Eric Flint: 1824: The Arkansas War

"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!"

"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."