At last, the daughter of the victim made her way to the very threshold of the President’s room. Frenzied with grief she assailed the portal with her cries for admission to plead for her dying mother. She was denied admittance. In the extremity of her despair she lay down upon the steps, and, in the name of God, appealed to the President and to the wardens, only to listen to her prayer. The grim guardians of the door held it shut in her face.
Denied, thus, even an appeal to Executive clemency, the friends of the poor woman, as a last most desperate resort, invoked the Constitution of their and her country through the historic writ of Habeas Corpus. On the morning of the day of the execution, they found a judge (Judge Wylie; all honor to his memory!) who had the independence and courage to grant the writ. At half-past eleven, General Hancock appeared before the Judge and made return that by order of the President the Habeas Corpus was suspended and therefore he did not produce the body. The order of the President dated ten o’clock, same morning, was annexed to the return and directed the General to proceed with the execution.
No sooner had the guarantees of the Constitution been, thus, finally set at naught, than the cell-doors were thrown open and the prisoners summoned to their doom. As the enfeebled widow raised her trembling limbs from off the coarse mattress which alone separated her body from the stone floor of her dungeon, she strove, in broken words, to assure the soldiers, who had come to bind her arms behind her back and tie cords around her skirts above and below the knee, of her utter, yet helpless innocence. Her confessor, who stood by her until the last, gently pointed out to her the uselessness of such appeals, at such a moment, and directed her hopes towards Heaven.
Amid the tolling of the bells, sending a shudder through the silent population of the city, and heralded by the tramp of armed men, the death-march of the doomed woman and the doomed men begins. The still breathing men and still breathing woman are clothed already in their shrouds. As she totters first along the corridor, accompanied by her priest and requiring two soldiers to hold her erect, the very extremity of her helplessness and woe bears witness in her favor. Even the bloody Payne, who walks next behind her, has broken through that stolid indifference to his own fate, so remarkable as to indicate insanity, to clear her from all complicity with the assassination. Herold and Atzerodt, who follow, though themselves speechless with terror, seem to wave her mute acquittal, as they stumble along into the swift-coming Darkness. They reach the prison-yard. They mount the high scaffold. They are seated in four chairs facing the four dangling nooses, while the death-warrant is once more read. Their graves, already dug, are in full sight close by. Their coffins stand by the side of the open graves. They are raised up and pushed forward upon the two drops, Herold and Atzerodt on one, Mrs. Surratt and Payne on the other; the half-conscious woman still supported by the two guards. The ropes are adjusted. The hoods drawn over the face. The signal is given. The two drops fall. Surrounded by the unpitying soldiery, headed by the unpitying Hartranft, the woman and the men hang writhing in the agonies of an ignominious death. When pronounced dead, the bodies are cut down. They are laid out on the top of the coffins. A hurried post-mortem examination is made. And, then, at four o’clock in the afternoon, they are inclosed in the coffins and buried side by side. The soldiers depart with flourish of trumpet and beat of drum. Silence descends on the grounds of the old Arsenal; broken only by the pace of the sentinel set to guard the four corpses.
The daughter may beg the stern Secretary to yield up the body of her murdered mother, that she may place it in consecrated ground. But she will beg in vain.
And so ended the fell tragedy. And so did brave soldiers avenge the murder of their “beloved Commander-in-Chief.” Methinks their beloved Commander-in-Chief, could his freed spirit have found a mortal voice, would have spurned, with indignant horror, the savage sacrifice of a defenseless woman to appease his gentle shade.
CHAPTER VIII.
Was it not Murder?