Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  Madison and his group reached the fringes of the city before the president halted and gave orders.

  “Mister Winder, take the armed escort and give support wherever you feel needed.” He turned to his cabinet members and pointed west, toward the road to Georgetown. “We were to meet at Mister Jones’s residence in Georgetown and move on to Frederick in Maryland. There is no chance of our getting there. I’m changing the plan. We will meet instead at Wiley’s Tavern near Difficult Run on the Virginia side of Great Falls. As soon as possible. Each of you get to your offices the best way you can and announce the change. Are there any questions?”

  There were none.

  Winder wheeled his horse around and started back north toward Bladensburg with the armed escort following. Madison and two aides continued on into the city, working their way through the jumble of horses and wagons and carriages and pedestrians, moving constantly toward the Executive Mansion with fear rising in the president’s breast for Dolley’s safety. His cabinet members followed, each dropping off as he came to his own office building. Madison and his two aides dismounted at the rear entrance to the Executive Mansion where frantic staff members were closing the doors, ready to abandon the building.

  Madison confronted them. “Where is Missus Madison?” he demanded.

  The head of staff stepped forward. “She left, sir. More than an hour ago. She ordered us to remove most of her valuables—and yours—into a wagon, and she went with it.”

  “Where did she go?” Madison was hardly breathing.

  “We don’t know, sir. She didn’t know herself. All she said was that she intended saving the things she took, and she would find you later. She mentioned Virginia, but did not say where.”

  “What things? What did she take?”

  “Valuable government papers. Cabinet meeting records. She removed the great painting of General George Washington from its frame and rolled it up and took it. Dishes. Silverware. Family portraits.”

  “Did she have an escort? An armed escort?”

  “Oh, yes, sir!”

  Cannon boomed loud from the north, and the staff all flinched and for a moment involuntarily looked that direction, then back at Madison with pleading in their eyes.

  Madison exclaimed, “Leave here. Now. Protect yourselves any way you can. Do not return until you know it is safe.”

  The entire staff scattered, each in his or her own direction, and within minutes Madison and his two aides stood alone staring at the building, then the grounds with the green grass and the manicured flower beds and trimmed trees, filled with fear of what would remain if the British took the city. With heavy hearts they remounted their horses and left the large, white landmark behind, moving south on Seventeenth Street to Constitution Avenue, toward the bridge that spanned the Potomac River, connecting Washington to the state of Virginia.

  The roads and side trails were a quagmire of people and vehicles and livestock moving in every direction, pushing, crowding, women with crying children clinging to their skirts, some with howling infants in their arms, shouting men desperately trying to push through the melee to any place that might offer safety for their families. Uniformed militia, escorting tall, heavy wagons filled with government papers thrown into unsealed crates at random and drawn by wild-eyed horses, shouted and muscled their way through.

  It was clear to Madison that the citizens of the nation’s capital had disintegrated into a shattered, terrorized, mindless mob. Gathering his cabinet, or even finding them, or Dolley, was impossible. The evacuation plan was ridiculous, abandoned, lost, gone.

  With the sun setting, Madison left the main road and picked his way southwest to Salona, the country estate of a longtime friend, John Moffat. Dirty, sweated, exhausted, mind numbed with recognition of the catastrophe he had left behind, Madison and his aides dismounted as Moffat came to the door.

  Stunned, Moffatt grasped the bridle of Madison’s jaded horse.

  “Mister President,” he exclaimed. “By the Almighty, what has happened?”

  Madison squared his shoulders and declared, “The British are taking Washington.”

  Moffat pointed. “We heard the guns, and we feared for the city! But we never thought they would succeed.”

  “They will.”

  Moffat pulled himself up short. “Missus Madison? Where is Dolley?”

  Madison shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Instantly Moffat’s hand shot up to cover his mouth while he held his breath, terrified he was going to hear the worst.

  Madison went on. “I came back from Bladensburg and she was gone. Took some valuables from the Executive Mansion and left. Said she was going to somewhere in Virginia. I’ll send some officers to find her.”

  Moffat dropped his hand and shook himself back to his senses. “Here! I’ll have my staff take care of your horses. You need to come inside out of this heat. I’ll prepare baths for the three of you. Supper. Come in. Come in. You’ll stay here for as long as you have need.”

  The two aides interrupted. “Sir, with your permission, we would both like to go search for Missus Madison. It’s important that she is safe. When this is all over, the country will need to know.”

  Madison looked at the two young men, and they saw the deep gratitude in his eyes. “I would appreciate that. Report back here as soon as you know.”

  “We will, sir.”

  Stable boys came running to lead Madison’s horse to the shade of a lean-to where they unsaddled it and listened to the suck and the muffled sound of water passing the gullet rings while the mare drank. They rubbed down the sweaty hide and hooked a bag of feed over its head then watched and listened to the grateful mare grinding the rolled oats in her teeth.

  Inside the Salona mansion, with the continuous boom of cannon sounding from the east, Madison settled into the comfort of a bath, where he sat for a time, forcing his mind to accept what had happened and beginning the process of creating a plan for the survival of the United States. His host laid out fresh clothes on the bed in one of the bedrooms and waited in the library until Madison came down the long, curved flight of stairs. They walked the long, broad hall to the sumptuous dining room, where John Moffat and his wife shared respectful conversation with their president over roast prime rib of beef with sweet potatoes, fresh corn, condiments, and cider, pausing from time to time to listen to the crescendo of cannon and musket fire in the distant city.

  The sun had set and fireflies were darting in the gathering dusk when the headmaster of the house staff appeared in the doorway.

  “Sir, it appears there are fires east of us.”

  Moffat’s head swiveled up. “Where? How far?”

  “I believe it is Washington, sir. The city.”

  Both men stood and Moffat exclaimed, “Come with me.”

  They strode from the room to climb the stairs two at a time to the second floor, down a long hallway, and out onto a huge, sheltered balcony with a white banister. They stopped in their tracks, staring northeast in disbelief.

  Stretching for more than two miles, the horizon glowed golden in the gathering twilight, with low yellow flames visible reflecting off the blanket of smoke that hovered over the city and off the bellies of purple clouds that were forming in the heavens, above the smoke. Time was lost while the men peered in disbelief at the sight of their nation’s capital in flames, each seeing images in his mind of the British setting the torch to the new, proud buildings—the Capitol, the Executive Mansion, the Treasury Building, the navy yard, the Library of Congress—while they asked themselves the fearful question: Did our people get the papers out of those buildings, or have we lost it all?

  The two men sat in chairs and remained on the balcony until full darkness, watching the burning of the nation’s capital. They were scarcely aware of the quiet gathering of clouds overhead, and both were startled at the rain that came drumming on the balcony roof shortly before midnight to blur the distant fire. They remained on the balcony watching while the steady rain dimi
nished the flames and the bright yellow line dwindled, and then a weary, exhausted, tormented James Madison turned to his host.

  “I wonder what history will say about the burning of our nation’s capital.”

  Moffat shrugged. “I expect it will say many things.”

  “You are probably right. I can only hope I am not condemned by it.” Madison stood and started for the large French doors leading into the house.

  “It has been a long day. I believe I will retire.”

  Moffat walked with him to his bedroom and bade him goodnight, and Madison sought his bed.

  The rain stopped in the night, and dawn came bright in a cloudless sky. As soon as he awoke, Madison went to the balcony to peer toward Washington, but the rain had quenched the fires and washed the black cover of smoke from the sky. He descended to the dining room to share a breakfast of fried eggs and bacon with a somber John Moffat and was rising from the dining table when a rap came at the front door. Both men rose and quickly passed down the hall where a housekeeper was opening the door. Words were exchanged, and the woman stepped aside to allow Madison’s two young aides to enter, unshaven, uniforms damp, hats in their hands, exhausted.

  Madison’s heart was racing as he reached them and asked, “Missus Madison?”

  “She’s at Wiley’s Tavern, waiting there for you. Missus Madison spent last night less than a mile from here, at the Rokeby estate, owned by Richard and Elizabeth Love. Early this morning she learned James Monroe was at the tavern, where he expected you to be, and she went there hoping to find you.”

  The wind went out of Madison, and for a moment he stood with slumped shoulders, daring to breathe again.

  “James Monroe is there? At the tavern?”

  “He is, sir.”

  “Does he have any word of what happened in Washington last night?”

  “No, sir.” The young man’s eyes dropped for a moment. “Both Missus Madison and Mister Monroe watched from a distance while the city burned. We all did.”

  Only then did Madison look closely at his two aides. “Have you been up all night?”

  “Yes, sir. We had to find Missus Madison.”

  Madison stepped aside. “Come in.” He turned to Moffat. “Could you find it in your heart to give these young men a bedroom? A bath? A hot meal? Some time to sleep? Fresh clothing? Tend to their horses?”

  “Absolutely!”

  With Moffat leading up the stairs, Madison followed the two young men to their bedrooms, and before they separated Madison spoke.

  “I am going to the tavern to find Missus Madison. I will either be there, or I will leave word there of where you can find me. When you’ve eaten and rested, come find me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Within ten minutes Madison was in the saddle of his horse, waving goodbye to Moffat as he reined his mount around and tapped spur to raise it to a lope, headed north to Wiley’s Tavern, near Difficult Run, not far from Great Falls, Virginia. He rode alone by his own choice, on roads and byways still clogged with vehicles of every description and people showing the strain and exhaustion and the anguish of abandoning the nation’s capital and watching it burn through the night.

  He reined in at the tavern, swung to the ground, tied the horse to the hitch rack, and pushed through the doors. The clerk at the desk recognized him and pointed up the stairs as he stammered out, “She’s up there—Missus Madison is—Lady Madison is up there, room twenty-six. Sir. Mister President. Sir.”

  Madison raced up the stairs to knock on the door, and in a moment came her voice from within.

  “Who is calling?”

  “The president of the United States.”

  The door opened wide and Madison stepped inside to clasp Dolley to his breast, and she wrapped her arms about him. For a moment they stood in their embrace, and then Madison backed up one step.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course,” she replied, and then a look of defiance came into her eyes. “But I certainly intend giving those British a piece of my mind!”

  Madison closed the door and faced her. “James Monroe?”

  “Just down the hall.”

  “Anyone else? From the cabinet?”

  “No, but they’re coming. Mister Monroe sent word.”

  “What did you save from the Executive Mansion?”

  “Most of the papers of the cabinet meetings. The painting of President Washington. A few other portraits. Some of our valuables, but not all. You recall the dueling pistols secretary of the treasury George Campbell gave you? I didn’t get them. No time. We left with the British right behind.”

  “But you got the papers?”

  “Yes. Safe.”

  Madison sat down on the bed. “You saw the fires last night?”

  Dolley’s face fell. “Yes. It broke my heart. Our beautiful new city, burned.”

  Madison paused for a moment. “We can build a new city. The larger question is can we build a new government?”

  Dolley reached to grasp his arm. “Yes. You can. You can!”

  Madison stood. “I think I should go visit James Monroe. Will you wait here?”

  “Of course.”

  Within five minutes Madison returned, James Monroe following, and they sat at the small table with Dolley.

  “Have you heard anything from any of the rest of the cabinet?” Madison asked.

  Monroe shook his head. “Not yet. I have eight officers and aides out scouring the countryside for them. We’ll find them.”

  From downstairs in the tavern, they heard the shout, “They’re back! They’re burning the city again!”

  Both men rose instantly from the table and in two steps were at the window with the curtains drawn back, staring northeast. For a long time they stood transfixed, watching flames leap into the sky while a great cloud of black smoke rose to hover over the city like a pall. Dolley came to look, her hand clasped over her mouth, making tiny sounds as she watched. From the location of the flames and the rising smoke, the three tried to visualize which buildings were burning, but they could not. The only location they could identify with certainty was the navy yards, off to the southeast of the city, on the Anacostia River. The flames were massive, and the black smoke rose over one thousand feet into the clear blue of the sky.

  Madison had their midday meal delivered to their room, and they watched the fires and the smoke spread as they ate.

  It was midafternoon when they saw flame and black smoke and debris leap three hundred feet into the air, and then felt a tremor in the building, and then heard the heavy thud of a tremendous explosion in the distant city.

  Monroe quietly said, “That must have been the powder magazine at the navy yards.”

  They took their evening meal in the large dining room of the tavern, somber, subdued, each caught up in the images that came and went in their minds of the destruction of the nation’s capital. As they finished, they were conscious of the sound of heavy winds outside. They were walking up the stairs when suddenly the sound became a howling, sucking at the fireplace chimney in the dining room, rattling shutters. Madison glanced at Monroe and went to the front door of the tavern to lift the latch. The heavy door was driven inward, wrenched from Madison’s hand, while the wind blew window curtains and scattered papers from the tavern desk. Madison seized the door and put his shoulder to it to close and latch it, while Monroe strode to the large front window to stare out.

  The trees were doubled over, bent northeast, with limbs and leaves ripped and flying. Debris and shingles and choking dust filled the air. Horses tied to the hitching racks were rearing, fighting the tie ropes, turning their rumps into the wind, while the tops of buggies were ripped free to go flying. The few people in the street were clutching at their hats, heads bent low, seeking shelter wherever they could find it.

  Behind the wind came a roaring, and one minute later the rain came in a horizontal sheet that instantly blurred the world and hammered at the windows and the roof. Within seconds everything outside
was drenched. The dirt streets were a sea of black mud and water. Those inside the tavern stood at the windows, transfixed at the havoc outside.

  Hours passed before the power of the storm slackened and stopped, and an odd silence came stealing. It was one hour short of midnight when Madison rapped on Monroe’s door.

  “I think we should gather an escort and go looking for the cabinet and heads of departments. We must give the nation every evidence that the government has survived, at earliest opportunity. We should go now. Tonight.”

  Monroe reflected for a moment. “Missus Madison? Your two aides? The ones you sent to find your cabinet?”

  “Missus Madison agrees. She’ll meet us later. I’ll leave instructions at the desk for the aides.”

  Monroe bobbed his head and turned to pull on his boots and shrug into his coat.

  It was after midnight before they had assembled an escort of mounted dragoons and ridden into the night. They moved northeast, stopping only to rest their horses, and at sunrise to take a hasty breakfast at a tavern. They continued through the day to Conn’s Ferry, above Great Falls on the Potomac River, where they paused to loosen the girths on their saddles and feed their tired mounts, then took the ferry to the Maryland side of the river. It was late afternoon when they dismounted before the Montgomery County Courthouse, where Madison hoped to find General Winder.

  “No, Mister President,” the court clerk said. “General Winder and what little cavalry he had left early yesterday for Bladensburg.”

  Tired men remounted tired horses and once again the weary presidential entourage rode on. With the setting sun at their backs, Madison guided them to the home of an old friend, and they dismounted, stiff-legged, stiff-backed, at the residence of Caleb Bentley, in Brookville, Maryland.