by Eric Flint
“One. Which, I will point out, is one more than I’ve ever turned over to slave-catchers from the United States.”
Sam snorted. “Why that one? Was he too feebleminded to make his way into those ‘secret’ settlements you maintain in the Ouachitas? And don’t bother claiming you don’t, Patrick. I know it, you know it, and for sure and certain every Cherokee knows it. Every Creek, too. For that matter, every slave-owner in the States.”
“The truth? He wanted to go back. Once he got here and discovered freedom meant harder work than what he had with the Cherokees. Either that or a stint in the army.”
Sam stared at him. Trying, for a moment, to think of any argument he hadn’t already used with Patrick.
He couldn’t think of a single one. On this subject, Patrick Driscol was the personal embodiment of the term intransigent.
So he fell back on the old staple. “This can’t go on forever, Patrick.”
“True enough. Either they break or I break. Guess which is more likely to happen.”
Sam’s temper was rising, now. “Patrick, without the Cherokees you don’t have your legal fig leaf! If they declare you an outlaw chiefdom—”
“Don’t be stupid. Without me, they don’t have anything. Not when the war comes.”
That stopped Sam short. Like smashing into a wall a man didn’t realize was there.
“Sweet Jesus,” he whispered. “That’s why the tanner’s there.”
“What are you talking about?”
Sam shoved the glass in front of him. “Pour me another. And stop playing the innocent. That tanner—John Brown’s his name, as if you didn’t know—that you and Henry set up down on the river. I wondered why you’d financed him, that far down from New Antrim. You want a war, blast your dark Irish soul—and he’s your trigger. Your bait, too.”
Driscol finished pouring the glass—just as full as the first—and then stoppered the bottle. “I will say all your drinking hasn’t scrambled your brains yet. Yes, that’s why we financed him to set up there. Mind you, it’s good country for a tanner. A lot of livestock down there on the plain.”
“He’s the man who did the killing on the Ohio, Patrick. By now, enough people figured out who it was, and the word’s spreading. You do know how much ruckus there’s been over that incident?”
He waved his hand. “Never mind. Stupid question. Of course you know. Although you might not be aware—yet—that the anti-Relief party introduced a resolution in the Kentucky legislature condemning the act and demanding that the culprit be brought to justice. Clay’s behind that, of course.”
Chester came into the saloon, then. Seeing that he was carrying a saddlebag, Sam waved him over. “Oh, and let me show you this, too.”
He rummaged in the bag for a moment and brought forth a folded-up newspaper. Then, half slammed it on the bar top and spread it open. “Lookee here.” His finger pointed to an article on the front page. “Why, I do declare. That looks like a speech by our favorite U.S. senator, the Honorable John C. Calhoun. Invoking the fugitive slave laws and demanding that the administration catch the culprit. And hang him.”
“Fat chance of that.”
“No chance at all, with Monroe in office. But Calhoun’ll take it to the Supreme Court if he can, just to prove a point.”
Sam refolded the newspaper and stuffed it back into the saddlebag. “You cold-blooded bastard. You deliberately set Brown up on the river—right smack in the territory that those adventurers down in Louisiana are hollering and whooping about ‘reclaiming for the rightful owners’—just to make sure they’d attack you.”
“Actually, I tried to get him to enlist in the army. He and his two brothers. Offered him a commission, even. But—”
The thin smile came and went, in a flicker. “Brown’s a most pious man. He told me he’d made a solemn vow as a youngster that he’d never join any army, on account of soldiers being such a blasphemous bunch. I couldn’t argue the point, of course. They are a blasphemous bunch. So I made him the second offer—but not without explaining to him the risk.”
“And?”
“And John Brown’s a man after my own heart. He has a right to practice his trade, doesn’t he? Yes, he does. And he’d be practicing it in territory legally ceded to the Confederacy in the Treaty, wouldn’t he? Yes, he would. So what does he care if some slavers damned in the eyes of the Lord claim that since it’s good bottomland they ought by rights to have it, and try to take it from him? At that point, he recited some verses from the Old Testament. By heart, mind you, he didn’t need to refer to the Book. Bloodcurdling stuff. Every other verb was ‘smote.’ ”
He lifted the bottle. “Another?”
Sam realized his glass was empty. “Yes—well, no. John and Ridge ought to be here any moment. Thanks to you, I’ll need a clear head. Which is the last thing I wanted, after this many days on the road.”
Patrick shrugged and set the bottle back down. “A clear head’s probably useless, Sam. Face it, lad. Not every dispute can be negotiated. Sometimes heads have to be broken. Yes, I set up John Brown on the Mississippi like so much bait, dangled in front of those brainless ruffians down there in Alexandria. They’ll be coming sooner or later, anyway, and I’d prefer to make it sooner. For no other reason than just to remind—”
He broke off, his eyes moving to the door. “Those two, among others.”
Sam swiveled his head. John Ross and Major Ridge had entered the saloon. To his considerable surprise, though, they had a third Cherokee with them. Chief Bowles, of all people.
Ross had entered in time to hear Patrick’s last sentence. “Remind us of what?” he asked, mildly.
“That the only thing that stands between you and another settler land grab are those negroes you keep wanting me to hand back over to you.”
“Not me,” said The Bowl immediately. He was smiling quite pleasantly. “You’re talking about these Cherokees in white men’s clothes.” He jerked his thumb at his two companions. “No runaway slaves from my clan. That’s because we don’t have any slaves in the first place. Well, not hardly.”
His English was fluent. That was perhaps not surprising, given that The Bowl’s physical appearance showed plenty of evidence of his Scot father even if his manner of dress was completely Indian. But Sam had grown up on the frontier and understood its complexities, and he’d known The Bowl for years. Bloodlines and attitudes were just as likely to veer apart as come together, among the Cherokees or any of the southern tribes. Where a mixed-blood like John Ross might incline strongly toward adopting American ways and customs, another one like Chief Bowles—or Duwali, to use his Cherokee name—was just as strongly inclined to maintain Indian traditions.
Then, to make things more complicated still, slavery got poured into the mix. Traditionalists like Chief Bowles’s people would capture black slaves, in the course of fighting with white settlers, and put them to work in captivity. But thereafter the old customs would prevail, just as they had for generations with captives from other Indian tribes. Within a few years, as a rule, a black slave had gained his or her freedom. Almost certainly, their children would. Often enough, by being adopted into the clan or marrying a Cherokee, or both. Quite unlike the status that black slaves had on plantations run by mixed-bloods who considered themselves “civilized” and had adopted white customs wholesale—which could be almost as bad as their status on white-owned plantations in Georgia or Alabama.
Major Ridge was scowling. John Ross just gave The Bowl a glance that was half amused and half exasperated.
Then he turned to Sam. “Brace yourself. It’s going to be a long afternoon.”
Indeed, it was. Sam didn’t dare take another drink, as much as he desperately wanted to.
That night, Tiana threw a ball. She’d started doing that eight months earlier, after one of the English ladies who’d emigrated to Arkansas for reasons that defied comprehension had offered to teach everyone the latest dances. The affairs had become very popular with New Antrim’s black
population—at least that part of it that might be considered “upper crust.”
But Sam knew that wasn’t the reason she’d done it on this occasion. Like her husband, if in a more subtle manner, Tiana was also making a point.
Looking out over the crowd packed into the hotel’s huge dining room, which doubled as a dance hall, Sam also realized that the point was only somewhat more subtle.
First, there were only five white people in the crowd.
Second, all five of them were wearing the uniforms of the Arkansas Chiefdom’s army. Two officers and three enlisted men.
That hardly made them stand out, however, because—third—at least half of the men in the crowd were wearing uniforms.
“Out of Ireland, by way of Sparta,” Sam grumbled.
“ ’Fraid I don’t catch that, Mr. Sam,” said Chester.
“Never mind. Get me a whiskey. No, two. Please.”
After Chester left for the packed bar over to the side, Sam spotted John Ross and Chief Bowles and went over to them.
John Ross understood it just as well, of course. The man was as smart as any on the continent.
Fortunately, he was also even tempered. When Sam came up he just smiled. “Patrick does love to rub salt into wounds, doesn’t he?”
“There’s no give in the man, that’s for sure. Where’s the Ridge?”
Ross shrugged. “He knew what this was about, too. And he thinks dancing’s silly. White men’s dancing, anyway. So he’s getting some sleep in his room.”
“It is silly,” chimed in The Bowl.
The worst of it was that they were all friends. Close ones, by now. Patrick also.
Eventually, John said: “And what can I say or do? Major Ridge is quietly furious, but he knows it just as well as I do. Arkansas is our shield.”
“That’s why you agreed to set it up,” Sam pointed out.
“Yes, I know. The most obvious ‘secret plan’ in the history of the world, probably. And like many such, it’s backfiring on us.”
The Bowl uttered a Cherokee curse word. Several, actually.
“It’s your own fault. All you rich Cherokees, insisting on keeping your slaves. Set them free, why don’t you? That’ll solve the problem right then and there.”
There was no answer to that, of course. Other than the most obvious one of all: because they’re what make us rich to begin with. The same reason Thomas Jefferson had beaten his breast over slavery—and never freed his slaves.
“It’ll wreck you,” The Bowl predicted.
Finally, John Ross’s mild temper frayed a little. “ ‘Us,’ don’t you mean?”
The Bowl shook his head. “No, John. I mean you.”
And so another little mystery was solved. Sam had wondered why The Bowl had come all the way to New Antrim.
Now he knew, and, knowing, he silently cursed Patrick Driscol again. The man’s unyielding determination to fight it all out was driving everything forward. Sensible or not—but there was a terrible logic to it. He’d splinter his allies and his enemies both, the way a rock on a beach divides the waves. Forcing everyone to meet him on his own field because he would not move at all.
His eyes met The Bowl’s. The Cherokee chief nodded. “Way it is, Sam. No offense, but I’m not relying on any more white men.” He tipped his head toward the dancers. “If there’s a war, I’m with them. So are a lot of the other traditionalist chiefs. John here and the Ridge and all those other fancy folk can do whatever they want.”
Chester returned, carrying two glasses. Sam took one of them and drained it immediately.
“Who do you want me to give the other glass to, Mr. Sam?”
“Don’t give me any sass. You’re a slave, remember?”
Almost grinning, Chester handed over the second glass. “Best not to beat me, though, Massa. Here in Arkansas, I can always run away.”
Out of the corner of his eye, as he started on the second glass of whiskey, Sam could see John Ross’s jaws tighten a little. But, for the first time in hours, Sam found himself amused.
“You! Up there in the Ouachitas!”
“It ain’t likely,” Chester agreed. “I gotten soft, these years with you. Used to the finer things in life.”
So, Sam was able to end the evening relaxed as well as amused. There was always that, after all. Everything weaving in and out and around, like a ball of string too tangled to unravel any longer. Black men—Indians, too—learning how to fight and maneuver skillfully against white men, sure enough. But they couldn’t do it without coming to resemble their foes. Even The Bowl and his people knew it, attached as they were to the traditional ways of the Cherokee.
It was a cheery thought. Sam didn’t have any use for simplicity. The most treacherous ground in Creation, that was. Simple meant smooth, and smooth meant slick, and slick meant many a fall.
He even danced himself, at the end.
Not well, no, even though he was a very good dancer. Not after that much whiskey. But he didn’t fall down, either.
The next morning, over breakfast, Patrick finally asked Sam the question.
“So. How was the general?”
Carefully, Sam laid down his spoon. Not because the spoon was fragile, or even expensive, but simply because he was doing everything rather carefully this morning. His head hurt.
“Gracious. Very gracious.”
“No rancor there?”
Sam managed a careful smile. “No, not any at all. That I could detect, anyway. There is that one advantage to Andy’s…ah, what to call it? Vigorous way of looking at things, maybe.”
“Meaning Andy Jackson is more self-righteous than an eagle,” said Tiana. “If women didn’t exist, you’d have to invent us. Just to keep you from needing to invent a new language every ten years, the way you maim and mutilate the ones you got.”
“Well. Yeah. The point being that if he wanted to get really mad at me for messing up his presidential prospects, he’d have to admit that speech he gave after Algiers was a bad mistake. Which he’s no more likely to admit—not to himself, not to anybody—than the sun is to start rising in the west.”
“But?” asked Patrick. “There’s a ‘but’ somewhere in there, Sam. I can smell it.”
Sam nodded. Carefully. “But, the last day—friendly-like, but also stiff and proper—he said that he felt that vow he’d made to me after the Horseshoe had been kept. So that shield is gone, Patrick.”
Tiana took a deep breath. Patrick just shrugged. “It lasted ten years. That was enough. And he’s right, anyway. He did keep it, as long as you could ask any honorable man to keep so vague and open-ended a promise.”
Sam studied him for a moment. Then, a bit exasperated: “Patrick, if he ever comes at you, he’ll crush you.”
Andy Jackson might be more self-righteous than an eagle, but Patrick Driscol made any mule look wishy-washy. So Sam was expecting a stubborn denial. The answer he got surprised him.
“Oh, yes, I imagine so,” Patrick said evenly. “But he won’t.”
The exasperation swelled. “Marie Laveau’s been giving you lessons in fortune-telling, then? Patrick, you have no idea what Andy Jackson will do, if he takes a mind to it! He’s just as riled over the runaway slave question as any slave-owner in the United States. And he’s one of the biggest. Just had another one run away from the Hermitage a month before I arrived. Reported to have been heading here, naturally.”
“No, I can’t predict what he will do. But I can predict how he would do it.”
Sam cocked his head, skeptically, then immediately regretted it. All the pain seemed to pour over to somewhere around his left ear, like water pouring off a ship’s deck in a storm.
“And…that…means?” he said, through gritted teeth.
“It means he’s very smart, Sam. He was a smart general, and he’s a smart politician. I’ve done everything I could to make it plain as day to Andy Jackson that if he leads an army here, I’ll bleed it and gut it. Half gut it, anyway. Yes, he’d probably win. But is it
worth the cost? To his reputation, if nothing else?”
For the first time that morning, Patrick smiled. “He wants to be the next president of the United States, Sam. Failing that, the next. And he doesn’t want the office simply out of ambition, the way Clay does, either. He wants it because there are things Andy Jackson believes in with a passion. You follow me so far?”
“An idiot can follow you so far.” That came out more testily than it should have, being just the pain talking. Sam was actually getting intrigued. He’d half forgotten how shrewd a sergeant Driscol had been. Winfield Scott had once told him that Driscol was the best noncommissioned officer he’d ever met in his life—and when Sam passed the remark over to Robert Ross, the British major general had agreed.
They were much alike, in so many ways, Patrick Driscol and Andy Jackson. Scots-Irish to the core. Both crude and rough on the outside, and neither with much in the way of a formal education. And both with such sharp and pronounced personal characteristics that an unobservant man could easily miss the keen brains that lay beneath those thick skulls.
“Keep going,” he said.
“Think it through, Sam. Yes, I know the general’s furious about the runaway slaves. But was it runaway slaves who stripped thousands of poor white men of their belongings, after the Panic? Or was it the Bank of the United States, and their favored lawyer at the time, Henry Clay? Is it runaway slaves, on their way to Arkansas, who demand the retention of debt imprisonment? Or is it the men who are backing Clay and Crawford? Did any runaway slave ever accuse the general and Mrs. Jackson of being adulterers and bigamists? Or was that Henry Clay’s creatures?”
Sam grimaced. Even Jackson’s friends would admit—if not to his face—that there was indeed some murkiness surrounding his marriage. But who could possibly care? Rachel Jackson’s first husband, Lewis Robards, had been a notorious brute and a man who copulated openly with his slave women. No one, not even Jackson’s enemies, blamed Rachel for abandoning him. She and Jackson hadn’t married until they’d received word from Virginia that Robards had divorced her. The fact that the divorce hadn’t been finalized didn’t reach them until later. For any honest man with no ax to grind, the whole issue was a legal technicality, and terms like “adultery” and “bigamy” were preposterous.
