Eagle's Cry: A Novel of the Louisiana Purchase (33 page)

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Authors: David Nevin

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BOOK: Eagle's Cry: A Novel of the Louisiana Purchase
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He broke off as Madison raised a hand. He felt oddly abashed. Something his father once said came to mind, that many men underestimated Mr. Madison and most learned to regret it.
Gently the secretary said, “Your point is well taken and, I think, accurate. But it overlooks another aspect. You would agree, I think, that Spain, though under Napoleon’s thumb, is at best his reluctant ally?”
Adams stared at him. He felt his cheeks turning red. Confound his ready tongue! He’d forgotten that if anyone took Louisiana, the taking would be from Spain, and Spain was in the French orbit only by coercion. When the wars of the French Revolution began, Spain had turned to Britain. It was with Spain’s help that Britain had seized the major French naval base on the Mediterranean, at Toulon, and it was Napoleon’s thundering guns driving those forces out that set him on the career that made him ruler of France.
Raw force kept Spain in line now. The last thing Britain would want as it faced France in a death struggle on the Continent would be an infuriated Spain converted into a
willing ally to Napoleon. His cheeks were aflame; he had grossly underestimated the little man.
“So you see the equation,” Madison was saying. Unfortunately, Mr. Adams thought wryly, he was seeing it rather too late. Apparently unaware of his chagrin, Mr. Madison continued in a placid voice, seeming merely to chat about national matters. But a clerk walked in with an armful of books and Madison broke off. Startled and suddenly aware of the silence, the clerk backed out with apologies.
“Of course, these are just rumors from a city famous for gossip,” Madison said, “but if there were something to them, doubtless Britain would be concerned. But wouldn’t they immediately face two crucial decisions?”
Alternative courses … first, they certainly could seize New Orleans and Louisiana themselves. That would infuriate Spain—Mr. Madison nodding to himself thoughtfully—but then there would be consolations, wouldn’t there? They would possess the very empire that rumor says France covets. The American breadbasket would feed British rather than French soldiers. At the same time, they could incorporate the vast ranges of Louisiana—right out to the Stony Mountains—into Canada and anchor forever the Pacific Northwest. Why, in effect, it would give them the continent, the upstart United States limited to the eastern seaboard. For such a prize, he supposed they could risk the wrath of Spain.
For a moment Adams thought the secretary would make sport at Federalist expense, since cutting off the West had great appeal to some in Adams’s party. But he went right on.
“Or the next alternative: They help us take it. Now, that solves the problem of the French, but it enrages Spain and leaves Britain with a fierce new enemy. And the United States has the West. Canada will be a chilly waste up around Hudson’s Bay, and the Pacific Northwest will more likely finish in our hands than in theirs. Were they to enter such a bad bargain, I’d guess they’d want some compensation, don’t you suppose? You know they’ve been urging us to join the war on their side from the start, saying it’s our duty to
mankind and all that. And it is obvious that together we would rule the seas, our merchant ships feeding their troops and starving their enemy.”
Oh, yes, now Mr. Adams could see the equation. Britain’s price for snatching our chestnuts from the fire would be to plunge us into the endless European war. He knew how implacable Britain’s thinking had become as it fought for its life; let the United States enter that alliance and Britain inevitably would squeeze it dry.
But now Adams found his chagrin was fading into exultation—what a joy to be here at the nation’s center talking of vital national concerns to a man of power! It had been months since he’d had such talk, and he could feel the last vestiges of his reluctance to run for Congress melting away. This, not the law in Boston, was his natural milieu!
Yet this was a strange encounter, the secretary going to such lengths on so thinly disguised an account. It seemed something had happened or threatened in Louisiana—he remembered his initial impression that the secretary had sought him out … or followed him. He couldn’t believe that Mr. Madison spoke so to everyone he met. Could he possibly be interested in the former ambassador’s opinion? It was tempting, but he must not make himself foolish again. Yet …
Tentatively: “I suppose comment would be inappropriate—”
“I would welcome your comment, sir. You’ve had a dozen years abroad; you know many of the figures involved.”
Yes, that might be Adams’s value, not the broad picture about which the secretary had thought much more deeply than he, but the specifics. “Well, sir,” he said, “Napoleon, now, I suppose I’ve talked to him, oh, a half-dozen times. He’s brutally strong, rough by nature, not highly intelligent, but supremely canny. Perhaps he’s a military genius—I wouldn’t know—but the dominant impression he leaves is that his mind is very tough, his will is imperative, and his conscience scarcely exists. But he is absolutely not a fool. In your hypothetical, I think he would be open to reason.”
Madison was listening. So far, so good. “I spent three months in London once trying to make headway in the foreign office, and I can assure you that no nation is more assiduous in pursuing its own interests. It does feel desperate and rightfully so, fighting for its life as it is. Yet it is a strong country and even in war thinks long term. It would be fully capable of taking and maintaining Louisiana if it decided to do so; if it were to help someone else do so, it would have to be shown how its own interests were served and it would drive a very hard bargain. So I think the hypothetical makes sense.”
He hesitated. His next thought was more personal; would that be appropriate? Still, it could be helpful. “Also, sir, I know Louis Pichon well. Once we made a three-month holiday tour together. It was Pichon that the Directory sent to me with word that France really didn’t want war with the United States. I suppose you know it was on that basis that my father sent a new delegation to strike a peace treaty?”
“Your father demonstrated a nobility of nature in that decision. I’d be pleased if you conveyed that thought.”
“Thank you, sir; he’ll be gratified. As to Monsieur Pichon, he will cleave to the interests of France, but within that context he can be trusted fully. I hope to dine with him before I leave.”
“Really? Then let me charge you with a mission. Tell Mr. Pichon, from the highest authority, that the United States has profound affection for France, but that its defense of its own integrity is without limits.”
It was wonderful! Like old times at the diplomatic center of things. “Thank you, Mr. Madison; I will convey that.”
The secretary stood, stretching. “I must be along,” he said, and then, looking into Adams’s eyes, added, “You know, you would make a good Democrat. My guess is you will find yourself too often out of step as a Federalist. You’re too sensible; you see too clearly. Your fellow Federalists would distrust you. If you reach such a decision, I assure you a warm welcome in the party of common sense.”
Well! Ten minutes later Adams was skipping down that
long staircase in a fever of enthusiasm. He wouldn’t be leaving his father’s party, but as for stepping onto the national stage, he was more than ready! He smacked fist into palm and trotted on.
WASHINGTON, EARLY 1802
Johnny Graham brought in the packet bearing Mr. Livingston’s report from Paris and squared it neatly on Madison’s desk. Mr. Wagner was right behind him.
At last! Their ambassador had long since departed for France with orders to seek out the truth of the early rumors on Louisiana. Since then just a note that he had reached Le Havre. The packet was wrapped in oilcloth, tied with diplomatic red ribbon, and sealed at every possible opening with gobs of red wax impressed with the embassy seal. Something about this fussy wrapping, sealed as if for a trip to the North Pole, brought Robert Livingston forcefully to mind—tall, slow moving and slow talking, long face, long nose, gazing serenely about with an expression Madison read as profoundly self-satisfied. He came from one of the great landed families of New York State, was chancellor of New York for many years, and once was secretary of state himself—secretary for foreign affairs it was called before the Constitution drafted a new form of government.
He shook his head, lips pursed. The truth was he simply didn’t like the man.
Whereas young Mr. Adams had been surprisingly pleasant the day before. He had spied the president’s son in the rotunda and followed him on impulse. Here was a man with more recent diplomatic experience than anyone Madison
knew and engaging him had proved valuable. That he had offered no aspect they had not considered was reassuring; indeed, faced with the realities he seemed to endorse the Democratic view. Clever fellow and certainly no roaring Federalist; but then, the Adamses were always patriots and at their core sensible, though the old gentleman did fly into dreadful fusses to no very useful end. John Quincy might make a good Democrat yet.
Ruminating thus, Madison tore the last of the wax-festooned oil paper off the packet. Of course the letter would be anticlimactic in a sense—it would describe the treaty they already possessed—but it should add details and sort out the aims behind the radical French move. He drew forth the report, a dozen sheets written in an angular, upright hand that seemed somehow to reflects Livingston’s proud manner, started reading—
“Good God!”
He looked up. Wagner and Johnny were staring at him.
“He asked about the rumors, and their foreign secretary—Talleyrand—simply denied them. Said there was nothing to it, nothing had happened, nothing to talk about. Waved Livingston off—but we have a copy of the treaty!”
He gazed at them. “Incredible! Talleyrand was simply lying.”
With growing anger he read through the long, tedious letter searching for answers that didn’t come. When he put it down, his hand quivered. His glance fell on the oilcloth wrapping festooned with all that ridiculous wax—the man must have used three sticks!—and he cried, “And in the end, Mr. Livingston did nothing about it whatsoever. Nothing! He should have challenged that arrogant Frenchman to his face!”
“But, sir,” Wagner said, “if he doesn’t know what we know, he has no basis to challenge.”
“Well, damn it, he should have done something!”
He ran down the letter again. “Oh, my, look at this. Says he’s not satisfied, says Talleyrand’s manner suggested subterfuge, as if he didn’t expect to be taken seriously, says he
really was quite flippant.” He slapped the desk furiously. “Hurrah for our envoy’s perspicacity! He actually thinks there’s something odd about all this! Says he’ll nose about.”
With a bad metallic taste in his mouth, Madison dismissed the clerks. Presently he wadded up the oilcloth and hurled it into the waste bin. All that wax, those silly seals, when he had nothing to report but that he’d been bamboozled.
“Anna,” Dolley said, “what’s going on with you and Merry?” They were in Dolley’s bedroom; she was pinning a gown to fit her sister’s slender hips. It had grown dark outside and two sperm oil lamps glowed.
“Why, nothing.” Anna had a quizzical, amused expression.
“You’ve been encouraging him, haven’t you?”
“What? There’s no need to encourage him; he just seems attracted to me. Men are, you know.” She shrugged. “What can I do about it? Anyway, who are you to talk? Men have always been drawn to you. They used to follow you around in flocks, and they still look at you all the time.”
“But Merry’s an innocent, and I think you’ve been playing games. He’s too nice a young man to break his heart.”
“Oh, pshaw!” Just then Jimmy came in. Anna ran to kiss his cheek and vanished down the stairs.
“What got into her?” Jimmy said.
“Oh, I was taking her to task. She’s been flirting with Merry.”
“Well, what’s wrong with that?” He frowned. “Merry’s a fine young man, I suppose he’d make a good husband—”
“Oh, Jimmy, she’s not going to marry Meriwether Lewis! She’s in love with Mr. Cutts.”
“Oh,” Jimmy said. He sat down, shaking his head.
From a glance at him she braced for bad news. “So,” she said, “how are things?”
He sighed. “Well, I think we’ve made a terrible mistake in posting Livingston to the Paris embassy,” he said.
What? She liked Mr. Livingston and admired him as well, as much for his urbane, confident manner as for a genuinely kindly nature. She’d known him for years and she’d renewed the acquaintance in a long talk at the President’s House just before he went abroad. He’d come to Washington without Mrs. Livingston, and when Tom gave him a small dinner, he’d asked her to join them. Good thing, too, for their guest had scarcely arrived before Tom and Jimmy were called away on something and she had entertained him. Mr. Lemaire sent in a plate of little ham tartlets, the wine was excellent, the talk genial.
Merry appeared after forty-five minutes to express further regrets, saying it was just one of those minor crises.
Most gallantly, she’d thought, Mr. Livingston had said, “Please tell the president that I’m more than pleased for the chance to visit with the charming Mrs. Madison.” And to her, with a trace of anxiety, “I hope you won’t think me forward, my dear, if I say I expect I’ll enjoy this quiet chat with you a good deal more than talking to Mr. Jefferson or even with your esteemed husband.” And he’d reminded her of a cotillion in Philadelphia where he’d been her partner while Mr. Hamilton paired with Mrs. Livingston.
“Of course,” Jimmy said, “when we named him we had no idea the French would make such an insane move.” Listening, she could see why the letter disappointed him but not why he blamed the ambassador. Talleyrand seemed the one at fault.
“I never cared for him,” Jimmy was saying, “but we pretty well had to offer him something. He’s very prominent—delivered the oath at President Washington’s first inaugural, for goodness sake. And New York is important, especially since we dropped Burr.”
She still thought Tom and Jimmy made much too much of Burr’s apostasy. Aaron hadn’t been trying to betray the Democratic Party; he was just being his usual greedy self.
“We needed something good for Livingston, but we’d closed the other embassies, just London, Paris, and Madrid left. Wanted to keep Rufus King in London and Livingston
had no Spanish, so that left Paris. And I suppose he’d have been all right if this crisis hadn’t arisen.”
“But all he did is report this Talleyrand person’s answer. Isn’t that what you’d want him to do?”
“He should have found something to do.”
“Oh, Jimmy, you’re too critical. I thought he was charming and quite able, a man of considerable vision. Anyway, I don’t see what he could have done; this Talleyrand must be a monster.”
“I certainly am not too critical! I know what I expect in an ambassador. My, God, any fool can go to diplomatic parties; you have to
do
something when you get there.”
“Isn’t Talleyrand the one in the XYZ Affair?”
He glared but she didn’t care. Of course the question discomfited Jimmy. This was the same corrupt foreign minister who’d sent three flunkies—Messrs. X, Y, and Z—to demand a bribe as the price of the French government even deigning to talk to the American peace delegation. Disgusting man. But she knew what really burned Jimmy. When the delegation broke the contact and hurried home, the Democrats suspected a Federalist plot to justify war with France and demanded the story be made public. President Adams explained it all, the American public was furious, the Democrats looked like fools and lost ground. Then, when the Democrats had been properly abused and the groundwork for Alien and Sedition was laid, President Adams had turned the knife by sending a new delegation that quickly arranged the peace treaty that still held. Credit for that bright idea, demanding it all be made public, belonged jointly to Jimmy and Tom. Not that she had grounds to feel superior, she hadn’t seen the trap either, but still …
Jimmy’s head drew down in his shoulders as it always did when he was angry.
“Really, darling,” she said more gently, “with such a man anything could happen, don’t you think?”
“It’s the job of diplomats to overcome such problems. That’s
all
he has to do—get a single question answered.”
“
All
? Just turn the man who has conquered Europe from his aims?”
He sighed. “You’re an able advocate, Dolley, but that doesn’t mean you’re right.” Then, still cool, he changed the subject. Would she preside at a tea Tom intended to give his old friend Pierre Du Pont, whose brother was just in from Paris with fresh insights?
Choices of gowns ran through her mind.
Head still pulled down, he said, “Maybe we can get more from Monsieur Du Pont than our envoy could manage on the scene.”
“Oh, Jimmy, sweetie, that’s not fair.”
“At any rate, I’m hungry and tired. I’m going to find a bite downstairs and go to bed.”
“No, you’re not,” she said. “First of all, you’re going to give me a kiss.” And she placed herself on his lap. “You can’t kiss me and still frown like that. Come on, now …”
Mr. Lemaire was beside himself. The visitors, Monsieur Du Pont and his estimable brother, and doubtless his son as well, the latter the chemical industrialist opening a gunpowder plant in Wilmington, certainly were the cream of Paris, doubtless dined with the nobility or what was left of it, and were sure to be men of taste. He would surpass himself. Tea would be splendid, sandwiches trimmed in narrow wedges, smoked turkey with chutney, and then perhaps fine-cut tenderloin in a mustard dressing, and, yes, peppercress in cream cheese with cucumbers, and then sweets, say lemon curd tartlets, neat little discs with scalloped edges, and mincemeat tartlets, with two wines and two teas from China, perhaps three—
“And scones,” Dolley said.
“Scones?”
“With a dash of butter.”
“Oh, madame, scones are so, so—mundane.”
She looked at him without answering.
“Scones … ,” he said. “They’ll give variety, won’t they,” windmilling his hand, “a sense of, how you say, abundance, yes, reflecting this extraordinary country, no?”
“I think so,” she said.
She wore a gown of plum-colored velvet with two broad white panels. Reviewing the tea, she hoped the elegance of the food might compensate for the shabbiness of the mansion walls, with their streaked, unfinished look. The roof was leaking. There were tubs in some rooms and soggy spots on the walls. The tea would be in the Blue Room, so called for its blue-covered furniture, its walls an unappealing pasty white but still presentable, if dingy. She really must talk to the president soon—surely they could find the money for roof repair, paint, wallpaper, perhaps wainscoting, all little enough.
With these blemishes glowing like so many sore thumbs, the Du Ponts trooped in, murmuring pleasantries. Pierre looked about sixty. Louis was younger and junior in status; she sensed something sleek and slippery in him. The son, Eleuthère, wore a velvet suit with fountains of lace at throat and wrists, shoe buckles that looked like gold, each with a glittering little diamond, loosely clubbed hair heavily powdered.
He made an elegant leg, held her hand overlong, gazed deeply into her eyes. His glance flicked to Jimmy and back to her with the faintest lift of an eyebrow and seemed to say what a pity to waste a pretty young wife on an old man. It was all so insulting, so quiet and yet so obvious—she saw Jimmy giving him a speculative look—that she couldn’t help being amused. He took her smile as response and, well satisfied with the impression he’d made, seated himself.
Tom had known the senior Du Pont for years; he was economist, philosopher, statesman, long close to royal circles. He’d been an ardent revolutionist, but it had turned on him and he’d fled the guillotine. Now the first consul—the title Napoleon had chosen for himself—had decreed he
might return. This was the happy news his brother had crossed the Atlantic to bring him.
But he was leaving part of himself here, his son, a chemist of international standing who had trained under the great Antoine Lavoisier, would stay. She saw Tom’s eyes widen at the name and Jimmy seemed impressed; she herself had heard it, though she couldn’t have said where. The young man talked vigorously of the chemical empire he planned, starting with his plant at Wilmington, which would turn out gunpowder of such uniformity as to end forever the military problem of cannon fire flying overlong or falling short … .

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