Adams had not felt better in a year. For the first time, he felt he was his own man, neither in thrall to Washington nor to his favorite, Hamilton, an illegitimate brat with aristocratic pretensions and no concern for the effect of his adulterous lechery on his adoring wife. Adams crumpled Porcupine’s Gazette, threw it in the waste bucket, and paced happily around the office. He was aware what this peacemaking with France and estrangement from Britain might cost him: a split in his government, perhaps his re-election next year. Hamilton would probably try to replace him as the Federalist’s choice. Not with himself, of course—that was impossible after he admitted whoring with the Reynolds woman in his wife’s drawing room—but with Charles Pinckney or another Hamilton acolyte.
Let him try. Let the alien Porcupine and his seditionist newspapering cohort rage to their black hearts’ content; there were now laws to control that abuse of the liberty of the press. Adams was convinced he had done the right thing for the nation in avoiding war, no matter if it divided his political support and jeopardized his position. Four years in the heat and mud of the new Federal city and its unfinished barn of a light gray “palace” held no great attraction for him. He had acted as a patriot in the Revolution and would continue to act as a patriot as President.
He sat down and let his rush of noble-spiritedness subside. Every political coin had two sides; it could be that this peacemaking would have its electoral reward. It meant the end of the standing army, headed by the ambitious Hamilton, with its huge cost. The people, including staunch Federalists, did not like to pay the taxes for that army’s upkeep. Adams drummed his fingers on the table. In time he would ask Hamilton, as his patriotic duty, to disband the army in an orderly and efficient manner. And his contemptuous fellow-patriot and founder of the nation would, he was sure, do that onerous duty. John Adams could hardly wait until Alexander Hamilton, too, would be absent from the field.
November 7, 1799
PHILADELPHIA
Cobbett arrived back in his printing room above the bookstore in Philadelphia to learn a disturbing political development. His judicial nemesis, the republican Judge Tom McKean, had been elected Governor of Pennsylvania. This despite having been denounced in Porcupine’s Gazette as “a degraded wretch, persecutor of the inoffensive Quakers, corrupt resident of a confiscated house, and so great a drunkard that after dinner, person and property were not safe in Pennsylvania.” In the language of Porcupine, that was a standard salvo, based on well-known facts; nothing out of the ordinary. Cobbett wished he had been more forceful.
However, his election could mean trouble for Porcupine’s Gazette. The vindictive McKean was an intimate friend of Dr. Benjamin Rush, the most eminent physician in the nation. Cobbett relished denouncing Rush as a Dr. Sangrado, the foolish physician immortalized in the novel Gil Blas, bleeding his patients until they died of the treatment rather than the disease. When Rush threatened a libel suit, Cobbett had laughed it off. But now with McKean appointing the state judges and prosecutors, and with the juries being selected by radical republicans, his exposure of the quack doctor might cause him trouble.
He was cheered, however, by a pamphlet called the Porcupiniad by the republican printer Matt Carey. He settled by the fire and read it aloud to his wife: “Listen, Nancy: ‘The style of Porcupine’s Gazette is unquestionably the most base and wretched of any newspaper in Christendom,’ this wild Irishman writes.”
“You do enjoy it when you provoke their rage.”
“True. Here: ‘There never was a Gazette so infamous for scurrility, abuse, cursing, swearing and blasphemy. Cobbett, when hard pressed in an argument, calls his opponent rascal, scoundrel, villain or thief and by this eloquent mode triumphs over his adversaries.’ You see? He concedes defeat.” Smiling, he read on silently.
“Why does that seem to please you so, William?”
“It increases my Gazette’s circulation, for one thing,” he told her. “But it illuminates the shallowness of Matt Carey’s style. I don’t describe Callender, for example, as a mere ‘rascal’—I brand him a ‘runaway wretch,’ a phrase that fills the mouth even as it reminds the reader that our drunken Jimmy escaped the rope in Scotland. And the republican hero Dr. Benjamin Rush is no mere ‘villain’ to me—he is, in my Gazette, a full-fledged quack, which no less a prose stylist as the essayist Addison has defined as ‘a boastful pretender to physic.’ But Matt Carey has no sense of the poetry of slander. None of them do.” At his wife’s questioning look, he amended that: “Well, maybe Callender does, but there is no joy in his scurrility, no cheery buoyancy to his invective.”
“That reminds me. Someone pointed out his Maria Reynolds to me on the street the other day. The woman who caused all that trouble for Colonel Hamilton? There was a mention in the Aurora of her being here.”
“Oh?” Cobbett had given his wife permission to read Duane’s sheet in his absence for just this purpose of keeping him informed. Nancy was loyal, strong, and above all, trustworthy. When he escaped to America, he had left her behind with 20 pounds for upkeep, and when she rejoined him here a year later, she brought the entire sum unbroken with her. He knew her sensible mind would not be affected by exposure to the republican poison.
“The Aurora printed something about a group of ladies calling a constable to eject ‘that Maria’ from some respectable establishment,” she reported. “I accosted her in a friendly way because I supposed you would want me to.”
“Good for you, Nancy. What did she say?”
“She was selling some property here and then was on her way to New York to see her attorney, a Colonel somebody. She separated from her husband in England and was looking for a position here.”
It could not be Colonel Hamilton, Cobbett thought; perhaps his rival, Colonel Burr. “How did the Reynolds hussy strike you? As a person, I mean.”
“More of a lady than I would have supposed from that shocking pamphlet of Hamilton’s. Not a slut at all, the way he made her out to be, or a hussy, as you call her. Well spoken, in fact, and carries her height well.”
“Good manners?”
“Oh, yes. And grateful that I treated her with respect. The daughter with her was more than a bit shy.”
Cobbett shook his head; his wife’s intuitive judgment about the character of Hamilton’s accuser—and Callender’s heroine—did not fit into his own notion of a great man who was temptable and a loose woman who was contemptible. The brilliant and strong-willed Hamilton had been a friend to Britain ever since the end of the unfortunate Revolution; anyone who called his integrity into question was worthy of nothing but scorn. He would have to straighten Nancy out.
He instructed his wife about the political significance of the Reynolds affair. Hamilton was the last barrier to the takeover of Federalism by Adams and his tepid lot. Hamilton still had George Washington firmly behind him, as Adams did not, and the Englishman reminded his spouse that the revered Washington’s backing counted for much in the minds of most Americans. The victorious general, by comporting himself with such dignity and reserve after the Revolution, had given legitimacy to the new government. And years later, the former President, by refusing a King’s crown, had given the new nation the chance to learn how to transmit executive power to the next Administration without turmoil. In refusing to become the Sovereign, he had confirmed the sovereignty of the people.
“Thornton at the British ministry told me,” Cobbett recounted to Nancy, “that George III, informed of Washington’s self-restraint, called him the greatest leader of the age.” The editor did not disagree with his monarch’s sweeping assessment of the general who—with the decisive help of the French fleet—defeated Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown in Virginia. In a mysterious way, Washington’s public prestige, royal aloofness, and imperviousness to the need for power conferred a sense of national self-confidence on his fellow citizens. For the present, that reduced their need for reunion with the mother country. But as the primary rebel passed from the scene, could the nation created around “the greate
st leader of the age” survive the division threatened by the disorganizing faction led by Jefferson? Cobbett doubted it.
Chapter 20
December 16, 1799
NEW YORK CITY
“The entire nation is in mourning,” said Aaron Burr, sitting up in bed, to Maria lying next to him, “except me.” He set aside the New York Argus, with its columns edged in black recounting the death of George Washington. It featured prominently the eulogy to the first President by his comrade in arms, General “Light-Horse Harry” Lee, delivered by Representative John Marshall, as “first in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen.”
Her longtime lover and constant friend rolled out of bed in the frigid room, re-lit the fire and returned under the coverlet. He looked positively pleased at the news of the death of the great man that had shocked and saddened just about everyone else. “This removes an obstacle from my path. And it is a terrible blow to your former friend, Hamilton.”
She yawned and luxuriated in a long stretch; her back pain, despite the strenuous activity through the night, was not troubling her this morning. Maria was comfortable in her nudity after a tumultuous reunion with her widower friend. The year she spent in England was not a success; she had returned with her daughter, leaving her young husband, Clingman/Clement, behind for good. Thanks to Burr’s introductions and his own sly business ways, Jacob had become both successful and insufferable and was glad to be rid of them. She had sailed back to Philadelphia, disposed of what little property Clement had, and was jolted by the disapproving stares of the vindictive ladies of that city. Only Porcupine’s wife, of all people, treated her decently when they met. That city was no place for her, and the notoriety left her daughter shaken. As soon as she could, Maria came to the home and bed of the only man who never failed her.
“Colonel Hamilton was never my true friend. And that was eight long years ago.” Hamilton had been a passionate lover, fiercely demanding and then eager to satisfy his partner; ridden by guilt but excitingly willing to take chances on being discovered. Not at all like Burr. Then as now, Burr was discreet and controlled, taking his time, with incredible stamina in his lovemaking, watching in the long looking-glass and always slightly detached, as if both participant and observer. “What did you mean, remove an obstacle?”
“Washington’s death strips Hamilton of his only influence over Adams,” Burr said. “The President needed Washington to head the standing army, ostensibly to fight France. Washington’s price was to put Hamilton in effective charge of that army, and your old friend then blocked me from a high commission.” He smiled. “But now George Washington is no more. Let us all join in singing Hallelujah to his memory.”
She reached across his wiry body to retrieve the newspaper. “This is a republican paper, is it not?”
“The Argus? Yes, it’s one of ours. We tried to get Callender to be the editor, but Jefferson needed him in Richmond.”
She studied the front page. “But it seems to be genuinely grieving the loss of a great man.”
“Washington was not a great general,” Burr said, emphasizing the last word. “I thought General Horatio Gates, his rival, would have won the war far sooner. Washington suspected some of us under his command thought that, and so he gave me none of the opportunities he gave his sycophant, Hamilton.” He fell silent for a while, watching her read the encomiums. “But yes, Washington was a great man. Nobody else could have pulled the Colonies together into a united States, or fused a union as he did in his Presidency. Give him that. And he had a presence, when people were in a room with him, that made them trust him and defer to him. I wish I knew how to do that.”
“Maybe it was just because Washington was so much taller than everybody.” She had seen him once, at a party that Reynolds had taken her to in Philadelphia, and been struck by the President’s height and imposing bearing. “He liked to dance. Do you suppose he ever—”
He laughed aloud and poked her intimately. “Mrs. Bingham, his favorite party-giver? Charming lady, far more appealing than his dowdy Martha, but I doubt it. Our man Beckley instigated both Callender and Porcupine to challenge Washington on expense accounts, but I never heard a whisper about adultery. If there had been, Callender would have found a way to sneak it in the Aurora.”
“The Argus says here that the late President expired despite the efforts of a pupil of Dr. Rush.”
“That means they bled him for days, probably quarts of blood. That’s Rush’s treatment for fever.”
“But Porcupine has been saying that treatment kills rather than cures,” she noted. When her daughter, now downstairs with Burr’s daughter Theodosia, caught the fever, she refused to let the doctor bleed Susan, and the fever passed. “Cobbett says Dr. Rush is Dr. Death, and I bet he’ll blame Rush for the death of Washington.”
“He surely will. That’s because Cobbett knows that Rush is a good republican. You saw where he called the doctor ‘a poisonous trans-Atlantic quack’? We might be able to use Cobbett’s attacks on the most respected physician in America to shut down Porcupine’s Gazette. And it would have nothing to do with the Sedition Act.” He explained that John Beckley had already discussed a libel suit with the new Governor of Pennsylvania, Tom McKean. That good republican was now in a position to arrange the proper judge and jury to fine Porcupine’s Gazette out of existence.
“Public sentiment seems to be everything,” Maria said. She recalled how Hamilton had miscalculated when he thought the public would forgive adultery more readily than financial chicanery. That is what induced him to assail her as a strumpet and worse. “I suppose that’s why the newspaper writers and pamphleteers are so important. All of you great men use them to shape sentiment to your views.”
“My dear Maria, you are completely mistaken,” he replied, rolling out of bed. “Get dressed. The opinion of the general public does not determine who becomes President.” When she shot him a look finding that hard to believe, he continued, “Do you know who chooses the President, Maria? The electors make that choice. And do you know how they are chosen? In ’96, two-fifths of them were chosen by state legislators. In 1800, two-thirds of the electors will be picked by legislators.”
“But the people elect the legislators.”
“The legislators are almost all respectable men of property. They don’t stand for office on any ideology, but on their local reputations, their family connections, and on local issues. The people choose them for their character and standing, but not specifically to elect one man or another President. That means the President is chosen by the politicians, not the people.”
“Oh. I was taught to think of our government as a democracy.”
“It’s a republic, Maria, not a democracy. The people elect respectable state representatives, wellborn and well educated, to choose whoever they think would be the best President, and to choose Senators as well.”
“But public sentiment must surely have a great effect—”
He was pulling his trousers over his white stockings. “Not as much as everybody pretends. Even Jefferson, who wrote about ‘a decent respect for the opinion of mankind,’ told his legislators in Virginia to elect Monroe Governor and they did. Mankind’s opinion in Virginia had very little to do with it. And for the Presidency, less and less.”
She frowned. “Then someone like Hamilton, who is disliked by many people like me, could become President.”
“No, not him. You and Monroe and Callender made it impossible for electors to even consider a confessed adulterer. The only way he can take over is at the head of an army, but now Washington is dead and Adams is not stupid. He’ll never tax the people to pay for a standing army with Hamilton at its head.”
“Then John Adams will be re-elected President, as Washington was?”
“The English dress you arrived in last night does not become you,” he said, tossing it at her. “Buy a new one today. No, by making peace with the French, Adams has made friends with the people in the street but cut his own thro
at with the politicians who elect Presidents. The high Federalists will choose some puppet of Hamilton’s instead of Adams.”
She placed his proffered bank bill in her handbag and quickly dressed. She could use the money to clothe her daughter. “If the politicians rather than the people are to choose,” she said, not wanting to leave the subject, “and the Federalist leaders are split—you are suggesting that Thomas Jefferson is sure to be our next President.”
He half-nodded. “Or Aaron Burr,” he said quietly.
She would have to think about that. He was a serious man and had already been a Senator. If his plans were to take him to the new capital, the District of Columbia, it would not do for her to be so far away in New York. As he buttoned his long jacket in the cold room, he said briskly, “Now to the business at hand. You have made up your mind about Susan?”
She nodded firmly, yes. Her daughter was approaching fourteen, the age at which Maria had married, and though not as tall, she already bid fair to exceed her mother’s attractiveness to men. Clingman, like Reynolds before him, had shown too great an interest in her, and the sailors on the ship home ogled the girl mercilessly. “I want her in a seminary. I want her protected from my reputation and raised to be a respectable lady.”
“You are prepared to be parted for a time?”
“I am.” Susan was not. “She knows that I think that is best.”
He nodded. “There is a seminary in Boston that I know will welcome her. I will take care of the financial arrangements. Nobody will know who her parents are. The name you want her to use?”
“Susan Lewis.” Reynolds was a badge of shame, and notoriety was what she was determined her daughter escape.
“Done. I have been thinking about a proper situation for you. There is an eminent physician in Richmond, Dr. Thomas Mathew. Fine man, widower, in his early sixties, wealthy. He has a large house and needs a house-keeper, someone with an organized mind to keep track of his practice. Perfect for you. I’ll write him today.”
Scandalmonger: A Novel Page 23