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." He chuckled.
"If I were you," Charles offered, "I would have my portrait done often, otherwise the camel and scarecrow portrait will be the one you'll be remembered by."
"By the eternal! I would have met the man on the field of honor if Pd even suspected that could happen."
Although Charles detested the practice of dueling and would ordinarily have spoken out against it, this time he said nothing. One didn't anger a sitter, especially General Jackson. Charles changed the subject. "You look much rested today. I feel I'm painting a younger, more vigorous man this morning, someone girded for victory."
Jackson smiled. "Victory is always waiting for some one. I aim to be the right one in this skirmish." "And a few more, later, eh General?" Richard asked.
"Could be. I'd hate to let a long-winded rascal like Clay have the last word about how to put down an Indian rebellion." "Congress will be reasonable," Johnson said. "Mr. Poindexter will see to that. We'll scatter them quickly with you here to lead the battle."
Anna applied blue paint in fast sure strokes to the miniature image of his uniformed chest. It was as though she had picked up the rhythm of his heart, Sarah thought.
On the morning of the final sitting, the General had become a friend. His pipe sent up peaceful clouds of gray. His face had lost that strained weariness of the first day, and his great inner force was evident in his every movement. The energies spent in battle seemed to be regenerating, congealing, pushing him forward and filling his chest with the heady air of anticipation. Did he so relish confrontation for its own sake? Sarah wondered.
At the end of the sitting, General Jackson stood tall, smiled and admired Charles's portrait of President Monroe and that of Mamout Yarrow. "These faces speak well of you, Mr. Peale. You have even managed to show me as less than a scoundrel. I thank you for it. What a man's portrait says about him can be important, they tell me."
"The people want to see what their General looks like. And I have tried to give an honest report. I'm sure this canvas will bring many into the Museum for a glimpse."
General Jackson then turned to Anna with a mysterious look on his face, his eyes cast down. "And to you, Miss Peale, I'd like to say special thanks. You have given me the possession I treasure most in the world." He raised his eyes, revealing a softness not seen before.
Anna looked perplexed.
Jackson unbuttoned the jacket of his uniform and reached inside to loosen the buttons of his shirt. He pulled out a black cord worn around his neck. On the cord was a small ivory oval. He turned it around to show the likeness of a dark-haired woman.
Anna's face brightened. "Yes, I painted Mrs. Jackson four years ago."
Anna's hands fluttered as she stepped closer and touched the miniature.
"You have captured the look in her eyes I remember so well,"
Jackson said softly. "It brings me good luck." He paused. "And it brings me my Rachel."
Speechless, Anna squeezed Sarah's hand as General Jackson tucked the miniature gently back into its place next to his heart.
Chapter 8
Charles had not accomplished everything he set out to do in Washington City, but the journey was a success. The fine portraits he brought back home with him proved his skill was as sharp as ever. Anna gained confidence. Her miniatures of Monroe and Clay had already brought her commissions in Philadelphia. Charles had arranged for James to receive his war pension, and had spoken to the committee on Major Long's expedition about considering Titian for the post of naturalist.
When Titian's appointment came, the whole family wanted to celebrate with him. Sarah arrived at the Museum for the party at closing time. Rubens asked her to bring the party guests to the Mammoth Room, and she escorted three young men, including artist Tom Sully. As they approached the gathering, Sarah noticed that Titian looked nervous; his gaze often darted back to the entrance. She suspected he was looking for Eliza, the girl he would miss beyond all others.
"Well, Cous," Sarah said, "you look every inch the adventurer." Titian took both her hands in his, and planted his much-practiced cousin kiss on her lips. "And you look ravishing."
Sarah stood back to look into her dearest cousin's face with a sense of sadness, for she would miss him very much. Not to see his blond head and teasing blue eyes for such a long time was a gloomy thought. "I take it you haven't changed your mind about this silly expedition," she said. "Wouldn't you rather stay right here in Philadelphia so you can know just where Eliza is going and with whom?"
"Sarah." His voice lowered and he looked down. "You will write me, won't you? You will tell me what you can about Eliza? And about the family and what you're doing. Please."
Sarah promised solemnly. "I will. And you must write often. Tell us what it's really like in the Missouri river wilderness."
Titian laughed. "I'll do better than that. I'll bring back drawings and paintings of wildlife in the natural background."
"Here we are," a voice said. Sarah turned to see Margaretta bringing in some of the guests. As they advanced toward Titian, Sarah retreated, smiled at Margaretta. "Are other guests waiting?"
Margaretta lowered her head and whispered. "Raphaelle is here and Uncle Charles isn't going to like his condition."
Sarah tensed. "I don't like the way Rubens treats Raphaelle when he's like that."
"Why? Rubens doesn't scold. He just tries to get Raphelle away by himself. What do you think he should do?"
Sarah
