1824: The Arkansas War (25 page)

The fort itself was quite impressive: well designed and sturdily constructed, especially by the standards of the frontier. Taylor didn’t envy Crittenden at all, trying to take it.

In fact, he very much doubted that he could. Even though, by now, Crittenden’s army must have swelled to something like fifteen hundred men. He’d lost some through the inevitable desertion that always plagued such jury-rigged military forces as little bands of men peeled away after finding some loot. But he’d gained more than he’d lost, since his initial force of roughly a thousand men coming up from Alexandria had been augmented by adventurers coming down the Mississippi from Missouri and the other border states.

True enough, Crittenden’s army greatly outnumbered the garrison at Arkansas Post, which didn’t have more than a hundred and fifty men. All other things being equal, a ten-to-one numerical superiority would normally be quite sufficient to overrun even a well-designed fort.

But all other things were very far from equal. Crittenden’s force was more in the way of a mob or a gang of outright criminals than what any sane man—certainly a professional officer—would call an army. And while Taylor was sure that most of the fort’s garrison were green troops, a sufficient number of them were veterans of the Iron Battalion to serve as a spine and a stiffener.

Not that much stiffening would be needed, anyway. All but perhaps a dozen of the soldiers in Arkansas Post were black. Surrender, for them, meant a life of slavery. And, if anything, the fate of the white soldiers would most likely be worse. Under these circumstances, the term “nigger-lover,” for such men as filled the inchoate ranks of Crittenden’s army, amounted to a death sentence. Especially after the blood they’d spill, getting into the fort.

They had women to defend, too, at least fifty of them. And children. The women would suffer worse than their menfolk if Crittenden’s men made it over the wall. The youngest of the children, also, since Crittenden’s men wouldn’t want the burden of carrying toddlers all the way back to New Orleans. Just bash in their little skulls with a musket butt while waiting a turn to rape their mothers and sisters.

But he didn’t think it would come to that. In fact, the more he wandered through the Post and studied the soldiers in their green uniforms, the more certain he became that it wouldn’t. Those might be green troops, mostly, but they’d clearly had considerable training. They were tense, yes, but it was more the tension of a racehorse before the gun went off than the tension of men expecting calamity.

In fact, he was pretty sure that most of them were downright eager to see the sun come up.

He laughed, then, standing in the middle of an alien army.

So was he, when you got right down to it. Lieutenant Colonel Zachary Taylor wasn’t certain of many things in life. But he surely and purely loathed the sort of men who were gathered across the river. Come morning, let the bastards bleed. And bleed and bleed and bleed, until the river ran red and the dirt was crimson mud and the stink of their emptied bowels drew every crow and beetle in Creation.

The Arkansas River, five miles west of Arkansas Post

O
CTOBER 6, 1824

Captain McParland and the two corporals found the Laird’s army at half past two o’clock in the morning.

It wasn’t hard. The whole river seemed covered with boats. From what Anthony could tell, by the light of the quarter moon, Driscol had commandeered every single rivercraft in or around New Antrim, from the steamboat
Hercules
—the newest of Shreve’s boats, and the pride of his company’s fleet—all the way down to rowboats and fishing skiffs.

By the time they arrived, it looked as if a good half of the Arkansas Army had already debarked onto the southern shore of the river. Which was, unfortunately, the opposite bank from the one they were on.

That proved to be a minor problem, however. Driscol had sent several keelboats to patrol the north bank of the Arkansas, and McParland had Corporal Parker go down to summon them.

The device having worked once, Sheff saw no reason not to do it again. He had just finished the fourth verse—

Well the pony jumped, he start, he pitch

He threw my master in the ditch

He died and the jury wondered why

The verdict was the blue-tail fly

—when the picket in the nearest boat called out: “Who’s there? Name yourself!”

Parker stepped out into plain view from behind a gum tree at the edge of the river. “It’s Corporal Parker. With the Third Regiment.”

“That you, Sheff? You just in time!”

Easy as that.

After Captain McParland finished his report, standing on the main deck of the
Hercules,
Patrick Driscol spent perhaps half a minute examining the steamboat. Then, cocked his head at the two men standing nearby in civilian clothing.

One was white, one was black—but their garments were both expensive, and equally so.

“It’s mostly your money, gentlemen,” Driscol said. “So I suppose I should ask permission. Mind you, I make no guarantees I’ll accept the answer.”

The white man started to glare at him but wound up just rolling his eyes. “The day I agreed to be your partner…” Henry Shreve sighed. “Fine, Patrick, fine. Let’s go ahead and wreck
another
of my boats. Why not?”

The black man with him, who looked to be about twice his size, shrugged massive shoulders. “The captain didn’t say they was wrecked, Henry. Just maybe banged up a little bit.”

“Crittenden’s got guns,” Shreve pointed out sourly. “The three-pounders, I’m not much worried about. But a six-pounder’s a different story altogether.” His eyes gave the boat the same inspection Driscol’s had done, except in far less time. “This boat was never designed to handle any such thing. A six-pounder’ll hammer it into splinters.”

“That’s assumin’ they fire it in time, and fire it straight,” said Crowell. Again, he shrugged those shoulders. The gesture bore a fair resemblance to a small landslide encased in fine linen. “From what the captain’s told us, I doubt me either one of those is gonna be true.”

His white partner gave him a none-too-friendly look. “And you’re willing to bet money on it. Just as much of it’s yours as mine, Henry.”

Crowell smiled. “I’ll do more than bet money. I’ll bet my life.” He pointed toward the bow. “We got four cannons of our own, and I still remember how to serve on a gun crew. I did it before, on the Mississippi. I plan on doin’ it again.”

He turned the smile onto Driscol. “Assuming, of course, our fine general will allow me to resume the colors.” He stuck out a huge finger and wagged it under Driscol’s nose. “Just for a day, y’understand? We ain’t got no conscription in Arkansas, Patrick, even though I know your black Napoleonic soul’s lusting for it, so don’t be gettin’ any crazy ideas!”

Driscol gave him a thin smile in return. “Leave it to a banker—black one worse than a white one—to parse the difference between conscripting a man with an honest press gang and doing it by squeezing his empty wallet. But I’ll not argue the point again, tonight. Sure, Henry. Consider yourself reenlisted—very temporarily—in the Iron Battalion.”

Shreve threw up his hands. “Oh, fine, then! I’ll pilot the blasted thing. What I get for going into business with a curree and an Irishman. Especially the crazy Irishman.”

When he brought his hands down, though, Anthony thought he might be detecting a little gleam in the shipbuilder’s eyes. There had to be something of a professional interest there, he figured. Shreve really prided himself on his boats. If one of them could…

“But we’re not doing it in daylight!” Shreve continued. “No blasted way!” He emulated his black partner’s finger-wagging in the face of the general. “We do this, we’re going past Crittenden before dawn—or we don’t do it at all.”

“Weren’t you the one pissing and moaning all the way down here about the frightful risks of navigating an uncharted river by the light of a pitiful quarter moon?” Driscol asked mildly. “Let’s compromise, Henry. I want the gun crews to be able to see what they’re doing, even if the pilot’s working by guess and memory. We’ll steam past Crittenden just at sunup.”

Shreve rolled his eyes again. “Don’t remind me. I like to have lost five years of my life this night. I say we’re still lucky the whole blasted flotilla didn’t wind up stranded and snagged, instead of just two of the boats.”

“Which we got off the sandbars right easily,” Crowell pointed out, his tone as mild as Driscol’s. “In less than five minutes each. Come on, Henry. By now you know this river about as well as you do the back of your hand.”

Since that also struck to Shreve’s pride, he didn’t say anything. From what Anthony could tell, in the poor lighting provided by the lamps on deck, the disgruntled expression still on his face was more a matter of stubbornness than anything really heartfelt.

“And what’s this ‘we’ business?” Shreve asked sourly. “If you’re planning to come along, Patrick, I’m backing out right now. No way I’m letting a mad Irishman—”

“Oh, leave off. Of course I’m not coming. I’ve got an army to command.” He turned toward Anthony. “Captain McParland here will lead the expedition. He knows exactly where Ball can be found.”

To Anthony, directly: “Tell Charles I want him to stay there. And be ready for Crittenden’s men—a lot of them—to be coming down that river sometime around late afternoon. Rowing like their lives depended on it, which they will be.”

“Yes, sir. And what—”

“Don’t ask silly questions. Charles knows what to do. You already saw him do it. Crittenden and his men are nothing but pirates and brigands. The penalty for piracy is death by hanging. I’m not fussy, though, so if it works better to just shoot them down like mad dogs, have at it. I don’t care. So long as not one man from that crowd ever makes it back alive to Alexandria.”

He gave his shoulders a little shake, like a dog shedding water. “Well…all right. I’ll be reasonable. Some of them are bound to escape. Might even be to the best, letting them spread terror through their circles. But if I find out it’s more than a handful, I shall not be a happy man.”

He smiled then, more thinly than ever. “Not that you need to give Charles any such explanation. I’d not insult him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Be at it, then. Get the guns ready to rake Crittenden as you steam past. Don’t linger, though—and don’t aim for his army. Wreck as many of his boats as you can. Remember that, Anthony. Shoot up the
boats.
You can leave the killing to me. Just make sure they’ve got as little to make an escape with as possible.”

“Yes, sir. Do you want me to take the corporals with me?”

Driscol frowned for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. You’ve no real need for them, not with gun crews from the battalion on the
Hercules.
They’re not really trained artillerymen anyway, being in Colonel Jones’s regiment. From your report, they’ve done very well for themselves. But with a battle coming on the morrow, it’d be best for them to be back in their ranks. I’ve got hopes for both of those youngsters, but they need real blooding on a battlefield. There’s never a substitute for that, in war.”

“Yes, sir.”