1824: The Arkansas War: Chapter Eleven

September 13, 1824
Alexandria, Louisiana

    “Robbed, I say again!” Robert Crittenden’s voice filled the tavern, even managing to ride over the hubbub of far too many men packed into far too small a space—and with far too much whiskey packed inside them, to boot.

    “Robbed, I say again!”

    Raymond Thompson looked at his companion across the small table in a corner of the tavern and rolled his eyes. “How many times do you think he’ll say it again?”

    Scott Powers swirled the whiskey in his glass. “Ten, at least.” Then, shrugging: “Better him than you or me, Ray. Somebody’s got to keep the boys stirred up.”

    “Cheated of our rightful new state by the scoundrel Adams—that bastard Monroe too!—and their tools in Congress! Has ever mankind seen a more infamous act of treachery than the selling of Texas and Arkansas—and for the sake of nothing more sublime than appeasing the corrupt Dons and their—”

    Powers chuckled. “Sore, isn’t he? Mostly he’s just riled because he was sure he’d be appointed the governor of Arkansas. If the state had ever come into existence.”

    Thompson didn’t reply. The statement was true enough, of course, but he didn’t share Powers’ cynical equinamity on the subject. For Powers, any expedition to seize Arkansas was just a stepping stone to Texas. But Thompson had been counting on getting some of that fine bottomland in the Arkansas portion of the Delta. He could have sold it to speculators within a year, and turned a profit on the deal. Instead, he was holed up in Alexandria, trying to evade his creditors.

    “—Cherokee savages and the Quapaws, more savage still—”

    But there was no point in dwelling on past misfortunes. If all went well, before long he’d be rich enough to thumb his nose at any creditors. “Any word from the Lallemand brothers?” he asked.

    “Not lately. Far as I know, they should still be arriving any day.”

    Thompson frowned into his whiskey glass. “I still don’t like the idea. You know as well as I do that they’re just looking for an angle to set up French rule in Texas.”

    “So what?” Powers drained his own glass. “Let ‘em dream. Napoleon died two years ago. Without him as the anchor—even assuming they could have freed him from St. Helena—they don’t stand a chance. And in the meantime, they’re willing to put two hundred and fifty trained soldiers in the field—and Charles Lallemand is a genuine general. Fought at Waterloo, even.”

    “—niggers for the taking, too! Like catching fish in a pond! What say you, boys?”

    Thompson and Powers both winced. An instant later, the roar of the crowd hammered their ears.

    When the noise ebbed enough to allow conversation again, Thompson returned stubbornly to the subject. “French soldiers, Scott. Who’s to say—”

    “Not more than a third, any longer, after that comedy of errors they called ‘Champ d’Asile.’ Not even Long’s people scrambled out of Texas faster.” Powers looked away for a moment, a considering expression on his face. “Most of the men around the Lallemands, since they settled in Alabama, are local boys. They’ll listen to Charles on the field, but that’s it.”

    He stood up, holding his empty glass. “Another?”

    Thompson shook his head. “No, I’ve got to be able to see straight, tomorrow morning. At least—”

    “—problem will be catching those greenback niggers, the way they’ll run after a stout volley and the sight of level bayonets! I’m telling you, boys—”

    “God, I’m sick of that man’s voice,” Thompson grumbled. “But, as I was saying, at least he came up with the muskets he said he would. Two thousand stand.”

    Powers’ eyes widened. “Where did—”

    “Don’t ask, Scott. But you can probably figure it out.”

    After a moment, Powers smiled. “Benefactors in high places, indeed. But I shall be the very model of discretion.”

    After he left, Thompson drained his own glass.

    “—envy of every Georgian and Virginian! And then! On to Texas!”

    Another roar from the crowd caused Thompson to hunch his shoulders. “Enough, already,” he muttered to himself.

    He eyed the far-distant door, gloomily certain it would take him five minutes to work his way through the mob. More like ten, if he wanted to avoid a duel. Half the men in the tavern would fight over any offense, and they could find an offense most anywhere.

September 15, 1824
Blue Ridge Farm, Kentucky

    “I’d really feel a lot better about this if I were going along, Julia,” said Richard Johnson. The Kentucky senator’s face looked more homely than ever. Downright woebegone, in fact.

    “Oh, stop frettin,’ dear. You can’t possibly leave now, with the political situation the way it is.” Julia Chinn nodded toward the small cavalry escort waiting patiently near the wagon. “They’ll handle any little problem that might come up.”

    Johnson looked at the cavalrymen, trying to find some comfort in the sight.

    Trying… and even succeeding to a considerable degree. Not so much from the sight of a dozen cavalrymen, but their commanding officer. Houston had promised a real military escort, if Julia decided to take the girls to Arkansas for their schooling, and he hadn’t failed on that promise.

    Recognizing inevitability—Julia had remained adamant on the subject for months, never budging at all—Johnson stepped over to the side of the officer’s horse and looked up at it.

    “Got to say I’m downright astonished to see you here, Zach. Don’t usually see a lieutenant-colonel in charge of something like this.”

    Zachary Taylor looked down at him, smiling. A bit to Johnson’s relief, the lieutenant-colonel’s heavy, rough-featured face seemed quite good-humored.

    “Hell, Dick, why not? Sam asked me to find somebody reliable, when I ran into him in Wheeling. I was on my way back to my post in New Orleans, in any event. I figured I was more reliable than anybody I could find on short notice, and it really isn’t that far out of my way. Besides, I owe you a favor.”

    In point of fact, coming through western Virginia and northern Kentucky to provide an escort for Julia and the children, instead of just taking a barge down the Ohio, had been considerably out of Taylor’s way. But the man was an experienced Indian fighter, so terrain was no great challenge for him.

    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 of them were veterans, even though Johnson’s soldiering days were over, and both of them 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 Ridge 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. Separation of church and state ranked right alongside states’ rights and putting an end to debt imprisonment, in his pantheon of political virtues.

    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.”

September 22, 1824
New Orleans, Louisiana

    “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, 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 nine years earlier, a great contest of arms had been waged. Like most young men from his class—certainly one with his family history—martial affairs were of engrossing interest.

    He knew the terrain well already, too, at least in the abstract. He’d read his father’s account of the campaign, as well as several other memoirs that had been published since 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.”

    There was a small delegation at the foot of the ramp, waiting for them. Ross had thought Driscol would have made some arrangements, but he was surprised at the form it took.

    He hadn’t expect 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 we 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 McParland. 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 mid-twenties, seemed vastly more self-assured than the very young and uncertain sergeant he could remember from eight 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 under-rated 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 non-descript. 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, 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 was in no mood to have the settlement up-ended 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 get-up 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’ 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 off 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 skills 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, mementoes, 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.

    “Oh, what a splendid adventure!” David exclaimed.

September 30, 1824
Washington, D.C.

    Maria Hester opened the door herself. She must have seen him coming.

    “I’ve missed you so,” she said, before he swept her into his arms. Then, laughing: “Sam! Stop it! Right in public!”

    He growled something incoherent, lifted her into the house and closed the door with his boot heel, never relinquishing the embrace or leaving off with the kisses. “Missed you too.”

    “Father wants to see you,” she mumbled. “As soon as you arrived, he told me.”

    “Can wait till tomorrow.”

    “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

    Sighing, Sam set his wife down. Maria Hester was grinning up at him. “The president of the nation might have to wait a day, but your son won’t.”

    Lurking just beneath the surface of her bright eyes was the same anticipation that was practically flooding him. The boy was only four years old, after all. Four-year-olds need a lot of naps.

    A moment later, Sam had little Andrew Jackson hoisted up. His son was beaming at him too.

    “Would you care for some whiskey, sir?” asked a servant, coming into the foyer.

    “Of course not. It’s only afternoon.”