1824: The Arkansas War

CHAPTER 11

Alexandria, Louisiana

"Robbed, I say again!" Robert Crittenden's voice filled the tavern, even managing to ride over the hubbub of far too many men packed into far too small a space-and with far too much whiskey packed inside them, to boot.

"Robbed, I say again!"

Raymond Thompson looked at his companion across the small table in a corner of the tavern and rolled his eyes. "How many times do you think he'll say it again?"

Scott Powers swirled the whiskey in his glass. "Ten, at least." Then, shrugging: "Better him than you or me, Ray. Somebody's got to keep the boys stirred up."

"Cheated of our rightful new state by the scoundrel Adams-that bastard Monroe, too!-and their tools in Congress! Has ever mankind seen a more infamous act of treachery than the selling of Texas and Arkansas-and for the sake of nothing more sublime than appeasing the corrupt Dons and their-"

Powers chuckled. "Sore, isn't he? Mostly he's just riled because he was sure he'd be appointed the governor of Arkansas. If the state had ever come into existence."

Thompson didn't reply. The statement was true enough, of course, but he didn't share Powers's cynical equanimity on the subject. For Powers, any expedition to seize Arkansas was just a stepping-stone to Texas. But Thompson had been counting on getting some of that fine bottomland in the Arkansas portion of the Delta. He could have sold it to speculators within a year and turned a profit on the deal. Instead, he was holed up in Alexandria, trying to evade his creditors.

"-Cherokee savages and the Quapaws, more savage still-"

But there was no point in dwelling on past misfortunes. If all went well, before long he'd be rich enough to thumb his nose at any creditors. "Any word from the Lallemand brothers?" he asked.

"Not lately. Far as I know, they should still be arriving any day."

Thompson frowned into his whiskey glass. "I still don't like the idea. You know as well as I do that they're just looking for an angle to set up French rule in Texas."

"So what?" Powers drained his own glass. "Let 'em dream. Napoleon died two years ago. Without him as the anchor-even assuming they could have freed him from St. Helena-they don't stand a chance. And in the meantime, they're willing to put two hundred and fifty trained soldiers in the field-and Charles Lallemand is a genuine general. Fought at Waterloo, even."

"-niggers for the taking, too! Like catching fish in a pond! What say you, boys?"

Thompson and Powers both winced. An instant later, the roar of the crowd hammered their ears.

When the noise ebbed enough to allow conversation again, Thompson returned stubbornly to the subject. "French soldiers, Scott. Who's to say-"

"Not more than a third, any longer, after that comedy of errors they called Champ d'Asile. Not even Long's people scrambled out of Texas faster." Powers looked away for a moment, a considering expression on his face. "Most of the men around the Lallemands, since they settled in Alabama, are local boys. They'll listen to Charles on the field, but that's it."

He stood up, holding his empty glass. "Another?"

Thompson shook his head. "No, I've got to be able to see straight tomorrow morning. At least-"

"-problem will be catching those niggers, the way they'll run after a stout volley and the sight of level bayonets! I'm telling you, boys-"

"God, I'm sick of that man's voice," Thompson grumbled. "But, as I was saying, at least he came up with the muskets he said he would. Two thousand stand."

Powers's eyes widened. "Where did-"

"Don't ask, Scott. But you can probably figure it out."

After a moment, Powers smiled. "Benefactors in high places, indeed. But I shall be the very model of discretion."

After he left, Thompson drained his own glass.

"-envy of every Georgian and Virginian! And then! On to Texas!"

Another roar from the crowd caused Thompson to hunch his shoulders. "Enough, already," he muttered to himself.

He eyed the far-distant door, gloomily certain it would take him five minutes to work his way through the mob. More like ten, if he wanted to avoid a duel. Half the men in the tavern would fight over any offense, and they could find an offense most anywhere.

Blue Spring Farm, Kentucky