The Wages of Fame

by Thomas Fleming

  On the night of November 22, 1837, Caroline’s salon was in crowded session. John Sladen, morosely drunk, told her once more that Sam Swartout would have paid back every cent of that money if the weasel in the White House had driven the annexation of Texas through the House and Senate. The votes were there. Van Buren was intimidated by the noise the abolitionists were making.

  “Talk about gutlessness,” Sladen growled. “How many votes did they get in 1836 on their so-called Liberty Ticket? Eight thousand three hundred and eight. Out of one million five hundred thousand.”

  “Shhh,” Caroline said. “I won’t have you quarreling with Mr. Adams.”

  Into the room stumped the ex-president. Henry Orr swiftly served him a mulled wine, and after a hefty swallow the old puritan regarded Mrs. Stapleton with something approaching bonhomie. “Did you hear what I did in the House today? I presented a petition signed by one hundred and forty-eight respectable Boston ladies, praying Congress to abolish slave trading in the District. Do you approve of that, Mrs. Stapleton?”

  “I most emphatically approve of women presenting petitions.”

  “I thought you would. Where’s Mrs. Polk? I’m sure she’ll say the same thing.”

  “But I wish the petitions were on a less acrimonious topic.”

  Before the ex-president could reply, a tremendous crash rattled the windows. Consternation mingled with fear on most faces. The only unruffled person in the parlor was General Winfield Scott, the towering commander of the American army. “I believe that was a cannon,” he said.

  “Is there any reason for a midnight bombardment, General?” George Stapleton asked.

  “None that I know of. Unless the Seminole Indians have marched north and are attacking the White House.”

  The U.S. Army was fighting an ugly little war with this tribe of Indians in the swamps of Florida.

  Another crash and the sound of distant cheering. Had a revolution begun? The nation was still mired in the economic slump that had begun last year. There had been food riots in New York and Philadelphia during the winter.

  Caroline summoned Hannibal and ordered him to find out what was happening. The big black returned in five minutes, his eyes wide. “They’s a crowd of people in front of the president’s house, yellin’ and cheerin’. They got a big gun and they firin’ it and cheerin’ some more. Most of’m pretty drunk. They yellin’ something about a hundred and twenty-one to twenty-seven.”

  Into the room charged burly Matthew Davis, the Spy in Washington himself. “Those cannoneers are Whigs,” he shouted. “They’re telling Van the news about the New York elections. The Whigs have beaten the Democrats silly from Montauk to Buffalo. They’ve taken over the legislature by a count of a hundred and twenty-one to twenty-seven.”

  “What a shame!” Sarah Polk said. “To think that President Van Buren has lost his home state!”

  Her eyes met Caroline’s. The Mona Lisa smile was in them, though her face remained solemn. There was no need to ask the question that Caroline was certain half the room was suddenly pondering. Would the Democratic Party turn to the Speaker of the House for its next presidential candidate? It was amazing what two women could accomplish by keeping their mouths shut.

  FOUR

  “MISSUS, THIS HERE’S MY MINISTER, the Reverend Nathan Allen. He’s got a power of trouble. I told him you and the senator would help him.”

  The Reverend Mr. Allen was almost as tall as Hannibal, but much thinner. A large, cranelike old man—austerely dignified. Together the two blacks filled the doorway of the Stapleton bedroom.

  Caroline was packing trunks for their summer return to New Jersey. “I’m terribly busy, Hannibal. Can’t you see that?”

  “But this can’t wait, missus. Reverend here’s bought his own freedom and his three sons’. But one of his sons married a girl who’s still bound to a fellow named Birch. He wants to sell her and her three children, the reverend’s grandchildren, south. Reverend’s tryin’ to raise a thousand dollars by this Friday to free’m, missus.”

  “Congressman Adams said he was sure you’d help me, ma’am,” the Reverend Mr. Allen said.

  “How much did he give you?”

  “Fifty dollars.”

  “I’ll give a hundred.”

  “Oh, thank you, missus,” Hannibal said. “One of them little girls is a good friend of my Tabitha. She done cry and cry when she heard they might be sold south.”

  The name Tabitha caused a nerve in Caroline’s throat to twitch. “I’ll give a hundred and fifty.”

  It would wreck her household budget for the month, but it was worth it to get these black faces out of her bedroom, out of her sight. More and more, Caroline found the endless quarrel over slavery shredded her nerves. It was doing the same thing to Sarah Polk—to many people.

  The dispute had taken a disastrous turn in the Senate last year, when Senator Rives and Senator Calhoun suddenly found themselves on opposite sides. Rives, speaking as a Virginian and a disciple of Thomas Jefferson’s, said slavery was evil and he longed for the day when it would disappear. Calhoun vehemently disagreed. He said it was the best solution for both races. Slavery was good for the black race. They could not survive as free men.

  John Sladen had followed his leader into this cul-de-sac, and dozens of other Southerners were soon saying the same thing. The abolitionists were goaded to new heights of fury and denunciation. It was male stupidity at its worst. Caroline began to see the necessity of detaching George and John from Calhoun. The man’s mind was too logical, too argumentative, for an American politician. He did not know how to ingratiate his enemies; his instinct was to defy them, destroy them.

  When she invited Senator Calhoun to her salon, she made sure she omitted John Quincy Adams from the guest list—and vice versa. To cushion the waves of animosity they emanated, Caroline had discovered a far more powerful personage, who radiated benevolence rather than assault and battery: Dolley Madison. The widow of the fourth president had moved back to Washington after his death in 1836. Strapped for cash, Dolley could only afford to give one reception a month. She welcomed as a godsend the chance to shine at Mrs. Stapleton’s weekly salons. Her presence invariably guaranteed the bonhomie that the frowning Adams and glowering Calhoun threatened to demolish.

  Dressing hastily, running a comb through her hair, Mrs. Stapleton rushed off to the Capitol in her coach. She arrived in time to witness the closing minutes of the House of Representatives’ 1838 spring session. She sank into the seat Sarah Polk had been saving for her and whispered an apology for being late. Sarah smiled her understanding.

  John Sladen rose to salute Speaker Polk. “I think all the members of the Democratic Party and even a few of those who claim membership in another party will agree, Mr. Speaker, that you have presided over our tumults with a degree of fairness and good humor that this House, taken as a disorderly whole, unquestionably does not deserve. We will miss your talents and your judgment, but we realize that the people of the great state of Tennessee will be the beneficiaries. When we remember who is the First Resident of that state, we’re doubly grateful that you are going to bring to Andrew Jackson’s lips the sweet taste of Democratic victory this year. I predict that this event will make the people of this whole nation, assembled in their majesty at the polls, insist on your return to federal service in a post even higher than the one you have so ably filled for these past four years.”

  Sitting beside Sarah were Matthew Davis, the Spy in Washington; Nathaniel Willis, the elegant editor of the New York Mirror; and Frank Thomas, the witty Washington correspondent of the New York Herald. All three were frequent guests at Caroline’s salon. They were industriously scribbling notes on John Sladen’s tribute to James Polk. It would be national news before the end of the week.

  Sarah had decided that her husband needed to escape the endless warfare of the House of Representatives. He was going home to run for governor of Tennessee, with Andrew Jackson’s blessing. As John Sladen’s speech, written virtually
to Caroline’s order, suggested, a larger strategy was at work. If James wrested Old Hickory’s state from the grasp of the Whigs, who had held it since Van Buren failed to carry it in 1836, Polk would be a logical candidate for vice president on the Democratic ticket.

  Sarah’s heady vista of a presidential nomination had been deflated by President Van Buren’s grim determination to run again and the Little Magician’s iron grip on the party’s patronage. Although he was clearly a wounded politician, Vanny was guaranteed the nomination by his ability to handpick the delegates to the Democratic Convention. But everyone was certain he would jettison Richard “Tecumseh” Johnson as his vice president. His lifestyle disgusted Southerners and gave abolitionists a standing target at the very top of the Democratic Party.

  Back at Gadsby’s Hotel, the Polks held a farewell reception for their many congressional friends. George and Caroline and John Sladen lingered after everyone else had left. Only now did Caroline confront the reality of her separation from Sarah. The habit of controlling her thoughts and feelings had enabled her to keep this dismaying fact at bay.

  “Kiss the boys for me,” Sarah said.

  Caroline nodded mechanically. Pain, a formidable shaft of pain, was cleaving the center of her body. For a decade she and Sarah had spent two-thirds of each year in Washington, seeing each other almost every day. Regret, an emotion Caroline seldom tolerated, burst from her lips.

  “This city will be empty without you!”

  Tears trickled down Sarah’s face. “If I have a single regret, it’s the loss of your company—and the fear that I’ll never see you again. Life is so uncertain, God’s designs are so mysterious …”

  “I love you so much, I’m almost willing to believe some creator has brought us together for a purpose.” Caroline was weeping too. It was wrong, it was inconsiderate, to show such emotion before two men who theoretically loved her. But Caroline did not care. She loved this woman more than she loved either of them. It was a love beyond passion, a true union of souls.

  The men stood at a distance, wide-eyed at these protestations. Neither James Polk nor John Sladen seemed to know what to say. Both made a habit of suppressing their emotions. Only George was unintimidated by this outburst of feeling.

  “I begin to think you’ve done the right thing, separating them, Polk,” George said. “If they stayed together another year, they’d have taken over the government.”

  “Unquestionably,” James Polk said.

  “Poor Vanny would be out of a job,” George said.

  His contempt for Van Buren had continued to grow. It had been hardened into disgust by the president’s refusal to do anything about Texas—and his failure to solve the country’s economic crisis.

  “Vanny may be out of a job next year, anyway,” John Sladen said. “That’s the one thing wrong with your master plan. Running on a ticket with that weasel.”

  Caroline and Sarah had already discussed and discounted this negative possibility. Even if Van Buren lost, Polk would be a prime contender for the nomination the next time around. The race would make him a national figure.

  Caroline kissed Sarah violently on the mouth. “We’ll see each other again, I’m sure of it. Meanwhile, thank God for the U.S. mail.”

  Off the Polks clanked on the Baltimore and Ohio (and other railroad lines) to Tennessee. The Stapletons returned to New Jersey by steamboat, which was still faster and safer than “the cars,” as everyone called them. Caroline sought refuge at Kemble Manor while George toured the state, doing battle with the growing number of abolitionists. He had worked up a speech that challenged them to solve the problem of what to do with the South’s 3 million blacks, if they were freed. None of them had an answer. George then proposed that each Northern state would have to share the burden of educating and supporting the ex-slaves. Everyone in America profited from slavery. The South bought half of New Jersey’s leather goods. Principia Mills’ looms spun Southern cotton into cloth. At the minimum, George said, New Jersey would have to accept two hundred thousand Africans. At this point, a storm of boos and hisses usually drove the abolitionists from the hall.

  Every third or fourth day, the mail brought Caroline a report of James Polk’s run for the governorship of Tennessee. It was a hard-fought campaign that took him from one end of the five-hundred-mile-long state to the other, speaking in the brutal subtropical humidity of Memphis and the baking heat of Kingsport. Sarah fretted about his health, but James, glad to be out of the cockpit of the House of Representatives, thrived. At the bottom of one of her letters, he scribbled, I’ve never felt better in my life!

  The Stapletons were back in Washington when the glorious news arrived in the newspapers, followed by a triumphant letter from Sarah. James had won by a whisker. A few nights later, the Stapletons were on the White House list for a reception. The president had finally found a hostess for his barren bachelor quarters. His oldest son, Abraham, had married a tall attractive blonde from South Carolina, Angelica Singleton.

  Going through the receiving line, Caroline was amused by the way his son and daughter-in-law towered over the president. Van Buren had grown extremely fat, making him look even shorter than he was. As she shook his pudgy hand, she said, “No doubt you’ve heard the glorious news from Tennessee, Mr. President?”

  “I’ve already congratulated Mr. and Mrs. Polk. I suppose I should congratulate you too—as her partner in crime.”

  “Crime?”

  “Merely an expression. You’re looking lovely as usual.”

  Caroline found herself pondering the partner-in-crime remark. Was the Little Magician hinting that he knew the game they had played with Samuel Swartout? Who could tell him, except John Sladen? She suddenly remembered John’s expression the day she said good-bye to Sarah Polk. The haunted desire had become a deepening bitterness. She would have to do something to show him her love survived—and do it soon. But how could the woman who hid in the icy caverns of her soul speak?

  Van Buren began circulating through the crowd. Senator Stapleton brought him to a halt. “Will there be any progress on Texas in this session of Congress, Mr. President?”

  Van Buren gazed up at George’s formidable bulk. “Remember what I told you about waiting, when we first met? On this question it’s true, as they say, in spades. We hold all the cards.”

  “That’s not what I hear from General Jackson.”

  “General Jackson is getting a great deal of bad advice from his friend Sam Houston.”

  The president turned to seize the arm of the English ambassador, who equaled him in girth. “Assure this fellow you have no designs on Texas, Sir John.”

  “None whatsoever,” the ambassador said. “Though we believe justice would be best served if they remained affiliated in some way with their parent country, Mexico.”

  “Mr. Ambassador, I’m sure your grandfather had the same opinion about the United States after the battle of Yorktown,” George said. “People who shed blood to win their independence aren’t inclined to cut a deal with their oppressors.”

  “Senator, keep your temper. We’re not at the negotiating table,” Van Buren said.

  Damn you, George, Caroline thought. Why couldn’t he wait to bait Vanny about Texas? It was the third or fourth time he had done it this year. As Van Buren retreated, Caroline stepped into his path. “I have a suggestion about Texas, Mr. President. As soon as you win reelection next year, you should send someone at the very top of your government to Mexico with the power to negotiate everything. The one man who would be perfect for this is James Polk. But first you’ll have to nominate him for vice president.”

  “An interesting idea, Mrs. Stapleton. But I already have a vice president with whom I’m completely satisfied.”

  Caroline found it hard to believe she had heard him correctly. “Completely, Mr. President?”

  “Completely. I’m no more inclined to change him for Mr. Polk than I would be for John Sladen.”

  So that was it. He had never forgiven her and Sla
den for the Aaron Burr toast. “Mr. Burr is dead these three years, Mr. President,” she said.

  “But one of his ex-henchman, Matt Davis, is hawking his biography all over town, with ripe slanders of me in it. I suppose you’ve bought a copy.”

  “In fact I have, but I haven’t read it,” Caroline lied. “I had an interesting conversation with Congressman Adams about it. He says it’s a veritable lesson in retributive justice. It describes how Mr. Burr and Mr. Hamilton connived to deprive his father of the presidency after a single term, and they both met miserable ends because of this terrible crime. Do you think it would be a crime to inflict such a fate on you?”

  “If it’s a crime to inflict political pain, I fear you, or another of my many enemies, might be guilty, Mrs. Stapleton. But knowing your power, I hope to propitiate your support.”

  “Oh, you have it already, Mr. President. Your name is on my lips constantly.”

  “But is it in your heart, Mrs. Stapleton?”

  “That may be where some propitiation might help, Mr. President.”

  “For the moment all I can say is, Mrs. Polk ought not to raise her hopes.”

  This conversation went out verbatim to Nashville, where Governor Polk and Sarah were in residence. Sarah was dismayed to learn Van Buren could be so stupid or vindictive or weak. Some close friends recently stopped at Vice President Johnson’s plantation on their way to Tennessee. He lives in open concubinage with not one but a half dozen of his slaves. The man is repulsive! How can Van Buren renominate him? He has truly lost his sense of direction.

  Renominate Richard Johnson is exactly what Martin Van Buren did, to the almost universal dismay of the Democratic Party. He seemed to think that he needed a Westerner with a military record on his ticket to counter the Whig candidate, General William Henry Harrison of Kentucky. The renomination was managed in Van Buren’s usual sneaky style. At the Democratic Convention in Baltimore, George Stapleton nominated James Polk in a vigorous speech as the man who had regained Tennessee for the Democrats. Not a single Van Buren follower said a word for him. Two other names were thrown into the pot, and the convention then announced it would nominate no one. They would let “the people” choose the vice president from the four contenders, in the course of the campaign. The party organization, firmly in Van Buren’s s control, manufactured petitions and letters to newspapers supporting Johnson, leaving Polk and the other two candidates no choice but humiliating withdrawals.