1824: The Arkansas War tog-2 Page 51

  Scott waved a dismissive hand at the newspaper. "Those lads-they're very young, so I'll grant them the excuse-are approaching this as if it were simply a moral issue. Which it is, of course. But battles are not won with moral splendor. They're won by the brute force of the clash of arms."

  Sheff just waited, patiently. Sooner or later, he figured the man would get around to it.

  After a moment, Scott smiled at him. "You are smart. Patrick told me you were."

  He lifted one long leg and crossed it over the other. Then, folded his hands in his lap.

  "Here's how it is, Captain Parker. Slavery expands, or it dies. For two reasons. First, because the agriculture involved is frightfully wasteful of the soil. Within a much shorter time than you might think, so-called King Cotton will look like a bedraggled down-at-the-heels little robber baron. As it already does in the northern tier of slave states. The truth is-my father-in-law dislikes to admit it, as do most of my native state's gentry-Virginia's main crop nowadays is slaves themselves. Whom they breed like so much livestock in order to sell to cotton growers in the Deep South."

  A sneer came to his face. "Remember that, the next time you read one of John Randolph's perorations on liberty. But you can see where I'm going. How are slave-owners in Georgia and Alabama to make the same transition-from King Cotton to King Negro-when there are no new slave territories into which cotton production is expanding?"

  Sheff thought about it. "Well, there's Texas."

  Scott chuckled. "Yes, indeed. And-remember I told you this-I expect within ten years we'll be seeing a war down there, too. But Texas alone, even if the South can seize it, won't be enough. Once Kentucky and Tennessee and Missouri are closed to slavery, it begins to die in its own waste. But it won't come to that, anyway. Because the other reason slavery needs to expand is political. The population of the North and the West in the United States grows much faster than that of the South. Because of immigration, if for no other reason. No immigrants except wealthy ones-and they're but a handful-want to live in a slave state. Slavery depresses wages, and it stifles opportunity for small enterprise. So they move to the North and West. And now-"

  He pointed to the newspaper. "- this is the essence of that program, which the estimable Ridge and Watie managed to miss completely. The border states have finally decided they are part of the West, not the South."

  "They haven't actually decided yet," Sheff said mildly. He wasn't trying to be disputatious, though. He was just deeply interested in the former general's assessment and wanted to draw it out as far as he could.

  Winfield Scott really did have quite a magnificent sneer. Sheff was impressed.

  "Ha! With that band of brigands leading the charge? My dear captain! Should the legislature of Tennessee be so bold as to defy Andrew Jackson, he's quite capable of ordering the militia to train their guns on the state capitol. I believe he still holds the rank of major general in the militia, which remains fiercely attached to the man. By 'guns,' I include twelve-pounders. There are precious few slave-owners in the Tennessee militia, and those not major ones. One or two slaves, more like family servants than the chattel labor on big plantations. Hired hands, once they're freed, which is an easy enough transition for all parties involved."

  Once again, he waved his hand dismissively. "No, no. With Jackson and Benton and Johnson and Carroll and Desha calling for it, the border states are lost to slavery. Not immediately, but they're lost. And once they're gone, the South will slide further and further into political impotence. The slave states have already lost the House, and the imbalance will grow deeper every year. Now, soon enough, they'll have lost the Senate. And I doubt if you'll see more than-at most-one Southerner ever sitting in the president's house again, so long as slavery lasts, where the first four of five came from the region. Five out of six, if we count Clay. Which I suppose we must, given that he's thrown himself into Calhoun's clutches. The blithering idiot."

  Sheff studied him for a moment. "And that doesn't concern you?"

  "Oh, of course it does. But it concerns me as a soldier of the United States, not as a Virginian. My loyalty is to the nation, Captain Parker. It always has been. I have no use for men with divided loyalties. On that if nothing else, I've always agreed with Andrew Jackson. So:I imagine I'll be returning to the colors one of these fine days."

  The handsome patrician head looked very much like one of the Roman busts Sheff had seen in the Wolfe Tone Hotel. He'd wondered, a bit, why the Laird had gone to the trouble and expense of having them shipped there all the way from Philadelphia. He was normally quite frugal.

  He figured he finally knew, now.

  "You think there might be a war over it."

  "That's:putting it too strongly," Scott mused. "But it's a possibility, yes. Although I think it's more likely to take the form of a series of armed clashes than what you could properly call a war. Either way, I expect I'll have work to do. My real line of work, so to speak."

  He said that last with a smile. "Which, actually, brings me to the purpose of my visit. Patrick insisted I come. I didn't dare refuse him, of course. Him being my old master sergeant and a troll of most frightening proportions."

  They shared a laugh at that. Sheff decided he liked Winfield Scott. Not that he could imagine ever being what you could call a real friend of the man, given the chasm of their origins. Although:who could say what the future might bring? As each year-each month-passed, Sheff was finding the future less and less predictable.

  It was an enjoyable sensation, even a thrilling one, for an eighteen-year-old who could well remember how the future had looked not more than two years earlier. Extremely predictable, indeed. A life-probably a short one-filled with hard labor and poverty, ending in a grave. A pauper's grave at that.

  There was a little commotion at the door. "Ah, that'll be the workmen," said Scott. He gave the small bedroom a quick inspection. "We'll have to move that dresser to another room. I'll let Julia figure that out."

  He rose and went to the door, leaving Sheff to frown at the dresser.

  Why would they need to move The answer came within five seconds. Two men entered, carrying between them a very large oak bookcase. It was bigger than any bookcase Sheff had ever seen, except the one in the parlor of the Wolfe Tone. Behind them came two more men, each bearing boxes. From the strain in their shoulders, heavy ones.

  The next few minutes were simply confusing. Scott didn't seem to feel that explanations were needed. But when it was all done, the dresser in the corner was gone, and the bookcase was in its place. Filled with books, now.

  Sheff could hear Julia talking with the workmen in the corridor beyond. Trying to decide where to put the dresser, he imagined, but he didn't spend any time worrying about that. None of his own clothes had been in it. All of his clothes, even the two uniforms, fit into the locker that was shoved under his bed.

  "There you are, Captain," Scott said, presenting the bookcase with an outstretched hand. "Mind you, it's only on loan, and I'll want it back when my peregrinations are finished. Since my partner chose to leave for a few months to fetch his family, I'll let him handle the American side of the reporting. I'm off-tomorrow, in fact-for the first of several tours of the Oklahoma front. Colonel Taylor has agreed to give me an interview. I expect I'll be visiting the Red River region as well. But by the time that's all done, you should be fit for active duty again."

  He wagged a finger at Sheff. "Mind you, I'll expect them all to be in the same good condition. Some of these books took me years to track down."

  Sheff 's expression must have finally registered on Scott.

  "What?" he exclaimed. "Patrick didn't tell you? What a troll!"

  But he was smiling, quite widely. "It's my famous military library, Captain Sheff. Patrick felt that it was time you applied yourself to your work seriously instead of lolling about in comfort and ease. General Ross agrees, with the caveat that he expects to be able to borrow from them himself. And now, I must be off. Good day."

&nbs
p; He paused briefly at the door and looked back. "I spoke with the surgeon, by the way. Your wound seems to be quite similar to my own. The one I acquired at Lundy's Lane. If so, Captain, expect it to hurt off and on for the rest of your life. But there shouldn't be any other problem of any consequence. And if pain is a major concern to you, then you'd best start looking for a different line of work."

  He was gone.

  Ten seconds later, his head reappeared in the door. "One last thing. If you're still struggling with your reading, I'd recommend you start with the biographies. The technical manuals can be quite dismal."

  Gone again. Sheff stared at the bookcase.

  After a while, defying the surgeon's orders, Sheff levered himself out of bed and began to examine the titles.

  Eventually, he decided on Julius Caesar's The Gallic War. He had no idea who the Gallics had been, but at least he'd heard of Caesar. Now that he thought about it, in fact, that might be one of the busts in the hotel.

  But maybe not. It was always hard to know with the Laird. Being as he was a man who hated tyranny, but never seemed to have any trouble being a tyrant himself when he thought he needed to be.

  Not that Sheff cared. Like almost everyone in New Antrim, he'd seen tyranny at its most naked. No nebulous abstraction that someone like John Randolph might declaim against, but the real faces that had murdered his father.

  So if it took a tyrant to deal with that tyranny, he'd surely be the tyrant's legionnaire. Not hesitate for an instant, not though he waded through an ocean of blood.

  He'd only gotten through the first few pages, though, when there was another commotion at the door. Julia Chinn came in with a white man Sheff had never seen before.

  "Will this do?" she asked.

  The man shook his head vigorously. "Impossible, Mrs. Johnson. Not for what you want. We really need a much larger room, where we can place at least three chairs."

  Julia nodded and gave Sheff a quick inspection. "Can you sit upright, Captain? For-" She cocked an inquiring head at the stranger.

  "Two hours at a stretch, Mrs. Johnson. Though I'd prefer three."

  Julia turned back to Sheff. "Can you manage that?"

  "Oh, sure, Miz Julia. Truth is, I'd find it a relief. I get real tired of lying in bed, no matter what the surgeon says."

  "Splendid. Let's begin at once then, since Mr. Wiedeman has the day free, and that's hardly ever true."

  Wiedeman gave Sheff a curt nod and left. Julia moved over to help Sheff out of the bed. "That's Lyle Wiedeman, Captain Parker. He just arrived in town less than two weeks ago. Everyone's thrilled, of course. First real artist we've ever had in New Antrim. Well, painter, at least. But for this purpose, a wood-carver like Antoinette simply wouldn't do at all."

  It was odd hearing Miz Julia talking so properly. Not that she couldn't when she wanted to. She always did, in fact, on the frequent occasions when General Ross's wife, Eliza, came to visit. But Sheff wasn't accustomed to hearing her talk like that when just he and the girls were around.

  After she helped him to his feet, she shook her head, smiling widely, and indicated his bedclothes with a finger. "And that won't do at all, either. Can you manage to put on your uniform, Captain? The dress uniform, I mean."

  "I might need some help with the coatee, Miz Julia, but I can do the rest. If you give me just a few minutes."

  "Certainly. But there's one other thing, Captain, I'd much appreciate."

  "Yes, Miz Julia?"

  " That. It won't do all, either. Not any longer. So I must insist."

  The words were said sternly-whatever they meant-but she was smiling more widely than ever.

  "I don't understand, Miz Julia."

  "Mrs. Johnson, Captain. That's my name. Please use it, henceforth."

  1824: TheArkansasWar

  CHAPTER 43

  By the time Sheff got into his uniform, Mrs. Johnson helping him with the coatee, and made it out into the boardinghouse's salon, he discovered that the whole room had been rearranged. Lyle Wiedeman had an easel set up to one side, with a large blank canvas, and paints of various kind on a small table next to it. The divan that normally occupied pride of place in the room had been moved against one of the walls. The boardinghouse's owner, Susan Wilson, was perched on its edge watching the activities, with her grandchildren-all six of them-filling the rest of the divan.

  Fortunately, it was one of the crudely made but sturdy pieces of furniture produced by the McParland Furniture Company in Fort of 98. The young children were rambunctious, climbing all over the thing, and Mrs. Wilson was not being her usual stern taskmistress self. The widow's dark eyes were bright with interest at the unusual goings-on in the rest of the room. Clearly enough, she was giving only a small part of her mind to the matter of the youngsters.

  Sheff thought that might get sticky before too long. Literally sticky, what with all the paint bottles on Wiedeman's little table-which was not sturdily built at all. He hoped that nothing disastrous would happen before the children's two mothers and their uncle got back from work.

  That would be a while yet, though. Susan Wilson's daughters worked for one of the larger of New Antrim's garment manufacturers, which, like all such, had long hours. The uncle, a partly disabled veteran since Second Arkansas Post, enjoyed one of the secured jobs set aside for such by the army's commissariat. His hours of work were not particularly long, but he was sure to dawdle after work in one of the military saloons before finally wending his way home.

  The husband of the younger of the Wilson daughters wouldn't be returning for two weeks at the earliest, since his unit was on patrol somewhere in the Ouachitas. The husband of the older daughter would never be returning at all. He'd died at Second Arkansas in the fighting at the wall, not more than fifty feet from the spot where Sheff had been struck down.

  But Sheff didn't give the matter of the children much of his mind, either. First, because he was too fascinated and puzzled by everything else. And second, because Imogene was in the room and wearing a fancy dress he'd never seen on her before. It looked brand-new and store-bought.

  She was grinning at him and seemed to be on the verge of jumping up and down with excitement like a girl half her age. Sheff wouldn't have thought much of it a year ago, when he'd first met her. She'd seemed so young, then, that the difference between a twelve-year-old and a six-year-old would have been minor.

  But he couldn't help notice it today. It was odd, really, the way the girl seemed to age, since he'd been moved into the room upstairs and got to see her all the time. As if she were a month older for every day that passed. Sheff would swear that was true, except he was pretty sure it was just his mind playing tricks on him.

  He'd asked Cal about it, just the week before.

  "You wish!" had been the unkind response.

  Mrs. Johnson clapped her hands. "All right, everyone take their positions! Mr. Wiedeman's time is valuable, and we can't waste any of it."

  She pointed imperiously to one of the three chairs lined up in a row. "Captain Parker, you take the seat on the left."

  No sooner had he done so than Mrs. Johnson took the seat next to him, in the middle. The other seemed destined to remain vacant.

  "Mama!" Adaline exclaimed. "Cal's not here yet!"

  For the first time, Sheff noticed the twin. It might be better to say that her presence registered on him. He realized now that she'd been in the room all along, wearing a dress very similar to her sister's except in small details of color and trim. But, as often happened when Imogene was there also, he simply hadn't paid any attention to her.

  And there was another oddity. Sheff kept hearing people comment on the identical appearance of the two girls, leaving aside whatever clothing they might have on. Sheff would have thought they were insane, except he had a vague recollection of having once thought the same thing himself.

  That was hard to imagine now. He could tell them apart instantly at any distance, rain or shine. He'd never had to test the matter, but he was just as sur
e he could tell them apart in pitch darkness, just from the sound of their voices. For that matter, just from listening to them breathe.

  But he forced that last thought aside. Best not to dwell on the thought of listening to Imogene breathe, in the here and now. He had time to do that-and did, and would-every night that passed. In a bed covered by a blanket, where he didn't have to worry about the possible indelicacy posed by the tight-fitting trousers of his dress uniform.

  "Hush, Adaline!" her mother scolded. "Lieutenant McParland will be along soon enough. Something must have detained him. In the meantime, we can get started. Mr. Wiedeman tells me he'll be concentrating on one part of the portrait at a time. So he can start with Sheff and Imogene. Be still, I say!"

  Imogene came to stand behind him, and just to one side. A moment later, he felt her hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

  He stiffened slightly, casting a nervous glance at Mrs. Johnson. He'd been careful-very, very careful-not to engage in any sort of physical contact with Imogene. That would get him pitched out of the house in an instant, he was quite sure. And as much as he sometimes found the temptation difficult to resist, he managed. Whatever else he was, Sheffield Parker was patient and methodical. If it took him longer to get somewhere than it might take someone else, he'd get there all the more surely.

  But, to his relief-and surprise-he saw that Mrs. Johnson was simply giving the hand on his shoulder a calm assessment.

  "Not so close to the neck, Imogene. And keep your fingers still."

  That was it. Sheff had to tighten his jaw to keep it from dropping altogether.

  "Begin when you're ready, Mr. Wiedeman. Susan, I would recommend that you not allow that rascal to stand on the arm of the divan."

  "Oh!" Mrs. Wilson tore her eyes away from the tableau in the center of the room. "Andrew, you sit down! Right now, or I'll smack you!"

  "Everybody please be still," Wiedeman commanded.

  "Where's Cal?" Adaline wailed.

  Some part of Callender McParland felt like wailing, himself. The mission that the Laird had recruited him for as he'd been on his way to the boardinghouse-"recruited" as in "press-gang"-was now successfully completed.