“I never thought of that.” Clay’s features relaxed for a moment. “Whatever we call our liquor, two facts remain: we will forever be indebted to the French people for their assistance during our first war with Britain and”—he held up his glass—“our spirits are strong.”
“I think, monsieur, that my people and your people will always have a common enemy in England.”
“One other.” Clay nodded.
“What?”
“The stupidity of the narrow-minded and the greedy.”
“Ah yes.” Serurier passed his cup to Dolley. “But they exist in every nation. At home we bestow honors upon them. They spend so much time brandishing their prestige, they haven’t time to meddle in politics.”
“The genius of a Bourbon, Louis XIV.” Dolley referred to the Sun King, who had perfected the art of deflecting political ambition into social ambition.
“Do you ever wish your husband could be King?” Serurier asked.
Dolley considered a flippant answer, disregarded it, and said, “The four-year term of our presidency forces a man to waste time planning for his reelection. Even if our President is granted two terms, it’s difficult to plan and even more difficult to enact those plans. Whatever one builds can be dismantled by the succeeding President, especially if he is from the opposing party. So, plans of state resemble a patchwork quilt rather than an organized design. This is our great weakness and yet, Monsieur Minister, a king is even more vulnerable than a president for he rarely hears the truth. Since a king holds the position for life, those around him tiptoe—after all, they could be banished for his lifetime. To make good decisions, one needs the facts, flattering to oneself or not. We can only pray that those who do succeed us can appreciate the wisdom of our good decisions and have the wit to correct our failures.”
Both Clay and Serurier were silent for a moment, then Louis reached out for his now-filled cup. “Mrs. Madison, you have settled my mind. Now I do hope this settles my stomach.”
A sly smile crossed his face. “Do you know that George III conceives of himself as a teapot?”
“Then we’ll just have to empty the pot, won’t we, sir?”
5 January 1814, Wednesday
I’m too tired to commit much to paper this evening and too lazy to sharpen my quill. On the surface, the evening was a success, yet the Federalists are sharpening their claws. That they want a Federalist President elected in 1816 is as it should be. Such is the nature of politics. But if the war continues to go badly for us, they will hog-tie Jemmy if they can.
Had a good talk with Henry Clay. What would I do without him?
James Monroe has received communication from England. Jemmy says one could hardly call it a peace offering. I meant to mark that down the other night but it slipped my mind. If only we had some victories! Then we could construct a peace on favorable terms.
I believe that James Monroe is a good Secretary of State and I know Jemmy does also, but he will never quite trust him. I say bury the past, but Jemmy can’t forgive Monroe for allying himself with Patrick Henry against him. The decades haven’t erased Jemmy’s reserve toward Monroe. I think men cling to these grudges in a way women do not. But then, were I running for office, or holding one, perhaps I would feel differently.
Monsieur Serurier told me that George III, when he went mad, once imagined he was a teapot. Since the Prince Regent remains in charge, perhaps George is still bubbling. Yet, what a terrible thing. I can’t find it in my heart to wish insanity on the King. Patrick Henry was Mother’s cousin; when I was a child, his wife, Sarah, lost her mind. Cousin Patrick had to confine her to a downstairs room and sometimes tie her up for fear she would hurt herself. I fear insanity more than I fear death.
Perhaps that’s why I fear Randolph. He has been mercifully quiet. Daniel Webster, Lieb, and Gore are more present dangers but they are rational men, misguided but rational.
Can’t hold up my head.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
A wind like a knife slashed off the Potomac into Henry Carroll’s bones. Clay’s secretary would make his first stop far out on New York Avenue, a desolate road. Two small but neat houses shivered in the darkness. If there were more homes out this way, Henry Carroll never saw them. This wasn’t a fashionable area, nor was it a fashionable distance from the Capitol.
He knocked on the door, painted a deep blue. French John opened it, revealing a household full of lively progeny and a pretty wife. Henry tipped his hat and handed French John a letter to be given to Mrs. Madison.
“Won’t you come in, Mr. Carroll?” The swarthy man spoke in his ineradicable French accent. French John was sincere and, like Dolley, was a genuinely hospitable person.
“Thank you, Mr. Sioussat. I’m still making the rounds.”
Henry retraced his steps, moving faster as the cold gnawed through his coat and gloves. His nose dripped from the chill. A high wagon with red-painted wheels swayed in the frozen ruts of the road. Two muscular mules pulled the load of firewood. The driver could have been fat or thin. He was so bundled up, Henry couldn’t tell. The fellow stopped when Henry flagged him. He didn’t recognize James Smith, a free Negro, until he climbed up in the wagon next to him and Smith unwound the scarf covering his face to say hello.
He pressed twenty-five cents into Smith’s mitten, a good piece of change, and asked Smith to take him to Georgetown. He had wanted to save the money, but the cold was so fierce he decided it would be better to ride. Henry Clay had given him two dollars for tonight’s errands, and one of the best things about working for the Speaker of the House was that he never minded if Carroll found a cheaper way to do something and pocketed the savings.
“Going that way, Mr. Carroll, going that way.”
Henry hung on to the sides of the wagon as it violently hit ruts and mudholes. He was glad to reach Georgetown and get back on his feet.
Henry hopped off a block from the boardinghouse where Senators Christopher Gore of Massachusetts, Jeremiah Mason of New Hampshire, and Rufus King of New York, and Representative Daniel Webster from New Hampshire, took lodgings. He leaned against a building, back to the wind, and waited. One man passed him, drunk as a skunk. He wouldn’t do. Two representatives walked by, hunched over against the cold. Carroll turned his head. They didn’t notice him. Finally a boy, perhaps fourteen, scurried along carrying an un-plucked chicken. Henry laid his hand on the youth’s arm, pointed to the boardinghouse, and gave the boy twenty-five cents. “Twenty-five cents to walk across the street.”
“What, sir?”
“Just take this letter over there.”
“Yes, sir!” The happy fellow snatched the money and the letter and ran across the street.
Henry smiled and then walked to John Calhoun’s lodging house, which was not far off.
Most secretaries to senators and representatives wrote in a similar hand. Since there was no signature on the letter he had just had delivered to Daniel Webster, the New Englander would not know it came from Henry Clay.
The brass knocker of Calhoun’s boardinghouse, called the War Mess by his enemies, barely gleamed in the pitch of the night. A haughty, high-yellow servant, Tosh, dressed far better than Henry Carroll, opened the door. Recognizing Henry, he smiled politely and said he would fetch Mr. Calhoun. Henry handed him a letter and said there was no need to disturb the master. The butler bowed low and allowed as how he would deliver the letter. Henry touched his hat and left.
A haggard John Calhoun, bent over his desk studying a map of Europe, blinked when the butler quietly knocked. He took the envelope off the silver tray and dismissed Tosh.
John Calhoun opened the letter and read its contents:
I expect your full support.
Henry Clay
6 January 1814, Thursday
Today I had the strangest experience. I walked over to Anna’s to see whether Dickey had improved, and when I turned into F Street, I thought I saw Aaron Burr. Were he in town, I’m sure I would ha
ve heard of it. The man is alive and yet a ghost, a figure from a Greek tragedy, doomed to live forever in the shadow of his victim, Hamilton. Sic transit gloria.
It was Aaron Burr who introduced Jemmy and me. He knew Jemmy from the College of New Jersey in Princeton, where Aaron’s father (also Aaron Burr) was president. Aaron Burr introduced me to Jemmy in Philadelphia, where I also knew Alexander Hamilton, of King’s College. Everyone liked everyone then. How fresh and hopeful we are when young, and then God works His will upon us, or perhaps we do it ourselves. I remember once, when talking to Clay, the name of Burr crept into the conversation; Clay just sighed and said, “The mighty fall, the rest just grow older.”
I keep thinking of the orphans in Buffalo. It’s wicked-cold here. Buffalo must be a frozen hell.
French John brought me a letter from Henry Clay. One sentence: “Paris has shot his arrow at Achilles.”
I suppose politics has always been fussing, fighting, bombast, and false bravado. It seems to provide a theater for strutting banty roosters. Truly, it’s a wonder anything ever gets done.
And it’s so expensive. The treasury is empty and my pantry is bare. I have been successful in keeping our money woes from Jemmy. He frets over his mother’s managing Montpelier in such distressing times. Even with a good crop the market is far from certain, and every day our currency’s value dips. How much longer can I give merchants here promissory notes? At least Mother Madison can barter.
Heartache is one terrible worry. Money is another. I don’t know which is worse. Oh, I’m just saying that because I’ve got empty pockets now. Sometimes I can’t see any farther than my nose!
I can’t pull myself up today. Usually a visit with friends or a prayer will lift my spirits, but today I feel like Mother Amy, who when sad would say, “I gots the low blood.”
I gots the low blood.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
“Mommy!” Five-year-old Walter ran into the room. “Tommy says I can hab his soldier.”
Curly-haired Tommy Cutts hastened into the room to remove the little lead soldier from Walter’s white-knuckled grasp. “Did not.”
“Walter, it’s have, not hab.”
“See, Mommy says I can hab it!” Walter crowed.
“I said no such thing.” Anna stood up with a rustle of material. “Jimmy, Jimmy, where are you?”
James, the eldest at eight and a half, reluctantly entered the room. “Yes, Mother.”
“I told you to watch your brothers. Aunt Dolley and I are busy. Now where’s Dickey?”
“He’s asleep.”
“And Dolley Payne?”
“She’s asleep, too.”
“Where are they asleep?”
“On the floor.”
“Why didn’t you make them get into bed?”
“You didn’t tell me to.”
At that moment Anna could have cuffed him. Dolley stifled a giggle, which made Anna want to smack her older sister, as well. A wail from Walter indicated that Tommy had seized his lead soldier by force, not negotiation.
“That does it! I want you boys in your room and if I hear so much as a peep, a whisper, I can tell you the names of three boys who are not getting sugar cookies.”
“Oh, Mother.” Jimmy loved sugar cookies.
“Jimmy, you put Dolley Payne in her bed and Tommy, pick up Dickey.”
“He’s too heavy,” Tommy fudged, for little Dickey was thin as a reed.
Anna advanced on Tommy, who prudently took a step backward. “One more word out of you, Thomas Cutts, and you’re going to wish you were somebody else. Now get, all of you!”
The boys scattered and Anna, flushed, sat down with a plop.
Dolley shook her head, “I haven’t heard that expression since Mother Amy.”
“What?” Anna was still steaming.
“ ‘You’re going to wish you were somebody else.’ As I recall, that was followed by the swat of her broom.”
“You used to say that to me when I was little. You were besotted with power.”
“That’s always the lament of little sisters,” Dolley replied.
“Lucy agrees with me.”
“Two against one. No fair.” Dolley laughed, and Anna joined in.
Anna sighed and leaned back in her chair, putting her feet out. Dolley pushed a small hassock over for her. “Thank you. I’ve been on my feet all day with those rascals. If only this city would get a good school. The children are cooped up in the winter and if they’re going to be wild Indians, I prefer they be wild somewhere else.” She sighed again, then changed the subject. “Sukey spends more time prancing about your levees than Mrs. Thornton. She flirted openly with André Daschkov as well as casting her big, beautiful eyes on Senator Brown from Louisiana. That girl is wild as a rat.”
“Oh, Anna, you always did have an imagination for that sort of thing.”
“No, I don’t. You just can’t see what’s under your nose. You never want to see what’s unpleasant.”
“What’s so unpleasant about a beautiful slave girl flirting? I can’t see that it’s so awful.”
“She ought to be better behaved. And she’s pouty.”
“You discipline her. I can’t keep after her all the time and perform my other duties. Which reminds me, James and I were sitting up talking the other night. I could scarcely believe I had my husband to myself for a few moments—”
Anna interrupted. “I know what you mean.” Then she laughed. “But every time I do get Richard to myself, I wind up with another wild Indian.”
Dolley put her feet up on the hassock also and tapped her sister’s foot with her own. “Many are the women who would pray for such a complaint.”
Anna raised an eyebrow. “Dolley, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“I know. Anyway, I wasn’t talking about myself. I was talking about those women, some of whom we know, whose husbands aren’t interested in them anymore. The men use their homes like a boardinghouse.”
“A legion of women, I’d say. Poor things.” Anna shook her head. “Maybe they shouldn’t have gotten married in the first place.”
“It’s all a crapshoot, isn’t it?”
“A what?” Anna’s eyes grew larger.
“Uh, a crapshoot. Dice. Seven or eleven and … now, Anna, don’t frown. It’s not a vulgar expression, it’s a sporting expression. I was merely making a parallel to the fact that marriage is a game of chance.” Dolley folded her hands in her lap.
“Are you gambling again?”
“I most certainly am not.”
“You know that affliction runs in our family.”
“Oh stop, Anna, you sound like Father. Any time one of us did something he disapproved of—and think how many things he disapproved of—he’d say, ‘That’s just like my mother.’ Fond of gambling, fond of fripperies, or whatever. I thought Grandmother Payne quite grand myself.”
“I wish I could say I remembered her clearly. After all, I’m named for her.”
“She loved society, loved to laugh—and oh, Anna, her clothes! The most exquisite silks. She never could understand Father but then he could never understand her.”
“How did you learn to play dice?” Anna was not to be put off by reminiscence.
Dolley reached in her pocket and pulled out the white cubes. “A little bird taught me.”
Anna reached for the dice but Dolley withdrew them. “Let me see them.”
“Don’t tell Jemmy.”
“I won’t.” Anna felt the two cubes drop in her hand. She turned them over in her fingers. “Is this what the Roman guards used when they cast for Christ’s robe?”
“I wasn’t there. I’m not that old.”
Anna didn’t want to laugh at what might be regarded as a mild blasphemy, but she did. “Well, all of Mother’s religious efforts failed with you.” She thought a moment. “With me, too, I suppose. She was too strict. They’re all too strict. If the Society of Friends would enjoy dancing and musi
c and clothing, they would attract more people than they do with their severity. I can’t say that I ever found anything in their teachings that wasn’t—helpful.”
Dolley reached out a cupped hand and Anna dropped the dice into it. “I guess I would have to agree, although I’ll never forgive them for casting out Father. Oh, I never told you what Jemmy and I were talking about. I was telling him that Sukey is getting out of hand, and then I reminded him that my father, being a good Quaker, freed all his slaves, and do you know what Jemmy said?” Anna shook her head and Dolley continued. “He said, ‘And your father went bankrupt.’ That was so unlike Jemmy.”
“He’s tired, he’s besieged, and he has only four friends in Washington: you, me, my husband, and Henry Clay.”
“The other night he was talking about dying. He told me if he died in office, I was to go to Montpelier.”
Anna’s face darkened for an instant. “He’s just—”
“I know, I know.” Dolley waved her hand to stop her sister. “Tired. It’s not the British I fear so much. They aren’t going to shoot Jemmy. Kill their prize when they could capture him? Never. No, Anna, it’s these fanatics. What if someone walks up and shoots him?”
“Assassinate Jemmy?” The thought was so horrifying that Anna’s hand flew to her mouth as if to shut off the thought. “Put a guard around the presidential mansion.”
“We can’t do that. Then we’d be no better than the kings and queens of the Old World. The President must be available to his people. Think how it would look. Think what it would mean—that we are afraid of our own people, and a president afraid of his own people ought not to be governing the land.”
“Perhaps in certain situations men are not governable.” Anna’s emotions spun around inside her. “Didn’t the Romans elect a temporary dictator in perilous times? Cincinnatus at the plow—the citizens came to ask him to lead Rome against an invading army.”
“I remember. And I still say we can’t post a guard, and Jemmy wouldn’t hear of it even if I begged him. The Father of the Constitution hiding behind soldiers. Wouldn’t the British papers bleat and holler over that?”
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