“He’s so like a child, Noah,” Mrs. Lincoln said. “I sometimes wonder if he understands even that he is the President. I cannot teach him—he will see them all, mere servants, washerwomen—anyone. He talks with anyone who will come, the wounded, office-hunters, women with dead or wounded boys; and the more ragged they are, the longer will he sit and hear them.”
The President came at last, chuckling over a joke of the afternoon, which he stopped to tell them. Some woman had upbraided one of his staff for having told her the President was ugly—when he was, as she could see, simply beautiful. This, Lincoln said, only after he had granted the favor she asked.
Brooks recalled what some Congressman had said: “He may not be the handsomest man in the world, but we did not nominate him for ballroom purposes.” Now, Brooks thought, as Lincoln passed through the room, shambling and loose-jointed, almost flapping, it is the lamentable clothing, as much as anything else, that gives him the look of a rustic clown, making the arms hang so long and the feet so enormous. The sharp-eyed could see the agility and strange free grace even in the gaunt limbs, and the limitless dignity in the face, which most thought dull and altogether ugly. As ever, he wore one of those old-style black suits which managed to look as if it were one of a dozen bought at once, already broken in as to wrinkles and all else. Like a rural undertaker.
Beneath the short beard hung the perennial black tie, a careless knot on the collar. From the collar rose the long, striking yellow neck, heavily muscled, rolling as he spoke, nodding the head with its mass of wild hair that was like a poorly chosen wig, stiff, bristling, defiant. The big nose wrinkled like a hound’s as he laughed, and in a droll way he pulled at one of the broad and absurdly projecting ears. Brooks was aware that this figure—or its caricature—was now the target of hatred and ridicule for all enemies of the Republicans and the Union. He knew that a noted British newspaper correspondent had lately informed the English: “A person who met Mr. Lincoln in the street would not take him to be what is called a gentleman.” Brooks saw in the face only wisdom, compassion, deep and awkward courage.
“Mother,” the President said in passing greeting to his wife, and only that, as he disappeared up a flight of stairs, almost running as he spraddled three steps at once, looking like a falling man on stilts. Brooks looked to Mrs. Lincoln, who stared after her husband with tight lips, and he realized that he had been waiting for her reply, half expecting her to address even her husband as “sir,” as she did all comers.
They were off at last, down to the Navy Yard, Mrs. Lincoln herding them, and Tad gamboling around them in his Federal lieutenant’s uniform, slashing the air with his little saber. They boarded the steamer Carrie Martin and went off into the river, feeling its strong tug beneath the spasmed beat of the engine. Snow began to pelt down, to vanish in the black water. Lincoln looked back over the city and its dim spires even before the little craft had made the great bend to the southeast. The place seemed to him the aching heart of the country and stirred him so that he was seldom able to speak of it. Back there tonight the poor shaggy-haired young poet Walt Whitman, probably crazy, was wandering among the wounded back from the army, who were still in plentiful supply. And the office-seekers and gossips and traitors and the thousands of war millionaires, a world to themselves, all carried on without the President.
Brooks found his talk rather mournful. “I am surrounded by men who are more eager to make money out of the country’s misery than to put a shoulder to the wheel and lift us out of the mire. Do you wonder I become depressed, and sometimes think of how hard it will be to die, unless I can make the world understand that I would be willing to die if I could be sure I am doing my work toward lifting the burdens of all men?”
After nightfall, the party was surprised by the slowing and halting of the engine, and in the silence became aware once more of the rushing of the river. The captain entered and told Lincoln that he could not be responsible for pushing downstream in the snowstorm and the darkness; his pilot was all but blinded. The President left the problem to the boatman, and they tied up at the bank opposite Indian Head, Maryland. They spent the night without guards posted.
Lincoln became high-spirited and talkative, and when Mrs. Lincoln had retired, and Tad had fallen asleep in his arms, the President kicked off his shoes, and with his feet held to the warmth of a small stove, wiggling his great toe through a hole in the sock, he talked of the war. He told them in low tones, as if someone on the deck might overhear, of the attempt the Navy was making tonight against Charleston. Tomorrow, Fort Sumter would be bombarded. He was hopeful that it could be taken.
He spoke guardedly of Hooker. Not that Lincoln found it difficult to recall any detail about Joe Hooker; few of the swarming thousands whom he had known during the war had impressed him so forcibly as the colorful new general. The President would not soon forget their first meeting.
Hooker had been fretting away his time in the waiting rooms of Washington, seeking a commission in spite of the opposition of old General Winfield Scott, whom he had offended back in the days of the Mexican War. At last Hooker reached Lincoln, introduced as Captain Hooker.
The President liked his looks, an erect, shapely man just under fifty, with clean, precise features, a touch of whisker on his chops, a head of thick blond hair, and lively gray eyes. There was a trace of weakness about the chin, but then Lincoln was captivated by the urgent power in the voice.
“I’m not Captain Hooker, Mr. President, but lately Lieutenant Colonel of the regular army. I have been farming in California, but since the Rebellion broke out I’ve been here trying to get into the service, but find I am not wanted.
“I am about to go home, but before going I was anxious to pay my respects to you, and to express my wishes for your personal welfare and success in quelling this Rebellion. And I want to say one word more …” As Lincoln prepared to interrupt, Hooker said, “I was at Bull Run the other day, and Mr. President, it is no vanity in me to say that I am a damned sight better general than any you had on that field.”
Joe Hooker could feel the settling weight of brigadier general’s stars on his yearning shoulders before he went to bed that night. He was soon off on a career of army politics that was hammered out beyond Lincoln’s ken. He fought a division through the Peninsular campaign, and a corps at Antietam, where he was shot in the foot, and won promotion. He had lately commanded about a third of the army at Fredericksburg.
It was late when Lincoln and Brooks went to bed, following the stolid Bates and the earnest old Dr. Henry. It was still snowing in the morning, even when they had steamed to the landing at Aquia Creek and looked out over the dismal new board shanties rising in a shabby waterside city, stretching back from docks and rail sidings and mountains of supplies. There was a pitiful greeting, a few men cheering in unison, a scattering of wet bunting aflap on the buildings, and a handful of lesser officers to meet them. The party went into the hubbub raised by the lines of Government steamers at the docks and by the terrific coming and going of trains on the maze of tracks at the waterside. Without ado, the little group walked to the tracks, mounted an open freight car into which boards had been fitted as benches, and jerked away over the desolate, rain-soaked country toward headquarters of the army.
They alighted at Falmouth Station to a more cheering sight, two hundred well-dressed horsemen waiting in a body; and Hooker’s chief of staff, General Daniel Butterfield, to greet them. They rolled off in two ambulances to meet Hooker, who gave them correct, warm, but restrained greetings and installed them in three big hospital tents, with board floors and cots and all the conveniences of camp headquarters. A round of dinners introduced the leading officers, and a schedule of grand reviews was given the President, who had ideas of his own about looking at the army. A poor layman with the Black Hawk War long years behind him, he could not fathom the huge machine under Hooker’s command, but he had an eye, and he knew men. He wanted to look at the enemy, and he wanted to see the wounded of his own army.
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br /> He was taken to the banks of the Rappahannock to stare at ruined Fredericksburg over the river and at the grim slopes where his army had been massacred. Hardly a building in the town had escaped. Walls lay in ruins, block after block, with trees down amid the rubble, and flaps of tin hanging from a battered church steeple. At the riverside rose a blackened chimney, alone in its clearing, and from it trailed a smudge of smoke. At its base two Confederate pickets hung over their morning fire. From Lincoln’s distance they looked to be a harmless foe.
He got into all of the hospital tents within reach of headquarters and paced slowly up and down the lanes of cots, refusing to pass up any of the men who stared up at him, and touching the hands of those who seemed aware of him. Tears and smiles followed his progress; and when he came out of the hospital area, a crowd of soldiers which had gathered in the roadway and would not be forced away cheered and called after him. Lincoln shook hands with as many as he could reach.
Hooker rushed him off to review the cavalry, and there was a swift ride to the reviewing field. The cavalcade made a deep impression on Brooks:
The President, wearing a high hat and riding like a veteran, with General Hooker by his side, headed the flying column; next came several major generals, a host of brigadiers, staff officers and colonels, and lesser functionaries innumerable. The flank of this long train was decorated by the showy uniforms and accoutrements of the Philadelphia Lancers, who acted as a guard of honor to the President.… The uneven ground was soft with melting snow, and the mud flew in every direction under the hurrying feet of the cavalcade. On the skirts of this cloud of cavalry rode the President’s little son Tad, in charge of a mounted orderly, his gray cloak flying in the gusty wind like the plume of Henry of Navarre.
The President and the reviewing party rode past the long lines of cavalry standing at rest, and then the march past began. It was a grand sight to look upon, this immense body of cavalry, with banners waving, music crashing, and horses prancing, as the vast column came winding like a huge serpent over the hills past the reviewing party, and then stretching far away out of sight.
Hooker was there to mutter in the President’s ear.
“Seventeen thousand men, Mr. President. Under command of General Stoneman. Now we’ve massed it for the first time in one corps—no more scattering it about for the Rebels to beat up piecemeal. It is the largest body of horsemen ever seen in the world, Mr. President—greater even than the famed cavalry of Marshal Murat.”
Lincoln only nodded and watched the magnificent parade of horses and men, as Hooker talked on of, “When I have taken Richmond,” and “When we have cut up Lee.”
On other days, the President walked through the camps, and everywhere men called to him and seemed glad to see him. They crowded about his horse, anxious to see him, touch him, and hear his low voice. He grew hoarse in the afternoon after hours of being reduced to nothing but a constant chant, “God bless you. God bless you.”
There was more than one collation, in which the President, with Mrs. Lincoln elsewhere, took a boyish enjoyment. Once, as the result of gay wagers, he was surprised with a sudden kiss from a lovely and genuine Oriental beauty, the Princess Salm-Salm, wife of a New York colonel. That prompted assaults by other charming ladies, until the President retreated. In the evening, in tents near by that of the Lincolns’, men heard the voice of the wife, in bitter complaint over the scene at the afternoon party.
There were a few quiet moments, which Lincoln often spent with Brooks, and then he would shake his head as if mysteriously troubled at the endless spectacles to which he was being treated, and sigh, “Ah, Hooker. He speaks so of victory, of taking Richmond. That is the most depressing thing about him. It seems to me that he is overconfident.”
The President seemed to enjoy himself for the most part. One night he said to Brooks, “It is a relief to get away from Washington and the politicians, but nothing touches the tired spot.”
He watched his infantry—sixty thousand strong, four corps—as it wound over hills, across the fields, its bayonets a forest of gleaming spikes without end, and near the finish the eighty cannon of the reserve artillery. The sun came out during this review, and the President, though he did not return the salutes of officers, removed his worn black silk hat to the massed privates, and his eyes followed their shining flags, torn with shell, and now bearing terrible names of places he would like to forget.
Once or twice more the President laughed.
One day, when he was being hurried to a review in a rough wagon behind six striving mules, the driver began to curse violently at the roughness of the road. Lincoln touched the man on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, my friend, are you an Episcopalian?”
The astonished driver stared over his shoulder.
“No, Mr. President, I’m a Methodist.”
“Well, I thought you must be an Episcopalian, because you swear just like Governor Seward, who is a churchwarden.”
The driver lashed his horses without profanity, unaware that William Seward was, or had ever been, a member of the Lincoln Cabinet.
In the evening, Hooker entertained the President and Mrs. Lincoln at an elaborate dinner, and among the guests was General Dan Sickles, the lively officer in whose quarters the Princess and her escort had so freely kissed Lincoln. Mrs. Lincoln had only icy stares for Sickles. Lincoln turned his attention to the general.
“I never knew until last night that you were such a pious man, Sickles.”
The officer stared and stammered. “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed, Mr. President.”
“Not at all. Mother says you’re the greatest Psalmist in the army. She says you are more than a Psalmist, you are a Salm-Salmist.” Mrs. Lincoln joined the laughter.
The show was over at last, but even then the President found only a moment for serious discussion with his commander. He loped into his tent one afternoon, interrupting Hooker’s discussion with General Couch, the next in command. Hooker gave Lincoln little attention and sat rudely continuing his conversation.
Lincoln at last broke in.
“The time has come for me to go, gentlemen.” Hooker and Couch rose. “I want to impress upon you gentlemen. In your next fight,” and here he turned to Couch, “put in all your men.”
He shook hands and left. From the opening of the tent Hooker watched him move out of sight, the awkward, long-legged haste still evident when he could see nothing but the stovepipe hat bobbing over the tops of tents.
The blue-eyed commander with the dainty little mouth had a secret look on his face, staring after the amateur who offered such childish advice. From the headquarters tents somewhere behind him came woman’s laughter. Major General Hooker returned to his work.
21
A BRIEF ELEGANCE
The light of massed Christmas candles flickered over the men in the dining room, the most brilliant gathering of Confederate field officers the war had seen. Jackson was incredibly the host to the throng of generals and colonels in gray. He sat, flushed, head down, at one end of the long Corbin table, light gleaming on his skull through thinned hair. General W. N. Pendleton said grace, and was long at the task.
A rising chorus of talk and laughter followed. Jackson had charged Jim and Captain Smith with the dinner, and it came in such bounty that half-starved officers could not believe their eyes. A Negro boy who served the table wore a fresh white apron.
General Lee smiled at Jackson. “You people are only playing soldier,” he said. “You must come to my quarters and see how soldiers ought to live.”
Jeb Stuart laughed at the apron about the servant’s waist, and joked elaborately with Jackson over the bottle of old wine on the table. He roared his mirth when he discovered a print of a gamecock molded on the butter.
“I swear, Jackson, it’s your coat of arms,” Stuart shouted. He held up the butter to display the state of Jackson’s degeneracy.
The crowd feasted on turkeys, a bucket of Rappahannock oysters, hams, biscuit, pic
kles and delicacies without end which Smith had gathered from houses of the region.
Moss Neck, the home of a wealthy planter, was a rambling affair reminiscent of English country houses, with the addition of long columned porches. Its knoll commanded a magnificent view of the valley of the Rappahannock, with the river about a mile away. Jackson had for a long time camped in a tent in the yard of the place, refusing to disturb Mrs. Corbin and her young children, and her husband’s sister, Kate. The master of the house was absent, as Jackson had explained to Anna in a letter of December eighteenth:
Our headquarters are now about 12 miles below Fredericksburg, near the house of Mr. Richard Corbin, which is one of the most beautiful buildings I have seen in this country. It is said to have cost sixty thousand dollars.… Mr. Corbin was absent, serving as a private in the Virginia cavalry, but Mrs. Corbin bountifully supplied us … she urged me to remain, and offered me a neat building in the yard for my office, but I declined, and am now about 500 yards from the house, encamped in the woods. She told me that if at any time I needed house room, she could let me have it.
Baby’s letters are read with great interest, and it does her father’s heart good to read them.… I have much work before me, and today I expect to commence in earnest. The reports of the battles of McDowell, Winchester, Port Republic, Richmond, Manassas, the Maryland campaign, Harpers Ferry, and Fredericksburg have all yet to be written.
When his dinner party was over and the general officers had left, Old Jack returned to his tent, and the young men around him joined the women in the Corbin house. The dinner had some solemn undertones, for the matter of Jackson’s reports had become pressing; and one of the diners at Moss Neck was Colonel Charles J. Faulkner, called from the adjutant general’s office in Richmond to fill in the missing papers of Jackson.
Faulkner was a capable and pleasant man, with eight years’ experience in the United States Congress and three years as the Minister to France in prewar days. He was to deal with what Kyd Douglas called Jackson’s “neglected reports,” one of the army’s serious gaps in the official records. Jackson readily acceded to the plan, but he maintained full, almost jealous control. His battles, after all, were among the most famous fought by the army, and they had been piled one on another, fourteen in eight months, so that Old Jack, bedeviled by the business of training and supplying his troops while fighting them, had scant time to deal with reports.
They Called Him Stonewall Page 40
