Chapter Thirty-Nine #2
waiting half a year for news from the envoys John sent to France. “They will change their tune.”
I hoped he was right, though I could never seem to warm to Philadelphia. I found the place odiferous, crowded with disagreeable
people, and the climate unpleasant regardless of the season.
I wished very much not to be in this city. In truth, I longed for home. So when I wasn’t about the business of being the president’s
lady, I distracted myself with plans to remodel the house back in Quincy.
I wanted a dairy room for our milk and cheese. An outhouse in more privacy from the residence, too. The interior must be painted—dining
room, parlor, bedchamber, and all. The stairway, in particular, I hoped would be a cheery yellow.
But these plans I kept secret from John, so I tucked the bills into an envelope when my husband burst into my parlor.
“Outrage from France,” he cried, waving dispatches that he wasn’t sure he ought to show me. “In truth, my dear, I fear to
show anyone these missives.”
“It cannot be that bad,” I said, pulling a woolen shawl around my shoulders. “The French haven’t harmed our envoys, have they?”
“Worse,” he said.
I couldn’t imagine what might be worse until I finally wheedled the truth out of my husband. “Our emissaries met with French agents, code-named X, Y, and Z. To
avoid war, these French agents demanded three things. First, we must loan them millions of dollars. Next, I must apologize
for the speech I made in taking office. And finally, we must pay the French foreign minister a personal bribe.”
John sputtered a furious laugh.
But I was nearly struck dumb. “Is it perhaps . . . a matter of practicality . . . like when we paid the Barbary pirates?”
John didn’t like being reminded of that one bit. “That was a different time and a trifling adversary capable only of harassing us, not destroying us. Now we have a duty to defend ourselves. And I won’t cringe from war if war it must be.”
How my chest swelled with pride in my good strong man, who was made of oak instead of willow. He might be torn up by the roots—but
in defense of his country he’d never bend.
It wasn’t until a month later, in April, that John finally shared the full contents of the messages with Congress, and a wave
of anti-French sentiment swept over America. Where people had once rioted to support our old ally, they now burned their cockades,
poured French wine into the gutter, and glared suspiciously at French immigrants, wondering who amongst them came for asylum,
and who came to undermine us.
It would be war, then. And in preparation, government officials flooded the president’s house, striding through our halls
in muddy boots, clustering in grave conversation behind my potted plants, and arguing while perched upon the sofas like crows
on a fence.
Everyone wanted to speak to the president, urgently.
Ten, twenty of them went in and out, asking direction on matters large and small. Dispatches arrived by courier with requests
for money, signatures, pardons, or authority. It went on and on.
I did my best to guard the gates, and in so doing, I realized that things were finally going my husband’s way. Congress authorized
a navy for our defense. A provisional army would be recruited, too. But who would command it? I heard whispers in every corner
of the president’s house.
“Washington must come out of retirement—”
“—too old—”
“Knox, then—”
“—too round—”
“What about Hamilton?”
I knew what John would say about that even before he snapped, “It will be Hamilton over my dead body! I’d rather appoint Colonel Smith.”
“That isn’t a terrible idea, John,” I said.
“I wasn’t being sarcastic, Madame Presidante,” John said, adjusting a pillow to support his aching back. “Colonel Smith is on the list.”
Perhaps it wasn’t my place to advise, yet I said, “Whatever the faults of our son-in-law, he’s respected by his fellow war
veterans. He’s a seasoned professional soldier with fighting experience. More than Hamilton. Much more.”
“But how would it look?” John asked, even more sensitive than usual on this point, because the papers were accusing us of
having profited in some way by sending our eldest son to Europe as a diplomat.
Well, I’d already taken it upon myself to write a shaming letter to that newspaperman and was in no mood to suffer venal fools. “Nominate Colonel Smith and find out.”
I believed it would be in the interest of the nation to have a man lead our military who had fought and bled in the revolution.
Better Colonel Smith than a philanderer like Hamilton, whose single claim to battlefield glory was taking a redoubt at Yorktown.
But I could not deny that a part of me suggested it because I hoped it would restore my daughter’s husband to a place of honor
and prosperity, so that she could be happy. And I thought we might get away with it because my husband was now hailed a hero
in the streets of Philadelphia—and even in the theater, where a delightful presidential march was played in his honor.
We were still humming the tune when we returned from the theater, both of us a little damp from the rain and drying off by
the fire. Alas, our momentary contentment was interrupted by a servant from the kitchen, fretfully wiping his hands on an
apron. “Please forgive the interruption, Mr. President. It is only that—well, two young women came to the back entrance.”
A long pause followed. “They said they must deliver something to you. Normally, I’d shoo them away but . . .”
“Good God, man,” John said. “Spit it out or send them up.”
The two young women came before us, one shaking as she held out a water-stained piece of paper. John took it, squinted at
it in the candlelight, then, unable to remember where he put his spectacles, he handed it to me.
“It looks like an anonymous letter,” I said, seeing no obvious signature or seal.
“Where was it found?” John asked.
One of the young ladies said, “We were walking past the house, Mr. President. It was at the edge of the gutter. When we read it, we didn’t know what to do except show it to you.”
I spread the page on the table and brought the candle near, blood running cold as I read aloud.
Certain French people in this city are conspiring to set fire to the city and massacre the inhabitants on the 9th day of May.
I was in league with them until I understood their true villainy. Signed, a real though heretofore misguided American.
Quite alarmed, I asked, “Can this be true?”
My husband was already waving it off. “My dear patriotic ladies, thank you for bringing this to our attention, but you mustn’t
take fright. This is only an incendiary letter meant to alarm and distress us. It’s all shadow and mist.”
When we were alone again, my gaze cut to John. “How can you know it isn’t a real conspiracy?”
“Because I’ve seen more credible threats,” John said, lighting a cigar as he shrugged out of his damp coat. “Threats delivered
through credible messengers, not left in a ditch.”
However, when a letter with similar details was sent ten days later to an associate, we began to take it seriously. A guard
was placed at our door, and wearing the black cockade that Washington favored during the revolution, some of our best men
fanned out through the city to investigate.
The fear spreading through the city seemed to support the argument for the new Alien and Sedition Acts proposed by Congress.
“You must sign and enact them,” I told my husband, finding him at his worktable, those proposed laws spread out before him.
John hadn’t asked for these measures, which empowered him to expel any foreigner he deemed dangerous. Now he was scowling
down at the pages. “Well, I daresay Secretary of State Pickering, that blackguard, is salivating over the idea that he can
use this to kick every Frenchman out of Philadelphia.”
“Pickering isn’t the president,” I argued. “It’s for the purpose of defending ourselves against enemy agents, that is all. You wouldn’t abuse it.”
“God willing, I won’t be the only president this country will ever have. Will you trust the others?”
“If you don’t sign it, you may be the last president this country ever has. Emissaries of France are hidden amongst us, and if something isn’t done about them, this
city—indeed, this whole country—may burn.”
In response to that, John lit another cigar—despite my having told him this new habit was harming his health. “Even people
on our side say the Sedition Act is particularly odious. Unconstitutional, even. I had an earful this afternoon from John
Marshall. I told him I considered these acts to be war measures only—never to be used in peacetime—but he believed it made
no difference.”
John Marshall had been one of the envoys we sent to France. The Virginia statesman had been a valuable ally ever since. We
trusted him implicitly, so it was sobering to hear this from John, who added, “And you don’t even want to know what the vice
president has to say.”
“You’re right that I don’t,” I said with an indelicate snort. “As if we ought to put any stock in Thomas Jefferson’s opinions . . .”
“Jefferson is a rival, but he holds much influence, and some wisdom, still. He says these laws will be a blot on my reputation
for all time, not to mention a blot on the history of our country.”
“Oh, he has a flair for the dramatic. And as usual, he’s more worried about philosophy than reality.”
John sighed. “He believes it deeply, Abigail. He says he won’t remain present in his post as vice president to oversee the
passage of what he deems to be tyrannical laws. He’s packing up and returning to Monticello.”
“Good,” I said, hoping Jefferson’s departure would give us some peace. After all, John had grown thin in recent days. Pale, too.
Lacking for exercise and fresh air. Only one lovely jaunt had I persuaded him to take into the countryside, where we gorged
ourselves on strawberries.
He’d feel better once he signed the bills, and I rejoiced when he finally relented. I rejoiced again when the most seditious newspaperman—Benjamin Franklin Bache—was arrested and charged under these new laws.
For years now, as the publisher of the Aurora, Dr. Franklin’s grandson had been the chief criminal amongst the newspapermen, forging and then printing letters that purported
to incriminate Washington, as well as my husband and my son.
Bache was a base liar who had endangered the whole country, so I felt quite satisfied by his arrest.
However, John Marshall thought it a terrible precedent. “Sir, libel laws would’ve made the scoundrel pay for lies just as
easily, and without abridging the rights of the free press!”
“We are at war, Mr. Marshall,” I argued.
“None that has been declared, madam,” he shot back, seemingly puzzled as to why my husband allowed me to remain in the room.
“And nowhere in the Constitution does it say that war suspends our rights. Indeed, not one state would’ve ratified it if it
had.”
Seeing John pinch the bridge of his nose, I asked, “Why don’t we have a formal declaration of war? The French are already waging one against us. They’ve meddled in our elections and threatened
our diplomats. They’ve seized hundreds of our ships and imprisoned our citizens without cause.”
I didn’t see the point of fighting only a quasi-war, or a half-war as John called it. The war was, in my opinion, absolutely
inevitable. But the diplomat inside my husband still insisted there was room to negotiate. “I’m going to send another emissary.”
“And be mocked for it here and abroad,” I insisted.
“Out,” John said, pointing at the door. “Both of you, go. You both have better things to do.”
For one thing, I needed to plan another Independence Day celebration, but it would be quite different from the first. Oh,
there would be my excellent plum cake for the ladies. Rum punch for the gentlemen, too. But we were on a war footing now—the
clash of armies on the other side of the ocean too loud to ignore.
So here in Philadelphia, four hundred young men, all in uniform, and sixty grenadiers would march in review for the president.
On the grand day, to these young men willing to defend our equally young nation, I presented cockades with a small silver eagle.
And their commander said, “Mrs. Adams, with your permission, we will call them Abigails.”
Flattered, I said, “I hope you do. For I want every soldier who fights for the United States to know he is a chivalrous knight
of liberty and has the special blessing—not merely of the president’s lady, but of a mother who loves her country and all
the young men in it.”
They straightened, shoulders squared as if they heard the praise of their own mothers in my words. Truly, many were young
enough to be my sons. And realizing it, mist gathered at the corners of my eyes, because I knew that if any of them were to
fall in war, I would mourn them as such.
I would feel the loss in my own breast.
Some congressman took my emotion for mere display, whispering the backhanded compliment that I was as complete a politician as any lady in the old French court.
But he could whisper all he liked, for the soldiers knew the purity of my heart.
A Federalist friend later met me with a toast. “Well done, Mrs. Adams. With the soldiers and in convincing your husband to
sign the Alien and Sedition Acts. You ought to be autocratrix of the United States.”
“I don’t know why you abuse me so,” I said, fanning myself to cover my pride. “I’ve always been for equality of the sexes, as my husband can attest.”