The American Chronicle 1 - Burr (37 page)

Fortunately for the Republican party, Adams had no interest in war. Almost as fortunately, Washington died in December 1799. Then the French Directory made peaceful gestures and Major-General Hamilton’s dream of military conquest
à
la Bonaparte collapsed, leaving him more than ever bent on punishing the principal obstacle in his path, John Adams.

Shortly after the New Year, 1800, Jefferson called on me at Francis’ Hotel in Philadelphia where I had come at his insistence. I had reserved the small side room for what was bound to be a long meeting. We had a good deal to say to one another, some of it unpleasant.

From the main parlour one could hear the loud talk of those members of Congress whose best debates were not in the Congress but in the unrecorded privacy of the Francis establishment. They were, all in all, jovial men to be avoided.

It was a cold day and the Vice-President was dressed accordingly. The rusty head was framed by furs, the freckles more pronounced than usual in the winter pallor of his face.

My hand was warmly seized. Then Jefferson threw off the fur-lined cape, addressed himself to the Franklin stove, and thoughtfully explained to me its principle (which I knew), meditated on Benjamin Franklin’s character (which I also knew), was willing to talk with ease of everything except the reason why he had wanted to see me—the alliance between Virginia and New York that would make him president. Affecting to be no politician, he was nothing else.

I asked him about Washington’s funeral services. Jefferson was unexpectedly cool. “I was not present. Here or there. I understand he asked for no funeral oration at the service.”

“But then for ten years he had heard nothing but eulogy.”

“That was not the way he saw it.” Then Jefferson repeated to me almost word for word his comments on Washington beside the Schuylkill River. I have noticed that even the greatest of men tend to redundancy. Doubtless, it comes of meeting too many people and having too little that is fresh to say to them.

That season Jefferson had been particularly busy. Outraged by the Alien and Sedition Acts, he had written a secret attack on them in which he boldly made the case for the right of any state to nullify any act of the federal government which it deems unconstitutional. He also made an excellent and highly dangerous case for secession. I was horrified. So was Madison who later told me, wearily, that when enraged Jefferson had no sense at all of what he was doing.

“Genius often expresses itself,” said Madison sadly, “in a particularly fierce manner when confronted by sensations of the moment.” Most unwisely, the Kentucky legislature accepted Jefferson’s formulation (not knowing its author) while Virginia accepted Madison’s much more reasonable document. Both resolutions were then presented to the rest of the states for ratification. They were rejected. The other states were unwilling to put an end so promptly to the federal union.

“I was in—I am in a most delicate position. I am a federal officer. Yet I oppose the tyranny of the federal system.” Jefferson invariably managed to get himself into the position of double agent. As secretary of state he had agreed to the whiskey tax; then he sided with the farmers who revolted against it. As vice-president, he was now making the case for disunion.

I always found that with Jefferson one had to begin all over again with each meeting in order to establish—not intimacy, but a certain community of interest. I have several letters from him sent at not-too-distant intervals in which he seems to be introducing himself to me for the first time. There was not much
continuing
with him. I daresay this was his policy.

A black servant brought us hot rum, and we both drank a good deal considering our usual abstemiousness. The arrival and departure of the Negro reminded Jefferson of a bill before Congress to grant limited recognition to Toussaint L’Ouverture, the black master of Santo Domingo.

“We cannot recognise him. Ever. If only for the sake of our French friends.” Jefferson was emphatic. Our sister republic (whose motto was liberty, equality, fraternity) must be allowed to crush its black rebels. Meanwhile recognition was out of the question, and for an excellent reason: “Can you imagine what our southern ports would be like? swarming with former slaves
who have killed their masters
?”

We discussed the editor James Callender, who had been arrested under the Sedition Act. “He is sure to be let go.” Jefferson was sanguine; loved his creature. Yet the following August, Jefferson told me, sadly, “Poor Callender is in the Richmond jail, waiting to be tried. He reports that he is surrounded by Gabriel Prosser’s people, and they keep him awake at night with their singing.” Gabriel Prosser had led an uprising of slaves, inspired, according to Jefferson, by the terrible events in Santo Domingo. No one knows how many thousands of Negroes were executed that year by the frightened Virginians.

Jefferson spoke admiringly of Callender’s book
The Prospect Before Us
,
a vilification of Adams in particular and of the Federalists in general. We speculated what would happen when Callender came to trial. Jefferson was certain that the charges would be dismissed. But he was mistaken. When the trial took place, Supreme Court Justice Chase sentenced Callender to jail for nine months. This trial was to have a considerable effect on our joint destinies.

But to return to our winter meeting in Philadelphia. I observed that the government’s arrest of some twenty editors could only help us in the coming election.

“But are these arrests simply the beginning?” Jefferson’s face assumed that haunted visionary’s look that I had already come to know—and dread—for it always presaged a denunciation of “heresy,” of “monocrats,” of “Catalines and Caesars.”

“You mean
General
Hamilton?”

“I do. He commands the army. He and he alone. Adams is too weak to restrain him. Washington is dead. Hamilton can seize power whenever he chooses.” I did not listen as the familiar tirade swirled about that small parlour in Francis’ Hotel.

When Jefferson had finished, I spoke of practical matters. “At the election Hamilton will support Pinckney’s brother instead of Adams.”

“So I have been advised. Naturally, this will weaken Adams further, particularly in South Carolina.” I much preferred Jefferson the work-a-day politician to the inflated
philosophe
.
Then: “How do you see your own position in New York?”

Due to the patriotic fervour Hamilton and the Federalists had drummed up, the New York Assembly now had a Federalist majority, and I was out of office.

“I expect to be re-elected to the Assembly on the first of May.”

“You are optimistic.” Jefferson was not. “It is my impression that New York is securely Federalist, and I expect no votes from your electors.”

“You will receive every one of New York’s electoral votes.”

In theory, Jefferson knew of wit, of irony, of humour, as he knew of the opossum’s pouch but like that singularity he could not achieve any of those things himself while, worse, he was never certain when a true specimen was at hand. My manner was constantly puzzling to him.

“You believe that
you
can produce a Republican majority?”

“I do.”

“May I ask how?”

“You may.” I was now prepared to pay him back for his treacheries. “But I must warn you that although I expect my state to be Republican, it is by no means certain that you will be the candidate.”

Jefferson gave me a
hard look. “They would be wiser,” he said evenly, “to take Madison.” The humility was characteristically mechanical.

“Many would rather take
no
Virginian!”

“I see.” I suppose that he did.

“You are also thought to be an atheist.”

“My life has been devoted to guaranteeing religious freedom for all people.” I feared that he would tell me more; but he cut himself short. “I know that religious bigotry is more acceptable than tolerance at the north where the clergy still govern.”

“Then be prepared for their attacks. You are also thought to be a Jacobin who wants to level society, to destroy the rich ...”

“That rumour will not cost us a vote.”

“I agree. You will also be attacked as a libertine.”

“By Hamilton?” The scorn was perfect. “By the lover of Mrs. Reynolds?”

“No. By a Mr. John Walker of Virginia.”

The pale face blushed suddenly. “I am used to such attacks.” He neither answered nor denied the charge. Later he confessed that he had been guilty on one occasion, and only one, of having “offered love” to a beautiful lady—who happened to be the wife of an old friend. At this time I knew nothing of his affair in France with a Mrs. Cosway whose husband, a miniaturist, had been (no doubt in a very small way) complaisant. Eventually all things are known. And few matter.

Having put Jefferson on the defensive, I moved to secure what was mine by honourable agreement: the Republican candidacy for vice-president.

“We have discussed this matter once before, Mr. Jefferson, and I do not mean to weary you, but I shall expect
all
of Virginia’s votes to be cast for me, just as you will receive all of New York’s votes.”

Jefferson stared at the side of the Franklin stove. The iron glowed red in patches; as if a black man were blushing red. “I think that this business of party is demeaning to all of us.”

“None of us likes it. But since you helped devise the rules of the game you must now play accordingly.” As if I needed to give the subtlest of our politicians any advice at all. He had already out-played me but I did not know it.

“Am I to understand that you are making a
condition
,
Colonel Burr?” I had the full gaze at last.

“I am living up to an earlier agreement, Mr. Jefferson. I expect you to do the same.”

“I live up to all agreements to the best of my ability.” The gaze stayed upon me. He had made some inner resolve to overcome his natural shiftiness, and stare me down. This was not possible.

“Then you will support me for vice-president.”

“I have not that much influence, Colonel Burr.”

“What influence you do possess, would you be so good as to bring to bear. Just as my friend Madison—whose word I entirely trust—also intends to do.”

The mouth set in precisely the same way it had set when he had beaten so savagely the horse at Monticello. “Influence is not measurable, Sir. I cannot speak for the consciences of other men.”

“Then, Mr. Jefferson, you must take your chance as I shall take mine.” I played the last of my cards.

“You would oppose
me
for president.” I still recall how the freckles were suddenly as dark as plague spots in that ashen face.

“I do not want to oppose you. After all, there is time for me. But if I am again betrayed ...” The word was said. The response was electric.

“You will have your Virginia votes, Colonel Burr.” The eyes left my face. The contest was over. The war had begun.

“And you will have the votes of New York state and the presidency.” I humoured him. “I shall simply be your vice-president, waiting to be asked to dinner, to take pleasure in your company which is about all a vice-president can do, as you know better than I. Fortunately, I would rather listen to you talk than to all the music in the world.”

Jefferson took me quite seriously; became warm and confiding; led me on. Led me on!

I HAVE TAKEN to writing pieces for the
Evening Post
under the pseudonym Old Patroon, a very conservative, very angry, very censorious old New Yorker. Mr. Bryant is delighted, Leggett is amused. “I never thought that beneath your stolid Dutch exterior there was so much fire and fury.”

“Nor did I.” Apparently everything offends me, including the voices of women raised in song. I have always hated the custom of the ladies coming forward to sing at polite evening parties (of the sort I seldom attend). They shout the house down; they screech; they have no sense of music—worse, they have no shame. They compete with one another to see who can holler the loudest; and we are expected to sit quietly and look as we do in church, beautifully elevated and inspired. My attack on lady singers distressed Mr. Bryant, but yesterday he allowed it to appear and everyone is angry. “The best response,” said Leggett.

“I hope so,” said Mr. Bryant. “But let your next Old Patroon subject be more ... anodyne.”

The Colonel is amused by Old Patroon. “You have a nice way with our difficult language. Obviously you are to be a writing-lawyer like Verplanck.”

I am pleased with the Colonel’s praise; but would prefer to be no lawyer at all.

Writing-lawyers made him think of Hamilton. He showed me a cartoon of his rival, holding in his arms a blowzy woman identified as Mrs. Reynolds. “There is a mystery to Hamilton, as there is none to Jefferson who simply wanted to rise to the top. Odd how Jefferson is now thought of as a sort of genius, a Virginia Leonardo. It is true he did a great number of things, from playing the fiddle to building houses to inventing dumb-waiters, but the truth is that he never did any one thing particularly well—except of course the pursuit of power. Yet his exuberant mediocrity in the arts is everywhere admired today, and quite unrecognised is his genius for politics.”

The Colonel laid out on the baize table the papers he would need for the day’s work. “If I were young and,” he grinned, “a
writing
-lawyer instead of a scheming-lawyer, I would do a life of Hamilton and I would go to the Indies and spend as much time as I could trying to find out about a Mr. Nicholas Cruger. He was a young bachelor with a business in that part of the world. When Alexander became an orphan at twelve or thirteen, Cruger took the boy in. They lived in the same house until Hamilton was seventeen or so and came to America to study. Two things amaze. One, at fourteen, Hamilton was running Cruger’s business. The other, in later life, Hamilton came to detest his original benefactor. Why? A falling out? The way Hamilton always fell out with his surrogate fathers? Most mysterious. I have my theories but ...” The Colonel stopped, and before I could get him to expand on those theories he had begun the day’s dictation.