1824: The Arkansas War: Chapter Twenty Four

Washington, D.C.
November 8, 1824

    Fortunately, Jackson was still awake. Adams had hesitated disturbing the senator, so late at night. But he’d feared the consequences of waiting till the morrow. Far too easy, even for a Puritan, to find that morning’s glow sapped resolve. Some things were best done in the middle of the night; not for the sake of its secrecy, but simply because darkness had no false auras. Mornings were always treacherous times, with their ever-returning promise.

    “My apologies for the hour, Senator,” he began, as soon as a black servant ushered him into the salon where Jackson was waiting for him. “It’s just—”

    “Not at all, Mr. Secretary.” Jackson was standing in the middle of room, his posture that familiar ramrod one. But it was simply erect, not stiff at all. He was smiling broadly, and seemed inclined to be as gracious as he could often manage, sometimes to everyone’s surprise.

    “Some cordials, perhaps?”

    “No, thank you, I…” Adams peered at the row of bottled spirits on a cabinet against the wall. He waged a regular battle with himself to maintain temperate habits, and when he did drink he preferred wine, not whiskey.

    Then again, new times.

    “Well, perhaps a small whiskey.”

    “Of course.” The servant headed for the cabinet, but Jackson waved him off. “I’ll manage it, Pompey, thank you. You may retire for the evening.”

    After the servant was gone, and the whiskey poured, Jackson waved Adams to the divan. “Please, have a seat.” As Adams did so, Jackson perched himself on a nearby chair.

    There was no point delaying it. If a man was to fall on his sword, it was best to do it quickly and firmly.

    “Senator Jackson, I have come to inform you that I shall be urging those who are supporting me for the presidency to vote for you instead.”

    There. It was done. No way to retract anything now. Not even the meanest scoundrel in American could do that. And Adams had always allowed, whatever else, that he was very far from that. A sinner, yes; a scoundrel, no. Certainly not a mean one.

    Jackson’s eyes widened. Slowly, he set his untouched whiskey down on a low table next to the chair.

    “Well. I will be dam— ah. Well. Tarnation, sir!”

    At least he hadn’t completed the blasphemy. Adams’ gloom lightened a bit.

    “Tarnation,” Jackson repeated. “That comes as quite a surprise. I wouldn’t have thought…”

    He paused, his bright blue eyes peering at Adams intently. “It was the speech, wasn’t it?”

    “To a degree, yes. The murder that came before it, perhaps as much.”

    The famous blue glare entered Jackson’s eyes. “Yes, that too. I’ll see that man hanged, if I do nothing else in my life. Be sure of it, sir. If the laws allowed, I’d have him drawn and quartered first.”

    Adams wouldn’t flinch from that, either. “I must, however, tell you that while I admired the speech itself—greatly, in fact—I took considerable exception to the ending. I felt that was most unfortunate. Uncalled for.”

    For an instant, the fury fell on Adams. But, only for a instant. The blue eyes simply became blue, a color like any other. Jackson even smiled a bit. Even ruefully.

    “Well. I’m not sure I’d agree that it was ‘uncalled for.’ But, ah, perhaps unfortunate.”

    The smile returned, now with more humor in it. “For sure and certain, all my friends have been berating for it since, I can tell you that! Still…”

    He shrugged, and took a first sip of the whiskey. “What’s done is done, and I’m not a man given to fretting over the past.”

    No, that he wasn’t, for good or ill. And Adams would also allow that, in these times, that was probably to the good. For the most part, at least.

    Suddenly, Jackson chuckled. “You do understand, I trust, that you just made a promise you might not be able to keep.”

    Adams frowned. “Excuse me, sir.” Stiffly: “I can assure you—”

    “It doesn’t matter what you assure me, Mr. Secretary. The people of the republic decide who’ll be the president, not you or me. What if you win an outright majority in the Electoral College? How could you possibly, then, hand the office to me as if it belonged to you? When, in fact, it belongs to no man in the country, not even the one who currently occupies the office. It is the sole and exclusive property of the nation itself. Its electorate, at any rate.”

    Adams stared at him. He’d…

    Simply not considered the possibility.

    “That’s quite unlikely,” he protested, knowing full well that wasn’t Jackson’s point.

    Jackson just stared at him. Adams cleared his throat.

    “Well. I suppose I couldn’t. Given that eventuality.”

    “No, of course you couldn’t. Nor could I accept.”

    Now, Jackson was smiling very broadly. “I’m not needling you, Mr. Secretary. And I agree it’s unlikely that any of us will win an outright majority, given the political divisions in the party. I simply wanted to make sure that we understood each other.”

    Adams finally took a sip of his own drink. It was very good whiskey. The liquor was not to Adams’ particular liking, true. But…

    Very good whiskey, indeed.

    “Agreed,” he said abruptly. “But I will do so if the election is thrown into the House. That I can assure you, Senator Jackson.”

    “Call me ‘Andy,’ if you would. All my friends do.”

    Trying not to be stiff—well, stiffer than necessary—Adams shook his head. “We’re not actually friends, Senator Jackson. And being honest, I rather doubt we ever will be.”

    Jackson’s cordial smile didn’t fade in the least. “Probably not—though much stranger things have happened. But I’d still prefer it if you’d call me ‘Andy.’ Consider it a matter of personal preference, if it pleases you.”

    Adams thought about it. Reciprocation would be necessary, of course.

    It really was very good whiskey. He took another sip.

    “Very well. Andy. And please call me ‘John’.”

    “Right!” Jackson set his whiskey glass down. Then, actually slapped his hands together. “Oh, Lor—ah, whatever. Am I going to enjoy gutting that bastard Clay!”

    “I have to tell you, Sen—ah, Andy—that I actually doubt we can now stop the Speaker from being elected to the presidency.”

    Now, Jackson was rubbing his hands together.

    “Oh, sure. My estimate is we’ve got almost no chance, if it gets thrown into the House. Not after that speech I gave yesterday. Coffee and Eaton tell me I’ll do well if I can hang on to the Tennessee delegation. Pennsylvania, they think remains certain. I probably had a chance to win over some of Crawford’s and Calhoun’s support, but not now. On the other hand—here’s an interesting thing—I might still be able to take Kentucky from the bastard.”

    That was interesting. Assuming the assessment of Jackson’s advisers was accurate. But Adams knew they were a very shrewd lot, westerners or not.

    “Yeah, it seems Kentucky’s not all that pleased with Henry Clay, be it his home state or not. Kentucky’s a border state, still more western than southern. Like Tennessee, really. Nobody’s at all happy at the idea of black men killing a lot of white men, sure, no matter who the white men were or what they were up to. But they haven’t forgotten that it was Henry Clay—not Patrick Driscol, not Sam Houston, and sure as Sam Hill not some negro in Arkansas—who spent his two year retirement from the House getting rich by serving as the Bank’s main lawyer, suing people going bankrupt and stripping every last thing from them.”

    Jackson picked up his glass and took a big swallow from it. “No, that was done by good old ‘man of the people’ Henry Clay. Who now proposes to start a war using poor white men to kill poor black men, so he can spend four years swindling the nation on behalf of the rich and mighty.”

    Adams couldn’t help but wince. That was exactly the sort of plebeianistic, class-against-class rhetoric that made Jackson and his followers so disliked in his own New England.

    Well. Not disliked by New England laborers, to be sure. Actually, Jackson was quite popular among such folk.

    Seeing the wince, Jackson grinned. “Relax, John. I promise you I won’t be calling for storming the Bastille. Which we don’t have in America, anyway, being a republic.” He pointed a stiff finger at him. “But I’m not sugar-coating anyway, either. That’s exactly what the bastard is planning on.”

    Adams cocked his head a little, considering the matter. “Yes… and no. I agree that his rhetoric all implies that, if elected President, Clay will launch a war against Arkansas. But the truth is, Andy, I don’t think he will. Don’t forget that the core of his support—certainly his financial support—comes at least as much from northern—ah—”

    He couldn’t help but laugh, softly. “What I believe you would call the ‘moneyed interests.’”

    Jackson laughed with him. “Oh, tarnation, no. That’s way too namby-pamby. Bloodsucking leeches comes closer. But to keep peace in the room, I’ll settle for ‘northern upper crust.’ How’s that?”

    Adams nodded. “That’s why he’s got a fair amount of backing even in New England. None of those people—certainly not the ones close to the Bank—are going to be interested in a war with Arkansas. If anything, they’ll be inclined to oppose it.”

    Jackson finished the rest of his whiskey in a quick gulp. After setting down the glass, he shook his head. “You’re right, John, as far it goes. But that doesn’t go far enough. This is still a republic, despite all the efforts of Nicholas Biddle and the rest of that pack of Bank scoundrels to undermine it. Money counts, sure, but it’s not the trump card. Not yet, anyway—and not ever, if I get into the White House.”

    Adams tightened his lips. He wasn’t fond himself of Nicholas Biddle, the head of the Second Bank, but he agreed with President Madison—and Henry Clay—that a national bank of some sort was important for the nation’s economic well-being. However, that was a battle with Jackson that could be postponed for the moment. The Bank’s charter ran until 1836, after all. Even if Jackson got elected to the presidency, he couldn’t do much about it.

    “The point being,” Jackson continued, “that if Clay’s to win the presidency now, he doesn’t have any choice but to throw in his lot with Crawford and Calhoun. Not with you throwing your support to me, in the House.”

    That… was true. Adams realized that he’d been so pre-occupied with the personal aspect of his decision to withdraw from the race, that he hadn’t considered what tactical results would follow in the political arena. If the election was thrown into the House, with his supporters giving their votes to Jackson…

    He drew in a breath so sharply it was almost a hiss. “Oh, good heavens.”

    Jackson nodded. “’Good heavens,’ is right, John—except I wouldn’t put the word ‘heaven’ in there at all. There’s only one way Clay could win. He’d have to get Calhoun’s full support and almost all of Crawford’s.”

    “I don’t think he can get all,” Adams mused. “Van Buren and his people are supporting Crawford because of his extreme states’ rights views. They’re New Yorkers, not southerners. They’ll have no liking for a war with Arkansas.”

    “No, they won’t. But the problem is that Van Buren—they don’t call him ‘the Little Magician’ for nothing—is sometimes too smart for his own good. Might be better to say, he’s so good at political tactics that he tends to lose sight of their purpose. He’s likely to figure that Clay’s war talk is just hot air. Campaign blather, that’ll vanish like the dew after the inaugural address.”

    The senator rose, went over to the cabinet, and unstoppered the whiskey bottle. “Would you care for another?” he asked, as be began refilling his own glass.

    Adams looked down at his whiskey. There wasn’t much left.

    It really was very good whiskey. On the other hand, he reminded himself, he was prone to intemperance if he didn’t maintain good self-control.

    What decided him was an oddity. He was starting to enjoy this conversation.

    “Yes, please.”

    The glasses refilled and Jackson back in his chair, the senator resumed. “What it all comes down to is that Clay is going to have to throw his lot in with Calhoun and Crawford. Lock, stock and barrel. And you can be damn sure that Calhoun is going to insist on a war. In fact—watch and see if I’m not right—he’ll insist on the post of Secretary of War for himself, so he can make sure it gets done.”

    Adams sipped his whiskey thoughtfully. “Yes, I can see that. Clay will offer the position of Secretary of State to Crawford, of course. That would position Crawford to succeed him in the White House, four or eight years from now.”

    “In Crawford’s medical condition,” Jackson said mildly, “he couldn’t handle the work. No one knows that better than you.”

    Adams sniffed. “No, he couldn’t. Frankly, I don’t think he could even on his best days. But it doesn’t matter, Andy. All the better from Clay’s point of view, since the Speaker—

    Oh, blast it. He’d thrown in his lot with frontier roughnecks, after all, so why not at least enjoy the benefits?

    “Since the rotten bastard fancies himself a great diplomat. He’ll just figure on managing the State Department personally.”

    Jackson grinned. “Still sore over the Russell letter, huh?”

    Adams couldn’t resist returning the grin. It was quite infectious, really.

    “Certainly. The man committed a forgery to try to smear my reputation during the negotiations with Britain—and I know perfectly Clay was the one put him up it. If only I could prove it.”

    He took another drink. No sip, this time. “I genuinely detest Henry Clay.”

    “Well, so do I, partner. So, like I said, let’s gut the bastard. Forget this election. We’ll have four years to do it—and we’ll know exactly where to find him.” He waved the glass in the direction of the White House. “Just down the street a ways.”

    Monroe came upon Houston just as his son-in-law was gently closing the door to his grandson’s room.

    “Is he asleep, finally?” he asked.

    Houston glanced over his shoulder. “Yes. He’ll have nightmares again, though. So, with your permission—”

    “Of course. I’ve already told the servant to vacate the room next door, so you could occupy it for the night.”

    Houston looked genuinely haggard. He’d gotten no sleep himself since the murder. “Thank you. I wouldn’t want to sleep in our—that—bedroom anyway. I don’t think I could bear it.”

    “Yes, I understand. If you’d like, I can manage other arrangements. More permanent ones, I mean.”

    Houston shook his head. “No, thank you, sir. Any arrangements you made would be invalid come March, anyway. But, as it happens, I’ve already decided to seek residence elsewhere.”

    “You’re going to Arkansas.” It was a statement, not a question.

    “Yes, sir, I am. As soon as I think the boy is up to the trip.”

    “Sam…”

    “No, sir.” The dark fury Monroe had sensed was rising to the surface now, filling Houston’s face. “No, sir. You forget—most people forget—that I belong to two nations, not one. My name is also Colonneh. ‘The Raven,’ in English.”

    “Sam—”

    “No, sir. I didn’t get much of a look at the man who murdered my wife. But I saw enough to know one thing, for sure. That man was not a Cherokee. That man was one of those stinking, filthy Georgians who drove the Cherokee off their land. To call ‘relocation’—yes, I know I engineered the treaty, and I used it too—by its right name.”

    A little shudder passed through his big body. Then, softly: “So I’m going home, and taking my boy with me. Meaning no offense to you, sir, but I want him to meet his Cherokee grandfather. While John Jolly’s still alive.”

    Monroe sighed. “Please don’t forget that you shared five years of Maria Hester’s life, Sam. And I shared all of them.”

    Houston’s eyes teared. “I know that, James,” he said softly. “I don’t mean to belittle your grief, or her mother’s, or her sister’s. But you do what you feel necessary, and I will do the same. I’m not bringing up my boy in a country that murdered his mother, because it was a country full of spite and meanness. No way in Hell. We’re for Arkansas.”

    Monroe recognized the impossibility of altering his son-in-law’s course. Still…

    Forty years of political life produced unshakable habits. “Don’t burn any bridges you don’t need to, Sam. Lafayette’s visiting the country, as you know.”

    Sam frowned, thrown off by the remark. “Well, sure. His tour’s taking the whole country by storm. In fact, I met him—well, shook his hand and exchanged a pleasantry—at a festival in his honor just two weeks ago. But what’s that got to do…”

    His voice trailed off, and the color of his eyes seemed to lighten a bit. “Oh.”

    Monroe was careful not to show any visible relief. If Sam Houston didn’t have much of the Scots-Irish capacity for rage, except in his worst moments, he had all of that breed’s aptitude for political maneuver. Considerably more than his rightful share, in fact.

    “Oh,” he repeated. Then, shook his head slightly. “I doubt he’d receive me, James. He’s deluged with well-wishers, and he doesn’t know me at all.”

    “Don’t be foolish. He knows who you are. Just because the Marquis is now sixty-six years old, don’t think for a moment he’s become less acute when it comes to political affairs. The hero of the Capitol, and then New Orleans?”

    Monroe cleared his throat. “Not that it matters. He certainly knows who I am, since I’m not only the president of the nation but the one who extended the invitation for him to visit. He’ll see me, Sam. In fact…”

    Monroe had to swallow, for moment. “He’s coming here tomorrow, as it happens. He asked if he could accompany us in person to the funeral.”

    Sam nodded. “In that case, I’ll be able see him. At least briefly.”

    “Briefly, yes. Tomorrow. But…”

    Monroe paused, for a moment, thinking. “Can you postpone your departure for a week or two?”

    “Well… Yes, I suppose. Andy won’t be up for traveling immediately, anyway.”

    “Good. In that case, I think I can manage something quite a bit better than ‘briefly.’”

    Houston was looking at him very intently now, with the fury almost completely gone. “What are you thinking, James?”

    “What I am thinking, my dear son-in-law—which you are and will remain, whatever else—is that the last sight of you I want the United States to have, before you depart for Arkansas, is receiving the blessing of the Marquis de La Fayette. Who fought with George Washington and shed his blood on American soil at Brandywine, that republicanism might triumph in the world.”

Washington, D.C.
November 19, 1824

    Eleven days later, at the state dinner hosted by President Monroe at Williamson’s Hotel—attended by practically every member of Congress—the Marquis sat beside Sam Houston.

    That caused pained looks among some of the Congressmen present, but not many. Word was already spreading that John Quincy Adams would throw his support to Jackson, in the event the election was thrown into the House. Which, with the first election results beginning to come in, now seemed certain to happen. State dinners of this sort were such enormous affairs that there was plenty of time and space for quiet dickering. Most of the Congressmen were too busy with their whispered consultations to pay much attention to the formalities of the affair.

    Peter Porter was one of the exceptions. He’d gotten an invitation, through the offices of the Speaker, so he was there also. But since he was not a Congressman, he paid little attention to the small maneuvers taking place at the multitudes of tables in the huge dining room. Instead, he spent the time carefully studying the men at the central table.

    James Monroe. Sam Houston. The Marquis de La Fayette.

    Porter had had enough military experience to understand—he was pretty sure, anyway—what he was seeing. Strategists at work, not tacticians. He tried, at one point in the evening, to get Clay’s attention. But the Speaker was pre-occupied with his negotiations with several of the congressmen from North Carolina.

    “Tomorrow, Peter. I couldn’t possibly find the time to speak to you tonight.”

    Toward the end of the evening, the Marquis rose and offered three toasts.

    The first, in solemn remembrance of the President’s daughter.

    The second, in honor of his heroic son-in-law, who had so valiantly defended the Capitol of the United States from enemy attack—and then repeated the deed, a few months later, at New Orleans.

    The third—

    Smiling broadly, the Marquis prefaced his toast by announcing that Sam Houston was moving to Arkansas, and taking his young son with him. They would depart two days hence.

    So, another toast: “To the New World, so clearly blessed by the Almighty! To the New World! Which has produced yet another great republic on its soil!”

    Andrew Jackson was the first to rise to the toast. Had he not been a bit too portly, John Quincy Adams might have beaten him to it.

    Outside the hotel, later, Clay brushed Porter off again. “Not now, Peter, sorry. Yes, I know it’s a bit awkward. A minor setback. But I think we’re on the verge of taking all of North Carolina from Jackson. South Carolina, Calhoun can promise us for sure.”

    Off he went. Porter was left alone in the night, watching the crowd spilling out of Williamson’s Hotel.

    Setback.

    “Jesus Christ,” Porter muttered to no one at all. “Who cares about that? This thing is careening out of control.”