Before he stepped into his carriage Andrew Jackson over looked the fledgling settlement he’d just divested himself of for what he thought might be the final time.
“What’s next, John?” He asked the short, bald man standing before him.
“Lots of paper work and planning,” John Overton said. “Figuring out logistics, planning docks, naming streets. You know, the sort of things that you hate to do.”
Jackson nodded back absentmindedly. “The Indians killed the first white man with a legal stake in these lands, John, don’t ever forget that.”
“How could I, Andrew? You bring it up whenever you get the chance. Which is why I forbade your involvement in procuring the land in the first place. Bullets aren’t legally binding.”
Andrew Jackson smiled down at him, “Yes, but they are mortally wounding.”
“Good bye, Andrew.”
As he turned to leave, Jackson called after him. “Oh and, John, one last thing?”
“If this street needs a name, why not Poplar? Certainly are a lot of them. And I always did like them.”
John Overton smiled back at his friend and former business partner.
“Of course. Poplar it is. And Andrew – good luck with your damn fool run for President.”
Andrew Jackson had to sell his interest in the Memphis settlement because of his impending run for President. It seemed that an Indian-killing general would draw unwanted attention if he was involved in the pseudo-legal found of a city that was based on an illegal sale of Indian land.