Eric Flint: 1824: The Arkansas War

"But he's seen by too many people as too slick," the lawyer continued. "I don't think the electorate trusts him all that much. Nor should they, for that matter."

"Hah!" exclaimed Hartfield. "Why should they look cross-eyed at Crawford? He's not half the cut-any-corner and make-any-deal bastard that Clay is."

The lawyer shook his head. "Yes, I know. But Clay makes pretty speeches and knows how to pose in public. Crawford's not got half his talent for that. Not a quarter." He took a long pull on his tumbler, leaving it as dry as Sam's. "No, you watch. It'll be Clay to beat. Calhoun will throw him his support as the election nears, in exchange for Clay's backing-half-backing, at least-on the issues Calhoun holds dear. And Crawford:well, I think he'll settle for secretary of state, if Clay will promise it to him. That'll position Crawford to replace Clay when the time comes. He's only fifty-one years old, after all."

Sam considered Jones's assessment as he considered the lawyer's empty tumbler. He thought the assessment was about right. More to the point, he could see where it led straight to a toast.

He cleared his throat. "What you're saying, Cicero, if I'm following you, is that if Andy Jackson is to be our next president, he'll have to reach an accommodation with John Quincy Adams. Right?"

"Dead right." Jones winced a little, then. "And that'll be some trick."

"The general thinks well of Adams," pointed out Johnson.

"Who doesn't?" said Jones. "A most admirable man, versed in the classics and everything. But does the general like him? And, perhaps more to the point, what does Adams think of Andy Jackson?"

"He supported him during that ruckus over Florida," stated Johnson stubbornly.

The lawyer waved his hand. "Sure he did. John Quincy Adams is the best secretary of state the United States has ever had, if you ask me. Andy Jackson got us Florida, so Adams backed him. But that doesn't mean he much likes the general. Face it, gentlemen." Jones leaned forward in his seat and tapped the table with his forefinger. "First, they disagree over most issues that concern the internal affairs of the nation. Adams is still half a Federalist, when you come down to it. Half an abolitionist, too, if I'm not mistaken."

He tapped the table again, more forcibly. "Second, political affairs are determined more by matters of blood and attitude than they are by cold intellect. I don't think you could find two prominent men in the country more unlike than Andy Jackson and John Quincy Adams. They're as different as the Kentucky whiskey and French wine they each prefer to drink."

That was true enough, of course. Best of all, it was salient.

Sam rose to his feet. "A toast, then, gentlemen! To unlikely alliances!" The men at the table began to rise, all except the two veterans who were missing a leg. But their smiles were enough to indicate their full agreement with the toast.

Sam reached down for his tumbler. Then, his mouth widened as if he'd just noticed the glass was empty.

"Ah. How awkward."

"Grover!" Johnson barked at one of the slaves standing by the sideboard. "What are you daydreaming about? See to it that Sam's whiskey is refilled!"

1824: TheArkansasWar

The next morning, at breakfast, Johnson waited until the girls were finished and had excused themselves from the table before returning to the subject of the new school.

More precisely, to where the new school might lead them.

"Tarnation, Sam-I'll make this as plain as I can-I want them to marry white men. Even if they have to move to Vermont or Massachusetts in order to do it. And how many white men are they going to run into, over there in Black Arkansas?"

"They're only twelve years old, Dick," Sam pointed out mildly. "Hardly something you've got to worry about right now."

The senator wasn't mollified. "They'll grow up fast enough. Faster than you expect. If there's any sure and certain law about kids, that's it. They always grow up faster than you expect."

Sam glanced at Julia. Her expression was unreadable: just a blank face that might simply be contemplating clouds in the sky. He wondered how she felt about the matter.

But since there was no point in asking, he decided bluntness was the only tactic suitable.

"They'll marry whoever they marry, Dick. If you think you can stop them-here any more than in Arkansas-you're dreaming. You heard about the ruckus with Major Ridge's son? Over in Connecticut?"

Johnson chuckled. "Who didn't? I heard the girl even went on a hunger strike."

"Yep, she did. Stuck to it, too, until her parents got so worried they caved in and let her marry John Ridge after all. Cherokee or not. But here's really the point I was making. Did you hear what happened to her family afterward?"

The senator shook his head.

"Well, after the wedding they wound up moving to New Antrim also. I guess, after visiting the town to make sure their daughter wasn't winding up in some Indian lean-to-" He grinned widely. "Which Patrick Driscol's Wolfe Tone Hotel most certainly isn't, not with Tiana running the place. Anyway, it seems they found New Antrim most congenial. Especially since it was maybe the only town in the continent, outside of Fort of 98, where their daughter wouldn't be hounded every day. Neither would they, for that matter. It got pretty rough on them, too, you know. One newspaper article even called for drowning the girl's mother along with whipping the girl herself. John Ridge himself, of course, was for hanging."

"I heard." Johnson's lip curled. "So much for that snooty New England so-called upper crust. You can say what you like about the country folks hereabouts, but at least"-he nodded toward Julia-"she doesn't have to worry none, just going down to the store to buy provisions."

"Folks are right nice to me," she agreed.

"What's your point, Sam?" asked Johnson.

"I'd think it was obvious. The one thing you can at least be sure of, if one or both of your daughters winds up marrying somebody you think is unsuitable, over there in Arkansas, is that nobody else will."

He gave Johnson a cocked-head look. "Never been there, have you? You ought to go visit sometime. Soon."

"Yes," said Julia. "Soon. But:"

"It can be dangerous these days," said Johnson. His hand reached out and squeezed Julia's forearm. "Traveling, I mean, for anyone with her color. Even the color of Imogene and Adaline. Those so-called slave-catchers have been running pretty wild."

Sam grinned savagely. "Less wild than they used to be, I bet. When I passed through Cincinnati, I heard about the killing."

Johnson grimaced. "Don't make light of it, Sam. Most people down here were pretty upset about that."

"Sure. So what? 'Most people' aren't running around trying to catch so-called runaway slaves. Who, most times, are just freedmen trying to make it safely to Arkansas. Which they have to, thanks to that bastard Calhoun and his Cossacks stirring up lynch mobs all over the country. So what difference does it make if they're 'upset' because some unknown abolitionist fiend gunned down a slave-catcher across the river? What matters is that the slave-catchers are a lot more than just 'upset.' " His grin grew still more savage. "Why, I do believe they're downright nervous. Seeing as how they don't know who the fiend and his fifty brothers were. Or where they might pop up next."

Sam waved a hand. "But it doesn't matter, anyway. As long as you make the trip while Monroe's in office, I can provide you with a military escort as far as the Confederacy. A small one, but that'll be enough. After that, the Cherokees will escort you the rest of the way."

Julia pursed her lips. "That gives us almost a year. How soon will this Mr. Smith have the school up and running?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. Not that soon, I wouldn't think. But you can put the girls up at the Wolfe Tone in the meantime. Tiana will look after them."