by Judy Alter
Several officers had their headquarters in local homes, and we all took turns entertaining, even if it were no more than a gathering for hot cider in front of a blazing fire or a shared supper. The men would tell stories of battle, though in deference they left out the deaths, and often they were wry and droll. We laughed a great deal, perhaps to keep fear from our minds.
Best of all, I was with Autie. I forgot the occasional spats, intense though they were, that had already marked our marriage.
* * *
The entire country was caught up that fall in the election campaign between Lincoln and McClellan, a campaign that caught Autie right in the middle. McClellan was the Democrat, and Autie's family had always been staunch Democrats; more than that, Autie had served under McClellan early in the war and been one of his defenders. But Autie had good reason to be loyal to Lincoln, who was his commander in chief. He solved his dilemma by refusing to endorse either side. "Soldiers and politics do not mix," he said publicly.
Papa's letters showed no such hesitation. In spite of those who claimed peace would come sooner if McClellan were elected, Papa was firm in his support of Lincoln. Lincoln had, of course, won me over in one sentence with his praise of Autie, but I also believed those who said McClellan might bring peace, though without honor. A corner of me wanted peace at any price, so that I could have my husband home, but I felt, as did most in Washington, that Lincoln would win. I was careful not to voice my opinion, lest it be thought I was speaking for Autie, but I followed the campaign as closely as I did the battle reports.
In November, Lincoln won, much to my relief, and in March Mama and Papa came east for the inauguration. It was only our second visit since my marriage.
All during that long first year of my marriage, I wrote frequently to my parents and heard often from them, mostly pleas that I come back to Monroe until "this terrible conflict is ended." The tension caused by my marriage had not eased, though I'd tried repeatedly to reassure Papa of my safety and happiness, and even Autie had taken to writing him occasionally. Papa answered only my letters, though he often bid me thank Autie for his most recent missive.
We did not make it to Monroe for Christmas—my first Christmas away from home—but in late January we were there for a rousing good visit, which of course was shared between two very different households—the Bacons and the Custers. We stayed with my parents, there being more room there, though it made me nervous, and I insisted we sleep in the spare room with twin beds.
"Are there alligators in this gulf between us?" Autie whispered one night.
"There might as well be," I said. "Stay in your own bed, Autie." It was foolish of me, I know, but I could not have let Autie touch me while I was under my father's roof.
"We should have stayed with Ann and David," he said, referring to his sister and her husband and their house full of children.
"They have no spare room," I answered, "and we'd have slept on sofas."
"Yes," he muttered, "but we could have slept on the same sofa."
During the day Papa and Autie were cordial, even friendly, but when Mama suggested that the Custers might join us for dinner one night, Autie was the one who vetoed the idea. "Thank you, Mother Bacon," he said, "but I fear it would be a strain on you, and my poor parents, unused to dining out, would be too worried about making a good impression."
We visited the Custers and the Reeds several times, and I felt at home enough to regale Autie's parents with tales of the teasing I endured at the hands of their sons. Mother Custer frowned at Autie and admonished him to be more gentle with me, but Father Custer laughed heartily.
"They pick on me, too," he said. "But just you wait, Libbie. One day I'll visit you in camp, and I'll make them change their tune."
"I'll look forward to it," I assured him. I liked Father Custer immensely, finding his company as energetic and irresistible as Autie's.
Papa and I had only one long visit together during the week we were home. It was a sunny day, though chilly, as Michigan always is in midwinter, and Papa asked, almost hesitantly, if I would care to walk out to the marshes with him.
"Oh, Papa, I'd love to," I answered. And then said boldly to Autie, "You stay here with Mama. I'm going to have a visit with Papa."
Papa, beaming, tucked my arm in his as we walked down Monroe Street. "Remember the walks we took when you were very little?" he asked.
"Perfectly," I replied. "One of my very best childhood memories." I almost said something about the many times since I'd wanted to walk with him, but I didn't want to ruin the moment.
Papa ruined it, though I know he didn't mean to. What he said welled up from the great sadness that was still inside him, in spite of Mama. "So much has changed since those days, Libbie. Your mother gone, and now this sad time for our country," he said.
"But," I added, trying to be lighthearted, "a glorious time for Autie."
"Yes," Papa said slowly. "I hear he is making a name for himself, bravest general in the Union Army." Papa spoke deliberately, his praise of Autie sincere, but old wounds still festered. "He is a good leader," he said, "and may the Lord be willing, he will be a good husband to you."
"He is a good husband, Papa. He makes me very happy."
"It is too soon to tell that, daughter," Papa said grimly. Later I would wonder if Papa had all along known something I hadn't. We are always ready to dismiss our parents' caution, but I have often wondered what my life would have brought if I had listened to Papa's fears.
My course was set, though. I was the wife of the famous Civil War general, and I was game.
When Mama and Papa arrived in Washington for the inaugural, I met them at the train. Papa seemed bewildered. "Our luggage?" he asked not once but three times. "How will we find our luggage?"
"I'll send for it, Papa," I assured him. "It will be all right."
"So many people," Mama said, voice fluttering. "I surely do feel lost." She looked dumpier than she had in Monroe, as though the big city made her shrink just a little, and her usual cheerfulness was replaced by a sort of vague apprehension.
"No need," I said. "It's just like Monroe, only bigger." Well, that wasn't quite true, but I wanted to reassure them both, and it tugged at my heart to see Papa, who had always taken charge, look to me for comfort.
As I predicted, their luggage arrived at the boardinghouse intact, not long after we got there. Their stay in Washington proved to be a grand adventure for Papa, and Mama tagged uncomplainingly along, though I often felt she would just as soon have stayed at Mrs. Hyatt's. I was pleased that I was able to make the visit more than it would have been for Papa had he been without me... or had he not been Armstrong Custer's father-in-law. Papa was presented to Secretary of War Stanton, who spoke highly of Autie and said, "I'm only glad he has been as judicious in love as he is wise in war." He met General Grant, though only long enough for a brief handshake, and I saw to it that he visited with Congressman Kellogg.
But the inauguration was Papa's biggest thrill. We dressed carefully for the occasion, as though, I thought, we were to be the center of attention. Papa wore his best dark suit of worsted wool and carried a walking stick, and Mama wore a tartan plaid with a matching shawl. I told her several times how fetching she looked, and she beamed. I had a velvet-trimmed linen sheath of brown with a flowered hat to match—I didn't tell Mama the outfit had cost considerably more than $12, though I could see by her eyes that she was curious.
The balcony of the Senate Chamber, where we were fortunate enough to get seats, was crowded, and we sat nearly on top of each other. I could feel Papa stiffen in alarm when Vice President Andrew Johnson, obviously inebriated, took the oath of office and then rambled through a disjointed address.
"Remember," I whispered to Papa, "Autie has forsworn alcohol."
He nodded at me and smiled ever so slightly. Papa took politics and the government very seriously, and in his eyes it was a tragedy that a man so placed in our government would display such weakness. I agreed wholeheartedly,
but I had by now seen that very weakness displayed throughout Washington and was less surprised than Papa.
President Lincoln, though, was eloquent, and those words yet ring in my ears: "With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds...." It made me very proud of Autie.
Mama and Papa left for Monroe the next day, and I saw them to the train. Autie had not even been able to get to Washington to see them.
"Tell Armstrong how sorry we are to have missed him," Papa said, standing with his arm resting loosely on my shoulder. I leaned happily against him, relishing the affection.
"Yes," Mama said, "we're so very proud every time we hear people praise him."
"And you are looking well, daughter," Papa said. "I guess we can ease our minds about you a little. Though I do hate your being alone in this city with its..." His voice trailed off.
"Its wicked ways, Papa?" I asked mischievously.
"Well, yes," he harrumphed. "I should feel better if Armstrong were with you."
"Or I with him in camp," I said, but Mama gasped and said, "Oh, no, we worry about that even more."
The train whistle blew, and I hurried them to their compartment, giving Mama a tight hug and telling her how glad I was she had come with Papa.
Papa held out his arms for a similar hug, which I gave with pleasure. "I do think he makes you happy, daughter," he said, "and I trust he will take care of you and that you'll be home in Monroe soon."
"I'm sure we will," I said. "Autie writes that the war is grinding down." No need to tell them I was quite sure we would never again live in Monroe.
"I think the awkwardness is easing," I wrote Autie that night. "They are both so very proud of you!"
* * *
Had Tom Custer had a West Point education and officer's status, he might well have eclipsed Autie. At the battle of Sayler's Creek, just three days before the Confederate surrender, Tom was shot in the face while capturing a flag. He grabbed the flag and killed the Rebel holding it, then prepared to take another flag. But Autie saw his bloodstained face and clothes and ordered him to the surgeon in the rear. Tom would have refused, but Autie had him placed under arrest.
"He made me proud of the Custer name," Autie said. "He has courage and foolhardiness, all mixed into one. I worry about him and probably always shall, but I am proud of his bravery."
I remembered Eliza's "sight" and shuddered. We were in Richmond, and Autie was telling me of the last days of the war. I was horrified by the sheer, dogged determination of the Confederates, beaten long before they surrendered, and though I was filled with relief that the war was over—and Autie safe—I could not help but grieve for the vanquished southerners. The story that intrigued me most and frightened me less than Tom's foolhardiness was about the Rebel who carried the flag of truce. "He came on horseback to my camp, waving a dirty white rag on a stick, and asked to be presented to me. He wanted to meet with Grant," Autie said.
"Just think," I responded, much impressed, "the whole end of the war came through you!"
"Well," he said, not very modestly, "that's about right. I'm the one who accepted the truce."
I arrived in Richmond, having traveled from Washington on the presidential gunboat, the Baltimore, with a party of officers' wives, under the care of a senator. Autie, who had tried in military terms to get to Richmond for four years, had been beaten there by his wife after the news of the surrender, and I was waiting at the Confederate White House, sleeping in no less than the big walnut bed of Mrs. Jefferson Davis. Autie arrived bearing a small walnut table with spool legs. After the flurry of greetings—and a long look that told me he was thin and drawn and tired—I demanded to know why he was carrying a table.
"It's yours," he said, handing me a note, which I spread out and read.
My dear madam,
I respectfully present to you the small writing table on which the conditions for the surrender of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia were written by Lieutenant General Grant—and permit me to say, madam, that there is scarcely an individual in our service who has contributed more to bring about this desirable result than your very gallant husband.
Very respectfully,
Phil H. Sheridan Major General
I smiled as I read the letter, for I knew that it was Sheridan's tribute to me for not having spoiled one of his most brilliant officers. Sheridan thought that marriage utterly ruined a man for war, and he had once said to Autie, "You're the only man I know whom matrimony has not spoiled for a charge." Little did he know how often I would have prevented one of those desperate charges for which Autie was noted, if only I could have. What I didn't realize at the time was how valuable a souvenir the general had gifted me with.
Autie fell into an exhausted sleep, and I sat patiently in a chair in the room. His very presence—and the knowledge that the war was over—filled me with electricity. So much good was ahead of us that I was content simply to sit and watch over him, only occasionally reaching out to touch him.
We had no time in Richmond, for Autie, once refreshed, was determined that we head immediately to Winchester to join his troops. From there the column would march to Washington to be part of the victory parade in late May. I protested that there was no urgency, since the parade was nearly six weeks away, but for Autie there was an imperative to be with his men. I did manage to whisk him through the Davis mansion, where everything from Sevres china to a black-and-tan dog had been left behind in the hasty flight from the besieged city. Autie only grunted as I showed him these things and urged me to hurry.
Autie had barely left to see about our horses when he returned, his face ashen. "The President... ," he gasped, "the President... has been killed!"
"What President?" I asked shortly, the thought that he meant Lincoln never occurring to me. I thought perhaps Jefferson Davis had been killed by angry and uncontrolled Union troops.
"Lincoln!" he shouted, his impatience with me overcoming his shock.
"Lincoln?" I echoed, sinking into one of Mrs. Davis's needlepoint chairs to weep inconsolably, remembering that kind man who had held up a receiving line to talk with me and hearing again those words of his, "With malice toward none; with charity for all...."
The nation's joy at peace was utterly broken. Papa, writing on the day the news became known, asked of me, "Oh, daughter, what is to become of us as a nation and as individuals? This is the most gloomy day in the history of the continent." Papa was, of course, not only grieving for Lincoln but remembering Johnson's drunken inaugural address and realizing that the man who had slurred his way through a speech was now leader of our country. Autie expressed great confidence in Johnson's policies, but our sense of triumph was gone as we headed toward Winchester.
* * *
"He's yours," Autie said triumphantly. "Do you like him?"
I stared openmouthed at the beautiful blooded bay that Johnny Cisco paraded before us as we stood in a field near Winchester. "He's wonderful, Autie! Don't you want to ride him?"
"No," he said generously, "I have Don Juan. I got him from the provost marshal for $25." I later learned that Don Juan had been confiscated on a march through North Carolina and, because he had a strong record at the race track, was worth at least $10,000.
"And where did you get this one?" I asked.
"A Confederate just walked up and handed me the reins," Autie said, grinning. "His name is Custis Lee—you know, after Robert E. Lee's son."
I walked over and patted Custis Lee on the nose, fancying that he recognized me as his mistress when he nuzzled his nose into my neck. Laughing, I walked around the beautiful animal, letting one hand run its way around his body.
"You'll have to keep up on the march, now," Autie warned sternly. "No more hanging back on that pony."
"I can ride with you? Not in a carriage?"
"If you can keep up," he said gruffly.
And so I join
ed Autie in leading his troops to Washington. Autie had also confiscated a beautiful, soft sidesaddle, and I had two or three appropriate riding outfits, though mostly of wool and often too warm on these spring days. Always, no matter the color of my outfit, I wore a scarlet kerchief to signify that I belonged to Autie's troops—and to Autie.
He was a man in his element—victorious, respected by his men, loved by his wife. Pride radiated from him as he rode, and not even the grim looks on the faces of some southerners could daunt him, though I looked at some of them with real heartbreak. In Brandy Station—that crossroads town that had seen a bloody battle between Autie and Jeb Stuart—I saw a young woman holding an infant in her arms. Her dress, though neat and pressed, was obviously worn, and the child was clothed in an oversize hand-me-down. While the child played with a string of beads, the mother stared at us, her head held high but her expression impassive. Instinct told me she was a war widow, and she was watching the triumphal march of those who killed her husband. I looked away.
The column traveled slowly, through Richmond and small towns and on for a rest at camp on the battlefield at Bull Run, where Autie had seen his first action. He insisted on reliving those days for me, walking me over the battlefield and pointing out each and every landmark until I thought my feet, fashionably clad in high-topped shoes, would fall off and I would drop in an exhausted heap at his feet. Autie seemed never to notice.
"There," he said at the bridge at Cedar Run, "that's where we charged the pickets.... And there, that's where Smallwood was wounded, the first man in the Army of the Potomac to be wounded."
I shuddered to think of all that had been wounded since.
* * *
We camped again across the Potomac, just outside Washington. Camp meant quarters not as luxurious as some Autie had shown me, but a good deal more pleasant than the farmhouse at Martinsburg. Orderlies set up two adjoining tents for us, one for a bedroom and the other—with a barn-board floor, as boards were available—for a reception and dining area. Eliza cooked for us, Johnny Cisco looked after us, and we had all the comforts of home. In later years, I always liked sleeping in our tent homes, for Autie would see that they were pitched away from the general camp for privacy, and near trees for comfort. I often felt I was sleeping in a tree house, something I had never done as a youngster, of course.
