1824: The Arkansas War (55 page)

Not much of a possibility, granted. Sam couldn’t see enough of the fighting that was still raging around Arkansas Post to get a clear sense of the battle’s progress. But for his purposes, all that mattered was the sound of it. There was no way, in the face of such ferocious and continuing gunfire, that Harrison was going to make the mistake of dividing his forces again.

Too bad for the Georgians. They were on their own. Sam had never met William Henry Harrison, but if the professional soldier from Ohio had a different attitude toward militias than almost any other professional officer Sam had ever met, he was certainly hiding it well that day.

So, Sam Houston didn’t kill a single Georgian himself. But he watched with pitiless eyes. So far as he was concerned, each and every one of those men shot or bayoneted or clubbed to death on the banks of the Arkansas River was no different from the Georgian who’d murdered his wife. The whole state could burn in hell for all he cared.

And hundreds of them were killed before it was all over. The slaughter at the river wasn’t as bad as the slaughter of Crittenden’s army the year before, but that was only because the Georgians weren’t trapped in a peninsula. A much higher percentage of them managed to make their escape into the countryside.

Where two thousand Choctaw warriors waited, with a very recent and burning grudge to settle. And if the Choctaw grudge was more with Mississippians or Louisianans, they’d settle for Georgians.

Brown’s men were out there, too, and they didn’t care at all about the fine distinctions between states. John Brown had agreed to abide by Chief Driscol’s rules when it came to fighting U.S. regulars. But the militias weren’t included in those prohibitions. So far as Brown and his people were concerned, those militiamen—be they from Georgia or Louisiana or Mississippi or Alabama, it made no difference—had come to Arkansas for the express purpose of reenslaving its citizens.

That made them damned in the eyes of the Lord, pure and simple, and as plain to see as the nose in front of your face. It was right there in the Bible. There was no good reason not to assist the Lord in his righteous work of sending them on their way to eternal hellfire. Indeed, it was a duty, and Brown was not the man to shirk his duty.

“All right, Charles, pull them out,” Patrick Driscol commanded.

General Ball nodded and sent the order. He’d been waiting for the order for some time. Only a man as troll-blooded as the Laird could have held off that long. By now, the 3rd Arkansas was a bleeding ruin.

But not broken. Not even close. They’d gone head-to-head for as long as it took against two—and then units from three, and then four—regiments of U.S. regulars. Moving forward or standing their ground, never retreating an inch.

For years, the Iron Battalion had served the black people of Arkansas as a magic talisman. There hadn’t actually been much reality to it for some time, since the Iron Battalion as such no longer existed. They’d had to break it up in order to use its men as the core around which to build other and larger units.

After today, it wouldn’t matter at all. After today, Arkansas had the 3rd Infantry, which stood its ground, and the 2nd, which broke the state of Georgia.

And hadn’t used the 1st Infantry at all—which might actually be the best.

This war might go on for years. Probably would, in fact. But it was already won where it mattered. Arkansans would have the stomach to fight forever, after Second Arkansas Post. The Americans had been dragged into this war by politicians and had no stomach for it at all outside of some of the Southern states.

From here on, it was just a matter of how long it would take the enemy to figure it out.

For all Sheff knew, he was now the commanding officer of the regiment. The companies on its right wing, for sure. Colonel Jones was gone. Wounded, not dead, although it might have been a mortal wound. He’d looked awful bad. Sheff didn’t know what had happened to the major or any of the captains of the left wing. The captains of the three companies by the Post had all been killed or wounded by now. The gunsmoke was so thick you couldn’t see much in any direction, except once in a while when a gust of wind cleared the air for a bit.

Sheff hadn’t spent any time wondering about the colonel’s fate. He’d stopped wondering about anyone’s fate, including his own. He’d reached some sort of pure state of mind, he decided. Slogans that he’d once recited to himself as if they were prayers had become simple realities.

Only victory mattered. Only the regiment mattered. They’d fight until the last man shot the last bullet, and then they’d lower the bayonets.

“Pull out! Pull out!”

Sheff recognized General Ball’s voice, but the words didn’t quite register. He ordered another volley. Couldn’t hardly call it a volley any longer—but the same could be said for what was coming the other way.

“Listen to me, Lieutenant Parker! Pull the men
out!
Move!”

That registered. Groggily—his brain really wasn’t working too well anymore—Sheff tried to remember the orders for calling a retreat.

No. Fighting withdrawal. Big difference.

He got the first two orders out. Properly, he was pretty sure. But while he was still groping for the next evolution, a musket ball took him square in the shoulder and spun him around. Around, and down, taking all consciousness with it.

The last thing he remembered was a great sense of relief. He’d done his duty and could finally rest.

CHAPTER 37

For a moment, Harrison was tempted to order a pursuit. The Arkansas regiment his men had been fighting while the other one went after the militias was pulling back now. It was a fighting withdrawal, not a retreat—certainly not a rout. But that evolution was extremely difficult to manage properly, especially by a regiment that had lost so many of its officers. If he brought enough pressure to bear, they might finally crack.

Easier said than done, though, in the real world where battles are actually fought.

His own 1st and 7th Regiments—the 1st, especially, which had taken the brunt of the fighting right by the Post—were too badly battered for the purpose. They’d stood their ground like good regulars, but they were in no shape to launch a pursuit. He’d have to use the 3rd and 5th.

Mostly the 3rd. Lieutenant Colonel Cutler had come out of the Post and, by now, had his regiment pretty well organized. But Harrison still hadn’t seen the commanding officer of the 5th. He might be dead; he might be injured; he might just be too confused to understand what he was supposed to do. Whatever the reason, the 5th as such was still incoherent. What Harrison had available, right now, were maybe half of its companies for a pursuit. By the time the others finished their withdrawal from the Post and got into position, it would be too late.

Much too late. The gunsmoke had finally cleared away, most of it, and Harrison could see that the top commanders of the Arkansans had taken direct charge of the withdrawal, substituting themselves for the regiment’s fallen officers. That regiment was pulling back in good order, even managing to take most of their wounded with them.

The moment passed. There was no chance, he realized. Especially since—

Belatedly, he remembered. Hurriedly, he trotted his horse to the rear, to one of the artillery berms where he could get a better view of what was happening downriver. What was that
other
Arkansas regiment up to? For all he knew, he might soon be fending them off.

On the way, he took the time to level silent curses on himself. He’d lost control of this battle from the very beginning, and he knew it. His plans had been too complex. He’d taken the risk of dividing his forces without enough of a staff and regimental officers who’d worked together and shaken themselves down. He hadn’t even been able to remember the names of some of his aides, for the love of God.

So, now, here he was—forced to serve as his own scout because his staff had disintegrated around him and his regimental commanders were completely preoccupied with their own affairs.

He also cursed Henry Clay and John Calhoun. They’d lied to him, damn them. Reassured him that he’d simply be facing savages—better still, negroes who didn’t even have the martial customs of the savages. And William Henry Harrison—he went back to cursing himself—had been too ambitious, too eager, to question their assurances.

He reached the berm. To his immense relief, he saw that the second Arkansas regiment had broken off their own pursuit of the militias and were returning. But they were back in that peculiar thick column formation and were angling away from the battlefield. Clearly enough, they’d be coming back the same way they went, avoiding his own forces until they could reunite with their fellow regiment.

In short, the battle was over—unless Harrison insisted on trying to continue it. Which he was no more inclined to do than he was to order a charge on the moon. He slumped in the saddle. He was exhausted. Mentally, even more than physically.

He’d suffered a wound somewhere along the way, too, he suddenly realized. The whole left side of his torso ached. Looking, he couldn’t see any blood. But when he pulled up his tunic, he saw a huge bruise beginning to form over his rib cage. The ribs themselves weren’t broken, obviously. With a rib flail, he’d have been completely incapacitated. But some of them might well be cracked. He’d find out by the morrow.

God only knew what had happened. He had no memory at all of having any injury inflicted on him. But it could easily happen in such a ferociously fought and confused battle—confusing for him, at any rate. The most likely cause was a glancing blow from a cannonball, although to the best of Harrison’s recollection the enemy had used canister throughout the engagement.

His mind in something of a daze, he watched the second Arkansas regiment moving across the Delta to the northwest. That part of his brain that was still working professionally—which was no small part, given his experience—recognized that Taylor’s report had been quite accurate in this respect also. The Arkansans could march like nobody’s business. He’d remember that in the future.

Somebody was talking to him. Looking down, he saw that the commander of the 5th Regiment was there, standing atop the berm and looking up at him. Harrison groped for the man’s name and couldn’t find it.

“—do about the Chickasaws, General?”

Harrison had to grope for the meaning of the question, too. Fortunately, the colonel’s pointing finger gave him the clue. Aided, a moment later, by the sound of six-pounders going off.

Looking in the direction the 5th’s commander was pointing, Harrison could see dozens of Chickasaw warriors—hundreds, within a minute—pouring out of the Post. Some through the main entrance, some through the two breaches in the east wall, some by simply taking the risk of climbing over the walls and jumping.

The batteries by the river were firing on them, as Harrison had instructed them to do. Quite a few of the fleeing Chickasaws were being killed before they could get out of range. They were racing upriver as fast as they could run.

No danger there, in short—which, at the moment, was all Harrison cared about.

“Just let them go, Colonel.”

Peters.
That was his name. Lieutenant Colonel Curtis Peters.

“Just let them go, Colonel Peters,” he repeated. He forced up the energy for a compliment. “You battered them badly, I take it. Very well done.”

Peters nodded. “I estimate we killed four hundred hostiles in there, General. Well. Three hundred, for sure. At no great cost to ourselves. We were able to trap most of them in the mess hall and had four guns to bring to bear. By the time we sent in the infantry, they were too rattled to put up much of a resistance. But we couldn’t catch all of them, of course.”

Even as he spoke, Harrison could see soldiers from the 1st Artillery hauling a six-pounder out of the Post. No easy task, that, without horses. But they couldn’t possibly have used horses to bring guns into a fort under assault. No matter how well trained, the beasts would panic.

“Just let the Chickasaws go,” he said again. “For the moment, we need to concentrate on preparing a defense against the possibility of counterattack by the Arkansans. We’ve taken Arkansas Post”—he said that with more energy, it being the sole consolation of the day—“so let’s make sure we keep it.”

He pointed up the river. “I’d appreciate it if you’d bring your regiment into position just west of the fort, Colonel Peters. And tell Colonel Eustis to move his batteries up with you. Those Arkansas steamboats are still up there, and it’ll be days—weeks, possibly—before we can finally get armored steamboats of our own.”

The Arkansans hadn’t ever used their steamboats. Harrison was pretty sure they’d never intended to. Simply having them there had immobilized a good portion of his artillery, the arm in which he had the clearest advantage over his enemy.

Grudgingly—he was not a man for which doing so came easily—Harrison admitted that his opponent had fought a considerably smarter battle than he had.

He didn’t say it out loud, of course. “Be about it, please, Colonel.”

Peters left. Harrison took a few more seconds to rally his spirits and energy.

He’d need them. The battle was over, but there was still the butcher’s bill to be examined. There were dead and wounded all over the area. Small piles of them near the Post—and from what he could tell at the distance, considerably bigger piles of militiamen by the riverbank downstream.

Leaving aside the Chickasaws in the Post—that’d be a charnel house in there; his mind shied away from it for the time being—most of the dead and wounded outside the fort were Americans. But there were a fair number of Arkansans, too. The enemy had done their best to carry off their wounded, but there was only so much that could ever be done in that respect on a still-contested field of battle.

He’d better see to that immediately, he realized. The regulars would be furious at the casualties they’d suffered. Furious enough that they might not only ignore their training but ignore practical reality as well.

Of all the things Clay and Calhoun had lied to him about, the biggest lie had been the first.

A
short
war. Blithering nonsense. The fact that both the president and the secretary of war had probably believed it themselves didn’t make it any less of a lie. It just made them stupid liars.

Short wars can wash themselves away, along with their sins. Long wars require rules. Best to establish them immediately.

Fortunately, if nothing else, the regulars had been too exhausted to do anything but rest. Whatever other energy they’d had available had been devoted entirely to assisting their own injured. Their officers hadn’t even started picking through the enemy soldiers lying about, separating the wounded from the dead.

So, Harrison found himself one of the first three American officers to start moving through the enemy bodies. He was accompanied by a captain and a lieutenant from the heavily battered 1st. The captain’s name he remembered, thankfully. Trevin Matlock. The lieutenant’s was unknown to him.

The Arkansans were lying in piles, too, especially near the Post. The first body Harrison came across was that of a young officer, lying slightly before his men. A second lieutenant. Arkansans used the same insignia as the American army, even if the uniforms were green instead of blue.

A very young lieutenant, he could now see, once he looked more closely. As always—being from Ohio, he was not very familiar with negroes—the racial differences had momentarily obscured lesser matters like age. Not even twenty, he thought. It was hard for him to be certain, however, since the lieutenant’s skin was very dark and his features completely African. Very young, though, he was sure of that.

The Arkansas officer wasn’t moving, but his chest was rising and falling. A very bad injury to the shoulder, that was. The sort of bone-shattering wound that usually rendered a man unconscious, even if it wasn’t directly fatal. Especially if he was already exhausted, which Harrison had no doubt he had been. The battle had been ferocious as a whole, but nowhere more so than here right by the walls of the Post, where the two armies had met at point-blank range.

“Him,” the lieutenant from the 1st Regiment said tonelessly. “Hadn’t been for him, I think we could have beaten them here, at the end. I can’t believe he’s still alive, the bastard. I’ve half a mind—”

“Shut up,” Captain Matlock said, just as tonelessly. “He did his job and did it well. And there’s an end to it.”

“Indeed,” Harrison said firmly. “A most gallant foe.”

He gave the lieutenant—very young himself—a look that was more harsh than he felt but as harsh as it needed to be.

“We shall be following the rules of war here, Lieutenant. I trust that’s understood? And if I discover there have been any violations, I shall have the man—or officer—immediately court-martialed. Do I make myself clear?”

The lieutenant seemed suitably abashed. “Yes, sir. Ah. Sorry.”

“I understand, Lieutenant,” Harrison said in a milder tone. “Emotions always run high after a battle. But indulging yourself in them is a bad mistake, leaving aside any moral concerns. Do keep in mind that the day might come when you—or me, or Captain Matlock—might find ourselves in the very same position. You’ll be thankful then that you weren’t an idiot now.”

That assumed, of course, that the enemy followed the rules of war also. Harrison was by no means sure of that, yet. Who knew what negroes would do? They’d been pure savages, by all accounts, in the small uprisings in North America and the huge one in Hispaniola.