Eagle's Cry

by David Nevin

  “What wonderful news,” she whispered.

  Jack drove the ladies in the spring buggy and the general rode alongside on a fresh mount; he was the leading figure in West Tennessee and he didn’t intend to arrive in a buggy. The women were still chattering about the news, Jack in his quiet way, smiling and once in awhile adding something. Rachel said she figured Mr. Jackson had had something to do with the decision in Paris all right, which Jack seconded warmly.

  The general dismissed such tittle-tattle with a wave of his hand but privately thought it wasn’t so far from the mark. He’d always admired Bonaparte until the Frenchman had made himself a dictator. Napoleon was a fighting man of magnificent instincts, knew what Jackson himself knew so well: If you’re going to strike, strike hard and strike first and drive ahead, don’t give the other side a chance to breathe, but keep your head clear, know when to advance but know when to retreat toward new advantage. All this Bonaparte had demonstrated in the decision to sell Louisiana.

  For surely it was a mark of sheer wisdom that the great man had been able to set aside pride and ambition and recognize the cold reality, which was, plain and simple, he could never have won in Louisiana. The American West, ever growing, ever stronger, would have taken it from him; and General Jackson would have been leading the way. Indeed, he himself had made it clear—to come here would have been to fight forever. He’d told that French attaché in Washington—Pichon, that was it—what they could expect. And that fellow Montane, said he was an American now but he sounded a good deal more like a French general to Jackson. And Jackson had told him too, one fighting man talking to another. He’d understood it all right.

  So Jackson reckoned he’d had a hand in making the dictator see the light of reason, and he didn’t object when the boys set up a mighty cheer as he rode into the square right ahead of the ladies in the spring buggy. He rode into the crowd, bowing and shaking hands with the men close to him, and didn’t dismount till he was on the brick steps leading up to the log courthouse. Then he held up his hands to quiet them and made them a speech at the top of his lungs that had them whooping and hollering for more.

  The air was full of the odor of roasting hog and three separate men each brought in a barrel of whiskey and everyone was welcome. A barrel of cold tea for the ladies appeared and floating in it was what surely was the very last piece of ice brought down from northern lakes packed in sawdust. The fiddlers turned out and a banjo picker and Joe Simpson, who could make his mouth organ cry like a baby, and folks went to square dancing and when the sun went down lanterns and torches made it bright as day and the dancing went right on.

  Louisiana was ours and the future was secure!

  Before you could turn around, things began to boom. War had started up in Europe and both sides were hungry for American grain, and now farmers hereabouts were free to ship to the world via New Orleans knowing their produce would pass. That’s why the French had wanted it in the first place; now let them buy foodstuffs like civilized folk. When Spain had closed the river and everyone had gotten ready for war, Tennessee folks naturally held up their shipments. Jackson had built an extra barn to store corn and baled cotton he couldn’t sell, his own and his neighbors too.

  Now there was a run on flatboats. Nathan Fosby—it looked like running off and falling in love with a black woman and getting his heart broke when she was killed had made him a man of the world somehow—opened a yard on the river and was building flatboats as fast as he could get logs downstream and sliced in the sawmill he’d set up in his yard. There would be a ready market for lumber in New Orleans after the boats arrived now that Americans would be moving in and the population would start swelling. Jackson heard the price of lumber in New Orleans had already doubled and was on the way to tripling! That money was radiating back to Fosby and from him back to the timber cutters, and the good times were upon them.

  The price of land was rising too. What had been going for ten dollars an acre cleared and ready to plant crops for the European market now was fetching twenty and twenty-five. Men were paying premium prices for lots on the outskirts of Nashville, as much as ten blocks from the center, planning a house in town when they got around to building it.

  Everywhere you looked you saw something new and thrilling that told you Tennessee was right on the edge of a glowing future. That was the idea that old John Sevier couldn’t see. The old general, one-time governor and hungering for old glory, was locked in the past. Maybe that suited East Tennessee, but it didn’t suit the west end of the state nor the man to whom folks in the west looked. And that was the root of the trouble.

  Archie Roane wasn’t a bad governor nor all that good either, but the problem was he liked the office and wanted another turn. The Constitution allowed three two-year terms. It also placed no bar on a former governor running again after a term out of office. Just what you’d expect; old Sevier filed for election. So Archie naturally dropped his bombshell. Sevier, he said, was hardly a savior of Tennessee who could do no wrong. He’d done plenty of wrong; he’d been up to his ears in the recent land fraud that had rocked the state. His authority for a statement that most Tennesseeans simply didn’t believe: the honorable Judge Jackson, who had uncovered the fraud.

  Rachel went pale as paper when Jack Coffee brought the papers carrying Archie’s statement. She pressed her hand to her chest and would have fallen, but Jackson caught her and eased her onto a sofa and gave her two tablespoons of Dr. Simpson’s Elixir of Life, which she kept handy as a powerful restorative. He spent the next hour assuring her that this was mostly talk, which she finally accepted though he could see she didn’t believe it.

  It was more than talk, but he didn’t think it would involve her. She lived in terror of those awful days being reopened—the run to Natchez to escape her husband, the marriage when news of the divorce came, the crushing ending of adultery that they had lived with ever since … .

  As for trouble with Sevier, best to go straight in. Jackson laid out the accusation in a letter to the Knoxville Gazette, right in Sevier’s hometown. In the land fraud, numerous Tennesseeans had bribed the North Carolina secretary of state to accept forged claims. It was over now, the secretary packed off to jail. Sevier had had some land warrants that weren’t worth much under an old law but would soar in value if falsely registered under a later law. The secretary of state had arranged the switch, and Sevier sent him three warrants in payment for his services. It was tangential to the main fraud but close enough, Jackson figured. He said the warrants were worth $960, given for a service worth a dollar had it been legal.

  Sevier reacted like a bee-stung bull, pawing and roaring that this low pettifogging lawyer who’d had the temerity to steal the militia election from the militia’s natural commander now sought to destroy him with utterly false charges. The moment he could lay hands on him, he would give this upstart hard lessons in how a man of honor handled calumniators. As for the charges, what he had done was legal, the fee what he would have paid a lawyer to perfect the transaction.

  The people paid little attention. Everyone was dealing in land, plenty of deals were under the table, and Sevier was their old hero. They went to the polls, tossed Archie Roane out, and put John Sevier back in the governor’s chair. The problem between the new governor and the state’s most prominent jurist festered on. Sevier made no immediate move, and Jackson waited till court took him to Knoxville. So it was cracking fall before the clash came.

  It was a bright day, sun glowing, air still warm, oak leaves orange and gold, when Jackson convened court. Knoxville was practically a city and the courthouse showed it, courtroom paneled, the bench downright fancy. But he brought the vigor of the far frontier to his dispensation of justice and settled half a dozen cases before noon. Gradually he became aware of noise outside, the clamor of voices and hoots of laughter. He didn’t doubt it related to him, and so he stepped out to see.

  Sure enough, a crowd had gathered on the courthouse green, the governor waving a heavy cutlass as he har
angued them. He was a stout and solid figure with a soldier’s bearing, handsome enough for a man in his late fifties but of small caliber nonetheless. Jackson felt the people had made a dreadful mistake in electing him.

  The crowd went silent as it spotted the judge at the top of the steps and Sevier turned, sword at the ready. Jackson touched the pistol under his coat, powder well set in the pan, .70-cal. ball patched in place, hammer on full cock, and went lightly down the steps, hickory cane in hand. Teach the governor a lesson and do it right now. He darted across the street without looking. A horseman yelled and the beast reared. Jackson had an impression of the animal, white and huge, foam flying from the bit tearing his mouth, and then he was across the street and advancing on the governor—

  “Here he is,” Sevier roared, waving the sword, “this impudent jackanapes, this puppy who traduces men of honor, throws foul lies thick as falling leaves, snake’s tongue wagging in his ugly face, a pitiful boy trying to hoist his own star by attacking a man of consequence, a man of prestige—”

  He advanced suddenly, raising the sword, crying, “What have you ever done for the people of Tennessee? You, a poor sneaking judge hiding behind your judicial robes, hiding behind your bench, who are you to criticize a man who has served this state his whole natural life! Rotten poltroon scoundrel, what services have you ever rendered the people of Tennessee?”

  The form of the attack took Jackson by surprise, and he found himself on the defensive. Services? What hadn’t he done? Served in the Senate, the House, the bench—

  And Sevier shouted, “I know of no great services you have rendered the country, except taking a trip to Natchez with another man’s wife!”

  Jackson’s eyes bulged, he heard a roaring, it was as if his very skull would explode. “Great God,” he screamed, “do you mention her sacred name?”

  He dropped the cane and clawed under his coat for his pistol, a hoarse shriek in his brain, I’ll kill him!

  They were a dozen feet apart. Jackson leveled his piece and fired just as someone hurtled into him, knocking his aim askew. Sevier’s pistol was out, the cutlass dropped at his feet, and he fired almost simultaneously. Jackson felt a bullet tug at his sleeve and heard someone howling, hit by one ball or another. He lunged forward to pistol whip the governor, and three men held him back while others restrained Sevier.

  Jackson was stunned. The unthinkable had happened. Rachel’s worst fears had been brought to surface.

  He ran to the hotel, plunged quill in inkpot and scratched out a challenge, demanding instant satisfaction with pistols for an insult of unbelievable foulness. Jack Coffee carried it; he would arrange terms. But Sevier caviled. Ducked and dodged. He would fight anytime, but he claimed it would dishonor the state to do so on the sacred soil of Tennessee.

  Jackson was amazed. Ink spattering, he wrote, “Did you take the name of a lady into your poluted lips in the town of Knoxville? Now, sir, in the neighborhood of Knoxville you shall atone for it, or I will publish you as a coward and a poltroon.” He demanded response within the hour.

  No answer.

  The base, rotten coward! All right, if he won’t fight here, let him choose his place. Jackson also drew up a hasty statement for the Gazette: “Know ye that I Andrew Jackson do pronounce, publish and declare to the world that his excellency John Sevier is a base coward and poltroon. He will basely insult, but has not courage to repair the wound. Andrew Jackson.”

  Now Sevier said he would meet Jackson across the line in Cherokee territory. Fine! Jackson saddled and rode. Couldn’t wait. He and Coffee arrived. No Sevier. Not that day or the next or the next.

  The coward!

  At noon on the third day, Jackson mounted to return to Knoxville. He would cane the governor on the street!

  On the road he saw a party of horsemen. Sevier! Coming with his grown son and three others, clear violation of the solemn agreement of principal and second only.

  Sevier was a swordsman. If he wouldn’t follow the code duello, let the fight be with swords. Jackson’s cane concealed a blade. He jerked off the base of the cane, leveled the sword like a lance, and kicked his horse into a gallop. Sevier tumbled off his mount to avoid the blow, but his boot caught in his cutlass scabbard and he fell under his horse. He curled into a ball as the nervous animal danced over him. When he stood he had a pistol in each hand.

  Jackson jumped down and drew his own brace of pistols. That gave each man two shots. Sevier leaped behind a tree. Jackson leveled pistol sights on the governor’s arm stretched around the tree aiming his pistol.

  Young Sevier trained his weapon on Jackson.

  Coffee aimed his at young Sevier.

  Thus they stood, poised, motionless.

  One of the governor’s party, a man Jackson didn’t recognize, darted forward, though standing carefully out of the line of fire. “For God’s sake, gentlemen, everybody’ll be killed and nothing’ll be settled. Please, put up those pieces!”

  Slowly, each man did. Sevier emerged from behind the tree and slipped the pistols into saddle holsters. Jackson sheathed the sword cane.

  “Goddamned jackanapes,” Sevier cried, “blackening the name of an honest man!”

  “Why,” Jackson roared, “you rotten Goddamned scoundrel who would pollute the name of an innocent woman—by God, I’ll break your head!” And he lunged with the cane held high.

  Sevier ran backward and snatched his cutlass from its scabbard. The rasp of steel on steel startled his horse. It bolted with his pistols still in their holsters. Sevier advanced with the heavy sword in hand, and Jackson drew his pistols and again the peacemaker cried, “Gentlemen, gentlemen, my God, that’s enough! Put down your weapons!”

  All at once Jackson’s mood shifted. The rage drained out of him. It was ludicrous, ridiculous. The leading jurist of Tennessee, commanding general of militia, and the governor of the state standing on a dusty road shrieking curses, weapons checkmated. The orderly processes of a decent duel, a man seeking satisfaction for a gross insult to his wife, had degenerated into a common brawl.

  He turned to Coffee. “I think we have no further business here.” He mounted his horse. “Governor,” he said, “I’ve posted you in the public prints for the coward I believe you to be. I shall be at your service should you summon the nerve to call on me. Meanwhile, stay out of my way.”

  He turned the horse and, with Jack following, rode slowly toward Knoxville. And with sudden striking insight, he understood the reality: This will hurt me. It went to no one’s credit. We were equally ridiculous.

  Everyone was talking about her, Rachel was sure of it. Andrew said no, it had passed, and at least his fight with Sevier had reminded folks of the peril inherent in a loose mouth.

  “But that’s it,” she cried, “I don’t want them afraid of us. I want them to respect us.”

  “They do, by God, they do!” he said, but she heard the belligerence, the threat in his voice.

  “Oh, darling,” she said, her voice a whisper, “we can’t live at people’s throats. You said yourself the West is changing, getting Louisiana, New Orleans ours, everything will be different. That’s what you said and you’re right. I hear it everywhere I go even if most folks don’t think to put it that way. I don’t think you can make your way in that bright future fighting every step of the way. I think the future needs you to be more than a fighter. It needs wisdom and strength.” She hesitated, then plunged ahead. “I think it needs restraint. Restraint … I fear for us if we lack it …”

  She let her voice trail off. There, she’d said what needed to be said and maybe he would hear her.

  And then, the most remarkable thing. He said he agreed with her! She’d never heard him say that before, not on this issue that had stood between them for so long. Said he thought the fight with Sevier that had grown out of his most basic instinct had hurt him, made him ridiculous, made him seem a man out of control when he had thought he was at the heart of things. Said it was as if the times had swept by him when he’d thought
of himself as the most modern of men, swept by him and left him locked in a little backwater with John Sevier.

  As she stared openmouthed, he said, “I don’t intend to be anywhere with Governor Sevier. You’re going to see a new man. It’ll take awhile for folks to understand that, but they will. It’ll be all right.”

  Praise the Lord!

  Jackson made himself live up to his new resolution. He stayed close to home, didn’t go to the taverns, drank very little whiskey, took his birds out of the Saturday cockfights, went to the races and hardly spoke, tended his courtroom with care, authority, restraint, dealt hard with scoundrels but let his feelings show in his sentences, not in tongue lashings given from the bench.

  The Louisiana Purchase had changed everything. The river was, or soon would be, open to New Orleans. This young fellow, Meriwether Lewis, and Clark, who was George Rogers Clark’s little brother, and from that you knew he had to be all right, they were prepared to walk across the whole new territory and make it our own. Settlers were pouring over the Cumberland Gap, so he heard, and while many turned north into Kentucky or south into the Holstein Valley, plenty took the pike to Nashville and points beyond. This was still the frontier, but the town was full of new men and instinct told him that Sevier was of the past and he was of the future.