Free Eagle's Cry: A Novel of the Louisiana Purchase by David Nevin

jailing a man for what he says—but the attack on aliens is about as bad. Friend of mine, John Finney, been here fourteen years, he remembers cheering on the sidewalk the day the Constitution was finished; he had something to say about a Federalist alderman in New York and a week later he was deported—home to Ireland where some folks are waiting to kill him, so he says. Poor devil. Still, attack on the press is the worst.” He gave Jimmy an owlish look. “Pretty well blows your Bill of Rights to the devil, doesn’t it?”
    Jimmy nodded. “Only thing I ever really held against General Washington was his countenancing those acts.”
    Well, she thought, that’s unfair. The general had been back in Mount Vernon by then, and Mr. Adams at the helm.
    “‘Course, the acts have expired,” Mr. Mustard said. “Seems the prosecutor in New York yearns to try me on the law that was. All unconstitutional, isn’t it?”
    She knew the question pained Jimmy—what was the point of a Constitution if the Supreme Court wasn’t strong enough to enforce it?—and to deflect it she said easily, “One good thing, though—those acts told Americans where the Federalists wanted to take them more clearly than reams of Democratic rhetoric.” She glanced at Mr. Mustard and smiled. “All but your rhetoric, of course; it was always potent.”
    She left unspoken her real fear—let a tie throw their victory into the Federalist Congress and they’d be right back in the land of excesses. As if he’d had the same thought, Jimmy asked about their New York visitor.
    “Well, Gelston is a Burr toady, all right,” Mr. Mustard said, “but he’s making some sense too—New Yorkers are pretty sensitive about Virginia. You have to understand, when Aaron swung the state to the Democrats, his boys figured giving him a place on the ticket was the least Virginia could do; and they’re not sure how willingly it was done. So they’re watching.”

    “You’ve heard such talk?”
    “Oh, it’s real. Would they split over it? Maybe not, but a lot of hotheads are involved.”
    They went down for dinner, and Mr. Mustard drank three bowls of Mrs. Swan’s peanut soup, downed a tumbler of whiskey, devoured a huge slab of roast pork, and called for more. His spirits bloomed and his voice grew stronger, his wit fiercer.
    She was laughing when suddenly she noticed that he was acquiring an audience in the larger parlor for men adjoining the ladies’ parlor. Talk there had stopped and she grew distinctly uncomfortable. Voice rising, Mr. Mustard abused Alexander Hamilton, who, he said, had ordered the arrest that he had barely evaded. She remembered Alex fondly despite everything. Oh, she said, he’s not so bad.
    “My dear lady,” Mr. Mustard cried, “the Hamilton you remember has changed. Fine noble views he and his kind once held, but their vision became pinched and dark and full of fear, and the day came when they aimed no longer at the freeing of mankind to be its best—no, they turned toward control— control! —of the common man, binding him to the interests of his betters, teaching him to pull his forelock and knuckle down and take what pittance those in power might give him and be thankful, hats off, on his knees, thankee milord, thankee …”
    From the adjoining room someone shouted, “You damned blathering fool! Hamilton saved this country when it was bankrupt, got no help from the bloody Democrats either!”
    The editor leaped up, glass in hand. “A toast!” he roared, “to the big-mouthed gentleman of financial genius from whom we’ve been privileged to hear! It’s all in the name of financial efficiency that thinkers like our good friend Mr. Genius feel that folks with money make natural leaders. Now, ‘fess up, Brother Genius, don’t you feel that men with money are a bit better’n anyone else—that God had rewarded them properly with coin of the realm? Eh? Eh?”
    He emptied the glass and slammed it down. “’Course you do!