Andrew Jackson Donelson, the General’s nephew, whom they had met in the Hermitage, rushed up to them. “Just what I’m looking for,” he said. “The General needs reinforcements. He’s in danger of being crushed to death.”
“I think Stapleton here is the sort of behemoth you can use,” Polk said. “I’ll stay here and guard the ladies.”
Struggling through the mob in Donelson’s wake, George found Jackson pressed against the windows in the room known as the elliptical salon. He looked more than a little worn and dismayed by the pandemonium around him. The deep lines of grief added another dimension of old age to his pallid face. George was struck by the thought that if they did not get the man out of this chaos, he might collapse.
John Henry Eaton and two other men were Jackson’s only guards. They rallied at the sight of George’s bulk. “Here’s what we need,” Eaton said. “A battering ram.”
“You lead the way, Congressman. Head for the south door. We’ve got a carriage waiting,” Donelson said.
The other four men formed a cordon around Old Hickory. George plowed into the crowd, knocking people in all directions, calling, “Make way for the president!” In ten minutes of wrestling and shoving, they reached the south entrance, where a black man sat on the box of a waiting carriage.
“You and your beautiful wife will be my guests here as soon as possible, Congressman,” Old Hickory said as the others helped him into the vehicle.
In the East Room, Sarah Polk was finding it hard to conceal her growing dismay at the conduct of the crowd. “If something isn’t done, the majesty of the people may vanish from American politics,” she told her husband. “Justice Story is right. This is a mob in action.”
“What do you think we should do? Call out the army?” Polk said with more than a little impatience.
Caroline was barely listening to this political quarrel. Over by the windows, her eyes had found a face in the crowd that caused a violent upheaval in her soul. John Sladen was leaning over a dark-haired woman in an armchair, smiling possessively down at her. The woman’s features—a delicate nose, a small, tremulous mouth—were unimpressive. Her skin was exquisitely white, almost marblelike in its perfection. She was eating jelly from a glass, using a gold spoon.
A moment later, George rejoined Caroline and the Polks, his brow sweaty, his tie crooked, a rip in his coat, to report that the president had departed. “Let’s imitate his example,” James Polk said.
As they left, White House servants lugged tubs of punch out on the lawn. Many of the celebrants followed them, whooping and howling around the refreshments like Indians on the warpath. Fights broke out as they jostled each other for a drink. Soon a half dozen Western bruisers were gouging and kicking each other on the green lawn.
“The people can occasionally get out of hand,” James Polk said as they strolled back to Gadsby’s Hotel.
“Maybe they’re entitled to an upheaval now and then,” George said. “Jefferson said we needed a revolution every twenty years.”
“It looked as if we were getting one today,” Sarah Polk said, still struggling to preserve her democratic faith in spite of what she had just seen at the first people’s inaugural.
Caroline said nothing. She was far more concerned with the reappearance of John Sladen in the middle of that rowdy tumult. Did it threaten her with another inner revolt, a loss of control to the blind desire to possess and be possessed by that defiant yet somehow pathetic spirit?
Not likely, she told herself, recalling her former lover’s elaborate attention to the dark-haired woman. Caroline was almost glad she had seen John surrounded by the people at their clownish worst. The memory would armor her against sentimentality as she maneuvered George through the contradictions of democracy to fame.
TWO
THAT NIGHT, GEORGE AND CAROLINE dressed for the inaugural ball. Her toilette was much more intricate—and her task of improving nature’s gifts was complicated by an intense desire to look her best. George occupied himself with writing a letter while he waited. When she anxiously asked, “How do I look?” he pondered her high-waisted, maroon silk gown topped by a headdress of jeweled, buckle-embroidered sheer white lawn and told her the question was superfluous.
“Who are you writing to?” she asked.
“Jeremy Biddle. I thought he’d enjoy a firsthand account of the inauguration.”
“Why?”
“Darling, he’s my best friend.”
“He’ll use it against you. He’ll show it to your uncle Malcolm, who’ll go around the city claiming it proves that the people are a great beast, exactly as your grandfather’s idol Alexander Hamilton said they were—and George Stapleton is an idiot for encouraging them.”
“Darling, I can’t imagine Jeremy or Uncle Malcolm doing such a thing.”
“I can. You’re much too trusting, George. It’s going to be your major problem as a politician.”
George left the letter unfinished and they departed for the Washington Assembly Rooms at C and Eleventh Street. What passed for District of Columbia society in 1829 held balls in this building throughout the year and sent their sons and daughters to learn the art of the social dance from the proprietor, a courtly Italian named Carusi. The white-walled, barn-like ballroom was decorated with evergreens and flowers; a huge American flag dangled from the ceiling.
King Mob was nowhere to be seen. Tickets cost $20—a month’s wages for a workingman. Only ladies and gentlemen in evening dress were admitted. The Democratic Party’s elite and their wives numbered at least twelve hundred, and the ladies’ elaborate gowns of brocade piped with coral satin, of blue silk or India muslin trimmed with roses and delicate hand embroidery, must have enabled a small army of dressmakers to live in comfort for the rest of the year. The Polks had arranged a table that included Andrew Jackson Donelson and his blond wife, Emily, and James Hamilton, a son of the founding father. Hamilton was a devoted Jacksonian and responded agreeably to George’s story of his grandfather’s reaction to his becoming a Democrat. Hamilton said half his family had denounced him and his mother had stopped speaking to him.
As. the man who had led the Democratic ticket in New Jersey, a state the Democrats had previously contested in vain, George was something of a celebrity. On the dance floor, Hamilton introduced him to Vice President John C. Calhoun and his wife, Floride, as “the conqueror of New Jersey.” Calhoun expressed warm memories of George’s grandfather in Congress.
“Mr. Vice President!”
A familiar voice. Caroline turned to discover red-haired Secretary of War John Henry Eaton and his new wife, Peggy. She was wearing a white silk gown that glittered with mother-of-pearl inlays on the skirt. At her throat she wore a diamond brooch that would easily have purchased any house in Washington. A turban of peacock blue velvet set off her thickly curled, dark hair and vivid oval face, with its curving, full-lipped mouth and bold blue eyes. An extraordinary odor of toilet water enveloped her. Caroline wondered if she had bathed in the stuff.
“I don’t think you and Mrs. Calhoun have met my wife, Peggy,” Eaton said.
Calhoun kissed Peggy’s hand. “I haven’t met her as your wife,” he said. “But I’ve known her for many years as one of our city’s most charming women. This is my wife, Floride.”
“How do you do,” Floride Calhoun said. Her heart-shaped face, framed by two loops of smooth, inky black hair, was devoid of expression. Her dark eyes were half-hidden under drooping imperious lids. Her prim cupid’s-bow mouth, her chiseled nose, exuded pride—and relentless disapproval. She did not say a word about Peggy’s spectacular gown or attempt so much as a breath of the kind of pleasantries women exchange on such an occasion.
“I wore a dress just like this to my wedding,” Peggy said. “John liked it so much he insisted on ordering one as a ball gown. Mother-of-pearl is not easy to get here in Washington. We had to send all the way to New Orleans for it.”
Peggy was babbling. Caroline could see anger glinting in her blue eyes. She knew a
snub when she met one. Secretary Eaton introduced her to the Stapletons. “The gown is lovely,” Caroline said. “I wouldn’t dare ask George to let me spend that much money on a dress.”
“A sign of wedded bliss,” said James Hamilton to his tall, elegant wife. Secretary Eaton introduced Peggy to them, and Mrs. Hamilton gave her the Floride Calhoun treatment: “How do you do.” Whereupon she danced Hamilton out of the conversation.
Eaton expressed renewed gratitude to George for helping to rescue President Jackson from the popular frenzy at the White House. “We’ll see you at dinner there shortly, I assure you,” he said.
The Eatons glided into the crowd of dancers, and Caroline immediately wanted to know what he meant by his remark about dinner. George told her what President Jackson had said at the White House.
“You should tell me things like that as soon as possible,” Caroline said.
“Why?” George said.
“It means we don’t need Secretary Eaton to wangle an invitation. Which means I may not feel obliged to be polite to his wife.”
Back at their table, Emily Donelson sat down next to Caroline. “I saw you talking to her. Do you intend to accept her socially?”
“I don’t know,” Caroline said. “I felt I had no choice but to be polite for Secretary Eaton’s sake.”
“I looked right through her. And through him,” Emily said. “I will never sit at a table in the White House with that woman.”
A moment later, the orchestra stopped playing and Mr. Carusi announced dinner was served in a room on the floor below them. Going downstairs, Caroline turned to Sarah Polk for guidance. “It begins to look as if open warfare over Peggy Eaton has already begun. What do you plan to do?”
“I don’t know,” Sarah said in her honest way. “Impulse bids me to be kind but conscience bids me to be cruel. I’ll have to pray over it. There may be a good deal more at stake here than Peggy’s reputation.”
“You mean Mr. Eaton’s influence with the president?”
Sarah summoned her Mona Lisa smile. “I am going to enjoy having you in Washington.”
“Who are Secretary Eaton’s allies?”
“Vice President Calhoun should be one. Mr. Eaton conducted all the negotiations that teamed him with General Jackson for the election. As a result, there are three Calhoun men in the cabinet, besides Eaton.”
“Are there other contestants?”
“There are always other contestants,” Sarah said. “One of them hasn’t arrived in Washington yet. Martin Van Buren, the former senator from New York, now our secretary of state. He’s a sly fox. Very charming. But always looking out for Martin Van Buren.”
“You don’t seem to like him.”
“He’s slippery. You’re never sure what he really thinks about anything. You’ll have to make up your own mind about him. I assure you he’ll be very nice to you and George.”
Dinner, as the newspapers described it not inaccurately the next day, was “composed of all the delicacies of the season” —a twenty-five-dish feast of fish and crab and lobster and game and beefsteak from a gigantic ox brought to Washington by General Jackson’s Kentucky followers—all devoured with a bountiful supply of good champagne. Not far from the Stapleton-Polk table sat the members of the cabinet. Caroline noticed not one wife spoke to Peggy Eaton. But she seemed undaunted by the chill, talking vivaciously to the men who sat near her.
Upstairs, the dancing resumed and George led Caroline out on the floor. As he opened his arms to begin the waltz, he froze, his face registering disbelief. “My God! There’s Johnny Sladen!”
Caroline turned and saw him too, about twenty feet away, dancing, with the same dark-haired woman. George hesitated, wondering what to do. “The last time I saw him, he threatened to shoot me for taking you away from him. He seems to have found some consolation in New Orleans.”
“Let’s say hello,” Caroline said. Instinct told her it would be better to meet John on her terms, arm in arm with George. “It’s time to let bygones be bygones.”
George seized her hand and strolled across the not yet crowded dance floor. “Johnny!” he said. “I should have known you’d find your way to this inauguration.”
“George,” John said. “I saw you at the White House, leading the president to safety. But I wasn’t sure what sort of reception I’d get if I offered you my hand.”
“The same one you’re getting now,” George said, holding out his hand. “Here’s Caroline, with the same sentiment. Congratulate her. She’s the mother of a beautiful baby boy.”
“How wonderful.” For a moment a flicker of bitterness played across John’s mouth, belying his polite cheer. But he quickly composed himself and introduced his dancing partner. “This is Clothilde Legrand. Her father is the senior senator from Louisiana. He invited me to the inauguration as her escort.”
“John has told me much about his New York friends,” Clothilde said in a liquid Southern accent that was further complicated by a touch of France. Behind her seeming self-assurance, Caroline sensed fragility.
“But I never told her George Stapleton had become a Democrat,” John said. “I only discovered it when I read the election reports in the New Orleans Picayune. We must meet as soon as possible to explain this transformation.”
“It was accomplished by one man—and one woman,” George said with a good-natured grin. “The man was Andrew Jackson. The woman I think you know.”
“Has she insisted you introduce an equal rights for women bill as your first public act?” John said.
“Not yet. I wish you hadn’t reminded her,” George said.
“I plan to wait four or five years, until George becomes a senator,” Caroline said. “It will have more impact there. We’ll bribe Daniel Webster to support it.”
“I see you’ve already learned a few things about Washington,” John said.
Caroline stood there, close enough to touch him. She felt nothing, neither revulsion nor desire. She chose to see this as proof of her freedom from this man. What John thought or felt was hard if not impossible to discern, after that flash of bitterness. He seemed to be a new man, almost a stranger from another world. The forlorn fugitive from New York’s lower depths had been transformed by his year in New Orleans.
George asked him how long he was going to stay in Washington. “Only long enough to make a case with President Jackson for a drastic reduction of the tariff. I’m here to help forge a union between New York’s free-trade Democrats and Southerners like Senator Legrand.”
“You must come to dinner, assuming we finally get a stove to cook food on,” George said. “I hope you can join us too, Miss Legrand.”
Clothilde Legrand said she would be delighted. Caroline was not at all sure she would be pleased to entertain John Sladen in her house. Somehow that suggested an intimacy she wanted to avoid. But she smiled politely and said she looked forward to the dinner party.
At this point they were interrupted by a florid-faced man who looked vaguely familiar. On his arm was a lady who looked more like a barmaid than a member of any elite. She had arms like a stevedore, which she left blithely uncovered, only one among several mistakes in her garishly colored evening gown.
“Caroline, you remember Colonel Swartout? My father’s old friend?” John said. “Miss Kemble is now married to Congressman Stapleton here, the conqueror of New Jersey.”
“I’ve heard of that famous victory,” Swartout said, shaking George’s hand and smiling jovially at Caroline. “While it’s not exactly comparable to the Waterloo we inflicted on our enemies in New York, even a winning skirmish is worthy of praise.”
“We New Jerseyans would never dream of comparing ourselves to New York, Colonel,” George said. “We’re simple farmers and honest manufacturers. We have no pretensions to being the Gomorrah of America.”
“Ouch!” Swartout said. “I see we’ll have to watch this fellow, Sladen.”
“Obviously, marrying a clever woman has done wonders for him,” John said.
“Seriously, young fellow, we must have some political conversations before long,” Swartout said. “We Middle Staters must watch our flanks, lest we be overrun by the South and West. I’m happy to report General Jackson has promised me a bastion from which we can meet all comers.”
“Colonel Swartout is to be the next collector of the port of New York,” Sladen said.
“And this fellow will be the assistant collector at New Orleans if he wants it. I have Secretary of War Eaton’s word for it,” Swartout said.
John Sladen’s transformation in New Orleans suddenly became explicable to Caroline. He had gone there with a letter of introduction from Samuel Swartout. That gentleman had apparently risen from political oblivion on the wings of Andrew Jackson’s victory and carried Sladen with him.
She sought confirmation of this intuition from Sarah Polk, who assured her she was probably right. “The General has a sentimental fondness for the friends of Aaron Burr,” Sarah said. “He was very deep in Mr. Burr’s plans to seize Texas twenty years ago. He offered to testify in his defense at Burr’s trial for treason in 1806.”
“Is Mr. Swartout an ally of Mr. Van Buren?”
“Not at all,” Sarah said with the glimmer of a smile. “He hates him. He claims that Mr. Van Buren betrayed Colonel Burr when he ran for governor of New York in 1804. Swartout leads the Jackson party in New York City. Mr. Van Buren more or less controls the rest of the state. We rather like the idea of a Democratic quarrel in New York. It weakens Mr. Van Buren’s influence.”
Sarah was amazed when she heard that President Jackson had made Swartout the collector of customs in New York. “That’s a tremendous blow to Mr. Van Buren,” she said. “It’s the single most important federal appointment in the nation. The collector controls hundreds of jobs.”
The orchestra was playing “The President’s March.” It was a way of announcing the ball was over—and reminding everyone that they were there to salute Andrew Jackson. Waiters rushed around the room serving a final round of champagne. Mounting the dais was a short, spare man with a bald head, a hooked nose, and a menacing slit of a mouth. Sarah Polk identified him as Amos Kendall, the leader of the Jackson party in Kentucky. He had been appointed to the Treasury Department with orders to clean out the Adamsites.
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