Scandalmonger: A Novel

by William Safire

  She agreed, as she turned the key on their home and printing shop and bookstore, that he had surely infuriated most of the neighbors. “The memory will never leave me,” she said, “of the day you hung a picture of King George in this shop window just to upset the Americans.”

  “I succeeded,” he reminded her. “Drew a mob and I faced it down. Showed them the mettle of an Englishman.” With their five-year-old daughter Anne and two-year-old son William, and the valuable stacks of books that made up his bookseller’s inventory, the man who had gained fame and infamy in Philadelphia as Peter Porcupine sailed to the port of New York. There he took up residence above his shop at 141 Water Street in what he thought would be a strong Federalist redoubt.

  He soon discovered it was not. The war between Hamilton and Adams had riven the party. Republican Aaron Burr’s Tammany Society had stolen a march on the Federalists by selecting pro-Jefferson electors in the looming Presidential election. However, Cobbett was not saddened by his departure from Philadelphia. Sales of Porcupine’s Gazette had fallen off with the decline in Federalist popular support, and much of the city’s political life was preparing to move to the new capital down South. The newspaper no longer satisfied his zest for combat because he was bereft of a hero: Adams had gone sour, Jefferson was worse and the admirable Hamilton had no future.

  Fortunately for his finances, sales of his pamphlet about the atrocities committed by the French in southern Germany, The Cannibal’s Progress, had reached 100,000. That was thanks to the anger of the Pennsylvania Deutsch about what had been happening in their ancestral home. Nobody since Tom Paine at the height of his revolutionary popularity had sold as well. Cobbett had demonstrated there was a market in America for lively controversy on emotional subjects written in a plain and buoyant style, spiced with personal invective and amusing ridicule.

  As soon as he had settled in New York, preparing his bookstore for buyers and his print shop for the production of pamphlets, he paid a call on the one American whose politics he trusted.

  “Hamilton, your country is going to the dogs,” he said, coming immediately to the point. “You must do something about it or this nation, with all its promise, will sink into the radical bog.”

  “Have you read my letter to the Federalist leaders? It seems everyone else has.”

  “I presume you arranged for a copy to be stolen and delivered to Burr,” the editor told the politician. “He would have given it to Beckley, who would have delivered it to Duane at the Aurora. That’s how these things are done. You could then pretend to be outraged at the interception of your private message.”

  Hamilton smiled broadly. To the tall Cobbett, he seemed a small man, with a handsome English face, and a smile and aristocratic air that struck him as winsome. Hamilton indicated to Cobbett to sit in a Queen Anne chair in his study. The editor was pleased that his host expressed a concern about the libel judgment being sought against the Porcupine in Philadelphia by Dr. Benjamin Rush.

  “I wrote the truth about that quack’s purge-and-bleed cure for the yellow fever. His cure kills all his patients.”

  “You’re certain?” Hamilton exhibited some lawyerly caution. “He’s the most famous physician on this side of the Atlantic.”

  “I am a farmer’s son, General Hamilton. I have cut the throats of scores of geese and little pigs, and I have always perceived that the moment the blood was out of the body the poor creatures died.”

  “Who’s representing you in court down there?”

  “Robert Harper. He’s leaving the Congress for private practice of the law.”

  Hamilton looked troubled. “A great legislator, we’ll miss him. But I’m not certain how he will fare in a courtroom, especially with a judge that McKean chooses to deal with you.”

  “Harper is trying to have the case moved to a Federal court, since I’m a British subject.”

  “McKean can block that easily. And he can see to it you have all republicans on the jury. See here, Cobbett, if there should be a judgment against you, they’ll have to come after your assets in New York. In light of all you’ve done for America’s cause, I’d be glad to represent you here. For no fee, of course.”

  Cobbett was aware of Hamilton’s professional reputation as an attorney. He also had a way with New York judges, most of whom he helped get their appointments. Hamilton had planted a seed of doubt in his mind about Harper’s ability and he was relieved at the generous offer.

  “And now to politics,” the editor said briskly. “I take it your secret plan is to promote the candidacies of Adams and Pinckney. Then at the last minute, with the two of them tied with the most number of votes for President, you will arrange for some of those electors to withhold their votes for Adams, slipping Pinckney in as the choice for President.”

  Hamilton seemed stunned. “Is the secret plan, as you call it, that widely known?”

  “It’s all there in your letter-pamphlet, for anyone who takes the trouble to read between the lines. Brilliantly written piece of work, by the way, Hamilton, I congratulate you on it. You really should publish a newspaper.”

  “I may, one day. Assuming arguendo that might be my plan, to surprise Adams—do you think it is feasible?”

  “No. I am convinced it is doomed to fail.” The man was entitled to an honest and forthright view, Cobbett felt; though he was probably surrounded by sycophants, Hamilton must be a realist at heart. “The States have already chosen most of the electors. Adams and Pinckney will have about sixty votes each. Jefferson and Burr will each have about seventy. Then Burr will refine your secret plan and use it himself.”

  Hamilton steepled his long, fine fingers and studied Cobbett closely. “How?”

  The English editor enjoyed instructing the American on American politics. “Burr, too, will arrange for all the republicans to vote equally for Jefferson and himself. That’s not hard to do because it’s what the people expect. Then the matter will be thrown over to the House of Representatives, as called for in your Constitution. Each State has one vote.” He added, “as you know better than I, of course,” because, after all, the man had written the best of the Federalist Papers.

  “But surely Burr would then defer to Jefferson—”

  “Would he? If you say so. You know the ambitious Colonel Burr far better than I do.”

  Hamilton, frowning, thought that over. “You are suggesting, Cobbett, that some of our low Federalist friends would seek to make a deal with the republican Burr. To head off Jefferson.”

  “That’s what I heard in Philadelphia. I’m surprised it has not been vouchsafed to you. It’s a daring plan, to go against the will of the people that way, but—again, as you know better than I do—it would be quite constitutional. You really should do something about your Constitution, by the way. It’s not very good about elections.” The editor was pleased to be engaged in the manipulation of the political system rather than merely writing about it. Yet it was true that desperate Federalists were talking this way, and he saw no harm in making their case to the man most concerned. “A Federalist arrangement with the republican Burr would stop Jefferson and his radical French supporters from taking power—if Burr could be trusted to govern with Federalist support.”

  “This is not the sort of thing we had in mind,” Hamilton mused. The editor presumed Hamilton was thinking of Valley Forge, American independency and all the tedious varieties of fuzzy Lockean philosophy that had transfixed the colonials.

  “Come now, sir. You were willing to ask the New York Governor to set aside the recent election of electors.” Cobbett had heard of Hamilton’s desperate plea, ignored by Governor Jay. “Indeed, you are once again planning, even as we speak, to substitute your man Pinckney for Adams—in what the average farmer in the field would consider a dastardly trick. You have shown yourself willing to take extraordinary measures because your nation faces a terrible crisis with a Jefferson triumph.”

  “I know, I know. I have been fighting our home-grown radicals far longer than you h
ave been here in our country, Mr. Cobbett.”

  “No time to give up now. Unless you stop the republicans, you will have a wholly different banking system, with that Swiss cadaver Albert Gallatin in charge, to keep you backward for generations. Think of it! A foreign policy encouraging mob rule abroad with Tom Paine himself dining in the new Executive Mansion. That would mean an end to your ‘energy in the executive’ and instead, all power diffused to the States, especially to sleepy Virginia.”

  With each salvo, Hamilton seemed to shrink into his chair; the notion of Gallatin at Treasury seemed especially hard for him to take. Cobbett rather enjoyed the experience of flaying his closest ally. “The American people need to be saved from themselves, from turning into the bloody-minded sans-culottes and away from their English heritage. This is hardly the moment, General, for democratic scruples.”

  He watched Hamilton give that some thought. “If there be a man in the world I ought to hate,” the New Yorker said finally, “it is Jefferson. He has always been a hypocrite. With Burr I have always been personally well.” Cobbett’s eyebrows rose at that; he had heard, to the contrary, that Burr and Hamilton despised each other cordially. “But the public good must be paramount to every private consideration.”

  That last platitude struck Cobbett as the too-discreet mouthing of a political man worried about being quoted. He rose to take his leave.

  “If I do start a newspaper here,” Hamilton said, walking him to the door, “it would be about public policy, and not about the private concerns of public men.”

  Cobbett hoped the competition would sink the newspaper run by Noah Webster, the pompous fool, but assumed that such a lifeless publication as Hamilton described would be doomed. “No man has a right to pry into his neighbor’s private concerns,” he conceded, “and the opinions of every man are his private concerns, while they are confined to his family and friends.”

  “I agree,” said Hamilton.

  “But when he makes those opinions public,” Cobbett said, admonishing Hamilton as he had Beckley and Callender years before, “when he once comes forward as a candidate—then his opinions, his principles, his motives, every action of his life, public or private, become the fair subject of public discussion.”

  Hamilton shook his head. “I know from your writing that you are a student of Roman history,” he said. “You are familiar with Catiline.”

  Cobbett nodded; every self-educated man knew the history of Catiline, the defeated candidate for the consulship of Rome who plotted a military coup, was exposed by Cicero and killed. Down through the ages, his name had become a synonym for conspiracy.

  “Whenever I think of Burr,” said Hamilton, “I think of Catiline.”

  Chapter 26

  February 4, 1801

  WASHINGTON, D. C.

  Albert Gallatin had thought that on Election Day, laft December 3, the electors would carry out the will of the people and name Thomas Jefferson President and Aaron Burr Vice President. The electors gave Jefferson and Burr 73 votes each, defeating Adams and Pinckney, each with 65.

  Burr was not supposed to get 73 republican votes. Madison had assured the Jeffersonians that it was arranged for several republican electors to cast one vote for Jefferson and no vote at all for Vice President. That would have given Jefferson the most votes and therefore the Presidency.

  But it had not worked out that way. Some electors, perhaps stimulated by friends of Burr, had lied to Madison. The two candidates were tied and nobody was the new President. The people had spoken and the electors had not listened. That profoundly disturbed Gallatin, but he knew all was not lost: the House of Representatives, on this frigid day of February, was to decide who would be the next President.

  Meanwhile, the vengeful Adams, rattling around the huge new President’s house down near the swamps of the new capital city, was appointing Federalists to lifetime judgeships. The Supreme Court’s Chief had resigned, and Gallatin had feared Adams would name Samuel Chase; to his relief, the President chose John Marshall, despite that loyal Federalist’s opposition to the Sedition Act. Jefferson detested his fellow Virginian, but Gallatin had found him a worthy intellectual adversary in Congress, a vast improvement over Harper.

  Gallatin picked his way across the frozen mud of Pennsylvania Avenue to Conrad and MacMunn’s boardinghouse. It was on the south side of Capitol Hill facing the Senate wing of the Capitol, the only part of the projected structure that was ready for occupancy. Jefferson had sent for him to come to Conrad’s and meet with Madison about the election of the President in the House.

  Each of the thirteen States had one vote, with nine required to elect. Gallatin knew he had only eight States lined up for Jefferson. Nine ballots had already been taken and the process was frozen at eight States for Jefferson, six for Burr. But within the State delegations, in individual votes cast, Burr led by 55 to 51; that meant it would be hard to get that last State.

  Monroe would not be in the war council because he was assembling the Virginia militia to counter any usurpation in Washington. One rumor was that the Federalist Senate would pass a law placing the government in the hands of its president pro tem. If they tried that, Gallatin knew, the Middle States’ militias would march on the capital.

  Jefferson had a sitting room as well as a bedroom at the inn. That was better than Gallatin’s lodging, a small room that he had to share with another Congressman. The Vice President nodded to his worried colleagues and put a sharp question to Madison: “Why have we come to this? You said you had a couple of electors who would withhold their votes from Burr. What happened?”

  “At the critical moment,” the short Virginian replied, “false assurances were dispatched to the electors of South Carolina that the votes of another State would be different from what they proved to be.”

  Jefferson, frustrated, shook his head in wonderment. “The contrivance in the Constitution for marking the votes works badly. It does not enounce precisely the true expression of the public will.”

  “We didn’t think of everything,” Madison murmured. “Maybe we could get Burr to join us in a proclamation calling the newly elected Congress into session rather than have this decided by the old Congress. I realize that might not be strictly regular under the Constitution, but—”

  “Not a good idea.” Gallatin cut him short because Madison did not seem to grasp the political cause of the impasse. “First we have to determine if Burr is trying to use this flaw in the Constitution to usurp the Presidency. You said you were given false assurances about the electoral votes. Jemmy—who gave you those assurances?”

  Madison didn’t want to say. Gallatin presumed that the betrayal was centered in South Carolina, where Robert Goodloe Harper was making mischief on behalf of Burr. Fear of a French-inspired slave uprising, whipped up by Harper during the XYZ madness, had given the Federalists surprising strength in what should have been a Jeffersonian state.

  “I’m assuming that Harper prevailed on republicans in his South Carolina delegation to betray their commitments.” When the discomfited Madison did not contradict him, Gallatin took that as confirmation of his fears. “He’s become Burr’s leading henchman. That answers my question. Burr will not step aside. That damned Harper will offer him Federalist support for President if he will guarantee them a share of power.”

  “I’ll write Burr a letter,” Jefferson suggested. “I’ll offer him a post in my Administration more suitable to his talents than mere Vice President. If we could not get gentlemen who possess the public confidence, as Burr does, into the Cabinet, then the evil genius of this country”—they all knew he meant Hamilton—“may realize his avowal that he will beat down this Administration.”

  “A letter from you to Burr would not injure our cause,” said Gallatin, assuming it would do little good. “But I think he would vaguely pledge his loyalty to you and see what the Federalists offer him and what the House decides.” However, this evidence that Jefferson was ready to make a deal by offering a Cabinet post gave a
practical politician an opening. “Of course, if I have your permission to negotiate with the Federalists on offices in the new Administration—”

  Jefferson shook his head and struck what to Gallatin seemed an unnecessarily noble pose. “Many attempts have been made to obtain terms and promises from me. I will not go into this government with my hands tied.”

  Gallatin wished Monroe were there instead of Madison. Only he could drum some political sense into the mind of the writer of the Declaration of Independence.

  “You are right about Hamilton being the evil genius of this country,” Madison observed, slightly off the point. “Noah Webster said the same thing about him. It could be that Hamilton is the one behind this.”

  February 5, 1801

  NEW YORK CITY

  Hamilton was faced with a horrendous political dilemma. Having fought Jefferson in Washington’s Cabinet, having twice bitterly opposed Jefferson’s election to the Presidency—could he now reverse himself completely and throw his support to the advocate of France and a weak central government? Contrariwise, if not Jefferson, could he entrust the nation in whose Revolution he fought, and whose Constitution he shaped, to the hands of a shrewdly calculating Burr—a voluptuary he knew to be worthy only of the deepest distrust?

  Because he asked himself the right question, he did not have to agonize long. That question was: what would his lifelong mentor, George Washington, advise? He knew the answer. Forced to choose between Jefferson and Burr, Hamilton unhesitatingly chose the man whose philosophy he opposed over the man whose character he despised. The nation would be misled, its economy damaged, by the agrarian Jefferson; but it was in danger of being seized and the American system profoundly changed by the power-hungry and more energetic Burr. Sitting alone at his desk in New York, three hundred miles from the center of political action, Hamilton turned his mind to electing Jefferson and to destroying Burr.