“So what are they saying about McClellan, now that Bobby Lee’s slamming him with a two-by-four, just like Pinkerton said would happen?”
“They’re saying what they’ve said from the start. He listens too much to Pinkerton. They believe McClellan outnumbers Lee, not the other way round.” Halsey paused, then decided to add a bit more, to make it appear that he was actually doing the job that McNealy expected. “Today, the president promised to send what help he can.”
“Presidential promises.” McNealy took out his cigar and gave a juicy spit.
Halsey tried to read meaning into McNealy’s grunts and spits, a tricky game with a man who played things close. Nothing was necessarily as it seemed. But it was odd … the positive comments about Pinkerton … the negative comments about Lincoln … the questions about emancipation.…
What was his game?
Then McNealy asked about Benjamin Wood.
Halsey said, “When Wood last spoke in Congress, Stanton had a telegraph line run from the Capitol so that he could get instant reports and arrest Wood if he didn’t like what Wood was saying. He thinks Wood’s a traitor.”
“Wood will be acquitted.” McNealy said it as though it were a fact rather than speculation. “What else?”
Halsey hesitated before offering the next bit of intelligence, but it was the sort of thing that McNealy might know about anyway: Constance had heard her uncle musing over a candidate to run against Lincoln in the next election, and he had mentioned General McClellan.
McNealy took the cigar from his mouth. “She told you that?”
Halsey nodded.
McNealy’s eyes shifted left, then right, but they were not looking at wounded soldiers or stretcher bearers or the steam rising from the riverboats. They seemed to have turned inward, into some deep cabinet of suspicions.
Halsey sensed that he had said too much.
“We should keep an eye on your Miss Constance,” said McNealy.
“She went back to New York. She couldn’t take the heat.”
McNealy puffed his cigar. “Then we should keep an eye on her in New York.”
Suddenly, a whistle screamed. Two maneuvering vessels, their decks covered with stretchers, had drifted close to each other in the current.
One gave a burst of steam and kicked forward, sending up a wave that washed over the bow of the other vessel and washed half a dozen wounded men off the deck. One of them cried out as he sank.
Halsey turned to McNealy, but McNealy was gone.
God, but he hated this war. And he hated the way he was fighting it.
II.
Washingtonians said there had never been such a Fourth of July …
… not because of the celebrations, for there were none. Not because of the heat, for July heat in Washington was like the roar of artillery. Beyond a certain point, it was not distinguishable by gradation. It was simply unbearable. But not since 1776 had the future of the republic seemed more in doubt, because McClellan had been beaten.
In a single week, Robert E. Lee had taken back all the ground that McClellan spent three months securing. Federal troops had now fallen into defensive positions at a place called Harrison’s Landing, on the James River. They had surrendered the field. They had lost the advantage.
Whatever gloom and torment had lain over Washington in June seemed now like a happy memory. Bands would play, because bands were always playing somewhere in Washington. But there would be no illuminations, no fireworks, no frivolity.
For Samantha Simpson of Wellesley, Massachusetts, however, it was the most glorious Fourth of her life, because Halsey was taking her to the White House.
She had arrived on the night train from Baltimore and following Halsey’s instructions, had taken a barouche from the B&O station to the Metropolitan Hotel on Pennsylvania. A bouquet of roses awaited her in her room, along with a note:
Welcome to your nation’s capital. Sleep well. Tomorrow you shall meet the president. HH
For the occasion, she wore a powder blue dress with matching hat and parasol. Halsey went in uniform.
McManus met them at the White House door. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant.”
“A quiet day,” said Halsey. “Where’s the line?”
“Most folks reckon the president’s takin’ a holiday. But he’s in his office. And he’s always happy to see Lieutenant Halsey and a lovely lady.”
The moment Halsey and Samantha stepped into the vestibule, she whispered, “They know you by your first name at the president’s house?”
Halsey did not tell her that McManus could probably not remember his last name. Some things were better left unsaid when trying to impress a lady.
But impressing her was easy enough on the red carpet in the central corridor.
Halsey watched her eyes widen as she looked into the rooms, each decorated in a predominant color. Mrs. Lincoln had spent a fortune on new draperies, carpeting, and furniture, so Halsey did not think that Samantha noticed the underlying shabbiness of the old place. The baseboards had been kicked and scuffed by the hundreds of people who came each day to see the president. The red carpet showed the wear of muddy boots and the scars of souvenir hunters who had cut swatches to take home. And a few souls had even carved initials in the wainscoting.
But as they ascended the staircase at the west end, Samantha whispered, “I am a long way from Wellesley, Massachusetts.”
Lincoln’s secretary, John Hay, young and sleek in a linen suit, greeted them in the vestibule at the east end and directed them to the president’s reception room.
Halsey didn’t much like Hay, a typical gatekeeper who looked at guests as if wondering how to keep them from his boss. The president, said Hay, would be with them shortly.
That afternoon, Halsey and Samantha were the only people in the reception room. They took the settee by the door, and Halsey heard voices and footfalls in the corridor, as if Lincoln was seeing a visitor out of his office.
“For the last time, Mr. President, I urge you. Give the nation a gift on Independence Day. Announce a general emancipation. It’ll be galvanizing.”
The sound of the footfalls stopped outside the reception room door.
Lincoln’s voice cut through the quiet: “Senator, general emancipation may not find the kind of fertile ground in the rest of the country that it does in Massachusetts.”
Halsey looked at Samantha, who at that moment looked like a little girl, with a little downturned doll’s mouth, ringlets of brown hair framing a round face, and round blue eyes growing rounder as she overheard this exalted conversation.
“More’s the pity,” said the other voice. “But you know, sir, that you may free the slaves as part of your Constitutional mandate in wartime.”
“So you’ve told me many times, Senator Sumner.”
Samantha whispered, “Sumner? Our Sumner?”
Halsey nodded. He liked the feel of her warm breath in his ear.
Charles Sumner, Republican from Massachusetts and one of the sharpest Abolitionist thorns in the presidential side, said sadly, “So you will not reconsider?”
“I consider everything,” said Lincoln. “I reconsider almost everything. And I tell you straight up, Senator, I would do it if I were not afraid that half the officers would fling down their arms and three more states would rise.”
“Then there’s no more to offer, sir, except my best wishes to you and Mrs. Lincoln for a happy Independence Day.”
From where he sat, Halsey could see Sumner turning to take the president’s hand:
“But, Mr. President,” said Sumner, “you’ve called for three hundred thousand more volunteers. The only way to guarantee that they’ll come forward without direct conscription is to tell them what this war is really about.”
“Wait, Senator,” said Lincoln. “Just wait. As I’ve told you before, emancipation is a thunderbolt that will keep. So be patient. Time is essential.”
“Another defeat like the Peninsula, sir, and I fear that we may start to r
un out of time while our citizens run out of patience.” Then Sumner noticed the young people.
Halsey stood. “Senator.”
Sumner was burly and big-headed, with a shock of graying hair and voluminous muttonchops, quite unlike the skinny, thin-lipped Abolitionist of Southern caricature. He looked at Halsey, wrinkled his brow, and said, “Hutchinson, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.” Halsey extended his hand.
“One of our Democratic families”—Sumner took Halsey’s hand and turned to Lincoln—“yet a family of proud tradition and excellent heritage.”
Halsey glanced at Lincoln, about whose family none of that could be said, and saw the “faintly bemused” version of the benevolent smile.
“Good bloodlines are a good thing,” said Lincoln, “in a horse or a man. But the lieutenant has proved himself … on the battlefield, and in the telegraph office.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Halsey.
The attention of the gentlemen now turned to Samantha, who was standing and fidgeting with the handle of her parasol.
“And here is a young lady I also recognize,” said Sumner, “the daughter of a fine Abolitionist preacher, the Reverend Mr. Simpson of Wellesley, Massachusetts.”
Lincoln took her hand. “I hope you’ll ask him to compose a prayer for me.”
Samantha curtsied, so that the bottom hoop of her skirt brushed on the floor.
“Tell me, Miss Simpson,” said the president, “what brings you to Washington in the height of summer?”
“I’m to be a volunteer nurse at the Union Hotel Hospital, sir.”
“Do you know about nursing?” asked Lincoln.
“No, but I have always been interested in the … nursely arts, sir, and what I don’t know I’ll learn.”
Lincoln’s smile widened into a genuine grin. He turned to Sumner and said, “I don’t see how we can lose, Senator, not with spirit like that in our ladies, too.”
After a few more pleasantries, Sumner bustled off.
Then Lincoln invited the young couple into his office. And he gave Halsey a wink, as if to say that he knew how to help a young man impress a young lady.
Masculine colors and a mess of papers dominated the room. The wallpaper was green with a pattern of gold stars. The wall-to-wall carpet was green with a pattern of crimson flowers, and it was covered in papers. A heavy-legged walnut table occupied the middle of the room and was also covered in papers. A stand-up postmaster’s desk fit into a corner, and was not only covered in papers, but its pigeonholes were stuffed with papers. A Winthrop desk, closed and locked, top and bottom, filled the space between the windows and appeared to be the only thing not covered in papers. There were even papers on the wall: maps dotted with red and blue pins to show the movement of troops.
Lincoln told them to push aside the papers on the sofa and sit.
Then he took to his black horsehair swivel chair, and Halsey observed the presidential act of sitting, which never ceased to fascinate him. It was like watching the movement of a great long-legged bird. Lincoln folded himself first at the waist, then at the knees, lowering his body in two distinct motions, a slow, steady journey of descent. And once he was altogether seated, his knees came to rest just south of his beard. No man had ever looked more ungainly in a chair.
But his conversation was easy and relaxed. In the midst of gloom and torment, he seemed to welcome the chance for a bit of distracting chatter with young people.
He hooked a long leg over one of the arms of the chair and told a few funny stories. He expounded on the view of the Washington Monument out his windows. And he gave the Abolitionist’s daughter all the encouragement she would need.
When she said that she had brought little gifts for the men, like books, candy, socks, and soap, he said one word: “Tobacco?”
“Tobacco, sir?” She smiled. “My father prohibited me from bringing tobacco, but I must admit that I brought it anyway. Two cases of cut plug.”
Lincoln chuckled. “This young gal’s a prize catch, Lieutenant.”
Halsey could feel a sidelong glance from Samantha, anticipating … what? Choose your words carefully, he told himself. “Yes, sir. A prize altogether, sir.”
“Tobacco’s never held much interest for me, but our men need comfort, and I’m told it comforts many a man.” Lincoln stood, signaling the end of the meeting.
Halsey and Samantha stood also, and she said, “I will tell my father that my president approves of tobacco, sir—”
“Don’t tell him till he’s written that prayer. I don’t want any preachers thinking I’m encouraging their daughters to rebel. I don’t encourage rebellions.”
“No, sir. You just put them down,” she said.
And Lincoln’s smile faded. A sudden seriousness came into his voice. “If my Maker so wills it, Miss Simpson, then yes.”
That was the first time, in all their conversations, that Halsey could recall the president framing an issue in terms of a higher power.
Something in him was changing. Halsey was convinced.
Samantha left off smiling and said, “A strong notion, sir.”
“To which end, I’m going down to Harrison’s Landing to see the army for myself. I’ll be bringing a few civilians and a few military men. I’ll want my own telegraph man, too.” Lincoln turned to Halsey. “So wear your uniform.” Then Lincoln winked again. Mission accomplished. Young lady properly impressed.
* * *
As Samantha did not have to report to the hospital until six o’clock, Halsey took her to dinner in the quiet dining room of the National Hotel.
All through the meal, she talked while Halsey listened. She talked of her Boston meetings with the dashing John Wilkes Booth, of the graciousness of President Lincoln, of the audaciousness of Senator Sumner, of the heat, of the hotels, of her pride in Halsey, “the president’s very own telegraph man,” and of the adventures that awaited them both. From the brightness in her eyes, she seemed to believe that these would be wondrous adventures altogether.
Halsey did not tell her of the hard realities that underlay most wartime adventure. She would find out soon enough on her own.
She kept talking after dinner and during the carriage ride to Georgetown.
It was not until they pulled up in front of the hospital near the corner of M Street and Wisconsin that she stopped her chatter. She fell silent. Then she whispered, “Oh, my.”
A dozen men were lounging on the stoop of the four-story brick building. Almost anywhere else, that number of men would have accounted for forty-eight arms and legs. But not here. Were there forty? Thirty? Halsey could not tell.
He felt her hand shaking as he helped her down. He realized that her incessant talk had been a manifestation of her nervousness. Her silence now declared it as well.
As Halsey and Samantha climbed the stoop, a few of the men who had arms offered halfhearted, almost disrespectful salutes.
At the lobby entrance, the young couple stopped and peered in. Once, this had been a fine hotel, favored by senators and congressmen. But now …
A man was rushing past carrying a tray covered in a cloth. Something stuck out from under the cloth. A hand? A human hand? Yes.
Halsey saw Samantha’s color fade.
She gripped his arm, stepped into the lobby, and looked into the hotel dining room, which was now a ward with thirty beds. She took in all the suffering that expressed itself there in sounds and smells, and said it again, even more softly: “Oh, my.”
Halsey decided that she wouldn’t last a week.
Then a woman in a brown dress and white apron called out from behind the hotel desk: “Are you Miss Samantha Simpson of Wellesley, Massachusetts?”
Samantha nodded, as if she couldn’t find her voice.
The woman came out from behind the desk. She neither smiled nor scowled. She just looked severe. “I’m Miss Dean. You’re younger than they said you’d be. Prettier, too. We’re lookin’ for plain women, over thirty, and you’re neither.”
/> Samantha stammered, “I’m … I’m…”
“Don’t be sorry.” Miss Dean looked her up and down. “We need hands, so we’ll take you. But remember, girlie, pretty don’t count here. Work does.”
Halsey did not think that Samantha would even be able to speak, but she said, “Oh, yes, ma’am. I can work.”
“Good, ’cause we just got a new ambulance in, so there’s men to bathe, wounds to dress, fevers to wet down.” Miss Dean noticed Samantha’s two trunks on the shoulders of two Negroes who had carried them in. “What’s in those?”
“Clothes in one, and I’ve brought sundries for the men … books, soap, candy—”
“Tobacco?”
“Yes, two cases of cut plug.”
“Then they’ll like you, all right. A woman brings tobacco, the men like her even if she’s as ugly as a full chamber pot. And you’ll be seein’ plenty of those, so come along. Need to get you out of that hooped skirt. No hoops and dark dresses, that’s the rule around here. And we got other rules, too, all written down. You need to read ’em.”
Samantha gave Halsey a little wave and followed Miss Dean up the stairs. The expression on her face was one that he had seen only on men … just before they went into battle, when they realized that they were about to do something they could never have imagined themselves doing but were going to do, because it had to be done and the Lord had put them in the place to do it.
Halsey decided that she would last a week.
III.
Three days later, the armed steamer Ariel brought the presidential party up the James from Hampton Roads, a ten-hour trip past fertile green plantations and dark wooded swamps, deep into the heart of Virginia.
Halsey found a spot on the bow, where he could catch a breeze in the hundred-degree heat and watch the downstream steamers passing with their cargoes of wounded.
The Seven Days, as it was now called, had killed two thousand federal soldiers and wounded eight thousand more, but whenever a boat passed and wounded men caught sight of Lincoln in his shirtsleeves on the afterdeck, they cheered and shouted: “Hey, Mr. President! We’ll be back!” “Hey, Abe! Turn us around and we’ll follow you to Richmond!” “Hey, Lincoln, them Rebs said you was uglier ’n Jeff Davis, but you ain’t nowhere near as ugly as him!”
The Lincoln Letter Page 15