by Eric Flint
Fortunately, at the age of fifty-six and with many years of experience as a senator, a state governor, an ambassador to three major nations, and a member of the executive cabinet, Monroe was no stranger to finding the initiative deposited firmly in his lap.
"If the British make another attempt on the Capitol, Captain Houston, I shall rely upon you and your men to beat them off. But that is all."
Driscol's mention of a "sally" had almost made Monroe shudder. The thought of Houston leading untrained and inexperienced men, collected from the pieces of dozens of shattered units, into an assault of his own upon British regulars in the open field...at night, even worse than in broad daylight...
Monroe did shudder, just slightly. Houston flashed him a smile.
"Please, sir. As I've once had the occasion to inform Lieutenant Driscol, I am not actually a fool. I've no more thought of leading a sally against the British tonight than I do of leading a charge against the tides."
His humor was fleeting, though. "But will simply holding the Capitol be enough? It's possible the British may leave things where they are, but I doubt it. There's really nothing stopping them from burning the rest of the city. The public buildings, at least. They may spare the private homes."
Monroe shrugged. "So be it. And so what? Captain, the sole purpose of this British raid was to manufacture a political demonstration. It was designed to humiliate us and undermine national morale, that's all. There's no conceivable military gain for them here. On that subject, at least, I was quite in agreement with Secretary Armstrong, even if—"
He broke off the rest. This wasn't the time nor the place to air the dirty linen of the cabinet. "The point being this: They can burn everything else in the capital, starting with the president's mansion, but this—this alone, never think otherwise—is the seat of the United States government. So long as the Capitol stands against them, they have accomplished nothing but to brand themselves publicly as arsonists and thieves. Petty vandals, no more!"
Deliberately, Monroe had spoken slowly and loudly enough to be heard all through the chamber. A fresh roar of applause went up from the soldiers.
"Just hold the Capitol, Captain Houston," Monroe added quietly. "Do that, and you will have done extraordinarily well. Trust my judgment here, if you would."
"Certainly, sir." Houston hesitated; then: "General Jackson speaks well of you, Mr. Monroe. I, ah, just thought I might mention that."
That was... interesting, although Monroe wasn't really surprised. Before the recent rise to political prominence of western figures such as Henry Clay and Andrew Jackson, Monroe had been the one major politician in America who had generally been attentive and friendly to western interests.
Interesting.
Monroe pondered the matter, as Houston and Driscol went about preparing the troops for a possible new British attack. In less than two years, Monroe would most likely be the new president of the United States. It had become something of a tradition in the new republic for the secretary of state to succeed to the presidency.
Whether the current war with Britain was won or lost, he was well-nigh certain that the western states and territories would dominate many of the concerns of his administration. If the war was lost, as rambunctious grievers and grousers; if it were won, as rambunctious triumphalists. Either way, they'd be an opportunity and a monstrous pain in the neck at one and the same time.
His friend Thomas Jefferson had once said of James Monroe, "Turn his soul wrong side outward and there is not a speck on it." Like all encomiums, especially coming from a personal friend and political ally, Monroe knew that the statement needed to be sprinkled with some salt. But he liked to think it was true enough—and he certainly strove to maintain it as a principle for his own conduct.
So he decided to postpone contemplating the fact that he'd cemented the allegiance of southern and western frontiersmen by his actions this night. For the moment, he'd be guided solely by his assessment of the needs of the nation.
There would be time afterward for a consideration of the political implications. He'd give the matter some real thought then, of course. An upright and honest politician still had to be a politician, or republics would be as fantastical as unicorns.
Chapter 27
"There will not be another frontal assault against those murderous guns," Robert Ross hissed. He was in no mood, any longer, to be polite. "I've lost enough men already, Admiral Cockburn, thanks to your headstrong ways."
He rolled his head on the cot in the surgeon's tent, bringing Colonel Arthur Brooke into his field of vision. Brooke was the senior brigade commander and would now have to lead the British army units.
"D'you hear me, Colonel Brooke?" Ross pointed a finger toward the glowering Cockburn. "I am not relinquishing command to him. You will have to lead the men in the field, but my orders are final."
Though enfeebled by pain, Ross matched Cockburn's glare with one of his own. "The admiral may advise you. That is all. You will not attack the Capitol again. Not frontally, at least. We shall begin siege operations."
Cockburn rolled his eyes. He knew as well as Ross did that there would be no time to carry through a successful siege of the Capitol, before the British army would be forced to retreat back to the ships on the coast. The most Brooke could do would be to harass the defenders and keep them from sallying.
Still, Ross felt it necessary to add the directive. He did so because siege preparations would tie up the bulk of his forces, which meant that Cockburn would not have them available for his own uses. Brooke was a solid enough man, but once he left Ross's immediate presence—or Ross lost consciousness again, which was quite likely—Cockburn might be able to sway him to folly. Not a direct attack on the Capitol, to be sure. Given Ross's explicit orders, Brooke would refuse to do that, no matter what Cockburn said. But who was to say what other folly Cockburn might seize upon? The rear admiral's determination to punish Americans wasn't altogether rational.
Great folly, at any rate, which might produce great casualties. Ross would allow the admiral his little pleasures, so long as his men were not placed seriously at risk. If for no other reason, because Ross wanted to get Cockburn away from Brooke and unable to influence him.
"What is the time?" Ross asked.
"Just after ten o'clock of the evening, sir," Brooke replied.
Ross closed his eyes. Pain and exhaustion were threatening to take him under again.
Not yet.
"If you intend to burn the president's mansion, Admiral Cockburn, I would suggest that you get started. You may take a few hundred men with you." His eyelids lifted slightly. "Not more than three hundred, mind. We'll need the rest for the siege."
"Siege!" Cockburn barked sarcastically. But even the admiral understood that Ross would be unmovable. Angrily, Cockburn turned on his heel and stalked out of the tent.
"Follow him, Colonel," Ross ordered. "Let him have enough men for his evening's arson, but that's all. Three hundred, no more."
"Yes, sir." Brooke hurried out.
Once they were gone, the surgeon stepped forward.
"You must let me take the bullet out, General. The longer we wait, the worse the risk. As it is, gangrene..."
Ross shook his head. "Not till this business is over, and I'm sure my men have been removed from peril."
He didn't add—not to the surgeon—that he didn't dare allow himself to be entirely incapacitated. Not yet. If Ross were unconscious for hours, during and after surgery, and therefore unable to lead his men any longer, Cockburn might claim that command of the ground forces fell to him.
The surgeon's expression was exceedingly anxious. "General—"
"Oh, be done with it!" Ross snapped. "I understand the risk, Doctor, and the responsibility is mine. If I die, I die."
There's no reason to be rude to the man, Ross chided himself. He's simply doing his job.
"Consider the bright side, Doctor," he added. "At least I'll return home in good spirits, which is always something an
Irishman treasures. Well. Navy rum, at least. Admittedly, it's not my favorite potion."
The doctor smiled crookedly. It was the custom of the empire to return the corpses of top officers to the islands, rather than burying them where they fell. They kept the bodies from rotting during the long voyage by immersing them in casks of rum. It was perhaps undignified, but...it worked.
Colonel Brooke came back into the tent a few minutes later.
"The admiral's gone, sir. On his way to the American president's mansion."
Ross nodded. Then, finally, he relinquished his hold on consciousness. Darkness was peace, and a blessing.
"Got himself another white horse, I see," Sam Houston said wryly. He lowered the telescope through which he'd been peering from an upper window on the south side of the House. "There's a man who is set in his ways."
"It is the admiral, then?" asked Driscol. He'd been almost certain, even without the aid of a telescope, but not positive.
The conflagration at the Navy Yard was still growing, and had begun spreading to nearby buildings. They could hear the sound of collapsing structures, as well as periodic explosions as the roaring flames encountered munitions. As impressive as the fire was, however, the Naval Yard was too far away for those flames to pose a direct danger to the Capitol—which also meant that the illumination was still far poorer than daylight.
Sam shrugged. "I could hardly distinguish his features at this distance, even with a glass and even if I knew what he looked like. But unless there's another British naval officer with that much gold braid and a devotion to white horses, I'd say that has to be Cockburn."
Driscol leaned out of the window and looked down. Hungrily, he studied the three-pounder that Ball and his sailors had positioned to guard the southern flank of the Capitol.
"Leave it be, Patrick!" Houston said, laughing and clapping the smaller man on the back. "Clearly he's learned his lesson. He's staying well out of range. Even with a twelve-pounder, it'd be sheer luck to hit the bastard."
Driscol didn't leave off his calculations. "Now, yes. But maybe when he returns he'll get careless." He straightened and pushed himself away from the window. "No harm in being prepared, after all. With your permission, sir, I'll see to it."
Still chuckling, Houston agreed and waved him off. Driscol headed out the door immediately, McParland and the Rogers brothers in tow.
As James passed through the door, he looked back at Sam and grinned.
"Asgá siti," James said cheerfully. "Just the way it is."
Houston brought the telescope back to his eye and returned to his study of the enemy movements. He lacked Driscol's experience, but he had no trouble understanding what the British were about. Most of their men had begun setting up their own field-works on the ground facing the eastern side of the Capitol. But now they were moving detachments into place, threatening— well, guarding, anyway; they weren't really much of a threat— the northern and southern flanks as well.
At least, looking out from a window on the south side of the House, Sam didn't have to listen to the sounds of injured and dying British soldiers on the grounds to the east.
That was... ghastly.
The heavy musket balls were bad enough. They shattered bones whenever they struck a limb squarely, mangling arms and legs so badly that amputation was almost always required if a man's life was to be saved. But most of the casualties had been inflicted by Ball's cannons, and they'd been firing grapeshot during most of the British assault.
What Ball and his men called "grapeshot," at least, even though Ball had explained to Sam at one point that it wasn't really the nine-shot cluster that the term technically signified to naval men. Apparently, such wired clusters of very large balls caused too much damage to cannons for them to be favored much in land battles. What Ball's gunners were calling "grapeshot" was really just heavy case shot: three-ounce bullets as opposed to the balls weighing half as much that were used in regular canister.
The technical details aside, the heavy balls were utterly deadly within four hundred yards. The British soldiers had been forced to advance that far with no cover whatsoever, over muddy and slippery terrain that they couldn't see well because of the darkness. By the time they'd gotten near enough for Charles and his gunners to switch to canister, they'd already suffered casualties so bad that one volley of canister had been enough to break the final charge.
There were still hundreds of them out there. Many were dead, of course, but the majority were merely injured—if the term "merely" could be applied to the most horrible wounds imaginable.
Thinking about those men, Sam came to a sudden decision. He didn't begrudge Patrick Driscol his feelings toward the English, but Sam simply didn't share them. He closed the telescope and strode from the room, his mind working on who he should send. He'd go himself, but...
No. If Driscol didn't strangle him, the secretary of state probably would.
When Brooke came back into the surgeon's tent, Ross had only recently returned to consciousness. Considerably to his regret, actually.
"Yes, Colonel?"
"Sorry to disturb you, sir. But the Americans have sent over an envoy under the flag of truce."
"Send him in, please."
A few moments later, a very young and nervous-looking American officer was ushered into the tent. A militia lieutenant, judging from the flamboyant uniform.
"And how may I help you, sir?" Ross asked politely.
The young American swallowed.
Then: "Captain Houston—uh, Secretary of State Monroe agreed, too—sent me to ask you if you plan another assault tonight." Apparently realizing the question was absurd, the flustered youngster hurried on. "Not exactly that. He doesn't expect you to reveal military plans, of course. But, well, he told me to tell you that if you don't try any—uh, I think he said something about respecting the flag of truce—then, uh—he said it looks like a storm is coming, too—uh—that'll make the misery still worse..."
The youngster ground to a halt, desperately trying to reassemble his thoughts, which now bore a close resemblance to a shipwreck.
Ross took pity on him. He seemed a harmless enough lad, and besides, Ross was touched by the gallantry involved. There was often much to like about Cousin Jonathan.
"Yes, I understand. Your—captain, was it?—Houston is extending an offer to cease-fire while we collect up our dead and wounded from the field."
Relieved, the young officer nodded.
"Certainly," Ross stated, as firmly as he could manage. "You may assure your commander that we will make no attempt to take advantage of his gracious offer. See to it, Colonel Brooke, if you please. And send the men out unarmed."
"Yes, sir."
As Brooke left, the American militia lieutenant made to follow. Ross called him back.
"One moment, Lieutenant. You didn't answer my question. Am I to understand that your commander over there is a captain?"
"Uh, yes, sir. Captain Sam Houston. From the Thirty-ninth Infantry."
Ross didn't recall any Thirty-ninth Infantry being stationed in or near Washington. Of course, military intelligence was never perfect.
Apparently sensing Ross's puzzlement, the youngster cleared up the little mystery. "He's from Tennessee, sir. The Thirty-ninth is with General Jackson down there. Captain Houston was just in Washington by happenstance."
A captain. Here by happenstance.
That would be the same Andrew Jackson whom Admiral Cochrane and Ross expected they'd be facing later in the year, when they finally made their move into the gulf after sufficient reinforcements arrived from England. It was all Ross could do not to wince.
Of course, the odds were essentially nil that Ross himself would still be in command of the ground forces by then. Even if he survived the next few days, it would take him months to recover well enough to reassume command.
Still, it was a grim prospect. Ross wondered who would be sent over as his own replacement. Pakenham, most likely. A good commander, to be sure, b
ut with something of a headstrong reputation. If he could, Ross would do his best to instill a bit of caution in him. Above all, stay away from frontal assaults against that horrid American artillery.
"Thank you, Lieutenant. Please pass along my regards to Captain Houston and Mr. Monroe. I take it the secretary of state is in the Capitol also?"
"Yes, sir. Oh." The young militiaman looked chagrined. "I shouldn't have said that."
Ross would have laughed, except for the pain. "You may set your mind at ease, Lieutenant. I assure you I have no intention of launching another assault with the sole purpose of seizing Mr. Monroe, estimable gentleman though he is. But do pass along to him a request from me, as well as my compliments."
"Sir?"