The Quartermaster Page 8
Meigs decided to celebrate the progress with a bit of engineering theater. By combining the operational parts of the aqueduct with temporary pipes, he could deliver water from the Potomac to the Capitol. He had a perfect day in mind for his unveiling, the January 4 opening of the new Senate chamber. He could get credit for both projects at the same time. Yet again he ramped up his busy schedule. He moved his desk into the new Senate chamber in order to oversee the work and he pressed members of the Committee on Public Buildings to pay for last-minute necessities. Near the deadline, he even provided personal preview tours for lawmakers. One night, he turned on the gaslights and showed them the room’s color scheme in all its warm glory. He worked through New Year’s Day, skipping the president’s traditional celebration at the White House. He carried on through the night of January 2, after learning that two water pipes were misaligned. Then, on January 3, he stood by as a wave of muddy water coursed east, gaining speed as it dropped by gravity through conduits and pipes toward the Capitol. Meigs raced ahead of the water on horseback to a meeting on Capitol Hill. As he chatted with several senators, a messenger handed him a note. After reading it, he turned to Davis. “It is reported to me that the water which I left on its way down from the reservoir will be in the grounds in a few minutes,” Meigs told his friend. “We can see it in the fountain from the western windows.” They watched as a modest jet of water rose twenty feet above the fountain. It was insubstantial against the winter sky and the mammoth, unfinished Washington Monument. But it looked fine to them, silvery evidence of years of devotion to a vision of the city as a healthy, safe, thriving metropolis at the center of an expanding empire. Davis shook both of Meigs’s hands with enthusiasm.
* * *
January 4, 1859, was a bittersweet day in the Capitol’s history. The Senate was finally getting a fresh new home and the city, a vast, steady source of water. Yet there was no escaping the undertow that threatened to capsize the nation’s government. Two months earlier, the Buchanan White House had suffered a humiliating setback in the midterm congressional elections. Democrats lost eighteen seats in the House, largely as a consequence of the administration’s support for the Lecompton constitution in Kansas. Many in the North were elated by the outcome. They were certain that it represented a catastrophe for Buchanan Democrats and an opening for Republicans. But clear-eyed observers recognized that it would further destabilize the precarious relations between North and South. Among them was Vice President John C. Breckinridge, who stood to deliver the old chamber’s valedictory address. Tall, erect, and handsome, he was the gifted scion of Kentucky politicos. He had served in Congress and, at thirty-five, was the youngest man to be elected vice president in the nation’s history. With hundreds of lawmakers and visitors on hand, he gave a moving appeal for national unity and against secession. One newspaperman called it the best speech of Breckinridge’s career.
The Kentuckian described the vulnerable state of the nation and appealed to his colleagues to draw together in its defense. He reminded them of how Congress had overcome sectional challenges in the past, including the question of where to locate the seat of the new government. He said the power of the American system prevailed in 1790 with the selection of the District. Breckinridge noted that Congress had been meeting in the same place for decades, despite the burning of the Capitol by the British. “We see around us on every side the proofs of stability and improvement,” he said. “The Capitol is worthy of the Republic.”
Breckinridge expanded his argument. He said the country was thriving—with twenty-eight million citizens and fast-expanding borders—thanks to a federal system that had distributed power among the government and states. In a half century, the Senate had doubled to sixty-four members. Now it was up to them, Breckinridge told his colleagues, to preserve what the giants of the past had created. He pointed to the seats where John C. Calhoun, Daniel Webster, and Henry Clay had sat and fought and compromised to secure the fate of the county. Their extraordinary deeds obligated lawmakers to create an equally promising future. “[To] all this we were born, and, like heirs upon whom has been cast a great inheritance, have only the high duty to preserve, to extend, and to adorn it.”
Meigs was deeply moved, writing that “it was the most eloquent oration I have ever listened to.” It’s no wonder. It could have been his father speaking to his children about the familiar themes of honor, family, patriotism, and achievement. (Never mind the irony that we can see now: Breckinridge would soon turn his back on the Union, join the Confederacy, and eventually serve for a short time as its secretary of war.)
After speaking, Breckinridge led a procession of lawmakers to the new room. The galleries above were packed with dignitaries, press, and an unusual number of women. On the floor, the senators’ desks were arrayed in crescents in front of the speaker’s dais. Skylight illuminated the scene, the air was fresh, and the temperature a steady 70 degrees. The room was well received. One writer described it as light and airy and even more finely proportioned than the House chamber, with two grand stairways that looked gorgeous, even though unfinished. The writer took note of the imported, patterned ceramic floor tiles along with the elaborate decorative painting by Brumidi near the chamber’s entrance.
The fountain outside did not perform quite as well as Meigs wanted. But after workers made some adjustments, the water spurted as much as a hundred feet into the cold winter air. Meigs exulted quietly, privately thanking God for his role in the work. “I wish you could see it, my jet d’eau in the Capitol Park,” he wrote to his father later that day. “I look upon it with constant pleasure, for it seems to spring rejoicing in the air & proclaiming its arrival for free use of the sick & well, rich & poor, gentle & simple, old & young for generation after generation, which will have come to rise up & call me blessed.”
Three months later, almost a decade after fire consumed the Library of Congress because of a lack of water, one of the chief aims of the aqueduct project became manifest. Residents of Georgetown tapped into a hydrant that Meigs had installed and sprayed Potomac water to fight a fire. The Meigs household rejoiced for more personal reasons. That’s because he had connected a pipe from the aqueduct directly to their home, and they were able to take baths. Meigs was pleased that Louisa could now understand one goal he had been striving toward, “to place within the reach of every household in Washington and Georgetown forever the luxury she had this day enjoyed.” (Many years later, the water system’s capacity fell short of the needs of the growing city, and Meigs’s recommendation of lead pipes to connect homes proved ill-advised.)
Finally, he was able to bring a happy focus on his family. Gone was the raw, consuming grief that he and Louisa experienced from the loss of their two boys six years earlier. They relished their youngest, little Loulie, who liked to dive into her father’s arms when he returned from work. There was also Monty and Mary. Their hopes were most immediately invested in the oldest, John Rodgers Meigs. John like his mother was tall and upright, with a thick head of light brown hair and a hint of arrogance on his face. He was headstrong, like his father. Louisa once beat him with a whalebone and put him in a closet as punishment for misbehavior. Meigs once bound him to a wardrobe as punishment for bullying his little brother and then whipped him after he escaped.
Poised for college, John was showing a talent for science and math. In late 1857, he said he wanted to attend West Point, a choice that would help the family financially, since Meigs could not afford private school tuition on his captain’s salary. John had submitted a superb application, including a letter of recommendation from Jefferson Davis that had been endorsed by an array of powerful lawmakers on both sides of the aisle: Stephen Douglas (Illinois), Robert M. T. Hunter (Virginia), Albert Gallatin Brown (Mississippi), Zachariah Chandler (Michigan), and the fiery John Slidell (Louisiana). The letter noted John’s family lineage, his scientific talents, and the achievements of his father. Secretary of War Floyd let it languish.
In the spring of 1859, Meigs a
gain lobbied unsuccessfully on John’s behalf. He lost hope when the president’s annual list of appointees appeared without John’s name on it. But when word emerged that two new cadets had failed their entrance exams, Meigs rushed to the White House to appeal directly to the president. Buchanan expressed sympathy but made clear that Meigs’s public fights with Floyd had hindered John’s application. Buchanan said that while he wanted to support John, he’d had enough of the squabbling. If Meigs could make peace with the secretary of war, Buchanan said, he was confident the application would sail through. The stubborn Meigs got the message. A few days later, he handed a formal letter to Floyd, requesting the reconsideration of John’s application. “I trust that while I have entered protests against action or want of action by this department which appears to me to injure me in my position or reputation, I have always confined myself within the just bounds of that official and personal respect which is due to your character and to your position.” He even offered to read the letter aloud.
Floyd played the offended benefactor. Why had Meigs not come to him first? Why was the captain always so discourteous? Floyd said Meigs had completely misunderstood him. The captain assured his boss that was not the case and that they could work together effectively. After a long chat, Meigs secured the pledge of support he had been seeking, and before long, when one of the cadets again failed the entrance exam, Buchanan told Meigs John would be admitted. On the afternoon of September 5 Meigs and his son caught the three-thirty train to New York. Riding through the night, they arrived at four in the morning. After a few hours of sleep, they embarked on a hectic tour of the city, visiting Barnum’s American Museum and the new Central Park, where they took photographs with a stereographic camera. Then they boarded a train for the last beautiful stretch up the Hudson River to West Point. For Meigs, it was a visit to the past. He met with old professors and savored the Hudson Valley views. For John, it was the beginning of his own remarkable career in the military. After turning in the best exam performance of any cadet in years, he submitted to upperclassmen who immediately began his initiation, sending him on drills and teasing him.
Just before his departure, Meigs handed John an envelope. It contained a personal note and a copy of a letter that Meigs would deliver to Floyd. “I trust that you will always bear in mind the fact however my differences with the Secretary may terminate that to him you are under lasting obligations,” it said.
CHAPTER 12
“Everything into Confusion”
The country now confronted another crisis, making Meigs and many others uneasy and confused. On October 17, 1859, the afternoon papers reported there had been a “negro insurrection” in Harpers Ferry in western Virginia, a few hours west of Washington at the confluence of the Shenandoah and Potomac Rivers. For readers in the capital, the idea of an organized slave uprising so near was shocking.
Over the next few days, the news got worse. It wasn’t slaves leading the attack. It was John Brown, the abolitionist notorious for his savagery in Kansas. At Harpers Ferry, his gang had taken a prosperous planter and a farmer hostage. They freed ten slaves and blocked the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad lines. They also took over a federal arsenal and its weapons, with the apparent hope that slaves and radical whites would rush in to help. In August, it was learned later, Brown had told his friend Frederick Douglass, the social reformer, abolitionist, and writer, “When I strike, the bees will begin to swarm.” The reports from Harpers Ferry triggered jubilation among many in the North, furor and terror in the South, and panic in the White House. As militia moved into position on Washington’s main thoroughfares, Buchanan convened a meeting with Floyd and Colonel Robert Lee. It was agreed that Lee would lead a company of marines to the scene. At his side would be another talented West Point graduate, Lieutenant James Ewell Brown Stuart, also known as Jeb.
The siege was not universally applauded in the North. Meigs and others like-minded were mystified by the events. He did not trust the newspaper accounts and speculated that “this strange riot” simply might be a labor dispute involving arsenal workers who had been dismissed. By the time Lee and Stuart arrived in Harpers Ferry, Brown’s raiders had retreated to the arsenal’s engine house, some of them with mortal wounds from shots by local farmers and townspeople. On Tuesday, October 18, Lee directed Stuart to deliver a note to Brown that demanded surrender and guaranteed the raiders’ safety. He refused. In the melee that followed, Brown was knocked senseless and his small force captured or killed. Though the raid lasted less than two days, its impact as a symbol grew quickly. The brief speech he delivered calmly in court resonated long after Brown’s death.
“Now, if it is deemed necessary that I should forfeit my life for the furtherance of the ends of justice, and mingle my blood further with the blood of my children and with the blood of millions in this slave country whose rights are disregarded by wicked, cruel, and unjust enactments, I say, let it be done.” Evidence presented at the trial, along with the Northern reaction to the strange events, convinced Southerners of a conspiracy against them. Some began arming themselves in preparation for another attack. On the December day that Brown was hanged, Northern towns rang bells and fired cannons in his honor.
This was too much for Meigs. While he opposed slavery, he was no abolitionist. He was not ready to put the country at risk in a fight about it, certainly not with an apparent lunatic leading the way. The more Meigs learned about Harpers Ferry, the more he was repelled. The republic he loved suddenly appeared more fragile than he had imagined. For now, Meigs was so anxious about the repercussions of the raid that he wrote to his father, urging him to organize rallies against Brown and his methods. Meigs and others like him wanted to send a clear conciliatory signal to the South.
His views would change before long. His eyes and heart would open to the obvious impossibility of reconciling slavery with his Christian views about justice. His rhetoric would soon resemble the fiery language of Brown’s favorite New Testament passage: “Without shedding blood, there is no remission of sin.” But not yet. He was not ready.
* * *
The relative peace with Floyd that had led to John’s appointment soon fell apart, as the secretary of war continued to make outrageous decisions. Meigs began criticizing him openly. One of their disputes focused on a contract for marble columns. Floyd wanted to replace the contractor, a firm called Rice, Baird and Heebner. Although the firm’s work was uneven and it had sometimes annoyed Meigs, it was performing well just now and might have been the only firm that could deliver the columns. For months, Floyd disregarded Meigs’s opinion and insisted on a change. Meigs and Floyd also tangled over a contractor at the Post Office. Floyd insisted that Meigs use a man named E. C. Robinson to build the heating system. Robinson, a dentist from Virginia, had no business getting involved in such a complex engineering challenge. His only purpose could be to sop up the fees. A journalist at the time described Robinson as a straw man for pass-through money.
Meigs again fought back, launching a long letter of his own. Floyd was away from Washington, recuperating from an illness. So Meigs wrote to Floyd’s chief clerk and asked the question on many minds. Was Floyd’s dentist friend involved merely to get at “a certain liberal portion of the public money?” Meigs’s meaning was clear—that Floyd might be lining his own pockets—and the consequence of saying so hit him hard and fast.
On November 2, 1859, Meigs received formal orders relieving him as engineer in charge of work on the Capitol, its dome, and the Post Office. Floyd claimed he sacked Meigs for “flagrant insubordination,” citing his refusal to give Walter, resident architect at the Capitol, all engineering and architectural drawings related to the Capitol projects. To Meigs and others, the real reason was the captain’s refusal to bow to Floyd’s many schemes. “I have for the last two years been so tormented by attacks of the secretary of war, pushed on by his own resentments and by intrigues of Walter, that I would long since have received orders relieving me honorably from my charge with pleasu
re,” Meigs wrote in his journal.
It had been an extraordinary run. He had taken on more in his seven years in the capital than many engineers could manage in a career. The dome was not finished, but Meigs put all the pieces in play and, with aplomb and ingenuity, solved the significant engineering problems. He had managed more than $9 million of government spending without a blemish on his honor. Meigs gathered his foremen together in a room near the new Senate chamber. An aide read aloud a brief speech Meigs had prepared. “If in the press of business I may at any time have seemed to speak too quickly, believe it was from preoccupation, not from impatience of intent,” the message said. “That we have worked faithfully the walls around us will bear witness.” One of the workers offered a heartfelt response on behalf of the group. “Your genius and skill are indelibly impressed upon these walls, and the imperishable building which now surrounds us that stands as the monument thereof as long as our beloved country shall endure,” the laborer said, noting “the yet nobler fact that Capt. M. C. Meigs is an honest man.”
Meigs was indeed honest. He was also fierce and stubborn, as those who crossed him knew well. Meigs’s sense of what was right ran deep to a self-righteous core. He was convinced he had been removed at the Capitol because he had stood by his principles and refused to bend to Floyd’s corrupt wishes. Thankful that he still controlled the aqueduct, Meigs turned his energies to finishing its crowning achievement, Cabin John Bridge. But that work wasn’t enough to absorb his attention because he couldn’t let go of his anger about being cut out of the Capitol project. He kept a close eye on the work there and took grim satisfaction that his replacement, Captain William B. Franklin, a fellow West Pointer and Saturday Club member, found himself at odds with Floyd, describing him as “an exceedingly bold and unscrupulous man.” Franklin also came to dislike Walter, the Capitol architect, calling him a “great sneak and liar.”