What do you think President Joe Biden is doing as you read this? Is he resting? Eating some lunch? Meeting with his cabinet or other political leaders? It’s intriguing to think that just as anyone has moments of dullness, excitement, chaos or peace, so does a person tasked with heading a nation of hundreds of millions.
This week in history, let’s step into the shoes of John Tyler, admittedly a hard man to understand. Tyler was born on March 29, 1790, in Virginia. The young Tyler had about as comfortable a childhood as one could in the early years of the country.
His family had a substantial plantation and slave attendants in addition to resources that enabled Tyler to go through schooling. Tyler stayed on the family plantation until he attended the College of William & Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia. Ultimately, under the peerage of his father and other academics, Tyler entered into law and rose through the ranks of political positions until he became one of the most prominent Democrats in the political scene.
Tyler — like most of his status and upbringing — had enslaved people, who built and ran plantations. There’s no doubt that Tyler was a man of agency, but above all, he had faith in his ability to lead an entire country. In 1839, Tyler was the vice presidential candidate under presidential nominee William Henry Harrison. The pair formed the iconic “Tippecanoe and Tyler Too” ticket.
In that campaign slogan, one can’t help but notice how Tyler was sidelined. Not only was Harrison a Whig party member and Tyler a Democrat, but Tyler seemed to be solely there to get the Southern vote. Harrison would lead the nation, while I suppose Tyler would be there, too.
But the Whig Party’s ego — and Harrison’s declining health — got the better of the country’s figureheads. Harrison became the first president to die in office on April 4, 1841, and as the White House Historical Association biography about Harrison aptly describes, “…with him died the Whig program.” Over the next few years in office, the sidelined president would have a chance to make a name for himself.
To many, Tyler’s new name coined itself: “His Accidency.”
Yet, Tyler’s story isn’t merely one of political tumult but a story of failed love. In 1842, Tyler’s wife, Letitia Christian Tyler, died, leaving the president in a dire situation. Without his first lady, he found himself looking for other relationships. Soon, Tyler became enamored with the daughter of a senator, Julia Gardiner.
Tyler proposed to Gardiner a few times over the years of his presidency, being turned down once at the White House Masquerade Ball on Feb. 22, 1843. His proposals were always met with rejection — something not uncommon in his presidency either.
Entering 1844, President Tyler endured through the first years of his term and successfully maneuvered the divided politics of the young American republic. While his popularity may have fluctuated — leaving him with relatively few supporters — he had established himself in the innermost circles of the nation despite being labeled an outsider.
This week in history, on Feb. 28, 1844, President Tyler, alongside his long dismissive Gardiner and her father, stepped aboard the USS Princeton, a newly developed ship in the U.S. Navy that was at the top of its class. The president had assembled hundreds of upper elites in American politics to celebrate his annexation of Texas — Tyler’s biggest career achievement — by sailing on the USS Princeton, using its guns to fire solutes to reflect the momentous occasion of adding a state to the union.
This is the sort of event typically goes unnoticed in the history books. Tyler and his entourage celebrated with songs and dances on the lower floors of the ship, while on deck, food was shared as spectators admired the “Peacemaker,” Stockton’s prized cannon, and the largest of its kind in the world. It was a political celebration, a calculated, predictable and fairly inconsequential event. The date would certainly not make its way into any textbook.
As Tyler listened to his son-in-law, William Waller, sing what the U.S. Naval Institute describes as a “patriotic ditty about 1776,” he no doubt felt pressured to head on deck to join the crowds enjoying the sun and spectacle of the “Peacemaker” which had been fired routinely during the trip.
Tyler and most of those in attendance had gone below deck to have a magnificent dinner when Stockton was convinced by a few requests to fire the “Peacemaker” a third time.
As Tyler waited for Waller to finish his song — after all, it would be rude to leave halfway through — a deafening shock rattled the top of the ship. As the Naval Institute describes, “The ship trembled, and a dense cloud of white smoke smothered the deck, making it almost impossible to see or breathe.”
Screaming could barely overpower the ringing in the passenger’s ears as “Peacemaker” erupted and misfired its 12-inch gun, sending scalding metal and blazing fire out across the ship. In a dash to get above deck, President Tyler ran through the flurry of elegantly dressed passengers, many now coated in blood. Being escorted below deck by two sailors was a bloodied Stockton.
Though details are sparse, after reaching the top deck, Tyler would have seen his beloved Gardiner on the other end of the ship lying unconscious on the deck, with her father’s lifeless body being attended by others on board.
Grasping her in his arms, Tyler carried the bloody and stunned Gardiner to safety.
As the Naval Institute includes in their overview of the event, an editor of the Boston Times was aboard the ship during the explosion and observed “…when the smoke cleared, dead bodies and detached arms and legs littered the deck.”
Tyler’s personal enslaved attendant Armistead, Secretary of State Abel Upshur, Secretary of the Navy Thomas Walker Gilmer, statesman Virgil Maxcy, Navy Captain Beverly Kennon and David Gardiner — Julia Gardiner’s father — were all killed in the explosion.
If one could see an aerial view of the scene, the massive turret at the foredeck burst open after its third firing, which later engineering reports deemed to be caused by poor joining of the barrel. Stockton, though the head of the ship’s construction, was not the designer of the gun. Swedish inventor John Ericsson was the man responsible for its schematics.
A long-disputed historical debate has occurred in an attempt to cast blame on what exactly led to the explosion of the gun; Tyler himself had no blame for Stockton or Ericsson, instead viewing it as a natural accident to be expected of any naval firing. To Tyler, those on the ship had accepted the risks of such malfunctions by simply being on the vessel; it was no fault of the ship’s crew.
Some later investigations showed that Stockton and his men had done everything as required, at least according to the naval standards of the day. It was the fault of no individual that the gun should give way — although Ericsson had warned Stockton that the gun was “unproven,” leading to a fallout between the two right as Stockton allowed the party onboard.
Regardless of who was responsible, the explosion was the largest peacetime accident in the U.S. up to that point. It left a lasting impact on Julia Gardiner, who went on to marry Tyler, who had consoled her for her loss — despite their 30-year age difference. It’s unavoidable that the chaotic political life of John Tyler stands out amongst the countless happenings in history set for this week. Have a great start to March; see you next week!