Dolley

by Rita Mae Brown

  Jemmy tipped back his head and roared.

  Dolley rose to clear the table.

  Still chuckling, Jemmy folded his arms over his chest. “Mrs. Madison …”

  “Oh, all right, I promise!” He laughed even harder.

  4 August 1814, Thursday

  Anna promised me she will leave the city if the enemy marches on us, but until such a calamitous day comes, she is staying put. We had words over this but then we both settled down. She’s uncomfortable and laughs that she’s at the waddle stage with this baby. Also, it wouldn’t look heartening if my sister fled the city on the basis of rumors. I did get her to promise in front of Richard that she would go if the situation worsened. He was away so much in the winter. I’m glad he’s home these days.

  Richard has lost so much to the war already. Financial losses are hard for men to bear, far harder than for women, I think. I know Anna remembers our father’s retreat when he went bankrupt, and she fears bankruptcy for herself. Fortunately, they aren’t bankrupt. Should that misery befall them, I don’t know what Richard would do. As for Anna, she will do as our mother did, keep working.

  Jemmy received from Henry Clay a copy of a London newspaper with a story claiming that half the eighteen thousand troops assigned to attack the most important ports in America have sailed. We’ve known that Wellington’s men were to fight here, but we haven’t known the numbers. Some reports have said thirty-five thousand troops are on the way. Of course, one must be wary since inflated numbers are a certainty and Britain is paying men to tell “secrets.”

  Since the bill passed for more troops, we should have enough Regulars to face them, but in fact we don’t. Most of the men between Baltimore and Washington are only recently mustered in, so I can’t believe they will be very different from the militias. I hope they have fighting hearts.

  A British squadron was sighted off Norfolk, and we’ve heard that enemy ships have been scouting the Patuxent River. The Patuxent, of course, leads toward Washington. When Jemmy reported the rumor to Armstrong, the Secretary of War said it was merely a feint.

  General Winder still has no staff and is exhausting himself doing the work that subordinates should be doing. My husband told Armstrong today that if he wouldn’t give Winder an adjutant, Jemmy would name one himself. I think Armstrong’s attitude has rubbed off on General Winder, who has called up only a fifth of the Maryland Militia. Not many have responded either.

  What I keep telling myself is that British ships have been sighted on trickles of water. In wartime people become most anxious, and a raft floating down a creek becomes three warships on the Mississippi.

  Mother Madison wrote Jemmy, urging him to send out a declaration to the people. Tell them to throw stones if they have no ammunition. The image of Mother Madison aiming rocks at the enemy from her roof made me laugh. She’d do it, too.

  How I love Montpelier in August! I look forward to each summer when we escape Washington and sink deeper into the rolling green hills of Virginia. The carriage sways back and forth on the dusty, rutted roads, and I know every shed, barn, and house between here and home. Finally we turn onto the land, past the cornfields and the hay, until we can see the stables, the horses in the fields, and then the house. By the time we reach the front door, Mother Madison is on the porch, arms outstretched, while the servants dash about and the dogs bark. It is heaven, my heaven anyway.

  As soon as I’m out of the carriage, Mother Madison asks me if I want to rest; before I can answer, we’re hurrying into her gardens so that she can show me what improvements she’s made. Then it’s off to the stables to see the foals and the yearlings. Mother Madison and I never run out of things to talk about and we’re both so proud of Jemmy’s farming abilities. He uses the most advanced techniques, and Montpelier gets more yield per acre than do any of the neighboring farms. When Jemmy isn’t studying state papers, he’s poring over agricultural treatises. Truthfully, he’s far happier as farmer than as President.

  Just this time of year, too, iridescent hummingbirds flock to the orange trumpet creepers, bumblebees are so laden with their booty that I don’t know how they fly, and rabbits scamper everywhere. I love to sit in a pasture listening to the horses munch, smelling the sweet grass, and watching hawks laze overhead on the soft breezes. Uncle Willy accompanies me but he becomes agitated if he sees a hawk. He opens his turquoise wings, his yellow chest gleams in the sun, and how he hollers. They can hear him up at the big house. Fortunately he likes the horses, so he behaves when they’re around.

  I love the sound of the men and women singing in the fields, black voices so melancholy and beautiful.

  I love to stroll through the stables, to smell the dark-leather odor of the traces, collars, saddles, and bridles, each bearing the name of the animal to which it belongs. Out streak the barn cats—black and white ones, one enormous calico, and, of course, tigers. The order appeals to me, the sense of purpose.

  I think when people go wrong, it’s because they don’t have a sense of purpose. Perhaps that’s what destroyed my father. The Society of Friends was his purpose and when they failed him, he couldn’t find a new one. He had given his life over to ideas. Better he had given it over to people.

  Mother’s purpose never wavered. She had her children and she had her faith, and no group of people, liking her or disliking her, could shake that faith. It wasn’t to be found in books, in rules, or under a roof dedicated to God. Her faith was inside. She was filled with the Inner Light.

  In this last year I have thought much about my purpose. I am bound to my husband, and our purposes are mutual. He serves the country in his way as do I, in my small way. I will always believe that if I had been able to sit the Prime Minister of England and Jemmy at my dinner table, this cursed war would never have happened.

  A country seems to be, and is, a great purpose; but I remember Mother’s words about worldly vanity, and there’s much of that in the politics of leading a country. There is a purpose even higher than my country, and in this all Christian peoples share.

  When I am most in need of comfort, I read the Beatitudes.

  I must set aside thoughts of Montpelier until we are through this ordeal.

  Until the morrow, God willing.

  D.P.M.

  5 August 1814, Friday

  I have unraveled the Sukey mystery. When she daydreams and hums to herself, it means she’s up to no good. She hummed constantly while she was enjoying the favors of Daschkov, or was he enjoying hers? Well, no matter. For the last few days she’s been far more industrious than usual, attempting to get her work done before nightfall. I usually let her go about town until it’s time for me to get ready for a gathering, and then she needs to be here. She’s quite good with my clothes and she’s the best hairdresser I’ve ever had. I truly do need Sukey. She may even be beginning to understand that she needs me.

  While Daschkov was her object of attention, she would sneak off into the night. She hasn’t been doing that, so I took her staying home at night as a sign of improvement. Staying home to trifle with poor young Paul! Oh, I could box her ears. She torments and taunts him endlessly. He’s been in love with her for some time and she appears to be returning his affection. Then she pushes him away.

  I found him today in a flood of tears because she told him his nose was too big. It isn’t, of course; he’s a handsome lad. I asked him why it should matter, who cares what Sukey thinks, and he burst out afresh, saying that he loved her and couldn’t live without her.

  Seducing Paul is different from toying with the Russian minister, who is a man of the world. That affair caused such eruptions in this household that I can’t chastise her for this one, although I do think, morally, this is worse. Paul is so terribly innocent and young and she’ll shred his heart. I love that boy. I hate to see him hurt.

  Naturally I can’t tell Jemmy. He believes that one must wait until finding the right partner and then marry and hold fast to that partner. Infidelity, the mere hint of it, infuriates him. He of
ten says that he waited until his forties to find me and it was worth it. Jemmy can be very gallant. When he began courting me, I did inquire and I was surprised to discover that he had courted only one other lady, when he was much younger, and that she had found someone else more attractive. She hinted that Jemmy was too short and not very handsome. Silly fool. Not even a hint of dalliance after that for Jemmy.

  At first, when I ascertained these facts, I rejoiced. Then—and of course this was before I married him—I thought that perhaps he was a man who was not drawn to women physically. I’ve had occasion to observe such marriages and they seem to be fine. I shared this suspicion with Lucy and Anna. Lucy counseled me to remember that John was young when I married him and physically quite superb. Jemmy, being older and frail (I think of him as wiry but everyone else, Jemmy included, says frail), might be less robust in such matters. Anna, as always, drove to the heart of the matter. She said that I would know after we were married.

  And so I did. My husband is all that I or any other woman could wish.

  This reverie does not solve the problem of Sukey! I must do as Nelson did at Trafalgar and turn a blind eye.

  Thinking about men and vigor: Henry Clay has eight children and yet I don’t believe he really loves Lucretia. Some people seem incapable of deep love. They may be good people, but intertwining their lives with others’ just isn’t their way. I think this is true of Mr. Clay. He’s a convivial man but he keeps the most important things to himself.

  All the Payne girls married for love, and we’ve been most fortunate in our husbands.

  I asked Lisel Serurier, who drove with me today along the river, if Europeans marry for love. She replied that it often depends on their class. She found Louis handsome. He dazzled her parents because he was a rising star in the Napoleonic firmament, but mostly because he had money. She confided that she learned to love him after they married, and that as much as she cares for him, she thinks their relationship is quite different from Jemmy’s and mine.

  This startled me and I said, “How?”

  She replied, “You and Mr. Madison are two souls with one heartbeat.”

  Until the morrow, God willing.

  D.P.M.

  The road to Bladensburg curved across the soft hills of Maryland. A light rain during the night kept the dust down. Except for the furious rumble of bumblebees in the crape myrtle and honeysuckle tumbling along the road, it was quiet and deserted.

  James Madison, riding his favorite blood bay, and James Monroe, astride his sorrel horse, walked ahead of their small military escort, which consisted of Colonel Charles Carroll and a young captain hoping to rejoin his troops outside the small town.

  The pleasant temperature, not at all like that of an August day, made the war seem far away. Madison and Monroe spoke of supplies, troops, and possible entrenchments. The day was so lovely, they chatted for a few moments about the old days. James Monroe knew Madison liked horse racing. He asked the President if he enjoyed boxing, and Madison replied that he had not witnessed many such matches but they were exciting in a brutal fashion. The men recalled Tom Molineaux, a freed Virginia slave who had caused a sensation in England as a heavyweight boxer a few years before. He was finally beaten in the fortieth round of an extremely punishing match. Madison thought that as the country became more civilized, blood sports would wither and die. Monroe thought that men would always pay for the delight of seeing one man beat another insensate.

  “What is it, think you, Mr. Monroe, that drives us to violence?” Madison asked genially.

  “Think of our cattle and our horses. Don’t the strongest stallions and the strongest bulls drive the others off? It’s the nature of male animals to dominate, to kill one another, I’m afraid, and we can’t suppress it entirely. Perhaps if we encouraged more boxing, we’d have less war.” Monroe smiled, revealing good strong teeth stained with tobacco.

  “That may be our animal nature, but didn’t Christ come to free us from our animal nature?”

  Monroe thought long and hard. “I would have to say that men are perverse, and by repudiating Christ, men gain earthly glory. Most men prefer earthly glory to heavenly reward. After all, they can’t see heaven.”

  “I see it in my wife’s eyes.” Madison smiled. He adored mentioning his wife occasionally to other men. If he indulged in the sin of pride, then he would suffer later, in the afterlife. He simply could not resist a chance to brag about Dolley.

  “You, sir, are most fortunate, as am I.” Monroe smiled, too. He had known this little fellow next to him for most of his adult life. Perhaps old wounds were never completely forgotten, but there was a complacency, an easiness, in being with an old, old acquaintance.

  They rode another ten minutes before Madison spoke. “General Winder seems to be encountering a host of delays in raising fortifications for our city.” He sighed. “Well, the one good thing I did accomplish was in effecting military promotions by merit. We are beginning to see the result of that but, unfortunately, not here. In the last two years the age of our field generals, on the average, has dropped from sixty to about forty. And I think this new crop of generals—Jacob Brown, Winfield Scott, Edmund Gaines, Alexander Macomb, and Andrew Jackson—I think these young men will take the fight to the enemy.”

  “And John Armstrong will take the credit. Every time you make a decision on one of Armstrong’s suggestions for a promotion, he instantly informs the officer as though he has been totally responsible for the action. If you grant the officer’s promotion, the officer thinks Armstrong is his friend and he is sure Armstrong has petitioned you constantly in his favor. If you deny a promotion, you make a political enemy and Armstrong goes back to the man and wrings his hands in sympathy. I detest the ground that imbecile walks on,” Monroe said.

  “So do I.”

  A cavalry lieutenant greeted them from the opposite direction. He rode up at a trot. Seeing that it was the President and the Secretary of State, he executed a smart salute.

  Colonel Carroll and the young captain hastened to catch up to the President and Monroe.

  When the colonel introduced himself, the lieutenant grinned. “There are a mess of Carrolls in this neck of the woods.”

  “Shake a tree and a Carroll falls out,” the colonel agreed with good humor.

  “Then start shaking trees, gentlemen. I have need of men like Carroll,” Madison said.

  Colonel Carroll nodded, grateful for the praise—praise that would be heard from one end of Washington to the other, for in Washington the only thing that traveled faster than praise was bad news.

  Both Madison and Monroe struggled to conceal their shock when they came to the ragged bands of militia at Bladensburg. General Winder was farther down the road, but still, this was sobering. It wasn’t simply bad news, it presaged disaster. Colonel Carroll spoke sharply to the officer in charge, which produced salutes from the soldiers.

  As Madison continued riding, he realized that Washington didn’t have a hope in hell. Monroe knew it, too. Neither man spoke of it.

  For the first time in his life, James Monroe prayed that John Armstrong was right: Baltimore was the target.

  6 August 1814, Saturday

  Tonight a soft rain pats a counterpoint to the scratching of my quill. I told Sukey to sharpen the point, but she has an unlimited capacity for forgetfulness. I also asked her to be careful with Paul. He’s so sweet and young, I don’t want him hanging on the short end of a promise. She didn’t reply, which meant she didn’t want me meddling in her business. However, she was civil. That’s a step forward.

  Jemmy returned home from his inspection, exhausted but invigorated. No sign of the British. Armstrong stubbornly presses his case that those troops sailing to our shores will be diverted to New Orleans or to Baltimore. Control of New Orleans means control on the Mississippi, which means control of the entire West. As for Baltimore, it’s in the middle of the coastal states, a thriving city, a perfect location—once conquered—from which to send out ships both north an
d south.

  Armstrong vows he is making every effort to see that Washington is not conquered. Jemmy says that if what he saw today is Armstrong’s “every effort,” then we had better arm the women and children.

  The British, under General Phineas Riall and General Gordon Drummond, are laying siege to Fort Erie. We’ve just learned of the struggle, but no one yet knows the outcome. We have two thousand men at Fort Erie. The British are rumored to have a force of at least a thousand more.

  If only we knew what was happening there and in Louisiana. The news crawls to our door, or so it seems. As for the peace commission, Henry Clay writes regularly. The British still haven’t appeared. If seas are smooth and winds favorable, we receive news in about one month. Usually it takes six weeks. Knowing is always better than not knowing, even if the news is bad.

  Then there are the persistent rumors that the British will invade the Hudson River Valley, take Albany, and control New York City. This would dislodge the Northeast from the rest of the nation, and some people are speculating that should this happen, New England and New York will stay permanently dislodged.

  When we run out of military rumors, we can always listen to the outright lies—more rumors about my “amours.” Henry Clay this time, but since he’s in Ghent, I am said to be consoling myself with Mayor Blake.

  The only rumor I haven’t heard is that the British troops will drop out of the sky. Even doomsayers and mountebanks stop somewhere this side of reality!

  I think about Albert Gallatin’s advice: all wars are bad, but if they can’t be avoided, it is less expensive to be ready than to rush to arms unprepared. How foolish the Federalists were, and remain, to be so set against Gallatin. Never a war hawk, he worked tirelessly at the Treasury, which was ultimately to their benefit as well. They could never understand that Mr. Gallatin does not suffer fools gladly, nor could they weaken his loyalty to Jemmy.