The discussion turned to the issue of whether the United States ought to expand its standing army—not surprisingly, since the President, Lewis, Eaton, and Do-nelson had all seen military service, albeit in a volunteer capacity. Jackson and Lewis shared the opinion that the army ought to be enlarged, but the others begged to differ. Jackson turned to Christopher for assistance, hoping to garner support for his position from one who until recently had been in training to become a professional soldier. But Christopher respectfully declined to get embroiled in the debate. For one thing, he did not feel qualified to address the issue, since he had been dishonorably discharged from the Corps of Cadets. For another, his thoughts were monopolized by Greta Inskilling. They had been ever since Van Buren had told him she was on her way to Washington.
"I don't think we need a large professional army," insisted Jack Donelson. "Tyrants and monarchs may need them, but they are unnecessary in a democracy."
"Of all the Greek nation-states, only the Spartans maintained a standing army," said Eaton. "Which doesn't mean the people of Athens couldn't fight when they were called upon to do so. The same applies to us. We are a nation of farmers who love and desire peace, but we aren't averse to taking up arms in our own defense. We've had to do so in the past, and managed quite well, thank you."
"But who did all the Greek city-states turn to when the Persians invaded their soil?" asked Van Buren, who until now had remained an amused spectator. "The Spartan Army and the Athenian Navy. Yes, John, don't forget the Athenian navy. Professionals all."
"I still say a standing army and a democracy are incompatible. A tyrant could use the army to subjugate his own people. It has happened before."
"But how could it possibly happen here?" asked Major Lewis. "Our system of government is not conducive to tyranny."
"You think not?" asked Donelson with a thin smile. "Some folks say 'King Andrew' here is a tyrant."
Jackson laughed. "They'll be saying worse than that if I have to use the army to knock some sense into damned nullifiers down in South Carolina."
"But are we really living in a democracy?" asked Eaton.
Jackson raised his bushy white brows and looked down the table at Van Buren. "I shall refer that question to our resident scholar. What about that, Martin? I must confess, I don't even know where the word came from."
"Democracy became part of the English language in the early sixteenth century, I believe," replied Van Buren. "It is borrowed from the union of two Greek roots, and refers to direct government by enfranchised citizens. In the seventeenth century it acquired a rather bad flavor in England. Those were the days of Cromwell and the Glorious Revolution, if you will recall, and the conservative element defined democracy then as government by the rabble, the worst conceivable form of government, in their opinion, bringing with it disorder and destruction of peace and property. For our ancestors, then, democracy was a fearful idea. You'll not find the word in the Declaration of Independence. Or the Constitution of the United States, for that matter. Thomas Jefferson made a point of never resorting to the word in any of his public papers.
"Common folk began after a time to call themselves democrats. They longed for a situation as was found in the Greek states, where all the citizens could vote. At the time, they could not, what with property qualifications and all of that. Only later did certain politicians adopt it. Even so, all of us here in this room are self-styled Democrat-Republicans. Of course, perhaps, I shouldn't speak for Mr. Groves."
"My God!" laughed Jackson. "You mean we might be dining with a damned republican?"
The others laughed with him. Christopher said, "I'm afraid I must admit I am not much interested in political matters."
"Smart young man," growled Jackson, and laughter again filled the room.
"We are not a democracy in the strictest sense of the word," said Major Lewis, "but rather a republic. There is a difference of no small significance."
"But you will not find that word in our Constitution, either," said Van Buren. "It, too, developed a bad odor over the centuries. Though it has become customary to refer to the United States as a republic. I think it's safe to say that the framers of the Constitution were all republicans in principle. But it's really a moot point. There is actually little difference between the two concepts, as we have adapted them for our own use."
"You mean our English cousins are right when they accuse us of treating the language cavalierly." Donelson smiled.
"Undoubtedly. We are certainly not a direct democracy. We are too many for that to ever work. But we are, it is safe to say, a democratic republic, which embraces certain clear elements. One, that the people are the source of all political power. Two, that through representatives chosen by the people, laws are made. Three, that all representatives must submit themselves and their actions to a review by the people. What we call elections."
"As I recall, Bonaporte was elected Emperor by the French people," said Donelson. "Who's to say such a thing couldn't happen in this country? What guarantee is there in our system of government against tyranny, against the election of a demagogue, or a gang of them, who believe they know what is best for the people, and who, in the process, end every right enjoyed by our citizens? And they could end it, believe me, gentlemen, with a large standing army."
"You are quite right," conceded the ever amiable Van Buren. "Democracy, or republicanism, does not guarantee the supremacy of constitutional government—that is to say, limited government by the people providing for the maintenance of basic rights."
"But what of the Bill of Rights?" asked Eaton.
"A crowd can be as tyrannical as a dictator," said Donelson.
"True," agreed Van Buren. "The majority can amend the Constitution, and by so doing deny the rest their rights."
"We have seen some of that at work in the Republic of Mexico," said Jackson. "They have their Constitution of 1824. But what good does it do them? Bustamente is as close to being a dictator as you're likely to find in this hemisphere—despite what the Republicans say about me."
"And in Mexico you have a perfect example of the dangers of a large professional army," said Van Buren. "There is a Mexican general down there whom my sources tell me bears watching. His name is Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. I would not be surprised if he unseats Bustamente before too very long, and he'll have the help of the army when he does it. Then he will toss the Mexican Constitution out the window of the presidential palace, mark my words. He is a man with delusions of imperial grandeur, who thinks of himself as a kind of Latin Napoleon. He is convinced that Mexico can only be saved by a strong leader, which is what Bonaparte believed about France, was it not?"
Jackson was grim. "And he hates Americans. Then what chance will the Texas colonists have against the Mexican Army? It is far better trained and better equipped than our own."
"What chance did the world give our forefathers when they rebelled against King George?" asked Donelson.
"The outcome will hinge on leadership," said Jackson, looking straight at Christopher. "What chance would the Minutemen have had without leaders like George Washington and Daniel Morgan and Nathaniel Greene? How many battles did we lose in our most recent quarrel with the British because of poor leadership. Remember what happened in Detriot because of that incompetent General Hull?"
"Thank the Lord we had Old Hickory at Chalmette!" exclaimed Major Lewis.
"A toast to the General," said Eaton.
They all rose and lifted their cups and glasses.
Jackson pushed himself stiffly to his feet and raised his own glass. "To Texas, and the intrepid souls who will free her from the iron grasp of a tyrant."
Looking back, Christopher would remember that moment as the one during which he made his decision about Texas.
Greta Inskilling was a beauty. To Christopher's mind no woman could compare with her. She made Peggy Eaton look ordinary. Full of grace, bubbling over with the joy of life, Greta was always the focus of attention. She was small, with an exquis
ite figure. Her dark curls were piled high on top of her head. Sparkling eyes in a heart-shaped face were as clear blue as the sky on a sunlit spring day. Her complexion was flawless, magnolia white, and her lips were full and red, sensuously sculptured, resembling the most perfect rose in bloom against a field of pristine snow.
She wore a cream-colored organdy dress of the high-waisted, low-cut Empire fashion, with delicate pink lace rosebuds embroidered at the hem, and a pink satin sash to accentuate her waspish waist, which was the envy of every other woman present. All the men were captivated by her, and that didn't endear her to the other belles, either. She was seated in a chair by the wall, like a queen upon her throne, attended by a dozen young beaux rendered helpless by her charm and grace and beauty, when Christopher entered the East Room. He saw her immediately, but at first she did not see him, and he was relieved, because he was within a hair's breadth of fleeing, and even now he considered slipping out of the White House, to commandeer a fast horse and depart Washington like a thief in the night.
That was a coward's way, of course, but he was afraid, afraid to meet her face-to face, more afraid by far of this than he had been to confront Adam Vickers at the riding hall for their midnight duel with swords. He had let her down by being dismissed from the Military Academy, because that had been her chief weapon in defending him against her father. Now he had next to nothing to offer her. A struggling horse farm in Kentucky? Life on the Texas frontier, fraught with peril and hardship? Not to mention the disgrace of his dismissal from the Corps of Cadets. And how was he to explain his departure from New York without even showing her the courtesy of calling upon her? The Hudson River Valley estate of Patroon Inskilling was less than a day's ride from West Point. Christopher decided he would rather fight a dozen duels than face Greta at this moment. But here he was. He could not flee. Pride prevented him. And besides, in a sense the President was watching.
The East Room was dazzling. Chandeliers blazed from the high, deeply coved ceiling, their light reflected by the French mirrors adorning the walls. At least two hundred people were present, yet the room did not appear to be overcrowded. On a dais artistically wrapped in starry bunting, a Negro orchestra in blue uniforms was gearing up for the first dance, tuning their instruments—fiddles, bull fiddles, accordions and banjos.
The glamour of the crowd made Christopher feel out of place. He was wearing his only suit of rather worn blue broadcloth. A number of the men were clad in dress uniforms—seeing them was like a knife twisting in his guts. The rest were attired in elegant suits, with boots and shoes polished to a high sheen. The women were decked out in bright lace and silk and braid, with gleaming jewels, swan's down fans, and peacock feathers dangling on velvet ribbons from dainty wrists, tea roses in little garlands in their hair, and more flowers in their sashes, many of which would end up treasured remembrances in the pockets of young men before the night was out.
Stewards passed through the crowd carrying silver service laden with glasses of champagne and sherry. And there was the President, tall and thin with that shock of white hair, clad in black, the color he always wore at public functions to let them all know he would mourn the passing of his beloved Rachel until they laid him to final rest beside her in the Hermitage garden. He passed through the crowd, stopping often to shake hands and say a few words, and he had Peggy Eaton on his arm. Christopher smiled at that. He had to admire the old general's style. Van Buren had told him there were quite a few locals who had consistently refused invitations to White House functions for no other reason than that Peggy was going to be present. And here was Jackson, forcing the saucy, coquettish wife of his friend down the throat of Washington society until it gagged.
"Grab your partners for the Virginia reel!"
This cry issued from someone in the vicinity of the dais. Suddenly the room was a kaleidoscope of color as the crowd moved closer to the walls, clearing the center of the room for those who wished to dance. Men rushed to choose their partners, bowing to the curtsy, the arms linked, the long rows being formed. Christopher looked for Greta, but he could not see her, as she was hemmed in by her suitors, all begging for the honor of the first dance. Sinking fast into a morass of melancholy, Christopher turned away from this awful spectacle and moved to a serving table where a steward handed him a glass of champagne.
The orchestra launched into the reel. Christopher didn't turn to watch. He didn't want to see Greta dancing with another man. He had not always been able to monopolize her at the West Point hops, and he'd been assailed by jealousy when she danced with other cadets. But this, this was worse, and he supposed it was because he knew he was leaving her, and soon she would find another, perhaps her future husband, perhaps even one among this particular brigade of eligible bachelors, and they would live happily ever after while he rode off into oblivion, an uncertain future on the frontier.
"Christopher?"
Heart lodged firmly in his throat, he turned to find her standing there with a smile on her lips, a sweet and somewhat querulous smile, and he had the sudden mad urge to kiss her, to taste those lips, to feel her warm breath on his face, as he had done before, in hidden places away from prying eyes. But he dared not compromise her in the presence of so many people. Besides, he wasn't sure how she felt about him now—if he had ever been sure.
"Greta," he said, and stood there, at a loss for words, and feeling like the complete fool.
"Aren't you going to get me a drink?"
"Of course. What would you like?"
"More of that punch, I think. It is absolutely divine."
Drink in hand, she said, "You were going to leave without seeing me, weren't you, you rascal?"
"Well, I . . . "
"No profit comes from making excuses," she said, but her scolding tone was gentled with a smile that made his heart contract. "You probably didn't even think about me. You probably never really cared." She pouted, looking very little-girlish.
"That's not true!" he exclaimed, horrified, and then realized she had lured him into a velvet-lined trap. "Greta, I've thought about you every waking moment. And then, when I manage to go to sleep, I see you in my dreams."
She was delighted. "See there? You can be charming when you put your mind to it. And you should know by now there is no escaping me. Oh, my poor Christopher. I know everything. I heard about your affair of honor with that perfectly horrid Adam Vickers. And that poor Emily Cooper! How tragic."
"I wish she had just stayed away from me," he said, and he could not conceal the bitterness he felt.
"She was in love," said Greta with gentle reproach. "A woman in love will risk all. Love is the most important thing in the world. Far more important than material things. And more important than honor."
"What are you trying to say?"
"Oh, you can be so dense sometimes, Christopher! Must I come straight out and say it? I love you. There. So I am not a proper lady. I don't care. I love you, I love you, I love you."
"Greta!" Christopher looked nervously about, afraid of being overheard.
"Are you ashamed of me? I don't care if the whole world hears."
"But you have your reputation to think about."
"Oh, phooey on my reputation. I love you and I am going to be with you, no matter where you go."
"You can't . . . "
"Then you don't love me. You don't want me to be with you . . . "
"That's not what I said."
"Then tell me. Tell me that you love me, and want to be with me always."
"But Greta . . . " Christopher was in sheer agony.
"Tell me."
"What about your father?"
"What about him? Surely you aren't afraid of him."
"No, not afraid . . . "
"Good. Neither am I."
"But you can't come with me. Where I'm going is no place for a young lady like you."
"You talk of Kentucky as though it were still uncivilized wilderness populated by red savages. I know better. I shall be perfectly content
in Kentucky. Or don't you think I'm good enough to be your wife?"
"Good Lord, Greta, it's the other way around. You could do much better."
"I'll be the judge of that."
Christopher sighed. He looked around again, to make sure no one was listening. Then he leaned forward, and his voice was reduced to an urgent whisper.
"Greta, it isn't that I don't want to . . . to be with you. But you just have to understand. I have nothing to offer. You won't be able to live in the . . . in the way you've become accustomed . . . "
She was fuming now. "Oh, you're simply impossible! I don't know why I am standing here trying to reason with you, especially when you insult me that way."
"Insult? Greta, I never . . ."
"Oh yes you have. You just did, you big lug. You're the one who doesn't understand. I don't care if we live in a one-room shanty with a dirt floor, as long as we're together. Now, I realize that as a man you want to be able to provide for me, but I am not that expensive to keep!"
Christopher was stunned. "Why, I . . . I didn't realize."
"No, of course you didn't. How could you?" Having given him a proper scolding, Greta turned suddenly and sweetly forgiving. "Besides, Elm Tree can't be all that primitive, from what you have told me about it. And I think your mother and I would get along famously, don't you?"
"I'm not going to be staying at Elm Tree for long, Greta."
"You're not?"
"I'm going to Texas."
"Texas?" Now she was stunned. "Texas?"
Christopher nodded.
"When did you make this decision?"
"Well, I'm not exactly certain. Today, I think."
"But why on earth would you want to go to Texas, of all places? Texas is . . . why, it's at the end of the world."
"There's room there, Greta. Room for a man to make something of himself, if he's got the guts to try. And in Texas it doesn't matter that much where you come from or what you've been. All that really matters is that you're willing to fight for what's rightfully yours."
Gone to Texas Page 9
