by Eric Flint
That aside, the new party’s program of gradual emancipation was sure to lose them all of the South itself, with the possible exception—over time, not quickly—of Maryland and the Old Dominion. That was sure to be true, even though the rest of their program would generally appeal to the poorer classes of white Southerners.
That meant, whatever else, that they needed to seize and keep the allegiance of New England—and New England would chafe at too many compromises. Outright abolitionism was growing by leaps and bounds in the region after Second Arkansas Post. A current in Delaware, it was a tide in New England.
The same was true in Pennsylvania, perhaps even more so. If Pennsylvanians were not given to Puritan posturing, they were considerably more iron-headed than New Englanders. Abolitionists might pour into meetings at Faneuil Hall in their thousands. Pennsylvania had already sent a Lafayette Battalion to Arkansas. A small one, granted, according to the news reports. More in the way of a company than anything a military man would call a battalion. But there would be more coming, if the same accounts were accurate.
Needless to say, countermoves were being planned, beginning in South Carolina and Georgia. Calls had already been issued for the formation of Cavalier Brigades to show Brown’s Raiders and the so-called Lafayette Battalions what was what on the field of valor. Even allowing for the usual Southron bombast, no one had much doubt that private military forces from Southern states would be entering the fray by next year. “Bleeding Arkansas” would soon be more than an abolitionist’s histrionic slogan.
So, for the rest—with the obvious exception—they swung over to the Vermont road. The “high road,” as Quincy Adams persisted in calling it, much to the irritation of his colleagues.
No disenfranchisement due to race or color.
No restrictions of property due to race or color.
No restrictions of movement or residence due to race or color.
In short, in one fell swoop—with the obvious exception—they proposed to eliminate the middle ground between slavery and freedom. Strike down any and all forms of exclusion laws. A black man might be a slave, or he might be free. But if he was free, he would have—legally, at least—the rights of any white citizen.
The work done, they basked in self-esteem.
For perhaps three minutes, until Richard Mentor Johnson finally spoke after days of almost unbroken silence.
John Coffee had been afraid he would.
“Gentlemen, I can’t go along with this any longer.” The Kentucky senator’s face seemed more homely than ever. But it was also set as stubbornly as any mule’s. “Not without the rest. It just sticks in my craw.”
Jackson was back at the window. The others were in their usual seats.
No one said anything. Their faces were stiff, wooden. With the exception of the two border states’ governors, anyway. Their expressions were back to that rabbit-staring-at-a-viper look.
“To Sam Hill with all of you,” Johnson said tonelessly. “I don’t care what you think. I’ve been in love with my wife since I was eighteen years old. She’s the mother of my two children. And I find, when all is said and done, that I just don’t see where all the rest means a good God-damned thing if a man can’t marry his own wife and claim his children for his own. Which I would surely like to do some time before I die. Let that hypocrite Tom Jefferson explain Sally Hemings and his bastards to the Lord when his time comes. I don’t want to have to do the same.”
“Well said,” stated Quincy Adams. “My salutations, sir.”
Coffee looked to the window. After a moment, Jackson turned around. “Yes. I agree. Add it to the list.”
Carroll threw up his hands. “Andy, for the sake of—tarnation! We throw in amalgamation, we may as well just fold up our tents right now.”
“Oh, bullshit.” Jackson nodded at Johnson. “He’s been married in all but name to a nig—negress—for a quarter of a century. And if there’s anybody—any voter—in the state of Kentucky who don’t know it, I’d like you to show me where they’re hiding. And how many times has he gotten elected, Bill? And reelected?”
The governor of Tennessee tightened his jaws. But they weren’t any tighter than those of the state’s senator. The next words from Jackson almost came through gritted teeth.
“Besides, it doesn’t matter. The thing that separates our party from—whatever you want to call that pack of scoundrels who don’t agree on much of anything except they want power—is this, before it’s anything else. You figure out what you think the republic needs. First. Then you figure out how to get enough people to vote for you. What you don’t do—ever—is go at it the other way around. Leave that to the Henry Clays of the world.”
“Well said, also,” stated Quincy Adams. “In fact, I’d like to propose a drink to that statement. Manifesto, I should rather call it.”
He bestowed the first real smile on his colleagues he’d given them since he’d arrived at the Hermitage. “Whiskey, of course.”
Even Carroll chuckled at that. But he made one last stab at it.
“How about—”
“Add it, tarnation,” Jackson growled. “ ‘No restrictions on marriage due to race or color.’ To Sam Hill with the whole business! I’ve just gotten sick of it. And the longer we argue about it, the sicker I get. In the end, you’ve got to ask yourself a simple question. What kind of democracy have you got when a man can’t make such a basic decision on his own as to which woman he marries? And if the decision he makes is one that you or me think only a lunatic would make, so be it. Every man in this room”—he gave Adams a semiskeptical glance—“except maybe the blasted Puritan over there, believes staunchly in the separation of church and state. And marriage is a matter between a man and a woman and their God. So what business has the state got sticking its nose into it?”
He waved his hand, more or less in the direction of the nation’s capital. “You know and I know what the real issue is here. It’s the same issue that’s underneath every single blasted one of these points. It’s not about marriage, just like”—here he gave Adams a frosty eagle’s look—“the Bank quarrel’s not about banking. It’s about power. You give black people that last opening—give it three generations, who’s to say what’s black in the first place?—and you throw overboard John Calhoun’s precious so-called ‘positive good.’ Slavery’s just a thing, then. A machine to make money. Nothing more, nothing less. And no machine lasts forever. Never has, never will.”
Carroll took a very deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Well…all right. We’ll take a beating, though, Andy. Don’t think we won’t.”
“Yes, I know,” Jackson replied. “I’ve taken beatings before.”
He grinned then. “But the worst one I ever took in my life came at the hands of that bear-sized bastard Benton sitting right over there. So why am I supposed to worry about what a skinny pipsqueak like Henry Clay might do?”
That brought uproarious laughter, and the whiskey came out. And stayed out, for the rest of the day and well into the night. The work was done. No one could say it wasn’t, any longer.
Toward evening, Governor Carroll approached Senator Johnson, who had joined Jackson and Coffee at the window.
“Look, Dick, I don’t want you to think there was anything personal about that. It’s just—”
Johnson smiled and shook his head. “Oh, I know that, Bill. I couldn’t hardly get too self-righteous about it anyway. Seeing as how I didn’t make up my mind until yesterday. And the truth is, it didn’t so much involve Julia in the first place. Not really.”
He seemed to be a bit embarrassed then. “What I mean is, she and I have managed well enough for a long time now. We could have gone on the same way. But the thing is…”
His voice trailed off, and his eyes went back to the window. Beyond, there really wasn’t much to be seen except sunset over the Tennessee countryside. And black people walking slowly back to the slave quarters. Their day’s work was done, too.
“I got another lett
er from Julia two days ago,” he said. “Longer one than usual.”
“How’s she holding up?” asked Coffee.
“Pretty well, actually.” He chuckled, very softly. “ ’Course, she spent the first page of the letter goin’ on and on about how much she misses me. Which I don’t doubt. But it’s pretty obvious New Antrim agrees with her quite well.”
He paused, watching the slaves. Their pace was picking up as they neared the quarters. Faster, the closer they got. That was because the word was spreading, not because they were all that eager to return. Their quarters were decent enough, as slave quarters went. Andy wasn’t the sort of plantation owner to force his slaves to live in shacks. But they were still considerably more modest—certainly more cramped—than even a frontier family’s log cabin.
“How much whiskey are you passing out?” he asked.
“As much as they want,” Jackson replied, “so long as they don’t get rowdy. Not the good stuff, of course. And I told the overseers to give them the day off tomorrow.”
A thin sort of grin came to his face. “And I’m prepared to be charitable about how I define ‘rowdy.’ So don’t be expecting too much in the way of quiet rest tonight, gentlemen. But to go back to the subject, I can’t say I’m surprised that she finds New Antrim agreeing with her. She is a black woman, Dick, even if she’s got twice as many white ancestors as black ones and her skin’s no darker than most Indians. And New Antrim is a black city. Bigger than any in the United States, now, according to the newspaper accounts, except a handful.”
He shook his head slightly. “I got to admit, I’m surprised. I wouldn’t have thought you could pack that many black folks in one place without them burning it down. Just by accident.”
“It’s pretty orderly, actually, what Julia says. But the main thing about the letter was that she turned to Imogene. It seems my daughter has formed a certain attachment to a young fellow there. Pretty serious, Julia says, even if Imogene’s still too young for any such thing.”
Jackson frowned. “Your twins are…what, Dick? Not more than fourteen, if I remember right.”
“Not even that. Thirteen. And the boy involved just turned eighteen. Julia don’t approve, of course. But…”
Johnson sighed. “Imogene’s always been the more rambunctious of the two, and she’s stubborn like you wouldn’t believe. The main thing, Julia tells me, is that he’s a nice boy. Quite a decent sort, and not one to take advantage of a girl so young. In fact, it seems he’s leaning on her to pay more attention to her studies, and she’s even obeying him. And ain’t that a laugh? I couldn’t ever do it with a stick!”
“So…”
“What’s the problem? The problem is that Julia went on for another two pages about what a splendid young fellow this here boy was. Courteous, levelheaded, responsible. He’s even an officer already, in their army. Just got promoted to captain, in fact.”
“At eighteen?” Jackson’s brow was close to thunderous. “What kind of army promotes an eighteen-year-old—? Oh.”
Johnson squinted at him. “Oh what, Andy?”
Jackson’s frown was fading quickly. “Didn’t you read Scott’s account of the battle?”
“Well, sure, but—”
“Dig it up and read it again. You’ll find your Imogene’s swain. I can even tell you his last name, though I don’t remember the first. Parker.”
He shook his head. It was one of those odd sorts of head-shakes, though. Admiring more than disapproving, mixed with something of just plain wonder. “That’s quite some boy, I can tell you that. But I see your problem.”
Carroll and Coffee were both lost, now. They’d also read the accounts of the battle, of course. But they hadn’t subjected them to the sort of fine-tooth-comb scrutiny that Andy had. Not that Jackson actually expected he’d ever be leading an army against Arkansas. But…you never knew, and an old general’s habits die hard.
Seeing their looks of confusion, Johnson got to the point. “Oh, come on, fellows. You both know Julia, as many times as you’ve visited Blue Spring Farm. When was the last time—or the first time—you ever heard her showering praise on anybody? Much less two pages worth in a letter?”
Coffee smiled. “She’s astringent that way, no doubt about it.”
Johnson was staring out the window again, his expression gloomy. “There’s only one possible explanation. This Parker boy might be a veritable paladin. But I can tell you for sure what else is true about him, that Julia just somehow never got around to mentioning in her letter. He’s black as the ace of spades, too. Only reason she’d be carrying on like that.”
“Oh.” That came from Carroll.
“Yeah. Oh.”
“Yes, Scott mentions that in his account,” Jackson added. “As negro as they come.”
He twisted his head to bring his eyes to bear on Johnson. That same frosty eagle’s look he’d bestowed on Adams earlier. “Also as valiant as they come, in whatever color. Read Scott’s report. So what do you propose to do about it, Dick?”
Johnson chuckled humorlessly. “Well, first I’ll try to talk the girl out of the foolishness. Whenever I can manage to see her next, which is Sam Hill knows when. Knowing Imogene, though…”
The sun had almost set by now. “But that’s actually why I got stubborn in the end. To go back to where we started. What it all comes down to is that I just can’t really see where anybody except the Creator who made us all has the right to pass the sins of the fathers onto their children. I hope Imogene gets more sensible about it all when she gets older. But whatever she does, I don’t ever want her having to live the lie I did. Not ever again. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.”
There was silence for a bit, until the sun finished setting. Then Jackson called for another round of drinks.
Later that evening, when Coffee had a moment alone with Jackson, he leaned over and said quietly: “I’m not all that surprised, now that I’ve had time to think about it, that you swung over to John Quincy on the matter. But I’m still surprised you did it so fast and easy.”
Jackson’s responding smile was a bit rueful. Coffee might have even called it a bit of a guilty smile. Except that “guilt” fit Andy Jackson about as well as feathers fit a bull. Whatever else Old Hickory might be, he was surely the most self-righteous man in America.
“Well…That was Houston’s doing. I’ve gotten letters from him about every week for months now.” He nodded toward Adams. “So’s John Quincy, he tells me. When Sam puts his mind to something, that blasted youngster can be awful persuasive.”
Coffee thought about it. That was true, up to a point. Sam Houston’s silver tongue was famous all over the country, and although Coffee had never read any of his correspondence, he didn’t doubt that the man’s pen was just as silvery. Still…
“Andy, you could teach stubbornness to a mule. Nobody who ever lived can be that persuasive.”
Jackson’s smile broadened and lost any trace of ruefulness. “Sure he can. When he’s got Arkansas Post on his side—and he’s writing letters to a general. Think about it, John. The question Sam kept posing was as simple as it gets. As long as Arkansas stands, the issue of slavery just can’t be ignored any longer. And did I think—really think—that Arkansas could be driven under? And if so, how? Blast that conniving youngster!”
Coffee wasn’t quite following him. “And your answer was…?”
“Of course I could whip Arkansas! The first time he asked, I sent back a short summary of how I’d do it. Pretty much the same plan Zack Taylor tried to talk those idiots in Washington around. It ain’t complicated. Stay out of that death trap in the river valley after seizing as much of the Delta as we can. Threaten them on the south, doing whatever it takes to secure a route up the Red. Then make the big thrust from the north, down the Arkansas, splitting off the Indians from the negroes. It’d all end with a siege of Fort of 98. Bloody damn business, for sure, but I’d win.”
He took a self-satisfied sip from his whiskey. “It’d work, sur
e as the sunrise. There just aren’t enough negroes and Indians in Arkansas—I don’t care how tough they are—to stand off eight million white Americans.”
He fell silent. Coffee frowned. “And…?”
“And what do you think? Sam right off sent back a letter congratulating me on my perspicacity and posed a few more questions. And did the same in all the letters that followed, until I gave up.”
Now, Coffee was completely lost. “You gave up? Why?”
“Figure it out, John. You’ve fought wars, too, right alongside me. Sit down when you get home, and start writing down everything you’d have to do to make that plan work. Figure the size army you’d need. Figure the logistics you’d need. That part’s not too hard. Then—Sam never let me off the hook, not once—start figuring out all the political changes you’d need to back all that up. By the fifth letter, I’d had martial law declared all across New England and Pennsylvania. And how do you finance the business? Nothing in the world’s as expensive as a war, especially a big one that goes on for years. By the time I got to the seventh letter—maybe the eighth—I was starting to contemplate the virtues of a national bank. So help me God, I was.”
Jackson drained the rest of his whiskey. “And there’s your answer, which Sam Houston wouldn’t let me slide away from. Yeah, sure, I could conquer Arkansas. But was I willing to pay the price? And for what?”
He waved the empty glass at the window, beyond which the slaves could be heard at their festivities. “So I could keep my slaves? Tarnation, I came into the world without a slave to my name, and the day I’ll destroy my republic in order to keep them is the day my name stops being Andrew Jackson. I can figure out ways to emancipate slaves without going broke in the process. Not easily, but I can. What I can’t do is figure out how to keep them—not for all that long—in a world that has Arkansas in it. Without gutting and skinning the republic. It just ain’t worth it, John. Simple as that.”
