1824: The Arkansas War tog-2

by Eric Flint

  Powers chuckled. "Sore, isn't he? Mostly he's just riled because he was sure he'd be appointed the governor of Arkansas. If the state had ever come into existence."

  Thompson didn't reply. The statement was true enough, of course, but he didn't share Powers's cynical equanimity on the subject. For Powers, any expedition to seize Arkansas was just a stepping-stone to Texas. But Thompson had been counting on getting some of that fine bottomland in the Arkansas portion of the Delta. He could have sold it to speculators within a year and turned a profit on the deal. Instead, he was holed up in Alexandria, trying to evade his creditors.

  "-Cherokee savages and the Quapaws, more savage still-"

  But there was no point in dwelling on past misfortunes. If all went well, before long he'd be rich enough to thumb his nose at any creditors. "Any word from the Lallemand brothers?" he asked.

  "Not lately. Far as I know, they should still be arriving any day."

  Thompson frowned into his whiskey glass. "I still don't like the idea. You know as well as I do that they're just looking for an angle to set up French rule in Texas."

  "So what?" Powers drained his own glass. "Let 'em dream. Napoleon died two years ago. Without him as the anchor-even assuming they could have freed him from St. Helena-they don't stand a chance. And in the meantime, they're willing to put two hundred and fifty trained soldiers in the field-and Charles Lallemand is a genuine general. Fought at Waterloo, even."

  "-niggers for the taking, too! Like catching fish in a pond! What say you, boys?"

  Thompson and Powers both winced. An instant later, the roar of the crowd hammered their ears.

  When the noise ebbed enough to allow conversation again, Thompson returned stubbornly to the subject. "French soldiers, Scott. Who's to say-"

  "Not more than a third, any longer, after that comedy of errors they called Champ d'Asile. Not even Long's people scrambled out of Texas faster." Powers looked away for a moment, a considering expression on his face. "Most of the men around the Lallemands, since they settled in Alabama, are local boys. They'll listen to Charles on the field, but that's it."

  He stood up, holding his empty glass. "Another?"

  Thompson shook his head. "No, I've got to be able to see straight tomorrow morning. At least-"

  "-problem will be catching those niggers, the way they'll run after a stout volley and the sight of level bayonets! I'm telling you, boys-"

  "God, I'm sick of that man's voice," Thompson grumbled. "But, as I was saying, at least he came up with the muskets he said he would. Two thousand stand."

  Powers's eyes widened. "Where did-"

  "Don't ask, Scott. But you can probably figure it out."

  After a moment, Powers smiled. "Benefactors in high places, indeed. But I shall be the very model of discretion."

  After he left, Thompson drained his own glass.

  "-envy of every Georgian and Virginian! And then! On to Texas!"

  Another roar from the crowd caused Thompson to hunch his shoulders. "Enough, already," he muttered to himself.

  He eyed the far-distant door, gloomily certain it would take him five minutes to work his way through the mob. More like ten, if he wanted to avoid a duel. Half the men in the tavern would fight over any offense, and they could find an offense most anywhere.

  Blue Spring Farm, Kentucky

  S EPTEMBER 15, 1824

  "I'd really feel a lot better about this if I were going along, Julia," said Richard Johnson. The Kentucky senator's face looked more homely than ever. Downright woebegone, in fact.

  "Oh, stop frettin', dear. You can't possibly leave now, with the political situation the way it is." Julia Chinn nodded toward the small cavalry escort waiting patiently near the wagon. "They'll handle any little problem that might come up."

  Johnson looked at the cavalrymen, trying to find some comfort in the sight.

  Trying:and even succeeding to a considerable degree. Not so much from the sight of a dozen cavalrymen as from their commanding officer. Houston had promised a real military escort if Julia decided to take the girls to Arkansas for their schooling, and he hadn't failed on that promise.

  Recognizing inevitability-Julia had remained adamant on the subject for months, never budging at all-Johnson stepped over to the side of the officer's horse and looked up at it.

  "Got to say I'm downright astonished to see you here, Zack. Don't usually see a lieutenant colonel in charge of something like this."

  Zachary Taylor looked down at him, smiling. A bit to Johnson's relief, the lieutenant colonel's heavy, rough-featured face seemed quite good humored.

  "Hell, Dick, why not? Sam asked me to find somebody reliable when I ran into him in Wheeling. I was on my way back to my post in Baton Rouge, in any event. I figured I was more reliable than anybody I could find on short notice, and it really isn't that far out of my way. Besides, I owe you a favor."

  In point of fact, coming through western Virginia and northern Kentucky to provide an escort for Julia and the children, instead of just taking a barge down the Ohio, had been considerably out of Taylor's way. But the man was an experienced Indian fighter, so terrain was no great challenge for him.

  True, he did owe Johnson a favor, but it hadn't been much, really. Just the sort of minor intervention that a senator often made on behalf of a well-respected and capable military officer. And:

  They liked each other. Taylor and Johnson had never been what you could call good friends, but that was probably just because they'd never been able to spend much time together. On those occasions when they had, they'd gotten along quite well.

  They had a lot in common. Both were veterans, even though Johnson's soldiering days were over, and both came from wealthy Kentucky families-of Virginian origin, in Taylor's case, now with large plantations over near Louisville. What was more important was that while they didn't see eye to eye on some political issues, Taylor seemed to share Johnson's attitudes on slavery. An economic necessity for the nation, to be sure, but nothing to brag about and much to cause uneasiness. Certainly nothing to proclaim, as Calhoun would, as a "positive good."

  Taylor was one of the few members of the slave-owning gentry in Kentucky who'd never seemed to care about Johnson's relationship to Julia. At least, the one time he'd visited Blue Spring Farm, he hadn't blinked an eye at the sight of a black woman presiding over the dinner table. Indeed, he'd been quite gracious to her and the children throughout the visit.

  "Take good care of them, Zack," Johnson said quietly, in a half-pleading tone.

  "Now, don't you worry yourself none, Dick. I'll see them all the way to the Confederacy myself." To Johnson's relief, Taylor voiced aloud the senator's underlying concern. "If you're worrying some slave-catchers might try to claim they was runaways, I'll set 'em straight right quick."

  For a moment, Taylor's thick hand shifted to the sword at his belt. "Right quick," he repeated, almost growling the words. "And God damn John Calhoun, anyway."

  There was that, too. Richard Johnson was also famous as the senator who'd fight-at the drop of a hat-any attempt to foist anything that even vaguely resembled an established church on the great American republic. In his pantheon of political virtues, separation of church and state ranked right alongside states' rights and putting an end to debt imprisonment.

  Public opinion and custom be damned. Richard Mentor Johnson trusted blasphemers a lot more than he did those pious folk who could always find an excuse in the Bible to do whatever they pleased.

  "That's fine, then," he said.

  Julia's voice rose up from behind him. "You settle down, Imogene! You too, Adaline! Or I'll smack you both! See if I don't!"

  Taylor grinned. "Besides, I won't have to worry none about keeping wayward girls in line. Way more fearsome foes than some sorry slave-catchers."

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  S EPTEMBER 22, 1824

  "That's where the final battle was fought," Robert Ross told his wife and son, pointing off to the steamboat's left. "You can s
till see the remnants of the Iron Battalion's fortifications. About all that's left, any longer, of what they called the Morgan Line at the time."

  David Ross gave his father an uncertain glance and said, "It doesn't really look like much."

  "Some of that's the climate, son. Between the heat and the rains-the river floods, too, quite often-no construction mostly made of dirt and logs is going to wear well. Even after less than a decade's passage, much of it will be gone. And the city's poorer residents would have scavenged the iron used by the battalion to bolster the works, here and there."

  The retired British general studied the distant mound for a few seconds. "But that's just part of it. Held by determined and valiant men-which they most certainly were-even a modest line of defenses can be incredibly difficult to surmount. The casualties were fearful on both sides."

  "Is this where Thornton was killed?"

  "No." Ross pointed further upriver, in the direction of New Orleans. "Rennie died here. Thornton fell some hundreds of yards to the west, in the first clash with Houston's forces. Right on that road you can see pieces of, here and there."

  There was silence for a time as the steamboat continued its steady progress up the immense river. David, who had been intrigued by the craft itself for most of the voyage upriver from Fort St. Philip, was now giving it no attention at all. His eyes were fixed on the terrain where, almost ten years earlier, a great contest of arms had been waged. As with most young men of his class-certainly one with his family history-martial affairs were of engrossing interest.

  He already knew the terrain well, too, at least in the abstract. He'd read his father's account of the campaign as well as several other memoirs that had since been published in Britain.

  "We should be approaching Chalmette field," he announced.

  "Yes," Ross said, nodding. "We'll have to cross to the other side of the boat in order to see it."

  Shortly afterward, the boat was passing by the location where Pakenham and Jackson's armies had faced each other-but never come to an actual battle.

  "Field!" David exclaimed, half disappointed and half amused.

  Ross shrugged. "It's plantation area, David. You can hardly expect people to leave such a potentially profitable area unexploited, simply for the benefit of an occasional tourist. At the time, I can assure you, that expanse of lush crops was nothing but stubble. Jackson saw to that, to give his men a clear line of fire."

  David had no personal experience with battles, but as the son of a major general he had a good sense of some basic principles. He might have found it difficult to gauge the fortifications back on the Morgan Line. But, his eyes ranging back and forth across Chalmette field, he had no difficulty here.

  "What a slaughter that would have been. Five hundred yards to cross."

  His father nodded. "Five hundred yards-in the face of the world's best artillery. Along with thousands of riflemen and musketeers protected by an excellent rampart. And with the attacking force having no cover and no possibility of threatening the enemy's flanks. Jackson chose his position exceedingly well: his right wing anchored on the Mississippi, his left on the cypress swamps."

  Ross lifted his arm and pointed into the distance. "You can see the start of the swamps quite easily. They continue on for miles. The Cherokees and Choctaws savaged our forces whenever we ventured into them."

  David shook his head. There was a subtle but great satisfaction in the gesture. His father's analysis of the Gulf campaign might have been accepted by the British establishment, including its military, but there had been plenty of boys his own age who'd shared the brash certainties of youth. One stout charge would have taken the day, I tell you! He'd now be able to return and sneer at them with the authority of someone who'd seen the lay of the land himself.

  Ross was amused. He could remember those wonderful certainties himself from forty years ago.

  Eliza laid a hand on his arm where it rested on the boat's railing. "We'd best see to the packing. We'll be arriving in the city soon."

  A small delegation at the foot of the ramp was waiting for them. Ross had thought Driscol would have made some arrangements, but he was surprised at the form it took.

  He hadn't expected Patrick himself to be there, of course, nor Tiana. But whatever he'd expected, it certainly hadn't been four scruffy-looking men in civilian attire. Two young white men-one of whom was younger than David-and two black men. One of whom was also younger than David, and the other of whom:

  "I didn't expect the army of Arkansas to follow precisely the methods used by us British," he said to that black man, after debarking onto the pier. "But I still think it's absurd for the only general in your army to be serving as the leader of a small detachment of escorts."

  Charles Ball grinned at him. "Leader? Nonsense, General Ross!" He jerked his thumb at the older of the two white men standing next to him. "Here be the esteemed leader of this expedition. Captain Anthony McParland. You might be able to remember him still, just a bit. He was Patrick's lad in the war. Just a new sergeant, then, though."

  Ross studied McParland. Now that he looked at him more closely, he could recognize him. But:

  He was impressed, actually. The young man standing before him, now in his midtwenties, seemed vastly more self-assured than the very young and uncertain sergeant he could remember from nine and a half years earlier. That spoke well of the Arkansas Army, if such a quick study could be trusted. Of all the military skills praised in the literature, the one Robert had always found to be the least mentioned and most underrated was the ability of a given army to instill self-confidence in its men, especially its junior officers.

  Ball's grin grew wider still. "I be the young massa's slave. So's Corporal Parker here. Sheffield Parker, that is. And he's"-the thumb now indicated the younger of the two white men-"Corporal McParland. Callender, to distinguish him from his cousin, our august commander."

  Ross examined the two younger men. Boys, almost, since neither of them could be more than seventeen or eighteen years old. Callender McParland bore a definite resemblance to the captain. Average height, a bit on the slender side if quite wiry-looking, a blue-eyed open face under a thatch of sandy hair. The sort of lad one would barely notice in a crowd and never think twice about.

  The black corporal, Sheffield Parker, was about the same, allowing for the racial differences. Dark-skinned, even for a negro, with very dark eyes and rather broad features. He'd never be noticed at all, except possibly for an unusual breadth of shoulders in a man who was a bit on the short side.

  They both looked very fit-almost absurdly so, given their clothing. Which couldn't be depicted as "rags," certainly, but could most charitably be called nondescript. Parker was even barefoot.

  Done with his quick examination, Ross cocked an eyebrow at Ball. "I assume there's an explanation for this, other than-I hope-the fact that Patrick has adopted sans-culottes principles for a military table of organization."

  "Don' know what 'sangullot' means, General," Ball replied cheerfully. "But, yes, there's a reason for it. I'm afraid a bit of trouble has developed lately. There's a small army of frontier adventurers been gathering themselves at Alexandria these past months. Mostly the usual Texas freebooters, but they gotten sidetracked with taking back eastern Arkansas, on account of a fellow named Robert Crittenden. He was likely to have been appointed the governor of the new state of Arkansas, except-"

  That really was a murderous grin. Even this many years later, Robert could remember his impressions of Ball during the Gulf campaign. As a veteran U.S. Navy master gunner, he'd been Driscol's second in command of the Iron Battalion at New Orleans-just as he'd been in command of Houston and Driscol's artillery battery at the Capitol. The same artillery that had battered Robert's own forces when they tried to storm the seat of the U.S. government.

  Color be damned. Men like Ball had been the core of every great army in history, going back at least as far as the Romans.

  "-there ain't no such thing as 'Arkansas,' 'ce
pt as the chiefdom of the Confederacy. Crittenden be righteous mad about it-and he's got plenty of backing from disgruntled local planters and land speculators who'd figured on making a killing."

  "Disgruntled," no less. Ball's education seemed to have expanded a great deal. His vocabulary, at least.

  "We didn't expect any real trouble from them this soon," Ball continued, "because-this be normally the case with freebooting schemes-they didn't have much in the way of arms. But just recent and sudden-like they turned up with plenty of muskets. Even got four three-pounders and a six-pounder."

  Still grinning, Ball nodded toward the nearby square. Jackson Square, as it was now apparently called, not the Place d'Armes that Ross remembered. "The three-pounders lookin' amazingly like the ones that used to be sittin' right there, till most recently. Don't know where they got the six-pounder. New shiny-lookin' gun, by all accounts."

  Ross wasn't surprised. Even in Britain and the continent, the confusing and turbulent southwestern frontier of the United States was notorious. Between the collapse of the Spanish Empire, the shaky state of the new nation of Mexico, and what seemed like a never-ending cornucopia of Napoleonic adventurers-most of all, the territorial ambitions of Americans, official and civilian alike-every other month seemed to have a new expedition setting off to seize Texas. Sometimes for the United States, although that was usually disguised as a "revolution" to set up a new republic. Sometimes for one or another faction in Mexican politics. Sometimes as a result of Spain's continuing involvement in the region. Sometimes, even-although this had thankfully started to fade since Napoleon's death on St. Helena a couple of years earlier-as a place to magically restore a Napoleonic empire.

  Often enough, any combination thereof.

  Most of the adventurers- flibustiers, the French called them, after the old Dutch term vrijbuiter that had become the English "freebooter"-were poorly funded, not to mention of questionable competence. Some of them, of questionable sanity.