1824: The Arkansas War

O CTOBER 1, 1824

"Another five dollars," the man offered. He even had the cash on hand. A half-eagle, at that, which was literally as good as gold. Even better than the usual Spanish reales.

The young man's New England accent irritated the steamboat captain, who had been born and raised in Georgia and now made his home in New Orleans. But the extra money offered was too much to pass up.

"All right, then. We'll find you a berth somewhere's aboard. Though I'm blasted if I understand why a poet wants to go upriver in these times. I've half a mind not to myself. Wouldn't, if I didn't have a contract I got to meet."

The New Englander shrugged. "I thought I'd try my hand at some frontier extravaganzas and the like. Perhaps an epic, if I can find a suitable topic. New York publishers love the stuff, and a poet needs an epic to cement his reputation. I might even be able to sell it in Europe, too."

He didn't seem inclined to explain further. He was practically talking ancient Greek anyway, as far as the captain was concerned. Poetry. New York publishers. Europe. Epics, no less!

"Come aboard, then."

The poet found a convenient chair toward the rear of the deck and set himself up. There was an overhang to shelter him in case of rain, which would likely be handy. He'd have to sleep in that chair also, the craft being such a small one. But the blanket in his trunk should suffice to keep him warm, this far south and still being in early fall.

Since it would be a day, at least, before the steamboat neared the scene of the activities he was interested in, he decided he might as well work on "Thanatopsis" further. It had been his most famous and popular poem since he'd first gotten it published in 1817 in the North American Review. But he'd actually written it in 1811, still one month short of his seventeenth birthday, and he'd never been satisfied with the end result.

Sadly, he'd soon be forced to put aside poetry, for the most part. There was just no money in it, and now that he was almost thirty years old he needed to find an occupation that would support a family. He had one daughter already and would no doubt soon have other children to care for.

Find another occupation, rather. He'd done well enough as a lawyer but had discovered that he detested the work. Lawyers spent most of their time dealing with people they rarely liked and often loathed. Even the few whose company they might otherwise have enjoyed, they encountered under bad circumstances. So, with the support of his wife, Fanny, he'd decided on journalism, being interested in public affairs. And, now, found himself blessing the impulse that had taken him to the west to write some essays on the new Confederacy. There was quite a bit of fascination with the subject in New England, New York, and Pennsylvania.

Talk about perfect coincidence!

That evening, the captain came by for a brief visit.

"What'd you say your name was?"

"Bryant, Captain. William Cullen Bryant."

At four o'clock the next afternoon, the first corpse drifted past the steamboat. By noon, two more had done the same.

Horrid-looking things. But not as horrid-not nearly-as the corpse they passed on the riverbank. The man-apparently an Indian, although it was difficult to tell-had been spread-eagled on the wheel of an old wagon, flayed, and disemboweled. His intestines-what was left of them, after the birds and animals-trailed on the ground.

Bryant didn't vomit over the side, however, until they passed the corpses of the woman and child who'd been impaled. Both bodies were naked. The woman's breasts had been cut off and:something had been done to her groin. Thankfully, the details were impossible to discern in the twilight. From the blood caked in the area, the boy had had his genitals severed. He was perhaps eight years old, as near as Bryant could tell from the distance.

"Boys are bein' right rambunctious," the captain said, shaking his head. "Don't really hold with it myself, though I understand how they feel."

Tight-lipped, trying to control his stomach, Bryant said nothing.

"Thanatopsis." A teenage boy's poem on death. It all seemed very distant, now.

Journalism, however, did not. That night, on a steamboat deck by lamplight, he began writing in earnest the first article of An Account of the Current Situation in Arkansas.

1824: TheArkansasWar