Treason, page 40
“Do you mean they’re coming ... coming here?”
“Not now, anyway. I stayed in town the full day waiting to see what would happen and they went on about their business. Seems like they was putting themselves on notice.”
That decided it. She couldn’t wait longer. “Peter,” she said, “do you know where Captain Henderson lives?” He nodded. She said, “We must go there first thing in the morning. Tell him about this ...” Her voice died. He was gazing at her as if she’d lost her mind. “What?” she whispered.
“Why, Miz Blennerhassett, Cap’n Henderson, it was him as called the meeting. Him that give the information about the treason and all. Said Mr. Blennerhassett told him he wrote them articles. This is all Cap’n Henderson’s doing.”
Burr rode eastward to see Senator Smith at Cincinnati and found things going perfectly. He sent a note a hundred fifty miles upstream to Harman on his island telling him to gather things and come on. When he returned to Senator Brown’s house, however, the senator met him with a worried frown.
“Joe Daviess,” he said, “I told you he was a busybody son of a bitch. Now he’s kicked over the milk pail.”
Busybody he clearly was, mad Federalist in a sea of Democrats, but he swung a good-sized stick as district attorney. Brown gave him a stiff drink of corn liquor. Said he would need it.
Daviess had been snooping around Louisville where Davis Floyd was in charge. He’d seen supplies pouring in, cattle on the hoof, heavy flour barrels, salt pork in casks, all being stowed on big boats and covered with canvas, bound downstream. Everyone he met seemed to know what was going on.
“Which is?” Burr asked.
“That a thousand men are coming, aiming at Mexico and then the territories along the Mississippi, and maybe eventually everything west of the Appalachians.”
Burr’s mind was churning. Busybody son of a bitch was right! The image of putting a pistol to Daviess’s ear passed through his mind. Pretty clearly, this was a smart lawyer. But then, so was Aaron Burr.
“That sounds about right,” he said, voice nicely casual.
Brown peered at him.
“Well, war’s coming with Spain, we’ll pitch in and who’s to say we shouldn’t go all the way to Mexico when we whip them on the Texas border? Territories on the Mississippi?” He shrugged. “New Orleans can’t wait to go, it’s none of our doing. With Mexico in our hands, New Orleans’s shift is inevitable. But we’re not separating them, we’re predicting separation will happen in the future. Big difference. Western states? They’ll see the wisdom of the split in a few years. That’s all.”
Brown grinned. “Predicting, eh? You know, Aaron, you’d make a smart lawyer if you weren’t busy being a king!”
Burr smiled. “Isn’t Davis Floyd a member of the Indiana Territorial Legislature? He’d better go tend to legislative business for a while—and I suppose I’ll need a local attorney.”
“Henry Clay’s your man,” Brown said immediately. “Young, smart as all get-out, he’ll be going to the Senate soon, taking Adair’s seat.”
Clay proved to be a tall, gangly man who looked younger than his twenty-nine years. He had a dome of the sort required by a big brain and a wide, quirking mouth usually tilted into a smile. He had jousted more than once with Daviess and detested him.
Daviess filed an affidavit in Judge Innis’s court accusing Burr of mounting a military expedition to the detriment of the United States and asked for an arrest warrant. Clay objected and Innis ruled there were no grounds for an inquiry before a trial. Daviess countered with a demand for a grand jury.
“Your Honor,” Clay said, “it’s unfair to hold my client to some nebulous date in the future.”
“Agreed,” Innis said. “Mr. District Attorney, assemble your witnesses for tomorrow morning.” His hammering gavel cut off Daviess’s protests that he couldn’t be ready so soon. Spectators hissed Mr. Daviess at each objection; Judge Innis ruled that they must stop but with such a genial smile that they kept right on.
“They love you here, Mr. Burr,” said Clay. “Anyone who’ll go take Florida and Texas from the dons, they’re for him!”
Harry Innis dined at Brown’s house that night. “Can’t speak out of court, you understand,” he said, “but I wouldn’t want you losing any sleep over this.”
The grand jury was ready in the morning. Judge Innis winked when Burr appeared in court. Daviess said he couldn’t assemble witnesses so rapidly. Could he have another day? Granted. On the next day Daviess had to admit that the only witness who counted, Davis Floyd, was off in Vincennes attending the Indiana Territorial Legislature. All other testimony would be hearsay.
A burly man in the front row stood up. “Joe,” he bellowed at Daviess, “you’re just a goddamned fool!” Laughter exploded as Judge Innis, smothering his own smile, rapped for order.
Burr laughed with the crowd, knowing he looked relaxed and confident. The people loved him, the judge was his friend, his attorney was the best. But Daviess moved for a new grand jury and Innis had no choice but to grant the motion. He gave Daviess twenty-one days to prepare. Into December.
It was a delay Burr couldn’t afford. He was due in New Orleans in December. Briefly he debated running on downriver and letting Daviess go to hell. But then he would be a fugitive subject to immediate arrest, branded wherever he went. No, he’d have to let this play itself out. But the danger was growing, the time collapsing, the alarm beginning to spread. He could almost see the faceless man coming down the river after him. This miserable district attorney with his suspicions was costing him a month or more of dead time, time he didn’t have. Things were cutting too close.
He awakened with a jolt. He’d been dreaming and sweating, nightshirt soaked. He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and sat by the open window. The night was still; a dog barking in the distance sounded small and slight. Must be a mile away. A horse stamped in Judge Brown’s barn, which Burr’s room overlooked. He heard a low voice, stableman quieting the beast. In the dream Daviess had been huge and domineering and Judge Innis had glared at Burr and granted Daviess everything he wanted.
The strain of keeping utter calm, his manner genial and confident while men were trying to kill him, was beginning to tell on him. Reviewing his position with its power and rectitude was the only way he could calm himself after these disturbances in the night, which came more and more often. Was the whole thing humbug? The people were with him and against Daviess because they thought he intended to liberate Florida and Texas and had unspoken government support. Suppose he told them that Daviess was right, the plot as he described it was just what Burr intended?
But that was silly. He thumped his forehead with a fist. For God’s sake, get it straight! Of course they would repudiate him now should he make such admission. This wasn’t revolution and he wasn’t trying to turn anyone now. Rather he intended to turn New Orleans, which couldn’t wait to turn, and then to seize Mexico with its unfathomable gold. Then everything would be different. He would be coming to the West as conquering hero paving the way with gold, and he would have control of their future trade held tight in his hand. Squeeze it and they would suffer. Squeeze it tight and they would die.
Now his only aim was to get down the river with men and supplies to implement his plans. He was vulnerable now; later he would be too strong to touch and none would dare try. Now his popularity, based on a mistaken belief of the people, was essential to getting through at all. He must be too popular, and must seem to be carrying out foreign policy that everyone wanted too clearly to brook interference from partisan pygmies. Public opinion would ease him out of Daviess’s clutches so long as he stayed calm and so plainly stood above it all.
All he needed—he found himself shaking a finger at himself in the darkness and laughed—was to get through this dangerous phase when any law officer could charge him with treason and send him east. But get through this and no one could stop him.
The dog had worn itself out barking and the night was silent. Stars glittering overhead cheered him. Suddenly he felt fine. The dream was a fool’s dream. Yes, Madison’s man was on his trail, and yes, he and Madison were titans clashing on a sparkling plain. But Madison had moved too late. The man on Burr’s trail was still far off, so some intuition he trusted told him. And Burr was moving on. Satisfy this Daviess thing and be gone!
So whether the people would accept revolution now wasn’t the point. When they found that the ox to be gored was their own he expected to find them lining up in droves. Not now, but when the time came. That was all that mattered.
Faint light cracked in the east; the barn took shape. He lay down still wrapped in the blanket and slept.
Johnny Graham made good but exhausting time in a day-and-night stage westward from Washington to Baltimore to Pittsburgh. At every stop he sent another letter to Faith—be brave, be strong, he loved her. A day in Pittsburgh was all he needed to know the conspiracy was real and developed and under way. This brought him no special joy. He liked Burr. They’d had dealings at the State Department and though Burr knew he was in bad odor, he had never taken any venom out on Johnny. He’d been gracious, even lighthearted. There was an elegance about him, though apparently he could be slippery, too. And it had occurred to Johnny that there was something unknowable in him, surface glitter that defied penetration, suggesting inner depths that might be vast and capacious—or might be empty.
Pittsburgh made it clear that Blennerhassett’s island really was the focus point, and Johnny hurried down the Ohio, travel by keelboat a vast relief from the jouncing stage. The baby would be coming any day now; each time he thought of Faith he said a prayer. The first storm of winter came howling in from the north while he was on the river, freezing wind producing watery eyes and aching cheekbones. Ice formed in the water butts and he retreated to the keelboat cabin to warm his hands at a stove. Sitting there a moment before making room for someone else, he found himself hoping he wouldn’t find Burr at the island, for even with proof of his iniquity, taking the former vice president under arrest would be painful for them both. Or an angry crowd might decide to set Burr free if he were arrested, so wide was the enthusiasm for him as the man to rectify Spanish balkiness over Florida and Texas.
It seemed early for snow, but everyone in Marietta said look at that sky, we’ll get it afore long. He found Burr activity everywhere, passing boats with recruits, more boats under construction, supplies purchased in bulk for cash. The next morning a tall, shambling man with a guileless and rather sweet expression stopped him on the street.
“I hear you’re looking to join up with Mr. Burr’s expedition,” he said, a surprising Irish lilt in his voice. “I’m Harman Blennerhassett and I suppose I’m the man you should see, for he’s on downriver and I’m in charge here.” He wore a waistcoat of fantastic design.
“Well,” Johnny said, “I’ve heard enough about it to get really interested.”
“Excellent. I can sign you right on.”
Graham saw immediately that there was an innocence in the Irishman, and he simply let him talk. He heard about men, boats, supplies, the Spanish and their recalcitrance, the significance of Mexico’s gold, the Mexican Association of New Orleans that sought Mr. Burr as its leader and was dedicated to taking Mexico, hence, don’t you see, its name. Blennerhassett proved to be one of those men who talked more as his listener talked less, and soon had convinced Graham that everything he’d heard about Burr was true. When Graham observed mildly that it was against law and custom to stage private filibuster raids from one nation to the possessions of another nation—that, indeed, wars had started for less— Blennerhassett assumed a wise expression and said that perhaps the raid would be staged from a newly independent nation. Graham took that to mean that Mexico was a secondary objective and New Orleans the primary. He said he must think it over, and Blennerhassett went off with a satisfied look, telling him not to delay in reporting to the island. Things would be moving soon.
Within twenty-four hours, Graham had confirmed the immediate—boats certainly were under construction up the Muskingum, boats with supplies under canvas were passing through, more supplies stacked on wharves awaiting loading in the Muskingum boats, closemouthed young men disappearing downriver.
Among the supplies coming from Pittsburgh: twelve hundred stands of arms complete with bayonets.
Twelve hundred. This was no small matter. He wondered if Faith would share his feeling of importance; perhaps nothing but the baby was really important to her.
He crossed the river to Parkersburg in Wood County, Virginia, which had legal jurisdiction over the island, and met with the committee formed to watch for illegal activity. A slender, punctilious man with pencil mustache and heavy black eyebrows who identified himself as Captain Henderson laid out almost everything that Graham had learned in the last day, confirming detail by detail. He said that Blennerhassett had sworn him to secrecy so he couldn’t in conscience repeat what had been said but he did feel free to warn Graham that the administration should put troops into New Orleans by ship, independently of Wilkinson’s force. Graham thought it a bit precious in such a situation to refuse to reveal what had been said, until he realized that Henderson had in fact revealed all that mattered. New Orleans. Then it was his turn to talk.
Late that day he took the stage for Chillicothe to see Governor Tiffin of Ohio, in whose jurisdiction Marietta and the Muskingum lay. The Wood County officers who had authority over the island were standing by.
Margaret Blennerhassett felt the cold seeping into her bones. Or was it into her spirits? It was cold in Ireland, too, but somehow not like this. Winter after winter this Ohio cold came sweeping in from the north to shock her; she never seemed prepared for the sudden icy wind whipping off the river. It was worse this time, or her spirits were lower, or both. It snowed sometime during the night and the children were tracking in mud.
She heard an odd noise. Her nerves were raw and she was attuned to the unusual. She went to the window and saw a commotion down by the water, saw Harman’s tall form—thank God he was back—with Comfort Tyler beside him. Comfort was a bright fellow, solid and steady, and there was every reason to like him except that she didn’t. Nevertheless, she urged Harman to listen to him because except for his doglike devotion to Mr. Burr, Comfort Tyler was a sensible man. She could never decide whether Burr was savior or destroyer but there was nothing doglike in her feelings. Apparently Mr. Burr had rescued Comfort from some disaster; he said he’d been down and out, which seemed unlikely to Margaret unless his problem was grog.
She knew why she disliked him: he made everything too real. He was a big, rangy fellow, almost as tall as Harman and much heavier, whose manner was authoritative and crisp; he knew what he was doing and why. As nothing had quite done before, his arrival with four boats and a milling crowd of young men who erected rows of tents and occupied themselves running ball had shown her more than she wanted to see. Rifle balls were for waging war, for killing people—that’s what this was all about, war.
Hurrying down the path she saw that Dudley Wood-bridge was pressing money into Harman’s hand. She noticed because it was the first money they’d seen from Dudley since Harman invested in his business. “I don’t want no more part of this,” Dudley said as she came up. “This squares our debt, what you put in plus accrued profits. I figured I owed you a warning, too. They’re coming. They’re up on the Muskingum right now breaking up your boats. This side of the river, Wood County boys are getting ready, be here before long. All on account of this.”
He handed Harman a flier from the Marietta paper. Harman held it upside down. She saw he was badly rattled and took it from him. She slipped an arm through his and held him until she felt his tension begin to subside. Then, still holding him, she read the paper that was quivering in her left hand. It was a proclamation from Governor Tiffin announcing that a treasonous plot was afoot to seize New Orleans, separate the West from the East, and launch an illegal attack on Mexico. It called on Ohio citizens to resist this enterprise with all means at their disposal and cause the arrest of the perpetrators.
It mentioned no names but she understood by instinct that that simply meant they knew the facts but were short of legal proof. Boats, supplies, weapons, men in passage told their own story. Perpetrators—they meant Mr. Burr and Comfort—and Harman too! Everyone knew their island was the center of it all. Everyone knew they planned to grab Florida and Texas. But now they were branded with the mark of treason and you didn’t have to know much to know that treason led to the hangman’s noose.
Melted snow seeped into her boots and a bunion began to ache. She drew her coat closer. “Mr. Woodbridge,” she said, “can you be sure? Can they really take our boats?”
“Surely they can, Mrs. Blennerhassett,” he said, his voice softening. She’d always known he liked her better than he did Harman. “It’s all over Marietta—took the boats, took a hundred barrels of provisions already loaded, another hundred on the wharf. You see, the legislature, it passed a bill making this treason business a crime in Ohio, that’s what they’re acting under. Governor’s militia, you see, full authority.”
He looked at her. “Godspeed, madam,” he said softly. He didn’t shake hands with Harman but turned and hurried down the path and boarded his boat, the men on the oars casting off the painter. He didn’t look back. Black clouds were rolling in and it was near dark; soon his boat disappeared.
She understood: the Wood County men would be coming soon and Mr. Woodbridge didn’t want to be caught here. It struck her that the most surprising thing was that they hadn’t come long ago. Harman had talked to Captain Henderson and Henderson had called the meeting that condemned them a month ago, and she’d known from that moment that their days on the island were numbered. But then nothing had happened. It was as if Henderson and his men were waiting for something to trigger their action, but she couldn’t imagine what.
