Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9 Page 5

  “Mister Dunson! How nice to see you again. I presume you received Mister Madison’s letter?”

  Matthew nodded, and as the two men shook hands, Matthew replied, “Mister Keeler, it’s good to be here. I came as soon as I could. I understand Mister Madison is here?”

  “He is.” Keeler gestured and smiled. “We’re here temporarily. Our quarters in the Capitol building are not finished.” He chuckled. “Finished? They aren’t even begun. Give me a minute. I’ll tell Mister Madison you’re here.” As he strode to the large, heavy oaken door to his right, he asked, “How is your health? Your family?”

  “Both fine.”

  “Good. Excellent.”

  Keeler rapped, then opened the door and disappeared inside for a few moments, And then the door swung wide, and James Madison strode into the room. He was dressed as usual in a quality black suit with white stockings to his knees, and white lace at his cuffs and his throat. A light came into his eyes the moment he saw Matthew, and as they shook hands he exclaimed, “You don’t know how grateful I am to see you. How are you? How are things at home?”

  Matthew grinned. “I’m fine. Things at home are excellent. It’s good to see you. How are you? How is this business of being secretary of state?”

  “I’m fine. Being secretary of state is punishment inflicted on me by the Almighty for sins in my past! We’re forced to make do with just about everything, including this office.”

  All three men chuckled, and Madison turned to Keeler. “I’m unavailable to anyone except the president.”

  Keeler nodded. “I understand, sir.”

  Madison held the door while Matthew entered his private office, then closed it, and the two men took leather-upholstered seats on opposite sides of a beautifully crafted round table that stood before a massive window. A great desk was to their right, covered with papers in orderly stacks, and two hand-painted China lamps. One wall was shelved in oak, with books of every description and content, all set in order. All other walls were plastered but unpainted. The hardwood floor was polished but uncarpeted. On the round table was a bound document that Matthew recognized instantly. Madison spoke.

  “I take it you received my letter.”

  Matthew drew it from his pocket and set it on the table. “I did.”

  Madison gestured to the bound document on the table between them. “That’s the report written by your son John on the Chespeake affair.”

  Matthew replied, “I recognize it.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “Several times.”

  “Three unprovoked broadsides on an American naval vessel on the high seas. Justification for war?”

  Matthew drew and released a great breath. “I dislike it, but the answer is yes. Are you considering it? Has the president made a decision?”

  “Not yet. But we are drafting a complaint to the British admiralty, demanding a public apology and restitution, and the return of the American sailors they kidnapped. Lacking their compliance, we are including a threat of war.”

  Matthew’s expression did not change as he spoke. “Are we prepared for war if they refuse?”

  Madison shook his head sadly. “I agree with you. I deplore it. I cannot yet speak for the president. Answer me this. Do the British hold us in such contempt they think they can get away with such a thing?”

  Matthew’s answer came slowly. “Yes. They still see us as their rebel colonies. Nothing but contempt. Arrogance.”

  “What will we have to do to wake them up?”

  “File your complaint. Fight it out. If they refuse the apology and restitution, declare war. If it comes to war, be certain you have enough naval power.”

  Madison’s face clouded. “That’s one of the problems. We don’t. Let me continue. If we do have a hearing on our complaint, will your son John be available to substantiate his report by appearing as a witness if it becomes necessary?”

  “Any time, any place.”

  Suddenly Madison leaned forward, small, soft hands on his knees, eyes pinpoints of intensity. His next question caught Matthew by surprise.

  “If the United States were to take Canada away from the British, would the loss of the commercial items now being produced by the Canadians for the British cripple the British enough to bring them to the bargaining table?”

  Matthew leaned back to let the impact of that suggestion settle in. “You mean the timber?”

  “Among other things. England has to have lumber from somewhere to support their navy. They can get it from Canada. If we held Canada, England would have to look elsewhere, and right now they couldn’t get it from France or Russia because those three powers are at each other’s throats. Nor could they get it from any other reliable source. What do you think? Would it cripple them?”

  For a time Matthew lowered his head and labored with his thoughts. Then he raised his eyes. “I doubt it. I doubt the United States could shut down the trade. We might take Canada, but one way or another, the Canadians would find a way to get the timber to England, if there was a profit in it. And there would be a profit. Probably a big one. Some Americans up there might even help them do it.”

  Matthew saw the disappointment in Madison’s eyes and asked, “Why? Are you thinking of recommending to the president that we take Canada?”

  Madison puckered for a moment before he spoke. “It had crossed my mind.”

  Matthew shook his head. “Be careful. Be careful.”

  Madison studied Matthew’s eyes for a moment, then abruptly changed the subject again. “I need to know the truth about what’s happening to American commercial shipping on the high seas and in foreign ports. I get reports, but I’m nervous about their authenticity. Has Dunson & Weems suffered?”

  Matthew took a deep breath. “I’ve lost track of the embargoes and the tariffs and the policies of the British and the French and now the Russians. It’s past arrogance. Past contempt. So far as they’re concerned, we’re nothing more than a nuisance. They stop our ships at will, confiscate our cargoes, sometimes they take our ships as prizes at sea, and we never see them again. They’ve seized our crews and forced them into British naval service at bayonet point. And they’ve closed ports all over Europe to our ships, and if we protest they use cannon.”

  Matthew’s eyes were alive, his face showing color. “We’ve never been without insurance on our cargoes until lately, but it can’t be bought now because the insurance companies nearly went bankrupt paying for confiscated cargoes before they realized what was going on and quit issuing insurance at any price. We’ve begun mounting cannon on our commercial ships with orders to our captains to defend themselves if they have to. We’re using small frigates for most of our loads. They can’t carry as much, so profits are down on every load, but at least they can outrun the big men-o’-war.”

  Matthew stopped for a moment, then finished. “We’re already in an undeclared war! Either we find a way to stop all this, or the United States will go down in bankruptcy. Can you imagine what would happen if a British gunboat attacked one of my commercial ships on the high seas, and my ship decided to fight back with the two cannon they carry and by some stroke of luck sank the British man-o’-war? Within one day of the British admiralty’s finding out about it, they would declare war on the United States. Bankruptcy or war. Those appear to be our choices.”

  For a time Madison digested Matthew’s statement, dissected it, and filed the pieces away, each in its proper place in his orderly mind. “That bad?”

  “Worse. If you need witnesses to all this, I can provide at least twenty captains from my fleet who will give first-hand accounts of breach by both British and French ships of just about every rule of the sea.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Madison paused to clear his throat and changed course again. “Do you recall that individual who was taken by the Indians when he was small and raised Iroquois? He was close to your associate, Billy Weems. You knew him well. The one who never learned to salute General Washington?”

&nb
sp; Matthew smiled at the remembrance. “Eli Stroud? My son John married his daughter, Laura, not long ago. They have an infant son, James.”

  Madison straightened in surprise. “Your son married Mister Stroud’s daughter? I was unaware! And they named their firstborn James? Am I to feel honored?”

  “Yes. You now have a godson.”

  “I am without words! I will find an occasion to meet them, and I insist they have my godson available.”

  Matthew grinned. “I’ll see to it whenever you say.”

  Madison continued. “Regarding Mister Stroud—wasn’t he living in the wilderness in Vermont? Or was it New Hampshire?”

  “Vermont. About eight years ago he realized his daughter, Laura, would not receive an education if she stayed there. Civilization was catching up with them out there in the wilderness, and if she was to be ready for it she needed to learn the ways of life in a city. He brought her to Boston, and Billy Weems took her in. You may remember that Billy is married to my sister Brigitte—and Laura has been there since. An educated, beautiful young lady—a lot like her mother, Mary.”

  “Where’s Mister Stroud? He surely didn’t stay in the city!”

  Matthew laughed. “No, he didn’t. He went back to Vermont, but he became restless with new people coming in and villages and towns taking shape. He moved on west, to the Ohio Valley. He’s become a force for good over there. Remarkable man. Remarkable.”

  “How old?”

  Matthew shrugged. “Perhaps fifty-five. Why do you ask about Eli?”

  Madison took time to order his thoughts. “We have serious problems taking shape to the west—with the Indians. There are two Shawnee—a chief named Tecumseh and his brother who is called ‘The Prophet’—who are friendly to the British and are organizing the tribes to resist the western migration of our people. There is reason to think the British are trading with them—the Shawnee, Ojibwa, Ottawa, Miami, Delaware, Wea, Piankashaw, Kaskaskia—all of them. We learned that last year the British met at Fort Amherstburg at the west end of Lake Erie with two thousand of those Indians and armed them. They apparently intend using them against Americans who come into what the Shawnee feel to be their territory.”

  Matthew’s brow furrowed. “The British are preparing to use the Indians against us?”

  “It is likely.”

  Matthew continued. “Those two you mentioned—The Prophet and his brother. Haven’t I heard of them?”

  “You have. The Prophet’s Shawnee name is Tenskwatawa. He has acquired a reputation for seeing visions. As I say, his brother’s name is Tecumseh. He’s the practical one. He’s moving up and down the entire country to the west, as far south as the Carolinas, persuading all the tribes to band together to push us back to the Atlantic. If he succeeds, this country will be in trouble.”

  “You see Eli as someone to help with that?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it. Eli speaks their language. Knows their customs. Habits. Religion. He’s accepted by all the tribes I know. He has stature among the Indians.”

  Madison leaned forward, eager. “Could you find him? Ask him to track down both The Prophet and Tecumseh, and carry a message from the president of the United States? We want peace. We will parley with them. We will protect them. But we cannot stop the westward movement of our people.”

  Matthew answered, “I think we can find Eli, but it will take some time. I don’t know what view he will take of your proposal.”

  “When I send word to you that we need him, would you find him? Have him come here?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Again Madison paused. For a few seconds he sat with his fingers interlaced before he once again changed his train of thought. “Is your company carrying cargo in the West Indies? The Gulf of Mexico? Jamaica?”

  “We were, yes.”

  “Were? You stopped?”

  “We had to.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “The sugar and rum coming out of the West Indies are highly profitable, and the manufactured goods—nails, bolts, kettles, utensils, pots, pans, flatirons, silks, wools, silverwork—going into those islands are also profitable, and slaves are a major commodity. Every nation in the civilized world wants that trade. The result is that pirates and buccaneers and privateers flying every known flag, and some flying no flag, have swarmed there. Hundreds of legitimate commercial ships have disappeared with crew and cargo and have never been heard from again. Most commercial lines now avoid that entire region.”

  “Have you lost any ships down there?”

  “Four. That was a few years ago. We stopped going there.”

  “Where do these privateers—pirates—market their stolen cargoes?”

  “Almost all at New Orleans.”

  “Louisiana Territory?”

  “Yes. Merchants buy the stolen goods—including slaves—from the pirates at a bargain and sell them for four times what they paid. There are men down there making fortunes. It’s all wide open. No one even tries to conceal it. It’s accepted. A thriving business.” Matthew paused for a moment, then continued. “Why do you ask?”

  Madison leaned back. “We have some smattering of information that the British are taking an interest in that business down there. New Orleans. They might be considering moving in and declaring it a possession of England.”

  “Take New Orleans? Louisiana?”

  “Yes. Take it and use it as a base to expand northward, up through the Louisiana Territory. Stop our people from the westward migration that seems to be taking shape.”

  Matthew reflected for a moment. “Am I hearing this right? The British have Canada on the north, Indians on the west, the pirates and Creoles down south on the gulf and in New Orleans, and domination of the Atlantic to the east? And they intend using it all against us? Is that it?”

  Madison nodded slowly and for a time remained silent. “North, south, east, and west. By accident or design, it doesn’t matter which, there is reason to believe they intend isolating us and attacking the United States from all sides. It is possible that’s their plan.”

  For long seconds Matthew did not move. He stared at the little man while first fear and then anger rose within. He shifted as he spoke. “Do you have any plans to the contrary?”

  Madison took a deep breath. “A few.” In his quiet, dignified way, he leaned forward and continued. “But let me ask you one more question. Do I recall your brother—the one just younger than you—went down into the Gulf of Mexico several years ago to bring back one of your ship’s crew? They were being held by the British?”

  “Yes. Caleb. They were holding our youngest brother, Adam, and one of our crews in a British prison at Port Royal on the island of Jamaica. Caleb brought them back.”

  “Quite adventurous, if I remember it right.”

  “Caleb blew up the British prison and a fair number of redcoats with it, and sank about half a dozen British longboats and one of their big gunboats in making his escape. All during a bad storm.” Matthew laughed. “It was adventurous. You’d have to know Caleb to understand.”

  “Is he still with your firm?”

  “Yes. He married and is father of four and still with us.”

  “Would he be available to help?”

  “Help how?”

  “We don’t know yet. Perhaps another adventure.”

  “New Orleans?”

  “Possibly. We might need someone to go to New Orleans long enough to get an accurate description of how matters are conducted there. Pirates, British, Creoles, French—it is all a rather confused mess right now. We don’t know who is really the power we should be dealing with down there. The American governor? The British? The pirates? The French? We may need someone who has the instinct for it to go down there and find out.”

  “Odd you’d ask, right at this time. We’ve been considering sending Caleb down there ourselves sometime in the next few months to find out if there’s a way to get our ships back into the commercial
trade without too much risk.”

  Madison jerked erect, ecstatic. “Send him! Would he be willing to do some investigative work for the government?”

  “That would be for him to say, not me.”

  “Would you advise against asking him?”

  Despite himself, Matthew smiled. “An adventure like that? No. Ask.”

  “Would you ask him for me?”

  Matthew thought for a moment. “Give me a written request, signed by yourself or President Jefferson. He should hear it from you. I’ll deliver it to Caleb.” He waited for a moment before he continued. “You mentioned you had plans contrary to those of the British. What are they?”

  Madison drew and exhaled a great breath. “For now, take the initiative. Don’t wait for them to set their master plan in motion. Request Congress to expand our army and navy. Get ready.”

  Matthew reflected for a moment. “President Jefferson? What’s his attitude on the possibility of war with England?”

  Madison shook his head. “He prefers to avoid it.”

  “At any cost?”

  “We don’t know yet. In the meantime we confront England with a claim for the damage they did to the Chesapeake, and we demand compensation and the return of those four seamen they seized. Until we know their response, we wait, and we prepare. I will draft a written request for your brother Caleb. It will be signed by either the president or myself. I’ll see that you get it.”

  Madison eased back into his chair and relaxed, and Matthew understood their business was finished. He waited for Madison to dismiss him. The little man smiled, and in his quiet voice said, “Well, Mister Dunson, you have been an immeasurable help. As always, I am in your debt. Do you have time for other talk?”

  “All the time you want.”

  “Good. Tell me. How many ships do you now have in your commercial fleet? How is Billy Weems? How is his wife?—your sister? How many children? Tell me.”

  Notes

  James Madison was appointed secretary of state by President Thomas Jefferson in 1801. Stagg, Mr. Madison’s War, p. 16.

  The startling and deplorable description of the city of Washington, D.C., in the early 1800s as set forth in this chapter is historically accurate. The construction of the city was a project very much in delay, due to lack of funding and national focus, as described. See Young, The Washington Community, 1800–1828, pp. 1–48.