This Tree of Liberty, a Trunk of Hickory
The horse-drawn guns, three and six-pounders as befitted a state militia regiment, trundled down the wide avenue, named for the state where their great Union, so corrupted by the vainglory and avarice of the political class, had begun. Infantry battalions, bayonets fixed, were busily clearing the north end of the city of Columbia, aiming to join hands with their allies in the Maryland Third. Seizing the center of the city, the President’s House and the Capitol, were left to, among others, Neville’s beloved, humble Palmetto Horse Artillery Regiment, of the great state of South Carolina.
The President’s House, light grey paint streaked with the residue of days of smoke and fire, was within sight. Neville’s ears, still ringing, could pick up the sounds of musket fire. The Presidential Guard, in their blue and gold uniforms, were evidently resisting to the very last man. Neville wondered why. Their city had fallen. Rumor had it that Adams, Lord damn his soul, had fled for Boston, along with most of the Congress.
Neville wished it did not have to come to this. Americans had stood together to fight for their freedom from Britain. The Tories had been few, and those who had fought for the king had fled across the seas or towards the frigid north. The General had fought that war. The British had tortured and wounded him for his resistance to their will to put free white men of America into chains. He had fought against the British for freedom, against the Spanish for Florida, and the Indians for the frontier. He was a man committed to duty and honor, his nation’s and his own.
As the General had fought, the politicians had plotted and squabbled for their own gain. Gates and the Federalists had taken power with both hands and held on tightly, never failing to use fraud and bribery when necessary. Bradford’s armed struggle against the Union had failed, as had the genteel opposition of Jefferson and the tangled conspiracies of Burr. The tyrannical Acts had followed: Sedition, Alien, Public Order, and the Emergency of 1808. DeWitt had been the last hope of the moderates – his brutal hanging and final cries of “Long Live the Republic” had sent thousands to the underground banner of the Democrats, born on the frontier and organized by men of vigor and self-improvement, not the slithering, slippery ruling class of bankers and so-called statesmen.
The final straw had been the war with Britain. It had seemed easy enough – France had gone mad, its armies rampaging across Europe in the name of Liberty and a short Corsican corporal, dissolving ancient institutions as they went. The British had in turn seized French colonies, including the port of New Orleans at the mouth of the River Mississippi. The Federalists had maintained good relations with the former metropole for the most part, but the new President was greedy for glory his father never had.
The war was bloody. Even as York was seized and sacked, men froze to death by the hundreds in the march towards Quebec, a repeated folly worthy of the traitor Benedict Arnold. The Battle of Plattsburgh saw British victory, and only overstretched supply lines and the bravery of the doughty New York militia, led by the closet Democrat George Riley, stopped the redcoat regulars at the desperate, blood-drenched Battle of Yonkers.
The General meanwhile, seen as a Caesar-in-waiting by the make-believe Ciceros of the Capitol, was dispatched to seize the city and stay far, far away from where power was. His army marched, without proper supplies or enough men, to the gates of the French colonial metropolis. Neville had fought with him, an artillery officer on the line. The General had fought among the men, braving bullets and cannon fire to inspire them to glory. The battles were fierce and British regulars fought viciously for every inch, but by Christmas Day 1814, despite thousands of dead and wounded, the King’s men had been routed. The city was theirs.
Then, the news arrived. Even with their victory, even with all of the blood of free white men shed in service of American greatness, the city was to be returned to Britain. The United States would be compensated with claims to the north and free access to the port, but few cared about the details. That day, Neville became a Democrat, and knew wherever the General marched, he would be with him.
Marching with the Palmettos were the Greensmen of Tennessee, rugged men of the frontier, more at home among the trees and rocks of the Appalachian Mountains than in a modern-day Sodom complete with marble columns, paved roads and power, oh so much power. Their rifles, deadly accurate to two hundred paces, had brought Federalist soldier after Federalist soldier low. They had been given the honor of taking the Grey House for their service and undying loyalty to the General. They were, after all, men of his home state.
The Tennessean commander, a man named Cheatham, was, like Neville, a planter and a good Democrat, a man committed to the restoration of rule by, for and of the People. His mustaches were combed carefully, extending from his upper lip down past his chin, an arch of brown-blonde hair supporting his crooked, pink nose. He coughed, then spoke. “Fine day for victory, Colonel.”
Neville nodded. “Fine day indeed, Major.”
“It is a righteous act to bring this war to a close. Too many good men have died fighting their brothers.”
Neville didn’t speak, but nodded again. They had come within range. Neville yelled out, his hoarse voice trembling, for the men to unpack the guns. The President’s hidey-hole would be taken. The drums rolled, and the guns rolled out at speed. A horse screamed, taking a shot to the throat. The guns roared, then again. Blue-clad figures fell amongst clouds of dust and gore, screams erupting from their positions behind makeshift barricades.
The barricades were smashed to pieces, and Neville ordered the drumbeat of artillery to cease. No white flags flapped, but Neville waited, for a moment. He knew the General would want the Grey House taken with as little damage as possible.
The Greensmen were not so patient. The frontiersmen fired another volley at the Federalist position for good measure, before fixing their bayonets. They charged, green tunics flapping in the breeze. A few screams later, and cries of celebration could be heard as the Greensmen broke down the doors and entered the nation’s house.
Neville smiled, despite the lost glory. There would be a new President for their Republic. A good man, a true Democrat, a commander, a hero of wars domestic and foreign. A strong man to rule a wild land, and bring the Stars and Stripes flying from sea to shining sea.
A man named Andrew Jackson.
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