With a start, Elizabeth whirled around and spotted a face she knew well—twenty years older, much thinner, with silver in her black hair and lines around her mouth, but still as dear to her as ever. “Martha? Can it truly be you?”
The woman nodded, tears filling her eyes. “It is.”
“Oh, my dear friend,” Elizabeth gasped as she hurried to close the distance between them and embrace her. “I never thought to see you again.”
“I never thought to see you.” Martha held her out at arm’s length, and when she smiled, Elizabeth saw that her bottom front teeth were missing. “What on earth are you doing here? I thought you’d bought your freedom and disappeared up north.”
“I didn’t disappear,” Elizabeth replied, laughing tearfully, hiding her shock. Martha was thin, so very thin, and her dress was worn and patched. Martha was a talented seamstress, a freeborn colored woman who had worked at Mrs. Miller’s dry goods store. Though she was five years older than Elizabeth, they had become fast friends thanks to Elizabeth’s frequent visits to purchase fabric, thread, needles, and other notions for her mistresses. “I’ve been living in Washington City since before the war. I’ve set myself up as a dressmaker there.”
“How wonderful!” Martha shook her head in admiration. “You always did work marvels with fabric.”
“How is your husband? Did he ever buy that land north of the river he liked so well?”
“No, no, he never did.” Martha’s smile faded. “He passed on ten years ago from smallpox, but my girls are doing well. My eldest is married now and has two little ones. How is your George?”
Elizabeth dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand to hold back the grief that suddenly welled up within her. “He’s gone. He was killed in the war, in the Battle of Wilson’s Creek in Missouri.”
“Oh, my goodness. He was a soldier, you mean. I’m so sorry he’s gone.”
“I’m sorry for your loss too.”
“But you must be so proud.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth forced herself to say. “Yes, very proud.”
They walked along together for a while, and Martha reunited her with several mutual friends who remained in the city. Throughout the war years, every one of them had endured hardships and deprivations Elizabeth could not have imagined while she dwelled comfortably in her boardinghouse on Washington’s pleasant Twelfth Street, but none of them complained or said more than was necessary about their suffering. They all admired her dress, which was only her second best but was well made and whole, and expressed joy without even the smallest taint of envy that she had done well for herself. Her heart went out to them, and she wished with all her strength that she could help them. She had a few Union dollars in her pocket, which they first refused and then gratefully accepted when she reminded them of debts she owed them from her Petersburg years, debts they did not recall because she had invented them on the spot. When she bade her old friends good-bye, she urged them to write to her if ever she could do anything for them.
She said good-bye to Martha last of all, and remembering her skill with needle and thread and cloth, she urged her to make her way to Washington City if she could. “I have too many dresses to make and not enough hands,” she said. “You could earn a good living, working with me.”
Martha looked as if she wished with all her heart she could accept, but she shook her head. “My girls need me,” she said, “and Richmond is my home. I can’t leave.”
“But it will be so hard for colored folks in the South when the war is done.”
Martha managed a smile. “It’s always been hard, and we’ve always gotten by.”
Before they parted ways, Elizabeth made Martha promise that she would at least keep the offer in mind, and then, heavyhearted, she made her way back to the place where the presidential party had agreed to meet. The sad sights of the day mingled with distant memories so painfully that she was eager to board the train and depart, but the president did not wish to set out right away. On an earlier visit, he had seen a large, peculiarly shaped oak tree that he was quite keen to show them, so they willingly accompanied him to the outskirts of the city, where it grew in stately solitude. Only after admiring it—and even Elizabeth, in her melancholy, had to admit that it was indeed a magnificent specimen—did they return to the train station and leave Petersburg.
Elizabeth was not sorry to put the city behind her, but as if to jeer at her eagerness to go, the train moved along at a crawl back to City Point, for what reason, Elizabeth could not fathom. Their pace was so slow that President Lincoln was able to observe a terrapin basking in the warm sunshine on the wayside. He called for the conductor to stop the train and had one of the brakemen bring the creature to him, and he and Tad amused themselves with it all the way to the James River, where their steamer waited. The president’s obvious delight in the terrapin’s lethargic, ungainly movements—and the ridiculous similarity between the train’s pace and the reptile’s—lifted Elizabeth out of her gloom, and so by the time they boarded the River Queen, she was feeling somewhat restored, although her wistfulness lingered.
For a week the River Queen remained on the James River, usually anchored at City Point, offering a pleasant, comfortable respite to all on board. General Grant and his wife visited the steamer several times, as did other officers and dignitaries, and whenever the president was not off on an excursion, he lounged about with the rest of the party, as comfortably at his ease as if they were all old friends.
On the day before they were to return to Washington, Mr. Lincoln went out for one last review of the troops, and in the evening he returned to the steamer thoroughly exhausted. “Mother,” he told his wife wearily, “I have shaken so many hands today that my arms ache tonight. I almost wish that I could go to bed now.”
Mrs. Lincoln murmured sympathetically and urged him to excuse himself and retire, but the president hated to disappoint his companions, so as the twilight shadows lengthened and the lamps were lit, he remained among them. When all was brilliantly illuminated, Elizabeth found herself utterly entranced by the lovely vision of the ship shining on the waters like a floating palace. A military band was on board, and as the night deepened, an air of enchantment enveloped the scene. Several officers came aboard to bid the president farewell, and around ten o’clock, they called upon him to make a speech. With some effort, the president rose and said, “You must excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I am too tired to speak tonight. On next Tuesday night I will make a speech in Washington, at which time you will learn all I have to say. And now, by way of parting from the brave soldiers of our gallant army, I call upon the band to play ‘Dixie.’ It has always been a favorite of mine, and since we have captured it, we have a perfect right to enjoy it.”
The moment he sat down, the band struck up the tune, and when the last sweet notes faded away, the listeners applauded, and to Elizabeth they seemed almost reverential, as if each understood that the great, solemn duty that had occupied them for so long was almost accomplished, but the great task of rebuilding the Union yet awaited them.
At eleven o’clock, the last farewells were spoken, those who were to remain behind disembarked, the festive lights were taken down, and the River Queen set out for Washington.
All the next day the steamer slowly traveled up the bay and the Potomac. To avoid debating reconstruction with Senator Sumner, the president read aloud from Macbeth, dwelling somberly on the Scottish king’s torment. When the River Queen passed Mount Vernon, the marquis declared that in years to come, Mr. Lincoln’s home in Illinois would be honored as reverently as President Washington’s in Virginia. “Springfield,” Mr. Lincoln said, and to Elizabeth his voice seemed full of quiet longing. “How happy I shall be four years hence to return there in peace and tranquility!”
The steamer arrived at the capital at six o’clock on Sunday evening, where the travelers disembarked one last time and went their separate ways. It was not quite sunset, so Elizabeth walked home alone, enjoying her solitude after so much tim
e in the company of others. The trip had been wonderful, enlightening, but she was looking forward to crossing the threshold of her own rooms and sleeping in her own bed. As she strolled along, she observed that the streets were rather full of people for a Sunday evening, especially a Palm Sunday evening, and that bonfires were burning as if to illuminate her way home. “What’s happening?” Elizabeth asked a neighbor as she turned onto Twelfth Street and spotted him taking in the scene from his front steps. “Is all this to welcome the president and First Lady home?”
“It’s a celebration,” he called back, “and a vigil. We’re all just waiting. It won’t be long now!”
Elizabeth felt a thrill of excitement and gladness, and she almost thought she could guess his reply when she asked, “Won’t be long until what?”
“Until it’s over,” her neighbor shouted gleefully. “General Grant cut off Lee’s retreat at Appomattox Court House. The rebels are surrounded!”
Chapter Twelve
APRIL 1865
At daybreak, Elizabeth woke to a five-hundred-gun salute that shook her bed and rattled the windows. Through the walls of the boardinghouse, she heard other residents respond with sleepy cheers, and she knew at once that General Lee must have surrendered.
Quickly she dressed and went downstairs to the foyer, where Virginia, Walker, Miss Brown, Emma, and a few other neighbors were gathering to share what little news they had. “Does this mean the war is over?” Elizabeth asked, but no one could say for certain. No one knew precisely what was happening in North Carolina between General Sherman and his Confederate counterpart, General Johnston. Walker proposed heading to the telegraph office for official word, but thunderclaps had picked up where the cannons had left off, and a heavy rain was falling. Elizabeth and Virginia had no desire to venture out in the downpour, but nothing would keep Walker and Emma from satisfying their curiosity, and so they set out together.
Watching from the windows, Elizabeth estimated that thousands of others had headed out into the streets despite the storm, laughing and embracing and cheering. Elizabeth felt so lighthearted that she thought she might burst out in laughter or song, so as soon as the rain tapered off, she and Virginia gathered the Lewis girls and joined the celebration. Impromptu parades formed as civilians linked arms with soldiers and sang “Rally Round the Flag” and cheered as they followed bands marching through the muddy streets. Steam fire engines adorned with flags and bunting shrilled their whistles. Soldiers and mechanics towed a battery of six howitzers in from the navy yard and fired off salutes at whim. Elizabeth felt herself carried along with the crowd as it made its way to the White House, where she added her voice to the exultant, thankful chorus singing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Shouts rang out for the president to come and make a speech. A cheer went up when Tad poked his head out of a window, and a louder cheer followed when he waved a captured rebel flag for the crowd’s amusement. Before long Mr. Lincoln himself appeared, and a great roar went up, and hundreds of hats were flung into the air. When the din subsided enough for the president to be heard, he said, “I am very greatly rejoiced to find that an occasion has occurred so pleasurable that the people cannot restrain themselves.”
Elizabeth laughed and applauded along with the crowd.
“I suppose that arrangements are being made for some sort of a formal demonstration,” Mr. Lincoln mused aloud, “this, or perhaps tomorrow night.”
“We can’t wait,” someone called out.
“We want it now,” another cried, and soon hundreds of other voices chimed in with their agreement.
“If there should be such a demonstration, I, of course, will be called upon to respond,” Mr. Lincoln protested, “and I shall have nothing to say if you dribble it all out of me before.”
His eager listeners responded with laughter and applause.
Mr. Lincoln looked out upon the crowd. “I see you have a band of music with you.”
“We have two or three,” a man called back.
“I propose closing up this interview by the band performing a particular tune which I will name,” Mr. Lincoln said. “Before this is done, however, I wish to mention one or two little circumstances connected with it. I have always thought ‘Dixie’ one of the best tunes I have ever heard. Our adversaries over the way attempted to appropriate it, but I insisted yesterday that we fairly captured it.” A great shout of assent met his words. “I presented the question to the attorney general, and he gave it as his legal opinion that it is our lawful prize.” As laughter and applause again rang out, the president raised his hand to the musicians. “I now request the band to favor me with its performance.”
Never had Elizabeth heard the tune played more merrily. Afterward the band immediately struck up “Yankee Doodle,” and the crowd clapped along.
As the last notes faded, Mr. Lincoln said, “Now give three good hearty cheers for General Grant and all under his command.” The crowd did so eagerly, and Elizabeth joined in as loudly as anyone there. “Three more cheers for our gallant navy.” This command too was promptly obeyed.
Then, with a modest bow, the president disappeared from the window, to the applause and whoops and shouts of the people below. Shortly thereafter, word spread through the crowd that they ought to march to the Department of War next and call for Secretary Stanton to address them too, but Elizabeth, Virginia, and Emma decided to leave the throng and take the children home.
That evening, Elizabeth reflected upon Mr. Lincoln’s impromptu speech at the window, and she considered that for all the years she had known him, and for all the many times they had chatted while she worked at the White House, she had never heard him make a public speech. On their last night aboard the River Queen, and again that day at the White House window, he had promised a formal speech for the following day. Perhaps because she regretted missing his inaugural address, she became very anxious to hear his speech, the first after General Lee’s surrender.
The next morning, Mrs. Lincoln called on Elizabeth at the boardinghouse to discuss her ideas for a new gown. As she was leaving, Elizabeth asked her if she might come to the White House that night and attend the president’s speech.
“Certainly, Lizzie,” said Mrs. Lincoln. “If you take any interest in political speeches, come and listen in welcome.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Lincoln.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “May I trespass further on your kindness by asking permission to bring a friend with me?”
“Yes, bring your friend also,” Mrs. Lincoln said graciously, and then, as if she had almost forgotten, “and do come in time to dress me before the speaking commences.”
“I will,” Elizabeth promised. “You may rely upon that.”
Mrs. Lincoln nodded and swept from the room. Moments later, through the window, Elizabeth watched her step from the house to the street, where she ascended into her carriage and drove away.
Elizabeth thought of Virginia, and she thought of Emma, and she wished that she had asked Mrs. Lincoln if two friends could accompany her. But since it was too late to amend her request, she decided to invite Emma. Her young assistant attended every speech of Mr. Lincoln’s that she could, including the second inaugural address, which she had described so well for Elizabeth. Since she admired the president so much, it seemed only right to offer her the opportunity to hear him speak from a place of honor within the White House.
Thrilled, Emma immediately accepted the invitation, and so at seven o’clock, they entered the White House through the front door, as Elizabeth had done alone countless times before. On the way upstairs to Mrs. Lincoln’s chamber, Elizabeth touched Emma’s arm, a silent signal that they should tread softly. As they passed Mr. Lincoln’s room, they slowed their pace and glanced through the half-open door. The president was seated at his desk, looking over his notes and muttering to himself, his expression thoughtful, his manner abstracted. Elizabeth paused for a moment to watch him, knowing that he was rehearsing and refining the words he would soon speak not only to the cr
owd gathering outside, but to the entire nation and beyond, for everyone would read his remarks in the papers in the days to come. When the president spoke, his words traveled around the world, so each one had to be selected with care.
When they reached Mrs. Lincoln’s rooms, Emma waited outside while Elizabeth swiftly dressed Mrs. Lincoln in yellow silk and arranged her hair with early spring blossoms. Mr. Lincoln appeared just as Elizabeth was finishing, and they both graciously agreed to allow Elizabeth to introduce Emma to them. Elizabeth hid a smile as the young woman shook their hands and managed to chat politely with them for a brief moment, even though the unexpected honor left her quite tongue-tied.
Great crowds had gathered in front of the White House, and over the music of the Marine Band, loud, eager calls were made for the president to appear. When he finally advanced to the center window above the door, a thrilling roar went up from the throng assembled in the darkness below. Looking out from another second-story window nearby, where she and Emma stood as equals among many distinguished ladies and gentlemen, Elizabeth could scarcely breathe from amazement. She had never seen such a mass of people before, like a black, gently swelling sea in the night, the motion of the crowd like the ebb and flow of the tide upon the stranded shore of the ocean. The faces near the front were clearly discernible, but they faded into ghostly outlines farther away. Lending the scene a weird, spectral beauty was the indistinct hum of voices that rose above them all, reminiscent of the subdued, sullen roar of an ocean storm or the wind sighing through a dark, lonely forest. It was a grand, imposing scene, and when the president regarded it all with a piercing, soulful gaze as he waited for the cheers to subside, he seemed to Elizabeth more like a demigod than a mortal man.
Mrs. Lincoln's Dressmaker Page 23
