by Lynne Cheney
• • •
THE REPEATED HUMILIATIONS of U.S. land forces in 1812 contrasted sharply with stirring triumphs at sea. They began on August 19 when Captain Isaac Hull of the USS Constitution found what he had been looking for some 750 miles off Boston: a British man-of-war. Hull, a sturdy thirty-nine-year-old, had been a naval officer for fourteen years—as long as there had been a Department of the Navy. He had fought in the Barbary War and was eager to fight again, as he had shown by taking hurried leave from Boston Harbor just a few weeks before. He had lifted anchor in a rush so that he could avoid receiving orders that might give command of his ship to a more senior officer, and now his hasty departure paid off. As his ship drew closer to the British frigate, Hull could see—no mistake this time, as there had been in the USS President’s attack on the Little Belt—this was HMS Guerriere.11
For an hour or so, the Constitution and the Guerriere tried to maneuver into advantageous positions. Finally, at 6:00 p.m., the Constitution closed alongside, and Hull gave the order to fire. The British ship fired back, but its eighteen-pound balls seemed to bounce off the Constitution’s heavy oak frame, a phenomenon that would lead to the ship’s nickname, Old Ironsides. Within thirty minutes the Guerriere surrendered, its prisoners were transferred to the Constitution, and ten days later Hull sailed triumphantly into Boston Harbor. Massachusetts might have been Federalist territory, but well-wishers rowed out to greet the Constitution, bells rang, and cannon boomed. Spirits lifted across the nation as news of the victory spread, and there was good reason for the elation. The tiny American navy had 16 ships, including 9 frigates; the British, 183 frigates plus 152 heavier ships of the line. For the United States to prevail in a confrontation with the Royal Navy was nearly unthinkable. “However small the affair might appear on the general scale of the world’s battles,” Henry Adams observed, the American victory over the Guerriere “raised the United States in one-half hour to the rank of a first-class power in the world.”12
The victory was welcome news for Madison as the 1812 presidential election approached. His chief opponent was actually another Republican, George Clinton’s nephew DeWitt Clinton of New York, called Magnus Apollo in tribute to his fine looks and vanity. Clinton was playing the war card for all it was worth, successfully winning Federalists to his side by promising peace while seeking Republican support by promising to be a more effective commander in chief. Unprincipled as such a campaign was, in an age of slow communications no one could be sure that it wouldn’t work. Federalists were doing well in state legislative contests and were likely to be more successful in the presidential election of 1812 than they had been in 1808. But Madison could still win if he solidified most of his Republican base—and the Constitution’s triumph would help with that.13
In early November, as electors were being chosen, Madison sent a message to the second session of the Twelfth Congress. In it he mentioned the success not only of “our public ships” but also of “private cruisers,” which had already captured hundreds of British ships and brought them into American ports as prizes. The president asked for increased pay for the regular army (which he would get), a revision of militia laws (which he would not), and an enlargement of the navy (which would require only the slightest persuasion). The president also sent to Congress diplomatic correspondence showing that Great Britain had, unbeknownst to the United States, repealed the hated Orders in Council before the United States had declared war. The governor of Canada, Lieutenant General George Prevost, had subsequently proposed an armistice, but the United States was unwilling to suspend hostilities, the British were told, because Britain reserved the right to reinstate the orders and was unwilling to stop impressing sailors.14 Madison was also probably thinking about how hard it had been to put the country on a war footing and how difficult it would be to maintain that status during an armistice.
• • •
ON NOVEMBER 26, 1812, Captain Charles Stewart of the USS Constellation demonstrated the political savvy for which the navy would become legendary, hosting a party aboard ship for Washington dignitaries, including members of Congress who were soon to vote on a substantial expansion of the navy. Guests were ferried to the ship, lying in the Eastern Branch of the Potomac, and treated to an “elegant cold collation of the choicest viands and liquors.” There was “concord and hilarity,” the National Intelligencer noted, as well as “sprightly dance.” Captain Isaac Hull was in attendance, and the president and Mrs. Madison made a grand entry, stepping on board as salutes were fired.15
The president’s appearance was especially thrilling because everyone aboard the Constellation was aware that he had almost certainly been elected to a second term. The Electoral College count was not yet complete, but on the same day that the National Intelligencer reported the party aboard the Constellation, the paper also printed the news that Madison, who needed 109 electoral votes to win, had already gathered 107. The states outstanding, South Carolina, Tennessee, and Louisiana, were certain to put him well over the top. By December 8, when the citizens of Washington gave a reciprocal ball to thank Captain Stewart for his hospitality, Madison’s reelection was certain, but he did not attend the affair, which was held at Tomlinson’s Hotel. Mrs. Madison represented him and, when she returned home, had an unforgettable evening to report. In the middle of the ball had come word of yet another stunning naval triumph. Between the Azores and the Canary Islands, Captain Stephen Decatur, in command of the USS United States, had pounded the British frigate Macedonian into surrender, then brought it home as a prize. The ship’s flag, rushed to Washington, was carried triumphantly into Tomlinson’s. The crowd cheered, “Yankee Doodle” was played, and after being carried around the ballroom, the Macedonian’s colors were laid in front of Mrs. Madison. The evening was so exciting that Congressman Samuel Mitchill of New York confessed to his wife that he had a hard time getting to sleep that night: “I believe I was in the very condition of Themistocles after viewing the trophies won by the Athenians from the Persians at the Battle of Marathon.”16
• • •
THE PRESIDENT was keenly aware that U.S. victories at sea, exhilarating though they were, did not make up for the dreadful performances on land. Brigadier General Hull had not only failed to invade Canada successfully but also left the British in control of U.S. territory. Dearborn, who like Hull had compiled a fine record in the Revolution, had finally made it to the Canadian border with an army of six thousand but after a single skirmish had fallen back to northern New York. Neither Hull nor Dearborn should have been leading forces in 1812. They were fifty-nine and sixty-one, respectively, Hull was not well, and Dearborn was physically unfit. Their selection to lead military action revealed the failure of the United States to train new leaders. West Point, established in 1802, was small, its programs had not been formalized, and as Madison had noted in his 1810 message to Congress, its buildings were in decay. In that message as well as in the one sent to Congress in 1811, he had recommended additional “seminaries, where the elementary principles of the art of war can be taught without actual war and without the expense of extensive and standing armies.” Two months before war was declared, Congress had finally provided additional professors and expanded the corps of cadets at West Point, but the early war effort was at the mercy of generals whose time had passed. Madison’s secretary of war, William Eustis, though not responsible for the generals’ failings, was widely perceived to be, and he knew it. On December 3, 1812, he resigned.17
The other change in the Madison cabinet was a different matter. Naval secretary Paul Hamilton’s department had overseen glorious successes, but his drunkenness had become notorious. He had been embarrassingly inebriated at the celebrations aboard the Constellation and at Tomlinson’s Hotel and was seldom able to work past noon. The French minister to the United States, Louis Sérurier, reported home that “Mr. Madison and his friends tried by every means to cure him. It was useless.”18 At the end of December, Hamilton resigned, and Madison replaced him with Will
iam Jones, a sea captain and former member of Congress, who would serve with distinction.
Finding a new secretary of war was much harder. Madison had at least two refusals (including Secretary of State James Monroe’s) before John Armstrong, who had recently served as U.S. minister to France, accepted. Armstrong’s résumé was impressive. He was a Republican from New York with military experience, had served in the Senate, and came with outstanding recommendations. But even after appointing him, Madison remained troubled by questions about how loyal he would be. It was widely known that he had authored the address posted at Newburgh at the end of the Revolution, which had urged army officers to threaten Congress if that was what was necessary to get their back pay. And Armstrong was a man of curious personality, haughty, disputatious, and ambitious, while at the same time being indolent.19 He left enemies wherever he served and quickly set about making more of them in Madison’s cabinet. Tensions grew particularly high between Armstrong and Secretary of State Monroe, both of whom saw themselves as potential presidents.
In the midst of making cabinet changes, Madison attended the launching of the rebuilt frigate Adams at Washington’s naval yard. As a newspaper reported it, “An opposition member of Congress, who was standing next the president when the frigate glided off the stocks, abruptly said to him, ‘What a pity, sir, that the vessel of state won’t glide as smoothly in her course as this vessel does.’ ‘It would, sir,’ replied the president, ‘if the crew would do their duty as well.’” Madison’s sense of humor had taken on an edge. Although he had gotten much of what he wanted from the Twelfth Congress, he had endured unrelenting abuse from the Federalist minority. Boston’s Josiah Quincy, who said that the country had been led since 1801 by “two Virginians and a foreigner,” meaning Jefferson, Madison, and Gallatin, distinguished himself with castigations so foul that he had to edit his words before they were printed. Fortunately, the president had Henry Clay on his side. Clay had worried to a friend that Madison was too kind “for the storms of war,” writing that “nature has cast him in too benevolent a mold,” but in two days of remarks on the floor of the House he put his much-lauded eloquence to use showing that virtue in the executive had its advantage. “The Rising Star of the West,” as the Speaker was called, reminded Josiah Quincy that Federalists had violated “freedom of the person” and “freedom of the press” with the Alien and Sedition Acts. There was a great difference, Clay said, between Madison’s administration and its opponents—and “it is in a sacred regard for personal liberty.”20
• • •
WHEN THE THIRTEENTH CONGRESS gathered in May 1813, Madison had another naval victory to report. The American sloop of war Hornet had defeated the Peacock, a British sloop, near British Guiana. He had to work harder to make the case for good news on land. “The attack and capture of York [Toronto today] is … a presage of future and greater victories,” he told Congress. But American losses had been substantial at York, not in battle, but as the result of a powder magazine exploding. Among those killed was Brigadier General Zebulon Pike, famed for his expedition to the American Southwest. The victory would turn out to be costly in another way. The Parliament buildings of York, which was the capital of Upper Canada, had been set afire, and the British, convinced that the United States was responsible, would find occasion for revenge.21
In his address the president assured Congress that a loan arranged by the Treasury would suffice for the rest of the year. He did not mention, though was surely aware, that no thanks was due to a new member of the House. Federalist Timothy Pickering of Massachusetts, defeated in his reelection bid for the Senate and now returned to Washington as a freshman representative, had conducted a vigorous campaign in the pages of the Salem Gazette to discourage Federalist moneymen from subscribing to the loan. The strategy of starving the government in order to stop the war would be increasingly taken up by Federalist newspapers such as the Boston Gazette and even employed from the pulpit. Declared the Reverend Elijah Parish of Byfield, Massachusetts, “If the rich men continue to furnish money, war will continue till the mountains are melted with blood—till every field in America is white with the bones of the people.”22
Taxes would have to be laid going forward in order to ensure the nation’s credit, the president told Congress in his message, which was not news that was happily received. A new Republican member noted that “Congress was to impose the burden of taxes on a divided people” after years of hearing from party leaders “to look upon a tax gatherer as a thief, if not to shoot him as a burglar.”23
But perhaps the most newsworthy part of Madison’s message concerned his acceptance of an offer by Czar Alexander of Russia to mediate a peace settlement between the United States and Britain. The Russian offer had reached the United States at a crucial time. Napoleon, who had invaded Russia with some half million men, had been forced to retreat from Moscow and had fled to Paris, leaving behind the remnants of the Grande Armée. Such a huge defeat did not bode well for the United States. The weaker Napoleon became, the greater the likelihood of the British focusing more attention on their foe across the Atlantic. Great Britain had already announced a blockade of the coast, New England excepted, and a British flotilla had sailed into the Chesapeake, where it was burning and pillaging coastal areas, usually unhindered, though there were examples of citizen soldiers effectively fighting back. Militia and sailors on Craney Island turned back the British to save Norfolk from ruin. On St. Michaels on the Eastern Shore, a few hardy militiamen gave as good as they got from British artillery and managed to save their town’s shipyards. The citizens of Washington feared that the British would march on the capital and, as Dolley Madison reported the rumor, “set fire to the offices and president’s house.” “I do not tremble at this,” she wrote, but she was insulted when the British rear admiral George Cockburn managed to get a message to her saying he would soon “make his bow” in her drawing room.24
Madison had not waited for Congress to assemble to name a delegation to the Russian peace talks. John Quincy Adams, already in St. Petersburg, was to be joined by Federalist senator James Bayard and Secretary of the Treasury Gallatin. By the time of the president’s message to Congress, Bayard and Gallatin had already sailed, Gallatin taking Dolley’s son, Payne, with him. Despite her efforts and those of the president, Payne had found no respectable occupation that interested him. The Madisons no doubt hoped that time spent in Gallatin’s sensible company would be of benefit.
Madison might have hoped that the Senate would regard the Treasury secretary’s posting as a fait accompli, but as anything concerning Gallatin had long done, his nomination as envoy sent some senators, Republicans as well as Federalists, into a rage. Senate committees demanded a meeting with the president, but before one could take place, Madison became extremely ill. James Monroe wrote to Thomas Jefferson that he suffered from a fever “of that kind called the remittent.” Because such fevers were thought to be caused by miasma, or bad air coming from marshes, they were also called mal’aria, or malaria. Chills and vomiting were followed by high temperatures, then sweating and remission before the cycle began again, usually in two or three days. Remittent fever was one of the few ailments for which there was an effective treatment in Madison’s time: Peruvian bark, or the bark of the cinchona tree. It worked because it contained quinine, which attacked the parasites transmitted to humans by infected mosquitoes. These mechanisms were not understood in Madison’s day, which meant that bark was also taken for other ailments. Jefferson took it for his headaches. William Cullen, author of First Lines of the Practice of Physic, recommended it for epilepsy.25
The bark in the president’s house was probably kept in a small maple medicine chest that is displayed today in the White House Map Room. Madison had three doctors in attendance, one of whom probably ground the bark and stirred it into a liquid, possibly wine, but Madison was so sick that for more than two weeks it was difficult for him to drink the bitter infusion.26 One imagines Dolley Madison, at his bedside a
round the clock, trying time and again to get him to take a sip.
Many well-wishers wrote to the president, but his political enemies were relentless. The Federal Republican predicted his demise, reporting that he was in “a state of debility, so exhausted, as to render his chance of even a few more months at least precarious.” The illness had affected his mind, the newspaper reported: “It is weakened and disordered, now utterly sinking beneath his high duties and now bursting forth in paroxysms of rage… . Not a few who have recently visited him have left his chamber under a full conviction of the derangement of his mind.”27
John Randolph of Roanoke was no longer a member of Congress, having been defeated by Jefferson’s son-in-law John Eppes, but there were new representatives with considerable skill at vituperation and little inclination to cut the president any slack. One was Representative Daniel Webster, a brash young lawyer from New Hampshire. From the moment he was sworn in, he was determined to prove that the president had duped the nation into war by misrepresenting French intentions. He went so far as to elbow his way into the president’s sickroom to present resolutions to that effect. “The president was in his bed,” he reported, “sick of a fever, his night cap on his head, his wife attending him.” Added Webster with satisfaction, “I think he will find no relief from my prescription.”28
