“Actually,” Carl said, taking the handkerchief from his lips, “I thought it went rather well. Sam?”
“I thought so. You punched him with some ideas he has to think of. They were already in the back of his mind; you got them up to the front. Not much more you could do.”
He excused himself and hurried off to the Hill.
Carl didn’t move. “I was proud of you, darling. Very proud,” he said. She glowed. Then he said. “Let’s send for our carriage. I really don’t feel like walking … .”
The Capitol would be an extraordinarily handsome building when it was done, which might take a decade or two; certainly the finished parts, which included the House chamber, were magnificent with rich marble, carved and polished mahogany, scarlet drapes fringed in gold, an eagle of wood and plaster over the speaker’s chair. Today, the great vote at hand, it was closed to all but members, but Danny had seen it from the visitors’ gallery. Here as in Philadelphia attending the more important debates had become a major pastime; sometimes dozens of women were in attendance, which often had a galvanizing effect on oratory, flowery allusions thick as swallows in flight.
But the rest of the Capitol didn’t exist; foundations laid or at least pegged out on the Senate side, marking string grayed with rain-soaked dust, stone floors of the rotunda laid but the roof crude timbers and canvas, a lone bust of General Washington executed without distinction standing as sort of an initial payment on decorative intent. As the closest place to the closed debate, the rotunda would fill early, and Danny insisted they set out a bit after dawn. Carl fetched a canvas sling chair for her but they captured a stone bench and she made him take the chair, not liking his gray color.
A buzz of excited talk filled the big room. Two large fireplaces were ablaze, and there was the companionable odor of frying meat with the cries of venders selling bottles of syrup water and beer, sausage wrapped in a dodger, sweet
breads and tea and hot chocolate. A dog wandered through and she scratched its ears. When she stopped, it nudged her impatiently: more.
So she was scratching a mongrel’s ear when the hundredodd members marched up from the Senate chamber, the formality of the official opening of electoral votes behind them. Guards posted themselves at the door but left the doors open. She heard the House called to order. Mr. Bayard had avoided her eye when he passed, whether by chance or intent she couldn’t tell. He looked stern and strong but very tired, the weight of Delaware, Maryland, and Vermont a formidable burden.
Two men bearing a third on a stretcher, a doctor walking alongside, passed into the chamber. A round of whispers swept the rotunda: a Federalist member at death’s door but carried in to anchor his vote against the hated Democrat. The doctor was allowed to remain on the floor.
The voting started. “Connecticut,” she heard the clerk cry.
“Connecticut for Mr. Burr,” the guard said to no one in particular. He was a tall, heavy man of boiled beef English stock, face red as a carrot, a shock of white hair and a fine white mustache. She’d noticed the members speaking to him, his response in that curious mixture of gracious subordination and lofty superiority that mark the truly secure functionary. “Delaware.” Pause.
“Mr. Burr.”
Bayard had held his obstructionist vote for Burr! Her face stung with mortification. After all she’d said, he whose single vote could end the terrible charade in a moment had walked away in a huff, unmoved, uncaring. Tears formed, fell, streaked her cheek. Carl squeezed her hand; he’d been pressing a handkerchief to his lips and he passed it to her to dry her eyes.
She listened to the rest of the vote, called in the same unconcerned way by the big guard. Georgia and Kentucky for Jefferson. Maryland divided and not voting. Massachusetts and New Hampshire for Burr. New Jersey, New York, North Carolina, and Pennsylvania for Jefferson. Rhode island,
Burr. South Carolina, Burr! What irony. Carrying South Carolina had given Jefferson the presidency over Adams and now its delegation had voted against him. Tennessee for Jefferson; thank God for the West. Vermont, divided, not voting. Virginia, of course, for Jefferson. So it was unchanged: six holding for Burr, eight for the Virginian, one short of victory .
They took the vote again. Same results. Again and again and again. No change. Again. She lost track of the number of votes. At midnight someone said there had been nineteen. No change. The diehards were holding, Bayard among them.
Carl was sunk in the sling chair, his face gray, mouth slightly open. She thought he was panting. He said he wasn’t.
“Let’s go home,” she said. He shook his head.
“Carl, you don’t look at all well. Really, darling, we should—” He shook his head.
Vote starting, the guard said.
Connecticut. Mr. Burr.
Delaware. Mr. Burr.
Carl fainted at three in the morning. His head rolled, his legs went slack, the chair tipped and dropped him face first on the stone. She screamed. The guard fetched that doctor from the floor. Carl awakened with a wide-eyed, frightened look. The physician laid his ear to Carl’s chest; there was something odd in his expression when he turned to her.
“Take him home, madam,” he said. “Get him in bed.”
Their own doctor visited Carl in the morning, debated bleeding him, settled for telling him stay in bed. A special edition of the
Intelligencer
said voting had gone on till noon, results unchanged. A new rumor raced through the streets: stalemate to March 4, then John Marshall, the new secretary of state, would become president. And, Danny thought, the South and the West would march. She remembered Jackson. She’d met him a couple of times, and given his reputation,
she’d been struck by his graceful courtesy. She had an image of those Tennessee long rifles, lean, hungry men with pieces in hand, boots worn by six hundred miles, swinging along, ready to fight—and when all was done, what would be left of their country?
A new rumor: Mr. Bayard would change his vote! So he had listened!
She made Carl promise to stay in bed and hurried up the Hill. Her bench was taken. She leaned against a marble pillar near the entrance.
Vote’s starting, the guard said.
Connecticut: Mr. Burr.
Delaware: Mr. Burr.
She reeled away from the pillar afraid she would vomit. She found an open bench and took it, gasping.
An immensely fat woman in a magenta gown, the bench’s other occupant, turned to Danny and said, “Mr. Burr’s in Baltimore.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Well, what’s he doing in Baltimore if he don’t intend to come over here and take it by storm? Any minute now he’ll come walking in, go right on the floor, give ’em a speech to knock their hats off, and they’ll swarm all over him. Have ’em eating out of his hand. You ever see him? Handsome devil. I’d eat out of his hand anytime, I’ll tell you. Anything else he wanted too. Any minute now, right through that door.” She raised a fat arm to point, flesh sagging.
The House recessed, members poured out, and she saw Mr. Bayard coming straight for her. “Madam,” he said without preamble, a harsh crackle in his voice, “since you seem to be the democratic messenger, kindly get word to Mr. Burr in Baltimore that it’s now or never. He should get over here and make his case—now!—or he should forget it.”
“Mr. Bayard,” she cried, “don’t count on me to deliver such a message.”
“Oh, I don’t. Many messages are going. Since you are a
beautiful woman, knowing Burr, I thought he might pay attention to you.”
“Sir,” she said, “that is a crude and insulting thing to say. You should be ashamed.”
He bowed. “Good day, madam.”
“Well, I never,” said the woman in the magenta gown.
Aaron Burr paced up and down, up and down, before the hotel, Baltimore’s finest but nothing special at that. He paced and paced, swinging his ebony stick, slashing grass spears, his baleful stare forbidding any trespass on his silence.
It was insane, they’d had six weeks to work it out, they’d stalled, done nothing, and now they wanted him to come in person, seize the ground, exhort, demand, beg. What fools!
He’d been drawn as a moth to flame, drawn as close as Baltimore, but he could come no closer. The Federalists wanted him to come and give them a sign that as president he’d see things their way. But for what? He already had the Federalists; begging would gain no more. What he needed was obvious; three states now voting for Jefferson must be persuaded to shift. It shouldn’t be so difficult; after all, he was a good Democrat. Better him if they couldn’t have the sainted Tom, and obviously they couldn’t; better him than the raging Federalist John Marshall as caretaker president, with the shards of the Constitution scattered at his feet.
Like the tongue to a sore tooth, his mind darted off to Hamilton and his vicious attacks. He couldn’t understand it. He and Alex had been friends, more or less. They’d been cocounsel on important cases; and while they were political opposites now, he didn’t hate Alex and was amazed to find that Alex apparently hated him. Add that to the ridiculous Federalist urgings when the solution was obvious. Really, it was the perfect solution, for in fact he
was
a good Democrat, a fine Democrat. There had been talk that he should have stepped aside, but he’d brushed it away. He had been rigidly proper; indeed, he was proud of himself. He had done nothing—not
one thing—to advance his cause or thwart Jefferson or challenge the will of the people.
He walked and walked, swinging the stick in a blurred arc, scarcely noticing the wide berth passersby gave him. His position was strong, he saw, looking at it realistically. He might yet be called. But if he weren’t and it went to usurpation, he would lead troops on the attack, being no mean military man himself. And if it turned around and went to Tom, he would be second in command, an honored member of a new administration, crucial to holding all-important New York.
His position, he decided, clipping grass so hard the cane whirred and vibrated, couldn’t be better.
It was Tuesday, six days since the voting had begun. Repeated ballots had produced no result, but the talk was that it would be settled today. Hold for usurpation, chaos, and war or shift three democratic states to Burr.
She awakened to find six inches of snow glittering on the ground. Boys played on barrel stave skis on Capitol Hill. Service as a messenger had made Danny part of it and she had to witness the climax. She was pulling on her boots when Carl said he was feeling better and tired of bed and would join her. When she fought him he got that stubborn look she knew too well.
“All right,” she said, “the snow and all, let’s not go. Doesn’t matter. We’ll learn soon enough … .”
That look again. She saw that somehow she had challenged him. “Fine,” he said. “You stay here. I’m going.”
They went slowly, stamping a path through unbroken snow, and arrived early. The bench near the door that she regarded as their own was empty and they waited quietly.
The guard knew them by now.
“Mr. Bayard will change his vote, they say.”
Presently: “Mr. Bayard is taking the floor.” She heard voices, then one clearly orating, words unintelligible.
“Says he won’t let it go to stalemate. Says he won’t count—count—”
“Countenance,” she said.
“That’s right. Won’t let it go to stealing it.”
Thank God!
“Says he’ll grit his teeth and vote Jefferson.”
“Mr. Speaker! Mr. Speaker!” A high, clear, Yankee voice, very loud.
“Mr. Morris of Vermont,” the guard said. “Federalist.”
The Yankee voice went on and on.
The guard nodded. “Mr. Morris will withhold his vote.” Vermont’s two congressmen had been split, each neutralizing the other. Now Mr. Morris would let his democratic opposite prevail.
“Vermont in Mr. J.’s column,” the guard said.
Maryland, evenly divided, four to four, took the floor. The four Federalists would withhold their vote; the four Democrats, among them Sam Smith, would carry the state.
Sure enough, as agreed, they were following Mr. Bayard’s lead.
Shouts from the floor.
“Motion to make it unanimous for Mr. J.,” the guard said.
More shouts, raw anger vibrating through the now utterly silent rotunda. One voice began to dominate, loud, strident.
“Mr. Esmonds of Connecticut says he’ll die before he’ll vote for Mr. J.”
The voice went on and on.
“Says Connecticut will secede before it casts a vote of perfidy. Won’t be party to the chaos and ruin Mr. J. will bring.”
Someone called the guard from within, and he disappeared. A taciturn man with a hank of black hair and a long, black truncheon took his place, legs spread, both hands gripping the club. No information from him.
Danny was on her feet hopping up and down, trying to see over the brute’s shoulder. Shouts and screams echoed from the floor. The chair howled for order, the gavel ringing like pistol shots. She jumped up and caught an image of a fist flying toward a face that disappeared. A roar of disapproval.