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

Burr. You put me right in the middle of things with that letter. I published it and everyone heaved a sigh of relief: Good, Burr will do as he should, and since then not a word from you!”
    “‘Do as he should.’ Now what does that mean?”
    “What the hell do you think it means? That you should make it clear you won’t contest, that if these Federalists in Congress should manage to elect you, you would refuse to serve. Nobody voted to elect you; they voted Tom, and you were along for the ride!”
    “First, Sam, you made a serious mistake in publishing a private letter.”
    “Private, my foot! Don’t tell me that wasn’t intended for more than my eyes!”
    “I sent it to you as a casual comment to an old friend. I regret you saw more in it. Now as to my making some more definitive statement, yes, I considered it. But I found a peculiar view that you apparently hold too. Everyone assumes I will back away. Why do they so assume? That I’m incapable? That I would be a worse president? Inferior to the Virginian? Frankly, sir, I find that insulting. Having reviewed the matter carefully, I believe it is my duty to my party and to my country to do nothing to influence the congressional decision.”

    “Why, you damned fool—”
    “Fool?”
    “Fool!” Smith said it with such force that Burr was momentarily silenced. “They’re trying to use you to steal the damned election. Think they want you? They don’t want you. They want to tie it up so they can keep it for themselves, name a president protem, steal it!”
    “They know they can’t get away with that.”
    Smith gave him a speculative look. “But you think they might swing to you as more palatable somehow. Fat chance with Hamilton denouncing you right and left. How hungry you must be, willing to betray your friends.”
    Trust Smith to seize such an interpretation! In fact, Burr had worked it out fully in his mind, and the news that Hamilton was attacking him only solidified his conviction. Hamilton was making himself an enemy. So be it. Burr could well live without Mr. Hamilton, and he could deal with him whenever he chose. But in this situation there certainly was no betrayal, and he said so emphatically. He stood as the very personification of honor, remaining aloof, above all interests, influencing nothing. He would answer no messages, from the Democrats or from the Federalists. That was the utterly honorable course, one he had thought out with great care.
    “So what do you think will happen?” Smith asked.
    “Congress must choose a president.”
    “And if they choose you?”
    “So be it.”
    “But, Colonel Burr,” Hichborn squalled from behind him, “Who would be vice president?”
    “Why, Mr. Jefferson, of course.”
    He was walking rapidly down Broadway, heels hammering on brick, stick clutched so hard his hand hurt, heading toward a supper he didn’t want with a woman he couldn’t stand. Sam Smith had abused him, called him a betrayer, said he was selfish, his very conscience in question, asked if
ambition so ruled him. Sam had come dangerously close to the point of a challenge. They had parted without handshake or salutations, and Burr had returned in a white heat that hadn’t yet abated.
    Ambition did not rule him! He had thought this out carefully, had seen the insult in the blithe assumption that he would immolate himself on the Virginia pyre, the decent and honorable course becoming evident, what he owed himself, after all, and Theodosia, to stand above it all, aloof, silent—honor beyond challenge that sought nothing for itself!
    Ambition, they said. He was ambitious as was every man, but it didn’t blind him. His breath was ragged. That was God’s truth, but still, there was that vaulting fire within that could shake him as a terrier shakes a rat. Even now, hammering down Broadway, he felt the surging force of desire at the very thought, Aaron Burr, third president of the United States! Oh, it was there, all right, and he was a