Andrew Johnson shifted uncomfortably in his bed. He had been ill for almost a week during the closing arguments and deliberations in the assassination conspiracy trial. Rumors on the street had it that the newly installed president had drifted into old, bad habits of alcohol abuse and suffered from an extreme case of delirium tremens. His hair stuck to his forehead from perspiration while his face contorted in emotional pain. He was back in the pigsty in Greeneville, Tenn., slowly sinking into the muck as toothless old men and sassy young ladies dressed in their Sunday finest pointed at him and laughed.
“President of the United States? Why he wouldn’t even make a good town drunk!”
“Poor as snot! What Eliza McCardle ever saw in him I’ll never know!”
Johnson flailed about, trying to avoid being sucked under the muck and mire of the pigsty. Screaming, he sat up in bed, opened his eyes and looked about the room, panting nervously. Seeing his wife Eliza in her wheelchair by his side calmed him, and Johnson fell back against the pillow. She and their daughter Martha arrived from Tennessee by the end of May. Smiling weakly, he reached out to pat her pale cheek.
Eliza suffered from tuberculosis, which sapped her energy and relegated her to a wheelchair. Johnson knew the trip from Tennessee and her subsequent activities at the Executive Mansion weakened her further, even though Martha had assumed the duties of running the house. Her husband David Patterson would be joining them soon because the Tennessee legislature had just elected him senator. Johnson longed to have the rest of his family around him. They had always sustained him in times of anxiety. His oldest son Robert was a colonel during the war, and his presence soothed Johnson more as a trusted longtime friend than as an obedient son, such as Andrew Junior, who was only thirteen. His other daughter Mary married a man named Stover. Between the two daughters, the Johnsons had five grandchildren whose laughter and play helped distract their grandfather. But they all were still in Tennessee, and Johnson had to rely on his infirmed wife for comfort.
“What day is it? Has the commission made its decision?” he asked.
“It’s Wednesday, July 5,” she replied in a soft voice, the corners of her thin mouth turned up in a patient smile. “They made their decision June 30 and sealed it. They were waiting for you to recover before sending it over to you.”
Johnson clinched his jaw. “They all think I’ve been out on a drunk. I can just hear those damned Republicans spreading lies about me.” He glanced at his wife. “You know I ain’t been drinking. It’s a three-day bellyache gone bad, that’s all.”
“Of course it is, dear. All you’ve needed is bed rest and quiet. That’s what the doctor said. I can tell you are feeling better.” She smiled again. “You’re complaining again. Up to now you’ve been too sick to complain about anything.”
“It’s the damned trial.” His watery eyes stared at the ceiling. “It’s a huge damned mess and I can’t do anything about it.”
“You fret too much. You’ve always been like that. You fret yourself into a three-day bellyache, and I can’t keep you from it. You just have to work it out yourself, like you always do.”
“How about you?” Johnson turned his head and furrowed his brow. “How do you feel? Breathing all right?”
She chuckled and looked away. “I’m as well as I’m supposed to, considering the circumstances.” She looked at him and straightened her fragile jaw. “Are you up to a visit from the commission? You have to read the verdicts and approve the sentences. They said the review could take several hours. Think you can handle it?”
“Oh, hell. Tell them to come on over. I want this damn thing finished.”
By afternoon, commission chairman Joseph Holt arrived with the documents and by nightfall Johnson agreed to death by hanging for Mrs. Surratt, Herold, Atzerodt and Paine. All the others, including Dr. Mudd, were given prison sentences on the Dry Tortugas of the Florida Keys. They scheduled the hangings for 1 p.m. Friday, July 7. As Holt left, Johnson felt a sense of relief that the national nightmare was almost over, and his tortured stomach began to heal. On the other hand, doubts crept into his mind as he joined his wife, daughter and her two children in the small dining room on the first floor. He joked with Mary Belle and little Andy but he could not help but wonder how a callow, vain actor such as Booth could organize a group of obtuse misfits into a murderous cabal attempting to bring down the government of the United States.
***
Late Wednesday afternoon, Edwin Stanton ambled through the open air market down by the iron bridge which crossed the Mall slough over to Smithsonian Museum and the veterans hospital. Shopping for apples and onions was about the only pleasure he took from life any more. Dining out was too much trouble, and strangers were always approaching him with little requests about family members. Usually they were matters that were beyond his authority to grant, or matters he cared not to consider. The theater was a silly waste of time, and dinner parties at the homes of congressmen went beyond of the pall of tedium.
However on this particular afternoon, his purpose went beyond the purchase of fruits and vegetables. Stanton waited for Preston King and James Lane. He had never cared for either man, finding them mundane and egocentric, but they presented themselves to him on the night of the assassination as eager players in the Washington political games. First, he asked them to go to Andrew Johnson’s room in the Kirkwood Hotel the morning Lincoln died. Ostensibly they were to help prepare the vice-president to assume the executive duties. In actuality King and Lane were to observe his behavior and report back to Stanton. If possible they were to encourage him to succumb to alcohol so that his swearing-in would be a repeat of the inauguration debacle. Now Stanton had another assignment for them.
“Mr. Secretary, what a surprise to find you here!” King bellowed as he slapped Stanton on the back.
“Dammit, you’re too loud,” Lane hissed as he maneuvered himself to the other side of Stanton.
The war secretary kept his eyes on the basket of onions. “The verdict has been rendered. The President is expected to sschedule the executions for Friday, July 7, in the yard of the Old Capitol Prison. I want you there as my witnesses.”
“Yes, sir. Glad to be of service, sir.” With great difficulty King subdued his enthusiasm.
***
The president thought he had successfully driven away those suspicions until late morning the day of the hangings. It was his first time back at his desk in his personal second floor office when his secretary Reuben Massey tapped on the door and entered.
“Sir, a distressed young lady is here to see you—“
Before Massey could finish and before Johnson could reply, Anna Surratt burst into the room, running toward the President, her eyes red with tears.
“Mr. President, sir, please save my mother’s life!”
“What the hell is going on here, Massey?”
The secretary came up behind Anna, putting his hands on her shaking shoulders, trying to pull her away. “This is Mrs. Surratt’s daughter, sir. She’s been waiting all morning for an appointment. I told her you were busy but she was unequivocal about seeing you.”
“Yes, she was a Southern sympathizer and is a devout Roman Catholic,” Anna blurted. “She knew something was going on in the boarding house, but as God is my witness she did not participate in anything to kill Mr. Lincoln!”
“What about the testimony that she took firearms to her place in the country?” Johnson mellowed his tone. His own daughters were not much older than Anna, and he could not stay indignant with her. “Please sit.” He glanced at his secretary. “Massey, get her a chair.”
As she sat, Anna took a deep breath. “All I know is that Wilkes asked her to take the guns to our inn. She was just doing a favor for a friend of our family. He was very good friends with my brother John.”
“And where is your brother now?” Johnson cradled his chin in his right hand.
“We don’t know. All John told us was that he had to get out of town.”
“Didn’t that seem suspicious to your mother?” the president asked.
“I don’t know.” She looked down.
“And you want me to intervene on behalf of your mother even though you’ve answered all my questions with ‘I don’t know’?”
“Mother wouldn’t want me to tell you this.” Her words were soft, desperate.
“Massey, pour this young lady a glass of water.” Johnson waved at a side table which held a pitcher, several small glasses and a plate of cookies.
“Thank you, sir.” She took a short sip before continuing. “Wilkes was more than merely my brother’s friend. My mother and I liked him very much. He was a gentleman. He was very complimentary of my mother’s cooking. Any woman would appreciate a handsome gentleman of the stage smiling at her, being tender. One night, right before the—the terrible incident—Wilkes sat in our kitchen eating a slice of Mother’s pound cake when he began speaking of a strange man he had met earlier in the evening.”
Massey stepped forward. “So you’re admitting your mother knew—“
“Don’t you have to attend to other duties?” Johnson glared at his secretary.
“Oh. Yes, sir. My apologies, sir.” He backed his way to the door and left.
“Mr. President, I swear Wilkes shared no details of what—“
“Please, Miss Surratt, continue.” He smiled. “I am not a prosecuting attorney. I assure you.”
“Wilkes and a group of his friends met a man under the Aqueduct Bridge. He did not tell us what they discuss and we did not inquire, as it was none of our business.”
“Yes, I know. Please continue.”
“He was distressed that the man was not a gentleman in his conduct. Above all else, Wilkes prided himself on being a gentleman. If a man had not manners what good was he? Wilkes could talk for hours about how a man’s true character was revealed by his courtesy toward others.”
“Did he say what the man’s name was?” Johnson could not determine where this narration was going nor what its importance might be, but he tried to hide his impatience.
“No, he said the man did not identify himself. In fact, he kept his face in the shadows so Wilkes could not see him. He did say the man was rather short and tapped his foot impatiently in the lapping waters of the Potomac. We dismissed the conversation as another example of Wilkes’ obsession with the art of being a gentleman until the night Mother was arrested. The man who was in charge of the contingent was a short man who nervously tapped his foot on the floor, just like the man under the bridge.”
Johnson leaned forward. “And who was this man?”
“Col. Lafayette Baker.” A brief quiver shot through her slender body. “He threatened my mother. He said she must never tell anyone about the meeting under the bridge if she wished for any chance of surviving. She did not tell a soul, yet she is to hang today. Please, Mr. President, for the love of mercy, save my mother.”
Johnson paused a moment to collect his thoughts. “My dear young lady, we make our decisions from two places—from here,” he said pointing to his head, “And from here.” His hand slapped across his belly. “My gut tells me everything you’ve said is not beyond belief. I wouldn’t put anything passed Stanton and his hatchet man Baker. My brain says your story is too incredible to be true. No one would believe it. More importantly no court of law would allow my gut feelings to rule the day.”
Gently putting his arm around Anna’s shoulders, he guided her to a window and nodded to a horse and carriage waiting outside. “This morning I ordered that transportation to be placed in front of the Executive Mansion so that if any legally reliable evidence were presented to me, I could send posthaste a messenger to Old Capitol Prison to delay the executions.” He sadly shook his head. “What you have told me does not satisfy the requirements of legal recourse. I cannot send that carriage. I am so dreadfully sorry.”
Anna collapsed into his chest, weeping uncontrollably. Johnson clenched his jaw when he sensed he also was on the verge of tears. The backwoodsman in him wanted to drive the carriage himself to the prison, carry Mrs. Surratt out in his arms, and take her and Anna to a train station sending them far away so no one could ever hurt them. But his political side knew any chance he had to ease the reprisals against the South would be destroyed if he flouted the law and the will of the Radical Republicans in Congress.
“All I can do is pray for you and your mother.”