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

uneasiness, but in the end she did have faith in his decisions, which flowed from deep wells of instinct, intellect, and experience. Inner strength was the key to her husband. He was a superb horseman, though not physically strong; the feistiest mount calmed quickly after a moment of dancing and blowing. From her plantation girlhood Dolley knew that horses respond less to size or strength than to the iron they sense in the rider. Jimmy often doubted himself, but he was full of iron.
    On the appointed day in the gleaming Capitol building that Tom in his architectural mode actually had designed—she supposed he was a genius when you got right down to it—the electors gathered to cast their votes. Afterward, Jimmy told her they were hard to convince, insisting that it demeaned the Virginia hero to pair him vote for vote with the slippery New Yorker. It had taken two hours to bring them around, but he’d gotten his way, as he usually did. But as he described it, an image flashed in her mind of Colonel Emberly’s son, cold, saurian, ready to strike.
    Jimmy was very quiet over the next few days as they awaited news. Every time the national count changed, the Richmond Enquirer published another penny extra. State by state the word came in, electors voting in lock step, two by two, Jefferson and Burr, the count standing equal. The last of the northern states reported, still two by two. Gelston’s promise of votes to be held back did not materialize. Tennessee and Kentucky reported, and then only South Carolina remained. The count held equal.
    At midafternoon they heard a newsboy shouting his extra. Jimmy ran down in his shirtsleeves. From the window she saw him toss the boy a copper, snatch the paper, and scan it. He whirled, threw up his arms in exultation, and came at a run.
    Oh, thank God! South Carolina—eight for Jefferson, seven for Burr, one for someone else. Peter Freneau in
Charleston had scrawled a hasty letter to the Enquirer. Vote count seventy-three Jefferson, seventy-two Burr, sixty-five Adams.
    He seized her and waltzed her around the room like a boy at a barn dance. She had champagne ready and he opened it, the cork putting a dent in the ceiling. Oh, she wished she had a cannon to shoot! They began planning a public party, invite everyone—
    Extra! Extra! Extra!
    They looked at each other. Jimmy went to the window. The same boy was there, hawking fresh copies of the Enquirer.
    Jimmy put on his coat and went slowly downstairs. He bought the paper and returned without looking at it. In the room he unfolded it as if it might be a petard ready to explode.
    Peter Freneau had written a second letter. He said his first letter was based on polling electors in advance; he had reported their promise. But the plan to stagger was forgotten when they voted; eight votes were cast for Tom, eight for Aaron. It was like a lead weight pressing on her heart.
    Seventy-three Jefferson; seventy-three Burr.
    Tie.
    “Your goose is cooked, Mr. Madison,” the fat man said, “and we’re ready to eat it.” He encountered them on the stairs and held up his hand like a traffic warden. “But we been figuring on a tie. Means the Congress will choose—and we have the Congress. You’ll see. We’ll appoint someone, master of chancery or something, keep the government in honest hands. You’ll see.”
    Jimmy smiled as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “No, that’s just dreaming; you’d never get away with stealing the election. But it won’t even come to that. Colonel Burr is an honorable man. He’ll step back, take himself out of contention. They’ll have no choice but Mr. Jefferson.”
    Of course. Aaron would step aside.

    They picked at a light supper without appetite and went upstairs, scarcely speaking because there was nothing to say. Oh, Aaron, so much resting on you. What will you do?
    Slowly her memory of that vivid day when Aaron presented Jimmy took on a different color. She’d been a vulnerable young widow and