The American Chronicle 1 - Burr (51 page)

Judge Chase arrived, a tall commanding figure full of wrath. He had signed the Declaration of Independence. He had been appointed to the Supreme Court by George Washington. After Marshall, he was the most brilliant if the most cantankerous of the nation’s judges. He had, also, in a famous decision, enunciated the very principle that Jefferson wished to deny: “There are unwritten, inherent limitations on legislative powers.” He took himself and the issue most seriously.

Judge Chase looked about him. Then he said, “Am I to stand, Sir?”

“Bring the accused a chair since he does not wish to stand.” Later I told one of the Federalist senators that in the House of Lords the accused always presented himself on his knees. My comment was much resented, as I knew it would be: the Federalists now assumed that I was entirely Jefferson’s creature. He thought so, too.

Judge Chase asked for more time to prepare his case. I told him that he must return on February 4.

Jefferson was delighted. “They are already on the defensive. You have been masterful.”

“Thank you, Sir.” I then told him that I wanted my stepson, J. B. Prevost, made judge of the superior court at New Orleans, that I wanted my brother-in-law Joseph Brown made secretary of the Louisiana Territory, that I wanted General James Wilkinson made governor of the Louisiana Territory.

“Is that
all
you would like?” Jefferson attempted irony in order to mask his shock. He was not used to such open bargaining.

“If you could replace Governor Claiborne of the Orleans with me, my happiness would be complete. But I think that impossible.”

Jefferson gave me one of his rare direct looks. Between us was yet another version of the famed copying machine.

“I do not like to combine the military with the civilian authority ...”

“General Wilkinson is the most
civilian
general I have ever known, and I have known him a long time. He will be a credit to us at St. Louis.”

“You want nothing for yourself?”

“No, Sir.”

“Where will you go after ... your term of office expires?”

“To the west. Kentucky perhaps. I own land out there.”

“You will not go back to New York?”

“Hardly. Besides, I have nothing left to go back to. For the present,” I added carefully. I assumed that he knew what everybody knew: Richmond Hill and its contents had recently been sold at auction to pay off debts. I was allowed to keep only the contents of the wine-cellars and the library.

Jefferson later claimed that I had asked, at this time, for a government appointment and that he had refused me. This was more than usually disingenuous of him. I had asked nothing for myself because I needed nothing (or so I thought). Jefferson understood perfectly politics and the business of buying what you want; he also understood how to give the appearance of being above all chicanery. Without demur, he gave me the three appointments I asked for in order that I help him destroy Judge Chase and the Supreme Court. I took his bribe and then, according to an unfriendly newspaper, I conducted the trial “with the dignity and impartiality of an angel, but with the rigour of a devil.”

As I had suspected, John Randolph was a disaster for the prosecution. He knew no law nor was there much place on such an occasion for his usual vituperativeness—at least, with me in the chair. He finally went to pieces and spent his final oration stammering and sighing and moaning. At the end, he congratulated us all on “the last day of my sufferings and yours.” This was gentlemanly of him.

On a largely partisan vote, Judge Chase was acquitted for the excellent reason that there was no true case against him.

The day after the trial, March 2, 1805, at about one o’clock in the afternoon, I was presiding over the Senate. The chamber was still a resplendent crimson place. But I had a sore throat; a low fever; and an overwhelming desire to go.

At the first break in the debate, I motioned for silence, and got to my feet. I suspect that everyone knew what would come next. I made a few improvised remarks. I am not what is regarded as a “warm” speaker but on this occasion I managed tolerably well to move my audience in the direction I wanted them to go.

I took my theme from the chamber itself, still dressed for the trial. We were all aware that we had together made history in that room. I reminded the senators of this and of their duty to preserve and to defend the Constitution. “This house is a sanctuary,” I said (I paraphrase for there is no copy of the speech anywhere), “a citadel of law, of order, and of liberty; and it is here—” I indicated the temporary but to me significant placement of the senators’ chairs: For a month they had sat not as mere legislators but in a row as judges. “It is here in this exalted refuge; here, if anywhere, will resistance be made to the storm of political frenzy and the silent arts of corruption; and if the Constitution be destined ever to perish by the sacrilegious hands of the demagogue or the usurper, which God avert, its expiring agonies will be witnessed on this floor.”

I was aware as never before—or since—that I was holding entirely the attention of an audience. There was not a sound in that usually cold and bustling chamber.

“So I now say farewell, perhaps forever. I have, I hope, proved just in my dealings with you. But if on any occasion I have given offence, remember that my failure was simply human and not for want of the spirit to do good. May God bless those who sit in this chamber now, and forever after.”

On that note, I left the Capitol, never to return. It has been reported that many senators wept at the end of my speech. Certainly they were so moved that they passed unanimously a resolution expressing, among many compliments, their “entire approbation of the Vice-President’s conduct.” This was satisfying. Later the Senate, not unanimously (the effect of my oratory had begun to fade), voted to give me the frank for the remainder of my life. The House of Representatives, however, mislaid this motion. So I have been paying for postage charges ever since.

Not long ago someone asked me just what “usurper” I was warning the Senate against. “Jefferson,” I said, to his surprise. “After all, we had just witnessed his attempt to subvert the Constitution and shatter the Supreme Court. He would have succeeded if the Senate had not stopped him.” But since none of this accords with legend, I am thought by many to have warned the Senate against
myself
as usurper!

I remained in Washington for two weeks, saying good-bye, tending to odds and ends, preparing for my western journey. I did not see the President again but he sent me word that my friends had received their appointments.

Attempts to f
ê
te me were discouraged. I wished quietly and silently to withdraw from the politics of the republic. On the surface my prospects were not glorious. I could not go back to New York or to New Jersey. I had lost Richmond Hill. I was bankrupt. I was a widower. I was forty-nine years old. Yet I believed that I was at the beginning of a great adventure. It was like being given a second life. I was happy, and envied no man on earth as I took the four A.M. coach for Philadelphia.

Wide awake, excited, expectant, I even found invigorating the damp cold breeze from the mephitic Potomac as the coach clattered past the pillory, the stocks, the gallows.

THIS AFTERNOON MR. DAVIS CAME to discuss a legal matter with Mr. Craft. When he was done, he came into the Colonel’s office where I now work.

“Busy at your labours?”

“And you at yours?” It was inevitable, I suppose, that I not like him for he is not only my tempter but also, in a way, my rival. I have become as serious about the Burr memoirs as I am about the pamphlet and the money it will bring.

“It comes slowly.” Mr. Davis sat in the chair where I used to sit and take dictation. I put my feet up on the stove, just like the Colonel.

Last week, as predicted, the Whig candidate for governor was defeated. “But we are certain to win nationally next year.” Mr. Davis is always an optimist. “With
your
help of course.” The mockery was not out-size.

“I’ll be ready in a few weeks.” Actually I have done all the real work. I am now trying to capture the slanderous manner.

“How is the Colonel?”

“His spirits are good.”

Mr. Davis shook his head—either in denial or with wonder. He is never not ambiguous. “He is a marvel.”

“Who shot first,” I asked, “Hamilton or Burr?”

Mr. Davis shook his head. “No one knows. And I was there, watching through the bushes. I
think
Hamilton fired a second before the Colonel. I
know
that at the first report the Colonel swayed—my eyes were on him—and I was afraid that he’d been hit. But he told me later there was a stone under his boot, and he was off-balance. We do know that Hamilton’s shot was wide of the mark. Personally, I don’t think he could see well, and so ought to have declined the encounter. Well ...” Mr. Davis is not one for grieving over the past. The Colonel’s example is infectious. Think always of the future.

“What will you do when—” This time Mr. Davis’s inflection was not at all ambiguous.

“When the Colonel dies?”

“Unthinkable for those of us who are survivors of The Little Band.”

“I don’t know.” I have told no one my plan to go to Europe with Helen and try to support myself entirely by writing.

“You are a lawyer, aren’t you?”

“I haven’t been admitted to the bar yet.”

“But you could be? You have done the reading?” Mr. Davis’s eyes were keen behind the steel-rimmed spectacles; he gave the appearance of sympathy.

“Yes, I could be. I suppose I will be.”

“It is a good thing, you know. They say England is a nation of shopkeepers. Well, this is a nation of lawyers. For the lawyer, anything is possible. For the rest of us impossible.” He gave a stagey, sigh.

Actually I have not made up my mind whether or not to take the examination for the bar. Mr. Craft assures me that I will do well. But for me the law means politics which I hate. Like a fool I dream of the Alhambra—of Granada at night. Of roses growing wild in broken Moorish courtyards. Of Helen and me alone together on the moonlit terrace of some decaying villa above the Sorrentine—how marvellous to write the word!—peninsula, quarrelling bitterly.

I SPENT THE EVENING with the Colonel. His spirits were low at first. He seemed distracted, asked me the same questions several times. Wanted to know trivial news. What had I seen at the Park? Three times I told him that I had gone with Leggett to see
Born to Good Luck
with Tyrone Power, who is nowhere near as good as Edwin Forrest in anything. I have written a review of his performance at the request of the editor of the
Mirror
.
Their usual reviewer (who signs himself “Gallery Mouse”) is ill. I think ...
pray
that I will be asked to take his place and become their permanent Mouse.

I gave the Colonel our last chapter which he has already revised once. Usually he checks my fair copy but this time he waved it away. “I cannot gather my wits. Mrs. Keese feeds me too well. Pour me some claret. That often has a good effect.”

I did; and it did. He cheered up almost immediately. “The servant found a number of bottles in the cellar, hidden beneath a bale of Federalist newspapers.” Burr smiled and toasted the air. “To John Jay, with my appreciation.”

Still thinking of the conversation with Mr. Davis, I asked him if he thought that I should take my bar examination.

“Certainly.” The answer was brisk. “For one thing you’ll qualify easily. I have seen to that—assuming you’ve read no more than half the books I suggested you read.”

“But I don’t want to be a lawyer.”

“Well, who does? I mean what man of spirit? The law kills the lively mind. It stifles originality. But it is a stepping-stone ...”

“So Mr. Davis tells me.”

“You’ve seen him?” The Colonel frowned. “Poor Matt. He looks peaked, don’t you think? Of course he has always had a sort of gray colour but lately the
shade
of gray has become somewhat sickly. Well, he’s getting old.” The Colonel chuckled. Then: “Move my legs off the grate. I think they may have caught fire.”

I did as he asked. Then he hummed what I took to be some sort of Revolutionary ballad. Shut his eyes. Took us back thirty years to another time.

MY PLANS AT THE WEST were bottomed on two suppositions. First, that there would be war with Spain, making it possible for me to raise an army and descend upon Mexico. Second, that since Spain was now a dependency of France and France was at war with England, I would have English naval support.

When I left Washington in the spring of 1805, everyone from Jefferson to the Creoles at New Orleans not only expected but wanted a war with Spain that would give the United States the Floridas, fix the western border of the United States, and open for me Texas and Mexico. As for England, I saw Merry in Philadelphia (he had now decided that since his government did not specifically order him to live at Washington, he could as easily carry on his embassy at Philadelphia, far from the crudities of Jefferson’s court).

We met in Charles Biddle’s home, late at night. Merry was all business. “I have recommended to my government that you be supported.”

“I must tell you, Minister, that we are ready to move no later than March of next year.” This was an exaggeration. My actual plan was to begin the descent of the Mississippi the following autumn.

“I must wait for instructions.” Merry was vague. We then discussed the situation in Europe which meant that we discussed, as everyone did in those days, the character of that remarkable adventurer Napoleon Bonaparte who had undone, the previous year, the French revolution by making himself emperor of France, and very nearly master of all Europe.

“It is plain that he means to conquer the entire world.” Merry shook his head. “It is hard to believe that one man can be so powerful, so darkly evil.”

“Worlds are there to be conquered.” I was light but I meant what I said. We were living at a time when for the adventurous and imaginative man anything was possible. Bonaparte had inspired, no doubt in a bad way, an entire generation. Certainly, thanks in large part to his example, I saw myself as the liberator of all Spanish America.