by H. W. Brands
Madison’s strategy did buy him time, and the apparatus of American politics prepared to make James Monroe president. Almost three decades after the constitutional convention of 1787 the system of selecting presidents continued to evolve. Political parties, unrecognized by the framers of the Constitution, had become an accepted feature of the American landscape, except that the Federalist party had essentially self-destructed, leaving the Republicans in control of national politics, with the consequence that whoever won the party’s nomination waltzed to election. That nomination lay in the hands of the party caucus, which was to say the Republican members of Congress gathered in unofficial and secret session. This hardly comported with the increasingly democratic spirit of the age, besides tilting the field in the direction of Washington insiders. Virginia, abutting the federal district and claiming the largest Republican delegation, had an apparent lock on the presidency. Of seven presidential terms thus far, six had gone to Virginians, with Monroe positioned to claim two more.
The situation prompted criticism. Aaron Burr wasn’t unbiased in viewing Virginians, but he articulated the opinions of many when he analyzed the approaching election season. “A congressional caucus will, in the course of the ensuing month, nominate James Monroe for President of the United States, and will call on all good republicans to support the nomination,” Burr told his son-in-law, Joseph Alston, who happened to be governor of South Carolina. “Whether we consider the measure itself, the character and talents of the man, or the state whence he comes, this nomination is equally exceptional and odious. I have often heard your opinion of these congressional nominations. They are hostile to all freedom and independence of suffrage. A certain junto of actual and factitious Virginians, having had possession of the government for twenty-four years, consider the United States as their property, and, by bawling ‘Support the Administration,’ have so long succeeded in duping the republican public.” Burr urged Alston to defy the party leadership. “The moment is extremely auspicious for breaking down this degrading system. The best citizens of our country acknowledge the feebleness of our administration. They acknowledge that offices are bestowed merely to preserve power, and without the smallest regard to fitness.”
Burr had just the man for the moment. It certainly wasn’t Monroe, who, besides being the beneficiary of the system, was “naturally dull and stupid, extremely illiterate, indecisive to a degree that would be incredible to one who did not know him, pusillanimous, and, of course, hypocritical.” Burr instead proposed someone who was everything Monroe wasn’t. “If, then, there be a man in the United States of firmness and decision, and having standing enough to afford even a hope of success, it is your duty to hold him up to public view. That man is Andrew Jackson. Nothing is wanting but a respectable nomination, made before the proclamation of the Virginia caucus, and Jackson’s success is inevitable.”
For obvious reasons of history, Burr couldn’t effectively forward Jackson’s candidacy himself, which was why he urged Alston to do so. But Burr’s letter arrived at just the wrong time. Alston’s wife, Burr’s daughter, Theodosia, had recently died, and the governor was prostrate from grief and kindred maladies. “I fully coincide with you in sentiment,” he told Burr, “but the spirit, the energy, the health necessary to give practical effect to sentiment, are all gone. I feel too much alone, too entirely unconnected with the world, to take much interest in any thing.”
Alston never recovered from his broken heart, and he died a short while later, leaving Jackson and the rest of the country to watch the election of 1816 unfold as Madison and the Republican leadership desired. But the many people who were hardly more enthusiastic than Burr about Monroe and the Virginians asked whether America’s manner of choosing presidents might someday be different.
Early September of that election year found Jackson at the Chickasaw council house in northern Mississippi hammering out a treaty with the Cherokees over the lands in dispute with the Tennesseans, and in dispute between the Tennesseans and the federal government. Jackson was still angry at William Crawford. “If all influence but the native Indian was out of the way,” he told Robert Butler, his aide, “we would have but little trouble. But a letter from the Secretary of War to the [federal Indian] agent, which had been received and read to the nation in council before our arrival, has done much mischief.”
With no little effort, Jackson and his fellow commissioners, Jesse Franklin and David Meriwether, managed to undo the mischief and reach an agreement. The Cherokees and Chickasaws surrendered title to the lands in dispute in exchange for a series of monetary payments. “We experienced some difficulty with the Chickasaws,” Jackson told Monroe, by now president in all but name. The Chickasaws referred to a treaty negotiated with President Washington, which bound the United States to prevent intrusions upon the land in question. Jackson rejected the treaty as invalid. “The fact was that both President Washington and the present secretary of war were imposed on by false representation, as neither the Chickasaws or Cherokees had any right to the territory, as the testimony will show it being in the possession of the Creeks at that time and continued to be possessed by them until we conquered the territory in the fall 1813 and spring 1814.” For Jackson, conquest provided the clearest title, which since Horseshoe Bend belonged to the United States. Yet he was willing to pay the Cherokees and Chickasaws to end the confusion. “All these conflicting claims are happily accommodated by the late treaties with those tribes at the moderate premium of 180,000 dollars payable in ten years.”
He judged the result well worth the expense. “This territory, added to the Creek cession, opens an avenue to the defence of the lower country, in a political point of view incalculable. We will now have good roads, well supplied by the industry of our own citizens, and our frontier defended by a strong population.”
When Jackson learned, about this time, that Crawford was leaving the War Department, he took the opportunity to offer Monroe some advice regarding a successor. He had heard good things about William Drayton of South Carolina, he said. “He is a man of nice principles of honor and honesty, a man of military experience and pride.” He was also a Federalist, but not one of those secessionists from New England. “The moment his country was threatened, he abandoned private ease and a lucrative practice for the tented fields. Such a man as this, it is not material by what name he is called; he will always act as a true American.” For this reason Monroe ought to consider him seriously.
Jackson thought the principle of nonpartisanship in federal appointments so vital that he repeated it in subsequent letters to the president. “In every selection, party and party feeling ought to be laid out of view (for now is the time to put them down) by selecting those the most honest, possessing capacity, virtue and firmness. By this course you steer the national ship to honor and preferment, and yourself to the united plaudits of a happy country. . . . Consult no party or party feelings in your choice. Pursue that unerring judgment you possess, that for so many years has added so much to the benefit of our common country.”
Monroe couldn’t have been surprised to receive Jackson’s advice regarding the new secretary of war. Jackson’s feud with Crawford was no secret, and, as the general charged with defending half the country, he had a right to air his opinion on a prospective superior. Monroe might have found Jackson’s broader counsel about eschewing party somewhat less likely. Jackson’s national stature owed exclusively to his military accomplishments. What did he know about national politics?
Yet Monroe replied politely and, to all appearances, sincerely. Monroe may not have known that Burr had promoted Jackson for the presidency, but he knew other people had and likely would, and he was canny enough not to antagonize a formidable competitor needlessly. Beyond that, Jackson’s views on party were shared by many in the United States, and Monroe thought they deserved a response.
Monroe concurred in principle with Jackson’s preference for nonpartisanship. “The chief magistrate of the country ought not to be the head of
a party but of the nation itself.” Yet parties weren’t without meaning. “We have heretofore been divided into two great parties. That some of the leaders of the Federal[ist] Party entertained principles unfriendly to our system of government, I have been thoroughly convinced. And that they meant to work a change in it by taking advantage of favorable circumstances, I am equally satisfied.” The Federalists had thus far failed in their schemes to undermine free government, but only because honest republicans had resisted their nefarious designs. Monroe credited Jackson’s victory at New Orleans for dealing a body blow to Federalist perfidy. Yet the Federalist danger persisted, which was why Federalists must not be treated like Republicans. “To give effect to free Government and secure it from future danger, ought not its decided friends, who stood firm in the day of trial, to be principally relied on?” Monroe noted that certain theorists contended that any administration required a healthy opposition, that free government couldn’t exist without parties. He disagreed. Republicanism rested not on a balance of vices, as in other systems, but on the encouragement of virtue. Parties played to vice, not virtue, and therefore hindered good government. Monroe avowed his intention to “exterminate all party divisions in our country, and give new strength and stability to our Government.” He conceded that this was a large and difficult task. “I am nevertheless decidedly of opinion that it may be done.”
Monroe’s vision—of a one-party system of Republican saints—struck Jackson as naive and unworkable. Jackson’s abiding sense that life was a struggle caused him to believe that rascals would always exist and would probably organize to effect their aims; parties were unavoidable in a free society. Moreover, his own experience in politics revealed that Republicans were hardly all saints. Most of the rascals Jackson had known were Republicans, starting with John Sevier and continuing through William Crawford. Firmer evidence that the Republicans didn’t have a monopoly on virtue was hard for him to imagine.
In time Jackson would become the most partisan of presidents. But he never denied the right of the opposition to exist. And for now he reiterated to Monroe that placing party above personal character could lead the nation astray. “Names are but bubbles, and sometimes used for the most wicked purpose.” Jackson cited an instance he thought Monroe might appreciate.
I have once upon a time been called a Federalist. You will smile when I name the cause. When your country put up your name in opposition to Mr. Madison, I was one of those who gave my opinion that on the event of war (which was then probable) you would be my choice. Every person I knew esteemed Mr. Madison as one of the best of men and a great civilian, but I always believed that the mind of a philosopher cannot dwell upon blood and carnage with any composure and is not well fitted for a stormy sea. I was for these ideas unhesitatingly denounced as a Federalist. . . . I trust that, judging the tree by its fruit, it was unjustly ascribed.
Despite their fundamental difference on political philosophy, Monroe continued to confide in Jackson. He revealed that he had considered making Jackson secretary of war. “My mind was immediately fixed on you,” he said. But second thought convinced him that the country couldn’t afford to remove the general from command of the army in the South, “where in case of any emergency no one could supply your place.”
Monroe proceeded to explain that he sought to use the cabinet to unite the various sections of the country. Isaac Shelby of Kentucky, the man to whom he did offer the War Department, would represent the West. Georgia’s William Crawford, Monroe’s designate for the Treasury, would give the South a voice. Monroe didn’t say so to Jackson, but Crawford had a sufficient following that he had to be made part of the administration. Yet placing him in the Treasury, rather than back at the War Department, would keep him and Jackson apart. John Quincy Adams of Massachusetts, Monroe’s choice for secretary of state, would encourage New England to reenter the fold. Richard Rush of Pennsylvania would stay on at the Justice Department for the time being and anchor the middle of the country. Monroe hoped the regional balancing would help make the Republicans a truly national party. “By this arrangement, there can be no cause to suspect unfair combination for improper purposes.”
Jackson had mixed feelings about Monroe’s appointments. Adams was an inspired choice—“the best selection to fill the Department of State that could have been made,” he told Monroe. But he had doubts about Shelby. “My anxious solicitude for your public and private welfare compels me to be candid and say to you that the acquirements of this worthy man are not competent to a discharge of the multiplied duties of the Department of War.” Jackson hoped Shelby, recognizing his own limitations, would thank the president for the honor of the offer and politely decline—which was exactly what happened. In his stead Monroe nominated John Calhoun of South Carolina, who accepted.
Jackson also counseled—or lectured—Monroe on Indian policy. He stressed the need to populate the lands acquired from the Creeks, as quickly as possible. He knew his view wasn’t universally held. “Short–sighted politicians may urge that by bringing too much land into market at once, it will reduce the price and thereby injure the finances of the country. Others, still more blind, may contend that it will drain other states of their population.” This was fatuous. “The lower country is of too great importance to the Union for its safety to be jeopardized by such short-sighted policy. All the lands to be sold are, in a national point of view, but as a drop in the bucket when brought in competition with the value of that country to the Union, or when compared with the amount which it would cost the United States to retake it should it once fall into the hands of an enemy.”
The question of the Creek lands was part of a larger issue. Jackson believed that a similar settlement policy ought to be adopted toward Chickasaw lands between the Ohio and the Mississippi. Jackson anticipated objections here, as well. “It may be said that we have sufficient territory already, and that our settlements ought not to be extended too far.” But the counterarguments were stronger. “Everything should be done to lessen our frontier and consolidate our settlements. This would at once have that effect. It would not only cut off all intercourse between the Northern Indians and the Chickasaws and Choctaws but insure safety to our commerce on the Ohio and Mississippi and afford a strong defence within striking distance of the settlements on the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers.”
Jackson conceded that his recommendation collided with the refusal of the Chickasaws to relinquish the land. Nor could he stretch any previous treaty to cover the case. Yet Jackson saw a solution to this problem—a radical solution, he conceded, but not an insupportable one.
I have long viewed treaties with the Indians as an absurdity not to be reconciled to the principles of our Government. The Indians are the subjects of the United States, inhabiting its territory and acknowledging its sovereignty. Then is it not absurd for the sovereign to negotiate by treaty with the subject? I have always thought that Congress had as much right to regulate by acts of legislation all Indian concerns as they had of Territories. There is only this difference: that the inhabitants of Territories are citizens of the United States and entitled to the rights thereof; the Indians are subjects and entitled to their protection and fostering care. The proper guardian of this protection and fostering care is the legislature of the Union. I would therefore contend that the Legislature of the Union have the right to prescribe their bounds at pleasure and provide for their wants; and whenever the safety, interest or defence of the country should render it necessary for the Government of the United States to occupy and possess any part of the territory used by them for hunting, that they have the right to take it and dispose of it.
Jackson questioned the plausibility of a situation that allowed the government to dispossess citizens of their property, under the public’s right of eminent domain, but prevented the government from doing the same to Indians. “Can it be contended with any propriety that their rights are better secured than our citizens’?” He thought not.
Jackson believed the trea
ty system served the Indians as poorly as it served the whites. Their old world had vanished. “The game being destroyed, they can no longer exist by their bows and arrows and guns.” Some Indians had adapted to the new world on their own; others needed to be compelled. “As long as they are permitted to roam over vast limits in pursuit of game, so long will they retain their savage manners and customs. . . . Circumscribe their bounds, put into their hands the utensils of husbandry, yield them protection, and enforce obedience to those just laws provided for their benefit, and in a short time they will be civilized. . . . There can be no doubt but that in this way more justice will be extended to the nations than by the farce which has been introduced of holding treaties with them.”
Jackson was sometimes mistaken, but he was never less than sincere. And he was utterly sincere in contending that the policy he prescribed—of treating the Indians as subjects rather than sovereign nations—would, among the alternatives realistically available, yield the best results for the Indians. Yet from start to finish his foremost concern was the safety of the United States. The single goal of Jackson’s public life—his career obsession—was to secure the Union from all dangers: internal and external, political and military. Some during his day, and many later, thought that he carried his obsession too far, that the warrior never knew when to stop fighting. But Jackson had reason for thinking as he did. In his lifetime to this point, the United States had never known true peace. Hardly a year had passed since the start of the American Revolution that Britain or France or Spain hadn’t threatened or preyed on or actually attacked the United States. Jackson didn’t underestimate what he had accomplished at New Orleans, but he had no reason to think that that victory would change the attitudes of the great European powers toward the American republic. The struggle continued.
