5 A Cabinet Session

Mr. Gallatin was living then in a boarding house, his family being absent in Philadelphia, and he had but two rooms, only one of which was carpeted. It was at these rooms that I arrived ahead of time, though I had to wait but a few minutes until he put on his cloak and we started toward the White House. His boarding house was on a street so called, but really an unfinished road. At the corner, where another road intersected it, an old oil lamp flared in the wind, but there was no other until we approached the grounds of the White House. The roads were still muddy from the rains, and the Secretary proposed that we strike across the fields, as the white wings of the Capitol shining through the darkness would serve for guidance.

We walked along in comfort through the grass for some distance, and then we encountered a thicket of alder bushes, through which I broke a way with my large body, the Secretary following after. On the other side I was about to plant my foot in a pool of muddy water, but I drew back in time. A dog in the backyard of a negro cabin howled dismally at us, but unheeding him we passed on and came to a rail fence, which we were forced to climb.

“I don’t think we made much by our short cut,” said the Secretary as he sat panting on the top rail.

“We’ve kept out of the mud at least,” I said, perching myself on the rail beside him.

A bell tinkled close by, and a little boy driving some cows home to a late milking passed near us.

“Maybe they’ve been grazing in the Capitol grounds,” I said. “I’m afraid we’re rural and raw, Mr. Gallatin. It’s no wonder the Europeans make fun of us, is it?”

“What if they do?” he replied quickly. “The European nations have made manners and not morals the standards of right. All things must have beginnings. You can not tame a continent in one year or a hundred. If our capital is not as large and fine as the capitals of Europe, it is because we have just begun it. If our manners are not those of courts and seem rough and repellent to the Europeans, our morals are better than theirs. We do not make a joke of woman’s virtue; we do not make seduction the chief triumph of a gentleman’s life; we call the morganatic marriages of their princes what they are, licensed adultery; we call their diplomacy by its true name, the art of skilful lying; we do not have one set of laws for the strong and another for the weak; we do not teach that work is ignoble; and we give opportunity to all, which is the greatest of all rights. I am an European myself by birth and education, and know the truth of what I say.”

We climbed down the fence, feeling carefully for a footing on each rail, lest it might give way with us, and reaching the ground in safety continued our journey toward the President’s home.

The White House rose out of the dusk, though the walls showed but dimly through the trees. Only one window was lighted, and the building seemed as quiet as a farmer’s house when all have gone to bed. Certainly there was not much fuss or ceremony here. We heard a step on the walk and saw a dusky form in front of us. We hailed the figure, and it proved to be Mr. Eustis, the Secretary of War. Then we walked together into one of the White House porticoes, and seeing nobody there to receive us, knocked loudly at a door. It was opened by the President, who carried a lantern in one hand, and apologized on the ground of sickness for the absence of the black boy, James, who usually attended to the door. At that moment another black boy arrived—from the kitchen, I suppose—and the President gave him the lantern, telling him to tend the door and hold the lantern in a good position, in order that it might light the other members of the Cabinet to the proper place.

“It’s really needed,” he said, “for Mrs. Madison is visiting in Georgetown, and everything about the house has gone awry. Mr. Smith doesn’t see too well, and I want him to be sure to find us, for the meeting is very important.”

Then he led the way to the Cabinet chamber, and with his own hands gave each of us a glass of excellent Madeira—very good and comforting after a walk on a chilly evening.

A long table occupied the centre of the room and around it were cane-bottomed chairs for the members of the Cabinet. I drew up another chair, and made ready with my quills and ink and paper for the notes and memoranda which I was to make.

The President took his seat at the head of the table, and each man produced papers from his pocket, which he stacked neatly in front of him. It had been a long time since I had seen such a formidable array of documents presented to anybody for consideration. Then they began to discuss them. They were of all kinds, complaints from the governors of States that the Federal authority was assuming too much; pleas from the West and Southwest for assistance against the new and hostile leagues of the Indian tribes; more pleas of American sailors impressed by the British, dozens of them; and reports from our agents abroad, indicating the increasing hostility toward us of Great Britain and the Continental nations, and a general belief by them that the United States had no rights which they need respect.

“We’ve long ago had proof of that,” said Mr. Eustis. “They regard us as interlopers in the world, because we are new and they think they are privileged to plunder us when they choose. They will continue to think that way until we fight some one or more of them.”

We heard the wheels of a carriage on the sanded drive outside.

“I suppose that is he,” said Mr. Gallatin in a rather grim tone.

I was impressed by the way he said it, and wondered who the “he” was.

“Yes,” said the President, “and he is likely to be more majestic than ever to-night. There is nothing quite so grand as these Frenchmen when they are puffed up with victories and power. He will undoubtedly come, bearing all the glories of Napoleon on his own shoulders. That is why I asked him to address to us this communication at a full Cabinet meeting; we do not wish to be overpowered individually.”

The black boy opened the door and announced that M. Serurier, the French minister, though he did not pronounce it that way, had arrived and would be pleased to see the President of the United States and the gentlemen of his Cabinet at their earliest convenience.

The President of the United States and the gentlemen of his Cabinet would be pleased to see M. Serurier, the French minister, at once; and hence M. Serurier, the chosen representative of the only polite nation and of the great and glorious empire of his Majesty Napoleon I, was shown into our humble, rural presence. M. Serurier had neglected no precaution to make himself great. His uniform was a miracle of fine cloth, brilliant colours, and gold lace. His cocked hat, which he held proudly and stiffly in his hand, illuminated the room. His black hair shone with some fine ointment, which made it curl up in most ferocious and terrifying fashion. The sword which hung at his side, and seemed tempted to swing between his legs every time he took a step, had a hilt of gold set with gems and jingled fiercely.

His Haughtiness the French minister, the servant of his Imperial Majesty the French Emperor, gave one of his finest bows to each of those present, except myself. He knew me very well, but he was too much of a French gentleman to waste a useful bow on a clerk in the Treasury Department.

“We are glad to see you, M. Serurier,” said the President politely. “Won’t you take a glass of wine with us?”

I jumped up, poured out the wine, and handed it to the minister. He drank standing, and was asked to take a seat, but seemed to prefer that martial and impressive appearance which can be preserved only in an upright position. I watched him, determined not to lose a word or gesture. I believed that this was the beginning of what Mr. Gallatin had brought me to see.

“You said, M. Serurier,” began Mr. Madison, “that you had received written complaints from the emperor against our Government, and were instructed to push them personally.”

“That is correct, your Excellency,” said the minister. “I am instructed by my master, the emperor”—I hope that if any representative of our Government abroad speaks of the President as “his master” somebody will kick him—“to complain of the great partiality the Americans are showing for the English, his enemies, helping them in trade, furnishing them with food and other supplies, and thereby showing a desire to assist them to succeed, whereas France has always been the friend of this country, which owes to her a heavy debt of gratitude.”

I was astonished, but the same complaint of our giving friendship and assistance to the English was made by Napoleon more than once. In those days the English robbed us and kidnapped us on the ground that we were once colonists of theirs, speaking the same language and of the same race, and the French treated us nearly as badly, all the while reminding us that we owed them a debt of gratitude for assistance in the Revolutionary war.

“The emperor, then, thinks that we are showing partiality for England?” asked the President.

“His Majesty is convinced, and is deeply grieved at such a policy from those who he thinks should be the friends of France.”

A faint smile appeared on the worn features of the President.

“Mr. Smith,” he said to the Secretary of State, “will you read to M. Serurier the protest which we received three days ago from the Prime Minister of Great Britain? Will you listen, M. Serurier?”

M. Serurier shrugged his haughty shoulders and signified his assent.

The Secretary of State took from the heap a large paper, liberally stamped with the arms of England, and began to read. It was an energetic protest against the undoubted partiality which the American Government was showing for France in the present struggle between that power and Great Britain, feeding the armies of the French despot and usurper, giving them sympathy and otherwise comforting and strengthening them in their attempts to crush Great Britain, the defender of the liberties and freedom of Europe and the sole bulwark of the oppressed.

“The king,” concluded the Prime Minister’s letter, “regards with the deepest grief such a policy from those who are of our own blood, who speak our language, who are really our children, and who should assist us to maintain the liberties of the world against the tyrant and usurper Bonaparte.”

M. Serurier listened with a supercilious smile.

“Perhaps we are guilty on both counts, M. Serurier,” said the President with his pale little smile; “that is, of undue partisanship for the French as against the English, and also of undue friendship for the English as against the French, but for the present we must deny either.”

“The charges of that wicked and perfidious nation, Britain, are not to be believed for a moment,” said M. Serurier, making his sword rattle a little, as a threat against England and not particularly against us, I presume; “but his Majesty the Emperor Napoleon is too great to speak anything but the truth. Your Excellency, shall I report to him any answer to this complaint?”

“State to the emperor,” said the President, “that his report has been received and will be considered.”

M. Serurier bowed again, but not as if he liked the answer.

“I trust,” he said, “that your Excellency will not forget that France has always been the friend of this country, and gave it invaluable assistance when it was fighting England for its freedom.”

“We will not forget it,” was the reply.

M. Serurier was asked to take a second glass of wine with us, and he unbent so far as to do so. Then he bowed again, and took the majesty of France out with him. We heard the wheels of his carriage rolling over the sand, but the worn old men said nothing further about him, and resumed the discussion of questions concerned with the finances and the internal state of the country. I guessed that Mr. Gallatin had brought me there to show me how we were pulled about by both England and France, and were subjected to the most ridiculous accusations from each, but he used me for work too. Those old men sat in that room, hour after hour, discussing ways and seeking means, and trying so hard to make two and two equal to five. I have come to the conclusion that it is a weary task to found a nation, especially when there are several others already in existence which think they have an exclusive claim to the title and the rights conferred by it, regarding you merely as an intruder to be clubbed and kicked and stripped whenever it may so please their high mightinesses.

Midnight came and I thought it was time to go home, but no such thoughts seemed to enter the heads of those anxious old men. I became a machine, animated by a will, but nothing more. I made notes in the proper way, but as I finished each I could not have told what I had written. Sleep tied forty-pound weights to my eyelids, and it required a tremendous effort to keep them from shutting over my eyeballs. Sometimes they would go down, but I hauled them up again with a jerk. The room became misty; the walls would drift several miles away and then pass out of sight altogether. I remembered myself sufficiently once or twice to reflect that one pays for the honour of going to a Cabinet meeting, but the old men talked and debated on, until at the end of a large slice out of eternity they began to roll up their papers, and some one—a truly great man he must have been— said it was time to go home.

I felt depressed for some days after the Cabinet meeting, being still desirous of war with Great Britain, convinced that it would be just, and yet seeing more clearly than before our difficulties and the great odds which we would have to face. Nor was the course of my friends such as to encourage me. I met Major Northcote, and while he did not allude to the conversation at the deserted Capitol, his manner had a somewhat stronger savour of irony, even of triumph and complacency, as if he had warned me of the coming crash, and having offered me safety, even reward, his whole duty was done and his conscience clear. Mercer was a little more cynical than usual, perhaps bitter, and Cyrus Pendleton was distinctly hostile. I heard that he had spoken of my apparent friendship with Major Northcote, and had endeavoured to turn it to my discredit, though I was convinced that his act proceeded from other motives.

But a turn, or rather an interruption, was given to these thoughts by the arrival of several of the Western Indian chiefs, whom some of our commissioners had induced to visit Washington in the hope that they would be impressed so much by the power of the Long Knives and wisdom of their Great Father that they would refrain from the proposed war upon us. I was supposed to understand wild nature, being from the West, and Mr. Gallatin delegated me to the task of helping in the escort of the chiefs about Washington; I as well as the others selected, for I was only one of several, being expected to see that the country’s greatness lost nothing at our hands. Yet we seemed to make little progress, and when we took them one day to the Capitol, and I spoke of the imposing appearance it would make when completed, the oldest of the chiefs asked me if that completion would ever come, in a manner so much like that of another man who once had asked me the same question that I was startled, and began to believe that some one, an enemy of ours, was tampering with them. And I knew well the man who was our most active enemy in Washington.

The next day was Sunday, a period of freedom for me, and soon after the noon hour I was in that part of Washington in which Cyrus Pendleton’s house stood. Marian came out presently, and when I joined her we walked slowly through the city and up one of the gentle slopes, from which we could see the town and the river. Ours was not a secret meeting in any sense, though both of us knew that Marian’s father, however much he might like me personally, did not wish me to become a member of his family. It was with a full knowledge of this that I walked by Marian’s side, and my mind was under the influence of opposing emotions. I knew her respect for her father’s will, as we in Kentucky have been bred largely in the old English custom of obedience to our parents, and yet I believed that it was not she who would choose Bidwell, even if she did not choose some other whom I could name. The prospect of war, too, was growing more threatening every day and threw a depressing influence over us all, those who opposed it and those who wished it alike.

Below us the little city peeped out of the woods and bushes, and beyond shone the wide river, both full of peace as we saw them from the hill. Some of the earliest and tenderest buds of spring were appearing, for the warm weather comes soon in the latitude of the Capitol.

Marian spoke of the war which we Western people expected and wished, and said that it seemed a sad alternative when a nation was compelled to redress wrongs by such a method. But I defended our cause, though knowing well the difficulties of the Government, and repeated our old and in fact unanswerable argument that nothing else was left to us. She replied with a woman’s tender forethought that it must mean death for many and sorrow for more, and I began to urge our cause in spite of such sufferings with so much zeal that I forgot my own peaceful character as a civilian, and told why war was necessary sometimes, citing old instances in history and telling how a nation frequently came out of the fiery trial stronger, freer, and better than before. A few of my arguments were my own, but the majority I had borrowed from others, the leaders of our party, and borne on by my enthusiasm I spoke with such fervour that I may have seemed to her a sort of every-day apostle of military triumph and glory.

I stopped abruptly, for I saw her looking at me with sad and yet not reproachful eyes, and my own zealous speech ceasing she asked me if I would go to the war when it came. I had made up my mind long ago on that point, and I answered without hesitation that I would go. I think that every woman is anxious for any man for whom she cares—Marian and I had been children together—to fight for his country if the country needs him, and yet she is loath, too, to let him go, looking further than man does to wounds, misery, and death.

Knowing this truth, I watched Marian’s face as I told her my intention. She looked away toward the town and the river, and her lips seemed to me to tremble, as if she would speak but restrained herself. I was on the verge of saying something, which perhaps I had come to say, despite everything, but she spoke quickly, seeming to read my looks, and talked of the great uncertainty in which all of us stood, the approach of war, the upsetting of present conditions, and the doubtful future, her manner suggesting that this was a time in which no one could form any settled plans. It seemed to me that she knew what I would say and was warning me against it, and for a moment I felt a little chagrin, but one look at her face was sufficient to drive it away and tell me that she was right. I could not be a man and do otherwise than she wished.

She ceased, and I also was silent. A slight flush had come into her face, telling of embarrassment, and I too knew not what more to say. Then we walked slowly back to the city, and as we passed down Pennsylvania Avenue, Mercer, riding by, bowed to us.

“A satirical nature,” I said.

“An honourable and good man,” said Marian.

She was looking at Mercer with an expression that was sad, and yet not without some tenderness, and I began to understand.

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