Eagle's Cry

by David Nevin

  She laid out the situation. Mr. Clark was sympathetic but said she should sell; a woman could hardly command men of the sea who went to whores and drank themselves blind when ashore.

  She put iron in her voice: She would keep her business.

  “So I expected, my dear. You are a Clark. But you seek my help and I have none to give. You need cargoes and I have much to be shipped in bond for men upstream. I can’t put their goods at risk, and I must tell you I think you’ll fail. I had a man up the river—Umbrick, do you remember Umbrick? No? Well, I had him inquire. One man, one only, a judge in Tennessee, authorized him to ship with Carl Mobry’s widow.”

  That was worse than she had expected. She glanced at Broussard, who was watching her with a peculiar intensity, fingers locked around one knee, his strong wrists—she jerked her eyes back to her uncle.

  “Monsieur Boré is still active?” she asked. Five years before Etienne Boré had developed Louisiana’s first system for mass production of sugar from cane. The process could mean real commercial sugar production, but so far that had not happened.

  Clark shrugged. “He’s producing and others would too, but there’s no market. Our Spanish masters are trying to preserve the sugar market for Cuba, and they don’t welcome ours. They threaten to withdraw their product from anyone who takes ours.”

  “I have a new market for sugar, Uncle,” she said.

  He stared at her. “You do?”

  “It’s not dissimilar in America, you see. Rum distilleries in Massachusetts rely on sugar from Cuba and the islands. But they also are the market, and they will freeze out any supplier who deals with their competition.”

  Mr. Clark smiled. “And you have a competitor?”

  “Someone who wants to compete. If I can guarantee sugar, he’ll build a new distillery. There’s a huge market for rum and he’ll have no trouble selling what he produces.”

  “We can supply the sugar.” She saw his quick glance at Broussard. He paused, as if to consider, then said, “Yes, I can assure that. The Spanish are troublesome, you know; but in the end, when it matters, they come around. Time to time, they get a wave of alarm as they see the American West growing and they shut down the river and ruin a few men upstream, whose produce rots. Drives the Americans to fury but it doesn’t hurt us. I don’t accept an American shipment till the Spanish have cleared it.”

  He laughed. “In a way the Americans themselves cause their own problems. The Spanish aim has never changed, you see; they want to split off the American West into a separate state under their control. And this man Wilkinson keeps them convinced that they can do just that.”

  “Wilkinson, the American general?” She was surprised. She’d met him at parties, an unpleasant fellow toadying to superiors.

  “Yes, he’s been feeding Spanish dreams for years.”

  “Do they pay him, Uncle?”

  “I assume so, of course.”

  “Isn’t that high treason?”

  “If I were the American government, I’d hang him. Instead, they give him command of their army. Tells you about Americans, don’t you think?”

  She let that pass; this wasn’t the time to quarrel. Avarice gleamed in his eyes as he laughed and said, “So, yes, I may have to grease a few palms, but I can supply all the sugar your man can use.”

  “And I have the ships to transport it,” she said.

  “Well, well, well!” He clapped his hands together. “This does rather change things, Daniella. This gentleman distiller of yours, my dear, who is he and where is he?”

  She smiled. “Oh, Uncle, it is so fine to see you again. And to be in New Orleans. My, Henri walked me about and it was as if I had stepped back in time and was a girl again. But I am no longer a girl and I have come a great way at great expense and I have done so in utter faith that you and I could find a way to deal. And now I think you must have a little faith in me.”

  At which Mr. Clark threw back his head and laughed. “Child,” he said, “you will do well—very well. My advice to give it up may have been quite mistaken. So, I will supply all the sugar you can carry. It will cost you nothing, but you will then repay me in manufactured goods to my order, which I, in turn, can sell here and as far up the river as Cincinnati.”

  He stood, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a vigor that surprised her. “Come, we will shake hands like business associates.” But then, holding her hand, he said with a sly crinkle of his eyes, “But what will you do if the French come?”

  “The French?”

  “There is a rumor—and it seems to have a bit more provenance than most rumors—that this fellow Napoleon is forcing Spain to return Louisiana to France. And why not? Forty years of Spanish rule have scarcely dented its Frenchness, you know; even today the Spanish are tolerated as temporary inconveniences. And the Spanish power of a century ago is gone. They’re weak, while the French are strong and wealthy. They can take charge here and drive their empire right up the river to Canada. Of course, that’s their real aim—to reclaim Canada.”

  “And how do you feel, Uncle?” she asked, conscious of her hand still in his.

  “Well, there’ll always be trade, and where there’s trade I’ll prosper. And then, I’m too old a fox not to understand that the affairs of individuals are but chips on the current of grand affairs. One can only drown if he fights such current.”

  He smiled and released her hand, giving her the odd sensation of being cast adrift.

  “But as for you, Daniella, if the French do come, surely they would limit shipping to their own bottoms. And then, my dear, all your dreams must die.”

  She saw that he had saved this for the end and was amused. Which was all right, for it told her exactly where she stood.

  She smiled. “Get me the sugar, Uncle, and we will prosper together. As for the French; don’t give them another thought. The Americans will never allow them on the Mississippi.”

  “The Americans!” Henri cried. “Why, they can’t do anything. They’re weak. They can scarcely stay afloat as a nation. France won’t give them a thought, and rightly so.”

  “I’m afraid Henri is right, Daniella,” Clark said. “I deal with the Americans—even took out citizenship a year or two ago to smooth my relations upriver. But it makes sense for France to reclaim its American empire, and Napoleon will brush American complaints aside as a horse flicks flies.”

  “Get me the sugar, Uncle,” she said. “You will find that the Americans will surprise you. I know them well, you see, for I have become an American.”

  20

  WASHINGTON, DECEMBER 1801

  “Tell me, Mr. Pichon,” said the president of the United States, “should we be concerned about the rumors that France intends to reacquire Louisiana in retrocession from Spain?”

  Dolley Madison was startled and pained. The question seemed blunt, crude, quite uncalled for at the president’s first entertainment of the diplomatic corps. It was the day so long planned on which she had worked for weeks with Mr. Lemaire, carefully weighing the nuances involved in bringing together the representatives of England, France, and Spain. Mr. Jefferson already had overruled her careful seating plan and now this untimely question.

  They had just started the chestnut soup over which she’d fought Mr. Lemaire for three days and which, she noted in passing, was superb, just as she had expected. Apparently as shocked as she by such undiplomatic bluntness, the guests had paused, their spoons aloft like so many soldiers presenting arms.

  The French attaché lowered his spoon and said, “Mr. President, of course I’m aware of the rumors, but my government has given me no intimation of such intention.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pichon. I’m gratified to hear that. Mr. Yrujo, the rumors concern your country as well.”

  The Marquis de Casa Yrujo, Spain’s ambassador to the United States, stiffened and bristled. Dolley held her breath. He was a startlingly handsome young man, member of a noble house of Spain, immensely wealthy, and to Dolley seemed somewhat consumed by
a pride that was not quite appropriate in this most democratic of nations. But he had married her old friend, Sally McKean of Philadelphia, the governor’s daughter, who seemed to adore him. Dolley darted a quick glance at Sally, fearing they were offended, but Sally was gazing rapturously at her husband.

  “I have no instructions on such a subject, Mr. President,” Yrujo said in his rather heavy accent, “nor knowledge of such a move. But with the greatest of respect, I must nevertheless assert it is my country’s right to take such action as it may see fit without notification to any third party.”

  Third party … Dolley’s uneasiness grew. The young Spaniard had skated on the edge of rudeness. But then, Mr. Jefferson’s question had hardly been a model. She glanced at him; if he were offended, he concealed it.

  She saw a faint smile on Jimmy’s face and realized something important had transpired. The president talked on easily, pronouncing her chestnut soup a great success, reflecting on the various uses made of chestnuts and their role in the life of the black bears of Virginia. And, he asked, were his guests aware of the significance of berries ripening in the fall in preparing bears for hibernation? Soon he was developing his view that the life habits of bears simply followed circumstances of berries and falling chestnuts, for surely nature was interdependent, with little left to chance. Man, he said, who bent nature to his requirements, was the exception that proved the rule. She feared he would ramble indefinitely on biology, another of his catholic interests but poor dinner talk, when he shifted smoothly to the soup, in which he said he detected a haunting flavor of hickory-smoked bacon that must account for its perfection.

  She was pleased, in part because she had gone to great lengths to get the right bacon, in greater part because it seemed no diplomatic contretemps would mar her first dinner … .

  She had spent much of the last month on preparations. It was surprising how complex a big state dinner could become. Entertaining in her own home hardly carried the significance of such a dinner as this. By now she had won over Mr. Lemaire completely; the soup argument had been hard fought but good humored. She had made herself a buffer between him and the president, and had persuaded Mr. Jefferson to let Mr. Lemaire choose the wines, subject to approval. This had restored the Frenchman’s sense of the fitness of things, and indeed, Mr. Jefferson had only overruled him once, and that on the grounds of personal preference. Dolley never let him forget the value of an ally.

  But there had been so much to do! There would be three meat courses, venison, Virginia ham, and a fine veal from Pennsylvania. For the fish course, she’d arranged mountain trout from the Blue Ridge; and for appetizers following the soup, delicacies from the Chesapeake, spoon-sized crab cakes and soft shells, and tiny oysters in a sauce … .

  Of course there was a different wine for each course, and she’d established a washing station in the basement to be sure they didn’t run out of wineglasses. Mr. Jefferson had brought his own tableware from Monticello, purchased in Paris during his ambassadorial residence there, and it was excellent. Each plate was polished and checked for blemish. The table linen, inset with Flemish lace, had come from the same source; she’d had everything washed and pressed.

  The table would be superb, but the building itself was another question. Its shabbiness dismayed her. It simply wasn’t finished and they must do something about it before long, but she knew now wasn’t the time to broach it.

  The day dawned bright and clear, air crisp but not really cold. Congress was in session, and the Washington season now was in full force. The invitations were set for half after three, the usual dinner hour, and winter sunshine brightened the room. By five it would be coming on dark, and she made sure new tapers were ready in the polished girandoles.

  She and Jimmy were on hand with Anna in the oval drawing room as guests began arriving. Albert Gallatin, their dour but brilliant Treasury secretary came first with Hannah, a New York City belle with whom Dolley had become close. She was greeting them when Maggie Smith walked in with her husband, Samuel, whose National Intelligencer could be counted on to portray things honestly with a clear grasp of the administration’s intent. Maggie, whose relationship to Mr. Bayard Dolley still didn’t quite grasp, was enamored of Mr. Jefferson. He bowed over her hand, holding it overlong. Danny was still in New Orleans, or she would be here.

  Dolley saw Sally McKean, as she still thought of her old friend, coming in just ahead of her new husband. Mr. Jefferson hurried to greet her, remarking on Governor McKean saving democracy the day he joined with Mr. Monroe in willingness to call out troops to enforce the Constitution. He gave warm greeting to the ambassador, who in turn clicked his heels and brought Dolley’s hand to his lips. Mr. Yrujo wore an expensive suit cut in the latest fashion—she wished she could get Jimmy to pay more attention to fashion—and was scarcely older than his wife. He was almost beautiful really, with curls of light brown hair cascading down his forehead, all marred by a supercilious note in hooded eyes and finely modeled lips. Dolley saw he didn’t intend to be impressed.

  Young Meriwether went straight to Anna when, of course, he should be circulating among the guests. Louis Pichon arrived with Madame Pichon. He struck Dolley as earnest and friendly but uncomfortable with small talk. He presented his wife, a slender, somewhat remote woman with little English. Mr. Jefferson welcomed her in polished French, at which she brightened; and soon Dolley saw her talking to Albert Gallatin, who, though Swiss, possessed French almost as a primary language.

  Dolley barely had time to nudge Merry and tell him to talk to other people when Edward Thornton, the young British attaché whom Dolley found interestingly handsome, with soft brown hair and blue eyes that despite a cultivated languor were rather sharp and searching. She liked Ned and chatted with him a moment, noticing that Anna was holding Merry in vivacious talk. That sister of hers!

  No one remarked on the vice president’s absence. She had proposed inviting Aaron; one sharp shake of Jimmy’s head answered her and she’d let it go, her own feelings mixed.

  With the guests chatting over wine from trays waiters passed among them, Mr. Jefferson drew her to one side to compliment her. But she saw Mr. Lemaire approaching from the dining room and whispered urgently, “Mr. President, it’s nearly time. You really should take Mrs. Yrujo in. He’s the only one of full ambassador rank, and Sally’s father—”

  “Perish the thought, Dolley, pell-mell shall be our style, every man a king and no man his subject.” He was geniality itself. “All equal, catch-as-catch-can, the absolute opposite of royal courts. Let them see the essence of democracy.”

  Dolley’s strength as a Democrat would compare well with anyone’s, but she thought this a ridiculous exercise at so formal a dinner and one sure to make eventual trouble among diplomats jealous of rank and prerogatives. But just then Mr. Lemaire appeared in the doorway and Mr. Jefferson said in a loud, warm voice, “Shall we go in?” He turned and offered her his arm. Of course she could do nothing but let him lead her in and seat her by his side.

  There seemed a momentary confusion as people formed pairs, some matched well and some not, and came into the dining room to find places as chance might direct them. It was not at all elegant, and she thought from the tight line of Mr. Yrujo’s mouth that he was offended, though others seemed placid enough. Dolley saw that Meriwether Lewis had snared Anna, led her in as if she were a special prize, and seated himself beside her.

  Then, as if pell-mell wasn’t distressing enough, came the president’s untimely question right at the start when it might better have been reserved for afterward when the ladies separated or later still in some formal diplomatic setting. Not at her dinner! Still, though Mr. Yrujo had come close to disrespect—Dolley had seen Jimmy’s frown—the situation seemed to have passed without apparent damage, and she slowly relaxed, looking around the table as she spooned the soup. She saw that her sister was chatting across the table with Maggie Smith; and then she noticed that young Merry, sitting beside Anna, had a stunned look as if he were i
ll, pale and flushed in alternating waves, seemingly totally unaware … .

  In fact, Anna Payne had just placed her foot against Captain Lewis’s foot. It was like being touched with a hot coal. Of course he moved his foot, fearful he was intruding on her space, but her foot followed his, found it, pressed intimately against it. Anna was chatting with the publisher’s wife across the table, and all the while her foot made gentle movements and pressures against his. It was as erotic as anything he had ever experienced.

  She turned to him suddenly, conspiratorially. “Mrs. Yrujo,” she said softly, “what do you think of her?” Her foot moved again. “She seems quite painted, don’t you think? Do you like paint? Perhaps men do. I use so little. Do you think I suffer by comparison?”

  He sat forward, terrified that she would see his tumult if she glanced into his lap. His voice came out as if he were strangling. “I—I think you are quite perfect as you are.”

  She gave him that flashing smile that itself could stun him and said, “You’re a dear man, even if it’s not true.”

  “It is true!” he blurted.

  She laughed. “That makes you even dearer.”

  Then, her foot still giving his that sweet pressure, she turned to Mr. Gallatin on her other side with Mrs. Pichon and asked some question about the Alps that turned their attention fully to her. In a moment she was deep in discussion with them, the sweet pressure of her foot still hard against his, the little way it moved, pressed, withdrew slightly, pressed anew, each touch a little shock that made his breath run short. He sat gazing at her profile, the turn of her cheek, the lobe of her ear. Nothing like this had ever happened …