Meanwhile, Abigail glanced up at the sky. It had been gray when she started out, and it had darkened progressively until now there were imminent signs of rain. She had delivered her news and should go, she thought. She did not want her husband to connect her with what she was sure would be unexpected resistance in the American commissioners. There had been several gray days so that Arthur probably would not question her going out, but he would certainly wonder what could have been important enough to keep her out in the rain.
“I must go,” she said.
“Of course,” Gallatin exclaimed, waking from his abstraction. “You must not be wetted.”
She smiled at the odd usage. Although he had been speaking English for over thirty years, Albert had not lost the foreign lilt in his words and an occasional peculiar way of saying things. They shook hands, and Abigail hurried back along the canal to the small cafe where she had parted from her footman, whom she had sent on an errand. When he returned, he obtained a vehicle to transport them back to their lodgings.
Actually, it would not have mattered if she had come back drenched to the skin, for Arthur did not return until late that night. The British commissioners had received the government’s draft answer to the latest American note, and Arthur intended to be with them while they reworked it. As Abigail had warned Gallatin, Bathurst and Liverpool were willing to abandon the proposal about the Indians, except for a face-saving mention, in order to obtain a signed agreement that each side retain the territory it possessed at the termination of hostilities. Arthur was eager to state this in the gentlest language possible, but wanted to include a pressing demand that the agreement be signed immediately and hints that refusal to do so would result in a stiffening of the terms as British military successes continued.
The reworked note was delivered to the Americans on 8 October, but the information that there were no new demands in the light of the victory at Washington was not received with the humble gratitude the British expected, nor did the demand for an immediate agreement produce much response. On 13 October the Americans submitted their reply, and it was just as unyielding as ever. True, they agreed to “restore the Indian nations to all the rights, privileges and territories” they enjoyed before the war, but such a vague commitment was meaningless. If the Indians were returned to the prewar condition for a week or a month, the terms of the treaty would have been fulfilled.
Arthur was infuriated by the Americans’ stubborn refusal to give an inch, particularly as the reactions from the European community were just what he had guessed. Word that a peace was agreed upon would have muted much of the criticism. As it was, newspapers in France and other nations had called the burning of Washington an act of wanton barbarism, and general opinion had swung even more to favor the underdog. Under the circumstances, Abigail did not want even a shadow of suspicion that she had done anything to stiffen the American delegation’s resistance. She confined her few outings to genuine shopping. It was not a great hardship, since the weather was dreadful and she had nothing worthwhile to tell Albert anyway.
A week later, there was a drastic change, however. Arthur returned to their lodging less than an hour after he had left it. Abigail was not surprised, since there was little to do until Liverpool and Bathurst had a chance to examine the American note and reply, and Arthur did not find Goulburn, Adams and Gambier scintillating company. She looked up and smiled welcomingly, but there was so odd an expression on her husband’s face that she hastily put down her book and went toward him.
“Something has happened,” she said, putting out her hand to take his, “but I cannot guess whether it is good or bad.”
“Neither can I.” Arthur sighed and then laughed, adding, “It seems that we should not have crowed so loudly over our ‘victory’ at Washington. The Americans have redeemed themselves. Cochrane landed Ross and his troops for a similar raid on Baltimore, and they were driven off with considerable loss. Ross is dead.”
“I am sorry for that and for the men,” Abigail said, squeezing Arthur’s hand sympathetically.
His lips twisted. Abigail was both tactful and honest. She was sorry for the killed and wounded, he was sure, but she was not sorry for the British loss. Then he shrugged. The truth was that he had never approved of the coastal raids Cochrane planned. If they had intended to hold the cities, they could have been exchanged for more useful territory in Canada, but occupation was not planned. That reminded him that he had not given Abigail all the news, there had been an even more unwelcome loss.
“That’s not the worst of it,” Arthur continued. “Our squadron on Lake Champlain was defeated, and Prevost retreated without any real battle from an American force a quarter the size of his at Plattsburg.”
“Good heavens!” Abigail exclaimed.
She was obviously surprised, and as Arthur gave her what details he had, he could see she was not really pleased, either. Abigail herself was too puzzled by her own feelings to try to hide them. Hearing that the raid on Baltimore had been beaten back had given her a sense of satisfaction. Overtly the raids were supposed to strike terror into America and prove the helplessness of the United States in the face of superior British naval and military forces, however, Abigail suspected the real object of the raids was looting.
The fiasco at Plattsburg was different. Abigail did feel pride in the tiny American fleet that had fought so doggedly on Lake Champlain and felt proud too, of the American troops that had stood their ground against an obviously superior force. But she did not like hearing that the British had retreated, either. Her emotions showed clearly on her face, and Arthur leaned forward suddenly and kissed her.
“I’ll make a good Briton of you yet,” he said, laughing.
Abigail shook her head and sighed. “I wouldn’t have wanted Prevost to win,” she confessed, “but to run away… Oh, I’m being ridiculous. I hate the thought of a battle and people getting killed and maimed. You would think I would be glad of Prevost’s retreat, but I’m not.”
Arthur laughed again, understanding the dichotomy in her emotions, and then asked curiously, “Was it luck, do you think? I mean beating Ross at Baltimore and the business on Lake Champlain. Are the Americans better soldiers and sailors than we think?”
“Why are you asking me? What does a woman know of war?” Abigail looked and felt astonished.
“Because you were there for the first year of the war, and you are not the kind—woman or not—to ignore so desperate a matter,” Arthur replied a trifle sharply, but he saw her question meant more than it asked, and he went on to explain. “Bathurst wants the delegation to propose uti possidetis formally for setting territorial claims, and I want to argue against it if it is likely we will lose more land than we gain.”
“I don’t think there’s much danger of losing much land,” Abigail said slowly. “I’m sure President Madison has abandoned any notion—if he ever had any—of taking Canada. The army is not good enough. Even the generals are volunteers, and the troops are no more than plowboys or city apprentices. But they will fight to defend their own property. Anyway, isn’t it odd to be proposing uti possidetis after a loss?”
“I suppose Bathurst expects better news. An attack on New Orleans is planned, and—”
Abigail clapped her hands to her ears. “Don’t tell me what military actions are planned. I don’t want to know.”
It was Arthur’s turn to be astonished, but he was instantly contrite. It must be dreadful, he thought, taking Abigail in his arms and holding her comfortingly, to know that your friends might be subjected to the violence of war and not be able to help them. Sensibly, he did not offer sympathy, other than his embrace, realizing that he would only be dwelling on the subject and making her feel worse. Instead, he pointed out that Bathurst had dropped a number of demands in this latest note, thus improving the possibility of peace—and, if peace were signed, there would be no more raiding.
Abigail found a smile for him, and soon after, a messenger came bearing
a note from Admiral Gambier to say that Goulburn had decided to prepare Bathurst’s note to be delivered to the Americans the very next day. “He does not say so,” the admiral wrote, “but he hopes the American commissioners will not yet have heard the news about Baltimore and Plattsburg and thus be more amenable to reason.”
Since Arthur’s opinion was very different from Goulburn’s—Arthur felt it slightly more likely that uti possidetis would be accepted while the Americans felt they were winning—he asked Abigail whether she would mind if he left her. She assured him vehemently that the negotiations came first, repeating with a smile that once peace was agreed upon, she would have no further worries. His mind on how to manage the intractable Goulburn, Arthur gave no more thought to Abigail’s reaction to the proposed raid on New Orleans.
The American answer came quickly—a flat and absolute rejection of uti possidetis, coupled with an infuriating reminder that Britain persistently claimed no territorial ambitions. Thus, the American reply stated, as far as the question of territory was concerned, they would agree only to a mutual restoration of whatever territory had been taken by either party.
The British commissioners were furious at this intransigent rejection of a proposal so moderate compared with their earlier demands. Goulburn wished to break off negotiations. Arthur himself was angry enough to agree with him but was restrained by his knowledge of Abigail’s bitter disappointment should that happen. He could not prevent Goulburn from hinting in the letter he sent to Bathurst with the American note that further discussions would be useless, but his own letter suggested a new approach rather than a rupture. The British government, he pointed out, had made all the proposals thus far. Why not ask the Americans to state their ideas? At worst, the British commissioners could have the pleasure of writing haughty rejections for a change; at best, some reasonable ideas might emerge.
It was while he was writing this letter that it occurred to Arthur that Abigail’s reaction to his mention of a raid on New Orleans was most peculiar. New Orleans was part of the Louisiana Territory far to the south and west of New York. It was nearly impossible for Abigail to have any friends there. He thought of the way she had blocked her ears and begged him not to tell her about plans for military action, and a faint sense of disquiet ran through him. Then he shrugged it away. Like the rest of Europe, Abigail plainly felt the United States to be an underdog and did not want to hear of the possibility that it would be whipped.
Arthur’s suggestion was accepted by Liverpool, and the British note suggesting that the Americans submit a “project” was delivered on 31 October. Feeling this was a hopeful sign, the American commissioners received the note with unusual cordiality, and Goulburn thought that perhaps some notions of compromise could be suggested to them in a social situation. Coincidentally, Mrs. Goulburn had a remission of her ailments, and her child was behaving—or the nursemaid was more efficient than usual—so a tea party was arranged.
Abigail received the invitation with something less than enthusiasm. In fact, she cried, “Oh, no!” when she read it at the breakfast table, causing Arthur to look up from his own letters in some alarm.
“Must I go?” she asked, when she had explained.
“Yes, of course you must,” Arthur said, laughing but rather puzzled. “I know you are not enamored of Mrs. Goulburn’s company, but you will not need to endure much of it. I am sure the American commissioners will all be invited and even some of the secretaries. You will have plenty of protection from Mrs. Goulburn’s vapidities.”
“But it’s the Americans I want to avoid,” Abigail cried.
“Why?” Arthur looked at her blankly. At first the statement made no sense to him at all. Then the jealousy that lay scarcely buried in him stirred to life. Was she so fond of “her dear Albert” that she feared to expose herself if they met in public?
“Because Mr. Adams and Mr. Russell know me,” Abigail replied. “Both have been to my shop in New York on their way home from Philadelphia or Washington, and I am not at all sure either one would understand that it would do me harm to mention my business.”
The answer was perfectly logical. Arthur was both relieved and annoyed with himself. “Not to worry,” he said. “We are very unlikely to be mixing much with the members of the British commission once we return to England. It won’t matter a bit if your friends do talk about the shop.”
Abigail smiled at him as if he had solved her problem, but actually the answer she had given him was less than half the truth. She did not relish the idea of exposing her connection with trade, but she had a more compelling reason not to meet her American friends. Ever since Arthur had told her of the planned attack on New Orleans, she had been torn by indecision as to what to do with the information. She could not feel that a raid on New Orleans could be important enough for her to commit another act of treason, but a face-to-face meeting with Albert and the others would make her feel guilty and miserable about withholding a warning. Still, believing that peace was near, Abigail resolved to say nothing, until she learned on the very morning of the tea party that Bathurst had asked Lord Wellington to take over command of the British forces opposed to the United States.
To Abigail it seemed that such a request must preclude any real intention of making peace. Panic-stricken, she did not think of asking even such simple questions as where Wellington was and when he would take up his command, or whether he would be willing to fight in America. All she could think was that Wellington with inferior forces had beaten the best of Napoleon’s generals. It seemed certain to her that with an army of well-trained veterans, superior in numbers and quality of arms, Wellington would sweep away any army the United States could muster.
Panic left little room for logic. Abigail’s fears were only confirmed when she asked Arthur whether the news were true and he admitted it, but told her that he felt Wellington would not agree to go. He explained the reasons at some length and added that if Wellington were to go to Canada, he would have full powers to make peace. Actually, Arthur assured her, Wellington would be more an emissary than a general, but Abigail was not really listening. She believed Arthur was only telling her what he thought would give her comfort. She was very much afraid that the news about the attack on New Orleans would be of no help—it would come too late or be ignored—but she could not now withhold even the smallest assistance she could give.
It was apparent as soon as the Americans entered the rooms set aside for the party in the Lion d’Or that Abigail’s personal fears had been unfounded. Albert’s awareness that no special link between them should be evident prompted him not to linger over his greeting. And, although Mr. Russell and Mr. Adams did recognize her, they had clearly been warned not to betray the fact that they had known her in America. Neither said anything about the bookshop, and Abigail could only hope that nothing else of importance was said either, for very little of her attention was given to the various conversations in which she was involved. She was waiting impatiently for the moment when the rooms would be crowded and noisy enough that she and Albert could escape for a few minutes without their absence being noticed.
To facilitate her plan, she kept a surreptitious eye on her friend and tried to keep herself physically in his vicinity. Abigail was no novice at social maneuvers and was careful to avoid the notice of Mrs. Goulburn and the British commissioners. The only one she did not watch was Arthur. She no longer cared whether he noticed that she sought Albert out. The worst he would do was to take her back to England, and because she had given up any hope for peace, that would be a relief.
And, of course, Arthur did notice. He saw the sidelong glances cast at Gallatin, saw that wherever the man moved, Abigail soon followed. Yet there was more fuel for pity than for jealousy in what he saw. He was sure Abigail was aware her attraction to Gallatin was unhealthy and unrequited. She had not tried to keep him with her when they greeted each other. Yet to his eyes it was as if she were drawn by a magnet, unable to keep away, although she resisted des
perately.
Arthur was sick at heart. He tried not to watch, but found his eyes on Abigail as often as hers were on Gallatin, and he saw her yield, at last, to what seemed to him an irresistible temptation. She and the young man to whom she was speaking moved to join Gallatin’s group, and after a few minutes Gallatin and Abigail drifted away from the others and went out the door into the corridor. Arthur replied automatically to the remark that had been addressed to him while he told himself it would be better to let Abigail have her pathetic few minutes alone, but he could not bear it. She had looked entirely too relieved and happy when she laid her hand on Gallatin’s arm.
Abigail had indeed been delighted at the combination of circumstances that permitted so quick and easy an escape. She had been talking to James Gallatin, from whom she did not need to conceal her purpose, just when casual circulation brought Albert to a spot near the door of the room. She only had to say, “I want to have a word with your papa in private,” instead of manufacturing excuses to terminate a conversation, and when they reached Albert, the natural pause in the talk of the group as she and James were welcomed permitted her to ask about Albert’s wife, Hannah, and the younger children. Since the subject was not of general interest, it was only natural that they should step aside from the others. A moment later Abigail was able to say she had private information for him, and they slipped out of the room.
The corridor was empty, and Abigail moved quickly toward a curtained window at the end, saying, “There is to be an attack on New Orleans. I do not know when. Perhaps my news is already too late.”
“I hope not, and I hope they make better use of it than the warning you gave about Washington,” Gallatin said, then shrugged. “My house was burnt, but at least the furnishings were saved, and Hannah and the children are safe, so it does not matter.”
A Woman's Estate Page 45
