by Judy Alter
"Father," I said, "it will be all right. John is going to be proved right."
He looked almost pityingly at me. "Not without a lot of help, he isn't," he said. "They've banded together against us. You need to read what Lieutenant W. H. Emory has been posting about in the eastern papers."
"Who has banded together?" I asked in confusion. "Who's Emory?"
"Kearny's aide-de-camp," John supplied. "He hates me too."
Emory's account, it seemed to me when I read it, was typical of regular army officers who looked down on explorers and others not trained at West Point. It was, according to John, inaccurate and, according to me, inflammatory, but I wasn't as aroused as Father. "What did you say to the President?" I asked.
"He said he understood there had been 'some difficulty among the officers,' " Father said, his tone mocking, "and that he hoped it would not come to court-martial"—just what Polk had said to me when I took Kit Carson to him, I thought—"but I told him I'd demand a full Senate investigation of the entire affair."
I took a deep breath. "A Senate investigation? Even when the court-martial isn't called yet?"
"Can't let them think they've got the upper hand," Father said, and I looked at John, who had turned decidedly pale. "We will have vengeance," Father swore.
The court-martial was called for November, and Father soon enlisted the help of Liza's new husband, William Carey Jones.
"He's an unemployed lawyer," I exploded to John, who silenced me with a finger to my lips.
"He's a lawyer," he said, "and your father has confidence in him. I have confidence in my own case. The trial will be my third report."
Fuming, I realized that matters were out of my hands. I had dreamed of writing the third report, but now the men had taken over.
We had been in Washington a long time, or so it seemed to me, before John ever turned to me in the night. When we were first together after his return, I attributed his distance to fatigue and worry. He would kiss me ever so gently, as though I might disintegrate in his arms, and then turn his back to sleep. At first I understood, but as the days passed, celibacy began to wear on me. It was not only physical. Somehow I translated his distance into something more specific than a lack of appetite. I saw it as a personal rejection.
A time or two I reached a tentative hand out to him in the night, touching him in ways that I knew had always aroused him. Wordlessly, he would take my hand gently in his own, touch it to his lips, and then place it firmly on my own chest. My frustration grew.
No woman of my generation would discuss such a matter with her husband. It was unthinkable... and for all I knew, it was unheard of that a husband ignored his wife in this way. Who would I have asked? Certainly neither of my parents. Liza flitted through my mind, but my pride was too great. I could, I supposed, have asked Sally McDowell if she were nearby—I suspected she would have had worse stories to tell about Francis Thomas—but she was in Virginia, and I would not commit my problem to paper.
When I could consider John objectively, or at least in some degree so, I realized that he was a man in the process of a slow recovery. During the day I could see it in his expression, his bearing, his very response when spoken to. But it was difficult for me to translate that into our intimate relationship.
He had been home four weeks before he ever made love to me. I had dozed off one night when I felt his hand creep under my nightdress, up along my thigh, then across my stomach, raising goose bumps as it went and sending a shiver through my soul. I lay very still, fearful that if I moved he would withdraw. But his hand continued its progress, and soon the other hand joined it. As I turned toward him, his mouth met mine in a long, searching kiss, as though he were asking if I could still love him in disgrace.
With every bit of pent-up passion in me, I tried that night to convince him of the depth of my love, of its independence from his status with the United States Army or government. When at last we lay spent next to each other, he whispered, "Ah, Jessie, I have missed you so."
"And I, you," I replied, whispering into his chest where my face lay buried. "I... I was worried...."
"Don't say it," he begged, "don't talk about it. I know, I know."
After that we were once again passionate lovers. And sometime during that interlude our second child was conceived, though it was November—and a desperate time—before I realized that I was with child.
* * *
A few weeks before the court-martial was to begin, John received word that his mother was seriously ill. As he prepared to leave immediately for South Carolina, it struck me with renewed force that I had never met his mother—we had enjoyed a cordial correspondence in the last few years, and she had sent me the daguerreotype that hung over my bed. But I had never met the woman about whom I had much curiosity. I knew only that she, a widow, pinned all her hopes on her only son, and it seemed to me there was no doubt that her current collapse was precipitated by news of his arrest.
When I offered—almost insisted—that I should accompany him, John said merely that this was a trip he must make alone. I was left with the feeling that he was, one last time, protecting the woman whose passions had brought disgrace on herself and who had passed that disgrace on to her only son.
"Can you be gone with the trial so close upon us?" I asked anxiously.
"I have no choice," he said and would brook no further talk about the matter.
To my horror John arrived in Aiken, South Carolina—where his mother summered—just hours after her death, too late to hug her one more time, to assure her of his well-being, and to tell her for the last time of his love of her. Knowing of her love for her son from our correspondence, I was terribly saddened at the thought of her dying alone, with John only hours away. I thought of my own mother, so surrounded by love in her illness, and the comparison made me weep.
While John was away, word was published that General Kearny would be sent immediately to fight against Mexico, taking with him two of his top officers, who had been heavily involved in his negotiations with John. To my mind it was clear that these men, just back from duty and deserving of a rest, were being hustled away before the court-martial... or else the court-martial would be delayed, which neither John nor I could tolerate. Yet if Kearny were not there, all the evidence would come from dry and distant military reports—the conflict of personalities, the emotional aspect, would be missing, and this case hinged on personalities more than anything.
Once more I took John's fate into my hands. "Dear Mr. President," I wrote, "I ask of you that Mr. Frémont be permitted to make his accusers stand the trial as well as himself. Do not suppose, Sir, that I lightly interfere in a matter properly belonging to men, but in the absence of Mr. Frémont I attend to his affairs at his request."
It must have occurred to me that Father could have made this request rather than me, for I never told him about the letter. Nor did I tell John later. But General Kearny was at the trial. I was not sure whether to take credit for that or not, and so I mentioned it to no one.
I expected John's newly returned self-confidence to be undermined by his mother's death. To my surprise—and concern—he seemed unaffected when he returned. He did not wish to talk about her death or his journey with her coffin from Aiken back to Charleston for burial. He was so matter-of-fact and so seemingly unaffected by what surely was one of life's major moments of grief—the death of one's mother—that I was somewhat alarmed.
"A certain stage of my life, long since over with, is now completely gone," he told me unemotionally, while I prayed silently that Lily might never feel so detached from me.
"I have," John continued, "requested a speedy court-martial. I do not wish this thing to drag out all winter and take us down. And I wish the details of what I did in California made public."
"But the report?" I stammered. "If you would write a report, they would become known. I know it would sell better than the others." This was true, for everywhere John went these days he was met with cheers and congratulati
ons. Everyone knew of his quarrel with Kearny—and no one sided with the general.
"Jessie, Jessie," he said patiently, folding his arms around me, "I know this is hard for you to believe, but I am a subordinate now, not a commanding officer. I wasn't in charge of my own expedition any longer—regardless of whether it was Stockton or Kearny I should have reported to—and as such I cannot write a report. I told you before: the trial will be my report."
I could not help turning away to hide the tears in my eyes. I had so counted on turning the brilliant conquest of California into yet another masterpiece, as we had done with the first two expeditions. 'Someday," I promised in a whisper, "someday we will write that story."
He tilted my chin up and planted a firm kiss on my mouth. "If you say so, Jessie, I have no doubt of it."
* * *
Father had been busy during John's absence in South Carolina, campaigning for John's acquittal, trying, with a desperation that almost frightened me, to sway public opinion. It was as though Father didn't realize that the public was already cheering for John and totally uninterested in Kearny, who appeared lackluster and boring next to the famous Lieutenant Colonel Frémont.
I knew that Father was trying, in his own none-too-subtle way, to put pressure on the President, though he rarely talked of it, and Mr. Polk remained circumspect in his public statements, wishing simply that the matter could be solved.
Afterward I thought it was Randolph who turned everything sour; Randolph, my uncontrollable, drunken, nineteen-year-old brother, newly returned from Virginia.
"Jessie? You best come to the library and talk with me." Father had that terribly solemn look that I had seen only a few times in my life, on such occasions as Mother's illnesses.
"Yes, Father?" There was alarm in my voice, and I was grateful that John was out for the evening, conferring with friends.
"Randolph," he said, drawing a deep breath, "has been to see the President."
"To see the President?" I echoed, my voice rising with amazement. "Whatever for?"
"To tell him," Father said dryly, "that he wants to fight in the war with Mexico. And to bully the President into giving him an appointment as an officer."
I was speechless, fluttering my hands in anxiety, wondering what could come next. The idea of Randolph fighting anyone's war—save maybe his own for survival—was ridiculous. Finally I managed to ask weakly, "What happened?"
"It seems he barged into the President's outer office—literally barged, Jessie—and told him he wanted a commission in the army.
The President, rightly so, told him such things usually went by seniority and experience."
I held my breath. "
"And?"
"And Randolph was, and I quote: 'rude and impudent.' Some say there was alcohol on his breath." Father bowed his head and looked for all the world like a beaten man.
I rose and went to his side, putting my arm around his shoulders, but there was not a thing in the world I could say to comfort him. I could not lightly brush the episode away, for we both knew it was too serious—and too typical of Randolph's behavior in the last year or two. The only comforting words I could think of were, "At least you have John as a son," but that would have been cold comfort to a man whose only son was such a terrible disappointment.
"I just hope," Father said, "that Randolph has not soured the President on the whole Benton family."
Those words would haunt me later.
"I'm sure the President understood," I said as calmly as I could.
"I'm afraid," Father said, "that what he understood is that the Bentons and their relatives are a pack of trouble. Just when we're trying to make John look good, first there was Sally McDowell's scandalous divorce, and now Randolph takes his drunkenness public....I fear for it, Jessie, I really do."
I could not bear to see Father, usually so full of belligerent optimism, depressed and fearful. It scared me, for if Father faltered, what would happen to the rest of us?
When John came in that night, I never mentioned Randolph's transgression.
* * *
The trial began in November. By the opening day Father, John, and I had spent hours and hours preparing the defense, seeking precedents in British law, tracking down this rumor and that, verifying a calendar of events that had taken place a continent away from us. Liza's husband, William, joined John's defense team, while I was the secretary and copyist, writing document after document as the three men dictated. In a court-martial the entire proceeding is conducted in writing, which was a boon in that it gave the defendant—John, in this case—time for consideration before cross-examination. But the burden of the copying fell on me, and I found it irksome.
It seemed to me that John's case was clear and righteous and that a court-martial could do nothing but exonerate him and censure those who had charged him. I prepared with confidence that was, I told myself, fully independent of my love for my husband. I would have believed in him if he had been a stranger... or so I thought.
"John, are you ready?"
He turned the corner from the bedroom and stood before me in the hall, looking splendid, crisp, and dignified in his army uniform. "Ah," I said, "you could melt a girl's heart."
"I'm glad," he replied, almost abstractly. Then, with a sudden directness, "Are you going to a funeral?"
Lightly, I laughed. "Well, almost so, I suppose."
"I mean it, Jessie. You are dressed for a funeral. I want you to look happy, not as though you were in mourning."
I looked down at the black bombazine dress I wore. "I thought... not to look frivolous."
He burst into laughter. "Believe me, Jessie, you don't look frivolous. You look, as a matter of fact, as though you were about to bury your husband."
Torn between joining him in laughter and drawing myself up in indignation, I hardly knew how to respond. "You don't... you don't like my dress?"
He kissed the tip of my nose. "Had you been with me in South Carolina, it would have been perfectly appropriate, my darling. But, please, wear something brighter... to cheer me on through this long day."
I ran to the bedroom, where I literally tore the bombazine off—I never wore it again, as I recall—and chose a deep-green taffeta moire that complemented my eyes—well, anyway, John said it did. On my head I wore a black felt with green and brown pheasant feathers.
John seemed to approve, for he held his arm out for me proudly. And that was how we walked into the courtroom, heads high, me on his arm, and Father, looking disheveled and carrying an armload of papers, trailing behind us.
All of Washington, it seemed to me, had turned out for the court-martial. Oh, of course President Polk was not there—it would not have been seemly for him to attend. But Mr. Buchanan was there, and I suspected he would carry every word back to the President nightly, and George Bancroft was there, though I knew from the beginning he would turn traitor to John. When he greeted me, my acknowledgment was cool, so cool that John later twitted me about it and suggested I'd best keep my personal emotions in better control.
"Those who think they are winning can always afford to be gracious," he said, "and those who think they might lose had damn well better be gracious, so they look like winners."
I was beginning to see that appearance was much, if not all, to John.
General Kearny had a coterie of officers about him, including Lieutenants Emory and Cooke, who had both written falsehoods about John. In spite of all John's words about graciousness, I refused to look Kearny in the eye or to acknowledge the slight bow he directed my way as we walked in. Old family friend, my foot! He had turned into the worst kind of an enemy.
But John had his supporters in the crowd, mostly men who had been with him on the trip to California: there was his scout, Alexander Godey, and his aide, Dick Owens, and the trapper Thomas Williams. Missing on John's side was Archibald Gillespie, the lieutenant who had met with John in the wilds of Oregon on a secret mission. Kearny had managed to detain Gillespie by official order in Ca
lifornia, but we had recently had word that he was on his way east, and we held our breath for his arrival.
Since Congress was about to take up its session, many legislators were in Washington, and apparently lacking anything better to do, they attended the opening session of the court-martial, undoubtedly because it had attracted such publicity. I nodded to this one and that, and it struck me as more than passing strange that so many men whom I had known all my life had now come to sit in judgment on the man I married, whether or not their judgment would have any influence on the outcome of the military court-martial.
I managed to greet them all civilly and to avoid any conversation, except when it came to Stephen Douglas of Illinois. The "little giant," as they called him, stopped me just when John had been called aside by someone else.
"Jessie," he said earnestly, "you must do something about your father."
"Pardon me?" I said. I knew my voice reflected the cool distance such a statement aroused.
"Your father," he repeated. "If he had not made of this such a challenge, there would have been no court-martial. It could have been settled behind the scenes. But he forced the President's hand with his excess of zeal."
What if it was Father and not Randolph who had jeopardized the entire family with the President? What if even my letter requesting—almost demanding—that Kearny not be sent to Mexico had contributed to Polk's feelings about us? No, it was a thought not to be borne.
"Senator Douglas," I replied firmly, "I do not know what you can possibly mean. This court-martial is essential to clear my husband's name. We welcome it." Well, that was a white lie, but not too bad.
He shrugged his shoulders as though to indicate he gave up, and I walked swiftly away. I would never, I vowed, tell either John or Father about that particular encounter.
The opening of the court-martial was full of ceremonial formalities that left me wanting to cry out, "Let's get to the business of things." Thirteen career officers sat as judge and jury on John's fate, and the proceedings began with a formal reading of the charges—John was accused of mutiny, disobedience of a superior officer, and conduct prejudicial to the good of the order and of military discipline. Mutiny! Even though I also knew the nature of the charges in advance, I stifled a gasp of horror, for I well knew that the punishment for mutiny could be execution. Even though that punishment had not been used in recent years, the very possibility struck cold terror into me.
