“No, miss. She understands me.” Mr. Whelan pointed at a wall emblazed with an advertisement for soda crackers. “See that, miss? My work.”
“Very nice.”
“Did you get a book in prison called The Trapper’s Bride, miss?”
I stared up at him. “Why, yes, I did. How did you know that?”
“Because I sent it.”
“You?”
“Yes. A friend of mine passed it on to me. I’m not much of a reader, but I remembered what you had said about not having anything to read the first time you were in prison, so I gave one of the guards there a chaw of tobacco and asked him to pass it and a Harper’s Weekly on to you. The book, I mean, not the chaw. Probably not your type of book, though.”
“It kept me very well entertained, sir, and I thank you.”
“Well, here we are, miss.”
I stared at the Douglas mansion. I had passed by it before, but seeing it shut up for the night, and having business there, made it a daunting sight.
“Aren’t you going to knock, miss?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it is too late after all—”
Mr. Whelan banged on the door. “Police!”
In no time at all, a colored servant appeared at the door as Mr. Whelan disappeared into the shadows. “Where’s the police, missy?”
“There are no police. My companion thought—” I opened my purse. “Is Mrs. Douglas home?”
“She’s long in bed, missy.”
“I must see her. Or at least give her this letter.”
The servant looked at me kindly. “Are you in a family way, miss? Mrs. Douglas gets a lot of girls in a family way coming here. Young cads promise them all the world, then leave them high and dry. Happens all the time. It does. Nice girls too.”
“I am not in a family way. This is a matter of life and death. Please, may I see her? It will take only a few minutes. Tell her that I am Miss Nora Fitzpatrick, from church. And from Georgetown Visitation as well.” I handed him the letter I had composed on the train. “And give her this.”
“I’ll ask, missy. But it sure is late, if you ask me.”
“Family way.” Mr. Whelan chuckled from his hiding place.
“Why are you hiding, sir?”
“Thought after what happened to Mr. Seward, they might be a little reluctant to open the door to a man.”
“Well, that makes sense,” I said grudgingly.
To my immense relief, the stately figure of Mrs. Douglas soon appeared in the hall, lit by gaslight. “Miss Fitzpatrick, surely you are not alone this time of night.”
“No, ma’am. I have a companion. For heaven’s sake, come out, Mr. Whelan.”
Mrs. Douglas lifted her eyebrows, then said in her usual serene tone, “I have read your letter, Miss Fitzpatrick, and I will gladly go on the errand you urged of me, but I do not want to give you false hope. My friends tell me that the president is adamant that Mrs. Surratt must die.”
My heart sank, but I said, “False hope is better than none at all. Thank you, Mrs. Douglas.”
“I will be there early tomorrow. Now let me have my driver take you home.”
“That’s not necessary, ma’am.”
“I rather think it is,” Mrs. Douglas said dryly and went to give the orders.
I turned to Mr. Whelan. “Thank you, sir, for helping me.”
“Any time, miss. I hope they save her.”
I watched him disappear down New Jersey Avenue. As I settled into Mrs. Douglas’s fine carriage a little while later, I found myself wishing he was still with me.
Just a little.
47
MARY
JULY 6 TO 7, 1865
Much as I hated to send Anna away, I was soon grateful that she was gone, for I was seized by cramps and congestive chills, necessitating a visit by the physician. It was not in this condition, groaning and crying out, that I wanted my daughter to remember me. Indeed, I was so ill at one point that it occurred to me that if the government waited a few days, it would not have to hang me at all.
Through all, Father Wiget prayed with me and endeavored to comfort me, but I was still base enough to wish there was another priest at my side—Father Finotti, who could always cheer me. He could be in no doubt I was the same person as his congregant of old: the press had seen to that. Once I even thought of writing to him, but enough people had suffered through their association with me, and I would not drag another unwitting soul into this web.
Yet for all that, I had hoped he might write to me anyway—a simple letter of solace—but nothing had come. Perhaps he had forgotten me. Perhaps he was never the man I thought he was. I could hear the mocking voice of my husband, telling me it was about time I realized that.
I had not judged men well. Mr. Booth, hiding his murderous plan under the kindest of facades. Mr. Weichmann, testifying against me and Johnny. Senator Johnson, offering high-flown words and little practical help at my trial. My Johnny—yes, even my Johnny, who had not come to stand trial with me. It was those I had barely known— Mr. Brophy and this patient man whose voice was getting hoarse, General Hartranft and his unfailing kindness to Anna and me—who in their different ways had proven to be the best of friends to me.
And here I was, ignoring the gospel because it was not being read by a man I had not seen in years. “Father Wiget? If I do not remember to say so tomorrow, thank you for your kind care of me.”
Father Wiget smiled and, in a firm voice, resumed his reading. “‘My Father,’ he said, ‘if it is possible, let this cup pass me by. Nevertheless, let it be as you, not I, would have it.’”
• • •
Deep in the night, I told Father Wiget I would try to sleep, more for his benefit than for mine. I stretched out on my mattress and shut my eyes.
It had grown very quiet. The commotion of the scaffold being built had ceased hours ago, but throughout the evening I had heard the sounds from the other cells—Mr. Payne’s stoic murmur of conversation with his minister, Mr. Herold’s bevy of sisters, some weeping and some calmly reading aloud, Mr. Atzerodt’s deep sighs. Now, only the footsteps of the guards broke the silence of this place.
Somewhere in this prison, I heard from Anna, who saw it in the newspapers, lay the body of Mr. Booth, safe from those who might desecrate it and hidden from those who might make its burial place a sort of shrine. His poor mother!
“Does she have a favorite, Mr. Booth?”
“Anna! No mother admits to such things.”
“No, she does not mention it, as you say, Mrs. Surratt, but I believe my brothers and sisters, if pressed, would say that I was the favorite.”
I struggled to a sitting position. “Father Wiget?” I said in a low voice.
Evidently, my priest had been no more successful at finding sleep than I had, for he raised his head and answered immediately, “Yes, Mrs. Surratt?”
“Would you say a prayer for the repose of a soul?”
“Certainly. Whose?”
“Mr. Booth’s.”
Father Wiget looked surprised, but in a very low tone, dutifully prayed for the soul of Mr. Booth.
• • •
Morning. The prison was awake, and my life was now measured in hours.
I asked for pencil and paper and managed to compose a short letter to each of my absent sons, giving them my love and asking them to take good care of their sister. As I wrote Isaac’s, I considered the irony that my farewell to him should be by letter, for that was how he had bid me farewell one spring day in 1861: leaving a letter on the mantelpiece and making the impossible request that I should not worry about him. As the war ground on, and especially during the last few months, he had been pushed to the back of my mind, but I had never ceased to love him or to remember him in my prayers. As I folded the letter, I silently pleaded for the Lord to bring him home safely, both for his own sake and Anna’s.
Just after I wrote the letters, someone brought me breakfast, which I could not touch, even though I had scarcely eat
en the previous day. No sooner did I push it away when Father Walter came bearing the Holy Communion, which I was able to take. As I lifted the wafer to my mouth, I saw my hands were shaking.
Then Mr. Brophy hastened in. “There is good news, Mrs. Surratt! Overnight, Mr. Clampitt and Mr. Aiken got Judge Wylie from the Washington Supreme Court to issue a writ of habeas corpus, directed to General Hancock.”
“What does that mean, sir?”
“It means that General Hancock must produce you before the court—the hour given is ten o’clock. Your lawyers argued—on Mr. Reverdy Johnson’s advice—that the military trial was illegal and that you should be tried, if at all, before a civilian court. Payne’s lawyer is seeking the writ as well.”
As I absorbed all this, Mr. Brophy continued, “I have been by your house and notified Miss Surratt, who was gratified to hear the news. She and Miss Fitzpatrick are on their way to the White House to beg an audience with President Johnson, whom I have written as well to dispute the testimony of Mr. Weichmann. And that is not all! Mr. Payne has declared several times that you were not involved in the assassination plot. It is weighing on him very heavily. I plan to get something in writing and take it to the president myself.”
A man with a cause, with all of the energy and passion of the young, he barely gave me time to thank him before he hurried off.
48
NORA
JULY 7, 1865
Anna and I made an odd pair as we left the boardinghouse that morning. I was still in the light, flowery summer frock I’d been wearing when I got the news at the bookstore, whereas she was clad in the same black silk she had worn to the trial, which, as it was unrelieved by any accessories, gave her the unfortunate appearance of being in mourning before the fact. Her friend Mr. Brophy had come by with the encouraging news of the granting of Mrs. Surratt’s habeas corpus petition, however, so she was more hopeful than she had been the day before.
At Mr. Brophy’s suggestion, our first stop was the Metropolitan Hotel, where General Hancock was staying. Anna sent her card up to General Hancock, who promptly appeared in response. “Sir, what can I do to save my mother?”
“Miss Surratt, I do not wish to see your mother—or any lady—hang, but it is beyond my power to stop it. Your one hope is to go to the president, to go on your knees before him and beg for her life.”
“I am on my way there, but I was there yesterday, and he offered me no solace.”
“It cannot hurt to go back. His health has been poor of late, and much depends on how he is feeling from day to day. I wish you the best of luck, Miss Surratt.”
He bowed and showed us out the door. “Well,” said Anna as we stepped onto Pennsylvania Avenue, already baking in the heat, “he was cold enough.”
“He was courteous, Anna, and honest at least.”
As we made our way down Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House, we passed through a crowd of people streaming in the direction of the Old Arsenal, hoping to catch something of the executions, or at least to share in the pervading excitement. I glared at them all, but with no effect, as I was wearing my veil. Camilla was a late riser, and it was entirely possible that my absence wouldn’t be discovered until nine or so, but I could hardly be sure of that, so each time an aging man approached us, I quailed lest he be my father. I could only pray that if I did encounter him, he wouldn’t recognize my dress, as he was one of those men who paid little attention to such matters.
All one had to do to get into the White House was open the door and walk in. Seeing the president, of course, was a different matter, depending on who was in office, but in Mr. Lincoln’s day, it had not been hard.
As soon as Anna and I entered at the North Portico—I staring around me in curiosity despite the gravity of our mission—an usher approached us. “Your business, misses?”
“I am Miss Anna Surratt.”
The man’s expression instantly turned gloomy.
“I was here yesterday to talk to the president about my mother and was told to see General Holt. He said that he could do nothing but refer me to the president. So I have come back.”
“Miss Surratt, the president is indisposed and will see no one today.”
“Sir, I want only five minutes of his time. It is literally a matter of life and death. Please!”
“Madam, I know well what errand you have come on. The president knows of the event that is to happen today, but he nonetheless left the firmest orders not to be disturbed.”
“Please! Do you not have a mother? Is she not everything to you?”
“I sympathize with your plight, Miss Surratt. But I cannot let you up to see the president.”
For a moment, I thought Anna was going to make a run for the stairs or faint—I could not guess which. Instead, she commanded herself to say calmly, “Then please let me see General Mussey.”
“I will tell him you are here, miss.”
“Who’s General Mussey?” I hissed as the usher disappeared from sight.
“The president’s private secretary. I saw him briefly yesterday.”
A man of about thirty, with a kindly face and tired eyes, entered the hall. “Miss Surratt? What I can do for you?”
“Sir, I must see the president. Just one word, sir. One little word!”
General Mussey sighed. “The president has made it utterly clear that he will see no one about the trial, Miss Surratt.”
“I can change his mind, sir, if he would only see me!” Anna knelt at the general’s feet and raised her hands in supplication. “Please, sir, let me see him! Take me up and leave me alone with him, for just a minute. Surely he will relent when he sees me.”
“The president is not that sort of man, Miss Surratt. If I were to bring you to him, against his explicit orders and while he is ill, it would do neither you nor your mother any good.”
“She is too kind and good to die, and she is innocent!” Anna pulled on the hem of General Mussey’s jacket. “Take me to him, sir!”
“I cannot, miss.”
Anna rose and tottered toward the staircase, which two guards had moved to block. She dropped, weeping, upon the stairs and said, “If Ma is put to death, I wish to die myself.”
I sat on the staircase and held Anna while she sobbed. The hall was full of people by now, all moved by Anna’s plight, all unable to do anything to help her. “Sir, may Miss Surratt at least stay here for a while, in case the president does relent?”
General Mussey, his face wet with tears, nodded. “Take her into the East Room when she recovers. But I tell you, miss, there is little hope if any. The president said yesterday, in my hearing, that Mrs. Surratt had kept the nest where the egg was hatched, and that if he pardoned her, it would only encourage women to commit treason.”
At last, I managed to coax Anna into the East Room. Not three months before, President Lincoln’s body had lain in state here, and I tried to picture the large room draped in black from ceiling to floor.
Each time a newcomer appeared in the hall, Anna would leap up and run to the door, in hopes of seeing the one person who could touch the president’s stony heart. Instead, we saw two of Mr. Herold’s sisters, begging that the president pardon their brother for the sake of their dead father, who had served the government loyally as an official in the Navy Yard. “He was but a foolish boy, whom Mr. Booth made use of,” the eldest young lady urged. “Our father died last year, and without his guidance, my brother went astray.”
“Prison will be punishment enough for him,” pleaded the second. “He will be utterly miserable there, never being able to hunt, doing hard labor. He hates to labor, sir.”
“I am sorry,” General Mussey said. “He will not see you.”
As the Herold girls left, dejectedly but quietly, a distinguished-looking man hurried into the hall. “Charles Mason,” he said, handing his card to the general. “Please allow me to see the president. I’ve known him for years.”
“On what business, sir?”
“On this busines
s of executing the woman, sir. I know no one in this affair, have been sent for by no one, but it disturbs me deeply. I have seen no evidence that shows she was more deeply involved than O’Laughlin and Arnold, who were part of the kidnapping plot—yet they will go to prison, along with Spangler and Dr. Mudd, and she will die upon the gallows. Is that just, sir?”
“No, sir, it is not!” Anna ran forward and clasped his hand. “Please, sir, let this man see the president!”
“You are her child?” Mr. Mason said. “Dear me.” He patted Anna, who was clinging to him like a long-lost daughter.
The door flew open, and Mr. Brophy rushed in, bearing papers aloft. “General Hartranft provided me with his carriage and horses so I could get here as soon as possible,” he said, handing them to General Mussey triumphantly. “Father Walter has signed them as well. Mr. Payne—the conspirator who was more trusted by Booth than any of them—has repeatedly stated that Mrs. Surratt was guiltless of conspiring to murder the president. Except for Booth himself, who would be better placed to know that than Payne? And I have added my own observations, to the effect that Louis Weichmann was a lying wretch desperate to save his own skin.”
“I will take the papers to him,” General Mussey said and retreated to the stairs.
I turned to Mr. Brophy. “Sir, what about the writ of habeas corpus?”
He shook his head. “President Johnson has issued an order suspending it. This is our last hope.”
As if in answer to our prayers, the doors opened, and Mrs. Douglas swept into the room. “I am here to see the president.”
The usher made his now-familiar refusal. Mrs. Douglas nodded graciously, then brushed past him and ascended the stairs. “There is no need to give me directions, sir. I know my way around this house quite well.”
Openmouthed, the two soldiers standing on the stairs lowered their bayonets and let Mrs. Douglas past them. “A deus ex machina,” whispered Mr. Brophy.
Clutching one another, the four of us gazed at the stairs as Mrs. Douglas’s skirts disappeared from view. As the minutes passed and others congregated in the hall to join our vigil, Anna whispered, “Surely she would have been back by now if she had failed.”
Hanging Mary Page 33
