Chapter Fifty-One #2
While I rounded on my husband with confusion, our son said, “You raised me a firm patriot. If my country calls, I owe her
a duty.”
“You’ve already done your duty,” I argued. “You’ve already spent nearly fourteen years in Europe, not to mention your years of service in the Senate.”
Our son laced his fingers together in his lap. “President Madison believes another war with Great Britain cannot be avoided,
and that we’ll need Russia for an ally. He flatters me to say I’m the only one who might achieve an alliance. But I might
well be.”
“A terrible thing to be a man of so much importance,” John teased, beaming with pride.
I was neither amused nor willing to let pride in our son overcome good sense. “What of your wife? You cannot possibly take Louisa Catherine. She’d never survive the ruthless winter of the Russian tundra. Neither can you leave her behind to
manage your boys and farms. She hasn’t the aptitude.”
It’d been so difficult for me to manage when my husband was abroad. It would be impossible for a fine English lady like Louisa
Catherine. But John Quincy waved this concern away. “Tommy can manage my farms. My wife will join me in Russia, of course.
I will keep her alive even in winter. So please give your blessing, Mother.”
He was serious. Sitting there, hands laced in his lap, his dark eyes revealed a stubborn resolve. Well, I could be stubborn,
too. “I cannot give my blessing to this.”
“Abigail,” my husband said, reaching for my hand.
I snatched it away. “No. I cannot, will not, give my consent, much less my blessing, to yet another painful separation.”
My son did not need my consent and I embarrassed myself by suggesting that he did. But I was now too overwrought to moderate
my emotions or my tone in any way.
John Quincy’s expression softened, but he would not change his mind. “I could wish to please my parents and have their blessing. But my duty, I must do. It is a law far above that of my mere wishes.”
I felt so angry and helpless that I could scarcely speak a word on our return to Peacefield. I strode into the house with
the energy of a woman half my age and slammed the door behind me.
It wasn’t until I saw John sitting alone on the porch, smoking his cigar, that I confronted him. “How could you encourage
John Quincy when you know very well that if he goes to Russia, we will never live long enough to see him again?”
Only then did I see tears glistening in the corners of my husband’s eyes. “One never knows. We may yet meet again.”
I shook my head, sinking into a rocking chair with true grief welling inside me. “You’ve seen seventy-three years and mine
will soon number sixty-five. Hopes are but the whispers of winds against that hard reality.”
John inhaled, then blew out a long slow breath. “Abigail, there is no office on earth I would accept if it tore me from Johnny’s
company. But we mustn’t be ruled by selfish motive.”
To which I snapped, “Oh, you’re entirely selfish in encouraging this! You want your son to be a great man.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“He’s already a great man,” I argued. “He’s a distinguished public servant, a warm father, a loving husband, and a dutiful
son. That should be enough. He doesn’t need to follow in your footsteps, leaving behind his farm, his business, and his children
the way you did, no matter the harm.”
“What harm did I do my children?” John asked with irritation, letting ashes fall where I would later have to sweep them up.
“I gave them a free country in which to live. What they do with that freedom is up to them.”
It was a powerful argument—though my heart refused to hear it. “Can you really so easily take your last leave of him? Because
I believe it will kill me. Don’t pretend that Johnny isn’t one of the strongest ligaments that still hold us to this earth.”
“Good God, woman. To give him up will crack my heart in two and take years off what remains of my life. Is that what you want to hear? Because it’s true.
I don’t know that I’ll live a year, a month, or even an hour after he boards that ship for Russia.
But it’s his choice. This is the whole of everything we sacrificed for. ”
I knew he was right. Perhaps that is why I turned into his shoulder and sobbed. Or perhaps it was because I had already buried
three children, and this would be like burying a fourth. And to lose John Quincy, our golden child . . .
In the end, there was nothing for it but to submit, though it made me feel numb and lifeless.
In the days that followed, when I sat down to my correspondence, I felt as though I couldn’t write a paragraph worth penning.
My fire was out, my wit decayed, my fancy sunk. All before me seemed grim.
To console me, John said, “At least we’ll have Johnny’s boys with us. That is something.”
Little George was nearly eight, and his brother John-John was only five. Those precious little faces would surely give me
better remembrance of their father than the portrait that still hung over our mantel.
To prepare my mind for the inevitable heartbreak of John Quincy’s departure, I attended his farewell lecture at Harvard. Though
it wasn’t customary to admit ladies, I wasn’t alone on this occasion; the chapel was crowded with both men and women in every
aisle. Yet I felt as if my son were speaking to me alone when he said, “Let us remember the pleasant hours we have trod together.
The only regret with which the remembrance of you can ever be associated is that which I now experience in bidding you farewell.”
Neither could I remember another moment of regret with my John Quincy. The brave boy who climbed a hill with me to watch a
battle. The young man who greeted us in London and dazzled us with the sights. The dutiful son who had given us so much comfort
in our old age . . .
On the day my son and his wife were to depart for Saint Petersburg, I couldn’t master my grief.
All I wanted was to throw myself upon my knees and beg my son to stay.
So I couldn’t risk seeing them off, lest I lose all my dignity and sully theirs.
Instead, I penned a farewell note to my boy, giving him the blessing he’d asked for.
My heart is with you, my prayers and blessing attend you. God bless, preserve and prosper you, my dearest, beloved son.