Sarah's Ground (9781439115855) (10 page)

I was about to go after him when somebody yelled that there was a carriage coming up the road to the house.

I ran up to my room to change. I put on my best print dress and was fixing my hair. I knew I must greet them. Upton was likely walking in the road near the slave quarters, sulking. He often walks there when he wants to be alone.

Then I heard voices and looked out my window. It was Upton and several men, walking about. He was showing them the gardens, and they were responding in
French
.

I ran downstairs and outside to see Upton escorting them to the tomb. Good, that would give me more time. I must make lemonade. I went into the pantry to mix it, then needed the punch bowl from the sideboard in the dining room, so I went to fetch it.

There I ran into two of them.

I was startled, but I curtsied. So they bowed. Then I said something, in French, about the heat. Their eyes went wide that I could speak the language, and I invited them into the kitchen for a glass of lemonade.

There we sat at the table. They were two aides, and there were seven in their party—the prince, who they called Plon-Plon, five aides, and Count Mercier.

I showed these two aides Lafayette's room. I let them handle the key to the Bastille. All the while I was watching Upton, hoping the news of John Augustine Washington wouldn't put a damper on him.

If it did, they didn't notice. Upton was the perfect Southern gentleman. He told them all about the house, its history, its problems now. I interpreted for the others, but the prince spoke English.

They nodded and smiled. Then they told us their problems.

They'd had no breakfast. Their driver didn't know the roads. Their horses were not up to the job, and they were anxious to have them cared for and find others. They needed to get back to Washington, but if they couldn't change horses, they needed a village hotel on the way.

At once I ordered a late breakfast be cooked up. Jane went right to it. I served them claret. I supervised in the kitchen while Upton entertained them in the dining room.

We cooked everything we had.

The prince was a quiet man of pleasant features and impeccable manners. He told us he was the son of Jérôme Bonaparte, that his wife was an Italian princess who was now visiting in New York, and that he was not welcome in the court of his cousin Napoléon III. “So I travel,” he said.

He described, briefly, his travels. “We dined with Mr. Lincoln and saw the Federal encampments around Washington. Then,” the prince said, “with a flag of truce, we went from McClellan's headquarters at Arlington to Jeb Stuart at the Fairfax courthouse. Ah, but when we came out of the woods and we saw this house,” he said. “To think of this house, where the famous general once lived, standing so upright in the middle of all the chaos, like a white dream.”

A white dream. I had never thought of it that way.

“The spirit of war is so near, yet this little corner of the world is so quiet, so safe,” he went on, “sacred ground. It is a fact, in itself, in the history of the world, what this house stands for,” he said. “And it is my fervent hope that you may keep it this way.”

They stayed until four o'clock. I told them of Washington and the Marquis de Lafayette walking the grounds here, how the Frenchman had been like a son to Washington during the war. I told them of the visit of the duke of Orléans in 1797, before he became King Louis Philippe.

They were introduced to the servants. They tipped them for their service.

“We are descended from George Washington's slaves,” Priscilla told them.

Before they left, I got a small box, filled it with soil and small rare plants from near the tomb, and placed it in their carriage. And when the prince and his party
left, they were going back to Washington pulled by two Mount Vernon mules.

I thought that mayhap the visit would restore Upton's spirits. But he was once again morose when they left. He walked out alone, smoking a cheroot. I saw the tip of it glowing in the dark off a ways from the piazza.

Oh, I hope he does not decide to join the army! I hope we do not lose him. Must I worry about that now too?

My sister, Fanny, has written again. To me. She says she has heard from Mary McMakin that she is not here with me but still in Philadelphia. She asks what woman is here with me. And if there is none, she will come, war or no war.

“I hope you are not there alone with Mr. Herbert,” she writes. “Do you realize what a disgrace that will be on the family if you are found out?”

Disgrace, indeed. Her accusation brought tears to my eyes, especially when I looked at Upton. Why, he is the dearest, kindest, most honorable man I have ever met.

He would die before he disgraced me. And I mustn't let him know what she has written, or he might join the army just to save my reputation.

I found myself hoping that if Fanny took it upon herself to come here, she would get snared in one of the Union army blockades. Or captured by Confederate cavalryman Jeb Stuart.

I have written again to Mary asking her, for heaven's sake, to come. I will get her a special pass from Mr. Lincoln if necessary. “If you don't come, you sentence me to my sister, Fanny,” I have written.

Today I had Dandridge harness the mules to the wagon, and I drove the fifteen miles to Washington like a farm woman, with a load of cabbages to sell. Upton didn't want me to go. “I'm safer than you would be,” I told him. “And I need to get a pass from McClellan for Mary McMakin.”

What a day! First I disposed of all the cabbages at the Washington market. Then I purchased some salt and pepper and much-needed coffee and sugar for us. On to McClellan's headquarters at Arlington, where I had to run several gauntlets of pickets to get through.

I had never been in Lee's home before and was looking forward to it. But I soon found that McClellan was at his other office in town and that his assistant could write me a pass if I wanted. I very much wanted. But it was done quickly, outside the house in a tent. So I never got inside. Well, at least I got the pass for Mary, and new ones for myself and the servants, too, since General Scott's don't do the job anymore. Arlington seems very bare, not only of decorations, but of essentials to such a magnificent home.

I have to admit that I lingered too long, looking longingly at the outside of the house, taking my time driving
the buggy on the grounds. Darkness near overtook me on the ride home. I had to watch for the many roadblocks set up against Confederate raiders and show my own pass at each one.

Some of the Union pickets were nice. Others were snide, and all I could hope was that some ambitious one wouldn't shoot me first and ask questions later.

When I got home, I expected Upton to scold, but he couldn't. We had a visitor, a man named Winslow Homer, who is an artist working for
Harper's
magazine and is on his way to join the Federal army and do some sketches.

Upton was entertaining him in the parlor. They were drinking claret, and Mr. Homer was talking about the importance of clean outlines on his engravings. Upton introduced me. I asked him if he was staying the night. He said Upton had prepared a room for him. So I went directly to bed.

Mr. Homer stayed two days and he worked the whole time. He set up his easel and drew a pencil sketch of the mansion from the side. On leaving he gave it to me.

“Upton tells me you need money here,” he said.

I would not have spoken to him of money. Only a man could do that. But I said, “Yes, we do. We have a budget. The roof needs repairing, and that will cost at least a hundred dollars.”

“You may have copies of the sketch made and sell them, if it helps,” he suggested.

I looked up at him. He was famous. He had spent a year in France. He was a regular contributor to
Harper's Weekly
. He was a tall, rangy man with the saddest eyes I had ever seen.

“Thank you,” I said. “Mayhap we will do that.”

“This place is in good hands,” he said. “If I had time, I'd do more. There are dramatic contrasts of light and dark. Perhaps I'll stop back again sometime.”

“Please do, Mr. Homer.”

He left the next morning before I was downstairs.
Yes, Mr. Homer,
I thought,
there are dramatic contrasts of light and dark. Did you see it as I do? The light is so clean, with such dramatic, certain lines. And the dark is so troubled and fearful
.

I am keeping the sketch in my room. Someday we may need to copy and sell it.

W
e have a pass for Dandridge, the one I got when I went to Arlington. It says: “Pass Dandridge Smith (colored) with wagon, mules, and provisions, for the Mount Vernon Association in and out of Washington and Alexandria when necessary.”

It is signed by General McClellan's assistant.

The first time Dandridge used it, it worked. The second time, it didn't. I had to go to Alexandria myself to get the mail. And I was stopped several times and didn't think I'd get through.

“Better you get passes from the general himself,” one officer told me.

I prepared to go to McClellan's office again to find out what had happened. Of course Upton didn't want me going alone and made me take Priscilla.

For two miles outside Alexandria we ran into nothing but soldiers and camps, heard nothing but shouts and martial music. I used to love the sound of a fife and a drum. I hate it now. And oh, how I hate military uniforms!

I didn't know which of his offices McClellan would be at, so we first went to Arlington. Of course we had to pass
through about six picket points and have our passes checked. Every second lieutenant, it seemed, must have his say. Then to McClellan's office. This time, it turned out, he was there. So I was ushered inside Lees great house.

They made Priscilla wait outside. Inside they made me wait an hour. I sat there in the hall staring at the blank spots on the walls, which were cleaner than the rest of the paper because family portraits had once hung there. I wondered whose portraits they were, if any of them had been of Nelly Custis, Washington's granddaughter, and where they had ended up.

Aides were walking around with cups of coffee. Do you think they would offer me one? The smell drove me wild.

I had heard about McClellan. He was no more than thirty-five, yet was in charge of 300,000 men. He considered himself the nation's savior. He was guarded wherever he went by an escort of dragoons. He called his horse Dan Webster. Every layabout and vagabond had disappeared from Washington's streets since his arrival or had rushed across Rock Creek to avoid arrest.

He brought order of one kind and chaos of another. The chaos of military occupation. Wine, brandy, and bourbon seized at the Long Bridge ended up in the flour sacks and pickle barrels of the military. Because of his influence Congress created the Metropolitan Police.

Finally I was admitted into the pompous man's office.

“Ah, Miss Tracy,” he said. And he stood there looking more like Napoléon than Prince Napoléon had. His uniform was plain blue without shoulder straps. He sported a red mustache. On his head he wore a French kepi. “How can I help you today?”

“The passes your assistant gave my servants and myself have no value,” I said. “I need new ones.”

“My assistant never wrote passes for your servants,” he said.

Did I dare show him the pass for Dandridge? I did. “It looks like a forgery,” he said.

“Your aide wrote it.”

“Well, he had no right to. I would not write such passes.”

“Then, how are we supposed to get about?”

“I cannot write passes for every servant and young girl in Fairfax County,” he said. “The result would be chaos. Servants cannot be trusted.”

I wanted to say that we had chaos now. I was so angry. I could not prove his aide had written my passes, because I'd not been in the tent at the time. But I was sure he had. “Will you write me one, then? I need to get to Alexandria. And Washington. For food. We're running out of necessities at home, and the workmen must be fed.”

“Young girls such as yourself should stay off the roads,” he said. And he would not be moved.

I did not want to beg. But I begged. For Mount Vernon.
Until finally he held up his hand and said, “Then, perhaps a higher authority.”

“What authority?” I asked.

“President Lincoln,” he said. And he smiled, sneakily and with satisfaction.

“Now, if you will excuse me, I must get to my headquarters. My wife and baby girl are joining me today.”

I blinked. “I thought this was your headquarters.”

“I spend twelve to fourteen hours a day on horseback, Miss Tracy. My headquarters is on H Street near Lafayette Park.”

I left in a rage. He darned well could have written me another pass. The little toad!

“You'd best get another pass, miss,” one of his aides who'd overheard the conversation told me on the way out. “Federal pickets are moving within three miles of Mount Vernon.”