Hanging Mary

by Susan Higginbotham

  Mr. Booth frowned. “I think we need to see Hamlet thinking as he speaks,” he said after a moment or two of consideration. “You have to be Hamlet; you can’t simply speak Hamlet. But it is an extraordinarily difficult role, and the critics have never entirely taken to my own performance of it, so who I am to say? Your turn, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

  “I chose A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” I said, reluctantly getting to my feet. “I prefer Shakespeare’s comedies to his tragedies.” I cleared my throat and turned toward Anna:

  “Puppet? why so? ay, that way goes the game.

  Now I perceive that she hath made compare

  Between our statures; she hath urged her height;

  And with her personage, her tall personage,

  Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail’d with him.

  And are you grown so high in his esteem;

  Because I am so dwarfish and so low?

  How low am I, thou painted maypole? speak;

  How low am I? I am not yet so low

  But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes.”

  Mr. Booth sputtered.

  “Was it that awful?” I asked, sitting down.

  “No, no, my dear girl. It was exactly as it should be—funny. I am not flattering; you truly have a comedic gift. It is a raw talent and hardly shows to its best advantage when you are reading from a book, but it is a real one. I believe you could act, although I certainly would not advise you to try to do so professionally. It is a hard life for a woman, with unscrupulous men who will try to take advantage of you. But in private theatricals, you could shine, especially since you prefer comedy. There are many would-be Juliets and too few Hermias.”

  I felt my face glowing in delight as Mr. Booth rose, shrugging as he noticed a few white hairs on his pantaloons. “May I have a word in private, John?”

  Mr. Surratt nodded, and he and Mr. Booth went upstairs, leaving a frowning Mr. Weichmann in the parlor with the rest of us. As Anna sat down to the piano, I sat at the desk to write a letter to my sister at her convent in Baltimore. Mr. Surratt had dropped what he was writing there, and as I started to push it out of my way, I saw my name. Naturally, I could not stop myself from reading.

  I have just taken a peek in the parlor. Would you like to know what I saw there? Well, Ma was sitting on the sofa; Anna sitting in the corner, dreaming, I expect, of J. W. Booth; Miss Fitzpatrick playing with her favorite cat—a good sign of an old maid—the detested creatures…”

  The impudence! The letter was addressed to Mr. Surratt’s cousin, a young lady named Belle Seaman. I had half a mind to try my hand at imitating Mr. Surratt’s handwriting, add a postscript proposing marriage to Miss Seaman, and then mail the letter. That would show the cheeky fellow. Old maid, indeed!

  But instead, I pushed the letter aside and began writing to my sister. Mr. Booth had said I had a gift. What did I care for the opinion of Mr. Surratt?

  • • •

  At the hospital a few days later, I found that Private Flanagan looked a little peaked. “I thought I’d be heading back to New York soon,” he said, “but I’ve been sick the last couple of days, and Doc says nothing doing. And I haven’t been able to do any schoolwork for you, miss. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s perfectly all right,” I said. “I have been thinking: perhaps when you go to New York, my brother might be able to help you continue your schooling. He teaches at Boston College and knows many people in New York.”

  “Perhaps,” Private Flanagan said without much enthusiasm.

  I read to Private Flanagan for about a half hour or so—Mr. Booth’s praises ringing in my ears all the while. When I had said my good-byes to Private Flanagan and the other soldiers and had turned to go, I heard a rustling behind me. Someone muttered, “Hand it over, Flanagan.”

  “Miss Fitzpatrick? Flanagan has something for you.”

  I turned as Private Flanagan clumsily extracted something from underneath his pillow. “Here,” he said gruffly. “I’m sorry it’s not red.”

  It was a valentine, woven together from pages of a newspaper—my first valentine in my entire life. “It’s the nicest one I’ve ever seen,” I said, blinking back tears. How long had Private Flanagan worked on this?

  “I had a little help from the boys here.”

  “And I saved the newspaper for him,” Private Murphy offered.

  “I almost didn’t give it to you, Miss Fitzpatrick. I thought it might be a little forward.”

  “It’s not forward at all.” I carefully slipped it into the book I carried. “I will cherish it always.”

  When I reached the boardinghouse, I carefully set my gift on the bedroom mantelpiece. Sitting up there among the china plates and figurines and the clock, though, it looked terribly homely. For all the world I wouldn’t have Anna, or anyone, laughing at Private Flanagan’s effort. So I took my valentine off the mantel and tucked it into my album, and sat smiling at it until Mrs. Surratt called us to dinner.

  11

  MARY

  FEBRUARY 1865

  Thanks to Father Wiget’s referral, I had new tenants, the Holohans—a polite but rather reserved couple with a daughter in her early teens. With their presence and the rent coming from Mr. Lloyd in Surrattsville, I could at last begin to see my way to ridding myself of some of the debt my husband left me—though it would be a slow process.

  “If Weichmann doesn’t mind the company, perhaps you can find a lodger to share his room with him,” Johnny said early in February.

  “Why, where are you going?”

  “Europe, maybe.”

  “Europe? What on earth would you do there, and how would you pay for your passage?”

  Johnny shrugged.

  “Is it this business of yours with Mr. Booth? Son, I dislike all of this mystery.” I touched his forehead. “You seem very restless lately. Are you getting a fever?”

  “I’m fine, Ma.”

  Which, coming from Johnny, could mean he was at death’s door. “If there is something on your mind, I hope you know you can confide in me.”

  “Didn’t I do just that? I said I might be going to Europe. How much more confiding can a fellow be?”

  “I think you might have left out a few details.”

  “I don’t know all of them myself. It may never come to pass. I should have kept quiet and sprung it on you.”

  I fixed Johnny with the glare I used to quell him in his childhood. To my surprise, he was still susceptible to it. “It’s all tied up with a cotton speculation, Ma. It may come to nothing, or it may make us rich. Mr. Booth is backing it.”

  “Well, I daresay he can afford to take a risk.” I had heard of such schemes, borne of the need of Northern mills for Southern cotton. I did not have a great deal of faith in them, but I could see their appeal for a young man, and they were unlikely to get Johnny shot.

  “He can. He’s investing in oil as well. He says I may be of help to him there.” Johnny grinned. “Who knows, Ma, maybe in a couple of years you can have this place all to yourself. No need to take in boarders.”

  “I like them; they’re good company. But I admit it would be pleasant not to have to depend on them. Just promise me, whatever you do, you will not involve our own property. We can afford no such risks, Son.”

  “I promise. Now, I am off to meet Mr. Booth.”

  He strutted away, wearing a new suit of clothes I certainly had not paid for, and I could not help but think he was already walking like a wealthy man.

  • • •

  Johnny was out of town (but not, he assured me, bound for Europe) when, some days later, Mr. Weichmann approached me in the parlor. I was there alone, for the young ladies were at a little party being held by one of their friends from church, the Holohan family was in their rooms (I could hear the rumble of what I had learned to recognize as an argument between husband and wife, but it was not my place to pry), and Miss Dean had retired to her trundle bed for the evening.

  “Mrs. Surratt, I am worried about John.
”

  I was fond of Mr. Weichmann, who escorted me every Sunday to church on the days when Johnny was not there to do it (which was most of the time), but Anna’s disdain for him must have infected me somehow, for I did not feel the alarm I would have felt if someone else said these words. Perhaps I would have been more unsettled if Mr. Weichmann did not look so very earnest. “Oh, Mr. Weichmann?”

  “He is changing, Mrs. Surratt. He is not the same man I knew at school.”

  “He is grown to man’s estate, Mr. Weichmann. It is natural, surely, that he should be changed?”

  “But he has changed for the worse.” Mr. Weichmann leaned forward, his neat little mustache twitching. “He has become more dissipated.”

  I trembled, for my greatest dread was that Johnny would turn out like his father. “Is he drinking too much?”

  “No.”

  “Except for that evening with you,” I said tartly.

  “That was an aberration,” Mr. Weichmann said a little sulkily. “No, Mrs. Surratt, I do not mean that he drinks too much, or that he consorts with loose women, or that he gambles. It is not any one or more of these things. It is more of a deterioration in his character. He is more cynical, more careless, less considerate, just looser in general. He is not the same friend I knew and loved just months before, and I can say why: Mr. Booth.”

  “Ah.” I understood then. In friendship, there is often one who loves more than the other, and in the friendship between Mr. Weichmann and my son, it was poor Mr. Weichmann who played the role of the ardent. And now he was being supplanted by Mr. Booth—and no wonder, for who would stand a chance against him? “You must not take Johnny’s actions so much to heart, Mr. Weichmann. I know he is very fond of you, but he is engaged in some business of Mr. Booth’s.”

  “But he is being corrupted by him, Mrs. Surratt. You do not know, perhaps, how dissolute actors can be.”

  “I have heard such stories, but none so bad about Mr. Booth. He is so well-known that if he behaved badly, it would be notorious. He has conducted himself entirely like a gentleman since he has been here.”

  “In your presence.”

  “Has he not acted like a gentleman when he is with you?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Weichmann acknowledged crossly. “But I still believe he poses a danger to John. Gambling, fast women, fast horses… Have you seen how fast John rides?”

  “He has always ridden at what I consider a breakneck speed, but you must remember he was brought up in the country, where men are accustomed to ride hard. That, at least, is not due to Mr. Booth’s malign influence, only that of Prince George’s County.” Mr. Weichmann did not smile, so I added, “I do appreciate your concern for Johnny, sir, and I hope you do not think that I am taking it lightly. But I do not share your low opinion of Mr. Booth. I believe he has been a good influence on Johnny. I see a purpose in him that I have not seen before.”

  “You think so, Mrs. Surratt, truly?”

  “I do. Now let us talk about you.” I had been neglecting Mr. Weichmann, allowing him to spend his evenings in his room when he should have been enjoying everyone’s company in the parlor. “I believe you said that the letter had finally arrived allowing you to study for the priesthood.”

  “Yes, if all goes as planned, I will begin my studies in the fall.”

  “Are you certain it is the right path for you? Forgive me if I seem to be prying, but I sometimes wonder if you are prepared to embrace the life of a priest.”

  Mr. Weichmann’s mustache trembled. “There is no hope for me with your daughter, Mrs. Surratt, if that is what you are alluding to.”

  “She is not the only young lady in Washington, Mr. Weichmann, and the fact that you even hoped for her makes me wonder if you would truly be happy in the priesthood. Didn’t you once say it was more your mother’s wish for you than your own? If so, perhaps you and a priest should talk with her. There are other paths a good Catholic might take.”

  My lodger said with the utmost dignity, “I thank you for your concern, Mrs. Surratt, but the path to the priesthood is a slow one, and I daresay if there are any impediments of that nature, my confessor and I will deal with them.”

  I supposed after my rebuffing his concerns about Johnny, I deserved this.

  • • •

  A day or so later, Anna, Miss Fitzpatrick, Mr. Weichmann, and I were gathered in the parlor after dinner when the doorbell rang. Mr. Weichmann, always gentlemanly, rose to answer it. “A Mr. Wood wishes to see you, Mrs. Surratt.”

  “Show him in, please.”

  Mr. Wood, clad in a black overcoat that had seen better days, entered the room. He was a tall, strongly built man of about Johnny’s age, with hair as black as his overcoat and piercing blue eyes. His stern features were handsome, although in an entirely different manner than those of Mr. Booth, and it was obvious their appeal was not universal. Miss Fitzpatrick clutched her cat closer, as if hoping he would transform himself and begin barking, and Anna’s face settled into that stony position that was the bane of many a hopeful young male traveler passing through Surrattsville.

  “Mrs. Surratt? I came here to see Mr. Surratt. I am told he is not at home.” Despite Mr. Wood’s imposing physical presence, his voice was almost high-pitched.

  “No, sir.”

  “I have somehow become confused, ma’am. I expected to find him here in Washington. Will he return tomorrow, do you know?”

  “No, sir, I do not.”

  “Then I must have confused my dates. Ma’am, would you allow me to stay the night in his room? I have just enough to pay my train fare back to Baltimore tomorrow, and no more.” The young man bent closer to me and dropped his voice. “I am in the same business as Mr. Surratt.”

  The last sentence decided me, even though behind Mr. Wood I could see Mr. Weichmann frowning. “You may stay, but as Mr. Weichmann is occupying my son’s bed, you will have to lodge in the attic.”

  “I thank you, ma’am.” Mr. Wood hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Perhaps, ma’am, I could get a bite to eat?”

  Free meals, free lodging—this young man certainly expected a lot, and how was I to know that he was even a friend of Johnny’s? But in some distant city, Johnny might be begging someone else’s mother for hospitality. “You certainly can.” I turned to Mr. Weichmann. “The girl will be cleaning the kitchen, and the attic room is not ready. Would you be so kind to allow Mr. Wood to eat in your room until the girl can get to the attic?”

  Mr. Weichmann, no doubt relieved to hear I was not asking him to share his bed with Mr. Wood, nodded.

  Our visitor proved to be a most unsocial creature. As soon as I put together a plate of food for him, he followed Mr. Weichmann upstairs, and when his attic room was ready shortly thereafter, he retired to it immediately, apparently having no desire to mingle with the young ladies as any other young man might. “Perhaps he doesn’t like cats,” suggested Miss Fitzpatrick. Mr. Rochester purred smugly.

  “Did you find anything out about him, Mr. Weichmann, while he was up in your room?” inquired Anna slyly.

  “As a matter of fact, I did. It is, after all, my room. I feel I have the right to know something about who eats there.”

  “Certainly,” said Miss Fitzpatrick, and I thought, not for the first time, that it was a shame Mr. Weichmann had not set his heart on her.

  “I asked him where he was from. He said Baltimore.”

  “Well, we knew that,” Anna said.

  “I then asked where he was employed. He told me he worked for Mr. Parr, who owned a china shop there.”

  “He looks like a bull in a china shop,” Miss Fitzpatrick said. “What else did you find out?”

  “Nothing. He’s not very forthcoming at all.”

  “Well,” Anna said, “I just hope he doesn’t murder us in our beds.”

  • • •

  Mr. Wood did not murder us in our beds but left to catch the early train to Baltimore, his exit observed only by the servant girl. Except for his not being a paying guest,
he was an ideal one, for his room was left immaculate.

  This was a month for Johnny’s friends, for no sooner had Mr. Wood vanished than another appeared in his place. This man, a swarthy gentleman of about thirty named Mr. Howell, was not a stranger, for he had passed through the tavern at Surrattsville on a number of occasions. I had always assumed, without knowing for certain, that he ran the blockade, but his present business, he informed me, was to await the arrival of a young lady whom he planned to escort to New York. She would be here in a few days.

  It was no simple matter to elicit this information from Mr. Howell, for while not unfriendly, he was the most evasive of men. In the few years I had known him, he had used no fewer than three first names—Spencer, Augustus, and Gustavus—and I had never succeeded in learning anything about his family. It was all I could do to learn how he liked his eggs prepared. I found myself offering him a second helping of those eggs, for he was rail-thin and coughed a great deal, although of course he said nothing about his state of health. Perhaps he needed to conserve his strength, for once he arrived at the boardinghouse, he never ventured out but spent his days reading and coughing in the parlor and his evenings upstairs with Mr. Weichmann, who seemed rather taken with him.

  Late one afternoon as Mr. Howell sat reading in the parlor—he even held the book so as to obscure the title—Miss Fitzpatrick, hearing a horse whinny outside the parlor window, said, “There’s Mr. Surratt! In a carriage, and with a lady. Is that your friend, Mr. Howell?”

  Mr. Howell looked out the window furtively. “Yes, that’s her,” he said, as if giving the answer under duress. He opened the window. “Coming! Just let me get my things.”

  “I would be happy to offer the lady some refreshment before you set out.”

  “Thank you, but there’s no time.” He scurried upstairs.