“November 21, 1806. All trade between Great Britain and the Continent was over. Not a spool of thread could pass from British to Prussian hands—Napoleon smacked the lion on the snout.”
“Then came the Order in Council. By now we were paying attention because Great Britain declared that every port and colony belonging to France or her allies, and I emphasize allies, were going to be blockaded. Of course, we knew even Britain and her mighty Navy couldn’t bottleneck every single port on either side of the Atlantic, but she could certainly capture any ship she believed suspect. Which she promptly did. Then Napoleon issued another decree, and well, it slipped from bad to worse. If France wasn’t stealing our ships, anybody’s ships, the English were. Being a neutral country just means both antagonists feel free to abuse you. What could we do?”
“You could have declared war on France.”
“Never.” Came the firm reply.
Lisel Serurier half smiled. “I am the wife of the minister of France. You could hardly say otherwise.”
“And whose wife am I?” Dolley laughed for a moment. “The United States will never declare war on France.”
“Pray, why? We stole your ships, too.”
“But you helped us during the Revolution.”
“And when those people are gone, do you expect the new generations to honor that alliance?”
Dolley stepped over a small chasm and then gave her hand to help the younger woman over. She was so nimble that Lisel was put to shame for a moment. “There we are.”
“Thank you.”
“What was I going to say? Oh, I should hope our children and grandchildren have some sense of honor, but more to the point, France’s goal is not the same as England’s. Your ambitions are in Europe. England, you see, wants no rivals anywhere on this earth, and any nation that develops into a manufacturing nation will be her enemy. We are such a nation.”
“London as Rome. A Pax Britannica.” Lisel’s light laughter was enchanting. “You think?”
“I do.” Dolley sighed. “Perhaps every nation has its moment, as every dog has its day. I myself will never understand why we can’t learn to share with one another and live in harmony. We say we’re Christians but we march over one another’s land, we steal, we kill. And even in victory one may be impoverished.”
They walked arm in arm for a while. Then Lisel Serurier spoke. “I am so glad not to be alone. I ask myself these same questions. I thought I was the only one, and I feel this wave crash over me, the sorrows and the foolishness of the world. I want to tell Louis but somehow—I can’t. Can you talk to your husband, Mrs. Madison?”
“Yes, I can, but not now—not now.”
They continued to pick their way among the rivulets and small icy patches, two distinct individuals who had arrived at a moment of perfect understanding. They walked so far they found themselves at Eighteenth Street and New York Avenue, admiring the Octagon House Dr. Thornton had designed for a friend. Across the street stood a dwelling made even uglier by comparison. It seemed disproportionate and pretentious. They looked at this house, then at each other, and laughed.
Hell was a Cabinet meeting, and James Madison marveled that he had spent his entire life in political meetings of one sort or another. When he was younger, he had assumed they would become easier. Alas, the opposite had happened.
The room was either too hot or too cold, and the President kindly took the coldest seat at the table while allowing Elbridge Gerry, his Vice President, to sit with his back to the fireplace. Even so the older man was shivering, his nose inflamed, his eyes runny. James wished Elbridge better health. He needed him even if he was a Harvard man. They had met as young men united in throwing off the British yoke, and now, as old men, they faced the same deadly task.
William Jones, the Secretary of the Navy, was finishing his report: “… that being said, there remains the problem of revenue. Surely there must be methods above and beyond being supplicants of Congress.”
“Thank you, Mr. Secretary. We are fully aware that you labor under a double burden, having assumed the duties of Secretary of the Treasury, and this administration remains grateful.”
“Any word from Gallatin?” John Armstrong bluntly asked.
“Nothing new.” Madison’s face stayed impassive, although at that moment he could have pushed Armstrong out of his chair. The reference to Jones’s predecessor as Secretary of the Treasury was an insult that escaped no one in the room. The antipathy between the Secretaries of the Navy and of War fattened like a mushroom in the dark.
Armstrong gleefully used any moment to humiliate the man he considered a potential rival for the presidency. Since Armstrong seemed to believe the British would be content simply to march about their former colonies and then withdraw, he assumed that after the war was won—how did not occur to him—he would be the shining star of salvation. America liked to elect military heroes.
What amazed the President was how transparent Armstrong was even to him, and Madison knew he was not the best judge of character, a trait he deplored in himself. He believed either too much or too little of what a person told him.
Albert Gallatin, the talented former Secretary of the Treasury, languished in Russia. Czar Alexander had offered to mediate between the United States and Great Britain, and Gallatin, a Swiss who spoke impeccable French, a necessity at the French-speaking Russian court, was the best choice as peace commissioner. In May 1813, with Dolley’s son, Payne Todd, in tow, Gallatin had left for the Colossus of the North. Deprived of Gallatin’s Midas touch, the Republicans soon felt the blows of the Federalists, who hammered away at them about the national debt, escalating war costs, and diminishing trade.
Albert Gallatin, overflowing with sound methods of raising revenue, did so with such ease that no one realized how arduous the task was. William Jones now understood Gallatin’s true gifts and had full occasion to repent his former ignorance.
The President knew Jones was swimming against the tide and did everything he could to assist him. But James’s greatest kindness was that he didn’t expect Jones to be Gallatin.
He cast his eyes around the room. Following precedent, he had selected his Cabinet on the basis of geographic representation. He had already lost one Vice President—George Clinton, DeWitt Clinton’s uncle—to death, and he was beginning to worry about Elbridge Gerry. He could work with Gerry even though they weren’t especially close. They knew each other’s strong and weak points. He could work with Monroe—the Secretary of State was his most able Cabinet member—but he had to force himself to do it. As for the other men, well, he could blame no one but himself, and the absurd festering rivalry between John Armstrong and William Jones only compounded his woes.
Those woes intensified because the Federalists, after the fact, refused to accept Albert Gallatin as a peace commissioner. They said they wanted him back in Washington because he was so valuable. Michael Lieb, the Federalist senator from Pennsylvania, led the skillful campaign of arm-twisting and promises, that lifeblood of legislative politics.
Given the time it would take Gallatin to return from Russia, the Federalists could weaken Madison’s administration even more. James Madison, through Clay, had heard the remark Lieb made to Webster about his administration: “It’s like an old Chinese vase. Fill the cracks with water and bring on the freeze.” Webster had replied that New Hampshire men flourished in the bitter cold.
The one consolation James Madison enjoyed during his titanic struggle with the British and, unfortunately, with his own countrymen—the Federalists—was that no one accused him of being Thomas Jefferson’s creature. He had finally laid that myth to rest.
That he worked hand in glove with the red-haired third President for the majority of their lives did not mean he couldn’t think for himself. He thought well enough to frame the Constitution. But Jefferson had been smooth, personable, and fond of attention in a way that Madison was not. Madison wasn’t a mole, he thought to himself, but people treated him like one whenever Jeffers
on was around. Now that Madison was President, Thomas Jefferson had retired to Monticello and did not meddle in James’s affairs. Even Madison’s most severe Federalist critics gave up on this tactic, except for John Randolph—a Republican who was acting like a Federalist in James’s estimation. Randolph, ensconced on his estate, still fulminated that Madison was the puppet, Jefferson the puppeteer.
James glanced again at Elbridge Gerry shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Gerry, infuriated by Armstrong’s snide question, blew his nose louder. But he would not confront Armstrong unless Madison gave the signal, which the President did not.
Mr. Madison, capable of great subtlety when the occasion demanded it, now spoke to give his Cabinet a demonstration of the same. “Mr. Armstrong.”
“Mr. President.” Armstrong’s dark tenor voice caressed the listeners, a voice so different from the President’s thin, reedy one.
“I am confident that you will continue to raise troops and that the coming of spring will herald a renewed attack against the British. We will drive them from our shores.”
Armstrong swept his hands toward the other Cabinet members in an expansive, confident gesture. “The Army is offering a recruiting bounty of one hundred twenty-four dollars with happy results.” He smiled, showing his excellent teeth.
What the Secretary of War forgot to mention, and he was thickheaded enough to think the President did not know, was that his plan for conscription had failed. Not that this was entirely Armstrong’s fault; the New England states flatly refused to ante up the men. The miseries of fighting this war had fallen on the shoulders of Southerners and Westerners.
James’s only motion, the only betrayal that he was moving in on Armstrong, was one tap on the table with his right forefinger. “I am so pleased to hear of your happy results.” Elbridge Gerry knew something was coming but not what. He stopped coughing as Madison continued. “Given your success with recruiting, I ask that you direct your attention to the accumulating evidence against Generals James Wilkinson and Wade Hampton. As you know only too well, sir, these gentlemen are entrusted with the crucial task of cutting off Canada’s supply lines.”
“What accumulating evidence, Mr. President?” Armstrong stiffened, since he had replaced General Henry Dearborn with Wilkinson and then put Hampton in charge of Lake Champlain. Then in a fit of pride Armstrong had traveled to Sackets Harbor on Lake Ontario to coordinate a combined attack on Montreal, to be led by his handpicked generals.
John Armstrong believed the force of his personality could overcome the deadlock between Wilkinson and Hampton, who detested each other. If the Secretary of War had gathered more information about these two generals before appointing them to their present juxtaposed positions, he might have prevented the ludicrous mess that followed.
Hampton, secure with four thousand men, bumped into four hundred sixty British soldiers. Hampton’s men scattered like rabbits. Wilkinson, with even less provocation, then retreated to Plattsburgh. Armstrong, once back in Washington, acted as though both his generals had maneuvered a brilliant retreat in the face of a deadly foe.
The President, not a military man, could count. Four thousand versus four hundred sixty looked like good odds to him. To everyone’s amazement, including his wife’s, Madison let it ride. He also heard that Armstrong was bribing officers with promises of higher rank. He let that ride, too. How would it look to the enemy if he replaced his Secretary of War after so recently appointing him? A long discussion with Elbridge Gerry confirmed his own point of view that such a move, at the time of the Wilkinson-Hampton embarrassment, would embolden the British.
The President waited, too, because the court-martial of General William Hull would expose the Army to more ridicule and loss of faith. Armstrong paid little attention to that issue because he had not appointed Hull. It didn’t occur to him that as Secretary of War he inherited the mistakes of his predecessor. Armstrong should have defended the Army with vigor and shrewd public relations after Hull’s ignominious surrender at Detroit. Instead he acted as though the drama with Hull, which would take months to conclude, had nothing to do with him.
He couldn’t take that tack with Wilkinson and Hampton. They were his appointees.
“The accumulating evidence, sir, would seem to indicate cowardice in the face of the enemy.” James sat still as a stone as he spoke.
So did everyone else except Armstrong. His face reddened, he shifted in his seat, then found his voice, a trifle higher. “What is it you wish me to do, Mr. President?”
“As I said”—James’s voice was as cold as the room—“I wish a full inquiry initiated by your office, sir. Of course, if you are too overwhelmed by current affairs, I will appoint someone else to bring this affair to light. Ah, yes, you asked for accumulating evidence.” Madison pushed a stack of papers toward Armstrong. “These are copies Ned Coles made for you of testimony gathered by combatants—perhaps that is the wrong word.” He allowed himself the hint of a smile. “I am certain this will help you get started—that is, if you accept the responsibility for such an inquiry, and I repeat, I do understand the strain of your office.”
Elbridge Gerry wiped his eyes not because of the wretched cold he suffered but because if he hadn’t cried those tears of laughter, he would have torn apart the room with his guffaws.
Armstrong put a good face on it. “I will do all in my power to resolve this issue.” He reached over and took the papers.
After the Cabinet meeting James Madison walked into the hall. The small figure of Richard Cutts, holding his mother’s hand, captured his attention. He waved to the child and Anna and then returned to his office.
James wondered if the frail little fellow would live to manhood. So many died young. His mother always said if she could get a child to seventeen, he’d live to be seventy. Madison had seven more years to fulfill his mother’s prophecy.
4 January 1814, Tuesday
Little Dickey came today with his mother. He’s still so listless although a perfect tiny gentleman. With five children Anna’s kept busy, but she spends most of her time nursing Richard. It reminds me of when we were small. If one of us was sick, Mother, like a broody hen, hovered over the sick chick, leaving the rest of us free to do as we pleased. I can’t say that I prayed for my brothers and sisters to be taken ill—that would have been too wicked—but I admit that I took full advantage of an illness when it occurred.
I have been blessed with one surviving son and he is healthy. The single sharp sorrow Jemmy and I have known—that we never had children—has lessened.
Well, my sisters Anna and Lucy and departed Mary, bless her soul, have had enough children to compensate for me.
Monsieur Serurier paid me a visit today. He brought cut bone for Uncle Willy and confided that Napoleon believes in horoscopes. They are all the rage in France. I said they’re all the rage here, too, although few will admit to their fascination. I don’t believe in them myself, but for some people, I suppose it is better to believe in the stars than to believe in nothing.
Paul Jennings complained to me that Sukey gives him orders “left and right. I’ll not be the slave of a slave!” He declaimed this with all the passion of fifteen years.
After he left to accompany French John to the market, I called in Sukey. Really, we should rename her Sulky. She denied everything. She said Paul sassed her and lolled about—this from Sukey, who only breaks cover if you put the hounds on her! I take a deep breath and count to ten when she tosses her head and puts her hands on her hips. Today I had to count to one hundred. I told her that Paul was young and to remember that.
She said, “You’re old and I remember that. What do you know about menfolks?”
“More than you think,” I replied. I was so angry I left the room. Oh, what I’d give for Mother Amy to take a switch to this arrogant girl.
French John returned from the market and groaned that the price of potatoes has risen to fifty cents a bushel—a ten-cent rise, just like that! Someone is getting rich off this war
and it isn’t the President. Jemmy’s salary is twenty-five thousand dollars, which sounds like a princely sum, but we must dip into our own pockets to make do.
Jefferson acquired hideous debts in the service of his country—well, because of that and also his passion for building. I’m afraid the same will happen to us. I don’t bring it up to my husband, for he has enough to worry about; but I did get a letter from Mother Madison and she’s worried, too. In her eighth decade and her hand is as firm as a girl’s, her mind’s like a razor, and her eyes are good. She still believes she has some dread disease. Every time she learns of the symptoms of a new contagion, she quickly acquires them. She’ll outlive us all.
Foul as the weather is, I couldn’t stay inside, so I asked French John to accompany me to the stables. My gray horse, which I loved, has died, and we bought a pair of sorrels. Jemmy, while no great horseman like Washington (but who could match him?), possesses a keen eye for horseflesh. I didn’t think these horses were much when we acquired them, but they’ve blossomed into beautiful animals. I wanted to hike up my skirts and just ride. What a scandal that would cause!
Madame Turreau had a luxurious satin riding habit. Publicly I’d join her in the carriage, but sometimes we’d meet outside the city limits and I’d get on my gray mare and off we’d go. How I miss Madame, and I wonder how she fares in France, which is hovering on the precipice. They are a volatile people. I worry for the Seruriers also. If Napoleon loses power, what will become of them?
Whoever decided that women shouldn’t ride astride? Absurd, but then social conventions rarely carry the weight of reason, although I do obey them. There’s enough to contend with in this life without engendering an explosion over petty issues. Still, when no one is looking, I do as I please. If only I could find another Madame Turreau to ride with me. Perhaps young Madame Serurier would be so bold.
Dolley Page 6