City of Glory (51 page)

The Federal District, 3:30
P.M.

“You must leave now, Mrs. Madison. The president requests it.”

“You’ve seen my husband? Where is he?”

The marksman’s buckskins were covered in dust, and the hat he held under his arm had two bullet holes through the crown. “We saw him not more’n a quarter hour past, ma’am.” He jerked his head in the direction of the surveyor, who stood off to the side, saying nothing. The marksman knew why; the gall of it was a bitterness on both their tongues. The first two lines of the American defense had collapsed in minutes and having no instructions as to where to re-form, they scattered into the woods. Only the third line was holding. They could still hear the boom of the big guns the American sailors had dragged into position across the approach road to the District. “He’s with our forces, ma’am. Gives ’em a good deal of courage seeing the president there.” But not enough to stop them from cutting and running in the face of that relentless red tide.

“He is well?”

“Well and unhurt, Mrs. Madison. But very worried for you. That’s why he sent us, to say you must leave at once.”

“Thank you both for coming. I shall do so as soon as I—Oh, John, is it done?”

“It all be done, madame. The drawing room curtains be packed and on the last wagon. What with the silver and the dishes and such, that be all what can fit. I sent them on their way. Everybody else be gone too. Just you and me be left. I got the little trap all hitched up and waiting.”

“Excellent. These gentleman have come to say that Mr. Madison is also well, praise the Lord, and that he bids us leave. Which of course we must do as soon as—”

“Mrs. Madison”—John looked straight at her, ignoring the two strangers—“s’cuse me, but…You be quite sure? There’s still time to—”

“Quite sure. We will speak no more of it.” French John wanted to lay a concealed train of powder to the front door, and rig a trap devised to blow up the British as soon as they tried to enter the house. “It is out of the question. Even in war, there are things civilized people do not do.” She recognized his disappointment, but there was no time to deal with it. Dolley turned to face the two callers. “There is one more thing before we can go, gentlemen. We must take President Washington’s portrait from the wall.”

The surveyor took a step forward and put his hand on the frame. “It’s screwed in place, madam. I’m afraid there isn’t enough time to—”

“I refuse to leave General Washington here to be abused by the enemy. The painting is by Mr. Gilbert Stuart. It is my husband’s favorite, though he says that in life the president was considerably taller, and I believe I remember him so as well. John, go and find a tool to loose the screws.”

The surveyor glanced at the picture—Washington in black-velvet coat and breeches, standing beside a table laden with books meant to be the Declaration and the Constitution—then strode to the front door and threw it open. “I respectfully bid you to listen, madam.”

They all listened. The navy’s guns had gone quiet.

“Silence, madam. The battle has ended.”

“Perhaps our troops have—”

“As God is my witness, madam. There is no such likelihood.”

The marksman looked at the cannon down by the gate. “Those guns, ma’am. Might be a good idea to—”

“I be spiking those guns half an hour past,” John said. “Soon as them guards meant to shoot ’em left.”

“Well done. Now, ma’am, you have no choice but to leave at once. I’m sure if Mr. Madison were here, he’d insist.”

“In one moment, sir. I promise. John, please break the frame and remove President Washington’s portrait. Perhaps you two gentleman can help with that.”

French John swung the hammer. The marksman cut the canvas free and rolled it tight. He offered it to the president’s wife, but she shook her head. “You gentleman said you are from New York?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And are you returning there?”

“We are, ma’am. Just as soon as we see you and your man here on your way.”

“Then I bid you take it with you for safekeeping. I have always heard that New Yorkers were among the bravest and most loyal of our citizens.”

Bladensburg, Maryland, 4
P.M.

The first two lines of defense had been short work for the redcoats. Without proper training or skilled officers, the troops—mostly civilian militia—scattered and ran before the advance. The third was different. The naval guns tore up the British lines while the D.C. militia poured in effective fire. Then, for some unfathomable reason, an American officer gave the order to retire. The troops weren’t well enough drilled to do it properly, and the retreat turned into a rout. There was cavalry in reserve, but not experienced enough to gallop headlong into enemy fire.

It was over. The Pike was open and Washington was a handful of miles away.

The general gave his men two hours’ rest, then he and the admiral led the third brigade forward in the evening dusk. That brigade had reached the battlefield too late to fire a shot; they smelled blood and craved a fight. For a time it appeared they might get one.

Three hundred patriots had gathered at the house belonging to the secretary of the treasury. They fired as soon as they saw the braid and plumes of the officers’ hats. The admiral’s horse was shot out from under him, but he was unhurt and another mount was soon made available. The redcoats formed up and returned fire. Within minutes the Americans scattered. The general gave the order to put the house to the torch. “And when you’re done here, burn all the public buildings.”

“The mansion as well, sir?” There was enough light left to see the white house sitting proudly on a slight rise, the heart of the carefully laid-out town.

“No, not the mansion. I shall deal with it personally.” Then, to the admiral, “Shall we go, sir?”

“Lead the way, General.”

Those residents of the town who had not fled, mostly servants and laborers, stood on the streets watching the progress of the conquerors. They were not molested, but the admiral made a point of inquiring as to where he might find the president of this little country. “Might he be at home, up there in that house on the hill? We wish to present our compliments.”

Meanwhile a series of loud explosions announced that the retreating Americans had blown something up lest it fall into enemy hands. “I believe there’s a navy yard a few miles up the east branch of the river. With two ships under construction.” the general said. “That’ll be it.”

The burning Navy Yard and the burning city formed a point-counterpoint of flames shooting into the sky, holding off the encroaching dark. “Better than a fireworks display,” the admiral chortled. Then, to the silent onlookers: “Rather like a party, isn’t it? Perhaps we may have a ball a bit later on.”

The door to the Executive Mansion was unlocked. The soldiers entered with fixed bayonets, in case some defenders remained behind for the purpose of engaging them in hand-to-hand combat. The place was empty. Someone commented that it was a bit of a mess. “No reflection on Mrs. Madison’s housekeeping,” the general said. “She had to leave in rather a hurry.”

“Took a few things with her.” The admiral had made a quick inspection of the ground floor. “The plate all seems to be gone, and there are no curtains in the drawing room. But there’s a cold supper laid in the dining room, General. Fancy something to eat?”

French John had continued to lay the table every mealtime. There was a dish of ham and another of chicken, and a third with a mix of niblets of corn and shelled broad beans, both fresh from the garden behind the house. “Not bad,” the admiral said, sniffing the contents of a decanter of wine. “A toast, General. I give you success.”

They drank and ate, not from hunger but for the principle of the thing. When they rose, the admiral tipped over the table and all its contents and summoned a young soldier to set the first of many fires within the house.

The Federal District burned with such ferocity that the surveyor and the marksman could see the glow in the night sky, though by then they were many miles north, riding hard, on their way to report to Mr. Astor.

Chapter Twenty

New York City,
Holy Hannah’s Shack in the Woods, 9
P.M.

“H
E SAID THAT THE
Jews had a treasure belonging to his father,” Samson Simson whispered. “Where would he get such an idea, if not from you?”

“Don’t hardly know him,” Hannah said. “Likes o’ him don’t discuss his private business with the likes o’ me.”

The likes of what she’d become at any rate, Simson thought, though she’d once claimed a social station as high or higher than that of Joyful Turner.

No candle burned inside the shack, much less an oil lamp, but what remained of the evening light came in through the chinks in the walls. It was enough for him to see the utter poverty of the hovel. “Holy heaven, how can you live like…” He glanced over to where a boy lay on a pile of rags, propped up on his elbow, listening to every word. “Come outside,” he told her. “Now.”

Hannah got to her feet, conscious that Will was watching her. “Not to worry,” she told him. “This gentleman’s kin.”

“He know anything about Jesse?” Will asked. The other boy had not returned from his day’s work in the town, though Devrey’s was long since locked and shuttered.

“Not likely,” Hannah admitted. “But never you mind, he’s a tough one, our little one-winged pigeon. He’ll be back. You’ll see. Go to sleep, boy. This be Hannah’s business.”

Cousin Samson was waiting for her by the cistern. She’d known he wouldn’t simply go away. Stubborn as mules, all the Simsons, herself included.

“Come away from there,” she said. “Mosquitoes will eat you alive.” Hannah had lived with the cistern long enough to know that every few days waves of the tiny insects rose from the standing water and set about feeding on any human they could find. She’d have done away with the thing if it were possible.

Simson joined her near the chestnut tree, where Hannah had arranged stones and a plank to form a bench. “Good things, chestnut trees,” she said. “Food, shade, shelter. Can’t ask for more.”