1824: The Arkansas War (18 page)

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.”

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

He hadn’t expected 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 us 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 midtwenties, seemed vastly more self-assured than the very young and uncertain sergeant he could remember from nine 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 underrated 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 nondescript. 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, and 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 he was in no mood to have the settlement upended 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 getup 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’s 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 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, mementos, 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.

Washington, D.C.

S
EPTEMBER 30, 1824

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 Houston 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.”