The dark troubles of disunion that beset America as mid-century approached called for a man who had slain dragons (or one who appeared to have accomplished something of the sort). So the Whigs, mindful that they had won their one and only presidential election with a military man in 1840, decided to enter the lists with another in 1848. He was an authentic hero, all right: Indian fighter and frontier soldier, victor over the Mexicans at PaIo Alto, at Resaca de la Palma, and—most gloriously—at Buena Vista, where he had conquered Santa Anna and a force outnumbering him four to one. What if he had never voted lor a President? He said he would have voted for Clay, the Whigs’ candidate, in ’44, didn’t he? And if he belonged to no party, what difference did that make? He held strong prejudices, and prejudices were every bit as good as principles. What was even more important from a practical standpoint, he had no personal enemies within the Whig party, as did those veteran campaigners, Henry Clay and Daniel Webster.

The electorate—drawn more readily to personalities than to ideas—conjured up its image of a man who could settle all the important problems, and decided that Zachary Taylor fitted the image. Plain, honest, uncomplicated, “Old Rough and Ready” was just about what his nickname suggests; squat and thickset, he made a better appearance on horseback than on foot because his bowed legs were so short. His face was that of a reliable farmer, burned by the Mexican sun and deeply lined by years of exposure to the elements. In Mexico his casual dress had been a source of continuing amusement to the troops: he usually wore what was handy (at Buena Vista it had been an old brown overcoat), and often appeared in a floppy straw hat and a pair of antique gray trousers. Fellow officers once estimated the total value of Zack’s “uniform” at $7.50.

His appeal for the voters, based in part on deeds, stemmed also from the notion that he possessed the power to set the country right. When he did announce himself it was scarcely a resounding statement of principle: “I AM A WHIG,” he proclaimed, “but not an ultra Whig.” Yet that was enough to keep the voters happy; compromise, not extremes, was the order of the day. As James Russell Lowell’s humorous Biglow Papers put it:

Another p’nt thet influences the minds o’ sober jedges is thet the Gin’ral hezn’t gut tied hand an’ foot with pledges; He hezn’t told ye wut he is, an’ so there ain’t no knowin’ But wut he may turn out to be the best there is agoin’.

When he gave an inaugural address that was one of the shortest in history, “negative and general,” and poorly delivered, the crowd, ever optimistic, cheered him mightily.

In a peculiarly