by Dorothy Love
“Huh. From what Miss Agnes says, Mister Orton Williams has taken a liking to her. I won’t be surprised if they get married one day.”
“Perhaps. They have corresponded since childhood. Agnes thinks very highly of him. Orton is a good boy. Colonel Lee likes him.”
“Well, there you are then. One daughter down and three to go. The other girls will find themselves suitable husbands by and by.”
“I hope so. But Mildred is only thirteen, and already such a tempestuous girl. I pray God will change her heart before Satan takes possession of it.”
It was all I could do not to bust out laughing. “You were a wild one yourself when you were Miss Mildred’s age. Leastways that’s what Eleanor always said. She said you used to do just as you pleased and say whatever came into your head, no matter what anybody thought.”
“Yes, and it was that very behavior that scared my mother into thinking no one would have me. I suppose I still do as I choose.”
“Yes, you do. And yet here you are. Satan hasn’t got ahold of you yet.”
Miss Mary went on like she had not heard a word I said to her. She had a great deal on her mind that day.
“Rooney will not apply himself to his studies. And Robbie is so undecided about his future that I despair of him too.” She let out a gusty sigh. “I have been too indulgent to the faults of my children, Selina, and for that I have been punished.”
I wasn’t about to get into a conversation about who got punished and for what. “What about that man who’s helping you with your book? Didn’t you tell me he asked you for some pictures?”
“Mr. Lossing. Yes, he wants more pictures of the Washingtons and of Arlington. He has recommended Derby and Jackson to publish it, instead of Mr. Lippincott, but I have yet to make an answer.”
“Well then?” I could feel impatience building up inside me. White people always thought their problems were so much worse than anybody else’s. It was true she was often in pain and worried about her children. And Mister Custis had left a mountain of debts behind. But Miss Mary was still one of the richest women in Virginia. She had a fine house filled with books and carpets and paintings and enough linens and silver to run a hotel.
Try living in a one-room cabin with a man and six whiny, sick children, and then talk to me about who deserved to get the mullygrubs.
“I ought to finish going through the papers my father left,” she said finally. “And make up my mind about a publisher. And I should reply to the African Repository. They want permission to print the letter I received from Rosabella Burke last year.”
“Daniel told me you got a letter from William.”
“Rosabella wrote as well. She and William have added several more children to their family, but Rosabella reports she is in excellent health. William is busy with his preaching and traveling to other churches.”
“He always wanted to be a preacher.”
Miss Mary stifled a yawn. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I have so little energy these days. The years are catching up to me, I suppose.”
“George boiled up some beef last night. I’ll make you some beef tea. Unless you want one of Judah’s remedies.”
“What does Judah recommend for an affliction such as mine?”
“Pokeberries soaked in brandy. A wineglass full, three times a day.” I got to my feet. “If you try that remedy you might want to keep a chamber pot close by.”
She laughed and motioned for me to roll her chair from the window over to the table where her papers and pens and boxes of Mister Custis’s things were set out.
I fixed some beef tea and brought her some bread and fastened the curtain back from the window to let the light in. “Daniel just got back from town with the colonel. I expect Mister Robert will be in to see you in a little while. That ought to cheer you up.”
But she was already busy with her work, her nose buried in a dusty book.
I went out the back door and crossed the yard. Since Colonel Lee had hired away most everybody, Arlington was strangely quiet. Until I got to my cabin. Mauma was there like always. Judah and Kitty were there too, and several of the Binghams, and my daddy and the few men the colonel had kept on the place to put the crops by. Thornton had been sent down to White House to do the same there.
A stranger was standing in my cabin with a bright fire in his eyes. In the quarters there’d been talk of a white man going among the Virginia slaves stirring up a furor. I figured this must be him.
“Selina,” Mauma said. “This man got news from that abolitionist Mister Robert captured at Harper’s Ferry last month.”
“That’s right.” The man took off his hat. Above the tanned part of his face, his forehead was pale as the moon. He turned ice-blue eyes on me. “You might ought to send your children out to play while we discuss this.”
Two of my babies were sleeping on a pallet next to the stove. I shooed the older ones into the yard.
“You people might have heard of John Brown,” the man said. “He’s been stirring up trouble in Kansas for quite a while.”
“We don’t need any trouble here,” I said. “We’ve got as much as we can handle already.”
“John Brown come to Harper’s Ferry to call attention to the plight of you slaves here in Virginia. And the master of this very house is the one who took his artillery and a company of marines to storm the engine room where John Brown and his followers were holed up. Mister Brown was seriously wounded.”
“We already heard about that.” Judah puffed on her corncob pipe, and the smell of tobacco filled the room. “Tell us somethin’ we don’t know.”
“Mister Brown was taken to court, where he was convicted of murder, treason, and insurrection. They hanged him yesterday.”
“That don’t surprise us none.” My daddy knocked his own pipe against the bottom of his shoe. “But why tell us about it now? Nothing we can do.”
“There is plenty you can do. Among John Brown’s effects the authorities found maps, papers, and plans for even bigger insurrections. But those plans depend on the bravery of people like you who will stand up and throw off the yoke of oppression. Demand your freedom.” He pointed to Judah. “Look at you. Thin as a rake and dressed in rags. Wouldn’t you like to be free?”
She frowned. “And do what? Go where? I’m nearly eighty years old.”
That stopped him in his tracks for a minute. But then he said, “You can’t expect folks like John Brown to fight for you if you are not willing to fight for yourselves. To die if necessary. To mingle your blood with that of John Brown and the millions of slaves who have died at the hands of their masters. Anarchy and revolution! That’s what it will take to dispel the poisonous miasma of bondage and assure you of the right to live as free men and women. My friends and I stand ready to help anyone who chooses to leave Arlington. We can go tonight.”
Perry Parks stood up. “I’m gone with you.”
“Me too.” Daniel’s son stood up. “I ain’t afraid. Not one bit.”
“Then you be a crazy fool,” Judah told him.
The man said, “Be ready as soon as it’s dark. Wait in the woods behind the chapel. Someone will come for you.”
Then a shadow filled the doorway, and there stood Mister Williams, the county constable who had whipped Wesley and Mary for running away.
“What’s going on here?” He stared at the stranger. “Who are you?”
“A champion of the oppressed.”
“You are trespassing on Custis property. Go on now. Don’t let me catch you here again.”
The man jammed his hat onto his head and squeezed past Mister Williams. “You can’t stop the tide once it’s started to rise, Constable.”
The abolitionist faded back into the woods quiet as a ghost. Mister Williams looked around the cabin. “You people best forget everything that man told you. You mind the colonel and do your best, and you will get your freedom by and by.”
“By and by,” Perry muttered. “Huh. Words don’t cook rice.�
��
Mister Williams whipped his head in our direction. “What did you say, boy?”
“I said you’re right and I’m going to act nice.”
“That’s the spirit. Now, all of you get on back to work.”
34 | MARY
1860
Waking just after dawn, I eased from my bed to light the fire Selina had laid for me the previous evening. The kindling caught and flared, chasing the November chill from the room. I opened the curtains to the wide expanses of the sky and the river.
Loneliness cast a special luster on the dying leaves of autumn, and I felt suspended—small and alone—between those two great infinities. In this world we have only each other to guard against the cold universe. Except for Markie and the few servants still rattling about Arlington, I had no one. Robert was in Texas with the army, and my children were scattered like dandelion seeds just at the time when we might have given comfort to one another.
Lately the talk around Washington City was of nothing but the coming election and the probability that Lincoln would be elected president. The newspapers were full of reports from South Carolina, where the leaders seemed intent upon secession. It was a foolish notion, and I said so in my letters to Texas. My husband agreed. He wrote hurriedly from San Antonio.
Disunion will mean anarchy. Secession is nothing but revolution. The aggression of the North and the selfish and dictatorial bearing of the South are equally egregious. I cannot anticipate so great a calamity to the nation as the dissolution of the Union.
“Mary?”
Markie had come up the stairs and was standing in the doorway, her dark eyes bright with anticipation. She waved a brown-paper-wrapped package in my direction. “Guess what I have here?”
“I can’t guess. I haven’t had any breakfast yet.”
She laughed. “It isn’t hard.”
“Is that my book?”
“Yes!” She crossed the room and bent to kiss my cheek. “It’s the Recollections. Published at last, and I, for one, am so proud of you.”
I tore off the paper and ran my fingers over the cover. Seeing my father’s name alongside my own brought a wave of emotion—pride, regret, and a deep longing for days that could be no more. “Where did you get it?”
“The bookstore in Washington City. I wanted to give it to you when I arrived last night, but there wasn’t time. I do hope Derby and Jackson haven’t already sent you one.”
“They should have. But correspondence from Mr. Derby has been sparse of late.”
Markie flopped onto the chair beside my bed. “He probably forgot. All this talk of Lincoln and secession has everyone preoccupied. I can’t imagine the union will be dissolved, though.”
“Neither can Robert.” I crossed the room and handed her his letter, which had come in yesterday’s mail.
She read the letter. “Oh, he seems so distressed. Perhaps I should write to him.”
“If you like. He enjoys your letters.”
“I shall write to him tonight to enclose with yours. For now I want to speak with George.”
“I am sure he can find something for us to eat.”
“I want to ask him to make something special for dinner tonight. To celebrate the fact that we have another author in the family.” Markie grinned. “Uncle Wash would be so proud of you.”
That evening we dined by candlelight on boiled ham made from my great-grandmother Washington’s recipe, gravy and potatoes, and a dried apple tart with sweet cream. Every bite was delicious, but the many empty chairs around the table brought a lump to my throat. I couldn’t help feeling guilty, knowing that Robert was making do with much plainer fare.
Markie was still at Arlington a few days later when a letter arrived from White House.
Dearest Mama, Rooney wrote in his looping hand.
We have a son, healthy and strong, and Charlotte is well. We have much to be thankful for, but I do regret that Papa is so far away and it will no doubt be some time before he can greet his first grandchild and namesake. Yes, we have named our baby Robert Edward Lee in hopes he will grow into as fine a man as his grandpa. Charlotte asks that you visit as soon as the weather warms, as she is most eager to show off her handiwork. The Arlington servants engaged here are well and ask to be remembered to Papa when next you write to him.
In his last letter to me, Papa addressed me as “Fitzhugh.” He thinks that I ought to give up my nickname now that I am a married man and a father. To please him I shall make the effort, but I suppose I shall always think of myself as plain old Rooney.
With love and kisses to all at Arlington, Your devoted son, Fitzhugh Lee
I passed the letter to Markie. “Oh my. So our Rooney is Fitzhugh now? It sounds much too serious for him. But I suppose it seems more dignified.”
She picked up the Daily Times and we fell silent, absorbed in our reading. I had hoped for a letter from Robert, but the secession movement was gaining support in Texas and he was preoccupied with concerns for his men. Their constant worries about their futures as soldiers, and as husbands and fathers, had led to several resignations and to a deep despair that even a man of my husband’s talents found hard to overcome. Everyone was taking sides. The country my great-grandfather had fought to establish was being torn asunder by conflicting passions. I could see nothing ahead but disaster.
Markie sipped her coffee. “You seem preoccupied this morning, Mary. And not just about the next election. Something else is bothering you, I can tell.”
Publication of Papa’s book had stirred unpleasant thoughts of him and his other daughter. The secret lay like a stone in my heart. Before I could decide whether to tell Markie about my mulatto half sister, Selina came in to scrub the floors, Ephraim arrived to ask about pruning the roses, and George informed me that we were out of lard and flour. The next day Markie left on an extended visit to our kin in Kent County, and the moment in which I might have unburdened myself to my cousin was lost.
Lincoln won the election, and by the time Robert came home from Texas the following spring, I had much more serious things to occupy my mind. South Carolina had made good on the threat of secession, and other states quickly followed. In early April the newspapers reported accounts of the firing upon Union troops attempting to supply Fort Sumter, just off Charleston. Their actions seemed to embolden the men of Virginia, who voted to join the Confederates.
Each day brought us closer to disaster. Robert refused President Lincoln’s offer to lead the Union forces and huddled with his brother Smith and his old friend General Scott, debating whether to resign his commission in the United States Army.
“What shall I do?” he asked one evening a few days later. The girls had gone off to bed and we were alone in the parlor, where a small fire blazed against the April chill. “General Scott advises that if I am to resign I should do so at once. And he’s right. I cannot retain the respect of my fellow officers when my loyalties are so divided.”
Plainly, this was the greatest struggle of his life, and there was so little I could offer him. “Both parties are in the wrong, but somehow the Union must be preserved. I can’t pray that God will prosper the right, because I see no right in this matter. But I know you, my dearest husband. Whichever way you go will be the path of duty. You will think it right, and so I shall be satisfied.”
“Thank you, Mary.” He got to his feet. “I should like some time alone.”
He went into his office and closed the door.
The stairs creaked, and our daughters came into the parlor.
“We are too upset to sleep,” Agnes said. “Is Papa all right?”
Charles came in to clear the dining room and light the lamps.
“Colonel Lee sure looked worried tonight,” he said, shaking his head. “Hardly touched his dinner. You need anything else, Mrs. Lee?”
“Nothing. Thank you, Charles.”
“Yessum. Reckon I ought to go on home then.”
The door closed behind him. The girls and I sat in gloomy silence.
Agnes pressed a handkerchief to her eyes. “Oh, Mother, Arlington feels just as bereft as it did when Grandmama died. So cold and sad. How can Papa possibly decide to leave the army? It has been to him home and country for my entire life.”
“I think it’s stupid to even think that the country can be split in two,” Mildred said. “Papa ought to stand with the Union.”
“And let Lincoln’s troops overrun Virginia and tell us how to manage our own affairs?” Mary Custis slammed her book closed and glared at her sister. “You are naive to think he wishes anything less than the total destruction of the South. Secession is the only way to prevent it.”
The clock chimed midnight, and Robert’s door remained closed.
“I’m tired of this death watch,” Agnes said. “I’m going to bed, Mama.”
When morning came I found Robert sitting in the parlor, staring out the window, weary but utterly calm. Two letters lay on the table beside the chair.
“Mary. Where are the girls?” His voice was in tatters, his cheeks so hollow and shadowed I was afraid he had fallen ill.
“Getting dressed. George should be up with breakfast soon.”
Moments later the girls joined us in the parlor. Charles bustled in to set the table. Selina arrived to begin her chores but quickly withdrew when she saw us there, rumpled, bleary-eyed, and anxious.
Robert stood. “I suppose you will all think I have done very wrong.”
He handed me the letters. The first was but a single sentence addressed to the Secretary of War.
Sir: I have the honor to tender the resignation of my commission as Colonel of the 1st Regt of Cavalry.
The other, to General Scott, explained his struggle to separate himself from his profession of thirty years and thanked his old mentor for his kindness.
Your name and fame will always be dear to me. Save in defense of my native State, I never desire again to draw my sword.
