The Marquis

by Laura Auricchio

  Franklin, who could more than hold his own, makes no mention of feeling particularly “nettled,” but Adams was losing patience with Lafayette. In the same diary entry, Adams predicted that Lafayette’s “unlimited ambition will obstruct his rise. He grasps at all civil, political, and military, and would be thought the Unum necessarium in every thing.” Adams saw this habit of overreaching as a tragic flaw in the character of the marquis; it disappointed him. Lafayette “has so much real merit, such family supports, and so much favour at court,” Adams wrote, “that he need not recur to artifice.”

  Adams had not always been so wary of Lafayette. In a 1780 letter to James Warren of Massachusetts—a fellow member of the Sons of Liberty and the husband of Mercy Otis Warren—Adams had declared Lafayette to be “the same Friend to Us here [in Paris] that he was in America. He has been very assiduous to procure Cloths and Arms for our Army, and to promote our Interest in every other Way, within his Circle.” But by 1782 Adams was struggling to wrest a modicum of respect from the Comte de Vergennes, who did nothing to disguise his preference for the more cosmopolitan (and less austere) Franklin, and Lafayette’s appearance on the stage of American diplomacy threatened to force Adams still further to the margins.

  Adams was in Amsterdam, recovering slowly from a debilitating fever that had plagued him for months, when, on February 19, 1782, the congressional resolution granting Lafayette a role in American affairs reached him. His initial response was entirely polite: in a letter to Lafayette dated the following day, Adams proclaimed Congress’s instructions to be “so agreeable to my inclinations, that I would undertake a journey to Paris, for the sake of a personal interview with my dear general, if the state of my health, and the situation of affairs, in which I am here engaged did not render it improper.” But on April 16, 1783, he expressed a very different opinion. Writing to James Warren, Adams declared “the Instruction of Congress to their foreign Ministers to consult with” Lafayette to be “very ill Judged. It was lowering themselves & their Servants.” Indeed, it was “an Humiliation.” “As long as Congress insists on rendering America’s representatives subservient to the Marquis,” wrote Adams, “Your Ministers will never be respected, never have any Influence,” and “every Frenchman … will consider your Servants as mere Instruments in their Hands.” Adams was growing increasingly disillusioned with America’s French allies, whom he suspected of being willing to place their own interests ahead of America’s in any peace negotiations that might be forthcoming. Adams began to doubt the wisdom of placing so much faith in a man as young and as closely connected to the court as Lafayette, in whom he perceived “the Seeds of Mischief to our Country, if We do not take care.” The youth, he wrote, had “gained more applause than human Nature at 25 can bear. It has enkindled in him an unbounded Ambition, which it concerns Us much to watch.” While Adams acknowledged that Lafayette was “ardent to distinguish himself in every way, especially to increase his Merit towards America,” he warned that “this Mongrel Character of French Patriot and American Patriot cannot exist long.”

  Adams was right to perceive in Lafayette a profound devotion to both France and America—this dual allegiance was clear to both nations—but he was wrong to fear that Lafayette might be dangerous or that his hybrid character could not be sustained. Lafayette was not a schemer. Rather, he was an idealist who seems not to have contemplated the possibility that Americans, much as they loved him, would always see him as a Frenchman or that the French court, while according him a grudging respect, would always be wary of his foreign allegiances. But where others saw divided loyalties, Lafayette’s clear conscience blinded him to all difficulties.

  Untroubled as he was, Lafayette even imagined for a time that he might be an ideal person to represent the French government, with sufficient latitude to speak for the United States, at the ratification of any peace treaty with Great Britain. According to Benjamin Franklin’s journal, Lafayette began dropping hints during a visit to Passy in May 1782. Leaving Franklin to divine the purpose of the meeting, Lafayette recounted a tale of the Duc de Nevers, who, Lafayette reported, “during the Treaty at Paris for the last Peace,” in 1763, “had been sent to reside in London, that this Court might thro’ him state what was from time to time transacted, in the Light they thought best, to prevent Misrepresentations and Misunderstandings.” Eventually, it became clear to Franklin that this was no mere history lesson: Lafayette hoped to be granted a similar post. As Franklin recorded it, Lafayette explained that “such an Employ would be extremely agreeable to him on many Accounts; that as he was now an American Citizen, spoke both Languages, and was well acquainted with our Interests, he believ’d he might be useful in it.”

  Franklin very much “lik’d the idea” of Lafayette going to London as a representative of France. To have a French diplomat in England with America’s interests at heart would grant the fledgling nation considerably more leverage than its own minister could exert. Franklin was so fond of the notion that he hosted a breakfast to introduce Lafayette to the British representatives Richard Oswald and Thomas Grenville, recently arrived to lay the groundwork for negotiations. With the preliminaries taken care of, on May 26, Lafayette and Franklin decided that the time was ripe to propose the arrangement to Vergennes. Unfortunately, Vergennes liked the idea quite a bit less; if France were to send an envoy to the Court of St. James’s, it would be one loyal to France alone.

  But Lafayette would not be shunted aside. Although he played no formal role in the peace negotiations, mid-June found him haranguing Grenville with accusations that “the expectation of peace is a joke, and that you only amuse us without any real intention of treating.” Meanwhile, Lafayette continued to suggest ways that he might make himself useful in the political and diplomatic areas. In a private letter to Robert Livingston written on February 5, he proposed several options. For instance, he indicated that it “Would Highly flatter” him to be granted the “Honorary Commission” of bearing the peace treaty to England for ratification. Lafayette elaborated on this, noting that he would “Well Enough like to Present Myself there in the Capacity of an Extraordinary Envoy from the United States.”

  Hoping to marshal support for the idea, Lafayette wrote to Washington, saying, “I Would take it as a Most flattering Circumstance in My life to Be Sent to England With the Ratification of the American treaty.” Ideally, Lafayette continued, he would like to reach London in advance of the American ambassador so that “I Would Have the pleasure of introducing Him.” As a stalwart friend, Washington dutifully wrote to Livingston of Lafayette’s request to serve as “the bearer of the Ratification.” Sage politician that he was, however, Washington refrained from endorsing too heartily the notion that any citizen of a foreign land, no matter how earnest, be permitted to represent America abroad. “How far it is consistent with our national honor, how far motives of policy make for or ag[ain]st sending a foreigner with it; or how far such a measure might disappoint the [ex]pectations of others, I pretend not to determine,” wrote Washington. He asked only that Livingston accede to Lafayette’s desire “if there is no impropriety, or injustice in it.”

  Quite rightly, Livingston perceived multiple improprieties. He refused even to present Lafayette’s request to Congress, explaining to Washington that “the honor of the nation seems to require that it should be represented by a native … it should not appear to act under foreign influence.” More specifically, he warned that “too close a connection with France might render her foes jealous of us.” Washington offered no resistance. Instead, by way of reply, he assured Livingston that although “there is no Man upon Earth I have a greater inclination to serve than the Marquis La Fayette … ,” he had “not a wish to do it in matters that interfere with, or are repugnant to, our National policy, dignity, or interest.” Washington broke the news to his friend on October 12. Writing bluntly, Washington informed Lafayette that the “event” he desired “will not I apprehend, ever take place.” The question was put to rest for good when Congress
affirmed, on March 16, 1784, “that it is inconsistent with the interest of the United States to appoint any person not a citizen thereof, to the office of Minister, chargé des affaires, Consul, vice-consul, or to any other civil department in a foreign country; and that a copy of this resolve be transmitted to Messrs. Adams, Franklin and Jay, ministers of the said states in Europe.” When John Adams learned of the congressional declaration, he must have felt at least a twinge of vindication.

  While the Treaty of Paris was being ratified in London on April 9, 1784, Lafayette was at home preparing for his first visit to the free and independent United States of America, but John Adams remained skeptical of the Frenchman. A new bone of contention had arisen: the Society of the Cincinnati, a hereditary organization established in 1783 by a group of officers who had served under Washington. The society, which still exists today, was envisioned as a vehicle for reaffirming bonds of affection and obligation among the revolution’s longest-serving and most distinguished military leaders, and for ensuring that the sacrifices of the war would not be forgotten. According to their charter, the men who founded the Cincinnati intended:

  to inculcate to the latest age the duty of laying down in peace, arms assumed for public defence, by forming an Institution which recognizes that most important principle; to continue the mutual friendships which commenced under the pressure of common danger; and to effectuate the acts of beneficence, dictated by the spirit of brotherly kindness towards those officers and their families.

  Having risked their lives for the independence of the United States, most of the Cincinnati had stepped to the side to allow politicians to make the next moves toward forging an enduring republic; the society would ensure that the officers’ contributions to the nation’s founding would not be forgotten.

  The society’s name honors a man whose virtue was widely known in the eighteenth century: the Roman general Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus, who lived in the fifth century B.C. and whose story is told by Livy. Persuaded by the Senate to leave his farm long enough to lead Rome through a time of crisis, Cincinnatus served briefly as magister populi (literally, “master of the people”—a dictator appointed for a limited term) but refused the role of lifelong ruler and resumed his quiet existence of private industry. In 1783, when Washington laid down his sword and returned to his own fields at Mount Vernon, it became commonplace to link his name and image to those of Cincinnatus, and by dubbing themselves “Cincinnati,” Washington’s officers honored their general and announced that they, too, were relinquishing any claims to power by “returning to their citizenship.” Members were—and still are—entitled to purchase and wear “a bald eagle of gold … suspended by a deep blue ribbon edged with white, descriptive of the union of America and France,” its center featuring an enameled emblem depicting Cincinnatus at his plow.

  Washington bequeathed this gold-and-enamel medal of the Society of Cincinnati to Lafayette. Measuring 1½ × 1⅛ inches, it sold at auction at Sotheby’s New York for $5.3 million on December 11, 2007. (illustration credit 8.1)

  Lafayette was the society’s most prominent and enthusiastic French member. He had been the one to draw up a roster of French officers who fought under Washington. And in an event that merited several paragraphs in the Mémoires secrets (like the Correspondance secrète, a newsletter that reported the goings-on in French society), he had welcomed fifteen of them to his home on January 16, 1784, for a ceremony at which he distributed the society’s golden eagle insignia, designed by Pierre Charles L’Enfant and produced by the Paris jewelry firm of Duval and Francastel. Lafayette even went into debt for the cause: L’Enfant left Paris for America without paying a jeweler’s bill that exceeded 20,000 livres—Francastel had provided the society’s gold and enamel eagles on credit—and Lafayette voluntarily shouldered the obligation.

  Few disputed the comparison between Washington and Cincinnatus, and no one denied the nation’s obligations to its military heroes, but the notions that the Cincinnati would wear insignia reminiscent of the medals distributed by Europe’s chivalric orders and that its membership would be inherited made the society a lightning rod for controversy. Adams condemned the group for introducing hereditary titles in a nation that forbade them, and he (mistakenly) held Lafayette partially responsible for its existence. Writing from The Hague on January 25, 1784, Adams reported to the Baltimore-based businessman Matthew Ridley, “I have been informed that this whole Scheme, was first concerted, in France and transmitted from thence, by the Marquis.” Thomas Jefferson, too, disapproved mightily of the Society of the Cincinnati, making it one of the few topics on which Jefferson and Adams agreed. On April 16, 1784, Jefferson spelled out his objections in a letter to Washington that declared the society to be “against the confederation—against the letter of some of our constitutions;—against the spirit of all of them” because “the foundation on which all these are built is the natural equality of man, the denial of every preeminence but that annexed to legal office, & particularly the denial of a preeminence by birth.” Abigail Adams raised a more concrete concern in a letter to Mercy Otis Warren: Abigail hinted at the dangers of a permanent military class setting itself apart “that the people may look to them, and them only as the preservers of their Country and the supporters of their freedom.”

  Lafayette seems to have been genuinely unsure what to make of such criticisms, which reached him both indirectly, through the rumor mill, and directly, in letters from Adams. Writing to Washington from Paris on March 9, Lafayette told his mentor that “most of the Americans Here are indecently Violent Against our Association.… You Easely guess I am not Remiss in opposing them—and However if it is found that the Heredity Endangers the true principles of democraty [sic], I am as Ready as Any Man to Renounce it.” He looked to Washington for guidance, adding, “You Will be My Compass.” Washington evidently saw nothing awry in the society: he accepted the role of its first president.

  Lafayette’s embrace of the Cincinnati only increased the distrust felt by Adams, who had begun to suspect Lafayette’s motives in all things. In a testy letter written from The Hague on March 28, 1784, Adams told Lafayette that, “as to your going to America, Surely I have no Objection against it … but I questioned whether you would go, as the War was over, and I knew of no particular Motive you might have to go.” Adams concluded, “If you go I wish you a pleasant voyage, and an happy Sight of your Friends.” Lafayette was hurt. His English faltering, as it often did when he was in an emotional state, Lafayette rebuked Adams for the coolness of his tone and rejected the implication that his motives might be anything but pure:

  A friendly letter I wrote You, and the One I Receive is not so affectionate as usual.… As to My Going to America, I first Went for the Revolution.… Now I am Going for the people, and My Motives are, that I love them, and they love me—that My Arrival will please them, and that I will Be Pleased with the sight of those whom I Have Early joined in our Noble and successfull cause.… How could I Refrain from Visiting a Nation whose I am an Adoptive Son … ?

  Nearly eight weeks passed—an unusually long silence—before Lafayette wrote to Adams again. “Altho’ I have not Been Honoured with an answer to My last letter,” Lafayette began, “I will not loose time in Acquainting you that My departure from l’Orient is fixed on the 22d instant.” Lafayette held out an olive branch, offering to deliver any letters that Adams might wish to send to Massachusetts. “As I intend landing in New York,” he explained, “your letters to your family will not Have a long way to go.” But Adams would not be mollified. Making no excuses, he replied flatly that he had “received in Season, the Letter mentioned in yours of the second of this Months, but as there was nothing in it which required an immediate Answer, I have not acknowledged the Recipt of it, untill now.” Adams added that he had no need of Lafayette’s postal services. Referring to two Americans then traveling in Europe, he informed Lafayette that “I will answer the Letters of my Friends by Mr. Reed and Coll. Herman.” Lafayette, who genuinely wishe
d to make amends, sent one more letter to Adams before sailing for New York. As far as we know, it went unanswered.

  CHAPTER 9

  1784

  When Lafayette set foot on Manhattan Island on August 4, 1784, the city’s scars from the Revolutionary War were just beginning to heal. Captured in 1776, New York had remained a British stronghold throughout the conflict, serving as a base of military operations, a refuge for Loyalists, and a haven for thousands of escaped slaves promised freedom in exchange for service in the British Army. For seven long years, the city had hosted a sprawling network of overcrowded jails, including pestilential prison ships that held as many as 11,000 captured soldiers at a time. A similar number of prisoners died from disease and starvation over the course of the war. By the time General Howe evacuated Britain’s troops from Manhattan, on November 25, 1783, a third of the island’s buildings had been lost in two major fires. Other structures had escaped the conflagrations only to be battered by hard use as makeshift stables, hospitals, and mess halls for the occupying army. Docks had fallen into disrepair, and streets had been rendered impassable by a labyrinthine system of trenches.

  An observant visitor strolling the streets of Manhattan in 1784 would have seen the city springing back to life around the ruins. The burned-out façade of Trinity Church loomed above Wall Street, and on Bowling Green, an empty pedestal that had once supported an equestrian statue of King George III stood forlorn amid the stubbly grass—but the docks and markets were once again bustling with the exchange of goods. Having reopened after the winter thaw, the port was regularly welcoming shipments of foodstuffs and manufactured wares. In February, the Empress of China had sailed through the ice floes dotting New York Harbor, marking America’s entrance into the China trade; on board were piles of animal pelts, thirty tons of American ginseng, which grew wild in the mid-Atlantic region, and stores of other goods that were plentiful in the New World but precious in Canton. New York’s chamber of commerce had been revived. And representatives of the Bank of New York, recently founded by Alexander Hamilton, were greasing the wheels of trade by providing commercial financing at interest from temporary offices in a yellow brick house on Pearl Street.