Madame Presidentess

by Nicole Evelina

  The next morning, I worried a path from one end of the small office I shared with Tennie to the other. This tip had the potential to make us very rich women if Mr. Vanderbilt kept to his promise to split the proceeds with us as remuneration for our advice.

  The ticker spit out its first report right after trading opened at ten o’clock. Central Pacific Railroad was valued at $134 a share. Mr. Vanderbilt sent word to his associates that they should increase his number of shares. Then we waited.

  Throughout the morning, Tennie and I studied Mr. Vanderbilt’s texts on finance while he handled his other business. At noon, I looked up from the newspaper I’d been reading, trying to learn all I could about stocks. It was slow going. Men like Mr. Vanderbilt studied for years, decades even, to become experts. Why did I think I, with my meager three years of schooling, could do any better? Maybe I should give up this charade and admit that my father was mistaken and this whole thing was based on a lie. Or maybe I should wait and see how this first test goes. There would be time for the truth later.

  In the early afternoon, Tennie sat on Mr. Vanderbilt’s lap and read the paper to him as he dozed. How could he remain so infernally calm? I was ready to crawl out of my own skin. Finally, the clock on his desk chimed, signaling the market’s closing time.

  I hurried over to the ticker machine and held up the long ribbon of paper, searching for Central Pacific Railroad. “I don’t believe it. The stock closed at $165. That’s a gain of more than thirty dollars a share.”

  Tennie tugged gently on Mr. Vanderbilt’s side-whiskers to wake him. “Wake up, old boy. It’s closing time.”

  Mr. Vanderbilt snorted awake. “Wha? What’s that?”

  “I said you should say thanks to Victoria. You are now a much richer man than when you fell asleep.”

  Mr. Vanderbilt looked at me, puzzled, as he slowly shook off sleep. I tore off the ticker tape and brought it to him.

  “By the horn spoons!” A smile spread across his face. “Do you know what this means?”

  “That you’ve made nearly two hundred fifty thousand dollars,” I answered.

  Mr. Vanderbilt nudged Tennie, and she rose so he could do the same. “That you made me nearly two hundred fifty thousand dollars,” he corrected, indicating me. “Or should I say the spirits did?” He limped over to his desk, shaking one leg as though it was still asleep, and opened the top drawer. He removed his check ledger. “I don’t forget my promises either.”

  I grasped Tennie’s hand and held it tight while Mr. Vanderbilt scribbled an entry then handed us a slip of paper.

  “I promised to pay you half if your tips were correct.” He raised his head when neither of us made a move to take the proffered paper. “When the banks open tomorrow, you will find the money in your account. This is surety of my payment.” He waved the paper.

  Tennie took it, looking from it to me in silent wonder.

  “So it is true?” I asked. “We are rich?”

  Mr. Vanderbilt smiled before patting me affectionately on the back and kissing Tennie on the lips. “Indeed. That is the beauty of the stock market. But keep in mind that as quickly as it can give you wings, it can tear them away if you aren’t careful.”

  I stood still for a long while, contemplating my sudden good fortune. I would have to pay a fourth of what we’d earned to Josie, but that still left us with a sudden influx of wealth, which meant I could do more for the women I cared so much about.

  “I hope this doesn’t mean you’re leaving me.” Mr. Vanderbilt’s voice broke into my thoughts.

  “Oh no, quite the opposite. We’ve only just begun.”

  Word of the commodore’s coup had already spread by the time we left for the evening. As we were getting into a carriage, Johnny Green, the piano player-cum-journalist, jogged to the front doors of the mansion.

  “Commodore, Commodore. One question, if I may,” the reporter called, trying to get Mr. Vanderbilt’s attention before the door shut between them. “All of Wall Street is buzzing over your incredible windfall today. What advice do you have for our readers who wish to emulate your success?”

  As the carriage began to pull away, Mr. Vanderbilt’s gleeful laugh followed. “Do as I do. Consult the spirits.”

  I smiled to myself. The spirits. If he only knew. But at least now I had the money to make good on the plans Tennie and I had hatched back in August. With our newfound wealth, we would be accepted by the suffragists, who were key to any reform involving women. The next step was joining their ranks.

  JANUARY 1869

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The distinctive buildings of the nation’s capital rose up around me in the winter cold, but I couldn’t get my mind to accept that I was there, much less that in only a few minutes, I would be hearing the pioneers of the women’s movement speak at the National Female Suffrage Convention.

  “James, this is the best Christmas present you could have given me.” I snuggled against him as we walked, grateful for his generosity and encouragement in getting involved with the movement.

  “I know how much it means to you,” he said with a warm smile. “I only hope I can be of help in establishing you among their ranks.”

  He had been a supporter of the movement from its pre-Civil War roots, so his name held sway here. My hopes were high that by the end of the weekend, my name would be known too.

  Carroll Hall was crammed with people, all talking animatedly while they found their seats. Onstage, plump and cheerful Elizabeth Cady Stanton, dour Susan B. Anthony, and skeletal Lucretia Mott were oblivious to the commotion, awaiting their turns to speak.

  They look like the Fates.

  As soon as the thought crossed my mind, a glimmer of light caught my eye, a gossamer thread lying in their laps. Mrs. Stanton’s fidgeting fingers appeared to be weaving it; Mrs. Mott, brushing away lint from her skirt, could have been taking its measure; and Miss Anthony’s crossed fingers closely resembled the shears that cut the thread of life.

  Certainty settled into my core as though I had swallowed a cannonball. These women would have a profound effect on my life; today was only the beginning.

  Elizabeth Cady Stanton was the first to speak. “At this very moment, Congress is debating the Fifteenth Amendment. If it is passed, it would give black men the right to vote. But I ask you, how are we, as women, any less important? How are we to be left out of such legislation? Shall American statesmen make their wives and mothers the political inferiors of unlettered and unwashed ditch-diggers fresh from the slave plantations of the South?” She went on to refer to black men and immigrants as “Sambo and Hans and Yung Tung,” railing that women might be subjugated to men of inferior intelligence simply because of their sex.

  While some members of the audience gasped at her use of such language and others muttered in agreement, Frederick Douglass, the famous former-slave-turned-orator, came forward to challenge her.

  “The right of women to vote is as sacred, in my judgment, as that of man, and I am quite willing to hold up both hands in favor of this right. But I am now devoting myself to a cause not more sacred but certainly more urgent because it is one of life and death to the long-enslaved people of this country, and this is Negro suffrage. As you very well know, woman has a thousand ways to attach herself to the governing power of the land and already exerts an honorable influence on the course of legislation. She is the victim of abuses, to be sure, but it cannot be pretended, I think, that her cause is as urgent as ours.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Tennie whispered to me over the remainder of Mr. Douglass’s remarks. “He goes too far. I am a bit insulted that he would insinuate that simply because I can marry or sleep with a man, I have more access to power.”

  “But don’t you? We both know what men are willing to do for sex.” I eyed the tall black man with wild hair as he spoke. “I think he’s saying that the Negros must have the right to vote as a matter of survival now that they are free. They need to be able to influence their government as they s
hape their lives.”

  “But what of our lives? That’s what Mrs. Stanton was saying. Are ours any less precious?”

  “No, and Mr. Douglass would be the first to say so. He doesn’t deny our right. He’s simply asking us to wait our turn.”

  “Why should we?” Tennie huffed.

  The debates continued for the next two hours, both onstage and between Tennie and me, until the crowd finally adjourned for cocktails at one of the nearby hotels.

  The first person we encountered was Lucretia Mott. James made the introductions.

  “My, yes,” Mrs. Mott said. “I always enjoy meeting new members. You girls are so young you could be my granddaughters. What did you think of the speeches?”

  While Tennie answered Mrs. Mott, James excused us and escorted me to the side of the event’s host, Representative Benjamin Butler, the most powerful man in the House of Representatives.

  He had been speaking with a finely dressed woman but turned his back to her as we approached. “Colonel, delighted to see you again,” Mr. Butler said, pumping my husband’s hand and giving me a polite bow. “Are you enjoying the convention?”

  “Most definitely, though I am afraid my wife and her sister are much at odds over the Stanton-Douglass debate.”

  “Aren’t we all,” the representative said. “I thought I knew where I stood before coming here today, but I’ve found they both made some excellent points that make it hard to choose a side.”

  “But choose we must,” interjected the woman to whom Mr. Butler had been speaking. Her deep voice and large bones would have looked more at home on a farmstead than in fashionable society, where dainty features and a sickly pallor were deemed desirable.

  “Forgive me.” Congressman Butler gestured to her. “This is Lydia James, wife of one of Washington’s most prominent lawyers. She was telling me why she favors Mrs. Stanton’s arguments.”

  Mrs. James preened. “I said to Mr. Butler that as members of the newly formed National Woman Suffrage Association, we have a duty to keep out the unlettered, ignorant women who are unfit to appear before an audience such as ours. If the press, not to mention the government, is to take us seriously, we must show them we are worthy of their attention.”

  “Is that so?” I asked, inching closer to the woman. “And what of women who start out poor and unlettered, as you say, but rise to be in your midst? What do you say of them?”

  James squeezed my elbow in warning, but I shook him off.

  Lydia peered down her nose at me and gave a sharp, hooting laugh as though I had told an amusing joke. “Oh, my dear, I don’t think we are in danger of encountering many of those. Though the war made some women more independent than they’d been previously, we are, for the most part, well-contented within our social ranks.”

  “You may be,” I muttered into my drink.

  James shot me a warning look, angling his body away from me and toward the politician. “So, Congressman, I hear rumors that you wish to introduce a bill into the House calling for the vote for women.”

  Mr. Butler beamed. “You have good sources. I do have plans.”

  As Mr. Butler outlined his ideas, I listened, enthralled by the magnetism of this small, rather ugly man. He had an overly large head and sunken eyes surrounded by puffy, wrinkled flesh. One of his eyelids drooped, and his bristly mustache hid thin lips. But something about him, about his passion and vitality, made it impossible for me to take my eyes off of him.

  “Do you believe such a bill has a fighting chance?” I asked.

  Mr. Butler grimaced. “I honestly don’t know. We have some strong support but equally powerful resistance, namely John Bingham in the House and the Beecher family in the public. Perhaps if we can sway one, we will be victorious. Either way, I’m determined to keep trying until we succeed.”

  “As well you should.” A tall, black-haired man in a tailored suit joined them, clapping Mr. Butler affably on the shoulder. He extended a hand to my husband and me. “I’m a reporter for the New York World. I’d tell you my name, but my column is anonymous.” After we introduced ourselves, he addressed me. “I believe you are a new face in Washington, Mrs. Woodhull. What is your opinion of the convention and its leaders’ views?”

  I swallowed, not enjoying the attention, especially since my words might end up in print. Icy sweat broke out on my neck and back, and I was suddenly burning up and unsure how to answer. This was my chance to making a lasting first impression. “I am new to the movement, so I don’t know its intricacies as well as many of the women here, but I agree with them to a point. While I believe in woman most completely, I also believe in man most thoroughly.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, I believe Mr. Douglass is right that the black man winning the vote will help build momentum for women. But I also agree with Mrs. Stanton that we cannot allow ourselves to get swept under the rug while the issue is decided.” I cleared my throat. “Where I disagree with her is on the topic of worthiness. I’m a healer and have heard stories from all walks of life, and each person—man and woman, rich and poor—is worthy of the right to vote. It seems to me the only question is when it will become a universal right.”

  “And do you see yourself playing a role in bringing that to pass?” the reporter asked.

  “Absolutely.” The word was out of my mouth before I had even thought it, but I knew deep within my bones it was true. I had found my calling.

  I told James as much that night as we lay in bed.

  “I will support you if you wish to pursue this,” he promised. “You have something few of the other women in the movement can claim.”

  “A handsome husband who actually wants his wife to speak her mind?”

  His chest shook as he laughed. “Not what I was thinking but yes.” His tone quickly sobered. “You speak from experience. You’ve seen both the highs and lows of life and can offer a validity none of the blue-blooded biddies at this convention could ever affect. They will always be window dressing to the movement. You, on the other hand, could prove to be very powerful.”

  With James’s support and my newfound conviction, I approached the second day of the conference not as the wide-eyed innocent of yesterday but as a potential future leader. The urge to speak out, to give voice to all of those whom society silenced hummed in my veins. The only remaining question was how.

  Among the morning’s speakers was my old friend from St. Louis, Virginia Minor. After she was introduced, Mrs. Minor wasted no time in getting to the point of her speech. “You may know that my husband and I are vocal proponents of the idea that the Constitution already gives us the right to vote. But we are willing to put before you an additional piece of supporting evidence, found in the Fourteenth Amendment, that I believe gives all women the right to vote.

  “As persons born in the United States, women are citizens. Nowhere in the text does it specify ‘males’ or ‘men,’ only ‘persons,’ which is a term without gender and therefore should include both men and women. The Constitution gives all citizens the right to vote. Therefore, as citizens, we already have the right to vote. The next line of the amendment elaborates, noting that no state is allowed to legally deprive citizens of their rights or deny them equal protection.”

  I followed Mrs. Minor’s words closely, taking in each argument and dissecting it carefully. I was not trained to debate the finer points of law, but I could find no flaw in the woman’s logic. In fact, the longer I listened, the more I found myself agreeing. Around us, women whispered to each other, nudging husbands and companions in agreement with Mrs. Minor’s peaceful call to arms.

  “Therefore, if the right is already ours, all we need do is take it back. Yes,” her voice rang out like the peal of an Easter church bell, “I mean we must take action. Perhaps you have heard of the Spiritualist town of Vineland, New Jersey? There, late last year, nearly two hundred women cast their votes. They pledge to do so annually until they are acknowledged. This is what I call on you to do.


  “What I am asking of you is revolutionary, this I know. It goes against all we are raised to believe and how society demands we behave, but I urge you to open your minds to the idea. As a group, we have the power to change state laws, something which Miss Anthony, Mrs. Stanton, and other leaders of this group will be working to put into action. But each of us bears personal responsibility as well. So on your next election day, I ask that you hand over your ballot, not meekly but with pride, and demand to be counted among the citizens of this fine country. Only in that way can we hope to affect change in time to cast our votes for the next president in 1872.”

  The crowd roared with applause, and I leapt to my feet, clapping as loud as my hands would let me. This woman was onto something.

  “We should do this,” I mouthed to Tennie, who nodded enthusiastically. I would have to discuss the possibilities taking shape in my mind with James.

  “They’ve got motivation now,” said a man in the row behind me. “Too bad they don’t have the money to see it through.”

  His offhand comment snagged my attention. The party needed money, and I needed a way into its upper echelons. If Josie’s stock tips had taught me anything, it was that there was money to be made in the stock market—lots of it. Perhaps that could be my entry into suffrage society. I mulled over the thought as other people spoke. By the time Elizabeth Cady Stanton delivered the closing address, I was determined to work with Tennie to see how our budding business relationship with Mr. Vanderbilt might help advance our work for women.

  When Mrs. Stanton said, “The need of this hour is a new evangel of womanhood to exalt purity, virtue, morality, true religion, to lift man up into the high realms of thought and action,” a chill raced down my spine. Those words were meant for me.