“The purchase of the Louisiana territories has expanded the nation,” Burr continued. “But Mister Jefferson has made a bargain with the devil. The wars that convulse Europe show that Napoleon can never keep his word. His treaties are worthless, and if Jefferson were to send him all the dollars in the world, it would do nothing to secure the lands the French tyrant has pretended to sell to us.”
Burr looked directly into Nolan’s eyes. “The Spanish are now the allies of the French. Should Napoleon decide to snatch back what he has sold to Mister Jefferson, it is the dons who will do the taking. The Spanish are already moving troops from Monterrey and Mexico City.”
“Then they should be kept away,” said Nolan. “Driven across the Rio Grande if necessary.”
The little man smiled. “You have grasped the matter perfectly.”
Burr told Nolan that two nations could not share the destiny of a single continent, and that Texas and the lands all the way to the Pacific were the legacy of the United States alone. No one spoke the word “treason.” The old politician was too crafty, and Nolan’s simple patriotism was too well rooted. Burr’s scheme was to start a war with Spain and then seize the territory west of the Mississippi. The plot was no idle daydream. Burr had raised tens of thousands of dollars, purchased rifles, cannon, and powder, and commissioned a flotilla of riverboats. Burr had private discussions with the military and political leaders of America’s frontier, obtaining their acquiescence, if not their publicly declared support. Andrew Jackson, the future president, and Major General James Wilkinson, commander of the United States Army, were among Burr’s intimates. The ex–vice president had a genius for manipulation, and he knew exactly where to press the young lieutenant. Burr had ready cash—he could pay for a thousand soldiers—but he needed officers, men of honor, to lead them. Burr asked Nolan to join his venture; glory awaited, the deceiver whispered. All it required was men with pluck.
Nolan’s consideration of this fatal offer was all too brief. He reflected on the object of Burr’s scheme rather than the means by which it should be accomplished. Nolan did not appreciate that others, besides Spain, might object to what was, in fact, an unlawful and unjustifiable use of force—a filibuster. What Burr proposed was a military adventure, and Nolan saw in it not only a place for himself, but vindication for a brother he had loved.
Burr dictated a pair of letters, which Nolan dutifully copied down. These were then transcribed into a hieroglyphic-like cipher that Burr produced from a slim iron box. The letters dealt chiefly with the movements of men and materiel. There was some political language as well, but truth be told, the encryption process proved so laborious that eventually Nolan merely assembled words and did not pay strict attention to what they entailed.
Working through a long night, Nolan made fair copies and in the morning submitted them to Burr for review. They were pronounced accurate, and Nolan was delighted to be charged with delivering them to General James Wilkinson, the military governor of the Orleans Territory. The grand design, it seemed, was coming to life. Burr arranged a leave with Nolan’s commanding officer and made sure he was well provisioned. Carrying Burr’s dispatches, Nolan rode south from Fort Massac to the Orleans Territory, and into the noose of doom.
On the day of Nolan’s arrival, the wily general received him kindly and accepted the letters. In a show of military courtesy, Nolan put himself at the general’s service and was shown to a tent within the confines of Wilkinson’s headquarters. That night, exhausted from his seven-hundred-mile journey, Nolan fell asleep, convinced that his future was about to blossom.
Though he had been an early and enthusiastic supporter of Burr’s plot, General Wilkinson was a calculating man. Unknown to his superiors in Washington and unsuspected by Burr or his brother officers, Wilkinson was in secret correspondence with the viceroy of Mexico. In this mercenary, treacherous arrangement, Wilkinson was known to the Spanish as Agent 13. Burr had no inkling, and Nolan had no idea at all, that they were dealing with a dyed-in-the-wool traitor.
Perhaps the old general had heard the rumors that revealed him as Burr’s principal co-conspirator; perhaps he had been ordered by his Spanish paymasters to thwart Burr’s plot. Whatever the reasons, General Wilkinson found it in his interest to suddenly denounce Aaron Burr, repudiate their previous agreements, and renege on his promise to add the battalions in his command to an attack on Mexico.
Wilkinson had changed sides. He now had to cover his tracks.
At dawn Nolan was arrested in his tent by Wilkinson’s adjutant. He was taken again to headquarters, and there found the general a changed man. Sitting behind a field desk, Wilkinson’s broad bottom was propped on a saddle put down upon a milking stool. The general pointedly asked if Nolan had been granted permission to leave his post at Fort Massac.
“Verbal permission, sir.”
“Then you can show me no orders?”
In a corner, Nolan caught sight of a clerk dipping his pen and rapidly scribbling. “Respectfully, sir, if I have deserted, I have done so in uniform, and fled to the headquarters of my commanding general.”
The great bulk was unmoved. “I understand you have been in contact with His Excellency Colonel Burr?” Wilkinson huffed.
“I have, sir. He asked me to carry to you the letter you have at hand.”
In the corner, the scratching stopped and the clerk looked up. Wilkinson’s eyes narrowed. “What else did Colonel Burr say to you, Lieutenant Nolan?”
“I was offered a place in his expedition, sir. I heartily accepted it.”
Wilkinson smirked like a mandarin. “You are dismissed,” he wheezed.
The adjutant said sternly, “Consider yourself confined to post.”
It seemed at first to be some sort of prank. The next day a dragoon guard escorted Nolan south to Fort St. John and confined him in a casemate. Nolan was certain that when Burr arrived in New Orleans the matter would be resolved. It only added to his bewilderment when a guard told him that Aaron Burr was now a fugitive with a federal price on his head. A scrap of newspaper shoved though the bars of his cell confirmed it.
A week passed. Then, with great fanfare, General Wilkinson announced that he had “intercepted” a coded letter revealing a diabolical plot to dismember the Union. Nolan’s heart sank. There could be only one such letter—and Philip Nolan had placed it into General Wilkinson’s fat, moist hand.
Wilkinson declared martial law in the city of New Orleans and his provost marshals rounded up dozens of potential conspirators, including members of the local militia, political rivals, and several of the general’s creditors. In the renaissance of his patriotism General Wilkinson found traitors everywhere, except in the mirror. By the end of November, Nolan found himself under close arrest and marching north to Washington City with a dozen other officers and civilian officials. After more than a month on the road, prisoners and escort were met by a United States marshal, transferred from military into federal custody, and diverted to Richmond.
In an icy rain the escort drove the prisoners on past Staunton, through Rock-fish Gap, and down the long Three Notch’d Road past Charlottesville and under the frowning brow of Monticello itself.
Arriving at last in Richmond, Nolan was placed in the city gaol with a colonel and a major, both formerly members of General Wilkinson’s staff. During the long march from New Orleans neither officer had shown Nolan much courtesy. Soon after they were lodged in the Richmond gaol, these officers were paroled almost at once. For reasons not explained, Nolan was turned out with them. On a blustery morning, the officers left Nolan standing in front of the hoosegow with his baggage and saddle piled at his feet. As it began to rain, Nolan’s cellmates climbed aboard a