These included Dr. John J. Lowry, the banker, president of the Bank of Missouri, and Montgomery Blair, the mayor of St. Louis, son of the famous Francis P. Blair, editor of the Washington Globe and erstwhile member of Andy Jackson's "Kitchen Cabinet." Also present was Joshua Pilcher, who had to come to St. Louis during the War of 1812 and made his fortune in merchandising, and was now Superintendent of Indian Affairs in Missouri. To Delgado's pleased surprise, Sterling, his whist partner aboard the Sultana, and editor of the Enquirer, had accepted Jacob Bledsoe's invitation. Falconer showed up, too. He looked uncomfortable in a brown frock coat and, compared to the sartorial perfection of Lowry and Pilcher and Blair, appeared rather rustic. His wife could not attend, occupied as she was with the care of a very sick friend. Pilcher and Lowry were accompanied by their wives.
Last but by no means least on the guest list was Thomas Hart Benton, U.S. Senator from Missouri. "Old Bullion" was one of the giants currently straddling the stage of American politics, an accomplished orator who could hold his own against the likes of such notables as Henry Clay and Daniel Webster, a man of remarkable powers as well as seething passions, a highly influential gentleman who saw himself as the leading spokesman for the West. "Calhoun represents the interests of the Southern slaveholder and nullifier," he said at one point during dinner. "Webster stands for the commercial interests of the Northeast—a great talent gone to waste. I speak for the hardy pioneer, the free man who breathes deep into his lungs the unfettered air of the frontier. Henry Clay? That strutting gamecock represents only himself and his overweening ambition."
Benton's wife of many years, Elizabeth, was a semi-invalid, a victim of epilepsy, and could not attend. In her stead was Jessie, Benton's pretty, brown-haired, effervescent daughter of twenty-two years, who had married a young Army officer named John Charles Frémont. At the time she had been only seventeen, and the Bentons had strongly disapproved of one so young marrying one so low on the ladder of Army advancement, but these days Benton was proud of his son-in-law, who at present was in California, one of the leaders of the attempt to wrest that valuable province away from the Republic of Mexico.
The meal was a feast fit for kings. But Delgado discovered that he lacked any kind of appetite. All he wanted to do was stare, enraptured, at Sarah Bledsoe, who by happy chance sat directly across the long mahogany dining room table from him. She was so radiantly beautiful that the setting—the polished red oak floor, the velveteen draperies on the windows, the burgundy damask on the walls, the ornately framed oils, the gleaming brass wall sconces, the snowy white linen table cloths, the gold-rimmed china, the sparkling crystal, the Rogers silverware—all of it paled to nothingness by comparison. She wore a rose organdie dress with a long pink sash, and it was quite becoming in contrast to her honey-and-cream complexion and her chestnut hair that flared with fiery scintillas as it captured the candlelight.
Delgado's problem was that, bracketed between Jeremy and Jacob Bledsoe, the latter in his customary place at the head of the table, he had to be extremely circumspect in his staring, and he tried his best to be, for that reason and because it was not gentlemanly to allow one's eyes to rest so boldly and so long upon a young lady. Of course, she caught him red-handed early on, and though she smiled tolerantly, he looked quickly away, mortified, and tried to exercise his will and avoid looking at her for the remainder of the meal, only to find that he was not in command of his own will, after all. She was waiting with a sweet and slightly sultry smile when he finally gave up and glanced her way again, and Delgado realized, elated, that his inordinate interest was not, apparently, the least bit offensive to her. Throughout the dinner they exchanged surreptitious smiles. Delgado was thrilled, and pleased that no one at the table seemed to notice all this eye contact. He paid absolutely no attention to the lively conversation taking place around him—until he heard his name spoken. To his horror he realized that Jacob Bledsoe had asked him a question.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"I am concerned that the subject of our discussion might be offensive to you, Del."
Delgado glanced around the table and nervously saw that all eyes were on him. He had no idea to what subject Bledsoe was referring. So, in a flash of inspiration, he hedged magnificently.
"Why should it be?" It was, he decided, infinitely better than admitting he had been rudely ignoring the talk.
"You are, sir," said Thomas Hart Benton, "are you not, a citizen of the Republic of Mexico?"
"I suppose I am, technically."
"Do you not support your country in the present conflict?" asked Pilcher bluntly.
"Really, Joshua," scolded Bledsoe. "Perhaps we should talk about something else entirely."
"No," said Delgado, his pride pricked. He had no desire to be mollycoddled. "Mr. Pilcher, my home, Taos, is isolated by hundreds of miles of desert waste from the rest of the republic. The tumult of war and politics rarely touches us there. And besides, while I support the Constitution of 1824 and all it represents, Mexico has suffered under the heel of a succession of tyrants, the worst of which is Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna."
"Here, here," said Dr. Lowry, in full accord with Delgado's last sentiment.
"My father is a Scot," continued Delgado, "who is only concerned with politics as they may affect his commerce. My mother is an Arredondo, a peninsular. This means she was born in Spain, of a distinguished family of pure Spanish blood, who happens to reside in Mexico. During the revolution her father and her brother were killed by the mestizos. Needless to say, you will not find her supportive of the republic. She has no respect for Santa Anna, for he is a criollo, a creole, of Spanish blood but born in Mexico; she feels he has betrayed his own kind."
"It would be very unfair," remarked Sterling, "to suggest that my friend Delgado is any less a patriot to his country because he does not support its present government than are our own Whigs, who decry 'Mr. Polk's War.' "
"I certainly did not mean to suggest any such thing," said Pilcher hastily.
"Our young friend has hit the mark," said Benton. "Tyrants rule Mexico. They are concerned only with their own aggrandizement. As everyone knows, I deplore the outbreak of war. I have consistently spoken for peace. It was my most fervent desire that our two nations might negotiate a mutually satisfactory settlement of the boundary disputes, as well as the rightful claims of our citizens against Mexico, which, I might add, are grossly inflated by President Polk. But, as you are aware, Mexico refused to even receive our envoy, Mr. John Slidell. And she broke off all diplomatic relations subsequent to our annexation of Texas."
"Yet you voted in the affirmative for the president's declaration of war and the appropriations bill for raising a volunteer army," said Sterling.
"I did indeed, and I was not the only member of Congress who voted yes in spite of an aversion to war. As chairman of the Military Affairs Committee, I had a long discussion with the president. I told him I would vote men and money for defense of our territory, but not for open aggression against the Republic of Mexico. I also informed him that I strongly disapproved of marching Zachary Taylor's army to the left bank of the Del Norte, since I do not believe for a moment that the territory of the United States extends beyond the Nueces. Since I feel that way, how could I accept the president's contention that Mexico, by crossing the Del Norte and attacking our troops on the left bank, had invaded our territory and shed American blood on American soil?"
While in New York City, Delgado had learned of the Del Norte fight—details had been plastered over the front pages of every penny press edition in town. The trouble had started with Texas winning her independence from Mexico in 1836. Captured at the Battle of San Jacinto, Santa Anna had obliged the Texans with a pronouncement, given under duress, that the Del Norte, otherwise, known as the Rio Grande, marked the legitimate southern border of the new republic. With this, Santa Anna earned his release, and the pronouncement was promptly repudiated, not only by him but by the Mexican congress. As a Spanish and then a Mexican p
rovince, the boundary of Texas had never extended beyond the Nueces, much less to the Del Norte.
American expansionists ardently asserted that both Jefferson and Madison had claimed that Texas did extend to the Del Norte, by virtue of the disputed territory's inclusion in the Louisiana Purchase. Those opposed to expansion pointed out that even if this were so, the United States had relinquished any claim it might have had to any part of Texas by the 1819 treaty in which Spain, in return, ceded East Florida.
Even when, by joint resolution, Congress had voted to approve annexation of Texas, its language had been circumspect regarding the boundary, which was subject to "adjustment." Such diplomatic niceties were lost on President James Knox Polk. When Mexico made belligerent noises following the annexation, Polk promptly dispatched General Zachary Taylor to the vicinity of the Del Norte with orders to repel any "invasion" by Mexican forces.
In this Polk was right or wrong depending on which paper a person happened to have on hand. The New York Herald applauded the president for such bold leadership, while the Tribune roundly denounced his actions as bald-faced aggression, and likened the chances of a Mexican invasion to that of a sparrow flying into the territory of a hawk to hold it in adverse possession. Mexico would have no better chance than the sparrow; that republic was rent by internal disorders. Great Britain, whose loans were keeping the Mexican government afloat, advised against war in the strongest possible terms.
But the Mexican people were disgruntled; they disliked the passive stance of the Herrera government. A defiant army led by General Mariano Paredes threatened to take over if Mexico conducted any further negotiations with the land-hungry Yankees. Polk's minister plenipotentiary, John Slidell, carrying a portmanteau full of papers describing the grandiose ambitions of the United States, was rudely spurned in Mexico City. Finally, last April, a Mexican force had indeed crossed the Del Norte, attacking a patrol of American dragoons, killing three and taking the rest prisoner.
"So why," persisted Sterling, addressing Thomas Hart Benton, "did you finally vote in the affirmative, Senator?"
Benton grinned down the table at Jacob Bledsoe. "Shame on you, Jacob, for inviting a Whig newspaperman to a gathering of good ol' Democrats."
Smiling, Bledsoe shrugged. He could tell Old Bullion was only half joking.
"In answer to your question, sir," said Benton, "I voted for the appropriations because the president was determined to have a war, and I would not be responsible for denying our boys in uniform the provisions and reinforcements they required."
"I suppose I must be a Whig, then," said Sarah Bledsoe, "because I agree with Mr. Sterling. Mr. Polk provoked this war. He is a Southerner, and he wants to create a slave empire. He will seize all of Mexico if given the chance, and Cuba, as well."
Thunderstruck, Jacob Bledsoe stared open-mouthed at his daughter. Then, with an apologetic glance at his gentlemen guests, he cleared his throat and said, "Perhaps the ladies would like to retire to the parlor, since it seems we have all finished with our meals."
"I would prefer to stay," said Sarah, even as Mrs. Pilcher and Mrs. Lowry began to rise from their chairs accompanied by a rustling of petticoats.
"Really, my dear," said Bledsoe, discomfited. "What has come over you?"
"Oh, I see," replied Sarah, archly. "You gentlemen persist in thinking that women are merely brainless porcelain dolls, pretty adornments for your arms, and pleasant company in your beds, but not worth much else—"
"Sarah!" Bledsoe turned white as a sheet before a storm cloud of anger threw its dark shadow across his features. "Gentlemen, ladies, I beg your forgiveness and extend my most heartfelt apologies for my daughter's outrageous conduct. I can make no excuse for her other than to say that she has been away for more than a year, attending an academy near Philadelphia where I thought she was receiving instruction on how to be a proper young lady."
"I have learned that I am a human being," retorted Sarah with, in Delgado's opinion, a very fetching blush to her cheeks, "as well as a citizen of this republic, and that I am endowed with certain rights. Do you know that hundreds of women like Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott are planning to meet soon to adopt resolutions patterned on the Declaration of Independence—resolutions which will demonstrate beyond a shadow of a doubt to any thinking person that men and women are created equal? The history of mankind is the history of the male's absolute tyranny over the female, and—"
"Enough!" roared Jacob Bledsoe, apoplectic. "I will not tolerate such talk at my table."
Sarah smiled frostily. "A perfect case in point."
"Leave this room this instant, young lady."
"I shall not." Sarah settled sulkily in her chair, as though prepared to resist any attempt to physically remove her.
Impulsively, Delgado rose from his chair. "Perhaps Miss Bledsoe would be kind enough to honor me with a stroll in the garden. It is too pleasant an evening to waste and would be made infinitely more pleasurable by her company."
As he made the invitation, he moved around the table, so that when he was done he stood beside her chair with extended arm.
Sarah hesitated, stubbornly inclined to stand her ground, and Delgado realized how foolish he would look if she refused.
"I think these gentlemen could speak more freely what is in their hearts concerning the war if I was absent," he told her, bending close to her ear and speaking in a conspiratorial whisper.
In this way he addressed her as one undesirable to another. Sarah smiled and placed her hand lightly on his proffered arm.
"If you will excuse us, ladies and gentlemen," said Delgado.
"A bold move," murmured Jeremy approvingly as Delgado escorted Sarah from the dining room.
2
Behind the Bledsoe house a small, immaculately tended garden provided a perfect setting for two people to enjoy the summer evening. A big yellow moon hung suspended in a brilliant field of stars, and a cooling breeze sighed in the tops of the sycamore trees, carrying the sweetly mingled aromas of rambling rose and climbing jasmine. Curving walkways of crushed rock lined with bricks led to whitewashed benches nestled beneath vine-laden trellises. Delgado thought this a most romantic spot, and he was in a romantic mood. How could he be otherwise, in the company of a young woman as beautiful and desirable as Sarah Bledsoe? Unfortunately, she was still fuming about the scene in the dining room.
"Oh, he can be so insufferable at times!" she said.
"Your father? Perhaps you should have forewarned him. I think your rather novel ideas came as a real shock to him."
"I don't know why you are trying to defend him. Doesn't their talk about the war offend you?"
"Well, I—"
"Doesn't it bother you that they consider Mexico so backward, so benighted, that they use that very thing as an excuse for their aggression and greed and this ridiculous notion that it is their God-given duty to spread the light of American liberty and justice from Santa Fe to Campeche?"
"I didn't hear—"
"Doesn't it concern you that if men like President Polk have their way, all of Mexico will be absorbed into the United States?"
Delgado stopped walking and turned to her with an amused smile curling the corners of his mouth.
"At the risk of encouraging you to think me a ne'er-do-well," he said, "the outcome is of no concern to me, except as it affects my family."
"I pity you," she replied. "You are a man with no opinions on matters of importance." She walked on without him.
Delgado followed, searching carefully for the right words with which to redeem himself. In the near distance a carriage clattered down Laurel Avenue, the shod hooves of its horses clip-clopping on the paving stones. In the far distance a steamboat's bell rang out.
"I am of the opinion," he said sincerely, "that you are the most beautiful and fascinating woman I have ever had the privilege to meet, Miss Bledsoe."
"Surely, I am not the first woman to whom you have spoken those very words," she replied, but she could not co
mpletely disguise her pleasure at the compliment.
"That is my opinion, and to me you are a matter of the utmost importance. Let's talk about you, Sarah, and not about me, or the war."
"For one thing, I am proud of my country. I don't want you to think otherwise. Which is why I feel so strong about slavery and the rights of women."
"So you are an abolitionist to boot."
"I am," she declared defiantly. "There is a link between the oppression of slaves and the oppression of women. Neither can be reconciled with the founding principles of this republic."
"Common law is against you, I'm afraid. William Blackstone himself wrote that in marriage a husband and wife are as one person under the law. The very being of the woman is suspended by the law. She has no rights to marital property, which are held wholly in the husband's name, and without property she cannot participate in the body politic. Civic virtue rests in the independent citizen, and personal independence is linked to individual ownership of property. It has always been so. John Adams said that political rights are tied to property rights. Only property ownership allows the economic and moral independence necessary for virtuous citizens." Delgado shrugged. "So, if a woman owns no property . . . I am not saying I believe this to be true, or just. But those are the facts."
"Oh, really? So women are excluded from the rights of citizenship—along with children, criminals, and the insane? Our government was instituted to derive its just powers from the consent of the governed. Am I not one of those governed? Then it is only right that I be permitted to consent."
Delgado laughed, delighted. "You are a remarkable person, Sarah. Your poor father thought he was sending you to the seminary to learn to be a proper young lady."
Sarah smiled. "The headmistress gave me a copy of Margaret Fuller's book, Women in the Nineteenth Century. She made me promise, if ever I should be asked, not to tell anyone where I had gotten it. I'm not sure why she chose me. But the book changed my life. It proves that women have their own identity and deserve social independence, the ability to grow as an intellect and, as a soul, to live freely."
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