Eric Flint - 1824 - The Arkansas War

Another deep breath. "His name is Henry Crowell, and the reason he's silent is because he's black. He's gotten rich enough over the past few years that he'd like to expand his business into the United States, but he can't do that without a white partner as his public face."

Sam was half expecting an outraged reaction. Despite his relationship to Julia, Richard Johnson's general attitudes on matters of race weren't really all that different from those of most people in the country. Like Andy Jackson, Johnson was always willing to make personal exceptions to generalities. But the generalities themselves, he didn't really question much.

To his surprise, though, Johnson's face simply seemed pensive. "Crowell? That name's familiar."

"Well, it ought to be!" Sam exclaimed. "He was the teamster who supplied us at the Capitol during the battle with the British. He fought well himself, later, as part of a gun crew at the battle of the Mississippi."

Best to leave it at that, he thought. The same Henry Crowell had also been the cause of the Algiers Incident-as the victim who triggered it, if not the instigator-but Sam saw no reason to bring that up.

"Yes, that's it. But I think there was something:"

"Look, Dick," Sam said, maintaining the stout tone to keep Johnson from dwelling on the name, "Henry's as good a businessman as you can find; I don't care what color. He parlayed the supply contract I got for him for the New Orleans campaign into a small fortune-okay, real small fortune, but big enough:"

His voice trailed off. He'd just stumbled into the pit he'd been trying to avoid.

Alas, that was sufficient to jog Johnson's memory. " That Crowell? The one they castrated in New Orleans? Set off the whole blasted ruckus there?"

Sam gritted his teeth. Tarnation, he was tired of being diplomatic.

"Yes, that one," he growled. "The reason the Creoles had him castrated was because he'd gotten rich enough and prominent enough that he drew the attention of one of the girls they were grooming for one of their stinking Quadroon Balls. He almost died from the injury-castration's usually fatal, though most people don't realize it-and, yes, that's what set off the Battle of Algiers. Driscol called the Iron Battalion back into service. They marched into the French Quarter and blew the place half apart, and strung up every slave-catcher they got their hands on. Seeing as how they'd done the dirty work. Killed the Creole grandee who'd ordered it done, too. Patrick saw to that himself."

To his surprise, Johnson laughed. Quite a cheerful laugh. "And then pounded into splinters the Louisiana militia, when they got sent in to 'suppress a servile insurrection.' "

He laughed again, seeing the expression on Sam's face. "You know, Sam, you might be surprised at how a lot of people looked at that. Publicly, sure, it was a scandal and an outrage. But people have their own private thoughts-and don't ever underestimate the general. He would have done better to keep his mouth shut, but his own reaction was heartfelt. And the one thing about Andy is that he has a sure and certain knack for catching the sentiments of the common folk. That was a nasty filthy business, and there are still plenty of people in the United States for whom Patrick Driscol and the Iron Battalion are, were, and always will be the heroes who won the Battle of the Mississippi."

He gave Sam something of a sly look. "Meaning no disrespect to your own glorious part in the affair."

Sam just smiled. He'd gotten more public credit for winning that battle than Patrick had, but that was simply because he was a lot more acceptable figure than the grim and dour Irish rebel-and, most of all, because Sam's soldiers had been white. But Sam himself knew perfectly well that the valiant stand of the Iron Battalion had been the key to winning that battle. So did Andy Jackson, for that matter.

"Yes, that Crowell. After he recovered, well:He just got more determined than ever to be a successful man. Married the girl involved, in fact. And if he can't produce any children of his own, he makes up for it with an orphanage and the schools he set up." His tone hardened a bit. "And, yes, if you're wondering, he's Gerrit Smith's silent partner in that school of yours Smith is buying and moving to New Antrim."

Johnson shook his head. But it wasn't a gesture of refusal, more one of bewilderment.

"What in the name of Sam Hill is the world coming to?" he asked, wonderingly.

By now, Sam thought he'd come to know the answer to that question. And, for once, decided he'd say it out loud to another white man. "I'm Cherokee by adoption, Dick. What the world is coming to-if I've got anything to say about it-is that I'd like to see what happens if we use Cherokee methods for a change. At least in one part of the continent."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I'm sick and tired of stumbling over race, everywhere I go. So I'd like to try clans, instead. I don't ask for a perfect world, just one where people deal with each other instead of categories. Imperfect as they may be."

Johnson went back to staring at the nearby wall of the barn. No reason to, really, since nothing hung on that wall but some half-rusted old tools that nobody had used in years.

"All right," he said finally. "I'm willing to give it a try. Not that I really have much choice anyway."

Sam nodded. "Good. I've already set it up at the other end. In fact, Henry told me he'd have the money ready, if you agreed. Soon as I get there, I'll have it sent. It'll be fifteen thousand dollars, to start."

That was enough to yank Johnson's eyes from the wall. " Fifteen thousand? What kind of darkie has-"

"The richest darkie in the world," Sam replied coldly. "Anywhere in North America, anyway. Take it or leave it, Dick."

The senator seemed more bemused than ever. "Oh, I'll take it. I surely will. But still-"

He shook his head again. "Like I said, what's the world coming to?"

Sam had already given whatever good answer he had to that, so he just shrugged. "I'll be on my way, then."

"Sam Hill, if you will!" Johnson seized Sam by the arm and half dragged him out of the barn. "This calls for a drink of whiskey!"

Sam put up something of a protest.

As they rode away from Blue Spring Farm, in midafternoon, Chester asked him, "You going to make it through the rest of the day, Mr. Sam?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Just wondering. You might want to put your feet in the stirrups, then."

"Oh. Forgot."

1824: TheArkansasWar

New Antrim, Arkansas

"This is the Little Rock," announced the middle-aged Cherokee who'd escorted Sheffield Parker and his folks up the Arkansas River. There was a hint of a sly smile on his face. "Be careful. It's full of Christians."

Sheff 's mother eyed the Indian skeptically but didn't say anything. His uncle just grinned, even though normally he'd have taken umbrage, as devout as he was. For whatever reason, Sheff 's uncle and the Cherokee had gotten along quite well on the trip upriver.

"I thought it was called New Antrim," Sheff 's sister said, half complainingly.

The Cherokee's smile widened, just a bit. "Depends who you ask. We Cherokee call it the Little Rock." He pointed to a rock formation not far from the pier the steamboat was approaching. "Got the name from that. Goes back quite a ways. When Patrick Driscol bought the area from a St. Louis speculator by the name of Russell, he named it New Antrim. Most of the white folks here use that name, too."

The smile widened still further. Sheff couldn't resist the tease. "So then, what do black folks call it?"

"Most all of them just call it Driscoltown. Though you'll also hear 'Driscolburg' and 'Driscolville.' Seeing as how you black folks make up almost three out of four people living here, but can't seem to agree on the details, I imagine it'll eventually just get known as Driscol."