As she swayed, bumped, and slammed into the ever-cheerful Edward Duvall, the Potomac rolled into view on her left as the sun was setting. The waters were much higher than when she had crossed the river before, but at least they weren’t turbulent, just brown as chocolate. They would not get over the river tonight. Better to press on and find lodgings.
27 August 1814, Saturday
Late. I couldn’t cross the Potomac tonight. I don’t think there’s a bridge left standing on the Virginia side of the river. I’ll get over somehow tomorrow, early.
A strange lassitude overwhelms me. Not just because it’s late. I’ve felt this way throughout the day, drowsy and dull. It’s an effort to listen to Edward Duvall, likable though he is.
These last four days my husband and I, and our city, have been the playthings of chance. One doesn’t know what will happen from one minute to the next. In one sense that’s liberating and in another, exhausting.
I remember faces—faces I will probably never see again—of people fleeing the city, of those women who threw vegetables at me, of people staring out the windows of their homes as we rode by, of workers in the fields. And each face asks the same silent question: Why? What have you done?
It’s as though the hammer of fate aimed a blow at my heart.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
A shroud of dense fog covered the Potomac. Dolley could see, as she came closer, the blackened skeleton of Long Bridge looming through the thick mists. The abutments still stood on either side of the river. Grunts wafted out of the fog and a barge slid into view. Four African men pushed the long poles as a single white colonel kept his hand on the rudimentary rudder. The barge hit the land with a thud.
Dolley, her bonnet covering most of her face, walked down to the barge with Edward Duvall. She noticed a pile of munitions on the bank.
Edward spoke to the colonel. Dolley overheard the colonel’s name, Fenwick, as the two men introduced themselves. Edward asked for passage for himself, the lady, and the carriage. The colonel shook his head adamantly. He wouldn’t take a lady into what lay on the other side of the river. Edward kept talking and the colonel kept refusing as the watermen appraised the fancy carriage.
Dolley stepped up to the men, sweeping her bonnet off her head. “Colonel Fenwick.”
The stern man recognized her instantly. He removed his hat and bowed. “At your service, Mrs. Madison.”
The horses balked at the barge as they were being loaded. Dolley grabbed the bridle of the left horse, Edward grabbed that of the horse on the right, and a waterman got behind each animal. With a cluck, a tug, and a slap, the animals clambered onto the barge, which rocked back and forth under its new load.
Dolley stood, still holding the horse’s bridle, as the watermen poled across the river. She knew every gesture, every expression would be reported.
“You say all the British are gone, Colonel?”
“Not all of them, ma’am. They left behind over one hundred dead and maybe fifty wounded for whom the good Dr. Thornton is caring.”
“Dead? When I left Washington, none of our troops were left in the city.”
“Oh no, nothing like that.” The colonel smiled despite himself. “You know where Delaware Avenue runs down into Greenleaf Point, right where the East Branch flows into the Potomac?”
“I do.” She patted the horse’s neck, calming the animal.
“The fort was destroyed, as you might suspect, but the magazine remained, you see, with a good one hundred fifty barrels of powder, and so the British general figured that it would be better not to leave any powder for us. Now I grant you, those British can fight, but when the fighting is over I’m not sure just how smart they are, Mrs. Madison, because what they did was dump the powder into the well. There wasn’t enough water to cover the powder.” A big grin covered Colonel Fenwick’s face. “Some limey fool threw a cigar down the well, and BOOM! No well. No buildings. No more powder and no more British, at least at Greenleaf Point.”
“Good heavens.”
“Between that cigar and the storm, the British had had enough of our fair city.”
“You say Dr. Thornton has been caring for the wounded?”
“He has. Saved the Patent Office too. He ran out just as soldiers were ready to throw a torch into the building and said that burning such a place would be like burning Alexandria, a mark against any civilized nation. So they spared it.”
“He is an amazing man.”
“He’s been a second mayor to the city.”
“What happened to James Blake?” Dolley liked Blake.
“Oh, nothing, but as you know, Dr. Thornton is not a shy man and he thought that in the crisis more leadership was needed.” A sly smile played over his lips. “And, well, those two are fighting now like two boxers.”
“Oh dear.” Dolley sighed, knowing she’d be drawn into the middle of the quarrel. Wasn’t there enough to do?
The closer the barge floated to Washington, the faster Dolley’s heart pounded. As the horses gingerly stepped off the barge, Dolley turned and thanked the colonel and the four black polemen. She kept her bonnet in her hand and climbed back into the carriage. Together with Edward Duvall she set off into the city.
By the time Dolley reached Pennsylvania Avenue, she recognized that most private houses had indeed been unmolested by the British, although many had been damaged by the storm. The public buildings, however, had been looted and destroyed.
As the horses clopped down the dusty road, the buildings on either side stood lifeless, like dead trees. Few persons moved about. The desolation was as affecting as the devastation. The smell of charred wood assailed her nostrils. “I want to go home,” Dolley said quietly.
“Oh, Mrs. Madison, wait. You don’t want to see that now.”
“I do.”
“It will break your heart.”
“Is there anyone in this city who hasn’t had her heart broken?” Dolley set her jaw.
In the distance she could see the presidential mansion. A first glance revealed little damage, although the windows were blackened, but as the carriage drew closer, the full extent of the British depredations became obvious.
“Stop the carriage.”
“Don’t go in there. It might be dangerous,” Edward warned her.
“The British are gone.” She hopped out of the carriage.
“Yes, but with all the structural damage, Mrs. Madison—what if a wall should come down? Please don’t expose yourself to unnecessary risk.”
Dolley patted his arm. “Mr. Duvall, I appreciate you and your concern. I will be safe. Wait for me, I won’t be long. I promise.”
Edward held the horses and Dolley walked into what had been her home for thirteen years, since the time she had acted as Jefferson’s hostess when he was President.
The roof was gone. The acrid smell of smoke lingered over everything. She stood in the hall, the shock so profound that tears would have seemed superficial. She just stood and stared.
What the flames hadn’t gutted the British had. The furniture, that gorgeous, expensive furniture, had been smashed and piled up for firewood. Some of it had burned totally, leaving huge heaps of ashes. In other corners whole pieces of furniture had survived, and she could identify a chair leg, a desk top. Books must have delighted the British for their ability to burn. Jemmy’s library had been ransacked. One morocco-bound book, the gilt still shining, lay open like a wound, the corners of the pages brown and curled from the heat. The remaining curtains, pulled off their rods, had been shredded. Most had burned up.
She wandered about and noticed a huge hole in the northeast wall. She took a deep breath and walked back through the house, leaving by the front door.
She climbed into the carriage. Edward Duvall, not without sensitivity, said nothing and drove her to F Street.
As he pulled up before the Cutts house, Dolley fought to compose herself. Richard opened the door and rushed out to help her.
“
My dear Dolley! Thank God you are safe and well.”
“And you too, Richard.” Dolley embraced him, both of them crying. She thought his face one of the most beautiful sights she had ever beheld. “This is Edward Duvall of the Navy Yard.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Duvall.” Richard shook his hand. “Won’t you come inside and rest? Or take some refreshment?”
“Thank you, but I need to press on and deliver this team back to Mr. Parrott.”
“Ah, you know they burned his rope bridge,” Richard informed him.
Edward shook his head. There wasn’t much to say. “Let me know if I can be of further service to you and Mrs. Madison. She is …” He paused, and the sight of that small figure going into the ruined presidential mansion came to him. She seemed so tiny. The ruined house seemed to engulf her. “She is a credit to our people.”
Dolley turned from Richard and reached up to take Edward’s hand. “So are you, Edward Duvall, so are you.” She pressed his hand to her cheek and then released it.
Tears ran down Edward’s face. He didn’t want to leave her. He didn’t like what he saw, what was left of the city. He didn’t know what he would do next or what the city would do. He remembered his mother’s fierce etiquette training, but he could recall no rules for situations such as this. He wiped his eyes, nodded, and drove off.
Richard shepherded Dolley into his house, telling her that James had spent the previous night there. Yes, he was quite well and didn’t look nearly as tired as Richard thought he would. His spirit was strong. Anna remained in Maryland. He was debating whether to call her back or to wait until the baby was born because her time was so near. James would be back later in the day. He was rallying all the Cabinet members, and George Campbell was growing more and more ill. As far as he knew, Campbell was in Frederick with John Armstrong.
At the sound of Armstrong’s name, Dolley spoke sharply. “I don’t want to hear that name.”
Richard, making allowances for her state of mind, said, “Few do, Dolley, my dear, few do.”
Dr. William Thornton and his wife paid a call on Dolley. She was listless and drawn. The Thorntons had never seen her this way. Even so, she was solicitous of their health.
“What a rude shock for you, Mrs. Madison. We have had a few days to adjust.” Mrs. Thornton tried to be sympathetic.
“You’ll feel a little better tomorrow,” Dr. Thornton advised.
“I heard you saved the Patent Office.”
Dr. Thornton smiled. “I did what I could. Not all of them were savages.”
“They gave a good imitation. I saw our house.” Dolley sounded uncharacteristically bitter.
“Yes, that was tragic,” Mrs. Thornton agreed. “And Mrs. Madison, things would have been far worse if my William hadn’t taken charge. He posted citizen guards at every government building that had been burned, and at some that were still burning. He closed the Navy Yard gates. He visited the wounded, theirs too, and he went over to dear Dr. James Ewell and thanked him for all his good efforts on behalf of the physically distressed. William told Dr. Ewell that given the fact that the British wounded were suffering, we could no longer consider them our enemies.” Anna Maria Thornton would have continued to sing the praises of her energetic husband if he had not gently put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed.
“Dear, Mrs. Madison has had quite a difficult few days.” Then he smiled at Dolley. “We can’t contain our joy at your return. Now you get some rest, Mrs. Madison. For everyone’s sake. You are dear to the nation.”
Dolley rose and ushered them out. As she closed the door, she leaned against it and shut her eyes for an instant.
Richard waited until she opened them to speak. “Have you heard about the Thornton-Blake feud?” He noticed her vacant look. “Dolley, here, come on, sit down.”
“I did hear about it, in part.”
“Well, sit down. We can discuss that later. You looked peaked.”
“Richard, I feel so peculiar. I know who you are. I know where I am but it seems … it seems …”
“Unreal.” He finished her sentence for her.
“Yes. Unreal.”
“We may feel that way for a long time.” He ran his fingers through his hair and sat opposite his beloved sister-in-law, who looked nothing like his wife, yet reminded him of her: the same voice, the same mannerisms, the same sense of humor. “Did you hear about John Lewis?”
“George Washington’s great-nephew, that John Lewis, or the carpenter in Georgetown?”
“Washington’s great-nephew.”
“What happened to him?”
“He charged a column of British as they marched on the State, War, and Navy Department building. Screaming and firing at them. No one knows what he was screaming, but the British officer called for him to stop and he wouldn’t, so the British knelt down and fired and just riddled him, Dolley, just riddled him. Didn’t touch the horse. He was dead by the time he hit the ground.”
Her hand went to her mouth, an involuntary gesture. “My God.” She thought and then spoke again. “He never was quite right in the head, you know, but I think he did it to avenge his great-uncle. The burden of being a relative of President Washington’s must have been very heavy indeed.”
Richard wanted to say, “And so can being the son of Dolley Madison,” but he bit his tongue and kept to the story of Lewis. “The British declared that he smelled of whiskey. But remember, he had been impressed by the Royal Navy when he ran off to sea and his ship was overtaken. He swore vengeance.”
Dolley recalled the story but wasn’t entirely convinced. “He was always unbalanced, from the time he was little. Still, what a terrible end, or perhaps a glorious end, a better end than he could have hoped for had he lived on. Sometimes I wonder, Richard, if the human animal can improve itself or if whatever is in the blood recurs from generation to generation—the same mistakes, the same behavior in a different time.”
“I don’t know. Dolley, you look exhausted. Why don’t you see if you can take a nap?”
Dolley awoke two hours later when her husband kissed her on the lips. She threw her arms around him, hugging him with all her might.
He sat on the edge of the bed for a few moments and told her that the British were in Alexandria—not the same troops that had burned Washington but a command that had sailed up the Potomac. From what he had learned, the citizens of Alexandria couldn’t hurry fast enough to pay off the invaders.
The commander of Fort Washington had blown it to smithereens without firing one shot at the British. He was stinking drunk at the time, which further added to the embarrassment.
As Madison had ridden in from the Maryland side of the city yesterday, he told her, he’d seen the type from the National Intelligencer scattered all over the streets at the corner of Seventh Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. The newspaper’s offices had been ransacked, too. The gossip was that Admiral Cockburn had smashed all the letter C’s so the newspaper could no longer print his name. The Library of Congress had been burned, and the looters were a scourge of ravenous hyenas. A curfew had been imposed, but there was not a business that had not been attacked by the lowest elements of the city.
As Dolley listened, she stretched and walked over to the window. In the twilight she saw the eleven dragoons guarding her husband bed down in Richard Cutts’s yard. “I wish I had ten thousand such men to sink our enemy to the bottomless pits!”
James had never heard his wife use that tone of voice, nor had he ever heard her wish harm on another human being. He came up behind her and put his arms around her. He held her until he felt her shoulders drop and her back relax.
28 August 1814, Sunday
The British descended on us like a cloud of carmine locusts, eating everything. Little is left of the public buildings. Our house stands as but an empty shell. Everything of value was burned or stolen, even the love letters Jemmy and I wrote to each other.
I haven’t seen the Capitol. I don’t know if I want to see it but of cours
e I must.
Over the city hangs the rancid, stale odor of smoke and shame. Even now there’s a fleet of British ships at Alexandria. Every bedsheet in that town must be hanging from the windows, a summer snow of white flags.
Jemmy and Monroe want to line the Potomac with guns and blast the British when they sail down the river. Monroe has already set up artillery at the Navy Yard. I don’t think a single building is standing there, and Dr. Thornton told me the looters even stole the lock off the gate.
Dr. Thornton and Mayor Blake won’t speak to each other. This is a sorry time for a foolish feud.
A few people have suggested to Jemmy, since we have no government buildings, that he move the government to Philadelphia. He refuses this just as he forbade any citizen to surrender to the British. Unfortunately, this steely resolve is having little effect on the city of Alexandria.
I keep blinking to remind myself that what I am seeing is real. I’m at Anna and Richard’s house. That seems real, although lonesome without Anna. But step outside and the burned buildings, the roofs torn off by the wild storm, the debris in the streets—it can’t be Washington.
I remember when Mother Amy died, I thought a butterfly had folded its wings. Until that time I had never felt sorrow to such depth. Then I lost John and our son, and that shattered my heart. I thought I would never be whole again. Then Mother died.
But this is a city dying; this pain is both personal and communal. Some moments the grief makes it hard to breathe, and I find myself gasping and inhaling more stale smoke.
I am struggling to find Christian charity in my heart. Right now I hate every British soldier who ever walked. I hate the officer who rode into Mother’s house. I hate the men who smashed my furniture and used it for kindling. I hate the sound of their accents, the color of their uniforms. I should pray for their dead and comfort their wounded. I can’t. I want them all dead.
No church bells rang in Washington today.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
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