by David Nevin
So she was scratching a mongrel’s ear when the hundredodd members marched up from the Senate chamber, the formality of the official opening of electoral votes behind them. Guards posted themselves at the door but left the doors open. She heard the House called to order. Mr. Bayard had avoided her eye when he passed, whether by chance or intent she couldn’t tell. He looked stern and strong but very tired, the weight of Delaware, Maryland, and Vermont a formidable burden.
Two men bearing a third on a stretcher, a doctor walking alongside, passed into the chamber. A round of whispers swept the rotunda: a Federalist member at death’s door but carried in to anchor his vote against the hated Democrat. The doctor was allowed to remain on the floor.
The voting started. “Connecticut,” she heard the clerk cry.
“Connecticut for Mr. Burr,” the guard said to no one in particular. He was a tall, heavy man of boiled beef English stock, face red as a carrot, a shock of white hair and a fine white mustache. She’d noticed the members speaking to him, his response in that curious mixture of gracious subordination and lofty superiority that mark the truly secure functionary. “Delaware.” Pause.
“Mr. Burr.”
Bayard had held his obstructionist vote for Burr! Her face stung with mortification. After all she’d said, he whose single vote could end the terrible charade in a moment had walked away in a huff, unmoved, uncaring. Tears formed, fell, streaked her cheek. Carl squeezed her hand; he’d been pressing a handkerchief to his lips and he passed it to her to dry her eyes.
She listened to the rest of the vote, called in the same unconcerned way by the big guard. Georgia and Kentucky for Jefferson. Maryland divided and not voting. Massachusetts and New Hampshire for Burr. New Jersey, New York, North Carolina, and Pennsylvania for Jefferson. Rhode island, Burr. South Carolina, Burr! What irony. Carrying South Carolina had given Jefferson the presidency over Adams and now its delegation had voted against him. Tennessee for Jefferson; thank God for the West. Vermont, divided, not voting. Virginia, of course, for Jefferson. So it was unchanged: six holding for Burr, eight for the Virginian, one short of victory .
They took the vote again. Same results. Again and again and again. No change. Again. She lost track of the number of votes. At midnight someone said there had been nineteen. No change. The diehards were holding, Bayard among them.
Carl was sunk in the sling chair, his face gray, mouth slightly open. She thought he was panting. He said he wasn’t.
“Let’s go home,” she said. He shook his head.
“Carl, you don’t look at all well. Really, darling, we should—” He shook his head.
Vote starting, the guard said.
Connecticut. Mr. Burr.
Delaware. Mr. Burr.
Carl fainted at three in the morning. His head rolled, his legs went slack, the chair tipped and dropped him face first on the stone. She screamed. The guard fetched that doctor from the floor. Carl awakened with a wide-eyed, frightened look. The physician laid his ear to Carl’s chest; there was something odd in his expression when he turned to her.
“Take him home, madam,” he said. “Get him in bed.”
Their own doctor visited Carl in the morning, debated bleeding him, settled for telling him stay in bed. A special edition of the Intelligencer said voting had gone on till noon, results unchanged. A new rumor raced through the streets: stalemate to March 4, then John Marshall, the new secretary of state, would become president. And, Danny thought, the South and the West would march. She remembered Jackson. She’d met him a couple of times, and given his reputation, she’d been struck by his graceful courtesy. She had an image of those Tennessee long rifles, lean, hungry men with pieces in hand, boots worn by six hundred miles, swinging along, ready to fight—and when all was done, what would be left of their country?
A new rumor: Mr. Bayard would change his vote! So he had listened!
She made Carl promise to stay in bed and hurried up the Hill. Her bench was taken. She leaned against a marble pillar near the entrance.
Vote’s starting, the guard said.
Connecticut: Mr. Burr.
Delaware: Mr. Burr.
She reeled away from the pillar afraid she would vomit. She found an open bench and took it, gasping.
An immensely fat woman in a magenta gown, the bench’s other occupant, turned to Danny and said, “Mr. Burr’s in Baltimore.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Well, what’s he doing in Baltimore if he don’t intend to come over here and take it by storm? Any minute now he’ll come walking in, go right on the floor, give ’em a speech to knock their hats off, and they’ll swarm all over him. Have ’em eating out of his hand. You ever see him? Handsome devil. I’d eat out of his hand anytime, I’ll tell you. Anything else he wanted too. Any minute now, right through that door.” She raised a fat arm to point, flesh sagging.
The House recessed, members poured out, and she saw Mr. Bayard coming straight for her. “Madam,” he said without preamble, a harsh crackle in his voice, “since you seem to be the democratic messenger, kindly get word to Mr. Burr in Baltimore that it’s now or never. He should get over here and make his case—now!—or he should forget it.”
“Mr. Bayard,” she cried, “don’t count on me to deliver such a message.”
“Oh, I don’t. Many messages are going. Since you are a beautiful woman, knowing Burr, I thought he might pay attention to you.”
“Sir,” she said, “that is a crude and insulting thing to say. You should be ashamed.”
He bowed. “Good day, madam.”
“Well, I never,” said the woman in the magenta gown.
Aaron Burr paced up and down, up and down, before the hotel, Baltimore’s finest but nothing special at that. He paced and paced, swinging his ebony stick, slashing grass spears, his baleful stare forbidding any trespass on his silence.
It was insane, they’d had six weeks to work it out, they’d stalled, done nothing, and now they wanted him to come in person, seize the ground, exhort, demand, beg. What fools!
He’d been drawn as a moth to flame, drawn as close as Baltimore, but he could come no closer. The Federalists wanted him to come and give them a sign that as president he’d see things their way. But for what? He already had the Federalists; begging would gain no more. What he needed was obvious; three states now voting for Jefferson must be persuaded to shift. It shouldn’t be so difficult; after all, he was a good Democrat. Better him if they couldn’t have the sainted Tom, and obviously they couldn’t; better him than the raging Federalist John Marshall as caretaker president, with the shards of the Constitution scattered at his feet.
Like the tongue to a sore tooth, his mind darted off to Hamilton and his vicious attacks. He couldn’t understand it. He and Alex had been friends, more or less. They’d been cocounsel on important cases; and while they were political opposites now, he didn’t hate Alex and was amazed to find that Alex apparently hated him. Add that to the ridiculous Federalist urgings when the solution was obvious. Really, it was the perfect solution, for in fact he was a good Democrat, a fine Democrat. There had been talk that he should have stepped aside, but he’d brushed it away. He had been rigidly proper; indeed, he was proud of himself. He had done nothing—not one thing—to advance his cause or thwart Jefferson or challenge the will of the people.
He walked and walked, swinging the stick in a blurred arc, scarcely noticing the wide berth passersby gave him. His position was strong, he saw, looking at it realistically. He might yet be called. But if he weren’t and it went to usurpation, he would lead troops on the attack, being no mean military man himself. And if it turned around and went to Tom, he would be second in command, an honored member of a new administration, crucial to holding all-important New York.
His position, he decided, clipping grass so hard the cane whirred and vibrated, couldn’t be better.
It was Tuesday, six days since the voting had begun. Repeated ballots had produced no result, but the talk was that it w
ould be settled today. Hold for usurpation, chaos, and war or shift three democratic states to Burr.
She awakened to find six inches of snow glittering on the ground. Boys played on barrel stave skis on Capitol Hill. Service as a messenger had made Danny part of it and she had to witness the climax. She was pulling on her boots when Carl said he was feeling better and tired of bed and would join her. When she fought him he got that stubborn look she knew too well.
“All right,” she said, “the snow and all, let’s not go. Doesn’t matter. We’ll learn soon enough … .”
That look again. She saw that somehow she had challenged him. “Fine,” he said. “You stay here. I’m going.”
They went slowly, stamping a path through unbroken snow, and arrived early. The bench near the door that she regarded as their own was empty and they waited quietly.
The guard knew them by now.
“Mr. Bayard will change his vote, they say.”
Presently: “Mr. Bayard is taking the floor.” She heard voices, then one clearly orating, words unintelligible.
“Says he won’t let it go to stalemate. Says he won’t count—count—”
“Countenance,” she said.
“That’s right. Won’t let it go to stealing it.”
Thank God!
“Says he’ll grit his teeth and vote Jefferson.”
“Mr. Speaker! Mr. Speaker!” A high, clear, Yankee voice, very loud.
“Mr. Morris of Vermont,” the guard said. “Federalist.”
The Yankee voice went on and on.
The guard nodded. “Mr. Morris will withhold his vote.” Vermont’s two congressmen had been split, each neutralizing the other. Now Mr. Morris would let his democratic opposite prevail.
“Vermont in Mr. J.’s column,” the guard said.
Maryland, evenly divided, four to four, took the floor. The four Federalists would withhold their vote; the four Democrats, among them Sam Smith, would carry the state.
Sure enough, as agreed, they were following Mr. Bayard’s lead.
Shouts from the floor.
“Motion to make it unanimous for Mr. J.,” the guard said.
More shouts, raw anger vibrating through the now utterly silent rotunda. One voice began to dominate, loud, strident.
“Mr. Esmonds of Connecticut says he’ll die before he’ll vote for Mr. J.”
The voice went on and on.
“Says Connecticut will secede before it casts a vote of perfidy. Won’t be party to the chaos and ruin Mr. J. will bring.”
Someone called the guard from within, and he disappeared. A taciturn man with a hank of black hair and a long, black truncheon took his place, legs spread, both hands gripping the club. No information from him.
Danny was on her feet hopping up and down, trying to see over the brute’s shoulder. Shouts and screams echoed from the floor. The chair howled for order, the gavel ringing like pistol shots. She jumped up and caught an image of a fist flying toward a face that disappeared. A roar of disapproval.
“Order! Order! Order!” the chair screamed.
The excitement inside infected the rotunda. Men and women were standing, on benches, on boxes, waving their arms and shouting. They surged around the entrances, blocking her view. She was in a fury; she pushed and yelled—
Someone burst from the floor, member or clerk, she didn’t know, and bellowed, “It’s busting wide open!”
“Danny …” Dimly she heard the voice.
“Danny!” She whirled. Carl sagged on the bench, both hands pressed to his chest, a desperate look in his eyes, a look she recognized with sheer horror as that of a wounded animal.
“Carl! For God’s sake!” She got an arm around him just as his head rolled back and he made a terrible choking noise. He sagged against her and started to fall forward. He was more than twice her weight, and as he tumbled to the stone floor the best she could do was cradle his head.
She screamed for someone to fetch that doctor from the floor. She tore open his cravat, buttons flying from his linen shirt. He panted, his eyelids fluttered, and a long, desperate moan burst from his lips.
“God, it hurts, it hurts!” he gasped.
“Where is that damned doctor?” Her scream was drowned in the tumult. She stroked his cheek. “Carl, Carl baby, don’t, don’t …” But she couldn’t say it.
Dimly she heard the roll call going on and on; and then, as Carl Mobry gasped and choked and his breathing slowed, she heard a roar.
“Jefferson wins!” someone shouted. “Jefferson is president!”
The rotunda rang with cheers. “Jefferson! Jefferson! Jefferson!”
The noise made sort of a shield that wrapped her in her horror like a shroud as she watched her husband die. She put her head on his massive chest and sobbed, and the celebration roared on and on all around her.
10
MONTPELIER, VIRGINIA, LATE MARCH 1801
Anchored to Montpelier by the old gentleman’s stubborn grip on life, though he was rarely conscious, the Madisons awaited news of the vote with increasing anxiety. The relief when word came was like a dam breaking. Ecstatic letters from Albert Gallatin and Sam Smith, more measured remarks from Tom, rapt accounts in half a dozen friendly papers—and a shocking letter from Danny.
Now, a month later, opening another letter from Danny, Dolley felt still the sudden shock of the last: Carl dying at the very moment of their success. How life can change, turn upside down in an instant, dreams canceled, demands and responsibilities and pressures crashing around you, and not a soul to really help. She looked at Jimmy, who was reading a report forwarded from the State Department. They were in their bedroom, he lying on the big bed, pillow doubled under his head. It was nearly three in the afternoon. Dinner had been served at two. She was in her chemise, folded into a love seat with a new novel from Paris. Jimmy was older than she and sometimes he looked dangerously weary. She didn’t want to think of life without him and decided she must take better care of him … .
By now they had had a dozen reports on the inauguration from newspapers and letters. Dolley had repeatedly to stifle something rather too much like anger; they should have been there. It was a great national pageant, and they had earned the right to be part of it. But Jimmy wouldn’t hear of leaving his father to die alone.
Sighing, she settled deeper into the love seat and opened Danny’s letter. But in a minute she looked up. “Listen to this, Jimmy. She’s going to keep the business!”
“But not run it herself?”
“Says that’s what she intends.”
“Can she do that?”
“She’s clever, quick, smart as can be. And Carl taught her all about it.”
“Yes, but a woman alone …”
“Well, some women have businesses. A few. And Danny is strong.”
“She remarries; her husband will own it.”
“Maybe she won’t remarry.”
“Well, she’ll have lots of opportunities. She’s a very attractive woman.”
She glanced at her husband, a little surprised. He rarely seemed to notice women, but of course he did; all men did.
“Lots of detail on the inaugural; you’ll want to read this. Hah! Says we were sorely *missed—well, I should hope so!”
She turned over a page. “Why,” she said, “Mr. Adams wasn’t there. He refused? What—oh, here it is. Seems the Adamses packed everything in a wagon, called their carriage at four on the morning of the inauguration, and drove away. What was he thinking of? Isn’t the outgoing president supposed to be there?”
Jimmy had put down the report. “It is strange. I don’t suppose there’s any rule, but you’d think …” His voice trailed off. “Bad form, really,” he said in another moment. “He owed Tom his presence, and he owed it to the image of orderly transition. But you know, poor old devil, it tells you how hard this loss really did hit him. You remember he was always having his feelings hurt, slipping off into depression, agonizing over things, some new fuss cropping up regu
larly. I suppose he couldn’t see this loss as just one of those things; maybe nobody could. But on the evidence of this breach of etiquette, I’d say he’s going off a wounded main …”
“Must have hurt Tom too,” she said. “They’re the oldest of friends, aren’t they?”
“From the beginning. From the time I was still learning my letters. Tom is hoping to smooth things over, but I’ll wager he’s not so sanguine after this.” He sighed and added, “Though given the way Mr. Adams packed the courts before he left office, I don’t know why I’m wasting sympathy on him.”
It had been the small act of a desperate man terrified of a future under a new theory of government. President Adams had created dozens of new judges, Federalists all, in a series of midnight appointments in literally the last hours of his administration, saddling the new administration with hostile judges sure to fight the new government’s every move. And then he’d packed his bag and gone off to Braintree in Boston’s shadow, leaving his one-time friends to deal with the tangled mess of appointments he had created.
Jimmy returned to his report and she resumed reading, but in a moment she interrupted again. “Listen to this! Danny says she saw Aaron after he was sworn in as vice president, and he seemed all out of sorts. Said Tom had cut him dead. Said he went to offer congratulations and pledge he’d do all he could to make the administration successful and so forth and so on, and Tom barely touched his hand, gave him a faint smile, and turned instantly to someone else. She says Aaron was quite dismayed. Says—my, this is odd, too—she had a momentary sense of a child about to cry and then Aaron was his old self, offering her condolences even as he managed to imply that he would be more than willing to help assuage her pain.”
“Really? She says that?”
She nodded. “Aaron being Aaron, you know. But Tom cutting him—”
“Well, of course. Burr destroyed himself with that little trick.”