Annapolis, page 44
And it was over, as quickly as that, the issue decided not by man’s machinery but by a six-hour cycle as old as time.
The newspapers called it a draw, though Hampton Roads remained closed. One thing was certain: no one would say the Staffords did not stand where God put them that day.
ix
More Letters
The enormity of the nation’s cataclysm became clear that April, when Confederates attacked Federal troops at a place called Shiloh, in Tennessee. More men fell in two days of fighting than in all of the wars America had ever fought. And it was only just beginning.
U.S.A. General Hospital, Division Number One, at Annapolis was soon receiving patients by land and water. When the hospitals of Washington overflowed, railway cars carried the wounded east on the Annapolis and Elkridge line. When General McClellan’s Army of the Potomac went into action on the Virginia peninsula, steamers carried the wounded down the James and York rivers, then up the Chesapeake.
And the Stafford women did what they could.
At first, the Surgeons’ Corps did not welcome the assistance of any women, particularly those who had not been approved by the Army Medical Bureau’s Superintendent of Female Nurses. Worse yet, the Stafford women lived in a town that was still considered secessionist in its sympathies.
But Antonia had organized an Annapolis chapter of the United States Sanitary Commission, which Lincoln had approved the previous summer. The Sanitary, as it was called, maintained a salaried male staff to inspect the cleanliness of hospitals and camps. And they were supported by a volunteer force of women, who raised money and collected whatever the soldiers needed, from dry socks to hard candy, then distributed these and whatever care they could offer.
Antonia and Margaret willingly washed wounds, changed dressings, spread ointment on burned flesh. They looked into eyes that were sometimes frightened, sometimes vacant, sometimes filled with thanks. But no matter what, they considered their own sons and did the dirty work of nursing.
The younger women approached their service more reluctantly.
For Alexandra, there was no middle ground between the polite reserve of the parlor and the intimacy of the hayloft. And she could not grow used to what she saw and smelled in a military hospital. So she stayed at the Fine Folly and made herself a kind of quartermaster for the Sanitary.
When contributions came to Annapolis, she cataloged them and stored them in the great room of the Fine Folly: socks in one corner, shirts in another, five hundred decks of playing cards in boxes; baked goods and candies and chewing tobacco, too. And for the enrichment of the men’s minds, bookcases filled with Shakespeare and Dickens, and the memoirs of a woman named Hill.
As the war worsened, more medicines came through the Sanitary chapter, purchased directly to supplement the governmental supplies—laudanum, chloroform, unguents, quinine. And Alexandra cataloged them, too.
George’s wife, Eve, began visiting the hospital on afternoons when she could leave little Jacob. She would go through Stribling Row, mopping fevered brows, washing faces, shaving men who could not shave themselves. And then she would read to them, like the good schoolmistress she once had been. Sometimes they had letters from home, sometimes newspapers or novels, and if there was nothing else, Eve would read letters from her husband. The wounded men always seemed happy to hear whatever she read, or happy, more likely, to hear a female voice.
George’s most dramatic letter arrived on a Thursday.
1
Aboard the steam sloop Hartford, May 1, 1862My Darling Eve,
I have sailed through the heart of hell and come out the other side.
At 2:00 a.m. on April 24, the sixty-year-old flag officer that Pa still calls “little Davy Farragut” climbed into the mizzen rigging of the Hartford, gave a signal, and twenty ships steamed up the Mississippi toward New Orleans. Farragut’s stepbrother, David Dixon Porter, the natural son of Pa’s old cap, had softened the forts that guard the river by firing—if you can believe this—seventeen thousand mortar rounds at them in six days.
Well, those forts must have been made of rock, for when our vessels appeared in the moonlight, the forts sent forth such cannon fire as Beelzebub could not conjure. Fortunately, the thick smoke that soon settled over the river made it harder for the gunners to see us. But it also made it harder for us to see ahead, and after running the gauntlet of the forts, we ran right aground.
Thank God that Farragut had draped anchor chains over our sides, as they protected against the shots that hit us. But Lord, we were stuck.
Mark you, I was in the engine room during all this. Summoned topside, I was struck by the color of the sky—red-orange dancing amid sheets of smoky shadow—the color accompanied by a continuous roar of cannon fire, screaming, and explosions. It was enough to make a man give up the drink.
The rebs had run a fire raft in under our port quarter, and flames were leaping halfway up the mizzen. Farragut shouted orders, stamped his foot, and growled, “My God, is it to end this way?”
I said, with more bravado than I felt, “Not if I can help it, sir.”
He turned steel-tipped eyes to me and demanded more steam.
I said we were stoking more coal, adding resin to the fires, and opening all valves to raise our steam pressure.
Suddenly a shell exploded about thirty feet above our heads. Farragut did not even blink. But I tell you, Evie, I almost wet myself. That is the difference between a fearless commander and an engineer, or perhaps the difference between a man of sixty and one of thirty-two whose wife and child await him.
By the grace of God, we put out that fire and got up enough steam to back the Hartford out of the mud. By dawn, seventeen of our ships had run the forts and were steaming up to the city itself. We’ve tied off the main artery of the Confederacy. Now watch it die.
And the best news: I have requested transfer to one of the Atlantic blockading squadrons, where I may be closer to home and perhaps to your heart. I think of you always, and of little Jacob. Write with news when you can.
1
This letter was read often in the following weeks, and the wounded men never ceased to enjoy it.
“They like it because it is so vivid,” said Eve proudly.
She and the other women were in the great room, which they now called the supply depot. They were folding one-piece sets of long underwear which arrived, with perfect timing, in late May.
“They like the letter because it shows a leader losing his nerve,” said Alexandra.
“That’s why you like it,” muttered Iris Ezekiel, holding up a pair of underwear.
Alexandra kept her eyes on her folding. “Whatever are you implyin’?”
“That you would like to see all our Union leaders lose their nerve.”
“I would simply like a letter of my own, from my brother Robby… or Ethan.”
“I’ll thank you not to mention painful things,” said Margaret, “like Ethan’s reticence. The only thing worse is Jason’s. Do you know, he refuses to say Ethan’s name, even in the privacy of our bedchamber?”
“If we don’t talk about painful things,” said Alexandra, “we’ll have nothing to talk about at all.”
“But,” said Antonia, “the fall of New Orleans brings us closer to the end of the pain.”
Alexandra said no more. She had moved into a small room in the attic, leaving the rest of the house to the new owners. She had avoided the conflicts that could arise in a home where one woman was forced to cede power to another. She had avoided Antonia’s opinionated Negro friend. And she could keep her opinions on the fall of New Orleans to herself because she was in a place where she could do much good for the Confederacy. Still, she hoped for a letter, too.
BUT THE NEXT one came from Tom for his father.
On a hot Sunday afternoon in the middle of June, they all gathered in the garden to hear Jason read it. Margaret served glasses of lemonade with a few carefully shaved pieces of ice chipped from the largest block in the icehouse.
Aboard the Monitor, May 13, 1862
Dear Pa,
The rebels have burned the Virginia. Conclusion foregone once their forces left Norfolk to defend Richmond. She drew too much to run up the James with them, and her seakeeping was as bad as Monitor’s. Blew up about 4:30 in the morning with a huge flash. Ethan will have to find a new ship.
I remain on Monitor until a new ironclad is ready for my command. All is as well as it can be here, and I hope it is the same with all in Annapolis.
1
“Jason,” said Antonia, “you just spoke Ethan’s name.”
He took a sip of the lemonade. “Only in quotation.”
Margaret shook her head. “As stubborn as rock. At least he can speak George’s name again, since New Orleans.”
Suddenly Antonia leaned across the table and pushed up the sleeve of Jason’s blue coat, revealing an ancient tattoo. “Do you see that?”
He looked at it as though he had never seen it before.
“Youthful indiscretion,” she said. “Like Ethan’s.”
Old Jason sputtered, stood up, and stalked away without a word.
Margaret thanked Antonia. “Perhaps that will be a beginning.”
“Perhaps,” answered Antonia.
“I have only one question,” said Alexandra to Antonia.
“What?”
“Is every act of youthful conscience an act of youthful indiscretion?”
And Antonia considered her own youthful conscience. “No. Not always.”
THAT SUMMER ANNAPOLIS expanded like a festering sore.
In the farmland west of the city, the federal government opened a prison camp, but not for Confederates. It was for Union prisoners who had been turned over on their word that they would not fight until a southern prisoner had been exchanged for them. Camp Parole, it was called, and it soon grew to a population of eight thousand men—sullen, emaciated, often diseased—whose own government, by the rules of war, imprisoned them because there were so many more of them than there were of the enemy.
And all the while, the battles went on and the wounded arrived: from the Seven Days of June; from Second Bull Run; and from Antietam, a Maryland creek whose name was already synonymous with the bloodiest day in American history.
But Antietam was the victory that Lincoln had been waiting for, and five days later, he announced the Emancipation Proclamation, raising stakes that were already impossibly high, and forcing the Staffords to face a hard question that Margaret’s son Cecil wrote about from Stafford Hall:
Dear Mother,
Tell Stepfather two more slaves gone this week. I talked with the one known as Zeke—white-haired old Methuselah with milky eyes, must be eighty-five if he’s a day—and he says that all the talk among the young bucks is of lighting out for the territories, where Lincoln has already banned slavery. Now he bans it in the rebellious states. The time must come when he will ban it in states where his power is real. Stepfather must advise on how to handle the plantation, should Lincoln free the slaves in Maryland, or should Federal troops confiscate crops, as they have done to other plantations down here.
Iris Ezekiel was with them on the Sunday morning that Margaret read this letter. The ladies were bundling medical supplies for Camp Parole while Captain Jason sipped a cup of coffee and listened.
Iris laughed at the description of her father, Zeke. “Better to call him Moses than Methuselah.”
“No, Iris,” said Antonia, who was cutting long strips of cloth for bandages. “It’s Mr. Lincoln who should be called Moses.”
“Mr. Lincoln should be called ‘hypocrite,’” said Alexandra, who was rolling the strips that Antonia cut.
“You must learn the difference between hypocrisy and conscience,” said Eve.
And the Old Cap chuckled, which surprised them all, since he almost never chuckled. “This isn’t about conscience. It’s about politics.”
In the garden beyond, two wounded men were sitting on the grass, bouncing a ball back and forth with little Jacob. The baby was laughing, running, enjoying himself immensely, and he did not seem to notice that neither of the soldiers had legs.
“What do you mean, politics?” asked Eve.
“Lincoln said that if he could save the Union by freeing none of the slaves, he’d do it. If he could save it by freeing some, he’d do it. And if he had to do it by freeing some and leaving others, he’d do that. Politics.”
“Whyever he did it,” said Iris fiercely, “it’s the right thing, and I’m for it.”
Jason’s face reddened. He was not used to that tone from anyone, least of all an educated Negro. “The right thing, Iris, is for you to know your place.”
Iris threw down a tight-wrapped bandage and glared at Jason. “I am a free woman. I can read. And there ain’t—isn’t—a better seamstress in Annapolis.”
“In that case”—Alexandra handed her two pairs of uniform trousers—“sew up the legs on these. I promised those boys out in the garden.”
Iris kept her eyes on Jason. “Your stepson down on the plantation, he’s right. You better tell him what to do before all your slaves is gone.”
“Free them,” said Antonia. “Do the right thing.”
Margaret slapped the table. “Do not deny my husband’s conscience because it isn’t in accord with yours.”
“We mustn’t argue so,” Eve pleaded. “Those wounded boys can hear us.”
“We mustn’t argue at all.” And Jason stalked out, muttering about how he had let all these opinionated women into his life.
A week later, Alexandra finally received a letter, postmarked from a place called Terceira, the Azores.
In the hallway, she pulled it open, and while Margaret tried to read it over her shoulder, she scanned it quickly and cried, “He’s safe!”
“Thank God. But… the Azores?”
“He’s on the Alabama.” And she read.
1
She was built in the yard of Jonathan Laird, under the contract of James Bulloch, naval agent for the Confederacy. Bulloch has worked tirelessly, getting around international law and Union political pressure, to put Confederate raiders on the sea. I hoped to assist him, serving our interests quietly. But another Maryland Confederate, Raphael Semmes, requested me for his Alabama. He is an old shipmate of Tom’s and I had Old Buck’s highest recommendation, whether I wanted it or not.
I tell you, Lexie, London would have been a fine place to desert, but my father taught me well, because here I stand, whether I want to or not.
In August, we sailed with Bulloch for Terceira, whence the unarmed and neutral Alabama had already sailed. There she was met by a ship carrying coal, supplies, and cannon, which turned her into a raider. Our job is simply to sink northern merchant shipping. This is the way a small navy must fight a large one. It is what Porter did aboard the Essex until he got cocky: you attack their lifeline—their economy—and avoid their mailed fist.
Our Alabama is a rakish vessel, and by the time you read this, her name will be known on the seven seas, according to Semmes. They say he is a ferocious fighter. I think he is also a windbag.
1
Alexandra let her future mother-in-law read the letter, while she dressed for her monthly visit to her aunt in Baltimore. She took a package of baked goods, as usual. But as usual, she did not change trains at Annapolis junction for Baltimore. She rode on to Washington, now the most fortified city on earth, and went to the house on M Street.
Mrs. Surratt’s skinny son John was reading a book in the parlor.
“Good afternoon, Alexandra,” he said. “Do you have anything for me?”
She put the package of baked goods on the gateleg table. “Quinine.”
Surratt eyed the package. “No naval information?”
“Only that my Ethan is with Captain Semmes, aboard the Alabama.”
Surratt gave a little snort. “You bring news of Confederate ships, not Yankee, and enough quinine to quiet, at best, a half dozen cases of malaria.”
She did not like Surratt. He was cold and judgmental, which she expected from someone who had studied to be a Catholic priest. And the huge head on that skinny body reminded her of a skull with a mustache.
“I do what I can,” she said. “And the more quinine I can smuggle to you, the more you can smuggle south.”
“Quinine.” A young gentleman appeared in the doorway. “As valuable as bullets, I’d say.”
“Thank you, sir.” Alexandra was struck by how handsome he was, how perfectly his dark mustache curled around the corners of his mouth, how finely his clothes were tailored, how strong was the smell of brandy from him.
“Booth,” said Surratt, taking his hand. “It’s good to see you.”
“I always visit my friends when I come back to town.” He held up two theater tickets. “And I bring gifts.”
“Are you one of the acting Booths?” asked Alexandra, trying to keep the excitement from her voice.
The young man executed a theatrical bow. “John Wilkes Booth, at your service, ma’am. My friends call me Wilkes. And I’d be honored if you were to attend my performance as Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet this evening.”
“I admire Shakespeare greatly,” she said.
“John Surratt can stand in for your Ethan. Any man who sails with Semmes must be a brave one. Semmes has shown Marylanders what a man of conscience must do.”
“My Ethan is a Marylander, too,” she answered.
“Is he, now? Well, so am I.” And a strange look came across the actor’s face. The eyes that could shoot a gaze all the way to the back row seemed, for a moment, to cloud over. Booth glanced down at his boots, as though his confidence had just flowed out through the soles. But how could an actor so skilled have any kind of self-doubt?
“We are all Marylanders here, then,” said Alexandra.
“Yes,” answered Booth, filling up again. “And we’re all working for the right side. So come to the play.”
