Mrs. Grant and Madame Jule (12 page)

Julia shared her children’s patriotic desire to contribute to the cause, and, somewhat shyly, she decided to attend a meeting of one of the many ladies’ organizations founded to support the Union cause. “May I assist you?” she timidly asked one of the busy leaders at a strawberry festival, a fund-raiser to purchase tents and rifles. Wordlessly the woman gave her a quart bowl of strawberries to hull, and when she finished, another, chattier woman asked her to help drape black crepe above a portrait of the late Stephen A. Douglas, who had died only three months after Mr. Lincoln’s inauguration.

Another day, Julia offered her services at a sewing bee, but she arrived after all the piecework had been distributed. “Can you knit?” the lady in charge queried, peering at her over the tops of her spectacles.

Julia considered the muffler she had knit for Papa as a schoolgirl. “Yes, a little.”

The woman took from her basket two long, slender knitting needles and a skein of yarn. “This is enough to make a pair of socks,” she said, placing them in Julia’s hands. “Try to get them done by next week’s meeting.”

Julia felt the heat rise to her face. “I’m terribly sorry. I confess I don’t even know how to begin, and I fear the war will be over before I could possibly finish them.”

She held out the needles and yarn, and after studying her a moment, lips pursed, the woman snatched the yarn away and gave her a different skein, one attached to the sleeve of a sweater that some other, more competent lady had begun. Julia accepted the new assignment with a nod and quietly stole away, taking the sleeve home to work on it in the safety of solitude. She eventually finished it, returned everything she had borrowed to the lady in charge, and silently vowed never to attend another meeting. The sight of the other women knitting away, piles of finished socks accumulating in their baskets, shamed her. At White Haven, a lady was considered accomplished if she could mend and embroider prettily and if she could capably manage servants who knit and sewed well. In the Yankee North, a lady was expected to be able to mend, embroider, quilt, knit, and sew expertly, even if she hired a girl to do the household chores.

All the while, Ulys and Fred had been at Springfield, where Ulys’s troops had been mustered into the national service for three years as the Twenty-first Illinois Volunteer Infantry Regiment. They were in a good state of discipline, he informed Julia in a letter, as disciplined and up on the company drill as any in the army. Ulys wrote home often, and Fred wrote occasionally, but mail delivery was inconsistent, so sometimes she would receive their letters out of order, or a few days would pass with nothing in the post, followed by a delivery of a bounty of a week’s worth of news.

It was from the newspaper, though, that Julia learned that the Twenty-First Illinois had been ordered to Quincy, Illinois, a town on the Mississippi River more than one hundred miles west of Springfield, about two hundred and fifty miles south of Galena. Soon thereafter, Julia received a letter from Ulys confirming that the regiment was on the march. “Fred has little Rondy to ride and he enjoys it hugely,” Ulys reported, and Julia smiled, imagining the scene. “The Soldiers and Officers call him Colonel and he seems to be quite a favorite.”

A few days later, Ulys sent another, longer letter noting that the regiment was already preparing to leave Quincy, having been ordered to Missouri. Although Missouri had remained within the Union, small bands of Southern sympathizers had formed regiments and threatened to make trouble, which the Union army was determined to swiftly quell. “Fred started home yesterday,” Ulys had written, “and I did not telegraph you because I thought you would be in a perfect stew until he arrived.”

With a gasp, Julia checked the date of the letter—July 13, 1861. “Oh, no, Ulys,” she murmured. “What were you thinking?”

Quickly she read on in hopes of finding the answer. “He did not want to go at all and I felt loath at sending him but now that we are in the enemy’s country I thought you would be alarmed if he was with me. Fred is a good boy and behaved very manly. Last night we had an alarm which kept me out all night with one of those terrible headaches which you know I am subject to.”

Julia felt a headache of her own coming on. Quickly she sat down to pen and paper and ink and wrote a hasty reply that Ulys must not send Fred home alone, that even though he would remain within Union borders, Fred was safer with his father in Missouri than traveling alone among strangers in Illinois. “If you do not want me to be in a perfect stew as you say, do not send Fred home,” she urged. “Alexander the Great was no older when he accompanied his father Phillip of Macedon. Do keep him with you.”

She sent off the letter suspecting she was already too late, and with steadily increasing apprehension, she studied riverboat and railroad schedules, trying to determine when Fred might arrive if he had taken the steamer from Quincy to Dubuque and the train from Dubuque to Galena. But Fred did not appear the morning she expected him, nor did he come on the afternoon train, and as dusk fell she became frantic with worry. She had just decided to telegraph the railroad office in Dubuque and ask them to begin a search when the front door banged open and in trooped Fred, disheveled, exhausted, and thoroughly disgruntled.

“Where have you been?” Julia cried, flying to embrace him as he let his knapsack slump to the floor with a heavy thud. “What happened to you?”

“I missed the train in Dubuque,” he said with a mutinous scowl, “so I walked the rest of the way.”

“That’s seventeen miles!”

“That’s why I’m late.” Suddenly the soldier disappeared and a forlorn little boy stood before her. “And I didn’t get any dinner, Mamma.”

She hurried to fix him a hearty meal, and when he had eaten his fill, she sent him off to wash up and change. Then, with her anger still at full boil like a covered pot on a hot stove, steam shooting out from beneath the clattering lid, she wrote Ulys a furious, indignant letter. By morning it was evident that Fred had suffered no more than a few blisters on his long hike, so Julia wrote again to Ulys, slightly less stridently than before. She knew full well that if Ulys was on the march, he might not have received her accounts of Fred’s shame and suffering, much less found an occasion to respond to them.

At last, he did. “I have received two letters from you since our arrival,” he wrote to her from Mexico, Missouri, on the third day of August, “one in which you gave me fits for sending Fred home by himself and one of later date. Fred will make a good general someday and I think you had better pack his valise and start him on now.”

Ulys’s gentle rebuke and easy jest made her regret her hasty words, but in early August, an astonishing, wonderful announcement chased away her lingering chagrin. A Grant would indeed become a general, but Ulys was not the prophet Julia was, for he had the details wrong. Ulys and Julia both learned the good news the same way, though hundreds of miles separated them: not by a prophetic dream, nor by a thick letter from army headquarters, but from the press, which seemed to take a reckless pleasure in wantonly divulging military secrets unknown even to the men involved.

Ulys had been promoted to brigadier general.

A
UGUST
–D
ECEMBER
1861

J
esse Root Grant reveled in his son’s achievements, and soon his loud, public boasts ensured that everyone in Covington knew it. He read Ulys’s private letters aloud to any audience he could muster, and he sharply criticized other Union generals as if they were his son’s rivals. Whenever unflattering reports of Ulys appeared in the Cincinnati press, Jesse fired back sharply worded refutations, stirring up controversy that created trouble for Ulys at army headquarters.

Equally vexing to Ulys was his father’s determination to profit from his son’s high rank. Jesse encouraged acquaintances to write to Ulys and request certain staff appointments, and he tried to obtain a government saddlery contract for the Grant leather company using his son’s position as leverage.

As Ulys traveled about Missouri chasing Confederates, he bluntly rejected all such requests for patronage, especially as he assembled his personal staff. He thought it proper to select a man from the regiment as one of his aides, but the other two appointees were men he had known before the war: William Hillyer, the young Republican lawyer from Kentucky with whom Ulys had worked at cousin Henry Boggs’s real estate firm in St. Louis; and John Aaron Rawlins, their neighbor across the street in Galena, recently bereaved of his dear wife, Emily, who in August had lost her long struggle with consumption.

In early September, Ulys occupied Paducah, Kentucky, without bloodshed, giving the Union a strong foothold in the West, but his family’s proud elation was cut short by tragedy. On September 13, Simpson, who had been traveling in Minnesota on company business, died of consumption at St. Paul. Ulys’s elder brother had endured his terrible affliction for so long that his death surprised no one, and when his father and sisters traveled to Galena for the funeral, in the midst of their mourning they took comfort in knowing that he would suffer no more.

•   •   •

As soon as Ulys left Paducah and returned to his headquarters in Cairo, he urged Julia to visit him. He assured her that she would be perfectly safe—so safe, in fact, that he wanted her to bring the children along.

Her friend Katharine Felt offered to help her prepare for the journey, but on the afternoon of her departure, Julia had worked herself into such a state of nerves that she was obliged to excuse herself and go upstairs to lie down for a few moments while Katharine continued packing.

As Julia reclined upon the bed, resting her eyes, she felt a strange, prickling chill and sat up to draw the quilt over herself—and gasped to discover that she was not alone. “Ulys?” she cried, quickly recognizing his head and shoulders, sharply distinct a few rods in front of her, about as high above the ground as if he were on horseback. He regarded her so earnestly, so reproachfully, that her heart plummeted and she scrambled backward on the bed until her shoulders struck the headboard. “Ulys!”

She heard footsteps on the stairs, and suddenly the bedroom door swung open. “Julia?” Katharine asked. “Did you call?”

Julia had turned at the sound of the door opening, but she quickly tore her gaze away from Katharine and returned it to Ulys—but he was gone. “I saw— Ulysses was here. In this room, moments ago.”

“Little Buck? But I just saw him outside in the yard playing with Fred.”

“Not my son. My husband.”

“The general isn’t here.” Katharine sat down on the edge of the bed. “You must have been dreaming.”

Julia pressed a hand to her chest and willed her heart to stop racing. “It was no dream. He was several rods away, but I saw him as clearly and distinctly as I see you now.”

“Well, that’s proof it was a dream,” said Katharine soothingly, patting her hand. “You can’t see anything clearly at that distance, nor is this room large enough to contain anything several rods away.”

Confronted with irrefutable logic, Julia felt foolish. “I would have sworn it was Ulys, truly him, truly here.”

“You’re thinking of him constantly and you’re nervous about your travels. It’s only natural that you’d have a troubling dream.”

Julia conceded that Katharine was probably right, and after taking another moment to allow her shock to subside, she resumed packing the children’s clothing, filling two sturdy trunks for them and a third for herself.

Katharine and her husband escorted Julia and the children to the evening train bound for Cairo. Thankfully, the children were cheerful and well behaved, and Julia managed to get some sleep despite the incessant rattling of the car. In the morning she overheard two gentlemen discussing a battle that had occurred in Missouri somewhere south of Cairo, and all of her anxieties returned in an instant, for Ulys had surely been at the center of any engagement.

At last the train reached Cairo, and as it pulled into the station, Fred, peering eagerly through the window, suddenly shouted, “There he is, on the platform! There’s Pa!”

The other children crowded the window to see for themselves, and before the train had stopped entirely, Ulys climbed aboard, strode down the aisle, and took Julia in his arms. “My darling,” he murmured, kissing her in front of the children and the other passengers without a hint of embarrassment. “At last you’ve come. The children are well?”

“See for yourself,” she teased, as if he could do otherwise as they promptly fell upon him, flinging their arms about his waist and demanding kisses. With some effort and lots of laughter, Julia and Ulys managed to scoot them off the train before it steamed away to its next destination. As the porter stowed their luggage on a carriage Ulys had hired, Julia managed to take him aside. “I heard you were in a great battle,” she said quietly. “I had a vision of you that same day, though perhaps it was only a dream.”

He urged her to tell him what she had seen, and at what hour, and when she finished, he shook his head slowly. “That is singular,” he said, his gaze fixed on her face, curious and appraising. “Just about that time I was on horseback and in great peril, and I thought of you and the children, and what would become of you if I were lost. I was thinking of you, my dear Julia, and very earnestly too.”

“I thought the look was reproachful,” she admitted. “I thought you were displeased with me for not coming sooner.”

“I ought to have been, but I knew you had a good reason for not coming,” he assured her. “You’re here now, and we’ll make up for lost time, the six of us.”

As they drove off, Ulys told her he had written her a long letter the day after the battle, and it was probably waiting for her back in Galena. On November 6, he had stealthily moved his troops by riverboat from Cairo to the Confederate stronghold at Columbus, Kentucky. The next morning, he discovered that enemy troops had crossed the Mississippi and had camped at Belmont, Missouri, so he transported his forces to the Missouri shore, marched on Belmont, and surprised the rebels in their encampment, scattering the men and destroying their supplies. The Confederates quickly reorganized, and, strengthened by reinforcements from Columbus and heavy artillery across the river, they counterattacked, forcing Ulys to retreat to the riverboats.

“We were very soon out of range and went peacefully on our way to Cairo,” he said, patting her hand reassuringly, reading the worry in her eyes. “Every man felt that Belmont was a great victory and that he had contributed his share to it.”

“As they should,” said Julia shakily. Belmont had been his first major battle as a general, and she was too busy thanking God that he had come through it unharmed to care about the details of the victory, what territory had been gained or ceded, what artillery captured or lost to the enemy.

“Keep in mind that until then, my men were green,” Ulys said. “Untested, most of them, and yet in our withdrawal there was no hasty retreating or running away. Their discipline under fire gives me confidence in them, and I’m sure it gives them confidence in themselves. I’ve no doubt I’ll be able to lead them in any future engagement without fear of the result.”

Julia clasped his hand in hers and managed a smile, but she said little more as they drove along.

Before the war, Cairo had been a charming, bustling town, or so it had always seemed to Julia as she viewed the peninsula at the confluence of the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers from the deck of a passing steamboat, but on that day it struck her as desolate, the streets almost empty save for a few citizens who hurried along on foot, their expressions haunted and anxious. The river surged high and angry in the banks around the city, and Julia shuddered as she wondered how near the rebels were, if even at that moment, snipers had their rifles trained upon the carriage.

Ulys had established his headquarters in a gracious, three-story stone residence on a main street in a fashionable neighborhood, keeping his offices on the first floor and residing on the second. Julia settled the children in a pair of adjacent rooms, and she was pleased to discover that Colonel Hillyer and his family would be sharing the house—his wife, Anna, whom Julia had known and admired in St. Louis, and their three young children, Willie, Jimmie, and Mamie. Their landlord had hired a colored man to do the cooking and serving at table, and the services of a pair of housemaids were soon acquired.

Ulys was often in the field or sequestered at headquarters with his aides and officers, but Julia delighted in his company whenever he could spare the time. Often she, Anna, and the children rode out in an ambulance to observe Ulys reviewing the troops, an exercise that Julia soon noted usually preceded a significant movement of the army. She watched proudly as Ulys—her General Grant—rode down the columns inspecting the soldiers, the stirring music of the army band and the sweeping white mane and tail of his beautiful light sorrel, Jack, adding to the pageantry of the scene. Afterward, many of the gallant heroes would crowd around the ambulance to pay their respects to Julia and Anna, bowing and smiling. When asked if she was pleased with the review, Julia always responded that nothing could be more interesting, more thrilling, than watching the columns of brave and gallant men. “There is poetry in every movement,” she enthused, and was rewarded by the proud, admiring smiles from all who overheard.

•   •   •

At the end of November, Ulys and Julia decided that she should take the children to St. Louis to visit their grandfather, for it was impossible to say when she might have another opportunity. When Ulys saw them off at the landing, she clung to him fiercely. “We’ll see each other again soon, I promise,” he said. “Don’t fear for my safety, Julia darling. I won’t be harmed.”

“Yes, I know.” And somehow she did. Whatever dangers he faced on the battlefield, she knew he would always return safely to her.

When they arrived in St. Louis, Papa sent his carriage and a servant to meet them at the landing, and soon the children were scrambling through the front door of the much-beloved house on Fourth and Cerre Streets, at the very moment the bells of Sacred Heart Convent rang out the noon hour as if to welcome them home.

Julia had feared that she would find Papa much aged from the strain of the national conflict, but if anything, his outrage and righteous indignation seemed to have rejuvenated him. She discovered a new, defiant light in his eye when he rose from his favorite chair to bid her welcome, and as he tousled the boys’ hair and queried them about their prowess in their boyhood pursuits. “Nellie, my beauty,” he greeted his granddaughter, smiling so tenderly upon her that Julia felt a pang of wistful love and vowed to forgive him every unfair demand, every slight against her beloved Ulys.

With all the fuss and excitement surrounding their homecoming, it was not until the family had exchanged warm embraces and shared all the news that Julia noticed a curious absence. “Where’s Jule?”

“I hired her out to the lawyer Mr. Edmund Slate,” Papa replied.

“Yes, Papa, I know you did, but why is she still there?” She turned to Nell, perplexed. “Didn’t you receive my last letter? I’m sure I remembered to say that I wanted her help during my visit. I was counting on it, and I daresay looking forward to it.”

“One maid is like any other,” said Papa, waving a weathered hand dismissively. “They all can do hair. They all get you girls in and out of your frocks the same way. Emma’s maid can look after you both. You won’t be here long enough to warrant disrupting our agreement with Mr. Slate.”

Julia was deeply disappointed, but she managed to keep her vow of forgiveness and tolerance for a few days—not coincidentally, the precise length of time Papa refrained from denouncing the Union and Ulys and all who served its so-called oppression of the South. “You realize that you condemn your own son,” she chided him one evening after supper. “Captain Frederick Tracy Dent, Ninth United States Infantry?”

“Frederick is stationed in San Francisco. He’ll have nothing to do with this unconscionable Yankee aggression.”

“You say that as if he chose to be in California. If his regiment is transferred to the field of war, you’ll find that his loyalties align with my husband’s.”

“Not so, daughter. If ordered to take up arms against his native South, Frederick would resign his commission.”

Julia’s correspondence with her brother and sister-in-law suggested otherwise, but again and again Papa provoked her, expounding at length on the constitutionality of secession whenever they entertained dinner guests, all of whom shared his sympathies. Julia felt quite alone on such occasions, a sole defender of the Union in St. Louis as she had been the lone champion of the South in Galena.

Once, while watching from the back porch as the children played in the garden, dressed in their warmest wraps as they chased a few icy snowflakes drifting lazily down from a bright blue-and-white sky, she endeavored to be a dutifully uncomplaining audience for Papa’s latest diatribe against Mr. Lincoln. After Papa had consumed nearly a half hour lambasting the president as an Illinois ape who either hadn’t the brains to comprehend the Constitution or flagrantly ignored it, he had so exhausted her patience that she finally exclaimed, “Why don’t they make a new constitution if this one is such an enigma?”