Madison and Jefferson (95 page)

Madison backed him fully. When Jefferson wrote in May, pleading for “the humble, the ridiculed, but the formidable gunboat” to defend the Chesapeake, going so far as to send Madison a detailed map of how they might be positioned, he did not receive the reply he expected. Softening the blow, Madison told him a little white lie, that “the present Secretary of the Navy is not unfriendly to gunboats.” He then repeated Jones’s critique almost verbatim: gunboats were “too slow in sailing, and too heavy for rowing, they are limited in their use to particular situations, and rarely for other than defensive co-operations.” While Federalists mocked the country’s “formidable armada of gunboats,” Madison decided to quietly phase them out of existence. In 1815 he secured congressional approval to sell all that remained.
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By the early spring of 1813, Madison’s two newest cabinet members had brought energy and order to their troubled departments. Jones took the first step in constituting a naval bureaucracy by overseeing shipbuilding at the Washington Navy Yard and acting to eliminate sources of friction over rank—navy captains had hitherto been subordinate to army commanders. Armstrong was just as busy reorganizing the War Department. Less than half of the regular forces were under arms at the time he took over. An army needed a supply system to operate effectively as it advanced, and so he named quartermasters for each military district to arrange for the purchase of food, clothing, arms, and ammunition.

But Madison’s cabinet was no more united than it had been. Just as Monroe exhibited jealousy and suspicion of Armstrong, Gallatin watched nervously as Armstrong used the power of appointment to build up a personal base, giving important posts to Gallatin’s foes in Pennsylvania. This included editor William Duane of the
Aurora.
And as his personal secretary, Armstrong named Robert Smith’s nephew. Gallatin was regretting his earlier endorsement of the wily New Yorker.
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But a more serious crisis confronted Gallatin. Five days into March he informed the president: “We have hardly enough money to last till the end of the month.” Any future military operations would be threatened, he warned, if the government could not find funds soon. Republicans in Congress had made the problem worse by mulishly rejecting, in their last session, his proposal for direct taxes. This left Gallatin with little choice but to cultivate private investors. His main prospects were the German-born New York merchant John Jacob Astor and the Philadelphia banker Stephen Girard—ironically, the kind of speculators Madison had dismissed in the 1790s as depraved “gamblers” and Hamiltonian tools. Astor offered little encouragement. He explained that most financiers were skeptical of the way the administration was handling the war and proposed a radical, entirely unrepublican solution: the administration should charter another bank of the United States, and borrow from the bank to finance the war.
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The bank would have to wait, as the nation learned of Napoleon’s crushing defeat in Russia. Republican newspapers assessed the implications of the shocking news. Some claimed that the reports had been exaggerated in the British press; others anticipated a likely increase in British operations
against the United States, as military operations against France were scaled back. As one New York editor concluded: “Every defeat sustained by Bonaparte in Europe is a victory gained not by Russia, by Spain, but by our
own
enemy England.”

An unusual proposal came from Alexander I of Russia. The tsar offered to mediate the conflict between Great Britain and the United States. Madison wasted little time before accepting the offer and appointed his ever-controversial, French-speaking right-hand man to the diplomatic mission. Albert Gallatin would join John Quincy Adams, already in Europe, and they would end impressment and bring the war to an honorable end. At least that was the plan.

Madison’s choice made strategic sense. Gallatin was more than a diplomat—he was the president’s most trusted adviser. Astor and his friends would take heart. Having Treasury Secretary Gallatin on the commission said to these tightfisted financiers that the government was serious about the mission. Indeed, the sudden prospect of peace convinced the wary investors to agree to $10.5 million in urgently needed loans, most of which was promptly allocated to the War Department.
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Old resentments toward Gallatin quickly resurfaced. This time a group of malcontents headed by Virginia Republican William Branch Giles, taking their cue from New York Federalist Rufus King, questioned whether the president had the authority to appoint one man to two such important positions. Madison assumed he did, and on June 3, 1813, one month after Gallatin and fellow negotiator Federalist James Bayard of Delaware set sail for St. Petersburg, the president notified Congress that Secretary of the Navy Jones would serve as acting treasury secretary during Gallatin’s absence.

Madison, overworked, took ill at this time. Rumors that he was dying spread across Washington. At the end of June, on the fifteenth consecutive day of a “remittent” bilious fever, Madison remained under the simultaneous care of three physicians. Dolley was constantly by her husband’s bedside. Monroe gave Jefferson a blow-by-blow account of the president’s condition; the
National Intelligencer
issued daily bulletins. One cold-blooded critic, who signed his name “Virginius,” diagnosed Madison’s disease as one caused by a mass of “parasites, sycophants, and flatterers”; he hoped that as Madison faced his maker he would see the error of his ways and “repent even at the eleventh hour.” If he should escape death, the president would then return to the world of the living ready to end the war.

Next, Vice President Elbridge Gerry fell ill, and Monroe conjured a
darker plot. He believed that the Senate wished to elevate the unfulfilled Giles first to president pro tem of the Senate and then to the presidency, along the line of succession established in the Constitution. Monroe pictured Giles, Madison’s most virulent enemy at this moment, maneuvering to sink his own chances of winning the presidency in 1816. It was an extreme scenario, but Monroe’s lurid imagination was engaged, as rancor coming from the Senate remained intense.

Even as he fully recovered in July, Madison did little to alleviate the schismatic situation. He agreed to informally discuss the Gallatin appointment with members of the Senate committee who were then considering how to respond to it. But in explaining his position to them in writing in advance of the meeting, Madison ultimately left no room for argument. He insisted that the Senate might advise, but could not dictate, to the president. The committee, as a body, marched over to the executive mansion prepared for a showdown. They presented their resolutions, and Madison rejected them. A prolonged silence ensued. The president’s stubbornness fed their anger, and enemies old and new, offended by his brusque treatment, mustered enough support to defeat Gallatin’s diplomatic appointment by one vote.
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The spring and summer of 1813 were precarious months in the war effort. While Armstrong attempted to bring order and system to land-based forces, Britain stepped up efforts to blockade U.S. ports, from New York to the Chesapeake, Charleston, Savannah, the Mississippi, and anywhere American privateers set sail. By late spring, British raids along the Maryland and Virginia shores were being met with little opposition.
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Whether or not owing to Napoleon’s setbacks, the British had become more aggressive. Former British foreign secretary Lord Wellesley provoked members of Parliament by asking: “What have we done? Nothing—nothing to intimidate—nothing to punish.” Americans had to suffer, or the war would drag on. Jefferson recognized that Virginia and Maryland would become prime targets for the enemy. Random raids of towns along the Chesapeake would have their desired effect on the middle states—“the most zealous supporters of the war,” as he reminded Madison. The Virginia militia ably defended Norfolk, but Hampton was not so lucky. Reports of British outrages circulated: rape and murder as well as plunder.

Men of Virginia were called to arms to rise in defense of American womanhood. The House of Representatives issued a report on “British Barbarities,” highlighting the “shrieks of innocent victims of infernal lust at Hampton.” Some six hundred Virginia slaves fled to the British, reawakening
Virginians’ fears from the days of Lord Dunmore. As British ships appeared at the mouth of the Potomac in July 1813, clashing cabinet members Monroe and Armstrong rushed out to meet the danger, with their companies of volunteers and regulars respectively. Hearing this, Secretary of the Navy Jones observed with more than a hint of sarcasm that the two were really “running for the Presidential purse.”
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Although Republicans were opposed, on principle, to raising taxes, British raids so close to Washington may have prompted Congress to accept what Gallatin had earlier called “necessary evils.” Congressman Charles Jared Ingersoll disputed his fellow Pennsylvanian’s choice of words but not his policy. There was nothing evil about taxes, even direct taxes, he argued before the House: “War cannot be waged without finances.” He saw a silver lining in the cloud of battle, if the United States emerged from the fight with “a good system of permanent internal revenue.”

Few would agree openly with Ingersoll. The Republicans seemed hopelessly divided. So when they rallied to pass revenue bills, they caught the Federalists off guard. With lobbying help from Acting Treasury Secretary Jones, the Pennsylvanians were able to nudge the legislation through, though the taxes imposed would not go into effect until 1814. Madison strongly endorsed the tax increase, taking a decisive step away from Jefferson’s minimalist approach to federal government.
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One bright spot for Madison and Jefferson was the victory of Jefferson’s son-in-law, the since-remarried John Wayles Eppes, who bested John Randolph of Roanoke in a House contest that bore symbolic weight for the administration. The isolationist Randolph had campaigned vigorously. In spite of his soaring rhetoric and captivating storytelling, the establishment triumphed over the carnival act. Congressman Eppes served as chair of the powerful Ways and Means Committee.

Eppes had his doubts about the Gallatin-Jones tax package. He felt that the constitutional rule of using population to apportion direct taxes (from which the insidious three-fifths clause was derived) was flawed. His Virginia instincts kicked in, as he alluded to disparities between old and new, and agricultural and commercial, states. He wrote to Jefferson that he saw no just reason why “a given population in an uncultivated Forrest” should pay the same tax on personal property as an advanced manufacturing and commercial center, or a more productive agricultural community. Why, he posed, should the state of Ohio, “just arriving into political existence,” pay the same tax as the state of New Jersey? Only indirect taxation (customs fees, for example) ensured that the system of taxation would not oppress
the people. But even with his strong reservations, Eppes had to acknowledge that direct taxation was “unquestionably the best” means to balance the budget. So he decided to remain silent during the House debate and to vote for most of the revenue bills. It was by no means easy to navigate between the old Jeffersonian philosophy of limited taxes and Madison’s pragmatic new approach to prosecution of the war.
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Eppes was torn, but his father-in-law was plainly disgusted. In a long letter of June 1813, Jefferson gave vent to his mounting concerns about government finances. He feared, he wrote frantically to Eppes, “debt, bankruptcy—and Revolution.” To explain the problem, he repeated his 1789 theory that “the earth belongs to the living,” restating that the debts of one generation must never burden the next. Funding war through debt, like a dependency on paper money, was, he insisted, a discredited way of thinking, in “slavish imitation” of Great Britain. He believed that the United States had already grown too fond of banks—state banks were generating an uncontrollable inflation. The charter of the first national bank had expired in 1811, and Jefferson did not think that chartering another national bank was the solution to anything.

He proposed alternatives, willing to do virtually anything at this point to minimize the power of banks and bankers. First, the government had to stop borrowing money from “self-created money lenders,” and here he had the likes of John Astor and Stephen Girard in mind. With any loan, he said, Congress should pass an accompanying tax (he did not specify what kind), guaranteeing that the loan was redeemed within a reasonable amount of time. Then instead of piling up debts, the government would issue short-term Treasury notes to further help cover the expenses of war. He believed that such a program would obviate the need for banks and keep the federal budget balanced.

Jefferson did not seem at all alarmed that he would be granting Congress the power to control the circulation of money—at least during times of war. He imagined that the states south and west of New England would all be willing to rescind state bank charters and redirect their hard coin, or specie, to the coffers of the federal government. When Washington controlled most of the specie, it could offer Treasury notes at good rates, eventually forcing even the holdout states to join in, putting many state banks out of business. Every generation had a natural right to be free from its parents’ debts, Jefferson reasoned, but “no one had a natural right to the trade of the money lender.” Increasing the power of the federal government by giving it complete control over the money supply, he was willing to adopt
an essentially Hamiltonian structure, solely in order to rid the nation of avaricious bankers and their unhealthy profits. As he envisioned it, his plan would provide a healthy cleansing of the economy, while preserving the United States as a more moral, and essentially agricultural, nation.

As before, Jefferson was preoccupied with patrolling boundaries. In
A Summary View
in 1774 he had defined America’s distinct corporeal identity: a country created on its people’s own blood-drenched soil, a country enriched by the sacrifices of generations past. It was what endowed this people with inalienable rights. Then in contemplating the federal Constitution in 1789, he had sought to “guard the people against the federal government” by supplying a “parchment barrier” in the form of a bill of rights. Turning his attention to the states in 1798, he had claimed in the Kentucky Resolutions that each state’s corporate identity was unassailable and that, in the name of self-defense, any state could reject invasive federal laws.