by Judy Alter
"We do appreciate your support," John said formally, while I cut to the chase.
"What are our chances?" I asked.
Greeley looked out the window so long that I thought perhaps he hadn't heard my question—or was embarrassed by not knowing how to answer. Then, at length, he spoke in slow, measured tones: "I think they are good, if you can carry Pennsylvania. That's going to be the most important state."
"Pennsylvania was for McLean at the convention," I said quickly.
He looked appraisingly at me. "You have a good head for politics, Mrs. Frémont. So I've heard. You're right, Pennsylvania was for McLean. That's not our problem. Businessmen who aren't interested in alienating the South, if it means losing their business, are the enemy... in Pennsylvania and anyplace else."
"But that's not the point," I said, probably too loudly. "The whole election is about freedom and independence, the principles of our constitution."
"Ah," he answered, "I only wish it were. No, ma'am, it's like everything else... it's about practical matters. When it comes right down to it, men will vote their pocketbook and not their ideals."
Angrily I turned to John, expecting him to leap to my defense, but he said nothing, and I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth. Mr. Greeley may have looked awkward, but he was forthright and honest, when the truth was what I least wanted to hear.
I was more determined to be practical when it was publicly charged in newspaper after newspaper that John was a Catholic. Even the Tribune printed the charge, though at least it made light of it, and I silently thanked the forthright Mr. Greeley. The proof offered was so obviously false as to be ridiculous to my mind: John had carved a cross on Rock Independence on his first expedition, we had been married by a priest, he had seen to it that a niece attended Catholic school.
"John," I pleaded, "you must deny the charge. You must make it public that you have been an Episcopalian all your life."
He shook his head. "I can't do that, Jessie. If this election is about freedom, it is about all kinds of freedom, religious among them. If following Catholicism, which is a lawful religion, disqualifies me from holding office, then I will seek no man's vote. I will not encourage the religious fanaticism that has brought rum to the Old World." There it was again, John's comparison of the ills of the Old World and the bright possibilities of the new, possibilities that depended on freedom.
I wanted to retort that this was no time for high-minded idealism, with the presidency within our grasp. We could not, we simply could not, lose it now. But then I remembered my anger at Mr. Greeley's practicality, and I was quiet.
The Republican party had a conference to deal with the matter and urge John to make a public declaration. He remained firm and, on Greeley's advice, followed his convictions.
The most devastating charge—and the one that I could not keep from John—was that he was a bastard. At Francis Blair's suggestion I had written a campaign biography for publication. In it I had glossed over the circumstances of John's family background. I should have known better, for the papers pounced on my deliberately vague rhetoric.
"There!" John said one Sunday morning, flinging across the room a Virginia newspaper that referred to him as a Frenchman's bastard. "That's the end of it! I will withdraw tomorrow. I will not have you exposed to such gossip."
"The gossip is not about me, John," I said as calmly as I could, bending to retrieve the papers. "It's about you, and it's unfounded."
He looked sideways at me. "It is and it isn't," he said softly. "You know that... I told you the whole story before we married."
"You told me," I said, steeling myself to be cold and hard on him, "that you had been called a bastard as a child and that it had hurt you deeply."
He looked about to cry, and I wondered if all those memories had come flooding back to him. "Yes," he said so low I could hardly hear it.
"And now you've been called a bastard again. Are you going to let that defeat you? Are you going to turn tail and run?" The words hurt me as I spoke them, and I felt like a gambler, staking my whole pot on one throw of the dice.
He was instantly defensive, almost a whine in his voice. "How can I defend myself?"
"By refusing to dignify the charge," I said. "Certainly not by withdrawing from the race." And by standing straight and talking firm, I wanted to add.
He paced the floor, hands locked behind his back, head down for so long a time that I held my breath, convinced that I'd been too harsh on him. At length he raised his head and asked, "You do not mind being married to a bastard?"
"I am not married to a bastard," I said. "I am married to John Charles Frémont, a great explorer, a national hero, a presidential candidate."
He came across the room to me, his arms open, tears on his face. "Jessie," he murmured as he enveloped me in a hug, "where would I be without you?"
It was not a question that needed an answer.
* * *
In the end Greeley proved right. It was not Catholicism nor his parents' illegal union that cost John the election, not even the Republicans' poor choice of a vice-presidential candidate, though John always blamed poor William Dayton and claimed that Abraham Lincoln should have been the candidate. "Lincoln gave the best speeches on my behalf of anyone in the campaign," John would muse, and I would reply that it was because Lincoln, like himself, was so committed to abolition that he refused to muddy the waters with other issues.
But practicality defeated John: New York businessmen subscribed funds that were given to support other parties in other states beyond New York's borders. In short, Pennsylvania was controlled by New York money, and it went against John. Had he won that state, he would have been president.
Urged to contest the vote, he refused. "No defeated candidate has ever done that," he said, "and I will not stoop to it."
I was schooled enough in politics and tradition to recognize the truth of what he said. It would have been no good to have won the election by default, after contesting the vote. John would have lost all his power—and all his pride.
We sat late into the night, neither of us talking for long periods, each of us taking comfort in the presence of the other. At length John said, "I could have kept the Union together, Jessie. I would have instituted the gradual abolishment of slavery... not overnight but over time, and I would have proposed a program of government payment to owners. Now... now I think it will be war. Your father has gotten the candidate he wants, but I think he'll get the very result he doesn't want."
I drew closer to him, resolved that I would not let my own grief intensify his. "It was a good show for a new party," I ventured.
"That," he said wryly, "makes me the sacrificial lamb for the Republican party."
I sighed. "Maybe you were, and maybe the next candidate they offer will win. Will it be you?"
"Never in a thousand years," he said firmly.
Next morning at breakfast we were greeted by a sobbing Lily.
"Child, what is the matter with you?" I asked in concern, feeling her forehead.
"I want... I want to live... in the White House." She was crying and hiccuping at once, so that the words were barely distinguishable.
"So that's it," I said, pulling her from her chair. "You come with me."
"Where?" she asked plaintively.
"You're going for a walk," I said briskly, "until you can control yourself. Here..." I gathered a woolen coat, hat, muffler, and gloves from the hall tree and began dressing her, as though she were a three-year-old going out to play in the snow. As a finishing touch I wrapped a thick veil over her face. "There, that will hide your swollen eyes. Now, walk around Washington Square until you can come home in charge of yourself."
"Fourteen years old and so bitterly disappointed," John said when I returned to the table. "Maybe she is just more honest about her emotions than we are."
"No," I said firmly, "she has to learn to control them. She is not concerned about the future of the country or of the Republican party and all
it stands for... she's simply selfishly disappointed."
"Jessie," he said, "you are a hard taskmaster."
* * *
Charley soon distracted me from politics and presidential defeats by developing a raging case of scarlet fever. For ten days I stayed at his bedside, sponging down that little five-year-old body every hour, praying that the Lord would not take another of my babies.
John frequently stuck his head into the nursery to inquire about Charley. Then he would nod sagely, say, "Call me if you need me," and leave. And what, I wondered, would happen if I did call?
Toward the end of his illness, when I could tell that Charley would recover, I began to sneak away for a few hours each night to sleep in my own bed rather than scrunched in a rocking chair. I left Sophie to care for Charley, but he would wake and call out for me, so I got precious little sleep.
"You lookin' very tired, Mrs. Frémont," Sophie said, with the familiarity that longtime servants often assume. "I were you, I'd do something 'bout how I looked."
Startled, I turned to look in the mirror. Staring back at me was a thin, haggard woman, her eyes dark with fatigue, her hair stringy and lifeless, her face lined. She looked to be at least forty-five instead of thirty-three.
"I married to a man handsome as the colonel," Sophie continued, "I'd sure keep up my appearance."
"I have had other things on my mind," I snapped, peevish because I knew she spoke the truth.
"Yes, ma'am," she said politely, removing Charley's soup tray.
Charley was well enough that night that I was very firm with him, telling him I needed my rest and that I would come to him once during the night to make sure he was fine, but that I would sleep in my own bed.
"Can I call if I need you?" he asked, his voice quavering.
I softened. "If you really need me, and it's something Sophie can't do for you." How could one say no to a child who looked at you with such adoring eyes?
When had John last looked at me with adoration and not need? I brushed that thought from my mind.
As I left his room, Charley called out softly, "I think I am going to really need you."
"You try and let me rest," I answered.
I began my evening with a long soak in a hot tub and a thorough shampoo and brushing of my hair. Soaking in that hot, relaxing water, I let my mind wander back to Sophie's words. There had been accusations, of course, that John's attentions had strayed while he was in California—one newspaper even printed that he had kept a virtual harem of California women, but it was one of the articles I never showed him. I thought it so far-fetched as to be ridiculous. But now I wondered... and there was Priscilla, a young maid who had left our employ suddenly and without explanation, just before the election. When I'd asked why she had to leave, she had simply shrugged and said it was personal, but as she left the room, I thought I heard her mutter, "Ask Mr. Frémont." Once one begins to "read sign," as John so often spoke of doing on his explorations, significant signs seem to be everywhere... or was I imagining things?
With such doubts whirling around in my mind, my uninterrupted night of sleep was not too restful. John worked late in his study, as was now his custom, and was not there much of the night to witness my restless tossing and turning. I did check on Charley once, only to find he slept almost as soundly as Sophie did in the chair. I tiptoed out without wakening either of them.
In spite of slight sleep I felt and looked better the next morning, my hair clean, my complexion freshened with a milk bath, a smile lightening my face. This, I resolved, was the first day of the rest of my life.
But Sophie had planted a kernel that grew like trumpet vine. Try as I might, I could not stamp it out, and that tiny doubt tangled itself like a tendril around my heart.
John spent most of his time in his study—working on his memoir, he told me. Nursing his wounds was more like it to me. Whereas I wanted people around me in defeat—the support and comfort of those I loved—John tended to withdraw. I could not call him inattentive nor ever accuse him of looking at another woman—he was simply hidden, physically and emotionally.
Still, I kept my resolve, saw to it that I had plenty of rest, took care of my appearance, and tried to put on a game front. Sophie complimented me one day, saying, "I glad you listened to me, Mrs. Frémont. You sure made a difference in yourself."
I thanked her.
Still, Inauguration Day was particularly hard for me. I envisioned in painful detail James Buchanan—now almost elderly—taking the oath of office, placing his hand on the Bible and swearing to lead the country to the best of his ability. It won't be good enough, I thought bitterly, convinced that John could have done so much more. And then I envisioned that niece of Buchanan's, welcoming guests into the White House, playing the hostess in the role I should have had. They already were calling Buchanan "the bachelor President," but his niece had quickly made it plain that she would see to the social graces.
To banish all these thoughts from my mind, I took a walk so long that even John was alarmed when I returned.
"Where have you been?" he asked, greeting me at the door.
"Everywhere," I answered, "and nowhere. Just walking."
"You've been gone three hours!"
"I know," I said, "and Buchanan is now officially the President." I longed for John to take me in his arms and comfort me, but he simply turned away and said, "Yes, he is, isn't he?"
* * *
Father came to visit soon after. Having been forewarned of his arrival by Liza, I watched him walk down the street. I'd not seen him since the beginning of the campaign—last spring—and the change, even from a distance, distressed me. His walk was slow, like an old man, not the vigorous, strong man he'd been even in recent years.
Up close the change was even more alarming. He had lost weight, a lot of it, and his face wore the pallor of illness.
"Are you all right?" I asked, once the flurry of greetings was over.
"As all right as you are," he replied. "We are all dead politically, so I thought we should be alive as a family."
"I would like that very much, Father," I said, going to his side. He put one arm around my shoulders roughly and drew me to him, then asked for his grandchildren. Lily greeted him happily, though her eyes told me she saw the physical difference in him. But the boys, too little to remember him, stood back bashfully, and it took all of Father's gruff charm to win them over.
By the time John entered the parlor, Charley sat on the floor at Father's knee and little Frank was in his lap.
"Sir," John said formally in greeting.
Father set the boys aside and rose to greet John, holding out his hand in a gesture of friendship. John took the hand reluctantly, and that awkward greeting set the tone between them for Father's visit.
"I'm waiting for him to apologize," John said that night in the privacy of our room. "Don't you think I'm entitled? He not only didn't defend me, he sometimes led the accusers. He's fortunate I even let him in my house or near my family."
The idea that John thought he could banish Father startled me. My father would always be welcome in my home, no matter what he did. I soothed John as best I could, but I knew Father would never apologize.
"He looks awful," John finally said.
"I'm really worried about his health," I told him. "But he brushed the subject aside when I inquired. Said he had a little constipation."
Father stayed only three days, and they were tense days. He and John never mended their fences, though I had not really expected them to. What distressed me more was that Father and I had lost our old camaraderie and did not now seem destined to recover it. We were no longer conspirators in the political games, for neither of us could forget that we had been opponents.
"I'm tired of it, Jessie, tired of politics," he said the morning he left.
"You'll never tire of politics," I told him. "Wait until you get back home."
He just shook his head. "If I had it to do over, I wouldn't do anything else... or diff
erent."
And then he was gone.
* * *
The burning question for me was what John would do next. Now in his early forties, he had known great triumphs as an explorer, as a leader in opening California to United States settlement, and now as a presidential candidate. But in my honest moments with myself I had to admit that each of those triumphs had ended in disaster—near death in the mountains, court-martial, political defeat.
Now when John spoke of the election, he talked only of his pride in being chosen for what he called "a true uprising of a great people." But I knew that underneath he was not so easily consoled, and I was not surprised when he announced that he had to return to California.
"The Mariposas needs me. I have been too long away, too long trying to conduct the mining business in absentia." He stood, his back toward me, looking out the window. "You may do whatever you want, Jessie—California, New York, Washington."
"None of those appeal to me," I said. I didn't tell him that I dreaded the rural life in California, for I feared I would end there one day no matter what, and I didn't need to tell him that I would never return to Washington. To do so would have been like a prisoner choosing torture over freedom. And New York? There was little left there for me.
In the end John departed for California, and I took the children to Paris. Susie's husband had been appointed French consul to India and they would be leaving Paris for that country. A last visit was my excuse to cross the ocean again. But I was restless in Paris and almost relieved, in one sense, when I was called back to Washington by the news that Father had suffered a severe intestinal attack.
After an anxious trip back across the Atlantic, willing the ship to move faster with every breath, I found Father at work in his library.
"You what?" he asked. "Who told you I was ill?"
