The Burning of the White House

by Jane Hampton Cook

  Tyro was disappointed that Congress had taken a few days off in December following a vote for another embargo restricting trade. After all, they had only just begun their new session. How would he spend his time? “There is an utter absence of all amusement here, except what is derived from seeing the proceedings of the legislative bodies.”

  He was correct. Washington City had few sources of entertainment. With so little commerce and so few mansions—the “splendor of the wealthy”—little attracted his fancy. He was bored. “There are no museums of things curious in nature or art, and I have been so unfortunate as not to have an opportunity of even seeing the ladies of this place ‘swell the mazy dance.’” Soon, however, something more enchanting than dancing caught his fancy.

  “I must not forget, however, to mention that Mrs. Madison, the President’s Lady, gives a tea party every Wednesday evening.” Most intriguing to him was the openness of the occasion. Anyone could attend. That meant him. “It was a novelty to me to find that these parties were not assembled by cards of invitation, but that everybody was free to appear there, and that all were received with hospitality, politeness, and attention. Finding access so easy, I wished to attend last Wednesday evening.”

  Because he was a little nervous, he convinced an old college friend to accompany him. As it turned out, he didn’t need a human crutch after all. “It was with much satisfaction I found everything more easy than I had anticipated, ceremony and formality were observed no further than decorum required.”

  Coffee. Cakes. Nuts. Fruit. Whiskey punch. Much tempted his taste buds. “Refreshments were very liberally handed round, and all partook freely and cheerfully. I understood it was a pretty full assembly: there might have been from one to 200 persons present of both sexes.”

  Unlike modern tours where visitors pass through State Floor rooms without meeting the president or first lady, guests in 1813 received a huge bonus for stepping inside the President’s House.

  “The president, Mr. Madison, mixed with the company all the evening, and talked by times with everybody; even I claimed some notice where I looked for nothing but a common salutation.”

  This reporter wisely observed that he wouldn’t meet the shortest but most monumental politician in Washington by hanging out at the Capitol. He would only find the president at the President’s House. “But for the drawing room I might have dragged out the whole winter here and not have beheld the man whom the American people have twice called on to preside over them, much less have spoken with him.”

  Tyro told his readers that even “the men who slander him with the most reprobate license seek his hospitality.” Dolley’s charisma was a huge factor in making them feel welcome and comfortable. Thus, “by appropriating two or three hours of an evening every week the executive can, in the most affable manner, mix with his fellow-citizens and neither subject himself nor others to the insupportable drudgery of receiving a hundred formal visits a day.”

  Another thrill came from meeting the guest of honor. “General [William Henry] Harrison was there, and there were more eyes than mine who surveyed the Hero of the West with interest.” He wasn’t sure which was better, shaking Madison’s hand or the palm of the military hero.

  A few months earlier, General Harrison had defeated British forces on the Thames River in Ontario. Not only that, but Harrison and his men had also killed the native leader and British ally, Tecumseh. Harrison’s victory was important because it had ended British superiority in the Northwest, especially in Detroit, and driven the action squarely back to the Niagara frontier on the New York–Canadian border, precisely where General Armstrong had wanted it.

  Tyro also told his Democratic Press readers that the President’s House was far grander than he expected. “If you have not seen it you can hardly form an idea of the scale on which this house is built.”

  The rectangle-shaped mansion featured two stories over a basement. With steps leading to the North entrance, visitors had the sense of stepping up to power as they entered the entrance hall of the main or State Floor. Tyro wrote, “My observations at ‘the White house’ (for so it is called here) have satisfied me that its economy is well regulated and that it is kept as becomes the chief executive officer of a free people.”

  Thus this reporter put in writing the most important detail of his article. The White House was no longer a term of editorial derision in newspapers. Dolley’s warmth and hospitality had led to a cultural change in Washington.

  “The little president is back and game as ever.” So observed Richard Rush, who would soon become Madison’s attorney general. Madison had returned to Washington healthier and more optimistic about the country than he had left it.

  The president had shared his confidence in a message to Congress on December 7, 1813. “In fine, the war, with all its vicissitudes, is illustrating the capacity and the destiny of the United States to be a great, a flourishing, and a powerful nation, worthy of the friendship which it is disposed to cultivate with all others.”

  He had good reasons to be hopeful about the nation’s future. Earlier in September, after spending the summer building several ships for battle, Commander Oliver Perry and his sailors had put their new ships to the test and soundly beaten the British. As Perry had reported to General Harrison: “We have met the enemy and they are ours.” They had captured two British ships, two brigs, one schooner, and one sloop. The Battle of Lake Erie was the first time a fleet of British ships had surrendered to an American. Perry’s success on the lake had led to Harrison’s victory on land.

  The politics, however, were not lost on Madison. He knew that Federalists like Senator King continued to oppose the war and refused to support robust measures to bolster resources for the supplies and men necessary to win it. Many extremists whispered of their desire to break away from America. In his message to Congress that December of 1813, Madison made his point clear: “That the union of these states, the guardian of the freedom and safety of all and of each, is strengthened by every occasion that puts it to the test.”

  But he also had disappointing news to report to Congress. Without giving an official response to the Russian government, the British government had rejected the mediation offered by Czar Alexander. Madison had hoped for a better outcome. Yet he believed it was not in the British nature to consent “to the decisions of an umpire.”

  Though optimistic, he knew great challenges faced him in 1814. He had two priorities: prosecuting a war with limited money and men while obtaining peace with a foe unwilling to submit to a mediation by another country. Madison needed Congress to increase recruits for the upcoming summer campaign in Canada against the British. He needed to find a way to achieve a successful peace. Until then, Canada was still the eye of the American target.

  In his role as editor of the Analectic Magazine, Washington Irving wrote a biographical sketch of Oliver Perry. He described the happenings of September 10, 1813, on the great lake. Perry commanded a ship he had newly built, which was named Lawrence after James Lawrence, the deceased commander of the USS Chesapeake.

  “At 10 a.m. the wind hailed to the southeast and brought our squadron to windward,” Irving wrote of the U.S. squadron’s movements. Then he described how Commodore Perry hoisted a flag on the Lawrence and recalled “the dying words of the valiant Lawrence, ‘Don’t give up the ship!’ It was received with repeated cheering by the officers and crews.” (While Lawrence’s last words were “Don’t surrender the ship!” Irving changed them to “Don’t give up the ship!” The phrase has been a part of American culture ever since.)

  Irving chronicled that Perry continued to fight and boarded another boat with calmness, even after the Lawrence and much of its crew were lost. Irving saw Perry’s victory as one for the ages, something that people living in the area in the future would not forget. He wrote his prediction in colorful, poetic terms.

  “In future times, when the shores of Erie shall hum with busy population; when towns and cities shall brighten where now extend
the dark and angled forest . . . then will the inhabitants of Canada look back to this battle we record, as one of the romantic achievements of the days of yore,” he wrote.

  Dreaming that historical markers and artifacts would one day mark the spot, he added this to his conclusion of Perry’s victory.

  “The fisherman, as he loiters along the beach, will point to some half buried cannon, corroded with the rust of time, and will speak of ocean warriors that came from the shores of the Atlantic—while the boatman, as he trims his sail to the breeze, will chant in rude ditties the name of Perry—the early hero of Lake Erie.”

  Irving was no longer a satirist; he was a storyteller. He was also no longer just a journalist but also a commentator. Concerned about the outcome of the war, he sent a warning to those who prioritized their opinions over the best interests and longevity of America.

  “Whatever we may think of the expediency or inexpediency of the present war, we cannot feel indifferent to its operations,” he wrote, taking an indirect swipe at Federalists such as Rufus King who publicly decried the war. “He who fancies he can stand aloof in interest, and by condemning the present war, can exonerate himself from the shame of its disasters, is woefully mistaken.”

  Irving put unity of the nation above all else. He was no New England separatist and focused on the bigger picture of America’s story. “Whenever our arms come in competition with those of the enemy, jealousy for our country’s honor will swallow up every other consideration—our feelings will ever accompany the flag of our country to battle, rejoicing in its glory, lamenting over its defeat,” he continued.

  He believed that in a time of war, party politics and infighting were destructive. “Other nations will not trouble themselves about our internal wrangling and party questions; they will not ask who among us fought, or why we fought, but how we fought.”

  He didn’t believe that defeat would disgrace only those who started the war or those who fought it “but will extend to the whole nation, and come home to every individual. If the name of American is to be rendered honorable in the fight, we shall each participate in the honor; if otherwise, we must inevitably support our share of the ignominy.”

  Would Washington heed Irving’s warning? Would party infighting lead to Washington’s destruction or would patriotism lead the nation to peace?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Hospitality and Hostility

  “Messrs. King and Gore and their wives are the best people I have found here. I see them pretty frequently and the more I see of them the better I like them. Mr. King is a very great man; Mr. Gore great enough.”

  So wrote Congressman Jeremiah Mason, who was supremely impressed with the honorable senators from New York and Massachusetts and their hospitality that winter.

  Senator King had also returned to Washington in December 1813. Either at the Capitol or his boardinghouse in Washington, King sat a desk or table. The date was December 19, 1813, the day before Dolley’s big White House bash. He picked up a pen, swished it in ink and wrote his friend Gouverneur Morris. With the peace mission a failure, King knew that the war he so vehemently opposed would continue. Military strategy for the upcoming summer campaign was on everyone’s mind.

  “We may conclude that our session will be consumed in giving authority to the plan of the next campaign. What this plan will be, we are not informed, indeed as the secretary at war has not returned, it is probable that the plan is not yet fully prepared,” King wrote.

  Armstrong had yet to arrive from overseeing military operations in New York along the Canadian border. Nonetheless, talk of implementing a draft drifted throughout the halls of Congress. This would be “a revision of the militia laws, and such a modification of them, as will enable the president to raise by draft or otherwise 50- or 60,000 men.”

  The number was ambitious. King fully pegged the war secretary as the source of the idea, as he told Morris. “With sixty thousand men all Canada may be conquered, says General Armstrong (who would be named Lieutenant General, if he could), in a single campaign.”

  Federalists thought that Armstrong’s strategy for the war was strange and pointed to his vanity as a reason for his lack of practicality. Arrogance, vanity, and ambition were Armstrong’s weaknesses.

  The senator from New York knew that Mr. Morris didn’t approve of Armstrong and considered the administration to be tyrannical. Morris had earlier written, “The report of the Secretary at War will do no credit to the administration or to the country.” Indeed, once he arrived in Washington, Armstrong would submit a report of the recently failed campaign to capture Montreal.

  King doubted the nation could afford to recruit 60,000 men or that Americans had the stomach for husbands and fathers to be forced to fight. Volunteering was patriotic; compulsion was tyrannical, wasn’t it? What would differentiate America from England if men were forced into military service in the USA? Isn’t that impressment? Wouldn’t it turn the war into hypocrisy? Where would it end?

  Also bothering King was the federal budget. The nation’s finances were in shambles. Before Gallatin had left for Europe in April 1813, he had secured a $16 million loan from mostly foreign-born American bankers to fund the war through the end of the year. New England banks, which held most of the nation’s hard money or specie, had refused to provide more than 3 percent of Gallatin’s loan.

  Now the Treasury would soon be empty with a gap between incoming income and outgoing expenses. How many more banks would dare loan the government more money to prosecute such a futile war? King didn’t think many, if any.

  Like Madison, King wanted peace. Unlike the president, King didn’t want to prosecute the war with vigor. In his view, the best solution was to wait for news from Europe. Napoleon’s recent losses there hinted that his time as France’s emperor would soon be over. If he fell from power, then England would have no more need to impress U.S. sailors into British military service and continue a war with America. So he optimistically thought.

  Commodore Joshua Barney was a regular American with a patriotic soul. At age fifty-four in the winter of 1813–14, he was also a Revolutionary War veteran, master sailor, and privateer. Where James Boyle’s ad calling for Cockburn’s head had failed and Elisha Mix’s torpedo had yet to come of age, Barney’s boats just might be the remedy that America needed to rid itself of redcoats raiding the Chesapeake Bay.

  Barney’s idea was to build and buy a fleet of flying gunboats and shallow-water barges to patrol the Chesapeake and its rivers. Properly supplied, manned, and armed, this flying squadron would distract Cockburn’s attention from raids and attacks on local fishing towns and force him to fight or flee. This patriot’s plan caught the attention of Navy Secretary William Jones. From his post in Baltimore, Barney joyfully read Jones’s assessment.

  “We shall expect you to keep the enemy below the Potomac, and then the whole force can unite,” Jones wrote. “I am clearly of the opinion your force will be fully competent to repel any force the enemy can put in boats.”

  What stood out to Barney was Jones’s worry over their foe’s target. Unlike his counterpart, Secretary Armstrong, Jones voiced concern that the British sought to destroy the Chesapeake region.

  “The enemy has a strong desire to destroy this place, and will assuredly make an effort for that purpose, your force is our principal shield, and all eyes will be upon you.”

  Though Jones didn’t specify what he meant by “this place,” any number of nearby cities could be a target, including Baltimore, Annapolis, and Washington. How Barney hoped his flying squadron would do just that, be a shield, a sword of protection for his beloved country!

  Dolley wasn’t hospitable only to her husband’s political foes; she could also welcome the nation’s leading antagonists. The relationship she had once developed with the wife of a British diplomat years earlier showed that while Dolley often dressed a step above most women in Washington City, her wardrobe wouldn’t have fit in with royalty in England.

  A decade earlier
Anthony and Elizabeth Merry had arrived in Washington City after a voyage from England. Assigned as the top diplomat from Great Britain, Mr. Merry had worn his finest, gaudiest embroidered clothing, duds fit for a king, and called upon President Thomas Jefferson. With then–secretary of state James Madison escorting him, Merry had walked down the hall toward Jefferson’s office on the west end of the White House. Before Merry had arrived to make his bow, Jefferson had appeared in the hallway. Why not accept the credential rights then and there, on the spot?

  Merry couldn’t believe it. Not only was he performing his rehearsed lines in the hallway and not in a formal drawing room, but President Jefferson had also been wearing threadbare informal clothing and tattered shoes instead of proper heeled men’s shoes and formal clothing. Because Jefferson had known that Merry was coming, the British diplomat had taken the president’s casual attire as an insult. Jefferson had just been himself. Disdaining any hint of monarchy, he had greeted the British diplomat the same way and considered his attire the cloth of simple republicanism.

  The Merry affair was just beginning, however. In early December 1803, Jefferson had invited the Merrys to dinner. While knowing full well that France and England were at war, he had also invited a French diplomat, which was an insult. Before dinner, the guests had gathered outside of the dining room for informal conversation.

  Believing the dinner was in their honor, the Merrys had worn full formal attire. Clad in a white satin dress, Mrs. Merry had also been covered in diamonds, attire appropriate for a royal court.

  Dolley, though also in attendance, had not dressed as lavishly. She hadn’t worn diamonds then. Years later for her husband’s inaugural ball, she had worn pearls, not diamonds, to match her velvet buff gown. Though fancier than most women’s clothing, Dolley’s dresses hadn’t been queenly by European standards.