He knew he no longer controlled the Federalist party as he once did. Noah Webster was no match for the high-Federalist Cobbett or the low-republican Callender, but he was the best writer the low-Federalist Adamites could offer. Webster wrote in an impassioned response to Hamilton’s pamphlet that he was “the evil genius whose conduct will be deemed little short of insanity, and who brought about our overthrow and ruin.” But Hamilton felt sure he was not without influence with some of the Federalists who were tempted to follow the bumptious opportunist, Burr’s Robert Harper, into a deal to maintain at least some of their power.
He drew a stack of stationery toward him and began to write letters to the men in the new capital city to whom he felt closest and who owed him the most.
To those of a religious bent worried about Jefferson’s supposed atheism, he did not try to disabuse their fear because he, too, suspected that the man was godless. He countered, however, with his personal witness that he had heard Burr “talk perfect Godwinism”; that tied the irreverent Burr to William Godwin, the English dissenter who publicly denied God and married the notorious feminist Mary Wollstonecraft, whose antitraditional “rights of women” Burr also alarmingly embraced.
To friends doing business with England, he wrote that the French-loving Burr “could not abandon his scheme of war with Great Britain as the instrument of his power and wealth.” To moralists—the few who stuck by him after the Reynolds pamphlet—he denounced Burr as a “profligate and a voluptuary in the extreme,” which he knew him to be from several mutual women friends, especially Maria Reynolds. To associates in the law, he condemned the unlearned attorney as a kind of legal criminal—“an extortionist in his profession, insolvent and dangerous.”
Hamilton found it much easier to denounce Burr than to find a word of praise for Jefferson. He had to begin by not appearing to spin about completely in putting forward Jefferson. “I admit that his politicks are tinctured with fanaticism, that he is not scrupulous about the means of success, nor very mindful of the truth, and that he is a contemptible hypocrite.” He had to smile at his own words; this was hardly an introduction to a Presidential nomination. “But”—and here he forced himself to make his modest positive case—“Jefferson is not so dangerous a man because he had at least pretensions to character. There is no fair reason to suppose him capable of being corrupted.”
What he could not say openly was what he long suspected: an effete, almost feminine quality in Jefferson would make him a flaccid executive. He was a languid sort, a dilettante in science and architecture, willing to use others to gain his ends but too much the aesthete to grapple with the foe in the arena. Hamilton thought Jefferson capable of writing with great ferocity about the need to spill blood to defeat tyranny, but was devoid of the force of character or executive energy to carry out the radical democratic principles he espoused. Better a weak Jefferson than a strong Burr.
He considered writing to Harper but dismissed that as a hopeless cause; that duplicitous Carolinian and Burr were birds of a feather. What about John Marshall, who he knew considered Jefferson immoral for his underhanded disparagement of Washington? An appeal to principle might persuade him at least to remain neutral: “Burr has no principle public or private,” he wrote, “and disgrace abroad and ruin at home are the probable fruits of his elevation.” Marshall, an intelligent attorney, would understand that “no private principle” meant “dishonest and immoral.” Hamilton was glad Adams had skipped over Samuel Chase to appoint Marshall Chief Justice; the Federalist Virginian had the mental acuity to keep Jefferson in his place.
The final letter he wrote was to James Bayard, the only Delaware Federalist who would cast his State’s vote for President. He recalled to Bayard that when he was Treasury Secretary, Burr had come to him with a dubious scheme. When turned down, Burr had said in French to Hamilton, “Les grandes âmes se soucient peu des petits moraux”—translating for Bayard, “Great souls do not worry about petty morals.” He begged Bayard to desert Burr and switch to Jefferson: “No engagement that can be made with him can be depended upon. While making it, Burr will laugh in his sleeve at the credulity of those with whom he makes it. For heaven’s sake, exert yourself to the utmost to save our country from so great a calamity.”
He put down his pen and pushed aside the unused sheets of writing paper. He had no doubt that he had chosen the lesser of two evils. Burr was shrewder and tougher than Jefferson was, more purposeful and ambitious, and thus far more dangerous to the balance of powers the founders had so carefully constructed. Hamilton told himself that he acted not out of personal dislike for Burr. It had nothing to do with Maria Reynolds. Nor was he moved by selfish concern that the rise of the competing New Yorker would cause the fall of his own adherents in New York. Rather, Hamilton was certain, he acted out of love of country. He could look with equanimity at the painting of General Washington on his wall.
That reminded him of Lord Cornwallis surrendering at Yorktown and the day the band played “The World Turned Upside Down.” Hamilton’s Federalist world was being turned upside down, and he was poignantly aware that he was helping in the turning. After a decade’s battle with Jefferson for the soul of the union, this was his surrender. He could truthfully assure himself there was no dishonor in it.
Of course, patriotism could always be alloyed with practicality. He took up his quill again. If Federalists were going to refrain from blocking Jefferson’s ascendancy, they surely deserved some gesture in return from the man whose Presidency they did not deny. To Samuel Smith of Maryland, he wrote: “Obtain from Jefferson assurances on certain points. The maintenance of the cardinal articles of public credit, for one; a navy, for another; and neutrality between Britain and France.” He reflected a moment before adding one more: “And the continuance in office of all our Federalist appointees.”
February 6, 1801
WASHINGTON, D. C.
Jefferson announced to his worried lieutenants that they all needed some fresh, cold air. Gallatin followed the Vice President and Madison out of Conrad’s, up the hill to the steps of the Capitol. As Jefferson gazed down the street named after Pennsylvania, expounding on the genius of the planner, Gallatin took a more down-to-earth, Swiss view of the vista: he counted one shoemaker, one printer, a grocery shop, a small dry-goods establishment, seven boardinghouses and an oyster bar. In the distance, down toward the swamp and the river, was the President’s mansion, where he had heard that Abigail Adams was complaining mightily about the accommodations. She would not have to put up with them for long.
Gulping deep breaths of the cold air in the February sunshine, they were accosted by Gouverneur Morris. New York’s portly Federalist Senator was a cordial acquaintance of Jefferson’s who had succeeded him as Washington’s envoy to Paris. Though they disagreed profoundly about Louis XIV, Gallatin knew the two founders had a bond of love of language: Madison said that just as Jefferson had been the chief writer of the Declaration, Morris had been the man most responsible for the final literary style of the Constitution.
The dashing bon vivant, perched on his one leg and a cane, cheerfully told them that Federalists in the House were bargaining with Burr for offices in exchange for their support. Morris was sure that if Jefferson would show some interest in a compromise, that support would be his and the country would be spared much ill feeling.
“No,” said Jefferson. “Many attempts have been made to obtain terms and promises from me. I will not go into government with my hands tied.” Morris shrugged at this rejection of a sensible idea and wished Jefferson well in his additional four years in the demeaning Vice Presidency. Leaning on his heavy oaken cane, he started to limp laboriously down the marble stairs. Gallatin looked at Madison for help in reasoning with the rigid Jefferson, but the little Virginian, who so rarely crossed his leader, looked away.
“Morris could fall on that ice,” said Gallatin, and left the group, ostensibly to help the lame Federalist leader down the slippery steps. He knew that Morris had been too
close to the royalists in France, and had pressed in the Constitutional Convention for naming a President for life. But at that convention in Philadelphia a decade before, the anti-democratic Morris also struck the compromise between Hamilton and Jefferson that became the basis for a national currency. More to the point of the present crisis, Morris was a New Yorker who would know intimately the machinations of both Burr and Hamilton. Gallatin quickly caught up with him and asked, “May I help in any way?”
“The way you can help is to ignore that mule up there and talk to Sam Smith of Maryland,” Morris told him in a low voice. “He and I have been in touch with Hamilton, and he knows what is needed from your side. Sam is close to Bayard of Delaware, and Delaware is your necessary ninth state.”
Gallatin had been told that Bayard of Delaware, long a Hamilton ally, was the key to blocking Burr’s usurpation. “Where is Hamilton in all this?”
“Jefferson has no stronger supporter in this than Hamilton,” said Morris, “and I can hardly believe those words have passed my lips. Here—” He took out a letter; Gallatin recognized Hamilton’s elegant handwriting. “Men never played a more foolish game than will do the Federalists if they support Burr,” it read. Morris thrust Hamilton’s letter to him back in his pocket. “But Robert Harper has broken with Hamilton, claims to be Burr’s intimate friend, and is whipping my Federalist friends in behind Burr.”
“On what theory? Burr is a republican. He built the organization that defeated the Federalists in New York.”
“Harper is telling us,” said Morris, “that Jefferson is so deeply imbued with false principles of government that nothing good can come of him. But”—he rested on the peg that replaced his missing leg and raised his cane—“he thinks that Burr’s even temper and malleable disposition give an ample security for conduct hostile to your dangerous democratic spirit. That’s why Harper is making them all promises in Burr’s name.”
Gallatin felt the Presidency slipping out of their hands. Despite the efforts of Hamilton, the evil genius, in support of Jefferson—in itself an incomprehensible turnabout—the will of the people was being foiled by fanatic Federalists. That could easily break apart the compact of the States; New England would march out. Drastic action was needed. “Jefferson is not interested in personally making such promises, as you heard. But I am, on his behalf. What is needed?”
Gouverneur Morris had the list. “First, the Adams and Hamilton appointees to keep their jobs, especially all the tariff collectors and postmasters.” Gallatin knew how much that would infuriate the republican rank and file; without telling Jefferson, he and Monroe had made promises about rewards to loyal republicans, from national Cabinet posts to local postmasterships. Morris went on: “Next, keep building a navy.” That would not be difficult; though Jefferson opposed the challenge to France on the high seas, Gallatin was sure he could be talked into providing American vessels naval protection from ships of both Britain and France. “And finally, Albert—you, of all people, must pledge to stay with Hamilton’s plan of public credit.”
Gallatin winced; he saw Hamilton’s financial plan as the Federalist way to build ever more power at the center, in Treasury. That clashed with Jeffersonian principles about the sovereign rights of States. The Hamilton men saw the future of the nation as founded on the expansion of manufactures, with public credit and tariff protection, in contrast to the republican vision of a nation of self-reliant farmers and craftsmen selling their products to a hungry world. This was no technical argument about political arithmetick, Gallatin knew; it had to do with the future character of the people.
They reached the bottom of the steps. “Don’t play into Harper’s hands,” Morris said, leaning on Gallatin to wave his cane in farewell to Madison and Jefferson at the top. “You know I think your man is an awful bore. Five minutes with him is like two hours. But better a bore than a knave. Keep on being obstinate and you’ll be responsible for President Burr.”
February 16, 1801
WASHINGTON, D. C.
Thirty-six ballots, and the House of Representatives, in session to choose the third President of the United States, was still deadlocked. Neither Jefferson nor Burr had the needed nine States.
John Beckley had prevailed on his friends in the House to appoint him to an honorary post on the Committee of Correspondence. This gave him access to what no reporter—not even Jefferson’s new favorite, Smith of the National Intelligencer—was allowed to see: the workings of the House chamber during the interminable balloting of each State to elect the new President.
Beckley wondered why Aaron Burr was nowhere near the place of action. Was he so confident of surreptitious victory? Did he want to be able to deny any participation in the coup if it failed? Or was he waiting to see what Fate would bring, unwilling to turn away from the prize if it should come his way? Then Beckley figured it out: Burr already had most Federalists without making a public move. He could only hope to get a majority by winning the votes of a few republican States, and those republican electors would resent any overt move he made to gain the Presidency from Jefferson. By avoiding the appearance of trying to snatch the prize, Burr might yet win the necessary republicans over.
Beckley became Gallatin’s runner, taking messages to Jefferson at Conrad’s. “If no President is chosen by March 4 when Adams leaves office,” he reported to Jefferson, “they want to pass a law placing the government in the hands of a President pro tem. Neither you nor Burr nor Adams, but one of their own.”
“In that event,” said Jefferson coldly, “the Middle States would arm to oppose the usurpation.” Beckley knew that Governor Monroe was readying his militia to march on the new capital. He showed Jefferson a Federalist newspaper that demanded: “Are the republicans then ripe for civil war, and ready to imbrue their hands in kindred blood?” The Vice President was pleased to see that; the signal of readiness to fight was getting through.
“A new Constitutional Convention will be called to organize the government,” said Jefferson, “and amend the Constitution. Tell that to Gallatin to pass along.”
Beckley raced back across the icy mud to relay his leader’s belligerent message: if the Federalists attempted usurpation, they would trigger civil war. At the very least, a new convention would drive them out of government, perhaps forever. That raised the stakes to what the republicans hoped would be an unacceptable level.
Gallatin, with Beckley trailing behind, went over to Sam Smith of Maryland. He delivered the Vice President’s harsh message and watched from the door to the cloakroom as it was passed around the floor. As Beckley hoped, a half-hour later Gallatin sent a more conciliatory message for him to give to Smith, the noted deal-maker: “Regarding the assurances you seek, Mr. Jefferson is prepared to see you now.” Beckley accompanied the Marylander over to Conrad’s, where both Smith and Jefferson lodged.
Beckley, sitting just behind Gallatin, marveled at the way Sam Smith of Maryland had worked it out: not a single Federalist in his State would vote for Jefferson in the final ballot—or for anyone else. The shift began as Bayard cast Delaware’s vote with a blank ballot, followed by Harper for South Carolina. Members from Vermont and Maryland who had been voting for Burr cast blank ballots as well, effectively switching Maryland’s vote to Jefferson. Gallatin leaned back and whispered, “Here ends the most wicked and absurd attempt ever tried by the Federalists.”
As the roll call of the thirteen States reached toward the bottom of the alphabet, Beckley could see what was coming. Eight States were now in Jefferson’s column, with nine needed to elect.
The clerk said “The State of Vermont.” A single Congressman from Vermont walked slowly down the aisle to the clerk to cast his State’s vote. He handed over his ballot and turned to the members.
“The State of Vermont casts the vote of its proud and free people,” he called out, “for Thomas Jefferson, thereby electing him President of the United States!”
Beckley leaped to his feet and joined in the great cheer. He only wishe
d Callender in jail could be there to see it and to flourish symbolic iron tongs in triumph. The deciding ballot had been cast by the Irishman who came to America as an eleven-year-old indentured servant. He was another loyal Jeffersonian who suffered imprisonment for sedition, one of the two who turned public sentiment against the forces entrenched in power—the reviled and despised Spittin’ Matt Lyon.
PART III
The Jefferson Scandals
Chapter 27
February 25, 1801
PHILADELPHIA
“I am a loyal subject óf His Majefty the King óf Great Britain,” Cobbett told the Pennsylvania State Court, Judge Shippen presiding. The Englishman could feel the hostility in the courtroom rising at those words. “In addition, I am now an alien resident of the State of New York. Therefore, I petition the Court to remove this libel action for trial in the Circuit Court of the United States.”
Cobbett was certain that the Act Establishing the Judicial Courts could not be clearer: aliens were to be tried in Federal court for disputes exceeding $500. Once in a Federal court, with a Federalist judge choosing a Federalist jury, he was equally sure he would make short work of the libel suit brought in this republican State by Jefferson’s friend Dr. Benjamin Rush.
“Petition denied,” ruled the judge.
“But it says right here,” Cobbett persisted, “in the U.S. Constitution, Article III, Section 2, that ‘the judicial power of the United States shall extend to all controversies between a State, or citizens thereof ”—that’s Dr. Rush—“and foreign States, citizens, or subjects’—that’s me.”
“Denied,” repeated the judge, giving no reason.
Cobbett turned to his lawyers, Edward Tighlman and Robert Goodloe Harper. “How can he do that? What chance does a Briton have in a court in a State in which the Governor bears me a mortal grudge? Protest.”
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