The First Lady and the Rebel, page 26
“That gives me comfort, Mac.” She rose. “I think the girls should see him. Would you help me?”
Mac nodded. Clutching their dolls and being fussed over by Mrs. Dabney and her daughter, the girls were sitting in the dining room. “I want you to see your father. Remember, all that is here is his body. His soul is with the Lord. Just like we discussed on the train.” So perhaps it was she who had told the girls after all.
Kate frowned. “Does he have his tobacco bag?”
Mac coughed miserably. “Actually, I have his tobacco bag, to give to your mama.”
“Then how will he smoke with no place to hold his tobacco?”
“The first thing you get when you get to heaven, Kate, is a fine tobacco bag. If you like tobacco, of course.”
“And if you don’t like tobacco?”
If it was possible for Mac to look more tired, he did so. “Whatever you liked, Kate. Your favorite book, maybe, or a bonnet… It’s all taken care of.”
Kate nodded. “Don’t cry, then,” she commanded Dee, who had listening to this eschatological discussion with her lip trembling.
Mac lifted Kate, and Emily lifted Dee, to stare into the casket. After hesitating, Dee timidly patted her father on the cheek, and Kate, not to be outdone, kissed him on the forehead.
“Done like brave Kentucky women,” Mac said.
“We’re going to get Papa some flowers,” Kate announced.
“Not out of Mrs. Dabney’s garden, please,” Emily said. “Get Maggie to take you and buy some.” As she said this, it occurred to her that she had nothing in the world besides the money in her trunk, whatever salary was due to Hardin, and some receipts he had given her in Atlanta for cotton being stored at various warehouses. And Maggie and Phil. “Where’s Phil?” she asked.
“I don’t know. He helped tend Hardin while he was dying, and he was quite torn up when the end came. But he disappeared after that. I suspect he’s headed for Kentucky, back to his own people.”
So, no Phil. Not that she ever could have sold him anyway.
Yet there was surely enough to cause her misery at the moment without thinking of her penury. She pulled out her purse and handed a bill to Kate. “Buy him some nice ones.”
* * *
Swathed in widow’s weeds acquired from several generous Atlanta ladies—the blockade runners had not brought in any mourning goods recently—Emily sat in the Dabneys’ parlor and received condolences, most from complete strangers. That morning, she had watched, dull-eyed, as Hardin’s casket was lowered into the ground. Yet she had been able to feel a swell of pride at the multitudes who had turned out to escort her husband to his resting place and at the passersby who had stopped and bent their heads in respect as the funeral cortege had passed through the city’s overcrowded streets.
The man heading to her now wore a natty checked waistcoat and carried a notebook. “Mrs. Helm, I am the editor of the Southern Confederacy. I would like to write a tribute to your husband. Can you tell me about him?”
For the first time in days, Emily came to life, chattering away about Hardin as the newspaperman assiduously scribbled. “He turned down President Lincoln’s offer of a position with the enemy military. He felt that strongly about the Southern cause, and he could not be bribed with offers of advancement.” She did not mention that Hardin had sought a position and changed his mind; never in her ninety-three years on earth would she mention that. Hardin deserved better than the complicated truth.
The editor finally lifted his pen. “Is there anything else you want to tell me about your brave husband, Mrs. Helm?”
“Don’t let him be forgotten.”
* * *
The next morning, she arose just after dawn, with the servants, dressed, and went to the garden. But someone was already there—Mac, strolling around. He started. “I’m sorry, Emily. Shall I leave?”
“No. I couldn’t sleep, and I wanted a little solitude before the children awoke.”
“Then I am intruding.”
“No. I am glad for your being here; I don’t know how I could have borne the last couple of days without you.”
Mac sighed. “Then I am sorry to say what I must say next. I will have to leave today to go back to the front.”
“I will miss you, but I know they need you back.” She stared at the rising sun. “What will I do without him? I feel utterly lost.”
“I know you do. Truth be told, I feel a little lost myself. He was my closest friend. So many nights, we smoked and talked each other out of the blues.” After a moment or two, he said, “Have you decided where you’re going to go? Selma, with your sisters?”
“No. Kentucky. I want my mother, and Hardin’s parents should have the comfort of seeing his children.”
“I suppose you’ll ask Mr. Lincoln for a pass?”
“Yes. He’s a kind-hearted man. I’m sure he’ll give it. Mac…”
“What?”
“When you told me about Hardin’s last moments, you told me what he said about me, and then you started to say something about a possibility before changing the subject. What was it?”
Mac stared at the ground. “He spoke of you remarrying. He said as young and pretty as you were, you would likely remarry, and that although he was jealous of whatever that man might be, he knew you would choose carefully and pick someone who would be good to your children. Then he half smiled and said if you had to remarry, he hoped it would be to someone that he and you already knew and loved.”
“I see.”
This time, Mac studied his shoes. Finally, he said, “Before I leave, I must ask you an awkward question. May I write to you?”
“Why, of course.”
“Just to see how you are doing—and well, just because I consider you my friend. Except for the occasional letter from my family that gets through the flag-of-truce mail, I don’t hear from anybody. It gets lonesome.”
“I told you a long time ago that you were in my prayers. With your kindness to poor Hardin—and to me—it is even truer now.”
* * *
Mac left Atlanta that afternoon, with a careful farewell kiss on Emily’s cheek. A few days later, Emily herself left, bound for Madison, Georgia, where Eli Bruce, a wealthy man who had often assisted the Orphan Brigade, lived with his family. He had promised Emily that she could be quite secluded in his spacious home while she made her arrangements to cross the federal lines.
After the denuded family settled into their places on the train, Ben dozed in Maggie’s arms, Kate took out a sketchbook that Mac had bought her, and Dee clutched her doll to her chest and engaged in a barely audible conversation with it. The doll was dressed in mourning and looked considerably more fashionable than Emily in her own hodgepodge of black garments. The girls were being so quiet, so good, it broke Emily’s heart. She put an arm around each of them. “We’re going to be all right,” she promised them.
“When are we going to Kentucky?” Kate asked.
“I told you, it will take a while. We can’t just cross over from the South to the North, or we could get arrested. We have to get passes from the Union government. Maybe even from Mr. Lincoln himself.”
“But he’s a bad man,” Kate said. “I heard someone at Papa’s funeral say so.”
“He’s not a bad man. He’s your uncle, remember, and he and your aunt Mary used to be very fond of me—and of your father.”
“But that was before the war. Wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was.” Emily gazed out the window. “But I hope that their feelings have not changed.” Yet the war had changed so many things. Why should she hope that this would be any different? “Even if they no longer care for us, I hope Mr. Lincoln will be kind to us as part of his family.”
“I don’t feel like hoping for anything.”
“Well, we must. And we will.”
21
Mary
September to December 1863
Every time Mary entered the vertical railway at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, she did so with trepidation, but Tad did not share her wariness, and he fairly bounced with excitement as the contraption slowly descended to the lobby with a great grinding of gears. It was not his first time on it by any means; if she would allow it, he would have spent their entire stay in New York riding up and down on it.
Along with its own newsstand, a druggist, a tailor, a lady’s hairdresser, and just about anything else the traveler might desire, the hotel had its own telegraph office, and it was to there that Mary headed before she left on her day’s outing, having once again survived the vertical railway. “Are there any telegrams for me?”
“Yes, madam. One just came.”
Mary took it, smiling. The President had sent her several over the past few days, and it was gratifyingly clear that he missed her—as well he should, since she had been in the North since late July after recovering from her head injury. On the twentieth, he had informed her that he knew of no sickness in Washington. The twenty-first had brought the assurance that the air was so clear and cool, he would be glad to see her back. A day later, he had practically begged her to return. She had made the arrangements—but then an invitation to go by river to West Point had come, and Mary had not been able to resist an excursion on the Hudson.
As she got into the carriage, she examined the telegram. Why had he sent it to her? There was no news of him personally, no plea for her to come home, simply a report of the battle near Chattanooga, which hardly seemed necessary since the New York papers, all of which Mary could obtain in the hotel lobby, were covering it perfectly well. She read on. We lost, in general officers, one killed, and three or four wounded, all brigadiers; while according to rebel accounts, which we have, they lost six killed, and eight wounded. Of the killed, one Major Genl. and five Brigadiers, including your brother-in-law, Helm…
Mr. Helm! He had been foolish to reject Mr. Lincoln’s very generous offer, and even more foolish to get himself killed, but Mary could not help but feel sorrow. He had gotten on splendidly with the Lincoln boys—including poor Willie!—and there was no greater mark of character than that in Mary’s eyes.
And what of Emily? Where was she—in Selma with Martha and Elodie, or in some other place in the South? From her sister Elizabeth, who had heard it from Mrs. Todd after Sam’s death, Mary knew that Emily had left Kentucky to follow her ill-starred husband, but that was about all she knew. What would happen to her and her daughters now? Had Mr. Helm provided for them adequately? Being a widow was surely bad enough without being an impoverished widow, too. And how terrible her grief must be! Neither of the Lincolns had ever seen the Helms together, but Emily’s letters before the war cut off such missives, and Hardin’s wistful references to his family during his visits to Lincolns at Springfield and at the White House had made it clear that the young spouses had loved each other dearly.
For Mary, Mr. Helm’s death and Emily’s bereavement shaded that beautiful autumn day with melancholy, especially at West Point, where the cadets drilled for Mary and her entourage. It had not been so very long since Mr. Helm had been in attendance there. How many of his fellow graduates had shared his fate since the war began? And how many of these young men might find themselves in a battle in the months to come? The years, even? Mary shuddered. How many more young men would the god of war consume?
* * *
A servant met Mary and Tad at Washington’s depot and escorted them to the President’s carriage, in which sat the President himself. “Well,” he said, after kissing her and rumpling Tad’s hair, “I’ve missed the two of you awfully.”
“Father, I think we need a vertical railway in the White House.”
“A what?”
“A little house, that goes from one floor to another. We had one at the hotel. If we had one at the White House, Mother would never have to climb stairs.”
“Well, that’s thoughtful of you,” Mr. Lincoln said. “But I don’t know if that’s in the budget. Speaking of which, Molly, I was expecting some more trunks from you.”
Mary blushed. “I have exercised considerable restraint, Mr. Lincoln.”
In truth, she had had most of what she had bought shipped to the White House, where it would sit contentedly in her room until the Lincolns returned from the Soldiers’ Home. Mr. Lincoln would likely never even notice it.
Tad dominated the conversation all the way to the Soldiers’ Home and at supper, so it was not until bedtime that when Mr. Lincoln said, “I couldn’t say so in my telegram, as it wouldn’t do, but that was bad news about Helm.”
“It was.”
“I don’t mind saying that the news tore me up. Left me in tears. David Davis, who stopped by about then, will tell you that I had to turn him away and shut myself up in my office. It must have seemed foolish. After all, Helm died fighting against me. It was the sheer waste of it, I suppose. Such a promising young man, dying for what? Slavery. They can dress it up as state’s rights, but it’s still slavery. I wish I had been able to talk him round, back when he visited. He might still have died, I suppose—couldn’t imagine him not wanting to fight—but at least he would have died for the right cause, and I could honor him.”
“I suppose you have heard nothing from my sister, or about her.”
“Not a thing.”
“Mr. Lincoln, you know up until now, I have let the rebel branch of my family fend for themselves. But I must ask: Will you assist Emily if she needs it?”
“Why, of course.” Her husband gave her a quizzical look. “Did you think I wouldn’t? Provided that I can do so without any harm to the Union, I’ll give her whatever help I can. All she needs to do is swallow a little of that Todd pride and ask.”
* * *
A couple of weeks later, Mr. Lincoln, after a day working at the White House, returned to the Soldiers’ House bearing letters. “Got this from a Mr. Bruce, in Madison, Georgia,” he told Mary, holding a piece of blue stationery aloft. “Your sister Emily is staying with him and wants to return to Kentucky. First, he tells me that he is sure that I will regret that Helm ‘could not have survived the conflict and shared in the glories of the victory’—that’s rubbing it in a little, I think, but I suppose I see his point. Then he tells me your sister is ‘crushed by the blow—almost brokenhearted.’ Poor, poor child. Tells me that he will meet her needs as long as she cares to remain under his roof—I am glad to hear that. She has asked him to ask me for a pass to get her across the federal lines. Of course, I will issue one—but here’s the part I like best, when he tells me how to send it. In triplicates, underlined just in case I don’t get the point, I suppose. By different boats. I’m surprised he’s not asking me to deliver one to Jeff Davis personally.”
“Perhaps that is for his next letter.”
“Maybe. But not to be outdone, your stepmother has written to me, too. She wants to go South to fetch Emily and her children—it seems she has three now, poor thing.”
“Three? I never knew she was even expecting a third!” Illogically, Mary felt a burst of indignation that Emily had not told her the news.
“A war baby, I suppose. At any rate, I will issue Mrs. Todd a pass, and Emily a pass, and with luck they shall meet at some point. I just wish my generals were as willing to get about as you Todd ladies are.”
* * *
Though Mary studiously ignored it, the social event of the season—nay, the decade—was approaching: Miss Chase’s wedding to Governor Sprague. As the wedding date approached, Mr. Hay grew rather gloomy. “Why, I do believe the lad is a bit upset about Miss Chase getting married,” Mr. Lincoln said. “I don’t blame him. I think they would have made a nice couple. Both clever and sharp, and both rather easy on the eyes. But he just couldn’t get her to take to him.”
“Alas, Mr. Hay is not a millionaire.”
“I think you nailed it, Molly. Anyway, I thought a trip to the theater might cheer him up. What about it? The Marble Heart is at Ford’s, with John Wilkes Booth. I’ve heard he’s a fine young actor who promises to be as good as his older brother.”
So with Mr. Hay and Mr. Nicolay in tow, the Lincolns took their places at Ford’s, where the proprietor, Mr. John T. Ford, had in his usual fashion converted two small boxes into a larger one so that the presidential party could be at their most comfortable.
Though not imposing in stature, Mr. Booth, with his curly dark hair and his smoldering dark eyes, was certainly fine to look upon, which made the plight of his character, a lovesick sculptor spurned by the beautiful object of his affections in favor of a wealthy rival, all the more poignant. Mary wondered if the premise of the play might hit too close to home for Mr. Hay, but he watched the proceedings detachedly, with the impassive eye of a critic. Mr. Lincoln, on the other hand, spent the entire play leaning forward in his seat. He nodded in sympathy at all the appropriate moments, laughed at the comic interludes, shook his head sadly as Mr. Booth went raging mad, and sighed when the hero crumpled to the floor, dead of a broken heart. “Fine acting,” he said.
“I thought it all rather tame,” said Mr. Hay.
“Did you, now?” Mr. Lincoln looked sympathetically at his secretary. “Well, to each his own. I think I’ll invite him to the White House. I’d ask to meet him now, but as wrought up as he made me, I’m sure he’s worn out, too. How did you like it, Molly?”
“Very well.” In fact, there had been something a little unsettling about the evening, but she could not say exactly what, and in any case she was developing one of her headaches, which had become more frequent since her carriage accident. But she would not spoil her husband’s fine mood.
