Hanging Mary

by Susan Higginbotham

  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 h
ad 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.

  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.