Jessie

by Judy Alter

  As we sat on a blanket on the beach, I itched with impatience to hear John's story, and he, I suspected, knowing my curiosity, drew out the suspense. At length the children were bedded down, with Sophie to watch over them.

  "Shall we walk along the beach?" he asked, offering his hand.

  I took the hand silently and went with him, waiting for him to speak. He stopped to remove his shoes and roll his pant legs so that he could walk in the water. Since I was still shod, it meant that we sometimes walked far enough apart that he had to raise his voice to make me hear. I found the distance between us awkward and disconcerting.

  "I cannot do it, Jessie," he said at length. "The Democrats expect to win... and I think they may."

  "Did they..." My voice faltered because so much seemed to ride on the moment. "Did they offer you the nomination?"

  He gave me a long dark look, and in that moment I was intensely aware of the water lapping against the beach, the moon shining on the sand. Here we are, I thought, discussing things so weighty I can hardly bear to talk about them, and yet we are in an idyllic setting, where all cares should be banished.

  "They can't afford to lose the South," he said. "Whoever is the nominee will have to support the extension of slavery into Kansas and Nebraska."

  I stifled a gasp. "You... you cannot do that?" I made it a question, but in my heart I knew it was a statement.

  "No," he said, "I cannot. It is the choice between a wreck of dishonor or a kindly light that will go on its mission of doing good."

  There was a bitter taste in my mouth as I agreed with him. Badly as I wanted the presidency, I could not conscience the extension of slavery into new territories. Father would support me, I knew.

  What Father didn't support was John's leanings toward the new Republican party. "We don't need another party," he had fumed months ago to me. "It will split the country beyond repair."

  When the first tentative Republicans approached John about running on their abolitionist ticket, he said to me, "This will anger all your southern relatives. You'll no longer be welcome at Cherry Grove."

  "Nor you among your family and all those you grew up with," I said. "And Father will never accept it." I was going to be forced to make a choice between the two men in my life—my father and my husband. John, I knew, would go whichever way I went. If I asked it, he would reject any hope of the presidency for the sake of family unity; Father was never so flexible. He would see things one way, and one way only. But I could not counsel John against what I was sure was the best policy for us personally, and for the country. "We must work to get the Republican nomination," I said.

  "I had intended to take all of you to California this fall," John replied, "but I've been advised not to go. Your father's friend Francis Blair, among others, wants me to be available as they gather support for my nomination."

  I measured my words carefully, trying to still the excitement that must have crept into my voice. "Is it worth staying? Worth leaving the Mariposas to others? Worth leaving behind all our relatives and friends?" What, I wondered, would I have said if he had decided the risk was not worth the prize at the end of it all?

  But he didn't. "Jessie, I want this," he said. "I want it more than I can tell you."

  "And so do I," I whispered. Our fate was sealed then, and the past left behind us. We moved to New York City in September and took up residence at the Clarendon Hotel. I tackled the problem of making John live up to his image.

  "John, you need new clothes. Yours are all outdated, relics of the years before you went to California. If you are to be about making a good impression, you must have new clothes." I looked at him, remembering the beauty of him in army uniform and wishing he could wear that.

  "I don't want fancy clothes, Jessie—no velvet on the coat."

  I laughed aloud. "All right, no velvet, but a new greatcoat. You must always look a bit the westerner."

  He looked startled. "Why?"

  "Because the country will want to elect a new man, not someone who is part of the same old group. And what they know you best for is western exploration."

  Doing a small dance around me, he demanded, "Do you want me to go abroad in buckskins?"

  "No, not quite," I answered, "but maybe nankeen trousers and a linsey waistcoat."

  "I will not, Jessie! Linsey is for poor farmers. I'll wear wool coats and linen shirts and satin waistcoats." He pronounced this with a slightly defiant air.

  And so we ordered him new clothes—coats of black, with sparkling white linen shirts and black bow ties to be worn at the neck. His hair had turned fully gray now, and he wore it cut just below his ears, with a full beard and mustache. When properly dressed, I thought him dashingly handsome... and told him so.

  "You're prejudiced," he said, grabbing me to waltz around our bedroom, a waltz that ended with both of us tumbled on the bed.

  "I am prejudiced," I whispered. "You'll be the handsomest president of the country yet."

  "Ah, Jessie," he murmured as his hands loosened the buttons of my dress, "never without your ambition."

  Within seconds he had entered me with a ferocity that told me my ambition was no threat to our marriage. It may well have been the bulwark upon which it was built.

  Father did not come to New York to see us. I had harbored a small secret hope that he would throw himself into John's campaign and thereby find a relief from his grief over Mother's death and the loss of the house on C Street, but my dream was only wishful thinking.

  I heard from Francis Blair, who had two lengthy visits with Father, that his work on the second volume of Thirty Years' View was progressing, but that he was staunchly opposed to the Republican party and to John as a candidate. "Your father fears he lacks political experience," Mr. Blair wrote. I wanted to suggest that very lack was the factor that made him appealing to a large portion of the country, but I was learning to hold my tongue. Mr. Blair surely could figure that out for himself.

  If Father did not come to us, I should, I thought, have gone to him... and yet I was reluctant. He no doubt needed me more than anyone else, and yet to go would be to diminish my husband. Torn, I often walked the floor trying to puzzle my way out of the trap in which I saw myself. But there were no easy solutions.

  I sent Lily to Washington, at the cost of missing her schooling, but she returned sooner than expected and announced that Grandfather was not himself. "He works all day at his desk," she said. "The only thing that breaks his day is a horseback ride... and he wouldn't let me ride with him."

  "Wasn't he glad to see you?" I asked.

  "I guess so," she said reluctantly, "but he never talked to me. The only thing he said, over and over, was for me to tell my father not to run for president. Papa? Are you going to?"

  John looked positively helpless, but I, my heart breaking for my father, said, "Yes, Lily, he probably will."

  She smiled as though it were a personal triumph. "I'm glad. I hope Grandfather can learn to be glad too."

  There was, I knew, not much chance. All that winter I wrote bright and happy letters to Father, but he never replied, and my news came from Liza, who, with her husband, William Carey Jones, was now living in the rebuilt house with Father. Long after John's military trial William had developed an unfortunate dependence on alcohol, and Liza's thoughts were so occupied with her own troubles that she had little understanding of Father—or of my separation from him. Father, meantime, spoke out more and more actively among the FreeSoilers urging compromise on the Kansas issue to preserve the Union.

  Sally McDowell remained my confidante. I could and did spill out all my fears and hopes to her with frequency. We wrote about the latest fashions—I could never wear my skirts as short as hers-—and our children—little Frank was growing roly-poly and thoroughly healthy and happy—and about deeper issues—my father's unhappiness. I confessed my dissatisfaction with New York society—"I have been to two parties. The women were dressed within an inch of their lives and stupid as sheep—some of the men had se
nse but not many. I feel like a dancing doll, dressed up to perform."

  That whole long winter John and I played "almost pretend" with each other. Each of us knew that the presidential nomination was the most important thing, and yet we feigned casualness. John worked at the affairs of the Mariposas, in which I took little interest, and I busied myself running a full household with three children and several servants. As was the fashion, we let others campaign for us, though there was a constant stream of visitors at the house we had rented on Second Avenue, after we decided the Clarendon Hotel was too confining.

  The Republican party strengthened its organization, and almost as a direct result, enthusiasm for John's candidacy grew. Newspapers began to take notice of him, calling him "Pathfinder" in reference to his work as an explorer. When the proslavery element won the government in Kansas—Pierce's terrible mistake!—and the antislavery faction set up an opposition government, John wrote an eloquent letter in defense of abolition to "Governor" Charles Robinson that earned him newspaper space throughout the nation. Matters escalated in May when Congressman Preston Brooks of South Carolina attacked and caned Senator Charles Sumner on the Senate floor in retaliation for Sumner's long speech, three days earlier, against slavery in Kansas. Then antislavery fanatic John Brown and his followers raided in Kansas, murdering five men.

  "I feel it is my destiny," John whispered one night as we lay in bed, "to lead this country against slavery. Someone's got to do it."

  The Democrats, meeting in Cleveland in late May, nominated my old escort, James Buchanan, of whom I had heard Father say "He has middling talents." Yet Father attended the convention and began immediately to campaign for Mr. Buchanan. Then the Native Americans met in early June. They had been invited to join ranks with the Republicans, and John thought—he privately confessed—that they would nominate him. But the majority of that party nominated N. P. Banks of North Carolina, while a rump group bolted and chose Commodore Stockton of New Jersey. Thus, by the time the Republicans met, there were three candidates—two of them all but unknown—in the presidential field. As it turned out, the Native American party had little influence on the election, nor did the dying Whig party, which ran Millard Fillmore, whose lackluster presidency had guided the country in the first two years of the decade.

  The first Republican National Convention was held in mid-June of 1856 in Philadelphia. John and I, waiting in New York, did not hear the news until Francis Blair arrived in triumph after the convention. While we waited, John wrote to Frank Blair in St. Louis that he felt as if there had been a preliminary shock, presaging an earthquake. "I feel as men do who are momentarily expecting a great shock... but my nerves are tranquil." I, meantime, was a nervous wreck, pacing the floor, peering out the window for two days, until at last I saw Mr. Blair.

  "You're the candidate, my lad," he said. "First ballot, and to tremendous acclaim, I might add. There was some sentiment for John McLean of Ohio—especially among delegates from Ohio and Pennsylvania—but not enough to make it, and we made a plea for unanimity. You got all but thirty-eight votes."

  I held my breath until, slightly dizzy, I had to grasp a chair to support myself.

  "Jessie?" John asked.

  "I'm fine. I'm just overcome... and proud of you, John. We must think about your nomination speech."

  Even Francis Blair laughed. "Leave us a day to savor the moment, Jessie. We'll get to work soon enough."

  But I was already planning the speech in my mind—-short, straightforward, and firm on the subject of slavery.

  Two weeks later, speaking in New York, John said strongly, "The extension of slavery across the continent is the object of power which now rules the government, and from this spirit have sprung those kindred wrongs of Kansas....A practical remedy is the admission of Kansas into the Union as a free state....It would vindicate the good faith of the South."

  The crowd went wild, shouting "Three cheers for Frémont!" And then, to my astonishment, I heard "Three cheers for Jessie! Mrs. Frémont!" They all took up the cry, yelling, "Give us Jessie!" No candidate's wife had ever appeared publicly—I had to insist that John let me attend his speech, sitting unobtrusively in the audience, accompanied by Francis Blair. But now the crowd kept up its demand, calling my name.

  "Francis?" I asked, knowing what I myself longed to do.

  "Why not?" He shrugged. "Nothing else will quiet them." Rising and offering his arm, Francis Blair escorted me to the podium, amid cheering so strong it nearly made me burst. I stood next to John and reveled in the moment—a crowd of thousands, giving John the support and approval he had so long needed and earned, and too often been denied. That they cheered for me only meant that they recognized my support of John, that I was part of their cause.

  Father, I said to myself, I wish you could see this.

  Father, of course, never acknowledged the moment. He was now running for governor of Missouri, campaigning hard for the Democratic ticket and Buchanan.

  "Doesn't it strike you as odd," John asked one evening, "that your father is supporting a ticket that advocates compromise with slavery—a position he has vociferously denounced—while he is condemning me, though I am running on a ticket that supports his own stated position on slavery?"

  I could not answer. Tears blinded my eyes and choked my voice.

  * * *

  "John," I asked one night as we sat alone before a dying fire, the rest of the household long since asleep, "do you realize we have been married not quite fifteen years?" To me he still looked the young explorer. I suppose I refused to see a certain sadness in the eyes, a tiredness around his mouth, and the very obvious graying of his hair.

  He reached to put an arm around and draw me close. "It's been quite a fifteen years," he said thoughtfully.

  "Well," I responded indignantly, thinking he was making light of it, "it has! Fifteen years ago no one knew who you were. Now you're a presidential candidate, the hero of the nation, the man they call Pathfinder."

  He laughed. "I had the sense to marry Senator Benton's brightest and smartest daughter."

  I drew away. "Is that why you married me?"

  Instantly he was on the floor at my feet. "Of course not, Jess. You must never think that. I married you because I love you... and because you are the best thing that could ever happen to me."

  Still suspicious, I pushed the point. "To you... or to your career?" I was plunging into deep waters, for I well knew that I wanted his national fame as much—maybe even more—than he did. I was accusing him of my own sins.

  Now he jumped to his feet to pace. "Jessie, if you even begin to think that... If what we have shared—the triumphs of the explorations, the grief over lost babies—means nothing to you... I will resign the candidacy now. We'll go to California and live quietly as private citizens. I'll run the mine, you raise the children, and—"

  "No!" I said, rising to meet him. "I am just tired. I don't know what got into me. I want you to continue....I want the presidency for you."

  "And the White House for you?" he asked with a slight smile.

  "That too," I admitted, adding, "even Lily is excited about living there."

  "Poor Lily. I hope she is not disappointed."

  "She won't be," I said fiercely. I didn't want to live as private citizens in a remote mining camp in the Sierras.

  * * *

  "Frémont and Jessie" became the rallying cry of the campaign, to my outward embarrassment and secret pleasure. Crowds chanted our names and called for us, though we never again appeared nor did John speak in public. Following custom—better than I had by going to the podium!—he remained at home while his party campaigned for him.

  It was, John said ruefully, a women's campaign. Though I never again was so bold as to appear, crowds called for me, and men and women alike wore buttons that read "Frémont and Jessie" or "Jessie's Choice." There was even a song—"Oh Jessie Is a Sweet, Bright Lady," sung to the tune of "Comin' Through the Rye." Abraham Lincoln, a young Congressman from Illinois
who was making quite a name for himself as a speaker, reported over a hundred women with nursing babies in the crowd when he spoke for John at an Illinois rally, and abolitionist Elizabeth Cady Stanton spoke out on John's behalf.

  Of course, the opposition used women's support of John against him, the most blatant example being a cartoon that portrayed a cigar-smoking, pantaloon-wearing woman declaring herself for Frémont. It was another thing from the papers that I did not show John, but I was torn by guilt. Had this popularity, which I could not deny enjoying, hurt John? I would have died a thousand deaths before I would hurt his campaign. And yet a secret corner of me relished the vision of myself as the headstrong and independent yet romantic lady who had the good sense at the age of seventeen to elope with this man. I was glad neither John nor Father was privy to that thought!

  Ours was a busy house, as callers and letters flooded in. Francis Blair and I decided that the newspapers and letters should be screened before John saw them, lest innuendo and outright accusation upset him. He agreed readily to this. In addition, I also took on the chore of answering the personal and private correspondence. It galled me to think that public statements on political matters were issued by two hired minions of the new party, when I should rightfully have been taking care of such. But I kept my peace and worked away every morning in the downstairs of our house, while upstairs John and a partner practiced their fencing, their stamping feet making the hall ring to the roof.

  The bitterest personal correspondence came from friends and acquaintances in the South. One man, a schoolmate of John's after whom he had named a river in the West, wrote that their correspondence was now painful to him and he wished never to hear from John again. I hid that letter.

  When callers came to the house, John was quiet, almost shy, while I did the talking. One day Mr. Horace Greeley was announced. I was anxious to meet the editor of the New York Tribune, whose various causes—vegetarianism to phrenology to women's rights—were nationally famous. He was an ardent abolitionist, and his paper was supporting John strongly. I entered the parlor expecting to meet a man of dignity and was instead greeted almost awkwardly by a tall, gangly man in baggy clothes, various papers trying to escape the pockets of his jacket.