Eagle's Cry

by David Nevin

  “Gentlemen, the French come, and we’ll be on the front lines. Meet ’em on the river or in New Orleans, and we’ll want the rest of the West behind us. We need immediate liaison with military leaders in Kentucky and Ohio; we need to get ready to beat the drum for volunteers in the Carolinas and Virginia and Western Pennsylvania. One of their senators, Jim Ross—Pittsburgh man, Federalist, but a good man all the same and strong in the militia—I knew him in ninety-eight when I was up there, and we can count on him when the time comes.

  “We need to get up to Washington and build a fire under their tails. I wouldn’t want to bet they understand the danger. Let’s see the secretary of war, get chains of supply moving, get eastern gunsmiths busy—God Almighty, American military is using mostly French muskets and we can’t look to France now. All this is well and good, but remember, on the front lines you count most of all on yourself. The U.S. Army’s but a handful, now cut in half, scattered all over creation and led by a scoundrel.”

  “Wilkinson’s already sold out to the Spanish,” Weakley cried. “I expect he’s down kissing some French ass right now!”

  When the laughter passed, Jackson headed right into the wind. “Gentlemen, I’d like to be your commanding general. I believe I’m the right man at the right time. I believe I have the vision to see what we must do and the energy to do it. You elect me and I promise you you’ll have strong leadership, the kind you and your men can believe in and follow.”

  There was a long silence. Then an officer Coffee knew only by his last name, Stone, who lived considerably toward the east, said, “I don’t know, Judge. Sevier, he’s pretty strong in my part of the state. Been a general, made himself a hero at King’s Mountain, just stepped down after six years as governor. You can’t say he don’t show leadership.”

  For a moment Coffee feared Jackson’s temper would rise, but then low and even, the judge said, “I don’t say that. I say he’s offering the wrong kind of leadership, yesterday’s leadership. I believe I represent today’s and tomorrow’s. General Sevier led 240 men to King’s Mountain, and they saved the West from the British and they were heroes all. I remember it from my boyhood, how we cheered. But that was then. Now we’re talking thirty, forty, fifty times those numbers. We’re a new country in a new age. General Sevier thinks small and local; I think big and national. He was right for then; I’m right for now.”

  No one spoke and at last Colonel Hays stood and shook Jackson’s hand and thanked the others for coming, and thus the die was cast. Next the election. Jackson had done well and Coffee thought he’d carry the West. But what about the East?

  They walked out together. Jackson was calm. “We’ll see,” he said.

  So the day came and Jackson was fit to be tied. Rachel understood how much he wanted this, but he prided himself that his avid hunger never showed, not even to Jack Coffee. It was as if wanting would shame him, he who’d faced the worst and never flinched. The governor was at Gallatin this week, twenty-odd miles away, and the vote would reach him there. Coffee was there now, standing by to hurry the result over, a mere two-hour ride if you trailed a spare horse.

  He was pacing outside, waiting, the day growing late. He ordered the bay mare saddled, mounted, and rode a hundred yards, changed his mind, had the horse stabled, and paced back and forth through Rachel’s garden all banked for winter.

  Dear God, he wanted this!

  His very gut told him he was a leader. He had an instinct for the thing to do and countless times had swayed men to his bidding. There was a greatness in him, he’d always felt it, but you have to find your way to greatness; it doesn’t just come.

  He’d tried the U.S. Congress, the Senate. Hell, he’d never make a legislator, single voice in an echoing chamber, parsing issues down to slender advantage. He’d never be governor, kissing the cheeks of babies and the feet of voters. He liked the court, it was command, but only on the case before him. Anyway, a judge has little future; he would quit before long. The military was the answer. Real command—there a man could have impact. He’d loved the military since boyhood.

  And then Sevier slapping him down in ninety-six, that still rankled. Not qualified! Goddamned dog in the manger!

  His breath went short at the very thought of it, and it wasn’t just ambition either. Fosby’s story had confirmed what he already knew, and it made his blood run cold to think of such men in Tennessee. Everything he’d said to the officers was true. Tennessee was the front lines of a war that would come from the south. All that he’d described could be underway now.

  He had a sudden burst of nausea and slumped on a bench, head in his hands. He was there when he heard hoofbeats and saw a skinny lad he didn’t know with a second horse on a lead rope.

  “Message from Captain Coffee,” the boy bawled, “but I can tell you what it says. Votes seventeen-seventeen with two to General Winchester. One vote still out.”

  Winchester? A solid Tennesseean but never in contention. Throwaway votes.

  “One vote still out?” Jackson said. “From where?”

  “East Tennessee—over in the Smokies, east of Knoxville.”

  “Thank you, son,” Jackson said, his voice carefully calm. “Stable your horses and go inside. Mrs. Jackson’ll give you some dinner, and you’ll stay the night.”

  He turned and walked away, shoulders sagging. For a moment he thought he would fall and then he straightened—no, he would not bow. But it was the worst possible news. The Smokies—King’s Mountain country, Sevier country—Jackson would get no mountain votes. That delayed last vote was Sevier’s, the tally eighteen-seventeen, Jackson’s chance of glory gone, and Tennessee to face an uncertain future under an uncertain leader.

  It was almost dark when Jack came at a lope.

  “It’s a tie, Judge,” Jack bellowed. “Seventeen-seventeen.”

  “But the last vote?”

  “Vote from the Smokies.” Jack was boiling with laughter. “Came in for Winchester. Gave him three. Some son of a bitch over there hates Sevier, wouldn’t vote for his rival but wouldn’t go for him neither so he threw away his vote.”

  He swung off the big horse and wrung Jackson’s hand. “Fit me out a couple of fresh horses, grab a couple yourself, and let’s ride! Governor wants to see you. It’s his call now, you know. He’s holed up in Judge Dalrack’s chambers. Says he’ll wait for you till you get there. Let’s ride!”

  Jackson felt as if his heart would burst.

  Jackson and the governor were closeted in Dalrack’s paneled chambers; a portrait of Dalrack’s wife hung on the wall, her bossy determination coming magically through the brush strokes.

  He had known Archie Roane for years. Archie and David Allison, who had caused such grief before dying in a Philadelphia debtors’ prison, had been partners, working for territorial Governor Blount when Blount had been Jackson’s great friend. Jackson and Archie had been fellow delegates to the statehood convention when they’d rammed Tennessee into the Union whether the Union liked it or not.

  Archie was a good fellow, in fact, convivial, relaxed, not unintelligent—a better dinner companion you could hardly find. But—and this was what Jackson had focused on during the long ride in the dark—you didn’t think of courage when you thought of Archie Roane. He’d just sort of slid into office when Sevier stepped down, there being little competition just then.

  Now, Archie in Dalrack’s chair at Dalrack’s desk, Jackson in a side chair done in blue leather and brass studs, a glance at Archie’s troubled face told the problem; Archie was going to have to make up his mind and he hated doing that.

  They spent maybe ten minutes on polite chat, queries as to their families, recollections of the old territorial days under Governor Blount, and then Jackson put it squarely. “We’ve got a tie here that you must decide, so let me be frank: I’m by far the better candidate.”

  Archie swallowed, blinking. He flattened his hands on the desk. “You know how much I respect and admire you, Andrew, but Sevier does have more military experi
ence. More reputation—for the military, that is.”

  “He’s yesterday’s general, Archie. But this is today, and tomorrow is the problem. Let me sketch the situation.”

  He laid out the French threat, the need to rally now and prepare, the frontline equation, the pressure to be ready to march, the flatboats needed to transport troops, the urgency of liaison with Kentucky and Ohio and with the national government … .

  “Well …”

  “Don’t forget, it’ll be the governor’s duty to call out the troops. Don’t you think I’ll be more help when you”—he saw Roane slump in his chair, face slack, and realized with a start that the man was a coward—“have to make that decision?”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt you would be the better commander. I hoped you would win, but that’s the trouble—you didn’t.”

  “But I didn’t lose—”

  “Yes, that’s the problem, all right.”

  “A problem for you to set right.”

  Archie sighed. “Sevier is very strong. There would be a tremendous outcry, given his reputation is so high.”

  “I don’t know about his reputation. He’s been involved in all manner of shady things.”

  “Yes, but that was long ago. Everyone on the frontier was involved in—well, odd dealings. Hardly any law or rules, land titles a crazy jumble. You know that. Be fair, Andrew.”

  So, yes, it had come down to this, here in a paneled office with a bossy woman’s portrait staring down accusingly, that he must plunge into the deepest water. He had a sense of the oddity—the irony—that you could decide the whole tenor of your future in an instant, with a phrase precipitate a battle that could have deadly consequences. Roane would make the move on his own if he had the balls of a rabbit, but he didn’t.

  Jackson said, “There are serious questions about Governor Sevier’s reputation now.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “Whatever do you mean, Andrew?”

  Jackson saw the hunger in Roane’s face and wanted to boot his ass. But it’s not unusual for contemptible men to hold the keys, and one must deal with the keyholder.

  “You remember the giant land fraud I uncovered last year?” Using the powers of his court, Jackson had exposed a huge ring using forged titles ostensibly from old North Carolina land records to claim—and sell—land in the Tennessee wilderness.

  “Remember that I named names, and one of ’em was Rachel’s brother? Near broke her heart, but I had to do it. But there was one name I didn’t release for the good of the state.”

  “And that was …”

  “Governor Sevier.”

  “You’re telling me Sevier was party to that land fraud?”

  “Yes. On the edges but definitely in.”

  “You can prove this?”

  “Of course.”

  “I mean in writing, Goddamn it! Something that will hold up in court. Not some damned jackleg whose testimony will change in a flash.”

  “I can prove it, Governor. In writing.”

  Roane stared at him.

  Jackson said, “When your two-year term is up, you’ll run again, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, Sevier is free to run for another three terms once he sits a term out. My understanding is he intends to do it. He’ll be a formidable opponent.”

  Roane licked his lips. “You can prove it, you say? I call on you, you can come forward?”

  “Yes.”

  “In public, understand?”

  “Yes. I can prove what I say.”

  Roane smiled. He slumped in his chair, breathing a great sigh. “I agree with you, Andrew. Sevier, fine man though he is, isn’t right for the terrible threats now facing the state of Tennessee. We are thrust into the cockpit of international affairs. It is my judgment, sir, that you are better suited to the modern role of Tennessee commander.”

  He came out of his chair in a bound and thrust out his hand. “May I be the first to congratulate you, Major General Jackson.”

  Jackson took his hand. “Thank you, Governor.”

  29

  NEW ORLEANS, MID 1802

  No sooner did Danny Mobry walk into Daniel Clark’s house on this last urgent errand than Zulie demanded, “Have you slept with Henri yet?” Then, laughing, “No, I see from your face you haven’t. Foolish girl!”

  Oh, was that so! But maybe Zulie was right.

  She was an extraordinarily handsome Frenchwoman well into her forties, the widow of a French cavalier. Madame Zulime des Granges was Uncle Daniel’s mistress. She was also well advanced in pregnancy, which seemed to improve her mood. She patted her bulging belly with satisfaction. Once Danny had asked why she didn’t marry Daniel, and she’d laughed. Her late husband’s family was content for her to sleep with him, which kept her out of trouble, and after all, a woman needs a man. At this Zulie had paused and added thoughtfully, “As do you, dear girl; it sticks out all over you.” But it seemed that if monarchy returned to France, her grown son would be a prince, and of course, a prince’s mother has obligations. “Meanwhile, Irish seed plowed into a French seedbed—its ecumenical, international, and highly satisfactory.”

  “But do you love Daniel?”

  “Do I love him, does he love me? We make love, my dear. Isn’t that enough?”

  “well …”

  “Danny, of course I love him. But that doesn’t change the realities of our lives. You love Henri—don’t deny it—at least enough. But that doesn’t change your realities.”

  She clucked her tongue. “And now you leave in a week.”

  Three months had changed New Orleans, air soft and warm, explosions of flowers, the sultry weight of summer blessedly holding off. Danny had moved to a comfortable pension on rue de Chartres and sent Captain Mac north in the Cumberland Queen heavy laden with sugar for the Boston distiller; he had just returned with hardware to Daniel Clark’s order, word that her other ships were en route, and a letter.

  She’d been busy touring plantations with Henri, assuring herself of the quality of the sugar she would be purchasing. He would serve as her agent when she was gone. Day by day, in his carriage drawn by a handsome pair of matched bays, they rolled down level dirt roads between fields of green shoots. At each plantation they went into the sugarhouse to see the big vats for cooking cane juice down to raw sugar, hogsheads in which sugar the color of a fawn’s coat was packed, carts with wheels higher than her head, and arched frame centers that could lift the massive casks and, creaking and swaying, tote them down to a river wharf where her vessels could tie up and winch them aboard.

  Henri drove well, his strong hands as delicate on the reins as a pianist’s fingers. At noon he would produce lunch and a bottle of wine from a wicker basket. Often they would stop by the vast rolling river, boiling water that had scoured the continent coming now the color of mud and laden with the debris of a million square miles. Looking at that water you had to recognize that who controlled this river’s mouth controlled the continent. Whole trees spun slowly in the current, sometimes pegging into the bottom and then rising into the air like ponderous ghosts, to fall back with a splash and vanish around a bend en route to the sea. After the meal they sat quietly, watching brown pelicans scooping fish from the river and screaming at the gulls that drifted in from saltwater. If such sweet days could go on forever—but then she would remember Carl and the ships and a waiting distiller … .

  Well, perhaps she was falling in love, but what did that mean? Henri wanted a wife, here, a mother for his children; Danny lived in Washington. More important, the law was such that if she married, her husband would take legal control of the business Carl had built, and she would never tolerate that She reminded herself that she was vulnerable, far from home and lonely, but there was more to it than that. Pulling herself out of grief to seize control of her business had somehow restored her to life and vitality, and with life came all its thrusts and urges. There would never be another Carl, but he had died and she was ali
ve and must go on.

  Zulie said she needed a man. Was that all there was to it? She refused the thought, but God, Henri was attractive. Sometimes, lying on a blanket with a straw hat over her face after a lunch, she would study him from under the hat brim, intensely aware of a force and power vibrating in him. She hadn’t forgotten that first night when Clark had told her the French were coming and she’d seen both men enjoying her dismay. She knew them well now; she always would be cautious with Clark, but her trust in Henri had grown, at least as much as she was willing to trust anyone.

  Now, impulsively, she hugged the bulbous Madame Zulime des Granges and kissed her cheek. “You’re a sweetheart,” she murmured, and then, straightening herself, squaring her shoulders, marched into her uncle’s study and closed the door. She placed a large envelope squarely on his desk. It was addressed to her and the red wax seals were broken. She tapped it with a fingernail. “Read this, Uncle,” she said.

  The door opened. “So serious!” Zulie cried. “But I will help you keep him in line.”

  “Now, Zulie,” Clark said.

  She settled herself determinedly, peered over his desk and said, “A letter! To Danny, eh, but intended for you. Do open it, my dear.”

  The letter was from Dolley Madison, entrusted by hand to Captain Mac, to be handed to no one but Danny. She had studied it for hours, pacing the quarterdeck of the Queen while chanting hands turned the winches that hoisted cargo from her hold.

  She watched Clark draw out the two sheets, one a letter to her, the other a commission naming Clark U.S. consul in New Orleans. He tossed the commission aside, glanced at the letter, looked up at her.

  “They want me to go to America on your ship?” he asked incredulously. “Impossible—ridiculous!” He flicked the commission to the floor. It was no surprise. He’d been told of it the year before. But it meant nothing, he said. The French were taking command, and Louisiana’s future would rest with them. An American connection would be an embarrassment.