AARON sits placidly serene at Richmond Hill. Over his wine and his
cigar, he reduces those dreams of empire to ink and paper. He maps out
his design as architects draw plans and specifications for a house. His
friends call--Van Ness, the stubborn Swart-wout, the Irvings, Peter and
Washington.
Outside the serene four walls of Richmond Hill there goes up a
prodigious hubbub of mourning--demonstrative if not deeply sincere.
Hamilton, broken as a pillar of politics, was still a pillar of fashion.
Was he not a Schuyler by adoption? Had he not a holding in Trinity?
Therefore, come folk of powdered hair and silken hose, who deem it
an opportunity to prove themselves of the town’s Vere de Veres. There
dwells fashionable advantage in tear-shedding at the going out of an
illustrious name. Such tear-shedding provides the noble inference
that the illustrious one was “of us.” Alive to this, those of would-be
fashion lapse into sackcloth and profound ashes, the sackcloth silk and
the ashes ashes of roses. Also they arrange a public funeral at Trinity,
and ask Gouverneur Morris, the local Mark Antony, to deliver an oration.
To the delicate sobbing of super-fashionable ones is added the pretended
grief of Aaron’s Clintonian foes. They think to use the death of
Hamilton for Aaron’s political destruction.
At no time does Aaron, serene with his wine and his cigar and his
empire-planning, interpose by word or act to stem the current of real or
spurious feeling. He heeds it no more, dwells on it no more than on
the ebbing or flowing of the tides, muttering about the lawn’s shaven
borders in front of Richmond Hill.
The duel is eleven days old. Aaron, accompanied by the faithful,
stubborn Swartwout, takes barge for Perth Amboy. The stubborn, faithful
one says “Good-by!” and returns; Aaron is received by his friend
Commodore Truxton. With Truxton he talks “empire” all night. He counts
on English ships, he says; being promised in secret by British Minister
Merry in Washington. Truxton shall command that fleet.
Having set the sea-going Truxton to hoping, Aaron pushes on for
Philadelphia. He meets a beautiful girl whom he calls “Celeste,” and to
whom he does not speak of conquest or of empire. He remains a week in
Philadelphia where, by word of Clinton’s scandalized _American Citizen_:
“He walks openly about the streets!”
Then to St. Simon’s off the Georgia coast, guest of honor among polite
Southern circles; and, from St. Simon’s across to South Carolina and
the noble Alston mansion, to be welcomed by the lustrous Theo. Thus the
summer wears into fall, full of honor and ease and love.
With the first light flurry of snow, Aaron, gavel in hand, calls the
grave togaed ones to order. It is to be his last session; with the going
out of Congress, his Vice-Presidential term will have its end. During
those three Washington months which ensue, he dines with the President,
goes among friends and enemies as of yore, and never is brow arched or
glance averted. Instead, there is marked regard for him; folk compete
to do him honor. On the last Senate day he delivers his address of
farewell, and men pronounce it a marvel of dignity, wisdom, and polish.
So he steps down from American official life; but not from American
interest.
Aaron, throughout this last Washington winter, presses his plans of
empire. He attaches to them scores of his Bucktail followers--the
Swartwouts, Dr. Erick Bollman, the Ogdens, Marinus Willet, General Du
Puyster. Among those of Congress who lend their ears and give their
words are Mathew Lyon, and Senators Dayton and Smith.. These are weary
of civilization and the peace that rusts. Their hearts are eager for
conquest, and a clash with the rough, wilderness conditions of the West
beyond the Mississippi.
It is evening; Aaron sits in his rooms at the Indian Queen. Outside
the rain is falling; Pennsylvania Avenue wallows a world of mire. Slave
Peter intrudes his black face to announce:
“Gen’man comin’-up, sah!”
Peter, the privileged, would introduce Guy of Warwick, or the great Dun
Cow, with as little ceremony.
As Peter withdraws, a burly figure fills the doorway.
“Come in, General,” says Aaron.
General Wilkinson is among Aaron’s older acquaintances. They were
together at Quebec. They were fellow cabalists against Washington in
an hour of Valley Forge. Now they are hand to hilt for Mexico, and that
throne-building upon which Aaron has fixed his heart. Also, Wilkinson
is in present command of the military forces of the United States in the
Southwest, with headquarters at Natchez and New Orleans; and, because of
that army control, he is the keystone to the arch of Aaron’s plans.
The broad Wilkinson face glows at Aaron’s genial “Come in.” Its owner
takes advantage of the invitation to draw a chair near the log fire,
which the wet March night makes comfortable. Then he pours himself a
glass of whisky.
Wilkinson is worth considering. He is paunchy, gross, noisy, vain,
bragging, shallow, with a red, sweat-distilling face, and a nose that
tells of the bottle. He wears to-night the uniform of his rank. His coat
exhibits an exuberance of epaulette and an extravagance of gold braid
that speak of tastes for coarse glitter. His iron-gray hair, shining
with bear’s grease, matches his fifty years. In conversation he becomes
a composite of Rabelais and Munchausen. As for holding wine or stronger
liquor, he rivals the Great Tun of Heidelberg.
The stubborn Swartwout doesn’t like him. On a late occasion he expresses
that dislike.
“To be frank, Chief,” observes the blunt Bucktail, who, because of
Aaron’s headship of the Tammany organization, always addresses him as
“Chief”--“to be frank, I believe your friend Wilkinson to be as crooked
as a dog’s hind leg.”
“You are right, sir,” says Aaron; “he is both dishonest and treacherous.
It was he who uncovered our plans to unhorse Washington, by ‘blabbing’
them, as Conway called it, to Lord Stirling. Yes; dishonest and
treacherous is Wilkinson.”
[Illustration: 0273]
“Why, then, do you trust him?”
“Why do I trust him?” repeats Aaron. “For several sufficient reasons. He
has been in and out of Mexico, and is as familiar with the country as
I am with Richmond Hill. He is cheek and jowl with the Bishop of New
Orleans; and I hope to attach the church to my enterprise. Most of all,
he commands the United States forces in the Southwest. Moreover, I count
his dishonesty and genius for double dealing as virtues. They should
become of importance in my enterprise.
“As how?” demands the mystified Buck-tail.
“As follows: Mexico is rich in gold; I argue that his dishonest avarice
will take him loyally with me, hand and glove, in the hope of loot. His
treacherous talents should come finely into play in certain diplomacies
that must be entered upon with Mexican officials, who will favor
me. Likewise he should find them exercise in dealings with the war
department here in Washington; for you can see, sir, that, in his dual
rôles of filibusterer and military commander of the Southwest for this
government, he is certain to be often in collision with himself.”
The stubborn Bucktail says no more, being too well drilled in deference
to Aaron’s will and word. It is clear, however, that his distrust of the
whisky-faced Wilkinson has not been put to sleep.
Wilkinson, as he swigs his whisky by Aaron’s fire, sits in happy
ignorance of the distrustful Bucktail’s views. Confident as to his own
high importance, he plunges freely into Aaron’s plans.
“Five hundred,” says Aaron, “full five hundred are agreed to go; and
I have lists of five thousand stout young fellows besides, who should
crowd round our standard at the whistle of the fife. The move now is
to purchase eight hundred thousand acres on the Washita, as a base from
which to operate and a pretext for bringing our people together. My
excuse for recruiting them, you understand, will be that they are to
settle on those eight hundred thousand Washita acres.”
“Eight hundred thousand acres!” This, between sips of whisky: “That
should take a fortune! Where do you think to find the money?”
“It will come from New York, from Connecticut, from New Jersey, from
everywhere--but most of it from my son-in-law, Alston, who is to
mortgage his plantation and crops. He is worth a round million.”
“How do you succeed with the English?” asks Wilkinson, taking a new
direction.
“It is as good as done. Merry, the British Minister, was with me
yesterday. He has sent Colonel Williamson of his legation to London,
to return by way of Jamaica and bring the English fleet to New Orleans.
Truxton is to be given temporary command, and sail against Vera Cruz,
where you and I must meet him with an army. When we have reduced Vera
Cruz, and secured a port, we shall march upon the city of Mexico.”
Wilkinson helps himself to another glass.
Then he rubs his encarmined nose with a ruminative forefinger.
“Well,” he observes, “it will be a great venture! In New Orleans I’ll
make you acquainted with Daniel Clark, an Englishman, who has the riches
and almost the wisdom of Solomon. He’ll embrace the enterprise; once he
does he’ll back it with his dollars. Clark himself is strong in ships;
with his merchant fleet and his warehouses, he should keep us in
provisions in Vera Cruz.”
“That is well bethought,” cries Aaron, eyes a-sparkle.
“Clark’s relations with the bishop are likewise close,” adds Wilkinson.
Taking a pull at the whisky, he runs off in a fresh direction.
“Give me your scheme in detail. We are not, I trust, to waste time
with a claptrap democracy, nor engage in the popular tomfoolery of a
republic?”
“The government, imperial in form, shall be styled the ‘Empire of
Mexico.’ I shall be crowned Emperor Aaron I, and the crown made
hereditary in the male line; which last will create my grandson, Aaron
Burr Alston, heir presumptive.”
“And I?” interjects Wilkinson, his features doubly aglow with alcohol
and interest. “What are to be my rank and powers?”
“You will be generalissimo of the army.”
“Second only to you?”
“Second only to me. Here; I’ve drawn an outline of the civil fabric
we’re to set up. The government, as I’ve said, is to be imperial, myself
emperor. There is to be a nobility of grandees, titles hereditary, who
will sit as a parliament. The noble programme is this: Aaron I, emperor;
Wilkinson, generalissimo of the forces; Alston, chief of the grandees
and secretary of state; Theo, chief lady of the court and princess
mother of the heir presumptive; Aaron Burr Alston, heir presumptive;
Truxton, lord high admiral of the fleet. There will be ambassadors,
ministers, consuls, and the usual furniture of government. The grandees
should be limited to one hundred, and chosen from those whom we bring
with us. There may be minor noble grades, drawn from ones powerful and
friendly among the natives.”
Aaron and Wilkinson of the carnelian nose sit far into the watches of
the night, discussing the great design. As the carnelianed one takes his
leave, he says:
“We are fully agreed, I find. To-morrow I start for Natchez; you are to
follow in two weeks, you say?”
“Yes,” responds Aaron. “There should be months of travel ahead, before
my arrangements are perfected. I must meet Adair in Kentucky, Smith
in Ohio, Harrison in Indiana, Jackson in Tennessee; besides visit New
Orleans, and arrange about those eight hundred thousand Washita acres.
In my running about, I shall see you many times, and confer with you as
questions come up.”
“I shall meet you at Fort Massac on the Ohio. Don’t forget two several
matters: The enterprise will lick up gold like fire. Also, that in the
civil as well as the military control of the empire, I’m to be second to
no one save yourself.”
“I shall forget nothing. Speaking of money, I sell Richmond Hill
to-morrow for twenty-five thousand dollars. The deeds are drawn and
signed.”
“Oh, we shall find money enough,” returns Wilkinson contentedly. “Only
it’s well never to lose sight of the fact that we’re going to need it.
Clark, as I say, will plunge in for something handsome--something
that should call for six figures in its measure. As to my rank
of generalissimo, second only to yourself, it is all I could
ask. Popularly,” concludes Wilkinson, preparing to take his
leave--“popularly, I shall be known as ‘Wilkinson the Deliverer.’
Coming, as I shall, at the head of those gallant conquering armies which
are to relieve the groaning Mexicans from the yoke of Spain, I think it
a natural and an appropriate title--‘Wilkinson the Deliverer!’”
“Not only an appropriate title,” observes the courtly Aaron, who
remembers his generalissimo’s recent loyalty to the whisky bottle, “but
admirably adapted to fill the trump of fame.”
The door closes on the broad back of the coming “Deliverer.” As Aaron
again bends over his “Empire,” he hears that personage’s footsteps,
uncertain by virtue of much drink, and proudly martial at the glorious
prospect before him, go shuffling down the corridor of the Indian Queen.
“Bah!” mutters Aaron; “Jack Swartwout was right. It is both dangerous
and disgusting to build a great design on the trustless foundation
of this conceited, treacherous sot. And yet, such is the irony of my
situation, I am unable to do otherwise. At that, I shall manage him. Oh,
if Jefferson were only of the right viking sort! But, no; a creature of
abstractions, bookshelves and alcoves!--a closet philosopher in whose
veins runs no drop of red aggressive fighting blood!--he would as soon
think of treason as of conquest, and, indeed, might readily fall into
the error of imagining they spell the same thing. Besides, he hates me
for that presidential tie of four years ago. The plain offspring of
his own unpopularity, he none the less leaves it on my doorstep as the
natural child of my intrigues. No! I must watch Jefferson, not trust
him. His judgment is ever valet to his hatreds. He would call the most
innocent act a crime, prove white black, for the privilege of making
Aaron Burr an outlaw.”