Dolley

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Well, he told me to see to the Cabinet papers and I’d best keep at it.”

  A knock at the door made Sukey run to the window while French John answered the door.

  “Missus, the soldiers are going.”

  Dolley walked to the window. Colonel Carroll and his guard were lined up smartly and were marching away.

  “What’s that mean?” Sukey was suspicious.

  “That we don’t need them, I guess.” Dolley returned to her task, and French John entered with a handsome envelope on a silver tray. Dolley took the envelope, opened it, and read:

  August 23, 1814

  My Dear Madam,

  In the present state of alarm and bustle of preparation for the worst that may happen, I imagine it will be more convenient to dispense with the enjoyment of your hospitality today, and therefore, pray you to admit this as an excuse for Mr. Jones, Lucy, and myself. Mr. Jones is deeply engaged in dispatching the Marines and attending to other public duties. Lucy and I are packing, with the possibility of having to leave; but in the event of necessity we know not where to go, nor have we any means yet prepared for the conveyance of our effects. I sincerely hope and trust the necessity may be avoided, but there appears rather serious cause of apprehension. Our carriage horse is sick, our coachman absent, or I should have called last evening to see your sister. I feel great solicitude on her account. Yours very truly and affectionately,

  E. Jones

  Dolley folded the letter and absentmindedly packed it with the documents.

  “Eleanor Jones will not: be attending dinner.” She looked up at French John. “Well, have Paul set the table anyway. We don’t know what’s happening from one minute to the next, and if all goes well, we’ll sit down to dinner sometime.”

  “It’s too hot to eat,” Sukey complained.

  “Since when has that stopped you?” French John snarled at her.

  “All right, you two. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Mrs. Madison”—French John, unusually serious, bent over and handed Dolley more papers—“allow me to spike the cannon at the gate and to lay a trail of gunpowder into the house. I can blow it up once the British get inside.”

  “No,” came Dolley’s surprised reply.

  “Let’s kill as many as we can,” French John pleaded.

  “They aren’t here yet, and they may not come. I won’t have this house turned into a tinderbox and I won’t have you murdering men like that.”

  “It’s not murder, it’s war.”

  “No.”

  Help came from an unexpected quarter. “They’re killing us!” Sukey spat.

  “I said no, and I mean no. Now everyone get back to work.”

  French John left, angry, and Sukey, also displeased, tossed papers into the trunk. Dolley glanced outside and saw a man struggling to haul his bedding on his back. How long before he abandoned that prized possession?

  French John strode back into the room. “If I can’t blow up the house, then let me take valuables over to Monsieur Serurier.”

  “He’s overburdened enough. John Tayloe asked him to take up residence in the Octagon House, and I heard that Ruth Barlow stored furniture over there last night.”

  “They have a bedsheet with hand-drawn fleurs-de-lis hanging from a pole.” French John’s mouth curled up at the corner. The thought of seeing a Royalist flag so humbly presented amused him.

  “If the situation gets bad enough, take Uncle Willy there.”

  Willy squawked at the sound of his name.

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all The cook has agreed to take King George, so our little family will be scattered but safe.”

  “Who’s going to take me?” Sukey clutched a beautifully inscribed paper.

  “I’m going to take you. Don’t crumple that paper, Sukey. Come on, we’ve got to keep packing.”

  That evening another penciled note from the President arrived. Dolley ripped it open in haste. He asked her to be ready to leave Washington at a moment’s notice. She placed the note in her skirt pocket along with her dice. She said nothing to the servants. Better to wait and see.

  23 August 1814, Tuesday

  Jemmy spent the day in the saddle. He’s home asleep now but for how long I don’t know. I wish I could sleep. Every hour brings a different story as to the whereabouts of the British. I suspect, if they have any sense, that they’re asleep.

  Anna finally left today for the Forrests’. I’ve been so busy I haven’t put down her recalcitrance in my diary. I thought that she had gone on Sunday, and then I learned that she had stayed back. She lingered in town as long as possible until Richard got furious and put his foot down.

  Jemmy stopped at the Cutts house and was so famished that Richard begged him to pause a moment and eat something. Bless Richard.

  Then Jemmy rode over to the Monroes’ at Twentieth and I streets, where he had yet another meeting with that pompous invertebrate, Armstrong. Monroe has been in the saddle even more than Jemmy. He’s shadowed the enemy for days. Jemmy reported that Monroe, while fatigued, is bursting with ideas.

  A Colonel George Minor of the 10th Virginia Militia has bedded down his seven hundred men in the House of Representatives. I hope they can sleep. Those awful red curtains would give me nightmares. It may be that this is the first cooperative body of men to inhabit the House of Representatives. French John told me hardly any of those men have muskets or rifles.

  Dear French John, he rushes from my house to his own. I would be lost without him.

  Jemmy told me that the two bridges into Maryland will be destroyed if we hear the enemy is advancing in our direction. The lower bridge is a good strong bridge, but the Stoddert’s Bridge is so rickety that destroying it will be a public service.

  Jacob Barker, the banker, appeared at our door not ten minutes after Jemmy dragged in. He asked permission to blow up the Capitol so that the enemy could not possess it. If our Capitol is to be destroyed, Jemmy replied, far better to let that terrible task fall to the British. It might arouse the nation.

  Such questions, which even twenty-four hours ago would have seemed ludicrous, now make perfect sense.

  Tonight the streets are deserted. There’s not a breath of wind, and a huge, clammy hand is cupped over Washington. Mayor Blake is patrolling the streets himself with some of the militia. They seem like ghosts wandering around a graveyard.

  I search people’s faces now, studying their every feature, the light in their eyes, in case I never see them again.

  I practice calling up their images: Anna, fair and bright; Lisel with her exotic, dark beauty; Jemmy—Jemmy’s picture is both the easiest and the hardest to call up in my mind. Some moments my fear for him overwhelms me so, I can’t remember how he looks. I tiptoe over to bed to stare at him. I want to remember everything. The frostbite scar on his nose. His upper lip, longer than his lower; his fine hands, such lovely hands. His hair, nearly white now with streaks of gray, like his mother’s. His face is ruddy from exposure to the sun these last days, and fine veins show under his eyes. A light gray stubble covers his chin and cheeks. He’s so fastidious about shaving, sometimes he’ll be shaved twice a day. Not today.

  I can bear anything, dear God, anything but the loss of my husband.

  Until the morrow, God willing.

  D.P.M.

  At three-thirty in the morning a scarlet glow trembled in the east like a hesitant sunrise. Dolley, sleeping fitfully, opened her eyes, lay still, and then slipped her bare feet onto the floor. No birds called. A hush, almost a reverent quiet, enveloped Washington. She hurried to the top floor of the house. From the window she saw the pinkish light. The silence, the velvet darkness around the ball of light, convinced her this was not the sun. She thought for a moment. If the Navy Yard had been torched, she would have heard explosions and the light would be much closer. It had to be a bridge burning, but which one she didn’t know. She pressed her nose to the windowpane and then opened the window, breathing in the night air, heav
y and moist. The August stars, so cool and distant, promised no relief. When this day dawned, the earth would fry, a steaming heat unknown to the British. Well, that was one advantage, the climate. The United States seemed to have few others.

  Dolley watched until four o’clock and then tiptoed downstairs. A chirp from Uncle Willy announced that he would like the cover removed so that he, too, could see. She lifted the fabric from his cage and opened the door, and he instantly hopped out. Willy loved having Dolley to himself. She kissed him. He kissed her back while he cooed and danced. She fed him, and when he was happily cracking seeds, she went into the bedroom. Jemmy, dead asleep, had to be wakened. Dolley didn’t have the heart to do it while it remained dark outside. She walked through the house to the kitchen in back, started a fire, and ground coffee. While the pot brewed, she walked back to the bedroom and gently shook her husband awake.

  He opened his eyes, lay still for a moment, then sat bolt upright. “Who’s here?”

  “Just me.”

  After coffee Dolley and James climbed up on the roof and searched the area with spyglasses just as the sun came up. Dolley pointed to where she saw the fire’s glow. James concurred that it was the bridge over the East Branch.

  When they returned downstairs, French John was at work and a still-sleepy Sukey was tying up the last of the four trunks crammed with papers. A few changes of clothes covered the papers. When Dolley ran out of trunks, she decided to fold her clothes over the documents. Even if she found more trunks, French John didn’t think he could find another wagon. This was it.

  Before the sun had cleared the horizon, a messenger arrived with a note from General Winder. It was meant for Armstrong, but the messenger delivered it to Madison either by mistake or by design, since the fighting men despised Armstrong. Madison wasted no time trying to find out why the message was brought to him: Winder was asking for help. He’d broken down three horses the day before, fallen in a ditch while walking on foot in the pitch darkness, and wrenched his shoulder and turned his ankle. None of this was in the note; the messenger told it all to the President. Madison read and reread the note. The general would kill himself with exhaustion before the British reached him.

  “You may tell the general that I am on my way,” Madison told the now-smiling messenger as Dolley left to find his boots.

  “I boned them,” French John called out. “I’ll get them.”

  “When did you have time to do that?” Dolley wondered, knowing that running a deer bone on the inside of the boot, and the outside too, was tedious labor.

  “I work fast.” French John smiled. “I can’t have the President riding in cracked, dirty boots.”

  Dolley turned back to the front hall. “Jemmy, if there’s a fight today, don’t ride to the front. This country needs a live President, not a—”

  “Dead hero.” Madison finished her sentence for her, a habit that occasionally irritated her but not this morning. “My dear, I will protect myself as best I can, but my place is with the Army.”

  “I’m not arguing that,” said Dolley, who did at that moment feel argumentative.

  “Here they are.” French John handed the President his boots and boot pulls.

  “These boots look new.” Madison complimented French John for the miracle he had worked.

  Sukey and Paul peered around the corner. Would this be the last time they saw the Master?

  James Madison carefully reached down and took his wife’s hand and brought it to his lips.

  Sukey, not remotely moved by this or any other scene of romantic devotion between a man and a woman, blurted out, “They coming? They coming, Master James?”

  “I don’t know but I think they will. You watch over Mrs. Madison and attend to her every need, Sukey.”

  Sukey nodded.

  “I’ll see you tonight, and if there’s any change, I’ll send word.” Madison returned his gaze to his wife, kissed her hand again, and then stepped toward the door, which French John opened.

  “Jemmy,” Dolley called out, then embraced him and let him go.

  He walked down the steps, mounted his horse, tipped his hat to his wife, and rode off.

  At seven in the morning the President was joined by Secretary of the Navy William Jones and by James Monroe, who was back from Bladensburg, in General William Winder’s temporary headquarters. The conference continued until close to ten o’clock, when it seemed clear, thanks to the latest reports of enemy movements, that a stand would be made at Bladensburg. John Armstrong arrived unforgivably late, offered little advice, and seemed not to grasp the desperation of the hour.

  The one verbal outburst after they left that queerly polite meeting came from Commodore Joshua Barney. General Winder had ordered Barney to guard the Navy Yard bridge and to fire it. Barney fulminated when the President rode out with the others to inspect the Navy Yard on their way to Bladensburg.

  “What do you mean, leaving me here to blow up a bridge? I’ve got the only men who know how to fight. We’re Navy men! The Army isn’t worth a tinker’s damn. Goddamnit, Mr. President, a corporal and five men can blow up this bridge. We mean to fight, so let us fight … sir.”

  A strained silence followed this outburst. No one had ever witnessed a man speak to the President this way.

  Far from being offended, James Madison was grateful that someone wanted to fight. God knows, his Secretary of War didn’t, and General Winder was exhausted and in over his head.

  “Commodore, I believe you’re right. Get on with it then.”

  An ear-to-ear grin illuminated Barney’s strong face. “Get moving, men. We’ll show ’em what the Navy can do. Hell, we’ll do it for ’em, the ignorant, soft jackasses.”

  His five hundred men limbered the five naval guns, fell into formation, and began the march to Bladensburg.

  George Campbell, who in February had replaced Navy Secretary William Jones as Secretary of the Treasury, had joined in the early-morning meeting because he was a Cabinet officer, though a sick one. If the government was to fall, he would fall with it. He regretted that he was not feeling better. He regretted even more that Albert Gallatin could not have remained Secretary of the Treasury. William Jones had become too burdened with the war to continue serving as both Secretary of the Navy and acting Secretary of the Treasury. Madison, Campbell knew, was plagued with sick men and incompetent men. Campbell could not find money as Gallatin could, although in less-trying times his efforts would have been sufficient. His increasing sickness lessened his effectiveness, and he was aware he lacked Gallatin’s gift of seeing the entire problem. Campbell could see only bits of the problem, but he knew one of those bits was Armstrong.

  Barney’s direct speech encouraged him.

  “Mr. President.”

  “Yes.” Madison turned to the stricken man, so ill he held on to the pommel of his saddle for balance.

  “By chance I engaged Mr. Armstrong in conversation last night. He told me the defense of Washington was none of his business. He felt strongly that it was not his place to intrude on General Winder’s command.” Campbell gasped for breath, trying not to groan. “Mr. President, in our present state of distress, we need every experienced man available.”

  Madison blinked in surprise. The war and its prosecution were Armstrong’s duties wherever that war was fought. To ease Campbell’s mind, Madison promised, “I will ride up ahead to Mr. Armstrong and stress that he should speed to Bladensburg to assist General Winder.” Campbell smiled. “And you, sir, will return home.”

  “No, I can go forward.”

  “Mr. Campbell, I’ve already lost one Vice President, and I’m losing the second. Please, I don’t want to lose you. Your loyalty has heartened me, your assumption of the Herculean task of finding money impresses me. You are valuable. Please return. I command it.”

  Dust stung Campbell’s eyes. He bowed his head and turned his horse back toward Washington.

  Madison called after him. “Mr. Campbell, if the city is lost, we shall meet in Frederick
.”

  Campbell, torn by emotion, trotted back to the President. He unbuckled his dueling pistols and handed them to Madison. “For the love of God, sir, defend yourself from harm.” Before the President could reply, Campbell wheeled around and moved off, clenching his teeth in pain, heartsick as well.

  James Madison strapped on the pistols.

  Richard Rush, the young Attorney General, also riding in the small entourage, thought the pistols were bigger than the President. Madison’s horse, strongly favoring a hind leg, stumbled more frequently. “I’ve got to get another horse, Mr. Rush.”

  Fortunately, the President was able to swap horses with Charles Carroll at the Marine Barracks. Carroll promised to care for the mare. Madison loved his horses.

  As Rush and Madison rode toward Bladensburg, now five miles ahead, a column of men marched before them with Barney following.

  Rush, knowing Madison hated to part with his mare, talked horses with him. “You know, once this war is over, Thornton will set out and buy every blooded horse between the Atlantic and the Blue Ridge.”

  “He’s the only man I’ve ever known who can buy a weanling and not make a mistake.” Madison envied Thornton his legendary eye for horseflesh, and Madison wasn’t a bad horseman himself. “He wastes no money breeding them. He lets someone else bear that expense and then”—he snapped the fingers of his right hand—“he buys them just as the breeder’s money is running out.”

  “Shrewd,” Rush concurred.

  “And a Federalist, more’s the pity.” Madison shook his head.

  “Well, you were shrewd yourself when you left him in charge of the Patent Office.”

  “I will use a Federalist as readily as a Republican if he can do the job. It’s DeWitt Clinton’s approach that I fear. Apart from putting unqualified men in important positions, it will only harden the other party’s resolve to do the same when they’re in office.”

  “The spoils system,” Rush said.

  “Apt description.”