The Intimate Lives of the Founding Fathers

by Thomas Fleming

  Thomas began the three-year slog to the legal profession with as much good humor as he could muster. Like his brothers, he was dependent on his parents’ checkbook, and he hesitated to strike out on his own for fear of disappointing them. John Quincy summed up the prevailing psychology when he wrote that he feared he would make John and Abigail “lament as ineffectual the pains they have taken to render me worthy of them.” The connection between their father’s fame and fear of failure burdened all three sons. Thomas soon found himself struggling with what he called “the blue devils”—depression.7

  VI

  John Quincy Adams was not much happier. He had completed his three years of study at Newburyport and had opened an office in the front room of an Adams-owned house on Court Street in Boston. His clients were few and he made a botch of his first case, discovering that he had no ability to speak extemporaneously before a jury. He was also passionately in love with Mary Frazier, a beautiful young woman he had met in Newburyport.

  Throughout the first six months of 1790, John Quincy saw Mary constantly. He refrained from mentioning her to his mother and father. But he confessed his passion to his brother Thomas and a few other friends. Mary inspired him to write poems to her beauty, several of which were published in local newspapers, exciting a dream of becoming a writer in John Quincy’s troubled head. “All my hopes of future happiness in this life center in the possession of that girl,” he told his former Harvard roommate, James Bridge.

  But time was running out for the lovers. Although his law office was still virtually bare of clients, John Quincy told his sister Nabby that he was thinking of marrying Mary. Nabby apparently told Thomas, who told Charles—and Abigail. Charles, in typical younger-brother style, mocked Mary’s charms: “Nothing so like perfection in human shape, [has] appeared since the world began.”8

  Abigail Adams was not amused. Nor was her mind changed by warm letters from her sisters, Eliza Shaw and Mary Cranch, urging her to bless the match. Abigail unleashed a barrage of letters on her oldest son, telling him that his romance was unacceptable and must be abandoned without even momentary hesitation on his part. John Quincy promised to obey, but he found it emotionally impossible. In desperation, he tried to persuade Mary Frazier to agree to an informal engagement. But her family intervened, warning her that a woman who remained linked to a man in that way soon endangered her reputation and hopes of marrying anyone else.

  After months of agonizing, John informed his mother she could stop worrying about Mary Frazier. He was “perfectly free” and there was no need to fret about any future entanglement that might “give you pain.” But to Eliza Shaw, he poured out his bitterness. He predicted that he would never be able to love anyone again. This tender-hearted woman wrote him a wise, consoling letter that he kept among his papers for the rest of his life.

  VII

  In spite of his personal woes, John Quincy retained a lively interest in politics—hardly surprising after his heady exposure to the subject at the age of eleven. Writing under pen names such as Publicola, Columbus, Marcellus, and Barnveld, he argued with skill and fervor for a strong central government and attacked, often ferociously, the anti-federalists who were coalescing into a political party led by Thomas Jefferson. John Quincy sided emphatically with Washington’s commitment to a strong presidency and backed him when he issued a proclamation of neutrality in the war between England and France. His parents were delighted by his forays. The vice president said there was more “mother wit” in these essays than he had heard in the Senate “in a whole week.”9

  On June 3, 1794, a letter from the vice president informed John Quincy that he had been named American ambassador to the Netherlands at a salary of $4,500 a year. Along with the glorious news came a pious claim that John Adams had had nothing to do with the appointment. President Washington was rewarding John Quincy for his vigorous support of the Federalist Party in the newspapers—and was aware, thanks to his youthful years in Europe, that he had the background and experience to handle the job. Unmentioned were the vice president’s several conversations with Edmund Randolph, who had succeeded Thomas Jefferson as secretary of state, in which John had not too subtly urged his son’s appointment.

  John Quincy’s first reaction was nausea. He took to his bed for the better part or two weeks, apparently wrestling with the inescapable fact that he had to accept this offer—and simultaneously loathing the idea that he was once more obeying the parents who had destroyed his hope of happiness with Mary Frazier. But he finally rose and packed his trunk for the trip to Philadelphia to get his instructions for the job. He told one of his friends that his father “was more gratified than myself at my appointment.” But he admitted the bright side of it to another friend—he was “my own man again.”10

  VIII

  Not a little of John and Abigail’s determination to manage the careers of John Quincy and their younger sons may have flowed from the continued woes of Abigail Adams Smith. Four months after Nabby gave birth to a daughter—her third child in four years—Colonel Smith quit his job as U.S. marshal and headed for England—only a few days before Christmas. Abigail found his timing almost as hard to take as his decision to leave the government payroll. Smith told Nabby and his numerous friends that he was going to make a fortune from collecting debts owed to his merchant father in England.

  Nabby was left alone once more, with barely enough money to feed her family. Abigail could do nothing but write frantic letters from Philadelphia. The Adamses’ vice-presidential expenses were so high in the city of brotherly love that they had little or no cash to send Nabby. Then came news of a woebegone letter from Colonel Smith, telling a New York friend from whom he had already borrowed money that he could not leave England unless the friend sent him more cash to pay his debts.

  Once more, salvation came from George Washington. Whether John Adams intervened or Smith’s friends appealed to the president for help remains unclear. At any rate, the vice president urgently informed the colonel that he had been appointed supervisor of revenue for New York State. His chief responsibility would be the collection of money from the federal liquor tax. The job paid $800 a year and a percentage of the money he took in. John urged him to return to America without delay. Abigail, underscoring their joint anxiety, wrote another letter, calling the salary “handsome” and all but begging him to accept the job “as soon as possible.”11

  This gift of the political gods soon proved to be no more than a temporary solution to the fortunes of Nabby and her wayward spouse. A year later, Smith abandoned his handsome salary and took his entire family to England, this time certain he would make an immense fortune. He was deep in a speculative bubble that would entrance him and many other Americans for the rest of the decade. All these gamblers were certain that mountains of money could be made selling millions of acres of American land to gullible European investors. Robert Morris of Philadelphia led the way, making immense sums on his first two speculations.

  The defects of land speculation soon became apparent. The money was never paid in full. The seller was obligated to obtain a clear title to the land from resident Indians and other local claimants, including state governments. The seller had to survey the tract and divide it into salable parcels. Then he and the purchasers had to hope some settlers would show up, because the buyers left themselves numerous loopholes to escape from the deal if the golden promises turned to dross. This started to happen because of the appearance of that frequent historical intruder, the unexpected. War broke out between England and Revolutionary France early in 1793, indefinitely postponing large-scale immigration to America. Colonel Smith got into this game just as the land bubble was beginning to deflate.

  Operating on little but nerve and faith in his luck, Smith returned to New York exuding affluence. He had reportedly bought five townships in northern New York and had sold thousands of acres to eager British investors. In New York, he bought twenty-three acres of land along the East River and began building a mansion that he d
ubbed Mount Vernon. On paper, it was to be a replica of President Washington’s home. But his creditors were closing in, and the colonel never managed to complete more than the frame before he was forced to sell it to stay out of debtors’ prison.

  Meanwhile, Smith inveigled Charles Adams into his schemes. To John and Abigail’s dismay, Charles had married Smith’s sister Sally in 1795. The Adamses thought one Smith in the family was more than enough trouble for a lifetime. They had written numerous letters to Charles warning him against a premature marriage, but he had mastered the technique of ignoring their advice.

  For a while, Charles seemed to be prospering as a lawyer. When John Adams visited him in December 1795, he was living in a house with a fine view of the East River. Friends told the vice president that his son had “twice or thrice the employment he ever had before.” John was delighted to find him in his office, conversing with three new clients. He was equally pleased to learn that many people considered Charles a wit. Not long after he married Sally Smith, a man asked him if “the fever” was spreading in New York. Charles replied, “Do you mean the yellow fever or the Smith fever?” In the large Smith family, marriage had become so frequent it was being described as an epidemic.12

  John Lawrence, the attorney under whom Charles studied law, was a speculator who also infected Charles with dreams of a quick killing. All he needed was cash—and thanks to John Quincy, he suddenly had a supply. John Quincy had asked Charles to invest a handsome sum John and Abigail had bestowed on him when he became a diplomat. Charles started putting his brother’s money into speculative ventures, no doubt thinking of how much he (Charles) would make if the gambles succeeded. But the time when speculators could make a quick fortune was gone. Cheerful Charles was sowing seeds that would humiliate and destroy him.

  IX

  In spite of Nabby’s woes and the wider worries over the turmoil the French Revolution was stirring in America, John and Abigail remained devoted partners. But they had little or no enthusiasm for participating in the political world of Philadelphia. The mounting feud between Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton was creating two political parties that attacked each other with rabidly partisan venom. Abigail disliked the French styles that prevailed in the Quaker city. She thought they were much too revealing and encouraged the sexual license that had become associated with France’s revolution. She had no difficulty persuading John that they could save a great deal of money if she retreated to Massachusetts and he pursued a bachelor life in Philadelphia while Congress was in session.

  Around this time they decided to give their Massachusetts home a name—Peacefield. They may have been motivated by the town of Braintree’s decision to upgrade its name to Quincy in 1792. But Peacefield was also a revealing indication of their feelings about acrimonious Philadelphia. A pleasant dividend of Abigail’s decision to flee the political fray was the letters they began writing to each other with much of their old warmth and candor. Both now began their reports with “My Dearest Friend.”

  In one of his first letters, John regaled Abigail with the way Governor John Hancock revealed his petty envy and hunger for popularity. “I would not entertain you with this political tittle-tattle,” he added, “if I had anything of more importance to say. One thing of more importance to me, but no news to you, is that I am yours with unabated esteem and affection forever.”

  Abigail told him of the pleasure of spending Thanksgiving Day with their family—mostly Smiths and John’s mother. She was alarmed by John’s reports of the way the country was dividing into two political parties. He took some consolation from the way he was unanimously elected for another term as vice president by the states who backed the Federalists—and just as unanimously opposed by the states controlled by the anti-Federalists. He was especially dismayed by “the blind spirit of party” that had seized the soul of his friend Thomas Jefferson. Somewhat ruefully, John noted that the vice presidency was regarded as an office that played no part in the raging partisan quarrels. “Poor me…I am left out of the question and pray I ever may.”13

  Abigail disagreed with John that he was becoming—or had already become—a political nonentity. Although she took a dark view of the turbulent political scene—“The halcyon days of America are past, I fully believe”—she told John that in spite of the “limited office you hold” he had a “weight of character” thanks to his “former exertions and services” that was bound to exert a “benign influence” on the partisan quarrels. In fact, she was happy to note from the resolutely cheerful tone of his letters that “the only fault of your political character—which had always given me uneasiness was wearing away”—his “irritability.” It had sometimes thrown him off his guard and revealed “that a man is not always a hero.”14

  No wonder John wrote in reply, “One day spent at home would afford me more inward delight and comfort than a week or a winter in this place.” Abigail’s letters, he assured her, “give me more entertainment than all the speeches I hear.” This frequent reiteration of his boredom as vice president makes it evident that the job had been another bad career choice for this complex man. John should have accepted election as a senator from Massachusetts, where his oratorical skills and political insights could have been influential in the political struggle that raged throughout these years. He might have developed a following that would have added weight to his presidential ambitions.

  Instead John and Abigail convinced themselves that he was better off remaining aloof. The implications of this embrace of political purity would become painfully visible when John Adams became the second president of the volatile American republic.

  PARTY OF TWO

  As the presidential election of 1796 approached, John Adams vacillated between hungering for the honor and dreading the abuse he would receive in the vicious political atmosphere of the times. “I am weary of the game,” he told Abigail in February. “Yet I don’t know whether I can live without it.”1 Both Adamses seemed to think the presidency was John’s by right of seniority. A lot of people disagreed. Thomas Jefferson accepted the Republican Party’s nomination, with Aaron Burr as his vice president. John acquiesced to Thomas Pinckney of South Carolina as his vice president on the Federalist ticket. Pinckney’s claim to fame was a treaty he had negotiated with Spain in 1795, which opened the Mississippi to western farmers eager to sell their surpluses to a hungry world.

  Adams was elected president by three electoral votes. If New England had not stood solidly behind its native son, he would have lost. Thomas Jefferson was second and became vice president. Pinckney ran third. John immediately saw winning by three votes as a humiliation, which it was to some extent. His mood was not improved when he learned, just before the electoral votes were counted, that Alexander Hamilton had again intrigued behind the scenes. This time he had tried to make Pinckney the president by persuading some electors not to vote for John. The Federalist leader had decided that Adams would be difficult to deal with.

  The new president’s response to Hamilton’s treachery was strange. It was common knowledge that the cabinet Adams inherited from Washington were all followers of Hamilton. Nevertheless, Adams kept them on the job. Numerous historians have described this decision as bizarre. But Adams, without a political following, had few friends and no allies with whom to replace them. Later, he claimed that he feared the public would react violently if he had swept out the entire Washington cabinet. As for his personal relationship with Hamilton, Adams vowed to “maintain the same conduct toward him that I always did—that is, to keep him at a distance.”2

  Abigail had a darker view of Hamilton. She told John to “beware of that spare Cassius.” The words from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar occurred to her almost every time she saw that “cock sparrow.” She had “read his heart in his wicked eyes many a time. The very devil is in them…or I have no skill in physiognomy.”3 In a letter to a friend, she portrayed the Federalist leader as a dangerous man who was pursuing a “Machiavellian policy.” He wanted a weak preside
nt like Thomas Pinckney—someone that a “Master Hand could work” behind the scenes.4

  But Abigail did not try to persuade John to dismiss the Hamilton-controlled cabinet. She did not arrive in Philadelphia for almost two months after his inauguration. As early as March 13, a little more than a week after he became president, John told her, “I must go to you or you must come to me. I cannot live without you.” In another letter he all but wailed: “I never wanted your advice and assistance more in my life.” He warned her, “You and I are entering on a new scene, which will be the most difficult and least agreeable of any in our lives.”5

  Abigail still delayed her departure from Quincy. Her excuse was the lingering, ultimately fatal illness of John’s aged mother and the tragic death of a young niece. Neither of these small, sad dramas required her presence. There were numerous relatives in and near Quincy who could have cared for both women. The real reason for Abigail’s delays was her lack of enthusiasm for the ordeal she and John faced in Philadelphia. At one point she told John of a dream in which she seemed to be in a battle and cannon were firing huge black balls—all aimed at her.6

  The challenge that haunted Adams’s presidency was post-revolutionary France. With the Reign of Terror over and its Jacobin leaders executed, the country was in the hands of a Directory, a five-man group who were as hostile to America as their blood-soaked forerunners. Soon after Adams took office, they ordered their navy and privateers to seize American ships at will. If it was not a declaration of war, it was the next best (or worst) thing. Adams responded by calling a special session of Congress for May 15, 1797. Behind the scenes, he rushed a letter to Mount Vernon, offering to resign so George Washington could take charge of the nation once more. It was a painful glimpse of John’s lack of self-confidence in the shadow of Washington’s fame.