Gone to Texas (8 page)

They were greeted by Antoine Giusta, a Frenchman who had been John Quincy Adams' faithful valet. Giusta and Adams had met in Belgium in 1814, the former having recently deserted from Napoleon's
Grande Armée
, and the latter serving as a diplomat trying to hammer out a peace treaty with the British at the quaint village of Ghent. Giusta married Mrs. Adams' maid, and the couple served as steward and housekeeper during the Adams presidency. Adams had persuaded Giusta to stay on at the executive mansion and serve under Andrew Jackson—the ex-president was no longer able to afford the Giustas now that he was retired from public service. But serving under Old Hickory was no easy task, as countless soldiers could testify. Still, Giusta endured, thanks in large measure to Emily Donelson, Jack's pretty and petite wife, the official hostess of the Jackson White House. The Giustas were devoted to Emily, as were most others who had the pleasure of her acquaintance.

There were a dozen men and several ladies in the Oval Room, some sitting, others standing or pacing, and Christopher assumed they were here for an audience with the President or one of his aides. But when
Lieutenant Singer informed Giusta that the General had summoned Christopher, the Frenchman whisked them off to the East Room. He asked them to wait there for a moment, and departed with a crisp continental bow.

The two men found themselves alone in the immense room. They gazed about them in awe. The room measured eighty feet by forty, with twenty-two-foot ceilings, crowned by a frieze of anthemia adorned with bands of Grecian ornamentation. Three towering windows faced south, with three more on the north side. On the east was the great Venetian window. Imperial-blue and sunflower-yellow draperies fell from cornices decorated with gilded eagles. Muslin curtains softened the sunlight. The walls were covered with lemon yellow paper of French pedigree, trimmed with blue velvet cloth borders. Bracket lights and "French plate" mirrors adorned the walls. Mantelpieces of black Egyptian marble enhanced the fireplaces. A blue-and-yellow Brussels carpet covered the floor. The furniture—twenty-odd chairs, several sofas, mahogany pier tables with black marble tops, and a score of gleaming brass spittoons—added to the room's operatic splendor. It was the most luxurious and appealing room Christopher had ever seen.

"This isn't at all what I expected," confessed Singer in a reverent whisper.

Christopher laughed nervously. "Nor I."

"I suppose our president isn't quite so uncivilized as they make him out to be," said the dragoon with a grin.

"Well, it's not bad for a backwoodsman, I'll say that much."

A black man in a brass-buttoned blue swallowtail coat and yellow breeches appeared to ask them if they would care for anything to drink.

"I'd better not," said Singer sadly. "Not while I'm in uniform and in the vicinity of the General."

"I could use a brandy to cut the dust," said Christopher. "I don't have to worry about that anymore."

Christopher was just finishing the brandy when Giusta returned.

"The President will see you now, M'sieu Groves," he said, his heavy accent a consequence of his previous employer's preference for using French while discussing matters with his steward. John Quincy Adams was a cosmopolitan man, fluent in many languages. On the other hand, it was said that Andrew Jackson was fluent only on the frequent occasions when he launched into one of his tirades, notorious for their astonishing invective.

"What about the lieutenant?" asked Christopher.

"I imagine he would do well to return to his regiment," replied the old ex-soldier. "It is you alone the President wishes to see, m'sieu."

Singer was crestfallen. So was Christopher. He and the dragoon had shared life stories on the long road from West Point, and in so doing became friends, and Christopher realized that in all likelihood they would never meet again. The dragoon's expression made it apparent that he felt the same way.

"Well, I guess this is it, then," said Christopher.

Singer nodded. "No help for it. Maybe we'll meet again."

"It's a big country."

"But a small world, after all."

They shook hands, and Christopher followed Giusta out of the East Room, wondering—as he had a hundred times a day during the long journey to Washington—what the President of the United States could possibly want with him.

Chapter 7

While the first floor of the President's house was open to the public, Andrew Jackson's personal and business life was confined to the second, except for the frequent levees held in the East Room, now that it was fit for something besides laundry. The upstairs rooms included the Green Room, which served as Emily Donelson's parlor—she playing the role of First Lady since Rachel Jackson was buried in the garden at The Hermitage. There was the President's sitting room, bedroom, and dressing room. The Yellow Room, located over the north door, was a guest room as well as a ladies' retiring room during the levees. The President's office suite consisted of three rooms on the south side. Since visitors like Christopher Groves had to come upstairs to see the President, glass doors bisected the central hall, separating the office end from the rooms reserved for the family. While the family enjoyed the exclusive use of the grand staircase on the west end, visitors were required to ascend via the back stairs.

Once upstairs, Giusta escorted Christopher through the "audience room" into Jackson's office. It was here that the Cabinet customarily met, seating themselves at a long table, with cabinets and bookcases along the walls. These furnishings had once belonged to Thomas Jefferson. An oilcloth, artfully painted in a tile pattern, covered the floor. The window curtains depended from glided-eagle cornices like those in the East Room which
Christopher had so admired. An iron Russian stove stood in a sandbox in front of the fireplace, which was boarded up. The stovepipe was connected to the chimney flue.

As they entered, Andrew Jackson turned from his squinting perusal of a map on the wall. The President nodded as Giusta introduced Christopher.

"Come in, come in," said Jackson. His voice was surprisingly soft. Christopher expected the legendary old warrior to be gruff and loud. "Would you like a drink?"

"No, thank you, sir," lied Christopher. His nerves were raw, crying out for another stiff brandy. But he did not want to appear dependent on strong spirits in front of the President of the United States.

"Sit down, then."

Giusta pulled out a chair, and Christopher sat down. This placed him in the middle of the long table.

"That will be all," Jackson told Giusta, and the steward vanished, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

Jackson paced the length of the table and back again, collecting his thoughts, and in that moment of silence Christopher was afforded an opportunity to garner a first impression of a living legend.

Old Hickory stood an inch over six feet in height. He was thin, weighing in at about one hundred and forty pounds. His long, pale face—framed by thick snow white hair grown long and brushed straight back—was deeply furrowed. There was that famous scar on the forehead, from the saber of a British officer whose boots a twelve-year-old Jackson had refused to polish. In his sixties now, Jackson lived in almost continual physical pain. Many a month he had spent campaigning, enduring the same hardships as his men, abusing his body, taking his health for granted. During his war years he had contracted chronic dysentery as well as a recurring inflammation of the lungs. A memento of one of his most celebrated duels, he had for many years carried a
bulletin him which caused persistent pain in his shoulder and side. Only recently had it been removed. Lately, a wracking cough and blinding headaches were added to his woes. A lot of people were wondering if the old warrior would live long enough to complete a single term, and few expected him to seek reelection in 1832.

Yet, with one look, Christopher was confident that Andrew Jackson would frustrate his enemies and survive for much longer than people thought possible. His will was indomitable. No combination of ailments would stop him as long as he wanted to live Truly, Old Hickory was larger than life. He was intelligent if not well-educated, an honest and upright man. Once he determined that a course of action was the proper one, he plunged ahead with a vigor and resourcefulness that put much younger men to shame. No obstacle would keep him from his goal.

The common people adored and trusted him. Born into frontier aristocracy, he had become the spokesman for the West of the farmer and the frontiersman. He did not trust the eastern merchant and banker. The people knew he was President through no personal ambitions, for he would have preferred to spend the autumn of his life a recluse on his beloved Hermitage, an estate on the outskirts of Nashville. No, he was here to do for the people what they could not do for themselves—in short, defend them against the eastern "establishment," the banks and the tariffs and all other government-sponsored monsters which the wealthy used to keep the poor and downtrodden in their place. This, at least, was how the General perceived his mission.

"I understand you have been dismissed from the Military Academy," he said. "An affair of honor." His flinty blue eyes flicked across the dressing and sling on Christopher's arm. "Are you badly hurt?"

"No, sir."

"They say your adversary lingered for some time at death's door."

"I believe he will survive, Mr. President."

Jackson nodded, stopped suddenly, and turned to face Christopher. "I could intervene on your behalf. Perhaps have you reinstated."

'I would rather you didn't do that, sir."

"Indeed? Why not? I've done it before."

"Yes, sir. I know."

"You don't approve."

Christopher decided to be brutally honest. After the events of the past few weeks he did not think he had anything to lose by speaking his mind.

"No, sir, I don't. By doing so you have undermined Superintendent's Thayer's authority."

"I am the Commander in Chief. He works for me."

"Yes, sir. But if you trust a man with a job you should let him do it the way he sees fit."

A faint smile tugged at Jackson's taut lips. "You do remind me of your father, young man. Indeed you do. You would have made a splendid officer."

"We'll never know now, will we, Mr. President?"

Jackson heard the bitterness in Christopher's voice, and while his gaze softened with sympathy his own voice took on a more severe tone.

"There is nothing to be gained by crying over spilt milk, Mr. Groves. Forgive an old man for prying, but what compelled you to fight this duel?"

"I'd rather not say, sir. It was a . . . a personal matter."

"Hmm. Your father's good name, no doubt. Since your adversary was Adam Vickers, I presume it had something to do with Mrs. Emily Cooper."

Christopher nodded. Jackson pulled out a chair and sat down across from him, wincing as he lifted his long, spindly legs to plant his boots on the corner of the table.

"Sometimes the price of doing the right thing is high. Believe me, I know whereof I speak. But without honor,
without self-respect, all of your victories in life are hollow ones. As you may know, I have engaged in one or two duels myself."

"They say you've fought a hundred duels."

"A gross exaggeration. There was that business with Charles Dickinson, of course. Some insist it sprang from a quarrel over a horse-race bet. But Dickinson's tongue became too loose when he drank a lot of whiskey, and he made the mistake of insulting my wife. He also called me—let's see, what was it? Oh yes—a scoundrel, a poltroon, and a coward. I had no choice but to obtain satisfaction. I was warned that Dickinson was the best shot in Tennessee, and I believe they were right—his bullet struck me squarely in the chest. But I managed to remain on my feet long enough to return fire and kill him." Jackson paused, his gaze far off as he remembered, and then he added, fiercely, "I would have hit him had he shot me through the brain. His bullet shattered two of my ribs and came perilously close to my heart, and the wound has caused me some little discomfort ever since. But it had to be done."

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."