The other advisers were looking either pained, in the case of Johnston, or derisive, in the case of Beatty, or something in between. Clay's face had no expression at all.
Porter knew this was his last chance, so he decided to use whatever leverage he had. What little leverage he had any longer.
He pointed to the Intelligencer. "Let the ramifications of that settle in for a bit. In a month or two, I think you'd be able to get the appropriations bill passed that we need. "
"Oh, for the love of-" Beatty broke off the incipient blasphemy. Clay didn't approve of such, and at least part of his disapproval was actually genuine.
Beatty slid forward, perched on the edge of his chair. "We've been over this more often than I want to remember. Mr. Porter, no one except you thinks it will take an army the size of the Russian tsars to squelch a pack of rioting negroes. A simple doubling of the regiments-"
Weeks-months-of simmering doubts and frustration boiled to the surface. Without realizing he'd done so, Porter was on his feet.
"Mr. Beatty, have you ever gotten any closer to a battlefield than you have to the moon? Because I have. " He pointed a slightly shaking finger at the newspaper. "Did you read the account of the battle, every detail of which was published in that same newspaper? And many others. They were outnumbered, and they still held off half the existing U.S. Army while inflicting worse casualties than almost any battle in the war with Britain and routing several thousand militiamen. And you-you-you-propose to call them rioting negroes, as if we faced nothing more than a minor civil disturbance?"
Clay was saying something, but Porter was simply too angry to pay attention. "Blast you! Gentlemen, we are dealing with a war, here. A very real, no-joking, war. That means we have got to mobilize the same way-"
"Peter!"
Porter broke off at that half shout. He saw that Clay was on his feet. The president's expression was just short of a glare.
"Peter," he said sternly, "I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to leave. And please do not return until and unless you have regained your composure."
Porter stared at him.
"Now, please."
There was Nothing to say, that he could think of. Any longer. Explosively, he let out a breath that he hadn't even realized he was holding in.
"Yes, of course, Mr. President. My apologies." He gathered up his own satchel and made for the door.
On the way out, he heard Clay saying: "For that matter, gentlemen, I think we should leave this whole issue out of our discussion altogether. It is now properly a matter for the Cabinet."
The Cabinet. That meant John Calhoun, first and foremost. Who had also never in his life come closer to a battlefield than he had to the moon. And who, while he favored as big an expansion of the army as possible, had a contempt for black people so deep that it blinded him.
But as he passed through the door, Peter realized it was no longer any of his concern. There were limits. There had to be limits, and he was now past them.
Outside, on Pennsylvania Avenue, he looked down at the Capitol. Trying, for a moment, to remember how many years he had spent in the republic's service, doing his best to help guide it.
Enough. He had his own affairs to tend to, which he had long neglected. What would happen would happen, unfolding according to its own grim logic. A war begun by happenstance-some scheming, too, to be honest-would now be fought by men who thought they could do everything by half measures, supplanting the other half with schemes. The half measures would fail, succeeded by fuller ones-but those, too, would be stunted by that same cleverness, which was too clever by half. Until, in the end, they found themselves in a roaring rapids, in a rudderless raft they'd thought to be a steamboat, with the falls ahead.
Be damned to them all. Peter Porter owned no slaves and never had.
He was finally able to laugh, a bit. And never would own any, of course. Not now.
New Antrim
N OVEMBER 7, 1825
Sheff Parker was surprised when Julia Chinn ushered Winfield Scott into his room. He knew who the man was, of course, and had even seen him a time or two on the streets before his injury. But they'd never exchanged so much as a single word.
He lowered the newspaper he'd been working his way through, with some relief. He'd have preferred reading an account of the new National Democratic-Republican Party's program in an article written by Cullen Bryant and Scott. But Bryant had left a few weeks ago. He'd decided to remain in Arkansas for the duration of the war. But, that being the case, he had no desire to remain separated from his wife and daughter, so he'd gone to get them and bring them back with him.
From what Sheff had been told by Julia, Scott had considered the same course of action. But either because his family was larger-five children in all-or because his wife came from Virginian upper crust, or because he was apparently planning to cover the war from both sides of the line, he'd decided otherwise.
Unfortunately, from Sheff 's point of view, that meant the analysis of the new party's program was being written by John Ridge and Buck Watie. And they tended toward a far more flowery style of prose. Sheff 's ability to read was improving rather quickly, now that he had so much time on his hands. But this was a strain.
Scott came to the bed and leaned over to see what Sheff was reading.
"Oh, dear Lord. I don't envy you that. I leave aside the fact that their assessment misses the mark wildly, and on at least three counts."
"Why do-ah, please have a seat, General."
"Thank you. Why do I think that?" The tall former officer drew up a chair. "Let's start with the most basic. If you took that seriously, you'd think the entire program of the new party-well, let's say nine points out of ten-was essentially a fraud. Then let's consider the fact that the estimable Ridge and Watie can't decide whether that's good or bad. Which is understandable enough, given their predicament. The Ridge family estates in Oklahoma have more slaves working them than all but the wealthiest plantations in the South. After that, we can move on-"
"Is it true that most of the slaves will never see freedom?"
"Oh, yes, Captain Parker, that's quite true. The same thing will happen in Tennessee and Kentucky-and Missouri, though perhaps not Delaware-that happened in New York and most of the Northern states that adopted gradual emancipation. Before the time limit expires, most slave-owners will have sold their slaves to masters somewhere in the South. I'd be surprised if more than one out of five people who were scheduled for manumission ever receive it. The black populations of most of those states dropped precipitously in the years prior to emancipation-and I can assure you they didn't move to Canada, the most of them."
He nodded toward the southeast. "They-or their children-are laboring on a plantation somewhere in the Carolinas or Georgia, or perhaps working as stevedores on the docks of Savannah or Charleston. As I say, Delaware may be an exception. The Quakers and Methodists will be vigilant, and they may be able to keep that to a minimum. In any event, Delaware already has the largest freedmen population of any state in the nation, at least in percentage terms. The people of the state are fairly accustomed to it by now."
Sheff studied the man's face. For all the cynicism that rested on the surface of Scott's expression, something else lay underneath.
"Please explain," Sheff said. He lifted the paper a bit. "Why that goes against what they're saying."
"Because they're like men on a battlefield who see only the casualties and don't consider the fight. In the long run, Captain Parker-yes, I know this will sound very callous to you-it doesn't matter what happens to those people. Give it two generations, three at the outside, and slavery is dead. Jackson knows that, Adams knows that, and you can be quite sure that John Calhoun knows it, too."