Owls called beneath the stars, and sleek animals moved beneath the trees, and the forest was eternal, at one with itself. The man and the woman slept, undisturbed by nature and the creatures of nature, peaceful allies in the night. Then all was still, and the ancient moon watched huge and brilliant behind the ghostly, wind-driven pines.
Chapter IV
“Curse these prissy scribblers!” growled the man. “Curse them all to hell, and their soft arses!”
A tall, lean man with a wild white mane of hair sat in his robe in a chair in his bedroom, reading the Washington newspapers that had arrived on the overnight stage. He was soaking his leg in an iron bucket filled with hot water, which he replenished from time to time from a kettle that hung over the flames of the bedroom fireplace. In weather like this his leg never failed to act up.
Outside his great white box of a house, the elms stood dismally, suffering the rain; and all down the long drive honeysuckle and narcissus sagged, wet and heavy, sodden and despondent. There would never be any sunshine again, his leg would never stop aching and those petty, simpering, overeducated eastern newspaper liars would ruin the whole damn country if the had their way.
“The hell with that,” he grunted to himself. “They ain’t going to have their way!”
He snatched another rolled-up newspaper from the pile on the table next to him and opened it to the editorial page. His mouth tightened, his eyes darkened; with his strong, sharp nose he gave the aspect of a fierce, choleric hawk. The aspect was not softened when he read:
Under the civilizing influence of Mr. Monroe, great strides have been taken in the interests of the common weal. But the President will leave office after his second term, and unruly elements may rise up to seek power. Particularly are the western regions of our growing country to be regarded with close attention, for in these lands men have apparently chosen a champion well-known for crudity, ill-temper, violence and many such qualities that are less than well-respected in gentler salons of learning…
“What in the hell is a salon?” he groused aloud. “Or maybe it’s a misprint. But who ever heard of a gentle saloon?”
…Our choice in the election of 1824 would be Mr. Webster. John Quincy Adams would be acceptable, but it seems the Adams family regards the White House as a part of its patrimony. Samuel C. Calhoun is too much a spokesman for the southern slaveholding interests to stand much chance in a natural contest, but even he would be preferable to the egregious barbarian from Tennessee…
“Rachel!” he roared. “Rachel, come in here, will you?”
He poured some more hot water from the kettle into the iron bucket and winced when the heat struck him. Damn wound. Twenty years old and still throbbed like the dickens. He lifted his leg from the water and studied the deep blue marks where the punctures had been.
A lovely, dark-eyed woman appeared in the doorway, and the man’s face softened. Whatever else they might say about him, they could never accuse him of failing in chivalry toward the fairer sex.
“Yes, Andrew? Can I get you something?”
“Please. Have one of the darkies come here and take out this water. Soaking’s not doing any good.
Look”—he held out the newspaper—“what they’re saying about me now.”
“Oh, Andrew. Pay no attention. What can words do to you?”
“They can keep me out of the White House, that’s what!” he declared. And he already knew what vicious talk was doing to her.
She came forward and handed him a thick towel to dry his leg. “The Hermitage is white, too,” she told him, smiling tenderly. “And you’re already here.”
“Webster. Adams. Calhoun,” he snarled, rising slowly from the chair and taking his leg from the bucket. “Ouch, damn…forgive my language. Webster’s a pompous ass, and Adams is just an ass, and the only good thing about Calhoun is he knows how to treat the darkies!”
“I know,” she said, teasing him. “And not one of them ever fought in an Indian war.”
“I want the White House in 1824!” he declared.
Rachel sat down suddenly on a low couch next to the great bed; and although he did not let her see it his glance was concerned. Her health was failing. If he had to wait until 1828 to make his move, she might not…She was weakening. She was being killed by the innuendos, the vile accusations…
No, he did not want to think of it. He would try for the big prize in ’24 and present her with it, as he had so many times before won victories—for his own glory, true enough, but as gifts for her as well. But would he be able to put the westerners together for a national effort in the few years that remained? He was a hero, sure, and he knew how to use being a her for political gain—but was there enough unity yet? Were there enough people yet? There ought to be more here on the frontier, but those Indians still caused so much trouble, and people were afraid.
“Crude, ill-tempered, violent,” he growled, drawing on his breeches.
“What’s that?” his wife inquired.
“That’s what that Washington rag says. Do you think I’m crude, ill-tempered, and violent?”
“Of course, darling,” she said, “and everyone else thinks so, too. That’s why you’re the greatest man in Tennessee.”
“In all America!” he amended with a growl, then paused and laughed at himself, went over to the couch, bent down, and kissed her gently on the mouth.
“Ummmmm!” she sighed happily. “So crude.”
He smiled down at her indulgently. They had been through so much. He could take it, but the talk hurt her. Rachel had thought everything was settled and that the divorce had been finalized. And it was—now—but too late to stop the ceaseless wagging of scandal-moving tongues, or the more calculated maneuvers of tongues honed for politics.
Andrew Jackson knew politics. He was bound and determined to be president of the United States. A man with little formal education, he was strong and clear minded, even brilliant; and in the company of refined people he could speak as well as any of them. But he was a rough-and-ready frontiersman, who knew the harsh country language, and knew, too, that to win the votes of his fellow frontiersmen, it was necessary to speak their language. This he did with considerable enjoyment. It was his natural tongue. He had not become Old Hickory by aping “them mealy-mouthed pussyfooters” in the East.
He was drawing on his long, floppy boots now, and muttering about the pain.
“I wish you’d let someone polish those boots,” Rachel said, glancing with dismay at the battered footwear.
“What’s the point?” he said. “They’d just get scuffed again.”
That was true, but it was not the real reason he did not keep his boots polished. When young Jackson was a captive of the British during the Revolutionary War, an enemy officer had demanded that he polish the officer’s boots. Andrew had refused, and for his defiance he had received a blow on his face that left a scar he carried to this very day. He could chronicle his life by the scars on his hard, lean body. And to this day, too, he did not think it was right for one man to shine another man’s boots, not even a slave. What difference did polished boots make anyway? Them Indians would just see the shine in the trees, and you’d wind up with an arrow in your gizzard.
He could see, he could just imagine, that feckless Quincy Adams mincing around in mirrored boots!
“What will you be doing today?” Rachel asked.
“Oh, not too much. There’s one of the darkies needs flogging. He shoed a horse wrong, horse threw-the shoe, broke its leg, and had to be put down. I have to watch the idiot get the lash, so the rest know I take it serious. Then a man is coming up from southern Tennessee. Indian trouble down there.”
“Will you have to go out again?” Rachel asked, a worried look on her face. She knew that her husband was in charge of the militia, and that it was his duty to protect the white settlers, but she always worried.
“I don’t know yet. Have to hear the fellow out first. Rupert Harris is his name. Hasn’t come yet, has he?”
“I haven’t heard anyone ride up today.”
“Let’s have some breakfast then.”
“I…ah…you go ahead. I’ve…already eaten.”
He sensed that she hadn’t eaten, wasn’t feeling well. But he did not press the point. Instead he went down to the long dining room. Servants appeared immediately, all of them darkies. The Lord knew what he was doing when he made masters and servants, Jackson thought. Darkies were the same as Indians, except you could train them to do menial tasks. An Indian would just spit in your eye and cut his own throat to spite you. Hell, taken pound for pound, he actually liked Indians better. Least they would fight. Caused him a lot of trouble, though.
“Pot of coffee,” he grumbled. “Stack of wheat cakes, and don’t forget to melt the butter. Fry me some ham, too, hey?”
The slaves rushed out to fulfill his commands, and he walked over to the oaken sideboard, took out a decanter, and swigged a couple of good slugs of bourbon. He felt better. Even his leg felt a little better. Outside, the clouds were moving fast, and it looked like the weather might clear up. Could turn out to be a halfway decent day.
He attacked a pile of wheat cakes and thought of the political situation. Not a learned man—they attacked him for that, too—he was remarkably intuitive. That, and a sure sense of timing, along with great personal courage, had always made him one to be reckoned with, and even those feckless easterners with their accents and their college degrees—hell, they knew it. They could study a problem to death, study their arses off, and come around the bend with some harebrained solution, only to find Old Hickory sitting there by the side of the road, with the problem—whatever it was—already taken care of. That’s the way he worked. And, wolfing his breakfast, his mind worked in precisely that manner.
Politically, how is the West to become powerful enough to elect its own president—me—over the opposition of the South and the East?
Answer: We need more people.
What’s responsible for holding up a lot of people who might move on out and settle here? Who’s responsible?
The goddamn red men!
What to do about it?
Run the devils out of the country. Hell, there must be someplace for them to go. Send them out west, beyond the Mississippi. There was a lot of empty land out there.
This, in fact, was what he’d suggested to Monroe: an Indian Removal policy. It was supposed to be policy, too; but it looked to Jackson as if diffident James had scruples. He sure seemed to be dragging his feet on the implementation, anyway. And, damn it the whole thing was very touchy. Had to be done, though. If the Indians weren’t relocated, there would be constant war, and eventually the Indians would be outnumbered, wiped out, obliterated.
Even Jackson couldn’t see the sense of that.
The bastards were brave, you had to say that for them, and a brave people oughtn’t be totally wiped out. ’Less, of course, they get around to thinking they can wipe you out.
He gulped some coffee, dumped some bourbon in the cup, added more coffee, and gulped it down, too. Then he put on his leather jacket and a wide-brimmed hat and went outside. The air was still pretty damp, but the rain had stopped. Jackson went down to the barns, and Rufus, the black overseer, ran to meet him.
“Mornin’, Ginral.”
“Let’s get it over with,” Jackson said. “Haul Floyd out of the smokehouse and stretch him up on the branch of that tree.”
Floyd, who had been responsible for the horse’s death, had been locked up overnight in the smokehouse, which was used for curing meat. Probably had eaten himself half a ham, too.
“Ginral, I…”
“Horse was worth more than he is. Summon all the darkies. They ought to see it. We’ll use the cobbin first.”
The cobbin was a flat board with holes drilled in its surface to raise blisters. First the victim was beaten with the cobbin, and then a whip was used to break the blisters. There was a lot of blood. The process served to discourage errant behavior among the other darkies.
“But Ginral-”
“Rufus, what is it?”
The overseer hung his head. “Ginral, Floyd’s done gone an’ busted out, an’ run away…”
He let his voice trail off. Running away was punishable by death, according to statute, though often owners, not wishing to lose a slave, simply doubled the number of lashes they would usually have given. A hundred strokes was not uncommon.
“When?” Jackson demanded, cold with fury.
“Musta been sometime last night.”
“Somebody must’ve let him out,” Jackson decided. “That door is thick and that lock is strong. Take meat with him?”
Rufus nodded miserably. He might be blamed for Floyd’s unauthorized departure. “Took him a half-side o’ pork, Ginral.”
“Well, we’d best mount up and find the trail. Shouldn’t be hard. He’s probably sleepin’ with a full belly no more’n a mile away.”
Jackson turned and started back toward the house. He would never think of leaving the Hermitage without telling his beloved Rachel where he was going, and why. Damn leg, riding would be no picnic today. After all these years he remembered the village of Talking Rock. A mess, it had been. Everything had gone wrong, everybody crazy, and then this woman, this white woman of all things, had come charging at him with that pitchfork. Would have killed him, too, no denying, and he knew it. If only it hadn’t happened so fast, if he’d had time to feint, push her aside, something…
Her face was burned into his memory; he would never forget it. A lovely thing, she had been, and fought him like a—
Like an Indian.
Why?
Jackson still didn’t know, and he probably never would. Scowling, he looked across his yard at the big house he loved, and the rich lands beyond it. Maybe Rachel was right. Hell, she was right. Why did he want to be president anyway?
But the answer was easy. Because the people—his people, soldiers and farmers and the rugged real men of the frontier—wanted him to be.
And he wanted to be, too. Show them easterners how much better the country would be if the common man had a crack at running it.
Then he saw the horseman coming up the drive. The fellow was coming pretty slow, and Jackson saw the reason. Stumbling along next to the horse, one end of a rope around his neck and the other end tied to the saddle horn, was Floyd, the runaway slave.
“Holy be!” Jackson said, and waited in the yard until the man rode up. A big-looking, mean-looking type, with a wild red beard, he leaped from his black horse and approached Jackson with a huge hand outstretched—a behemoth, with a sharp glint of authority in his gaze.
“General, sir, it’s an honor. Rupert Harris at your service.”
“Honor for me, too,” Jackson grunted, shaking hands. He hated ceremony, or being made a fuss over. “What you got there?” He jerked his thumb at dismal Floyd, who stood head bowed, rope around his neck, like a lost soul. Rufus and some of the other slaves were peering around the corners of barns and sheds to see what would happen. For all they knew, Floyd was already a dead man.
“I was riding up, saw smoke from a fire not far off in the trees, and went to take a look. Saw this here nigger sitting there, happy as a pig on Sunday, stuffing his mouth with meat. Told me he’d been given a free day by his overseer, an’ was just taking some ease.”
“Hah!” Jackson said.
“So I subdued him, tied him up, an’ brought him along. Who’s he belong to?”
“Me,” Jackson said.
A sense of advantage came immediately to Rupert Harris’s hard face. I have done a favor for an important man, now he’ll have to reciprocate someday. Jackson saw the expression and knew what it meant. He had seen it many times before on the faces of many others. It meant Harris was no less corrupt, and no more virtuous, than anybody else, and such a thing was comforting to know. Harris was not to be trusted totally. Pleased with this knowledge, Jackson explained about the horse he’d lost due to Floyd’s stupidi
ty.
“What’s the penalty in these parts?”
“Hangin’,” Jackson snapped, walking over to Floyd. “Or sometimes a hundred lashes and cut off an ear when it’s over.”
Floyd began to whimper. Harris came over and grabbed one of his ears. “How about this one?” Floyd’s eyes were bouncing around like big brown marbles.
“I hate to hang anybody, unless it’s necessary,” Jackson said. “This darkie here, dumb as he is, can still chop cotton with a hoe.”
“If there’s punishment to be meted out, I’ll be glad to have a hand in it,” growled Harris with ominous eagerness.
Something about the man’s alacrity, if not his presumption, startled Jackson slightly, but he gave no sign.
“No, no,” he said. “You’re my guest here. Rufus!” he called, “take Floyd here an’ lock him up again. Put some chains on him this time, so he don’t get away. We’ll ventilate his back later on. I got a visitor now.”
“So how are things down there in Harrisville?” Jackson asked his crude but imposing guest.
They’d gone out onto the verandah. On a table between the two low chairs in which they lounged was a silver pitcher filled almost to the brim with mint julep.
Rupert Harris took a hefty swallow of his drink, wiped his mouth on the back of a sleeve, and allowed as how things were going pretty well in his town, indeed, “’ceptin’ for the Chickasaw.”
“Oh?”
“Murdered a party of farmers coming to join our settlement, just a couple days ago. Only two managed to get through.”
“Two survived?”
“Yup. Man and woman. He’s from Virginia. Randolph’s his name.”
“What part of Virginia?”
“Charlottesville, he says.”
“Well. The Randolphs are important people there. He could be related to Edmund Randolph. Mention anything about it?”
Harris seemed momentarily displeased that Randolph was of a family known and admired by Old Hickory. Rupert himself had apparently made a negative judgment about the man.
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