It could coin money but had no authority to purchase bullion. It could make war and could not raise a soldier. With the States thus jealously retaining the power of initiative, it was logical that a man should identify himself by proclaiming his State citizenship. To merely say “I am an American” was to speak anonymously.
But as Jackson mulled it over with chastened mind the obscure places in his soul caught vagrant rays of light, and he marvelled at the birth of new comprehensions. At first they were nebulous and vague in details. As he concentrated, they took on substance until his soul-gaze swept over a mighty panorama, as if a stupendous flash of divine fire were lighting the future and revealing what might be if the dreams of the dreamers came true.
“Just one State!” he whispered, closing his eyes to retain the picture. “By heavens, that’s it! Washington has seen it! Sevier sees it! No, no! It can’t be all that!”
This last, as the picture persisted in widening, sweeping over unknown rivers, leaping towering mountain ranges not yet seen by white men, and promised to include all between the rising and setting suns.
“A man would get drunk thinking on it,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes as if wakening from deep sleep.
“Been takin’ a snooze?” greeted a voice.
Jackson glanced up and beheld Old Thatch, owlishly contemplating him and weaving slightly from side to side in a manner that was reminiscent of tavern whisky.
Jackson sat up and scowled blackly at the old man.
“You’re the fellow who objected to my kicking that cur this morning. Clear out before I forget you’re a drunken old fool.”
Thatch smiled forgivingly and chuckled softly. His bleared eyes were thoroughly amiable as he dropped to the ground and grunted in comfort at feeling himself securely anchored.