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

you, the Democratic states will hold for Jefferson, stalemate will stretch past the inaugural date, and they can appoint a protem president, caretaker figure, what have you—point is, they’ll still be in power, and that’s what counts.”
    “They want to use me, in other words.”
    “Of course. Doesn’t everyone? But look, you can use them. Play your cards right and they’ll swing to you in reality. Stick with them and you can push Mr. Jefferson aside yet.”
    Burr found it stunning, as if the devil had opened his head, pulled out thoughts he hadn’t even dared voice, and dropped them on the table like dead fish. To cover his confusion, he blurted, “Is that how you got rid of Mad Anthony?”
    Anthony Wayne—Mad Anthony, for his wild exploits in the Revolution—was commanding general when Wilkinson had reentered the army. Everyone knew that Wilkinson had waged a violent internal attack on Wayne, turning officers and political weight against him; only Wayne’s early death averted a showdown, whereupon Wilkinson slid into Wayne’s position slick as a greased pig.
    Burr had spoken half in jest, expecting a cynical witticism in response, but Wilkinson’s little eyes went hard as stone,
his fists curled on the table. “Aaron,” he said, his voice a rasp, “mind your tongue. You’re an infant in these matters. I don’t like such talk, and I’ll destroy any man who makes it.”
    Burr had a sudden understanding, very startling, that his old friend was dangerous. And then the general relaxed.
    “Come, come, let’s not have such talk. I’m giving you a friend’s advice: Listen to what these Federalists say.”
    “And what’s in it for you?”
    Wilkinson chuckled. “In having a dear old friend as president? Oh, I’d find some advantage or other.”
    “There’s talk on the street that the administration in its waning days might call out the army to set aside the election. What do you think?”
    Wilkinson sat back, his expression lazy. “If it came to that, I suppose I’d have to assess my options.” He shrugged. “See what’s in it for me. But you, now … play the hand that’s being dealt you and that won’t happen. Comprende? ”
    Burr smiled. Infant in such matters he might be, but not so innocent that he would answer that question.
    Burr rode the stage into Philadelphia on the evening of the day Sam Smith had expected him in the morning and met Sam the next morning, a mere twenty-four hours late. Which was all right; Colonel Burr was a presidential figure, after all. Still, when he saw Smith in the hotel lobby the next morning standing with Hichborn, whose first name he never remembered, the older man looked ready to erupt.
    Smith was a burly fellow from Baltimore who’d made pots of money in business and shipping before going to Congress. He was important in Baltimore and thought he was important nationally, a faith that Burr felt ranked somewhere between illusion and delusion. He also was an inveterate busybody, which was why Burr had written him in the first place.
    “Sam!” he cried, shaking the other’s hand and treating him to a big smile, probably the last to be seen this morning. He gave Hichborn a languid hand.

    “Good morning, Aaron. I thought yesterday was our day—”
    “Tied up in New York,” Burr said with an airy wave of his hand. Smith was lucky he was here at all.
    “Anyway, you’re here, so tell me what the devil—”
    “Hold it.” Burr raised a palm. The hotel was full of men. “I don’t care to have every mountebank in Philadelphia listen.” He led the way outside, found a bench warmed by a shaft of sun, sat at its center, and turned toward Sam as the bigger man sat. That left Hichborn the opposite end, facing Burr’s back, which was about where he belonged.
    “Now, Aaron,” Sam said, at his most portentous, “I want to know what the devil is going on.”
    “I suppose the Congress will choose a president.”
    “Goddamn it! Don’t toy with me, Colonel