American Blood (8 page)

"It would be very unfair," remarked Sterling,
"to suggest that my friend Delgado is any less a patriot to his country because he does not support its present government than are our own Whigs, who decry 'Mr. Polk's War.' "

"I certainly did not mean to suggest any such thing," said Pilcher hastily.

"Our young friend has hit the mark," said Benton. "Tyrants rule Mexico. They are concerned only with their own aggrandizement. As everyone knows, I deplore the outbreak of war. I have consistently spoken for peace. It was my most fervent desire that our two nations might negotiate a mutually satisfactory settlement of the boundary disputes, as well as the rightful claims of our citizens against Mexico, which, I might add, are grossly inflated by President Polk. But, as you are aware, Mexico refused to even receive our envoy, Mr. John Slidell. And she broke off all diplomatic relations subsequent to our annexation of Texas."

"Yet you voted in the affirmative for the president's declaration of war and the appropriations bill for raising a volunteer army," said Sterling.

"I did indeed, and I was not the only member of Congress who voted yes in spite of an aversion to war. As chairman of the Military Affairs Committee, I had a long discussion with the president. I told him I would vote men and money for defense of our territory, but not for open aggression against the Republic of Mexico. I also informed him that I strongly disapproved of marching Zachary Taylor's army to the left bank of the Del Norte, since I do not believe for a moment that the territory of the United States extends beyond the Nueces. Since I feel that way, how could I accept the president's contention that Mexico, by crossing the Del Norte and attacking our troops
on the left bank, had invaded our territory and shed American blood on American soil?"

While in New York City, Delgado had learned of the Del Norte fight—details had been plastered over the front pages of every penny press edition in town. The trouble had started with Texas winning her independence from Mexico in 1836. Captured at the Battle of San Jacinto, Santa Anna had obliged the Texans with a pronouncement, given under duress, that the Del Norte, otherwise, known as the Rio Grande, marked the legitimate southern border of the new republic. With this, Santa Anna earned his release, and the pronouncement was promptly repudiated, not only by him but by the Mexican congress. As a Spanish and then a Mexican province, the boundary of Texas had never extended beyond the Nueces, much less to the Del Norte.

American expansionists ardently asserted that both Jefferson and Madison had claimed that Texas did extend to the Del Norte, by virtue of the disputed territory's inclusion in the Louisiana Purchase. Those opposed to expansion pointed out that even if this were so, the United States had relinquished any claim it might have had to any part of Texas by the 1819 treaty in which Spain, in return, ceded East Florida.

Even when, by joint resolution, Congress had voted to approve annexation of Texas, its language had been circumspect regarding the boundary, which was subject to "adjustment." Such diplomatic niceties were lost on President James Knox Polk. When Mexico made belligerent noises following the annexation, Polk promptly dispatched General Zachary Taylor to the vicinity of
the Del Norte with orders to repel any "invasion" by Mexican forces.

In this Polk was right or wrong depending on which paper a person happened to have on hand. The
New York Herald
applauded the president for such bold leadership, while the
Tribune
roundly denounced his actions as bald-faced aggression, and likened the chances of a Mexican invasion to that of a sparrow flying into the territory of a hawk to hold it in adverse possession. Mexico would have no better chance than the sparrow; that republic was rent by internal disorders. Great Britain, whose loans were keeping the Mexican government afloat, advised against war in the strongest possible terms.

But the Mexican people were disgruntled; they disliked the passive stance of the Herrera government. A defiant army led by General Mariano Paredes threatened to take over if Mexico conducted any further negotiations with the land-hungry Yankees. Polk's minister plenipotentiary, John Slidell, carrying a portmanteau full of papers describing the grandiose ambitions of the United States, was rudely spurned in Mexico City. Finally, last April, a Mexican force had indeed crossed the Del Norte, attacking a patrol of American dragoons, killing three and taking the rest prisoner.

"So why," persisted Sterling, addressing Thomas Hart Benton, "did you finally vote in the affirmative, Senator?"

Benton grinned down the table at Jacob Bledsoe. "Shame on you, Jacob, for inviting a Whig newspaperman to a gathering of good ol' Democrats."

Smiling, Bledsoe shrugged. He could tell Old Bullion was only half joking.

"In answer to your question, sir," said Benton, "I voted for the appropriations because the president was determined to have a war, and I would not be responsible for denying our boys in uniform the provisions and reinforcements they required."

"I suppose I must be a Whig, then," said Sarah Bledsoe, "because I agree with Mr. Sterling. Mr. Polk provoked this war. He is a Southerner, and he wants to create a slave empire. He will seize all of Mexico if given the chance, and Cuba, as well."

Thunderstruck, Jacob Bledsoe stared open-mouthed at his daughter. Then, with an apologetic glance at his gentlemen guests, he cleared his throat and said, "Perhaps the ladies would like to retire to the parlor, since it seems we have all finished with our meals."

"I would prefer to stay," said Sarah, even as Mrs. Pilcher and Mrs. Lowry began to rise from their chairs accompanied by a rustling of petticoats.

"Really, my dear," said Bledsoe, discomfited. "What has come over you?"

"Oh, I see," replied Sarah, archly. "You gentlemen persist in thinking that women are merely brainless porcelain dolls, pretty adornments for your arms, and pleasant company in your beds, but not worth much else—"

"Sarah!" Bledsoe turned white as a sheet before a storm cloud of anger threw its dark shadow across his features. "Gentlemen, ladies, I beg your forgiveness and extend my most heartfelt apologies for my daughter's outrageous conduct. I can make no excuse for her other than to say that she has been away for more than a year, attending an academy near Philadelphia where I
thought
she
was receiving instruction on how to be a proper young lady."

"I have learned that I am a human being," retorted Sarah with, in Delgado's opinion, a very fetching blush to her cheeks, "as well as a citizen of this republic, and that I am endowed with certain rights. Do you know that hundreds of women like Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott are planning to meet soon to adopt resolutions patterned on the Declaration of Independence—resolutions which will demonstrate beyond a shadow of a doubt to any thinking person that men and women are created equal? The history of mankind is the history of the male's absolute tyranny over the female, and—"

"Enough!" roared Jacob Bledsoe, apoplectic. "I will not tolerate such talk at my table."

Sarah smiled frostily. "A perfect case in point."

"Leave this room this instant, young lady."

"I shall not." Sarah settled sulkily in her chair, as though prepared to resist any attempt to physically remove her.

Impulsively, Delgado rose from his chair. "Perhaps Miss Bledsoe would be kind enough to honor me with a stroll in the garden. It is too pleasant an evening to waste and would be made infinitely more pleasurable by her company."

As he made the invitation, he moved around the table, so that when he was done he stood beside her chair with extended arm.

Sarah hesitated, stubbornly inclined to stand her ground, and Delgado realized how foolish he would look if she refused.

"I think these gentlemen could speak more freely what is in their hearts concerning the war
if I was absent," he told her, bending close to her ear and speaking in a conspiratorial whisper.

In this way he addressed her as one undesirable to another. Sarah smiled and placed her hand lightly on his proffered arm.

"If you will excuse us, ladies and gentlemen," said Delgado.

"A bold move," murmured Jeremy approvingly as Delgado escorted Sarah from the dining room.

2

Behind the Bledsoe house a small, immaculately tended garden provided a perfect setting for two people to enjoy the summer evening. A big yellow moon hung suspended in a brilliant field of stars, and a cooling breeze sighed in the tops of the sycamore trees, carrying the sweetly mingled aromas of rambling rose and climbing jasmine. Curving walkways of crushed rock lined with bricks led to whitewashed benches nestled beneath vine-laden trellises. Delgado thought this a most romantic spot, and he was in a romantic mood. How could he be otherwise, in the company of a young woman as beautiful and desirable as Sarah Bledsoe? Unfortunately, she was still fuming about the scene in the dining room.

"Oh, he can be so insufferable at times!" she said.

"Your father? Perhaps you should have forewarned him. I think your rather novel ideas came as a real shock to him."

"I don't know why you are trying to defend him. Doesn't their talk about the war offend you?"

"Well, I—"

"Doesn't it bother you that they consider Mex
ico so backward, so benighted, that they use that very thing as an excuse for their aggression and greed and this ridiculous notion that it is their God-given duty to spread the light of American liberty and justice from Santa Fe to Campeche?"

"I didn't hear—"

"Doesn't it concern you that if men like President Polk have their way, all of Mexico will be absorbed into the United States?"

Delgado stopped walking and turned to her with an amused smile curling the corners of his mouth.

"At the risk of encouraging you to think me a ne'er-do-well," he said, "the outcome is of no concern to me, except as it affects my family."

"I pity you," she replied. "You are a man with no opinions on matters of importance." She walked on without him.

Delgado followed, searching carefully for the right words with which to redeem himself. In the near distance a carriage clattered down Laurel Avenue, the shod hooves of its horses clip-clopping on the paving stones. In the far distance a steamboat's bell rang out.

"I am of the opinion," he said sincerely, "that you are the most beautiful and fascinating woman I have ever had the privilege to meet, Miss Bledsoe."

"Surely, I am not the first woman to whom you have spoken those very words," she replied, but she could not completely disguise her pleasure at the compliment.

"That is my opinion, and to me you are a matter of the utmost importance. Let's talk about you, Sarah, and not about me, or the war."

"For one thing, I am proud of my country. I don't
want you to think otherwise. Which is why I feel so strong about slavery and the rights of women."

"So you are an abolitionist to boot."

"I am," she declared defiantly. "There is a link between the oppression of slaves and the oppression of women. Neither can be reconciled with the founding principles of this republic."

"Common law is against you, I'm afraid. William Blackstone himself wrote that in marriage a husband and wife are as one person under the law. The very being of the woman is suspended
by
the law. She has no rights to marital property, which are held wholly in the husband's name, and without property she cannot participate in the body politic. Civic virtue rests in the independent citizen, and personal independence is linked to individual ownership of property. It has always been so. John Adams said that political rights are tied to property rights. Only property ownership allows the economic and moral independence necessary for virtuous citizens." Delgado shrugged. "So, if a woman owns no property . . . I am not saying I believe this to be true, or just. But those are the facts."

"Oh, really? So women are excluded from the rights of citizenship—along with children, criminals, and the insane? Our government was instituted to derive its just powers from the consent of the governed. Am I not one of those governed? Then it is only right that I be permitted to consent."

Delgado laughed, delighted. "You are a remarkable person, Sarah. Your poor father thought he was sending you to the seminary to learn to be a proper young lady."

Sarah smiled. "The headmistress gave me a
copy of Margaret Fuller's book,
Women in the Nineteenth Century
. She made me promise, if ever I should be asked, not to tell anyone where I had gotten it. I'm not sure why she chose me. But the book changed my life. It proves that women have their own identity and deserve social independence, the ability to grow as an intellect and, as a soul, to live freely."

"That sounds positively transcendental."

She took offense at his lighthearted tone of voice. "Is there anything that you
do
take seriously, Mr. McKinn?"

"My apologies. I did not mean to—"

"You had better learn what it means to be an American since, whether you like it or not, you are about to become one. How can we live up to our promise as a nation, as a land of the free, a haven to the oppressed in a world filled with tyranny, when we keep our own people in chains because of the color of their skin?"

"Tyranny. I seem to recall making a very similar speech to Brent Horan."

"Brent!" She clutched his arm. "You know Brent Horan?"

Horan's name, he was sorry to see, provoked strong passions in Sarah.

"I made his acquaintance aboard the river packet. He was trying to murder an abolitionist."

"An abolitionist? What was this man's name?"

"I don't recall. Wait a minute. Rankin, I believe. Yes, that was it. Rankin was his name. As a matter of fact . . ." He reached into his frock coat's inner pocket and withdrew the pamphlet from which he had read during the confrontation aboard the
Sultana
. "I'd forgotten I had this."

Sarah nearly snatched the pamphlet from his
grasp. "The American Antislavery Society. I have attended many of their meetings in Philadelphia."