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, welclass="underline" 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
CHAPTER 6
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."
By now, the smile was on the edge of being an outright grin. " 'Course, you'll have to wait until Driscol dies. He'll skin you alive, he hears you call it that."
Sheff studied the town the steamboat was approaching. He was impressed by the size of it, even though it didn't approach the standards of his native Baltimore. But it was far grander than anything he'd expected to see way out here on the frontier, beyond the limits of the United States. When they'd reached Cincinnati, Salmon Brown had told him it had fifteen thousand residents. From what he could see, Sheff was pretty sure New Antrim was even bigger.
Quite a bit bigger, in fact, at least in terms of the number of people. The houses here were a lot more crowded together than they'd been in Cincinnati. That town had been populated mainly by prosperous white mechanics and merchants. This one, even if it didn't seem to be as beat up as the freedmens' quarter in Baltimore, was obviously a lot poorer than Cincinnati. Although it was hard to tell, really. Most of the construction was new and raw, with nothing much in the way of frills. The people living inside those mostly log-and-wattle dwellings might be in better shape than the houses themselves.
The Cherokee confirmed his guess a moment later. "They took the first census just five months ago. The Little Rock's got just over twenty-eight thousand people in it. 'Bout twenty thousand of them are black, like you. Another five thousand or so are white people. The rest-"
No question about it. That was a grin. "Are crazy Indians like me."
Sheff 's sister had the tactlessness of most eight-year-olds. "Why are you crazy? Don't really seem like it."
"Dinah!" exclaimed their mother. She smacked her daughter on the back of her head. "Mind your manners!"
The Cherokee's grin never faded, though. "Bean't no worse than what most Cherokees call me, Missus Parker. Considerable better, in fact." To Dinah, he said: " 'Course I'm crazy, girl. Why else would a Cherokee live in a place like this? When I could be doing exciting things like chasing deer in the rain?"
He looked away from her, bestowing the grin on the town. They were almost at the pier, by now.
"Don't bother me. There's enough other Cherokees feel the same way I do, that I never lack for company. Quite a few Creeks, too. And I do declare I think we're looking to outnumber the other Indians, you give it maybe ten or twenty years."
A deafening blast from the steamboat's whistle made Sheff jump a little.
"Well, here we are." The steamboat was being tied up to the wharf while a small crew of men moved a ramp toward the side of the boat. Two other men emerged from a door in the side of a large building next to the pier.