While growing up, I had always half longed for, half dreaded a stepmother. But I could not think of anyone better to fill the role than Mrs. Surratt. This—and my office job—was something to work for.
And who knew? If I could bring my father and Mrs. Surratt together, perhaps I could even make a match between Mr. Weichmann and Anna.
• • •
Between gathering letters of recommendation (I called both Father Wiget and my former headmistress into service) and writing and rewriting my letters of application, I stayed happily busy in the days after Richmond fell. I had not forgotten poor Private Flanagan, of course, but the knowledge that he had not died in vain comforted me as I included him in my nightly prayers.
I prayed for peace as well, and the Lord was listening at last to the many who joined me in that sentiment. Each morning, Washington woke to another encouraging bit of news. Only the tidings that Secretary of State Seward had been in a carriage accident dampened our spirits, and even this report was soon followed by assurances that his injuries, though likely to confine him to his bed for some time, were not expected to cripple him.
The best news of all arrived on April 10, made not the less sweet because of its inevitability: Lee’s surrender to Grant at Appomattox Courthouse the day before.
Mr. Weichmann, given a holiday that day, soon came home bearing the newspapers, which I eagerly read before adding them to the pile that still lay yellowing in my trunk. The president was back in town, and as it was hoped he would make a speech, Mr. Weichmann and I decided to walk to the White House. As Miss Dean did not want to miss anything, and Miss Jenkins was heartily in favor of any excuse to stroll around the streets of Washington, we made a party of it. Even Anna reluctantly joined us.
The employees at the Navy Yard, who like everyone else in the city were unable to settle to any work, had decided to march instead, dragging with them two howitzers, the Marine Band, and the Lincoln Hospital Band for good measure. We, and seemingly the rest of Washington, followed in their wake. The streets were as muddy as they had been on inauguration day, and the heavens, unable to quite make up their mind as to whether to stay wet or stay dry, contented themselves by spluttering just enough rain at intervals to keep everyone in a state of perpetual dampness. But no one in the crowd pressing its way down Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House cared. They wanted only to see the man who had brought them safely to victory.
The president was nowhere to be seen when we arrived at the White House, so the crowd—a sea of humanity waving hats, fluttering handkerchiefs, and bobbing umbrellas—determined to tease him out by playing music and shooting the howitzers. To reward us, a figure soon came to the second-story center window, but it was not the tall figure of the president but the small figure of his son, Tad, waving a captured Confederate flag. The crowd shrieked its approval before some anonymous servant tugged the boy back from whence he had come as the band struck up a valedictory tune.
The city bells, all but drowned out by the guns and the band, struck twelve, and the president came to the window. Not before or since have I heard anything like the exultant cheer that greeted him. It was as if the entire crowd—male and female, black and white, military and civilian, old and young, native and immigrant—spoke with one voice. I yelled myself hoarse, and not even Anna, fuming at my side, could stop the happy tears from pouring down my cheeks.
“I am very greatly rejoiced to find that an occasion has occurred so pleasurable that the people cannot restrain themselves,” the president said when at last the crowd grew quiet. “I suppose that arrangements are being made for some sort of a formal demonstration, this, or perhaps, tomorrow night.”
“We can’t wait!”
“We want it now!”
“If there should be such a demonstration, I, of course, will be called upon to respond, and I shall have nothing to say if you dribble it all out of me before,” the president protested, to be met by laughter. He looked around. “I see you have a band of music with you.”
“We have two or three!”
“I propose closing up this interview by the band performing a particular tune that I will name. Before this is done, however, I wish to mention one or two little circumstances connected with it. I have always thought ‘Dixie’ one of the best tunes I have ever heard. Our adversaries over the way attempted to appropriate it, but I insisted yesterday that we fairly captured it. I presented the question to the attorney general, and he gave it as his legal opinion that it is our lawful prize. I now request the band to favor me with its performance.”
Instantly, the Marine Band struck up “Dixie,” and the crowd sang along—Mr. Weichmann next to me looking a little sheepish as he sang, this time fully sober, that he wished he was back in the land of cotton. Anna scowled, though I could not help but notice she was beating time with one of her feet.
The Hospital Band having followed with “Yankee Doodle,” the president said, “Now give three good hearty cheers for General Grant and all under his command.”
We obeyed, and obeyed once again when the president asked us to cheer for the navy. Bowing a farewell, he departed from the window, and the Marine Band played “Hail Columbia” as the throng went its separate ways.
As we opened the door to the boardinghouse, we heard the familiar sound of Mr. Booth’s pleasant voice. “So where have all of you been?”
“To see the ape at the zoo,” Anna said.
“To see the president,” I said firmly. “Except that he had very little to say. He will speak more at length tomorrow.”
“And I suppose you will drag us all to that as well.”
“No. You were so disrespectful, I shall not.”
“Anna, I hope you did not make a spectacle of yourself,” Mrs. Surratt said.
“I did nothing of the sort. I merely shut my eyes when he appeared at the window. He’s so ugly it was necessary.”
Mr. Weichmann broke in. “What do you think, Mr. Booth? Is it all up with the South?”
“No, indeed.” Mr. Booth pulled a little book out of his pocket—a bound map of the war front, which at that time could be found on the person of nearly every self-respecting man in Washington. “General Johnson is still in the field and could head to the mountains and make trouble yet.”
“I think it is a forlorn hope,” Mr. Weichmann said after Mr. Booth had traced out various routes for General Johnson to take. “Will you be playing in Richmond, now that she is in hands of the Union again?”
Mr. Booth shook his head. “I have no engagements at present, and have been content to be idle. Not a happy state of affairs, I know! But if there is one play that would tempt me to the stage, it would be Otway’s Venice Preserved. There are some splendid parts.”
I was not familiar with the play, and evidently none of the rest were either. As the subject soon changed, I did not think further of it until a day or so later, when I walked to the circulating library I had joined soon after leaving school. “Have you a copy of Venice Preserved?” I asked.
“Yes, miss, but it’s not your usual sort of play, I think.”
“I want only to satisfy my curiosity,” I said. “A friend of mine mentioned it.”
I took it home and read it that evening. It was a rather gloomy play, in which the entire Venetian cabinet ended up dead. Not one, I thought, that I would see if it were performed in Washington.
Unless, of course, Mr. Booth played in it.
23
MARY
APRIL 10 TO 11, 1865
The day after General Lee surrendered his troops to Grant, I answered the doorbell to find Mr. Booth on the stoop. “A gloomy day in all respects,” he said as I showed him into the parlor. “I understand John is in Canada?”
“Yes. At least I believe he is by now. He sent me a letter several days ago from Springfield, Massachusetts. He said that he had overslept and missed his connection but would be catching the next one.”
Mr. Booth chuckled wanly. “Well, we must do without him, my dear lady
. Are you quite alone?”
“Yes. Everyone is out today. Even Anna.”
“If our plan should succeed at all, we must strike soon. That means I will take what opportunity presents itself. I would prefer that John assist me, but we cannot afford to let a chance slip by us. Whatever happens, he will have been of immense help in laying the groundwork. May I ask for your continued help, dear lady?”
“You know you can, pet.” The endearment slipped out of its own volition.
Mr. Booth smiled. “I know you go to your tavern on occasion. Could you find some reason to go there—if you do not have one already—and give Mr. Lloyd a message? Tell him the shooting irons may be called for at any time, and that he should have them ready.”
“I do have business there. A man, Mr. Nothey, owes me money, and I have heard that he has come into a sum of it. I mean to collect it from him. But even if I did not have business there, I would be glad to help you.”
“Bless you, my dear lady.”
“But I must ask. You do not believe that it is too late?”
Mr. Booth shakes his head. “If I believed that, I would have no wish to continue on,” he said. “I feel today that I have no country.”
“I know precisely what you mean.”
“You do, don’t you? I am so grateful to have met you through Johnny, dear lady. I can tell you things I cannot tell my own dear mother. I cannot even speak of the war with my family now, you know. Do you know what my brother Edwin said when Richmond fell? That it was the greatest blessing to mankind that it had fallen. Were it not for the love I bear my mother, I know not what I could have done. But I have digressed. No, I do not believe it is ever too late to strike a blow against tyranny.”
• • •
That evening, keeping my promise to Mr. Booth, I asked Mr. Weichmann if he would take me to Surrattsville the next day. Too late, I remembered it was a work day for him—Washington’s nearly constant state of revelry since Richmond’s fall made that all too easy to forget. I was in the midst of apologizing and telling him I could take the stage instead when Mr. Weichmann broke in cheerily, “No, no, Mrs. Surratt, I will be happy to take you. We have a holiday tomorrow, and a drive to the country suits me. Besides, I’ve never had the chance to drive a buggy before.”
“I will see if Mr. Booth can lend us his. It’s very smart.”
Mr. Weichmann beamed with anticipation.
But when Mr. Weichmann returned from the National Hotel the next morning, he was frowning. “Mr. Booth has just sold his buggy. He gave me ten dollars for you to rent one, though. Why would he sell it?”
I too thought this was odd, as a buggy would surely come in handy for what he had planned. “Perhaps he is planning to buy a better one.”
“Perhaps.” Mr. Weichmann sighed. “I certainly wish he had waited, though.”
Despite this setback, Mr. Weichmann’s good spirits soon returned as he procured a buggy that was as nearly as well turned out as Mr. Booth’s. Mr. Weichmann was indeed a novice buggy driver, but he learned quickly, and our horse was so well behaved that he scarcely needed driving anyway.
As we neared Uniontown, just past Washington City, I saw the very man I was to give a message. “Why, it’s Mr. Lloyd! Stop the carriage, Mr. Weichmann.”
“Whoa!” yelled Mr. Weichmann. The horse stopped calmly and turned its head, clearly wondering why Mr. Weichmann was making so much fuss over the matter.
Seated beside Mr. Lloyd in the carriage was a lady in her thirties—Mrs. Emma Offutt, his sister-in-law, a widow who helped the Lloyds with the tavern occasionally. Rumor (mostly through Olivia, an inveterate gossip) had it that pretty Mrs. Offutt was much too familiar with her sister’s husband. Whatever the truth in that, all seemed perfectly respectable at the moment, for the pair was accompanied by a small boy, one of Mrs. Offutt’s children, and a neighbor. “Business or pleasure?” I called.
“A little of both,” Mr. Lloyd said, climbing out of his carriage. I was pleased to see he appeared reasonably sober. Perhaps he had taken the pledge—and if Mrs. Offutt had inspired this reform, I could not help but think the better of her. “Mr. Griffith and I each have some business in town, and Mrs. Offutt wanted to buy some things for Easter. And I suppose we all wanted to get a little whiff of the excitement.”
“There is plenty of that about, and unless the Union finds something else to celebrate, the shops should be open.” Mr. Lloyd by now had come to stand beside me, so I said in a low voice, “Please get those things stored at the tavern ready to hand. They will be needed soon.”
“Things?” Mr. Lloyd frowned.
“The things that my son brought last month.”
“I don’t understand, Mrs. Surratt. Mr. Surratt has an extra shirt or two at the tavern, I think, for when he goes to the parties around here.”
“The shooting irons, Mr. Lloyd,” I hissed.
“Oh, those! I am glad you mentioned them. Ever since they picked up Mr. Howell, I have been worried about them searching the place. I thought of burying the damned things.”
“Please don’t, Mr. Lloyd. They will be called for soon, and you will be relieved of your worry.”
“Well, that’s pleasant news. Is there news of Mr. Howell?”
“None. Perhaps he will take the oath of loyalty so he can go free. I should see if there is anything I can do for him.”
“I don’t know if you could be of much help, ma’am. Maybe the opposite. I’ve heard tell that they’re still looking for Mr. Surratt after that trip to Richmond of his. They think that he’s gone back to Maryland.”
The day before, I had a letter from Johnny postmarked Montreal. Knowing my boy was safely out of the country, I laughed. “To Richmond and back in that short a time? The government must think my Johnny a very smart man indeed.”
Having bidden Mr. Lloyd and his companions good-bye, we continued into Maryland, passing so many carriages and horsemen heading in the opposite direction that I wondered if there would be anyone in Surrattsville for me to see. Judging from the gay attire of most of the young men, I guessed they were bound for Washington’s taverns, music halls, and oyster houses. Those with companions laughed together; those without companions were quick to introduce themselves to each other.
I truly wished I could join in the festive mood. Why should not these young men rejoice? They would not be called away from their loved ones, their professions, and their homes; they would not fall in battle. I could find some cause for celebration as well: as Miss Fitzpatrick had pointed out, the end of the war meant Isaac would likely return to me soon, and perhaps Johnny as well. But I could not help but think of the devastation that had been wrought upon the South, and of Richmond in flames.
24
NORA
APRIL 11, 1865
I received several replies to my inquiries about positions, all amounting to the assurance that although there were no vacancies, I would be given due consideration when one came available. “That’s to be expected, child,” Father said as we walked to the White House on the Tuesday after Lee’s surrender. “Don’t let it discourage you.”
“I want things to happen now,” I said. “I never was very good at waiting.”
That night, the president was to give his speech about the future of the nation, and Father, hearing the news during his rounds, had stopped by the house and offered to take me. This would have been an excellent excuse to invite Mrs. Surratt along, but she had gone to the country with Mr. Weichmann on business and had not yet returned by the time we set out, early so as to get a place where we could have a good vantage point.
The buildings, public and private, were again illuminated—probably there were none happier about the end of the war than the town’s candle sellers, for in addition to the elaborate gaslight displays in the large buildings, nearly every residence in the city glowed with at least one candle. The White House itself glittered to such effect that one could have confused it with the Crystal Palace.
“Perhaps on Easter
Sunday, Father, you could go to church with us,” I suggested as we stood there waiting for the president. And perhaps, I thought to myself, Mrs. Surratt could wear her lavender gown, which brought out the color of her eyes.
“I don’t see why not.”
A misty darkness settled over the city. The crowd stirred, and in the window near the one at which the president would speak appeared a handful of beautifully dressed ladies—Mrs. Lincoln and a few friends, one of whom I later learned was Miss Clara Harris. They looked to be in excellent spirits and seemed to be admiring the size of the crowd as they stood chatting at the open window.
The crowd roared, and Mr. Lincoln, wearing spectacles and clutching a handful of papers, stepped forward, illuminated from behind by a candle that someone held up. “We meet this evening not in sorrow, but in gladness of heart,” he began.
It was a quiet, thoughtful speech, one that had my father nodding approvingly but many of the crowd looking somewhat perplexed, having expected the sort of verbal fireworks that would match the real fireworks planned for later in the evening. It was a bit dry for me too, I confess, but at one point, I perked up when Mr. Lincoln mentioned that some had called for giving colored men the vote. He himself, he said, would prefer it be given to the very intelligent and to those who had served in the war.
The excitement of the last few days was beginning to catch up with me. When Mr. Lincoln finished his speech, to vigorous but somewhat restrained applause, I yawned, and my father smiled down at me. “Let me take you home, Nora.”
I nodded and let him guide me away. As we made our way out of the crowd onto Lafayette Square, I saw a familiar figure hurry by, talking intently—angrily, even—with a taller, huskier man whose face was averted from me but whose build looked somewhat familiar as well. “Why, that’s Mr. Booth,” I said to Father. “He must have been here for the speech as well.”
Hanging Mary Page 16
