I feel confident that after Clay’s effort Congress will vote for more troops and more money, but will it be enough? John Calhoun can take over the floor work in Clay’s absence.
I shall miss Mr. Clay. John Calhoun has a good heart, I’m sure, but he has none of Mr. Clay’s warmth or wit. Well, I’m going to have to work with John Calhoun, which won’t be easy. Not only is he cold, he lacks Clay’s subtlety, especially where women are concerned. Calhoun, so virtuous, would never stray from his wife, but he puts little value on a woman’s mind. Clay, that marvelous combustion of brilliance, gambling, and whoring, is quick to make use of any good mind—even a woman’s. I just know I shall wear myself out trying to get Calhoun to see my point—without upsetting the masculine applecart!
French John brought me a letter written by John Randolph. He purchased it from a Maryland representative who wished to remain anonymous. I won’t let Jemmy see it. Randolph states that the Prince Regent’s speech on the opening of Parliament was a “model of dignity.” Surprising, for I have never heard anyone refer to the Prince Regent as dignified or even intelligent. Everyone knows those Hanoverians are dumb as stones. Then the “Baron of Roanoke” continues and attacks James by saying, “Mr. Madison’s rant was well suited to the meridian of Washington.” Comparing James’s speech with the Prince Regent’s! If that was not enough of an insult, he further states, “I cannot conceive who it is that writes the speeches of the English Vitellius—Lord Liverpool, most probably; but I wish he would lend his aid to the American.” The Prince Regent as Vitellius!
I fear Randolph’s sarcasm far more than Wheaton’s splenetic foaming at the mouth.
Who else has copies of this letter and how many more are there? More will be forthcoming, I can be sure of that.
For a wicked instant I am sorry I stopped the Randolph-Eppes duel. So much for Christian duty.
I must trust to a higher power. God must have some purpose for John Randolph. I know I am at a loss to find it.
I will give John Randolph credit for one thing. When the war hawks started beating their drums in 1811 and 1812, he disputed them in the House. But that was the extent of it. This fascinates me. The Federalists are now a solid antiwar party, but they never formulated their arguments and sentiments until after my husband made the decision to go to war. Isn’t that like bolting the barn door after the horse has run out?
What prevented them from sitting down and presenting their case to Jemmy? A peculiar lassitude must have come over them.
We know that upward of twenty million dollars has been invested in New England textile mills. Because their President is an agricultural man, a Virginia man, do they really think he wants a war to harm their investment, to see the mills fold? Do they think he lies awake at night dreaming of schemes to destroy New England for the benefit of the South? My husband is above petty regionalism, which is more than can be said for the Federalists.
I’m too angry to think straight.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
Sheets of hard-driven snow covered the doorways of Washington. The temperature plummeted below zero. A man couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. Neither man nor beast stirred on the streets.
Dolley stared out the window, Mayor James Blake at her side.
“Mayor Blake, please be our guest tonight. I hate to think of your venturing out in this.”
“I haven’t far to go, ma’am, and my missus will worry. I thank you so much for hearing my troubles.”
She walked the mayor to the door. He was powerfully built, short and quick-moving. She waved goodbye to him, turned, and nearly ran into Sukey, who had tiptoed up behind her.
“You startled me.” Dolley stepped back.
“Miz Madison, Paul’s brought in wood. I don’t know if it’s enough.
Dolley followed Sukey to the back of the house. The locust and good cherry had been stacked against the kitchen wall. The snow swirling outside would have covered the pile if it had remained in its usual spot.
“That’s fine but to be safe, in case this storm goes on, let’s only have fires in the President’s office and my drawing room.”
“What about the bedroom?”
“Start the fire late. The same for the one in your room and Paul’s, too.”
As Dolley walked back to her drawing room, she noted that Sukey had been pleasant. Good. Bad enough to be trapped in the house during a storm. Trapped with a pouting Sukey would pluck her nerves raw.
Mayor Blake, frantic over the lack of defenses for Washington, had come to Dolley as a last resort. She told him the President shared his concern but was blocked by Congress. Dolley suggested that the mayor organize a committee of trusted men to make plans—just in case. He could expect no help from Congress by way of money or troops. He agreed that a citizens’ committee was better than nothing, but he was crestfallen. So was Dolley, but she hid her anxiety. The mere mention of defending the city shot through her like an electric current.
As far as she knew, the only shield between Washington and the British was winter—winter and Commodore Joshua Barney, the fifty-four-year-old daredevil who baited Rear Admiral Cockburn into chasing Barney’s few gunboats with the British fleet.
Barney hated the British. He had suffered in a British prison after being captured in hand-to-hand combat during the War of Independence, but he made good use of his year. He tried to learn everything he could about the British Navy so that when he escaped, which he did, he could use it against them.
Dolley wondered where the Revolutionary War hero was hiding out during this storm. And she wondered how long this winter would last. With spring the British would march, and not even the courage and cunning of Barney could hold them all back.
Dolley lowered her head. The ice bits swirling in the wind were like cold needles against her skin. She could feel her face reddening.
Staying inside would have been prudent but she was restless. The windows, closed and shuttered against winter’s mighty rages, meant that after a while the air inside the house became stale. The heavy curtains, expensive, nonetheless soaked up the tobacco smells. The window-panes rattled. The downdrafts blew smoke, ash, and sparks out of the fireplaces.
She needed fresh air no matter how cold. With a wicker basket on her left arm she could have been any lady in the city venturing out for provisions. True, most women of substance had servants to perform these routine chores, but some wives insisted on visiting the market themselves. Setting a good table, a necessity in any national capital, proved of paramount importance in Washington because there was little else to do. Setting aside gambling, whoring, and cockfighting, few entertainments existed that were suitable for ladies as well as gentlemen.
Dolley hated to wear heavy socks because then she needed to wear larger shoes. No lady wanted big feet. She cursed her petty vanity, however, because her toes were so cold they throbbed.
The chandler’s sign swung in the wind, its hinges squeaking. She hadn’t intended to buy anything special, but seeing the shop, she thought purchasing two dozen beeswax candles an excellent idea to ward off winter’s dark.
“If I’m ever rich,” Dolley said to herself, “I’ll only burn beeswax candles and I’ll have fresh flowers in every room.”
She pushed open the door and gratefully stepped inside to the warmth. Hanging from the rafters, on wooden X’s, were tallow and beeswax candles of every color, shape, and size. Lovely brass holders, polished and gleaming, lined the wall shelves. A few of the candlesticks had handblown glass sheaths to protect the flame from drafts or as one walked from room to room.
A stout man, balding and wearing a tight-fitting tunic of heavy, boiled wool, greeted her. “Madam.”
“Hello, Mr. Mauer.” Dolley removed her bonnet.
“Ah, Mrs. Madison, I didn’t recognize you. What a nasty day for a lady to be out.”
“Indeed, but it felt as though the rooms of the house were shrinking.”
“Ah, yes, I know that
feeling. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“Two pounds of beeswax candles. White.”
Mr. Mauer walked, with a limp, to one of his hanging bunches. He carried a stick, a bit like a shepherd’s crook, and neatly lifted off one dozen candles. Then he lifted a second dozen, tied together at the wicks, and cut off four candles. “Anything else for you?”
“I think not.”
“I’ll wrap them for you. I’ll find something here to keep the ice off. You’ve not too far to go if you return home.”
“Thank you so much.”
He hummed as he rolled the candles in an old red-and-white towel. Dolley put her basket on the counter and he placed the bundle in the bottom. “Thirty cents, Mrs. Madison.”
“Oh … haven’t we credit, sir?”
“No.” Mr. Mauer put his hand back in the basket—just in case. “I suspended that January first. You’re so far behind, you see. I can’t afford to give merchandise without prompt payment.”
Dolley flushed. “Of course. These are hard times.” She opened her small purse and counted out the change. She had just enough.
“Mrs. Madison, I know you and your husband bear the burdens of state, but could you”—he cleared his throat—“do your best to make up this debt?”
“How much do we owe?”
“Fifty-seven dollars and twelve cents, madam.”
Her eyes widened. “I had no idea. I am sorry. We’re terribly far behind. I’ll go right home and see what I can do.”
“Thank you. I hope I haven’t offended you.”
“No.” She smiled. “I’m the offender. Good day, Mr. Mauer.”
It seemed colder when she walked outside again. She hurried to the presidential mansion and slipped in the back door.
Sukey was sleeping by the fire in the kitchen.
“Sukey!”
Sukey’s eyes opened and then widened. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You sleep as though you’ve been up all night.” Wary, the beautiful woman shrugged. “Cold weather makes me tired.”
“Doesn’t feel cold in here.” Dolley handed her the basket. “Put a dozen of these on President Madison’s desk so he’ll see them tonight. Put the rest on my desk, please.”
Sukey glided down the hall.
Alone in the kitchen, Dolley absentmindedly tapped her nose as she thought. Then remembering where she had hidden the money, she walked into the pantry. An old molasses tin on the top shelf hid the booty. She stood on a rickety chair, grabbed the tin, and reached inside. Barely five dollars rewarded her efforts.
She combed through each room, looking in pots and drawers, anyplace where she might have stashed change. Her purses yielded the most. Dumping the contents on her bedspread, she quickly counted sixteen dollars. Adding in what she’d gathered elsewhere, she had the princely sum of thirty dollars and eighty-one cents.
She wrote a note to Mr. Mauer, informing him that this was an installment on her debt and she knew the balance remaining was twenty-six dollars and thirty-one cents.
She copied down the sum and slipped it in the cubbyhole of her desk where she kept her envelopes. That way every time she had to write a letter, she would be reminded of the debt.
She called for French John.
“Please see that Mr. Mauer, the chandler, receives this today.” She handed him the bills and coins tied up in the red-and-white towel in which Mr. Mauer had wrapped the candles.
“Oui.” French John gave her a quizzical glance that sent his mustaches as well as his eyebrows rising upward.
“It has come to my attention that we have not settled all our household debts from last year and—and don’t tell my husband.”
“Never. Don’t worry, Mrs. Dolley.” French John called her that when he wanted to tease or cheer her. “God will provide.”
“I truly hope so, French John.”
“Did He not bring me to you?” He outstretched his arms. “And Uncle Willy. Are we not birds of a feather?”
She laughed. “French John, you most certainly are birds of brilliant plumage.”
“Is not his English as good as mine?”
“And his French is better than mine.” Dolley laughed again, forgetting her financial humiliation for a moment.
“What a pity that the United States does not speak the tongue of its ally instead of its enemy.”
“Why, I’d never thought of that.”
“French is so easy, and so beautiful.”
“I should think whatever tongue we are born to is the one we consider easiest and most beautiful.” As he pondered this, she motioned toward the red-and-white towel. “Regardless, money is the lingua franca of our day.”
“Touché.” French John smiled and departed on his errand.
15 January 1814, Saturday
I can’t write with my gloves on. Even though Paul built a good fire, it’s bitterly cold as soon as I stray six feet away from it.
It’s still snowing, but the high winds have abated. One advantage of such a storm—Washington looks so beautiful.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
The snow had stopped early on Sunday morning, but no horses and few people moved through it. Since no one had expected a blizzard, or even a few snow-flakes, no one had taken the precaution of preparing sleighs, smoothing runners, or soaping harnesses and leathers. Nor had Washington’s blacksmiths changed the shoes on the horses. It was as though the city slumbered under a white blanket; the only clues of life were the smears of smoke streaming into the sky from fireplaces. Those with little wood would soon be blue from the cold.
Henry Clay was not only blue from the cold but wet from the knees down. He trudged to the presidential mansion, occasionally losing his balance as he made his way along roads that looked utterly alien except for a tavern’s swinging shingle or a familiar door. Even the rooflines changed from slopes to curves. Icicles hung from windows, ledges, and roofs like diamond swords. Clay remembered, as a young man in Kentucky, another such ferocious storm. A man he knew but slightly opened the door to his house and jarred loose an icicle, which fell, point downward, and split open his skull. He died instantly. Not that Clay feared icicles. When your number is up, that’s that, and between now and the time when his card would be yanked from the deck, Clay intended to wring every ounce of delight from life.
Paul Jennings opened the door when Clay knocked.
“Mr. Speaker, come in. I’ll fetch the Missus.” Paul ran off.
“Mr. Clay! You will catch your death of cold. Come with me.” Dolley propelled him toward the living quarters. Despite his protests, she nearly pushed him into a seat.
“Paul, remove his boots. Let’s see if we can’t dry them out. Not too close to the fire—they’ll crack.”
“I wish they would; then I’d have an excuse to buy a new pair.”
“Oh, and Paul, ask the cook to bring out anything he’s got that’s hot, and if there isn’t anything hot, to make something up immediately … oh, and a hot toddy, too, would be most restorative.”
“One or two?” Paul inquired.
“Three. Ask President Madison to join us in a few moments.”
“Mrs. Madison, your attentions are more warming than the fire,” Henry drawled.
“The tyranny of women, Mr. Clay?” An eyebrow arched and the corner of her mouth curled upward.
“If this be tyranny, then I shall revise my opinion of the same.”
“Have you recovered from your ordeal in the House?”
“A good night’s sleep put me right.” He settled in the chair. “You know, I thought about your assessment of Webster, and before his philippic in the House, I had Henry drop off an unsigned letter at his boardinghouse. A simple thing designed to appeal to his ambition. The letter hinted that the states disaffected with the war ought to consider a convocation, and that in due course of time, after he turns thirty-five, he should be President. He’ll forget the letter but he’ll remember the idea.”
&nb
sp; Just then King George scurried across the room, a hapless mouse squealing between her jaws. She stopped under Uncle Willy’s perch, stared up at the bird, who stared right back at her with an unblinking eye, and ran off into the hall.
Clay, who loved animals, laughed, and then laughed even harder as Uncle Willy sent up a timber-shivering holler, lifted off his perch, and went in pursuit of the cat. Uncle Willy was trailed closely by Dolley, who managed to catch the turquoise-and-yellow macaw and return him to his perch. He grumbled and paced from one side of the perch to the other.
“Uncle Willy sounds like John Quincy Adams.” Clay smiled. “And I don’t believe I have ever had the pleasure of meeting your extremely healthy cat.”
Paul brought the hot toddies. “Master James will join you soon.” Paul served Mr. Clay, then Dolley, and put the third hot toddy on the tea tray.
“Do you like cats, Mr. Clay?”
“I love them. I’ve always thought they should be the preferred pet in a democracy because they’re so independent.”
“I’ve never thought of that.”
“What is your kitty’s name?”
“She belongs to the cook, truthfully. I can’t keep a cat in my quarters because it upsets Uncle Willy. You see how he is.” Uncle Willy paced some more and stretched out his stunning wings for effect. “Usually King George stays in the kitchen, but this cold has driven the mice into the house, so George, who takes her work most seriously, is everywhere at once.”
“King George?”
“Because she’s so fat.”
This made Clay laugh all the more. Dolley was a tonic to him. “Have you given her a throne?”
“She has a tiny feather bed the cook made for her. It’s in the pantry, that magnet for mice.”
“I take it George came to you under false colors?”
“No, the cook originally named her Georgianna after an elderly aunt. I never did find out what the aunt thought of that, but as time passed—or flew I should say, I don’t know where it goes—Georgianna got fatter and fatter. Besides, Georgianna takes too long to say.” Dolley turned Clay’s boots around so that the backs could dry. “Would you like a throw for your legs?”
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