THE sandy-haired Andrew now devotes himself to the practice of law and
the domestic virtues. In exercising the latter, he has the aid of the
blooming Rachel, toward whom he carries himself with a tender chivalry
that would have graced a Bayard. Having little of books, he is earnest
for the education of others, and becomes a trustee of the Nashville
Academy.
About this time the good people of the Cumberland, and of the regions
round about, believing they number more than seventy thousand souls, are
seized of a hunger for statehood. They call a constitutional convention
at Knoxville, and Andrew attends as a delegate from his county of
Davidson. Woolsack McNairy, his fellow student in the office of Spruce
Mc-Cay, is also a delegate. The woolsack one has-realized that dream of
old Salisbury, and is now a judge.
Andrew and woolsack McNairy are members of the committee which draws
a constitution for the would-be commonwealth. The constitution, when
framed, is brought by its authors into open convention, and wranglingly
adopted. Also, “Tennessee” is settled upon for a name, albeit the ardent
Andrew, who is nothing if not tribal, urges that of “Cumberland.”
The constitution goes, with the proposition of statehood, before
Congress in Philadelphia; and, following a sharp fight, in which such
fossilized ones as Rufus King oppose and such quick spirits as Aaron
Burr sustain, the admission of “Tennessee,” the new State is created.
Its hunting-shirt citizenry, well pleased with their successful step in
nation building, elect Andrew to the House of Representatives. A little
later, he is taken from the House and sent to the Senate. There he
meets with Mr. Jefferson, who is the Senate's presiding officer, being
vice-president of the nation, and that accurate parliamentarian and
polished fine gentleman writes of him:
“He never speaks on account of the rashness of his feelings. I have seen
him attempt it repeatedly, but as often choke with rage.” There also he
encounters Aaron Burr; and is so far socially sagacious as to model
his deportment upon that of the American Chesterfield, ironing out
its backwoods wrinkles and savage creases, until it fits a _salon_ as
smoothly well as does the deportment of Burr himself. Our hero finds but
one other man about Congress for whom he conceives a friendship equal to
that which he feels for Aaron Burr, and he is Edward Livingston.
Andrew the energetic discovers the life of a senator to be one of
dawdling uselessness, overlong drawn out; and says so. He anticipates
the acrid Randolph of Roanoke, and declares that he never winds his
watch while in Congress, holding all time spent there as wasted and
thrown away.
Idleness rusts him; and, being of a temper even with that of best
Toledo steel, he refuses to rust patiently. Preyed upon and carked of
an exasperating leisure, which misfits both his years and his
fierce temperament, he seeks refuge in what amusements are rife in
Philadelphia. He goes to Mr. McElwee's Looking-glass Store, 70 South
Fourth Street, and pays four bits for a ticket to the readings of Mr.
Fennell, who gives him Goldsmith, Thompson and Young. The readings
pall upon him, and athirst for something more violent, he clinks down
a Mexican dollar, witnesses the horsemanship at Mr. Rickett's
amphitheater, and finds it more to his horse-loving taste. When all else
fails, he buys a seat in a box at the Old Theater in Cedar Street, and
is entertained by the sleight of hand of wizard Signor Falconi. On
the back of it all he grows heartily sick of the Senate, and of
civilization, as the latter finds exposition in Philadelphia, and
resigns his place and goes home.
When he arrives in Nashville, the Legislature--which still holds that
he should be engaged upon some public work--elects him to the supreme
bench....
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....objectionable Mr. Bean with those Galway saw-handles; and that
violent person surrenders unconditionally. In elucidating his sudden
tameness and its causes, Mr. Bean subsequently explains to a disgusted
admirer:
“I looks at the Jedge, an' I sees shoot in his eye; an' thar warn't
shoot in nary 'nother eye in the crowd. So I says to myse'f, says I, 'Old
Hoss, it's about time to sing small!' An' I does.”
Notwithstanding those leaden exchanges with the Governor, and
the conquest of the discreet Mr. Bean, our jurist finds the bench
inexpressibly tedious. At last he resigns from it, as he did from the
Senate, and again retreats to private life.
Here his forethoughtful Scotch blood begins to assert itself, and he
goes seriously to the making of money. With his one hundred and fifty
slaves, he tills his plantation as no plantation on the Cumberland was
ever tilled before; and the cotton crops he “makes” are at once the
local boast and wonder. He starts an inland shipyard, and builds keel
and flat boats for the river commerce with New Orleans. He opens a
store, sells everything from gunpowder to quinine, broadcloth by the
bolt to salt by the barrel, and takes his pay in the heterogeneous
currency of the region, whereof 'coon skins are a smallest subsidiary
coin. Also, it is now that he is made Major General of Militia, an honor
for which he has privily panted, even as the worn hart panteth for the
water brook.
When he is a general, the blooming Rachel cuts and bastes and stitches a
gorgeous uniform for her Bayard, in which labor of love she exhausts the
Nashville supply of gold braid. Once the new General dons that effulgent
uniform, which he does upon the instant it is completed, he offers a
spectacle of such brilliancy that the bedazzled public talks facetiously
of smoked glass. The new General in no wise resents this jest, being
blandly tolerant of a backwoods sense of humor which suggests it.
Besides, while the public has its joke, he has the uniform and his
commission; and these, he opines, give him vastly the better of the
situation.
Many friends, many foes, says the Arab, and now the popular young
General finds his path grown up of enemies. There be reasons for the
sprouting of these malevolent gentry. The General is the idol of the
people. He can call them about him as the huntsman calls his hounds.
At word or sign from him, they follow and pull down whatsoever man or
measure he points to as his quarry of politics. This does not match with
the ambitions of many a pushing gentleman, who is quite as eager for
popular preference, and--he thinks--quite as much entitled to it, as is
the General.
These disgruntled ones, baffled in their political advancement by the
General, take darkling counsel among themselves. The decision they
arrive at is one gloomy enough. They cannot shake the General's hold
upon the people. Nothing short of his death promises a least ray of
relief. He is the sun; while he lives he alone will occupy the popular
heavens. His destruction would mean the going down of that sun. In the
night which followed, those lesser plotting luminaries might win for
themselves some twinkling visibility.
It is the springtime of the malevolent ones' conspiracy, and the plot
they make begins to blossom for the bearing of its lethal fruit. There
is in Nashville one Charles Dickinson. By profession he is a lawyer,
albeit of practice intermittent and scant. In figure he is tall,
handsome, graceful with a feline grace. If there be aught in the old
Greek's theory touching the transmigration of souls, then this Dickinson
was aforetime and in another life a tiger. He is sinuous, powerful,
vain, narrowly cruel, with a sleek purring gloss of manner over all.
Also, he is of “good family”--that defense and final refuge of folk
who would else sink from respectable sight in the mire of their own
well-earned disrepute.
Mr. Dickinson has one accomplishment, a physical one. So nicely does his
eye match his hand, that he may boast himself the quickest, surest shot
in all the world. Knowing his vanity, and the deadly certainty of his
pistols, the conspirators work upon him. They point out that to kill the
General under circumstances which men approve, will be an easy instant
step to greatness. Urged by his vanity, permitted by his cruelty,
dead-shot Dickinson rises to the glittering lure.
Give a man station and fortune, and while his courage is not sapped
his prudence is promoted. The poor, obscure man will risk himself more
readily than will the eminent rich one, not that he is braver, but he
has less to lose. The General--who has been in both Houses of Congress,
and was a judge on the bench besides--will not be hurried to the field,
as readily as when he was merely Andrew the horse-faced. However, those
malignant secret ones are ingenious. They know a name that cannot
fail to set him ablaze for blood. They whisper that name to dead-shot
Dickinson.
It is a banner day at the Clover Bottom track. The General's Truxton is
to run--that meteor among race horses, the mighty Truxton! The blooming
Rachel, seated in her carriage, is where she can view the finish. The
General--one of the Clover Bottom stewards--is in the judge's stand.
Dead-shot Dickinson, as the bell rings on the race, takes his stand at
the blooming Rachel's carriage wheel. He is not there to see a race, but
to plant an insult.
“Go!” cries the starter.
Away rushes the field, the flying Truxton in the lead! Around they
whirl, the little jockeys plying hand and heel! They sweep by the
three-quarters post! The great Truxton, eye afire, nostrils wide, comes
down the stretch with the swiftness of the thrown lance! Behind, ten
generous lengths, trail the beaten ruck! The red mounts to the cheek of
the blooming Rachel; her black eyes shine with excitement! She applauds
the invincible Truxton with her little hands.
“He is running away with them!” she cries.
Dead-shot Dickinson turns to the friend who is conveniently by his side.
The chance he waited for has come.
“Running away with them!” he sneers, repeating the phrase of the
blooming Rachel. “To be sure! He takes after his master, who ran away
with another man's wife.”