I carry my dice in my pocket and occasionally feel their cool, pitted surfaces. I don’t know why, but the touch soothes me. And then I wonder what has become of Senator Brown. Is he too staving off the British, in Louisiana? Is he alive?
Right now, only James Monroe knows where the enemy is. I hope he has returned—poor Elizabeth must have spent an anxious day. One good thing about the British. With those red coats, they’re hard to miss.
What astonishes me is that men will board ships and sail across a vast ocean for the pleasure of fighting other men. The call is to duty or putting us in our place or whatever, but underneath that there must be an element of pleasure involved. Otherwise, it’s quite insane.
But tonight everything seems insane. I even wonder about myself. My heart races. I have difficulty breathing. I know that I am prepared to die, but truthfully, I wouldn’t mind living either.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
A one-hundred-man guard, under the command of Colonel Charles Carroll, surrounded the White House. Outside, bedlam turned into pandemonium. An enveloping red dust cloud obscured his view, but James Madison could hear clearly. Hoofbeats, the creaking of wagons, the crack of whips, and the continuing shouts, cries, and hollers of fleeing people haunted him. If he survived this chaos, he knew he would never forget the sounds of panic.
James Monroe had reported back that the British were moving by land and by river barges. He estimated four thousand men in columns and another thousand on the barges.
Another report from General Winder confirmed that the British had reached Nottingham, a little town halfway between Benedict and Washington, the night before. If they continued their march today, they might get within twenty miles of Washington.
The British would assume that the bridges had been blown, so they would seek the best ford across the East Branch of the Potomac. That meant Bladensburg, if Washington was their goal. Hanging along the Patuxent River, the British could still turn east toward Baltimore, but James Madison was certain they would not.
Madison wondered why they didn’t sail up the Potomac. Perhaps they feared the banks of the Potomac would bristle with cannon. Whatever their reasons, they were swinging through Maryland.
He ordered all remaining government papers moved out immediately. This time he specified the destination, Leesburg, thirty-five miles west in Virginia.
He also badgered anyone who would listen to concentrate troops around Washington.
James Blake struggled to keep the looters frightened off, but he was no more successful at that than at squeezing troops out of Armstrong for his city. Of all the men caught in this spiked web, the mayor of Washington was the one for whom James Madison felt the most pity.
Distant explosions rumbled through the house. Outside, the screams intensified. Commodore Barney, ordered closer to the city, scuttled his fifteen gunboats to keep them out of the hands of the British.
James Madison decided to meet General Winder at Long Old Fields, nine miles distant, that night. Perhaps his presence would hearten the men.
Later that same afternoon, John Armstrong passed between the State and War offices. He pulled a handkerchief over his face to keep off the dust. A sturdy, middle-aged man, Mr. Pleasanton, was carefully placing George Washington’s letters, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and other valuable documents in a linen sack.
“What are you doing?” Armstrong demanded.
“The President ordered me to move all government papers out of Washington.”
Armstrong’s upper lip curled. “That’s just like Madison, to screech alarm like an old woman. The British have no intention of converging on Washington.”
With disgust he passed Pleasanton, who didn’t even bother to reply.
Louis Serurier, spared close contact with John Armstrong, hastily wrote a dispatch to his government. Fearing the worst, he wanted to send out one last communiqué before the city was overrun. He informed His Majesty Louis XVIII that the Americans would not dispute the British in the field, owing to their inexperience; the British were battle-hardened. He believed, however, that the Americans would make a stand six miles northeast of the capital, at Bladensburg, since it was an easy fording place over the East Branch. He scribbled in haste, blotted his mistakes, and handed the dispatch to his man, who immediately headed toward the Potomac since that route was open.
Lisel held her husband’s hand as the messenger mounted his horse and took off through the mob.
“Louis, do you think we are in danger?”
“No, we’re more in danger from criminals than from the British. After all, a minister is protected by the laws of civilized nations.”
“You have more faith in civilization than I do,” Lisel said without rancor.
“The British have no wish to insult a minister of France—not now, anyway. Are you ready to go to Mr. Tayloe’s?”
“Yes, I think we’d best go at nightfall. We’ll not get through now.” She surveyed the mass of humans and horses trudging toward Virginia. “Madame de Stahl is ready, too.”
“That cat will destroy the Octagon House, and you know the very reason John Tayloe asked us to occupy it is to prevent the British from destroying it.”
“We’ve discussed it. She promises not to claw one piece of furniture.”
Louis looked at his wife with exasperation and shook his head. A war at their door and they were discussing the cat.
The British reached Upper Marlboro, sixteen miles from Washington. Admiral George Cockburn joined them there. The dolorous news reached Madison as Paul was saddling his horse.
James walked back to Dolley’s room. She stopped writing and rose to greet him.
“I’ll return tomorrow. Will you wait here for me?”
“Of course.” Dolley wrapped her arms around him and he returned the embrace. “You’ll squeeze the breath out of me.”
“I don’t want to let go.” He kissed her with all his passion and all the memory of their life together.
“Take care, Jemmy, take care.” She fought back the tears. “Your country needs you … as do I.”
“I’ll be fine.” He embraced her again and turned for the door. “Look to the Cabinet papers and take care of yourself.” He hesitated. “If there’s a change in plan, I’ll get a message to you.”
Dolley accompanied him to the door and watched him ride into the melancholy last light of evening. When she turned to go back to her room, Uncle Willy was waddling toward her, wings outstretched as though to hug her, mouth open but no squawks. Then her tears came.
22 August 1814, Monday
Midnight, and here I sit drinking darkness. When I go to bed at night, my mind races with the number of people I must see, things I must do on the morrow. Tomorrow. What a glorious word. It implies hope and sunrise and a fresh slate of chores, breakfast, giving the servants their orders, hot coffee and the first caller of the day, my husband’s good morning kiss. Tomorrow. The word sounds different now.
My chores are to save the Cabinet papers and to not fret over my husband’s well-being. He’s nine miles away tonight and it feels like one thousand. Would that I could have ridden with him, out the gate onto the dusty street, occasionally passing a house with lights on inside, someone who decided to stay. We could have ridden past the Navy Yard and over the river and then into the deep meadows of Maryland, a beautiful state. I have always loved the countryside. I know the road. I would have given anything to be with Jemmy. I have no fear of soldiers or camps, and at this moment I have no fear of the British either. I’m too tired to be afraid and too amazed at what I’ve seen: a city, like a tortured human being, losing its mind.
These damned skirts, swishing every time I take a step! If I had a pair of breeches, I could throw my leg over a horse, stick my hair up under my turban, and go. Let anyone try to stop me. What are the proprieties at a time like this? It’s quite absurd really. My place is with my husband, and my task to ease his mind as much as possi
ble during this impossible time.
Logically, I should have been the one to ride out. I’m younger and stronger than Jemmy. But I shall stay here and pack the papers, speak with anyone who calls, and do my best to keep people calm. I sent out invitations to the Cabinet members and their wives for dinner tomorrow. I shall keep going, keep to the routine, and keep up spirits. Still, I’d much rather be at Long Old Fields. I’d rather be anywhere but here. Is it always the fate of women to watch and to wait? To have no voice in government and yet to suffer all the pains of men’s actions? Abigail Adams was right.
We fight the British and yet we have slaves and keep women in a kind of purdah. The paradox of independence has not escaped me. Free from Britain and British interference, yes, but are we free from ourselves?
I know somewhere in the life of this country we must set our slaves free. And we must allow women to contribute in their fashion to the greatness of our country. I will not live to see these dreams. It’s enough that I have lived to witness the first war against Britain, and I pray that I shall live through the second.
And while I live through it, what of the time it has stolen?
Jemmy and I have had so little time together these last few months that I look at him and sometimes it’s as though I am seeing him anew. Oddly, he appears younger to me than he has in years. He’s tired, often, but his strength of purpose lifts him up and rejuvenates him. His eyes glitter with ideas, and his voice, a light voice, sounds firm. He is as lean now as when I first met him. I know he is not a handsome man; yet he is handsome to me and when he held me tonight, he felt like fire, he felt so young.
From outside I can hear occasional shouts and even a shot. James Blake imposed a ten o’clock evening curfew, which is being rigorously enforced. The panic, for tonight at least, has lessened, but the rumors about Federalists in southern Maryland giving aid and directions to the British have inflamed emotions other than panic. Some citizens think these traitors and spies are mixing with the refugees, so people from Maryland are being roughly treated. Such conditions provide cover for the settling of old grudges. One man has only to accuse another of spying, and the damage is done.
William Jones ordered most of the gunpowder removed from the Navy Yard. French John told me that the clerk of the Navy Yard had to hire private teams for the task, and people charged one week’s wages for the use of their wagons. Six dollars!
I do not understand how anyone can seek profit from distress. Private considerations must give way to public good.
Entrenchments are being dug, but as Mother Amy would say, “It’s a day late and a dollar short.” The free Negroes, and some slaves as well, are helping to dig the trenches. So much for the rumor that Frederick, Maryland, was the headquarters for a slave revolt—a rumor fostered by the British.
The slaves remain loyal, more loyal in many cases than are free white men. This tears at my heart and batters my conscience. Why so strong and why now I cannot say. It’s a bit like seeing Uncle Willy today as he ran toward me when Jemmy left. The sight of him splintered my shell and let the pain rush in to all the soft, hidden places.
May God bless and help every African, may God forgive us our trespasses toward these people. I don’t know if I can forgive us. I don’t know if I can forgive myself.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
The haunting call of a redheaded woodpecker was the first thing James Madison heard when he awoke at five-thirty in the morning. He noticed it because woodpeckers are usually still asleep before dawn, but the men encamped outside the house, owned by a family named Williams, must have disturbed the bird. After a few more calls of disgust the woodpecker flew off, for Madison heard the throaty song once more from a distance.
At six General Winder rode over from Long Old Fields. He neglected to tell the President that at two in the morning the American Army had sounded the alarm, rushed to formation, bayonets fixed, because cattle being driven in for the commissary were mistaken for attacking British soldiers. A dragoon told the President, who gently replied that in the dark perhaps a cow and a man did somewhat resemble each other. What he wished to say was that Armstrong resembled a horse’s ass.
Armstrong glowered during the morning briefing like a dog eyeing a disputed bone. General Winder ignored him.
“As the British are thirty miles from their fleet, without cavalry and without artillery, I think they will wait for reinforcements before moving. When those reinforcements arrive, I believe that General Ross will then move on the capital.” Winder spoke quietly.
“A Cossack hurrah is what Washington will see,” Armstrong responded. “A foray for the sake of panicking the people. That’s what the British will do. From Upper Marlboro they will turn east toward Baltimore and they will have the support of Admiral Cochrane on the smaller boats. To come overland and strike west means they lose the effect of their naval guns.”
“Their naval guns will be useless on the Patuxent.” William Jones betrayed his profound distaste for Armstrong.
“They are perfectly capable of sailing down the Patuxent and up the Chesapeake to Baltimore and there to meet the entire fleet,” Armstrong stubbornly replied.
“They are capable of that and much else, but we have no intelligence that the fleet has moved from Benedict. And if they were planning a coordinated attack, I should think they would have done so,” Jones fired back, “unless their planning is as bad as our own.”
“Gentlemen.” Madison stepped in. “Better to dispute the enemy at this hour than ourselves.”
“Well, I say that Washington is not the target. A foray into the capital is likely, and what we should do is place a small number of men, a brigade perhaps or even a regiment, and hide them in the Capitol. When the British exhaust themselves, our men will rush out for an all-out charge.”
The crackbrained scheme elicited no response from the assembled men. Armstrong sulked as Winder discreetly moved to the possibility of having Brigadier General Tobias Stansbury shift his fourteen hundred men at Bladensburg over to the three thousand now standing at Long Old Fields. Eight hundred men sat at Annapolis, somewhat far for immediate support, and another eight hundred, a patchwork of Maryland Militia, were now marching south to meet Winder.
The meeting broke up and Madison rode over to camp to inspect the troops. The men seemed cheerful and hurrahed their President, who was pleased.
Thomas L. McKenney, a sandy-haired dry goods dealer from Georgetown, rode into camp. He had been scouting the British with James Monroe and reported to General Winder that the British stayed put in Upper Marlboro, but he felt certain they would move on Winder’s camp within twenty-four hours.
Armstrong interrupted him. “They will attack Baltimore or Annapolis. Why bother with our camp? If there’s movement at Upper Marlboro, it’s because they have to steal food from the countryside.”
McKenney stared at the Secretary of War in disbelief, but a sidelong glance from Winder prevented another useless exchange with Armstrong.
Madison returned to the Williams house and quickly wrote Dolley. He knew the British had not come this far for the benefits of the climate, but he also believed that they might not move until all their troops were assembled in a few days’ time. Joshua Barney had been their target for months, and now that he had blown his flotilla to bits as he was ordered to do, the British might need to reexamine their plans. He grabbed a pencil and wrote to Dolley:
My dearest … I have passed the forenoon among the troops, who are in high spirits and make a good appearance. The reports as to the enemy have varied every hour. The last and probably truest information is that they are not very strong and are without cavalry or artillery, and of course that they are not in a condition to strike Washington. It is believed that they are not about to move from Marlboro. It is possible, however, that they have a greater force, or expect one, or that their temerity may be greater than their strength.
He finished, folded the paper, sealed it, and handed it to a
n aide.
“Speed this on to Mrs. Madison.”
The aide saluted and rode off. As of that moment, General Winder possessed three thousand men, four hundred twenty-five cavalry, and twenty guns.
James Madison twisted his feet around to loosen his ankles. Constant riding had caused the joints to stiffen.
The pencil rested on the table. He picked it up and examined it. Ingenious. He much preferred his quill, but this was certainly easy to carry.
A mood of quiet, even relaxation, spread over the Williams estate. Madison called for his horse and mounted up. William Jones accompanied him as did John Armstrong. The three started toward Washington in uneasy silence.
“Get me the trunk with the leaf-pattern lining.”
“Where is it?” Sukey asked Mrs. Madison.
Dolley thought for a moment, papers spread on the floor around her. “French John will know.”
“Do I have to talk to him?” A faint pout hung on Sukey’s perfect lips.
“Yes, you have to talk to him, and considering our circumstances, I suggest you do it right now.”
Sukey caught the tone and immediately left in search of the overworked man. Dolley heard her footfall patter down the hallway.
“Willy, stop that.”
Willy continued to walk over valuable state documents, his sharp little claws clicking against the heavy papers. He enjoyed the sound. Dolley put down the sheaf of papers in her hand and picked him up. He turned his head nearly upside down and clucked at her. She sighed and placed him on his perch, a location that seemed to hold little appeal for the macaw. Dolley gave up when he fluttered down on the papers again. She couldn’t sort through the documents and attend to Willy too.
French John appeared with the trunk, Sukey walking a distance behind him. The two maintained a strained politeness.
“We’ve got one carriage,” French John reminded his mistress. “But after Mr. Madison’s note, perhaps we won’t need it.”
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