking one last look at the walls that had held me as my father lifted his umbrella over our heads. “I hope my letter did not alarm you, Father.”

  “Letter? I got no letter.”

  “They let me send you one the morning I got here.”

  “I have seen nothing of the sort, child. I went to Mrs. Surratt’s on Tuesday, having heard that a man had been arrested there, and found the place full of detectives, who told me that all of you had been taken here. They detained me for a short time, as they were doing to anyone who happened to stop by there for any reason, and then let me go. Since then, I have been going from pillar to post, begging for your release, but with no success until today.”

  I looked appreciatively around at the blooming trees, never so beautiful in my eyes as today, even though the rain was falling fast. “Where am I to stay?”

  “At the Misses Donovan.” Father looked away. “I will be straightforward with you, child. I had already spoken to them about taking you in on the very day you were arrested. The more talk I heard about Booth’s being received in that house, and about Mr. Surratt’s activities, the more I came to realize that however fond you were of Mrs. Surratt, I could not have you remaining there. Peter himself telegrammed me to urge that you be taken from there, and that decided me.”

  I was too relieved to be free to complain of Peter’s meddling.

  As we turned the corner, I saw the placard that had mushroomed around the city: the latest reward poster for Mr. Booth, Mr. Herold, and Mr. Surratt. I’d seen the photograp
h of Mr. Surratt many times before: it was the one Mr. Weichmann had handed the detectives.

  • • •

  To my joy, Mr. Rochester was comfortably ensconced in the Misses Donovan’s best chair when my father brought me to their house. He gave me a bored look and rolled over, clearly content with his new surroundings after all of the inconvenience he had suffered in his old ones.

  But if Mr. Rochester took my disappearance and return with perfect equanimity, how the old ladies fussed over me! One would think I had escaped from the Bastille. Nothing but my favorite foods was ever served me, and I am convinced that if I had suddenly announced a taste for porpoise, the ladies would have made every effort to accommodate me.

  Pleasant as all this cosseting was, it was also a bit stifling, and I was relieved when Father allowed me to work at my booth at the St. Aloysius fair, as had been arranged—it seemed decades ago—before the assassination. So, clad in my best Sunday dress that had been liberated from the assassin’s den, as the Misses Donovan liked to refer to Mrs. Surratt’s boardinghouse, I took my place there at the appointed time on Monday evening.

  Normally at church fairs and charity bazaars, I stood forlornly behind a table stacked with plain and fancy goods while men flocked to the tables of prettier young ladies, until, to my utter humiliation, one of the Venuses, her own table empty of goods, would be sent to my table and immediately bolster its appeal. But not this day. As soon as I took my place, a crowd began to flock to my table. I knew why, of course: word traveled fast in this large church, and everyone knew of my arrest and my acquaintance with Mr. Booth. For two straight hours, I pressed my wares on customers while answering the same questions over and over again: Yes, I knew Mr. Booth. No, he did not look to me like an assassin. No, I had not known what he was planning, and if I had, I would most certainly have let someone know. No, I had no idea of where he might be hiding. Yes, I had been in prison. No, I did not know when Mrs. Surratt and Anna would be leaving, but I hoped it was soon, as they had known nothing about Mr. Booth’s evil deed. Everyone was so very curious, in fact, they were forgetting to buy my goods.