by David Nevin
“That doesn’t concern us,” Madison said. He knew his voice had gone harsh, and he knew Pichon didn’t believe him. Of course a successful slave revolt just offshore had shaken the slave-holding states to the core. Shaken Madison too. Slaveholders lived in ever-present terror of slave revolts—we always fear those whom we abuse and why not? None are slaves by choice, and many would be willing to kill us. You couldn’t say that black men and women in America weren’t abused; someday the ugly institution would die but meanwhile …
Well, that’s why slaveholders resisted slaves who read, though Madison allowed reading on his plantation and was angrily criticized by other plantation men. Slaves who could read, absorb ideas, get the news, talk to their fellows—that was where organization started and organization led to revolt. That was Toussaint’s story. He had a genius capacity to organize, and once he could mobilize numbers he couldn’t be stopped.
“I mentioned this over tea to the president,” Pichon said cautiously, “and he seemed amenable … .”
Well, Tom did feel even more strongly the perils of a slave revolt, and there wasn’t much question that a successful black revolt off our shores would fill our own blacks with hope. And then a great many people who met with Tom when he was in his genial mood came away sure that he agreed with them. Madison feared a slave revolt, but he didn’t intend to let that fear drive American foreign policy.
“We don’t plan to recognize Santo Domingo nor have we been asked to do so,” he said. “But we have reciprocal trade agreements, and we will maintain those.”
“Ah, sir, my government will be gravely disappointed.”
Madison stiffened. Did that suggest a threat? Perhaps. He stared at Pichon and found no trace of give. The Frenchman was tougher than he’d thought.
“Well,” he said, his voice casual, “I’m sure our friendship in many other areas will quickly overcome disappointment.”
15
WASHINGTON, FALL 1801
Matt Davis was whining again. You couldn’t blame him, either; he’d been treated abominably. They were in Burr’s parlor-and-room at Pensee’s boardinghouse. It was the establishment’s only suite and more than Burr really needed, but he always had the best even if he had to juggle accounts from time to time. He was a gentleman, after all. He had arrived on a late stage and Matt had come lurching out of the shadows and started to complain before Burr could open his grip.
Poor Matt. Big, a bit rough in speech and manner, he was a jewel too little recognized, his ability beyond question. Burr had asked very little of the new administration, a mere five federal appointments in New York City to take care of Matt and David Gelston, and three key workers. How the devil did Brother Jefferson suppose he’d won in New York City, which gave him the state that gave him the whole kit and caboodle and put him in office, but that some folks in the city had extended themselves? And they should be rewarded, surely, could anyone disagree with that? Certainly the Federalists now occupying the posts should be tossed out on their ears, matter of principle.
Burr had submitted his list months ago, five names only, mind you, reserving a plum for Matt, naval officer at the Custom’s House, one of those sinecures that paid well and demanded little. Not a word of response. He’d written to inquire. A cool note from an underling answered; nothing had been decided. Poor Matt had been beside himself; he’d come to Washington and gone on to Monticello to beard the winner in his den.
“He was cold as ice,” Matt said. “Looked down on me as so much scum. Kept talking about New York and what a quaint place it was. ‘Quaint,’ that was the word he used. I told him it was a place that had worked its ass off to get him elected.”
“Yes, yes, but did you tell him why you were there?”
“Of course. He looked at me like I was dirt. Said I would hear about it when others did. Threw me out, he did.”
Burr was shocked. “Ejected you?”
“Naw, not literally. Killed me with kindness, you know, but wasn’t nothing left for me but to go.” His mouth worked. “I thought sure if I went down and explained how bad I need an answer, he’d about have to say all right. I told him it wasn’t like I’d come in from the moon or some place; the vice president had recommended me. Didn’t cut no ice.”
He gazed at Burr, something strange in his expression. “I mean,” he said slowly, “you are the vice president, ain’t you?”
Burr froze him with a glance. “That’ll do, Matt,” he said, and stood in dismissal. “See me when I return to New York.”
“Aw, I didn’t mean nothing, Aaron, please.”
“Good evening, Matt.”
The next day, walking two blocks to the Capitol, Burr reflected on Davis. That remark hadn’t been accidental. He’d had the oaf figuratively on his knees begging forgiveness before he’d finally told him to go, but the point had gone right to the heart of things. If he couldn’t deliver on a rotten five appointments, what did it mean to be vice president? Was he part of a new administration, or was he a political eunuch? This world operated on power; strip a man and the political wolves would take him overnight.
He’d been consulted on nothing. Not a word. Cabinet chosen, ambassadors appointed, his opinions not sought. Robert Livingston named to France; patriarch of the up-Hudson family, good man and good Democrat, but Burr would have been glad for some say. Point was, Burr ruled the Democrats in New York City but not in the state. The Clintons were rulers in the state, old George and his son, DeWitt. They were allied with the Livingstons and hated the Schuylers, who had been Burr patrons before their power faded. So Livingston meant trouble for Burr. He should have had some say. Should have heard of it before others did instead of learning in public what he obviously didn’t know, a slap in the face much remarked upon in New York.
He climbed the long steps and passed into the rotunda with its hubbub of voices, odor of meat braising on charcoal, sour smell of beer. A dozen men stood about, voices echoing. He spied Chairman Randolph at a stand buying sausages for three sleek hounds on leashes and advanced with hand extended.
Before he could speak, Randolph leveled a finger at him and cried in a piercing voice, “Ah, the grand master of theft honors us with a visit. The betrayer, the Judas of our world, here among us! Porter, porter! Where is the damned porter? Bring swabs, won’t you, to mop the floor after the honorable vice president of the United States! Wherever he walks he leaves a trail of slime.”
Burr stopped, appalled. The rotunda went silent, men staring. “Sir,” he said, but Randolph rode him down.
“Or is it not slime at all but tears? Tears of regret, tears of loss, laments of the failure of the grandest theft since Sinbad went after the jewels of the Kublai Khan’—his voice rising to a near scream—“tears mixed with slime, sir!” The dogs, excited by the tone, were lunging and snapping.
Burr tried to get his breath. The man must be mad! “How, how dare you, sir?”
“Why, Mr. Vice President, Mr. Genius of New York, I have it on the best of authority. My old friend Samuel Osgood tells me he can prove you tried to steal the election from Mr. J.”
Osgood! He was one of the great names, former postmaster general of the United States, Burr had persuaded him to stand for the New York legislature in the coup that swung the election—could he now be saying—.
Burr reeled out into the sunshine, walking, walking. But it wasn’t true! He’d done nothing! How could Osgood say—What proof? There was none, Osgood must be crazy. Yes, they’d pressured that miserable little Madison a bit, thought a tie would be an interesting situation, more an experiment than anything, but once it happened, he had been impeccable, he’d done nothing whatsoever to influence outcome, let them choose honestly, Burr or Jefferson, and they’d chosen and it all had been honest, honest, he hadn’t made a move—
Cold anger settled over him and he walked steadily, swinging the stick like a boulevardier on the banks of the Seine … but with his heart racing. At the boardinghouse, hours later, an invitation from the president.
Would he dine on the morrow at half after three?
So! They would sit down after all, doubtless tête-à-tête or perhaps with little Madison and the Treasury secretary, Albert Gallatin, and they would go over plans, appointments, legislation needed, Federalists to weed out …
But six congressmen were there, three from each party, James Bayard among them, and no cabinet officers. The conversation was general and, to Burr’s ears, banal. No real talk of politics beyond a bit of joshing, Jefferson entertaining them with flights of rhetorical fancy that Burr felt didn’t make much sense, the dinner soon over, the president turning them into the hall, bidding them a collective good day, disappearing …
One of the Democrats drew Burr aside, an upstate New York congressman whose name he’d forgotten. “Haw! this worthy cried. “Looks like you ain’t the biggest wig in New York after all. You hear about our host’s letter to DeWitt Clinton?” He laughed. “I see from your eyes you haven’t. Well, seems the president wants old DeWitt’s ideas on appointments, plans, what matters to New York State.” Burr saw raw malice in his grin. “Says no one’s opinion would he value more on New York matters.”
“Oh, I doubt he said that.” The remark was torn from Burr’s throat; instantly he regretted it.
“I seen the letter,” the other crowed. “I seen the letter.”
They paused at the door, Burr scarcely aware that heavy rain was falling. The president going to DeWitt Clinton? Livingston named without a word, and now the president was telling Clinton—who really was Burr’s enemy at home—that he would value no opinion more? His throat was tight. He felt circled by enemies. Could the Virginian’s jealous rage be so out of control that he aimed to destroy his own vice president? It made no sense. Or did it? No, not really, but … . There was a quiver deep in his chest. He locked his hands together. Calm, calm.
Bayard took his elbow and invited him to share his carriage. Burr accepted without thinking but was immediately sorry, for the moment they started, Bayard said, “Why didn’t you come when I called? You were in Baltimore.”
That again! With an effort, Burr focused his attention. “First, I swore I would do nothing to influence the outcome. I’m not a thief, sir, of elections anymore than of gold. Second, it was ridiculous. The point was not to persuade Federalists; they already were persuaded. Point was to show Democrats that I was the one of their own who could win.”
Bayard threw back his head. “Had the Federalists, did you? Ho, ho. Maybe you could have a career on the boards with such pitter-patter. No, my friend, after what Hamilton had to say, they were deserting you in droves. He was mounting a major campaign against you, and I do mean major.”
Alex? My God, was the whole damned world against him? Why would Alex attack him? They’d been adversaries, of course, political adversaries, but that was like appearing against another lawyer in the courtroom; it was part of the game. Yes, he’d stolen New York City from under Alex’s nose, that was politics, maneuver and counter. His breath went short. Alex abusing him, the president, that impudent wretch Randolph, Matt Davis whining and complaining; by God, he’d had about enough!
He heard his own voice go soft and deadly. “What was Alex saying?”
“Suffice it to say that he considered you not qualified for the presidency.”
Burr caught Bayard’s arm. “What did he say, damn you; to so alarm your brethren? Did he call me despicable, dishonest, a cheat, a liar?”
Bayard jerked away. “Oh, no you don’t. You shan’t use me as a vehicle for a duel. You want to challenge Alex, challenge him, but don’t try to use my words.”
Burr beat his stick against the carriage roof. “Stop! I’ll get down here.”
He walked on, scarcely aware of chill rain soaking his coat. Everything, everyone, standing against him like some great malign conspiracy to destroy him when he had done nothing but work his heart out, he had won the damned election single-handedly and put that rotten Virginia blueblood in position to—
“Aaron! For Christ’s sake, get in here before you drown!” It was good old Jim Wilkinson in a big carriage, two mounted soldiers looking miserable to the rear, two to the fore, coachman holding the reins and staring straight ahead. Wilkinson did know how to handle a general’s pomp; he had an air about him that was fit for a ruler.
“You look as if you’ve lost your last friend and are coming down with consumption to boot. Let’s go have a half-dozen boiling hot toddies and talk of dreams and empires.”
Dreams and empires! By God, Burr thought, he could use a little such talk. His heart soared at Wilkinson’s warm welcome.
“Let’s,” he said. “Yes, let’s.”
“Roughing you up, are they, Aaron?”
They’d had four hot toddies and were working on oysters wrapped in bacon rashers and broiled. The general speared another oyster and held it high. “Well, my friend, they’re scum. You’re one of the great men of our time, Aaron, and throwing you away indicates their pygmy scale.”
He held thumb and forefinger a half inch apart. “Miniscule men, Aaron. But you wait and see—the future will belong to men of power. You stand high in that rank and so do I.” He popped the oyster into his mouth and chewed noisily.
God, what a hell of a good fellow old Jim was!
Madison took the chair before the president’s desk that gave him the long view down the Potomac to Alexandria. He liked this big sunny room on the southwest corner so that morning as well as afternoon sun poured in through near floor-to-ceiling windows. One was open and errant breezes fluttered voile curtains. The room was big enough for separate work stations, each heaped with the materials of a particular interest. Madison thought it was a form of genius that allowed Tom to master so much—science, astronomy, medicine, agriculture, exploration, statecraft, more expert than most experts. His own mind was nothing like that. His was deeply penetrating and drove fiercely to conclusions. Jefferson insisted that together they were a perfect team.
Albert Gallatin hurried in, quite out of breath. He was slender and saturnine, bald as an egg, a smallish man from Switzerland whose years in Pennsylvania hadn’t touched his heavy accent. His mathematical brilliance far surpassed that of anyone Madison knew except Alexander Hamilton. Albert understood Alex’s mysterious financial measures perfectly, and though Federalists hated him and used his accent to insist on dark foreign intrigue, anyone else as secretary of the treasury would have been unthinkable. Indeed, Bayard had warned them not to tear up Hamilton’s pea patch and he should be pleased, for Albert was holding the Hamiltonian financial structure on a steady course while softening its impact on the common man and lessening the advantages Alex had lavished on the wealthy.
“Now,” Albert said, after twenty minutes of parsing numbers that made Madison’s head swim, “we really should turn to Mr. Burr.” Albert liked Burr. They had been allies when both were congressmen. But he never left any doubt as to his loyalty.
“This person Matt Davis,” Albert said. “I admit he’s rude and crude, but he’s close to Aaron and valuable in New York.”
“Disgusting fellow,” Mr. Jefferson said. “Came to my house seeking office. Imposed on my hospitality. Blustered about New York’s significance, as if I needed lessons in counting votes.”
Albert grinned. “Did you throw him out?”
“I smothered him in kindness. So polite he couldn’t stand it and soon fled. And very good riddance.”
Madison chuckled, but he remembered Gelston’s biting comment on what New Yorkers thought of Virginia manners.
“Well,” Albert said, “Burr clearly will take failure to name Davis as a declaration of war. That’s all right, but it raises two questions. First, Mr. President, do you intend to support Burr as your successor whenever you decide to leave office?”
Madison felt a strange little jolt. He’d always said he wasn’t ambitious and did feel that he lacked command qualities, though lately he’d begun to wonder. He dismissed the idea, yet found his heart beating more rapidly as he await
ed the answer.
“And the second question?” Mr. Jefferson asked.
“Well,” Albert said, “assuming you run again, do you even want Burr on the ticket?”
There was no danger of another tie; a constitutional amendment now in the works would obviate that problem.
“Interesting questions,” the president said, after a pause. “Well, gentlemen, thank you for coming in.”
Afterward, Albert said, “Those questions deserved answers.”
“I think they were answered,” Madison said.
16
WASHINGTON, LATE OCTOBER 1801
“Millie,” Samuel Clark said, “she ain’t going to make it.”
His wife had a stern look. “Don’t you write off Miss Danny. She know what she’s doing.”
“Woman, it’s me what’s hauling her about, and she ain’t making no headway. No one wants to deal with a woman. You know what that means?”
“That’s fool talk,” Millie said, but her voice was small.
“Means,” he went on, “she won’t survive in business, and sooner or later she’ll many. She’s a pretty woman. You ought to see how the mens look at her. And where’ll that leave us? With Mr. Carl dead—I tell you, Millie, him going off like that so sudden, that’s the worst thing ever happened to us.”
“Bad for Miss Danny too,” Millie said. His wife was sitting up in bed, the blanket drawn to her chin, and he saw she had that stubborn, half-angry look that told him to walk softly. But he’d been thinking hard on this and it needed to be talked on, she liked it or not. He was in his nightshirt and his old cloth slippers, pacing back and forth along the end of the bed. It was chilly, stars crackling out the window of their third-floor room with its view of the Capitol dome. The first norther had gusted in that afternoon, sign there’d be winter someday.
“This is a slave town,” he said, “and don’t you never forget it. You ain’t out a lot, you get treated real decent in this house; but I’m out every day and let me tell you, they treat niggers like dirt. Always eyeing you, always a chance some slaver’ll grab you, clap you in irons, sneak you away. Your freedom papers don’t mean a thing then. You hear about it all the time. Those slave auctions down on the Eastern Branch. I been driving Miss Danny to the docks down there and you can hear ’em chanting, see some poor black devil ain’t no different from you and me ’cept he ain’t free, he’s standing there trembling so his chains rattle, sold like a damned hog, got no more rights than a hog.
