by Judy Alter
I looked at John, but he sat immovable as the charges were read, head high, eyes fixed directly on the officer in charge. When he rose to respond, his voice seemed to ring through the air: "I plead not guilty." Then, almost deliberately, he turned toward me—as though he had sensed my fear—and, outrageously, he winked. The entire courtroom must have seen him, I thought, but there was no ripple of sound in reaction. Right at that moment I felt comforted. John and Father were both right—the court-martial would be his vindication.
Sometimes, listening to those ponderous army officials making their way through tedious and insignificant details, I felt that I would burst, that I would no longer be able to contain my pent-up emotions and I would scream aloud. But at those moments I would look at John, and his confidence would once again anchor me in the world of reality.
As the trial unfolded, what I had always known became clear, so crystal clear that I could not believe there was a person in the country who did not understand it. John was being tried for acts that grew out of his appointment as governor by Commodore Stockton. Doing what he perceived as his duty, he had become caught between two warring officers—Stockton of the navy, who originally had responsibility for the territory of California, and General Kearny, who had taken responsibility in December of 1846 when he arrived overland with his troops from Santa Fe. John, having been ordered to report to Stockton, had considered it his duty to continue to do so until given further orders. Kearny, who had taken charge, considered it military treason and insubordination that John had not reported to him and followed his orders. The crux of the matter, as far as I in my muddle-headed simplicity could see it, was that Kearny had received orders from Washington placing him in charge, but he had failed—deliberately?—to show those orders to John. Therefore John had continued to take his orders from Stockton. To me it was clear-cut—the fault lay with Kearny and not with John. Certainly, at least, the trial should be of Stockton and Kearny, not an officer subordinate to both of them and caught between them.
But that basic issue of command fanned out into a thousand smaller issues—the letters between Kearny and John, a disastrous meeting between the two after John had ridden a night and a day to "help" General Kearny. A new phrase crept into my vocabulary during the trial—the "Capitulation of Couenga," an agreement that John, in his temporary status as civilian governor, had made with the native Californians. From John's point of view it was a conciliatory arrangement, which left the Californians some of their pride and all of their property; according to Kearny it was a lax and ineffective document, which he at once countermanded.
I remembered the words, "Live safe, sleep safe." General Kearny might never have that comfort in California.
The trial dragged us wearily toward Christmas, with no seeming end in sight. Every day the four of us—John, Father, William, and I—went solemnly out the door after breakfast, and every evening we came home exhausted. Court met from ten o'clock until three, and we rushed home only to prepare for the next day, like rats on a treadmill. Many mornings I forced breakfast down, in spite of a queasy stomach, and many evenings I found myself too tired to eat supper, too disheartened and angry to be loving or patient with poor Lily, who was left with Mother, Sophie, and Mathilde for comfort. I was not raising my own child, and I was too numb to care.
As is the way of such military tribunals, the proceedings were often lost in details and the principals—particularly General Kearny and his lackeys, Lieutenant Emory and Lieutenant Philip St. George Cooke, seemed pompous and stern. Cooke, under oath, modified his extravagant charges against John considerably, and I learned for the first time that John had nearly fought a duel with a Colonel Mason, who had specified double-barreled shotguns loaded with buckshot, instead of the usual weapons. I cringed at the thought and was grateful that Colonel Mason had claimed military orders prevented him from giving John satisfaction.
During the prosecution's testimony Kearny testified that John had come to him with a bargain: "Make me governor of California, and I'll report to you instead of Stockton." The words were no more out of Kearny's mouth than I stiffened in horror and leaned forward as though I would reach across to the defense table and restrain John. Even Father looked confounded, as though he could not believe such a charge would be made.
John stiffened noticeably, and a great red spread up his neck and across his face. But he remained seated, fists clenched on the arm of his chair, the knuckles as white as his face was red. When Father first tried to talk to him, John sat staring ahead as though deaf and oblivious to Father's whispers, though they were loud enough that I could hear them in the gallery without discerning the sense. After a minute John turned to Father and they conferred in whispers, though I sensed that John suggested Father lower his voice even further.
During his defense John said with terrible deliberation, "I have never bargained for an office in my life, and I never will." Each word rang out clearly in the courtroom, and General Kearny looked at the floor. Father suggested to John that indeed General Kearny may have offered such a bargain himself, only to be turned down because John had been named governor by Stockton. Fortunately, John never made that speculation public, and Father, not being an officer of the military, was forbidden to speak to the court. John conducted his own defense.
The newspapers ran riot with the controversy, with headlines that read "Frémont Accuses Kearny" and "Did Kearny Offer a Bargain?" Clearly public opinion was on John's side—he was still hailed as the Conqueror of California, the Lewis and Clark of our day—but public opinion stopped at the door of the courtroom.
John did, however, accuse General Kearny of seeking the glory of conquering California, even though it had already been conquered when he arrived there. The courtroom gasped, Kearny harrumphed, and the judge advocate reminded John that the general was not on trial. Ah, but he was, I thought silently.
Commodore Stockton testified for the defense, but he was a weak witness, unsure of himself and waffling on the truth as John had told it to me. He, who had seemed John's brightest hope, was his greatest disappointment. At the end of two days, which Stockton spent justifying his own conduct, the court cut his testimony short. He had never mentioned John.
"Kearny has struck a deal with Stockton," John said late one evening as we sat in the library.
Pen poised to copy something for him, I stopped and stared. "How do you know?"
He shrugged. "It's to the advantage of each. If they can patch up their differences, Stockton is back in the good graces of the military, and Kearny has taken away my one strong weapon."
"Why," I demanded, "is General Kearny so determined to ruin you? It's... it's a personal vendetta."
"I beat him to California," John said.
"So did Stockton."
"Not as publicly, my darling, not as publicly. He drew no attention... and he still doesn't. I do."
Christmas came and went once again without much celebration on our parts—only the small tree for Lily and a roast dinner that I picked at. I thought back to the past few Christmases, all equally glum because John had been away on expeditions. Next year, I vowed, we would have a festive holiday.
On a bitter cold day in late January, John presented a fiery summation of his defense, pointing out the importance of his scientific experiments, the bloodless nature of his military conquests, the good of his civic administration. "I could return to California, after this trial is over, without rank or guards, and without molestation from the people, except to be importuned for the money which the government owes them."
He would, I knew by those words, go back to California, with or without the army.
Father spent all of John's summation—it was almost as lengthy as some of Father's own speeches—staring at Kearny in a way that would have frightened the devil himself. Finally Kearny could stand it no longer.
"Stop it, Senator! Stop making faces at me and trying to intimidate me by staring at me from under those beetle brows of yours!"
"I'll star
e at you till your eyes fall on the floor!" thundered Father just before the gavel pounded and order was demanded.
* * *
The verdict was guilty on all three charges. John, standing to face the court, never flinched, but I had to grasp the rail in front of me to keep from swaying.
"You are dismissed from the service, Colonel Frémont, but because of the record of your service, this court recommends your case to the leniency of the President."
John bowed his head just a fraction of an inch in acknowledgment.
How we got out of the building, past the clamoring reporters, into a carriage, and finally to our own front door, I do not know. Questions were hurled at John: "What will you do now?"
"What do you think the President will do?"
"Do you have any comment?"
"Will you return to California?"
John took my elbow, bowed his head as though he would use it as a battering ram if necessary, and shouldered me through the crowd without answering a one of their questions. Indeed, he might as well have been deaf.
At last, inside the house, we gathered in the library, where Father poured brandy, even offering me a small glass. In a gesture totally unlike him, he downed his brandy in one gulp and flung the glass against the marble side panel of the fireplace.
"Damn fools!" he said. "The poor, pitiful damn fools! They have made an enemy of Thomas Benton, that's for sure. I'll... I'll..." All the air seemed to leak out of him, and he collapsed weakly into a chair. "I guess we'll have to wait and see what Polk does."
John rose and went over to put his hand on Father's shoulder. "You have been loyal and steadfast, and I am more grateful than you know. But you must not jeopardize your career for my sake, my good friend."
Father patted his hand absently. "We'll see what happens."
That night in the privacy of our bedroom, I waited for John to display some emotion—anger, frustration, disappointment, anything but the deadly calm that had not yet left him. Knowing him, loving him, I was terribly aware of the inner anguish that he hid beneath a calm exterior. John Charles Frémont, the child who had endured taunts of "bastard" and the adult who had fought his way to a military career without the benefit of West Point, would not take public humiliation and disgrace without deep and lasting inner wounds.
Wearing my gown, I sat at the dressing table to brush my hair and watched him in the mirror.
He stood at the window, looking out into the night, though I knew he saw nothing of interest.
"What do you see?" I asked idly.
"California," he said, "and a home by the sea."
"Will you go back there?" I knew the answer already.
"Of course," he said simply, "and so will you."
Finally I could stand it no longer. "What do you think the President will do?" I asked, and then went on boldly, "I think that he was as much as directed to pardon you."
John turned toward me. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I shall resign from the army, no matter what Polk does."
* * *
President Polk could have pardoned John, but he didn't. Who knows how much of a part Father or I or even Randolph played in that decision? For whatever reason the President chose to dismiss the conviction on the charge of mutiny, but to uphold the lesser two charges, and then to commute the sentence. John was ordered to "resume his sword and report for duty."
I had told no one, not even Father, that John would resign, but I harbored no hope that he would change his mind. I did not write the letter of resignation, though I wrote everything for John. This one document he wrote in his own hand. I suspect he had it written well before the President's decision was announced.
John's letter said simply that he was innocent and to accept the President's clemency would amount to a confession of guilt. Therefore, he resigned.
Mr. Buchanan—supposedly at the President's request—tried vainly to dissuade John from his resignation, but John, with Father's support, remained firm. He was flattered by other offers—the presidency of a railroad between Cincinnati and Charleston, a faculty position at his own school, Charleston College—but his eyes now remained firmly fixed on California.
Father was stunned, first by the conviction and then by the resignation, and he was angry. He immediately began to plan a campaign to examine the legality of the court-martial. "And I'll fight them tooth and nail on this Mexico business," he vowed. "If James Polk thinks he'll see me in that White House again during his term, he's a bigger fool than I thought."
Rumors swirled through Washington that Father would meet General Kearny in a duel, and though I knew it was but the rumor mongering of small minds looking for excitement, I was strangely disturbed by Father's behavior throughout the trial and his rambunctious anger afterward. A suspicion lived in the back of my mind—and occasionally crept forward to confront me—that if Father had held back, the whole affair might have been settled differently, with less damage to John. Father was used to bullying through whatever cause he championed, and he'd entered this fray with no doubt that his power and influence would save John. That they did not amounted to his first major political failure, a stunning blow for him, I was sure, but also one for the daughter who had worshiped his every move. I wished he would stop charging about like the proverbial bull in a china shop.
Besides, all of Father's ranting and raving changed nothing. Still not thirty-five—at least I didn't think he was—John had a brilliant career in the army, but he was now adrift. What, I wondered, would he do? What would we all do? And what of the infant who now clung to life inside me?
The city of Charleston presented John with an inscribed sword that had been purchased by the citizens by subscription, each who cared to pledging a dollar toward it. John was immensely pleased at this show of confidence from his hometown, where he had once felt so disgraced; but even as he bragged to me of the honor, I knew the difference, to him, between public sympathy and private grief.
* * *
"Jessie, the Congress wants several maps and botanical reports from the last expedition. It won't be a report, but... well, we must get to it."
"Let them be damned," I said vehemently. "Why should you prepare anything for them after the shabby way you've been treated?"
He eyed me coolly, as though reprimanding me for my outburst. "Jessie," he said patiently, "I am a private citizen with no income. They will pay me for the work."
I was mollified enough to mutter "Oh," but it was two days before we began to work, and even then my anger and frustration raged beneath what I hoped was a calm surface.
Preuss worked on the maps, while John dictated the botanical reports to me. Perhaps it was my disposition at the time and perhaps it was the nature of the material, but the report, as I wrote, lacked all the fire and drama of the previous reports, and I grew increasingly weary as we worked.
One day we worked late into the dark of evening. My head was pounding, and the candle seemed to flicker and grow dim before me. The last I remember was John calling my name in a frantic tone.
"Jessie! Jessie..."
Chapter 10
"How long have I been here?" I asked, dimly aware that I was lying in my own bed, in a darkened bedchamber.
"Three weeks, Jessie." John sat by the bed and reached a tender hand to brush the hair from my forehead.
"I... I haven't been... I knew you were here, John, but..." Talking demanded a great effort.
"You have drifted in and out," he said. "I've been here almost the whole time."
"I remember..." My words were halting. "I remember the candle....It seemed to grow dimmer and dimmer."
"You fainted, Jessie, three weeks ago, as we worked on the memoir."
"The report!" I tried to sit up, but his insistent hands pushed me back against the pillow. It came back to me in a rush—the botanical reports we had been working on for the Congress. With our precarious circumstances it was important that the documents be supplied promptly.
"I've finished the cursed thing. It'
s just a geographical account of what I saw. Nothing as grand as what we produced before. It's gone off to Congress." There was that air of disappointment about him as he spoke, almost a nostalgia for the glory of the first two reports.
My heart broke a little, but I was too tired to care deeply. I couldn't have written a lengthy memoir had Congress given us the chance—my body would simply have not responded to my mind. "Will there be another expedition?"
"We don't know yet, Jessie. I doubt it myself, but we'll see."
Much as I understood his desire to be gone, I could not bear to think of parting with John again, at least not until my strength returned.
My hand wandered to my belly and found it rounded and swollen. "The baby?"
"The doctor says it will be fine if you continue to rest. You must not fret, Jessie."
How could I not fret? I wondered, as I looked at my husband. He wore civilian clothes, and his beard was closely trimmed—a new look for a new person. But the old look of sadness was in his eyes, and I knew that he too had yet to recover from the court-martial. My collapse may have been more dramatic, but his, simply of a different nature, was probably the more severe.
"Lily?"
"She is fine," he said with a slight smile, "and asking for her mama. Shall I bring her in?"
Lily, now five, entered hesitantly, clutching tightly to her grandpa's finger. He pushed her ahead a little, and she came to stand by the bedside and reach one tentative hand out to grasp mine.
"Mama? You are all right." It was a statement, not a question, though the worried look on her face robbed the words of the positive force she meant for them to have.
"I'm fine, Lily. But I've missed you."
