“If you did not know what he was contemplating, how could you forfeit your friendship to him? What is the rationale of that proceeding?”
“I never forfeited my friendship to him. He forfeited his friendship to me.”
“Not by engaging in the cotton speculation?”
“No, sir. By placing me in the position in which I now am—testifying against him.”
The commissioners, along with the lady spectators, all nodded sympathetically at poor Mr. Weichmann’s plight.
40
NORA
MAY 13 TO MAY 31, 1865
Soon after the trial began, my friend Tall One visited me in Mr. Wood’s office. “You are on the list of witnesses to testify for the prosecution,” he informed me. “Testify satisfactorily, and you will find yourself safe at home.”
“What do you call testifying satisfactorily?”
“I call it testifying to the points you’ve been cooperative on, which haven’t been all that many. You saw Booth, Payne, and Atzerodt at Mrs. Surratt’s house. Are you prepared to admit to that?”
“I can hardly deny it.”
“Then don’t try. Second point: you went to Ford’s Theatre with John Surratt and Payne, sat in a box there, and saw Mr. Booth pay the men a visit. Are you prepared to admit to that?”
“I am.”
“Then just don’t make any unpleasant surprises for us, miss, and testify as you just promised me.”
“I will not have to testify against Mrs. Surratt?”
Tall One eyed me. “Is there something you know against her?”
“Nothing.”
“And if you did, I doubt you’d tell it,” Tall One remarked. He rang for my guard. “Women,” he muttered.
• • •
With the start of the trial, I soon became accustomed to a new routine. Each morning, a group of us prisoners would be herded into ambulances, which took us to the Old Arsenal. There, we were crowded into a small room adjoining the courtroom, waiting to be called to testify if needed that day. Usually we were not needed but would sit there for hours under guard, listening to the day’s proceedings.
Mr. Weichmann often shared the ambulance with me. Over the first few days of the trial, he took the stand no fewer than four times, and I listened as he testified about Port Tobacco and Mr. Payne, about Mr. Surratt’s meeting with Mr. Booth and Dr. Mudd, about Mrs. Slater and Mr. Howell, about Mr. Booth’s comings and goings, about Mrs. Surratt’s trips to the tavern with him, even about my own visit to Ford’s Theatre. All of it made a nice little package of conspiracy, which Mr. Weichmann tied up with a pretty bow and handed to the government. Whether he did so out of fear of being placed in the prisoner’s dock himself or out of a genuine desire to see the guilty punished, I cannot say, but when he left the stand and went to sit with the rest of us, awaiting the drive back to Old Capitol Prison, he left off the fine posture he exhibited on the witness stand and sat slumped in a chair, toying with a pocket watch.
We never spoke in the room or in the ambulance, as we were under guard the entire time. Only once, as we stood waiting our turn to climb into the ambulance, did I get a chance to hiss to him, “Since you volunteer testimony from time to time, I wish you would tell the rest, Mr. Weichmann.”
“The rest?”
“Yes. About Mrs. Surratt comforting me when Private Flanagan died. About you and Mr. Surratt singing ‘Dixie.’ About the time we went to see the election results. About the readings we did for Mr. Booth. The times when we were amusing ourselves and no one was plotting anything.”
Mr. Weichmann gazed at me rather sadly. “It’s not relevant, Miss Fitzpatrick.”
“Maybe,” I said just as the guard came into view. “But it’s part of the story, isn’t it?”
• • •
On Monday, May 22, an officer said, “You’ll be first today, Miss Fitzpatrick,” as we were led to our usual gathering place.
I gulped.
As my name was called and I walked to the stand, I glimpsed Mrs. Surratt sitting in a chair in a corner. Clad in black, she held a fan in her hand. I could not see her expression through her veil, and I could only pray that she realized I had not chosen to testify for the prosecution.
I had learned through the chattering of our guards to one another and the newspapers that the trial had attracted many spectators, women as well as men, and the former were especially well represented this morning. Their titters followed me to the stand, and I could see why, for I was a shabby-looking creature. Although Father had been allowed to send in a change of undergarments for me, I was still wearing the dress I had worn when I was arrested at the church fair, and after nearly a month it was none too fresh. After much fuss, I’d finally been given a towel to wash with in the morning, but as the towel was seldom replaced, my face felt nearly as grimy as my dress.
At least I was free of lice, I consoled myself. Each morning, I sat down and coolly checked myself for them, and sometimes Mrs. Thomas and I checked each other for them, like a pair of monkeys. (Even Mrs. Thomas’s lack of squeamishness stopped at lice.) I had been imprisoned long enough to no longer find this particularly odd.
I stepped as far as I could into the witness box—there was a little chuckle when the audience noted it was not built to accommodate a lady’s crinoline—and gazed at the commissioners as I took my oath. Then rose Judge Advocate Bingham, a thin, stern-looking man of about fifty. “State, if you please, to the court your name and residence.”
“My name is Honora Fitzpatrick. I am a resident of Washington.”
“At whose house did you reside during the month of March last in Washington?”
“At Mrs. Surratt’s.”
“The house of the prisoner at the bar?”
It was such a cold appellation. “Yes, sir.”
“State to the court whether, during the time of your residence at her house last winter, you saw John H. Surratt and other men in company with him there.”
“I saw John Surratt there.”
Judge Bingham nodded approvingly. “State what other men you saw there during the time of your stay last winter.”
“I saw Mr. Booth there.”
“John Wilkes Booth?”
“Yes, sir.”
“State whether you saw any of the prisoners at the bar there during your stay last winter.”
“Yes, sir.”
Judge Bingham snapped, “Who are they?”
Seven men with irons on their wrists and I looked at one another. “There is one, Mr. Payne there, and another, Port—I mean, Mr. Atzerodt.”
“How often did you see this Mr. Payne at Mrs. Surratt’s house? And when?”
“I never saw him there but twice.”
“How often did you see this Mr. Atzerodt that you speak of there?”
“He was there for a short time.”
“Do you understand whether he stayed there overnight once?”
“Yes, sir, he did.”
Judge Bingham gestured. “Look at the other prisoners at the bar—that one at the bar talking.” He pointed to a young man, whom I recognized from the wanted posters as Mr. Herold, who was conversing with a man I supposed was his lawyer.
“I do not know him. I never saw him.”
This seemed to disappoint Judge Bingham. “State to the court whether you accompanied Surratt and this Payne to Ford’s Theatre one night last March,” he said curtly.
“Yes, sir.”
“State whether you occupied a box in the theater that night with them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which box was it that you occupied?”
“I do not know.”
“On which side of the theater was it, as you went in?”
“I did not pay attention which side it was on.”
“And cannot tell now which side it was
on?”
“No, sir.”
“Was it the upper or lower box?”
“I think it was the upper.”
“State whether John Wilkes Booth came into that box that night while you and Surratt and Payne were in there.”
“Yes, sir, he did.” For the first time, it occurred to me that I’d likely been watching Jane Shore in the same box where the president had been murdered a month later. I shivered at the thought.
“What other lady accompanied you?”
I hoped they did not intend to make the little girl testify. “Miss Dean.”
“When did you leave Mrs. Surratt’s after going to the theater?”
“I went on a visit to Baltimore.”
The commissioners murmured at the word Baltimore, and I wondered if I should have mentioned that I had paid a visit to my sister, the nun.
“When did you start on that visit?”
“In the six o’clock train the next day after going to the theater.”
“How long were you absent?”
“I was absent a week.”
Judge Bingham nodded toward the commissioners. “Have you any questions of the young lady?”
Someone asked, “Do you recollect, on entering the theater, whether you turned to the right or to the left to get to the box you occupied?”
“No, sir, I do not know which side I turned to.”
“You may step down,” said Judge Bingham.
I obeyed, managing to smile at Mrs. Surratt as I turned to walk back to the waiting room. I doubted she could see my expression, but at least I had made the effort.
• • •
I had returned to my cell—I almost said “to my home”—only for a few minutes when Superintendent Wood entered. “You’re free, Miss Fitzpatrick.”
“Free?”
“Orders of General Augur. Gather your things, and I’ll take you to your father. He just arrived to escort you home.”
Numbly, I obeyed. I had little to gather but my shawl and my bonnet, which I had but just hung in their places, and my change of undergarments, which Mr. Wood gallantly pretended not to see. I snatched up The Trapper’s Bride as well. I was on my way out when I turned. “Wait, sir.”
I still had the stub of a pencil I’d been given when I’d asked to write to my father. I took it out of my pocket and turned to the wall. When I had finished, the inscription there read:
Miss Nora Fitzpatrick,
In durance vile from April 24, 1865, to May 22, 1865
Mr. Wood watched me indulgently. “All done, miss?”
I nodded. “Done.”
I followed Superintendent Wood, taking one last glance at my handiwork. It and the wall on which I wrote are dust now, smashed to smithereens like the rest of Carroll Annex to make room for the new Library of Congress building. I passed by it not long after it was knocked down and pondered whether it was a good thing that a place where so many people had suffered should be gone for good, or an ill thing that it and all those who suffered inside should be forgotten.
• • •
Father was pacing around Superintendent Wood’s office when I came in. He gathered me into his arms and embraced me. “My dear child,” he whispered. “How I have worried about you.” He stepped back and stared at me, then at my keeper. “What have you done to my daughter? She’s skin and bones! I sent her a basket of food every day. Why was she kept here so long?”
Superintendent Wood decided to answer the easiest question. “Secretary Stanton wished to keep her here until she testified satisfactorily, sir.”
My father launched into a description of the secretary of war so vivid, colorful, and completely obscene that it was miraculous he wasn’t thrown into prison straightaway. I had never heard him use such language in my life and could do nothing but stand and wonder where on earth he had acquired it. Superintendent Wood seemed equally impressed. “Good day, sir,” he said when my father had at last finished his tirade. “I wish you and your daughter well.”
Father muttered something less colorful and ushered me out the door.
“Goodness, Father!” I said.
My father said nothing but walked beside me as I pretended not to notice the tears pouring down his face. Finally, he regained his composure. “It is hard, child, not to have been able to do anything to free you. I have never felt so helpless in my life. And what if they take a whim and decide to put you back?”
“I doubt they will, Father. I told them what they wanted.”
“Then I would like to send you North to recover your health, child. Peter suggests the mountains of Vermont.”
“My health is fine, Father,” I said. “I just need a bath. The Misses Donovan will fatten me up in no time. Besides, I can’t leave while the trial is going on.”
“There were no conditions upon your release. That Superintendent Wood told me that.”
“I meant I can’t leave while Mrs. Surratt’s fate is being decided.”
“I find your loyalty to that woman unaccountable, Nora, after she dragged you into this.”
“She didn’t drag me into it. Mr. Booth did that.” I looked at my father. “I could never enjoy myself in the Vermont mountains worrying about what’s happening here. I would pine away.”
My father sighed, but it was the familiar sigh indicating that he was about to give way. “Very well. If your health does not appear to be in danger, you can stay here. I confess, I would miss you anyway.”
We proceeded to the Misses Donovan, who wept over me for a decent interval before drawing back and ordering their servant to prepare a bath. In as short order as possible, I was luxuriating in a warm tub in the kitchen. My grime at last removed, I sat down to eat. It was a simple meal, as the old ladies usually prepared, but it tasted infinitely delicious. By the time it was finished, the nearly thirty nights of poor sleep I had had were beginning to tell on me, and I was nodding over my plate.
The servant girl led me upstairs into my chintz-covered room, where Mr. Rochester was dozing. Although it was still light outside, I undressed, then said my prayers and climbed into bed.
But I had forgotten something. Sitting up, I checked myself for lice, inspected the coverlet and sheets for bedbugs, and looked through the keyhole to see if anyone might be spying on me as I slept. These preparations concluded, I settled into bed next to Mr. Rochester once more and slept a good twelve hours.
• • •
I probably could have slept far longer on my first morning home from prison, but it would have been impossible, for while I had been incarcerated, Washington had at last shed its funeral attire and draped itself again in bunting. That day and the next, there was a grand review of the armies of the republic, and the bands began striking up at nine sharp.
Washington had never been so crowded—not even for the second inaugural, not even for the illuminations. Even the Misses Donovan, although they had faithfully kept my own room waiting for me, had given into temptation and rented out a few rooms and the attic to a couple of parties of ladies.
I was less strong than I had admitted to my father and was not inclined to push my way through the throngs, much less stand for hours watching the spectacle, so after eating the breakfast of Brobdingnagian proportions pressed on me by the misses, I returned to my room and sat by the window, listening to the bands. It was good to see the city of my birth with flags flying and with spirits high again, even though I could not forget my friends languishing in prison. Nor did I omit to shed a tear for poor Private Flanagan, who should have been marching with his regiment this fine day, or for all of the other young men who would not be returning home when this grand review ended.
The sound of the bands had begun to die away and I was dozing in my armchair when the servant girl knocked. “A man for you, Miss Fitzpatrick.”
Was I about to be hauled to prison a thi
rd time? Shakily, I read the card she handed me.
Frederick Aiken, Attorney at Law. Mrs. Surratt’s attorney.
“Is the parlor empty?”
“Yes, miss. The misses are napping”—the misses napped a great deal—“and the other ladies are at the review.”
“Then send him in there. I will be down straightaway.”
Mr. Aiken was studying the bookshelves when I arrived. He smiled at me. “Miss Fitzpatrick? I am glad to see you in comfortable quarters after your imprisonment. Mrs. Surratt spoke very highly of you.”
“Sir, how is she bearing up?”
“She is feeling the effects of close confinement, and I believe has a complaint of a female nature as well, but she is bearing up.”
I felt tears come to my eyes. “I wish I could do something to help her.”
“You can, Miss Fitzpatrick, and that is why I am here. You can testify in her defense. I know that you have been waiting around in the courtroom for days, and I do not like to ask you to do so again, but—”
“I will gladly testify, sir, to anything you want me to. What do they call them, character witnesses? I can be one. When do you need me?”
Mr. Aiken smiled. “It is pleasant to see an eager witness. Most have been reluctant. We will call some priests as character witnesses, but there are a few things you can help establish. Much has been made of the fact that Mrs. Surratt did not recognize Mr. Payne when he appeared at her house the night of her arrest, the implication being that she knew who he was but concealed it. Is her eyesight poor?”
“It is indeed, sir, especially in gaslight.”
“And you can testify that John Surratt did not come to the boardinghouse since Richmond fell?”
“I can.”
“Good. The court is adjourned until Thursday for the grand review, but I will send a carriage for you first thing that morning to take you to court. I can’t promise you will be called that day, though, because the prosecution has not yet rested its case.”
“I have nothing to do, sir. I can go there as often as needed.”
Mr. Aiken nodded and picked up his hat.
“Sir, tell me: What if…what if Mrs. Surratt is found guilty?”
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