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  “Yes, it was,” President Madison agreed. “Six ports full of American wrights and smiths making the Navy. Was that your idea, John?”

  “Partly,” the stout man said.

  The tallest man pulled out a small telescopic spyglass from where it had been apparently stuck in his waistcoat. He focused upon the Constitution.

  “Hercules with a raised club. Her figurehead. Very elegant.”

  They paused and watched as three more frigates, the United States, the Constellation and the Congress floated slowly after the first three. The black-hulled ships were heavy and noble, dressed with signal flags flicking like a hundred snakes’ tongues, and the flag of the United States lopping grandly off each stern. Each ship moved under reduced sail, and there was a bit of interest to see that different sail plans moved them, showing that each ship was individual in handling, despite that they looked very alike. To have all six frigates in one harbor—would this ever happen again?

  “I like the figurehead on the United States,” the shorter, rounder John said.

  “I can’t see it from this angle.”

  “A sculpture of a lady who is supposed to be the Genius of America. She holds a portrait of George Washington on a chain, a belt of wampum in one hand, and the U.S. Constitution in the other hand. I saw it while they were carving it. Excellent artwork, really. Ships’ figureheads, I mean.”

  “What is that sloop-of-war across the harbor?” the tall man asked.

  “That’s the Enterprise.”

  “Wasn’t she at the Battle of Valcour Island?”

  “I think so,” the president said, “or a sloop of the same name. Twelve guns. I wish she had more.”

  The man called Thomas, with hardly any volume behind his voice, said, “The government must never have more guns than the people, else you have guns pointing in the wrong direction.”

  His face was like his voice, with soft wide-set brown eyes, and straight pinkish brows like watercolor strokes the Marine’s mother made on her little canvasses on Sunday afternoons. She painted clouds. Clouds, all the time.

  The young Marine thought of his defenseless mother and opened his mouth to add to the conversation, but thankfully was saved from childishness by the crew of the Constitution as they cheered at the three men on this rooftop.

  The president laughed and waved back.

  Stout John waved his cane. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, good men all.”

  “Look at their faces,” Thomas said. “They’re proud.”

  “It’s not their faces that worry me.” John squinted into the bright reflection of sunlight on the water. “A fleet of seventeen ships that doesn’t stretch across this harbor, and we’re about to go up against a fleet of nine hundred veteran warships that stretches from horizon to horizon. This predicament is your doing, Thomas, cutting the military budget.”

  “I remember. I was there.” Thomas waved again at the cheering sailors. “I endeavored to reduce the influence of the government.”

  The president waved also, changing to the other hand when his arm grew fatigued. “America may not be able to contend with Britain on the seas, but we also can’t be defeated on land. Our militia will rise to win again.”

  “Oh, be warned!” John snapped rudely. “General Washington is not here to build you an army this time.”

  At this venerated name, a sacred moment dropped upon the trio like goose-down. The great icon rose before each of their minds, so clearly that the Marine could almost see him floating above them.

  The president asked, “Do you think we’ll need a large regular army?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Even with England drained of resources? After using all their arms and men fighting Napoleon, this might be the perfect time—”

  “Reckless! We’re far more depleted than they are.”

  “Most communities have militia companies. We won the Revolution with armed citizens, not a regular army.”

  “We won by the trick of audacity and the bulwark of George Washington. Never has such a man existed at the right time, and since then we have hunted among ourselves for anyone who could rise to his example. We all fell wanting. He was the man of his century.”

  “Of the millennium,” the elegant Thomas agreed.

  Spontaneously each man raised a glass of lemonade.

  “To the general,” John said, and they all drank, repeating, “The general.”

  When that moment had passed, with all its gravity, Thomas went on, saying, “We had a chance to avoid unnecessary military investments, so I took it. We were no longer at war. I endeavored to cut the national debt.”

  “You did,” Mr. Madison agreed.

  “I question the expenditure for a military academy at West Point. Do we really need trained officers and gentlemen to fight the red Indians?”

  “Not to fight red Indians,” John argued. “To fight the drilled regulars of England and France. Is no one listening to me? Again?”

  Thomas waved again to the passing sailors on the frigates. “France has no interest in this continent. That’s why Napoleon sold us his possessions here. Oh, look—a spicebush swallowtail.”

  He stepped quickly to a corner of the roof where a colorful butterfly had lited. He stooped and carefully enticed the little creature onto his finger, then pulled a small magnifying glass from his waistcoat pocket and began examining the creature, whose black-velvet wings were dotted with white marks and a crescent of blue dots on the back part, inside the white dotted border. He held the bug so professionally that it began moving its wings placidly open and closed, open and closed, as if inviting his gaze.

  “I had some of these on my sassafras last spring,” he murmured, barely audible.

  President Madison watched him thoughtfully. “I don’t blame the English for being afraid. The French betrayed their own revolution with ten years of weak government and radical leaders, only to let a tyrant seize power. General Washington refused a crown. Napoleon crowned himself.”

  Turning the butterfly this way and that to have a good look, Thomas responded, “While we sold exports to both sides.”

  “We should’ve taken Canada years ago,” John mused, almost to himself. “Benedict Arnold was right.”

  President Madison waved a dismissive hand. “Let’s not raise his spirit here.”

  “We could have used a thousand Benedict Arnolds,” John said, “before he met that Loyalist girl.”

  “Congress dealt him a cold hand,” Thomas mentioned. With that, he gave his hand a shake. The butterfly flipped away, and he watched it fly. “He was wounded in more than just the leg.”

  “Many are wounded,” the president said. “Few change their coats. If we go to war with Britain, will we not then be Napoleon’s allies?”

  John clacked the end of his cane on the hard roof. “We are not Napoleon’s allies!”

  “We are if we make Britain weaker,” Thomas cautioned. “Forcing them to fight on two fronts helps us, but it also helps Napoleon.”

  “And it would force us to increase our government’s control over trade on the seas.”

  “Do we have the revenue for that?”

  “Not for a bigger navy,” the president answered.

  “You see?” John seemed to be rather enjoying himself. “We need a strong federal presence with money to support a standing military.”

  The president frowned and looked down at the roof beneath their feet, as if thinking about the foundation they all stood upon. “Strong federal government means more government employees and more money funneling to them, which means more chicanery. I fear you and I and all of us failed to protect liberty well enough in the founding documents.”

  “Or to protect the documents themselves enough,” Thomas added.

  “A lovely speech,” John spouted. “Too bad only we pigeons are hearing it.”

  The Marine had almost forgotten that he himself was here, listening. He glanced at the servant, who only nodded back at him as if he’d heard thes
e talks a dozen times. Probably he had.

  John huffed a rebuke, looked out over the sailing fleet and controlled his tone. “Too many people think war talk is a bluff.” He turned directly to the president. “Is it?”

  “If you mean we will posture toward war, then back away if the bait is taken, then, no, it is not,” the president said. “We will not back away. If you’re asking whether Britain will cease its offenses once it realizes we’re serious, then I sincerely believe there is a chance. Napoleon has them engaged and spread very thinly.”

  “Our borders are very long,” John said, “and will spread us thinly too. And many men will not cross state borders to defend other states. Several governors have sworn not to commit their troops over state lines. If we go to war, there had better be a firm national motivation. Firm enough to move all their souls and impress England and France that we are serious.”

  President Madison abandoned them to get a little plate of food from the beautiful table, attended by the Negro boy in red velvet. “I ask you both here for suggestions and what I get is deeper quandary.”

  The Marine took the pause as a chance to move to the edge of the roof and look around. Below were hundreds of people crowding the waterfront, watching as the Parade of Sail began to come back along the opposite bank, giving everyone a second look at each ship.

  The president accepted a small dipping bowl of honey for his biscuits from the servant. “Thank you, Paul. Do help yourself.”

  “Thank you, sir, I will,” the teenaged boy responded pleasantly. “First let me refresh your lemonade.”

  The Marine found himself looking at the boy, who was not dark-skinned, and had real nice features, strong eyes, and a satisfaction of self beyond his years. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, and here he was tending these elegant and important men. I wonder if I could do that.

  “Thank you.” Mr. Madison turned again to his guests. “I had hoped the United States could remain neutral in European conflicts.”

  “Ironic,” Thomas said, “that we may have to go to war to secure our right to be neutral.”

  “There seems no such thing as ‘neutral’ when one trades, does there? England is in financial disaster after years of battling that maniac. If we posture toward war, perhaps they’ll negotiate and we’ll win free trade on the Atlantic without firing a shot.”

  “Oh, fantasy!” John roared, so loudly that people on the street below looked up.

  The Marine flinched at the great insult. Training begged him to be quiet, but his youth and Irish blood erupted all at once.

  “Sir! I beg your pardon!”

  All three elders turned to him as if just noticing him all over again.

  “Something?” John asked.

  “Sir, your tone!”

  John’s brows went up. “My tone?”

  Committed to his interruption now that he’d made it, the Marine shrank inside his jacket. “It’s … you are …”

  “‘Abrasive’ is usually the word,” John offered.

  “Fire-eating,” the president said with his mouth full.

  “Cranky, bombastic, intemperate,” Thomas added.

  The Marine stammered, “But a … a … after all, Mr. Mad—Mr. Mad—”

  “Mr. Mad,” John chuckled.

  “He … is the president …”

  John turned to Madison. “Are you?”

  Madison tipped his face downward. “Witness the configuration of my many chins.”

  The three elders laughed and so did the boy servant.

  Confused, the Marine shrank further. They were laughing at him.

  Thomas smiled at the president. “I would congratulate you, but no man who has held that office would wish it on a friend.”

  Again, they laughed, but this laugh was different, more private.

  “Young man,” the president then said, directly to the Marine, “before we discompose you further, may I introduce to you the Honorable John Adams, he who began the Navy passing here today.”

  “And a mighty mallet it took, too,” John added.

  The Marine swallowed his musket. Right down to the bayonet.

  “He’s turning blue,” Thomas warned.

  “And this,” Madison went on, “is the Honorable Thomas Jefferson.”

  The last thing the Marine heard was Thomas Jefferson’s soft voice saying, “There he goes—”

  There was a twirl, a buzz, then nothing.

  When his mind began to reawaken, the Marine sensed his body rocking backward and forward. Something touched his lips. Sweet and tart … moist …

  “Drink. It’s lemonade. With sugar.” This must be the servant boy, because it was none of the three other men’s voices.

  The warm liquid ran down his throat and choked him awake. He jolted and struggled, saw his legs kicked out in front of him.

  “Remain seated, young man,” Mr. Madison instructed, his face just coming into focus.

  An order from the president. What should he do now?

  “But who will guard you?” the Marine stammered, spitting lemonade.

  With a funny lilt, Mr. Jefferson offered, “Oh, I will. After all, I have your firearm.”

  “You?” Mr. Adams commented. “Thus is conquered the last thing Thomas has not yet done in this earthly life.”

  Mr. Jefferson aimed the musket at a passing gull. “Just a hobby to keep me busy when we’re not pinching the presidency from each other. This is a solid fowling gun. Did it belong to your father?”

  The Marine couldn’t speak yet. He was young, but not so young that he didn’t know the story of his own nation and the eminence of the men whom fate had sent him to guard. Not only were they all presidents, but Adams had been vice president to George Washington, Jefferson had been Adams’ vice president, and Madison had been Jefferson’s secretary of state. These men had risked their lives and done treason to make the United States out of a bunch of owned colonies, then had stepped up to be its first administrators, to shove it off down history’s trail in the right direction.

  The president extended his own plate to the Marine. “Have a chicken leg.”

  “Sir, I must guard you!”

  “Against what?”

  Mr. Adams made a derisive snort. “Jemmy, don’t bait him!”

  Madison looked up. “Am I being naive? There’s no danger here, is there?”

  “Only from the hooded highwaymen we call government.” Mr. Jefferson proclaimed, still toying with the musket.

  “Tom,” Madison scoffed.

  “It’s John’s fault,” Mr. Jefferson added softly. “He got me into this.”

  Mr. Adams shook his head. “Now, don’t blame me!”

  The three dignitaries laughed, the depth of their amusement completely lost on the Marine.

  A companionable silence fell again as they watched the beautiful Parade of Sail. The American Navy’s eighteen-gun brig Hornet and ten-gun Viper were just sliding by, barely able to contain their speed in a breeze stiff enough to move the bigger and heavier frigates.

  “How capricious the winds of international troubles, John,” James Madison mused, “to have seen the French seizing American ships in your presidency and England seizing American sailors in mine. Paul, may we look at the cartograph, please?”

  Out there on the water, the six frigates were returning along the other shore, fluttering with flags and pennants, sailors standing on their yards, high up there, as straight as rows of pins. Somehow they no longer made the Marine feel better. The ships had been brought here to showcase the American Navy, but instead had proven its inadequacy.

  The three elders gathered around a small wooden folding table, put up quickly by the servant boy called Paul and another of the servants, then Paul unrolled a good-sized map and put little sandbags on the corners so the map would not roll up again.

  The president put his hand on the map. “The War Hawks justify annexing Canada and Florida on the basis that the Crown’s allies have shelter there.”

  “A war
to justify having a war,” Thomas said sadly.

  “They insist that Britain is drained of resources after the long struggle with France and that Canada has few soldiers, arms, or supplies along this area of the border, which is probably true.” He ran his fingers along the cartograph. “General Hull can move from Detroit into Ontario and toward Quebec. Quebec is still the most populated area. Most people there are French. Would they be loyal to Britain? Do you think they will flock to us in a war?”

  “Impossible to know,” Mr. Jefferson told him honestly. “We do have good military presence on Lake Erie, of course.”

  “We have ships and coastal gunboats,” the president said. “The Brig Niagara is there. We could attack Fort Detroit, and the British are probably unable to defend York. Lake Ontario would be ours.”

  Thomas added, “Including Sackett’s Harbor. Good defensive position.”

  Mr. Adams looked down from the roof at a common sight on the water below them—a thirty-foot-long birchbark canoe sliding by the shore, loaded with what appeared to be two or three families of Indians, all wearing calico and hats with feathers and strips of fabric decorating them, and an American flag hanging from a stick at the back of the canoe.

  “What about the Indians?” he asked.

  The president peered over the roof’s edge at the full canoe. “What about them?”

  “The tribes in the Western Territories, I mean. Michigan. Ohio. They’ll defend their fur trade with English. And the English have always supplied them in their attacks of white settlers. They may be a factor against us.”

  “Or for us,” Thomas said. “If war weakens Britain’s Indian alliances, expansion will be easier for settlers. More Americans might support a breakdown of those relationships.”

  “Such support would be fresh air to me. I asked for revenue for increased military to defend the sovereignty we have won, yet I’ve received obstructionism, as if Americans don’t understand. Anti-war sentiment in Massachusetts and Connecticut has clogged the wheels so much that I’m afraid a war will not accomplish its objectives. Great differences of opinion exist as to the time and form of entering into hostilities. Negotiation has failed—”