by Eric Flint
No one had ever been able to prove that Clay was behind those never-ending accusations and insinuations that kept surfacing in the press. But no one much doubted it, either—and Jackson didn’t doubt it at all. It was that, more than anything, that gave Jackson’s hatred of Clay such a sharp and unyielding edge.
And it was so typical of Clay. The Speaker of the House was almost the polar opposite of men like Jackson and Driscol. On the surface, as slick and smooth—and smart, no doubt about it—as any man in America. But underneath, a man whose brains were constantly corroded by naked ambition. Naked, because unlike Jackson’s ambitions—which were every bit as great—there were few principles to serve ambition as a guide. So, the man couldn’t distinguish clearly between small victories and big ones—and would, quite often, lose the latter because he could not resist the former.
Which, now that Sam thought about it, was also the opposite of Jackson. Even as pugnacious as he was, Andy would—Sam had seen him do it, time after time—forgo the pleasure of winning a small fight in order to win a bigger one.
“Ah,” he said, finally understanding. “But…that’s a Sam Hill gamble, Patrick.”
Driscol had finished his own porridge and pushed it aside. Then, splayed out his square hand on the table. The movements weren’t awkward at all, but they were just that little bit complicated. For the first time since he’d arrived in New Antrim, Sam was reminded that Patrick had lost his left arm at the Chippewa. One tended to forget, around such a man.
“Possibly. But I don’t think Sam Hill would take it. Because he’d figure I’d likely win. The thing is, Sam, I’m betting that Andy Jackson is smart enough to know that when the time comes, he can negotiate a settlement with me. Not one he’d be very happy with, no, but one he could live with.”
“Could he?”
Patrick shrugged. “Oh, yes. I’m not stupid. Sheltering runaways and maroons isn’t any more critical to me than catching them is to Jackson. It’s a dispute, that’s all. A sharp one, granted. But we could work out a settlement.” He smiled, the way a troll might. “Not that either one of us would call it a ‘great compromise.’ ”
Sam chuckled. “But what if Clay wins the election? I have to tell you that he’s most likely going to, Patrick. Even Andy will admit that nowadays, at least in private to his friends.”
“All the better, so far as I’m concerned. Jackson would then be able to let someone else play the general, and fumble it—and then he can ride in and save the day. Four years later. What’s four years, Sam? In the great scheme of things.”
The boys came charging into the dining room. They got right to the verbs, as six-year-olds will. The nouns being self-evident to the world, since they were self-evident to them.
“You promised, Pa! You promised!”
Driscol pushed away from the table and rose. “So I did.”
“Promised what?” Sam asked.
“That he’d take them up to the new fort today,” Tiana answered. “They love forts. Do you know any little boys who don’t?”
Sam was tempted to answer: Don’t know too many full-grown men who don’t love ’em either. Especially if they’re Scots-Irish.
But he didn’t, because as soon as the quip came to his mind he realized that Andy Jackson was one of them. The general built forts the way boys built tree houses—and, now that Sam thought about it, he realized that Andy always did prefer to fight on the defensive whenever he could.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
He normally avoided blasphemy, just for the sake of appearances if nothing else. But Patrick was a freethinker, and the Lord Himself only knew what Tiana thought about such matters.
So he did it again. “I will be damned.”
Patrick’s rejoinder was inevitable, of course. “Most likely.” But Sam paid that little attention. His headache was coming back with a vengeance.
“I need a drink,” he announced.
Tiana didn’t argue the point, since she never did. She just rose and went over to the cabinet.
“Hair of the dog, is it?” Patrick said. “Someday that dog’ll swallow you whole, Sam.”
But that was an old refrain, too, so Sam ignored it. The whiskey bottle was coming to the table, and he needed to think. Whiskey helped him think when he had a headache as bad as this one.
There might be an angle here…As reluctant as he was to use it, Sam’s father-in-law had his own connections to the press. Very good ones, as you’d expect. Perhaps more importantly, so did John Quincy Adams. Who also hated Clay, because Clay’s creatures had slandered him over the Treaty of Ghent. And though the issue was not as personal as the issue over which Clay and his people hounded Jackson, Adams took his reputation as a diplomat seriously.
For reasons he could never quite fathom, Sam was quite fond of Adams, and the two of them got along well. He hadn’t seen him now in…two years? Time for a visit, perhaps.
The first slug of whiskey cleared his brain marvelously. And the sight of Patrick and Tiana embracing before he departed with his children reminded Sam that he hadn’t seen Maria Hester and his son in months, either.
“I’ll be going soon,” he announced as Patrick headed for the door.
“Figured you would. Don’t forget to toss a few bones to John Ross and Ridge before you leave.”
The second slug was on its way down, now. Half of it, at least. Sam felt splendid. “You didn’t leave any,” he grumbled.
“Sure I did. They’re just hidden. Don’t ask me where, because I have no idea. But you’ll find them.”
And he did, before he left three days later. Little bones, and not many of them. But enough to mollify the Indian leaders for the time being, especially when they had their own problems.
Chief Bowles wasn’t there for any of the discussions. He was spending all his time with Patrick and General Charles Ball and the colonels of the three regiments—and the boys, of course—inspecting the lines and discussing how The Bowl’s Cherokee irregulars could best be used in the coming war.
None of them seemed to have any doubt at all that there would be a war. Especially The Bowl, who shared Patrick’s opinion on the subject of Sassenach and the inevitability of their coming.
CHAPTER 10
Lexington, Kentucky
AUGUST 24, 1824
“I think you’ve got the finest racehorses in the state, Henry,” said Peter Porter. “And probably the best racetrack.” Leaning on the rail fence, the former New York congressman took a few moments longer to admire the sight. It was a sunny afternoon. A bit too hot for comfort, but not intolerably so.
Henry Clay laughed. “It may not be the best, but I can assure you it’s the most profitable. For me, at any rate.” A bit smugly: “Indeed, my horses are superior. They earn me quite the tidy sum in prize money. But come: Crittenden’s people should be arriving shortly. In fact, they may already be here by now.”
Porter was hard-of-hearing, so Clay spoke more loudly than he normally would. That was one of the many gracious courtesies the Speaker of the House practiced routinely with his friends and associates, and one that was much appreciated.
The two men turned back toward the main house at Ashland. Clay had named his estate just south of Lexington for the ash trees that were native to the region. That seemed a bit odd to Porter, given that Clay was actually partial to spruces. He’d been replacing the ash trees with spruces since the day he bought the estate seventeen years earlier. Just one of the man’s many personal quirks. Clay spilled over with them, but since he usually turned them to advantage or amusement, none of his friends minded.
The walk back was leisurely, taken in a companionable silence, as they followed the winding carriageway that led to the house through a grove of cypress, locust, and cedar trees. The distance to be traveled was over two hundred yards, so it took a bit of time.
There was a short interruption once they reached the path that led to a cluster of buildings not far from the house itself. That consisted of a smokehous
e, a dairy, a carriage house, and the slave quarters.
“A moment, please,” Clay said. “Something I must attend to.” He strode down the path toward the smokehouse, leaving Porter behind.
Porter used the quarter-of-an-hour wait to admire Clay’s country home, which he could see quite well from where he stood. Brick, very well built—and very large. Two and a half stories in the center, with one-story wings to either side. Clay had told him the overall dimensions were one hundred and twenty six feet by fifty-seven. One of the grandest homes in the area, it was.
When Clay returned, Porter cocked an inquiring eyebrow. A polite gesture, nothing intrusive.
“A minor matter,” Clay explained, taking his friend by the elbow and leading him toward the house. “Lucretia told me that she had suspicions concerning one of the overseers, from something she overheard one of the house girls saying to another. So I just had words with the man. If I discover he’s taking advantage of the slaves, I shall discharge him immediately, and I told him so.”
Porter pursed his lips but said nothing. As a New Yorker born and raised in New England, the institution of slavery seemed peculiar to him. Exotic, really, more like something you’d expect to find in Araby than America. With the same aura of sexual excess, to boot. That slave-owners and their overseers had what amounted to their own harems, if they chose to exercise their power, was something understood by practically everyone, North as well as South. Though few people beyond irresponsible abolitionists chose to speak of it publicly.
Even this little incident reeked, if you insisted on sniffing at it for too long. “Discharge” a man—as a penalty for an act which, if carried out against a white woman, would result in a prison sentence. Possibly even a hanging, depending on the circumstances.
Still, it was none of Porter’s business, so he said nothing. Whenever the Speaker of the House was in Washington, since his wife rarely accompanied him to the capital, Clay was an insatiable womanizer. The same, when he went on one of his many political tours. That was always a potential political liability, of course, and one that Clay’s friends and associates had tried to caution him about—to little avail, unfortunately. But at least it seemed he kept his sexual exploits under control on his own estate.
The one thing they did not need would be for rumors of black bastards to join the other innuendos concerning Clay’s personal character. Jackson might or might not get involved in that—always hard to know, with that man—but Crawford certainly would. Henry Clay had been using bare-knuckle tactics in his campaign for the presidency, just as he had in all his previous campaigns, and at least some of his opponents would gladly respond in kind.
Well, not “bare-knuckle.” Never that. Clay’s fists were always gloved, and in very fine gloves at that. But he never hesitated to use them, either.
As for the larger issue, slavery was simply a given. Half the nation depended on the institution economically. So there was no possibility of uprooting it now, whether or not it should ever have been created in the first place. Both Clay and Thomas Jefferson would state, quite bluntly, that if they could roll back time, they’d prefer it if slavery had never come into existence. But since they weren’t the Almighty, they couldn’t—and their own livelihoods depended on the institution.
There it sat, thus, and would continue to sit. For a practical politician and businessman like Porter, simply another factor to be considered in the ongoing political struggles in the Republic. An immovable one, however, like the seasons. Why waste time over it when nothing could be done anyway—and there were so many other more pressing issues that could be settled? One might as well demand legislation abolishing winter.
“Any further news on the killing?” he asked.
Clay smiled. “Indeed there is. The culprit has been identified, almost for sure. A certain tanner named John Brown, it seems, and several of his brothers.”
“An Ohioan?”
“Yes. Was, rather. Apparently he belongs to an extensive family of radical malcontents. A veritable tribe of abolitionists, descended from New England Puritan stock.”
Porter made a face. “Yes, I know the type. Better than I wished I did, since we have our share in New York. But, you say, he ‘was’ from Ohio?”
“A town called Hudson. His father’s still there, according to the reports I’ve received. But John Brown himself, along with his wife and children and brothers, have recently moved to…”
The smile expanded, and became a grin. Since Henry Clay had a very wide mouth to begin with, the expression looked quite shark-like. “To Arkansas, we’ve learned. He’s setting up a new tannery right along on the Mississippi, just north of the confluence with the Arkansas. A stretch of land, you may recall—good bottomland, quite well suited for cotton—that I argued at the time should not be included in the land ceded to the Cherokees in the Treaty of Oothcaloga.”
“Yes, I remember. But Houston carried that, as well.”
They were almost to the house. Porter stopped and placed a restraining hand on Clay’s elbow.
“Henry, please be careful here. Don’t forget that I was at the Chippewa, in command of the Third Brigade. Driscol was a sergeant then, in the Twenty-Second Regiment. One of the units that Scott sent directly up against the redcoats.”
“Yes, yes,” Clay said impatiently. “I recall the accounts of his exploits, after the Capitol affair. ‘Lost an arm’ for the nation, yack yack, ‘immediately raced to the capital upon hearing news of the invasion, despite his grave injury,’ yack yack; the newspapers were full of it.”
“I saw it unfold, Henry. With my own eyes. They never so much as flinched. Not even in the face of volleys from British regulars, on an open battlefield. Whereas…” Honesty was needed here. “I couldn’t keep my own men from panicking, even with woods for a cover.”
“Those were white soldiers.”
“They weren’t white at the Mississippi,” Porter replied forcibly. “Black as night, all of them—except Driscol himself. And they did the same again. Henry, you must take this man seriously.” He waved a hand at the house. “No pack of border adventurers is going to succeed, where professional soldiers like Riall and Pakenham failed.”
Clay had been frowning, as he usually did when someone raised objections to his plans. But when he heard the last, the frown vanished. In fact, he laughed aloud.
“Oh, for the love of—”
He shook his head. “This is a misunderstanding between us. Did you think I believe Crittenden’s expedition would succeed? ”
Clay glanced at the house. Gauging the distance, Porter thought, to make sure that he wouldn’t be heard by anyone there. “Speaking of whom, they may have arrived already. Let me do all the talking. But, quickly: I have no intention—never did—of being attached to this except from a distance. Nor do I expect—never did—that Crittenden would win his prize. If he does, splendid. As one of the quiet backers, I shall get credit for it soon enough. Once a feat like that is accomplished, as you well know, all secrets get tossed to the wind.”
Porter stared at him. “And if he fails? Which he almost certainly will.”
Clay shrugged, in that incredibly graceful way he did all gestures. “Even better. Don’t you see? It’ll be a cause, Peter. ‘Vengeance for…whatever the name of whatever wretched little town or bayou Crittenden gets hammered at.’ A drumbeat in the newspapers, which will provide a rhythm for my march into the president’s house.”
Porter took a long, slow, deep breath. “You’re gambling again, Henry. Can’t you ever just take straight odds?”
It was the wrong thing to say, and Porter knew it immediately. Clay prided himself on his skill at cards. As well he might, true enough—but he kept thinking politics was a card game. And he could be more reckless in politics than he was at cards, because the odds were harder to gauge.
Clay grew a little stiff. “I’ll want you to continue your efforts in New York, be assured. If you can make an arrangement with Van Buren, that would be splendid. I’l
l need either New York or Pennsylvania, and preferably both. But please do not presume to instruct me on how to win over the West. I know these people, Peter. I’ve lived here all my life. They’re besotted with martial heroics. How else to explain Jackson’s popularity when the man has no conceivable qualifications for high office beyond those of a military chieftain?”
The door opened, and Lucretia Clay emerged. “Your visitors are here, Henry. Been waiting for most of an hour.”
“Yes, darling. We’ll be right there.” Clay took Porter by the arm this time. “Come, Peter. Just let me handle it.”
SEPTEMBER 3, 1824
“It failed only this,” John Quincy Adams said softly, staring out the window of his office in the State Department. He was talking to himself, since his aide had left the room as soon as he delivered the latest report from England.
Too quickly, as it turned out, although the man was simply being courteous. Adams turned from the window and went to the door. Opening it and leaning out, he called for the same aide.
“Yes, Mr. Secretary?”
“I need to see the president. See to making an appointment, if you would.”
The man was back within ten minutes. “He says he can see you now, sir. Since it’s that pressing.”
Adams started to snap a response to the effect that he’d never said anything to the aide about the matter being “pressing.” In fact, it wasn’t, precisely.
But he held the reproof in check. Simply the fact that he’d felt something was important enough to ask for a special meeting with the chief executive, he realized, was enough for Monroe to label it as urgent. There was something of a compliment there, actually.
James Monroe was an imperturbable man, as a rule, so there was no expression on his face when he finished reading the relevant portion of the ambassador’s report. That didn’t take long, since Ambassador Rush’s prose tended to run to the terse side.
