Burr

  “Mmm?” Clinton’s mind was never a swift instrument. “We been hearin’ about you in the west.”

  “Don’t believe a word of what you hear.”

  “You was there all summer, they say. Well, that there part of the world better stay with us if they know what’s good for ’em.”

  “Are you enjoying the vice-presidency?”

  “Stupidest job there ever was, ain’t it? And for me, George Clinton, the governor that was, and at my age!”

  The following day, I dined with the President and a dozen members of Congress. I found Jefferson in good form and could not think why. I was so intrigued by his high spirits that I asked if I might see him privately; most readily he gave me an appointment.

  I was received in the basement office, filled now with gardening implements as well as two copying machines. Apparently he had discovered a contraption that really worked. “Such a convenience, Colonel. You must get one.”

  “When I settle down, I most certainly shall.”

  “Yes.” Not once did he look me in the face during an interview that lasted two hours.

  I was almost entirely candid with him and for once he was as candid with me as his nature would allow.

  “You have read of my supposed plans for the west.” I began in medias res. I had vowed that there were to be no disquisitions on architecture or on the nature of music.

  “I have read the newspapers.” Jefferson fiddled with a globe of the world. He was seated in a chair of his own design which could turn this way and that, most disconcertingly, on a swivel.

  “Let me tell you then that there is not the slightest chance in this world of the western states leaving the union.”

  “I am relieved.” The attempt at lightness was plucky.

  “I might add that you yourself are personally most popular in the west.” This was true, as he of course knew.

  “That is gratifying. I would like some day to go to that part of the world, when I’m free of this hateful place.”

  I promptly forestalled what I have come to regard as “The Presidential Lament.” It is a constant song of self-pity first sung by Washington and taken up by all his successors, rather like part-singing. Last year even Andrew Jackson sang to me of that malign destiny which had made him our chief magistrate. I cut Jackson short; told him I was not in the least moved by his sad song. I will say that of the lot only Jackson has the humour to laugh at himself—not much but a little and that little is refreshing.

  “Let me tell you how things stand at the west.” And tell him I did, as accurately as I was able.

  Jefferson listened attentively; asked precise questions; confessed, finally, that “I have never before been told so many things I ought to have known but did not.”

  “I enjoy sharing with you since what I have learned is of far more use to you than it is to me.”

  Jefferson spun the globe slowly on its axis. “I must tell you, Colonel, that I have not believed any of the more … sensational reports that I have read of your travels. I am certain that you would never attempt a separation of the western states.”

  Later Jefferson was to deny having heard at this time so much as a rumour of my “treasonous” activities. Actually there was little he did not know. After all, I was as open with him as I could be.

  “General Wilkinson and I would like very much to raise an army—much like the one you had in mind at the time of the Michaux expedition—and liberate Mexico. As you know, this has been the sole object of my western travels during which I discovered that every American in that part of the world wants to drive the Dons from our continent.”

  Jefferson did not answer for some time. He played with the globe; turned it, finally, to Mexico. “You put me in a difficult position, Colonel.”

  “It is my impression that this position is one that you have for a long time wanted to be in. You have always said that our empire would not be complete without the Floridas, Canada, Cuba—and Mexico.”

  “Yes, of course. And we shall have the whole hemisphere one day. I am certain of that. But I can do nothing unless there is war with Spain.”

  “It has been my impression that you have been … and that you are … preparing for such a war.”

  “There are things, Colonel, that you don’t know.” Jefferson pushed the globe away from him and sat so far back in his peculiar chair that I thought he would tumble over. “I have just received an offer from the Emperor Napoleon. As usual, he needs money for his wars. He has offered to ‘persuade’—that was his ambassador’s tactful verb—the Spanish government to let us have West Florida. For this kindly act of persuasion he would like two million dollars. I am tempted to give the Corsican bandit his pour-boire.”

  I was astonished by the offer. I was even more astonished by Jefferson’s acceptance of it. “But you are now buying what you have already paid for. Wasn’t West Florida part of the Louisiana Purchase?”

  “That has always been my … uh, construction of a somewhat unfinished document. But neither my construction nor Congress’s acts will ever gain us a square foot of Spanish territory.”

  “War will gain you the western hemisphere.”

  “No doubt. But the cost of sending an army—and a fleet—to Mobile would come to rather more than two million dollars. The Cabinet think that we should hire the Emperor, on the ground that it will be cheaper in the long run.”

  “This Congress will not appropriate the money.”

  “Properly approached, I am certain they will.”

  “Then there will be no war with Spain.”

  “I fear not.” My obvious chagrin no doubt added to Jefferson’s quite evident sense of well-being. He was complacent. “I do think that we are the first empire in history to buy its territory rather than to conquer it.”

  “There has never been any doubt, anywhere, of our uniqueness.” I was thoroughly cast down by the news.

  “What will you do now?” Jefferson pretended sympathy.

  “I don’t know.” And I did not know. “I may settle on some property I’ve acquired on the Washita River … and wait for a war with Spain.”

  “I am sure that one day it will come.”

  “If not … what would your view be of a liberated Mexico?”

  “I would applaud the result.” Jefferson was again the diplomat at Paris. Each swift response rich with ambiguities.

  “But the preparation …?”

  “I give you the same advice that I gave Genêt and Michaux. Be quick, be successful, and do not implicate this government.”

  I rose to go.

  Jefferson noted with surprise that we had been together for two hours. “I have never known time to go so rapidly, or so profitably.” He walked me upstairs to the draughty entrance hall, filled with smoke from a faulty fireplace in the dining-room.

  “We are having our problems with one of the flues.”

  “If you like, I’ll rebuild it for you.” When close to starving in Paris, I remodelled several chimneys for money. A useful talent.

  “Colonel, you have touched my single … at least my most noticeable vanity! I alone tinker in this house.”

  “So be it.”

  An usher opened the front door. In the muddy front yard a groom stood with my horse. Jefferson looked at me curiously. “I must say that I had rather thought you would be coming back to live here.”

  “To this house?” I asked most pleasantly.

  “Why not? But I meant to Washington City, to the Congress, representing one of the western states.”

  “It is still a possibility.”

  “You ought not to waste yourself, Colonel.”

  “I do not think that it is I who have done the wasting.”

  Jefferson blushed; and bade me farewell.

  At this point I was willing to abandon the Mexican project. Without a Spanish war, most of my western confederates would refuse to risk the Administration’s disfavour by taking up arms. Worse, despite Merry’s efforts, I could get nothing from Eng
land.

  Much discouraged, I moved on to Philadelphia where Jonathan Dayton tried to re-awaken my enthusiasm. I had also received a letter from Harman Blennerhassett who wanted to sell his island and throw in his lot with me.

  “He’s a fool but he has a good deal of money.” Dayton and I sat by the meagre fire at Richard Dell’s rather humble tavern, and I confess that I was as depressed as the winter day. Dayton did his best to rally me. “Let’s approach Don Carlos.”

  I told him that I did not think Spain was apt to finance an expedition whose aim was to take Mexico away from her.

  “That’s not exactly the way I would put it to Don Carlos.” Dayton grinned: he was a born peddler of snake-root. “Quite the opposite. I’d begin by saying that although we had once contemplated such an undertaking at the suggestion of the British minister …”

  “The wise man never lies.” I quoted the Jesuit aphorism, but to no avail.

  “Everything I tell him will be true but inside out. Of course the Spanish know what we’re about, and he’s more apt to believe me if I admit to everything.”

  “So what do we have to offer Spain?”

  “The revival of the Spanish Conspiracy.”

  Dayton had several meetings with Don Carlos who ended by giving Dayton $1,500, and wishing us luck. At the time I did not know just what it was that my colleague had said to the Spanish minister. I was not pleased when Dayton finally confessed to me that he had told Don Carlos that our real aim was to seize Washington, capture the President and the Congress, steal the money from the Bank of the United States, board the ships in the Navy Yard and sail to New Orleans where we would set up a western republic.

  “You have now convinced Don Carlos that I am an out-and-out lunatic.”

  “What do you care?” Dayton was purest brass. “He takes the plan seriously enough to pay us money.”

  Sick of the whole business, I returned to Washington and applied to Jefferson for a government appointment. I was willing to take any post, no matter how humble.

  Our interview took place on February 22, 1806. I humbled myself. Jefferson was ravished. I have never seen him so—exalted. There is no other word. With the serene justice of God Himself he told me, ever so softly, that since the public had lost its confidence in me, there was nothing he could give me in the way of an appointment.

  “The lack of confidence shown by a few newspapers is hardly significant,” I said. “We have all been tarred by them.”

  “True. But unfortunately political confidence in you has also been withdrawn.”

  “In the recent election for governor of New York, I not only carried the city but—”

  “No, Colonel. I mean at the time of the last presidential election when, although you were the incumbent vice-president, you did not receive a single vote.”

  Jefferson rose and busied himself with the mocking-bird’s cage.

  I had vowed to maintain a humble pose, but this was too much. “I did not get a single vote because the electors knew that I was not a candidate. The reason I was not a candidate for re-election as vice-president was your decision, not mine or theirs, and reflects not at all on either my competence or their confidence.”

  Jefferson released the mocking-bird from its cage and it flew to his shoulder. He sat down; again remarked that he was sorry. He could do nothing for me. Public confidence once withdrawn …

  I stopped him short; reminded him that as recently as the year before when he had needed me in the Senate neither he nor the public had shown any lack of confidence in me.

  “But since then, Colonel, we have heard so many things.” His voice was dreamy. “The newspapers have alarmed the people …”

  “That is their function.”

  Jefferson held out his finger and the mocking-bird lit upon it; and whistled.

  “I confess, Mr. Jefferson, that I find it most remarkable, most strange, that you are not able to confide any task to the man who raised you to this place.”

  The fierce old mouth set. The hands fell to the table. The bird fled and perched on the mantel opposite. “It was the people, Colonel Burr, who did me this honour …”

  “No, Sir. It was Aaron Burr who gave you your victory in New York state, and it was Aaron Burr who could have taken the presidency from you had he but said the word.”

  “But you did not say that word, Mr. Burr. And here I am.” Like an axe his malice fell upon me; and we were done with one another.

  I rose to go. “I wonder what the world would think if they were to know all the arrangements you made in order to become president.”

  “It is too late to change what is now the accepted version of our revolution.” Jefferson put the mocking-bird back inside its cage.

  But a good many of Jefferson’s supporters were shaken when, two months later, my friends’ suit against the journalist Cheetham came to trial in New York. Cheetham had charged me with trying to get the presidency for myself during the election of 1800. Duly sworn, Senator Bayard of Delaware stated categorically not only that had Aaron Burr made no move to take the presidency from Thomas Jefferson but that Jefferson had been indecently quick to come to an understanding with the Federalists in order to get their support in the House.

  Recently, when Jefferson’s journal was published, one was able to read at inordinate length his dishonest response to this charge and his mad notion that I was entirely responsible for Senator Bayard’s deposition which had, he wrote, been taken for no “other object than to calumniate me.” Actually, I had little to do with the suit. It was Bayard who insisted that the truth be known. Currently the battle still rages amongst the heirs of the two men—who lied? Jefferson or Bayard? The Jeffersonians still maintain that it was simply coincidence that after the election of 1801, Bayard’s Federalist friend was kept on by Jefferson as collector of the port of Wilmington, Delaware.

  Despite the finality of our February interview, I dined with Jefferson once again in company. Then April 12, 1806, I went to say good-bye, and that was the end of that.

  1835

  One

  LATELY I HAVE TAKEN to introducing Helen as my wife to strangers or slight acquaintances; not that we go to many public places—usually she refuses to leave the house. I assume it is because she is afraid she will meet men that she has known at Mrs. Townsend’s (the thought alarms me, too). But she denies any such fear; says she does not care what anyone thinks. Yet when I urge her to go with me to this place or that, she says she prefers her “work” at home. When she does go with me, she is sulky while I … I feel a most extraordinary sense of triumph even though I know that I would be ruined if anyone suspected who and what she was. Certainly saying that she is my wife increases the danger. On the other hand, there is no reason why we cannot be married one day. All I have to do is make money; apply myself to the law; forget about going abroad, about leading the life of a Washington Irving—or even a Fitz-Greene Halleck, whom I saw to-night.

  Sam Swartwout invited me to have supper with him at the Shakespeare Tavern in Nassau Street. I accepted with pleasure. Once, on an errand, I took some papers to a client in the tap-room, and was amazed to see everyone from Edwin Forrest to James K. Paulding all drinking and smoking together in a most convivial mood. The Shakespeare Tavern is the unofficial club of the literary and theatrical people of the town; and to be accepted as an equal in that place is the dream of every would-be author or actor. Even politicians of the cheerier sort can be seen in the tap-room, not to mention members of the Kraut Club whose annual party starts at breakfast and continues until the last member has collapsed beneath the proud emblem of our Dutch heritage, the cabbage.

  “You go alone. I want to work.” For two weeks Helen has every day not worked on a dress already paid for by an impatient lady. A short quarrel, ending when she burst into tears—which is rare with her. “I hate everything!” she sobbed.

  “Me, too?”

  But Helen only blew her nose; splashed cold water into her face; sat at her dress-dummy, and
started to work. She looked, as always, more like a lady than any of those who decorate the parlours of the City Hotel. I think this is why I like to show her off. I love the masquerade, and the danger.

  Muffled against the arctic air, I walked through the darkening gray streets, trying not to slip on frozen cobbles, to avoid snow-bitches, to stay out of the path of the sleighs with their ominous thin tinkle and clatter of bells, and their terrifying propensity to slide wildly out of control, smashing the legs of horses—and of the poor who like myself walk.

  I opened the green door of the Shakespeare Tavern, and was deafened by a roar of voices from the rooms to left and right; was overwhelmed by the powerful smell of spirits mingled with the odour of smoked goose and sauerkraut (despite my dislike of Dutchness I have Dutch tastes in food).

  Ears tingling as heat replaced cold, I stepped into the tap-room and collided with a short stocky man who fell against the door-frame. We apologized simultaneously; then recognised one another. “Ah, the young protégé of Colonel Burr!”

  I could not restrain myself, as usual. Like a fool I told Fitz-Greene Halleck that I had just finished reading the Croaker Papers; and admired them.

  “Oh, dear!” Halleck talks as he writes—is highly whimsical. “Those old things.” He gestured toward the back rooms. “We wrote them here, Mr. Drake and I.” He gave me a penetrating if somewhat watery look. He smelled of rum. “I have just read your Old Patroon piece in the Evening Post: on eating your first love-apple—or I suppose one must now call it a tomato. I was filled with admiration for your courage. Like everyone in the world—except Indians and certain English eccentrics like Mrs. Trollope—I had thought the tomato deadly poison. Laughed at my grocer when he told me it could be safely eaten after all. But now, thanks to your intrepid spirit and literary skill, I shall, come summer, myself taste of that hectic scarlet sinister globe.”

  My face must have been cretinous with pleasure and confusion. Praise from Halleck! As I write this, I still cannot believe my luck for, “You must do more pieces so that we can make a book for you.”