MRS. CABOT WAS SERIOUSLY ILL. IF SHE PASSED AWAY, SHE WOULD be buried next to the infant Adams in St. Petersburg’s English graveyard. The possibility was too much. Louisa couldn’t let Mrs. Cabot have the spot next to her daughter. In her mind that dirt belonged to only one person—Louisa Catherine Johnson Adams.
“They tell me that Mrs. Cabot is likely to die, and I cannot describe the terror I feel, lest they should usurp the little spot of earth which I have set my heart on that adjoins my Louisa’s grave,” she wrote in her diary in March 1813.
“In vain I reason with myself, the desire is uncontrollable, and my mind is perpetually dwelling upon some means to procure this desired blessing.”
Except to be buried in it, Louisa had no interest in sliding into her silver tissue ball gown or silk threads of any other color the winter of 1813. She also had scant need to wear her fanciest dresses. St. Petersburg’s eighteen-hour nights made life gloomy in any winter, but this season was the worst to date for the Adamses. They had little to occupy their minds; no balls or parties to attend. The social scene was as dead as dry bones in a graveyard.
Leading troops on the frontier gave Alexander insight into the plight of the Russian common man in a way he had never known. He heard the wailing and mourning that rattled the shacks throughout his land. People were reduced to beggary. As a result, he banned entertaining at the Winter Palace, especially on his birthday. This great bear of Russia couldn’t bear for anyone to taste wine, enjoy stringed melodies, or pleasantly touch a lady’s hand during a polonaise while soldiers were dying on the battlefield.
“The emperor’s birthday which, for the first time since I had been here, passed over without any celebration and almost without notice,” John had observed months earlier at the beginning of the social season.
By the time of Mrs. Cabot’s illness, letters from home seemed even more absent than in years past to the Adamses. Louisa had no fresh samples of her boys’ handwriting to admire or updates about the subjects they were studying. The two great wars severely restricted the arrival of any kind of mail, whether by ship or by land. They had nothing but books to occupy them. John turned to Plato, Cicero, and other philosophers while she read the writings of a female French author.
Louisa was consumed by the letters of Madame Anne Marguerite Petit du Noyer, a Frenchwoman who had documented the negotiations of a treaty between Great Britain and France a century earlier. By sorting gossip from reality, Noyer had become an early journalist and a female one at that. Then her religious conversion from Catholicism to Calvinism cost her dearly in 1701, when she was banished from France.
Identifying with this woman’s exile from her homeland, Louisa was so struck with the beauty of one of Noyer’s poems that she copied fifteen lines of it into her diary. The poem spoke of the suffering of Christ for all humanity, explaining that though he possessed the rights of a sovereign, he lowered his head on the cross and chose death instead, like a human. Nature trembled in a fit. The sun faded “as if the world’s end would have been close. He took sin from the heart of a stone.” This reminder of the resurrection of Christ’s dry bones gave Louisa eternal hope.
The prospect of leaving St. Petersburg, however, appeared quite dead. The best evidence came from John’s diary on March 17, 1813: “I sent for my landlord, Mr. Strogofshikoff, and paid him a half-year’s rent in advance.”
In a letter to Secretary James Monroe the previous October, Adams had requested a recall as planned: “It has, indeed, constantly been my wish not to be continued in the mission here beyond the ensuing spring, and I suggested this desire to the president as early as last February [1812].”
His decision had not changed, but the world had. Traveling through the waters of Europe and into the Atlantic would have been difficult and risky in peacetime, much less under the extreme duress of cannon fire. Before he left Boston in 1809, he thought the voyage to St. Petersburg on the Horace would escape the whims of war. The dueling Danish and the English blockade proved him wrong. With all of Europe now in upheaval and the United States at war with England, traveling by ship would be more dangerous now.
“I still retain it, subject to the supposition that my return to the United States with my family should be practicable, which in the event of the continuance of our war with Great Britain it would scarcely be.”
Adams had also suggested, but did not insist, that Madison appoint someone else to handle the mediation if he accepted Alexander’s offer. Without any real business to conduct and the prospect for returning home chained to the outcome of both wars, all they could do was wait for battle updates. Fresh news of Alexander’s pursuit of Napoleon brought occasional showers to their dry lives.
“[Strogofshikoff] conversed with me, as he always does, upon politics, and upon the character of the Russian people. He is very well satisfied with the present state and prospect of affairs, and thinks the Emperor Alexander might now come home and take his ease.”
After the Cossacks took Warsaw, officials brought back the Polish city’s two brass keys and displayed them at the Kazan Church. More thirst-quenching news came via an army courier. The Cossacks would soon be in Berlin. What was even more refreshing was the alliance between Russia and Prussia. The Russians now possessed a key ally.
The reason for Strogofshikoff’s hope of Alexander’s near return was a simple equation. Now that fifty thousand Prussians had turned against France and joined Russia, perhaps the czar would transfer his field command to a general.
News from the war between the United States and Great Britain was not as hopeful. America’s successes at sea—the taking of two British frigates—only mortified the pride of London, which subsequently turned the war of economic jealousy into a fight for revenge. The British navy retaliated by barricading the Chesapeake and Delaware Bays.
John believed it was another illegal blockade with malicious intent against Philadelphia and Baltimore, two of the three largest cities in the United States.
Propaganda fueled rumors. English newspapers propelled the story that the new US minister to France was so attached to Napoleon that he had followed him to Moscow. This was untrue.
Tattoo them. That was the remedy for impressment prescribed by Sir Francis d’Ivernois, the most eccentric knighted Brit now living in St. Petersburg. The English were swarming the city like bees with poison in their pens. Sir Francis was among them. Adams could hardly believe his ears that March day in 1813 when he learned of the man’s unusual solution.
“As to the question of impressment, he [Sir Francis] said he did not see how that could be settled unless all the sailors in the British navy would submit to be tattooed with a G. R. in Indian ink upon the arm; but he doubted whether they would consent to that,” John recorded.
G. R. meant Georgius Rex, a reference to King George imprinted on British coins. Sir Francis was far from flippant. He was not joking.
“This is the strangest expedient, I believe, that was ever devised; but he mentioned it seriously.”
The idea of tattooing British sailors to distinguish them from Americans was the most outrageous solution that Adams had heard. Originally from Switzerland, Francis was a naturalized British citizen. On his first day at the Russian court, he asked to be introduced to John. He knew Adams’s father in England. Yet each conversation the younger Adams held with the man proved to be as unbelievable as the one before. His exaggeration and over-the-top ideas made him quite a character, which was fitting for the British agent—or spy—that he likely was.
John and the eccentric Brit talked about many subjects, including the American Revolution. Sir Francis believed that the loss of America was the beginning of King George III’s madness.
“As Sir Francis is under personal obligations to the King of England, I did not think it suitable to tell him what I thought—that he had mistaken the cause for the effect,” Adams wryly wrote.
One of Sir Francis’s current claims surprised him nearly as much as the tattoo option: “He very stoutly contends that the British ministers deplore the war with America.”
Adams asked why he thought Parliament opposed the war. Amazingly, Francis was one of the last people to speak to Prime Minister Perceval before his assassination. He had left him five minutes before the murder. Francis believed this was Perceval’s war, and the current leadership under Lord Liverpool wanted a way to end it.
“Sir Francis appeared to hope that the war between America and England would yet be short.”
Adams hoped the same but doubted it.
Louisa’s depression continued. Not even fresh correspondence from home cheered her for very long.
“We have at length received letters from America—which bring favorable accounts of the health of our friends and my dear children,” she wrote with relief on April 4.
Her depression was so heavy and her perspective so disjointed that she now seriously doubted she would ever see her older children again: “To hear from them once in six or seven months is all that is left me as my prospect of ever seeing them more is now alas hopeless.”
Likely Mrs. Cabot recovered because Louisa continued to claim that dirt: “I scarcely can define my feelings much as I wish to see my children. My heart is torn at the idea of quitting forever the spot where my darling lays and to which my whole soul is linked.”
Weighing on her was the realization that her husband had extended their lease for another six months: “My health, the climate, and this dreadful war have added to the improbability of our return this summer.”
George’s and John’s letters provided a positive effect. Her husband’s suggestion that she read a book on diseases of the mind may have also nudged her to pick up her pen and open her heart to someone who would understand her.
“I have just closed a letter to Mrs. Adams. It is the first I have written for many months and it has rent my heart afresh.”
The letter was stingingly honest. She tried to control the “pang of my bursting heart” and asked for Abigail’s compassion, not condemnation: “Had you witnessed the horrid circumstances of my angel’s death you would pity and forgive me, my heart is almost broken, my health is gone, and my peace of mind is I fear forever destroy’d, dreadful.”
Searching for answers, Louisa continued to blame herself for her baby’s death.
About the same time, John was becoming more restless with each dour report. He learned on April 17 from a newspaper that US General James Winchester and more than one thousand men were taken prisoner in Canada at the Battle of Frenchtown. Only thirty escaped. The victorious British general left many of these imprisoned Americans under the guard of his Native American allies, who killed as many as sixty of the war prisoners. Called the River Raisin Massacre, the slaughter became a rallying cry for later efforts to control Lake Erie. Despite this catastrophe, John received good news. The USS Constitution had destroyed another British frigate.
The War of 1812, as it would later be called, defied logic. Americans should have been strong on land and weak at sea. The upside-down reality did not escape the notice of Count Romanzoff, who brought up the issue at a dinner party.
“How happens it that you are constantly beating at sea the English, who beat all the rest of the world, and that on land, where you ought to be the strongest, the English do what they please?” Romanzoff asked with emphasis in an inquisitive but good-natured tone.
Adams pleasantly responded with evidence from the Bible’s Ecclesiastes. “I knew not how to account for it, unless by supposing that these times were reserved to keep the world in a continued state of wonder, and to prove that there is something new under the sun.”
The count replied with his own biblical allusion: “There had once been a confusion of tongues, and now . . . was the time for confusion of mind.”
In a separate private meeting about this time, Romanzoff and John also discussed the latest news from France, which was as intriguing as a novel. With Bonaparte being pursued, King Louis XVIII had issued a proclamation to the people of France. He was ready to take his country back. To Adams, the idea of France returning to a monarchy “reminded me of the resurrection of dry bones in the prophet of Ezekiel.”
The dry bones of France’s royal family were ready to be resurrected in place of Napoleon. Romanzoff agreed that sooner or later the Bourbons would reclaim France: “It was certain that never since the commencement of the French Revolution had there been so many obstacles removed to the return of the Bourbons as there was at present.”
Romanzoff did not believe that the French emperor’s overthrow would instantly bring peace to Europe. Adams agreed: “Napoleon might be considered as the Don Quixote of monarchy.”
Bonaparte had overthrown many monarchs. Through the pretense of liberty and the backing of a puppet constitution, he had become a monarch behind the mask of emperor. People either loved or hated him. Napoleon was on the run but not quite ready to surrender. The Cossacks thought his political and military careers were near death, but his bones weren’t quite dry.
Confusing reports continued to come from the ever-changing center of battle. Adams was beckoned to another Te Deum at the Winter Palace on May 13. This service celebrated a victory of Russian troops over the French army near Lutzen, which is twelve miles from Leipzig in Prussia, or present-day Germany.
“We were told that the Emperor Alexander actually commanded—was on the field, and twice rallied his troops—but he chose to have the Te Deum at the chapel and not at the Kazan church to avoid appearance of ostentation.”
John was surprised that the palace called for a Te Deum when so few details were known. Early reports suggested that fifteen thousand Frenchmen were killed and sixteen cannon taken. Absent was information about Russian losses. More confusing details came forward days after the Te Deum. Some reports suggested that more than twenty-five thousand Frenchmen were slain and thirty-six cannon were captured. The Russians and Prussians were in full pursuit of the fugitives. Within a week Mr. Harris heard that the battle was not nearly as decisive. The outcome was merely the Russian possession of the battlefield. By the end of May, the news was worse. The Russians and the Prussians were retreating, while the French were threatening Berlin.
“The situation of things is critical in the highest degree,” John wrote in his diary.
In the midst of all this, John learned that the Hornet, an eighteen-gun US sloop of war, had defeated the eighteen-gun Royal Navy brig Peacock on February 24, 1813. America’s miracles at sea remained a treasure chest of hope.
The news from Europe continued in a confusing clash of couriers. William Smith first heard the most disastrous report on June 6 that a three-day battle resulted in a total defeat of the Russian and Prussian armies. The French were said to be in possession of Hamburg. A few days later another report repudiated it and gave the truth. The combined armies were not defeated but had merely retreated to distract the French.
“Napoleon and his army are again in the most imminent danger of having their retreat cut off. In these last battles he lost nearly double the number of men that the combined army did, and prisoners and cannon—whereas they lost none.”
They also heard that Napoleon sent Caulaincourt to Alexander’s headquarters, but the czar refused to see him.
Soon fresh news proved better than any of the previous reports. The Austrians had declared war against Napoleon and turned on the man who had married their princess. The alliance sent the French Grande Armée retreating to Dresden. The allies were ready to chase the French back to Paris. If they succeeded, King Louis XVIII might just reclaim France. Dry bones would indeed be resurrected.
John also received hope for his resurrection. The prospect of breaking up his establishment in St. Petersburg might soon become a reality. He called on Romanzoff on June 15 to give him the news. The chancellor already knew of John’s prospects for departing. His broad grin broke the long lines of his face.
“He then showed me a copy of Monroe’s answer to the proposals.”
Secretary of State Monroe accepted the mediation “in very handsome terms” and promised to send US negotiators to St. Petersburg. The count “was gratified that this measure had been so received by the United States.”
“The report of Messrs Gallatin and Bayard being destined to come out as commissioners—of the accuracy of which I had my doubts,” Adams told the count.
According to newspapers, US Treasury Secretary Albert Gallatin, a Republican, and US Senator James Bayard, a Federalist, were on a ship bound for St. Petersburg. Adams doubted they were coming for the mediation: “I presumed that a commission would be appointed, but I questioned whether they would be the men. Mr. Gallatin could not easily be spared, and he and Mr. Bayard were so opposed to each other and our politics that I thought it doubtful whether they would be joined in one commission.”
Adams knew both of them. No pair could have been more opposite had Madison appointed former presidents Thomas Jefferson and John Adams to the same team. Romanzoff’s reply, however, showed his savvy insight into a republic.
The count said, “In a government like [y]ours that might be the very reason for joining them, so that the great opposing interests might all be represented.”
What Adams did not say in that moment was his personal political calculation. He suspected that one of the two men would replace him as minister to Russia and that the other would be a special envoy to the mediation.
Months earlier, when he wrote Monroe asking for a recall, he had suggested that the military vessel bringing his replacement should take him and his family home. He had not forgotten the agony of traveling on the merchant ship Horace instead of a military frigate or the embarrassment of traveling without a passport. He took great pains to prevent a repeat homeward-bound voyage.
One question remained. Had England accepted the mediation as well? Not yet. But neither were the British tattooing their sailors as Sir Francis suggested.
The count “did not think the mediation would be directly refused by the British government. It would cause some embarrassment to the ministry.”
Negotiating for peace would have been one of the most honorable exits to Adams’s “honorable exile.” No matter. At least the prospect of leaving St. Petersburg was within sight. Though he did not have an honorable position waiting for him at home, his dry bones might be resurrected soon—so he thought.