“I believe you will discover,” he responded, “that the matter of America’s capital will soon be settled. And not,” he added firmly, “as you wish.”

“How so?” Master frowned. “Is Congress so anxious to return to Philadelphia?”

“Philadelphia is a fine city, and I should sooner be there than here. But I believe we shall build a new capital, further south.”

“Build a new capital?”

“Exactly.”

“That will cost Congress a great deal of money,” Master remarked drily. “I hope they can afford it. And may I ask where?”

“Down on the Potomac River.”

“The Potomac?” Master looked astonished. “But it’s all swamp down there.”

“Frankly, I’d sooner a swamp than New York,” said Jefferson, not without relish.

Could the Virginian be telling the truth? New York was to be abandoned in favor of a swamp? The idea seemed preposterous. Master glanced at his son. But James only nodded.

“That is the latest word, Father,” he said. “I just heard of it today. Philadelphia will be the interim capital, then everything will move to the new place.”

For a moment Master could scarcely believe them, as he looked from one to the other.

“Is this a joke?” he cried.

“No, Father,” said James. Behind him, Jefferson gave a faint smile.

And then, his good intentions all forgotten, poor Master burst out in a rage.

“Then damn your Potomac swamp, sir,” he shouted at Jefferson. “And damn you too!”

“I think,” said Jefferson to James, in a dignified manner, “it is time that I left.” And he turned. But Master would have the last word.

“You can do what you like, sir,” he cried, “but I’ll tell you this. New York is the true capital of America. Every New Yorker knows it, and by God, we always shall.”

Niagara

1825

THE INDIAN GIRL watched the path. A number of men from the boat had already taken the trail through the woods. She had seen them emerge onto the big platform of grass and rock, and start at the sudden roar of the water.

She was nine. She had come to the mighty waterfall with her family. Soon they would continue into Buffalo.

Frank walked beside his father. It was a bright October day. Above the trees the sky was blue. They were alone, but he could tell from the crushed red and yellow leaves on the trail that many people had been that way.

“We’re nearly there,” said his father. Weston Master was wearing a homespun coat, which he’d unbuttoned. The mist had made it damp, but it was being warmed by the sun. He had tied a big handkerchief around his neck. Today he’d fastened a wampum belt round his waist. It was an old belt and Weston did not wear it often, so as to preserve it. He was carrying a stout walking stick and smoking a cigar. He smelled good.