The Wages of Fame

by Thomas Fleming

  Caroline decided to demonstrate her renewed power over Senator Stapleton. “George, wait until you hear this. Senator Sladen says a Cuban expedition would be an exact equivalent of the reason my father—and yours—went to war in 1812. To bring liberty to the oppressed.”

  George said that was a touching thought, although his doleful eyes suggested he was thinking that both of these soldiers of liberty did not survive their war.

  A delighted General Quitman declared he was ready to resume command of the expedition tomorrow. Ex-president Tyler proposed a toast: “To a future empire of American liberty, from the north pole to the equator.”

  Evil, Caroline thought, smiling at General Quitman and Senator Sladen and ex-president Tyler and his beaming wife, Julia, slave owners all. She was weaving them into her wicked triumph. She was going to free them from the grip of the black anaconda, without recourse to law or morality. Suddenly they would find themselves in fame’s temple, where she would preside as a goddess of victory. For a little while, Caroline believed it was possible. She was almost happy.

  SIX

  THE JUNE SUN BEAT DOWN, making Caroline grateful for the blue parasol perched on her shoulder. The mere thought of those scorching rays on her aching head induced shivers of anticipatory pain throughout her whole body. For the past six months, her migraine nemesis had been tormenting her with mounting intensity.

  Caroline was standing on the lawn of Bralston, Victor Conte Legrand’s Louisiana plantation, watching Cynthia Legrand emerge from the white main house in a wedding dress designed by Worth, Paris’s newest couturier. The glowing bride was followed by a half dozen bridesmaids in organdy creations of the same designer. Waiting for Cynthia at the head of a tunnel of flower-bedecked arches was Charlie Stapleton in the blue uniform of the Louisiana Guards. Beside him stood his tall somber brother Jonathan in a gray-striped morning coat.

  HOOOOOO-T! A passing steamboat saluted the festivities. The mighty Mississippi flowed only a few hundred feet from Bralston’s from door.

  “Doesn’t she look marvelous?” Caroline said to the plump, plain young woman standing beside her.

  “Smashing,” murmured Laura Biddle Stapleton, who was making desperate efforts to ingratiate her terrifying mother-in-law .

  Standing in their Sunday clothes beyond the seated guests were Bralston’s 120 slaves, excited smiles on their faces. They burst into cheers when Cynthia reached the end of the flowery tunnel and her father handed her over to Charlie. The minister cleared his throat and began the ceremony that would create a North-South alliance—and a new state for the Union.

  Last night, at a dinner for the wedding party, Victor Conte Legrand and Senator George Stapleton had each given the bridegroom checks for $100,000. Senator John Sladen had contributed another $100,000. Ten other guests had jointly produced $150,000. This remarkable generosity had nothing to do with wanting to give the newlyweds a splendid start in life. Everyone knew that Charlie was going to hand the money over to Los Liberadores de Cuba, the expedition to conquer Cuba. The wedding was a perfect way to collect the money without running afoul of the neutrality laws.

  The year was 1858. President James Buchanan was in the White House, thanks to the strenuous backing of Senators Stapleton and Sladen and the still considerable influence of ex-president John Tyler. They had performed the unlikely feat of dumping the incumbent president, Franklin Pierce, and electing another Democrat. Tyler’s son Robert had run Buchanan’s campaign in Pennsylvania. He could claim with some justice that he had elected Old Buck. Buchanan had won by carrying every Southern state except Maryland but only five Northern states.

  If the Republican candidate, John C. Fremont, had carried either Indiana or Illinois and Pennsylvania, he would have become president. Even in Democratic New Jersey, a Republican had won the governorship, although the party’s name was too tarred by abolitionism to wear it publicly in such a Democratic stronghold. The winner had run as “the Opposition” candidate.

  By the time the campaign ended, John Sladen had become Buchanan’s closest confidant. In constant consultation with Caroline, John had virtually selected the new president’s cabinet, two-thirds of them Southerners with strong though silent sympathy for secession. John had no difficulty persuading the vain old man that James Buchanan would be the last president of the United States if he did not follow Franklin Pierce’s example and promise to look the other way while the South captured Cuba.

  Once that task was accomplished, the Cuban provisional government would apply for admission to the Union. The president, having been James Polk’s secretary of state, could hardly object to this idea. On the contrary, he was expected to recommend admission by a majority vote of Congress, using Texas as proof that the procedure was perfectly legal. Ex-president John Tyler stood ready to support Buchanan as a spokesman for the South.

  The Republicans would be faced with an- excruciating choice. Either admit another slave state or give the South a perfect excuse to withdraw from the Union. Driven by their abolitionist wing, the Republicans would almost certainly ignore the president and vote against Cuba in Congress. The South would then secede, with the blessing of a sitting president. Though abolitionists such as Joshua Giddings and Charles Sumner might rant and rave, they would never be able to persuade the people of the North to go to war to prevent the South’s departure.

  “By the power confided to me by the sovereign state of Louisiana, I now pronounce you man and wife,” the minister intoned.

  Charlie gave Cynthia Legrand Stapleton an enthusiastic kiss. He was a wholehearted member of their conspiracy—and why not? He was getting one of the most beautiful women in the South for his wife and a new vastly exciting political-military career in the bargain. Caroline gave Charlie a kiss almost as warm as the one Cynthia had given him. His brother Jonathan watched gloomily, knowing his mother preferred Charlie to him—and also knowing the Cuban invasion plans, about which his father had indiscreetly told him on the voyage to Bralston.

  Jonathan had forever sealed Caroline’s disapproval of his ways and opinions by marrying Laura Biddle, Jeremy Biddle’s daughter, last year. Confusing pity and love, like so many people his age, he saw himself rescuing the shy, troubled young woman from her bitter mother and unhappy father. He also saw it as an attempt to bring the two families together on his terms. At the wedding, Jeremy and George had shaken hands and expressed mutual regrets. Caroline, summoning all the power of her formidable will, managed to be polite to the detestable worm and his loathsome wife and affectionate to Laura. His wife’s performance had won plaudits from George.

  Dozens of guests lined up to congratulate the young couple and kiss the gorgeous bride. John Sladen approached Caroline with his wife, Clothilde, on his arm. She had shriveled into premature old age. Their two daughters had been among the bridesmaids. “How nice to meet you again after all these years,” Caroline said.

  “I’m surprised you’re looking so well,” Clothilde said in her no-longer-liquid voice, with its tinge of a French accent.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’ve hated you so much, I’ve often practiced juju on you. By now, if it had worked, your eyes would have fallen out, your teeth would have rotted.”

  She was smiling as she said these atrocious things. John was looking more and more uncomfortable.

  “I don’t understand,” Caroline said.

  “Of course you do. My husband is in love with you. But I don’t think you love him. In fact, I can see quite clearly you don’t. Do you love anyone?”

  “My husband.”

  “Of course,” Clothilde said. “God requires us to do that. But whom do you actually love?”

  “I’m afraid to tell you. I don’t want to expose them to your black magic.”

  Evil. Caroline sensed it in this woman’s mocking antagonism. It reminded her that this marvelous, sun-splashed wedding was surrounded by other intimations of evil. One of them approached her now. Henry Quitman, General John Quitman’s slim sad-face
d son, had come to the wedding in his father’s name, to testify to his family’s support for the expedition to Cuba.

  “Mrs. Stapleton, on his deathbed my father asked me to tell you how grateful he was for your friendship. He told me how much you had done for the expedition.”

  “Thank you. If only he were here to say it in person.”

  “I look forward to a day when I can make that crew of Yankee murderers pay for his death.”

  In the most recent term of Congress, John Quitman had been a sulfurous spokesman for the South in the House of Representatives. He had repeatedly called on President Buchanan to repeal or modify the neutrality laws. While Buchanan did not dare to do such a thing, with each Quitman blast, the president’s cowardly nature flinched at the thought of enforcing these antiquated statutes, which had been passed in 1818. General Quitman had used his position as head of the Military Affairs Committee to recruit a half dozen talented young officers from the U.S. Army for the Cuban expedition. Soon everyone in Washington knew Quitman was its secret commander in chief.

  Suddenly this big robust man became an invalid. Having donated thousands of dollars to the expedition, he had left his wife and family in Mississippi to save money in Washington and was living at the National Hotel, a favorite among Southern congressmen. A dozen other National guests came down with the symptoms that felled Quitman—violent diarrhea, followed by severe swelling of the legs and feet, blurred vision, and acute exhaustion. A doctor diagnosed it as arsenic poisoning. Soon, a great many people were convinced that abolitionists were responsible. Quitman reeled back to Mississippi but never recovered. He had died three months ago.

  Caroline had no difficulty believing Quitman had been murdered. Evil was loose on both sides of this obscene struggle. “We’ll treasure your father’s memory,” she told Henry Quitman. “I hope we can soon name a city after him in Cuba. Don’t you think that’s a good idea, Senator Sladen?”

  “Excellent.”

  “We have two slaves from Cuba on our plantation,” Clothilde Sladen said. “They tell me the Cuban blacks will fight the Americans if they try to land. They have hopes of freedom from the Spanish, but none from the Americans.”

  The woman’s hatred was almost palpable. Caroline wondered why John Sladen had brought her here. Was he trying to reveal what he had endured for her sake, all these years? For a moment Caroline was swept by a rush of sympathy. She imagined herself as John Sladen’s wife in cosmopolitan New Orleans. Would they have been happy? Or would two such willful souls have clashed unto worse misery than John had endured with Clothilde?

  The wedding banquet lasted until darkness fell. At one point, Victor Legrand led the Stapletons down to the plantation’s slave quarter, where a separate celebration was in progress. Watching the blacks dancing and singing, Legrand asked Senator Stapleton if he had ever seen a happier, more contented group of workers.

  “You never have a runaway?”

  “Where would they go? It’s five hundred miles to the Ohio River.”

  “If they’re so contented,” Jonathan Stapleton said, “why do you have all those guns locked in that cabinet in the main house?”

  “I’ve never had to use one of those guns and doubt if I ever will,” Legrand said. “But we’re outnumbered five to one in this part of Louisiana.”

  “The workers in Principia Mills may not like us, but I’ve never been afraid of them. Have you, Father?”

  “Of course not,” George said. Uneasily he added, “My oldest son is a free-soil Democrat.”

  “Why don’t you come out and admit you’re an abolitionist?” Legrand said.

  “Because I’m not. I recognize we can’t free all these people overnight. But I can’t abide your attitude—that this system is perfect and there’s no need to change it.”

  Jonathan’s self-assurance had grown exponentially since he had become president of the Camden & Amboy Railroad. He had begun building branch lines all over New Jersey, giving the railroad a total monopoly on transportation inside and across the state. The Camden & Amboy had become one of the most profitable businesses in the country.

  “Master,” said a huge black. “Do you think we could open another keg of beer? I guarantee nobody goin’ to misbehave.”

  “Certainly, George,” Legrand said. “Here’s the key to the icehouse.”

  He handed George a set of keys, pointing to one of them. “George runs my plantation for me. I trust him with those keys, which include one for my gun cabinet. He’s intelligent, brave—I’ve seen him beat more than one malcontent in a fistfight. As long as men like him are contented with the system, I see no need to change it.”

  “Have you ever asked him if he’s contented?” Jonathan said.

  “Why should I even bring up such a topic?”

  “Jonathan,” Caroline said, “I think you’ve done more than enough to wound the spirit of this wonderful occasion. Why don’t you just shut up?”

  Head down, Jonathan stalked into the night, his wife trailing after him, murmuring, “Your mother has a point, Jonathan.”

  “I’m sure he’ll acquire more sense with age,” Victor Legrand said.

  “If I have anything to say about it, he’ll acquire it much sooner,” Caroline said.

  The migraine suddenly renewed its ratcheting agony in Caroline’s skull. Was Jonathan the reason? She almost looked forward to blaming him. But it was not true, and he would not change his opinions for her sake, even if she were on her deathbed. He was determined not to repeat his father’s mistakes. As a result, he defied his mother and incidentally tyrannized his hapless wife.

  No, the migraines were rooted in the growing division in Caroline’s soul between her evil heart and her compassionate head. She had reached the age at which memory suffused the soul with regret and longing. But her unrepentant heart remained armored against these surges of sentiment from the past.

  The next day, Charlie cheerfully reported that the “collections” at the wedding had gone over five hundred thousand dollars. This would enable them to hire two armored steamers to deal with Cuban patrol boats and to buy Sharp repeating rifles for the three thousand volunteers. One of John Quitman’s regular army recruits, bluff, hearty Colonel Francis Lemoyne, had assumed command of the expedition. Charlie would serve as his aide-de-camp. As the Stapletons boarded the steamboat at Bralston’s dock, Charlie assured them, “The next thing you hear from me will be a telegraph from New Orleans: ‘Havana is ours!’”

  On the way back to New York aboard a coastal steamer from New Orleans, George had numerous conversations with Jonathan. George mournfully informed Caroline that he was unable to change their oldest son’s political opinions. Although Jonathan denied it, he was still under the influence of his college roommate, Ben Dall, who had launched an abolitionist newspaper in New York. Caroline suspected Jonathan was a secret backer.

  For the next three months, Caroline read letter after letter from Charlie, reporting on the progress—and occasional delays—of the expedition. Colonel Lemoyne’s regular-army ways did not sit well with many of the volunteer officers and there had been a spate of resignations. It took time to replace these men. But federal government officials in New Orleans remained quiescent, making no inquiries into the future use of the armored steamers tied up at the Mississippi docks. George and John Sladen made sure President Buchanan knew all about the expedition. The two senators drafted a bill which they planned to submit to Congress the moment Charlie’s victorious telegram arrived.

  In mid-December 1858 came a final letter from Charlie.

  We sail tomorrow with 2,800 men. We plan to land on Christmas Day. We’re bringing 5,000 guns to. arm the Cubans. Our men in Havana say the Spaniards know nothing. They just shipped two regiments back to Spain.

  George fretted that the numbers were too small. He expressed private doubts about the Cubans. Giving men guns was only a first step. They had to be organized and trained. Would the Spanish give them time to do that? The plan was to seize the area around
Santiago, Cuba’s second city, expand the army there and march on Havana. There were also plans to rush reinforcements from New Orleans and other Southern ports, where volunteers were expected to be numerous as soon as they learned of the expedition’s early success.

  Caroline lay awake, night after night, seeing the drama unfold like a series of magic lantern slides on the walls of her bedroom. They could not fail. Fame could not, would not be denied her a third time. In the dawn she fingered a telegram delivered several weeks ago to Amelia Peterson, care of Stapleton, urging her to book a stateroom on the steamboat Delilah from St. Louis to join the celebration in New Orleans. It was signed Nathan Archibald.

  It was John Sladen, of course, urging her to resume their affair. Perhaps she would make the trip. Especially if Charlie returned wounded and needed care. For a moment she was gripped by a near paroxysm of love for him. More than ever, she realized Charlie was the wildness she had suppressed in her own soul for the sake of Sarah Polk’s vision of fame. Now she had her own vision and it embodied, it even glorified, American wildness. She saw Charlie in ten years, at the head of the South’s army, swaggering into Mexico and Central America, erecting a tropical empire of immense power and wealth.

  News from Mexico seemed to add substance to this vision. Civil war had erupted between the liberals and the conservatives and the country was crumbling into chaos again. Caroline said nothing that could be construed as gloating. But she frequently urged George to read the stories of massacres and pitched battles in the New York Herald and other newspapers. There was no need to say I told you so.

  December and the year 1858 trickled away with no word from Cuba. They spent the holidays at Bowood, while George worked on reviving the Democratic Party in New Jersey. The abolitionists’ rants over Bleeding Kansas were beginning to offend voters. Backed by a hundred thousand dollars of Stapleton money, the Democrats had regained the governorship and state legislature.