1824: The Arkansas War (61 page)

William Carroll, governor of Tennessee. Joseph Desha, governor of Kentucky. There was no one here representing the state government of Missouri, because the elected governor had just died a couple of months earlier and his successor wasn’t known yet.

Both men looked more like rabbits paralyzed by the sight of a viper—or a dragon—than anything else he could think of. Coffee couldn’t really blame them. In the United States of America, in the year 1825, the states were more often than not the battlefields upon which the political wars were fought. A proposal—not even that yet, just a question—that frightened presidents and senators and congressmen could be downright petrifying for a governor.

Jackson spoke first, still looking out the window. His tone was quite mild. “Let’s start with this, John. Under no conditions will I support outright abolition. Not even on a state level, much less a national one. First, because I detest abolitionists. Second, because I don’t think it would work anyway. Third, because”—he had a crooked smile, now—“fine, I’ll be honest. I can’t afford it myself.”

“Agreed,” said Adams immediately. “To make something clear, Senator Jackson—or anyone here—I have no fondness for abolitionism myself. Never have had, despite what some people insinuate.” He shrugged heavily. “The truth is, being blunt, I don’t care much what happens to negroes. They are not my race of men, and I’ve never seen much evidence that leads me to question the general assessment of their capabilities. But that’s not the point. The problem with slavery, so far as I am concerned, is not its effect upon negroes. The problem is its effect upon
us.
It is corroding the republic, gentlemen. Like venom from a viper. Sooner or later, it will sweep the republic under, in all but name, or it will tear it apart.”

Carroll started to protest. “I think that’s more than a bit—”

“No, he’s right,” said Jackson quietly. He still hadn’t taken his gaze from the countryside beyond. “I didn’t use to think so, either, Bill. But John’s right. Arkansas changed everything. Or maybe it’s better to say that Arkansas stripped away the blinders. Where do you want to start? States’ rights? Calhoun and his people are already demanding that the federal post has to be closed to abolitionist literature.”

“But you said—wasn’t but—”

Jackson waved his hand impatiently. “I know what I said. Didn’t seem like such a bad idea to me, once. Stinking abolitionists. But haven’t you been paying attention? Now they’re claiming that even the reports being filed by Cullen Bryant—even Scott!—are ‘abolitionist.’ ”

Finally, he turned away from the window. Some fury was coming into his eyes. “And don’t that cap the climax? Winfield Scott, who whipped the British at the Chippewa and almost lost his life at Lundy’s Lane, has to shut his mouth and not tell the country the truth about its military affairs—so that John Calhoun, who never once in his life put himself in harm’s way for the sake of the republic, isn’t discomfited on his plantation. No different, I tell you—no different at all!—from those damn traitors in New Orleans!”

He gave the room a sweeping gaze much like the one Adams had just given it. Allowing for a fifty-degree increase in temperature. “No, sir! Be damned if I’ll support that!”

His eyes met those of John Quincy Adams, then, and the two men exchanged a quick, hard nod.

So, it was all over but the shouting.

Well, all over but the dickering. There’d be days of that, still.

John Coffee thought about his own reaction and was a bit surprised at what he found.

Simply relief. A man could live with a reptile, even place his own well-being in the creature’s care. That wasn’t easy, but it could be done. What was truly hard—exhausting, after a while—was the need to keep insisting the scaly damn thing was warm and furry. As if it were a pet instead of a vicious wild beast that could turn on you at any moment.

By midafternoon, two days later, they finally agreed on a modification of New York’s method of gradual emancipation. Quincy Adams dragged the negotiations out for at least half a day, all but calling them a pack of cowards. New York had taken longer to free its slaves than any of the Northern states except New Jersey. In fact, they still weren’t all free. There were hardly any negroes remaining who were affected by those particular curlicues in a set of laws that was riddled with curlicues, true enough. But, technically, the last slave in New York wouldn’t be free until 1827.

But Coffee knew—everybody knew—that was just Quincy Adams’s way of applying the goad. Fine for him to advocate the Vermont or Massachusetts approach, when slaves had never featured significantly in those colonies and states to begin with. The legislative program they were trying to develop had the border states as their principal target, and slavery was prominent in those states.

So, they felt the New York model would be more palatable, given that New York had had a large number of slaves through most of its history. In fact, until very recently, there had been more slaves in New York City than in any city in the nation, including Charleston, South Carolina. Nor was that simply a reflection of the fact that New York was by far the largest city. It was estimated that, as late as the end of the century, one out of four households in the city had owned slaves.

There was the further advantage, using the New York model, of having Martin Van Buren’s expertise—no small thing, when it came to what would surely be bitter infighting in Congress.

Not that the issue would really be decided in Congress. Jackson, a firm advocate of states’ rights, was adamant that no emancipation program of any kind could be applied to the nation as a whole. The new party could legitimately use Congress only as a podium from which to expound its views. The battles themselves would have to be won in the separate states, one at a time.

In practice, that meant Tennessee and Kentucky within a year or two, with Missouri to come later. The issue of slavery was still a sore point in Missouri because of the Missouri Compromise. Benton warned them that it would take, in his estimate, at least four years before any Missouri legislature would be willing to seriously contemplate the notion.

You never knew, though, he added. More and more German immigrants were coming into the state, and wherever Germans went, support for slavery was sure to drop. Drastically, at times. What was perhaps more important, however, was the uncertain variable of the Arkansas War.

Arkansas had forced the issue—and Arkansas might very well continue to set the pace and determine the parameters. If for no other reason than the simplest and crudest. The longer and more successfully a mostly black nation could defend its independence, the more difficult it became for any white man in America—even John Calhoun—to persist in the claim that black people were incapable of managing their own affairs.

That was the ancient formula, even older than the dangers of a Praetorian Guard. A nation might produce no poets, no philosophers, no inventors, no scientists, no statesmen, no theologians, no sculptors—no barbers and butchers and bakers, for that matter. But if it could beat down anyone who tried to conquer it, no one could claim that it didn’t produce men.

Poets and philosophers might weep over that crude arithmetic. But Andrew Jackson was neither, whatever John Quincy Adams’s pretensions might be. He had no trouble with it at all. He had subscribed to the formula in full since the age of thirteen, when he told a British officer who commanded him to shine his boots that he’d not do it. He still had the scar on his forehead from the officer’s ensuing saber cut—but he’d never shined the boots.

CHAPTER 41

On the following day, having settled the core question, the founders of the new National Democratic-Republican Party—such was the title they decided upon—were seized by a bolder spirit. Or perhaps it was simply that they could calculate a different arithmetic. That was certainly true of Van Buren.

With the political authority gathered at that founding convention of the new party, its leaders were quite confident that they could win in Tennessee, Kentucky, and Missouri. Not easily, no, but win they would. And they’d win Delaware, too, perhaps even sooner than Missouri. The Quakers and Methodists were influential in that state. The Quakers had long been antislavery, and the Methodists had been moving steadily in that direction. Arkansas Post—the whole Arkansas situation—was turning the Methodist drift into a powerful current.

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 letter 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!”