Eric Flint: 1824: The Arkansas War

"They're madmen, I tell you!" exclaimed Beatty, still with that grin. "They're even advocating amalgamation!"

Porter cleared his throat. There were limits, and he had finally reached all of them.

"No, actually-and I'd advise you to be careful how you phrase that. They are not advocating amalgamation. They're simply calling for the removal of all laws that regulate marriage by criteria of color."

Beatty was giving him that look that Porter had come to detest. Half frowning, because he was stupid. Half jeering, because his stupidity had no bottom.

"If you can't understand the difference, Representative Beatty, it's the difference between advocating divorce and allowing for it in the law. I do not advocate that you divorce your wife."

Not that the poor woman probably wouldn't thank me.

"I do, however, propose to make it legally possible for you to do so, should that be your choice."

He didn't bother disguising the underlying sneer.

Clay spoke a bit hastily to keep the matter from escalating. "Yes, yes, Peter, of course you're right." He gave Beatty a veiled look from under lowered brows. "Do be careful about that, Adam. We don't want to be accused of outright fabrication."

Porter had become all too familiar with that veiled expression, also. More and more, Clay was separating his lines of action and using different advisers for different purposes. He might just as well have said: By all means throw the charge around, Adam-with wild abandon-just make sure it can't be traced back to me.

Granted, Clay had always been a rough political fighter, even if he wore gloves. Porter had admired the trait in times past, and he wouldn't have objected if the gloves came off. The problem was that Henry was doing the opposite as time went on. He was adding more gloves at the same time his blows were getting lower.

It was becoming:filthy. There was no other word for it.

Johnston spoke next. "We shouldn't have any trouble, now, getting Congress to pass the military appropriations bill. None at all, I'd think."

Porter levered himself upright. That issue was his principal concern. "Henry, I want to advise you again that I think it would be a mistake to present that bill to Congress."

The other advisers were looking either pained, in the case of Johnston, or derisive, in the case of Beatty, or something in between. Clay's face had no expression at all.

Porter knew this was his last chance, so he decided to use whatever leverage he had. What little leverage he had any longer.

He pointed to the Intelligencer. "Let the ramifications of that settle in for a bit. In a month or two, I think you'd be able to get the appropriations bill passed that we need. "

"Oh, for the love of-" Beatty broke off the incipient blasphemy. Clay didn't approve of such, and at least part of his disapproval was actually genuine.

Beatty slid forward, perched on the edge of his chair. "We've been over this more often than I want to remember. Mr. Porter, no one except you thinks it will take an army the size of the Russian tsars to squelch a pack of rioting negroes. A simple doubling of the regiments-"

Weeks-months-of simmering doubts and frustration boiled to the surface. Without realizing he'd done so, Porter was on his feet.

"Mr. Beatty, have you ever gotten any closer to a battlefield than you have to the moon? Because I have. " He pointed a slightly shaking finger at the newspaper. "Did you read the account of the battle, every detail of which was published in that same newspaper? And many others. They were outnumbered, and they still held off half the existing U.S. Army while inflicting worse casualties than almost any battle in the war with Britain and routing several thousand militiamen. And you-you-you-propose to call them rioting negroes, as if we faced nothing more than a minor civil disturbance?"

Clay was saying something, but Porter was simply too angry to pay attention. "Blast you! Gentlemen, we are dealing with a war, here. A very real, no-joking, war. That means we have got to mobilize the same way-"

"Peter!"

Porter broke off at that half shout. He saw that Clay was on his feet. The president's expression was just short of a glare.

"Peter," he said sternly, "I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to leave. And please do not return until and unless you have regained your composure."

Porter stared at him.

"Now, please."

There was Nothing to say, that he could think of. Any longer. Explosively, he let out a breath that he hadn't even realized he was holding in.

"Yes, of course, Mr. President. My apologies." He gathered up his own satchel and made for the door.

On the way out, he heard Clay saying: "For that matter, gentlemen, I think we should leave this whole issue out of our discussion altogether. It is now properly a matter for the Cabinet."

The Cabinet. That meant John Calhoun, first and foremost. Who had also never in his life come closer to a battlefield than he had to the moon. And who, while he favored as big an expansion of the army as possible, had a contempt for black people so deep that it blinded him.

But as he passed through the door, Peter realized it was no longer any of his concern. There were limits. There had to be limits, and he was now past them.

Outside, on Pennsylvania Avenue, he looked down at the Capitol. Trying, for a moment, to remember how many years he had spent in the republic's service, doing his best to help guide it.

Enough. He had his own affairs to tend to, which he had long neglected. What would happen would happen, unfolding according to its own grim logic. A war begun by happenstance-some scheming, too, to be honest-would now be fought by men who thought they could do everything by half measures, supplanting the other half with schemes. The half measures would fail, succeeded by fuller ones-but those, too, would be stunted by that same cleverness, which was too clever by half. Until, in the end, they found themselves in a roaring rapids, in a rudderless raft they'd thought to be a steamboat, with the falls ahead.

Be damned to them all. Peter Porter owned no slaves and never had.

He was finally able to laugh, a bit. And never would own any, of course. Not now.

New Antrim

Sheff Parker was surprised when Julia Chinn ushered Winfield Scott into his room. He knew who the man was, of course, and had even seen him a time or two on the streets before his injury. But they'd never exchanged so much as a single word.

He lowered the newspaper he'd been working his way through, with some relief. He'd have preferred reading an account of the new National Democratic-Republican Party's program in an article written by Cullen Bryant and Scott. But Bryant had left a few weeks ago. He'd decided to remain in Arkansas for the duration of the war. But, that being the case, he had no desire to remain separated from his wife and daughter, so he'd gone to get them and bring them back with him.

From what Sheff had been told by Julia, Scott had considered the same course of action. But either because his family was larger-five children in all-or because his wife came from Virginian upper crust, or because he was apparently planning to cover the war from both sides of the line, he'd decided otherwise.

Unfortunately, from Sheff 's point of view, that meant the analysis of the new party's program was being written by John Ridge and Buck Watie. And they tended toward a far more flowery style of prose. Sheff 's ability to read was improving rather quickly, now that he had so much time on his hands. But this was a strain.

Scott came to the bed and leaned over to see what Sheff was reading.

"Oh, dear Lord. I don't envy you that. I leave aside the fact that their assessment misses the mark wildly, and on at least three counts."