by Mike Blakely
She nodded, as if in agreement. “Then there’s the other question,” she said.
Sam realized that she had caught him dancing around the other obvious issue. He had grown up in the free state of Ohio. Julia had been raised by a slave nanny. Would this matter to her? Could she love a northern man?
“You mean the slave issue,” he said.
“Exactly. Will there be slavery in Texas, or not?”
“That should be settled prior to annexation, as well. Not to prevent war with Mexico but to preserve our own union.”
“Perhaps cooler heads will prevail,” she said, “and compromise. Perhaps we will avoid war, to say nothing of the possibility of war with England over the Oregon boundary line.”
Grant bowed his head. “That is my fondest hope. But I am a soldier, Julia, and I will follow the orders of hotheads if I must.”
She nodded. “Duty.”
Just then, Julia’s younger sister, Nellie, burst into the dining room.
“Lieutenant Grant!” she said flirtatiously. Then, noticing his garb, she burst into a fit of giggling. “How funny!” she declared.
“Oh, hush, Nellie,” Julia said. She turned to Grant. “Lieutenant, how long do you expect to remain?”
Grant shrugged. “I am going to try to stay a week.”
Nellie gasped. “Oh, my, Julia! Your dream! Last night!”
Julia placed her hand over her mouth as it opened in surprise.
“A dream?” Grant said.
“Heavens! Yes, I dreamt that you came to visit, wearing civilian clothes.” She gestured at his apparel. “When I asked—in my dream—you said you would try to stay a week!”
“So, you’ve been dreaming of me?” Grant smiled.
“Well,” she said, blushing, “I suppose I did last night.”
Nellie seemed barely able to contain herself. “You said the very words Sister dreamed!”
Julia now looked rather befuddled. “You must excuse me, Sam. I must write this in my diary this very moment.” She turned and disappeared toward her room, with Nellie in tow.
Abandoned in the dining room, Grant felt crestfallen. This was not going as he had planned. When would he have a moment alone with Julia?
“Oh, Sam,” she said, stepping back into the doorway. “I must go to Saint Louis tomorrow to stand as bridesmaid for a friend. Will you ride with me?”
Grant came to attention. “Of course.”
She smiled and disappeared.
Well, that’s better, Grant thought. He and Julia had spent many hours together riding, talking, laughing. He could stay with John tonight and practice his proposal. He could wear his own military plumage. They would ride.
* * *
By the afternoon of the next day the sun had dried the landscape around White Haven Plantation. Sam Grant and Julia Dent took the new wagon road into Saint Louis on two good saddle horses. Grant approved of the road, which was covered with small pieces of stone broken off of larger rocks by hand. His military schooling made him appreciate how easily an army might move down such a modern roadway. He and Julia chatted incessantly as they rode the first few miles toward Saint Louis.
“Sam, I have so missed our rides together,” Julia said. “It really didn’t occur to me until you went away on leave to Ohio.”
Grant saw his opening. “I felt the same way, Julia. In fact … I must tell you how I feel. Not just about riding together. But about being together.”
“Oh?” Her perfectly plucked eyebrows rose inquisitively.
“Julia … since we met, I have enjoyed every moment in your presence.”
She smiled innocently. “As have I, Sam.”
“In a way I never experienced before.”
“Really?”
They rode stirrup to stirrup, their mounts plodding lazily along. Grant rode to her left, as it was more comfortable for her to face that way on her sidesaddle.
“Yes … and … well, when I learned that the regiment had been ordered south, something came over me. A feeling hard to describe. I felt … I knew I had to act, however ill prepared to do so.”
Her brow furrowed and she smirked with one corner of her mouth. “What are you talking about, Sam?”
His heart beat like the drums of war and his right hand trembled as he reached out to her. Enchanted, she pressed her fingertips into his palm.
“Julia, life without you would be insupportable. I must ask you … Will you…” He choked back the sudden urge to cough. “Will you wait for me to return, and … join fortunes with me?”
She looked puzzled. “What is it you mean by ‘join fortunes’?”
Sam flushed. “We will have to wait. Only God knows how long. But, when I return, I would be imminently pleased if you would consent to joining me in matrimony.” The urge to cough became excruciating, but he fought it off. “Julia, will you be married to me?”
She snapped her hand away as if stung. “Married? No!”
“No?” His hopes sank and he felt painfully foolish.
“No! But, Sam, I think it would be quite charming to be engaged.”
His mind scrambled to make sense of her reply. “You would like to be engaged?”
“Yes.”
“To me?”
She scoffed daintily and gestured to their surroundings. “Yes, to you. Whom other than you? Your horse?”
“Engaged to be married?”
“Engaged, yes. Married? No!”
He mulled this over, still holding that aggravating cough deep in his chest. This was a setback. But … at this point, engagement seemed like a logical step to his ultimate goal. He reached into the pocket of his tunic and found his class ring. “Then, will you wear my West Point ring?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I can’t wear your ring. Everyone would notice. We can’t tell anyone, Sam. What would father say?”
“But your father likes me.”
“Sam, you know my whole family adores you. Even father. You. A northerner. But he has warned me that he would never consent to my marrying a soldier. So we can’t tell anyone, can we?”
This was befuddling. Yet she was not completely rejecting his proposal. She was young, sheltered. She needed time to let the idea settle.
“Then we shall be engaged,” he said, almost as a question.
She smiled and offered her hand back to him. “Lovely. Secretly engaged.”
“Secretly,” Sam said. “For now.”
* * *
The wedding of Julia’s schoolmate in Saint Louis was excruciatingly bothersome to Lieutenant Sam Grant. The unmarried young men in attendance swarmed around his secret fiancée in flocks.
The next few days, at White Haven, were better. Sam spent his nights at John’s cabin. By day, he and Julia took long walks and longer rides. She even made mention of their engagement a few times, mostly to remind Sam that it had to remain a secret, especially from her father. This proved easy enough to accomplish, as the elder Colonel Frederick Dent spent most of his time overseeing the work of his slaves on his plantation.
When the day came to leave White Haven, Sam rode from John Dent’s cabin to Julia’s home to say good-bye and—hopefully—to reaffirm their engagement. The maid, Kitty, answered the door, invited Grant in, and summoned Julia. Sam greeted Julia just inside the front door.
“Lieutenant,” she said. “You’re going away?”
“I must.”
“Kitty, you may leave us,” Julia said.
The woman frowned protectively but withdrew toward the kitchen.
Julia’s eyes brightened. “Come, Sam. Step out onto the piazza, where we can talk privately.” She reached for his sleeve and tugged him toward the door.
As Julia pulled him outside, Grant spotted sister Nellie loitering about the bottom of the staircase, looking sheepishly away, caught in attempted eavesdropping. Julia led him out onto the broad porch and shut the door behind them.
Grant knew he had to seize the moment, before a sister or brother or servant or a coughing
fit interrupted. “Have you thought more about our engagement?”
“Yes, I have. I have decided that it only makes sense for us to remain engaged. I mean, rather than be married.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re going away, Lieutenant. Even if I thought it would be pleasant to be married, it’s not as if you could take me with you. Our engagement is the most logical course of action—for now.”
For now, he thought. That was slightly encouraging. By this time, the young officer understood that he would have to win this campaign by increments. He had already decided upon his next objective. He took his West Point ring from his pocket.
“In that case, you will want to wear my ring.”
She smiled. “I will cherish it, Sam. And I will wear it when Papa is not looking.”
He had slipped the class ring into her hand and had started leaning forward, bowing his face toward hers, when Kitty opened the door to the porch.
“Everything all right, Miss Julia?”
“Yes!” Julia sang. “Lieutenant Grant was just leaving. I’m seeing him off.” She pulled the door closed, leaving them alone again. She looked up into Sam’s eyes. “We must not tell anyone until you can return to speak to Papa.”
Sam nodded and smiled. Facing Colonel Dent did not intimidate him half as much as the ordeal he had just survived. “And I will, as soon as I can secure another leave of absence.”
She nodded and stepped invitingly close to him. “Are you going to kiss me before you leave?”
“Yes. But first I want to tell you…”
“Yes?”
“I want to tell you that I am in love with you, Julia. I love you.”
Her smile spread like the northern lights. “And I love you, Sam Grant, my soldier.”
His lips touched hers and he smelled sweet scents and felt wanton desires. He slipped his hand behind the small of her back and pulled her closer, emboldened by her lack of resistance. He heard the door latch rattle and broke away from her.
“I will write every day that I am able.”
“I will reply to every letter I receive.”
The door cracked open. “Miss Julia, it’s time to dress for dinner,” Kitty warned.
Julia rolled her eyes as her hand slipped from Sam’s, taking the ring with her as they parted. “Good-bye, Sam,” she said aloud, then mouthed the words for now.
The lieutenant grinned and stumbled down the stairway as he placed his hat on his head. He tripped down the walk and through the gate. Gathering his reins, he mounted his horse with the fluid ease of a boy born to ride. He returned Julia’s wave and rode in the most buoyant of spirits back toward Jefferson Barracks.
SARAH CHILDRESS POLK
Columbia, Tennessee
June 10, 1844
Sarah Polk turned the metal knob on the parlor lantern to lengthen the wick and cast more light on the nine-day-old copy of the Baltimore Sun that she held in her hand. She had already read the paper several times over, front to back, often using her quill pen to draw ink circles around tidbits of political developments that were already old news back East.
As she turned to page two, she came across a side story in the Sun that described how Samuel Morse’s invention, called the “telegraph,” was sending news of the 1844 Democratic Convention from Baltimore to Washington, DC, almost instantly, the copper wires having been strung between the two cities so Morse could demonstrate his new device. The inventor himself tapped out the news in his peculiar code, according to the Sun.
Oh, if only those wires could reach Columbia, Tennessee, she mused. Or even Nashville, four hours’ ride away. She and James would have learned days ago what course their political future might take. But, as it was, news took nine or ten days to reach Nashville from the nation’s capital—via railroad, riverboat, and horse-drawn hacks. She knew the Democrats had convened ten days ago, and she had hoped that they might receive news of the results earlier today. But the sun had set and no rider had come galloping from the Nashville post office. Another anxious night seemed in store for her and her husband, James K. Polk.
Sarah sighed and set the newspaper down beside her on the sofa. She looked for something else to do, her eyes scanning the interior of the small cottage—the tidy little refuge she and James enjoyed away from national and state political centers of Washington and Nashville. She hoped to find a chore in need of doing, but she had been cloistered inside the cottage for days and had attended to every task imaginable. The oiled pine floor was swept, the chinaware washed and dried, the bookshelf feather-dusted. Even the doilies for the morning coffee cups and saucers were in place on the colonial-style dining table.
She got up from the sofa in the parlor and peeked through the doorway into James’s study. The chair at the desk was empty, so she stepped into the study to find James napping on the settee. He had spent most of his time for the past ten days in his study, day and night, writing at his desk, pacing back and forth, snatching fractions of a night’s sleep on the settee.
She tiptoed to the desk, a creaking floorboard making her wince. James so needed rest. She did not want to wake him. Once again, she looked over the most recent notes he had made at his desk. She could see what he was doing. One pile of papers represented the issues of the day—Texas, Mexico, Oregon, England, the U.S. Treasury, tariffs—and also included James’s recommendations for possible cabinet appointments, should the Democrats prevail in the upcoming election.
The second stack of documents involved the less attractive prospect of James hanging out a shingle as a private attorney in Columbia, should the news from the Baltimore convention disappoint them.
True to his nature, James K. Polk was preparing for all likely possibilities. Either he would be nominated as Martin Van Buren’s vice presidential running mate or he would become a political castaway, relegated to a private law practice in Tennessee.
Sarah’s calm, intelligent eyes drifted from the desk to her husband, asleep on the settee. She so loved that little man. He was such a good, decent man. She remembered meeting James here in Columbia, twenty-one years ago. He had just won his first election, taking a seat in the state legislature. He was a captain in the Tennessee militia. A devoted follower of General Andrew Jackson, James Knox Polk had followed the general’s advice when Jackson suggested he marry Sarah Childress.
James had pursued her with relentless purpose and had won her over. Though he was a man of slight proportions, she nonetheless admired his strong jaw, noble forehead, and serious nature. He had virtually no sense of humor, which she found ironically amusing. Because he thought of himself as merely average in terms of his intellect, James felt he had to treble the work and study of his political opponents. Sarah, however, considered him her equal in intelligence—an opinion she reserved for very few men.
After they married, it became clear that they would produce no children. So Sarah turned her nurturing instincts toward James’s political career and made it grow, slow and steady, like a pampered son. After serving in the state legislature, James won a seat in the U.S. House of Representatives. He served seven terms, gradually earning better committee appointments and finally becoming Speaker of the House during Andrew Jackson’s presidency. He became Jackson’s right-hand man, always up to the task of carrying out Old Hickory’s wishes. He even became known as “Young Hickory.” While other politicians caroused, dined, and bandied their reputations about town in Washington, James worked. He learned the ruthless game of politics, forged only the strongest and safest of alliances, absorbed the public sentiment nationwide, manipulated the press, and cut backroom deals with a cunning that few power brokers could master.
Then, a wrinkle: due to the nation’s economic troubles in the thirties, it became clear that the Whigs would win a majority in the House and that James would lose his position as Speaker. Rather than bear that indignity, he had chosen to run for governor of Tennessee. He had won, of course. But two years later he lost his bid for reelection, by a handful of vo
tes, to a Whig challenger, a glib country lawyer who had yarned himself into office. James was no raconteur, but he ran again to regain the governorship, in forty-three, and again lost to the same Whig opponent, however narrowly.
Now James K. Polk, former Speaker of the House and governor of Tennessee, was a two-time loser—a dark horse gone astray. He and Sarah held to one hope that would revitalize his political career and spare him from a life of obscurity in private practice. They hoped to secure for James the Democratic nomination as the vice presidential candidate for the 1844 election. For this reason, James had stayed at home rather than traveling to Baltimore. By long-standing custom, it was considered unseemly for presidential and vice presidential hopefuls to attend their party’s conventions. He had sent his agents, particularly the loyal Cave Johnson, to represent his interests and secure the nomination for him by any and all means necessary.
Sarah knew this decision had already been made, probably nine or ten days ago, at the convention in Baltimore. It was past time for prayer, which she and James had indulged in at length when the time had been appropriate. Now, all she could do was hope and wait for the mail to arrive from Baltimore.
If James was denied the nomination for VP, Sarah knew whom to blame. None other than Martin Van Buren. For months before the election, Van Buren had been favored for the nomination as the presidential candidate. And since James controlled the Tennessee delegates, he held leverage that would aid the New Yorker in his bid to regain the White House. He would deliver Tennessee to Van Buren, but only if Van Buren would promise to add him to the ticket as VP. Van Buren had seemed agreeable.
Then the issue of Texas statehood had arisen out of nowhere and Van Buren had, astonishingly, spoken out against annexation, placing his nomination in dire jeopardy. If Van Buren failed to get the nod to run for president, James had little chance of running as vice.
After that, things didn’t look good for Van Buren or James. But one incident kept lingering in Sarah’s ever-optimistic mind. James, along with some other influential Nashville-area Democratic strategists, had been summoned to the Hermitage to meet with the great General Jackson. Old Hickory’s health had declined in recent years, but he still wielded more political power than any living American. Sarah remembered James returning from that meeting and telling her, in his own words, how the conversation had progressed: