The American Chronicle 1 - Burr (40 page)

A ragged company of riflemen came to attention as I appeared at the Capitol entrance. Those people who recognised me applauded. At that time politicians were not known by face to the degree that they are today. We also did not often show ourselves to the people, except in small canvasses on home ground. Jefferson was known to be tall and red-haired; I to be small and dark. Beyond that, the people only had cartoons to go by, and the artists who drew us were under no obligation to be accurate.

I stepped into the Senate chamber and found that despite the raw newness of everything, the interior had been made most impressive with Doric columns and marble entablatures. On the walls of the semicircular chamber hung the controversial portraits of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. The fireplaces at either end provided a good deal of smoke and insufficient heat. Beneath the ceiling was a spacious gallery crowded with spectators. On the dais three chairs had been arranged. In the centre chair sat John Marshall; he was nearly as tall as Jefferson but with black hair on a head much too small for so large a body.

I stood with the sergeant-at-arms until the chamber was quiet; then I made my way down the aisle. As I stepped up on the dais, the Chief Justice rose to greet me.

There was a moment of confusion. Was I expected to make an address? No one seemed certain. We stood there rather foolishly. Finally the Chief Justice whispered, “I think it best to administer the oath
first
to the President.”

I then saluted the Chief Justice with a few decorous words; bade everyone welcome; instructed them that the President-elect would arrive at noon, which they already knew; and took my seat in the centre chair as presiding officer of the Senate, the Chief Justice to my left.

A few minutes later a thin volley of rifle-fire signalled the approach of the President-elect.

The sergeant-at-arms threw open the doors and, to applause from the gallery, Jefferson stepped into the chamber. He wore plain dark clothes. He was exceedingly nervous; face flushed; eyes darting this way and that; tongue repeatedly moistening dry lips. As he proceeded down the aisle, clutching his manuscript, artillery began to sound and did not stop until he was beside us on the dais.

I indicated that he take the centre chair. I took the one to his right. Again we were at a loss what to do. Jefferson stood awkwardly, holding the sheaf of papers to his breast.

“You had better begin,” I said, establishing a precedent. Without further ceremony Jefferson read to the Chief Justice and me his inaugural address. I say read to
us
because no one else in the chamber heard a word of what he was saying and even Marshall and I were forced at times to lean forward in our chairs to catch the wisdom as it fell from those eloquent lips.

Marshall looked startled and pleased when Jefferson declared, “Every difference of opinion is not a difference of principle. We have called by different names brethren of the same principle. We are all republicans, we are all federalists.”

I was merely startled, and somewhat overwhelmed at the hypocrisy: Jefferson more than any other American had poisoned the political life of the nation by slandering as “monarchist” anyone who stood in his path. Nevertheless, the aim of the speech was, if not a
mea culpa
,
at least a tacit admission of past excess, and this was a good thing: the public is always relieved to find that once the chief officers of the state are elected they do not sincerely want change.

On one occasion Marshall and I looked at each other and nearly broke out laughing. Jefferson had a strange propensity for confusing metaphors. At one point he graced us with the image of infuriated man’s “agonizing spasms” which promptly became through the alchemy of his literary art, “billows” that reached our distant and peaceful shore.

Jefferson then sat down to the somewhat strained applause of a Congress which had not heard a word of what he had said.

The Chief Justice came forward and Jefferson stood up again, dropping a number of pages. I collected them for him. He was then administered the oath of office. Then I, too, swore to uphold the Constitution of the United States. Thus it was that on March 4, 1801, Thomas Jefferson became the third president and Aaron Burr the third vice-president of the twelve-year-old American republic.

We all went back to Conrad’s boarding-house for dinner, and the new president modestly took his place at the far end of the table, despite the attempts of Mrs. Senator Brown to give him her seat near the fire. His only word to me that evening was, “The revolution has begun.” I was relieved. Apparently there was still a difference between Republicans and Federalists.

MR. DAVIS SENT ME A NOTE this morning, requesting the honour of an interview at the City Hotel.

I arrived to find him seated alone in a corner of the bar, drinking beer from a pewter mug.

“How is the Colonel?”

“Flourishing.” The Colonel has indeed been in good form lately. “At least when I saw him last. That was two days ago. He’s at Jersey City.”

“Today, yes.” Mr. Davis was, as usual, conspiratorial. “Yesterday, however, he was in the city. In this very hotel. At half past five. Upstairs. In a private reception room.”

Mr. Davis likes mystery. I do not. “No doubt.” I was flat.

“I think you would be very interested if you knew who it was that he was visiting upstairs?”

“Would I?”

“He was with Mr. Van Buren for over forty minutes. Just the two of them.”

“They are old friends.” I was not going to allow Mr. Davis the pleasure of surprising me. Instead I changed the subject, surprising
him
.
“I would like to know what happened between President Jefferson and Colonel Burr after the inaugural.”

“What happened?” Mr. Davis pursed his lips; looked puzzled—to lie or not? “Well, Colonel Burr asked for only three appointments. He got two. I was the third. For my work in the campaign I was to be made naval officer for New York. But I did not get the post, nor did any other friend of Burr get an appointment. Jefferson dropped the Burrites in favor of an alliance with old Governor Clinton and his nephew young DeWitt Clinton.”

I asked Mr. Davis why it was that Jefferson wanted to destroy Colonel Burr. The question is a simple one, and I have asked it a number of times. Unfortunately I never get an entirely convincing answer.

Mr. Davis sighed. “It is so obvious. When Burr got as many votes as Jefferson, and then did nothing to promote himself, Jefferson was undone. Men like Jefferson can never forgive a rival who behaves honourably. Also, Jefferson had already decided—for the good of the nation, naturally—to promote another Virginian once his second term was over.”

“Jefferson was without gratitude?”

“Entirely. That was the secret of his strength. Unlike Colonel Burr, he had no friends. Only servants like Madison, Gallatin, Monroe.”

“But he rewarded them.”

“Madison and Monroe
extended
the Jefferson administration another sixteen years. Friendship had nothing to do with it. Jefferson continued to be the master of the republic.”

I think this highly exaggerated; must ask Colonel Burr’s view. Certainly Jefferson died poor, and I should not think he was particularly influential at the end.

We were joined by a stolid young man with enormous chin whiskers and a bald head. “This is Reginald Gower.” The name was said to me as if I ought to know it. I did not. Soon learned the plot. Gower is a printer. Owns a bookstore. Wants to publish my pamphlet establishing the paternity of Martin Van Buren “and—even more important, Mr. Schuyler—Colonel Burr’s
political
influence on the Vice-President Their meeting yesterday was most significant” Gower nodded to Mr. Davis who nodded back. They were like a pair of Chinese mandarin dolls.

“Does Colonel Burr know what you are doing?” I turned to Mr. Davis, the Colonel’s oldest friend and political ally.

“Does Colonel Burr know what
you
are doing?” This was to the point.

“No.” I cannot lie; nor tell the truth either, it seems.

“Leggett wants Van Buren removed because he is not radical enough. We want him removed because he is too radical. Leggett wants Johnson for president. We want Clay. You, Charlie, my boy, can satisfy us both. A rare thing indeed!” Mr. Davis’ magnified eyes looked at me in a kindly, twinkly way.

I started to ask him how he knew of my arrangements with Leggett but decided that would gratify him too much. “Why don’t you write the pamphlet yourself?”

“You have material that I don’t.” The answer was prompt—too prompt? “Also, I have not the time to spend with the Colonel,
to—extract
the information.”

Mr. Gower turned to me. “I understand you’ve already begun. I want you to know, Mr. Schuyler, that I am willing to advance you five hundred dollars now and another five hundred if you can finish by September.”

I was not prepared for such a huge temptation. I have never had more than a hundred dollars in hand at any moment of my life. I paused. Could think of nothing to say.

Gower was quick. “Naturally you will get a certain royalty ...”

“Depending on the size of the printing.” Mr. Davis tried to save Gower money but I, too, moved swiftly, and we came to terms.

In the tap-room of the City Hotel I found myself with a draught on the Bank of Manhattan (Colonel Burr’s invention, what else?) to the amount of $500. I am rich.

I went straight to Thomas Street. Mrs. Townsend greeted me in her parlour which was now dominated by a large gilded statue of an unclothed fat man.

“It is the Buddha.” Mrs. Townsend indicated a number of thick dusty volumes piled to left and right of the idol. “I am extending my religious range to the East.”

“Is that wise?” The God of Jonathan Edwards is, notoriously, a jealous God.

“I have taken precautions,” she said cryptically. “We’ve not seen you in some time. Helen pines for you.”

“I’ve been interviewing Mr. Van Buren.” This was stupid but I could not contain myself.

Mrs. Townsend nodded, apparently pleased that I had not been robbing a bank or leading a riot. “A gracious young man, as I recall, who has lived by the Colden Rule.” She gave the Buddha a tiny smile. They appear to have an understanding.

“He was with Colonel Burr yesterday.”

“So?” Mrs. Townsend lit a stick of sandalwood and set it upright in front of the statue. Sweet-smelling smoke swirled ceiling-ward. “Colonel Burr was a good friend to that young man.”

“Is he the Colonel’s son?”

Mrs. Townsend put a long finger to thin lips, and motioned to the Buddha whose smile was visible through the shifting smoke. Apparently one must be discreet, or the god would be angry.

“I have heard the story in Kinderhook, and thought nothing of it. After all, I knew old Mrs. Van Buren, and a very plain woman she was, much older than the Colonel ...”

“Did you know the Colonel’s first wife?”

“Oh, yes. I used often to see her out marketing. Always with two blackamoors in livery. A gracious lady.”

“Was she also a plain woman, and much older than the Colonel?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Townsend looked at me thoughtfully. “I see.” If there is one thing Mrs. Townsend understands (other than the manifold faces of God) it is the private eccentricities of men.

“Is there anyone who might know the truth?”

“Is it important?”

“I think so. Not that such a thing could be published. But it goes a long way toward explaining why the two men are so close.”

Mrs. Townsend nodded. “Aaron Columbus Burr once told me that he took a trip up the Hudson River with Mr. Van Buren and the Colonel. He remembered Mr. Van Buren as being quite the nicest man he had ever met.”

I asked her where the young silversmith might be found. She told me. I almost did not go up to see Helen, so eager was I to earn my freedom. But I could not leave Mrs. Townsend—or myself—unsatisfied.

Helen was in a bad mood made worse by my proposal that she move out of Thomas Street. “Where on earth am I supposed to go, to the Five Points?”

“I will find you a room.”

“And what on earth am I supposed to do
in
the room all day?” She was suddenly furious; very white in the face; eyes fever-bright.

“Anything you like. Work. Earn money.”

“Like
this
?” She indicated the wash-basin, the pitcher of permanently cold water.

“If you want to.” I was growing more excited as she grew more obdurate. “But I thought you would want to start work on your own, making clothes.”

“What would you do?”

“I would see you.”

“You see me now, and it’s a lot cheaper this way than paying for weekly room and board, as I know pretty well.”

We left it at that: she will think the matter over. I am out of my mind, I know, but I have never before been this free, this rich!

AARON COLUMBUS BURR IS AS TALL as the Colonel is short, and quite as dark; he is uncommonly handsome. Although he bears no particular resemblance to the Colonel, he does share the same excellent manners, enhanced more than marred by a strong French accent.

As we talked in his small crowded shop, he hammered a thin sheet of silver over a wooden mould. In his hands the hammer moves with such speed that it blurs before the eye; like the wings of a hummingbird.

I had introduced myself as a friend of Mrs. Townsend. The thick dark brows shot up with amusement. White teeth flashed. “Then we have this much in common.”

I had contemplated a dozen possible introductions for myself, realizing that I could not pass myself off as a journalist or politician without giving away the game. Nor could I say that I knew Colonel Burr without running the risk of being doubly revealed. But a fellow client of Mrs. Townsend meant that we belonged to the same club, as it were, shared a secret that was made all the more enjoyable by my inspiration: “I’m being married next month, Mr. Burr. To a girl from Connecticut.” A half-truth always sounds truer than truth. I told him that I wanted to know the prices of silver, old and new: my future father-in-law was generous.

The French Burr was most obliging; spent half an hour showing me about his shop, and another half-hour enquiring after Mrs. Townsend, and did I know Cora? Had I been with Marguerite? Was the black from Santo Domingo recovered from the mysterious knife-wound?