The American Chronicle 1 - Burr (30 page)

The usually glum Monroe was delighted with the evening. As we left Oeller’s together, he said, “I should like to be in the room tomorrow when Hamilton and the President get their report on what happened tonight.” Monroe looked almost gleeful.

“I should like to be in the room when Jefferson presents Gen
ê
t to His Mightiness.”

We were just opposite Ricketts’ Circus when a half-dozen villainous-looking French sailors leapt at us from a darkened alley, knives drawn. “You English!” one of them shouted. While another placed a knife at my throat. “We kill all English.”

“You kill an American senator,” I spoke in French, “and you will be hanged.”

“You speak French like an Englishman!” One of the sailors reached for my watch fob.

Just at that moment, luckily for us, a group from the Oeller’s dinner approached, and the sailors ran off.

Monroe and I were both shaken, and angry. I wanted to have the men arrested. We were fairly certain that they were from the
Embuscade
which was docked at the Market Street wharf.

“No.” Monroe was more cautious than I. “We must say nothing. We must not play into Hamilton’s hands.” So we said nothing.

That summer was for Philadelphia a miniature Terror, and the cause of France’s revolution suffered accordingly. French sailors in unholy combination with refugees from Santo Domingo (ousted by their Negro slaves) preyed on the people of Philadelphia in the name of liberty. At one point it looked as if the bandits, in league with a number of native malcontents, might overturn the government and chop off Washington’s head. Though the danger of this was never as great as Hamilton and Adams pretended, Gen
ê
t did manage to shadow the President’s popularity amongst the lower orders to such a degree that His Mightiness was often—unthinkable
l
è
se-majest
é
—
booed at the theatre and in the streets. Knowing the high almost sacred regard Washington had for himself, it must be said that he handled, with admirable restraint, not only Genêt but himself, allowing the cockerel to destroy itself.

I MET MR. DAVIS BY CHANCE in the lobby of the City Hotel where I had been waiting, vainly as it turned out, for a client of the firm to appear and pay his bill. Money is in short supply these days. I have received no salary for two months. As a result, Mrs. Townsend has not seen me in a month.

Mr. Davis asked me into the tap-room where we were served a rum concoction by the bar-tender who works in a sort of cage. In the afternoon the bar of the City Hotel is like a club with certain tables always occupied by the same men. I must say I enjoy the smoky room’s air of opulence and mystery as large prosperous men whisper together of money, the low murmur of their talk sharply punctuated at regular intervals by the sound of the bar-tender’s hammer breaking ice.

Mr. Davis knew half the room, and was greeted warmly. The other half presumably know him, but pretend not to. Political divisions are particularly bitter since the riots in April.

“We’re going to win, Charlie. No doubt of it.” Mr. Davis peered at me through spectacles that magnify large honest eyes, but then
all
eyes magnified look honest. I would not trust Matt Davis to tell me the right time of day.

“You’ll be contributing your bit, won’t you?”

I was mystified, and showed it, as always. I could never be a conspirator; and begin to wonder if I can ever be a proper lawyer.

“We’re looking forward to your little book.” Mr. Davis winked at me.

Before I could ask him just what he meant, whether or not he knew of my arrangement with Leggett, he changed the subject. After much admiring talk of Henry Clay whom he affects to know well and thinks to be in the true line of Jefferson, I asked him suddenly, “When did Jefferson first fall out with Colonel Burr?”

“The election of 1792.” I realized then that Colonel Burr’s narrative—seemingly so ample—had discreetly omitted the events of 1792 when George Washington and John Adams were re-elected president and vice-president, and John Jay was defeated by George Clinton for governor of New York. “The state—the country—was bank-mad in those days, thanks to Hamilton. But by election time, there was a depression. Hamilton’s friend Duer went bankrupt, and to jail. The Federalists were in despair. Many wanted Burr to be their candidate. Hamilton put a stop to that. He persuaded John Jay, the chief justice, to make the race. He did and almost won.”

“With the help of Tammany?”

“We had no help to give. We were still a fraternal order. I don’t suppose twenty braves were committee-men in that election and they were pretty evenly divided between Clinton and Jay.”

Nelson Chase entered the bar. Saw me. Paused. Then came over to our table. “I have a message for Colonel Burr. Could you tell me where he is stopping?”

I was not about to tell him that the Colonel is currently in the Bowery with Aaron Columbus Burr. “Jersey City,” I said.

Nelson Chase thanked me, and departed. Mr. Davis nodded; enjoyed the lie. Then continued: “It was a tribute to Colonel Burr that after only one year in the Senate, he was regarded by many Republicans as a future president. It was Jefferson’s plan to undermine Adams as vice-president. Washington would be re-elected unanimously but Adams must be defeated, or at least diminished. To Jefferson’s amazement, votes began to accumulate for Colonel Burr and votes for Jefferson did not materialise. Finally, a meeting was held in which the Republican leadership, directed by Jefferson, persuaded Burr to give up his votes to Governor Clinton with the understanding that in 1796 Burr would be our vice-presidential candidate.”

“When
did
Tammany become political?”

“During the French Revolution. Oh, we were bloodthirsty Jacobins in those days! Citizen Gen
ê
t was our god. By the way, I saw him right here in the bar last spring, looking fat and old and rich! But it was thanks to him that those braves who disliked the French revolution began to drift away. By the election of 1800 we numbered—all told—perhaps a hundred and fifty braves who wanted Jefferson for president and Clinton for vice-president.”

“Not Colonel Burr?”

“Not Colonel Burr.”

“Then why does everyone think the Colonel was the creator of Tammany?”

“Because Tammany is considered evil. Burr is considered evil. All evil is the same. You know the world.”

I do not; but am beginning to.

JOHN ADAMS WENT TO HIS GRAVE believing that the entire Administration was in danger of the guillotine during the summer of 1793. Certainly Philadelphia’s July 4 celebration was of Citizen Gen
ê
t personally and of the rights of man generally, and everywhere the Federalists were in retreat.

At the beginning of September 1793, Jefferson sent me a note to Richmond Hill asking me if I would come see him at the capital. I consented despite an epidemic of yellow fever in Philadelphia. But then we used to pride ourselves on our
sang-froid
.
Lesser mortals might fear contagion and death; we gods ignored such things. As a result, the god Hamilton was thought to be dying the day I rode through Philadelphia’s streets, empty of all traffic save those heavy carts whose drivers would shout at regular intervals, “Bring out your dead!,” their voices harsh with command and loathing—the fever makes an ugly corpse, fit only for the flames.

There is, I am certain, a correlation between temperature and yellow fever. The disease only arrives in summer, and only in those summers that have begun cold and wet then become unseasonably hot and dry. The epidemic always ends with the first cold weather. Whatever the cause of the contagion (Jefferson suspected a mass of bad coffee left to rot on a Philadelphia wharf), it is fed by rain then nursed by heat and passed on from one person to the next until the cold weather puts a stop to it. The wise man retreats to the cool country-side at the first sign of the contagion. Unwisely, I chose to expose myself at the height of the epidemic, riding through the city, a handkerchief soaked in camphor held to my nose (we used to think this the best prophylaxis). Fortunately I did not have to stay in the city. Jefferson had rented a summer place at Gray’s Ferry on the Schuylkill River, just outside the worst of the fever districts.

At the top of Jefferson’s house, there was a sort of widow’s walk where I saw him standing with two men as I got down from my carriage. He waved to me and vanished within.

I was received in the cool parlour by one of Jefferson’s daughters. “You are very brave to come here. I hope you will help me convince my father to leave before we’re all of us sick.”

“But your house is on high ground.” It was thought that those who lived on hills would not get the fever—until of course they did. There seems to be no rule in these matters; and there is still no cure for the disease. A few always recover despite their doctors; most die.

Jefferson greeted me, face flushed with what I took to be the first symptom of the fever but what proved only to be the response of a fair-freckled skin to heat. With him were Dr. James Hutchinson (a man nearly as fat as General Knox) and Jonathan Sergeant, two leading Republicans.

“Another fearless man!” Jefferson was in good spirits.

“No, simply a
fatalist.”

“It comes to the same thing. Come look at what I’ve just installed.” It was not possible to visit Jefferson without being shown some new invention. Even his rented houses were “improved” by that restless tinker’s mind. I affected interest.

We were led into a small room between two parlours.

“Stand back.” We did so. “Now watch.”

Jefferson took the end of a rope that dangled from the ceiling, and gave a tug. There was a loud crash as a heavy bed landed at the inventor’s feet, nearly sparing us the Jefferson administration. “Good God!” The American Archimedes was crest-fallen. “I can’t think what went wrong.”

“The ropes were too fragile.” Dr. Hutchinson was profound.

“A marvellous invention, in theory at least.” I was polite. I had already seen a similar invention in Jefferson’s town house. During the night the bed would rest on the floor; during the day it would be hauled up to the ceiling by ropes. I cannot think why.

For some time, Jefferson discoursed impressively on Newton’s theory of gravity and the inverse square which entirely accounted for the delicious fact that a heavy bed unless secured by strong ropes will always fall to the floor.

Dinner was served at three o’clock on the lawn where we were tolerably shaded by tall plane-trees. Despite the heat we did more than justice to the wonders from the Jefferson kitchen and cellar, served us by a French major-domo named Petit. One always dined royally at the great democrat’s table.

Among the other guests were Philip Freneau and John Brown, the senator from Kentucky. It was, in effect, a gathering of Republicans for. a most interesting purpose.

As always with Jefferson, the conversation at first touched on a thousand matters other than the business at hand. Although Madeira was considered the best drink to ward off the fever, a cold white French wine emerged in quantities from the cellar, and we drank much too much of it; like characters in Boccaccio, we played at enjoying ourselves during a plague year (each wondering to himself who would be next to die).

Jefferson gave us news of Hamilton. “Apparently he became sick a few nights ago, after dinner with the President.”

“One should bring a taster to King George’s table.” Freneau’s attacks on Washington were particularly savage during this season—which proved to be the last for the
National Gazette
.
A month later the newspaper failed.

“The wise man eats
before
going to the Washingtons’.” Jefferson was as droll as he could be. “Whatever monarchical tendencies the President may have, he sets a republican table. Anyway, Hamilton has summoned not one but two doctors to save his precious life.” Jefferson was disdainful. “He is in terror of death. But then he has a fearful nature. He is timid on a horse, timid on the sea—timid in battle, too, was he not Colonel Burr?”

“Actually he was a good officer on those rare occasions when he was in the field ...”

“But a better officer at headquarters, playing Jonathan to the General’s David.” Freneau was as relentless as Jefferson, and far more bitter since he had that ill-proportioned passion for the abstract that is peculiar to so many literary men. There is some evidence that Freneau really did believe in the rights of man. Although Jefferson’s dislike of monarchy was sincere, he knew as well as anyone that there was never the slightest danger of any American wearing a crown; thus his constant harping on the subject was simply a way to blacken the reputation of anyone unfortunate enough to stand between him and that throne he meant, from the beginning, to occupy. With Jefferson everything was personal; with Freneau, theoretical. Naturally, each appeared to be opposite to what he was.

They spoke with such contempt of Hamilton’s record as a soldier that I found myself coming to my rival’s aid. “To his credit Hamilton was always there with the rest of us. He did fight in the battle for New York Island. He did suffer with the rest of us at Valley Forge. He was at Yorktown. He never shirked his duty ...” I am not often tactless but as I spoke I felt a definite drop, as it were, in the temperature at table.

I glanced at Jefferson and saw that he was blushing, always a sign in him of distress. Obviously he thought that I was alluding to the ignominious role he had played in the Revolution. It was the one subject (aside from Hamilton and later me) whose very mention made him irrational—with some reason. At the approach of the British army, Governor Jefferson fled to Monticello, leaving the state without an administration. At Monticello he dawdled, thought only of how to transport his books to safety. Not until the first British troops had started up the hill did he and his family again take to their heels. Later Patrick Henry’s faction in the Virginia Assembly demanded an investigation, but fortunately for Jefferson the proud Virginia burgesses did not want to be reminded of the general collapse of their state and so their hapless governor was able to avoid impeachment and censure. He did not, however, avoid ridicule; and that is worse than any formal censure.