It was after eleven in the morning and Rufe Dumster's
relief was late. He'd been on duty since dawn at the
mansion's door, shifting his weight from one foot
to the other in his tight boots and plain black suit,
his cudgel in easy reach behind a pillar. It was a
cool, pleasant day, sunlight spangling new green leaves,
forsythia spears and dogwood blossoms come and gone.
Dumster's feet hurt, he was hungry, he wanted a drink,
he was by God aggrieved, and he wouldn't mind using
his cudgel on Sime Puckett when Sime showed up. If
Sime showed up. Sime needed a boot in the ass, and
Rufe Dumster was just the man to deliver it.
A tall, skinny figure -- not Sime -- turned into
the circular drive from Pennsylvania Avenue and came
striding toward the door. Dumster spat. People thought
they could just walk in and see the President of the
United States any old time they chose. And often the
President saw them, weakling that he was. If Dumster
were President, they'd kneel when they entered the
room. Not that he'd take the job and be pestered all
the time.
Long and narrow and yet powerful, walking with a
ramrod up his backside, a thatch of stiff gray hair
rearing high on his head, a hickory stick in his hand,
forty-five years old or so, the fellow wore buff trousers
and a blue coat with brass buttons. He didn't look
Washington, and Dumster wasn't surprised when he drew
himself up and said sharply, "Andrew Jackson
of Tennessee to see President Madison. General Andrew
Jackson."
"President Madison ain't receiving today, mister."
"Call his secretary. He'll see me."
"Now, didn't I just tell you he ain't seeing
nobody today? Come back tomorrow -- maybe you'll have
better luck."
The visitor's eyes opened wide, his face went pale,
his lips parted as if he were having trouble breathing,
his hand drew back, he took a quick step forward --
and Dumster flinched. He couldn't even remember the
last time he'd been afraid, but this was fear, all
right. It reached to his core, a mindless sense that
something terrible could happen. The fellow's shrill
voice burst from his throat like a horn.
"Ring for his secretary, God damn you, and be
quick about it!"
Dumster took a step back. "All right, all right."
He gave the velvet bell cord two savage yanks and
turned to stand with his arms crossed, gazing out
on Pennsylvania Avenue. Old bastard. Who did he think
he was? But he didn't look at the Tennessean again.
He didn't want to see those eyes locked on his.
****
Climbing the staircase behind a young secretary in
a blue kerseymere coat who'd given his name as Edward
Coles, Jackson had an odd little feeling of trepidation,
very unusual. But he was in what folks were calling
the White House, here to present his troops and urge
the President of the United States to action, and
its grandeur, physical and symbolic, gave him momentary
pause.
Only momentary, though. He squared his shoulders.
He was a soldier on duty and it was time to move.
The nation was poised on the brink of war and the
President already had hesitated too long, which fit
what Jackson took for a universal view: James Madison
was no leader. Rachel's worried eyes and gentle voice
came to mind. "Now, Andrew, please, don't you
go up there and lay into him. Remember who he is."
Of course he'd be respectful; the office demanded
it even if the occupant didn't.
Plain and simple, he didn't like Madison. It went
back to Aaron Burr's traitorous scheme to slice the
American West into a new empire for himself. Or, at
least, that was the charge made against Burr. No one
really knew, there'd been no proof and no conviction,
but Madison and Jefferson were convinced.
Jefferson was President then, Madison Secretary of
State, and they'd suspected Jackson of involvement
because he'd been friendly to Burr. God, they did
hate Burr -- it was a vendetta, and the suggestion
that Jackson was involved still infuriated him. He'd
fought off any real accusations, of course, and while
he wasn't likely to forget base treatment, he'd set
it aside.
Now all that paled before the fact that war was coming.
War was long overdue, in fact it was past time to
stand up and show Great Britain that the new American
nation had teeth and the courage to use them. The
whole country was wondering what would happen. At
first the outlook had seemed promising -- six months
ago, after years of shamelessly accepting British
abuse, Madison had put the country on a war footing,
ordered the army expanded, taken control of merchant
ships at sea. And since? Nothing.
Maybe maneuvers were afoot, but it felt more like
dithering than diplomacy, and Jackson wanted action.
His Tennessee militiamen were on high alert, ears
cocked for the call, rifles and blanket rolls ready.
They needed answers and so did he: how long could
he keep them poised on the balls of their feet?
Coles opened a door. "General Jackson, Mr. President."
Jackson walked in and bowed. "Good morning,
Mr. President."
It was a corner room, oddly narrow, walnut wainscoting,
and light blue wallpaper with an eagle design. The
windows were open. Voile curtains rolled in a light
breeze. Madison rose at his desk, long goose quill
in hand. Jackson was always surprised at how small
the man was, slender and neat in his black breeches
and coat, white hose, buckled shoes. Jackson wore
modern pantaloons for their ease.
"General Jackson." The President bowed
perfunctorily. He had a cool patrician look, gray
hair coming to a sharp peak on his forehead and flowing
over his ears, long straight nose, long upper lip,
strong chin, an expression of authority surprising
in a man whom Jackson considered weak.
"I didn't expect visitors," he said.
A reprimand? Jackson stiffened. "Yes, I was
ready to take my stick to that jackanapes at your
door."
Madison's eyebrows rose, but he waved toward a chair
and said, "You're up from Tennessee? Nashville,
is it?"
He knew perfectly well it was Nashville. The conceit
irked Jackson but he stifled a sharp reply.
"Sir, I've come to report my troops ready for
action and in need of orders. I have two thousand
militia available on a week's notice, well trained,
well armed. Turn 'em loose and they'll take Canada
like a bass takes a fly. And right behind them, couple
of months to mobilize, I can give you four thousand
more. Orders -- that's all they need."
"Very well."
"Very well?" He stared at the President.
"Does that mean I'm to call 'em up? Order supplies,
wagons, livestock?"
"Of course not. We're not at war. Not yet. And
many questions remain."
"Haven't the provocations been ample?"
Jackson said as mildly as he could manage. "Seems
to me we've knuckled under for years -- scared kid
to a schoolyard bully." Ever since Britain went
to war with Napoleon, it had been forcing American
trade, American ships, American seamen themselves,
to support that war.
"That quite overstates, sir," Madison said.
"God Almighty, they won't let our ships even
trade abroad without we pay 'em a fee -- they slap
a license on what in fact is every sovereign nation's
free right, to trade with any -- one it chooses. Now,
sir, that's correct, ain't it?"
"Yes, but-"
"And our sailormen -- what abuse! Stop our ships
and steal our men. They need a dose of Tennessee long
rifles, you ask me."
"You do have a knack for reducing the complex
to a mere metaphor," Madison said. "Metaphors
are cheap and easy, General. War isn't."
"I say metaphors tell the truth in a form any
man can recognize. What the devil kind of people can
the British be, they abuse their own sailors so bad
the poor devils desert in droves? Those Royal Navy
ships must be living hells. And they stop our ships
on the high seas and seize our men to crew their hell
ships and we don't lift a finger. That's no metaphor."
"They're looking for their own deserters."
"Yes, and along with their deserters they take
any likely looking sailor. Ten thousand Americans
abducted to rot below British decks, facing knout
and lash."
Madison colored. "Don't lecture me, sir."
"I'm not lecturing, Mr. President, don't mean
to at all. But that's the way we see it in Tennessee.
Why we say it's time for action. Since the Leopard--"
"The Leopard'. Oh, how tedious."
"Tedious? That isn't the view of it in the West,
I promise you." Five long years ago, H.M.S. Leopard
had opened fire on an American naval vessel, U.S.S.
Chesapeake, forcing it to submit to a search
for British deserters. Their navy attacking our navy.
Not pouncing on some merchant brig but attacking a
capital ship of a sovereign nation, killing our men,
forcing them to strike the Stars and Stripes! "I
guess that was an act of war!"
"Yes, it was an act of war," Madison said,
"and it was answered. Doesn't have to be answered
in like terms. War itself, it carries great dangers."
He waved a slender hand. "I don't mean the usual
dangers; I mean dangers specific to the American
nation in its present state."
"Well, begging your pardon, Mr. President, our
answer didn't seem to have much effect." He restrained
himself from branding it for what it was, a damned
fiasco-the administration called it a trade war but
it really was a self-embargo. To punish them, we
refused to sell them our goods! Maybe it hurt them
but it sure as hell hurt us more-and any fool on a
street comer knew it was inherently weak. He shrugged
and added what seemed self-evident. "I expect
men who've been in real war for years see trade restrictions
as powder puff fighting."
"Powder puff? General, are you trying to provoke?"
"No, sir. Not at all. I'm telling you our feelings
-- the feelings of men who're ready to fight at your
command. And let me assure you, sir, you raised a
chord of joy when you put the country on a war footing
a few months ago. My men danced in the streets. Because
Americans are sick of knuckling under..."
He saw Madison stiffen at that. "Well, sir,"
he said, "'pears to me we impoverished ourselves
in hopes of pushing them -- and they didn't budge.
They tell me grass grew in the streets of coastal
towns, ships rotted at anchor. I don't know about
that, but I can tell you what happened in the West.
What little trade we had vanished. Fur trade died,
and try to get Indians to understand why all at once
their only trade item ain't wanted. Western wheat
that used to go to British soldiers on the Continent?
Now it's plowed under. So I ask you, Mr. President,
how many questions can there be? Turning the other
cheek already has made us a laughingstock."
There was lots more to be said, but he saw he'd said
enough. Madison's face went a deep red shaded toward
purple and his eyes -- well, a lesser man than Jackson
might have quailed.
"You betray your ignorance," Madison said.
"Turning the other cheek, as you put it, saved
the Republic from much worse consequences."
Jackson smiled stiffly. "Well, hell's fire,
Mr. President, I'm a good Democrat, I've made that
argument a hundred times. And for a while there, yes,
it was tense as a dog on point. But that's long past."
"A mere dozen years past. When Jefferson took
office, the whole thing hung in the balance."
"Well, sure," Jackson said, "when
we whupped the Federalists and sent old John Adams
home to Massachusetts, it was touchy would the people
stick with us. I had a hand in that, you know."
How simple it all had been in his youth! In the days
when there were no political parties, but just the
men who ran the government, including old Madison.
But you can't keep parties from forming in a free
society. Liberal and conservative. Wide open to the
people or constrained to a ruling class whose own
prosperity will trickle down to common folk. He could
remember when a ruling class just seemed natural,
Washington himself and John Adams and Alexander Hamilton.
And then along came the Democratic-Republicans --
Jefferson's boys and Madison's in their homespun shirts
-- to open it all up to the people. A revolt, if you
wanted to call it that, and didn't you know it was
welcome out on the frontier where every man was equal
anyway? As if it were yesterday, he could see me bonfires
and the roaring celebrations in Tennessee when Jefferson
defeated Adams in 1800, glory be, and ushered in a
new age. You bet he'd had a hand in it!
The President's lips were tight. That "laughingstock"
phrase had stung him, all right, but when he finally
spoke his voice had returned to its low, carefully
modulated tone.
"You do see, I suppose, that free men governing
themselves, ideal as it is, they're subject to the
sudden passions that an elitist government would control
with central authority -- that's one use for a strong
military and coercive taxes, you know, people held
in economic bondage to the wealthy."
But this was old stuff. Did the little man think
they were that ignorant in Tennessee? Spent their
time rooting with the hogs instead of keeping up with
the world? Jackson bit his lip as the President went
on in that infuriating, patient voice. "Don't
forget, when we came along, there hadn't been a successful
republic of any size since the classical days of Greece."
The Tennessean could barely restrain himself as the
lecture continued. "So the Federalists had a
legitimate fear of failure -- and even our people,
they had to be shown the government we envisioned
could succeed. And France followed us on the republican
road and lost it all to the Napoleonic dictatorship,
and he gobbled up the brave little European republics
that had imitated us so that we're the only one left
-- and you tell me we shouldn't notice this is a perilous
world for democracy?"
"No, sir," Jackson said, "I'm not
telling you that. But I think we're so worried about
the Federalists undermining our republic that we can't
see the British are already doing it." Federalists
were strongest in the Northeast, weakest in the South,
and the West. Their view, which folks in Tennessee
denounced as self-serving, saw human nature as base
and in need of control by power centralized in the
form of aristocracy or monarchy.
Jackson raised both hands. "You don't have to
preach agin Federalists to me. I've said for years
what they really want is a hereditary aristocracy."
The President wasn't done patronizing him. "You
overlook the fact that the very measures needed to
resist Britain play into Federalist hands." Explaining
as if to a child. "Start with a big army with
all its potential to oppress the citizenry. Then heavy
taxes to pay for it and inevitable boosting of the
public debt -- you can't build an army and navy without
borrowing -- and that runs up the national debt, and
what do we have? The wealthy class holding the debt
and everybody else impoverished. That's just another
name for aristocracy."
Yes, yes, of course, if they acted like Federalists
they might as well be Federalists and forget the dream
of free government run by free men exercising democratic
vote. But couldn't Madison see that the situation
had reversed itself?
"I'm a loyal Democrat, Mr. President, but that
dog won't hunt today, 'cause a government that can't
defend its trade and protect its citizens won't keep
the people's respect. Sooner or later they'll throw
it out and get one that can. And that'll mean Federalist."
He saw Madison's face tighten. To hell with him.
They'd never be friends, and the truth was the truth.
There was just one question, really: would the man
fight or wouldn't he? A lot of Americans thought he
was all bluff. But if you duck a fight you're branded
forever, and Jackson figured nations weren't much
different. Anyway, how long could the Tennessee militia
remain suspended without orders?
"Federalist power exceeds their minority status,"
Madison said. "They're strong in New England
and getting stronger everywhere, sad to say. And
separatism is growing, too-talk of breaking up the
country."
"Huh! Separatism is another name for treason
and ought to be treated accordingly."
"That's much too easy, General. There are real
differences, North and South and West, slave against
non-slave, farmer against manufacturer, coastal shipper
against wheat in the West, cotton in the South. We're
a patchwork nation born of compromise. The Declaration,
the Constitution, all compromises, especially on the
deadly slavery question. Do you know there's been
a sounding in the North to try to split off New England
and New York into a separate nation that might ally
with Canada?"
"I'd hang the bastard proposed that!" he
snapped. He saw Madison's eyes widen and thought of
Rachel. Easy, easy.
Madison frowned. "Must be comforting to perceive
everything as so easily settled."
"Most things are simple. This is, too, and--"
"No, sir, it's not! If you were sitting in my
chair, you'd know that. And as for the war, whatever
the past, the fact that the British are carefully
giving us no new provocation makes the decision all
the harder."
Jackson almost snorted. Why in hell should Britain
oblige him with provocations when it already had everything
its own way?
"That's the nature of politics," he said.
"Problems and opportunities." He looked
straight into Madison's eyes. "And decisions."
Madison flushed. "If you want to talk politics,
General, I guess I'm enough of a politician to remember
you supported my opponent in Ought-eight when I succeeded
President Jefferson."
So. He was as small in spirit as in stature, remembering
a personal slight when they stood on the brink of
war.
"I supported James Monroe because I didn't like
your vendetta against Burr," Jackson said quietly.
"And now Monroe's your Secretary of State, so
I suppose all's forgiven."
"Touché, General." Madison smiled, a sudden
warm glint of eye as if he might have a sense of humor
after all. Then, businesslike, "What's the sentiment
in the West these days?"
"Solid for war. Anyone in Tennessee, or Kentucky
either, will tell you it's years overdue. They're
fed up. And on top of that, there's a major Indian
war brewing."
"But the West always worries about Indians."
"This is new. British arms coming in a flood
from Canada, and this fellow Tecumseh -- you know
he's been down in Alabama country agitating the Creek
Indians?"
"No... all the way from the Great Lakes?"
'
"Down the Mississippi and back in a canoe. That's
no small matter. He's serious -- and that's how the
war faction of the Creeks takes him. He's an Indian
chief of a different stripe, you know. More like a
French field marshal."
Madison nodded. "I hear plenty about him from
Ohio and yes, he's remarkable. This alliance he's
created -- his own Shawnee, Potawatomi, Kickapoo,
Mohawk, Winnebago, Ottawa -- well, if there had been
more such Indian leaders, white settlement in North
America might have been very different,"
"Could still be different if he succeeds in
creating a single Indian buffer state to stop all
white advance."
"Do you think he could?"
"Well, I was in plenty of Indian scraps in the
old days," Jackson said. "Folks lived in
forts then. My home today is an old log blockhouse,
still has the gunports. And the thing about Indians,
until now they couldn't get together. Fought each
other more than they fought us. That's what Tecumseh
is changing."
"People in Ohio take this buffer idea very seriously.
They say it could seal up the West if it worked."
"Exactly. We'd never let it happen, blood would
run in rivers, but now you're talking Indian war on
a whole new scale."
Madison made a quick note. "They say he can
muster ten thousand warriors in the North. In the
South?"
"Good five thousand. Maybe seven. And, Mr. President,
we war with the British, we'll be warring with the
Indians, too."
"Just what they say in the Northwest. They say
what you do, too -- the embargo stopped the fur trade
and the Indians took it personally, so to speak. How
can they understand the intricacies of international
diplomacy?"
"Which proves the British are the real threat."
Jackson stifled the impulse to say that everyone had
trouble understanding Madison's diplomacy. "Indians
can't function without someone supplying them. They're
a stone-age people. They fight with our guns and
powder, skin with our blades, cook in our pots, decorate
themselves with beads made in Belgium. Utterly dependent.
The British are just using them, up north and in Alabama,
too. Right now they're flooding them with arms through
Florida, with Spanish connivance, obviously."
"Ah, Florida," Madison said. "It should
have been part of the Louisiana Purchase. Texas, too."
Jackson smiled. "Sir, that's gospel in Tennessee."
With a sudden enthusiasm quite unlike his care worn
manner, Madison sketched the new state of Louisiana
with its boot-like shape and tapped his pencil on
the toe. "We've moved east from the Mississippi
here to the Pearl River; I think it obvious we must
go on to the Perdido and make sure of Mobile Bay."
Jackson chuckled. "Authorize me to do that,
you'll hear Tennessee cheers all the way to Washington."
"Yes, well ... first things first." Madison
sighed. His worried look returned. "So,"
he said, "your people are talking war with Britain
over this Indian threat?"
"No, no. Whip the British, that would put a
crimp in Tecumseh, all right, but the West wants war
because it knows that accepting abuse shames us nationally."
Madison's mouth tightened. "These easy generalizations
..."
"That's not a generalization at all." He
saw Madison stiffen at his tone and softened his voice.
"You want to understand the men and women in
the West. They're different from your easterners.
Western man's a national man, a Union man, orients
to the whole more'n any state. Back East, you have
Virginians or New Yorkers, but Tennesseans are Americans
first. Most all come from elsewhere, and who are they?
Enterprising, tough-minded people, men and women alike,
willing to live hard and take risks. People with the
courage to fight for a better life. Your westerner,
he's the key to the American future."
"Because he's 'national,' as you put it?"
"Because he has a continental vision. We'll
be a continental nation one day, mark my words --
we'll move west over everything Lewis and Clark unfolded,
right to the shores of the Pacific, and your westerner
is the man who'll do it. That's why we're Democrats
-- it's the party that sees the future. But the Federalists
want to huddle in their tight little fiefdoms by the
sea, build an aristocracy to keep it that way, arid
forget the West. I think we scare 'em."
"I grant you, Tennessee folk are good Democrats."
"Yes, sir. So they don't take kindly to their
rights being abused. I meant no offense, you know,
when I said a government that can't defend its people
will be repudiated, but it's plain truth. Back in
Tennessee, they're worried. Doubting. They say the
British have abused us long enough-you hear it everywhere,
they say we need a second revolution to remind the
bastards who won the first one!"
The President pressed slender fingers to the bridge
of his nose. "Tennessee's that certain, is it?
I tend to distrust certainty. It doesn't serve complex
times well."
Great God, was everything at risk? The man still
dithering? Jackson leapt to his feet. "What
are you saying? Can the issues be more clear-cut?
You've brought us this far, you've put the country
on a war footing, such as it is -- surely you're not
saying you're turning back?"
"I'm saying it's complicated. There are strong
arguments against, too. So don't put words in my mouth.
When I decide, you'll know my decision along with
the rest of the world."
Jackson stared at him. He felt an immense contempt.
A leaf blown by the wind -- God help the country!
"We can win, Mr. President," he said hoarsely.
He leaned forward, put both hands on the presidential
desk. "March right into Canada and they'll beg
for negotiations."
"Of course we can win, "'Madison said.
"Canada is as vulnerable as a newborn babe. The
question is, at what cost to ourselves? There's the
danger."
"Danger?" Jackson shouted. "Danger's
in doing nothing. That's what can sink us."
He leaned closer, jabbed a stiff index finger in Madison's
face. "We're at crisis. Don't you see -- you
must act. For God's sake, don't weaken now!"
Madison stood up so abruptly that his chair rattled
against the wall. His face was crimson, his eyes glittered.
"Don't you put your finger in my face, damn
you," he said in a low, intense voice, his lips
flattened against his teeth. "You go too far!"
Jackson stepped back, caution bells ringing. He had
gone too far. So be it. He would never admit it, never
apologize. He could hear Rachel sighing -- he very
often did go too far, some thunderous impulse he'd
never really understood driving him. But he'd never
backed away from a fight and wouldn't now.
"I meant no offense, Mr. President," he
said with icy formality. "I'm a soldier reporting
to his commander. My judgment is that war is essential
and that each day's delay exacts a penalty."
"But my judgment is the one that counts."
"Yes, but it's my duty to express my opinion."
The little man carefully straightened his chair and
sat down. He leaned on the arm and rested his forehead
on his fingers. He sighed.
"You do speak your mind, don't you?"
"Yes, sir. I don't regard that as a fault."
"I don't think I'm going to debate that,"
Madison said slowly. He sighed again and added, "Mrs.
Madison is holding an open house tomorrow afternoon.
Perhaps you'd enjoy attending."
Jackson would never have invited a man who'd poked
a finger in his face. Poke at him, you'd be lucky
to keep your finger. Even as he bowed and said he'd
be pleased to attend, he decided that gracious as
the President's invitation might be, it smacked of
weakness.
* * * *
Late that night Dolley sat at the Hepplewhite dressing
table in their bedroom. Madison was in his favorite
wing chair, legs stretched out on a blue needlepoint
stool, fingers tented under his chin, watching her.
He'd been tense since Jackson's visit, with precious
little accomplished in the afternoon as anger flared,
ebbed, flared again. He wasn't over it yet, even here
in his sanctuary, in slippers and the blue silk gown
she'd given him, beyond the reach of visitors, secretary,
waiters, and all the others who cared for him but
so rarely left him alone. Usually the room soothed
him with its fine Chippendale lowboys and highboys,
its wallpaper of maple and roses, the moonlit view
of the open pastures that stretched to the Potomac.
His fingers under his chin pressed together so hard
they trembled.
She was wiping her cheeks with a new unguent she
said had extraordinary properties, Madame So-and-so's
Fairy Elixirating Cream, or some such folderol, scrubbing
away her rouge. All she had on was a lacy shift and
a ruffled petticoat, and her fine milky shoulders
were bare. He had an impulse to press his lips to
that soft point where the strong pillar of neck joined
shoulder, slide his hands under her arms to hold her
wonderful breasts, but he didn't move.
"You know I love you. Jimmy," she said
softly. "Sharing my secrets. No one would guess
I use rouge." Actually, everyone probably guessed
-- she was unvaryingly a radiant pink -- but the little
vanity charmed him. She was forty-three now, her figure
more magnificent for a certain solidity it had acquired
over the years, her face still riveting every eye
in any room.
"I knew you loved me that day in Philadelphia
when you revealed the artifice," he said, though,
in fact, the extent of the gift in that comment had
only occurred to him much later. He felt a stirring
at the memory of those days and the stunning revelation
she'd been when they married. He hadn't imagined such
rapture existed on earth, nor would he have thought
then that at sixty-one she could still stir him so.
The mere recollection of passion was sifting through
his being, mingling with the nervous tension of the
day, quickening his pulse. Rapture... He flexed
his fingers and she caught the movement in the mirror.
"You're nervous tonight."
"Oh, that damned fellow Jackson -- he thinks
it's all so easy! Just jump into war. Frontier barbarians,
you know, in their leather shirts." What a petty
comment. He knew he should be ashamed.
An ironic glance. "He wore a leather shirt?"'
He laughed. "All right, all right. No, good
broadcloth. Pantaloons -- the latest fashion."
"You should pay some attention to fashion. Jimmy."
"Certainly not! Pantaloons? Breeches and hose
will do very well, thank you. Jackson, now, you'll
see him tomorrow, I invited him to your soiree."
Her eyebrows lifted. "And he accepted?"
He nodded.
"Then he's not such a brute?"
"Oh, he won't upset the party. But you know,
he is wild. Famous for violent actions. Married another
man's wife, after all -- that's precipitous, I'd say."
"Don't be silly. He couldn't do that."
"Did."
"Bigamy?"
"More like adultery."
"Come, come. There's more than that."
"Something about a garbled report that her husband
had divorced her. When it turned out he'd only started
proceedings, they went through hell."
"Poor woman. I can imagine her bruises."
"Seems she's spent the rest of her life making
up for it. She's a paragon of kindness, by all accounts."
She turned, her legs crossed under her petticoat.
She was barefoot and he could see her smooth, slender
ankle.
"And who's to condemn yielding to love?"
she said. "You and I, Jimmy, we might've ..."
"What? Before we married?"
"If you'd asked me." ,
"Why, I wouldn't've dared."
"And I, all the while, hoped you would."
"Why didn't you say so?"
"Ask you to make love to me?" She smiled.
"Anyway, it worked out well enough, wouldn't
you say?"
Again that quickening. "Very well indeed,"
he said. On the whole, though, it was just as well
they had waited.
"And as for the Jacksons," she said, "apparently
the community doesn't hold it against them."
"No wonder. He'd kill anyone who did."
"Jimmy! Aren't you ashamed?"
He grinned. "I am. But he is violent.
Shootings, caning, horsewhipping -- he's known for
it. And duels. He's deadly, they say -- young fellow
named Dickinson, Jackson shot him down like a dog.
He'd questioned Mrs. Jackson's virtue."
"Well," she said, "I know about gossip."
"Yes, darling Dolley," he said more gently.
"And if a man defends his wife, I won't criticize
him for that."
She flashed him a smile and turned back to her mirror.
TheQuakers had expelled her for marrying outside the
faith, as they had her father for his bankruptcy,
and she knew whispers were bullets. He sometimes wondered
if her flamboyant dress -- the vivid silks and satins,
the bird-of-paradise feathers, the turbans that women
in Paris were copying now -- while certainly expressive
of her taste and talent, wasn't also her answer to
the plain folk. He loved every element of her dashing
presence that warmed any room she entered. She had
made herself the nation's preeminent hostess when
she ran the President's table for poor Tom, the lonely
widower, and now she ruled Washington like a democratic
queen. She had a way of surveying her drawing room
that assured total command of all she saw. He wouldn't
be President today without her, he was sure of that.
For now he could see he'd been sinking into bookish
torpor when he found her, fuming in on himself and
retreating from life. She had restored him. Yes, he
still froze in a crowd, heard his voice go cold and
dull when he wanted it warm and spontaneous, but what
would he have been without her? And she had taught
him rapture. She was brushing out her hair now, the
five hundred strokes she gave it every night, her
shoulders flexing, the motion emphasizing the flare
of her hips. The tension of the day was refocusing
itself in real de-sire. He wanted his hands and lips
on her and wondered if she guessed. She often did.
He was a bit ashamed, bantering about what obviously
had been a domestic tragedy. It was just that Jackson
irritated him so with his certainty, his oversimplifications,
the blind unwillingness to see the complexities and
pitfalls, just take the future by storm and ask later
of consequences. And yet, very possibly Jackson was
right. There are men who are right by instinct, some
intuitive concatenation of impulses that brings them
swiftly, unerringly to conclusions that prove out
as if by magic. Such men have the capacity to be great,
to shake their times and change a nation's destiny.
Not Jackson, of course, that was hardly likely, but
still...
That smooth certainty, though -- never doubting himself,
waving off twelve years of diplomacy, twelve years
of struggle.
Madison sighed. "Well, he's right in one sense.
I mean, we saved republicanism, saved what I believe
is the hope of the world, but we didn't move the
British a whit. I thought we would and so did Tom.
Still, you can see Britain's reasons, too..."
How easy it would be to take a stand as Jackson did
and see nothing else. But the attitudes and pressures
on the other side, the hopes and fears of his opponents,
came too readily to mind. Having a window on an opponent's
mind could be an asset, but it was a curse, too, hobbling
him at the moment of action.
Britain, now, was fighting for its life against Napoleon.
He accepted that. The Federalists claimed Madison
was in the French dictator's thrall-if not his pay
-- but in fact he realized that the Emperor had subverted
the French republic even as he'd conquered the European
republics that sprang up in the wake of the French
Revolution. Britain felt it stood alone in defending
the free world and took as its due any assistance
it might demand. He knew the British felt in their
bones that Americans should be glad to have their
trade crippled and their seamen stolen in the noble
cause of helping contain the tyrant.
"You can understand it," he said. "As
they see it, instead of helping, we're fattening on
trade denied them by war. It infuriates them."
He was deeper in his chair now, chin resting on doubled
fists. She finished her hair and left it loose, giving
her an open, uninhibited look as she put a cushion
against the dresser for a backrest and sat facing
him, her feet on the needlepoint stool. After a while
her foot touched his. He sighed, needing to talk.
She encouraged him but sometime he wondered if this
endless talk at night was a form of abuse. Or perhaps
she was a saint. Of course, she was interested --
she conversed wittily and wisely with guests, and
he'd long found her insights valuable. So he talked
and she listened without saying much, and he felt
guilty but went on talking.
"Well, Napoleon is no friend of republicanism
-- eating up the flower of the movement on the Continent.
No friend of ours, either, but it's the British who
molest us. Bullies -- hard to believe we were once
British ourselves."
"Isn't that why we no longer are?"
"Exactly. There's lots of talk about needing
a second revolution to remind 'em who won the first.
Jackson raised it."
She nodded. "I think it's a real feeling."
"Oh, it's real enough. Maybe it's what we need.
God knows they assault our trade. They're jealous,
too -- fear we'll gain trade they're losing in the
war and they'll never get it back. Maybe that's the
real reason."
But he didn't need Jackson to tell him no sovereign
nation could live with such abuse and retain its national
pride. Since the Erskine imbroglio he'd known they
would have to fight -- the question was when. It still
galled him -- charming young David Erskine, new British
ambassador, probably foolishly, perhaps malevolently,
had offered concessions that settled all the differences
between the two countries. Bells of thanksgiving pealed
as the threat of war vanished. And then the British
cabinet repudiated it all in a single stroke. The
pure contempt of it ground salt in the wound
-- they didn't apologize, didn't even try to soften
the blow. He felt the old fury rising.
"Can't you just see them sitting around that
polished table guffawing at the image of the little
American President leaping at their bait like a lapdog
offered a morsel?"
She kicked his foot. "Don't talk that way!"
She was right, and yet the memory burned his soul,
the slap in the face, big man looking down on the
small man, tall Jackson looming over his desk this
afternoon, threatening him. Like a British frigate
running out its guns on a merchant brig. Damn it all!
The man had upset him.
When to fight? The British were careful to give no
new provocation, having things now exactly as they
wanted. He'd seen Jackson's expression of contempt
on that point -- good God, did the man imagine he
alone saw such things? And the French abused our trade,
too. They tried to use us to punish Britain. Now there
was a break; France had turned conciliatory -- apparently,
at least -- so as to isolate Britain as America's
only overt enemy. Was it real? He doubted it. A man
was a fool to trust overly in the international world.
But at least it was an excuse to move against the
real enemy. If he really wanted to move.
"When? Tomorrow? Next week? Month? Year?"
He sighed. Her bare foot nestled against his ankle,
warm and comfortable. She didn't answer, understanding
him. He was thinking it out.
What would he say to the purists in his own party
who insisted that a strong military and the taxes
to pay for it would lead to public debt that in turn
was just a tool for the wealthy to control the common
man -- in short, the same old oppression they'd fought
a revolution to escape. Why now? they would cry. They'd
say he was giving in to the War Hawks, as they'd dubbed
powerful newcomers in the House who demanded immediate
action: Henry Clay of Kentucky, Felix Grundy of Tennessee,
John Calhoun of South Carolina, and the others.
"Yet the last election was a revolution of sorts,"
she said. More than half the sitting Congress had
been turned out, replaced by men who promised to vote
for war. Nor was it just the West -- except in New
England, war sentiment ran strong in all sections.
"I suppose you could interpret that as demand."
"A democratic revolution, really. Stunning.
Remember Darndell in tears? Couldn't believe he'd
been voted out."
"You always say, 'No stronger voice than the
electorate's.' "
He sighed. "But such a confused voice."
He could tick them off. The philosophic core of
his own party fearing for American freedom. The Federalists
-- in New England and New York and along the coast,
representing the seamen and export merchants facing
British mistreatment, the very people you'd think
would want action -- equally strong against. They'd
been dying out but now they were like a tree clothed
in new green. And for war, the strongest voice of
all, Jackson's westerners and all the others who
were near losing faith in a government that couldn't
redress national wrongs.
"Remember the tug-of-war at the Orange County
fair?" she said. "Twenty on each end of
a long rope, back and forth? Suppose you cut the
rope. Both sides would fall down."
"You're saying I should chop the electorate
in half?"
She chuckled. "Wouldn't that be grand? Draw
and quarter the opposition? That would teach 'em!
But don't you think deciding will be like chopping
the rope? Both sides fall down and by the time they
get up there's a whole new situation."
He smiled, watching her, and slowly nodded.
"Perhaps ... perhaps. But these are forces that
can shred the national fabric, too. And it's so fragile
... that's what the Jacksons of the world overlook
-- or refuse to understand."
And then the Indians, another element in this volatile
mix. Yet he knew western sentiment didn't turn on
Indians. Ohio agreed with Tennessee on that. Indians
were a problem, but what mattered in the West was
national pride.
He told her Jackson's views on westerners as a national
people, ready to create a continental nation.
"That's exciting," she said.
"It is. No question. And why shouldn't we cover
the continent? There's magnificent potential in Americans
as a people. Free people, ruling themselves, forging
their own destiny -- it's glorious."
"But unrealistic, you think?"
"No, not really. Won't happen in our lifetime,
I imagine, but the impulse to move west is powerful
and it thrills millions of people who've chosen the
frontier. Why not? A great idea, and it makes you
impatient with this endless tussle with Britain --
as if we need to settle it and get on with real business."
"Perhaps that's what Jackson's saying."
"I suppose it is. But he's so arrogant, so certain,
so assertive. Telling me..."
"Why does he upset you so, darling?"
He smiled. "God, you do know me, sweetheart.
I guess because he's so sure and I'm not. He's just
a commander but talks like a leader; I'm the leader
and I don't sound like one. Or look like one ..."
"He's tall and you're not?"
He shrugged. "I try not to let that matter."
"It's never mattered to me," she said softly.
"No one's stronger than you. No one's ... better."
She gave the word a curious inflection and glancing
quickly at her, catching the fleeting smile, the kindling
of eye, he read her message in the quickening of his
own blood.
"I love you," he whispered. It was late.
A setting moon filled the window with brilliance.
He'd have to decide soon, but not tonight. He had
the votes, he knew that. Congress would give him a
declaration of war the moment he asked.
But could he afford to alienate so many in his own
party, to strengthen the opposition party? The military
men told him Canada would fall like a ripe apple.
The very triteness of the metaphor delivered with
such certainty made him wary, but with no military
skills of his own he had to rely on them. And what
if they were wrong? He supposed Americans would pull
together in the face of real war, but what if they
didn't? He threw up his hands. "God, what an
imbroglio. Even Tom thinks we should fight, did I
tell you that?"
She raised an eyebrow.
'Yes. Isn't that ironic? The whole point of our policy
when he was in my seat and I was Secretary of State
was to avoid war. And now here's old Tom blithely
saying, let's do it -- let's do on your watch what
we avoided doing on mine." He laughed. "Tom's
a genius, but he was always able to say any damned
thing that popped into his head."
She smiled but didn't answer. They were silent a
moment. Then he sighed, sat forward in his chair,
took her bare foot in both hands, and kissed it. His
hands ran up her calf as he looked at her. Instantly
he was tumescent, all the tensions and pressure of
the day, the encounter with Jackson, the memory of
Erskine, the overwhelming decision he faced, crashing
full force into his groin. He saw an answering flare
in her eyes.
"I'll go change," she said. There was a
catch in her voice. She went into the dressing room.
He heard the lid on the chamber pot, heard the washstand
door close. When she re-turned she was in the revealing
gown she wore when she wanted him. She didn't speak,
nor did he. One by one she pinched out the candle
flames between thumb and forefinger, and when it was
dark she stood in the moonlight. Her gown opened to
show her wonderful body, and she held out her arms
to him.
Excerpted from 1812 by David Nevin.
Copyright 1996 by David Nevin. Excerpted by permission
of Forge Books (175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010).
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be
reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing
from the publisher.
