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 have 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.
• • •
Now that my life was to be measured in minutes, they moved quickly. Two soldiers, Lieutenant Colonel McCall and Sergeant Kenney, entered the cell and, after apologizing, proceeded to chain my feet and fasten my hands behind my back. “Her bonnet,” prompted Lieutenant Colonel McCall.
Sergeant Kenney gingerly took my bonnet from the windowsill and held it on a level with my head, then removed my manacles. “Maybe you had best put it on, Mrs. Surratt.”
I tied the ribbons and arranged my veil with shaking hands before Sergeant Kenney refastened the manacles. Then he and his companion led me to a chair outside my cell, telling me General Hartranft would give the word when we were to start.
Father Walter knelt beside me, holding a cross to my lips. “Father, may I say something on the—on the scaffold?”
“What, my child?”
“That I am innocent of conspiring to kill the president.”
“No, my child. The world and all that is in it has now receded forever. It would do no good, and it might disturb the serenity of your last moments.”
From the prison yard, a drum sounded. My escorts gently raised me to my feet, on which I suddenly had trouble standing, and half led, half carried me toward the prison yard. Murmuring prayers, the two priests followed behind.
As soon as my feet landed outside, I was overwhelmed by the heat, brutal even for Washington in July, and by the smell of the freshly cut wood of the new-made scaffold that loomed in front of me. I came to a halt. Behind me, Father Wiget said, “Pray with us, Mrs. Surratt.”
I obeyed, keeping my head down to avoid the sight of the scaffold and the crowd of soldiers, newspapermen, and spectators who filled the usually empty prison yard. Only when I saw, not far from the steps of the scaffold, four yawning graves and four crude coffins piled next to them did my knees give way. The soldiers kept me from falling in a heap. “Steady, Mrs. Surratt.”
With the chains on my feet clinking, the men lifted me, stair by stair, up to the scaffold platform. Four wooden armchairs, against which rested umbrellas, had been placed upon it. The soldiers seated me in the armchair on the far right and gave their places to the priests as I stared at the noose dangling in front of me. “No,” I moaned.
“Don’t look at it, child,” Father Walter said as Father Wiget snapped open an umbrella and lifted it above my head. “Pray.”
As I muttered familiar words that no longer made much sense to me, I closed my eyes and slumped against Father Wiget. To the priests’ prayers I added my own petition, the final thing with which I would ever trouble the Lord. Please don’t let my Anna see me die.
50
NORA
JULY 7, 1865
After our futile trip to the White House, the street leading to the Old Arsenal was so crowded with the curious that only General Hancock’s spotting our carriage and ordering the way to be cleared brought us to the prison gates in time. “Lemonade!” a vendor shouted as we passed through the gates. “Last chance for lem-o-nade!”
“Cakes! Get your delicious cakes!”
“Barbarians,” muttered Anna. It was the first word she’d spoken since we left the White House.
General Hancock’s permission to pass through the gates having enveloped all three of us, I followed Mr. Brophy and Anna into the cell area. Instead of accompanying them into Mrs. Surratt’s cell, I sat in an anteroom, for I had no pass to see her and did not want to take any precious minutes from her last time with Anna. Mr. Brophy, pale and red-eyed, soon joined me, and we sat in silence, listening to the wailings of loved ones parting for good. Mr. Herold’s mother could not bear the strain of coming to see her condemned son, but his sisters were here, dressed in black like Anna. Even Mr. Atzerodt had company, some relations of his and the lady with whom he resided. Only Mr. Payne had no visitors, save for a minister and his lawyer. Later, I would learn that he was actually named Mr. Powell, the son of a Baptist preacher, and that his family in far-off Florida had received the news too late to make the journey to see him.
At about half past twelve, soldiers came to the cells for the grim task of sending the visitors away—a task scarcely less enviable, I thought as I heard Anna and the Herold sisters sobbing, than that of the hangman himself. As they emerged from the cells, Mr. Brophy having hurried in to support Anna, a clerk stepped forward. “There are places upstairs where the ladies can rest.”
We followed him, Mr. Brophy half carrying poor Anna, to the second floor, where he guided each dismal little group to a different room, sending Mr. Brophy, Anna, and I to a little chamber with a cot and a chair—his room, he volunteered with some pride. Anna collapsed by the cot, sobbing wildly, while I stroked her hair helplessly, powerless to do anything to ease her grief. To my relief, she soon fell into an exhausted sleep—aided, I suspected, by something in the restorative Dr. Porter, the prison physician, sent upstairs.
Once Anna was asleep, Mr. Brophy raised the window shade, revealing a view of the scaffold that made me gasp. With four nooses hanging still on the windless, scorching day, it stood in perfect readiness for its awful task, the armchairs and umbrellas on its platform giving it a bizarrely homey look. On the wall overlooking it stood a line of soldiers, clearly prepared for any trouble. “Miss Fitzpatrick, perhaps you should go to another room.”
“No. Anna might need me.” As Mr. Brophy seemed disinclined to accept this rather feeble excuse, I added, “I’m here, sir. I want to see this to the end.”
Mr. Brophy sighed but did not protest further.
“How will they fall, sir?”
Even at a moment of deepest sorrow, a man can derive some comfort by explaining something, especially if the party in need of the explanation is a woman. In a voice barely above a whisper, Mr. Brophy said, “There are two traps on which the prisoners will stand that are held up by props. Those soldiers you see standing underneath the gallows will knock the props out when they are given a signal. And then…”
I did not ask him to elaborate.
At a distance, I heard a clock strike one, and Mrs. Surratt, flanked by two soldiers and followed by Father Wiget and Father Walter, tottered out of the building toward the scaffold. She was dressed as I’d seen her at the trial, except that her gown, bereft of its usual crinoline, dragged along wearily behind her. “She can barely walk,” I whispered. “Why have they bothered to tie her hands?”
Mr. Brophy looked down grimly as Mrs. Surratt made her painful progress. “They’re not only hanging an innocent woman; they’re hanging a sick one as well.”
Behind Mrs. Surratt came Mr. Atzerodt, Mr. Herold, and Mr. Payne, who, like Mrs. Surratt, had their hands bound behind their backs and their feet shackled. All—except Mrs. Surratt, who wore the old shoes I’d often seen her work in around the house—were in stocking feet or slippers. No one had thought to provide Mr. Atzerodt with a hat, but Mr. Payne looked incongruously jaunty in a sailor hat I later learned had been procured by his minister. Only his shackled feet impeded his cool march to the scaffold.
Anna slept on beside us, mercifully unaware of her mother’s painful progress up the stairs of the scaffold and into a seat at its far right, where the two priests quietly prayed with her, Father Wiget holding the cross and Father Walter holding a prayer book. As the three men settled into their seats—Mr. Payne to the left of Mrs. Surratt, Mr. Atzerodt on the far left, and Mr. Herold to his right—I took out my rosary.
But I could not keep my eyes off the scaffold. As I cautiously poked my head out (a holdover from my stay at Old Capitol) to get a better view, I saw something else poking out from a nearby building: the nose of Alexander Gardner’s camera, here to capture the execution for generations to come. It occurred to me that I was seeing history in the making, although it was far from a pretty process.
General Hartranft, shielded by an umbrella, came to the center of the scaffold and read the death warrants, with the two priests continuing to minister quietly to Mrs. Surratt. I turned my eye to the men. Mr. Atzerodt, his head shielded from the blazing sun by a
handkerchief provided by a sympathetic soldier, listened quietly and attentively to the general, while poor Mr. Herold squirmed in his chair and looked desperately around him—whether in search of an escape or of someone to speak to him, I could not say. At last, his minister bent over him and murmured a few words, which seemed to calm him.
Mr. Payne stared impassively at the sky, a puff of wind blowing his hat away. Someone caught it and began to replace it but was met with a slight smile and a shrug. He wouldn’t be needing it much longer.
General Hartranft finished reading and stepped back. Now would have been the perfect time for a horseman to gallop into the yard, waving Mrs. Surratt’s pardon, but no one obliged. Instead, Mr. Payne’s minister, Mr. Herold’s minister, and Mr. Atzerodt’s minister each stood and offered prayers on his prisoner’s behalf. Mrs. Surratt, seemingly oblivious to the speeches, murmured prayers while the priests stood over her. Only once, during the prayer for Mr. Atzerodt, did she let out a faint groan.
“Stand here, please,” General Hartranft said softly.
Mr. Payne rose immediately and walked to the edge of the scaffold, followed by Mr. Herold and Mr. Atzerodt, both of whom trembled so badly it was impossible to say which of the pair was more unnerved. Father Walter and Father Wiget helped Mrs. Surratt to a standing position and relinquished her to her two escorts, who gently guided her to the hinged area of the drop. Quickly, the soldiers bound the men’s arms, knees, and ankles with strips of white cloth.
Mrs. Surratt stood with her head drooping, half shielded from the gaze of the crowd by the soldier who supported her. My eyes filled with tears when a second soldier bent to deal with her bindings. She was a modest woman. Surely he wouldn’t yank her skirt up and reveal her legs, would he? I sighed as he settled for tying a large strip around her skirts near the knees.
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