Eagle's Cry

by David Nevin

  Imagine, coming to Santo Domingo with empty larders expecting the United States to refill them on demand. There was ample American trade with Santo Domingo; but since French credit was worthless, merchants insisted on gold. Leclerc simply seized the goods—emptied warehouses at musket point, impounded American ships and cargoes. Two ship captains were imprisoned, one because he had spoken critically of the French—not there but at home in Baltimore! —the other because Leclerc thought a ship named Santo Domingo Packet probably was a rebel vessel. Lear, as consul, finally secured their release, but it was the vigor of his representation that had led to his expulsion.

  Crazy …

  Naturally American commerce to the island stopped. Meanwhile the French were finding the black rebels in their vast numbers to be formidable fighters.

  “The troops are hungry, and I think frightened too,” Lear said. “There’s a fury in the blacks. Troops say it’s like nothing they saw in Italy or Austria.” Heavy foliage made fighting sudden and close. A soldier barely had time to snap off a single shot without aim before he was under a slashing machete blade that could decapitate a man in a stroke. Off-duty ranks talked constantly of finding stacks of heads, mouths stuffed with severed penises. “Worse, of course, since they took Toussaint.”

  “Captured him?”

  “No, no—tricked him. Told him they considered him a Frenchman like themselves and accepted his command of the island. Set up a big formal conference to honor him: and when he came in they seized him, executed his lieutenants, and shipped him off to France. He’ll die in some icy dungeon in the Alps, poor devil.”

  Crazy …

  “The tropics aren’t kind to Europeans,” Lear said. “Too much sun, too much rum, snakes and bugs and poisons, fevers floating on deadly night air. And the yellow fever season hasn’t even started.”

  But it was more than that. Madison saw the dice rolling for a continent. The westering tide of American settlers would fix North American as American, but France aimed to block them with what Talleyrand called “a wall of brass.” Leclerc had come to seize a continent, and Madison thought this was was his opening gun. So maybe it all had a purpose, the mad flailing, seizing property, ejecting the American consul, even the casual brutalization by a trooper with a musket butt. Maybe this was Leclerc’s message, telling Americans what they could expect in Louisiana.

  Pichon arrived wearing a haggard look, face hollowed, eyes shadowed. His wife was approaching labor and increasingly ill. Childless himself, Madison felt an odd mix of regret for his own state and impatience with the envoy’s problems.

  Perhaps that intensified anger already real as he laid out the high displeasure of the United States with General Leclerc’s outrageous violation of all diplomatic norms. Pichon, more hangdog than ever, made comforting murmurs. He said he already had written General Leclerc pointing out the grossness of his error.

  “I’m sure when Mr. Lear returns there’ll be no problem.”

  Madison studied the Frenchman. That wistful quality was strong in his expression. Perhaps he found himself squeezed between an aggressive leader who was willfully ignorant and his own sense of reality. Yet America’s best defense was to make that leader see that his plans must come to grief, and Madison had only two official avenues—Mr. Livingston, who couldn’t get a civil word from Talleyrand, and this sallow man with his mind pulled to his pregnant wife.

  He judged a soft tone would be most effective. “Ah, Louis,” he said, “you can see this sort of thing only serves the Federalists, and they’ll never be your friends. Can’t you make your government understand that the Federalists, in the minority at the moment but very sizeable, would like nothing better than war with France, the United States tucked under the British wing? My God, Louis, isn’t that self-evident?”

  He threw up his hands. “Why, even the president—and you know his underlying affection for your country—was saying the other night that if such treatment continued, it must end by making union with Britain. I believe ‘universally popular’ was the phrase he used, and I must say, I think he’s quite right.”

  He made the case again—Mr. Lear’s expulsion, American merchants and ship captains abused, the constant threats and strident condemnations of American democracy made by Leclerc and his officers, the secrecy, the denials, Foreign Minister Talleyrand’s refusal of common courtesy, the coin of diplomacy, to Ambassador Livingston …

  Created awful misunderstandings, he said. The idea that France could separate western Americans from eastern was ridiculous. No chance whatsoever. Americans were one people. The real loser would be France itself. Britain would take over French island colonies the moment it united with America. Everyone understood the current lull in European war would end, and then union with Britain would be simple to arrange, with any slight embarrassment, since Democrats once had opposed it, quickly dissipating.

  He leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his head, an easy smile on his face. “You know, Louis, France made its real decision years ago. Now it should have the wisdom—dare I say courage?—to live with that decision.”

  “I’m not sure I understand, sir,” Pichon said cautiously.

  “Well, why did it back our revolution a quarter century ago? Because it was our friend? Many Americans assumed its motive was utterly selfless, but a man of the world such as yourself will hardly be taken in by so patent a fiction.”

  Pichon didn’t answer.

  “We know—and I know you’ll agree—it was in the interests of France to help us. It was obvious then that America would in time be a great power. How much better for France for America to be independent than for it to be an appendage to your deadliest enemy. Now you know we’ve grown tenfold since those days and are well on our way to realizing our potential.”

  Again Pichon didn’t answer and Madison said, “You see the obvious answer to the equation, I’m sure. Having made its decision then, France now should be cultivating us, not forcing us back into Britain’s arms.”

  “I suppose that is so, Mr. Secretary,” Pichon said politely.

  Madison smiled. “Plain simple truth.” Yes, but would Pichon dare report the argument with its fundamental logic? Would he have the courage to make points that neither Talleyrand nor Napoleon wanted to hear?

  “Mr. Yrujo, you would do well to position yourself and your nation in this matter,” Madison said. He had summoned the Spanish ambassador peremptorily and now gave him no chance to speak. He was boiling over with Spain’s intransigence.

  “Let me point out to you that Spain will continue to have great interests when we have settled this Louisiana matter. Florida, Mexico, Cuba—all will be open to question if we are to move into a state of war, a state of mad freebooting by piratical nations on this continent. I assure you, such action will not go unpunished.”

  “Mr. Secretary,” Yrujo squalled, “I protest—”

  “That will do, sir. You are not here to protest. You are here to be informed what to tell your government. Tell your masters that the United States is deeply displeased with Spain’s secrecy in this matter, its arrogant retrocession without information to us, consideration for us—abominable, sir. That a great nation would act so boggles the mind, calls into question whether the nation is, in fact, great.

  “Remind your masters, Mr. Yrujo, that much is at stake here. Our western regions hunger for Florida, and they see no reason that Mexico should be Spanish. Is that some matter ordained from on high? I think not. So be warned, sir.”

  “Mr. Secretary, I—”

  “I am not seeking your response, your excuses, sir. I am telling you what to report to your superiors. Good day, sir.”

  Yrujo stood, biting his lip, and for a moment Madison thought he would cry. Then he bowed. “Good day, sir.”

  So, Madison thought, I’ve made another enemy. So be it. Spain has acted the poltroon and we shan’t forget it.

  Johnny Graham had just returned from an errand to the Hill. He was feeling good, which he did most of
the time. He’d collided with Simon Pink in the chairman’s office, and the little clerk had been so outrageous Johnny had burst out laughing.

  “Simon,” he’d said, “go blow your nose. You’re snotty beyond belief today.”

  That got the little devil’s attention. Johnny was still chuckling as he led the department horse to the watering trough and snapped on the grazing line. He’d just turned the critter loose when he saw the most vividly caparisoned fellow you’d ever want to meet come striding across the lawn looking as if he was pretty sure he was in command of the whole damned world. Grinning, Johnny admired his uniform, festooned with bars and stars and rosettes, effusion of lace and ruffles at the throat, high dragoon boots, lacking only a saber, and at least as bright as what the doorman at Stelle’s Hotel wore.

  At the street he saw Mr. Pichon arguing with a new guard who didn’t recognize him and was demanding he move his carriage. He was about to go to the chargé’s assistance when, apparently having convinced the guard, Mr. Pichon came hurrying toward them. But just then the fellow in the uniform, pointing at Johnny with a small, polished stick, barked in heavily accented English, “You, there, direct me to the secretary’s office!”

  Well, that tone was enough to get Johnny’s hackles about straight up, and he said in his most deliberate western accent, “Well, now, he don’t see just any old Tom, Dick, or Harry comes walking in off the street.”

  Still, as Mr. Pichon cried breathlessly that he had sent Mr. Madison a note, Johnny got a better look at the stranger and almost regretted his own tone. This was a man of consequence. He was of medium size with rigid military bearing, a carefully barbered beard, and strikingly pale blue eyes that gave him a bleached look despite his deep tan. Perhaps the self-importance of the uniform and the coldness of the eyes combined in some evil way, but Johnny felt a momentary shiver that quite surprised him. Was he intimidated? No, sir, he was not! A surge of anger tightened his face as he led them inside. Still, that shiver, that flash of concern, stayed with him. There was a force in this French officer … .

  He stepped into Mr. Madison’s office. “Sir, there’s a fancy fellow out here to see you—you don’t mind, I’ll stay in the room. This one, you might want me to throw him out on his ear.” The truth was he didn’t want the little secretary left at the mercy of this somehow threatening figure.

  But before Mr. Madison could answer, the door opened and the soldier pushed past Mr. Pichon, clicked his heels, and cried in a parade ground voice, “Major General Felix Montane of the French Expeditionary Force to Santo Domingo!”

  Johnny, closing the door, had a sudden insight that if you met this man in combat you’d need to be handy to finish alive. He glanced at Mr. Madison: How would he, the least warlike of men, react? The secretary was small, kindly, courteous, and quiet, above all a man of books and ideas, the sort who just needed protection, to put it plain.

  Mr. Madison bowed perfunctorily. Without inviting them to sit, he said to Pichon, “My, Louis, you could have loaned him a suit of clothes.” General Montane’s eyes widened, his mouth sprang open, but before he could speak Mr. Madison said, “General, things may be different in France, but in the American democracy, uniforms are totally inappropriate at diplomatic conversations. Mr. Pichon probably told you as much—”

  Johnny saw Pichon’s involuntary nod, at which the general turned on him with such force that poor Louis stumbled backward.

  Immediately Mr. Madison went on, “Well, well, very poor taste I must say, but let’s get on with it. I’m quite busy; it would be next week before I could spare time for you again. Sit down, General, and tell me what I can do for you.”

  Well, goodness gracious, that pretty well said whether Mr. Madison was readily intimidated.

  Johnny watched the French officer seat himself stiffly, plucking his breeches into proper folds before saying in accented but accurate English, “I, sir, am second in command to General Leclerc himself. You know of General Leclerc?”

  “Of course. The first consul’s favorite.”

  Montane flushed. “A standing he earned, sir, through the exigencies of war!”

  “And of marriage. But what do you seek, General?”

  “What I seek, sir, is your guarantee that you will require the United States to support France in Santo Domingo as an ally and a friend should. We have urgent need of supplies. Mr. Pichon has the list”—again that curious glowering glance at Pichon—“flour, salt meat, powder and lead, cloth, medicines—”

  “American merchants can supply all that quite readily.” Mr. Madison glanced at Pichon and added, “Why don’t you send him to Philadelphia or Baltimore—better selection there.” He started to stand as if to terminate the talk.

  “One moment, sir,” Montane snapped. “Your merchants demand gold.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Madison said, looking surprised. “Since French credit is rarely honored.”

  The general snorted. “That is your problem, not mine. You owe us support. Order your merchants to comply or pay them yourself. Who cares how it’s done?” He threw up a hand, radiating anger. “Finances are no concern of mine. No man who risks his life daily on the battlefield stoops to counting coin. It is a matter of military honor, sir.”

  “Analogous, I suppose,” Mr. Madison said, “to the honor with which you dealt with Toussaint?”

  The general leaped up at that. Johnny stood, fists doubled, but the Frenchman said, “I will not lower myself to answer that, nor will I waste more time. I am simply telling you that we expect you to discipline your merchants.”

  “Well, General,” Mr. Madison said, “we don’t do things that way. So sit down and calm yourself.”

  After a moment, Montane did so, arranging his breeches once again. “In France, merchants toe a very careful line. They pay attention to government—indeed, they leap to obey.”

  “Yes, but you see, we are a democracy.”

  The general shrugged. “Getting around that should be no problem. It’s a weak and foolish form, one that wise men already are abandoning.”

  “Really, General?” Johnny was proud of Mr. Madison, who managed to sound politely bored.

  Montane flushed. “Yes, really! It is a spent force, sir, a failure, a refuge of weaklings and fools. The world knows what a disaster it made in France and now the same is happening here.”

  There was a long silence. Johnny saw Mr. Madison glance at Pichon and raise his eyebrows. Pichon flushed.

  Then, voice newly cold, the secretary said, “Let me tell you, General, that when the time comes you will find us not nearly so spent as you imagine.”

  “In that case, sir, you should have no trouble in meeting our needs. Supplies must flow to our forces. If you can’t order compliance, then pay from your own coffers. You will be repaid, in gold at some point in the future, in good will immediately. And that should be more important to you than gold.”

  Another long pause, a crackle of tension, all four men on their feet. Mr. Madison stark and cold. “Please explain yourself, General. Why should the good will of France matter more than that of any nation?”

  “Because from the island we go on to Louisiana.”

  The words hung in the still room. “Sir,” Mr. Madison said, “do you threaten me?”

  Montane smiled, as if he felt the force of his position was only now being recognized. “No, no—just a statement of facts. We will come to Louisiana, come up the river, take control as Spain with its army of gutter sweepings could never manage. Of course we will encounter your citizens, and our manner of dealing with them will depend on whether you prove yourself friend or enemy. It really is up to you. But I should warn you, in General Leclerc’s name, if you choose to be our enemy we will take your so-called American West and make it our own. Change those foolish names, Kentucky and Tennessee and the like, to proper French names—”

  Mr. Madison raised a hand to stop him. “I have a message for your General Leclerc. Please deliver it exactly as I give it to you. It is, sir, that the
United States will never permit a hostile nation to stand astride the Mississippi River.”

  General Montane stared. At last he said in a strangled voice, “You have a great deal of nerve, Mr. Secretary.”

  “Not really. I merely speak the facts. See that you convey them. And now, good day, General.”

  Johnny opened the door and stood aside to let the visitors pass. He started to speak but the desolation on Mr. Madison’s face stopped him. As if he were alone, the secretary murmured, “ … getting very dangerous …” He turned to stare from the window. Johnny went out and closed the door.

  32

  WASHINGTON, SUMMER 1802

  The air was getting bad in Washington. Samuel Clark could tell it early—black folks, free or slave, knew what white folks were thinking. They paid attention. Every hint, every glance, every little shift in tone told a story of growing tension. No one talked about it much, but everyone knew it. Black taverns were full of whispers; Millie heard it every day from women in the market; Samuel heard just the same from other coachmen, free and bound. The white folks were nervous, uneasy, suspicious, and that meant danger for black folks.

  Wasn’t much doubt as to the source. Black men, slaves till not long ago, were holding off the French in Santo Domingo, those glittering machetes catching the sun as they took off the heads of French boys far from home. It unsettled white folks here. They’d been so relieved when the word spread that the French had sent an army to deal with those uppity niggers on their foul little island, and all they wanted to hear was success.