1824: The Arkansas War

by Eric Flint

  “You’d not be a bad one, John. In some respects—foreign affairs, for a certainty—an excellent one. But, overall…Let me put it this way. I do not think you’d make the president that the republic needs in this time, this place in our history. You’re too much the intellectual, too much the executive, too much the manager.”

  Adams grimaced ruefully. “I’m certainly not much of a politician.”

  “No, you’re not. Although—” Monroe smiled for the first time since entering the room. “I do recommend you spare yourself your usual Puritanical self-condemnation, John. Consider, rather, that your many other fine qualities—superb ones, to speak frankly—have allowed you to reach a position of influence in our nation that precious few politicians have ever achieved, regardless of their skill. That is hardly something to sneer at.”

  Adams issued a soft grunt. As it happened, he’d been thinking much the same thoughts this past hour. The sole consolation for what was coming.

  “But that’s not even the point,” Monroe continued. “What the republic needs now is not another politician, either. Henry Clay is the most accomplished and talented politician in the nation. But—being as frank and open as I can—I’d far rather see you sitting in that chair for the next four or eight years than see Clay sitting there.”

  Monroe looked aside for a moment, now studying the whale-oil lamp sitting on a small table in the corner of the office. There was nothing remarkable about the lamp itself except for being finer than most, with a decorative glass base and an attractive pear-shaped font. It seemed more as if he were simply trying to extract the light from it.

  “You would make a fine president, John, if we lived in a time when the nation simply needed to be steered a course through the inevitable fog of public affairs. So would Henry Clay, being fair to the man. He’s not a brute, after all. A very fine man, in a number of ways, and many of his views are ones I share myself. The problem is simply that he can’t—never could—control his naked ambition. But if we lived in different times, his talents would probably make up for it, once that ambition was satisfied. But we don’t live in such a time. I had hopes—delusions, perhaps—that we did, when I came into this office. But I know now, eight years later, that we are entering turbulent waters, not simply foggy ones. And the turbulence will get worse before it is all over. Much worse, I fear.”

  Adams nodded. Being a rather accomplished poet, he’d have used less pedestrian metaphors himself. But perhaps that lay at the heart of the matter. Monroe was an excellent politician, and Adams was not. If the president’s imagery was mundane, so was the nature of politics, in the end. Prosaic as it might be, the language was apt.

  “Jackson, then,” he stated.

  Monroe turned back to look at him. “You’ve read Jackson’s speech of yesterday by now, I’m sure.”

  It was not a question. The chance that John Quincy Adams wouldn’t have, within a day, read—no, studied—a major speech by a major political figure was so small as to be laughable.

  In fact, Adams did laugh. Once, softly. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  “And your opinion?” The president jerked his head. “Leaving aside that perhaps grotesque coda.”

  Adams scowled. “Grotesque, indeed.”

  But he forced himself away from that comfort. It was time for the heart of the truth, and that alone.

  “It was a magnificent speech, Mr. President. In the main. But what else really matters now?”

  “Nothing,” Monroe stated flatly.

  “Yes. Truly magnificent. In fact…” It was Adams’s turn to take a slow, deep breath. “I shall not be surprised—not that I’ll live long enough to know—if posterity records it as the most important speech given in the United States in this entire decade.”

  Monroe looked away again, pursing his lips. “I hadn’t thought of it, in those terms. But you could well be right.”

  He turned his head back, his expression suddenly very stern. “Enough, John. It’s time for you to give me your opinion. Simply to say it out loud, if nothing else.”

  Adams nodded and levered himself out of the chair. There was no reason to stay in it any longer.

  “What I believe, Mr. President, is that we are entering Jackson’s time. For good or ill—or both, most likely. Truth be told, I’ve had that sense for some years now. Resenting it deeply, to be honest, but still sensing that it was probably true. Now I see it cannot be avoided at all. The difference the speech makes is very simple. On the eve of that time, the man who is best suited to lead the nation through has revealed himself to be, in every important particular, a man of deep and abiding principle. Even when those principles bring him to a distasteful conclusion, and one that requires him to stand against many—perhaps most—of his own followers.”

  He took one of those slow deep breaths that seemed, that night, to be a requirement for occupying the office. “That being the case, for me to continue to oppose his entry into this very chamber, would be—in the end, when all is said and done—no more sublime a deed than whatever Henry Clay is plotting tonight.” Harshly: “Ambition, nothing more.”

  Monroe cocked his head a little. “That’s very well said, John. And let me take this moment to tell you that you are a man I much respect and admire.”

  Adams jerked a little nod of the head. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Will you allow me to put it in my own terms?” Monroe issued his second smile of the evening. Like the first, it was a thin and fleeting thing, with more than a trace of sadness in it.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ve had years—decades—to ponder the matter. The last eight of them, as the nation’s chief executive. In the end, just as our Roman forebears knew, republics stand or fall on virtue. Simply that, nothing else. Policies might be wrong, but policies can be corrected. Let virtue fail, the republic fails. Yes, it’s Jackson time, for good or ill—so let Jackson take his rightful place. Help him or oppose him on any particular issue or question, as you will. But I can foresee no worse disaster than if, by clashing, the two principal men of virtue in today’s American republic allow another man to slide by them and take this office. I disagree with many of Jackson’s opinions and views, as you know. But I can live with Jackson. The republic can live with Jackson. Right, wrong, indifferent, or just plain mad, Jackson always has virtue. Henry Clay has none at all.”

  Adams jerked another little nod. Then, smiled. “You understand, Mr. President, that after Senator Jackson’s speech yesterday, it is very likely that Henry Clay will slide by us anyway.”

  Monroe shook his head firmly. “No, John. He won’t slide by you. He’ll win enough votes, and thus, by the rules established by our Constitution, come to occupy this office. But the Constitution does not embody the nation’s virtue, simply its political principles. So long as you and Jackson stand against him—clearly, sharply—then the nation will not be confused, except momentarily.”

  The president shrugged. “It’s impossible, for any republic that lasts for more than a few decades, to avoid the occasional Alcibiades winning the favor of the populace for a time. That matters little, so long as the republic does not come to see Alcibiades as a man of principle.”

  He waved his hand at the window, through which nothing could be seen except the reflection of the chamber’s own light. “Let Clay enjoy—if that’s the term—his four years of triumph. I think he’ll find it turns sour on him, soon enough. Even faster—if men of principle stand their ground—will he find the nation’s favor turning sour also. It’s one thing to gain office by pandering to prejudice, unreason, and blind fury. Quite another, to guide a nation based on them. The first can be done, yes. The second, not at all.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Washington, D.C.

  NOVEMBER 8, 1824

  Fortunately, Jackson was still awake. Adams had hesitated disturbing the senator so late at night. But he’d feared the consequences of waiting till the morrow. Far too easy, even for a Puritan, to find that morning’s glow sapped
resolve. Some things were best done in the middle of the night, not for the sake of its secrecy but simply because darkness had no false auras. Mornings were always treacherous times, with their ever-returning promise.

  “My apologies for the hour, Senator,” he began, as soon as a black servant ushered him into the salon where Jackson was waiting for him. “It’s just—”

  “Not at all, Mr. Secretary.” Jackson was standing in the middle of the room, his posture that familiar ramrod one. But it was simply erect, not stiff at all. He was smiling broadly and seemed inclined to be as gracious as he could often manage, sometimes to everyone’s surprise.

  “Some cordials, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you, I…” Adams peered at the row of bottled spirits on a cabinet against the wall. He waged a regular battle with himself to maintain temperate habits, and when he did drink he preferred wine, not whiskey.

  Then again, new times.

  “Well, perhaps a small whiskey.”

  “Of course.” The servant headed for the cabinet, but Jackson waved him off. “I’ll manage it, Pompey, thank you. You may retire for the evening.”

  After the servant was gone and the whiskey poured, Jackson waved Adams to the divan. “Please, have a seat.” As Adams did so, Jackson perched himself on a nearby chair.

  There was no point delaying it. If a man was to fall on his sword, it was best to do it quickly and firmly.

  “Senator Jackson, I have come to inform you that I shall be urging those who are supporting me for the presidency to vote for you instead.”

  There. It was done. No way to retract anything now. Not even the meanest scoundrel in America could do that. And Adams had always allowed, whatever else, that he was very far from that. A sinner, yes; a scoundrel, no. Certainly not a mean one.

  Jackson’s eyes widened. Slowly, he set his untouched whiskey down on a low table next to the chair.

  “Well. I will be dam—ah. Well. Tarnation, sir!”

  At least he hadn’t completed the blasphemy. Adams’s gloom lightened a bit.

  “Tarnation,” Jackson repeated. “That comes as quite a surprise. I wouldn’t have thought…”

  He paused, his bright blue eyes peering at Adams intently. “It was the speech, wasn’t it?”

  “To a degree, yes. The murder that came before it, perhaps as much.”

  The famous blue glare entered Jackson’s eyes. “Yes, that too. I’ll see that man hanged if I do nothing else in my life. Be sure of it, sir. If the laws allowed, I’d have him drawn and quartered first.”

  Adams wouldn’t flinch from that, either. “I must, however, tell you that while I admired the speech itself—greatly, in fact—I took considerable exception to the ending. I felt that was most unfortunate. Uncalled for.”

  For an instant, the fury fell on Adams. But only for an instant. The blue eyes simply became blue, a color like any other. Jackson even smiled a bit. Even ruefully.

  “Well. I’m not sure I’d agree that it was uncalled for. But, ah, perhaps unfortunate.”

  The smile returned, now with more humor in it. “For sure and certain, all my friends have been berating me for it since, I can tell you that! Still…”

  He shrugged and took a first sip of the whiskey. “What’s done is done, and I’m not a man given to fretting over the past.”

  No, that he wasn’t, for good or ill. And Adams would also allow that, in these times, that was probably to the good. For the most part, at least.

  Suddenly Jackson chuckled. “You do understand, I trust, that you just made a promise you might not be able to keep.”

  Adams frowned. “Excuse me, sir.” Stiffly: “I can assure you—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you assure me, Mr. Secretary. The people of the republic decide who’ll be the president, not you or me. What if you win an outright majority in the electoral college? How could you possibly, then, hand the office to me as if it belonged to you? When, in fact, it belongs to no man in the country, not even the one who currently occupies the office. It is the sole and exclusive property of the nation itself. Its electorate, at any rate.”

  Adams stared at him. He’d…

  Simply not considered the possibility.

  “That’s quite unlikely,” he protested, knowing full well that wasn’t Jackson’s point.

  Jackson just stared at him. Adams cleared his throat.

  “Well. I suppose I couldn’t. Given that eventuality.”

  “No, of course you couldn’t. Nor could I accept.”

  Now, Jackson was smiling very broadly. “I’m not needling you, Mr. Secretary. And I agree it’s unlikely that any of us will win an outright majority, given the political divisions in the party. I simply wanted to make sure that we understood each other.”

  Adams finally took a sip of his own drink. It was very good whiskey. The liquor was not to Adams’s particular liking, true. But…

  Very good whiskey, indeed.

  “Agreed,” he said abruptly. “But I will do so if the election is thrown into the House. That I can assure you, Senator Jackson.”

  “Call me Andy, if you would. All my friends do.”

  Trying not to be stiff—well, stiffer than necessary—Adams shook his head. “We’re not actually friends, Senator Jackson. And being honest, I rather doubt we ever will be.”

  Jackson’s cordial smile didn’t fade in the least. “Probably not, though much stranger things have happened. But I’d still prefer it if you’d call me Andy. Consider it a matter of personal preference, if it pleases you.”

  Adams thought about it. Reciprocation would be necessary, of course.

  It really was very good whiskey. He took another sip.

  “Very well. Andy. And please call me John.”

  “Right!” Jackson set his whiskey glass down. Then, actually slapped his hands together. “Oh, Lor—ah, whatever. Am I going to enjoy gutting that bastard Clay!”

  “I have to tell you, Sen—ah, Andy—that I actually doubt we can now stop the Speaker from being elected to the presidency.”

  Now Jackson was rubbing his hands together.

  “Oh, sure. My estimate is we’ve got almost no chance if it gets thrown into the House. Not after that speech I gave yesterday. Coffee and Eaton tell me I’ll do well if I can hang on to the Tennessee delegation. Pennsylvania, they think remains certain. I probably had a chance to win over some of Crawford’s and Calhoun’s support, but not now. On the other hand—here’s an interesting thing—I might still be able to take Kentucky from the bastard.”

  That was interesting. Assuming the assessment of Jackson’s advisers was accurate. But Adams knew they were a very shrewd lot, Westerners or not.

  “Yeah, it seems Kentucky’s not all that pleased with Henry Clay, be it his home state or not. Kentucky’s a border state, still more Western than Southern. Like Tennessee, really. Nobody’s at all happy at the idea of black men killing a lot of white men, sure, no matter who the white men were or what they were up to. But they haven’t forgotten that it was Henry Clay—not Patrick Driscol, not Sam Houston, and sure as Sam Hill not some negro in Arkansas—who spent his two-year retirement from the House getting rich by serving as the Bank’s main lawyer, suing people going bankrupt, and stripping every last thing from them.”

  Jackson picked up his glass and took a big swallow from it. “No, that was done by good old ‘man-of-the-people’ Henry Clay. Who now proposes to start a war using poor white men to kill poor black men so he can spend four years swindling the nation on behalf of the rich and mighty.”

  Adams couldn’t help but wince. That was exactly the sort of plebeianistic, class-against-class rhetoric that made Jackson and his followers so disliked in his own New England.

  Well. Not disliked by New England laborers, to be sure. Actually, Jackson was quite popular among such folk.

  Seeing the wince, Jackson grinned. “Relax, John. I promise you I won’t be calling for storming the Bastille. Which we don’t have in America, anyway, being a republic.”
He pointed a stiff finger at him. “But I’m not whitewashing anything, either. That’s exactly what the bastard is planning on.”

  Adams cocked his head a little, considering the matter. “Yes…and no. I agree that his rhetoric all implies that Clay, if elected president, will launch a war against Arkansas. But the truth is, Andy, I don’t think he will. Don’t forget that the core of his support—certainly his financial support—comes at least as much from Northern…ah…”

  He couldn’t help but laugh, softly. “What I believe you would call the moneyed interests.”

  Jackson laughed with him. “Oh, tarnation, no. That’s way too namby-pamby. Bloodsucking leeches comes closer. But to keep peace in the room, I’ll settle for ‘Northern upper crust.’ How’s that?”

  Adams nodded. “That’s why he’s got a fair amount of backing even in New England. None of those people—certainly not the ones close to the Bank—are going to be interested in a war with Arkansas. If anything, they’ll be inclined to oppose it.”

  Jackson finished the rest of his whiskey in a quick gulp. After setting down the glass, he shook his head. “You’re right, John, as far it goes. But that doesn’t go far enough. This is still a republic, despite all the efforts of Nicholas Biddle and the rest of that pack of Bank scoundrels to undermine it. Money counts, sure, but it’s not the trump card. Not yet, anyway—and not ever, if I get into the White House.”

  Adams tightened his lips. He himself wasn’t fond of Nicholas Biddle, the head of the Second Bank, but he agreed with President Madison—and Henry Clay—that a national bank of some sort was important for the nation’s economic well-being. However, that was a battle with Jackson that could be postponed for the moment. The Bank’s charter ran until 1836, after all. Even if Jackson got elected to the presidency, he couldn’t do much about it.

  “The point being,” Jackson continued, “that if Clay’s to win the presidency now, he doesn’t have any choice but to throw in his lot with Crawford and Calhoun. Not with you throwing your support to me, in the House.”