by Eric Flint
The Arkansas officer wasn't moving, but his chest was rising and falling. A very bad injury to the shoulder, that was. The sort of bone-shattering wound that usually rendered a man unconscious, even if it wasn't directly fatal. Especially if he was already exhausted, which Harrison had no doubt he had been. The battle had been ferocious as a whole, but nowhere more so than here right by the walls of the Post, where the two armies had met at point-blank range.
"Him," the lieutenant from the 1st Regiment said tonelessly. "Hadn't been for him, I think we could have beaten them here, at the end. I can't believe he's still alive, the bastard. I've half a mind-"
"Shut up," Captain Matlock said, just as tonelessly. "He did his job and did it well. And there's an end to it."
"Indeed," Harrison said firmly. "A most gallant foe."
He gave the lieutenant-very young himself-a look that was more harsh than he felt but as harsh as it needed to be.
"We shall be following the rules of war here, Lieutenant. I trust that's understood? And if I discover there have been any violations, I shall have the man-or officer-immediately court-martialed. Do I make myself clear?"
The lieutenant seemed suitably abashed. "Yes, sir. Ah. Sorry."
"I understand, Lieutenant," Harrison said in a milder tone. "Emotions always run high after a battle. But indulging yourself in them is a bad mistake, leaving aside any moral concerns. Do keep in mind that the day might come when you-or me, or Captain Matlock-might find ourselves in the very same position. You'll be thankful then that you weren't an idiot now."
That assumed, of course, that the enemy followed the rules of war also. Harrison was by no means sure of that, yet. Who knew what negroes would do? They'd been pure savages, by all accounts, in the small uprisings in North America and the huge one in Hispaniola.
But rebellions and uprisings were almost invariably savage, no matter the color of the men involved. The negroes he was fighting here were part of a regular army, established by a government that the United States had diplomatically recognized. Still did, for that matter, even if war had been declared. Harrison could only hope that they'd conduct themselves like white men.
Whether they did or not, however, he would. Civilized behavior and custom was determined by its own imperatives, not petty bargaining with breeds outside the law.
"See to it, Captain Matlock, if you would. I want any wounded Arkansans gathered where they can be given medical attention, whenever our surgeons can be freed from tending our own. There's probably a suitable area somewhere in the Post."
He started to move off but paused. "And place a guard over them, Captain. Reliable men, with a steady sergeant in command."
"Yes, sir."
An hour later, after he was sure the regular units were steady and Harrison was satisfied that they could repel any Arkansas counterattack, he went downriver to see how the militias were doing. He took Captain Matlock with him, since he no longer had any of the three lieutenants he'd had for aides at the beginning of the battle. Fleming was dead; Riehl would be retired from the service with that wound, assuming he survived; and he'd finally found the missing third lieutenant.
The lieutenant had been brought before him, rather. The youngster's wits were quite gone. He'd been found by soldiers from the 7th huddled in a ball some fifty yards from the lines, weeping uncontrollably. Harrison had a vague recollection of sending the boy with orders to Colonel Arbuckle. He'd never gotten there, apparently, his nerve having completely broken along the way.
Harrison still couldn't remember his name, and the young lieutenant had been too incoherent to provide it himself. No matter. He'd learn it when the time came to put together a court-martial. Which there had to be, given the circumstances.
Harrison would be demanding the death penalty, which was called for in cases of pusillanimity in the face of the enemy. He didn't care for the idea, but he simply had no choice. The nameless lieutenant who'd die in a few weeks at the end of a rope would be just one more casualty that could be properly laid at the feet of Clay and Calhoun, from Harrison's viewpoint. In a short war, sins could be forgiven as well as washed away. In a long war, they couldn't. Simple as that.
The commanders of the militias-those few of them Harrison could find, most having run away with their men-were livid.
But Harrison's energy was coming back, and he was no mild-mannered man himself.
"Shut. Up." He glared at the loudest of the Georgian officers. Insofar as the term "officer" wasn't a bad joke to begin with. The man was actually a Georgia state representative whose military experience was entirely limited, so far as Harrison knew, to having gotten himself appointed a "colonel" in the expedition for the sake of garnering some more votes. Georgians seemed to grow militia colonels with the same profligacy that they grew cotton. And they were just about as fluffy.
"You had three thousand men," he rasped, "to face not more than seven hundred. And you tell me the fault was mine? You ran like rabbits from a force a quarter the size of your own because I didn't give you proper support? Be damned to you, sir!"
Angrily, he pointed back at the Post. "My regulars defeated the forces we faced while taking the fort as well as preventing the enemy steamboats from coming into play."
That was taking some liberties, perhaps, but it was technically correct. By ancient custom, the army that held the field at the end of a battle was considered the victor, even if the term was more a formality than anything else. The fact that the Arkansans hadn't been "defeated," so much as simply choosing to withdraw from the field, could be ignored.
The American forces at Lundy's Lane had done the same, after all, whereupon the British had claimed to be the winners of the battle. In the world where professional soldiers dealt with each other, it simply didn't matter. Protocol would be respected, even if both sides knew perfectly well that, in all important respects, the battle had been something quite different.
The Georgian and his three fellows were glaring back. So were the two Louisiana officers present. One of them was also a state representative-also with the rank of "colonel." It seemed to be an iron law with militias that they had as many colonels as they did privates, with precious few majors or captains-and not a single paltry lieutenant-anywhere to be found.
They could glare all they wanted. What could they say? Even politicians playing at being soldiers had enough sense to realize that their forces had suffered a complete humiliation today.
Not that it would make a difference in the long run, Harrison was gloomily certain. They'd shut up today, sure enough. But in the months to come-half of them would be finding excuses to leave the campaign as soon as possible-they'd be back in their state legislatures and doing their level best to ruin Harrison's reputation. So would their fellows in the Congress of the United States. Unfortunately, while militias were rarely worth much on a battlefield, they were quite potent in the American political arena.
"So just shut up," he repeated. "And I'd recommend you get busy rounding up your men."
He waved a hand at the surrounding countryside. "Leave them out there for very long, and they'll be coming back in pieces."
The glares started to fade then, replaced by worry.
"I'll provide units from the Fifth and Third to help you," Harrison said, in a milder tone. "With some artillery."
That eased the worry from their faces some, but not much. These so-called officers weren't really concerned about the military aspects of the situation so much as the political ones. They would have to answer to their constituents directly, where Harrison would at least have the shield of the professional army. And all they had to do was look around to see that a lot of their constituents were now dead, an equal if not greater number were badly injured, and all the survivors would be blaming them for the disaster, no matter how much of it they tried to shift onto Harrison's shoulders.
So would their relatives back home. Especially those whose husbands and sons weren't coming back.
"And you'd better detail some b
urial parties right away," Harrison added. "Big ones. This is the Delta in July. That many corpses will stink like you wouldn't believe, give them any time aboveground."
The sergeant in charge of the guard over the wounded prisoners being held in a room of the Post was simply amused.
"Do ye now?" he asked, in a pronounced Irish accent. He glanced at his four men. "D'ye hear that, lads? These gentlemen from Alabama wish to wreak havoc upon yon niggers. Having failed the task miserably, mind, when the niggers were on their feet and had guns in their hands."
"It ain't funny, you fucking Irish-"
Click.
The Alabaman who was more or less the leader of the little group froze. The musket barrel held by one of the sergeant's men was now pushing under his chin. It was cocked, too.
"Hey, fella:"
"Oh, there's no point pleading with Private Aupperle," the sergeant said, still grinning. "Dieter doesn't speak but three words of English. The first two are 'fuck you.' The third is 'asshole.' He got off the boat not six months ago and joined the army straight off, that being the only trade he knows. How's your German?"
The six Alabamans stared at him.
"My German's quite good. Even if the dumb Krauts complain about the accent."
"Can barely understand him," the corporal growled. His accent was German, whereas the sergeant's was Irish, and even thicker.
His expression was a lot thicker than the sergeant's, too. "Fucking militia scheisskopf. You go home, two months. Maybe three. Half of you already running there now. We will be here long time. Get out."
He brought up his own musket and cocked it. "Get out now. "
"Best do as he says, lads," said the sergeant, as cheerily as ever. "Dieter's even-tempered, being from the Palatinate. Corporal Affenzeller, it grieves me to relate, is not. Juergen's a Swabian, alas. A surly breed; they're known for it."
After they were gone, a few seconds later, the sergeant chuckled. "Even in Alabama, now."
Private Dieter Aupperle uncocked his musket. He uttered several phrases in German that were most uncomplimentary on the subject of militias in general. So did Corporal Affenzeller, after he uncocked his own weapon. But, having considerably more knowledge of their adopted country as well as its language, he added details and specifics.
"-fuck pigs, being Creoles, no better than filthy Frenchmen. But at least the French have a few brains. Georgians can't figure out which end of a pig to fuck in the first place. Alabamans-"
Late in the afternoon, a delegation from the Arkansas Army showed up under a flag of truce. Harrison ordered them escorted into the Post.
Sam Houston, in the flesh. Harrison had never met him, but the man was one of those few in the world whose reputation genuinely preceded him. In the United States, at any rate.
To Harrison's much greater surprise-he'd known Houston was serving in the enemy colors-Winfield Scott came with him. Along with a poet whose name Harrison couldn't remember, even though he could remember reading two of his poems. One had been a gloomy thing, full of histrionics on death. Overwrought, the way poets will be about the subject and professional soldiers won't. But the other had been a poem about a man's thoughts watching a waterfowl flying in the distance. Harrison had been quite taken by it.
While he listened to Houston, Harrison's mind was at least half on Scott and the poet. They represented a real danger to him, which Houston didn't at the moment. He knew why they were there, of course.
"-the eighteen prisoners who are uninjured or walking wounded, we propose to exchange immediately against a similar number of our own. It's your choice, but we recommend that you permit us to continue providing medical attention to the other thirteen prisoners."
Houston glanced around the room in the Post that Harrison had chosen for his headquarters. He'd chosen it for the purpose partly for its size, but mostly because it had little in the way of the carnage that was being cleaned up elsewhere. Still, there were several pockmarks in the wall from bullets, and one bloodstain that hadn't quite been removed.
"I think we can do better for them at the moment than you could do here, General," he concluded.
Harrison didn't doubt it. His medical staff was exhausted already.
"All regulars?"
"Yes, sir. We have no militia prisoners."
Houston didn't bother adding: We didn't take any. The complete lack of expression on his face would have made that obvious, even if it hadn't been already. Just as it made clear there would be no apologies forthcoming for the fact, either.
Harrison had no intention of asking for them, anyway. His concerns for the moment, outside of his own professional prospects, were entirely for his regulars.
The terms of exchange seemed fair enough. But "Let's make it an equal exchange-within the usual parameters-but I'd prefer not to distinguish between walking and immobile wounded." He gave Houston a nod that was respectful, perhaps a bit on the embarrassed side. "We-ah-don't have but three walking wounded of your own. You didn't leave more than that."
"Fine. Select fifteen of our men that you think could manage the transfer without further injury, and we'll begin with that. We can do the rest later, as they heal."
"Terms of parole?"
"We propose an agreement not to fight on the same front-for a year, let's say?-but no overall prohibition against bearing arms in the current conflict."
Harrison thought about it. A complete prohibition-especially with no time limit-would better serve the interests of the United States Army. With their much smaller pool of manpower to draw from, the Arkansans could ill afford to have capable soldiers removed from service altogether.
But he was sure the Arkansans would never agree to that, for the same reason, so there was no point raising it. He could live with their proposal, and it was similar enough to various prisoner exchanges that had taken place in the war with Britain that no politician could yap about it.
Not that some of them wouldn't try, of course.
"Done." He extended his hand. "Please convey to your officers and men my salutations. You fought a most gallant battle."
Houston returned the handshake, an expression coming back into his face. Quite a friendly one, even an animated one. "And please accept our own compliments. Generals Driscol and Ball asked me to forward their admiration to your First Regiment and its commander, in particular. That was a bloody business by the wall."
Harrison nodded. "I'll certainly pass that on to the regiment. The commanding officer-that was Colonel John McNeil-fell in the battle, I'm afraid."
And then it was a round of handshakes between all the officers present. The fact that two of the three Arkansans were black caused not even a moment's hesitation, so far as Harrison could detect.
Not even on his part. He tried to remember if he'd ever shaken a negro's hand. He couldn't recall doing so, unless one were to count pressing a coin into a doorman's hand at a fancy hotel in Philadelphia and Washington.
Which would be an absurd comparison.
Scott and Bryant stayed behind, after Houston and the other Arkansan officers left to begin the prisoner exchange.
The first words out of Winfield Scott's mouth were the critical ones.
"The victory was yours, General Harrison, and Cullen and I shall so report it in our account."
Harrison nodded, stiffly, trying to let no sign of his relief show.
For a moment, he and Winfield stared at each other. They were not friends and never had been. Harrison resented the man, actually. Despite his victories at Tippecanoe and the Thames, Harrison's resignation from the army in 1814 as a result of his clash with Secretary of War Armstrong had inevitably removed some of the luster from his reputation. Scott, on the other hand, had suffered a dramatic wound at Lundy's Lane that had enabled him-in effect if not in name-to withdraw from the rest of the war with his great victory at the Chippewa untarnished.
Still, there were rules. And since Scott had made clear he would follow them, Harrison had no legitimate grounds for c
omplaint.
He knew full well, of course, what sort of account Scott would be filing with the newspapers. Any discerning reader with any military experience who got past the headline- U.S. VICTORIOUS AT SECOND ARKANSAS POST- would understand that beneath the formality lay something completely different. An Arkansas Army less than half the size of its American opponent had completely outmaneuvered the U.S. commander; allowed a good portion of its Chickasaw allies to escape a trap; fought a superior force of U.S. regulars to a standstill in a battle whose butcher's bill, proportionate to the size of the forces involved, was worse than Lundy's Lane; and practically destroyed the Georgia militia to boot.
A complete disaster, beneath the headline. A tactical "defeat" that was actually a strategic victory. A battle-never mind the formalities-that guaranteed that Henry Clay's short war was going to be a long and protracted one. With God-only-knew-what consequences would come out of it, at the end.
Still, Harrison had the headline. He clutched it for all it was worth.
Quite a bit, actually. Luckily for him-on this occasion-almost all the politicians in America with real military experience were on the other side anyway. Clay and Calhoun would clutch that headline even more tightly than he would. They'd have no choice.
"Please be seated, gentlemen." He indicated some nearby chairs. "This will be a long interview, I imagine. Some refreshments, perhaps? I believe-"
He cocked an eye at Captain Matlock, who gave him a quick little nod in return.
"We have some whiskey."
He'd start with Matlock to assemble a new staff. His regimental commander would protest, of course, but too bad for him. For the war that was coming, Harrison needed a staff. A real one, this time.
1824: TheArkansasWar
CHAPTER 38
New Antrim, Arkansas
J ULY 26, 1825
Sheff would retain flashes of memory of what happened to him after he'd received his wound. But flashes were all they were. The last one, thankfully, was a hazy recollection of himself screaming while two men held him down and a surgeon dug a bullet out of his shoulder.