It was shameful for me, of all people, to be pinning my hopes on a man’s dissipation and degradation. Yet I had no choice.
• • •
On April 27, Mrs. Baxley came into my room bearing a newspaper. “I wanted to tell you this before our captors do. Booth is dead.”
Anna began to weep.
“Are you sure? It’s not just a rumor?” I asked.
Mrs. Baxley nodded. “He was shot yesterday in a barn in Virginia. His body was brought to Washington last night.” She held up the Evening Star. “The sutler’s boy knew Willie. He was kind enough to bring me an extra. It’s all here.”
I took the paper. Accompanied only by David Herold, the monkey-faced boy I remembered from the tavern, Booth had made his way from Maryland to Virginia until a federal cavalry unit finally caught up with him in a tobacco barn, where he had been spending the night. “Anna, can you bear to listen?” I asked.
“No.”
I read silently:
The cavalry then surrounded the barn and summoned Booth and his accomplice to surrender. Herold was inclined at first to accede to the request, but Booth accused him of cowardice, then they both peremptorily refused to surrender and made preparations to defend themselves.
In order to take the conspirators alive, the barn was fired, and the flames getting too hot for Herold, he approached the door of the barn and signified his willingness to be taken prisoner. Herold then came out of the barn and gave himself up and was securely handcuffed.
Booth maintained a defiant attitude, refusing to surrender, and, in braggadocio style, challenged his pursuers to fight him by turns singly. As the roof of the barn was about falling in, and Booth manifested a disposition to make a bolt, he was shot by Sergeant Boston Corbett, of the 16th New York, the ball taking effect in the neck, from the effects of which he died in about three hours.
Booth, before breathing his last, was asked if he had anything to say, when he replied, “Tell my mother that I died for my country.”
I put the paper down and gazed into space. Mrs. Baxley awkwardly put an arm around Anna. “Miss Surratt, it is for the best. He might have stayed for weeks in solitary confinement and gone slowly mad. He might have been hanged in front of a jeering crowd. He is past all that.”
“I loved him.”
Mrs. Baxley sighed and shook her head. “For God’s sake, girl, keep that to yourself.”
• • •
The next morning, Anna and I were both summoned to the office. After a night spent weeping for Mr. Booth, Anna held her head high. I knew as they led us into separate rooms that she would not lose her composure.
A man in his thirties, with a grave expression and a flourishing beard, seated himself at the desk before me. He introduced himself as Colonel Henry Olcott. Although he did not mention Mr. Booth’s death, and neither did I, the fact of it hung uneasily between us.
“You are at liberty to decline answering my questions, Mrs. Surratt, but you will understand any statement you make will be used at your trial.”
Trial? I was about to say the word when Colonel Olcott said, “You are a woman of good sense. It is better to refuse to say anything than to not tell the truth.”
I assented. Briskly, Colonel Olcott questioned me, as these men always did, about when I last saw Johnny, then about my boarder Port Tobacco. His next question sent a chill down my spine. “A week or two previous to the murder, how many times did you go to the country?”
“Twice.”
“Who went with you?”
“The gentleman who boarded with me, Mr. Weichmann. He drove me down in a buggy.”
“Where did you stop?”
“At Mr. Lloyd’s. He rents my place down there.”
“What conversation did you have with Mr. Lloyd?”
I managed to answer in a level tone. “I do not remember any particular conversation. Mr. Lloyd did not return home until I was getting ready to leave.”
“What time was that?”
“Friday evening.”
“That is, the day of the murder?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long a conversation did you have with Mr. Lloyd?”
“A short one. I did not sit down. I met him only as I was going home.”
“Where was Mr. Weichmann?”
“He was there.”
“He heard the conversation?”
“I presume he did. I do not remember.”
“What did Mr. Lloyd say to you?”
I tried to remember Mr. Lloyd’s drunken meanderings. “He spoke of having fish and oysters. He asked me whether I had been to dinner.”
“What did you say about having any shooting irons or carbines?”
He remembered, and I, God forgive me, would have to lie. “I said nothing about them.”
For the first time in our interview, Colonel Olcott frowned. “Any conversation of that kind? Did you not tell him to have the shooting irons ready, that there would be some people there that night?”
“To my knowledge, no conversation of that kind passed.”
“Did you know any shooting irons were there?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
What might these men do to wring the truth out of me? I half expected Colonel Olcott to lift a hand and order me dragged to the rack. But he said mildly, “Were Mr. Booth’s visits always visits of courtesy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any business discussed?”
“No, sir, not political affairs. I do not think that his longest stay was over one hour.”
“What part of the day did he used to come?”
“Sometimes in the day and sometimes in the evening.”
“Did not an attachment spring up between him and your daughter?”
“Not that I knew of.”
“He was a handsome man?”
“He was a handsome man and gentlemanly.” Had things been different, this might have been Mr. Booth’s epitaph. “That is all we knew of him. I did not suppose he had the devil he certainly possessed in his heart.”
Colonel Olcott raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I should suppose from the papers and letters that Miss Surratt thought favorably of him?”
Do you know what hurts worst, Ma? Not getting to say good-bye to him that day he stopped by to see you. “If so, she kept it to herself. She never corresponded with him.”
“Did he pay attention to any one of the young ladies?”
“No particular attention. We were in the parlor together, and he did not pay particular attention to anyone.”
Colonel Olcott scribbled on his paper a little, then asked me about Johnny’s acquaintance with Mr. Booth and about my visitors on the day of the murder—and once again asked about Johnny having been at the theater with Mr. Booth. As I knew perfectly well that no such thing happened, despite all of these men dwelling on the subject, I felt a bit less guilty about the lies I had told today.
But only a bit.
• • •
Anna was back in our room when I returned. She had flopped wearily upon the bed she could scarcely bear to sit on a few days before. “What did they ask you?” I said when we were alone.
“About the boarders. When we went to bed the night of the assassination. When I last saw Johnny. Who called Saturday and Sunday. How long Johnny was postmaster.” Anna sat up. “Ma, do you think they will find Johnny? Kill him?”
“Child, I know in my heart that he had nothing to do with the assassination. If they find him, he will have no reason to force them to shoot him, as did Mr. Booth. They will put him on trial, and they will hear that he left town two weeks before, and he will go free.”
“But what if they find him guilty?”
“They will not, because you and I will pray that he stays hidden until it is safe, and that if he is found, he
is not convicted. Let us do so now.”
Anna looked at me, clearly doubting the efficacy of prayer, but obeyed. As we told our beads, I pondered Colonel Olcott’s reference to my own trial. Was he merely using a form of words he used toward everyone he questioned, or was I to be put on trial, and for what? For bringing those shooting irons? Or for something worse?
Whatever was to come, I knew telling Anna would only upset her more. So I stayed quiet.
• • •
More familiar faces appeared in the men’s exercise yard: Mr. Holohan and—to my horror—my brother. “What has he to do with any of this?” I asked the guard at head count time. “He never met Mr. Booth in his life. He has supported the Union, in fact.”
“He’s your brother. And John Surratt’s uncle.”
In these times, that seemed sufficient to send a man to prison.
On April 30, Mr. Weichmann joined my other boarders in their captivity. He caught sight of Anna and me sitting by our window and waved.
“Even in prison I can’t get away from that man,” Anna muttered.
Mrs. Baxley, who had shown a bit more interest in life as new prisoners were brought in, chuckled. “Not a sweetheart of yours, I gather?”
“No! The horrid creature used to wear blue pantaloons in the house.”
Mrs. Baxley shook her head. “Pity my Willie isn’t here. The two of you would have been a good match.” She looked at the small jacket in her hand. “Except as to height, perhaps,” she added grudgingly.
• • •
That evening, we lady prisoners were clustered in the once luxurious parlor that served as our gathering place when we heard someone bark, “Double the guard!”
We stared at one another. Since Mr. Booth’s death, we no longer lived in fear of our prison being stormed, so what could this mean? Then I realized: they must have Johnny. “No,” I murmured. “Not my son.”
Mrs. Baxley hurried to her room with its view of the street. “They brought a carriage to the door,” she reported in a few minutes, “but there’s no one inside it that I can tell.”
“They must be about to free someone,” Anna said. “Lucky soul.”
“But why double the guard?”
We stood there in silence, waiting for something to answer our question, when Superintendent Wood appeared, followed by another man. “Mrs. Surratt, you are wanted. Please get your bonnet and cloak.”
It was half past six, well past the usual time for interrogating anyone. “Wanted where at this time of night?”
“Please do as you are told, madam, quickly.”
I turned to obey. Both Anna and Mrs. Baxley tried to follow me. Both were stopped.
Trembling, I slowly walked to my room and took my cloak and hat from their nail. Something told me to bring my purse as well. From the window, I heard Anna’s angry voice. “What do you mean, I cannot go with her?”
I hurried back. Anna clutched me. “I will go with her, and you won’t stop me!”
“Miss, I will use force only as the last resort, but I will use it if need be. Don’t make me cause you pain.”
“Anna, do as you are told.”
The commanding tone caused Anna to loosen her grip upon me. Instantly, Superintendent Wood moved in and firmly, yet gently, pulled her from me.
I looked at the semicircle of women standing around me. “Pray for me,” I said. “Take care of my Anna.”
Mrs. Baxley kissed me, and the others followed suit. Then I embraced Anna. “Be brave, child.”
“But where are they taking you?”
No one answered. Instead, Superintendent Wood and the other man hustled me away toward the carriage outside. As the door closed, the last sound I heard from the prison was Annie’s distant screams.
I slumped in a corner of the carriage. Even if I was disposed to look outside to see where I was being taken, I could not; the curtains were drawn shut.
At last we stopped. My companion, who at some point introduced himself to me as Colonel Lafayette Baker, handed me out. Nothing around me looked the least bit familiar, though the walls surrounding me left no doubt I was in a prison of some sort. “Where am I? Surely you can tell me that much.”
“Old Arsenal Penitentiary.”
I nodded, having heard of this place. “I didn’t think they were using it as a prison anymore.”
“They weren’t. Now they are again. Come along.”
Though I could not see it due to the walls, I knew we were surrounded by water on three sides in this part of the city, and a breeze coming off the river made me shiver as Colonel Baker led me to an office where a man sat behind a desk. “General Hartranft. Your name, madam?”
“Mrs. John Surratt.”
“Yes, as expected. A formality we have to go through.” He gave a very slight smile, and I sensed a kindness in him. “Please hand me your purse.”
I complied. He opened it and neatly laid out the contents, then scribbled on a piece of paper. A gold watch ring. “Very pretty,” he commented. A five-dollar note. Three bank bills. A thimble. Some needles attached to a strip of red velvet. My house key. My rosary, which he handed back to me without comment. As he finished writing and placed these items in a little box, it was the disappearance of the house key that pained me most.
“Sir, please tell me. Why was I moved here? Am I to stay here? Am I to be tried, and for what? Why cannot my daughter join me?”
“I cannot answer your questions, madam. I am very sorry. Now, let me take you to your cell.”
Unlike Carroll Annex, this place had been built to hold prisoners, and the cell he led me to was exactly that, with iron bars and no furnishings but a straw pallet on the floor. The only light came from General Hartranft’s lantern. “Can I not have a candle?”
“No, madam. They are not allowed. I suggest you sleep. I will check on you at seven in the morning.”
He nodded a good-bye and locked the door.
I had never been alone like this before. For years, there had always been someone close by—family, servants, boarders. Even when I had not shared my bed, there had always been someone I knew and trusted within call.
Were there other prisoners here? There must have been—surely this place was too large to keep one lone woman—but if there were, they were quiet. I heard only some crickets chirping and the sounds of some night birds.
I knelt and said my prayers, but God seemed very, very far away. Those being done, I lay down on the hard pallet and pulled the blanket around me. What was my poor Anna doing now?
It was the thought of her, motherless, in our room at Carroll Annex that finally, for the first time since my arrest, broke me. I sat up and wept into my hands until I could weep no more.
36
NORA
APRIL 24 TO 30, 1865
For days I remained shut up in my solitary room at Carroll Annex, without a soul to talk to. I thought for certain that my captors were trying to drive me mad. But for my two diversions—killing bugs and watching the men exercising in the yard—they might well have succeeded.
What a capital cockroach killer I became! Since then, I have read various memoirs of others, mostly men, imprisoned during the war, and while I cannot pretend to have possessed the military skills my male counterparts brought to their task of ridding themselves of six-legged creatures, I did the best I could, armed with my shoes. At first, it was my greatest regret that I had been arrested at the church fair, to which I had worn my dainty slippers rather than my practical boots, as the latter were, of course, far better suited to my murderous task. As the days passed and I grew more to hate my enemy, however, I found my slipper put less a barrier between it and myself, and therefore was far more satisfying than using a sturdier boot would have been.
But while I could report some success against the cockroaches, I was helpless against the bedbugs. They tormen
ted me so much when I tried to sleep that I finally gave it up and paced around the chamber at night until I dropped at the foot of my bed in exhaustion.
When not engaged in hostilities with the insect world, I sat at my window and watched the men take their exercise. There was a rule at the prison, unwritten but nonetheless most vigorously enforced, that we could not stick our heads or hands outside our windows, which made it almost impossible for me to converse with anyone, but there were a few kind souls, most of whose names I never learned, who would pass by and give me an encouraging smile or a wave, making me feel less alone. Each day, there were more men in the yard to watch: no one seemed to be leaving, only coming.
Despite the fact that my letter to my father during my first captivity had never reached him, I again begged pencil and paper to write to him and to the Misses Donovan, who must have been frantic, poor things, when I failed to return home from the church fair. A pencil was soon brought, but no paper, and when I made the eminently reasonable suggestion that both would be helpful for writing a letter, I received only a blank stare for my pains. I could only hope that Father Wiget had sent word to them and my father. The pencil, however, did afford me a new pastime. Both here and upstairs, the walls were scrawled over with the signatures of my predecessors, along with the occasional scrap of verse, and I dutifully added my own name to the wall:
Miss Nora Fitzpatrick
In durance vile from April 24, 1865, to ____
• • •
On Thursday, the fourth day of my captivity (I kept a little calendar on the wall in time-honored style), a guard pushed open the door and thrust in a basket, for which the roaches and I all scrambled. It was a selection of little cakes from my favorite bakery and could have been brought to me by none other than my father. I pictured him standing at the counter, worried to death about me, yet making certain all of my favorites were well represented, and my heart ached. Why had I ever brought all of this trouble upon him by wanting to leave the Misses Donovan in the first place?
The next day, toward dusk, my door banged open again. This time, it was a woman who was unceremoniously pushed into my cell by the guard, who muttered something about bringing in another bed and left her staring around in horror.
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