“You think your republican judge, McKean, was not trying to make me afraid? Of course he was.” Cobbett punched a finger into Callender’s chest. “Here is the only difference between my Adams and your Jefferson on the liberty of the press: Adams wants to control republican newsmongers in the Federal courts, and Jefferson wants to control Federalist newsmongers in the State courts.” Callender shook his head, certain his adversary was mistaken.
“You should be more careful about whom you befriend,” Cobbett added. “Spittin’ Lyon, you know, is head of the United Wild Irish who are plotting with the French émigrés to overthrow the government here. And that Jacobin milksop Beckley, him and his false vote counts, walked out on you, too—was he disappointed in your stand?”
Callender took offense at Cobbett’s bullying gratitude. “Matt Lyon is as loyal to the Stars and Stripes as you are to the Union Jack. And John Beckley is my friend.” Beckley was also the source of the pamphlet that made him famous, but that was not for Porcupine to know. “What is more, I need Beckley.” He paused because his heart was beating too fast. “My wife is ill and he will introduce me to Dr. Benjamin Rush.”
“The fever?”
“It is ravaging her.” She had lost twenty pounds and looked like a skeleton.
“Callender, I have two pieces of advice for you. They are in recompense for the great favor you have done me today, the reason for which I cannot conjecture. Perhaps you spoke up out of some perverse consistency of principle.”
“I don’t need your advice.”
“Yes, you do, and don’t let your pride make you a fool. The first advice is fair warning: get out of Philadelphia immediately. My friend Harper tells me that tomorrow the House will pass his Alien bill. It’s aimed at all your radical ilk, but you are the first one the government intends to arrest and deport. In fact, the bill ought to have your name on it.”
“You’re an alien, too, Cobbett.”
“An alien, yes, but a friend to America’s Tory government. I am not an agent on Talleyrand’s payroll, as you are, ready to urge a legion of readers to rise up in support of a French invasion. You are the enemy alien.”
Callender did not countercharge Cobbett with being on the British ambassador’s payroll, though he believed that to be true. Certainly those two Englishmen were thick as thieves. Instead, he said, “I’m an American now,” the words coming strangely to his tongue. “Since this morning.”
Cobbett’s light-colored eyebrows shot up, his close-set eyes widening. “Good for you. That was a deft maneuver. It will cause great gnashing of teeth among some of my dearest political associates.”
“Harper, you mean.”
“Robert Harper will follow his Alien and Immigration bills with a Sedition bill,” Cobbett confided. “Your cadaverous Gallatin will fight it in the House, but the temper of the times is such that Harper will prevail.”
“Harper’s Federalists may not have a big enough majority in the House,” Callender reminded him.
“Ah, but Harper will make some compromises to win over some republicans. And I,” Cobbett said immodestly, “am suggesting a couple of those compromises.”
Why would this English Tory want to soften the impact of sedition’s blows in Federal courts? It occurred to Callender that Cobbett wanted to fashion some basis for defenses against libel in Pennsylvania State Court, thereby protecting himself from a renewal of today’s attack.
“Gallatin is asking for truth to be a defense against a sedition charge,” Callender offered.
“Right. And if Harper follows my advice, which it is his custom to do, Gallatin will get that. And he’ll get something else from Harper: that a jury, not a judge, should decide the intent of the accused in a sedition trial.”
Those concessions would make the monstrous sedition gag more palatable to a few republicans. Callender assumed it would also lay the groundwork for what Cobbett wanted: the acceptance of truth as a defense in State libel trials, and for the jury in those trials to determine if the defendant had been driven by a malicious intent. The ham-fisted Cobbett was subtler than he had thought.
“Your friend Harper wants my scalp,” Callender said, knowing that for a fact.
“No, it is Alexander Hamilton, the greatest American alive, who wants your scalp. Also, President Adams, urged on by his meddling wife Abigail, wants your scalp. And to be brutally honest, if you still had a newspaper to write for, I would want your scalp. But Congressman Robert Goodloe Harper has something grander in mind than to squelch one noxious newsmonger like you, or a handful of divisive papers.”
Callender waited for Cobbett to vouchsafe the ulterior Federalist motive in pressing for a sedition law. Cobbett outwaited him, so Callender was forced to ask: “What’s more delicious to the Federalists than silencing the opposition press?”
“Crushing the opposition itself, of course, at the very center of resistance to authority.” The Englishman smacked his fist into the palm of his other hand. “At that moment, unity and stability will be restored to America’s political life. Enough—I am off to excoriate this rascal McKean in a pamphlet exposing the hypocrisy of American liberty of the press.”
Callender held the sleeve of his jacket. “What do you mean, ‘the center of resistance’? Are you talking about silencing the House of Representatives?”
“I’ve told you as much as your feeble mind can handle. You must remember, of course, that I will continue to denounce, in what your radical friends call my vulgar and licentious way, anything you write in support of those incendiaries and disorganizers.”
Callender expected as much and dismissed it with a grin. “What’s your other advice?”
“A personal matter.” He dropped his bantering manner and became serious. “Do not allow your loved ones to come under the care of Dr. Benjamin Rush.”
“He’s the most famous—”
“I know, the leader of the Philosophical Society, a pillar of the church, the cynosure of all medical eyes. But his remedy for everything is to purge and bleed. Rush’s patients die, if not from the fever, from his murderous, quack treatment. He is a sneaking trimmer in politics, but more important, he’s a doctor who kills his patients. Stay away from him.”
Callender looked up at the imposing figure and shook his head. “I don’t agree with you about anything, Porcupine. Beckley’s my friend, and he would not direct me wrongly. Now I have to go after him and Spittin’ Matt and say I lost my head in here. We are under the most vicious attack from you and your tyrannous crew, and we must stick together.”
Cobbett shrugged, then cheerfully clapped him on the shoulder. “You Americans.”
As Callender left, he heard Cobbett calling after him, “And by the bye, in your next turbid harangue, you really ought to do something about your figures of speech. When I see you flourishing with a metaphor, I feel as much anxiety as I do when I see a child playing with a razor.”
Chapter 11
July 9, 1798
MOUNT VERNON , VIRGINIA
“You saw that impudent letter from Paine?” said George Washington, who seemed to Hamilton to have grown much older in the year since he retired to Mount Vernon.
Hamilton nodded that he had. Bache had published in his Aurora an open letter from the revolutionary patriot, now living in France and still the patron saint of Jefferson and his Jacobin ilk. Tom Paine called his erstwhile hero, Washington, “treacherous in private friendship and a hypocrite in public life, an apostate or an imposter.” Even worse, the author of The Rights of Man had addressed the President—defender of his dignity as the nation’s founder—as “George.” Hamilton had never even heard Washington’s wife Martha call him by his first name.
Washington, notoriously thin-skinned when it came to criticism, removed his spectacles and pushed a newspaper across the tea table. “That’s a production of Peter Porcupine, alias William Cobbett,” the former President said. “Making allowances for the asperity of an Englishman, for some of his strong and coarse expressions, and a
want of information of many facts, it is not a bad thing.”
Hamilton glanced at the small but potent print in Porcupine’s Gazette: “How Tom gets a living, or what brothel he inhabits in Paris, I know not. But men will learn to express all that is base, malignant, treacherous, unnatural and blasphemous, by one single monosyllable—Paine.” Hamilton agreed with the point of view and admired the way that Englishman made his position absolutely clear. Cobbett, whom Hamilton knew to be more British Tory than American Federalist, had also joined the criticism of Washington on his expense accounts, but the great man’s longtime aide and message-writer did not bring that up; few newsmongers were reliable in everything.
“Some of the gazettes,” Washington went on, “have teemed with all the invective that disappointment, ignorance of facts and malicious falsehoods could invent.” He shook his head slowly, obviously grieved at the licentiousness of the press.
“General.” Hamilton liked to address him thus, recalling their days in the Revolution when he had served Washington as his chief of staff. The military title also introduced what he had in mind. “At the present dangerous crisis of public affairs, I make no apology for troubling you in your deserved retirement.”
The former President, however, had his mind on his unfair treatment by the press and was not about to move to another subject. As his guest had to nod in sympathy, he continued full sail: “They have sought to misrepresent my politics and affections, and to wound my reputation and feelings. Their purpose was to weaken, if not entirely destroy the confidence the American people had been pleased to repose in me.”
“But they failed abysmally, sir. Your good repute has never been sullied.”
“It might be expected,” Washington pressed ahead, “that at this stage of my public life I should take some notice of such virulent abuse.”
“No. It’s beneath you to notice those attacks.” Hamilton wished he could get him off this subject. He knew that Washington’s reputation for integrity meant more to him than anything, and he knew it was not mere vanity. Such stature inculcated the people’s faith in their new government and gave permanence to the institutions of democracy. The French had tried to emulate the American experiment and had failed in the mob’s lust for blood and bread. There was no guarantee that the American experiment in representative government would not similarly fail; if it did, nobody could foretell when the chance would come to mankind again. Hamilton knew that the people’s trust in the political virtue of their leaders was central to Washington’s plan. That was why he, when Treasury Secretary, was willing to present his tale of adultery and blackmail rather than admit to any hint of financial corruption.
“You’re right, Colonel. I shall pass over them in utter silence.” The cloud passed from Washington’s expression. He became formally receptive, looking at once interested and aloof, the way Hamilton recalled him in Cabinet sessions. His longtime subordinate felt subordinated again. Hamilton’s mission was manipulative, to use the General as his route back to power, but he at once felt the old tug of unchallengeable authority. The man had an uncanny ability to exude command; only that presence had kept Hamilton and Jefferson, with such differing views on the source of sovereignty and the centrality of authority, in harness in the nation’s formative years. Power—perhaps because truly unsought—naturally flowed Washington’s way.
“A powerful faction—a sect whose high priest is here in Virginia—wishes to make this country a province of France,” he told his old commander. He presumed that Washington was well aware of Jefferson’s machinations with Madison and Monroe in the middle counties of the state. “I foresee a serious struggle with that nation. It is the most flagitious, despotic, and vindictive government that ever disgraced the annals of mankind. You are aware of the disclosure of the XYZ perfidy?”
Washington acknowledged that he was, but was not at all surprised. “One would think,” he said, “that the measure of infamy pursued by the French Directory required no further disclosure to open the eyes of the blindest.”
That encouraged Hamilton to go on. “In the event of an open rupture with France, the public voice”—on behalf of which he felt free to speak today—“ will again call you to command the armies of your country. You are again needed to unite the nation. Everyone says that you will be compelled to make the sacrifice.”
“Open war is likely only if the French mounted a formidable invasion,” noted the former President. “In case of an actual invasion by a formidable force, I certainly would not entrench myself under the cover of age and retirement. But there is no conviction in my breast that I would be the best choice to lead a new army.” Hamilton shook his head and waited, knowing this was his leader’s modest introduction. “If I were to serve, it would have to be unequivocally known that the nation’s preference might not be given to a man more in his prime.” That meant he wanted some insulation in advance from the expected criticism from Bache and Callender and their republican ilk.
“How might you counter such an invasion, sir?” Hamilton wanted him thinking militarily rather than politically.
“During the Revolution, our plan called for time, caution and worrying the enemy,” said Washington, warming to the subject, “until we could be better provided with arms and had better-disciplined troops. But in this case, the invader ought to be attacked at every step, not suffered to make an establishment in this country and acquiring strength from disaffected Americans and from slaves.” He paused. “I would want to know who would be my coadjutors. Would you take an active part?”
Hamilton was hoping for just that invitation. “Sir, not only am I prepared to give up an extensive and lucrative law practice, but Governor Jay has just offered to appoint me Senator from New York, to fill the Hobart vacancy. I have declined, in anticipation of the honor of serving as your second- in-command.” That position as number two was central to him; with the aging Washington as titular commander-in-chief of the army, he wanted to be the de facto commander. “Perhaps as your Inspector General with line command. Frankly, I would expect rank proportionate to the sacrifice I am to make.”
As a major-general named before any others, he would in effect have control of a 20,000-man provisional force that could one day become America’s standing army. Such a force not only would put the pro-French faction in the central counties of Virginia to the test of resistance, but also would make possible a vast expansion of the United States. It was Hamilton’s dream to compete with France in wresting control from Spain of all the Florida and Louisiana territories, thereby extending the nation south to the Gulf and west past the Mississippi. After that, a march southward through Mexico would ultimately bring South America under U.S. control.
The New World, in Hamilton’s vision, would then be a unified empire, capable of challenging any empire in the Old. He disagreed with what he thought of as Madison’s shortsightedness; a nation, as Hamilton conceived it, did not have to be compact to be responsive to the will of its people. Popular resistance to such a campaign to strike westward and southward, he was certain, would be minor; all Hamilton needed to overwhelm domestic division and unify two continents was an army. Such a hemispheric conqueror would be made President in 1800 almost by acclamation, in the Washington tradition. Some halfhearted, “low” Federalists might stick with President Adams when Hamilton’s challenge came, but he was confident that the “high” Federalists loyal to him controlled the election machinery.
The former President rose and led the way to the front porch of Mount Vernon, overlooking the Potomac River. On its banks some of his slaves were washing clothes. Hamilton, looking up at him, was reminded of how commandingly tall and erect Washington was, even in his declining years. Physical size and carriage were helpful in dominating a roomful of men.
“If the President calls me into service,” Washington said quietly, “I will tell him of my wish to put you first in my command.”
Hamilton closed his eyes in relief and then thanked his chief for his confidence. “Harsh
measures are in store as we raise this army,” he reported. “An Alien Act has been passed to deport those suspected of secret machinations against the government. I hear a Sedition bill is on the way.”
This did not bother Washington. “In many instances aliens are sent among us for the express purpose of poisoning the minds of our own people. They seek to sow dissensions among them, thereby endeavoring to dissolve the Union.” But he cautioned Hamilton: “Of course, these could become the desiderata in the opposition.”
That last was a politically wise observation; Hamilton agreed that if Adams became too fervent in his suppression of dissent, public sentiment could turn and the strict new laws then play into the hands of the Jeffersonians. The old man, always seen to be above faction, was not above recognizing the growing partizan reality.
“I agree, sir, of course. Although the mass of aliens ought to be obliged to leave the country, guarded exceptions should be made in the case of merchants and those whose demeanor among us has been unexceptional. We need not be cruel or violent.” As Washington seemed to await more, Hamilton added, “Let us not establish a tyranny. Energy in the Executive is a different thing from the violence that would give body and solidity to faction.”
Then the New Yorker pushed a pin into the ballooning fortunes of an irritant in his own state: “I fear President Adams, who may be an alliance in New York with Aaron Burr, will want him in a position of authority.”
Washington shook his head, no. “Colonel Burr is a brave and able officer, but”—and the “but” was all-important—“the question is whether he has not equal talents for intrigue.”
Hamilton took that to mean Burr was out, and with him any challenge to Hamilton’s authority over the new army. President Adams would soon learn that when asked to save the country again, George Washington would do it on his own terms. And the key term would be the return to public life of Alexander Hamilton astride a white horse.
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