Hanging Mary: A Novel Read online

  Mr. Booth grimaced. “Pity. It would better to have him here, should the opportunity to carry out our plan present itself. But we must all serve the cause in our own way. Which reminds me, my dear lady, would you be so kind as to bring a note to Mr. Payne from me from time to time? He’s known to people in Baltimore as being a Southern man, and even here in Washington I think it best that he not wander about during the day.”

  “Of course.”

  We adjourned to the parlor, where Olivia must have been pinching her cheeks madly, for there was a bright color on both of them, soon augmented by a glow of pleasure as Mr. Booth exerted his charms. Soon he had us all—Nora included—laughing and chattering. Port Tobacco too shone in Mr. Booth’s company, for he told us some rather amusing stories, even eliciting a grudging chuckle from Anna.

  A few days after this, Mr. Booth stopped by my house with a note for Mr. Payne. If I could deliver it to him soon, he said, it would be most welcome, as he was leaving town for New York the next day. “Just stop casually, my dear lady, when you are doing something you ordinarily would be doing, and give him the note.”

  My ordinary trips in Washington were to church and to the grocer, so I determined to bring the letter to Mr. Payne after church. For once I regretted that my lodgers were such respectable, churchgoing folk, for both Nora and Mr. Weichmann decided to accompany me to Mass, along with my daughter and Olivia, whose presence I had naturally taken for granted. So after church, I had no choice but to stop at the Herndon House with all four of them in tow. “I need to stop in here,” I said as we reached the establishment, which called itself a boardinghouse but was to my own modest place as a lion was to a house cat. “I will be but a moment.”

  Nora, preoccupied with her grief, Olivia, not knowing anything of my usual comings and goings, and Anna, not inclined to question me, merely nodded, but Mr. Weichmann put on his most inquisitive face. “It’s a lovely evening,” I said before he could open his mouth. “Stroll around the block, and I’ll be right back.”

  The landlady directed me to room number six on the third floor. I knocked and found a glum-looking Mr. Payne watching the streetcars on F Street. He looked so bored in this room, that after handing him the note, I said, “You are welcome to stop by the house some evening, sir, if you think it safe.”

  “I’d best check with Mr. Booth, ma’am. He’s the boss.”

  20

  NORA

  APRIL 3, 1865

  After Anna and I had our spat about Mr. Booth, our relationship was decidedly awkward. We were polite to each other, for Mrs. Surratt’s sake—and for our own sakes, as this was far too small a house for it to be convenient to be at odds. Fortunately, Miss Jenkins’s presence made it unnecessary for Anna and me to have to converse much.

  It was rather a lonely time for me, though. Mrs. Surratt seemed preoccupied, as she always was when her son left on one of his trips, and Mr. Weichmann was more aloof than he had been previously. I supposed he had finally decided on the priesthood for sure and thought it unseemly to josh with young ladies. So as I was left to my own devices most of the time, I did my best to stop dwelling on Private Flanagan and to stay busy. I had much to do to help get ready for the church fair to be held in mid-April, and after having shirked my duties at the hospital for a few days, I went back with my books and my basket in hand. It was not right that the men should lose whatever little diversion I offered them simply because of my own sorrows.

  So it came to be that on April 3, 1865, I was sitting by a soldier’s bed, reading to him from Les Misérables (a great favorite among the men), when one of the doctors, a most dignified and reserved man, ran into the ward, threw his hat into the air, and bellowed, “Richmond has fallen!”

  There would be no more reading that day.

  Some men cheered, and some men cried. Some began to pray, and others just sat in silence, not yet able to grasp the fact that the war at last was nearly at an end. I had been at school when it had started, and I could still remember the nuns gathering us together and praying for a quick end to it. Now, four Aprils later, their prayers were at last being answered.

  I slipped out of the hospital and into a city that was going wild. Men were embracing each other in the street; men in uniform were being hoisted up and carried by cheering crowds. Clerks were abandoning their offices; shops were shutting. Who could sit at a desk or stand behind a counter on a day like this? The only people who seemed to be working were the newsboys, and all they had to do was stand still and pocket the money as the extras they held were snatched from their hands. Even if they had tried to shout, they wouldn’t have been heard through the salutes of guns, the ringing of church bells, and the bands that appeared as if out of nowhere to strike up “Yankee Doodle.” Without quite knowing how, I found myself marching in perfect time.

  Throngs of men and women were streaming into churches, while others were streaming into taverns, which already were beginning to overflow into the street. As I walked past one, a man grabbed me by the hand and waltzed me about for a round or two before releasing me and turning his sights upon another lady.

  I could not go home and sit with my embroidery on such a grand day. Instead, I joined the stream of people heading in the direction of the War Department, where an owlish-looking man—Edwin Stanton, the secretary of war—was attempting to speak to the crowd. I say attempting, because between his pauses, when he became choked up with emotion, and the applause every time he took half a breath, he could scarcely say five words at a time. It was a moving speech, giving thanks for our great victory and advising humility and graciousness in our triumph, but the truth was, on this afternoon, the secretary—the most important man in town today, as the president had gone to Virginia to follow the progress of the war—could have been reading from the city directory and still received the same rapturous applause.

  In a stronger voice, Stanton read the telegram announcing Richmond had been taken—and was in flames. “Let her burn!” someone yelled happily, and others took up the cry until Stanton waved forward a gangly boy of fifteen or so. “Willie Kettles, the lad who took the telegram!” he called, and the crowd started yelling, “Speech! Speech!”

  Willie Kettles blushed and bowed and was about to scurry away when a pretty young woman rushed up and kissed him.

  A tall, thin man—William Seward, the secretary of state—came into view and, recognized by the crowd, was promptly dragged over to stand by Mr. Stanton. “All I can tell you is that I have long been in favor of a change in the secretary of war,” he said, shaking his finger at Stanton. “Why, I started to go to the front the other day, and when I got to City Point, they told me it was at Hatcher’s Run, and when I got there, I was told it was not there but somewhere else, and when I get back, I am told by the secretary that it is at Petersburg, and now I am told that it is at Richmond, and west of that. Now I leave you to judge what I ought to think of such a secretary of war as this!”

  The crowd laughed, and Stanton gave Seward a mock punch.

  I resumed my wandering in a city that was increasingly turning red, white, and blue as businesses and householders rushed to drape their buildings in bunting. Even the slum of Murder Bay—which I could glimpse from Pennsylvania Avenue but of course would never dare to venture into—was awash with the colors of the flag. I was watching one of the impromptu parades that formed when a dignified figure came into view. “Father!” I ran and tugged on his arm. “Is this not the most wonderful day?”

  My father turned and embraced me. “The end is in sight at last, and it has been a long time coming,” he said when he released me. He wiped what looked suspiciously like a tear from his eye. “Too, too long! But, child, you should get off these streets. Soon they will be full of drunkards.”

  “Oh, I’ve met one already. He danced with me.”

  My father shook his head and gave me his arm. Our progress to H Street was a slow one, for in his own way, he was
as caught up in the joy of that afternoon as I was, but at last he landed me safely at Mrs. Surratt’s, having promised to take me to dinner the next day when things were calmer.

  As he left, Susan, Mrs. Surratt’s new servant girl, poked her head out the kitchen door. “I thought that might be the man come back again who was looking for Mr. Surratt,” she explained.

  “Man?”

  “Yes, miss. A man came by and asked for Mr. Surratt.”

  “Mr. Booth?”

  “No, miss. Not him at all. He didn’t leave a name. Just hurried off.”

  Probably one of Mr. Surratt’s blockade-running acquaintances, I surmised. Perhaps we were in for another strange visitor. “Well, be sure and tell Mrs. Surratt.”

  “Oh, I will, miss.”

  I walked into the parlor, where Anna and Olivia sat knitting as if this were an ordinary day. “Did you hear? Richmond has fallen.”

  “Yes, well, you needn’t be so smug about it. What if Johnny is there? So please keep your crowing to yourself.”

  “I wasn’t crowing, and I hope Mr. Surratt is safe.” I grimaced, for I had indeed forgotten that Mr. Weichmann had mentioned Mr. Surratt’s escorting Mrs. Slater there. I crossed myself. “God protect him.”

  The door banged, and I heard Mr. Weichmann’s step, followed by his appearance in the parlor. “I thought I would never get through the crowds. You have heard the news?”

  “Yes, we have. And if I could get hold of those blue pants of yours, Mr. Weichmann, I would burn them.” Anna rose and threw her knitting aside. “Let us go upstairs, Olivia. The atmosphere is too oppressive.”

  Miss Jenkins shot the offending Mr. Weichmann and me a sympathetic look before following her cousin to the stairs.

  • • •

  After supper, we had settled into our accustomed places in the parlor and I was threading Mrs. Surratt’s needle for her when a weary voice called, “It’s John, Ma,” and Mr. Surratt walked slowly into the room, looking tired and worn. “Is it true? Has Richmond fallen?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Surratt said.

  “I can’t believe it! I saw Judah Benjamin himself while I was there, and he told me it would not be evacuated.”

  “The secretary of state?” Anna asked. “You saw him in person? Really? What did he look like?”

  “What sort of man is he?” I asked.

  “What on earth do I care what he looked like or what sort of man he is? I’m not proposing to him.”

  “Son—”

  “Yes, Ma. I’m sorry, ladies. I’ve a pounding headache, and I’m upset by Richmond falling—”

  “As we all are.” Anna glanced at me. “Except for Nora, who can’t stop chortling.”

  “I am not—”

  “Nora, be a dear and tell the girl to warm up some supper for Johnny. Johnny, come here.” He obeyed, and Mrs. Surratt embraced him. “Thank the Lord you are safe. That is all that matters to me at the moment.”

  I went downstairs and gave the orders. Having set a place for Mr. Surratt and brought some bread and ham while Susan made a pot of tea, I was getting ready to go back upstairs when Mrs. Surratt and her son came down. Mr. Surratt gave me a faint smile. “I’m sorry I was such a bear up there. It’s such a grand city, and they say it was put to the torch. Parts of it, anyway.”

  “I was truly sorry to hear that, whatever your sister thinks. I do not rejoice in anyone’s suffering.”

  “I know you don’t.”

  I went upstairs and was reading in the parlor, Mr. Rochester purring in my lap, when Mrs. Surratt and her son went into her bedroom. Presently, Mrs. Surratt emerged. “Nora, dear, do you have some cologne I can use for Johnny? His head is still pounding.”

  I nodded and went into the bedroom, where Mr. Surratt was sprawled out on a sofa, looking rather Byronic. My cologne, straight from Paris, had been a Christmas gift from my father. I wore it on special occasions, such as to the theater—and, I confess, on my last few hospital visits to poor Private Flanagan. Once or twice, I had seen him sniff appreciatively.

  After I pulled the cologne from my trunk, Mrs. Surratt dabbed some on Mr. Surratt’s temples with her handkerchief. “Try to rest a little, Son,” she said tenderly. “You have been wearing yourself to rags with your travels.”

  We left Mr. Surratt alone on the sofa. An hour or so later, he emerged looking much refreshed and bounded upstairs. When he returned, he had Mr. Weichmann, still wearing the blue pants that had so offended Anna, in tow. “Weichmann and I are going for oysters.”

  “Why, you just ate,” Anna said.

  “Yes, but there’s nothing like destruction and doom to whet a man’s appetite for oysters. Don’t wait up for us, Ma.”

  Mrs. Surratt nodded, and we ladies went back to our respective occupations—Mrs. Surratt knitting, me reading, Miss Jenkins putting pictures in her album, and Anna embroidering and throwing out the occasional snide remark about me. The men were not yet back when we retired, but not long afterward, I heard the sound of someone letting himself in. By now, I knew every person’s tread in the house fairly well. This was Mr. Weichmann’s. I listened again.

  No second tread. Mr. Weichmann had come home alone.

  21

  MARY

  APRIL 3, 1865

  Richmond had fallen, and I had envisioned just about every horrid fate for Johnny imaginable, when my boy walked into the parlor, weary and dispirited but alive. The sight of him made me forget, for the moment, the news about Richmond.

  He was hungry as well as tired from his journey, and I took him downstairs where my servant girl served him the remnants from our supper. “Johnny, the girl says that a man came by today asking for you,” I told him in a low voice. “He would not give his name. He could be one of your friends, but—”

  “I doubt that, Ma. I heard in Maryland that the feds who captured Howell are looking for me too. I think it’s best I disappear for a while. I can’t stay here long anyway. Judah Benjamin gave me some papers to take to our men in Montreal. I’ve got them tucked in The Life of John Brown, of all things.” He sighed and speared a bit of ham. “Perhaps my last mission for the poor Confederacy.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow morning. I’ll go to a hotel tonight. If there’s to be trouble, I’ll not drag you and Anna into it.”

  “Much as I would like to beg you to stay, Canada is probably the best place for you now. Do you need money?”

  “No. Benjamin gave me two hundred dollars in gold. I’ll see if I can get Holohan to change it before I leave. If I run out of money, I can always work as a clerk, I suppose.”

  “Promise me you will write.”

  Johnny nodded. “I’ll write to you. Is Booth in town?”

  “No. He stopped by the other day and said that he was going north for a while.”

  “At this rate we’ll all be up north.” Johnny downed his tea and rose. “Our plan’s dead in the water, I suppose. I’ll look him up in New York. I’m going to lie down a while. I feel wretched. Then I’ll go to dinner with Weichmann, if he’s willing. Maybe those blue pants of his will confuse the feds. I’ll check into a hotel afterward. So this will be our good-bye, if you want a long one.”

  “Of course I do,” I said and embraced my son’s bony frame.

  There were tears in his eyes when he drew back. “Ma, I know we’ve had our words now and then, and I haven’t been much of a support lately. I want to be better when I come back. I promise I will.”

  “Just protect yourself and come back safely. That is all I ask.”

  We went upstairs, where Johnny dozed on my bedroom sofa for a while before returning to his room. All too soon, he and Mr. Weichmann came downstairs on their way to dine together. It was like old times: they were laughing together like the school friends they were. As they headed toward the door, I longed to give Johnny yet another fa
rewell embrace, but no one but I knew he would not be coming back to this house tonight. So I had to smile and say, “Good-bye, Johnny,” as if he would be crossing the threshold again this very evening.

  The door shut, and my son disappeared into the Washington night.

  22

  NORA

  APRIL 1865

  With the fall of Richmond and Anna’s continuing coolness, I started to think about my future. Despite Mr. Booth’s kind words, I held out little hope of marrying, especially since the war had left so many prettier young women bereft of husbands and fiancés. I would be provided for as long as Father and Peter lived, of course, but what would become of me after their deaths? Father had lived frugally, I knew, and had some property to leave me, but I did not know how much. Probably not enough to keep me for more than a few years. I was best off finding something to do, but what?

  The most obvious means of supporting myself was to become a teacher. I was certainly well enough qualified in those days. But the possibility filled me with gloom, for I could see myself only too vividly, standing at a chalkboard and getting grayer with each passing year as pert young ladies giggled behind my back at my various peculiarities.

  But there was another possibility, one that appealed to me the more I thought about it. Since the war had started, young women had been employed at the Treasury and at the Department of Engraving. Why couldn’t I get such a job?

  I broached the subject when my father took me to supper the night of April 4 at an establishment that catered to families. “I don’t know, child. You have heard of the scandal at the Treasury Department.”

  Last year, all of Washington had thrilled to the gossip that some of the young women hired as Treasury clerks had become the concubines of their male supervisors. “But they found that was all nonsense, Father. Well, mostly nonsense.”

  “Still, my dear, it shows the sort of things that can happen when a woman works closely with men.”