Mrs. Lincoln's Sisters

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  They waited an hour, taking turns at the window and leaving the door open so they could query a conductor if he passed by. Eventually the compartment began to feel so close and confining that Emilie had to go outside for some air. They met the stationmaster on the platform, and when he assured them there was no danger of the train leaving them behind, they strolled off into the town in search of hot coffee and a good meal.

  Upon their return to the depot, they learned that the Sixth Massachusetts had repaired the railroad tracks damaged in the melee and raced off to Washington. But any hopes that they too might soon continue their interrupted journey were swiftly dashed when the stationmaster grimly reported that at least three soldiers and nine civilians had been killed in the riots and scores more injured. The damage to property had been even worse than originally estimated: after the federal troops had escaped, frenzied Southern sympathizers had destroyed railroad tracks leading to the North, burned bridges, and severed telegraph lines, isolating Washington from the rest of the Union.

  The capital city stood alone, stranded and imperiled, surrounded by enemies.

  Feeling faint, Emilie tried to draw in a deep, steadying breath, but her corset restrained her. “Are the Confederates shelling Washington, as they did Fort Sumter?” she asked, a tremor in her voice.

  “No, ma’am, not that I’m aware of,” the stationmaster replied.

  “We have family there, you see,” she said, pressing a palm flat against her stomach.

  “Sir,” the stationmaster said, addressing Ben, “if I may suggest, you ought to find a good boardinghouse for yourself and your lady, before the best are all taken. We won’t be leaving tonight, nor tomorrow, I suspect, and you’ll be much more comfortable in a proper room than in your compartment.”

  Ben agreed, and while Emilie returned to the train to put their things in order, he went into town to find a suitable place to stay. By nightfall they had settled into a clean, comfortable suite only three blocks from the station. They hoped to spend only one night there, but one night became two and then three. They joked that they should think of it as a second honeymoon, feigning more mirth than they truly felt. They spent the days exploring Sykesville until Emilie believed she could draw a map of it from memory, and they gathered what news they could from the stationmaster, their boardinghouse dining companions, and the papers. Word that Washington City was isolated and vulnerable had sent a frisson of urgency racing through the North. While young men rushed to join regiments and engineers raced to repair the damaged bridges and railroad tracks, Northern governors ordered their newly mustered regiments to Washington and military officers contrived other ways to transport them there, since Baltimore remained impassable.

  “You see?” said Ben, offering Emilie an encouraging smile. “Mary and Abe and the children are safe. It would have been front-page news if they were not, and even as we speak, regiments of fine Union soldiers are hastening to the capital to protect them.”

  As he spoke, his smile was as warm and his eyes as kind as ever, but a new tension in his voice made her half expect him next to say that they should give up and return to Lexington. Yet if he ever considered it, he said nothing.

  At last, train service resumed, and shortly after noon on April 25, they arrived at the Baltimore & Ohio depot in Washington City. They had telegraphed ahead, but with repairs to the lines still in progress, they did not know whether the Lincolns had received their message until they found Mary waiting in a carriage for them outside the station. Their trunks were swiftly stowed, they climbed aboard, and Emilie found herself in her elder sister’s arms, both of them tearful from relief as the horses swiftly carried them to the White House.

  The Seventh New York Regiment had arrived at the same station only a few hours before, Mary reported. The soldiers, clad in crisp new uniforms, had marched past throngs of cheering, relieved citizens to the White House to meet Abe, and then on to bivouac in the House chamber. Earlier that afternoon, Mary had gone out with Abe, Secretary of State Seward, and Secretary of War Cameron to review the troops, and she pronounced them brave and magnificent, ready for whatever might come. More regiments were expected any hour from Massachusetts, Ohio, Rhode Island, and elsewhere, and there were rumors that some would set up camp in the Capitol rotunda and others in the Executive Mansion itself. With the military presence increasing hour by hour, fears of an imminent Confederate invasion had diminished, but Baltimore remained a dangerous nest of Southern collusion, and railroad service had yet to be fully restored.

  As they drove up Pennsylvania Avenue past soldiers marching here, drilling there, and pitching tents in orderly rows on an expanse of green meadow in between, Emilie realized that she was visiting a vastly different city than the one the other Todd sisters had toured only weeks before.

  “Since you were delayed, we will have so much less time together than we had planned,” Mary lamented later as she led Emilie on a tour of the White House while Ben and Abe conferred in the president’s study. “There will be no balls, I’m afraid, nor levees, but the Seventh New York Regiment band will perform on the South Lawn Saturday morning, and I shall introduce you to several fine ladies and gentlemen then.”

  “I can only imagine how terribly busy you and brother Abe must be,” said Emilie, linking her arm through her sister’s. “We’re happy that you have any time to spare for us. Ben was especially eager to discuss the states’ rights conflict with brother Abe. You know how much Ben respects his opinion.”

  Mary smiled, eyes bright, as if she were bursting with some secret. “They may have more opportunities to converse in the days ahead than you imagine.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Emilie, but Mary merely gave a little shrug, declared that Emilie must see the greenhouses, and led her off in that direction.

  Two days later, after the Seventh New York Regiment band had performed and the invited guests had departed, Emilie learned what lay behind her sister’s mysterious remark.

  They were sitting in the family’s private sitting room when Abe rose from his armchair and withdrew an envelope from a desk drawer. “Ben,” he said, handing him the envelope, “here is something for you. Think it over by yourself and let me know what you will do.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Ben opened the envelope and took out a thick sheet of paper embossed with the presidential seal. Reading alongside him, Emilie suppressed a gasp when she saw that Ben had been offered a commission as paymaster in the United States Army, with the rank of major. Even Emilie knew that this was one of the most coveted posts in the service, and that it was quite exceptional for a man only thirty years old to be offered the rank of major.

  Emilie knew her husband was deeply moved, and she knew that after thanking Abe for the great honor, it pained him to add, “But you know I’m a strong Southern-rights Democrat.”

  “I know,” said Abe, looking amused.

  “This commission is beyond anything I had expected in my most hopeful dreams.” Ben shook his head in disbelief as he read the page again. “It is the place above all others which suits me.”

  “That is why I offered you the post—your qualifications, and because I must have someone with your integrity and intelligence serving in this role.”

  “You’ve been extraordinarily kind and generous to me.” A flush rose in Ben’s cheeks. “I have no claim upon you. I opposed your candidacy, and I campaigned for your opponent.”

  “That is how I know you will always do what you think is right, and not what you think I want to hear.”

  “I wish I could see my way clear,” said Ben, thinking aloud. After a moment, he squared his shoulders, held Abe’s gaze, and said, “I’ll try to do what I think is right this time too. You shall have my answer in a few days.”

  Inclining his head, the president said he would await Ben’s decision.

  Emilie knew Ben had resigned from the military with great reluctance, and now that he had regained his health and the need for experienced officers was urgent, he long
ed to return to the service. Many of his former comrades were among the forces defending the capital, and Ben had sought them out in their encampments. There they reminisced about old times and talked of the unexpected twists of fate that had put many longtime friends on opposite sides of the swiftly intensifying conflict. Perhaps these same friends could advise him now.

  After Abe left the sitting room to return to work, Ben went out for a long walk to consider how to respond. He returned more than an hour later, pensive, and although he seemed in good spirits that evening at supper with the family, Emilie sensed his ambivalence and strain.

  Later, when she and Ben were preparing for bed, he revealed that while out walking, he had come upon Colonel Robert E. Lee of the Second Cavalry, whom he had known at the military academy. Seeing that the venerable soldier labored under a heavy burden of the spirit, Ben had asked, “Are you not well, Colonel Lee?”

  “Well in body, but not in mind,” the colonel had replied sadly. “I have just resigned my commission in the United States Army. In the prime of life, I quit a service wherein were all my expectations and hopes in this world.”

  “A similar dilemma confronts me,” Ben had admitted. He had handed the colonel Abe’s letter offering him the commission. Colonel Lee had read it in silence. When he finished, Ben had asked, “Did you know Mr. Lincoln is my brother-in-law?”

  “No, I did not,” Colonel Lee had said, “but allow me to say this: I have no doubt of his kindly intentions, but he cannot control the forces at work here. There must be a great war. I cannot strike at my own people, so today I wrote out my resignation and asked General Scott as a favor to make it effective immediately. My mind is too much disturbed to give you any advice, except to say that you should do what your conscience and honor bid.”

  When Ben finished his story, Emilie tentatively prompted, “And what is it that your conscience and honor bid you to do?”

  “I’m not certain. I don’t doubt Abe’s good intentions, or his kindly feelings for the South. But how can one man stem the tide of bitterness and hatred driving these two opposing regions into mortal conflict?”

  “Colonel Lee has followed his beloved Virginia out of the Union,” Emilie pointed out. “Kentucky has not seceded. If you follow his example, you would remain with your state in the Union.”

  “Kentucky has not declared for either side, but the sentiment is strongly Southern. Yet my father is a staunch Union man, and I know Abe to be wise.” Ben shook his head, sighing wearily. “This is not a decision I can make tonight, or even tomorrow, although I’m sure Abe would prefer my answer before we depart.”

  “I’m sure Mary would too.”

  Indeed, at dinner earlier that evening, Mary had made no secret of how she longed to have Emilie remain in Washington with her. “You are so beautiful and charming that you will be the belle at every White House reception and at every ball you attend,” she had gushed, and smiling at Ben, she had added, “And we need scholarly, dignified young men like yourself to ornament our army.”

  Emilie knew that Ben was mindful of the tremendous opportunity that had been placed before him—the chance to embark on a brilliant career for which he was eminently qualified. He also sincerely loved Abe and Mary and was moved by their affection and gratified by their faith in him.

  And yet he was torn.

  The next morning Emilie and Ben bade the Lincolns a sad farewell, with warm handshakes and promises to write. “We hope to see you both again very soon in Washington,” Mary murmured to Emilie as they shared a parting embrace.

  “The highest position in the profession for which I was educated has been placed in my hands,” Ben reflected as their train left the capital. “I would not only be the youngest officer of my rank in the army, but soon I could transfer to one of the cavalry regiments. With so many Southern officers resigning to join the Confederacy, I could likely be a full colonel within a year.”

  “It does seem promising,” said Emilie, wondering why, then, he did not seize the opportunity at once, firmly, with both hands.

  Their return journey proved much less eventful than their outbound trip, and soon they were back in Lexington, surrounded by their children, their friends, and all the comforts of home. Ben promptly sought the counsel of trusted mentors and comrades and talked passionately with them about states’ rights. He learned that many friends had already resolved to side with the Confederacy.

  “I feel as Colonel Lee did, that I cannot strike against my own people,” Ben confided to Emilie. “I have struggled bitterly over what to do.”

  “I know.”

  “Our differences of opinion could never affect the love I feel for your sister and my brother-in-law.”

  “I know that too,” she said gently, resting a hand on his shoulder. “They do as well.”

  That afternoon Ben wrote to President Lincoln to decline the position of paymaster. It was, he told Emilie afterward, the most painful moment of his life.

  She believed him, for she shared his pain, just as she shared his allegiance to the South, for above all other ties of friendship and family, her first loyalty was to her husband. She would share his fate, for better or for worse, until death did them part.

  19

  January 1876

  Ann

  Although Mary refused to hand over the pistol so they could inspect it, the Todd sisters assumed that it was the same gun Mary and Abe had given to ten-year-old Tad in 1863. Their youngest son had greatly admired the soldiers he met in the White House and at their encampments around the city, and like many lads with no concept of the realities of warfare, he had become enthralled by all things martial. The soldiers Willie and Tad encountered in Washington City had been exceedingly kind to them, and after Willie died, some of Abe’s military guards had adopted his bereft younger brother as their mascot, occasionally inviting him to take his rations with the troops and giving him the unofficial rank of third lieutenant. As Tad’s fascination had grown, Abe had indulged him by issuing certain official requests on his behalf, such as asking the secretary of the navy to obtain a sword for him, writing to the secretary of war to request some company flags, and dispatching an army captain to find Tad a small gun that he could not hurt himself with.

  Ann could not think of any gun that met that description unless it remained unloaded, but taking that perfectly reasonable precaution apparently had not occurred to Abe or Mary. From what Ann later learned from friends and family who visited the White House, Tad never injured himself with the pistol, but he had become quite a little menace with it nonetheless. Once Abe had scolded him for pointing the gun playfully at a friend, and on another occasion Tad had been forced to relinquish the pistol for a week as punishment after accidentally shooting out a window while visiting his playmates Bud and Holly Taft at their home on L Street. Abe and Mary had been infamously indulgent parents, but allowing their young son to run around with a loaded gun for a toy seemed astonishingly negligent even for them.

  The ill-fated pistol had probably been buried at the bottom of one of Mary’s many trunks ever since Tad’s death about four and a half years before. Now Mary—legally insane, enraged at her only surviving son, by nature impulsive—carried it around in her pocket, loaded, if she was to be believed, though that may have been merely a lie intended to frighten her sisters.

  To Ann, it was obvious that they must get the gun away from her. Ninian and Frances agreed, but Elizabeth wavered. “I cannot believe Mary truly intends to harm Robert,” she insisted. “She has buried her husband and three sons. She would never take the life of her only surviving child.”

  “Even if she is not a threat to Robert, she may be a danger to herself,” Ann pointed out, irritated. Elizabeth persisted in her belief that giving in to Mary in everything would calm her, help her regain her reason. But on what grounds? Elizabeth’s policy of indulgence certainly hadn’t helped Mary improve thus far. What had worked was the quiet and solitude of Bellevue under the care of medical professionals, but the progr
ess Mary had made there was swiftly unraveling, if it had not been entirely undone already.

  There was no longer any question in Ann’s mind but that Mary was insane, and therefore must be relieved of the dangerous weapon immediately. To her relief, and no small surprise, Elizabeth eventually was persuaded. The question remained how to go about it. If they tried to take the pistol by force, it could go off accidentally, injuring or even killing someone. If, as head of the household, Ninian demanded it, Mary could become upset and turn the weapon upon herself. She had attempted suicide before, and the implication that she was not sane enough to carry a pistol could, with cruel irony, compel her to try again.

  “I think I may be able to convince her to relinquish it,” said Elizabeth, pensive. “I shall appeal to her protective nature by reminding her of the possible danger to my young grandchildren. Children are curious, as she well knows, and if a child chanced upon her gun, the consequences could be tragic.”

  “And if that fails?” asked Ann, dubious.

  “Then I shall offer a compromise: she may keep the pistol, if she allows Ninian to lock up the ammunition in his safe.”

  Frances looked as skeptical as Ann felt, but they all agreed that Elizabeth should make the attempt. Elizabeth thought it best if she confronted Mary alone, so Ann did not witness the undoubtedly strange and awkward conversation that ensued, but she was not surprised when, two days later, Elizabeth admitted defeat. Mary had dismissed Elizabeth’s concerns, and her suggestion that Mary relinquish the gun or even just the bullets, with a shrill laugh. “I keep the pistol close to me at all times, so there is no danger that it will fall into a child’s hands,” she had declared. “And in a time of danger, what use to anyone is an unloaded pistol?”

  Thus thwarted, Elizabeth decided to ask Robert to write to his mother and demand that she turn the pistol over to Ninian for safekeeping. “This way, Ninian will have an excuse to confiscate the weapon without bringing Mary’s wrath down upon his head or mine,” said Elizabeth one snowy morning in early January when she and Frances met secretly at Ann’s house. Lewis had promised to escort his great-aunt on a sleigh ride out into the country; Elizabeth would return home first, and with any luck Mary would never know that she had left the house.