by Eric Flint
Quite possibly fatal.
Besides, he was too relieved by the latest news to give much thought to Jackson.
CHAPTER 23
Washington, D.C.
NOVEMBER 8, 1824
“Well, breathe easy, gentlemen,” said Adam Beatty, as soon as he entered the dining room of the boardinghouse. “They found him.”
Henry Clay, who had been slumped in a chair gazing out the window, came erect immediately. “They caught the bastard?”
Beatty shook his head. “Well, no, they didn’t catch him. It looks like he made his escape from the city. But they know for sure who did it. No question, apparently.”
He smiled so widely it was almost a grin. “What’s important is…He wasn’t one of ours. A Radical, it seems. One of Crawford’s people. Well, not directly. From what I was told, there’s no evidence he was active in Crawford’s campaign. But those were definitely his sympathies.”
Most of the other men in the room were starting to smile, too. Porter wasn’t, though—and he was glad to see that Clay wasn’t, either. In fact, Clay’s expression was darkening fast.
“No, Mr. Beatty!” the Speaker snapped. “What’s important here is that an innocent young woman was foully murdered on the very steps of our nation’s Capitol. What in Sam Hill is wrong with you?”
That wiped the smiles off. Clay glared around the table. “For the sake of all that’s holy, gentlemen. Yes, I want to be in the White House, and you want me there. But if I ever see you gloating again because a young woman’s murder can’t hurt us politically, I shall ask you to leave my company at once. And don’t return. Is that understood?”
The nods came as fast as the smiles had vanished. Clay could be as gracious and charming as anyone in the world when he wanted to be—which he usually did. But there was a very sharp edge to him, also, as any number of rambunctious young congressmen had learned when they thought heedlessly to cross lances with the Speaker of the House. Clay had not dominated that very unsubmissive chamber of legislators for years by being unable or unwilling to crack the whip, when need be.
Beatty had taken a seat, now, doing everything in his power to look as inconspicuous as possible.
There was perhaps half a minute of strained silence. Then, sighing, Clay slumped back in his chair again.
“Henry, I’m sorry—” Beatty began.
Clay waved off the apology. “Never mind, Adam. Didn’t mean to bite your head off. It’s just…Dear God, what a horrible thing to have happen. I think Maria Hester was the president’s favorite child, too, even if he’d never admit it. I don’t want to think what he’s going through, right now.”
Josiah Johnston made a face. “She was certainly my favorite of his daughters. The other, Eliza…”
He left off the rest. Eliza Hay, Monroe’s oldest daughter, was rather notorious in Washington. A very attractive and intelligent woman, to be sure. Also very vain, and given to being haughty and sarcastic. Maria Hester had been much the more charming of the two.
Silence, again, for a minute or so. Then Clay sat up straighter in his chair.
“Very well. The needs of the nation continue, after all. So what’s the news, Adam?”
This time, very wisely, Beatty gave his report with neither smiles nor commentary. “It’s been clearly established that the culprit was a certain Andrew Clark. From a family—rather prominent, it seems—in Savannah, Georgia. His father owns a large plantation in the area.”
“Clearly established—how?” Porter asked.
Beatty shook his head. “I don’t know the details, Peter. I got the news from a reliable source in the War Department. But there are definitely eyewitnesses to the man’s making threats about Houston. Had been since he arrived in the city a fortnight ago, it seems. Nobody took much notice of it, because…”
He shrugged. There were plenty of taverns in some quarters of the capital, patronized by Southern gentlemen, where damning the traitor Sam Houston and wishing all manner of ill upon him went with practically every round of whiskey. Nobody took much notice of it, not even the ones doing the damning and cursing. That type of Southern gentleman issued bloodcurdling threats routinely on every controversial subject imaginable, as casually as other men commented on the weather.
“The description fits, too,” Beatty continued, “all the way down to that bizarre hat and cloak. And when the hat was shown to the man’s landlady, she identified it as being his.”
“What’s the connection to Crawford?” asked Johnston.
“Nothing direct, as I said. He doesn’t seem to have been active in the campaign. It’s more a matter of being an extreme Radical.”
Porter grunted. “Why call him a Crawford man, then? More likely to be an admirer of John Randolph.”
Obviously still smarting from Clay’s rebuke, Beatty opened his mouth and closed it. His expression was a bit like that of a stubborn child, wisely silent after a parent’s chastisement but not having changed his mind any.
Clay’s broad mouth quirked into something that bordered on a smile. “Oh, fine, Adam. Say it.”
Beatty’s words came out in something of a rush. “Look, Henry, I apologize if my earlier remark was unseemly. But, blast it, it’s true. It would have been a disaster if this bastard had been associated with us. As it is…”
Johnston picked up the cue. “Just being a known extreme Radical is enough. Who cares what he thought of Crawford himself, Peter? Much less Randolph. Randolph’s not the Radical candidate for president. Crawford is. That’s what counts. Everybody’s furious about this, regardless of what they thought about Sam Houston. But it won’t come down on our heads.”
“In fact,” Beatty added, “it makes Jackson’s grotesque performance yesterday look worse than ever.”
Clay gave him a sharp look. Not a hostile one, though, more in the way of cold calculation. “You think so?”
Beatty’s detestable hearty bluffness was returning, alas. “For sure and certain, Henry! Why, the man practically threatened to kill you, and you had nothing to do with it at all. So why’d he attack you instead of Crawford?”
Porter tightened his jaws. That had to be one of the stupidest comments he’d ever heard. The reason Jackson had gone after Clay instead of Crawford—could even a dimwit not grasp this?—was that Clay had helped fund the Crittenden expedition, and Crawford had had nothing to do with it. That had been the subject of Jackson’s speech. He’d said nothing about Mrs. Houston’s murder.
On the other hand…
Grudgingly, Porter allowed that Beatty might be right, if not for the reasons he advanced. Whatever else, the murder had horrified everyone in Washington. The reasons behind it meant less than the sheer brutality of the deed itself. Which meant that the emotional reaction was likely to spill against…
Ironically enough, Andrew Jackson, the man the dead woman and her husband had named their firstborn son after. Not because anyone thought Jackson had any connection to the murderer but simply because he, more than any other candidate, exemplified that capacity for violence in the first place. Did a nation that had just witnessed the daughter of its president shot down on the steps of the Capitol want that president’s successor to be a man who’d killed another in a duel? A man who’d once held a gunfight in a hotel with the Benton brothers?
“It’s over,” Beatty predicted. “It’s all over but the shouting.”
Clay’s expression was darkening again. Hastily, Johnston interjected: “Well, no, Adam. There’s a funeral first, remember? Tomorrow.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.”
Later that afternoon, Clay spoke in private to Porter.
“Jackson put up five thousand dollars for that reward; am I right?”
Porter nodded.
“Fine. Then I’ll put up ten.”
Porter started to shake his head, but Henry had already seen the problem.
“No, no, that won’t do. It would make it seem as if I were engaged in a petty contest with Jackson. But I can put up an equa
l amount, I think. See to it, would you, Peter?”
John Quincy Adams worked later than usual that day, well into the evening. Not because there was anything particularly pressing to be done, but simply because he couldn’t think of anything better to do.
By eight o’clock, he decided it was time to go home. On his way out, however, a sudden impulse led him to the president’s office. Monroe was not in, having spent the entire day in the private quarters of the house with his wife and surviving daughter and his grandchildren. And Houston.
The same impulse—half sensed, not understood—led Adams into the office itself, and to the window behind the president’s desk that Monroe liked to look through.
Perhaps a minute later, Adams discovered himself sitting in the president’s chair. He’d been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t even realized he’d done so.
He began to rise immediately, but froze halfway through. That half-felt, not-understood impulse had come into sudden focus. So, sighing softly, he sat back down again.
There was still a duty to be performed this day. Not one that John Quincy Adams wanted to perform, nor one that suited him well at all. But, whatever else, he was not a man who had ever shirked duty.
He spent perhaps an hour lost in his thoughts again. Only a small sound at the doorway brought him out of them.
Turning his head, he saw that James Monroe was standing there. Instantly flushing, Adams rose from the chair.
“Mr. President. Ah…my apologies. I don’t know what I was thinking. Please excuse my impertinence—”
“It’s fine, John,” Monroe said softly. He came into the room, waving his hand a bit. “Sit back down again. Why not? You may very well be sitting in that chair for four years, come March. Possibly eight. No reason not to see if it suits you.”
Monroe’s face seemed more drawn than usual, but it was hard to tell. The president was a man with such self-control that he would have been the envy of any Roman stoic.
Adams didn’t know quite what to say. He’d already visited the family earlier that day to extend his condolences. Repeating them again would seem…
Not like John Quincy Adams. For the same reason, the impulse to ask Monroe how he was managing died stillborn. For all the mutual respect between them, there had never been much in the way of personal intimacy between Adams and the president. Monroe was rarely given to such; and Adams, still less.
Monroe was at the window now, looking out over the darkened city. Not that he could actually see it. With the lamp in the corner shining against the windowpane, he could see only his own reflection.
Fortunately, it was always possible to ask about women. “How is Mrs. Monroe doing, sir?”
“Not well, as you might imagine,” the president replied softly. “Her health has not been good for some time, as you know. This…”
He drew in a long deep breath. “This was as bad as anything that could have happened. Fortunately, Eliza is with her, and bearing up well.”
Adams nodded. As was true of most people, he didn’t much care for the president’s oldest daughter—only daughter, now—but she was certainly a woman of strong character.
“And Mr. Houston?”
Monroe took another long deep breath. “I’m more concerned about Sam, immediately.”
“Is he…”
Monroe shook his head. “No, John. He isn’t drunk. I don’t believe he’s done so much as glance at a bottle of whiskey. He’s spent most of the past day with his son, trying to explain to a four-year-old that he’ll never see his mother again.”
There might have been a slight catch to Monroe’s voice, right there at the end. A very subtle thing, though, if it had been there at all.
Adams frowned. “Then…What’s the nature of your concern, if I might ask?”
Monroe’s head turned, half facing Adams. “Never forget that Sam Houston is Scots-Irish, John. Perhaps the most warmhearted and good-natured Scots-Irishman who ever lived, true. But he’s still of that stock. Which is one that is given to rage, and dark furies, and forgives very little—and that slowly if at all.”
“Ah. You think he’ll take out after the murderer?” A worse possibility occurred to Adams. Andrew Jackson wouldn’t be the only man who’d think to lash out at a political opponent as detested as Henry Clay.
Monroe might have smiled slightly, then. If so, the smile came and went almost instantly.
“No, John. Don’t underestimate my son-in-law. I’ve come to know him quite well, these past years. He’s a man who thinks…very large thoughts. No, he’ll not seek his revenge on the man who murdered his wife. Should he happen to encounter him, of course, he’d certainly kill him. But he’ll let the law handle it, otherwise.”
He was silent for a moment: “But I’m much afraid, in the mood he’s in, he will seek revenge on the nation he holds responsible for Maria Hester’s death in the first place.”
Adams’s eyes widened. “But how…Ah.”
That, too, suddenly brought many things into focus. “He’s right, actually, Mr. President. In a way, at least.”
Monroe took yet another one of those long slow breaths. “Yes, I know he is.” For the first time, a genuine sadness entered his voice. “He most certainly is. Only a nation—a republic, to make it worse—that was mad enough to place slavery at its foundation could produce such a monster as Andrew Clark. And the madness is growing, John, year by year. Fueled by greed: the greed glowing hotter as more and more cant and hypocrisy is piled upon it, the flames then fanned by men like John Calhoun. With, now, even men like Henry Clay aiding and abetting the madness, for no purpose more sublime than personal ambition.”
Another long slow breath. Then, quietly, sadly: “I have often wondered if my mentor and friend Thomas Jefferson was right when he foresaw a terrible vengeance by a just God. Now I know he was. I saw the proof of it yesterday, in my daughter’s bloody corpse.”
There might have been a slight tremor in the last few words. Perhaps not. Monroe’s stoicism was truly exceptional.
“And yet…” The president shrugged. “And yet it continues, since very few men—and I am not included among them—have the courage to stand squarely against it. And, again, for no better reason than greed.” His lips twisted a bit. “Well, perhaps that’s too harsh. Economic and financial strain, more often—but is that really any better than naked greed?”
He’d had his hands clasped behind his back. Now he brought them to the fore and looked down upon them. “I can see my daughter’s blood on my own hands if I look closely enough. I am in debt, as I’m sure you know. Most Southern gentlemen are, especially if they’ve spent as many years in public service as I have.”
Adams had known that of Monroe’s personal situation, although he didn’t know any of the details. Public office was not very remunerative in the American republic, even in high posts, and many of the expenses had to be borne by the officeholder out of his own purse. Unless a man was an outright thief—which Monroe himself was certainly not, though some of the men who’d risen to prominence with him might be so accused—he’d soon enough find his personal finances badly strained.
Adams himself suffered from the problem, despite the frugality of his Puritan New England upbringing. Almost no Southern slave-owning gentleman ever managed to get out from under a small mountain of debt, even if he devoted himself entirely to his plantation. The manner of the Southerners’ lives, their habits, their customs—not to mention the vagaries of any agriculture, and their dependence on English financiers and brokers—made it effectively impossible.
A few managed. George Washington had gotten completely out of debt and had turned away from plantation agriculture as the source of his sustenance, to make sure that he’d remain debtless. So, he was one of the very few slave-owners who’d freed all his slaves in his will. A few others had done so, here and there. At least one of them had freed all his slaves and then moved to Ohio so he could get away from slavery altogether.
But such were a rarit
y. Most Southern gentlemen were in debt from the time they reached their maturity to the day they were lowered into their graves—and the debts were then inherited by their offspring. Which meant that the same profligate, wasteful, slave-based plantation economy that had placed them in lifelong debt to begin with would continue, generation after generation. So long as a man retained his plantation and his slaves, he could, at the very least, find a creditor willing to lend him more money.
“So,” Monroe continued, “I shall no more be able to free my own slaves upon retiring from this office than Thomas was before me. Once you set Mammon upon your shoulders, ridding yourself of the demon becomes impossible. Unless you’re prepared to become a pauper, at least, which few men are. Certainly I am not one of them.”
There was more of fatalism in Monroe’s tone than Adams had ever detected before. Not surprisingly, perhaps, given that the man was coming to the end of many decades of a life given over to the service of the republic. In four months, James Monroe would become a private citizen and, now at the age of sixty-five, would almost certainly remain one for the rest of his life. Whatever he could do, he had done. Whatever he had failed to do, he could not do now. Whatever he had harmed, he could no longer repair.
None of which was true of John Quincy Adams himself.
And so, now, it was time. As difficult as the task might be for a man like Adams. But he would not shirk his duty.
“Do you think I would make a good president?” he asked abruptly. Then, raising his hand sharply: “Please, James. I know it’s an uncivil question. But I really need your opinion. I can’t think of any man who’d know better. Certainly not one who no longer has any personal stake in the issue.”
Monroe turned from the window to face Adams squarely. His hands, as if by automatic reflex, clasped behind his back again.
“Yes, I understand.” He thought for a moment. Not, obviously, to ponder the question, but simply pondering the right words for an answer.
