We set off on a crisp November day in a wagon, loaded only with my favorite chair, my bedstead, my clothing, and a few other necessities, as Mr. Lloyd was leasing the tavern furnished. Johnny glanced back as we left the crossroads. “Armpit of the universe,” he said. “I can’t wait until I can leave this behind for good.”
“Why, you used to sigh after this place when you were in school. I remember your letters.”
“That was before I discovered other places, Ma.”
“Washington City?”
“New York. Montreal.”
“When have you been to those places?”
“A few months ago, for work, or what I call work anyway. I’d like to go to Europe one day. That reminds me, Ma, of something I should have asked before. Will my friends be welcome at H Street?”
“When have your friends ever not been welcome?” Then I realized his meaning. “Friends of the South? Of course, provided that they don’t turn out the paying boarders. And we must be careful around Mr. Weichmann and Miss Fitzpatrick.”
“Miss Fitzpatrick’s harmless. If she gives a thought to the war, and I’m not sure she does, it’s for the South. She seems to know half the Irish in Washington City, and the draft riots up in New York ought to tell you what they think of the war.”
“Miss Fitzpatrick is of rather a different class. But no, I don’t think she troubles her head much with North or South, from what Anna writes. But Mr. Weichmann? Didn’t you say he works for the War Department now?”
“Yes, but that could prove useful. I tell you, he’s a Southern man at heart.”
“Well, you do know him very well, I suppose.”
“It’s not just that. I’ve become adept at detecting such things. One has to be. Sat beside a man on the stage a few weeks back, and he tried to get me to talk secesh with him. I wouldn’t do it. I pretended to be a dolt who cared for nothing but horses and hunting. Later I learned that he was a government agent. He said all of the right things, yet something about him had made me doubt him all along.”
“A government agent?”
“Oh, they’re always sniffing around southern Maryland, Ma. Nothing new there.”
“Then I am even more glad we are leaving the tavern.” Since removing Johnny from his postmaster position the year before, the government appeared to have been leaving us well alone, but one never knew…
The roads were dry, so we made good time to Washington. As we turned onto H Street, I looked around me with pleasure. Washington was not a terribly attractive town, it had to be said—pigs strolled around as freely as the humans there, and there was plenty of garbage to keep them well fed—but this was one of its better streets, and the farther into the city we drove, the more substantial and well-kept the houses appeared.
As our cart pulled up by the house, Mr. Weichmann appeared, carrying a handful of books. He was on the whole a good-looking young man, though his slightly chubby face spoiled the effect a little. Johnny, having kept in touch with him since having to leave school to help me with the tavern, brought him on a visit to our place a couple of years before. At the time, Mr. Weichmann was thinking of entering the priesthood, though the way his eyes rested upon my stately daughter made me wonder if this was his true calling.
“What timing!” Johnny called. “You travel light.”
“My trunk’s already here. This is the last of my things.”
Anna and Miss Fitzpatrick came out on the stairs to greet us. I had not seen Anna look so well dressed since she left school; her dress was newly trimmed, and she was wearing a pair of earrings that in the country she donned only for special occasions. “Here’s Ma, to save you girls from certain ravishment at the hands of Weichmann,” Johnny called up the stairs.
“Really, Johnny,” Anna and I chorused while Miss Fitzpatrick giggled and Mr. Weichmann blushed.
• • •
Well before Election Day came around, I was settled into my new lodgings. Mr. Weichmann was everything one could wish for in a boarder—quiet, polite, and temperate, neither too solitary nor too social—and Miss Fitzpatrick was sweet tempered and quite willing to lend Anna a hand with the housekeeping. I just wished I had one more of each of them.
Johnny, back at the tavern tending to the crops, was a year too young to vote, but Mr. Weichmann, who was twenty-two, went to Philadelphia to cast his ballot and returned to Washington that evening. As we sat in the parlor, I thought of the last presidential election, when my husband was alive and our tavern was the local polling place. Not a single soul had cast a ballot for President Lincoln, my husband announced as he tallied the vote—a quick task, and one for which he had commendably remained sober.
“Whom did you vote for, Mr. Weichmann?” Anna asked.
“Now, Anna,” I said. “Mr. Weichmann need not tell us that.” I was curious to hear the answer myself, however.
“I voted for the man I thought would serve the country best,” Mr. Weichmann said.
“I hope President Lincoln is defeated,” Anna put in. “He is a hideous man.”
“Father saw him once. He said he has very kind eyes.”
“Your father sees everyone, Miss Fitzpatrick.”
“Indeed, he does. There’s hardly a soul in Washington he doesn’t know, at least by sight. But he only glimpsed the president riding to his summer place.” Miss Fitzpatrick put her chin on her hand and sighed. “It is such a pity to live in the capital city and have to find out the election results in the morning, just as if we were in Kansas or something. I wish we could stand out by the White House and wait. If we had an escort, we could go.”
This was such a naked appeal to Mr. Weichmann, I could not help but smile and wonder how many such sad-eyed petitions Mr. Fitzpatrick had heard over the years. Fortunately, Mr. Weichmann reacted as desired. “I can escort you there, if you like—and Miss Surratt too, if she wishes.”
“Oh, would you please, Mr. Weichmann?”
“I’ll go,” Anna said. “Even though I won’t be able to endure it if that creature wins.”
“Which he probably will,” I warned her.
“It will be a long wait, perhaps, and it is a miserable night,” Mr. Weichmann added.
“We’ll wrap up well,” Miss Fitzpatrick promised. “Mrs. Surratt, won’t you come? It will be lonely sitting here all by yourself.”
Touched, I said, “I would be delighted to.”
So, bundled up and carrying umbrellas that knocked against one another as we made our way down the muddy street, we headed under Mr. Weichmann’s protection to the White House, in front of which a crowd of white and black, male and female, had already gathered. The club rooms and the hotels, Mr. Weichmann told us, were the best places to await news, but they were not suitable places for ladies to linger.
Even where we stood, however, news arrived regularly in the form of men, some more sober than others, who came to yell out the latest returns. Most were in favor of President Lincoln, which invariably met with a chorus of “Huzzah!” By the fifth or sixth time, however, even Miss Fitzpatrick was so caught up in the excitement so as to cheer with the rest. “I wish Mr. Surratt were here,” she said apologetically, stamping her boots to keep her feet warm. “How sad to be away when there is so much excitement in Washington.”
As the night wore on and it became clear the president’s reelection was assured, we were preparing to go home when a group of men, bearing the Pennsylvania flag, pushed their way through the crowd and began to sing:
Yes we’ll rally ’round the flag, boys, we’ll rally once again,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom,
We will rally from the hillside, we’ll gather from the plain,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!
The Union forever! Hurrah, boys, hurrah!
Down with the traitors, up with the stars;
While we rally ’round th
e flag, boys, rally once again,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!
“There is a Southern version of this song too,” Anna hissed. “Johnny taught it to me.”
“For goodness’ sake, child, don’t sing it here.”
“I’ll hum it,” Anna decided.
When the Pennsylvanians stopped singing and Anna humming, the former began yelling for the president to appear—which, presently, he did, leaning his head out the window as the crowd yelled and Miss Fitzpatrick gave a yelp of delight.
“Hideous!” muttered Anna.
“Oh, hush, you’ll get us cast into prison,” Miss Fitzpatrick said good-naturedly. “He looks kind, just as Father said. Don’t you think so, Mrs. Surratt?”
“I can’t make out his features,” I admitted. “My vision is not like it used to be.”
We fell silent as the president began speaking. “I am thankful to God for the approval of the people, but, while deeply grateful for this mark of their confidence in me, if I know my heart, my gratitude is free from any taint of personal triumph. I do not impugn the motives of anyone opposed to me. It is no pleasure to me to triumph over anyone. But I give thanks to the Almighty for this evidence of the people’s resolution to stand by free government and the rights of humanity.”
“The rights of darkies,” Anna muttered and turned away, her nose in the air, leaving us no choice but to follow her. “Four more years of that man,” she said as we walked home, pressing close to Mr. Weichmann as drunkards wove too close to us. “Can I bear it?”
“A lot can happen in four years, Miss Surratt,” Mr. Weichmann said.
Anna sniffed as Mr. Weichmann angled his umbrella more protectively over her head. “No need to state the obvious, sir.”
4
NORA
DECEMBER 1864
On Christmas Eve, we in the boardinghouse all had plans to go our separate ways—Mr. Weichmann to take the train to Philadelphia to see his family, me to accompany my father to Baltimore to visit my sister and some family friends, the Surratts to spend Christmas at their new home without us boarders underfoot. But first, we sat down for breakfast.
The men, who shared a bedroom, were the last to arrive. They had gone out last night, Mr. Weichmann to buy some presents for his sisters and Mr. Surratt to offer him his invaluable advice, as he put it, and had stayed out until past their usual hour. Mr. Surratt yawned as he sat down. “Ma, you didn’t wait up for us last night.”
“Should I have? I trusted that Mr. Weichmann would keep you out of trouble.”
“If you had, I would have told you whom I met.”
“So now you can tell all of us,” Anna said.
“As I was planning to. But you must guess. Whom do you think Weichmann and I met in the street?”
“The president?”
“Old Abe? Who cares? No, try again.”
“Mrs. Sprague?” Anna suggested, naming Kate Chase, the recently married daughter of the even more recently appointed chief justice of the Supreme Court. One of the most beautiful women in Washington, and now one of the richest, her wedding to the governor of Rhode Island had been the talk of the town last year.
“No, those dainty slippers would never touch the mud, although I’d much rather meet her on the street than Old Abe any day. You try, Miss Fitzpatrick.”
I shrugged. There were so many important people in Washington one might glimpse. “John Wilkes Booth,” I said idly.
“Why, how did you guess?”
I dropped my fork. “Him?”
“Yes. Mr. Weichmann and I were by Odd Fellows Hall when we saw Dr. Mudd from Bryantown. You probably know Dr. Mudd from when you were at school there, Anna.”
“I do. He treated one of my classmates when she fell sick. But what’s Dr. Mudd to me? I want to hear about Mr. Booth.”
“Well, to get to the Booth, you must step through the Mudd. Dr. Mudd hailed us and introduced his companion—who, if you’re clever, you might deduce was Mr. Booth.”
“I thought his name was Mr. Boone at first,” Mr. Weichmann admitted.
“Oh, Mr. Weichmann.” Anna sighed. “You are such a stick.”
“How does he look close up?” I asked.
“I’m not a connoisseur of men’s looks, Miss Fitzpatrick, but I think most would call him very handsome. Perhaps more so in person than onstage, since there’s not the gaslight or the makeup to intrude.”
I gazed raptly into space.
Anna leaned forward. “So what happened next? Did you continue on?”
“Goodness, no, Sister! It gets better. Mr. Booth invited the three of us to his rooms at the National Hotel, and we sat and had milk punch—”
“And smoked cigars,” Anna said. “I smell them on you and Mr. Weichmann.”
“Yes, well, we men like our cigars, you know. If you wish to marry, you will have to learn to tolerate them or else die an old maid. Anyway, we drank our milk punch, smoked our fiendish cigars, and talked awhile. Afterward, we went on to Dr. Mudd’s rooms at Pennsylvania House—he came to town to see some relatives—and talked some more. And that is it, except that Mr. Booth has promised to call upon us here sometime.”
“Truly?”
“So he said. Mind you, he didn’t say precisely when.”
“We shall have to keep the place spotless at all times, Ma,” Anna said. “Thank goodness the furniture in the parlor is new—I couldn’t bear to see Mr. Booth sitting here in shabby surroundings.”
“He travels a great deal and must stay in all sorts of places,” I said. “Perhaps he will be willing to make some allowances.”
“Nay, Miss Fitzpatrick, that will not do. We must be in readiness to receive him at any possible moment, and the house must be in a state of nearly palatial splendor.” Mr. Surratt studied his egg thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should not serve any meals here, lest the smell of cooking offend him.”
“Johnny, stop tormenting the young ladies,” Mrs. Surratt said. “This is a perfectly respectable house, and a clean one too, if I must say so myself, and there is no reason Mr. Booth, if he comes, should not be pleased. He will not, of course, be expecting a grand house.”
“Well, I might have added a staircase or two in my description of it, and a bay window. Is it too late to bring a builder over?”
• • •
A few hours later, Father came for me in a hack, and we took the train to Baltimore, where my brother, Peter, was supposed to have arrived from Boston the day before. Sure enough, he was waiting at the station for us.
I repressed a sigh as we stepped off the train. I loved my brother, but beside him and my father’s great pride in him, I felt frivolous and insignificant, especially as I could think of nothing I was likely to do that would make Father shine the same proud look upon me, except perhaps to marry someone very much like Peter.
As we sat down to tea at our hotel, Peter pulled a journal from his valise. “The National Quarterly Review did a little piece about Holy Cross, where I was last year, and I am mentioned in it,” he said modestly and handed it to Father.
My father plucked a pair of spectacles from his pocket—accoutrements he normally used with the utmost reluctance—and began to scan the pages. “‘Professor Fitzpatrick has always an appropriate suggestion to make when the student seems to get confused, which scarcely ever fails to restore his presence of mind.’ Why, Son, you have impressed this writer very much.”
“He was taken with the institution as a whole, not just me, Father.”
“Still, he singled you out for notice. I shall read the rest when I retire tonight.”
“I would like to read it too before you leave.”
“Of course. What have you been doing, Nora?”
I was relieved to be able to report, “I have been going to one of the hospitals and reading to the convalescent soldiers. I have s
o much free time on my hands, and I felt that I should be doing something to help them.”
My brother gave me a rare grin. “I hope you allow them something besides Charlotte Brontë, Nora. She is not to all tastes.”
“I do read from others,” I said in an injured tone. “I read Pickwick the other day. The men thought my Sam Weller was excellent.”
“Whatever you read to them, I am glad you are doing it,” Father said.
“I don’t think Mrs. Surratt entirely approves,” I admitted. “With her sympathies—”
Peter, who was the only abolitionist I knew in person, snorted. “She may as well resign herself to the inevitable. The Confederacy is in its death throes, and it is high time.”
“Peter,” my father said, “remember where you are. We are not in Massachusetts.”
“We are in the Union, and as a Union man, I shall speak as freely as I please.” But he did add, “Out of respect for you, Father, I will speak quietly while I am here in Baltimore.”
I had not enjoyed seeing my father reprove my brother as much as I had expected. To lighten the mood, I said, “Mr. John Surratt met a new acquaintance yesterday, and you’ll never guess who. John Wilkes Booth, the actor.”
Both my brother and my father gratified me by turning astonished faces toward me. “Why, I would have hardly thought that Mr. Surratt traveled in theatrical circles,” Father said.
“He met him through Dr. Mudd, a physician in the country. Mr. Booth even invited Mr. Surratt and the other gentlemen to his lodgings at the National Hotel. He might even pay a call at Mrs. Surratt’s.”
“He may have simply said he would call, without having meant to keep his word,” Peter said gently. “A man like that surely has more fashionable company with which to occupy himself.”
“Nora and I saw him play last year,” Father said. “He is a marvelous actor. Have you seen him, Peter?”
“No. Only his brother Edwin in Boston. I should hardly say ‘only,’ though, for he is as gifted an actor as I’ve ever seen.”
“I believe that John Wilkes Booth is every bit as talented as his brother,” I said proprietarily. “And I believe that he will not be so ungentlemanly as to make an engagement to come see Mr. Surratt at his home and not keep it.”
Hanging Mary: A Novel Page 3
