Eric Flint: 1824: The Arkansas War

"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, sure 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."

Now he waved the empty glass at Adams, who was in a corner talking with Van Buren. "I imagine Sam did exactly the same to that poor bastard. Except-being a pigheaded Massachusetts scholar-it probably took John Quincy twice as long to admit he was cornered as it took me. How about another drink?"

The slaves did push the limits of "rowdy," although nothing important actually got broken. But on both occasions when the overseers came to Jackson for instructions, he sent them away.

The masters were pretty rowdy themselves by then. His pious wife Rachel, much disapproving, went early to bed. They were even beginning to blaspheme quite openly, laughing all the while.

Especially after John Quincy Adams, no longer even remotely sober, proposed an alternative title for their new party: the National Illegitimate Party. With its clear and simple fighting slogan: Better a Plain Black Bastard in Office than a Fancy White-Striped Skunk.

1824: TheArkansasWar

Washington, D.C.

"It's definite," said Adam Beatty. He laid a copy of the National Intelligencer onto the president's desk. "Today's edition. It has the full text of the program of the new party. The 'Declaration of Principles,' the silly bastards are calling it."

At Clay's courteous nod, Beatty took a seat in one of the chairs surrounding the desk where Clay's other political advisers were already seated. Fortunately, not adjoining Porter's. By now, Peter's dislike for the Kentucky legislator had grown into pure loathing.

"Everything's there, Henry," Beatty continued, grinning. "And-believe me-it's every bit as insane as any of the rumors. Ha! The bedlamites might as well have cut their own throats and been done with it!"

Clay already had the newspaper spread in front of him and was starting to read the first-page headline story. Most of the advisers-all of them, actually, except Porter himself-were craning their necks. Josiah Johnston, sitting the closest, had half risen out of his chair.

Beatty rummaged in his satchel. "No need to strain yourselves, gentlemen. I obtained plenty of copies. Enough for everyone."

A moment later, Porter had a copy of the Intelligencer on his own lap. He didn't give it more than a cursory glance, though, for the same reason he hadn't craned his neck with the others. He'd already read it before coming to the meeting this morning.

Twice. All the way through and back again.