“I’m not. But when I see a chance to right a wrong—the fellow really helped me win that shooting contest and shut up Eaton—and we do need a coachman.”
In 1828, people could have this sort of conversation with no sense of attempting to deal with slavery as an institution. It was still merely a fact of Southern and Western life, as ordinary and as apparently permanent as birth, death, and taxes. If George and Caroline could have foreseen the role Hannibal and his family would play in their lives, they would have discussed his purchase in far more somber tones.
That night at dinner, Mrs. Jackson did not come to the table. She was feeling “poorly.” Her niece Emily also skipped the meal to keep her company. That left Caroline and Sarah Polk as the only two women at the table. Once more the General sat between them, entertaining them with reminiscences of his sojourn as governor of Florida in 1819. The men talked about the political campaign, John Henry Eaton examining the Jacksonians’ chances in each state. Caroline strained to hear both conversations.
As they finished their coffee, James Polk said, “Perhaps it’s time for us to discuss New Jersey politics with Mr. Stapleton.”
“Maybe,” said Eaton.
“No maybes about it,” General Jackson said. “I want this fellow in our party—if he’s willing to come. Are you, Stapleton?”
“I begin to think I am,” George said.
The men were on their feet, about to depart for the west parlor. “Why can’t we talk right here?” Caroline said.
“Yes, why not?” Sarah Polk said.
“There’s nothing that interests me more,” Caroline said.
“James is well aware of my tendency in the same direction,” Sarah drawled.
“General?” John Henry Eaton said.
“I have never in my life hesitated to surrender to a beautiful woman. When two of them join forces, there can’t be even a shadow of a contest,” Jackson said.
The men sat down again and Eaton produced a list of the Democratic candidates for Congress in New Jersey. They were running “at large” on a statewide ticket, instead of for individual districts. Eaton knew them all and thought there would be no difficulty about persuading one of them, a Dutchman named Van Brunt, to step aside so George could be added to the ticket.
“But I must ask a blunt question here,” Eaton said. “Will Stapleton strengthen our slate? I fear he doesn’t know how to run a Democratic-style campaign. He’s likely to sit home on his porch until November, the way his grandfather campaigned, waiting for the voters to pay tribute to his bloodline.”
“What do you say to that, young fellow?” Jackson asked.
Caroline fixed her eyes on George’s face, silently exhorting him to stun Eaton with a ferocious reply. Instead, he was humble. “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain what a Democratic-style campaign is, exactly.”
“It’s a Tennessee campaign,” General Jackson said. “You get out in the country and shake the hand of every living soul you can find. You go into the fields to talk to the plowmen, into the church halls and Masonic halls to speak to every club and association and committee in existence. You kiss the babies and dance with the wives. You hire a newspaper to back you and print all your speeches. If you can’t find a paper, you start one. You leave nothing to chance.”
“It’s the art of war applied to politics,” James Polk said cheerfully.
“It’s the art of making every voter in the state believe you consider him your equal,” Eaton said. “Can you do that, Stapleton?” He clearly did not think so.
“Of course he can do it!” Caroline said. “He will do it.”
“I’m an American,” George said. “That means I already believe all men are created equal.”
“A lot of Americans have lost sight of that great proposition,” Andrew Jackson said. “It’s my purpose to help the country regain it. Are you with me, heart and soul?”
The old man leaned toward George, the personification of an irresistible force. Instead of a flaccid yes, an echo of his wife’s declaration, George reached across the table and shook Andrew Jackson’s hand. In that moment, George Rensseler Stapleton became a Democratic politician.
FIVE
IN BOWOOD’S MAJESTIC LIBRARY, WITH the portraits of his ancestors staring down at him and Caroline, George Stapleton cleared his throat and said, “I hope this won’t upset you, Grandfather. But Caroline and I have decided I should run for Congress as a Democrat.”
Hugh Stapleton sat up in his wing chair, his eyes almost as fiery as Andrew Jackson’s. “What did they do to you in Tennessee, operate on your brains and replace them with cabbages?” he roared.
He directed not a little of his wrath at Caroline. She saw what she already half knew—he had looked on her as a confederate and companion spirit. Avoiding the accusation in his eyes, she let George do most of the talking. He swore that he went west ready to argue for the National Republicans, to defend Adams and Clay. But his encounter with the slander against Mrs. Jackson had changed his mind.
“How would you feel, Grandfather, if someone had attacked Grandmother that way?”
“Precisely as General Jackson feels, no doubt. But does that entitle me to become president and wreck the country?”
“I had several long talks with Sarah Polk, Congressman Polk’s wife,” Caroline said. “She assures me that no one has any reason to fear the radical theories being spouted by some Democrats.”
“In fact,” George said, “the General told me he was in favor of a strong tariff and internal improvements.”
“That’s not what his followers are saying in New York and New Jersey,” the Congressman growled.
“I think they’re running a different General Jackson in each section of the country,” Caroline said. “But the best argument of all, Grandfather, is this: George can win as a Democrat. It automatically defuses any attempt to slander him because he’s rich.”
“What makes you think the voters will believe his transformation?”
“This.” George handed Hugh Stapleton a letter, which he opened and read:
To the citizens of New Jersey:
I recommend without reservation the election of George Stapleton on the Democratic ticket. He is exactly the sort of young American we need in Congress to support my program.
Andrew Jackson
“That’s hard to quarrel with,” Hugh Stapleton admitted.
Caroline saw he was still disappointed. The old man had envisioned George campaigning for the right to represent New Jersey on the merits of his grandfather’s fame—Hugh Stapleton’s service in the Continental Congress, his friendship with George Washington and John Adams and Alexander Hamilton, his creation of Principia Mills and Principia Forge, which had given employment to hundreds of people. It was hard for him to realize these historic names meant little to the new generation that was rising up to take charge of America. Even harder to accept was the realization that his mills, his iron factory, his bank, were ready targets for those who saw him as an exploiter of the poor and dispossessed. In America, the wages of fame were constantly depreciated by time and envy.
Not even the news of Caroline’s pregnancy cheered the old man. He slipped into a slow decline. With George out campaigning every day, it was Caroline who witnessed Hugh Stapleton’s quiet withdrawal from the field of fame. He spent more and more time in Bowood’s library, putting his voluminous papers in order. He lost interest in the newspapers, which he had previously devoured with the seasoned eye of the veteran politician. Although he was unfailingly polite to Caroline, there was a subtle reproach in his patent lack of interest in George’s campaign.
Not nearly as polite was George’s uncle Malcolm. He visited his father at least once a week and saw what was happening with the cold eyes of a businessman who had little respect for politics. One day in late September, when Malcolm was leaving Bowood, Caroline hurried to say good-bye to him. “I wish you could come more often,” she said. “You always cheer Grandfather so.”
“
Does his melancholy trouble you?” Malcolm said. “Is it possible you have a bad conscience?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. How could you repay his affection for you by pushing your husband into the Democratic Party? He could have stopped George’s infatuation with you anytime he chose. Angelica and Sally both begged him to do it. Instead he gave you his blessing. This is his reward.”
“I didn’t push my husband anywhere. He went of his own free will.”
Malcolm contemptuously dismissed this half-truth with a shake of his leonine head. “I can’t believe anyone raised as a gentleman can willingly support that Tennessee brawler, adulterer, and murderer.”
“I’ve met General Jackson. He’s as much a gentleman, a man of honor and integrity, as any person I’ve ever seen or hope to see.”
“Then why is he being supported by the scum of the earth? George Stapleton is out there campaigning with would-be Robespierres and Dantons, men like Samuel Swartout who talk about the day of reckoning for the rich—”
“If George wins he’ll have a voice in the councils of the party. He can oppose these extremists.”
“Even if he manages such a miracle, that won’t be much consolation for Father. He’ll be dead—of a broken heart. I may soon follow him. Disgust, I’ve been told, is a strong inducer of apoplexy.”
Good riddance to both of you. The blazing words shocked Caroline. She groped for a more genteel reply and could find none. She whirled and fled upstairs. Malcolm Stapleton was a formidable enemy. It was almost as unnerving to discover his daughter, Sally, and George’s mother had equally low opinions of her.
This upheaval had a major impact on Jeremy Biddle. He had asked Malcolm’s permission to marry Sally and had won his consent. The wedding was set for early October. Jeremy had already informed everyone of his plans to move to Philadelphia. He had even signed a lease on a house. A week before the ceremony, a letter from Malcolm summoned him to Bowood.
Jeremy was not surprised to discover a gigantic hickory pole on the manicured lawn in front of Bowood. George had written him a long letter, telling him about his conversion in Nashville. Neither George nor Caroline were at home to greet the visitor. George was campaigning in Newark, close enough to make a trip for Caroline feasible in spite of her advancing pregnancy.
The Congressman and Malcolm greeted Jeremy in the library. He was distressed by how feeble Hugh Stapleton had become. He did not rise from the chair when they shook hands. Before Jeremy could inquire into his health, Malcolm launched into the reason for his visit.
“Father and I have been discussing the future. While we think it’s commendable of you to move to Philadelphia and make your own way, we’ve begun to think it’s neither wise nor convenient. As my daughter, Sally will inherit a fifty percent interest in the Stapleton properties. George’s plunge into Democratic politics makes it less likely that he’ll have the time or inclination to do much in a business way. It’s been our experience that there’s no substitute for ownership when it comes to managing a business.”
On he talked in his hard cold voice, that word business clanging against Jeremy’s brain like the tongue of a large bell. “In short,” the Congressman said, “we feel it would make Malcolm and me rest easier if you settled here after your marriage and began working with Malcolm with an eye to becoming his successor.”
The calm faintly elegiac way he said “rest easier” dissolved whatever feeble resistance Jeremy had to this generous offer. It sentenced him to a lifetime of toil in a field that did not truly inspire him, compared to the law. But it guaranteed ample comfort and wealth. Only one thing made him hesitate.
“What does George think of this?” he asked.
“He hasn’t been consulted. Nor has Caroline,” Malcolm said stonily.
The Congressman said nothing. He looked vaguely embarrassed. But his silence left little doubt that he endorsed his son’s harsh tone. “George is my closest friend. I couldn’t do it without his consent,” Jeremy said.
“Then talk to him,” Malcolm said.
“If all goes well,” Hugh Stapleton said, “we’ll arrange for you to be the majority stockholder in the parent company.”
“In business there’s no place for compromises. One man has to be in charge and make the final decisions,” Malcolm said.
“I wouldn’t tell that to George for the time being,” Hugh Stapleton said.
Jeremy felt dazed—and not a little apprehensive. He was tempted to tell them of Caroline’s hatred. But that would have led to explanations he was not prepared to make. He had resolved to tell no one about John Sladen.
Jeremy borrowed a horse and gig from the Bowood stables and headed for Newark. On the road, he saw the Stapleton coach approaching—its royal crimson sides, with the gold crest of the corporate seal of Principia Mills on the doors, was much too vivid to miss. He waved to the coachman and he slowed the horses.
Caroline leaned from the window, a chilly smile on her lips. “What brings you to New Jersey?” she asked.
“Oh, I just thought I’d drop over to see George.”
“Why? Your wedding is next week. Have you forgotten he’s your best man?” Caroline said, her eyebrows arching.
A poor liar, Jeremy foundered through a dubious story about visiting Malcolm Stapleton to discuss some details of Sally’s dowry before they left for Philadelphia—and deciding to see George campaign as a Democrat. Caroline did not believe a word of it.
“Is George still in Newark?” he asked.
“He’s on his way to Bloomfield to speak to the leather . workers there.”
“Can I catch up to him this evening?”
“He’s spending the night at Mason’s Tavern.” Caroline slammed down the coach window, making it into a statement of her opinion of Jeremy and his evasions.
Jeremy rode on to Bloomfield. Along with Newark and Rahway, it was one of the “leather towns” where burgeoning factories were turning out shoes, gloves, and other products. They all used the invention of a clever Yankee who had figured out how to slit a cow’s hide into several layers, marvelously multiplying its value.
At John Mason’s commodious brick and timber tavern, Jeremy asked a knot of men outside for George Stapleton’s whereabouts. Out of the crowd stepped a black man at least as large as George. “Master—I mean, Mr. Stapleton’s in the taproom, buyin’ drinks all around,” he said with a cheerful grin. “Sure takes a lot of liquor to win an election in New Jersey. Almost as much as Tennessee.”
Jeremy would soon learn that this was Hannibal, the big black George had purchased from General Jackson and brought back to New Jersey. George had freed him and put him to work as his coachman. Driving George around the state in a gig, he had proven himself a political asset by mingling in the crowd and telling stories about General Jackson as the kindly master of the Hermitage—and about the General’s praise of George’s marksmanship.
In the taproom, Jeremy found George at the bar, a flagon of ale in his hand, telling a room of rapt listeners about his fight with the Kentuckian who had insulted General Jackson’s wife—and the General’s gratitude. George looked tired and his normal baritone had a ragged edge to it. But he went on to eulogize Jackson with passionate sincerity. “The man is the leader we want and need in this country! I’m proud to have his endorsement.”
Like Hugh Stapleton, Jeremy was inclined to ask why outrage over a slandered wife was a good reason for electing Andrew Jackson president of the United States. But there was no doubt from the fervor with which the drinkers responded to George’s toast that they thought it was an unbeatable argument.
“Tell us again how he looked,” said a stumpy man whose hands were stained dark brown from the chemicals used in the leather factories.
“We hear his health is so bad, he may die in office,” said another man, who had splotches of the dye on his face.
“He looks his age,” George said. “But I spent a day gunning in the woods with him. He climb
ed hills without a puff and got his share of birds.”
A collective sigh escaped from every breast. George went on to describe Mrs. Jackson as a saint. He said she was a woman out of the Bible, as pure and devoted as Abraham’s mate.
“Now Congressman,” said a fat little man in a cheap frock coat, “let me introduce each of these good Democrats to you. There’s more waiting outside to meet you.”
He solemnly introduced every man in the room. George shook each extended hand. Not a few were grimy, but he did not seem bothered in the least. He listened patiently as one man told him how his brother had fallen into a priming vat in the local factory and had been scarred for life. George asked if he was a veteran of the War of 1812. If so, he would do everything in his power to get him a government pension. Alas, the man was not a veteran. George said he would try to get him work at Principia Mills. So it went, tales of woe mingling with hurried words about old links to the Stapleton family and murmured thanks for supporting Andrew Jackson. There was little doubt that George’s switch to the Democrats was a political coup of the first order.
The men streamed out the door, contentment—in part a tribute to the drinks they had downed—on every face. In marched another contingent for more drinks and another recital of General Jackson’s virtues and glowing health. It took almost two hours before the little man in the frock coat announced George could rest from his labors. Jeremy went up to the bar and said, “He’s got to stand one more round for a National Republican.”
“Jeremy!” George said, swatting him on the back. George introduced him to the fat little man. He was Adam Hosmer, chairman of the Bloomfield Democratic Committee. George explained that the Democrats had county and city and town committees throughout the state. It was a new idea in American politics—it gave voters a sense of participation, in elections. Hosmer treated Jeremy to a panegyric of George as a politician. He was born to help the people regain control of the federal government, which Hosmer seemed to think had been stolen by the nefarious followers of President Adams and his corrupt friend Henry Clay. This struck Jeremy as egregious nonsense but he smiled and nodded in apparent agreement.
The Wages of Fame Page 12