Hanging Mary: A Novel

by Susan Higginbotham

  “What does that mean, sir?”

  “It means that General Hancock must produce you before the court—the hour given is ten o’clock. Your lawyers argued—on Mr. Reverdy Johnson’s advice—that the military trial was illegal and that you should be tried, if at all, before a civilian court. Payne’s lawyer is seeking the writ as well.”

  As I absorbed all this, Mr. Brophy continued, “I have been by your house and notified Miss Surratt, who was gratified to hear the news. She and Miss Fitzpatrick are on their way to the White House to beg an audience with President Johnson, whom I have written as well to dispute the testimony of Mr. Weichmann. And that is not all! Mr. Payne has declared several times that you were not involved in the assassination plot. It is weighing on him very heavily. I plan to get something in writing and take it to the president myself.”

  A man with a cause, with all of the energy and passion of the young, he barely gave me time to thank him before he hurried off.

  48

  NORA

  JULY 7, 1865

  Anna and I made an odd pair as we left the boardinghouse that morning. I was still in the light, flowery summer frock I’d been wearing when I got the news at the bookstore, whereas she was clad in the same black silk she had worn to the trial, which, as it was unrelieved by any accessories, gave her the unfortunate appearance of being in mourning before the fact. Her friend Mr. Brophy had come by with the encouraging news of the granting of Mrs. Surratt’s habeas corpus petition, however, so she was more hopeful than she had been the day before.

  At Mr. Brophy’s suggestion, our first stop was the Metropolitan Hotel, where General Hancock was staying. Anna sent her card up to General Hancock, who promptly appeared in response. “Sir, what can I do to save my mother?”

  “Miss Surratt, I do not wish to see your mother—or any lady—hang, but it is beyond my power to stop it. Your one hope is to go to the president, to go on your knees before him and beg for her life.”

  “I am on my way there, but I was there yesterday, and he offered me no solace.”

  “It cannot hurt to go back. His health has been poor of late, and much depends on how he is feeling from day to day. I wish you the best of luck, Miss Surratt.”

  He bowed and showed us out the door. “Well,” said Anna as we stepped onto Pennsylvania Avenue, already baking in the heat, “he was cold enough.”

  “He was courteous, Anna, and honest at least.”

  As we made our way down Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House, we passed through a crowd of people streaming in the direction of the Old Arsenal, hoping to catch something of the executions, or at least to share in the pervading excitement. I glared at them all, but with no effect, as I was wearing my veil. Camilla was a late riser, and it was entirely possible that my absence wouldn’t be discovered until nine or so, but I could hardly be sure of that, so each time an aging man approached us, I quailed lest he be my father. I could only pray that if I did encounter him, he wouldn’t recognize my dress, as he was one of those men who paid little attention to such matters.

  All one had to do to get into the White House was open the door and walk in. Seeing the president, of course, was a different matter, depending on who was in office, but in Mr. Lincoln’s day, it had not been hard.

  As soon as Anna and I entered at the North Portico—I staring around me in curiosity despite the gravity of our mission—an usher approached us. “Your business, misses?”

  “I am Miss Anna Surratt.”

  The man’s expression instantly turned gloomy.

  “I was here yesterday to talk to the president about my mother and was told to see General Holt. He said that he could do nothing but refer me to the president. So I have come back.”

  “Miss Surratt, the president is indisposed and will see no one today.”

  “Sir, I want only five minutes of his time. It is literally a matter of life and death. Please!”

  “Madam, I know well what errand you have come on. The president knows of the event that is to happen today, but he nonetheless left the firmest orders not to be disturbed.”

  “Please! Do you not have a mother? Is she not everything to you?”

  “I sympathize with your plight, Miss Surratt. But I cannot let you up to see the president.”

  For a moment, I thought Anna was going to make a run for the stairs or faint—I could not guess which. Instead, she commanded herself to say calmly, “Then please let me see General Mussey.”

  “I will tell him you are here, miss.”

  “Who’s General Mussey?” I hissed as the usher disappeared from sight.

  “The president’s private secretary. I saw him briefly yesterday.”

  A man of about thirty, with a kindly face and tired eyes, entered the hall. “Miss Surratt? What I can do for you?”

  “Sir, I must see the president. Just one word, sir. One little word!”

  General Mussey sighed. “The president has made it utterly clear that he will see no one about the trial, Miss Surratt.”

  “I can change his mind, sir, if he would only see me!” Anna knelt at the general’s feet and raised her hands in supplication. “Please, sir, let me see him! Take me up and leave me alone with him, for just a minute. Surely he will relent when he sees me.”

  “The president is not that sort of man, Miss Surratt. If I were to bring you to him, against his explicit orders and while he is ill, it would do neither you nor your mother any good.”

  “She is too kind and good to die, and she is innocent!” Anna pulled on the hem of General Mussey’s jacket. “Take me to him, sir!”

  “I cannot, miss.”

  Anna rose and tottered toward the staircase, which two guards had moved to block. She dropped, weeping, upon the stairs and said, “If Ma is put to death, I wish to die myself.”

  I sat on the staircase and held Anna while she sobbed. The hall was full of people by now, all moved by Anna’s plight, all unable to do anything to help her. “Sir, may Miss Surratt at least stay here for a while, in case the president does relent?”

  General Mussey, his face wet with tears, nodded. “Take her into the East Room when she recovers. But I tell you, miss, there is little hope if any. The president said yesterday, in my hearing, that Mrs. Surratt had kept the nest where the egg was hatched, and that if he pardoned her, it would only encourage women to commit treason.”

  At last, I managed to coax Anna into the East Room. Not three months before, President Lincoln’s body had lain in state here, and I tried to picture the large room draped in black from ceiling to floor.

  Each time a newcomer appeared in the hall, Anna would leap up and run to the door, in hopes of seeing the one person who could touch the president’s stony heart. Instead, we saw two of Mr. Herold’s sisters, begging that the president pardon their brother for the sake of their dead father, who had served the government loyally as an official in the Navy Yard. “He was but a foolish boy, whom Mr. Booth made use of,” the eldest young lady urged. “Our father died last year, and without his guidance, my brother went astray.”

  “Prison will be punishment enough for him,” pleaded the second. “He will be utterly miserable there, never being able to hunt, doing hard labor. He hates to labor, sir.”

  “I am sorry,” General Mussey said. “He will not see you.”

  As the Herold girls left, dejectedly but quietly, a distinguished-looking man hurried into the hall. “Charles Mason,” he said, handing his card to the general. “Please allow me to see the president. I’ve known him for years.”

  “On what business, sir?”

  “On this business of executing the woman, sir. I know no one in this affair, have been sent for by no one, but it disturbs me deeply. I have seen no evidence that shows she was more deeply involved than O’Laughlin and Arnold, who were part of the kidnapping plot—yet they will go to prison, along with Spang
ler and Dr. Mudd, and she will die upon the gallows. Is that just, sir?”

  “No, sir, it is not!” Anna ran forward and clasped his hand. “Please, sir, let this man see the president!”

  “You are her child?” Mr. Mason said. “Dear me.” He patted Anna, who was clinging to him like a long-lost daughter.

  The door flew open, and Mr. Brophy rushed in, bearing papers aloft. “General Hartranft provided me with his carriage and horses so I could get here as soon as possible,” he said, handing them to General Mussey triumphantly. “Father Walter has signed them as well. Mr. Payne—the conspirator who was more trusted by Booth than any of them—has repeatedly stated that Mrs. Surratt was guiltless of conspiring to murder the president. Except for Booth himself, who would be better placed to know that than Payne? And I have added my own observations, to the effect that Louis Weichmann was a lying wretch desperate to save his own skin.”

  “I will take the papers to him,” General Mussey said and retreated to the stairs.

  I turned to Mr. Brophy. “Sir, what about the writ of habeas corpus?”

  He shook his head. “President Johnson has issued an order suspending it. This is our last hope.”

  As if in answer to our prayers, the doors opened, and Mrs. Douglas swept into the room. “I am here to see the president.”

  The usher made his now-familiar refusal. Mrs. Douglas nodded graciously, then brushed past him and ascended the stairs. “There is no need to give me directions, sir. I know my way around this house quite well.”

  Openmouthed, the two soldiers standing on the stairs lowered their bayonets and let Mrs. Douglas past them. “A deus ex machina,” whispered Mr. Brophy.

  Clutching one another, the four of us gazed at the stairs as Mrs. Douglas’s skirts disappeared from view. As the minutes passed and others congregated in the hall to join our vigil, Anna whispered, “Surely she would have been back by now if she had failed.”

  Mrs. Douglas, her head drooping, soon returned. “I am sorry,” she said. “The president is obdurate on the matter. There is no hope.”

  Anna let out a shriek. Mr. Brophy said, “Madam, has he seen the papers that I sent?”

  “That I do not know, sir.”

  “Then please go back, madam, and ask him if he has.”

  Mrs. Douglas nodded and again made her way upstairs. This time, her absence was much briefer. “He has seen the papers, sir, and says there is nothing in them to change his mind. He has seen a petition by Mr. John Ford on Mrs. Surratt’s behalf as well.” She passed into the East Room, where we trailed behind her. “The man is as stubborn as a mule, and about as kind.” Mrs. Douglas touched Anna’s cheek. “I am sorry I could be of such poor assistance to you, Miss Surratt. You and your mother will be in my prayers tonight.” She glanced at Mr. Brophy, Mr. Mason, and me. “You have devoted friends, Miss Surratt. Let that be some comfort to you.”

  We watched in silence as Mrs. Douglas left the East Room, and our hopes, behind her.

  Mr. Mason whispered “God bless you, Miss Surratt” and followed Mrs. Douglas.

  “We have done all that we could, Miss Surratt. Let us leave now if you wish to see your mother while she lives,” Mr. Brophy said.

  Anna nodded and let Mr. Brophy lead her out of the White House and into the carriage he had procured from General Hartranft. I followed, batting back tears. All along, I realized, I’d been hoping Mrs. Douglas and President Johnson would have reenacted the scene I’d devoured so many times in Miss Strickland’s Lives of the Queens of England: Edward III giving into Queen Philippa’s pleadings and releasing the Burghers of Calais. “Ah, lady, I wish you had been anywhere else than here; you have entreated in such a manner that I cannot refuse you. I therefore give them you—do as you please with them.”

  But there were no knights in shining armor in Washington. Only poor Mr. Brophy and Mr. Mason, doing the best they could for a woman they barely knew or didn’t know at all. And they had failed. All of us had.

  Yet there was one man who would have listened to Anna’s pleas, I thought as I wearily sank into my seat. He would have let her into his office, heard her out, and perhaps told her a story. He would have signed Mrs. Surratt’s pardon. He might even have taken it to the prison himself.

  Yes, there was one man who would have saved Mrs. Surratt. And Booth had shot him dead.

  49

  MARY

  JULY 7, 1865

  Ten o’clock passed, and I was still here when Mr. Holohan came to my cell and stood in front of me awkwardly, hat in hand. “I don’t know what to say, Mrs. Surratt, except that I’m sorry that this happened, and I’ll do my best to help your daughter. Mrs. Holohan too. She feels for the girl, for all her grumbling.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holohan.” The doctor had given me doses of wine of valerian throughout the night, and it had slowed my thoughts somewhat, but I managed to tell Mr. Holohan what he needed to know to help Anna get through the difficult months ahead, while Fathers Walter and Wiget took the welcome opportunity to stretch their legs outside my cell.

  He jotted down some notes, then rose to go. “God grant you courage, Mrs. Surratt,” he said, taking my hand.

  • • •

  Mr. Aiken and Mr. Clampitt—I knew better than to expect Reverdy Johnson—arrived next. President Johnson, they told me, had suspended the writ of habeas corpus.

  “So there is no hope?”

  The two lawyers considered, clearly not wanting to admit defeat. “Very little,” Mr. Clampitt finally conceded. “Not unless the president relents.” He brightened. “General Hancock has stationed couriers along the route from the White House to here, in case of a last-minute pardon.”

  “Sir, is the president a man to give one?”

  Mr. Clampitt’s sad eyes answered my question. He took my hand. “I will bid you farewell, Mrs. Surratt. I wish with all my heart that the outcome had been different.”

  “And I too,” said Mr. Aiken.

  “You did your best,” I said, and thanked them once more before they departed, shoulders slumped. I wished the president would issue me a pardon, but almost more for their sake than for mine, for the long night with Father Wiget had resigned me to death. It was not the fact of death I feared now, but its manner—the fall into space, the possibility of not dying quickly, the chance of mortifying myself in front of the onlookers.

  So I thought, at least, until the next visitors came in: Mr. Brophy and my dear Anna.

  I thanked Mr. Brophy for his kindness to me and to my daughter, and he left the cell with streaming eyes, followed by the two priests. Then Anna and I fell into each other’s arms, oblivious of the young guard required to keep an eye on us so Anna did not slip me poison.

  We had so much to say, and so very little time to say it. She did not waste her time telling me her trip to the White House was in vain—I knew it as soon as the pair of them walked in. Instead, she told me of her regrets, and I of mine. She wished she had been less prone to bad temper; I wished I had made her home a happier one.

  But it was not all regrets. She recalled the new pianoforte I purchased especially for her (none of the rest of us being at all musical); I recalled her playing songs she never cared for, only because I liked them. She remembered that no matter how hard times were, I saw to it that she was beautifully dressed; I remembered how she had lovingly nursed me through my time here.

  “I know you loved your father very dearly,” I told her gently. “But our marriage was not happy, and perhaps it would have been better if we had married other people. Don’t marry hastily. Get to know a man’s character—and his habits—very well first. I know it will be lonely for you, but in the long run, when you are contented and happy, it will have been worth it.”

  “I will.” Anna settled against me, and we spent a few minutes in silence.

  I knew from the increasing commotion outside that we would not hav
e much more time together. I reached in my bag. “Anna, I have written letters to each of your brothers. Give them to them if—when they come back, and give them my love.”

  Anna nodded and took them, but I saw her give Johnny’s a hard look. “What is wrong, Anna?”

  “Ma, why has he not come? Why has he not come to sacrifice himself for you?” She stared at the letter. “It is what a man should do.” She turned her face from me. “I don’t know if I can ever forgive him.”

  I laid my hands on her shoulders. “You must forgive him, Anna, for my sake. He is but young, and life is very sweet. He will need your love when he returns, for he will have much to bear. Can you promise me that you will forgive him? It will make my last moments easier.”

  “I will, Mama.”

  “Good.” I embraced her again, and in that moment, I too forgave my son.

  As footsteps came near the door, I pulled off my wedding ring and my earrings and placed them in Annie’s hand. “I wish I had more to give you, my girl.”

  “Mrs. Surratt.” General Hartranft pushed open the door. “Madam, I am deeply sorry, but you must part now.”

  Anna clung to me. “I won’t let you go!”

  General Hartranft stood there, unable to bring himself to pull my daughter away. It finally fell to Mr. Brophy to gently pry her from me. “Miss Surratt, it is time.”

  “Ma, are you resigned to death?”

  “Yes, I am, Anna.”

  “Father Walter, ask her if she is resigned to death.”

  “I am, Anna. Please obey the general now.”

  “Wait.” Anna pulled a pin, in the shape of an arrow, from her bonnet, and pinned it to the top of my dress. “So it doesn’t fly open.”

  “God bless you, Anna,” I whispered as we embraced one last time. “Take care of her, Mr. Brophy.”

  “I will, Mrs. Surratt.”

  One last worldly thought entered my mind as Anna exited, weeping into Mr. Brophy’s handkerchief: it was a pity Mr. Brophy had a fiancée.