Eric Flint: 1824: The Arkansas War

Johnson looked a bit dubious. As well he might. The young Cherokee princess who'd married the notorious Patrick Driscol enjoyed her own reputation in the United States. Granted, a more favorable one than her husband's, since in her case most of it was in the form of overwrought and long-winded verses written by New England poets.

Ridiculous verses, too, for anyone who knew the realities of Indian and frontier life. Sam had shown one of the more famous poems to Tiana once-Edward Coote Pinkney's "The Cherokee Bride"-and her comment, after reading less than a third of it, had been a terse "Well, he's never gutted a deer."

But however uncertain the senator might be at the prospect, Julia was firm. "We'll do it, then. Look for us coming toward the end of the summer."

Sam nodded. "Good. I probably won't be there myself, then, but I'll let Patrick and Tiana know that you're coming."

When they found out at lunch, the girls were ecstatic.

"We get to play Indians!" squealed Imogene.

" With Indians," her sister corrected her.

Imogene bestowed the inimitable sneer of a twelve-year-old upon a hopelessly ignorant sibling. "In Arkansas, silly, there's no difference. Everybody knows that!"

Johnson looked to be growing more dubious by the minute. But since Julia wasn't wavering, it didn't really matter.

Johnson left shortly thereafter to attend to some business around the plantation. After he was gone, Julia asked Sam quietly: "How much of that is really true? What Imogene said, I mean."

By then-noon being a thing of the past-Sam had a tumbler of whiskey in his hand and was leaning back comfortably in one of the porch chairs. "Not much, Julia. Not the way Imogene put it, anyway."

He took a sip from his whiskey, feeling the usual contentment the liquor gave him as it warmed its way down. "You're familiar enough with the Indians down here in the South. The way they figure descent and inheritance, through the mother rather than the father, makes a lot of difference when it comes to the way they figure which race starts here and which one ends there. It's not that they don't see the difference, mind you."

He chuckled harshly. "In a lot of ways, they're worse than white men. At least, our clan feuds don't tend to spring up that sudden and last forever. But that's because what really matters to them is not which race a person belongs to, but which clan. And clans intermarry. They always have. So:"

Another sip, longer this time, helped him focus his thoughts. "So the country they're putting together out there in Arkansas looks strange to us. A lot stranger than their tribes used to look, I think, because they're taking so much of it from us in the first place that most of it looks pretty familiar. In Arkansas, everything's a hybrid. Race counts, sure, but it doesn't trump everything the way it does here in the U.S."

He chuckled again, but the sound this time was much softer. Amusement rather than sarcasm. "They've even got newspapers. Five of 'em, at my last count. Four in English, and one that just started up that's trying out Sequoyah's new Cherokee script. The most popular is the one that's owned by Major Ridge's son and nephew. John Ridge and Buck Watie set it up in New Antrim, you know-or 'the Little Rock,' as the Cherokees call the town."

"Why there?" she asked. "I thought most of the Cherokees lived further west."

"They do. But newspapers need big towns to prosper, and the only big towns in the Confederacy are New Antrim and Fort of 98. Even the Cherokee capital at Tahlequah doesn't have more than two thousand people."

Sam considered tracing a map for her but gave up the idea almost immediately. With Julia's stern housekeeping regimen, there wasn't enough dust on the floor of the porch to do the trick-and he wasn't about to waste this good whiskey wetting his finger in it. So, he made do with words alone.

"Patrick's chiefdom ends at Fort of 98, where the Poteau River meets the Arkansas. Most of the Cherokees and Creeks live in the lands west of there. By now, they're spread out quite a ways, each clan staking out a big chunk. Mostly along the Arkansas, Canadian, and Cimarron rivers-but Chief Bowles and his people settled south of the Red River."

Julia frowned. "I thought they weren't supposed to do that."

"They're not. According to the Treaty of Oothcaloga-I ought to know, since I drafted it-the southern border of the Confederacy of the Arkansas is marked by the Red River. But Indians don't generally pay much attention to stuff like that. People like John Ross will, even Major Ridge these days, but not someone like The Bowl and the traditionalists who follow him."

He took another sip. "Right now, nobody's saying much. But once somebody figures out how to clear the Great Raft and make the Red navigable-which is bound to happen, sooner or later-there'll be Sam Hill looking to collect the bill."

She cocked her head, gazing at him. "I'd think you'd be more upset at the prospect."

He shrugged. "That won't happen any time soon, Julia. By then, it's not likely I'll still be in charge of Indian affairs for the government. I've spoken to Henry Shreve about it. He's the steamboat genius Patrick Driscol went into partnership with, if you didn't know."

"The one who got into that big legal fight over Fulton's monopoly?"

Sam nodded. "The very man. He won that fight in court, but the Fulton-Livingston steamboat company was still able to make things miserable for him in New Orleans. Legal monopoly or not, they've got the backing of the Louisiana authorities. When Patrick made him the offer to set up his own company on the Arkansas, he jumped at it. Anyway, the point is that Shreve told me it's possible to clear the Great Raft out of the Red. In fact, in his spare time-which isn't much, as busy as the new companies in Arkansas are keeping him-he's starting to design a special steamboat to do the job. A 'snagboat,' he calls it. But even Henry Shreve doesn't think he could have it ready in less than five years-assuming he could find somebody to back him."

"And how likely is that?"

Sam shrugged again. "It'd almost have to be the government. A project like that would be too expensive for a private company, with no obvious quick profit to be made." After another sip of whiskey, he added: "The U.S. government, I mean. No way the Confederacy would do it. Even if they had the money, which they don't."

Seeing her head still cocked quizzically, he explained. "John Ross and Major Ridge think the Great Raft is just dandy, Julia. Patrick probably burns incense to keep it there. Well, he would if the scoundrel had a religious bone anywhere in his body."

Her head was still cocked. Sam shook his own. "You've never met Patrick Driscol."

He finished the whiskey and set the tumbler down on the floor of the porch. "He's probably my closest friend, Julia, but there are times I swear the man scares me. Scares Sam Hill, for that matter. I don't think there's a harder man alive, anywhere in the world. He's gotten stinking rich over the past few years, but not because he paid much attention to it. That came from luck-the proverbial right place at the right time-and having Tiana for a wife." A quick grin came and went. "Not to mention Tiana's rapscallion father, who seems to be able to squeeze money out of anything. But Patrick himself never thinks like a rich man. He thinks like a poor Scots-Irish rebel, still seeing redcoats everywhere he looks. Even if the coats look to be blue, these days."

"You want more whiskey?"

"I was hoping you'd ask," he replied, smiling cheerfully. "Yes, please. One more and I'll be steady enough for that blasted horse. I felt peckish, waking up this morning."

"Well, I don't wonder. As much as you drank last night."

She said nothing more. Just got up and went into the house. One of the many things Sam liked about Julia Chinn was that she wasn't given to nattering. Not even at the senator, really.