The American Chronicle 1 - Burr (39 page)

“Why are you suddenly so interested in the grubbier aspects of political life?”

“Because I am interested in you and I know that this is the only opportunity you will ever have to be first, and if you don’t take it you will regret it as long as you live.”

I was overwhelmed by her so uncharacteristic passion. “Child, I have given my word to Jefferson.”

“Break it! He will deeply respect you, as he is bound to respect any bold gesture. He betrayed you four years ago, and he will do it again, if he can. So
remove
him.”

“The people want him ...”

“The people will want you when they know you better. You admire Bonaparte. Well, think of him. He took his opportunity and now he is the first man in Europe just as you can be the first man in America, and may God strike us where we stand there is no point to being second.”

“I think I made you read too much Plutarch.”

Theodosia laughed. “I learned that the wise man does what events compel him to do ...” She indicated the admirer’s letter from Maryland.

“I cannot break my word.”

“Then you will regret that you did not all your life.” Like the Sybil at Cumae my daughter stood before the prophetic fire and I, foolishly, thought her deranged by the excitement of her approaching wedding.

“You would now, I assume, enjoy your father’s words on the subject of marriage, and the brute needs of the male.”

Theodosia smiled; was no longer Sybil but her usual gay self. “The Senior Miss DePeyster has told me all that I need to know. During the worst of it I am to pray in a very loud voice. This is certain to shame the brute.”

“Amen,” I whispered. We laughed. She was married the next day. I made no move to gain the presidency. I behaved honourably and, as Theodosia foretold, I have regretted it all my life.

On February 11, 1801, the ballotting began. Each state delegation cast one vote. Had the president been chosen by a majority of the members of the House of Representatives, I would have been elected, despite all my protests, on the first ballot with fifty-five votes to Jefferson’s fifty-one. As it was, of the sixteen states in the union, Jefferson won eight (New York, New Jersey, Virginia, Pennsylvania, North Carolina, Kentucky, Georgia and Tennessee). Six states voted for me (Massachusetts, Connecticut, South Carolina, Rhode Island, New Hampshire and Delaware). Vermont and Maryland were divided evenly between us. There were nineteen ballots on the first day, and no resolution. To a man the Federalists had disregarded Hamilton’s advice, and were determined to support me as the lesser of the two democratic evils.

On the second day of the ballotting Jefferson made a note in his journal about the Federalist representative Bayard. As the lone representative of Delaware, Bayard was the key to the election. According to Jefferson, Bayard offered Smith of Maryland any appointment he wanted in a Burr administration. Fortunately, Smith was still alive when Jefferson’s comment was published, and he denied it on the floor of the Senate while Bayard used often to say, “The means existed to elect Burr, but he would not cooperate.” And because I would not so much as lift a finger, the election went to Jefferson after a dead-lock of seven days.

Meanwhile, Jefferson presiding over the Senate in the next chamber of the unfinished—ever to be finished?—Capitol was not above meddling in the matter, despite all protestations that he had never sought the office, and so on.

Jefferson told me at our first private meeting after the inaugural that when the Federalists threatened to interpret the Constitution to mean that Congress had the power to disregard both of us and choose any one of its number as president, “I instructed Mr. Adams that if his party attempted to do any such thing, the middle states would go into insurrection, and with guns see that the people’s will be done.” I do not know John Adams’ response. I can guess it. Like so many bookish men who have never been in battle, Jefferson enjoyed the threat of bloodshed.

Proudly Jefferson told me that he had been approached by Bayard who agreed to support him if he would promise not to dismiss certain Federalist officeholders. “I told Mr. Bayard that I could not in conscience make such a promise in order to gain an office I did not seek. General Smith made the same request, and received the same answer.”

Some years later General Smith swore that Jefferson had agreed to the
principle
that officers of the government ought not to be let go on political grounds. With this assurance, Bayard had then allowed the presidency to go to Jefferson—who dismissed every Federalist office-holder he decently could, except those he had privately promised Bayard to retain. He was never
not
in character.

I HAVE SHOWN these last few pages to Leggett who predictably seized upon the reference to Van Buren. “Pursue the matter!” We were in his office at the
Evening Post
.

“Certainly not. When I pursue, I learn nothing.”

Mr. Bryant entered. I rose respectfully. “Ah, the biographer of Colonel Burr.” Apparently that is now my principal identification.

“Charlie is unearthing all sorts of fascinating things.”

Mr. Bryant looked pained. “I cannot help but think, Mr. Schuyler, that the Colonel’s intrigues are best forgotten.”

“I disagree, Mr. Bryant.”

“Of course. Of course.” The great man backed away. Like Washington Irving, he suspects that his hero Jackson is going to be revealed as a traitor to the union along with Henry Clay. If they were indeed conspirators with Colonel Burr nothing would give me more pleasure than to publish the fact.

Mr. Bryant gave Leggett a slip of paper. “Tomorrow the Vice-President will give an address on democracy.”

“I shall be there, in workie disguise.”

“There is also a reception for him this afternoon at the American Hotel.” With a bow, Mr. Bryant vanished.

Leggett stood up. “It’s time you met the man we are about to destroy.”

THE ASSEMBLY-ROOM at the American Hotel was crowded with politicians. Every Democratic officeholder in the city was there as well as the leadership of Tammany. Sam Swartwout was moderately drunk and until the Vice-President arrived, the centre of attention.

Leggett and I stood on a small dais at the far end of the room and so had an excellent view when the doors were thrown open and a Tammany lout bellowed, “The Vice-President!”

Martin Van Buren appeared in the doorway. The slanting rays of the sun struck his golden hair so as to make him seem positively a figure of gold, of fire.

For a moment there was absolute silence in the room. Then the small, elegant, graceful figure proceeded slowly through the crowd that parted for him. He was superbly dressed (Helen has taught me to note such things); his suit a rich dark brown with a velvet collar; heavy lace fringed his cravat; yellow kid gloves held in the left hand; morocco leather shoes. As Van Buren turned this way and that, shaking hands, a half-smile on his lips, I had the dizzying sense of all power being concentrated in one small frame.

When the Vice-President saw Leggett, the smile widened. “Mr. Leggett.” The small hand darted forward; touched Leggett’s hand; was swiftly withdrawn (the professional politician’s way of avoiding having his hand crushed). “How does Mr. Bryant?” Yes, Van Buren lisps; he also speaks with a slight Dutch accent.

“Very well. He applauds your every move, excepting your recent support of slavery in the south.”

The challenge went entirely unremarked. Van Buren turned to me. Leggett pronounced my name. I felt giddy as the small hand briefly touched my own. We are exactly the same height. For an instant, we were so close to one another that I literally got his scent, a combination of Spanish leather and expensive snuff.

“Mr. Schuyler is a clerk in the law office of Aaron Burr.” Leggett did his bad-actor imitation, the voice deepening melodramatically on “Aaron Burr.” But the Vice-President’s face and manner betrayed nothing at all. He simply looked at me politely. The large golden eyes are exactly like Aaron Burr’s but drained of darkness. “How does Colonel Burr?”

“Oh, very well, Sir,” I stammered like an idiot, “and wishes to be remembered, Sir, and he says how much—”

Abruptly Van Buren said something to me in Dutch. A long sentence in which the lisp was not apparent. Then not waiting to see if I understood or not, the small golden historic figure moved away from us, leaving me bewildered and Leggett furious. “What’s the good of being a Dutch oaf if you can’t speak the goddamned language?”

Later I described the scene (with obvious omissions) to Colonel Burr, and wondered what it was the Vice-President had said.

“He probably wished you a good day, and good fortune. Matty Van has fine manners. He ought to. I took enough time with him. Though I fear not enough with you.” And that was all.

In the flesh the resemblance between the two is striking, particularly in the way they move. Each has a kind of majesty—and no other word will do. I almost regret the role I am to play in ruining Van Buren.

“Now,” said the Colonel, “let us consider Washington City in the spring of eighteen oh one.”

AT THE BEGINNING of March, Theodosia, her husband and I arrived at the new capital city (which lacked both city and capital). On a slight rise in the wilderness was the Senate chamber. Some yards distant was a small ellipse-shaped building, recently thrown together to shelter the House of Representatives and known to its unhappy occupants as “The Oven.” Between the two buildings was a covered passage-way. That was all there was to the Capitol. Today’s noble brown dome was only a dream.

Close to the unfinished Capitol a few dozen houses formed the core to the city. At that time the most desirable place to live was on top of the F Street ridge or, if one did not mind the distance, at Georgetown.

A mile and a half from the Capitol, the Treasury building was nearly complete, as was its neighbour, the executive mansion. Connecting Capitol and president’s house was a long cow-trail on either side of which Jefferson was to plant several rows of rather forlorn-looking trees, eagerly explaining to anyone who would listen how exactly like a Paris boulevard it looked. Actually Pennsylvania Avenue was good only for shooting the partridges that nested among the elder bushes or for perch-fishing in the little stream (called the Tiber!) that crossed the “avenue.”

We stayed the first few nights at Conrad’s boarding-house, near to the Capitol. Because of the crowding, I slept in a room with Theodosia and her husband. Across the landing, Jefferson lived in luxurious solitude. The other rooms were crammed with congressmen—of whom a number were forced to sleep on the floor.

That night we were extremely happy in the dining-room of Conrad’s. Jefferson was elsewhere (usually he sat at the end of the table farthest from the fire, slyly drawing attention to his democracy; gone forever was topaz ring, silver, lace). Theodosia reigned at the table, and I was never more proud of her.

In those days there were thirty-two senators and one hundred six representatives of which not quite half were Republican. That night nearly all the Republicans were at Conrad’s. Toasts were delivered, bottles passed from hand to hand, and it seemed as if the good had for once in a wicked world prevailed.

Shortly after midnight, I excused myself, left Theodosia and her husband in command of the revels and went upstairs. The door to Jefferson’s sitting-room was open. He was half-reclining on a sofa, reading aloud to his secretary. They gave me a startled look. The secretary made as if to shut the door.

Jefferson stopped him. “Come in, Colonel.” Both rose as I stepped into the small parlour.

“You see me for the last time comfortable in Washington.” The secretary presented a chair for me to sit in. Jefferson stretched out on the sofa. “I dread that house.” He waved in the general direction of the executive mansion. “It is too large. It is uncomfortable. It will never be finished in our lifetime. And there are no stables.”

I told him that I had yet to see the inside. “You must come and stay. Keep me company. Having no wife makes it worse.” Jefferson turned to the secretary. “When does Mr. Adams depart?”

“The last report was that he would be gone at midnight.”

Jefferson glanced at the clock on the mantel. “He is gone now.” He turned to me. “Mr. Adams has decided not to attend our inaugural tomorrow.”

“That seems most—unkind.” Affecting grief over the death of a son several months before, Adams chose not to attend the usurpation of what he considered his rightful place.

“I intend to be conciliatory.” Jefferson touched the sheaf of papers which proved to be his inaugural address.

“It is a marvellous work!” The secretary was devoted. He was also one of the ugliest men I have ever known.

“I certainly look forward to hearing it.”

“Well, I certainly do not look forward to reciting it.” Jefferson was genuinely distressed at the thought of speaking in public—he who in private never ceased to talk! He slapped hard a fly that had stopped on the back of his hand. “Particularly in front of my disapproving cousin.” Some weeks before Adams had appointed the secretary of state John Marshall chief justice of the United States. Marshall deeply mistrusted Jefferson who responded with a continuing hatred of his cousin. Eventually the two were to collide at my trial for treason.

“I have asked the Chief Justice—most humbly—to administer the oath of office and, to my surprise, he has agreed. For such good behaviour we are now in honour bound to build the Supreme Court a little house somewhere in the city.” The secretary laughed immoderately at this pleasantry. Jefferson was in an excellent mood. But what new president is not? His mistakes unmade, the future bright.

As I said good night, Jefferson took my hand in his, looked me in the eye. “We are now at the beginning of the
actual
American Revolution.”

The next morning Theodosia, her husband and I walked from Conrad’s to the Capitol. In those days the population of Washington was perhaps
3
,
000
souls if one included the residents of Georgetown. All 3,000 were on hand that morning, trampling the bushes that edged the Capitol, shivering in a sharp north wind.