1824: The Arkansas War tog-2 Read online

  At the time, Harrison had thought Jackson was exaggerating. The man was notorious for his vindictive temper and his unrelenting feuds, after all. The stories of his clashes with Georgia militiamen during the war with the Creeks were well known.

  Now, three months later, Harrison was more inclined to think Jackson had been light-handed in his condemnation. Evenhanded, for sure. The bastards were that bad.

  He'd had the unit that committed the outrages on the Quapaws put under arrest as soon as he heard about the incident. But he was sure there'd still be Sam Hill to pay when the newspapers got hold of the story. Which they surely would, as many pestiferous reporters as the army had hanging around it, like flies on a horse.

  Harrison took a few more seconds to silently curse newspapers and newspapermen. And the abolitionist maniacs and bedlamites who were egging them on. What had the world come to, when a military campaign against Indians and rebellious negroes had to worry about maintaining a so-called good press?

  To be sure, any competent commander would punish soldiers who committed flagrant atrocities, even against savages. But that was simply for the purpose of maintaining discipline. Nobody actually cared that much about the incidents themselves. It wasn't as if any treatment was being visited on the savages that they didn't commit themselves, after all.

  But:Harrison did have to concern himself over the business. He'd been given explicit instructions by the president. By the secretary of war, also, but for Calhoun that was obviously just a formality. Henry Clay, on the other hand, had been quite serious about it-and, for once, Harrison didn't think that had been purely a matter of maintaining his political reputation. The newly elected chief executive had seemed genuinely concerned that the conflict with Arkansas be waged according to civilized rules of war.

  The idiot. Only a man who'd never gotten any closer to a battlefield than Harrison broke off his sour train of thought. The battery had finally gotten the last of the six-pounders clear of the mud. Thank the heavens. Now, maybe they could A different young officer was at his elbow, looking fidgety. John Riehl, his name was, if Harrison remembered correctly.

  "What is it, Lieutenant?"

  "Ah, sir, the commander of the Louisiana militia is complaining that his men aren't being fed properly. Well. The food's all right, I guess, but he's real peeved that the regulars and the Georgia-"

  "Tell that fucking-! No. Never mind. I'll tell him myself. Where is he?"

  Riehl looked more fidgety than ever. "Ah. Well, that's the other thing. He and the rest of the Louisiana officers went off afterward-after he chewed on me, I mean-to have lunch on the Chesapeake to get some relief from the heat, and:well."

  "Don't tell me," Harrison said through gritted teeth.

  "Yes, sir. She ran aground on a sandbar."

  Lieutenant Riehl cleared his throat. "Again."

  The Arkansas River

  Missouri Territory

  J ULY 22, 1825

  Some four hundred miles to the northwest, Colonel Zachary Taylor wasn't in any better mood. In his case, though, the source of dissatisfaction was far more concentrated. The Missouri militiamen he'd been saddled with weren't really that much of a problem, and he had no complaints at all concerning the terrain. The plains in that part of Missouri Territory that some people were starting to call Kansas were perfectly dry this time of year, even next to the river.

  It helped, naturally, that the Arkansas River this far upstream from the Confederacy didn't bear much resemblance to the big river that passed through Fort of 98, New Antrim, and Arkansas Post before it emptied into the Mississippi. The Arkansas was the fourth longest river in North America, with its headwaters in the Rocky Mountains far to the west. But for most of its length-especially in midsummer, after the end of the snowmelt-it was a modest affair.

  No, Taylor's foul mood was solely and entirely due to one single man.

  Robert Mitchell. Plucked from obscurity as a junior state representative from South Carolina by the secretary of war personally, and foisted on Colonel Taylor's "Army of the Missouri" as a special commissioner to handle relations with the Indian tribes of the Great Plains.

  It sometimes seemed to Taylor that John C. Calhoun's madness had no limits. Had the former senator from South Carolina suffered from simple dementia, the dementia itself would have conscribed his sphere of action. But Calhoun's disease was a mania, more than maniacalism as such.

  So-Heaven grant mercy-it possessed theories. Notions. Schemes. Delusions of certainty, and convictions that were unshakable in direct proportion to their lack of bearing on reality.

  All of which traits were concentrated in the person of Robert Mitchell to a degree that was genuinely breathtaking. As if the man were the distilled essence of lunacy, given two legs to walk about-and, alas, armed with the powers given him by the secretary of war and the president of the United States.

  The division of authority was clear and simple. Colonel Zachary Taylor was in command of all U.S. military forces assembled under the somewhat preposterous name of the Army of the Missouri. To put the matter in less grandiose perspective, he commanded the 2nd and 6th Infantry Regiments and two full batteries from the 3rd Artillery-about fourteen hundred men, all told.

  Special commissioner Mitchell, however, had been given full authority to treat with any and all Indian tribes west of the Mississippi, saving only those who were part of the Confederacy. He had the power to make whatever treaties and arrangements with said tribes he felt would be to the advantage of the mission of the Army of the Missouri, with no regard whatsoever for what the actual commander of that army might think.

  It was sheer madness. The only thing Taylor could figure out was that Calhoun, having-very disapprovingly-seen the way in which, in years past, Sam Houston had transformed a similar special commission into something that bore a definite resemblance to a magic wand, had decided that the magic resided in the title, not the man.

  Sam Houston had been adopted by the Cherokees as a teenager, was intimately familiar with their ways and customs, and was fluent in most of the languages of the southern tribes: Cherokee, Choctaw, and the major dialects of the Creeks. He also had a passing knowledge of some of the Plains Indians' tongues.

  So, naturally, Calhoun had appointed a man to the post who spoke no Indian languages at all, had never in his life had any real contact with Indians, and was still confused by the fact that the chiefs of the southern tribes wore turbans instead of feather headdresses.

  Sam Houston had also had a detailed and in-depth knowledge of the political factions and political issues in dispute among the Indian tribes he dealt with. Whereas it had never occurred to Robert Mitchell-still didn't, so far as Taylor could tell-that Indians had any "politics" to begin with. He seemed to think they behaved according to some mystical inner tribal essence, or something.

  But that wasn't surprising, really. Mitchell was one of Calhoun's most fervent-say better, fevered-partisans. So far as he was concerned, the only people in the world who really deserved the term "people" at all were white men. All the other breeds weren't simply lesser ones. They were, in some fundamental sense, not really human to begin with. Semi-intelligent two-legged animals, basically, who managed with great effort and usually ridiculous results to mimic some of the simpler aspects of human society.

  To make things worse, the only trait Mitchell shared as special commissioner with his predecessor Sam Houston was that he was scrupulously honest. So there wasn't even the hope-usually a near certainty, with Indian agents-that he'd soon be distracted from his Great Mission by the usual vices of peculation and swindling.

  Not that his personal honesty did any good for Indians. Since Mitchell couldn't speak any of the indigenous tongues, he was forced to rely on the existing network of Indian agents to translate for him and to carry out the ensuing decisions and agreements. Which, of course, they did in their usual corrupt manner.

  Houston had had to deal with them also, of course. The difference had been that Houston spoke the l
anguages as well as they did, was approximately five times smarter, and had a network of his own in most of the major tribes that was better than that of his subordinates. He'd overseen them the way a great gray wolf oversees foxes. The foxes had been on their very, very best behavior.

  But worst of all-worse than anything-was the man's temperament. Mitchell was so infuriatingly chipper.

  "Splendid news, Colonel! The Kiowas have agreed to join our cause!"

  With an air of great self-satisfaction, Mitchell plopped himself down onto one of the stools in Taylor's command tent. Taylor was still using the tent for his headquarters until the fort's construction was finished, even though he'd started sleeping in the commander's quarters of it. This was a big fort being erected on the Arkansas, since it would have to serve as the base of operations for the whole campaign. The noise from the construction work during the day was too much to allow for the conduct of business.

  Mitchell bestowed a beaming smile on the colonel and his two medical officers, who'd been in the tent discussing the health issues facing the army. They were Surgeon John H. Bendel and Assistant Surgeon Charles Stewart.

  Taylor had insisted on having a full medical unit attached to the expedition, all the way down to two ambulances staffed by each of the artillery batteries. He'd known Bendel for years and had specifically requested him. Stewart was a Rhode Islander, new to the service. But in the short time since he'd been with the expedition, Zack had been pleased with his performance.

  As he was again, that moment. He'd come to realize that Stewart had a very sly, very dry sense of humor. Quite different from Zack's own, but still one he could appreciate.

  The assistant surgeon's eyes widened. "The Kiowas have expressed a deep concern over the prospect that an independent Arkansas might stir unrest among black slaves in the Carolinas? Who would have imagined?"

  Taylor managed-barely-to choke down a laugh. Bendel didn't do quite as well.

  Mitchell gave Bendel a quick glare, followed by a longer one aimed at his assistant.

  "I fail to see the humor, Mr. Stewart. Of course the savages don't care about the maintenance of proper racial order in the United States. What difference does that make? The Kiowas have agreed to join our campaign against the Confederacy, which is all that matters."

  There were so many errors in that last sentence that Taylor didn't know where to begin.

  So he simply started with the subject. " Which Kiowas, Robert?"

  "Ah. Well, two of their chiefs." Mitchell pronounced two names, neither of which meant anything to Zack. That was assuming that the special commissioner was pronouncing them correctly in the first place, which was about as likely as snow in July.

  "I'm not actually sure which clans they represent," he admitted.

  "Well, that part's easy enough," said Taylor. "They didn't represent any. The Kiowas aren't divided into clans."

  "But:they have to be."

  Clearly, Zack had contradicted one of Mitchell's certain pieces of Indian lore. He might as well have said the sun rose in the west. There were two things the special commissioner Knew To Be True. Indian chiefs all wore feather headdresses, and Indians all belonged to clans.

  "Why?" grunted the surgeon. "We're not divided into clans."

  "Leaving aside Scotsmen, Baltimore plug-uglies, and opera enthusiasts," his assistant quipped. The Rhode Islander's derision for Mitchell, however, was momentarily overridden by simple interest.

  "Is that indeed the case, Colonel?" he asked. "I confess I labored under the same misapprehension as the special commissioner."

  Bendel answered before Taylor could. Like Zachary, he'd spent years serving on the frontier. "They're all called Indians. But the truth is, Charles, that's just a white man's notion. There's as much difference between the southern tribes like the Cherokees and the nomads on the plains as there is between a Frenchman and a Mongol. Their languages aren't remotely similar, their customs are different, their religion is different-native religion, I mean, insofar as the Cherokees still retain it-and the whole way they look at the world is different. There's no love lost between them, either, believe you me."

  Taylor chimed in. "The Kiowas don't reckon descent through the mother, the way the southern tribes do. And, no, they don't have clans of any kind. They've got loosely defined ranks, instead. It's a nobility of sorts, except a man can move up or down depending on his accomplishments and behavior. The most important divisions, for men at least, are the six military societies. The Dog Soldiers, they're called."

  Unable to resist the temptation, he turned back to Mitchell. "So, special commissioner. Which Dog Soldiers may we rely upon to augment our forces? And were these two 'chiefs' ranked Onde or Odegupa? It'll make a difference."

  Mitchell just stared at him.

  After a few seconds, Taylor gave up the momentary pleasure. "Never mind."

  The special commissioner rose and headed for the entrance to the tent. Once he had the flap pulled aside, he gave Taylor a cheery look over his shoulder. "I don't see what difference it could make, Colonel. Once they receive the guns I promised them, they'll surely rally to our side."

  Then he was gone.

  "Marvelous," Bendel muttered. "Just what the world needs. Well-armed Kiowas. Do you know, Zack-just yesterday-the lunatic told me he was planning to pass out arms to the Comanches also. In the event they 'rallied to our cause,' of course."

  "Oh, God help us."

  "Yup. Comanches. Between whom and the Huns the only difference I can see is that the Huns were less barbaric. Everybody hates Comanches. Even more than they do Kiowas."

  The assistant surgeon had been looking back and forth between them. "This is a problem, I take it? Forgive my ignorance. I'm from Rhode Island, as you know."

  Bendel grunted. "Yeah, Charles, you could call it that. 'A problem.' Our blessed special commissioner has been making promises to provide guns and ammunition for every tribe of nomads anywhere in the area. The worst of it is, he'll likely manage to do it, too, with the backing he's got from Calhoun."

  "For which," Taylor growled, "we'll get practically no help in our campaign against the Confederacy. No direct military help, for sure. The Osage and the Kiowas-certainly the Comanches-will raid outlying Cherokee and Creek settlements. Commit their usual depredations and outrages. That will have the effect of infuriating the southern Indians and making them cleave more tightly to the Arkansans-which is exactly the opposite of what we should be doing."

  He ran angry fingers through hair caked with dust and sweat. "Best of all, when the war's over-which it will be, sooner or later-the idiot will have scattered guns all over the southern plains, putting them in the hands of the worst tribes I can think of. God damn the fucking bastard. The army'll be putting the pieces back together for years."

  "Years and years," the surgeon agreed. "Trust us on this, Charles. A war between the United States and the Confederacy-Cherokees or Arkansas negroes, it really doesn't matter-will be a pretty civilized business." He nodded toward the tent entrance. "Which the wars we'll have with those nomad savages out there for twenty or thirty years afterward will be anything but."

  Taylor was tempted to add a verbal damnation onto the heads of Henry Clay and John Calhoun, too. But he was a career officer, so he stifled the impulse. That would, after all, technically be insubordination. Even if the chances that either of the medical officers in the tent would report him were about as likely as snow in August.

  Some miles east of the Arkansas River

  Missouri Territory

  J ULY 22, 1825

  "It's him, all right." Scott Powers lowered his eyeglass. "Now all we gotta do is figure out how to pry him out of there."

  Lying next to him in the tall grass, Ray Thompson squinted at the distant bandit camp. "Why can't we just ride in there? You said his cousin was a friend of yours."

  "Well:he is, in a manner of speaking. But by now he'll have heard about the reward offer. And, ah:"

  "Right. He might suspect your moti
ves."

  Powers grinned mirthlessly. "About as likely as a rooster guarding hens, who spots a coyote coming. 'Well, hello there, my old friend the rooster. I just dropped by to pay a social call.' "

  Ray went back to studying the bandit camp some hundred yards away. "Why hasn't he turned him in for the reward, do you think?"

  Scott shrugged, insofar as a man could manage that gesture while lying prone. "Who knows? Eddie's another Georgian. You know the type. Walk around calling themselves Southrons and challenging their images in a mirror to a duel because of some slight nobody else noticed. Crazy bastards can find a point of honor in anything. There's no way he's going to let us have Andrew Clark without a fight."

  Ray sucked his teeth. "You know, Scott, you could have maybe mentioned this little problem a few weeks back. Before we added horse stealing and card cheating to our track record."

  "We let the horses go, and we didn't get caught cheating," Powers pointed out, reasonably enough. "And we would have needed the money no matter what. Besides, I got a plan."

  "A plan. That'll somehow make it possible for two men-yeah, sure, we're the most dangerous desperadoes on the frontier-to win a gunfight with eleven bandits. And an assassin, even if we know he can't shoot straight. You got a plan."

  The same grin came back to Powers's face. "Well, of course that's not the plan. Do I look like an idiot? But why bother? When-"

  He rolled a little sideways to clear his left arm and pointed to the southwest. "When just over yonder we got two regiments of the U.S. Army to do the work for us. Even got artillery."

  Ray's eyes widened. "You think-"

  "Hey, look. Zack Taylor's in command. He'll remember us from when he commanded Cantonment Robertson at Baton Rouge."

  "Sure he will," Ray said sourly. "He'll remember we tried to swindle his commissary."

  " 'Swindling's' an awful harsh way to put what I prefer to think of as frugal business practices. It's hard to keep meat from getting wormy in the Delta. Even if you try."