Posterity (28 page)

We were in this stormy weather about forty or fifty days, dating from the beginning. But now at last we are in fine weather again, and the sun shines warm.

When he reached San Francisco, Melville discovered that his poems had been rejected for publication. Disappointed, he abandoned the voyage with Thomas and returned to his family in New York.

S
AM
H
OUSTON TO
S
AM
H
OUSTON,
J
R.

“If Texas demands your services or your life,
in her cause, stand by her.”

Sam Houston never wanted his state to secede and in 1861, as the governor of Texas and a slaveholder, he stood alone as a Southern Unionist. Yet when the Texas legislature made it plain that secession was in fact the will of the people, Houston quietly relinquished the governor's office and told a supporter, “I have done all I could to keep her from seceding, and now if she won't go with me I'll have to turn and go with her.” He had fought for the independence of Texas, led her as nation, maneuvered her into the Union, and served as her senator and governor: Sam Houston's loyalty to Texas never wavered.

Here he writes to the eldest of his eight children, Sam Houston, Jr., who at eighteen years old was eager to join the Confederate Army. Sam, Jr., did enlist the following year, was wounded at Shiloh, taken as prisoner by northern forces, and returned to Texas before the war's end and before his father's death. Sam Houston died with his family at his side at home in Huntsville in 1863. He was never to know the outcome of the war nor the fate of his beloved Texas.

Cedar Point, 23rd July, 1861

My Dear Son:

Supposing that on last night you had a fine wet time of it, and the benefit of a pleasant today for drill, I write to you as I can send it by Mr. Armstrong, who wishes to take Tom some shoes.

I am happy to tell you that we are all well, except Willie, who has a chill, but I hope that it will be the last; and Sally has been ill of fever, but today she is much better. Will be well I hope soon. Had my friend Dr. Smith been at home, I would have sent for him. Now a days Esculapius is transformed to Mars.

I had hoped, my dear son, that in retirement my mind would be engrossed, so far as I am concerned with the affairs of the times, in the cares of my Domestic circle and matters concerning my family alone, and that I could live in peace. In the train of events now transpiring, I think I perceive disasters to Texas. The men and arms are all leaving this quarter of the theatre in the great Drama, which is playing, and is to be played. I know not how much statesmanship Lincoln may have, or Generalship at his command, and therefore I would not be wise to Prophesy. But looking at matters as they seem to me, his wise course, I would say is, that Texas is his great point in which to make a lodgment and thereby make a diversion from the seat of war. Texas in his possession, and the Gulf is his with Fort Pickens as a convenient Point. The assault upon Texas will require two armies & weaken the army of Eastern operations. If Texas is attacked she must be in her present isolated condition. She can look for no aid from the Confederacy, and must either succumb or defend herself. Are our means sufficient to do this? What is her situation as has been represented by the newspapers? Has she arms, men, ammunition, in an emergency to defend herself? Arkansas is crying for help. Our frontier is again assailed by the Indians, and she will be left alone in her straits without means. Missouri must yield to the pressure by which she is surrounded. The States of Illinois, Iowa, Indiana, Minnesota, Nebraska, and Kansas must soon silence her, and then Arkansas without means, as she says, must be overrun, and then Texas must be the Ultimate Point in the campaign of subjugation and spoil. Under these circumstances, it is wise for her to send, unasked and at the instigation of “Major Marshall,” her men and arms? That wretch has been a blotch on humanity and will be a scab on Texas. I am ready, as I have ever been, to die for my country, but to die without a hope of benefit by my death is not my wish. The well-being of my country is the salvation of my family; But to see it surrendered to Lincoln, as sheep in the shambles, is terrible to me.

I fear that within twenty days, or less, an assault will be made upon some part of our coast, and how are we prepared to repel it? Have we men? Will we have means? Our troops with leaders, have never been beaten, and with good ones, they will always be invincible. Will Major Marshall, McLeod, Sherman, or the gallant men made by the Convention, or the Committees of vigilance, save us in an hour of peril? Does anyone suppose that proclamations by a Clark will save the Country in the hour of her peril; yet no one else has power but those to whom I have referred! The fact that a park of flying artillery is on the vessel now in our harbor is proof that a landing is designed somewhere on the coast. The question arises: is it wise to send our men and arms at the instance of Major Marshall!

These matters, my son, I have written to you, and have to say in conclusion, if Texas did not require your services, and you wished to go elsewhere, why then all would be well, but as she will need your aid, your first allegiance is due to her and let nothing cause you in a moment of ardor to assume any obligation to any other power whatever, without my consent. If Texas demands your services or your life, in her cause, stand by her.

Houston is not, nor will be a favorite name in the Confederacy! Thus, you had best keep your duty and your hopes together, and when the Drill is over, come home. Your Dear Ma and all of us send best love to you and Martin. Give my regards to General Rogers, Colonel Daly, & Dr. Smith. When will you be home my son! Thy Devoted Father,

Sam Houston

R
ICHARD
E
.
B
YRD TO
R
ICHARD
E
.
B
YRD

“I have named a big new land after mommie . . .”

In September 1928, Richard E. Byrd was preparing to depart on his immense exploratory expedition to Antarctica. He spent his last days at home in Boston filling his mind with impressions of his wife and four children, “snatching them like a glutton,” he wrote. As he began his journey, filled with “heart-sinking doubt,” he asked himself, “Why are you doing this?” His answer was found in a quotation from the Norwegian explorer Fridtjof Nansen, “Man wants to know and when he does not want to know he ceases to be a man.”

Plans for the expedition had been in the works for years. It was an enormous undertaking, privately funded with more than $500,000, and included four ships, sixty-five men, four airplanes, and 178 dogs. In the end, after nearly two years in the polar freeze, the expedition had made the first flight over the South Pole, photographed some 150,000 square miles of Antarctica, discovered two mountain ranges and a ten-thousand-foot peak, and claimed for the United States a vast new area that had never been seen before, Marie Byrd Land, named for the admiral's wife.

Here forty-year-old Byrd writes from Antarctica to eight-year-old “Dickie.”

[February 22, 1929]

Dear Dickie—

I have named a big new land after mommie because mommie is the sweetest finest and nicest and best person in the world. Take good care of her and be awfully sweet to her while I'm away.

I love you my dear boy.

Daddy

Little America
Antarctica

L
INCOLN
S
TEFFENS TO
P
ETE
S
TEFFENS

“. . . horses, pigs and sheep were frightened by us . . . while farmers looked up at us and automobiles
halted to watch us as we zoomed along.”

In 1931, journalist and reformer Lincoln Steffens was enjoying a renewed success at age sixty-five. He published his autobiography that year—during the hard times of the Great Depression—and it had become a major best seller. Delighted, Steffens wrote to his
sister, “My humble lecture tour is developing into a triumph. Everybody seems to have read (and bought) my book and . . . most of them have an emotional sense of it.”

Here, on tour for
The Autobiography of Lincoln Steffens
, during the very early years of commercial aviation, the author writes with exhilaration and wonder to seven-year-old Pete, at home in Carmel, California.

Plaza Hotel
San Antonio, Texas,
Dec. 9, 1931

Dear Pete,

I flew yesterday in one of those big passenger planes from Louisville to Memphis and I meant to fly farther to near here, but the rain and fog stopped all flights that day, so I came on by train. I'll tell you about it.

The plane I was to take was coming from Cincinnati, so I took a taxi and went to the airport in Louisville to meet it. There were some clouds out there but the weather man said we could fly, and when the big plane came swooping in and the other passengers got out, we were told to “all aboard.” I ducked low to get in and took a seat on the right side, buckled the strap around me and settled down comfortably. My bag had been checked like on a train. I had a window to myself and there were eight other passengers. The pilots were two young men, about 20–24, who looked strong, confident, very competent. Both went up to their station, which is closed off, apart; they had the motors going already. With one glance around at us, one of them started us across the field; he paused, started the motors flying so fast you could not see them and we raced around the field, took off,—we were flying. The ground sank away as we lifted and turned to take our direction, and what surprised me was they did not seem to go fast. You could see by the way we passed trains and autos that we were going at great speed, but it did not seem fast. That is because, up there, you can see so far ahead objects, like hills, rivers and towns, that you seem to approach them slowly. We sailed along making a great, regular noise (the motors) but we moved evenly, steadily, and swung around heights very smoothly, bending way over. We were going fast, to Memphis, I thought. There was nothing to do for a long while. Some passengers read papers. I watched the country,—all marked up in farms,—blow by under us for perhaps two hours.

Then the motors slowed and we began to swoop down around in a circle. I saw a big town nearby and somebody said it was Nashville, Tenn., but I was surprised; and I was glad, too, when we came down on the landing field of an airport, a muddy field which we tore up badly. And I learned that it was a regular stop-off station. I darted into the rest-room, got a sandwich and a Coca-cola while some passengers got out and others were buying tickets. We did not stop long. Climbing in again, we raced through the mud, paused, set the motors going full power and so again up, but not so high this time. It was raining, the clouds hung low,—what they called a low ceiling,—and the pilot to see and keep his course had to stay near the ground.

Then we came to high hills,—almost mountains, and we ran into big pieces of fog. That drove the pilot down lower, and from then on we always followed a river or railroad that was going our way. Cars and horses, pigs and sheep were frightened by us,—so close,—and ran and kicked up, while farmers looked up at us and automobiles halted to watch us as we zoomed along. For now we seemed to be going fast, very fast. The boy pilots took turns and sometimes they were both out there together. A passenger I met afterward, one who had flown a lot, told me he was scared; and that the pilots were, of the fog. Anyway, it was 1 hour 50 minutes, this time, when we settled again to Memphis; as I was going out, I asked the pilot how long before we would go on. He shook his head and said: “Not today: we'll cancel this afternoon's flight.” And they did. My ticket was to Dallas, Texas, where we were to arrive at 5:30
P.M.
The agent bought me a railroad ticket and berth on the Pacific Missouri Railroad to here instead of to Dallas. And to make up, the agent took us to a hotel, gave us luncheon and a room to wait in till 7:15 that (yesterday) evening. I had a bath, a nap and came on last night this long, long journey down to San Antonio, which is in Texas near the Mexican border.

It is sunny here. I have to stay here and try to get over my bronchitis in time to speak here on Monday (today is Wednesday): to Houston on Tuesday: and then next Wednesday, I have to fly again from Houston to Amarillo so as to speak at Canon, Texas, at a college. But flying is good here: it is almost always clear, and usually sunny. After that, Pete, I'll be going home, stopping only for a day at Los Angeles. I can't name my date yet: I'll wire that to Anna later, but I think it will be about December 21 or 22: Carmel, and I'll be so glad.

Love to all: Betty Ann, Leslie, Pete, your teacher and the whole town.

Dad

H
ARRY
S
.
T
RUMAN TO
M
ARGARET
T
RUMAN

“Stalin and Churchill paid your pop a most high
compliment by saying that my presiding had
been the ablest they'd ever seen.”

In July 1945 Harry Truman met with Winston Churchill and Joseph Stalin (“Uncle Joe”) at the Potsdam Conference to discuss the future of postwar Europe and how best to bring an end to the continuing war with Japan. Before this trip to Germany, Truman had traveled to Europe just one other time—as a reserve officer in World War I. He had never been to college and he had been president of the United States for only three and a half months.

Here the sixty-one-year-old Harry Truman writes to his only child, twenty-one-year-old Margaret. The day before he wrote the letter, on the twenty-fourth of July, it had apparently been decided that, if everything went as expected, within weeks a new weapon, the atomic bomb, would be used against Japan.

Berlin, July 25, 1945

Dear Margie:

—We went to the British dinner night before last—and was
it
a show piece too! Mr. Byrnes and I walked from the Berlin White House (it's still yellow trimmed in a dirty red—dirty yellow too) to Mr. Churchill's place about three blocks down the street or up (it's level so either one is all right). Churchill had phoned Gen. Vaughan, my
chief
of protocol, that he would greatly, very greatly appreciate it if I would arrive a few minutes late as I happened to be the senior guest and Uncle Joe should realize it. Well we arrived as directed and were received by the P.M and his nice daughter, Mary. I had to shake hands with Marshall, now Generallisimo Stalin, General of the Army Antonov, Marshall Zhukov, Field Marshall Montgomery, Lord this & that and a lot more Ruskies and Limies, we went out to dinner. It was a very colorful affair, as you can see. I am enclosing you the menu and the list of guests. The menu is signed to you by J. Stalin & Winston Churchill and the guest list is signed by all the guests. Stalin and Churchill paid your pop a most high compliment by saying that my presiding had been the ablest they'd ever seen. That's what Adm. Leahy and all the rest say but it is hard to believe because I've had plenty of trouble.