Judith and Marie-Louise here today. How dear M-L blooms and blossoms! She is already more ample than her mother. Judith says she is smitten with some Charleston boy, but C. deems her too young won't permit the boy to call or send small gifts. When M-L is a bit older, and assertive, she and C. may fall out over the issue of suitors.
Judith said C. is praising the President ever since he decided to retaliate for his legislative defeats by taking his case to the people. Johnson presently making what he calls "a swing around the circle," with Grant and other generals and dignitaries in tow.
Andrew Johnson and his entourage invaded Ohio, the home state of Ben Wade, Stanley's powerful friend and sometime benefactor. At Cleveland, a major stop, a large and friendly crowd greeted the presidential party at the depot. Outside, a special decorative arch over the street expressed support for the visit.
THE CONSTITUTION, it said. WASHINGTON ESTABLISHED IT. LINCOLN DEFENDED IT. JOHNSON WILL PRESERVE IT.
Johnson was pleased, From that point, matters began to deteriorate.
At dusk, the Boy General strode down the corridor of Cleveland's Kennard Hotel with Secretary of State Seward. The Secretary's neck still bore red scars from the knife attack of one of John Wilkes Booth's fellow conspirators, who had struck at Seward on the same night that Lincoln was shot.
The Boy General was nervous. This was Ben Wade's fiefdom; Radical country. The President had taken to the rails for the avowed purpose of laying the cornerstone of a Stephen Douglas memorial in Chicago. Actually he was stopping along the way to attack the Republicans.
The strategy might have worked had not a large press contingent, including Mr. Gobright of the Associated Press, decided to accompany the President. The reporters wanted to file a new dispatch at every stop, so it was impossible for Johnson to deliver one prepared speech time after time. He was forced to do what he did so badly — extemporize.
The Boy General's tension was reflected in his bouncing stride and darting blue eyes. Lean, with an aura of high energy, George Armstrong Custer wore a trim civilian suit that showed his slimness to advantage. Small gold spurs jingled on his polished boots. Libbie urged him to wear spurs to remind people of his war exploits.
For a while, because of those exploits, he'd been the talk of the country — an audacious cavalry general with a remarkable talent for victory. Custer's luck, someone had christened it. Like some magic dust, it had covered him all during the war, bringing him success in the field and fame in the press.
Then came peace, the shrinking Army, and obscurity again. When he mustered out in Texas some months ago, he'd held the rank of captain.
Now he was beginning a slow and deliberate journey back to prominence. In a crucial meeting with Secretary of War Stanton he'd secured a captaincy for his loyal brother Tom, and for himself a lieutenant colonelcy in one of the new Plains regiments. He would soon return to active duty with the Seventh Cavalry.
He considered it a fine opportunity because the Seventh's commander, General Andrew Jackson Smith, was a thirty-year veteran — an old, tired, and exceedingly vain man. Smith also had responsibility for the entire district of the Upper Arkansas, so Custer assumed that day-to-day command of the Seventh would fall to him. That was ideal for making the regiment his own, in spirit if not in fact.
He didn't regard the Seventh as a final stopping point, however. Politicians were already promoting Grant as a candidate for President, and Libbie Custer had focused her husband's eye on that same high office. He was fascinated, but he and Libbie agreed that he needed some spectacular military achievement to propel him to eminence again. Meantime, he could polish his reputation by making this swing with Johnson. Or so he'd thought at the beginning; now the trip was turning out quite badly.
Custer's long wavy curls bounced on his shoulders and his glance leaped ahead to the open doors of a parlor. He spied Secretary Welles, Admiral Farragut, and other dignitaries. Grant had hurried on to Detroit, pleading indisposition. Privately, Custer believed the indisposition came from a bottle — or possibly from rumors of trouble in Cleveland.
The twenty-seven-year-old soldier hoped the rumors were false. Ohio was his native state, and he'd gotten behind Johnson because he always liked Southerners, even when he fought them. He'd flatly refused a command in one of the new colored regiments, the Ninth, and he believed that if the Republican Party could thrive only with the votes of ex-slaves, it should die.
Nearing the parlor doors, Custer said to Seward, "Do you think the President should be cautioned again, Mr. Secretary? Reminded of Senator Doolittle's warning?" In a confidential memo, Doolittle had said that Johnson's enemies never gained advantage from his written opinions, only from his spontaneous answers to questions or heckling.
"I do, George. I'll take care of it," Seward said.
They entered the parlor. Fashionably dressed men and women surrounded the President and a young woman who resembled him — Mrs. Martha Patterson, his daughter. She traveled as Johnson's hostess because his wife, Eliza, was an invalid.
While Seward slipped in close to the President, Custer circled to the French windows. He studied the crowd below. About three hundred and growing, he estimated. He listened to its communal voice. Noisy, but not particularly cheerful. People at the depot had laughed a lot.
He stepped into the center of the balcony doorway. As he expected, it got a reaction.
''There's Custer!"
That produced some whistles and applause. He started to wave, but checked when he heard booing. His normally ruddy face darkened and he quickly stepped back into the parlor. Perhaps he ought to leave town, as Grant had.
Libbie swooped into the room, drawing attention as she always did. What a lovely creature he'd married, he thought, going to her. Vivid dark eyes, full bosom, the kind of tiny waist other women envied.
She took his arm and whispered, "How is the crowd, Autie?"
"Not friendly. If he does anything more than thank them, he's a fool."
Smiling, he led his wife to the large group. "Mr. President," he said, with warmth. "Good evening."
The crowd in St. Clair Street was growing impatient. Chinese lanterns across the front of the Kennard Hotel cast a sickly pale light on the upturned faces. Ugly faces, many of them, revealing the ugly tempers beneath.
A man at the back of the crowd observed the people carefully. He wore a shabby overcoat and a Union campaign hat with the crossed metal cannon of the artillery. Another man slipped up beside him. "Everyone's in place," the second man said.
"Good. I trust they know what to do."
"I went over it 'fore I paid them."
Secretary Seward appeared on the balcony and introduced the President. The stocky, swarthy Andrew Johnson walked out and raised his hands to acknowledge the scanty applause.
"My friends and constituents, thank you for your generous welcome to Cleveland. It is not my intention to make a speech —"
The man in the campaign hat smirked. The idiot nearly always said that, throwing his audiences an obvious cue. One of the hired men took it. "Then don't."
Laughter. Clapping. Johnson gripped the balcony rail. "You hecklers seem to follow me everywhere. At least have the courtesy —"
"Where's Grant?"
"I regret that General Grant is unable to appear with me. He —" Groans covered the rest.
"Why don't you want colored men to vote in Dixie?" someone yelled.