Mrs. Grant and Madame Jule (22 page)

Julia excused herself and went to Ulys’s office, where she found him at his desk, handing a dispatch to the telegrapher. “Come in, Mrs. Grant,” he greeted her, rising, and the two officers seated in front of his desk quickly stood as well. Julia presented her petition more humbly than she would have were they alone, and as she soon had the pass in hand, she thanked Ulys and hurried upstairs to retrieve a thick roll of Confederate bills a young officer had captured at Vicksburg and had given her as a souvenir. The denominations amounted to about four thousand Confederate dollars, but what that represented in real, United States currency, Julia was unsure.

She found Mrs. Simmons gazing out the sitting room window, wringing her hands. “My dear Mrs. Simmons,” she said, handing her the pass, “you may join your husband’s people in Georgia as soon as you wish. And this”—she placed the roll of Confederate notes in the widow’s hands—“I hope this may be of some use to you.”

Mrs. Simmons’s eyes widened. “I couldn’t possibly accept so much.”

“I insist. They’re of no use to me. Think of the scandal if I tried to spend them!”

It was not until later, when she considered how furtively Mrs. Simmons had tucked the precious pass and the roll of notes into her reticule, that Julia’s conscience troubled her. The Confederate bills were nothing to her but scraps of paper, but had she done something terribly wrong in giving them to Mrs. Simmons to carry into the South?

•   •   •

The minister and his wife sheltered Jule in their home adjoining the church for several days, until the immediate danger of pursuit subsided. Restless in confinement, Jule assisted her benefactors as much as they allowed, cleaning and helping in the kitchen. She wanted not to take her ease after a lifetime of forced labor but to be useful, to distract herself with activity, to occupy her hands while her mind churned ceaselessly over what to do next.

“We’ll search for advertisements in the papers and keep watch for handbills,” the minister told her. “When we’re sure your owners haven’t sent slave catchers after you, I can find you work and a place to live in the city.”

“I thank you,” said Jule, “but I can’t stay in Cincinnati. My mistress’s husband grew up not far from here and his people live across the river. I might cross paths with them someday, or if not them, someone else who’ll recognize me.”

The minister turned to his wife, and after a long, wordless look that Jule knew conveyed the substance of a much longer conversation, the minister’s wife nodded.

“In that case, we’ll have to find some means to carry you from the city,” the minister said, turning back to Jule. “Have you trained for any occupation?”

“I’ve worked as a ladies’ maid nearly all my life,” she replied. “I dress hair, and I make my own salves and ointments.”

“You’re a nurse, then?” the minister’s wife prompted hopefully. “There’s a great deal of work for nurses these days.”

“No, ma’am. I don’t make medicines, not really. Just treatments for rashes and chapped skin and sore muscles and the like. And pomades for hair.” The minister’s wife looked so disappointed that Jule felt compelled to explain, “I’ve cared for sick folks, of course, and tended babies and children. I’m just no proper nurse. Just like I can cook, but I’m not
a
cook.”

“I’m sure you’ve done the work of an entire household of servants,” the minister’s wife said.

“I can read,” Jule hastily added, “and write some.”

They brightened considerably. “Excellent, excellent,” the minister said, clasping his hands together and exchanging a smile with his wife.

Later that evening, the minister’s wife came to her bedchamber to report that they had made inquiries among their friends and fellow longtime abolitionists, and they were optimistic that they would soon find a way to deliver her to a safe haven in the North. “In the meantime,” she said, dropping her gaze abashedly and peeling off her gloves, “I wonder if you can help me.”

She extended her hands to Jule, who took them in her own, carefully keeping her expression impassive. The backs of the woman’s slender, copper-hued hands were covered in patches of dull, leathery skin interspersed with blisters, some oozing fluid, others crusted over.

“I’m afraid even a minister’s wife is not immune to the sin of vanity,” Mrs. Shaw said, managing a faint, apologetic laugh. “I should be content to wear the gloves and endure the blemishes.”

“It’s not vanity to want to ease your pain,” said Jule, studying the woman’s skin. “I bet this hurts close to unbearable. Itches, too.”

The minister’s wife pressed her lips together and nodded.

“How long they been this way?” Jule asked.

“For months, ever since the weather turned colder. The condition returns every autumn and fades with the spring.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Jule released the woman’s hands. “I can mix you up a salve if you can find me what I need,” she said. “Try to keep your hands out of very hot water, and stop drinking cow’s milk and eating eggs for a while. You should eat fish and bone broth every day if you can.”

Mrs. Shaw nodded as Jule listed the ingredients she would need—beeswax, yarrow, rosemary, comfrey leaves, and the rest. Mrs. Shaw went out to the market first thing the next morning, and by late afternoon, Jule had prepared the healing salve. Within a few days, the minister’s wife happily confided that she was already feeling much relief, and a day after that, Reverend Shaw announced that he had devised a plan for Jule’s escape.

“Two parties of trusted friends are traveling to the East soon, and you may have your choice between them as escorts,” he said. “The first is a Quaker family traveling to Philadelphia, and you would travel in the guise as nurse to their three children. If you prefer to settle in Washington City, you could travel as ladies’ maid to a longtime friend of ours, a widow and a native of this city who writes for an abolitionist paper in the capital.”

From the depths of childhood memory, Jule recalled something Julia had said to reassure her that the murderer Major William Harney would never return to Missouri. “Papa says Washington City is about as far from St. Louis as you can go,” she had told Jule. Time had proven Julia wrong in one respect—Harney had returned to Jefferson Barracks, and as a general—but perhaps she was right about the distance separating the two cities.

“I’ll go to Washington,” she told the minister, marveling at the unexpected luxury of choice.

•   •   •

On the eve of Ulys’s return to his headquarters in Nashville, Colonel John O’Fallon hosted a grand banquet in his honor at the Lindell House. General Rosecrans, General John M. Schofield, and numerous other high-ranking officers were present, as well as Papa. Although ladies were not invited, an exception was made for Julia, Mrs. O’Fallon, and cousin Louisa, who observed the event from an adjoining parlor, nibbling on delicacies and indulging in gossip about the men. When Ulys entered the room, the band played “Hail to the Chief” and the gentlemen broke into thunderous applause.

“I seem to recall, only a few years before, a certain obscure army veteran selling firewood to make ends meet,” Mrs. O’Fallon mused aloud, smiling. “If memory serves, many prominent men of this city dismissed that farmer or pitied him. How interesting that a great many of those men are here tonight, cheering him on and speaking of him as a presidential candidate.”

As the banquet drew to a close, it was announced that a vast, ardent crowd had assembled on the streets outside, and they refused to disperse until they had a word from their hero. Resignedly, Ulys stepped out onto the balcony, and when the doors were opened the cries of “Grant! Grant! Speech!” sent a thrill of shock and wonder through Julia. Poor Ulys, she thought. He cannot avoid it now.

“Gentlemen,” he began, barely audible in the ladies’ parlor over the cheers of the crowd. “Making speeches is not my business. I never did it in my life, and never will. I thank you, however, for your attendance here.”

As the people burst into deafening cheers, he bowed and withdrew from the window.

“The people will not be satisfied with that,” declared Mrs. O’Fallon with a laugh. “They’ll surely demand another, longer speech before the night is through.”

Julia foresaw a great many speeches in Ulys’s future, and needed no prophetic dreams to tell her so.

“Before we part, my dear, I have a confession to make,” Ulys said the next morning as he prepared to return to military headquarters. “Some well-meaning but badly misguided gentlemen are talking about me as a candidate for president.”

“Yes, I’ve overheard the talk.”

“I’ve told them I’m not interested, but that hasn’t discouraged them.” Ulys shook his head, frowning. “I’m exactly where I need to be, and so is Mr. Lincoln. It would be a disaster to replace the commander in chief before the war is won.”

“You would make a fine commander in chief yourself.”

Ulys smiled fondly and caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Thank you, Julia, but my only political aspiration is to be the mayor of Galena—and that’s only so I might order a new sidewalk built from our home to the train station.”

Julia laughed. “Oh, Ulys.” Then her mirth faded. “I have a secret to confess too.”

The story spilled from her—how she had been moved by Mrs. Simmons’s plight, how she had given the widow nearly four thousand dollars in Confederate notes. “I meant no harm, but I’m afraid that by giving her that roll of bills, I might have aided the rebel cause and betrayed my country, and worse yet, you.”

She steeled herself for his recriminations, but to her astonishment, Ulys smiled. “You needn’t worry, my dear little wife. In fact, you’ve done the Union a service.”

“I have?”

“Of course. The more of those Confederate bills in circulation, the better it will be for us.” He kissed her on the cheek. “However, the next time you want to dispense funds to rebels, or to rebels’ widows, ask me first.”

“I will,” she solemnly replied. “But, darling . . . I suppose I have a second confession to make.”

His eyebrows rose. “You’ve kept two secrets from me?”

She wrung her hands. “I spoke to Dr. Pope about surgery to correct my dreadful cross-eye, but he says it’s too late.”

“What put such a thought in your head in the first place?”

“You’re getting to be such a great man, and I’m such a plain little wife. The more famous you become, the more—” She broke off, embarrassed. “The more people will be watching you closely—not only you, but me too. I thought that if my eyes were as other ladies’ are, my plainness might not be such an embarrassment.”

“Listen to me,” he said, drawing her near. “Didn’t I first see you and fall in love with you with those same eyes?”

“Well . . .” She hesitated. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“You know I did, and I liked them then and I like them now exactly as they are.” He tapped her twice on the bridge of her nose. “You are not to interfere with them. I might not like you half so well with any other eyes.”

Unburdened of their secrets, they parted with quiet laughter, promises to write, and words of enduring love.

From the day of her darling husband’s departure, Julia waited for letters from Nashville, anxious most of all for the one that would summon her to his side. In the meantime, she sent regular reports that Fred grew stronger every day, until he was almost as vigorous as he had ever been, though still much thinner than she liked. Ulys wrote to tell her of General Sherman’s maneuvers in Mississippi, of President Lincoln’s order for a draft of half a million men to serve for three years or the duration of the war, and of new regulations he had issued for the cotton trade.

But as February passed, the most shocking news Julia received came not from her husband, but from her eldest brother, John, an ardent rebel whose loyalties had compelled him to relocate to the South.

There, while visiting friends in Louisiana, he had been arrested on suspicion of Union sympathies and had been thrown into a Confederate prison in South Carolina.

F
EBRUARY
–M
ARCH
1864

H
is captors would only have to talk with him for five minutes to know that he’s Confederate to the core,” Papa protested when they received John’s letter from prison in Columbia, a few shaky lines scrawled on a scrap of paper, barely enough to let them know he was alive and unharmed.

“They must assume that General Grant’s brother-in-law is for the Union,” said Henry. “How could they not?”

Papa glowered at Julia. “Since your husband got John into this wretched mess, he can very well get him out of it.”

“John got himself into this mess,” countered Julia. “He chose to repudiate his country, and if the rebels doubt his sincerity, that isn’t Ulys’s fault. John must accept the consequences of his poor choices.” But the thought of her eldest brother suffering in prison, guilty of nothing more than expressing his opinion and being disbelieved, left her sickened and afraid. “Nevertheless, I’ll ask Ulys to do all he can.”

But there was little Ulys could do. John was a civilian, not a soldier, so he was not eligible for the usual prisoner exchanges, nor did Ulys seem willing to take extraordinary measures to secure his release. “I sympathize with John in his sufferings, and with your family and all who love him,” Ulys wrote in response to her pleas. “But Julia, do you really think it would be just to give a rebel prisoner of war in exchange for your brother, when so many brave, deserving soldiers who fought for the Union languish in rebel prisons?”

Julia knew he was right, but when she told her father that Ulys would not petition the Confederacy on John’s behalf, he became incensed. They exchanged heated words—Papa furious, Julia tearful and defensive—and when they parted, Julia knew that the rift between her husband and father, so recently closed, had been torn open anew.

Even as she grieved for John and Papa and the rest of her family, her thoughts turned to Jule. For almost a year, Julia had believed she understood Jule’s anguish, for she, too, had endured many lengthy separations from her husband throughout his many years of military service. Yet even amid the hazards of war, Ulys’s absences never filled her with the searing pain and apprehension as John’s did now, knowing that he was being held against his will far from all he loved, suffering untold deprivations, beyond reach, beyond hope.

Julia longed to tell her erstwhile servant that she finally understood, to commiserate with someone who understood her in turn. But Jule, the trusted confidante whom she had always relied upon to see clearly for her, was gone.

•   •   •

Jule discovered that Reverend Shaw and his wife had taken up a collection for her train fare only after they presented her with a ticket and informed her she would be leaving the following morning. “I can pay the fare myself,” she said, surprised. “I have money.”

“Keep it, dear,” Mrs. Shaw urged. “You’ll need it in Washington City.”

Jule thanked them and asked them to thank their parishioners on her behalf, but although she was grateful, she was also disappointed. Depending upon charity made her feel less like a free woman than a parcel to be transported.

And yet she had no misgivings about their second gift—a heavy tapestry satchel with leather handles for the journey, and clothes to fill it. “It’s not new, but it’s in fine condition,” Mrs. Shaw said, somewhat apologetically.

“It’s better that it’s not new,” said Jule, admiring the bag. “Mrs. McGuigan’s satchel is likely well used from all the traveling she does, and wouldn’t it look suspicious if the servant had better luggage than her employer?”

She had met Adelaide McGuigan only once, for a brief interview over tea to discuss their upcoming travels, and she had taken an instant liking to her. She was a large woman, easily head and shoulders taller than Jule, sturdily built rather than softly plump. Her curly, gray-streaked red hair was gathered in a silken net of dark blue, its evident weight suggesting great thickness and length. Examining it surreptitiously, Jule hoped that in her role as Mrs. McGuigan’s maid, she would be allowed to brush out her hair, trim the ends neat, and apply oil to correct the dryness.

Jule had expected Mrs. McGuigan to be clad in black like herself, albeit in finer fabrics, but Mr. McGuigan had died six years before, and the widow had put off mourning attire long ago. “He was founder, publisher, and editor in chief of an abolitionist newspaper,” Mrs. McGuigan had explained. “He had championed the cause of an enslaved man suing his owner in the Cincinnati courts for kidnapping and false imprisonment. He argued that his client ought to be free because he had been born in Ohio while his owner was traveling through the state with his mother. The case was quite controversial, and when the judge seemed to favor the plaintiff, supporters of the defendant rioted. They forced their way into my husband’s office, knocked him unconscious, broke up his printing press with axes, and set it on fire.” She fixed her gaze steadily upon Jule. “As the blaze spread, they carried my husband up to the third story and threw him out the window.”

“Oh, my Lord,” breathed Jule.

Mrs. McGuigan had managed a tight, grim smile. “It could have been worse. They could have left him there to burn alive. I count my blessings where I find them.”

Her husband had been martyred for the great cause of abolition, Mrs. McGuigan had said proudly, and in his memory she would continue to serve it. That was why she had taken up her pen after his death, why she traveled the country making passionate speeches on behalf of the enslaved to any audience who would listen, and why she was happy to escort Jule to a new life in freedom.

The clothes Mrs. Shaw had packed in the satchel for Jule were also secondhand, but well made and finer than any of those she carried in her calico bundle. Jule sorted through them, speechless, admiring the soft muslin undergarments, the wool dresses of dark blue and tan, calico skirts and blouses for spring, several pairs of newly knit stockings, and new leather boots, scuffed and yet finer than anything Jule had ever worn.

“I don’t have the words to tell you how grateful I am,” said Jule, overwhelmed. “Thank you.”

“You’re truly welcome.” Gently Mrs. Shaw added, “The dresses aren’t black, as you see. From your dyed garments, I assume that you’ve been in mourning. I don’t mean any disrespect for your lost loved one, but perhaps you should put aside your mourning clothes before you depart.”

Her lost loved one—yes, Gabriel was exactly that. Lost, but not dead, she hoped, and therefore perhaps not lost to her forever.

She had mourned him less than a year, but it was time to leave her widow’s weeds behind.

Mrs. McGuigan called for her early the next morning, and soon they were boarding a train for the east. Mrs. McGuigan had paid for a private car, but when they were obliged to mingle with the other passengers, Jule fell easily into the role she knew so well, ladies’ maid. On the second morning, Jule offered to dress Mrs. McGuigan’s hair, and although the widow professed herself indifferent to fashion, she cheerfully accepted. “Gracious me,” she exclaimed afterward, studying her reflection in the looking glass with utter astonishment. “You have rare talent.”

“It’s just a little oil and fragrance.”

“And the skill to mix and apply them.” Mrs. McGuigan regarded her appraisingly. “You may be able to make your living from this.”

Jule smiled her thanks, but her heart gave a crashing thump. She had not envisioned her future beyond disembarking the train in Washington City. Reverend Shaw had written to an acquaintance there who had promised to help her find work and lodgings, but shortly thereafter, Jule would be on her own.

It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

At long last they reached Washington City, where Mrs. McGuigan delivered her safely to Reverend Shaw’s friend, a minister at the Union Bethel Church. “I’ll call on you before I return to Cincinnati,” Mrs. McGuigan promised, embracing her.

By the time Jule saw Mrs. McGuigan again a few days later, she had found work at a barbershop serving prosperous colored gentlemen. She only swept floors, but it was a start, and her employer indulgently permitted her to recommend her services to their customers’ wives and daughters. Perhaps soon she would have customers of her own.

Her wages were enough to pay for a comfortable room in a boardinghouse with a little left over for her savings. Her neighborhood was humbler than those where the shop’s customers resided, but it was safe and quiet, almost opulent compared to the makeshift shacks and fetid camps where thousands of contraband had settled in Washington after fleeing slavery in the South. Jule was ever mindful that she was vastly more fortunate in comparison, and in her prayers she never forgot to ask for God’s blessing for her brethren—and for Lieutenant Aaron Friedman, who had told her where to find the trailhead that led to her new life.

•   •   •

In the last week of February, Dr. Pope examined Fred and concluded that although he was steadily improving, he should not return to school until the fall term. While Julia worried that his education would suffer, Fred accepted the doctor’s advice with restrained jubilation, which soared when Ulys wrote to suggest that Fred could spend a few weeks with him in Nashville instead. Julia was skeptical of the notion that Fred was too weak for school but hearty enough to travel to military headquarters, but Ulys and Fred insisted so relentlessly that she soon acquiesced.

Julia, Fred, and Jesse set out for Nashville soon thereafter, where Ulys arranged for them to board in a comfortable private home across the street from his offices. They had barely settled into their quarters when Ulys told Julia that a measure to reinstate the rank of lieutenant general had recently passed both houses of Congress and that President Lincoln had nominated Ulys for the first appointment to that rank since General Washington. While nothing was certain, General Halleck had telegraphed to report that he believed Ulys would surely be confirmed immediately.

“Oh, Ulys, I’m so very proud of you,” Julia cried, embracing him, but even with her poor vision she could perceive his considerable lack of enthusiasm. “Aren’t you pleased?”

“I don’t want the promotion if it will take me from the field before the war is won.” Ulys grimaced. “And I have one other regret.”

“Regret?” exclaimed Julia, astonished. What could there be to regret about better pay, higher rank, and greater recognition? He would outrank even General Halleck.

“Yes, regret, for if I’m named lieutenant general, I’ll surely be stationed in Washington.” He shook his head, resigned. “I had hoped when the war was over that I might have my choice of posts, and I’d prefer the Pacific Coast.”

Two days later, General Halleck sent another telegram: “The Secty of War directs that you will report in person to the War Dept as early as practicable considering the condition of your command.”

“A summons to Washington,” said Julia, thrilled. “Surely this means your appointment has been confirmed, or it will be soon.”

“Yes,” said Ulys shortly. “It surely does.”

As reluctant as Ulys was to leave the field, he was mindful of the high honor the president meant to show him, and Julia never heard him complain about the summons except in the privacy of their bedchamber.

Julia’s eyes were troubling her too much to travel, but she saw Ulys and Fred off with proud kisses and orders to remember for her every detail about the Executive Mansion, the president, and his wife. She loved them beyond measure—her son, almost fourteen and nearly a man, tall and still thin from illness but broadening in the shoulders, and her husband, her darling Ulys, who grew more handsome as he aged, hardier and healthier than he had ever been, his blue eyes and bearded, weathered face strikingly handsome and virile. It was little wonder the ladies admired him so, when even after fifteen years of marriage, Julia still felt her heartbeat quicken and her knees tremble whenever he held her gaze or touched her hand.

Soon thereafter, glorious accounts of Ulys’s enthusiastic reception in Washington began to appear in the Nashville papers. When the ache in her eyes and head subsided enough to allow her to read, Julia found Jesse a rapt audience as she read the reports aloud, but it was not until Ulys and his companions returned to Nashville on March 14 that she learned the rest of the story. Fred and Rawlins told her everything, beginning with Ulys’s inconspicuous arrival at the Willard Hotel—carrying his own bag, his faded uniform hidden beneath his old brown duster coat. When he signed the register as U. S. Grant and son of Galena, Illinois, the clerk, failing to recognize him, disdainfully assigned them to a small, inconvenient room on a high floor.

“They expect all generals to carry themselves like McClellan,” Rawlins said, a little scathingly, and Julia had to smile. She knew that the fashionable, impeccably attired General McClellan suffered in comparison to Ulys in the eyes of the public and, apparently, the president. Whereas General McClellan had drilled and dithered and complained that he was perpetually, hopelessly outnumbered, Ulys planned shrewdly and advanced persistently and unrelentingly. McClellan had invited mockery when the Washington press reported that he had needed six wagons, each pulled by a team of four horses, to carry his attire and personal belongings to the front, while reporters marveled that Ulys often took the field carrying only a spare shirt, a hairbrush, and a toothbrush. McClellan enjoyed lavish champagne and oyster banquets at his gracious mansion on H Street in Washington City; Ulys preferred pork and beans cooked over a campfire. McClellan had graduated second in his class at West Point—but that was the only measure by which he exceeded her Ulys.

The clerk at the Willard soon learned his mistake. Ulys and Fred had gone upstairs to change for supper, and soon after they were seated in the dining room, another guest recognized Ulys, pointed at him in astonishment, and exclaimed, “There sits General Grant!” A shout of welcome rang out and swelled into a chorus of cheers, and the crowd cried out his name and pounded the tables with their fists until Ulys rose and bowed.