Joseph Gales couldn’t believe his eyes on September 21, 1814, when he read the submission in front of him for the National Intelligencer. Congress had reconvened only two days prior. Yet here was an anonymous submission about removing the capital to another city.
“We hear some indistinct suggestions buzzed abroad of a design to endeavor, in consequence of recent events, to remove the seat of government temporarily or permanently from this place,” as Gales described it.
Congress had reconvened September 19, squeezing into Washington City’s Blodgett’s Tavern. Paul Jennings, one of Madison’s domestic slaves, described Blodgett’s as “an old shell of a house on 7th Street.” The three-story building had been a tavern, theater, and boarding house. “Both houses of Congress managed to get along in it very well, notwithstanding it had to accommodate the patent office, city and general post office, committee rooms, and what was left of the Congressional library, at the same time.”
Gales knew that the House of Representatives, however, was particularly uncomfortable at Blodgett’s. Though every spot in the tavern was occupied, not all members were there: only 157 of 176 members. What would happen when they all returned and they had a full house?
Though he may not have realized it, Gales held a powerful position in Washington. A Boston newspaper wrote that “Mr. Gales is not an inconsequential member of the political family in Washington.”
What should he do? Should he print the editorial opposing relocation? He didn’t want to alarm his readers. What if the writer of the letter was mistaken? Who was the author? Did he recognize the handwriting?
Embracing freedom of the press didn’t mean publishing everything that came his way. He had to be sure before he printed the editorial. And so for now, Gales kept the letter quiet.
The news was true, as President Madison well knew. City councils and leading citizens in Philadelphia and Lancaster had sent petitions to U.S. government officials. They suggested relocating the nation’s capital city to their town. Why? Because they had something Washington didn’t have: buildings.
Both places knew that their halls of government could house the federal government—temporarily and permanently. They also knew that accommodations for members of Congress were far better in their towns than in Washington City, even before the fire.
While he didn’t directly address this issue in his message to Congress, Madison made a bold declaration of his position on it nonetheless. On September 20, Edward Coles brought Madison’s message to the Senate and House, where someone read it aloud. Years earlier Thomas Jefferson had broken with Washington’s and Adams’s tradition of delivering the president’s message in person to Congress. Jefferson preferred to write it and have someone else read it. Keenly aware of his weak-sounding voice, Madison followed the Jefferson model. He was a far better writer than a public orator.
While his voice was absent, his message and declarations were clear. He was quick to highlight the crowning achievement of Fort McHenry. He also praised other victories, including U.S. successes on the Canadian side of the Niagara frontier, General Jackson’s achievements in the South, and a crucial victory at Plattsburg.
Most important, the president announced that his top priority was to supply the Treasury, whether for “a return of peace or further and more effective provisions for prosecuting the war.”
Though Madison hoped peace would come soon, the burning of Washington led him to “infer that a spirit of hostility is indulged more violent than ever against the rights and prosperity of this country.”
The president knew that he had to show strength. As early as September 5, the editor of Georgetown’s Federal Republican had praised Madison for his decision to bring Congress back to Washington instead of arranging for them to meet in another city. “This is as it should be. If it be not intended to ‘give up the ship’ no consent should be granted to even a temporary removal of the seat of government.”
Their position continued firmly, “and we trust that no representative of the people will hesitate for a moment in determining that a removal of the seat of government, under present circumstances, would bring dishonor on the country.”
Their reasons reflected renewed patriotism. “The character of the nation is implicated in maintaining this as its capital, and it would be dastardly to abandon it.” Madison couldn’t have agreed more. He would not abandon Washington City. Aware of the whispers of relocation, the president made his boldest, strongest declaration in his message to Congress.
“However deeply to be regretted on our part, he [the enemy] will find in his transient success, which interrupted for a moment only the ordinary public business at the seat of government,” Madison proclaimed. The British military had only temporarily, not permanently, stopped the federal government.
The president knew, however, that Congress would soon launch an investigation into why the nation’s capital had been undefended. Every player, major and minor, would write his account of what happened.
He also knew that something had to be done quickly about the Capitol and the President’s House. How bad was the damage? Could they rebuild using existing walls?
Hence, he made a decision. He asked Thomas Munroe for an assessment of clearing the debris from the sites. Munroe suggested it would cost $1,200 for the cleanup.
In his response to Madison, Munroe also forwarded a letter from an architect from Philadelphia, Robert Mills, the son-in-law of Samuel Smith, who had visited Washington to survey the damage. “I would take the liberty of suggesting to you, the propriety of recommending to the President to have the capital roofed in a temporary manner, for the purpose of preserving the work that still remains good internally.”
Mills gave Madison the news he most wanted to hear about the remains. Some of the walls could be salvaged: “Without a precaution of this kind, the rain and frost of the winter will, if not entirely destroy, weaken the arches or vaults, that are now good . . . .”
That meant rebuilding was possible. Decisiveness and determination flowed from Madison’s words and actions more boldly than before. Hope for rebuilding was real, but time was also ticking. The forces for relocating were a foil.
After arriving in Baltimore and spending the night at the Indian Queen Hotel on September 16, Francis Scott Key shared his lyrics with one of his brothers-in-law, Judge Joseph Nicholson, who had led men under orders from General Smith. Nicholson arranged for anonymous publication of Key’s poem. They used the title “Defense of Fort McHenry.”
The poem was electric, popping up in newspapers across the nation. Washington Irving, who served as editor of a magazine, printed it as well. When Key returned to Georgetown, he had the pleasure of reading his poem in his hometown newspaper. Once again, Georgetown’s Federal Republican continued its renewed patriotism. Not only did it publish all of the verses, but it also published Key’s story, though without naming him.
“A gentleman had left Baltimore in a flag of truce for the purpose of getting released from the British fleet, a friend of his who had been captured at Marlborough. . . . and he was compelled to witness the bombardment of Fort McHenry, which the admiral had boasted that he would carry in a few hours, and that the city must fall.”
That autumn, Key didn’t experience the notoriety that would later come to him, though his Georgetown paper accurately relayed his emotions. “He watched the flag at the fort through the whole day with anxiety that can be better felt than described, until the night prevented him from seeing it. In the night he watched the bomb shells and at early dawn his eye was again greeted by the proudly waving flag of his country.”
His poem would soon become known as “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
The debate of September 26, 1814, in Congress stunned residents of Washington City. Mr. Jonathan Fisk, a New York Republican, submitted a resolution to inquire into the expediency of removing the seat of government away from Washington.
“Resolved that a committee be appointed to inquire into . . . removing the sea
t of government . . . to a place of greater security and less inconvenience than the city of Washington,” Fisk requested.
Mr. Joseph Lewis, a Federalist of Virginia, opposed the motion under any circumstances whatsoever. He didn’t believe it was any more vulnerable than any other place east of the Alleghany Mountains, no more so than Philadelphia or Lancaster.
“If proper preparations for resistance had been made by those whose duty it was to have made them,” Lewis complained, noting that the problem was not the location but a failure to protect it. “Let us not gratify the wishes of our enemy.”
But the debate and fight was under way.
Now that Congressman Fisk had submitted a motion to relocate the nation’s capital city, Gales decided it was time. He had no choice but to publish the editorial opposing removal. As he explained to his readers in a note preceding the article: “The following communication was handed to us some days before the meeting of Congress, when the subject was first talked of.”
Gales wanted his readers to know that he didn’t believe it when he first saw it. “Want of room in our paper, and indeed, incredulity, on our part that it would ever be seriously discussed, made us lay it aside at the time, as rather premature.”
He also knew that city leaders in neighboring Georgetown had suggested Georgetown College to Congress as a temporary meeting place. They’d also offered congressmen ten dollars a week instead of sixteen dollars for boarding at Washington hotels. This alone was proof enough that it was time to publish the article.
His commitment to freedom of the press was put to the test. Gales’s own livelihood was at stake. And so he published the opinion of this editorialist, who was either an anonymous average Joe or perhaps even the prominent Jimmy Madison, who was aware earlier than most of the petitions to relocate.
“It is said that the city of Philadelphia hath very recently sent to this place a deputation of offering, under pretence of better accommodations for Congress, etcetera inducements for removing the government to that city.”
Yes, it was true. Residents of Philadelphia, and also Lancaster, Pennsylvania, had sent a petition to Congress. To the anonymous editorialist, the offer was disrespectful.
“Can it be that any respectable portion of our fellow citizens of the United States should not only be destitute of sympathy in our recent misfortune but greedily seize the occasion to turn us quiet?”
The writer expected better of the people of Philadelphia. “They cannot be so devoid of justice, and though that place, like others, may have some selfish or discontented citizens, who would pursue their interests to the disregard of everything else.”
Then the author, using the pseudonym Philo, presented his most logical arguments against abandoning Washington City. He tapped nostalgia for George Washington and the legal authorization of the U.S. Constitution. “Under a law of Congress passed in pursuance of the Constitution itself, the permanent seat of government hath been designed and fixed by the father of his country, in the most solemn and formal manner.”
Abandoning the city of Washington would disgrace its namesake. It also would require the federal government to void contracts with the states of Maryland and Virginia, which had transferred land to establish the federal district. Local land owners had also sold property in good faith: “Contracts have been made with states and individuals the binding force of which, according to another provision of the U.S. Constitution, can neither be impaired or evaded.”
It would also set a worrisome precedent. “If then the government begin to move, where will it stop?”
Perhaps the most powerful argument against moving the capital was the message it would send to the British government and the door it would open to future attacks. “Our disgrace would indeed be sealed, should our enemy or should the world be suffered to believe that with a handful of men they can drive our government from its seat.”
Moving the government could also damage the current peace negotiations. “It would be considered as proof of its disorganization; and of the rapid progress made by the enemy towards our subjugation. It would be felt, in our pending negotiations, and lessen us in the estimation of all of Europe.”
The author’s concern about the peace negotiations perhaps suggests that Madison may have written this article or encouraged someone he trusted to do so. The need for unity, not a debate over location, was paramount in such a crisis. “Our national character and interests, therefore, unite with other important considerations, in favor of dispelling, without delay, all doubts on this subject.”
As Gales published this anonymous article, all he could do was hope that it would persuade enough members of Congress to stay in Washington.
“It is laughable to see with what petulance and disrespect the Intelligencer notices the proposition lately made in the House of Representatives for the temporary removal of the seat of government,” the editor of the Massachusetts Spy published on October 5.
He had harsh words, scathing even, for Gales. “The editor of that paper is one of the most debased and supple fools ever put into the hands of a wicked administration.”
This editor saw Gales as merely an extension of Madison, claiming, “No drudgery is too low, no condescension too mean, no sacrifice of honor and conscience too great to be borne by him, if it will only conciliate the favor and forward the plans of his master.”
Though Gales favored Madison, hadn’t the British destroyed his property because of him? Perhaps it was time for Gales to be more cautious. Maybe he needed to show a more definitive separation.
Benjamin Latrobe’s business partnership in Pittsburgh with Robert Fulton was in the pits, dying a death by a thousand cuts. Fulton’s financial backers were suing him, and Latrobe was caught in a patent fight between Latrobe’s son-in-law and Fulton. The war’s financial devastation and the removal of hard money from New York banks to Canada was affecting everyone and business everywhere.
Knowing that the burning of the White House and Capitol had destroyed Latrobe’s most tangible accomplishments in Washington City, a friend had written Latrobe a sympathy letter.
“I thank you for your remarks so flattering me to the Capitol. But I fear that it cannot be repaired. The frost will come on and destroy much,” Latrobe replied on September 24, 1814.
His agony was matched by his architect’s desire to fix things.
“I know exactly what it would be best to do, but I cannot intrude my advice and Mr. Madison will never employ me again, I am told,” he concluded.
Would Madison dare hire Benjamin Latrobe again? Latrobe’s wife, Mary, thought so, despite the past. She secretly wrote a letter to Dolley, and one to the president as well.
Madison wasn’t following the Washington model of staying out of the removal question completely. Instead, he may have been creating his own model of stealth protesting. Perhaps he had made suggestions and whispered into the ears of men like Thomas Munroe, John Van Ness, and Congressman Lewis to use their words, expertise, and money in creative ways to keep Washington as the nation’s capital city.
One of those men may have written an article that appeared in the Georgetown newspaper. Someone rose up and protested Congress in a letter addressed to the honorable men of the Senate and House of Representatives that was printed in the Federal Republican on October 1, 1814. The author identified himself simply as one of the people.
He noted the origins of establishing Washington City under the leadership of George Washington. The area’s original residents had sold their property to the government with the promise that it would become the permanent seat of government. Not only did Virginia and Maryland hand over land, but they also provided money for the district to the federal government. Virginia gave $120,000 and Maryland gave $72,000 for buildings and ground improvements.
“President Washington, whose sense of justice always accompanied his public acts, thought it was reasonable, that the public buildings should be as equally distributed through the city, as public convenience.”
“And thus the city is composed of villages and hamlets, so remote from each other, as to preclude the connected improvements of regularly built cities.”
The author, however, understood the vision of George Washington. Those gaps would one day be filled: “But these inconveniences will daily decrease, and finally the city of Washington will be considered one of the most superb capitals of the world.”
This prognosticator, noting that the U.S. Capitol and White House were repairable, was angry at suggestions to move the capital to Philadelphia. “Because we have suffered many privations and have been invaded, are we therefore to be abandoned?”
He demanded more from Congress.
“No, from you we expect more magnanimous conduct; if every house had been laid desolate, we expected that you would have . . . called on your country to avenge the deed, until even the spirits of the dead had awoke and roused to a holy zeal.”
The author didn’t realize that Congress didn’t need to avenge the deed. He and his fellow Washingtonians were rising like spirits from the dead with a patriotic zeal to fight for their city to remain the capital of the country.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Poor Mrs. Madison
“Poor Mrs. Madison, it is said, shows the most sensibility on the subject,” Congressman Jeremiah Mason of New Hampshire wrote from Washington to his wife, Mary, on October 6, 1814.
“In her flight from the enemy, she was not only without assistance or consolation from the inhabitants, but treated with abuse. The President left her to shift for herself,” he wrote, noting that she endured abuses hurled at her husband. “The disgraceful and distressing stories told are innumerable.” He appeared to be aware of the story of the woman cussing at her and kicking her out of her inn.
The Burning of the White House Page 30