The First Lady and the Rebel, page 34
“I just wish he had told me more about his financial affairs.”
“Well, I suppose he didn’t want to think about the possibility of his own death. And we men aren’t always the best at telling our wives what they need to know.”
“You’re certainly right about that.”
“Well…” General Singleton brightened. “Here’s a new acquaintance of mine, to save our sex from further attack. Major Ficklin, I have the honor of presenting the lady I spoke of, Mrs. Helm.”
The rangy, rakish man who had approached their table took Emily’s hand. In a soft, pleasant voice quite at variation with his buccaneerish appearance, he said, “My pleasure, Mrs. Helm. I understand from General Singleton that you are Mrs. Lincoln’s sister.”
“Yes,” Emily said warily.
“Mr. Lincoln is a good man, and one well equipped to smooth the South’s transition back into the Union. I hope to meet him soon through the general here, and perhaps through you.”
“Back to the Union? Are you that much of a pessimist?”
“No, normally I am an incurable optimist. But sometimes realism has to intervene, and she has. A victory would require divine intervention at this point, and while I don’t profess to be a theologian, my sense is that the Lord has chosen to sit out this particular dance. So we must look to a new future, and repair our damage as best we can.” He sighed. “I just hope I get to keep Monticello, but my hopes aren’t high.”
“Monticello? The Monticello?”
“Yes. She came up for auction a while back, and being a native of Charlottesville and in funds at the time, I bought her, to the delight of my old father. Only thing I ever did that really pleased the old man, which isn’t to say that I didn’t give him cause for displeasure over the years, because I certainly did. He was ailing, and my purchase allowed him to die in President Jefferson’s bedchamber, which delighted him as only a dying Virginian can be delighted.”
Emily snorted.
“We are an odd breed,” Major Ficklin said. “But I do have a more practical side. I have cotton, bought and paid for, in Alabama, which I wish to sell in the North, all with the proper permits. Once I do that, I will return to my natural habitat, the west.”
“Major Ficklin helped establish the Pony Express,” General Singleton said.
“Yes, those were the days,” Major Ficklin said wistfully. “Might I ask you to put a good word in for me with your brother-in-law, Mrs. Helm?”
“I hardly know you, sir,” Emily said, more archly than she had intended.
“Then I must study to know you better, Mrs. Helm.”
* * *
Major Benjamin Ficklin did indeed spend a good amount of time with Emily over the next few days. He regaled her with tales of his adventures, all of which, rather to Emily’s surprise, turned out to be true. He had fought the Mormons in the west. He had fought the red men in the west. He had fought in Mexico. He had fought briefly in the war, but having found life in camp tedious, and being plagued with asthma as well, had decided that he could serve the Confederacy just as well by running the blockade.
The day after their introduction, he pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket. “My darling niece has given me a list of things I am to acquire for her in Washington when I go there. She is preparing for her wedding. As you have been in the North, and know what is being worn, I would dearly appreciate your advice.”
“I have not been north of Baltimore, so I fear my knowledge is rather provincial. But I will do my best.”
With the help of a Godey’s Lady’s Book that had made it through the blockade, Emily advised as best she could, while Major Ficklin talked of his misspent youth at Virginia Military Institute. “I was expelled when I painted a horse with zebra stripes—or was it when I set off a small explosion? In any case, I begged to be taken back—why, I don’t know—and at last graduated, fourth from the bottom of my class.”
“Only fourth?”
“Yes, it surprises me now that there were three men who managed to rank below me. What they did to earn that privilege, I shudder to imagine.”
“I would love to know,” Emily said dryly.
Having marked some suitable items as guidance for Major Ficklin’s shopping, Emily handed the magazine to him. Then she frowned. “Major Ficklin, you have been in London, haven’t you?” She looked closely at the excellent cut of his clothes. “I think you know more about what is fashionable than do I.”
“You have caught me, Mrs. Helm. I simply enjoy the pleasure of your company. Now, don’t look at me that way! Ladies are my weakness. When I see a pretty lady, I must contrive to spend time with her.”
“I am the mother of three children, and a recent widow.”
“Yes, I know. That is part of your charm—your unavailability. At least, I trust you are unavailable. I noticed that Irish chap writing some poetry for you.”
“It was a poem about the South, and her noble cause.”
“Not a love poem? I am disappointed. I had heard that he was quite the rogue with the ladies. Still, be careful around him, Mrs. Helm.”
“You are telling me to be careful around him?”
“I am. I am really quite harmless.”
“You have never been married?”
“No. My friends have tried their best. They keep introducing me to young ladies—most of them quite fetching—but I just cannot make up my mind to marry yet. Either there is so much else to do, or the times are so expensive to keep a young lady in the proper style.”
“You could marry an older lady, one of fortune.”
“Now, that is a thought. But that would preclude me enjoying the company of younger ladies, and that just won’t do. Now, there is something that has been bothering me, Mrs. Helm. Your bonnet.”
“My bonnet?”
“Yes. If I may just make a small adjustment—”
With trepidation, Emily handed it over to him. Major Ficklin studied it, and then switched the position of two of the black artificial flowers that adorned it. “Perfect,” he pronounced, and handed it back to her.
Emily studied his handiwork and wondered how she could have possibly approved of any other arrangement of the flowers.
* * *
On March 23, General Singleton was waiting at Emily’s accustomed seat when she came down to breakfast. In a low voice, he said, “Let me speak to you in private, Mrs. Helm.”
Emily nodded and followed him outside. When they had walked a safe distance from curious ears, he said, “We must leave this place. I have it on good authority that things are about to heat up soon, and I don’t want to be trapped here. More to the point, I don’t want you trapped. Mr. Lincoln made me responsible for your safety. He was adamant on that point.”
“Really?”
“Why, of course.” He looked at her quizzically. “Did you think he would not be? You are his sister-in-law, after all.”
Although Bob had told her that she had not lost Mr. Lincoln’s affection with her foolish letter, it was good to have further proof of it. “Yes, of course. I’ll go pack.”
“There’s still unfinished business about our cotton, of course, but that can’t be helped. We’ll take counsel with Mr. Browning when we return to Washington.” He gave her another look. “Mrs. Helm…”
“What, sir?”
“I hope you won’t be leaving a loved one here.”
“What do you mean?”
General Singleton coughed. “I mean, you have been spending a great deal of time with Mr. Conolly and Major Ficklin. I fear that you might have developed an attachment to one of them. Being but young still—”
Emily laughed. “Mr. Conolly has confided in me about his love troubles. He is rather fond of a young lady here, whose parents do not approve of his morals. Major Ficklin is not suited for a domestic life in the least. They are perfectly charming men, and I have enjoyed their company, but neither is a man I would marry, if they were inclined to ask. Which neither is.”
“Well, that’s good.” He looked unconvinced, though. Emily could not blame him, because she too had been surprised to find herself enjoying these last few weeks in Richmond. It had even been amusing to receive the attentions of Mr. Conolly and Major Ficklin, knowing that their hearts were not at risk and that hers was still in Hardin’s keeping.
She had no time to ride out to Chimborazo Hospital, and had to settle for sending Mrs. Pember an affectionate note. In the parlor of the Spotswood, Mr. Conolly lifted his cocktail in a goodbye toast and promised to make her at home should she ever find herself in Ireland. Major Ficklin adjusted her bonnet ribbons to his satisfaction. “I’ll be in Washington soon myself, Mrs. Helm. I hope to see you and General Singleton there.”
“Why don’t you go with us now?”
“Because, dear lady, I have no pass. I must cross the Potomac under cover of darkness. But the young man who rows me across is quite competent, and I’ve no doubt he will bring me through safely.”
“Then I wish you a safe trip.” She strained up and kissed him on the cheek. Hardin surely would not mind.
After she had said goodbye to her lady friends at the Spotswood—a great many of them—she and General Singleton rode to the wharf and boarded the flag-of-truce ship. As it left, Emily stared back at the receding city. What would happen to her friends there? What about the Kentuckians she had encountered, some soldiers, some civilians, who had given her letters and messages to take home with her? Might the letters packed in her trunk be the last communications from some of them? She shuddered.
General Singleton was looking back as well. He shook his head. “I believe that this will be the end, and that it will be ugly, Mrs. Helm. You’re best far away—but I know it pains you to leave.”
“It does. My own cares seem very small by comparison. I feel that I am leaving my friends to their fates.”
Midway through her journey, Emily gazed out of her well-appointed stateroom and saw a steamer heading south, the River Queen. The name was familiar; Emily had heard of it in some connection with Mr. Lincoln. It was then, as if obliging her by removing all possible doubt, that she saw standing on the deck the unmistakable figure of her brother-in-law, staring at the moon. If she had been on the deck, she might have been able to call out to him, but what could she have said? A thank-you for the kindness he had done her in allowing her to come south, and the kindness he was doing her in taking her safely north? A reproach for the destruction that he, through his generals, had wreaked upon the South and its people, and would wreak further? As Emily struggled with her emotions, Mr. Lincoln, unconscious of his audience, remained searching the heavens and was still doing so when his vessel finally drew out of Emily’s view.
It was just as well, Emily supposed, that they had missed the opportunity to speak. Better to wait until another time, when she could find the right words to say to him, when they could come together as family, not as conqueror and vanquished.
Never did it occur to Emily that this was the last time she would see him alive.
29
Mary
March 1865
“Everyone seems to think I need to go to City Point,” Mr. Lincoln said toward the end of March. “Bob has telegraphed to invite me, and so has General Grant. So I guess I’ll go, although I think it’s a plot to get me to rest. Are you in on it, Molly?”
“No,” Mary answered truthfully. “But I certainly agree with the conspirators, if a conspiracy exists.” While the papers had praised the President’s inaugural speech, they had also noted his worn-out appearance, and Mary, happening one day to look at a photograph of him from his first days in office, had actually started at the contrast between that and the man who stood before her.
“Well, you’re invited, too, and Tad. It’ll be good to take a look at the front, at any rate.”
Mary gladly agreed, and on March 23, they drove to the Sixth Street wharf and boarded the River Queen, a steamer that the President had used for an abortive peace conference at Hampton Roads, Virginia just weeks before. When they arrived the next evening at City Point, the hamlet near Petersburg that had become General Grant’s headquarters, the Lincolns found waiting for them not only Bob and the general, but Mrs. Grant.
Ideally, Mary should have taken to Mrs. Grant when the two first met the year before, for they had much in common. Both were from the west—Mrs. Grant hailed from Missouri. Both were from slaveholding families; indeed, Mrs. Grant had traveled with her enslaved nurse until rather embarrassingly late in the war. Both had had to overcome some familial opposition to their marriages. Both, for a time, had enjoyed a less comfortable standard of living as wives than they had enjoyed as daughters. Both were married to extremely busy men.
Aside from that, Mrs. Grant was an agreeable woman: she was even-tempered and, though somewhat shy at first meeting, was quite forthcoming upon further acquaintance without being overly talkative. And while she was a few years younger than Mary, she could not be called handsome, being afflicted with a difficulty of her right eye that gave her a perpetual squint and marred what would have otherwise been a pleasant, if not a pretty, face.
So all told, Mary should have liked Mrs. Grant. She did not, and she knew perfectly well why. It was not that if General Grant won the war, he would likely be nominated for the presidency, although that certainly did not help matters. No, it was the adoring way the general looked at his cross-eyed wife, the almost comical way he indulged her. Even allowing her to take her slave from post to post was the result of his reluctance to see her deprived of any of the comforts she had enjoyed under an equally indulgent father.
Mary knew Mr. Lincoln loved her, of course. But was she as utterly necessary to him as Mrs. Grant was to the general? That she could not help but wonder at, and even to doubt.
Still, she managed a smile when Mrs. Grant was shown into the room of the River Queen that served as her parlor. Then Mrs. Grant plopped onto the sofa next to her, and Mary’s smile froze. Over the past four years, she had grown accustomed to people waiting to be invited to sit beside her, and there was no shortage of chairs in the parlor.
Mrs. Grant noticed her frown, as might any sentient person. “I’m afraid I crowd you,” she said meekly.
“Not at all,” Mary said, far too sweetly. With some satisfaction, she observed Mrs. Grant’s discomfort until the woman at last found an excuse to move.
* * *
The next morning, Mary awoke to good news: while everyone on the River Queen was sound asleep, the rebels had attacked Fort Stedman, scarcely ten miles off from City Point, but had been beaten back.
While the President went ashore to confer with General Grant at his headquarters, Mary stayed behind on the deck, marveling at the activity about her. The siege of Petersburg and General Grant’s need to set up a headquarters and a supply center had transformed this quiet place where the James and Appomattox Rivers met. Now the manor that overlooked the rivers was occupied by the Union quartermaster and his staff, its lawn dotted by tents and cabins, its slaves run off or serving in the Northern army. Ships from the North converged upon City Point at all times, bringing with them anything an army might need—except for bread. It was cooked on-site, and the scent from the bakery was almost strong enough to compensate for the unpleasant smells created by the convergence of too many men and beasts in too small a space.
City Point had its railroad, too, which the Lincolns, the Grants, and a host of others boarded late in the morning to travel to General Meade’s headquarters. As the little train bumped and chugged along, Mary stared out at her surroundings. Ancient trees shielded stately mansions with open doors and gaping windows, abandoned by their aristocratic inhabitants. Where were they now? Refugeeing somewhere, no doubt. One of the few war-related topics that Emily had broached on her visit to Washington had been her grief at having to leave behind her little house in Louisville. Mary had not thought much of it at the time—after all, she had left behind her home as well—but now she felt a twist of pity for those that the war had compelled to wander, even if they had brought it upon themselves. And what of those who had nothing to return to but ruins? Or who would return as little better than ruins themselves?
Then she gasped. Lying near the tracks was the body of a soldier, clad in blue, inches away from another body in butternut. “For goodness’s sake, bury them!” she whispered. The words had just escaped her mouth when the train turned a curve and she saw a whole mass of dead, wounded, and dying men strewn around the field, some close enough for her to see the agony on their faces. Here and there lay scraps of Union and rebel uniforms—but no, they were not mere cloth but parts of men who had set out that morning young and vibrant and whole. She turned away, terrified of what she might see next.
Mr. Lincoln was staring at the bodies as well. “I did warn you, Molly, that we might catch sight of something like this.”
“Yes, you did,” Mary said. “But I hadn’t realized it would be so close.” How on earth did anyone survive these battles with his sanity intact? And what images to fill the dying moments of those who had not survived them, like her brothers and Emily’s husband! Mary shuddered.
Fortunately, they soon reached the station at Globe Tavern, from which they would ride to General Meade’s headquarters. A few horses had been put on the train, and General Grant offered the President his choice between Cincinnati, a large chestnut gelding, and Jeff Davis, a black pony. Knowing that Cincinnati was the general’s favorite, Mr. Lincoln chose Jeff Davis, who was ill-suited for a man of his height. “He looks ridiculous on the mount,” Mary said as she and Mrs. Grant settled into their ambulance.
“I will make certain that the general insists that he have Cincinnati henceforth,” Mrs. Grant said. “Usually it is I who rides Jeff Davis.” She giggled. “My, that does sound vulgar, doesn’t it? But he is a fine pony. He came from the plantation of Jefferson Davis’s brother. He was in rather poor shape when the army captured him, but the general has a wonderful way with horses, and now he has a splendid gait.” Mrs. Grant giggled again. “The pony, that is. But really, doesn’t General Grant sit his horse beautifully?”
