Dolley, Anna, and Madame Serurier dodged raindrops to squeeze into the gallery. From time to time a wet plop alerted them to the dolorous fact that the roof over the House chamber was not as tight as it should be.
Down below, Daniel Webster looked as though he was drenched by the storm. His black curls hung limp, his great black eyes flashed, the sweat rolled down the sides of his face. Only the purple-bordered toga was missing.
Henry Clay, from the rostrum, endured Webster’s first great speech. Dolley looked around the chamber as Webster continued his merciless attack on the poor prosecution of the war. All around her, journalists scribbled on their pads. Webster, shrewdly, turned from time to time to address the gallery. He was now ripping into the embargo and the non-importation acts, which he believed, as did every Federalist, had created the severe depression.
When he finally sat down, the Federalists erupted in an uproar of delight. They leaped out of their seats to surround their young lion.
People shouted from the gallery. Madame Serurier watched this raucous demonstration with interest.
Anna cupped her hand around her mouth so that Dolley could hear, “If only we could answer his attacks!”
Dolley reached over and squeezed her hand. She said nothing. She would play patience.
“Daniel Webster sees himself as an apprentice to the future,” James Madison wryly noted after listening to the Secretary of State’s report on Webster’s fiery denunciation of Administration policies.
As soon as the roof-rattling speech had concluded, John Calhoun informed James Monroe, who then informed the President, who had already been informed by his wife. The President kept that to himself.
“He certainly promotes his opinions with extreme eagerness, although to date, they are a reflection of Federalist principle. We’ve heard it all before.” Monroe rubbed his cleft chin, which gave him a pronounced masculine appearance. “He simply says it with more flamboyance.”
“Acting.” Madison twirled the quill in his hand, then stood up from behind his desk. He began pacing. “I suppose politicians are actors. ‘All the world’s a stage,…’ Well, at least he didn’t call me Napoleon’s lackey.”
“No.” James Monroe remained on his feet while Madison walked back and forth.
“Mr. Secretary, please sit down. I appreciate your honoring protocol, but you should not be discomfited because of my habits.” As Monroe reluctantly sat down, James Madison continued. “Congress must appropriate more money for troops or suffer the indignity of a surrender, which will be placed at the Federalists’ doorstep. In fact, they’ll hail it as an act of reason. We’ve got to find money for Mayor James Blake as well. Washington’s militia …” He paused in his pacing and shook his head. “Secretary Jones appears to grasp the situation whereas Armstrong does not, but I can’t ask the Secretary of the Navy to oversee a militia.”
Monroe nodded. A former Army man, he understood the rivalry between the Army and the Navy. The city was woefully undefended. What passed for a militia was no more than a raggle-taggle band of older men. No weapons had been issued to them and each man was expected to purchase his own uniform.
What compounded the difficulties was that both the President and his Secretary of State thought that military suppliers were delivering an inferior grade of materials, delivering them late, and charging unfair prices. Richard Cutts, struggling with the task of procuring supplies, needed his own army to keep the manufacturers honest.
Madison clasped his hands behind his back and squeezed them too hard, hurting his sore joints. He frowned, then recovered lest James Monroe think he had displeased him. “I have heard that Daniel Webster calls me a little pygmy.”
“I haven’t heard that,” Monroe lied.
“What is Clay doing during these attacks?”
“He’s playing possum.”
“At least he realizes this is not a military interlude, which is how the Federalists are treating the war. I must have more troops and more money. There is no cheap war!”
This outburst startled James Monroe, who had known the President since they were young men. No matter how tense the situation, how close the race, Madison did not raise his voice, lose his temper, or display any outward sign of concern other than a tightening of his facial muscles and a harder set to his mouth. “We have a narrow margin in both Houses. I am certain we will get more troops,” he told the President.
“Oh, I know that”—Madison’s voice vibrated with irritation—“but the numbers will be whittled down. Benjamin Franklin once said to me, ‘An old dog remembers old tricks.’ He was talking about himself. Well, for the life of me I have been trying to remember some old tricks and I can’t.”
“Your mind is above tricks, Mr. President.” Monroe was sincere in his compliment.
Madison stopped pacing and finally sat down. He cast his clear eyes on his Secretary of State and for a moment was silent. “Thank you.”
“We do find ourselves in perilous times, but we have endured perilous times before.” Madison held his breath, waiting for Monroe to raise the specter of George Washington, but Monroe did not mention him. “I have searched my mind as to why this crisis is so different from the War of Independence.” Monroe paused, then leaned forward. “The political parties were not fully formed, not as strong as they are today. Factionalism wasn’t as pronounced. It is hard to imagine Republicans and Federalists agreeing on any issue today, no matter how trivial, for we see governance from opposite sides of the spectrum. Without a strong majority in either the House or the Senate, we—the Executive and his Cabinet—are condemned to endless squabbling. If we cannot create some common ground, I fear that the leadership of this country will devolve to the business interests.”
“DeWitt Clinton.” Madison nodded after listening to Monroe’s slightly stilted manner of speaking, as awkward as his attire. He knew that his Secretary of State could become a good President, and yet he realized he had never overcome his anger, created decades ago when Monroe, as Patrick Henry’s minion, opposed him for office. “And fortunes will be made in the West. I don’t know how that will affect Congress in years to come. For those of us born British subjects, I think our sights will ever be on the original thirteen colonies.”
“Burr understood the West. He was unusual in that respect, whether he intended to create a separate nation out there or not.”
“Clay understands.” Madison drew in his breath. “And our enemies in Europe understand.”
“It is a great curiosity to me that a body of men sitting in Parliament on the River Thames can divine the meaning of the American West, and men from New England cannot.”
“Mr. Monroe, are you hungry? I’ve lost track of the time and I would be gratified if you would join me for refreshment.”
As the President called out for French John, James Monroe asked, “Did you hear that Daniel Webster and Laban Wheaton asked Clay to dinner the other night?”
“That would be an interesting dinner.”
“Well, as it happened, Henry Clay had another engagement but he did say, ‘Whoever sups with the Devil must use a long spoon.’ ”
When French John brought in the cold meats and hot coffee, Madison, smiling, carefully inspected the spoons before handing one to James Monroe.
11 January 1814, Tuesday
Daniel Webster gave a lauded speech today against the war, against non-importation, against, by inference, my husband. Perhaps I should say the Federalists lauded him. There was such uproar when he concluded, I feared I would go deaf.
Henry Clay, biding his time, will attack party and person soon. Mr. Webster might as well enjoy today’s glory.
We have learned that there is a famine on Nantucket Island. Our people are suffering horribly for this war—in Buffalo, the entire Chesapeake, and now Nantucket. Jemmy is blamed for it, of course, but you can’t fight a war without suffering. The good Lord knows we suffered in the last war.
I pray while I do my chores. I pray as I walk from room to room,
as I visit the stables or see Anna. I pray from the moment I awake until I close my eyes at night. Dear God, grant us a victory so that we might end this war and our country may flourish. God doesn’t seem to be interested in my prayers. Mother would fight the urge to thrash me for even thinking that I am not heard. God’s wisdom is greater than our own. I know that, but what I can’t fathom is why innocent people must suffer. If it distresses me, a poor mortal, should it not distress God?
I struggle to find my Inner Light, as the Society of Friends puts it; I used to believe I possessed this Inner Light. When Jemmy and I first married, he would try to understand. He read everything written by members of the Society of Friends. He would be so puzzled when I would tell him you don’t reach the Inner Light with the mind, but through opening your spirit and your heart. How difficult for my husband, that most intellectual man.
And now, how difficult for me.
I find no good in suffering and murder and I feel that my Inner Light has been extinguished by the brutality of the British, or perhaps by my own weakness of faith.
How is it that faith was so easy for my mother and so difficult for me? She had seen a war and yet she never wavered.
I search for answers and I trip over more questions. Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
“What you really want, Mr. Clay and your pack of hyenas, is to swallow a mighty chunk of Canada whilst Britain fights for her very life against the Mars of France.” Laban Wheaton gulped in air, then roared on to accuse Clay and the Republicans of slithering at the feet of the President and leaving their “filthy slime upon the carpet of the palace.”
Wheaton howled, he hooted, he snarled, and he finally sat down. He also lifted much of his speech from his Federalist idol, the ousted Josiah Quincy. Since Congress had been nearly swept clean with the last election, Wheaton figured no one would notice. Those who did hear Quincy’s echo were too furious to care where the verbiage originated.
Clay, shrewdly, had elected not to encourage his party to reply after Webster’s magisterial speech, but now the time was right. Calhoun leaped out of his seat as did the other war hawks. “Mr. Speaker! Mr. Speaker!” Each vied with the other for the Speaker’s attention. Each wanted to be called on to take the attack at last.
Clay shouted for Langdon Cheves to take his place over the Speaker’s gavel. The din in the chamber lessened as the representatives from these disunited states watched the Speaker step down from his post. Cheves seized the gavel and pounded hard on the rostrum. “Gentlemen. Gentlemen, come to order, please!” The uproar would not abate.
Henry Clay stood in front of them under the rostrum. He held up his hands. The body quieted while Langdon continued pounding the gavel. Clay turned his bright eyes on Langdon, who put down the gavel.
Dolley, fascinated by Clay’s control over this body, watched his every move. French John had told her today would be the day; Henry Carroll had so informed him. Carroll had stashed food and liquor near the rostrum and with other Republicans in preparation for a long siege.
Finally, in a voice that would roll back the tide, Henry Clay spoke.
“I have endured these coarse assaults of party malevolence long enough.” A huge cheer went up from the Republicans. “You”—and he pointed to the more prominent Federalists—“have obstructed a bill to raise more troops, you have obstructed bills to raise revenue for those troops, you have refused to assist us to conclude this war.
“My esteemed colleague Laban Wheaton, from the proud state of Massachusetts, is quite undone by the embargo. Was it not this same honorable and intelligent gentleman who, during Thomas Jefferson’s administration, supported Josiah Quincy’s move to impeach the President? This, too, over an embargo. The vote was one for and one hundred and seventeen against. Mr. Wheaton, in the face of overwhelming odds, saw fit to part company with Josiah Quincy, who for good or for ill stuck to his guns. Well, Mr. Wheaton, you and your party are abandoning our troops in the face of overwhelming odds. Perhaps it becomes a habit. And I am quite moved by your tender regard for Great Britain in your phrase ‘fights for her very life against the Mars of France.’ The United States of America is fighting for her life against the Mars of Great Britain, or should I say Neptune since she possesses the greatest Navy the world has ever seen? How is it, Mr. Wheaton, that you have more tender regard for our enemy than for your own country?”
Wheaton’s face became empurpled.
Clay’s voice shifted from withering sarcasm to a quiet, reasonable tone. Those who had seen the Speaker at work knew him to be his most incisive and dangerous in these quiet exchanges. Clay glanced up at Mrs. Madison, then directly at Daniel Webster. “Mr. Webster, the idol of New Hampshire, instructed us that the war originated because of poor Republican leadership. That it is an unjust war. Ah, allow me to state to Mr. Webster that I am unaware that my party has any influence in the English Parliament. We did not inspire them to make war upon us. England stole our ships, imprisoned our seamen, and then forced us to pay punishing duties for remaining neutral during yet another European war. Pray, how could our leadership be responsible for these violations of our sovereignty? He declares the war has unjust cause. That our leadership created this war. If we have unjust cause, then I would beg to be educated by Mr. Webster as to what constitutes a just cause.
“The Republican Party is dedicated to the interest of America, and we wish to transcend party lines to end this grievous war! We did not impound British ships. We did not impress her seamen. We did not inflict upon her outrageous penalties for trading with other nations. How could the Republican Party have caused this war? How could the United States have provoked such a conflict? We did not, sir. Britain is at fault. We ask to be left in peace. We do not seek war.” Clay’s voice rose, clear and deep. “We did not start this fight but by God we will finish it!”
Dolley heard the light net, so light that Webster never felt it, being cast over his head. No one but Dolley and Clay caught the faint whistle through the air as he cast. He had said, in so many words, that Daniel Webster put party before country. In the heat of the acrimonious debate, only Dolley heard Clay’s thunderous, accusing whisper: party above nation.
12 January 1814, Wednesday
James Monroe and Brigadier General William Winder, nephew to the Maryland governor and now charged with the defense of Maryland, Washington, and northern Virginia, each suggested to my husband that we need more troops for the eventual defense of Washington. John Armstrong insisted it was unnecessary, but Jemmy was able to raise the issue in Congress through Mr. Monroe and John Calhoun. The fur is flying!
In answer to the incessant bombast of the Federalists, Henry Clay stepped down from the rostrum today and took the floor. When I left, he was still speaking. Clay has promised Jemmy that he will get us more troops before he leaves for Europe. I do hope he will give me word of Payne, since my son must be too busy to write.
Little Dickey is sick again. Anna says he’s caught a cold. I offered to nurse him, but Anna is sure this will pass.
Another ball at the Navy Yard this Saturday. I never learned to dance as a girl, having been forbidden, and I feel I’d be so clumsy if I tried to learn now. But I do love balls. Everyone looks so splendid.
James Smith stopped by today to see if Uncle Willy would like some sunflower seeds he had saved especially for him. Uncle Willy did not wait for my answer but assaulted the man the instant the seeds were in his hand. I would like every slave owner who complains that Negroes won’t be able to fend for themselves to meet James Smith. Hardworking and thoughtful, James Smith is as good as any white man.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
13 January 1814, Thursday
Henry Clay continues. I couldn’t get over to the House today, but French John brought me word that Mr. Clay is still standing.
Winter returned with a vengeance today. Our January thaw is over.
Jemmy and I poured over Mother Madison’s report on Montpeli
er. She needs another team of horses. We haven’t the money, but if we don’t have the horses, we won’t get enough acreage plowed and then the crop will be less than what we need to make money.
I told Jemmy that I know where there’s a good team for sale. I’ll send Paul over to Senator Brown’s. He’ll find me the horses at the best rate, and I think Madame Serurier will help me sell a necklace discreetly. Jemmy will never know. Paul, young though he is, will never tell. He’s a good lad and industrious. If only he wasn’t so infatuated with Sukey.
Very late. Hosted a large informal gathering of the Western representatives. No one will ever accuse them of being dull.
Until the morrow, God willing.
D.P.M.
14 January 1814, Friday
Henry Clay finished today, so weak that Henry Carroll came onto the floor and, with John Calhoun’s help, assisted him in walking out of the chamber. For three days he fought back the Federalists.
Clay’s final burst over the chamber was, “I want freedom of trade. I want freedom from Europe. Let Europe look to Europe. Let America look to the future!”
Many a Federalist eye stared at the floor during these last three days, so French John has told me. But in a few days or weeks they’ll be hammering against the war again—against Jemmy.
Clay leaves soon for the peace commission. Gallatin and Clay, our two most able men, must languish in Europe! Well, I suppose someone must treat with the British. If only it were I. I’d give them a piece of my mind.
If we had men like Clay commanding our Army, I believe things would be quite different, despite the bragging of that pompous goat, Rear Admiral Sir George Cockburn. He’s going to drive us from Washington. He’s going to capture us and send us back to England with foolscaps on our heads. Is there no one to chase this man out of the Chesapeake?
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