Dolley

by Rita Mae Brown

  What images swirl out of memory, that grab bag of life, have no order. I remember the Redcoat and Mother. I remember Mother Amy pushing me on the swing and saying that youth was the up, old age the down.

  I remember one summer sunset when we still lived in Virginia. The butterflies swooped toward their night’s rest. A cricket signaled the end of day. The horses, back in the barn, neighed as Temple fed them. I was standing on the steps of the house looking west. The last rim of the sun disappeared and a light, so golden and pink I was sure it could only be the smile of God, suffused the landscape, the steps, my dress. I put my hand before my eyes and it, too, was golden as though drenched in butter, and I was beautiful. I was the sunset for that moment, as were the oaks, the horses, and the tea roses spilling over the zigzag fence. The world glowed golden and I felt that I could do anything, that we all could do anything if we would live within God’s radiant smile. I watched until the evening star dashed onto the sky, and a luna moth, enormous with its pale mint swallowtailed wings edged in brilliant burgundy, alighted on my shoulder. I believed the moth sang in my ear. I believed the moth was really an angel who sang, “God is great, God is good. All living creatures sing his praises. All living creatures are friends and life is love.”

  Life is love. Somehow over the years and the joys and sorrows, the beginnings and endings, the births and deaths, the light and the half-light and the night, somehow I have remembered that song … until now.

  Now I hear the clock striking thirteen.

  Until the morrow, God willing.

  D.P.M.

  A stiff breeze kicked up a funnel of dust. Neither Madison nor Monroe bothered to close the open window because the stifling heat would be worse than the dust. Neither man considered removing his coat or his waistcoat, or opening his shirt. It simply wasn’t done. In the swelter, the dyes used to color the fabrics emitted a distinct odor, not entirely unpleasant but then not entirely pleasant either. Each man had grown accustomed to the other’s scent, stronger on a day like today.

  “I’ve heard travelers’ tales that there’s a desert wind that howls for months and will drive a man mad if one is not born to it.” Madison allowed his mind to wander from the subject.

  “One does hear strange things about other lands. Remember Herodotus.”

  “Indeed.” Not only did James Madison remember the lively Greek historian, but he remembered his teacher, who had not been a lively man. “I really wished that Herodotus had written in Latin. At the time I found him trying.”

  Monroe smiled and picked up a stiff paper, then carefully placed it on the now-gritty table. “Fortunately, the Treaty of Fort Jackson is written in plain English.”

  “Do you think it will hold?”

  “As long as Andrew Jackson is in the Army, the Creeks will honor the treaty.”

  On March 27, with three thousand men, Andrew Jackson and General John Coffee, his chief subordinate, had attacked the fortified position the Creek Indians and their Cherokee allies had built on the Tallapoosa River in Alabama. The place, called Horseshoe Bend, became a graveyard for nearly one thousand braves. The white men lost only fifty-one, with one hundred forty-eight wounded.

  Preceded by a year of hard fighting, this defeat had convinced the Creeks to negotiate a treaty to end the slaughter. Not only did the white man kill them in great numbers, he carried off their women and children as prisoners.

  The Creeks agreed to cede two-thirds of their territory to the United States and to retreat forever from southern and western Alabama. The whites referred to the territory as West Florida.

  Madison, hagridden with care, glanced at the treaty drafts, which had taken almost as long to draft as the Indian Wars took to fight. “This frees our Army in the West and the South.” He blinked as a new blast of dust filled the room. “Not fast enough for us to call them up here, I’m afraid.”

  “Not unless they ride night and day as the messengers did.”

  “What is it? ‘If wishes were horses, beggars might ride,’ ” Madison said.

  “ ‘Beggars mounted ride their horse to death.’ ”

  “Ah.” Madison, hearing another familiar expression, smiled. “It’s curious what one remembers and one forgets. The British have taught me a great deal these last few years. They’ve taught me that in a time of war, you hurt your enemy any way you can. They’ve stabbed us in the back with the Indians in the North and the South, and Admiral Cochrane threatens us with a slave insurrection. They stop at nothing.”

  “According to André Daschkov, the British are as dangerous an ally as they are an enemy.”

  “Imprudent of Daschkov to say so.” Madison sneezed. “The dust!” The President continued. “Tomorrow I want to ride out to the Navy Yard and beyond. If James Blake is available, I’d like him to accompany me … and you, too.”

  “Of course.”

  “No mention of this to Armstrong.” Madison’s voice dropped. “Mr. Monroe, this spring, did you find his recommendation to promote Thomas Flournoy to major general odd?”

  “I took it as part of his vendetta against Jackson.”

  A sly expression washed over the older man’s face and then evaporated. “That, too.” Monroe leaned forward, so Madison added, “Technically, Flournoy was subordinate to Andrew Jackson. Hotheaded as Jackson is reputed to be, promoting Flournoy over him would surely have driven him out of the Army.” Madison inhaled and then sneezed again. “But did you ever ask yourself what was at stake?”

  “Promoting Flournoy, an untested man, would have blocked the more obvious promotion—Jacob Brown. I assumed, Mr. President, that Armstrong was clearing the field of rivals.” A red flush crept into Monroe’s cheeks, so passionate was his hatred for Armstrong. “He doesn’t want a great general to rise up out of this conflict. He’d risk losing the war rather than see it happen.”

  Madison’s eyebrows shot upward. This vague notion, now formulated by Monroe, no longer shocked him. What shocked him was to hear it said out loud. “Yes, I believe that now. I took too long to see the truth about John Armstrong—”

  “Remove him,” Monroe interrupted, surprising himself and the President.

  Madison’s reply was characteristically mild. “With the British at our door? No. But I propose that you and I assume the responsibilities of Secretary of War and not inform John Armstrong of this decision. Once the country is out of danger, I will remove him. No need to give the British added hope.”

  Monroe thought that removing Armstrong would send a different message to the British, not one of confusion at the top level of government but of determination to find the best man for the job and to get that job done. He kept this thought to himself, for over the decades of observing James Madison, he had learned that gentle though the little fellow was, he radiated stubbornness.

  “Should we inform the Secretary of the Navy?”

  “No need. Our presence will do that.” Madison retrieved a lovely handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow, unknowingly smearing dust across his face. “Did you know, Mr. Monroe, that John Armstrong has secretly wooed Congress to create the grade of lieutenant general?”

  “No.” Monroe was startled. “He’s mad. He’s absolutely mad to think he could do such a thing.”

  “Randolph is mad. Armstrong is merely self-deluded. He thinks he will reserve that rank for himself, once Congress sees the necessity for it. He’ll lord it over the major generals, who lord it over the brigadier generals. Armstrong—the only lieutenant general in the Army. If he had had his way, and I had accepted Flournoy, then his two rivals, Brown and Jackson, would never have been promoted to major general. Not only would Armstrong have been a lieutenant general, no other Army man would be within striking distance of him, you see.”

  Monroe saw very well, once he was pointed in the right direction. By driving the talented men out of the Army, and assuming an American victory, Armstrong would appear to the public as the architect of that victory. Certainly no credit would go to the President, who would f
ollow Washington’s example and decline to run for another term, or to himself, the Secretary of State. The public much prefers the illusion of a man of action to the reality of a man of negotiation. Monroe’s hatred for Armstrong increased tenfold. John Armstrong would never be President of the United States. Monroe would never allow such a fool, a near-traitorous fool, to snare the party nomination. If he had to, he would drive Armstrong to the other party and let the idiot parade himself there, but he didn’t think he would have to do that. The covert assumption of the duties of the Secretary of War would become overt in good time, and John Armstrong would be ruined forever.

  What Monroe also felt, more by sensing it than knowing it, was that Henry Clay would return from Ghent—if they had any luck at all—as the hero of the negotiations. John Quincy Adams, a formidable man, had no stomach for pushing himself forward with the people the way Clay did. Adams expected his achievements to speak for themselves. Clay would speak with no hesitation about his achievements. This war, much to everyone’s surprise, was finally producing a few winning generals. Clay, enamored of his own gargantuan gifts, would miss the fact that the voter prefers a military hero. If even one of those generals had the heart for political battles, Clay could eventually be overshadowed. As much as Monroe hated Armstrong, he recognized that Armstrong knew this and was banking his future on nipping those military men in the bud.

  As these thoughts raced through his mind, Monroe struggled to say something to Madison. “What do you think Armstrong will do after the war?”

  “Write his memoirs,” came Madison’s wicked reply, “with one of those new lead pencils, I should think. Invented by a man named Monroe. Did you know that?”

  “No, no, I didn’t.”

  “William Monroe of Concord, Massachusetts. A distant relative of yours, perhaps?” James Madison relished the comment, happy that his information was better than that of his Secretary of State. Later in the day, when he had time to reflect on this conversation, it might occur to James Monroe that if he was going to be President, he’d have to get good information fast.

  Madison stood up, signaling that the meeting was over. As he walked out of the room, he thought of lead pencils. A passing fad. Nothing would ever replace a well-made quill pen.

  12 August 1814, Friday

  I feel much better today. Lisel Serurier accompanied me to the saddler and that lifted my spirits. She scowled at him while I gave him a partial payment, promising him that the balance would follow. If he wanted to voice his pessimism at the likelihood of the British defeating us—and of the balance, therefore, never being paid—Lisel’s disapproving glances checked his tongue.

  She told me she heard from friends in Ghent that John Quincy Adams berates himself for too much theater, too much conviviality, and too little exercise. Poor John, so hard on himself if he snatches a moment of enjoyment in the prosecution of duty.

  Fortunately, Henry Clay can bear his pleasures with greater fortitude. His pleasures must be pleasures indeed, because Lisel also said that Adams was grumbling that Clay lived under the threat of dissipation.

  If Adams becomes President someday, following in his father’s footsteps, Washington will be quite dull. If Clay ever becomes President, life here will be one sumptuous extravaganza. By that time I shall be retired to Montpelier, a matron of age, prattling about the Revolutionary War, this war, Uncle Willy, my son, my grandchildren—I hope—my nieces and nephews, and my garden. I can get along anywhere, but I do like the excitement that comes from being at the center of things.

  Lisel and I marveled at that comet across the skies, in the end reduced to glittering ashes: the Empress Josephine, who died this May. It’s odd to think that she was only five years older than I, for in my mind she seemed much older, of another age. Lisel saw her many times and remarked that Josephine was a frivolous and flirtatious, but not malicious, woman, not domineering like Madame Mère, Napoleon’s mother. I understand that despite Napoleon’s eclipse, Madame Mère is treated with respect, but poor Josephine, blessed with Creole beauty and cursed by the men in her life.

  Outside a bright star is caught in the branches of a tree, like a white heart caught in black intrigue, or so it seems to me.

  Foolish musings. I’m going to put the cover over Uncle Willy’s cage and go to bed myself.

  Until the morrow, God willing.

  D.P.M.

  13 August 1814, Saturday

  Sukey creeps up to my door. I can hear her sigh when she sees the light shining underneath. It’s past midnight and my husband still has not returned from the Army camp. If there was a great deal of business and detail to tend to, he may not return until morning. After all, seven miles take time. Yet I worry. What if the British suddenly marched westward?

  I probably wouldn’t worry so much if I hadn’t dropped by Anna’s today. As I walked down the hall, I noticed that travel cases had been packed with papers, and others contained children’s clothes. Not many cases but enough to make me wonder if my sister will be leaving Washington. I think she should but I will worry about her health, with her time so near, and I so hate to be separated from Anna.

  As I walked back from her house, a few militiamen were straggling about, one limping actually with a sore foot. Few people were out and I attributed that to the heat. On second thought, no, they’ve left. There are a handful of us left in Washington, and even our number is dwindling.

  I can’t stand the sight of John Armstrong, with his flabby jowls. That’s hateful of me, but his incompetence and intransigence have put the full burden of the war on Jemmy’s shoulders. Thank God, James Monroe is loyal. He, too, shows signs of this relentless strain. Dark circles are under his eyes, and he’s lost quite a bit of weight. Nearly a stone.

  I remembered that Armstrong’s friend from the War of Independence was General James Wilkinson, another of General Gates’s aides. Henry Clay’s comment on Wilkinson is, “He never won a battle and never lost a court-martial.” But as I was crossing F Street, the thought popped into my head that perhaps Wilkinson lied to General Gates about Benedict Arnold. Arnold was never quite the same man after the Battle of Freeman’s Farm.

  Strange. This thought was like a flash—-that Wilkinson was the agent of Arnold’s undoing, and Armstrong has remained Wilkinson’s friend despite all. Did Armstrong participate in obscuring Arnold’s fighting prowess at Freeman’s Farm? Perhaps my antipathy for the man goads me to see wrongdoing and conspiracy in his past as well as his present. I think I am a fair person; yet I cannot overcome my disquiet about Armstrong.

  The older I get, the more I believe in a sixth sense and the more I trust my own. I’ve also learned not to talk about it.

  I’m going to try and get to sleep. I’m sure my husband is fine. He chides me that I worry too much about him and laughs that I don’t worry about anything else. Why should I, I tell him. He worries enough for both of us.

  Until the morrow, God willing.

  D.P.M.

  The dust, deep and dry, muffled the sound of the horses’ hooves as James Madison and James Monroe rode through Washington at one o’clock in the morning. The Navy Yard was in good order, but not one trench had been dug around the city. No felled trees were fashioned into obstacles and not one cannon faced in the direction from which the enemy would approach.

  Each man had tied a handkerchief around his mouth. Their eyes peered out through the layers of dust on their faces, and their hats had turned a light tan regardless of their original colors.

  They passed a drunken woman, quite attractive, her décolletage revealing a sumptuous bosom. She giggled when she saw the President and the Secretary of State, not knowing who they were. She winked at Monroe, who tipped his tricorn. The dust flew off it, and she giggled some more because no one else wore such an old-fashioned hat. The President merely brought the forefinger of his right hand up to the rim of his hat.

  Once out of her earshot Madison mumbled, “What’s left for her husband?”

  “A creature like that p
robably doesn’t have the protection of a husband,” Monroe answered. He was not a man to dally with ladies of the evening, but he was not a man immune to a beautiful bosom either.

  “Ah, yes, well—” Madison coughed. “What happens to women of that sort?” He had never once thought of them until now.

  “If they’re fortunate, marriage to some rough country fellow, a man who wouldn’t mind their”—he was delicate—“station. A Westerner, most likely.”

  “What if they’re not so fortunate?”

  “Disease and death, I should think.”

  Madison shuddered, then glanced up at the stars peeping out from behind huge, creamy clouds, gray and slate-blue in the night. “I had hoped that when we created our form of government, men would work hard, enjoy their labor, and contribute in some fashion. I thought democracy would bring out the best in men and I inferred from that, the best in women, too. A woman should rise and prosper with her husband. I am beginning to fear we shall always have the lower orders with us and I’m damned if I know why.”

  Because James Madison rarely cursed, Monroe was surprised despite the President’s even tone of voice. “Perhaps some fall by circumstance, others by character.”

  “Yes, but not to try to better oneself no matter what—this I don’t understand.”

  “Maybe she is bettering herself.” Monroe nodded back in the direction of the young woman. “We don’t know her origins.”

  “I do think we’ve made life too easy for the young.” Madison grumbled. “They expect a great deal more from life than I did, and they don’t want to start at the bottom and work their way up. I can’t point the finger at others. I am certainly responsible.”

  “Not for that woman, sir.” Monroe placated him.

  “I was thinking of Payne. Clay has written that he drinks dangerously, loses control of himself, and gambles throughout the nights.”