There was a crash and some cries, and suddenly men were gathered around me, lifting me in their arms.
• • •
“I have never been prone to fainting,” I told Dr. Porter, the physician appointed to minister to us, as we sat in the anteroom previously used for witnesses waiting their turn to testify. Just a day before, he and a colleague had examined all of us, and the result in my case had been the appearance of a soft armchair in my cell and a selection of books for me to read. “But it is so close in the courtroom, and—and over the past several days I have had female problems, which have troubled me from time to time over the past few months,” I added in a low tone. “Forgive me, Doctor, it is not easy for me to discuss these things.”
“I know, madam. I am going to recommend that you be allowed to stay in this room, where it is cooler and fresher. In the meantime, just sit here and rest.”
I obeyed, thinking that this trial was turning me into a feeble old woman.
• • •
That evening, my few possessions were brought from cell 200 to my new lodgings, along with the armchair, in which I drank in the sight of a summer sunset in Washington. During court the next day, I sat in the armchair in the doorway, allowing me to see and hear the proceedings—and, I confess, to doze in my comfortable chair.
After court, two featherbeds made their appearance in my new room. “Two?”
“Yes, madam,” General Hartranft said. “I have been given permission to allow you a female attendant in light of”—he coughed—“your peculiar difficulties.”
“That is very kind of you, sir.” Silently, I hoped it was not some pert little Irish girl from the surrounding neighborhood.
“She will be here shortly.”
I nodded and thumbed through the The Pickwick Papers, having been given a choice between that and The Last of the Mohicans. Evidently General Hartranft, who confided to me that he had been given liberty to bring us books, provided they had not been published within the last thirty years and were not otherwise unsuitable for us, had forgotten about Mr. Pickwick’s imprisonment for debt.
“Your attendant is here, Mrs. Surratt.”
I looked up and there, holding a basket of food, was my daughter.
• • •
Anna could come and go as she pleased, and each day she brought me a treat—some buttered scones, my goose-down pillow from home, the prayer book that Father Finotti gave me. “How are you paying for this?” I asked as she presented me with some candy for my sweet tooth. I looked at her ears and found to my relief that her favorite earrings were hanging there. “You have not been pawning your nice things, have you?”
“No, Ma. Uncle Zadock and Grandma have both sent me money.” She winced. “Actually, I asked Grandma for it. I told her we would pay her back when we were able.”
“Did she send any message to me?”
“Only that she was praying for you.”
This was about as much comfort as I was likely to receive from my mother, especially now that I had brought the family into disgrace. At least she had the goodness to lend my daughter money.
I looked at my own precious girl, darning my stockings. “Anna. Have I ever told you that you are very dear to me, and that I love you?”
“Why, of course, Mama.”
“Good. I just wanted to make sure.”
• • •
For two solid days, Mr. Bingham made his closing argument for the government as I watched from my doorway and the male prisoners watched from their dock. In his black frock coat, which reached almost to his shoe tops and seemed in danger of tripping him, the small Mr. Bingham should have cut a faintly ridiculous figure, but instead he gave the impression of being a much taller man as he denounced each of us in turn, as well as my Johnny, whom he even accused of having been present in the city on that dreadful Good Friday. “Nothing but his conscious coward guilt could possibly induce him to absent himself from his mother, as he does, upon her trial!”
I clenched my fists.
“That Mary E. Surratt is as guilty as her son at having thus conspired, combined, and confederated to do this murder, in aid of this rebellion, is clear,” Mr. Bingham continued, making a flourish in my direction.
At this point, I could almost sum up the evidence for him. I kept a tally in my head as he neatly reached each point. I received Mr. Booth and the other men in my home, and met privately with Mr. Booth. I drove twice to Surrattsville, ostensibly on my own business but in reality that of Mr. Booth. I gave Mr. Lloyd the messages about the shooting irons.
“But there is one other fact in this case that puts forever at rest the question of the guilty participation of the prisoner, Mrs. Surratt, in this conspiracy and murder, and that is, that Payne, who had lodged four days in her house, who during all that time had sat at her table, and who had often conversed with her, when the guilt of his great crime was upon him, and he knew not where else he could so safely go to find a co-conspirator, and he could trust none that was not, like himself, guilty with even the knowledge of his presence, under cover of darkness, after wandering for three days and nights, skulking before the pursuing officers of justice, at the hour of midnight, found his way to the door of Mrs. Surratt, rang the bell, was admitted, and upon being asked, ‘Whom do you want to see?’ replied, ‘Mrs. Surratt.’”
Mr. Payne looked in my direction, then hung his head.
• • •
It was over. Mr. Bingham had concluded his argument. Now our fates were in the hands of the nine commissioners.
Mr. Aiken and Mr. Clampitt, meeting with me in the courtroom after Mr. Bingham departed, mopping his forehead, were optimistic. “The case against you depends on a coward and a drunkard,” Mr. Aiken told me. “Mr. Weichmann is Secretary Stanton’s puppet, and would be on the dock with the other men if he hadn’t been bullied into testifying against you, and Mr. Lloyd wouldn’t have known if you said ‘shooting iron’ or ‘curling iron’ after his day swilling at Marlboro.”
“Do you think the commissioners will see them in that light?”
Mr. Clampitt said, “How can they not? I have spoken with some of my older colleagues, who have been closely following the case, and they are confident of your acquittal.”
“And if I am not acquitted? Senator Johnson thought I might get a short imprisonment, followed by a pardon. Do you agree?”
Mr. Aiken nodded. “Yes, I do. I imagine you would be sent back to the Old Capitol for a while.”
“And how am I to live? There is your fee to pay, and the money I owe to Mr. Calvert that led me to go on that trip in the first place. And after all that has happened, I cannot see Mr. Lloyd continuing at the tavern—not that I want him there either. I suppose I must sell it, which would not be a bad thing, for it has brought me nothing but grief. Unless Isaac wants to run it. And I do not even know if he is still alive. And Johnny…”
“He is safe, Mrs. Surratt, and we have followed your wishes in keeping him away,” Mr. Aiken said in the lowest of tones. “Let that be a comfort to you for now. The rest will fall into place.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right. It hurt so to hear him being called a coward, though.” I sighed. “When do you think we will know the verdicts?”
Mr. Clampitt shook his head. “That I cannot say. The commissioners do not have to be unanimous, as a civil jury does, so a decision could come quickly. But they have a huge amount of evidence to sift through, and eight cases to consider, some clear-cut like Payne’s, others less so. I promise that when we hear the news, you shall hear it immediately.”
We bade one another good-bye, and I thanked them for their representation of me, for with all their blunders, they had perhaps done as best they could, thrown into the case as junior counsel and then virtually abandoned by Senator Johnson. Whether their optimism was well founded or the product of their inexperience I could not say.
• • •
For two days, the commissioners met in the courtroom; with my door shut, I could hear
only the drone of their voices. Their second session, on the last day of June, did not last long, and when General Hartranft came to visit that afternoon, I saw the courtroom was deserted, with only some crumpled papers and full spittoons to indicate its recent occupation. “Are they finished?”
“I believe so, madam.”
Anna clutched my hand. “Then we shall hear soon.”
But we did not. June rolled into July without a word of our fates.
The delay, General Hartranft told me with the sheepish air of a man who knew he should probably not be giving me this information, was due to the illness of President Johnson, who had to approve the commission’s recommendation. My keeper wished the president would soon recover, he confided, because he sorely missed his wife and children in Pennsylvania and knew his wife would be particularly sad about spending the Fourth of July alone.
The delay was wearing on all of us. In early June, the male prisoners had been relieved of their hoods, Anna told me, and they were allowed to exercise in the yard each day, two or three at a time. From my window I could see them wandering about, their shoulders slumped. Only Mr. Payne, pitching quoits with his guards, seemed unperturbed by the wait. “I wonder why,” I told Anna.
“They say he doesn’t care what happens to him,” Anna said, staring down as Mr. Payne yelled in triumph. “In fact, he wants to die.”
• • •
On the Fourth of July, Anna and I stood at the window and watched the fireworks going off across the river. Poor Major General Hartranft, I thought as the last burst of colored light faded away.
Another day passed with no word. Then on the sixth, around noon, soon after Anna had left to go to the post office, General Hartranft, accompanied by another man, entered my room. In a tone of voice I had never heard him use before, he said, “Madam, the commission has issued its findings and sentences, and they have been approved by President Johnson. This is Major General Hancock. He is here to witness me reading you the findings and sentence.”
“Just tell me, sir, without reading me that lawyer’s prose. Am I to go to prison? For how long?”
Major General Hartranft shook his head and held up a paper with a trembling hand. “After mature consideration of the evidence adduced in the case of the accused, Mary E. Surratt, the commission find the said accused of the specification guilty. And the commission do, therefore, sentence her, the said Mary E. Surratt, to be hanged by the neck until she be dead, at such time and place as the president of the United States shall direct.” He looked up. “That will take place here. Tomorrow, between the hours of ten and two.”
“Tomorrow,” I mumbled.
“Madam, I cannot tell you how sorry I am to give you this news. It is not what I expected, not what I had hoped. Whom do you wish me to send for, to stay with you in your last hours? Your daughter, I suppose? A priest, a friend, a relation?”
I was shaking from head to toe. “Sir, I did not plot to kill the president. I knew nothing of any such plot. No one at that trial testified that I did. No one could testify that I did. I am innocent! For God’s sake, I have done wrong in my life, but I have not done murder, and I do not deserve to die for this!”
“Mrs. Surratt, please tell me whom you wish me to send for. There is no time to be lost.”
“I am innocent!” I could barely speak through my sobs. “I am innocent!”
General Hartranft put his arm around me as I wept. Finally, when I stopped to catch a breath, he said again, “You want Anna, don’t you?”
“Yes.” I wiped my eyes. “Try to have them find her before she hears the news from someone else. She was on her way to the post office.”
“I will. What priest do you wish to see?”
“Father Jacob Walter from St. Patrick’s, and Father Bernardine Wiget from St. Aloysius.” I had worshiped at both of their churches; surely at least one of these men would attend me.
“And is there anyone else you wish to see?”
“Mr. John Brophy.” He was a friend of Johnny’s whom Anna told me had taken an interest in my case. If he could not help me, at least perhaps he could help my child, so soon to be alone.
“I will get them all here as soon as possible. Now I am going to send Dr. Porter to give you something to ease you. Try to rest. I am so very sorry.” His own voice broke, and Major General Hancock, who had stared gloomily out the window throughout his visit, clapped him on the shoulder and steered him to the door.
I lay on my bed. Even though the temperature had to be close to ninety degrees, I was shivering. Hanged by the neck until she be dead. Tomorrow.
44
NORA
JULY 6, 1865
“Extra! Mrs. Surratt to be hanged tomorrow!”
My blood still runs cold to recall those words.
Throwing down the novel I had been leafing through, I ran out of the bookstore and snatched a paper from the newsboy’s hands. “Hey, miss! You forgot to pay!”
I tossed a coin in his general direction and read the paper, praying that the newsboy was barely literate and had misunderstood what the paper was saying. He had not. There in the cruelest black and white the Evening Star could muster were the headlines: MRS. SURRATT, PAYNE, HEROLD, AND ATZERODT TO BE HUNG! THE SENTENCE TO BE EXECUTED TOMORROW!
In a daze, I walked to the house on H Street and knocked on the door. No one answered.
I turned my steps toward the Misses Donovan’s house, where I found my father sitting in the parlor. “Come here, child. You have heard?”
I nodded, and he took me into his arms while I sobbed. “I know you were fond of this lady. I am very sorry that it has ended thus.”
He was speaking of Mrs. Surratt, I realized, as if she were already cold in the grave. I pulled back. “Father, I have to do something.”
“Do what, Nora?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I can’t just let her hang, and do nothing. There must be something I can do.”
“She has lawyers, Nora, and her daughter. No doubt her family in Surrattsville will come to her aid as well. She is not without help, although what good it will do I do not know.”
“She is innocent, Father. She would never have plotted the death of the president.”
“The commission does not share your view of her. Nora, I have hesitated in saying this, but I do not think you are aware of what your association with her has done. I have heard from several people, well-informed ones, that you have lost your chance for the government jobs you hoped to obtain. You are tainted, and it is her fault, and only hers, that you are. She should have known the damage that her doings could inflict upon you, her daughter, and any other young person in her household.”
“She did not know what Mr. Booth planned, Father.”
“I cannot believe that she was ignorant of his doings. At the very least, she must have known of the kidnapping, and that is enough to hang her. I am sorry for it, but my concern is with you and not with her. And that is why I am sending you to Baltimore today.”
“Baltimore?” I asked as if I had never heard of the place.
“Yes, to stay with your friend Camilla.”
“Today?”
“Yes. It is short notice, but I know you have a standing invitation, and it is best to get you out of here, when all of the talk will be of the execution. I have telegraphed her mother.”
“How long am I to impose upon her hospitality?”
“As long as she wishes. Child, don’t glare at me so! I know you are grieving for this lady. But you can do her no good by staying here, and you are doing yourself no good by staying here. Now, please go and pack.”
Obeying, I threw some things into a carpetbag, not bothering to look if they were suitable for summer or winter. “I’m ready,” I said flatly when I returned.
My father smiled and offered me his arm. I yanked it away rudely, relishing the hurt expression on his face, and together we made our way to the station in silence.
Our train ride was every bit as miserabl
e as our trip to the station. I snatched a book out of my carpetbag and held it to my nose for the duration of the ride, although I wasn’t comprehending a single word, while my father sat there wearing a face of stony misery. It didn’t help that all around us the talk was of the execution.
At last, we pulled into Baltimore’s Camden Station, where I hoped no one would be there to meet us. Then wouldn’t my father have to take me back to Washington? But Camilla and her mama were there in their fine carriage, beaming at us. My father fairly shone with relief. “I thank you very much, Mrs. James, for receiving my daughter on such short notice,” he said. “The circumstances—”
“I understand perfectly, Mr. Fitzpatrick. We’ll take good care of her.” Mrs. James smiled, though I detected a look of worry in her eyes. Entertaining someone whose landlady was on the verge of execution was not something dealt with in the conduct books.
My father shoved some bills into my hand and patted me on the cheek. “Try to enjoy yourself, Nora,” he said very gently. “Child, I truly mean well, though you don’t realize it.”
I nodded and let him hand me into the carriage. He lifted his hand in farewell as I stared stonily ahead.
“Well!” said Mrs. James brightly. “Shall we do a little shopping?”
• • •
How Camilla and I had become friends I never quite understood, for she was pretty and blond, with hair that fell in perfect ringlets. She was also the most talkative girl at Georgetown Visitation, and I had always been on the quiet side. Maybe that was my appeal—I made a most admirable listener.
After our shopping trip—I had refused to spend my father’s money, but Mrs. James had thwarted me by purchasing a new bonnet for me—Camilla and I adjourned to her room, where she pulled out her album and gave me a report on what every girl at Visitation pictured in it had done over the past year. “Do you remember Miss Turner? She married a merchant and moved to Philadelphia. She has a lovely little baby but gained an enormous amount of weight. I do hope she can get it off, because she had a lovely figure. Do you remember how the men used to stare when we walked about with her? Oh, and here’s Miss Gray—such a pity, her father lost his money, and she’s had to teach school. Of course, she’ll probably marry soon. And here’s Miss Butler—I don’t mind saying at this point that I thought she was dreadfully snobbish, and for what? So what if her father had fifty slaves—they’re all free now.” Camilla took a breath and turned a page. “And here’s—oh, dear, I’m sorry.” Camilla ruefully gazed at a photograph of Mr. Booth in side view. “I’d forgotten he was here. He was a handsome devil, wasn’t he? Well, this is most awkward—”
Hanging Mary Page 31
