Hanging Mary: A Novel

by Susan Higginbotham

  She was a maiden in her midthirties, and I shortly learned that her name was Miss Mattie Virginia Lomax and that she was a schoolteacher from Baltimore. “I was put in here merely for inquiring about my relations, the Greens, who are in here simply for having a nodding acquaintance with Mr. Surratt,” she said. “And you?”

  I hesitated, having heeded Mrs. Baxley’s warning about spies. “I was Mrs. Surratt’s boarder.”

  This seemed enough for Miss Lomax. “Yes, I’ve read about the arrests. I believe I met your father in the office. He is an older gentleman with white hair that hangs to his shoulders?”

  I nodded. “That’s Father.”

  “He said that he had been coming here every day, asking to see you, and bringing you food and other gifts.”

  My eyes filled with tears. “I have never been allowed to see him, and have received only one basket of cakes from him.” I pointed to my shawl hanging from a nail on the wall. “I keep them tied up in there to keep them from the roaches. We can share them.”

  “That is kind of you, but is the food really that bad here?”

  “Indeed it is,” I said with all of the relish of a boarding school pupil introducing a new girl to the place. “The food is awful and the place is full of bugs and there is a guard in front of our room at all times. You will see his eye at the door from time to time, especially when he thinks we might be in a state of undress. I stop up the keyhole with my handkerchief, but he pushes it right out.”

  “Mercy,” Miss Lomax said faintly.

  “We must never stick our head out of the window, or we will be shot—at least that is what they told me when I tried.” I was fairly chattering away, for the relief of having a human being with me, even one who was a complete stranger and who might be a spy, was almost too great to bear.

  I began giving her a rundown of our schedule—breakfast at eight, dinner at three, supper at eight, morning and evening head counts. Poor Miss Lomax was looking rather overwhelmed and in need of a bed to sink upon when that very article arrived, carried in by two men who dropped it in the corner with a grunt. “No blanket?”

  I looked out at the yard, where one of the women who brought us our meals was vigorously shaking a brown blanket. Miss Lomax’s eyes followed mine. “Oh,” she said faintly.

  I decided not to dishearten Miss Lomax by mentioning the blood on her sheet (which at least had had a chance to dry), but she noticed it presently, just as the woman bore in the blanket, on which my experienced eye soon detected the omnipresent bedbugs. “You can have the stool,” I offered.

  “Thank you, but where on earth can I hang my things?’

  I pointed to an unoccupied nail on the wall, which, like the one on which my own things hung, clearly had been intended for a more Amazonian creature than either Miss Lomax or me. “You’ll have to stand on the stool as I do.”

  Grimly, Miss Lomax complied, and I looked at the keyhole. Sure enough, the eye was pressed against it. I rather doubted the guard could get much of a peep up her skirts from this point, but as our sex had to stick together, I stood and blocked his view. “I suppose you have heard the news,” she said when she had accomplished her task and dismounted.

  “No. I have heard nothing.”

  “Booth is dead.”

  All of the pleasure I had been taking in inducting this fresh fish into our company vanished. I took the newspaper she offered me, and as I read the account of Mr. Booth’s last hours on earth, I began to cry.

  I should not have cried for him, knowing what he had done and how many lives he had devastated—but I did. I cried for his poor mother, of whom he’d spoken in his dying hours, and of whom he had spoken so fondly in Mrs. Surratt’s parlor. I cried for poor Miss Hale, who would soon be whisked off to Spain by her father, not to set foot in America for many years. I cried for poor Anna, who had loved him. I cried for the sheer waste of Mr. Booth’s finer qualities in the pursuance of a mad idea that hadn’t saved a single life or made a single person the happier for it.

  Most of all, I cried because he had given me my first kiss, and I couldn’t forget that special bond between us even though he had shot the president. And that night, I prayed for his soul with all of my might.

  • • •

  Despite the assurance that all I had to do was to tell all I knew about Mr. Booth and Mrs. Surratt, there had been no opportunity for me to tell, for I had not been questioned since my return here. This all changed on the day after Miss Lomax’s arrival and the news of Mr. Booth’s death, when I was summoned to the office. I was greeted by Tall One, my interrogator from the other day. “Good morning, Miss Fitzpatrick,” he said genially. “I trust you will be more cooperative than you have been in the past?”

  “I have not been uncooperative in the past, sir. I simply do not know what you seem to think I do.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that.”

  He started out by asking me to name Mrs. Surratt’s boarders. When I came to Port Tobacco, it seemed to please him very much. Then he began to fire questions at me. When did Port Tobacco come? How long did he stay? Did he come alone? Did he ask for Mr. Surratt? Had they been previously acquainted? Had Mr. Surratt been out of town before Port Tobacco came? Was Mr. Booth with him? When I gave what appeared to be the wrong answer, I trembled under his steely gaze, as if I were a private he was getting ready to send to the stocks, and when I gave an answer that appeared to suit him, I trembled to think of the consequences to Port Tobacco or Mr. Surratt, if they ever found him.

  The subject of Port Tobacco being exhausted, Tall One turned to Mr. Payne. He had not, I admitted, looked like much of a Baptist preacher to me, and yes, he did have a bit of a fierce look to him, I supposed. Then why had I not recognized him the night of my arrest?

  “I was frightened that night,” I said quite truthfully, “and he had a thing on his head.”

  “Would you have told anybody that night if they had asked you whether you recognized him?”

  As I had recognized him at the provost marshal’s office but had not said a thing to anybody, I said only, “I was frightened when they arrested me.”

  “When did you last see John H. Surratt?”

  This was a familiar question, though I could answer it to no one’s satisfaction. “Three weeks ago last Monday.”

  “Did you never have any suspicion that all these men were contriving something? Did you never hear them talking as though they were?”

  “No, sir. I never heard them say anything of the sort.”

  “When was it that Mr. Surratt burned some papers, do you remember?”

  “If he burned any, I didn’t know that he did it.”

  “You were not there at the time?”

  My head began to throb. “I never saw him burn any papers,” I snapped. “What he did when I was not around I cannot say.”

  Tall One seemed to concede my point. After questioning me about my whereabouts on Easter Sunday (church, which he seemed to find vaguely sinister), he terminated our interview. I followed the guard dejectedly back to my quarters, which after my visit to the comparative luxury of the office looked worse than ever. Miss Lomax was perched upon the stool, reading. “The oddest gift has arrived for us, Miss Fitzpatrick. Harper’s Weekly, and a perfectly dreadful dime novel.”

  “From whom?”

  “The guard would not or could not say, of course.” She glanced at the keyhole. “The magazine could have come from just about anyone, I suppose, but no one of my acquaintance reads this trash.” She held up the dime novel gingerly.

  “Mine neither. Maybe one of the other prisoners sent it.”

  “Yes, that must be it.” Ever the schoolteacher, she frowned as I took it from her hand. “I really wonder if you should be reading this, Miss Fitzpatrick. It is hardly suitable for a young lady.”

  “Neither is this room,” I pointed out and opened the book. It was
titled The Trapper’s Bride and contained a great deal of fighting between the white men and the Indians, all ending happily with a series of engagements worthy of a Jane Austen novel. It was quite improbable, but it got me through those dreary days, and for that I was heartily grateful to the donor—whoever he or she might be.

  • • •

  Since my return to prison, I had not caught a glimpse of either Mrs. Surratt or Anna. As they were in the room above ours, I could hear them moving about, which gave me a certain comfort, and I had even investigated the ceiling for holes in the hope of opening communication with them. Had I been equipped with a broom, I often thought, I could have tapped out some sort of message, though how I might code one was another matter altogether. Before I could devote much more thought to this, however, Miss Lomax arrived, and her presence meant I could simply pass messages through her to my friends, as for reasons known best to Superintendent Wood and God (in that order), she had liberties I did not and could mingle freely with the other women. I dared not send a written message, as that would have perhaps been disastrous for all of us, but I frequently sent oral messages of love and affection, which were reciprocated. From Miss Lomax I learned that Mrs. Surratt was bearing her imprisonment calmly but that poor Anna had taken the death of Mr. Booth very hard, although she had enough sense to conceal her emotions from our jailers.

  On April 30, Miss Lomax told me Mrs. Surratt had been taken away from prison, to where she did not know. After discussing the matter, we came to the conclusion that she had been sent to the provost marshal’s, or perhaps even the War Department for questioning, and would soon return. We even took turns sitting up that night, watching the yard for Mrs. Surratt. But daylight came with no sign of my landlady, only the sound of Anna endlessly pacing overhead, waiting in vain for her mother.

  37

  MARY

  MAY 8 TO 13, 1865

  During my first few days at the Old Arsenal, they shifted me back and forth between two cells: 157 and 200. Except in my walks from one to another, I did not see anything else. The food at the Arsenal, while of the most simple type, was more wholesome than that at the Old Capitol Prison, but all I could consume was tea and toast, and for the first few days at my new prison, I could not even manage to eat the toast. I recoiled from food altogether until Dr. Porter, who saw me daily, told me kindly that, as the government did not want me to starve to death, he would have to feed me by force if I did not take some sustenance.

  They were not unkind to me. At the doctor’s recommendation, they supplied me with warm slippers; when the doctor decided 157 was unwholesome, they moved me to 200, to return to 157 only when 200 was being aired. My one complaint was they would not tell me for what I would be tried.

  There was to be a trial; I knew that much. Who was to be tried with me and where the trial was to be held were as unknown to me as what charges I would face. Would my Anna be tried? Would Nora? Had Johnny been captured?

  No one told me a thing, but they were perfectly polite about it.

  • • •

  The days were monotonous, but the nights were far worse. With no company and nothing to relieve the darkness, I had nothing to occupy my mind but the memory of Anna’s screams as they dragged us apart.

  Nothing else, that is, besides regrets. How could I have been so foolish?

  Darkness had fallen upon the prison on the evening of May 8, a Monday, and I was preparing for another miserable night with my own thoughts when General Hartranft came to my cell, bearing a lantern and some papers. “Mrs. Surratt, I have the charges against you. I can allow you to read them while I wait, or I can read them to you, if you wish.”

  I looked at the papers with their small type. “I cannot read that in this light. Please read them to me.”

  “As you like.” General Hartranft cleared his throat. “The charge and specification against David E. Herold, George A. Atzerodt, Lewis Payne, Michael O’Laughlin, Edward Spangler, Samuel Arnold, Mary E. Surratt, and Samuel A. Mudd. For maliciously, unlawfully, and traitorously, and in aid of the existing armed rebellion against the United States of America, on or before the sixth day of March 1865, and on diverse other days between that day and the fifteenth day of April 1865, combining, confederating, and conspiring together with one John H. Surratt, John Wilkes Booth, Jefferson Davis—”

  “Jefferson Davis? Sir, I have never seen the man, much less conspired with him.”

  “Madam, please let me read the specification. It is my duty, and it is necessary that you know with what you are charged.”

  I nodded, and the major read on. An Edward Spangler was accused of helping Mr. Booth gain entrance to the presidential box of Ford’s Theatre and of assisting his flight from the theater. David Herold was accused of helping Mr. Booth evade capture. Lewis Payne was accused of attempting to murder Secretary of State Seward. George Atzerodt was accused of lying in wait to murder Vice President Johnson. Michael O’Laughlin—whoever he was—was accused of plotting to murder General Grant. Samuel Arnold, another name that meant nothing to me, was accused of plotting with Mr. Booth and others.

  General Hartranft paused for breath. Then, in a particularly clear voice, he read, “And in further prosecution of said conspiracy, Mary E. Surratt did, at Washington City, and within the military department and military lines aforesaid, receive, entertain, harbor and conceal, aid and assist the said John Wilkes Booth, David E. Herold, Lewis Payne, John H. Surratt, Michael O’Laughlin, George Atzerodt, Samuel Arnold, and their confederates, with the knowledge of the murderous and traitorous conspiracy aforesaid, and with intent to aid, abet, and assist them in the execution thereof, and in escaping from justice after the murder of the said Abraham Lincoln.”

  I shook my head. General Hartranft continued on to detail the charges against Samuel Mudd, a doctor who treated Mr. Booth’s injuries and sheltered him within his house for a short time after the assassination. A memory stirred, and I heard Johnny’s voice. You must walk through the Mudd to get to the Booth…

  “Sir, I do not understand. Why all of this language about military lines?”

  “Your lawyer—when you get one—can explain it to you, madam. But I expect the language is there because it is to be a military trial.”

  “A military trial? Why on earth will be there be a military trial?”

  “Your lawyer—”

  “Can explain it. When will I have a chance to ask for one?”

  “You will be brought before the commission tomorrow and may ask for one then. Have you any more questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “While I am here, are you finding room 200 more agreeable than room 157?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I will take my leave. I have several more of these to deliver this evening.”

  He bustled off, and I lay back down on my pallet. How was I to find a lawyer? How was I to pay for one? I supposed I would have to give the H Street house as security—an irony, seeing as it was moving to that house that had brought me where I was.

  I sifted through the names of the various lawyers of whom I had heard. Most were country lawyers dealing with country cases, such as land disputes—the very sort of lawyer I would have called upon when my worst trouble was trying to collect my debt from Mr. Nothey. None I knew had handled a murder case, much less a murder case of a civilian being tried by a military commission.

  One name finally came to mind: Senator Reverdy Johnson, one of the most prominent lawyers in Maryland. He had tried the Dred Scott case before the Supreme Court and was certainly capable of standing up before this military commission. But would he take the case? And could I afford his fee? At least worrying about my lawyer distracted me from the scene that otherwise haunted my waking moments: Anna screaming as I was led away.

  • • •

  The next morning, I was told to prepare for court, although there was not anything I could do exce
pt to wash myself with the water brought for that purpose daily and put on my bonnet. “Where is the court?” I asked the young guard as he began to lead me from my cell. “Is it far from here?”

  He chuckled. “No, ma’am. It’s right next door. They’ve rigged up a special entrance for the prisoners to pass from the cell block to the courtroom.”

  “There was a courtroom here?”

  “There is now. It’s been made into one, especially for this trial. They did it right fast—oh, damn—pardon me, ma’am. I thought they were already in there.”

  Shuffling down the hall, each led by his keeper like a bear being taken to his baiting, were six men, their hands cuffed, their ankles shackled—and each man’s head covered with a black linen hood, save for a slit through which his mouth and part of his nose were visible. Several had an iron ball, carried by a guard, chained to one leg. A seventh man, hoodless but shackled and under guard, followed the rest, his pale face alight with horror.

  It was almost as if their fate had been preordained, and they were being led to the hangman. I shuddered.

  We stepped back into my cell while the men shambled past us. “Am I to wear a hood?” I whispered.

  “No, ma’am. Only the men wear them, except for Dr. Mudd.”

  “They are to wear them while they go to the courtroom? How horrid!”

  “No, ma’am. They wear them all of the—” My young guard stopped himself. “I’ve said too much, ma’am.”

  My guard led me down the hall and into a whitewashed room, where an empty seat immediately by the door awaited me. The hooded men were being pushed into their seats when I took my place.

  Seated at a table on my far left, close to the room’s only windows, were a group of men in uniform. I heard one look at me and whisper, “A woman? Here on trial?” The others’ eyes were riveted on the hooded men.