Fallen Founder

by Nancy Isenberg

  He faced problems other than plundering. He found he had to plead for shoes for his men, complaining early in winter that “many already are worn out.” On January 17, 1779, he had to resort to begging for flour or wheat, urging that if grain was not sent soon, “we shall be starving.” He also got a taste of espionage. McDougall added to Burr’s worries by warning him against a mysterious interloper in his region. Make “noise,” Burr was instructed. Call him “the vilest of Horse thieves,” and “a great spy for the Enemy, but send no party after him.” Perhaps it was all a ruse, to cover for a double agent, or a spy for the Continental Army. Burr was not immediately told. Washington had authorized a spy network in the Hudson Highlands, and Burr himself had done intelligence work for the commander in chief.94

  Burr returned to his “system” for managing an army of disparate elements, but now on a much larger scale. He instituted a register of names and character types, distinguishing civilians according to their level of allegiance: Whig, timid Whig, horse thief, spy. He mapped the countryside, identifying roads and byways most often used by skinners or cowboys, pointing out possible hiding places. He was careful in monitoring the flow of the traffic in areas bordering British-controlled territory. Burr was especially concerned about prostitutes who acted as emissaries for the enemy. McDougall advised that such women were to be sent to headquarters to be searched by matrons for any hidden papers. Burr preferred a harsher punishment: “If they were men,” he informed Colonel Malcolm, “I should flog them without mercy.”95

  One of his most interesting innovations involved recruiting young men of the county to serve as an informal intelligence corps. They were selected for their “patriotism, fidelity, and courage,” but mostly because they showed a devotion to the lieutenant colonel beyond that which he could expect from regular soldiers. They were volunteers, who, according to the testimony of one of these recruits, Samuel Young, admired Burr for his deportment and his meticulous habits of duty and discipline. He organized activities for the young men, and his system succeeded in advancing esprit de corps.96

  Nevertheless, Burr was impatient for results. His system demanded that he keep up a frenetic routine. He knew that he was the linchpin that held his system together. A good friend, Richard Platt, who by now was McDougall’s aide-de-camp, warned Burr to slow down. His persistence was at times irksome. Platt advised moderation: “a little more Patience Burr and you’ll have the most respectable Command of any officer in your rank in the army.”97

  His system was physically taxing and emotionally draining. Burr wrote another friend, Peter Colt, that the Westchester command was “the most fatiguing and most difficult and most troublesome that could have been contrived.” On the same day he wrote to Major John Bigelow, wishing for a few “trifles” to make his life less depressing. Without elaborating, he told Colt: “My Life here is very foreign to my nature. I cannot account for my own conduct.” What was making him so uncomfortable? Was he simply overwhelmed by his depressing surroundings? Clearly, he was growing more and more frustrated with military life.98

  By February 18, 1779, Burr had had enough. In a lengthy letter to General McDougall, he detailed all the successes of his system. He asserted that the region was now protected from “internal enemies,” plunder had been suppressed, a civil government, though still weak, was gaining respect; sufficient forage had been undertaken, and a list of friends and foes, designated by “character and history,” was compiled. He assured the general that his system would work without him, for “the evils which still appear to exist will be removed by the mechanical operation of plans already in place.” He then repeated his intention of retiring from the army.99

  On March 25, Burr sent off his official letter to General Washington, adopting a formal, even obsequious tone. After explaining that his physical constitution was “no longer equal to the severities of active Service,” he carefully pledged his devotion to the commander in chief, assuring that his “Attachment to the Service and his Excellency’s Person are unabated.” He further promised that he would “obey every summons to defend and secure.” He would contribute in the future whenever needed, promising that his allegiance to the general was “not mere Words.” It hardly read like a letter of resignation.100

  Of course, no real candor went into Burr’s letter to Washington. He reserved that for McDougall, hinting several times at the distasteful and destructive jealousy at work within the ranks: “I disdain the day of being moved by embarrassment, or I might urge the jealousy of the officers of your division as a distinct reason for resigning my present command.” Knowing that he had merited McDougall’s confidence, Burr concluded that he stood to “defy the malice of the world.”101

  The language he uses here is potent. He is clearly perturbed. It seems he felt that some dirty earwigs had insinuated themselves into McDougall’s favor, and he was anticipating that he had enemies who would slander him after he left. His words state that other people’s jealousy was not a motive for his departure, but it certainly seemed otherwise. He disdained petty gossip. No matter how successful his system was, not all “internal enemies” had been eliminated. He had had enough.

  On February 17, Burr wrote to the cousin of General Israel Putnam, Rufus Putnam, who was himself a colonel assigned to the Highlands. On the face of it, Burr’s letter was an answer to a request from the younger Putnam to forage in Burr’s region, a request he happily granted. But as the tone of the letter changes, Burr exposes what was missing from his experience in command of Westchester forces: “It ever affords me the highest Pleasure, to concert with my Brother officers—Measures for mutual Convenience. Be assured Sir, within the Sphere of my Command, you shall find no Trace of that narrow Selfishness which is the bane of Society, and mutilates the Service.” This was military life—comradeship, measures for mutual convenience—as Burr imagined it might be, not as it was.102

  It was, as well, a commentary on Rufus Putnam’s father, the “good old general,” whose career Burr believed had been ruined by “narrow Selfishness.” So, it would seem no coincidence that Burr penned these words the day before he sent off his letter of resignation to McDougall. He wanted to recall for Putnam those occasional moments in his career as an army officer when brother officers put cooperation before ambition.103

  Burr’s choice of metaphors is telling. He held that selfishness was not just “narrow” but a disease that “mutilates.” The gossip that accompanied men’s ambition caused him real consternation, and had finally sapped his will. Despite the promise to Washington to return when needed, Burr knew he was done with military life. As he confessed to his sister in April 1779: “I have no Intention to rejoin the Army or any Branch of it.”104

  Only known painting of Theodosia Prevost Burr (Aaron’s wife), at age forty-four, on left; their daughter, Theodosia, at age seven, on the face of Burr’s pocket watch.

  Chapter Three

  SUCH ARE THE LETTERS I LOVE

  ’Tis impossible for me to disguise a single thought or feeling when writing or conversing with the friend of my heart.

  —Theodosia Prevost Burr to Aaron Burr, 1785

  The war years changed Burr’s life in another way: he met his future wife, Theodosia Prevost, a married woman of experience and learning, who was ten years his senior. During the war, Burr did more than learn the ways of soldiering. He flirted with women openly, read and wrote about sexual mores, and had occasion to discipline officers for sexual indiscretions that violated the military code of genteel behavior. In the end, he emerged as a feminist—every bit a feminist, in the modern sense of the word. His wife Theodosia was herself a remarkable woman, publicly savvy and sophisticated.

  Though Burr has been portrayed generally as a gallant, a seducer whose principal playground was the parlor sofa, his early years as a bachelor, fiancé, and husband paint a far more nuanced picture. As a man of the Enlightenment, steeped in the polite manners of the eighteenth century, Burr knowingly
fashioned his behavior as he sought a higher station by earning the respect of the Revolutionary elite. He was navigating a society in which young men’s actions were closely watched; he kept a journal before he went off to war, written for his sister, which reveals his earliest sexual views, as well as his sense of humor about courtship. It is here that we begin to uncover the world of sexuality in the eighteenth century—rarely glimpsed.

  “UNHAPPY NYMPH!”

  Sexuality among elite men often began with the pen. Recall that Burr’s college mentor William Paterson compared writing to masturbation. In 1774, a year before Burr volunteered for the march to Quebec, he learned that another classmate, Thaddeus Dod (called “old monk” because he was the oldest member of the Princeton student body), had “put the cart before the horse,” becoming a father before he was a husband. Burr’s friend Robert Stewart confided that he had laughed in amazement at the “improbable” thought of Dod sleeping with a woman. James Madison, William Bradford, and Aaron Burr all snickered about the “old monk.” His story mimicked the bawdy tales of lusty old men found in colonial almanacs; besides, the young Princetonians may well have caught a glimpse of imported French erotica, which routinely poked fun at the promiscuity of Catholic priests. No wonder that Burr’s cohort found it amusing that among them was a secular monk who was living a secret life chasing skirts.1

  At the time Burr received the news about Dod, he was at some distance, studying theology in Bethlehem, Connecticut—living in the household of a professor of divinity, the Reverend Joseph Bellamy, and under the watchful eye of Bellamy’s alert wife. Without much privacy, then, Burr took refuge in his private journal. It was a practice he would continue for the rest of his life.2

  When he wrote, Burr invariably addressed himself to a female reader. His first journal, begun in 1774, was written for the benefit of his sister Sally. Later, as a married man, he would use the same technique in letters to his wife, urging her, too, to maintain a “memorandum” for him to read. Decades later, during his exile in Europe, he would commit shockingly candid words to a lengthy journal directed to his daughter.

  In the opening entry of his first journal, Burr describes a humorous incident he has observed on the road, in which a gentleman and a lady, riding together, have fallen off their horse, and tumbled into a deep, snow-filled gully:

  The young gentleman had the good fortune to light on his feet—not so the unhappy nymph! For falling backwards she was unable to help herself. Her head struck first, and she sunk in, up to her waist! O! miserable visu!

  The sight was, in fact, amusing and erotically charged. A young woman upside down—her undergarments, if not more, exposed. The befuddled young man in Burr’s account tries to rescue the maid from her “downy bed.” At first, he is unable to move, hesitating over whether he should save her or keep his distance, owing to her indelicate position. Burr relishes the moment, laughing to himself at the genuine inconsistency between the rules of politeness and simple common sense.3

  A few days later he offers up a similar story, but this time the sexual reference is even less guarded. He observes a company of “Bucks & Bell[e]s” drinking cherry rum at the local tavern. Eyeing the women, he concludes that they “looked too immensely good-natured to say no to anything.” For dramatic effect, he adds: “And I doubt not the effects of this frolic will be very visible a few months hence.” Burr seems to being saying: sex is natural. We all feel desire and shame—it is a part of the human condition.4

  Adventures or “frolics” were the stuff of many men’s diaries and journals. It is perhaps notable that Burr would be voicing such opinions while under the supervision of Dr. Bellamy, a “New Light” theologian, deeply committed to orthodox Calvinism. The Calvinist ideas of original sin and the corruption of the flesh were no part of Burr’s thinking—of this there can be little doubt.5

  Burr’s attitudes may not have been out of place in the minister’s home, after all. The entire Bellamy family teased him about his love life. For this clan, Calvinism may have been more about predestination than mundane sexual conduct. Jonathan Bellamy, the reverend’s son, captured the tension between traditional and newer forms of sexuality. In a letter to Burr, he described the trial of a young woman indicted for murdering her bastard child. Bellamy does not condemn the woman for her sin, but seems rather more fascinated by the ladies who attended the trial, who were obviously curious to hear everything that was said. “Hang me if I ever again, am in pain for a Ladies’ [sic] delicacy!” Bellamy wrote to Burr. It was clear to him that women had as much interest in sex as men—and it was foolish to pretend otherwise.6

  In his journal, Burr displayed a considerable talent for painting a scene. Sitting down to record his experiences, he literally wrote himself into the story, adding conversation, interposing his own inner thoughts. His writing style has the feel of a Henry Fielding novel. He told one clever story about being “mauled” for over an hour by the entire Bellamy family about a “Miss D—— of Litchfield.” Bombarded with accusatory looks and probing questions, Burr was unable to utter a word. He described his embarrassment: “‘Ay silence gives consent, silence gives consent,’ was the universal cry; ‘a guilty conscience needs no accuser’—see how he blushes.” Flustered and unable to defend himself, Burr disclosed to his journal that he considered biting his tongue off at that moment, since it was of “so little use.”7

  Eighteenth-century novelists loved the tongue-tied character—and so did Burr. At this moment, his literary self lacked the conceit he had displayed in leering at the “unhappy nymph” in the snow, or when he gleefully anticipated a roll in the hay for the tavern lads and lasses. It is interesting that Burr could at times enact a gender role reversal, depicting himself as overwrought, possessing too much feeling; he cannot help but blush, and, almost biting his tongue, he nervously loses control of himself. It is not going too far to say that Burr had a talent for writing like a woman, which explains why he wrote his journals with female readers in mind.8

  Burr was not just writing to entertain his sister. He was preparing himself for the risky business of courtship. As one of the great journalists of the century, the Scotsman Samuel Boswell, noted, a “lady adjusts her dress before a mirror,” while a “man adjusts his character by looking at his journal.” It was commonly believed that the road to marriage was filled with harrowing twists and turns for the inexperienced traveler. Conduct books told women to be constantly on their guard for disreputable young men, while male suitors were warned to be modest when addressing young maids, lest they frighten them by their rude behavior.9

  Even at eighteen, Burr was part of the marriage market, whether he wanted to be or not. He was an eligible bachelor, and eighteenth-century Americans were deeply suspicious of bachelors. Caught between two worlds, childlike dependence and adulthood, bachelors seemed dangerously unshackled from social supervision. Governor William Livingston of New Jersey, a close friend of Burr’s father, wrote a scathing satire in which he compared bachelors to “free-booters,” foraging “in the regions of corrupted female innocence.” They were “rocks and statues” when deprived of the refining influence of wives—they were incomplete, social misfits. They were, as another contemporary remarked, the “rogue elephants” of colonial society.10

  Before he joined the army, Burr was wary about rushing to the altar. His friends shared his hesitation. Jonathan Bellamy wrote a playful letter to Burr, defending their common resistance to marriage. Bellamy referred to the “spot where our castle is to stand,” a castle “where we are to convince mankind that the only happy life is that of a bachelor.”11

  But social pressures to marry continued to harass Burr. Once again he resorted to a novelistic prose when he related to his sister a most remarkable rumor. Writing from Elizabethtown in the summer of 1775, he began: “none of our acquaintances dead or married lately,” except “your brother Aaron.” Then, he explained:

  I have it from several persons of undoub
ted authority that he was tied some months ago to a lady of exquisite beauty, immense fortune, &c. &c. This I assure you, my dear sister, is absolutely matter of fact—I have been very frequently wished joy on the occasion, and “pray sir, how did you leave Mrs. Burr?” As seriously as you would ask after Mrs. Pollock—No small trouble have I been at to retrieve the character of a batchelor.

  His imaginary wife was so “real” that in Elizabethtown society one would-be gallant threatened to duel with Burr, in an effort to protect the lady’s reputation from Burr’s repeated denials. His secret marriage was apparently so secret that the groom had not been invited to the wedding!12

  Meanwhile, his cousin Thaddeus Burr, a wealthy landowner in Fairfield, Connecticut, was actively nudging Burr toward marriage. A few months earlier, while Burr was living in Litchfield, forsaking theology to study law with his brother-in-law Tapping Reeve, his cousin Thaddeus claimed to have found the perfect match. He was pressing the young man to seriously consider a young lady of considerable fortune. But Burr refused to be pushed into marriage, writing to his good friend Matthias Ogden that only he could choose his future companion—no one else could do it for him.13

  Of course, women were neither entirely coy nor passive in courtship. This was another lesson Burr was to learn. Even before the rumor of the secret marriage, Burr again wrote to Ogden that one (unnamed) woman “had absolutely professed love for me.” He was concerned about it. He did not wish to be forced to the altar either by relatives or rumors.14

  Young men of Burr’s social class could rarely escape the watchful eyes of the women in their communities. Good breeding was often not enough to ensure a positive reception in society. Unfavorable rumors might circulate, demanding a chorus of denials. Young men regularly enlisted their friends to come to their defense against false or disparaging accounts. In a letter to Ogden, Burr dismissed what he called the “groundless” rumors of his romantic entanglements in Princeton, noting that the name of the woman changed depending on who told the story. Ogden knew him “too well,” Burr assured, to think he was “in love with every new or pretty face” he saw.15