1812-The Rivers of War

by Eric Flint

  "All of it is a Gordian knot, Lieutenant. All threads tangled together. A republic which rests in good part on slavery—yet it is a republic. Which means, among other things, that it must respect the property of its citizens until such time as those citizens decree otherwise. Or would you have me take the power, and wield it like a despot? And if so, why do you think the end result would be better? How well did Napoleon do, after he became emperor? You served under him, I believe."

  Driscol's jaws tightened. "So I did. I left his service...after some time in Spain. Just butchery, that was."

  Monroe nodded. "The contradictions continue, on and on. The United States is also a nation coming into being by robbing the lands of other nations—yet it is a nation, and one that you would see grow yourself. Why else did you come here from Europe? Did far more than that!" He pointed at Driscol's stump. "Gave that nation your own arm."

  "It'll all unravel," Driscol growled. "See if it doesn't."

  "Perhaps it might," Monroe allowed. "But in what manner? I'd gladly see it unravel myself, if I could be sure all the threads wouldn't be lost, the good along with the bad."

  "You don't unravel a Gordian knot."

  "Precisely." Now, finally, it was time for a smile. One of Monroe's best—and he was good at smiling, even if he did it rarely. "A Gordian knot needs to be cut. So who better to ask than someone like you, Patrick Driscol?"

  After the secretary left, a few minutes later—dragged away by his aides once they found out where he'd gone—Driscol glared at Houston.

  "How in the name of creation did he talk me into this madness?"

  Houston had recovered his own equilibrium by now, along with his good cheer. "Patrick, you can't be that iron-headed. Do you think a man has the career he's had—with the presidency still to come, most like—if he doesn't know how to talk people into things?" He placed an arm over Driscol's shoulder and gave him a friendly, reassuring little shake. "Think of it this way. You can always console yourself with the knowledge that you were swindled by an expert."

  Driscol grunted. The sound was half sour, half...

  Not.

  "It's an interesting idea, I'll give it that. The core of it's yours, I assume? Monroe's too much the proper gentleman to have come up with it, even leaving aside his English heritage. Only a daft Irishman would think this scheme could work."

  The lieutenant's pale eyes moved to John Ross. Always a sergeant's, those eyes, never an officer's. "You won't have agreed, of course."

  Hesitantly, Ross shook his head.

  "No, of course not. So far I don't see where"—he shot Houston an apologetic glance—"it's fundamentally any different from what's been proposed many times before. We move across the Mississippi—and you take our land." He shook his head again, this time more firmly. "It's simply not just. It's our land, and you can't even claim the right of conquest. We've been your allies, most of the time."

  Houston was a little afraid that the Cherokee's bluntly stated opposition would deter Driscol. Instead, it seemed to have just the opposite effect.

  "Oh, it's justice you want from the white man, is it? Well, it's good to see the Irish have no monopoly on blithering idiocy. You might as well expect an Irishman to get justice from a Sassenach, as so many did and do. Let me explain something to you, my proud young Cherokee. Looking for justice from the mighty is the work of fools. You'd do far better to look for redress in the form of vengeance. Or haven't you figured out yet that's really Houston's scheme?"

  Ross's eyes widened.

  So did Houston's.

  "I never—"

  Then Sam realized what Patrick meant. At which point, his eyes widened still further.

  "I know the stories," Driscol continued, "even if I can't cite the verses. So, tell him, Sam. Tell him what finally happened to the Trojans, in the end." His eyes swept the room. "Tell all of them. Henry, too. He's got as much right to know as any."

  Everyone was staring at Houston, now. He cleared his throat. "Well, it's just a story..."

  "They're all just stories," Driscol rasped. "Which means one's just as good as another—if people act by it."

  "Well, ah... true enough. According to the poet Virgil—he was a Roman, not a Greek—some of the Trojans survived and fled to Italy. After many adventures. And... they founded Rome."

  "The whole story."

  Sam sighed. Driscol was glaring again. He was so glad he'd never been a soldier who'd had to serve with Driscol as his sergeant. The man was a veritable troll!

  "Well, yes. And in the end, of course, the Romans conquered the Greeks. So the Trojans got their vengeance. Mind you, it took about a thousand years, and there were a lot of twists and turns."

  There was silence, for a moment.

  Then, suddenly, James Rogers laughed. "That's ridiculous!"

  He held up the war club that seemed to be inseparable from him, practically an extension of his arm. "I can fight as well as any Cherokee. But the idea that we'd ever be able to conquer the Americans. It's just ridiculous. There are too many of them. Kill one, and ten more step forward in their place."

  But Sam could finally see what Driscol was hinting at. "A thousand years, remember. With lots of twists and turns. And then the Greeks turned the tables again, because the Romans all wound up speaking Greek and quoting Greek philosophers."

  James shrugged. "So?"

  "So 'conquest' is a word with many different meanings." But Ross was the key here, not the Rogers brothers, so Sam turned to him. "Here's how it is, John—and I'll do my best to talk you into it. You and all the others, in the time to come. Stay where you are, and you'll be crushed out of existence. There's no way around it. But move—move yourselves, like men, rather than being driven like beasts—and you stand the chance of forging something powerful out there. Something which can shape its own destiny."

  "And who knows?" Patrick added. "You may end up shaping your enemy, too. Create a nation powerful enough, in a place you can do so, and over time you'll begin changing the nature of your neighbors." He looked a bit uncomfortable then. "Now that it's all over, I'll admit that Robert Ross seemed a fine enough fellow. Of course, he was born in Ireland."

  John Ross just stared at him. Driscol shrugged. "Look, lad. I hate the Sassenach as much as any man. But the fact is, I speak their language. So do most Scots or Irishmen. The same language in which the Declaration of Independence was written— and humbled the bastards in their own tongue."

  He gestured toward the door through which Monroe had departed. "It was that, in the end, which convinced me. The man's right enough about that. Let two generations pass, and the threads are all tangled up again. So now we Irishmen speak English, and the English argue with themselves about Ireland. Sometimes they even listen to Irishmen. And their cousins here in America—English, Scots, Irish, all tangled together—intrude rudely into the dispute with opinions of their own, which they mostly derived from Englishmen, but didn't hesitate to impose by force of arms when needed."

  * * *

  Patrick Driscol took a deep breath. The quite unexpected reaction of a Virginia politician had cracked, perhaps for the first time in his life, his unyielding animosity toward gentlemen.

  Well, not the first time. Another Virginian named Winfield Scott had done that. But Scott had been a general, and Driscol always gave more leeway to soldiers.

  "My point is this, John. After a time, it all becomes something of a family quarrel. And now, for good or ill, and whether you asked for it or not, your Cherokees have become embroiled in it." He looked Ross up and down, then glanced at Tiana Rogers and her brothers. "And not just embroiled in the quarrel, either. You're now embroiled in the family itself."

  Ross cocked his head. "Granted. Sequoyah's even talking about creating our own written script. To add to all the rest—the mills, and the separate houses, and raising livestock. Yes, slaves, too. I suppose we're adopting all the white vices, as well as the virtues. But we're still different, and we want to stay independent." He also glanc
ed at the Rogerses; then, smiling a bit, down at his own hand. "Even if we're none too fussy about who we mate with."

  Driscol snorted. "I'd say so, given the way you mate with the Scots-Irish. Pack of ruffians—and I know whereof I speak."

  Driscol flushed a bit, then. He carefully avoided looking at Tiana. All the more so, because he suspected she was grinning at him.

  "Those fancy stories of the ancients, Greek and Roman both. What I think? If you could trace it all back, you'd find some sordid family dispute at the heart of them. Properly dressed up, of course, as the centuries passed. Gods and heroes, the lot. Somebody cuckolded somebody else—probably a cousin—and they got their revenge, and then their children struck back, and they're still arguing about it to this day even if nobody can remember what it was all about in the first place. Because it just doesn't matter, any longer."

  He took another deep breath. "I am not a fool. I know perfectly well that my blessed Scot and Irish ancestors were a pack of brawling clansmen, mostly illiterate and always pigheaded. More than willing to kill each other and steal each other's sheep at the bidding of some mangy clan chief whose 'palace' wasn't much more than the biggest hut in the village. The English played us all for fools. Played this one against the other—most any clan chief was always willing to be bribed—"

  Seeing Ross wince, Driscol snorted. "Yours, too, eh? I'm hardly surprised. And so what?—if, in the end, our demands for justice are couched in the Englishman's tongue. More than that—are couched in English ways of thought. But not entirely, because we shape them for our own purposes. And then—"

  Grudgingly: "They pay some attention. Some. Even start to think a bit differently themselves. Not because they want to, but because they're forced to. That's always the problem with a family quarrel. You can't ignore the bastards, because they're yours. Especially if they're mean, tough bastards with a house of their own. And that's the heart of Houston's plan, when you get down to it. Move now, while you can still do it as a solid and intact nation, not a band of refugees. Build a house of your own now, in a place where you'll have enough time to build it strong and big."

  Ross was following him intently, but obviously still not convinced. He stared out the window, for a moment. Then, looked back at Houston.

  "It will never happen without a break, at some point. Some place, some time, where a line is finally drawn. 'This far and no farther.' "

  Houston nodded. "Sure. Let people push you and they'll push you forever. But the other mistake is to push back when you're standing on thin air. Which is where you are today, John—and, if you're honest, you know it yourself. General Jackson will strip you of your land, sooner or later, don't think he won't. And how will you stop him? On that land?"

  "And you'll support him," came the accusation.

  Houston didn't flinch. "If it comes to it, yes. I'll fight for a worthy cause, John, but this one is already lost. And in the meantime, my own nation—the only republic on the face of the earth—needs that land to grow. Which is also a worthy cause, and one which is not lost." He shrugged. "I don't claim that it's 'just,' because I couldn't begin to figure that out. 'Justice' mostly depends which side you're on—and I'm an American, when all is said and done.

  "Give yourself another cause, though, John, and you can count on me. My word on it."

  Ross's gaze came back to Driscol. "And your word?"

  Driscol snorted. "Do I look like a bloody gentleman? My word! That wouldn't buy you a pint of whiskey. But I will give you my advice, as a soldier. Any commander who insists on standing his ground when the battle is lost is a fool and a blunderer. Worse than that, he's a killer of his own men. Retreat's never pleasant, but there are times when it's necessary. Retreat, regroup, and fight again on ground that favors you."

  He looked at Tiana. She and her brothers. If she'd been grinning earlier, she wasn't now. Neither she nor her kinsmen. Driscol continued. "I don't know much about your nation, but this much is obvious—you're in no condition to even fight this battle, much less win it. So do what's necessary. Retreat in order to buy yourselves the time you need. Whether you use that time wisely or not, of course, will be up to you. But that's no business of mine."

  "What is your business, then?" Tiana interjected, before Ross could say anything.

  Driscol shrugged, uncomfortably. "What I agreed to." He jerked a thumb at Houston. "Help this young idiot buy you the time."

  "That's not what I meant. What is your business?"

  He stared at her blankly. "I'm a soldier, girl."

  She shook her head. "That's a trade, not a business. You could have chosen to take the English king's colors. Plenty of Scotsmen and Irishmen do. And don't tell me otherwise! My father was a Tory soldier in the Revolution, after he came here from Scotland." Impishly: "Although he'll never admit it today."

  Driscol's mind was a blank. "I still don't understand the question, girl."

  "I'm sixteen years old. And Cherokee. So I'm not a girl."

  She gave her brothers a quick, fierce, warning glance. Wisely, they kept their peace.

  Then, with that impish smile that Driscol could feel pulling him like the tides: "What I think, Patrick Driscol, is that your business is lost causes." She gave Houston a cool, dismissing sniff. "Whatever he thinks about it."

  Private McParland burst into the room.

  "Dolley Madison's back! And she says there's going to be a victory ball."

  * * *

  "And how did I get talked into this, too?" Driscol grumbled.

  Houston had no sympathy at all, as could be expected from a man who was not only the favored dancing partner of the evening but who could also—was there anything the blasted youngster wasn't good at?—dance superbly well. He was only at Driscol's side to hear the grumble, in fact, because he was taking a moment's break.

  "Stop grousing, Patrick. You could learn to dance, if you wanted to. All that stands in your way is that surly peasant attitude." He mimicked Driscol's rasping voice: " 'Dancin's for stinkin' decadent gentlemen. Damme if I will.' "

  He gave Driscol a grin, and then was swirled away by yet another Washington belle. Her matronly dame, rather, who plucked Houston off with expert skill in order to introduce her daughter.

  Or daughters.

  Or nieces.

  Or several of each, all at once.

  It was almost laughable. Not only was Houston the young and glamorous hero of the hour. Sooner than Driscol could have imagined possible, the word had spread through the city's distaff elite—most of Baltimore's, too, it seemed, British threat be damned—that he was a bachelor to boot. Dolley Madison's sponsorship of the evening's affair would have guaranteed a large crowd, anyway. With the added attraction of Houston...

  —he's got Monroe's favor, they say—

  —Jackson's too, I hear. Of course, he's a roughneck—Jackson, I mean; they say Houston's quite the gentleman—but still—

  Driscol did chuckle, then. Why not? Like his brother had been, Houston was a man who found women just as charming as they found him. Driscol might feel completely out of place here, but Houston was in his element. And if there wasn't much chance that he'd be successfully wooed tonight, or even in the few weeks before they'd have to leave for New Orleans, there was always the possibility that the basis might be laid for later success. Marriages in America's high society rarely proceeded with any great speed anyway. Calculating matrons always knew they had time on their side, after all.

  Whatever else he might be, Houston was obviously ambitious. That was considered a virtue in the new republic, not a vice—but it still had to be done virtuously. That meant marriage, among other things, and at a reasonably early age. The commonly held attitude, among men and women alike, was that if a man was still unmarried in his thirties, he was suspect for some reason. Whether because he was riddled with vice, or simply unwilling to assume the responsibility of an adult, who could say?

  But any hope of a political career would start plummeting thereafter—and in the United
States in the year 1814, there was no real distinction between a political career and most others suited to a gentleman. Officer, lawyer, planter, merchant—they all wove in and out of the political corridors.

  So, Houston would have to make a suitable marriage, sooner or later. That was a given, and matrons could calculate accordingly. If he dillydallied for a few years—which he very well might; he was only twenty-one, still young to be a husband— there were always younger daughters or nieces coming down the line.

  Driscol's wry observations were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. The left shoulder, which surprised him. Most people were gingerly about—

  Most people. He knew who owned the hand before he even looked. She'd not care, he realized. Neither about the missing arm, nor about whatever sensitivities he might have regarding the loss.