Hanging Mary

by Susan Higginbotham

  “Yes, sir, he did.” For the first time, it occurred to me that I’d likely been watching Jane Shore in the same box where the president had been murdered a month later. I shivered at the thought.

  “What other lady accompanied you?”

  I hoped they did not intend to make the little girl testify. “Miss Dean.”

  “When did you leave Mrs. Surratt’s after going to the theater?”

  “I went on a visit to Baltimore.”

  The commissioners murmured at the word Baltimore, and I wondered if I should have mentioned that I had paid a visit to my sister, the nun.

  “When did you start on that visit?”

  “In the six o’clock train the next day after going to the theater.”

  “How long were you absent?”

  “I was absent a week.”

  Judge Bingham nodded toward the commissioners. “Have you any questions of the young lady?”

  Someone asked, “Do you recollect, on entering the theater, whether you turned to the right or to the left to get to the box you occupied?”

  “No, sir, I do not know which side I turned to.”

  “You may step down,” said Judge Bingham.

  I obeyed, managing to smile at Mrs. Surratt as I turned to walk back to the waiting room. I doubted she could see my expression, but at least I had made the effort.

  • • •

  I had returned to my cell—I almost said “to my home”—only for a few minutes when Superintendent Wood entered. “You’re free, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

  “Free?”

  “Orders of General Augur. Gather your things, and I’ll take you to your father. He just arrived to escort you home.”

  Numbly, I obeyed. I had little to gather but my shawl and my bonnet, which I had but just hung in their places, and my change of undergarments, which Mr. Wood gallantly pretended not to see. I snatched up The Trapper’s Bride as well. I was on my way out when I turned. “Wait, sir.”

  I still had the stub of a pencil I’d been given when I’d asked to write to my father. I took it out of my pocket and turned to the wall. When I had finished, the inscription there read:

  Miss Nora Fitzpatrick,

  In durance vile from April 24, 1865, to May 22, 1865

  Mr. Wood watched me indulgently. “All done, miss?”

  I nodded. “Done.”

  I followed Superintendent Wood, taking one last glance at my handiwork. It and the wall on which I wrote are dust now, smashed to smithereens like the rest of Carroll Annex to make room for the new Library of Congress building. I passed by it not long after it was knocked down and pondered whether it was a good thing that a place where so many people had suffered should be gone for good, or an ill thing that it and all those who suffered inside should be forgotten.

  • • •

  Father was pacing around Superintendent Wood’s office when I came in. He gathered me into his arms and embraced me. “My dear child,” he whispered. “How I have worried about you.” He stepped back and stared at me, then at my keeper. “What have you done to my daughter? She’s skin and bones! I sent her a basket of food every day. Why was she kept here so long?”

  Superintendent Wood decided to answer the easiest question. “Secretary Stanton wished to keep her here until she testified satisfactorily, sir.”

  My father launched into a description of the secretary of war so vivid, colorful, and completely obscene that it was miraculous he wasn’t thrown into prison straightaway. I had never heard him use such language in my life and could do nothing but stand and wonder where on earth he had acquired it. Superintendent Wood seemed equally impressed. “Good day, sir,” he said when my father had at last finished his tirade. “I wish you and your daughter well.”

  Father muttered something less colorful and ushered me out the door.

  “Goodness, Father!” I said.

  My father said nothing but walked beside me as I pretended not to notice the tears pouring down his face. Finally, he regained his composure. “It is hard, child, not to have been able to do anything to free you. I have never felt so helpless in my life. And what if they take a whim and decide to put you back?”

  “I doubt they will, Father. I told them what they wanted.”

  “Then I would like to send you North to recover your health, child. Peter suggests the mountains of Vermont.”

  “My health is fine, Father,” I said. “I just need a bath. The Misses Donovan will fatten me up in no time. Besides, I can’t leave while the trial is going on.”

  “There were no conditions upon your release. That Superintendent Wood told me that.”

  “I meant I can’t leave while Mrs. Surratt’s fate is being decided.”

  “I find your loyalty to that woman unaccountable, Nora, after she dragged you into this.”

  “She didn’t drag me into it. Mr. Booth did that.” I looked at my father. “I could never enjoy myself in the Vermont mountains worrying about what’s happening here. I would pine away.”

  My father sighed, but it was the familiar sigh indicating that he was about to give way. “Very well. If your health does not appear to be in danger, you can stay here. I confess, I would miss you anyway.”

  We proceeded to the Misses Donovan, who wept over me for a decent interval before drawing back and ordering their servant to prepare a bath. In as short order as possible, I was luxuriating in a warm tub in the kitchen. My grime at last removed, I sat down to eat. It was a simple meal, as the old ladies usually prepared, but it tasted infinitely delicious. By the time it was finished, the nearly thirty nights of poor sleep I had had were beginning to tell on me, and I was nodding over my plate.

  The servant girl led me upstairs into my chintz-covered room, where Mr. Rochester was dozing. Although it was still light outside, I undressed, then said my prayers and climbed into bed.

  But I had forgotten something. Sitting up, I checked myself for lice, inspected the coverlet and sheets for bedbugs, and looked through the keyhole to see if anyone might be spying on me as I slept. These preparations concluded, I settled into bed next to Mr. Rochester once more and slept a good twelve hours.

  • • •

  I probably could have slept far longer on my first morning home from prison, but it would have been impossible, for while I had been incarcerated, Washington had at last shed its funeral attire and draped itself again in bunting. That day and the next, there was a grand review of the armies of the republic, and the bands began striking up at nine sharp.

  Washington had never been so crowded—not even for the second inaugural, not even for the illuminations. Even the Misses Donovan, although they had faithfully kept my own room waiting for me, had given into temptation and rented out a few rooms and the attic to a couple of parties of ladies.

  I was less strong than I had admitted to my father and was not inclined to push my way through the throngs, much less stand for hours watching the spectacle, so after eating the breakfast of Brobdingnagian proportions pressed on me by the misses, I returned to my room and sat by the window, listening to the bands. It was good to see the city of my birth with flags flying and with spirits high again, even though I could not forget my friends languishing in prison. Nor did I omit to shed a tear for poor Private Flanagan, who should have been marching with his regiment this fine day, or for all of the other young men who would not be returning home when this grand review ended.

  The sound of the bands had begun to die away and I was dozing in my armchair when the servant girl knocked. “A man for you, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

  Was I about to be hauled to prison a third time? Shakily, I read the card she handed me.

  Frederick Aiken, Attorney at Law. Mrs. Surratt’s attorney.

  “Is the parlor empty?”

  “Yes, miss. The misses are napping”—the misses napped a great deal—“and the other ladies are at the review.”

  “Then send him in there. I will be down straightaway.”

  Mr. Aiken was studying the book
shelves when I arrived. He smiled at me. “Miss Fitzpatrick? I am glad to see you in comfortable quarters after your imprisonment. Mrs. Surratt spoke very highly of you.”

  “Sir, how is she bearing up?”

  “She is feeling the effects of close confinement, and I believe has a complaint of a female nature as well, but she is bearing up.”

  I felt tears come to my eyes. “I wish I could do something to help her.”

  “You can, Miss Fitzpatrick, and that is why I am here. You can testify in her defense. I know that you have been waiting around in the courtroom for days, and I do not like to ask you to do so again, but—”

  “I will gladly testify, sir, to anything you want me to. What do they call them, character witnesses? I can be one. When do you need me?”

  Mr. Aiken smiled. “It is pleasant to see an eager witness. Most have been reluctant. We will call some priests as character witnesses, but there are a few things you can help establish. Much has been made of the fact that Mrs. Surratt did not recognize Mr. Payne when he appeared at her house the night of her arrest, the implication being that she knew who he was but concealed it. Is her eyesight poor?”

  “It is indeed, sir, especially in gaslight.”

  “And you can testify that John Surratt did not come to the boardinghouse since Richmond fell?”

  “I can.”

  “Good. The court is adjourned until Thursday for the grand review, but I will send a carriage for you first thing that morning to take you to court. I can’t promise you will be called that day, though, because the prosecution has not yet rested its case.”

  “I have nothing to do, sir. I can go there as often as needed.”

  Mr. Aiken nodded and picked up his hat.

  “Sir, tell me: What if…what if Mrs. Surratt is found guilty?”

  “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.