THIRTY-ONE
The arrival of Heywood Beauchamp Taft on a blustery January morning left Maddie deeper in melancholy. Her isolation grew equally deep, with her decision to avoid entertaining as a way to conserve resources. She offered her recent loss as an excuse, with the end result being a lack of invitations extended by friends who thought she was following ancient mourning customs and wished to retreat from society.
If she had to find one bright spot, Maddie could point to her ledger. Heywood’s foresight in purchasing timberland had paid off, in large part due to the war. Taft oak sailed on Lake Erie and withstood the full weight of British shot, winning a naval battle that must surely have infuriated the Admiral. When the United States Army burned the town of York, in Canada, the dragoons went into battle mounted on Taft horses. Money, however, was not the cure for her malaise.
Since encountering George Ashford, Maddie had been uneasy, and when news reached Charleston that Bonaparte had abdicated, she feared that England would marshal its resources and extract revenge for American victories in the Canadian provinces. She gave voice to her concerns in her correspondence with her old friend Eliza Monroe, now Mrs. George Hay, who must have detected an off note within the lines of prose. Eliza begged Maddie to visit her in Washington, where an unmarried woman could find no end of companionship, conversation and pleasant company in a vibrant atmosphere. For Maddie, it would mean an opportunity to mingle socially with people who had not seen her in the old frocks that she could no longer make over and pretend they were new. At the same time, she would find respite from Ethan’s less than subtle suggestions that she find a new husband, as if Maddie were a loose end in need of tying up.
The happy reunion of childhood friends was punctuated by the oft-repeated phrase “Do you recall when?”. As the recollections left their Boston school days and approached their time in London, Maddie held back, as if she could erase it all if she would not speak of it. The hot, humid July days hurried by, and she came to see that happiness such as she had known was fleeting. Her idyllic childhood had ended when her mother died. Her girlhood as the pampered daughter of a British peer had dashed against the rocks, and then her joyful existence as Mrs. Heywood Taft had drawn to a close. Rather than erase all, she used her chats with Eliza to sort through the memories as one might sort through a collection of books, reading over favorite passages before storing the volumes on their proper shelf.
August of 1814 was a time of turmoil in Washington, with no one certain what the British might do with brigades of battle-hardened soldiers no longer needed on the Continent. It was the main topic of conversation at every dinner party that Maddie attended, where Mr. Hay and Mr. Monroe sought her opinion. “England’s only reason for invading Denmark was to gain control of the country, to bend it to the Crown’s will,” she said, in response to a question posed by her host.
“They would not accede to restrictions on trade, the same restrictions that England has forced on us,” Mr. Monroe said. He tasted the soup and added salt with a discrete hand. Eliza was rather sensitive about her cook’s haphazard seasoning.
“Yet one could not equate our country with Denmark,” Mr. Johnson said. The Supreme Court justice and native Charlestonian had been a close colleague of Grandfather Mahon. He declared himself Maddie’s guardian upon their introduction at the end of July.
“Neither would I discount England’s desire to control the world,” Mrs. Johnson said.
“Recently, I had word of my brother, who is cruising the Hampton Roads,” Maddie said. “There has been an unquestionable increase in the number of British ships sighted off our coast.”
“What force might they deploy?” Mr. Hay asked. “To spare a small unit for action in a corner of Europe, for example, is a different matter when applied to a much longer coastline, and at a far greater distance from home.”
“Their navy has capacity to transport troops,” Mr. Johnson said. “Certainly our small navy offers no threat to such an undertaking.”
“If that is true,” Mr. Monroe said. “Then would one be wrong to believe that what soldiers might be available, given the occupation of France, must be a limited contingent?”
“Exactly what hampered their efforts during the first rebellion,” Eliza said. “A finite number that grew smaller as men were lost. Supplies are easily outstripped when a supply line extends over miles of ocean.”
“Even a small army could inflict great damage,” Maddie said.
Dinner chatter all over the city had a military air as further intelligence arrived. Within days, news came from coastal towns in Virginia, reporting British raids that accomplished little more than destruction and terror. In spite of a sense of foreboding that permeated drawing rooms, Washington society continued to entertain and Maddie lost herself in the delights of flirtation and coquetry.
On a particularly hot August afternoon, she accepted an invitation to take a drive with John Taylor, a colleague of Mr. Hay and another lawyer of Virginia stock. With Johnny asking them to identify every building they passed, it was difficult to hold an adult conversation, but to his credit, Mr. Taylor was unflappable.
“I have a confession to make,” he said, after explaining to the children that Mr. Madison lived in the President’s House because that was where the President had to live. “Out of fear of alarming the other guests, I did not confirm the rumors of British troop ships spotted in Chesapeake Bay. It is not rumor. There can be no doubt that England intends to invade.”
“They will come here directly,” Maddie said. She held Beau a little closer, only to realize that she might wake him if she did not maintain a sense of calm. A rising panic had her heart racing. “Just like Copenhagen. Take the capital and the country must capitulate.”
“This swamp under construction?” Mr. Taylor asked. “Let them take it. The government does not reside in one city, Mrs. Taft. It is spread all across the fifteen states, into our territories. We, the people, are the government. Our friends across the sea have yet to realize that.”
“War will come to our doors. As it did to our parents.”
“Mr. Monroe and I will ride out to join our units,” he said. “It would be best if you and Mrs. Hay took your children into the country.”
To leave Washington was to leave behind a dinner party invitation that Maddie had wanted more than any other. The President and Mrs. Madison had asked her, an average woman of no standing in Washington, to join them at the President’s House. It was said that Mrs. Madison was an incomparable hostess and her fetes were beyond compare. A gaggle of lobsterbacks in Virginia would not deter her from attending the gathering, from enjoying the company, from shining as brightly as she could in her best gown that was showing its age. Mr. Taylor would not comprehend her reasoning at all.
“Mrs. Monroe is too delicate to endure such a distressing journey,” Maddie said. Even if it were not for the President’s party, she had a duty to her friend. There would be another night, another invitation, if not from this President than from the next. Mr. Monroe would see to it. “I cannot abandon Mrs. Hay, who will not abandon her mother.”
“The wife of our former representative to the Court of St. James would surely be treated with some measure of respect,” he said.
“Of course, but I was thinking of the staff, who will flee, I fear, leaving Mrs. Hay to tend to her mother alone.”
“It is your decision, of course, but I would strongly suggest that you consider my words carefully.”
Upon returning to the Hay house, Maddie discovered that she had little time to consider options that had evaporated while she drove around without a care. Eliza had received word from her father, and was frantically packing her wedding silver and china. “The British landed a sizable force on the Patuxent and they are on the move,” Eliza said.
“They will march here,” Maddie said. Copenhagen, where poor Edmund Powell had lost his life. The strategy that functioned well in one place would be repeated in another. The British military was not a highl
y creative set. They did not seek originality when past action proved highly effective and the situation was largely the same.
“The President does not agree,” Eliza said. “The fools. Mr. Madison and his generals are certain that the enemy seeks to take Baltimore because it is important economically.”
“What do the British care about that?” Maddie asked. She closed the trunk that Eliza had padded with her best silk gowns and Mr. Hay’s important papers. “They would take Charleston if they wanted a rich port. We rely on men to safeguard us, Eliza, and we rely on blind idiots who
cannot see what is under their noses.”
“You should go,” Eliza said. “Take your children to safety.”
“And leave you? Your poor mother, and Hortensia as well?”
The household staff was happy to return to the safety of Virginia, to escape an unknown fate at the hands of marauders. Left on their own, with only Beau’s nurse to offer some assistance, the women sought shelter in the root cellar under the kitchen. The air was stifling, the quiet suffocating. Maddie fanned the children, their little bodies shining with sweat as they dozed in the heat. Hortensia and Johnny curled up together on a blanket, as if they had not been battling all afternoon, an image of innocence that was at odds with the world outside their shelter.
A faint aroma of burning wood startled Maddie out of a light sleep. She listened to the crackling in the distance, sniffed the air, but did not know if the flames would reach the house. She made her way up the cellar steps and poked her head through the trap door, to find that the house was eerily quiet. The smell of smoke was stronger, however, and had to be investigated. On tiptoes, she felt her way through the darkened rooms to the front of the house, and peeked through a gap in the curtains.
The sound of soldiers marching, clanking and chattering, grew louder. Pressed against the wall, Maddie lifted the edge of the drape just enough to gain a view of the street. Clots of redcoats were illuminated by the flaming torches they carried, like devils on the move, delivering hell. The cellar would become an oven and the helpless females would all roast alive if the house were set alight. Maddie dropped to her hands and knees, to crawl back to the kitchen without making noise. She heard a horse clatter up to the house, the rider’s sword rattling as he reined in the animal.
“We are not barbarians,” the man bellowed. “Private homes will be respected. Form your ranks. On to Norfolk. The naval yard awaits your gift of flame and destruction.”
Stunned, Maddie could not move, could not breath, could not utter a cry of alarm to her friend in the cellar. She hazarded another peek, and curled up on the floor when she saw what she prayed she had not heard. The past she had fled had caught up to her and was just outside the door, standing on the steps with another officer, while a pair of horses grazed in Eliza’s garden.
“Their government buildings made a jolly little bonfire,” the officer said.
“The burning of York, brought home to Mr. Madison,” Sunderland said. “Let that be a lesson to them.”
Laughter rolled under the door, a diabolical rumble that left Maddie trembling. “Brought home and delivered to his dining table,” the officer said. “We arrived in time for dinner, my lord. How rude of our host to be otherwise engaged.”
“I will be glad to be rid of this country. Men dropping from heat. I do not know how she can endure it.”
“The woman to whom we offered a toast at the President’s House?” the officer asked.
“Should we be so fortunate as to invade Charleston, I shall introduce you to her. She will be glad to see me, I promise you.”
“Charleston must wait, I fear. Scouts have the President fleeing north, and we must give chase so that he can be captured and there is the end of this nonsense.”
“I for one do not wish to see another man die of heat exhaustion. A quick end, then.” Their boots scuffed on the limestone and their voices retreated into the night. “The voyage to Baltimore will provide the troops with plenty of rest. One last battle and we’ll have Mr. Madison’s capitulation in hand.”
On the other side of the glass, orders echoed off the houses. The streets rang with the horrible cacophony of rampaging soldiers celebrating their wickedness. Frozen to the floor, Maddie was unable to stir, even as Sunderland and his colleague rode away. The sounds of soldiers came to be replaced by the sounds of women and old men, weeping and cursing.
Maddie used the door frame for balance as she got to her feet, knees shaking, and slipped back the hasp. She tugged at the knob until a sliver of light appeared. The night air was thick was smoke, the sky glowing red. Too shocked to think clearly, she wandered down the street until she reached a corner where a cluster of local people stood in confusion, unsure of where to go next. “I would have been there,” she said to herself. At the President’s house, sitting down to dinner, a distinguished guest. Tears rolled her cheeks, but why was she crying? Sparks flew through the hot air while frantic men took to their roofs to stamp out embers that would set the city alight. She walked on.
The elegant home where ordinary citizens could call upon their leader was roaring its demise, sheets of flame shooting from the windows and licking at the sashes. The grand experiment that was the American republic was fire and smoke, consuming the very air. At the top of Jenkins’ Hill, the unfinished edifice that was the seat of government burned like a funeral pyre. Did it signify the death of liberty, the expiration of freedom?
Drops of rain pelted Maddie’s head and slapped at her cheeks. She was yet free, but she also knew that the world was not big enough to hide from a dragoon intent on finding her. As if a light dawned in her dazed mind, she recalled that her children were unprotected. Turning away from the conflagration, she raced along streets that were growing increasingly muddy as the rain poured down. She ran up the steps of Eliza’s house and paused to kick off her muddied shoes, only to spot something shiny on the top step. A button, a penny, whatever it was she kicked it away into the street, to be crushed under the feet of those who would come to reclaim the city for the free and independent people of the United States.
The Second War of Rebellion Page 52