Eagle's Cry

by David Nevin

  Wagner sighed again and glanced around with evident distaste. These were nothing like the elegant rooms he’d known when the government was Federalist and in Philadelphia; the change from both, he clearly thought, a great misfortune. He was a tall man, graying, with a distinctly intelligent expression; he wore black, as did Madison—really the only proper color for a gentleman no matter what Dolley said about style—the suit a bit frayed, white cravat plain, hose cotton instead of silk, shoes scuffed with dulled pewter buckles. Quite appropriate … .

  “I’ve written Rufus King in London,” Madison said, “asking if he’ll stay on as our ambassador to Great Britain.”

  “A very wise choice, sir. Mr. King is exemplary.”

  “An ardent Federalist, but he seems to represent country, not party, in London.”

  “As he should, if I may say so.”

  “Ambassador to France will be Robert Livingston. You know he was secretary of foreign affairs under the old Continental Congress, as well as chancellor of the state of New York. Strong Democrat.”

  “But an excellent choice nonetheless—” He stopped short.

  Madison chuckled. “You’ll find, I hope, that being a Democrat is not incompatible with excellence.”

  A wintry smile. “Forgive me, sir. I meant Mr. Livingston is a man of recognized probity and excellent judgment.”

  “Part of his duties will be to disabuse France of any notion it may have from Federalist rhetoric that we intend to turn the United States into a French satellite. Not true at all.”

  Wagner’s eyes widened. “But—”

  “I know. That we would bow to France and align against Britain was an article of Federalist faith. But it was false when said, and it’s false now. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir. May I say … well, that is excellent news.”

  “You were expecting something else?”

  “Perhaps ‘fearing’ is the better word.”

  Madison smiled. “Fear no more. Now I’d like you to give me your perceptions of the nation’s foreign affairs.”

  Wagner had been agent if not architect of all the foreign tomfoolery that had so offended Democrats, the belittling attacks on France, the disgusting tail wagging to Britain, the sheer recklessness of shaping foreign policy to ideology; but quite to Madison’s surprise, he gave a well-balanced commentary on nation after nation. Russia, the Baltic states, Prussia, France, Spain, Portugal, the Italian states, the Barbary Coast He was a professional, a seasoned diplomat. He talked half an hour without notes, and Madison was impressed.

  Then Madison saw a subtle change in his expression. “Sir?” he asked, and stopped. He clasped his hands to stop a tremor.

  “What is it?”

  “Will you, then, be wanting my resignation?” His lips quivered.

  “We’ll see,” Madison said, “we’ll see.”

  “Well, Mr. Madison,” said Mr. Bayard of Delaware, “welcome to the Hill.” They were on the Capitol steps, Madison on his way to see John Randolph, Chairman of the Committee on Ways and Means. A fine, cool breeze made sunwarmed stone comforting to the touch.

  “Thank you, sir,” Madison said. “It is a matter of, shall we say, nostalgic interest to see you again.”

  “I regretted your leaving the Congress,” Mr. Bayard said. “Baiting you was one of the pleasures of my life.”

  “Yes, a fault of mine; I’ve always been quick to challenge intellectual inconsistency.”

  Bayard laughed. “Well, well, tit for tat. Not bad, not bad at all. See the pleasure we deny ourselves? Now to more serious matters, since I’ve chanced to encounter you.”

  This immediately made Madison wonder if the encounter was by chance. Bayard hadn’t shown the least surprise at seeing him. He took Madison’s arm and drew him into the shadow of a pillar and spoke in a low voice.

  “I had a hand, you know, in Mr. Jefferson prevailing.”

  Madison nodded.

  Bayard sighed. “Parenthetically, I might say, this fellow Burr is an ass. Could have had it. God knows, I held the line for him as long as I could. He’d have been much more to our taste, but damned if I’d let it go to usurpation—and civil war! But if Burr had come forward …”

  “Ancient history now,” Madison said. It had been deadly—it could have unhorsed democracy—but it was over now.

  “Exactly,” Bayard said. “But the point is, we did come your way. Now we’re counting on you not to tear up the pea patch. We’re ideological opposites, granted, but neither of us is a fool and both, I fancy, are patriots.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “You’ll change things, yes—the prerogative of the winner. But I caution you, restrain your maddest of impulses. Not all that the Federalists have done is bad; don’t throw away the good with what you see as the bad. Don’t shatter our international reputation with wild and sudden changes. Most sincerely, I urge you to keep Jacob Wagner at your side. He understands our foreign connections better than any man in America. Far better than Mr. Pickering did, I might say. If you throw him out, you’ll confirm the worst Federalist fears; if you keep him, you’ll give us hope. I think that’s important.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bayard,” Madison said, and offered his hand.

  Inside the Capitol, Madison was impressed again. It was a fine beginning on a building for a great nation-to-be, a building for the ages. Pillars of marble, steps of stone, polished wooden floors, paneling of walnut on corridor walls, velvet ropes on brass stanchions blocking certain passages. Of course, it was a work-in-progress projected across years to come, the Senate side not even begun, the rotunda still under canvas. To reach the entrance he’d wound among stacks of lumber and a pile of stone, but the inside was reassuringly well done.

  The chairman’s office was suitably grand. French windows were open to a view that swept down the hill to the Potomac in the distance; a swirl of geese rose from the creek that cut the intervening swamp and he heard faint reports. John Randolph’s three hounds sprawled on a Persian rug; one raised his head and growled and Randolph rapped the desk sharply with the whip he always carried, which now lay across his blotter.

  He stood, tall, thin to the point of emaciation, a tautly drawn spring in his manner though he spoke in the cultivated drawl of upper-class Virginia. Randolphs had been central to Virginia history; Madison had grown up on tales of the family, though he didn’t know John well. Perhaps John Randolph was unknowable; boiling inner tensions seemed to separate him from other men, and he was given to wild tirades on the floor of the House that came dangerously close to tantrums. A strain of madness was not unknown in the family, and Madison remembered times when John looked as if his mind had fled; but he was immensely effective both for powerful intellect and his willingness to savage opponents with slashing rhetoric.

  So it wasn’t surprising that House Democrats, newly in the majority, gave him the committee. Of course the speaker was in charge, but he was a self-effacing man and chose to have Randolph out front. And the gentleman with his hounds and his whip on the House floor would be crucial in steering Democratic legislation. They must do something about the way Mr. Adams had packed army and courts with Federalists.

  “Now, James,” Randolph said, after a little courteous chat, “let’s get to real things.” He leveled a finger. “I’m hearing damned little about removals. Damned little! Let’s get rid of these Federalist scoundrels; throw ’em out on the street in droves. Let’s clean up our government, remove all taints of evil, out with these bastards, every damned one!”

  “Well—”

  “And start with that miserable damned Federalist traitor, Jacob Wagner, been flying the Federalist banner on the tip of his lance for years. It was he who did the dirty work, you know—led Pickering around by the nose. Pickering was a fool, never had an original idea, I suppose you know that; he didn’t fart but what he asked Wagner how to manage it!”

  “John—”

  “So why isn’t Wagner gone? Mr. Jefferson should have lowered his hand from taki
ng the oath, pointed it at Wagner, and said, ‘Git!’” The chairman was on his feet now, pacing, waving his arms, the dogs watching him alertly. “He’s your man now, chief clerk in your department. Never mind why you haven’t booted him yet; just tell me when, how soon? This afternoon? Tomorrow morning? For God’s sake, let’s get on with it!”

  Madison felt a burst of rage that he forced under control. His hands shook. Randolph raised everything to fever pitch, made everything a crisis, there was no talking to the man.

  “I haven’t decided. There are crucial issues here—”

  “Haven’t decided! Why—”

  “One moment, sir!” Madison slapped the desk so hard the lid on Randolph’s ink pot flew open. One of the dogs stood. “I haven’t finished, and I don’t care to be interrupted!”

  Randolph gazed at him open-mouthed, then dropped abruptly into his chair. “Say on,” he said, anger glittering in his eyes.

  Randolph was an ideologue, that was the trouble. Young Captain Lewis had absorbed the same points with sure grasp, while Randolph shouldn’t have to be told. It was so simple. The electoral shift wasn’t unqualified endorsement; it was a we’ll-give-you-a-try move and could turn overnight. And nothing would make that turn more rapid than treating public office as spoils for the victors. In fact, they were themselves on trial … .

  Randolph’s voice went silky, the sort of turn that made him formidable in debate. “You’re confused, dear friend. We had a trial, what we call an election, and we won it. Remember? People want us to clean house.” He stood abruptly and leaned forward, both fists on the desk, whiplash in his voice. “Now, let me tell you, Mr. Secretary of State, those of us who really care about this democracy want that scoundrel Wagner out by the close of business today. Today! What is your answer?”

  Madison’s mood shifted; he had to struggle to avoid laughter. He stood and stretched. “Well, John, it’ll be evident by the close of business today.”

  “Mr. Wagner,” Madison said, seated at the plain table, “do you consider yourself a professional?”

  “I do indeed, sir, and I try to conduct myself accordingly.”

  A candle guttered on the desk. It was after six, growing dark outside, supper delayed, Dolley probably worried, the other clerks long since departed. Ruefully it struck Madison that the three-block-walk home in the dark on muddy streets innocent of either sidewalks or lights would be no great pleasure.

  “You’re aware that you’re regarded as the architect of all Mr. Pickering’s excesses?”

  Wagner smiled. “So I’ve heard. Mr. Pickering liked to use me as a lightning pole. Is that correct, Mr. Franklin’s invention?” Madison nodded. “But Mr. Pickering ran the ship of state to suit himself. I carried out his orders. In fairness, I agreed with most of them.” He hesitated, then added, “Should I stay on, sir, I expect I would continue to think as I do.”

  “The question is how you would act. Things will be dif ferent, not extreme but different. Can you carry out orders whether you agree or not? Give me honest advice toward what I want done, not what you may think proper?”

  Wagner seemed genuinely surprised. “Why, of course, Mr. Madison,” he said. “I’m a professional.”

  Madison gazed at his clerk. Randolph’s vehemence had shaken him more than he liked, for it suggested deep divisions among Democrats that in time could become dangerous and treacherous. Yet Madison was sure—he and Tom had talked endlessly about, it—that it was crucial to set a steady course and follow it. Still, Mr. Wagner was just one man and was a huge burr under a lot of saddles among extremist Democrats. Must Madison really pick a fight even as he started?

  He sighed. So be it … .

  “I think, Mr. Wagner, that I’ll not ask you to resign.”

  13

  WASHINGTON, FALL 1801

  Dolley was on her way to the President’s House for a showdown. The social season was just beginning, and Tom was counting on her for a major diplomatic dinner he planned. But he also had hired a professional steward from France and had made no attempt to connect her to this worthy. She hadn’t even met him.

  Taking a Frenchman in hand seemed an unlikely beginning, but then she hadn’t supposed the mansion would be in such a shabby state either. She had more sympathy now for Mrs. Adams’s laments, for the big house was essentially an unfinished shell, beautiful on the outside where Tom had, at least, ordered the construction debris removed, but bare on the inside. Well, she would see about that … .

  As she started up the mansion’s walk the front door opened and Captain Lewis emerged. The figure in the doorway, small in the bare front, made her see again the need for a portico or wings or outbuildings or a pool … anything to break that plain expanse.

  Lewis wore a black suit of rakish cut with boots. Not quite handsome—there was an angularity in his face—but he exuded vigor, intelligence, force. Too much of the latter, perhaps; there was an intensity in him that seemed to crackle.

  He bowed over her hand just as her little sister came dashing up the walk after her. “Dolley! Oh, I’m so glad I caught you!” Anna’s clear young voice was highly musical. She had turned nineteen, had Dolley’s coloring, and her figure already was full. Dolley felt a little outclassed though Jimmy said that was ridiculous; Anna was just youthfully pretty while Dolley was beautiful, and she certainly wouldn’t argue with him.

  She presented Captain Lewis and was startled to see on his face the look of a man smitten if not poleaxed, lips parted, eyes yearning. Force seemed to flow off him like heat rays. But even as he bowed over Anna’s hand, her sister was saying with that snap in her voice that made her so popular, “There’s a big picnic at Great Falls, Mr. and Mrs. Douglas are going as chaperones, they invited me. You don’t mind, do you, Dolley?”

  The captain’s face shifted abruptly to dismay as Anna went on heedlessly, “Oh, and I met the nicest young man. A Mr. Cutts, a congressman, I think. The Douglases invited him too. There’ll be twenty of us or so. I rather liked him …”

  Seeing Lewis’s stunned expression, Dolley thought, Oh, this is just too much. “Well,” she said, “enjoy yourself, dear,” and fled toward the mansion, shaking her head.

  The single guard touched truncheon to hat brim; inside she saw a new streak on roughly plastered walls and realized the roof, faulty from the start, had sprung still another leak. Visitors were in the oval drawing room beyond the entrance hall. A child brayed with laughter, pointing at something out of Dolley’s sight; and a man sprawled on a sofa, boots on the brocaded blue cover. It was part of the president’s democratic philosophy that the mansion be open daily to the public … .

  Still thinking of the captain’s poleaxed expression, she went down a flight of stairs and along a vaulted passageway, massive stone groins overhead, to the big kitchen. Only one of two cooking fireplaces was in use. Chef Julien, whom she’d met, was tasting soup. A smallish man with waxed mustaches sharply pointed, cravat but no coat, soup spot on his shirt, bounded up from a desk, his expression fierce, and babbled in French. She smiled. He switched to halting English.

  “Madame, madame, please, here is not for visitors, no, no—”

  “You must be Mr. Lemaire. I’m Mrs. Madison.”

  His eyes widened. He was new, but she saw he’d learned cabinet names. “Yes, madame, but what—what—”

  She switched to conversational French. “The diplomatic dinner,” she said. “We must go over the details.”

  “Details? What details?” He frowned. His French was fluid and very rapid. She struggled to keep up. “I will design the dinner, oversee its preparation and its service. The president chooses the wine.” He clucked his tongue. “I disapprove, but so be it. Nothing else is needed.”

  “You know the president asked me to serve as hostess?”

  Lemaire sniffed. “He mentioned something to that effect. You’re to charm the guests, I suppose. Make everyone welcome .”

  “Perhaps I should review the planning too.”

  “Madame! It is in
the hands of Etienne Lemaire of Paris! Everything will be to perfection!”

  She smiled and switched to rapid English. “Why don’t I just tell the president that Mr. Lemaire sees no need for a hostess?”

  He leaned forward, struggling to understand. “Eh?” he said. “Pardon? The president?”

  “I’ll tell him you’ll brook no interference. Settles everything.”

  “No, no.” He returned to French, but sharply slowed. “Please, madame. I will … ah, appreciate your participation .”

  But she saw Chef Julien smother a smile.

  “Merci,” she said. “Tomorrow, then. But, Mr. Lemaire—hereafter we will speak in private.”

  His glance flicked to the others. Chef Julien was peering at the soup.

  “Thank you, madame,” Mr. Lemaire said.

  It was a good beginning.

  Lewis set his mount at a swift trot down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capitol. Rain the day before had left churning mud that splashed his boots. Mrs. Madison was charming. She was damned handsome herself, and she had a kindly quality that made you want to sit down and talk with her—but Anna, oh, my God, what a woman! The look she’d given him even while talking about some man she’d met, a fop, probably, this Mr. Cutts. One of those fancy Dans who drew women but couldn’t keep them, lacking the solid virtues of someone like, well, like Lewis, for example. He’d scarcely gone a block before he’d worked up a substantial hatred for Mr. Cutts, whoever he was.

  But the look she’d given him—sudden, fierce as a lightning bolt, right into his eyes, clearly for him alone. Oh, she’d been attracted, all right; for an instant he’d had her full attention, her whole force of being concentrated just for him—he wouldn’t forget that very soon. She was so, so—alive, that was the word, beautiful, yes, but that vitality …

  And then, oddly, Mary Beth popped to mind. Which made him think of the expedition, on which not one word had been said, not one. He slowed climbing Capitol Hill, circled the unfinished building, tied the horse to a sapling. Not a hint. It seemed Mr. Jefferson really did want him as a glorified errand boy. When did men of power ever care about the dreams of underlings?