Hanging Mary: A Novel

by Susan Higginbotham

  “Well, that didn’t exactly work.”

  “No indeed,” Anna said with a slight grin. “I have been released from prison, Ma.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Father Walter found me a boardinghouse, but I have been told that the government is willing to let me move back into our house.”

  “You will be lonely there, child.”

  “It’s home, Ma. And the Holohans told me they would come back to stay if I was there. It’s too crowded at Mrs. Holohan’s mother’s house, and besides, I think Mr. Holohan wants to help me. I wish Nora would come, but her father won’t let her. She’s back living with those old maids she lived with before.”

  For two heavenly hours, Anna and I sat and talked, undisturbed by the guards. She did not ask what would happen if I was sent to prison, and I dared not bring it up. Instead, Anna told me the news of our friends and family, and I assured her that I was not being ill-used. Of our friends in prison, she informed me that Miss Lomax had been long since released, and even Mrs. Baxley had finally given in and signed the oath of loyalty and returned to Baltimore, where I hoped she would soon be able to move her son’s remains.

  A guard scratched at the door and called, “Time!”

  I embraced Anna, who broke down weeping again. “Child, this won’t do,” I said. “We will see each other in the courtroom tomorrow—General Hartranft said so—and I am sure you will get another pass soon. You must be brave.”

  Anna nodded as the guards came to lead her off. “All right, Ma.”

  “God be with you, child,” I said calmly, watching as she passed out of sight.

  Whether it was the heat, the strain, or what, I cannot say, but I found myself swaying on my feet. Before I could call for help, I fainted.

  • • •

  One day, we had a diversion in court—a Bloomerite resplendent in short skirt and trousers. The male prisoners, so used to being stared at themselves, fixed their eyes upon her and grinned, and Mr. Herold snickered outright. The Bloomerite ignored them but sat down calmly amid her hoop-skirted sister women. With the bloomers on, she took up much less space than they did, which I heard one lady noting as a relief.

  “Who was that?” I asked Mr. Aiken as we conferred during the recess.

  “Dr. Mary Walker, a surgeon. Now, I have a matter of business to discuss.” Mr. Aiken pushed a paper toward me. “Read this carefully, please, and sign it. It concerns my fee.”

  “Again? I signed something not that long ago.”

  “Yes, but there are some points that need to be clarified. Read it very carefully, please.”

  How like a lawyer; however the world might roll along, they must get paid. I fought through a thicket of “hereafters” and “party of the first parts” and “party of the second parts.”

  “Let me clarify something for you.” Mr. Aiken bent close to me. He whispered, “Your son is safe and secure, and sends his love. He wishes to know whether he should give himself up. If you wish it, say so, and he will surrender himself immediately.”

  I stared at the paper.

  So he has not forgotten me, was my first thought. My second thought was of him hooded and shackled, possibly swinging on the gallows. “No,” I whispered. “Keep him away from here.”

  “Mrs. Surratt, as your attorney, I must tell you that if he were to turn himself in, there is a strong chance that you would be set free.”

  “Perhaps, but I will not trade my chances for his. Tell him he can do no good by coming here. Tell him I will be acquitted. Tell him anything—just keep him from coming to Washington.”

  “I promise, Mrs. Surratt, I will.” Mr. Aiken resumed his normal tone. “If these terms are satisfactory to you, Mrs. Surratt, please sign.”

  I frowned. “You lawyers bleed your clients to death with your fees,” I snapped. “But I suppose I have no choice.”

  As the trial resumed—Anna was sitting in the courtroom—I thought of Johnny. I wished I could have asked Mr. Aiken where he was and how he was living—if, indeed, Mr. Aiken even knew these things—but at least I knew he was safe and, I hoped, far from here. With God’s help, he would stay there.

  42

  NORA

  JUNE 1865

  I was called once more to give testimony for Mrs. Surratt in early June. I told the court that Anna and Mrs. Surratt had never denied seeing Mr. Payne before, only that Anna had emphatically denied that that man was her brother. I did not know whether my testimony would do any good, but at least it would do no harm.

  In the meantime, Anna had been released from prison, and on the same day I gave my testimony, she was allowed to return to her house. Father had flat-out refused, when he heard of this, to allow me to move back in as a boarder, but he had not forbade me from visiting Anna (at least not in so many words), so a few days later, I called at my old lodgings.

  How sad they looked! It was not just seeing the mess the government had left behind, but the emptiness—the deserted room where Mr. Weichmann and Mr. Surratt had shared a bed, the bare attic, Miss Dean’s unused trundle bed, and, most of all, Mrs. Surratt’s favorite chair, in which Anna studiously avoided sitting. And though he lay rotting goodness knew where, I could almost fancy that Mr. Booth might walk in at any moment and ask Anna to play on the forlorn pianoforte, the keys of which had not been uncovered in weeks.

  Anna followed my glance around the place. “It’s not so bad now that the Holohans are here,” she said bravely. “Though I don’t know how long they’ll be willing to stay. Besides there being no servant, I spend most of my time in court with Mama. They’ll have to get their board elsewhere until…”

  As her sentence trailed off, the doorbell rang. Seeing Anna’s pale face, I hastened to answer it myself. A man in his early twenties stood on the doorstep. In a voice that like my father’s bore traces of time in Ireland, he said, “I am Mr. John Brophy, miss, here to see Miss Surratt.”

  “Let him in, Nora.”

  I obeyed. “Mr. Brophy went to school with Johnny and that creature Weichmann,” Anna said after introducing us. “He has been taking an interest in Ma’s case.”

  “Meddling, some might say,” Mr. Brophy said with a smile. “But I believe Mrs. Surratt to be innocent, even though I fear the press has already convicted her. They have said the most vicious things about her. So I have taken the liberty of distributing this.”

  He handed each of us a little pamphlet. “The Trial of Mrs. Surratt,” I read. I turned to the last page. “By Amator Justitiae. Lover of Justice.”

  “I didn’t deem it wise to publish it under my own name, as I am employed by a school here,” Mr. Brophy explained. “But I have distributed it all over the city—at the railway station, at the circulating libraries, even in some of the taverns—and I hope one of the newspapers will print it.”

  I scanned the pamphlet. Written in high-flown language, with numerous literary allusions, it passionately argued for Mrs. Surratt’s innocence.

  Anna said, “Sir, I cannot tell you how grateful I am for this, but I hope you are not putting yourself in danger.”

  “No, Miss Surratt, but even if I were, I cannot just sit back and do nothing. It is not in my nature.”

  “Pity my brother didn’t have you boarding with us instead of that creature Weichmann,” Anna muttered.

  Mr. Brophy smiled. “And now I must be going, Miss Surratt. I have a few more places to leave my pamphlets.”

  As he left, I took Anna’s hand. “There’s hope, Anna. If one man feels this strongly, perhaps others do too.”

  Anna nodded. “That is what I have been telling myself.”

  I couldn’t resist asking. “This Mr. Brophy, is he unmarried?”

  “Nora! Yes, he is, but he is courting a young lady here in Washington. And he has rather too many freckles for my liking anyway. But he certainly has been kind.”

 
; I grinned and took my own leave. As I walked home, I passed a newsstand piled high with out-of-town papers. Casually, I put my copy of Mr. Brophy’s pamphlet in their midst.

  If Mr. Brophy could do his part to help Mrs. Surratt, I could certainly do my own.

  43

  MARY

  JUNE 19 TO JULY 6, 1865

  The last of the witnesses—there had been close to three hundred of them, Major Hartranft told me—had testified, and there was nothing to do but for the lawyers to sum up their cases. I had not seen Senator Johnson in weeks, and I no longer even looked for him in the courtroom. So I was not surprised when Mr. Clampitt announced to the court that Senator Johnson had prepared a closing argument, but had delegated Mr. Clampitt to read it.

  It was, as far as I could comprehend, a repetition of Senator Johnson’s earlier jurisdictional argument. It was full of fine words, and Mr. Clampitt tried his best to put some fire into his reading, but either he was falling short, or I could not focus on what he was saying. Soon even his figure began to blur and dance before me, and I shut my eyes to make it stop.

  There was a crash and some cries, and suddenly men were gathered around me, lifting me in their arms.

  • • •

  “I have never been prone to fainting,” I told Dr. Porter, the physician appointed to minister to us, as we sat in the anteroom previously used for witnesses waiting their turn to testify. Just a day before, he and a colleague had examined all of us, and the result in my case had been the appearance of a soft armchair in my cell and a selection of books for me to read. “But it is so close in the courtroom, and—and over the past several days I have had female problems, which have troubled me from time to time over the past few months,” I added in a low tone. “Forgive me, Doctor, it is not easy for me to discuss these things.”

  “I know, madam. I am going to recommend that you be allowed to stay in this room, where it is cooler and fresher. In the meantime, just sit here and rest.”

  I obeyed, thinking that this trial was turning me into a feeble old woman.

  • • •

  That evening, my few possessions were brought from cell 200 to my new lodgings, along with the armchair, in which I drank in the sight of a summer sunset in Washington. During court the next day, I sat in the armchair in the doorway, allowing me to see and hear the proceedings—and, I confess, to doze in my comfortable chair.

  After court, two featherbeds made their appearance in my new room. “Two?”

  “Yes, madam,” General Hartranft said. “I have been given permission to allow you a female attendant in light of”—he coughed—“your peculiar difficulties.”

  “That is very kind of you, sir.” Silently, I hoped it was not some pert little Irish girl from the surrounding neighborhood.

  “She will be here shortly.”

  I nodded and thumbed through the The Pickwick Papers, having been given a choice between that and The Last of the Mohicans. Evidently General Hartranft, who confided to me that he had been given liberty to bring us books, provided they had not been published within the last thirty years and were not otherwise unsuitable for us, had forgotten about Mr. Pickwick’s imprisonment for debt.

  “Your attendant is here, Mrs. Surratt.”

  I looked up and there, holding a basket of food, was my daughter.

  • • •

  Anna could come and go as she pleased, and each day she brought me a treat—some buttered scones, my goose-down pillow from home, the prayer book that Father Finotti gave me. “How are you paying for this?” I asked as she presented me with some candy for my sweet tooth. I looked at her ears and found to my relief that her favorite earrings were hanging there. “You have not been pawning your nice things, have you?”

  “No, Ma. Uncle Zadock and Grandma have both sent me money.” She winced. “Actually, I asked Grandma for it. I told her we would pay her back when we were able.”

  “Did she send any message to me?”

  “Only that she was praying for you.”

  This was about as much comfort as I was likely to receive from my mother, especially now that I had brought the family into disgrace. At least she had the goodness to lend my daughter money.

  I looked at my own precious girl, darning my stockings. “Anna. Have I ever told you that you are very dear to me, and that I love you?”

  “Why, of course, Mama.”

  “Good. I just wanted to make sure.”

  • • •

  For two solid days, Mr. Bingham made his closing argument for the government as I watched from my doorway and the male prisoners watched from their dock. In his black frock coat, which reached almost to his shoe tops and seemed in danger of tripping him, the small Mr. Bingham should have cut a faintly ridiculous figure, but instead he gave the impression of being a much taller man as he denounced each of us in turn, as well as my Johnny, whom he even accused of having been present in the city on that dreadful Good Friday. “Nothing but his conscious coward guilt could possibly induce him to absent himself from his mother, as he does, upon her trial!”

  I clenched my fists.

  “That Mary E. Surratt is as guilty as her son at having thus conspired, combined, and confederated to do this murder, in aid of this rebellion, is clear,” Mr. Bingham continued, making a flourish in my direction.

  At this point, I could almost sum up the evidence for him. I kept a tally in my head as he neatly reached each point. I received Mr. Booth and the other men in my home, and met privately with Mr. Booth. I drove twice to Surrattsville, ostensibly on my own business but in reality that of Mr. Booth. I gave Mr. Lloyd the messages about the shooting irons.

  “But there is one other fact in this case that puts forever at rest the question of the guilty participation of the prisoner, Mrs. Surratt, in this conspiracy and murder, and that is, that Payne, who had lodged four days in her house, who during all that time had sat at her table, and who had often conversed with her, when the guilt of his great crime was upon him, and he knew not where else he could so safely go to find a co-conspirator, and he could trust none that was not, like himself, guilty with even the knowledge of his presence, under cover of darkness, after wandering for three days and nights, skulking before the pursuing officers of justice, at the hour of midnight, found his way to the door of Mrs. Surratt, rang the bell, was admitted, and upon being asked, ‘Whom do you want to see?’ replied, ‘Mrs. Surratt.’”

  Mr. Payne looked in my direction, then hung his head.

  • • •

  It was over. Mr. Bingham had concluded his argument. Now our fates were in the hands of the nine commissioners.

  Mr. Aiken and Mr. Clampitt, meeting with me in the courtroom after Mr. Bingham departed, mopping his forehead, were optimistic. “The case against you depends on a coward and a drunkard,” Mr. Aiken told me. “Mr. Weichmann is Secretary Stanton’s puppet, and would be on the dock with the other men if he hadn’t been bullied into testifying against you, and Mr. Lloyd wouldn’t have known if you said ‘shooting iron’ or ‘curling iron’ after his day swilling at Marlboro.”

  “Do you think the commissioners will see them in that light?”

  Mr. Clampitt said, “How can they not? I have spoken with some of my older colleagues, who have been closely following the case, and they are confident of your acquittal.”

  “And if I am not acquitted? Senator Johnson thought I might get a short imprisonment, followed by a pardon. Do you agree?”

  Mr. Aiken nodded. “Yes, I do. I imagine you would be sent back to the Old Capitol for a while.”

  “And how am I to live? There is your fee to pay, and the money I owe to Mr. Calvert that led me to go on that trip in the first place. And after all that has happened, I cannot see Mr. Lloyd continuing at the tavern—not that I want him there either. I suppose I must sell it, which would not be a bad thing, for it has brought me nothing but grie
f. Unless Isaac wants to run it. And I do not even know if he is still alive. And Johnny…”

  “He is safe, Mrs. Surratt, and we have followed your wishes in keeping him away,” Mr. Aiken said in the lowest of tones. “Let that be a comfort to you for now. The rest will fall into place.”

  “Yes, I suppose you are right. It hurt so to hear him being called a coward, though.” I sighed. “When do you think we will know the verdicts?”

  Mr. Clampitt shook his head. “That I cannot say. The commissioners do not have to be unanimous, as a civil jury does, so a decision could come quickly. But they have a huge amount of evidence to sift through, and eight cases to consider, some clear-cut like Payne’s, others less so. I promise that when we hear the news, you shall hear it immediately.”

  We bade one another good-bye, and I thanked them for their representation of me, for with all their blunders, they had perhaps done as best they could, thrown into the case as junior counsel and then virtually abandoned by Senator Johnson. Whether their optimism was well founded or the product of their inexperience I could not say.

  • • •

  For two days, the commissioners met in the courtroom; with my door shut, I could hear only the drone of their voices. Their second session, on the last day of June, did not last long, and when General Hartranft came to visit that afternoon, I saw the courtroom was deserted, with only some crumpled papers and full spittoons to indicate its recent occupation. “Are they finished?”

  “I believe so, madam.”

  Anna clutched my hand. “Then we shall hear soon.”

  But we did not. June rolled into July without a word of our fates.

  The delay, General Hartranft told me with the sheepish air of a man who knew he should probably not be giving me this information, was due to the illness of President Johnson, who had to approve the commission’s recommendation. My keeper wished the president would soon recover, he confided, because he sorely missed his wife and children in Pennsylvania and knew his wife would be particularly sad about spending the Fourth of July alone.