Christopher had a hunch that what Andrew Jackson described as "a little discomfort" would be sufficient to incapacitate any normal person.
"And then there was that business with the Bentons," said Jackson with a rueful smile. "I acted—reluctantly, I must add—as second for Billy Carroll, my brigade inspector during the war, in his duel with young Jesse Benton. I tried to talk them out of it, but to no avail. Both of the lads were wounded in the exchange, though not mortally, praise God. Jesse's brother, Colonel Thomas Hart Benton, took offense at my participation in the affair. To this day I am not certain why. But he made such a noise about it, attaching all manner of vile adjectives to my name in public, that I swore I would horsewhip him at the first opportunity."
Jackson suddenly began to cough violently. The attack lasted almost a minute. When it had passed, he wiped his eyes with a trembling hand and proceeded with his narrative as though nothing had happened.
"The opportunity came a few months later, in Nashville. John Coffee and I were walking to the post office from the Old Nashville Inn when we saw Benton standing in the doorway of the City Hotel. John and I went on to the post office, collected our mail, and on our way back I noticed that Jesse Benton had joined his distinguished brother. All of us were armed, and I carried a riding whip. When Thomas Benton reached for his pistol I drew my own. He backed into the hotel, but Jesse ducked into another room, came out onto the porch through a second door, and fired at me. The bullet struck me in the arm and shoulder. I lost my balance and fell. Then Thomas Benton fired at me twice, before I could rise. Heaven only knows how he managed to miss me. John fired at Thomas, but missed, and Thomas ran. A friend of mine, Stockley Hays, happened to be in the vicinity. He wrestled Jesse to the ground and stabbed him in both arms with a knife.
"Jesse's bullet was lodged against the bone of my arm. Several physicians examined the wound, and they all advised amputation. I would have none of it, and instructed them to use a poultice of slippery elm. An old Indian remedy. It worked. The wound healed and, as you can see, the sawbones did not take my arm."
"But you and Thomas Hart Benton are friends now, aren't you?"
"Not friends so much as political allies. We have the same objectives. We shook hands ten years later, when we found ourselves sitting side by side in the United States Senate." Jackson chuckled. "I carried Jesse Benton's lead in me for many years. Only later was it removed, by a noted surgeon from a hospital in Philadelphia. Frank Blair obtained the bullet and offered it to Thomas Benton. Benton declined the gift, saying that I had acquired clear title to it in common law by twenty years' possession."
Jackson swung his legs off the table. "Are you sure you wouldn't care to join me in a drink?"
Christopher decided it would be bad manners to refuse. "Allow me to pour them," he said, making as though to rise from his chair.
Jackson waved at him to keep his seat. He winced as he got to his feet. Old war wounds and a hard life made every movement painful for him, but in spite of it all the general was restless. Crossing the room to one of the cabinets, he poured amber liquor from a decanter into two shot glasses.
"Tennessee sour mash," said Jackson. "Best sipping whiskey on earth. Beats your Kentucky bourbon all to hell." He handed one glass to Christopher and raised his own. "To the Republic. God bless her, and damn her enemies."
Christopher stood to participate in the toast. He sipped the sour mash. Jackson knocked his back in one thirsty gulp, and gasped in satisfaction as he sat back down.
"I don't usually take so long to come to my point," said the President. "I share my war stories with you for a purpose. Though I derive no satisfaction from taking another man's life, and while those affairs of honor have caused me much physical pain, I do not regret my participation in them. You simply cannot turn your back on that kind of a challenge, son. If you do, you'll find yourself turning your back on every other kind. Then, as a man, you won't be worth a bucket of warm spit. So I am convinced that you acted properly. As I have said, sometimes the price of acting properly is exceedingly high."
Christopher finished off the sour mash. "Sir, I am honored that you have taken such an interest in my future."
"Your father was a friend of mine. I have felt a responsibility towards you since the day he died, courageously leading his men into battle against the Seminoles. I was privileged to recommend you to the Military Academy. And I would consider it an esteemed honor to assist you in any other way."
Christopher shook his head. "I appreciate that, Mr. President. But there is nothing I need. I'm going home to Kentucky."
"What will you do there?"
"Raise thoroughbred horses, I suppose."
Jackson was up again, pacing. For a moment he said nothing, deep in thought. Then he shook his white-maned head emphatically.
"No. Forgive me for saying so, but I believe you are a young man with a thirst for adventure. If you are anything like your father I know I am right."
Christopher wanted to tell the old general that he had no desire whatsoever to be even remotely like his father. But he didn't dare. Obviously Jackson held Jonathan Groves in high regard. It would not sit well with Old Hickory if Christopher showed disrespect for his father's memory.
"It will be an adventure," replied Christopher, wryly, his tongue loosened by the sour mash, "just keeping Elm Tree above water."
Jackson stopped pacing in front of a map. "Perhaps what you need is a new start. May I suggest Texas?"
"Texas?"
"Yes."
"But . . . but I'm an American, sir. And I would very much like to remain one."
Jackson smiled. "There are many Americans gone to Texas these days."
"But they have to renounce their citizenship to live there, do they not? They must pledge allegiance to the flag and constitution of the Republic of Mexico."
Jackson stabbed a gnarled finger at the map. "Texas may belong to Mexico today, but that's no guarantee for tomorrow. Do you believe in destiny, son?"
"Why, yes," said Christopher.
Jackson nodded. "Guess you damn well ought to, considering what's befallen you. It wasn't your destiny to be a graduate of West Point. But that doesn't mean you can't be a soldier."
"I confess I don't follow you, Mr. President."
Jackson leaned forward, his big scarred knuckles splayed on the table. "Texas has a destiny, too. And that's to be a part of this Republic. When the time comes for that to happen she'll need brave, strong, young men who crave glory and adventure to make it happen. I think Texas needs men just like you. There's no limit to what a man can make of himself in a country like that."
Christopher realized that this was the real reason General Jackson had summoned him to the White House.
"It's the fault of John Quincy Adams"—Jackson rapped his knuckles three times on the table, once for every part of his predecessor's name—"that Texas belongs to Mexico in the first place. When I marched into Florida those powder-heads up here in Washington were scared to death the Spaniards would go to war with us. Yes, Florida was a Spanish possession, but they could not administer or defend it. Those damned Seminoles and mulatto runaways were slipping across the border at will to burn, loot, and pillage American farms and villages. The Spaniards couldn't stop them, so I did.
"I warned them, sir. I told them about the Negro fort on the banks of the Apalachicola. Fugitive slaves in that fort were inciting other slaves to flee their masters and join them. Ask any slaveowner in the South. They knew. That fort was a threat to their property, not to mention their very lives and the lives of their families. I wrote the Spanish commandant at Pensacola, told him that this would not be tolerated, and that if he didn't do something about it, we would be compelled in self-defense to do the jobs ourselves.
"I knew we had a golden opportunity to take Florida. It was right there, within our grasp, and ripe for the picking. President Monroe authorized it. Not officially, and of course he later denied knowing anything about my intentions. But I had made
those intentions clear to him in a letter, and I had his permission to take the barrancas and destroy the banditti, and that's precisely what I did."
Christopher knew the story well. In addition to invading and conquering Spanish territory, Jackson had executed two British subjects, a Scots trader named Arbuthnot and a British Marine, Robert Armbrister, both of whom, Jackson claimed, were actively involved in supporting the Seminole hostiles led by Chief Billy Bowlegs. Suddenly Washington found itself on the brink of war with both Spain and Great Britain. Jackson's contention was that from the very beginning both nations were bluffing. The last thing the British wanted was another war with their American cousins, and the Spanish, though outraged, were too weak to make a fight of it. As it turned out, Jackson was right.
Nonetheless, Spain blustered and made threatening noises. Her minister to the United States, the urbane Don Luis de Onis, demanded the immediate restoration of Florida and a suitable punishment for "that freebooter" Andrew Jackson. To John Quincy Adams, President Monroe's adroit secretary of state, fell the task of dealing with Onis. Adams refused to punish Jackson, who had acted in "self-defense," and insisted that Spain must either garrison a sufficient military force in Florida to prevent future Indian outrages against innocent American settlers in the borderlands, or cede the province.
But there were Congressmen who supported the move to censure Jackson. Some were incensed that their constitutionally delegated authority to declare war had been deftly circumvented by Old Hickory. Others wanted to embarrass the Monroe administration. And still others—men like Henry Clay of Kentucky and William Crawford of Virginia, who harbored presidential aspirations of their own—saw the immensely popular general as a threat to their future plans.
"It's a shame James Monroe did not stand up to the hellish machinations of men like Henry Clay," continued Jackson. "But he was entirely too much the politician. Clay is a base hypocrite. He pretended friendship to me even as he attempted to destroy the administration through me. Your father had sound judgment, except in his admiration for Clay. I hope you do not take offense, when I speak so of a fellow Kentuckian."
"No, sir."
"But Adams—Adams should have had better sense. The dons knew they could not hold on to Florida. But Adams gave away too much in the treaty he drafted with Onis. He gave away Texas, for God's sake!"
Christopher nodded.
There had long been some question as to the western boundary of the Louisiana Purchase. Many Americans insisted that Texas was part of the Purchase. Spain insisted it was not. In exchange for ceding Florida to the United States, Spain fixed the boundary of the purchase at the Sabine, Red, and Arkansas rivers, thence westward to the Pacific Ocean along the forty-second parallel. They also got five million dollars in the bargain.
"I thought just about everyone agreed that the treaty was advantageous to us, Mr. President."
Jackson shook his head. "Why? Because it rendered in ink on paper what was inevitable. This continent belongs to us. It is our destiny to possess it. There cannot be two owners of the same house. Texas was legitimately part of the Louisiana Purchase. Adams gave it away. And for what reason? To secure Florida? I had Florida in my grasp." Jackson raised a hand and clenched it into a trembling, white-knuckled fist. "I would not have let go of it. In fact, if given free rein, I would have seized Texas from the dons, as I had done with Florida. Onis knew this. That's why he secured the boundaries in the treaty—to keep me out of Texas."
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed softly. Jackson glanced at it, and seemed to be surprised that so much time had passed.
"I'm afraid I have a diplomatic duty to attend to," he said. "I would like to talk more with you. Are you in a hurry to get back to Kentucky? Can you stay here with us for a few days?"
How did one turn down an invitation from the President of the United States? Christopher said, "Well, I . . . yes, sir."
"You will room here."
"Here?"
Jackson smiled. "Are the accommodations not to your liking?"
"No, sir. I mean—I never thought I'd sleep under this roof."
"I often wish I didn't. It's settled then. Tomorrow, perhaps, you would join me for my morning ride. I have some very good horses. Perhaps not as good as Elm Tree's, but they will suffice."
"I would be honored, Mr. President."
Jackson nodded curtly. On his way out of the room he paused to lay a hand on Christopher's shoulder.
"Humor an old man, son, and give some serious thought to Texas."
Christopher promised he would.
Chapter 8
Texas.
Now that Andrew Jackson had planted the seed in his mind, Texas was virtually all Christopher could think about. Old Hickory had something up his sleeve, that much was certain. He was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, and clearly he was intent on getting Texas into the Union.
But how? An invasion? On what pretext? Unlike the case of Florida, American farms and villages were not being menaced by Indian raiders residing in the wild reaches beyond the Red and Sabine rivers. No, it struck Christopher that Jackson was keenly interested in infiltrating Texas with adventurers who, when the time was right, would rise up in revolt against Mexican rule and bring the province into the United States.
It was a rich country, Texas, long a temptation to Americans restless for a new beginning. Texas beckoned to such men with its dense, virgin forests in the east, the fecund soil of its central plains, its many natural harbors on the Gulf of Mexico, its numerous navigable rivers, its vast herds of wild horses and wilder longhorn cattle.
And yet, in three hundred years, Spain had failed in her attempts to colonize Texas. She could persuade few of her subjects to occupy that remote northern province of her vast New World holdings. The Indians were the stumbling block, from the fierce Comanches, warlords of the high plains, to the Karankawas, the cannibals of the coastal region. Apart from isolated presidios garrisoned by skeleton garrisons, Spain managed to settle a paltry three thousand brave souls in Texas by the year 1820.
Realizing that where American settlers ventured the American government wasn't far behind, Spain took steps to keep the Anglos out of Texas—at least at first. That was easier said than done. In the 1790s, a young horse thief named Philip Nolan made several expeditions about the border. Nolan was eventually caught and executed by a Spanish firing squad. But other freebooters poured into Texas. Their depredations became so serious that the town of Nacogdoches, located at the eastern end of the El Camino Real, with her one thousand inhabitants, was abandoned in 1820.
Finally the Spanish accepted the fact that they could not keep the Americans out forever. They allowed a carefully chosen man, Moses Austin, to become what they called an empresario, the proprietor of a large colony. The empresario had to guarantee that the American colonists who would settle on his land grant would pledge their loyalty to the Spanish crown and become Roman Catholics.
Moses Austin died of pneumonia while negotiating with the Spanish governor of Texas. His son, Stephen, promised to fulfill his father's dream. It was a difficult promise to keep. He found a suitable site on the Brazos River, calling it San Felipe, and more than enough applicants to fill the Spanish requirement of three hundred families, but his supply ship, the Lively, her hold brimming with tools and provisions for the settlers, ran aground on Galveston Island. The ship and her cargo were lost.
Still, Austin's colonists persevered. Most of them were tough, hardscrabble farmers. But one, Jared Groce, a wealthy planter from Alabama, carved a huge cotton plantation out of the wilderness and transported over a hundred slaves to work his fields. The fact that the eastern half of Texas was prime country for the kind of labor-intensive money crops which perpetuated the "peculiar institution" of slavery was causing problems for those, like Andy Jackson, who dreamed of bringing Texas into the Union. Abolitionists were adamantly opposed to adding another "slave" state. Men like William Lloyd Garrison, editor of the fiery abolitionist newspaper The L
iberator, would stop at nothing to prevent the expansion of slavery. It was Garrison who had shredded a copy of the Constitution at a public meeting, denouncing that hallowed document as a pact with the devil, since it permitted slavery to exist.
In 1822, Mexico staged a revolution against her Spanish overlords. Austin needed every ounce of his tact and patience to persuade the Mexicans to adopt a colonization law. A few years later the Mexican policy toward colonization was liberalized, and by 1830, over twenty land grants had been made to empresarios like Austin. Speculators spread the word about Texas, and on the day that President Jackson met with Christopher Groves in the White House, there were sixteen thousand Americans in Texas, four times the number of Mexicans.
One of these empresarios, Haden Edwards, along with his brother Benjamin, almost ruined everything. The Mexicans had provided Edwards with three hundred thousand acres in east Texas, near the village of Nacogdoches, on which he settled with eight hundred families. Trouble was, there were already a number of Anglo squatters and Mexican settlers already on the land.
It was a subject that came up during Christopher's ride with Jackson the next day. The President was clad in a fine suit of cobalt blue broadcloth. He wore a white, broad-brimmed planter's hat. He seemed a much younger man in the saddle, tall and well-seated and all grace and suppleness. As they rode down the dusty length of Pennsylvania Avenue, Jackson asked Christopher what he knew of Texas, and when Christopher mentioned having heard of the Republic of Fredonia, Old Hickory's eyes lit up.
"There's what I'm talking about!" exclaimed the President with exuberance. "Americans won't live under a foreign thumb for long. Not in their nature."
"Sir?"
"The Republic of Fredonia. A glimpse of the future of Texas, my boy."
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