The Judges of the Secret Court

by David Stacton

  Poor Jenkins had always been a prickly man. During the war he had had a hard time with the Federals. But there was nothing wrong with his courage. He tried to speak up for her. Judge Advocate Bingham would not allow that. It amazed her that a man so well-bred should be so venal and so vile. Sometimes she thought she sat in this dock only for having been so short sighted, for yes, she was short sighted, as to take the world at its own best behaviour. That was the result not so much of optimism, as of wistfulness, but the cause did not matter. The error had landed her here.

  Bingham harried Jenkins about Kallenbach. Kallenbach, a country neighbour at Surrattsville, was a witness for the prosecution. He was a worthless man. Everyone round Surrattsville knew that. But no one seemed to wish to know it here.

  “All I said,” said Jenkins, “to Kallenbach was that my sister had fed his family, but I did not say that if Kallenbach or anyone else testified against my sister, that I would send him to hell or see that they were put out of the way, nor did I use any threats against him in case he appeared as a witness against Mrs. Surratt. What I did say was, that I understood he was a strong witness against my sister, which he ought to be, seeing that she had raised his family for him.”

  Bingham pounced on that.

  “When I said that Mr. Kallenbach ought to be a strong witness against my sister, on account of her bringing up his children, I spoke ironically,” explained Jenkins, speaking ironically. “I am under arrest, but I do not know for what. The Commissioners of our County offered 2,000 dollars for any information that could be given leading to the arrest of any person connected with the assassination. Mr. Cottingham asked me to get him that money, since he had arrested my sister’s tenant, John M. Lloyd. I suppose that is why I am here.”

  It did him no good.

  She understood Kallenbach well enough. But she would never understand why fear should lead to such conduct. It was true, she had fed his children. Perhaps her error had been in not feeding him as well. Nor had she realized that justice hinged so circumstantially upon its own rewards, or that a criminal could be so easily created out of the sum offered for his apprehension.

  Her brother was asked to step down, and John T. Holahan took his place. Mrs. Holahan had testified earlier. “I cannot say that I was intimate with Mrs. Surratt,” she had said. “I liked her very much; she was a very kind lady to board with; but I was more intimate with her daughter.” Yes, Mrs. Holahan had taken a shine to Annie. She was a well-meaning woman.

  Mr. Holahan described himself as a tombstone salesman. That was his whimsy. He was Irish, and so he had his whimsies. But since his arrest the whimsy had been drained out of him. By actual profession, and in fourteen years in America he had had a good many, he was a bounty broker. When some man too busy to go off to die at the front wished to buy a substitute to go in his stead, it was Mr. Holahan who found the man and fixed the price. Who paid the commission, or whether both men did, Mrs. Surratt did not know, but Holahan seemed prosperous, and that was why he described himself as a tombstone salesman. The Holahans had occupied the second floor front bedroom.

  It was evident Mr. Holahan wanted no trouble; being Shanty Irish, that was the phrase he would have used; and yet he had a certain integrity. She could see that he did not want to cause her any trouble, either. The prosecution put a stop to that. They got out of him the admission that he had once seen John Surratt help Mrs. Slater into the boarding-house from her carriage. Mrs. Slater, as everyone knew, was a Southern spy.

  Turn where she would, it all came back to what John had done.

  When next she looked at the stand, it was her own daughter, Annie, who stood there.

  Mrs. Surratt could have wept. Poor Annie was only seventeen, but she looked thirty. She had a pallid skin anyhow, and neither prison nor a black dress suited her. Mrs. Surratt had always tried to shield her from the world. She had wanted her daughter to have a better life than she had had. And now it had come to this.

  At least the Judges Advocate had not had the devilry to call her for the prosecution. Mrs. Surratt was proud of her. She scarcely trembled in that witness box at all. But neither would she ever seem seventeen again. They would have to release her, but in the meantime they had taken away her youth.

  It was Weichmann who had brought Atzerodt to the house, Annie said. That was true, but no one else had said so, and Mrs. Surratt had herself forgotten it. It was Weichmann, also, who had brought Payne there under the name of Wood. Weichmann was always running John’s errands.

  “Ma was in the dining-room. She said she did not understand why strange persons should call there, but she supposed their object was to see my brother, and she would treat them politely, as she was in the habit of treating everyone.” The prosecution cut her off. She was dismissed from the court, but not from the jail. Mrs. Surratt was so worried for her, that she scarcely heard the testimony of Colonel Wood.

  Colonel Wood was in charge of the Old Capitol Prison, where she had been first confined. His appearance for the defence was his own idea. He was the only man in Washington City who was not afraid of Stanton. More than that, Stanton was afraid of him. No one knew why. He believed Mrs. Surratt innocent. He had himself had word from Stanton that she should be let go, but he had seen the course the trial was taking, and he knew Stanton. Therefore he was here.

  His appearance created a sensation. But there was nothing he could do for her. Though he knew her innocent, he had no evidence. He had only seen her in her cell. She was grateful to him, he was a decent man, but he was soon gone.

  The worst witness so far had been Lloyd.

  As he raised his hand to take the oath, she could see that his arm was wobbling. It would have wobbled at any time. He was a helpless drunk.

  He had done his best to wriggle out from under all this, but had been arrested. When that happened, he had thrown his arms round his wife’s neck. “I am to be shot,” he had moaned. “I am to be shot. Bring me my prayer book.” She gave him his prayer book, his legs went out from under him, and the detectives had to support him to the carriage. He had been flung into Carroll Prison. That terrified him. He was willing to say all he knew to get out again. But the detectives who examined him about that vile woman told him that unless he could remember more than he had so far, he would be hanged. So he had remembered more. Stanton had thought that perhaps he might. His statement got fuller and longer.

  At first he had tried to tell the truth. He had tried not to lie about Mrs. Surratt. But it seemed that Mrs. Surratt was the one they were trying to nail down, it was his neck or hers, so he had to go along with them. His life had always been like that. Every coward can find a bully somewhere.

  For a drunk he did remarkably well on the stand. Her attorneys cross-questioned him. He got shifty, but he would not shift his story. He had been got at. He was desperate to live. She could only wait for Weichmann to contradict him.

  Weichmann was her last hope. It was admitted in evidence that she had treated him like a son. She could not believe that he would lie about her. Weichmann was a well educated man. He had been a divinity student. He had taught at a college. He was a fellow Catholic. She put her faith in him.

  The room was sultry. At first reporters had been barred from the trial, but after the clamour in the newspapers about that, even Stanton had to give way and admit them. They had been on duty since May 13th, which was the first day of Weichmann’s testimony, and they had brought the stench of stale cigars along with them. Much was expected of Weichmann, by everybody. Nor did he fail them.

  Despite the heat of the day, he looked sleek and dapper. He was neatly dressed, his tie was immaculately tied, his little feet were firmly encased in highly polished Congress gaiters, and his trousers were hand tailored and appropriately concertinaed. No creases to prove that they were ready made showed to disgrace him. That little violet face looked resolute. He radiated honesty, but there was nothing warm about him. He spoke in his light, self-consciously manly, self-consciously well-educated voice. He was hone
st, impartial, full of humanity, and quite cheerful, though in a subdued way appropriate to the occasion. He could be trusted.

  He was also a coward.

  He had been arrested on April 15th, and was one of the few prisoners Stanton had deigned to see in person, if only for the pleasure of telling him that he had as much of the President’s blood on his hands as Booth had. Then the Secret Service report was shown him. That proved quite enough to assure the government of his services at the trial.

  Stanton had recognized his man. Weichmann was a clerk at the War Department. One had merely to give him a a government job. If he talked afterwards, he would lose the job. He wondered how much Weichmann would sell out for.

  It turned out to be for very little. The overweaning ambitions of small men do not, after all, amount to much, and are easily taken care of. They have not the vision to ask for more. Stanton was relieved. The man had been a spy, and the government cannot admit to harbouring spies in its own departments. He had been a spy for both sides. He was guilty as hell. He had attended Charles College, at Pikesville, with Booth and Arnold. He was friendly with Payne. He knew Atzerodt. He had let Surratt into the War Department after hours, to copy documents and send them south to Richmond. He had been the last person Surratt had seen, before leaving Washington City on April 3rd. He had probably been in the abduction plot which preceded the assassination. He could not have known so much about it, if he had not been. And most important of all, he wished to live. Stanton was satisfied. He would be impressive in the witness box.

  The detectives were ordered to write out a list of things for Weichmann to say in court. It covered all those points in the evidence where a little discreet invention would do wonders. Weichmann took the hint. He had an ingenious mind. He turned out to be very good at saying things which could not be disproved, and which tallied with what could not be shaken.

  He began by giving Mrs. Surratt an excellent character. He saw no harm in that. He was there to help hang the woman, not to impugn her character. Besides, it would make a good impression.

  Mrs. Surratt relaxed. Her faith in Weichmann had not been misplaced. At least there were some honest men in the world.

  Indeed there were. But there was no weak point in the prosecution that Weichmann did not bolster.

  The trip to Surrattsville loomed large in his evidence. He corroborated John Lloyd, as he had been told to do. He implicated Dr. Mudd. He implicated everyone.

  Mrs. Surratt could only hopelessly watch. That man was lying. He was lying deliberately, and with malice afore-thought, and there was no way to stop him.

  He testified that when the detectives who had come to search the house at two in the morning, after the assassination, had left, Annie had said, “Oh, Ma. Just think of that man’s being here an hour before the assassination.” It was a lie. Could he not at least leave Annie alone? It was all a lie. But she understood now. There was to be no mercy. The trial was rigged. The trial was a mockery. Fear had made men liars. She could only thank God for the small gratitude of casual acquaintances, whose good will had tried to save her, even if they could not, from the concentrated spleen of those she had been so foolish as to trust.

  XL

  It was perhaps worst for Annie. She had finally been released from prison. There was nothing to hold her for, once she had testified. Burnett told her that if she came to Secretary Stanton’s office she could get the key to the house.

  Annie refused to do so. She was only seventeen, but she had spunk. She said they could deliver the key up to her themselves. She did not intend to beg for it.

  Like most bullies, Stanton always backed down if challenged. Had he been challenged sooner, perhaps the trial would not have gone as it did. The key was a little thing. She received her key.

  Holding it in her hand, she felt reluctant to go back to that house. Yet she had nowhere else to go. Looking at it from the street, she found it terrible. It was empty. Even the Negroes had gone, and though Eliza Hawkins would come back to care for her, it was too late in the day to send for Eliza, who had gone to Surrattsville.

  Annie let herself in. The hall was cold and dark. The living room was disarrayed. No one had tidied it since the detectives had searched it. Over the mantelpiece was a spot of discoloured wallpaper. Morning, Noon, and Night had hung there. It was now an exhibit at the trial.

  She pushed the shutters open, but not much light came in. Then she went upstairs to her own room. In the hall she passed the mirror, its surface dusty. The glimpse she caught of herself was unrecognizable. She could see her mother’s features, poking out through her own young flesh.

  She did not even have a change of clothes. The government had impounded all movables. She had to petition the Assistant Judge Advocate to get them back. The house disturbed her. It was full of shadows. If all those who had once lived there had not been alive, in the Old Penitentiary Prison, she would have called those shadows ghosts.

  She supposed she owned the house now, but though she had it back, she did not know what to do with it. Mrs. Holahan came to stay with her. She was a merciful woman. She did her best. Annie was grateful to her. It was more than Honora had offered to do. Annie had not seen Honora since the trial. But what could Mrs. Holahan do?

  Annie could not bear the thought of her mother alone in jail. She got a court order to see her. They were allowed to talk to each other for an hour and a half, in the courtyard. But there was nothing for them to say. Ma looked awful. She said they must hope for reprieve. The prison yard was not agreeable. Their meeting was supervised by Rath, the common hangman. He seemed a decent man but everyone knew he was the executioner. He was not agreeable company, whether he loathed his work or not.

  What reprieve could there be from this terrible place? Annie did not understand how her mother could seem so stoical and so calm.

  Neither did Mrs. Surratt. After Rath took her daughter home, she fainted.

  XLI

  It was a farce. But the farce went on. Doster decided to do something extreme. He subpoenaed President Johnson, in order to prove that Johnson had been at Kirkwood House for Atzerodt to kill, which would make Atzerodt’s refusal to do so the more valid proof of innocence. Johnson refused to appear, and sent a man called Farwell instead. Farwell, the Governor of Wisconsin, had been in the room with him at the time, he said. Johnson was not a wily politician for nothing. He had enemies, he knew who they were, Stanton was among them, and he refused to be dragged into this thing. Subpoena or not, Johnson was President. Doster had to make do with Farwell.

  But Farwell also had his enemies. Farwell’s testimony sank Atzerodt’s defence. Not that the man was worth saving from the gallows, for Atzerodt was impossible to deal with. He seemed to think that because Mrs. Surratt had flung him out of her boarding-house, his innocence was proved. He had run away and refused to kill anybody. He had been afraid then, and he was afraid now. But fear would not help him here. Had he had the courage to speak out at the time, things might have gone differently, but the Atzerodts of this world never speak out, at any time. They would rather cringe and run. One could not even make him understand why he was guilty, or of what. He seemed to rely on his family to save him, but his family was insupportable. They turned and twisted even more than Atzerodt did. Irresolution seemed their only principle. Let George look out for himself.

  With Payne it was a different matter. Payne puzzled Doster.

  That giant of a man was the only one of the conspirators with sufficient dignity to seem contrite. He also seemed to be in some kind of despair that had nothing to do with the trial. He had made up his mind to die, he said, and the trial was a waste of time. Doster could not tell whether his attitude sprang from lunacy, unparalleled stupidity, or fear of prejudicing his own cause. Yet he could be saved, if there was to be even a shred of legality about these proceedings. The most that could be charged against him was assault and battery, with Seward as plaintiff.

  He would say nothing. Yet of all the prisoners, he seemed the most aler
t. Alone of them, he had some expression in his face, half-way between scorn and grief, that had nothing to do with the anxiety about their own necks which dominated the others. He held himself well. Doster admired a man who could hold himself well. Perhaps that was because, unlike the others, he did not sit there waiting to be condemned. He had already condemned himself.

  Doster could only marvel at the ramifications of what are at first glance illiterate and inarticulate minds. A detected criminal is usually the last person to assume responsibility for his own acts. And that Payne did, Doster supposed, made him in some backwoods but valid way a gentleman, whereas the tergiversations of Dr. Mudd proved that gentleman merely a stupidly wily fool.

  What was bothering Payne anyway? There must be some reason why he would not talk.

  XLII

  Indeed there was. What was bothering Payne was Herold. If it had not been for Herold, Cap would not be dead now. Or at any rate, the two of them would have fared better in those swamps together than ever Cap did with Herold.

  It was Herold who had thought up the idea of getting into Seward’s house by means of a medical prescription. It was the sort of feather-brained idea Herold would have had. But Booth had told Herold to hold Payne’s horse until Payne came out of the house, and instead Herold had run off and left him. That was Herold all over. It was like the prosecution said. He was a light and trivial boy. For running off like that, he deserved to hang, for he had let Cap down. But Cap had caught up with him and forced him to behave himself, not having Payne there to take care of him, and needing somebody to help. And then Herold had bungled the whole damn escape. Cap was dead as a result. Herold deserved to die. He had never been worth keeping alive, anyhow.

  Payne had never been able to understand why Cap kept people like Herold, Weichmann, and Atzerodt around him. O’Laughlin and Arnold were a little better, but you could see there wasn’t any good in them either. As for Surratt, Surratt might be okay, but he didn’t see him here. Surratt was slippery. Payne didn’t blame him for that. He did blame him for Mrs. Surratt’s being here. He also blamed himself. Mrs. Surratt upset him badly.