Emma’s desire to learn a new dressmaking skill won out, and so when she returned to the boardinghouse in the early afternoon, she came to Elizabeth’s rooms straightaway, eyes shining, features bright and animated. The parade had been splendid despite the mud, with horses and men marching proudly and bands playing as merrily as music was ever heard. A team pulled a model ironclad gunboat, complete with a revolving turret that startled and delighted onlookers by firing blanks as it made its way down Pennsylvania Avenue. Smartly attired representatives from fire departments of Washington and Philadelphia, civic organizations, and fraternal lodges from across the North had marched proudly, carrying banners and flags. A local printers’ society had mounted a hand press on a wagon, and as they processed along, they cheerfully printed broadsides and distributed them to spectators they passed along the way. Most gratifying of all, for the first time people of color had marched in the parade too, a battalion of colored soldiers as well as distinguished leaders of several Negro civic associations. People of their race were at last included in the inauguration, fully part of the celebration and ceremony, not merely onlookers in the crowd or the unseen workers who cooked the food and cleaned up afterward.
Later, on the muddy Capitol grounds, Emma and her friends had stood in the crowd beneath overcast skies threatening rain, waiting with thousands of others for President Lincoln to emerge from within and take his place on the East Portico with the newly completed Capitol dome above. “And then he stepped out, a sheet of paper in his hand,” Emma said, glowing with remembered awe. “As soon as the people recognized him, they let out a great roar of welcome and gladness, and just then—oh, you should have seen it, Elizabeth!—at the moment he took his place, the clouds parted and the sun broke through, and a bright shaft of sunlight shone down upon him like a blessing from heaven.”
Elizabeth leaned forward eagerly, captivated. “And what did he say?”
“I don’t recall,” Emma said lightly, with an indifferent shrug. “You can read about it in the papers tomorrow.”
“Emma!”
She laughed. “I’m only teasing, but you deserved it. Oh, it was a marvelous speech. Brief, but all the better for it in my opinion.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Brevity is his custom in daily speech too, unless he’s telling a story or reading aloud from one of his favorite authors.” As soon as she spoke, she could have kicked herself for how puffed up and pompous she sounded, boasting about her familiarity with the president.
If Emma thought she was showing off, she gave no sign of it. “It was a lovely address, clear and sad and warm, full of forgiveness and reconciliation,” she said. “He talked about the war, and how slavery was the cause of it, and how four years ago everyone, North and South alike, had wanted to avoid war, but one side would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish. He talked about the Lord too, and how strange it is that each side prays to the same God and invokes His aid against the other.”
Elizabeth nodded. It was something she had often thought in the months since George was killed. She had prayed for her son every day and every night he was at war, and somewhere, the mother of the young man who had killed George had been praying for her son too.
Suddenly Elizabeth was struck by the realization that after so many years of war, the rebel who had killed George could very well have fallen as well, cut down by a Minié ball or disease or dreadful accident. Another woman might have felt a surge of righteous satisfaction at the thought, but Elizabeth felt only sorrow.
“Mr. Lincoln suggested that the Lord sent us this terrible war as punishment for the offense of slavery,” Emma went on, “and that the war may be a mighty scourge to rid us of it.”
“Perhaps it is,” said Elizabeth softly.
“He ended with words so profound that I wrote them down as soon as he finished.” Emma withdrew a scrap of paper from her pocket and unfolded it. “These were the last lines as best I could remember them: ‘With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.’” Emma smiled self-consciously, folded the paper, and tucked it into her pocket with a shrug. “I probably didn’t do it justice. The whole speech will likely be in the paper tomorrow, so you’ll be able to read it properly then.”
“I’m sure you captured the spirit of it, if not every word.” Elizabeth’s throat tightened with emotion, and she blinked away tears. “I’m glad I didn’t have to wait for the morning to hear those words.” So compassionate, so true, just like the man who had spoken them.
“You should have been there,” Emma scolded her fondly, shaking her head.
“I wish I had been, despite the ankle-deep mud and the crowds. And now, Emma,” said Elizabeth, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “how would you like to be the only person in Washington—the entire United States, rather—besides Mrs. Lincoln and myself who knows what she will be wearing to the inaugural ball?”
Emma’s pretty face lit up with joy as Elizabeth described the rich, pure white satin, the needlepoint lace shawl, the elegant draping and exquisite trims. Emma hung on every word as intently as if she thought she might be required to re-create the gown from memory later. She already knew how to sew the narrow vertical pleats in the back of a mantua bodice so it would fit the body like wallpaper; Elizabeth herself had taught her to make the tiny, interlocking stitches that could withstand the strain across the figure and avoid unattractive gaping. She had also shown Emma how to use longer, looser stitches for the skirts so the seams would not pucker and ruin the lines of the gown, and after much practice Emma could do so flawlessly.
Emma was becoming quite a skilled seamstress, but Elizabeth had so much more to teach her. With her natural talent, bright mind, and deft fingers, Emma would surely master every technique, and in time she could become as accomplished as Elizabeth herself—perhaps even more so.
Elizabeth believed that a student who surpassed her would indeed be a fine legacy—more precious and enduring and gratifying than all the beautiful gowns she had made for the ladies of Washington City, even those she had made for the First Lady of the land.
Later that evening she picked her way through the muddy streets to the White House, where she found Mrs. Lincoln in a state of nervous excitement. “I’m sure I’m not the first to offer you congratulations on this momentous day,” Elizabeth told her warmly, “but I offer them all the same, and I hope you’ll find them among the most sincere.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth,” Mrs. Lincoln said, sighing, “but now that we have won the position, I almost wish it were otherwise. Poor Mr. Lincoln is looking so brokenhearted, so completely worn out. I fear he will not get through the next four years.”
“Of course he will,” said Elizabeth stoutly. “The campaign taxed him, but that’s over now, and spring is here, and news from the front has never been more cheering.”
“Well, that’s certainly true,” admitted Mrs. Lincoln, without looking at all heartened. “If only this terrible war would be over! I confess that I live in dread of the inauguration ending, because when it does, Robert must return to the war.”
“I thought his post was safe.”
“He isn’t marching out with the infantry if that’s what you mean, but he goes wherever General Grant goes, and the general is at the front.”
Her voice broke with fear and worry, and Elizabeth’s heart went out to her. The war must end soon, she almost said, but people had been saying that for so long that the words had ceased to have any meaning. But surely now, even after so many false hopes and disappointments, the phrase finally rang with truth. On every side the Confederates were losing ground and the lines of Union blue advanced in triumph. Almost every day, Elizabeth could look o
ut her window and see artillery going past on the way to fire a salute in honor of some new victory. Even so, she understood why Mrs. Lincoln would worry incessantly until the war was over and Robert was entirely out of danger.
When it seemed as if Mrs. Lincoln might sink into a brood, Elizabeth endeavored to draw her out by asking for her impressions of the inauguration. “Mr. Lincoln spoke brilliantly,” Mrs. Lincoln replied, brightening a trifle. “Did you know he missed the entire procession?”
“I didn’t.”
“It’s true! He had so much business to attend to that he went to the Capitol ahead of time in his barouche, and he was there signing bills until the last minute.” She uttered a small laugh, an encouraging sign. “So all the people lining the streets later and cheering him as his carriage passed at the head of the parade—why, they were cheering only me. I doubt they would have carried on so had they known.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I’m sure many would have.”
Mrs. Lincoln laughed again, scoffing and yet pleased. “Oh, Elizabeth, that small deception was not even the greatest scandal of the hour.” She paused dramatically. “When the vice-president–elect arrived to take his oath of office, he was drunk.”
“No!”
“Indeed he was, and he downed nearly two tumblers of brandy right there in the Senate chamber.” Mrs. Lincoln had become more animated as she warmed to her subject. “Mr. Hamlin made some perfectly lovely, gracious remarks to introduce his successor, and then Mr. Johnson came up and began spouting the most astonishing, rambling harangue I’ve ever had the misfortune to witness.”
“How shocking,” exclaimed Elizabeth. “What on earth was he thinking?”
“I don’t know that he was thinking at all. He was red-faced and barely coherent, and when the secretary of the Senate tried to bring the appalling performance to a close, Mr. Johnson persisted as if he were quite deranged.” Mrs. Lincoln shook her head. “My poor husband entered in the middle of this disaster and stood with his head bowed, enduring the embarrassment in dignified silence and waiting patiently until Mr. Johnson finished and took his oath of office.”
“It was not the president’s embarrassment, but Mr. Johnson’s,” said Elizabeth.
“Why, certainly, but it spoiled the occasion all the same.” Mrs. Lincoln pursed her lips and shook her head. “What a dreadful debut. I doubt he will ever live this down. None of us who were there will ever forget it.”
Elizabeth could tell by her sharp frown of disapproval that Mrs. Lincoln would never forgive him either.
Elizabeth was arranging Mrs. Lincoln’s hair when the president entered, so Elizabeth went to him, extended her hand, and offered her sincere congratulations. “Thank you,” he said, grasping her outstretched hand warmly and holding it. “Well, Madam Elizabeth, I don’t know whether I should feel thankful or not. The position brings with it many trials. We do not know what we are destined to pass through. But God will be with us all. I put my trust in God.” He released her hand and crossed the room to sit down upon the sofa, his expression solemn.
Elizabeth felt painful sympathy for both wife and husband, First Lady and president. From every region of the fractured nation came glorious news of the Union Army’s successes, and yet, alone in their private chambers, the Lincolns looked careworn, sad, and anxious on a day that should have been their triumph. In her quiet way, she tried to cheer them with pleasant conversation, and by the time she finished dressing Mrs. Lincoln, it did seem that their spirits had risen at least a little. Mrs. Lincoln took the president’s arm, and as he led her off downstairs where thousands of citizens waited to meet them, Mrs. Lincoln called over her shoulder, “I’ll have that glove for you Monday night, Elizabeth, when you come to dress me for the Inaugural Ball.”
Elizabeth smiled, pleased that she had remembered.
While the Lincolns welcomed the public and graciously accepted their congratulations, hiding their weariness and worry rather than spoil the occasion for their many well-wishers, Elizabeth attended a smaller but not less joyful gathering of Washington’s colored elite. With an effort, Elizabeth put aside her concerns for the dispirited Lincolns for the moment and joined her friends and acquaintances in celebrating Mr. Lincoln’s victory, certain that he would accomplish great things for the nation and its people of color in his second term. Mr. Frederick Douglass was in attendance, and as a longtime admirer Elizabeth was very pleased to have the chance to speak with him. He captivated all within earshot by relating an incident that had occurred at the White House scarcely two hours before. Many people of color had come to Washington for the inauguration, and dozens of them had desired to attend the levee, but they had not been permitted to enter. Mr. Douglass had stood on the edge of the crowd, already mentally composing a righteously indignant letter of protest, when a member of Congress spied him, remarked about the press of the immense crowd, and asked, “You are going in, of course?” When Mr. Douglass told him, regretfully, that he would not, the congressman exclaimed, “Not going in to shake the president by the hand! Why, pray?”
“The best reason in the world,” Mr. Douglass had said, his tone dignified but ironic. “Strict orders have been issued not to admit people of color.”
Elizabeth could not imagine Mr. Lincoln issuing such a command on such a day, and she wondered which of the secretaries had been responsible for it, or if some misunderstanding had occurred between the crowd and the doormen. Just as she was about to suggest that Mr. Douglass return to the White House and try again, Mr. Douglass continued his tale, explaining that the congressman had been quite perturbed that he had been “placed under ban.” He had taken the famed orator inside, led him through the crowd to the president, and asked permission to introduce them. Mr. Lincoln readily agreed, and soon Mr. Douglass stood face-to-face with the president, who shook his hand and said, “Mr. Douglass, I am glad to meet you. I have long admired your course, and I value your opinions highly.”
Mr. Douglass was obviously proud of the manner in which the president had welcomed him, and all who heard him tell his story were proud too, and pleased that the president had treated one of their leaders with such respect and interest. Elizabeth was not at all surprised, not only because she had observed the president receiving guests often enough to know that he never failed to be courteous, but also because she herself had granted a friend’s request to arrange a meeting between the president and the former slave and abolitionist Sojourner Truth the previous October. She had not witnessed their conversation, but afterward she learned that Sojourner Truth had spoken well of the president and had been honored and pleased by his attention. Mr. Lincoln did not have a perfect record of dealing with the colored race, as Elizabeth would be among the first to admit, but he was learning, and she was confident that his abundant compassion for his fellow man would guide him to an even greater understanding of their unique concerns and hopes for the future.
Although she would never exaggerate her position by claiming the title of adviser, Elizabeth liked to think that she too had played some small part in helping President Lincoln know the desires and worries of colored people better. She hoped she had used, and would always use, her acquaintance with the president and her time in the White House for the good of her race.
The crowds who had come to the capital to mark President Lincoln’s second inauguration departed soon after the ceremonies, but the city remained full of strangers, with more arriving every day. Confederate soldiers were abandoning General Lee’s army in droves, and while most simply went home, others crossed into Union lines and surrendered. Some straggled into Washington on foot, the tatters of their gray or butternut uniforms hanging from their emaciated frames, but most arrived around four o’clock every afternoon on the “deserters’ transport,” disembarking on railway platforms one or two hundred at a time. Once in the Union capital, they took the oath of allegiance and were assigned to work on farms, in factories, or upon the western frontier. Until they shipped out to their new posts, they were permitted to
wander the city as they pleased, striking up conversations and sharing tobacco with Union soldiers who had been their mortal enemies not long before, their Confederate uniforms drawing curious, suspicious glances until they became commonplace. Indeed, the sight of the thin, ragged former rebels became so typical throughout Washington that at least one newspaper reporter worried that they might in fact represent a devious invasion by the enemy, massing their numbers and awaiting the order to strike at the heart of the Union from within. But the truth seemed to be far simpler. The Confederate soldiers were starving, and they had realized that an army that could not feed its soldiers could not withstand its opponents much longer. They were hungry and tired and sick of war, and many resented futilely persisting in what they called a “rich man’s war but a poor man’s fight.” So they had withdrawn, trusting that they would not be captured, and that if they were, they would not be shot for their crime. Indeed, it seemed to Elizabeth that there could not be enough soldiers left in the rebel army to shoot all the deserters.
Later, Elizabeth would wonder if the Confederate government’s new measure to increase their army had compelled some of their soldiers to desert. Soon after the inauguration, Northern newspapers announced that the Confederate congress had voted to allow slaves to enlist in the rebel army, and thereby earn their freedom. Elizabeth and every other person of color she knew, from her friends in the boardinghouse to her fellow churchgoers at Union Bethel to the former slaves she assisted in the freedmen’s camps, wondered how anyone of their race could agree to fight to preserve the institution that had kept them and their families in bondage and degradation. They were shocked by reports that, a mere nine days after Jefferson Davis signed the measure into law, three companies of Confederate Negro soldiers were drilling in Richmond’s Capitol Square. Elizabeth felt the sharp sting of betrayal whenever she thought of colored men in rebel gray, but she felt profoundly sorry for them too. They surely did not understand what was happening in the wider country around them, or they never would have made such a bewildering choice or, as Virginia grimly called it, a deal with the devil.
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