“Then I am in the right company for today and every day.” He meant it.
“Thank you.”
“I believe, Mrs. Madison, that you are trying to steer me toward a course of action once these hostilities are—over.”
“Oh, you give me too much credit.”
“Well, I give you credit enough to know that Virginia needs strong ties with New York because you believe, as I do, that DeWitt Clinton will move heaven and earth to create a pathway of some sort into the Western Territories, a cheap pathway. Then all that lumber, wheat, and cattle will pour into New York State, and her manufactured goods will flow back into the Western Territories. Unfortunately, Virginia’s face is set on her glorious Revolutionary past, if you will forgive my being so blunt.”
Dolley, who hoped this wasn’t true but feared that it was, offered no argument. “Time will tell. But these conflicting monetary interests are poisoning our ability to make war. I know you have tried to find common ground—”
“I might as well get blood out of a turnip.” Clay shifted in his seat. “Do you know, that violent Federalist, Laban Wheaton, actually came up to me the other day and said he hoped I’d run as Vice President in 1816. And then he quoted John Randolph and said that since the office of Vice President was a tomb, I ought to take advantage of it.”
“Laban Wheaton is a blistering idiot.”
“And he’s drawing Webster into the circle of Federalist senators. Do you know what else he asked me?”
“After wishing for your death? I’m not sure I want to know.” Dolley’s hand fluttered to her throat.
“He wanted to know if you replaced Ned Coles as your husband’s secretary when Ned was so ill last year.”
“What did you tell him?” Dolley leaned forward slightly. This was a secret she shared only with her husband, Anna, Clay, and, of course, Ned.
“That if he were in need of your services, he should apply to you directly.” Clay slapped his thigh.
Dolley enjoyed his riposte but ruefully added, “A woman playing politics. They must never find out. They’ll use it against Jemmy. Make him appear—you know.”
“Fear not.”
“Oh Mr. Clay, we’ve got to protect the President. He is surrounded by treachery, even in his own Cabinet. He works himself to the bone and for what? To save us all, including the very Federalists who want his hide. Do they think they will fare better under the Prince Regent? Do they want to become subjects again? Subject. The very word makes me sick. Is freedom that frightening, or are they so shortsighted they would sabotage our war effort to continue their trade with England? They’ll use me against my husband. They’ll stop at nothing to make him appear ridiculous and weak. And meanwhile men are dying. And we’ve got to wrest a vote from these very men for more soldiers and more money to prosecute this war—more death to end death.” Dolley, shaken after her outburst, gratefully took the glass of port Clay poured for her.
As she drank, he put his fingers together and rested his chin on them. “This war is my doing. You’re too kind to accuse me and the other war hawks. And I confess that declaring a war with a Senate vote of nineteen for and thirteen against does seem like folly. Even in the House, where I had more support, it was seventy-nine for and forty-nine against. So—”
“Don’t accuse yourself.” Dolley spoke firmly. “At first I was against this war, but I now believe that it was inevitable. If we didn’t fight it now, we would fight it ten years from now. Either we are a sovereign nation or we are not, and we may have to fight Europe yet again.”
“Yes.” Clay’s voice was low. “Until they leave us alone. Until we can trade freely with any nation we choose.”
“And so we need a foreign policy that is backed by deeds, not words.”
Clay leaned forward and patted Mrs. Madison’s hand. “You were right to insist that I force Calhoun to put Webster on his Foreign Relations Committee. Poor Crisis.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Crisis Calhoun. That’s what I call him—behind his back, of course.”
“You are funny, Mr. Clay.”
“He’s a good man. But now he is saddled with Webster day in and day out.”
“And Mr. Webster keeps talking and talking, and on a committee where everyone listens.” Dolley smoothed a fold of her dress. “Soon the entire Federalist Party will see him as their hope. He’s the youngest among them. We’ve got him on the right committee, now we’ve got to find his Achilles’ heel.”
“Umm.”
“Does he borrow money?”
“He does, ma’am.”
“Does he repay his debts?”
“Occasionally.”
Dolley laughed. “Ah well, as that applies to almost everyone in the service of our government, perhaps we’d better look elsewhere.” She paused and cleared her throat. “Ladies?”
Clay inclined his head. “A weakness but not a notable weakness. Not like myself, madame.” He smiled broadly, then turned his palms upward like a supplicant. “I am not strong enough to resist the enchantments of your sex.”
Dolley smiled at him. Bold, yes, Clay was bold. Most men would lie through their teeth before admitting such a thing. “An understandable—”
“Vice. But do know that I hold my wife in the tenderest regard and she will never, ever hear of my feet of clay.”
“Then why do you tell me?” Dolley caught his play on words.
“Because you already know.” Clay met her eyes. “Little escapes you, Mrs. Madison. A highly intelligent woman without your discipline would use such things for her own advancement, or even amusement. You use what you learn to protect your husband and because you love your country. I will hide nothing from you.” He grinned again. “You’d find out anyway.” He paused. “I shall apply myself to Webster’s Achilles heel.”
“I will, too.” She glanced out the window. Dots of light in other windows provided the only relief from the darkening gloom. “Sometimes I think politics is no more than a gathering of treacherous feudal chieftains.” Then she sat up straight. “No. Forgive me. We will yet pull for the common good.”
Henry Clay discreetly left by the back door, and Dolley sat alone in the parlor. Anna finally joined her.
“Tired?” the younger sister asked.
“Exhausted. Thank God for Henry Clay, and John Calhoun, too.”
“What about Mr. Monroe?”
“Yes. James Monroe is a patriot, always and ever. Jemmy knows that, even if he feels such reserve toward him. Regardless of their past political differences, Jemmy knows Mr. Monroe has courage. He served in the 3d Virginia Rifles and was wounded at Trenton. A young hero, as was John Armstrong.”
“I wonder why he didn’t pursue a military career?”
Dolley shrugged. “I expect that’s why General Armstrong loathes him so. James Monroe left the Army in 1778 to study law—some say politics—under Thomas Jefferson. John Armstrong stayed in the Army, even during the awful times when they numbered barely twenty-five hundred. Here it is, thirty-six years later, and he has to face James Monroe again. He can’t bear to hear a single military suggestion from Mr. Monroe.”
“Does Jemmy know you’ve been meeting with Mr. Clay?”
“Of course not; what kind of question is that?”
“Women playing politics—you know the kind of trouble that can stir up.”
Dolley jumped out of her chair. “My own sister!”
“Your own sister who wishes to protect you.”
“Me? What about the President?”
“That’s just it, Dolley. You’ll be used against him if you’re found out.”
“Well, I am damn well used against him even if I sit and do needlepoint.”
“Don’t swear at me.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Dolley fumed, her beautiful complexion turning scarlet.
“We have our sphere. Men have theirs.”
“You don’t believe that.” Dolley put her hands on her hips. “I’ve seen you politicking with
the best of them for your dear Richard.”
Anna stammered, “Only because I asked Dr. Thornton for—”
Dolley interrupted. “Dr. Thornton? Oh, come, Anna. I’ve seen you make a beeline for senators and congressmen when you needed them.”
“It’s not like that.”
“We all play politics.”
Anna shouted back at Dolley. “Just don’t get caught.”
“I won’t if you don’t talk.” Dolley wheeled on Anna. “I saw the face of our enemy. You were off with Mother Amy. Our mother saved our lives, Anna. I am telling you the British will throw us in the dirt and kick us senseless if they can. If we lose this war or make a bad peace, we’ll wind up like Canada and I, for one, have no desire to be part of Britain’s Commonwealth. England thinks only of England and she despises anything she sees as weak. She squeezed us dry when we were a colony and she’ll do it again if she can. She’ll do it to any colony.”
Dolley’s voice dropped. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do to save this nation. And if you’re my sister, you’re going to get right in there with me and play politics, too.”
After a time Anna found her voice again. “What do you want me to do?”
“Spend time with Anna Maria Thornton.”
“Oh, no.” Anna’s face fell.
“He’s a Federalist and she can’t resist telling what she knows.”
Anna swallowed hard. “Anything else?”
“Forgive me for losing my temper.”
3 January 1814, Monday
Had a spat with Anna. She finally saw things my way, I think. Came home and threw the dice Senator Brown gave me.
I’ve been practicing in secret. If Jemmy thinks I’m gambling again, he’ll be cross with me. I think I do it to relieve my worries about money. I always imagine that I will win the pot.
Mother, her face scarlet, tried many times to stop me from the fripperies of the world, as she called them. But Mother Amy taught me how to hide my little toys from Mother, including a pretty necklace Grandmother Payne gave me. Her maiden name was Anna Fleming. A pretty name, and she was a lovely woman who relished wearing the finest clothing. She was horrified when her son John married my mother, a Quaker, and then became one himself. I wore the necklace under my collar and no one would have known except that Isaac and I got into a fight. He grabbed for my neck and got the beads instead. He ripped the necklace off and then felt so bad about what he’d done, he promised never to tell Mother. He never did. Poor Isaac. I think of him often. I’ve lost so many of the men in my life, starting with my brothers—Temple to disease, Isaac to violence, and Walter just disappeared. Well, I don’t want to think about all that right now. Did I lose my thoughts again? Gambling, that was it.
Well, wagering lends a spice to any activity, especially a horse race, and I can see how intoxicating this dice game can be. Better than cards because you have less to remember.
As a child, whenever I did something wrong, I would have to recite whole passages from The Book of Discipline. This was to guarantee that I would repent and correct the error of my ways. But all it did was guarantee that once I was out of my mother’s house, I would never again read The Book of Discipline or any other religious tract.
I once asked Anna and Lucy—before she married Thomas Todd and moved to Lexington, Kentucky—if Mother scared them. They both agreed that Mother could be a stern disciplinarian but that I, being the eldest daughter, bore the brunt of it. With each child, especially the ones born after the War of Independence, Mother grew more lax.
Now that I am older, I often wonder how Mother felt that not one of her nine children who survived to maturity elected to remain a strict Quaker. Once we had made our decisions, though, she never spoke of it again and did her best to see us happy. I think that’s what surprised me most.
When Lucy ran off at fifteen to marry George Steptoe Washington, the Society of Friends removed her from their rolls even though he was President Washington’s nephew. Mother continued to attend meetings, saying that Lucy had her own life to live and that was the end of it.
Dear George. He died too young. Consumption. What a cheerful, kind man he was. I thought Lucy would never recover from the blow. She refused Thomas Todd so many times, a lesser man would have given up. I think Lucy’s marriage on March 31, 1812, was the last time we’ve been truly happy in this presidential house.
At least Lucy is in Lexington, far away from the constant battling. If we applied ourselves to fighting the British as intensely as we fight one another, I believe this war would come to a speedy conclusion.
It’s Lucy who always says I look so much like Mother that if she blinks, she thinks she’s gone backward in time. Mother always said I looked like her mother, whereas Anna looks like Father’s mother. Whenever I glance in the mirror, I realize all too well that I am not going backward in time. Mirrors, which Mother regarded as instruments of vanity, were not allowed in our house. Mother may have been right about that.
This morning I rose early as usual. Sukey dropped my curling iron on my dressing gown. Sukey blamed the dressing gown for being voluminous. The smell of burning fabric sent Uncle Willy into a fit. The macaw’s noise made Sukey all the angrier, and she said none of this would have happened if I didn’t insist on getting up so early. I replied that if she didn’t stay up half the night, doing heaven knows what, rising would be easier for her. She picked up the iron and left. She declined to return. I spent the day with my hair covered up with one of my turbans. I look much better with curls emerging from the turban, but I told my visitors today that I was feeling very Turkish.
That reminded me of Sidi Suliman Mellimelli, the grand emissary from the Turkish Empire, with his eight-inch black beard and his twenty-yard turban. His progress was announced by his four attachés, his Negro servants, one of whom carried his four-foot pipe. An Italian band heralded Mellimelli’s every arrival. The Italians have a gift for music. Unfortunately, these Italians did not, which is perhaps why they were driven to find refuge in Turkey. I imitated Mellimelli’s walk, which made Anna laugh when she visited today.
We needed to laugh, to take our thoughts from Buffalo. Few others share our concern. A mood of false gaiety has descended on Washington. It’s as though nobody cares about anything but fashion, parties, intrigues, and gossip.
Older people say Philadelphia was like this during the Revolutionary War, but as we didn’t move there until 1783, I never saw that.
I had intended this diary to be a record of politics and life, to be hidden away until long after my death. It would never do for our friends or foes to realize how much I know. Yet I sit down, reach for my quill, and begin to prattle. I can distinguish the past from the present and the dead from the living, but when I sit here, the dead are as alive to me as the living.
I have never much believed in spirits, but their spirits do inform me. I am the sum of what they have taught me and what I have learned on my own.
Perhaps it’s my age or perhaps it’s this war, but Mother and Mother Amy follow me like shadows. At the moment when that cursed Redcoat, sword drawn, insolently clattered into our house, I thought he would kill Mother, but her anger saved her. It saved us all.
I have often wondered if I have the courage of my mother.
I rolled the dice. Seven! This could become a habit. Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
The uneven, frozen road was slippery. Walking tested one’s sense of balance. Dolley and Madame Serurier walked along gazing in shop windows. Although the cold made Dolley’s nose run, she felt so cooped up indoors she was happy to be outside.
“Just one decent ladies’ apparel store, just one.” Dolley sighed.
Madame Serurier, not wishing to be rude, offered, “Perhaps after the war some fashionable shops, no?”
“Oh”—Dolley kicked at a clod, nearly slipping in the process—“I sometimes fear Washington will forever remain provincial.”
“Even Paris was provincial once,” the younger wom
an said.
“That was a thousand years ago. Lima, Peru, is more cultivated than Washington. And it will never be a ladies’ place, really.”
“They say that Charleston is beautiful. Philadelphia, too, is sophisticated?” She voiced this as a question.
“Naturally, I take great pride in the city of Philadelphia.” Dolley smiled and continued. “You know, I have few regrets in this life but I do regret not having traveled. I envy you that. It’s such an education. I would love to see Paris and now that my son is in St. Petersburg, I am quite curious about Russia. A grand tour. Florence. Rome. I suppose I’d relent, after hostilities are concluded, to see even London.”
“One day.”
“Not with my husband though.” Dolley pursed her lips. “James says, ‘Why exchange the familiar discomforts of home for unfamiliar discomforts elsewhere.’ He swears the only purpose of coaches is to bruise one’s bones. If he could walk to France or perhaps ride, he might consider it.” She lingered before a tobacco shop, the sweet aroma wafting out onto the street even on this crisp day. “I’m being picky. My poor husband hasn’t been free of the cares of state since he was a young man. He has spent his whole life in the service of this country, you know, and while I know we need him, I sometimes wish we could—oh, I won’t even say it. I’m being selfish.”
“Fly away?”
Dolley pounced on the idea. “Yes, and after we’d seen the Old World, I’d love to see our New World. Quebec and, oh, Mexico, and well, I won’t go on. But I am fascinated with what we are doing here, whether we speak Spanish, Portuguese, English, or French. What an experiment. That’s why this war is so critical, Madame Serurier. I know you appreciate that, but some of my own people don’t. The New World must be left alone. We can’t be drawn into those Old World conflicts and—no, I’d better not say it.”
“Mrs. Madison, you can say anything you wish. No one can hear us, and I do not labor under the delusion that the government of my country never makes a mistake.”
Dolley looked at her with gratitude. “What a delight you are.” She then spoke in a lower tone. “In 1804, when Great Britain threatened to blockade the coast from Ostend to the Seine, we paid little attention. Two years later this paper blockade stretched from the Elbe to Brest. All bark and no bite. Then the Emperor, not to be outdone by the British bombast, issued the Berlin Decree. Now let me see, that was …”
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