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.
They were both black, as were all the men moving the ramp. But the two newcomers were wearing green uniforms.
Sheff had heard rumors about those uniforms. These were men in the Arkansas Army. It was real!
Some of his excitement must have shown. The old Indian chuckled softly. “Yep, that’s them, all right. The Confederate Army. Arkansas Chiefdom, anyway.”
“What are they doing here?” asked Sheff ’s mother.
The Cherokee sucked his teeth for a moment. “I guess you could call it recruitment.”
Sheff ’s mother immediately frowned. “I don’t want my boy signing up for no army!”
The Cherokee smiled again. But said nothing.
Less than an hour later, sitting behind his mother on a stool in a large office in New Antrim’s largest bank, Sheff was mightily confused about most everything. But he understood why the old man had smiled.
“It’s not fair!” his mother exclaimed. The words were half a protest, half a wail.
The man sitting on the opposite side of the biggest desk Sheff had ever seen just shrugged his shoulders. “No, I suppose not. But what’s ‘fair’ got to do with anything, Mrs. Parker? You wanted your freedom, and you got it. But what ‘freedom’ means, right now, is the freedom to starve.”
Sheff was too fascinated with the man himself to pay much attention to his words. His name was Henry Crowell, nothing spectacular. But to Sheffield Parker he was a living, breathing dragon, testifying in person that this new fantasy world was real.
First, because he was black.
Second, because he was the biggest man Sheff had ever seen.
Third, because he was wearing fancier-looking clothes than anything Sheff had ever seen anyone wear except a few of the richest white men in Baltimore.
Finally—most glorious of all—because he was the
president
of the bank.
He
owned
it!
Well, half of it, anyway. From what Sheff had been able to understand of the man’s introductory remarks, the other half was apparently owned by the same Patrick Driscol who’d become a mysterious legend to Sheff.
“It’s not fair!” Sheff ’s mother repeated, trying, this time, for more in the way of sternness
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.
They were both black, as were all the men moving the ramp. But the two newcomers were wearing green uniforms.
Sheff had heard rumors about those uniforms. These were men in the Arkansas Army. It was real!
Some of his excitement must have shown. The old Indian chuckled softly. “Yep, that’s them, all right. The Confederate Army. Arkansas Chiefdom, anyway.”
“What are they doing here?” asked Sheff ’s mother.
The Cherokee sucked his teeth for a moment. “I guess you could call it recruitment.”
Sheff ’s mother immediately frowned. “I don’t want my boy signing up for no army!”
The Cherokee smiled again. But said nothing.
Less than an hour later, sitting behind his mother on a stool in a large office in New Antrim’s largest bank, Sheff was mightily confused about most everything. But he understood why the old man had smiled.
“It’s not fair!” his mother exclaimed. The words were half a protest, half a wail.
The man sitting on the opposite side of the biggest desk Sheff had ever seen just shrugged his shoulders. “No, I suppose not. But what’s ‘fair’ got to do with anything, Mrs. Parker? You wanted your freedom, and you got it. But what ‘freedom’ means, right now, is the freedom to starve.”
Sheff was too fascinated with the man himself to pay much attention to his words. His name was Henry Crowell, nothing spectacular. But to Sheffield Parker he was a living, breathing dragon, testifying in person that this new fantasy world was real.
First, because he was black.
Second, because he was the biggest man Sheff had ever seen.
Third, because he was wearing fancier-looking clothes than anything Sheff had ever seen anyone wear except a few of the richest white men in Baltimore.
Finally—most glorious of all—because he was the
president
of the bank.
He
owned
it!
Well, half of it, anyway. From what Sheff had been able to understand of the man’s introductory remarks, the other half was apparently owned by the same Patrick Driscol who’d become a mysterious legend to Sheff.
“It’s not fair!” Sheff ’s mother repeated, trying, this time, for more in the way of sternness
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