Mrs. Lee and Mrs. Gray (37 page)

“My father said we cannot afford to care for the color of the arm that strikes the invaders of our homes,” Norvell said, “even if using the Negroes to help us win the war would rob us of our victory. But honestly, I am so tired of war I don't care who turns up to fight with us. So long as it is over soon.”

“What does General Lee say about this?” Mrs. Winkler turned her penetrating gaze upon me. “I know he tells you everything.”

“Not everything. He must be mindful of his letters falling into the wrong hands. But he has made known his support of arming the Negroes, regardless of the effects such a move might have upon our social institutions. He has long believed that slavery must end.”

“And Papa has paid the price for his views,” Agnes said. “The Charleston newspaper called him a ‘federalist and a disbeliever in slavery.' It's true Papa thinks slavery must end, but
even the
Examiner
has questioned his loyalty to the South. And after everything he has sacrificed for the cause. I know we aren't supposed to hate anyone, but I can't help it. I despise anyone who questions my father's decisions.”

Setting aside her work, Agnes went to the kitchen to get our coffee. Presently she returned with the tray, and Norvell helped her pour.

“People can talk all they want to about our precious social institutions,” Norvell said, taking up the conversation again. “But, Mrs. Lee, if we can't win at Petersburg, and soon, then nothing will matter at all.”

“My husband has proposed a plan to President Davis.”

Agnes set down her cup and unwound a new ball of yarn. “The problem is that the president is having too much fun giving parties to listen to my father.”

Robert had suggested to President Davis that we abandon Richmond to the Yankees, concentrate our dwindling forces farther north, and make a stand there. But the president hesitated, and by April 2, Communion Sunday at St. Paul's, it was too late.

I woke to a hazy morning that obscured the bursting of shells in the distance, a sound that had become so familiar I scarcely took note of it anymore. Church bells rang out across Richmond as the haze gave way to a brilliant sun and thousands of people headed for services.

Every pew at St. Paul's was filled. There were women in widow's weeds, a smattering of government officials, and Confederate officers in their dress uniforms.

“Look, Mama, there's Miss Tompkins from the hospital,” Agnes murmured. “The poor thing looks worn to the bone. And there is Mrs. Winkler, just behind the president's pew.”

I followed her gaze to the opposite aisle, where President Davis had just taken his seat. He wore a fine dark wool suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. Apparently he had taken plenty of time to consider his wardrobe and complete his toilette. Too bad he hadn't given equal attention to my husband's advice.

Our rector, Dr. Minnigerode, gave the call to worship. From the corner of my eye I spotted a Confederate messenger sliding into the side door. He handed a note to the sexton, who hurried over to President Davis and handed him a telegram. The president read it, and even from my pew I could see the color drain from his face. He got to his feet and hurried from the church, his aides at his heels.

At his departure, a kind of quiet desperation descended upon us. Dr. Minnigerode struggled to complete the Communion service. We remained in our seats until the final prayer was uttered, but our thoughts were for our country. And by our country, I mean the South.

The service ended. We rushed from the church. Out on the streets, chaos reigned. The sidewalks outside the government buildings were piled high with burning documents. White ash and curling pages blew across the streets. Men were packing railroad cars with crates of records and the contents of the Confederate treasury. Families carrying their belongings mobbed ticket offices, seeking a way by boat or by train out of the city. Banks were overrun with people taking out their cash. As the city emptied, the streets became choked with panicked people, horses, wagons, and carriages.

“Mama, where shall we go? Is there any word from Papa?” Agnes helped me into the house and into my rolling chair. “I'm so scared I cannot think.”

I was too angry at President Davis to be afraid. And I was not going anywhere. The end of the Confederacy was at hand, and Robert would expect to find me here. And after four years as a refugee, I was too exhausted to move again. Even if the worst happened, I no longer cared. “Where would we go, child?”

“I don't know. But we can't stay here.”

“We can and we will.”

I directed Agnes to lower the window blinds and seal the shutters. We sewed our few remaining valuables into the linings of our homespun skirts. Agnes made toast and coffee, but we were too frightened to eat. We sat in silence, listening to the ever-increasing commotion in the streets.

About seven o'clock that night, Mr. Winkler knocked on the door. He and his wife had secured passage on the same train that would take President and Mrs. Davis to Danville.

“You are sure you won't come with us, Mrs. Lee? It would be my honor to look after you in the general's absence.” Mr. Winkler shook his head. “I am afraid this city will descend into chaos in another few hours. There's bound to be looting and fighting, and there won't be anyone to stop it.”

“You're very kind, but we will be all right here. You must go and look after your own family.”

“I don't like to bring this up, but there's talk the Yankees may arrest Southern sympathizers. I wouldn't put it past them to arrest the wife of the Confederate leader.”

“Nor would I. Nevertheless, I have made up my mind to stay.”

He sighed, whether from relief or genuine regret I could not say. “We may never meet again, Mrs. Lee. But my family will pray for God's mercies for you and the general.”

He went out into the street and left us to the terrors of that
awful night. Orders had been given to burn our tobacco warehouses, and in the dark of night this was done. When the wind shifted, the flames quickly spread across the city. The old timbers upon which many of Richmond's buildings rested split and burned, sending bricks and glass flying. Agnes and I huddled together in the shuttered house, listening as doors of houses were ripped away and chimneys collapsed.

Before dawn, the house next door caught fire, the orange flames licking the wooden door and the porch railings. I had been half asleep in my chair, too frightened to lie down, and the smell of smoke roused me. “Agnes, fetch the water bucket. Hurry, child.”

She ran for the bucket, and I wrenched open the door. A wave of heat blasted our faces.

“Get back, Mama.” Agnes dashed outside and tossed the water onto the fire. The old wood popped and hissed.

Twice more she filled the bucket and doused the timbers. The fire went out, but we were too unnerved to sleep. We passed the rest of the night watching from the window as the glow of larger, more distant fires devoured the city.

In the morning we ventured outside where a steady breeze, still thick with smoke, blew cinders that stung my eyes. Soldiers moved about the deserted streets, retrieving bodies from the rubble of collapsed buildings. Refugees were picking their way through the piles of ash and debris, searching for whatever might be salvaged. Everywhere there were charred buildings, smoldering fires, piles of brick and glass, soot and ash. Our soldiers were leaving, marching toward the river and over the Mayo Bridge, the only one remaining in all of Richmond. When they were safely across, that bridge too was destroyed.

Later that morning the Yankees arrived. They lowered the Confederate flag and raised the Stars and Stripes. In the shadows of our ruined city their band played “Yankee Doodle” and “The Star-Spangled Banner,” just to make certain we knew we were now an occupied city. As the day wore on, women arrived at my house on Franklin Street, their eyes red with weeping, seeking reassurance that Robert would somehow repulse the Union and win the day. But I harbored no such hopes and had no words to comfort them.

A Yankee captain came up the walk and rapped at the door. “United States Army!”

Agnes got to the door first. “We well know who you are, sir. What do you want? We haven't anything worth stealing.”

“I am told this is the home of Mrs. General Lee.”

I came up behind Agnes, my clothing rumpled, my eyes still burning. “I am Mrs. Lee.”

He removed his hat. “I am ordered to post a guard here, ma'am, for your protection.” He summoned a young Negro man who left his mount at the gate and started up the walk.

“I appreciate your concern for my safety, Captain, but under the circumstances, I wonder whether posting a black man to guard the family of the Confederate general is the right thing to do. Some might misinterpret it, I fear.”

He blinked and raked a hand across his chin. “You may be right about that. I hadn't thought of how it might look.”

He sent the black man back to retrieve his horse, and soon another young man made his way up the walk to take up his post. He stood there all day and all night, and in the morning when I woke he was still there.

“Agnes, take that poor boy something to eat.”

“Let him starve. I hate Yankees. I shall hate them till I die.”

I hated them too, in the abstract. But this soldier, so pale and thin in his too-large uniform, was hardly more than a child.

Agnes took him some corn pone and bacon and some coffee, for which he thanked us most kindly.

“Where are you from, young man?” I asked.

“Ohio, ma'am.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “But I haven't been home in over a year.” He handed me his dishes. “I sure do thank you, Mrs. Lee. For what it's worth to you, I don't think there's a Union soldier anywhere who doesn't admire your husband. He is a mighty warrior. Even General Grant says so.”

A week later a report reached us that Robert—aided by our son Rooney—was still in pursuit of the enemy, still refusing to be vanquished. Robert was reported to be in good spirits.

But General Grant wrote to him, seeking peace, and Robert, knowing he had run out of time, soldiers, and options, agreed to surrender his army.

The two met on April 9, Palm Sunday. All of Richmond wept for hours at the news.

Later many newspapers would praise Robert as a peacemaker, calling the surrender his finest hour. But I knew him as others could not. A long military career had prepared him for any eventuality except defeat. Regardless of praise, surrender would be the harshest ordeal of his life.

On the day Robert arrived home, after a grueling ride of more than a hundred miles, the streets were lined with admirers who had stood for hours in a strong April shower waiting to see him. Women ran into the street to hand him baskets of food, garlands of flowers, scented handkerchiefs. Men wept openly,
their hats in their hands. Little boys stood in awe, their hands raised in salute as Robert, accompanied by Rooney and a procession of twenty riders, guided his beloved Traveler through the ruined city.

Custis had arrived home the day before, and now he stood at the window with Agnes and me, watching for Robert to make his way through the throng to Franklin Street.

At last we spotted him, sitting erect in the saddle and looking every inch the professional soldier, though his trousers and boots were caked with mud. He reined in and dismounted with such difficulty that I feared he would fall.

“Custis, go help your father into the house.”

“He would hate that, Mother. He must come in under his own steam.”

The crowd followed Robert to our door, where he handed Traveler's reins to a weeping bystander. He mounted the steps, turned, and raised his hat in acknowledgment.

For a moment he stood silhouetted in the open doorway. Then he squared his shoulders, came inside, and shut the door. Agnes burst into tears, flew into his arms, and covered him with kisses. He held her close, patting her shoulder and murmuring to her until she quieted, then he stepped back and opened his arms to me. Sorrow was carved deep in the lines of his face, but never had he seemed more beautiful. Virtue exists independently of victory, and never had he been more exemplary.

I fell into his arms, my tears falling fast. The entire fabric of our marriage was woven of partings and homecomings. There had been no sadder parting than the day he rode away from Arlington to join the Confederacy, no sadder homecoming than this.

Rooney rushed in, disheveled after his long ride in the rain, his face ashen.

Robert turned and placed a hand on our son's shoulder. “Fitzhugh, I—”

“Papa. I just ran into a Yankee colonel in the street. He says somebody has shot Lincoln.”

1865

A
s Lincoln's funeral train wound its slow way toward Springfield, Robert wrote to our friends, seeking a quiet little house in the woods where we could live in peace. He was exhausted, his spirits low, his prospects uncertain. He was fifty-eight years old, no longer a military officer, and stripped of his citizenship. The question of what to do with the rest of his life loomed just as large as the need to find a permanent place to live.

In early June an offer came from Mrs. Cocke, the mistress of Oakland, who invited us to be her guests at Derwent, a small cottage on the estate. We packed at once and took the canal boat from Richmond to Cartersville. From there a rough, jostling drive of about six miles brought us to the house. Lying just a few miles south of the James River, it was a retired little place with a straight-up house. The only beauty it possessed was a fine growth of oaks surrounding it. It had been rendered habitable, but all the outbuildings were dilapidated, and the garden was a mass of weeds.

The lower level comprised two rooms and a kitchen. Upstairs were two more rooms too small to accommodate five adults in anything approaching comfort. The cottage was stuffy and,
according to Robert, hotter than a field tent in August. But he needed someplace quiet, and the quiet at Derwent was so profound I could number the acorns falling from those splendid oaks that overshadowed it.