“We are doing everything to ensure that does not happen,” Mr. Aiken said a little touchily.
I supposed it was bad form to ask a lawyer what would happen if he lost, but my worries over Mrs. Surratt took precedence over Mr. Aiken’s professional pride, so I persisted. “Say just in case. She could not possibly hang, could she?”
Mr. Aiken shook his head. “It would be a perversion of justice. But let us put up our defense before we start worrying about the punishment.”
My father was not happy when he learned I would be testifying on Mrs. Surratt’s behalf, but as he knew I could be subpoenaed if the defense chose, and I told him priests would be testifying as well, he said no more on the subject.
At nine sharp on Thursday, as Washington busied itself cleaning up from the masses who had flocked to town for the grand review, I climbed into my waiting carriage. Inside it, I found Mrs. Holohan.
“Will this never end?” she asked without even bothering to greet me as the driver helped me in. “First my husband gets thrown in prison, when he scarcely exchanged two words with that man Booth, and now I have to testify. I told him all along there was a nicer boardinghouse we could have gone to, for only a little more money, but he wouldn’t hear of it. So he saved a little money, and for what? I tell you…”
For the entire time of our drive to the Arsenal, Mrs. Holohan kept up her litany of grievances against her husband, Mrs. Surratt, Mr. Booth, Secretary Stanton, and even President Lincoln for being so careless as to get shot. I was content enough to sit back and listen to her complain, as it took my mind off the question of what might happen to Mrs. Surratt if her defense failed.
The prosecution did not wrap up its case until late in the afternoon, at which time the defense called several priests to the stand, followed by Mrs. Holohan. As she made her huffy way to the stand, I hoped she at least did not say anything to harm Mrs. Surratt.
Nothing untoward happened, however, and in due course Mrs. Holohan returned. “Well, that’s over,” she muttered. “And we have to stay in case one side wants us back on the stand? Botheration.”
I wondered what it would have been like to have to share a cell with Mrs. Holohan at Old Capitol Prison. Then the guard said, “Miss Fitzpatrick, you’re next.”
Following the now-familiar path to the witness stand, I took my place. Clad in a fresh summer gown and a newly trimmed bonnet, with my hair arranged with the benefit of a mirror, I looked quite a different young lady from a few days before, and there was no tittering this time from the female spectators.
I was facing the commissioners, as before, but I could not see Mr. Aiken and the rest of the defense attorneys without turning my head, as they were sitting at a table next to Mrs. Surratt.
“When did you first commence to board at Mrs. Surratt’s?” came Mr. Aiken’s voice from the table.
I turned to look at him. “On the sixth of October last.”
“Face the court,” a judge barked.
“How long did you board there?”
With the greatest of difficulty, I avoided turning around and continued to face the court. “I boarded there from the sixth of October until the time I was arrested.”
“When did you first meet at Mrs. Surratt’s the prisoner at the bar, Mr. Payne? Was it in March or April?”
I wondered why I was being asked about Mr. Payne. “I do not know when it was. I know it was during the winter.”
“How many times did you meet him there?”
“I have seen him there only twice.”
“When was the last time you saw him there?”
“The last time was in March.”
“How long did he stay there that time?”
“I do not know. I started for Baltimore the next morning.”
“How long did you stay in Baltimore?”
“I remained in Baltimore a week.”
“Was Payne gone when you returned?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know the prisoner at the bar, Atzerodt?”
So we were done with Mr. Payne, at least. But when would he ask me about Mrs. Surratt? “Yes, sir.”
“When did he first come to Mrs. Surratt’s?”
“I do not know. I do not know the month, nor the date of the month, when he came.”
“Did you learn whether he was welcome at Mrs. Surratt’s or not, or whether he was disagreeable?”
“I object,” snapped Judge Advocate Bingham.
The prosecutors objected frequently to the defense’s questions, I later learned, and their objections were almost always sustained. Mr. Aiken said, “Are you acquainted with the fact of his being sent away at any time, or that he was to be sent away?”
“I object to any question of that sort,” Judge Bingham said.
To my left, I heard the sound of Mr. Aiken and Mr. Clampitt conferring. Then Mr. Aiken asked, “How long did Atzerodt stay there?”
“He stayed there only for a short time.”
“Can you state any of the circumstances of his leaving, or under what circumstances he left?”
“I suppose that Mrs. Surratt sent him away.”
Judge Bingham broke in. “You need not state suppositions.”
My questioner audibly sighed. “Do you know anything of the circumstances of his going away?”
“No, I do not know anything about his leaving.”
“Are you aware that he got drunk in the house and made a disturbance?”
I awaited Judge Bingham’s objection to this, but he remained silent. “No, sir,” I said. “I heard that he had bottles up there, but I do not know anything about his getting drunk.”
“What room did you occupy in the house?”
“I slept in the same room with Mrs. Surratt.”
“And with her daughter, Miss Surratt?”
“Yes, sir, we all three slept in there for a time.”
“Was the photograph of Booth in that room?”
I supposed he meant Anna’s. “Yes, sir.”
“Was it your photograph?”
“No, sir, the one in that room was not mine.”
Mr. Aiken left his seat. Walking into my line of vision, he held up Morning, Noon, and Night, which by now I detested. “Have you ever seen this before?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was that yours?”
“No, sir, it did not belong to me.”
“To whom did it belong?”
“It belonged to Mrs. Surratt’s daughter.”
“Did you know anything of a photograph being placed behind this?”
“No, sir, I do not know anything about that at all. I think the frame was on the mantelpiece, but I do not know anything about it.”
“Did you yourself own many of the photographs that were there?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you own any of them?”
“Yes, sir, I owned some that were in an album.”
“Were there photographs of Union generals in the house?”
“I saw one there of McClellan, I think.”
One of the male spectators muttered, “Next best thing to a rebel.”
“While you were in the house, did you learn anything of defective eyesight on the part of Mrs. Surratt?”
On safe ground at last, I replied, “I heard Mrs. Surratt talking about it herself.”
“Do not state what Mrs. Surratt stated, but what you know.”
“I know she could not read at night, or sew, on account of her sight.”
“Are you acquainted with Louis J. Weichmann?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was he treated as a friend in the house?”
“I think he was treated more like a son,” I said firmly.
“What was the last time you saw Mr. Booth there?”
“The
last time I saw Mr. Booth there was on a Monday.”
“On the Monday before the assassination?”
“Yes, sir, I think it was the Monday before.”
“What time did you see John Surratt there last?”
“I saw John Surratt the night he left home.”
“When did he leave?
“He was gone two weeks before the assassination. He had been gone two weeks when that happened.”
“Did you ever see him anywhere in the city during those two weeks?”
“I never saw him after that night.”
“Did you ever buy any photographs of Booth?”
“Yes, sir,” I said softly, thinking not of Mr. Booth but of poor Mr. Flanagan.
“Did you take them to the house?”
“I bought one.”
“And took one there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you give one to Anna?”
I grimaced. “She bought one herself.”
Mr. Aiken nodded and passed me, as they say in court, to Judge Holt, who frowned at me and asked, “Did you ever know Mrs. Surratt to have any difficulty in recognizing her friends in the parlor by gaslight? Did she always recognize you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You spoke of owning some of the photographs. Did you own the photographs of Stephens and Beauregard and Davis?”
“No, sir, they did not belong to me.”
“You may step down.”
I obeyed and went back to the witness room rather dejectedly. I had answered all of the questions put to me—but had I really helped my landlady any?
The Misses Donovan, knowing my fondness for newspapers, had been so kind as to buy them for me while I was in prison, and I of course had bought them for myself once I was free. As the trial wore on, I read them all, back and current issues, Washington and out-of-town papers, and I came to realize that several things were damning to Mrs. Surratt: she had spoken to Mr. Booth in private in her home; she had seen him the very day of the assassination; she had delivered a package to Mr. Lloyd that day, along with a message about shooting irons (so said Mr. Lloyd); and Mr. Booth had come by that night to pick up those shooting irons. Nothing I could say about Mrs. Surratt’s eyesight, or really nothing else I could say, could change those facts.
Yet nothing in those facts showed she had known about a plot to kill the president. To kidnap, maybe, especially given that day in March when Mr. Surratt had said he was going away, and he, Mr. Payne, and Mr. Booth had all stormed into the house waving guns around while I had been happily visiting friends in Baltimore. Then again, what lies might Mr. Surratt have told her about all of these things? What might she not have known about his life? I certainly had a few secrets from my father, sheltered as I was. A man like Mr. Surratt, roaming between Richmond and Canada, might have plenty more from his mother.
There was only one thing, I decided as the newspapers piled up in my room, that would solve Mrs. Surratt’s troubles: Mr. Surratt coming home and taking her place on the prisoner’s dock.
But the trial dragged on, and the days grew hotter and more humid, with no appearance by Mr. Surratt. He seemed to have vanished off the very face of the earth.
41
MARY
MAY 25 TO JUNE 6, 1865
At last, my defense began. Mr. Aiken and Mr. Clampitt—Mr. Johnson had disappeared from the courtroom altogether—called a series of priests to the stand, each attesting to my good character, each attesting to the fact that I had never uttered disloyal sentiments to them. It was quite true; I had never spoken of politics with men of the cloth. The trouble was, except for Father Wiget, the first priest they called, I had hardly spoken to any of these priests at all, except for a few pleasant words after church from time to time. They could have been testifying about any pious and discreet woman in their congregation, and the commissioners knew it.
Mrs. Holohan took the stand on my behalf, and so did Nora. Poor Nora! She testified for the prosecution several days before, and I could tell the child had no desire to be there. She answered the questions in a flat, dreary voice, and she looked bedraggled and thin. If her late mother could have seen her little girl thus, it would have broken her heart.
But this Thursday, she came to court wearing a crisp dress and a smart bonnet, and she testified in my defense in a clear, firm voice. There was, admittedly, not too much she could do to help me, but I could see she was pleased to be trying to.
Over the next few days, other witnesses took the stand on my behalf. Mr. Gwynn testified to my difficulty collecting the debt owed to me by Mr. Nothey. Mr. Calvert came forth to confirm that he wrote a letter demanding his money from me. Mr. Nothey himself acknowledged that he owed me money.
As he left the stand, I wondered if he would ever pay it to me.
• • •
I had not seen Mr. Howell since he dashed off from my boardinghouse that day with Mrs. Slater, although when I was still at the Old Capitol, Anna saw him exercising in the yard there on occasion. Ragged and thinner than ever, he coughed no fewer than five times as he approached the witness stand, and it occurred to me that he had every incentive to shorten his stay in prison by giving testimony that favored the government.
But he did not, and I felt more than a twinge of guilt when I recalled that I did not warm to him during his brief stay with me. Mr. Weichmann, he told the court, was no loyal unionist, but a secesh sympathizer who longed to pack up and move to the South. He showed Mr. Weichmann how to make a cipher—obtained from a magic book—and Mr. Weichmann in turn gave him information, culled from his employment in the War Department, about the number of Southern prisoners the North had in its custody. There were some mutterings among the commissioners when he gave that testimony, and for a moment it seemed that the halo around Mr. Weichmann’s head had begun to slip a little.
But not for long. Soon the government was questioning Mr. Howell about his stint in the Confederate army, his trips to Richmond, and his association with Mrs. Slater, and after a great deal of effort on the government’s part, he was forced to admit my Johnny traveled with the woman. Moreover, Mr. Howell acknowledged, he had never taken the oath of allegiance to the United States.
Still, I had to give Mr. Aiken credit for trying with him.
• • •
My brother came to the stand on May 30. It was good to see a friendly face there—even though my lawyers failed to have him state his relationship to me, leaving that to the government to point out, as if it were something we were trying to hide.
Would they call Olivia? I was pondering this when the next witness was called. “Miss Anna Surratt.”
I had not seen my dear child in a month, and now because of the spectators sitting close to me and a guard standing in front of me, I could only hear her voice as she gave her testimony. In a haughty tone, she admitted to owning photographs of Davis, Stephens, Beauregard, and Stonewall Jackson; she treasured them because they were given to her by her father, and she also owned photographs of General McClellan, General Grant, and General Joe Hooker.
And then she unraveled.
“Did you ever hear it discussed by any member of the family to capture the president of the United States?”
“No, sir, I did not. Where’s Ma?” Anna’s voice climbed. “Where’s Mama?”
“Anna!” But I spoke so little, my voice came out as a croak.
None of these men were prepared to deal with this situation. Near me, one of the lady spectators rose to her feet, as if to help, and one of the other defense attorneys rose. In a paternal voice, he said, “What year did your brother leave college?”
“In 1861 or 1862, the year my father died. Where is Mama?”
“What years were you at school in Bryantown?”
“From 1851 to 1861. The sixteenth of July was the day I left.”
“Did you e
ver see Dr. Mudd at your mother’s house at Washington?”
“No, sir.” The courtroom was silent but for the sound of Anna’s foot tapping. She had never had a fit, but I feared she was on the verge of one.
“Is Surrattsville on the road between Washington and Bryantown?”
“Yes. Oh, where is Mama?”
A man hurried through the crowd and took Anna by her arm. Mr. Aiken followed. “You shall soon see your mama, Miss Surratt,” he promised her as they headed back toward the witness room.
It was too much, at last, for me to bear. As my daughter passed close to me, allowing me to glimpse only the sweep of her black silk dress and her pretty jockey hat, I leaned my head on the railing and wept.
• • •
Two days later, as General Hartranft led me into court, he smiled and nodded over in the direction of the press table. There, seated at a discreet distance from the lady spectators, was my daughter.
Her own guard nodded in my direction, and Anna gave me a tremulous smile. We were not allowed to speak to each other, but for that whole blissful day in court, we could look at each other all we pleased. When we were not trading glances, she put her hands under her chin in her most endearing fashion and listened to Judge Bingham and a Mr. Craig, one of Mr. Lloyd’s drinking companions, square off over who was more drunk on the afternoon of April 14: Mr. Craig or Mr. Lloyd.
• • •
There were no church services here, of course, so on Sunday, the only day court was not in session, I performed my own devotions as best I could. I had just finished when General Hartranft entered.
“Mrs. Surratt, your daughter has obtained a pass to see you and is waiting for you in the courtroom.”
Anna threw herself into my arms, weeping, as soon as I stepped inside the courtroom. “I have missed you so much,” she whispered at last. “I thought those horrid Yankees would never let us meet.”
I looked around for the horrid Yankees who were supposed to be guarding us, but they had all quietly left the room to Anna and me. “Child, it was General Hartranft who made it possible for you to be in the courtroom with me.”
“He is still a Yankee beast. He confessed to me that he stationed a guard in front of you that day to keep me from getting distracted on the stand.”
Hanging Mary: A Novel Page 30
