by Judy Alter
Mr. Blair, so wrought up that I feared he would have an attack right before me, finally blurted out that Frank had written to Montgomery that he feared John was intemperate and not in firm control of the situation. "Montgomery showed the letter to Lincoln," Blair said vindictively, "and the President now knows the truth about your husband... and about you."
"Me?" I could barely speak, as the connection between things came clear to me.
"You... the cunning you learned from your father, the secretiveness."
And I had just been thinking I had learned political wisdom from Father!
"Mr. Blair," I said, keeping my voice as calm as I could, "I think you best go now."
And go he did, taking all his anger with him, and leaving me behind, an emotional wreck.
Suddenly impatient to be out of the capital, I sent two requests to Mr. Lincoln, asking that he reply as quickly as possible so that I might depart. In the second I also asked for a copy of Frank Blair's letter to Montgomery, explaining that I did not think it fair to ask my husband to fight a shadow enemy. Finally I received an answer: the President had sent his reply to General Frémont by messenger. As for the other letter to which I alluded, he did not feel free to release a copy without the authorization of both the author and the recipient.
Angrily, I threw my few belongings into my valise and checked out of the Willard in time to catch the afternoon tram west. But before I caught the train, I sent John another message, in cipher, telling him of the latest developments. I did not want him to receive Lincoln's reply without advance warning.
It so happened that Governor Curtin of Pennsylvania, with whom I was previously acquainted, was on the train, and he and his wife invited me to join them in their coach car. I did so with relief, thinking that congenial company might relieve my mind a bit. But the very first thing he said to me, once we were settled, nearly threw me into a frenzy.
"So Lincoln refused to approve your husband's proclamation, did he?"
I managed to laugh lightly and say, "That is business between men, Governor. I know nothing of it, though I'd hope it is not true." I'm sure my blush gave me away.
"Come now, Mrs. Frémont. We know you are privy to your husband's business," he said, his tone also light and laughing.
"But not," I said calmly, "to the President's business." Inside I was wondering desperately how the governor came by this bit of information, when Lincoln had refused to disclose the contents of his letter even to me.
We went on to talk of other things—all connected to the war, of course—but it was with relief that I saw them off the train in Pennsylvania some hours later. Hiding my concern and anger had become a terrible chore in their presence.
But then, the next day, a couple traveling to Illinois spoke to me of their dismay that John's proclamation would not stand. Before I could respond, the woman broke out into great, loud sobs. "My son," she managed to gasp, "I gave him willingly for the Union... but now it means nothing. If we cannot free the slaves, he died for nothing."
I had such compassion for her that I could do nothing but put an arm around her and murmur comforting words, while her husband patted her hand helplessly and muttered, "There, there...."
At our headquarters I found that the President's special messenger had beaten me only by a little more than an hour—and he turned out to be none other than Montgomery Blair himself. When an aide told me who was inside with John, I put aside all decorum and burst into the office.
"Jessie!" John rose from his desk and held his arms out to me, obviously relieved to see me. "I did not dare expect you so soon." He welcomed me with a warm embrace, throwing a glance at Montgomery, as though to warn me.
"I'm sure," I said archly, "that Montgomery did not either. And are you, Montgomery, the one who is publicizing Mr. Lincoln's private correspondence to John?"
Montgomery, who had risen when I entered the room, shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Jessie." But he couldn't look me in the eye.
"Jessie," John said, "do sit down. We were just discussing Mr. Lincoln's reaction to my letter." This time his glance toward Montgomery was one of pure anger. "The President," John went on, "has named General Hunter to replace me...."
"Replace you?" I know my voice screeched like a hoot owl.
"Calm down, Jessie," Montgomery drawled. "To replace him only if John refuses to rescind his order."
I looked at John, begging for an answer. He stood behind his desk, straight and full of dignity, his head held high. But he said nothing for a long moment.
Finally, when he spoke, his voice was a whisper. "I will rescind the order."
I clasped my hand over my mouth and left the room hurriedly, without a word to either man. Behind me there was a great silence.
"How could you?" I demanded when at last we were alone. "How could you give up the most important part of the proclamation?"
"Because if I am replaced, I can do nothing. But if I am in command, even with my hands tied to some extent, I can still do some good, still make this war go the way I know it should."
In my mind I heard again the words of Judge Coles: "This ends Frémont's part in the war." Ill at ease in my presence and knowing that he had let me down, John made an excuse to leave the room, and once he was gone, I gave in to great and bitter sobs.
There began our war with the Blair family. Rescinding the order was not enough for the Blairs, father and sons. John and I had placed ourselves in political opposition to them. John had knuckled under—how I hated the phrase that sprang to my mind!—not to the Blairs, but to Lincoln, and the Blairs knew it. He had not given in to the Blairs, and they knew they could not be sure of him in the future.
I remembered something my father had once told me was commonly said about the Blairs: "When they go in for a fight, they go in for a funeral." Father had declared that he never wanted Francis Blair, Sr., for an enemy—and now we had as enemies both him and his sons, one of them, Frank, quick of temper and intemperate in his use of alcohol, a deadly combination.
The rumors that soon flew made anything about "General Jessie" look pale. John had ordered, for his private use, a half ton of ice—he did order it, for use in hospitals and hospital ships on the river. He was incapable of command because of his addiction to opium. He—and this was the most damning—was determined to establish an independent empire in the West as he had once tried to establish one in California. Since we knew that Frank wanted to be king of Missouri, I thought this a case of the pot calling the kettle black, to put it mildly.
"I had Frank Blair arrested today," John informed me two days later, "for insidious and dishonorable efforts to bring my authority into contempt with the government."
All I could do was repeat the appalling word. "Arrested?"
John's firm nod was confirmation.
I had no feeling left for the Blairs. They had proved themselves less than friends—and Frank had proved himself a scoundrel. But for John to arrest a congressman stepped beyond some boundary I had not yet defined in my mind.
"They say," John continued in a deliberate and slow fashion, "that it is your doing." Guiltily, he looked away from me.
"My doing?" Amazement had replaced my vague sense of anxiety. How could I have had Frank Blair arrested?
"They say that you are hungry for revenge, because they are my enemies and you are sworn to protect me." He emphasized the word "protect" in a way that sent me a message of caution.
"I did not know you needed protection," I said guardedly, feeling like the loser in a fencing match.
"You are always my strongest support, Jessie, and I am grateful. But I would not want the word to get abroad that I need your protection."
"Nor would I," I murmured, keeping the rest of my tumultuous thoughts to myself.
Frank Blair was released the next day.
Meanwhile, with a vigor that delighted me, the northern press hailed John as a hero, calling his proclamation the most imp
ortant document of the war, his courage unquestionable, his leadership abilities the highest in the Union army. President Lincoln was strangely silent, his few messages to John tactfully worded and equivocal in nature. He neither defended nor condemned—he vacillated.
"He cannot dismiss me," John said, "because I have such a strong following."
He reminded me of a young boy walking across a frozen pond on thin ice and hoping that it would not break with his next step.
In October, John said again those words he had pronounced before General Lyons's death: "We need a victory, Jessie." The previous month the western-department forces had suffered a disastrous defeat near Kansas City—men and supplies seized in numbers that astounded. Now, in spite of the Blairs' ardent campaign and Lincoln's indecision, John took to the field himself, moving southward with 40,000 troops. "I won't just drive the rebels from Missouri," he told me as he left. "I plan to go straight on all the way to New Orleans. The Mississippi River shall be ours!"
My mind flashed back to all those earlier leave-takings, when he'd set off on long expeditions and I'd not known if I'd ever see him again. "You will come safely home to me?" I asked.
His manner softened from the stern pose of leadership. "I'll certainly try, Jessie, but you know, if I have to, I am ready to die for the Union... and for abolition."
I hugged him fiercely. I believed in those causes every bit as much as he did, but I wasn't ready to lose him to them.
Back at headquarters I settled into a routine that would, I hoped, numb my nervous heart. Lily was my helper and sustainer, as I dealt with John's desperate requests for more arms, more transport, more supplies. In odd moments, when my attention wasn't demanded by a thousand details of running John's command, I worried about Lily. She favored me rather than John, but at nineteen her figure resembled mine in middle age—square, even a little stocky. Her hair was a dark brown, like mine, but she tended to draw it back severely, and I didn't see a smile gracing her face too often. She had no beaux courting her and, indeed, had shown no interest in the young officers who surrounded her daily.
"Lily," I said, "if I were your age, I'd be smiling at the young lieutenant who brings dispatches from your father, and maybe trying to talk to him about the war or the weather... or whatever." A vision of John as I'd first seen him flashed through my mind with an intensity that was almost physical.
"But you are not my age," she said practically, "and I am not interested in him."
"Is there...." I hesitated. "Is there anyone in whom you are interested?" I could tell that she felt no physical symptoms of attraction to a man, and that bothered me. I wanted for her the happiness I knew with John.
"No, Mother, there's not. I'm perfectly content to help you with Father's affairs and to care for Charley and Frank."
It was not the time to point out to her that none of those things were lifelong callings. In time neither her father nor her brothers would need her, and what would she do then? But I had other things on my mind, pressing things, and the problem of Lily was pushed to the back, where it lingered in my subconscious.
"Mother," Lily said one day, "they say in the city that you can run the department as well as Father and that you like taking a man's role." There was a question in her eyes that went beyond her words.
"Lily," I said, going to wrap my arms about her, "don't believe everything you hear. When a man is as bold and courageous as your father, men are bound to be jealous and to start all manner of rumors."
"And when," she said, "your mother is a bold and courageous woman...."
I looked quickly at her to see the intent behind her words, but I found her smiling as though in pride, and again I hugged her.
John had named his encampment Camp Lily, and this pleased her greatly. I could tell only by the smile on her face, for she never said anything.
From Camp Lily, John wrote that his men's battle cry was "New Orleans and home by Christmas!" and that he felt extremely optimistic about the campaign, eager for battle. He planned to chase the Confederate army south until the Confederate leaders turned to fight. "We have twice the men," he wrote, "and all the ammunition and rifle power an army could want." Major Zagonyi and his Garibaldians, only 150 of them, scored major victories against the rebels, clearing the way for the advancement of John's troops. Hearing such word in St. Louis, I waited breathlessly for news of John's great victory.
"He has great ability and a foolproof military plan," I wrote to Starr King, "but it is frustrating to me to see him so hampered by a lack of supplies, his abilities held in check by a lack of administrative support." As always, I could be honest in my correspondence with Starr.
Then in early November the bits and pieces of news turned sour—John had been replaced by General Hunter, his troops had mutinied, Hunter had retreated. I kept vigil through the long nights, afraid to sleep for fear I'd miss the next rumor or—worse, yet—John's arrival.
He arrived late the night of November 8, the most dejected I had ever seen him. Plied with coffee and brandy, he spun out a tale that it taxed my mind to believe.
"The night of the second of November," he began, "I got word a messenger had arrived. We were ready to attack the next morning. There had been some word that General Hunter would arrive to supersede me, but then we'd heard nothing for days, and the men were impatient to be about it. So I told them that evening that if he had not arrived by midnight, I would lead them in the charge.
"Jessie, you've never heard such a reaction. Men cheered, throwing their hats in the air, and the various regimental bands began to play. It was the grandest celebration I've ever seen." He shook his head, as though trying to clear his brain, and I reached for his hand, only to have him withdraw it angrily and begin to march about the room.
"Toward midnight I received word that a messenger had arrived. The man was brought to me—a nervous man, who suddenly ripped the lining from his coat and took from it the message he brought from Lincoln. It was...." His voice fell, as though words were difficult for him. "It was my dismissal."
I could not speak. The injustice of it, the affront to his honor, the sheer wrongness of such an order stilled my tongue and numbed my brain.
"Hunter arrived about an hour later to take command. He had, I suppose, been deliberately dallying behind the messenger, as though the thing were a staged performance. I did what any officer should—shared my plans and strategies with him. But he would have none of it. Said Lincoln thought it useless to pursue the rebels all the way south."
"The men?" I managed to ask.
"They were near rebellion. They threw down their guns, and the officers said they would serve no one but me. I begged for calmness, and they listened. But, Jessie, all Hunter did was lead them in retreat."
"Retreat? They outnumbered the enemy and...."
"I know," John said sadly. "It must have been the strangest sight in the world. They went from the sublime to the ridiculous, 40,000 men retreating from half that number, running as for dear life. I hear the rebels captured some men and wagons at the rear. Lincoln has paid his price."
"Yes," I said sadly, "he has." I knew enough of John's strategies to believe that he would have won a glorious victory, one that would have compensated for the Union losses at Bull Run. He could have cut the Confederacy in half and opened the Mississippi to Union shipping clear to its mouth in the Gulf. The possibilities that were lost were enormous, and I wondered that the President had not seen them.
"You told Lyon to retreat, and he wouldn't. Now Lincoln orders you to retreat... and loses."
"Because he ordered it from half a country away," John said. "He knew nothing of the particular situation. It was a blind judgment."
"John," I said, "you have done a work so noble for your country that I don't know how to tell you. That the country... and the President... did not recognize it is folly so great that it will go down in history as a major blunder. But you must always know that you were outstanding."
I rose to meet him, and he hel
d me in his arms. After a minute I was aware that his shoulders were shaking, and John—the unconquerable explorer and fearless general—was sobbing. His tears dampened the neck of my dress.
* * *
The next day word had spread abroad that John had been dismissed and was back at our headquarters. By midmorning the streets were crowded with people chanting his name, shouting hurrahs for him, and calling for a speech. At our arrival months before, I had wanted a celebration, but the streets were empty; now they were full of northern sympathizers who had before been afraid to make themselves known in this southern city.
"Who are they?" John asked incredulously.
"Unionists," I said. "Many Germans who have always supported you. Others who believe your proclamation was the only fair thing for the North." And then I dared a prediction. "There will be a great outcry from northerners who feel that an injustice has been done them. You watch and see."
John greeted the crowds below by waving from the balcony on the second floor, but he did not attempt to speak. I stood at his side, waving as strongly and proudly as he. It was one of our finest moments, and I never gave a thought to the propriety of a woman appearing with her husband—or following him to war.
Within days we received a copy of a poem that John Greenleaf Whittier, the New Englander, had written in John's honor. "Listen," I said. "It begins thus: 'Thy error, Frémont, simply was to act /The brave man's part without the statesman's tact.' "
Chapter 17
My hair turned gray in St. Louis. Overnight, as they say. When John left the city to chase the rebels out of Missouri and all the way to New Orleans, my hair was dark brown, chestnut, gleaming and alive. It was, as I grew older and thicker about the middle, the one physical feature of which I could still be proud. But then when John, dismissed from his command, had been home but two days, I glanced in the mirror one morning before rushing to his study to work and was astounded to see great streaks of gray coursing through the brown. And the brown... it was no longer vital and alive, but somehow a dead color. How, I wondered, could that have happened? How could hair, already grown from the head, change colors? I was afraid to ask John if he noted the change in my appearance and said nothing, keeping this latest disappointment my small secret.