by Eric Flint
“When will you return, Robert?”
Ross shrugged. “Hard to say. Not for a year, certainly. Probably two. Possibly three.”
Clarkson’s gaze was direct, as always. Intense blue eyes looked out from under a veritable shock of hair, much of which was still the bright red of his youth.
Looked down, rather. They were standing together in Clarkson’s cluttered office, and Clarkson was a very tall man.
“And maybe never,” he stated.
“Oh, that’s nonsense, Thomas. I can’t deny I’m looking forward to seeing America again. But you may rest certain that I have no intention of living there.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. You may not live there, but you could easily die there.”
Ross made a little grimace, indicating skepticism. “You can’t ever rule that out, of course. But the risk of disease is not as bad as people think. Our army suffered terribly, true enough; those were the worst conditions imaginable.”
“That’s not what I meant, Robert,” Clarkson repeated. “And you know it.”
Ross said nothing, for there was nothing to say. After a moment, Clarkson slouched into his chair. “Well, so be it. We’ll miss you greatly, Robert. Having a military figure of your prominence allied with us has been a tremendous boon to our cause these past years.”
“You think I shouldn’t go, then?”
Clarkson shrugged. “I didn’t say that. Nor do I even think it.” He was silent for a much longer moment, his elbow perched on the armrest and his chin propped on a fist. Now, however, he bestowed that startlingly direct gaze on a stack of shelves covered with books and papers.
Finally, very quietly, he said: “Whatever we do here in England—even in our Caribbean possessions—is really a sideshow. In the end, the issue will be decided in America. For the first time, over there in Arkansas, men are finally beginning to test all the premises upon which all sides in this dispute rest their case. If that test succeeds…”
He smiled then, for the first time since Robert had given him the news. “A soldier’s business, that, in the end. Which I am certainly not. Whether you have God’s blessing, I couldn’t begin to fathom. But go with my own, Robert Ross. Go with my own.”
Wilberforce disapproved. No surprise there, either. Leaving aside the issue of slavery, and despite his notoriety as the leader of the antislavery movement in Parliament, William Wilberforce was a profoundly conservative man. He was opposed to extending the suffrage to men who were not propertied, and he was opposed to tactics that relied upon mobilizing the masses instead of persuading the elite. He disapproved in particular of women who chafed against their proper place in society.
He disapproved strongly of the theater, too.
“Why, Robert? What can you possibly do in America—not even the United States, but that preposterous little nation called Arkansas—that you can’t do here? Think, man! Please put our cause above your own whimsy. You are the only significant officer in the movement. I can’t tell you how invaluable an asset that’s been to us in Parliament.”
So it went, for two hours.
Ross divided the rest of his time in London between lesser luminaries in the movement for which he had formed a personal attachment, and major luminaries in society as a whole for whom his attachments had grown very loose indeed.
Still. Protocol, as it were.
Wellington was gracious. No surprise there. He disapproved quite strongly of Robert’s attachment to the antislavery movement. But, in the duke’s case, that was simply due to his general conservatism. Wellington was no admirer of slavery.
Beyond that, the large and powerful Wellesley clan and its political allies had a debt to Robert Ross. The defeat of Wellington’s brother-in-law Pakenham at the Mississippi might have produced a corrosive political issue in the years after the war, with Wellington’s many enemies using the defeat as a stick against Wellington’s own military accomplishments. True, Pakenham’s valiant death in the final struggle against Napoleon had sapped most of that possibility. But the long and detailed analysis that Ross had published after the war concerning the campaign in the Gulf—which had been full of praise and admiration for Pakenham—had settled the question entirely.
Finally, there was politics, which was now Wellington’s field of combat.
“I’m afraid many of my fellow Tories—Whigs, too, never mind what they claim—are too influenced by their immediate commercial ties to the slave trade and the Caribbean plantations. There is every reason in the world for England to welcome the creation of another nation in North America, south of Canada, regardless of the color or creed of its inhabitants. Especially located where the Confederacy is, in the heart of the continent. If it survives, it would serve as a useful check on American ambitions. A natural ally for England.”
The duke gave Robert a skeptical glance. “Mind you, I question whether those niggers and wild Indians are up to the task.”
Robert smiled thinly. “As to the first, we could visit Thornton’s grave and ask his ghost. He’s buried not far from here.”
Wellington smiled back. Just as thinly, but it was a smile. Thornton had been one of England’s best regimental commanders. He’d died on the Mississippi, and his regiment had been shattered by the black soldiers of the Iron Battalion.
“A point,” the duke admitted. “Could the Americans field a force as good as Thornton’s 85th? Not likely. Not even close. But numbers do count, Robert; never forget that. There are now some ten million Americans, and how many people in the Confederacy? Two hundred thousand, all told? Such a disparity in numbers cannot be overcome simply by valor and skill at arms.”
They were standing in Wellington’s garden. Now that summer was here, and with Wellington’s small army of gardeners, it was a glorious place. Robert took a few seconds to admire the scenery before answering.
“Very true. But only true if those numbers can be mobilized. And as to that…”
He scrutinized a nearby hedge as if he were gauging the strength of an enemy line. “You might be surprised if you met some of the leaders of those ‘wild Indians.’ John Ross, in particular, is quite a diplomat. Was, even when I knew him as a very young man. And there are many Americans who would not support such a war, I think.”
The duke was too familiar with foreign affairs to be put off so easily. “Not in New England, certainly. But what difference does that make? Andrew Jackson would, from everything I know of the man. And it was he and his forces—quite good ones, as you explained yourself at the time—who defeated us in the Gulf. If he went against Arkansas, could they withstand him?”
Robert didn’t need to consider the question. He’d been considering it very carefully for some time now. “A full-fledged Andrew Jackson campaign, such as the one he mounted against us in the war? No, I don’t think they could. They’d put up a ferocious battle, but they’d lose in the end. Jackson could organize and lead a very large army of his frontiersmen. Large, at least, by the standards of North America. And he’s too capable, too determined—too relentless, most of all—for any nation with less than a quarter million inhabitants to withstand him. Not for more than a year or two, at any rate.”
He looked away from the hedge to the duke. “But would he do so in the first place? He’s not a savage, I assure you, despite some of the reports of him in the newspapers here. A very shrewd man, in fact, and with political ambitions of his own. So I think it would depend on how the war started, and over what issues, and based on whichever constellation of political alliances. Things which are far too complex to ascertain in advance, certainly from a distance.”
“But you are expecting a war?”
Robert shrugged. “Say rather that Patrick Driscol is expecting a war. For myself, I wouldn’t venture an opinion yet. As I said, it’s too soon and I’m too far away.”
The duke sniffed. “He’s a sergeant.”
Robert made no reply. Anything he said would simply stir up Wellington’s haughty nature, always
close to the surface. In point of fact, Robert knew, Patrick’s assessment was not even the crude strategic sense of a sergeant. It was something deeper and cruder still. The gut instinct of an Irish rebel that the Sassenach would someday be coming. Sassenach always came, until and unless they were beaten bloody, simply because they were Sassenach.
And, as he’d once told Robert, the color of their coats didn’t define “Sassenach” at all. That much of wisdom the refugee from the rebellion of 1798 had learned in the years that followed.
The rest of the afternoon went very pleasantly as they reminisced over old times. Two veteran soldiers, now grown rather distant, but once very close comrades-in-arms in the most desperate war in centuries.
The Duke of Clarence refused to see him at all. No surprise there, either, although it was quite rude. But the heir to the throne was one of slavery’s most public advocates.
Truth be told, Robert had requested the audience only to satisfy a mild urge to poke a stick in the crown’s underbelly. Mad King George III had been succeeded by a dissolute King George IV, who was now likely to be succeeded by a younger brother who was possibly more dissolute still.
Well, a day. He’d done his social duties. Now, there was a long voyage. And, at the end of it, a man waiting for him that Robert could not precisely call a friend, nor precisely call an enemy, nor precisely call much of anything.
Except, not dissolute. Never that.
CHAPTER 9
New Antrim, Arkansas
AUGUST 6, 1824
Sam loved coming to Arkansas. Whatever open hostility or veiled antagonism he ran into these days in the United States, he encountered none of it in New Antrim. His entrance into the town—city now, really—had turned into something of a triumphal procession, once news of his arrival started to spread.
Another window filled with women, waving at him. Just the latest of many in the second and third stories of the buildings that flanked New Antrim’s main street.
He waved back, grinning. True, all of them were black, and only one of them was young and pretty. But those days were behind him, anyway, and the broad smiles were enough to cheer the gloomiest curmudgeon in the world.
Chester was riding next to him, leading their remounts. “This too shall pass,” he murmured. “This too shall pass.”
Sam never stopped grinning, though. “I deeply regret having urged you to read the Romans. Besides, you’re supposed to be whispering it into my ear, riding behind me on a chariot.”
“We don’t got a chariot, Mr. Sam,” Chester pointed out reasonably. “Got four horses. And one of them’s a nag.”
“The one riding the horse next to me is the nag. Mary’s just a little worn out and tired, is all.”
“Shoulda left her with that tanner, back on the river.”
The last jest finally caused Sam’s grin to fade a little.
That tanner…
“What in God’s name is Patrick up to?” he muttered.
Loudly enough for Chester to hear, unfortunately. His response caused Sam’s grin to fade a little more.
“Stirring up trouble, what else?”
Patrick was there, along with Tiana, to greet Sam when he arrived at the hotel. Standing right on the porch of the Wolfe Tone, just like a proper laird surveying his domain.
And why not? His hotel was not only the biggest building in the city but the only one with a wraparound front porch. Almost the only one with any sort of porch at all, in fact. Sam loved the energy and vitality of New Antrim, but there was no getting around the fact that its architecture fell woefully short of the standards in any city in the United States.
Any big collection of barbarians in ancient Gaul, for that matter. He’d allow that it was probably superior to Hun encampments.
“We expected you weeks ago,” were the first words out of Patrick’s mouth, as soon as Sam dismounted.
“How I’ve missed that rasp of yours.” Sam handed the reins to Chester. “Tiana, it’s good to see you.”
Tiana just smiled. It was a more serene smile, these days, than the hoyden one Sam remembered from the girl she’d been. It made her beauty more striking than ever. As he always did, encountering Tiana again after a prolonged absence, he felt a twinge somewhere in his heart.
But that was just an old reflex, grown almost comfortable with the passage of time. And not much of one, in any event. Sam’s marriage to Maria Hester had eliminated most thoughts of other women.
Not all, of course. But most.
There came the rush of little feet from within the darkness of the hotel interior. A moment later, two boys emerged. One was six and a half years old; his brother, a year younger.
“Sam’s here! Sam’s here!” they announced to the world in unison before leaping off the porch and into his arms.
Laughing, Sam held them up. “You’re getting big. Both of you.”
“Sam’s here! Sam’s here!”
“Hush,” Tiana scolded. “You’ll wake your sister.”
To prove her point, an infant’s wail emerged from one of the windows on the second floor.
“Oh, blast,” said Tiana. She gathered her skirts and vanished back into the hotel.
Sam set the boys down. “Luckily for them—and the world—they look like Tiana, not you.” He gave Patrick a sly smile. “Might make a suspicious man wonder…”
Patrick’s returning smile was a thin sort of thing. But that was just the nature of the man. He was neither offended nor made anxious by the remark. Nor, from anything Sam knew, had he any reason to be.
“Stop playing the clown, would you?”
“Oh, fine. I can remember—I think—when you had a sense of humor, Patrick. The reason I’m weeks late is because there was another Chickasaw killing. I heard about it right after leaving the Hermitage. I needed to settle things down before it all spun out of control.”
“Who killed who?”
“Who killed how many, is more the question. And in what order. It started as a clan killing. Then—I never did figure out the wheres and wherebys—somehow three settlers got involved. Two of them wound up dead, along with two Chickasaws. One from each clan, to make things perfect. There were only three survivors. One white man and one each from both of the contending clans.”
Patrick’s blocky head made a little quiver. From another man, that might have been called a headshake. “So you had three completely different stories. How did our young Solomon settle it? And would you like some whiskey?”
“Yes. The whiskey first. The settlement was far too complicated to explain sober. It displeased everybody, of course, but since I confused them even more, it all worked out well enough.”
As they entered the hotel’s big lobby, Sam asked, “Why is Tiana wearing a fancy dress?”
Patrick was heading toward the saloon doors in the far wall. Over his shoulder, he said: “What do you think happens when you’re this late? John Ross and Major Ridge got tired of waiting for you in Fort of 98. So they came down to New Antrim. In fact, they’re already here in the hotel.”
Sam made a face. “Whiskey for sure, then. What is it this time?”
By now they were in the saloon. Patrick went behind the bar, hauled up a bottle, and started filling two small glasses. One, he filled to the top. The other, barely half. He handed the full one to Sam.
“The usual, most of it. Problems with the Osage. Problems with Cherokees who start quarrels with the Osage, as if there weren’t quarrels enough. Problems with Comanches, too, now.”
Sam scowled, as he picked up the glass. “Comanches? I’d hoped they’d avoid that. The Comanches are…” With his free hand, he gestured vaguely to the west.
“Not far enough west,” Patrick stated. He took a small sip from his glass. “Not far enough, with Creek and Cherokee clans spreading up the rivers the way they’ve been. Not with Comanches, for sure.”
He set the glass down with a little clink. “But the big problem is the runaway slave business.”
Sam drained h
alf the glass in one swallow. “Just what we needed. What happened this time? The usual?”
“No, worse. One of the chiefs decided I wasn’t serious about the rules against unauthorized slave-catching. Not applied to Cherokees. So he sent three men here, looking for one of his runaway slaves.”
Sam stared at him, the glass frozen on its way back to the bar top. “Patrick. You didn’t.”
Driscol’s square, harsh face looked like it was carved from stone. “Of course I did.” He jerked his blocky jaw slightly, indicating a nearby window. “Hung two of them in the street, where I always hang the ones from the U.S. Hung all three, actually, but the third one was already dead. Stupid bastard tried to fight James, if you can believe a Cherokee being that dumb.”
Tiana’s half brother James was something of a legend among the Cherokee, true enough. But Sam’s only wonder was that the other two hadn’t tried to fight him, rather than be captured. Driscol was a legend, too.
Now more than ever.
“Are you trying to tear everything apart?”
“Be damned to that,” Driscol rasped. “Nowhere in the Confederacy’s constitution does it say that Arkansas has fewer rights than any other chiefdom. The laws regarding slavery are set in the chiefdoms, each to its own. Says so in Article VI, Clause Three. I’m the elected chief, and those are my rules. Everybody knows it. There’s no slavery in Arkansas, and the only legal slave-catching is done by the legal authorities of the chiefdom.”
He said the whole thing with a straight face, too.
“You’re a troll,” Sam muttered. He drained the rest of the glass. “And exactly how many escaped slaves have your ‘legal authorities’ returned to the Cherokees over the past two years?”
