Mrs. Lincoln's Rival

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  When John threw back his head and laughed, she was reminded so vividly of happier times that she could almost forget her estrangement from her husband and John’s impending departure. She could almost believe that the worst had passed, and that better days yet awaited her.

  Shortly after noon on April 3, Kate and Nettie were upstairs in Kate’s room making plans for the nursery and the baby’s layette when the sudden cacophony of passing artillery forced them to raise their voices to be heard. When whistles and cheers joined the ruckus outside, Kate and Nettie abandoned their conversation, and Nettie darted to the window.

  “What’s going on out there?” Kate asked, waddling after her.

  “An artillery salute to celebrate one achievement or another, I assume.” Nettie frowned thoughtfully as she peered outside. “The streets are filling with people, and they’re tossing their hats in the air and—oh, my goodness, embracing and kissing and weeping. For joy, I hope.”

  Kate had joined her at the window, and as she watched the celebration in the street below, she remembered John’s passing remark that General Grant had been preparing for a climactic battle. “Dare we hope this celebration marks exceptionally good news?”

  “Oh, I think we should dare,” said Nettie fervently.

  They hurried downstairs and reached the foyer just as Will burst in, breathless from excitement. “Richmond has fallen,” he shouted, forgetting all decorum. “The Union army has taken the city!”

  Nettie shrieked and flung her arms around Kate, and then, completely disregarding her sister’s delicate condition, she seized her hand and pulled her out the front door. Arm in arm, they joined the celebration already spilling over into the streets, their hearts overflowing with joy, their happiness reflected in the faces of the people they passed, ladies and gentlemen, soldiers and nurses, clerks and shopkeepers and housemaids and waiters, all rejoicing together. Citizens draped patriotic banners and bunting from their windows, and bands quickly formed on street corners and parks to play spirited marches and merry jigs. Thankful crowds gathered outside the War Department and called for Secretary Stanton to address them, and the sisters would have stayed to listen but Kate was wary of being jostled by the crowd. Nettie solicitously escorted her home, and they watched the rest of the celebration from their parlor window, drinking apple cider toasts to all the officers whose names they could remember and wishing that Father were there to enjoy the glorious moment with them.

  Later they felt the roar and thunder as an eight-hundred-gun salute shook the city, three hundred booms for the fall of Petersburg, five hundred for Richmond. As the afternoon passed, Kate observed many men celebrating by indulging in too much liquor, tottering down the streets, singing and proclaiming the glory of President Lincoln, General Grant, and the Union army in loud, slurring voices. Tomorrow they would regret their overindulgence, but for the moment, nothing could diminish their rejoicing. Repulsed by the sight, too reminiscent of William at his worst, Kate left the window and went to her father’s study, where she wrote him a letter describing the scenes of merrymaking she and Nettie had observed, and expressing her heartfelt joy that the war was surely almost over.

  The realization struck her with such force that she had to set down her pen and blink tears from her eyes. This time it was not an empty hope, a prayer unheard. After years of suffering and discord and thousands upon thousands of dead and maimed, the war truly was in its final hours.

  The next day, word came to the capital that President Lincoln had entered Richmond early that morning, while flames of the fires the fleeing Confederates had set to destroy precious stores of cotton and liquor still flickered among the ruins. A group of colored workmen had recognized the president from a distance as he approached and, to his embarrassment, had shouted, “Glory, hallelujah!” and had fallen to their knees to kiss his feet. “Please don’t kneel to me,” President Lincoln had urged them, or so the stories told. “You must kneel only to God and thank Him for your freedom.”

  Escorted by General Godfrey Weitzel, whose troops had occupied the fallen city, Mr. Lincoln had toured the Confederate Executive Mansion and had sat at Jefferson Davis’s desk. Later he and his escort had passed the infamous Libby Prison, where thousands of captured Union soldiers had suffered starvation, disease, and unimaginable cruelty—and where Mr. Lincoln’s own brother-in-law, Confederate captain David Humphreys Todd, had served as a warden.

  Father came home unexpectedly at midafternoon, having departed Baltimore for the capital as soon as he could put his docket in order. “Oh, my dear girls,” he said, embracing them in turn. “How wonderful it is to see you both, on such a glorious, long-awaited day.”

  As Nettie happily described for him the celebrations they had seen in his absence, he listened dutifully, nodding, but whenever his eyes met Kate’s, his worry was evident. Her smile trembled, but she nodded to assure him she was well. The fall of Richmond heralded an inevitable Union victory, and if peace and reconciliation could come to a nation divided by war, surely they could fill her own heart and William’s.

  That evening, Secretary Seward ordered all the public buildings in Washington to be illuminated by thousands of candles to celebrate the glorious Union victories. Once again disregarding her delicate condition and the custom of confinement, Kate ventured out with Father and Nettie in the carriage to witness the city alight with rockets, fireworks, and dazzling lights. The streets were full of people and music, laughter and rejoicing. It was a brilliant spectacle, the likes of which Kate never expected to witness again.

  She was wonderfully mistaken.

  The following day, Father was obliged to return to Baltimore and his duties on the circuit court, so he was absent from the capital on Saturday evening, April 9, as rumors flew through the capital that the Union army had cut off General Lee’s retreat and had surrounded the Army of Northern Virginia. Citizens filled the streets, full of anticipation and eager for news, and bonfires burned on every street corner. A young clerk who came to the house on an errand for the court informed them that President Lincoln and his party had returned from Virginia that evening, but the sisters could only speculate what that meant for the progress of the battle.

  The next morning at daybreak, Kate woke to a five-hundred-gun salute that shook her bed and rattled the windows. She heard Nettie shriek from the next room, and answering shouts from Will and Addie and Mrs. Vaudry, and then Nettie burst into joyful laughter.

  She climbed out of bed as quickly as she could and hurried to wash and dress, her heart pounding with hope and happiness. Surely the artillery salute meant that General Grant had at last triumphed over the Army of Northern Virginia.

  She went downstairs to the front parlor window and was gazing outside at the misty streets when Nettie joined her. “Does this mean the war is over?” her sister asked, tucking her arm through Kate’s and resting her head on her shoulder.

  “I hope and pray it does,” she replied, putting her arm around her sister. “But even if General Lee has surrendered, as far as we know, General Sherman is still battling General Johnston in North Carolina. I thought I should send Will to the telegraph office for official word.”

  At that moment, a loud thunderclap interrupted her and a heavy rain began to pelt the dusty streets. Kate decided to delay sending Will out until after breakfast, in hopes that a court messenger would be dispatched to bring them word in the meantime. Instead it was the morning papers that delivered the glorious news: The previous day, in a solemn ceremony at Appomattox Court House, General Lee had surrendered to General Grant.

  Washington again resounded with celebration. Kate and Nettie watched from the upstairs windows as thousands of citizens took to the streets despite the storm, laughing and embracing and cheering. Impromptu parades formed as civilians linked arms with soldiers and sang “Rally Round the Flag” and “Hail, Columbia,” cheering as they followed the bands through the muddy streets. Steam fire engines ad
orned with flags and bunting shrilled their whistles. Soldiers and mechanics towed a battery of six howitzers in from the navy yard and fired off thunderous salutes.

  Later, the evening papers would describe how an ecstatic, thankful crowd had gathered outside the White House to serenade the president with a chorus of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The people had shouted for the president to address them, and a cheer had rung out when Tad poked his head out of a window, and a louder cheer had followed when he returned to wave a captured rebel flag. Before long Mr. Lincoln had appeared, and a great roar had gone up, and hundreds of hats were flung into the air. When the din subsided enough for the president to be heard, he had addressed them briefly, promising a longer, more formal speech in the days to come.

  “I have always thought ‘Dixie’ one of the best tunes I have ever heard,” the president had said then, according to the papers. “Our adversaries over the way attempted to appropriate it, but I insisted yesterday that we fairly captured it.” A great shout of assent had met his words. “I presented the question to the attorney general, and he gave it as his legal opinion that it is our lawful prize.” As laughter and applause again rang out, the president had raised his hand to the musicians and called for them to perform “Dixie.” Afterward, he had led the crowd in giving three cheers for General Grant and all the soldiers under his command, and then three more for the gallant navy. Then, with a final bow, the president had withdrawn from the window, and the crowd had moved on to the Department of War to honor Secretary Stanton.

  A smaller crowd had come to serenade Father that evening, unaware that he was not at home, so Kate and Nettie had accepted their ardent praise graciously on his behalf. Kate was pleased that Father’s role in the triumph had not been forgotten, at least not by everyone.

  The rejoicing continued into the next day, when again the city was gloriously illuminated in anticipation of the president’s speech. Kate did not attend, but the following day she read the president’s address in the papers and found it by turns moving and astonishing. “We meet this evening, not in sorrow, but in gladness of heart,” the president had begun. “The evacuation of Petersburg and Richmond, and the surrender of the principal insurgent army, give hope of a righteous and speedy peace whose joyous expression can not be restrained.” He praised the valiant troops, and addressed the contentious subject of Reconstruction, mentioning in particular criticism of the new Louisiana State constitution. “It is also unsatisfactory to some that the elective franchise is not given to the colored man,” Mr. Lincoln had said. “I would myself prefer that it were now conferred on the very intelligent, and on those who serve our cause as soldiers.”

  Kate read the lines with particular interest, knowing Father was one of the critics to whom the president referred. She marveled at the revelation that President Lincoln approved of enfranchisement for Union soldiers and certain other men of color, fervently hoping that the correspondent had not misunderstood the speech. “Once again,” she said to Nettie after reading the passage aloud, “Mr. Lincoln has finally embraced ideas that Father has long advocated.”

  “Father will be very pleased to hear this,” Nettie observed, “but I cannot help thinking that a great many others will be outraged.”

  “Yes,” Kate replied with spirit. “The same people who wanted to appease the secessionists rather than fight to preserve the nation, who protested that emancipation would destroy the country, the same obstructionists who stubbornly cling to the tired old ways of oppression and injustice—yes, I’m certain they will object to this too. But with Father leading the Supreme Court and—very well, I’ll say it—Mr. Lincoln in the White House, their vain attempts to prevent the inevitable will come to nothing. One day soon the light of freedom and justice and peace will illuminate the country. You’ll see.”

  “My goodness.” Nettie regarded her from beneath raised brows, amused. “That was quite an impassioned speech. Perhaps you should run for the Senate next.”

  “Well, why not?” Kate countered. “Who is to say what is impossible anymore?”

  • • •

  The next day, General Grant came to Washington to meet with the president and attend a celebration Secretary Stanton had arranged in his honor. Kate knew when the boat carrying the general and Mrs. Grant arrived, for it seemed that every gun in the capital burst forth in a salvo of welcome and every bell rang out salutations and grateful thanks. She had heard that while General Grant visited Mr. Lincoln at the White House, Mrs. Grant and Mrs. Stanton would receive callers at the Willard Hotel. She wanted to call on them, and had intended to, but her pregnancy was in its seventh month and she did not wish to invite rebuke and scandal by defying the custom of confinement again merely to pay a social visit. Later that evening, Father returned from Baltimore on the evening train, and the family enjoyed a happy reunion. “The city is absolutely swathed in flags and bunting,” he marveled. “I have never seen such rejoicing.”

  “We have never had such great reason,” Kate said, and Father agreed, although he added that the war was not yet over and that a great deal of work awaited them before the divided nation would be whole once more. Before departing Baltimore, he had sent the president a lengthy letter advising him on Reconstruction, drawing upon his success with the Port Royal Experiment. He hoped to speak with Mr. Lincoln on the subject soon.

  Another grand illumination had been called for that evening in honor of General Grant’s triumphant visit, but when Father declared himself too weary from travel to go, Nettie prevailed upon Kate to accompany her instead. “We need never leave the carriage,” she promised. “No one will see you. Anyway, I think it’s foolish to shut up a woman in her house just because she is in a delicate condition, if her health is otherwise good.”

  Kate was inclined to agree, for she was becoming quite frustrated wandering about the house peering out of windows while all of Washington rejoiced. And so at twilight she and Nettie set out, merry and content, gazing through the windows at the city transformed by light and bunting and banners. The windows of government buildings dazzled with the light of hundreds of candles, and every heart seemed overflowing with hope and with a deep, profound longing for peace that seemed soon to be fulfilled.

  As they rambled through the familiar streets of the capital, Kate marveled at the transformations the city had experienced over the previous four years—and even just in the previous week. The exuberant rejoicing of the first days after General Lee’s surrender had settled into a calm sense of hope, gratitude, and peace, despite the ever-present concerns about what yet lay ahead. In all but the most radical, punitive hearts, Mr. Lincoln’s speech of April 11 had inspired a mood of forgiveness and clemency—and Kate’s own heart had not remained unmoved. That very morning she had written a long, heartfelt letter to William, expressing her regret for their past discord, forgiving him for his deception, and expressing hope that they could begin anew. “I would be happy to see you soon,” she had written in closing. It was not an explicit invitation for him to come home, and yet she hoped his longing for her would inspire him to return nevertheless.

  • • •

  On Good Friday, Father was restless from the moment he woke, and after their religious observances he took to pacing in his study, puttering idly in the garden, and complaining about trivialities whenever he crossed paths with his daughters. Nettie gathered her sketch pad and crayons and disappeared into some nook of the house to wait out his peevish mood, but Kate decided to distract him with a game of chess. Father somewhat testily agreed, but after they set up the board and he became engrossed in the game, he relaxed enough to tell her what was bothering him.

  “The end of the war is imminent, and soon Reconstruction will begin in earnest,” he said, capturing her pawn with his knight. “I shouldn’t have mailed my letter from Baltimore. I should have brought it home with me and had a messenger carry it to the White House. Now the president may not receive it for days, but I had hoped
to discuss my ideas with him immediately.”

  “You could write another copy and send that over,” said Kate, moving a rook to protect her queen. “Or deliver it to him yourself.”

  He shook his head. “I would look forgetful and foolish, or worse yet, hectoring, when the original letter arrives bearing all the same information and suggestions.”

  “Perhaps you could call on Mr. Lincoln to congratulate him for the success of his armies, and the talk could naturally turn to Reconstruction.”

  “Perhaps,” Father replied thoughtfully, capturing another pawn, then frowning as Kate claimed his rook.

  He must have concluded that her suggestion was a good one, for later that afternoon, he announced that he intended to ride to the White House and present his views to the president. Nettie asked if she might accompany him and go on a few errands of her own after dropping him off. When Father agreed, she asked Kate to join them. “No one will see you in the carriage,” she said. “The fresh air will do you good.”

  Kate was tempted, but her stomach was unsettled, her hips and back ached, her feet had swollen so much that it was an effort to squeeze into her shoes, and she needed to visit the necessary far too frequently to risk a lengthy outing. So she thanked her sister but declined, and after they departed she went upstairs and lay down for a nap. What she did not admit to Father and Nettie was that she was feeling downcast, not because of her physical discomfort or worries about the baby but because of a recent letter from William. He told her with apparent good cheer that he was perfectly well and was pronounced handsome by all the ladies in Narragansett—an appallingly insensitive remark even if he had meant it in jest. He claimed that he had eschewed all liquor and cigars since her departure except for a single glass at Senator Anthony’s residence, which had given him a touch of dyspepsia and had persuaded him that he was better off without it. So breezy and careless was his tone that she wondered if she had imprudently erred in abandoning him to his hometown and his onetime lover. Plagued by doubts and worries, she slept fitfully, waking with a start when she heard Nettie and Father return.