“He responds ill to healthy criticism.” Freneau looked very pleased with himself.
“He will have to take worse criticism,” observed Sergeant, “if he continues to be Hamilton’s creature, and a Treasuro-bankite.” This cumbersome phrase was of Jefferson’s coinage. With a slight bow, he acknowledged authorship. He then gave us his unique thoughts on how best to destroy the Bank of the United States.
“When a branch of the Bank is projected, let us say, for Richmond in Virginia, the governor of that state should then invoke the clause of the Constitution which leaves to the states all powers not plainly given the federal government. Since the federal government is nowhere given the power to create such a bank, only the states themselves can create such a bank. Now, Colonel Burr, you are the ablest lawyer at this table. Give me your view of the following proposition. Is it not true that any person who recognises a foreign legislature in a case belonging to the state commits treason against the state?”
I could not believe him serious. “You are asserting that the federal government is foreign?”
“I am.”
“You would then have a state court indict for treason any Virginian who consented to act as director, say, of the Bank of the United States?”
“If he did so on Virginia soil, yes, I would.”
“And should the court find him guilty of treason …”
“Under our Constitution, the state court would be obliged to find him guilty.”
“You would then have him executed as a traitor to the state of Virginia?”
“Yes, and that would put an end once and for all to Mr. Hamilton’s bank, for no one would serve as director if he knew he would be hanged.” Jefferson was no Jonathan Swift. He meant exactly what he said. Years later Madison told me that Jefferson had used the same argument with him. Needless to say, Madison was as appalled as I and dissuaded Jefferson from pursuing the matter. If he had, the Constitution would have been put aside long before the fifty years’ life I gave it!
The Republican sycophants at table thought the plan superb. Freneau was for implementing it immediately. I made gentle objections until the conversation flowed into other more congenial channels.
As we sat over peach ice-cream, drinking more chilled wine than was entirely necessary, watching the long shadows stretch across the lawn, the first fireflies glow in the shrubbery, Jefferson told us the reason for the dinner.
“I wanted my good friends to know that I have given the President my resignation as secretary of state.” A chorus of “oh no!” “To take effect the first of October. I told the President that it is no longer possible for me to continue usefully as a member of his government.”
“Now it will be Hamilton alone as chief of state.” Senator Brown broke the silence.
“If,” said Dr. Hutchinson enthusiastically, “he does not presently die.”
“We cannot count on that.” Jonathan Sergeant was grim.
But Jefferson had not done with surprising us. “The President came here—to this house—last week. Declared himself most bitter at my decision. ‘You and Hamilton persuaded me—against my deepest wish—to serve a second term as president. Now I am to be left entirely alone.’ ”
“Hamilton is resigning, too?” I could not believe it.
“At the end of this Congress, according to the President.”
I said I did not believe it, and I was right. Hamilton stayed on two more years, until the beginning of 1795. But that warm evening beside the Schuylkill River, Jefferson was a happy man. Like Washington, he did nothing but complain of the horrors of political life and, like Washington, he had no desire to let go of power. But for the moment he knew that his usefulness was at an end. The Genêt business had exhausted him. Unknown to us at dinner, Jefferson had already requested the French to recall their ambassador in a document which, I am told, was a masterpiece of diplomacy. This meant that Jefferson would be able to leave office in a blaze of glory, keeping, on the one hand, the loyalty of those rabid Republicans who worshipped Genêt and the Revolution while, on the other hand, demonstrating to the Federalists that he placed the interest of the United States before that of France. Talleyrand used to say that if ever he was an emperor he would want Jefferson to be his foreign minister.
In the cool of the evening we rose from dinner and strolled beneath the trees. Jefferson’s daughter urged us singly and jointly to insist upon the Secretary of State’s immediate departure from Philadelphia but Jefferson would have none of it. “I do not like,” he said severely, “to exhibit the appearance of panic.”
“But the President goes next week.”
“And we go, as planned, two weeks later. One ought to sustain at least the semblance of a government here—even though I am now reduced to only one clerk.” Jefferson looked at Freneau and quickly amended himself. “One clerk and one superb translator.”
At the river’s edge, beneath the many-rooted willows, Dr. Hutchinson spoke sadly of Jefferson’s retirement. “It will be three years before the next election, and long before that time Adams and Hamilton will possess the nation.” The good doctor was vehement, eyes flashing, colour high.
Senator Brown and I also urged Jefferson to remain in office but he was adamant. He did have a scheme, or rather several schemes, for the extension of our democracy. Senator Brown alluded to the boldest. “Your Frenchman should be in Kentucky now.”
“My Frenchman?” Jefferson looked pensive. “No, he is not my Frenchman. And if he fails he is no one’s Frenchman.”
“In that case,” Senator Brown agreed, “he will be a dead Frenchman.”
Jefferson turned to Dr. Hutchinson and me. “You may know of the botanist André Michaux.”
Dr. Hutchinson did know; praised the young man’s recent address to the Philosophical Society. It seems that Michaux had been particularly revelatory on deciduous trees.
“Citizen Genêt asked me if I would send Michaux to Kentucky, with a letter to the governor asking that Michaux be supported in a venture to take New Orleans from the Spanish.”
“At last!” Dr. Hutchinson was afire. “You agreed, didn’t you?”
Jefferson’s features were indistinct in the failing golden light. “I gave Michaux the letter.”
Senator Brown was explicit. “For three thousand pounds, two of our generals, Clark and Logan, will raise an army of frontiersmen and occupy New Orleans. We shall then have what we must have, control of the Mississippi River.”
I, too, was thrilled. I did wonder how Jefferson intended to cover his tracks. He told us, quite candidly, “This will be entirely—on the surface—a French affair. Citizen Genêt’s government will provide the three thousand pounds …”
“But we are at peace with Spain,” I said, thinking like a lawyer when I should have thought like a philosopher and so gained the world.
“And we shall continue to be at peace.” Jefferson was mild. “I have stipulated that the men are not to be trained on American soil.”
“What happens,” I asked, “if they succeed? If they capture New Orleans?”
“That whole area will then join our union while enjoying a special relation with France.”
“Are the Spanish so weak?” I was curious; my destiny not yet begun—no, at this very moment begun—in that enticing part of the world.
“It is our impression.”
“What happens should you—should they fail?”
“I warned Michaux that in such a case we do not know their names. Fortunately he is a stoic young man.” Jefferson’s voice was beginning to blend with the soughing of a warm wind. I could no longer make out his face. In the house lanterns were being lit.
“There’s no chance of failure, Mr. Jefferson. You will have the support of every man in Kentucky.” Senator Brown had the expansive manner peculiar to the frontier where one is always offered the world while settling for a mug of home-made whiskey.
“I hope you are right. After all, this is my last … activity in the government.”
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“Until we make you president!”
Dr. Hutchinson put his arm through Jefferson’s and we made our way across the lawn to the house while Jefferson explained to us what it was that made the firefly glow.
I left Jefferson at the carriage path.
“I am grateful,” he said, “that you braved the fever to visit me at the end of my political career.”
“I suspect it is the beginning.”
“No, no, no.” The soft voice trailed off. “But I do think we must keep an eye on the monocrats, you in New York and I in Virginia. We shall correspond.”
Dr. Hutchinson appeared, and asked if I would take him home in my carriage. I agreed. We then exchanged bows with our host (no one shook hands during the fever season).
As we drove off, Jefferson waved to us. Suddenly I saw him as a monster scarecrow silhouetted against the lights from the house. So death must look, I thought, and shuddered: a nightmare figure with attenuated limbs and a whispering voice. Then slowly, slowly, with distance, he shrunk from troll to doll to nothing, darkness.
Dr. Hutchinson was eloquent with praise. “There has never been such a mind! Not even Franklin, and I knew him well, too. If anyone can make us into a true republic, it is Jefferson.”
“Or an empire. What he plans to do in Kentucky is very bold.”
“Boldness is what the world respects. We need new territory.”
“But do we need … can we afford a war with Spain?”
Dr. Hutchinson laughed. “Jefferson told me he has a perfect pretext if we ever need it. The Spanish control the Creek Indians. The Creek Indians have been harassing our settlers. If the Creeks are not restrained by their Spanish masters, Jefferson will threaten Spain with …” Dr. Hutchinson suddenly gagged. “Too much wine. Forgive me. Do stop the carriage.”
He got out and vomited. I sat very still, holding a camphor-soaked handkerchief to my face; certain that I was now at the end of my life and that the vision of Jefferson as death had been premonitory.
When Dr. Hutchinson got back inside we both knew that he had the yellow fever—which explained the red lips, the glassy eyes.
“He feeds us much too well for a summer day,” said Dr. Hutchinson.
I agreed.
In silence we drove to the doctor’s house. We bade one another good night. The next day Dr. Hutchinson was dead.
A few weeks later Jonathan Sergeant was also dead, to the delight of John Adams who always maintained, perhaps seriously, that only the yellow fever had saved the United States from revolution that summer.
The Michaux expedition failed but Jefferson was in no way compromised. He had seen to it that Citizen Genêt got the full blame from everyone.
Amusingly enough, a few days after our dinner party where Jefferson had refused to “exhibit the appearance of panic,” he fled to Monticello after first borrowing, so Hamilton told me with delight, a hundred dollars for travelling expenses from the evil Bank of the United States.
Fifteen
COLONEL BURR AND I WENT this day for dinner at the City Hotel. Contrary to his usual custom, the Colonel took a place near the end of that table which is always occupied by the old bachelor Charles Baldwin. Fat, red of face, boisterous in manner, Baldwin was delighting a number of cronies with his various opinions, delivered in what he took to be the style of Samuel Johnson.
“Ah, Colonel Burr! Our Themistocles. How do you do, Sir?” He turned to the friends about him. “The death’s-head at our feast.”
Colonel Burr inclined his head gravely. I pretended to distract him with an aside; and he pretended to listen to my nonsense.
But Baldwin was not to be stopped. Tearing apart a large roast duck, stuffing chunks of it into his mouth, swilling claret, he gabbled (and gobbled): “Astonishing sight, to see such a man abroad, amongst honest men. With hands—what is the word?—all encarnadined!”
Baldwin suddenly grabbed at his throat; tried to breathe. Could not. He fell forward into the plate of torn duck.
Much confusion. A doctor arrived from the next room. Efforts were made to revive the fat man as he lay on the floor, his head resting on a low spittoon.
The Colonel rose, rather fastidiously. “I do believe, Charlie, that poor Mr. Baldwin is dead.” And so he proved to be. “Of gluttony.” The Colonel shook his head solemnly. “There is a lesson here for all of us,” he said at large, and then he led me from the shocked table, as though to preserve my youth from further contagion.
In the street we made a dinner of oysters; and Burr chuckled in a macabre way at Charles Baldwin’s unexpected departure. The old are merciless.
Later this afternoon, just before Colonel Burr and I began work, I asked about the Michaux expedition.
“Everything went wrong.” The Colonel carefully shut the dusty window to keep from circulating a most refreshing breeze. “It is a bit chilly in here, isn’t it?” He poked the fire. I sweated in miserable silence.
“You must understand that it was Jefferson’s dream to annex Canada, Cuba, Mexico and Texas. He also favoured some sort of dominion over South America, as did Hamilton, as did I.”
“It seems like a lot of territory for a republic to govern.”
Burr grinned. “Republics can change form quite as rapidly as empires. Look at France under Bonaparte. The only true republican of us all was little Jemmy Madison.” Burr opened a thick file of papers. “Whom we shall consider today. I have been making notes.”
Memoirs of Aaron Burr–Seven
I FIRST MET JAMES MADISON when I was thirteen years old and in my first year at the College of New Jersey (as I continue to style what is now Princeton College). This was in 1769. Madison was five years older than I but somewhat less precocious (that is, neither his father nor grandfather had been president of the college, a fact that had made it possible for me to begin my career as a sophomore).
I graduated in 1772. Madison graduated in 1771 but remained on for another year, preparing himself for the ministry. He belonged to a wealthy Virginia family and, as far as I know, did nothing much beyond desultory study at home until 1775 when he became a member of the Committee of Public Safety for Orange County. A year later he was drafting the state constitution, to which he contributed a “radical” clause insuring religious freedom. It was briskly rejected by the Virginians.
From 1780 to 1783 Madison was a delegate to the Continental Congress where he became a master of parliamentary procedure and able at last to bring his considerable if somewhat eclectic learning to bear on the urgent matter of framing that triumph of the lawyer’s peculiar art, the American Constitution. For good or ill, this document is largely Madison’s creation.
Even more important than the putting together of the Constitution was the ability with which Madison defended it in the so-called Federalist papers and the cunning with which he got the reluctant Virginians to accept the federal republic. In fact, so brilliant was Madison’s advocacy (and so bitter his enemies as a result), that he lost a bid to be the first senator from Virginia. But he did contrive to win election to the House of Representatives in 1789, defeating James Monroe.
Because Madison was so small and so insignificant-looking, people tended to ignore him until he began to speak (in a voice nearly as weak as Jefferson’s); then, very gradually, listening to him, one became most vividly aware of what a great little man he was. Yet I confess I never dreamed that he would be president. Neither perhaps did he. His elevation was Jefferson’s work.
When I was thirteen and Madison was eighteen I was as tall as he. Full grown, he was smaller than I. We were not intimate at Princeton. For one thing, he was a strange pale youth, all head and no body, addicted to theology—a subject with which I wanted nothing ever to do. Then I was worldly while he most definitely was not. As far as I know he had no intercourse with a woman until, in his thirties, he became enamoured of a sixteen-year-old girl at New York. Eventually the girl threw him over for a young minister. From that time on Madison was everyone’s bachelor friend, and d
eeply sad.
After the plague summer of ’93 the government re-assembled at Philadelphia, and though some 4,000 people had recently died, everyone in society was remarkably gay. Between the theatre and Ricketts’ Circus and the receptions chez Madame Bingham, Philadelphia was a sort of provincial Babylon, reborn after Jehovah’s wrath and every bit as impenitent as the original no doubt would have been.
On May 18, 1794, my wife Theodosia died, after a long and vicious illness that destroyed mind as well as body. For her sake, I was glad the suffering was at an end; for my own and that of our daughter, I was much shaken, and could not believe that I would not know her ever again.
At the end of May, while I was still in New York seeing to my late wife’s affairs, James Monroe was appointed minister to France, a post that both Madison and Monroe insisted should go to me. The President said no, at Hamiltonian length; he was willing, however, to appoint either Madison or Monroe. Madison refused. Monroe accepted. Later, at Monrovian length, the new ambassador explained to me that I had been rejected on regional grounds. Apparently the post had first been offered New York’s Robert Livingston. When he refused it, the President did not want to offer it to another New Yorker, thus giving the impression that this particular embassy was somehow exclusive to New York. Monroe actually expected me to believe this nonsense.
I daresay I shall never know the actual story. After all, it was years before I discovered the role Monroe played in denying me, certain southern votes in the vice-presidential election of 1792. I was, he felt, too young. This no doubt was true but in that case why had he agreed to support me?
It is hard now-a-days when senators are so splendid and ambassadors so obscure to realize what the possession of an embassy meant to us. For one thing it took one away from America, a considerable pleasure (publicly denied by all ambassadors from Franklin to Adams to Jefferson to Monroe to Jay) but no less true despite their solemn patriotic demurs. To represent the American republic at a foreign court was a marvellous thing to do. Also, practically speaking, the existence of the United States depended on playing off the European powers one against the other. To be one of thirty senators was simply to be a single “aye” or “nay” in a chorus. To represent the republic in France was to be the republic personified and decisions made by the ambassador could affect the whole world—witness, Livingston’s manoeuvring that ended with Jefferson’s purchase of Louisiana.