Eagle's Cry

by David Nevin

  “Uncle,” Danny said, “are you willfully obtuse? Or just naive?” She watched anger flash across his face. “Can you be so unattuned to nuance?”

  “‘Unattuned’! I’m attuned to the fact that you’re a damned impertinent young woman!”

  “Perhaps, but listen to me. This is an informal letter from the wife of the secretary of state of the United States, and I promise you she has his full confidence, as Mr. Madison has Mr. Jefferson’s confidence. She says informally what he chooses not to say formally.”

  “No, Danny,” he said, words clipped and hard, “it is you who misunderstand. Look at me. I’m an Irishman educated in Britain who lives in a French community that’s ruled by the Spanish. I have nothing to do with the United States.”

  “Your loyalty, you’re saying, is to yourself?”

  “Of course. Why not?”

  “Have you met Monsieur LaFarge? Recently arrived?”

  “I’ve met him. French, an envoy of some sort, I expect.”

  “He arranged an introduction to me,” Danny said. “He seems to find me attractive.”

  “Aha!” Zulie said.

  And, Danny said, Monsieur LaFarge boasted a bit and revealed more, not an uncommon trait in men around a pretty woman. She heard Zulie’s low chuckle at that. And it turned out that Monsieur LaFarge, in fact, was Colonel LaFarge of the French army, and he was surveying New Orleans as one huge military base, an army staging ground for the advance up the river. She laid out the facts with the cool efficiency of a business report in detail that her uncle could not doubt.

  “My business will die,” she said. “that goes without saying. But yours will too. Think about that.”

  He stared at her but didn’t answer. The silence stretched. She heard a dog barking somewhere in the distance.

  At last she said, “Uncle, do you expect people at this level to spell out precise meanings in a letter that could fall into anyone’s hands? Really! Here, let me read it to you again.” She paced her voice, reading slowly.

  Dearest friend, Jimmy joins me in hoping that all goes well for you. Captain Mac tells us of your sugar arrangements with your estimable uncle. As you by now know, great events are in the offing. Doubtless you are considering your own position in swirling and rapidly changing times. I think you can feel confident that the ground you tread is solid and that no untoward events beyond those in your own control will disturb your plans.

  Enclosed please find Mr. Clark’s commission. Mr. Madison sends with it his congratulations and felicitations. Please ask Mr. Clark to accompany you when next you return to Washington; there is much to be discussed and it is of great importance. Do not fail in this mission, dear Danny.

  Clark did not speak and Danny waited. The dog was still barking but with an aimless note now. Zulie chuckled and Danny saw sophisticated comprehension on her face. “Very interesting,” she said. “Daniel, darling, don’t be difficult. It’s not fair to your niece—nor wise. The letter tells you the Americans will not let the French take New Orleans and control the river. Otherwise, such a fine lady as Mrs. Madison would never tell Danny her commitment to New Orleans sugar is safe.”

  “Umph!” Clark said. “Perhaps. But I have no interest in going.”

  “My dear, dear man,” Zulie said, “that you’ll be gone when our little newcomer arrives will break my heart. But consider, you man of no state. The first paragraph says that if the Americans will not let France control your future, then certainly they will control it. The second says the president of the United States wants to see you on a matter of high importance. Do you really imagine you have a choice?”

  The silence stretched again. As if Danny weren’t in the room, Clark took Zulie’s hand. “Ah, Zulie,” he said so softly Danny almost missed it, “you are my woman.” Then, briskly, to Danny, “I can’t leave for two weeks.”

  “I’ll wait, Uncle. Sail in two weeks.”

  “Done,” he said, and stood, dismissing her.

  Henri was waiting in the main salon. It was late now and the city was silent. He escorted her to her pension. They walked in silence, the air between them charged. At the pension door he took both her hands and held them, hard. She saw a nerve flutter in the corner of his eye. The tension became unbearable, and then she tore a hand free and with the other led him inside and up the stairs. She took the huge key from her reticule, unlocked the door, stepped inside, and turned. He didn’t move. Her lips parted and she nodded. He came in and closed the door, and she folded herself into his arms with the feeling that she was plunging off a cliff with no idea of what lay below.

  30

  WASHINGTON, MID-1802

  Samuel Smith, the National Intelligencer editor, came clattering up to the mansion on a sweating mare whose iron shoes squealed on cobblestones as he tossed the reins to the guard and called for Captain Lewis. After a moment’s explanation, Lewis hurried him to the president’s office. Mr. Jefferson, talking with Mr. Madison, looked up in surprise, but this could not wait.

  “Sir,” Mr. Smith blurted, “the French aims on Louisiana, they’re popping into the open. You must position yourself.”

  Mr. J. stared at him. “You’re printing this? Sir, we made you privy to these matters because we trusted you—”

  From deep in a wing chair, Mr. Madison said, “Secrets, sir, should remain secrets!”

  “No,” Mr. Smith said. “Cat’s out of the bag. It’s in the Richmond papers, Baltimore, Philadelphia. We have no choice.”

  Their protests died. In fact, Lewis knew they long had expected it to become public. The weight of rumor grew, people had friends in New Orleans and Paris and London, merchant vessels from the Gulf called at ports from Charleston to Boston—how could you keep it quiet? Too many people knew and the pressure to talk became overwhelming. The stories editors wrote turned from speculation to assertion, and since editors all borrowed freely from others the word spread rapidly. Within a month or two it was everywhere. Look how the Hemings story had traveled.

  “It’s a difficult piece of mischief,” the president said. “Now there’ll be a public uproar, positions will harden, rhetoric will be more extreme, people will question whether a government responsive to the common people can react with strength, they’ll wonder if we’re facing war, they’ll put more credence in Federalist blather that we intend to turn the country over to France, they’ll postulate this is our way of doing so …” His voice trailed off and he sighed, then said, “I suppose Mr. Smith needs a statement he can publish. Mr. Secretary?”

  There was a quicksilver quality in Mr. Madison that often surprised Lewis. He could shift not only ground but emotions as well, a capacity that quite eluded Lewis. Now he stood and with an easy smile said, “It’s even simpler than it seems, Mr. Smith. France is a friend to this country and so is Britain—but to neither are we subordinate. I believe both value our friendship, and it’s clear that France cannot keep that friendship and take control of the Mississippi River. I think, therefore, that it soon will strike France that some alternative is necessary, some shared ownership or relinquishing the east bank of the river or—well, there are many possibilities, but what is clear is that we will not be losing the Mississippi.”

  “Well said, sir,” the president said.

  As Lewis escorted the editor out, he heard Mr. Madison say, “Well, now everything gets more difficult, doesn’t it?”

  Aaron Burr gave a copper to a boy hawking the Intelligencer and opened the newspaper with a sense of dread. He spread it on a marble balustrade and read, letting the finality of its personal meaning sink in. He was in the cavernous space that would be the rotunda of the Capitol; the day was mild, the windows open, the big fireplaces empty, the temporary canvas roof quivering in a light breeze. Vendors awaited the session’s end, which would come soon. Weary of stuffy air and stuffy debate, Burr had surrendered the president’s gavel and fled the Senate chamber.

  The paper had detail upon detail that couldn’t be denied: after all the talk, the hints, the
whispers, the wild rumors, yes, the French were taking Louisiana and, as any fool could see, next would steal the great heart of the continent. That the vice president of the United States should get this confirmation from a newspaper was the ultimate demonstration of where he stood. But it also freed him, and he realized he had crossed some inner bridge to calm, new acceptance, his way to response now clear.

  And he was not without weapons. New York was vital to any future election, and Burr had little doubt of his capacity to dominate the state. Governor Clinton, a fool personified, was acting cock of the walk now, but he and his pecksniff nephew, DeWitt, could be demolished as soon as Burr put an effort to it. It was time to get started. He decided to ask reliable old Peter Van Ness, who could thrum the strings of New York politics with a concertmaster’s skill, to come to Washington and lay plans. It was time to crank up their forces and prepare for battle.

  Now he leaned on the balustrade and folded his arms, his expression carefully serene. A bell rang somewhere, and members flowed into the rotunda-to-be like schoolboys flooding an exercise yard, senators and congressmen and clerks intermixed. The newsboys sprang into action and men snatched up copies to stare at the front page, rising hubbub of voices threaded with anger. They bought hot sausages on buns, mugs of tea and coffee, sweet rolls, Madeira from a man with a feather in his hat and a carved wooden cart, beer from competing brewery men with kegs on sawhorses only ten feet apart who glared at each other while the newsboys jostled and squalled, racing for the raised finger.

  Burr watched them as they stood braced, food and drink clutched in one hand, shaking the newspaper for emphasis, faces red, mouths open, voices the roar of the sea as they reeled before shocking news. Of course it shocked them. The hints and rumors had never carried real weight, but now it was fact that the nation was in the most serious foreign policy crisis in its history. The president and the secretary acknowledged it!

  What now? Could they trust this feckless, ambiguous man in the president’s house to deal with it? Would he yield to France? Could that be what he’d planned all along, this to be his excuse? Secret deals signed and delivered before Congress could intervene? What was their duty in the face of presidential intransigence, evidenced by his failure to take Congress into his confidence? A sphinx until the weight of evidence literally forced it into the open, and then the administration had made only a pro forma statement. We’re everybody’s friend and we trust our friends! What kind of a statement was that? He should be up on the Hill reporting to a joint session right now!

  There were shouts outside. Burr went to the door. At the bottom of the long staircase, he saw a growing crowd that looked ready to storm the Capitol. The news was spreading and its danger was as clear to the man on the street as to the men in these marble halls. Guards holding the crowds back were being jostled and pushed. There was a sudden scuffle, two guards had a man down, then his friends rushed in to throw the guards back and the rescued man melted into the crowd. Over their heads, far down Capitol Street, he could see more crowds gathering, men and women pouring out of houses, responding to the French bombshell.

  Jim Ross appeared at his side. Burr liked the Pennsylvanian, who was one of the few men in the Senate who had treated him unfailingly as a gentleman. Ross even had offered apologies for his party after that terrible night at Stelle’s Hotel.

  Now he put a hand on Burr’s shoulder. “Aaron, you’ve been a friend of the West. By God, my folks out in Pittsburgh are going to take this hard.” He gestured toward the crowd below. “Look at ’em—stunned, dismayed, enraged. They understand, you know, nothing innocent in this French move. It’s an invasion and it’s aimed squarely at us, and people know that by instinct.”

  He slowly raised one clenched fist. “French bastards. My people depend on western trade, Ohio River is their main concourse, and the Ohio’s no good without the Mississippi. But any fool can see that sooner or later the French will shut it down and try to take it over. My folks’ll have a delegation here hammering my head quick as they can travel, and I’d better have answers. This ain’t party either, Aaron. I’m a good Federalist, but that don’t mean a thing when chips this size are down!”

  There! Ross was speaking the American truth to which the sainted Mr. Jefferson must answer. He and Madison would lose Louisiana. They lacked the lion hearts that holding it would demand. They would yield to the French with weak excuses; and when Louisiana was gone, the people would never forgive them. He smiled; everything plays to someone’s advantage.

  He shook Ross’s hand. “Perhaps we should confer from time to time; I sense we have mutual interests,” he said. Satisfied, he walked briskly from the Capitol, threading his way through the crowd. He was nearly clear when he heard his name called and turned to see two men he recognized vaguely as congressmen, Federalists, he thought, hurrying after him. When they were near they gave their names: Josiah Simcoe of Massachusetts and Samuel Baker of Connecticut. Burr bowed.

  Simcoe was a heavy man, face red, a sour cast to his mouth. Trotting across the yard had left him gasping. Burr was drawn to the other, Baker, a slender fellow patrician in appearance and manner, light brown hair tossed elegantly to one side, his linen sparkling.

  But it was Simcoe who spoke first. “We was at Stelle’s that night,” he said, still breathing hard. Burr froze. He barely noticed a look of consternation on Baker’s face. The invitation to a high Federalist dinner had come from the sort of men you should be able to trust, and after all, he was through with the Democrats. But the moment he’d entered the banquet room, the consternation of the guests had told him everything; it was a humiliating trick to set Democratic tongues wagging. Still, Aaron Burr was not a man to be abused lightly. He’d seized a glass and into the silence offered a toast, “An union of all honest men.” There was a moment of silence and then a deep voice called, “Hear! Hear!” and there was a rustle as men stood. He held his glass high, let the moment stretch, then drank it down in a swallow and strode from the room as if he owned the hall. But he wouldn’t soon forget that night.

  And this puppy was reminding him!

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, ice in his voice.

  Baker held up a hand to restrain his friend and in a low, melodious voice said, “I think what Josh meant was that we date our admiration for you from that night.”

  Oh?

  “In fact, it was a rotten trick,” Burr snapped.

  “Yes, it was, but you carried it off brilliantly.”

  Mollified, Burr let his expression ease.

  “Now, sir,” Baker said, “the point is that we hope you are going to return to New York and restore your position there.” This was striking rather close to home. Burr waited. “It’s entirely clear that you have been used most shamefully by the administration. As we understand it, Governor Clinton is your enemy to say nothing of his nephew, DeWitt, Democrats though they are. Logic suggests that with little here to hold you, you probably will return to wrest power from your enemies.”

  “And why does that interest you?”

  Baker smiled. “The Federalist Party values you highly, sir. I have authority to say it would look with pleasure on supporting you in a campaign to recapture New York.”

  Burr gave him a skeptical look and didn’t answer.

  “Of course you question this,” Baker said. “But it makes sense. Many in New England believe this nation cannot—should not—hold together. The current administration is sure to yield to the French. Probably this is just a ploy to give it an excuse. And I can assure you that New England will not remain under French dominance. It will break away, ally with our natural friend, Britain, and leave the rest of the country to Virginia—and to France. Now, sir, the true interests of New York fit those of New England much better than those of Virginia, with its slaves hoeing tobacco. We believe were you to be in command in New York the logic of that position would be unassailable.”

  My, my. They were suggesting treason to the sitting vice president of the United States
. We do live in interesting times, he thought. He frowned. “I think you must know, gentlemen, that this is not an appropriate conversation.”

  “Ah, doubtless so.” Baker smiled easily. “We’ll say no more, but after today we did want you to know our feelings.”

  Burr walked on, swinging his stick. Very interesting … .

  In the distance he saw two women approaching. His mood always improved at the sight of women. These were trim and good looking. Then up close he saw it was Dolley Madison walking with, yes, that Mobry woman: Darnelle, Dahlia, Danny! That was it. Lost her husband—

  He greeted them with a graceful bow. Dolley had the good taste to blush and he the gallantry to leave their differences unsaid. If she knew of administration distress at the turn of affairs in Louisiana, she said nothing of it. In a cascade of small talk, she said Danny was just in from New Orleans. He restrained the impulse to ask if New Orleans was celebrating the news and merely observed that his friend General Wilkinson spoke of that city with much affection. Something crossed the Mobry woman’s face at the mention of Wilkinson, with whom he was to dine in the next hour. Interesting; Jim’s reputation was always at issue. Mustering his most soulful look, he offered condolences and saw that shadow again. Curious and very interesting. He knew women well, and he knew she had responded to him. He walked on, pleased; my, a pretty woman responding does smooth the hurts.

  Dolley had asked after Theodosia, which had let him wax eloquent on his darling daughter, now about to make him a grandfather. The baby would be named for him, boy or girl, Theodosia had promised and young Alston had agreed. They had married and Alston now was entering politics in South Carolina; quite ignobly, Burr had to admit to himself, he’d feared marriage would turn Theodosia’s heart to her husband and reduce her father to just an old affection. But no, she loved him with the same fierce passion she always had. She would be coming north soon, ostensibly to avoid the dangerous heat of summer in the Carolina lowlands but really to see him. He had tried to shield her from his humiliations, but she’d read between the lines and condemned the Virginians with fury that warmed a father’s heart.