"Thank you, but no," he said. "I can manage."
"If you don't mind my saying so, you don't seem much enthused by the prospect of meeting the President."
"Under normal circumstances I would be. But lately, circumstances have been anything but normal."
"You wouldn't care for some assistance?"
"No, thanks."
"You appear to have had an accident. I would be happy to drive you into Washington."
"It was no accident. And I am quite capable of getting there on my own."
"I have no doubt of that. Still, I wouldn't mind."
Christopher opened his mouth to decline yet again, but then, looking hard and long at Lieutenant Singer, he realized that the man's persistence had deeper roots than simple courtesy. Singer sought an excuse to visit the capital, and now that he had one he was going to hold on to it as tenaciously as a bulldog. Obviously he was in no rush to return to his post, and after two years of virtual incarceration at West Point, Christopher could sympathize.
"I promise not to ask any untoward questions," added the dragoon with a smile.
Christopher gave in. "Well, it is a bit difficult handling this thing with one good arm."
Singer took that admission for what it was. Securing his horse to the rear of the surrey, he climbed into the seat next to Christopher, took up the reins, and whipped the bay into action.
Christopher had never been to the nation's capital, but he had preconceived notion about it—notions which stemmed primarily from some of his father's old letters. He'd been five years of age when Jonathan Groves served in the United States House of Representatives, and in writing to Rebecca, who remained behind at Elm Tree, Jonathan had shared his often less than flattering observations of Washington with his wife. He had written of bogs and marshes, avenues filled with tree stumps, roads that dwindled into cow trails, a capitol that provided the men who occupied it with precious little in the way of comfort—they were either wilting in the sweltering heat of a Potomac summer or freezing in the bitter cold of winter, and were drenched when it rained because of a ceiling that persistently leaked like a sieve. In the early years of the republic it seemed that the government itself was of too little importance to the people to deserve much attention. As a result, Washington had been neglected. For a long time it was a laughingstock of foreign diplomats as well as the American press.
This sad state of affairs had slowly but surely begun to change after the War of 1812. The British had burned part of the city, and when it came time for rebuilding, Americans decided their capital was worthy of more attention than they had given it before. The war had been a draw, and there were many who said it had accomplished nothing, but they were wrong—it had imbued Americans with a sense of national pride which had been lacking prior to the outbreak of hostilities. Before, people had spoken of "these United States" and they were Vermonters and Virginians and Pennsylvanians first and foremost. Now it was "the United States," and people were proud to be Americans. A nation which could stand toe-to-toe with the world powers needed a capital city that didn't embarrass them, and Christopher was pleased to find rows of nice houses and clean, orderly streets. They even had street lamps adorning Pennsylvania Avenue!
In 1828, Congress had authorized a report on the condition of the President's house prior to Andrew Jackson's arrival as the newly elected seventh President of the United States. The committee report concluded that the house was too run-down for the President to occupy. Since hog and cattle theft was rampant in the city, milch cows were kept in the west wing at night. During the day they grazed along the south fence. The stables were in an unfortunate location for those who were honored with an invitation to dine at the executive mansion—directly below the windows of the state dining room. The East Room, where Abigail Adams had hung her laundry out to dry, was still an empty, unpainted cavern of a room.
As Lieutenant Singer negotiated the surrey through the dust and traffic of Pennsylvania Avenue, Christopher gazed in wonder at the stately mansion on the hill straight ahead. The house had been painted white to conceal the scorched stone resulting from the British attempt to put the place to the torch. He recalled that there had been quite a spectacle at the mansion on Andrew Jackson's inauguration day a year and a half ago.
For months prior to the event Washington was fast filling up with supporters of Old Hickory, many from the backwoods of Tennessee and Kentucky. The city's high society looked askance at this unwashed horde, and were shocked when the new president issued an open invitation to all the people to come see him that day at the White House. In prior inaugurations only the elite had been permitted into the President's house, but Jackson had decided to demonstrate that the presidency belonged to the common man—hence the invitation to one and all. Great numbers of people pushed into the house, filling the oval saloon and drawing room. The pounding of so many feet made the floors tremble. Jackson himself was soon in danger of being crushed by the unruly well-wishers. He was seen to gasp for want of air. Jack Donelson and other aides rushed to the rescue, hustling the old general unceremoniously through a window and into a waiting carriage, which transported him to his quarters at Gadsby's Hotel. The mob continued to scramble, fight, and romp through the house until late in the day. Jackson's opponents pointed to the debacle with disdain, claiming it to be ample evidence that the election of this unlettered, unwashed barbarian backwoodsman would usher in a reign of anarchy and mob rule. But, though it took weeks to clean the White House, not a single item turned up missing.
The city quickly returned to normal after the inauguration. Jackson moved to the mansion a few days later to begin his term. His first act was to hang a portrait of his recently departed wife, Rachel, above the mantel in the presidential bedroom. Since then he had proven himself a competent president.
Christopher was surprised at the ease with which he and Lieutenant Singer gained entry into the President's house. It seemed the door was still open to anyone who happened along. They entered from the south, into a vast oval room furnished with a few settees and wing chairs lining the walls. The most striking feature of the room was the Gilbert Stuart portrait of George Washington, a beloved national treasure which Dolly Madison, with great presence of mind, had snatched up as she fled the British invasion sixteen years ago. Christopher shuddered to think of that portrait hanging on some wall in London. That would have been an unbearable national disgrace.
They were greeted by Antoine Giusta, a Frenchman who had been John Quincy Adams' faithful valet. Giusta and Adams had met in Belgium in 1814, the former having recently deserted from Napoleon's Grande Armée, and the latter serving as a diplomat trying to hammer out a peace treaty with the British at the quaint village of Ghent. Giusta married Mrs. Adams' maid, and the couple served as steward and housekeeper during the Adams presidency. Adams had persuaded Giusta to stay on at the executive mansion and serve under Andrew Jackson—the ex-president was no longer able to afford the Giustas now that he was retired from public service. But serving under Old Hickory was no easy task, as countless soldiers could testify. Still, Giusta endured, thanks in large measure to Emily Donelson, Jack's pretty and petite wife, the official hostess of the Jackson White House. The Giustas were devoted to Emily, as were most others who had the pleasure of her acquaintance.
There were a dozen men and several ladies in the Oval Room, some sitting, others standing or pacing, and Christopher assumed they were here for an audience with the President or one of his aides. But when Lieutenant Singer informed Giusta that the General had summoned Christopher, the Frenchman whisked them off to the East Room. He asked them to wait there for a moment, and departed with a crisp continental bow.
The two men found themselves alone in the immense room. They gazed about them in awe. The room measured eighty feet by forty, with twenty-two-foot ceilings, crowned by a frieze of anthemia adorned with bands of Grecian ornamentation. Three towering windows faced south, with three more on the north side. On the east was the great Venetian win
dow. Imperial-blue and sunflower-yellow draperies fell from cornices decorated with gilded eagles. Muslin curtains softened the sunlight. The walls were covered with lemon yellow paper of French pedigree, trimmed with blue velvet cloth borders. Bracket lights and "French plate" mirrors adorned the walls. Mantelpieces of black Egyptian marble enhanced the fireplaces. A blue-and-yellow Brussels carpet covered the floor. The furniture—twenty-odd chairs, several sofas, mahogany pier tables with black marble tops, and a score of gleaming brass spittoons—added to the room's operatic splendor. It was the most luxurious and appealing room Christopher had ever seen.
"This isn't at all what I expected," confessed Singer in a reverent whisper.
Christopher laughed nervously. "Nor I."
"I suppose our president isn't quite so uncivilized as they make him out to be," said the dragoon with a grin.
"Well, it's not bad for a backwoodsman, I'll say that much."
A black man in a brass-buttoned blue swallowtail coat and yellow breeches appeared to ask them if they would care for anything to drink.
"I'd better not," said Singer sadly. "Not while I'm in uniform and in the vicinity of the General."
"I could use a brandy to cut the dust," said Christopher. "I don't have to worry about that anymore."
Christopher was just finishing the brandy when Giusta returned.
"The President will see you now, M'sieu Groves," he said, his heavy accent a consequence of his previous employer's preference for using French while discussing matters with his steward. John Quincy Adams was a cosmopolitan man, fluent in many languages. On the other hand, it was said that Andrew Jackson was fluent only on the frequent occasions when he launched into one of his tirades, notorious for their astonishing invective.
"What about the lieutenant?" asked Christopher.
"I imagine he would do well to return to his regiment," replied the old ex-soldier. "It is you alone the President wishes to see, m'sieu."
Singer was crestfallen. So was Christopher. He and the dragoon had shared life stories on the long road from West Point, and in so doing became friends, and Christopher realized that in all likelihood they would never meet again. The dragoon's expression made it apparent that he felt the same way.
"Well, I guess this is it, then," said Christopher.
Singer nodded. "No help for it. Maybe we'll meet again."
"It's a big country."
"But a small world, after all."
They shook hands, and Christopher followed Giusta out of the East Room, wondering—as he had a hundred times a day during the long journey to Washington—what the President of the United States could possibly want with him.
Chapter 7
While the first floor of the President's house was open to the public, Andrew Jackson's personal and business life was confined to the second, except for the frequent levees held in the East Room, now that it was fit for something besides laundry. The upstairs rooms included the Green Room, which served as Emily Donelson's parlor—she playing the role of First Lady since Rachel Jackson was buried in the garden at The Hermitage. There was the President's sitting room, bedroom, and dressing room. The Yellow Room, located over the north door, was a guest room as well as a ladies' retiring room during the levees. The President's office suite consisted of three rooms on the south side. Since visitors like Christopher Groves had to come upstairs to see the President, glass doors bisected the central hall, separating the office end from the rooms reserved for the family. While the family enjoyed the exclusive use of the grand staircase on the west end, visitors were required to ascend via the back stairs.
Once upstairs, Giusta escorted Christopher through the "audience room" into Jackson's office. It was here that the Cabinet customarily met, seating themselves at a long table, with cabinets and bookcases along the walls. These furnishings had once belonged to Thomas Jefferson. An oilcloth, artfully painted in a tile pattern, covered the floor. The window curtains depended from glided-eagle cornices like those in the East Room which Christopher had so admired. An iron Russian stove stood in a sandbox in front of the fireplace, which was boarded up. The stovepipe was connected to the chimney flue.
As they entered, Andrew Jackson turned from his squinting perusal of a map on the wall. The President nodded as Giusta introduced Christopher.
"Come in, come in," said Jackson. His voice was surprisingly soft. Christopher expected the legendary old warrior to be gruff and loud. "Would you like a drink?"
"No, thank you, sir," lied Christopher. His nerves were raw, crying out for another stiff brandy. But he did not want to appear dependent on strong spirits in front of the President of the United States.
"Sit down, then."
Giusta pulled out a chair, and Christopher sat down. This placed him in the middle of the long table.
"That will be all," Jackson told Giusta, and the steward vanished, closing the door soundlessly behind him.
Jackson paced the length of the table and back again, collecting his thoughts, and in that moment of silence Christopher was afforded an opportunity to garner a first impression of a living legend.
Old Hickory stood an inch over six feet in height. He was thin, weighing in at about one hundred and forty pounds. His long, pale face—framed by thick snow white hair grown long and brushed straight back—was deeply furrowed. There was that famous scar on the forehead, from the saber of a British officer whose boots a twelve-year-old Jackson had refused to polish. In his sixties now, Jackson lived in almost continual physical pain. Many a month he had spent campaigning, enduring the same hardships as his men, abusing his body, taking his health for granted. During his war years he had contracted chronic dysentery as well as a recurring inflammation of the lungs. A memento of one of his most celebrated duels, he had for many years carried a bulletin him which caused persistent pain in his shoulder and side. Only recently had it been removed. Lately, a wracking cough and blinding headaches were added to his woes. A lot of people were wondering if the old warrior would live long enough to complete a single term, and few expected him to seek reelection in 1832.
Yet, with one look, Christopher was confident that Andrew Jackson would frustrate his enemies and survive for much longer than people thought possible. His will was indomitable. No combination of ailments would stop him as long as he wanted to live Truly, Old Hickory was larger than life. He was intelligent if not well-educated, an honest and upright man. Once he determined that a course of action was the proper one, he plunged ahead with a vigor and resourcefulness that put much younger men to shame. No obstacle would keep him from his goal.
The common people adored and trusted him. Born into frontier aristocracy, he had become the spokesman for the West of the farmer and the frontiersman. He did not trust the eastern merchant and banker. The people knew he was President through no personal ambitions, for he would have preferred to spend the autumn of his life a recluse on his beloved Hermitage, an estate on the outskirts of Nashville. No, he was here to do for the people what they could not do for themselves—in short, defend them against the eastern "establishment," the banks and the tariffs and all other government-sponsored monsters which the wealthy used to keep the poor and downtrodden in their place. This, at least, was how the General perceived his mission.
"I understand you have been dismissed from the Military Academy," he said. "An affair of honor." His flinty blue eyes flicked across the dressing and sling on Christopher's arm. "Are you badly hurt?"
"No, sir."
"They say your adversary lingered for some time at death's door."
"I believe he will survive, Mr. President."
Jackson nodded, stopped suddenly, and turned to face Christopher. "I could intervene on your behalf. Perhaps have you reinstated."
'I would rather you didn't do that, sir."
"Indeed? Why not? I've done it before."
"Yes, sir. I know."
"You don't approve."
Christopher decided to be brutally honest. After the events of the
past few weeks he did not think he had anything to lose by speaking his mind.
"No, sir, I don't. By doing so you have undermined Superintendent's Thayer's authority."
"I am the Commander in Chief. He works for me."
"Yes, sir. But if you trust a man with a job you should let him do it the way he sees fit."
A faint smile tugged at Jackson's taut lips. "You do remind me of your father, young man. Indeed you do. You would have made a splendid officer."
"We'll never know now, will we, Mr. President?"
Jackson heard the bitterness in Christopher's voice, and while his gaze softened with sympathy his own voice took on a more severe tone.
"There is nothing to be gained by crying over spilt milk, Mr. Groves. Forgive an old man for prying, but what compelled you to fight this duel?"
"I'd rather not say, sir. It was a . . . a personal matter."
"Hmm. Your father's good name, no doubt. Since your adversary was Adam Vickers, I presume it had something to do with Mrs. Emily Cooper."
Christopher nodded. Jackson pulled out a chair and sat down across from him, wincing as he lifted his long, spindly legs to plant his boots on the corner of the table.
"Sometimes the price of doing the right thing is high. Believe me, I know whereof I speak. But without honor, without self-respect, all of your victories in life are hollow ones. As you may know, I have engaged in one or two duels myself."
"They say you've fought a hundred duels."
"A gross exaggeration. There was that business with Charles Dickinson, of course. Some insist it sprang from a quarrel over a horse-race bet. But Dickinson's tongue became too loose when he drank a lot of whiskey, and he made the mistake of insulting my wife. He also called me—let's see, what was it? Oh yes—a scoundrel, a poltroon, and a coward. I had no choice but to obtain satisfaction. I was warned that Dickinson was the best shot in Tennessee, and I believe they were right—his bullet struck me squarely in the chest. But I managed to remain on my feet long enough to return fire and kill him." Jackson paused, his gaze far off as he remembered, and then he added, fiercely, "I would have hit him had he shot me through the brain. His bullet shattered two of my ribs and came perilously close to my heart, and the wound has caused me some little discomfort ever since. But it had to be done."
Gone to Texas Page 6
