1824: The Arkansas War

by Eric Flint

  He straightened. “I won’t say it can’t be done. It could, certainly, with the expenditure of enough time, effort, and—most of all—money. There’s simply no way around it, Mr. President, Mr. Secretary. West of the Mississippi, the main rivers all run west to east, or northwest to southeast. There is no real help there for an army large enough to do the job that tries to approach the Confederacy from the north.”

  Monroe pushed aside a portion of the map and sat down heavily in his chair. “I understand. The gist of it is that there is no practical alternative, unless one is prepared to wage a long and costly war, to launching a major expedition against the Indian Confederacy except up the Arkansas River valley.”

  “Yes, sir. The Red River can’t serve, not with at least a hundred and fifty miles of it clogged up with fallen trees. The Great Raft, they call it.”

  “And Driscol, being a very experienced soldier, knows that perfectly well.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So he designed his fortifications and lines of defense—his version of Wellington’s Lines of Torres Vedras in the Peninsular War—in such a way as to channel any attacker up the river.”

  “Yes, sir. His lines are brilliantly designed, too. Far better than I would have thought, to be honest. I think he must be getting advice from somewhere. Driscol was a sergeant in Napoleon’s army, not an officer. And the only sight he would have ever gotten of Wellington’s defenses would have been from a distance. Even with his huge army, Massena never made any serious attempt on Torres Vedras.”

  “How do you mean, ‘brilliantly designed’?” asked Adams.

  The general turned to face him. “Consider the problem he faces. Even with the recent flood of immigrants coming from the freedmen communities, added to the constant influx of runaway slaves and the settlers sponsored by the American Colonization Society, there still can’t be more than some tens of thousands of negroes in that Arkansas Chiefdom, as the Confederates call their respective states. Certainly not more than eighty thousand, I shouldn’t think. Add to that perhaps ten thousand whites by now, all told.”

  “That many?” The president’s eyebrows were lifted. “Whites, I mean. I wouldn’t have thought…”

  He glanced at Adams. “Again, a smile. Why?”

  Adams had also resumed his seat. Now he leaned his short, heavy frame back into it. “I can’t say I’m surprised, Mr. President. Not every white man in America shares Calhoun’s attitudes.”

  Nor do most of them come from Virginia gentry, as you do. But he left that unsaid, of course. “There are the missionaries, first of all. A very heavy presence of Quakers, naturally, and they tend to move in entire families. Then, a fair number—call it a heavy sprinkling—of young radicals. Abolitionists, they’re starting to call themselves.”

  Monroe made a face. For all the president’s humane nature, which Adams would be the first to allow, the man was still the product of his upbringing. Though a slave-owner himself, Monroe—like his close friends and predecessors Thomas Jefferson and James Madison—considered the institution of slavery problematic at best, and probably an outright evil. Still, any drastic and rapid abolition of slavery was considered impossible, and the attempt to do it, economically and socially disastrous.

  Adams, a New Englander, thought it was probably impossible also, for political reasons. But he would have accepted the economic and social disasters abolition might bring, for the sake of the greater political disaster they would avert. More and more, he was becoming convinced that if slavery festered for too long, it would produce, in the end, one of the most horrible episodes of bloodshed any nation had ever endured. And would steadily undermine the foundations of the republic before it got there.

  But there was no point reopening that debate here and now, so Adams continued to the next point.

  “I imagine that most of the whites there, however, are simply settlers. No different, really, from any western settlers. Scots-Irish in the main, of course.”

  “I’d think they’d bridle at being ruled by blacks,” Monroe said.

  The president was a very perceptive man, so the moment those words were spoken, his gaze moved to Scott. “And now you’re smiling, General. Why?”

  Scott coughed into his fist as a way of suppressing his amusement. “You have to be there to understand the thing, Mr. President. Yes, it’s true that most of the chiefs—they’ve adopted Cherokee terminology—are negroes. Still, they’re elected—and whites can vote also. They can run for office, as well, and a disproportionate number of them get elected. Even the negroes in Arkansas are more likely to vote for a white man, all other things being equal.

  “What’s most important, however, is that the principal chief—that’s their equivalent of what we’d call the governor of the state—is Patrick Driscol. You can’t even say he gets elected in a landslide, since nobody ever runs against him.”

  He coughed again, into a large fist. “They don’t call him that, though, except the Cherokees and Creeks who live in the province. Of whom, by the way, there are perhaps another five thousand. ‘Principal chief,’ I mean. I was quite entertained during the weeks I was there, I assure you, to discover that every white or black man I encountered refers to Patrick Driscol as the Laird of Arkansas.”

  The fist couldn’t possibly suppress the grin that came then. “Not to his face, of course.”

  Adams smiled. Monroe, who knew Driscol personally, laughed aloud. “I can imagine not!”

  After the moment’s humor was gone, Scott said: “Perhaps you remember Driscol’s young soldier, who accompanied him everywhere he went during the war. McParland? The young deserter whose faked execution I had Driscol stage, shortly before the Battle of the Chippewa?”

  Monroe frowned slightly, dredging his memory. “Oh, yes. I remember him now. A country boy.”

  Scott nodded. “Yes. From a poor family in upstate New York. Except none of them live in New York, any longer. The entire family—uncles, aunts, cousins, and all—pulled up stakes and moved to Arkansas several years ago. And they’re no longer poor, either. They’re rather prosperous; in fact, since they own one of the furniture factories that Houston fostered in Fort of 98. Which, incidentally, has become surrounded by quite a large town. More in the way of a small city, by now. There are a number of advantages to moving to Arkansas, for a poor white settler, now that Driscol has established his rule there. For one thing, there’s far less danger from Indian attacks, for obvious reasons.”

  At Monroe’s gesture, the general resumed his own seat. “A large town—soon, if not already, a small city—protected by a powerful fortress, which holds the only gate to the rest of the Confederacy and the Cherokee and Creek lands beyond. Driscol has nothing like the population of Lisbon that Wellington had. But he’s still got tens of thousands of men, and he designed those lines so troops could be moved rapidly from one point to another along the high ground. Any invading army will get battered back and forth as they march up the river valley, until they come to Fort of 98. He named it after the Irish rebellion, you understand? The one that brought death to his father and brother, and exile to him. I’ve seen it at close hand—spent two days studying it, rather, inside and out. Please trust me when I say it’s as formidable a fortress as any in the continent.”

  Scott leaned over. His finger landed forcibly on the Arkansas. “That’s the only really suitable invasion route. And Driscol knows it. And he spent some time as a young sergeant in the French colors, staring up at Wellington’s Lines of Torres Vedras after having marched across all of Spain. And saw that his commander, Massena, never ordered a full assault. Massena had sixty-five thousand men in that army. How many soldiers will the United States send against the Confederacy of the Arkansas?”

  Monroe’s reply came instantly. “Not one, so long as I am president.”

  There was an awkward silence. Pleasantly, Monroe said to Scott: “Thank you for your advice, General. It was very helpful. And now would you give us a moment, please?”

&nbs
p; Scott rose to his feet. “Certainly, Mr. President. I’ll be in my offices at the War Department, should you need me again today.” He turned and nodded to Adams. “A pleasure, as always, Mr. Secretary.”

  He probably even meant it, Adams thought. Winfield Scott and he got along quite well, as a rule. If for no other reason, because Scott was even less prone to suffering fools gladly.

  After the general was gone, the silence returned for a time. Finally, sighing, Adams spoke up. “There is some talk, I believe, that people might want me to succeed you, Mr. President.”

  “Yes, so I’ve been led to believe.”

  Monroe maintained a studied blandness in his expression and tone of voice. It was the firm protocol of the young republic that no gentleman suited to be chief executive in the first place would ever directly express any ambition for the post, as absurd as that apparent indifference might be. Even Henry Clay maintained the posture, though every suckling babe in the nation knew that the Speaker of the House lusted for the presidency as other men lusted for food or whiskey or money or women.

  Adams scratched under his chin. “Should that unlikely eventuality come to pass, my answer would be the same as yours. Not one dollar spent to send one soldier against the Confederacy.”

  Monroe nodded. “Jackson’s answer might be different. He’s as savage as anyone on the subject of the runaway slaves for whom Arkansas has become a magnet. But he’s also far shrewder than most people realize. Even something of a genuine statesman, I think, in his own way. Finally, Jackson takes his honor seriously, and there is his vow to Houston. Which he might—or might not—feel has been satisfied by now.”

  Houston. Always Houston, it seemed. On Mondays, Adams thought the young man was the republic’s greatest blessing. On Tuesdays, its greatest curse. On Wednesdays and Thursdays, he was indifferent to the question, for the secretary of state had many other things in midweek to occupy his mind. By Friday, he was back to blessing the youngster, and on Saturday to showering him with silent curses.

  Sunday, of course, was the Sabbath. On Sundays, Adams studied the Bible and tried not to think about the subject of Houston at all. Sometimes he even succeeded.

  “Yes, Andrew Jackson,” he said. “Impossible to know how he’d react, and what he’d decide. With Henry Clay, of course…”

  He left the rest unsaid. Monroe, however, did not.

  “Clay will do whatever serves opportunity, as he sees it. And since he can’t get the presidency without the support of Calhoun and at least the acquiescence of Crawford, that will determine his course.”

  “He’ll call it a great compromise,” Adams predicted.

  The room burst into momentary laughter, again. The moment over, Adams began rolling up the map.

  “Let’s hope we never have to find out.”

  CHAPTER 2

  A tavern not far from Lexington, Kentucky

  MAY 10, 1824

  The innkeeper eyed the big man in front of him uncertainly.

  First, because he was big. At least two inches over six feet and very broad-shouldered. The heavy Cherokee blanket he was wearing over his uniform made him seem as massive as a bear. He filled practically every square inch of the doorway to the room he’d rented for the night.

  Second, because he’d obviously had some whiskey to drink, even though it was only two hours past dawn. The smell of it on his breath was not overwhelming but was still noticeable.

  And finally, of course, simply because of who he was.

  If there was one thing the whole country had come to know about Colonel Sam Houston, it was that…

  You never knew. He might do anything.

  The innkeeper decided to try reason. “Look, Colonel, you were planning to leave town this morning anyway.”

  “Not before breakfast,” came the feared rejoinder. Stated every bit as reasonably.

  “Well, sure,” the innkeeper admitted. “But there’s a good tavern just six miles down the road. And your boy’s already getting your horses saddled.”

  The big young colonel smiled. “Chester’s five years older than I am. Not as tall, I admit. Still, it seems a bit silly to be calling him a boy.”

  Who else would even think that way? A black man was always a “boy”—and the colonel’s was a slave, to boot.

  But the innkeeper wasn’t about to argue the point. Not now, for a certainty, when he was trying to keep his tavern from being turned into a shambles.

  Where reason hadn’t worked, perhaps outright pleading would.

  “Colonel…Jack Baxter’s the meanest man in northern Kentucky. Just take my word for it. Been that way since he was a kid. He’ll pick a fight over anything. And, uh…”

  Houston’s smile widened. “And, in my case, he’s got real grievances.”

  “I guess. Depending on how you look at it.”

  “Well, then!” Cheerfully, Houston came into the hallway, moving the innkeeper aside the way the tide shifts seaweed. “As an of-fi-cial of the United States government, I figure it’s my bounden duty to listen to the complaints of a taxpayer.”

  Over his shoulder, as he moved toward the stairs leading down to the tavern’s main room: “He does pay taxes, doesn’t he?”

  “As little as he can,” the innkeeper muttered, hurrying after him. “Please, Colonel—”

  “Oh, relax, will you?” Houston’s soft Tennessee accent thickened noticeably. “I bean’t a quarrelsome man. In fact, my mama told me she almost named me Tranquility instead of Sam.”

  He started down the stairs, not clumping as much as a man his size normally would. Partly because he was wearing Cherokee-style boots to match the blanket he still had over his shoulders, but mostly because he was very well coordinated. The innkeeper had been surprised by that the night before. There were usually impromptu dances in the tavern of a Friday evening. Half drunk—better than half—Houston had still been able to dance better than anyone else. Any man, at least.

  “Almost,” he added.

  The innkeeper was following close behind. “ ‘Almost’ is what I’m worried about, Colonel.”

  Houston chuckled. “I told you, Ned, relax. Just have Mrs. Akins fry me up a steak.”

  “No porridge?”

  The chuckle came again. “Don’t think porridge would do the trick. At all.”

  By the time Ned Akins scurried into the kitchen, gave his wife the order, and got back into the main room, the worst had happened. He was just in time to see Houston pull out a chair at the table in the corner where Jack Baxter was having his breakfast. A moment later, the young colonel was sitting right across from him.

  Houston was smiling cheerfully. Baxter returned the smile with a glare.

  It wasn’t a very big table, either.

  “And I just put in a new window,” Akins muttered to himself. Fortunately, the window was a good ten feet from where Houston and Baxter were sitting. Maybe it wouldn’t get smashed up along with everything else.

  The room had fallen silent. Even packed as it was with men having their breakfast, you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Most of the diners were travelers passing through on business, not locals. But it didn’t matter. Every one of them had heard Baxter’s loudly stated threats, should the nefarious nigger-loving traitor Sam Houston dare to show his face. And the fact that Jack Baxter was the meanest man in town could have been surmised by a half-wit, upon fifteen seconds’ acquaintance.

  Houston turned his head part way around, ignoring Baxter’s glare. “Oh, Mr. Akins—I forgot. Be so kind as to tell your wife that I prefer my steak cooked rare. No blasted leather for me, thank you. When I stick my knife into meat, I want to see it bleed.”

  He turned back to Baxter. “I’ve got quite the knife, too. Here, let me show you.”

  From somewhere under the blanket, Houston drew out a knife that looked more like a short sword than what any reasonable man—certainly any reasonable innkeeper—would have called a knife. It was all Akins could do not to hiss.

  Two of the cu
stomers in the room did hiss.

  “Had it made for me in Arkansas,” Houston continued, his tone as cheerful as ever. “At the knife shop James Black set up in Fort of 98. I think Rezin Bowie designed it, though. He or his brother Jim, anyway. Can’t say either one is exactly a friend of mine, so I’m not sure.”

  All the while he’d been prattling gaily, Houston held up the knife and twisted it back and forth, letting Baxter—every man in the room, for that matter—get a good view of it. The thing looked as lethal as a rattlesnake.

  “You know Jim Bowie?” Houston asked Baxter, not looking at him.

  He didn’t wait for an answer, which he wouldn’t have gotten anyway because by now Baxter’s glare was enough to melt brimstone.

  “Hot-tempered man.” Houston shook his head, still looking at the knife. “ ’Course, I admit, sometimes a man’s got to have a temper.”

  Finally, he lowered the knife and looked across the table at Baxter. Still, for all the world, seeming to be completely oblivious to Baxter’s fury.

  “I should’ve asked your pardon for just sitting here. But I’m afraid I’ve got no choice. Nowadays—sad to say, but there it is—I pretty much have to take a corner table anywhere I go. It seems I’ve got enemies. Got to watch my back.”

  In point of fact, it was Baxter’s seat that gave a view of the entire room. Houston’s back was turned to everybody except Baxter.

  Houston shook his head again. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Why, there’s people say I caused the trouble with all the runaway slaves, even though—to any fair and judicious man—it’s obvious as the nose in front of his face that the trouble was caused by that blasted Calhoun and his exclusion business.”