1824: The Arkansas War

D ECEMBER 16, 1824

"I don't care if we go bankrupt, Henry." Patrick Driscol's rasp seemed more pronounced than ever. "What difference does it make if Arkansas goes under? I'll be dead on a battlefield, you'll be a slave picking cotton in the Delta, and even the engineer fellow here"-a thumb indicated Henry Shreve, who was scowling at him from the doorway-"is likely to be standing trial for treason. Never gave up his U.S. citizenship, you know."

"That's not funny, Patrick!" Shreve's scowl grew darker still.

"No, I suppose not. It's still true." Driscol smiled thinly. "Of course, you could always have a sudden conversion on the road to Damascus. 'Reconversion,' I guess I should say. Hurry on down to Memphis, confess the error of your wicked ways, and offer your services to the Fulton-Livingston Company. Word has it they've already got the contract for supplying the U.S. Army, in the event war comes. I'm sure they'd hire you on."

Now Shreve's scowl could have terrified an ogre. "Stop playing the fool! 'Hurry on down to Memphis.' In what? A rowboat?-seeing as how you've already seized everything I own, you damn tyrant. Worse than any Federalist who ever lived, you are."

Henry Crowell's grunt combined amusement and exasperation. "Don't forget the years he spent with Napoleon, Henry. Conscription-seizure of personal property-all out for the war effort. Nothing's too low for the Laird. By next Tuesday, I figure he'll start debasing the currency."

"Don't call me that, damnation. I hate that term."

"Why? It's true, Patrick. And before you start prattling about your republican principles-about which Henry's right; you've shredded every one these past two months-you might keep in mind that the term is prob'bly worth another regiment, as far as the army's morale goes."

Shreve's scowl lightened a bit. "He's right about that. Black heathen savages. Bad as Frenchmen. Vive l'empereur! Allons enfants de la patrie! "

His French accent was quite good. Better than Driscol's, in fact, although Driscol was more fluent in the language. So Crowell had been told, anyway. His own knowledge of French was limited to the Creole he'd picked up in New Orleans.

"They're hardly heathens," grumbled Patrick. "Most of 'em are downright Calvinists, by now, since Brown started his preaching."

Shreve gave him a skeptical look. Driscol shrugged. "Well, fine. Some of Marie Laveau's voudou in there, too, I suppose."

"John Brown doesn't actually preach," Crowell said mildly. "It's more just that black folks admire the man so much. And why shouldn't they? The Catholics are doing pretty well, too, actually. Especially since all that money started coming in from Pierre Toussaint to fund them."

Shreve rolled his eyes. "You had to bring that up, didn't you?" Sourly, he crossed his arms and slouched in the doorway. "I can remember a time-O blessed days of innocent youth-when my world was a lot simpler. Sure as hell didn't include rich black bankers in Arkansas and still richer darkies in New York. And a crazy Scots-Irishman to fan the flames of their insane ambitions."

Crowell's grunt this time was simply amused. For all of Shreve's more-or-less constant carping and complaining, the fact was that the Pennsylvania steamboat wizard had thrown in his lot with Arkansas as unreservedly as the poorest freedman. Henry wasn't sure why, exactly, since it certainly wasn't due to any commitment on Shreve's part to abolition or even any deep faith in human equality. Shreve didn't really care that much about such things, one way or the other. He had the mind and soul of an engineer, first, last, and always.

In the end, Henry thought, that was the key. As much and as often as Shreve protested Driscol's ways-which did, indeed, sometimes border on Napoleonic high-handedness if not outright tyranny-the fact remained that the Laird of Arkansas had supported and funded Shreve's plans and schemes far more extensively than any person or institution in the United States had ever done. Or ever would, so long as the Fulton-Livingston Company could throw its money and influence around.

But it was time to settle the current dispute. "Fine, Patrick. Seeing as how you're being stubborn-"

"When is he not? " demanded Shreve.

"-we'll sink every dime we can into buying iron plate from the foundries in Cincinnati and Pittsburgh. The ones who'll still do business with us, anyway."

Seeing Driscol's sarcastic expression, he chucked. "Which, I admit, is all of them. Amazing, in a way, since Ohio's supposed to be solid for Henry Clay."

Shreve snorted. " 'Solid' refers to politics. Money has no country."

He glared at Driscol. "Besides which, the United States is a republic. A nation of free men, where the idea that the government could tell a man what he could and couldn't do with his own property is anathema."

"Especially when the property talks and has a black skin," Driscol fired back. "So don't preach to me about 'freedom,' Mister Shreve. I find myself quite willing to abrogate the lesser freedoms to maintain the great ones. We're still going to buy all the iron plate we can, since we can't make it in our own little foundries, so that when the bastards come up the river it'll be our boats-yours, when I give them back after the war-who steam out of the encounter. And theirs which go under. Or would you rather we did it the other way around?"

Put that way:

Shreve threw up his hands. "Fine! I'm going back to work. Otherwise your lunatic scheme will sink the boats right there at the piers, all the iron you'll try to bolt onto them."

"I wouldna dream of telling an engineer his business," said Driscol, his Belfast accent thicker than usual. "Mind, I'd appreciate the occasional reciprocation."

But Shreve had already left.

Washington, D.C.