“The pot calling the kettle black, I should think,” Monroe responded, sympathetic to Madison’s plight. He had known Dolley’s son since she had moved to Montpelier. He had watched the young man get in one scrape after another.
“I apologize for inflicting such information on you,” Madison said wearily. “It’s late. I quite forget myself.”
“Mr. President, your concerns are parallel to my own. My daughter astonishes me with her demands. She has no idea what the dollar is worth and she’s far too concerned with her wardrobe. Of course, she gets that from her mother. An obsessive concern with apparel is the sign of a superficial character—in a man more than a woman, I should say.”
Madison laughed. “You sound like my departed mother-in-law. Dolley always tried to wear a simple gray frock when her mother was around, but of course, with the demands of my work, often my wife would have to engage in fripperies as Mother Payne called them. I do think it pained her, but she tried not to criticize Dolley.”
“It’s bad enough here. It’s worse in Paris. Be grateful you have never been an ambassador.” Monroe alluded to the time he spent as minister to France.
“Ha,” Madison laughed and coughed dust at the same time. “My wife manages to spend money in Paris even though she’s never been there. She’s the hostess to the nation and I suppose she has to keep up a certain appearance, but I want to know why a new dress of the latest fashion costs four times as much as a new coat for me.”
“Elizabeth says more fabric.”
“I never thought of that.”
They rode on. James Monroe pulled down his handkerchief, then replaced it over his nose and mouth. “I have been riding along here for the last few minutes recounting our conversation, dwelling on my daughter, and it seems I have forgotten to consider my blessings. She’s a good child and she’ll learn even as we did. No doubt our parents said the same things about us that we’re saying about our children.”
“My mother still does,” Jemmy agreed.
“I was also thinking how fortunate I am not to bear Clay’s burden. He would gladly spend his fortune to save his son.”
“I’ve heard the young man”—Madison retrieved the name—“Ted, is extraordinarily handsome and capable of random insight. Clay once told my wife there are moments when the boy is not only lucid but hauntingly brilliant.”
“I have observed that in others so afflicted.”
“Then there are the people who seem intact but degenerate over time. Randolph is one of those and perhaps John Lewis, as well.” Madison referred to George Washington’s great-nephew.
“Circumstances can drive men mad. I remember, in the first war with Britain, a fellow officer, a man of such promise, who became so deranged he would cut off the hands of the enemy’s fallen. Then he would shake hands with the severed members and carry them about.”
“We’re right back where we started. Is it character or circumstance?”
“Mr. Madison, you have no equal in the subtlety of thought.”
James Madison decided not to rebuke him for the compliment. There was nothing subtle about the thought, and besides, at this moment he would gladly exchange his intellectual powers for the gift of military prowess.
The presidential mansion rested up ahead. Both the President and the Secretary of State were bone weary.
“I can’t remember when I have had such an interesting conversation, Mr. Monroe.” Madison stopped his horse, took off his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. “I regret that our pasts have created some, uh, distance between us, but I am thankful to have you in my Cabinet. You are the strongest man there and I profit by working closely with you in these”—he cleared his throat—“perilous times.”
Monroe also removed his handkerchief. “Thank you.”
“You have provoked me to pose the question whether a nation possesses character much as an individual does.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Then our character is being sorely tested by harsh circumstance.”
Hoarsely, James Monroe replied, “With you as our leader, we cannot fail. You will save this nation.”
“God willing.” Madison touched his hat and turned toward the stables. He did not want Monroe to see the tears in his eyes, tears of gratitude for a man he had not helped in this life, though he had not harmed him either. This war was not just changing the nation. It was changing him.
14 August 1814, Sunday
Jemmy insisted on attending service today even though he didn’t return until two o’clock this morning. I was sound asleep. I instructed Paul, who offered to wait through the night, to waken me if my husband returned. He’s such a polite boy that he wouldn’t come into my room but instead woke Sukey—never a happy riser—to waken me. We’re all bleary-eyed today.
I have never observed my husband in his current state. He can take no pleasure in food or even wine, and thinks only of the war. His preoccupation is so complete that when Uncle Willy flew onto his shoulder, he didn’t notice.
We have so little time alone now, I cherished the few moments we were together today before he returned to meetings with William Jones and James Monroe. While we were sitting behind the house, hoping for a cooling breeze from the river, Jemmy said that I was a source of comfort and strength to him and he regretted putting me in such a dangerous place. I told him that I feel safe and not to worry.
He replied that he’s always had a sense of the future, but now when he tries to look ahead, he sees only darkness. I put my arms around him and rested my cheek next to his. A single tear rolled down his face and touched my cheek, too. I held him as tightly as I could. When I released him, he was composed.
I wonder if Washington felt this way when all seemed hopeless. I think of him often now. I draw strength from his portrait, which, while not as accurate as I would wish, does convey a sense of his calm purpose. He was such a tall, imposing man. Sometimes I think that if my James were as tall as George Washington, his mastery over other men would be easier. And yet what a silly thought. My husband desires mastery over himself alone. He truly believes that men must convene as equals, as rational beings, to plot the course of the future. Great as George Washington was, Jemmy has the better mind and a greater tolerance for the vagaries of politics.
I think of Mother and Mother Amy, my brothers and sweet Mary, who suffered so, and I think of John Todd. I wish I had them around me to help me protect my husband. Perhaps their spirits observe us. If so, I ask them for their love. I know they would willingly give it. They gave it in life, and none would give more than my handsome John, whose only desire was for my happiness. How curious that I wish he and Jemmy could be friends.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
Anna poised on the edge of her chair like a bird on a perch. If she sank backward, it was too difficult to get back up.
Dolley paced. A trickle of perspiration ran down her cheek. She held in her hand a letter from Lucy.
“There’s little you can do about it now,” Anna counseled.
“I know. It worries me though because we need time after this war, peaceful time, before we launch into another bitter fight amongst ourselves.”
“The New England states and the South will never stop fighting,” Anna said flatly.
“I know that,” Dolley snapped. “But when Congress convenes, if the Federalists vote as a block for an amendment to the Constitution requiring a two-thirds vote of both houses to admit new states to the Union, it will be a nasty tangle of yarn.”
“Well, the Federalists will simply block any Western state from joining the Union if they are slavers. Dolley, will you sit down? You’ll wear a hole in the rug.”
“There’s got to be some way around slavery in the new territories.”
“There is. No slavery.”
Dolley crossed her arms and shot her sister a withering glance. “That’s not possible—at this moment. I hate slavery. You hate it. But are you willing to see the country torn apart over it
now? We’ve got to win this war, wipe out the terrible debt, and grow. We’re like a six-year-old child. We just need to grow. Another generation will solve this problem. Not ours, sadly.”
“Well, if Rufus King gets his pet amendment through Congress—”
Dolley interrupted. “Oh, that. He won’t. This business of all representation in the House of Representatives being based on the number of free inhabitants of each state isn’t going to pass. He’s tied federal funds to it. The money is based on each state’s population of freemen. He’s cooked his own goose.”
“Someone can resurrect it later. A version not tied to federal funds.”
“Perhaps.” Dolley flipped back a corner of the rug with her foot. “Anna, the dogs have chewed the rug here.”
“No, it’s Dolley Payne.”
“Aren’t you feeding my namesake?”
“She eats anything she can get her hands on. Last night she chewed my stockings.”
“She’s like a little locust.” Dolley shook her head. “Anna, I think the British will come up the Patuxent River. That way they’re between Washington and Baltimore. They’ll sail as far as they can in their frigates, then land and march.”
“I’ve been studying the maps, too. If Washington was their only goal, they’d come straight up the Potomac to Alexandria.”
“When did you start reading the maps?” Dolley asked.
“A month ago. You?”
“From the beginning.”
“Did you know their strategy from the beginning?”
“No, but when the war started, I thought I’d best keep up with events. After a time the geography becomes obvious, even to one who’s untrained.”
“You could go to Montpelier.” A flash of fear overtook Anna.
“No, I can’t.”
15 August 1814, Monday
We don’t need the British to destroy us, we can do it ourselves. I am beginning to think that Armstrong, a New Yorker, doesn’t mind sacrificing Washington to the British. Northerners regard Washington as a Southern city. When Jemmy demanded that Armstrong erect defensive earthworks and trenches around the city, he replied, “Bayonets are known to form the most efficient barriers.”
French John avoids Armstrong. He swears he will wring the man’s neck. With his powerful build, he could do it, too. I rather wish he would.
Jemmy was so tired this morning that I combed and dressed his hair. He calls me his favorite barber. He fell asleep in his chair. If James Monroe and William Jones hadn’t arrived, I would have let him sleep.
I forgot to remove my dice from my pocket. I usually hide them in my desk. Jemmy opened his eyes and asked what was rattling. No point in evading him. I fetched the dice out of my pocket. His tone was mild. “No wagering, Mrs. Madison.”
“No,” I said.
Then he left the room. Uncle Willy, uncharacteristically silent, cocked his turquoise-and-yellow head and looked at me as if to say, “Uh-oh.”
On top of everything else I’ve disappointed my husband. Now he’ll worry that I’m gambling again, as I once was overfond of cards.
Of all times for me to fail my Jemmy!
I wrote him a letter and put it on his pillow. He’s still in meetings and I heard James Blake’s voice when he was admitted over three hours past. Our mayor, once portly, is now nearly as thin as Jemmy, who is positively gaunt.
We’ve heard outrageous rumors about the officials of Alexandria removing gold from the banks and preparing a separate peace treaty should the British choose to strike by sailing up the Potomac.
Given that troops have harried the Chesapeake for these two years, I don’t know which way they will come. Sailing up the Potomac would seem easier than marching overland from the east, but then I know little of military maneuvers. I think I’ve seen every political maneuver possible under the sun.
Which reminds me, now that Russia and England coo at each other, Daschkov is more circumspect in his relations with us. He’s not cool, but his dispatches from Saint Petersburg must be taking a different tone. I wish I could see them. I hate Sukey’s continuing duplicity over Daschkov. I haven’t the strength to be bothered with her, but I find myself flying off the handle, and I know that is one reason.
I asked her to warm my curling iron this afternoon—the humidity necessitated this second torturing of my hair—and she said she was “busy.” I don’t know what got into me, but I stood up and, in front of Anna, too, shouted, “You’ll do as I say and you’ll do it now!” My curling iron appeared as if by magic. I scared Anna, too.
She said I used to yell at her to churn the butter when we were small. Anna swore I was as frightening as Mother when she had reached the end of her patience, but then hastened to add that I possess much more patience than our mother had.
I don’t think I do. Mother was besieged by many more children than either Anna or myself. Anna may catch up to Mother, who bore nine children, but I won’t, and my solitary specimen was no trouble at all. Willful sometimes, but Payne was an uncommonly sweet child, eager to please. I suppose he still is. I hear so little from him, perhaps he has changed. Then too, Mother for years had the burden of Father, a hermit on the second floor. I don’t think I ever appreciated her life until recently. I don’t know how she did it.
I’m wandering again. Am I going to be one of those old women who sit around and dream of the past? I hope not. Maybe I’m thinking about it now because it’s a retreat from the present, but thinking about Mother’s hardships isn’t especially pleasant. I did little to help her. Oh, I worked hard—all the Payne women work hard—but I didn’t understand how she felt. I didn’t even think about it. My head was full of girlish foolishness’—namely, myself. I hope she forgave me. She never upbraided me, but she must have felt very alone despite being surrounded by her children. How ironic that we live cheek by jowl with the mother and father who brought us into this world; yet we know precious little about them, nor do we care until we are older, and by then it’s too late. Would that I could honor my mother with the love she deserved. Since I can’t, I offer it to my son and my friends. Is this the compact of generations?
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
General William Winder, a study in perpetual motion, rode between camps but issued no orders for entrenchments, roadblocks, or even, at the simplest level, felled trees. Having seen action once, briefly, he was unprepared for the command of the Potomac District, which included both Washington and Baltimore.
The more time James Madison spent with General Winder, the more he realized that this decent man was not qualified for the task of Washington’s defense. However, Madison’s few young fighting generals were hundreds of miles away. The one advantage of Winder’s appointment was the full cooperation of his uncle, Levin Winder, the strong Federalist governor of Maryland.
The President was a politician and he needed to watch his back. Putting Winder in charge would prevent the governor from negotiating separately with the British. Much as Madison wanted to believe that Levin Winder would prove a patriot, the example set by the governors of Massachusetts and Connecticut bade him be cautious. They had scotched his every effort to raise militia within those states. He was kept current on their part in organizing a conference against the war. Keep Levin Winder in the war. Give his nephew an opportunity for glory. As glory seemed unlikely, at least William Winder would have the opportunity to do his duty. That was more than others had done, and Madison knew a live dog was worth more than a dead lion.
“Mr. President, do I have your permission to call out the militia?” Mayor James Blake’s usually jolly face was drawn, making him appear ten years older.
“I would advise you to keep them in readiness, but do not assemble them publicly just yet, sir. We do not wish to spark a panic.”
Blake peered at the wide blue ribbon of the Potomac, curling across the map. “The faint hearts have fled.” He smiled. “Those of us left will do the best we can.”
Madison nodded. “
We’ll throw rocks if we have to.”
Blake lifted his eyes, looking into Madison’s clear ones. “There’s no hope for my city, is there?”
“There’s always hope, Mr. Blake … always.”
16 August 1814, Tuesday
A strange miasma of unreality enshrouds us now, like a silvery fog obscuring the landscape’s beauties as well as its pitfalls. John Armstrong says any British troop movements in our direction are a feint to cover their true target, Baltimore. His vehemence is his defense against reality.
But it isn’t just Armstrong, it’s the city. Those remaining go about their business like dreamers. I know that I do.
And somehow, not knowing is worse than knowing. Will they come? When? By what route? Our men are fighting in New York and deep in the Mississippi Delta, and we know nothing. Have we won any battles? Have we lost any? Rumor travels with a thousand tongues, the truth with but one. Hardest of all is the waiting.
It reminds me of when my oldest brother, Walter, sailed for England in 1785. When four months had passed and we heard no word, we thought that Walter might be slow in writing. Another month passed and Mother walked down to the docks to ask the sailors and their captains if they knew of the ship. They did, but no one had had any report of the ship’s ever making land. No one had seen it. As the months passed and then the years, Mother accepted that Walter had been lost at sea. But in those first months, I used to think we’d surely hear some news. We heard nothing. I couldn’t stand it. Mother could, and did.
This time reminds me of then but in a different way. Thousands are waiting and watching for the glint of a bayonet, the rap of a drum, a shot, something, yet nothing happens.
French John bought a whole hog today for dinner. I go on entertaining as usual, if a bit more feverishly. The hog cost six dollars, dressed. French John reported that the butcher first asked for eight! If time is standing still for me, it certainly rushes forward at the marketplace.
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