Lincoln, however, felt no concern for his own safety. As for bombs disguised as coal lumps, he “expressed great contempt for cowardly assaults of such nature.” At 1 P.M. on March 23, the president along with his wife and son Tad boarded the River Queen and sailed for City Point, escorted by the Bat. Accompanying them were Mrs. Lincoln’s maidservant and army Captain Charles B. Penrose, whom Stanton assigned to act as a presidential bodyguard.246 En route, Lincoln felt unwell, evidently because the water aboard the ship was bad. At 9 P.M. on March 24, the River Queen arrived at City Point, an immense base of supplies for the army that swarmed with soldiers, teamsters, sentries, wagons, ambulances, and other conveyances. When Grant and his wife called to pay their respects, he and the president retired to discuss military affairs. Coolly and somewhat condescendingly, the First Lady received Mrs. Grant, who committed an act of lese majesty by sitting down next to her hostess. Mrs. Lincoln imperiously exclaimed: “How dare you be seated until I invite you!”247 The First Lady would make other such scenes in the coming days. (Apparently, she had treated Stanton’s wife with the same hauteur, for the war secretary’s wife told one of Grant’s aides: “I do not go to the White House; I do not visit Mrs. Lincoln.”)248 Mary Lincoln’s sense of entitlement led her to insist that the River Queen be berthed next to the dock, though Grant’s headquarters boat, the Mary Martin, had been assigned that spot. The two vessels were placed side by side, but the First Lady refused to cross what became known as “Mrs. Grant’s boat” in order to reach the gangplank. So, despite Lincoln’s protests, the Martin was regularly forced to move out in order to make way for the Queen, necessitating extra work for the crews and causing some confusion.
The journalist Sylvanus Cadwallader, whose wife was friendly with Mrs. Grant, reported that the First Lady “seemed insanely jealous of every person, and everything, which drew him [Lincoln] away from her and monopolized his attention for an hour.” She regularly dispatched Tad to summon his father back to the River Queen. On one occasion the boy, after having made a vain attempt to deliver such instructions, interrupted the president in the midst of an animated conversation: “Come, come, come now, mama says you must come instantly.” Lincoln’s face fell, he hesitated for a moment, then rose to leave, asking: “My God, will that woman never understand me?” Submissively he returned to the River Queen.249
Soon after landing at City Point, Lincoln was asked how long he intended to stay. “Well, I am like the western pioneer who built a log cabin,” he laughingly replied. “When he commenced he didn’t know how much timber he would need, and when he had finished, he didn’t care how much he had used up. So you see I came down among you without any definite plans, and when I go home I shan’t regret a moment I have spent with you.”250 Grant urged him to remain at least until the fall of Richmond, which seemed imminent.
On the morning March 25, a desperate Confederate attempt to break through the noose around Petersburg disrupted Lincoln’s plans to review the troops. In a pre-dawn assault, Lee’s forces punched a hole in the Union line, capturing Fort Stedman and two nearby batteries, but were soon driven back. Although Lincoln described it as “a little rumpus,” in fact the losses were significant; the Federals suffered 2,080 casualties and the Rebels 4,800 (10% of the Army of Northern Virginia). Lincoln had wanted to observe the action, but Grant thought it too dangerous. When the firing stopped, however, the general suggested that they inspect the battle site. Around noon Grant, his staff, Lincoln, Barnes, and others boarded a train that took them 7 miles to the front. There they mounted horses and rode across terrain where the fighting had raged most fiercely, witnessing burial squads digging graves for the many corpses scattered about as doctors tended wounded Rebels. Lincoln showed great interest in the 1,600 ragged, dirty Confederates who had been taken prisoner earlier in the day. Though for the most part he remained silent, he did remark on their forlorn condition, showing compassion for the suffering he observed all around him. While frequently consulting a map, he indicated an awareness of the position of various units. When Lincoln returned to the train, he noticed cars full of wounded men. Looking fatigued, he said “that he had seen enough of the horrors of war, that he hoped this was the beginning of the end, and that there would be no more bloodshed or ruin of homes.” During his visit, he repeated this hope earnestly and often. He also sought to comfort the wounded. He was told that a young boy in a Confederate uniform was moaning “Mother! Mother!” and when asked where he was hurt, the lad turned his head, revealing a ghastly wound, and died. Hearing this sad tale, Lincoln wept and with an emotion-choked voice he “repeated the well-known expression about ‘robbing the cradle and the grave.’ ”251
Upon returning to City Point, Lincoln was rather solemn as he sat by the smoky campfire with Grant and his staff. At first his demeanor was unusually somber as he “spoke of the appalling difficulties encountered by the administration, the losses in the field, the perplexing financial problems, and the foreign complications; but said they had all been overcome by the unswerving patriotism of the people, the devotion of the loyal North, and the superb fighting qualities of the troops.” In time, he unwound and entertained his companions with amusing anecdotes about public men and measures. When Grant asked, “Mr. President, did you at any time doubt the final success of the cause?” he replied swiftly and emphatically: “Never for a moment.”
Worn out by the day’s excitement, Lincoln declined the general’s dinner invitation and returned to the River Queen, where he went to bed earlier than usual. After a good night’s sleep, he arose to encouraging bulletins from the front, which led him to predict optimistically that the war would soon end. He was especially pleased to learn that General Philip Sheridan, having repeatedly whipped Jubal Early’s army in the Shenandoah Valley, had reached the James River. At Grant’s headquarters he found that diminutive cavalryman along with Admiral David Dixon Porter and Generals E. O. C. Ord and George G. Meade. It was suggested that since the president had been unable to review troops yesterday, he might like to watch Sheridan’s army cross the river and then review both the naval flotilla and Ord’s corps.
Lincoln accepted the invitation, but before departing, he took time to play with three recently orphaned kittens. He put them in his lap and said consolingly: “Poor little creatures, don’t cry; you’ll be taken good care of.” He asked Colonel Theodore Bowers to make sure they were given food and kind treatment. Often during his visit at City Point, the president gently played with these kittens, wiping their eyes, stroking their fur, and listening to them purr their appreciation. Colonel Horace Porter thought it “a curious sight at an army headquarters, upon the eve of a great military crisis in the nation’s history, to see the hand which had affixed the signature to the Emancipation Proclamation, and had signed the commissions of all the heroic men who served the cause of the Union, from the general-in-chief to the lowest lieutenant, tenderly caressing three stray kittens.”252
Looking worn out, the president then sailed downriver to the spot where Sheridan’s men were to cross. En route, he seemed gloomy and spoke earnestly about the possibility that the Confederates might strike City Point. Uncharacteristically, he told no anecdotes. But upon observing Sheridan’s soldiers traverse the bridge, he perked up, showing great interest and asking several questions of the young general. He thoroughly enjoyed the bustling scene. Some cavalry on the banks cheered loudly on catching sight of him. He met the same reception when his ship passed Porter’s flotilla, which he happily saluted by waving his tall hat. After lunch aboard Porter’s flagship, the Malvern, Lincoln proceeded to Aiken’s Landing, where Ord’s officers were waiting to escort the presidential party to the review. Lincoln rode with Grant and Ord, while the First Lady and Julia Grant, along with Grant’s aide Adam Badeau, followed in an ambulance. The president cheerfully laughed and chatted with the generals. When they arrived at Ord’s campsite, Lincoln was dismayed to learn that the troops had been awaiting their arrival for hours and had missed lunch. He therefore urged
that the review begin without further delay while the women caught up.
Meantime, Major Badeau tried to make polite conversation with the First Lady and Mrs. Grant. He predicted that a battle would soon take place, for Grant had ordered to the rear the wives of officers in the Army of the Potomac. Mrs. Charles Griffin, who had received special permission from the president, was an exception. This news rasped Mary Lincoln. “What do you mean by that, sir?” she asked indignantly. “Do you mean to say that she saw the President alone? Do you know that I never allow the President to see any woman alone?” Julia Grant tried to rescue poor Badeau, who balked when Mary Lincoln instructed him to order the vehicle to halt so that she could leave it. The First Lady then took matters into her own hands by seizing the driver, but Mrs. Grant persuaded her to remain inside until they had reached the reviewing ground. There General Meade, unaware of the delicacy of the situation, replaced Badeau as the ladies’ escort. When they returned to the carriage, the First Lady glared at Badeau and remarked, “General Meade is a gentleman, sir. He says it was not the President who gave Mrs. Griffin the permit, but the Secretary of War.”
Later that day a more embarrassing scene occurred when the same party visited the command of General Ord’s Army of the James. His beautiful, vivacious wife, like Mrs. Griffin, had been allowed to remain at the front. On a highly spirited horse she rode alongside the president while Mary Lincoln’s carriage was making its way to the site. According to Badeau, as “soon as Mrs. Lincoln discovered this her rage was beyond all bounds. ‘What does the woman mean,’ she exclaimed, ‘by riding by the side of the President? and ahead of me? Does she suppose that he wants her by the side of him?’ She was in a frenzy of excitement, and language and action both became more extravagant every moment.”
Mary Lincoln grew angrier still when Julia Grant once again attempted to calm her down. Haughtily, the First Lady asked: “I suppose you think you’ll get to the White House yourself, don’t you?” Mrs. Grant explained that she was quite content with her current situation, provoking a sharp retort: “Oh! you had better take it if you can get it. ’Tis very nice.”
At this awkward moment an officer approached and innocently remarked, “The President’s horse is very gallant, Mrs. Lincoln; he insists on riding by the side of Mrs. Ord.”
“What do you mean by that, sir?” she asked heatedly.
The astounded officer slunk away. When the carriage finally reached Ord’s headquarters, that general’s wife rode up. As Badeau remembered it, Mary Lincoln “positively insulted her, called her vile names in the presence of a crowd of officers, and asked what she meant by following up the President. The poor woman burst into tears and inquired what she had done, but Mrs. Lincoln refused to be appeased, and stormed till she was tired. Mrs. Grant still tried to stand by her friend, and everybody was shocked and horrified.”
At dinner that evening, the First Lady vehemently condemned General Ord and urged her husband to remove him, for in her opinion he was unfit for his command. After the meal, at about eleven o’clock, she had Lincoln summon John S. Barnes, who had observed the embarrassing events of the afternoon. Already asleep when the message arrived, the captain arose, dressed quickly, and went to the president, who, he recalled, “seemed weary and greatly distressed, with an expression of sadness that seemed the accentuation of the shadow of melancholy which at times so marked his features.” Mary Lincoln did most of the talking. According to Barnes, she “objected very strenuously to the presence of other ladies at the review that day, and had thought that Mrs. Ord had been too prominent in it, that the troops were led to think that she was the wife of the President, who had distinguished her with too much attention.” Lincoln, Barnes recalled, “very gently suggested that he had hardly remarked the presence of the lady, but Mrs. Lincoln was hardly to be pacified and appealed to me to support her views.” The mortified Barnes could not mediate this disagreement and strove to remain neutral, simply recounting what he had seen.
Badeau reported that Mary Lincoln over the next few days “repeatedly attacked her husband in the presence of officers because of Mrs. Griffin and Mrs. Ord.” The spectacle dismayed Badeau, who later wrote: “I never suffered greater humiliation and pain … than when I saw the Head of State, the man who carried all the cares of the nation at such a crisis—subjected to this inexpressible public mortification.” Lincoln “bore it as Christ might have done; with an expression of pain and sadness that cut one to the heart, but with supreme calmness and dignity.” With “old-time plainness” he called his wife “mother.” He also “pleaded with eyes and tones, and endeavored to explain or palliate the offenses of others, till she turned on him like a tigress; and then he walked away, hiding that noble, ugly face that we might not catch the full expression of its misery.”253
Mary Lincoln returned to Washington on April 1, accompanied by Carl Schurz. In the manuscript version of his autobiography, that general explained that he had “misgivings” about accepting the invitation to join her. “I had not come into contact with Mrs. Lincoln frequently, but whenever I did, she had treated me with friendly politeness. She had even on some occasions spoken to me about others with a sort of confidential and not at all conventional freedom of tongue, which had embarrassed me not a little. But now, when I was substantially her sole social companion on that steamboat, with no means of escape, she overwhelmed me with a flood of gossip about the various members of the cabinet and leading men in Congress who in some way had incurred her displeasure—gossip so reckless, that I was not only embarrassed as to what to say in reply, but actually began to fear for the soundness of her mind. … While this giddy talk was rattling on almost without interruption from City Point to Washington, save sleeping time, I had the pathetic figure of tender-hearted Abraham Lincoln constantly before my eyes as he was sorely harassed not only by public care but also secretly by domestic torment.”254 In a suppressed chapter of his autobiography, Schurz allegedly “set down verbatim a conversation on her part so vulgar and so venomous that it can be fairly described as outrageous.”255 (As noted above, Schurz believed that “the greatest tragedy of Mr. Lincoln’s existence” was his marriage.)256
Jealous behavior by Mary Lincoln was not unprecedented. One night earlier in the war, she became enraged at a tall, beautiful Connecticut woman who called on the president to discuss a claim. The visitor fell to her knees, wrapped her arms around Lincoln’s legs, and was pleading her case when Mrs. Lincoln came in and “jumped at conclusions. ‘Out of the room, you baggage,’ she cried, and going into the hall she shouted to Edward, one of the household servants, ‘Put this woman out and never admit her again.’ ” The president instructed Congressman Henry C. Deming of Hartford: “Send that long-legged woman back to Connecticut and keep her there.”257 In July 1861, when Lincoln attempted to aid a poor Irish widow gain a pension, he remarked that “Mrs. Lincoln is getting a little jealous.”258
The First Lady was more than just a little jealous. Her friend Elizabeth Keckly, who thought her “extremely jealous,” observed that “if a lady desired to court her displeasure, she could select no surer way to do it than to pay marked attention to the President. These little jealous freaks often were a source of perplexity to Mr. Lincoln.” Mrs. Keckly recalled that one evening, as the First Couple was getting dressed for a reception, the president asked: “Well, mother, who must I talk with to-night—shall it be Mrs. D.?”
“That deceitful woman! No, you shall not listen to her flattery.”
“Well, then, what do you say to Miss C.? She is too young and handsome to practise deceit.”
“Young and handsome, you call her! You should not judge beauty for me. No, she is in league with Mrs. D., and you shall not talk with her.”
“Well, mother, I must talk with some one. Is there any one that you do not object to?”
“I don’t know as it is necessary that you should talk to anybody in particular. You know well enough, Mr. Lincoln, that I do not approve of your flirtations with silly women, ju
st as if you were a beardless boy, fresh from school.”
“But, mother, I insist that I must talk with somebody. I can’t stand around like a simpleton, and say nothing. If you will not tell me who I may talk with, please tell me who I may not talk with.”
“There is Mrs. D. and Miss C. in particular. I detest them both. Mrs. B. also will come around you, but you need not listen to her flattery. These are the ones in particular.”
“Very well, mother; now that we have settled the question to your satisfaction, we will go down-stairs.”259
Miss C. was the beautiful, accomplished Kate Chase, daughter of the treasury secretary. Mary Lincoln was especially jealous of her. In January 1864, she struck from the invitation list for a cabinet dinner the names of that belle, her father and her husband, Rhode Island Senator William Sprague. When the president learned of this, he overruled his wife, and, as Nicolay reported, “there soon arose such a rampage as the House hasn’t seen for a year.” Mary Lincoln’s rage made White House secretary William O. Stoddard cower “at the violence of the storm.” Nicolay too was buffeted by it. As he told Hay, “after having compelled Her S[atanic] Majesty to invite the Spragues I was taboo, and she made up her mind resolutely not to have me at the dinner.”260
Mary Lincoln declined an invitation to attend Kate Chase’s wedding and unsuccessfully urged her husband to boycott that event, the highlight of the social season. According to a woman who was in Washington at the time, the Lincolns argued about the matter, “and the music of her voice penetrated the utmost end of the house.”261
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