by Judy Alter
"You never crept outside to spend the night?" Autie asked incredulously. He still could not always comprehend the difference between being raised in a rowdy family of boys and growing up demurely, the only daughter in the staid and formal household of a judge.
"No," I said laughing, "I never did. Look at all I have to make up for."
"Good," he said, planting a light kiss on my forehead. "I'll never have to build you a house. A tent will always do."
"If we can live like this... ," I said dreamily.
"You may, my girl, but I must be off to the city to see about plans for the review. I'll be back by supper." And he was gone.
He returned in a foul humor, flinging his gloves on the table and hurling his hat across the room. "Grant has done it now," he stormed.
"Done what?" I asked, aghast, putting my needlework aside.
"Sent Sheridan west before the review. Wouldn't let him stay to present his troops in victory but sent him off to Texas and Louisiana... 'to restore order' I'm told."
"What's happening there?" I asked, with idle curiosity. Texas and Louisiana were far away and of no consequence in my life.
"Holdout Rebels," he said in disgust. "I'd teach them a thing or two if I were there...."
"Fortunately," I said, "you're not. You're headed to Monroe after the review." I'd been living on fantasies about our return to Monroe for weeks, ever since the victory was declared. I could see the whole town lining the streets as Autie got off the train. There'd be a parade, of course, and I'd get to ride with him, even if he was the center of attention, and the headlines of The Monroe Commercial would boast his accomplishments. Mama and Papa would have a huge open house to honor Autie, and grateful citizens would have parties to praise him... my mind built up one extravaganza after another.
Autie was looking forward to Monroe, too, and when I mentioned it, he agreed with a smile. "But poor Sheridan," he said.
The Grand Review was everything its name implied. There was a presidential reviewing stand, draped with red, white, and blue bunting, in front of the Capitol, and the flag flew at full mast for the first time since Fort Sumter had been fired on. Cheering crowds lined the streets, and little children waved tiny flags and sang patriotic songs. Bands blared, the sun shone as though it hadn't rained torrents two days earlier, and I was almost overcome with excitement.
Long before an early-morning cannon blast signaled the beginning of the review, I found a spot not too far from the reviewing stand, yet far enough back that it gave a perspective—those right up in front, I decided, would see nothing but horses' withers. With me was Mrs. Wesley Merritt, whose husband had been given command of Sheridan's troops. Merritt was a longtime rival of Autie's, but this day I approved heartily of him, for he had put Autie's Third Division first in the line of review.
"Oh!" I clasped my hand to my mouth in sheer wonderment when they came into sight. They rode in battle formation, sixteen abreast, with Autie at the head on Don Juan. Today there was no crushed Rebel hat to keep off the sun—Autie wore the dignified and somewhat subdued formal uniform of a major general, but he and his men still wore their red kerchiefs. Beneath Autie's new hat hung those shining golden curls, long since grown back after he cut them for our wedding.
"He's having trouble with his horse, isn't he?" Mrs. Merritt asked over the noise of the crowd, which had begun to chant, "Custer! Custer!"
"La, Autie can handle Don Juan," I assured her.
The horse was indeed skittish and quivering, no doubt unnerved by the noise of the crowd. Autie held Don Juan in firm control, and they pranced toward the reviewing stand.
"Look there," I said with delight. "Those young girls are throwing flowers at Autie." There were a hundred or more young girls gathered in one spot just before the reviewing stand, all dressed in white—perhaps, I thought, they represent a particular school, on holiday for the occasion. Faintly, over the roar, I could hear them raising their voices in a high-pitched rendition of "Hail to the Chief."
"They're making that horse jumpier than ever," Mrs. Merritt said nervously.
I told her not to worry, but even as the words left my mouth, I saw one girl step forward and try to throw a wreath around Don Juan's neck. She could not have chosen a worse moment, for Autie had just drawn his sword for a salute to the President. As the horse bolted frantically, Autie lost both hat and sword. Of that fearful instant I remember most the sun shining on his now-hatless head.
My heart skipped a beat with worry for Autie and fear that Don Juan would go amok into the crowd, injuring someone. But I had no more time than to blink before Autie had the horse under control again. The moment of drama passed quickly but not before the crowd went wild with renewed enthusiasm for Autie. With great dignity, he retrieved his hat and sword—an orderly had picked them up—and resumed his place at the head of his troops.
"My dear," Mrs. Merritt said, "your husband is truly a remarkable man."
Perhaps it would have been polite to have demurred or said, "And so is yours" or some such, but I simply sighed and said, "Yes, he is, isn't he?" Wesley Merritt could hold no candle to Armstrong Custer.
* * *
Autie's moment of glory was followed by the most bitter point of the whole war for me. By prearrangement we met in the Willard Hotel, where Merritt was quartered—unlike ourselves, the Merritts declined to stay in camp. When Mrs. Merritt and I walked in, our husbands greeted us with such grim faces, we were alarmed.
"What...?" I asked, but got no further.
Autie drew me aside and said in low tones, "Merritt and I have both been ordered to report to Sheridan in New Orleans."
"New Orleans?" I echoed, the full meaning of this not hitting me.
"Immediately," Autie said. All the spark and fire he had shown at the parade seemed drained from him now, and he stood solemnly looking at me. "You go on to Monroe," he said huskily. "I'll hope to join you there after not too many months."
Months! Monroe without Autie! "No, Autie, I'll go to New Orleans," I said firmly.
Oblivious of those who stood around us, he grasped me tightly in his arms, until I finally had to plead for breath. "Oh, my dear girl," he said, "how did I ever deserve you?"
I saved my tears until I was alone in our tent.
The most painful part of Autie's new orders was that he was to take command of a column already in Louisiana. He bid farewell to his beloved Third Division in a ceremony of marked contrast to the Grand Review.
At a trumpet call the troops assembled, and Autie rode down the line, waving that old battered Rebel hat, which those men had followed so often. The men waved their hats, cheering wildly and calling out to him. More than once I heard, "A tiger for Old Curly!" and then a deep-throated roar of hurrahs. Finally, having reviewed the entire line, Autie rode back to where I waited, mounted on Custis Lee. Autie's teeth were clenched in an effort to control himself, and I knew he could not speak to me without coming apart totally. The memory of my husband sobbing at the presentation of East Lynn flashed through my mind, and I wondered if I should dig for a handkerchief for him, lest he be forced to use his scarlet kerchief to wipe away tears.
Within minutes I needed the handkerchief for myself. The men called for me, and I tried to respond by riding forward, one hand clutching my hat, which boasted a scarlet feather to match my kerchief. Lacking Autie's iron will and firm control, I was soon awash in tears and could go no farther. They gave me as enthusiastic a cheer as they had Autie, while I retreated to his side.
Autie said nothing but reached a hand out to mine.
* * *
We were about to begin life together. Until then the Civil War had dominated our lives, and I knew Autie as a victorious and respected general, a flamboyant commander of the cavalry, who could also be a passionate husband. But we had lived in camps and temporary quarters and had stolen moments together from the war. What did I really know about Autie as a man and about living with him?
I would never have told Papa that those questions
flitted through my mind as, still slightly teary, I boarded a southbound train with Autie and his staff.
Louisiana
and
Texas
Chapter 6
"Come, Eliza, we must hurry or the train will leave before we can eat. We only have twenty minutes." Autie's voice sounded impatient.
"I'll jes' wait here, Ginnel," she said carefully.
I sensed her discomfort and quickly assured her that I would bring food from the dining hall, which looked none too promising, anyway. We were in Ohio somewhere, though I've deliberately never remembered where.
"No!" Autie commanded. "Eliza's to come with us." He had on his military tone and bearing, and one look at him was enough for Eliza.
"Yes, sir," she said miserably.
Ignoring me completely, Autie took Eliza's arm and proceeded to rush her out of the train car and toward the dining hall, she looking more miserable with each step. Trailing behind, I was puzzled, uncertain why Autie was making such a fuss and why Eliza was so reluctant.
I knew the moment I saw the dingy dining hall. The proprietor had no doubt made scandalous sums of money—trains were loaded with homebound troops in those days, and since delays of trains and distances between eating houses made a dining schedule irregular and uncertain, everyone tended to eat at every chance. But this man hadn't spent any of that gain on sprucing up his place. The walls were painted board, the tables long trestle-type with benches on either side and no cloth thrown over them to hide grease spots and splinters that threatened the careless diner.
The minute we were through the door, the owner saw Eliza and said gruffly, "No table for servants. Ain't got the room." He was fat, no doubt from eating his own greasy food, and the unclean state of the apron that covered his wide middle did nothing to inspire confidence in the food we were about to consume.
Eliza pulled away from Autie. "I'll jes' go on back, Ginnel."
Grabbing her, Autie was firm as ever. "You'll do no such thing," he said, literally shoving her onto the bench next to where I had seated myself. He placed himself carefully on the other side of her, though the bench was so crowded we were all squeezed together, and I wondered that we would be able to lift a hand to eat our food.
The proprietor was right behind Autie. "No coloreds at my table," he said.
Autie rose slowly, command written on his face. "I am obliged to seat her here since you have provided no other accommodations," he said.
The proprietor insisted, Autie continued to refuse, and Eliza and I both sank lower and lower in our seats. My hand trembled as I tried to take a sip of water to ease my dry mouth, and when I looked at Eliza, she refused to lift her eyes even to meet mine.
Autie would of course have whipped the fat man if it came to fisticuffs, but I could see the headlines: "Boy-General in Fight at Eating Hall!" A disgraceful way to begin our tour of duty, to say the least. But as the two stood staring resolutely at each other, the other officers in our party began to rise from their seats, one by one.
"We're with you," they said. "Stand your ground. She shall eat."
The proprietor slunk away, and Autie and the others ate heartily, while Eliza and I, our appetites destroyed, toyed with the unappetizing food. The proprietor made a clean gain of a dollar and a half on two women who were too upset to eat.
I suspect Eliza was frightened still, but I, having gotten over my fright, was angry—at Autie. He had made his point, but in doing so, he'd lost sight of Eliza's feelings. He'd embarrassed the one person in the world who was probably more loyal to him than I, and I thought his lack of compassion unforgivable.
I could not mention it until we were miles down the track. Autie had paraded out, right before the owner's eyes, carrying an entire pie and two wrapped sandwiches—"I know how you women are," he said, his eyes now dancing with laughter as if all unpleasantness were forgotten. "You'll be hungry in a bit." But it was some hours before we could eat, and even longer before I could whisper to Autie of my concerns about the scene.
"I will take care of my staff as I see fit," he said coldly, and turned his back on me. Stunned, I stared out the window.
* * *
Other than that unpleasant incident, our train trip was more delightful than I would have expected. We were surrounded by a joyous, rollicking, irrepressible throng of officers and enlisted men returning home, and with a happiness tinged with envy, I listened to them shout and sing, watched each tumble off the train into the arms of some waiting woman, while bands tooted a welcome and whole towns lined up behind them as they were lost to our sight down the street, going home. Sometimes the hilarious crowd at the station would turn still in an instant; one silence preceded the careful lifting from the car of a stretcher bearing a wounded soldier, but he was carried away by strong men while the women he loved hovered over him, and I shed a silent tear for him, glad at least that he was returning home alive.
My envy was heightened by some real concern. We were headed to a country that failed to recognize that the war was over. From all we heard, lawlessness, tolerated from necessity during the war, still reigned in Texas. It would be Autie's job to restore order in this wild land. To me Texas sounded like the stepping-off place. I turned my face southward with such regret that Autie said he envisioned being borne southward on a river of tears. I managed to stop up the tears but could not quiet my heart.
It was some comfort to have Autie's staff around us. He was bringing with him the officers who had served him so well in the last days of the war—Fred Nims, James Farningham, Farnham Lyon, George Lee, and Jacob Greene from Monroe. Jacob and my lifelong friend Nettie Humphrey had married in Monroe toward the end of the war, a ceremony modest compared to the fanfare that had attended our wedding, but I still regretted that I had not been able to be there to stand with Nettie and her tall, gangly husband as they swore love undying.
Some of the other officers were Autie's schoolmates from West Point, others friends from his early days in the service, and most special of all, his brother Tom—christened, in my mind, as "the scamp." These men, too, were missing the brass bands and bonfires that should have greeted their homecomings, the welcoming arms to hold them. I had to make up for all the women who were waiting for them, and I tried my hardest to be bright and cheerful.
There was only one among that group of men whom I distrusted—Edward Earle. He, too, was from Michigan, but as I explained in a letter to Nettie, "he doesn't act like it. He's a bore, and he gives the whole staff to believe that he is promised to Mary M. I know that Mary gave him a locket, but it was not with a promise of undying love, and the man cannot take no for an answer. Try to convince Mary not to write him. The whole staff dislikes him, and those that men hate must be truly insufferable." Needless to say, Mary McAllister of Monroe did not marry Edward Earle, but that did not save me from trials while in his company.
"Libbie, give me your portmanteau," the scamp said, beginning a ruse that quickly swept down the line of men on one of the first days of our train journey.
"Mrs. Custer, shall I carry your tote?" asked another, and "I'll take your umbrella," volunteered still another. My coat, a parcel of books, all my belongings, were soon distributed among Autie's aides. Even Eliza was offered help with her luggage, but there was a method to this madness. The ladies' car was off-limits to any man not accompanying a woman, and the brakeman was fierce and firm in turning them away. But once Autie and I were safely seated, with Eliza in her usual place by the door, one by one our men appeared at the door, each demanding entrance because he had a lady inside. As proof he held up whatever portion of my belongings he happened to be carrying, and we were soon all together in the ladies' car, a much more comfortable one than the regular coaches. We sang war songs, told stories loudly, and shouted with laughter, somewhat to the discomfort of the civilians who shared the car with us.
* * *
"You what?" I demanded incredulously.
"Left it... at the station." Before me stood Jacob Greene. He hun
g his head in abject shame and refused to look at me.
"You left my bag?"
"Yes, ma'am, Libbie, I did."
Gone were the thousand-and-one things a lady cannot live without—a small personal bar of soap, my mending kit, a small mirror so that I wouldn't look a fright the whole trip, a change of gloves, a slight bit of jewelry—fortunately paste, since I owned no other kind—and who knows what else. But I took pity on poor Jacob.
"You're forgiven," I said, "but only if you promise to bring Nettie to Texas as soon as possible."
"Yes, ma'am, I will," he said gratefully.
* * *
"Autie, why are we stopped?" I murmured, raising my head from the seat, where I'd been crumpled into a ball of sleepy contentment.
"Engine's broken," he said. "Brakeman tells me we might be here all night. Are you comfortable?" He was slouched down in his seat, long legs stuck forward, hat pulled low over his forehead, and I knew that he could get restful sleep in that position, no matter the circumstances.
"I'm fine," I said happily, reaching a hand for his and curling back into sleep. We slept soundly that way, holding hands all night, only vaguely aware of the civilians who stomped about the still-stopped train, complaining of their inability to sleep.
"Look at the army folks," said one. "They can sleep anywhere, and yet I'm so cramped and stiff from one position that I couldn't possibly doze."
Next morning we laughed to find that Tom had a two-seat cushion all to himself. He was stretched out as comfortably as though he were home in bed; indeed, a few snores had come from his direction.
"Well," he confessed later, "these two old codgers sat down in this seat, and I was behind them, listening to them talk about how rich they'd gotten because of the war, 'cause it made corn prices rise. Seemed unpatriotic to me, so I began to talk loudly to the fellow next to me, telling him how much store I set by my old army coat. 'Just couldn't give it up,' I said, 'even though I had to use it to cover Corporal Smith when he died of the smallpox. Course, I'm not afraid of getting it, having had the varioloid and all.' Well, that coat was on the seat those two old codgers were in, and they were nearly out of their heads with fright. Saw 'em later peering through the window of the next car, and they still looked horrified."