by Eric Flint
The Arkansas commander nodded. “My pleasure, Colonel Taylor. I’d not wish it on any man, unless he were my bitterest enemy, to make that journey downriver overland. At any time, much less now, with the Choctaws on the warpath. That country’s malarial, as often as not.”
Taylor hesitated. That raised a perhaps delicate issue, and not one that was really under Taylor’s authority. Not at all, in fact. At least, at the moment.
Understanding, Driscol continued. “As soon as the Comet leaves you off at Baton Rouge, she’s got orders to return and help with ferrying the Choctaws across the Mississippi. Chickasaws, too, if they make the request.”
“Ah. Have you by chance—”
Driscol shook his head. “I haven’t been able to establish contact with Chief Pushmataha yet, no. But I got a letter from John Ross yesterday. He and Major Ridge should arrive on the morrow, and the Hercules will be taking them down to parlay with the Choctaws. I don’t imagine Pushmataha will continue being stubborn. His people will have wreaked whatever vengeance they could, by now, and they’re simply in no shape to deal with the state militias that are surely being mustered. Neither are the Chickasaws, certainly, as few in number as they are. You know how it works as well as I do. It doesn’t matter who started the killing; it’ll be the Indians who get blamed for it.”
He stiffened a body that was already a bit stiff. “Everywhere except in the Confederacy, that is. And no militia—perhaps no army—can get to the Confederacy without coming through Arkansas. Which is not so easily done as all that.”
He didn’t bother to point out the window of the blockhouse. There was no need. The prisoners he’d hung had been taken down after a day, their bodies lowered into the same shallow graves that had been the burial site for Crittenden and the rest of his men.
Very shallow graves, which meant that Taylor could see the mounds easily, even from across the river.
Had he bothered to look, which he didn’t. He had the memories of the actual battle, which did better for the purpose.
As Driscol well knew, of course.
That left the final matter. Again, though, Taylor hesitated. This, too, was really beyond his authority.
Fortunately, however brutal-looking the man’s face was, Driscol had quite the shrewd brain beneath that blocky skull. “Please be assured, Colonel Taylor, that in the unfortunate event a state of war should exist between the United States and the Confederacy—Arkansas, at any rate—I shall conduct my own operations giving respect to the established rules and customs of war. Provided, that is”—there was just the slightest emphasis on provided—“my opponent does the same.”
Taylor nodded. “For my part, I can assure you that in that same unfortunate event, should it come to pass, I will see to it that my own officers and men conduct themselves accordingly.” Honesty required him to add, “That’s assuming I’m in a position of command, of course, which will not be my decision.”
“Yes, I understand.” There came a smile, then. Not much of one, perhaps, but a smile nonetheless. “At the same time, the army of the United States is not so large as all that. So I imagine you’ll have various conversations with your fellow officers. Here and there.”
Taylor couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, yes—you can be sure of that! Bunch of old women gossiping, I sometimes think.”
There was nothing more to say, really. And he’d already made his farewells to Julia and the girls, since they’d left for New Antrim the day before.
“I’ll be going, then. Again, my thanks for your courtesies.”
There was a last courtesy still to come. Driscol even had an honor guard waiting by the steamboat to see Colonel Taylor and his men off.
For his part, Taylor mustered his small unit on the deck to exchange the honors as the Comet pulled away from the pier.
Very punctilious, it was. That seemed wise to Taylor.
Apparently it seemed wise to his men, too. Toward sundown, as they neared the confluence with the Mississippi, Taylor happened to pass by two of his cavalrymen on the deck. They were leaning on the guardrail, looking at the riverbank with its grim mementos.
“Hope we don’t find ourselves comin’ back up this river, any time soon,” one of them commented.
“Not wearin’ a uniform, for sure,” his mate agreed.
After Colonel Taylor and his cavalrymen left, Driscol went to the blockhouse in the fort that had been turned into an impromptu jail.
“Well?”
Smiling a little ruefully and scratching his head, William Cullen Bryant looked down at his notepad. “Can’t say for sure, Patrick. I’m almost certain that at least some of what they’ve told me is a lie. But…”
“A lie, how?”
“Well, that’s the thing. Mostly, I think they’re just exaggerating how much they were personally involved. A good part of this”—he tapped the notepad—“could well be hearsay. On the other hand, Thompson certainly has the financial figures. He’s got the records to verify it, too, unless we want to suppose that he somehow managed to fake such a thing on the off chance he might get captured and be able to use it to parlay leniency for himself.”
Patrick shook his head. “No, that’s preposterous.”
“Exactly. And the financial figures are the heart of it. What’s left is simply proving that Clay was personally involved, to the extent they claim he was. Which would amount, in effect, to the Speaker of the House having been the linchpin in a conspiracy to divert funds from the Second Bank—some of its directors and officers, at any rate—into Crittenden’s coffers. Which is all that allowed him to provide his army with that sudden influx of weapons and ammunition they needed.”
“Where’s the weakness in their testimony, then?”
Bryant shrugged. “Basically, it’ll be their word against Clay’s. Powers’s depiction of Clay’s estate in Kentucky, I couldn’t vouch for one way or the other. I’ve never been there myself—although you can be sure I’ll make it a point to visit on my way back to New York. But I can tell you that his description of Henry Clay himself is dead on the money, all the way down to that peculiar habit he has of using a snuffbox to emphasize points while he’s speaking. I’ve observed the Speaker giving speeches.”
Driscol scratched his jaw. “In short, they claim to have met with Clay in private at his estate, but they can’t prove that part of it. I don’t care about that. This is not something that will ever be put to a test in a court of law, anyway. It’s the public’s opinion that’ll matter.”
“Ah, Patrick….” Bryant seemed uncomfortable. “You do understand…”
“I’m not a babe, William. I know perfectly well that such a report would—for a time—boost Clay’s popularity in a lot of the states. Send it soaring in the South, and elevate it in the border states and probably some of the middle Atlantic states.”
Bryant nodded. “New England will be outraged, in the main. New York also, leaving aside the wealthiest circles. No way to know, yet, how Van Buren and his crowd will swing. Pennsylvania, probably; Philadelphia, certainly—again, leaving aside the bank circles. But I’m glad to see you’re not fooling yourself.”
He hefted the notebook. “If I publish this—well, when I publish it—the impact will be mostly to Clay’s advantage, not disadvantage.”
“In the short run. Yes. But what about the long run, William?”
The poet-turned-reporter mused on that for a bit, then shrugged again. “There’s no way to know, Patrick. There simply isn’t. Yes, it will also establish that he’s an unscrupulous and unprincipled maneuverer. Even a Machiavellian one. But at least half the country knows that already. That’s why so many people think John Randolph was referring to Clay, when he described a man—”
Patrick chuckled. “Yes, I read it. I will say Randolph has a fine way with words, insane as he might often seem. ‘He shines and stinks like a rotten mackerel in moonlight,’ wasn’t it?”
Bryant nodded. “Yes. He was actually talking about Livingston, but if you recite t
hat phrase to most Americans and ask them to guess, two out of three are likely to name Clay.”
He lifted the notebook a few more inches. “But so what, Patrick? History is littered with cases of successful schemers and demagogues. It may well be the case that Henry Clay is America’s Alcibiades—but I remind you that Alcibiades had a long and successful career.”
Driscol stared at him. After a moment, Bryant smiled ruefully. “Well, yes, also a career that ended quite badly.”
Patrick grinned. “ ‘Quite badly.’ A bit of a euphemism, wouldn’t you say? A career that ended with him just as dead as Randolph’s mackerel. And why, William?” He moved right on to the answer. “Because it’s one thing to maneuver a country into a war for the sake of personal aggrandizement. Another thing entirely to maneuver that same country through the bloodshed—when the heady first moments pass, and the butcher’s bill comes due, and the same men who hailed you once are now wondering what it was really all for and about in the first place.”
He looked toward the east. “I think I’ll bet on the American republic. Publish it with my blessing, William. Publish all of it. If Jackson came against us, I doubt we could stand. Not for more than three years, at least. But I don’t think Jackson will come. I think it’ll be Clay. Whatever else, Jackson has principles. Clay has none at all. That fish is foul. No more capable of forcing through a great victory than any rotted meat. He’ll come to pieces if he tries. Watch and see.”
Bryant left the next morning on a keelboat. Arrangements had been made for him to wait at Brown’s camp, where the tanner was rebuilding his works, until either the Comet or the Hercules came by to take him to Memphis.
To his surprise, Thompson and Powers were frog-marched on board to join him.
“Do as you will with them,” Driscol told him.
“I imagine I’ll just set them free, once we reach Memphis.” Bryant spread his hands. “I’m hardly equipped to be a jail-keeper.”
“Fine with me. They’ll have no choice but to flee the country altogether—or keep telling whatever lies might be in that report of yours.”
He swiveled his head to bring the two prisoners under his cold gaze. They were obviously trying their best not to look like the most relieved men in North America, but not succeeding too well.
“Excellent liars, I’m thinking,” Driscol mused. “We’ll know soon enough, of course. Before they get to Memphis, they’ll have to survive a few days in John Brown’s company.”
The looks of relief on the faces of the two adventurers vanished instantly. Driscol and Bryant shared a laugh.
“I recommend an immediate immersion in Judges,” the poet advised them. The reporter added a caveat: “But don’t try to claim any particular expertise. Arguing biblical text with John Brown—the mood he’s in, and given your history—would be about as insane as any act I can imagine. Short of invading Arkansas again.”
CHAPTER 21
Washington, D.C.
NOVEMBER 3, 1824
When Peter Porter entered the dining room of the lodging house on Ninth Street near Pennsylvania Avenue where Henry Clay was residing in the capital, he found that the Speaker of the House and his close political associates had taken it over, for all intents and purposes, and turned the chamber into what amounted to a staff headquarters. Fortunately, the landlady was an amenable woman. Easily intimidated, at least.
“Peter!” called out Josiah Johnston, cheerfully. He waved a hand at an empty chair at the large table in the center of the room. “Take a look at the latest reports. The situation gets brighter day by day.”
Porter came up to the table and gave the newspapers spread across it no more than a glance. He’d already seen them, and they were much of a piece. The headline on one newspaper that had been vigorously backing the Crawford campaign was typical:
HORRID DETAILS CONCERNING THE MASSACRE IN ARKANSAS
A river awash in blood
The banks covered with corpses
Driscol the Robespierre of the West
He pulled out the newspapers he had tucked under his arm and handed one of them to Henry Clay, who was sitting at the head of the table. The other three he tossed onto the table.
“You’d better look at this before you start celebrating. It’s the latest issue of the National Intelligencer. I commend to you in particular the article by William Cullen Bryant. You can’t miss it. The Intelligencer gave it half the front page.”
He pulled out a chair and sat in it heavily.
Clay had already put on his eyeglasses and was scanning rapidly through the article. After a minute he exclaimed: “This is a tissue of lies! I’ve never met these two men in my life. Never even heard of one of them. This Powers fellow, whoever he is.”
Johnston, who’d been scowling as he read the same article, looked up. “It’s simple, then. You issue a straightforward denial and point out that the Intelligencer, being well known for its Federalist sympathies, has a long history—”
“Won’t work, Josiah,” Porter said bluntly. He gave Clay a look that was not entirely friendly. As much as Porter generally admired the Speaker and thought he would make by far the best new president of the United States, the man was not without his faults. “I’m afraid that Henry was using hyperbole when he referred to a ‘tissue’ of lies. That there are some lies in the story, scattered here and there, I don’t doubt. In fact, I know one of them to be a lie, because Thompson and Powers were most certainly not at the meeting reported in this article.”
He gave Clay another look. The Speaker avoided his eyes, choosing to look out the window.
“Yes. I know that for a fact, because I was at the meeting—and so was Henry. And while Thompson was not at the meeting, it is indeed true that he was the man we were instructed to have the money sent to. That’s why, you might notice, Henry can say he never heard of Powers.”
The landlady was entering with another pot of tea and an extra cup. Porter shoved the pile of newspapers aside to make room for the service, gave her a polite nod, and waited until she’d left the room.
“I never heard of Powers, either,” he continued. “But I don’t doubt that most of this report is accurate enough.”
Across from him, the Kentucky legislator Adam Beatty had been reading the same article. Now he laid down the newspaper and shrugged his shoulders.
“What difference does it make? This report is coming in too late to have any effect on the election. But even if it had come in sooner, I doubt it would have made a difference.” He chuckled. “I can assure you all, gentlemen, that my constituents are outraged by the events in Arkansas and demanding action. So are people all over the South. In fact, I was told just yesterday by one of Crawford’s people that new recruits are flocking to the Georgia militia, lest their wives and children—”
“—be subjected to depravities at the hands of rampaging African savages,” Porter concluded for him. “Leave off, Adam. You’re not giving a campaign speech here. And you know just as well as I do that there is no chance whatsoever that the virtuous damsels of Georgia—or Tennessee, or Mississippi, or Missouri, or Louisiana, for that matter, which are considerably closer to Arkansas—are at any risk at all. From Arkansas negroes, at any rate. Choctaws might be a different matter. But all reports—including Bryant’s—are agreed that the Choctaws are migrating to the Confederacy in the aftermath of the Crittenden incident. So are the Chickasaws.”
He peered down at the offending article. “If this is accurate—and I’m quite sure it is, in these particulars—the total forces that met in front of Arkansas Post amounted to no more than two or three regiments on each side. Hardly enough, even without subtracting the half, to launch an invasion of the United States.”
Beatty was quite unabashed. “Sure,” he said, grinning. “So what? There wasn’t any real chance the Creeks could overrun Kentucky, Tennessee, and Georgia, either. That didn’t stop the massacre at Fort Mims from being a rallying cry eleven years ago—and I will point out to you that the slaug
hter at Arkansas Post was far worse.”
Porter restrained his temper. Truth be told, he didn’t much care for the Westerners and Southerners who had come to represent an ever-growing percentage of Henry Clay’s coterie. They had a blithe disregard for simple logic that offended his New England upbringing, and an instant readiness to resort to naked emotionalism in the conduct of public affairs. Almost as bad as Jackson and his people, in that regard.
Almost…but not quite. Firmly, Porter reminded himself that his support of Clay derived from far more cogent and profound sources. Without Clay’s American System, the manufacture and commerce of the nation would be stunted. The United States would remain a bucolic, agrarian backwater in the world, always at the financial mercy of England and other European powers.
“I say again, leave off,” he growled. “The comparison is absurd. At Fort Mims, white people were massacred by Indians breaking into a fort. At Arkansas Post, they were massacred by negroes trying to keep them out.”
Beatty shrugged again. “All true—and again, so what? If you think the average Westerner or Southerner is going to care—especially Southerners—I can assure you that you are quite mistaken. All that matters here is that white men—lots of them—were butchered by niggers. A wave of patriotism is sweeping the country in response.” He pointed a finger at Henry Clay. “And it will sweep our man into the president’s house.”
Patriotism, no less. Porter found Beatty to be perhaps the most offensive of the lot.
“All very well and good,” he replied, forcing himself to keep his tone civil. “If Henry wins a straightforward majority in the electoral college. But none of us have ever thought he could. Our campaign strategy was always to get him enough electoral votes to force the election into the House of Representatives. Where…”
He left off the rest. Henry Clay’s control of the House of Representatives was doubted by no one in the United States, least of all his closest advisers. The Constitution provided that, in the event there was no clear winner of a presidential election in the electoral college, the House would choose between the three candidates who won the most votes. For the past year, therefore, their strategy had been predicated on that simple arithmetic.