Read Online Patriot Hearts by Barbara Hambly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Hambly
Ads: Link
relationship of Congress to the various States, and the States to each other, like a physician observing a dissection, pointing with a needle:
a cancer here, a lesion there, a muscular weakness there, and here gangrene is setting in…The patient will die.
“No,” George had said quietly that night, and had raised his eyes from the Madeira into whose golden depths he had been gazing as Madison talked. “We did not fight, and men did not die, that we should become the laughingstock of the world for our inability to hold what we won.”
His eyes met Madison’s, and Madison had made no reply. Martha had watched her husband’s jaw harden, and the muscle in his temple twitch, as it did when he was holding hard to his temper. She had felt in his silence, that October night, the eight years of seeing his men starve because Congress had no power to raise money to feed them; eight years of maneuvering the logistics of fighting battles with only a few rounds of ammunition per man; eight years of keeping his temper as he explained to Congress yet one more time why he didn’t storm into battle more often or why men who put their lives on the line for their country really ought to be recompensed for their pain.
Now, like a debtor’s child, the new confederation calling itself the United States of America came into being owing a hundred and seventy million dollars to France, Russia, Spain, and the Netherlands—twenty-seven million of that payable only in gold. Without the threat of the British guns in the background, the Congress’s financial pigeons all came home to roost. As a “firm league of friendship,” not an actual government, Congress still had no power to tax, and no means of paying off those loans any more than they’d been able to pay the Continental troops.
The Convention of States’ representatives in Annapolis had signally failed to resolve the trade differences separating them.
Another Convention, Madison had said in October, was being planned. It would meet in Philadelphia come May, to further discuss the issues that threatened to lay the divided States open to piecemeal conquest as soon as Britain or France or Spain or Russia thought it safe to do so.
“We cannot let it go for nothing,” George had said, and Madison had folded his thin hands, wrinkled face alert in the candle-glow.
“Nor will we, sir,” he said. “But we cannot go on as we have. And to bring the States together, we must have someone whose authority all will trust.”
“Lady Washington…”
So profoundly had she been in her reverie that the opening of the dining-room door took her by surprise. Mr. Madison bowed deeply. “I abase myself, ma’am, for keeping your husband talking so long.”
“What, has my wife given up and gone home?” Augustine coughed, and in the candlelight his face had the pallor that Martha didn’t like, as if he were sickening for another of the colds that sometimes laid him up for months.
“I fear poor Fanny has the right of it.” The corner of George’s mouth tugged in a smile, but his eyes were gentle behind the shadow of infinite weariness. “Poor Patsie. I fear we’ve trespassed on your good nature, and will do so no more this evening.” His big hands were warm, completely enfolding hers. “Frank—” He turned to the butler, who’d materialized to take the green Sèvres coffee-pot back to the kitchen to be refreshed. “Please show Mr. Madison to his room. Are you sure you will not remain, sir, at least until the weather promises better?”
Spits of sleet had begun to spatter the windows, and the shutters rattled sullenly on their hinges. Madison shook his head. “I cannot linger.”
“Then I shall instruct Austin to have your horse ready after breakfast, that you may reach Georgetown easily by dinner-time.”
Fanny returned from the nursery and she and Augustine kissed; it was agreed they would stay tonight, rather than walk back down to their own newly built little house in the
a cancer here, a lesion there, a muscular weakness there, and here gangrene is setting in…The patient will die.
“No,” George had said quietly that night, and had raised his eyes from the Madeira into whose golden depths he had been gazing as Madison talked. “We did not fight, and men did not die, that we should become the laughingstock of the world for our inability to hold what we won.”
His eyes met Madison’s, and Madison had made no reply. Martha had watched her husband’s jaw harden, and the muscle in his temple twitch, as it did when he was holding hard to his temper. She had felt in his silence, that October night, the eight years of seeing his men starve because Congress had no power to raise money to feed them; eight years of maneuvering the logistics of fighting battles with only a few rounds of ammunition per man; eight years of keeping his temper as he explained to Congress yet one more time why he didn’t storm into battle more often or why men who put their lives on the line for their country really ought to be recompensed for their pain.
Now, like a debtor’s child, the new confederation calling itself the United States of America came into being owing a hundred and seventy million dollars to France, Russia, Spain, and the Netherlands—twenty-seven million of that payable only in gold. Without the threat of the British guns in the background, the Congress’s financial pigeons all came home to roost. As a “firm league of friendship,” not an actual government, Congress still had no power to tax, and no means of paying off those loans any more than they’d been able to pay the Continental troops.
The Convention of States’ representatives in Annapolis had signally failed to resolve the trade differences separating them.
Another Convention, Madison had said in October, was being planned. It would meet in Philadelphia come May, to further discuss the issues that threatened to lay the divided States open to piecemeal conquest as soon as Britain or France or Spain or Russia thought it safe to do so.
“We cannot let it go for nothing,” George had said, and Madison had folded his thin hands, wrinkled face alert in the candle-glow.
“Nor will we, sir,” he said. “But we cannot go on as we have. And to bring the States together, we must have someone whose authority all will trust.”
“Lady Washington…”
So profoundly had she been in her reverie that the opening of the dining-room door took her by surprise. Mr. Madison bowed deeply. “I abase myself, ma’am, for keeping your husband talking so long.”
“What, has my wife given up and gone home?” Augustine coughed, and in the candlelight his face had the pallor that Martha didn’t like, as if he were sickening for another of the colds that sometimes laid him up for months.
“I fear poor Fanny has the right of it.” The corner of George’s mouth tugged in a smile, but his eyes were gentle behind the shadow of infinite weariness. “Poor Patsie. I fear we’ve trespassed on your good nature, and will do so no more this evening.” His big hands were warm, completely enfolding hers. “Frank—” He turned to the butler, who’d materialized to take the green Sèvres coffee-pot back to the kitchen to be refreshed. “Please show Mr. Madison to his room. Are you sure you will not remain, sir, at least until the weather promises better?”
Spits of sleet had begun to spatter the windows, and the shutters rattled sullenly on their hinges. Madison shook his head. “I cannot linger.”
“Then I shall instruct Austin to have your horse ready after breakfast, that you may reach Georgetown easily by dinner-time.”
Fanny returned from the nursery and she and Augustine kissed; it was agreed they would stay tonight, rather than walk back down to their own newly built little house in the
Similar Books
