City of Glory (48 page)

“It appears that Gornt Blakeman also believes it.”

“He hopes it,” Astor corrected. “I told him I needed a few days to give him my decision. Time I was negotiating for, Joyful.”

“Time for what?”

“To know whether our country—our whole country—can survive,” Astor said frankly. “I expect word shortly.”

Bladensburg, Maryland, 11:30
A.M.

It was not so much that the men in command of the American forces did not agree as that they did not confer. The result was the same. The various companies and assorted militia meant to confront the enemy at Bladensburg were spread out in three lines that had no contact with one another. They were deployed across the face of a gentle slope that led directly to Washington along a road locals referred to as the Pike.

The cannon of the Baltimore artillery, which should have been able to lay down a line of fire from one end of the bridge to the other, were positioned in such fashion they could only shoot across it. By the time that was discovered, the Americans could already hear the tramp of the redcoats’ boots, and the officer in charge decided there was no time to reposition the guns. Five companies of riflemen were stationed to the left of the artillery. They would be the first to face the enemy. The rest of the force was five hundred yards behind, out of sight of what was happening on the riverbank.

The Annapolis militia that had made such a cock-up of its billet the night before arrived minutes ahead of the enemy, jogging through the lines of the men from Baltimore in something meant to be quick time, but so out of step it looked more like a hen stomp at a barn raising. They took up a position near the top of the hill.

The British, meanwhile, were an eighth of a mile from the bridge, their internal formation perfect, their boots hitting the beaten-dirt road in a rhythm so precise it created a kind of low-pitched roar. Wave after wave of them arrived, and only one glimmer of hope for the Americans. A distance of about a mile had opened between the brigades.

The English general called a halt within sight of the bridge. The company sergeant-major trotted to his side, waiting for orders. For once, the admiral offered no opinion. The general considered. His men were exhausted, they could do with a rest while the others caught up. But the prize was close enough so he could almost see it. He lifted his sword arm and pointed straight ahead. “Charge!”

The first salvo from the Baltimore artillery met the advance. Seconds later the riflemen began firing.

In moments the redcoats in the van had formed a double red line that returned fire in perfect unison and with no pause. It was a devastating response, and the few Maryland riflemen that survived it fled into the woods.

Madison and the men with him were approaching Bladensburg from the south, those on horseback galloping full speed up the Pike, the foot soldiers trotting behind them in quick march. The president heard the shots, spurred his horse still faster, and opened up a lead that looked to make him the first of the Washington reinforcements to take the field.

It was Astor’s marksman who saw what was happening and put his head down and whipped his borrowed horse into a frenzy of speed. “Mr. President! Please, sir…” He drew level with Madison. “Mr. President! You must fall back, sir. You cannot be part of the fight. If you were injured, sir…think of the country.”

“What?” It was like waking from a dream. Madison and his horse, an old cavalry charger as it happened, the pair of them lusting for the fight. “No…you are quite right. Of course I cannot.” The president reined in, and he and the marksman sidled to the edge of the road. The District militia raced ahead, taking the field alongside the men from Annapolis, while five hundred sailors and marines took up a position across the Pike. Their five big naval guns would be the city’s ultimate defense.

The surveyor, also on horseback now, had taken up a position at the top of the hill. “Too far apart,” he muttered. “The bloody idiots are too damned far apart.” No one heard him. It was too late to make any difference if they had.

On the other side of the river the British admiral had also withdrawn to the role of observer. At this point the battle was the army’s affair. He lifted his glass and looked up to the ridge ahead. He had gotten his way. Washington first, then Baltimore. And both probably a lot easier than either he or the general expected. What was it they’d said back in Bermuda? Dolley Madison sets a fine table at the Executive Mansion.

“What is that, John?”

“That be gunfire, Mrs. Madison.”

“Yes, I supposed it is.” Dolley ran to the north parapet, leaning as far forward as she dared, pressing the glass to her eye. “I can see some flashes, John, by the eastern branch of the river. In the direction of Bladensburg, I think. The enemy appears to be north of us.” She turned to French John, her chest heaving, dabbing her face with a handkerchief already soaked with perspiration. “Perhaps they are passing us by. The redcoats may be headed for Baltimore, or even New York.”

“Could be, madam. But—” A sound from below stopped his speech. John bent over the edge of the roof. “Two wagons, Mrs. Madison. The boys be finding two wagons!”

“Yes, I see they have.” Dear God. Forty-six years old and already once a widow, wasn’t that to be enough? Why did James not this very minute come riding toward her, take her to safety. He was the president of the United States and she was his wife. Why wasn’t he here? She snapped the glass shut. “Come, John. We must go downstairs and see how much of the house’s furnishings we can pack on that blessed pair of wagons.”

New York City, Maiden Lane, Noon

Adele Tremont was a long, thin reed of a woman, fine for displaying the latest fashions, Manon had always thought. Advertising her trade as it were. But Manon could never see her in Mama’s place, and Papa had given no indication he wanted her there. He had carefully avoided the Widow Tremont ever since Mama died. Now, because of Manon, the viper had been invited into the nest.

“I can peel those potatoes for you, if you like,” Manon said.

“Thank you, I can manage.”

“Yes, I know you can.” She made a great effort to keep the exasperation from her voice. “But there’s no need. You must allow me to help.”

“Monsieur Vionne has asked me to take over all the cooking for the household. All the marketing as well,” she added.

“I know, but I am only too happy to take on some of those chores.” Papa had left a few minutes before, and said he would probably not return until the dinner hour. She would not have a better opportunity. “If I were to go to the market for you, for instance, you could take the time to make your treacle tart. Papa loves your treacle tart, Madame Tremont. He told me so after the Independence Day church supper.”

“You are kind to mention it, mademoiselle. But I do not think Monsieur Vionne would approve my letting you go to the market in my stead. He feels you have been seen too much about the town of late. And now that the nephew of Monsieur DeFane is coming—”

“A visit that may not occur for some time, given that the redcoats are all over our roads. Here, do let me at least scrape the carrots.”

“There are not quite enough, I fear. I hope Elsie Gruning has more for us today.”

The Widow Tremont bent her long body over the soup simmering in a heavy pot hanging over the kitchen fire. Her nose was long as well, and needle-thin. Mama had been all roundness and softness. Not so good for wearing
la dernière mode,
perhaps, but surely Papa was more interested in hugging a pillow than a stick. “Not so much salt,” Manon said as the Widow Tremont added three large pinches to the pot. “Papa does not like his soup so liberally seasoned.”

“My
petite marmite
has never been criticized, mademoiselle. The late Monsieur Tremont was very fond of it.”

“Yes, well—”

“I am sure Monsieur Vionne will find it equally satisfactory. Now I will go and see about those carrots. I can trust you not to allow the fire to go out, mademoiselle?”

“I shall do my best. But Madame Tremont, only you know exactly how much heat you wish the marmite to have, when is the right time to stir up the coals and when to damp them down. And think what a nice surprise your treacle tart would be. If you—”

“I have already made the treacle tart, mademoiselle. It is even now cooling in the pantry.” Madame Tremont tied a straw gypsy bonnet in place as she spoke. A tight tie, Manon saw, meant to stay exactly where she put it. And of course, a perfect bow. “I shall be gone no more than thirty minutes. And when I return, mademoiselle, perhaps you would like me to measure you for a new frock. For when the nephew of Monsieur DeFane arrives. I got a lovely piece of green silk at Monsieur Blakeman’s sale the other day. I am to make a new gown of it for Eugenie Fischer, and she is a lady of great style. But you are both slender. There is enough for two.”

“
Merci, madame,
a new frock would be lovely. You are too kind.” I hope you slip on the way to the market and break both those skinny legs. Then you will not be able to interfere in my life this way, and Papa will not so quickly find a replacement for my skills. And if I hear one more word about this wretched nephew of Monsieur DeFane, I will cut out the tongue of whoever speaks it.

Adele Tremont paused with her hand on the kitchen door. “The fire, mademoiselle. Do not forget. The
marmite
will not be as good if it is allowed to cool in the middle of the cooking.”

“I shall guard it with my life, madame.” Manon waited until the mantua-maker had gone, then took a large handful of salt from the cannister beside the hearth and dumped it into the soup. My petite marmite has never been criticized, mademoiselle.
Alors,
madame, we shall see about that.

It was not usual for Papa to close the shop during normal business hours. Manon never remembered such a thing. But he’d looked distracted, truly distraught, when he left on whatever errand had taken him away. He had not even thought to ask her to remain behind the counter to answer customers’ inquiries. Surely they were not going to cut the Great Mogul. No, she could not believe Papa would do such a thing. As for minding the shop, he had made his wishes quite clear on Sunday. She was to remain in her room and bring no more shame upon his name.