1824: The Arkansas War: Chapter Twenty One

Arkansas Post
October 9, 1824

    “I’ll thank you again, General Driscol, for the use of the Comet.”

    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 of 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 one 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 mementoes.

    “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 Col. 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 lynchpin 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’ 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 snuff box 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 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, unsane 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 that 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 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.”