Free Gone to Texas by Jason Manning Page A

seating themselves at a long table, with cabinets and bookcases along the walls. These furnishings had once belonged to Thomas Jefferson. An oilcloth, artfully painted in a tile pattern, covered the floor. The window curtains depended from glided-eagle cornices like those in the East Room whichChristopher had so admired. An iron Russian stove stood in a sandbox in front of the fireplace, which was boarded up. The stovepipe was connected to the chimney flue.
    As they entered, Andrew Jackson turned from his squinting perusal of a map on the wall. The President nodded as Giusta introduced Christopher.
    "Come in, come in," said Jackson. His voice was surprisingly soft. Christopher expected the legendary old warrior to be gruff and loud. "Would you like a drink?"
    "No, thank you, sir," lied Christopher. His nerves were raw, crying out for another stiff brandy. But he did not want to appear dependent on strong spirits in front of the President of the United States.
    "Sit down, then."
    Giusta pulled out a chair, and Christopher sat down. This placed him in the middle of the long table.
    "That will be all," Jackson told Giusta, and the steward vanished, closing the door soundlessly behind him.
    Jackson paced the length of the table and back again, collecting his thoughts, and in that moment of silence Christopher was afforded an opportunity to garner a first impression of a living legend.
    Old Hickory stood an inch over six feet in height. He was thin, weighing in at about one hundred and forty pounds. His long, pale face—framed by thick snow white hair grown long and brushed straight back—was deeply furrowed. There was that famous scar on the forehead, from the saber of a British officer whose boots a twelve-year-old Jackson had refused to polish. In his sixties now, Jackson lived in almost continual physical pain. Many a month he had spent campaigning, enduring the same hardships as his men, abusing his body, taking his health for granted. During his war years he had contracted chronic dysentery as well as a recurring inflammation of the lungs. A memento of one of his most celebrated duels, he had for many years carried abulletin him which caused persistent pain in his shoulder and side. Only recently had it been removed. Lately, a wracking cough and blinding headaches were added to his woes. A lot of people were wondering if the old warrior would live long enough to complete a single term, and few expected him to seek reelection in 1832.
    Yet, with one look, Christopher was confident that Andrew Jackson would frustrate his enemies and survive for much longer than people thought possible. His will was indomitable. No combination of ailments would stop him as long as he wanted to live Truly, Old Hickory was larger than life. He was intelligent if not well-educated, an honest and upright man. Once he determined that a course of action was the proper one, he plunged ahead with a vigor and resourcefulness that put much younger men to shame. No obstacle would keep him from his goal.
    The common people adored and trusted him. Born into frontier aristocracy, he had become the spokesman for the West of the farmer and the frontiersman. He did not trust the eastern merchant and banker. The people knew he was President through no personal ambitions, for he would have preferred to spend the autumn of his life a recluse on his beloved Hermitage, an estate on the outskirts of Nashville. No, he was here to do for the people what they could not do for themselves—in short, defend them against the eastern "establishment," the banks and the tariffs and all other government-sponsored monsters which the wealthy used to keep the poor and downtrodden in their place. This, at least, was how the General perceived his mission.
    "I understand you have been dismissed from the Military Academy," he said. "An affair of honor." His flinty blue eyes flicked across the dressing and sling on Christopher's arm. "Are you badly hurt?"
    "No, sir."
    "They say your