Mrs. Lincoln's Rival (19 page)

“They want to bring us to,” Major Anderson said, his gaze narrowing upon the vessel.

“What will we do?” Kate asked. “Will they board us?”

“They’ll never catch us,” the major said firmly. “Look. Even now the captain is crowding on steam.”

Even as he spoke, the
William Whilden
surged forward rapidly, and as the distance between the ships stretched almost imperceptibly, other crew members dragged into position the steamer’s single cannon, a small howitzer, and prepared to defend their ship.

“Major Anderson,” the captain called in between shouting orders to his crew, “I suggest you see your charges safely below.”

With a brisk nod, the major took Nettie by the hand and offered Kate his arm. “Ladies, come with me now, if you would.”

“Please let us stay and watch,” Nettie begged, although her voice trembled and her face was white with fear. Kate wanted just as desperately to remain on the deck, knowing she would be even more frightened if she could not see what was happening, but Major Anderson was resolute and she knew it would be futile and embarrassing to protest. Just before they disappeared down the stairs, she threw one last look over her shoulder and saw that the pursuing ship had run up a black flag. No mercy would be asked, and none given.

Below, the minutes seemed to stretch on interminably, but just when Kate thought she couldn’t bear another second, they heard footsteps descending and Major Anderson appeared. “Our pursuers changed course and moved out of sight,” he told them. “The captain says you may return to the deck if you wish.”

Nettie bounded to her feet and darted up the stairs, but Kate hung back to ask the major, quietly, “Do you know who they were?”

“Confederates, we assume,” he replied. “Or privateers in their employ, or who share their sympathies. We’re not far from Annapolis, and the captain doubts they’ll dare approach us again.”

Toward nightfall, when they landed at Annapolis, Colonel Benjamin F. Butler met Major Anderson on the dock, stocky and imposing in his blue uniform, entirely bald atop but with dark-brown hair grown long on the sides and back. His stern expression, bags beneath his eyes, and downturned mustache gave him the intimidating look of a belligerent bulldog, which Kate supposed was useful in his line of work.

Their train for Washington City would not leave for hours, so Colonel Butler invited Major Anderson and the Chase sisters to supper at a hotel near the Maryland State House. When Kate inquired about his regiments’ journey from their home state to Annapolis, the colonel said that when they had arrived in Philadelphia, they discovered that the bridges were down and the Susquehanna ferry had been sunk. Marching his men on to Perryville, he commandeered the ferryboat
Maryland
and headed down the Chesapeake Bay, bypassing Baltimore as Major Anderson and the Chase sisters had done.

When Colonel Butler and the Massachusetts Eighth Regiment had arrived in Annapolis, they had found the rail lines torn up, the locomotives disassembled, the parts scattered, and all means of transportation to the capital destroyed. The enterprising men of the Massachusetts Eighth immediately set themselves to the work of laying the tracks, rebuilding the engines, and running the trains themselves. “When I saw the state of things,” the colonel said, “I called out, ‘Is there anyone here who can put together this locomotive?’ One of our privates replied, ‘Well, now, I guess so, Colonel, seeing as she was built in our shop.’”

“How lucky,” Nettie exclaimed.

The regiment had been assigned to guard the road from Annapolis to Washington, and Kate felt greatly relieved to know that one important route into the city would be protected by such resourceful, industrious soldiers. It was thanks to their swift repair work that at long last Kate, Nettie, Major Anderson, and the company of soldiers boarded the train in Annapolis for the last stretch of their journey home.

On May 5, in the chill dawn of the early spring morning, Kate and Nettie arrived in Washington fatigued but happy, and very grateful to their kind escort. At the station, Major Anderson saw them and their luggage to a carriage, and then he left them to find both rest and breakfast before reporting to President Lincoln and Secretary Cameron.

As the carriage rumbled off to the Rugby House, Kate and Nettie peered out the windows at the transformed city, marveling at the changes that had been wrought in the weeks they had been away. Washington had become one vast military camp, the streets filled with soldiers in bright new uniforms, troops quartered in nearly every available space. The park across the street from their hotel, Franklin Square, had been converted into an encampment for the Twelfth New York Regiment, filled with rows upon rows of precisely arranged white tents, with the commanding officer’s headquarters in the middle of the square, with an open space for marching and drilling.

But no sight was more welcome than Father’s handsome face, his open smile, his expression of relief and joy, when he met their carriage outside the Rugby House and embraced them, welcoming them home at last.

In the days that followed, Kate and Nettie would often look out from the windows of their suite upon Franklin Square, especially when the Twelfth New York performed their afternoon dress parade, which provided a daily source of delight and entertainment. When the sisters next visited the Capitol, they discovered that it had taken on the appearance of a large military fortress, with soldiers bivouacked in the great rotunda and sentinels constantly on patrol. Even the vaults under the terrace had been converted into an enormous bakery, producing thousands upon thousands of loaves of bread every day for the vast multitude of hungry soldiers who had descended upon Washington City.

The immediate threat of invasion from the Confederates had passed, thanks to the swift response of the loyal Union states who had sent state militia and newly mustered troops to the capital to provide for its defense.

One of the first of these regiments to reach Washington, Kate learned on the day she returned home, was the First Rhode Island Detached Militia and Battery, under the command of Colonel Ambrose E. Burnside and led by the dashing Boy Governor, William Sprague.

M
AY
1861

T
he gallant Governor Sprague, who struck a daring, romantic figure astride a magnificent white stallion as he galloped about the city on regimental business, was the talk of Washington society. Father, Vina, Mrs. Douglas, and other acquaintances referred to his grand arrival so often that soon Kate was able to piece together the story without asking too many questions and raising suspicions that her interest in William Sprague was anything more than the ordinary curiosity of someone who had been out of town during a time of great excitement.

While Kate was stranded in New York, Governor Sprague had responded to President Lincoln’s call for troops by immediately writing to him to offer the services of Rhode Island’s light artillery as well as a regiment of infantry, a force of one thousand well disciplined, fully equipped, and completely trained men. It was said that he had given the state of Rhode Island one hundred thousand dollars of his own personal fortune to outfit the troops, and had himself purchased the ninety-six excellent horses that accompanied the artillery battery. One newspaper, noting that he was the only governor to lead his troops in defense of the capital, reported that he paid nearly all the personal expenses of his men, kept them supplied with clothing, and every month added ten dollars from his own purse to each man’s pay.

With General Burnside in command, the governor had led the First Rhode Island Regiment to the beleaguered capital so swiftly that they were the second to arrive, beaten by the Thirteenth Massachusetts by one day. At that time the citizens of Washington City had feared that invasion from the South was inevitable and imminent, and so Governor Sprague received a hero’s welcome from a thankful, relieved populace. The ladies of the capital admired his debonair, dashing appearance, from his bold, decisive manner to the jaunty yellow plume he wore in his black felt hat. The men were impressed that a gentleman of his wealth and position bunked with his soldiers, making his bed beside theirs on the hard pine floorboards of the Patent Office, which had been assigned to them as quarters, and drinking water out of a tin cup like any humble private.

On May 1, the day that Kate had written to Major Anderson asking him to escort her and Nettie home, Governor Sprague’s regiment had been sworn in before the president and a crowd of thousands of admiring spectators. After a dress parade from the regiment’s headquarters at the Patent Office to the White House, fifteen hundred men had raised their hands as they took the oath, their voices resounding as one, and then had presented arms and marched before the president, who reviewed them from the portico with Father, the rest of the cabinet, General Scott, and a few other dignitaries. After the troops had passed, Governor Sprague and his principal officers had been introduced to President Lincoln and the cabinet. “The president was so impressed with Governor Sprague’s regiment that he conferred with General Scott about summoning another regiment of Rhode Island men,” Father told Kate over a game of chess on her second night back from New York. “General Scott said he was so much pleased with what he had seen that he gave his hearty approval, as did Secretary Cameron.”

“Will this be another Millionaires’ Regiment?” Kate asked lightly, citing the nickname the Rhode Island troops had acquired not only because Governor Sprague had outfitted them so richly, but because he was not the only man of wealth among the ranks.

“That remains to be seen,” Father replied, allowing a smile. “I can say that since bringing his regiment to defend the capital, he has earned the admiration of the men, and apparently also won the adoration of the ladies. You would know more about that than I, Kate.”

Kate froze in the midst of capturing her father’s rook with her knight, but immediately recovered when she realized that her father was only referring to her greater awareness of the sentiments of the female population rather than any adoration of her own. “He is very well spoken of,” she said indifferently. “He has certainly accomplished a great deal for a man of thirty-one. However, I think we should be grateful to all of our gallant protectors, not merely those who make a splendid appearance thanks to the wealth of a generous benefactor. Colonel Butler and the men of the Massachusetts Eighth, for example, impressed me very much at Annapolis, but few people here seem aware of their deeds, which were accomplished by sweat and toil.”

Father looked surprised. “I thought you liked Governor Sprague. You seemed to enjoy dancing with him at the inauguration, and last year in Cleveland.”

“I do like him,” said Kate. “I simply wish that people appreciated actual deeds more than appearances. What has the First Rhode Island done other than arrive and parade, while the men of the Massachusetts Eighth have been rebuilding railroads and guarding the route from Annapolis to Washington?”

“You make a fair point,” Father admitted, “but I hope you’ll be more circumspect when you see Governor Sprague again.”

“You should know me well enough not to worry about that. I shall be perfectly charming.” She frowned as her father captured her bishop, which she had hoped to use to take his queen in two moves. “I don’t expect to see him, in any case. He sounds terribly busy.”

“Of course you’ll see him,” Father said. “He called on me the day before you returned and seemed very pleased to learn that you would soon be home from New York. It was my impression that he intended to call on you.”

“Oh.” Kate shrugged, laid her fingertips gracefully upon one pawn, pulled her hand away, and moved the one beside it instead. “I knew nothing of that.”

“Do you not wish him to call? I could contrive a polite and credible excuse—”

“No, Father, that isn’t necessary,” Kate quickly interjected. “I don’t object to seeing the governor again.”

But Governor Sprague did not seem to be in any hurry to renew their acquaintance, and although she looked for him at the many parties and receptions organized to welcome the newly arrived officers to Washington, she always seemed to miss him by a few minutes or a few hours. She tried not to care. She had other matters on her mind—Arkansas seceded on May 6, Father seemed perpetually embattled with Mr. Seward for preeminence in the cabinet—and many other delightful, handsome gentlemen came to call, some with gifts of flowers, all with admiration in their eyes and respectful praise on their lips. It was from a few of these callers that Kate learned that not everyone was impressed by the warrior governor of Rhode Island.

“He is a small, insignificant youth who bought his place,” John Hay complained when he and Kate went out riding one afternoon along the Potomac, enjoying the spring breezes and sunshine in a scenic spot away from the fetid smells of the city.

John sounded so uncharacteristically petulant that Kate laughed, astonished, and her horse tossed its head as if in agreement. “What do you mean?” she inquired lightly. “How can it be cause for complaint that he spends his own fortune to equip his regiment? Is that not better than taking money from the public coffers?”

“I’m not referring to his position at the head of his regiment, but at the head of his state,” John replied. “Were you aware that he spent more than one hundred thousand dollars on his campaign for governor?”

The astronomical figure startled her, but she said, “I was not aware of that, but although that does seem excessive, I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with funding one’s own campaign.”

“It’s not how much he spent but how he spent it. After the election, it came out that Mr. Sprague’s partisans had escorted eligible voters to the polls, then paid them fifty dollars each after they cast their votes.”

“That’s a terrible accusation,” Kate remarked. “Is there any proof?”

John nodded emphatically. “Witnesses swore to the fact afterward. It proved to be a sound investment on Sprague’s part, for he won the election by little more than fifteen hundred votes. And thus the legend of the Boy Governor was born.”

Kate had to laugh at his comically ironic tone. “This wild tale sounds like jealous hearsay from Governor Sprague’s political rivals to me.”

“You may be right,” John admitted, and then, a bit sourly, added, “The Tycoon seems to like him quite a lot.”

Kate hid a smile, for John had unwittingly divulged another source of his discontent. “The Tycoon” was one of John’s secret nicknames for the president, always spoken with sincere affection but never in his presence. “Shouldn’t Mr. Lincoln’s approval speak well of Governor Sprague?”

“Not always. Mr. Lincoln did marry the Hellcat, after all.”

“Mr. Hay,” Kate scolded, though she was secretly delighted. John heartily disliked Mrs. Lincoln, whom he described as demanding, irrational, and tempestuous. He and the president’s private secretary, John Nicolay, referred to her as “the Enemy” between themselves, and John Hay often amused Kate with comical descriptions of how the two secretaries conspired to thwart Mrs. Lincoln’s efforts to control her husband’s schedule, dispense patronage, or influence his decisions. “You should not speak of a lady so.”

“My apologies,” he said, grinning, for he knew there was no love lost between the two women. But then his wicked mirth faded, and a worried frown took its place. “Mr. Lincoln might admire the Boy Governor’s precocious achievements—”

“You speak of him as if he were a schoolboy who earned high marks for the term,” Kate protested, laughing. “I happen to know he is eight years older than you, and his accomplishments are quite extraordinary.”

“It is all surface,” John insisted. “He has no education, he bought his governorship, and he plays at soldiering without any real experience in the field of war.”

“Mr. Lincoln has no formal education,” Kate countered.

“Fair enough, but he’s endeavored all his life to make up for that with rigorous independent study. I wouldn’t have admitted this a few weeks ago, but I’ve come to realize that Abraham Lincoln is one of the most well-read, wise, and learned men I’ve ever had the privilege to meet. I’m quite sure that Governor Sprague has never undertaken any program of intellectual self-improvement to compare to the Tycoon’s.”

With a sigh, Kate gazed heavenward, smiling and shaking her head. “Next you will say he did not earn his own millions.”

John uttered a short, sharp laugh. “He earned them, all right, on the backs of the poor, suffering wretches who pick his cotton.”

Kate was so shocked she brought her horse to an abrupt halt. “What on earth could you mean?” she asked, a frosty edge to her voice. It was one thing to tease and banter, quite another to speak slander. “Governor Sprague is from Rhode Island. He owns no slaves.”

John brought his horse up short and turned to face her. “He doesn’t own them per se, but he buys cotton for his mills from planters who do.” His brow furrowed. “Miss Chase, where did you think he acquired the cotton for his mills? Who did you think picked it? Sprague has profited from slave labor as surely as any Southern plantation owner. Given your fervent and admirable abolitionism, I would think that you of all people would find that highly objectionable.”

“I do,” said Kate quietly, after a long moment. “I confess I never thought of it in quite that way. I should have, and I’m grateful to you for making me aware of it.”

“Don’t mention it,” said John gruffly, looking aggrieved with himself, surely wishing he had never started in on Governor Sprague.

“Perhaps next time we should limit our gossip to the Hellcat,” Kate suggested, smiling.

John agreed that they probably should, and his expression told Kate more plainly than words that he was pleased and relieved to know that there would be a next time.

• • •

On a night in the second week of May, Kate was roused from her sleep by the pealing of alarm bells.

“Katie?” Nettie murmured drowsily beside her. “What is it?”

Instantly alert, Kate slipped from beneath the quilt and darted to the window. She heard the alarm more clearly there, but in the darkness up and down Fourteenth Street, she saw nothing amiss, and yet the bells rang on.

“What’s wrong?” Nettie asked, sitting up in bed. “Are the rebels attacking?”

Kate felt a momentary stir of trepidation, but thinking quickly, she said, “I don’t think so. I don’t hear any artillery fire. Do you?”

They both fell silent and strained their ears to listen, but beneath the frantic tocsin they heard no low booms of cannon, no sharp crackle of rifle fire.

Nettie drew her knees up to her chest, anxious. “Should we wake Father just in case?”

Before Kate could reply, she heard floorboards creak in the other room as Father climbed out of bed. “Kate, what do you see at Franklin Square?”

Even with his spectacles on, in the dark of night at that distance, Father would not have been able to perceive more than the broadest of movements in the encampment across the street. “All seems quiet and still except for the sentries on patrol,” she called. “Most of the campfires have burned down to embers, so it’s difficult to say for certain.”

“Very good. If the city were under attack”—a deep yawn interrupted him—“those soldiers would have been rousted from their tents and ordered to take up arms. If it were a government emergency, a messenger would have been dispatched to bring me the news. Go back to sleep, girls. Whatever has happened, we’ll find out in the morning.”

With a sigh, Nettie promptly fell back against the pillow and was soon asleep. Kate lingered by the window a while longer, studying the encampment of the New York Twelfth and listening for the ominous boom of cannon. She thought she smelled smoke, but the odor was faint, and probably her imagination. Eventually she slipped back beneath the quilt, put her arm around her sister, and drifted back to sleep.

In the morning, Will returned with the morning papers and the startling news that the Willard Hotel would have burned down the night before, if not for the swift and valiant actions of Colonel Elmer Ellsworth’s Fire Zouaves.

With a gasp, Kate snatched up one of the papers—Father’s least favorite, which he would not get to right away—and read that at three o’clock that morning, the building adjacent to the Willard, home to Mr. Owen’s tailor shop and Mr. Field’s restaurant, had been utterly engulfed by fire. As the flames had spread, hotel guests had fled the Willard, clumsily dragging their trunks and satchels down the stairs while the Willard brothers scrambled to rescue cash, ledgers, and essential documents from their offices. When the roaring blaze attacked the rear of the hotel, utter ruin seemed inexorable, but suddenly hundreds of Colonel Ellsworth’s Zouaves had raced to the scene from their barracks in the Capitol. Having discovered the city’s firehouses locked, they had broken in, taken the engines, and arrived at the Willard before the local firemen. In the absence of ladders, they had climbed upon one another’s shoulders and scaled lightning rods to reach the higher floors, spraying water down from the smoking eaves. For two hours they had battled the conflagration, eventually reducing it to smoldering embers and saving the hotel.