for a discarded canvas that her uncle wouldn't miss. Sarah was engrossed in preparations for starting the painting. She hadn't noticed how Anna gazed around the painting room.
"Have you ever wondered what made any of these men illustrious?" Anna said.
Sarah looked up as Anna studied Charles's dozen portraits hanging around the room, the President, Mr. Calhoun, John Quincy Adams, and the others.
Sarah laughed, ignoring Anna's serious mood. 'They're all politicians."
"Yes. But back in the Museum, we looked on the men in the portraits as heroes. Washington, Jefferson, Lafayette and all the gallant officers. It seemed so simple once. A hero was a man who did unselfish acts for the good of someone or something."
"So what has changed?" Sarah asked, not looking up from her drawing. "I don't know. But in Washington, it seems an act can be colored one way or another and what counts is power, the number of men willing to give support."
"It seems to me," Sarah said, "that heroes start out being men, and that would complicate the matter."
Anna smiled. "That's it. I was impressed with Mr. Clay. His talk was witty and logical. He seemed amiable and patriotic, determined to protect the Union. What could be better than that? And yet he attacked Jackson. Which one was the hero?" She shook her head and studied the face of President Monroe. "There was no guile in Monroe's face. And yet they say he gave Jackson the go-ahead to take care of the Indian situation as he saw fit, and when he did, the President backed away from him."
"Public debate brings everything out, facts, politics and passions. It's our American way, isn't it?"
"Maybe so," Anna said with a tired sigh, "but I don't like politics, everyone grasping for power. Corruption and consciences all mixed up. I don't know what to make of it all. It will be nice to get back to the peace of Papa's workshop."
Sarah frowned her disagreement. She hoped to stay longer, but now she was concerned mostly with painting a very good portrait. She wanted to show Uncle Charles she hadn't been wasting her time.
Charles and Hannah returned while Sarah was finishing her drawing. If they acted happy or excited, Sarah didn't notice. She was concentrating on the recessed line from the base of Anna's nose to the middle of her upper lip. In this light and with Anna's expression, it was a very subtle line.
Charles went straight to the fire while Hannah put their things away. Then Hannah came into the room and stood next to Charles. He put his arm around her waist and stood on his tiptoes, rocked back on the balls of his feet and smiled. Anna looked up, her expression puzzled. "Did you enjoy your outing?"
"Aye, that we did," Charles answered. He rocked on his toes again. "I think we are going to get our wish," Charles said.
Anna gasped. Charles and Hannah seemed ready to burst. "We have been walking," Hannah said. "There is much talk."
"Of Jackson?" Sarah asked excitedly. "Is he coming? Is that what you heard?"
"Not quite," Charles said. "We heard that a tall gaunt figure on horseback muffled in a greatcoat crossed the Long Bridge and ended his journey at Strater's Hotel." Charles winked and strutted to his easel. "General Jackson is here."
Chapter 7
Thanks to Richard Johnson the sittings with Jackson were arranged. The General agreed to pose before breakfast for three mornings. Anna prepared her finest ivory; Charles readied a large canvas to accommodate a half-length portrait.
The General and his party climbed the stairs to the painting room as Sarah's anticipation peaked. Richard presented the General to Anna and Charles. Sarah watched from the sitting room. General Jackson was tall and thin; his thick graying hair brushed neatly, his smile tired, his grave face etched with sadness. Yet dressed as he was in his military uniform with sword and epaulettes, he moved with a loose easy grace and spoke in a steady Southern voice.
"Welcome to this humble place," Charles began. "I hope your stay in Washington City will prove fruitful."
Jackson grinned. 'I am resolved to beat these hellish machinations if it's my last accomplishment on this earth."
Sarah stood still, hardly breathing, as she watched Charles ease the General toward the model's chair. Richard Johnson was in a buoyant mood, his face rosy as he arranged chairs for Representatives Holmes and Poindexter near the model's chair.
When they were settled, Sarah brought in the tea, struggling to hold the tray steady when Jackson smiled at her.
She poured his tea unwaveringly. "And do you take sugar, General?"
"Why yes. Thank you kindly, Miss Sarah."
Sarah handed him the cup, wondering as she looked into his clear blue eyes how many men he'd killed in battle, duals and executions. His steady eyes met hers and set her trembling. She passed the plate of sweet biscuits, and watched his slender large-knuckled fingers as he plucked a biscuit off the plate and raised it to his mouth. Her eyes followed his hand until she caught herself staring. She turned quickly to Mr. Poindexter and poured his tea unhurriedly. "Sugar, sir?"
"If you please."
When the men were served, she sat on a footstool behind Anna, ready to pour more tea or gather teacups. Though she behaved as demurely as promised she regretted giving her word and longed for a stick of charcoal, mentally sketching the lines of Jackson's face.
Charles kept the conversation light. He did not allow glumness to settle on the portraits. Anna and Sarah had been warned for years to avoid sad and sullen looks at all costs. General Jackson, though most polite, could easily look downcast while discussing the debate in Congress. Poindexter, apparently caring nothing for serene expressions, insisted on discussing Jackson's reasoning in his conduct of the Seminole war.
Jackson's face became intent, determined, but not sullen. His shoulders had sloped somewhat before; but now they were straight. His eyes glinted and his mouth formed a self-confident smile. He was the mighty General discussing strategy with his officers. He was in command with a distant fire coloring his gaunt complexion and curling his mouth in a sardonic smile. He looked hungry for the battle.
Anna studied Jackson's every move, brushing adroitly, capturing the fleeting details. Sarah doubted if there was any question in her mind now about heroes and politicians. Jackson was a man among men, too complex to be defined. The jutting gold epaulettes on his shoulders symbolized his burdens as much as his glory, but there was glory. Sarah watched Anna paint the brow—that awesome bit of bone and skin hiding intrigues for the cause of the common man by an uncommon General—and Anna flooded that brow with warm light.
The hour passed in an instant, and the stately presence dissolved in promises to return the next morning before breakfast. The room seemed curiously empty when he was gone. Charles stood looking at his canvas, appearing enthralled. Anna's eyes glistened with dreamy speculation.
"You will both take your best portrait," Sarah said. "Oh, how I wish I could sketch him."
Charles turned his kind eyes toward her. "It wouldn't be proper." Sarah nodded and avoided looking at Anna.
The next morning when the General and his party arrived, the atmosphere brightened. Perhaps the familiarity of the routine encouraged relaxation. Whatever the reason, Jackson looked less gaunt. He sat taller, smiled more and actually seemed to enjoy himself.
"I had a feller paint me once, who afterwards turned out to paint pretty well, but that squiggling he made of me was so bad, I looked like a scarecrow somebody had pasted on a board fence. And my horse looked like a knock-kneed, skinny-legged, black camel. It was enough to make a man shy of artists forever. I only came here because Richard told me you were one man I could trust. And I believe I can."
"Thank you," Charles said. "I'll do my best. I want only to portray America's leaders as faithfully as possible. Still, I'm sure I could find room in the Museum for your remarkable black steed."
Jackson laughed again and continued his reminiscing. "That man must have drunk a tub of cider before he picked up his brush."