by Eric Flint
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
SEPTEMBER 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 still 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 McPa
rland. 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,’ ’cept 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.
But, now and then, a group formed with real leadership and serious financial backing. The last such had been Dr. James Long’s ill-fated Texas expedition in the summer of 1819, which might well have succeeded in carving out a big chunk of Mexican territory for an independent American-based republic. But the U.S. government, which had often tacitly supported earlier such attempts, refused to support this one. The U.S. secretary of state had finally gotten all of Florida from Spain in the Adams-Onis Treaty signed in February of that year, and he was in no mood to have the settlement upended by yet another adventure in Texas. Monroe had agreed with him, and Long’s little republic had collapsed within months. Long himself had been taken prisoner by the Mexicans and then “accidentally” shot by a Mexican soldier while a captive in Mexico City.
The large and brawling community of southwestern adventurers and their backers had never forgiven Adams, of course. And now, it seemed, had found another source of support. Probably political as well as financial.
Eliza had been getting steadily more concerned. “Does this mean we’ll have to suspend our journey to Arkansas? It sounds quite dangerous.”
“Oh, it’s not really dangerous, Mrs. Ross,” Ball said. “Not for us. We should manage to pass through quite easily. But that’s the reason for this odd getup we decided on.”
A little wave of his hand indicated his companions. “We’re just another party of Southerners, passing through the area. Nothing unusual. Got to be Southerners, seein’ as how we got slaves, just like proper Southern gentlemen do.”
The grin had vanished momentarily while the Arkansas general gave Ross’s wife that assurance. Now it came back in full force. “Anthony been studyin’ his letters right vigorously, these past years. Can’t hardly believe it myself, the way he can talk now, when he’s of a mind. ’Course, his accent’s still Northern, but that won’t stand out. Plenty of young Northerners come down here to make their fortune.”
Having a much better sense of the social realities of the American South than his wife, Ross could immediately understand the logic of the scheme. Except…
“How about our accent?” he asked. “It should be a bit difficult for us to remain silent, throughout the journey.”
“No problem there, either. There be plenty of Englishmen—not to mention Irishmen—comin’ here to set up a plantation. In fact, Crittenden’s got a whole company of Irishmen in that little army he’s put together. Most of ’em just the usual adventurers left over from the wars, of course. But some of them got real money to invest.”
And that, too, wasn’t surprising. The wars triggered by the French Revolution and the Napoleonic era had lasted for almost a quarter of a century and had involved enormous numbers of men. Every such war epoch in history had produced, in its aftermath, a plethora of veterans who turned their military s
kills to this or that adventure. Some of them criminal; still more, skirting the very edges of legality.
“I see.” Ross couldn’t help but smile. “So my wife and I—with our son along, presumably to stay behind and manage the business—are scouting the Delta to see a likely place for a plantation. Perhaps even in newly seized—or perhaps I should say, rightfully restored—Arkansas. With our local guides and partners—that’ll be you, I imagine, Captain McParland, along with your cousin Callender here—and the slaves to provide their bona fides.”
“Yup.”
Ross scrutinized Ball’s face for a moment. “Which still doesn’t explain the mystery of you being included among the ‘slaves,’ Charles. Surely Arkansas didn’t have to use its one and only general for the purpose.”
For the first time, Ball’s good cheer seemed to slip a bit. “Well…First off, I’m not the only general. The Laird—ah, that’s Chief Patrick, I mean—has the same rank, too, even though he ain’t normally active. But he’s perfectly capable of leading the army in the field, as you well know, should Crittenden and his pack take off before I get there. Don’t need me for that. And the thing is…”
Finally, it all came into focus. “Yes, I see,” said Ross. “You wanted the chance to study the terrain carefully yourself. Even be able to observe firsthand a large military force moving through it. Not because you care much about this one, but another that might follow.”
“Yup.” Now, Ball seemed to be scowling slightly. “Tarnation, General, you just cost me two dollars.”
“How’s that?”
“We had a bet. I didn’t think you’d figure it out until we got halfway to Alexandria. Patrick said you’d do it before we even left the docks.”
And how odd it was to see that a father’s reputation with his oldest son should be cemented for all time by such a trivial thing. But, looking at David’s face, Ross didn’t doubt it. Books, essays, mementos, medals, swords of honor, dispatches—all abstractions, in the end. Whereas there was nothing at all abstract about seeing the conclusion of a wager between two men, one of whom stood right before the boy and looked like some sort of Moor legend, and the other of whom was an Irish troll who had almost killed his father once.