1824: The Arkansas War (17 page)

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 a 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 he 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.

“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 antislavery 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’s 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’s 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 used 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, 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 completely 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’s 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 of 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 more than a few months 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’s 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.”

CHAPTER 11

Alexandria, Louisiana

S
EPTEMBER 13, 1824

“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’s cynical equanimity 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 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’s 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.

Blue Spring Farm, Kentucky

S
EPTEMBER 15, 1824

“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 as from 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, Zack. 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 Baton Rouge, 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 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

S
EPTEMBER 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.