Mrs. Grant and Madame Jule

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  One bright spring day in the third week of March, when Captain Lincoln came to the cabin to see Ulys on some official matter, Julia took the opportunity to inquire after his father’s health. “Why do your father and mother never come down to visit?” she asked. “I’m sure a pleasant sail down the river in such fine weather would be restful and beneficial to them both, and know it would please the troops very much to see them.”

  “I suppose they would visit,” said Captain Lincoln thoughtfully, “if they were sure they weren’t intruding.”

  After the captain finished his business and departed, Julia turned to Ulys and gave him a pointed look. With a wry laugh, Ulys rose from his desk. “You were right, my dear little wife. I’ll telegraph to invite the president without delay.”

  “Perhaps you should appoint me to your staff as an advisor,” she teased.

  “I might,” he said affectionately as he bent to kiss her cheek, “if I weren’t afraid of making my officers jealous. Julia, you must know that you’re as essential to me as any of them. You’ve been my sunshine throughout these long, dark days.”

  “I know,” she said, smiling fondly up at him. He was all that and more to her, and ever had been.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  MARCH 1865

  It was no simple matter for the president to leave the capital for the field of war, but after Secretary Stanton was satisfied with the measures taken to ensure Mr. Lincoln’s safety, the presidential party set out from Washington aboard the River Queen. At nearly nine o’clock the following evening, the steamer arrived at City Point, and Captain Lincoln immediately ran to the Grants’ cabin to announce the news.

  “Shall we call on them?” asked Julia. “The hour is quite late.”

  “They’d be happy to see you at any time,” Captain Lincoln assured them. “I’d be honored to escort you.”

  The president met them at the gangplank, greeted Ulys cordially, and, offering Julia his arm, conducted them to his wife, who awaited them in a comfortable stateroom arranged as a cozy parlor. Mrs. Lincoln rose from the sofa and received them most graciously, but Julia thought she looked rather tired and drawn, with shadows beneath her eyes and a despondent air that her polite smile could not entirely conceal.

  “If you two ladies will excuse us,” Mr. Lincoln said, “the general and I will withdraw so we can talk awhile without interruption. If you’ll oblige me, General?”

  “Of course, Mr. President,” Ulys replied, and after offering the ladies courteous bows, the two gentlemen departed.

  With a soft sigh, Mrs. Lincoln spread her skirts and seated herself on the sofa.

  “Was your journey pleasant?” Julia inquired politely, sitting beside her.

  “How dare you?” Mrs. Lincoln said icily, glaring first at Julia’s face, and then at the sofa, where only a narrow gap separated them.

  “Oh, I crowd you, I fear,” Julia murmured, hiding her surprise as she quickly rose and settled into a nearby chair. She moved on to a topic she was certain the proud mother would relish—Captain Robert Lincoln, how excellently he performed his duties as assistant adjutant general, and how well liked he was by the rest of the staff. Julia might have overstated the case slightly when she described him as indispensable to General Grant, but Mrs. Lincoln responded warmly to the praise of her eldest son. Julia then inquired about young Tad and suggested that he and Jesse meet the next day to explore the camp and ride Jesse’s ponies. Mrs. Lincoln accepted so graciously that Julia could almost convince herself that she had misunderstood the First Lady’s exclamation and had imagined the icy glare. Since Mrs. Lincoln had always been courteous and kind whenever Julia met her in Washington, she was perfectly willing to forget her brief lapse in civility, especially since it had come after a difficult day and night of exhausting travel.

  The following morning, long before dawn, Julia woke to the sound of urgent knocking upon the cabin door. Ulys rose to answer, and when he returned to the bedroom, he swiftly began to dress.

  “What is it?” Julia asked.

  “The rebels attacked Fort Stedman at about a quarter past four. Bands of sharpshooters and engineers disguised themselves as deserters, overwhelmed our pickets, and cleared obstructions we had set to delay an advance by their infantry.”

  “Oh, Ulys, no.”

  “Three companies followed after and stormed the works,” Ulys said grimly. “They relied on stealth and speed, and they caught our men entirely by surprise. One saving grace—General McLaughlen managed to alert some of the batteries before he was surrounded and captured.”

  “Captured! How dreadful!”

  Ulys patted her leg through the quilts. “Never mind, my dear little wife. Our artillery is returning fire, and we might have the enemy in full retreat by the time you get up for breakfast.”

  He went out to the front room, and soon a faint light beneath the closed door and the scrape of a chair told her he had lit a lamp and was working at his desk. Unsettled, she lay awake hoping another messenger would bring more reassuring news, but eventually she drifted off to sleep.

  She woke well after daybreak to find Ulys gone. She spent the morning minding Jesse and awaiting news, and she was much relieved when Badeau sent word that General John F. Hartranft’s troops had mounted a fierce counterattack and the Union once again held Fort Stedman. They had suffered about one thousand casualties—men killed, injured, missing, or captured—a sorrowing number to be sure, but only one to every four of the enemy.

  Mr. Lincoln was keenly interested in visiting the scene of the battle, and when Julia learned that Ulys and his staff were making the necessary arrangements, she entrusted Jesse to an aide and hurried to Ulys’s office. If a party was being made up to tour Fort Stedman, she wanted to be included. If it was safe enough for the president and First Lady, it was safe enough for the general’s wife.

  At noon Mrs. Lincoln and Julia joined a rather sizable group aboard a military train bound for General Meade’s headquarters with the Army of the Potomac, about ten miles away. The roadbed was dreadfully rough and jarring, but as she studied the passing scenery, Mrs. Lincoln gave no sign of dissatisfaction but a slight grimace. Suddenly she gasped aloud and pressed her handkerchief to her lips. In the mud beside the tracks lay mangled bodies in tatters of blue and butternut and gray, enemies intermingled in death, faces buried in the muck or staring up unblinking at the brilliant sky.

  Julia could not tear her gaze away from the window. Countless bodies passed before her line of sight—arms torn from sockets, chests sunken into wet blackness, skulls fractured with gray matter spilling out upon the grassy slope—and she jumped and clutched her hand to her throat as an arm reached past her and, with a slow, soft scraping of cloth against wood, drew the shade. Startled from her waking nightmare, Julia turned to find Badeau, who regarded her with sorrowful sympathy before moving on to draw Mrs. Lincoln’s shade as well.

  • • •

  The railroad did not extend all the way to their destination, so at the terminus, the men continued on horseback, while the ladies, with Badeau detailed to escort them, followed in an ambulance. Their conveyance was a half-open carriage with two seats for passengers and one for the driver, and after Badeau assisted Mrs. Lincoln aboard and offered a hand to Julia, she was careful to ask, “May I sit beside you, Mrs. Lincoln?”

  “Of course,” the First Lady replied, surprised. Julia thanked her and sat, making room for Badeau to climb aboard and take his place on the front seat facing the ladies, with his back to the driver and the horses.

  “Do you think the danger of this morning’s attack has quite passed, Colonel?” Mrs. Lincoln asked anxiously as the carriage set out.

  “Oh, certainly, madam,” Badeau replied. “However—” He hesitated, smiling, as if he were not sure whether he should divulge what he knew. “All wives of officers at the army front have been ordered to the rear, which is a sure sign that active o
perations are contemplated.”

  “Indeed?” replied Mrs. Lincoln. Julia, who knew very well that Ulys planned a significant offensive strike as soon as the muddy roads permitted, said nothing.

  “Oh, yes,” said Badeau. “Not a single lady has been allowed to remain—except the wife of General Charles Griffin, and only because she obtained a special permit from the president.”

  Mrs. Griffin, Julia knew, was regarded as one of the great beauties of Washington City, and she was about to suggest that they invite her to join their excursion when Mrs. Lincoln drew herself up and fixed Badeau with a piercing stare. “Do you mean to say that she saw the president alone, sir?” she demanded. “Do you know that I never allow the president to see any woman alone?”

  “Pray forgive me, Mrs. Lincoln,” said Badeau, startled. “I meant no offense.”

  “That’s a very equivocal smile, sir,” she snapped. “I will ask the president if he saw that woman alone.”

  “Dear Mrs. Lincoln,” said Julia in an undertone, placing her hand on the First Lady’s. “Colonel Badeau made an unfortunate remark. He doesn’t mean anything by it. Pray don’t let it annoy you.”

  Mrs. Lincoln shook off her hand. “Stop the carriage,” she ordered Badeau, but when he merely stammered protests, she rose from her seat, reached past him, and pinned the driver’s arms to his sides. “Stop at once, I say!”

  “Mrs. Lincoln, please,” Julia exclaimed as Badeau went to the driver’s rescue. “Do calm yourself. You’ll startle the horses.”

  None too soon, Julia persuaded her to sit down, and the driver, looking much vexed, was able to proceed. When they arrived at General Meade’s headquarters, the general himself promptly approached the ambulance to pay his respects to the president’s wife. With one last glare for Badeau, Mrs. Lincoln descended and took General Meade’s arm, and they walked off together.

  Julia inhaled deeply and fell back against her seat.

  “I had intended to offer Mrs. Lincoln my arm,” Badeau said, quietly frantic, “but General Meade is my superior, and he has the right to escort her. I had no chance to warn him. What if she makes a scene in the presence of the foreign minister and the other dignitaries with the president?”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong, Colonel,” Julia assured him. “General Meade’s father was a diplomat. Let’s hope he’s inherited some of his father’s skill.”

  “You’re a fine diplomat yourself,” Badeau said, “and I’m glad you were here to help manage Mrs. President.”

  Julia inclined her head to him, flattered and yet unsettled. She hoped she never became someone her husband’s aides felt they had to manage.

  They joined the rest of the party as General Meade showed them around his headquarters. When President Lincoln inquired if he might ride out to view the battlefields, General Meade readily offered to guide him and the other gentlemen in the party. He courteously showed the ladies to a small parlor where they could await the men’s return, again with the unfortunate Badeau as their escort.

  As soon as the general left, Mrs. Lincoln fixed Badeau with a sharp look. “General Meade is a gentleman, sir,” she said crisply. “He says it was not the president who gave Mrs. Griffin the permit, but the secretary of war.”

  “My apologies, madam,” he replied, bowing. Mrs. Lincoln seemed satisfied with that, and she promptly engaged Julia in a lively conversation about the illustrious gentlemen who had accompanied them from Washington. Dazed from Mrs. Lincoln’s sudden and dramatic shifts in temper, Julia did her best to keep up, nodding and murmuring perfunctory replies at appropriate intervals.

  When the president, Ulys, and their companions returned, they were somber and quiet. The president had ridden over part of the battlefield where the fallen soldiers were being buried, and the experience had depressed him greatly. Melancholy seemed carved into the very lines and hollows of his face, and Julia suspected that not even peace and a reunited nation would ever erase them entirely.

  Their train traveled slowly back to City Point, hauling cars full of wounded soldiers. When they arrived, Mr. Lincoln, weary and worn, declined an invitation to dine with Ulys and his staff at headquarters. Instead, he and Mrs. Lincoln and most of their party retired to the River Queen for the night.

  As much as Julia liked the president, she was not sorry to see them go.

  Later that evening, Julia sought out Badeau to assure him that he had handled Mrs. Lincoln’s outburst like a true gentleman. “The whole affair is so distressing and mortifying that neither of us must mention it again,” Julia said firmly. “I’ll tell the general what happened, but no one else.”

  “I heartily agree, Mrs. Grant,” said Badeau, much relieved.

  She waited until later that night, when she and Ulys were alone in the cabin. Ulys listened soberly as she described the strange and disturbing incident. “Mrs. Lincoln’s jealousy of Mrs. Griffin was truly extraordinary and extreme,” she finished, shaking her head. “If she should complain about Colonel Badeau to you or to her husband, you should know that he did nothing wrong.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t.” Ulys sat down on the edge of the bed, reached for her hand, and pulled her down to sit beside him. “Try to be sympathetic with Mrs. Lincoln if you can. The president has confided in me, now and then, about her poor health. She still grieves terribly from the loss of young Willie, and she suffers as I do from sick headaches.”

  “Was she suffering one yesterday?” asked Julia, dubious.

  “She could have been. Why don’t we give her the benefit of the doubt, just as we wish people would give me the benefit of the doubt when I’m stricken instead of calling me a drunk?”

  Julia agreed, and she resolved to carry on as if the unpleasant incident had never occurred, for she would want the same regard shown to herself. She hoped that as Ulys’s star continued to rise, she would bear the inescapable burdens of public life more easily than poor Mrs. Lincoln did.

  The following day, a gloriously bright Sunday, a grand review of General Ord’s Army of the James was planned for the president, but first his party traveled by steamer to watch General Sheridan’s troops cross the river at Harrison’s Landing. Julia felt a thrill of excitement and worry as she watched Sheridan’s cavalry crowding the heights all along the north bank of the James while others crossed the river on a pontoon bridge. She knew Ulys had been waiting for Sheridan to arrive before he launched his spring campaign, which now loomed imminent on the horizon, dark and rumbling with the promise of victory and destruction.

  The party—which included President and Mrs. Lincoln and their two sons; General and Mrs. Ord; Badeau, Porter, and a few other members of Ulys’s staff; as well as Ulys, Julia, and Jesse—had lunch on the admiral’s flagship, the Malvern, followed by a grand review of the naval flotilla. Once ashore at Aiken’s Landing, the gentlemen and Mrs. Ord mounted horses, while Mrs. Lincoln and Julia squeezed their hoop skirts into an ambulance. Badeau was again assigned to escort them, but he quickly persuaded Porter to share the duty.

  “We’re fortunate Mrs. Ord has such an excellent bay to ride, and wasn’t it charming that General Ord had ponies for the boys?” said Julia brightly as they set out. The ride was no smoother than the one the day before, and her voice trembled with every bump and jolt over the rough road.

  “Charming indeed,” said Mrs. Lincoln through clenched teeth. The ambulance jolted along so violently that the ladies’ heads were bounced against the ceiling again and again, flattening the crowns of their bonnets. “Why could he not have had mounts for all of us?”

  “Oh, do you ride, Mrs. Lincoln?” Julia asked, glad to have found a common interest.

  Rather than answer, Mrs. Lincoln frowned imperiously and called out, “Driver, do hurry along. We’re falling behind the others.”

  Julia observed that Mrs. Lincoln kept her gaze fixed on her husband, clearly recognizable even to Julia’s poor sight by his height
and his tall stovepipe hat, and upon the beautiful Mrs. Ord, whose fashionable hat boasted a long, white plume that bounced merrily in time with her mare’s graceful gait.

  “What does the woman mean,” Mrs. Lincoln suddenly exclaimed, her voice shaking with each jolt of the wheels on the washboard road, “by riding by the side of the president, and ahead of me? Does she suppose that he wants her by his side instead of me?”

  Major Seward, a nephew of the secretary of state, overheard some of Mrs. Lincoln’s words but none of their implication. “The president’s horse is very gallant, Mrs. Lincoln,” he called, dropping back alongside the ambulance. “He insists on riding with Mrs. Ord.”

  “What do you mean by that, sir?” Mrs. Lincoln asked sharply.

  “Only that Mrs. Ord’s horse is the mate of the president’s horse,” said Major Seward, taken aback.

  “And a chivalrous creature he is indeed,” said Julia, “to want to look after his mate. You’re quite right, Major.”

  His smile long since vanished, Major Seward inclined his head to them in parting, urged his horse to quicken its pace, and soon caught up with the other riders.

  “Why do they ride so far ahead?” said Mrs. Lincoln, her voice shaking as much from anger as from the violent rattling of the ambulance. “What is it they don’t wish me to see?”

  Before Julia could reply, the ambulance struck an exposed tree root in the muddy road, tossing the passengers from their seats into the air.

  “Stop this carriage at once,” Mrs. Lincoln shrieked. “I must get out, and I will get out!”

  The driver—a different fellow than the day before—pulled hard on the reins until the carriage halted. Julia felt her seat shift as two of the wheels mired deep in the mud.

  “Let me out at once,” said Mrs. Lincoln, climbing stiffly to her feet and reaching for the door. “Call to the riders to come back.”