Sourcebooks
Featuring: Mary Surratt; Johnny Surratt; John Wilkes Booth
400 pages ISBN: 1492613622 EAN: 9781492613626 Kindle: B017HX12X6 Paperback / e-Book Add to Wish List
Most know the story of how Abraham Lincoln was killed, but
few know about Mary Surratt. Mary Surratt was the mother of
Johnny, a man with close relations to John Wilkes Booth.
Mrs. Surratt is a supporter of the Confederacy, but a mostly
passive one as she prefers to keep quiet about such things.
However, being passive doesn't mean being innocent. How much
did Mary know about Booth's plan, and what lengths would she
take to protect her son?
HANGING MARY follows the lives of two women who are rarely
discussed, Mary Surratt and Nora Fitzpatrick. Both were
often around John Wilkes Booth, but there is much
speculation about how much the two knew about his
assassination plans. Susan Higginbotham imagines their story
during this time period with a multifaceted, though largely
kind, light. Mary sympathizes with the Confederacy, Nora
with the Union, but the two become like mother and daughter
while Nora rents a room in Mary's household. Nora's
relationship with Mary and Mary's daughter, Anna, is very
sweet, and readers will easily sympathize with Nora as the
deadly events unfold.
While the characterization is lovely and strong, the novel
lacks a necessary tension. Mary and Nora are in the middle
of a Confederate conspiracy, but the story rarely gives an
expected edge. The assassination takes place around midway,
but it's almost surprising it happens. Granted, Mary and
Nora are supposed to be shocked, but there is little charge
around them to keep the interest consistent. Nora's portions
of the story have more tension to them than Mary's, as Nora
is surrounded by Confederates when she herself supports the
Union. Mary's discussion of her past feels more interesting
than her present, which makes her eventual doom lack
emotional depth.
Historical readers who love untold or rarely told sides of
history should enjoy this familial take on Mary Surratt in
HANGING MARY.
The untold story of Lincoln's Assassination
1864, Washington City. One has to be careful with talk of
secession, of Confederate whispers falling on Northern ears.
Better to speak only when in the company of the trustworthy.
Like Mrs. Surratt.
A widow who runs a small boardinghouse on H Street, Mary
Surratt isn't half as committed to the cause as her son,
Johnny. If he's not delivering messages or escorting veiled
spies, he's invited home men like John Wilkes Booth, the
actor who is even more charming in person than he is on the
stage.
But when President Lincoln is killed, the question of what
Mary knew becomes more important than anything else. Was she
a cold-blooded accomplice? Just how far would she go to help
her son?
Based on the true case of Mary Surratt, Hanging
Mary reveals the untold story of those on the other
side of the assassin's gun.
Excerpt
Part I“I wish you knew Ma, I know you would like her.”
— John Surratt, writing to his cousin
“This young woman is a plain unassuming girl.”
— W. P. Wood, superintendent, Old Capitol Prison
Mary Surratt
August 1864
There were two things for which I could thank my late
husband: buying our house in Washington, and dying.
It was in 1862 when my husband left this world, but two
years later I still woke sometimes, trembling, before I
remembered I was perfectly free. No more drunken rages to
endure. No more finding my husband facedown on the
floorboards. No cuffs to the head, which to John’s credit
did not come that often, but of which I always lived in
dread. I could lie in bed and stretch out comfortably,
knowing no brute was going to soil the sheets or violate my
body.
A drunken man is seldom careful with his money, and John was
no exception: though he was fairly prosperous when I married
him (it was, I must admit, one of his attractions), he made
bad decisions, the worst of which was to build the tavern
and bar I continued to run after his death. How I hated the
place! It brought John to his ruin, I sincerely believed,
because as a naturally taciturn man, he had to drink harder
than ever to make himself jovial to his customers. Worst, it
left him in debt, which I still owed—his parting gift to me.
For two years, my children and I struggled to maintain this
folly of his, and with the prospect that Maryland would soon
adopt a new constitution that would free our three slaves,
we could expect only to struggle harder.
But John made one investment that brought in a steady
income: a handsome house on H Street in Washington, about
fifteen miles from this sleepy crossroads in southern
Maryland. For years, it had been rented to a reliable
tenant—until, one sweltering August day, I received a
letter. Poor health was obliging my tenant to move to the
country, and he would not be renewing the lease. So atop of
everything else, we would have to find a new tenant, one who
might or might not be dependable. Bad news— until I sat back
and pondered the situation more thoroughly.
This was my chance to start a new life.
“The tenant in Washington is not renewing his lease,” I told
my son and my daughter as we sat down to our dinner that
evening. “After praying about the matter, I have come up
with an idea I hope will suit us all. Instead of leasing our
house in Washington, we move into it ourselves. If we lease
this place, and take in boarders at H Street, we can live
much less expensively than we are living now, and we can pay
off some of those wretched debts.”
“Boarders?” Anna wrinkled her nose.
“We must, my dear. Even if we did not need the income, it
would be foolish to waste all of that space. And what is
wrong with taking in a few quiet, well- behaved people in
the city when we already take our chances with anyone who
passes through here?”
“That is a point. And there will be shops, and concerts, and
the theater… I like the idea, Ma.”
“And we can walk to church as well. You, Johnny?”
“Suits me fine. And I might even have a boarder for us: my
friend Mr. Weichmann. He’s got a government job now, so he
can pay, and I know he’s not happy with his present
lodgings. Too far from his job, and too large and lonely,
he says.” Johnny looked sidelong at his older sister. “And
no pretty girls.”
“Johnny! If he is to come to live with us, you mustn’t
encourage that sort of thing. I won’t abide it. But when can
we move, Ma? I will need a new dress for the theater. It
won’t do to walk around in rags, or we will never attract a
good class of boarder.”
“Don’t pack yet, child. We must first lease this place. And
we have to get the Washington house fixed up as well.” In
truth, I was scarcely less excited than Anna and was already
settling in my mind which furniture to take to Washington
and which to leave here.
The last of the evening tipplers had weaved away from the
bar and Anna had gone to bed when Johnny knocked at my door.
“Ma, you’re going to rent the place to someone on our side,
aren’t you?”
“Most certainly.”
War is men’s business, I had always believed, but on the day
Lincoln was inaugurated, my oldest son, Isaac, rushed off to
Texas and later joined the Confederate army, so it drew me
in. It drew me in another way as well: my husband—who, like
most people in this part of southern Maryland, sympathized
with the South—allowed the tavern to become a stop for those
making the dangerous journey across the Potomac River into
Virginia, running the blockade between North and South with
goods, mail, and money. I had no choice in the matter, of
course, but had I been consulted, I no doubt would have
agreed. How could I do otherwise, with a son fighting for
the Confederacy? So after my husband died, I saw no reason
to alter the tavern’s status as a safe haven— especially as
my Johnny had been aiding the Confederacy too, since he left
school after my husband’s death, first by using the post
office in our tavern as a drop for those wishing to send
mail to the South, then, once the Union took his postmaster
position away from him for disloyalty, as a courier himself.
“I have been thinking, Johnny, that a tenant may not be
necessary. Should you want to run the place on your own— ”
Johnny shook his head. “I’m tired of peeling drunks off the
floor, Ma, and I can serve the Confederacy a lot better if I
don’t have this place to worry about. No, as a matter of
fact, I was thinking when I was tending bar tonight that I
know a man who might be perfect, a Mr. Lloyd. He’s in
Washington now, but he stops here whenever business brings
him through Prince George’s County, and I know he’s been
hankering for a country life, if he can find something to do.”
“And he is a Southern man?”
“Yes— and even better, he’s a man who minds his own business.”
Nora
August 1864 to October 1864
I don’t like my present lodgings, Father.”
My father looked around at my room, which was large and
comfortably furnished. It was not cool—no place could be so
in Washington City in late August— but a shade tree
rendered it at least tolerable. “Why not, child? The Misses
Donovan are sweet ladies.”
“They are sweet old ladies. We do nothing besides
drink tea and go to Mass. If I go outside, I have to go with
their servant, Clarence, and he is almost as old a lady as
they are.”
“Child— ”
“Well, it is true. ‘Miss Nora, the misses won’t like you
going on this street. There is a saloon here!’ There’s a
saloon on every street in Washington, Father. I might as
well be a prisoner.”
“Surely you exaggerate, my dear.”
“There’s nothing to read here, either.”
“Why, they have a library full of books.”
“Dreary books. Dull books. Nothing but essays and history
and religious works, because the misses consider novels
unsuitable reading for impressionable young ladies.” I
frowned. “Well, that’s not entirely true; they do have
Clarissa, which I have read. Twice. It’s very sad.”
“What about the piano? Don’t they let you play upon it?”
“Yes, but it’s out of tune. They can’t hear it well enough
to know the difference. When I asked them if they could
engage a tuner, they acted as if I were trying to turn the
place into the Canterbury music hall.” I sighed
theatrically. “I might as well enter a convent, Father.
This dreariness is insupportable.”
My father sighed as well.
My mother had died when I was quite small, and my father,
having loved my mother dearly and not caring to remarry, had
sent me away for my education. The schools I attended were
not the sort of places depicted by Mr. Dickens or Miss
Charlotte Brontë (whose novels I devoured), but well- run,
quiet establishments where I learned to write an elegant
hand, play the piano, and speak tolerable French. In such a
manner, I had passed a happy, if somewhat monotonous,
existence in tranquil surroundings until this June, when at
age nineteen, I had reached the point where there was very
little that could be taught to me (or so I thought), and so
I came home.
Father was a messenger and a collector for the Metropolitan
Bank and had been so for decades. He had once left his
position due to ill health, but his superiors missed him so
sorely, and he missed them so sorely, that they begged him
to resume his duties, which he did, with a rise in salary as
his reward. He probably could have afforded to lease a small
house, with me keeping it, when I left school. But he worked
long hours and sometimes had to go out of town on business,
and Washington City was not the quiet town it had been when
he came there in the 1830s. The war had brought in people
from everywhere and every walk of life, and Father feared
that, home alone, I might fall into unsuitable company. So
he had placed me to board with the Misses Donovan, just a
few blocks away from his own lodgings.
“You are truly unhappy here, child?”
“I do like the ladies, Father,” I replied truthfully. “But
they are old maids, and if I stay here much longer, I will
turn into one myself. I can just feel myself growing old here.”
“I will consult with Peter, then. Perhaps he will know of a
suitable lodging.”
I suppressed a groan. There were two sorts of men my father
admired—learned men and men of religion—and my older
brother, Peter, an aspiring priest who had taken a teaching
job at the soon-tobe-opened Boston College, had the happy
distinction of falling into both categories. For the past
few years, Father had been in the habit of consulting him
about any business involving the family, which, since my
older sister, Hannah, was a cloistered nun, generally meant
my business. As Peter had often told Father that I was
overindulged, I could imagine only with the greatest
trepidation what sort of lodging, short of a convent, he
would consider suitable. I knew better than to argue,
however, although I felt that Father hardly needed Peter’s
advice. It was true that he had no more than a charity
school education and that he felt this keenly, but he could
read anything put in front of him and wrote a beautiful
hand. He could add and subtract long figures in his head
while others—Peter included—w ere scratching their pens on
papers and frowning over their errors.
Weeks passed, and I was resigning myself to staying with the
Misses Donovan and getting used to their untuned piano when,
in late September, Father came to see me again, this time
with Peter— come all the way from Boston to see to my
affairs—at his side . “Peter has found an ideal situation
for you, Nora. A widow, Mrs. Surratt, is moving to
Washington from the country and will be taking in boarders
at her house on H Street. She is a very respectable lady.”
A respectable widow sounded to me little better than an old
maid, but I nodded politely.
“She has been keeping a tavern and bar in Surrattsville, in
Prince George’s County in Maryland,” my brother informed my
father. I noticed Peter was prematurely balding— unlike
Father, who at age sixty-four still had a full head of gray
hair.
“A bar?” Father, who had never been a drinking man, frowned.
“Her husband ran the bar, and it was necessary for her to
continue with that line of business in order to live. She
has long wished to give it up, she told Father Wiget, and
move to Washington, but it was not until recently, when the
tenant here failed to renew his lease, that this became a
realistic possibility.”
My father’s expression lightened. “She knows Father Wiget,
then?” As well as being the priest at St. Aloysius, he was
the president of Gonzaga College, where Peter had been both
a pupil and a teacher.
“Yes. She has known him for many years, and her sons were at
his school of St. Thomas Manor before it closed.”
I perked up. Mrs. Surratt had sons?
“She has had a difficult life, Father Wiget tells me. Her
husband was adopted by a family of substance and inherited a
handsome estate, but he was a poor businessman and a heavy
drinker and squandered much of his holdings, and the war did
the rest. They have only the tavern and the house in
Washington.” My brother glanced at me. “Nora, I have spoken
rather freely. I hope that if you do go to live with Mrs.
Surratt, you will treat what I have said as matters of
confidence.”
“Yes,” I said. In truth, I had been too busy wondering about
Mrs. Surratt’s sons— Two? Three? More? Handsome?— to care
about her difficult life.
“Are her sons much about the house?” Father asked.
“The elder is serving with the Confederate army—coming from
where they do, that is to be expected, though— and the
younger helps his mother with her affairs. Father Wiget sees
the younger one occasionally when business takes him to
Washington and knows him to be of good character. But what
makes this situation ideal— and, I believe, more congenial
for Nora than her present one—is that Mrs. Surratt has a
daughter, an accomplished young lady of twenty-one. She will
therefore have a suitable companion.”
“It sounds ideal,” said Father. “I knew that you would come
up with something.” Peter nodded modestly.
“Of course, I must meet this lady and satisfy myself that
Nora will be safe in her care, but I am sure that is merely
a formality. Is she living here now?”
“No, her business necessitates her staying in Surrattsville
for a while longer, but her daughter will be moving here to
set up the house.”
“Then if Nora is agreeable”—I nodded— “we will drive over
there on Saturday afternoon and introduce ourselves.”
Two days later, we made our trip to the country. Father, who
did not keep his own equipment, had rented a rather smart
buggy for the occasion. It was a beautiful September day,
neither too hot nor too chilly, and I felt very pleased with
myself as, clad in my newest striped gown and the brand- new
bonnet I had convinced Father I needed for the occasion, I
settled into the buggy. Still, I could not help wishing I
had a fine young suitor beside me instead of my father. We
drove through the streets of Washington to the Navy Yard
Bridge, after which we passed into the countryside. “Let me
give you the advice I have always given you, child: speak
little about the war in these parts—anywhere, really, but
especially in these parts. Feeling is very strong here
against the Union.”
“I know that, Father.”
“A reminder can’t go amiss.”
Although the war had been raging for over three years, I had
never succeeded in finding out my father’s true sympathies,
so diligently did he follow the rule he had set for himself
and me. I had come to suspect he, in fact, had no sympathy
for either side: that his allegiance lay solely with
Washington City, where he arrived over twenty-five years ago
as a poor Irishman and where he had married, fathered six
children, and buried my mother and my three baby sisters.
His work brought him into every street and alleyway of the
city; there was simply no address he could not find. If a
building had been torn down over the past two decades, he
could tell you where it had stood and what had replaced it.
Few people in the city did not know him at least by sight,
and there had to be a truly raging snowstorm to keep him
from performing his duties. His affection for the city
extended even to its miserable summer heat, in which he took
an almost proprietary pride.
In good time we arrived at the crossroads of Surrattsville,
so named because the Surratts had once operated the local
post office out of their tavern, which, along with its
outbuildings, was the only habitation I could see in the
immediate vicinity. Being accustomed to town life, I
understood why the family was so eager to leave this quiet
place.
As a colored servant took charge of our horse and buggy,
Mrs. Surratt came outside to greet us. “This is the young
lady Father Wiget recommended to me?”
“Yes, ma’am. This is my daughter, Miss Honora Fitzpatrick.
We call her Nora.”
I stood by silently as my father and Mrs. Surratt eyed each
other. It was clear they each approved. Clad in gray half
mourning, Mrs. Surratt looked to be in her early forties.
She was tall, with dark brown hair, and her figure was of
substantial, though not fat, proportions. As for my father,
with his gray hair and his erect figure, and with his faint
Irish lilt, his presence was a courtly one. Had he not been
aghast at the idea of replacing my late mother, he could
have remarried six times over.
Father explained to Mrs. Surratt what a modest and innocent
young woman I was, presumably, I suppose, to assure her that
I would not be attempting to sneak men into the house or to
do any of the other untoward things that more adventurous
boarders than I evidently managed. It was all quite true—I
was modest and innocent— but he made me sound like such a
dull creature, it was disheartening to hear it all.
Fortunately, there was not much to say about this subject,
and the conversation soon turned to Mrs. Surratt, who
assured Father that her boardinghouse would be a perfect
repository for my virtue. Only well- behaved young men would
be allowed to board, anyone with liquor in his rooms would
be turned out immediately, and I would be sharing a room
with either Mrs. Surratt herself or her daughter, Anna (an
equally respectable and virtuous creature), depending on how
many boarders were in residence. It went without saying that
I would be expected to attend Mass with the family
regularly; as a matter of fact, Mrs. Surratt stated, the
ease of walking to church from the H Street house had been
one of the chief advantages of removing to the city.
Soon, my father and Mrs. Surratt were discussing terms. The
price—thirty-five dollars per month— seemed reasonable to
me, although my existence had been too sheltered for me to
be much cognizant of such things. After Father expressed his
satisfaction with the terms, Mrs. Surratt turned to me with
a smile. “The bargain needs only your consent, Miss
Fitzpatrick. Would you like to stay in my house?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. Mrs. Surratt and I had
barely exchanged two words, but I liked her face, and I
liked the fact that she had put the final decision in my hands.
So two weeks later, after Miss Surratt, who had been
visiting friends in Baltimore on the day I met her mother,
removed to the Washington house, I walked to my new
lodgings, having shamefacedly bade good-bye to the Misses
Donovan, who sobbed over me like they would a beloved
granddaughter. To heap further guilt upon my shoulders,
they would not hear of my paying someone to carry my trunk
for me but sent Clarence with me to push it in a wheelbarrow.
“Them poor old ladies will miss you awfully, Miss Nora,” he
said as he puffed along at my side. “They thought the whole
world of you.”
I shifted the cat basket I held from arm to arm as a faint
hissing emitted from it. “I will miss them too, Clarence,
but I wanted a companion of my own age, and I promised them
that I would come over for tea once a week.”
“I do hope so, Miss Nora. It’ll break their old hearts not
to see you again. Old ladies getting up there, they set a
lot of store by such things, you know. Why, they was going
to buy you a nice little cake for your birthday.”
My twentieth birthday was a few days away. “I’ll visit next
week. I promise.”
I had issued several such assurances by the time we arrived
at our destination, a gray brick house on H Street between
Sixth and Seventh. It was tidy and well kept, though not as
nice as that of the Misses Donovan, who took boarders more
for the company than because of any actual need. Clarence
could not resist a derisory sniff as he walked up the steps
and knocked at the door leading to the parlor story of the
house.
An auburn-haired young lady, tall like Mrs. Surratt but
otherwise not bearing a strong family resemblance to her,
answered. “Miss Fitzpatrick, I suppose? Bring your trunk in
here. This is where we will be sleeping for now.”
Clarence carried my trunk down the hall to a large bedroom
at the back of the house. It was sparely furnished with a
view of the alley, and I could not help but compare it to my
comfortable, chintz-filled quarters at the Misses Donovan’s
home. “It will be nicer once I buy a few more things,” Miss
Surratt assured me. “I have but just come to town and
brought only what was absolutely necessary from the
country.” She looked ruefully out the window. “Nothing to be
done about the alley, I fear.”
“Of course,” I said. I turned to say my good-bye to
Clarence, who clearly shared my misgivings about my new
quarters. “Thank you, and I will visit in a few days, I
promise.”
“We’ll all be looking for you, Miss Nora.” He bent close to
my ear. “Don’t forget: there’s always a home for you with
the ladies.”
“What did he say?” Miss Surratt asked as Clarence shut the
door behind him.
“Oh, he just wished me well.”
An indignant mew came from my basket. “I see you’ve brought
a cat.”
“Your mother said he would be fine.” I set the basket down
and opened it. Mr. Rochester leaped out, glaring at his new
surroundings.
“Oh yes, we could use a mouser. Come into the parlor.”
Our bedroom opened into that room, which Mr. Rochester had
already found. As he perched by a window and surveyed H
Street, his tail flipping majestically, I asked Miss
Surratt, “Are there any other boarders here?”
“Not yet. Mr. Weichmann—a dreadful friend of my
brother’s—will be coming, I think, and Ma wants to put a
family with him on the third floor. So there’s no point in
us staying up there and then having to move out. There are
bedrooms up in the attic where we can sleep once Ma comes,
if there’s space.”
I nodded amicably, for years of boarding, at school and in
homes, had made me flexible. “I’m sure it will suit.”
“You don’t have an accent.”
“Should I?”
“Well, you’re Irish. Didn’t your family come here because of
the famine? But, of course, you must have been a little
child at the time.”
I shook my head. “I was born right here in Washington City.
Father has been in America since the twenties. He helped
some of his kinsmen leave during the famine, though.”
“Where does your father live? Swampoodle?”
She spoke of Washington’s crowded and poor Irish
neighborhood. I stiffened. “Certainly not,” I said. “Father
boards on Twelfth Street. I don’t know anyone who lives in
Swampoodle, nor would I care to.”
“Well, you needn’t get your Ir— get annoyed, I mean. I am
sorry.”
As this sounded sincere enough, and I was going to have to
share a bed with her, I nodded and began to put my things
away in the drawer Miss Surratt indicated. I noticed with
pleasure that my clothing was as good a quality as hers, if
not better. As Father had always lived well within his means
and was no longer charged with the keep of my brother or my
sister, he gave me a generous allowance. To change the
subject, I said, “Your mother mentioned your brothers. Will
they be living here?”
“My younger brother, John, comes and goes from our house in
Surrattsville. You’ll meet him soon, I imagine.” She gave me
a look.
“My older brother, Isaac, is fighting for the Confederacy.”
“God keep him safe,” I said politely.
“Which side are you on?”
Though I inclined toward the North, I remembered my father’s
advice. “I have friends and family caught up on both sides,”
I said vaguely. “I just hope it ends soon.”
“Do you have a sweetheart?”
This was ostensibly a safer topic than Swampoodle or the
war, but it was a rather irritating one. “No,” I admitted.
The truth was, like Jane Eyre, I was plain and little, and
Washington City was woefully short of Mr. Rochesters in
human form. I’d never had a beau, nor had I even had a young
man give me more than a passing glance. “And you?”
“I thought I had one, but he is serving as a doctor in
Richmond. You can imagine, with all the young ladies acting
as nurses, and all of them and their mothers inviting him to
dine, there’s not much time for me.”
“You’re very pretty. I’m sure you’re well rid of the
faithless wretch.”
“Why, thank you.” Miss Surratt held out her hand. “Call me
Anna, Miss Fitzpatrick.”
“And you may call me Nora. Not Honora. Only the nuns at
school called me Honora.”
“It’s good to have someone else in the house, Nora. We have
some distant relations—Mr. and Mrs. Kirby, living just a few
blocks from here—but he’s busy with his work, and she’s busy
with her children, so they’re not very diverting. I’ve
hardly had a chance to see the city.”
“I’ll show it to you. We’re close to everything. The shops,
the theaters— we’re just blocks from Ford’s Theatre. I’ve
been there several times.”
“I’ve never been there,” Anna admitted.
“It’s a lovely theater. We must go together.” I could not
resist what I said next. “Why, I saw John Wilkes Booth play
there.”
Anna stared at me. “Him?”
If you had put a young lady from New Orleans, a young lady
from Boston, a young lady from Richmond, a young lady from
Cleveland, a young lady from Baltimore, and a young lady
from Washington together, the one thing they would have
agreed upon, before they scratched one another’s eyes out,
was that John Wilkes Booth was one of the handsomest men in
America. Any woman worthy of her sex, and I was no
exception, could rhapsodize for hours upon his curling black
hair, his soulful black eyes, his beautiful skin, and his
fine physique— even those women who hadn’t actually had the
privilege of seeing him in person. I was indeed among the
lucky ones, for the previous year, he had played at Ford’s
Theatre, and since I had been at school in Georgetown at the
time, I had plagued my father until he agreed to take me. As
the play had been RichardIII, Mr. Booth’s
looks had not shone to their best advantage, since he was
forced by the role to assume a hunchback and to scowl a
great deal. Even so, I had had to repress a smile when Lady
Anne informed Richard that he was a foul toad. I had gone to
bed that night thoroughly convinced such a lovely man could
not possibly have killed his nephews, although of course the
play said he did.
Just the memory made me sigh. “I did see him, and he was
wonderful. Did you know that he now spends much of his time
in Washington? We might get to glimpse him in the street
sometime.”
Anna’s eyes widened. “That,” she breathed, “would be
absolutely divine.”
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