The Wages of Fame

by Thomas Fleming

  Last week, only ten days after my confinement, I accepted an invitation to dinner at the White House. The temperature was 95 degrees. George was sure the excitement would be fatal. I finally convinced him that on the contrary, the boredom of sitting home with a squalling baby would more likely demolish me. He submitted, muttering I was part Indian—I’m sure he really meant “politician” (though he would not have added “ρart” with that word)—and we were soon being received by the mansion’s new hostess, Priscilla Cooper Tyler. The President’s wife remains totally incapacitated by the stroke she suffered some two years ago. The younger Mrs. Tyler is, as I think I told you several letters back, a former actress, married to the president’s eldest son, Robert. Extremely attractive and self-possessed, she gave a superb dinner, replete with fish, venison, the usual desserts, and a number of excellent wines.

  Alas, as the desserts were being served, Mrs. Tyler grew deathly pale and slumped in her chair, quite unconscious. (I have since learned she is three or four months pregnant.) She was sitting next to Mr. Webster, our new secretary of state. He leaped up, lifted her from her chair, and began carrying her out of the room. At this point, her husband (who strikes me as a bit of a fool) seized a pitcher of ice water and hurled it all over her and Mr. Webster! I’m sure it totally ruined her beautiful dress, a delicate pink faille, and produced a decided coolness on Mr. Webster’s part. The godlike Daniel had to be dried off by a half dozen waiters while our hostess was carried off to her bedroom.

  Mr. Clay has made another attempt to pass a bank bill. If it fails for the usual reason, he may personally assassinate “Old Veto,” as some are beginning to call Mr. Tyler. I fear the worst—or as a Democrat—hope for the best. Based on a remark in my parlor last night by Robert Tyler, Mr. Clay’s prospects are not bright. Mr. Tyler called the latest offering “a humbug compromise.”

  Have you seen the newspaper squib where some Western farmer remarks, “By gum, Tyler must have found one of Old Andy’s pens!”

  Be sure to send me all the news of the Governor’s run for reelection. With the deliquescence of the Whigs in Washington, victory will unquestionably win him national attention and make him the logical Democratic nominee in 1844.

  With deepest affection,

  Caroline

  Caroline sealed the letter and addressed it to Mrs. James Polk, The Governor’s Mansion, Nashville, Tennessee. Upstairs, she could hear Paul’s whimpers turning into a wail. She summoned Hannibal and asked him to take the letter to the post office immediately.

  In spite of the heat, energy was surging in Caroline’s veins. President John Tyler was turning into a Democrat before everyone’s astonished eyes. The invitations to her salon, canceled for the last months of her pregnancy, had to be distributed with the utmost care. Tempers were being strained, antagonisms stirred, that not even Mrs. Stapleton’s beauty, supported by Mrs. Madison’s benevolence, could hope to soothe.

  Upstairs, Caroline found the wet nurse was answering Paul’s needs. She was a big amiable black named Esther Hawkins, with breasts the size of watermelons. The Irishwoman who had nursed Charlie had long since traveled West or South, following her husband to some other construction project. Hovering around the domestic scene were Mercy and eleven-year-old Tabitha, who was on her way to becoming as attractive as her late mother.

  “Oh, how I wishes I could do that for him, missus,” Mercy said. She was still as thin and small-breasted as the day she arrived in the house.

  “Well, I don’t!” Tabitha said. “I thinks missus has got the right idea. Let someone else do it!”

  Everyone laughed heartily. For a moment they were all simply women. Race did not matter. What a strange business life is, Caroline thought.

  Dressing quickly, Caroline was waiting in the hall when Hannibal returned in the gig from his post office errand. She stepped into the seat beside him and said, “The Capitol. Hurry.”

  They set out at a brisk pace behind Beauty, one of their best trotters. The August sun beat down with almost unbearable intensity, and Caroline took immediate shelter beneath her parasol. The humid air flowed around them with a thickness that soon had sweat pouring down the horse’s black flanks.

  Not for the first time, Caroline urged Hannibal to marry Mercy. “When I see her doting over little Paul, I realize how much she needs a baby of her own. She’s been a mother in all but name to Tabitha, hasn’t she?”

  “Yes, missus. But the spirit just hasn’t spoken in me. Maybe I feels I don’t deserve another woman, ’cause of the way I lost Tabitha. I shouldn’ve never let her go out alone. Should’ve known what could happen in this perilous city.”

  “We all should’ve known, Hannibal.”

  “Maybe I feels if I ‘prive myself, it’ll be an offerin’ to the Lord God, missus. Like addin’ my mite to the sufferin’s of our savior Jesus—to redeem my people from bondage. That way helps me, missus, to think Tabitha died for a reason, that it mean somethin’. So hard to think maybe she dyin’ means nothin’.”

  The words screeched across Caroline’s nerves like a knife on glass. “That’s all very fine, Hannibal. But meanwhile poor Mercy is miserable. She loves you so much she can’t marry anyone else. It may take a long time—a terribly long time—to free your people.”

  “I knows that, missus, but—”

  “Hannibal, promise me here and now that you’ll do it.”

  Hannibal hung his head. “I promises, missus.”

  They rode on in silence to the Capitol. There, Caroline hurried to the Senate, where George had reserved a seat for her on one of the couches on the floor. The chamber was almost as humid and airless as the weather outside. George leaned over and murmured, “The president’s sent up another veto. Get ready for some fireworks.”

  Within minutes, Samuel Southard, the Whig senator from New Jersey who was serving as president pro tempore of the Senate, began reading Tyler’s veto of Clay’s compromise bank bill. The message had an apologetic tone, as if the president knew what a political explosion he was about to ignite. The tone did nothing to silence Whigs in the gallery, who began shouting “Treason” and “Impeach the snake.” Democrat Thomas Hart Benton of Missouri leaped to his feet and shouted for the sergeant at arms. “Arrest those ruffians for insulting the president of the United States,” he roared.

  Henry Clay rose to castigate the president for refusing to obey the will of the nation, as expressed by Congress, the people’s representatives. He pointed out that in 1836, when Tyler was a senator, he had been instructed to vote for certain Democratic measures by the Virginia legislature and he had resigned rather than obey them. He should do the same thing now. Clay then introduced a motion to override the veto. The twenty-three Democratic senators voted in a block to sustain it, and the infuriated Kentuckian realized he was far short of a two-thirds majority. He promptly introduced a resolution for a constitutional amendment that would permit Congress to override a presidential veto by a majority vote. Other Whig senators rose to second this idea and the necessity of President Tyler’s immediate resignation.

  Caroline strolled over to George during this oratory and said, “Let’s have a Democratic dinner tonight. I’ll have everything ready when you adjourn. Invite Senators Benton, Calhoun, Buchanan, and one or two others. I’ll go over to the House and invite John Sladen and a few of his friends.”

  In the House of Representatives’ echoing chamber, Caroline told John about the veto and left him with the task of issuing the additional invitations. Back home, she sent Mercy and the Parks sisters rushing to the markets to purchase the dinner. She made a personal pilgrimage to Henry Orr’s house to plead for his assistance. The poor man groaned at the thought of baking anything in the August heat, and they compromised on restricting desserts to ice cream and his famous candied oranges.

  The dinner was a sensational success. As the wine flowed and the food—cold crab bisque, cold salmon and lobster salad—won exclamations of delight, Senators Benton and Calhoun, often on opposite sides beca
use of Benton’s devotion to Andrew Jackson, grew as cordial as a pair of college roommates. Senator James Buchanan of Pennsylvania, with his goggle eyes and his pompous, old-womanish manner, relaxed and told funny stories about his ambassadorship to Russia. Senator Dixon Lewis of Alabama, all 420 pounds of him, did a marvelous imitation of Senator Clay stamping his feet in indignation—a trait of his. Dixon literally all but brought the house down.

  As the coffee and dessert were served, George Stapleton said, “Why don’t we call on the president and welcome him back to the Democratic Party?”

  “The motion is carried unanimously!” Senator Benton roared.

  Hannibal was ordered to produce the carriage. “What of our hostess?” John Sladen said. “Can we leave her behind? This restoration of Democratic happiness was unquestionably her idea.”

  “We’ll take her along,” Benton said, “as the personification of the goddess of peace.”

  Packed in the carriage—Dixon Lewis took up the space of two ordinary riders—they rolled to the White House singing—or better, roaring—the old favorite “Columbia, the Pride of the World.”

  Oh, there is a region, a realm in the West

  To Tyranny’s shackles unknown

  A country with union and liberty blest

  That fairest of lands is our own

  At the mansion, the president, tieless and in his slippers, soon greeted them in the front hall. He knew them all from his years in the Senate and invited them into the elliptical salon. He reserved a special greeting for Caroline. “Mrs. Stapleton. Your presence reassures me that these fellows’ intentions are peaceful.”

  Tyler ordered up a bottle of brandy. Caroline declined a glass but no one else did. Soon the party was as merry as the one that had preceded it. There were numerous toasts to Tyler’s courage and patriotism. Finally Benton hefted his bulk forward in his chair and said, “Can we welcome you back into the Democratic Party, Mr. President?”

  Tyler, none the worse for several glasses of brandy, said, “Today I resisted the tyrannical power of an individual who thinks he has been divinely ordained to rule the nation. Rid your party of General Jackson, who has similar delusions, and return it to its old respect for the powers and rights of the individual states and you will have my adherence—and even my leadership, if you’ll accept it!”

  A stunned silence ensued. Finally, Dixon Lewis, in his massive Alabama majesty, spoke. “I think that event is as unlikely as the interruption of the flow of the Mississippi, Mr. President.”

  “Then we must go our separate ways,” Tyler said in a tone more disappointed than angry.

  “I believe there is one issue on which we can unite, Mr. President,” Senator Stapleton said. “Texas.”

  A cascade of shouts, drumbeats, bugle calls, and shots erupted outside the White House. Everyone rushed to the windows. A mob of Whigs, some of them no doubt the shouters of insults in the Senate gallery, were at the gates, torches in hand, looking like the reincarnation of the French Revolution.

  “Death to the traitor president!” they howled.

  “My God!” Tyler said. “Should I call out the army?”

  “Are there any guns in the house?” Benton asked.

  “A few hunting rifles. A pistol or two.”

  “Have them sent down, with ammunition,” Benton said.

  In a few minutes, the president’s son Robert Tyler joined them, followed by black servants carrying the guns. They were distributed to the politicians, who grouped themselves around the president at the window. Senator Buchanan looked extremely uncomfortable with his gun. “I favor the army,” he quavered.

  “Buchanan,” Benton said, “for once in your life try not to be a Nancy.”

  The mob continued to howl, but no one entered the White House grounds. “I begin to think they’re harmless,” George said.

  “My wife is desperately ill upstairs. I shudder to think of what this will do to her nerves,” the president said.

  A moment later, a figure swayed on a long pole. Someone struck a match and President Tyler watched himself burned in effigy in front of the White House. After more jeers and a final blast of the bugles, the mob dispersed.

  “That settles it,” George Stapleton said. “I’m going to insist on the creation of a night police force for this city. No president should have to tolerate this sort of treatment.”

  “I will most earnestly support your motion, Senator,” President Tyler said.

  “We all will,” Senator Calhoun said.

  They rode back to their various residences in a subdued mood. “We should never have gone anywhere near him,” Senator Benton said.

  “I find nothing essentially wrong with telling General Jackson he is no longer the leader of the party,” Calhoun said.

  “Didn’t you hear what Senator Lewis said about the Mississippi?” Benton said. “As long as there’s breath in Old Hickory’s body, he’s going to be our leader.”

  “Where does this leave Texas?” George Stapleton asked, demonstrating he had no intention of abandoning Andrew Jackson.

  “A good question. I wish there were a good answer,” Benton said.

  “From the look on Tyler’s face when Senator Stapleton mentioned it, I predict it will become the president’s great whale. The prize that might win him reelection,” Calhoun said. “I see no reason why we should let him take the credit when one of us could profit by it far more handsomely.”

  Caroline saw that John C. Calhoun had not yet given up his hope of becoming president. It was fascinating the way the hunger for this office persisted once it invaded a man’s soul. How could she ignite it in George?

  Caroline soon sent an account of this White House visit to Tennessee, along with even more sensational political news.

  Dearest Friend,

  No doubt you’ve read in the papers the astonishing story of the resignation of the President’s entire cabinet, except for Mr. Webster. It was a blow under which Senator Clay hoped President Tyler would fall to pieces and follow them into political oblivion. It was accompanied by a chorus of nationwide abuse that is unparalleled. One mathematically inclined reporter claims Mr. Tyler was burned in effigy at over 100 mass meetings in the past week! But our old friend Webster, whether purchased by some invisible source or motivated, as he occasionally can be, by patriotism, has ruined Harry’s plans by staying on as Secretary of State. According to Robert Tyler, when Webster offered to stay, the President seized his hand and exclaimed, “Clay is a doomed man!” Thus bolstered, Mr. Tyler has appointed a new cabinet, half of them Democrats. I hope you’ve passed on to General Jackson the President’s bold attempt to take over the Democratic Party. I’m sure it will amuse him. If there is ever a text written on how to mismanage a president, Mr. Clay’s assaults on President Tyler must take first place in the examples. He and his friends insulted and browbeat the man until he had no alternative to a veto, if he wished to retain his self-respect. Imagine how much better a woman would have handled such a contest? Men utterly lack any instinct for conciliation. They are all arm wrestlers at heart. One must always flatten the other and win the whole game. Of course there are times when winning is a necessity. I begin to dislike the tenor of your descriptions of Mr. Polk’s opponent. He sounds like a formidable, if thoroughly despicable, adversary.

  Yours,

  Caroline

  Sarah Polk’s letters had supplied Caroline with vivid reports on James Polk’s struggle for reelection as governor of Tennessee. The Whigs had nominated James “Slim Jimmy” Jones, a politician who had made a close study of the tactics that had elected Tippecanoe and Tyler. To hard cider and empty slogans he added a touch of Davy Crockett. Up and down the state he followed Governor Polk, wearing a coonskin hat and making wicked jokes about how boring Polk was, with his long, earnest speeches on issues such as a national bank and the tariff.

  Tennessee still seethed with animosity against Martin Van Buren, some of which spilled over onto his sponsor, Andrew Jackson. Slim Jimmy made artful
use of these sentiments, telling voters that Polk had been “Little Van’s errand boy” in the House of Representatives, and before that, Andrew Jackson’s yes-man. “What’s he going to do if old Andy dies?” Slim Jimmy asked. “Run all the way to New York for advice?” George, corresponding with General Jackson about Texas, picked up further intimations of trouble. Old Hickory called Slim Jimmy “an artful demagogue.”

  In the second week of November, bad news arrived in the Stapleton household from two directions. The Washington Globe glumly reported that James Polk had been defeated in Tennessee. But the paper saw rays of a coming Democratic resurrection in the news from New York. Martin Van Buren and his Albany machine had regained control of the state, electing the governor and taking charge of the legislature. “The announcement of Mr. Van Buren’s political demise would seem in need of revision,” the Globe gloated.

  The gloom at the Stapleton family’s breakfast table was as thick as a London winter fog. “This can mean only one thing,” George said. “Little Van will run in 1844.”

  “Perhaps this time he’ll take Mr. Polk as his vice president,” Caroline said.

  “Not unless he wins back the governorship in 1843. Slim Jimmy will be even tougher to beat as the incumbent.”

  “Why don’t you like Mr. Van Buren?” Jonathan Stapleton asked.

  “Because he doesn’t like your father,” Caroline said.

  “He’s a lying scheming weasel,” Senator Stapleton said.

  “How could he get elected president?” Jonathan asked in his solemn way.

  “Because most of the voters are lying scheming weasels!” Charlie said with a cheerful grin.

  “Really, Father. How could he?” Jonathan persisted.

  “He convinced people that he’s an honest man.”

  “If he runs for president again, will you support him?”

  “Probably. That’s how our system works. You vote with your party, not for the man. As long as you think he’ll carry out the party’s program.”