by Eric Flint
The president laid the report on his desk. “I think we should ask Winfield to join us, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, Mr. President.” Adams rose from his chair. “I’ll summon a messenger.”
Since the War Department was no farther away than the State Department, General Scott arrived within ten minutes. It took him considerably less time than that to read the report.
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
SEPTEMBER 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, an
d they could find an offense most anywhere.
Blue Spring Farm, Kentucky
SEPTEMBER 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.
