by H. W. Brands
Jackson expected this letter to be published. It was, in several papers. The publication effectively announced his candidacy while making clear that the campaign wasn’t his idea. He hadn’t sought nomination, nor would he seek the presidency. But if the American people summoned him, he would serve.
Unfortunately for his credibility, Jackson was soon forced into a step that belied his protestations of personal indifference as to his political fate. In the autumn of 1823 he let himself be elected to the Senate. As popular as Jackson was with most Tennesseans, he had some bitter enemies, including Senate incumbent John Williams. The Jacksonians hoped to make support for their hero a litmus test for Tennessee politicians, but Williams refused to nod to the general, and he had sufficient pull with the state legislature for his reelection to appear likely. This would have embarrassed the Jacksonians by undercutting their claims of overwhelming home-state enthusiasm for their man. They considered one candidate after another to oppose Williams, but none possessed the stature to defeat the incumbent. At wits’ end, someone suggested Jackson himself for the Senate.
Jackson had to be convinced. He recalled his brief and unsatisfying experience in the Senate twenty-six years before and had no desire to repeat it. Yet he found himself caught on his own assertion that “office should be neither sought for nor declined,” as one of the sudden Jackson-for-Senate advocates quoted back to him. Still he resisted. “There are many better qualified to meet the fatigues of journey than myself, and on whose services a reliance . . . might be safely reposed,” he said. “I have therefore earnestly to request of my friends, and beg of you, not to press me to an acceptance of the appointment.” But he was compelled to add, “If appointed, I could not decline.”
Jackson honestly didn’t want the job. He was certain the Senate hadn’t improved since he resigned his seat in 1798. Washington was still a long, tedious journey from Nashville, and he didn’t travel as well as he once had. Besides, election to the Senate would undermine his claim that he wasn’t a politician. He would look like all the other politicians in Washington.
The worst of it, from a tactical standpoint, was that he would be required to take positions on issues of national concern. Jackson’s supporters seem not to have thought through this consequence of their action, for in their haste to defeat Williams they made Jackson’s presidential candidacy suddenly vulnerable. The beauty of their previous approach was that, not being a candidate, he didn’t have to answer questions regarding troublesome issues. As a non-candidate he could remain above the fray. But as a member of the Senate, he would enjoy no such luxury. He might not have to speak, but he would have to vote. And his votes would be used against him.
Precisely because they failed to think things through, Jackson’s supporters went ahead with the nomination, and the Tennessee legislature elected him. And he was compelled to accept. “Thus you see me a Senator, contrary to my wishes, my feelings, and my interests,” he wrote John Calhoun.
The overland journey to Washington was cold and wearing, its one recompense being that it showed that Jackson was more popular among ordinary citizens than ever. He was mobbed at every stop, till he switched from horseback to stagecoach, which was less comfortable and slower but allowed a semblance of anonymity. He knew he shouldn’t complain. “Although tiresome and troublesome,” he wrote Rachel, “still it is gratifying to find that I have triumphed over the machinations of my enemies and still possess the confidence of the people.” Yet this first long separation from Rachel since the Seminole War reminded him how much he missed her. “Should providence once more permit us to meet, I am solemnly resolved, with the permission of heaven, never to separate or be separated from you in this world.”
Jackson reached Washington a day too late to hear the president’s annual message (read by the Senate clerk). The one part he commented on, when he read it himself, was the one that would have the greatest impact in generations to come. Jackson didn’t know, although he probably guessed, that this passage was really the work of John Quincy Adams, who asserted that the Americas must be free of future colonization or military intervention by the European powers. The “Holy Alliance” of continental monarchies was rumored to be plotting the restoration of Spain’s control of her lost American colonies, and Adams and Monroe now warned them off. Not for decades would anyone call this warning the “Monroe Doctrine,” but Jackson fully endorsed the idea. “The President takes a proper ground as it respects South America,” he wrote John Overton. “If the Holy Alliance will maintain their neutrality as it regards South America, we will also. If they aid Spain, we will interpose in behalf of the colonies.” (Jackson here went further than Monroe, who hadn’t specified what the United States would do in the event of European meddling. Jackson was thinking what he would do in such event.)
He found life as a senator almost as tedious as he had when he was younger. “There is nothing done here but visiting and carding each other,” he reported to Rachel, referring to the habit of leaving calling cards at other people’s homes. “You know how much I was disgusted with those scenes when you and I were here. It has increased instead of diminishing.” He avoided the social circuit whenever possible, preferring to spend evenings in the quarters John Eaton had procured for them. “We are in the family of Mr. O’Neal,” Jackson told Rachel, “whose amiable pious wife and two daughters, one married, the other single, take every pains in their power to make us comfortable. . . . I can with truth say I never was in a more agreeable and worthy family. When we have a leisure hour in the evening, we spend it with the family. Mrs. Timberlake, the married daughter whose husband belongs to our navy, plays on the piano delightfully, and every Sunday evening entertains her pious mother with sacred music, to which we are invited, and the single daughter, who is also pious, and sings well, unites in the music.”
That majority of Washington inhabitants who knew Jackson only by reputation must have been surprised at the modest, quiet figure he cut. To some extent, of course, he appreciated that he was on display and therefore put himself on best behavior. But with age and infirmity, the old fires of bellicosity were burning down. And as one of the most celebrated men in America, he had nothing to prove—except perhaps that he could make peace with old enemies, which he did. He reestablished a rapport with Thomas Hart Benton, last seen leaving Nashville after the shooting spree from which Jackson still carried a leaden souvenir. Benton had even better reason than Jackson to mend the rift: the first-term senator from Missouri wished to bask in the Jackson glow. Jackson made up with Winfield Scott, who half expected to fight a duel with his former antagonist. “General Scott and myself met before he left the city, and parted friendly,” Jackson explained to one who knew their history. He continued, “I have become friendly with all here. . . . This has destroyed the stronghold of my enemies who denounced me as a man of revengeful temper and of great rashness. I am told the opinion of these whose minds were prepared to see me with a tomahawk in one hand and a scalping knife in the other has greatly changed.”
Jackson’s peace offensive extended to the Senate floor, where he took pains to avoid confrontation. This wasn’t difficult at first, since the Senate conducted little business. “All things here appear to bend to the approaching election,” he observed in February. Crawford’s partisans were fully engaged lining up votes for their favorite. Jackson’s supporters didn’t intend to dispute the caucus, leaving them—and him—with nothing to do but watch disapprovingly. “It is now a contest between a few demagogues and the people,” Jackson told John Coffee, “and it is to be seen whether a minority, less than one fourth of the whole members of Congress, can coerce the people to follow them.”
In another matter, though, Jackson couldn’t avoid attention. Since the tariff had become a political issue in the wake of the War of 1812, every session of Congress was tempted or pressured to revise the rates up or down, depending on the interests of those doing the tempting and pressuring. Jackson hoped the current Congress might skirt the issue, since
any vote on any tariff bill was certain to antagonize someone. And it would further diminish the distance separating Jackson from ordinary politicians.
But the issue wouldn’t be evaded, and Jackson was forced to take a stand. “You ask my opinion on the tariff,” he replied to a person who identified himself as a Jackson man but said his enthusiasm would diminish if Jackson voted for a measure then before Congress. “I answer that I am in favor of a judicious examination and revision of it, and so far as the tariff before us embraces the design of fostering, protecting, and preserving within ourselves the means of national defense and independence, particularly in a state of war, I would advocate and support it. The experience of the late war ought to teach us a lesson, and one never to be forgotten. If our liberty and republican form of government, procured for us by our revolutionary fathers, are worth the blood and treasure at which they were obtained, it is surely our duty to protect and defend them.” It was entirely like Jackson to test any measure by its effect on American security and independence. It was also a politically astute thing to do. “Can there be an American patriot who saw the privations, danger, and difficulties experienced for the want of a proper means of defense during the last war, who would be willing again to hazard the safety of our country if embroiled? . . . I hope there is not.”
But there was more to the tariff than national defense. “Beyond this, I look at the tariff with an eye to the proper distribution of labor and revenue, and with a view to the discharge of the national debt. I am one of those who do not believe that a national debt is a national blessing, but rather a curse to a republic.” No one reading Jackson’s letter—which he expected to be published, as indeed it was—required a reminder that Alexander Hamilton and the Federalists had treated the national debt as a blessing, for tying the interests of the wealthy to the success of the government. Jackson agreed that a debt would bind the wealthy to the government, but for all the wrong reasons. “It is calculated to raise around the administration a moneyed aristocracy dangerous to the liberties of the country.” The tariff could pay down the debt and meanwhile provide work for American laborers and markets for American farmers. Workers would be drawn into the manufacturing encouraged by the tariff, and would require food from American farms. America would become stronger, especially compared with Britain, which presumed to rule the world’s commerce. “We have been too long subject to the policy of the British merchants. It is time we should become a little more Americanized.”
In just a few years the tariff would emerge as the most explosive issue in American politics. But the bill Congress approved in 1824 only modestly adjusted previous schedules, and Jackson’s vote in favor didn’t noticeably diminish his popularity.
Long before the session closed, Jackson had had his fill of congressional politics. The speeches bored him, and the socializing left him cold. The one event he valued was a party commemorating his victory at New Orleans, held on January 8. The date had become a second Independence Day in many circles, and in Washington that year John Quincy Adams and his wife hosted a very large reception. “There must have been a thousand people there,” recorded a Senate colleague of Jackson’s. “It is the universal opinion that nothing has ever equalled this party here either in brilliancy of preparation or elegance of the company.” The hero of New Orleans naturally was the center of attention, gawked at by all, personally congratulated by many, who shook his hand till his arm grew weary. Jackson appreciated the honor and thanked the guests for their felicitations but wasn’t unhappy when the evening ended.
The longer he was in Washington, the more he wished he was home. “The family we live in are truly kind and attentive,” he wrote Rachel. “Still, my love, there has been a gloom unusual over my spirits this winter that I cannot well account for. I still try to arouse my former energy and fortitude to banish it, but it will obtrude itself on me at times. I suppose it arises from being placed in a situation in which I take no delight, and being forced from you when I least expected that separation.” His thoughts were constantly of home. “Give my love to the Andrews. . . . Tell Lyncoya I expect him to be a good boy . . . and believe me to be your affectionate husband.”
By May he could stand no more. “I declare to you I am worn out with the fatigue of legislating,” he told a friend. “Nature never intended me for any such pursuit, I am sure. Day after day talking and arguing about things that might be decided in a few hours requires a Job-like patience to bear; it does not suit me. . . . Never have I been more solicitous to return to my own cottage.” He requested and obtained a leave of absence from the Senate and headed home. By mid-June he was back at the Hermitage with Rachel and the children. “I have fine prospects of cotton, better than I have ever had, and my corn promising,” he wrote neighbor Coffee with satisfaction.
While Jackson watched from Nashville, the campaign of 1824 entered its final, frantic stage. Crawford’s prospects were slipping after the candidate suffered a minor stroke and recovered more slowly than expected. He still carried the congressional caucus almost unanimously, but chiefly because the backers of Jackson, Adams, and Clay boycotted the proceedings.
Jackson’s campaign cast its man as the outsider, above the petty intrigues adopted by those who feared the people’s judgment. Jackson himself described the caucus as “the last hope of the friends of Mr. Crawford. . . . It appears to me that such is the feelings of the nation that a recommendation by a congressional caucus would politically damn any name put forward by it.” Six weeks later the strategy appeared to be working. “I am happy to see the good people of America are putting their faces against these congressional caucuses, and I do hope the one last held will put this unconstitutional proceeding to sleep forever.”
Jackson’s hope came true: the caucus died in 1824. But presidential politics grew livelier than ever. Crawford’s supporters attacked Jackson, as now did those of Adams and Clay. Jackson still refused to campaign, but he answered letters from supporters, and though he declined to respond to the attacks, he wasn’t above suggesting themes to those who did so on his behalf. George Wilson edited the Nashville Gazette and sent Jackson a piece by Thomas Ritchie of Virginia charging Jackson with collusion with Adams and Calhoun against Crawford. “Was I to notice the falsehoods and false insinuations of Ritchie and such unprincipled editors, I could have time for nothing else,” Jackson told Wilson. But he added: “Should you, upon reference to the piece alluded to, think it deserves any notice, such a one as the following might be proper: That General Jackson’s course requires neither falsehood nor intrigue to support it. He has been brought before the nation by the people, without his knowledge, wishes, or consent. His support is the people.”
Jackson’s support indeed was the people. When the votes were tallied, he had 154,000 to Adams’s 109,000. Clay and Crawford were nearly tied for third, with about 47,000 apiece. These totals were a minority of voters in the states, as most states still chose electors by legislative decision. But they nonetheless showed clearly that the people preferred Jackson over any other candidate.
Regardless of the popular vote, however, the decision that counted lay with the electoral college. No one knew what the electors would do. Those from states where the people chose the electors felt bound, politically or morally, to follow the wishes of the voters. But what did this mean? Did the majority winner in a state get all the votes of that state or merely a proportion commensurate with the proportion of his majority? And what about the states where the legislators still chose the electors? Were those electors bound, or could they vote their consciences?
Until the electors met in December, no one could answer these questions with confidence. And even after they met, confusion persisted. The credentials of some electors were disputed, leading the president of the Senate, Vice President Daniel Tompkins, to refuse to accept their votes. For two weeks the capital scintillated with reports, rumors, and speculation regarding the outcome of the electoral contest. Papers printed incomplete results, throwing one side or
the other into panic. Corrections sent the pendulum careening the opposite way.
Jackson arrived amid the uproar. He came for the new session of the Senate rather than the electoral vote, and this time brought Rachel, who was astonished at the bustle of the capital. “To tell you of this city, I would not do justice to the subject,” she wrote a friend. “The extravagance is in dressing and running to parties. . . . There are no less than fifty to one hundred persons calling in a day.” Some of it was the holiday season, and some the presence of the Marquis de Lafayette, returned to America after all these years. The famous Frenchman was staying at the same hotel as the Jacksons, which afforded Rachel a close view. “He is an extraordinary man. He has a happy talent of knowing those he has once seen. For instance, when we first came to this house, the General said he would go and pay the Marquis the first visit. Both having the same desire, and at the same time, they met on the entry of the stairs. . . . The emotion of revolutionary feeling was aroused in them both. At Charleston, General Jackson saw him on the field of battle; the one a boy of twelve, the Marquis, twenty-three.” That someone scrambled the memory—Jackson never saw Lafayette in battle, though conceivably he saw him passing through Carolina, when Jackson was nine rather than twelve—mattered less than that fate had brought together these two icons of American liberty: Lafayette, a hero of the first war of independence, and Jackson, a veteran of the first war of independence and the hero of the second.
