“All right,” Caroline said without enthusiasm.
“I’m glad he came early. He’ll be old enough to take to Andrew Jackson’s inauguration, won’t he?”
“Of course,” Caroline said.
As Sally and Jeremy undressed for bed, he found himself facing an inquisitive wife. “George and Caroline have been married seven months,” she said. “That baby is no seven months child.”
“So?”
“I can’t believe George, the man of honor, took advantage of dear Caroline. Or am I to conclude that this was how she landed him?”
“Perhaps it would be best to draw no conclusions.”
“Are you defending her—after the way she’s treated you?”
“I’m defending her—and George. Whatever’s happened is something we’re dutybound not to discuss—out of family loyalty, elementary decency, and good manners.”
“You mean to say I can’t speak my mind to you here, in our bedroom?”
“Of course you can. But …”
“But what?”
Abandoning his vow of perpetual silence, Jeremy told Sally about Caroline and John Sladen. He immediately realized he had made the worst mistake of his life. Sally was stunned and horrified beyond all his expectations. He should have known she might feel that way. She had spent her girlhood and youth in the company of Angelica Stapleton and her sister, Henrietta, two of the most proper women in New York.
Worse, Sally disapproved of Jeremy’s concealing the affair from George and allowing Caroline into the family. “How could you have done such a thing?” she cried. “You should have given each of them a hundred dollars and sent them both to New Orleans.”
“George loved her!” Jeremy said.
“He would have gotten over it,” Sally said with the merciless realism that comes so easily to some of her sex.
“I did what I thought was best.”
Sally turned away, trying, and failing, to conceal the contempt on her face. Jeremy realized that she would never have confidence in him again. He lay awake most of the night, wondering if he was on his way to the overheated place that is paved with good intentions.
BOOK THREE
ONE
ON JANUARY 2, 1829, THE local newspaper, the Hamilton Beacon, reached Bowood with a stunning report from the West in its right-hand column: “Mrs. Jackson Dead!” The editor went on to tell his wide-eyed readers that Rachel Jackson had died at the Hermitage on December 23 and had been buried the following day. It described Andrew Jackson as “grief-stricken to the point where there is serious concern for his survival.”
Caroline immediately wrote to Sarah Polk, begging her for a complete account of the tragedy. In a postscript she mentioned she had given birth to a son. Two weeks later, as the new congressman and his wife were preparing to depart for Washington, D.C., Sarah’s reply reached them. She and her husband had not been in Nashville at the time of Rachel Jackson’s death (the Polks lived in Columbia, Tennessee), but she had obtained her information from friends and family when they rushed to the Hermitage to extend their sympathy to the General.
As you know, Mrs. Jackson had little enthusiasm for going to Washington, and her anxiety about the impending journey weakened her already faltering health a good deal. In mid-December she permitted the ladies of Nashville to take her to the city to outfit her with a trousseau that would enable her to grace her role as the President’s wife. While waiting in a newspaper editor’s office for a carriage to take her home, she picked up one of the scurrilous pamphlets the Adams-Clay clique had circulated about her marriage. When the coachman arrived, he found her sobbing hysterically. At the Hermitage, she swooned and physicians had to be summoned. They bled her and she seemed to recover. But three days later, while preparing for bed, she collapsed and died moments after the General, summoned by a servant’s cries, reached her. The General could not believe she was gone. He begged the doctors to try to resuscitate her. For the next twenty-four hours, he sat by her bed holding her cold hand. It was a scene so affecting, no one, man or woman, could describe it to me without tears. The next day Rachel was buried in a dress of pure white, a fitting symbol of her stainless soul. At the graveside, tears coursed down the General’s cheeks for the first time since his beloved’s death. “I know ’tis unmanly,” he said, “but these tears are due her virtues. She shed many for me.” Then he mastered himself and spoke in a voice that seemed to come from another world. “In the presence of this dear saint I can and do forgive all my enemies. But those vile wretches who have slandered her must look to God for mercy.”
I fear we are facing some stormy political weather. The newspaper stories of General Jackson’s imminent demise are exaggerated. Though he is heartbroken, the flame of life still burns furiously in his soul. I congratulate and envy you on your elevation to motherhood and look forward to seeing you and George and little Jonathan in Washington.
Your friend,
Sarah Polk
To Washington, D.C., George and Caroline and little Jonathan went, taking with them several of Bowood’s servants—Hannibal, the big black whom George had brought from Tennessee; Tabitha Flowers, a pert young woman of his race whom Hannibal had married since he came to Bowood; and Harriet, the mansion’s rotund cook. Caroline and Sally Biddle almost came to blows over Harriet. Sally and Jeremy were about to move into their new house, and Sally tried to pirate Harriet for their kitchen. Jeremy suggested they draw lots and Caroline won.
In Washington, Caroline and George found the new house they had rented at 3600 Pennsylvania Avenue chaotically incomplete. Plaster was still oozing from the walls, the coal stove in the kitchen had no connection to the chimney, the indoor toilet threatened to flood the first floor every time it was used. They sought shelter at nearby Gadsby’s Hotel, only to learn not a room was to be had there or anywhere else in Washington. At least ten thousand people had poured into the city to attend Andrew Jackson’s inauguration.
They settled for dinner at Gadsby’s where they enjoyed a cordial reunion with the Polks—and discovered the topic that was standing official and unofficial Washington on its ear.
“John Henry Eaton has resigned from the Senate and become General Jackson’s secretary of war. He’s also married Peggy O’Neale,” Sarah Polk said, her eyes alight with unladylike glee. “A great many people think the two things will mix like oil and water—or honey and vinegar.”
The Polks’ dislike—or to put it more exactly, jealousy—of Eaton was no longer concealed behind politeness. Several other Jackson Democrats at the table chimed in with similar sarcasm. “If Peggy is a lady,” chortled Congressman Churchill C. Cambreleng, “then I’m a candidate for presiding bishop of the Methodist Episcopal Church.”
“Unfortunately,” Sarah Polk continued in a more sober tone, “General Jackson insists Peggy is a lady.”
“Does that mean we can look forward to Mr. Cambreleng’s nomination to the episcopacy?” George asked.
“More likely his appointment as third secretary in the American consulate in Tierra’del Fuego—if he persists in his opinion,” James Polk said.
“You gentlemen misjudge me,” Cambreleng said. “Simply because I personally have no moral character worth mentioning doesn’t mean I don’t insist on it in others. My aim in life is complete hypocrisy. That’s what American politics is all about.”
After dinner, while Polk and Cambreleng discussed with George what House committees interested him, Sarah Polk told Caroline she was seriously alarmed about the Eaton problem. “On January first of this year, Major Eaton married Peggy at the General’s direct order,” she said. “That has only inflamed the gossip.”
The gossip, summarized by Mrs. Polk in her incisive way, was juicy. Peggy’s previous husband had been a U.S. Navy purser who had trouble keeping good accounts. A Southern Adonis with a small brain and a fondness for alcohol, John Timberlake had wooed and won Peggy when she was sixteen. While the purser was at sea, John Henry Eaton moved into the hotel that Peggy’s father
owned, the Franklin House. Peggy’s conduct with him was flagrant enough to attract the notice of Mrs. James Monroe, who had banned her from receptions at the White House.
Early in 1828, Timberlake’s accounts were such a mess that the Navy threatened to dismiss him. Senator Eaton had posted a bond of ten thousand dollars to enable the impugned purser to sail for the Mediterranean aboard the USS Constitution, where he died, according to the Navy, from acute drunkenness. Others claimed he had cut his throat because his wife was living in sin with Senator Eaton.
Caroline immediately pointed out the striking similarity between Peggy’s story and General Jackson’s rescue of his beloved Rachel from the arms of another rascal. “That’s exactly what worries me,” Sarah Polk said.
For the rest of the week, the Stapletons struggled to make their house livable. In their forays onto the streets, they noticed incredible numbers of people wandering in search of amusement. Many of them seemed to have recently arrived from places like Pittsburgh and Nashville. They wore the rough clothes of the West and seemed to regard anyone well dressed as an enemy. If a gentleman stared at them in a way they considered too curious, he was liable to end up on his back with a broken jaw. A startling number of them were drunk, even at nine o’clock in the morning.
At the Stapleton’s dinners at Gadsby’s Hotel—the stove in the Pennsylvania Avenue house was still unattached—amazed politicians such as Cambreleng reported the visitors were sleeping five to a bed in nearby Alexandria. Others slept on billiard tables or on floors. “I’m beginning to understand how the Romans felt when the barbarians breached the walls,” said’ Cambreleng. In spite of his radical politics, he was a New York snob.
“They all seem to think the country has to be rescued from some dreadful danger,” George Stapleton said. “I’m beginning to think General Jackson went a little too far in his denunciations of Mr. Adams and Mr. Clay.”
“They’re good people,” James Polk said. “A little rough maybe. But their hearts are pure.” As a Tennessean, his faith in democracy was not easily shaken.
“You’ve put up with Sausage Smith,” Sarah Polk told Cambreleng. “This is more of the same, multiplied by a thousand.”
“Ten thousand,” Cambreleng said.
To escape these excited followers, General Jackson had entered the city under cover of darkness on February 12 and taken shelter at Gadsby’s. As soon as his devotees discovered his whereabouts, they had besieged him day and night as he struggled to form a cabinet. The Polks said great numbers of these fellows were hoping for federal jobs. They had translated Jackson’s call for reform into “Turn the rascals out.” With this sentiment the Polks were in hearty agreement. The congressman had a list of job candidates from his district that he hoped to submit to Old Hickory the day after he settled into the White House.
On the morning of March 4, 1829, George and Caroline arose early. She nursed little Jonathan and left two bottles of milk with Tabitha Flowers, who was serving as the baby’s nurse. The Stapletons expected to be gone most of the day. There was to be a reception at the White House after the inaugural ceremony.
Joining the Polks, at ten o’clock they set out down crowded Pennsylvania Avenue as cannons boomed. The ground was soft underfoot. Patches of snow lay in the fields. They knew that the General had vetoed an elaborate military parade. He had also declined to make a courtesy call on President Adams, whom he now regarded as Rachel Jackson’s murderer. He was going straight from Gadsby’s to the Capitol.
Around them the crowd suddenly erupted with cries of admiration and excitement. “There he is. Old Jack! He’s walking! Ain’t that just like him?”
Preceded by a tottering company of elderly soldiers of the American Revolution and a half dozen younger officers who had served at the Battle of New Orleans, Jackson strode past them in a long black coat, black suit, and black tie. He would not allow even this triumphant day to interrupt his mourning for Rachel. But his smile was wide and genuine as he responded to the cheers of the crowd. Occasionally he raised his hand in a friendly wave.
“Sublime!” Sarah Polk said. “The servant saluting his sovereign, the people.”
Before the Capitol swarmed an amazing mass of humanity. The next day, newspapers estimated the crowd at thirty thousand. The Polks and the Stapletons followed the presidential line of march around the multitude and made their way into the Capitol by the basement. They followed Jackson to the Senate chamber for the swearing in of his vice president, John C. Calhoun. The South Carolinian had been Adams’s vice president too but had switched sides and backed Jackson in the election campaign.
“We must all be polite to Mr. Calhoun,” Sarah Polk whispered to Caroline as they settled into gallery seats reserved for congressmen. “Since General Jackson has declared he’ll only serve one term, Mr. Calhoun is his logical successor.”
The most noteworthy sight of the brief ceremony was an empty chair in front of the dais, reserved for ex-president Adams. He had repaid Jackson’s enmity by boycotting the inauguration.
Precisely at twelve o’clock, the congressmen and senators followed Andrew Jackson onto the East Portico, where he was to be sworn in. A marine band burst into “The President’s March” as he appeared, flanked by U.S. marshals, followed by the justices of the Supreme Court. Artillery boomed a twenty-four gun salute. The cannon were almost drowned out by the roar when the people saw Jackson.
For a moment, Jackson stood silently on the portico staring down at the crowd. His sunken, deeply grooved cheeks, his formidable nose, his stern mouth, seemed as stony as the marble building behind him. Then, in a gesture that no one who saw it ever forgot, he bowed low to the people assembled in their majesty. Instantly the color of the crowd changed from the mixture of dark brown and black that had prevailed while they waited for their hero. Every hat was doffed and faces radiant with adoration and joy were visible around the huge semicircle.
The president read his brief inaugural address, barely ten minutes in length, in which he promised to reform the government and restore liberty to the people. Few beyond the first rows of spectators on the sloping hill below the Capitol could hear it. But no one seemed to care. When he finished, aged Chief Justice John Marshall, looking almost as discouraged as he felt—he had made no secret of his loathing for Democrats—administered the oath of office. Caroline noted how fiercely Jackson pronounced the most important words of the oath: “preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
Jackson shook hands with Chief Justice Marshall and Vice President Calhoun and turned once more to the people. Again he saluted them with a deep bow. The crowd went berserk. They burst through the ship’s cable that had been stretched across the lower part of Capitol Hill and swarmed onto the portico. Congressmen and senators and their ladies were jostled aside in the furious attempt to shake Old Hickory’s hand.
Federal marshals formed a cordon around the new president and got him off the portico before he was trampled to death. At the west entrance to the Capitol, the marshals had a white horse waiting for Jackson. He mounted it and rode down Pennsylvania Avenue, escorted by the chief U.S. marshal, surrounded by the ecstatic, cheering crowd. It was a veritable river of humanity, most on foot, others in gigs and on horseback. Gazing down at the immense procession, James Polk took out his tickets for the inaugural reception at the White House and tore them up.
“James!” Sarah said. “What in the world did you do that for? Shouldn’t we go to the reception to congratulate President Jackson?”
“Calm down, darling,” Polk said. “Of course we’re going. But we won’t need tickets.” He pointed down at the crowd. “They’re all going. They’re inviting themselves!”
When the Polks and the Stapletons reached the White House, the building was surrounded by at least two thousand people in a wild mixture of Eastern broadcloth and Western homespun. From inside came a dull roar that seemed to make the mansion vibrate. People were leaping into the house through the French windows; others wer
e leaping out. From the front door staggered a dignified man whose tie was askew, his black top hat dented. Blood dribbled from his nose. Beside him, his weeping dark-haired wife clutched a green dress with a huge rip in the skirt.
“It’s the reign of King Mob!” the man said.
As the couple fled across the lawn, an alarmed Sarah Polk identified the man as Associate Justice Joseph Story of the Supreme Court.
“Definitely not a Democrat,” said James Polk. “Let’s join the party!”
Into the front hall they plunged, to discover they barely had room to breathe. Blacks, whites, men, women, were packed into the place, staring wildly around them like immigrants in the hold of a sinking ship. None of them seemed to have any idea where to go. There was not a sign of anyone in authority to tell them.
“Where’s the eats?” bellowed a huge fat man in a rough wool shirt.
“Forget the eats,” whooped another man around the same size. “Where’s the whiskey?”
After a severe struggle, the Polks and Stapletons worked their way into the spacious East Room. The crowd was just as dense and even more unruly. At the far end of the room, doors opened and waiters began carrying in tubs of orange punch. Other servants had trays of wineglasses. The crowd surged toward them and the servants flew in all directions. The punch cascaded across the rug, the glasses were crunched beneath a hundred boots.
“Shee-it!” shouted a tall, thin man sporting a dirty white cravat. He spewed a stream of tobacco juice at the floor, narrowly missing Caroline’s skirt. She realized the rug was streaked with this yellow slime, along with clumps of mud from everyone’s boots.
“Where’s Old Hickory?” cried one man. A dozen other voices took up the shout. Several Westerners climbed up on the sofas to try to find the president. Caroline winced at the sight of clods of mud from their boots oozing across the expensive blue and red upholstery.
The Wages of Fame Page 14
