James Monroe, Secretary of State, was mired in a discussion with John Armstrong, the pompous Secretary of War. Despite his fashionable wife, Monroe refused to abandon silk stockings, breeches, or his tricorn hat. Anna thought he looked ridiculous. To those Republicans who cared for power, he also looked like their next presidential candidate when Madison’s term was over.
Dolley cheerfully finished with Mrs. Thornton and whirled over to her sister.
“I don’t know who’s more ambitious in this town, the women or the men,” Anna giggled.
Dolley smiled. “I expect Mrs. Thornton is the moon to her husband’s sun.”
Anna accepted the delicious punch a waiter presented on a silver tray. She whispered, “How much did you have to pay for the extra waiters?”
“Thirty-five cents.”
“That’s not so bad.”
“Not so good either, but I was lucky that the senators from the Carolinas and Georgia were willing to let their servants work here today.”
“Congress really ought to give you more money.”
“Congress realizes that last year our debt was some five million and this year my husband thinks it will double.”
“You could live in a tent to economize.”
Dolley laughed. “Before this war is over, we might have to. Can’t you just envision it? French John in a tent?”
Just then the majordomo, French John—Jean Pierre Sioussat, born in the city of Paris and now in the prime of his exuberant life—strode through the room with Uncle Willy, Dolley’s turquoise-and-yellow macaw, on his shoulder.
“Madame, Uncle Willy wishes some champagne.” French John bowed very low and Uncle Willy walked across his back, much to the amusement of Rufus King, the distinguished senator from New York, rumored to be a likely candidate for the presidency in 1816 for the Federalist Party—the party whose sole purpose seemed to lie in opposing James Madison and anyone else who did not put the economic interests of the North first. Senator King, bald on top, combed the curly hair on the side of his head forward. It lent him a noble, Roman air so long as he wasn’t exposed to a strong wind.
“Uncle Willy may have some of mine.” Dolley gaily allowed the bird to drink from her glass.
“Even the animals of the earth worship you.” Senator King held up his own glass. He meant it. There were few people who didn’t like Dolley. Even vitriolic John Randolph, the former representative from Roanoke, Virginia, and a bitter foe of Madison’s, liked Dolley, and he hated women.
However, recognizing Dolley’s unusual ability to bring out the best in people did not deter the President’s enemies from using her against him. New England newspapers were hinting that Dolley was having an affair with the French minister, Louis Serurier. They also hinted that James Madison was impotent; after all, Dolley had borne two sons by her first husband and yet no children by James. Those Puritan Yankee traders thrilled to sexual secrets under the guise of rooting out scandal. Dolley loathed the rumors but prudently never responded to them. It would only add fuel to the fire.
A rustle among the crowd and a rush to the door let Dolley slip back to her husband for a moment. Never comfortable in large groups, the President stood like a statue while people paid their respects.
“Your usual triumph.” James squeezed Dolley’s hand.
“Don’t count your chickens—the party’s not over yet. John Armstrong still has the opportunity to offend someone before we blow out the candles.”
“Most likely it will be me,” James whispered.
“You know what Mother Amy used to say.” Dolley leaned closer to her husband’s ear.
“Dolley, I’m always suspicious when you attribute a phrase to Mother Amy.”
“She was a loquacious woman.”
“She …” James smiled. He never could get around Dolley. “Well, dear, what did the philosopher of Hanover County tell you?”
“The higher a monkey climbs, the more you see its red behind—and how John Armstrong believes he’s climbing!”
The President laughed out loud, unusual for him. Onlookers strained to catch tidbits of the conversation.
Not far away two Southern senators, James Brown from Louisiana and John Taylor from South Carolina, were calling the roll of United States victories in the year just past. The list was short. The war was long. Those who had trumpeted a quick victory when it began in 1812 were now conspicuously silent.
Mobile, Alabama, had been recaptured, and General Henry Dearborn and Captain Isaac Chauncey had burned York, the capital of Upper Canada. Young Captain Oliver Hazard Perry, after three bloody hours on Lake Erie, had defeated six well-made British ships and won Erie back for the United States.
Those were the bright spots in these last, grinding twelve months. The worst problem was that an arrogant British Navy still blockaded the coast, bombarding whatever city or town captivated its interest. The British were shrewd enough to blockade New England only rarely, encouraging that disaffected section to trade with them. But the Chesapeake Bay particularly fascinated the British, and they also felt compelled to visit the mouth of the mighty Mississippi. Great Britain considered herself invincible on the seas. After all, she had savaged the French, teaching Napoleon to stick to land warfare. What damage could a puny former colony inflict on the great empire?
Yes, there was the slight embarrassment of losing the War of Independence to General George Washington, but times had been different then and the English told themselves they hadn’t sent their best, they’d had other preoccupations in Europe. This time the United States was going to be taught a lesson in international manners.
That Great Britain made curious claims as to what constituted the borders of the United States and impressed American seamen for the war against Napoleon seemed natural. To them. They had even stolen John Lewis, George Washington’s great-nephew, who escaped from the British ship and swore to kill them all one day. But then everyone considered John slightly unbalanced. Relatives and friends hoped his hatred would fade and he would apply himself to a profession.
While the two Southerners, Senators Taylor and Brown, hinted that things might go better if Secretary of War Armstrong was removed, they prudently changed the subject and bowed as Dolley and the President joined them. Dolley’s husband raised an eyebrow. Dolley took the sign and put her arm through Senator Brown’s. She steered him away, giving Rufus King of New York his chance to speak to the President—and all the better that Madison’s supporter Senator John Taylor was there, with James Monroe joining them. Senator King opposed the war. He disliked the party started by Thomas Jefferson, the Democratic-Republicans, of which Madison was the head. But King was a man of honor and knew that once you were engaged in a war, you saw it through to the end, at least politically. What one did in private was, well, what politics was all about: deals and counterdeals.
Dolley led Senator Brown toward the food. “Is it true that you’ve become a victim to the new dicing game? It must be very exciting.”
“Hazard.” Brown shrugged, using the French name.
“Craps.” Dolley’s ostrich feather dipped a moment.
This made the Louisiana senator laugh. “Well, yes.”
“And is it also true that the Theatre d’Orleans has grilled loges for people in mourning?”
“The entire theater’s been rebuilt at the cost of one hundred eighty thousand, Mrs. Madison. It is surely the most sumptuous theater in the New World.”
“Befitting our most exciting city. I do want to visit New Orleans. The British, too, are drawn to its charms. I think I’ll visit once their interest cools.”
Senator Brown cooed, “Ma’am, a few little bandylegged men in red coats are no more bother to my constituents than are mosquitoes.”
Just four days before, Sir Edward Pakenham had attacked New Orleans with the help of Indian allies, but his foray was more trouble than it was worth, serving only to give notice to Mississippi River towns that they, too, would soon be ravaged like the hapless villages of th
e Chesapeake.
The focus of the crowd had shifted to the arrival at the front door of the resplendent French minister and his equally dazzling wife in a gilded coach drawn by four horses, whose individual value was more than the average yearly income of an American citizen. Four footmen, gleaming with gilt, braid, and even gold swords, attended the energetic, dashing Louis Serurier. The Frenchman glanced down at the cavernous hole at his feet and then gracefully leaped across, hands in the air, to the cheers of those who jammed onto the front porch to behold his progress. The footmen carried Madame over the crater.
On entering, Serurier immediately found Dolley, now talking to the Russian emissary, André Daschkov.
“Your Beauty.” He bowed low. The bemedaled Russian nodded his leonine head to Serurier, then turned to give Elizabeth Monroe the benefit of his attentions. Elizabeth’s smile froze on her face. Daschkov had a wicked reputation with women and Elizabeth was exhaustingly proper.
Dolley held out her hand for Serurier to kiss. “You are a flatterer.”
“I can’t call you Your Majesty.” He bowed again.
“Ah, but my enemies do.” She lowered her voice.
“Ignorant asses.” His voice dropped, too, then rose. “May I compliment you on the largest pothole in the city of Washington.”
“Since we are the First Citizens, it’s only proper that we have the best pothole.”
The Secretary of War, John Armstrong, said, “And that is precisely why the British will never march on Washington despite their puerile boasts. With our roads, they’d never make it.”
Those around them laughed, soon returning to the lifeblood of politics and parties: trading favors, paying back betrayals, and keeping score.
The wine flowed freely, an act of hospitality bitterly criticized by faithful Quakers. Not only had Dolley so forgotten her religious upbringing that she wore fancy clothing, she even served spirits. Dolley never answered her critics, but the Quaker barbs hurt.
The French minister lowered his voice again. “Monsieur Armstrong imagines himself an American Napoleon who will one day become President. He has forgotten the necessary ingredient for such a comparison.”
“Which is?” Dolley’s deep blue eyes reflected the brilliant candlelight.
Serurier tapped his temples. Dolley laughed as Rufus King and other Federalists noted her animation in the company of the handsome Frenchman and exchanged sharp glances.
She propelled Serurier toward her husband, then walked over to Madame Serurier instead of waiting for Lisel to approach her.
French John scowled as Dolley smiled broadly at him, knowing full well why he disapproved. She had cast protocol to the winds in going to the younger woman.
“Mrs. Madison, French John will scold us both.” Lisel Serurier laughed. “I was trying to make my way to you but ran into many obstacles.”
“All male.” Dolley winked. “You are the most exotic beauty Washington has ever seen. The poor dears don’t know what to do with themselves when you descend upon us.”
“They’re only talking to me because you’re occupied.” Madame inclined her head. “And don’t forget, Uncle Willy is more exotic than I am.”
“But not nearly so well spoken.” Dolley laughed. “He curses in your language, you know. French John taught him.”
“I do that sometimes myself.”
Both women laughed.
Born and raised in Haiti, Madame Serurier, at the age of seven, had saved her parents from a slave rebellion by appealing to the insurgents’ compassion. Moved by the child’s courage, they allowed the family to survive. Many in Washington believed her to be a Creole. Pedigree meant much to such people, and the less power they had, the more it meant.
However, as Louis Serurier was the only French minister in the entire New World, few dared to cross him or question his wife. It put the pedigree worshipers in a curious position, having to accept on equal terms a person who might carry a drop of African blood in her veins. Madame Serurier enjoyed their discomfort. It appealed to her sense of humor.
Madame whispered to Dolley, “Here comes the Vice President. Do you think we can escape in time, or will it be too obvious?”
“His sight is still good. It will be obvious.”
Both women sighed, for Elbridge Gerry could talk. Then they beamed smiles on him as he approached.
The crowd grew noisier. Cheers for 1814 raised the roof.
The festive air was tinged with a maniacal quality. The human animal dances the wildest on the edge of the grave.
The house, quiet in the early hours of the morning, after the last guest had staggered home, seemed to shudder in the deepening cold. James Madison sat before the fire, too tired to get out of his chair and go to bed. Dolley, moving from room to room as she closed up the house, tiptoed closer in case he was asleep.
“I’m awake.”
“So I see. Anna and I thought you looked splendid tonight. Those Federalists searching for a crack in your armor didn’t find one.” She sat next to him. “You haven’t any.”
He put his hand over hers. “What a terrible liar you are, Mrs. Madison. They’re like a pack of Hamlets, calling up the ghost of Washington. I don’t look like a wartime President. I don’t look like George Washington.”
“I didn’t hear one person mention George Washington’s name. After all, Jemmy, he’s been dead fourteen years.”
The light played on James’s weary features. “They don’t have to mention his name. He’ll be the measuring stick for every President to come.” He sighed. “I miss him myself, even if we did drift apart at the end.”
“We all miss him, but you’re a wonderful President.” She put her other hand on his shoulder as she stood beside him. “I thought the way you maneuvered Rufus King over to William Thornton very handsome. They were so enchanted with each other they forgot to woo their opponents.”
“Two Federalist windbags. I wish Thornton, who for all his chatter is a remarkable man, would desist from playing politics. He’s too …” James groped for the word.
“Obvious.” Dolley supplied it.
“Not a fault of Louis Serurier’s, however.” He smiled. “Nor Henry Clay’s. I suppose Clay is the other extreme. You know, I stood there tonight and I watched the young men. I don’t envy them. I thought to myself, ‘Who will be their Washington? Who will be above party politics?’ And you know, my dear, not a one, not a one.” His stomach growled.
“Are you hungry? I will never understand how you can be near all that food and not eat.”
“How can I talk to someone with my mouth full? It looks undignified.”
Dolley pulled him up. “We’ll take care of that.”
They walked down the darkened hall toward the kitchen. Hanging in the dining room was the Gilbert Stuart painting of the first President. Washington stood with one hand on his sword and the other hand outstretched, beckoning—an ambiguous message, or a warning. Neither Dolley nor James glanced at the somber likeness of Washington. They hurried into the kitchen, where coals glowed in the huge fireplace. Dolley found a broomstraw, touched the tip to an ember, and lit a candle. Breads were piled on the table, along with cold meats wrapped in damp, thin towels, as were the butter and pastries.
“Here, try this.” She put buttered bread and some of the meats before him and poured a glass of robust French wine.
James, although almost sixty-three, was blessed with good teeth, and he chewed the meat with pleasure. “Speaking of Washington, I do miss his wine cellar. Mrs. Washington set a good table. I always thought that’s what hurt John Adams, you know. Too frugal. Cost him a second term.”
Dolley tossed a log on the fire to ward off the chill.
“It is a vice with Adams. I don’t know how Abigail bears it. But you know, Jemmy, that’s New England. They’re forever accusing Virginians of being spendthrift—the whole South, in fact. Senator Taylor tells me that when John Calhoun’s lady joins him, they’ll entertain like royals. That will send the New Englanders
into new fits of frugality and censure. They worship money so much, they can’t bear to part with a penny.”
“And when might we expect this dazzling entry into the social lists?” James’s gray eyebrows rose; his fork was poised in front of his mouth.
“At present the rising star from South Carolina considers Washington too ‘primitive’ for his wife.” Dolley sipped from his glass. “A tired excuse. Once the war is won, Floride Calhoun will show up fast enough.”
“And if the war is lost?” James would never breathe such a thought to any but his wife.
“If the war is lost, John Calhoun’s political career is lost with it.”
“And mine, too, the great difference being that I am old and he is young. He’ll be bitter. I’ll be—”
“We won’t lose the war,” she interrupted. A commotion drew her attention away from the subject. A muffled giggle was followed by hurried footsteps. Dolley rose and peered back into the house. She squinted and could make out two receding figures. “Sukey!” she called out. There was no answer. The other figure, powerful and male, quickly disappeared. She heard a door open and close and then hoofbeats.
“What’s she doing up at this hour?” James asked.
“Not her work, I can assure you.”
Sukey, as gorgeous as she was lazy, provoked Dolley more than Dolley liked to admit.
“I often think we should send her back to Mother.”
“Your mother has more servants”—Dolley carefully avoided the word slaves—“than she can feed now. Besides, would you bedevil your mother’s last years with Sukey?”
James laughed and changed the subject. “Now I’m wide awake. If you hadn’t made me eat, I would be in my bed asleep.” He sighed in mock distress. “Now I shall have to stay up with you and ring in the New Year.” He took her hand and kissed the back of it, then turned it over and kissed her palm.
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