Mrs. Grant and Madame Jule (25 page)

Badeau made no reply, but his expression, somehow both sheepish and resolute, told Julia he had no intention of surrendering the point to the lovely Kate Chase Sprague.

And yet he lost the battle nonetheless. Soon after the reception, Julia sent an amusing account of the conflict to Ulys, and in his reply, he wrote that he had no time to waste on such trivial matters as who called on whom. One April afternoon, while out riding during one of his brief visits to Washington, he abruptly put an end to the contrived conflict by calling on Secretary Chase at his home, a gracious three-story Greek Revival brick mansion at the corner of Sixth and E Streets. He was warmly welcomed by Mr. Chase, Mrs. Sprague, and her husband, the junior senator from Rhode Island. “You pay too much attention to such trifles,” Ulys scolded Badeau afterward. Julia felt sorry for the chastened aide, who had not meant any harm and had acted only out of loyalty and respect for his general.

The call was immediately returned, and an invitation for the Grants to dine at the Chase residence soon followed. Other invitations came in flurries whenever the newspapers reported that Ulys was expected in the capital. Julia delighted in the attention and praise showered upon her husband during his visits, but Ulys was, as usual, uncomfortable with the fuss and eager to return to the field. But as general in chief, he was obliged to make the rounds of Washington society, where he was cheered and serenaded and toasted with such fervor that Julia was not surprised to hear him once again whispered about as a potential presidential candidate. On one occasion, Julia was astonished to discover Ulys stiffly maneuvering about a ballroom with none other than the Belle of Washington in his arms.

“She makes him look much less awkward than he usually does in such circumstances,” Rawlins observed, but Julia was not amused.

“Your dislike of dancing and music is well-known,” Julia pointed out as Ulys escorted her back to the Willard afterward. “You never dance. You won’t even dance with me. Mrs. Sprague must have enchanted you.”

“She’s a very persuasive young woman,” Ulys admitted, a faint, faraway smile appearing on his lips. Frowning, Julia abandoned the unpleasant line of questioning before he inadvertently admitted something hurtful to her.

She was, to her misgivings, less wary elsewhere. The next morning, as Ulys’s staff prepared for his return to headquarters, she overheard Rawlins and Badeau discussing her Washington debut.

“I think the ladies of Washington are inclined to patronize Mrs. Grant,” said Badeau indignantly. “They’re wrong to do so. It’s my opinion that she managed her first visit to the White House with tact and grace, and ever since she has asserted herself with great delicacy and skill.”

Julia crept quietly closer, warming to the praise.

“But of course,” Rawlins replied. “She’ll find herself liked by all, for she’s too plain to induce envy, too devoted to her family to provoke gossip, and insufficiently sharp-tongued to incite controversy. I think we can safely trust that unlike Mrs. Lincoln, she’ll do nothing to embarrass her husband—at least, not intentionally.”

Badeau barked a laugh, surprised. “Do you mean she might do so unintentionally?”

“She
is
her father’s daughter, and she shares his views on slavery.”

“You don’t mean to accuse Mrs. Grant of supporting the Confederacy!”

“Certainly not. She’s as true a Unionist as you or I—and yet she is tragically, irredeemably ignorant on the subject of slavery. Did you know she forced her slave to accompany her whenever she came to headquarters?”

“Yes,” Badeau admitted. “I’ve seen her. A tiny, pretty little maid, as I recall.”

“What a spectacle she made, the wife of the Union general in chief striding about the encampments with her poor little slave in tow, blithely unaware of how others regarded her. Everyone is fond of Mrs. Grant, but they cannot understand her unwitting, appalling cruelty in this single regard. My wife has often been obliged to defend her to the other officers’ wives.”

“I think we can trust Mrs. Grant not to make any speeches advocating slavery,” Badeau said. “And her little maid has run away, so we need not fear a reprise of those pathetic scenes.”

Julia had heard enough—more than enough. Cheeks burning, heart heavy, she silently withdrew.

She said nothing of what she had overheard to Ulys. Not long thereafter, on a bright, balmy day in the middle of April, Ulys escorted her and Jesse down the James River to Fortress Monroe, where they observed the gallant troops in review, toured the ruins of Hampton, and made a quick excursion out to Norfolk. Julia watched with dubious interest as a colored regiment marched and drilled, and when Ulys queried her, she was obliged to admit that they performed as well as any white troops she had seen.

A few days later, Ulys returned to Washington to meet with President Lincoln, and afterward, when he joined Julia and Jesse at the Willard, he seemed distracted. She knew many cares weighed upon him, but by evening, worry compelled her to ask if something else was amiss.

“No,” he said, “but I think you and Jesse should return to St. Louis.”

Julia’s heart thumped. “Why? Why now?”

He puffed his cigar silently for a long moment. “Spring has come,” he finally said. “The roads are passable again. Lee will be on the move, and I intend to confront him.”

A
PRIL
–J
UNE
1864

C
olonel Hillyer kindly agreed to accompany Julia and Jesse to his home in New York so that Julia could visit his wife, Anna, while he arranged a suitable escort to St. Louis. Though Julia was sorry to leave Ulys, she was happy to be reunited with her friend, and she found New York City at least as exciting as Washington.

Soon after her arrival, Colonel Hillyer escorted Julia and Anna to the great Sanitary Fair at Palace Garden, a glorious exhibition of art and curiosities with a marketplace of delicacies and fine goods. The proceeds from admissions and sales would be presented to the United States Sanitary Commission, an organization that served soldiers and veterans. Ladies throughout the North had formed local chapters of the commission, and their tireless fund-raising efforts had already provided millions of dollars’ worth of money and goods to support the Union cause.

Someone must have alerted the authorities to their presence, for they had not been long at the fair when a thin, mustachioed man in a dark civilian suit descended upon them, fluttering with nervousness as he bowed and introduced himself as Mr. David Elder, chief clerk of the executive committee. “We are truly honored by your visit, Mrs. Grant,” he said with great dignity.

“That’s very kind of you,” said Julia. “I know General Grant would have accompanied me if he could have. He would want to thank you personally for all the Sanitary Commission has done for his army.”

Drawing himself up proudly, Mr. Elder invited Julia and her companions to accompany him to the Curiosity Shop, where all manner of interesting artifacts from foreign lands and the American frontier were displayed. Julia recognized the lady in charge of the room as the wife of General Irvin McDowell, but before Julia could greet her, Mr. Elder introduced them with great formality.

“I know Mrs. Grant well,” said Mrs. McDowell, holding out her hands to Julia. “We’re old friends from our Ohio days. My goodness, how long has it been?”

“Far too long,” Julia declared, taking her hands and smiling. “You’ve been keeping yourself very busy in the meantime, I see.”

“I try to do my part,” Mrs. McDowell replied. By then a small crowd had gathered around, murmuring to one another and staring at Julia and her companions. As their numbers grew, Julia felt increasingly uncomfortable beneath their scrutiny, and she was relieved when Mr. Elder suggested they visit the parlor set aside for the ladies’ executive committee. There, in relative quiet and privacy, she was introduced to two other generals’ wives, Mrs. General George McClellan, a reserved, sad-faced woman, and the cordial and vivacious Mrs. General John Frémont.

After a respite, Julia approached Mr. Elder. “I’d like to see more of the fair, but I wish to remain incognito as much as possible,” she explained in an undertone, well aware of the reporters taking notes just outside the doorway. “Would you be so kind as to arrange for an escort, some person well acquainted with the exhibits who could point out to me all the objects of interest?”

“I gladly volunteer,” said Mr. Elder, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. “I hope you’ll grant me the privilege of showing you the fair.”

Julia and Anna exchanged a look, hiding smiles, for it seemed unlikely that Mr. Elder would be refused. “Thank you, indeed,” said Julia. “I’m sure we’ll enjoy the sights much better with your guidance.”

Mr. Elder offered Julia his arm and led them downstairs to the hall of arms and trophies. “This interesting department is supervised by a number of highly accomplished ladies,” he said proudly, “for the most part, wives of major and brigadier generals.” Two of these ladies were present at the moment—Miss Anderson, the daughter of the hero of Fort Sumter, and Mrs. General Egbert Viele.

After observing many dazzling artifacts, Julia and her companions came to a magnificent sword with a jeweled hilt and a shining silver blade engraved with Moorish designs. When Julia asked about the lists and collection boxes arrayed around it, Mr. Elder explained that as a fund-raiser, the sword would be presented to the people’s favorite general as determined by popular vote. “Would you like to cast a ballot, Mrs. Grant?” he asked.

“I certainly would.” Julia stepped forward, paid her fee of one dollar, took pencil in hand, and put down her name for General McClellan, who already commanded an impressive lead of more than fourteen hundred votes. Gasps and murmurs and even a smattering of applause went up from the crowd, who kept a respectful distance as Julia smiled pleasantly, bowed, and continued on her way.

Anna linked her arm with Julia’s and whispered, “Well done!”

Before Julia could reply, Colonel Hillyer exclaimed, “What? Voting for McClellan? How can this be? Don’t you want General Grant to win the sword?”

“Of course I do, Colonel,” said Julia, as Anna discreetly gestured for her husband to lower his voice, “but it wouldn’t be very good form for me to vote for my husband, would it?”

“Why not, if you believe him to be the most deserving? I know he’s your favorite general, so why shouldn’t you vote accordingly?”

“I’ve never voted except at school when we chose our May Queen,” Julia explained. “The etiquette on such occasions was always that rival queens should vote for each other. Any other course would have been regarded as selfish and dishonorable. I simply voted upon that precedent.”

“And a gracious act it was,” said Anna stoutly, patting her arm.

Colonel Hillyer shook his head. “Choosing according to sentiment, not reason—this is evidence enough why women must not be permitted to vote.”

“I voted my conscience,” Julia protested. “Is that not right? And is it not wrong to use a single woman’s ballot to conclude whether all other women should be permitted to vote?”

“You must admit, your method isn’t very scientific,” Anna told her husband. “Are you certain
you’re
not relying too much on sentiment rather than reason?”

Julia and Anna exchanged merry glances as Colonel Hillyer frowned in consternation and urged them on to the next display.

The next morning after breakfast, while Julia and Anna sat on the rear terrace watching their children play in the Hillyers’ garden, the Irish servant girl hurried over from within the house clutching a small bundle of newspapers. “I think you’ll be wanting to read these, Mrs. Grant,” she said, handing her the papers.

Julia squinted at the paper on top of the pile,
The New York Herald.
The sunshine was bright enough, and the typeface large and bold enough, for her to make out the headlines of the first story on the front page. “‘The Fair,’” she read aloud. “‘Mrs. General Grant Pays a Visit and Votes for McClellan.’ Oh, dear.”

“Read on,” Anna urged.

Julia took a deep breath. “‘Great Excitement About the Sword. Little Mac 1,620 Ahead Last Night.’ Evidently he gained some ground after we left. ‘Arrangements for Counting the Votes To-day.’”

After the headlines, the print became so small that Julia had to pass the papers to Anna, who read aloud
The
Herald
’s startlingly detailed account of their visit to the Sanitary Fair—with most of the column devoted to Julia’s vote for General McClellan. “‘The incident created quite a sensation,’” Anna read, “‘and was talked of the rest of the day by the visitors.’”

“Oh, dear,” Julia said again, with even greater dismay. Ulys would not like her to create a sensation, and she did not like to be talked about.

The other papers offered similar reports, all of them full of praise for Julia’s vote. “Her action was a graceful evidence of queenly magnanimity,” declared
The
New York World.
“It has never been our fortune to record a more graceful and magnanimous act. It marks the lady as the possessor of the loveliest attributes of her sex—the highest qualities of heart and soul. It was more than queenly—it was womanly.”

Julia sat back in her chair. “I don’t know whether to be pleased or mortified.”

Anna laughed. “Then be pleased.”

“What if Ulys disapproves?”

“Why should he?”

“I didn’t vote for him.”

“And in so doing, you earned the admiration of the press and the public. How could your husband be anything but proud of you?”

Julia suspected that Ulys would not like that she had voted at all, even for a good cause.

The voting closed at eight o’clock that evening, at which time the votes were tallied by the special committee in public view. To Julia’s relief and no small delight, a messenger came to the Hillyer residence shortly after ten o’clock to announce that Ulys had overcome McClellan’s substantial lead to win the magnificent sword.

But three days later—Ulys’s forty-second birthday—she received a letter he had written on the evening the votes were counted. “I see by the papers you are having a good time in New York,” he began. “Hope you are enjoying it. A telegraph dispatch announces that a sword has been voted to me. I am rather sorry for it, or rather regret that my name has been mixed up in such a contest. I could not help it however and therefore have nothing to blame myself for in the matter.”

The letter continued for two more paragraphs, reports about the weather at headquarters and requests that she give his regards to their children and the Hillyers. He had written not a single word more about the sword—not one line of praise for her deft handling of the affair, not a single remark to say how pleased he was that she had charmed the public. Instead he wanted nothing to do with the one event that had brought her warm accolades from a particularly difficult audience to impress—the press and people of New York City.

Bitterly sorry, Julia folded the page and hid it away in her luggage, for a peculiar superstition prevented her from discarding his letters. She wished he had never sent it. She thought she had managed a fraught situation with grace and that he would reward her with praise, so his unexpected annoyance and disapproval were difficult to bear. The acclaim of the press, the praise of the entire world, meant nothing if Ulys was disappointed in her—but inseparable from her regret was indignation, for her every instinct told her that his oblique reprimand was unwarranted and unfair.

•   •   •

Jule felt a wave of immeasurable relief when she learned that Julia had left Washington for New York, and yet she read with great satisfaction of Julia’s triumph at the Sanitary Fair. “That’s Julia through and through,” she remarked, smiling over a newspaper report about the magnificent sword and Julia’s vote for General McClellan—but then she caught herself. How, she wondered, could she feel any lingering fondness for the woman who had kept her unjustly enslaved for most of her life?

Then she recalled the fleeting, innocent sweetness of their ginger-and-cream years and wondered how she could not.

Even so, knowing that she need not fear a chance encounter on the bustling streets of Washington brought Jule an expansive sense of release, of air enough to breathe. Despite the tensions and deprivations of war, Washington City seemed abundant with possibilities, vibrant with hope despite the squalor of the contraband camps and the horrors of the military hospitals.

There was too an air of expectation, of a long season of waiting coming to an end, for the spring sunshine had dried the muddy roads of Virginia enough to make them passable. Armies north and south would soon be on the move—and for the first time, General Grant would confront General Lee.

Jule had seen innumerable military reviews during her time with Julia in the field, but she turned out just the same on April 26 to join the crowds lining Fourteenth Street to watch General Ambrose Burnside’s thirty thousand troops march out to reinforce the Army of the Potomac. In the early months of the war, her landlady told her, every parade of soldiers through the capital had drawn cheering crowds, but in recent years the sight of passing regiments had become so commonplace that they attracted little notice. But even Jule, a newcomer to the city, understood that this would be no ordinary procession, for the column would include seven regiments of United States Colored Troops.

It seemed that every person of color in Washington had come to watch the soldiers set out to confront General Lee. A thrill of joy and anticipation flooded Jule as she waited on the sidewalk among the crowd, listening for the familiar strains of fife and drums that heralded the column’s approach. She joined in the applause as down New York Avenue they came, brave and dignified, turning south onto Fourteenth Street past the cheering throng.

“There they are,” a joyful voice rang out. Jule glanced over her shoulder and spied a colored woman gesturing to the passing column, a toddler in her arms and two older girls by her side. “Do you see how well they march?” she asked her children, beaming. “Do you see? Those are our soldiers, our brave colored soldiers.”

As the awestruck girls assured their mother that they did indeed see, Jule gazed at the dark, proud, eager faces of the colored soldiers and felt her throat constricting with emotion. Their splendid uniforms, the rousing music, the bold and steady marching, the cheering crowd—in that glorious moment it seemed to Jule that there was no limit to what the people of her race could accomplish in the years to come, unhindered by slavery, when peace once again reigned over a reunited nation. She had never witnessed a more glorious sight, and she prayed that the men would acquit themselves bravely. Everyone would be watching them, she knew, following their movements in the press, scrutinizing and debating their performance on the battlefield. Many white folks north and south alike would viciously pray for them to fail, but Jule would pray even more fervently for them to triumph. The United States Colored Troops carried the hopes and faith of every colored person with them, for in victory they would surely disprove every false, slanderous word ever spoken about the cowardice and weakness of their menfolk.

The marching regiments approached the Willard Hotel, where President Lincoln and General Burnside stood on the eastern portico to review the parade. When the colored troops passed the president, they waved their hats in the air and cheered for the Great Emancipator, the man who had set their people free. Mr. Lincoln stood with his hat off, bowing and nodding, and Jule’s heart swelled with gratitude and pride to see that he showed them the same respect and courtesy he had shown every white soldier.