Hanging Mary

by Susan Higginbotham

  “From whom?”

  “The guard would not or could not say, of course.” She glanced at the keyhole. “The magazine could have come from just about anyone, I suppose, but no one of my acquaintance reads this trash.” She held up the dime novel gingerly.

  “Mine neither. Maybe one of the other prisoners sent it.”

  “Yes, that must be it.” Ever the schoolteacher, she frowned as I took it from her hand. “I really wonder if you should be reading this, Miss Fitzpatrick. It is hardly suitable for a young lady.”

  “Neither is this room,” I pointed out and opened the book. It was titled The Trapper’s Bride and contained a great deal of fighting between the white men and the Indians, all ending happily with a series of engagements worthy of a Jane Austen novel. It was quite improbable, but it got me through those dreary days, and for that I was heartily grateful to the donor—whoever he or she might be.

  • • •

  Since my return to prison, I had not caught a glimpse of either Mrs. Surratt or Anna. As they were in the room above ours, I could hear them moving about, which gave me a certain comfort, and I had even investigated the ceiling for holes in the hope of opening communication with them. Had I been equipped with a broom, I often thought, I could have tapped out some sort of message, though how I might code one was another matter altogether. Before I could devote much more thought to this, however, Miss Lomax arrived, and her presence meant I could simply pass messages through her to my friends, as for reasons known best to Superintendent Wood and God (in that order), she had liberties I did not and could mingle freely with the other women. I dared not send a written message, as that would have perhaps been disastrous for all of us, but I frequently sent oral messages of love and affection, which were reciprocated. From Miss Lomax I learned that Mrs. Surratt was bearing her imprisonment calmly but that poor Anna had taken the death of Mr. Booth very hard, although she had enough sense to conceal her emotions from our jailers.

  On April 30, Miss Lomax told me Mrs. Surratt had been taken away from prison, to where she did not know. After discussing the matter, we came to the conclusion that she had been sent to the provost marshal’s, or perhaps even the War Department for questioning, and would soon return. We even took turns sitting up that night, watching the yard for Mrs. Surratt. But daylight came with no sign of my landlady, only the sound of Anna endlessly pacing overhead, waiting in vain for her mother.

  37

  MARY

  MAY 8 TO 13, 1865

  During my first few days at the Old Arsenal, they shifted me back and forth between two cells: 157 and 200. Except in my walks from one to another, I did not see anything else. The food at the Arsenal, while of the most simple type, was more wholesome than that at the Old Capitol Prison, but all I could consume was tea and toast, and for the first few days at my new prison, I could not even manage to eat the toast. I recoiled from food altogether until Dr. Porter, who saw me daily, told me kindly that, as the government did not want me to starve to death, he would have to feed me by force if I did not take some sustenance.

  They were not unkind to me. At the doctor’s recommendation, they supplied me with warm slippers; when the doctor decided 157 was unwholesome, they moved me to 200, to return to 157 only when 200 was being aired. My one complaint was they would not tell me for what I would be tried.

  There was to be a trial; I knew that much. Who was to be tried with me and where the trial was to be held were as unknown to me as what charges I would face. Would my Anna be tried? Would Nora? Had Johnny been captured?

  No one told me a thing, but they were perfectly polite about it.

  • • •

  The days were monotonous, but the nights were far worse. With no company and nothing to relieve the darkness, I had nothing to occupy my mind but the memory of Anna’s screams as they dragged us apart.

  Nothing else, that is, besides regrets. How could I have been so foolish?

  Darkness had fallen upon the prison on the evening of May 8, a Monday, and I was preparing for another miserable night with my own thoughts when General Hartranft came to my cell, bearing a lantern and some papers. “Mrs. Surratt, I have the charges against you. I can allow you to read them while I wait, or I can read them to you, if you wish.”

  I looked at the papers with their small type. “I cannot read that in this light. Please read them to me.”

  “As you like.” General Hartranft cleared his throat. “The charge and specification against David E. Herold, George A. Atzerodt, Lewis Payne, Michael O’Laughlin, Edward Spangler, Samuel Arnold, Mary E. Surratt, and Samuel A. Mudd. For maliciously, unlawfully, and traitorously, and in aid of the existing armed rebellion against the United States of America, on or before the sixth day of March 1865, and on diverse other days between that day and the fifteenth day of April 1865, combining, confederating, and conspiring together with one John H. Surratt, John Wilkes Booth, Jefferson Davis—”

  “Jefferson Davis? Sir, I have never seen the man, much less conspired with him.”

  “Madam, please let me read the specification. It is my duty, and it is necessary that you know with what you are charged.”

  I nodded, and the major read on. An Edward Spangler was accused of helping Mr. Booth gain entrance to the presidential box of Ford’s Theatre and of assisting his flight from the theater. David Herold was accused of helping Mr. Booth evade capture. Lewis Payne was accused of attempting to murder Secretary of State Seward. George Atzerodt was accused of lying in wait to murder Vice President Johnson. Michael O’Laughlin—whoever he was—was accused of plotting to murder General Grant. Samuel Arnold, another name that meant nothing to me, was accused of plotting with Mr. Booth and others.

  General Hartranft paused for breath. Then, in a particularly clear voice, he read, “And in further prosecution of said conspiracy, Mary E. Surratt did, at Washington City, and within the military department and military lines aforesaid, receive, entertain, harbor and conceal, aid and assist the said John Wilkes Booth, David E. Herold, Lewis Payne, John H. Surratt, Michael O’Laughlin, George Atzerodt, Samuel Arnold, and their confederates, with the knowledge of the murderous and traitorous conspiracy aforesaid, and with intent to aid, abet, and assist them in the execution thereof, and in escaping from justice after the murder of the said Abraham Lincoln.”

  I shook my head. General Hartranft continued on to detail the charges against Samuel Mudd, a doctor who treated Mr. Booth’s injuries and sheltered him within his house for a short time after the assassination. A memory stirred, and I heard Johnny’s voice. You must walk through the Mudd to get to the Booth…

  “Sir, I do not understand. Why all of this language about military lines?”

  “Your lawyer—when you get one—can explain it to you, madam. But I expect the language is there because it is to be a military trial.”

  “A military trial? Why on earth will be there be a military trial?”

  “Your lawyer—”

  “Can explain it. When will I have a chance to ask for one?”

  “You will be brought before the commission tomorrow and may ask for one then. Have you any more questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “While I am here, are you finding room 200 more agreeable than room 157?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I will take my leave. I have several more of these to deliver this evening.”

  He bustled off, and I lay back down on my pallet. How was I to find a lawyer? How was I to pay for one? I supposed I would have to give the H Street house as security—an irony, seeing as it was moving to that house that had brought me where I was.

  I sifted through the names of the various lawyers of whom I had heard. Most were country lawyers dealing with country cases, such as land disputes—the very sort of lawyer I would have called upon when my worst trouble was trying to collect my debt from Mr. Nothey. None I knew had handled a murder case, much less a murder case of a civilian being tried by a military commission.

 
; One name finally came to mind: Senator Reverdy Johnson, one of the most prominent lawyers in Maryland. He had tried the Dred Scott case before the Supreme Court and was certainly capable of standing up before this military commission. But would he take the case? And could I afford his fee? At least worrying about my lawyer distracted me from the scene that otherwise haunted my waking moments: Anna screaming as I was led away.

  • • •

  The next morning, I was told to prepare for court, although there was not anything I could do except to wash myself with the water brought for that purpose daily and put on my bonnet. “Where is the court?” I asked the young guard as he began to lead me from my cell. “Is it far from here?”

  He chuckled. “No, ma’am. It’s right next door. They’ve rigged up a special entrance for the prisoners to pass from the cell block to the courtroom.”

  “There was a courtroom here?”

  “There is now. It’s been made into one, especially for this trial. They did it right fast—oh, damn—pardon me, ma’am. I thought they were already in there.”

  Shuffling down the hall, each led by his keeper like a bear being taken to his baiting, were six men, their hands cuffed, their ankles shackled—and each man’s head covered with a black linen hood, save for a slit through which his mouth and part of his nose were visible. Several had an iron ball, carried by a guard, chained to one leg. A seventh man, hoodless but shackled and under guard, followed the rest, his pale face alight with horror.

  It was almost as if their fate had been preordained, and they were being led to the hangman. I shuddered.

  We stepped back into my cell while the men shambled past us. “Am I to wear a hood?” I whispered.

  “No, ma’am. Only the men wear them, except for Dr. Mudd.”

  “They are to wear them while they go to the courtroom? How horrid!”

  “No, ma’am. They wear them all of the—” My young guard stopped himself. “I’ve said too much, ma’am.”

  My guard led me down the hall and into a whitewashed room, where an empty seat immediately by the door awaited me. The hooded men were being pushed into their seats when I took my place.

  Seated at a table on my far left, close to the room’s only windows, were a group of men in uniform. I heard one look at me and whisper, “A woman? Here on trial?” The others’ eyes were riveted on the hooded men.

  “Unhood them,” said one of the uniformed men.

  The guards complied, revealing six puffy, unnaturally pale faces topped with tousled, damp hair. As the men, reacting to the sudden burst of daylight, shook their heads and blinked, I recognized only three of them beneath their swollen features: Mr. Payne, Mr. Atzerodt, and Mr. Herold.

  “Is that all of them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then let us begin.”

  For an hour or so, the commissioners talked and argued amongst themselves while the eight of us sat silently, the men glancing from time to time out of the windows. At last, a stern-looking man rose and introduced himself as Judge Advocate Burnett. One by one, he asked whether we wished to secure counsel and if so, whom. Mr. Herold named three men; Dr. Mudd, the unhooded prisoner next to me, named one. The other men wanted counsel but required more time to think about the matter.

  “Very well. Mrs. Surratt?”

  “I wish to retain Senator Reverdy Johnson, sir. And I would like to consult with Mr. William Wallace Kirby as well. He is not a lawyer, but I would like to take what advice he can offer me.”

  There was a murmur, suggesting Senator Johnson was too prominent to want to bother representing me. But Judge Advocate Burnett said, as he did to Mr. Herold and Dr. Mudd, “Very well, I will write to them today. Guards, take the prisoners back to their cells.”

  The guards started to replace the hoods on the men’s heads, but a man who I had learned during the proceedings was Judge Advocate General Holt, who would be our chief prosecutor, stood. “Leave those damn things off them until they’re out of this courtroom.”

  • • •

  The next day, General Hartranft came to my cell with a message: Senator Johnson regretted that a scheduling conflict might prevent him from representing me, but asked two younger lawyers, Frederick Aiken and John Clampitt, who had a partnership here in Washington, to appear for me. “I have never heard of them.”

  “They have been in practice together for less than six months, I understand.”

  Dear God, two fledgling lawyers. But Senator Johnson must have had some faith in their abilities to recommend them to me, so I simply nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  • • •

  On Thursday, my lawyers appeared in court. They were not quite as young as I feared—in their late twenties or early thirties—and they brought, in the very brief consultation we had, the encouraging news that Senator Johnson would likely appear for me after all, and perhaps even without a fee. They would be doing the drudge work, they assured me, and merely assisting their more experienced colleague. My heart, though it could hardly be called light, was somewhat less heavy as I was led back to my cell.

  I also met with Mr. Kirby. “Mrs. Surratt, if you would tell all you know about your son and Mr. Booth, I believe with all my heart that you would be set free. At the very least, why do you not ask that he give himself up? Say the word, and I will speak to every newspaper editor in Washington. His mother’s plea, printed in the papers, will bring him back. I am certain of it.”

  “I do not know what he discussed with Mr. Booth, and if I did, I would never tell. And I will not ask that he return to Washington to be hooded and shackled with these men who sit beside me.”

  “Well, I tried.” Mr. Kirby sighed. “In any event, Mrs. Surratt, I am ill positioned to advise you, because it is possible that I might be called as a witness. I helped search for Dr. Mudd, and I have helped search for your son as well. For your sake,” he added, “I do not want to see you sacrificed for him.”

  It occurred to me, as it had fleetingly occurred to me before when Superintendent Wood informed me he had included Mr. Kirby in his search party, that Mr. Kirby was as eager as anyone else to collect the reward for capturing my son—the only reward anyone could aspire to now that Mr. Booth was dead and Mr. Herold hooded and shackled in the prisoners’ dock. “Do you know anything of Mr. Clampitt and Mr. Aiken?”

  “Mr. Aiken served in the Union army for a while, was a newspaperman for a while, then got back into law.” Mr. Kirby shrugged. “Strange, it’s usually law to journalism, rather than the other way around. Both he and Mr. Clampitt are Democrats. How they are as lawyers I can’t say, but you’ll be in good hands with Mr. Johnson.” He rose. “And now I fear I must be going, Mrs. Surratt.”

  I had better be in his good hands, because you are washing yours of me. I did not say this, of course. “Thank you for stopping by, sir.”

  The next day, Friday, was the first day of testimony, although the public was not allowed inside. The gentlemen of the press were here, though, staring hard at us defendants. I was grateful General Hartranft had procured some clothing from the boardinghouse for me, so not only could I change my garments for the first time in weeks, but I could also hide myself behind a veil from the reporters’ scrutiny. The men came into the courtroom without their hoods but still in manacles and shackles.

  The government was determined to link this mad scheme of Mr. Booth’s to the upper reaches of the Confederacy. There was a great deal of testimony about Mr. Booth’s travels and his oil investments. General Grant himself appeared as a witness, chiefly to discuss the jurisdiction of the Military Department of Washington, and the commissioners promptly assumed their best posture and gazed at the victorious general like moonstruck privates. General and Mrs. Grant, I had learned, were to have accompanied President and Mrs. Lincoln to the theater on Good Friday but changed their plans, and as the general testified, I wondered whether his presence might have thwarted Booth’s plans—or whether he might have shared the president’s fate.

  An actor f
riend of Mr. Booth’s, a handsome man who identified himself as Samuel Knapp Chester, took the stand—more, I thought, as if he were taking the stage. Even we defendants listened in fascination as he detailed Mr. Booth’s futile attempts to get him to join his plan to kidnap the president. If only Johnny—and I—had been as wary…

  “Did he have any conversation with you at a later period, after the inauguration, as to the opportunity he had for the assassination of the president? Did he speak of that?”

  Mr. Chester nodded. “Yes, sir. On Friday, one week previous to the assassination, he was in New York. We were in the House of Lords at the time, sitting at a table, and had not been there long before he exclaimed, striking the table, ‘What an excellent chance I had to kill the president, if I had wished, on inauguration day!’”

  If he had wished. Had he still been planning only to kidnap at that point? When, and why, had he changed his mind? If only I could drag him back from the dead and force him to go to this stand and tell us all.

  And had he not considered the consequences his act would bring upon the innocent—his family, his friends, his fellow actors, the young ladies, like my daughter and Nora, who had enjoyed his company so much?

  But, I reflected behind the shield of my veil, I had not considered them all that well myself.

  As the men, preparing to go back to their cells, cast a last wistful look out the window, an older man entered the room. After conferring with my attorneys, he said, “Mrs. Surratt? I am Senator Reverdy Johnson, and I will be serving as your counsel.”

  Close to seventy, Reverdy Johnson was a stately figure with a resonant voice. Whatever other mistakes I had made over the last few months, I had at least chosen my lawyer wisely. I pushed back my veil—thinking, as I did, of little Mrs. Slater and Johnny. “Senator Johnson, I am so grateful you have agreed to represent me.”