Hanging Mary: A Novel

by Susan Higginbotham

  The first onslaught of questioners had receded when a dark-haired man of about thirty, good-looking in a sort of impudent way, approached, a little girl at each hand. They were Mr. Alexander Whelan and his daughters, who often sat near us at church. Mr. Whelan had a wife, but I had met her only once or twice, as she was an invalid and seldom came to services. The little energy she did have, she expended on her two little girls, six-year-old Mary Catherine and three-year-old Annie, for they always appeared at church in beautiful matching dresses, Mary Catherine’s golden curls bouncing, and Annie’s duller hair resplendent with a fancy bow. Mr. Whelan raised his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Fitzpatrick. I’m glad to see you don’t look much worse for wear for your stay in the clink.”

  “It could have been much worse, sir. Really, the most dreadful part about it was the food, and having nothing to read.”

  “Why were you in jail?” Mary Catherine frowned. “Were you bad?”

  “No, no, Mary. Miss Fitzpatrick’s a nice young lady.”

  “Then why did they put her in jail?”

  “We’ll talk about it at home, princess,” Mr. Whelan promised. “And speaking of princesses, look sharp, Miss Fitzpatrick. The queen is coming.”

  Sure enough, strolling through the hall was St. Aloysius’s most prominent parishioner, Mrs. Stephen Douglas, widow of the senator who had lost the 1860 election to President Lincoln. He had been a good thirty years her senior when they married, and he was so enamored of her that he had not only made no fuss about her being a Catholic, but had allowed his own sons by his first marriage to be raised in the church. Every Sunday since I had begun coming here, I had seen her and her stepchildren sitting in Pew No. 1. On the rare Sundays when she was not present, we could still see her, for so lovely was she that she had been the artist’s model for the altarpiece showing St. Aloysius with his mother.

  Yet as far apart as Mrs. Douglas and I were socially, we did have one thing in common: Georgetown Visitation. She had been a pupil there ten years before me, and after her marriage she had returned on occasion to visit her old teachers and to act as a benefactress. It was there we had met, and as she had the gift of remembering faces that a politician’s wife must have, she had remembered me and spoken to me pleasantly on the few times we happened to encounter each other at church.

  I watched as Mrs. Douglas, elegantly clad in the lavender she had favored since coming out of full mourning, made her way from booth to booth, at each one asking that something be set aside for delivery to her later. At last she reached my own. Instead of pointing at items with her expensively gloved hand, she said, “Miss Fitzpatrick, I was so sorry to hear of your unfortunate experience. I hope it has not affected your health.”

  News did indeed travel far. “No, ma’am. I am quite well.”

  “Are Mrs. Surratt and her daughter still imprisoned?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but I hope that they will soon be released.”

  “I certainly hope so. If I can be of any help, please let me know.”

  “I will, ma’am.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Douglas said, pointing to a painted cup. “I do believe I’ll take this. And this. And this.”

  I modestly credited myself at least partially for the success of the fair that particular day.

  Having bespoken most of what was on my table, Mrs. Douglas bid me good day, and I commenced wrapping her purchases.

  “Mrs. Douglas, should you be in need of a painter or a grainer, I’m your man,” Mr. Whelan said. “Special rates for parishioners.”

  “I will remember that, Mr.…”

  “Whelan, madam. Mr. Alexander Whelan.”

  Mrs. Douglas nodded and moved on to the next table. “Pa! Why did you ask her that?” Mary Catherine asked him.

  “It never hurts to try, girls.” He eyed the remainder of my merchandise. “Now, I bet your ma wants a pincushion.”

  “She has one, Pa.”

  “Well, she’s going to have another one.” Mr. Whelan squinted at the array of pincushions.

  “Maybe two,” I suggested.

  “Pa, what’s the man doing?”

  “Now, girlie, your ma always tells you it’s rude to point.”

  “Well, they’re pointing at us.”

  Mr. Whelan frowned. “Actually,” he said, “they’re pointing at you, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I’ve seen him at the provost marshal’s.”

  Mr. Whelan planted himself by my side as a soldier headed straight in the direction he had been pointed, ignoring even Mrs. Mahoney’s famous pound cake, which Father Wiget had pronounced not even Christ himself could have resisted. “Miss Nora Fitzpatrick?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s more we need to talk about, miss. I’d like to see you at the provost marshal’s office for a few moments.”

  “Don’t go, Miss Fitzpatrick. It’s a trick.”

  The soldier turned his gaze to Mr. Whelan. “Is this man a relative of yours, Miss Fitzpatrick?”

  “A friend,” Mr. Whelan said. “What do you want with this young lady?”

  “To ask her a few questions, as I said, about some very serious matters. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll not interfere.”

  With visions of Mr. Whelan being dragged off in fetters while his poor little girls looked on, I said, “Mr. Whelan, would you please go fetch Father Wiget for me? He is standing over there.”

  Mr. Whelan muttered something but obeyed. “Is something wrong here?” Father Wiget asked.

  “He wants Miss Fitzpatrick to abandon her post and to go the provost marshal’s office. I think it’s a damned trap.”

  “Nonsense,” the soldier said. “We just need to clarify some things.”

  “Then why can’t you ask about them here?”

  “Because the men asking the questions are there. Father, make the fellow see reason.”

  Father Wiget sighed. “I think you must go, Miss Fitzpatrick. The sooner they catch Booth, the better off we’ll all be, and if there is anything you can do to help, you must.”

  “I’ll bring the young lady back here when we’re finished,” the soldier said. He sniffed. “Maybe even buy some cake.”

  “Then go along with him, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

  Mr. Whelan shook his head and glared at the detective.

  After fetching my bonnet and shawl from the cloakroom, I walked out to the waiting ambulance, which quickly brought me to the provost marshal’s office. There was no waiting this time; I was immediately seated in front of two soldiers. As I never learned their names, I thought of them as Short One and Tall One.

  Tall One had an album in front of him, which I recognized as my own. He thrust it in front of me. “Is this yours, Miss Fitzpatrick?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He pulled out a photograph between two others, and I looked Mr. Booth in the face once more. “This belong to you, miss?”

  “It does.”

  “No need to ask if you recognize it. You’ve seen the man in person?”

  “Yes.”

  “Many times?”

  “Many times.”

  “When did you hide it?”

  “After he killed the president.”

  Short One said, “You hid it. You didn’t destroy it. Why?”

  “I didn’t have the heart to.”

  “You were in love with him?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “You say that with a great deal of confidence. Wouldn’t it be quite natural for a young lady to be in love with a handsome man like Booth?”

  “It may be, but he never showed any interest of that kind in me, and I am not the sort to pine for what I cannot have.”

  “You knew nothing of his plans?”

  “Certainly not.”

  Tall One jumped back into the questioning. �
��What did he speak of when he came to visit? Did he talk of politics?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What did he do when he was there?”

  “He did the sort of things any well-bred man would do. He made general conversation. He spoke very fondly of his family. He had Miss Surratt play the piano, and had us sing duets. Since he was an actor, he had us read for him.”

  “Was Miss Surratt attached to him?”

  I squirmed.

  “Look at these before you answer.”

  I stared at the paper he showed me. There in Anna’s handwriting were a series of jottings. J. Wilkes Booth. National Hotel. Miss Anna Surratt… “I know nothing of these, sir.”

  “Aren’t they something like a young girl in love might scribble?”

  “They could mean about anything, sir.”

  “So you are telling me that Miss Surratt was not in love with Mr. Booth? Or was she?” Tall One reached down and pulled something from beneath his desk and held it in front of me. “Do you recognize this?”

  “Yes. It was on the mantel in the bedroom where I slept. Morning, Noon, and Night.”

  “Did you ever take a look at the back of the frame?”

  “The back of the frame? Why would I do that?”

  “Well, someone found a use for it.” Tall One turned the picture around. There was a small hole in the frame, from which he pulled out a photograph. “Booth, yet again. Did you hide this back here, miss?”

  “No, sir. I had but the one.”

  “Did Miss Surratt hide it back there?”

  “I do not know.” Swiftly, I remembered that Anna’s photograph of Mr. Booth had suddenly disappeared after the assassination, but I wasn’t about to tell this to Tall One.

  “She had his photograph?”

  “Yes. We each did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we liked him and were proud of having his acquaintance and wanted to show off to our friends.”

  “Would you keep a secret for him?”

  “Not a secret about killing the president, sir.”

  Short One stirred restlessly. “When is the last time you saw John Surratt?”

  “The day Richmond fell.”

  “You have not seen him afterward?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He was not in Washington on the night of the assassination?”

  “He was not at Mrs. Surratt’s house.”

  Tall One took over. “How many times did Booth visit Mrs. Surratt on Friday?”

  “But once that I heard.”

  “Don’t tell us what you heard. Tell us what you saw.”

  “I did not see him at all that day.”

  “Where were you?”

  “In the morning, I went to church. In the afternoon, I went to the hospital to visit soldiers.”

  “What were you doing there, miss? Spying?”

  “No,” I said. “How can you even say such a horrible thing? I wanted to do something to be useful.” For the first time during my interrogation, I dabbed at my eyes with my handkerchief.

  “Well, don’t cry,” Short One said. “It’s a fair enough question, given that you were living in a nest of secesh sympathizers, isn’t it? Tell us one thing: Has Mrs. Surratt told you to keep quiet? Sworn you to an oath of secrecy? Anything like that?”

  “No!”

  “You were with her in prison, and she never told you what to say if you were questioned?”

  “No. I hardly saw her. She spent most of her time nursing a poor soldier who was sick. Mrs. Baxley’s boy.”

  “The Baxley woman? A notorious spy.” He rose. “Well, we’re done.”

  Short One escorted me to the ambulance, gave the driver a direction, and climbed in beside me. “I’m sorry not to have been of much help,” I said politely.

  Then I realized we were not going where I expected. “Aren’t you taking me back to the fair?”

  “No.”

  “Are you taking me to my boardinghouse?”

  “No.”

  “Are you taking me to my father?”

  “No.”

  “Will you let me kneel and say my prayers?”

  “Why, certainly.”

  I knelt in the ambulance, crossed myself, and prayed. When I at last rose, with the help of the detective, I saw the walls of Old Capitol Prison appearing before me. There were the guards with the bayonets, the same walk to the office, the same lieutenant, the same search, the same guard leading me to my same room—but there, I was wrong. “Aren’t we going upstairs?”

  “No, miss. I have orders to take you here.” He flung open the door. “I’m sorry.”

  I stared inside. With a good imagination, which I possessed, it was possible to make believe that the room upstairs was part of a rundown boardinghouse, no worse. Not this room. Most of the once elegant wallpaper had fallen off, leaving only a few shreds, surmounted with great spots of grease. Cockroaches ambled around merrily, while mice rustled in a corner. There was a log in the fireplace, but I doubted a fire had been lit in years; as it was, it served only as a lounging place for more cockroaches. Every corner held a spiderweb more intricate than the last.

  Two large, barred windows looked out into the yard. There were no shades, and the windows could not be completely closed, so not only was I on display to anyone passing in the yard, save for the area where one window was partially boarded, but I also could not shut out the chilly night air. There were no furnishings, save for a bed, a chair, and a table. On the table sat an empty candlestick holder, a water jug, and a tin cup; a basin matching the cup was on the floor. Of the bucket in a corner I say no more than that it had been used before and that it would be used many times again before anyone emptied it.

  “I have to stay here? Why can’t I stay with Mrs. Surratt and the other ladies? There must be a mistake.”

  “No mistake, miss. ‘To be kept apart from other ladies and to have no communication with them.’ Those are the orders with respect to you.” He pulled a candle out of his pocket, along with a few matches. “Supper at eight. Roll call at nine. Miss—”

  “Yes?”

  “If you tell what you know about Booth and Mrs. Surratt, you’ll be free in no time.”

  “Booth and Mrs. Surratt? He was acquainted with her son and visited her house. What more is there to tell?”

  The man made no answer but left the room.

  At eight, the colored woman who had brought us supper upstairs came in bearing the usual tray. The food was no worse here than what I had been served upstairs, but the utensils and dishes! My knife had no handle; later, I would find that on the occasions when I did get a knife with a handle, my fork was missing a prong, or vice versa. Never did I get a set where all was intact. My cup still bore traces of soap, which actually improved the taste of the coffee somewhat, and my dish had been only partially washed.

  I sat in the chair and nibbled the bread, it being the only thing I could bear to eat. Outside, a soldier paced back and forth.

  Nine o’clock, and the guard came in and counted. “One!”

  Then I was alone, with only my candle and a room of vermin for company.

  35

  MARY

  APRIL 24 TO 30, 1865

  Since William’s death, Mrs. Baxley had sat for hours at her window overlooking the street, clutching his jacket as if hoping he would come claim it. I was sitting beside her one evening, offering what little comfort I could give her, when an ambulance pulled up: an addition to our flock, I supposed. A lady got out, under guard, and Mrs. Baxley roused herself from her misery to say, “Why, it’s Miss Fitzpatrick.”

  I bent forward. My eyes were too poor to make out the lady’s features, but Mrs. Baxley was surely right. I had seen Nora wear this pink dress many times to church. “What on earth have they brought her back for?”
I rose. “I am sorry, Mrs. Baxley. I should go back to our room so that I can find out what is going on.”

  Mrs. Baxley nodded dully and resumed her vigil.

  But Nora did not come to the room, and I knew better than to try to extract information from the colored servants who brought us supper. Instead, when head count time came, I asked, “Excuse me, sir. Has Miss Fitzpatrick been brought in?”

  “She has.”

  “Where is she staying?”

  “Downstairs, away from the other ladies. She is in close confinement.”

  “Close confinement?” Anna asked. She stared at me. “Nora?”

  “Why, that child has never harmed another person in her life,” I said. “What on earth are they thinking?”

  The man shrugged. “Two,” he sang out before leaving.

  Why were there not three? Why were they holding Nora apart from us?

  • • •

  The next day, Anna was sitting at the window, drearily watching the men take their morning exercise, when she started, “Ma! It’s Mr. Lloyd.”

  I hurried to the window to stare at the figure to whom she pointed. The last time I saw Mr. Lloyd, he was shambling drunk. This day, as far as I could tell, he was sober, but his posture was one of utter despair.

  “Why have they arrested him?” Anna asked. “Surely he wasn’t a friend of Mr. Booth.”

  “He was our tenant. And Johnny stopped at the tavern while Mr. Lloyd rented it.”

  And I stopped there, the very day of the assassination, with my message from Mr. Booth about the shooting irons. What would happen when Mr. Lloyd told the detectives about this?

  But would he remember what I said, drunk as he was? I knew every drunkard had his own individual peculiarities, but remembering my husband gave me hope. He would play cards in his sodden condition and wake the next morning with no memory of whether he’d won or lost—something his opponents took full advantage of, for as a man of honor, John could not gainsay them when they swore he owed them money. How much that should have been used for the children’s educations evaporated in that fashion! Perhaps Mr. Lloyd’s memory would prove just as addled.