Polk didn’t really believe all-out combat would be necessary to realize the expansionist agenda that Democratic editors had begun calling America’s “Manifest Destiny.” He certainly didn’t want to be blamed for sparking a war. No, he was counting on some bullying, and just a bit of brinksmanship, to create a messy little incident that would do the trick. Like most Americans, Polk felt a deep disdain for the racially mixed population of Mexico, and confidence that they would capitulate when faced with the resolution and might of the United States. He was furthermore convinced that their leaders were both corrupt and cowardly. When faced with war, they would certainly sell him California.
Mexico was already more than halfway there. Tyler’s resolution to annex Texas was met with outrage both north and south of the Rio Grande. Henry Clay had warned that Texas annexation would lead to war, and by 1845 that view had become commonplace in New England. Abolitionists and ministers went on the offensive to warn America of the coming danger. Immediately after the election a series of fifteen passionate letters, intended to “awaken … fellow citizens to the national peril” of annexation, began to appear in the Boston Atlas. These letters, anonymously written by an eminent Unitarian minister in Massachusetts named George E. Ellis, continued through March 1845, and were reprinted around the country. They were designed to stop annexation on the grounds not only that it was “derogatory to the national character, and injurious to the public interest” but also that it would unquestionably lead to war. On January 15, with a joint resolution for the annexation of Texas before Congress, Ellis argued at great length, and with masses of supporting detail, that “no individual in power in Mexico would dare to entertain the idea of surrendering Texas—nor could such a surrender be obtained except by force.”20
Events in Mexico supported this view. Angry partisans demanded that the Mexican president, José Herrera, vindicate this unprecedented action by the “implacable enemies of our race” in Texas and the United States. Attempting to cool their martial ardor, Herrera lodged a formal protest about the legality of annexation, to which the United States replied dispassionately that since both Texas and the United States were independent nations, neither needed consult with a foreign power before formalizing a union. Recognizing an insult when dealt one, Mexico’s U.S. minister gravely left the country, officially severing diplomatic relations between the two countries just weeks after Polk’s inauguration. When Texas formally accepted the U.S. offer of annexation, on the Fourth of July, 1845, Mexican jingoism reached a fevered state. “Defeat and death on the Sabine would be glorious and beautiful,” a once moderate Mexico City newspaper declared, but peace under these conditions could only be “infamous and execrable.”21
During his first spring and summer in office, Polk made preparations for war without really believing that war was imminent. He ordered the navy to assemble in the gulf, within striking distance of Mexico’s ports, and directed Commodore J. D. Sloat, the commander of the naval flotilla in the Pacific, to immediately seize San Francisco and other ports in California if war should break out. He also sent word to a sixty-one-year-old major general named Zachary Taylor, commander of troops in the Southwest, to be ready for action. In June 1845, Taylor got his directions: march his four thousand soldiers to Corpus Christi, on the northern edge of the disputed territory, and await further orders.
Despite all the bluster in the Mexican press, the country neither attacked nor declared war. On the contrary, Herrera appeared willing to negotiate, because, as his minister of foreign affairs, Manuel de la Peña y Peña, admitted, given the precarious state of Mexico’s finances, the nation would have to make enormous sacrifices “simply to avoid annihilation” in a war with the United States. Polk dispatched a party hack by the name of John Slidell on a secret mission to Mexico with instructions to treat Texas independence as a “settled fact … not to be called into question,” to resolve the boundary dispute by offering to forgive two million dollars in outstanding claims by American citizens against the Mexican government, and to buy California in the process.22
Slidell was perhaps not the best choice for such a delicate mission. A Louisiana congressman “utterly untrained in formal diplomacy,” Slidell was notable primarily for his violent support of slavery and his submission to both Old and Young Hickory. He was astounded that he had been approached for the job. “I have no very exalted idea of the caliber of Mexican intellect,” he admitted to Secretary of State Buchanan before offering his view that the Mexicans would certainly come to terms.23
Slidell was loyal and accepted his mission with good grace, asking only that Polk provide some plausible excuse for his absence from his congressional duties in the administration paper, the Washington Union. James Buchanan put the chief clerk of the State Department, Nicholas Trist, to work on drafting an article that explained Slidell’s absence without revealing any sensitive details of his mission.
Trist, a beneficiary of the spoils system in 1845, was in many ways a typical Polk appointee. A lifelong Democrat, he had been raised on a sugar plantation in Louisiana and had served in several previous administrations. Trist and Slidell had become friends in Louisiana. It was no coincidence that both hailed from the plantation South. A southern shift was palpable across Washington in the winter of 1845, and not only because of the Polks’ slaves in the White House. As Democrats replaced Whigs in all the federal offices, the proliferation of southern accents was notable. Slidell also wrote Trist directly to impress upon him the importance of explaining his unusual mission to the people of Louisiana.
All parties, from the president to the diplomat to the clerk appointed to write an article in the diplomat’s interest, understood what was riding on the outcome of this trip. Polk was explicit in his directions to Slidell. If he failed in his mission to “effect a satisfactory adjustment of the pending difference between the two countries (which I will not anticipate) we must take redress for the wrongs and injuries we have suffered into our own hands.” In short, Polk would “call on Congress to provide the proper remedies” and declare war.24
Polk was putting on an excellent show of negotiating, but in fact everything about Slidell’s mission, from his title to his terms, was intended to incense the Mexicans and to ensure that diplomacy would fail. Herrera had put a great deal of his political capital on the line by agreeing to receive a U.S. envoy to discuss the boundary of Texas. Mexico would never sell California while the issue of Texas was unresolved.
Nothing more clearly demonstrates the intended provocation of the mission than Polk’s appointment of a known spy by the name of William Parrott as Slidell’s assistant. Mexican authorities had made it clear that Parrott was an enemy of the state and that he was unwelcome in their country. Yet the president made the appointment despite the fact the Mexican government specifically asked that no one offensive be sent as minister. Polk was “essentially perpetrating a fraud in sending Slidell to Mexico in such a capacity and with such instructions as he did.”25
Quite predictably, Slidell’s mission failed, and it did so before he could even present the offensive terms to Mexico. Herrera recognized that receiving a minister from the United States would have signaled the restoration of diplomatic ties with the country, which would not only deprive Mexico of a bargaining chip but also prove fatal to his fragile regime. He refused to meet with Slidell. The rebuffed envoy withdrew from the capital and watched as Herrera was overthrown by hard-liner General Mariano Paredes, who campaigned on the promise to take all of Texas back from the United States. Although the possibility that Paredes might meet with an American diplomat was nearly unthinkable, Secretary of State Buchanan ordered Slidell to remain in Mexico a bit longer. He needed to maintain the charade of diplomacy in order “to satisfy the American people that all had been done which ought to have been done to avoid the necessity of resorting to hostilities.” This was particularly important given that the “energetic measures against Mexico” that Polk would demand upon Slidell’s return “might fail to obtain the
support of Congress” if the United States appeared to be in the wrong.26
Slidell, for his part, was disgusted by Mexico. His failed mission provided much evidence to his mind that the country was both “feeble and distracted.” In limbo outside the capital, he vented his anger in letters home. On December 29, 1845, he wrote the president directly with his advice for how to move forward. “A war would probably be the best mode of settling our affairs with Mexico,” he told Polk.27
Had it had been a year earlier, Henry Clay would have watched Polk and guessed his next move. But not now: his own woes were too distracting. He had been in seclusion at Ashland, his Kentucky estate, since his defeat. Ashland was Clay’s refuge, an eight-hundred-acre working farm and showpiece that was second to none in both beauty and productivity. Since his purchase of the original property in 1805, Clay and his wife had devoted themselves, and the forced labor of an average of fifty slaves, to the improvement of the groves, pastures, outbuildings, and extensive fields of corn, wheat, and particularly hemp that helped support the Clay family. They had a stone cheese house and a stone butter house, allowing Lucretia Clay to oversee the production of vast and profitable quantities of “the best butter and cheese in the Lexington market.”28 Lucretia’s dairy business brought her $1,500 a year, some of which the indulgent mother privately distributed to her children and grandchildren. There was a chicken house and dove house, stables, barn, and sheds, “all in perfect repair, spacious, neat and in order.” A greenhouse was full of “rare and choice plants … from every section of our country, and also exotic shrubs from almost every clime.” Even the slave quarters, according to a contemporary report, were “white-washed, clean and well furnished, and plenty of flowers in the windows and about the dwellings.”29
The main residence was a brick mansion that managed to look both “very venerable, and strictly republican,” meaning obviously rich without seeming ostentatious. The two-and-a-half-story structure, situated on a small elevation commanding a “delightful view of the city of Lexington … towards the setting sun,” was flanked by wings designed by the great architect Benjamin Latrobe. It was a large building, 120 by 60 feet, and featured a glorious octagonal library, paneled in ash and lit by skylight, as well as spacious dining and drawing rooms, a billiards room, office, and sufficient bedrooms for the large family and the Clays’ frequent guests. The interior of the mansion was described as “plainly, but well furnished,” but the French china and “choice and valuable” gifts from Clay’s many admirers testified to the family’s refinement. A visitor to Ashland, drinking fine Madeira wine served in cut crystal glasses on a silver tray, was made fully aware that the statesman was used to “living in the best society here and in Europe.” There was a sizable carriageway, and great lawns of bluegrass. A meandering tree-lined path connected the mansion to an excellent macadam road that led straight into Lexington, a mile and a half away.30
Ashland, the Home of Henry Clay, by T. Sinclair. Eight-hundred-acre Ashland was one of the finest estates in Kentucky, a testimony to Lucretia Hart Clay’s household management, Henry Clay’s good taste and worldly success, and the labor of fifty slaves, none of whom appear in this image. Ashland was Clay’s refuge from the stress of Washington. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division. (photo credit 4.3)
If Clay was likely to find peace anywhere, it would be at Ashland, surrounded by his fields, his family, and the household furnishings and rare plants given him by his many admirers. It was said that “Mr. Clay has more ardent personal friends … than any man living.” From the steps of his home, Clay could look out over Lexington, the city he had helped to make great, and know that “among his neighbors, at home, where he has spent a long life, he is loved.”31 But even in this idyllic spot, Clay found the trials of the period nearly insurmountable.
Lucretia was a great comfort. After the election they wept in each other’s arms, and then resolved to move forward. But the good people of Lexington were making it difficult. Many of them seemed to take his loss as hard as he did. There was that bride and groom whose wedding was spoiled by news of Polk’s victory. They had intended to honeymoon in Washington, but “abandoned their Eastern tour, and took a boat for New Orleans instead.” Their boat carried the news of Clay’s loss down the Mississippi, and at New Orleans “the expression of grief was appalling.” The groom fell ill and a physician was summoned. When the doctor inquired if the young man had “suffered any great shock,” he was told of Mr. Clay’s defeat. “The physician, who was also a Clay man,” embraced his patient, “and they wept together.”32
Letters of sympathy and testimonials of grief, which Clay received in droves, were hard enough to face. Clay admitted that some of them were so painful that “my heart bleeds, for the moment, for my Country and my friends.” But much worse were the people who insisted upon delivering their condolences in person, sitting in his drawing room with sorrowful expressions, demanding that Clay display his emotion, that he supply “all the capital of conversation … a monosyllable is all that I can sometimes get from them.” He longed for an escape. “I am occasionally tempted to wish that I could find some obscure and inaccessible hole, in which I could put myself.” For the most part, Clay maintained his composure, but when the electors of Kentucky gathered outside his house, by the time Clay had finished thanking them, all were in tears.33
Clay focused on the farm, tending his garden. For the first time in his life, he began to read theological works in earnest. And only a month after the election he emancipated his valet, Charles Dupuy, the slave who went everywhere with Clay, who was known on a first-name basis in Washington, and whose father had served the same function before him. When Clay was at home, Dupuy took charge of the household management, and when he was away, Dupuy was ever by his side. Dupuy helped Clay dress, shaved his face, slept in the same room. He was the closest man in Henry Clay’s life.
Clay felt deeply ambivalent about slavery. He was one of the largest slaveholders in the Bluegrass Region of Kentucky, but also president of the American Colonization Society, which was determined to solve the problem of slavery by sending freed slaves to a colony in Africa, despite the fact that slave owners were unwilling to part with their very valuable property, and very few free black men or women were interested in moving “back” to a continent where neither they nor their parents had ever lived. Over the years, Henry Clay freed eight or ten of his slaves, including Dupuy’s mother, Lottie, and his sister Mary Anne. But his liberation of Charles Dupuy in the winter of 1844–45 was exceptional, not only because there was no slave more crucial to Clay’s well-being but also because Clay freed him at the very moment when he suddenly found himself in dire need of money.34
Clay’s personal property was worth almost $140,000 in 1839, but by 1844 it was valued at only $51,000. Like many other men of his class, Clay carried some debt. The expenses of the election hadn’t helped matters. Clay had cosigned a loan with his son Thomas, but when Thomas’s business collapsed, the statesman found himself on the verge of bankruptcy. Henry Clay was now responsible for his son’s debt. He struggled to pay his property taxes, liquidated his land holdings in neighboring states, took a mortgage out on his home and estate, and searched for ways to economize. But as of March 1845, Henry Clay owed $40,000 and was on the verge of losing Ashland.35
Only the generosity of his friends saved Clay from destitution. Merchants and businessmen around the country took up a collection upon hearing about Clay’s financial distress and anonymously paid off his debt. The president of the Northern Bank of Kentucky wrote Clay with the good news, assuring the statesman that his benefactors considered their generosity “only part of a debt they owe you for your long and valued Services in the cause of our country and institutions.”36
With his debt cleared, Polk’s inauguration over, and the crowds of condolence-wishers dispersing to some degree, April 1845 should have been a better month for the Clay family. There were milestones to celebrate. April 10 would be the thirty-fourth
birthday of Henry Clay Jr., the “pride and hope” of his family. A quick and clever child with his father’s pale hair and eyes, young Henry had been born in Ashland’s dining room not long after it was constructed. His two older brothers had been grave disappointments, but thus far the namesake, now a serious and perhaps overly somber young man, had lived up to his father’s high hopes. “If you too disappoint my anxious hopes,” Clay once threatened his son, “a constitution, never good, and now almost exhausted, would sink beneath the pressure. You bear my name.” He was thinking of running for Congress from Louisville, a move his father entirely approved of, but in truth the burden of his father’s expectations weighed on him. “How difficult it is for a young tree to grow in the shade of an aged oak,” the younger Henry admitted to his diary. His parents were to celebrate their forty-sixth wedding anniversary on April 11. And on April 12, Henry Clay Sr. would celebrate his sixty-eighth birthday.37
But instead spring brought more misery. The Clays’ youngest son, twenty-four-year-old John, grew despondent after an unrequited love affair and began acting erratically at the end of March. The Clays knew the symptoms of mental illness too well to discount what they saw. Their eldest son, Theodore, had suffered a head injury as a child, and gradually degenerated into “violent insanity” before being permanently institutionalized at the Lunatic Asylum of Kentucky in 1831.38
John’s “derangement” grew until one evening he took to the woods until 2:00 a.m., threatening to take his own life. On April 8, Henry and Lucretia were forced to place their youngest son in the lunatic asylum alongside their eldest. The patriarch poured out his anxiety and sorrow to John’s brother Henry Clay Jr. “I find it extremely hard to bear this last sad affliction,” he wrote. “I am afraid that John’s case is hopeless.”39
A Wicked War: Polk, Clay, Lincoln, and the 1846 U.S. Invasion of Mexico Page 11
