Eagle's Cry: A Novel of the Louisiana Purchase (19 page)

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Authors: David Nevin

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical

BOOK: Eagle's Cry: A Novel of the Louisiana Purchase
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He paused to refill his cup. Lewis mopped egg yolk and took more bacon, his mind now focused as he wondered what all this had to do with him. Immense planning would have to go into the expedition. He would need a dozen men at least, probably more, and that would mean a sizeable appropriation, which he would have to defend before Congress with carefully developed facts and projections, but Mr. Madison seemed quite unaware of plans for an expedition.
If there were, in fact, such plans. A familiar chill was settling on Lewis’s spirits.
“We’ll deal with the judges,” Mr. Madison said, “but we look to you for the army. The president intends to reduce it by half—the crisis with France is well past—and he’ll want your guidance on cutting the officer corps.”
“He’ll drop the Federalists?” Lewis was feeling disoriented and a little stupid.
“No, no—indeed, that raises a critical point. We must be fair in what we do. The people turned to the Democrats because they were willing to try the new vision. Now they’re waiting to see what we do, and they don’t expect us to turn the government upside down. Some of our own people do expect that, frankly, sort of a wholesale housecleaning: Sweep out all Federalists on the grounds that Federalists are bad per se. That attitude is a bit of a problem, actually.”
He sighed, drained his cup, wiped his mouth with a cambric napkin, and pushed back from the table. “So it must be steady as she goes. But the last-minute packing must be corrected; and then in cutting the army, while we don’t want to treat Federalists as targets, we must be sure we’re not unfairly cutting good Democrats. You see the issue, of course. The Federalists present us as revolutionary radicals, and we must show the people that that is false.”
The secretary of state was still talking in this vein as they parted at the lane leading to the Lewis plantation. There had been not a word, not a hint, on the only thing that really mattered.
Ma made a splendid dinner of ham and yams and fresh pork and succotash and corn bread and the first gleanings of the garden. She served it at two in the afternoon, all the family gathered, and it was near four when they finished the deepdish apple pie floating in cream.
At last he rose, stretched, said as casually as he could manage, “I believe I’ll ride over and see Mary Beth Slaney.”
There was abrupt silence in the room.
“What?” he said.
“Well,” Ma said after a moment, “you see, Mary Beth, she got married a while ago. One of the Slocum boys. Their first baby came last month.”
“Oh,” he said. “I see. Well …”
They were all watching him as if some damned calamity had overtaken him. Hell, it didn’t make any difference to him. My God, she was just some girl he used to know—
“C’mon, Reuben,” he said to his brother, voice rougher than he’d intended, “let’s walk around, show me what you’re doing with the farm … .”
WASHINGTON, FALL 1801
“Well,” Jimmy said, smiling as he unfolded a letter, “It seems that I’ll have seven clerks to run the State Department.”
“Seven?” Dolley said. “That’s all?” She liked his easy manner, so different from his tension during the Burr trouble. They were taking tea on the third floor of their new
house on F Street. They had just moved in, shifting at last from Montpelier after burying poor old Colonel Madison. The dear old man had lasted too long; at graveside she had watched grief and relief wage cruel contest in Jimmy.
Now she luxuriated in the afternoon sun slanting through the open window, the tide of cool, dry air, fall’s blessed relief sweeping away the miasma of summer. The village on the Potomac was coming to life, government figures reappearing, congressional session soon to begin. “Seven clerks to deal with the foreign affairs of a great nation?”
“Actually, we’ll probably drop one. The president is determined to cut expenses.”
“Jimmy! That’s all very well, but he’s doing it on your back. He won’t expect any less work to be done, you know.” Tom was a great man and a genius and all that, but in her view he had scarcely a practical bone in his body. He looked to Jimmy for good sense, and here he was adding to burdens already heaped to the ceiling! “Tell him you need your seven clerks and more!”
He laughed. “It’ll be all right, sweetheart. They’re exemplary clerks. Listen to this.” He had that sly, sweet smile that came when some irony struck him, his blue eyes glinting with pleasure. She loved him most at these moments when his wit came bubbling up, his real self blessedly free of restraint.
He waved the sheet. “From Duane of the Philadelphia
Aurora
. He says the top three clerks are complete picaroons.”
“‘Picaroons’? Pirates, he means? Thieves?”
“No, no. Adherents of Mr. Pickering.”
“Ah. The maddest of mad dog Federalists.”
“Dolley! Do you speak so of my predecessor?”
“Darling, Mr. Pickering leaves you nowhere to go but up.”
“I’m to have help though. Mr. Duane says the other four clerks are varied, one a Hamiltonian, another a nothingarian—I do like that, a nothingarian! I shall keep him for the sheer elegance of his description. Then, let’s see, another is a nincompoop, the last a modest man. If one must go, I suppose it should be the latter.”
She poured now cold tea and took the last cookie. “Seriously, Jimmy, will you have to root them all out?”
“I don’t know. God knows, the pressure is awful. Our people want them out; they’d draw and quarter ’em if they could get away with it. Say that Jacob Wagner, the chief clerk, is author of all old Pickering’s mischief. Everybody wants his scalp. It’s important, you know, chief clerk—more undersecretary than clerk, really. Runs the staff, sits in when I’m away, supposed to be my chief advisor. And by every account, he’s a hot-blooded Federalist.”
“So you’ll have to let him go.”
“So we’ll see.” He leaned over and took the cookie from her hand. “Give me the last bite; you’ve eaten them all!”
“We will be closing the bulk of our embassies, Mr. Wagner—Lisbon. Venice, Berlin, Saint Petersburg—they’ll have to get along with charges or consuls. Ambassadorial level only in London, Paris, and Madrid.”
“But why, Mr. Madison? Berlin, Saint Petersburg, they do important work.”
“We are ordered to reduce costs.”
“Such closings aren’t wise, sir. I wouldn’t recommend—
“I’m sure you wouldn’t. But the decision has been made.”
“Very well, sir.” Wagner sighed and settled back in the wooden chair facing Madison’s desk, which in fact was only a plain table. This square brick building flanking the President’s House that State shared with the War Department was newly opened, the smell of varnish and new wood still strong, the ground outside littered with lumber scraps, weeds the only greenery. The grounds were mean and the building meaner; at least it would demonstrate to diplomats of great nations the democratic spirit now required after Federalist pomp and ceremony.
Wagner sighed again and glanced around with evident distaste. These were nothing like the elegant rooms he’d known when the government was Federalist and in Philadelphia; the change from both, he clearly thought, a great misfortune.
He was a tall man, graying, with a distinctly intelligent expression; he wore black, as did Madison—really the only proper color for a gentleman no matter what Dolley said about style—the suit a bit frayed, white cravat plain, hose cotton instead of silk, shoes scuffed with dulled pewter buckles. Quite appropriate … .
“I’ve written Rufus King in London,” Madison said, “asking if he’ll stay on as our ambassador to Great Britain.”
“A very wise choice, sir. Mr. King is exemplary.”
“An ardent Federalist, but he seems to represent country, not party, in London.”
“As he should, if I may say so.”
“Ambassador to France will be Robert Livingston. You know he was secretary of foreign affairs under the old Continental Congress, as well as chancellor of the state of New York. Strong Democrat.”
“But an excellent choice nonetheless—” He stopped short.
Madison chuckled. “You’ll find, I hope, that being a Democrat is not incompatible with excellence.”
A wintry smile. “Forgive me, sir. I meant Mr. Livingston is a man of recognized probity and excellent judgment.”
“Part of his duties will be to disabuse France of any notion it may have from Federalist rhetoric that we intend to turn the United States into a French satellite. Not true at all.”
Wagner’s eyes widened. “But—”
“I know. That we would bow to France and align against Britain was an article of Federalist faith. But it was false when said, and it’s false now. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. May I say … well, that is excellent news.”
“You were expecting something else?”
“Perhaps ‘fearing’ is the better word.”
Madison smiled. “Fear no more. Now I’d like you to give me your perceptions of the nation’s foreign affairs.”
Wagner had been agent if not architect of all the foreign tomfoolery that had so offended Democrats, the belittling attacks on France, the disgusting tail wagging to Britain, the sheer recklessness of shaping foreign policy to ideology; but
quite to Madison’s surprise, he gave a well-balanced commentary on nation after nation. Russia, the Baltic states, Prussia, France, Spain, Portugal, the Italian states, the Barbary Coast He was a professional, a seasoned diplomat. He talked half an hour without notes, and Madison was impressed.
Then Madison saw a subtle change in his expression. “Sir?” he asked, and stopped. He clasped his hands to stop a tremor.
“What is it?”
“Will you, then, be wanting my resignation?” His lips quivered.
“We’ll see,” Madison said, “we’ll see.”
“Well, Mr. Madison,” said Mr. Bayard of Delaware, “welcome to the Hill.” They were on the Capitol steps, Madison on his way to see John Randolph, Chairman of the Committee on Ways and Means. A fine, cool breeze made sunwarmed stone comforting to the touch.
“Thank you, sir,” Madison said. “It is a matter of, shall we say, nostalgic interest to see you again.”
“I regretted your leaving the Congress,” Mr. Bayard said. “Baiting you was one of the pleasures of my life.”
“Yes, a fault of mine; I’ve always been quick to challenge intellectual inconsistency.”
Bayard laughed. “Well, well, tit for tat. Not bad, not bad at all. See the pleasure we deny ourselves? Now to more serious matters, since I’ve chanced to encounter you.”
This immediately made Madison wonder if the encounter
was
by chance. Bayard hadn’t shown the least surprise at seeing him. He took Madison’s arm and drew him into the shadow of a pillar and spoke in a low voice.
“I had a hand, you know, in Mr. Jefferson prevailing.”
Madison nodded.
Bayard sighed. “Parenthetically, I might say, this fellow Burr is an ass. Could have had it. God knows, I held the line for him as long as I could. He’d have been much more to our
taste, but damned if I’d let it go to usurpation—and civil war! But if Burr had come forward …”
“Ancient history now,” Madison said. It had been deadly—it could have unhorsed democracy—but it was over now.
“Exactly,” Bayard said. “But the point is, we did come your way. Now we’re counting on you not to tear up the pea patch. We’re ideological opposites, granted, but neither of us is a fool and both, I fancy, are patriots.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“You’ll change things, yes—the prerogative of the winner. But I caution you, restrain your maddest of impulses. Not all that the Federalists have done is bad; don’t throw away the good with what you see as the bad. Don’t shatter our international reputation with wild and sudden changes. Most sincerely, I urge you to keep Jacob Wagner at your side. He understands our foreign connections better than any man in America. Far better than Mr. Pickering did, I might say. If you throw him out, you’ll confirm the worst Federalist fears; if you keep him, you’ll give us hope. I think that’s important.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bayard,” Madison said, and offered his hand.
Inside the Capitol, Madison was impressed again. It was a fine beginning on a building for a great nation-to-be, a building for the ages. Pillars of marble, steps of stone, polished wooden floors, paneling of walnut on corridor walls, velvet ropes on brass stanchions blocking certain passages. Of course, it was a work-in-progress projected across years to come, the Senate side not even begun, the rotunda still under canvas. To reach the entrance he’d wound among stacks of lumber and a pile of stone, but the inside was reassuringly well done.
The chairman’s office was suitably grand. French windows were open to a view that swept down the hill to the Potomac in the distance; a swirl of geese rose from the creek that cut the intervening swamp and he heard faint reports. John Randolph’s three hounds sprawled on a Persian rug;
one raised his head and growled and Randolph rapped the desk sharply with the whip he always carried, which now lay across his blotter.
He stood, tall, thin to the point of emaciation, a tautly drawn spring in his manner though he spoke in the cultivated drawl of upper-class Virginia. Randolphs had been central to Virginia history; Madison had grown up on tales of the family, though he didn’t know John well. Perhaps John Randolph was unknowable; boiling inner tensions seemed to separate him from other men, and he was given to wild tirades on the floor of the House that came dangerously close to tantrums. A strain of madness was not unknown in the family, and Madison remembered times when John looked as if his mind had fled; but he was immensely effective both for powerful intellect and his willingness to savage opponents with slashing rhetoric.
So it wasn’t surprising that House Democrats, newly in the majority, gave him the committee. Of course the speaker was in charge, but he was a self-effacing man and chose to have Randolph out front. And the gentleman with his hounds and his whip on the House floor would be crucial in steering Democratic legislation. They must do something about the way Mr. Adams had packed army and courts with Federalists.
“Now, James,” Randolph said, after a little courteous chat, “let’s get to real things.” He leveled a finger. “I’m hearing damned little about removals. Damned little! Let’s get rid of these Federalist scoundrels; throw ’em out on the street in droves. Let’s clean up our government, remove all taints of evil, out with these bastards, every damned one!”
“Well—”
“And start with that miserable damned Federalist traitor, Jacob Wagner, been flying the Federalist banner on the tip of his lance for years. It was he who did the dirty work, you know—led Pickering around by the nose. Pickering was a fool, never had an original idea, I suppose you know that; he didn’t fart but what he asked Wagner how to manage it!”
“John—”
“So why isn’t Wagner gone? Mr. Jefferson should have lowered his hand from taking the oath, pointed it at Wagner, and said, ‘Git!’” The chairman was on his feet now, pacing, waving his arms, the dogs watching him alertly. “He’s your man now, chief clerk in your department. Never mind why you haven’t booted him yet; just tell me when, how soon? This afternoon? Tomorrow morning? For God’s sake, let’s get on with it!”
Madison felt a burst of rage that he forced under control. His hands shook. Randolph raised everything to fever pitch, made everything a crisis, there was no
talking
to the man.
“I haven’t decided. There are crucial issues here—”
“Haven’t decided! Why—”
“One moment, sir!” Madison slapped the desk so hard the lid on Randolph’s ink pot flew open. One of the dogs stood. “I haven’t finished, and I don’t care to be interrupted!”
Randolph gazed at him open-mouthed, then dropped abruptly into his chair. “Say on,” he said, anger glittering in his eyes.
Randolph was an ideologue, that was the trouble. Young Captain Lewis had absorbed the same points with sure grasp, while Randolph shouldn’t have to be told. It was so simple. The electoral shift wasn’t unqualified endorsement; it was a we’ll-give-you-a-try move and could turn overnight. And nothing would make that turn more rapid than treating public office as spoils for the victors. In fact, they were themselves on trial … .

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