The First Lady and the Rebel, page 36
Hardin, whose photograph was always the first thing Emily unpacked and sat on the dresser during her travels, would not want her to fall prey to despair—and neither would Emily’s pride suffer her to do so. So on April 6, when Baltimore, its civic pride demanding that it respond to Washington’s illumination two nights before, put on its own show of gaslight and candles, she did not draw her curtains, but pulled a chair up to the window and watched Baltimoreans gawk at the brilliance around them. For many of them, she knew, it mattered less that the Union had almost won the war than that it was almost over. Now men could pursue their professions, farm their fields, marry, and sire children without the fear of being called away to an uncertain fate. Who could blame them for rejoicing?
Still, if she never heard a band play “Yankee Doodle” again in her life, she would be quite satisfied.
* * *
“Mon Dieu,” said the Marquis de Chambrun as their carriage passed the husks of burned-out houses, some trailing smoke.
Mary could not have said it better. Even before their party reached Richmond, they had seen plenty to presage the ruin they witnessed now: the dead horses lining the riverbanks, the debris from blown-up ships floating in the river, the flags marking the sites of suspected torpedoes, which, the captain had been overheard to say, could blow them to kingdom come if he were not careful to avoid them.
He had been careful, and their party—Mary, Senator Sumner, the charming young visitor from France, Senator and Mrs. Harlan and their daughter, and Mrs. Keckly—had arrived at the wharf and their waiting carriages safely, greeted by the cheers of the city’s colored population. Two days before, President Lincoln had been the object of their adulation.
Their journey to their first destination—the house where Jeff Davis had lived—took them first through the streets that had been spared from the fires that had licked through the city after the departing rebels set ablaze anything that was likely to be of use to the Union. From these streets Mary might have supposed Richmond to be one vast slum, for only the poorest people were abroad, either clutching the rations the Sanitary and Christian Commissioners were handing out in Capitol Square or going in search of them. Only the occasional glimpse of faces peeping through the venetian blinds of elegant houses betrayed the presence of Richmond’s celebrated aristocracy.
The party’s approach to the heart of the city coincided with their arrival at the burned district—block after block of singed ruins in every stage of collapse. But it was the paper covering the streets that most impressed Mary. Scorched by fire, sodden by rain showers, blown about by the breeze, documents of every description—rebel banknotes, business records, government memoranda, letters that had been treasured for generations—crunched under the wheels of the carriage as it approached the columned mansion where the Lincolns’ counterparts had dined, slept, celebrated, and grieved.
Mary shuddered as she looked at the portico. There, one of the Davis boys, a lad much younger than Willie, had fallen fifteen feet to the ground while playing and had died within an hour. Reading the report in the newspaper was the only time in the past four years that Mary had allowed herself to feel a glimmer of sympathy for the rebel president and his wife.
She brushed these gloomy thoughts from her mind as General Godfrey Weitzel, who had led the Union troops into Richmond and who now occupied the house, greeted them, overseen by Mrs. Davis’s former housekeeper, Mary O’Meila, an Irishwoman whose expression showed that she had seen far too many Yankees in the last few days. Mary thought of complimenting her and the colored servants Mrs. Davis had left behind on the condition of the house, which was so immaculate as to give the impression that its mistress might be coming back at any moment. As Mrs. O’Meila’s countenance remained grim, however, Mary refrained and instead toured the house, trying not to feel too terribly smug about the decidedly faded state of its red, plush furniture.
Their next visit was to the State Capital. So this was how a government looked when it collapsed, Mary realized, staring at the broken desks, the overturned spittoons, and more paper, paper, paper. With no Mrs. O’Meilas to inhibit them, Mary and the others roamed the senate chamber. “This must be where old Jeff himself sat,” Senator Harlan said.
Senator Sumner nodded at Mrs. Keckly. “Madam, please take a seat here.”
Mrs. Keckly, a lady who stood on her dignity, seldom smiled. But as the seamstress who had bought her own freedom from slavery settled first in Jefferson Davis’s chair, and then in the chair of the rebel vice president, Alexander Stephens, she distinctly smirked.
* * *
Seldom had Mary seen Mr. Lincoln in better spirits than he was when the River Queen prepared to return to Washington. At the farewell party held in the evening of April 8, he ordered the band to play the “Marseillaise,” which he had always liked, and when the Marquis de Chambrun wistfully commented that it was banned in his country by its emperor, the President ordered it played again. “Have you heard ‘Dixie’?” Mr. Lincoln asked his French guest. “It is more or less the official song down in these parts.”
The marquis shook his head, and Mr. Lincoln gave another command. His foot bounced up and down as the startled band obeyed, a little rustily at first but soon growing more sure of themselves. “My, I’ve missed that tune these past few years.”
The President’s bright mood continued the next day as they steamed toward Washington. The River Queen carried a modest library, including a volume of Shakespeare, which the President seized and began reading to them—mainly from Macbeth, his favorite play, as Mary had found out early in their courtship, when he would seize a leather-bound Shakespeare from Ninian Edwards’s well-stocked shelves and become so engrossed that he sometimes forgot her presence. More than once, Mary had hidden the volume, in the belief that Mr. Lincoln and she should be getting up to something more interesting, but he inevitably found it.
Really, it still astounded her that she and Mr. Lincoln had managed to get married. Mary smiled.
Mr. Lincoln was expounding on Macbeth like a professor. “Look how well Macbeth’s torment and guilt are expressed,” he said, having just killed off Duncan. “I am particularly fond of this passage:
“Had I but died an hour before this chance,
I had lived a blessed time; for, from this instant,
There’s nothing serious in mortality:
All is but toys: renown and grace is dead;
The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees
Is left this vault to brag of.”
“You should have been a player, Papa,” Tad said.
“Well, who knows? I will still have to make a living when I leave Washington.” He put down his book and gazed contentedly out at the river.
They arrived in Washington around six. Mr. Lincoln made a flying visit to the White House before riding to visit the unfortunate Secretary Seward, who had been injured in a carriage accident several days before and was bedridden, though considered to be past all danger. Having sent her sympathies with the President, Mary was catching up with her correspondence when her husband came into the room at about ten that evening. “While we were on our way back, General Grant accepted General Lee’s surrender.”
There was nothing to say to such news; Mary didn’t even try. Instead, she simply embraced him as they both wept tears of joy. Finally, the President brushed his eyes and croaked, “Well, who gets to tell Tad?”
* * *
Emily stared at the paper and the news that only a handful of people in Baltimore besides herself could care about: the rumor that Selma had been captured and burned. Were her sisters homeless? What of Maggie? Guilt scraped at Emily again, for leaving Maggie behind.
But if Selma had indeed fallen—and given the stack of dominos that now constituted the Confederacy, and the shouts outside of the newsboys proclaiming the latest news of General Lee’s surrender, Emily had no reason to disbelieve the rumor—Maggie was now free. Would she return to Emily and the children? Emily did not know, and she also knew that it was not to her credit that having been mistress over Maggie all these years, she could not venture a guess.
* * *
When Washington had awoken on April 10 to the news that the President gave Mary the previous evening, a mass of joyous humanity had rushed to the White House, where Tad, commandeering the window over the door, waved a rebel flag as the crowd cheered. Mr. Lincoln had then appeared himself, promising a proper speech the next day and ordering the band to play “Dixie”—now captured property, he had joked—and “Yankee Doodle.”
Once again, the White House glowed to fine account on the evening of April 11, when Mr. Lincoln stepped to the window with a handwritten speech. Mr. Noah Brooks, who was soon to replace Mr. Hay upon the latter’s embarkment upon a diplomatic posting, held a candle so that Mr. Lincoln could see what he was reading, and Tad helpfully caught the pages as the President discarded them one by one. Mary, the Marquis de Chambrun, and Miss Clara Harris stood at the next window, admiring the crowd and listening to the speech.
The speech—about his plans to bring the South back into the nation—was more solemn than befitted the occasion, Mary thought. Still, she supposed it needed to be said, and she was pleased to hear her husband also speak of giving certain colored men the vote. Those words caused a few to gasp, and Mary from her fine vantage point saw two men, one dark and slightly built, the other almost hulking in appearance, go so far as to stride away in apparent high dudgeon. Normally such a sight would have irritated her, but the last few days had been so wondrous, she simply shook her head at their folly and settled back with her friends.
* * *
Lee’s surrender demanded an ever-finer illumination than the fall of Richmond had occasioned, and this time, Mary was determined to see it. Mr. Lincoln being inclined to rest, she invited the newly arrived General Grant to accompany her through town—but not his wife. Not that she had explicitly excluded Mrs. Grant, mind you, but everyone seemed to understand it that way, and as the general explained upon his arrival that he had just come from seeing the illumination with Mrs. Grant and the Stantons (but was quite happy to see it all over again), all worked out nicely.
A quiet man who eschewed small talk, General Grant proved to be good company, content to sit back and allow Mary to give her full attention to the lights—except for when the crowd noticed him and began cheering, which happened rather too often to be entirely pleasant. But still, what a fine sight it was! The Patent Office spelled out UNION in gas jets, while a clothing store inquired in the same element HOW ARE YOU, LEE? Innumerable buildings spelled out GRANT, just in case her companion had been in any danger of forgetting his name. LINCOLN was also remembered on various edifices, and a transparency of George Washington looked down benevolently from the bank bearing his name. Secretary Stanton had bedecked his house with flags of the various army units. A fifty-dollar bond graced the Treasury Building. The principal hotels glistened, as did Grover’s Theatre and Ford’s Theater. The Capitol was brilliantly lit, as was the insane asylum. Across the river, General Lee’s Arlington House mansion, long since taken over by the Union, shimmered as if fully aware of the delicious irony of it all.
Mr. Lincoln was in bed when she returned home, but waiting for her was a bit of pleasant news: Bob was coming to Washington and would likely be there the next morning, the 14th. Whether he would be home for good, Mary did not know, but at least he was likely out of all danger, as were so many other young men now. True, there was still a rebel army in the field, led by General Joseph Johnston, but it had recently been defeated at Bentonville in North Carolina and would doubtlessly soon be following General Lee’s excellent example of surrendering.
Mary plumped her pillow, remembering the words the marquis had spoken a few days before as the River Queen had passed Mount Vernon. He had said that one day, Springfield, Illinois, might bear a similar status in the nation’s heart as the home of the man who had brought its people through this terrible civil war. (The marquis’s accent had made the compliment all the more charming.) Mr. Lincoln, standing a bit apart, had been in one of his reveries, or else he would have been heartily embarrassed by such flattery. But had it been flattery? Time would tell, and in any case her husband’s second term had only just begun. There was much to be done.
Still, four Aprils before, the country had been descending into war, and now peace was at hand. It would be hard work knitting the country back together, and no one could be so naive as to think the process would be an easy one, but Mary had no doubt that her husband could manage it.
And she would be at his side as he carried out this task. Smiling, Mary shut her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
31
Emily and Mary
April 14, 1865, to June 1876
On the morning of April 14, Emily received a letter from Mr. Browning, assuring her he had not forgotten her. Between Mr. Lincoln’s extended absence at City Point, and the excitement of the past few days, there had been no opportunity to see him, but he intended to wait on the President that afternoon. There was every reason to think that all the necessary permits would soon be issued.
It was middling good news—“every reason to think” was not as encouraging as Emily would have once believed—but at least it was not bad news. For a Southerner in April 1865, one had to take good news when one could find it.
* * *
Bob indeed turned up for breakfast on the morning of April 14, sunburned and eager to recount what he had seen of General Lee’s surrendering to General Grant at a place called Appomattox Court House. “We all took away a good impression of General Lee,” he said, handing his father a carte de visite. “He seems a good man, and his men were obviously devoted to him.”
“A good face,” said Mr. Lincoln, studying the photograph. “We will need men like these in the days to come.”
Mary smiled at Bob, who was tackling his breakfast with gusto. “And lawyers, too.”
“Yes, it looks as if I’ll be going back to Harvard in the fall,” Bob said. “I’ll be glad enough of it. I can say I’ve seen action and didn’t shirk my duties, which is all I ever wanted. But for now, all I want is a haircut and a shave.”
“And then perhaps a visit to Miss Harlan,” Mary suggested.
“As a matter of fact, I did have that in mind.” Bob grinned and downed his coffee.
“Perhaps the two of you could join us at the theater tonight. Mr. Ford invited us; Miss Keene will be the leading lady. The Grants will be coming, I expect.”
“I’ll think about it,” Bob said.
Mary already guessed what his decision would be. Of the four of them, he was the least avid playgoer, and besides, the gossip that being seated with Miss Harlan in the presidential box would inspire would be unendurable to him. “Very well.”
“I’m going to see Aladdin at Grover’s,” Tad said. “But it might be a bit tame for you. I’m getting a little old for it myself. I’m only going because it’s polite to spread around our patronage.”
“Indeed,” Bob said. “Well, I’ll think about it.”
* * *
Usually it was Mary who had to hunt down the President for their carriage rides, but this afternoon, Mr. Lincoln appeared in her room at the appointed time, wearing the shawl he favored for days that were not sufficiently chilly to warrant an overcoat. “Are you ready, madam?”
“Indeed I am, sir.”
He gave her his arm—really, what had gotten into the man?—and they strolled to their waiting carriage, the President handing her in with a flourish. As Mary adjusted her dress, her husband said, “I should have mentioned earlier that the Grants won’t be joining us tonight. Mrs. Grant wanted to see their children in New Jersey—I certainly can’t blame her—and the general gave in to her command.”
“I’ll find someone.”
“It will disappoint Ford, I’m sure, because everyone in Washington wants to gawk at the general. But he’ll get his share when he becomes president.” Seeing Mary’s look, he added, “I’m not going to be running for a third term, unless there’s a very good reason for me to stay here, so Grant’s the logical choice. I’ll be more than ready to go back to my practice in Springfield.”
“Springfield? I had hoped we might move to a larger place, such as Chicago, or even New York. But I will abide by your wishes.”
“Abide by my wishes? What’s got into you, Molly?” He winked. “But there’s plenty of time to decide that. Besides, I know you’d like to travel a bit, and I would, too. I’d like to see Europe, and Jerusalem. California, too. Now, that might be a thought for when we leave here. Maybe I could run for governor.”
“I must say, Mr. Lincoln, I have seldom seen you this cheerful before.”
“There’s cause for cheer, with the war almost over. I want both of us to be more cheerful in the future, because we have both been very miserable, between Willie’s death and this war.”
“I feel that I have added to your misery sometimes, as with my performance at City Point,” Mary said quietly. “For that I am very sorry.”
“Now, that’s not cheerful talk. Come, let’s just each promise to do better, and leave what’s past in the past.”
She agreed, and they rode on to the Navy Yard, where several monitors had been brought for repairs, and boarded the Montauk, which had recently seen battle at Fort Fisher in North Carolina. “Fine old girl,” Mr. Lincoln said, “She’s done good service.”
For a while, they traipsed around the ship, save for the passages where Mary’s skirts would not allow her to navigate, and chatted with her crew. Mary was much amused to meet its surgeon, Dr. George Todd, as unlike her disagreeable, rebel surgeon brother by the same name as a man could be. When, in passing, Mary mentioned that she and the President would be going to see Miss Laura Keene perform that night, Dr. Todd said that he had been thinking of going himself.
