Jessie

by Judy Alter

  Harte was aghast and managed to mutter, "I work for a newspaper, but I... I can't stop writing."

  Silently, I applauded.

  * * *

  In the spring of 1861 John announced that he was sailing for France to negotiate the sale of half of the Mariposas. "They cheated me," he said, his calm manner hiding a great anger.

  "'They'?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

  "The men I was fool enough to trust the property with while I went off to run for president," he said bitterly. "I shall have to sell to recuperate and pay their suit." He was convinced he would find a buyer more quickly in France than in either our own country or England.

  I was invited, but the implication was plain that he would be busy and I would be adrift on my own. The idea of being purely selfish in Paris had strong appeal, but ultimately I decided to stay at Black Point. I was like a nesting hen—too comfortable to move, too protective of my brood and my new life.

  Starr and John met one evening at dinner at Black Point just before John left. They were always easily friendly with each other, though obviously held together chiefly by my presence. Left on their own, they would have been political acquaintances but never friends.

  "I have been in touch with the President," Starr said. Lincoln had, of course, been elected and inaugurated, though the new President hadn't eased the country's woes. His election had only made the South openly rebellious, and talk everywhere was of war. John, of course, took this as a doubly bitter blow, for he was convinced he could have avoided war if he'd been elected. I was still a passionate advocate of the Union—my father's face rose before my eyes, and I heard his voice saying, "The Union must be preserved at all costs." But passionate or not, it all seemed remote to me. There would be no war fought at Black Point.

  "I was just telling Mr. Frémont," Starr repeated, drawing my attention back to him, "that I have been in touch with the President. He has authorized me to speak for him in offering you a post...."

  In spite of myself my heart beat quicker, and I glanced at John.

  John remained outwardly calm. "A post?" he inquired, as though totally uninterested.

  "Ambassador to France," Starr said quietly.

  John considered for a long minute before he spoke, and then his words were slow and deliberate. "Were our country not about to be plunged into war, sir, I would be most honored and would humbly accept. But I feel the winds of war... and I must take a more active role to preserve the Union."

  There they were again, those words: "preserve the Union."

  "You will think on it, though?" Starr asked.

  "Yes and no," John replied. "I am, as you know, leaving for France the day after tomorrow. If there is any service I can do the government while I'm gone, I would be pleased to be of help."

  "I'll be in touch," Starr said, and that was the last I heard of the conversation.

  "John?" I asked that night. "You will not accept the ambassadorship, will you?"

  "No, Jessie, I won't. But when war comes, I'll go in one capacity or another to serve the North."

  And I, I thought, will wait at Black Point—another separation in a marriage that was as apart as it was together.

  John left for France in March, and Fort Sumter was fired upon on April 12, 1861. My idyll at Black Point was over, though I didn't yet know it.

  Chapter 16

  "Ten thousand rifles from France," John said, strutting about our hotel room, "and another $75,000 worth of arms and ammunition from England." He was obviously pleased with himself. "This will be a long war, Jessie, hard on both sides, and we must be prepared."

  "And how did you guarantee payment for all this?" I asked. It was not a naive question. I knew John too well.

  "On my personal signature," he said grandly.

  "John! You who had to sell half the Mariposas? You who have property aplenty but can't raise any cash? How could you?" I was aghast... and frightened. "Why didn't you get the minister to England to guarantee government payment?"

  "Adams?" His voice turned scornful as he whirled to look at me from the small sofa that provided the only seating in the room besides the bed. "He refused. But don't worry, Jessie, the minister to France ultimately signed for it all. We're free and clear." But he had taken the risk—that thought wouldn't leave my mind. There was no sense, however, dwelling on a gamble that had worked. "You were right, then, and I congratulate you. The war is going to be a glorious experience for you, John. It will wipe out memories of the campaign."

  He smiled happily and leaned over to kiss my forehead. "For both of us," he said. "It's time our fortunes were in the ascendancy again."

  And that was the way we sailed into the Civil War, expecting another Frémont triumph.

  * * *

  The children and I had met John in New York, after a hasty packing and dismantling of Black Point. In five days after receiving his wire, our clothes were thrown into trunks, the furniture was covered with sheets, and the house closed up. I wandered through it for a last look, lingering over the view on each side, running my finger over the piano I had played, the table where Herman Melville had talked with Bret Harte, the chair by the fireplace where Starr King habitually sat. No house, except perhaps the one on C Street in Washington, would ever hold such memories for me. I hoped the war would be brief, and we would be back at Black Point for Christmas.

  We sailed from San Francisco to the Isthmus of Panama with calm weather and good spirits, but everything changed once we boarded the train to cross the isthmus. The guard was heavy, and we were told that the cargo included arms, ammunition, and gold, all of which the Confederacy desperately needed.

  Once we boarded a ship in the Gulf or Mexico, the situation became even more tense.

  "We are in danger of being boarded by a southern pirateer," said the captain, a man ironically named South. "I will work for the Confederacy once this trip is over, for I am a southerner—from North Carolina—but I promised Mr. Vanderbilt I'd bring his ship in safely... and I'll do it." He went on to say that he usually stopped for mail at a tiny island in the West Indies, but he feared an ambush there by the Sumter and would not this time be stopping. I bit my tongue in disappointment, for I'd hoped the mail would bring word from John.

  We were allowed no lights onboard, so we ate an early dinner and retired at sunset to a darkness so total that it frightened me. I had all I could do to comfort Frank and Charley, who begged for light that they might have me read to them. I sat in the dark and sang soft songs in my own off-key manner until they finally slept. The darkness was made worse by the total silence, for the captain cut the engines at night. "Sound carries across the water," he said.

  Needless to say, he had a pack of terrified women on his hands. The sailors did their best to cheer us. One kept whistling "Dixie," and when I finally could not restrain myself from frowning at him, he shrugged and said, "It's a good marching tune. I know I cannot even think of it on shore, so I'm just going to whistle it to my heart's content while we're at sea."

  Our worst fears came true on a sparkling cold and windy day just after we passed Hatteras off the Carolinas. "A sail," came the cry, all need for silence gone once a pursuing ship was sighted. We ran to the rail and saw a long, low ship, with every sail set, rapidly closing the distance between us.

  "It's the Jeff Davis," cried the lookout, having read the name through his spyglass.

  The captain had previously told me that the Jeff Davis was the swiftest slaver afloat, and his steamer was no match for it. Now he ordered his crew, "Save the steamer, or I'll sink her. No man gets this treasure." He posted men around the engine and by the magazine, and I knew that his intent—and his threat—were serious.

  There ensued a daylong chase. Sometimes the Atlantic winds helped us, dying down so that the Jeff Davis had no power and we were able to steam away. Then the winds would rise again and help the enemy. Finally, toward dark, the winds died and we pulled away, leaving the pursuer far behind us.

  Lily was pale b
ut calm and quiet. The boys, however, thought it a great adventure. "Like Jean Lafitte, isn't it, Mother?" Charley exclaimed, and I agreed with him, for I had the weird sensation that I was living a century earlier and was on a boat about to be boarded by pirates. With a shudder I remembered how pirates often treated their captives and gratefully brought my imagination back to the nineteenth century.

  We sailed into the Bay of New York with no further incident. When we landed, we learned that the Sumter had waited three days off the island we had avoided.

  John was in the crowd at the wharf, whisking us away to the hotel. "I've been put in charge of the Department of the West," he whispered as the carriage pushed through crowded streets to the hotel, "one of four major generals given significant appointments. I had my choice, but I insisted on the West. It's my country."

  The West would consist of Illinois and all states and territories between the Mississippi River and the Rocky Mountains, with headquarters in my sometime hometown of St. Louis. And John would be in charge. Later we would talk about breaking old ties—what few southern roots the presidential campaign had left us—but for now it was enough to enjoy John's triumph.

  Writing to Starr King in California, I confessed to a lack of humility about my husband's future. "I see his future looming brightly. It is, I know, a time for bold men of action, men who are willing to write their own rules as they go. John is such a man."

  * * *

  St. Louis was no longer the city of my childhood. I expected the usual bustling activity, the kind of raucous frontier air, with people and animals going everywhere in cheerful confusion, sailors whistling and singing while they loaded barges on the wharves. And, yes, I'd hoped for some kind of reception for John, some modest but encouraging welcome, with a few cheers.

  Disembarking from the train, we rode by carriage through a city so silent that the clip-clop of the horses' hooves echoed mercilessly through the night.

  "Where is everyone?" Charley whispered, apparently afraid to talk in a normal voice.

  "This is spooky," Frank said in agreement.

  Neither carriages nor pedestrians were to be seen, curtains were drawn in the shops, and homes seemed barricaded behind pulled draperies and closed shutters. From far too many homes fluttered the flag of the Confederacy. We even passed a building that was being used as a Confederate recruitment office.

  "John?" I grasped his arm, pointing to the offending building.

  "You knew this was a southern city, Jessie. Surely you didn't expect a welcome. I'll take care of that office."

  I would not be so foolish as to admit that I'd hoped for a welcome.

  We moved immediately into the stately home of my cousin, Sarah Brant, with whom John had stayed when his leg had forced him back to St. Louis at the start of the 1853 expedition. Sarah was glad of the rent we paid, and we were glad of a building spacious enough to house all of John's officers and operations in one place. The basement became an arsenal, with arms and ammunition stored for emergency use. The ground floor housed staff offices, and on the second floor John had his own office, complete with a large table where he could spread out maps and diagrams. We had modest living quarters also on the second floor, while Cousin Sarah went to stay with other relatives.

  "We must post sentinels immediately," John said. "No telling what lengths some people would go to for the ammunition we have here." I thought it a wise decision.

  Then he sat with his maps. "We will clear Missouri of all rebels and then march to Mississippi, clearing as we go."

  "The President?" I asked.

  "I met with Lincoln just before you arrived in New York," he said. "He gave me carte blanche—that was his term—and said he had complete confidence in me."

  My optimism knew no bounds. For once John was fully supported by the administration in charge. He could exercise his tactical skills without fear of redress. He worked from before sunrise until midnight every day, trying to get munitions and supplies for an army that was, as he put it, "understaffed and unequipped—the men are untrained, they have no horses, no arms, no ammunition." Authorized by Lincoln to take 5,000 muskets from the St. Louis arsenal, he found the arsenal had less than 1300. On paper John had 25,000 men; in reality, less than 15,000. He communicated these problems to Mr. Lincoln through Montgomery Blair, the oldest of the Blair brothers, who was now postmaster general and John's liaison to the President. Blair's reply was that the President had full confidence in Major General Frémont and that the major general was to proceed as he thought best.

  The major general did just that, bringing in Major Charles Zagonyi, once a Hungarian officer and a man in whom John had the greatest confidence. Zagonyi brought his Garibaldian officers, men who wore proud uniforms of dark blue with white plumes in their hats. "We have to show the West what an army should look like," John said as he installed the Garibaldian officers as guards around the house. When he went abroad in the city, a phalanx of them rode about him. "No telling where an ambush shot might come from," John said, articulating a fear that I had tried to quiet. I was grateful for the Garibaldians, with their polished sabers and deadly revolvers.

  Francis Blair, the man who had been John's major supporter in the presidential campaign, now became a supplicant, writing to John to request an appointment as major general for his younger son, Frank, now a congressman from Missouri. John replied as tactfully as he could, pointing out that he had discussed such an appointment with Frank when in Washington, and Frank had indicated that he thought his services more valuable if he were to remain in the Congress. Privately, to me, John said, "He has an unfortunate temper and bad habits." I dismissed Frank from my thoughts, sure that we had a strong ally in his brother, Montgomery.

  What John soon found out was that all official concern was focused on Virginia, where the Union forces had just suffered the devastating defeat of Bull Run. Nobody thought the war was being fought in the West—nobody, that is, except John and me. Montgomery Blair wrote that the authorities would pay no attention to the problems of the Department of the West. "Do the best you can," he advised.

  "We need a victory, Jessie, something that can give the entire Union heart."

  "General Lyon has been begging for troops and assistance in the southern part of the state," I said. "If he could hold out..."

  "I've told him to retreat," John replied. "I've not enough men to send him, and what men I have are safeguarding Cairo, at the President's request. He feels, rightly, that we must preserve barge traffic. If we lose the rivers, we lose the West. I've sent an untried general there—fellow by the name of Grant—Ulysses Grant—isn't that an odd first name? Anyway, I feel he'll do the job."

  And so we pored over maps, moving troops here and there on large boards, as though we were playing with miniatures. We plotted strategies against rebels who were wrecking railway trains, cutting telegraph wires, raiding farms, and terrifying northern sympathizers.

  Writing to Starr King, ever my confidante, I described it as "the most wearing and welcome work of my life. As I bend over maps with John and write and rewrite reports, the glorious days of the early expeditions return. I am at my best aiding John as he forges new greatness for himself and for the country." Putting my pen aside, I felt a momentary sadness that Father could not see what John was doing. But then I remembered the bitterness between them toward the end, and I was grateful to have Starr as my listening post.

  One part of my job was the same as it had been during the presidential campaign: to keep away from John those people who would upset him. I arranged all appointments and generally chose who saw him. "He must not be bothered, when he is so busy, by people with this petty request and that," I explained to an aide. "He must save his time for the major issues." It became difficult, nearly impossible, for the St. Louis citizenry to gain access to the commander of the Department of the West, but I kept their many problems and complaints from distracting John from the business of planning the war.

  Such power made me seem arrogant, I knew
, and there was no way I could explain to anyone—did I have to?—that I did what I did at John's request, even insistence. "You must help me," he begged. "I cannot do this without you." And then he was very specific about what I must do: "Keep the damn nuisances away!" If one weighed the balance, as I did, it was worth being called arrogant to serve John, and in so doing, to serve the Union. I had no regrets.

  Of course, it was not long before we heard the rumors. Some, jealous perhaps of John's authority and strictly enforced regulations, began to call me "General Jessie." One newspaper, from southern Missouri, wrote that I had "stepped beyond the bounds of a wife," and another claimed that I had "a man's education, a man's power." Yet they did not see me at work with John, nor did they know that I made it always a point to defer to him, to make it plain it was John who made the decisions, John who commanded the western department.

  Criticism of John himself began in earnest when General Lyon refused to retreat. Lyon had a reputation as a hero, having saved the St. Louis arsenal from rebels and then having put the rebels to flight at Booneville, a town on the Missouri River. But all this had happened in June, before we arrived in St. Louis. By summer Lyon was in southern Missouri near Springfield and was virtually abandoned—no communication with headquarters and an army that was shrinking as ninety-day volunteers came to the end of their stint. His army was unpaid and virtually unequipped—no tents, poor food, and ragged clothing. John ordered him to retreat because there were no fresh troops to send him and because Springfield was not as vital as Cairo. "It is the key to southern Missouri—lead mines, farm resources, and volunteers," John said sadly, "but I cannot countermand the President's order to save Cairo first."

  In early August, John sent two regiments toward Lyon, but he expected the general to retire to meet them. Instead Lyon moved to attack Confederate forces under General McCullough. In the battle of Wilson's Creek, one of the war's most fierce encounters, Lyon repulsed attack after attack, slowly gaining ground and driving the rebels back. But then he was hit, a minie ball piercing his breast. Firsthand reports told us that he instantly fell dead from his horse. After that Federal troops retreated.