Eagle's Cry

by David Nevin

  “Aaron Burr,” the roaring voice from behind cried, “harken to my words. You are destroying yourself. Oh, my son, I see you stepping toward perdition, wallowing in the sin of pride and ambition, betraying your heritage. You are blinded by lust for power and glory and position. Repent now, while you still can. Your father—”

  It was more than Burr could stand and he whirled, stick raised, and the bearded figure stepped into an alley and was gone. Burr stared. Had the old man been there at all? Could he have been an apparition? Burr peered into the alley, saw it was empty, turned and hurried on, stick now raised as for a weapon, and the old devil’s voice echoing and reechoing against the dark and silent buildings.

  5

  MONTPELIER, VIRGINIA, JANUARY 1801

  He was a hunchback, this little man, his linen was soiled, he needed a shave, a long queue hung down his back with a twist of leather at the end, he spoke with a slight burr of Scotland in his voice, and he had lived with the Indians as a trader off and on over the years. He had no family or settled home, and he could be forty or he could be sixty. He used a half-dozen names and Madison doubted any of them were his own.

  All that on the one hand. On the other, that perhaps a dozen men, all merchants of power, all Democrats, used him to carry messages and he had never been known to betray a confidence or err in what he said. He’d carried gold and letters and verbal messages too sensitive to put on paper. If a shipment disappeared he knew where to look; if bribery was afoot he could sniff it out; if threats had been made, he could arrange retaliation. ’Twas said that he’d killed or caused men to be killed, but of course there never would be a record of that, and those who employed him wouldn’t want to know. If you wanted him, you left word at one tavern or another and after a while he appeared.

  Madison had never seen him nor had use for him, but he understood instantly who he was. The fellow had appeared at Montpelier; the plantation manager was ready to throw him out on appearances alone, but something in the other’s expression changed his mind and he sent the visitor on to the big house. Madison saw him in small room off the main salon. A maid named Suzanne, a slender girl with long, tapering fingers whom Sukey was breaking in, served beef and bread with a pot of butter and a tankard of ale brewed on the plantation, giving the visitor a supercilious look.

  “Nigger don’t care for me,” he said, grinning.

  “Let’s say you’re an unusual visitor, Mr. Dinwiddie.”

  “Dinwiddie ain’t my name. I had to tell that nosy bastard manager of yours something. You know who I am?”

  “By reputation, I think so.”

  “Good. That’s enough.” He cut slabs of beef with what looked like a fighting knife and stuffed them in his mouth, licking his fingers and gulping the ale.

  “Now, Mr. Madison, I come from Sam Smith.” Madison wasn’t surprised. The Maryland congressman had published the letter Aaron had written, which seemed on its face to remove him from any competition for the presidency. But Madison had already concluded that Aaron had written on the first report from South Carolina before he knew there was a tie. And there had been nothing since.

  The man drew a clay pipe burned nearly black, shaved plug tobacco with that big knife, turned the pipe down over a candle and filled the room with pungent smoke. Madison swallowed a need to cough. He said nothing, waiting.

  “Now,” pointing with the pipe stem, “Mr. Smith wants you to know two things. First off, Burr ain’t going to step back. He met Smith in Philadelphia and seems like he said the Democrats could kiss his ass. Said in so many words he’s in it to win. Says Mr. Jefferson would make a right fine vice president.”

  The effrontery! Madison knew he’d masked his fury, but his breath was short.

  “The other thing is, the Feds got the bit in their teeth. They’ll back Burr to the hilt. Way it works out, Jefferson’ll have eight, Burr six, two split even and not voting.”

  Sixteen states in the Union, each with one vote in the House, that vote to be decided by a majority of each state’s congressmen; Tom needed nine states to win and was one short.

  “You understand, they don’t give a fiddler’s fuck for Burr. Mr. Smith has it straight. Says they’re looking for stalemate. They’ll hold it frozen till March 4 when the current administration ends; then they’ll appoint themselves a caretaker president to run the country—run it their way.

  “And you know what that means?”

  Madison raised his eyebrows.

  “Means you can take the Constitution to the outhouse and use it for ass-wipe. That’s all it’ll be good for.”

  “I don’t really need a constitutional lecture,” Madison said.

  The other grinned. “I expect that’s true. Mr. Smith says you about wrote the blamed thing. But his message is, you’d better get off your ass and take a hand in this game. Didn’t put it that way, exactly, but you get the drift. See, the boardinghouse where he lives in Washington City—Conrad and McMunn’s, you know the place? No? Well, don’t matter. Point is, Mr. Jefferson stays there too, Mr. Smith sees him every day, and he says the man won’t lift a finger in his own defense.”

  Tom was adamant: He would not bargain for the presidency, would not accept it as a deal. Madison was pretty well bound by those strictures too. Still, he wasn’t running for president. He was just a citizen. Bound he might be in a public sense, but there was always the private sense too.

  “You want me to carry a message back?” The fellow’s pipe had burned down, and he knocked the dottle into his plate.

  “I don’t think Sam Smith expects an answer,” he said.

  “I think that is an answer,” the fellow said, and he was up and gone, leaving Madison still at the table, lost in thought.

  The rotten Goddamned scoundrel …

  James Madison rarely cursed and disliked crude talk, but now anger greater than any he could remember swept him in waves.

  Dawnlight glowed across his fields. He’d awakened long before light, saddled a big buckskin gelding himself, and now had the horse pounding along the turnpike, the flexing rhythm beating against the waves of anger.

  Burr had aimed to steal the election! Sent that miserable creature Gelston—God! he would slap Aaron’s face if he could reach him and if that led to the dueling field, he would doubleshot his pistol!

  Sent Gelston to assure him they had cured the tie danger and to focus the North-South clash—all a trick. They knew electors would tend to vote for both president and vice president and that Madison would see the danger and block it. They’d set out to neutralize him, to use against him his instinct to take men as honorable until they proved otherwise. Tricked him …

  He slowed the gelding, whose heavy breathing was making steam clouds in the chill air, and slowed his own racing heart. The eastern sky was taking on an orange glow. Fury was an indulgence and Madison didn’t often indulge himself, but he would not forget the corruption inherent in Burr’s act.

  For it jeopardized the great democratic revolution, the turning of the nation from narrow elitism to the broad belief that free men have the capacity to govern themselves wisely. He thought it the most dangerous time since 1776. The great Federalist fear was that, as in France, the passions of free men must overcome their senses and lead to chaos. But the people had put their trust in the Democrats, said by their vote they believed free men were responsible. Not overwhelmingly, however, it was a narrow majority that had said, all right, we’ll try you once, we’ll see; but foul your nest and we’ll go back to the safe and the true because maybe, after all, free men do go out of control. We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we … .

  And here was Burr spinning it into chaos before they could even start! One hungry man willing to destroy the future in his search for self-glory … .

  “By God, sir,” he cried into the cold morning air, seeing Burr’s pasty face before him, “you shall not succeed!”

  “De old colonel calling for you, Mr. Jimmy.”

  Madison hurried to the sickroom. His fat
her was rarely out of bed now, clearly but slowly dying. The bony old hand searched for his, clinging, the feeling of a drowning man.

  “I’m going to go, Son.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I can feel it, waiting to take me. So I wanted to tell you, you must … you must …” The wavering voice faded away. Then, stronger, “Damn, I forgot.”

  “About the farm, Father? You’ve given me my instructions.”

  The hand tightened on his. “You must see to it, James. It’s your sustenance, your life blood, it will see you to the end … take good care of it … .”

  He was asleep. Madison disengaged his hand and went back to his desk to sit there, tapping his pen knife lightly on the blotter. Another messenger had come this morning, this one from Richmond. It was time for action.

  Running north from Montpelier on a rattling stage that managed to find every lurch and pothole on the dirt high road, Dolley rehearsed what she would say and to whom she should say it. She had a message to deliver—Jimmy had emphasized that. “You’re not negotiating,” he’d said, “don’t let anyone put you in that position.”

  This when she had protested that women didn’t negotiate. She chuckled, remembering his response. “Do all the time in Europe. Tom says in Paris all the important messages are delivered by mistresses.”

  “Oh, is that so!” she’d said, laughing. “Well, I’m not your mistress, thank you.”

  And he’d said, “Mistress, lover, wife, best friend, shining light of my life, answer to my prayers, guarantor of my happiness—sweetheart, you’re everything!”

  She sighed, lonely already. He was a darling man. He’d whispered, “You do brilliantly what mistresses do best,” and she had said, “You dirty dog,” and kissed him, and the evening had gone on from there.

  When the stage stopped on the south bank of the Potomac across from the shining new city, she was still nervous, but she didn’t let that quiet her lively anticipation. She’d been dreaming of Washington and the role Tom had asked her to play for a long time, and now, the town drawing close as the ferry worked across the Potomac, she was there. Tom was a widower; he had asked her to serve as his official hostess at state dinners in the President’s House, and already she was planning.

  Her old friend Danny Mobry awaited her on the bank, a tall, pretty woman with her face framed in black curls, wearing a brocaded gown the color of oysters. She was standing by a gleaming landau, a big black man holding the horses. As Dolley stepped ashore, Danny enveloped her in a hug.

  “What a sight for sore eyes!” she cried. “Dolley, you’ll love it here—new houses started every day. Come along, we’ll have a grand—” She broke off, forehead wrinkled. “Sweetie, what’s the matter? You look downright strained.”

  “No, no. Just a long trip.”

  “I suppose, but no, there’s more to it than that.” She slapped her forehead. “But of course! You hardly came all the way alone just to look at houses. You’re up to something; I can see it in your face.”

  “Danny, really!”

  “See, I knew it! Edgy as a cat. And why not? Country’s trying to blow itself up, and Jimmy sent you to work some alchemy—”

  “Danny! That’s enough now. I mean it.”

  Danny bit her lip. “All right, dear. I’m sorry. Come along; we’ll tour the new capital city. And Carl and I will help if we can or stay out of your way … .”

  She introduced the big coachman as Samuel Clark and said he once had been a slave on her father’s plantation. Carl had purchased his freedom and that of his wife, who ran their household. The big man bowed and Dolley nodded, but what struck was the force of character she read in his squarish face, the authority. She was surprised and then a little ashamed because she was surprised. She didn’t pay much attention to the black people at Montpelier, except for the house servants.

  Montpelier was a benign plantation, as benign as slavery could be; the old colonel and now Jimmy made sure their people were not mistreated, though she supposed the overseer did discipline when necessary and that meant flogging. It all was deeply disturbing. She’d grown up a Quaker on a slave-owning Virginia plantation. Her father had lived out his convictions, freed his slaves, and consequently had to sell the plantation, there being no white labor available in slave country. Someone else bought the land and bought slaves to work it and all went on as before. And the Paynes moved to Philadelphia and failed in business and everything collapsed … .

  Inside the carriage Danny said, “I’ll tell you their story someday, Millie and Samuel. I grew up with Millie. She was my nurse from the day I was born. Just a girl herself then, eleven or twelve. I taught her to read, and don’t you think that kicked up a rumpus at home!” She sighed. “Now I don’t know what’ll happen; they’re so on edge here. Philadelphia was fine—it’s the center of the Quaker abolition movement—” She broke off, laughing. “Forgive me, I should be telling you about the Quakers?”

  “But why? You said they were uneasy here.”

  Danny gave her an odd, sharp glance. “Washington is a slave city, you know. Auctions down on the Eastern Branch couple of times a month. You see coffles, men in chains and women chained right with them. Not very attractive in a great nation’s capital, seems to me, but it doesn’t make you very popular to bring it up. But you can see that it would make free Negroes nervous, papers or no papers.”

  She laughed suddenly and covered Dolley’s hand with her own. “Enough dark talk. You’re here at last. I can’t wait to show you your new city. Oh! There’s a house just going up that you must see; I promise you’ll love it … .”

  It was like coming home to encounter Danny’s exuberance again, though she’d hardly realized that her own tensions were so obvious. Still, Danny knew her very well. They’d been close for years. Dolley’s first husband had been Carl Mobry’s lawyer, and after the yellow fever it was Danny to whom Dolley had turned for comfort. And Aaron had been her friend … .

  Danny’s dark eyes were highly expressive and something in their depths gave Dolley the impression she was deeply interested in what went on in the bedroom, though they had never found reason to discuss such matters. She came from New Orleans, still a French city despite years of Spanish rule, and Dolley had always supposed her a Frenchwoman. But she was Irish. She’d been Daniella Clark, named for her uncle, Daniel Clark, the Irishman who’d made himself the merchant prince of New Orleans. She’d been sixteen when Carl found her, and Dolley imagined she had had an irresistible bloom. He’d sailed his brig up the river looking for sugar, found his way to her father’s plantation, and sailed away with sugar and a bride.

  They set out, the carriage lurching with creaks and groans, dust eddying up through the floorboards. She braced herself against the door.

  “It’s nice here even if coaches do turn into kindling wood overnight,” Danny said. “It’s vivid—full of life, people bustling about. Of course, they’re pretty worried.”

  “About the change?”

  “That there’ll be trouble over it. Those with government jobs fear they’ll lose them, those without hoping they’ll get one, everyone wondering if there’ll be riots.”

  “Why should there be riots?”

  “Well, they don’t know what to expect. Congress is in session, the Federalists are trying to steal the election, the Democrats surely won’t stand for it, new rumors every day.”

  Washington struck Dolley as mostly wilderness. She had a confused impression of forests through which rough roads had been hacked, stumps left in roadways. They crossed open spaces that Danny said would be squares and circles, saw lanes called New Hampshire Avenue and Massachusetts Avenue. Occasionally there were houses, quite handsome individually but separated by cornfields in which dried stalks still stood after the harvest.

  Clusters of houses stood around Capitol Hill, which Danny said had been Jenkin’s Hill till the other day. Like an awesome crown, the unfinished building stood amid piles of stone separated on lathes, stacks of brick, six-by-si
x timbers laid in square towers, cement mixing boats, ladders, toolsheds, planks laid as walkways over mud. It was such a work in progress as to be amusing, and yet it had a grandeur too, if only grandeur of intentions. What a magnificent conception this someday city was, the ceremonial diagonal avenues piercing the streets, squares, and circles every few blocks; the great open mall stretching in imagination from the hill to the river. It was a tangle of trees and elder bushes now, with cornfields and a creek winding through marshland alive with ducks and geese, but in imagination it all leaped to life. This was a town she could love.

  With a sudden tremor deep in her gut she remembered why she was here. This brave experiment, the town created overnight from open farmland, the nation created overnight in the radical idea that free men can govern themselves, was it all to be shattered before it properly began? Danny was chattering away and all at once Dolley realized her old friend was trying to distract and soothe her and she began forcing calm on herself. She took several deep breaths, saw Danny glance at her, and smiled reassuringly. She was all right.

  They meandered along Pennsylvania Avenue. The carriage gave a great lurch that threw Dolley against Danny, and she swore to herself that she would make Tom give this miserable street a cover of crushed stone. In time they came to another cluster of houses. Then, as they turned a corner, Danny said with something quite like pride of ownership, “There! What do you think?”

  With a jolt, Dolley recognized the President’s House from drawings. She’d given a lot of thought to making this building the social center of the capital, and now she saw that with its yellow sandstone walls freshly painted in glistening white, it triumphed over an unfinished setting. Though a half-dozen saplings had been planted, the muddy ground was rutted and littered with wood scraps and debris. Several piles of lumber weathering gray looked abandoned. Yet that scarcely detracted from its beauty.