Andrew Jackson Donelson made a little bow, while the others held their breath.
“Uncle, I admit my disobedience,” Jack said humbly. “I have come home because now you will have need of me. I have come home to help you win the nomination for the office of President of the United States.”
Rachel’s little cry of protest was lost in the gasps of the uninformed around the tables. A few of the men looked wise and complacent and Emily noted that John Eaton wore a smug grin.
Andrew Jackson made a slashing motion with the knife as though he flourished a defiant sword.
“Young man, I have no intention of seeking the nomination for the office of President of the United States!” he shouted.
“I should say not!” put in Rachel’s small, shaken voice.
Jack’s laughter echoed John Eaton’s grin. “You may not be seeking the nomination, sir, but that nomination is certainly out gunning for you! All over Kentucky they’re talking of nothing else—Jackson for President, in 1824—right under Henry Clay’s nose! They say Clay is looking for a ground-hog hole to crawl into dragging his whisky barrel after him. And look at this!” He pulled the ragged page of a newspaper from his pocket, marched to the head of the table and spread it before his uncle’s eyes. “I picked it up in Transylvania, brought it along—thought you might not have seen it.”
John Eaton sprang to study the paper. “The New York Post!” he exclaimed. “We missed that one. Let’s see what they say.”
“What they say,” reported Jack, while the General still glowered at the paper, “is that if the country was under martial law Andrew Jackson would be the proper choice for president. That not being the case, the Post will continue their support of Secretary of the Navy, Smith Thompson, for the nomination in 1824.”
“Smith Thompson—about as much chance for him as for me!” snorted one of the Donelson clan.