French John gave me a full report of what he hears is going on in Congress. So far, nothing. Will they fiddle while Rome burns? The nation needs a proper defense, not posturing. The Federalists fight tooth and nail not to vote one more penny to our defense. England encourages their antiwar fervor by removing the blockade at New York City, for the most part. This allows the New England ports to keep trading. The older I get, the less inclined I am to like anything English, but I must admire their vulpine skill in arousing dissension within their enemy.
Thank heaven for French John, a born chatterbox and a master at gathering information. His position here at the presidential mansion also makes it easy to obtain news of the goings-on in Washington. Jemmy hears official sources. The news from unofficial sources is more truthful, and besides, I can stomach only so much flattery.
Anna told me that she and Richard must tighten their belts. His shipping losses are dreadful. The man has lost a fortune to the British, yet his spirits remain high. She laughed and said at least she wouldn’t get fat this year, although I detect that she’s gaining weight. Enough to make her the picture of health.
Richard is such a handsome man and he and my sister make a dashing pair. Jemmy and I do so like Richard, even if he is a Harvard man. We worried when he lost his congressional seat from the Maine district of Massachusetts because he supported the war. That, combined with the financial drain of the war, encouraged Jemmy to appoint Richard Superintendent General of Military Supplies. Charges of nepotism flew like flies, but Richard has proved to be an excellent public servant as we knew he would. His work takes him away from home a great deal, however, and both he and Anna will be glad when this war is over, if for no other reason than the sheer pleasure of being in each other’s company!
Jemmy looks after my family as well as his own. He truly loves my sisters and we try to care for my brother John, but he appears and disappears and, I’m afraid, is a woeful victim of drink. Jemmy gave dear Mary away in marriage, and Anna, too, because both sisters love him so much and of course John is so unreliable.
Anna’s as blond as I am dark. People never believe we’re sisters until we start talking. We sound alike.
Not a word from my son.
I wish by some miracle I could lay hands on fresh roses. The drabness of winter preys on the emotions. Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
Dolley laid her quill in a brass tray on her desk, poured sand on her paper, allowed it to soak up the excess ink, then carefully tilted the diary pages to let the sand fall back into a small bowl. She closed her book and pushed herself away from the desk. Outside, the wind whistled low. She glanced out the window but could see no snow.
Time for bed. As she walked from her room she noticed King George racing across the hall ahead of her, ducking into James’s study, and then racing out. Curious, she followed the cat’s path.
When Dolley stuck her head in the door, she saw that James was startled. He must have fallen asleep while reading dispatches from Europe, and King George’s mad rush through his study had no doubt wakened him. Papers were scattered on the floor.
Dolley knelt down cautiously, for her back was stiff, and retrieved the papers. “Here, sweetheart, you’re the only head of state whose dispatches are carefully read by your cat.” She handed her husband the stiff papers, which were scratched in places and bore a few teeth marks.
He inspected the damage. “There must be something, some smell that attracts her. She also enjoys sitting on paper, no matter where it is. The paper can be of the smallest proportion but if it’s paper, George will sit on it.”
“Well. I’m sure it’s a difficult job, being the President’s cat.”
James started to say that the cat belonged to the cook, but King George must have known they were talking about her because she sauntered back into the room and sat before the ebbing fire. “My father loved cats.”
Dolley smiled. “Good farmers always love cats.”
“It will soon be thirteen years since Father died, and sometimes, Dolley, I blink and thirteen years is just that, a blink. Other times I try to reach into my past and I feel it receding out of my grasp, not necessarily receding from memory, but out of grasp.”
Dolley stirred the fire and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders more tightly. She leaned over to kiss her husband’s cheek, which showed a fine white stubble. “Darling, I know exactly what you mean.”
His eyes twinkled for a moment. “You aren’t old enough to know exactly what I mean, Mrs. Madison. No matter how old I get, you will always be so much younger and I can reflect on the envy of other men that I have such a bride.”
“Jemmy, it’s not like you to be a base flatterer.”
“Alexander Hamilton could never understand how you selected me out of all those beaux in Philadelphia.”
“I didn’t really have beaux, Jemmy,” she blushed. “I was a young widow with a tiny son. If you keep this up, I’ll know you’ve been spending too much time with Henry Clay.”
“Is he—?”
She interrupted, laughing. “No, he’s just the most notorious flatterer in the nation.” She paused a moment to notice King George, eyes half-closed, rocking back and forth in front of the fire. “Do you ever wonder what would have happened if Aaron Burr hadn’t killed Alexander Hamilton ten years ago?”
The President cupped his chin in his small, beautifully formed hands; he liked brain games, as he called them. “Well, they both wanted to be President.”
“Doesn’t everybody?” Dolley sighed. “Here, forget those papers, it’s too late to work. Let’s pull our chairs in front of the fire. I hardly get to see you and I relish every moment.”
Happily distracted for a moment from his cares, James stood up and turned his chair around, then moved one over for his wife. “What would have happened if Burr hadn’t killed Hamilton? I think Hamilton’s intellectual inflexibility would have grown more pronounced with age.” He thought a moment. “Regardless of his policies, he and Burr would have run afoul of each other because they were natural rivals.”
“Like Webster and Calhoun?”
“And Clay.” James rubbed his fingers. “In good time we’ll have a triangle of rivalry.”
“Clay and Calhoun work hand in glove. I’d like to think they will continue their association over the years”—she paused—“but time changes people.” Dolley noticed her husband rubbing his hands. “Do your joints hurt again?”
“I’d rather it be bitter cold than damp.” This was Madison’s way of saying yes.
Dolley reached over and began massaging his fingers. “Well, what I think is, had there been no duel, Aaron Burr’s inclination for grand schemes would still have weakened him … like poor Light-Horse Harry Lee after the war. He bristled with schemes and he spent his dollars before he made them and then, of course, he never made them. These land dreams.” She shook her head. “Everyone thinks he can go West, buy land, and become John Jacob Astor.”
“That’s what Washington did.”
“Jemmy, Washington was a surveyor. He saw the land first.”
“That’s true,” said Jemmy, who hadn’t thought of that. “What would have happened to Hamilton?”
“Alexander Hamilton and John Adams and later John Quincy Adams would have battled over leadership of the Federalist Party. Mr. Hamilton would have called up the ghost of Washington at regular intervals, too. He would have made more trouble for you and Mr. Jefferson because he was so brilliant. But on the other hand, we all lost that brilliance. Many roads lead to Rome.”
“And he did serve Rome even if I sometimes disagreed with the way he served it, to continue your figure of speech, my dear.”
“Does that feel better?”
“Your touch always makes me feel better.” He smiled at her. James possessed a curious smile, oddly childlike and infectious. He stared into the fire, then looked up when she spoke again.
“You haven’t heard anything about Payne? Nothing in the latest batch
of dispatches?”
“You know I would come to you the instant I learned anything. He’s seeing the courts of Europe, he’s young—he’s having the time of his life.” (The President didn’t say, “And he’s running up debts that I am paying in secret.”)
“I know, I know. I think I will feel a little better when he’s living in Princeton.”
“I will, too. I think if more young men had the opportunity to attend the College of New Jersey, our nation would benefit. When I leave this burden behind, I intend to pay more attention to education. What are the young men in the Western Territories going to do? They can’t all travel to the East.”
“Here, give me the other hand.” She took his left hand. “If this room were warmer, your fingers wouldn’t ache so much.”
“I do feel better in the summer.”
“Is there anything in the dispatches about Napoleon?”
“No. But I don’t think he can remain in power. If he is displaced, the British will end the war. If their stated reasons for the war are really their reasons”—he smiled a slow smile—“then they’ll stop.”
Dolley said nothing because like her husband, she believed that the British bombast about trading with the enemy—meaning France—and their failing to pay duties to Britain was a smoke screen, as was a host of other charges. “The British will end the war when the subjects of the Prince Regent tire of paying war taxes.”
The embers glowed an iridescent coral and yellow. A purple-blue hue radiated from the deepest part of the logs. The low crackle and the deep purr of the dozing cat created an aura of peacefulness.
“My dear”—Jemmy broke the silence—“if disaster should befall me in this war, if I should die in office, I want you to return home to Montpelier. Go home to Mother and see to it that Payne finishes his studies.”
“No,” came the swift and resolute reply.
“No, what?” came the equally clipped response.
“You aren’t going to die in office.”
He sighed, then chose his words carefully. “I certainly hope not. We are, however, in a war in which the enemy is apparently carrying out his depredations unmolested. Should Washington be the target of his nefarious designs, well, no one knows what the future may bring. If God in His infinite wisdom sees fit to remove me from this earth, I don’t want you to stay here. I want you safe at home.”
“No.” She shook her head, her glossy curls also shaking. “Jemmy, Elbridge Gerry can’t run this country. His health is failing. His lady wouldn’t be able to perform the functions expected of her either. I would have to stay on until a stronger couple succeeds. I couldn’t walk away from my post in time of danger any more than you could walk away from yours.”
“I was elected for such travails. You were not, and there is no need for you to expose yourself to harm or to deplete your finances in the service of your nation. I will not be leaving you a rich widow, Dolley. Now listen to me.”
“I am listening to you—I’m not agreeing, that’s all. I think of finances as financies.” She paused because he didn’t catch her play on words. “Finances, fancies—financies.”
“Ah.”
“Now it’s your turn to listen to me. Just because I wasn’t elected doesn’t mean I don’t have obligations. It’s my country, too, and should you leave us, God forbid, there will be a time of troubles quite separate from the war. There are different kinds of leadership, you know, and once I am certain that the new people can carry on, I will fly home to Montpelier as though I had wings on my feet like Mercury.”
“The new people had better be James and Elizabeth Monroe.”
“Not until 1816.”
“Not until we win the war. We won’t have a party, much less a candidate, if we lose.” He exhaled deeply. “Might you press a little more lightly? You won’t lure me to your side by force, you know.”
In her intensity, Dolley had massaged his fingers with unusual vigor. She stopped and apologized. “Oh, dear.”
He withdrew his hand and wiggled his fingers. “No harm done.” Then he laughed.
She reached for his hand, took it in her own, and kissed it. “I’m sorry. Why don’t we consider each other’s points carefully before we continue this discussion?”
“Dolley Payne Madison—and you portray Clay as a finagler.”
Tears suddenly spilled from her eyes. “I hate it when you talk about dying.”
He reached for her other hand. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry. You know I like to plan for things—all manner of things. Your welfare is uppermost in my mind and always will be.”
“I know. But let’s not speak of dying, Jemmy. There’s so much living left to do.” She lifted her chin as he wiped away her tears. “And we will win this war. God will not turn his back on our nation, not after what we’ve accomplished here. We are an infant in a world of giants, and I can’t believe God let us fight so hard for our birth only to abandon us now to the British just as we are beginning to walk.”
James wrapped his arms around Dolley and leaned his gray head against her cheek. He truly hoped God would shelter them, but his mind, that rational instrument of grandeur, wondered, “To what God do the British pray?”
Hoping to give Madame Serurier an appreciation of the mechanics of democracy, Dolley escorted her to the gallery in the House of Representatives. What it gave both women was an appreciation of a good heating system. The gallery on this Wednesday morning was cold as a tomb, and apart from a few lobbyists, the women were alone.
Henry Clay, poised above his colleagues in his Speaker’s chair, looked warmer than they did. His sandy hair kept falling over his high forehead, and his dark coat, well cut, accentuated his trim figure.
William Bradley of Vermont freely pulled from a bottle of liquor and passed it to his neighboring peers.
Dolley noticed Webster was drinking, too.
“How unique,” the French minister’s wife observed, unique being a euphemism for odd.
“The cold, I expect.”
“It must be quite froid in Vermont then.” Lisel touched her nose and cheeks, indicating that Bradley’s florid, heavy-drinker’s complexion was apparent even from the distance of the gallery.
“Well—yes.” Dolley smiled at Lisel’s quickness. “Also, they seem half-asleep today. We’ll have to come back when there are fireworks.”
Madame Serurier surveyed the assemblage. At that moment she couldn’t imagine fireworks.
Dolley, as if reading her thoughts, pointed out Laban Wheaton of Massachusetts. “He called Mr. Clay and his war hawks ‘fawning reptiles’—a phrase he borrowed from a former representative from Massachusetts. Not only is he splenetic, but poor Mr. Wheaton lacks imagination, too.”
“Ah, yes. We have such men at home, too.” She sat on her hands in a vain attempt to warm them. “These New England men, a thorn in your side, no?”
“In this war, yes. During our Revolution, no. You see, my dear, New England can’t grow. They know that. The South, too, is trapped by her boundaries. So New England fears the West, which can grow and grow and grow.”
“And what of the South?”
“They have made alliances with the West.”
“Ah …” Madame Serurier grasped the situation instantly. “But alliances shift like sand.”
Dolley nodded in agreement. “Perhaps this one won’t because whatever the South’s faults, its leaders understand that whoever controls the Mississippi controls the West.”
“Pardon?”
“The river. New England, you see, shows no concern over the British navigating the Mississippi River after the war. Westerners know if we permit British ships on that river, we’ll have to fight a third war with Britain because someday they’ll block our expansion or try to claim the territories for themselves.”
Madame Serurier gave up on her hands. They were tingling cold no matter what she did with them. “Odd to think of a nation still growing, like a child. You haven’t reached your full height yet.”
/>
“Not by a long shot.”
Despite the burning of Buffalo, or perhaps because of it, Dolley’s Wednesday night levee sparkled more than usual.
The guests ate, drank, and heaped compliments on the turbaned head of Mrs. Madison. French John, with Uncle Willy on his shoulder, Paul Jennings, and Sukey were pressed into service because the few waiters employed couldn’t handle such a large crowd. Sukey was practicing her French, spoken with French John’s accent, on André Daschkov, the Russian minister. She showed more interest in serving him than in serving the others. Sukey moved with a grace that drew men’s eyes as surely as her beauty did.
James Monroe, not normally an ebullient man although an approachable one, chatted amiably with Washington’s mayor, James Blake.
Louis and Lisel Serurier floated about in their splendid clothes like iridescent dragonflies. Their very presence underscored the roughness of the Western gentlemen and ladies, although the Southerners were well dressed.
Anna and her husband, Richard, laughed with Massachusetts Senator Christopher Gore. That took discipline on Anna’s part, since Gore had mercilessly attacked the President on the Senate floor. Dolley’s sister couldn’t understand how men spent their days fighting each other politically, then exchanged civilities at night. They all knew that the President’s wife insisted there be no political factions at her Wednesday evening gatherings, merely friends. If men wanted to fight again the next morning, well, go to it, but Wednesday evenings were dedicated to banishing the cares of state and the cares of life.
Henry Clay and his high-spirited secretary, Henry Carroll, offered Elizabeth Monroe a slice of salty Virginia ham. Clay laughingly said he’d offer her some Kentucky whiskey but he knew Mrs. Monroe would have none of that. It was part of Clay’s way with women to intimate that they were far more unconventional and daring than they truly were. Elizabeth glanced around to see whether her husband was near enough to overhear, and then she blushed and laughed.
Dolley Page 7