Hanging Mary

by Susan Higginbotham

  I looked harder at Mr. Payne. Suddenly the words of the wanted poster began to run through my head. Hair black, thick, full and straight. Face moderately full. Nose straight and well formed. Mouth small. Neck short and of medium length.

  Why, this man could be the description come to life. And though I could not say for certain, not having seen the face, I would lay a bet that this was the man I had seen with Mr. Booth in Lafayette Square the night that President Lincoln talked of giving some colored men the vote.

  I was surely not the only one who had noticed the resemblance of Mr. Payne to the poster. A trio of soldiers had gathered around Mr. Payne, asking sharp questions, which he appeared completely unequal to answering, judging from his drooping countenance. I could hear only bits and pieces of the interrogation, but one thing became clear: Mr. Payne was giving no clues as to who he might be.

  No doubt I should have told someone that I recognized Mr. Payne. Had I recalled his identity under any other circumstances, I probably would have. But we were both here as prisoners, and was it not considered poor form to inform on a fellow prisoner? So I settled back and continued to listen to the soldiers hectoring Mr. Payne.

  “You are John Harrison Surratt! Why don’t you just tell us that, boy?”

  Anna sprang up, her fists clenched. “How dare you say that!”

  It was at that instant that Colonel Foster led in Mrs. Surratt, who was walking like a woman twenty years her senior. “Why, what on earth is the matter?” she asked tiredly.

  “That man said that ugly creature was my brother. He is no gentleman to say so.”

  “My daughter speaks the truth, sir. This is not my son.”

  Unruffled, the soldier motioned to a subordinate. “Take the ladies into the other room. The boy from Seward’s house will be here soon to take a look at this fellow. And, ladies—if you do know who this man is, besides his not being John Surratt as you claim, I suggest you tell us.”

  I pressed my lips together and followed the other ladies out of the room.

  • • •

  I had expected that the rest of us would be questioned, but since Mr. Payne’s arrival, no one seemed to be interested in us, save for the bored soldier whose task it was to make sure we did not escape. Perhaps, I began to hope, we might be taken home after all. Anna leaned against Mrs. Surratt’s shoulder and dozed off, and soon the rest of us followed suit.

  It was nearly dawn when two men came in to blast my hopes. “All right, ladies. Time to go to the Old Capitol.”

  “How long will we be held?” Miss Jenkins asked.

  “Depends on how cooperative you are, miss,” said the soldier offhandedly.

  We were going through the same waiting area where we had been held, but there was no sign of Mr. Payne. “What happened to that man?” I asked.

  “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you, as it will be in the papers soon. Taken away in irons.” He handed us into the carriage. “That colored boy from Seward’s recognized him right away as the man who tried to murder the secretary. Pointed straight at him. Not a doubt in his mind. If he can do that in court, that man will hang.”

  • • •

  Occasionally, when walking around the city, I would sometimes pass Old Capitol Prison. I usually avoided it, though, because not only was it a gloomy place to contemplate, but it also stunk to high heaven.

  It had not been built as a prison. Congress had met there after the burning of Washington during the War of 1812, giving it its name, and afterward it had served as a boardinghouse before being bought by the government for its present use. Even more elegant had been the nearby Carroll Annex, consisting of five handsome houses in which a number of congressmen, including Abraham Lincoln, had boarded. But they had become run-down over time, and the government had bought the row as well, pressing it into service to house the ever-growing population of prisoners.

  So I had learned from my father, before joining this select company.

  From the moment our carriage pulled up at First Street and we alighted, I had the sensation of eyes upon me; very soon, I would learn that watching for new arrivals and guessing at what might have brought them here was one of the chief occupations of those residing there. After passing through the entrance guarded by two men with bayonets, we walked down into an office containing a conglomeration of desks and chairs but only one occupant at this early hour: the lieutenant in charge. “Good morning, ladies,” he said, suppressing a yawn. “I must ask each of you some questions and search you. I’ll start with this young lady, as you’re closest.”

  I sat where he indicated. “First, empty your purse.”

  I obeyed, spilling its contents on the desk. It yielded only a handkerchief, a few coins, and my house key.

  “Is that all the money you have?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pity. You’ll want a little spare change for the sutler’s. Newspapers and pies and all that.”

  “If only I had known,” I said dryly.

  “What is your name?”

  “Nora Fitzpatrick.”

  “Relation to James Fitzpatrick with the Metropolitan National Bank?”

  “I am his younger daughter. And he has no idea where I am today.”

  “You can send him a letter. Age?”

  “Nineteen,” I lied, partly because in those days no one expected a lady to be entirely forthcoming about her age and partly because I was feeling contrary.

  “Residence?”

  “Washington. I was born here.”

  “Why were you arrested?”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea.”

  “Accomplice to murder, I believe it is, like the rest of Booth’s associates.” My face must have matched the whitewashed prison walls, for he added, “Don’t look so scared, miss. They haven’t laid formal charges against anyone yet.” He scribbled down some notes in a ledger. “All right, miss, you’re done. When the others are ready, we’ll take you to your room.”

  I nodded and watched as my companions underwent the same interrogation: Mrs. Surratt calmly, Anna haughtily, Miss Jenkins sleepily. Then the lieutenant whistled, and a guard came in. “Take the ladies to room 41 in the annex.”

  We followed the guard through the yard, muddy from the night’s drizzle, in the direction of the once stately Carroll Annex. From a window, someone yelled, “Fresh fish!”

  “Fish?” I asked.

  The guard coughed. “That would be you ladies, miss. New prisoners.”

  “Pretty fish in pink,” someone called.

  “Nicely shaped fish in gray.”

  The guard glared and leveled his gun up at the window. Anna in pink, and I in gray, stared at the ground.

  Without further comment upon our persons, we passed up a flight of stairs and into a large room with an elegantly shaped window that looked out over the yard but had doubtlessly not been barred in this house’s heyday. Two mice—oh, if only Mr. Rochester had been with me!—scurried into their holes as we entered and gazed around us. Four iron bedsteads, covered with blankets of indeterminate color, a couple of stools, a woodstove, and a table with a jug upon it completed the room’s furnishings. Nails, placed at convenient intervals on the wall, would serve as hat and clothes racks.

  “This is one of our nicest rooms,” the guard said, nodding proprietarily as if this were the Willard. “Make yourself at home. You’ll get your breakfast around nine. Oh, and you’re free to mingle with the other ladies.” He coughed and looked at Mrs. Surratt. “But you might want to take care, ma’am, that the young ladies don’t mingle too freely. Some of the ladies here are—er—not ladies.”

  Left alone in our new surroundings, we looked to Mrs. Surratt for guidance. “Let us try to rest a little before breakfast,” she said.

  We obeyed, not daring to undress further than to remove our crinolines, lest a guard catch us in our dishabille. The beds we lay down upon were by no means comfortable, and I decided not to give much thought to the cleanliness of the linens and blanket
, but soon we were fast asleep.

  “Head count,” a voice sang out, rousing us from what could not have been more than an hour or two of slumber. The door swung open, and two men, one holding a notebook, stepped into the room as we squealed in horror. “One—two—three—four. All right, ladies. Carry on.”

  As this seemed the signal to start our day, we began our morning toilettes as best we could. “Do you think they’ll let us get some clean things from home?” Miss Jenkins asked.

  “Don’t count on it,” a female voice called from behind the door. “Mrs. Catherine Baxley. May I come in?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Surratt said.

  A tall lady of about forty or so with light hair and blue eyes, who had somewhat of a masculine air, but who was not unattractive, entered the room. “Welcome to the Yankee hellhole,” she said, holding out a shapely hand. “Mrs. Surratt and daughters?”

  “One daughter, Anna. Miss Jenkins is my niece, and Miss Fitzpatrick my boarder.”

  “Quite a haul they got, then. To answer the miss’s question, you can ask for a lot of things here, and usually they’ll agree, but whether you ever get them is another matter altogether. But you can keep trying.” In a softer voice, she asked Mrs. Surratt, “They’re looking for your boy, aren’t they?”

  “They are.”

  “If you do know where he is, for God’s sake, don’t let anyone here know, and that includes your fellow prisoners. This place is full of Union spies, planted in amongst the prisoners.”

  “How do we know you aren’t a spy?” Anna asked.

  Mrs. Baxley gave her a freezing look. “Because I would throw myself upon the paving stones below before I would give this government a lick of help,” she said. “My only child—a lad of but seventeen—is a prisoner here, and ill, and I have not been allowed to see him in days.”

  “I will pray for him,” Mrs. Surratt said. She gave her daughter a rare disapproving look, which made poor Anna bow her head meekly. “We will all pray for the young man.”

  “How long have you been here?” I asked.

  “First time, six months. This time, since January and counting.” Mrs. Baxley sighed, then looked through the open door. “Now, these two are safe. Come in, ladies, and introduce yourself.”

  Mrs. Surratt opened her mouth, then closed it, as the pair obeyed Mrs. Baxley’s command, their entry heralded by an overwhelming scent of cologne. Sheltered as I was, I realized straightaway what these ladies did for a living; no person over the age of ten could have been mistaken as to that.

  “These are Maggie and Rosie,” Mrs. Baxley said as the two, faced with such pillars of respectability such as ourselves, seemed reluctant to open the conversation. “Picked up the Saturday after the assassination, and for what? Just carrying on business as usual.”

  “Trying to cheer up the men,” Maggie said.

  “Everyone was so sad,” Rosie said.

  “We should have worn black ribbons,” Maggie said. “I told you we should have been wearing them.”

  “I was wearing one. Just not on my—”

  “Maggie, Rosie,” Mrs. Surratt said. “Please remember there are young ladies here.”

  “Aw, we’re sorry,” Maggie said. “We just get carried away.”

  “Nothing to do but talk here, you see,” Rosie added.

  “I hope you do not have to spend a long time here for such a trivial matter,” Mrs. Surratt said kindly.

  “Well, it’s a rest,” Maggie said philosophically. “They say we’ll probably get out when Superintendent Wood gets back here. He has a heart for the working girl. But let’s not wear out our welcome, Rosie.”

  “They’re nice girls,” Mrs. Baxley said after they had sauntered away. “Not the way I would choose to earn a living, mind you, but it’s an honest living. Oh, here comes the slop.”

  I watched hungrily as two colored women bore in trays, which they set on the table. On the trays were two pots of coffee, four delft mugs, four slabs of bread, and an infinitesimal pat of butter. “Is this it?” Anna asked Mrs. Baxley as the servants went out just as they had come in, without a word.

  “I’m afraid so, miss. Mind you, the men have it much worse. They have to go to a mess hall and push and shove to get what we get brought to us.”

  I poured myself some coffee, noticing as I did so that my cup was still wet, I hoped from washing. Though the sip I took of it was very cautious, I still sputtered as Mrs. Baxley looked on with sympathy. “What on earth is this?”

  “Now, that’s something no one here has ever figured out. In theory it’s coffee, of course, but no one’s certain what exactly is in it. It varies, and it hasn’t killed anyone here yet. That’s the best I can tell you.”

  I put the coffee down and stared at the bread. Mrs. Surratt reached for it. “Come, girls. We must eat or we will be ill.”

  “What if eating makes us ill?” Miss Jenkins asked.

  Mrs. Surratt ignored this very sensible question and began to chew. We followed suit as Mrs. Baxley looked on. “Dinner will be even worse,” she promised us.

  33

  MARY

  APRIL 18 TO 22, 1865

  I am ashamed to admit that normally I would not have cared to associate with such a woman as Mrs. Baxley. She was separated from her husband, and she spoke of her men friends in such a way that I wondered if they were much more than friends.

  But she was a mother also, and her tale broke my heart. She had only one son, a lad of seventeen, and when she was imprisoned here the first time, the boy, then fourteen, was thrown upon his own resources—his father, I gathered, having no use for him. For a time, he found work at the sutler’s here so he could be near his mother. When Mrs. Baxley, penniless, was released on the condition that she leave her Baltimore home behind and go south, he followed her, and at age fifteen, he enlisted in the Confederate army. Twice he had been captured and imprisoned by the Yankees. The first time, he was kept at Fort Delaware for nearly eighteen months; the second time, they brought him here.

  “He has wasted away so, that when they brought him here with the other prisoners earlier, I did not recognize him, even though I was looking out the window when they came in,” Mrs. Baxley told us. “He even called to me, ‘All is lost! Our cause is hopeless, and I am badly wounded.’ But I merely kissed my hand in sympathy toward him. Then that brute of an assistant superintendent, Wilson, came and told me, ‘What do you think, madam? Your precious angel is here, and wounded. Birds of a feather, eh?’ In the past, I would have scratched the man’s eyes out, but instead I begged to see my boy. I had not seen him for two years. He refused. Superintendent Wood came back—a good man, I must say—and had him brought to the annex where I could nurse him. But Wood has gone away, and Wilson will not allow me to see my boy. And he was growing so weak.”

  I put my arm around her. “Who is nursing him?”

  “A stranger, a colored servant here.”

  “Then let me ask if I can take your place until Superintendent Wood returns.”

  Mrs. Baxley whispered, “Thank you.”

  That afternoon, I sought out Mr. Wilson. “I have a request for you, sir.”

  “Already?”

  “I understand from Mrs. Baxley that her son is ill and that she is unable to see him.”

  “That woman’s a damned nuisance—excuse me, madam, a nuisance. We let her see the lad, even moved him into a room all to himself so she could tend to him. And she started ranting and raving about how we were killing him by not giving him some chicken he begged for when he was out of his head. It’s not a hotel we’re running here, but we feed the boy well enough. She made her own bed; let her lie in it. She can see him when she can act a little more like a lady.”

  “I would like, sir, to have permission to nurse him myself. It would comfort her, and comfort him, I believe.”

  Mr. Wilson pondered this. “Well,” he said at last. “I suppose there’s no harm in it.”

  So I went to the garret room where young William Baxley, the pr
ide of his mother’s life, lay, and my heart broke for his mother. This boy was dying. The prison doctor told me he might have been saved had his injured leg been amputated, but it was too late for that now. There was little I could do for him but try to keep him comfortable and to calm him when his mind began to wander, as it often did. Except at night and at the times when I went to my room to rest or to check on Anna, at which time the servant took over, I was always by his side.

  His uniform was little better than rags, and he was painfully thin—God only knows when the lad last had a good meal. He was quite small for his age too. All in all, he looked more like a street urchin than a soldier.

  The funeral procession for President Lincoln, held on Wednesday, terrified him. On the morning after the assassination, he had had a hemorrhage, and it was when he was in that weakened condition that he heard someone say a mob would storm the prison and murder all of the rebels inside. Since then, each time his fever climbed, he begged not to be tormented to death but to be shot quickly. I, at last, was compelled to give him some laudanum, and soon he was resting quietly.

  He had a little diary with him, and—telling myself it would make me a better nurse if I knew him better—I could not stop myself from reading through it as he slept. Sadly, he recorded the deaths of various friends. Laconically, without any self-pity, he noted his own imprisonments and hospitalizations. He was no angel; at Fort Delaware, where he was held for a year and a half, he recounted the pranks he and his young friends played on the older prisoners. Once he got hold of some whiskey, and he liked a chew of tobacco. He longed for a real cup of coffee. Most of all, he longed for a sweetheart to write to, a set of whiskers, and a few more inches of height, all of which turned out to be related complaints, for the various young ladies he encountered were kind but treated him as they might their little brother, and even the camp followers shooed him off as too young for their services. He had never kissed a girl, he wrote while being held captive at City Point before being sent here, and he supposed that perhaps he never would.