“That way you wouldn’t have to see my feet.”
Dolley brought out a handsomely knitted throw, which she handed to Mr. Clay. For whatever reason, George came back to peek inside the room. The mouse no longer dangled from her jaws. Willy spied her first and squawked.
“Desist, Willy.” Dolley’s voice was firm.
“I would have said ‘hush.’ ” Clay smiled. He saw the cat. “I believe King George is requesting an audience with Queen Dolley.”
Dolley followed the direction of Clay’s gaze to behold King George sitting regally in the doorway. However, when she sat down, her obesity became embarrassingly apparent because her quite beautiful head was surrounded by pounds of flesh. It was hard to believe that the head and the body belonged to the same cat.
“You must have legions of mice.” Henry started to laugh again.
Dolley took his point and laughed, too, as Uncle Willy shouted, livid because of the cat lurking in the doorway and because he wasn’t the center of attention.
President James Madison entered amid the laughter and the squawking. He paused at the doorway, glanced down at King George and then up to his guest. “I see you’re familiar with her majesty.”
Henry Clay stood up. “Mr. President … a most impressive cat.”
“Please sit down.”
Clay complied. James thanked the Speaker for braving the weather and King George. He too turned the boots by the fire. Dolley excused herself, but both Madison and Clay begged her to stay. She ordered another round of hot toddies when Paul brought in the corn bread, jam, and three bowls of hopping John. Sukey carried the china on a tray. She returned to the kitchen for a pot of coffee, in case anyone wanted it.
The conversation turned to the Seruriers, and Dolley told the two men that Napoleon hated cats, so his officials were sure to have them removed whenever the great man paid a call. Madame Serurier had named her cat Madame de Stahl because she knew that Napoleon couldn’t stand de Stahl, or indeed any woman with political opinions. She also did it to tease her husband. Theirs was a European marriage at its best. The Seruriers adored each other, but graced with civility, both had great freedom of action so long as each behaved with discretion. They knew, however, that the Americans were so prudish about dalliances, they could not possibly understand the Serurier’s relationship. Serurier, as a minister to the Emperor, and his wife kept quite close to each other in America. They discovered they liked this rather bourgeois concept of marriage, and besides, dalliances took so much time.
Sukey quietly entered and placed the tray with coffee, cream, and sugar on a small side table.
Clay hinted that the Russian minister was often seen in the company of Lady M, unnamed but not unknown, who had recently taken to her bed with an attack of rheumatism due to an imprudent exposure of her beautiful shoulders. No one believed she was in bed because of rheumatism, however. The worst gossips in town, and there were many who vied for that title, counted the days. If the weather hadn’t been so bad, Laban Wheaton would have been prowling by Lady M’s door.
The vision of Laban Wheaton, gossip extraordinaire, patrolling the rheumatic’s door made the Madisons laugh. Sukey, scowling, withdrew. The men didn’t notice. Dolley did.
James Madison was relaxed and friendly with intimates. Clay wished the President could expand his personality to accommodate more people, but that was not and would never be Mr. Madison.
“We thank you again for your speech in Congress.” Dolley’s voice was congratulatory.
“Since I’m the Speaker, I decided to speak.”
“For three glorious days—we are so grateful to you,” Dolley replied. “Now, gentlemen, I know you two have many things to discuss.”
Both men stood as Dolley rose from her chair. She turned Mr. Clay’s boots again and left.
As the men sat down, Madison asked, “Will I get my hundred thousand men? I have only eleven thousand men in the regular Army. We are in desperate circumstances, Mr. Clay.”
Henry breathed in deeply. “I don’t believe Congress will vote you the number of troops you have requested, but I think that we will get far more than the Federalists were willing to give.”
“Thanks to your efforts.”
Henry enjoyed praise but felt no need to take full credit. “Mr. President, we are each doing what we can in this war effort. You know I rely heavily on John Calhoun in the House, and he never fails either one of us.”
“Yes, I know. Nor does Monroe fail.” Madison sighed. “My Cabinet, aside from Mr. Monroe and M. Gallatin, is …” His voice trailed off, then rose again. “The mistake for a President, I now believe after experience, is to pick Cabinet members along sectional lines. Far better to find the best man for the job than to try to please the South, the West, and New England with appointments.” James Madison’s clear eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea how many men I will get?”
“At the very least, half the number you requested.”
“Ah.” Madison rested his head in the cup of his hand. He had hoped for more.
“The vote should come sometime next week or the week after, at the latest. The Federalists can’t delay much longer and they know they haven’t the votes. Our party is better organized now.”
“Again, thanks to you.” Madison shifted the subject, a trait to which Clay was accustomed. “They won’t confirm Albert Gallatin for the peace commission, will they?”
“No. If the Federalists have to vote more troops and more money, they’ll punish you with Gallatin.”
“When you see him, tell him everything.”
“I assumed he would be coming home.”
“I wrote him informally, telling him to do what he thought best in the interests of our nation. I asked him to stay in Europe. He’ll be a minister without portfolio, in a sense, except that I can’t confirm him even as that. He’s wellborn, which means everything over there.”
What the President didn’t say, but Clay knew, was that Gallatin would work tirelessly away from the public glare; since he was not officially a minister to the commission, he could bribe, cajole, and do whatever he needed to do. And Gallatin could wring money from a turnip. Whenever palms needed greasing, Gallatin would deliver hogsheads of grease, for he knew that peace isn’t just negotiated; it’s bought. Clay, in his position, could not possibly do that.
Madison continued. “Do you think John Quincy Adams capable of any subtlety at all?”
“As much as a bull.” Clay smiled.
John Quincy Adams, James A. Bayard, and Jonathan Russell were the other peace commissioners Clay would be joining. Adams was quarrelsome, scholarly, and absolutely incorruptible and like his father, John Adams, and his father’s cousin, Sam Adams, was a pain in the ass. Much as people admired the Adamses, no one wanted to be around them. But John Quincy would pounce on every point in the peace negotiations. Nothing would escape his scrutiny, and that made him valuable. If only he could curb his tongue.
The President and the Speaker talked for another hour, then Madison handed Clay an envelope. “I’m giving you this draft on my account. We both know that my wife’s son has not yet, uh, settled down. I fear he has incurred debts. No word to Mrs. Madison, please.”
“Of course.”
“And one other …” Jemmy cleared his throat. “I have heard, informally, that Payne is quite taken with a young Russian lady of royal blood. To the point of proposing marriage. Have you heard anything of this?”
“No,” Henry Clay truthfully replied.
“Then perhaps we can keep it quiet.” Madison was encouraged that the scandal seemed to be contained. “I wonder how long before Daschkov gets wind of it?” Jemmy sighed. “Payne was foolish enough to entertain thoughts of eloping until the girl’s father, a grand duke, put a stop to it.”
“These Russian titles … Let’s see, a grand duke would be brother to the Czar?”
“Exactly.”
“A matter of delicacy then.”
The President’s face reddened. “It
never occurred to Payne that his pursuit of love might jeopardize his country. It took all of Gallatin’s considerable powers to put things right, but should any—how can I put this—loose ends be dangling, please use the funds to tie them up.”
“I will.”
“And don’t waste your breath trying to talk sense to Payne. He listens, beguiles you, and then gets into another scrape. His charm, truly, will be his undoing.”
“He’ll grow up—in good time.” Clay’s voice was soothing.
Madison nodded more out of convention than belief. He brightened. “I heard you challenged Daniel Webster to a drinking contest.”
“I did, sir.”
The President’s eyes lit up. “French John garbled the story.”
“Webster backed out. He chided me and said, ‘Mr. Speaker, you’ll ruin your health.’ And I said, ‘And yours, too, given half the chance.’ ”
Madison laughed. “That’s good. Oh, that’s good.”
The two chatted a bit more and then Clay pulled on his toasty boots to brave the snow.
16 January 1814, Sunday
The stillness all around astonishes me. It’s as though angels have covered us with their pure white robes and bade us be quiet. The only sound I heard today, apart from Uncle Willy and a much-needed visit from Henry Clay, was the sound of shovels in the snow. Tomorrow Washington will be dug out enough to permit a few noises, perhaps even some sleigh bells. Once the men can get back into the Capitol, there will be noises of another kind.
It’s been such a pleasant day, I don’t want to think about that.
I remember when I was small, Mother Amy would take me out in the snow and make snow pops. She’d make a snowball and then pour flavoring on it. I have never learned why she called them pops. I loved the cherry and the vanilla, too. Temple and I used to fight over them, and Mother Amy would laugh and tell us that there was enough snow to go around. Temple, two years older, liked to boss me around. He wasn’t very successful, and I got us both into trouble with Mother when I hopped on one of the horses and jumped a ditch. I dared Temple to repeat my jump. He fell in the ditch and broke his arm. If he hadn’t broken his arm, I don’t think he would have told on me. But he did.
To think that he died at the age of twenty-nine, nineteen years ago. I hoped my first son, his namesake, would live, but I was cruelly disappointed. I hope the name Temple is not cursed for our family. It’s a beautiful name. Sukey suggested once that I name the next horse I buy Temple. I declined but thanked her for the thought.
She and Paul Jennings, housebound, have been fighting like cats and dogs, and she is more sour than usual. I asked her what was wrong today; she shrugged and said, “Nothing.” If she doesn’t want to confide in me, fine, but I do take umbrage at her thinking me stupid.
I’ve been catching up on my correspondence and practicing with the dice. I wish I could find someone to play with who could keep his mouth shut.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
Although the worst of the storm had passed, a light snowfall kicked up again. James Madison and John Armstrong didn’t notice the renewed snowfall outside the windows of the presidential mansion. Madison struggled not to pick up an andiron and brain his Secretary of War. Armstrong was trying to wriggle out of scrutinizing Generals Wilkinson and Hampton as he had promised to do. Madison wouldn’t let him off the hook, so Armstrong was busy distancing himself from the inquiry and going to great pains to blur why he had made those appointments in the first place.
“However unwilling James Wilkinson was to fight the British, he was always ready to fight Wade Hampton.” The President clipped his words. “You will bring me every development from the inquiry, sir.”
“Yes, of course,” Armstrong lied. He had no intention of fully informing the President. “If I might, Mr. President, I’d like to bring up the matter of postage—”
“No matter what becomes of this public outrage, you won’t lose your franking privileges, so don’t let that stop you from contacting everyone necessary for the inquiry.”
“The postal service would seem to be fueled by a combination of mismanagement and greed.”
“And I have heard the same of your department, Mr. Armstrong,” Madison snapped back.
This rocked Armstrong because James Madison was usually not irritable or direct. “I will call out anyone who so charges me, sir.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind. Fight the British. I can’t afford my Cabinet officers’ fighting one another.”
“You can at least do me the courtesy of telling me who leveled such charges.”
“I’ve misplaced my courtesy.” A steely gaze met Armstrong’s eyes. “But the rumors about the War Department will compromise your future.” Madison stifled a smile. All Armstrong ever thought about was the future. He didn’t care about the present. “A vote for an epaulet. A commission is socially and politically useful, is it not?”
“Monstrous! But I will say, sir, that if I could sell off commissions to raise money for troops, I’d sell every epaulet, sword, and piece of braid in the country.”
How neatly he turned the subject away from his real goal, the presidency. Yes, a vote for an epaulet made perfect sense. Madison smiled and appeared to be moved by this outburst. “I believe you would, and if the Federalists continue in their opposition, we may have to sell our very souls for more men.” He rose from his chair and stirred the fire. He’d remember to pull the sash for Paul after the meeting. He wanted no interruptions.
“Did you expect such a public outcry over postage?” Armstrong clearly did not want to talk about the war, his department, or Wilkinson and Hampton.
“No, but when they start charging eight cents to send a single sheet of paper not more than thirty miles, I can’t blame our citizens for being angry. I’m angry.”
“The escalation did it.” Armstrong leaned back comfortably in his chair, confirmed in his opinion, and he was right. “Every increase in distance brings a lamentable increase in postage, and who can remember the mileage rates? Because much of my correspondence goes to New York, I know that posting a letter between one hundred fifty miles and four hundred miles costs eighteen and a half cents. After four hundred miles you surrender your life savings.” Armstrong snorted. “I can eat a decent meal for eighteen and a half cents.”
“Not in Washington,” Madison replied.
“Ah, yes, that reminds me.” John Armstrong rubbed his chin. “Mayor Blake waded through the snow to see me. He’s quite hysterical about the defense of the city. He pleaded for arms. That’s all my department needs in these quarrelsome times. To give ordinary citizens guns and ammunition so that they can shoot themselves in the feet?” He paused, then drawled, “They don’t have boots either. Blake would like boots.”
“He is a conscientious public servant. Surely you can spare him something.”
“Mr. President, I can assure you, Mayor Blake, and anyone else who is anxious: the British will never march on Washington. There’s nothing here worth having.”
“In military terms”—he caught his breath, then continued—“perhaps not, but the capital is the symbol of a nation. They might wish to humiliate us.”
“Admiral Cockburn’s sights are set on Baltimore. I’d stake my life on it.”
Madison folded his hands together. “You have.”
18 January 1814, Tuesday
French John has relieved me of chasing Sukey. With these eyes I saw her working.
I sent Paul Jennings out with a letter for Madame Serurier and one for James Smith. The roads are now passable despite a new dusting, so I hope James can bring in some timothy for the horses. Paul told me that our hay supply is dwindling.
Jemmy again spent time today discussing DeWitt Clinton with James Monroe. Originally, Jemmy thought, as did others, that Mayor Clinton would be replacing Federalists with Republicans in appointed posts. Instead, he rewards everyone who has given him so much as a penny. The result is that more and more men
flock to the Clinton bandwagon, or should I say milk wagon?
Clinton denies this is what he is doing and says that he opposes the spoils system. He’s merely trying to ensure that he gets cooperation from both parties in a split state during wartime. Rufus King, as would be expected, thinks otherwise.
If this tactic becomes common practice, our politics will degenerate into tribal warfare. They’re perilously close to that already, but imagine what might occur if a man practices the spoils system and has great personal wealth. It could happen.
Better a John Randolph than a man with no principle other than his pocketbook.
I can understand ambition. I can’t understand ambition tied to nothing other than vanity. Even Daniel Webster believes in something other than Daniel Webster, although I am not quite certain what that is. Time will reveal all—but will it matter?
When the snowfall began again today, I thought of my father. When we moved to Philadelphia from Virginia, he thought he would try a new business. I had recently turned fifteen and thought the city was wonderful. Most youngsters would have thought it awful, but to me Philadelphia seemed enchanted. But in the aftermath of war the dollar had been reduced to a shadow of its worth, and food prices shot up as the dollar dropped. The money Father made on the sale of the Virginia property dwindled, and in just over a year we were forced to move into more modest quarters. Father decided starch, which was much in demand but hard to find, would be the answer to his money troubles. So he started a starch factory, trying to extract his product from corn, potatoes, wheat, or any other grain he could lay his hands on. No matter how hard Mother, Mother Amy, my sisters, and I scrubbed, starch powder covered the floor, the table, and the chairs. It would drift up from the lower floor where Father worked. The fine, powdery snow made me think of that awful starch. Poor Father, he wasn’t meant to be a businessman. There we were, squashed into this little house, and in the winter only one room was warm. It would be snowing outside and snowing inside. Maybe that’s why I hate winter.
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