I fear the effect of Washington’s disgrace on the peace negotiations. It will only harden the British in their desire to wrench as much from us as they can. I know Clay won’t budge and Adams, well, he’s more likely to make some concessions because he understands diplomacy. I don’t think he will suggest anything damaging to our true interests. As to the other delegates, they will follow Adams. Jemmy and I haven’t had a minute to talk about what might happen in Ghent. I know he has thought about it and is probably fearful.
With the British still on our soil and on our rivers, it’s rather difficult to concentrate on anything other than driving them out.
French John, as usual, had the best gossip. Apparently General Ross is a milder man than Admiral Cockburn, who by all reports is marvelously handsome, the very image of Mars. Anyway, Ross told his men they mustn’t touch a drop of our newfangled whiskey. He said it was too sweet and too crude, and since Americans seem to drink it in great quantities, perhaps we had poisoned our whiskey to accomplish by stealth what we couldn’t accomplish by arms.
The other thing French John told me was that someone hiding in a building shot Ross’s horse right out from under him in front of Robert Seawell’s house. The poor creature lay unburied until today. I hate it when animals are hurt because of the transgressions of their masters.
One hero did emerge from Bladensburg, Commodore Barney. He was badly wounded in the thigh but French John says he will recover.
And Louis—without disclosing his sources, but we know they are reliable—said that conditions in the British camps are worse than battle. Fevers and dysentery have been raging. The British, unaccustomed to our sizzling summers, are coming down with all manner of sickness. Because they moved so quickly, there are no hospitals and precious few medical supplies. I suppose few doctors, too.
Sukey came back late this evening. She has become a far more helpful person. She was actually glad to see me and I was happy to see her. We embraced and all she said was, “Missus, we got to put the pieces back together.” Bless her.
Oh, French John assured me that King George is safe with the cook. So Uncle Willy’s nemesis will return to torment him, or is it the other way around? I can never remember which animal started that fight.
And how French John made me laugh! He told us all with such glee that the pothole in front of the presidential mansion claimed many British victims, sprained ankles mostly.
Paul seems quite sobered by his experiences. He is no longer a boy. When he apologized for not getting all the plate and silver off the table, I embraced him and said, “What are things compared to people?” We are all together. And as soon as we can possibly go, probably not until the fall, we will visit Mother Madison and enjoy some quiet days at Montpelier. He’s a sweet young man, Paul, a sensitive soul, far more sensitive than are many women.
Which reminds me: Daschkov, believing discretion to be the better part of valor, left for Philadelphia before the British marched in. But French John put the keys to the presidential mansion in his house, thinking that because of the relationship between Russia and Great Britain at this time, they would be safe. Sukey appears to care not a whit that André has left. I have not spoken to her about her indiscretions. It seems like a hundred years ago now.
This has been a season of sorrow and anguish, and yet I feel more love for my family and friends than ever before. I look at their beautiful faces, perhaps not beautiful to others but certainly to me, and I am happy to be alive, so happy to know these people with all their qualities, good and bad. I think of people like Matilda Lee Love and others I will never know who helped along the way or just gave a smile instead of reviling me.
I cannot say the burning of our capital was a benefit, but it did teach us how strong we can be when tested and how loving we can be in brutal circumstances.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
For the entire day Dolley, French John, Sukey, and Paul planned how to use the rooms of the Octagon House at Eighteenth Street and New York Avenue.
The pie-shaped lot had excited Dr. Thornton when he began working on plans for the house in 1800. He thought himself a peer of Thomas Jefferson, another self-taught architect. Fortunately for Dr. Thornton, his client was wealthy and the house was made of brick instead of sandstone, its appointments handsome and detailed.
The drawing room on the first floor boasted a gorgeous chandelier and a sensuous mantelpiece. The floorboards, long and unbroken, had gained a rich patina over fourteen years of waxing and use.
Madison took a circular room above the vestibule for his office. As Dolley was bustling about, planning, Louis and Lisel Serurier were packing; this prompted merriment between them, punctuated by Uncle Willy, who just wanted sunflower seeds and life to get back to normal.
Dolley made Lisel and Sukey stand downstairs while she made a grand entrance descending the elegant staircase.
“Très magnifique!” Lisel applauded.
“Well, thank you, but I won’t be so magnifique if I don’t get some clothes. I have next to nothing.”
“Still got your turbans,” Sukey chimed in.
“Yes, but I think I will have to wear more than that.”
Lisel laughed. Dolley was returning to her old self.
Dolley turned to Sukey. “I believe I’ll receive tomorrow first thing in the morning. We saved the best curtains, the crimson velvet ones. Let’s put them in the drawing room, a touch of the familiar for Jemmy. And the clock we saved—yes, the clock, let’s put that in there, too. A dressmaker … I wonder if my dressmaker remained in the city? Sukey, tell Paul to see if she’s here and if she is, to bring her back with him. I can’t go around in this dress forever,”
“We put dresses on the tops of the trunks to protect the papers,” Sukey mentioned.
“Yes, air those out, but really, I need more clothes.”
Sukey smiled slyly and left the room. Her mistress would use any excuse for a new dress.
“Do you need any help?” Lisel inquired.
“No, I’m fine.”
“I meant with—” She didn’t finish.
“Money? Oh, Lisel, what would I do without you? Oh, I’m so glad you were spared.” Dolley impulsively embraced her friend and then released her. “I still have a little left over from the necklace you sold.”
“Where are the horses?”
“French John hid them from the British. They’re back in the stable.”
“Where did he hide them?”
“He’s not telling, not even me. A man must have some secrets. Very French.”
“Very French.” Lisel laughed.
“I need a purse with a lock on it, I know. I appreciate your offer to assist me, but I am going to economize—seriously economize now.” Dolley rattled on in this vein as she flew about the house, moving this piece of furniture and that.
Lisel smiled. How many times had she heard that vow from Dolley, only to see the economizing measures cost more than before.
A ruckus outside caused them to step through the front door. A wagon wheel had broken and the driver struggled to right the wagon. French John and Paul rushed out to help. The women observed for a moment, and then Dolley studied the remains of the unattractive house across the street, one of the few private dwellings burned by the British.
Lisel noticed. “Oh, don’t distress yourself. Let’s go back in.”
Dolley put her arm through Lisel’s. “Perhaps the British had the right idea.”
30 August 1814, Tuesday
Such work today. I’m bone weary and it will take some time before we are established at Octagon House, which is lovely. How good it was to have Lisel with me, and Sukey and French John and Paul. I want to cover my eyes when I pass a ruined building, but I am feeling better and I owe much of it to my friends.
Jemmy named James Monroe acting Secretary of War. There are still British in Alexandria, but we’re confused as to how many. We do know their ships are still there. Monroe instantly or
dered up men, Navy men especially, to haul in batteries and to find the best positions downriver. We heard that there isn’t a barrel of flour or a leaf of tobacco left in Alexandria. The British have taken everything.
I think everyone feels better now that Mr. Monroe is publicly recognized as acting Secretary of War. Since George Campbell is so ill, Jemmy feels certain that within weeks he will need to appoint a new Secretary of the Treasury. What we would give to have Albert Gallatin back, but he’s so valuable at the peace negotiations. If he needs to go to another European city and find more money for us there, he does so. I find myself wishing he had an equally talented twin.
And poor Elbridge Gerry falters, too.
The fighting continues in New York. There appears to be no clear victory and Fort Erie remains a contest.
No word from the South. I pray daily that we will hear news of victories. We need a victory.
And I need silverware. Tonight we used steel utensils; those three-pronged forks will puncture one’s tongue. French John and Paul saved some of our silver, but we haven’t enough for a decent dinner setting.
Food prices are even worse than before the burning. We must pay them. We have no choice. I’m tempted to take a fishing pole and try my luck in the Potomac. It’s one way to save money.
Sukey and I carefully inspected what little I have left in the way of clothes. I haven’t even a pair of gloves or a handkerchief. As for shoes, if these on my feet wear out any time soon, I’ll go barefoot.
The British took Jemmy’s shirts, too. Apparently one British officer bragged about it and showed around his booty. My dear husband has as little as I do. We are going to have to borrow discreetly from friends outside the capital.
When I told Jemmy about my shoes and his—he has only boots on his feet—he laughed and said it was not as much a hardship for me. When I asked why, he said I can make certain my skirts sweep the ground. No one will see my feet.
He told me about staying in Brookville with a Quaker lady, Mrs. Caleb Bentley. He admired her lovely white frame house and her well-kept land. Then he asked me if my conscience was torn because of the war.
“Pine Street Meeting House expelled me when I married you and I have never looked back.” That was my answer and it satisfied him.
After my discussion, or was it an argument, with Anna yesterday, I don’t know what I think. I don’t want to kill anyone; I think it’s wrong and horrible, but the Redcoats brought the war to us.
In the stillness of this summer’s night, though, I do think about this. I know that I am a good wife, but am I a good Christian?
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
James Monroe’s handsome features were haggard. As they rode past the ruins of the presidential mansion, he reported to the President.
“Captain James Gordon demands from Charles Simms that the city of Alexandria must hand over all public and private naval supplies, every vessel—down to a raft—all supplies intended for export trade, and furthermore, the good citizens of Alexandria are to retrieve everything that has been sent out of the town since August nineteenth.” Monroe paused. “One more thing. Captain Gordon wanted the sunken boats, too, but was apparently dissuaded from this, uh, request.”
“Sugar, tobacco, liquor, flour, cotton, and money.” A sarcastic grin crossed Madison’s face. “Good!” Before James Monroe could question his response, the President clarified his ambiguous optimism. “It means this raid on Alexandria is a plundering mission. The British will stay on the other side of the Potomac. That ought to calm the businessmen.”
“The Hydra-headed Rumor.” Monroe took liberties with the classics. “You know, I’ve heard people say that John Armstrong allowed Washington to be burned so that we would be forced to move the government to a Northern city.”
“Well, at least the rumors are moving John Armstrong. He can’t pack up fast enough.”
Had they been true friends, Monroe would have laughed out loud. Instead he nodded in agreement.
Madison surprised him with his next remark. “They hate me too, you know.”
“No they don’t—”
Madison interrupted. “The people don’t hate me as much as they do Armstrong. I think my work on the Bill of Rights mollifies their hostility a bit.” He guided his horse around a wagon still overturned in the dusty road.
“You proved your courage at Bladensburg. The only men who hate you are men who hate our government.”
“Yes, well,” Madison sighed, “they regard you as a hero. You and Barney. You were a hero in the first war, too. I stayed in politics. Now I wish I had fought. Oh, I wished it then, too.”
“Why didn’t you?” Monroe was uncharacteristically blunt. “You didn’t fear the shot, the fire, at Bladensburg.”
“Everyone, including Washington, told me I was more valuable bending over parchment with a quill. And I’ve never enjoyed robust health.” He breathed in deeply. The acrid smell, still very strong, filled his lungs. “The past is the past and the present is yours when we win.” He smacked his hands together, indicating an end to this part of their discussion. “The British will be vulnerable sailing down the Potomac. Far better to attack them with artillery from the banks than to send over troops.”
“Not only do they need to get their own ships out, they’ll be burdened with the boats they’ve stolen and laden with booty.”
“All right then. Let’s see if we can catch the monkey with his paw in the jug.” Madison halted and turned his horse in the other direction. The sight of his city dismayed him. He tried to suppress his feelings. “Did you know that someone painted on a blackened wall of the Capitol: ‘George Washington founded this city after a seven-year-war with England—James Madison lost it after a two-year-war.’ ”
Monroe lowered his voice. “I had heard that, Mr. President.”
“What I want to know”—Madison exploded—“is how, in the midst of all this destruction, they managed to find the paint?”
This time James Monroe did laugh. “Mr. President, don’t let one rotten apple spoil the barrel. The people are with you—you and your lady.”
The President smiled. “I’ve also heard that the National Intelligencer staff is working around the clock to put their press back together. The British threw the type in the road but left the ledgers unmolested, so war or no war, subscribers can be billed for their newspaper.”
“Perhaps the spirit of cooperation we’ve found in our citizens, and I include Dr. Thornton, is due to the fact that the press is out of commission.”
“Mrs. Madison always says that the free press works in such a way that not one of us is free from it.”
“Mrs. Madison, as usual, is right. Well, sooner or later the British will go, but we’ll still be here and then”—Monroe smiled ruefully—“other battles will begin.”
“Government, imperfect, is but a reflection of its imperfect creators. Still better to be equals with other imperfect men, far better, than to be a subject of King George and the Prince Regent.”
The President leveled his gaze on the overturned wagon, spurred on his horse, and jumped it for a lark.
James Monroe, mouth hanging open, watched in astonishment. The President, rather than being crushed by cares, was rejuvenated by them.
Monroe pushed his horse into a trot and caught up with Madison. The President turned in his saddle and spoke in a voice that for him was loud. “The British miscalculated by burning our capital. They have only strengthened our resolve.”
31 August 1814, Wednesday
It’s a midnight beyond thought. Outside it’s deathly still. Before the British came, I would often hear dogs barking or peepers, but now it’s silent as a tomb. Perhaps the animals, offended by human stupidity, have left.
Daniel Webster used to complain about the “profound dullness of the place, semper idem.” It’s not always the same and I have little doubt that when young Webster returns here, he and his Federalist cronies will seize upon our misfortune f
or their political gain—if they can.
I started this diary to escape corruptive reflection. Years soften the edges of events. We place ourselves center stage when we are but a small player. So I kept my diary to write down events as they happened as accurately as I could. I didn’t want the years to transform the events of my day into something dishonest or into a form of self-advertisement. I realize that all politics are a form of self-advertisement except for the politics of men like Washington, Jefferson, and my husband.
And I believe that ignorance is a form of censorship. Future generations must know what happened, how it happened, and why it happened. The truths not contorted versions of events to evade responsibility or to assume responsibility in case of success, rarely gets told. I became so entangled in my thoughts that I don’t think I put that down right. My quill needs sharpening. Must be the quill’s fault, not mine.
As I was trying to say, people need to know the truth. Although I am just a pinprick in time, I have eyes, I have a mind, I have a heart. I can see my time and the people in it and I want to describe them as accurately as I can. If the United States is a democracy, then that democracy can flourish only if its citizens are informed. You can’t make a decision if you don’t have the facts. And you can’t really make decisions for the future if you don’t understand the past.
But my diary wanders. I wind up writing down memories of my family. My purpose is like a garden overtaken with weeds. I haven’t the time to clear out the weeds—although Sukey certainly took a whack at it—but every now and then a rose pops up, its head lifting toward the sun. Which reminds me, tonight the sun looked like a paper lantern. I wondered why it looked so theatrical and strange. French John said that the air was full of dust particles and ashes, and for whatever reason this made the sun appear redder and much larger as it set.
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