by Eric Flint
Sam looked back and forth from one to the other. Neither of the young Cherokees looked at all happy.
"And the problem is?"
John, as usual, took some time to think about his answer. Buck, as usual, gave it right away.
"Isn't it obvious, Sam? What happens if we win the war? And come out of it at the end-"
John finished the thought: "-with what amounts to an all-black army, in a confederacy that's supposed to be mostly for Indians? That's a recipe for another war. A civil war, this time. In fact, we're already getting closer to it than I like. If you go out and talk to some of the Cherokees in New Kit-ah, Oklahoma-you'll hear some nasty predictions and even calls for action. Especially from some of the richer mixed-bloods who own a lot of slaves. Some Creeks are talking the same way, too."
Sam studied the leaders in the corner of the mess hall. In deference to Pushmataha's age and infirmities, all of them had gathered around the Choctaw chief 's chair.
All the races of the continent were represented there. Mostly Indians, with two white men in the form of Patrick Driscol and Robert Ross. Only one black man. That was Charles Ball, the general in the chiefdom of Arkansas' little army.
But it didn't matter. All Sam had to do was step outside and walk about the fort for a few minutes. Everywhere he went-manning the twelve-pounders, not just holding muskets-he'd see almost nothing but black men. With a sprinkling of whites, constituting less than ten percent of the whole. One or two Indians, at most-if there were any at all.
"The solution's obvious," he said harshly, not caring now if his voice carried. "Pick up the load yourselves, damnation."
Both young Cherokees flushed. "We'll fight, Sam, and you know-"
"That's not what I meant, and you know it. Sure, you'll fight. Nobody ever accused Cherokees-or Creeks, or Choctaws, and sure as Sam Hill not Chickasaws and Seminoles-of being cowards. And so fucking what? "
He jerked his head in the direction of Major Ridge. "You'll fight the way your father-and your uncle, Buck-fights. A great warrior; nobody denies it. Not me, that's for sure, having fought next to him at the Horseshoe Bend and the Mississippi. And it doesn't matter, because the only role he and his men could play at the Horseshoe and the Mississippi was that of auxiliary troops. There's no way-not on their own-they can stand against what's coming."
Now he jerked his head in the direction of Driscol and Ball. "They can, on the other hand. Because whether you like it or not-whether it rubs your Cherokee customs and traditions the wrong way or not-they'll fight the white man's sort of war. And that's what kind of war this is going to be. And you know it. So cut out the tomfoolery. I ask you again. You know the solution. Are you willing to accept it?"
John and Buck looked at each other. "Yeah, all right," said Buck almost immediately.
"My wife can handle the newspaper," John chimed in. "Truth is, she manages it pretty much already, on the business end."
"Well, good."
The Chickasaws wouldn't budge at all. So, finally, Patrick cut the Gordian knot.
"Fine, then. I'll be pulling out of Arkansas Post come spring. Because there's no way to hold it, against the size army the United States will send. So you can winter over in this area, and you can have the Post thereafter, if you think you can hold it. I give it to you. You'd still be smarter to send your women and children-them, at least-over into Oklahoma."
Sam translated. The Chickasaw chiefs swelled.
"We'll hold it! Watch and see if Chickasaws can't!"
Ten minutes later, most of the mess hall was cleared of people. The only ones who remained behind were Driscol, Robert Ross, Sam himself, and the four Cherokee leaders: John Ross and Major Ridge, and Ridge's son and nephew.
"Idiots," Robert Ross stated. "The American army will overrun the Post, and they'll all die. Most of them, anyway. A few might escape at the end."
Driscol shrugged. Every ounce of him the ice-blooded troll, now. "So let 'em die. They're Chickasaws; they won't die easily. They'll bleed the bastards, be sure of that. And once it's over"-the troll's grin, as pure as you could ask for-"it'll be us instead of Henry Clay hollering 'vengeance for Arkansas Post!' "
Driscol turned to Sam, glowering at him. "I've half a mind to forbid you from enlisting in the army altogether. I've got the legal authority to do it, too, at least here in Arkansas."
"Damn you, Patrick, I didn't come all the way-"
"Damn you, Sam Houston! Look, sooner or later wars have to be ended, too. And:" For a moment, the troll almost looked embarrassed. Impossible, of course. "Well, the truth is, I'm a poor one to try to make a settlement. You, on the other hand, are a natural diplomat and could probably manage the trick- provided you weren't actually involved in the fighting and killing."
Before Sam could continue the argument, Robert Ross intervened.
"Patrick, you're being foolish. First, you have to win the war in the first place. Which, as it stands now, you mostly likely won't."
Driscol glared at him. The British major general didn't seem to care in the least.
"Be as stubborn as you want. Here's the truth, Patrick. You've got probably the best army anywhere in the world that could have been created by sergeants. The world's best sergeants, I'll add that into the bargain. But sergeants can't win wars. They can rarely even win battles. What you need is what you don't have. A real officer corps. You don't have real cavalry, either, but you can probably survive that lack. You won't survive without officers. Real ones, and enough of them."
Ross nodded toward Ball. "There are some exceptions, I grant you. Charles here is one of them. I'm not really sure yet about Jones. A very fine soldier, and I'd trust him on any battlefield. But:" He shrugged. "He's still more of a sergeant wearing a colonel's uniform, really, than an actual colonel."
"We've got some youngsters coming up," Driscol grumbled.
"Yes, you do. Some very fine ones, I'm thinking. Young Parker is especially promising. So is McParland-the younger cousin, I mean, not Anthony, who already thinks like an officer. But his injury may keep him out of line command."
He shook his head. "It's not enough, Patrick. Not with only a few months to prepare."
Ross jabbed a finger at Sam. "So, now, here arrives-at your service-one of the most capable and experienced commanding officers on the North American continent, and you propose to refuse him the colors. Are you mad?"
Patrick sighed and looked away. "It's not really that, Robert. Sam is also my best friend."
"Death's always a risk in war," Sam stated. "It doesn't bother me."
He hesitated then. But the rest was a given-he'd known it since the moment he decided to come to Arkansas-so it might as well be said aloud. "My son wouldn't even be an orphan. Not with you and Tiana for his parents. Or even just Tiana, should you fall also in the war."
Patrick shook his head. "That's not what I'm talking about, Sam. What happens when the war is over-and you survive? "
Sam stared at him, groping at the question.
"Sam, face it. You're an American at heart. I'm not, since I was an immigrant here to begin with. But you'll never really be comfortable as an Arkansan. Even as a Confederate. If your wife hadn't been murdered, you'd never once have considered changing your citizenship. You'd have stayed in the United States and done what the man you named your son after will be doing. Opposing the war, surely-but never once crossing the line marked 'allegiance.' "
Sam continued to stare at him. Groping at the answer.
"Tell me I'm wrong."
Sam:couldn't.
"What I thought. That's why, at bottom, I'd much prefer to keep you out of uniform. Whatever else, when the war's over, no one will be able to claim there is any American blood on your own hands. You were just a diplomat."
Robert Ross sighed, now. "Patrick, you can't. Neither can Sam, being honest, unless he simply wants to return. The army of Arkansas desperately needs experienced officers. And Houston-my opinion, at least-is possibly the best field-grade officer in North Ameri
ca."
That was enough to break Sam's paralysis. "Be damned to the future, Patrick. Yes, I suppose in a perfect world, someday I'd return to the United States." Harshly: "But in a perfect world my wife wouldn't have been murdered. And I made a vow and I intend to keep it. And that's all there is to the matter."
Driscol said nothing. But Sam could tell from his stance alone that he was conceding the argument.
Time for diplomacy, therefore, and a silver tongue.
"As for the rest," Sam said cheerily, "I am pleased to announce that both John Ridge and Buck Watie are volunteering for the colors. The Arkansas colors, mind you."
The two young Cherokees stepped forward. Without hesitation, either-although both of them avoided the gaze of the two Cherokee chiefs.
Especially that of Major Ridge, who was now glaring at his son and nephew.
"Of course, you'll offer them commissions," Sam continued smoothly. "I've no doubt of it at all."
"Of course he will!" exclaimed Major General Robert Ross. "Splendid young men! From a fine family, and well educated. Perfect officer material."
"Well, sure," said Patrick.
The glare faded from Major Ridge's eyes. Five minutes later, he was even embracing his young kin.
New Antrim, Arkansas
F EBRUARY 14, 1825
The thing was there, all right. Just as grotesque as Sam feared it would be.
Shivering a bit-even with his Cherokee blanket, the great stone church was bitterly cold, in mid-February-he stared up at the icon. The newly proclaimed martyr of the Church.
"She didn't look in the least bit like that-that-"
"Don't be rude, Sam," said Tiana. She gave Marie Laveau a look that Sam couldn't really interpret. Something so profoundly female that it was just beyond his comprehension.
"So we make up another one," Marie said, shrugging. The tall, gorgeous quadroon gave the icon a dismissive glance and an equally dismissive wave of the hand. "It's just some painted wood, you know. Has no holy power in itself. Might have, if they'd let me sprinkle-well, never mind. Father James is a good priest, even if he is just as superstitious as men always are."
She half turned and imperiously summoned forward a short, very dark-skinned black woman who'd been hanging back in the shadows of the cavernous church. "Antoinette here is a magnificent carver. Almost as good with the paints, too. With your guidance"-she waved again at the icon perched on the wall-"she can soon have that replaced with an image that captures the martyred wife to perfection."
Sam opened his mouth, about to proclaim that under no circumstances would he be a party to any such half-papist, half-voudou heathenist nonsense. He was something of a freethinker himself, to be sure, not a dyed-in-the-wool Protestant. Still and all!
But the words never came. They were choked off by the worst of the grief. That he had lost his beloved wife, Sam could eventually accept. What he couldn't accept was the knowledge that his son-only four years old when Maria Hester died-would never really remember his mother.
It was worse than that. Sam knew-had known from the day he made the decision-that he was looking at another of the world's terrible ironies. No matter what happened, little Andy would have a mother, here in Arkansas. It would be Tiana Rogers-Tiana Driscol, now-the woman whom Sam had once thought, from time to time, might be the mother of his own children. And so, in a way, she would be. But only at the price of obliterating any real memory of his son's natural mother, Maria Hester, nee Monroe and died Houston.
Now:
If the boy could come, any day, any time, to a revered place, and look up and see:
"All right," he said.
"Good!" proclaimed Marie. "And once Antoinette has made the proper icon, and you pronounce yourself satisfied, I will do the rest. Properly, this time. Pfah! "-that was a very rude gesture-"to what the priest says."
"Just stay out of it, Sam," Tiana quietly counseled.
He decided the counsel was good.
1824: TheArkansasWar
1824: TheArkansasWar
CHAPTER 30
New Antrim, Arkansas
J ULY 18, 1825
The first thing Winfield Scott said to Patrick and Sam, after they'd taken seats in a quiet corner of the Wolfe Tone Hotel's huge foyer, was this:
"You understand, gentlemen, I cannot pass on to you any information that might be detrimental to the United States or its armed forces. At the same time, you have my pledge that I will not pass on to General Harrison-or any of his subordinates-any information that is not contained already in the reports Mr. Bryant and I will be sending to the newspapers back home."
It was said a bit stiffly, but pleasantly enough. Understanding and accepting the protocol, Patrick and Sam simply nodded. Then both of them turned their eyes to William Cullen Bryant.
The poet-turned-reporter looked a bit uncomfortable. "Ah:I must insist upon the same conditions. My personal sympathies-well, never mind that. If nothing else, the reports General Scott and I will be filing must be viewed by everyone as uncompromised."
Sam kept a placid expression. Patrick's face twisted into something close to a sneer. Winfield Scott sneered outright.
"Oh, that's ridiculous, Cullen!" he exclaimed. "No matter what we do, Clay and his supporters will accuse us of spouting a pack of lies. So will every newspaper in the administration's camp. They're already saying so, before we've even filed a single report. What's involved here isn't practical; it's simply a matter of our personal honor."
Bryant looked stubborn. "Yes, I know they'll accuse us of lying. But it doesn't matter, Winfield, nor do I agree with you that it's simply a matter of honor. At least half-more like two-thirds, I suspect-of the population of the United States is reserving their judgment. What we report will have an influence-provided it's not tainted with charges of bias, that aren't coming from people who have an obvious bias of their own."
"Gentlemen, please," Sam said smoothly. "It's really not a problem. We have full confidence in your integrity, and you can rest assured we will respect it, on our part."
Winfield Scott's eyes ranged up and down Sam's figure. The gaze was curious and perhaps a bit cold.
"It's an attractive uniform," he said abruptly. "Though I think that fur hat will get very uncomfortable now that we're in midsummer."
Patrick smiled. "Oh, we've got summer headgear, General Scott. But we'll wear the fur hats except when it's unbearable. It's a small thing, but it helps remind the troops that we're expecting a winter campaign."
Scott turned the same curious perhaps-a-bit-cold gaze onto Driscol.
"You don't think it'll all be over within a few months, then."
"Not hardly," Sam stated. "By the first snowfall it'll just be starting."
Scott looked back at him. "Are you: uncomfortable in that uniform, Colonel?" He glanced at the insignia. "Excuse me. Brigadier, I should say."
Sam didn't hesitate. He'd now had almost half a year to think about it, since he'd taken Arkansas citizenship as soon as he'd arrived back in February.
"No, not in the least. That's because I don't really think of it as a change in uniform to begin with. As far as I'm concerned, the uniform I used to wear has been stolen by a swindler and his accomplices. The political principles for which I'm fighting today are no different than they were on the day I stood"-he gestured at Patrick-"when then-Lieutenant Driscol and I stood side by side facing the redcoats in front of the Capitol."
"May I quote you to that effect, General Houston?" Bryant asked. His pad and pen were already in hand.
"Oh, yes," Sam said brightly. "Please do."
An hour later, Patrick offered to give Scott and Bryant a tour of New Antrim's military installations. They accepted, of course, leaving Sam alone in the foyer's corner.
Not more than fifteen seconds after Driscol and the two reporters left the hotel, Salmon Brown took the seat formerly occupied by Winfield Scott.
He began without preliminaries. "We figure they've landed close to six thousand troops
at the confluence, almost half of them regulars. The only artillery they've got-so far, anyway-is the First Regiment. Colonel Abram Eustis is in command. They were stationed-"
"In Charleston, South Carolina. Yes, I know." Sam scratched his chin. "Interesting. It would have been a lot easier to bring in the Fourth Artillery under Armistead. What's the infantry?"
"They've got four infantry regiments. The First, the Fifth-which used to be the Fourth, it seems-"
"That's Harrison's old unit," Sam interrupted, "from the Thames campaign. They renamed it after the war, when they consolidated the regiments during the reduction. The Fourth did pretty well in the war with Britain, except for when Hull surrendered his whole army at Detroit. But nobody's ever blamed the regiment for that. Harrison'll be leaning on them heavily, I'm pretty sure. If it was me, I'd be more inclined to rely on the First Regiment. The Battle of the Thames was a long time ago, and who knows what shape the Fourth's in today? The First, on the other hand, has been in Baton Rouge under Colonel Taylor, who's an excellent troop trainer."
Salmon Brown shook his head. "Taylor's no longer in command of the First. Colonel John McNeil is."
Sam's eyebrows rose. "Then where's Taylor?"
"Don't know for sure, Sam." Like John Brown himself, his brother was not given to military formalities. "Word is, though, that he was sent up north. To St. Louis."
Sam's eyes moved to the northern wall of the foyer as if he were trying to look through it. " St. Louis? What:Ah, never mind. Let's deal with what's at hand, for the moment. Which are the other two infantry regiments Harrison's got down there on the confluence? The Seventh is probably one of them. They were stationed not far away."
"That's right. Colonel Matthew Arbuckle's in command. The other one is the Third, with Lieutenant Colonel Enos Cutler in command."