1824: The Arkansas War: Chapter Ten

August 24, 1824
Lexington, Kentucky

    “I think you’ve got the finest race horses in the state, Henry,” said Peter Porter. “And probably the best race track.” Leaning on the rail fence, the former New York congressman took a few moments longer to admire the sight. It was a sunny afternoon. A bit too hot for comfort, but not intolerably so.

    Henry Clay laughed. “It may not be the best, but I can assure you it’s the most profitable. For me, at any rate.” A bit smugly: “Indeed, my horses are superior. They earn me quite the tidy sum in prize money. But, come. Crittenden’s people should be arriving shortly. In fact, they may already be here by now.”

    Porter was hard of hearing, so Clay spoke more loudly than he normally would. That was one of the many gracious courtesies the Speaker of the House practiced routinely with his friends and associates, and one that was much appreciated.

    The two men turned back toward the main house at Ashland. Clay had named his estate just south of Lexington for the ash trees that were native to the region. That seemed a bit odd to Porter, given that Clay was actually partial to spruces. He’d been replacing the ash trees with spruces since the day he bought the estate, seventeen years earlier. Just one of the man’s many personal quirks. Clay spilled over with them, but since he usually turned them to advantage or amusement, none of his friends minded.

    The walk back was leisurely, taken in a companionable silence, as they followed the winding carriageway that led to the house through a grove of cypress, locust and cedar trees. The distance to be traveled was over two hundred yards, so it took a bit of time.

    There was a short interruption once they reached the path that led to a cluster of buildings not far from the house itself. That consisted of a smoke house, a dairy, a carriage house, and the slave quarters.

    “A moment, please,” Clay said. “Something I must attend to.” He strode down the path toward the smoke house, leaving Porter behind.

    Porter used the quarter of an hour wait to admire Clay’s country home, which he could see quite well from where he stood. Brick, very well built—and very large. Two and a half stories in the center, with one-story wings to either side. Clay had told him the overall dimensions were one hundred and twenty six feet by fifty-seven. One of the grandest homes in the area, it was.

    When Clay returned, Porter cocked an inquiring eyebrow. A polite gesture, nothing intrusive.

    “A minor matter,” Clay explained, taking his friend by the elbow and leading him toward the house. “Lucretia told me that she had suspicions concerning one of the overseers, from something she overheard one of the house girls saying to another. So I just had words with the man. If I discover he’s taking advantages of the slaves, I shall discharge him immediately, and I told him so.”

    Porter pursed his lips, but said nothing. As a New Yorker born and raised in New England, the institution of slavery seemed peculiar to him. Exotic, really, more like something you’d expect to find in Araby than America. With the same aura of sexual excess, to boot. That slaveowners and their overseers had what amounted to their own harems, if they chose to exercise their power, was something understood by practically everyone, North as well as South. Though few people beyond irresponsible abolitionists chose to speak of it publicly.

    Even this little incident reeked, if you insisted on sniffing at it for too long. “Discharge” a man—as a penalty for an act which, if carried out against a white woman, would result in a prison sentence. Possibly even a hanging, depending on the circumstances.

    Still, it was none of Porter’s business, so he said nothing. Whenever the Speaker of the House was in Washington, since his wife rarely accompanied him to the capital, Clay was an insatiable womanizer. The same, when he went on one of his many political tours. That was always a potential political liability, of course, and one that Clay’s friends and associates had tried to caution him about—to little avail, unfortunately. But at least it seemed he kept his sexual exploits under control on his own estate.

    The one thing they did not need would be for rumors of black bastards to join the other innuendos concerning Clay’s personal character. Jackson might or might not get involved in that—always hard to know, with that man—but Crawford certainly would. Henry Clay had been using bare knuckle tactics in his campaign for the presidency, just as he had in all his previous campaigns, and at least some of his opponents would gladly respond in kind.

    Well, not “bare knuckle.” Never that. Clay’s fists were always gloved, and in very fine gloves at that. But he never hesitated to use them, either.

 

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    As for the larger issue, slavery was simply a given. Half the nation depended on the institution, economically. So there was no possibility of uprooting it now, whether or not it should ever have been created in the first place. Both Clay and Thomas Jefferson would state, quite bluntly, that if they could roll back time, they’d prefer it if slavery had never come into existence. But since they weren’t the Almighty, they couldn’t—and their own livelihoods depended on the institution.

    There it sat, thus, and would continue to sit. For a practical politician and businessman like Porter, simply another factor to be considered in the ongoing political struggles in the Republic. An immovable one, however, like the seasons. Why waste time over it, when nothing could be done anyway—and there were so many other more pressing issues that could be settled? One might as well demand legislation abolishing winter.

    “Any further news on the killing?” he asked.

    Clay smiled. “Indeed, there is. The culprit has been identified, almost for sure. A certain tanner named ‘John Brown,’ it seems, and several of his brothers.”

    “An Ohioan?”

    “Yes. Was, rather. Apparently he belongs to an extensive family of radical malcontents. A veritable tribe of abolitionists, descended from New England Puritan stock.”

    Porter made a face. “Yes, I know the type. Better than I wished I did, since we have our share in New York. But you say, he ‘was’ from Ohio?”

    “A town called Hudson. His father’s still there, according to the reports I’ve received. But John Brown himself, along with his wife and children and brothers, have recently moved to…”

    The smile expanded, and became a grin. Since Henry Clay had a very wide mouth to begin with, the expression looked quite shark-like. “To Arkansas, we’ve learned. He’s setting up a new tannery right along on the Mississippi, just north of the confluence with the Arkansas. A stretch of land, you may recall—good bottomland, quite well suited for cotton—that I argued at the time should not be included in the land ceded to the Cherokees in the Treaty of Oothcaloga.”

    “Yes, I remember. But Houston carried that, as well.”

    They were almost to the house. Porter stopped, and placed a restraining hand on Clay’s elbow.

    “Henry, please be careful here. Don’t forget that I was at the Chippewa, in command of the Third Brigade. Driscol was a sergeant then, in the Twenty-Second Regiment. One of the units that Scott sent directly up against the redcoats.”

    “Yes, yes,” Clay said impatiently. “I recall the accounts of his exploits, after the Capitol affair. ‘Lost an arm’ for the nation, yack yack, ‘immediately raced to capital upon hearing news of the invasion, despite his grave injury,’ yack yack, the newspapers were full of it.”

    “I saw it unfold, Henry. With my own eyes. They never so much as flinched. Not even in the face of volleys from British regulars, on an open battlefield. Whereas…” Honesty was needed here. “I couldn’t keep my own men from panicking, even with woods for a cover.”

    “Those were white soldiers.”

    “They weren’t white at the Mississippi,” Porter replied forcefully. “Black as night, all of them—except Driscol himself. And they did the same again. Henry, you must take this man seriously.” He waved a hand at the house. “No pack of border adventurers is going to succeed, where professional soldiers like Riall and Pakenham failed.”

    Clay had been frowning, as he usually did when someone raised objections to his plans. But, hearing the last, the frown vanished. In fact, he laughed aloud.

    “Oh, for the love of—”

    He shook his head. “This is a misunderstanding between us. Did you think I believe Crittenden’s expedition would succeed?”

    Clay glanced at the house. Gauging the distance, Porter thought, to make sure that he wouldn’t be heard by anyone there. “Speaking of whom, they may have arrived already. Let me do all the talking. But, quickly: I have no intention—never did—of being attached to this except from a distance. Nor do I expect—never did—that Crittenden would win his prize. If he does, splendid. As one of the quiet backers, I shall get credit for it soon enough. Once a feat like that is accomplished, as you well know, all secrets get tossed to the wind.”

    Porter stared at him. “And if he fails? Which he almost certainly will.”

    Clay shrugged, in that incredibly graceful way he did all gestures. “Even better. Don’t you see? It’ll be a cause, Peter. ‘Vengeance for… whatever the name of whatever wretched little town or bayou Long gets hammered at.’ A drumbeat in the newspapers, which will provide a rhythm for my march into the President’s House.”

    Porter took a long, slow, deep breath. “You’re gambling again, Henry. Can’t you ever just take straight odds?”

    It was the wrong thing to say, and Porter knew it immediately. Clay prided himself on his skill at cards. As well he might, true enough—but he kept thinking politics was a card game. And he could be more reckless in politics than he was at cards, because the odds were harder to gauge.

    Clay grew a little stiff. “I’ll want you to continue your efforts in New York, be assured. If you can make an arrangement with Van Buren, that would be splendid. I’ll need either New York or Pennsylvania, and preferably both. But please do not presume to instruct me on how to win over the west. I know these people, Peter. I’ve lived here all my life. They’re besotted with martial heroics. How else explain Jackson’s popularity—when the man has no conceivable qualifications for high office beyond those of a military chieftain?”

    The door opened and Lucretia Clay emerged. “Your visitors are here, Henry. Been waiting for most of an hour.”

    “Yes, darling. We’ll be right there.” Clay took Porter by the arm, this time. “Come, Peter. Just let me handle it.”

 

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September 3, 1824

    “It failed only this,” John Quincy Adams said softly, staring out the window of his office in the State Department. He was talking to himself, since his aide had left the room as soon as he delivered the latest report from England.

    Too quickly, as it turned out, although the man was simply being courteous. Adams turned from the window and went to the door. Opening it and leaning out, he called for the same aide.

    “Yes, Mr. Secretary?”

    “I need to see the President. See to making an appointment, if you would.”

    The man was back within ten minutes. “He says he can see you now, sir. Since it’s that pressing.”

    Adams started to snap a response to the effect that he’d never said anything to the aide about the matter being “pressing.” In fact, it wasn’t, precisely.

    But he held the reproof in check. Simply the fact that he’d felt something was important enough to ask for a special meeting with the chief executive, he realized, was enough for Monroe to label it as urgent. There was something of a compliment there, actually.

 

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    James Monroe was an imperturbable man, as a rule. So, there was no expression on his face when he finished reading the relevant portion of the ambassador’s report. That didn’t take long, since Ambassador Rush’s prose tended to run to the terse side.

    The president laid the report on his desk. “I think we should ask Winfield to join us, if you don’t mind.”

    “Of course, Mr. President.” Adams rose from his chair. “I’ll summon a messenger.”

    Since the War Department was no farther away than the State Department, General Scott arrived within ten minutes. It took him considerably less time than that to read the report.

    Having done so, he sighed. “Ross, no less. And if Rush’s report is accurate, he’s said to have packed his uniform in the trunk.” He glanced back down at the report. “His ship should be arriving in New Orleans within a fortnight. Not time enough for us to get anyone down there with a warning.”

    “A warning of what, Winfield?” demanded Adams. “That a private citizen of Great Britain—a nation with whom we are no longer at war, I remind you; indeed, are enjoying relatively good terms with these days—has decided to pay a personal visit to our shores. Even if we could get a warning down there in time, what good would it do? We could hardly have the man arrested, after all.”

    The general’s lips quirked, as he glanced around the president’s office. “We are talking about the same ‘private citizen’ whose troops once burned this very residence, as I recall.”

    Monroe’s smile was broader, but just as crooked. “Indeed. But that was then—ancient history, almost—and this is now. The real question is…”

    Scott nodded. “Yes, Mr. President, I understand. The real question is whether Robert Ross is in fact simply a private citizen—or whether he’s acting on behalf of the British government. Informally, if not formally.”

    “We have been expecting such a move on their part,” Monroe pointed out. “Actually, I’m surprised they haven’t done it sooner. It’s perfectly logical for Britain to consider an alliance with the Confederacy.”

    “They probably would have,” Adams said, “except Canning is waiting to see what our response will be to his proposal to form a common bloc against the continental powers over the issues in South America. Keeping France from getting a toehold in the New World again is far more important to Britain than whatever gains they could make against us by forming an alliance with the Arkansas Confederacy. Besides…”

    He pondered for a moment, while the president and the general waited patiently. Like most educated men in America, they considered John Quincy Adams the nation’s foremost analyst of international affairs.

    “Here’s what I think, Mr. President,” he said at length. “Nothing I haven’t told you before, of course. I believe the long era of sharp antagonism between the United States and Great Britain has come to an end. Henceforth—oh, yes, there’ll be squabbles here and there—I don’t foresee any major tensions. In fact, I expect we’ll see the emergence of what amounts to an tacit alliance with Britain.”

    Monroe glanced at Scott. Technically, the general had no business sitting in on a discussion of the nation’s foreign affairs. But, under the circumstances, Monroe apparently felt the same as Adams. Why not? Scott was astute himself, and could be trusted to keep his mouth shut.

    “Continue, John. Though I can’t resist the temptation here to point out that your analysis seems a bit odd—given that you’ve been the member of the Cabinet who’s argued most vehemently against accepting Britain’s latest proposal.”

    “That’s matching teapots against camels, Mr. President. My objection isn’t to the substance of Canning’s proposal, it’s simply to its form. The Foreign Secretary wants Britain and the United States to issue a joint statement, and I don’t. I’d far rather—as you know—see us take an independent stance against continental ambitions in Latin America, than come in as—”

    “’A cockboat in the wake of the British man-of-war,’” the president concluded for him. “Yes, I know, John. And I’ll agree it’s a very nice turn of phrase. But, as I said, please continue.”

    Adams shrugged. “If I’m right—and I am—then I think the conclusion follows directly, with regard to the matter at hand. Whatever purpose Robert Ross has in coming to America, he is not acting—not in any way—on behalf of the British government.”

    Monroe gazed at him levelly. “Would you be willing to state as much, in a private letter to Senator Jackson? I’d just as soon avoid an explosion there. Given his attitudes toward Britain—added to the tensions that already exist with Arkansas—any hint that a British officer is meddling in American affairs will be like waving a red flag in front of a bull. But he’s likely to listen to you, John.”

    Adams caught the grimace that came briefly to Scott’s face. The general, quite obviously, felt that catering to Jackson was questionable, given that the man had no real business being involved in the first place. He was a senator, now, no longer active in the military and not a part of the administration.

    But however good a general he might be, Scott’s grasp of politics left much to be desired. As witness the very public brawl he’d gotten into with Jackson himself, a few years back, that could have easily been avoided just by the use of some reasonable amount of tact. So Adams ignored the expression.

 

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    “Yes, certainly.” He smiled crookedly himself. “Mind, it’ll be a bit difficult to phrase it properly. A good part of the reason I’m certain Ross isn’t acting for Canning is because he’s been so closely tied to the British anti-slavery movement these past years. Hardly the man a Tory government would choose as a go-between—and hardly something I want to dwell on in a letter to one of Tennessee’s major slave-owners.”

    Monroe actually laughed. “Yes, I’d say! One of Britain’s most notorious abolitionists come to pay a visit to the man who is quite possibly the most notorious abolitionist in the whole world. Certainly in North America. There’s as much in that to infuriate Old Hickory as in the thought of an actual British agent.”

    To Adams’ surprise, Scott shook his head. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Mr. President. They’re all soldiers, don’t forget, and soldiers tend to treasure two things above all. Gallantry, and their own reputations.”

    Monroe cocked an eyebrow at him. “The gallantry I understand. I was once a soldier myself. But I’m not following you on the rest. The part about reputations, I mean.”

    “Have you—either one of you—read Ross’ account of the Gulf campaign?”

    Monroe and Adams looked at each other. Then, simultaneously, shook their heads.

    “Well, I have—and you can be sure and certain that Andrew Jackson has read it also. It was published quite extensively. Very popular in Britain at the time—and any number of copies were purchased here in America.”

    Adams frowned. “I’m still not following you, Winfield. I’ve never read the thing, but I understood it was a defense of Pakenham’s conduct in the—ah. I see. Yes, of course.”

    Monroe was frowning now, looking back and forth between the other two men in his office. “Will someone please explain… Ah. Yes, of course. No way to defend Pakenham, is there, except to speak well of Jackson?”

    “Exceedingly well, Mr. President,” Scott said. “I wouldn’t go so far as to state that Ross use a ladle to pour praise over Jackson. But he certainly used a very large spoon. That’s something Jackson will appreciate—just as he appreciates the martial accomplishments of Patrick Driscol. Meaning that you might have three men coming to a clash of arms, but all of them respect—even admire—each other. That makes quite a difference, emotionally, for men who think like soldiers. Which they all do.”

    Monroe sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Well, that’s something of a relief. The last thing we need is another eruption from Andy Jackson. So let’s get down to it then. Why is Robert Ross coming to America?” He glanced down at the ambassador’s report. “Quite clearly, in response to an invitation from Driscol.”

    By now, Adams thought he saw it clear. “The simplest of all reasons. Driscol expects a war—half-expects it, at least—and he wants expert military counsel. More counsel, I should say. I’m remembering now that Winfield suggested in this very room, just months ago, that the fortifications in Arkansas were too sophisticated for Driscol to have developed all on his own.”

    Monroe looked at Scott. The general nodded. “I’d have to agree, Mr. President.”

    The President was now complete erect in his chair, his fingers laced together in front of him on the desk. “Very well, then. What does either of you suggest we might do?”

    “Nothing, Mr. President,” came Adams’ immediate response. “Other than the letter I’ll write Jackson, I propose we do nothing at all, since I can’t see anything we could do that wouldn’t make everything worse. We’ve already—several years ago—put a stop to any government funding for those adventurers in Louisiana. So we have no financial leverage to bring to bear. What’s left is direct military action. But against who? We have no legitimate quarrel with the Confederacy. Not one, at any rate, that would be accepted by any other nation as a casus belli. That means all we could do would be to use troops or the threat of troops in Louisiana, to prevent a freebooting expedition by the likes of Crittenden. Which would stir up a hornet’s nest. Besides, you can’t stop such expeditions, anyway, if they have any serious local backing. We’ve never been able to in the past, why should we succeed now?”

    Scott hesitated, for a few seconds. “I’d have to agree, Mr. President—although I feel the need to point out that if an attempt is made against Arkansas by private adventurers, it’s likely to result in a catastrophe for them.”

    “They wouldn’t be entering the fortified mountainous areas,” the president pointed out. “What they’d want is simply the river plain and its broad bottomlands.”

    The general spread his hands. “Yes, sir, I know. But if they think Driscol won’t come down to get them, they’d be badly mistaken. He will—and he’ll smash them.”

    “You’re sure of that?”

    “Oh, yes. Both of the first, and the last. And Driscol won’t do it piecemeal, the way Perez drove Long’s expedition out of Texas. He’ll maneuver them into a battle and hammer them flat.”

    Monroe nodded, and looked at the window. “Which political elements here would use for a rallying cry.”

    “Clay, to give them a name,” stated Adams.

    “Yes, most likely.” After a moment, Monroe said: “General, if you’d be so—”

    “Of course, sir,” said Scott, rising from his chair and heading for the door. “If you need me any further, I’ll be in the War Department.”

    After he was gone, Monroe’s eyes came away from the window and looked at Adams. “I’ll leave the decision to you, John. I’ve not much more than a year left in office. Whatever does or doesn’t happen in Arkansas between now and then won’t be something whose consequences I’ll have to deal with. You, on the other hand, might. Are you so sure of this?”

    “Yes, Mr. President, I’m quite sure.” It was Adams’ turn to hesitate. “Should it come to pass that the Republic calls on my services—I’ve had to consider that possibility, of late—then it’s necessary for me to think in the long run. The situation with Arkansas will continue to fester, no matter what. Sooner or later, that boil will have to be lanced—but it’s a mistake to lance a boil too soon, or it simply returns.”

    “Clay won’t ‘lance’ it, if he’s elected President,” Monroe said bluntly. “He’ll scrape it.”

    “Well. He’ll try. But I am not Henry Clay.” Stiffly: “I refuse to adopt another man’s methods—methods I consider base, sir, to speak bluntly—simply in order to put myself in his place. Where’s any purpose in that?”

    Monroe unlaced his hands, and leaned back in the chair. “I understand. Nothing it is, then. We’ll just let it keep unfolding.”