The secretary of state and the secretary of the navy both dead. What a shambles. Was any other president so pursued by the furies? Caroline joined John Sladen in helping George and Senator Benton to seats along the railing, amidships.
“Well, Senator,” Benton said, “now we know how it feels to die in the twinkling of God’s eye.”
“Can anyone get us some brandy?” George said.
“I’ll get something,” Caroline said.
As she rushed to the companionway, the president took her arm. “Mrs. Stapleton. Would you do what you can for Julia?”
“My husband and Senator Benton desperately need some brandy to revive them.”
“They’ll have it in an instant from my own hand. Take care of Julia—and you’ll have my gratitude compounded infinitely beyond what I already owe you for bringing us together. Only you can rescue me from this disaster.”
She knew what he meant. Julia was all too likely to blame him for her father’s death. How could she avoid the thought? The scene belowdecks was almost as chaotic as the one above. The wives and families of the dead were sobbing and wailing and flinging themselves into the arms of consolers. Caroline managed to find Dolley Madison in the chaos.
“You must help me with Julia Gardiner. Her father is among the dead,” Caroline said.
An instant later, Julia rushed up to them. “Mrs. Stapleton. I want to go to my father. No one will tell me whether—”
Dolley rose to the occasion like the uncrowned queen she was. “Dearest girl. Thy father is in heaven. God has called him home.”
“No! Mrs. Stapleton, how could such a thing happen? How could the president—”
“The president is in God’s hands, like the rest of us,” Dolley said.
“His heart is as broken as yours, as mine,” Caroline said.
An instant later, Caroline was supporting a dead weight. Julia had fainted. Caroline managed to half-drag, half-carry her to a nearby bench and hold her erect. John Sladen appeared with some brandy, but he could not force it past Julia’s lips. Most of it spilled on her gown.
They sat there holding the unconscious young woman as the Princeton steamed up the river to Alexandria. There, a smaller vessel came alongside to take the injured and the survivors ashore. The president came below and lifted Julia in his arms. John Sladen took charge of Dolley Madison, and they mounted to the deck to find their worries were far from over.
The two ships were connected by a narrow gangplank stretched across the swift heaving Potomac. Sailors stood ready to assist everyone, but it was still a tricky business. As the president was halfway across with Julia, she awoke and began thrashing violently in his arms. The chief executive swayed and came within a step of tumbling into the river.
The president told Caroline to take Julia to the White House. He would join them after they removed the bodies of the dead from the Princeton. At Alexandria, the navy commandeered carriages and wagons for the distraught fugitives, and in an hour Caroline was helping Julia upstairs to a White House bedroom. She left her there, surrounded by Tyler relatives, and hurried to 3600 Pennsylvania Avenue to see how George was faring. She found him sitting in the parlor sipping brandy with John Sladen. His color had returned. Aside from an earache, he declared himself as good as new.
A chance invitation from Senator Benton had saved his life. George had been standing in the front rank around the gun when Benton suggested he join him on a gun carriage six or seven feet in the rear of the crowd so they could get a better view of the cannonball as it hurtled down the river. They were both knocked off the carriage by the blast, but none of the metal fragments of the gun flew their way.
“It makes a fatalist of you,” George said.
“I wonder what it will make of the president?” Sladen said.
“Julia Gardiner’s husband,” Caroline said.
“I mean as a politician. Who’ll be the next secretary of state?”
“Another nobody, probably,” Caroline said.
“Not if Tyler wants to push the Texas annexation treaty through the Senate,” Sladen said. “He needs a name with real power behind it.”
“John C. Calhoun?” George said.
“Who else?” Sladen said.
“I thought he was running for president.”
“He was, but Van Buren’s sewed up two-thirds of the delegates. I think he’d be amenable. Thanks to Upshur, he’s been in close touch with the negotiations.”
“Doesn’t the president dislike him?”
“He might change his mind if Calhoun announced he was withdrawing as a candidate.”
“That can be arranged?” George said.
Sladen nodded. “Simply get us an offer. I promise you the announcement will be forthcoming—before he accepts.”
Caroline saw Sladen was trying to arrange a graceful exit for his hero. George was in favor of it because it would significantly increase the chances of pushing the Texas treaty through the Senate. Calhoun had enough prestige to challenge the backstage veto that the two master schemers, Henry Clay and Martin Van Buren, had concocted.
“I’ll be going to the White House tomorrow to see Julia Gardiner. I’ll speak to the president,” Caroline said.
Power. Caroline felt the familiar pleasure pulsing in her blood again. But it was not the mere exercise of influence that stirred her. She sensed that the deadly explosion aboard the Princeton had shattered more than the president’s cabinet. It had also smashed the political equilibrium that the so-called reasonable men such as Clay and Van Buren were trying to establish, in their own self-interest of course. Out of the upheaval, Senator Calhoun was finding an unexpected political resurrection. Why could not something equally miraculous restore James K. Polk—and Sarah Childress Polk—to the shadowy struggle in the Temple of Fame?
NINE
Dearest Friend,
It is consummated. Mr. Calhoun has arrived in Washington to take up his duties as secretary of state. Before he left South Carolina, he issued a statement, declaring himself out of the presidential race. The President has become reconciled to his presence, after his first strenuous resistance, to the idea. Most of his mind is preoccupied with his coming marriage to Julia Gardiner, which I have facilitated not a little on several trips to New York. She has accepted his offer. He will be going to that city for a very private ceremony sometime in the next six weeks. Like all politicians, he is hopelessly superstitious and now regards me as some sort of angelic presence, who will guarantee his political as well as his personal happiness. He consults with me—and occasionally George—about everything. We have enthusiastically approved his idea of a political convention (composed mostly of officeholders he has appointed) that will nominate him on a third-party ticket with the annexation of Texas as the sole issue. I suggested calling them Democratic-Republicans. This will put pressure on Little Van, who you know has the backbone of a jellyfish, to support the treaty of annexation when it comes before the Senate. He controls at least thirty Democratic votes. Mr. Tyler and Julia entertain fantasies of using success with Texas to dismount the Little Magician and seize the Democratic nomination. It does no harm to encourage these ideas. It will lend zest to their honeymoon. Meanwhile, I am readying the President for a more realistic quest: an insistence, if he withdraws in Little Van’s favor, that Albany’s favorite weasel accept James Polk as his vice president. I intend to ask this of Mr. Tyler, not only as a personal favor, but as the one hope of stopping Henry Clay, whom he regards as the incarnation of evil, from becoming president. I trust I have your permission to do this.
I am not alone in deploring Little Van’s liabilities. Senator Robert Walker, now the chairman of the Democratic Party, has covered his bald head with a black wig and talks incessantly about Van’s turpitude. He virtually drove people screaming into the street at my most recent salon with his declamations on the subject.
The other day we went to a fascinating scientific demonstration at the Capitol. An inventor named Samuel Morse has perfected a tel
egraph and stretched a line between here and Baltimore. The President was in that city, laying the groundwork for his Democratic-Republican Convention. He sent us the message “What hath God wrought!” We had trouble keeping straight faces. Was he talking about a miraculous elevation to a second term? On our end of the line, Mrs. Madison sent a less portentous reply to one of her friends in Baltimore: “Give my love to Mrs. Wethered.”
Mr. Morse talks of linking all parts of the Union with telegraph wires. Those of us who wish to create a continental United States, with not only Texas but California and Oregon on our maps, feel the god of progress is confirming our vision. Conservatives grumble that we can barely govern the vast expanse we currently rule, pointing out that it takes ten days for a letter to get from Washington to New Orleans. But if the same letter can be sent in five seconds—what can’t Washington rule?
As ever,
Caroline
Downstairs, Caroline heard the front door open and two-year-old Paul running to greet George, calling, “Papa!” The house was so much more peaceful these days without Jonathan and Charlie. Jonathan had been sent to a school in the village of Lawrenceville, near Princeton, to complete his studies before entering Columbia the next year. Charlie had been sent in the opposite direction, to an excellent school in North Carolina that the Polks had recommended. James Polk had attended it before matriculating at that state’s university. The two boys were so different in temperament and habits, Caroline thought it best to separate them. George had reluctantly agreed, although it troubled his family feelings. Descending the stairs, Caroline was dismayed to see Jeremy Biddle beside George in the hall. She should have known he would become a regular visitor, now that he had taken up residence in Washington as a senator from New Jersey. The sudden death of Samuel Southard, the Whig senator Jeremy had helped elect, had given him this opportunity to fill out his term. The New Jersey legislature was still his creature, thanks to the Camden & Amboy’s munificence. Between the taxes the railroad paid (amounting to the entire state budget), the jobs he had at his disposal, and the bribes he paid to guarantee the Camden & Amboy’s monopoly in New Jersey, the lawmakers would have nominated him for Emperor of the World if he had asked for it.
“Jeremy dear, what an unexpected pleasure,” Caroline said, kissing him on the cheek while George beamed. Jeremy had finally grown into his ugly face, which seemed much more appropriate to his jowls and wide thick neck and short bulging body.
Jeremy would be with them for the next four years. Happily, his wife, Sally, chose to remain in New Jersey, realizing there was no hope of challenging Caroline’s social supremacy in Washington. There was something to be said for Jeremy’s presence in the Senate. George could almost certainly prevail on him for his vote on a close question. The Whig party had been thrown into near total disarray by Tyler’s vetoes. Henry Clay had gone back to Kentucky to run for president. Without his leadership, the House and Senate Whigs were splitting into quarrelsome factions.
Settled in the parlor, Caroline demanded the latest news from Capitol Hill. “The administration is big with the child Texas,” Jeremy said. “We’re told to expect Secretary of State Calhoun’s completed treaty tomorrow or the next day at the latest. The midnight oil will begin to burn.”
“Surely you’re not going to oppose it,” Caroline said. “It would be political suicide.”
“I cannot disclose the secret deliberations of the Whig caucus,” Jeremy said.
He was a bit drunk. So was George. They must have paused at the Hole in the Wall, the infamous saloon on Capitol Hill, or some other watering place, after the Senate adjourned.
“Jeremy says they’re waiting for instructions from Henry Clay. Without orders from him, the Whigs have no policy worth mentioning,” George said.
“Shall I begin to annotate the quarrels of the Democrats?” Jeremy asked. “North and South, East and West?”
“Don’t bother. We know them all too well,” George said.
“But we overcome them, thanks to our readiness to listen to the voice of the people,” Caroline said.
“Oh, yes, the voice of the people,” Jeremy mocked. “Better known as the voice of Andrew Jackson.”
It was all good-natured. But it set Caroline’s nerves on edge. She suddenly realized how many things could go wrong with the plan she had just outlined to Sarah Polk. President Tyler might not listen very closely to her plea for James K. Polk. Martin Van Buren might not listen very closely to President Tyler. Inflated male egos, narrow self-interests, had to be balanced against the main chance. Would all these touchy men do the right, the sensible thing? Not even George was totally dependable.
“Mr. Sladen, ma’am.”
Josephine Parks was at the parlor door. John Sladen slipped past her, assuming he was welcome. He kissed Caroline and shook hands with George—and with Jeremy Biddle. Jeremy was a test of his self-control. John seemed to pass it unscathed. He even managed to smile into Jeremy’s complacent conservative face.
“I was hoping I’d find you alone,” John said as he sat down. “I have some news—which should only be shared among Democrats.”
“Oh, we can trust Jeremy,” George said.
“It’s serious news, George.”
Jeremy rose, assuring them he had letters to write. He found his hat in the hall and departed. John waited until the front door closed and resumed the conversation.
“I’ve come from Calhoun’s office at the State Department. He showed me what he’s going to submit to the Senate tomorrow. It includes the treaty of annexation with Texas, and this letter to the British negotiator. I’m afraid some Democrats may find the letter exceptional. People like you, George, from states that have a growing abolitionist minority.”
George snatched the letter from John’s hand and read it in one devouring swoop. He handed it to Caroline and said, “Jesus Christ, Johnny! Is he out of his mind?”
Caroline read it as swiftly and understood George’s agitation. The letter told the British ambassador that the annexation of Texas as a slave state was crucial to the future of the South and its role in the Union. The statement annihilated the Democratic Party’s argument that annexation was good for all parts of the nation.
Caroline looked from the document into John Sladen’s gray eyes. She saw mockery there, and something else. The mockery concerned George. John was handing him this bombshell in advance so she could manipulate him into voting the right way when the time came. But the other shade or shadow in those defiant eyes was telling her something even more important. I don’t care what you think, either. John was playing his own game, the Southern game, independent of her. If she wanted to come along, well and good. But he no longer cared, in any serious way, if she went elsewhere. Had he somehow divined how much of her heart she had given to Sarah Polk, to their vision of the Temple of Fame?
So be it, Caroline told him in that momentous silence as George thrashed on the couch. She would not, she could not, correct her heart’s trajectory. It was her woman’s fate, a compound of wish and lifelong thought. She would live without his love, somehow. Without George’s love too, if necessary. For a fierce despairing moment she felt invulnerable.
“Johnny, the minute this letter goes to the Senate, someone’s going to leak it to the newspapers,” George said.
“I know that. I may leak it myself,” John said. “I persuaded him to write this letter for only one reason. To destroy Martin Van Buren once and for all.”
Aaron Burr’s old dream is not dead, it is only sleeping. Now it was no longer sleeping, it was lurching among them like a Frankenstein monster. Of course Caroline had told George nothing about the secret societies in the South who were swearing to conquer Mexico. He was still struggling to preserve the Union. While John Sladen and the men of his generation no longer had much interest in this idea.
But this letter was at best a corollary to their thunderous dreams of Mexico. The letter was pure revenge, on John Sladen’s part for Aaron Burr and his lost father, on
Calhoun’s part for Peggy Eaton, for the eight vacant years as vice president, years that only the presidency could have made meaningful, years that Martin Van Buren had destroyed.
“We’ve tracked down that rumor Sarah Polk reported,” John said. “Van Buren and Clay have cut a deal. They’re going to scuttle the treaty, cut Texas loose to wind up God knows where—a British or French protectorate, maybe, or a Mexican province again—with all of Mexico a British-French protectorate. They don’t give a damn. They just want to get elected president.”
“Maybe you ought to leak it, George,” Caroline said.
“I will. But not to a newspaper. I’m sending it to Andrew Jackson, today.”
“Send him this, too,” John said.
From his pocket he took a newspaper proof. “It’s a letter from Van Buren, telling the country he doesn’t think it’s the right time to annex Texas. It’ll be published in the Globe tomorrow afternoon. I’ve been told that Clay’s letter, saying the same thing, will be published in the National Intelligencer in the morning.”
“Johnny, get rid of this letter about Texas and we can make Calhoun president,” George said. “Calhoun and Polk for vice president—the South and the West, with New Jersey and Pennsylvania and Maryland—it’s a clear majority.”
For a moment Caroline’s brain whirled. That was a brilliant idea. George Stapleton had learned a lot about politics in the last fifteen years. “Why not try it?” she said to John Sladen.
He shook his head. He could not let go of his revenge, and he hated the thought that Calhoun might be persuaded to abandon his vengeance. “It’s too chancy. We’ve got to rally the South against Van Buren. This letter will do it. Calhoun’s already taken himself out of the race.”
“Talk to him. I’ll talk to him. Where is he?” George said.
He rushed into the hall and summoned Hannibal from the stables. An extremely reluctant John Sladen rode off with him to see John C. Calhoun. Caroline stayed behind and read Van Buren’s letter. It was a typical Little Magician production. He talked on all sides of the Texas question, until it was impossible to know where he stood. An even more fatal flaw was the letter’s length. It consumed five packed columns in the Globe’s small type.
The Wages of Fame Page 40
