“But you?”
“There will be less said by the Clintons and the Livingstons of traitors and murderers if I remain away. I owe it to my past to subdue lies and slanders to a smallest limit. No; I must work my works behind bars and bolts, and in darkened rooms. It is as well—better! After a man sees sixty, the fewer dinners he eats, the better for him. I intend to live to see you President; not on your account, but mine, and for the grief it will bring my enemies. And yet it may take years. Wherefore, I must save myself from wine and late hours—I must keep myself with care.”
Aaron and the general talk for an hour.
“And if I should become President some day,” says Jackson, as they separate, “you may see that Southwestern enterprise of ours revived.”
“It will be too late for me,” responds Aaron. “I am old, and shall be older. All my hopes, and the reasons of them are dead—are in the grave. Still”—and here the black eyes sparkle in the old way—“I shall be glad to have younger men take up the work. It should serve somewhat to wipe ‘treason’ from my fame.”
“Treason!” snorts the fiery Jackson. “Sir, no one, not fool or liar, ever spoke of treason and Colonel Burr in one breath!”
There is a mighty dinner outpouring of Buck-tails, and Jackson—the “hero,” the “conqueror,” the “nation’s hope and pride,” according to orators then and there present and eloquent—is toasted to the skies. At the close of the festival a Clintonite, one Colden, thinks to test the Jackson feeling for Aaron. He will offer the name of Aaron’s arch enemy.
The wily Colden gets upon his feet. Lifting high his glass he loudly gives:
“De Witt Clinton!”
The move is a surprise. It is like a sword thrust, and Van Buren, Swartwout, Rutgers, and other Bucktail leaders know not how to parry it. Jackson, the guest of honor, is not, however, to be put in the attitude of offering even tacit insult to the absent Aaron. He cannot reply in words, but he manages a retort, obvious and emphatic. As though the word “Clinton” were a signal, he arises from his place and leaves the room. The thing is as unmistakable in its meaning, as it is magnificent in its friendly loyalty to Aaron, and shows that Jackson has not changed since that street-corner Richmond oratory so disturbing to Wirt and Hay. Also, it removes whatever of doubt exists as to what will be Aaron’s place in event of Jackson’s occupation of the White House. The maladroit Colden, intending outrage, brings out compliment; and, as the gaunt Jackson goes stalking from the hall, there descends a storm of Bucktail cheers, and shouts of “Burr! Burr!” with a chorus of hisses for Clinton as the galling background. Throughout the full two terms of Marionette Monroe, Aaron urges his crusade against Jefferson, the Virginia junta, and King Caucus. His war against his old enemies never flags. His demand is for convention nominations; his candidate is Jackson.