Dolley

by Rita Mae Brown

  I underestimate Mrs. Monroe. After all, eleven or twelve years ago, when her husband was in Europe negotiating the Louisiana Purchase, she managed to obtain Madame Lafayette’s release from La Force Prison.

  Ah, the French. And now the great man, Napoleon, is like a beached whale lifted mercilessly by each tiny wave.

  Nothing from Payne since right after my birthday. I’m sure he is using his time on the Continent to learn from those older civilizations and to find his true calling in this life. I’m much relieved that he is free from the Russian cold.

  I still don’t know why he is signing his letters to Jemmy “John Todd.” He’s always been Payne. John Payne Todd, but he’s never been called John for an instant.

  Jemmy carefully suggested that we send Anna to the country until she delivers her child. There are many friends in northern Virginia and Maryland who would be happy to have her; she’s such delightful company. I told him I’d broach the subject.

  I miss Senator Brown. With Congress adjourned, he has returned to Louisiana to do whatever he can to prepare for the British invasion there. He’s certain it will happen. And I surely do miss Henry Clay. He’s as slick as quicksilver and as shiny. I miss John Calhoun—“Crisis,” as Clay calls him. I even miss Daniel Webster.

  The city grows continually thinner as though wasting away from some horrid disease.

  I think I’ll play with my dice. Something to take my mind off this clammy sensation of dread.

  Until the morrow, God willing.

  D.P.M.

  A steady drizzle kept the temperature down. The dust settled on the roadways, the roses turned their huge heads toward the liquid refreshment, and a young couple ran laughing between the raindrops. French John, a side of mutton heaved over his shoulder, walked toward the kitchen. His rolled-up sleeves displayed a vivid array of tattoos, gathered in most of the ports of the world.

  James Madison observed the life outside his window. He envied the people their simple lives, or perhaps most lives only appeared simple but were complex on closer examination. Close examination was where Madison excelled. Never a man to jump to conclusions or rush to a decision, he enjoyed the laborious process of studying an issue thoroughly. He could be thorough without becoming lost in detail, a trait he liked in himself. However, events now moved so rapidly that he no longer had the luxury of taking his time to make a decision. This war and his Cabinet were teaching him that not making a decision is in fact making a decision, usually the wrong decision. He was going to inspect General William Winder and his troops.

  James Monroe agreed to ride with him. Armstrong was worse than useless. He was dangerous. So Madison’s only course, at present, was to ignore his Secretary of War and take matters into his own hands. If the United States could survive the summer, then he would attend to Armstrong. Would Madison himself survive the summer? He used to worry about dying, but he’d seen so much of it that if he were to die now, better it be in the service of the nation he founded and loved than as an old, irritable man gabbling in a feather bed.

  The only mistake he and his generation may have made was in putting the capital where they did. As a compromise between North and South, it suited neither particularly well. North and South. He’d address that issue after the war, as well.

  His personal mistakes haunted him. Armstrong had been aide-de-camp to General Horatio Gates during the Revolutionary War. Armstrong enjoyed good relations with General Washington, and Madison respected the general’s judgment of men. But Gates’s other aide-de-camp, James Wilkinson, was now proved as idiotic as Armstrong, and Madison wondered if General Washington was as wise in military matters as he had assumed. The Revolutionary War was decades ago, though. These men were young then. He was young then. Or was he? James Madison, for a moment, couldn’t remember. Of course, even then there had been talk about Wilkinson, who was too close to Benedict Arnold, and Armstrong and Wilkinson were thick as thieves.

  Was he an ineffectual leader, or were men naturally greedy and lazy? Madison reviewed his sorry relationship with Congress during his first and second terms. The victory of being voted more men at the beginning of the year was supplanted by the reality of having to find them and pay for them.

  Could they fight the British in a large land battle? The Americans fought well enough under Jacob Brown and Andrew Jackson, but they were at the far reaches of United States boundaries—one in the North and the other in the South.

  What worried Madison most were the ways in which the United States goaded the British. Yes, it was Britain’s fault that the war began, but after it had started, he received reports, confidential reports, which disturbed him greatly.

  The small town of York, in Canada, had been wantonly burned on April 30, 1813. The building that housed the legislature was reduced to a charred rubble. The official reports, like most official reports, were to be instantly disregarded. What James Madison discovered, through sources he trusted, was that American soldiers, out of uniform, had set torch to the town. York was an important place to the Canadians. Revenge would not be impossible to understand. You burn our legislature, we’ll burn yours.

  Of course, the British had set fire to the barracks and public buildings of Detroit in September 1813. The score ought to be even.

  But then, the American militia, under George McClure, had wantonly destroyed Newark, on the Canadian side of the Niagara River. A renegade, Joseph Willcocks, was blamed for inciting the militia to this disgusting act, which sent defenseless women and children into the snow with no shelter.

  So the British turned around and savaged Buffalo and Black Rock.

  Surely, that should have brought an end to this absurd destruction, but no; Abraham Marble, one of Joseph Willcocks’s followers, burned every home, barn, mill, and public building for a distance of some thirty miles along the northern shore of Lake Erie. The victims were also robbed of everything they owned.

  If Madison ever got his hands on Willcocks or Marble, he personally would shoot them.

  There was no doubt in his mind that the British were coming. The only question was when.

  If this war ever ended, a good-sized standing Army would be a necessity. Getting the American people to accept that would be extremely difficult, but militias were ineffectual and undisciplined. Even his own wife feared a standing Army. She never said so but he could tell.

  The whole history of Europe struck fear in the heart of any thinking man. Military leaders would arise and take over governments or throw nations into internal chaos, while legitimate kings and parliaments would fight for their lives. A strong President would be a safeguard against a military despot, but a strong Congress was an even better safeguard—there might be times in the future when Congress would protect citizens from their own President. If the safeguards were in the system rather than dependent on personalities, America would be free from that disruptive pitch and roll so common to other nations. Madison felt confident that once he and his peers had accomplished that, the nation would be free from military coups.

  The highly intellectual James Madison was driven by ideas and by the construction of whole systems. To think that the British might smash his entire life’s work was an anguish so grave he could scarcely conceive of it.

  He ached now because he had to go back to the living quarters, where Dolley would be bent over her needlework or her correspondence, humming while Uncle Willy cracked sunflower seeds. She would be worried when he told her he’d be joining the Army, so to speak.

  He remembered what she wrote him once in a love letter years ago when her knee became infected. It was the first separation of their marriage and both were wretched. He kept all her letters to him in his desk, even the notes she put on his pillow or hid in his pockets. He walked over to the desk and pulled out one of the drawers containing her letters. He touched the envelopes. “Our hearts understand each other,” she had written. He knew she would understand.

  3 August 1814, Wednesday

  My husband insists that he
ride out with General Winder. I offered no argument. How could I? He is the commander in chief. He had this war pushed on him and he despises it as much as I do, but he will do his duty, and oh, dear God, he’s so frail. What if the enemy should recognize him? Mr. Monroe will accompany him, but he isn’t a young man either.

  Jemmy hasn’t told me exactly when he is going to do this, but soon, I should think.

  The only two persons left in the city attended my levee. Well, it seems like two, but James Blake was there, the Daschkovs, my dear Seruriers, Anna, the Monroes, and of course the Vice President. The surprise was that both John Armstrong and William Jones appeared. No doubt they thought they had to put on a good face after their intolerable behavior. Elbridge Gerry talked to me at length. He recalled his youth during the Revolutionary War and reminded me, that war was not universally supported either.

  I don’t know how I managed to be cheerful during the evening, because all I could think of was Jemmy’s riding off to discover the enemy. It should be Henry Clay and John Calhoun, not my husband!

  French John told me he has heard that John Randolph is inquiring about buying a house in Washington. Neither of us can believe this. I thought Randolph was experiencing financial difficulties. How can he buy a house here? French John also told me that an acquaintance’s house in Georgetown sold for nine thousand dollars. The prices these people are getting! How did a house in that area, so muggy, ever fetch such an exorbitant price?

  Fortunately, Jemmy acquired a few lots in the city before becoming President. Selling them will keep us in our old age, although the lots will prove useless if people don’t want to buy them.

  Matilda Lee Love was also here this evening. She said there must be over one hundred houses now in Georgetown, but the imagined profits from the sale of these houses remain just that—imagined. She too was amazed that a house had just sold, and for such a price. Nothing else has been selling. Then she laughed and declared, “We could depend on the good men of Washington to defend their city if for no other reason than to maintain their property values.”

  Dickey has been running a fever and so has French John’s youngest daughter. Summer is the fever season here, and one can’t be too careful, but it is especially hard on the little ones and the elderly. Anna, as always, is patience herself.

  I received a letter from Henry Clay. Payne is fine. The British have not appeared at Ghent for the negotiations. Of course not, I thought, they’re all on the Chesapeake. I should write Clay that. He’d find it amusing. The gall and arrogance of the English! We cross an ocean while they have merely to cross a channel, but they keep us waiting.

  I know it’s sinful, but I pray to God for a great victory in arms just to put them in their place.

  Tonight as I write this, a silvery mist enshrouds the house. A pale circle, a hint of light, indicates where the moon must be. I expect giftzwergen to creep out of the mist, to frighten Uncle Willy and me with their evil. I remember as a child hearing about these poison dwarfs. Mother Amy used to tell us the most bloodcurdling stories. The giftzwergen punished people for their misdeeds but also for the sheer deviltry of hurting someone.

  She scared Temple and me half to death with the story of a military ball back in the days when Virginia was being settled. The ball was given at the governor’s mansion in Williamsburg. Carriages lined the streets and candles glittered through the windowpanes. An arrogant young British officer, despised by all but terribly handsome, had broken the heart of a Tidewater belle and then was cruel enough to laugh at her expense. He danced with every lady that evening, and when he visited the punch bowl, a little, well-dressed man, a dwarf, smiled at him and pointed to a dazzling beauty quietly sitting along the wall. The officer, smitten, immediately asked her to dance. They danced every quadrille and minuet that night. Her brown eyes sparkled and her golden hair caught the light. The officer couldn’t take his eyes off her, and the little man leaned against the wall, enjoying the sight.

  At the end of the ball the young gallant asked the beauty if he might escort her home. She said yes but that she would need to ask her guardian. She inquired of the dwarf and he said he would be delighted to ride in the officer’s sumptuous coach.

  She was chilly, so the young man wrapped her in his officer’s cloak.

  The cool night air brushed their cheeks, a relief from the heat of the ballroom. As they came to a crossroad, the dwarf asked the coachman to stop. He hopped out of the coach and held up his tiny hand. The young lady took his hand and gracefully glided down from the coach.

  The officer, confused, begged her to allow him to take her to the door. She smiled and said, “No, I want you to remember me in the starlight.”

  He asked where she lived and she answered, “Not far.”

  He beseeched the dwarf, who replied, “We live in the cottage Rosedown. Come, Rebecca.”

  In an instant they were gone, she still wearing his cloak. He didn’t call her back. It would be an excuse to visit.

  The next day the officer returned to the crossroad and followed west. Shortly he came to the cottage called Rosedown. He dismounted and knocked on the door. An older, but good-looking, woman answered. He asked for her daughter and she replied that she had no daughter. He told the lady about the previous night and how he had danced with Rebecca. Her face blanched. She silently pointed to a graveyard, then quickly closed the door.

  He walked to the graveyard and on top of a grave, neatly folded, was his officer’s cloak. On the headstone were the words “Rebecca Rice. Born April 9, 1698. Died January 12, 1714.” He heard the dwarf laughing in the woods, and he lost his mind. They say he danced himself to death.

  Mother Amy’s voice would drop low and then she’d fold her hands and stare into the fire. Oh, how that scared me and oh, how I loved it.

  As I grew older, I’d catch her changing the names. One time it was Elizabeth Haldane and another it was Meredith McLaughlin. Each new crop of Paynes would hear that story.

  I’ve always been able to remember names and faces. Jemmy says he doesn’t know what he’d do without me.

  Apart from telling wonderful stories, Mother Amy never told me anything that wasn’t true. She used to say, “Sickness comes in through the mouth and disaster comes out of it.” I have had ample, melancholy opportunity to observe the accuracy of that over the years.

  When I’d become frightened, she’d pat my head and say, “Fear seeks a place to rest in all of us. Cast him out! Cast him out!” Then she’d make a motion as though tearing fear from her breast.

  I was never afraid when Mother Amy was with me except when she was telling ghost stories. I was never afraid of her, either. I was often afraid of Mother. Anna says that she wasn’t as afraid of Mother as I was. Maybe by the time she bore Anna, she was so tired that she didn’t have time to get after her.

  These levees stir me up. It takes hours to get to sleep afterward, and my mind rattles on so.

  Even Uncle Willy has given up and gone to sleep. He draws one leg up under him sometimes when he sleeps. I tried it, wide awake, and I wobbled. I gained new respect for Uncle Willy.

  If I prattle on, I’ll never get to bed.

  Until the morrow, God willing.

  D.P.M.

  Showers of tiny black flies dropped from the leaves of the trees, hovered, and then rose up again like raindrops returning to the clouds.

  Barely half past seven and the morning was sticky. Dolley prepared a cold late breakfast for Jemmy, who had been working since six o’clock. Whenever he could rise early, he would go straight to his desk, forgetting about food.

  Cold ham, fresh mustard, corn bread, a succulent melon, and a dripping pitcher of iced coffee lured the President from his papers.

  They sat in what should have been the backyard, but no one had gotten around to landscaping the presidential mansion. Had Dolley even suggested it, the Federalists would have accused her of frivolousness and financial idiocy in the face of staggering debt.

  She had plans for the grounds
in good time, and it infuriated her that a nation would so burden its President without making the smallest effort to provide him with pleasing quarters. What better place to share the problems of state than in a beautiful garden? She took cuttings from friends’ gardens and did what she could under the dreary circumstances.

  Dolley tapped her foot. Irritation rose in her throat as she thought about the situation. She employed one gardener, who doubled as a handyman, and French John. Out of her money. Not only did the President need a staff, she did, but Congress wouldn’t begrudge her a penny.

  “Jemmy, do you think Congress will vote itself a raise this fall?”

  “Not until the war is over. They’ll have to make do on fifteen hundred dollars a year.” He swatted at a fly. “This ham is delicious.”

  “It’s the honey.”

  “Cured in honey? When we return to Montpelier, I’ve got to try that.” He leaned back in his chair. “How I miss home.”

  “Perhaps in the fall …” her voice trailed off.

  He put the sweating glass down. “Why didn’t you tell me you sold your necklace to pay for the horses?”

  Dolley wriggled in her seat. “I never liked those amethysts.”

  “Dolley—”

  “Really, Jemmy, they weren’t at all becoming, and—”

  “You adored that necklace.”

  “I did not.” Her lips pursed.

  “You will not go off and sell your valuables without consulting me. I won’t have it.”

  “Jemmy, you have far more important things on your mind. I am not going to bother you with drivel. The farm needed a new team and really, truly, I had grown tired of the amethysts.” She edged toward a pout. “Anyway, how did you find out?”

  He smiled. “You aren’t the only person in Washington with good sources of information. Now, do you promise?”

  “You know, I was just thinking how titanic are the mental powers of Daniel Webster. Surely he’s related to Memory, mother of the Muses.” Jemmy eyed her as she rolled on. “Young Daniel has to remember everything. Such prodigious powers.” She paused. “Far in excess of my meager intellectual capacities, but then I don’t really need such a mighty brain. The advantage of telling the truth is that I don’t have to remember what I have said.”