Fates and Traitors (30 page)

The next day was Saint Valentine's Day, and when the post arrived shortly before noon, Lucy received a lovely acrostic poem John had composed in her honor, a sweet, romantic gesture that reminded her anew how much she adored him. A week later, on February 21, Parker told her that he had received a telegram from John, and that he
intended to return to Washington late the following evening. Overjoyed, Lucy kissed her cousin to thank him for the welcome news. John had been gone almost four weeks, traveling here and there and back again visiting family and conducting business, so frantically busy, he lamented in his letters, that he could not spare even half a day in the capital. Now, at long last, he was coming back to her.

Their reunion on the morning of February 23 was as joyful as she could have hoped. When they met in their favorite chairs in the lobby, he kissed her hand, and she kissed him in return on the cheek—swiftly, modestly—while Lizzie pretended to be fascinated by a family with three young children passing by the window.

“Thank you for the lovely poem.” Smiling mischievously, perhaps to punish him a little for being so long away, Lucy added, “It is not the first love poem a gentleman has written for me, but it is certainly my favorite.”

“As long as
I
am your favorite,” he growled, feigning jealousy, a pretense his shining eyes immediately betrayed, “I don't care if a beau you spurned years before was a better poet.”

For his valentine gift, she gave him a photograph of herself and a book of Byron's poems, because he had once confided that his parents had enjoyed reading them together. She apologized for the belated nature of the gift, unable to resist adding that she would have been able to give them to him earlier if he had not been away so long.

“For a gift as lovely as this,” he declared, admiring her portrait, “I would be willing to wait another fortnight, months if I had to.”

It was a tender sentiment, Lucy thought, but he had missed her point entirely.

As if to make up for lost time, John was more affectionate and attentive than ever, until Lucy was blissfully willing to forgive his long absence and his exasperating reticence. She even dared hope that her parents, who had thus far not discovered any evidence to support their doubts, would surrender their fiercely entrenched defenses and cede the battle to John.

But just as she thought an armistice might be at hand, John revealed an aspect of his character she had not previously suspected, and for the first time, she found herself at a loss to defend him.

In the first week of January, Ohio congressman James M. Ashley had reintroduced into the House the Thirteenth Amendment
abolishing slavery throughout the United States. Thanks in no small part to the tireless efforts of Lucy's father, the amendment had already passed the Senate, and on January 31, the House had held the final debates before their voting commenced. Dozens of senators, including Lucy's father, had attended to witness the historic moment, as had the justices of the Supreme Court, several members of President Lincoln's cabinet, and many foreign ministers. Lucy, Lizzie, and their mother had arrived early to claim good seats in the gallery, which for the first time had also admitted people of color. The Negro men and women had watched the final speeches and heard the vote taken in solemn, breathless quiet, breaking into cheers and joyful weeping when the measure passed. Although three-fourths of the states would have to ratify the amendment before it would become the law of the land, people of color and abolitionists nonetheless rejoiced, certain that slavery had been dealt a fatal blow. As they had walked home, exultant and proud, Lucy, Lizzie, and their mother had agreed that the successful passage of the amendment would someday be recognized as the greatest achievement in Papa's long, tireless, and storied career as an abolitionist and lawmaker.

A few days after John returned from his lengthy travels, Lucy and John met in the drawing room to catch up on the news from their time apart. Still glowing from her father's triumph, Lucy described the fiery debates in the House and the momentous final vote, but she had not quite reached the end when John's handsome features twisted into a bitter scowl. “Lincoln is intent upon making himself a king,” he said.

For a moment Lucy could only stare at him. “What on earth do you mean?”

“He does not seek to govern but rule,” John declared. “He wants to crush out slavery by any means—robbery, rapine, slaughter, and bought armies. He presumes to walk in the footprints of old John Brown, but he is no more fit to stand with that rugged old hero—great God, no! John Brown was a man inspired, the grandest character of this century. Lincoln would be another Bonaparte, overturning this blind Republic and crowning himself king!”

Parker had looked up from his novel as the harsh invective increased in volume, and he fixed John with a level gaze. “I say, Booth, you might want to calm down. People might mistake you for a copperhead.”

“Has freedom of speech been abolished along with the writ of habeas corpus?” John snapped, but he lowered his voice, shifted in his chair, and suddenly bolted from it. “I need some air. Good evening Lucy, Parker.” He bowed and strode from the room.

“John is no copperhead,” Lucy told her cousin, though his outburst had left her shaken and confused. “He doesn't sympathize with the Confederacy, but with the Southern people, who have suffered much throughout this dreadful war. It's only natural that he should be concerned about their fate. He's a Marylander, and he considers Virginia an adopted home.”

Parker regarded her speculatively for a long moment. “If you say so, dear cousin,” he finally said, sighing in resignation and settling back down to his book.

•   •   •

L
ucy had looked forward to John's return to Washington so eagerly that it was disturbing to find herself unexpectedly relieved when he told her that he would be traveling to Baltimore for a few days. Upon his return on the first day of March, when they crossed paths in the lobby, she acknowledged his cheerful greeting by inclining her head, unsmiling, and she did not offer him her hand.

“I had expected a better welcome than this,” he protested, smiling.

Her heart stirred, but she could not rid her memory of his outburst in the drawing room, his harsh words, his angry glares. “Several weeks ago you asked me to acquire this for you,” she said curtly, taking an envelope from her reticule, “but I'm not sure whether you want it anymore.”

His smile turned quizzical as he accepted the envelope. “You're in a fine mood today.” Opening it, he withdrew a ticket granting admission to the Capitol rotunda for President Lincoln's second inauguration, one of only a precious few her father had been allotted for family and friends. “Thank you very much, darling. Of course I still want this. Why would you think I might not?”

“After your angry denunciation of Mr. Lincoln in the drawing room the other day, I made the reasonable assumption that perhaps you might not wish to see him renew his oath of office.”

He stared at her for a moment before bursting into laughter. “You're not still upset about my little speech, are you?”

“‘Little speech'?” She folded her arms. “Yes, of course I'm still
upset. I admire President Lincoln. He's a great man, and I would've voted for him if I could have.”

He shrugged and tucked the invitation into the inside pocket of his coat. “I would say that it's fortunate you couldn't vote, then, except it would've made no difference to the outcome.”

She shook her head, incredulous. “Is that truly how you feel?”

“Don't be angry, dear girl.” He took her hands and drew her closer, though she resisted, still annoyed. “I regret upsetting you, and I'm grateful for the ticket. We can't expect our opinions to match perfectly on every single political issue. Very well, so I'm not as enamored with Mr. Lincoln as you are. It breaks my heart to think you might love me less for that.”

“You don't look particularly heartbroken.”

“Oh, my darling, you forget I am a very good actor.” Grinning impishly, he tapped her nose with his forefinger. “Inside I weep and tear my hair.”

“Nonsense,” she retorted, but her anger was subsiding.

“Inside I have donned sackcloth and ashes.” He kissed the backs of her hands. “Now, be a good girl and tell me you love me.”

She was not quite ready to do that. “You'll have a very good view of the ceremony, but it's just as well that you won't be seated on the platform with me and my family. Those exalted places should be reserved for people who actually
want
Mr. Lincoln to be president.”

He feigned misery. “You mean to say you won't condescend to stand amid the rabble with me?”

“And risk enduring another of your disloyal diatribes? Never.”

“I am loyal to my country,” he protested, and when she tossed her head, he teased and cajoled until he managed to coax a smile from her, but not her agreement to relinquish her excellent seat to stand with him instead.

She could not stay angry with him long, for as the capital prepared for Mr. Lincoln's second inauguration, the jubilant, optimistic mood of its citizens and visitors became infectious. The people of the North had every reason to be hopeful, Lucy thought. In mid-January, the Union navy had captured Fort Fisher, which closed the port of Wilmington, North Carolina, and severed supply lines to the Confederacy from abroad. After capturing Savannah, General Sherman's armies had
seized Columbia, the capital of South Carolina, and the next day, the rebels had surrendered Fort Sumter and evacuated Charleston. In the meantime, General Grant had drawn a noose of Union forces around Petersburg and was steadily pulling it closed, tightening his stranglehold and threatening the Confederate capital of Richmond twenty-five miles to the north. On the eve of the commencement of Mr. Lincoln's second term as president and commander in chief, a Union victory seemed more certain than ever before.

In those first days of March, thousands of visitors flooded Washington City, filling the hotels and boardinghouses until Lucy half expected to see streams of guests spilling out from the doorways and windows into the streets. At the National Hotel, she and John could find no quiet place to sit and talk privately, for hapless gentlemen and even a good many ladies who had been unable to secure rooms sat up through the night in the crowded parlors instead.

On the night before the inauguration, a fierce and terrible storm struck the capital, jolting Lucy awake with a crash of thunder and a scour of hail upon the roof. “Lizzie?” she murmured as she propped herself up on her elbows, disoriented, heart pounding. “Are we under attack?”

“No, silly girl,” Lizzie replied, sounding barely awake. “It's just a storm. Go back to sleep.”

Lucy lay down and snuggled closer to her sister, hoping the tempest would soon subside. Eventually she drifted back to sleep, and woke hours later to a gray and rain-soaked dawn. One glance out the window revealed that the night's torrential downpour had turned Sixth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue into thick rivers of mud.

“Will they cancel the parade if the streets cannot dry in time?” Lucy asked her sister as they made their toilette and dressed. A magnificent procession was planned, with soldiers, cavalry, and bands, as well as representatives from fire departments, civic organizations, and fraternal lodges from all across the North, all to march with banners aflutter and flags unfurled.

“I can't imagine that they would cancel,” said Lizzie. “The newspapers say that fifty thousand will gather at the Capitol to watch and thousands more will line the parade route. They won't disappoint all those people because of a little mud.”

“I wouldn't say a
little
mud,” said Lucy dubiously, but she decided to trust her elder sister's optimistic prediction.

The Hale ladies would not be among the crowds enjoying the parade anyway, nor would they accompany Papa to the Senate to claim seats in the gallery while he assumed his usual place in the chamber, so that they might observe the traditional valedictory address of the outgoing vice president and the speech and swearing in of incoming vice president Andrew Johnson. Her father's usual seat in the chamber was his no longer, and they all felt the bittersweetness of the occasion. Before they could celebrate Mr. Lincoln's oath taking and address, Papa would have to relinquish his Senate seat to his successor.

He had decided against observing the Senate proceeding from the gallery, like any ordinary spectator, and when he had wearily asked his ladies if they might dispense with that part of it, they readily assured him that they would indeed prefer to avoid the crowds. “I was rather hoping you'd suggest we simply take our seats on the East Portico early,” Mama said, and Papa smiled wistfully and thanked them all.

Rumbling over narrow, pitted side roads to avoid the parade route, Lucy's father directed their carriage as close as they could get to the Capitol and they walked the rest of the way. The guards recognized the former Senator Hale and allowed the family through, so they proceeded to the east front of the Capitol and the platform reserved for honored guests, seating themselves just as the doors opened and the crowd of observers and dignitaries that had packed the Senate chamber spilled out onto the portico. Lucy took in the scene, awestruck and wistful, wishing her father had kept the Senate seat he had filled so honorably. No longer a senator, he did not yet know what he would become. The position of Minister to France had gone to another gentleman, and no one, not the president nor any of his secretaries or aides, had mentioned any other possibilities to her father. For the future of the country, Lucy was optimistic and hopeful, but for her father, for their family, she was stricken with doubt.

An eager audience thousands strong had packed the muddy Capitol grounds beneath overcast skies, and when Mr. Lincoln emerged onto the East Portico with Chief Justice Chase at his side, a piece of paper in his hand, the newly completed Capitol dome rising in
magnificent splendor high above, the people let out a thunderous roar of welcome and jubilation. As the president came forward to deliver his speech, the clouds suddenly parted, the sun broke through, and golden light shone down upon him like a benediction from heaven.