The First Lady and the Rebel, page 38
It was too much for Secretary Stanton, who had joined the crowd around the bed. “Get her out of here,” he snapped.
No one countermanded his order, and Mrs. Dixon gently helped Mary to her feet. “Come, madam.”
She would never see him alive again, she knew; by now the doctors were simply watching with the rest of them. “I have given my husband to die,” she said flatly as Mrs. Dixon led her away.
Twenty minutes later, Bob and their minister, Reverend Gurley, came to tell her that she was correct.
It was nine before she could manage to leave the house for the waiting carriage. First, though, she called little Miss Petersen to her and handed her the brooch she had worn to the theater. “Take this, child. You were very kind to me.”
“I can’t, Mrs. Lincoln.”
“Of course you can, and you must. Keep it as a remembrance.” She had formed an ill opinion of Mr. Petersen—who had disappeared and left his children and boarders to tend to their unexpected guests—so she added, “Don’t tell anyone you have it. It is yours and nobody else’s.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you. I’m sorry about Mr. Lincoln. I watched him come into the theater tonight, and he looked so fine.”
Mary sighed, trying to replace the image she had of the man on the bed with one of Mr. Lincoln in his Brooks Brothers suit (ordered at her behest) and silk hat. “He did.”
As Bob, Mrs. Dixon, and the Reverend Gurley led Mary out the door, she paused on the steps leading from the Petersens’ house onto Tenth Street. Looming across the street was the theater, surrounded by an armed guard—more than once, the crowd had threatened to burn the playhouse to the ground. Never again would she set foot in this place, or in any other theater. “That awful house,” she sobbed, losing the composure she had managed to attain. “That awful, awful house.”
* * *
Barnum’s Hotel and most other establishments in Baltimore were swathed with black crepe, so they blended in with the leaden sky. Although it was pouring rain, the streets were full of people wandering aimlessly around, some of them talking quietly, some of them weeping.
Emily had to squeeze through a mass of them waiting outside the telegraph office. She filled out her message: Would it be agreeable to sister Mary to have me with her. Answer immediately to Barnum Hotel.
The clerk started. “To Robert Lincoln? That Robert Lincoln?”
“Yes. He is my nephew.” Seeing doubt in the man’s eyes, she added, “I am a sister of President Lincoln’s widow.”
It was the first time since Fort Sumter that she had accorded her brother-in-law his title.
The clerk pushed back the money she offered him. “No charge.”
* * *
Bob, or someone in the White House acting for him, sent a short reply: Mrs. Lincoln was seeing no visitors. Emily waited until Monday for another message. Receiving none, she packed her belongings and left for Washington.
Booth was still at large, as was Secretary Seward’s attacker. Soldiers, their weapons conspicuous, boarded the cars, questioned everyone, and stared into everyone’s faces, including the ladies’, just in case the assassins might have donned bonnets and crinolines. It was with considerable relief that Emily stepped off the train in Washington.
Her first stop, after she checked into the Metropolitan Hotel, was at the office of Senator Browning. “What are you doing here?”
“Calling upon you,” Emily snapped.
“I apologize; that wasn’t a gentlemanly welcome, but you shouldn’t be here. Neither should anyone else associated with the rebellion. Do you remember Major Ficklin from Richmond?”
“How on earth could I forget him?” Emily smiled; the major had been kind enough, upon crossing illicitly into Washington, to send her some papers related to her cotton that she had left at her hotel. “Is he still here in Washington?”
“Yes. He’s in Old Capitol Prison. He was arrested yesterday.”
“No! What on earth for?”
“Suspected of conspiring with Booth, what else?”
“He would never do that! Why, he spoke highly of President Lincoln. I cannot believe he had a hand in this awful business.”
“Neither do I, but that’s where we are. Stanton’s not the monster some say he is, but he’s got a job to do, and he’s going to do it without gloves. And that’s where you come in. You’re the widow of a man who died fighting for the South. Mr. Lincoln once mentioned a rather unpleasant letter you wrote to him, in which you showed that you bore a grudge against—”
“That foolish letter! I was grieving for so many people at the time.”
“You’ve recently been in Richmond, where some think the assassination was cooked up. Then you went to Baltimore, where Booth lived as a boy and which he seems to have visited recently as well. You’ve been friendly with Ficklin, who sent you papers.”
“Perfectly legitimate papers!”
“And I would be willing to bet that when you were down South, you accepted letters from people, some of them near strangers, to pass along to their friends to Kentucky. Am I right?”
“Yes, of course. I mailed them when I got to Washington.”
“Do you know what was in them?”
“Of course not. But I’m sure they were all harmless.”
“Probably. But put these things all together, and you could easily wind up in Old Capitol yourself on suspicion. Until Booth and his gang are caught, tried, and hanged, everyone is game for Stanton’s net. And that includes you. Go back to Kentucky, and stay there quietly. I’ll do what I can about your cotton—though I warn you that President Johnson is a very different man than President Lincoln—and I’ll see to it that your name doesn’t get dragged publicly into this. I’ll do what I can for Major Ficklin as well. Someone who’s faced down danger as much as he has isn’t going to be much the worse for a spell in prison.”
Emily sighed, but found she could make no arguments against Mr. Browning’s advice. “Have you seen my sister?”
“Mrs. Lincoln is seeing no one. I stopped by there this morning. You’re not thinking of going there, are you?”
“Yes. That was my main purpose in coming to this city.”
“I wouldn’t risk it.”
“I have to. She is my sister, and this is the worst thing that has ever happened to her. To any woman, almost.” Emily rose. “Good afternoon, Mr. Browning. Thank you for your time.”
* * *
Washington was every bit as crepey as Baltimore and festooned with “Wanted” posters for Booth and the unnamed assailant of Mr. Seward. As she walked to the Executive Mansion, Emily took some comfort in the fact that the description of the latter bore no resemblance to Major Ficklin, or to anyone else she knew.
Bearing Mr. Browning’s words in mind, she did not ask at the White House for Mary, but for Bob. It was Tad, however, who ran into her arms. “Aunt Emily!”
“Tad.” She hugged him tight. “I cannot tell you how sorry I was to hear about your father.”
“It was horrible,” Tad said simply. “Someone announced at Aladdin that he had been shot, but someone else said it was just a wild rumor and we shouldn’t be worried. But then I learned that it was true.”
“What a dreadful way to learn the news.”
Tad nodded. “I miss him. But I will see him in heaven if I am good, and I am trying to be better. Anyway, Bob is busy, but he should be here shortly. Father’s in your old room until they move him to the East Room for the public viewing tomorrow, and then the funeral on Wednesday. Would you care to see him? Bob says that the embalmer did a fine job.”
“I would be honored.”
Tad led Emily to her former lodgings. There on a table lay a figure draped in a sheet, which Tad carefully lifted to reveal his father’s face. Emily took her nephew’s hand and gazed at the remains of the man she had met when she was a mere girl and he seemed to her to be the tallest being in the universe.
His first words to her, spoken when she was a child, had been gentle. “Little Sister.” And her last words to him had been harsh. Oh, why couldn’t she have at least lifted her hand in a friendly greeting that last time she saw him?
“Don’t cry, Aunt Emily. You’ll make me start.”
Emily nodded and brushed her tears away as Tad gently replaced the sheet. As they left the room, her companion said, “Don’t tell Mother that I brought you in there. She doesn’t like even me coming in there.”
“She hasn’t seen him?”
“No, and she won’t. She won’t go into his old room, or even her old room. She hardly sees anyone. But maybe she’d like to see you. I’ll bring you to her.”
“Tad, if she doesn’t want—”
“Come along!”
Emily had planned to broach a meeting with Mary delicately, through Bob. But since it seemed to be what Tad wanted, she let him tug her along.
Mary had taken up residence in a small room into which a single bed had been moved. “Here’s Aunt Emily to see you,” Tad announced to a figure underneath the covers.
Mary sat up. “Get out.”
“But, Mother…”
“Run along, Tad. I will join you in a few minutes.” Tad obeyed, while Emily looked at her sister with horror. Mary’s eyes were mere slits from crying, and her nightgown was far from fresh.
“Did I not tell you to get out?”
“I only wanted to give you my condolences, Mary, and to see if there was anything I could do for you.”
“You only wanted to gloat over my husband’s death. You and your rebels wanted this! Do you think I am so naive as to think that that vile creature Booth acted alone? Jeff Davis himself is responsible for this. I know it!”
“If he is, he should be tried and hanged. Anyone involved with this murder should be.” Emily looked around the room. With its multitude of windows, it should have been light and airy, but all the blinds were shut and all the windows closed. “Do let me open a window or two and find a fresh nightgown for you.”
“Don’t you dare touch those windows.”
Emily obeyed, and instead sat.
“Since you are making yourself at home, I suppose you may stay a while.”
“Thank you.”
“But only for a few minutes.”
“All right, Mary.” Emily sat in silence for a moment before venturing, “I will be going back to Kentucky tomorrow.”
“To my gloating stepmother?”
“She will not be gloating, Mary, and neither am I. It was sad news to me. Horrid news. You must believe me.”
She took Mary’s hand, and her sister surprised her by not brushing it away. “You will be remaining in Lexington?”
“I don’t know. It has become unpleasant for me there. I may find someplace else to live—someplace that has not been touched so much by the war, and where I can make a living if I have to.”
“At what?”
“Teaching music, perhaps. People will want some beauty in their lives after all this.”
“I would offer to help, but I fear I have been left a pauper.”
Emily doubted this—Mr. Lincoln had always been frugal—but wisely did not argue. Instead, she asked, “Have you given thought to where you will live? I know it is very early—”
“Not Springfield; not without my husband. Chicago, perhaps. But I require time to make my arrangements, though I am sure the Inebriate believes otherwise.”
“The Inebriate?”
“That creature who is now President. Such a disgrace to the office! I would not be surprised if this house does not collapse with sheer disgust when he moves in.”
“Perhaps he will rise to the solemnity of his office.”
Mary dismissed this with a snort. “In any case, I will leave when I am good and ready. Contrary to what you may think, I have not languished in bed this entire time. I have met with Secretary Stanton about the funeral arrangements; I have discussed my husband’s final resting place; I have received the occasional visitor. But I do always come back to this bed.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not want to think about life without my dear husband. Because I have so many regrets that I can escape only when I sleep. So many hasty remarks I made over the years to him, so many times I trespassed upon his generous nature. But you would not understand that, I am sure, being such a perfect little wife.”
“I have my own regrets.”
“Really? What would those be?”
Emily swallowed as she prepared to tell Mary what she had told no one else, even her mother. “When Hardin came home on his last leave, he was in poor health, tired of the war, anxious to be at home with me and the children. I encouraged him, helped restore his spirits, and sent him back to the front in fine health—the perfect fodder for a Union minié ball. I did those things because I thought his sense of honor and duty demanded them. But what if I had not? What if I had squalled and begged and carried on, and he had resigned his commission? He would be alive today, and with me.”
“Ah, well. But he would have been guilt-ridden, no doubt. And in any case, you may overestimate your power. I find that when a man gives in to our wishes, it is usually only when he had secretly wanted to do something anyway.”
“Perhaps. But I will always think it might have been otherwise.”
They sat in silence for a while before Mary said, “Someone—I don’t remember who, there has been so much going around me—told me that the doctors saved the bullet that killed my dear husband. Such a tiny thing, he said, to change history. And then I thought of that letter you wrote to my husband. I also would remind you that your minié bullets have made us what we are.”
“Writing that letter is another thing I regret.”
“But you were right, in one respect. Those bullets have made us what we are.”
“But they can’t change what we were, Mary. And I hope they won’t determine what we will be in the future.”
They clasped hands in silence. Finally, Emily said, “Shall I stay?”
“No. Unjust as it may be, when I look at you, I think of those rebels who killed my beloved husband. Later, it may be different. But for now…”
“Then I will leave.” Emily carefully kissed her sister’s cheek, then headed toward the door. When she put her hand to it, she turned. “Mary?”
“Now what?”
“I am sorry; you know that we Todds always like to have the last word. I just wanted to let you know that whatever the future holds for us, I will always honor the memory of your husband.” Emily opened the door. “Goodbye, and God bless you. Bob will know where to find me if you should ever want me.”
* * *
Her sister was at last gone. Mary sighed, and then lay back down and closed her eyes.
But she would rise again soon: to keep a presuming group of Springfield citizens from burying her husband in the middle of town, without having even consulted her first. Still later, she would fight for the pension she deserved as the widow of a great man.
Then her husband’s former law partner, the drunken William Herndon, took to the lecture circuit and started with his wild stories—the worst being that long before he came to Springfield, Mr. Lincoln had fallen in love with some country girl named Ann Rutledge, who died of a fever before they could marry, and that he had never loved another woman since. Yet another cruel blow was to come: the death of her beloved Tad of pleurisy at age eighteen. Who would not act a little oddly under the circumstances? It was at this low point in her life that that monster of ingratitude, that creature she had to call her oldest son, had dragged her in front of a jury and had her declared insane, then committed her to a lunatic asylum.
But Mary had fought back and gained her release on a sort of parole to her sister Elizabeth, and now she stood in the hallway of Elizabeth’s home in Springfield, where everything that was good about her life had started, staring at a telegram. The court had declared her restored to reason.
Well. She could quibble with the wording—how could one be restored to what had never been lost?—and the person she would not name still had quantities of her property, which would have to be wrestled out of his grasp. But for the moment, she savored her victory. She was sane, and she had gotten a judge to admit that, for the entire nation to know.
Emily had been right in those words spoken over a decade before. The Todds did like the last word.
Epilogue
May 31, 1909
By train, by foot, by horse and buggy, and even by motorcar, thousands of people had converged upon Hodgenville, Kentucky, for the dedication of a statue commemorating the centennial of Abraham Lincoln’s birth near that sleepy town. Fanning themselves in the heat, waving Union and even Confederate flags, the spectators crowded around the sculptor Adolph Alexander Weinman’s production, its base bearing the word LINCOLN, the figure concealed beneath a large American flag. With a tug of a cord, the drape would fall gracefully from the statue, or so Emily, sitting on a platform with the Kentucky governor and a host of other dignitaries, had been assured.
Beside her, the last surviving sibling of Mary Lincoln, was Bob, the last surviving son of Abraham. Their respective statuses had not been lost on the reporters of the land, and while Bob was notoriously shy of the press, Emily was generally more willing to oblige by talking about the people she’d known, most all of them long dead. People like Hardin. People like her brother-in-law the President. People like her sister Mary.
More than anyone, it was Mary the reporters wanted to know about, especially as the years passed and the stories about her grew wilder. Had Mr. Lincoln left her at the altar? (No.) Had she pillaged the White House before departing it? (Certainly not.) Had she been the unloved wife of a man whose heart lay in the grave with Ann Rutledge? (A most emphatic no.) And—albeit usually phrased more delicately—was she crazy?
