How she yearned to discuss this inner secret with Sarah Polk. Did she have a secret lover in Tennessee? A larger-souled more intelligent man than earnest James Polk, who seemed to have as his chief recommendation a willingness to work himself to the brink of exhaustion? His intellect was, if anything, more limited than George Stapleton’s.
That day, after John Sladen departed, Caroline Kemble Stapleton began a diary. It was a significant gesture. Diarists are among humanity’s stranger beings. They acknowledge by the very act that there is no one who can hope to understand their inmost selves. They become, by a strange necessity, their own best friend. Side by side with this inward confession often stands a secret desire to let the world ultimately discover how their two selves, the outer and the inner person, experienced or, if they have access to power, influenced the history of their time. History was being made here in Washington, and Caroline Stapleton’s ultimate purpose was to leave the world proof that a woman could and did play a part in it.
That night George returned from the Senate with the news of Calhoun’s arrival. “How incredibly heroic,” Caroline said. “Even if you don’t agree with him, you must admit his courage.”
“I do. The man is a tragic figure.”
“You should do more than merely push a tariff reduction. He sees you as an agent of Andrew Jackson, a man he now hates. He won’t accept it as a true peacemaking gesture. Tell him you’re prepared to do everything in your power, personally, to help South Carolina. Your bank will lend them money, help them build railroads. Become his friend, George.”
“At the moment, that’s politically comparable to embracing Benedict Arnold, if he were still around. I’ve gotten quite a few letters from people who don’t think we should concede anything to South Carolina. Jeremy Biddle wants to see them invaded and totally subjugated to make sure this nullification-secession disease never gets loose again.”
“That sounds typical of his simplistic mentality. There’s only one way for the disease to be cured—by creating bonds of friendship and trust between the North and the South. That was why I urged you so strongly to support Mr. Calhoun from the start.”
I told you so was an unspoken whisper in this sermonette. George Stapleton bowed his big head and agreed to do his utmost to persuade John C. Calhoun that he was his friend, and the South’s friend. Caroline’s policy produced almost magical results. Virtually alone in Washington, a pariah to whom no one spoke except fellow South Carolinians, Calhoun grasped George’s proffered hand of friendship..
Soon the former vice president and John Sladen were seated at the Stapleton dining table, discussing what the Merchants Bank of Newark and additional loans from the overflowing coffers of the Camden & Amboy Railroad could accomplish in South Carolina. Excitedly, Calhoun produced a map of his state and drew a snaking line from Charleston over the uplands to the western border. “A railroad there, sir,” he said, “could work the resurrection of Charleston and the whole state. It could become the chief carrier of goods and produce from the West for export, at twice the speed it takes to ship stuff a thousand miles down the Mississippi to New Orleans.”
“Careful, Senator,” George Stapleton said. “You have a Louisiana partisan here who may do his utmost to torpedo that idea.”
“Nonsense,” John Sladen said. “At the rate the West is growing, there’ll be more than enough business for both routes.”
Calhoun smiled at John with not a little of the fondness of a father for a son. “I’m constantly impressed by this young fellow’s breadth of mind.”
History, Caroline thought. They were making history here beyond the reach of the power gods such as Andrew Jackson and Daniel Webster and Henry Clay. But she wondered if John C. Calhoun would survive this crisis. Her woman’s eyes found alarming signs of exhaustion on his lined face. Again and again a feverish cough tore at his throat. She saw this man was risking his life for his beliefs in more ways than his defiance of Andrew Jackson.
The conversation turned to the present crisis. Calhoun revealed that he had advised South Carolina to repeal its February 1 deadline. “I’ve decided we can wait until March fourth. Congress will have adjourned and we will see what nullification has accomplished in a reduction of the tariff.”
“Some people will say we’re bending to Jackson’s proclamation, but it’s nothing of the sort,” John said.
After Calhoun and Sladen departed, Caroline poured George another cup of coffee and said, “How does that make you feel? I think you can claim some responsibility for the repeal of that deadline.”
“I don’t think postponing it will impress Old Hickory,” George said. “His latest reports from South Carolina are not encouraging. They’ve issued a defiant answer to his proclamation and they’re still organizing an army.”
“All the more reason to press ahead as a peacemaker.”
In Congress, George struggled to pursue this course. But Calhoun decided he preferred Henry Clay’s tariff bill, which offered far less generous terms, because Clay’s bill was untainted by any connection to Andrew Jackson. The tariff soon became a minor drama compared to the debate on the president’s Force Bill. As long as the South Carolinians insisted on reserving the right to nullify this latest tariff if it did not suit them, Jackson insisted on Congress giving him the power to crush them and their army.
Caroline invited Sarah Polk to join her in the Senate when John C. Calhoun rose to attack the Force Bill late in February. They sat on couches only a few feet away from him. The man looked even more exhausted than he had at the Stapleton dinner table a month ago. John Sladen had confessed that he too was worried about Calhoun’s possible collapse. But he spoke for most of a day, summoning examples of tyranny from history, excoriating the Force Bill as the death knell of liberty in America.
Caroline could see angry disagreement on George’s face. She summoned a page. Don’t say a word, she scribbled on a piece of paper and sent it over to him. He crumpled the paper in his big hand and slumped in his seat. As Calhoun sat down, Senator John Forsyth of Georgia rose to answer him. How could he expect any sympathy, Forsyth asked, when South Carolina had repudiated the republican form of government that the Constitution guaranteed?
Calhoun struggled to his feet once more. He scowled down at the slim, elegant Forsyth, who sat only a few feet away from him, and said these were the most ominous words he had ever heard. Couldn’t Forsyth see that if Andrew Jackson could claim the power to invade a sovereign state to destroy a peaceful act of nullification, another president, elected by Northern abolitionists, could do the same thing to overturn the “domestic institution” on which the South’s tranquillity depended—slavery? All in the name of his interpretation of republican government? Didn’t Senator Forsyth realize that a growing number of people in the North were prepared “to drive the white population from the Southern Atlantic states?”
Senator Forsyth dismissed Calhoun’s remarks with a few curt words. But Caroline suddenly saw why John Calhoun had returned to Washington to risk Andrew Jackson’s murderous wrath. It was not merely to defend his finespun constitutional theory of nullification. It was to unite the South behind South Carolina to defend themselves against this primal fear of a race war.
On March 2, 1833, the day before Congress adjourned, the Force Bill was put to a vote. There was no doubt that it would win by a hefty majority. Rather than endure this humiliation, Calhoun stalked out of the chamber, followed by eight other Southern senators. Only one opponent remained, Senator John Tyler of Virginia, who cast the lone vote against it.
Caroline sat on one of the couches in the midst of the solons, watching complacently. She had spent three hours arguing with her husband last night, persuading him either to vote against the bill—or abstain. I told you so whispered its powerful undertone in the quarrel. Finally, George decided he would stay home. She noticed Henry Clay, at the last moment, also fled from the Senate chamber rather than vote.
Beside her sat Sarah Polk, who clearly doubted that George
was as sick as he claimed. He had been hearty and healthy at a dinner party given by Senator Legrand only two nights before. Sarah did not knew that John Sladen had steered Caroline out of the party to argue passionately for this policy—to be stopped in midsentence by Caroline. “I’m waiting until tomorrow night to talk to him.”
“Give George my best wishes for a speedy recovery,” Sarah said as the politicians and spectators streamed from the Senate chamber.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine by tomorrow morning. He’s something of a hypochondriac.”
“Especially when swing votes are taken?”
“Then I’m subject to the hyp.”
“My dear friend, I begin to worry a little about the game you’re playing.”
“Would you have let James vote if he were from New Jersey instead of Tennessee?”
“Probably not,” Sarah admitted with a wan smile.
Outside, Sarah accepted Caroline’s offer to take her back to Gadsby’s Hotel in the Stapleton carriage. Winter gripped Washington with icy, wind-whipped fury. At home she found John Sladen drinking toddy with George. She told them how the final vote had gone. John had difficulty concealing his delight when she reported eight Southern senators had walked out with Calhoun and Virginia’s John Tyler had voted a defiant no.
George was perturbed. “I suppose that makes all the more important what Johnny is urging me to do.”
“I’m here as Senator Calhoun’s emissary,” Sladen said. “He’s leaving for South Carolina tonight. He wants to get there before the Nullification Convention reconvenes. He has no idea whether the ultras will approve the rather piddling reduction of the tariff he accepted from Henry Clay. They may still opt for secession and defiance of Andrew Jackson. Mr. Calhoun thinks the presence of a Northern senator, who proposed a far more generous tariff reduction, who abstained from voting for Jackson’s Force Bill, who comes offering money as well as friendship to the state, would have a powerful effect on the ultras.”
“George, you must go,” Caroline said.
“I’d like to discuss it with the president, first.”
“George, that bloodthirsty old man wants a war. He’ll talk you out of it. Be your own man, George. Stand out from the crowd. You’ve already done it by abstaining on the Force Bill. Lead, don’t follow!”
“Amen,” John Sladen said.
“All right,” George said.
In two hours, Senator Calhoun was at the door in a hired coach. “Your offer to make this journey in such wretched weather has done more to give me hope for the future than anything I have seen or heard since I’ve returned to Washington.”
George, still unhappy about not consulting Andrew Jackson, murmured something about hoping to make a contribution to peace and union. “You shall,” Calhoun said. “We shall do it in our different ways. Thank you for your help, John. Mrs. Stapleton, I hope I can return your husband to you, no worse the wear, in two weeks’ time.”
The coach rumbled into the twilight, heading for Alexandria, where the travelers planned to take the mail packet to Charleston tomorrow at dawn. John Sladen followed Caroline back into the house and seized her hands.
“My dearest love,” he whispered. “My dearest, dearest love.”
“Stop!” she said, pulling her hands free and retreating into the parlor.
“I have to say it. I think it constantly. I have to say it at least once.”
“All right. You’ve said it.”
“Do you feel the same way?”
“Of course. Why else would I be bullying my husband into doing something he doubts to the depths of his soul?”
John struggled with a wild mixture of joy and sorrow. “I’ll never mention it again. Or ever touch you. But I had to know.”
Caroline said nothing. She was hearing her fate. Could she embrace it? She was not sure. She felt as empty as a scarecrow, as stupid as a stuffed doll.
“The struggle is just beginning. You know that.”
“Yes.”
“The South has learned a bitter lesson from this experience,” John said. “One state can’t go it alone. That’s the chief reason Calhoun’s returned to the Senate. To rally the South to our side.”
“I know.”
John’s smile was as wistful as it was adoring. “Why do I bother to explain things to you? You’re always ahead of me.”
“Sometimes.”
“One state can’t secede. But if a whole region, a whole people, secedes, that’s another matter. That will make the millionaires and manufacturers of the North think twice about voting for a Force Bill.”
“What about the Union? Isn’t Calhoun sincere about that?”
“There’ll still be a Union. But it will be on our terms.”
So that was where they were going. Did she agree with this bitter vision? She saw John Sladen’s part in it, the visceral resentment against those who had destroyed his father, the gruesome proofs supplied by Nat Turner that the South had no alternative but the perpetual subjugation of its 2 million—soon to be 3 million—African slaves, the blend of anger and ambition that had led Calhoun to challenge Andrew Jackson. She saw it all but it did not really matter. She and this man were bound by something deeper and more compelling than politics. Something more profound and mysterious than the Temple of Fame.
Would she ever emerge from her cave of ice and bear ultimate witness by placing her lips on his longing mouth? If history gave birth to this dark consummation, would she feel free to seek the other consummation they both denied themselves? No, never, Caroline told herself. But the words did not still the wild longing in her soul.
EIGHT
HISTORY. GEORGE STAPLETON FELT IT beating in his blood too as he headed south with John C. Calhoun. He had grave doubts about allying himself with this bitter angry man. At Alexandria, they made a dismaying discovery. The Potomac was a sheet of solid ice. No mail packet could sail unless there was a break in the weather, which seemed unlikely.
Senator Calhoun rushed into a general store and bought a newspaper. It happened to be an edition of the Washington Globe, filled with its usual denunciations of him. He gave George half the pages and advised him to insert it under his shirt, next to his chest. “I’ve found nothing better to keep pleurisy at bay.”
George shivered in his bearskin coat. Calhoun was wearing an equally thick coat of otter skins. The temperature was in the twenties. “We’ll have to go by fast stagecoach,” Calhoun said.
A company ran daily stages south from Alexandria. At first they said they had suspended service because of the cold. When George offered to double the driver’s wages, they hitched up a team of horses and began the overland journey on the roads grooved with deep, frozen ruts that forced the driver to proceed at the pace of a creeping infant.
It took them twelve hours to reach Newport, Virginia. The driver was exhausted and the horses were near collapse. The proprietor of the Eagle Tavern, who ordinarily supplied fresh horses to the stagecoach company, was not inclined to risk his steeds as replacements. He urged them to return to Washington or wait by his warm fire until the harbor thawed.
“We’ll have to use the mail carts,” Calhoun said to George. “They’re required by law to keep going.”
“There’s one outside, on its way within the hour,” the tavernkeeper said. He obviously regarded Calhoun as insane.
What could George say? The senator was old enough to be his father. If he was willing to risk these open carts, George had to volunteer to join him. For the next eight days and nights, they jounced south in these springless, coverless vehicles, exposed to drizzling rain and occasional snow showers, with only mailbags and their heavy coats for warmth. In spite of the newspapers across his chest, George developed a persistent cough. Calhoun was not in much better shape, with a head cold that left him gasping for breath.
Sleep was snatched in fitful hours against the mailbags. Food was gulped down in roadside taverns, the walls greasy with smoke from burning pine logs. It was white bread and chicke
n fixings one meal, brown bread and common doings the next meal, and vice versa, while neighborhood folk, white and black, stared in wonderment at these strange travelers in their furry greatcoats.
Inevitably, they began talking to each other with ever greater frankness as their ordeal lengthened. George confessed his grave doubts about nullification and declared secession unthinkable. Calhoun said the Union remained a precious entity to him as well. He expounded his faith in nullifying laws as a peaceful legal protest but admitted that the people to whom he was preaching had a tendency to prefer violent solutions. “There’s a great preponderance of Irish and Scottish blood in South Carolina,” he said. “Particularly in the uplands, where I have my roots.”
“Senator,” George said after another hour or two of silent jouncing, “why didn’t you stop Mrs. Calhoun when she decided to snub Mrs. Eaton?”
They rode a good mile without an answer. A thin rain began to fall from the leaden sky. “How long have you been married, Senator?” Calhoun asked.
“Four and a half years.”
“Have you and your wife had any serious disagreements?”
“One—or two.”
“Have you tried to change her mind once it’s made up?”
“Yes.”
“Did you succeed?”
“No.”
“I married Floride on January eighth, 1811. That computes to twenty-two years. I took her away from the city life she loved in Charleston to the loneliness of the up-country, to managing Fort Hill when I was in Washington, to seven pregnancies. She’s never said a single word of complaint to me. But there’ve been times when her temper made me aware of what she’d sacrificed for me—in comfort, in social pleasures, in sheer physical risk. Add to this my habit of solitary thought, of thinking out for myself, consulting with no one, my chosen course. Yet her love for me, her ambition for me, has remained inviolate. How could I say no when she chose to assert herself in this affair?”
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