Winfield Scott’s sheer size, plus George Stapleton’s massive physique, somehow added substance to the wraithlike Trist. “All right,” he said. “I’ll meet with Judge Pena y Pena one more time. But if there is no progress …”
“I think there’ll be progress,” George said.
TEN
CAROLINE KEMBLE STAPLETON’S HEAD THROBBED. The mail had just arrived. Once more, there was no letter from George. For two months now, he had not written her a line. She had written him a dozen letters, at first full of confidence that he was ready to become America’s first viceroy to Mexico, later questioning his silence, wondering if her previous letters had arrived, finally angrily demanding an answer of some sort. There was no response to any of these missives. Nor had President Polk received an answer to his letter, asking George to assume the duties of American plenipotentiary in Mexico City. Secretary of War William Marcy had chosen this resounding title for the final stage of the campaign to annex all of Mexico.
While these thoughts rampaged through her head, Caroline sat in her Washington parlor, watching her elongated oldest son, Jonathan, pace up and down the room, long arms flailing like some unnatural mixture of bird and beast, denouncing the idea of annexing Mexico. He used the rhetoric of the abolitionists, making him sound like the college junior that he was.
“How can you even countenance such an idea, Mother? It’s a slavocrat conspiracy—”
“Jonathan, I will not tolerate your use of such terms as slavocrat in this house. They’re insulting to the Democrats of the South, who are your father’s friends and political allies.”
“You maintain that the South has not made slavery into an article of faith in their political creed?”
“They’ve made the safety of their wives and children, their lives and property, into a creed—because the abolitionists have given them no choice.”
From a couch where he was sprawled, reading the New York Morning News, Charlie Stapleton said, “Mother’s right, Big Brother. You’re full of hot air. Take a trip South before you shoot off your mouth about slavocrats. It’s slavery or a race war—that’s our choice.”
“Our choice?” Jonathan spluttered. “You’ve become a Southerner, now?”
“Isn’t the South part of our country?” Charlie said.
“You wouldn’t think so, if you listen to the abolitionists,” Caroline said.
“Big Brother doesn’t listen to anyone else, that’s all too clear.”
“There’s a moral dimension to history, a moral dimension to the destiny of this country,” Jonathan said.
“Stuff,” Charlie said. “You’re a preacher without a collar, Big Brother. Why don’t you admit it and join a seminary?”
“Your moral-dimension nonsense is what has prolonged the war in Mexico to the point where we have no choice but to occupy the whole country,” Caroline said. “We’ve been so anxious to be moral, we’ve allowed scum like Santa Anna to hoodwink us into endless truces and peace negotiations, only to find ourselves confronting a revived Mexican army. If we’d smashed them in a single campaign, the American people would be disposed to a far more generous peace.”
“‘The American people,’” Jonathan said. “Mother, we’re talking as a family here. We know, or at least I know, the American people have been manipulated by you and your friends in the White House and in the newspapers to the point where they’re no more intelligently disposed than a bunch of trained seals in a circus act.”
“All the more reason for.us to act without idiotic ideals about moral destiny,” Charlie said.
In a corner of the parlor, six-year-old Paul Stapleton sat silently on a straight-backed chair, not missing a word. “Paul, go to your room. You’re much too young to be listening to such cynical talk,” Caroline said.
“I don’t agree with either of them, Mother.” Paul said. “They’re both full of hot air.”
“What!” Charlie roared, leaping to his feet. “Suh. Do you realize you’ve insulted a Suthin’ gennlemun? The honuh of the South must be avenged—by no less than ten crampuhs.”
“Mother stop him!” Paul screamed, and fled the parlor.
Charlie stamped after him, shouting, “You hear them footsteps, you little no-thun weasul? The honuh of the South is on the march!”
“Charlie, leave that child alone!” Caroline said. “His arms were black-and-blue from your crampers last night.”
Men, Caroline thought. They enjoyed inflicting pain on each other. Paul was proud of his black-and-blue arms. A day or two ago, she had overheard Charlie remark to Jonathan, “Little brother has guts. He never goes crying to Momma no matter how much I clobber him.” Why was she, of all people, fated to be the mother of three sons?
Alone in the parlor, Jonathan glared at Caroline. “I’m serious about Mexico, Mother. Would you object if I wrote Father a letter telling him what I think?”
“You can write him anything you please!” Caroline was tempted to add, Maybe you can get an answer from him. But she had been careful to conceal her anxiety on that score from almost everyone.
Tabitha Flowers came to the door of the parlor. Her face wore its usual mixture of anger and grief. She had become almost unmanageable since she learned of her father’s death at the battle of Molino del Rey. George had written a long letter to her, describing Hannibal’s heroism. Tabitha had torn it to shreds and said all sorts of extreme things. She had accused George of murdering Hannibal by taking him to Mexico. He had died like a slave in a white man’s war.
“Senator Sladen’s here to see you, ma’am.”
Caroline banished Jonathan and received John Sladen in the parlor, carefully closing the doors behind him. She had shared her bafflement over George’s silence with him, hoping he might learn something from New Orleans, where reporters covering the war congregated.
“I have news about George that may upset you,” John said. “But I thought you should hear it immediately.”
“Tell me.”
“General Stapleton has acquired a beautiful Mexican mistress.”
“Impossible.”
“We of all people should be ready to admit this sort of impossibility can happen.”
“I want to know. I want to know everything. Who she is, her background. Is she a woman of the street? I think I could understand that. We’ve been separated over a year.”
“I gather every officer down to the rank of lieutenant has enjoyed that sort of liaison. But this woman is from a very distinguished Mexican family.”
“Are you suggesting he’s in love with her?”
John shrugged. “I can arrange for you to meet the reporter who told me the story.”
Caroline saw herself sitting in some tawdry boardinghouse parlor, exposed to the man’s condescension. “No. Get me a full account. A written document.”
“You’ll have it in a week.”
His wry smile made no secret of what he was thinking. All those years of fidelity, of lecturing him on the sanctity of her wedding vows—and this was her reward. As infuriating as this mockery was to Caroline, she was even more tormented by another thought. She had no difficulty imagining what this woman was doing with George’s body. What was she doing with his mind?
Two days later, as Caroline was finishing breakfast, Tabitha handed her a white envelope. “This come from the White House.”
Caroline ripped open the sealed envelope. Sarah Polk had scrawled only two lines. Dearest Friend: Can you come here without a moment’s delay? We have received an extraordinary communication from Mexico City.
Caroline flung on a fur-lined cloak against the raw December wind and told Jonathan to bring her sulky and her favorite horse, the roan mare, Ginger, to the front door. She would drive herself to the White House without waiting to round up Judson Diggs. The coachman was probably visiting one of his many lady friends in the neighborhood. The man had turned out to be a lothario of extraordinary abilities, considering his spherical shape. She hesitated to fire him because she feared his replac
ement might be worse. All the coachmen in Washington, D.C., were former hackmen, which meant they had bad habits.
In fifteen minutes she was giving her horse to Ezekiel McCall, the black porter who guarded the South Portico. Inside, a servant led her up the stairs to the second floor and down the hall to the president’s study. An anxious-eyed Sarah met her at the door in funereal black. She had taken to wearing that color constantly. They kissed and Sarah waved her to a seat in front of the president’s desk. James Polk was in his swivel chair, papers scattered across the broad mahogany desktop. In his hand was a thick document, which he was intently reading. He looked utterly worn. The brown cast to his skin had changed to an alarming gray. Huge pouches sagged beneath his eyes.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning, Mr. President.” Caroline still preferred to call him that, although they had been on a first-name basis for years before his election.
Sarah sat down on a couch against the wall. “We’ve been up all night,” she said. “Reading and rereading what arrived last night in the valise of a reporter for the New Orleans Picayune. It’s a treaty of peace with Mexico. Plus a sixty-page letter from our former diplomatic representative, Nicholas Trist, explaining why we should approve it.”
“He’s negotiated a treaty?” Caroline said. “In defiance of your instructions?”
“Apparently,” President Polk said.
“But the most extraordinary thing in the packet is a letter from General Stapleton,” Sarah said.
“May I see it?” Caroline said.
“That’s why you’re here,” the president said with a twist of his lips that might have been a tired grin—or a grimace.
He handed her the letter. It was unquestionably in George’s large, bold handwriting.
Dear Mr. President:
I write this letter with a mixture of regret and apprehension. You know I went to Mexico determined to do my best to support your policies. I have not changed my mind about the necessity for this war, even though I have seen too many good men die in it. I agree with your conviction, which we both inherited from Andrew Jackson, that Texas, New Mexico, and California belong within our national borders by the nature of their geography and the necessities of our position as a democracy in a hostile world. But I have become more and more alarmed by what I have heard from reporters and from Caroline’s letters about the growth of a movement to annex all of Mexico and turn it into a colonial possession, in the style to England’s imperial control of India. What I have seen and heard in Mexico convinces me that this would be a disaster for both countries. It would make us eternal enemies and would prove, I think, an inexhaustible source of moral and political corruption that would eventually undermine our government as well as ruin theirs.
Mr. Trist asked me for advice when he received your order to return to the United States. I urged him to try one more time to negotiate a peace based on the proposals he had brought with him. Through friendships I have formed with the Mexican family that includes the provisional president, Judge Pena y Pena, I was able to facilitate these negotiations. The result is the treaty you will find in this pouch, along with Mr. Trist’s prolix defense of his actions—which I assured him was superfluous but he insisted on enclosing. To be candid, the man is a bit of a fool, but his intentions are honorable and his devotion to the best interests of our country is genuine.
While Trist was negotiating, I received your letter appointing me as his replacement. I am deeply flattered by the confidence and trust you repose in me as Minister Plenipotentiary. But I did not see how I could execute the responsibilities of that office when I had lost confidence in the policy that my appointment—and Mr. Trist’s recall—implied. So I chose to remain silent and let Mr. Trist proceed with his negotiations. The result, in my opinion, is a treaty that will produce a lasting peace.
I hope you will submit this treaty to the Senate for its approval, Mr. President. I plan to return to the United States early in the New Year and resume my seat in that august body. I am prepared to defend the treaty with all the eloquence I can muster. If you decide not to follow this course, I will be in a painful dilemma. I would hate to give aid and comfort to our political enemies. But I fear I would be forced to speak out against an alternative policy—especially an attempt to make all Mexico an American satrapy.
With continuing admiration and friendship.
Sincerely,
George
Caroline placed this letter on President Polk’s desk as if it were a ticking time bomb. It might as well have been. Both Polks gazed at her with a tense blend of anxiety and distrust in their eyes. Caroline could almost hear Sarah saying, How could you have let this happen? By now she had convinced the president that All Mexico was the only hope of rescuing the administration and the Democratic Party from humiliation. Nothing else would satisfy the Southern wing of the party. Nothing else would defuse the mounting revulsion against the war that the Whigs were gleefully fueling, with the help of the abolitionists.
“Has George revealed any of these sentiments to you?” Sarah said.
“I haven’t heard a word from him for almost two months.”
“I don’t believe you mentioned that to me,” Sarah said.
“I didn’t think it was significant. The mails are so irregular …”
It was bewildering—horrifying. The president was gazing at her as if she were a prisoner in the dock. Sarah was interrogating her like a prosecuting attorney.
“What is he planning to do? Come home and run on my corpse?” The president’s voice was half-croak, half-groan. It sounded like a cry from the grave. “The man who rescued Mexico and America from Caesar Polk? I warned Sarah from the beginning that this was what someone might say about this scheme! It was too high a price to pay—to keep the South in the Democratic Party. But I thought the assassin would be a Whig, not a Democrat, not a man I trusted!”
“You have no idea what George plans to do—if we submit to his decree and accept this treaty?” Sarah asked.
“None! I haven’t heard from him. I swear it!”
Suddenly Caroline was choking with tears. The pathetic president and his worries about humiliation became irrelevant. She spoke only to Sarah. “Do you really think I could betray you this way? You? The one person in the world I truly love?”
Tears trickled down Sarah’s cheeks. “It was the most horrifying thought of my life.”
The scrape of the president’s chair as he shoved himself away from his desk was almost a human sound. He lurched to his feet, trembling. “Now I know the worst, the very worst—”
“No!” Caroline said. “It isn’t what you think. It isn’t some mad scheme of two deluded women. It’s your fame that we’ve lived to create. Yours and George’s. I love you for your honesty, your devotion to Andrew Jackson, your dedication to this country—as much as Sarah does. I loved George too, for the same reasons, until I read this letter.”
The president swayed behind his desk, a man bewildered by this cyclone of emotion and politics swirling around him. Sarah wiped her eyes. “I believe you. We both believe you. Let’s try to think calmly about this treaty, this threat of George’s.”
Polk slumped in his chair. “What choice do we have except surrender—or defiance. Either way it’s a debacle.”
Into Caroline’s head swam John Sladen’s anguished face. She heard herself telling him that she loved George Stapleton now. “There may be a middle path between those extremes,” she said. “What if you simply sent it to the Senate without any commitment on your part? You might even reveal it was negotiated by a man you had recalled for insubordination and ineptitude. But you thought the Senate should consider it—as proof of your desire for peace. Meanwhile, I’ll tell Senator Sladen what has happened. He’ll be prepared to denounce the treaty—in the light of the perfidy the Mexicans have displayed since we offered it to them.”
“If the Senate rejected it, in spite of George’s best efforts, it would leave us with no alterna
tive but All Mexico,” Sarah said.
They were together again, their minds, their souls, blended in this no longer beatific place, the Temple of Fame. Now they knew that the temple was more like the anteroom of hell. But they would face the pain, the horror, together.
“It might work,” the president said. “But can Senator Sladen match General Stapleton, an authentic war hero?”
“General Stapleton will not say a word against Senator Sladen,” Caroline said. “He’ll vote against the treaty.”
“How can you be sure of that?” Polk asked, new bewilderment on his sagging face.
“He’ll have to choose between me—and this treaty.”
With no warning, the president began to weep. “James, what’s wrong?” Sarah said. “Can you possibly ask more of Caroline?”
Polk shook his head, struggling for breath. “I begin to think … we’ve been fighting … the wrong war.”
He was looking at Sarah as he said this. What was in his eyes? For a moment, Caroline was sure it was hatred. But she swiftly persuaded herself it was merely a spasm of male bravado. She watched Sarah deal with it.
“James, we’ve come much too far. We’re too close to greatness to turn back now.”
James Knox Polk nodded wearily. He was too tired to offer any more than token resistance. He subsided and Sarah walked Caroline down the hall to the grand staircase. At the head of this shadowy descent she took both Caroline’s hands but did not kiss her good-bye.
“Have you told us everything?”
“Yes,” Caroline said, while in her soul another voice cried No! and begged to be forgiven for the lie. But there was a limit to what even the purest love could demand.
“Will you see Senator Sladen?”
“Immediately.”
“Tell him he has the president’s support. Let him spread that word as freely as he wishes.”
There was a long anguished pause. “You haven’t told me everything. I sense it.”
The Wages of Fame Page 55