“We’ve heard, Joseph,” she said, not bothering to disguise a certain tartness. For Joseph to discuss this disaster in terms of good news seemed more than she could bear.
She watched the gentleman’s smile fade. “Excuse me,” he said. “I thought Mr. Freneau’s second report was good news.”
“Second report?”
“Of the actual electoral vote in South Carolina; it came in only an hour ago. Eight-eight. Seventy-three for Mr. Jefferson; seventy-three for Mr. Burr. It’s a tie, sir.”
“Oh!” She felt she might faint.
“Thank you, Joseph,” Papa said. “That’s most interesting.” He looked as unruffled as if he’d been given the time of
day, but she saw the lift in his shoulders, the sudden brilliant flash of eye, something wild and joyous tumbling in its depths … .
But perhaps Mr. Alston had caught it too, for there was a knowing quality in his smile as he said, “It faces you with a bit of a decision, doesn’t it, sir?”
Of course he couldn’t display the wild elation he felt, not even to Theodosia, let alone to her young man, so shortly he was on the street, walking swiftly up Fulton toward Broadway, stick swinging, heels tapping on brick walks … .
By,
God!
He’d done it—nailed it down, matched that pompous gentleman from Virginia! Let no one—no one!—look down on Aaron Burr. He spun left at Broadway, the day chill but sunny, stepping along at almost a trot, feeling as he did when the jury walked in and gave him the smile that told him he’d won.
He saw the Aubreys ahead, John and Matilda, ready to congratulate him, John reserved as always, Matilda gushing. He bowed over her hand, squeezed it more than necessary, felt her answering pressure, looked into her eyes, and saw what he wanted to see, shook John’s hand and walked on. The next time he heard John had gone to Albany he’d send Matilda a note … .
At Park Row he turned into the green on impulse and marched along gravel walks, new little maples banked against the cold, the hurdy-gurdy and the puppet show shut down … .
“Aaron! Aaron, darling!” It was Gertrude Heinz, much too heavy and much too loud, who burned with unrequited hope that he had every intention of keeping unrequited, walking with her grim old maid sister, both draped in fur.
“Ladies,” he said, bowing, not quite stopping until Gertrude caught his arm.
“It’s so thrilling! I can’t believe I know someone of such position. Vice president! And the tie! Oh what an honor! Of
course you’ll step aside for Mr. Jefferson, but just to think—”
Burr bowed. “Good day, ladies.” He marched on, aware of their startled expressions as they gazed after him.
How dare they! At the moment of his triumph when he’d had but an instant to savor the wild elation of it all, this cretinous puddle of lard should—oh, certainly, he can’t wait, just can’t wait, to step aside for the sainted Mr. Jefferson … .
His mood now darkening, he frowned when he saw Simmons McAlester ahead. Simmons was walking with that rolling gait he seemed to feel appropriate for a man who owned ships, though he never actually went to sea. An ass, really, but useful. Burr owed him almost three thousand dollars.
“Sim, my friend,” he said, shaking the other’s hand. “How are you? Heard the news, have you?”
“Absolutely delightful—a great honor for New York too. Goes to your image of yourself, I’m sure, patron of the arts like you. A regular Medici, supporting painters when no one wants their stuff.” Burr ignored a tinge of mockery in his smile. “Warms my heart to have been of some little assistance; makes me a patron of the arts once removed!”
“And you know how grateful I am too,” Burr said. That was the trouble with debt, a problem he understood very well, you had to express gratitude so often to so many.
“Now, Aaron, you’ll have expenses and I know you’ve been neglecting your practice on behalf of this election; I’d be more than happy to help.”
“Sim, you’re a wonderful friend. Yes, now that you mention it, I’ve been a bit concerned—”
“Say no more. Five hundred? Seven-fifty? Send your note around tomorrow; I’ll send your man back with gold.”
“You’re a prince, Sim.”
“A suggestion, Aaron. Don’t be too quick to withdraw in favor of Jefferson. There might be advantage in waiting. Eventually, of course, you must, but—”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Burr heard himself say. The thought startled him.
Startled McAlester too. The merchant’s mouth twisted. “That’s foolish talk.”
At once all the dark mood, the day’s turmoil, the terrible pressure he’d felt came boiling up and he cried, “Take care, sir. I don’t appreciate being called foolish.”
McAlester leaned toward him and Burr was suddenly conscious of the man’s size. “Don’t get high and mighty with me, Brother Burr. I can put you in bankruptcy anytime I choose.”
“That’s right,” Burr said, back in control. “But you won’t. It would cost you much too much.”
McAlester smiled. “We understand each other. Send your note around in the morning.”
As Burr walked away, his mind pushing aside the real question, he felt the sting of that Medici remark. Yes, he supported certain artists and writers, men whose talent was still unrecognized. He maintained the house on Fulton Street and the country place at Richmond Hill, a hundred wonderful acres and a manor house on a bit to the north, just below the village of Greenwich. When the great Talleyrand toured America, being temporarily persona non grata in Paris, he’d spent his whole New York visit at Richmond Hill, lauding Burr’s table and cellar. Nothing wrong with a taste for fine wines, excellent tailoring, the latest books from London and Paris, and entertaining well. It cost him, but what did that matter? There was no shortage of McAlesters ready to help; and when one tired, three others stepped forward, thrilled to be useful to a great man. He chuckled: What McAlester didn’t know was that there were twenty men or thirty or more who could put him in bankruptcy. But none would dare; Burr’s influence made him much too important.
Interesting how surprise had snapped an unexpected answer out of his mouth. He felt the blood in his face again. Damn them, why must everyone assault his moment of triumph with the earthy reminders that it wasn’t such a great
triumph at that, required as he was to step back, throw away the prize, bow to the Virginian? No doubt that was what he would do in the end, but he wasn’t at that bridge. Why must he cross it now?
And what did it really mean? He had, after all, received the same number of electoral votes as had Thomas Jefferson. Was it so clear—would it be so clear when Congress voted—that Jefferson would be the better president? Did it mean that it was Virginia’s destiny and not New York’s to produce presidents? As a matter of plain fact, Burr knew he would be a stronger president than the Virginian because he knew politics, he was a mover, an arranger, yes, a conniver, and there was nothing wrong with conniving; he knew when to pull the levers and when to leave them alone.
What did Jefferson know? He’d sat out the election in that hilltop house of his, Monticello, not even an American name, standing above it all, while Burr had sweated in the trenches. Did the sainted one feel he had won it with his noble rhetoric and his high ideals? Well, Burr could tell him differently, by God! The election had been won right here in little old New York, where they knocked heads when necessary and Tammany poured enough beer on election night to float the USS
Constitution
!
And what now? Vice president was all position and no power. The Virginian would be president, and he’d make it a lifetime role. He’d never step down. Sure, Washington had quit after a couple of terms, but that was because he’d hated the job. The Constitution was silent on the question. But Burr could argue equally well—he brushed aside the inconsistency—that Jefferson would botch things so badly that the Democrats would be discredited and the Federalists would come dancing back into office in four years to minuet music!
So yes, doubtless he would withdraw, step down and back, be noble and self-sacrificing. But, by God, don’t just be taking it for granted; don’t be waving it in his face like a bloody insult even as he savored the joy of standing toe to
toe for the presidency of the United States! And he slammed fist into palm.
It was dark now and he wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking. Glancing about, he found he was near Fraunce’s Tavern, which reminded him. He drew a turnip watch from his waistcoat pocket; he was an hour late, but still, why not?
In the tavern, Pierre, the headwaiter, greeted him with rapture. After election felicitations from a half-dozen men, Pierre walked him to a private dining room.
He opened the door to find Arabella half-reclining on the long sofa. The table was set for two, and he saw she’d finished the first bottle of wine and had started the second. She held out her arms. “Aaron, you naughty boy, you’re late. Come give me a kiss, darling, and tell me your triumph!”
A week later he dined at the Bull’s Head with his old friend, Jim Wilkinson. “I have a message for you, Aaron,” Jim said, “from people who count in the Congress. Federalists, you understand—they can be the key to your future.”
He admired Wilkinson; by stealth and guile and a terrier’s willingness to snarl and scrap when aroused, he had made himself commanding general of the U.S. Army. He was a natural conniver, which often was the key to getting things done. They had been young officers in the Revolution, both drawn naturally to staff duties where skill in arranging is a quality much prized, and they had remained friends when Wilkinson went out to Kentucky and cut a wide swath as merchant, trader, speculator in that wide-open climate before the lure of duty—if that had been the lure; you never could tell with Jim—had drawn him back into the army.
He had set aside his uniform in favor of street clothes now, but even so he drew the alcove curtain closer and turned his bulk farther to hide the letter he took from an inside pocket and slid cross the table.
“From Harper of Maryland, and I happen to know he speaks for a good many. Hold back, say nothing, give your
friends in Congress a clear field, and the results may please you.”
This had been a difficult week. He’d found himself torn by hungers, fears, dreams that had been as surprising as they were disturbing. Yes, he’d wanted the tie—mainly to assure the second position, but for a certain vindication too, a sign that he stood equal among giants—but he hadn’t actually considered it much further.
Then the lightning struck. Doubtless he would step back, and yet that easy assumption had roused a visceral fury that had stunned him. All week he’d wrestled—one moment seeing the good of the party, the common expectations, the need for a stable transition if the new open democracy were to flourish—and then, like the roll of drums in his heart, why he? Was he so clearly inferior? Jefferson and his superiority the automatic leader? Did having equal votes count for nothing?
“Have you told anyone your plans?” Wilkinson whispered.
“No.” Burr didn’t add that his turmoil had been so great he hadn’t dared speak.
“Good. Good. Aaron, I tell you, you can soar out of this. It can be big. Big!”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The Federalists see huge opportunity here. You can imagine how the idea of Jefferson—and you, of course—taking office just shatters them. Not one in ten believed it would happen. Right until the last minute when our side—”
“Our side? Since when were you on anyone’s side?”
Wilkinson winked. “The winning side is my side, Aaron, always has been. Know why I’m a Democrat now? ’Cause they’ll open the West and the Federalists won’t.”
“You’ve become a western patriot?”
“Shit! Don’t be ridiculous. There are fortunes to be made in the West, fortunes that easterners can’t even imagine. It’s a place of empire. The Mississippi controls the very heart and soul of the continent, you control that river, and—”
He broke off, grinning sheepishly, his fat, round face creasing into joviality. “My, I wax enthusiastic, don’t I?”
“Does sound exciting.”
“It is, it is. Unlimited future; everyone agrees.”
“Which the Spanish at New Orleans control.” He eyed the fat general. Rumor had said for years that Wilkinson was in the pay of Spain, and Burr thought it well could be true. He knew Wilkinson would consider it quite innocent, treason in name only.
Wilkinson smiled and waved off the Spanish with a flick of his puffy hand. “To business, dear Aaron. These Federalists are serious. They’re thinking of improving the opportunity the tie has given them, as they put it, rather quaintly, I thought. They think they can tie up the election in the Congress, they’ll vote for you, the Democratic states will hold for Jefferson, stalemate will stretch past the inaugural date, and they can appoint a protem president, caretaker figure, what have you—point is, they’ll still be in power, and that’s what counts.”
“They want to use me, in other words.”
“Of course. Doesn’t everyone? But look, you can use them. Play your cards right and they’ll swing to you in reality. Stick with them and you can push Mr. Jefferson aside yet.”
Burr found it stunning, as if the devil had opened his head, pulled out thoughts he hadn’t even dared voice, and dropped them on the table like dead fish. To cover his confusion, he blurted, “Is that how you got rid of Mad Anthony?”