Doug WaltersBy Doug Walters
First published in February, 2006, Volume 3, Issue 1, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.
Going To An Inquest:
The Day Bridget Flipped Her Bonnet.
(Pat Doherty’s Lament.)
My Dear Madame,
We have never before corresponded, but I find I must take the opportunity today. Generally, the subject regards an incident related I believe in Mr. Porter’s book The Fall River Tragedy. I do not wish to contest his version as given there, but only to flesh it out a bit.
I’ve no doubt that through the years many have wondered about Miss Lizzie Borden—what was she doing, what was she thinking upon that bloody August 4th and ever-after?
It occurs to me, however, that there might be some small, bedraggled band out there who wonder what was in Patrick Doherty’s mind upon the morning of the 9th of August 1892—the day we veterans of the station house (and this veteran particularly) remember as “Going To An Inquest: The Day Bridget Flipped Her Bonnet.”
As Mr. Porter tells it:
Officer Doherty was sent to the Borden house to bring Bridget Sullivan to the police station to appear as the first witness at the inquest. He had some difficulty at the house because the impression had gone forth that he intended to arrest the servant girl. For a time there were tears and lamentation, but finally the officer made it understood that the only intention was to have the young woman talk to the District Attorney. On the way to the station Miss Sullivan’s tears came forth again. She told the office[r] that she had given all information in her power to the police, and that she knew nothing more than what she had stated.1
This much I will say of that Porter fella: He did get the bare bones of the incident correct. But as for the rest . . . oh, if only he knew! “Some difficulty” indeed! “Tears and lamentations,” he says . . . bahhhh!!
As folks will undoubtedly recall, I did indeed seek out Bridget Sullivan upon the 9th day of August, to escort her to the inquest beginning that day into the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Borden the previous week. She was to be the first witness, so it was thought best to have her properly escorted, to see that she got there in proper time and whatnot. I only wish now in hindsight that someone had thought to inform her of that fact beforehand!
As I reflect upon the incident of the 9th now, I can only think of an ancient proverb:
There are three things which are real:
God, human folly, and laughter.
As the first two are beyond our power to comprehend,
We must do what we can with the third.
If only it had been as amusing then as it is now.
So, on to the business. I had gone to collect the servant girl . . .
I knocked upon the door, adjusting my cap while I waited. In a moment, Miss Sullivan appeared.
“Good day, Miss,” said I with as much cheer as I could muster. “You must come along please; it’s time to go down to . . . ”
“What, go where? I’ve done nothing that you should come for me, Sir!”
Now mind you, dear Madame, it ought be known here that the young lady was attired in such fashion as might be deemed proper to make such an appearance before the District Attorney. I will make no further comment, save to say that I was somewhat puzzled at that moment.
She was, as I have said, most suitably attired. If memory serves, some manner of ladies’ hat was perched atop her head. It was mere seconds before this hat became a sort of emotional telegraph, the twitch of which sent forth the following urgent message to this observer: “You are in serious trouble here, you do realize that?” (If I did not know it then, it would not be long!) Yet, I pressed on. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor twitch of hat . . .
“Miss, I’ve come to see that you . . . ”
“You’ve come to arrest me, I know it!” The hat was in motion again, its message confirmed by her contorted visage.
Oh blessed Mother . . . here we go . . .
“What? Now tell me, why indeed should I do that? I’m here to see that you’re got to the inquest at the proper time, nothing more. As I know of, you’ve done nothing that I might arrest you for, have you?”
“Indeed I have not Sir—why have you come to arrest me?”
“I have not come to arrest you, Miss. You’re to go to the station and see Mr. Knowlton about answering some questions regarding events of last week. I am only here to see that you get there.”
The look on her face was enough to tell me she’d have none of that—not a single word.
I was about to speak again, but was stopped in mid-syllable. The servant girl too had apparently prepared to speak, but rather than words there came from her low sounds reminiscent of moans, which increased in volume and pitch almost with each passing second—the final result a high, furious2 squall that I will freely confess left me stunned a moment. It was closely followed by an explosive volley of tears.
“Now . . . see here, Miss, there’ll be no need for . . .” She advanced forward a step as I spoke, half leaning and half falling into my uniformed breast. Now I would ask you in all candor, what here is a man to do? I held fast and firm as I could.
Now here dear Madame must come a confession, the revelation of my own thoughts during this period of the 9th of August 1892. They are not to be excused. I do ask, however that they be understood, or at least viewed through the prism of the following little-known fact, which I shall now relate.
Strange as it may sound, the good Marshall Hilliard was a firm practitioner of as well as a steadfast believer in the saying that “clothes make the man.” He was a real stickler for business in that area. This close attention to attire was not the result of vanity, or of some mental defect or derangement.
“You are a servant of the People, Sir. Therefore, you will guard yourself as much as is practical in your daily attire, so as to appear fit to walk in their midst” was in essence both the sentiment and the order.3
With that qualification, I shall now continue. The state of things at that moment was such that I had begun to feel some concern about my “public presentability.” I realize now in hindsight that this makes about as much sense as Tarzan having concern for the state of his loin cloth while being hotly pursued by an ill-tempered tiger. Such, however, were my preoccupations of the moment.
As the torrential squall continued without cease, I found my mind cluttered with nagging thoughts, such as:
“Water, water everywhere—good grief, will this coat shrink?”
“I have never seen it, but . . . do these badges rust?”
Finally . . . nearly consumed with mute, helpless rage at the state of things—unimproved:
“Mother of God, Woman! You were named for a Saint of the Church—summon her strength and compose yourself this instant!”
. . . but still the caterwauling continued. I found myself idly thinking what a blessing she might have been centuries earlier to St. Patrick when he drove the serpents from Ireland. Not even a snake could have taken that business very long!
Nearby, all the while, stood Ed Porter, of the Daily Globe. I tried several times in the course of the business to catch his eye and elicit some small aid in resolving the matter.
But aside from a weasel-like grin and a wave back at me when I hailed him in distress, there he stood, with beady, watchful eyes that seemed to take in everything even as he scribbled upon his pad. The dirty dog, said I to myself. I made a mental note to run him in on a charge of failing to render assistance in time of public disaster when my present business was done . . .
“There, there now Miss . . . easy; buck up now, for we must go. I’ve told you the truth as I know it. My only reason for being here today was to come get you; you must go up and testify at the hearing.”
“I have told them all I know, Sir,” said she, as a tear dripped from the end of her nose. (It missed my coat, thank heaven!) She seemed calmer, but one look at her face would tell even the most unobservant that her dam was still in a precarious state. The slightest displacement of emotional pebble, the result would likely have been a flood such as Fall River had never seen.
“I have told them all I know . . .” came again—she’d said it so often by then that I couldn’t say positively whether I was hearing her voice or an echo.
Her eyes I noticed held a faraway look that somehow oddly reflected her thoughts: an almost mortal terror, not so much of earthly things, but rather at the prospect of eternal damnation.
“Yes, Lass, I know. You’ve said that many a time now. It’s only that they need to be sure as you are of that fact.
When you are finished today, if I am available to do so, I will see you back here to your things. If I should not be available by some reason, another officer will come in my place, and say that he has come to get you home. If you have made other arrangements by that time—as you are free to do—you need only tell the officer that, and then you may be on your way.
Your only real concern of today—what they ask you must answer in the best way you know how. Do that, and you need have no fear of Hell . . . ”
She seemed pacified then, at least for the moment. I had a feeling it might be a very short moment, but by some blessed miracle my fears proved groundless. We proceeded, and passed no further incident of note.
As my ancestral nephew has hinted, I would in my time see many a spat, soothe many a ruffled feather in the interests of domestic tranquility. There was a welcome byproduct though to promoting the general welfare: if I could somehow get them to behave decent, it saved me a hell of a lot of paperwork!
I will say certainly a single thing—that though many things I did see, and many a more I would see, none ever did quite compare to the ‘great Sullivan flood’ of August 9, 1892.
Of Miss Lizzie I will say none, for by process of the law she was deemed unguilty of those foul deeds. Therefore any comment by me to the opposite viewpoint would be unjust, not to mention indecent. If she was misjudged here, she will face her proper judgment, just as we all will in our own good time.
Confession being good for the soul and my tale now complete, I leave you, dear Editor and readers, with good wishes, thanks, and a blessing of auld Eire:
May the road rise always with you,
And the winds be ever at your back.
May the Sun shine brightly upon your face,
And may the rains fall softly upon your fields.
And til e’er we might meet again,
May God attend you tenderly
In the palm of His hand.
Your Humble Servant,
P.H. Doherty
Lately Captain,
Fall River Police Dept.
Footnotes:
1 E. H. Porter. The Fall River Tragedy at pg. 54.
2 As used here, “furious” is not meant to convey anger, but rather refers to the Furies of ancient mythology, who were by some tellings the three daughters of Gaia and Uranus. Their trade was terror, their motivation vengeance. Also, in more recent history, recall an instruction to Company “D” of the 7th Virginia, 18 July 1861—that they should “yell like Furies” to instill terror into the opposing troops. http://home1.gte.net/jgbaird/history.htm
3 Within the archives of the Fall River Police Department there is a memorandum issued over Marshall Hilliard’s signature in which he discussed this very issue. See “Uniform Order” at http://www.frpd.org/offical.htm
