1824: The Arkansas War (33 page)

It would be better to call those rumors than reports, Porter thought, although he tended to believe them accurate himself. Still, it didn’t necessarily mean much. The militias were a political powerhouse in most of the states, especially the western ones. They usually had a surge in recruitment during election campaigns.

“—figure we can win in New Jersey also,” Beatty continued, “although we can’t be sure of it. Jackson’s got quite a following in the mob of that state, almost as much as Pennsylvania. And we’ve got a good chance in Delaware and Maryland. Still, even if none of the three come over to us, we’ve got enough to push Crawford aside for one of the three slots in the electoral college. All the more so since the knowledge of the stroke he suffered last year is now widespread, despite all the efforts of his advisers to conceal his medical condition.”

He laid down the pen carefully. “New England, of course, won’t desert Adams. What that leaves, therefore, is the South. If we can reach a suitable accommodation with Crawford’s people and Calhoun, we might even be able to win a straight majority. Although I agree with Henry that that’s most unlikely. Still, we can certainly get enough votes to be included in the House’s selection. In fact…”

His bright eyes swept the men gathered at the table. “I think we’ve got a very good chance of coming in with a plurality. Which we’d never thought we had before.”

“That’d be a blessing,” Johnston grunted. He had his chair tipped back, with his hands folded across his stomach. “Without a plurality, Henry can win the presidency if the election gets tossed into the House. But he’ll never hear the end of it for the next four years. There’ll be endless accusations about ‘rotten deals’ and ‘corrupt bargains.’ Watch and see.”

“The next
eight
years,” Clay said stiffly. “I have every intention of serving two terms in office. That said, I agree with Josiah. Let’s remember, gentlemen, that the whole purpose of this exercise is not to assuage my own ambition but to advance the interests of the nation. To do that, I need eight years in the president’s house—”

He rose and pointed dramatically out the window. “
And
the support of Congress. Enough of it, at least, to get my American System so firmly rooted in the country that no one can tear it back out.”

The window he was pointing to faced west, as it happened, which was the opposite direction from the Capitol. But Henry Clay was never given to fussing over minutiae, Porter thought wryly.

He also had some wry thoughts about the Speaker’s insistence that his own aggrandizement was not involved. Many of the insinuations against Henry Clay were false, in Porter’s opinion. His reputation for sexual debauchery, for instance, was grossly exaggerated. But the accusation that he was as ambitious as Lucifer was…

Close to the mark, at least.

Still, Porter knew that Clay meant what he said. It wasn’t mere flippery for the sake of cloaking personal goals. The frequent charge that the Speaker had no political principles at all was just wrong. He was quite committed to his project of strengthening the United States through his American System. If for no other reason, out of pride in having forged it in the first place. And that, in the end, was what mattered to Porter and men like him.

Clay sat down. “So, yes, let’s hope for a plurality. It won’t matter either way in terms of the election. But it will matter for the next eight years.”

“The election’s in three days, Henry,” Josiah pointed out. “It takes weeks for news to spread across a country as big as ours. How—”

Impatiently, Clay waved his hand. “That’s news to the mob. Fortunately, in their wisdom, the founders of this nation saw fit to create a true republic. That means that what matters in the long run is not the opinion of the populace as such—which is often uninformed and always prone to emotionalism—but the opinion of its elected political leaders. They—not the mob—will be the ones who make the decisions. And while senators and congressmen are naturally influenced by popular opinion in their states, they are not bound by it. Not legally, not morally—certainly not politically.”

His famous broad smile appeared. “And many of the congressmen have now arrived in the city.
They’ll
get the news, in plenty of time.”

“
What
‘news’?” Porter asked, half dreading the answer.

Dramatically, as he did most things, Clay held up the
Intelligencer.

“This!” he replied, shaking the offending newspapers. “Not only shall I not attempt to deny any of these charges—so-called charges—I shall take them for my own. Brandish them like a spear before battle, if you will.”

Porter had to fight not to roll his eyes. “Henry, you’re gambling again. I strongly urge you to say nothing at all. Simply ignore the reports. It’s only one newspaper, as influential as it might be in some circles.”

Clay’s sneer was every bit as broad as his smile—and just as famous. “Play it safe, you mean? I think not!”

He rose again and pointed out the window. “No, gentlemen! To lead this great nation, boldness is always required!”

At least he was pointing in the right direction, this time. The president’s house was that way, indeed.

Washington, D.C.

N
OVEMBER 6, 1824

“ ‘—has it come to this? Are we so humbled, so low, so despicable, that we dare not express our sympathy for suffering Louisiana, lest, peradventure, we might offend some one or more of their imperial and royal majesties?’ ”

Standing at the window to his office listening to the attorney general quoting from Clay’s speech of the day before, James Monroe barked a laugh. “Isn’t that the same language he used a few months ago to excoriate us for refusing to intervene in the Greek rebellion?”

“It’s almost identical,” said John Quincy Adams, sitting in a chair nearby. “Oh, but it gets better. Please continue, Bill.”

William Wirt scanned farther down the newspaper in his lap. “I’ll skip a bit, Mr. President. There’s some pure verbiage here, mixed in with the merely histrionic.”

The attorney general cleared his throat and continued quoting from the speech. “Here’s where he gets—finally—to the point. ‘I would rather adjure the nation to remember that it contains a million freemen capable of bearing arms, and ready to exhaust their last drop of blood and their last cent, in defending their country, its institutions, and its liberty.’ ”

Wirt fell silent and lowered the newspaper.

President Monroe continued to look out the window, gazing at the country’s capital city. After a few seconds, he said softly: “This is the same Henry Clay who praised us for our stance of forbidding any further European intervention in the New World. Albeit, to be sure, criticizing us for taking so long to do so. Am I not correct?”

Adams laughed sarcastically. “And adding into the bargain that he was prepared to wage a war against the whole world for it, even England. Somehow, a man of his undoubted intelligence failed to grasp what was clear to anyone with an ounce of sense with regard to foreign affairs: that our policy had the full if tacit support of that very same England he proposed to war against. Bah! He knew perfectly well, then, that his bombast with regard to England was as safe as a man threatening to wage war against the tide—when it is receding.”

Adams pointed to the newspaper on Wirt’s lap. “Just as he knows perfectly well, now, that threatening to wage war against the European powers should they dare to interfere in the Arkansas situation is every bit as safe. If an attack on the Confederacy is launched by the United States, it will be condemned the world over. But no one will send any ships or troops to support Arkansas. How could they get there, anyway?”

Monroe still hadn’t turned around. “You have to admit it’s a fascinating chain of logic,” he mused, “even for Henry Clay. I’m still not quite sure how he managed to segue from the need to defend the bleeding Greek heroes against the Turk oppressor who rules Greece, to the need to defend the states of our nation from which a band of criminals sallied forth to conquer a neighboring country of ours, which hasn’t threatened them at all. If you didn’t know better, you’d think Louisiana and Mississippi were groaning under Arkansas occupation.”

Finally the president turned around. “Has Jackson said anything?”

Wirt shook his head. “Not a word, sir. Not in public, anyway, and even his private thoughts seem a mystery to everyone. Possibly even his closest confidants.”

“Any guesses?”

“With Jackson, Mr. President, it’s always hard to know. Most people are assuming he’ll side with Clay, if for no other reason than to keep Clay from undercutting his support in the West and the South. But…”

Monroe cocked an eyebrow. “But you’re not so sure.”

“No, sir, I’m not.”

Adams had been listening intently. “Why, Bill? It’s the obvious move to make, for a presidential candidate in his position.”

Wirt shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Yes, it would be. But I’ll remind you that it would have been politically shrewd for Jackson to have opposed the tariff bill, too. But he didn’t. In fact, he was one of the administration’s strongest supporters in the Senate. That cost him in the Southern states, probably as much as he gained in the manufacturing ones.”

Monroe shook his head. “Not the same thing. No one’s ever doubted—not anyone who’s politically educated, anyway—that Jackson is a firm supporter of the principle that the United States is a
nation,
not simply an aggregate of states. In that respect, he’s quite unlike John Randolph or Crawford’s Radicals. It still doesn’t follow that in this instance he wouldn’t take the same stance as Clay.”

“You could even say that the very same nationalist principles called for it,” Adams added. “If I might play devil’s advocate for a moment, one could argue that the massacre at Arkansas Post was a humiliation of the United States that needed to be set right. As a matter of national pride, if nothing else.”

Wirt gave him a level stare. Adams looked aside. “Well, you
could.
”

“Finish the sentence, John,” the attorney general said. It sounded a bit like a command, oddly enough.

Adams smiled crookedly. “If you weren’t me. Or Andrew Jackson.”

Wirt nodded. “Yes.” He turned to Monroe. “And that’s really my only point, Mr. President. There’s simply no way to know what Jackson will do. His origins, his history, his background—certainly his temperament, which can be quite savage—will all be pulling him in one direction. But he’s also the same man who outraged Louisiana’s plantation owners by arming black freedmen in the war against Britain, don’t forget.”

Monroe’s smile was almost as crooked as the one that had been on Quincy Adams’s face a moment before. “Not to mention outraging the War Department when he gave that black gunner a field commission. Yes. I remember.”

The president now looked at the secretary of state. John Quincy Adams had risen and was standing at the same window the president had been gazing through earlier.

“There’s always that about Jackson,” Monroe said softly. “One never quite knows, until the moment, exactly where his principles might fall. But he is a man of principle.”

Adams made no response. He seemed completely preoccupied by the sight of the city beyond. Which was actually not that prepossessing, outside of the Capitol in the distance.

CHAPTER 22

Washington, D.C.

N
OVEMBER 7, 1824

“We can take a carriage, if you prefer,” Houston said. “It’s chilly out.”

Maria Hester shook her head. “Oh, stop being so pestiferously male, Sam. I swear! I’m not even sure I’m pregnant in the first place. If I am, it’s not more than a few weeks.”

She looked up, giving him a sly smile. Then, leaned into him a bit, squeezing his arm more tightly. “I will say you didn’t waste any time, once you got back.”

Sam didn’t know whether to look smug or embarrassed. He tried for dignity instead.

And failed completely, judging from his wife’s giggle.

“Come on,” she said. “If you want to talk to Andy before he says anything public, you’d best do it now. It’s already noon.” She nodded toward the distant Capitol. “Besides, we only have to walk a mile. This time of year, Pennsylvania Avenue won’t even be that muddy.”

After a hundred feet, she qualified the statement. “Well. Compared to summer, anyway.”

“I’ve seen pigsties that were cleaner than this city,” Sam muttered.

“Stop it!” Maria Hester scolded. “You promised. No politics until we get to the senator’s chambers.”

When John Coffee entered Andrew Jackson’s office, the senator was looking out of a window. In his case, positioned as it was on the second floor of the Capitol, one that gave him a very nice view of the president’s house he hoped to occupy soon. The White House, some people were starting to call it, now that the house had been repaired and repainted after the British vandalism of the past war.

All of the key men in Jackson’s entourage were already present in the chamber, seated here and there about the room. Judge John Overton; Tennessee state senator Hugh Lawson White; John Henry Eaton, Tennessee’s other U.S. senator; and Eaton’s brother-in-law, William H. Lewis.

Lewis seemed gloomy, but Coffee discounted that. The man’s heavy face always gave him a solemn demeanor except when he was talking. But both Overton and Eaton seemed out of sorts as well.

Jackson, on the other hand, seemed in something of an impish mood. Hearing Coffee enter, he gave him a peculiar smile and waved him toward one of the empty chairs. “Have a seat, John.”

“Yes, do,” said Overton. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

Sitting down, Coffee cocked his head. “Sense about what?”

“This,” said Eaton. He picked up some sheets of paper and handed them over.

Coffee immediately recognized Jackson’s handwriting, which was quite unmistakable. Even if it hadn’t been, the senator’s sometimes eccentric spelling and syntax would have identified the author.

It was a speech, evidently the one Jackson proposed to give to the Senate later that afternoon. Coffee took the time to read it slowly and carefully. Being one of Andy’s closest friends, he wasn’t surprised at all by the quality of the speech. Its intellectual content, at least, if not the specific thrust. Even after all these years, many people still kept thinking of Jackson as if he were some sort of semiliterate frontier roughneck. In point of fact, although the senator’s rudimentary formal education still left traces in his prose, Jackson was as astute and well-read a politician as most any in the United States. John Quincy Adams excepted, of course.

When he was finished, Coffee laid the speech down on the low table in front of him.

“If you just keep your mouth shut, Andy, I’m pretty sure this will all blow over.”

“That’s just what I told him,” Eaton complained. “The votes were in all over the country before the news from Arkansas had time to spread. Much, anyway. And those people out West and in the South—most of the Southern states wouldn’t have gotten the news at all, before the election—who did hear about it would just assume…”

“That Andy Jackson was another God-damned Henry Clay,” the senator interrupted. But the words weren’t snarled. Actually, they’d been said quite good-humoredly.

Eaton flushed. “Andy, that’s not the point and you know it.”

“Actually, it is the point,” Overton said mildly. “And you know it as well as anyone here does.”

The judge raised his hand, forestalling Eaton’s further protest. “Not the part about another Henry Clay—and, Andy, don’t let Rachel hear you blaspheming like that. Nobody thinks Andy and Henry Clay are any more alike than bulls and roosters. What they
do
think is that the general who won the Horseshoe Bend and the Mississippi ain’t likely to stand by twiddling his thumbs while a bunch of niggers butcher white folks.”

“He’s right, Andy,” said Coffee. “Just keep your mouth shut, and everybody will assume that Old Hickory will be Old Hickory. Plenty of time after you settle in the White House to set them straight.”

Jackson had been pulling out the chair to his desk, preparatory to sitting down. But now he stopped and stood up straight. “Steal the election, you mean.”

Ramrod-straight. Coffee heaved a sigh. “You and your damn pride—and don’t give
me
lectures on blaspheming, Judge Overton. You, of all people.”

“I’ll be blasted if I will,” said Jackson. “All that happened here is that Henry Clay—as foul a man as ever besmirched the halls of Congress; I hate that bastard with a passion, and you all know it—financed a pack of bandits, using his connections with the stinking Bank to raise the money, in order to weasel his way into the presidency. Give me one good reason I should support that.”

The earlier good humor was gone, now. He gave his advisers the same blue-eyed glare that was famous across much of the country. “No, sirs, I shall not.”

But none of those men had remained Andy Jackson’s friends and advisers by being easily intimidated. “That ain’t the point, Andy,” said Overton. “It all comes down to the race issue. You know it just as well as we do. Yes, sure, Crittenden’s men were bandits. But they were
white
bandits—and the men who massacred them were all niggers.”

“The commander who gave the order wasn’t,” Jackson fired back. “There’s no dispute over that, not in any of the reports. His name is Patrick Driscol. As Scots-Irish as I am, and with a skin paler than mine. Formerly of the United States Army. A major, when he resigned. I know. He served under me in New Orleans and was one of the best officers I’ve ever had.”

Silence filled the room for a time. Jackson shoved the chair back under the table and went to stand at the window again.

By the time they were halfway down Pennsylvania Avenue, Sam wished he’d been firm about calling for a carriage. Maria Hester might have a fortitude to shame most frontier women, but—dammit—his boots were filthy. His favorite boots, too.

Of course, his wife’s shoes were a hopeless wreck. But those were the old ones she didn’t care about anyway, that she only kept for just such promenades. Like any experienced lady of Washington, she had a nice set in her purse, ready to change into when they reached their destination.

“Are you sure—”

“Sam Houston, Injun fighter and war hero,” his wife jibed. “Defeated by a little mud. Just soldier on, soldier.”

“I retired from the army, remember?”

“Then why does everyone keep calling you Colonel?”

Jackson let out a sigh, his stiff shoulders easing a little. “There’s something wrong with John Calhoun,” he said, so softly the men in the room had to strain to hear him. “Him, and all the men like him.”

Overton frowned. “We were talking about Henry Clay.”

Jackson turned around. “No, we weren’t. Clay doesn’t give a damn about Crittenden’s men, even less than I do. This isn’t about Henry Clay. Not really. This is about John Calhoun. Might be better to say, the South that Calhoun is doing his level best to bring into existence. Like some sort of Araby heathen, trying to summon a demon out of a sealed lamp.”

Jackson now had his hands clasped behind his back. His jaws seemed more gaunt than ever. “I got no use for Sam Houston’s fancies about black folk. Indians, maybe a little, but not niggers. Never did, never will. It’s just a fact that the black race is inferior to the white race. Taken as a whole, at any rate. I’ll allow for the exceptional individual, here and there.”

He paused, scanning the room. “Anybody here disagree with me?”

After a moment, they all shook their heads.

“Didn’t think so. That’s why slavery doesn’t bother me any. Never did. If that fraud Thomas Jefferson wants to beat his breast over it—though I notice he has yet to free a single one of his slaves—let him do it. I won’t.” His jaws grew tighter still. “But that doesn’t mean I agree with Calhoun, either. That man…”

He took a deep breath. “That man is just plain mean. He’s like all that type of slave-owner. The same ones who played the traitor at New Orleans. The fact that I don’t think black men are the equal of white men doesn’t mean I think they aren’t still men. They’re not dumb animals, tarnation, with no rights at all. And that’s exactly what John Calhoun thinks—and that’s exactly where he wants to lead the nation. With Henry Clay playing his tune, because he’s the fanciest piper in town.”

He went over to his desk and picked up one of the newspapers lying there. “Never thought I’d see the day when I thought the
Intelligencer
was the best paper around,” he said wryly. “But today, at least, on this issue, the fact is they are.”

He held up the paper. “Got another article in here by that Bryant fellow. Gives you all the details you want to know—or don’t want to know—about how Crittenden’s men conducted themselves. You’ve read it, I assume?”

Again, they all nodded.

“So, fine,” Jackson continued. “Let me ask you this, then. Suppose a gang of white criminals broke into a black freedman’s house right here in Washington—and don’t bother yapping to me about the exclusion laws, because you know as well as I do they aren’t enforced half the time. There’s too many black servants their masters want to keep around, free or not, including me. Why? Because some of them are good servants, that’s why. Not to mention they don’t want to listen to the kids hollering when their nanny gets sent away. Or the cook who gives them treats when their parents aren’t looking.”

Still holding the paper in his left hand, he ran the fingers of the other through his stiff gray hair. “Truth is, I’m sorry now I ever voted for those blasted laws. They’re just a violation of human nature, is all. Inferior or not, black people are still people, and most people—any color, leaving aside the Calhouns of the world—form attachments to each other. Free or slave, it don’t matter. It just don’t.”