1812-The Rivers of War

by Eric Flint

  So would Armstrong himself, for that matter. He was a ruined man, and he knew it. He would accept responsibility for neglecting the capital's defenses, for which, in truth, he'd done little more than create the impressively named "Tenth Military District." But of all the poor decisions the secretary of war regretted, the one he regretted the most was having made William Winder the commanding general of the newly formed district.

  It had seemed a clever enough idea, at the time. A former general himself, Armstrong hadn't really expected the British to attack the capital in the first place. So what did it matter which officer was placed in charge?

  Armstrong still didn't understand the military logic behind their operation, in fact, since Baltimore offered a far more suitable target.

  Rational or not, though, the British had chosen to attack Washington instead of Baltimore. General Winder had made a complete hash of the business, as one might expect from a man whose only previous military accomplishment had been his ignominious capture at the battle of Stoney Creek. Giving command of the Tenth Military District to Winder had seemed a sensible way at the time to enlist the political support of Maryland for strengthening the defenses of Baltimore. William Winder was a prominent attorney in Baltimore; better still, his uncle Levin Winder was the governor of Maryland. But Armstrong was deeply regretting that decision now.

  All in the past.

  "I can't undermine him now, James," Armstrong murmured softly to the secretary of state. "Bad as Winder might be, to shred the military chain of command under these circumstances would create the worst situation possible."

  Monroe glared at Winder. The general took no notice, since he was far too preoccupied with roaring outrage and indignation and shouting threats of bloody punishment to be paying any attention to the cabinet members who were whispering at their table in the corner.

  "You told him yourself the Capitol would make a splendid fortress," Monroe hissed to Armstrong. "And I agreed with you. Just a short time ago, when we all met there after that farce at Bladensburg."

  Armstrong shrugged uncomfortably. True, he had. The fact had been obvious to anyone with real military experience. It had been equally obvious to Monroe, who'd fought in the Revolution. But Winder had been on the verge of hysteria, after Bladensburg, and Armstrong hadn't felt it possible to press the matter.

  "What difference would it have made?" he asked Monroe softly. "Yes, the Capitol would have been a fine place to make a stand—but not under Winder. Certainly not in the condition he was in at the time. What was I to do, James? Relieve him on the spot? And who should I have replaced him with?"

  Monroe sighed. "Curse the luck that Winfield Scott's wounds proved too grave for him to take the post."

  Armstrong nodded. The brilliant young brigadier had been everyone's first choice for commander of the Tenth Military District. Unfortunately, the injuries Scott had received at Lundy's Lane were taking months to heal. The brigadier was still recuperating in New Jersey.

  "We do what we can, James. The question that now faces us, is: What do we do?"

  General Winder's bellows provided one answer.

  "I'll have him shot! I swear I will! What is his name?"

  A hesitant voice answered. It was the accountant, Simmons. "Huston, I believe. I'm not sure of his first name, General. Sam, maybe. He's got some wild injuns with him, too. Frightful-looking creatures."

  "Well then, General Sam Huston will go before the wall! See if he won't!"

  Armstrong frowned. He had a good memory for names, and there was no General Huston serving in the U.S. Army. Nor in any of the state militias, as far as he knew. And what would a group of Indians be doing accompanying a general, anyway?

  He cocked an inquisitive eye at one of his secretaries, seated at the same table. The efficient young man was already flipping through the files he'd salvaged from the War Department.

  "Huston, Huston," the clerk muttered. "There's no Huston of any rank in—oh, wait."

  "Yes?"

  The clerk looked up. "There is an officer by the name of Sam Houston, sir. From Tennessee. He's in the Thirty-ninth Infantry, and apparently conducted himself very well at the Horseshoe Bend. But he's certainly not a general."

  "What is he, then?"

  The clerk looked back down at the file. "Well, there's some question about that. Technically, he's just an ensign. General Jackson gave him a field promotion to captain, but the recommendation hasn't yet been approved by the War Department."

  Armstrong almost laughed at that, despite the circumstances. One of Jackson's frontier roughnecks, and an ensign to boot! It figured, though. Say what you would about Andrew Jackson, the man was a fighter. Had he been in command of the Tenth Military District, the British would have had to contest every inch of soil from the minute they landed.

  Monroe and Armstrong looked at each other for a long moment. They weren't on good terms personally. None of the Virginians in Madison's cabinet had much of a liking for the secretary of war, who'd been a New York senator. Most of that was just typical Virginian clannishness, Armstrong supposed, though he'd allow that some of it was due to his own abrasive personality.

  That, too, was all in the past. Armstrong's political career was finished. He'd be the one who'd take most of the blame for the disaster here, of that he was certain.

  All that remained was to salvage what he could of his own honor.

  "I can't undermine Winder, James," he repeated softly. "Until we've formally replaced him, we have to leave him in charge. At least publicly. Or we'll have pure chaos."

  He gave Monroe a long look from lowered brows. It might almost be called an accusatory gaze; it was certainly a challenging one.

  "That's because I'm the secretary of war, and therefore his direct superior. You, however, are not." With that, his voice took on a challenging note, and he peered expectantly at Monroe.

  Who, in turn, stared back at Armstrong. Then, looked away for a few seconds. Then, looked back.

  "Can you keep him distracted?"

  Armstrong smiled thinly. "Oh, yes, James. That I can do. With Winder, it's not even difficult."

  Monroe nodded. "I'll be off, then."

  The secretary of state rose from the table and moved as quickly as he could toward the tavern entrance, without moving so quickly that Winder might notice his departure.

  No fear of that, really. Winder was now bellowing the details of the firing squad, down to the caliber of the muskets. Armstrong watched him for a while. It seemed, under the circumstances, as good a distraction for the general as any.

  Outside, in the tavern courtyard, a servant brought up Monroe's horse.

  "On to Frederick now, sir?" asked the lieutenant in charge of the small force of dragoons who escorted the secretary of state.

  "No. We're going back into the city. The Capitol, to be precise."

  Chapter 23

  Since John Ross had no idea what he should be doing, he simply attached himself to Sam Houston. He trotted along with him as the young maybe-captain charged back and forth from the House to the Senate to the artillery battery emplaced between the two and gave speech after speech.

  Houston was a superb speechifyer, too. Even a Cherokee like Ross, accustomed to the eloquence of chiefs' councils, was impressed.

  John had no idea if Houston was citing the quotations from the Iliad properly. He'd read the poem, once, but he certainly hadn't impressed it to memory. On the other hand, it hardly mattered. John was quite sure that none of the soldiers manning the Capitol had memorized the poem, either, so who could argue the matter?

  And if Sam's rendition of the Iliad was his own half-remembered words instead of those of Pope, then the breezy youngster from Tennessee was something of a poet himself.

  Shall I my prize resign

  With tame content, and thou possess'd of thine?

  Great as thou art, and like a god in fight,

  Think not to rob me of a soldier's right.

  It sounded splendid in the House o
f Representatives, regardless of whose words they actually were. And it seemed to lift the spirits of the men.

  When he said as much to Houston, as they hurried across to the Senate, Sam just grinned at him.

  "Not too appropriate a citation, perhaps. They were disputing over a captured woman, you know, not a nation's capital. But it seemed suitable to the occasion, so long as I kept it to a few lines."

  Suddenly the grin was replaced by a frown. "Speaking of women, where is Tiana now?"

  It was John's turn to grin. For all the martial speeches, the only actual battle Houston had fought so far had been his desperate struggle to keep Tiana Rogers from accompanying him everywhere he went. Partly because he was worried about her safety; partly because Tiana would inevitably distract the men; but mostly, he confided to Ross, because he was in enough trouble as it was. If Tiana remained at his side during the battle, the gossip would have it afterward that she was his concubine. So fornication would be added to the charges of treason and insubordination!

  Americans were odd, John mused, when it came to sex. Cherokees were far more rational on the subject. Marriage was taken seriously among them, and adultery was frowned upon, of course. But it was also taken more or less for granted that energetic and curious youngsters would inevitably do what they would do, and where was the harm? Granted, such a relaxed attitude was easier for a matrilineal society than one that, like the American, granted ridiculous authority to fathers and husbands.

  "Bastardy," an obsession for the whites, was almost a meaningless term for Cherokees. A child's place came from the mother's position, not the father's.

  "She's sulking in her tent, I imagine," John replied.

  Sam flashed another grin. But they were already striding into the Senate, and it was time for another speech.

  "And will we be become one with the Trojans, boys?" Sam bellowed, gesturing to the soldiers.

  "My heroes slain, my bridal bed o'erturned,

  My daughters ravished, and my city burn'd,

  My bleeding infants dash'd against the floor—"

  "No, sir! No, sir!" came the responding roar.

  "Henry?"

  The exclamation, coming unexpectedly out of the shadows, literally made Henry Crowell jump. Except for a few lamps here and there, there was no illumination in the cavernous foundry at night.

  Not this night, anyway. On some other nights, in the past, work crews laboring on a rush order would have kept the foundry lit just by the nature of their work. In years past, Henry had put in a fair number of sixteen-hour days himself.

  He peered into the darkness. That voice...

  "Is that you, Mr. Kendall?"

  A figure came from behind one of the furnaces, dressed in heavy work clothes, a musket in his hands. "Yes, it's me all right. What are you doing here, Henry?"

  Kendall's voice wasn't quite suspicious, and the musket wasn't quite pointing directly at him. Still, Henry figured a quick explanation was in order.

  "I was sent here by Captain Houston, Mr. Kendall. Me and"—he turned and gestured behind him—"these other men."

  Henry had been the first one through the door, and he was relieved to see Pendleton coming forward. Even in the poor lighting, the young volunteer's uniform was flamboyantly visible.

  "The captain's in charge of the Capitol's defense," Henry elaborated. "He instructed me and these Baltimore dragoons to come to the foundry and see if we could find some ammunition and shot. Maybe some ordnance, too."

  He completed the introductions. "Corporal, this here is Mr. David Kendall. He used to be my foreman, when I worked at Foxall's."

  By now, Kendall was relaxing. He even seemed pleased to see them. He leaned the musket against a pillar and slapped his hands together. "Defend the Capitol! Yes, you'll need some shot and powder for that. Be right down magged without it!"

  He turned and headed toward the interior of the foundry, waving for Henry to follow. "I've got better, too. There's a couple of three-pounders just finished and ready. You can take them back with you."

  Even with his limp, Kendall soon outdistanced the men who were following him. It had been several years since Henry had worked in Foxall's, and he'd half forgotten the complicated layout of the place. There were too many half-seen obstructions for him to want to risk getting bruised—or worse. The only soft thing in a foundry is human flesh.

  "He seems to like you well enough," Pendleton commented. "Lucky thing, eh?"

  Henry shook his head. "Well, I suppose he ought to. He got that limp some years ago when a blank rolled onto his leg. Liked to have crushed it completely, 'cept I picked up one end of it so's he could get out from under."

  Pendleton looked puzzled. "Blank?"

  "One of them." Henry pointed at a solid bar of iron they were moving past. It was over six inches in diameter and several feet long.

  Pendleton ogled the thing. "That must weigh..."

  "Don't know how much, exactly. A lot. Thought my back would break by the end."

  Now Pendleton was ogling him.

  "I'm powerful strong," Henry said, half apologetically.

  He needed that strength, later. One of the three-pounders got stuck while the dragoons tried to haul it out through the dark foundry, after they fit it onto its carriage. Henry freed the wheel by the simple expedient of lifting it up.

  "Remind me not to arm-wrestle you," Pendleton murmured.

  Kendall barked a laugh. "I can't remember anybody being dumb enough to arm-wrestle him since the first week he started working here. How old was you then, Henry?"

  "Sixteen, Mr. Kendall."

  "Well, you haven't lost it, even living that easy new life of yours as a teamster." He patted Henry's heavy shoulder and gave the dragoons a friendly nod. "Good luck, boys, and do the best you can."

  Before he'd gone more than two blocks, two well-dressed, middle-aged white civilians armed with muskets accosted Henry on the lead wagon. The only real trouble came after they left the foundry.

  "What're you doing, boy?" demanded one of them.

  Henry didn't need to answer. Pendleton trotted his horse forward, holding up his own musket and glowering as fiercely as a youngster can.

  "You there! We're on official military business!" he snapped. "Now move out of the way!"

  Seeing other dragoons coming up behind him, as well as two more wagons, the civilians backed off. One of them, however, didn't move quite fast enough to suit Pendleton.

  "Keep dawdling like that," he snarled, "and we'll make you arm-wrestle Henry here."

  "You'll look good," another dragoon commented, "your arm in a sling. All busted up the way it'll be."

  Tiana wasn't sulking in her tent. In fact, she wasn't sulking at all.

  Not any longer, anyway.

  She'd given in to Sam's demands that she remain behind while he dashed to and fro rallying the soldiers. No sooner had he left, however, than her sullen resentment had turned impish.

  Houston had told her and the other children—as if she were a "child"!—to remain in the Senate. So, naturally, as soon as he had left with John Ross in tow, she led them across to the House of Representatives. Even Sequoyah didn't argue the matter. She thought he was a bit disgruntled himself, at being left out of the battle.

  It had been a fortunate move, even if driven only by rebellious impulse. In the Senate, she and the Ridge children had just been underfoot. But, once in the House, she discovered Commodore Barney, lying wounded on his settee. The small mob of admirers who had earlier surrounded the commodore was gone, and he was looking a bit forlorn. He was obviously in considerable pain, too, now that the excitement of his arrival was past.

  Tiana needed something to keep her mind off the coming battle. So she decided to tend to the commodore's injuries.

  The man seemed surprised—even a bit shocked—by the easy and casual manner in which she went about the business. Why? she wondered. Injuries, even injuries taken in battle, were messy and undignified by their very nature. The scars to come would
be suitable objects for boasting, but the open wounds themselves were simply ugly.

  "They did a good job," she pronounced, after lacing and buttoning the commodore back up. "I don't care for that poultice, but I suppose it'll do."

  "You speak English?" he asked, still rather wide-eyed.

  Tiana snorted, then muttered something in Cherokee.

  "I'm sorry, lass. I didn't understand that."