American Brutus

by Michael W. Kauffman

  The commission itself was not above reproach. Its only attorney, Lew Wallace, spent much of the trial consumed with unrelated business. He wrote letters to his wife, Susan. He drew pencil sketches of the prisoners on the dock. He tried to instigate a war with Mexico. And all the while, he took pains to cozy up with the Judge Advocate General, an obsessively social man, to lobby for assignment to yet another military commission. Wallace would get that assignment, and Holt would present Wallace’s wife with the gift of a sapphire ring while that trial was in progress. 37

  THE VERDICTS WERE SEALED on June 30, and the commission was released from further duty. Since President Johnson was ill at the time, he did not see the findings until Holt brought him the papers on Wednesday, July 5. They spent several hours going over the facts of each case, and at the end of the session, Johnson approved the sentences. The executions were set for Friday, July 7.

  Few people doubted then that Mary Surratt was guilty as charged. Indeed, hardly anyone had suggested otherwise. But no woman had ever been executed by the federal government, and few thought they would actually go through with it in this case. Johnson, however, showed no inclination to commute her sentence. Frederick Aiken was desperate to save his client. He asked Thomas Ewing for help, and Ewing had his law partner, former senator Orville Hickman Browning, draw up a petition for a writ of habeas corpus. It would be Mary Surratt’s last chance.38

  THE CONDEMNED PRISONERS LEARNED of their sentences on July 6, the night before their execution. General Hartranft, accompanied by General Hancock, came to their cells and broke the news. Each prisoner reacted differently. Lewis Powell calmly thanked the officers for their fair treatment. He said that he was sorry for what he had done; at the time, he had thought he was avenging the wrongs committed against Confederate prisoners.

  George Atzerodt quivered and his face turned pale, but he said nothing. Herold was unnerved by the news. He acknowledged getting into the plot, but pointed out that he had refused to kill anyone. Mary Surratt burst into tears, and asked if she might see her priests, her friend John P. Brophy, and her daughter Anna.

  That night, Rev. Abram Dunn Gillette rode to the prison with Thomas Eckert, who had just been appointed assistant secretary of war. Powell had specifically asked for Gillette, having attended one of his services, and the minister was surprised to see how different the prisoner was from his public persona. Powell was candid, remorseful, and eager to talk about his crime. The moment he fled from Seward’s house, he said, a sickening feeling came over him, and ever since, he had been living in horror of what he had done. His conduct was exemplary; not so with Atzerodt. When Gillette stopped to speak with him, he was greeted with a flurry of comments that “criminated Mrs. Surratt.” That was not what the minister had come to hear, and he abruptly cut Atzerodt off. He said that a condemned man ought to prepare to meet his God. Atzerodt acquiesced, and expressed wonder that his soul could ever be saved after so many years of wicked habits.39

  In these final hours before the executions, every legal maneuver had an air of urgency. A stay of execution was not automatic, and Mary Surratt might have been hanged with an appeal still in the works. So, in the middle of the night, Frederick Aiken hurried to the home of Justice Andrew Wylie with Browning’s petition for Mrs. Surratt. In his capacity as a federal judge, Wylie could have commanded authorities to produce the prisoner in court, but no one supposed for a minute that the government would comply. As a matter of form, he granted the petition anyway, and ordered General Hancock to bring Mrs. Surratt to his courtroom later that morning.

  The morning of July 7 brought pleas, cries, and frantic maneuvering to save the four condemned prisoners. Outside the White House, Anna Surratt waited for hours, hoping to speak with the president about her mother’s execution, but Johnson would see no one, and by midday, Anna was wild with grief. Eventually she managed to contact Reuben D. Mussey, the president’s private secretary, but the person who called Mussey down did not say who she was. Nor did Anna. She threw herself on her knees and, with loud sobs and streaming tears, begged for a chance to see the president. Mussey could hardly understand her. He went up to Mr. Johnson’s room and reported that a crazy woman was downstairs begging to be let in. Anna Surratt was turned away.

  A short time later, two of Herold’s sisters appeared at the White House in full mourning dress. Mary Nelson and Jane Herold were David’s only hope, since their mother refused to plead on his behalf. Denied an audience with the president, they addressed a note to his wife, and then to his daughter. The notes were not delivered.40

  The writ for Mary Surratt was returnable at ten o’clock, but the hour came and went with no response from General Hancock. In the meantime, William Doster appeared on behalf of his own clients, and Wylie told him that a writ had already been issued for another party in the same case. Since the military authorities had chosen to ignore that one, he saw little point in issuing another. Then, just before noon, General Hancock entered the courtroom, accompanied by Attorney General James Speed. The general informed the court that the person of Mary Surratt was in his possession by virtue of a presidential order, which he presented:

  Executive office, July 7, 1865.

  To Major-Gen. W. S. Hancock, Commanding, &c.

  I, Andrew Johnson, President of the United States, do hereby declare that the writ of habeas corpus has been heretofore suspended in such cases as this; and I do hereby suspend this writ, and direct that you proceed to execute the order heretofore given upon the judgment of the Military Commission; and you will give this order in return to this writ.

  Andrew Johnson, President.41

  FROM HIS CELL in the penitentiary, Sam Arnold could hear the sounds of hammering and sawing. It never occurred to him that a scaffold was being erected so soon after the trial. Like O’Laughlen, Mudd, and Spangler, Arnold would not be told of his own sentence until almost two weeks after deliberations had ended. In the meantime, he sat in his narrow cell, counting the bricks and insects and wondering what was to become of him.

  The execution was set for one o’clock. By ten, reporters and spectators had begun to fill the enclosure on the south side of the prison. They stood in awe of that great machine of death, with its massive crossbeam, two trapdoors, and four nooses that hung knee-high above the platform. Just off to the right were four open graves with plain wooden boxes stacked alongside.

  Captain Christian Rath, the executioner, had spent hours rehearsing for this. He had chosen four soldiers to help, and they all seemed to dread what they were about to do. General Hancock had prepared as well. Hancock posted the 60th Ohio outside the perimeter of the prison, and twenty men from the 16th New York Cavalry closer in. A relay had been established between the penitentiary and the White House, in case the president should have a last-minute change of heart about commuting the sentences. Everything was in place hours ahead of time, and all anyone could do was wait. Near the scaffold, a few soldiers amused themselves by hanging a rat, then tossing it into one of the open graves. Others passed the time by scavenging construction debris from the gallows, to be sold for souvenirs. 42

  The condemned prisoners had all been transferred to cells facing the prison yard. For the next few hours sobs and moans were heard through the grated windows of the building. Reporters strained and maneuvered for a better view, but all they could see was George Atzerodt, emaciated and barely resembling his former self, sitting on the floor of a cell with his lover, Rose Wheeler. Some reporters thought that Rose was his sister, but in fact, Katherine Henrietta Smith was too despondent to visit. Her brother would go to his death this afternoon under the supervision of a U.S. marshal. The marshal in this case was John L. Smith, Katherine’s husband.

  A hundred or more civilians waited under a blistering sun as General Hartranft and his staff emerged from the prison cell block. Following was Mary Surratt, dressed in black, with bonnet and veil. Too feeble to walk, she was supported at each arm by an army officer. George Atzerodt came next, also propped up by offic
ers. David Herold, in light pants and a cloth hat, followed Atzerodt. Like the others, he appeared too weak to walk unassisted. 43

  The last prisoner was the most remarkable. Lewis Powell stepped through the prison door looking bold, erect, and confident in his blue navy crew shirt. A sudden gust took his hat, and Reverend Gillette, walking beside him, placed it back on his head. “Thank you, Doctor,” the prisoner said with a faint smile. “I won’t be needing it much longer.” Powell walked to the gallows with an almost casual air, and bounded up the thirteen steps to the platform. Armchairs had been placed there for the condemned prisoners. In front of each, swaying in the breeze, was a noose of five-eighths manila.

  The prisoners took their seats as soldiers knelt around them, binding their legs with strips of white cloth. As General Hartranft read the findings and sentences, Fathers Jacob Walter and Bernardin Wiget knelt beside Mary Surratt and whispered spiritual consolations in her ear. Their words alone seemed to keep her from fainting. When the general finished reading, Reverend Gillette stepped forward to address the crowd. He said that Powell had asked him to thank General Hartranft and his staff publicly for their kind treatment; not an unkind word, look, or gesture had been given him by anyone in the prison. Gillette then offered a prayer, which brought Powell to tears.

  After prayers and speeches by the other ministers, the condemned were brought to their feet and led, tiptoeing, to the ropes that hung in front of them. Pairs of soldiers pinioned their arms behind them, and when they had finished, the prisoners were coaxed to the forward edge of the platform. Mrs. Surratt swooned. “Please don’t let me fall,” she said. Sgt. William Kinney removed her bonnet and veil, and she gave the spectators one last, determined look.

  The nooses were adjusted, and Atzerodt, trembling, addressed the crowd. “Gentlemen, take warn—” Choked with emotion, he could hardly get the words out. “Good bye, gentlemen, who are before me now. May we all meet in the other world.” A light cotton hood was pulled down over his head, and after a pause, he was heard to mutter something. A final adjustment was made to his noose, and he cried out, “Don’t choke me!” The others stood silently, bracing themselves for the drop.

  Captain Rath stood in front of the gallows and motioned for all attendants to step away from the trapdoors. When everything looked to be in order, he raised his hands and brought them together three times in a clapping motion. On the third clap, the four soldiers beneath the platform knocked the supports out from under the prisoners. The doors fell with a loud slam, and four bodies jerked violently at the ends of their ropes.

  Spectators were aghast as Lewis Powell twisted and writhed and struggled for life. He kicked for a full five minutes, and those standing close by could see the rope cutting deeply into his dark purple skin. Herold twitched for a moment, and wet himself. Atzerodt’s stomach heaved in a brief convulsion. For Mary Surratt, death appeared instantaneous. Twenty minutes after the drop, all four were pronounced dead.

  The death of Abraham Lincoln had been avenged.44

  CODA

  RIGHT UP UNTIL THE MOMENT OF HER EXECUTION, FEW people imagined that Mary Surratt would actually be hanged. No woman had ever been put to death on federal authority, and many people expected President Johnson to commute her sentence at the last minute. His refusal to do so was called into question almost immediately.

  Soon after the execution, the public learned that a majority of the military commission had not actually wanted Mrs. Surratt to die. Five of its members had signed a petition asking President Johnson to spare her life “in consideration of [her] sex and age.” The petition, attached to the findings and sentences, was taken to the White House by Judge Holt. Johnson later claimed he never saw it.

  The clemency petition was just one of several issues that arose in the wake of the hanging. On July 11, the Washington Constitutional Union published a series of startling revelations by John P. Brophy, a friend of the Surratt family. Hours before the execution, Brophy had sworn out a sixteen-point affidavit that called into question some of the evidence that convicted Surratt. He claimed that Louis Weichmann had repudiated some of his testimony, and had conceded that he had only testified against Mrs. Surratt to avoid being prosecuted himself. According to Brophy, Weichmann believed that Mary Surratt was innocent, and he was willing to write President Johnson a letter to that effect.

  The Brophy statement was explosive. It came in the midst of other revelations that, taken together, seemed to undermine the government’s entire case against Mrs. Surratt. It was reported that Lewis Powell also believed she was innocent, and had told General Hartranft as much on the day of his death. Father Jacob Walter, who had accompanied Mrs. Surratt to the gallows, said that he would have proclaimed her innocence as well, but General James A. Hardie, to whom he had applied for a pass, threatened to bar him from the execution if he said anything. General Hardie denied saying anything of the sort.1

  Mary Surratt’s surviving co-defendants knew nothing about this, nor indeed what their own sentences were. After the hanging, Mudd, Arnold, O’Laughlen, and Spangler were allowed out into the prison yard, where they got their first look at the gallows and the four fresh mounds of earth nearby. “Day after day,” said Arnold, “we confronted this scene, the scaffold remaining in all its hideousness, involuntarily causing the eye to wander and gaze upon the small mounds, marking its feast of death.” Their own fates would remain a mystery to them until July 15, when Edwin Stanton finally authorized General Hartranft to inform them that they had all been convicted. But even the general did not know the whole story. They were going to be sent to prison in the Dry Tortugas, a desolate island outpost in the Gulf of Mexico.2

  Untried detainees were being released in droves, and before long, the only prisoner left in the Old Capitol was Confederate Admiral Raphael Semmes. Jack and Will Garrett had been confined in the brig of the Washington Navy Yard. They had missed the planting season, but with the help of a wealthy cousin, they returned home with new farming implements and a pocketful of cash. Neighbors suspected that that was blood money. Their fellow Virginians, Bainbridge and Ruggles, had been sent to Johnson’s Island Prison on May 16. The commandant there was not expecting any new prisoners. When he asked why they were there, they said that they really didn’t know; they had not been formally accused of anything. So he told them to go back home. They did. 3

  For some of the people touched by the assassination, life would now take a different course. Asia Booth Clarke, who gave birth to twins in August, refused to grant her husband a divorce. She moved with him to England, where he made a name for himself as one of London’s leading theater managers. Unknown to Sleeper Clarke, his wife was composing a memoir of her younger brother, to be published at some distant time, when the world could be more forgiving.

  Junius Booth resumed his career on the stage and eventually became a manager in Boston, where he settled with his new wife, Agnes Perry. They raised four children together. June developed a long association with the Boston Theatre, and in his last years he ran a resort for actors at Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts. He died there in 1886.

  Like most other people in the business, Junius assumed that his brother’s act would hang like a pall on their industry and the people in it. But contrary to all predictions, 1866 was the best year yet for the stage. Business was at an all-time high, and some Broadway productions brought in more than double the previous year’s receipts. Booth’s former manager, William Wheatley, set a new box office record that year with The Black Crook, a spectacular musical featuring women in body suits that made them appear naked.

  Edwin Booth had expected to watch from afar. After the assassination, Edwin vowed he would never return to the stage, but it wasn’t long before he changed his mind. He was in debt and had spent too many months “chewing my heart in solitude.” So on January 3, 1866, he returned to the New York stage, appearing as Hamlet to an enthusiastic reception. He knew that after his brother’s crime, he would have to be more serious, better focused, a
nd ever mindful of the fact that the family name would always make him a target. Indeed, that was literally the case on April 23, 1879, when a man named Mark Gray fired a .22-caliber bullet at Edwin as he stood on the stage of McVicker’s Theatre in Chicago. The shot barely missed.

  Edwin continued to act for another twenty-five years, and his ownership of three major playhouses made him one of the most successful figures in the entertainment world. There were many people who knew him only as the brother of John Wilkes Booth, and he sometimes used that to his advantage. In late 1871 he staged a spectacular production of Julius Caesar, and toward the end of his career, he played Brutus with increasing frequency. When he toured the South, it was probably his most popular role. As a biographer later observed, John Wilkes had not ruined his brother after all; he just made him more famous.

  Edwin rarely spoke of his brother, but the subject did occasionally come up. In the summer of 1865, an admiralty court in Canada auctioned off John Wilkes’s trunks, which were salvaged from the wreck of Patrick Martin’s schooner, the Marie Victoria. The trunks were filled with costumes, play books, and family papers, and despite the water damage, they brought a good sum of money at auction. Edwin obtained them through a third party, and kept them in the Winter Garden Theatre. They were destroyed when the building burned on March 23, 1867.4

  Through much of his post-assassination career, Edwin worked with his friend and occasional manager, John T. Ford. Cleared of suspicion in the conspiracy, Ford continued to take an active interest in all the Booths, and in the crime that haunted them. He frequently wrote articles about the Lincoln conspiracy, and he even acted as Edwin’s agent in procuring the body of John Wilkes for burial in the family lot at Baltimore’s Green Mount Cemetery. The War Department had confiscated his theater right after the shooting, but they eventually paid him for it. By the end of 1865, they had converted it to a government office building. The conversion was poorly done, and on June 9, 1893, all three floors of the old building collapsed, killing twenty-two people. On the same day, Edwin Booth was being laid to rest in Cambridge, Massachusetts.